Skip to main content

Full text of "The Cornhill magazine"

See other formats 


A.  SACJIKD  DUTY. 


THE 


COENHILL 


MAGAZINE. 


VOL.  XLY. 
JANUAKY   TO   JUNE,    1882, 


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

1882. 


ftp 

V 


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


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  XLV. 


A  GRAPE  FROM  A  THOEN.     By  James  Payn. 

PAGE 

Chapter  LIII.     Bad  News  1 

„        LIV.    Mushroom  Picking   7 

LV.     Creek  Cottage    12 

LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

Chapter  XXXVIII.  Lord  Charlecote  106 

„  XXXIX.  Love  strong  as  Death 113 

„  XL.  Changed  Eolations  , 117 

„  XLI.  Three  Confessions  122 

„  XLII.  Bob  as  a  Reformer 236 

„  XLIII.  Bob  as  an  Orator «  242 

XLIV.  Two  more  Proposals  249 

„  XLV.  Pushed  from  his  Stool  257 

XLVI.  "The  Brattle"  264 

XLVII.  Fenton  Graveyard  , 272 

DAMOCLFS.     By  the  Author  of  "  For  Percival." 

Chapter        I.     Portraits 129 

,,          II.    Miss  Conway  is  perplexed 145 

„         111.     Shadows  and  a  Ghost  351 

„         IV.     An  Afternoon  in  Eedlands  Park ; 362 

V.     On  the  Cliff  493 

„          VI.     Miss  Whitney    513 

„        VII.     Charley's  Expectations 524 

„      VIII.     Goodbye 736 

„         IX.     Alone , 749 

THE  MEBRY  MEN. 

Chapter     I.     Eilean  Arcs 676 

„       II.    What  the  Wreck  had  brought  to  Aros 680 

,,      III.     Lad  and  Leo  in  Sandag  Bay 688 

No  NEW  THING. 

Chapter      I.     Friendship 385 

,,         II.     Mrs.  Stanniforth's  Neighbours ; 400 

III,     Distrust    ,  610 


vi  CONTENTS. 

No  NEW  THING. 

PA6X 

Chapter    IV.    The  .Rising  and  the  Setting  Sun   620 

„         V.    The  Young  Generation 631 

,,       VI.    The  Wanderer's  Keturn 641 

„      VII.     Colonel  Kenyon  looks  on 651 


A  Bit  of  Loot 94 

A  French  Assize   662 

A  Gondolier's  Wedding   80 

A  Modern  Solitary   156 

A  Port  of  the  Past   474 

-An  English  Weed.     By  Grant  Allen 542 

An  Epilogue  on  Vivisection.    By  Edmund  Gurney 191 

Brittany,  Recollections  of  a  Tour  in  722 

Casters  and  Chesters    419 

Cheap  Places  to  live  in 655 

Flowers,  the  Colours  of.    By  Grant  Allen 19 

Hebrides,  the  Social  State  of  the,  two  Centiiries  ago 200 

How  the  Stars  got  their  Names 35 

lar-Connaught :  a  Sketch 319 

"Let  Nobody  Pass":  a  Guardsman's  Story 171 

Lines  to  a  Lady  who  was  robbed  of  her  Jewels.    By  Sir  Francis  Hastings  Doyle  235 

Living  Death-Germs 303 

Machine,  the  Sun  as  a  Perpetual 585 

Millet,  the  early  Life  of  J.  E 289 

Morgante  Maggiore 696 

Names  of  Flowers 710 

Names,  how  the  Stars  got  their 36 

Oddities  of  Personal  Nomenclature 213 

Past,  a  Port  of  the 474 

Peppiniello.     Twenty-four  Hours  with  a  Neapolitan  Street-Boy  435 

''  Poor  White  Trash"  579 

Rambles  among  Books.    No.  IV. — The  State  Trials  466 

Recollections  of  a  Tour  in  Brittany    .,, 722 

Senior  Wranglers n.ui.i.iin ,..»>...,, 225 

Sleeper,  the.    By  James  Thomson  „.!..>» ,.,,  »,.»». ...;,.,,., 348 


CONTENTS.  vii 

PAGB 

Talk  and  Talkers „, 410 

The  Boke  of  St.  Albans    68 

The  Church  by  the  Sea.    By  Edmund  W.  Gosse 491 

The  Colours  of  Flowers.     By  Grant  Allen    19 

The  Convent  of  Monte  Oliveto,  near  Siena    567 

The  early  Life  of  J.  F.  Millet 289 

The  Foreigner  at  Home   534 

The  Man  with  the  Eed  Hair 45 

The  Sleeper.     By  James  Thomson 348 

The  Social  State  of  the  Hebrides  two  Centuries  ago 200 

The  Sun  as  a  Perpetual  Machine    585 

The  World's  End.     By  K.  A.  Proctor   481 

Upstairs  and  Downstairs 334 

Vivisection,  an  Epilogue  on.    By  Edmund  Gurney 191 

Wagner's  "  Nibelung"  and  the  Siegfried  Tale.    By  Karl  Blind 594 

Wedding,  a  Gondolier's 80 

Weed,  an  English.    By  Grant  Allen 542 

Wranglers,  Senior 225 

Zoophily.    By  Frances  Power  Cobbe » 279 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


TO  PACK  PAG« 

A  SACRED  DUTY 1 

LORD  CHAHLECOTE  THOUGHT  YOU  -WERE  -WALKING  IN  YOUR  SLEEP  106 

CHARLEY  DROPPED  INTO  A  CHAIR  BY  HER  SIDE   129 

"IT'S  NOT  YOUR  FAULT,  DEAR,  IF  YOU  CAN*T  CARE  FOR  HIM" 236 

"THERE  IS  NO  FINER  EPITAPH  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  " 257 

HE   STOOPED   TO   GATHER   THEM 351 

"Do    LET   THE   CHILDREN   EAT   THEIR   DINNER" .....  385 

SHE   DREW   OFF   HER   LONG   GLOVES   SLOWLY    493 

"I  CAN'T  GO  AND  CRY  ABOUT  THE  OLD  WOMAN,"  HE  SAID 613 

"HEY,  NOT  IN  BED  YET!" .' 610 

PHILIP   WAS   AUDACIOUSLY   MIMICKING   MRS.   WINNINGTON   TO    HER   FACE 641 

"Go  NOW,  PLEASE" ,,. , , 736 


THE 


COBNHILL    MAGAZINE. 


JANUARY,  1882. 


fr0m 

BY  JAMES  PAYN. 


CHAPTER  MIL 
BAD  NEWS. 

A  FEW  days  afterwards, 
as  they  were  sitting  at 
breakfast,  Mr.  Wallace, 
who  received  as  few 
written  communications 
perhaps  as  any  grown 
person  within  the  range 
of  the  British  postal 
delivery,  exclaimed  sud- 
denly, on  opening  the 
letter  bag,  *  Why,  who's 
this  writing  to  me  ?  " 

"  Not  a  lady,  I  hope," 
said  Ella  slily  ;  "  though 
that's  Mrs.  Wallace's 
affair  and  not  mine." 

"It's  got  'Private' 
on  it,"  cried  the  yeoman 
with  a  laugh,  as  though 
privacy  in  connection 

with  epistolary  correspondence  was  a  joke  indeed. 

"  Oh,  come,  I  must  see  to  that ! "  exclaimed  his  wife.     "  Give  it  to 

me,  John ; "  and  she  made  a  feint  of  gaining  possession  of  it. 

VOL.    XLV. — NO.  265.  ,   -  1. 


2  A   GRAPE  FROM  A  THORN. 

"  No,  you  don't ! "  cried  her  husband,  who  in  the  mean  time  had  just 
glanced  at  the  contents.  "Perhaps  I'll  tell  you  something  about  it 

after  breakfast No ;  I  won't  take  a  rasher  this  morning,  thank 

you  ;  nor  yet  any  pigeon  pie.  I'm  rather  off  my  feed." 

"Lor,  John,  what  is  the  matter?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wallace,  to 
whom  this  statement  was  indeed  a  portent  of  evil. 

"  I  am  afraid  there  is  bad  news  from  Wallington,"  murmured  Ella, 
with  a  white  face. 

"  Well,  that  is  just  it,  Miss  Ella,"  said  the  farmer  in  embarrassed 
tones ;  "  only  I  was  particularly  not  to  tell  you  all  of  a  sudden  like. 
That's  why  they  wrote  to  me  instead  of  the  Missis.  I  was  to  '  break  it ' 
to  you,  Mr.  Felspar  says;  but  since  you've  guessed  it —  "  and  Mr. 
Wallace  scratched  his  head,  and  looked  oppressed  with  the  burthen  of 
an  honour  to  which  he  was  not  born.  Nobody  had  ever  entrusted  him 
with  a  secret  before  in  all  his  life. 

"  Pray  tell  me  all,"  cried  Ella  imploringly ;  "  I  can  bear  anything 
except  suspense." 

"  He  says  I  am  to  break  it — I  suppose  he  means  in  little  bits," 
said  Mr.  Wallace  doubtfully. 

But  by  this  time  his  wife  had  possessed  herself  of  the  communication, 
which  she  at  once  proceeded  to  read  aloud. 

"  Wallington  Bay. 

"  MY  DEAR  WALLACE, — I  write  these  lines  under  cover  to  you, 
that  you  may  communicate  the  sad  news  they  convey  to  your  wife  in 
private,  and  especially  that  she  and  you  may  break  them  cautiously  to 
Miss  Josceline.  A  dreadful  catastrophe  has  happened  here.  In  my  last 
letter  I  expressed  my  fears  that  Mr.  Aird's  coming  to  this  place  might 
be  fraught  with  some  danger ;  and  I  deeply  regret  to  say  that  they 
have  been  realised.  As  soon  as  Dr.  Cooper  saw  him  he  expressed  to 
me  the  gravest  anxiety  about  his  state  of  mind.  There  was  only  one 
thing,  as  I  told  you,  which  betrayed  this — when  the  least  allusion  was 
made  to  little  Davey  he  was  not  himself.  But  after  he  came  down  here 
he  could  talk  of  nothing  else.  We  thought  it  better  he  should  be  at 
Clover  Cottage  with  ourselves  and  not  at  the  hotel,  which,  as  it  turns 
out,  was  perhaps  so  far  fortunate.  Yesterday  morning,  when,  as  we 
thought,  he  was  in  his  room,  the  doctor  called  and  had  a  talk  with  us 
about  him. 

"  ' It  is  my  duty  to  tell  you,'  he  said  in  conclusion,  'that  Mr.  Aird 
must  never  be  left  alone — that  one  of  you  two  must  be  always  with 
him.  But  of  course  such  a  state  of  things  cannot  last  for  ever.' 

"  At  this  moment  in  walked  Mr.  Aird. 

"  '  Of  course  it  can't,'  he  said  gravely.  '  They  have  had  trouble 
enough  about  me — these  two — already.' 

"  It  seems  he  had  been  listening  at  the  door — a  proceeding,  I  need 
not  say,  utterly  foreign  to  his  nature.  Dr.  Cooper  has  since  told  me 


A  GRAPE  FKOM  A  THORN.  3 

that  it  was  to  him  a  convincing  proof  of  his  insanity — an  example  of  the 
madman's  cunning." 

"  Poor  soul,  think  of  that !  "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Wallace. 

"  Well,  we  explained  matters  as  well  as  we  could  to  him ;  assured 
him  that  our  time  was  his  for  the  next  month  or  two  at  all  events ; 
that  he  gave  us  no  trouble  whatever,  &c.  <fec. ;  and  he  seemed  satisfied. 

"  I  must  tell  you  that  since  your  time — the  old  happy  times,  alas  !  at 
Wallington — the  steamer  between  Meresley  and  Northport  has  called 
here  once  a  week,  touching  at  the  Bay  the  same  day,  on  its  return  from 
Northport.  Yesterday  was,  with  us,  very  tempestuous  for  the  time  of 
year — not  a  wet  day,  but  very  windy — the  sea  mountains  high,  and  we 
hardly  expected  that  the  steamer  could  put  in.  It  did  so,  however,  and 
nothing  I  could  say  would  dissuade  Mr.  Aird  from  going  on  it ;  he  said 
he  thought  the  '  blow  '  from  Northport  and  back  would  do  him  good. 

"  '  Quite  right,'  said  Yernon  in  his  quiet  way;  '  I  think  it  will  do  me 
good  too.' 

"  '  Pooh,  pooh  ! '  said  Mr.  Aird  ;  '  you  are  well  enough  as  it  is  ;  why 
should  you  go  1 ' 

"  '  The  steamer  is  a  public  conveyance,'  returned  Yernon,  laughing, 
'  and  it  is  a  free  country.' 

"  You  know  how  difficult  it  is  to  be  angry  with  Yernon ;  and,  though 
Mr.  Aird  evidently  resented  his  determination,  he  said  nothing  more. 
They  two  were  the  only  passengers,  and  very  astonished  the  captain 
was  to  see  them  come  aboard.  As  if  to  mark  his  sense  of  annoyance, 
Mr.  Aird  sat  apart  from  Yernon  the  whole  of  the  way  to  Northport, 
where  they  touched  but  did  not  stop.  On  the  way  back  the  sea  abated  a 
little  ;  but  even  then  it  was  not  possible  to  move  about  without  holding 
on  to  something.  When  they  were  nearing  home,  Yernon,  who  never 
took  his  eyes  off  Mr.  Aird,  saw  him  suddenly  climb  upon  the  paddle-box, 
and  leap  into  the  sea.  '  Man  overboard  !  '  he  shouted  to  the  captain  on 
the  bridge,  and  the  next  moment  jumped  in  after  him.  He  did  not  even 
wait  to  kick  his  shoes  off." 

"  Oh,  that  dear  Mr.  Yernon  !  "  sobbed  Mrs.  Wallace. 

"A  good  fellow,"  observed  the  farmer  hoarsely;  '•' a  real  good 
fellow." 

Ella  said  nothing,  only  moved  her  lips.  Her  face  was  as  white  as 
the  breakfast-cloth — and  the  linen  at  Foracre  farm  was  like  the  driven 
snow. 

"  The  captain  says  that  Mr.  Aird  had  literally  no  time  to  sink ;  that 
Yernon  was  down  on  him  like  a  sea-bird  on  a  fish ;  but  by  the  time  the 
steamer  could  be  stopped  and  a  boat  lowered,  it  was  well  nigh  all  over 
with  both  of  them.  It  must  have  been  so  if  Mr.  Aird  had  clutched  him  ; 
but,  though  the  old  man  could  not  swim,  he  made  no  attempt  to  do  this, 
whether  from  a  noble  unselfishness,  or  the  absence  of  even  the  instinctive 
love  of  life,  can  never  be  known." 

"  He  is  dead,  then  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wallace,  aghast  with  horror. 


4  A  GRAPE  FROM  A  THORN. 

"  Read  on,"  said  Ella  earnestly. 

"  Even  in  such  a  sea,  Vernon,  being  so  strong  a  swimmer,  would 
have  had  no  difficulty  in  bearing  the  other  up  ;  but  the  fact  is,  though 
there  is  no  need  to  talk  of  it,  poor  Mr.  Aird,  with  that  '  madman's 
cunning,'  of  which  the  doctor  spoke,  had  filled  his  pockets  full  of  pebbles, 
which  of  course  he  took  with  him  from  Wallington.  Conceive  the  poor 
man's  thoughts  upon  that  voyage  and  back  again;  seeking  for  the  oppor- 
tunity when  the  captain's  back  was  turned,  or  perhaps  making  up  his 
mind — or  what  remained  of  it,  poor  soul ! — for  the  fatal  plunge.  What, 
I  think,  testifies  to  Yemen's  presence  of  mind,  as  convincingly  as  his  heroic 
act  itself  (for  it  was  nothing  less),  was  that  while  in  the  boat,  and  before 
they  were  taken  on  board,  he  contrived  to  remove  the  pebbles,  so  that 
the  whole  affair  might  wear  the  appearance  of  an  accident.  Mr.  Aird 
appeared  quite  lifeless ;  but  before  the  steamer  reached  Wallington  he  had 
revived  a  little,  and  was  carried  here  in  a  very  prostrate  condition,  but, 
as  I  have  good  reason  to  believe,  quite  conscious.  He  died,  however, 
'from  the  shock  and  exhaustion,'  says  Dr.  Cooper,  within  the  hour. 
When  we  have  laid  him  in  his  grave,  in  that  churchyard  at  Barton 
which  we  all  know  so  well,  either  "Vernon  or  myself  will  run  down  to 
Foracre  Farm.  It  was  his  own  wish  that  we  should  do  so,  for  the  pur- 
pose, for  one  thing,  of  conveying  to  Miss  Josceline  a  last  memento  of  him, 
or  rather  of  one  that  he  loved  dearer  than  himself — sweet  little  Davey. 
You  will  keep  what  I  have  written  concerning  the  nature  of  his  end 
secret  among  yourselves ;  it  was  his  desire — a  very  strange  one  you  will 
say — that  you  should  know  it ;  and,  though  with  great  reluctance,  I  have 
therefore  described  things  exactly  as  they  happened.  Of  course  he  was 
not  responsible  for  the  act  in  any  way.  His  mind  had  broken  down 
under  its  weight  of  trouble.  Just  at  first  it  wandered  a  little,  and  he 
said  something  about  Yernon — though  with  a  very  sweet  smile — that  we 
could  make  nothing  of;  but  before  his  end  came  he  was  quite  himself, 
which  Dr.  Cooper  says  is  not  unusual  in  such  cases.  '  I  die  happy,'  were 
his  last  words,  spoken  with  inexpressible  tenderness ;  '  think  of  me  to- 
night with  my  own  Davey.' 

"  I  am  afraid,"  concluded  Felspar,  "  I  shall  have  been  the  involun- 
tary cause  of  throwing  a  deep  shadow  (where  there  is  wont  to  be  such 
sunshine)  in  your  happy  home.  I  add,  therefore,  that  among  other 
things  our  poor  friend  whispered  to  us  on  his  deathbed,  was  this  :  '  Let 
none  who  love  me  grieve  for  me;  let  not  my  death,  which  is  happiness 
to  me,  be  the  cause  of  sorrow  to  any  .human  being.'  There  were  other 
things  he  said  of  which  Yernon  or  myself,  whichever  comes,  will  inform 
you ;  just  at  present  I  have  a  good  deal  to  do,  as  you  may  imagine  when 
I  tell  you  Mr.  Aird  has  made  me  his  sole  executor,  so  you  must  excuse 
my  writing  at  greater  length.  With  our  kindest  regards  to  your  wife 
and  to  Miss  Ella, 

"  I  am,  your  faithful  friend, 

"  MICHAEL  FELSPAR." 


A  GEAPE  FEOM  A  THORN.  5 

In  spite  of  poor  Mr.  Aird's  last  injunctions,  his  death,  or  rather,  it 
would  be  more  correct  to  say,  the  manner  of  his  end,  was  the  cause  of 
much  sorrow  at  Foracre  Farm.  That  death  had  been  a  happy  release 
to  the  weary  and  forlorn  old  man  himself,  there  could  be  no  doubt ; 
and,  after  the  first  shock  of  the  news  had  worn  away,  this  was  the  view 
the  little  party  at  the  Farm  took  of  it.  Without  a  friend  (save  those  we 
wot  of)  or  a  relative  in  the  world,  and  with  every  reminiscence  a 
pang,  how  could  they  have  wished  him  to  live  on  !  In  a  few  days  they 
began  to  speak  of  the  matter  calmly,  and  (so  closely  does  humour  tread 
on  the  heels  of  tragedy)  on  one  occasion  it  was  even  the  cause  of  a 
smile. 

"  It  is  very  odd,  John,"  observed  Mrs.  Wallace — who,  with  all  her 
tenderness  of  heart,  often  took  the  most  matter-of-fact  view  of  affairs, 
and,  again,  sometimes  said  things  which,  if  she  had  turned  them  over  in 
her  mind  first,  she  would  certainly  have  left  unsaid — "  it  is  very  odd 
how  that  unfortunate  remark  of  mine  at  the  table  d'hote  at  Wallington 
has  come  true ;  there's  not  only  little  Davey  dead,  you  see,  but  his  poor 
father." 

"  Not  to  mention  the  Hon.  Emilius  Josceline,"  remarked  her  husband 
drily. 

"  Lor  bless  me  !  If  I  hadn't  clean  forgotten  him  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Wallace ;  "  how  thankful  I  am,  John,  Ella  was  not  here.  How  stupid 
and  unfeeling  I  am  ! " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  as  to  that,  little  woman.  Mr.  Josceline  was  a 
very  clever  gentleman,  but  I  dovibt  if  any  eye  dropped  a  tear  for  him, 
save  his  daughter's.  I  don't  know  that  you  had  any  particular  call  to 
remember  him.  How  curious  it  is,"  continued  the  yeoman  musingly, 
"  that  with  cattle  and  such  like  a  good  breed  or  a  bad  makes  such  a 
difference ;  with  human  beings  it  aint  at  all  so.  Here's  Miss  Ella,  for 
example,  all  unselfishness  and  simplicity." 

"  Perhaps  she  got  it  from  her  mother,"  hazarded  Mrs.  Wallace.  "  She 
has  spoken  to  me  about  her  once  or  twice  as  having  been  a  perfect  angel." 

"  Perhaps  so.  She  was  an  angel,  however,  before  her  daughter  knew 
her,  so  could  scarcely  have  had  much  hand  in  forming  her  character ;  and 
even  with  the  cattle,  something  beyond  breed  is  required.  The  best 
Alderney  wouldn't  thrive  in  Shetland,  I'll  be  bound.  No ;  I  think  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  sheer  natural  goodness,  though,  of  course,  as  in  Miss 
Ella's  case,  it  grows  and  grows  by  use.  It  would  be  a  thousand  pities  if 
such  a  girl  should  never  marry.  What  a  good  wife  she  would  make ; 
and  what  a  mother .!  " 

"  No  doubt,"  said  Mrs.  Wallace  with  a  sigh,  for  she,  too,  would  have 
given  much  to  have  had  children  about  her  knees.  "  Let  us  hope  it  will 
be  so." 

"If  Mr.  Felspar  is  made  sole  executor,"  remarked  her  husband  signi- 
ficantly, "  it  is  probable  that  the  old  man  has  left  him  a  good  bit  of 
money." 


6  A   GRAPE  FROM  A    THORN. 

"  I  hope  so.  But  you  are  quite  on  the  wrong  tack,  John,  in  suppos- 
ing that  would  affect  Ella's  future.  If  Mr.  Felspar  was  rolling  in  wealth 
she  would  never  have  him." 

"  Well ;  he  comes  down  here  next  week,  it  seems,  and  then  we  shall 
see.  Now'  I'll  lay  my  best  cow  against  the  white  donkey  that  takes 
your  milk  about,  that  this  time  next  month  Ella  is  engaged  to  be 

married." 

«  I  never  made  a  bet  in  my  life  that  I  know  of,"  said  Mrs.  Wallace 
confidently  ;  "  but  I'll  take  this  one.  I  shall  win  that  cow." 

"  If  you  do,  it  shall  be  '  for  your  separate  use  and  maintainance,'  as 
Lawyer  Fell  used  to  call  it ;  but  I  rather  think  you  will  lose  your  white 
donkey,  and  I  will  ride  to  market  on  it  instead  of  Dobbin." 

At  this  picture — for  the  farmer  weighed  something,  and  the  donkey 
was  small — the  worthy  pair,  who  were  easily  tickled,  were  much  moved 

to  mirth. 

"  By-the-bye,"  said  Mr.  Wallace  presently,  "  why  shouldn't  Mr.  Aird 
leave  Miss  Ella  something  for  herself  ?  He  was  very  fond  of  her  (as  was 
only  natural),  and  think  how  kind  she  was  to  his  boy!" 

"  I  have  thought  of  that,  of  course,  John.  But  there  is  something 
that  tells  me  that  won't  be.  Ella  is  very  peculiar  about  money  matters  ; 
she  wouldn't  take  Mr.  Aird's  thousand  pounds,  you  remember,  when  she 
wanted  it  a  deal  more  than  she  does  now,  and  I  doubt  if  she  would  take 
his  money  even  now." 

"  What !  not  if  it  was  left  to  her  1     Well,  I  never  1 " 
"  Nor  anybody  else,  John;  but  still  that  is  my  belief.     Did  it  never 
strike  you  that  perhaps  Mr.  Josceline  had  old  Mr.  Aird  in  his  eye  for  a 
son-in-law  1 " 

"It  certainly  never  did.  Why,  the  poor  man  was  old  enough  for  her 
grandfather." 

"  Well ;  he  must  have  married  young  for  that,  John;  but  of  course 
there  was  a  great  disparity.  However,  my  conviction  is  that  some  such 
idea  as  that  was  put  into  Ella's  mind  by  her  father,  and  that  that's  why 
she  refused  Mr.  Aird's  assistance.  It  set  her  against  him  like — that  is, 
in  the  way  of  accepting  anything  from  his  hands,  and  it  will  set  her 
against  it  now." 

"Well,  certainly,  you  women  do  get  strange  things  into  your  heads, 
such  as  we  men  never  do,  yet  I  can't  believe  that  of  Ella." 
"  You  must  admit,  however,  she  did  refuse  the  money." 
"  Yes,  she  did ;  and  I  think  Dr.  Cooper  (or  anybody  else)  would  say 
it  was  a  much  greater  proof  of  madness  than  listening  at  doors.     Cattle  I 
understand,  but  not  women — women  are  kittle  cattle  ;  "  and  the  yeoman 
smiled  complacently  as  a  man  has  a  right  to  do  over  his  own  joke,  when 
he  makes  but  one  in  a  twelvemonth. 


A  GIUPE  FROM  A  THORN.  7 

CHAPTER   L1V. 
MUSHROOM  PICKING. 

ONE  of  the  few  amusements  of  the  Foracre  folks — for  pastimes  were 
not  in  their  way ;  time  never  hung  heavy  enough  on  hand  to  need  them 
— was  mushroom  gathering.  In  due  season  they  could  be  gathered  by 
the  basketful  in  the  meadows  about  the  farm,  and  Mrs.  Wallace  and 
Ella  would  often  require  the  services  of  the  white  donkey  to  bring  home 
their  spoil.  The  goodman  of  the  house  delighted  in  these  dainties,  and 
sometimes  Ella  would  go  forth  in  the  early  morning  and  forage  for  them 
for  his  breakfast. 

One  morning  she  was  engaged  in  this  occupation  a  few  fields  from 
home,  and  had  been  fortunate  beyond  her  expectations ;  having  stooped 
for  her  last  mushroom,  she  was  returning  with  much  spo.il,  when  she 
suddenly  saw  some  one  getting  over  a  stile  in  the  next  field,  at  the  sight 
of  whom  she  suddenly  dropped  her  basket  and  turned  pale,  as  though  he 
had  been  a  mad  bull.  Yet  the  field  was  a  public  one,  and  a  path  ran 
through  it  from  the  little  railway  station,  so  that  the  sight  of  a  stranger 
could  hardly  have  been  so  very  unexpected.  And,  moreover,  he  was  not 
a  stranger.  He  was  a  young  man  of  very  respectable  appearance — 
indeed,  he  was  in  deep  mourning — who  took  off  his  hat  to  her  with 
marked  respect,  though  with  a  certain  nervousness  of  manner  which  for- 
tunately she  was  not  near  enough  to  him  to  observe.  He  had  a  bronzed 
face  on  which,  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  make  it  grave,  there  was  a  tender 
smile. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  frightened  you,  Miss  Ella,  by  my  premature  appear- 
ance," he  said  as  he  came  up  and  took  her  hand ;  "  visitors  have  no 
right  to  come  at  such  hours,  but  the  fact  is  I  travelled  by  the  night 
mail." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Vernon,  very,"  she  said,  "  and  so,  I 
am  sure,  will  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wallace  be ;  but  we  didn't  expect — that 


"  You  expected  Felspar,  of  course,  instead  of  me,"  he  said,  "  which 
no  doubt  is  a  disappointment." 

"  I  did  not  say  that,  Mri  Yernon,  though  Mr.  Felspar  is  a  great 
favourite  with  all  of  us." 

"  And  so  he  ought  to  be,  for  he  deserves  it.  He  is,  I  believe,  one  of 
the  best  of  men,  as  I  am  sure  he  is  the  best  of  friends.  But  the  fact  is 
his  hands  are  just  now  too  full  of  affair* — business  matters — to  admit  of 
his  coming  down." 

"Matters  connected  with  poor  Mr.  Aird,  of  course.  Oh,  Mr.  Yernon, 
how  that  shocked  us  all !  " 

"  I  was  afraid  it  would,  but  we  thought  it  better  to  tell  you  the 
whole  truth."  And  then  they  fell  to  talking  about  their  dead  friend. 

From  what  Yernon  told  her  of  the  matter  she  soon  lost  that  feeling 


8  A  GRAPE  FROM  A  THORN. 

of  horror  concerning  his  end  which  the  idea  of  suicide  (once  so  heroic, 
now  so  reprobated)  always  inspires.  Upon  one  point,  on  which  he 
shipwrecked,  Mr.  Aird  had  been  undoubtedly  insane,  and  was  therefore 
blameless;  on  all  others  he  had  shown  himself  to  the  last  the  kindly, 
generous,  and  (beneath  the  rugged  surface)  tender-hearted  man  that  he 

really  was. 

"He  loved  you,  Ella,"  said  Yernon,  "as  though  he  had  been  your 

own  father." 

Ella  trembled,  partly  because  this  speech  awakened  certain  memories, 
partly  because  her  companion  in  his  earnestness  and  fervour  had  called 
her  for  the  first  time  by  her  Christian  name.  He  had  done  so  uncon- 
sciously no  doubt,  but  the  sound  of  the  more  familiar  title  from  Vernon's 
lips  had  a  strange  attraction  for  her.  His  voice,  indeed,  was  very  sweet 
and  low,  and,  from  the  nature  of  the  subject,  confidential.  They  walked 
together  side  by  side ;  he  had  picked  up  her  mushrooms  for  her,  and 
was  carrying  her  basket  in  one  hand,  but  the  other  somehow  had  sought 
her  own. 

"  That  he  should  have  been  attached  to  you,  Ella,"  he  continued, 
"  can  surprise  no  one ;  but  his  last  words  also  expressed  a  great  regard 
for  a  much  less  worthy  object — myself." 

"  How  could  it  have  been  otherwise  1 that  is,   I  mean "  said 

Ella,  repenting  of  the  enthusiasm  her  tone  had  involuntarily  displayed ; 
"  did  you  not  risk  your  life  for  him,  Mr.  Yernon  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Walter,"  returned  the  young  man  very  gently ; 
"  would  you  mind  calling  me  Walter  1 " 

As  Ella  did  not  reply  to  this  question,  it  must  be  taken  for  granted 
that  she  did  not  mind. 

"  As  Mr.  Aird  was  so  fond  of  you,  and  had  a  regard  for  me," 
Vernon  went  on,  "  it  was  only  natural  that  he  should  associate  us  toge- 
ther in  his  mind,  or  perhaps  he  guessed  something — a  secret  I  had 
assuredly  never  told  him,  since  I  had  not  dared  to  tell  it  even  to  you." 

They  walked  on  in  silence,  but  very  slowly  ;  there  was  a  singing  in 
her  ears,  yet  Ella  could  hear  their  feet  moving  through  the  fresh 
grass ;  the  low  of  the  cows  in  the  homestead ;  the  song  of  a  distant  thrush. 

"It  was  because  he  guessed  my  secret  and  wished  me  to  tell  it  to 
you  (for  which  I  had  not  hitherto  had  the  courage),  that  he  sent  me 
hither  as  the  bearer  of  his  last  farewell.  He  said  to  me,  '  Give  my 
dear  love  to  her,  Yernon,  and  if,  as  I  think,  you  love  one  another, 
kiss  her  for  me.'" 

And  here  Walter  kissed  her.  That,  of  course,  was  a  sacred  duty. 
Having  performed  it,  you  would  think,  perhaps,  that  there  was  an  end 
of  the  affair;  but  that  was  not  the  case.  He  followed  up  the  caress 
by  proxy,  by  kissing  his  fair  companion  upon  his  own  account.  And 
somehow  or  another,  though  Ella  was  by  no  means  resolute  in  her 
resistance,  those  unfortunate  mushrooms  fell  out  of  the  basket  during 
the  process. 


A   GEAPE   FROM  A   THORN.  9 

"  I  have  loved  you,  darling,  from  the  first  instant  I  set  eyes  on 
you,"  whispered  this  impulsive  young  man.  And  (though  I  am  too 
much  of  a  gentleman,  I  hope,  to  repeat  a  lady's  exact  words,  uttered  in 
a  moment  of  confidence),  I  may  say  that  Ella  murmured  something  that 
had  a  similar  tendency. 

At  this  particular  spot  the  hedgerow  between  them  and  the  Farm 
happened  to  be  exceptionally  thick,  and  neither  of  them  for  some 
moments  evinced  any  disposition  to  proceed  where  the  veil  of  greenery 
was  thinner.  Indeed,  they  might  have  stopped  there  much  longer, 
but  for  a  summons  from  the  garden  from  the  mistress  of  the  house 
herself. 

"  El — la !  El — la  !  breakfast,  breakfast !  "  she  shouted  in  her  cheerful 
tones. 

They  were  close  by,  though  she  could  not  see  them;  and  it  was  really 
rather  embarrassing  for  them  to  come  out  as  it  were  of  ambush,  and 
show  themselves.  However,  they  had  to  do  it. 

"  What,  Mr.  Yernon  !     Good  gracious  !     Is  it  really  you  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so,  ma'am,"  said  the  young  gentleman  modestly,  though 
indeed  he  was  in  such  a  tumult  of  happiness  that  he  might  well  have 
been  doubtful  of  his  own  identity.  "  We  have  ventured  to  bring  you  a 
little  present  of  mushrooms." 

"  But  where  are  the  mushrooms  1  " 

In  his  confusion,  the  too  happy  young  man  had  not  perceived  that 
his  basket  was  empty.  Its  late  contents  lay  where  the  hedge  was  thickest, 
yet  not  more  out  of  sight  than  out  of  mind. 

"  Oh,  never  mind  the  mushrooms ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wallace 
delightedly ;  "  pray  walk  in,  Mr.  Vernon ;  and  Ella,  do  you  go  up- 
stairs and  change  your  boots  immediately,  because  the  grass  is  so 
wet." 

Being  a  woman,  she,  of  course,  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance,  and 
offered  this  way  of  escape  to  the  blushing  Ella. 

Mr.  Vernon  had  a  great  deal  to  talk  about  at  breakfast  that 
morning,  and  it  was  certainly  natural  that  he  should  be  the  chief 
speaker,  but  even  Mr.  Wallace  couldn't  help  noticing  how  silent  Ella 
was ;  on  the  other  hand,  she  was  a  most  excellent  listener — so  good  a 
one  that  she  might,  to  some  minds,  have  suggested  a  parallel  to  Desde- 
mona  hanging  on  the  accents  of  Othello. 

Vernon  had  brought  for  her  the  portrait  of  little  Davey  which  Mr. 
Aird  had  confided  to  his  keeping ;  and  when  Ella  left  the  room  to  put 
this  precious  gift  away,  Mrs.  Wallace  could  not  restrain  her  feminine 
curiosity  to  know  "  what  poor  Mr.  Aird  had  done  with  all  his  money." 

"  He  has  left  some  of  it  to  Felspar,"  said  Vernon,  blushing  even 
more  than  he  had  done  over  the  empty  mushroom  basket;  "  but  the  bulk 
of  it  has  gone  elsewhere." 

This  was  not  very  satisfactory ;  and,  what  was  worse,  it  was  plain 
that  Mr.  Vernon  did  not  wish  to  be  put  to  the  question  on  that  point ; 

1—5 


10  A  GKAPE  FKOM  A  THORN. 

yet  Mrs.  Wallace  could  not  restrain  herself  from  saying,  "  Then  do 
you  mean  to  say  that,  except  the  picture  of  little  Davey,  he  has  left  Ella 
nothing  1  " 

"He  has  left  her  nothing  but  the  picture." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that,"  said  Mrs.  Wallace  rather  drily. 

She  afterwards  observed  to  her  husband,  when  alone  with  hirn,  that 
though  Mr.  Vernon  had  looked  grave  enough  when  he  gave  them  this 
information,  he  had  not  looked  particularly  sorry. 

"  Perhaps  he's  got  the  money  himself,"  suggested  the  farmer.  "  In 
that  case  you  can  hardly  expect  him  to  be  in  tears  about  the  disposal  of  it." 

"  How  hard  you  are,  John  !  "  said  his  wife  reprovingly.  "  Though, 
indeed,  even  if  Mr.  Vernon  has  got  it " 

"  Well,  what  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  would  tell  you  a  secret  if  I  thought  you  could  keep  it. 
It  is  my  firm  impression  that  Mr.  Vernon  has  come  in  for  Mr.  Aird's 
estate.  It  was  only  his  poverty  that  made  him  hesitate  so  long  about 
asking  Ella  to  marry  him,  and  now  that  he  feels  he  can  offer  her  a  fitting 
home,  and  an  establishment " 

"  No,"  interrupted  the  farmer  emphatically ;  "  our  Miss  Ella  is  not 
of  that  sort.  She  is  not  one  of  those  fine  young  ladies  who  care  about  an 
establishment." 

"  I  did  not  say  she  was,  John.  Really  if  you  go  on  like  this  about 
Miss  Ella,  you'll  make  some  one  else  jealous." 

"  You  jealous  ?  No,  my  little  woman ;  you've  too  much  sense  for  that." 

Here,  to  the  farmer's  great  astonishment,  his  wife  began  to  laugh. 
"  I  was  not  referring  to  myself  at  all,  you  silly  old  creature.  Where 
was  I  when  you  broke  in  with  your  '  our  Miss  Ella  1 '  Yes ;  I  was  say- 
ing that  now  Mr.  Vernon  has  the  means  he  will  marry  her ;  indeed,  he 
has  told  me  almost  as  much  this  very  morning.  Now  what  do  you 
think  of  that?" 

Mr.  Wallace  scratched  his  head  in  amazement ;  if  he  had  known  that 
all  Vernon  had  said  was,  "  We  have  ventured  to  bring  you  a  little  present 
of  mushrooms,"  he  would  not  have  felt  perhaps  the  same  conviction  on 
the  matter  as  his  wife  did.  As  it  was,  he  observed,  "  Nay,  but  that  was 
quick  work,  lass." 

"  I  suppose  he  was  making  up  for  lost  time,"  observed  Mrs.  Wallace, 
who  was  in  great  spirits.  It  was  a  high  testimony  to  her  unselfishness 
that  she  was  so,  since  the  stroke  of  fortune  which  would  make  her 
favourite  such  a  happy  woman,  would  of  necessity  take  her  away  from 
Foracre  Farm,  where  she  had  won  the^ hearts  of  both  host  and  hostess, 
and  was  as  a  daughter  of  their  own. 

Perhaps  the  farmer  imagined  that  his  wife  had  forgotten  this  dark 
side  of  the  picture,  for  he  observed  gravely,  "  If  things  are  as  you  say,, 
little  woman,  I  am  afraid  you  will  feel  parting  with  the  lass.  She  has. 
found  the  same  place  in  your  heart  that  poor  Gerty  used  to  hold,  \ 
reckon." 


A  GRAPE  FROM  A  THORN.  11 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Mrs.  Wallace.  "Heaven  forbid,  however,  I  should 
grudge  the  dear  girl  to  the  man  she  loves.  Besides,  marriage  is  not  like 
death ;  we  don't  lose  her,  but  only  lend  her." 

"  And  by-the-bye,"  remarked  the  yeoman  slily,  "  you  have  lost  some- 
thing else  remember,  by  this  love  affair.     I've  won  your  white  donkey." 
"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  his  wife.  "  On  the  contrary,  you  have  reminded 
me  that  I  have  won  your  cow." 

"  My  words  were,"  replied  her  husband  with  u  seriousness  that  it 
was  easy  for  one  of  his  sedateness  to  affect,  "  I'll  lay  my  best  cow  against 
your  white  donkey  that  this  time  next  month  Miss  Ella  is  engaged  to  be 
married." 

"Yes ;  but  you  meant  to  Mr.  Felspar." 

"  Now,  it's  a  most  extraordinary  thing,"  observed  the  farmer,  "  that 
whenever  a  woman  makes  a  bet  and  loses  it  she  always  tries  to  make 
out  she  won  it." 

"  You  know  very  well  I've  won  it,  John." 

"  Very  well;  we'll  just  refer  it  to  a  third  person.  Here's  Mr.  Vernon 
and  Ella,  who  count  as  one,  and  indeed  look  like  it — dear  me !  he  had 
his  arm  round  her  waist,  though  he  has  just  whipped  it  away — now  I'll 

appeal  to  them.  Mr.  Vernon  "  (raising  his  voice),  "  my  wife  has  bet " 

"  Be  quiet,  John,  how  dare  you  !  "  exclaimed  his  spouse,  putting  her 
hand  up  to  his  mouth  to  stop  him. 

"  Has  bet  her  white  donkey  to  my  best  cow " 

"For  shame,  John,  for  shame  !  " 

"  That  you  and  Miss  Ella" here,  what- with  laughter  and  the  gag 

his  consort  had  contrived  for  him,  the  good-natured  yeoman  stood  in 
peril  of  suffocation.     "  Well,  if  you'll  give  in,  little  woman,  I'll  not  say 

another  word,"  he  sputtered.  "  Otherwise — her  bet  was,  Mr.  Vernon " 

'•The  donkey  is  yours,  John,"  cried  poor  Mrs.  Wallace  in  extremis  ; 
"  but  I  think  you  are  very  mean." 

I  don't  suppose  the  yeoman  took  possession  of  his  prize  or  meant 
to  take  it,  but  never  over  any  bargain  at  fair  or  market  had  he  grinned 
and  chuckled  as  he  did  over  the  winning  of  that  white  donkey.  The 
circumstances,  however,  evoked  from  Ella  (who,  I  fancy,  for  all  her 
innocent  looks,  guessed  what  that  bet  had  been  about)  a  full  confession  to 
her  friend  and  hostess,  compressed  however  (&  la  Liebig)  into  half  a 
dozen  words.  "  I  am  just  the  happiest  girl  in  all  the  world,  dear  Mrs. 
Wallace." 

In  answer  to  the  latter's  eager  inquiries,  however,  it  seemed  she  had 
no  details  to  communicate,  and  yet  she  had  been  talking  to  her  Walter 
all  the  morning. 

"  But  am  I  not  right  in  supposing  that  Mr.  Aird  has  left  Mr.  Vernon 
a  fortune,  Ella  1 " 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,  she  answered."  Stay,  "yes  I  do ;  he  can't 
have  done  that,  for  I  remember  now  that  Walter  said  I  must  not  mind 
marrying  a  very  poor  man," 


12  A  GRAPE  FROM  A  THORN. 

CHAPTER   LV. 
CREEK  COTTAGE. 

"  THE  wishes  of  the  departed  are  above  all  things  to  be  respected,"  is  a 
well-known  and  most  respectable  dogma.  And  no  one  could  have  shown 
himself  uiore  piously  inclined  in  this  way  than  Walter  Vernon.  Mr. 
Aird,  it  seems,  had  not  confined  himself  to  the  expression  of  a  general 
hope  that  his  demise  should  not  be  the  cause  of  sorrow  to  others,  but  had 
urged  a  speedy  union  between  his  two  young  friends.  Arrangements 
for  their  marriage,  in  short,  were  made  almost  immediately.  The  wedding 
which,  upon  all  accounts,  was  a  very  quiet  one,  of  course  took  place  at 
Foracre  Farm ;  the  good  yeoman  giving  the  bride  away,  though,  as  he 
frankly  told  the  bridegroom,  "  very  unwillingly."  For  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Wallace  it  was  indeed  like  losing  the  light  of  their  house  for  a  second 
time ;  albeit  the  bridegroom  promised^that  it  should  shine  again  there 
once  every  year  at  the  very  least.  Invitations  were  issued  to  Miss  Burt 
and  Mr.  Felspar ;  but,  strange  to  say,  were  accepted  by  the  former  only. 
The  painter  had  suddenly  been  sent  for  (he  wrote)  on  important  business 
to  Rome,  and  was  unable  to  be  present. 

"  I  am  very,  very  sorry,"  said  Ella  with  tears  of  vexation  in  her  eyes, 
as  she  read  his  letter.  "  He  has  been  such  a  good  friend  to  me,  dear 
Mrs.  Wallace,  you  cannot  think.  I  should  have  liked  to  have  told  him 
so  with  my  own  lips." 

Mrs.  Wallace  looked  very  grave.  "  I  think,  my  darling,  things  are 
better,  perhaps,  as  they  are." 

"  What !  better  that  dear  Mr.  Felspar  should  not  come  to  my 
wedding  ?  You  can't  mean  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do  ;  just  that.  I  think  it  would  have  been  a  great  trial  to 
him.  It  is  not  only  John  and  I  who  have  to  make  up  our  minds  to  part 
with  you  to  Mr.  Vernon,  my  darling." 

Then  Ella  began  to  sob  and  tremble  as  she  had  never  done  in  her 
life.  "I  never  dreamt  of  such  a  thing,"  she  said. 

"  Of  course  not.     He  was  too  careful  and  unselfish  for  that." 

"  And  he  always  praised  dear  Walter  so,"  murmured  Ella  faintly. 

"  He  acted  like  a  loyal  friend  and  a  true  gentleman,  my  darling ;  but 
it  cost  him  something,  you  may  be  very  sure." 

"  Do  you  think  Walter  knows  about  it  1 "  she  faltered. 

"  I  am  sure  he  doesn't,  my  darling  ;  he  would  not  be  so  happy  if  he 
did,  even  though  he  has  won  you.  You  must  never  tell  him ;  only  keep 
a  corner  of  your  honest  heart  for  the  loser,  for  he  deserves  it." 

The  day  before  the  wedding  there  arrived  a  marriagevgift  from  Mr. 
Felspar  which  (read  by  this  new  light)  deepened  Ella's  sorrow  for  him, 
while  it  touched  the  unconscious  Vernon  to  the  core. 

"  Just  look  what  the  dear  fellow  writes,"  he  said,  putting  Felspar's 
etter  into  her  hand. 


A   GRAPE  FROM  A  THORN.  13 

"  I  send  you,  my  dear  Walter,  that  which  of  all  my  possessions  you 
will  prize  the  most — your  wife's  portrait,  painted  from  the  sketch  I  took 
at  Wallington  on  the  very  day  (do  you  remember1?)  when  you  first  con- 
fided to  me  your  love  for  her.  We  are  such  old  friends  that  nothing  I 
can  say  in  the  way  of  affection  will  be  new  to  you.  When  I  write  that 
you  are  worthy  of  her  there  remains,  indeed,  in  the  way  of  eulogy, 
nothing  to  be  said." 

"  Now  I  call  that  most  charming  and  touching,"  exclaimed  Walter. 
"And  from  what  I  know  of  the  regard  he  bears  to  you,  I  am  sure  he 
has  sent  me  the  most  precious  thing  in  his  possession." 

"  God  bless  him  !  "   said  Ella  earnestly ;  and  she  said  no  more. 

It  happened,  curiously  enough,  that  another  of  their  wedding  gifts 
was  a  picture,  and  painted,  too,  by  the  same  hand.  Miss  Burt  had 
brought  with  her  in  addition  to  her  own  present  (an  exquisite  lace  collar 
and  cuffs  of  her  own  working)  a  cadeau  from  his  Highness  which 
curiously  reflected  the  kindness  and  egotism  of  the  donor.  It  was  a 
paintbox  of  solid  silver  and  wondrous  workmanship,  under  the  lid  of 
which  was  a  reduced  copy  of  his  own  portrait  by  Mr.  Felspar,  and  be- 
neath it  the  autograph,  "  Charles  Edward,"  in  hereditary  handwriting. 

"  Mr.  Heyton  desired  to  be  most  respectfully  remembered  to  you,  my 
dear,"  said  Miss  Burt,  with  a  mimetic  movement  of  her  hand  to  her  heart. 
"  I  don't  think  he  would  like  Mr.  Vernon  one  bit  better  than  he  liked 
Mr.  Felspar,"  she  added  with  a  droll  significance,  which  convinced  her 
niece  that  she  was  aware  the  secretary  had  been  a  rejected  suitor.  The 
old  lady's  delight  at  healing  that  the  young  couple,  after  a  brief  visit 
to  London,  were  to  pass  their  honeymoon,  and  perhaps  some  time  beyond 
it,  at  the  Ultramarine,  was  charming  to  witness. 

On  the  very  morning  of  the  wedding  there  arrived  a  beautiful  port- 
folio for  holding  drawings,  of  such  a  gigantic  size  that,  since  Ella's 
modest  luggage  included  no  ark  of  the  fashionable  kind,  it  could  be 
packed  nowhere,  but  had  to  travel,  on  the  seat  beside  them,  like  a 
third  passenger.  It  was  labelled,  "  A  trifle  from  Wallington  "  (as  if  it 
had  been  a  sixpenny  mug),  and  was  supposed  (and  rightly)  to  have  come 
from  Dr.  Cooper. 

A  week  afterwards  Ella  found  herself  on  the  same  noble  road  on 
which,  but  two  years  ago,  we  were  first  introduced  to  her  under  very 
different  circumstances.  Above  the  trees  upon  her  right  stood  up  the 
towers  of  Barton  Castle,  with  the  flag  flying  from  its  summit,  about 
which  her  then  companion  had  inquired  with  such  unaccustomed  curio- 
sity. By  her  side  was  now  her  husband.  She  was  quite  happy,  but  her 
happiness  was  tinged  with  a  certain  tender  gravity  not  common  with 
brides.  In  yonder  churchyard  lay  the  father,  who,  with  all  his  faults, 
had  loved  her  dearly ;  the  old  friend,  who  would  have  showed  himself 
friendly  in  a  hundred  ways,  if  she  would  have  permitted  him  to  do  so ; 
and  the  little  child  snatched  so  prematurely  from  his  loving  arms.  All 
lay  together  there  at  rest. 


14  A  GKAPE   FEOM   A  THORN. 

What  experiences,  too,  had  she  herself  undergone,  in  those  few  fate- 
ful months  !  She  had  tried  dependence,  and  might  have  tried  indepen- 
dence (for  her  earnings  with  her  pencil  were  now  quite  sufficient  to  havo 
maintained  her)  but  that  her  good  friends  at  Foracre  Farm  had  for- 
bidden the  experiment,  and  now,  again,  she  was  no  longer  her  own,  but 
her  husband's.  They  would  both  have  to  work  hard  ;  but  labour  was 
sweet  to  both  of  them,  and  to  live  frugally  a  necessity  which  had  no 
terrors  for  them. 

"  I  am  afraid,  Walter,"  said  she  presently,  "  that  we  shall  find  living 
at  the  Ultramarine  a  little  expensive.  I  hope  that  you  will  not  prolong 
your  stay  there  upon  my  account.  Could  we  not  move  in  a  day  or  two  to 
your  old  lodgings  at  Clover  Cottage  1 " 

"  My  darling,"  said  Walter  admiringly,  "  there  is  this  delightful 
peculiarity  about  you,  which  alone  would  render  you  the  most  charming 
woman  in  the  world,  if  you  had  not  a  thousand  other  attractions ;  you 
always  say  exactly  the  right  thing  in  the  right  place.  My  desire,  of 
course,  is  to  please  you  ;  and,  as  it  struck  me  that  you  might  possibly 
prefer  lodgings  to  the  hotel,  I  have  actually  bespoken  them." 

"  What,  at  Clover  Cottage  ? " 

"  Well,  no,  because  Felspar  is  in  occupation  of  it.  That  is  another 
surprise  I  had  for  you.  He  wrote  yesterday  to  say  that  feeling  he  '  had 
behaved  in  a  most  selfish  and  unfriendly  way  '  (that  is  how  he  talks  of 
having  obeyed  an  urgent  necessity)  '  in  not  having  been  present  at  your 
wedding,  he  means  to  be  at  Wallington  to  welcome  you.'  I  wrote  to 
him  in  your  name  to  say  how  delighted  you  would  be  to  see  his  friendly 
face  again." 

"  And  so  I  am,  Walter." 

"  I  knew  you  would  be.  Well,  Clover  Cottage  being  full,  it  doesn't 
seem  to  strike  you  that  there  are  no  other  lodgings  in  Wallington.  But 
it  so  happens,  that  since  your  time — indeed,  a  few  months  after  you  went 
to  Barton— rather  a  pretty  little  cottage  was  built  at  Abbot's  Creek  (the 
very  place  where  our  dear  friend  Mr.  Aird  lost  his  locket,  if  you  remem- 
ber), and  I  have  taken  that  for  a  month  or  two." 

The  carriage,  indeed,  turned  southward  as  he  spoke,  so  as  to  leave 
Wallington  on  the  right,  and  presently  dro\  e  up  in  front  of  the  house 
in  question.  It  was  new,  of  course ;  but  being  picturesquely  built  of 
stone,  with  creepers  trained  over  it,  and  being  placed  in  a  lovely  garden, 
it  was  neither  crude  nor  staring.  Through  the  open  windows  the  sit- 
ting-room looked  very  pretty  and  charmingly  furnished. 

"  What  a  naughty,  extravagant  boy  you  are,  Walter  !  "  she  whispered, 
so  that  the  maid  who  stood  to  welcome  them  at  the  door  should  not  hear 
her ;  "  the  rent  of  such  a  palace  as  this  will  ruin  us  in  a  month." 

He  laughed  in  his  light  way,  and  said,  "  Not  quite." 

Ella  stepped  into  the  little  drawing-room  while  Walter  was"  settling  " 
for  the  carriage,  and  the  servants  were  taking  the  luggage  upstairs,  and 
looked  about  her.  The  windows  opened  on  the  sequestered  cove  which 


A   GRAPE   FROM  A  THORN.  15 

she  so  well  remembered,  and  within  everything  was  tasteful  and  pretty, 
and,  above  all,  reminded  her  of  a  husband's  care.  Her  picture,  sent  on 
direct  from  Devonshire,  already  hung  upon  the  wall,  and  on  the  table 
were  her  favourite  books.  Among  them  was  Fortescue's  Ballads  from 
Eiiglish  History.  She  noticed,  however,  it  was  not  her  own  copy,  and 
in  the  fly-leaf  read  these  words  in  Walter's  handwriting  :  "  Illustrated  by 
his  beloved  wife." 

He  found  her  sitting  over  it,  as  Mrs.  Wallace  afterwards  described  her 
relations  to  the  little  volume,  "  like  a  hen  with  one  chick." 

"  That  is  another  surprise  which  you  have  discovered  for  yourself," 
said  Walter  smiling. 

"  How  could  you,  could  you,  deceive  me  so  ? "  cried  Ella  pitifully. 
"  Suppose  I  hadn't  liked  the  poems  ?  " 

"  Well,  then  I  should  never  have  told  you  about  them.  But  didn't 
you  guess  the  truth,  when  Felspar  used  to  run  them  down,  and  protest 
they  were  not  half  good  enough  for  the  illustrations  1 " 

"  No,  I  never  guessed.     I  only  admired  them  very  much." 

"  Oh,  you  flatterer  ! "  Here  ensued  what  ancient  writers  term  "  a  love 
passage." 

"  And  did  Mr.  Felspar  know  about  it  all  along  1  When  he  was  at 
Barton,  for  instance  1 " 

"  No ;  I  could  not  trust  him  with  such  a  secret.  He  learnt  it,  how- 
ever, soon  afterwards." 

"  Then  you  were  my  first  patron,  Mr.  Fortescue  ?  " 

"  Nay ;  I  had  only  the  happiness  of  convincing  Messrs.  Pater  and 
Son  of  your  genius." 

"  Oh,   you  flatterer !  "      Here  ensued  again  what  ancient  writers, 

"  This  is  all  too  delightful  to  last,"  sighed  Ella,  referring,  of  course, 
to  the  situation  generally.  "  As  I  said  before,  we  shall  be  ruined  by  the 
mere  rent  of  such  a  paradise  as  this." 

"  But  we  don't  pay  any  rent.  The  fact  is,  my  dear,  though  it  is  true 
I  am  as  poor  as  Job,  I  have  married  an  heiress." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Walter  ?" 

"  Come,  there  is  one  surprise  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  have  not 
found  out  for  yourself.  But  hadn't  you  better  take  off  your  bonnet  1 
Very  good.  You  are  consumed  with  curiosity,  I  see,  to  know  the  whole 
story.  When  your  poor  father  lay  on  his  death-bed,  Ella,  he  extracted  a 
promise  from  me.  It  was  very  wise  and  right  of  him  from  his  point  of 
view,  and  indeed,  as  things  have  turned  out,  from  all  points.  He  had 
no  other  object  in  his  mind  but  the  comfort  and  happiness  of  his  child, 
and  she  must  never  think  otherwise.  You  understand  that." 

She  was  trembling  very  much,  and  it  was  easy  for  her  to  nod  her 
head,  but  she  could  not  trust  herself  to  speak.  What  promise  could  that 
have  been  which  her  Walter  made — and  kept,  of  that  she  felt  certain — 
at  that  dreadful  far-back  time,  which  j  ust  now,  however,  recurred  to  her 
as  if  it  were  yesterday  1 


16  A   GRAPE  FROM  A   THORN. 

"  I  promised  your  poor  father  that  I  would  never  ask  you  to  marry 
me  unless  I  had  a  thousand  a  year  of  my  own.  It  was  wrong,  of  course 
— wrong  of  me,  that  is — (for  he  had  felt  her  start  and  shudder),  since  I 
ought  to  have  known  my  own  incompetence  to  earn  such  a  sum.  I 
ought  to  have  pleaded  with  him  against  the  very  love  that  strove  to 
shield  you  from  poverty  and  discomfort.  But  I  did  not  do  so.  I  gave 
my  promise.  "What  it  cost  me  to  keep  it  there  is  no  need  to  talk  about. 
I  have  been  repaid  a  hundred  times  for  all ;  and,  as  I  have  said,  he  who 
imposed  it  had  nothing  but  your  happiness  in  view.  Soon  afterwards, 
thanks  to  Felspar,  who  has  been  our  good  genius  all  along,  Mr.  Aird 
became  aware  of — of — what  I  have  just  told  you.  You  know  how 
tenderly  attached  he  was  to  you,  and  how  he  strove  to  show  it  in  his 
lifetime,  though  for  reasons  of  your  own  you  would  never  permit  it. 
That  reason,  with  which  he  was  made  acquainted  by  Felspar,  guided  his 
conduct  afterwards.  When  poor  little  Davey  died,  for  whom  of  course 
he  had  designed  his  fortune,  he  made  a  will  which,  but  for  that  reason, 
would  without  doubt  have  been  in  your  favour.  As  it  was,  he  left  the 
bulk  of  his  property,  25,000£,  to  me,  in  trust  (for  so  he  intended  it, 
though  it  was  not  so  mentioned)  to  yourself.  Being  convinced  of  our 
mutual  affection,  he  in  fact  endowed  me  with  the  means  of  marrying  you 
while  still  keeping  my  promise.  When  I  came  down  with  him  to  Wal- 
lington  I  had,  of  course,  no  suspicion  of  his  kind  intentions ;  the  first  hint 
of  them  I  received  from  his  own  lips,  as  he  lay  dying  at  Clover  Cottage, 
after  being  brought  ashore  from  the  steamer.  He  whispered  to  me  as  I 
sat  beside  his  bed,  '  You  are  the  last  man  in  all  the  world,  Walter,  who 
should  have  tried  to  save  my  worthless  life ;  yet  if  you  had  known  all  you 
would  have  done  it  just  the  same.'  And  then  he  smiled,  oh,  so  tenderly ! 
and  bade  me  kiss  you  for  him  when  he  should  be  laid  with  Davey." 

There  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  both  husband  and  wife  when  Walter 
had  got  thus  far. 

"  There  is  no  more  to  tell,  my  darling,"  he  continued,  after  a  long 
silence,  "  except  that,  of  course,  I  made  over  the  money  to  you  as  soon  as 
lawyers  could  do  it ;  they  are  not  very  quick  about  it,  you  know,  and  I 
couldn't  wait,  or  else  perhaps  I  ought  to  have  told  you  that  you  were  an 
heiress  before  asking  you  to  be  my  wife.  That  might  have  made  all  the 
difference,  might  it  not  ?  It  was  gaining  your  consent  under  false  pre- 
tences. But  again,  I  was  obliged  to  ask  you,  while  I  nominally  had  the 
money,  in  order  to  keep  my  promise.  You  see  I  was  in  a  very  awkward 
position." 

At  all  events  he  had  now  exchanged  it  for  a  very  pleasant  one,  for 
there  had  once  more  ensued  what  ancient  writers,  "  &c.  &c."  It  must 
be  remembered  that  it  was  but  the  first  week  of  their  honeymoon. 

The  only  guests  at  the  Ultramarine,  who  had  been  there  in  the 
old  time  were  the  once  suspected  bride  and  her  husband ;  but  curiously 
enough,  on  the  very  morning  after  Ella's  arrival  at  her  new  home,  she 
received  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Armytage,  written  from  abroad,  and  for- 


A  GRAPE  FROM  A  THORN.  17 

warded  to  her  from  Foracre  Farm.  It  was  very  evident  from  the  con- 
tents tfaat  she  had  heard  nothing  of  her  marriage  or  of  her  engagement  to 
Walter.  It  appeared  to  have  been  written  Apropos  of  some  pictures 
of  Ella's  in  an  illustrated  paper  which  the  writer  had  come  across. 
She  complimented  her  upon  them  very  highly,  and  held  out  hopes  that 
on  her  return  from  the  Continent  she  might  give  her  a  commission.  The 
whole  communication  was  in  quite  her  own  manner  of  patronage  and  con- 
descension. It,  however,  contained  some  news  of  certain  old  acquaint- 
ances. "  You  have  heard,  I  suppose,  of  that  idiotic  old  Mrs.  Jennynge's 
second  marriage  to  the  Count  Maraschino.  She  picked  him  up  at  Venice, 
where  he  represented  himself  to  her  as  one  of  its  ancient  nobility.  I 
hear  that  he  was  a  pastrycook  at  Naples.  Her  money,  however,  fortu- 
nately for  her  daughter — I  have  no  patience  with  the  woman  herself — 
was  settled  upon  her  very  tightly.  They  say  he  beats  her.  I  hear  you 
have  taken  up  your  abode  with  the  Wallaces.  They  are  no  doubt 
worthy  people ;  but  Refinement  is  hardly  to  be  expected,  at  a  farm,  and 
you  must  find  it  a  sad  change  from  your  old  life.  However,  as  soon 
as  you  make  money  by  your  profession,  which  I  hear  you  are  in  a  fair 
way  to  do,  you  will,  of  course,  leave  them.  I  was  sorry  to  learn  how 
shamefully  Mr.  Aird — or  rather  Mr.  Vernon — had  behaved  to  you.  The 
idea  of  his  coming  round  that  poor  old  man  in  his  dotage  and  getting  all 
his  money  !  I  think,  considering  all  things,  he  might  have  remembered 
you.  Mr.  Felspar,  too,  seems  by  all  accounts  to  have  feathered  his  own 
nest,  which  from  what  I  heard  of  him  from  Mrs.  Jennynge — he  behaved 
most  graspingly  about  a  picture — I  am  not  the  least  surprised  at ;  but 
of  Mr.  Vernon  I  thought  better ;  though  indeed  what  can  one  expect  of 
a  man  who  has  to  live  by  his  wits  ? " 

There  was  a  good  deal  more  of  it,  which  made  Ella  exceedingly  angry 
and  Walter  absolutely  scream  with  laughter. 

After  all,  however,  what  does  it  matter,  as  she  soon  persuaded  herself, 
what  such  people  think  of  one,  or  even  of  one's  husband.  The  good 
opinion  of  others  is  worth  having  only  if  they  themselves  are  worthy. 

At  Wallington  this  happy  young  couple  were  surrounded  by  those 
who  loved  them.  Mr.  Felspar  was  a  constant  guest  at  the  Creek.  Dr. 
Cooper  used  to  declare  that  if  he  were  asked  so  often  to  partake  of  their 
hospitality,  he  should  be  obliged,  injustice  to  his  patients,  to  charge  as 
for  a  professional  visit.  Miss  Burt  had  leave  from  his  Highness  to  see 
her  niece  whenever  she  pleased,  and  always  came  laden  with  grapes  and 
peaches,  or  the  flowers  "  so  beloved  by  my  ancestor,  Cardinal  York." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wallace  had  a  room  at  Creek  Cottage  always  reserved 
for  them,  called  the  Foracre  Room.  The  good  yeoman's  wife  and  Miss 
Burt  struck  up  a  close  friendship  together,  and  were  never  tired  of  talk- 
ing of  their  common  darling  Ella. 

They  were  speculating  one  day  on  what  would  have  happened  in  case 
good  Mr.  Aird  had  not  made  things  so  easy  for  the  young  couple. 

"  Heaven  only  knows,"  said  Mrs.  Wallace ;  "  but  I  think,  somehow, 


18  A  GRAPE  FROM  A  THORN. 

what  It  a*  happened  must  have  happened  sooner  or  later.     Walter  and 
she  were  made  for  one  another." 

"  But  not  ready  made,"  urged  Miss  Burt,  looking  up  from  her  lace- 
work.  "  The  barrier  between  them,  Mr.  Yernon  has  told  me,  was  in- 
surmountable by  his  own  efforts.  If  I  had  never  believed  in  a  special 
Providence,  the  drowning  of  that  dear  Mr.  Aird  would  have  convinced 
me  of  its  existence." 

Mrs.  Wallace,  with  tears  in  her  eyes  for  his  sad  fate,  nodded  lugu- 
brious assent. 

"  My  belief  is,  however,"  continued  Miss  Burt,  "  that  both  Walter 
and  Ella  would  have  found  consolation,  if  not  happiness,  in  another  way. 
He  works  so  hard — even  now,  when  there  is  no  occasion — and  loves  his 
work  so,  that  he  could  never  have  been  a  miserable  man.  His  life,  as 
Mr.  Felspar  told  Dr.  Cooper,  would  have  been  a  bright  example  of  what 
talent — though  without  positive  genius — assiduity  and  the  love  of  duty 
can  effect,  had  not  this  dreadful  legacy  fallen  in  and  crushed  it." 

"  Then  Mr.  Felspar  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself,  and  I  am  very 
much  astonished  at  him  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wallace  indignantly. 

"  Well,  I  am  not  sure  that  Mr.  Felspar  spoke  quite  seriously,"  ob- 
served Miss  Burt  apologetically ;  "  that  is,  as  to  the  legacy.  And  he's  a 
dear,  good  man,  and,  I  believe,  would  sacrifice  everything  for  his  friend 
and  Ella." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Wallace  gravely.  Then,  after  a 
pause,  she  continued  :  "  You  have  spoken  of  what  Walter  would  have 
done  if  things  had  txirned  out  less  fortunately  for  him  ;  but  how  do  you 
think  Ella  would  have  borne  it  1 " 

"Bravely.  She  would  have  suffered,  for  she  loved  him  from  the 
first ;  but  I  don't  think  she  woiild  have  pined  away  like  some  young 
women.  I  never  met  with  one  so  diligent,  so  patient,  and  yet  with 
such  a  proper  spirit.  She  would  have  said  to  cruel  Fate,  '  You  may 
do  your  worst,  but  I  will  do  my  best.'  " 

"  That  is  quite  my  view,"  said  Mrs.  Wallace  with  enthusiasm.  "And 
yet  she  was  not  brought  up  with  those  ideas,  was  she  1 " 

"  Brought  up  with,  'them  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Burt,  laying  down  her 
lacework,  and  looking  very  unlike  her  ordinary  self.  "  She  was  not 
indeed;  she  is  '  A  Grape  from  a  Thorn.'  " 


THE  EXD. 


19 


Culcntts  0f  Jflates, 


BEFORE  me,  us  I  write,  stands  a  small  specimen  vase,  containing  a  little 
Scotch  bluebell,  picked  upon  a  bleak  open  moorside,  yet  wonderfully  deli- 
cate and  fragile  in  stem,  and  leaf,  and  bud,  and  blossom.  For  the  blue- 
bells of  Scotland,  the  bluebells  of  Walter  Scott  and  of  all  the  old 
ballad  poetry,  are  not  our  stiff,  thick-stemmed  English  wild  hyacinths,  but 
the  same  dainty,  drooping  flowers  which  we  in  the  south  call  harebells. 
The  word  ought  really  to  be  heather-bell ;  but  the  corruption  is  quite  in 
accordance  with  a  common  law  of  English  phonology,  which  has  simi- 
larly degraded  several  other  early  words  by  dropping  out  the  th  between 
two  vowels.  Harebell  or  heather-bell  or  bluebell,  the  flower  is  one  of 
our  prettiest  and  most  graceful  native  forms ;  and  the  exquisite  depth  of 
its  colour  has  always  made  it  a  prime  favourite  with  our  poets  and  our 
children  alike.  How  it  first  got  that  beautiful  colour  is  the  problem 
which  I  wish,  if  possible,  to  settle  to-day. 

I  am  not  going  to  inquire  at  present  why  the  harebell  is  coloured  at 
all.  That  question  I  suppose  everybody  has  now  heard  answered  a  dozen 
times  over  at  least.  "We  all  know  nowadays  that  the  colours  of  flowers 
are  useful  to  them  in  attracting  the  insects  which  fertilise  their  embryo 
seeds ;  and  that  only  those  flowers  possess  bright  hues  which  thus  de- 
pend upon  insects  for  the  impregnation  of  their  ovules.  Wind-fertilised 
blossoms,  in  which  the  pollen  of  one  head  is  carried  by  chance  breezes  to 
the  stigma  of  another,  are  always  small,  green,  and  comparatively  incon- 
spicuous. It  is  only  those  plants  which  are  indebted  to  bees  or  butter- 
flies for  the  due  setting  of  their  seeds  that  ever  advertise  their  store  of 
honey  by  bright-hued  petals.  All  this,  as  I  say,  we  have  each  of  us 
heard  long  ago.  So  the  specific  question  which  I  wish  to  attack  to-day 
is  not  why  the  harebell  is  coloured,  but  why  it  is  coloured  blue.  And,  in 
getting  at  the  answer  to  this  one  test-question,  I  hope  incidentally  to 
answer  the  wider  question  why  any  given  flower  whatsoever  should  be 
blue,  let  us  say,  or  red,  or  lilac,  rather  than  orange,  yellow,  white,  or  any 
other  possible  colour  in  nature  except  the  one  which  it  actually  happens 
to  be. 

Briefly  put,  the  general  conclusion  at  which  I  have  arrived  is  this  : 
all  flowers  were  in  their  earliest  form  yellow  ;  then,  some  of  them  became 
white  ;  after  that,  a  few  of  them  grew  to  be  red  or  purple ;  and  finally  a 
comparatively  small  number  acquired  various  shades  of  lilac,  mauve, 
violet,  or  blue.  So  that,  if  this  principle  be  true,  the  harebell  will  repre- 


20  THE  COLOURS  OF  FLOWERS. 

sent  one  of  the  most  highly-developed  lines  of  descent ;  and  its  ancestors 
will  have  passed  successively  through  all  the  intermediate  stages.  Let 
us  see  what  grounds  can  be  given  for  such  a  belief. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  well  to  observe  that  when  we  speak  of  the 
colours  of  flowers  we  generally  mean  the  colour  of  the  petals  alone. 
For  in  most  cases  the  stamens  and  other  central  organs,  which  form, 
botanically  speaking,  the  really  important  part  of  the  blossom,  are 
yellow,  or  at  least  yellowish ;  while  the  petals  may  be  blue,  red,  pink, 
orange,  lilac,  or  even  green.  But  as  the  central  organs  are  com- 
paratively small,  whereas  the  petals  are  large  and  conspicuous,  we 
naturally  speak  of  flowers  in  everyday  talk  as  having  the  colour  of 
their  petals,  which  form  by  far  the  greater  and  most  noticeable  part  of 
their  whole  surface.  Our  question,  then,  narrows  itself  down  to  this — 
Why  are  the  petals  in  any  particular  blossom  of  one  colour  rather  than 
another  ? 

Now  petals,  as  I  have  more  than  once  already  explained  to  the 
readers  of  this  magazine,  are  in  all  probability  originally  enlarged  and 
flattened  stamens,  which  have  been  set  apart  for  the  special  work  of 
attracting  insects.  It  seems  likely  that  all  flowers  at  first  consisted  of 
the  central  organs  alone — that  is  to  say,  the  pistil,  which  contains  the 
ovary  with  its  embryo  seeds ;  and  the  stamens,  which  produce  the  pollen, 
whose  co-operation  is  necessary  in  order  to  fertilise  these  same  embryo 
ovules  and  to  make  the  pistil  mature  into  the  ripe  fruit.  But  in  those 
plants  which  took  to  fertilisation  by  means  of  insects — or,  one  ought  rather 
to  say,  in  those  plants  which  insects  took  to  visiting  for  the  sake  of  their 
honey  or  pollen,  and  so  unconsciously  fertilising — the  flowers  soon  began 
to  produce  an  outer  row  of  ban-en  and  specialised  stamens,  adapted  by 
their  size  and  colour  for  attracting  the  fertilising  insects;  and  these 
barren  and  specialised  stamens  are  what  we  commonly  call  petals.  Any 
flowers  which  thus  presented  brilliant  masses  of  colour  to  allure  the  eyes 
of  the  beetles,  the  bees,  and  the  butterflies  would  naturally  receive  the 
greatest  number  of  visits  from  their  insect  friends,  and  would  therefore 
stand  the  best  chance  of  setting  their  seeds,  as  well  as  of  producing 
healthy  and  vigorous  offspring  as  the  result  of  a  proper  cross.  In  this 
way,  they  would  gain  an  advantage  in  the  struggle  for  life  over  their  less 
fortunate  compeers,  and  would  hand  down  their  own  peculiarities  to  their 
descendants  after  them. 

But  as  the  stamens  of  almost  all  flowers,  certainly  of  all  the  oldest 
and  simplest  flowers,  are  yellow,  it  would  naturally  follow  that  the 
earliest  petals  would  be  yellow  too.  When  the  stamens  of  the  outer  row 
were  flattened  and  broadened  into  petals,  there  would  be  no  particular 
reason  why  they  should  change  their  colour ;  and,  in  the  absence  of  any 
good  reason,  they  doubtless  retained  it  as  before.  Indeed,  I  shall  try 
to  show,  a  little  later  on,  that  the  earliest  and  simplest  types  of  existing 
flowers  are  almost  always  yellow,  seldom  white,  and  never  blue ;  and 
this  in  itself  would  be  a  sufficient  ground  for  believing  that  yellow  was 


THE  COLOUES  OF  FLOWERS.  21 

the" original  colour  of  all  petals.*  But  as  I  am  personally  somewhat  here- 
tical in  believing,  contrary  to  the  general  run  of  existing  scientific 
opinion,  that  petals  are  derived  from  flattened  stamens,  not  from  simpli- 
fied and  attenuated  leaves,  I  shall  venture  to  detail  here  the  reasons  for 
this  belief;  because  it  seems  to  me  of  capital  importance  in  connection 
with  our  present  subject.  For  if  the  petals  were  originally  a  row  of 
stamens  set  apart  for  the  function  of  attracting  insects,  it  would  be 
natural  and  obvious  why  they  should  begin  by  being  yellow ;  but  if  they 
were  originally  a  set  of  leaves,  which  became  thinner  and  more  brightly 
coloured  for  the  same  purpose,  it  would  be  difficult  to  see  why  they 
should  first  have  assumed  any  one  colour  rather  than  another. 

The  accepted  doctrine  as  to  the  nature  of  petals  is  that  discovered  by 
Wolff  and  afterwards  rediscovered  by  Goethe,  after  whose  name  it  is 
usually  called ;  for  of  course,  as  in  all  such  cases,  the  greater  man's  fame 
has  swallowed  up  the  fame  of  the  lesser.  Goethe  held  that  all  the  parts 
of  the  flower  were  really  modified  leaves,  and  that  a  gradual  transition 
could  be  traced  between  them,  from  the  ordinary  leaf  through  the  stem- 
leaf  and  the  bract  to  the  sepal  (or  division  of  the  calyx),  the  petal,  the 
stamen,  and  the  ovary  or  carpel.  Now,  if  we  look  at  most  modern 
flowers,  such  a  transition  can  undoubtedly  be  observed  ;  and  sometimes  it 
is  very  delicately  graduated,  so  that  you  can  hardly  say  where  each  sort 
of  leaf  merges  into  the  next.  But,  unfortunately  for  the  truth  of  the 
theory  as  ordinarily  understood,  we  now  know  that  in  the  earliest  flowers 
there  were  no  petals  or  sepals,  but  that  primitive  flowering  plants  had 
simply  leaves  on  the  one  hand,  and  stamens  and  ovules  on  the  other.  The 
oldest  types  of  flowers  at  present  surviving,  those  of  the  pine  tribe  and 
of  the  tropical  cycads  (such  as  the  well-known  zamias  of  our  conserva- 
tories), have  still  only  these  simple  elements.  But,  if  petals  and  sepals 
are  later  in  origin  (as  we  know  them  to  be)  than  stamens  and  carpels,  we 
cannot  say,  it  seems  to  me,  that  they  mark  the  transition  from  one  form 
to  the  other,  any  more  than  we  can  say  that  Gothic  architecture  marks 

*  In  a  part  of  this  article  I  shall  have  to  go  over  ground  already  considered  in  a 
valuable  paper  read  by  Sir  John  Lubbt>ck  before  the  British  Association  at  York  last 
August,  and  I  shall  take  part  of  my  examples  from  his  interesting  collection  of  facts 
as  reported  in  Nature.  But,  at  the  same  time,  I  should  like  at  the  outset  to  point  out 
that  I  venture  to  differ  on  two  points  from  his  great  authority.  In  the  first  place,  I 
do  not  think  all  flowers  were  originally  green,  because  I  believe  petals  were  first  de- 
rived from  altered  stamens,  not  from  altered  sepals  or  bracts,  and  that  modern  green 
flowers  are  degraded  types,  not  survivals,  of  early  forms.  And  in  the  second  place,  I 
think  yellow  petals  preceded  white  petals  in  the  order  of  time,  and  not  vice  versd.  I 
may  also  perhaps  be  excused  for  adding  that  I  had  already  arrived  at  most  of  the 
substantive  conclusions  set  forth  in  this  article  before  the  appearance  of  Sir  John 
Lubbock's  paper,  and  had  incidentally  put  forward  the  greater  part  of  them,  though 
dogmatically  and  without  fully  stating  my  reasons,  in  an  article  on  the  "Daisy's 
Pedigree,"  published  in  the  CORNIILLL  MAGAZINE,  and  in  another  on  the  Rose  Family, 
published  in  Belgravia,  both  for  August,  1881.  At  the  same  time,  I  must  express  my 
indebtedness  for  many  new  details  to  Sir  John  Lubbock's  admirable  paper.  Of  course 
this- note  is  only  appended  for  the  behoof  of  scientific  readers. 


22  THE  COLOURS  OF  FLOWERS. 

the  transition  from  the  Egyptian  style  to  the  classical  Greek.  I  do  not 
mean  to  deny  that  the  stamen  and  the  ovary  are  themselves  by  origin 
modified  leaves — that  part  of  the  Wolffian  theory  is  absolutely  irrefut- 
able— but  what  I  do  mean  to  say  is  this,  that,  with  the  light  shed  upon 
the  subject  by  the  modern  doctrine  of  evolution,  we  can  no  longer  regard 
petals  and  sepals  as  intermediate  stages  between  the  two.  The  earliest 
flowering  plants  had  true  leaves  on  the  one  hand,  and  specialised  pollen- 
bearing  or  ovule-bearing  leaves  on  the  other  hand,  which  latter  are  what 
we  call  stamens  and  carpels ;  but  they  had  no  petals  at  all,  and  the 
petals  of  modern  flowers  have  been  produced  at  some  later  period.  I 
believe,  also,  they  have  been  produced  by  a  modification  of  certain 
external  stamens,  not  by  a  modification  of  true  leaves.  Instead  of 
being  leaves  arrested  on  their  way  towards  becoming  stamens,  they  are 
stamens  which  have  partially  reverted  towards  the  condition  of  leaves. 
They  differ  from  true  leaves,  however,  in  their  thin,  spongy  texture,  and 
in  the  bright  pigments  with  which  they  are  adorned. 

All  stamens  show  a  great  tendency  easily  to  become  petaloid,  as  the 
technical  botanists  call  it ;  that  is  to  say,  to  flatten  out  their  filament  or 
stalk,  and  finally  to  lose  their  pollen-bearing  sacs  or  anthers.  In  the 
waterlilies — which  are  one  of  the  oldest  and  simplest  types  of  flowers  we 
now  possess,  still  preserving  many  antique  points  of  structure  unchanged — 
we  can  trace  a  regular  gradation  from  the  perfect  stamen  to  the  perfect 
petal.  In  the  centre  of  the  flower,  we  find  stamens  of  the  ordinary  sort, 
with  rounded  stalks  or  filaments,  and  long  yellow  anthers  full  of  pollen 
at  the  end  of  each ;  then,  as  we  move  outward,  we  find  the  filaments 
growing  flatter  and  broader,  and  the  pollen-sacs  less  and  less  perfect ; 
next,  we  find  a  few  stamens  which  look  exactly  like  petals,  only  that 
they  have  two  abortive  anthers  stuck  awkwardly  on  to  their  summits; 
and,  finally,  we  find  true  petals,  broad  and  flat,  yellow  or  white  as  the 
case  may  be,  and  without  any  trace  of  the  anthers  at  all.  Here  in  this 
very  ancient  flower  we  have  stereotyped  for  us,  as  it  were,  the  mode  in 
which  stamens  first  developed  into  petals,  under  stress  of  insect  selection. 

"  But  how  do  you  know,"  some  one  may  ask,  "  that  the  transition  was 
not  in  the  opposite  direction  ?  How  do  you  know  that  the  waterlily 
had  not  petals  alone  to  start  with,  and  that  these  did  not  afterwards 
develop,  as  the  Wolffian  hypothesis  would  have  us  believe,  into 
stamens  ?  "  "Well,  for  a  very  simple  reason.  The  theory  of  Wolff  and 
Goethe  is  quite  incompatible  with  the  doctrine  of  development,  at  least 
if  accepted  as  a  historical  explanation  (which  Wolff  and  Goethe  of  course 
never  meant  it  to  be).  Flowers  can  and  do  exist  without  petals,  which 
are  no  essential  part  of  the  organism,  but  a  mere  set  of  attractive  coloured 
advertisements  for  alluring  insects ;  but  no  flower  can  possibly  exist 
without  stamens,  which  are  one  of  the  two  essential  reproductive  organs 
in  the  plant.  Without  pollen,  no  flower  can  set  its  seeds.  A  parallel 
from  the  animal  Avorld  will  make  this  immediately  obvious.  Hive-bees 
consist  of  three  kinds — the  queens  or  fertile  females,  the  drones  or  males, 


THE   COLOUBS   OF   FLOWERS.  23 

and  the  workers  or  neuters.  Now  it  would  be  absurd  to  ask  whether  the 
queens  were  developed  from  an  original  class  of  neuters,  or  the  neuters 
from  an  original  class  of  fertile  females.  Neuters  left  to  themselves 
would  die  out  in  a  single  generation  :  they  are  really  sterilised  females, 
set  apart  for  a  special  function  on  behalf  of  the  hive.  It  is  just  the  same 
with  petals  :  they  are  sterilised  stamens,  set  apart  for  the  special  function 
of  attracting  insects  on  behalf  of  the  entire  flower.  But  to  ask  which 
came  first,  the  petals  or  the  stamens,  is  as  absurd  as  to  ask  which  came 
first,  the  male  and  female  bees  or  the  neuters.* 

In  many  other  cases  besides  the  water  lily,  we  know  that  stamens  often 
turn  into  petals.  Thus  the  numerous  coloured  rays  of  the  mesembryan- 
themums  or  ice-plant  family  are  acknowledged  to  be  flattened  stamens. 
In  double  roses  and  almost  all  other  double  flowers  the  extra  petals  are 
produced  from  the  stamens  of  the  interior.  In  short,  stamens  generally 
can  be  readily  converted  into  petals,  especially  in  rich  and  fertile  soils  or 
under  cultivation.  Even  where  stamens  always  retain  their  pollen-sacs, 
they  have  often  broad,  flattened  petaloid  filaments,  as  in  the  star  of  Beth- 
lehem and  many  other  flowers.  Looking  at  the  question  as  a  whole,  we 
can  see  how  petals  might  easily  have  taken  their  origin  from  stamens, 
while  it  is  difficult  to  understand  how  they  could  have  taken  their  origin 
from  ordinary  leaves — a  process  of  which,  if  it  ever  took  place,  no  hint  now 
remains  to  us.  We  shall  see  hereafter  that  the  manner  in  which  certain 
outer  florets  in  the  compound  flower-heads  of  the  daisy  or  the  aster  have 
been  sterilised  [and  specialised  for  the  work  of  attraction  affords  an 
exact  analogy  to  the  manner  in  which  it  is  here  suggested  that  certain 
stamens  may  at  an  earlier  date  have  been  sterilised  and  specialised  for 
the  same  purpose,  thus  giving  rise  to  what  we  know  as  petals. 

We  may  take  it  for  granted,  then  (to  return  from  this  long  but  need- 
ful digression),  that  the  earliest  petals  were  derived  from  flattened 
stamens,  and  were  therefore  probably  yellow  in  colour,  like  the  stamens 
from  which  they  took  their  origin.  The  question  next  arises — How  did 
some  of  them  afterwards  come  to  be  orange,  red,  purple,  or  blue  ? 

A  few  years  ago,  when  the  problem  of  the  connection  between  flowers 
and  insects  still  remained  much  in  the  state  where  Sprengel  left  it  at  the 
end  of  the  last  century,  it  would  have  seemed  quite  impossible  to  answer 
this  question.  But  nowadays  after  the  full  researches  of  Darwin,  Wal- 
lace, Lubbock,  and  Hermann  Miiller  into  the  subject,  we  can  give  a  very 
satisfactory  solution  indeed.  We  now  know,  not  only  that  the  colours 
of  flowers  as  a  whole  are  intended  to  attract  insects  in  general,  but  that 
certain  colours  are  definitely  intended  to  attract  certain  special  kinds  of 
insects.  Thus,  to  take  a  few  examples  only  out  of  hundreds  that  might  be 
cited,  the  flowers  which  lay  themselves  out  for  fertilisation  by  miscellaneous 

*  I  must  add  that  I  do  not  in  the  least  doubt  the  truth  of  Wolffs  great  generali- 
sation in  the  way  in  which  he  meant  it — the  existence  of  a  homology  between  the  leaf 
and  all  the  floral  organs:  I  only  mean  that  the  conception  requires  to  be  modified  a 
little  by  the  light  of  later  evolutionary  discoveries. 


24  THE  COLOURS  OF  FLOWERS. 

small  flies  are  almost  always  white ;  those  which  depend  upon  the  beetles 
are  generally  yellow  ;  Avhile  those  which  bid  for  the  favour  of  bees  and 
butterflies  are  usually  red,  purple,  lilac,  or  blue.  Certain  insects  always 
visit  one  species  of  flower  alone ;  and  others  pass  from  blossom  to  blossom 
of  one  kind  only  on  a  single  day,  though  they  may  vary  a  little  from 
kind  to  kind  as  the  season  advances,  and  one  species  replaces  another. 
Miiller,  the  most  statistical  of  naturalists,  has  noticed  that  while  bees 
form  seventy-five  per  cent,  of  the  insects  visiting  the  very  developed  com- 
posites, they  form  only  fourteen  per  cent,  of  those  visiting  umbelliferous 
plants,  which  have,  as  a  rule,  open  but  by  no  means  showy  white  flowers. 
Certain  blossoms  which  lay  themselves  out  to  attract  wasps  are,  as  ho 
quaintly  puts  it,  "obviously  adapted  to  a  less  sesthetically  cultivated 
circle  of  visitors."  And  some  livid  red  flowers  actually  resemble  in  their 
colour  and  odour  decaying  raw  meat,  thus  inducing  bluebottle  flies  to 
visit  them  and  so  carry  their  pollen  from  head  to  head. 

Down  to  the  minutest  distinctions  between  species,  this  correlation  of 
flowers  to  the  tastes  of  their  particular  guests  seems  to  hold  good.  Her- 
mann Miiller  notes  that  the  common  galium  of  our  heaths  and  hedges  is 
white,  and  therefore  visited  by  small  flies  ;  while  the  lady's  bedstraw,  its 
near  relative,  is  yellow,  and  owes  its  fertilisation  to  little  beetles.  Mr. 
H.  0.  Forbes  counted  on  one  occasion  the  visits  he  saw  paid  to  the 
flowers  on  a  single  bank ;  and  he  found  that  a  particular  bumble-bee 
sucked  the  honey  of  thirty  purple  dead-nettles  in  succession,  passing  over 
without  notice  all  the  other  plants  in  the  neighbourhood ;  two  other 
species  of  bumble-bee  and  a  cabbage-butterfly  also  patronised  the  same 
dead-nettles  exclusively.  Fritz  Miiller  noticed  a  lantana  in  South 
America  which  changes  colour  as  its  flowering  advances;  and  he 
observed  that  each  kind  of  butterfly  which  visited  it  stuck  rigidly  to  its 
own  favourite  colour,  waiting  to  pay  its  addresses  until  that  colour 
appeared.  Mr.  Darwin  cut  off  the  petals  of  a  lobelia  and  found  that  the 
hive-bees  never  went  near  it,  though  they  were  very  busy  with  the  sur- 
rounding flowers.  But  perhaps  Sir  John  Lubbock's  latest  experiments 
on  bees  are  the  most  conclusive  of  all.  He  had  long  ago  convinced  him- 
self, by  trials  with  honey  placed  on  slips  of  glass  above  yellow,  pink,  or 
blue  paper,  that  bees  could  discriminate  the  different  colours ;  and  he  has 
now  shown  in  the  same  way  that  they  display  a  marked  preference  for 
blue  over  all  others.  The  fact  is,  blue  flowers  are,  as  a  rule,  specialised  for 
fertilisation  by  bees,  and  bees  therefore  prefer  this  colour ;  while  con- 
versely the  flowers  have  at  the  same  time  become  blue  because  that  was 
the  colour  which  the  bees  prefer.  As  in  most  other  cases,  the  adaptation 
must  have  gone  on  pari  passu  on  both  sides.  As  the  bee-flowers  grew 
bluer,  the  bees  must  have  grown  fonder  and  fonder  of  blue ;  and  as  they 
grew  fonder  of  blue,  they  must  have  more  and  more  constantly  preferred 
the  bluest  flowers. 

"We  thus  see  how  the  special  tastes  of  insects  may  have  become  the 
selective  agency  for  developing  white,  pink,  red,  purple,  and  blue  petals 


THE  COLOURS  OF  FLOWERS.  25 

from  the  original  yellow  ones.  But  before  they  could  exercise  such  a 
selective  action,  the  petals  must  themselves  have  shown  some  tendency 
to  vary  in  certain  fixed  directions.  How  could  such  an  original  tendency 
arise  ]  For,  of  course,  if  the  insects  never  saw  any  pink,  purple,  or  blue 
petals,  they  could  not  specially  favour  and  select  them ;  so  that  we  are  as 
yet  hardly  nearer  the  solution  of  the  problem  than  ever. 

Here  Mr.  Sorby,  who  has  chemically  studied  the  colouring  matter  of 
leaves  and  flowers  far  more  deeply  than  any  other  investigator,  supplies 
us  with  a  useful  hint.  He  tells  us  that  the  various  pigments  of  bright 
petals  are  already  contained  in  the  ordinary  tissues  of  the  plant,  whose 
juices  only  need  to  be  slightly  modified  in  chemical  constitution  in  order 
to  make  them  into  the  blues,  pinks,  and  purples  with  which  we  are  so 
familiar.  "  The  coloured  substances  in  the  petals,"  he  says,  "  are  in 
many  cases  exactly  the  same  as  those  in  the  foliage  from  which  chloro- 
phyll has  disappeared ;  so  that  the  petals  are  often  exactly  like  leaves 
which  have  turned  yellow  and  red  in  autumn,  or  the  very  yellow  or  red 
leaves  of  early  spring."  "  The  colour  of  many  crimson,  pink,  and  red 
flowers  is  due  to  the  development  of  substances  belonging  to  the  erythro- 
phyll  group,  and  not  unfrequently  to  exactly  the  same  kind  as  that  so  often 
found  in  leaves.  The  facts  seem  to  indicate  that  these  various  substances 
may  be  due  to  an  alteration  of  the  normal  constituents  of  leaves.  So  far 
as  I  have  been  able  to  ascertain,  their  development  seems  as  if  related  to 
extra  oxidisation,  modified  by  light  and  other  varying  conditions  not  yet 
understood." 

The  different  hues  assumed  by  petals  are  all  thus,  as  it  were,  laid  up 
beforehand  in  the  tissues  of  the  plant,  ready  to  be  brought  out  at  a 
moment's  notice.  And  all  flowers,  as  we  know,  easily  sport  a  little  in 
colour.  But  the  question  is,  do  their  changes  tend  to  follow  any  regular 
and  definite  order  ?  Is  there  any  reason  to  believe  that  the  modifica- 
tion runs  from  yellow  through  red  to  blue,  rather  than  vice  versd  1  I 
believe  there  is ;  and  we  get  hints  of  it  in  the  following  fashion. 

One  of  our  common  little  English  forget-me-nots,  by  name  Myosotis 
versicolor  (may  I  be  pardoned  for  using  a  few  scientific  names  just  this 
once  ?)  is  pale  yellow  when  it  first  opens ;  but  as  it  grows  older,  it 
becomes  faintly  pinkish,  and  ends  by  being  blue  like  the  others  of  its  race. 
Now,  this  sort  of  colour-change  is  by  no  means  uncommon ;  and  in  all 
the  cases  that  I  know  of  it  is  always  in  the  same  direction,  from  yellow 
or  white,  through  pink,  orange,  or  red,  to  purple  or  blue.  For  example, 
one  of  the  wall-flower  tribe,  Ckeiranthus  chamceleo,  has  at  first  a  whitish 
flower,  then  a  citron-yellow,  and  finally  emerges  into  red  or  violet.  The 
petals  of  Stylidium  fruticoswn  are  pale  yellow  to  begin  with,  and  after- 
wards become  light  rose-coloured.  An  evening  primrose,  (EnotJiera 
tetraptera,  has  white  flowers  in  its  first  stage  and  red  ones  at  a  later 
period  of  development.  Cobcea  scandens  goes  from  white  to  violet ;  Hibis- 
cus mutabilis  from  white  through  flesh-coloured  to  red.  Fritz  Miiller's 
lantana  is  yellow  on  its  first  day,  orange  on  the  second,  and  purple  on 

VOL.  XLV. — NO.  265.  2. 


26  THE  COLOUES  OF  FLOWERS. 

the  third.  The  whole  tribe  of  borages  begin  by  being  pink  and  end  with 
being  blue.  The  garden  convolvulus  opens  a  blushing  white  and  passes 
into  full  purple.  In  all  these  and  many  other  cases  the  general  direction 
of  the  changes  is  the  same.  They  are  usually  set  down  as  due  to  oxida- 
tion of  the  pigmentary  matter. 

If  this  be  so,  there  is  a  good  reason  why  bees  should  be  specially  fond 
of  blue,  and  why  blue  flowers  should  be  specially  adapted  for  fertilisation 
by  their  aid.  For  Mr.  A.  K.  Wallace  has  shown  that  colour  is  most  apt 
to  appear  or  to  vary  in  those  parts  of  plants  or  animals  which  have 
undergone  the  highest  amount  of  modification.  The  markings  of  the 
peacock  and  the  argus  pheasant  come  out  upon  their  immensely  deve- 
loped secondary  tail-feathers  or  wing-plumes  ;  the  metallic  hues  of  sun- 
birds  and  humming-birds  show  themselves  upon  their  highly-specialised 
crests,  gorgets,  or  lappets.  It  is  the  same  with  the  hackles  of  fowls,  the 
head-ornaments  of  fruit-pigeons,  and  the  bills  of  toucans.  The  most 
exquisite  colours  in  the  insect  world  are  those  which  are  developed  on 
the  greatly  expanded  and  delicately-feathered  wings  of  butterflies ;  and 
the  eye-spots  which  adorn  a  few  species  are  usually  found  on  their  very 
highly  modified  swallow-tail  appendages.  So,  too,  with  flowers ;  those 
which  have  undergone  most  modification  have  their  colours  most  pro- 
foundly altered.  In  this  way,  we  may  put  it  down  as  a  general  rule  (to 
be  tested  hereafter)  that  the  least  developed  flowers  are  usually  yellow  or 
white ;  those  which  have  undergone  a  little  more  modification  are 
usually  pink  or  red;  and  those  which  have  been  most  highly  specialised 
of  any  are  usually  purple,  lilac,  or  blue.  Absolute  deep  ultramarine, 
like  that  of  this  harebell,  probably  marks  the  highest  level  of  all. 

On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Wallace's  principle  also  explains  why  the  bees 
and  butterflies  should  prefer  these  specialised  colours  to  all  others,  and 
should  therefore  select  the  flowers  which  display  them  by  preference  over 
any  less  developed  types.  For  bees  and  butterflies  are  the  most  highly 
adapted  of  all  insects  to  honey-seeking  and  flower-feeding.  They  have 
themselves  on  their  side  undergone  the  largest  amount  of  specialisation 
for  that  particular  function.  And  if  the  more  specialised  and  modified 
flowers,  which  gradually  fitted  their  forms  and  the  position  of  their 
honey -glands  to  the  forms  of  the  bees  or  butterflies,  showed  a  natural 
tendency  to  pass  from  yellow  through  pink  and  red  to  purple  and  blue, 
it  would  follow  that  the  insects  which  were  being  evolved  side  by  side 
with  them,  and  which  were  aiding  at  the  same  time  in  their  evolution, 
would  grow  to  recognise  these  developed  colours  as  the  visible  symbols  of 
those  flowers  from  which  they  could  obtain  the  largest  amount  of  honey 
with  the  least  possible  trouble.  Thus  it  would  finally  result  that  the 
ordinary  unspecialised  flowers,  w^hich  depended  upon  small  insect  riff- 
raff, would  be  mostly  left  yellow  or  white ;  those  which  appealed  to 
rather  higher  insects  would  become  pink  or  red ;  and  those  which  laid 
themselves  out  for  bees  and  butterflies,  the  aristocrats  of  the  arthropo- 
dous  world,  would  grow  for  the  most  part  to  be  purple  or  blue. 


THE  COLOUES  OF  FLOWERS.  27 

Now,  this  is  very  much  what  we  actually  find  to  be  the  case  in  nature. 
The  simplest  and  earliest  flowers  are  those  with  regular,  symmetrical, 
open  cups,  which  can  be  visited  by  any  insects  whatsoever ;  and  these 
are  in  large  part  yellow  or  white.  A  little  higher  are  the  flowers  with 
more  or  less  closed  cups,  whose  honey  can  only  be  reached  by  more 
specialised  insects ;  and  these  are  oftener  pink  or  reddish.  More  pro- 
foundly modified  are  those  irregular  one-sided  flowers,  which  have 
assumed  special  shapes  to  accommodate  bees  or  other  specific  honey- 
seekers  ;  and  these  are  often  purple  and  not  infrequently  blue.  Highly 
specialised  in  another  way  are  the  flowers  whose  petals  have  all  coalesced 
into  a  tubular  corolla ;  and  these  might  almost  be  said  to  be  usually 
purple  or  blue.  And,  finally,  highest  of  all  are  the  flowers  whose  tubular 
corolla  has  been  turned  to  one  side,  thus  combining  the  united  petals 
with  the  irregular  shape ;  and  these  are  almost  invariably  purple  or  blue. 
I  shall  proceed  in  the  sequel  to  give  examples. 

One  may  say  that  the  most  profoundly  modified  of  all  existing 
flowers  are  the  families  of  the  composites,  the  labiates,  the  snapdragons, 
and  the  orchids.  Now  these  are  exactly  the  families  in  which  blue  and 
purple  flowers  are  commonest ;  while  in  all  of  them,  except  the  composites, 
white  flowers  are  rare,  and  unmixed  yellow  flowers  almost  unknown. 
But  perhaps  the  best  way  to  test  the  principle  will  be  to  look  at  one  or 
two  families  in  detail,  remembering  of  course  that  we  can  only  expect 
approximate  results,  owing  to  the  natural  complexity  of  the  conditions. 
Not  to  overburden  the  subject  with  unfamiliar  names  I  shall  seldom  go 
beyond  the  limits  of  our  own  native  English  flora. 

The  roses  form  a  most  instructive  family  to  begin  with.  As  a  whole 
they  are  not  very  highly  developed,  since  all  of  them  have  simple,  open, 
symmetrical  flowers,  generally  with  five  distinct  petals.  But  of  all  the 
rose  tribe,  as  I  have  endeavoured  to  show  elsewhere,  the  potentilla  group, 
including  our  common  English  cinquefoils  and  silver-weed,  seem  to  make 
up  the  most  central,  simple,  and  primitive  members.  They  are  chiefly 
low,  creeping  weeds,  and  their  flowers  .are  of  the  earliest  pattern,  without 
any  specialisation  of  form,  or  any  peculiar  adaptation  to  insect  visitors. 
Now  among  the  potentilla  group,  nearly  all  the  blossoms  are  yellow,  as 
are  also  those  of  the  other  early  allied  forms  such  as  agrimony  and  herb- 
bennet.  Almost  the  only  white  potentillas  in  England  are  the  barren 
strawberry  and  the  true  strawberry,  which  have  diverged  more  than 
any  other  species  from  the  norma  of  the  race.  "Water-avens,  however,  a 
close  relative  of  herb-bennet,  has  a  dusky  purplish  tinge  ;  and  Sir  John 
Lubbock  notes  that  it  secretes  honey,  and  is  far  oftener  visited  by  insects 
than  its  kinsman.  The  bramble  tribe,  including  the  blackberry,  rasp- 
berry, and  dewberry,  have  much  larger  flowers  than  the  potentillas,  and 
are  very  greatly  frequented  by  winged  visitors.  Their  petals  are  pure 
white,  often  with  a  pinky  tinge,  especially  on  big,  well-grown  blossoms. 
But  there  is  one  low,  little- developed  member  of  the  blackberry  group, 
the  stone-bramble,  with  narrow,  inconspicuous  petals  of  a  greenish- 

2—2 


28  THE   COLOURS  OF   FLOWERS. 

y«-llo\v,  mrrgina;  into  dirty  white;  and  this  humble  form  seems  to  pre- 
serve for  us  the  transitional  stage  from  the  yellow  potentilla  to  the  true 
white  brambles.  One  step  higher,  the  cherries,  apples,  and  pears  have 
very  large  and  expanded  petals,  white  toward  the  centre,  but  blushing 
at  the  edges  into  rosy  pink  or  bright  red.  Finally,  the  true  roses,  whose 
flowers  are  the  most  developed  of  all,  have  usually  extremely  broad  pink 
petals  (like  those  of  our  own  dog-rose),  which  in  some  still  bigger  exotic 
species  become  crimson  or  damask  of  the  deepest  dye.  They  are  more 
sought  after  by  insects  than  any  others  of  their  family . 

At  the  same  time,  the  roses  as  a  whole,  being  a  relatively  simple 
family,  with  regular  symmetrical  flowers  of  the  separate  type,  have 
never  risen  to  the  stage  of  producing  blue  petals.  That  is  why  our 
florists  cannot  turn  out  a  blue  rose.  It  is  easy  enough  to  make  roses  or 
any  other  blossoms  vary  within  their  own  natural  limits,  revert  to  any 
earlier  form  or  colour  through  which  they  have  previously  passed ;  but 
it  is  difficult  or  impossible  to  make  them  take  a  step  which  they  have 
never  yet  naturally  taken.  Hence  florists  generally  find  the  most 
developed  flowers  are  also  the  most  variable  and  plastic  in  colour ;  and 
hence,  too,  we  can  get  red,  pink,  white,  straw-coloured,  or  yellow  roses, 
but  not  blue  one?.  This,  I  believe,  is  the  historical  truth  underlying 
De  Candolle's  division  of  flowers  into  a  xanthic  and  a  cyanic  series. 

Still  more  interesting,  because  covering  a  wider  range  of  colour,  are 
the  buttercup  family,  whose  petals  vary  from  yellow  to  every  shade  of 
crimson,  purple,  and  blue.  Here,  the  simplest  and  least  differentiated 
members  of  the  group  are  the  common  meadow  buttercups,  which,  as 
everybody  knows,  have  five  open  petals  of  a  brilliant  golden  hue.  No- 
where else  is  the  exact  accordance  in  colour  between  stamens  and  petals 
more  noticeable  than  in  these  flowers.  There  are  two  kinds  of  butter- 
cup in  England,  however,  which  show  us  the  transition  from  yellow  to 
white  actually  taking  place  under  our  very  eyes.  These  are  the  water- 
crowfoot  and  its  close  ally  the  ivy-leaved  crowfoot,  whose  petals  are  still 
faintly  yellow  toward  the  centre,  but  fade  away  into  primrose  and  white 
as  they  approach  the  edge.  The  clematis  and  anemone,  which  are  more 
highly  developed,  have  white  sepals  (for  the  petals  here  are  suppressed), 
even  in  our  English  species ;  and  exotic  kinds  varying  from  pink  to 
purple  are  cultivated  in  our  flower-gardens.  Columbines  are  very 
specialised  forms  of  the  buttercup  type,  both  sepals  and  petals  being 
brightly  coloured,  while  the  former  organs  are  produced  above  into  long, 
bow-shaped  spurs,  each  of  which  secretes  a  drop  of  honey ;  and  various 
columbines  accordingly  range  from  red  to  purple  and  dark  blue.  Even 
the  columbine,  however,  though  so  highly  specialised,  is  not  bilaterally 
but  circularly  symmetrical.  This  last  and  highest  mode  of  adaptation  to 
insect  visits  is  found  in  larkspur,  and  still  more  developed  in  the  curious 
monkshood.  Now  larkspur  is  usually  blue,  though  white  or  red  blos- 
soms sometimes  occur  by  reversion ;  while  monkshood  is  one  of  the 
deepest  blue  flowers  we  possess.  Sir  John  Lubbock  has  shown  that  a 


THE  COLOURS  OF  FLOWERS.  29 

particular  bumble-bee  (Bomlus  hortorum)  is  the  only  North  European 
insect  capable  of  fertilising  the  larkspur. 

The  violets  are  a  whole  family  of  bilateral  flowers,  highly  adapted  to 
fertilisation  by  insects,  and  as  a  rule  they  ar^  blue.  Here,  too,  how- 
ever, white  varieties  easily  arise  by  reversion ;  while  one  member  of 
the  group,  the  common  pansy,  is  perhaps  the  most  variable  flower  in  all 
nature. 

Pinks  do  not  display  so  wide  a  range  in  either  direction.  They  begin 
as  high  up  as  white,  and  never  get  any  higher  than  red  or  carnation. 
The  small,  undeveloped  field  species,  such  as  the  duckweeds,  stitch  worts, 
and  cornspurries,  have  open  flowers  of  very  primitive  character,  and 
almost  all  of  them  ai-e  white.  They  are  fertilised  by  miscellaneous  small 
flies.  But  the  campions  and  true  pinks  have  a  tubular  calyx,  and  the 
petals  are  raised  on  long  claws,  while  most  of  them  also  display  special 
adaptations  for  a  better  class  of  insect  fertilisation  in  the  way  of  fringes 
or  crowns  on  the  petals.  These  higher  kinds  are  generally  pink  or  red. 
Our  own  beautiful  purple  English  corn-cockle  is  a  highly  developed 
campion,  so  specialised  that  only  butterflies  can  reach  its  honey  with 
their  long  tongues,  as  the  nectaries  are  situated  at  the  bottom  of  the 
tube.  Two  other  species  of  campion,  however,  show  us  interestingly  the 
way  in  which  variations  of  colour  may  occur  in  a  retrograde  direction 
even  among  highly  evolved  forms.  One  of  them,  the  day  lychnis,  has 
red,  scentless  flowers,  opening  in  the  morning,  and  it  is  chiefly  fertilised 
by  diurnal  butterflies.  But  its  descendant,  the  night  lychnis,  has  taken 
to  fertilisation  by  means  of  moths ;  and  as  moths  can  only  see  white 
flowers,  it  has  become  white,  and  has  acquired  a  faint  perfume  as  an  extra 
attraction.  Still,  the  change  has  not  yet  become  fully  organised  in  the 
species,  for  one  may  often  find  a  night  lychnis  at  the  present  time  which 
is  only  pale  pink,  instead  of  being  pure  white. 

The  only  other  family  of  flowers  with  separate  petals  which  I  shall 
consider  here  is  that  of  the  pea-blossoms.  These  are  all  bilateral  in 
shape,  as  everybody  knows ;  but  the  lower  and  smaller  species,  such  as 
the  medick,  lotus,  and  lady's  fingers,  are  usually  yellow.  So  also  are  broom 
and  gorse.  Among  the  more  specialised  clovers,  some  of  which  are  fer- 
tilised by  bees  alone,  white,  red,  and  purple  predominate.  Even  with 
the  smaller  and  earlier  types,  -the  most  developed  species,  like  lucerne, 
are  likewise  purple.  But  in  the  largest  and  most  advanced  types,  the 
peas,  beans,  vetches,  and  scarlet  runners,  we  get  much  brighter  and 
deeper  colours,  often  with  more  or  less  tinge  of  blue.  In  the  sweet-peas 
and  many  others,  the  standard  frequently  differs  in  hue  from  the  keel  or 
the  wings — a  still  further  advance  in  heterogeneity  of  colouration. 
Lupines,  sainfoin,  everlasting  pea,  and  wisteria  are  highly-evolved 
members  of  the  same  family,  in  which  purple,  lilac,  mauve,  or  blue  tints 
become  distinctly  pronounced. 

When  we  pass  on,  however,  to  the  flowers  in  which  (as  in  this  hare- 
bell) the  petals  have  all  coalesced  into  a  tubular  or  campanulate  corolla, 


30  THE   COLOURS  OF  FLOWERS. 

we  get  even  more  striking  results.  Here,  where  the  very  shape  at  once 
betokens  high  modification,  yellow  is  a  comparatively  rare  colour  (espe- 
cially as  a  ground-tone,  though  it  often  comes  out  in  spots  or  patches), 
while  purple  and  blue,  so  rare  elsewhere,  become  almost  the  rule.  For 
example,  in  the  great  family  of  the  heaths,  which  is  highly  adapted  to 
insect  fertilisation,  more  particularly  by  bees,  purple  and  blue  are  the 
prevailing  tints,  so  much  so  that,  as  we  all  have  noticed  a  hundred  times 
over,  they  often  colour  whole  tracts  of  hillside  together.  So  far  as  I 
know,  there  are  no  really  yellow  heaths  at  all.  The  bell-shaped  blossom.-; 
mark  at  once  the  position  of  the  heaths  with  reference  to  insects ;  and 
the  order,  according  to  Mr.  Bentham,  supplies  us  with  more  ornamental 
plants  than  any  other  in  the  whole  world. 

It  is  the  same  with  the  families  allied  to  my  harebell  here.  They 
are,  in  fact,  for  the  most  part  larger  and  handsomer  blossoms  of  the  same 
type  as  the  heaths ;  and  the  greater  number  of  them,  like  the  harebell 
itself  and  the  Canterbury  bell,  are  deep  blue.  Rampion  and  sheep's  bit, 
also  blue,  are  clustered  heads  of  similar  blossoms.  The  little  blue  lobelia 
of  our  borders,  which  is  bilateral  as  well  as  tubular,  belongs  to  a  closely 
related  tribe.  Not  far  from  them  are  the  lilac  scabious,  the  blue  devil's 
bit,  and  the  mauve  teasel.  Amongst  all  these  very  highly-evolved  groups 
blue  distinctly  forms  the  prevalent  colour. 

The  composites,  to  which  belong  the  daisies  and  dandelions,  also  give 
us  some  extremely  striking  evidence.  Each  flower-head  here  consists  of 
a  number  of  small  florets,  crowded  together  so  as  to  resemble  a  single 
blossom.  So  far  as  our  present  purpose  is  concerned,  they  fall  naturally 
into  three  groups.  The  first  is  that  of  the  dandelions  and  hawkweeds, 
with  open  florets,  fertilised,  as  a  rule,  by  very  small  insects ;  and  these 
are  generally  yellow,  with  only  a  very  few  divergent  species.  The  second 
is  that  of  the  thistle-heads,  visited  by  an  immense  number  of  insects,  in- 
cluding the  bees ;  and  these  are  almost  all  purple,  while  some  highly- 
evolved  species,  like  the  corn-flower  or  bluebottle  and  the  true  artichoke, 
are  bright  blue.  The  third  is  that  of  the  daisies  and  asters,  with  tubular 
central  florets  and  long,  flattened  outer  rays ;  and  these  demand  a  closer 
examination  here. 

The  central  florets  of  the  daisy  tribe,  as  a  rule,  are  bright  golden ;  a 
fact  which  shows  pretty  certainly  that  they  are  descended  from  a  common 
ancestor  who  was  also  yellow.  Moreover,  these  yellow  florets  are  bell- 
shaped,  and  each  contain  a  pistil  and  five  stamens,  like  any  other  perfect 
flower.  But  the  outer  florets  are  generally  sterile ;  and  instead  of  being 
bell-shaped  they  are  split  down  one  side  and  unrolled,  so  as  to  form  a 
long  ray  ;  while  their  corolla  is  at  the  same  time  much  larger  than  that 
of  the  central  blossoms.  In  short,  they  are  sterilised  members  of  the 
compovind  flower-head,  specially  set  apart  for  the  work  of  display ;  and 
thus  they  stand  to  the  entire  flower-head  in  the  same  relation  as  petals 
do  to  the  simple  original  flower.  The  analogy  between  the  two  is  com- 
plete. Just  as  the  petal  is  a  specialised  and  sterilised  stamen  told  off 


THE  COLOURS  OF  FLO  WEES.  31 

to  do  duty  as  an  allurer  of  insects  for  the  benefit  of  the  whole  flower,  so 
the  ray-floret  is  a  specialised  and  sterilised  blossom  told  off  to  do  the  self- 
same duty  for  the  benefit  of  the  group  of  tiny  flowers  which  make  up  the 
composite  flower-head. 

Now,  the  earliest  ray-florets  would  naturally  be  bright  yellow,  like 
the  tubular  blossoms  of  the  central  disk  from  which  they  sprang.  And 
to  this  day  the  ray-florets  of  the  simplest  daisy  types,  such  as  the  corn- 
marigold,  the  sunflower,  and  the  ragwort,  are  yellow  like  the  central 
flowers.  In  the  camomile,  however,  the  ox-eye  daisy,  and  the  may- 
weed, the  rays  have  become  white ;  and  this,  I  think,  fairly  establishes 
the  fact  that  white  is  a  higher  development  of  colour  than  yellow ;  for 
the  change  must  have  been  made  in  order  to  attract  special  insects. 
Certainly,  such  a  differentiation  of  the  flowers  in  a  single  head  cannot 
be  without  a  good  purpose.  In  the  true  daisy,  again,  the  white  rays 
become  tipped  with  pink,  which  sometimes  rises  almost  to  rose-colour ; 
and  this  stage  is  exactly  analogous  to  that  of  apple-blossom,  which 
similarly  halts  on  the  way  from  white  petals  to  red.  In  the  asters  and 
Michaelmas  daisies  we  get  a  further  advance  to  purple,  lilac,  and  mauve, 
while  both  in  these  and  in  the  chrysanthemums  true  shades  of  blue  not 
infrequently  appear.  The  cinerarias  of  our  gardeners  are  similar  forms 
of  highly-developed  groundsels  from  the  Canary  Islands. 

I  must  pass  over  the  blue  tubular  gentians  and  periwinkles,  with 
many  other  like  cases,  for  I  can  only  find  room  for  two  more  families. 
One  of  these,  the  borage  kind,  has  highly-modified  flowers,  with  a  tube 
below  and  spreading  lobes  above;  in  addition  to  which  most  of  the 
species  possess  remarkable  and  strongly- developed  appendages  to  the 
corolla,  in  the  way  of  teeth,  crowns,  hairs,  scales,  parapets,  or  valves. 
Of  the  common  British  species  alone,  the  forget-me-nots  are  clear  sky-blue 
with  a  yellow  eye ;  the  viper's  bugloss  is  at  first  reddish-purple,  and  after- 
wards a  deep  blue ;  the  lungwort  is  also  dark  blue  ;  and  so  are  the  two 
alkanets,  the  true  bugloss,  the  madwort,  and  the  familiar  borage  of  our 
claret-cup,  though  all  of  them  by  reversion  occasionally  produce  purple  or 
white  flowers.  Houndstongue  is  purple-red,  and  most  of  the  other 
species  vary  between  purple  and  blue;  indeed  throughout  the  family 
most  flowers  are  red  at  first  and  blue  as  they  mature.  Of  these,  borage 
at  least  is  habitually  fertilised  by  bees,  and  I  believe  the  same  to  be 
partially  true  of  many  of  the  other  species.  The  second  highly-evolved 
family  to  which  I  wish  to  draw  attention  is  that  of  the  labiates — perhaps 
the  most  specialised  of  any  so  far  as  regards  insect  fertilisation.  Not 
only  are  they  tubular,  but  they  are  very  bilateral  and  irregular  indeed, 
displaying  more  modification  of  form  than  any  other  flowers  except  the 
orchids.  Almost  all  of  them  are  purple  or  blue.  Among  the  best  known 
English  species  are  thyme,  mint,  marjoram,  sage,  and  basil,  which  I  need 
hardly  say  are  great  favourites  with  bees.  Ground- ivy  is  bright  blue ; 
catmint,  pale  blue;  prunella,  violet-purple;  and  common  bugle,  blue  or 


32  THE  COLOURS  OF  FLOWERS. 

flesh-colour.  Many  of  the  others  are  purple  or  purplish.*  It  must  be 
added  that  in  both  these  families  the  flowers  are  very  liable  to  vary 
within  the  limit  of  the  same  species ;  and  red,  white,  or  purple  specimens 
are  common  in  all  the  normally  blue  kinds. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  we  may  say  that  the  new  colour  has  not  yet  begun 
to  fix  itself  in  the  species,  but  that  the  hue  still  varies  under  our  very 
eyes.  Of  this  the  little  milkwort  (a  plant  of  the  type  with  separate 
petals)  affords  an  excellent  example,  for  it  is  occasionally  white,  usually 
pink,  and  not  infrequently  blue ;  so  that  in  all  probability  it  is  now 
actually  in  course  of  acquiring  a  new  colour.  Much  the  same  thing 
happens  with  the  common  pimpernel.  Its  ancestral  form  is  probably 
the  woodland  loosestrife,  which  is  yellow  ;  but  pimpernel  itself  is  usually 
orange-red,  while  a  blue  variety  is  frequent  on  the  Continent,  and  some- 
times appears  in  England  as  well.  Every  botanist  can  add  half  a  dozen 
equally  good  instances  from  his  own  memory. 

So  far  I  have  spoken  only  of  what  the  ladies  would  call  self-colour, 
as  though  every  flower  were  of  one  unvaried  hue  throughout.  I  must 
now  add  a  few  words  on  the  subject  of  the  spots  and  lines  which  so  often 
variegate  the  petals  in  certain  species.  On  this  subject,  again,  Mr. 
Wallace's  hint  is  full  of  meaning.  Everywhere  in  nature,  he  points  out, 
spots  and  eyes  of  colour  appear  on  the  most  highly-modified  parts,  and 
this  rule  applies  most  noticeably  to  the  case  of  petals.  Simple  regular 
flowers,  like  the  buttercups  and  roses,  hardly  ever  have  any  spots  or 
lines  ;  but  in  very  modified  forms  like  the  labiates  and  the  orchids  they 
are  extremely  common.  The  scrophularineous  family,  to  which  the  snap- 
dragon belongs,  is  one  most  specially  adapted  to  insects,  and  even  more 
irregular  than  that  of  the  labiates ;  and  here  we  find  the  most  singular 
effects  produced  by  dappling  and  mixture  of  colours.  The  simple  yellow 
mullein,  it  is  true,  has  no  such  spots  or  lines,  nor  have  even  many  of  the 
much  higher  blue  veronicas ;  but  in  the  snapdragons,  the  foxglove,  the 
toadflax,  the  ivy-linaria,  the  eyebright,  and  the  calceolarias,  the  intimate 
mixture  of  colours  is  very  noticeable.  In  the  allied  tropical  bignonias 
and  gloxinias  we  see  much  the  same  distribution  of  hues.  Many  of  the 
family  are  cultivated  in  gardens  on  account  of  their  bizarre  and  fantastic 
shapes  and  colours.  As  to  the  orchids,  I  need  hardly  say  anything  about 
their  wonderfully  spotted  and  variegated  flowers.  Even  in  our  small 
English  kinds  the  dappling  is  extremely  marked,  especially  upon  the  ex- 
panded and  profoundly  modified  lower  lip ;  but  in  the  larger  tropical 
varieties  the  patterns  are  often  quaint  and  even  startling  in  their  extra- 
ordinary richness  of  fancy  and  apparent  capriciousness  of  design.  Mr. 
Darwin  has  shown  that  their  adaptations  to  insects  are  more  intimate 
and  more  marvellous  than  those  of  any  other  flowers  whatsoever. 

Structurally  speaking,  the  spots  and  lines  on  petals  seem  to  be  the 

*  Our  English  archangels  and  a  few  others  are  yellow.  Such  cases  of  reversion 
are  not  uncommon,  and  are  doubtless  due  to  special  insect  selection  in  a  retrograde 
direction. 


THE  COLOURS  OF  FLOWERS.  33 

direct  result  of  high  modification ;  but  functionally,  as  Sprengel  long  ago 
pointed  out,  they  act  as  honey-guides,  and  for  this  purpose  they  have  no 
doubt  undergone  special  selection  by  the  proper  insects.  Lines  are  com- 
paratively rare  on  regular  flowers,  but  they  tend  to  appear  as  soon  as  the 
flower  becomes  even  slightly  bilateral,  and  they  point  directly  towards 
the  nectaries.  The  geranium  family  affords  an  excellent  illustration  of 
this  law.  The  regular  forms  are  mostly  uniform  in  hue;  but  many  of 
the  South  African  pelargoniums,  cultivated  in  gardens  and  hot-houses, 
are  slightly  bilateral,  the  two  upper  petals  standing  off  from  the  three 
lower  ones ;  and  these  two  become  at  once  marked  with  dark  lines, 
which  are  in  some  cases  scarcely  visible,  and  in  others  fairly  pronounced. 
From  this  simple  beginning  one  can  traca  a  gradual  progress  in  hetero- 
geneity of  colouring,  till  at  last  the  most  developed  bilateral  forms  have  the 
two  upper  petals  of  quite  a  different  hue  from  the  three  lower  ones,  besides 
being  deeply  marked  with  belts  and  spots  of  dappled  colour.  In  the 
allied  tropseolum  or  Indian  cress  (the  so-called  nasturtium  of  old-fashioned 
gardens — though  the  plant  is  really  no  more  related  to  the  water-cress 
and  other  true  nasturtiums  than  we  ourselves  are  to  the  great  kangaroo) 
this  tendency  is  carried  still  further.  Here,  the  calyx  is  prolonged  into 
a  deep  spur,  containing  the  honey,  inaccessible  to  any  but  a  few  large 
insects  ;  and  towards  this  spur  all  the  lines  on  the  petals  converge.  Sir 
John  Lubbock  observes  that  without  such  conventional  marks  to 
guide  them,  bees  would  waste  a  great  deal  of  time  in  bungling  about 
the  mouths  of  flowers ;  for  they  are  helpless,  blundering  things  at 
an  emergency,  and  never  know  -  their  way  twice  to  the  same  place 
if  any  change  has  been  made  in  the  disposition  of  the  familiar  sur- 
roundings. 

Finally,  there  remains  the  question — why  have  some  flowers  green 
petals  ?  This  is  a  difficult  problem  to  attack  at  the  end  of  a  long  paper  ; 
and  indeed  it  is  one  of  little  interest  for  ninety-nine  people  out  of  a 
hundred ;  since  the  flowers  with  green  petals  are  mostly  so  small  and  in- 
conspicuous that  nobody  but  a  professional  botanist  ever  troubles  his 
head  about  them.  The  larger  part  of  the  world  is  somewhat  surprised 
to  learn  that  there  are  such  things  as  green  flowers  at  all ;  though  really 
they  are  far  commoner  than  the  showy  coloured  ones.  Nevertheless,  lest 
I  should  seem  to  be  shirking  a  difficulty  altogether,  I  shall  add  that  I 
believe  green  petals  to  be  in  almost  every  case  degraded  representatives 
of  earlier  yellow  or  white  ones.  This  belief  is  clean  contrary  to  the  ac- 
cepted view,  which  represents  the  green  wind-fertilised  blossoms  as  older 
in  order  of  time  than  their  coloured  insect-fertilised  allies.  Nevertheless, 
I  think  all  botanists  will  allow  that  such  green  or  greenish  flowers  as 
the  hellebores,  the  plantains,  the  lady's  mantle,  the  salad-burnet,  the 
moschatel,  the  twayblade,  and  the  parsley-piert  are  certainly  descended 
from  bright-hued  ancestors,  and  have  lost  their  colours  or  their  petals 
through  acquiring  the  habit  of  wind-fertilisation  or  self-fertilisation. 
Starting  from  these,  I  can  draw  no  line  as  I  go  downward  in  the  scale 


34  THE  COLOUES  OF  FLOWERS. 

through  such  flowers  as  knawel,  goosefoot,  dog's  mercury,  nettle,  and 
arrowgrass,  till  I  get  to  absolutely  degraded  blossoms  like  glasswort,  cal- 
litriche,  and  pondweed,  whose  real  nature  nobody  but  a  botanist  would 
ever  suspect.  Whether  the  catkins,  the  grasses,  and  the  sedges  were  ever 
provided  with  petals  I  do  not  venture  to  guess  ;  but  certainly  wherever 
we  find  the  merest  rudiment  of  a  perianth  I  am  compelled  to  believe  that 
the  plant  has  descended  from  bright- coloured  ancestors,  however  re- 
motely. And  when  we  look  at  the  very  degraded  blossoms  of  the 
spurges,  which  we  know  by  the  existence  of  intermediate  links  to  be  de- 
rived from  perianth-bearing  forefathers,  the  possibility  at  least  of  this 
being  also  true  of  catkins  and  grasses  cannot  be  denied.  So  far  as  I  can 
see,  the  conifers  and  cycads  are  the  only  flowering  plants  which  we  can 
be  quite  sure  never  possessed  coloured  and  attractive  petals.  But  this 
digression  is  once  more  only  intended  for  the  scientifically-minded 
reader. 

If  the  general  principle  here  put  forward  is  true,  the  special  colours 
of  different  flowers  are  due  to  no  mere  spontaneous  accident,  nay,  even  to 
no  meaningless  caprice  of  the  fertilising  insects.  They  are  due  in  their 
inception  to  a  regular  law  of  progressive  modification ;  and  they  have 
been  fixed  and  stereotyped  in  each  species  by  the  selective  action  of  the 
proper  beetles,  bees,  moths,  or  butterflies.  Not  only  can  we  say  why 
such  a  colour,  once  happening  to  appear,  has  been  favoured  in  the  struggle 
for  existence,  but  also  why  that  colour  should  ever  make  its  appearance 
in  the  first  place,  which  is  a  condition  precedent  to  its  being  favoured  or 
selected  at  all.  For  example,  blue  pigments  are  often  found  in  the  most 
highly-developed  flowers,  because  blue  pigments  are  a  natural  product 
of  high  modification — a  simple  chemical  outcome  of  certain  extremely 
complex  biological  changes.  On  the  other  band,  bees  show  a  marked 
taste  for  blue,  because  blue  is  the  colour  of  the  most  advanced  flowers  ; 
and  by  always  selecting  such  where  possible,  they  both  keep  up  and 
sharpen  their  own  taste,  and  at  the  same  time  give  additional  opportuni- 
ties to  the  blue  flowers,  which  thus  ensure  proper  fertilisation.  I  believe 
it  ought  always  to  be  the  object  of  naturalists  in  this  manner  to  show 
not  only  why  such  and  such  a  "  spontaneous "  variation  should  have 
been  favoured  whenever  it  occurred,  but  also  to  show  why  and  how  it 
could  ever  have  occurred  at  all. 

GRANT  ALLEN. 


35 


i\t  Sieves  00i  tjmr 


ARTEMUS  WAED  used  to  say  that,  while  there  were  many  things  in  the 
science  of  astronomy  hard  to  be  understood,  there  was  one  fact  which 
entirely  puzzled  him.  He  could  partly  perceive  how  we  "  weigh  the 
sun,"  and  ascertain  the  component  elements  of  the  heavenly  bodies,  by 
the  aid  of  spectrum  analysis.  "  But  what  beats  me  about  the  stars,"  he 
observed  plaintively,  "is  how  we  come  to  know  their  names."  This 
question,  or  rather  the  somewhat  similar  question,  "  How  did  the  con- 
stellations come  by  their  very  peculiar  names  ? "  has  puzzled  Professor 
Pritchard  and  other  astronomers  more  serious  than  Artemus  "Ward.  Why 
is  a  group  of  stars  called  the  Bear,  or  the  Swan,  or  the  Ttvins,  or  named 
after  the  Pleiades,  the  fair  daughters  of  the  Giant  Atlas  1  These  are 
difficulties  that  meet  even  children,  when  they  examine  a  "celestial 
globe."  There  they  find  the  figure  of  a  bear,  traced  out  with  lines  in 
the  intervals  between  the  stars  of  the  constellations,  while  a  very 
imposing  giant  is  so  drawn  that  Orion's  belt  just  fits  his  waist.  But 
when  he  comes  to  look  at  the  heavens,  the  infant  speculator  sees  no  sort 
of  likeness  to  a  bear  in  the  stars,  nor  anything  at  all  resembling  a  giant 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Orion.  The  most  eccentric  modern  fancy  which 
can  detect  what  shapes  it  will  in  clouds,  is  unable  to  find  any  likeness 
to  human  or  animal  forms  in  the  stars,  and  yet  we  call  a  great  many  of 
the  stars  by  the  names  of  men,  and  beasts,  and  gods.  Some  resemblance 
to  terrestrial  things,  it  is  true,  every  one  can  behold  in  the  heavens. 
Corona,  .for  example,  is  like  a  crown,  or,  as  the  Australian  black  fellows 
know,  it  is  like  a  boomerang,  and  we  can  understand  why  they  give  it 
the  name  of  that  curious  curved  missile.  The  Milky  Way,  again,  does 
resemble  a  path  in  the  sky ;  our  English  ancestors  called  it  Watlinfj 
Street — the  path  of  the  Watlings,  mythical  giants — and  Bushmen  in 
Africa  and  Red  Men  in  North  America  name  it  the  "ashen  path." 
The  ashes  of  the  path,  of  course,  are  supposed  to  be  hot  and  glowing, 
not  dead  and  black,  like  the  ash-paths  of  modern  running  grounds. 
Other  and  more  recent  names  for  certain  constellations  are  also  intelli- 
gible. In  Homer's  time  the  Greeks  had  two  names  for  the  Great  Bear ; 
they  called  it  the  Bear,  or  the  Wain ;  and  a  certain  fanciful  likeness  to  a 
wain  may  be  made  out,  though  no  resemblance  to  a  bear  is  manifest. 
In  the  United  States  the  same  constellation  is  popularly  styled  the 
Dipper,  and  every  one  may  observe  the  likeness  to  a  dipper,  or  toddy- 
ladle.  But  these  resemblances  take  us  only  a  little  way  towards 


36  HOW  THE  STAKS  GOT  THEIK  NAMES. 

learning  how  the  constellations  obtained  their  human  and  animal 
appellations.  We  know  that  we  derive  many  of  the  names  straight  from 
the  Greek,  but  whence  did  the  Greeks  get  them  ?  On  this  subject  Goguet, 
the  author  of  L'Origine  des  Lois,  a  rather  learned  but  too  speculative  work 
of  the  last  century,  makes  the  following  characteristic  remarks:  "The 
Greeks  received  their  astronomy  from  Prometheus.  This  prince,  as  far 
as  history  teaches  us,  made  his  observations  on  Mount  Caucasus."  That 
was  the  eighteenth  century's  method  of  interpreting  mythology.  The 
myth  preserved  in  Prometheus  Bound  of  -^Eschylus,  tells  us  that  Zeus 
crucified  the  Titan  on  Mount  Caucasus.  The  French  philosopher, 
rejecting  the  supernatural  elements  of  the  tale,  makes  up  his  mind  that 
Prometheus  was  a  prince  of  a  scientific  bent,  and  that  he  established  his 
observatory  on  the  frosty  Caucasus.  But,  even  admitting  this,  why  did 
Promethus  give  the  stars  animal  names  ?  Our  author  easily  explains 
this  by  a  hypothetical  account  of  the  manners  of  primitive  men.  "  The 
earliest  peoples,"  he  says,  "must  have  used  writing  for  purposes  of 
astronomical  science.  They  would  be  content  to  design  the  constellations 
of  which  they  wished  to  speak  by  the  hieroglyphical  symbols  of  their 
names ;  hence  the  constellations  have  insensibly  taken  the  names  of  the 
chief  symbols."  Thus,  a  drawing  of  a  bear  or  a  swan  was  the  hiero- 
glyphic of  the  name  of  a  star,  or  group  of  stars.  But  whence  came  the 
name  which  was  represented  by  the  hieroglyphic?  That  is  precisely 
what  our  author  forgets  to  tell  us.  But  he  easily  goes  on  to  remark 
that  the  meaning  of  the  hieroglyphic  came  to  be  forgotten,  and  "  the 
symbols  gave  rise  to  all  the  ridiculous  tales  about  the  heavenly  signs." 
This  explanation  is  attained  by  the  process  of  reasoning  in  a  vicious 
circle,  from  hypothetical  premises  ascertained  to  be  false.  All  the  known 
savages  of  the  world,  even  those  which  have  scarcely  the  elements  of 
picture-writing,  call  the  constellations  by  the  names  of  men  and  animals, 
and  all  tell  "  ridiculous  tales  "  to  account  for  the  names. 

As  the  star-stories  told  by  the  Greeks,  the  ancient  Egyptians,  and 
other  civilised  people  of  the  old  world,  exactly  correspond  in  character, 
and  sometimes  even  in  incident,  with  the  star-stories  of  modern  savages, 
we  have  the  choice  of  two  hypotheses  to  explain  this  curious  co- 
incidence. Perhaps  the  star-stories,  about  nymphs  changed  into  bears, 
and  bears  changed  into  stars,  were  invented  by  the  civilised  races  of  old, 
and  gradually  found  their  way  amongst  people  like  the  Esquimaux,  and 
the  Australians,  and  Bushmen.  Or  it  may  be  insisted  that  the 
ancestors  of  Australians,  Esquimaux,  and  Bushmen  were  once  civilised, 
like  the  Greeks  and  Egyptians,  and  invented  star-stories,  still  remem- 
bered by  their  degenerate  descendants.  These  are  the  two  forms  of  the 
explanation  which  will  be  advanced  by  persons  who  believe  that  the 
star-stories  were  originally  the  fruit  of  the  civilised  imagination.  The 
other  theory  would  be,  that  the  "  ridiculous  tales  "  about  the  stars  were 
originally  the  work  of  the  savage  imagination,  and  that  the  Greeks  and 
Egyptians,  when  they  became  civilised,  retained  the  old  myths  that  their 


HOW  THE  STAKS  GOT  THEIE  NAMES.  37 

ancestors  had  invented  when  they  were  savages.  In  favour  of  this 
theory  it  may  be  said,  briefly,  that  there  is  no  proof  that  the  fathers  of 
Australians,  Esquimaux,  and  Bushmen  had  ever  been  civilised,  while 
there  is  a  great  deal  of  evidence  to  suggest  that  the  fathers  of  the 
Greeks  had  once  been  savages.  And,  if  we  incline  to  the  theory  that 
the  star- myths  are  the  creation  of  savage  fancy,  we  at  once  learn  why 
they  are,  in  all  parts  of  the  world,  so  much  alike.  Just  as  the  flint  and 
bone  weapons  of  rude  races  resemble  each  other  much  more  than  they 
resemble  the  metal  weapons  and  the  artillery  of  advanced  peoples, 
so  the  mental  products,  the  fairy-tales,  and  myths  of  rude  races  have 
everywhere  a  strong  family  resemblance.  They  are  produced  by  men  in 
similar  mental  conditions  of  ignorance,  curiosity,  and  credulous  fancy, 
and  they  are  intended  to  supply  the  same  needs,  partly  of  amusing  narra- 
tive, partly  of  crude  explanation  of  familiar  phenomena. 

Now  it  is  time  to  prove  the  truth  of  our  assertion  that  the  star- 
stories  of  savage  and  of  civilised  races  closely  resemble  each  other.  Let  us 
begin  with  that  well-known  group,  the  Pleiades.  The  peculiarity  of  the 
Pleiades  is  that  the  group  consists  of  seven  stars,  of  which  one  is  so  dim 
that  it  seems  entirely  to  disappear,  and  many  persons  can  only  detect  its 
presence  through  a  telescope.  The  Greeks  had  a  myth  to  account  for 
the  vanishing  of  the  lost  Pleiad.  The  tale  is  given  in  the  Katasterismoi 
(stories  of  metamorphoses  into  stars)  attributed  to  Eratosthenes.  This 
work  was  probably  written  after  our  era ;  but  the  author  derived  his 
information  from  older  treatises  now  lost.  According  to  the  Greek 
myth,  then,  the  seven  stars  of  the  Pleiad  were  seven  maidens,  daughters 
of  the  Giant  Atlas.  Six  of  them  had  gods  for  lovers ;  Posidon  admired 
two  of  them,  Zeus  three,  and  Ares  one ;  but  the  seventh  had  only  an 
earthly  wooer,  and  when  all  of  them  were  changed  into  stars,  the  maiden 
with  the  mortal  lover  hid  her  light  for  shame.  Now  let  us  compare  the 
Australian  story.  According  to  Mr.  Dawson  (Australian  Aborigines), 
a  writer  who  knows  the  natives  well,  "their  knowledge  of  the  heavenly 
bodies  greatly  exceeds  that  of  most  white  people,"  and  "  is  taught  by 
men  selected  for  their  intelligence  and  information.  The  knowledge  is 
important  to  the  aborigines  on  their  night  journeys ;  "  so  we  may  be  sure 
that  the  natives  are  careful  observers  of  the  heavens,  and  are  likely  to 
be  conservative  of  these  astronomical  myths.  The  "  Lost  Pleiad  "  has 
not  escaped  them,  and  this  is  how  they  account  for  her  disappearance. 
The  Pirt  Kopan  noot  tribe  have  a  tradition  that  the  Pleiades  were  a 
queen  and  her  six  attendants.  Long  ago  the  Crow  (our  Canopus}  fell 
in  love  with  the  queen,  who  refused  to  be  his  wife.  The  Crow  found 
that  the  queen  and  her  six  maidens,  like  other  Australian  gins,  were 
in  the  habit  of  hunting  for  white  edible  grubs  in  the  bark  of  trees. 
The  Crow  at  once  changed  himself  into  a  grub  (just  as  Jupiter  and 
Indra  used  to  change  into  swans,  horses,  ants,  or  what  not)  and  hid  in 
the  bark  of  a  tree.  The  six  maidens  sought  to  pick  him  out  with  their 
wooden  hooks,  but  he  broke  the  points  of  all  the  hooks.  Then  came  the 


38  HOW  THE  STARS  GOT  THEIE  NAMES. 

queen,  with  her  pretty  bone  hook ;  he  let  himself  be  drawn  out,  took 
the  shape  of  a  giant,  and  ran  away  with  her.  Ever  since  there  have 
only  been  six  stars,  the  six  maidens,  in  the  Pleiad.  This  story  is  well 
known,  by  the  strictest  inquiry,  to  be  current  among  the  blacks  of  the 
West  District,  and  in  South  Australia. 

Mr.  Tylor,  whose  opinion  is  entitled  to  the  highest  respect,  thinks 
that  this  may  be  a  European  myth,  told  by  some  settler  to  a  black  in 
the  Greek  form,  and  then  spread  about  among  the  natives.  He  com- 
plains that  the  story  of  the  loss  of  the  brightest  star  does  not  fit  the 
facts  of  the  case. 

We  do  not  know,  and  how  can  the  Australians  know,  that  the  lost 
star  was  once  the  brightest  1  It  appears  to  me  that  the  Australians,  re- 
marking the  disappearances  of  a  star,  might  very  naturally  suppose  that 
the  Crow  had  selected  for  his  wife  that  one  which  had  been  the 
most  brilliant  of  the  cluster.  Besides,  the  wide  distribution  of  the 
tale  among  the  natives,  and  the  very  great  change  in  the  nature  of 
the  incidents,  seem  to  point  to  a  native  origin.  Though  the  main 
conception — the  loss  of  one  out  of  seven  maidens — is  identical  in 
Greek  and  in  Murri,  the  manner  of  the  disappearance  is  eminently 
Hellenic  in  the  one  case,  eminently  savage  in  the  other.  However  this 
may  be,  nothing  of  course  is  proved  by  a  single  example.  Let  us  next 
examine  the  stars  Castor  and  Pollux.  Both  in  Greece  and  in  Australia 
these  are  said  once  to  have  been  two  young  men.  In  the  Katasterismoi, 
already  spoken  of,  we  read  :  "  The  Twins,  or  Dioscouroi. — They  were 
nurtured  in  Lacedaemon,  and  were  famous  for  their  brotherly  love, 
wherefore  Zeus,  desiring  to  make  their  memory  immortal,  placed  them 
both  among  the  stars."  In  Australia,  according  to  Mr.  Brough  Smyth 
(Aborigines  of  Victoria),  Turree  (Castor]  and  Wanjel  (Pollux)  t  are  two 
young  men  who  pursue  Purra  and  kill  him  at  the  commencement  of 
the  great  heat.  Coonar  toorung  (the  mirage)  is  the  smoke  of  the  fire  by 
which  they  roast  him.  In  Greece  it  was  not  Castor  and  Pollux  but 
Orion  who  was  the  great  hunter  set  among  the  stars.  Among  the 
Bushmen  of  South  Africa  Castor  and  Pollux  are  not  young  men,  but 
young  women,  the  wives  of  the  Eland,  the  great  native  antelope.  In 
Greek  star-stories  the  Great  Bear  keeps  watch,  Homer  says,  on  the 
hunter  Orion  for  fear  of  a  sudden  attack.  But  how  did  the  Bear  get 
its  name  in  Greece1?  According  to  Hesiod,  the  oldest  Greek  poet  after 
Homer,  the  Bear  was  once  a  lady,  daughter  of  Lycaon,  King  of  Arcadia. 
She  was  a  nymph  of  the  train  of  chaste  Artemis,  but  yielded  to  the 
love  of  Zeus  and  became  the  ancestress  of  all  the  Arcadians  (that  is, 
JJear-folk).  In  her  bestial  form  she  was  just  about  to  be  slain  by  her 
own  son  when  Zeus  rescued  her  by  raising  her  to  the  stars.  Here  we 
must  notice  first,  that  the  Arcadians,  like  Australians,  Red  Indians, 
Bushmen,  and  many  other  wild  races,  and  like  the  Bedouins,  believed 
themselves  to  be  descended  from  an  animal.  That  the  early  Egyptians 
did  the  same  is  not  improbable ;  for  names  of  animals  are  found  among 


HOW  THE  STAES  GOT  THEIK  NAMES.  39 

the  ancestors  in  the  very  oldest  genealogical  papyrus,*  as  in  the  genea- 
logies of  the  old  English  kings.  Next  the  Arcadians  transferred  the 
ancestral  bear  to  the  heavens,  and,  in  doing  this,  they  resembled  the 
Peruvians,  of  whom  Acosta  says :  "  They  adored  the  star  Urchuchilly, 
feigning  it  to  be  a  Ram,  and  worshipped  two  others,  and  say  that  one  of 
them  is  a  sheep,  and  the  other  a  lamb  ....  others  worshipped  the  star 
called  the  Tiger.  They  were  of  opinion  that  there  was  not  any  beast  or 
bird  upon  the  earth,  ivhose  sliape  or  image  did  not  shine  in  the  heavens" 

But  to  return  to  our  bears.  The  Australians  have,  properly  speak- 
ing, no  bears,  though  the  animal  called  the  native  bear  is  looked  up  to 
by  the  aborigines  with  superstitious  regard.  But  among  the  North 
American  Indians,  as  the  old  missionaries  Lafitau  and  Charlevoix  ob- 
served, "  the  four  stars  in  front  of  our  constellation  are  a  bear;  those  in 
the  tail  are  hunters  who  pursue  him ;  the  small  star  apart  is  the  pot  in 
which  they  mean  to  cook  him." 

It  may  be  held  that  the  Red  Men  derived  their  bear  from  the  European 
settlers.  But,  as  we  have  seen,  an  exact  knowledge  of  the  stars  has 
always  been  useful  if  not  essential  to  savages ;  and  we  venture  to  doubt 
whether  they  would  confuse  their  nomenclature  and  sacred  traditions  by 
borrowing  terms  from  trappers  and  squatters.  But,  if  this  is  impro- 
bable, it  seems  almost  impossible  that  all  savage  races  should  have 
borrowed  their  whole  conception  of  the  heavenly  bodies  from  the  myths 
of  Greece.  It  is  thus  that  Egede,  a  missionary  of  the  last  century,  de- 
scribes the  Esquimaux  philosophy  of  the  stars  :  "  The  notions  that  the 
Greenlanders  have  as  to  the  origin  of  the  heavenly  lights — as  sun,  moon, 
and  stars — are  very  nonsensical ;  in  that  they  pretend  they  have  for- 
merly been  as  many  of  their  own  ancestors,  who,  on  different  accounts, 
were  lighted  up  to  heaven,  and  became  such  glorious  celestial  bodies." 
Again,  he  writes  :  "  Their  notions  about  the  stars  are  that  some  of  them 
have  been  men,  and  others  different  sorts  of  animals  and  fishes."  But 
every  reader  of  Ovid  knows  that  this  was  the  very  mythical  theory  of 
the  Greeks  and  Romans.  The  Egyptians,  again,  worshipped  Osiris, 
Isis,  and  the  rest  as  ancestors,  and  there  are  even  modern  scholars  who 
hold  Osiris  to  have  been  originally  a  real  historical  person.  But  the 
Egyptian  priests  who  showed  Plutarch  the  grave  of  Osiris,  showed  him, 
too,  the  stars  into  which  Osiris,  Isis,  and  Horus  had  been  metamor- 
phosed. Here,  then,  we  have  Greeks,  Egyptians,  and  Esquimaux,  all 
agreed  about  the  origin  of  the  heavenly  lights,  all  of  opinion  that 
"  they  have  formerly  been  as  many  of  their  own  ancestors." 

The  Australian  general  theory  is  :  "  Of  the  good  men  and  women, 
after  the  deluge,  Pundjel  (a  kind  of  Zeus,  or  rather  a  sort  of  Prometheus 
of  Australian  mythology)  made  stars.  Sorcerers  (Biraark)  can  tell  which 
stars  were  once  good  men  and  women."  Here  the  sorcerers  have  the  same 
knowledge  as  the  Egyptian  priests.  Again,  just  as  among  the  Arcadians 

*  Brugsch,  History  of  Egypt,  i.  32. 


40  HOW  THE  STARS  GOT  THEIR  NAMES. 

"  the  progenitors  of  the  existing  tribes,  whether  birds,  or  beast?,  or 
men,  were  set  in  the  sky,  and  made  to  shine  as  stars."  * 

We  have  already  given  some  Australian  examples  in  the  stories  of 
the  Pleiades,  and  of  Castor  and  Pollux.  We  may  add  the  case  of  the 
Eagle.  In  Greece  the  Eagle  was  the  bird  of  Zeus,  who  carried  off  Gany- 
mede to  be  the  cup-bearer  of  Olympus.  Among  the  Australians  this  same 
constellation  is  called  Totyarguil ;  he  was  a  man  who,  when  bathing,  was 
killed  by  a  fabulous  animal,  a  kind  of  kelpie;  as  Orion,  in  Greece,  was 
killed  by  the  Scorpion.  Like  Orion,  he  was  placed  among  the  stars. 
The  Australians  have  a  constellation  named  Eagle,  but  he  is  our  Sirius, 
or  Dog-star. 

The  Bushmen,  almost  the  lowest  tribe  of  South  Africa,  have  the 
same  star-lore  and  much  the  same  myths  as  the  Greeks,  Australians, 
Egyptians,  and  Esquimaux.  According  to  Dr.  Bleek,  "  stars,  and  even 
the  sun  and  moon,  were  once  mortals  on  earth,  or  even  animals  or 
inorganic  substances,  which  happened  to  get  translated  to  the  skies. 
The  sun  was  once  a  man,  whose  arm-pit  radiated  a  limited  amount  of 
light  round  his  house.  Some  children  threw  him  into  the  sky,  and 
there  he  shines."  The  Homeric  hymn  to  Helios,  in  the  same  way,  as 
Mr.  Max  Miiller  observes,  "  looks  on  the  sun  as  a  half  god,  almost  a 
hero,  who  had  once  lived  on  earth."  The  pointers  of  the  Southern 
Cross  were  "two  men  who  were  lions,"  just  as  Callisto,  in  Arcadia, 
was  a  woman  who  was  a  bear.  It  is  not  at  all  rare  in  those  queer 
philosophies,  as  in  that  of  the  Scandinavians,  to  find  that  the  sun  or 
moon  has  been  a  man  or  woman.  In  Australian  fable  the  moon  was  a 
man,  the  sun  a  woman  of  indifferent  character,  who  appears  at  dawn 
in  a  coat  of  red  kangaroo  skins,  the  present  of  an  admirer.  In  an  old 
Mexican  text  the  moon  was  a  man,  across  whose  face  a  god  threw  a 
rabbit,  thus  making  the  marks  in  the  moon.  Among  the  Esquimaux 
the  moon  is  a  girl  who  always  flees  from  the  cruel  brother,  the  sun, 
because  he  disfigured  her  face.  Among  the  New  Zealanders  and  North 
American  Indians  the  sun  is  a  great  beast,  whom  the  hunters  trapped 
and  thrashed  with  cudgels.  His  blood  is  used  in  some  New  Zealand 
incantations.  The  Red  Indians,  as  Schoolcraffc  says,  "hold  many  of 
the  planets  to  be  transformed  adventurers."  The  lowas  "  believed 
stars  to  be  a  sort  of  living  creatures."  One  of  them  came  down  and 
talked  to  a  hunter,  and  showed  him  where  to  find  game.  The  Gallino- 
meros  of  Central  California,  according  to  Mr.  Bancroft,  believe  that  the 
sun  and  moon  were  made  and  lighted  up  by  the  Hawk  and  the  Coyote, 
who  one  day  flew  into  each  other's  faces  in  the  dark,  and  were  determined 
to  prevent  such  accidents  in  future.  But  the  very  oddest  example  of 
the  survival  of  the  notion  that  the  stars  are  men  or  women,  is  found  in 
the  Pax  of  Aristophanes.  Trygaeus  in  that  comedy  has  just  made  an 
expedition  to  heaven.  A  slave  meets  him  and  asks  him,  "Is  not  the 
story  true,  then,  that  we  become  stars  when  we  die  1 "  The  answer  is 

*  Brough  Smyth,  Aborigines  of  Victoria. 


HOW   THE  STAES  GOT  THEIR  NAMES.  41 

"  Certainly  ;  "  and  Trygams  points  out  the  star  into  which  los  of  Chios 
has  just  been  metamorphosed.  Aristophanes  is  making  fun  of  some 
popular  Greek  superstition.  But  that  very  superstition  meets  us  in 
New  Zealand.  "  Heroes,"  says  Mr.  Taylor,  "  were  thought  to  become 
stars  of  greater  or  less  brightness,  according  to  the  number  of  their 
victims  slain  in  fight." 

It  would  be  easy  to  multiply  examples  of  this  stage  of  thought,  and 
to  show  that  star-stories  existed  on  the  banks  of  the  Amazon  as  well  as 
on  the  borders  of  the  lake  of  Anahuac.  But  we  have  probably  brought 
forward  enough  for  our  purpose,  and  have  expressly  chosen  instances 
from  the  most  widely  separated  peoples.  These  instances,  it  will  per- 
haps be  admitted,  suggest,  if  they  do  not  prove,  that  the  Greeks  had 
received  from  tradition  precisely  the  same  sort  of  legends  about  the 
heavenly  bodies  as  are  current  among  Esquimaux  and  Bushmen,  New 
Zealanders  and  lowas.  As  much,  indeed,  might  be  inferred  from  our 
own  astronomical  nomenclature.  We  now  give  to  newly  discovered 
stars  names  derived  from  distinguished  people,  as  Georgium  Sidus,  or 
Herschel;  or,  again,  merely  technical  appellatives,  as  Alpha,  Beta,  and 
the  rest.  We  should  never  think  when  "  some  new  planet  swims  into 
our  ken  "  of  calling  it  Kangaroo,  or  Rabbit,  or  after  the  name  of  some 
hero  of  romance,  as  Rob  Roy,  or  Count  Fosco.  But  the  names  of  stars 
which  we  inherit  from  Greek  mythology — the  Bear,  the  Pleiads,  Castor 
and  Pollux,  and  so  forth — are  such  as  no  people  in  our  mental  condition 
would  originally  think  of  bestowing.  When  Callimachus  and  the  courtly 
astronomers  of  Alexandria  pretended  that  the  golden  locks  of  Berenice 
were  raised  to  the  heavens,  that  was  a  mere  piece  of  flattery  constructed  on 
the  inherited  model  of  legends  about  the  crown  (Corona)  of  Ariadne. 
It  seems  evident  enough  that  the  older  Greek  names  of  stars  are  derived 
from  a  time  when  the  ancestors  of  the  Greeks  were  in  the  mental  and 
imaginative  condition  of  lowas,  Kanekas,  Bushmen,  Mum,  and  New 
Zealanders.  All  these,  and  all  other  savage  peoples,  believe  in  a  kind 
of  equality  and  intercommunion  among  all  things  animate  and  inanimate. 
Stones  are  supposed  in  the  Pacific  Islands  to  be  male  and  female  and  to 
propagate  their  species.  Animals  are  believed  to  have  human  or  super- 
human intelligence,  and  speech  if  they  choose  to  exercise  the  gift.  Stars 
are  just  on  the  same  footing,  and  their  movements  are  explained  by  the 
same  ready  system  of  universal  anthropomorphism.  Stars,  fishes,  gods, 
heroes,  men,  trees,  clouds,  and  animals,  all  play  their  equal  part  in  the 
confused  dramas  of  savage  thought  and  savage  mythology.  Even  in 
practical  life  the  change  of  a  sorcerer  into  an  animal  is  accepted  as  a 
familiar  phenomenon,  and  the  power  of  soaring  among  the  stars  is  one 
on  which  the  Australian  Biraark,  or  the  Esquimaux  Shaman,  most 
plumes  himself.  It  is  not  wonderful  that  things  which  are  held  possible 
in  daily  practice  should  be  frequent  features  of  mythology.  ,TJ$nco  the 
ready  invention  and  belief  of  star-legends,  which  in  their  turn  fix  the 
names  of  the  heavenly  bodies.  Nothing  more,  except  the  extreme 


42  HOW  THE  STARS  GOT  THEIR  NAMES. 

tenacity  of  tradition  and  the  inconvenience  of  changing  a  widely  ac- 
cepted name,  is  needed  to  account  for  the  human  and  animal  names  of 
the  stars.  The  Greeks  received  from  the  dateless  past  of  savage  intellect 
the  myths,  and  the  names  of  the  constellations,  and  we  have  taken  them, 
without  inquiry,  from  the  Greeks.  Thus  it  happens  that  our  celestial 
globes  are  just  as  queer  menageries  as  any  globes  could  be  that  were 
illustrated  by  Australians  or  American  Indians,  by  Bushmen  or 
Peruvian  aborigines,  or  Esquimaux.  It  was  savages,  we  may  be  toler- 
ably certain,  who  first  handed  to  science  the  names  of  the  constellations, 
and  provided  Greece  with  the  raw  material  of  her  astronomical  myths — 
as  Bacon  prettily  says,  that  we  listen  to  the  harsh  ideas  of  earlier 
peoples  as  they  come  to  us  "  blown  softly  through  the  flutes  of  the 
Grecians."  The  first  moment  in  astronomical  science  arrives  when  the 
savage,  looking  at  a  star,  says,  like  the  child  in  the  nursery  poem,  "How 
I  wonder  what  you  are  !  "  The  next  moment  comes  when  the  savage 
has  made  his  first  rough  practical  observations  of  the  movements  of  the 
heavenly  body.  His  next  step  is  to  explain  these  to  himself.  Now 
science  cannot  advance  any  but  a  fanciful  explanation  beyond  the  sphere 
of  experience.  The  experience  of  the  savage  is  limited  to  the  narrow 
world  of  his  tribe,  and  of  the  beasts,  birds,  and  fishes  of  his  district. 
His  philosophy,  therefore,  accounts  for  all  phenomena  on  the  supposition 
that  the  laws  of  the  animate  nature  he  observes  are  working  everywhere. 
But  his  observations,  misguided  by  his  crude  magical  superstitions,  have 
led  him  to  believe  in  a  state  of  equality  and  kinship  between  men  and 
animals,  and  even  inorganic  things.  He  often  worships  the  very  beasts 
he  slays ;  he  addresses  them  as  if  they  understood  him ;  he  believes  him- 
self to  be  descended  from  the  animals,  and  of  their  kindred.  These  con- 
fused ideas  he  applies  to  the  stars,  and  recognises  in  them  men  like  him- 
self, or  beasts  like  those  with  which  he  conceives  himself  to  be  in  such  close 
human  relations.  There  is  scarcely  a  bird  or  beast  but  the  Red  Indian 
or  the  Australian  will  explain  its  peculiarities  by  a  myth,  like  a  page 
from  Ovid's  Metamorphoses.  It  was  once  a  man  or  a  woman,  and  has 
been  changed  to  bird  or  beast  by  a  god  or  a  magician.  Men,  again,  have 
originally  been  beasts,  in  his  philosophy,  and  are  descended  from  wolves, 
frogs  or  serpents,  or  monkeys.  The  heavenly  bodies  are  traced  to  pre- 
cisely the  same  sort  of  origin ;  and  hence,  we  conclude,  come  their  strange 
animal  names,  and  the  strange  myths  about  them  which  appear  in  all 
ancient  poetry.  These  names,  in  turn,  have  curiously  affected  human 
beliefs.  Astrology  is  based  on  the  opinion  that  a  man's  character  and 
fate  are  determined  by  the  stars  under  which  he  is  born.  And  the 
nature  of  these  stars  is  deduced  from  their  names,  so  that  the  bear 
should  have  been  found  in  the  horoscope  of  Dr.  Johnson.  When 
Giordano  Bruno  wrote  his  satire  against  religion,  the  famous  8paccio 
della  bestia  trionfante,  he  proposed  to  banish  not  only  the  gods  but  the 
beasts  from  heaven.  He  would  call  the  stars  not  the  Bear,  or  the  Sivan, 
or  the  Pleiads,  but  Truth,  Mercy,  Justice,  and  so  forth,  that  men  might 


HOW  THE  STARS  GOT  THEIR  NAMES.  43 

be  born,  not  under  bestial,  but  moral  influences.  But  the  beasts  have 
had  too  long  possession  of  the  stars  to  be  easily  dislodged,  and  the  tenure 
of  the  Bear  and  the  Swan  will  probably  last  as  long  as  there  is  a  science 
of  Astronomy.  Their  names  are  not  likely  again  to  delude  a  philosopher 
into  the  opinion  of  Aristotle  that  the  stars  are  animated. 

This  argument  had  been  worked  out  to  the  writer's  satisfaction  when 
he  chanced  to  light  on  Mr.  Max  Miiller's  explanation  of  the  name  of  the 
Great  Bear.  We  have  explained  that  name  as  only  one  out  of  countless 
similar  appellations  which  men  of  every  race  give  to  the  stars.  These 
names,  again,  we  have  accounted  for  as  the  result  of  savage  philosophy, 
which  takes  no  great  distinction  between  man  and  the  things  in  the 
world,  and  looks  on  stars,  beasts,  birds,  fishes,  flowers,  and  trees  as  men 
and  women  in  disguise.  M.  Miiller's  theory'  is  based  on  philological 
considerations.  He  thinks  that  the  name  of  the  Great  Bear  is  the  result 
of  a  mistake  as  to  the  meaning  of  words.  There  was  in  Sanskrit,  he 
says  (Lectures  on  Language,  pp.  359,  362),  a  root  ark,  or  arch,  meaning 
to  be  bright.  The  stars  are  called  riksha,  that  is,  bright  ones,  in  the 
Veda.  "  The  constellations  here  called  the  Bikshas,  in  the  sense  of 
'  the  bright  ones,'  would  be  homonymous  in  Sanskrit  with  the  Bears. 
Bemember  also  that,  apparently  without  rhyme  or  reason,  the  same 

constellation  is  called  by  Greeks  and  Bomans  the  Bear There  is 

not  the  shadow  of  a  likeness  with  a  bear.  You  will  now  perceive  the 
influence  of  words  on  thought,  or  the  spontaneous  growth  of  mythology. 
The  name  Riksha  was  applied  to  the  bear  in  the  sense  of  the  bright 
fuscous  animal,  and  in  that  sense  it  became  most  popular  in  the  later 
Sanskrit,  and  in  Greek  and  Latin.  The  same  name,  '  in  the  sense  of 
the  bright  ones,'  had  been  applied  by  the  Yedic  poets  to  the  stars  in 
general,  and  more  particularly  to  that  constellation  which  in  the  northern 
parts  of  India  was  the  most  prominent.  The  etymological  meaning,  '  the 
bright  stars,'  was  forgotten  ;  the  popular  meaning  of  Biksha  (bear)  was 
known  to  every  one.  And  thus  it  happened  that,  when  the  Greeks  had 
left  their  central  home  and  settled  in  Europe,  they  retained  the  name  of 
Arktos  for  the  same  unchanging  stars ;  but,  not  knowing  why  those 
stars  had  originally  received  that  name,  they  ceased  to  speak  of  them  as 
arktoi,  or  many  bears,  and  spoke  of  them  as  the  Bears." 

This  is  a  very  good  example  of  the  philological  way  of  explaining  a 
myth.  If  once  we  admit  that  ark,  or  arch,  in  the  sense  of  "  bright "  and 
of  "  bear,"  existed,  not  only  in  Sanskrit,  but  in  the  undivided  Aryan 
tongue,  and  that  the  name  Biksha,  bear,  "became  in  that  sense  most 
popular  in  Greek  and  Latin,"  this  theory  seems  more  than  plausible. 
There  is  a  difficulty,  however,  in  finding  Biksha  either  in  Latin  or 
Greek.  But  the  explanation  does  not  look  so  well  if  we  examine,  not 
only  the  Aryan,  but  all  the  known  myths  and  names  of  the  Bear  and 
the  other  stars.  Professor  Sayce,  a  distinguished  philologist,  says  we 
may  not  compare  non- Aryan  with  Aryan  myths.  We  have  ventured  to 
do  so,  however,  in  this  paper,  and  have  shown  that  the  most  widely 


44  HOW  THE  STARS  GOT  THEIR  NAMES. 

severed  races  give  the  stars  animal  names,  of  which  the  Bear  is  one 
example.  Now,  if  the  philologists  wish  to  persuade  us  that  it  was 
decaying  and  half-forgotten  language  which  caused  men  to  give  the  names 
of  animals  to  the  stars,  they  must  prove  their  case  on  an  immense  collec- 
tion of  instances — on  Iowa,  Kanekn,  Murri,  Maori,  Brazilian,  Peruvian, 
Mexican,  Egyptian,  Esquimaux  instances.  Does  the  philological  expla- 
nation account  for  the  enormous  majority  of  these  phenomena?  If  it 
fails,  we  may  at  least  doubt  whether  it  solves  the  one  isolated  case  of  the 
Great  Bear  among  the  Greeks  and  Romans.  It  must  be  observed  that 
the  philological  explanation  of  M.  Miiller  does  not  clear  up  the  Arca- 
dian story  of  their  own  descent  from  a  she-bear  who  is  now  a  star.  Yet 
similar  stories  of  the  descent  of  tribes  from  animals  are  so  widespread, 
that  it  would  be  difficult  to  name  the  race,  or  the  quarter  of  the  globe, 
where  they  are  not  found.  And  these  considerations  appear  to  be  a 
strong  argument  for  comparing  not  only  Aryan,  but  all  attainable  myths. 
We  shall  often  find,  if  we  take  a  wide  view,  that  the  philological  expla- 
nation which  seemed  plausible  in  a  single  case,  is  hopelessly  narrow  when 
applied  to  a  large  collection  of  parallel  cases  in  languages  of  various 
families. 

A.  L. 


Cije  Pan  fmijr  %  grir 


i. 

ABOUT  a  score  of  us — men,  women,  and  children — were  eating  our 
breakfast  at  Toogood's  place  down  in  Suffolk,  one  September  morning, 
when  Toogood,  who  had  been  reading  his  letters,  looked  up,  rubbing  his 
bald  head  and  frowning,  as  he  does  in  moments  of  distress,  and  called  out 
across  the  table  to  his  wife,  "  I  say,  mother,  Percival's  coming  to- 
morrow." 

"Percival?  Percival?  "  repeated  Mrs.  Toogood  vaguely.  "Oh,  do 
you  mean  the  man  with  the  red  hair  ?  I  am  so  sorry  !  " 

The  Toogoods  are  such  extremely  hospitable  people  that  it  is  hardly 
possible  to  conceive  such  a  thing  as  that  either  of  them  should  feel  sorry 
at  the  prospect  of  receiving  an  additional  guest  in  their  capacious  house, 
and  Florry  Neville  only  made  herself  the  spokeswoman  of  the  entire 
company  by  asking  in  a  tone  of  astonishment,  "  Why  ?  Because  he  has 
red  hair? " 

"  Well,  yes ;  partly  because  of  that,"  answered  Mrs.  Toogood  with  a 
sigh. 

"Now  mind,  children,"  said  Toogood  in  a  loud  voice;  "not  a  word 
about  red  hair  so  long  as  Mr.  Percival  is  here." 

I  don't  know  how  many  children  Toogood  has — I  have  never 
attempted  to  count  them — but  I  do  know  that,  if  there  was  anything 
which  I  particularly  wished  to  prevent  them  from  alluding  to,  the  very 
last  course  that  I  should  adopt  would  be  to  tell  them  of  it. 

"The  first  child,"  continued  Toogood  resolutely,  "who  mentions  the 
subject  of  red  hair  during  Mr.  Percival's  visit  will  be  whopped,  or  con- 
fined to  the  nursery,  or  made  to  learn  the  first  six  propositions  of  Euclid 
by  heart  according  to  age  and  sex.  So  now  you  know." 

"  And  how  about  adults  1 "  Miss  Neville  inquired.  "  What  is  to  be 
done  to  them  if  they  hurt  your  carroty  friend's  feelings  ? " 

"  Oh,  he'll  look  after  the  adults,"  answered  Toogood  rather  gloomily ; 
"  I  believe  he  half  killed  a  man  at  Oxford,  years  ago,  for  calling  him 
Carrots,  I  don't  know  what  he'd  do  in  the  case  of  a  lady,  I'm  sure ; 
but  I  wouldn't  try  chaffing  him,  Miss  Neville,  if  I  were  you — I  wouldn't 
really." 

Now  that,  again,  is  not  the  sort  of  thing  that  I  should  have  said  with 
a  view  to  making  sure  of  Florry 's  behaving  herself;  but  dear  old  Too- 
good  is  always  saying  tilings  that  he  ought  not  to  say. 

"  Percival  isn't  a  bad  fellow,"  he  continued  pensively,  "  so  long  as 


46  THE  MAN  WITH  THE  EED  HAIK. 

you  don't  rub  him  the  wrong  way ;  only,  iinfortunately,  it  takes  very 
little  to  rub  him  the  wrong  way ;  and  when  he  gets  into  one  of  his  tem- 
pers— well,  it's  uncommonly  disagreeable  for  everybody." 

After  that  I  suppose  we  all  felt  an  increased  curiosity  to  behold  the 
man  with  the  red  hair ;  and  I  can  answer  for  one  of  us  who  was  not 
without  hope  that  he  might  be  attacked  by  some  extraordinary  fit  of 
fury  before  he  went  away.  I  must  confess  that  I  take  a  great  delight 
in  seeing  things  broken  (of  course  I  don't  mean  my  own  things)  ; 
and  sincerely  as  I  should  have  deplored  the  annihilation  of  Mrs. 
Toogood's  best  dessert-service,  still,  if  such  a  calamity  was  bound  to 
take  place,  I  should  certainly  have  wished  to  be  there  to  look  on 
at  it.  I  imagined  the  redoubtable  Percival  as  a  brawny  giant  with 
a  naming  mane  and  beard,  and  after  breakfast  I  found  in  one  of  the 
children's  picture-books  a  representation  of  an  ogre  which  seemed  so 
exactly  like  what  he  ought  to  be  that  I  pointed  it  out  to  Florry 
Neville,  who  was  so  kind  as  to  say  that  she  would  take  an  early  oppor- 
tunity of  showing  it  to  him  and  telling  him  that  I  had  supposed  it  to  be 
his  portrait. 

However,  when  he  did  come,  he  turned  out,  like  so  many  things  that 
one  has  looked  forward  to,  to  be  a  disappointment — at  all  events  so  far 
as  appearances  Avent.  He  was  not  in  the  least  like  the  ogre  in  the  pic- 
ture-book, nor  like  any  ogre  at  all,  but  was  a  tall  and  well-made  fellow  of 
six  or  seven  and  twenty,  whom  nine  people  out  of  ten  would  have  pro- 
nounced decidedly  good-looking.  Certainly  his  hair  was  red  ;  but  it  was 
cut  so  short  that  its  colour  hardly  attracted  attention,  and  he  wore 
neither  beard  nor  moustache.  It  was  just  before  dinner  that  we  had  our 
first  view  of  him,  and  I  scrutinised  him  then  and  throughout  the  evening 
rather  narrowly  without  discovering  anything  about  him  different  from 
the  rest  of  the  world,  except  that  his  eyes  were  a  little  restless,  and  that 
he  spoke  with  a  certain  hurried  excitability  when  he  was  interested  in 
his  subject.  If  he  had  been  a  horse,  you  would  have  said  that  he  was  a 
high-couraged  animal,  nothing  more.  At  dessert  the  children  stared  at 
him  with  round  eyes,  and  I  could  see  that  my  feeling  of  disappointment 
was  shared  by  them ;  but  they  made  no  dreadful  remarks,  nor  was  the 
harmony  of  the  evening  in  anyway  disturbed.  As  for  his  manners, 
nothing  could  have  been  more  pleasant.  His  voice  was  rather  loud,  but 
not  disagreeable;  he  talked  a  good  deal — chiefly  about  sport — and  was 
very  cheery  and  unaffected  and  ready  to  make  friends  with  every- 
body. 

After  dinner  Florry  Neville  took  him  away  into  a  corner  and  began 
to  flirt  with  him  outrageously  ;  but  that  I  had  known  beforehand  that 
she  would  do.  I  may  mention  that  Florry  is  my  cousin,  and  that  I  have 
been  acquainted  with  her  little  ways  for  many  years.  Rufus  appeared 
to  be  much  taken  with  her.  I  don't  know  whether  she  chaffed  him  or 
not ;  but,  if  she  did,  her  chaff  must  have  been  of  a  very  mild  order,  for 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BED  HAIE.  47 

no  one  could  liave  looked  more  complacent  than  he  did  when  the  ladies 
went  upstairs  and  we  adjourned  to  the  smoking-room. 

The  next  day  he  came  out  shooting  with  us,  and  shot  uncommonly 
well ;  and  in  the  evening  we  played  pool,  and  although  he  was  fluked 
twice  and  sold  once,  he  did  not  break  the  lamps.  After  he  had  been 
three  days  in  the  house  he  had  made  himself  quite  a  popular  person, 
having  spoken  no  uncivil  word  to  anybody,  nor  offended  against  a  single 
law  of  good  breeding,  unless  it  were  in  his  attentions  to  Florry,  which 
were  perhaps  just  a  shade  too  conspicuous,  and  which  seemed  to  cause 
Mrs.  Toogood  some  anxiety.  But  on  the  fourth  day  something  happened 
which  was  quite  certain  to  happen  sooner  or  later.  Florry  grew  tired  of 
her  red-haired  admirer  and  took  up  with  a  more  recent  arrival.  As  soon  as 
dinner  was  over,  I  saw  Percival  make  for  the  sofa  upon  which  she  was 
sitting  with  his  supplanter ;  I  saw  her  look  up  at  him  over  her  fan  with 
that  air  of  innocent  surprise  and  inquiry  which  she  knows  so  well  how 
to  assume  when  it  suits  her  purpose;  and  then,  after  saying  a  few  words 
to  her,  he  suddenly  whisked  round  upon  his  heels  and  came  striding 
towards  the  fireplace  with  a  scowl  upon  his  face  which  boded  no  good  to 
the  Dresden  shepherdesses  on  the  mantelpiece.  Evidently  the  desire 
to  break  something  was  strong  upon  him ;  but  he  spared  the  china. 
All  he  did  Avas  to  snatch  up  the  poker  and  begin  hammering  at  the 
coals  with  a  violence  which  sent  some  red-hot  cinders  flying  out  on 
to  the  hearth-rug.  This  was  certainly  a  breach  of  good  manners; 
and  when  I  mildly  asked  him.  whether  anything  was  the  matter,  he  in- 
quired savagely  what  the  devil  I  meant  by  tha.t — which  was  worse. 
However,  he  begged  my  pardon  presently,  and  I  said  it  was  of  no 
consequence. 

On  the  following  morning  we  went  out  after  the  partridges  again, 
and  I  don't  think  I  ever  in  all  my  days  saw  a  man  shoot  so  wildly  as 
Percival  did.  He  had  started  in  a  bad  temper,  and  the  worse  he  shot 
the  more  angry  he  became.  Everybody  who  spoke  to  him  got  sworn  at 
for  his  pains,  and  he  ended  by  pulling  up  in  the  middle  of  a  turnip-field, 
pitching  his  gun  half-a-dozen  yards  away,  and  marching  off,  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  growling  and  muttering  to  himself. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  Toogood,  rubbing  his  head,  as  he  gazed  after  his 
retreating  guest,  "  how  ridiculous  it  is,  to  be  sure  !  Fancy  a  man  of  his 
age  behaving  like  a  spoilt  child  in  that  way  !  " 

"  Ah,"  said  Moreton,  "  I  told  you  how  it  would  be.  Now  you'll 
see.  He'll  go  back  to  the  house  and  kill  the  first  person  he  meets." 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  go  after  him,"  sighed  Toogood  ruefully. 

But  I  said  I  would  go  ;  and  my  offer  was  accepted  with  alacrity. 

"  Do,  like  a  good  fellow,  Oliver,"  answered  Toogood ;  "  I  believe  you 
can  quiet  him  down  better  than  anybody." 

The  truth  is  that  our  irascible  friend  had  taken  rather  a  fancy  to  me. 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  suggest  that  my  own  personal  attractions  were  not 


48  THE  MAN  WITH  THE  RED  HAIR. 

amply  sufficient  to  account  for  this ;  still,  I  have  observed  that,  when  I 
happen  to  be  staying  in  the  same  house  with  Florry  Neville,  men  often 
do  take  a  fancy  to  me.  I  don't  know  why  they  should  imagine  that 
because  she  is  my  cousin  it  is  worth  their  while  to  worm  themselves  into 
my  good  graces  ;  but  the  fact  remains  that  they  do. 

I  overtook  Percival  in  the  adjoining  field,  where  he  had  stopped 
short  and  waited  for  me,  after  having  been  shouted  at  three  or  four 
times. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  looking  anything  but  amiable,  "  what's  the  row  1 
What  do  you  want  ? " 

"I  have  brought  you  your  gun,"  said  I ;  "you  may  want  it  again 
perhaps.  I'm  not  quite  up  to  the  mark  myself  to-day,  so  I  thought  I 
might  as  well  walk  home  with  you." 

This  soft  answer  seemed  to  have  the  effect  of  turning  away  his 
wrath.  He  laughed  and  clapped  me  rather  heavily  upon  the  shoulder, 
saying,  "  Upon  my  word,  Oliver,  you're  an  awfully  good  little 
chap !  " 

That  is  what  one  gets  by  being  good-natured.  I  may  be  quite  as 
sensitive  about  my  diminutive  stature  as  some  other  people  are  about 
their  red  hair;  but  because  I  don't  fly  into  tantrums  a  man  thinks 
nothing  of  calling  me  "  a  good  little  chap  ; "  whereas  if  I  had  said,  for 
instance,  "  You  aren't  a  bad  sort  of  a  red-headed  duffer,  Percival,  after 
all,"  I  suppose  he  would  simply  have  torn  me  to  pieces. 

"  The  fact  of  the  matter  is,"  he  went  on  confidentially,  "  that  I  have 
a  devil  of  a  temper." 

He  looked  as  if  he  expected  me  to  express  some  surprise ;  so  I  said, 
"  Have  you  really  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  can  control  it  pretty  well  generally ;  but  every  now  and 
then  it  gets  the  upper  hand  of  me.     And  it  is  irritating  to  go  out  for  a 
morning's  shooting  and  not  to  be  able  to  touch  a  feather,  isn't  it  1 " 
I  said  there  was  no  donbt  of  that. 

"  Besides  which,  I  have  had  other  things  to  annoy  me — annoy  me 
most  confoundedly,"  he  went  on,  frowning  and  clenching  his  fists  in  a 
manner  which  I  afterwards  found  was  habitual  to  him.  "  What  do  you 
think  of  Miss  Neville  1 "  he  asked  abruptly. 

"  What  do  I  think  of  her  ?  Perhaps  you  don't  know  she  is  my 
cousin,"  I  answered.  % 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do  :  that's  why  I  ask.  You  ought  to  know  something 
about  her.  Is  she  a  humbug1?  Is  she  the  sort  of  girl  to  lead  a  man  on 
and  then  throw  him  over  ?  That's  what  I  mean." 

And  then,  to  my  amazement,  he  proceeded  to  state  that  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  marry  Miss  Neville  ;  that  she  had  given  him  to  under- 
stand that  his  attentions  were  not  disagreeable  to  her;  and  that  he 
wanted  to  know  whether  she  was  the  girl  he  had  taken  her  for,  or  nothing 
but  a  flirt.  "  Because,"  he  concluded,  "  I  do  hate  a  flirt." 

I  always  try  to  say  pleasant  things  both  of  and  to  people,  when  I 


THE  MAN    WITH   THE  RED   HAIR.  49 

can.  I  gave  Florry  a  rather  better  character  than  she  deserved,  at  the 
same  time  pointing  out  to  my  companion  that  he  was  really  jumping  to 
conclusions  in  a  rather  too  impetuous  way. 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  "  I'm  not  impetuous.  I  don't  for  a  moment  suppose 
that  she  would  take  me  to-morrow,  if  I  asked  her;  and  I  don't  mean  to 
ask  her  then,  nor  for  a  long  time  to  come.  I  tell  you,  because  you  are  a 
friend  of  mine  "  (he  had  known  me  just  four  days),  "  and  because  I  don't 
see  the  use  of  keeping  secrets  from  one's  friends ;  but  of  course  it's  quite 
another  thing  with  her.  I  only  asked  you  to  tell  me  the  truth  about  her 
so  that  I  might  have  the  chance  of  pulling  myself  up  before  it  was  too 
late." 

I  began  to  wish  with  all  my  heart  that  Red-head  had  kept  his  confi- 
dences to  himself.  The  plain,  unvarnished  truth  was  that  Florry  was 
about  the  most  irreclaimable  flirt  of  my  acquaintance ;  but  it  seemed  a 
pity  to  say  this  :  for  she  was  not  well  off,  and  I  had  found  out  that  Per- 
cival  was  a  man  of  considerable  property. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  I  allowed  him  to  infer  that  she  was  all  his 
fancy  had  painted  her,  he  would  probably  ere  long  have  an  unpleasant 
shock ;  in  which  case  the  chances  were  that  he  would  murder  us  both. 
I  therefore  took  up  a  high  tone.  I  said  that  in  matters  of  this  kind  a 
man  must  use  his  own  powers  of  observation  and  choose  for  himself;  T 
really  could  not  accept  the  responsibility  which  he  sought  to  impose 
upon  me.  Furthermore,  I  didn't  think  it  was  quite  the  thing  to  give 
private  information  about  a  lady's  disposition,  as  though  she  were  a 
hunter  put  up  for  sale. 

He  made  me  rather  ashamed  of  myself  by  grasping  my  hand  warmly 
and  saying  that  I  was  a  good  fellow.  Did  I  think,  now,  that  Mrs.  and 
Miss  Neville  could  be  persuaded  to  pay  him  a  visit  at  his  place  in 
November  1  And  would  I  come  too  ?  AVithout  vanity,  he  might  say 
that  he  could  promise  me  as  good  pheasant-shooting  as  there  was  to  be 
had  in  the  county.  I  said  yes  to  that  without  much  hesitation ;  for  I 
reflected  that,  if  Florry  accepted  him,  there  would  probably  be  no  flare- 
up  until  after  the  marriage,  and  that  if  she  didn't,  he  couldn't  blame  me. 
And  so  we  walked  back  to  the  house  upon  the  best  of  terms  with  one 
another. 

I  suppose  Percival  had  no  great  difficulty  in  making  his  peace  with 
Florry.  Her  second  string  was  still  out  shooting,  and  to  quarrel  with 
the  only  available  man  at  hand  would  have  seemed  to  her  a  wanton 
waste  of  opportunity.  She  allowed  him  to  monopolise  her  for  the  rest  of 
the  afternoon  and  evening,  and  he  was  proportionately  cheerful  and 
gracious  to  those  about  him.  But  on  the  following  day  she  thought,  no 
doubt,  that  it  would  be  only  fair  to  give  the  other  man  a  turn.  At  all 
events,  she  went  out  riding  with  the  other  man;  and  nothing  more  than 
that  was  required  to  convert  Percival  once  more  into  the  semblance  of  a 
wild  beast.  All  day  long  he  did  his  best  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  one  of 
us,  but  was  baffled  by  our  obstinate  politeness  ;  and  I  dare  say  we  should 

VOL.  XLV. — NO.  265.  & 


50  THE  MAX  WITH  THE  RED  HAIK. 

have  managed  to  get  to  bed  without  a  row  if  poor  old  Toogood  had  not 
made  a  most  unlucky  slip  of  the  tongue  after  dinner. 

"  I  can't  see  anything  to  admire  in  her,"  said  he,  referring  to  a  lady 
whose  claims  to  beauty  happened  to  be  under  discussion.  "  I  never 
could  admire  a  woman  with  r " 

He  came  to  a  dead  stop,  and  turned  a  great  deal  redder  than  the 
locks  which  he  couldn't  admire.  It  is  true  that  he  recovered  himself 
rather  cleverly  by  saying  "  round  shoulders  "  in  a  loud  voice  ;  but  this 
emendation  came  a  great  deal  too  late  to  be  of  any  use  to  him.  Already 
the  children  had  exploded,  one  after  the  other,  and  were  rolling  about 
on  their  respective  chairs  in  agonies  of  merriment ;  the  rest  of  us  were 
preternaturally  unconscious ;  Mrs.  Toogood  was  fanning  herself  ner- 
vously ;  and  Percival,  with  a  white  face  and  blazing  eyes,  was  crushing 
biscuits  to  powder  between  his  fingers.  The  awkward  moment  passed, 
however,  as  all  moments,  awkward  and  otherwise,  do,  and  there  was  no 
reason  why  it  should  have  been  ever  alluded  to  again.  But  poor,  dear 
Toogood  is  one  of  those  infatuated  people  who  never  make  a  false  step 
without  subsequent  uncalled-for  flounderings.  No  sooner  had  the  ladies 
left  the  room  than  he  actually  began  to  apologise  for  his  stupidity.  "  My 
dear  fellow,  I'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon  most  sincerely.  Can't  think 
how  I  can  have  been  such  an  ass  as  to  let  it  slip  out.  The  fact  is,  that 
at  the  moment,  I  had  quite  forgotten  that  you  were  here." 

I  don't  suppose  that  our  amiable  host  was  ever  before  in  such  immi- 
nent danger  of  having  one  of  his  own  decanters  hurled  at  his  head. 
Percival  was  literally  quivering  from  head  to  foot  with  passion,  and  it 
was  evident  that  he  went  through  a  hard  struggle  before  he  would  trust 
himself  to  answer.  When  he  did  speak,  it  was  to  say  in  a  low  voice,  "  If 
you  think  you  are  going  to  get  a  rise  out  of  me,  Mr.  Toogood,  you'll  be 
disappointed.  But  I  don't  see  that  I  am  bound  to  put  up  with  insults 
of  this  sort  in  any  man's  house,  and  I  shall  leave  yours  to-morrow 
morning." 

Toogood  is  the  most  patient  of  men;  but  his  patience  was  probably 
exhausted  by  this  time.  He  didn't  say  "  You  may  go  to  the  devil,"  as  I 
really  think  I  should  have  done  in  his  place ;  but  he  made  no  more 
apologies,  nor  did  he  Jseg  his  guest  to  remain  on.  He  sat  silent  and 
rubbed  his  head. 

Later  in  the  evening  Percival  came  into  the  smoking-room  and 
offered  a  sort  of  apology ;  upon  which,  as  a  matter  of  course,  he  was 
urged  to  reconsider  his  decision  about  going  away.  But  this  he  declined 
to  do,  alleging  that  he  had  other  reasons  for  wishing  to  leave  without 
loss  of  time ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  was  not  very  much  pressed  to 
stay. 

II. 

Shortly  afterwards  I  wrote  to  Percival,  saying  that  I  was  sorry  to 
say  that  I  should  not  be  able  to  avail  myself  of  his  hospitality.  To  this 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  EED  HAIE.  5t 

he  returned  no  answer,  and  I  soon  forgot  all  about  him.  My  next  meeting 
with  him  did  not  take  place  until  some  six  months  later,  when  he  turned 
up  unexpectedly  at  Cannes,  whither  I  had  betaken  myself,  after  winter- 
ing in  Egypt,  in  order  to  see  the  Nevilles,  who  were  living  in  an  hotel 
there. 

I  was  half  dozing  in  an  arm-chair  by  the  open  window,  one  morning, 
when  I  was  startled  by  a  tremendous  shindy  going  on  in  the  court-yard 
of  the  hotel  below  me.  I  went  downstairs  at  once ;  for  I  rather  like  a 
row  (when  I  am  not  called  upon  to  take  part  in  it),  and  the  first  thing  that 
I  saw  was  my  red- headed  friend  engaged  in  an  angry  altercation  with  the 
landlord,  while  a  group  of  grinning  waiters  and  porters  stood  around, 
keeping  well  beyond  the  reach  of  his  umbrella,  with  which  he  was  de- 
scribing energetic  circles  in  the  air. 

"  You  chattering  idiot !  "  he  was  bawling  out,  "  si  vous  n'avez  pas 
shomber,  pourquoi  diabel  telegraphier  to  say  that  you  had  j  " 

"  Monsieur,  je  vous  assure  " began  the  landlord  deprecatingly. 

"  Je  vous  assure  that  I'm  not  going  to  stand  here  all  day.  Avez- 
vous  shomber  ou  n'avez- vous  pas  ?  Oui  ou  non  1  Repondez  !  " 

Here  the  hall  porter  interposed.  "  Very  goot  rooms  on  the  second 
floor,  sare ;  au  premier  it  was  impossibility  d'en  avoir." 

"  Then  pourquoi  diabel  didn't  you  say  so  before  ?  Here,  carry  up  the 
luggage,  you  beggars  !  Forty  bagage — vite  !  Look  sharp  !  " 

The  noisy  little  procession  came  clattering  upstairs — first  the  land- 
lord, relieving  his  feelings  by  calling  Percival  opprobrious  names  in  an 
undertone ;  then  the  waiters ;  then  the  porters  with  the  luggage ;  finally 
Percival  himself,  growling  like  a  distant  thunderstorm.  On  the  first 
landing  he  became  aware  of  me,  and  looked  a  good  deal  more  surprised 
than  pleased  at  seeing  me. 

"  Hullo  !  "  he  said,  "  I  didn't  know  you  were  here." 

From  the  emphasis  which  he  laid  upon  the  pronoun  I  was  led  to  con- 
clude that  he  had  known  that  the  Nevilles  were  at  Cannes ;  and  this,  it 
subsequently  appeared,  was  the  case.  I  had  not  long  resumed  my  in- 
terrupted siesta  when  there  came  a  thundering  rap  at  the  door,  and  im- 
mediately my  friend  stalked  in  "  to  tell  me,"  as  he  said,  "  all  about  it." 
He  dragged  a  chair  up  to  the  window,  seated  himself  astride  upon  it,  and 
began  a  rapid  explanation,  sometimes  frowning  and  sometimes  smiling  at 
me  over  his  folded  arms  while  he  talked.  It  seemed  that  he  was  as 
much  bent  as  ever  upon  espousing  Florry  Neville.  He  had  tried  to  for- 
get her,  but  without  success ;  "  and  when  I  saw  that  fellow's  marriage  in 
the  paper  the  other  day,"  he  concluded,  "  I  made  up  my  mind  to  lose  no 
more  time,  and  started  for  Cannes  at  once." 

"  What  fellow  ? "  I  asked,  in  some  bewilderment. 

"  As  if  you  didn't  know  !  "  he  returned  pettishly.  "  Why,  that  man 
whom  she  threw  me  over  for  down  in  Suffolk,  of  course.  I  knew  there 
was  no  chance  for  me  so  long  as  he  was  in  the  way." 

At  the  risk  of  being  pitched  neck  and  crop  out  of  window,  I  could 

3—2 


52  THE  MAN  WITH  THE  RED  HAIR. 

not  restrain  a  roar  of  laughter.  "  My  dear  fellow,"  I  said,  "  it's  ten  to 
one  that  Miss  Neville  doesn't  even  remember  the  name  of  that  individual. 
You  must  either  be  unwarrantably  particular  or  very  easily  discouraged." 

"  I'm  not  easily  discouraged,"  he  answered.  "  As  to  my  being  parti- 
cular, that's  quite  possible.  I  wouldn't  give  a  fig  for  a  man  who  was 
not  particular  where  his  wife  was  concerned." 

"  His  wife  !  This  is  taking  time  by  the  forelock  with  a  vengeance," 
I  remarked. 

"  Oh,  well,"  he  said  impatiently,  "it's  the  same  thing."  And  then 
— by  way,  no  doubt,  of  showing  me  how  particular  he  was — he  requested 
to  be  informed  what  had  brought  me  to  Cannes.  He  was  kind  enough 
to  say  that  he  quite  admitted  my  right  to  be  his  rival :  only  he  was 
anxious  that  there  should  be  no  misunderstanding  about  it.  He  begged, 
therefore,  that  I  would  treat  him  as  a  friend  and  speak  openly. 

I  hastened  to  assure  him  that  he  had  nothing  to  fear  from  me ; 
that  I  hoped  to  remain  a  bachelor  for  many  years  to  come ;  and  that, 
if  ever  I  did  marry,  my  cousin  would  assuredly  not  be  the  favoured 
lady  who  would  be  asked  to  share  my  joys  and  sorrows.  But  I  believe 
he  was  only  half  convinced,  and  indeed,  from  then  to  the  end  of  our 
acquaintance,  he  never  ceased  to  regard  me  with  a  greater  or  less 
degree  of  suspicion.  Percival  was  the  sort  of  man  who  would  have  been 
jealous  of  his  own  grandfather  rather  than  not  have  been  jealous  at  all. 

He  found  plenty  of  people  to  be  jealous  of  at  Cannes,  where  Florry's 
attractions  were  widely  known  and  appreciated,  and  I  felt  quite  sorry 
for  the  poor  fellow  when  I  saw  how  cruelly  she  treated  him.  For  the 
first  few  days  he  had  it  all  his  own  waj-.  Floriy  seemed  to  be,  and  I 
dare  say  was,  delighted  to  see  him.  She  rode  to  a  picnic  with  him,  she 
allowed  him  to  take  her  out  for  a  sail  on  the  bay,  she  sat  with  him  in 
the  garden  in  the  evenings,  and  in  short  lifted  him  up  into  a  seventh 
heaven  of  bliss.  Then,  of  course,  she  abruptly  kicked  him  out  of  it. 
There  was  a  man  named  Lacy  who  was  at  that  time  among  the  most 
devoted  of  her  slaves ;  and  when  Percival  had  had  his  little  innings  it 
was  Lacy's  turn  to  score.  To  do  Florry  justice,  I  must  say  that  there 
is  no  sort  of  deception  about  her  proceedings.  She  is  very  pretty,  she  is 
capital  fun,  and  she  is  an  adept  at  what  I  should  call  the  hard-hearted 
style  of  flirtation;  but,  as  her  sole  aim  and  object  is  to  amuse  herself,  she 
does  not  make  much  pretence  of  caring  about  one  man  more  than  another, 
nor  does  she  attempt  to  disguise  Jier  liking  for  variety.  Her  admirers, 
if  they  are  sensible  men,  understand  this,  and  regulate  their  conduct  ac- 
cordingly. Lacy,  who  was  a  quiet,  easy-going  fellow,  understood  it,  I 
suppose,  well  enough ;  but  poor  Percival  didn't  understand  it  at  all,  and 
the  agonies  that  he  suffered  when  he  was  left  out  in  the  cold  were  piti- 
able to  witness.  He  was  at  Cannes  altogether  about  a  fortnight,  I 
think,  and  I  am  sure  I  don't  exaggerate  when  I  say  that  he  must  have 
lost  a  stone's  weight  in  that  time.  His  face  grew  quite  haggard  and 
lined,  his  eyes  had  an  unnatural  brightness  as  if  he  did  not  sleep  well  at 


THE   3JAN    WITH   THE   RED   HAIR.  53 

night,  and — most  portentous  of  all — his  vile  temper  seemed  to  have  been 
completely  cast  out  of  him.  At  dinner,  one  evening,  a  waiter  upset  a 
plate  of  soup  over  his  shoulder,  and  he  got  up  meekly  and  went  off  to 
change  his  coat  without  saying  a  word. 

In  common  humanity  I  felt  bound,  at  last,  to  direct  Florry's  atten- 
tion to  these  .symptoms,  and  to  warn  her  that  Percival  was  not  as  other 
men  are. 

"  Poor  dear  old  Carrots  !  "  she  said  ;  "  and  so  you  really  think  he  has 
grown  thinner?  How  nice  of  him  !  It  will  be  a  long  time  before  you 
will  allow  any  woman  to  reduce  your  weight,  Charley." 

I  said  I  humbly  hoped  it  might  be  a  very  long  time  indeed. 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  that  is  delightful  and  original  about  Carrots," 
she  went  on  pensively.  "  Sometimes  I  am  almost  inclined  to  give  him 
what  he  wants,  and  become  Mrs.  Carrots." 

"  And  won't  he  lead  you  a  life  if  you  do  !  "  thought  I  to  myself;  but 
I  only  said,  "  You'll  have  to  make  haste  about  it  then ;  for  if  he  goes  on 
wasting  at  his  present  rate  of  progress,  there'll  be  nothing  left  of  him  at 
the  end  of  another  month." 

Perhaps  Florry  was  alarmed  at  this  prospect ;  for  she  now  took  Perci- 
val into  favour  again,  and  began  snubbing  Lacy,  who  didn't  seem  to  care 
much.  Lacy  appeared  to  me  to  hold  wise  and  philosophical  views  of 
life,  and  to  accept  the  pleasures  of  dalliance  for  what  they  we, re  worth. 
When  Florry  smiled  upon  him,  he  basked  in  her  smiles  with  perfect  con- 
tentment ;  when  she  frowned,  he  wrapped  himself  in  his  own  virtue  and 
took  a  hand  at  whist,  while  his  lady-love  and  his  rival  wandered  about 
the  garden,  enjoying  the  scent  of  the  orange-blossoms  and  the  balmy 
breezes  of  the  Mediterranean,  and  the  moonlight,  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 
Other  things  being  equal,  I  know  which  of  the  two  men  I  should  have 
chosen  for  a  husband,  if  I  had  been  a  young  woman,  and  the  choice  had 
been  offered  me ;  and  in  this  case  other  things  were  about  equal ;  for 
Mrs.  Neville  informed  me  that  Lacy  was  very  well  off,  and  had  excellent 
prospects.  She  also  confided  to  me  that  she  was  dreadfully  frightened 
of  Percival,  and  wished  to  goodness  he  would  go  away.  "A  red 
Othello  !  "  she  said ;  "  I  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  my  daughter's  passing 
her  life  with  him." 

I  don't  know  whether  Florry  was  beginning  to  think  seriously  of 
passing  her  life  with  him  ;  but  it  rsoon  became  evident  that  she  did  not 
intend  to  pass  the  whole  of  her  time  with  him  at  present.  After  a  day 
or  two  Lacy  was  whistled  back ;  and  others  besides  Lacy  had  their  share 
of  encouragement.  Then,  just  as  Percival  was  upon  the  point  of  despairing 
utterly,  he,  in  his  turn,  was  recalled ;  and  so  the  game  of  see-saw  went 
on.  See-saw  is  as  good  a  form  of  amusement  as  another,  so  long  as  you 
remember  where  you  are,  and  have  your  feet  ready  to  touch  the  ground 
•when  your  end  of  the  plank  goes  down.  You  then  descend  gently  and 
rise  again  in  a  graceful  and  dignified  manner;  and  this  was  what 
Lacy  did.  But  if  you  imagine  that  your  seat  is  a  steady  one,  you  are 


54  THE  MAN  WITH   THE  EED   HAIR. 

apt  to  bum})  Mother  Earth  suddenly  and  heavily,  and  to  be  carried  aloft 
again  with  ridiculous  plunges  and  total  loss  of  balance ;  and  this  was 
what  happened  to  Percival.  He  took  it  all,  as  I  have  said,  with  wonder- 
ful submissiveness.  I  suspect  that  Florry  must  have  given  him  a  hint 
that,  despite  appearances,  he  was  really  the  favoured  suitor  :  at  least,  I 
cannot  account  in  any  other  way  for  the  fact  that  he  never  once  proposed 
to  punch  Lacy's  head. 

But  a  rude  awakening  was  in  store  for  him.  There  was  a  good  deal 
of  gaiety  of  a  mild  order  going  on  at  Cannes,  and  the  Nevilles  were  con- 
stantly dragging  me  off  to  balls  given  by  one  or  the  other  of  the  English 
people  who  had  villas  in  the  place.  I  am  not  very  passionately  fond  of 
dancing  myself;  so  I  generally  contrived  to  slip  out  and  smoke  a  quiet 
cigar  in  the  garden  while  the  others  were  scuffling  about  and  making 
themselves  hot  indoors ;  and  I  was  enjoying  myself  in  this  way,  one 
evening,  when  Percival  came  out  of  the  house  and  flung  himself  down 
upon  the  bench  beside  me. 

I  had  had  the  privilege  of  seeing  him  dance  once — his  performance 
much  resembled  that  of  the  proverbial  bear  upon  a  hot  plate — and  I  at 
once  conjectured  that  Florry  had  sent  him  about  his  business,  and  that 
he  had  sought  me  out  with  a  view  to  pouring  forth  the  pent-up  bitter- 
ness of  an  overcharged  spirit.  But  that,  it  seemed,  had  not  been  his  in- 
tention. He  was  rather  dejected,  but  not  at  all  wrathful,  and,  although 
he  talked  about  nothing  but  Florry,  he  did  not  mention  her  by  name. 
He  spoke,  in  a  subdued  and  somewhat  pathetic  tone,  of  women  generally, 
and  laid  down  the  proposition  that  their  conduct  was  not  to  be  judged 
by  the  standards  which  are  supposed  to  govern  the  actions  of  men.  A 
woman's  love  of  admiration,  for  instance,  was  something  outside  our 
experience.  We  were  too  coarse  and  too  matter-of-fact  to  enter  into  it ; 
and  he  was  persuaded  that  we  often  in  our  haste  condemned  girls  as 
flirts  who  didn't  at  all  deserve  that  name,  but  were  merely  indulging  in 
a  very  natural  and  innocent  pastime. 

"  You  see,  Oliver,  a  woman  has  precious  few  amusements,  when  you 
come  to  think  of  it,  and  I  don't  see  why  we  should  grudge  her  those  that 
she  can  get.  I  shall  never  go  in  for  being  one  of  those  selfish  brutes  of 
husbands  who  won't  let  their  wives  go  into  society,  and  who  look  black 
at  them  if  they  speak  to  another  man.  What  I  say  is  that,  so  long  as 
I  know  that  she  loves  me,  I  want  nothing  more ;  and  what  do  I  care  if 
Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry  are  fools  enough  to  think  they  have  made  a  con- 
quest of  her  because  she  finds  them  useful  as  partners  at  a  ball  ?  That's 
the  way  I  look  at  it ;  I  don't  know  whether  you  agree  with  me." 

I  said  I  did  most  thoroughly,  and  that  my  wife,  if  ever  I  had  one, 
should  be  allowed  any  amount  of  rope.  It  was  no  hard  matter  to  guess 
where  the  poor  fellow  had  got  these  precious  maxims  from,  and  it  was  also 
easy  enough  to  see  that  they  were  very  far  from  representing  his  personal 
views. 

"  It's  an  insult  to  your  wife,"  he  continued,  "  to  treat  her  as  though 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BED  HAIR.  55 

you  couldn't  trust  her  out  of  your  sight.  Now  my  motto  is,  '  Trust  me 
all  in  all,  or '  " 

The  words  died  away  upon  his  lips ;  for  while  he  had  been  speaking 
a  couple  had  stepped  through  one  of  the  open  French  windows  on  to  the 
gravel — which  couple,  coming  forward  in  the  bright  moonlight,  became 
clearly  visible  to  us  as  Miss  Neville  and  Lacy ;  and  this  was  an  argu- 
tnentum  ad  rein  for  which  my  philosopher  had  perhaps  hardly  bargained. 

I  regret  to  say  that  Florry  had  clasped  her  hands  round  her  partner's 
arm  and  was  looking  up  into  his  face  in  a  very  reprehensible  manner,  while 
he  bent  over  her  till  their  noses  almost  touched.  I  made  so  bold  as  to 
give  a  loud  "  Ha-hum  !  "  but  the  bench  upon  which  we  were  sitting 
was  in  the  shade  and  the  music  was  in  full  blast  indoors ;  so  Florry 
didn't  hear  any  danger-signal,  I  presume.  She  and  Lacy  advanced 
serenely ;  and,  when  they  were  nearly  within  speaking  distance  of  us, 
what  did  that  little  wretch  do  but  take  a  rose  out  of  the  front  of  er 
dress  and  hand  it  to  her  companion,  who  kissed  it  fervently  before  pop- 
ping it  into  the  pocket  nearest  to  his  heart.  I  shook  in  my  shoes ;  for 
Heaven  only  knew  what  she  might  not  do  next ;  but  Percival  waited  to 
see  no  more.  He  bounded  off  the  bench  like  an  india-rubber  ball,  and 
away  he  went  into  the  darkness  as  if  the  devil  was  after  him.  I  hesi- 
tated for  a  few  minutes  and  then  decided  to  follow  him ;  but  he  went  at 
such  a  pace  that  I  only  caught  him  up  on  the  doorstep  of  the  hotel.  He 
was  as  white  as  chalk,  and  I  could  see  that  he  was  in  a  towering  rage. 

"Come  now,  Percival,"  I  said  soothingly,  taking  him  by  the  arm, 
"  don't  make  mountains  out  of  molehills.  Remember  what  you  said 
yourself  just  now  about  the  innocent  pastimes  of  women." 

He  turned  round  and  glared  at  me.  "  Shut  up  ! "  he  roared,  giving 
me  a  shove  that  sent  me  spinning  to  the  other  side  of  the  hall ;  and  pre- 
sently I  heard  him  mounting  the  staircase  three  steps  at  a  time. 

Rude  ;  but  perhaps  not  unpardonable.  I  forgave  him,  and  went  to 
bed,  consoling  myself  with  the  reflection  that,  if  murder  or  suicide  came 
of  this,  I  had  at  least  done  my  little  best  to  avert  bloodshed. 


III. 

About  six  o'clock  the  next  morning  I  was  roughly  awakened  by 
Percival's  coming  into  my  room  and  pulling  the  pillow  from  under  my 
head. 

"  What  is  the  matter  now  1 "  I  asked,  sitting  up  and  rubbing  my 
eyes ;  and  I  dare  say  I  added  some  strong  expressions ;  for  there  is 
nothing  in  the  wide  world  that  I  hate  so  much  as  being  roused  from  my 
slumbers  in  the  middle  of  the  night. 

Percival  sat  down  on  the  bed.  "  Look  here,  Oliver,"  he  said  ;  "  I 
must  get  out  of  this.  After  what  you  saw  last  night,  I  needn't  tell  you 
why.  I'm  not  the  first  man  who  has  been  made  a  fool  of  by  a  woman ; 
and  I'm  not  going  to  break  my  heart  aboxit  it — no  fear  ! "  Here  he 


56  THE   MAX   WITH   THE  EED   HATE. 

pumped  up  a  hollow  laugh.  "  But  it  won't  do  for  me  to  stop  in  this 
place,"  he  went  on.  "  I  should  be  breaking  somebody's  neck  if  I  did  ; 
and  I'm  off  to  the  Pyrenees  this  morning  to  shoot  bears  and  bouquetins. 
After  a  week  or  two  of  that  I  shall  be  able  to  pull  myself  together,  I 
expect." 

"  Quite  right,"  I  said  sleepily.     "  Best  thing  you  can  do." 

"  1  don't  want  to  go  alone,  though.  Now,  Oliver,  will  you  do  a  fel- 
low a  good  turn,  and  come  with  me?  I  left  the  tent  and  everything 
else  that  we  shall  want  out  there  last  year,  and  I've  telegraphed  to  the 
natives  to  say  I'm  coming.  It  would  do  you  all  the  good  in  the 
world  to  camp  out  in  the  mountains  for  a  bit.  Of  course  I  pay  all  ex- 
penses, and  I'll  guarantee  you  some  sport." 

I  hardly  knew  what  answer  to  make.  Life  at  Cannes  was  monoto- 
nous, to  say  the  least  of  it ;  I  had  never  seen  a  bear  in  my  life,  except  at 
the  Zoo,  and  I  had  never  seen  a  bouquetin  at  all.  On  the  other  hand, 
life  in  the  wilds  Avith  so  uncertain-tempered  a  companion  as  Percival 
might  not  prove  to  be  an  unmixed  delight.  He  watched  me  eagerly 
while  I  was  balancing  these  considerations  one  against  the  other,  and  fore" 
stalled  my  reply  by  exclaiming,  "  For  Heaven's  sake,  Oliver,  don't  say 
you  are  going  to  refuse  !  I  don't  mind  telling  the  truth  to  you  :  I'm 
hard  hit — I'm  devilish  hard  hit." 

His  voice  shook  a  little,  and  upon  my  word  I  believe  there  were 
tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  daren't  go  alone,"  he  went  on.  "  So  long  as  I'm  shooting,  I'm 
all  right,  and  I  don't  care  a  snap  for  any  woman  in  the  world ;  but  I 
couldn't  face  the  long  evenings  all  by  myself.  Hang  it,  man  !  can't 
you  understand  1  It's  a  case  of  something  very  like  life  or  death,  I  can 
tell  you." 

I  think  I  mentioned  before  that  I  am  extremely  good-natured.  This 
piteous  appeal  of  Percival's  turned  the  scale,  and  I  said  I  would  see  him 
through. 

Florry's  face,  when  we  made  our  adieuxto  her  and  her  mother  before 
starting  for  the  station,  was  a  very  amusing  study,  and  if  Percival  noticed 
it,  he  must  have  felt  himself  fully  entitled  to  score  one.  But  I  am  not 
sure  that  he  looked  at  her  at  all.  He  said  in  an  off-hand  way,  "  Good- 
bye, Miss  Neville.  Meet  you  again  some  day  I  hope,"  and  plunged  into 
the  omnibus,  head  first,  without  waiting  for  her  to  make  any  reply. 

I  don't  think  Florry  half  liked  it.  Whether  she  had  intended  to 
marry  Percival  or  not,  I  am  very  sure  that  she  had  never  contemplated  his 
bolting  after  so  unceremonious  a  fashion ;  but  of  course  it  was  too  late 
to  think  of  stopping  him  then.  She  took  quite  an  affectionate  farewell 
of  me,  begging  me  to  be  sure  and  let  her  know  what  sport  we  had,  and 
asking  what  my  address  was  to  be. 

"  Poste  Restante,  Bagneres  de  Luchon,"  growled  out  Percival  from 
the  recesses  of  the  omnibus.  "  We  shan't  be  much  in  the  way  of  getting 
letters  for  the  next  fortnight,  though.  Come  along,  Oliver;  there's  no 
time  to  lose." 


THE  MAN  WITH   THE   RED   HAIR.  57 

Now  will  it  be  believed  that,  after  all  that  had  come  and  gone,  that 
red-headed  idiot  sulked  for  a  matter  of  four-and -twenty  hours  because 
my  cousin  had  expressed  her  intention  of  writing  to  me  1  I  couldn't 
make  out  what  was  wrong  with  him  at  first ;  but  by  degrees  it  transpired, 
and  I  had  all  the  trouble  in  the  world  to  persuade  him  that,  putting  my 
own  blameless  innocence  out  of  the  question,  it  was  utterly  illogical  of 
him  to  be  at  the  same  jealous  of  Lacy  and  of  me.  Indeed,  it  was  only 
by  threatening  to  abandon  him  to  his  fate  at  Toulouse  that  I  managed 
to  bring  him  to  his  bearings.  After  that  he  became  more  reasonable, 
and  both  his  spirits  and  his  manners  improved  as  soon  as  we  had  left 
civilisation  behind  us. 

We  spent  ten  days  very  pleasantly  and  successfully,  upon  the  whole, 
in  .the  wild  Spanish  valley  where  Percival  had  chosen  to  pitch  our  tent. 
No  bears  came  our  way,  but  we  killed  a  lot  of  isards,  and  I  was  lucky 
enough  to  bring  down  the  only  bouquetin  that  I  got  a  shot  at.  Percival 
shot  two  ;  which  was  just  as  well,  for  it  would  have  been  quite  enough 
to  upset  his  equanimity  that  the  larger  mimber  should  have  fallen  to  my 
share.  With  his  removal  from  the  chastening  influence  of  Florry's 
society,  his  queer,  gusty  temper  had  reasserted  itself  to  some  extent,  and 
we  had  more  than  one  absurd  little  scene  with  the  guides  and  porters 
who  accompanied  us ;  but,  taking  him  altogether,  he  was  not  a  disagree- 
able companion.  In  point  of  fact  we  had  so  few  opportunities  for  con- 
versation that  there  was  not  much  fear  of  our  falling  out.  Our  days 
were  naturally  given  up  entirely  to  sport ;  and  when  we  returned  to  ouv 
encampment  in  the  evening,  dead  beat  and  as  hungry  as  hawks,  neither 
of  us  wished  for  anything  more  than  to  partake  of  the  savoury  stew 
which  the  guides  prepared  for  us,  and  to  lie  down  afterwards  with  our 
feet  to  the  blaze  of  the  bonfire,  listening  to  their  long  yarns  or  to  the 
melancholy  dirge-like  songs  that  they  sang,  until  we  were  overtaken  by 
sleep.  I  don't  think  Florry's  name  was  once  mentioned,  but  Percival 
alluded  to  her  indirectly  every  now  and  again,  and  from  some  hints 
which  he  let  fall  I  gathered  that  he  had  not  yet  given  up  all  hope. 
Very  likely  he  had  meant  to  renounce  her  for  ever  when  he  left 
Cannes ;  but  upon  more  deliberate  reflection  he  may  have  found  that  it 
was  in  his  heart  to  forgive  her,  and  may  also  have  argued,  from  what  he 
knew  of  her  character,  that  she  would  be  sure  to  want  him  back  as  soon 
as  he  was  well  out  of  reach. 

We  had  more  than  a  week  of  magnificent  warm  days  and  clear  frosty 
nights  ;  but  then  the  weather  suddenly  changed,  and  the  rain  began  to 
come  down  as  it  only  knows  how  to  come  down  in  the  mountains. 
Neither  Percival  nor  I  wanted  to  give  the  thing  up  without  having 
fired  a  single  shot  at  a  bear ;  but  we  could  not  manage  to  keep  the  water 
out  of  our  tent,  and  there  was  no  other  shelter  within  reach,  except  a 
wretched  little  hut  about  four  feet  high,  used  in  summer  by  the  Spanish 
shepherds,  so  we  agreed  to  take  advantage  of  this  opportunity  to  cross 
over  into  France  and  get  newspapers  and  letters. 


58  THE  MAN  WITH  THE  EED  HAIR. 

We  had  a  long,  toilsome  trudge  across  the  snow,  and  did  not  reach 
Luchon  until  it  was  too  late  to  think  of  anything  but  bed ;  but  the  next 
day  we  went  to  the  post-office,  where  a  large  bundle  of  letters  was 
delivered  to  each  of  us.  Percival  glanced  hastily  at  his,  and  then  flung 
them  down  with  a  muttered  oath.  Obviously  he  was  disappointed  for 
some  reason  or  other ;  but  it  did  not  occur  to  me  until  afterwards  that 
he  might  have  cherished  a  wild  hope  of  finding  a  communication  from 
Florry  among  them.  I  was  more  favoured.  My  budget  contained  two 
letters  bearing  the  Cannes  post-mark,  and  the  first  of  these  I  read  aloud 
to  Percival  as  we  walked  away — not  on  account  of  its  intrinsic  interest, 
which  was  small,  but  because  I  thought  it  as  well  to  lose  no  occasion  of 
convincing  him  that  my  relations  with  Florry  were  of  a  most  correct 
and  cousinly  kind.  But  when  I  proceeded  to  open  the  second  I  was 
obliged  to  be  seized  with  a  terrific  fit  of  coughing,  for  the  very  first  words 
that  caught  my  eye  were,  "  You  may  congratulate  me,  if  you  like,  on 
my  engagement  to  Mr.  Lacy."  Here  was  a  nice  piece  of  business  . 
stuffed  the  fatal  missive  into  my  pocket,  and  slipped  away  as  soon  as  I 
could  to  finish  it  in  private.  There  was  no  mistake  about  it.  The 
horrid  little  woman  had  really  gone  and  engaged  herself  to  Lacy,  and, 
with  her  usual  want  of  consideration,  had  left  me  the  agreeable  task  of 
announcing  the  news  to  Percival.  "  Love  to  Carrots,"  she  added  in  a 
postscript.  "  I  hope  he  is  enjoying  himself,  and  that  he  won't  receive 
too  warm  a  hug  from  one  of  his  kindred  bears." 

I  haven't  the  least  doubt  that  when  she  wrote  those  words  there 
was  a  malicious  grin  on  her  face,  and  that  she  flattered  herself  she  had 
paid  Carrots  off  that  time.  But  if  she  imagined  that  I  should  carry  this 
epistolary  slap  in  the  face  to  its  destination,  she  was  sadly  mistaken  in 
me.  "  No,  indeed,"  I  thought ;  "  I  am  not  going  to  expose  myself  to 
the  risk  of  being  eaten  up  alive  to  please  anybody ; "  and  I  determined 
that  Percival's  sport  should  not  be  spoilt  by  any  unwelcome  communica- 
tion from  me. 

The  unlucky  part  of  it  was  that  I  had  aroused  his  suspicions  by 
letting  him  hear  the  contents  of  the  first  letter,  and  stopping  so  suddenly 
upon  the  point  of  reading  him  the  second  ;  and  all  that  day  and  the  next, 
when  we  set  out  to  return  to  our  encampment,  he  went  on  bothering  me 
about  it.  What  had  Miss  Neville  said  in  that  other  letter  of  hers? 
Why  was  I  so  confoundedly  mysterious  1  Had  she  mentioned  him  1 — 
and  so  forth.  I  could  only  return  feeble  and  evasive  replies,  which  of 
course  did  not  satisfy  him.  He  tried  wheedling  me  and  he  tried  bullying 
me,  but  he  might  just  as  well  have  talked  to  a  stone  wall.  The  secret, 
I  resolved,  should  only  be  dragged  from  me  with  my  life ;  and  at  last 
he  gave  it  up  and .  subsided  into  a  state  of  silent  and  subdued  ferocity 
which  made  me  exceedingly  uncomfortable. 

But  when  we  reached  our  camp  there  was  good  news  for  us ;  and 
Percival  came  out  of  the  sulks  on  hearing  that  the  tracks  of  a  whole 
bear  family — father,  mother,  and  two  cubs — had  been  seen  on  the  freshly- 


THE   MAN   WITH   THE  RED   HAIR.  59 

fallen  snow  not  a  couple  of  miles  away.  The  guides  had  already  arranged 
our  plan  of  action  for  the  morrow,  and  pretended,  as  those  fellows  always 
do,  to  be  so  intimately  acquainted  with  the  habits  of  bears  in  general  as 
to  know  to  a  nicety  what  their  programme  would  be  too.  Paterfamilias, 
we  were  informed,  would  start  with  break  of  day  for  the  higher  pastures 
above  the  village  of  El  Plan,  whither  some  Spanish  shepherds  were 
known  to  have  taken  their  flocks.  The  mother  and  cubs  would  probably 
remain  either  among  or  above  the  pine  woods  which  clothed  the  southern 
side  of  our  valley.  Now,  if  the  south  wind  held,  what  we  had  to  do  was 
simple  enough.  We  had  only  to  mount  the  opposite  slopes  towards  the 
spot  Avhere  the  tracks  had  been  seen,  and  there  was  little  danger  of  our 
mounting  so  high  as  to  place  ourselves  between  the  wind  and  our  game. 
It  was  further  considered  advisable  that  we  should  separate  into  two 
parties,  one  of  which  should  have  for  its  object  the  destruction  of  Mr. 
Bruin,  while  the  other  should  account  for  Mrs.  B.  and  the  children. 
This  arrangement  was  not  agreed  to  without  some  discussion  and  alter- 
native suggestions,  for  Percival  always  hated  to  do  as  he  was  told ;  but 
it  was  the  one  finally  adopted ;  and  when  the  morning  broke  soft  and 
cloudy,  with  a  light  breeze  blowing  in  our  faces,  Percival  and  his  party 
set  off  to  the  westward  in  the  direction  of  El  Plan,  I  and  mine  heading 
for  the  pine  woods  immediately  facing  us. 

"  That  ought  to  give  you  the  best  chance,  Oliver,"  said  my  friend 
generously  as  we  parted. 

I  don't  know  when  I  have  passed  a  more  thoroughly  comfortless 
hour  than  that  which  we  spent  in  clambering  up  through  those  dense 
woods.  The  mountain-side  was  very  precipitous ;  we  had  to  advance  as 
gingerly  as  possible,  so  as  to  avoid  making  any  noise,  and  whenever  I 
slipped  or  trod  on  a  dry  twig,  Jean-Pierre,  the  chasseur  who  was  in 
command  of  me,  turned  round,  making  hideoxis  faces  and  cursed  me 
under  his  breath.  Furthermore,  I  couldn't  help  thinking  that  if  the 
bear  chose  to  appear  suddenly  at  this  stage  of  the  proceedings  it  would 
be  an  awkward  business  for  all  of  us. 

We  encountered  no  bear  in  the  woods ;  but  when  at  length  we  rose 
above  the  region  of  trees  and  emerged  upon  a  stretch  of  coarse  grass,  we 
were  rewarded  for  our  climb  by  discovering  traces  which  there  was  no 
mistaking  upon  a  patch  of  the  fast-melting  snow.  Following  these  up 
hopefully,  we  soon  found  ourselves  upon  the  edge  of  a  tolerably  extensive 
snow-field,  across  which  the  tracks  were  so  distinct  that  Jean-Pierre  de- 
clared that  they  were  not  an  hour  old.  He  further  professed  to  be  able  to 
see  that  the  beast  had  been  moving  upwards  at  a  leisurely  pace,  having  no 
suspicion  of  being  pursued,  and  prophesied  that  we  should  catch  him  up 
on  some  cliffs  to  which  he  pointed,  and  which  he  calculated  that  it  would 
take  us  something  like  an  hour  to  reach. 

I  was  very  glad  when  we  did  reach  them,  for  toiling  up  hill  through 
soft  snow  is  not  my  notion  of  enjoyment ;  but  I  was  not  particularly 
sanguine  as  to  the  chance  of  Bruin's  having  had  the  civility  to  wait  for 


60  THE  MAX   WITH   THE   BED   HAIR. 

us,  and,  once  upon  the  bare  rocks,  we  had  no  longer  any  clue  to  guide 
us  to  his  whereabouts.  Jean-Pierre,  nevertheless,  continued  to  be  full 
of  confidence.  He  went  on  ahead,  skirting  the  face  of  the  precipice, 
where  there  was  just  foothold  and  no  more,  and  the  rest  of  us  followed. 
After  a  time  he  held  up  his  hand  to  stop  us,  bent  down  and  examined 
the  rock  where  a  slight  sprinkling  of  snow  had  lodged,  advanced  a  little 
way,  came  back  again,  and  then,  pointing  to  a  deep  cleft  just  in  front  of 
us,  exclaimed,  "  II  est  la  ! " 

I  was  at  once  posted  at  the  entrance  of  this  fissure  and  warned — in 
order  to  steady  my  nerves,  I  suppose — that  if  I  missed  I  was  a  dead 
man ;  after  which  a  stone  was  thrown  in.  No  result.  A  second  and  a 
larger  one,  however,  elicited  a  deep  gr-r-r-r,  which  put  an  end  to  all 
doubt. 

"  Attention,  m'sieur,  s'il  vous  plait !"  sung  out  Jean-Pierre,  and  he 
fired  into  the  chasm. 

Immediately  a  large  dark  mass  hurled  itself  out  through  the  smoke. 
I  suppose  I  must  have  taken  aim,  though  I  can't  say  that  I  have  any 
recollection  of  doing  so,  for  the  next  instant  a  fine  large  bear  lay  stone- 
dead  at  my  feet. 

"Well,  I  dare  say  we  kicked  up  rather  more  row  over  it  than  we  need 
have  done  (Percival  declared  afterwards  that  he  could  have  heard  us 
yelling  ten  miles  away) ;  but  I  think  perhaps  it  might  count  as  an  ex- 
tenuating circumstance  that  this  was  my  first  bear.  As  for  the  natives, 
of  course  they  ought  to  have  known  better. 

So  far,  everything  had  gone  quite  according  to  programme,  except 
that  it  was  the  old  he-bear,  not  his  partner,  that  I  had  killed ;  but  now 
came  the  question  of  whether  we  were  to  rest  satisfied  with  what  we  had 
accomplished  and  return  to  camp,  or  whether  we  should  push  on  and  try 
to  effect  a  junction  with  Percival.  After  some  debate  it  was  agreed  that 
Jean-Pierre  and  I  should  adopt  the  latter  course.  I  quite  admit  that 
this  was  all  wrong ;  but  I  was  flushed  with  success,  and  I  thought,  sup- 
posing that  Percival  should  happen  to  miss,  what  a  thousand  pities  it 
would  be  that  there  should  not  be  somebody  at  hand  to  back  him  up. 
So  we  set  our  faces  westwards  and  downwards,  and  in  due  course  of  time 
reached  the  outskirts  of  the  woods  where  we  supposed  that  our  com- 
panions would  be. 

I  don't  think  we  had  been  five  minutes  off  the  snow  when  I  heard 
something  crashing  among  the  trees  beneath  us.  I  caught  a  momentary 
glimpse  of  a  great  lumbering  body,  and  directly  afterwards  T  distinctly 
saw  a  half-grown  cub  dashing  helter  skelter  after  it.  I  fired  almost  at 
random,  and  I  need  hardly  add  that  I  missed.  The  crashing  sound 
grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and  then  I  looked  at  Jean-Pierre  'and  Jean- 
Pierre  looked  at  me,  and  then  we  both  whistled. 

Well  might  we  whistle  !  I  prefer  to  draw  a  veil  over  our  meeting 
with  Percival  which  speedily  ensued.  I  could  not  say  much.  My  be- 
haviour had  certainly  been  bad  enough  to  provoke  anybody,  and  "l  d d 


THE  MAN   WITH   THE  EED   HAIR.  61 

unsportsmanlike  "  was  perhaps  not  too  severe  a  description  to  give  of  it ; 
still  I  don't  think  he  would  have  been  quite  so  infuriated  had  I  not  been 
compelled  to  acknowledge  that  I  had  not  only  robbed  him  of  his  share 
of  the  day's  sport,  but  had  previously  been  quite  successful  in  securing 
my  own.  When  he  heard  that,  his  indignation  knew  no  bounds.  He 
swore  the  whole  thing  had  been  done  on  purpose ;  he  vowed  he  would 
never  go  out  with  me  again  so  long  as  he  lived  ;  he  stamped  and  danced 
about,  and  I  must  say  made  a  great  fool  of  himself.  I  am  quite  sure 
that  if  I  had  conducted  myself  after  that  fashion  everybody  present 
would  simply  have  roared  with  laughter ;  but  none  of  us  laughed  at 
Percival.  The  fact  is  that  there  was  something  rather  terrible  about  the 
man,  though  I  don't  know  that  I  could  exactly  say  in  what  it  consisted. 

•At  length  his  fury  spent  itself,  and  we  set  off  sadly  and  solemnly  to 
return  to  the  valley,  Jean-Pierre  and  I  hanging  our  heads  like  naughty 
boys,  the  rest  of  the  Jeans  and  Pierres  and  Jean-Pierres  slouching  after 
us  with  somewhat  scared  faces,  and  Percival  striding  along  by  himself 
in  deep  dudgeon. 

The  day  was  not  to  end  without  another  breeze.  In  the  course  of 
the  afternoon  it  was  suddenly  discovered  that  we  were  out  of  everything. 
There  was  no  tea  left,  no  bread,  and  not  a  drop  of  wine.  Why. these 
deficiencies  had  not  been  mentioned  to  us  before  we  set  out  for  Luchon, 
where  we  could  easily  have  laid  in  a  fresh  stock  of  provisions,  I  don't 
know  ;  but  Jean  said  he  thought  Pierre  had  told  us,  and  Pierre 
thought  Jean  had  spoken,  and  Jean-Pierre  had  not  considered  it  his 
business  to  interfere  ;  and  so  there  was  a  good  all-immd  wrangle,  in  the 
midst  of  which  Percival  worked  himself  up  into  one  of  his  paroxysms. 
All  that  was  necessary  was  that  one  man  should  be  sent  down  to 
Venasque,  the  nearest  Spanish  town,  to  get  what  we  required ;  but  this 
would  not  satisfy  him.  He  declared  that  every  one  of  them  should  go, 
and  that  they  should  walk  all  night,  so  as  to  be  back  before  our  breakfast 
hour  in  the  morning. 

"  Allez-vous-en,  the  whole  lot  of  you  ! "  he  shouted.  "  Entendez- 
vous  1 — je  veux  etre  seul.  Take  yourselves  off,  you  lazy,  garlic-eating 
devils,  and  let's  have  a  little  peace  for  one  night." 

The  whole  troop  marched  away  without  much  protestation.  I  dare 
say  they  were  not  sorry  to  escape  from  this  raving  Englishman.  Aftey- 
wards  I  wondered  whether  Percival  had  had  a  deliberate  design  in  his 
mind  when  he  dismissed  them;  but,  looking  back  upon  it  all,  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  that  he  had  not,  and  that  what  followed  was  the  result 
of  mere  accident  and  opportunity. 

He  was  quiet  enough,  though  portentously  gloomy,  until  the  time 
came  for  vis  to  partake  of  our  evening  meal.  We  had  to  collect  the  wood 
for  our  bonfire  ourselves,  and  we  had  to  cook  our  soup  ourselves,  and  a 
nice  mess  we  made  of  it.  All  this  was  sufficiently  uncomfortable,  and 
did  not  serve  to  improve  my  friend's  temper ;  but  the  worst  was  to  come. 
Being  without  wine,  we  were  obliged  to  fall  back  upon  bran dy-and- water 


62  THE  MAN  WITH  THE  EED  HAIE. 

for  our  drink,  and  I  noticed  with  some  uneasiness  that  Percival  was 
making  no  use  of  the  water  at  all.  At  last  I  rather  foolishly  ventured 
upon  a  gentle  remonstrance,  whereupon  he  promptly  filled  his  glass  with 
raw  brandy,  and  tossed  it  off  at  a  draught. 

"  You're  a  devilish  hard  fellow  to  please,  Oliver,  I  must  say,"  he 
remarked.  "  One  would  have  thought  you'd  have  been  satisfied  with 
spoiling  my  sport,  and  not  wanted  to  spoil  my  dinner  into  the  bargain. 
Deuce  take  it  all,  man  ;  you  don't  suppose  I'm  going  to  let  you  tell  me 
what  I'm  to  drink,  do  you?" 

The  upshot  of  it  was  that  by  the  time  that  we  turned  in  he  was  any- 
thing but  sober,  though  he  was  able  to  keep  his  legs  and  to  talk  without 
knocking  his  words  together. 

"  Got  your  revolver  1 "  he  called  out,  just  as  I  was  dropping  off  to  sleep. 

We  thought  it  as  well  to  have  revolvers  always  handy,  for  we  had 
heard  no  very  good  report  of  the  sparse  inhabitants  of  those  valleys. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  all  right,"  I  replied.  "  Good-night."  And  I  rolled  over 
on  my  side. 

But  I  had  hardly  closed  my  eyes  before  he  disturbed  me  again  by 
asking  suddenly :  "I  say,  Oliver,  did  you  ever  fight  a  duel ?" 

"  Fight  a  duel  1 "  I  repeated  drowsily.     "  No,  never ;  did  you  ?" 

"  No,"  he  answered  in  a  cool,  casual  sort  of  tone ;  but  I  don't  see 
why  I  shouldn't  fight  one  now.  I  think  I  will." 

That  woke  me  up.  "  What  are  you  talking  about  ? "  I  exclaimed. 
"  Who  are  you  going  to  fight  with  here  1 " 

"  Why,  with  you,  of  course,"  said  he.  "  I'm  not  afraid.  Now  then 
— mind  yourself."  And  without  more  ado  he  suited  the  action  to  the 
word. 

A  flash,  a  loud  report,  and  the  whistling  of  a  bullet  past  my  ear 
brought  me  to  a  realising  sense  of  the  pleasant  position  that  I  was  in. 
I  was  out  of  that  tent  and  behind  the  biggest  rock  that  I  could  find 
before  you  could  have  said  "  Knife  ! "  My  nimbleness  astonished  myself. 
Mercifully  there  was  no  moon,  and  the  red  glare  of  our  camp  fire  only 
served  to  make  the  shadows  blacker. 

Percival  blundered  out  after  me,  cursing  and  swearing.  "  Stand  up, 
you  skulking  devil ! "  he  roared.  "  Why  don't  you  stand  up  and  fight 
like  a  man  1"  And  bang  went  another  barrel. 

"  Now  this  time,"  said  he  with  tipsy  solemnity,  "  I'm  going  to  take 
a  careful  aim  and  hit  you.  Oh,  I  see  you,  you  beggar  ! — don't  you 
flatter  yourself  that  you're  invisible." 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  I  was  by  no  means  sure  that  he  didn't  see 
me.  He  advanced  with  slow,  unsteady  steps,  and  began  prowling  round 
my  rock,  while  I,  crouching  upon  all  fours,  dodged  him  by  a  succession 
of  noiseless  hops,  like  a  huge  toad.  Bang !  bang !  went  two  more 
barrels.  "  That  makes  four,"  thinks  I.  Whether  he  saw  me  or  not,  I 
saw  him  plainly  enough,  and  I  had  my  own  loaded  revolver  in  my  hand 
all  the  time.  I  don't  think  I  ever  felt  more  tempted  to  shoot  a  man  in 


THE  MAX  WITH  THE  BED  HAIR.  63 

my  life.  Fortunately  he  let  off  his  last  two  barrels  before  the  tempta- 
tion became  too  strong  for  me.  One  of  the  bullets  passed  over  my  head, 
and  I  heard  the  other  strike  the  ground  beside  me.  Then  I  rose  erect, 
feeling  myself  master  of  the  situation. 

"  Now,  Percival,"  I  said,  "  I  could  shoot  you  six  times  over,  if  I 
chose ;  but  of  course  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  Go  and  lie  down. 
You're  very  drunk,  you  know,  and — 

"  That's  a  lie  !  "  he  interrupted. 

"  Very  well.  Lie  down  and  go  to  sleep,  anyhow.  Perhaps  you'll 
have  the  grace  to  beg  my  pardon  to-morrow  morning." 

He  growled  and  blustered  a  good  deal ;  but  eventually  he  did  return 
to  the  tent  and  threw  himself  down.  I  then  proceeded  to  take  certain 
precautionary  measures ;  after  which  I,  too,  stretched  myself  on  the 
ground.  But  no  sooner  had  I  done  so  than  up  the  brute  jumped  again. 

"  No  good  trying  to  sleep,"  he  said;  "slow  work  sleeping.  Let's 
have  another  duel.  Where's  the  cartridges  ?  " 

"  Every  single  cartridge  that  we  possess  is  safe  at  the  bottom  of  the 
stream,"  answered  I,  with  a  chuckle;  for  I  had  just  had  time  to  antici- 
pate that  danger.  I  cared  very  little  for  his  curses \  and  threats,  know- 
ing that,  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  I  had  it  in  my  powei  to  disable 
him ;  and  I  suppose  he  was  sober  enough  to  understand  that  too,  for 
he  desisted  after  a  time,  and  apparently  went  off  to  sleep  at  last.  I 
don't  think  I  was  many  minutes  in  following  his  example.  I  wonder 
now  at  my  temerity  ;  but  the  fact  was  I  was  so  dead  tired  that  it  was 
as  much  as  I  could  do  to  hold  my  eyes  open  until  he  began  to  snore ; 
and,  besides,  I  didn't  see  that  he  could  do  me  any  harm,  now  that  I  was 
possessed  of  the  one  effective  fire-arm  that  remained  to  us. 

That  only  shows  what  an  ass  I  was.  The  next  thing  of  which  I  was 
conscious  was  that  Percival  was  standing  over  me  in  the  grey  light  of 
the  dawn  with  my  revolver  in  his  hand.  "  And  now,  Master  Oliver," 
said  he,  I  think  I've  pretty  well  turned  the  tables  upon  you." 

Indeed  he  had  !  I  gave  myself  up  for  lost,  and  I  hope  I  may  never 
again  feel  as  frightened  as  I  did  at  that  moment.  But  Percival  burst 
out  laughing. 

"  You  stupid  old  fool ! "  he  said  quite  amiably ;  "do  you  take  me 
for  a  murderer  ?  It  was  all  a  joke,  my  firing  at  you  last  night.  I  only 
wanted  to  scare  you,  and  I  was  no  more  drunk  than  you  are." 

I  didn't  in  the  least  believe  him ;  but  it  seemed  more  politic  to 
pretend  to  do  so. 

"  Come  along  up  the  hills  and  see  the  sunrise,"  he  went  on.  "  A 
breath  of  fresh  air  will  do  us  both  good." 

I  demurred  to  this  proposition,  alleging,  what  was  perfectly  true, 
that  I  hadn't  had  half  my  fair  share  of  sleep  ;  but  I  added  politely  that 
I  hoped  he  wouldn't  let  me  prevent  him  from  climbing  to  any  height 
that  he  pleased. 

"  Confound  you  !  "  he  exclaimed  angrily,  "  I  believe  you're  in  a  funk 


64  THE  MAN  WITH  THE  EED  HAIR. 

of  me.  Look  here,  then."  He  caught  me  by  the  arm,  dragged  me 
rather  roughly  out  of  the  tent,  and,  flinging  my  revolver  into  the 
torrent,  "  Will  that  satisfy  you  1 "  he  asked. 

It  was  a  pretty  cool  way  of  disposing  of  my  property ;  but  then,  to 
be  sure,  I  had  drowned  his  cartridges.  The  end  of  it  was  that  I  had  to 
go  with  him.  Anything  for  peace,  I  thought ;  and  I  reflected  with 
comfort  that  the  guides  would  be  back  in  the  course  of  a  few  hours, 
after  which  my  final  farewell  to  this  red-haired  ruffian  should  very  soon 
be  spoken. 

Percival  led  the  way  across  to  the  northern  side  of  our  narrow  valley, 
and  we  were  soon  scrambling  up  over  boulders  and  slippery  shale  at  a 
great  pace,  he  whistling  and  singing,  apparently  in  the  highest  spirits, 
and  I  silent,  sulky,  and  out  of  breath.  From  time  to  time  I  suggested 
that  we  had  mounted  high  enough ;  but  he  always  replied  briskly,  "  Oh, 
dear,  no  !  we  shall  have  to  do  another  five  hundred  feet  at  least  before 
we  can  get  anything  of  a  view,  and  there's  heaps  of  time."  And  then 
he  went  on  sniggering  to  himself,  as  though  at  some  first-rate  joke. 

It  was  horridly  unpleasant.  I  was  beginning  to  have  a  very  strong 
suspicion  that  the  man  was  off  his  head.  Drunk  he  was  not;  for  he 
never  made  a  false  step,  and  we  had  already  passed  some  places  which 
demanded  a  steady  head  ;  but  his  manner  was  decidedly  odd,  and,  when 
he  turned  to  speak  to  me,  I  saw  a  light  in  his  eyes  which  I  didn't  like. 
I  suppose  it  must  have  taken  us  the  best  part  of  two  hours  to  reach  the 
edge  of  the  glacier  which  sloped  upwards  towards  the  summit  of  the  ridge 
that  separated  us  from  France.  By  that  time  the  sun  had  caught  the 
higher  peaks  and  the  fleecy  clouds  around  and  below  them  ;  and  I  dare 
say  the  spectacle  was  a  very  exquisite  one.  Some  people,  I  know,  go  into 
raptures  over  a  sunrise ;  but  I  am  not  one  of  those  people.  I  always 
loathe  everything  until  I  have  had  my  breakfast ;  and  the  circumstances 
of  this  particular  occasion  were  such  that  the  snow  and  the  sky  might 
have  clothed  themselves  in  all  the  colours  of  the  rainbow,  with  a  hundred 
and  fifty  intermediate  tints  to  boot,  and  have  left  me  perfectly  unmoved. 

One  thing  I  was  quite  determined  about :  I  didn't  mean  to  skip  over 
hidden  crevasses  at  the  heels  of  a  maniac ;  and,  to  show  how  determined 
I  was,  I  sat  me  down  doggedly  on  a  rock,  and  observed  :  "  That's  enough 
for  me.  Not  a  step  further  do  I  go." 

"  Just  as  you  like,"  answered  Percival,  with  more  suavity  than  I 
had  expected  of  him.  "  Oliver,  old  chap,"  he  continued,  seating  himself 
close  beside  me,  and  assuming  an  extremely  friendly  and  confidential 
tone,  "  I  want  you  to  tell  me  something.  It's  of  no  great  consequence ; 
but  I've  a  fancy  to  know.  "What  did  Miss  Neville  say  to  you  in  that 
last  letter  of  hers  ?  " 

Perhaps  it  would  have  been  wiser  to  tell  him  the  truth,  or  a  part  of 
the  truth ;  but  I  was  cold  and  hungry  and  cross,  and  to  have  this  tire- 
some subject  reopened  just  when  I  was  beginning  to  hope  that  the 
moment  of  my  release  was  at  hand  was  too  much  for  me. 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  RED  HAIK.  65 

"  Oh,  bother  ! "  I  exclaimed.  "  I  can't  tell  you  all  she  said,  and  if  I 
could,  I  wouldn't.  I  never  show  my  letters." 

"  You  read  me  her  first  one,"  retorted  Percival. 

"  Yes ;  and  a  precious  fool  I  was  to  do  it.  If  you  want  to  hear 
about  her,  you  had  better  write  to  her  yourself;  I  can't  undertake  the 
duties  of  a  go-between." 

Percival  began  to  frown  and  glare.  "  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is, 
Oliver,"  he  said ;  "  I  mean  to  have  this  out  of  you  by  fair  means  or 
foul.  You  had  better  make  up  your  mind  to  that." 

Nobody  can  say  that,  in  all  my  previous  wrangles  with  Percival,  I 
had  not  been  forbearance  itself;  but  there  is  a  point  at  which,  like  the 
traditional  worm,  I  turn;  and  that  point  he  had  now  reached.  I 
refused  point-blank  to  give  him  the  information  he  asked  for,  and 
couched  my  refusal  in  forcible  terms. 

The  next  minute  I  was  lying  upon  my  face,  and  Percival,  kneeling 
on  the  small  of  my  back,  was  tying  my  arms  tightly  behind  me  with 
a  silk  handkerchief.  The  fellow  was  as  strong  as  Samson,  and  I,  as  I 
have  said  before,  am  but  a  wee  man.  Successful  resistance  was  hopeless ; 
but  I  let  out  with  my  feet  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  and  had  the  pleasure 
of  catching  him  one  on  the  shin  which  I  don't  think  he  could  have  liked. 
He  made  no  complaint,  however,  but  quietly  finished  his  operation, 
picked  me  up  under  his  arm  like  a  feather,  and  carried  me,  struggling 
and  helpless,  upwards.  "  You'd  better  keep  still,  unless  you  want  to 
kill  us  both,"  was  all  that  he  said ;  and  indeed  I  thought  it  as  well  to 
take  his  advice.  How  on  earth  he  managed  to  scramble  up  the  face  of 
those  rocks  with  a  man  under  his  arm  is  more  than  I  can  explain  ;  but 
he  did  it  (not  without  bumping  and  scraping  me  considerably,  though)  ; 
and  after  a  bit  we  came  to  a  narrow  ledge.  There  he  deposited  me, 
and,  descending  rapidly  some  ten  or  twelve  feet,  contemplated  me  with 
a  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

"  Now,  my  boy,"  said  he,  "  you  stay  there  till  you  have  answered 
my  question." 

"  Then  I  shall  stay  here  for  the  rest  of  my  life,"  I  returned. 

I  suppose  no  man  was  ever  placed  in  a  more  ridiculous  position.  To 
give  in  would  have  been  too  humiliating;  to  descend  from  my  perch 
without  the  use  of  my  hands  was  out  of  the  question,  and  to  get  my 
hands  free  seemed  scarcely  less  so.  Of  course,  however,  I  made  a 
vigorous  attempt.  I  tugged,  I  strained,  I  twisted  and  contorted  myself 
in  every  possible  way,  while  he  stood  below  and  laughed  at  me ;  but  it 
was  all  in  vain,  and  the  only  result  of  my  writhing  was  that  a  lot  of 
things  rolled  out  of  my  pocket,  among  which  was  the  very  letter  over 
which  we  had  been  fighting.  Percival  put  his  foot  upon  it  just  in  time 
to  save  it  from  fluttering  away  before  the  wind. 

"  It  strikes  me  that  I  can  find  out  as  much  as  I  want  now  without 
your  help,"  said  he,  holding  up  his  prize  triumphantly. 

"  Very  well,"  I  said.     "  Come  here  and  untie  me,  then." 
VOL.  XLV. — m  265.  4. 


66  THE  MAN  WITH   THE  BED  HAIR. 

But  he  shook  his  empty  head  sagaciously.  "  Not  so  fast,  my  good 
friend.  I  suspect  you  of  treachery.  Either  you  are  engaged  to  your 
cousin,  or  you  have  been  telling  her  things  about  me  which  you  don't 
want  me  to  know  of.  We'll  just  see  about  that  before  we  release  you." 

Percival  was  a  gentleman  by  birth  and  bringing-up,  and  perhaps, 
when  it  came  to  the  point,  be  did  not  altogether  enjoy  the  sensation  of 
looking  at  a  letter  addressed  to  another  man.  He  stood  for  some  few 
minutes  with  his  back  turned  towards  me,  gazing  abstractedly  at  the 
sunny  mountain-tops  opposite,  and  tapping  his  chin  with  the  envelope. 
At  length  he  turned  round,  and  called  out — 

"  I'll  give  you  another  chance.  For  the  last  time,  will  you  tell  mt 
what  is  in  this  letter  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  shouted  back  resolutely,  "  I  won't !  Read  it,  if  you  don't 
mind  behaving  like  a  cad  ;  and  when  you  have  quite  done,  perhaps  you 
will  be  so  good  as  to  step  up  here  and  unloose  me." 

He  made  no  reply,  but  stood  thoughtfully  tapping  his  chin  with 
the  letter,  as  before,  and  finally  moved  slowly  away  downhill.  For  a 
minute  or  two  I  heard  the  sound  of  his  footsteps ;  then,  every  now  and 
again,  the  clatter  of  dislodged  stones,  which  showed  me  that  he  was  still 
descending  ;  then  came  profound  silence.  Uncomfortable  as  my  position 
was,  I  was  by  no  means  impatient  for  his  return.  It  was  quite  on  the 
cards  that,  in  the  first  access  of  frenzy  which  a  perusal  of  Florry's  cruel 
postscript  might  be  expected  to  arouse,  he  might  come  tearing  back  and 
let  off  steam  by  flinging  me  over  the  precipice ;  and  the  longer  he  took 
to  think  about  it  the  better,  I  felt,  would  be  my  chance  of  escaping  with 
a  whole  skin  and  unbroken  bones.  But  when  a  veiy  long  time  had 
elapsed,  and  the  sun  had  risen  high  into  the  heavens,  and  there  was 
neither  sound  nor  sign  of  Percival,  I  began  to  grow  seriously  uneasy. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  the  miscreant  had  meant  to  leave  me  there  to 
perish  miserably  ?  Eventually  I  put  my  pride  in  my  pocket,  and  shouted. 
The  only  answer  that  came  to  me  was  a  succession  of  mocking  echoes  of 
my  own  voice — ahoy  ! — hoy  ! — hoy ! — fainter  and  fainter,  as  the  cliffs 
tossed  it  to  and  fro.  Then  I  made  more  desperate  and  vain  efforts  to 
free  myself.  Then  I  peered  over  the  brink  of  my  ledge,  and  convinced 
myself  that  it  would  be  madness  to  attempt  to  scramble  down.  Then 
I  tried  to  fray  through  the  silk  handkerchief  that  bound  me  by  rubbing 
it  against  the  rock ;  but  I  was  too  tightly  secured  to  move  my  arms  to 
any  purpose,  and  my  muscles  were  so  strained  that  every  movement  was 
an  agony. 

I  don't  know  how  long  I  fretted  and  fumed  on  that  narrow  shelf, 
parched  with  thirst,  in  considerable  pain,  and — I  frankly  confess — in  a 
mortal  fright ;  but  I  afterwards  calculated  that  I  must  have  been  there 
quite  three  hours  before  I  resolved  in  despair  to  take  my  chance  of 
scrambling  down  without  assistance.  I  wriggled  over  the  edge,  got 
one  foot  firm  into  a  crevice,  cautiously  lowered  the  other,  and  then, 
as  might  have  been  expected,  down  I  went,  head  over  heels  into 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  KED  HAIR.  67 

space.     There  was  a  tremendous  crash,  and  that  is  all  that  I  remember 
about  it. 

When  I  came  to  myself,  I  was  lying  on  a  grassy  slope,  with  Jean- 
Pierre  pouring  brandy  down  my  throat,  and  an  assemblage  of  white- 
faced  Pierres  and  Jeans  kneeling  round  me.  I  was  pretty  well  knocked 
about ;  but  I  was  not  broken  anywhere,  and  Jean-Pierre  began  to  praise 
the  saints  loudly  when  I  sat  up  and  asked  for  some  water. 

"  You  gave  us  a  fine  fright,  monsieur,"  he  said.  "A  pretty  thing  it 
would  have  been  for  us  if  we  had  had  to  go  back  to  France  and  say  that 
both  our  gentlemen  were  killed  !  " 

"  Both  !  "  I  ejaculated.  "  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  Mr.  Percival 
is  dead  !  " 

"  Mon  Dieu !  monsieur,"  returned  Jean-Pierre  in  a  tone  of  gentle 
remonstrance,  "how  would  you  have  a  man  drop  down  a  sheer  three 
hundred  feet  upon  his  head,  and  live  1 " 

Whether  it  was  accident  or  design  that  brought  about  poor  Percival's 
death,  I  cannot,  of  course,  say.  That  he  was  not  accountable  for  his 
actions  on  that  last  morning  of  his  life  I  am  quite  convinced.'  I  Had 
to  give  some  explanation  to  the  guides  of  the  eircumstance  that  I  had 
been  found  with  my  arms  tied  behind  me,  and  I  did  so  by  telling  them 
that  my  unfortunate  friend  had  gone  out  of  his  mind  before  treating  me 
in  that  way.  This  I  firmly  believe  to  have  been  the  truth ;  and  they 
agreed  with  me  that  he  had  for  some  time  past  been  more  mad  than 
sane.  They  further  concurred  in  my  opinion  that  it  could  do  no  possible 
good,  and  would  probably  only  cause  troublesome  complications,  to  make 
all  the  facts  known  to  the  authorities.  Luckily  for  us,  the  authorities 
were  less  troublesome  than  an  English  coroner's  jury  would  have  been, 
and  it  was  neither  supposed  nor  suggested  that  my  own  fall  had  been 
due  to  any  other  causes  than  the  inexperience  and  foolhardiness  which, 
as  I  was  told,  had  proved  fatal  to  my  companion. 

When  I  next  saw  Mrs.  Lacy — which  was  rather  more  than  a  year 
afterwards — she  expressed  a  great  deal  of  concern  at  the  fate  of  the 
hapless  man  with  the  red  hair,  and  was  eager  for  fuller  particulars  than 
she  had  as  yet  been  able  to  obtain.  I  gratified  her  curiosity  as  well  as 
I  could,  and  dwelt  a  good  deal  upon  Percival's  recklessness ;  but  I  did 
not  think  it  necessary  to  say  anything  about  the  letter  which  we  had 
no  small  difficulty  in  forcing  out  of  his  stiffened  fingers  when  his  body 
was  carried  back  to  camp. 

W.  E.  N. 


4—2 


68 


of  St. 


THERE  is  a  cycle  in  the  favourite  quotations  which  do  duty  at  political 
meetings  or  in  the  House  of  Commons,  according  to  which  certain  lines 
of  poetry  recur  after  a  lapse  of,  it  may  be,  a  few  years,  it  may  be  a  gene- 
ration. Such  a  couplet,  for  instance,  as 

Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade  ; 
A  breath  can  make  them  as  a  breath  has  made, 

appears  about  once  in  ten  years ;  and  it  needs  not  the  memory  of  a 
Macaulay  to  assign  it  to  its  speaker,  and  even  to  name  the  debate  which 
it  illustrated.  Other  quotations,  however,  are  universally  in  favour, 
especially  with  the  Conservative  county  member  who  has  not  forgotten 
all  that  Eton  and  "  Smalls  "  taught  him.  We  could  almost  predict  the 
exact  point  in  any  county  meeting  when  the  caution  of  some  rustic 
Nestor  will  clothe  its  sentiments  in  the  trite  words  "  Timeo  Danaos," 
&c.,  or  its  equally  well-known  brother,  "  Rusticus  expectat."  An  article 
might  easily  be  written  on  this  phenomenon,  and  on  the  political  com- 
plexion assumed  by  the  stock  quotations  of  the  reviews  and  of  Parlia- 
ment. But  our  purpose  is  rather  to  point  out  an  analogy  to  this  curious 
fact  in  the  singular  law  of  mental  association  by  which  some  book  be- 
comes especially  dear  to  an  age  or  a  brotherhood  of  literature.  Thus, 
Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy  fell  in  with  the  predominant  literary 
taste  of  the  latter  part  of  last  century  and  the  beginning  of  this,  and  it 
has  since  gone  out  of  favour  till  our  own  time.  In  Sir  W.  Scott's  and 
Mr.  Scrope's  days,  numerous  references  were  made  in  popular  writings 
to  the  Boke  of  St.  Albans.  Many  books,  however,  are  offcener  talked 
about  than  known,  and  the  Boke  is  certainly  one  of  these.  Indeed, 
until  the  last  few  months,  it  was  not  always  easy  even  for  the  student 
to  acquire  any  knowledge  of  this  celebrated  volume.  The  originals  of 
the  first  edition  yet  in  existence  might  probably  be  counted  on  the  fingers 
of  one  hand,  while  the  later  ones  are  themselves  scarce  and  costly. 
Haslewood's  reproduction,  in  the  year  1812,  soon  became  practically  un- 
attainable, and  the  same  hateful  fate  in  the  eyes  of  book-buyers  overtook 
Pickering's  charming  reprint  of  the  "Fysshynge  with  an  Angle"  of  the 
date  1827.  In  the  last  few  months  an  admirable  reproduction  of  the  Boke 
has  been  issued  by  an  enterprising  London  publisher,  so  that  for  the 
time  being  the  quaint  black-letter  pages  and  sententious  wisdom  of  Dame 
Juliana  Berners  are  within  the  reach  of  all  book-lovers.  We  say  for 
the  present,  advisedly,  as  the  edition  will  certainly  be  speedily  exhausted, 
the  present  being  peculiarly  the  age  of  such  reproductions  of  old  books. 


THE  BOKE  OJ7  ST.  ALBANS.  69 

The  originals  of  any  celebrated  or  scarce  work,  can  now  be  bought  in 
most  cases  only  by  the  wealthy.  Every  sale  shows  this  more  decisively 
than  the  last,  though  the  prices  obtained  for  rarities  at  the  late  Mr. 
Laing's  sale  cannot,  it  may  be  thought,  be  well  exceeded  in  this  genera- 
tion. But  such  books  may  now  be  regarded  not  only  as  the  natural 
prey  of  the  bibliomaniac,  but  as  being  a  valuable  investment.  Should 
the  very  improbable  contingency  ever  occur  of  their  price  falling  in  our 
country,  America,  with  its  eager  legion  of  book-lovers,  their  purses  well 
filled  with  gold,  will  only  too  gladly  purchase  them ;  while  Australia, 
New  Zealand,  and  several  other  vigorous  young  colonies  are  waiting  to 
take  their  part  in  the  competition  for  old  books  before  many  years  have 
elapsed.  The  demand  for  reproductions,  therefore,  may  be  considered  as 
yet  to  be  only  in  its  infancy.  Leaving  the  great  publishing  clubs — such 
as  the  Camden,  Surtees,  and  the  like — out  of  the  question,  the  lover  of 
scarce  books  owes  much  gratitude  to  the  two  prcesentes  divi,  Mr.  Arber 
and  Mr.  E.  Stock,  for  their  reproductions  of  rare  books  and  editions. 
Impecunious  book-hunters  gladly  cherish,  as  second  only  to  the  originals, 
such  books  as  the  copy  of  the  first  edition  of  Walton's  Compleat  Angler, 
the  reprint  of  Elyot's  the  Governour,  and  by  no  means  least,  the  repro- 
duction of  the  Boke  of  St.  Albans  by  an  indelible  photographic  process. 

It  would  have  been  of  little  use  last  year  to  have  written  an  account 
of  the  Boke.  Now  that  it  is  generally  accessible,  however,  no  apology  is 
needed  for  a  survey  of  a  volume  so  celebrated  and  yet  so  little  known, 
round  which  a  halo  of  romance  hangs  in  regard  to  its  supposed  writer, 
which  has  so  greatly  contributed  to  form  the  conception  of  sports  held  in 
honour  ever  since  its  publication  by  English  gentlemen,  and  which 
possesses  many  other  points  of  interest  to  every  student  of  his  own  lan- 
guage. The  manners  and  tone  of  thought  of  the  higher  classes  at  the 
close  of  the  Wars  of  the  Roses  are  clearly  reflected  in  it.  A  sharp  line 
yet  divides  the  aristocrat  and  "  gentilman  "  from  the  "  ungentill  men." 
The  "  artycles  of  gentilnes,"  the  pride  of  old  and  high  lineage,  and 
bearing  of  coat  armour  are  strongly  insisted  upon  throughout  the  book ; 
common  men,  hinds,  and  "  rascal  "  are  scarcely  named.  Their  very  exist- 
ence is  alien  to  the  theory  of  royal  and  high-bred  sport  which  is  here 
expounded.  It  needed  many  a  doughty  conflict,  both  in  argument  at 
Westminster  and  in  blows,  which  have  often  proved  superior  to  argument, 
on  English  ground,  before  the  middle  class  was  able  to  assert  not  merely 
its  liberties  but  its  corporate  existence ;  and  before  still  humbler  men, 
by  fighting  side  by  side  with  their  lords,  engendered  that  sense  of  brother- 
hood which  only  died  out  in  the  chilling  apathy  of  last  century.  It  is 
seldom,  however,  that  a  nobler  and  better  book  has  l.een  written  from  a 
distinctly  aristocratical  standpoint  than  this  of  which  it  is  our  purpose  to 
treat. 

About  a  quarter  of  a  mile  south-east  of  the  abbey  of  St.  Alban,  not 
far  from  the  little  river  Ver,  in  which  Dame  Juliana  Berners  may  have 
fished,  and  which  is  yet  renowned  for  its  trout,  lie  the  scanty  ruins  of 


70  THE  BOKE   OF   ST.   ALBANS. 

Sopwell  nunnery.      The  ancient  well  from  which  the  name  was  derived 
is  yet  in  existence — situated  nearly  in  the  line  between  St.  Albans  and 
the  Daughter  House — and  is  indicated  by  a  protecting  arch  of  brickwork, 
and  a  tree  planted  hard  by  it.     Of  this  nunnery  the  authoress  of  the 
Boke  was  certainly  an  inmate,  and  most  probably,  as  tradition  has  handed 
down,  its  prioress.     Her  name,  indeed,  does  not  appear  in  the  list  of  the 
prioresses  of  Sopwell ;  but  there  is  a  gap  in  their  enumeration  between 
1430  and  1480,   in  which  upholders  of  the  time-honoured  belief  may 
legitimately  insert  the  Dame,  if  they  will.     The  nunnery  itself  had  been 
founded,  under  the  rule  of  St.  Benedict,  about  1140,  and  was  subject  to 
the  abbot  of  St.  Albans.     Its  rule  of  life  was  very  strict,  and  at  first 
the  nuns  had  been  enclosed  under  lock  and  key,  made  additionally  secure 
by  the  seal  of  the  abbot  for  the  time  being  upon  the  door ;  *  but  gradually 
the  discipline  was  relaxed,  and,  without  accusing  the  inmates  of  Sopwell 
of  the  license  and  ill- living  which  has  earned  an  evil  notoriety  for  many 
religious  houses  prior  to  the  Reformation,f  it  is  quite  conceivable  that  the 
prioress  of  this  house  and  her  favoured  dames  might  have  allowed  them- 
selves a  decent  liberty  during  which  the  sports  of  the  field  alternated 
with  the  holier  exercises  of  devotion.     At  the  dissolution  of  St.  Albans 
abbey  in  1540,  when  one  Richard  Boreman   (or    Stevynnacke)    was 
abbot,  the  monastic  buildings  and  all  connected  with  them  were  granted 
to  Sir  Richard  Lee,  and  he  at  once  commenced  demolishing  the  whole. 
.Sopwell  escaped  this  fate  for  the  time,  and  was  even  repaired  from  the 
ruins  of  the  Mother  House,  but  itself  fell  into  decay  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  II.  J     A  legend  mentioned  by  Camden  relates  that  Henry  VIII. 
had  married  Anna  Boleyn  in  the  nunnery  of  Sopwell,  but  Shakespeare  fol- 
lows a  different  account.  Many  celebrated  historic  scenes  surround  it,  with- 
out having  recourse  to  doubtful  glories.     Lord  Bacon's  name  is  imperish- 
-ably  connected  with  St.  Albans.     Battle-fields,  where  the  best  blood  of 
England  was  spilt  in  civil  strife,  environ  it.     Ostorius  has  left  his  name 
cipon  a  hill  hard  by  ;  while  Hatfield  House  may  be  seen  in  the  distance, 
where  Elizabeth,  as  the  story  runs,  heard,  while  sitting  under  an  oak 
tree,  of  the  death  of  her  sister  Mary.     If  we  are  most  impressed  by  the 
size  and  architecture  of  St.  Albans  abbey,  the  prioress  of  Sopwell  may  per- 
haps have  found  in  the  well-watered,  well-wooded  neighbourhood  where 
her  lot  was  cast,  an  incentive  to  follow  the  field  sports  which  are  so 
characteristically  connected  in  the  Boke  with  her  memory.     The  well- 
known  character  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  shows  the  passionate  enthu- 
siasm with  which,  a  century  after  Dame  Juliana's  time,  high-born  Ladies 
devoted  themselves  to  hunting  and  hawking. 

It  would  be  unfair  to  the  reader  not  to  tell  him  that  Dame  Juliana 
Berners  is  a  somewhat  legendary  personage,   and  that  a  keen  literary 

*  See  Chauncy,  quoted  by  Mr.  Blades  (Preface  to  Boke  of  St.  Albans,  page  13). 
f  See,  however,  Abp.  Morton's  letter  to   the  Abbot  of  St.  Albans  in  148'J  (JTroude's 
History  of  England,  Vol.  II.  cabt.  edit.,  p.  307). 
}  Dr.  Nicholson's  Guide  to  the  Abbey  of  St.  Alban,  pages  36  and  86. 


THE  BOKE   OF   ST.   ALBANS.  71 

battle  has  been  fought  over  her  life.  The  usual  belief  is  that  mentioned 
above,  which  relates  that  having  been  a  Dame  of  the  House  (that  is,  a 
sister  able  to  pay  for  her  maintenance,  and  so  placed  on  a  higher  footing 
in  the  establishment  than  the  ordinary  nuns  who  performed  the  menial 
tasks  of  the  little  community),  she  was  at  length  chosen  prioress. 
Chauncy  and  Haslewood  assign  her  a  distinguished  lineage,  drawing  out 
her  pedigree  from  Sir  John  Berners,  of  Berners  Roding,  county  Essex, 
who  died  in  1347.  His  son,  Sir  James,  was  beheaded  on  Tower  Hill  in 
1388.  The  family  branched  out  into  Sir  Humphrey  Bourchier,  who  was 
slain  at  Bamet,  fighting  for  Edward  IV.,  and  was  a  son  of  one  Margery 
Berners.  His  son  is  the  translator  of  Froissart.  Thence  it  stretches  to 
Jane,  who  was  mother  of  Sir  Thomas  Kny  vet,  whose  great-great-grandson 
left  a  sole  heir,  Katharine.  She  married  Richard  Bokenham,  Esq. ;  to 
whom  the  barony  of  Berners  was  adjudged  in  1720.  The  Dame  herself 
is  supposed  to  have  been  the  daughter  of  Sir  James  Berners.  The  legend 
continues  that  she  probably  spent  her  youth  at  the  court,  and  shared  in 
the  woodland  sports  then  fashionable,  thus  acquiring  a  sound  knowledge 
of  hunting,  hawking,  and  fishing.  Having  withdrawn  from  the  world, 
and  finding  plenty  of  leisure  time  in  the  cloister,  it  is  next  believed  that 
she  committed  to  writing  her  memories  of  these  fascinating  sports.  In- 
deed, if  she  were  an  active  prioress,  the  exigencies  of  fast  days  would 
demand  that  she  should  busy  herself  in  the  supply  of  fish  required  for 
the  sisterhood  ;  so  that  it  is  quite  possible  that,  like  all  other  observant 
anglers,  she  grew  old  daily  learning  more  of  that  craft  whereof  she  treats 
more  fully  and  in  a  clearer  order  than  the  other  subjects  of  the  Boke 
are  handled.  Be  this  as  it  may,  no  enthusiastic  disciple  of  angling  need 
disabuse  himself  of  his  time-honoured  belief  that  Dame  Juliana  was  a 
patroness  of  his  sport ;  while  if  any  will  be  a  sceptic  and  apply  the 
destructive  criticism  which  is  so  fashionable  in  our  times  to  these  details 
of  the  Dame's  life,  he,  toq,  is  at  perfect  liberty  so  to  please  himself.  Facts 
are  of  the  scantiest  for  both  alike.  Let  us  hope,  however,  that  few  will 
carry  their  disbelief  to  the  same  point  as  does  Mr.  Blades :  "  What  is 
really  known  of  the  Dame  is  almost  nothing,  and  may  be  summed  up  in 
the  following  few  words.  She  probably  lived  at  the  beginning  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  and  she  possibly  compiled  from  existing  MSS.  some 
rhymes  on  hunting."  It  is  quite  possible  to  indulge  a  spirit  of  destructive 
criticism  beyond  the  limits  of  good  sense.  The  treatise  of  hunting  in  the 
Boke  ends  :  "Explicit  Dam  Julyans  Barnes  in  her  boke  of  huntyng;" 
while  the  extremes  of  practical  acumen  and  rampant  agnosticism  meet 
amusingly  enough  in  his  further  dictum :  "  Had  the  Dame  Julyans 
Barnes  of  the  fifteenth  century  lived  now,  she  would  have  been  just 
'  Mrs.  Barnes.'  "  *  But,  in  any  case,  we  may  picture  the  Dame  solacing 
herself  with  her  treatises  among  the  ruthless  battles,  treasons,  and  execu- 
tions which  marked  the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  from  which  her  own  kith 
and  kin  had  not  escaped  scot-free.  And  as  the  fairer  vision  of  an  Eng- 

*  See  Mr.  Blades's  Introduction  to  Mr.  Stock's  Eeproduction. 


72  THE   EOKE  OF   ST.   ALBANS. 

land  united  as  of  old  under  the  rule  of  Henry  VII.  rose  before  her  eyes, 
it  is  easy  to  fancy  her  resolving  that  her  precepts  shall  be  set  before  gen- 
tlemen by  the  marvellous  art  which  Caxton  had  been  introducing  into 
England  at  his  Westminster  press,  "  the  almonry,  at  the  red  pale."  On 
a  sudden  she  finds  another  of  these  wonder-working  printers  settled  at 
her  own  doors,  and  at  once  makes  over  to  him  her  manuscripts,  much  to 
the  delectation  of  posterity. 

Another  literary  puzzle  is  connected  with  the  printer  of  the  Boke 
at  St.  Albans.  He  is  only  known  from  Wynken  de  Worde's  reprint  of 
St.  Albans  Chronicle,  the  colophon  of  which  states  :  "Here  endith  this 
present  chronicle,  compiled  in  a  book  and  also  enprinted  by  our  some- 
time schoolmaster  of  St.  Alban."  Whoever  he  was,  he  plied  his  press 
from  1480  to  1486,  and  issued  eight  works,  the  first  six  of  which  are  in 
Latin.  Towards  the  end  of  his  life  he  seems  to  have  grasped  the  fact 
that  great  distinction  waited  for  him  who  should  give  to  the  English 
books  in  their  own  tongues ;  accordingly  his  last  two  folios,  the  Boke  and 
St.  Albans  Chronicle  (the  latter  consisting  of  Caxton's  Chronicles  of 
England,  with  a  few  additions  on  ecclesiastical  events  and  Papal  chrono- 
logy), were  printed  in  the  vernacular.  It  is  curious  that  without  any 
further  connection,  as  it  seems,  with  the  Westminster  press,  the  school- 
master printer  obtained  (and  himself  used  for  printing)  an  old  and  worn 
fount  of  type  which  had  been  discarded  by  Caxton.  And  after  the 
stoppage  of  the  St.  Albans  press  this  same  fount  returned  to  Westmin- 
ster, and  was  actually  used  by  Wynken  de  Worde  in  his  reprint  (1496— 
97)  of  the  two  English  books  which  had  been  issued  by  the  press  of 
that  place.  Cardinal  Wolsey  is  supposed  to  have  put  a  stop  to  all 
printing  at  St.  Albans  during  his  abbacy.  He  had  certainly  expressed 
his  dislike  of  the  art  in  a  convocation  held  in  St.  Paul's  Chapter  House, 
when  he  told  his  clergy  that  if  they  did  not  in  time  suppress  printing,  it 
would  prove  fatal  to  the  Church.  In  point  of  workmanship,  Mr.  Blades 
deems  that  the  St.  Albans  printer,  especially  in  his  English  books,  is  much 
inferior  to  the  contemporary  issues  of  the  Westminster  press  •  the  types 
being  worse,  as  well  as  the  arrangement  and  presswork,  while  the  ink  is 
often  very  bad.  Much,  therefore,  of  the  Boke  is  not  very  easy  reading, 
especially  if  the  student  be  unfamiliar  with  the  early  black-letter  books. 

As  if  to  match  all  these  uncertainties,  even  the  bibliography  of  the 
Boke  is  beset  with  more  than  ordinary  difficulties.  The  subjects  on 
which  it  treats  were  in  special  favour  with  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth 
centuries,  so  that  probably  more  editions  of  it  than  of  any  other  profane 
book  were  then  put  forth,  each  differing  either  in  printer's  name  or  in  the 
selection  of  the  subjects  of  the  Boke.  Thus  Wynken  de  Worde,  before  the 
fifteenth  century  closed,  published  two  editions  of  it.  In  the  next  cen- 
tury Mr.  Blades  (who  does  not,  however,  profess  to  have  exhausted  the 
subject)  enumerates  sixteen  more.  W.  Powell,  in  his  edition  of  1550, 
only  reprinted  the  "  Haukynge,  huntynge,  and  fishynge."  This  last  trea- 
tise was  often  printed  separately.  The  celebrated  Gervase  Markham,  in 


THE  BOKE   OF  ST.  ALBANS.  73 

1598,  "  reduced  into  a  better  method  "  the  whole  Boke  ;  just  as  in  1614 
a  certain  "  S.  T."  reprinted  it  as  A  Jewell  for  Gentrie.  During  the  eigh- 
teenth century  the  rage  for  hawking  and  for  heraldry  had  greatly  died 
out ;  so  that  we  only  find  one  edition,  namely,  the  Boke  of  Cote  Armour, 
in  1793,  reprinted  by  J.  Dallaway.  Were  not  the  Boke  celebrated  from 
its  own  contents,  it  would  be  famous  in  the  eyes  of  all  bibliomaniacs  from 
its  rarity  in  any  form,  whether  in  black-letter  or  as  a  reprint.  America 
possesses  a  reprint  of  the  "  Treatyse  on  Fysshynge,"  edited  by  Mr.  Van 
Siclen,  and  published  at  New  York  in  1875.  In  his  Enemies  of  Books 
Mr.  Blades  tells  a  story  of  an  original  black-letter  copy  of  the  Boke 
being  sold  no  later  than  1844  for  literally  a  few  pence,  which  causes  a 
book-lover's  mouth  to  water.  A  pedlar  purchased  it  amongst  other 
waste- paper  from  a  poor  widow  at  Blyton,  in  Lincolnshire,  for  ninepence., 
i.e.  at  the  rate  of  one  penny  per  pound !  Sir  C.  Anderson  soon  afterwards 
offered  the  man  five  pounds  for  the  Boke  ;  but  Mr.  Stark,  the  well-known 
bookseller,  eventually  bought  it  for  seven  guineas,  and  sold  it  immediately 
on  his  return  to  London  to  the  Right  Hon.  Thomas  Grenville  for  seventy 
pounds  or  guineas.  The  book  had  been  weeded  out  of  the  library  at 
Thonock  Hall,  probably  in  ignorance  of  its  nature  and  value.  But  such 
a  chance  as  fell  to  this  pedlar's  lot  does  not  often  occur  to  the  book- 
lover.  He  may  sigh  with  Virgil's  hero  : — 

Si  nunc  se  nobis  ille  aureus 

Ostendat ! 

Alas !  the  wish  does  not  forthwith  fulfil  itself  as  in  the  case  of 
^Eneas. 

To  turn  to  the  contents  of  the  Boke,  differences  are  found  from  the 
very  beginning.  Thus  the  first  edition  (1486),  containing  the  chief 
"  plesures  belongyng  to  gentill  men  hauyng  delite  therein,"  at  that 
period  is  made  up  of  four  separate  treatises  on  "  Hawking,"  "  Hunt- 
ing," the  "Lynage  of  Coote  Armiris,"  and  the  "Blasyng  of  Armys;" 
although  a  great  deal  of  intercalated  matter  is  interspersed,  having 
as  little  connection  with  any  of  these  treatises,  or  with  each  other, 
as  the  subjects  usually  found  at  the  end  of  modern  almanacs.  The 
celebrated  treatise  on  "  Fishing "  is  added  in  the  second  edition.  In 
1586  (just  a  hundred  years  from  its  first  publication)  the  work  appears 
as  the  Boke  of  St.  Alban,  Hawking,  Hunting,  Fishing,  with  the  True 
Measures  of  Blowing.  The  quaint  and  celebrated  woodcuts  are  in- 
serted in  the  second  edition.  These  are  three  in  number.  The  first 
consists  of  a  group  of  men  going  hawking,  while  a  hawk  flies  over  them, 
and  two  dogs,  like  our  Italian  greyhounds,  run  at  their  side.  The  cos- 
tume of  the  sportsmen  is  as  noticeable  as  the  character  of  their  dogs. 
In  the  second  appears  a  "bevy"  or  "  sege  "  of  fowls — we  are  uncertain 
which  the  Dame  would  have  it  called — some  of  which  are  flying,  others 
swimming,  and  others,  again,  standing  on  the  banks  of  a  stream  like 
Homer's  fowls  on  the  Cayster  ;  a  lion  is  seizing  one  of  these,  which  looks 
like  a  bittern.  The  attitudes  and  drawing  of  the  birds  are  delightfully 


74  THE  BOKE  OF  ST.  ALBANS. 

varied,  and  would  prove  invaluable  for  a  reproduction  of  mediaeval  tapestry. 
The  spirited  woodcut  in  the  "  Treatyse  on  Fysshynge  "  is  probably  better 
known  than  the  two  just  mentioned.  The  servant  (perhaps  intended 
for  the  portrait  of  a  lay  brother  or  one  attached  to  Sopwell  priory)  is 
engaged  with  rueful  face  in  capturing  fish.  His  rod  and  line  are  ex- 
tremely primitive,  and  he  would  have  no  chance  of  catching  anything 
with  them  in  the  present  day,  when  fish  are  supposed  to  be  so  highly 
"educated,"  owing  to  the  constant  persecution  with  bait  and  fly  to 
which  they  are  subjected.  An  open  tub  lies  at  his  side,  in  which  he  is 
intended  to  place  his  captives,  and  keep  them  alive  until  they  could  be 
deposited  in  the  "  stew." 

It  is  time,  however,  now  that  we  have  hawk  on  wrist  and  dog  under 
the  arm — as  Harold  is  represented  on  the  Bayeux  tapestry  when  starting 
for  Normandy — to  give  some  notion  of  the  Boke.  In  the  first  edition  the 
treatise  on  "  Falconry  "  has  the  first  place,  inasmuch  as  that  sport  was 
the  most  cherished  recreation  of  all  gentlemen  and  fair  women  at  the 
time  when  the  Dame  was  writing.  To  see  the  absorbing  character  of  its 
pursuit,  it  is  only  needful  to  reflect  how  much  of  the  terminology  con- 
nected with  it  still  lingers  in  the  English  language.  A  reference  to 
Shakespeare  will  answer  the  same  end.  He  is  indebted  to  hawking  for 
numerous  scattered  expressions,  and  for  imagery  which  occasionally 
runs  through  a  whole  speech.  Mr.  Harting,  in  his  Ornithology  of 
Shakespeare,  has  carefully  collected  together  all  these  references  in  the 
poet's  works,  and  commented  lucidly  upon  them  from  a  practical  ac- 
quaintance with  the  noble  art  of  falconry.  Without  any  such  modern 
inventions  as  preface,  or  even  title  page,  the  Dame  begins  at  once  : — 

In  so  moch  that  gentill  men  and  honest  persones  haue  greete  delite  in  haukyng, 
and  desire  to  haue  the  maner  to  take  haukys  ;  and  also  how  and  in  waat  -wyse  they 
shulde  gyde  theym  ordynateli ;  and  to  knaw  the  gentill  termys  in  communyng  of 
theyr  haukys ;  and  to  understonde  theyr  sekeneses  acd  enfirmitees  ;  and  also  to 
knawe  medicines  for  theym  accordyng,  and  mony  notabull  termys  that  ben  used  in 
haukyng  both  of  their  haukys  and  of  the  fowles  that  their  haukys  shall  fley.  Ther- 
fore  thys  book  fcrwlowyng  in  a  dew  forme  shewys  veri  knawlege  of  suche  plesure  to 
gentill  men  and  psonys  disposed  to  se  itt. 

Then  succeeds  a  series  of  directions  as  to  the  correct  terms  to  use  in 
speaking  of  hawks  at  their  different  ages,  together  with  an  account  of 
the  mode  in  which  they  are  to  be  reclaimed  and  dieted.  Hawks  appear 
to  be  subject  to  manifold  diseases,  the  very  names  of  which  sound  strange 
to  the  present  generation,  which  too  often  strains  every  energy  to  kill 
hawks  as  pestilent  vermin.  The  "  ry,"  "  frounce,"  "cray,"  and  "aggre- 
steyne  "  are  samples ;  while  more  familiar  sufferings  seem  to  have  been 
their  lot  in  podagra,  which  is  more  particularly  described  as  gout  in  the 
head,  throat,  and  reins  respectively.  Appropriate  remedies  are  given 
for  these  and  many  more  complaints,  some  of  which  receipts  sound  worse 
than  any  sufferings  with  which  hawks  can  ever  have  been  afflicted. 
Here  is  a  comparatively  mild  "  medecyne  for  the  ry."  "  Take  dayses 


THE  BOKE   OF  ST.   ALBANS.  75 

leeuys  and  stampe  liem  in  a  morter,  and  wrynge  owt  the  juse,  and  with 
a  pinne  put  it  in  the  hawkis  nares  [nostrils]  ones  or  twyes  when  the 
hawke  is  smalle  goorged,  and  anon  after  let  hir  tyre,  and  she  shall  be 
hoole  as  a  fysh."  A  list  of  the  proper  terms  to  use  in  naming  the  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  hawk  comes  next — his  claws,  feathers,  legs,  and  the 
like.  The  "  beam  feathers  "  are  described.  The  mode  of  flying  them  by 
putting  up  a  partridge,  and  the  way  in  which  the  victorious  hawk  is 
afterwards  to  be  rewarded,  is  enlarged  upon.  The  "  creaunce  "  and 
"jesses  "  (which  latter  term  has  been  rendered  immortal  by  Shakspeare) 
are  next  explained,  together  with  the  mode  in  which  "  to  dispose  and 
ordain  your  mewe."  The  fifty-three  pages  of  the  treatise  conclude  with 
directions  respecting  the  bells  which  hawks  are  to  wear  (and  which  are 
still  used  by  modern  falconers  in  order  to  know  the  exact  spot  where  the 
hawk  may  be  crouching  over  her  quarry  in  long  grass  or  rushes) ;  they 
are  not  to  be  too  heavy,  and  the  like.  It  is  worth  while  transcribing 
some  of  these  injunctions  : — 

Looke  also  that  thay  be  sonowre  and  •well  sowndyng  and  shril,  and  not  both,  of 
oon  sowne,  but  that  oon  be  a  semitoyn  under  a  noder,  and  that  thay  be  hoole  and  not 
brokyn,  and  specialli  in  the  sowndyng  place ;  for  and  thay  be  brokyn  thay  wyll  sowne 
full  dulli. 

Of  spare  hawke  bellis  ther  is  chooce  and  lyttill  of  charge  of  thaym,  for  ther  beeth 
plenty. 

Bot  for  goshawkes  soratyme  bellis  of  Melen  [Milan]  were  calde  the  best,  and  thay 
be  full  goode,  for  thay  comunely  be  sownden  with  silver  and  soldo  ther  after.  Bot 
ther  be  n'ow  used  of  Duchelande  bellys  of  a  towne  caldo  durdright  [Dordrecht],  and 
thay  be  passing  goode,  for  thay  be  well  sortid,  well  sownded,  sonowre  of  ryngyng  in 
shrilnes,  and  passing  well  lastyng. 

The  commencement  of  the  next  subject  is  sufficiently  quaint.  This 
is  supposed  to  have  been  prefixed  by  the  "  scolemaster  "  to  the  manu- 
script of  the  Dame,  which  begins  forthwith  in  rude  verse.  In  these 
verses  she  probably  gives  her  own  transcript  of  numerous  rhymes  current 
in  her  day,  and  forming,  as  it  were,  a  catechism  of  sport.  Thus  the 
reader  will  note  that  the  "  dear  child  "  is  duly  taught  by  one  "  Tristram." 
Sir  Tristram  was  the  Knight  of  the  Round  Table,  most  skilled  in  wood- 
craft, "  Sir  Tristram  of  the  Woods,"  and  to  the  magic  of  his  name  was 
assigned  in  the  Dame's  time  the  responsible  duty  of  teaching  the  young 
noble  and  gentleman  the  needful  terms  of  woodcraft.  Here,  however, 
are  the  preface  and  the  verses,  which  latter,  with  all  respect  to  the  Dame, 
we  fear  can  only  be  styled  doggrel : — 

Lyke  wise  as  in  the  booke  of  hawkyng  aforesayd  are  writyn  and  noted  the  termis 
of  plesure  belongyng  to  gentill  men  hauyng  delite  therin.  In  thes  same  maner  thys 
booke  folowyng  shewith  to  such  gentill  personys  the  maner  of  huntyng  for  all  maner 
of  beestys,  wether  thay  be  beestys  of  venery,  or  of  chace,  or  rascall.  And  also  it 
shewith  all  the  termys  convenyent  as  well  to  the  howndys  as  to  the  beestys  a  forsayd. 
And  in  certayn  ther  bo  many  dyuereo  of  thaym,  as  it  is  declared  in  the  booke 
folowyng. 


76  T1IE  BOKE   OF  ST.  ALBANS. 

BESTYS  OF  VENERT. 

Wheresoeuere  ye  fare  by  fryth  or  by  fell, 
My  dcre  chylde  take  hede  how  Tristram  dooth  yon  tell 
How  many  manor  beestys  of  venery  ther  bere  ; 
Lystyn  to  yowre  dame  and  she  shall  you  lere, 
Foure  maner  beestys  of  venery  there  are  : 
The  first  of  theym  is  the  hert,  the  secunde  is  the  hare, 
The  boore  is  oon  of  tho,  the  wolff  and  not  oon  moo. 

The  capricious  spelling  and  northern  dialect  of  these  verses  is  very 
noticeable.  There  was  as  yet  no  standard  for  orthography.  The  Lin- 
colnshire labourer  still  uses  the  forms  "  yowre"  and  "  yow"  for  "your  " 
and  "  you,"  and  "  oon  "  for  "  one  "  is  not  unknown  to  him.  Indeed,  much 
of  this  treatise  betrays  the  writer  to  have  been  of  the  north  country. 

There  is  no  more  attempt  at  arrangement  of  subjects  in  this  than  in 
the  previous  treatise.  Thus  how  to  describe  the  head  of  a  hart  succeeds 
in  which  the  term  "  royal "  may  be  noted — 

When  he  hath  auntelere  without  any  lett, 

or  when  his  horns  have  twelve  tines,  each  distinct  enough  to  hang  a 
watch  on,  as  modern  Scotch  venery  describes  it.  The  hunting,  dressing, 
and  breaking  up  of  the  roedeer  comes  next.  It  is  described  as  "  belling  " 
(i.e.  bellowing),  a  term  which  Sir  W.  Scott  also  applies  to  red  deer. 
Then  ensue  the  chase  of  the  boar  and  the  hare,  with  another  account  of 
a  buck's  horns.  The  different  reasons  for  hunting  different  animals  are 
prescribed  in  very  indifferent  verse;  the  reader  is  also  taught  how  to 
"  break  up  "  a  hart.  This  is  at  once  followed  by  the  only  reference  in 
the  whole  Boke  to  the  authoress.  The  orthography  of  her  name  should 
be  remarked — 

Explicit  Dam  Julyans 

Barnes  in  her  boke  of  huntyng. 

Some  more  leaves  remaining,  the  printer  seems  to  have  filled  them 
with  the  most  incongruous  list  of  subjects ;  the  names  of  the  varieties  of 
hounds,  the  properties  of  a  good  greyhound,  concerning  which  we  are 
told,  "  when  he  is  commyn  to  the  ninth  yere,  haue  hym  to  the  tanner." 
The  points  of  a  good  horse,  moral  maxims — some  in  prose,  some  in  verse, 
often  of  the  rudest — succeed,  as,  for  instance — 

Fer  from  thy  kynnysmen  heste  the, 
Wrath  not  thy  neighborys  next  the, 
In  a  goode  corne  cuntre  threste  the. 
And  sitte  downe,  Kobyn,  and  rest  the. 

A  more  amusing  list  of  the  proper  terms  to  use  in  describing  various 
fowls,  beasts,  and  classes  of  mankind  is  next  given.  These  are  cor- 
rect expressions  the  modern  reader  may  like  to  know — a  herd  of  swans, 
"  a  nye  (nide  1)  of  ffesaunttys,  a  sege  of  herons,  a  muster  of  peacocks, 
an  exalting  of  larks,  a  charm  of  goldfinches,  a  clatering  of  choughs, 
a  pride  of  lions,  a  bevy  of  conies,  a  gaggle  of  geese  "  (this  term  is  still 
used  by  wild  fowlers),  "  a  prudence  of  vicars,  a  school  of  clerks,"  and  so 


THE  BOKE  OF  ST.  ALBANS.  77 

on,  through  some  two  hundred  more.  How  fowls  are  to  be  described 
when  served  at  table  follows,  and  is  succeeded  by  the  same  recondite 
wisdom  on  fishes  ;  thus,  a  "  tench  sauced,"  and  "  eel  trousoned,"  and  a 
"  trout  gobetted,"  are  en  regie.  Yet  there  was  room  ;  and  in  despair  the 
printer  appended  a  list  of  the  shires  and  bishoprics  of  England,  so  that 
the  exalted  style  and  sonorous,  if  not  fanciful,  verse  at  the  beginning 
of  the  treatise  concludes  like  a  child's  geography — 

Desinit  in  piscem  mulier  formosa  superne. 

The  third  treatise,  on  coat  armour,  is  divided  into  two  parts :  the 
first  treating  of  its  "  lynage,"  and  "  how  gentylmen  shall  be  known  from 
uiigentylmen ; "  the  second  more  technically  enteiing  into  the  "  blasyng  " 
of  arms.  This  treatise  must  have  been  of  intense  interest  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  when  pride  in  ancient  lineage  and  the  science  of  heraldry  held 
such  a  firm  grasp  over  men's  minds.  It  is  now  replete  for  us,  with 
curious  illustrations  of  the  fabulous  antiquity  assigned  by  heralds  to 
their  favourite  subject  and  its  terms  of  art.  Many  quaint  beliefs  with 
which  the  Scriptures  were  supplemented  by  tradition  are  also  ap- 
parent in  it,  and  it  throws  much  light  upon  allusions  found  in  the  poets  of 
the  Elizabethan  era.  Although  these  were  familiar  enough  to  readers  of 
that  time,  they  now  require  explanation.  In  short,  it  forms  a  useful 
book  of  reference  for  the  heraldry  of  the  fifteenth  century,  and  contains 
literary  associations  and  modes  of  thought  which  every  student  of  its 
literature  and  customs  must  prize.  In  many  respects  it  is  the  most 
curious  of  the  three  treatises,  and  will,  perhaps,  best  repay  the  scholar. 
It  begins — 

Here  in  thys  booke  folowyng  is  cletermyned  the  lynage  of  Cote  artr.iris,  and  how 
gentilmen  shall  be  knowyn'from  ungentillmen,and  how  bondage  began  first  in  aungell 
and  after  succeded  in  man  kynde,  as  it  is  shewede  in  processe  booths  in  the  childer 
of  Adam  and  also  of  Noe,  and  how  Noe  deuyded  the  worlde  in  iii  partis  to  his  iii 
sonnys.  Also  ther  be  shewyd  the  ix  colowris  in  armys  figured  by  the  ix  crderis  of 
aungelis  ;  and  it  is  shewyd  by  the  forsayd  colowris  wych  ben  worthy  and  wych  ben 
royall,  and  of  rigaliteis  wiche  b?n  noble  and  wich  ben  excellent.  And  ther  ben  here 
the  vertuys  of  chyualry  and  many  other  notable  and  famowse  thyngys  to  the  plesnre 
of  noble  personys  shall  be  shewyd  as  the  werkys  folowyng  witteneses  who  so  ever 
likyth  to  se  thaym  and  rede  thaym  wych  were  to  longe  now  to  rehers.  And  after 
theys  notable  thyngys  afcresayd  folowyth  the  blasyng  of  all  maner  armys  in  latyn, 
french,  and  English. 

The  Dame  begins  in  very  early  days  with  Lucifer  and  his  millions  of 
angels,  so  arriving  at  "  the  grand  old  gardener  and  his  wife,"  Adam  and 
Eve.  Adam's  arms  consisted  of  a  spade.  Cain,  who  slew  his  brother, 
was  the  first  churl.  From  Noah  Cham  became  a  churl  for  his  "  ungen- 
tilness;  but  of  the  offspring  of  the  gentilman  Jafeth  that  gentilman 
Jhesus  was  born  very  god  and  man,  after  his  manhode  kyng  of  the  londe 
of  Jude  and  of  Jues,  gentilman  by  is  modre  mary,  prynce  of  Cote 
arrnure."  The  precious  stones  and  colours  of  the  science  succeed ;  the 
virtues  of  chivalry,  the  divisions  of  gentlemen  (spiritual  and  temporal), 
and  that  the  king  is  the  fountain  of  honour,  are  shown  at  length,  fol- 
lowed by  the  technicalities  of  the  science  of  arms  and  their  elucidation. 


78  THE  BOKE  OF  ST.  ALBAXS. 

The  second  part  of  the  treatise  is  illustrated  with  charges  of  arms  and 
scutcheons,  giving  a  complete  conspectus  of  heraldry  as  it  was  developed 
and  practised  in  the  fifteenth  century.  With  much  earnestness  does  the 
Dame  explain  these  mystic  terms  which  have  long  been  consigned  to 
Lethe,  save  with  a  few  antiquarian  heralds.  We  cannot  but  grieve  at 
the  degeneracy  of  our  age  when  an  aspiring  Smith  or  ambitious  Brown 
can  obtain  arms,  pedigrees,  mottoes,  and  supporters  to  any  extent  by 
applying  to  those  obliging  persons  who  advertise  their  readiness  to  assist 
gentlemen  in  want  of  ancestry.  The  Dame  religiously  begins  her  trea- 
tise with  the  Cross  "  in  the  wich  thys  nobull  and  myghtie  prynce  Kyng 
Arthure  hadde  grete  trust  so  that  he  lefte  his  armys  that  he  bare  of  iv 
dragonys  and  on  that  an  other  sheelde  of  iii  crownys,  and  toke  to  his 
armys  a  crosse  of  silver  in  a  feelde  of  verte,  and  on  the  right  side  an 
ymage  of  oure  blessid  Lady  with  hir  sone  in  hir  arme,  and  with  that  sign 
of  the  Cross  he  dyd  mony  maruells  after  as  hit  is  writyn  in  the  bookis  of 
cronyclis  of  his  dedys."  It  is  needless  to  enter  into  the  terms  of  art, 
which  the  Dame  explains  at  considerable  length. 

Inasmuch  as  Dame  Juliana  Berners  is  perhaps  most  identified  in 
popular  estimation  with  the  "  Treatyse  on  Fysshynge  with  an  Angle  " 
(although,  as  said  above,  this  treatise  only  appears  in  the  second  edition 
of  the  Hoke  in  1496),  a  few  words  may  be  added  on  this  "lytyll  plaun- 
flet,"  as  the  authoress  terms  it,  by  way  of  conclusion.  The  black-letter 
fount  is  that  belonging  to  Wynken  de  Worde  at  Westminster,  and  is 
much  clearer  and  easier  to  read  than  the  St.  Alban  typography.  In 
other  respects — size,  paragraphs,  orthography,  and  the  like — this  treatise 
matches  the  JBoke.  It  is  much  better  arranged,  however,  subject  follow- 
ing subject  in  lucid  arrangement  as  in  a  modern  book,  instead  of  the 
ehaotic  system  on  which  the  first  edition  proceeds.  The  "  Treatyse  "  is 
undoubtedly  the  first  English  printed  book  on  fishing.  At  Antwerp, 
indeed,  an  earlier  tract  on  the  same  theme  had  been  printed  at  the  press 
of  Van  der  Goes,  probably  in  1492,  as  Mr.  Denison  thinks,  who  is  fortu- 
nate enough  to  possess  a  copy.  The  Dame  treats  in  consecutive  order  of 
the  "  harness  "  necessary  for  the  angler,  giving  full  directions  how  it  is  to 
be  made,  and  of  the  different  kinds  of  fish  and  the  baits  proper  for  them. 
An  eloquent  preface  shows  how  superior  in  all  real  enjoyment  the  practice 
of  angling  is  to  the  sports  of  hunting,  hawking,  and  fowling  : — 

The  angler  may  haue  no  colde,  nor  no  dysease  nor  angre,  but  yf  he  be  causer 
hymself.  For  he  maye  not  lese  at  the  moost  but  a  lyne  or  an  hoke ;  of  whyche  he 
may  haue  store  plentee  of  his  own  makynge  as  this  symple  treatyse  shall  teche  hym. 
So  thenne  his  losse  is  not  greuous  and  other  greyffes  may  he  not  haue,  sauynge  but  yf 
ony  fisshe  breke  away  after  that  he  is  take  on  the  hoke,  or  elles  that  he  catche  nought, 
whyche  ben  not  greuous.  For  yf  he  faylle  of  one  he  maye  not  faylle  of  a  nother  yf 
he  dooth  as  this  treatyse  techyth ;  but  yf  there  be  nought  in  the  water.  And  yetatte 
the  leest  he  hath  his  holsom  walke  and  mery  at  his  ease,  a  swete  ayre  of  the  swete 
sauoure  of  the  meede  floures :  that  makyth  hym  hungry.  He  hereth  the  melodyous 
armony  of  foules.  He  seeth  the  younge  swannes ;  heerons ;  duckes :  cotes,  and  many 
other  foules  wyth  theyr  brodes ;  whyche  me  semyth  better  than  alle  the  noyse  of 
houndys :  the  blaste  of  hornys,  and  the  scrye  of  foulis  that  hunters,  fawkeners,  and 


THE  BOKE  OF  ST.  ALBANS.  79 

foulers  can  make.     And  yf  the  angler  take  fysshe  :  surely  thenne  is   there  noo  man 
merier  than  he  is  in  his  spyryte. 

The  reader  will  probably  remember  much  in  Walton  which  shows 
how  indebted  was  the  patriarch  of  fishermen  to  the  Dame's  words, 
while  Burton  deliberately  inserts  the  whole  of  this  passage,  without 
acknowledging  his  indebtedness,  in  the  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  This 
preface  strikes  the  key-note  of  the  whole  treatise ;  and  it  is  noticeable 
that  thus  early  in  the  history  of  English  fishing  the  angler  is  painted 
of  that  simple,  guileless,  contented  disposition  which  he  is  generally 
supposed  to  owe  to  Walton's  panegyrics  of  the  art.  The  Dame  views 
fishing  as  no  easy  means  of  filling  the  larder  (though  every  word  of 
her  book  proves  that  with  the  post  she  filled  in  the  little  priory  of 
Sopwell  she  was  by  no  means  indifferent  to  this  aspect  of  the  craft), 
but  as  a  wholesome  discipline  of  spirit  during  recreation,  a  mode  of 
attaining  perfection,  a  religious  exercise,  a  walking  at  peace  with  a 
man's  neighbour  and  his  God.  All  fishermen  may  be  grateful  to  their 
patron  for  the  high  type  of  character  which  she  sets  before  them  as  the 
disposition  of  the  ideal  angler.  As  in  many  similar  cases,  the  Dame's 
words  have  probably  conduced  to  multitudes  of  gentle  anglers  realising 
the  higher  and  nobler  side  of  their  craft.  The  fact  that  it  admits  of  such 
a  lofty  moral  standard  must  with  many  prove  the  only  justification  for 
angling  considered  as  the  recreation  of  the  gentleman,  the  scholar,  and 
the  divine.  Thoreau,  in  one  of  his  essays,  feelingly  laments  his  inability, 
with  all  his  love  for  it,  to  go  fishing  as  the  years  pass  over  him.  Had  he 
been  a  fly-fisher  instead  of  a  worm-angler  (from  which  branch  of  the 
craft,  pace,  its  devotees,  cruelty  both  to  bait  and  fish  is  inseparable),  and 
had  he  been  able  to  enter  into  the  devotional  disposition  of  the  Dame, 
which  from  the  constitution  of  his  mind  he  could  not,  he  need  never  have 
made  so  touching  a  confession.  The  fly-fisher,  as  regards  his  quarry,  the 
marvellous  life-histories  of  the  flies  which  he  cunningly  imitates  in  silk 
and  feathers,  and  the  varied  aspects  of  nature  amo-ng  which  he  passes 
with  a  poet's  eye,  never  finds  his  art  pall  upon  him.  Like  Socrates,  he 
grows  old  learning,  and  the  wisdom  which  he  imbibes  is  of  the  truest. 

From  our  own  commendation  of  fly-fishing,  however,  we  would  fain 
recall  the  reader  to  the  conclusion  of  Dame  Juliana's  panegyric.  No 
words  more  touching,  more  true,  more  genuine  were  ever  written  on  the 
highest  pleasures  of  the  fisherman.  They  shall  not  be  quoted  here,  in 
order  that  they  may  hold  out  an  additional  incentive  for  the  angler  who 
knows  them  not,  to  seek  them  in  the  original.  Having  endeavoured  to 
set  forth  the  many  attractions  which  the  Boke  of  St.  Allans  possesses  for 
the  sportsman,  the  antiquarian,  and  the  philologist,  we  shall  now  take 
our  leave  of  the  reader,  wishing  for  him,  if  he  follows  the  admirable  advioe 
of  the  Dame — advice  never  more  needed  than  in  the  present  times — that 
her  devout  and  closing  words  may  be  his  : — "  All  those  that  done  after 
this  rule  shall  haue  the  blessynge  of  god  and  saynt  Petyr,  whyche  he 
theym  graunte  that  wyth  his  precyous  blood  vs  bough te." 

M.  G.  W. 


80 


THE  night  before  the  wedding  we  had  a  supper-party  in  my  rooms.  We 
were  twelve  in  all.  My  friend  Eustace  brought  his  gondolier  Antonio 
with  fair-haired,  dark-eyed  wife,  and  little  Attilio,  their  eldest  child. 
My  old  gondolier,  Francesco,  came  with  his  wife  and  two  children.  Then 
there  was  the  handsome,  languid  Luigi,  who,  in  his  best  clothes,  looks 
fit  for  any  drawing-room.  Two  other  gondoliers,  in  dark  blue  shirts, 
completed  the  list  of  guests,  if  we  exclude  the  maid  Catina,  who  came 
and  went  about  the  table,  laughing  and  joining  in  the  songs,  and  sitting 
down  at  intervals  to  take  her  share  of  wine.  The  big  room  looking 
across  the  garden  to  the  Grand  Canal  had  been  prepared  for  supper ; 
and  the  company  were  to  be  received  in  the  smaller,  which  has  a  fine 
open  space  in  front  of  it  to  southwards.  But  as  the  guests  arrived,  they 
seemed  to  find  the  kitchen,  and  the  cooking  that  was  going  on,  quite 
irresistible.  Catina,  it  seems,  had  lost  her  head  with  so  many  cuttle- 
fishes, oral,  cakes,  and  fowls,  and  cutlets  to  reduce  to  order.  There  was, 
therefore,  a  great  bustle  below  stairs ;  and  I  could  hear  plainly  that  all 
my  guests  were  lending  their  making,  or  their  marring,  hands  to  the 
preparation  of  the  supper.  That  the  company  should  cook  their  owr. 
food  on  the  way  to  the  dining-room  seemed  a  quite  novel  arrangement, 
but  one  that  promised  well  for  their  contentment  with  the  banquet. 
Nobody  could  be  dissatisfied  with  what  was  everybody's  affair. 

I  When  seven  o'clock  struck,  Eustace  and  I,  who  had  been  entertain- 
ing the  children  in  their  mothers'  absence,  heard  the  sound  of  steps  upon 
the  stairs.  The  guests  arrived,  bringing  their  own  risotto  with  them. 
Welcome  was  short,  if  hearty.  We  sat  down  in  carefully  appointed 
order,  and  fell  into  such  conversation  as  the  quarter  of  San  Vio  and  our 
several  interests  supplied.  From  time  to  time  one  of  the  matrons  left 
the  table  and  descended  to  the  kitchen,  when  a  finishing  stroke  was 
needed  for  roast  pullet  or  stewed  veal.  The  excuses  they  made  their  host 
for  supposed  failure  in  the  dishes,  lent  a  certain  grace  and  comic  charm  to 
the  commonplaces  of  festivity.  The  entertainment  was  theirs  as  much 
as  mine ;  and  they  all  seemed  to  enjoy  what  took  the  form  by  degrees  of 
curiously  complicated  hospitality.  I  do  not  think  a  well-ordered  supper 
at  any  trattoria,  such  as  at  first  suggested  itself  to  my  imagination,  would 
have  given  any  of  us  an  equal  pleasure  or  an  equal  sense  of  freedom. 
The  three  children  had  become  the  guests  of  the  whole  party.  Little 
Attilio,  propped  upon  an  air-cushion,  which  puzzled  him  exceedingly, 
ate  through  his  supper  and  drank  his  wine  with  solid  satisfaction,  open- 


A  GONDOLIEK'S  WEDDING.  81 

ing  the  large  brown  eyes  beneath  those  tufts  of  clustering  fair  hair  which 
promise  much  beauty  for  him  in  his  manhood.  Francesco's  boy,  who  is 
older  and  begins  to  know  the  world,  sat  with  a  semi-suppressed  grin 
upon  his  face,  as  though  the  humour  of  the  situation  was  not  wholly 
hidden  from  him.  Little  Teresa  too  was  happy,  except  when  her  mother, 
a  severe  Pomona,  with  enormous  earrings  and  splendid  fazzoletto  of 
crimson  and  orange  dyes,  pounced  down  upon  her  for  some  supposed  in- 
fraction of  good  manners — creanza,  as  they  vividly  express  it  here.  Only 
Luigi  looked  a  trifle  bored.  But  Luigi  has  been  a  soldier,  and  has  now 
attained  the  supercilious  superiority  of  young  manhood,  which  smokes 
its  cigar  of  an  evening  in  the  piazza  and  knows  the  merits  of  the  different 
cafes. 

The  great  business  of  the  evening  began  when  the  eating  was  over, 
and  the  decanters  filled  with  new  wine  of  Mirano  circulated  freely.  The 
four  best  singers  of  the  party  drew  together  ;  and  the  rest  prepared 
themselves  to  make  suggestions,  hum  tunes,  and  join  with  fitful  effect  in 
choruses.  Antonio,  who  is  a  powerful  young  fellow,  with  bronzed 
cheeks  and  a  perfect  tempest  of  coal-black  hair  in  flakes  upon  his  fore- 
head, has  a  most  extraordinary  soprano — sound  as  a  bell,  strong  as 
a  trumpet,  well-trained,  and  true  to  the  least  shade  in  intonation. 
Piero,  whose  rugged  Neptunian  features,  sea-wrinkled,  tell  of  a  rough 
water-life,  boasts  a  bass  of  resonant,  almost  pathetic,  quality.  Fran- 
cesco has  a  mezza  voce,  which  might,  by  a  stretch  of  politeness,  be 
called  baritone.  Piero's  comrade,  whose  name  concerns  us  not,  has 
another  of  these  nondescript  voices.  They  sat  together  with  their 
glasses  and  cigars  before  them,  sketching  part-songs  in  outline,  striking 
the  key-note — now  higher  and  now  lower — till  they  saw  their  subject 
well  in  view.  Then  they  burst  into  full  singing,  Antonio  leading  with 
a  metal  note  that  thrilled  one's  ears,  but  still  was  musical.  Complicated 
contrapuntal  pieces,  such  as  we  should  call  madrigals,  with  ever- 
reviving  refrains  of  "  Venezia,  gemma  Triatica,  sposa  del  mar,"  descending 
probably  from  ancient  days,  followed  each  other  in  quick  succession. 
Barcaroles,  serenades,  love-songs,  and  invitations  to  the  water,  were 
interwoven  for  relief.  One  of  these  romantic  pieces  had  a  beautiful  bur- 
den :  "  Dormi,  o  bella,  o  fingi  di  dormir,"  of  which  the  melody  was  fully 
worthy.  But  the  most  successful  of  all  the  tunes  were  two  with  a  sad 
motive.  The  one  repeated  incessantly  "  Ohime  !  Mia  madre  mori ; "  the 
other  was  a  girl's  love  lament :  "  Perche  tradirmi,  perch6  lasciarmi  !  prima 
d'  amarmi  non  eri  cosi !  "  Even  the  children  joined  in  these;  and  Catina,, 
who  took  the  solo  part  in  the  second,  was  inspired  to  a  great  dramatic 
effort.  All  these  were  purely  popular  songs.  The  people  of  Venice, 
however,  are  passionate  for  operas.  Therefore,  we  had  duets  and  solos 
from  "  Ernani,"  the  "Ballo  in  Maschera,"  and  the  "  Forza  del  Destino," 
and  one  comic  chorus  from  "  Boccaccio,"  which  seemed  to  make  them  wild 
with  pleasure.  To  my  mind,  the  best  of  these  more  formal  pieces  was  a 
duet  between  Attila  and  Italia  from  some  opera  unknown  to  me,  which 

VOL.  XLV. — NO.  265.  5. 


82  A  GONDOLIER'S  WEDDING. 

Antonio  and  Piero  performed  with  incomparable  spirit.  It  was  noticeable 
how,  descending  to  the  people,  sung  by  them  for  love  at  sea,  or  on  ex- 
cursions to  the  villages  round  Mestre,  these  operatic  reminiscences  had 
lost  something  of  their  theatrical  formality,  and  assumed  instead  the 
serious  gravity,  the  quaint  movement,  and  marked  emphasis  which 
belong  to  popular  music  in  northern  and  central  Italy.  An  antique 
character  was  communicated  even  to  the  recitative  of  Verdi  by  slight, 
almost  indefinable,  changes  of  rhythm  and  accent.  There  was  no  end 
to  the  singing.  "  Siamo  appassionati  per  il  canto,"  frequently  repeated, 
was  proved  true  by  the  profusion  and  variety  of  songs  produced  from 
inexhaustible  memories,  lightly  tried  over,  brilliantly  performed,  rapidly 
succeeding  each  other.  Nor  were  gestures  wanting — lifted  arms,  hands 
stretched  to  hands,  flashing  eyes,  hair  tossed  from  the  forehead — uncon- 
scious and  appropriate  action — which  showed  how  the  spirit  of  the 
music  and  words  alike  possessed  the  men.  One  by  one,  the  children  fell 
asleep.  Little  Attilio  and  Teresa  were  tucked  up  beneath  my  Scotch 
shawl  at  two  ends  of  a  great  sofa ;  and  not  even  his  father's  clarion  voice,  in 
the  character  of  Italia  defying  Attila  to  harm  "  le  mie  superbe  citta," 
could  wake  the  little  boy  \\p.  The  night  wore  on.  It  was  pist  one. 
Eustace  and  I  had  promised  to  be  in  the  church  of  the  Gesuati  at  six 
next  morning,  We,  therefore,  gave  the  guests  a  gentle  hint,  which  they 
as  gently  took.  With  exquisite,  because  perfectly  unaffected,  breeding 
they  sank  for  a  few  moments  into  common  conservation,  then  wrapped 
the  children  up,  and  took  their  leave.  It  was  an  uncomfortable,  warm, 
wet  night  of  sullen  Scirocco. 

The  next  day,  which  was  Sunday,  Francesco  called  me  at  five.  There 
was  no  visible  sunrise  that  cheerless  damp  October  morning.  Gray 
dawn  stole  somehow  imperceptibly  between  the  veil  of  clouds  and  leaden 
waters,  as  my  friend  and  I,  well-sheltered  by  onrfelze,  passed  into  the 
Giudecca,  and  took  our  station  before  the  church  of  the  Gesuati.  A  few 
women  from  the  neighbouring  streets  and  courts  crossed  the  bridges  in 
draggled  petticoats,  on  their  way  to  first  mass.  A  few  men,  shouldering 
their  jackets,  lounged  along  the  Zattere,  opened  the  great  green  doors, 
and  entered.  Then  suddenly  Antonio  cried  out  that  the  bridal  party 
was  on  its  way,  not  as  we  had  expected,  in  boats,  but  on  foot.  We  left 
our  gondola,  and  fell  into  the  ranks,  after  shaking  hands  with  Francesco, 
who  is  the  elder  brother  of  the  bride.  There  was  nothing  very  noticeable 
in  her  appearance,  except  her  large  dark  eyes.  Otherwise,  both  face  and 
figure  were  of  a  common  type ;  and  her  bridal  dress  of  sprigged  grey  silk, 
large  veil  and  orange  blossoms,  reduced  her  to  the  level  of  a  bourgeoise. 
It  was  much  the  same  with  the  bridegroom.  His  features,  indeed, 
proved  him  a  true  Venetian  gondolier ;  for  the  skin  was  strained  over 
the  cheekbones,  and  the  muscles  of  the  throat  beneath  the  jaws  stood 
out  like  cords,  and  the  bright  blue  eyes  were  deep-set  beneath  a  spare 
brown  forehead.  But  he  had  provided  a  complete  suit  of  black  for  the 
occasion,  and  wore  a  shirt  of  worked  cambric,  which  disguised  what  is 


A  GONDOLIER'S  WEDDING.  83 

really  splendid  in  the  physique  of  these  oarsmen,  at  once  slender  and 
sinewy.  Both  bride  and  bridegroom  looked  uncomfortable  in  their 
clothes.  The  light  that  fell  upon  them  in  the  church  was  dull  and 
leaden.  The  ceremony,  which  was  very  hurriedly  performed  by  an  unc- 
tuous priest,  did  not  appear  to  impress  either  of  them.  Nobody  in  the 
bridal  party,  crowding  together  on  both  sides  of  the  altar,  looked  as 
though  the  service  was  of  the  slightest  interest  and  moment.  Indeed, 
this  was  hardly  to  be  wondered  at :  for  the  priest,  so  far  as  I  could 
understand  his  gabble,  took  the  larger  portion  for  read,  after  muttering 
the  first  words  of  the  rubric.  A  little  carven  image  of  an  acolyte — a 
weird  boy  who  seemed  to  move  by  springs,  whose  hair  had  all  the  sem- 
blance of  painted  wood,  and  whose  complexion  was  white  and  red  like 
a  clown's — did  not  make  matters  more  intelligible  by  spasmodically 
clattering  responses. 

After  the  ceremony  we  heard  mass,  and  contributed  to  three  distinct 
offertories.  Considering  how  much  account  even  two  soldi  are  to  these 
poor  people,  I  was  really  angry  when  I  heard  the  copper  shower.  Every 
member  of  the  party  had  his  or  her  pennies  ready,  and  dropped  them 
into  the  boxes.  Whether  it  was  the  effect  of  the  bad  morning,  or  the 
ugliness  of  a  very  ill-designed  barocco  building,  or  the  fault  of  the  fat 
oily  priest,  I  know  not.  But  the  sposalizio  struck  me  as  tame  and 
cheerless,  the  mass  as  irreverent  and  vulgarly  conducted.  At  the  same 
time  there  is  something  too  impressive  in  the  mass  for  any  perfunctory 
performance  to  divest  its  symbolism  of  sublimity.  A  Protestant  Com- 
munion Service  lends  itself  more  easily  to  degradation  by  unworthiness 
in  the  minister. 

We  walked  down  the  church  in  double  file,  led  by  the  bride  and 
bridegroom,  who  had  knelt  during  the  ceremony  with  the  best  man — 
compare,  as  he  is  called — at  a  narrow  prie-dieu  before  the  altar.  The 
compare  is  a  person  of  distinction  at  these  weddings.  He  has  to  present 
the  bride  with  a  great  pyramid  of  artificial  flowers,  which  is  placed  before 
her  at  the  marriage-feast,  a  packet  of  candles,  and  a  box  of  bonbons. 
The  comfits,  when  the  box  is  opened,  are  found  to  include  two  magnifi- 
cent sugar  babies  lying  in  their  cradles.  I  was  told  that  a  compare,  who 
does  the  thing  handsomely,  must  be  prepared  to  spend  about  100  francs 
upon  these  presents,  in  addition  to  the  wine  and  cigars  with  which  he 
treats  his  friends.  On  this  occasion  the  women  were  agreed  that  he  had 
done  his  duty  well.  He  was  a  fat,  wealthy  little  man,  who  lived  by 
letting  market-boats  for  hire  on  the  Bialto. 

From  the  church  to  the  bride's  house  was  a  walk  of  some  three 
minutes.  On  the  way,  we  were  introduced  to  the  father  of  the  bride — a 
very  magnificent  personage,  with  points  of  strong  resemblance  to  Yittorio 
Emmanuele.  He  wore  an  enormous  broad-brimmed  hat  and  emerald 
green  earrings,  and  looked  considerably  younger  than  his  eldest  son, 
Francesco.  Throughout  the  nozze,  he  took  the  lead  in  a  grand  imperious 
fashion  of  his  own.  Wherever  he  went,  he  seemed  to  fill  the  place,  and 

6 — 2 


84  A  GONDOLIER'S  WEDDING. 

was  fully  aware  of  his  own  importance.  In  Florence  I  think  he  would 
have  got  the  nickname  of  Tacchin,  or  turkey-cock.  Here  at  Venice  the 
sons  and  daughters  call  their  parent  briefly  Vecchio.  I  heard  him  so 
addressed  with  a  certain  amount  of  awe,  expecting  an  explosion  of  bubbly- 
jock  displeasure.  But  he  took  it,  as  though  it  was  natural,  without  dis- 
turbance. The  other  Vecchio,  father  of  the  bridegroom,  struck  me  as  more 
sympathetic.  He  was  a  gentle  old  man,  proud  of  his  many  prosperous, 
laborious  sons.  They,  like  the  rest  of  the  gentlemen,  were  gondoliers. 
Both  the  Vecchi,  indeed,  continue  to  ply  their  trade,  day  and  night, 
at  the  traghetto. 

Traghetti  are  stations  for  gondolas  at  different  points  of  the  canals. 
As  their  name  implies,  it  is  the  first  duty  of  the  gondoliers  upon  them  to 
ferry  people  across.  This  they  do  for  the  fixed  fee  of  five  centimes.  The 
traghetti  are  in  fact  Venetian  cab-stands.  And,  of  course,  like  London 
cabs,  the  gondolas  may  be  taken  off  them  for  trips.  The  municipality, 
however,  makes  it  a  condition,  under  penalty  of  fine  to  the  traghetto, 
that  each  station  should  always  be  provided  with  two  boats  for  the  ser- 
vice of  the  ferry.  When  vacancies  occur  on  the  traghetti,  a  gondolier 
who  owns  or  hires  a  boat  makes  application  to  the  municipality, 
receives  a  number,  and  is  inscribed  as  plying  at  a  certain  station.  He 
has  now  entered  a  sort  of  guild,  which  is  presided  over  by  a  Capo- 
traghetto,  elected  by  the  rest  for  the  protection  of  their  interests,  the 
settlement  of  disputes,  and  the  management  of  their  common  funds.  In 
the  old  acts  of  Venice  this  functionary  is  styled  Gastaldo  di  traghetto. 
The  members  have  to  contribute  something  yearly  to  the  guild.  This 
payment  varies  upon  different  stations,  according  to  the  greater  or  less 
amount  of  the  tax  levied  by  the  municipality  on  the  traghetto.  The 
highest  subscription  I  have  heard  of  is  twenty-five  francs;  the  lowest,  seven. 
There  is  one  traghetto,  known  by  the  name  of  Madonna  del  Giglio  or 
Zobenigo,  which  possesses  near  its  pergola  of  vines  a  nice  old  brown 
Venetian  picture.  Some  stranger  offered  a  considerable  sum  for  this. 
But  the  guild  refused  to  part  with  it. 

As  may  be  imagined,  the  traghetti  vary  greatly  in  the  amount  and 
quality  of  their  custom.  By  far  the  best  are  those  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  hotels  upon  the  Grand  Canal.  At  any  one  of  these  a  gondolier 
during  the  season  is  sure  of  picking  up  some  foreigner  or  other  who  will 
pay  him  handsomely  for  comparatively  light  service.  A  traghetto  on  the 
Giudecca,  on  the  contrary,  depends  upon  Venetian  traffic.  The  work  is 
more  monotonous,  and  the  pay  is  reduced  to  its  tariffed  minimum.  So 
far  as  I  can  gather,  an  industrious  gondolier,  with  a  good  boat,  belonging 
to  a  good  traghetto,  may  make  as  much  as  ten  or  fifteen  francs  in  a  single 
day.  But  this  cannot  be  relied  on.  They  therefore  prefer  a  fixed  appoint- 
ment with  a  private  family,  for  which  they  receive  by  tariff  five  francs  a 
day,  or  by  arrangement  for  long  periods  perhaps  four  francs  a  day,  with 
certain  perquisites  and  small  advantages.  It  is  great  luck  to  get  such  an 
engagement  for  the  winter.  The  heaviest  anxieties  which  beset  a  gon- 


A  GONDOLIEE'S  WEDDING.  85 

dolier  are  then  disposed  of.     Having  entered  private  service,  they  are  not 
allowed  to  ply  their  trade  on  the  traghetto,  except  by  stipulation  with 
their  masters.     Then  they  may  take  their  place  one  night  out  of  every 
six  in  the  rank  and  file.    The  gondoliers  have  two  proverbs,  which  show 
how  desirable  it  is,  while  taking  a  fixed  engagement,  to  keep  their  hold 
on  the  traghelto.     One  is  to  this  effect :  il  traghetto  e  un  buon  padrone. 
The  other  satirizes  the  meanness  of  the  poverty-stricken  Venetian  nobility  : 
pompa  di  servitu,  misera  insegna.     When  they  combine  the  traghetto 
with   private   service,   the  municipality  insists  on  their  retaining  the 
number    painted  on  their  gondola;    and  against  this  their  employers 
frequently  object.    It  is,  therefore,  a  great  point  for  a  gondolier  to  make 
such  an  arrangement  with  his  master  as  will  leave  him  free  to  show 
his  number.      The  reason  for  this  regulation  is  obvious.     Gondoliers 
are  known  more  by  their  numbers  and  their  traghetti  than  their  names. 
They  tell  me  that  though  there  are  upwards  of  a  thousand  registered  in 
Venice,  each  man  of  the  trade  knows  the  whole  confraternity  by  face  and 
number.  Taking  all  things  into  consideration,  I  think  four  francs  a  day  the 
whole  year  round  are  very  good  earnings  for  a  gondolier.    On  this  he  will 
marry  and  rear  a  family,  and  put  a  little  money  by.     A  young  unmarried 
man,  working  at  two  and  a  half  or  three  francs  a  day,  is  proportionately 
well-to-do.  If  he  is  economical,  he  ought  upon  these  wages  to  save  enough 
in  two  years  to  buy  himself  a  gondola.     A  boy  from  fifteen  to  nineteen 
is  called  a  mezz'  uomo,  and  gets  about  one  franc  a  day.     A  new  gondola 
with  all  its  fittings  is  worth  about  a  thousand  francs.     It  does  not  last  in 
good  condition  more  than  six  or  seven  years.    At  the  end  of  that  time  the 
hull  will  fetch  eighty  francs.    A  new  hull  can  be  had  for  three  hundred 
francs.     The  old  fittings — brass  sea-horses  or  cavalli,  steel  prow  orferro, 
covered  cabin  or  felze,  cushions  and  leather-covered  back-board  or  stra- 
mazetto,  may  be  transferred  to  it.  When  a  man  wants  to  start  a  gondola,  he 
will  begin  by  buying  one  already  half  past  service — a  gondola  da  traghetto 
or  di  mezza  eta.  This  should  cost  him  something  over  two  hundred  francs. 
Little  by  little,  he  accumulates  the  needful  fittings ;  and  when  his  first 
purchase  is  worn  out,  he  hopes  to  set  up  with  a  well-appointed  equipage. 
He  thus  gradually  works  his  way  from  the  rough  trade  which  involves 
hard  work  and  poor  earnings  to  that  more  profitable  industry  which 
cannot  be  carried  on  without  a  smart  boat.     The  gondola  is  a  source  of 
continual  expense  for  repairs.     Its  oars  have  to  be  replaced.     It  has  to 
be  washed  with  sponges,  blacked,  and  varnished.     Its  bottom  needs  fre- 
quent cleaning.     Weeds  adhere  to  it  in  the  warm^brackish  water,  grow- 
ing rapidly  through  the  summer  months,  and  demanding  to  be  scrubbed 
on0  once  in  every  four  weeks.     The  gondolier  has  no  place  where  he  can 
do  this  for  himself.     He  therefore  takes  his  boat  to  a  wharf,  or  squero,  as 
the  place  is  called.     At  these  squeri  gondolas  are  built  as  well  as  cleaned. 
The  fee  for  a  thorough  setting  to  rights'of  the  boat  is  five  francs.     It 
must  be  done  upon  a  fine  day.     Thus  in  addition  tp  the  cost,  the  owner 
loses  a  good  day's  work. 


86  A  GONDOLIER'S  WEDDING. 

These  details  will  serve  to  give  some  notion  of  the  sort  of  people  with 
whom  Eustace  and  I  spent  our  day.  The  bride's  house  is  in  an  excellent 
position  on  an  open  canal  leading  from  the  Canalozzo  to  the  Giudecca. 
She  had  arrived  before  us,  and  received  her  friends  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  Each  of  us  in  turn  kissed  her  cheek  and  murmured  our  congratu- 
lations. We  found  the  large  living-room  of  the  house  arranged  with 
chairs  all  round  the  walls,  and  the  company  were  marshalled  in  some 
order  of  precedence,  my  friend  and  I  taking  place  near  the  bride.  On 
either  hand  airy  bedrooms  opened  out,  and  two  large  doors,  wide  open, 
gave  a  view  from  where  we  sat  of  a  good-sized  kitchen.  This  arrange- 
ment of  the  house  was  not  only  comfortable,  but  pretty ;  for  the  bright 
copper  pans  and  pipkins  ranged  on  shelves  along  the  kitchen  walls  had  a 
very  cheerful  effect.  The  walls  were  whitewashed,  but  literally  covered 
with  all  sorts  of  pictures.  A  great  plaster  cast  from  some  antique,  an 
Atys,  Adonis,  or  Paris,  looked  down  from  a  bracket  placed  between  the 
windows.  There  was  enough  furniture,  solid  and  well  kept,  in  all  the 
rooms.  Among  the  pictures  were  full-length  portraits  in  oils  of  two 
celebrated  gondoliers — one  in  antique  costume,  the  other  painted  a  few 
years  since.  The  original  of  the  latter  soon  came  and  stood  before  it. 
He  had  won  regatta  prizes ;  and  the  flags  of  four  discordant  colours  were 
painted  round  him  by  the  artist,  who  had  evidently  cared  more  to  com- 
memorate the  triumphs  of  his  sitter  and  to  strike  a  likeness  than  to  secure 
the  tone  of  his  own  picture.  This  champion  turned  out  a  fine  fellow — 
Corradini — with  one  of  the  brightest  little  gondoliers  of  thirteen  for  his 
son. 

After  the  company  were  seated,  lemonade  and  cakes  were  handed 
round  amid  a  hubbub  of  chattering  women.  Then  followed  cups  of 
black  coffee  and  more  cakes.  Then  a  glass  of  Cyprus  and  more  cakes. 
Then  a  glass  of  curacoa  and  more  cakes.  Finally,  a  glass  of  noyau  and 
still  more  cakes.  It  was  only  a  little  after  seven  in  the  morning.  Yet 
politeness  compelled  us  to  consume  these  delicacies.  I  tried  to  shirk  my 
duty ;  but  this  discretion  was  taken  by  my  hosts  for  well-bred  modesty ; 
and  instead  of  being  let  off,  I  had  the  richest  piece  of  pastry  and  the 
largest  maccaroon  available  pressed  so  kindly  on  me  that,  had  they  been 
poisoned,  I  would  not  have  refused  to  eat  them.  The  conversation  grew 
more  and  more  animated,  the  women  gathering  together  in  their  dresses 
of  bright  blue  and  scarlet,  the  men  lighting  cigars  and  puffing  out  a  few 
quiet  words.  It  struck  me  as  a  drawback  that  these  picturesque  people 
had  put  on  Sunday  clothes,  to  look  as  much  like  shopkeepers  as  possible. 
But  they  did  not  all  of  them  succeed.  Two  handsome  women,  who 
handed  the  cups  round — one  a  brunette,  the  other  a  blonde — wore  skirts  of 
brilliant  blue,  with  a  sort  of  white  jacket  and  white  kerchief  folded 
heavily  about  their  shoulders.  The  brunette  had  a  great  string  of  coral, 
the  blonde  of  amber,  round  her  throat.  Gold  earrings  and  the  long  gold 
chains  Venetian  women  wear,  of  all  patterns  and  degrees  of  value, 
abounded.  Nobody  appeared  without  them ;  but  I  could  not  see  any  of 


A  GONDOLIER'S  WEDDING.  87 

an  antique  make.  The  men  seemed  to  be  contented  with  rings — huge, 
heavy  rings  of  solid  gold,  worked  with  a  rough  flower  pattern.  One 
young  fellow  had  three  upon  his  fingers.  This  circumstance  led  me  to 
speculate  whether  a  certain  portion  at  least  of  this  display  of  jewellery 
around  me  had  not  been  borrowed  for  the  occasion. 

Eustace  and  I  were  treated  quite  like  friends.  They  called  us  I 
Signori.  But  this  was  only,  I  think,  because  our  English  names  are 
quite  unmanageable.  The  women  fluttered  about  us  and  kept  asking 
whether  we  really  liked  it  all,  whether  we  should  come  to  the  pranzo, 
whether  it  was  true  we  danced.  It  seemed  to  give  them  unaffected  plea- 
sure to  be  kind  to  us ;  and  when  we  rose  to  go  away,  the  whole  com- 
pany crowded  round,  shaking  hands  and  saying  :  "  Si  divertird,  bene 
stasera  !  "  Nobody  resented  our  presence ;  what  was  better,  no  one  put 
himself  out  for  us.  "  Vogliono  veder  il  nostro  costume,"  I  heard  one 
woman  say. 

We  got  home  soon  after  eight,  and,  as  our  ancestors  would  have  said, 
settled  our  stomachs  with  a  dish  of  tea.  It  makes  me  shudder  now  to 
think  of  the  mixed  liquids  and  miscellaneous  cakes  we  had  consumed 
at  that  unwonted  hour. 

At  half-past  three,  Eustace  and  I  again  prepared  ourselves  for  action. 
His  gondola  was  in  attendance,  covered  with  the  felze,  to  take  us  to  the 
house  of  the  sposa.  We  found  the  canal  crowded  with  poor  people  of 
the  quarter — men,  women,  and  children  lining  the  walls  along  its  side, 
and  clustering  like  bees  upon  the  bridges.  The  water  itself  was  almost 
choked  with  gondolas.  Evidently  the  folk  of  San  Vio  thought  our 
wedding  procession  would  be  a  most  exciting  pageant.  We  entered  the 
house,  and  were  again  greeted  by  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  who  con- 
signed each  of  us  to  the  control  of  a  fair  tyrant.  This  is  the  most  fitting 
way  of  describing  our  introduction  to  our  partners  of  the  evening ;  for 
we  were  no  sooner  presented,  than  the  ladies  swooped  upon  us  like  their 
prey,  placing  their  shawls  upon  our  left  arms,  while  they  seized  and 
clung  to  what  was  left  available  of  us  for  locomotion.  There  was  con- 
siderable giggling  and  tittering  throughout  the  company  Avhen  Signora 
Fenzo,  the  young  and  comely  wife  of  a  gondolier,  thus  took  possession  of 
Eustace,  and  Signora  dell'  Acqua,  the  widow  of  another  gondolier, 
appropriated  me.  The  affair  had  been  arranged  beforehand,  and  their 
friends  had  probably  chaffed  them  with  the  difficulty  of  managing  two 
mad  Englishmen.  However,  they  proved  equal  to  the  occasion,  and  the 
difficulties  were  entirely  on  our  side.  Signora  Fenzo  was  a  handsome 
brunette,  quiet  in  her  manners,  who  meant  business.  I  envied  Eustace 
his  subjection  to  such  a  reasonable  being.  Signora  dell'  Acqua,  though  a 
widow,  was  by  no  means  disconsolate ;  and  I  soon  perceived  that  it 
would  require  all  the  address  and  diplomacy  I  possessed  to  make  any- 
thing out  of  her  society.  She  laughed  incessantly ;  darted  in  the  most 
diverse  directions,  dragging  me  along  with  her;  exhibited  me  in  triumph 
to  her  cronies ;  made  eyes  at  me  over  a  fan ;  repeated  my  clumsiest 


88  A  GONDOLIER'S  WEDDING. 

remarks,  as  though  they  gave  her  indescribable  amusement;  and  all  the 
while  jabbered  Venetian  at  express  rate,  without  the  slightest  regard 
for  my  incapacity  to  follow  her  vagaries.  The  Vecchio  marshalled  us  in 
order.  First  went  the  Sposa  and  Comare  with  the  mothers  of  bride  and 
bridegroom.  Then  followed  the  Sposo  and  the  bridesmaid.  After  them 
I  was  made  to  lead  my  fair  tormentor.  As  we  descended  the  staircase 
there  arose  a  hubbub  of  excitement  from  the  crowd  on  the  canals.  The 
gondolas  moved  turbidly  upon  the  face  of  the  waters.  The  bridegroom 
kept  muttering  to  himself,  "  How  we  shall  be  criticised  !  They  will  tell 
each  other  who  was  decently  dressed,  and  who  stepped  awkwardly  into 
the  boats,  and  what  the  price  of  my  boots  was  !  "  Such  exclamations, 
murmured  at  intervals,  and  followed  by  chest-drawn  sighs,  expressed  a 
deep  preoccupation.  With  regard  to  his  boots  he  need  have  had  no 
anxiety.  They  were  of  the  shiniest  patent  leather,  much  too  tight,  and 
without  a  speck  of  dust  upon  them.  But  his  nervousness  infected  me 
with  a  cruel  dread.  All  those  eyes  were  going  to  watch  how  we  com- 
ported ourselves  in  jumping  from  the  landing-steps  into  the  boat !  If  this 
operation,  upon  a  ceremonious  occasion,  has  terrors  even  for  a  gondolier, 
how  formidable  it  ought  to  be  to  me  !  And  here  is  the  Signora  dell' 
Acqua's  white  cachemire  shawl  dangh'ng  on  one  arm,  and  the  Signora 
herself  languishingly  clinging  to  the  other  ;  and  the  gondolas  are  fret- 
ting in  a  fury  of  excitement,  like  corks,  upon  the  churned  green  water  ! 
The  moment  was  terrible.  The  Sposa  and  her  three  companions  had 
been  safely  stowed  away  beneath  their  felze.  The  Sposo  had  success- 
fully handed  the  bridesmaid  into  the  second  gondola.  I  had  to  perform 
the  same  office  for  my  partner.  Off  she  went,  like  a  bird,  from  the 
bank.  I  seized  a  happy  moment,  followed,  bowed,  and  found  myself  to 
my  contentment  gracefully  ensconced  in  a  corner  opposite  the  widow. 
Seven  more  gondolas  were  packed.  The  procession  moved.  We  glided 
down  the  little  channel,  broke  away  into  the  Grand  Canal,  crossed  it, 
and  dived  into  a  labyrinth  from  which  we  finally  emerged  before  our 
destination,  the  Trattoria  di  San  Gallo.  The  perils  of  the  landing  were 
soon  over ;  and,  with  the  rest  of  the  guests,  my  mercurial  companion 
and  I  slowly  ascended  a  long  flight  of  stairs  leading  to  a  vast  upper 
chamber.  Here  we  were  to  dine. 

It  had  been  the  gallery  of  some  palazzo  [in  old  days,  was  above 
one  hundred  feet  in  length,  fairly  broad,  with  a  roof  of  wooden 
rafters  and  large  windows  opening  on  a  courtyard  garden.  I  could 
see  the  tops  of  three  cypress  trees  cutting  the  grey  sky  upon  a  level 
with  us.  A  long  table  occupied  the  centre  of  this  room.  It  had 
been  laid  for  upwards  of  forty  persons,  and  we  filled  it.  There  was 
plenty  of  light  from  great  glass  lustres  blazing  with  gas.  When  the 
ladies  had  arranged  their  dresses,  and  the  gentlemen  had  exchanged  a 
few  polite  remarks,  we  all  sat  down  to  dinner — I  next  my  inexorable 
widow,  Eustace  beside  his  calm  and  comely  partner.  The  first  impres- 
sion was  one  of  disappointment.  It  looked  so  like  a  public  dinner  of 


A  GONDOLIEK'S  WEDDING.  89 

middle-class  people.  There  was  no  local  character  in  costume  or  cus- 
toms. Men  and  women  sat  politely  bored,  expectant,  trifling  with  their 
napkins,  yawning,  muttering  nothings  about  the  weather  or  their  neigh- 
bours. The  frozen  commonplaoeness  of  the  scene  was  made  for  me  still 
more  oppressive  by  Signora  dell'  Acqua.  She  was  evidently  satirical, 
and  could  not  be  happy  unless  continually  laughing  at  or  with  somebody. 
"  What  a  stick  the  woman  will  think  me  ! "  I  kept  saying  to  myself.  "  How 
shall  I  ever  invent  jokes  in  this  strange  land  ?  I  cannot  even  flirt  with  her 
in  Venetian  !  And  here  I  have  condemned  myself — and  her  too,  poor 
thing — to  sit  through  at  least  three  hours  of  mortal  dulness  !  "  Yet  the 
widow  was  by  no  means  unattractive.  Dressed  in  black,  she  had  con- 
trived by  an  artful  arrangement  of  lace  and  jewellery  to  give  an  air  of 
lightness  to  her  costume.  She  had  a  pretty  little  pale  face,  a  minois  chif- 
fonne,  with  slightly  turned-up  nose,  large  laughing  brown  eyes,  a  dazzling 
set  of  teeth,  and  a  tempestuously  frizzled  mop  of  powdered  hair.  When  I 
managed  to  get  a  side-look  at  her  quietly,  without  being  giggled  at  or 
driven  half  mad  by  unintelligible  incitements  to  a  jocularity  I  could  not 
feel,  it  struck  me  that,  if  we  once  found  a  common  term  of  communication 
we  should  become  good  friends.  But  for  the  moment  that  modus 
vivendi  seemed  unattainable.  She  had  not  recovered  from  the  first  ex- 
citement of  her  capture  of  me.  She  was  still  showing  me  off  and  trying 
to  stir  me  up.  The  arrival  of  the  soup  gave  me  a  momentary  relief; 
and  soon  the  serious  business  of  the  afternoon  began.  I  may  add  that 
before  dinner  was  over,  the  Signora  dell'  Acqua  and  I  were  fast  friends. 
I  had  discovered  the  way  of  making  jokes,  and  she  had  become  intelligible. 
I  found  her  a  very  nice,  though  flighty,  little  woman ;  and  I  believe  she 
thought  me  gifted  with  the  faculty  of  uttering  eccentric  epigrams  in  a 
grotesque  tongue.  Some  of  my  remarks  were  flung  about  the  table,  and 
had  the  same  success  as  uncouth  Lombard  carvings  have  with  connoisseurs 
in  naivetes  of  art.  By  that  time  we  had  come  to  be  Compare  and  Comare 
to  each  other — the  sequel  of  some  clumsy  piece  of  jocularity. 

It  was  a  heavy  entertainment,  copious  in  quantity,  excellent  in 
quality,  plainly  but  well  cooked.  I  remarked  there  was  no  fish.  The 
widow  replied  that  everybody  present  ate  fish  to  satiety  at  home.  They 
did  not  join  a  marriage  feast  at  the  San  Gallo,  and  pay  their  nine  francs, 
for  that !  It  should  be  observed  that  each  guest  paid  for  his  own  enter- 
tainment. This  appears  to  be  the  custom.  Therefore  attendance  is 
complimentary,  and  the  married  couple  are  not  at  ruinous  charges  for 
the  banquet.  A  curious  feature  in  the  whole  proceeding  had  its  origin, 
in  this  custom.  I  noticed  that  before  each  cover  lay  an  empty  plate,  and 
that  my  partner  began  with  the  first  course  to  heap  upon  it  what  she  had 
not  eaten.  She  also  took  large  helpings,  and  kept  advising  me  to  do  the 
same.  I  said  :  "  No  ;  I  only  take  what  I  want  to  eat ;  if  I  fill  that 
plate  in  front  of  me  as  you  are  doing,  it  will  be  great  waste."  This  re- 
mark elicited  shrieks  of  laughter  from  all  who  heard  it ;  and  when  the 
hubbub  had  subsided,  I  perceived  an  apparently  ofiicial  personage  bearing 

5—5 


90  A  GONDOLIER'S  WEDDING. 

down  upon.  Eustace,  who  was  in  the  same  perplexity.  It  was  then  cir- 
cumstantially explained  to  us  that  the  empty  plates  were  put  there  in 
order  that  we  might  lay  aside  what  we  could  not  conveniently  eat,  and 
take  it  home  with  us.  At  the  end  of  the  dinner  the  widow  (whom  I 
must  now  call  my  Comare}  had  accumulated  two  whole  chickens,  half  a 
turkey,  and  a  large  assortment  of  mixed  eatables.  I  performed  my  duty 
and  won  her  regard  by  placing  delicacies  at  her  disposition. 

Crudely  stated,  this  proceeding  moves  disgust.  But  that  is  only  be- 
cause one  has  not  thought  the  matter  out.  In  the  performance  there 
was  nothing  coarse  or  nasty.  These  good  folk  had  made  a  contract  at 
so  much  a  head — so  many  fowls,  so  many  pounds  of  beef,  etc.,  to  bo  sup- 
plied  ;  and  what  they  had  fairly  bought,  they  clearly  had  a  right  to.  No 
one,  so  far  as  I  could  notice,  tried  to  take  more  than  his  proper  share ; 
except,  indeed,  Eustace  and  myself.  In  our  first  eagerness  to  conform 
to  custom,  we  both  overshot  the  mark,  and  grabbed  at  disproportionate 
helpings.  The  waiters  politely  observed  that  we  were  taking  what  was 
meant  for  two ;  and  as  the  courses  followed  in  interminable  sequence,  we 
soon  acquired  the  tact  of  what  was  due  to  us. 

Meanwhile  the  room  grew  warm.  The  gentlemen  threw  off  their 
coats — a  pleasant  liberty  of  which  I  availed  myself,  and  was  immediately 
more  at  ease.  The  ladies  divested  themselves  of  their  shoes  (strange  to 
relate  !)  and  sat  in  comfort  with  their  stockinged  feet  upon  the  scagliola 
pavement.  I  observed  that  some  cavaliers  by  special  permission  were 
allowed  to  remove  their  partners'  slippers.  This  was  not  my  lucky  fate. 
My  comare  had  not  advanced  to  that  point  of  intimacy.  Healths  began 
to  be  drunk.  The  conversation  took  a  lively  turn ;  and  women  went 
fluttering  round  the  table,  visiting  their  friends,  to  sip  out  of  their  glass, 
and  ask  each  other  how  they  were  getting  on.  It  was  not  long  before  the 
stiff  veneer  of  bourgeoisie  which  bored  me  had  worn  off.  The  people 
emerged  in  their  true  selves :  natural,  gentle,  sparkling  with  en- 
joyment, playful.  Playful  is,  I  think,  the  best  word  to  describe  them. 
They  played  with  infinite  grace  and  innocence,  like  kittens,  from  the  old 
men  of  sixty  to  the  little  boys  of  thirteen.  Very  little  wine  was  drunk. 
Each  guest  had  a  litre  placed  before  him.  Many  did  not  finish  theirs ; 
and  for  very  few  was  it  replenished.  When  at  last  the  dessert  arrived, 
and  the  bride's  comfits  had  been  handed  round,  they  began  to  sing.  It 
was  very  pretty  to  see  a  party  of  three  or  four  friends  gathering  round 
some  popular  beauty,  and  paying  her  compliments  in  verse — they 
grouped  behind  her  chair,  she  sitting  back  in  it  and  laughing  up  to  them, 
and  joining  in  the  chorus.  The  words,  "  Brunetta  mia  simpatica,  ti  amo 
sempre  piu,"  sung  after  this  fashion  to  Eustace's  handsome  partner,  who 
puffed  delicate  whiffs  from  a  Russian  cigarette,  and  smiled  her  thanks, 
had  a  peculiar  appropriateness.  All  the  ladies,  it  may  be  observed  in 
passing,  had  by  this  time  lit  their  cigarettes.  The  men  were  smoking 
Toscani,  Bella,  or  Cavours,  and  the  little  boys  were  dancing  round  the 
table  breathing  smoke  from  their  pert  nostrils. 


A  GONDOLIER'S  WEDDING.  91 

The  dinner,  in  fact,  was  over.  Other  relatives  of  the  guests  arrived, 
and  then  we  saw  how  some  of  the  reserved  dishes  were  to  be  bestowed. 
A  side  table  was  spread  at  the  end  of  the  gallery,  and  these  late-comers 
were  regaled  with  plenty  by  their  friends.  Meanwhile,  the  big  table  at 
which  we  had  dined  was  taken  to  pieces  and  removed.  The  scagliola 
floor  was  swept  by  the  waiters.  Musicians  came  streaming  in  and  took 
their  places.  The  ladies  resumed  their  shoes.  Everyone  prepared  to  dance. 

My  friend  and  I  were  now  at  liberty  to  chat  with  the  men.  He  knew 
some  of  them  by  sight,  and  claimed  acquaintance  with  others.  There  was 
plenty  of  talk  about  different  boats,  gondolas,  and  sandolos  and  topos, 
remarks  upon  the  past  season,  and  inquiries  as  to  chances  of  engagements 
in  the  future.  One  young  fellow  told  us  how  he  had  been  drawn  for  the 
army,  and  should  be  obliged  to  give  up  his  trade  just  when  he  had  begun 
to  make  it  answer.  He  had  got  a  new  gondola,  and  this  would  have  to 
be  hung  up  during  the  years  of  his  service.  The  warehousing  of  a  boat 
in  these  circumstances  costs  nearly  one  hundred  francs  a  year,  which  is  a 
serious  tax  upon  the  pockets  of  a  private  in  the  line.  Many  questions 
were  put  in  turn  to  us,  but  all  of  the  same  tenor.  "  Had  we  really  en- 
joyed the  pranzo  1  Now,  really,  were  we  amusing  ourselves  ?  And 
did  we  think  the  custom  of  the  wedding  un  bel  costume  1 "  We  could 
give  an  unequivocally  hearty  response  to  all  these  interrogations.  The 
men  seemed  pleased.  Their  interest  in  our  enjoyment  was  unaffected. 
It  is  noticeable  how  often  the  word  divertimento  is  heard  upon  the  lips 
of  the  Italians.  They  have  a  notion  that  it  is  the  function  in  life  of  the 
signori  to  amuse  themselves. 

The  ball  opened,  and  now  we  were  much  besought  by  the  ladies.  I 
had  to  deny  myself  with  a  whole  series  of  comical  excuses.  Eustace  per- 
formed his  duty  after  a  stiff  English  fashion — once  with  his  pretty  partner 
of  the  pranzo,  and  once  again  with  a  fat  gondolier.  The  band  played 
waltzes  and  polkas,  chiefly  upon  patriotic  airs — the  Marcia  Reale, 
Garibaldi's  Hymn,  &c.  Men  danced  with  men,  women  with  women, 
little  boys  and  girls  together.  The  gallery  whirled  with  a  laughing 
crowd.  There  was  plenty  of  excitement  and  enjoyment — not  an  un- 
seemly or  extravagant  word  or  gesture.  My  Comare  careered  about  with 
a  light  maenadic  impetuosity,  which  made  me  regret  my  inability  to 
accept  her  pressing  invitations.  She  pursued  me  into  every  corner  of 
the  room,  but  when  at  last  I  dropped  excuses  and  told  her  that  my  real 
reason  for  not  dancing  was  that  it  would  hurt  my  health,  she  waived  her 
claims  at  once  with  an  Ah,  poverino  ! 

Some  time  after  midnight  we  felt  that  we  had  had  enough  of  diverti- 
mento. Francesco  helped  us  to  slip  out  unobserved.  With  many  silent  good 
wishes  we  left  the  innocent,  playful  people  who  had  been  so  kind  to  us. 
The  stars  were  shining  from  a  watery  sky  as  we  passed  into  the  piazza 
beneath  the  Campanile  and  the  pinnacles  of  S.  Mark.  The  Riva  was 
almost  empty,  and  the  little  waves  fretted  the  boats  moored  to  the 
,  as  a  warm  moist  breeze  went  fluttering  by.  We  smoked  a  last 


92  A  GONDOLIER'S  WEDDING. 

cigar,  crossed  our  iraghetto,  and  were  soon  sound  asleep  at  the  end  of  a 
long,  pleasant  day.  The  ball,  we  heard  next  morning,  finished  about 
four. 

Since  that  evening  I  have  had  plenty  of  opportunities  for  seeing  my 
friends  the  gondoliers,  both  in  their  own  homes  and  in  my  apartment. 
Several  have  entertained  me  at  their  midday  ineal  of  fried  fish  and 
amber-coloured  polenta.     These  repasts  were  always  cooked  with  scru- 
pulous cleanliness,  and  served  upon  a  table  covered  with  coarse  linen. 
The  polenta   is   turned   out  upon  a  wooden   platter,   and  cut   with   a 
string  called  lassa.     You  take  a  large  slice  of  it  on  the  palm  of  the 
left  hand,  and  break  it  with  the  fingers  of  the  right.     Wholesome  red 
wine  of  the  Paduan  district  and  good  white  bread  were  never  wanting. 
The  rooms  in  which  we  met  to  eat,  looked  out  on  nai'row  lanes  or  over  per- 
golas of  yellowing  vines.     Their  whitewashed  walls  were   hung  with 
photographs  of  friends  and  foreigners,  many  of  them  souvenirs  from 
English  or  American  employers.     The  men,  in  broad  black  hats  and  lilac 
shirts,  sat  round  the  table,  girt  with  the  red  waist-wrapper,  or  fascia, 
which  marks  the  ancient  faction  of  the  Castellani.     The  other  faction, 
called  Nicolotti,  are  distinguished  by  black  assisa.     The  quarters  of  the 
town  are  divided  unequally  and  irregularly  into  these  two  parties.  What 
formidable  rivalry  between  two  sections  of  the  Venetian  populace  still 
survives  in  challenges  to  trials  of  strength  and  skill  upon  the  water. 
The  women,  in  their  many-coloured  kerchiefs,  stirred  polenta  at  the 
smoke-blackened  chimney,  whose  huge  pent-house  roof  projects  two  feet 
or  more  across  the  hearth.     When  they  had  served  the  table  they  took 
their  seat  on  low  stools,  knitted  stockings,  or  drank  out  of  glasses  handed 
across  the  shoulder  to  them  by  their  lords.     Some  of  these  women  were 
clearly  notable  housewives,  and  I  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  they 
do  not  take  their  full  share  of  the  house- work.     Boys  and  girls  came  in 
and  out,  and  got  a  portion  of  the  dinner  to  consume  where  they  thought 
best.     Children  went  tottering  about  upon  the  red-brick  floor,  the  play- 
things of  those  hulking  fellows,  who  handled  them  very  gently  and  spoke 
kindly  in  a  sort  of  confidential  whisper  to  their  ears.     These  little  ears 
were  mostly  pierced  for  earrings,  and  the  light  blue  eyes  of  the  urchins 
peeped  maliciously  beneath  shocks  of  yellow  hair.     A  dog  was  often  of 
the  party.     He  ate  fish  like  his  masters,  and  was  made  to  beg  for  it  by 
sitting  up  and  bowing  with  his  paws.     Voga,  Azzo,  voga  !     The  Anzolo 
who  talked  thus  to  his  little  brown  Spitz-dog  has  the  hoarse  voice  of  a 
Triton,  and  the  movement  of  an  animated  sea-wave.     Azzo  performed 
his  trick,  swallowed  the  fish-bones,  and  the  fiery  Anzolo  looked  round 
approving. 

On  all  these  occasions  I  have  found  these  gondoliers  the  same  sym- 
pathetic, industrious,  cheery,  affectionate  folk.  They  live  in  many  respects 
a  hard  and  precarious  life.  The  winter  in  particular  is  a  time  of  anxiety 
and  sometimes  of  privation,  even  to  the  well-to-do  among  them.  Work 
then  is  scarce,  and  what  there  is,  is  rendered  disagreeable  to  them  by  the 


A  GONDOLIER'S  WEDDING.  93 

cold.  Yet  they  take  their  chance  with  facile  temper,  and  are  not  soured 
by  hardships.  The  amenities  of  the  Venetian  sea  and  air,  the  healthiness 
of  the  lagoons,  the  cheerful  bustle  of  the  poorer  quarters,  the  brilliancy 
of  this  ? outhern  sunlight,  and  the  beauty  which  is  everywhere  apparent, 
mast  be  reckoned  as  important  factors  in  the  formation  of  their  character. 
And  of  that  character,  as  I  have  said,  the  final  note  is  playfulness.  In 
spite  of  difficulties,  their  life  has  never  been  stem  enough  to  sadden 
them.  Bare  necessities  are  marvellously  cheap,  and  the  pinch  of  real  bad 
weather — such  frost  as  locked  the  lagoons  in  ice  two  years  ago,  or  such 
south-western  gales  as  flooded  the  basement  floors  of  all  the  houses  on  the 
Zattere — is  rare  and  does  not  last  long.  On  the  other  hand,  their  life  has 
never  been  so  lazy  as  to  reduce  them  to  the  savagery  of  the  traditional 
Neapolitan  lazzaroni.  They  have  had  to  work  daily  for  small  earnings, 
but  Under  favourable  conditions,  and  their  labour  has  been  lightened  by 
much  good  fellowship  among  themselves,  by  the  amusements  of  their 
feste  and  their  singing  clubs. 

Of  course  it  is  not  easy  for  a  stranger  in  a  very  different  social  position 
to  feel  that  he  has  been  admitted  to  their  confidence.  Italians  have  an 
ineradicable  habit  of  making  themselves  externally  agreeable,  of  bending 
in  all  indifferent  matters  to  the  wiims  and  wishes  of  superiors,  and  of 
saying  what  they  think  Signori  like.  This  habit,  while  it  smoothes 
the  surface  of  existence,  raises  up  a  barrier  of  compliment  and  partial 
insincerity,  against  which  the  more  downright  natures  of  us  northern 
folk  break  in  vain  efforts.  Our  advances  are  met  with  an  imperceptible 
but  impermeable  resistance  by  the  very  people  who  are  bent  on  making 
the  world  pleasant  to  us.  It  is  the  very  reverse  of  that  dour  opposition 
which  a  Lowland  Scot  or  a  North  English  peasant  offers  to  familiarity ; 
but  it  is  hardly  less  insurmountable.  The  treatment,  again,  which  Vene- 
tians of  the  lower  class  have  received  through  centuries  from  their  own 
nobility,  make  attempts  at  fraternisation  on  the  part  of  gentlemen  unin- 
telligible to  them.  The  best  way,  here  and  elsewhere,  of  overcoming 
these  obstacles  is  to  have  some  bond  of  work  or  interest  in  common — of 
service  on  the  one  side  rendered,  and  goodwill  on  the  other  honestly  dis- 
played. The  men  of  whom  I  have  been  speaking  will,  I  am  convinced, 
not  shirk  their  share  of  duty  or  make  unreasonable  claims  upon  the 
generosity  of  their  employers. 

J.  A.  S. 


94 


it 


THE  word  foo£  has  now  become  naturalised  in  the  English  language,  and 
needs  no  explanation. 

I  went  to  Delhi  in  the  month  of  November  1857,  on  a  visit  to  a 
military  friend  who  was  then  quartered  there.  It  will  be  remembered 
that  we  had  re-captured  the  rebellious  city,  after  a  siege  of  several  months, 
in  the  month  of  September.  As  we  had  attacked  the  city  from  one  side 
only,  most  of  the  inhabitants  had  fled  from  it  before  we  took  it.  They 
had  got  out  as  we  came  in.  For  a  great  fear  was  upon  them.  We  had 
then  expelled  almost  all  that  remained  behind  on  military  grounds.  We 
had  to  occupy  the  whole  city,  and  garrison  it  with  a  very  small  force. 
The  city  had  been  declared  confiscated  also. 

It  was  most  strange  to  ride  through  the  now  silent  streets  and  de- 
serted squares  of  the  great  city.  You  seemed  to  be  going  over  a  modern 
Pompeii.  There  did  not  come  over  you  the  strange  ghastly  feeling  of 
unreality  that  steals  over  you  in  Pompeii.  You  were  not  carried  into  a 
strange  new  world  of  sight  and  thought  and  feeling.  You  were  not 
weighed  upon  by  bye-gone  ages,  oppressed  by  Time.  Time  like  space  is 
a  most  oppressive  thought  to  the  human  mind.  And  any  of  the  great 
monuments  of  the  past,  such  as  Pompeii,  which  mark  off  some  portion 
of  its  boundlessness  cany  with  them  some  of  its  weight  and  mystery. 
But  it  was  the  contrary  of  these  things  with  the  similar  silentness 
and  desolation  that  weighed  upon  you.  Here  was  all  the  reality  of 
recent  life  ;  of  yesterday,  of  to-day.  But  still,  somehow,  there  was  here 
the  feeling  of  a  bye-gone  age.  The  city  could  not  have  been  alive 
yesterday,  that  was  so  silent  now.  It  seemed  somehow  a  thing  of 
the  past.  The  tide  of  war  had  not  flowed  through1" this  retired  street. 
There  had  been  richer  quarters  to  ransack.  Everything  stood  here  as  it 
had  been  left.  Here  stood  the  houses,  with  their  furniture,  poor,  but 
all  the  people  had  ;  here  were  the  shops  with  their  little  stock  of  goods 
still  on  the  counter.  But  there  was  no  human  being  in  the  houses,  or  in 
the  shops,  or  in  the  street.  There  was  no  going  in  and  out ;  no  standing 
up  and  sitting  down ;  no  sound  of  voices.  Dead  silence  reigned  over  all. 
If  it  is  impressive  in  Pompeii  to  see  in  the  streets  the  marks  of  the  wheels 
that  rolled  a  thousand  years  ago,  to  find  the  loaves  that  were  baked  but 
not  eaten  then,  it  was  also  impressive  here  to  find  the  cooking  pot  on 
the  fireplace ;  the  bread  in  the  dish ;  the  bed  laid  out  to  sleep  on ;  the  cart 
that  had  been  left  standing  at  the  door.  If  in  Pompeii  it  is  resurrection, 
here  it  was  sudden  death.  If  in  Pompeii  you  look  on  a  ghost,  here  you 
looked  on  a  dead  body  from  which  the  warmth  of  life  had  hardly  fled. 


A  BIT  OF  LOOT.  95 

Strangest  of  all  was  it  to  pass  through  the  Chandnee  Chouk,  the 
"  Moonlight"  or  "  Silver  Square,"  the  central  market-place,  and  find  it, 
too,  void  and  silent.  For  it  had  been  so  full  of  life  and  sound  and  move- 
ment but  a  short  time  before  as  it  is  again  to-day.  For  the  Chandnee 
Chouk  was  and  is  the  Regent  Street  and  Pall  Mall  combined  of  Delhi. 
And  Delhi  was  the  great  imperial  city  of  the  East.  More  than  Granada, 
more  than  Cordova,  more  even  than  Constantinople,  Delhi  has  been  the 
great  city  of  the  Mahomedan  conquest.  To  the  followers  of  the  Prophet 
the  fondest  and  proudest  memories  hung  about  it.  It  was  the  capital 
of  the  greatest  empire  over  which  the  crescent  had  shone  and  held  sway. 
It  marked  their  proudest  conquest. 

Here  the  triumphs  of  the  faith  had  culminated.  Here  stood  the 
proudest  monuments  of  their  art.  Here  they  had  erected  a  great 
palace-fortification ;  built  lovely  chambers  and  halls ;  raised  the  loftiest 
and  most  beautiful  shrines.  To  the  Mahomedan  of  India  the  lines 
inscribed  on  the  walls  of  one  of  those  chambers — "  If  there  be  a  heaven 
upon  earth  it  is  here,"  applied  to  the  whole  city.  It  was  his  favourite 
dwelling-place.  It  was  the  seat  of  government ;  the  centre  of  trade  and 
commerce  and  the  industrial  arts ;  the  seat  of  learning  and  religious 
instruction  ;  of  good  manners  and  polite  speech ;  the  centre  of  pleasure. 
To  it  came  the  courtier,  the  student,  the  devotee,  the  trader,  and  the 
man  of  pleasure.  Even  now,  when  there  is  no  longer  here  the  court  of 
the  Great  Mogul,  it  is  the  favourite  dwelling-place  of  the  Mahomedan 
nobles,  even  of  the  Hindoo  princes,  of  that  part  of  India.  You  find 
Mussulman  orientalism  in  full  perfection  in  three  cities  only — in  Damas- 
cus, in  Cairo,  and  in  Delhi. 

But  a  few  months  before  the  Chandnee  Chouk  at  midday  had  been 
one  of  the  most  bright,  gay,  glittering,  bustling,  picturesque  places  that 
you  could  see.  The  whole  place  shone  and  sparkled.  In  the  dresses  of 
the  people  were  to  be  seen  all  the  colours  of  the  rainbow,  as  bright  as 
you  see  them  in  the  sky.  Twenty  different  kinds  of  robe  and  head-dress 
went  by  you  in  a  few  minutes.  For  here  came  together,  people  from  all 
parts,  not  only  of  India,  but  of  Asia.  The  shops  on  either  side  were 
filled  with  glistening  goods.  The  two  driving  roads  on  either  side  of  the 
broad  street  were  thronged  with  vehicles.  Here  went  by  the  English- 
made  barouche  with  its  pair  of  horses,  and  the  canopied  "  Ruth,"  looking 
like  a  pagoda  on  wheels,  drawn  by  a  tall  and  lordly  pair  of  bullocks. 
Here  went  by  the  elephants  with  gaudy  housings,  whisking  their  trunks 
and  looking  about  them  with  their  little  eyes.  They  looked  like  little 
mountains  which  had  walked  away  with  the  castles  on  their  tops.  The 
men,  and  even  the  women,  from  neighbouring  Rajpootana  went  by  on 
their  high-bred  camels.  The  young  dandies  of  the  place  rode  about  on 
their  capering,  curvetting  horses,  with  coloured  legs  and  tail  and  plaited 
mane.  The  central  walk,  with  its  avenue  of  trees  and  the  canal  down 
its  middle,  was  thronged  with  people  on  foot.  The  place  was  full  of 
the  voices  of  the  people  and  the  cries  of  the  itinerant  vendors.  "  Melons, 


96  A  BIT  OF  LOOT. 

sweet  melons ! " — "  Here  are  roses  and  sweet  jessamine ! " — "  Cakes  fresh 
and  hot ! " — "  Sugar-cane  and  water  nuts !" — "  Whey,  sweet  whey !  "  The 
beggars  were  calling  "  Take  thought  of  the  poor." — "  Remember  the 
needy." — "  Feed  the  hungry  in  Allah's  name."  And  everywhere  was 
the  tinkling  of  the  little  brass  cups  of  the  water-carriers,  and  their 
musical  cry  of  "  Water  for  the  thirsty,  water ! "  For  no  voice  is  so 
harsh  that  it  could  make  the  word  for  water  other  than  musical  and 
sweet  sounding. 

Most  strange  was  it,  then,  to  ride  through  this  street  and  find  it 
quite  silent,  empty,  and  deserted ;  with  no  sound  in  it  but  the  echoes, 
tar  reaching  through  the  void,  of  the  horse's  hoofs. 

For  the  first  three  or  four  days  after  the  capture  of  the  city,  our 
troops  had  been  allowed  the  privilege  of  individual  plunder  in  the  city, 
but  not  in  the  palace.  They  could  hardly  have  been  restrained  from 
this,  in  fact.  Being  allowed  this,  they  submitted  without  murmur  to  the 
subsequent  stoppage;  which,  in  fact,  was  for  their  own  advantage. 
For  all  the  contents  of  the  town  had  been  declared  confiscated,  and  the 
prize  of  the  victorious  army.  Then  came  the  more  systematic  gathering 
together  of  the  spoil.  A  committee  of  military  officers  was  appointed  to 
do  this,  to  act  as  prize  agents.  Leaving  aside  the  customs  of  war,  this 
confiscation  was  not  held  an  undue  exercise  of  the  right  of  conquest  even 
by  the  people  themselves,  for  they  had  looked  for  sack  and  massacre,  and 
the  razing  of  the  city  to  the  ground ;  not  for  resistance  to  a  foreign 
power,  but  for  cruelty  and  treachery,  and  the  murder  of  innocent  women 
and  children.  Being  a  walled-in  city,  the  gathering  together  of  the 
valuables  in  it  could  be  gone  on  with  leisurely,  for  nothing  was  allowed 
in  or  out  of  the  gates  without  a  pass  or  scrutiny.  By  the  middle  of 
November,  which  was  the  time  I  went  there,  what  with  the  first  put- 
ting in  of  the  hand  of  the  troops,  and  the  subsequent  labours  of  the  prize 
agents,  most  of  the  things  of  any  value  in  the  town  had  been  carried 
away  or  gathered  in  the  store-rooms  of  the  agents.  But  to  bury  money 
and  jewels  and  precious  stones  in  the  ground  has  always  been  a  custom  in 
the  East.  A  hole  in  the  earth  is  the  favourite  bank.  And  in  so  large  a 
city,  with  its  labyrinth  of  streets,  its  smaller  squares  inside  bigger  squares, 
and  courtyards  within  these,  there  were  many  nooks  and  corners  which 
had  not  been  searched  thoroughly,  some  not  even  visited.  So  all  search, 
especially  for  hidden  and  buried  things,  had  not  been  given  up.  The 
prize  agents  gave  permission  to  others  besides  their  own  staff  of  men 
to  search,  on  condition  of  the  articles  found  being  delivered  up  to  them, 
they  paying  a  certain  percentage  on  the  estimated  value.  Of  course,  if  a 
man  found  a  very  large  pearl  or  emerald  or  diamond,  whether  he  put  it 
into  his  waistcoat  pocket,  or  took  it  to  the  prize  agents,  had  to  be  left  to 
his  honour  and  conscience.  But  the  prize  agents  gave  the  permission 
only  to  men  they  thought  would  bring  them.  They  had  taken  posses- 
sion of  all  the  places  where  there  was  likely  to  be  any  great  store  of 
silver  and  gold  and  jewels  and  valuable  property ;  such  as  the  palace  of 


A  BIT   OF  LOOT.  97 

the  king,  the  houses  of  the  princes  and  chief  noblemen  and  bankers. 
And  they  had  reaped  the  more  open  fields  so  closely  that  they  thought 
they  had  not  left  very  much  for  the  gleaners. 

The  friend  with  whom  I  was  staying  had  peculiar  facilities  for  the 
search  for  hidden  treasure.  From  the  nature  of  his  duties  and  his  omcial 
position,  he  could  go  where  he  liked,  enter  any  house,  dig  in  any  spot, 
without  let  or  hindrance.  I  accompanied  him  one  day  on  one  of  his 
rounds.  He  meant  to  penetrate  into  one  of  the  remoter  quarters  of  the 
town.  As  we  approached  it  the  chill  silence  became  almost  oppressive. 
The  dead  stillness  was  not  a  thing  of  nought,  but  had  a  dreary  weight, 
an  actual  presence.  It  hung  about  you,  clung  round  you.  On  the 
populous  city  had  come  the  loneliness  and  desolation  of  the  desert. 
There  seemed  a  strange  uselessness  about  the  paved  streets  and  the  tall 
houses  and  warehouses.  In  the  dwelling-places  was  no  longer  heard  the 
sound  of  the  millstones,  or  seen  the  light  of  the  candle.  It  was  the  cold, 
still,  ghastly  face  of  a  corpse :  eye- gate,  ear-gate,  mouth-gate  closed. 
These  feelings  deepened  as  we  got  into  the  narrower  streets,  some  only 
ten  or  twelve  feet  broad,  with  the  houses  rising  to  great  heights  on 
either  side,  and  presenting  for  long  distances  only  a  blank  bare  surface 
of  wall  to  the  street.  The  air  was  dank  and  chill.  The  eye  saw  from 
one  end  of  the  long  narrow  street  to  the  other  as  when  you  look  down 
an  empty  corridor.  The  sound  of  our  footsteps  made  strange  echoes 
down  it.  The  sound  of  each  footfall  was  sharply  repeated  ;  floated  away  ; 
lived  and  lasted  for  long  distances ;  re-echoed  in  distant  squares  and 
courtyards;  made  a  faint  current  of  sound  down  the  corridors  by  their 
side,  and  ruffled  the  pools  of  silence  in  distant  chambers.  It  was  a  relief 
to  have  to  make  a  detour  through  a  more  open  street,  where  there  was 
some  movement,  and  the  signs  of  the  recent  conflict  took  off1  one's 
thoughts  from  the  brooding  silence.  There  had  been  a  sharp  fight  in  this 
street ;  in  some  places  the  sides  of  the  houses  were  scored  with  lines  like 
a  sheet  of  music  paper,  showing  the  heavy  volleys  that  had  been  fired 
down  it. 

The  cats  glared  at  you  from  the  tops  of  walls  like  young  tigers.  They 
had  grown  to  a  monstrous  size.  They  looked  to  the  full  as  fierce  and 
cruel  and  bloodthirsty  as  tigers,  for  they  had  been  revelling  on  human 


In  these  remote  parts  of  the  town  you  encountered  to  the  full  as 
many  "  well  defined  and  several  stinks  "  as  have  been  credited  to  the  city 
of  Cologne.  My  friend  had  become  quite  learned  in  distinguishing 
these. 

"  Hum ! "  he  said,  as  we  passed  one  corner,  "  that  is  a  horse." 
"  Phew  !  "  he  cried,  as  we  turned  another,  "  that  is  a  camel."  And,  sure 
enough,  after  a  time  we  came  on  the  carcases  of  the  animals  he  had  men- 
tioned. 

We  once  more  turned  into  -the  quarter  into  whose  depths  we  meant 
to  penetrate.  This  single  excursion  gave  me  a  better  idea  of  the  plan  of 


98  A  BIT  OF  LOOT. 

a  native  town  than  I  should  otherwise  ever  have  obtained.  For  English 
people,  unless  taken  by  official  duties,  very  rarely  go  into  the  native 
towns  by  whose  sides  they  live.  An  Englishman  may  have  been  six  or 
seven  years  at  Agra  or  Allahabad,  and  never  have  entered  the  native 
town,  or  have  driven  only  once  or  twice  down  the  main  street. 

Security  and  privacy  are  the  two  main  objects  the  native  aims  at  in 
the  location  as  well  as  the  plan  of  his  house.  He  does  not  mind  the 
vicinity  of  a  mass  of  poor  houses ;  he  welcomes  a  network  of  narrow 
winding  lanes  and  streets.  Nothing  is  more  striking  than  the  contrast 
between  the  wide,  open,  defenceless  English  station,  with  its  straw-roofed 
bungalows,  and  the  close-built  native  town  by  its  side.  The  conquerors 
hold  the  land  in  villas,  and  the  conquered  dwell  in  the  fenced-in  cities. 
In  early  ages  houses  were  built  primarily  for  defence,  for  every  man's 
house  had  then  literally  to  be  his  castle.  In  the  East  the  plan  of  all 
houses  above  the  mere  hut  or  shed  is  the  same — that  of  a  square  with 
a  courtyard  in  the  centre,  access  to  which  is  obtained  by  means  of 
a  single  doorway  or  gateway.  When  the  gates  are  closed  the  house  is 
a  small  fort,  with  the  household  for  garrison.  Then  again  the  quarters 
in  which  dwell  the  men  of  the  same  caste,  trade,  or  profession,  form 
separate  blocks  in  the  town,  access  to  which  is  obtained  through  one  or 
two  gateways  only.  Take,  for  instance,  the  plan  of  the  Mohulla,  or 
quarter  into  which  we  were  now  making  our  way.  Between  two  of  the 
main  streets  of  the  town,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  apart,  ran  a  narrow 
connecting  street  at  right  angles  to  them.  On  either  side  of  this  narrow 
street  lay  the  Mohulla,  with  its  narrow  lanes  and  internal  squares.  The 
only  way  to  enter  the  quarter  was  from  either  end  of  the  central  street, 
and  the  ingress  was  guarded  at  those  points  by  lofty  gateways  and  mas- 
sive gates.  In  times  of  danger  those  would  be  the  first  points  guarded  by 
the  inhabitants  of  the  quarter.  If  they  were  forced,  then  would  come 
the  separate  defence  of  each  of  the  better-class  houses.  If  the  owner  of 
one  of  these  was  a  resolute  man,  had  a  large  number  of  well-armed 
retainers,  and  had  laid  in  a  stock  of  food  enough,  he  could  make  a  stub- 
born and  lengthy  defence.  The  well  in  the  courtyard  would  furnish  the 
small  garrison  with  water. 

As  we  penetrated  into  this  quarter  the  chill,  due  to  the  long  shut-up 
houses,  the  absence  of  fires,  the  want  of  movement,  became  greater ;  the 
silence  deepened,  and  we  seemed  to  have  passed  away  from  the  outer 
world,  though  surrounded  by  the  habitations  of  men. 

It  was  strange  to  pass  through  the  wicket  of  a  lofty  gateway,  and 
find  yourself  alone  in  a  silent  courtyard  surrounded  by  empty  rooms. 
In  one  of  these  the  beauty  of  the  buildings,  the  long  arcades  with  their 
horse-shoe  arches  resting  on  slender  pillars  of  stone,  the  balconies  resting 
on  brackets  each  one  of  which  was  a  fine  piece  of  sculpture,  and  the 
beautifully  pierced  panels  of  stone,  showed  that  it  had  belonged  to  some 
rich  Mohamedan  nobleman  or  Hindoo  banker. 

"  There  should  be  something  here,"  said  my  practical  friend.     The 


A  BIT  OF  LOOT.  99 

upper  rooms  on  that  side,  with  their  lace-like  marble  lattices,  signs  of 
jealous  privacy,  had  been  the  dwelling-place  of  the  women,  the  Zenana. 
Those  lower  rooms  had  been  thronged  with  servants.  But  where  was 
now  the  pleasant  bustle  of  domestic  and  social  life,  the  coming  and  going, 
the  cheerful  voices,  and  the  light-hearted  laughter  ?  War  is  not  a  plea- 
sant thing.  It  is  hard  that  its  evils  should  fall  on  women  and  children, 
and  not  be  confined  to  the  strong  men.  The  humble  bedsteads,  the 
earthenware  cooking  pots  of  the  servants,  stood  as  they  had  been  left. 
The  head-stalls  and  heel-ropes  marked  where  the  horses  had  stood.  The 
water-pot  stood  by  the  side  of  the  well.  The  solitary  palm-tree  in  a 
corner  of  the  courtyard  looked  sad  and  lonely,  and  its  leaves  rustled  with 
a  mournful  sound.  To  us  the  bareness  of  the  rooms  did  not  add  to  the 
feeling  of  desolation  as  it  would  have  to  those  who  were  not  acquainted, 
like  ourselves,  with  the  usual  want  of  what  we  call  furnishing  in  the 
houses  of  the  natives.  Bedsteads,  and  rough  chests  in  which  to  keep 
clothes,  often  form  the  only  "  articles  of  furniture  "  in  the  house  of  a 
well-to-do  native,  unless  we  bring  under  that  category  the  clothes  #nd 
carpets,  the  cooking  pots,  and  the  brass  vessels  to  eat  and  drink  out  of. 

To  one  fresh  from  England,  the  complete  absence  of  chairs,  tables, 
sofas,  bookshelves,  sideboards,  wardrobes,  and  all  the  other  articles  in  an 
English  home,  would  make  the  Indian  dwelling-place  look  very  empty. 
I  once  went  to  visit  a  Hindoo  Rajah  who  lived  in  a  castle  which  his 
father  had  held  against  us  for  some  time.     Setting  aside  his  wife's  apart- 
ments, which  he  only  visited,  he  lived  in  one  room.     This  room  was 
carpeted,  and  one  side  of  it,  before  some  open  windows,  was  occupied 
by  a  large  wooden  dais  raised  above  the  ground.  This  dai's  was  also  covered 
with  a  handsome  carpet,  and  had  on  it  many  large  silk-covered  pillows  and 
bolsters.     This  dais  was  really  the  old  man's  dwelling-place.     This  was 
his  bedroom,   dining-room,    drawing-room.       Here    he  sat  or   reclined 
during  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  and  here  he  slept  at  night;  here  he 
took  his  meals  out  of  the  one  or  two  dishes  that  sufficed  to  hold  them  ; 
here  he  did  his  work ;  here  he  received  his  friends  and  visitors ;  here 
his  bed  was  spread  for  him  at  night.     The  marks  of  wealth  and  position 
and  superior  comfort  were  in  the  large  uncut  emeralds  that  hung  in  his 
ears,  in  the   fineness  of  the  muslin  that  he  wore ;  the  richness  of  the 
shawls  about  him,  the  silver  legs  that  upheld  the  dai's,  its  rich  covering, 
the  silken  or  brocaded  bolsters ;  in  the  crowd  of  retainers  who  waited 
without ;  in  all  that  he  ate  being  raised  and  cooked  by  Brahmins ;  in 
his  eating  out  of  a  silver  dish,  and   drinking  out  of  a  silver  cup.     The 
rich  man  in  India  spends  his  money  on  the  architecture  of  his  house,  in 
rich  carpets  and  bed  covers,  in  valuable  shawls,  in  rich  dresses  for  his 
wives  and  children  (on  the  latter  he  will  put  solid  anklets  and  armlets 
of  silver  and  of  gold),  in  horses  or  fast- trotting  bullocks,  and  in  many 
vehicles ;  in  a  host  of  servants  and  armed  retainers,  in  great  feasts  on 
the  occasion  of  a  marriage. 

But  to  return  to  the  courtyard  we  had  entered.     It  was  strange  to 


JOO  A  BIT  OF  LOOT. 

find  oneself  in  possession  of  another  man's  house,  to  be  able  to  go  where 
one  liked,  and  do  what  one  liked  in  it.  It  was  strange  to  find  oneself 
breaking  open  another  man's  strong  box,  and  rifling  it  of  its  contents. 
There  is  a  pleasurable  excitement  in  it ;  it  is  a  new  sensation.  The  odd 
thing  in  battle  must  be  to  find  yourself  authorised  to  kill  anyone  you 
can.  It  was  strange  to  find  oneself  an  authorised  burglar,  a  permitted 
thief.  Allowing  fully  the  great  and  noble  difference,  yet  in  war  time 
one  does  go  through  some  of  the  processes  of  murder,  burglary,  and  theft. 

The  quick  eye  of  my  friend  detected  signs  of  habitation  in  a  small 
side  room  in  one  corner  of  the  courtyard.  "  There  is  someone  in  there," 
he  said. 

A  flight  of  steps  led  up  to  it.  We  went  up  these  cautiously.  The 
door  at  the  top  of  them,  leading  into  the  chamber,  was  partially  hidden 
by  a  heap  of  brambles,  apparently  put  there  to  impede  the  way.  Re- 
moving these,  he  found  the  door  closed.  It  resisted  all  his  efforts  to 
open  it,  though  it  seemed  fragile  enough. 

"  There  is  someone  behind  it,"  said  my  friend ;  "  I  hear  his  breathing." 
He  called  loudly  through  the  chinks,  and  told  the  man  to  open  the 
door,  and  that  no  harm  would  be  done  him.  There  was  no  answer  to 
his  repeated  calls.  At  last  he  said — 

"  Open  the  door  and  trust  to  us ;  we  will  not  harm  you ;  if  you  do 
not,  I  will  bring  some  soldiers,  and  they  will  not  spare  you." 

The  door  was  slowly  opened,  and  an  old  man  peered  out  at  us.  The 
wild,  frightened,  hungry  look  in  his  eyes  startled  us.  His  long  white 
hair  and  long  white  beard  showed  that  he  was  a  very  old  man.  But 
the  hollow  cheeks  and  hollow  stomach,  the  protruding  ribs,  the  wrinkled 
skin,  were  not  due  to  old  age  alone.  His  long  lean  fingers,  his  fleshless 
arms  and  legs,  were  like  those  of  a  skeleton.  He  was  a  very  tall  man, 
and  as  he  stood  on  his  long  lean  shanks,  his  hip-bones  stood  sharply  out, 
and  the  bend  in  his  body  made  the  hollow  in  his  stomach  still  more 
dreadful.  The  poor  wretch  shivered  and  trembled  from  weakness,  from 
hunger,  and  from  fear.  He  looked  as  if  he  was  at  the  last  extremity  of 
starvation.  When  at  length  we  got  him  to  tell  us  his  story  in  trembling 
accents,  it  appeared  that  he  had  somehow  been  left  behind  when  the  rest 
of  the  household  had  left  the  place.  He  was  a  feeble  man,  and  could 
not  move  fast.  Afterwards  he  had  been  afraid  to  venture  out  into  the 
streets  by  himself.  The  people  had  sent  all  their  property  and  valuables 
away  long  before  the  time  of  our  assault — the  old  man  dwelt  very 
much  on  this  point — and  so  at  the  time  of  the  assault  they  had  been 
able  to  move  rapidly  away.  They  had  left  the  flour  they  had  laid  in 
for  ordinary  domestic  use  behind,  however,  and  this  he  had  brought  up 
into  this  lonely  chamber,  and  cooked  himself  some  cakes  once  or  twice  a 
week,  for  he  was  afraid  lest  the  fire  should  betray  him.  It  had  only 
just  sufficed  to  keep  him  alive.  The  constant  fear  of  discovery  had  been 
every  hour  of  each  day  a  torment  to  him,  he  said.  He  slept  but  little  at 
night.  He  had  always  been  a  well-wisher  of  the  British  Government. 


A  BIT   OF  LOOT;  lOl 

He  was  now  sick  unto  death,  and  a  pool-  feeble  old  man.  If  he  did  not 
get  some  nourishment  soon,  he  should  die.  My  friend  had  his  orderly 
with  him,  and  told  him  to  take  the  old  man  to  his  quarters,  and  get 
him  some  food  at  once.  But  the  old  man  fell  at  his  feet  and  clasped 
his  knees,  and  begged  him  not  to  send  him  with  the  Sikh  sepoy.  He 
was  sure  he  would  kill  him  on  the  way.  Let  the  merciful  Sahibs  come 
with  him.  There  was  nothing  in  that  place  to  search  for — nothing.  But 
my  friend  told  him  he  must  go  with  the  orderly,  and  so  he  went  off, 
weeping  and  trembling. 

We  then  went  over  the  house.  We  broke  open  one  or  two  chests 
we  found  in  some  of  the  rooms,  but  there  was  nothing  in  them  but  quilts 
and  coverlets  and  the  ordinary  clothing  of  the  people.  I  appropriated 
a  rather  prettily  embroidered  skull-cap,  and  a  pair  of  slippers  gaily 
decked  with  tinsel.  I  also  found,  lying  on  the  floor  of  one  of  the  rooms, 
a  copy  of  the  poems  of  Hafiz,  very  handsomely  bound,  and  of  exqui- 
site penmanship,  which  also  I  determined  to  carry  away,  to  convey.  In 
one  room  was  a  great  heap  of  brass  and  copper  vessels.  These  it  was 
not  worth  our  while,  of  course,  to  take  away ;  and  some  of  them,  those 
most  valuable  from  the  metal  in  them — were  too  bulky  to  be  moved. 

"  I  am  rather  surprised  to  find  so  little  of  any  value  here,"  said  my 
friend.  "  The  people  who  lived  here  must  have  been  wealthy.  I  sup- 
pose they  removed  all  their  valuables  early  in  the  siege,  as  the  old  man 
said." 

As  I  have  said  before,  the  plan  of  the  buildings  was  the  usual  one, 
that  of  a  hollow  square ;  the  courtyard  in  the  middle  being  a  large  one. 
The  lower  story  of  the  side  of  the  square  in  which  the  gateway  was — 
the  buildings  were  two-storied — had  a  long  open  corridor,  used  for 
stabling  the  bullocks  and  horses.  The  lower  story  of  the  opposite  side 
of  the  square  was  closed  in  and  used,  like  the  story  above  it,  for  a 
dwelling-place  ;  here  being,  in  fact,  the  Zenana.  The  lower  stories  of  the 
other  two  sides  of  the  square  consisted  simply  of  open  arcades  with 
Moorish  arches  resting  on  slender  pillars.  At  the  end  of  one  of  these 
verandahs,  on  a  rude  bedstead,  lay  the  dead  body  of  a  Sepoy,  still 
clothed  in  the  full  uniform  of  the  East  India  Company,  in  which,  it 
may  be,  the  man  had  fought  many  a  battle  for  the  Company,  and  now 
had  fought  this  one  against  it.  He  had  no  doubt  been  wounded  in  the 
fight  in  the  streeb  not  far  off,  and  had  crept  into  this  quiet  place  to  die. 
His  bayonet  lay  on  the  floor  by  the  side  of  the  bedstead. 

The  gateway  leading  into  the  courtyard  was  not  in  the  middle  of 
that  side  of  the  square,  but  very  near  one  end  of  it,  which  also  brought 
it  very  near  the  end  of  one  of  the  adjoining  sides.  It  was,  therefore, 
very  near  the  end  of  one  of  these  open  arcades,  the  one  in  which 
the  dead  Sepoy  lay.  The  sight  of  the  dead  man  had  kept  us  in  this 
verandah  for  some  time.  To  my  friend  it  was  a  more  familiar  and 
accustomed  sight  than  it  wa.s  to  me,  and  it  did  not  rivet  his  attention 
as  it  did  mine.  He  had  been  looking  about  him  with  hia  keen  eyes, 


102  A  BIT  OF  LOOT. 

while  I  had  my  gaze  fixed  on  the  man  who  had  lain  down  on  the  bed- 
stead for  a  longer  and  deeper  sleep  than  he  had  ever  experienced  in 
one  before. 

"  Excuse  me  for  a  minute,"  said  my  friend,  as  he  crossed  over  to 
the  opposite  arcade  ;  and  I  saw  him  pacing  down  it  with  measured  step. 
When  he  came  back  he  did  the  same  with  the  one  in  which  I  stood. 

"  These  two  verandahs  should  be  the  same  length,"  he  said  to  me. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  they  occupy  the  two  sides  of  a  square.  Even  in  a 
parallelogram  the  opposite  sides  are  equal." 

"Precisely  so;  but  by  the  measurements  I  have  just  made,  this 
verandah  is  fifteen  feet  shorter  than  the  other  one.  Just  wait  here  a 
second," — and  he  walked  to  the  gateway  and  then  through  it  into  the 
street.  When  he  came  back,  he  walked  up  to  the  end  of  the  arcade 
next  the  gateway  and  examined  it  closely. 

"  This  end  has  been  walled  up,"  he  said ;  "  come  and  look  at  the 
space  there  is  between  this  inside  wall  and  the  wall  outside  in  the  street. 
They  would  never  have  a  solid  wall  of  that  thickness.  There  would 
be  no  object  in  it  here.  I  am  sure  that  there  was  an  arch  like  those 
along  the  outside  of  the  verandah  across  this  end  of  it,  and  that  it  has 
been  bricked  up,  and  the  joining  of  the  wall  and  arch  carefully  concealed. 
It  would  be  at  the  level  of  the  other  ones.  If  you  will  give  me  a  back,  I 
will  soon  find  out." 

I  leaned  against  the  wall  as  we  used  to  do  when  we  played  "  Buck  ! 
buck  !  how  many  fingers  do  I  hold  up  "  at  school,  and  my  friend  mounted 
up  and  began  to  scrape  away  the  plaster  with  his  pocket-knife. 

"  Just  as  I  thought,"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  slipped  down  again. 
"  There  is  no  doubt  about  it.  Do  you  mind  doing  a  bit  of  digging  1  " 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  but  what  are  we  to  dig  with  ?  " 

"This  is  provoking!"  he  cried;  "the  orderly  has  taken  away  the 
pickaxe  with  him.  If  we  leave  this  place  for  an  hour,  some  one  else 
may  discover  it ;  and  now  that  I  have  scraped  the  plaster  away,  the 
bricking  up  is  easily  seen.  And  if  anyone  else  begins  the  digging,  we 
cannot  interrupt  them  in  it.  It  would  then  be  their  claim,  as  they  call 
it  in  the  gold  fields." 

"  There  is  the  sepoy's  bayonet,"  I  said ;  "  we  could  dig  a  hole  in  a 
wall  with  that." 

"  Of  course  we  could; "  and  he  got  it  and  we  set  to  work.  At  first 
the  work  was  slow  and  difficult.  We  could  do  no  more  than  pick  out 
the  mortar,  which  luckily  had  scarcely  set,  from  the  joints  betweer 
the  bricks.  But  at  last  we  managed  to  get  out  a  brick.  The  work 
became  more  rapid  then.  At  last  the  bayonet  gave  a  sudden  slip,  show- 
ing that  it  had  pierced  through  the  wall.  And  now  the  hollow  sound  of 
the  mortar  and  brickbats  falling  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall  showed 
that  there  was  a  chamber  behind  it.  There  must  be  something  worth 
hiding  there,  and  now  we  went  to  work  with  coats  off.  At  the  end  of 
,an  hour's  work  we  had  made  a  good-sized  hole.  "  Will  you  go  in  and 


A  BIT  OF  LOOT.  103 

see  what  there  is,"  said  my  friend,  I  being  slight  and  slender  and  he  a 
portly  man.  I  did  so  ;  and  crawled  out  again,  sick  and  dizzy  from  the 
foul  air  within.  "We  must  make  the  hole  bigger,"  said  my  friend, 
"  and  you  had  better  go  out  into  the  open  air  for  a  few  minutes." 

When  the  hole  or  opening  had  been  made  as  large  as  a  small  case- 
ment window,  we  waited  for  some  time  longer  to  let  the  foul  air  come 
out  and  the  fresh  air  enter,  and  then  we  went  in  together.  There  were 
two  or  three  large  and  roughly-made  chests,  or  rather  cases,  for  they 
were  evidently  made  simply  to  hold  their  contents,  and  not  secure  them. 
We  soon  had  the  covers  off  these,  and  found  them  full  of  handsome 
shawls,  and  scarves,  and  pieces  of  silk,  and  kincob.  There  were  beau- 
tiful suits  of  women's  clothes — the  full  trousers,  and  the  little  bodice, 
and  the  long  flowing  sheet  to  throw  over  the  head — of  very  fine  silk, 
thickly  embroidered  with  gold  and  silver.  The  collection  of  articles  was 
a  very  miscellaneous  one,  for  in  one  chest  were  several  very  handsome 
richly  embroidered  sword-belts  and  horse  trappings.  While  we  were 
hard  at  work  we  heard  a  chuckle  at  the  opening  in  the  wall,  and  looking 
up  saw  the  glitter  of  a  pair  of  eyes  and  the  gleam  of  a  long  row  of  teeth. 
My  friend  immediately  jumped  out,  with  the  bayonet  in  his  hand.  The 
inlooker  was  probably  one  of  our  own  followers ;  but  in  times  like  those 
you  could  not  very  much  trust  anyone,  and  the  sight  of  plunder  might 
ead  to  our  being  disposed  of,  if  taken  at  disadvantage,  in  such  a  lonely 
place.  The  man  turned  out  to  be  one  of  our  Sikh  soldiers ;  good  fighters 
but  keen  plunderers.  Love  of  military  employment,  a  desire  to  pay  off 
old  scores  against  the  sepoys  who  had  helped  to  break  their  power  and 
conquer  their  country,  had  been  the  chief  reasons  that  had  led  to  their 
flocking  to  our  standard  at  that  time  :  but  the  hope  of  loot  had  been  an 
equally  strong  one.  They  had  looked  forward  to  the  plunder  of  Delhi, 
and  had  not  been  disappointed  in  their  expectations.  It  was  they,  of  all 
the  soldiery,  who  had  made  the  best  use  of  the  first  few  days  of  permitted 
plunder.  This  man  was  a  very  fine  specimen  of  the  race ;  tall,  lean, 
lithe,  keen-eyed,  with  a  hooked  nose  and  a  peaked  beard.  His  eyes 
glistened  as  he  looked  at  the  hole,  and  his  lips  kept  parted  with 
a  smile  or  grin.  Here  was  a  scene  he  loved ;  here  was  congenial 
work. 

"We  must  get  rid  of  this  fellow,"  said  my  friend;  "give  me  out 
that  shawl  and  that  sword-belt." 

I  handed  these  out  to  him,  and  he  gave  them  to  the  Sikh.  The 
man's  face  beamed  as  he  took  the  sword-belt :  it  was  very  handsome, 
and  no  doubt  valuable,  too,  from  the  amount  of  bullion  pn  it  :  it  was 
just  what  he  wanted.  He  made  a  salute  and  walked  away. 

"  I  was  very  anxkms  to  get  rid  of  the  man,"  said  my  companion,  as 
he  entered  the  chamber  again,  "  because  I  do  not  think,  as  he  did  I 
could  see,  that  these  shawls  and  things  are  all  that  are  in  here.  I  am 
sure  that  they  must  have  had  some  valuable  things  in  this  house,  from 
the  look  of  it." 


104  A  BIT  OF  LOOT. 

So  he  took  one  of  the  fcilver-covereu  maces,  of  which  there  were 
several  in  one  corner,  and  began  to  sound  the  floor  carefully  and 
systematically.  In  one  corner  it  sounded  hollow.  He  stooped  down 
and  scraped  away  the  mud,  and  lo  !  there  presented  itself  to  us  a  large 
circular  stone,  with  an  iron  ring  at  the  top.  To  me — a  young  lad  then 
— the  breaking  into  the  chamber  had  been  exciting  enough,  a  great 
adventure.  Now  my  excitement  rose  to  fever  poimt.  Here  was  pro- 
bably the  entrance  to  long  underground  galleries,  such  as  those  which 
Aladdin  got  into  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  in  which  stood  the  trees  on 
whose  branches  hung  rubies  and  emeralds,  and  pearls  and  diamonds,  and 
great  sapphires  Visions  rose  before  me  of  a  house  of  my  own,  in 
England;  perhaps  a  deer-park;  horses  and  hunters,  and  a  moor  in 
Scotland.  But  when  we  got  the  stone  up,  after  some  exertion  of 
strength  and  trouble,  it  showed  no  winding  staircase  leading  down  to  an 
underground  treasure-house. 

There  was  nothing  but  a  small  circular  pit,  about  three  feet  deep, 
lined  and  paved  with  masonry.  But  in  this  were  several  wooden  boxes, 
and  small  copper  boxes  with  pierced  sides  and  top,  in  which  was  a  large 
quantity  of  jewelry,  rolled  up  in  little  pieces  of  cloth,  or  put  away  in 
cotton. 

Here  were  thick  bangles  of  solid  gold  and  solid  silver;  here  were 
rings  for  the  fingers  and  rings  for  the  toes  ;  ear-rings  and  nose-rings ;  gold 
and  silver  chains  for  the  neck  ;  silver  chains  to  wear  round  the  waist ; 
necklaces  of  many  kinds,  some  to  wear  close  round  the  neck  and  some  that 
hung  far  down  on  the  breast.  But  alas  !  even  here  was  disappointment. 
Very  few  of  the  precious  stones  that  had  ornamented  the  jewelry  had  been 
left  behind.  They  had  been  picked  out  and  carried  away  !  Here  were  heaps 
of  rings  tied  together  in  bunches  with  silk-thread,  but  all  the  most  valuable 
stones  had  been  removed  from  them.  It  was  sad  to  see  the  great  holes  in 
the  solid  gold  hoops,  and  think  that  they  had  held  big  emeralds  and 
diamonds  which  might  have  been  ours.  However,  we  poured  all  the 
jewelry  into  a  small  silk  scarf,  and  made  a  bundle  of  it.  We  also  made 
a  bundle  of  the  best  shawls  and  other  articles,  and  then  we  departed  with 
our  loot. 

"  We  will  take  these  to  the  prize  agents  at  once,"  said  my  friend ; 
"  we  will  then  come  back  with  some  of  their  men  and  take  away  all  the 
other  things." 

Just  as  we  were  passing  out  under  the  gateway  my  friend  exclaimed 
suddenly — "  I  see  it  all !  the  cunning  old  fox  !  He  was  not  forgotten  at 
all.  He  was  left  behind  on  purpose  to  guard  the  treasure.  They  knew 
that  it  was  not  Likely  that  anyone  would  hurt  so  old  and  feeble  a  man ; 
that  hiding  himself  was  all  humbug.  How  well  he  acted — the  cunning 
old  fox  !  Did  you  hear  what  happened  in  another  place  like  this  ?  Iwent 
into  it  too.  There  was  a  grave  in  the  middle  of  the  courtyard,  covered 
with  a  velvet  pall  and  flowers,  and  with  lights  burning  at  the  head — 
after  the  usual  Mahomedan  fashion,  you  know.  A  young  woman  sat  by 


A  BIT  OF  LOOT.  105 

the  side  of  the  grave,  weeping  and  wailing.  She  was  the  dead  man's 
wife.  We  might  ransack  the  house,  and  take  all  that  was  in  it,  but  she 
begged  that  she  might  be  left  to  watch  by  the  grave  of  her  beloved  hus- 
band until  permission  could  be  got  to  remove  his  body  to  the  graveyard 
without  the  walls.  He  had  died  suddenly  during  the  days  of  the  assault, 
and  they  had  been  afraid  to  carry  out  the  body  then,  and  had  laid  it  in 
this  grave  in  the  courtyard.  A.nd  the  poor  young  thing  wept  piteously 
under  her  veil.  We  could  act  see  her  face,  of  course,  but  from  the 
figure  and  the  voice  we  knew  that  she  must  be  a  very  young  girl.  She 
begged  to  be  left  there  with  the  venerable  old  man,  an  aged  retainer,  a 
very  counterpart  of  this  other  old  scoundrel,  who  had  remained  behind 
with  her.  And  she  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  Of  course  we 
said  that  she  might  remain ;  and  in  fact,  being  interested  in  her,  said 
that  we  would  get  the  permission  of  the  commanding  officer  for  the 
relations  to  come  and  remove  the  body  as  soon  as  they  could.  They 
seemed  very  anxious  to  do  this,  for  they  came  the  very  next  day  and 
carried  away  the  beloved  one's  dust.  Then  it  came  out  that  no  one  had 
died  or  been  buried  there  at  all.  The  whole  thing  was  a  ruse.  And 
there  at  our  very  feet,  in  the  hole  by  the  side  of  which  the  poor  widow 
lay  weeping,  had  been  lying  hidden  a  mass  of  precious  stones  and  valu- 
able jewels,  worth  thousands  of  pounds." 

We  got  the  whole  of  our  discovered  treasure  down  to  the  offices  of 
the  prize  agents.  Though  we  had  not  made  as  great  a  haul  as  we  at 
one  moment  expected,  yet  it  was  not  a  bad  morning's  work ;  it  was  not 
a  bad  bit  of  loot. 

This  story  really  is  a  true  one,  so  far  as  anything  that  is  related  can 
be  true. 

E.  E.  F. 


VOL,  XLY.^NO,  265,  6. 


106 


"Xoto 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 
LORD  CHARLECOTE. 

ADY  SADDLETHWAITE  of  course 
did  not  expect  that  the  match 
she  planned  for  the  far  future 
would  be  directly  advanced  dur- 
ing their  continental  tour.  She 
would  be  the  last  person  to  credit 
any  girl  with  such  callous  in- 
constancy, Mabel  least  of  all. 
But  she  did  think,  and  had  every 
right  to  think,  that  a  heart  so 
harrowed  as  hers,  like  a  soil  in 
which  every  green  thing  has  been 
torn  up  by  the  plough,  was  in  the 
best  state  for  the  sowing  of  the 
seed  of  future  love.  It  could  not 
remain  for  ever  in  bare,  black  and 
bleak  desolation,  and  the  first 
seed  sown  now  in  this  cleared, 
softened,  and  impressionable  soil, 
would  have  the  best  chance  of 
ripening  hereafter.  Nor,  again, 
did  she  think  it  to  Lawley's  dis- 
advantage that  he  should  be  associated  inseparably  with  George  in  the 
mind  of  Mabel ;  with  his  death  as  well  as  with  his  life.  It  is  true 
that— 

The  first  bringer  of  unwelcome  news 

Hath  but  a  losing  office,  and  his  tongue 

Sounds  erer  after  as  a  sullen  bell, 

Remembered  tolling  a  departed  friend — 

that  is,  when  this  unwelcome  news  is  our  sole  association  with  its  herald. 
But  when  the  herald  shares  the  sorrow  he  announces,  and  helps  by  sym- 
pathy to  heal  the  wound  he  makes,  his  image  is  more  likely  to  be  asso- 
ciated with  love  than  grief. 

On  the  whole,  we  think  Lady  Saddlethwaite  showed  some  knowledge 
of  human  nature,  and  of  woman's  nature,  in  considering  that  when 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  107 

Mabel's  "  heart  in  the  midst  of  her  body  was  even  like  melting  wax,"  ic 
was  in  the  fittest  state  for  a  fresh  impression. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  must  be  said  that  neither  Mabel  nor  her  love 
was  of  an  ordinary  type.  Both  her  character  and  bringing  up,  her  re- 
served nature  and  her  lonely  childhood,  disposed  her  to  love  altogether 
and  intensely  where  she  loved  at  all.  She  had  so  loved  George.  When 
he  was  taken  so  suddenly  and  terribly  from  her,  her  heart  was  not 
merely  as  a  bed  from  which  a  plant  has  been  wrenched  up  by  the  roots, 
and  which  lies  torn  and  tossed  and  in  wild  confusion,  but  as  a  bed  from 
which,  not  the  plant  only,  but  the  soil  itself  in  which  it  grew,  has  been 
taken.  She  seemed  to  have  no  heart  left  to  love  with.  There  was 
hardly  a  day  in  which  she  did  not  take  herself  to  task  for  the  ungrateful 
apathy  with  which  she  met  Lady  Saddlethwaite's  kindness  and  Lawley's 
devotion.  When  Lady  Saddlethwaite  pressed  this  continental  trip  upon 
her,  urged  it,  forced  it  upon  her,  she  seemed  to  have  the  spirit  neither  to 
decline  nor  accept  it  whole-heartedly.  She  simply  submitted  to  be  petted 
with  the  listless  languor  of  a  spoiled  child  in  the  first  stage  of  convales- 
cence. But  this  ungracious  apathy  was  most  unnatural  to  her,  and  at 
times  she  woke  from  it  overpowered  with  self-reproach,  and  would  pain 
Lady  Saddlethwaite  by  the  depth  of  her  penitence.  For  Lady  Saddle- 
thwaite understood  her,  and  loved  and  admired  her  more  in  her  bereave- 
ment than  ever.  No  vain  beauty  could  delight  more  in  the  reflection  of 
her  loveliness  in  the  glass  than  Lady  Saddlethwaite  delighted  to  see  her 
kindness  reflected  in  smiles  from  every  face  about  her ;  but  she  made 
allowance  for  the  glass  in  Mabel's  case  being  dimmed  with  tears,  and  set 
herself  to  do  all  she  coiild  to  bring  back  something  of  its  old  brightness. 

As  for  Lawley,  he  looked  for  no  acknowledgment.  He  was  content 
to  be  allowed  to  devote  himself  to  her  without  hope  or  thought  of  a 
return — at  least  in  these  first  days  of  her  trouble.  She  had,  as  it  were, 
taken  the  veil  of  sorrow,  and  her  vestal  dedication  to  it  was  to  be  re- 
spected. So  Lawley  fancied  his  feeling  towards  her  was  best  expressed 
in  lines  of  his  favourite  Shelley  he  was  ever  repeating  to  himself — 

The  worship  the  heart  lifts  abore, 

And  the  heavens  reject  not ; 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow  ; 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow. 

But,  in  truth,  he  was  wildly,  passionately,  hopelessly  in  love,  and  little 
likely  to  be  reconciled  for  long  to  this  cold  comfort — 

In  her  bright  radiance  and  collateral  light 
Must  I  be  comforted,  not  in  her  sphere. 

For  the  present,  however,  in  the  first  few  months  of  her  sorrow,  it  was 
the  utmost  he  did  or  could  look  for  As  for  Mabel,  she  soon  fell  into 
the  way  of  looking  to  him  and  relying  on  him  always  and  for  everything, 
except  conversing  with  the  natives.  Lawley  either  couldn't  or  wouldn' 

6—2 


108  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

speak  French.  He  acknowledged  to  being  able  to  read  it,  but  speak  it 
he  wouldn't.  Lady  Saddlethwaite  couldn't.  Mabel,  therefore,  had  a 
chance  of  turning  Miss  Murdoch's  lessons  to  advantage. 

"  But  I  only  'Tcnow  words  with  a  '  U  '  in  them,"  said  Mabel,  with  a 
flash  of  her  old  fun,  as  they  ^stepped  off  the  steamer  at  Calais.  "  My 
aunt,  who  taught  me,  discovered  that  the  great  secret  of  the  French 
language  was  the]Jpronunciation  of  the  vowel  '  U ' ;  so  she  picked  out  of 
the  dictionary  all  the  words  with  a  '  U  '  in  them,  and  made  me  string 
them  together  in  sentences.  '  U,'  she  said,  was  everything  in  French." 

"  In  England  '4I '  is^the  all-important  vowel,  which  accounts  for  the 
difference  in  the  manners  of  the  two  countries,"  said  Lawley. 

"  I  hope  there's  a  '  U  '  in  soda-water,"  said  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  who, 
though  the  sea  had  been  as  glass,  felt  slightly  qualmish. 

"  Oh,  here  they  all  speak  English — of  a  sort.  I  think  they  must 
have  been  taught  it  by  their  aunts,  for  they  only  know  words  with  a 
1  V '  in  them.  '  Yee  vill  'ave  soda-vater '  will  fetch  them." 

"  Not  from  their  aunts.  Their  aunts  would  not  have  taught  them 
such  a  Cockney  pronunciation,  Mr.  Lawley." 

"  Then  they  must  have  learned  it  from  the  exclamation  on  landing 
of  the  qualmish  passengers,  '  0  de  V  !  " 

This  certainly  was  a  wild  joke,  but  Lawley  was  in  wild  spirits  at 
finding  that  the  bustle  and  strangeness  and  excitement  were  rousing 
Mabel  out  of  her  listlessness.  It  was,  indeed,  for  this  reason  he  in- 
sisted on  her  being  interpreter,  as  it  was  something  for  her  to  do,  and 
for  them  to  laugh  at.  Not  that  her  French  was  bad — it  was  singularly, 
though  rather  pedantically,  good.  Nor  that  her  accent  was  detestable — as, 
though  it  truly  was,  they  didn't  know  it — but  that  she  would  speak 
every  syllable  with  staccato  distinctness,  as  if  she  were  shouting  through 
an  ear-trumpet. 

This  joke,  jnild  as  it  was,  was  a  joy  for  ever,  as  Mabel  was  almost 
incorrigible  through  her  childish  association  of  French  with  deaf  Miss 
Murdoch ;  while  there  was,  of  course,  besides,  the  natural  tendency  to 
shout  to  a  foreigner  through  confounding  unconsciously  dulness  of  in- 
telligence with  dulness  of  hearing. 

During  their  tour  nothing  so  pleased  Lady  Saddlethwaite — not  cities, 
scenery,  statues,  paintings — so  much  as  the  sensation  Mabel  created 
wherever  she  appeared.  In  Wefton  and  its  neighbourhood  Mabel  was 
admired,  but  not  enthusiastically  admired;  not  so  much  admired  as 
Miss  Smithers,  who  might  have  won  a  prize  at  a  cattle-show.  The  taste 
of  the  people  in  beauty,  like  their  taste  in  everything  else,  was  coarse. 
They  liked  it  as  they  liked  their  wine,  "  full  bodied."  But  in  Rome, 
the  foster-mother  of  the  art  of  the  world,  Mabel  distracted  the  attention 
of  the  artists  in  the  Pinacotheca  of  the  Vatican,  and  in  the  galleries  of 
the  Pamfili-Doria  palace  and  of  the  Capitol.  It  was  not  so  much  the 
beauty  of  her  face  which  attracted  them,  as  its  expression,  madonna- 
like  in  its  sad  sweetness,  and  in  its  utter  lack  of  self-consciousness. 


LOVE  THfc  DEBT.  109 

Mabel  was  never  given  to  self-consciousness,  and  her  sorrow  had  taken 
her  out  of  herself  more  than  ever,  and  she  walked  through  the  galleries 
as  unconscious  of  admiration  as  the  pictures  and  statues  themselves. 

Lady  Saddlethwaite  cared  very  little  for  pictures  and  statues,  and 
yet  she  endured  them  for  the  pure  pleasure  of  watching  the  admiration 
Mabel  excited.  All  eyes  seemed  to  follow  her  as  sunflowers  the  sun. 
Lady  Saddlethwaite  felt  something  of  the  pride  and  pleasure  of  a  virtuoso 
who  exhumes  a  gem  by  an  old  master  from  the  rubbish  of  a  garret,  and 
exhibits  his  discovery  to  appreciative  connoisseurs.  She  was  especially 
pleased  when  these  connoisseurs  happened  to  be  English  (for  foreigners 
are  but  foreigners  at  best),  most  of  all  when  they  were  unexceptionable 
English  of  her  own  sacred  set.  For  no  grocer  or  college  don  could  have 
a  more  superstitious  veneration  for  blue  blood  than  some  in  whose  veins 
it  flows.  As  for  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  she  believed  in  the  immaculate 
conception  of  the  well-born,  and  in  the  papal  infallibility  of  their 
opinions  on  social  subjects — when  they  agreed  with  her.  Lord  Charle- 
cote,  for  instance,  whom  she  chanced  upon  in  a  corridor  of  the  Vatican 
— a  young  gentleman  much  given  to  the  turf,  who  canted  cynicism  in 
opposition  to  his  companion  Clifford's  cant  of  sentiment — was  conse- 
crated as  an  oracle  because  of  his  enthusiastic  admiration  of  Mabel. 

"Lady  Saddlethwaite!  You  here?  Everyone's  here,  I  think," 
with  a  slight  querulousness.  "  But,  I  say,  who's  that  girl  that  goes 
walking  in  her  sleep — do  you  know  1  There,  looking  at  that  old  saint 
with  a  crick  in  his  neck,  with  the  grey  thingamyjig  on." 

"  You'd  better  mind  what  you  say  of  her,  my  lord ;  she's  in  my 
charge." 

"  Is  she,  though  ? "  with  a  new  interest  in  Lady  Saddlethwaite. 

"  No  harm  in  saying  she's  the  loveliest  girl  in  Kome,  bar  none,  eh  ? 
Who  is  she  ] " 

"  She's  a  Miss  Masters.     Shall  I  wake  her  and  introduce  you  1  " 

11  If  you  would.  But,  I  say,  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  can  she  talk  1  I 
can't  make  the  running  with  these  things,  you  know,"  pointing  to  the 
pictures.  "  Does  she  hunt,  or  that  ? " 

"  Oh,  she  can  talk  on  any  subject  when  she's  awake.     Mabel !  " 

Lady  Saddlethwaite  was  as  proud  of  Mabel's  conversational  powers 
as  of  her  beauty,  and  seized  every  opportunity  to  show  them  off.  Mabel 
came  at  call,  and  was  introduced  to  Lord  Charlecote. 

"  Lord  Charlecote  thought  you  were  walking  in  your  sleep,  Mabel, 
and  wished  me  to  wake  you  before  you  fell  downstairs,"  said  Lady 
Saddlethwaite  mischievously,  and  not  in  the  best  taste ;  but  she  wished 
to  rouse  Mabel,  that  she  might  show  to  advantage  in  the  eyes  of  a  person 
of  Lord  Charlecote's  exquisite  discrimination. 

"  Oh,  I  say,  you  know,  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  I  meant  that  Miss 
Masters  was  like  La  Sonambula,"  said  his  lordship,  with  great  presence 
of  mind.  "  Patti,  you  know." 

"  But  it  is  like  a  dream  to  me  being  here,"  said  Mabel. 


110  LOVE   THE  DEBT. 

"  Like  a  nightmare,  by  George ;  there's  no  end  to  it.  I  thought  I 
was  through,  but  there's  all  this  yet,"  looking  ruefully  at  his  catalogue. 

"  I  think,  if  I  were  you,  my  lord,  I  should  go  by  Murray.  He  skips 
most  of  it,"  said  Mabel. 

"  Happy  thought !  This  beastly  thing  skips  nothing.  It  expects 
you  to  do  the  ceilings,  even,"  with  a  bitter  remembrance  of  the  Sistine 
Chapel. 

"  Lady  Saddlethwaite  has  a  Murray  with  two  leaves  missed  out  in 
the  binding.  It  has  been  a  great  comfort  to  her,"  said  Mabel,  with  per 
feet  truth. 

"  I'll  borrow  it,  by  George  !  " 

"  But  I'm  afraid  those  are  the  leaves  you  have  done  if  you've  got  to 
here." 

Lord  Charlecote  groaned.  Dare  we  to  confess  that  our  heroine  to 
some  extent  sympathised  with  him  1  She  could  appreciate  about  one- 
tenth  of  all  the  wonders  she  had  shown  her,  but  her  appreciation  even 
of  it  was  blunted  by  the  weariness  of  having  gone  through  the  other 
nine-tenths. 

"  I  have  a  lot  of  old  masters  and  that  sort  of  thing  at  home,  and  the 
public  are  admitted  to  do  them  on  certain  days ;  but  when  I  get  back  I'll 
put  a  stop  to  it.  I  never  thought  it  was  like  this,"  said  Lord  Charlecote, 
remorsefully.  It  was  the  remorse  of  Lear  exposed  to  the  pelting  of  the 
pitiless  storm,  and  so  reminded  of  the  houseless  heads  of  the  poor — 

0,  I  have  ta'en 

Too  little  care  of  this  !     Take  physic,  pomp  ; 
Expose  thyself  ta  feel  what  wretches  feel. 

Mabel  laughed  at  this  instance  of  sympathy  learned  through  suffer- 
ing, and  turned  to  tell  it  to  Lady  Saddlethwaite  and  Lawley,  who  were 
walking  behind  them. 

"  Let  us  give  it  up  for  to-day,"  cried  Lady  Saddlethwaite  eagerly. 

"  For  ever  and  a  day — unless  you  are  coming  again,"  said  Lord 
Charlecote,  speaking  to  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  but  looking  at  Mabel. 

Mabel  was  looking  at  Lawley,  to  whom  she  had  already  confessed  her 
Philistinism,  but  of  whose  judgment  she  stood  in  awe.  Alas  for  Law- 
ley  !  he  had  no  judgment  in  her  presence,  no  thought,  no  taste,  no 
eyes,  no  admiration  but  for  her  only — only  her.  The  fierce  fire  of  love 
consumed  him  utterly,  burning  now  with  the  green  flame  of  jealousy. 
Lord  Charlecote's  admiration  was  clear,  and  that  he  should  win  even  a 
laugh  from  Mabel  was  bitter.  It  is  natural  that  "  love  strong  as  death  " 
should  be  joined  in  the  same  verse  with  "jealousy  cruel  as  the  grave." 

"  Let's  go  to  the  circus." 

"  The  what  1 " 

"  The  Coliseum,"  replied  his  lordship  unabashed.  "  It's  the  best  value 
in  the  place.  Clifford  tells  me  there  used  to  be  races  there,  but  I  can't 
for  the  life  of  me  see  how  they  managed  it.  It's  a  grand  stand  anyhow." 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  Ill 

Accordingly  it  was  agreed  that  they  should  drive  to  the  Coliseum,  for  his 
lordship  to  look  a  little  more  into  this  mystery. 

"  It's  a  mouldy  old  place,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  said  to  Mabel  as  they  drove 
through  Rome.  "It  always  reminds  me  of  aii  old  cemetery;  all  chapels, 
statues,  monuments,  broken  pillars  half  buried  in  clay.  It  gives  me  the 
shivers,  by  George  !  I'd  have  gone  a  week  ago  but  for  Clifford.  He 
hasn't  my  feeling  about  it  at  all.  I  tell  him  he's  no  imagination." 

Mabel  was  quick  enough  to  gather  from  his  manner  that  Mr.  Clif- 
ford was,  or  fancied  himself,  a  very  imaginative  person,  who  probably 
took  his  friend's  facetious  irony  seriously  and  ill. 

"  Rome  is  a  dangerous  place  for  anyone  with  a  quick  imagination. 
It  runs  away  with  one  so  soon." 

"To  Naples ?  that's  where  mine  would  have  taken  me.  Glad  it 
didn't  though,  or  I  should  have  missed  you,  Lady  Saddlethwaite." 

His  lordship's  compliment  was,  of  course,  meant  for  Mabel,  whom, 
because  she  understood  his  wit,  he  began  to  think  witty.  A  little  wit 
goes  a  long  way  from  the  lips  of  either  rank  or  beauty,  probably  for  the 
reason  mentioned  by  Barrow  in  his  definition  of  wit:  "Itprocureth 
delight  as  monsters  do,  not  for  their  beauty,  but  for  their  rarity."  Mabel, 
though  she  indulged  sometimes  in  the  luxury  of  silence  and  sorrow  in 
Lawley's  or  Lady  Saddlethwaite's  company,  always  exerted  herself  when 
with  strangers ;  and  to-day  the  whole  burden  of  entertaining  Lord 
Charlecote  seemed  to  fall  upon  her.  Lawley  was  gloomily  silent,  while 
Lady  Saddlethwaite  was  tired  and  half  asleep. 

"  Here's  the  circus !  "  Mabel  exclaimed,  as  they  drew  near  the  Coli- 
seum. "  Your  imagination  doesn't  always  take  a  gloomy  flight,  my 
lord.  Girls  on  piebald  horses  leaping  through  hoops  is  a  cheerful  ex- 
change for  the  dying  gladiator  and  the  Christian  martyrs,"  said  Mabel 
with  a  smile,  to  show  she  saw  through  his  affectation  of  Philistinism. 

"  Why,  what-you-call-him,  Byron,  calls  it  a  circus,  doesn't  he  ? 
Such  was  the  bloody  circus'  genial  laws. 

But  the  gladiator's  bloody  circus  stands 
A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection. 

Not  but  that  you  may  be  quite  right,  you  know,  Miss  Masters,"  he  hastened 
to  say  with  a  face  of  perfect  seriousness.  "  Dare  say  Byron  was  thinking 
of  girls  in  spangles  on  piebald  horses  leaping  through  hoops  when  he  called 
it  a  circus." 

Certainly  Mabel  had  caught  a  Tartar  in  this  sleepy-looking  young 
nobleman. 

"  When  he  called  it  a  gladiator's  circus  he  was  probably  thinking  of 
gladiators,  not  of  a  grand  stand,"  said  Mabel  archly. 

"  Well,  but  it  is  a  grand  stand  for  looking  down  at  the  race  of  ideas, 
religions,  empires,  <fcc.  Will  that  do  1  " 

Lord  Charlecote  was  amazed  to  meet  a  beauty  with  brains,  who 
was  neither  gauche  nor  blasee,  and  could  say  something  besides  "  Yes," 


112  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

"  No,"  "  awfully,"  "  nice,"  "  tiresome."  He  paid  her  the  compliment,  as 
they  walked  together  within  the  Coliseum,  in  front  of  Lady  Saddlethwaite 
and  Lawley,  of  \mmasking  the  really  strong,  if  not  deep,  feeling  that 
underlay  his  assumed  cynicism. 

In  truth,  his  lordship  was  a  most  poetic  and  impressionable  person, 
and  "protested  too  much  "  through  his  assumption  of  cynicism.  Mabel 
also  became  confidential,  and  confessed  to  her  imagination  being  over- 
powered and  oppressed  by  all  that  was  suggested  to  her,  and  to  her  feel- 
ing, as  she  had  often  felt  in  trying  to  master  the  full  meaning  of  a 
grand  poem  or  piece  of  music,  wearied  and  confused. 

"  You've  been  doing  too  much.     It's  a  fit  of  mental  dyspepsia.     No 
mind  could  digest  all  that  you've  been  trying  to  digest  in  a  week.     You 
should  have  taken  a  month  to  it." 
"  But  I  hadn't  a  month  to  take." 

"  What  on  earth  have  you  to  dol  I  never  knew  a  young  lady  have 
anything  to  do." 

"  You  never  knew  a  young  lady  who  was  a  national  schoolmistress, 
then,  my  lord." 

"  A  national What  in  the  name  of  fortune  made  you  take  up 

that  craze  ? " 

"  Necessity.     I  couldn't  help  myself." 

He  was  silent  for  a  second  or  two  from  sheer  surprise,  but  soon 
recovering  himself,  he  showed  the  truest  tact  in  continuing,  instead  of 
turning,  the  conversation. 

"  Don't  you  find  it  very  dreary,  Miss  Masters  1 " 
"  Oh,  I  find  everything  dreary  sometimes,"  with  a  dreary  sigh, "  even  the 
old  masters,"  pulling  her  wandering  thoughts  together  again  with  a  smile. 
Lord  Charlecote,  as  we  have  said,  was  a  most  poetic  and  impression- 
able  person,  and   had   his   original   admiration   for   Mabel   immensely 
increased  by  this  discovery  of  her  fallen  fortunes.     That  the  fall  had  been 
extraordinary  he  had  no  doubt  at  all,  as  Mabel  had  the  bearing  of  a 
princess.     When  he  had  returned  with  them  to  their  hotel,  he  found  an 
opportunity  to  rave  about  her  to  Lady  Saddlethwaite. 
"  Well,  do  you  know  what  she  is,  my  lord  1 " 

11  She  told  me — she  wasn't  bragging  of  it,  you  know.  It  came  out 
casually." 

"  Bragging  of  it !  " 

"  Any  other  girl  would  either  hide  it  or  brag  of  it." 
"  I  think  I'd  better  warn  you  that  there's  no  use  falling  in  love  with 
her,  my  lord." 

"  Engaged  to  the  parson  1 " 

"  No,  but  she  was  engaged  to  another  of  the  cloth,  who  was  murdered 
in  Australia." 

"Murdered!  That  was  the  sleep-walking  look.  Poor  girl!  she's 
had  it  hard." 

"  Yes,  she  has  had  it  hard,  and  yet  she's  of  good  family."    Perplex- 


LOVE   THE  DEBT.  113 

ing  paradox  to  Lady  Saddletliwaite.  "  At  least  her  father  lias  good 
blood  in  his  veins.  He's  a  Colonel  Masters,  and  lost  all  in  that  Caledo- 
nian Bank.  The  shock  struck  him  down  with  paralysis,  and  she  had  to 
take  to  teaching  to  support  herself  and  him.  Then  came  this  other 
trouble,  poor  child  !  " 

"  She  might  get  over  it  in  time,"  said  his  lordship,  with  a  meaning 
Lady  Saddleworth  read  and  answered. 

"  My  dear  Lord  Charlecote,  by  the  time  she  has  got  over  it  you  will 
have  been  in  and  out  of  love  with  twenty  others." 

Lord  Charlecote  laughed.  It  was  a  true  bill.  He  was  as  impres- 
sionable and  as  unstable  as  water,  and  was  in  and  out  of  love  once  a 
month  on  an  average. 

CHAPTEE   XXXIX. 
LOVE  STRONG  AS  DEATH. 

LORD  CHARLECOTE  was  devoted  in  his  attentions  to  Mabel,  not  only  for 
the  few  remaining  days  of  her  stay  in  Rome,  but  also  throughout  her 
tour.  He  deserted  his  friend  Clifford,  the  warmth  of  whose  aesthetic 
enthusiasm  had  soured  him  to  cynicism,  and  had  become  at  last  too 
oppressive,  and  begged  Lady  Saddlethwaite's  permission  to  join  her  party. 
Lady  Saddlethwaite  could  not,  of  course,  have  done  otherwise  than  have 
conceded  the  permission,  even  if  the  concession  had  been  distasteful.  But 
it  was  not  distasteful.  Lord  Charlecote  was  a  personage  of  very  con- 
siderable importance  in  her  mind  and  world,  and  his  admiration  of 
Mabel  was  admiration  of  Lady  Saddlethwaite's  taste.  As  for  Lawley's 
chagrin  at  the  arrangement,  it,  too,  was  a  good  thing.  Love,  like  light, 
was  doubled  by  reflection,  and  Lawley's  worship,  like  all  worship,  would 
be  quickened  by  being  shared.  It  was  shared.  Lord  Charlecote  fell,  as 
far  as  he  could  fall,  in  love  with  Mabel.  He  did  not  mean  to  do  so,  of 
course,  at  first,  but  "  in  the  matter  of  love,"  says  the  Spanish  proverb, 
"  you  begin  when  you  like  and  leave  off  when  you  can."  It  was  not,  to 
tell  the  truth,  a  very  brilliant  conquest  of  Mabel's.  In  the  first  place, 
his  lordship  was  always  in  love  with  some  one  or  other ;  in  the  second 
place  he  felt  safe  with  Mabel  for  the  ignoble  reason  that  Lady  Saddle- 
thwaite had  guaranteed  her  to  be  love-proof,  and  there  was  therefore  no 
fear  of  a  serious  entanglement ;  and  in  the  third  place  his  love,  such  as 
it  was,  was  due  less  to  Mabel's  being  lovely  and  lovable  than  to  this 
very  fact,  that  she  was  love-proof.  For  we  may  say  that  what  is  true 
generally  of  all  the  children  of  men,  is  universally  true  of  all  spoiled  chil- 
dren— upgrown  or  other — a  thing  needs  but  to  be  beyond  their  reach  to 
be  longed  for.  Lord  Charlecote  had  been  a  spoiled  child  from  his  birth, 
and  had  learned  what  it  was  to  be  happy  in  everything  but  happiness — 

Happy  them  art  not ; 

For  -what  thou  hast  not,  still  thou  strivest  to  get, 

And  what  thou  hast,  forget'st. 

6—5 


114  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

And  this  be  found  true  specially  in  affairs  of  love.  Here,  too,  he  was  a 
spoiled  child,  and  had  grown  from  being  petted  to  being  as  pettish  as  the 
sex  he  pursued — 

Ubi  velis  nolunt ;  ubi  nolis  volunt  ultro ; 
ConcessA  pudet  ire  vi& — 

as  Lucan  has  it ;  or,  as  it  is  put  prettily  in  French,  "  Une  femme  est 
comme  votre  ombre,  courez  apres,  elle  vous  fuit,  fuyez-la,  elle  court 
apres  vous."  His  lordship's  success  with  the  sex  had  made  him 
wayward  as  they  in  this,  and  Mabel's  absolute  indifference  to  him 
became  her  chief  charm  in  his  eyes.  Her  conquest,  then,  was  not  very 
brilliant. 

May  we  say  here,  that  if  we  seem  to  make  all  men  fall  in  love  with 
our  heroine,  it  is  because  we  have  to  do  only  with  those  who  did  fall  in 
love  with  her.  There  were  a  vast  number  of  golden  youth  in  Wefton 
and  its  neighbourhood  who  saw  nothing  in  her  ;  but  just  for  that  reason 
we  have  not  to  do  with  them.  "  See,"  said  some  one  to  Diogenes,  point- 
ing in  Neptune's  temple  to  the  pictures  of  those  who  had  escaped  ship- 
wreck ;  "  see  the  wonderful  power  of  the  god  ! "  "  But  where  are  they 
painted  who  were  drowned1?"  asked  the  cynic.  So  we  paint  only  those 
who  attest  the  power  of  our  goddess ;  the  multitude  who  did  not  attest 
her  power  are  for  that  reason  unrepresented.  What  really  needs  expla- 
nation is  the  fewness  of  her  suitors,  and  this  is  explicable  only  by  her 
living  all  her  life  in  Wefton.  As  a  rule,  indeed,  we  believe  that  girls 
have  more  choice  of  suitors  than  we  men  imagine.  We  know  of  those 
who  have  proposed  and  been  accepted,  but  of  those  who  have  proposed 
and  been  refused  we  never  hear,  and  so  we  get  to  speak,  and  perhaps 
think,  as  if  most  girls  took,  or  would  take,  the  first  man  that  offered.  It 
is  only  fair  to  us  to  say,  however,  that  for  this  vulgarity  of  thought 
and  speech  match-makers  and  women  generally  are  chiefly  responsible. 
"  Why  don't  you  marry  so  and  so  1"  they'll  say,  speaking  to  the  meanest 
of  our  sex  of  the  fairest  of  theirs.  And,  indeed,,  women  owe  it  all  to 
their  own  valuation  of  themselves  that  men  think  less  of  them  than  they 
deserve.  A  misogynist  might  say  of  them  what  Johnson  said  of  the 
Irish.  "  The  Irish  are  not  in  a  conspiracy  to  cheat  the  world  by  false 
representations  of  the  merits  of  their  countrymen.  No,  sir,  the  Irish  are 
A  fair  people, — they  never  speak  well  of  one  another." 

Mabel  then,  as  we  said,  won  Lord  Charlecote's  facile  and  fickle  affec- 
tions, but  won  them  quite  unconsciously.  She  was  in  no  mood  to  be  on 
the  look-out  for  such  a  conquest ;  while  besides,  Lady  Saddlethwaite 
had  more  than  once  alluded  casually  to  his  lordship's  multitudinous  at- 
tachments. Mabel,  therefore,  took  his  devotion  as  due,  in  part,  to  his  gal- 
lantry, but  in  chief  to  his  compassion ;  because  the  deference  of  his  manner 
had 'evidently  deepened  since  he  came  to  know  of  her  position  in  life.  She 
felt  very  grateful  to  him  on  this  account,  and  exerted  herself  to  entertain 
him — an  exertion  which  did  herself  as  much  good  as  the  excitement  of 
ever  changing  scenes — for  she  was  thereby  roused  out  of  herself,  ancj 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  115 

could  not  indulge  in  those  long  lapses  of  silence  and  sorrow  she  some- 
times gave  way  to  when  with  Lady  Saddlethwaite  and  Lawley. 

"  What  shall  we  do  to-day  ? "  asked  Lord  Charlecote  on  the  second 
morning  after  their  arrival  in  Genoa. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  sighed  Lady  Saddlethwaite  wearily ;  "  it's  the  only 
thing  we  haven't  done,  except  the  Palazzo  Doria." 

"  And  it  should  be  done  as  being  a  great  Italian  work  of  art,  dolcefar 
niente,"  said  Mabel. 

"  Let's  do  it  on  the  sea,  then,"  said  Lord  Charlecote.  "  There's  no 
seeing  Genoa  in  Genoa.  One  cannot  see  the  wood  for  the  trees,  the 
streets  are  so  narrow." 

Lady  Saddlethwaite  felt  qualmish  at  the  mere  mention  of  the  sea. 
•"  The  very  sight  of  the  sea  makes  me  dizzy,"  she  said. 

"  Why,  it's  like  glass." 

"It's  like  Genoa — looks  best  in  the  distance,"  with  a  shake  of  the 
head.  "  But  you'll  all  go.  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  rid  of  you  to  get  an 
hour  or  two's  rest." 

"  I  shall  stay  with  you,  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  if  you'll  allow  me." 

"  You  shall  do  no  such  thing,  child.  I'm  going  to  bed.  If  that's 
the  only  way  to  see  the  place,  you  must  see  it  in  that  way.  I  can't  pay 
the  price.  It  isn't  '  see  Genoa  and  die,'  you  know,  and  I'm  not  called  to 
martyr  myself." 

Lady  Saddlethwaite's  old-fashioned  notion  of  the  propriety  of  chape- 
roning Mabel  always  and  everywhere  got  worn  out  as  she  got  worn  out 
herself;  and,  indeed,  even  a  more  particular  chaperone  would  have  felt 
there  was  something  almost  ludicrous  in  safeguarding  such  a  girl  as 
Mabel. 

Mabel  went  to  get  ready,  and  soon  returned  looking  her  loveliest,  as 
Lady  Saddlethwaite  thought,  and  as  Lord  Charlecote  thought,  and  as, 
most  of  all,  Lawley  thought,  and  the  three  set  out  together  for  the  port. 
They  chartered  a  boat — not  over  clean,  but  the  cleanest  procurable — 
provided  with  a  pair  of  oars  and  a  light  sail  which  they  could  rig  up 
if  there  was  a  breath  of  wind  outside  the  harbour.  But  there  wasn't ;  so 
they  pulled  and  rested  at  intervals,  chatting  the  while.  There  are  few 
more  superb  views  than  that  of  Genoa  from  the  sea,  as  even  Lord  Charle- 
cote— who  still  affected  cynicism  in  general  conversation — was  forced  to 
admit. 

"  But  the  place  looks  in  pawn  while  you're  in  it,"  he  said,  "  with 
such  frowsy  tenants  in  its  palaces — like  jewels  in  the  hands  of  a  Jew 
pawnbroker." 

"  They  may  be  redeemed  one  day,"  said  Lawley  dreamily. 

"Not  they,"  said  Lord  Charlecote  decidedly;  "commerce,  like  the 
sea  it  sails  on,  floods  one  coast  and  leaves  another  high  and  dry." 

"  Everything  goes,"  said  Mabel,  with  a  sadness  born  of  her  own 
trouble. 

"  Qa  ira  I  It's  the  tune  time  marches  to,"  said  Lord  Charlecote,  hum- 


116  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

ming  it.  "  It's  a  provision  of  nature  for  Englishmen ;  for  you  see,  if 
there  were  no  ruins  there  would  be  no  picturesqueness,  and  if  there  were 
no  picturesqueness  there  would  be  no  Cook's  personally-conducted  tours." 

"  I  wonder  why  ruin  makes  everything  picturesque,"  said  Mabel. 

"  Its  associations  with  death,  I  think,"  said  Lawley.  "  The  shadow 
of  death,  like  night,  makes  the  most  commonplace  thing  impressive. 
Every  ruin  is  a  shadow  of  the  coming  event,  and  it's  the  presentiment 
that  unconsciously  fascinates  us." 

This  was  rather  a  dreary  topic,  and  Lord  Charlecote  changed  it.  "  I 
don't  think  it  was  ever  much  of  a  place  to  live  in,  or  that  they  were  ever 
much  of  a  people,"  he  said  cynically,  referring  to  Genoa  la  Superba. 
"  The  view  you  get  from  history  is  like  the  view  you  get  from  here — a 
distant  view.  You  see  only  what  was  splendid,  as  we  see  from  here  only 
palaces  and  churches.  What  was  sordid  and  narrow  and  frowsy  is  out 
of  sight.  They  were  a  commercial  people,"  he  added  contemptuously, 
"  and  commerce  is  always  mean.  It's  the  diy  rot  of  a  nation.  '  Honour 
sinks  where  commerce  long  prevails.'" 

"  Isn't  it  Bacon  who  says  that  in  the  infancy  of  states  arms  nourish, 
in  their  middle  age  arts,  and  in  their  declining  years  commerce '?  Under 
its  other  name  of  avarice,  it  is  the  usual  characteristic  of  old  age. 

That  meanest  rage 

And  latest  folly  of  man's  sinking  age, 
Which  rarely  venturing  in  the  van  of  life, 
While  nobler  passions  wage  their  heated  strife, 
Comes  skulking  last,  with  selfishness  and  fear, 
And  dies,  collecting  lumber  in  the  rear. 

Both  gentlemen  were  thinking  of  another  people  than  the  Genoese, 
Lawley  with  good  reason,  having  lived  so  long  in  the  West  Riding.  It 
was  rather  a  stiff  conversation  for  a  sultry  day,  when  any  kind  of  effort, 
physical  or  mental,  was  exhausting,  but  they  drifted  into  the  subject,  and 
were  stimulated  by  the  presence  of  Mabel  to  talk  their  best  upon  it. 
They  sang  as  the  thrushes  sing  in  spring — in  rivalry.  The  languor  of 
the  day,  however,  had  the  effect  of  making  their  talk  discursive.  It 
passed  from  Genoa  and  its  siege  in  1799,  when  20,000  of  its  inhabitants 
perished  by  famine,  on  to  deaths  of  different  kinds,  and  to  that  by  drown- 
ing as  the  easiest.  Lord  Charlecote  quoted  a  great  London  doctor,  who 
told  him  of  two  men  he  had  attended  at  different  times  in  hospital,  both 
of  whom  had  been  all  but  drowned,  while  both,  upon  their  recovery, 
described  their  latest  sensations  before  absolute  unconsciousness  as  de- 
licious. Lawley,  by  a  double  association,  was  reminded  of  his  favourite 
Shelley,  drowned  in  this  sea,  and  quoted  one  of  the  stanzas,  '  Written  in 
dejection  near  Naples  ' : — 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild, 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are  ; 

I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 
And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 

Which  I  have  borne,  and  yet  must  bear, 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  117 

Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 

My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

Mabel,  looking  down  through  the  still  clear  water  at 

The  deep's  untrampled  floor, 

With  green  and  purple  seaweeds  strown, 

felt  that  the  lines  Lawley  quoted  exquisitely  expressed  her  own  deepest 
longing.  Suddenly  the  glass  through  which  she  looked  became  dim  and 
broken.  A  breeze  had  sprung  up  and  ruffled  the  still  surface. 

"  A  breeze  at  last !  "  cried  Lord  Charlecote ;  "  let  us  hoist  the  sail." 

While  they  stepped  the  mast,  the  boat  swung  round  broadside  to  the 
rising  waves,  which  though  not  very  formidable,  tossed  the  cockleshell  of 
a  craft  up  and  down  like  a  shuttlecock.  The  mast  being  fixed,  Lord 
Charlecote  stood  on  the  seat  for  a  moment  to  secure  the  tackle  of  the 
sail  above;  Lawley,  standing  also,  unfurled  it  below.  While  the  crazy 
little  craft  was  thus  top-heavy,  with  the  weight  so  much  to  leeward-as  to 
bring  her  gunwale  level  with  the  water,  a  sudden  gust  and  a  strong  wave 
sent  her  over.  She  went  down  like  lead.  Such  was  the  intensity  of 
Lawley's  love  that  his  first  thought,  when  he  could  think,  was  of  Mabel. 
As  he  struggled  up  to  the  surface,  it  was  of  her  life  he  was  thinking,  not 
of  his  own.  They  rose  almost  together ;  he  swam  towards  her  and  caught 
her  just  as  she  was  about  to  simk  the  second  time.  She  clutched  his 
coat  convulsively,  but  he  slipped  out  of  it,  left  it  in  her  hands,  and 
swam  shorewards,  pushing  her  before  him.  He  was  a  strong  swimmer, 
but  it  was  a  long  swim.  He  had  not  struggled  through  half  the  distance 
before  his  strength  began  to  give  out.  Mnl>el,  who  had  now  recovered 
consciousness  and  comparative  calmness,  felt  it  was  giving  out. 

"  Let  me  go  !  "  she  cried,  trying  to  disengage  herself. 

Lawley  silently  held  firm,  with  an  effort  that  cost  him  much  of  his 
fast-going  strength. 

"You  could  have  saved  yourself.  It  is  too  late  now  !"  she  cried 
again  despairingly. 

Yes,  it  was  too  late  now.  Even  if  Lawley  had  let  her  go,  he  could 
not  have  struggled  on  very  much  further. 

"  Mabel !"  he  gasped,  "  I  love  you — one  kiss  ! " 

Even  at  that  awful  moment  the  revelation  came  with  a  kind  of  shock 
to  her.  She  turned  her  face  to  his ;  their  lips  met,  ere  they  sank  together 
with  a  cry  to  the  mercy  of  God. 

CHAPTEK  XL. 
CHANGED  RELATIONS. 

THE  wave  that  helped  to"  swamp  the  boat  was  itself  helped  by  the 
swell  of  a  large  steamer,  which  was  much  nearer  Lawley,  if  he  had  known 
it,  than  the  shore.  But  he  did  not  know  it.  Mabel  rose  between  him 


118  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

and  the  shore,  and  he  swam  towards  her  with  the  steamer  behind  him. 
Lord  Charlecote,  however,  rose  with  his  face  to  the  steamer,  and  made 
for  it  with  no  thought  at  the  moment  of  anyone  but  himself.  He  had 
been  taught  all  his  life  to  think  only  of  himself,  and  it  was  not  to  be 
expected  that  he  should  forget  the  lesson  when  life  itself  was  at  stake. 
He,  too,  was  a  good  swimmer,  even  better  than  Lawley,  had  only  himself 
to  save,  and  only  a  short  distance  to  cover,  since  a  boat  from  the  steamer 
put  out  to  meet  him.  Safe  in  the  boat  he  had  thought  to  spare  to  Mabel 
and  Lawley.  He  directed  the  men  to  pull  towards  where  the  boat  went 
down,  while  he  himself  looked  anxiously  in  all  directions  for  any  appear- 
ance of  his  companions.  At  last  he  saw  them  together  making  for  the 
shore.  He  felt  a  twinge  of  shame,  remorse,  and  jealousy  at  the  sight  of 
Mabel  being  saved  by  his  rival.  He  pointed  to  where  they  were,  pulled 
out  his  purse,  poured  a  heap  of  sovereigns  into  his  hand,  and  by  these 
signs  stimulated  the  men  (who  spoke  only  Italian,  of  which  he  did  not 
know  a  word)  to  the  utmost  exertions.  "While,  however,  they  were  still 
a  good  way  off,  Mabel  and  Lawley  disappeared.  Lord  Charlecote  shouted, 
pointed,  urged  the  men  by  excited  gestures  till  they  pulled  as  if  their 
own  lives  were  in  the  balance.  As  they  shot  over  the  spot  where  the 
two  had  disappeared,  Mabel  and  Lawley,  still  clinging  together,  rose  for 
the  second  time  to  the  surface,  and  before  they  could  sink  again  Lord 
Charlecote  had  leaped  out,  swam  to  them,  and  supported  them  until  the 
boat  put  back  and  took  them  in.  Mabel  was  still  alive,  but  Lawley  was 
to  all  appearance  dead. 

The  boat  then  made  for  the  harbour,  to  which  the  steamer  had  already 
preceded  them.  It  was  the  nearest  refuge  where  they  were  sure  to  find 
a  doctor.  Lord  Charlecote's  assumed  impassiveness  was  submerged  be- 
neath a  wave  of  impulsive  feeling.  He  felt  Mabel's  faint  pulse,  chafed  her 
hands,  rose  and  sat  down  again  a  dozen  times  in  extreme  excitement, 
gesticulating  unintelligible  directions  to  the  men,  and  bending  forward 
over  the  bulwarks  as  if  that  would  hasten  by  a  handbreadth  her  speed. 
At  last  they  rounded  the  harbour  pier,  and  passed  ship  after  ship, 
whose  crews  looked  down  over  the  bulwarks  on  their  ghastly  burden. 
They  hailed  each  as  they  passed,  asking  if  there  were  a  doctor  on 
board  ?  No.  Lord  Charlecote,  in  a  frenzy  of  passionate  impatience  at 
each  vain  stoppage,  was  trying  to  intimate  to  the  men  that  they  must  go 
straight  to  shore  without  slackening  to  ask  again  this  hopeless  question, 
when  a  small  boat  with  an  Englishman  in  it,  making  for  the  harbour 
mouth,  pulled  up  alongside. 

"  You  ask  for  a  doctor  1 "  asked  the  Englishman  in  execrable  Italian. 

"  Are  you  a  doctor  1 "  asked  Lord  Charlecote  simultaneously. 

The  stranger  made  the  sole  reply  of  stepping  into  the  boat  and  alter- 
ing at  once  the  posture  of  the  two  bodies,  which  he  saw  only  when  he 
came  alongside.  He  then  gave  directions  to  both  the  men  in  his  own 
boat  and  to  those  with  Lord  Charlecote,  and  turned  again  to  examine  the 
lifeless  bodies. 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  119 

"  She's  not  dead  1 "  cried  Lord  Charlecote  eagerly. 

"  No,  she's  not  dead,"  replied  the  doctor  after  an  intolerably  delibe- 
rate delay  ;  "  she'll  be  all  right  in  a  few  days,  I  should  say." 

"And  he?" 

The  doctor  took  some  time  before  he  answered  by  shaking  his  head. 
"  How  long  has  he  been  under  water  1 " 

"  Not  five  minutes." 

"  Five  minutes  ! " 

"  But  he  had  a  long  swim  first,  holding  her  up." 

"  He  must  have  been  nearly  dead  before  he  sank."  Which  indeed 
was  true,  as  Lawley  had  a  spirit  much  stronger  than  his  strength. 

"  He's  dead  then  1 " 

The  doctor  again  proceeded  to  examine  Lawley  carefully  and  ex- 
haustively, trying  the  while  to  stimulate  artificial  respiration,  but  was 
interrupted  by  the  boat's  touching  the  landing  place.  The  doctor's  boat, 
being  much  the  lighter  and  swifter,  had  beaten  them  by  time  enough  to 
have  a  conveyance  in  waiting,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  and  his  patients 
and  Lord  Charlecote  were  in  the  nearest  hotel.  Lord  Charlecote  waited 
to  be  assured  that  Mabel  was  restored  and  out  of  danger,  before  he  hurried 
off  to  be  the  first  to  tell  Lady  Saddlethwaite  of  the  accident. 

When  he  appeared  before  her,  drenched  and  dripping,  alone  and  with 
trouble  in  his  face,  Lady  Saddlethwaite  realised  her  love  for  Mabel. 

"  Where's  — where's  Mabel  ?"  she  asked  in  a  tone  of  great  agitation. 

"  She's  all  right,  thank  God.  We  had  an  upset,  but  we  were  picked 
up,  and  she  has  been  some  time  coming  to.  The  doctor  says  she'll  be  all 
right  in  a  day  or  so." 

"  But  where  is  she  1"  still  anxiously. 

"  She's  at  some  hotel  near  the  harbour.  I  forgot  to  ask  its  name  ; 
but  I've  kept  the  cab." 

"  I  shall  not  be  a  minute,"  said  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  hurrying  to- 
wards the  door,  but  pausing  as  she  reached  it  to  turn  and  ask,  "  And 
Mr.  Lawley?" 

Lord  Charlecote  shook  his  head. 

"Drowned  !" 

"  The  doctor  says  there's  no  hope,  but  he's  doing  all  he  can  to  restore 
him." 

Lady  Saddlethwaite  stood  transfixed  at  the  door. 

"He  has  lost  his  life — if  he  has  lost  it — in  trying  to  save  Miss 
Masters,"  continued  Lord  Charlecote,  finding  a  relief  in  giving  expression 
to  his  self-reproach.  "  I  took  care  of  myself,  but  he  held  her  up  to  his 
last  breath.  The  doctor  says  he  must  have  been  all  but  dead  before  they 
sank." 

Lady  Saddlethwaite  was  much  moved.     "  Is  there  no  hope  1 " 

Lord  Charlecote  again  shook  his  head.  Lady  Saddlethwaite  hurried 
off  to  get  ready,  and  having  given  some  confusing  instructions  to  Parker 
about  following  her — where  and  with  what  she  did  not  say — she  entered 


120  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

the  cab — without  waiting  for  Lord  Charlecote,  who  had  to  change  his 
soaking  clothes — and  was  soon  by  Mabel's  bedside. 

Mabel  was  restored  and  conscious,  but  weak  and  confused.  She  re- 
cognised Lady  Saddlethwaite,  who  stooped  to  kiss  her  with  a  mother's 
tenderness,  and  smiled  faintly  in  acknowledgment  of  the  caress. 

"Where's  George?"  she  asked  in  a  voice  barely  audible.  George 
and  Lawley  had  got  confused  together  in  her  drowning  delirium,  and  she 
had  not  yet  come  to  distinguish  them. 

"Who,  dear?" 

Mabel  felt  she  had  used  the  wrong  name,  but  could  not  think  of  the 
right  one.  She  lay  silent  for  a  little,  trying  to  collect  and  concentrate  her 
scattered  thoughts. 

"  You  mustn't  trouble  yourself  about  anything  but  getting  better, 
dear.  Try  to  go  asleep." 

"  He's  drowned  ! "  with  a  kind  of  terror  in  her  wide  and  wistful  eyeg. 

"  He's  nothing  of  the  sort.  You're  only  dreaming,  and  you  had 
much  better  dream  asleep.  There,  be  a  good  child  and  go  asleep  when 
you're  told,"  patting  her  pale  cheek. 

Mabel  smiled  again  faintly  and  closed  her  eyes. 

Ladj  Saddlethwaite  could  say  with  a  safe  conscience  that  Lawley  wasn't 
drowned,  but  it  was  all  she  could  say,  or  the  doctor  either.  The  flame 
of  life  flickered  faintly  in  his  breast,  but  there  was  no  fuel  for  it  to  feed 
on,  and  it  threatened  every  moment  to  go  out  altogether.  In  fact  Lawley 
was  like  to  die  of  exhaustion.  He  found,  however,  what  he  needed  most  in 
Dr.  Pardoe,  not  a  very  brilliant,  but  an  extremely  painstaking  physician, 
who  not  only  doctored  but  nursed  him.  He  was  very  much  interested,  not 
in  the  man  but  in  the  patient ;  and  death,  when  he  seemed  to  have  it  all 
his  own  way,  found  he  had  the  battle  to  fight  all  over  again  with  a  plucky 
and  tough  antagonist.  Dr.  Pardoe  had  that  blind  and  dogged  English 
courage  of  which  the  French  prince  in  Henry  V.  complained — "  If  the 
English  had  any  apprehension,  they  would  run  away."  He  would,  per- 
haps, have  despaired  if  he  had  seen  clearly  the  desperation  of  the  case. 
But  he  didn't,  and  he  fought  death  to  the  death  with  stolid  and  stubborn 
hardihood.  It  was  a  long  and  doubtful  battle.  When  Mabel  was  quite 
well,  as  she  was  in  a  few  days,  Lawley  lay  still  in  the  shadow  of  death — 
in  a  twilight,  whether  of  life's  dawn  or  setting  no  one  could  say.  Mabel, 
if  she  could,  would  freely  have  given  her  life  for  his.  It  was  all  she  had 
to  give,  for  her  love  was  buried  in  George's  grave.  The  girl  was  utterly 
miserable.  If  Lawley  died,  his  death  was  at  her  door ;  if  he  lived,  at 
her  door,  too,  would  be  his  unhappiness.  For  she  knew  enough  of  him 
to  feel  that  his  love  would  be  life-long  and  life-absorbing.  Here  was  the 
greatest  of  all  the  debts  she  owed  him — his  love — greater  even  than  the 
debt  of  her  life,  and  she  could  make  him  no  return  for  it.  For  such  love 
as  she  could  give  was  as  different  from  that  he  gave  and  that  he  asked  as 
moonlight  is  from  sunlight — different  not  in  degree  only,  but  in  kind. 
She  was  most  miserable. 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  121 

Lady  Saddlethwaite  put  her  extreme  dejection  down  to  her  despair 
of  a  life  which  was  given  for  her  own,  and  was  doubly  rejoiced  to  be  at 
least  able  to  say,  on  the  authority  of  the  exasperatingly  cautious  doctor, 
that  Lawley  was  out  of  danger.  A  great  weight  was  lifted  off  Mabel' s 
heart,  but  a  trouble  almost  as  deep  remained.  Lady  Saddlethwaite  was 
perplexed  to  find  she  had  given  so  much  less  relief  than  she  expected. 
"Why,  you're  as  miserable  as  ever,  child  !" 

"  It's  a  great  debt  to  owe,"  said  Mabel,  thinking  as  much  of  Lawley' 
love  as  of  his  life. 

"  That's  not  like  you,  Mabel.  I  thought  you  were  generous  enough 
to  forgive  a  debt  you  couldn't  pay.  You  should  think  what  a  happiness 
it  is  to  him  to  have  done  you  this  service.  It's  a  debt  that  pays  itself." 

"  All  my  debts  have  to  pay  themselves,"  said  Mabel  drearily.  "  You 
don't  know  what  it  is,  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  to  owe  what  you  never  can 
pay.  You  are  always  doing  kindnesses  that  can  never  be  repaid." 

"  Tut,  my  dear.  I  know  there's  no  greater  pleasure  than  doing  you 
a  kindness,  and  I  know  that  Mr.  Lawley  thinks  so  too.  It  was  ydu  he 
asked  after  the  moment  he  became  conscious." 

Lady  Saddlethwaite  began  to  suspect  that  Mabel  had  at  last  dis- 
cerned Lawley's  love,  and  shot  this  arrow  at  a  venture.  It  was  a  pal- 
pable hit.  Mabel  coloured  and  looked  distressed,  and  Lady  Saddle- 
thwaite, perfectly  satisfied,  turned  the  embarrassing  conversation. 

Meantime,  the  accident  which  revealed  Lawley's  love  to  Mabel,  re- 
vealed Lord  Charlecote's  love  to  himself,  not  directly  so  much  as  in- 
directly. He  got  a  long  letter  from  his  mother,  asking  for  an  immediate, 
explicit,  and  positive  contradiction  of  a  scandalous  paragraph  in  the 
Times,  which  had  been  copied  from  Galignani.  In  this  paragraph  the 
accident  was  reported  at  some  length,  and  with  many  new  and  interesting 
particulars.  It  seems  the  boat  was  Lord  Charlecote's  private  yacht, 
Mabel  was  his  fiancee,  and  Lawley  was  Mabel's  guardian,  and  that  Lord 
Charlecote,  by  the  most  heroic  and  all  but  impossible  exertions,  swam  to 
the  steamer,  holding  up  Mabel  with  one  hand  and  Lawley  with  the  other. 
Upon  the  text  of  this  paragraph  the  Dowager  Lady  Charlecote  held  forth 
— very  furiously  after  her  manner.  Some  gases  liquefy  under  tremen- 
dous pressure,  and  Lord  Charlecote's  love,  which  was  of  a  volatile  and 
gaseous  nature,  needed  some  such  opposing  pressure  to  condense  it  to 
anything  substantial.  Mabel's  indifference  and  Lawley's  rivalry  did 
something  in  this  direction,  but  his  mother's  furious  letter  did  much 
moi-e.  Like  many  another  woman  this  good  lady  seemed  to  think  that  a 
match  was  best  kept  from  lighting  by  friction.  The  result  of  her  inter- 
vention was  that  Lord  Charlecote  not  only  did  what  he  could  to  overtake 
and  suppress  this  absurd  newspaper  report,  but  also  did  what  he  could 
to  make  that  part  of  it  true  which  connected  his  name  with  Mabel's. 

The  accident  also  affected  indirectly  the  relation  of  George  to  Mabel. 
The  original  version  of  it  was  copied  into  a  Melbourne  paper,  and  there 


122  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

caught  George's  eye  more  than,  a  year  after  the  accident  it  referred  to 
occurred.  He  read  it  on  a  scrap  of  waste  paper  which  contained  speci- 
mens of  wheat  that  had  lain  aside  for  months  in  a  drawer. 


CHAPTEE  XLI. 
THREE  CONFESSIONS. 

THE  first  meeting  of  Mabel  and  Lawley  after  their  farewell  kiss  was  a 
sad  one.  Lawley  was  miserable  in  the  thought  that  his  secret  should 
have  been  wrung  from  him  even  in  the  agony  of  death,  and  in  the  thought 
that  its  untimely  disclosure  destroyed  what  little  chance  he  had  of  her 
hand.  He  could  make  her  but  one  reparation,  to  renounce  what  had 
become  the  happiness  of  his  life — her  society.  If  he  had  done  her  no 
service  he  might — notwithstanding  his  dying  declaration — have  allowed 
himself  this  happiness ;  but  now  he  would  seem  to  her,  when  they  met, 
not  only  an  unwelcome  suitor,  but  a  suitor  who  sued,  not  in  formd  pau- 
peris,  but  as  a  sordid  creditor.  For  he  knew  she  would  take  an  exag- 
gerated view  of  his  effort  to  save  her.  Yes ;  he  must  do  her  now  the 
infinitely  harder  service  of  the  sacrifice  of  his  happiness  to  hers. 

On  the  other  hand  Mabel  certainly  did  feel  overwhelmed  with  her 
debt  to  Lawley,  but  it  was  the  debt  of  his  love,  not  of  her  life,  which 
weighed  most  upon  her.  It  was  not,  we  need  hardly  say,  that  she 
thought  little  of  his  saving  her,  but  that  she  thought  so  much  of  his 
loving  her.  She  thought  Lawley  utterly  despised  her  sex ;  and  perhaps, 
woman  fashion,  she  respected  him  the  more  for  his  contempt ;  the  com- 
pliment of  his  love,  therefore,  was  all  the  greater  and  more  surprising 
and  more  distressing.  For  what  could  she  do  ?  Like  Bassanio,  she  would 
give  him  anything  in  all  the  world  but  the  worthless  thing  he  asked. 

".Mr.  Lawley  is  coming  down  to-day,  Mabel,"  said  Lady  Saddle- 
thwaite.  They  had  all  migrated  to  the  hotel  to  which  Mabel  and  Lawley 
had  been  carried.  "I've  just  looked  in  at  him  and  said  something  about 
your  anxiety  to  see  and  thank  him,  and  all  that,  and  he  seemed  quite 
distressed.  He  begged  me  most  earnestly  to  ask  you  to  think  and  say 
nothing  about  it,  and  I  promised  you  wouldn't.  I  think  proud  people 
never  like  being  thanked.  They  prefer  to  keep  everyone  in  their  debt, 
perhaps." 

"  I  don't  think  Mr.  Lawley  is  proud,"  said  Mabel,  thinking  with  a 
deep  blush  of  his  love  for  her.  Lady  Saddlethwaite  put  a  most  favourable 
interpretation  upon  the  blush,  and  began  to  be  more  hopeful  than  ever 
about  her  matchmaking  scheme.  Not  that  she  imagined  for  a  moment 
that  Mabel  had  any  heart  yet  to  give  away.  But  she  would  have  in 
time,  and  it  was  enough  now  for  her  to  know,  as  she  plainly  did,  that 
Lawley  loved  her.  Lady  Saddlethwaite  was  not  in  the  least  driven  to 
speculate  as  to  how  Mabel  came  by  her  knowledge  of  Lawley's  feelings 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  123 

towards  her,  since  the  only  wonder  was  that  she  hadn't  divined  them 
long  since. 

When,  however,  Lawley  entered  the  room,  Lady  Saddlethwaite  saw 
in  a  moment  from  their  mutual  embarrassment  that  something  definite 
must  have  passed  between  them.  Mabel  rose  and  advanced  to  meet  him 
with  the  pained  and  wistful  expression  of  one  who  had  done  him  some 
deep  wrong  and  deeply  repented  of  it ;  while  Lawley  also,  on  his  side, 
looked  more  conscious  of  having  embittered  than  of  having  preserved  her 
life. 

"  You're  better  ?  "  asked  Mabel,  as  their  hands  met,  in  a  voice  she 
couldn't  quite  steady. 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right  again,  thank  you,"  he  replied,  with  his  last  words 
and  the  kiss  which  sealed  them  vividly  in  his  thoughts  and  in  his  eyes. 
What  a  bathos  was  this  conventional  meeting  as  a  sequel  to  that  scene  ! 

"  You  look  all  right !  "  exclaimed  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  who  saw  that 
she  must  create  a  diversion ;  "  you're  as  white  as  a  ghost.  You  must 
lie  down  on  the  sofa  here,  and  submit  to  be  nursed  and  made  much  of  " 
Mabel  stepped  to  the  sofa  and  arranged  the  pillows  with  the  deftness  of 
a  skilled  nurse — as  she  was.  Lawley,  who  was  about  to  scorn  the  sofa, 
became  suddenly  glad  of  it. 

"  I've  just  been  telling  Mabel,"  said  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  thinking  it 
better  to  have  this  business  of  Mabel's  thanks  '  sided  '  and  settled ;  "  I've 
just  been  telling  Mabel  that  you  won't  hear  of  being  thanked  for  saving 
her  life,  Mr.  Lawley." 

"One  doesn't  like  being  thanked  for  what  one  didn't  do,  Lady 
Saddlethwaite.  '  Praise  undeserved,'  you  know.  In  fact,  it  was  Lord 
Charlecote  saved  us  both." 

"  Mabel  would  have  been  drowned  many  times  over  if  she'd  had  the 
politeness  to  wait  for  Lord  Charlecote  to  save  her.  But,  as  I  was  saying 
to  her  before  you  came  in,  proud  people  never  like  being  thanked.' 

"  Then  I  must  forego  my  thanks  to  you,  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  for  all 
your  kindness.  I  meant  to  have  made  you  a  long  speech  of  acknowledg- 
ment before  we  parted  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  find  I  must  get  home  sooner  than  I  expected." 

"  But  we,  too,  must  get  back  before  the  twelfth.  We  may  as  well 
keep  together.  It  will  make  only  two  days'  difference.  Besides,  you 
are  certainly  not  strong  enough  to  undertake  such  a  journey  at  once  and 
alone." 

"  But  I  wasn't  thinking  of  returning  by  rail.  Dr.  Pardoe  says  a 
sea  voyage  would  set  me  up." 

"  By  sea ;  ugh  !  I  didn't  know  Dr.  Pardoe  was  a  homoeopathist.  I 
should  have  thought  you'd  had  enough  of  the  sea." 

"  I  hope  to  have  only  a  homoeopathic  dose  of  it  this  time.  I  should  not 
have  taken  the  prescription,  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  if  you'd  not  had  Lord 
Charlecote  to  take  care  of  you." 


124  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

"  To  take  care  of  us  !     Who's  to  take  care  of  you  ?  " 

"Why,  I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  but  lie  on  deck  all  day  and  smoke." 

"  Well,  it's  a  very  ungracious  way  of  thanking  you  for  your  escort, 
Mr.  Lawley,  to  get  into  a  pet  about  your  leaving  us,  but  we  couldn't  pay 
you  a  higher  compliment,  you  know.  We  may  as  well  leave  to-morrow, 
too,  Mabel,  if  it  suits  Lord  Charlecote.  What  do  you  say,  dear  1 " 

Mabel  assented  absently.  She  knew  perfectly  well  that  Lawley  was 
leaving  them,  for  another  reason  than  that  of  health,  as,  indeed,  did  Lady 
Saddlethwaite.  That  kindly  old  lady  was  distressed  by  their  estrange- 
ment, and  began  to  think  they  would  come  to  a  better  understanding  if 
left  to  themselves.  Accordingly  she  rose  in  the  most  natural  way  in  the 
world  and  left  the  room  to  see  Parker  about  packing.  Then  there 
was  silence  that  might  be  felt  for  half  a  minute,  broken  at  last  and  des- 
perately by  Mabel. 

"I  haven't  thanked  you  because  I  couldn't  thank  you,  Mr.  Lawley," 
speaking  hurriedly  and  tremulously. 

"  I  ask  you  only  to  forgive  me,"  Lawley  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Forgive  you  !  It  was  not  of  my  life  only  I  was  thinking  when  I 
said  I  couldn't  thank  you."  Here  she  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  went 
on  as  if  with  a  brave  effort,  "  I  was  thinking  of  another  and  dearer. debt 
which,  is  worth  more  than  my  life,  and  which  I  value  more,  but  which  I 
cannot  pay — I've  nothing  to  pay  with,"  with  a  kind  of  piteous  appeal  in 
her  voice. 

"  I  never  thought  I  was  anything  to  you.  I  never  hoped  it.  How 
could  I  hope  it  1 "  exclaimed  Lawley,  rising  impetuously,  standing  before 
her  and  looking  down  upon  her.  "  But  it  sweetened  death  to  me  to 
speak." 

"  You  are  more  to  me  than  anyone  left  to  me,  than  anyone  ever  can 
be  to  me  again  ;  but  no  one  can  ever  be  to  me  again  what — what  you 
wish.  And  now  I've  lost  you,  too  !  "  she  added,  following  her  thoughts 
more  closely  than  her  words,  and  looking  up  at  Lawley  with  the  deepest, 
sweetest  distress  in  her  face.  It  was  impossible  for  any  man,  even  for 
Lawley,  not  to  gather  some  hope  from  these  hopeless  words  and  joy  from 
this  set  sad  face.  Mabel  was  as  certain  of  her  constancy  as  of  her  life, 
and  expected  others  to  be  as  convinced  of  it ;  but  even  Lawley  was  little 
likely  to  think  it  absolutely  proof  against  time,  or  to  despair  upon  being 
told  with  the  simplest  and  sweetest  sincerity,  "  You  are  more  to  me  than 
anyone  left  to  me — than  anyone  ever  can  be  to  me  again."  At  the 
same  time  this  ingenuous  assurance,  of  course,  only  confirmed  his  resolve 
to  spare  her  the  embarrassment  of  his  presence  in  these  first  months  of 
her  bereavement.  Lover-like,  he  was  more  depressed  by  the  imminent 
separation  than  cheered  by  the  hope  her  words  conveyed.  For  love  is 
well  painted  a  boy  and  blind,  that  is,  impatient  and  improvident.  He 
was  still  standing  before  her  as  she  looked  up  at  him  with  such  sweet 
and  simple  sadness  in  her  face.  As  he  looked  down  upon  it  he  would 
have — 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  125 

Given  all  earthly  bliss, 
And  all  his  worldly  worth  for  this, 
To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  a  kiss 
Upon  her  perfect  lips. 

The  yearning  so  expressed  itself  through  his  dark  eyee  that  Mabel 
blushed  under  their  gaze,  and  thereby  brought  him  back  to  himself.  He 
took  her  hand  in  his.  "Mabel,  I  loved  you  so  that  I  should  never  have 
told  my  love  if  death  had  not  wrung  the  secret  from  me.  Now  I  can 
only  help  you  to  forget  it  and  me." 

"  But  you  will  forget  it,  and  we  shall  be  again  as  we  were." 

"  As  we  were  ?  I  have  always  loved  you,  I  think,  from  the  first  day 
I  saw  you,  and  I  always  shall,  always — always."  He  repeated  the  word 
with  ineffable  tenderness,  and  its  plaintive  echo  lingered  in  Mabel's 
memory,  and  long  afterwards  recalled  the  whole  scene  daily,  and  often 
many  times  a  day,  and  pleaded  for  him  piteously  and  powerfully.  There 
was  a  moment's  silence,  during  which  he  still  held  her  hand,  while  she 
looked  up  helplessly  at  him.  with  eyes  now  larger  and  brighter  through 
tears.  This  was  an  effective  way  to  make  her  forget  him  and  his  love  ! 

"  I  thought  our  last  good-bye  was  the  very  last,"  he  said,  "  but  there 
is  this  one  more."  Mabel  could  not  speak  just  then,  but  the  trembling 
tears  welled  over  and  spoke  for  her. 

"  Good-bye  !  "  he  said.  Did  he  expect  her  once  again  to  bid  him  a 
lover's  good-bye  with  speechless  lips  ?  He  did  not  know  what  he  ex- 
pected. He  was  delirious  with  love.  Mabel  still  could  answer  only  with 
her  now  fast -falling  tears.  He  stooped  and  pressed  a  passionate  kiss 
on  her  quivering  lips  and  was  gone. 

He  was  wise  enough  and  strong  enough  to  keep  to  his  resolve  that 
this  should  be  their  good-bye.  He  kept  his  room  till  the  hour  came  next 
day  for  him  to  embark,  having  in  the  meantime  made  a  clean  breast  of  the 
whole  business  to  Lady  Saddlethwaite.  It  was  as  well  he  did  so,  for  other- 
wise the  kind  old  lady  might  have  taken  ill  Mabel's  persistent  keeping 
of  a  secret  which  was  not  her  own,  while  Mabel  would  not  have  had  the 
inexpressible  relief  of  her  sympathy.  Lawley  himself,  however,  was  the 
chief  gainer  by  his  confession. 

"While  you  were  drowning!"  exclaimed  Lady  Saddlethwaite  in 
answer  to  Lawley's  rather  bald  account  of  the  business.  He  had  said 
nothing,  and  could  not  bring  himself  to  say  anything,  of  the  clinging  kiss 
which  was  their  last  farewell,  but  of  this,  too,  Lady  Saddlethwaite  heard 
later  from  the  lips  that  suffered  it. 

"  While  you  were  drowning  !  I  never  heard  anything  so  romantic. 
What  did  she  say?" 

"  We  weren't  sitting  together  in  a  drawing-room,  you  know,  Lady 
Saddlethwaite,"  answered  Lawley  with  a  short  laugh.  "  It  was  hardly  to 
be  expected  that  she  should  blush  and  hesitate  and  hang  down  her  head, 
or  that  she  should  draw  herself  up  to  her  full  height  and  cry  '  Unhand 


126  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

me,  sirrah.'  She  said  nothing.  It's  not  easy  to  say  anything  when 
you're  drowning," 

"  Yet  you  managed  to  do  it  to  some  purpose,"  said  Lady  Saddle- 
thwaite,  laughing  also.  "  But  you've  been  sitting  together  in  a  drawing- 
room  since.  Was  it  '  Unhand  me,  sirrah/  this  morning  ? " 

"  In  a  mild  form  :  She  said  '  I  was  more  to  her  than  anyone  could  ever 
be  to  her  again,  but  no  one  could  be  to  her  again  what  I  asked  to  be.'  " 

"  A  very  mild  form  !  With  any  other  girl  in  the  world  but  Mabel 
that  would  be  an  acceptance  :  but  she  meant  it." 

"  Yes,  she  meant  it,"  despondently. 

"  She  meant  it,  but  how  long  will  she  mean  it  ?  My  dear  Mr.  Law- 
ley,  you  don't  suppose  a  young  girl  barely  out  of  her  teens  can  be  crushed 
for  life  under  any  blow  ?  In  spring  a  rose  can  stand  any  storm  and 
raise  its  head  after  it  and  smell  all  the  sweeter  for  it ;  it's  only  in  autumn 
there's  no  recovery,"  said  Lady  Saddlethwaite  sadly,  thinking,  as  she 
thought  daily,  of  her  dead  daughter. 

"  Recovery  will  be  very  slow  with  her." 

"  Of  course  it  will  be  slow  with  her.  Would  you  have  it  quick  1 
What  would  you  think  of  a  girl  who  could  listen  to  the  suit  of  a  second 
lover  three  months  after  she  had  heard  of  the  murder  of  the  first  ]  And 
Mabel  of  all  girls  !  " 

"  I  didn't  think  we  had  a  minute  to  live,"  he  said  apologetically, 
thinking  Lady  Saddlethwaite  was  echoing  his  own  self-reproach  for  the 
avowal  of  love  which  death  had  surprised  him  out  of. 

"  Why,  yoxi  don't  think  I  blame  you,  or  she  blames  you  ? "  exclaimed 
Lady  Saddlethwaite,  expressing  her  surprise  by  articulating  each  word 
with  staccato  distinctness.  "  To  think  of  her  in  death,  to  forget  death 
in  the  thought  of  her  !  It  was  magnificent !  " 

"  But  not  war  ? "  added  Lawley  smiling,  highly  gratified  at  his 
honourable  acquittal  by  so  competent  a  judge  as  Lady  Saddlethwaite. 

"  Yes,  and  war  too.  You've  won  her  heart  by  it — at  least  the  re- 
version of  her  heart.  But  you  must  wait.  Such  a  girl  is  worth  ten 
years'  siege." 

"  She's  worth  a  life's  siege  ! "  he  cried  enthusiastically ;  "  but  a  month 
without  her  is  ten  years,"  he  added  with  a  sigh. 

"  You  must  make  your  mind  up  to  be  many  months  without  her. 
Your  absence  and  its  cause  will  plead  for  you  better  than  anything  else 
in  the  world.  You  are  quite  right  to  leave  us  at  once.  She  will  think 
of  you  more,  and  think  more  of  you,  than  if  she  saw  you  every  day.  You 
must  make  the  most  of  your  last  interview  with  her." 

"  It's  over,"  he  said  with  something  like  a  groan. 

"  Over  !  Was  it  1  No ;  it's  too  sacred  to  talk  about,"  with  a  kind 
and  approving  smile.  She  understood  and  honoured  Lawley's  reti- 
cence on  a  subject  that  really  was  sacred  to  him,  and  she  knew  besides 
that  she  would  now  hear  from  Mabel — as  of  her  own  sex — what  Lawley 
could  not  have  brought  himself  to  confide  to  her.  She  rose  and  left  him 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  127 

with  the  promise  that  she  would  do  all  she  could  for  him,  and  would  write 
from  time  to  time  to  him  letters  of  which  Mabel  would  be  the  burden. 

Notwithstanding  the  comfort  and  encouragement  Lady  Saddle- 
thwaite  gave  him,  Lawley  relapsed  into  depression — due  in  part  to  his 
weakness — and  after  a  sleepless  night  was  in  such  a  state  that  his  cautious 
Scotch  doctor  declined  to  answer  for  his  life  if  he  embarked — which  gave 
him,  of  course,  a  gloomy  satisfaction  in  embarking.  Dr.  Pardoe  was  very 
much  annoyed.  He  would  have  regarded  Lawley's  death  as  vexatious.  It 
would  have  been  to  him  as  the  loss  of  a  forty-pound  salmon  to  an  angler 
who  had  played  him  for  hours  with  consummate  skill  and  patience,  and 
saw  him  break  away  on  the  brink  of  being  landed.  Lawley,  however, 
did  not  "  go  off  the  hooks,"  and  the  doctor  was  appeased. 

Meantime  he  had  Mabel  again  on  hands.  The  girl  was  completely 
prostrated  after  the  distressing  scene  with  Lawley.  Her  worst  fears  as 
to  his  love  were  realised.  It  was  the  love  of  a  strong  man,  which  is  as 
his  strength,  and  would  last  and  mar  his  life.  That  he  would  ever  cease 
to  love  her  was  unlikely,  that  she  should  ever  come  to  love  him  was  im- 
possible. She  had  no  heart  to  give  him  or  anyone,  and  never  would 
have  if  she  lived  to  old  age.  Of  this  Mabel  was  as  certain  as  any  girl  of 
her  age  in  her  circumstances  would  be,  and  with  much  more  reason  than 
most.  She  was  hardly  less  certain  of  Lawley's  constancy.  He  would 
not  forget  her.  Would  she  have  had  him  forget  her  ?  Well,  not  forget 
her,  but — but — No ;  she  could  not  sincerely  wish  that  he  should  cease  to 
love  her  !  She  could  not  love  him,  yet  she  could  not  resign  his  love. 
It  was  as  a  caged  bird  which  she  prized  so  dearly  that  she  could  not  bear 
to  free  it  from  the  restless  misery  of  its  imprisonment.  The  most  she 
could  sincerely  wish  was  expressed  in  an  exquisite  poem  she  knew  by 
heart  before  she  had  reason  to  take  to  heart  its  last  sigh,  or  sob  rather, 
of  farewell  : 

Should  my  shadow  cross  thy  thoughts 

Too  sadly  for  their  peace,  remand  it  thou 

For  calmer  hours  to  memory's  darkest  hold, 

If  not  to  be  forgotten — not  at  once — 

Not  all  forgotten. 

But  if  Mabel  could  not  bring  herself  to  wish  that  Lawley  should  for- 
get her,  or  even  that  he  should  altogether  cease  to  love  her,  she  took 
herself  cruelly  to  task  for  her  selfishness ;  and  was,  perhaps,  the  more 
wretched  of  the  two.  For  while  Lawley  had  some  hope,  and  at  times 
good  hope,  inspired  by  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  of  Mabel's  coming  at  last 
to  love  him,  Mabel,  of  course,  believed  her  love  could  no  more  be  brought 
back  to  life  than  her  murdered  lover.  She  was,  then,  intensely  wretched, 
and  her  wretchedness  told  on  her  strength,  not  yet  re-established,  and 
returned  her,  as  we  have  said,  upon  the  doctor's  hands. 

The  doctor  did  and  could  do  little  for  her,  but  Lady  Saddlethwaite 
did  much.  She  told  Mabel  of  Mr.  Lawley's  parting  confidence,  and  so  set 
free  the  floodgates  of  her  heart.  It  was  a  profound  relief  to  Mabel  to 


128  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

pour  out  self-reproaches  and  praises  of  Lawley  mingled  rather  inco- 
herently. 

"  He'll  get  over  it,  my  dear,",said  Lady  Saddlethwaite  cheerily.  She 
was  using,  so  to  speak,  a  stethoscope,  to  hear  how  Mabel's  heart  beat. 

"  Do  you  think  he  will  ?  "  asked  Mabel,  not  as  happily  as  might  be 
expected. 

"  Of  course  he  will.     Men  always  do." 

"  But  I  think  Mr.  Lawley  is  different." 

"  He's  a  man  like  the  rest.  Men  don't  hold  by  one  anchor,  my  dear, 
as  we  do.  They've  so  many  more  things  to  think  of." 

"  If  I  was  sure  he  would  forget  me,"  said  Mabel,  speaking  very  slowly, 
"I  should " 

"  Be  very  much  disappointed  ?     Of  course  you  would." 

"  Yes,  I  should.  I  couldn't  bear  that  he  should  forget  me  altogether," 
she  confessed  honestly  with  a  wan  smile.  "  He  has  been  so  much  to  me, 
Lady  Saddlethwaite.  But  if  he  would  only  come  to  like  me  as  I  like 
him ! " 

"  I've  no  doubt,  dear,  in  time  you  will  come  to  have  the  same  kind  of 
feeling  for  each  other." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ? "  cried  Mabel  eagerly,  not  for  a  moment  suspect- 
ing Lady  Saddlethwaite's  double-entente.  Indeed,  Lady  Saddlethwaite 
would  not  have  risked  it  if  she  had  not  been  perfectly  certain  of  Mabel's 
being  above  such  a  suspicion. 

"  I've  no  doubt  at  all  about  it,"  replied  her  ladyship  decidedly.  And 
she  hadn't.  She  felt  as  certain  that  Mabel  would  come  in  time  to  return 
Lawley's  love  as  that  she  didn't  and  couldn't  return  it  now.  "Well ;  time 
will  tell  if  she  was  right,  and  we  shall  leave  our  heroine  to  its  influence 
for  a  year  before  we  return  to  her.  Meantime  by  a  change  of  scene  we 
hope  to  help  our  readers'  imagination  over  the  interval.  It  may,  per- 
haps, have  occurred  to  some  of  them  to  wonder  where  all  this  time  was 
Mabel's  faithful  factotum,  Mr.  Robert  Sagar.  Mabel  didn't  know.  No 
one  knew.  It  was  a  great  mystery.  We  shall  proceed  now  to  unravel 
it.  Mr.  Sagar  had  fled  a  second  time  in  a  panic  from  Wefton,  not  now, 
like  St.  Kevin,  shunning  the  shafts  of  "  eyes  of  most  unholy  blue,"  but 
a  more  insidious  and  pertinacious  foe  even  than  Miss  Masters  or  any 
of  her  sex. 


THE 


CORNHILL    MAGAZINE 


FEBRUARY,  1882. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OP  "FOB  PERCIVAL." 


CHAPTER  I. 
PORTRAITS. 

:  Fleur  de  pastel,  gentille  morte, 
Ombre  en  habit  de  bal  masque !  " 

THE  rain  was  falling  softly, 
but  steadily,  and  the  roofs 
and  gardens  of  the  little 
village  of  Redlands  were 
shining  with  wet.  The 
eaves  dripped  monoto- 
nously, and  every  bush 
and  tree  held  a  shower. 
The  houses,  many  of 
which  were  overgrown 
with  creepers,  wore  a  dis- 
mal aspect,  and  their 
windows  gleamed  like 
deep-set  mournful  eyes 
tinder  bushy  brows. 

Near  the  church  stood 
a  low  red   brick  house, 
thickly  covered  with  ivy 
and  wistaria,    and    sha- 
dowed   by    trees    which 
almost  brushed  its  window  panes  with  their  swaying  boughs.     A  girl  was 
standing  in  the  green  twilight  of  the  porch,  with  a  cluster  of  rain- washed 
VOL.  XLV. — NO.  266.  7. 


130  DAMOCLES. 

leaves  in  her  hand.  The  door  behind  her  was  open,  and  sounds  of  sweet 
shrill  singing  came  from  within.  She  stood,  drawing  long  breaths  of  the 
soft  air,  while  her  eyes  wandered  from  the  black  earth  of  the  little  walled 
garden  to  the  grey  clouds  between  the  elm  branches. 

She  might  be  one  or  two  and  twenty.  She  had  a  beautiful  face,  but 
it  was  sad  ;  like  the  scene  around  her,  it  needed  a  warmer  glow.  It  was 
not  gloomy  or  querulous,  but  though  it  brightened  readily,  even  eagerly, 
its  brightness  was  like  sunlight  glancing  on  deep  waters,  and  left  an 
underlying  melancholy  untouched.  There  was  something  very  noble  in 
the  tall  slight  figure,  yet  Rachel  Conway  had  an  air  of  youthful  shyness 
which  made  her  troubled  expression  more  pathetic,  as  if  she  had  divined 
more  of  the  world's  sadness  than  she  could  have  experienced,  or  had  any 
right  to  know.  The  singing  ceased,  and  the  voice  within  called, 
"Rachel!  Rachel!" 

"  Here,"  said  Rachel,  without  moving.  "  In  the  porch.  Have  you 
finished  your  practising,  Effie  1 " 

Effie  came  out  and  leaned  against  the  door,  a  pretty  little  dainty 
discontented  maiden.  "I've  finished  everything!"  she  said,  emphati- 
cally. "  And  I  call  this  weather  perfectly  disgusting.  What  are  you 
doing  out  here  1 " 

"  Looking  about.     I  was  a  little  tired  of  being  indoors." 

"  So  am  I — not  a  little.  Mother  is  having  a  nice  afternoon's  letter- 
writing.  What  are  those  leaves  for  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  picked  them  because  they  looked  pretty.  Perhaps 
that  might  have  been  a  reason  for  letting  them  alone,"  said  Rachel, 
considering  them. 

Efiie  leaned  out  a  little  and  pulled  at  a  spray  of  clematis.  It  gave 
way  suddenly,  dislodging  a  small  deluge  and  two  or  three  earwigs.  She 
threw  it  down,  and  shook  the  raindrops  from  her  hand  and  wrist. 

"  I  wish  Charley  would  come  back  !  "  she  said.  "  I  daresay  he'd  do 
nothing  but  grumble  if  he  did,  though  ;  so  perhaps  he'a  just  as  well  away. 
(Oh !  here's  one  of  these  nasty  things  gone  up  my  sleeve  !  Oh  !  kill  it, 
Rachel  ;  there  it  goes,  just  by  your  foot !)  But  I  do  think  it's  nicer  when 
plenty  of  people  can  grumble  together,  than  having  to  do  it  all  alone." 

"  Well,  I'll  do  my  best,"  said  Miss  Conway.  "  And  perhaps  he  will 
come  soon.  Is  it  far  to  the  Hall — you  call  it  the  Hall,  don't  you  2  " 

"  Yes,  Redlands  Hall.  No,  it  isn't  very  far.  You  ought  to  see  the 
house  and  park  some  day." 

"  And  what  did  you  say  was  the  name  of  the  man  who  lives  there  1 
Is  he  a  great  friend  of  your  brother's  1  " 

"  Oh,  pretty  well,  he's  older  than  Charley,  you  know,  Mr.Lauriston." 

"  Lauriston,"  Rachel  repeated,  "  Lauriston.  I  like  that  name — don't 
you." 

"  I  don't  care  much  about  it.  Do  you  like  it  better  than  Conway, 
or  Eastwood  1 " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Rachel,     "  Yes,  I  think  I  do." 


DAMOCLES.  131 

"  Don't  let  Charley  hear  you  say  that ! " 

"  Why  not  ?  "    But  she  blushed  a  little.     "  What's  in  a  name  1 " 

"  Oh,  come,  now  ! "  Effie  exclaimed,  "  the  gardener's  name  is  Gideon 
Grubb." 

At  the  same  time  a  conversation  was  going  on  about  a  mile  and  a 
half  away. 

"  So  that  is  it,  is  it  ?     Well,  and  what  is  she  like  this  time  1 " 

"  This  time  ] " 

"  Yes.     You  told  me  about  the  other  time,  you  know." 

"  But  there  never  was  any  other  time  !  " 

"  No  1  I  hope  there's  nothing  amiss  with  my  brain.  I  must  consult 
somebody  when  I  go  to  town.  So  Miss  Laura — no,  what  was  it  ?  Miss 
Louisa  Clifton  was  a  creature  of  my  own  imagination  !  " 

"  Louisa  Clifton  !    Why,  that  was  nothing — it  was  years  ago  !  " 

"  Years  ?  Yes,  so  it  was.  Two.  I  must  keep  my  memory  in  better 
order,  I  see.  But  now,  to  come  back  to  the  present,  what  is  she  like-?  " 

"  How  am  I  to  tell  you  if  you  go  taking  up  things  like  that  1 
You'd  better  wait  till  to-morrow,  Mr.  Lauriston,  and  then  you  can  judge 
for  yourself.  Louisa  Clifton,  indeed  !  "  the  speaker  repeated  after  a 
pause,  with  genuine  surprise  in  his  voice,  and  a  slightly  aggrieved  ex- 
pression on  his  handsome,  good-humoured  face.  He  made  some  mental 
calculations  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor.  Yes,  Mr.  Lauriston  was 
perfectly  correct,  and  it  was  not  three  years  since  they  had  talked  of 
Miss  Clifton,  incredible  as  it  seemed.  If  it  were  possible  that  one  or  two 
lesser  flirtations  had  run  their  course  in  the  interval,  it  might  explain 
why  Charles  Eastwood  was  so  deeply  impressed  by  the  lapse  of  time. 

"  This  is  serious,  then  ? "  said  Mr.  Lauriston.  "  You  are  engaged  to 
Miss  Conway  ? " 

"  No,  we  are  not  engaged,"  said  Eastwood.  "  I  didn't  mean  that." 
He  smiled,  however,  as  he  said  it.  "  Only  she's  an  awfully  nice  girl — 
the  nicest  girl  I  ever  met — though  she's  queer  now  and  then ;  sometimes 
I  can't  quite  make  her  out."  He  uttered  the  last  words  in  a  puzzled 
undertone.  "  And  she  promised  ever  so  long  ago  that  she'd  come  here 
with  us  in  the  summer.  It  isn't  so  slow  with  her  there.  I'm  not  sure 
I  should  have  come  if  she  hadn't." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Mr.  Lauriston  drily.  "  And  so  Miss  Conway  is  queer 
sometimes,  is  she  1 " 

"  Why,  no ;  I  don't  mean  exactly  queer,"  Eastwood  replied,  evidently 
groping  for  a  word.  "  She  isn't  quite  like  other  girls,  somehow. 
Perhaps  it's  being  an  orphan,  and  never  having  had  anybody,  you  know. 
She  sits  and  looks  as  if  she  were  thinking  whole  worlds  of  things, 
sometimes,  and  then  just  a  word  or  a  look  will  make  her  fire  up,  all  at 
once  " 

"What — lose  her  temper1?"  Mr.  Lauriston  inquired. 

"  No,  no  ;  why  won't  you  understand  ?  Get  excited — pleased ;  you 
should  see  her  eyes  shine,  when  she  is  pleased  ! —  or  sorry.  Sometimes 

7 — 2 


132  DAMOCLES. 

I  can't  see  what  there  is  to  make  a  fuss  about — girls  have  such  fancies. 
But  I  like  it  somehow,  though  it's  queer,  you  know." 

Mr.  Lauriston  was  looking  at  him  with  slightly  increased  attention. 
"  It  amuses  you,  I  suppose  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  know.  I  like  a  girl  to  have  ways  and  ideas  of 
her  own.  Rachel  has  got  ahout  ten  times  as  many  ideas  as  I  have — I 
know  that  well  enough,"  said  Eastwood,  with  his  good-humoured  smile. 
"I  don't  want  a  girl  to  he  just  like  everybody  else — if  she  doesn't  go  too 
far,  of  course." 

"  Of  course,"  the  other  assented.     "  And  she  is  pretty,  no  doubt  ]  " 

"  /  think  she  is  pretty — very  pretty.  Some  of  them  say  she  isn't 
exactly  pretty,  but  it  comes  to  the  same  thing — they  all  admire  her,  you 
know."  He  was  feeling  in  his  pockets.  "  I've  got  a  photograph  of  her, 
somewhere." 

"  What,  she  gave  you  her  photograph  1  " 

"Well,  no.  She  would  have,  if  I'd  asked  her,  but  Effie  left  one 
lying  about.  That's  not  it — what  have  I  done  with  it  ? " 

"  You  can't  see  in  this  half  light."  And  Mr.  Lauriston  got  up  and 
rang  the  bell. 

The  room  they  were  in  had  a  northern  aspect,  and  the  narrow 
windows  were  heavily  hung  with  dark  curtains.  The  tall  grey  spaces 
looked  like  ghosts  of  departed  days.  It  was  an  evening  in  May,  but  the 
sky  was  dull,  and  the  light  was  fading.  There  was  a  pause  while  East- 
wood looked  for  the  photograph,  and  Mr.  Lauriston,  with  his  hands 
behind  his  back,  paced  slowly  to  the  further  end  of  the  library.  Sud- 
denly, faint  but  unmistakable,  a  child's  complaining  cry  came  through 
the  silence  of  the  house.  "  Bring  the  lamp,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston,  when 
the  servant  came  ;  "  and  there  is  a  door  open  somewhere." 

Eastwood  was  looking  up  with  newly-awakened  interest.  "  By 
Jove  !  "  he  said  to  himself,  "  Of  course  there  was  a  boy  !  I  forgot."  His 
companion,  however,  made  no  further  remark,  but  continued  his  walk, 
and  the  far-off  sound  ceased  with  a  closing  door.  The  man  came  back 
with  the  lamp,  and  set  it  down  at  Eastwood's  elbow,  a  golden  globe  in 
the  pale  twilight.  Mr.  Lauriston  came  out  of  the  shadows.  "  Well,"  he 
said,  "  what  are  you  looking  at  ?  " 

The  light  revealed  Mr.  Lauriston  himself.  He  was  eight  or  ten  years 
older  than  his  visitor,  a  small,  slight  man  with  dark  hair  and  bright  eyes. 
The  gloomy  room  with  its  dim  ranges  of  books  made  an  appropriate  back- 
ground for  his  pale  face,  and  Eastwood  by  his  side  looked  big,  florid,  and 
unfinished.  Everything  about  Mr.  Lauriston  suggested  the  perfection  of 
a  miniature.  Perhaps  the  upper  part  of  his  face  was  the  most  striking. 
His  forehead  was  wide  and  low,  his  brows  were  like  delicate  unfaltering 
lines  drawn  by  a  master  hand,  where  nothing  was  blurred  and  nothing 
retouched,  and  they  finely  emphasised  the  meaning  of  the  watchful  eyes 
beneath  them.  His  mouth  was  less  noticeable,  thin-lipped  and  small,  but 
it  was  not  without  its  pecxiliarity.  The  lips  moved  very  slightly  in 


DAMOCLES.  133 

speaking,  so  that  all  the  variations  of  expression  were  very  swift  and 
subtle.  A  mere  flicker  of  firelight  on  Mr.  Lauriston's  face  might  leave 
a  doubt  whether  a  smile  had  not  come  and  gone. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  halting  by  Eastwood,  "  what  are  you  looking  at  ? 
Oh !  I  see." 

The  young  man  had  not  been  struck  by  the  effect  of  lamplight  on  his 
companion's  features.  They  were,  in  truth,  sufficiently  familiar  to  him. 
He  was  looking  fixedly  above  the  chimney-piece,  at  a  picture  which  had 
been  indistinct  and  unnoticed  in  the  twilight. 

"  You  had  not  seen  that  before  ?  My  wife,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston  in 
his  quiet  voice.  Eastwood  looked  round  with  a  startled  and  rather  dis- 
mayed glance,  which  he  tried  to  subdue  into  a  proper  expression  of 
sympathy  with  the  widower.  "  It  was  at  the  Academy  two  years  ago," 
the  latter  continued,  in  the  same  level  tone,  which  might  or  might  not 
mask  feeling  too  deep  to  be  shown.  "  You  did  not  see  it  ]  '  Phillida '  it 
was  called  in  the  catalogue.  She  had  a  fancy  to  be  taken  in  that 
Arcadian  shepherdess  style — it  was  a  dress  she  wore  at  a  fancy  ball." 
"  It  is  beautiful,"  said  the  young  man,  almost  in  a  whisper. 
Mr.  Lauriston  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  his  wife's  picture.  "  It 
suited  her  admirably — it  is  a  wonderful  likeness,"  he  said,  as  if  pursuing 
his  own  train  of  thought. 

"It  is  beautiful,"  Eastwood  repeated.  Mr.  Lauriston  turned  and 
surveyed  the  young  man's  face,  which  Avas  upturned  in  admiration  and 
wonder.  "  Is  that  the  photograph  1 "  he  asked,  recalling  his  companion 
from  Arcadia. 

Eastwood  gave  it  carelessly,  almost  slightingly,  while  he  reluctantly 
withdrew  his  eyes  from  the  painting.  The  men's  hands  touched  as 
the  bit  of  cardboard  passed  from  one  to  the  other.  One  was  a 
common  hand  enough,  fairly  well  shaped  and  coloured,  the  other  slim 
and  long,  and  like  old  ivory.  There  was  a  pause ;  the  clock  ticked 
in  monotonous  haste,  and  the  shadows  seemed  to  gather  in  the  far-off 
corners  of  the  room,  while  Mr.  Lauriston  held  the  photograph  near  the 
lamp,  and  scrutinised  Rachel  Conway's  face.  Eastwood  stole  another 
glance  at  the  beautiful  Arcadian  shepherdess,  who  smiled  at  him  from  her 
place  on  the  wall,  before  he  turned  with  half  guilty  readiness  to  answer 
his  companion's  question. 

"  So  this  is  Miss  Conway  ?     Do  you  call  -it  a  good  likeness  1 " 
"  It   isn't    bad.     She   does  her   hair  rather   differently  now,   but 
I've   seen  her  look  just   like   that.     Only  she    changes   so    all   in  a 

minute  " 

"  Oh  !  of  course  these  rapid  mechanical  portraits  must  not  be  judged 
like  pictures,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston.  "  One  must  take  what  one  can  get, 
and  guess  the  rest — do  the  artist's  work,  in  fact,  with  inferior  materials 
and  opportunities." 

"  Yes,  just  so,"  said  Eastwood,  with  that  wideness  of  assent  which 
would  escape  scrutiny  by  promptitude. 


134  DAMOCLES. 

"  If  these  things  are  self-conscious  they  are  disgusting,"  Mr.  Lau- 
riston  went  on.  He  stood  with  his  hand  pressed  on  the  crimson  table- 
cloth, and  there  was  a  ring  with  a  black  stone  in  it  on  one  of  his  slim 
fingers.  "  If  they  are  truthful  they  aim  at  recording  the  appearance 
and  expression  of  the  human  race  generally,  when  confronted  with  a 
photographer.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  variety,  no  doubt,  but  I  am  not 
sure  whether  it  is  the  moment  you  would  choose  to  preserve  in  your 
friend's  life.  Miss  Conway  was  not  self-conscious  at  any  rate." 

"  Oh !  no,  she  isn't  that.  I  think  you'd  like  her,  Mr.  Lauriston ;  I 
think  you'd  get  on,  you  two."  Mr.  Lauriston's  smile  was  gone  before 
Eastwood  perceived  it,  and  he  went  on,  "  I  told  her  so  this  afternoon, 
when  we  heard  you  were  here." 

"  You  told  Miss  Conway  so  ?  I'm  afraid  your  descriptive  powers 
must  have  been  severely  taxed  with  the  pair  of  us." 

"  No,"  said  Charley.  And  as  he  had  only  said,  "  He  isn't  a  bad  sort 
of  fellow — Lauriston — should  think  you'd  like  him,"  it  was  probably  true. 
Mr.  Lauriston  took  up  the  photograph  again.  He  was  interested, 
for  he  found  Rachel  Conway's  an  uncommon  face.  In  her  likeness,  and 
in  Charles  Eastwood's  clumsy  description,  he  suspected  a  nature,  lying 
in  its  heights  and  depths  a  little  out  of  the  beaten  track.  It  occurred 
to  him  to  wonder  whether  this  girl  had  in  any  way  divined  him,  as  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  divined  her ;  but  the  idle  fancy,  caressed  for  a 
moment,  became  utterly  absurd  when  he  thought  of  Eastwood  as  the 
connecting  link  between  them.  The  mind  of  man  could  conceive  no 
more  prosaic  introduction.  And,  by  the  way,  if  she  cared  for  East- 
wood !  .  .  .  .  He  handed  the  card  to  its  owner  again. 

"  But  you  haven't  told  me  now  what  you  think  of  her,"  said  the 
young  man  as  he  took  it. 

"You  want  my  opinion?  Well,  judging  from  that  likeness,  and 
from  what  you  say  of  her — especially  from  your  conviction  that  she  and 
I  should  get  on  together — I  should  say,  Charley,  that  Miss  Conway  was 
decidedly  too  good  for  you." 

Eastwood  laughed.  "  Ah !  but  suppose  Miss  Conway  doesn't 
think  so  ? " 

"  In  that  case  I  won't  presume  to  differ.  I  shall  take  it  for  granted 
that  Miss  Conway  is  right." 

"  She  is  pretty,  isn't  she  ] "  said  Eastwood,  glancing  at  the  photo- 
graph as  he  slipped  it  into  its  envelope  again. 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  say  with  your  friends,  '  not  exactly  pretty.' 
Though,  as  you  remarked,  it  comes  to  much  the  same  thing — or  to 
something  better.  But  how  are  you  getting  on,  Charley  1  Are  you  in 
a  fair  way  to  make  Miss  Conway  Lady  Mayoress  ?  " 

"  Hm — if  she  waits  for  me  to  play  Dick  Whittington,  I'm  afraid  she 
may  have  to  put  up  with  the  cat  for  company  for  the  rest  of  her  life. 
But,  as  it  happens,  she  has  a  little  money  of  her  own." 
"  Ah  ! "  said  Lauriston. 


DAMOCLES.  135 

"  And  I'm  doing  pretty  well  too,  so  perhaps  we  needn't  put  it  off 
quite  so  long.  However,  there's  time  enough." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Eastwood  stood  up.  "  You  will  come 
to-morrow  then,  won't  you,  Mr.  Lauriston1?  My  mother  sent  all 
manner  of  apologies  for  the  shortness  of  the  invitation,  but  we  literally 
hadn't  an  idea  you  were  here  till  this  afternoon." 

"  No,  this  is  quite  a  flying  visit  of  mine.  I  wanted  to  settle  things  a 
little,  and  then  I  think  I  shall  have  seen  the  last  of  Redlands  for  some 
time  to  come.  Tell  Mrs.  Eastwood  I  shall  be  very  pleased  to  come  and 
renew  my  acquaintance  with  her,  and  with  my  friend  Erne.  I  suppose 
she  is  quite  grown  up  by  now  ? " 

"  She  thinks  so  at  any  rate,"  said  Eastwood,  as  he  took  his  departure, 
with  a  final  glance  at  the  beautiful  woman,  smiling  a  changeless  smile, 
in  a  changeless  little  Arcadian  world. 

It  was  something  of  a  relief  to  him  to  pass  from  the  stately  silence  of  the 
manor  house  into  the  fresh  May  evening,  and  he  drew  a  long  breath. as 
he  felt  the  soft  wind  on  his  face  and  heard  the  great  door  shut  behind 
him.  A  few  late  raindrops  pattered  on  the  leaves,  but  the  weather  was 
clearing,  the  grey  curtain  of  cloud  was  drifting  away,  and  the  light  was 
brighter  than  it  had  been  half-an-hour  before.  Turning  into  a  footpath 
across  the  park.  Eastwood  came  face  to  face  with  the  dying  splendour  of 
sunset,  and  was  startled  into  notice  of  its  beauty,  and  a  sudden  wish 
for  Rachel.  The  wide  expanse  of  grass  sloped  away  to  the  west,  and 
the  lingering  glory  was  with  him  through  all  the  windings  of  his  road. 
Trees,  nobly  grouped,  stood  darkly  out  against  bands  of  glowing  light. 
Masses  of  rainy  cloud,  richly  laden  with  colour,  floated  in  the  far-off 
sky.  Charley  cast  frequent  glances  westward  as  he  went  his  way, 
whistling  in  clear  true  notes  the  music-hall  melody  which  happened  to  be 
just  then  in  vogue.  At  the  gate  he  bade  farewell  to  the  splendour,  for 
the  narrow  road  was  shadowed  by  the  wall  of  the  park  he  had  just  left. 
A  few  minutes  more  brought  him  into  the  village,  exactly  opposite 
the  low  red-brick  house,  overgrown  with  creepers.  Still  whistling,  he 
marched  in,  and  threw  open  the  door  of  the  sitting-room. 

"  What !  all  in  the  dark  1 "  he  said. 

"  Well,  it  is  rather  blind  man's  holiday,  isn't  it  1 "  said  Mrs.  East- 
wood from  her  easy  chair.  "  I  almost  think  I  was  asleep." 

He  laughed.     "  That  I'll  be  bound  you  were." 

"  What  does  he  say,  Charley  ?  Is  he  coming  ? "  cried  a  clear  voice 
through  the  shadows. 

"  Oh,  there  you  are,  Erne  !  What  do  you  think  now  ?  Wouldn't  you 
like  to  know  ?  "  Charley  demanded,  coming  towards  the  window.  Rachel 
Conway  sat  near  it  in  a  low  chair,  and  Erne  was  on  a  footstool  beside 
her,  with  her  curly  head  in  her  friend's  lap.  She  raised  it  a  little,  and 
nodded  impatiently. 

"  Tell  us  directly,"  she  said ;  "  we  are  dying  to  know,  Rachel  and  I." 

"  Oh,  I  like  that !     You  are  dying  to  know,  I  daresay." 


136  DAMOCLES. 

"  Yes,  and  so  am  I,"  said  Rachel.  "  Effie  describes  him  much  better 
than  you  did.  She  says  she  remembers  him  very  well ;  he  is  a  little 
dark  man,  with  bright  eyes,  and  a  pocket-full  of  presents.  Is  he 
coming  1  Tell  us  directly,  please ;  I  am  dying  to  know,  too." 

"  And  so  am  I,"  said  Mrs.  Eastwood.  "  I  want  to  settle  about  his 
dinner,  if  he  is  coming." 

"  Oh,  he's  coming  sure  enough — 6.30  sharp.  And  I'll  tell  you  some- 
thing else,  Effie  \  he  asked  after  you.  Now  then  ! " 

"  No— did  he  really  1 " 

"  Of  course  he  did." 

"  And  did  you  notice  his  pockets  ? "  said  Miss  Conway.  "  I  shall 
expect  to  see  them  bulging  in  all  directions  when  he  comes  to-morrow." 

"  I  don't  think  I  ever  had  so  much  to  do  with  his  pockets  as  Effie 
had — worse  luck  ! "  said  Eastwood.  "  They  are  pretty  well  lined.  I 
wouldn't  complain  if  he'd  go  halves  with  me." 

"  But  tell  me  what  he  said  about  me,"  said  Effie  from  the  ground. 

"  Now  I  won't  have  you  setting  your  cap  at  the  squire — a  chit  like 
you.  Little  girls  should  be  seen  and  not  heard." 

"But  I  can't  be  seen  by  this  light,"  said  Effie,  sitting  up.  And 
indeed  only  a  silhouette  of  a  little  head,  with  disordered  rings  and  ends 
of  hair  sticking  out  in  all  directions,  became  visible  against  the  glimmer- 
ing window. 

'•'  No  great  loss,"  said  Charley.  "  All  the  same  we'll  have  a  candle  to- 
morrow when  Lauriston  comes.  I  don't  know  why  you  didn't  have  one 
this  evening.  What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourselves  1 " 

"Not  much,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Miss  Conway,  leaning  forward  to 
arrange  the  ribbon  round  Effie's  neck.  "  We've  been  talking " 

"  And  yawning,"  Effie  exclaimed.     "  Oh,  how  we  have  yawned! " 

"  I'm  sorry  I  stayed  away  so  long,"  said  young  Eastwood. 

"  Oh,  it  wasn't  you — it  was  the  weather.  I  hate  being  indoors  all 
day,  and  so  does  Rachel—  don't  you,  dear  ? " 

"  Yes,  but  it  can't  be  helped  sometimes.  Better  luck  to-morrow,  I 
hope."  She  threw  herself  back  in  her  chair,  clasped  her  hands  behind 
her  head,  and  looked  up  at  Charley,  who  towered  beside  her  in  the  twi- 
light. "  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "  I  think  Redlands  is  rather  a  damp 
place.  This  is  the  third  day  it  has  rained." 

"  More  or  less,"  he  allowed. 

"  More  or  less,"  Miss  Conway  repeated  lazily.  "  Yes,  but  generally 
so  very  much  more." 

"  Well,  it  doesn't  rain  now.     There  was  a  splendid  sunset  as  I  came 
across  the  park — splendid.     And  the  moon  is  getting  up,  and  it  is  as 
warm  as  if  it  were  June.     Look  here,  why  shouldn't  you  come  out  for  a 
bit?     It  would  freshen  you  up.     Why  shouldn't  you,  really  1" 
"  Really  1 " 

"  Yes,  you  and  Effie.  I  suppose  Fanny  is  lying  down  with  her  head- 
ache still  ]  Do  come ;  this  room,  is  as  stuffy  a.s  possible," 


DAMOCLES.  137 

"If  you  do  go," said  Mrs.  Eastwood,  "you  must  wrap  up  well,  and 
put  your  thick  boots  on,  Effie.  And  you  too,  my  dear." 

"  Oh,  yes,  Mrs.  Eastwood,  we  will,"  said  Rachel,  while  Effie  scrambled 
to  her  feet  with  a  brief  "  All  right." 

"  And  if  you  do  go,"  Mrs.  Eastwood  continued,  "you  might  just  as 
well  walk  to  Mrs.  Pattenden's,  and  see  if  she  can  let  me  have  some  cream 
for  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  I  say  !  "  protested  Charley,  "  I  can't  go  carrying  cream  about 
the  country  ! " 

"  Then  I  will  !  "  said  Miss  Conway.  "  Mr.  Lauriston  shan't  have  to 
drink  his  tea  without  any  cream  in  it,  if  I  can  help  it.  We'll  go  and 
fetch  it  for  him,  won't  we,  Effie  1  " 

"But  you  won't  get  it  to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Eastwood  ;  "you've  only 
got  to  order  it." 

"  Oh,  all  right,  then — I  don't  mind  going,  if  that's  all.  I  thought  you 
wanted  me  to  bring  it  home,  like  the  milkman.  It's  that  place  at  the 
bottom  of  Bucksmill  Hill,  isn't  it?  Make  haste  and  get  ready,  you  two." 
And  ten  minutes  later  the  young  people  were  on  their  way  to  Mrs. 
Pattenden's,  and  Rachel  was  mildly  expostulating.  "  I've  said  that 
Redlands  was  a  pretty  place  twice  already,  Mr.  Eastwood,  and  I've 
assured  you  four  times  that  it  was  a  good  idea  of  yours  to  fetch  us  out, 
— and  so  it  was,  very  good — and  we've  both  of  us  said  that  it  is  a 
lovely  evening " 

"  Don't  you  be  down  on  a  fellow  like  that,"  said  Charley.  "  And 
you  know  this  is  much  nicer  than  spending  the  evening  cooped  up  in 
that  close  room.  Now,  isn't  it  ? " 

They  had  left  the  village  behind  them,  and  their  road,  grown  more 
open  and  treeless,  sloped  gently  upward.  "  There's  Mrs.  Pattenden's," 
said  Effie  suddenly,  as  they  came  to  a  slight  turning.  Rachel  uttered  an 
exclamation  of  delight.  The  moon  had  risen  behind  the  old-fashioned, 
steeply-roofed  house,  and  the  clustered  stacks,  the  rambling  farm- 
buildings,  and  the  poplars  by  the  water-side,  stood  out  against  the  pale 
brightness.  "  Isn't  it  like  a  picture  ?  "  she  said,  as  they  went  towards 
the  yard.  The  whole  place  lay  as  if  spellbound  in  a  dream  of  sharp 
shadows  and  silvery  light.  The  trees  in  the  orchard,  gnarled  with  many 
a  long  year's  growth,  leaned  over  the  mossy  wall,  and  stretched  grotesque 
and  unexpected  arms  into  the  moonlight,  looking  as  if  they  might  offer 
strange  fruit,  fit  for  Goblin  Market.  As  they  passed  through  the  gate, 
the  big  dog  heard  them  and  broke  the  silence  with  hideous  clamour. 

Effie  went  to  the  door  to  give  her  mother's  message,  while  the  others 
waited  outside.  Charley  amused  himself  by  threatening  the  chained 
dog  with  his  stick,  and  Rachel  watched  him  with  perplexed  brows. 
"  Why  do  you  make  him  so  angry  1 "  she  said  at  last. 

"  Why  not  ]  I  like  to  see  him  in  a  temper,  tugging  at  that  old  chain 
of  his." 

"  Suppose  it  broke  1 " 

7—5 


138  DAMOCLES. 

"  Oh,  I  say !  "  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed.  "  Wouldn't 
there  be  the  devil  to  pay  if  it  did  !  "  he  said,  half  under  his  breath.  "  It 
won't,  of  course,  but  I  suppose  it's  just  that  ghost  of  a  chance  which 
makes  it  amusing.  Hi !  old  boy  !  "  and  he  renewed  his  demonstrations 
of  hostility. 

"  Don't !  "  said  Rachel.     "  Don't,  please." 

He  turned  quickly  towards  her,  startled  by  her  tone.  "  You  don't 
like  it?  You  are  frightened  ?"  he  said.  "I'm  very  sorry;  you  know  I 
didn't  mean — But  it  won't  break,  really,  and  if  it  did,  he'd  come  at  me, 
you  know." 

"That  would  make  it  all  right,  of  course,"  she  answered,  with  a 
slight  smile,  and  an  upward  glance  at  him.  "  But  I  don't  think  I  am 
afraid  exactly.  It  is  only  that  I  cannot  bear  to  see  a  creature  in  such  a 
frenzy  of  passion.  Look,"  she  said,  as  the  brute,  quivering  with  rage, 
tore  vainly  at  his  chain,  "  he  is  beside  himself  with  fury  at  his  helpless- 
ness, and  we  stand  safely  out  of  reach  and  laugh  !  " 

Eastwood  put  his  stick  behind  him.  "  /  laughed,"  he  said  ;  "  the 
blame  is  none  of  yours.  There  !  there  !  Down,  old  fellow,  down  !  down  !  " 
This  gentle  remonstrance  had  no  effect.  He  tilted  his  hat  a  little  more 
over  his  eyes,  and  stood  surveying  the  dog,  whose  hoarse  barking  was 
fiercer  than  ever.  "  My  voice  doesn't  seem  to  be  very  soothing,"  he 
said.  "  What  would  you  recommend  1  Would  you  like  me  to 

Sit  on  a  stile 
And  continue  to  smile  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  might  try  it.  There's  the  gate  behind  you — how  would 
that  do  1 " 

"  All  right,"  said  Charley.  "  It's  rather  a  long  way  off,  perhaps,  but 
we'll  hope  there  may  be  light  enough  for  him  to  see  my  expressive  fea- 
tures, when  he  finds  time  to  look  at  them  fairly.  He's  a  little  prejudiced 
just  now,  don't  you  think? " 

"  I'm  afraid  he  is.  Here  comes  Effie ;  so  perhaps  we  had  better  leave 
him  to  the  soothing  influence  of  time.  Well,  Eflfie,  is  the  cream  all  right  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it's  coming  to-morrow.  How  that  dog  does  bark ! "  said 
Effie  as  they  went  through  the  gate.  "Where  are  we  going  now, 
Charley — not  home  yet  ? " 

"  Oh  no  !  "  He  turned  to  Rachel.  "  You're  not  tired,  are  you  ? 
What  should  you  like  to  do  ?  " 

"  If  you  want  to  know  what  I  should  like  to  do,"  she  answered,  "  I 
should  like  to  walk  miles  and  miles.  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  be  tired 
this  evening." 

"  All  right,  then ;  here's  Bucksmill  Hill  handy ;  let's  sec  how  that  will 
suit  us.  It's  a  fine  place  for  a  view,  too,  so  we  can  make  believe  we 
went  up  for  that." 

"  Don't  you  care  for  a  good  view  ? "  Miss  Con  way  inquired,  as  they 
turned  into  a  rough  lane  which  led  directly  up  the  hill. 


DAMOCLES.  139 

"  Oh,  yes,  when  it  comes  iu  my  way — as  I  like  other  good  things," 
Eastwood  replied,  snatching  bits  of  leaf  from  the  hedge  as  he  walked. 
"  I'm  not  going  hunting  about  after  views,  and  talking  trash  about  them. 
I  daresay  I  could  if  I  tried,  as  well  as  other  people ;  a  man  can't  want 
much  in  the  way  of  brains  to  set  up  in  that  line.  But  I  won't  try. 
Only  when  I'm  enjoying  myself,  as  I  am  just  now,"  he  looked  brightly 
at  his  companion,  "  if  I  come  across  a  good  view,  so  much  the  better." 

"  I'm  glad  you'll  go  so  far,"  she  answered. 

"  Yes,  but  mind  you,"  Charley  insisted,  "just  because  I'm  happy  I 
don't  really  care.  I  can  do  well  enough  without  it.  Upon  my  word,"  he 
said,  "  it  seems  to  me  sometimes  as  if  it  were  enough  to  be  alive  and 
well  and  out  in  the  fresh  air.  You  are  horrified,  eh  1" 

"  No,"  Miss  Con  way  answered,  looking  up  at  him,  "  I  like  it.  It 
sounds  healthy  and  brave.  Most  people  seem  as  if  they  spoiled 
happiness  by  thinking  about  it. 

We  look  before  and  after, 
And  pine  for  what  is  not." 

"  More  fools  we,"  said  Eastwood.  "  What's  the  good  of  it,  except  to 
make  poetry  about  ]  I  suppose  you  want  it  for  that." 

"  Well,  there's  some  poetry  that  is  more  like  what  you  were  saying 
just  now."  And  she  quoted — 

"  How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living !  how  fit  to  employ 
All  the  heart,  and  the  soul,  and  the  senses,  for  ever  in  joy  ! " 

"  That's  better,"  said  Charley.  "  But  I  say,  this  is  getting  steep  ; 
how  do  you  like  poetry  and  up-hill  together  ?  You'll  be  out  of  breath. 
Here's  Effie  out  of  breath  already,  or  she  wouldn't  be  so  quiet." 

"  I'm  not,"  Effie  replied,  "  I  was  only  thinking.  One  can't  be  always 
talking." 

"  Can't  one  ?     I  can't,  I  know,  but  I  thought  you  could." 

"  JSTot  if  I've  only  you  to  talk  to,"  was  the  quick  answer.  "  And 
Rachel  and  I  said  all  we'd  got  to  say  this  afternoon,  and  more  too." 

By  this  time  they  had  left  the  hedges  behind  them,  and  their  lane 
had  become  a  mere  cart-track,  steep  and  rough  enough  to  hinder  any 
connected  conversation.  At  last  Rachel  said,  "  Why  do  people  drive 
carts  to  the  top  of  this  hill  ? " 

"  They  don't,"  said  Charley,  briefly. 

"  Then  why  a  cart-track  ?" 

"  This  doesn't  go  to  the  top.  We  shall  have  to  leave  it  directly ;  it 
goes  across  the  moor.  We  turn  off  to  the  right."  And  almost  as  he 
spoke  they  reached  the  spot  where  they  quitted  the  road,  and  caught 
their  first  glimpse  of  a  wild  dusky  expanse.  "  Don't  stop  to  look," 
said  Eastwood  ;  "it  is  better  when  we  get  to  the  top;  it  isn't  far  now. 
Are  you  tired  1 " 

"  No,"  she  said,  and  turned  obediently  to  the  last  steep  slope, 
refusing  his  offer  of  help.  As  he  had  said,  it  was  not  far,  and  in  five 
minutes  he  was  cheerfully  announcing,  "  Here  we  are  ! " 


140  DAMOCLES. 

Miss  Conway  looked  eagerly  round,  and  was  silent. 

"  I  say,  it's  a  glorious  evening,"  said  Charley  at  her  elbow;  "don't 
you  think  so  ?  AVasn't  it  worth  while  coming  up  here  ?  " 

"  Indeed  it  was  !  "     Her  eyes  wandered  to  the  far-away  horizon. 

"  Oh,  Charley  !  "  said  Effie,  "  isn't  the  moon  glorious  1 " 

Great  poets  praise  the  moon,  and  it  casts  its  peculiar  charm  across 
their  verse.  But,  at  the  same  time,  may  it  not  be  asserted  that  admi- 
ration of  the  moon  is,  as  it  were,  the  very  A  B  C  of  appreciation  of 
natural  beauty,  and  a  moonlight  effect  the  first  we  learn  to  notice  ?  It 
is  something  more  definite  than  the  fleeting  glories  of  sunrise  and 
sunset,  those  glowing  accidents  of  colour,  which  die  and  fade  into  dim 
memories.  In  the  moon's  unchanging  changes  there  is  all  the  delight  of 
recognition,  mixed  with  a  certain  novelty.  The  noisy  familiar  scenes  of 
everyday  life  are  revealed  to  us  in  unwonted  stillness,  and  a  less  familiar 
light,  and  we  perceive  that  they  are  beautiful.  Other  impressions  strive 
against  each  other;  we  cannot  appeal  to  them ;  my  supreme  sunset  is  not 
yours,  and  to-morrow  may  throw  them  both  into  the  shadow ;  but  here 
is  an  acknowledged  queen,  we  know  where  to  look  for  her,  and  a  school- 
girl, exclaiming  "  Isn't  it  lovely  ?  "  has  no  doubt  that  she  sees  the  moon 
of  painters  and  poets  of  all  time.  There  is  sure  to  be  moonlight  in  the 
songs  she  practises  with  her  singing  mistress,  or  in  her  drawing  master's 
sketches,  or  at  the  theatre  where  she  goes  for  a  treat  in  the  holidays. 
Thus  the  moon  may  be  worshipped  safely  enough  in  a  large  congregation 
and  the  best  of  company.  Eflie  Eastwood  had  at  any  rate  learned  her 
A  B  C,  though  she  might  not  be  destined  to  go  much  further.  So,  as 
she  stood  on  the  top  of  Bucksmill  Hill,  with  her  little  hands  thrust  into 
her  jacket  pockets,  and  the  soft  breeze  ruffling  her  curly  light  hair,  she 
exclaimed  rapturously,  "  Oh,  Charley,  isn't  it  glorious  !  " 

Eastwood  himself,  having  all  the  poetry  that  was  in  him  called 
forth  by  the  fact  that  Rachel  was  at  his  side,  perhaps  saw  more  than 
Effie.  On  the  other  hand  he  was  more  absorbed  in  recognising  the 
features  of  the  landscape. 

But  Rachel's  delight  was  different.  She  looked  down  at  the  red- 
roofed  farm  which  they  had  left,  and  saw  it  lying  in  the  quiet  light,  with 
its  poplars  and  apple-trees  standing  round  it,  and  the  little  river 
catching  a  pale  glimmer  on  its  surface  as  it  went  its  gentle  way.  What 
words  could  utter  the  poetry,  the  tranquil  content,  of  that  little  picture  ? 
In  truth,  the  farmer,  under  the  tiled  roof,  was  smoking  his  pipe  over  the 
county  paper,  while  his  wife  was  scolding  the  servant  about  a  broken 
dish.  Charles  Eastwood  could  have  guessed  the  inner  life  of  the  farm- 
house better  than  Rachel,  for  old  Pattenden  was  strictly  conservative  in 
his  ways,  and  Mrs.  Pattenden's  temper  was  notorious.  But  was  Rachel 
therefore  wrong,  when  from  her  height  she  saw  it  as  a  glimpse  of  peace, 
of  rest  after  daylight  hours  of  life  and  labour  1  Further  away  the  lights 
of  Redlands  were  like  scattered  sparks  upon  a  wooded  slope,  and  further 
yet  rose  dusky  hills  in  a  long  undulating  line. 


DAMOCLES.  141 

"  Look  here,"  said  Eastwood.  He  was  breaking  a  bit  of  dry  stick 
in  his  restless  fingers,  and  he  jerked  a  morsel  in  the  direction  of  a  distant 
hollow  where  were  masses  of  shadowy  trees,  and  a  great  block  of 
buildings.  "  That's  the  Hall — Lauriston's  place,  you  know." 

Miss  Conway  looked,  not  without  interest.  Mr.  Lauriston's  name 
had  come  up  so  often  in  the  course  of  that  day's  conversation,  an  ever 
recurring  name  with  no  sufficient  description  of  the  man  himself  attached 
to  it,  that  he  had  become  something  of  a  riddle  to  her,  something  to  be 
thought  over,  guessed  at,  and  finally  found  out.  Any  definite  fact  con- 
cerning him  which  could  be  pointed  out,  even  though  it  were  only  his 
house  standing  far  away  in  the  moonlight,  might  help  in  the  solution, 
and  was  welcome.  And  in  truth  the  mere  sight  of  Redlands  Hall 
showed  her  that  Mr.  Lauriston  was,  socially,  a  greater  man  than  she 
had  suspected.  Her  curiosity  was  soon  satisfied,  however,  and  she 
turned  her  back  on  the  Hall  and  gazed  silently  over  the  moor. 

Close  at  hand  it  was  desolate  enough,  uneven  and  rough,  and 
raggedly  tufted  with  grass.  But  further  away  it  was  softened  in  the 
evening  light  into  a  dim  and  wonderful  land,  fading  away  in  purples  and 
greys  to  the  clear  horizon,  where  a  pale  green  light  yet  lingered.  The 
sight  of  this  shadowy  expanse,  with  no  boundary  but  the  arching  sky, 
gave  Rachel  a  vague  sense  of  freedom  and  calm.  It  was  like  words 
spoken  in  an  unknown  tongue,  with  tender  cadences,  and  glances  from 
earnest  eyes,  so  that  one  cannot  doubt  that  it  is  deeply-moved  and 
deeply-moving  speech,  though  it  may  not  be  translated  into  any  familiar 
language. 

Eastwood  was  looking  too.  "  Lots  of  that  belongs  to  Lauriston,"he  said. 

"  Does  it  1 "  Miss  Conway  answered.  It  seemed  like  an  impertinence, 
an  absurdity,  to  talk  of  lots  of  that  purple  dreamland  belonging  to  any- 
body. But  after  a  moment  she  smiled  to  herself — what  did  it  matter, 
since  it  was  no  creature  of  ordinary  flesh  and  blood  who  owned  it,  but 
only  that  perplexing  shadowy  Mr.  Lauriston  1  And  looking  at  it  again, 
with  the  thought  of  him  in  her  mind,  the  dusky  range  of  moor  seemed 
somehow  strangely  connected  with  the  bright-eyed,  dark,  little  man,  of 
whom  she  heard  so  much,  and  yet  so  little.  She  saw  the  track  by 
which  they  had  come,  and  traced  it  on  its  onward  course  as  far  as  the 
evening  light  permitted.  And  instead  of  picturing  Mr.  Lauriston  as 
safely  housed  in  Redlands  Hall  (which  was  the  prosaic  truth),  she 
looked  at  the  road  as  if  she  half  expected  to  see  him  coming  along  it 
from  some  unknown  world,  a  shadowy  presence  with  brilliant  eyes. 

"  But  he's  got  a  lot  of  land  about  the  Hall,  too,  hasn't  he  ? "  Effie  was 
saying. 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course,"  Charley  answered,  and  added,  with  a  nod 
towards  the  purple  expanse,  "  I  don't  suppose  that  is  worth  much.  But 
he  owns  pretty  well  all  Redlands,  and  some  out  Brookfield  way." 

"Isn't  he  iich!"Effie  exclaimed  with  a  little  sigh.  "Is  he  like 
what  he  used  to  be?  Charley  ? " 


142  DAMOCLES. 

"  Oli  yes  ;  I  don't  think  he's  a  bit  altered.  But  I  saw  him  two  years 
ago,  you  remember,  just  a  little  while  before  he  married.  He  isn't 
changed  since  then,  certainly." 

"  It's  years  since  I  saw  him,"  said  Effie  thoughtfully,  as  if  she  were 
gazing  into  a  remote  past.  "  Did  he  really  ask  about  me,  Charley  ?  You 
weren't  laughing  at  me,  were  you  ]  " 

"  Oh  !  he  asked  after  you,  sure  enough.  But  it  Avon't  do,  Effie,  I'm 
afraid.  Don't  set  your  affections  on  Redlands  Hall,  unless  you're  quite 
sure  they  are  transferable." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Effie,  as  haughtily  as  she  could.  The 
little  moonlit  figure  was  quaintly  balancing  itself  on  a  stone,  by  way  of 
securing  additional  height.  "  I  don't  like  such  stupid  nonsense." 

"  Shouldn't  I  like  to  see  him  come  courting  !  "  Charley  went  on.  "  How 
do  you  think  he  would  do  it,  Effie  1  '  Curly-locks,  Curly-locks,  wilt 
thou  be  mine  ? '  I  should  say,  now,  that  would  be  neat  and  appropriate." 

"  /  should  say,"  Effie  replied  from  her  insecure  eminence,  for  there 
was  very  little  space  on  the  top  of  the  stone,  "  /  should  say  that  Mr. 
Lauriston  would  not  want  to  repeat  silly  nursery  rhymes." 

"  Very  likely  not,"  said  Charley,  calmly.  "  It  would  be  a  very  good 
way,  all  the  same.  He's  going  on  the  Continent  soon  ;  he  told  me  so 
to-day — didn't  I  envy  him  ?  That  would  do  nicely  for  the  honeymoon 
trip,  eh,  Effie?" 

"  Very  nicely,"  said  Effie.  "  And  you  could  stay  quietly  at  home, 
and  mind  your  own  business,  for  we  certainly  shouldn't  want  you." 

"  Oh  !  wouldn't  you,  though  !  I  tell  you  what,  my  dear  child,  if  you 
had,  say,  a  week  of  Lauriston,  you'd  be  precious  glad  to  see  me  again." 

Rachel  had  been  effectually  called  out  of  her  dreamland.  "  That 
doesn't  seem  as  if  you  liked  Mr.  Lauriston  much,"  she  said. 

"  Oh  !  I  like  him  well  enough,"  said  Charley.  "  He's  a  queer  fellow, 
but  I  can  get  on  with  him  all  right.  But  Lauriston  and  Effie  !  Why, 
she  wouldn't  know  what  to  make  of  him — they'd  bore  each  other  to 
death  !  No,  no,  Effie,  take  my  advice,  and  don't  think  of  the  Squire." 

"  Who  said  I  was  thinking  of  him  ?  I'm  sure  /  didn't,"  Effie  replied 
loftily.  But  the  stone  was  so  sharp-edged,  and  her  demeanour  was  so  ex- 
ceedingly scornful,  that  she  was  obliged  to  step  down  backwards  in  a  hurry. 
"  Charley,  you're  a  wretch,  and  I  hate  you  !  "  she  exclaimed,  as  she  found 
herself  on  level  ground  again. 

"  Do  you1?  Oh  !  you'll  get  over  it,"  he  said,  in  a  soothing  tone,  as  he 
pulled  out  his  watch.  "  I  say,  you  young  people,  you  are  under  niy 
charge,  you  know,  and  I  beg  to  observe  that  '  Time  flies.'  The  remark 
isn't  original,  but  it's  unpleasantly  true." 

"  Must  we  go  home  ? "  said  Effie. 

"  Well,  yes,  I  think  we  must,  unless  you  want  an  exploring  party 
sent  out  to  find  us.  Are  you  ready  ?  "  he  said,  turning  to  Rachel.  "  We 
haven't  let  you  enjoy  the  view  in  peace,  I'm  afraid." 

"  Oh  !  but  I  have  enjoyed  it  very  much,"  she  answered. 


DAMOCLES.  1 43 

"  But  you  would  have  liked  it  bettor  if  we  had  been  further  with  our 
chatter  ?  "Wouldn't  you  now  1 " 

"  No,"  said  Rachel.     "  Indeed  I  shouldn't." 

"  But  when  I  said  I  didn't  care  for  views — didn't  you  wish  me  further 
then « " 

"  I  liked  what  you  said,  Mr.  Eastwood.  I  have  a  sort  of  idea  that  I 
told  you  so  before." 

"  I  think  you  did,"  said  Charley.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  shouldn't  mind  if 
you  told  me  so  again." 

"  But  I  won't,"  smiled  Rachel.  "  Look  !  Effie  is  starting  off.  I'm 
afraid  you  don't  believe  nie,  if  you  want  so  many  assurances." 

"  Indeed  I  do — why  should  I  like  to  hear  you  say  ib  if  I  didn't  1 
Rachel,"  he  said,  "  I  hope  we  shall  see  many  more  views  together — 
you  and  I." 

She  uttered  a  hurried  "  Yes,"  as  Effie  called  in  her  clear  little  voice, 
"  Come,  you  two  !  I'm  half  way  down  the  hill !  Such  a  fuss  as  you 
made  about  starting  !  Charley  !  shall  I  say  you're  coming  ? " 

Miss  Conway  obeyed  the  summons  with  one  backward  look  over  her 
shoulder.  Her  glance  fell  on  the  track  which  led  into  the  purple  dusk, 
and  she  carried  with  her  a  little  picture  of  the  bit  of  road,  lying  distinct 
and  lonely  in  the  moonlight,  as  if  it  were  waiting  for  Mr.  Lauriston. 

It  was  two  hours  later.  The  young  people  had  had  their  walk,  and 
had  come  back  with  freshened  cheeks,  and  happy  eyes,  bringing  some- 
thing of  the  cool  sweetness  of  the  evening  air  into  the  candlelight  of  Mrs. 
Eastwood's  sitting-room.  Supper  had  followed,  and  the  girls  had  just 
gone  off  to  bed.  Charley  stood  leaning  against  the  chimney-piece,  while 
his  mother,  happy  in  the  consciousness  that  the  cream  was  ordered,  and 
the  dinner  settled,  went  round  the  room  putting  things  a  little  in  order. 

"  I'm  glad  he's  coming  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  want  you  to 
lose  sight  of  him,  Charley.  He's  a  good  friend  for  you  to  have." 

"  Oh !  he's  well  enough,"  young  Eastwood  answered  with  an 
assumption  of  indifference.  "  We  get  on  all  right.  Not  that  I  think 
he'll  ever  be  much  help  to  me." 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  said  Mrs.  Eastwood.  "  There's  Rachel's  little 
needlecase  she  was  looking  for,  on  the  ground,  just  by  the  fender.  He 
might  do  something  for  you,  if  he  liked.  He's  rich  enough." 

"  Yes,  he's  rich  enough ;  I  don't  deny  that." 

"  And  he's  not  mean,  either,"  Mrs.  Eastwood  went  on,  as  she  smoothed 
an  anti-macassar.  "  When  he  used  to  notice  Effie,  I'm  sure  the  things 
he  gave  the  child  "• 

"  Effie  !  O  yes,  but  that  was  different."  Charley  had  just  succeeded 
in  getting  Rachel's  little  case  to  open,  and  was  unfolding  one  of  the 
papers.  "  A  man  may  give  things  to  a  child  like  that  " 

"  He  always  was  very  fond  of  her,"  said  Mrs.  Eastwood.  "  And  he 
talked  about  her  to-day,  did  he?  He  hasn't  forgotten  hor,  then  " 


144  DAMOCLES 

"  Xow,  mother,  don't  you  begin  that !  "  said  Charley,  with  an  im- 
patient laugh.  "  Oh  !  confound  this  thing  ! "  A  h'ttle  cascade  of  Rachel's 
needles  slipped  through  his  finger  to  the  floor.  "  You  might  as  well 
think  of  the  Man  in  the  Moon  for  Effie,  while  you're  about  it." 

"  I  didn't  say  I  was  thinking  of  anything,"  Mrs.  Eastwood  answered, 
a  little  nettled.  "  And  more  unlikely  things  have  happened,  if  it  comes 
to  that." 

"  More  unlikely  things  have  happened,  I  daresay,  but  this  won't 
happen.  I  think  I  know  Lauriston  well  enough  to  say  that.  Effie  at 
the  Hall — the  idea's  absurd !  I  saw  his  wife's  picture  to  day,"  said 
Charley,  with  a  change  of  tone.  "  It  hangs  over  the  fire-place  in  the 
library.  You  should  just  see  her  ;  they  said  she  was  good-looking,  but  I 
didn't  know  she  was  anything  like  that !  " 

"  So  pretty  1  Poor  thing  !  It  was  very  sad — not  a  twelvemonth 
after  they  were  married  !  I  wonder  where  the  child  is  now.  I  suppose 
you  didn't  see  him  ?  " 

"  Heard  him,"  said  Chat-ley  briefly.  Then,  after  a  pause,  "  Why,  he 
must  be  more  than  a  year  old  by  now.  No,  I  didn't  see  him ;  Lauriston 
never  said  a  word  about  him." 

"  I  daresay  not.  I  don't  suppose  he  is  very  fond  of  talking  of 
him  ;  the  poor  child  is  deformed,  you  know.  I  don't  exactly  know  how 
bad  it  is,  but  I  am  sure  they  said  he  must  always  be  lame." 

"  I  remember  now,"  said  Charley.  "  I  fancied  there  was  something 
queer  when  I  came  to  think  about  it,  but  I'd  almost  forgotten  his 
existence  till  I  heard  him.  Lauriston  seemed  just  the  same  as  ever — a 
little  quieter  perhaps." 

"  He  is  sure  to  marry  again,"  said  Mrs.  Eastwood,  "  but  what  a  pity 
that  that  crippled  child  should  have  Redlands  Hall !  I  must  mind  that 
Mary  dusts  this  room  properly  to-morrow ;  you  might  write  your  name 
on  that  card-table  ! " 

Charley  was  silent,  gazing  thoughtfully  at  the  floor.  He  hated  the 
thought  of  that  wretched  little  lame  boy  crying  through  the  stillness  of  the 
great  shadowy  house.  The  child  spoiled  the  image  of  the  beautiful  mother. 
It  was  as  if  a  creeping  shadow  of  disease  and  death  had  blotted  the  dainty 
brightness  of  Arcadia.  The  radiant  shepherdess  had  been  in  her  grave 
a  year  and  more,  not  even  laid  below  the  flowery  turf  of  her  eternal 
springtime,  but  thrust  into  the  Lauristons'  grim  family  vault,  waiting  in 
the  darkness  till  Adam  Lauriston  should  join  her.  And  of  all  her  arch, 
laughing,  beautiful  life,  nothing  remained  but  that  blighted  little  baby 
boy  in  some  corner  of  Redlands  Hall.  Eastwood  had  only  a  faint  im- 
pression of  this  sadness,  the  merest  passing  chill  from  the  cold  grave.  But 
there  was  a  lingering  touch  of  regret  in  his  voice  when  he  spoke.  "  You 
should  see  that  picture,  mother ;  she  must  have  been  lovely.  It  was  at 

the  Academy  two  years  ago  " 

"  Was  it  really  1  Dear  me ! "  said  Mrs.  Eastwood  ;  «  I  wonder  if  I 
saw  it." 


DAMOCLES.  145 

"  And  he  stands  and  looks  at  it  as  quietly  as  if  it  were  at  the 
Academy  still — No.  500,  or  whatever  it  might  happen  to  be.  '  My  wife,' 
he  says,  as  coolly  as  you  please.  But  you  should  just  see  it  before  you 
talk  of  Effie,"  Charley  went  on,  dropping  into  his  usual  tone.  "  Our  Effie 
under  that  picture  !  Our  Effie — why  she  would  look  like — like — like  a 
little  buttercup !  "  And,  whistling  his  favourite  tune,  the  young  fellow 
went  off  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  II. 
Miss  CONWAY  is  PEEPLEXED. 

ADAM  LAURISTON  was  sixteen  when  he  inherited  Redlands  Hall  from  an 
uncle.  Till  then  he  had  lived  with  his  mother  and  his  three  half-sisters. 
It  was  not  exactly  a  happy  home,  for  Mrs.  Lauriston  and  her  step- 
daughters thought  differently  on  most  subjects,  and  cultivated  that 
spirit  of  unmitigated  candour  which  finds  its  best  opportunities  in  the 
society  of  near  relations.  As  soon  as  circumstances  permitted,  the  ill- 
assorted  household  broke  up,  the  sisters  remaining  at  Aldermere,  while 
Adam  and  his  mother  went  down  to  the  Hall. 

At  that  time  the  Rev.  John  Eastwood  was  Vicar  of  Redlands.  He 
was  a  kindly,  absent-minded  man,  who  asked  nothing  better  than  to 
spend  his  life  in  his  study  and  his  flower-garden,  with  an  occasional 
stroll  round  his  parish  for  a  change.  His  wife  was  careful  to  bring  him 
all  the  scandal  of  the  neighbourhood,  but  nothing  could  persuade  Mr. 
Eastwood  that  his  fellow-creatures  were  not  very  tolerable  people  on  the 
whole.  If  his  attention  were  called  to  the  newspaper  report  of  any 
startlingly  horrible  crime,  (for  really  his  happy  trustfulness  was  enough 
to  irritate  anybody)  and  if  he  could  not  evade  passing  judgment  by  sug- 
gesting that  the  criminal  was  probably  insane,  he  would  answer,  very 
sadly,  that  it  grieved  him  more  than  he  could  say — which  was  no  figure 
of  speech — and  that  he  feared  he  might  have  himself  committed  crimes  as 
great,  or  perhaps  much  greater,  had  he  been  similarly  tempted.  It  was 
believed  that  Mr.  Eastwood  had  in  this  fashion  pleaded  guilty  to  a  wide 
range  of  offences,  from  murdering  his  father  and  cutting  up  the  body  into 
small  pieces,  to  stealing  a  blind  widow's  last  halfpenny  at  the  early  age 
of  nine  years. 

Young  Lauriston  took  a  fancy  to  Mr.  Eastwood.  His  mother 
seldom  went  beyond  the  park  gates;  her  health  was  failing,  and  she 
disliked  society,  so  that,  having  few  friends  in  the  neighbourhood,  he 
often  went  to  the  vicarage.  Charley,  a  rosy  little  urchin  in  a  pinafore, 
used  to  stand  at  the  door,  gazing  in  silent  admiration  at  Mr.  Lauriston, 
and  Mr.  Lauriston's  horse.  Even  at  that  age  the  child  understood  that 
Mr.  Lauriston  was  not  to  be  romped  with,  that  he  hated  dirty  hands  and 
sticky  mouths,  and  that  his  hat,  gloves,  and  whip,  lying  on  the  hall-table, 
were  sacred  things.  Later  the  schoolboy  regarded  the  young  squire  with 
a  mixture  cf  wonder  and  envy,  as  a  man  rich  enough  .to  keep  any  number 


146  DAMOCLES. 

of  dogs  and  horses,  and  the  owner  of  that  earthly  paradise,  the  Redlands 
woods.  But  he  did  not  despise  him  for  making  .so  little  use  of  his  mar- 
vellous opportunities.  The  force  of  habit,  and  something  in  Lauriston's 
manner,  subdued  any  such  inclination,  and  Charley  considered  him  a 
being  of  a  different  order,  who  by  some  mysterious  dispensation  was 
gifted  with  profound  tastes,  and  not  created  with  any  view  to  hunting, 
shooting,  fishing,  or  cricket. 

It  was  after  Mrs.  Lauriston's  death,  when  Adam  was  four  or  five 
and  twenty,  that  he  took  notice  of  Erne,  then  a  quaint,  pretty  child,  with 
a  fearless  simplicity  of  manner.  He  gave  her  presents,  and  perceived 
that  she  liked  him  very  much  indeed,  as  a  giver  of  presents.  She 
watched  for  his  coming,  always  begged  to  have  her  prettiest  frock  put  on 
in  his  honour,  sat  on  his  knee,  and  called  him  "  my  Mr.  Lauriston  "  in 
her  clear  little  childish  voice.  Had  she  been  more  disinterested  he  might 
not  have  liked  it  as  well.  He  was  not  fond  of  children  as  a  rule,  and  an 
affection  which  demanded  affection  in  return  might  in  time  have  be- 
come a  burden.  But  an  affection  which  merely  demanded  presents  was 
easily  satisfied. 

This  pleasant  time  of  gifts  and  kisses  passed  away,  however,  and  it 
was  years,  as  the  grown-up  Erne  said,  since  she  had  even  seen  her 
wealthy  admirer.  The  Eastwoods  left  Redlands  after  Mr.  Eastwood's 
death,  and  though  from  time  to  time  they  came  back  to  visit  their  former 
home  and  took  lodgings  in  the  old  house  on  the  Green,  Mr.  Lauriston 
was  so  seldom  at  the  Hall  that  they  saw  nothing  of  him.  They  heard 
of  him  occasionally,  for  he  kept  up  a  kind  of  friendship  with  Charley  for 
his  father's  sake,  and  invariably  took  some  notice  of  the  young  fellow 
when  he  was  in  town. 

It  was  not  unnatural,  therefore,  that  on  the  day  when  they  expected 
Mr.  Lauriston  to  dinner,  his  name  should  be  continually  mentioned. 
Rachel  Conway  began  to  feel  as  if  the  very  birds  in  the  air  were  singing 
about  him,  and  the  hawthorn  hedge  putting  on  its  best  blossoms  in  honour 
of  his  coming.  The  preparations  within  the  house  might  be  a  little 
more  prosaic,  yet  even  they  seemed  to  have  acquired  a  novel  depth  of 
meaning.  Mrs.  Eastwood,  who  had  not  much  confidence  in  the  servant, 
was  very  anxious  that  the  furniture  should  be  scrupulously  dusted,  and 
when  she  was  satisfied  on  this  point,  she  and  Fanny  proceeded  to  adom 
it  profusely  with  white  antimacassars,  as  solemnly  as  if  they  were  per- 
forming a  mysterious  rite,  to  propitiate  Mr.  Adam  Lauriston.  Each  el's 
assistance  did  not  appear  to  be  required  at  this  stage  of  the  proceedings. 
But,  though  she  strolled  into  the  garden,  the  absorbing  interest  drew  her 
to  the  window,  and  compelled  her  to  look  in.  "  Is  he  very  fond  of 
antimacassars  ? "  she  said  to  Charley,  who  was  leaning  against  the  wall 
close  by. 

"  Fond  of  antimacassars  1 "  Young  Eastwood  was  perplexed  for  a 
moment.  Then  with  an  effort  he  uprooted  himself,  looked  in,  and 
smiled.  "  Well — may  as  well  have  them  clean,  you  know,"  he  said. 


DAMOCLES.  147 

"  Yes,"  said  Rachel,  lifting  her  eyes  to  the  sunlight  from  under  her 
shady  hat.  "  I'm  glad  we've  had  three  days'  rain  to  wash  the  sky  nice 
and  blue  for  Mr.  Lauriston.  I  hope  he  likes  a  nice  blue  sky." 

"  I'm  afraid  he  doesn't  care,  he's  rather  an  indoors  sort  of  man,"  said 
Charley,  to  whom  variations  of  colour  were  not  much,  if  the  state  of  the 
weather  did  not  interfere  with  his  amusements. 

Rachel  inspected  the  room  once  more.  "  Do  you  think  he'll  sit  in 
that  arm-chair — that  farther  one  by  the  fireplace  1  I  dusted  that." 

"Did  you  really?     Then  I  shall  go  and  sit  in  it,"  Charley  replied, 
biting  a  blade  of  grass  as  he  spoke.  "  Thank  you  for  your  kind  attention." 
"  Pray  don't  trouble  yourself  to  thank  me.     You  may  leave  that  for 
Mr.  Lauriston  to  do." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  Eastwood,  "  so  I  will.  And  I  daresay  the 
chair  is  only  half  dusted  after  all." 

Miss  Conway  turned  and  siirveyed  him  with  a  lofty  serenity  of 
manner.  "  Now  that  is  spiteful,  and  betrays  a  small  and  envious  mind. 
I  am  deeply  grieved — good  gracious,  why  is  your  mother  looking  at  the 
back  of  it  like  that  1  Come  away  directly  !  "  And  she  fled  in  haste, 
while  Mrs.  Eastwood's  voice  was  heard  within,  "  Where  is  that  duster, 
Fanny  1  Do  give  it  me  for  a  moment." 

Rachel  was  obliged  to  own  later  that  she  certainly  was  not  happy  in 
her  attempts  to  prepare  for  Mr.  Lauriston.  Effie  had  suggested  that, 
since  they  had  no  green-houses  and  hot-houses  like  those  at  the  Hall, 
they  should  have  just  a  simple  arrangement  of  wild  flowers  on  the 
dinner  table.  "  So  much  nicer  than  common  garden  ones,"  she  said. 
Mrs.  Eastwood  and  Fanny  were  not  sorry  to  get  rid  of  the  three 
idlers,  so  they  pronounced  it  a  happy  thought,  and  despatched  them  on 
their  quest.  Considered  as  a  walk  it  was  eminently  successful,  but  as 
they  came  home,  a  little  tired,  through  the  hot  sunshine,  they  grew 
silent,  and  cast  doubtful  glances  at  their  spoils.  Charley  looked  thought- 
fully at  Miss  Conway's  bunch,  and  discovered  that  she  was  furtively 
inspecting  his.  Effie  turned  hers  round  as  she  walked,  to  see  what  it 
was  like  on  the  other  side.  "  I  hope  they'll  like  our  flowers,"  she  said. 

"  0  yes,  they  surely  will.  They  thought  it  was  such  a  pretty  idea  of 
yours,  Effie." 

«  Yes,"  said  Effie,  doubtfully. 

There  was  a  pause  and  they  walked  steadily  on.  It  certainly  was 
very  hot  under  the  mid-day  sun.  Rachel  broke  the  silence.  "How 
cool  and  fresh  these  yellow  flags  looked  growing  in  that  marshy  place. 
One  hardly  wants  a  garden  when  flowers  like  that  grow  wild." 

"  No,"  said  Effie.  "  They  will  do  nicely  in  that  big  bowl,  won't 
they  1 " 

"  Yes,  I  should  think  they  would,"  said  Miss  Conway,  calling  up  a 
picture  of  the  tall  sword-like  leaves  and  stately  blossoms  before  her 
mind's  eye  as  she  walked.  "  That  was  a  pretty  thing,  too,  you  fished  out 
of  that  pond,"  she  went  on,  looking  at  Charley.  "  Only  I  thought  you 


148  DAMOCLES. 

were  going  to  drown  yourself.     What  did  you  call  it  ?     Water  violet, 
wasn't  it  1 " 

"Yes.  You  thought  I  was  going  to  drown  myself?  I  think  I 
could  about  drink  that  pond,  I'm  awfully  thirsty,"  said  Charley. 

"It's  ever  so  much  past  lunch  time,"  said  Effie;  " but  we  haven't 
more  than  half-a-mile  to  do.  How  far  have  we  been,  Charley  ? " 

"  0,  I  don't  know.  Say  something  over  six  miles  by  the  time  you  get 
home  and  you'll  bo  quite  safe." 

"  I  never  saw  that  water  violet  before,"  said  Miss  Conway.  "  It's 
very  pretty  with  that  crown  of  pale  blossoms,  isn't  it  1  "  She  began  to 
look  among  the  flowers  she  held  in  her  hand.  "  This  isn't  it,  surely — 
Oh,  yes,  it  is,  here's  the  blossom." 

Eastwood  cast  a  sidelong  glance  at  it.  "I  hope  I'm  not  conceited, 
but  if  I  had  drowned  myself  I  think  that  thing  would  have  been  dear  at 
the  price." 

"  Poor  thing  !  it  is  thirsty  too,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Miss  Conway. 
"  I'm  awfully  fond  of  wild  flowers,"  exclaimed  Effie  suddenly,  "  and 
I  do  think  they  are  very  pretty,  but  I  wish  they  wouldn't  grow  with  so 
much  green  about  them.     Leaves  do  fade  so." 

"  Perhaps  they'll  be  all  right  when  they  are  in  water."  Rachel's 
consolation  had  a  doubtful  ring  about  it. 

Eastwood  shifted  his  bunch  from  one  hand  to  the  other,  and  eyed  it 
discontentedly.  "  I  say,  I  hope  we  shan't  meet  a  lot  of  people  as  we  go 
through  the  village.  Don't  we  all  look  as  if  we  kept  rabbits  ? " 

They  were  not  greeted  with  enthusiasm  when  they  arrived  at  home. 
Fanny  met  them'  with  an  armful  of  papers  and  books  which  she  was 
carrying  away.  "  Doesn't  the  drawing  room  look  nice  1  "  she  said. 
"  The  cream  has  come  from  Mrs.  Pattenden's.  Oh  !  what  is  all  that  stuff? 
Pray  don't  put  it  down  here."  Charley  had  showed  an  inclination  to 
get  rid  of  his  load  without  delay. 

"  Here,  take  it,  Effie,"  he  said.  "  And  do  come  and  get  something 
to  eat  directly ;  don't  wait  for  anything  ;  you  can  see  about  all  that  after- 
wards. Come  !  "  he  said,  turning  to  Rachel  with  a  mixture  of  entreaty 
and  command,  "  you  are  tired,  I  know." 

They  went  and  had  their  luncheon,  but  the  thought  of  the  withering 
heap  of  rubbish  was  heavy  on  their  minds.  When  they  could  no  longer 
delay,  they  adjourned  to  the  hall  and  looked  doubtfully  at  it  where  it 
lay  on  the  table. 

"  I  say,  do  you  think  you'll  be  able  to  do  much  with  that  ? "  said  Fanny 
as  she  went  by.  "  I've  put  some  lilies  of  the  valley  in  the  drawing  room, 

and  I  think  some  white  lilac  would  look  well  in  the  china  bowl  if " 

"  Oh,  you  dear  Fanny  !  "  said  Effie.  "  It  will  look  lovely,  I  know,  and 
you  do  arrange  things  so  nicely." 

"So  ends  Effie's  attempt  at  a  poetical  simplicity,"  said  Charley,  with 
a  laugh.  "  Well,  we've  wasted  the  morning ;  let's  go  into  the  garden 
and  rest." 


DAMOCLES.  149 

It  was  five-and-twenty  minutes  past  six,  and  the  girls  came  hurrying 
into  the  drawing  room,  where  Mrs.  Eastwood  was  already  awaiting 
them.  Fanny,  with  a  quick  glance  round,  set  a  candlestick  straight  on 
the  chimneypiece.  "I  hope  Charley  won't  be  late,"  she  said.  "He 
would  not  see  about  the  wine  till  just  the  last  minute." 

"  He  always  is  so  stupid  about  putting  things  off,"  Mrs.  Eastwood 
replied.  "  Effie,  you  are  pushing  the  corner  of  the  rug  up  with  your 
chair."  Effie  jumped  up  impatiently  and  walked  to  the  window. 

Rachel  took  the  Waverley  Album  from  the  table,  and  tried  to  read  it, 
but  without  much  success.  Perhaps  it  would  be  unfair  to  say  on  that 
account  that  the  Waverley  Album  is  an  uninteresting  work.  She  was 
angry  with  herself  that  she  could  not  help  this  absurd  curiosity  about 
Mr.  Lauriston — why  did  they  all  make  such  a  fuss  about  him  ? — angry 
that,  before  any  one  else  spoke,  she  had  distinctly  heard  a  far-off  sound 
of  wheels  and  felt  an  answering  thrill  of  excitement. 
"  He  is  coming,"  said  Effie,  "  I  hear  the  carriage." 
As  she  spoke  Charley  came  in.  Rachel  cast  a  quick,  pleased  glance 
at  the  tall,  bright-looking  young  fellow,  so  happily  satisfied  with  himself 
and  the  rest  of  the  world.  "  Just  in  time,"  he  said  with  a  laugh,  as  the 
carriage  stopped,  and  the  bell  jangled  suddenly  through  Miss  Conway's 
strained  suspense.  The  page  of  the  Waverley  Album  became  an  absolute 
blank  when  Mary  opened  the  door,  and  announced  "  Mr.  Lauriston." 

There  was  a  brief  confusion  of  greeting,  and  then  the  introduction. 
Miss  Conway  did  well  to  be  angry,  for  the  anger  flushed  her  cheek,  and 
suited  her  to  perfection.  That,  and  the  foolish  excitement  which  she 
had  vainly  tried  to  subdue,  gave  a  touch  of  brilliant  defiance  to  her 
beauty,  and  even  Charley  (who  had  had  a  momentary  misgiving  about 
the  soft  black  dress,  with  old-fashioned  lace  at  throat  and  wrists)  per- 
ceived a  triumph  and  was  proud  of  her. 

In  that  brief  moment  Rachel  saw  Mr.  Lauriston's  eyes  and  nothing 
more.  Then  he  was  saying  something  politely  commonplace  to  Effie 
about  their  former  friendship,  and  Effie,  laughing  and  blushing,  was 
trying  to  find  something  to  say  in  reply.  Mrs.  Eastwood  came  to  the 
rescue,  with  flattering  recollections  of  Mr.  Lauriston's  goodness. 

"  I'm  afraid  that's  a  long  while  ago,"  he  said,  looking  at  Effie.  "  It 
doesn't  matter  to  you — you  can  afford  to  make  light  of  a  few  years,  but 

to  me " 

Effie  laughed  again,  not  quite  seeing  her  way  to  keeping  up  a  con- 
versation with  Mr.  Lauriston.  It  was  a  pity  that  she  could  not  sit  on 
his  knee,  and  call  his  attention  to  her  new  frock. 

"  Perhaps   it   is  just  as  well  that  it  was  a  long  while  ago,"  said 
Mrs.  Eastwood,  with  a  beaming  smile.     "  I  think  I  might  have  had  my 
little  girl  quite  spoiled  if  it  had  gone  on.     What  do  you  say,  Effie  1 " 
"  Oh,  I  don't  know.     I  like  to  be  spoiled,"  said  Effie. 
"  That  means  that  you  like  people  to  try  to  do  it,"  said  Mr.  Lau- 
riston, and  Effie  laughed  again,  no  other  answer  suggesting  itself. 


150  DAMOCLES. 

"  Well,  is  he  like  what  you  expected  1 "  Charley  inquired,  in  a  discreet 
voice,  as  they  went  into  the  dining  room. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  did  expect,"  Miss  Conway  replied  in  tones 
still  more  subdued,  for  she  had  a  vague  impression  that  Mr.  Lauriston 
would  hear  every  word  she  uttered. 

"  And  we've  been  talking  about  him  off  and  on  for  two  days.  I 
won't  try  to  describe  anybody  to  you  any  more." 

Rachel's  place  at  the  table  was  by  Charley,  and  Mr.  Lauriston  sat  on 
the  opposite  side  next  his  hostess.  The  business  of  carving  being  over, 
Mrs.  Eastwood  was  heard  saying,  "  I  really  do  hope  the  weather  is  going 
to  be  more  settled ;  it  has  been  charming  for  walking  to-day." 

"  You  have  been  introducing  Miss  Conway  to  the  neighbourhood,  I 
suppose.  We  have  some  pretty  walks  about  Redlands,  haven't  we  1 " 

"  We  went  up  Bucksmill  Hill  yesterday  evening,"  said  Effie. 

"  Ah,  you  needn't  look  at  me,  Mr.  Lauriston;  I  wasn't  of  the  party," 
said  Mrs.  Eastwood.  "  Bucksmill  Hill  by  moonlight  is  all  very  well  for 
the  young  people,  but  I  can't  walk  as  I  used  to  do.  It's  enough  for  me 
to  go  into  the  village  and  look  up  some  of  my  old  friends  now  and  then." 

"  But  you  were  one  of  the  walkers  ? "  Mr.  Lauriston  said  to  Effie. 

"  Yes,  Charley,  and  Rachel,  and  I.     And  the  moon  was  lovely." 

"  You  made  Miss  Conway  break  the  tenth  commandment,"  said 
Eastwood  from  the  foot  of  the  table.  "  She  fell  in  love  with  Bucksmill 
Heath  and  envied  you  for  owning  it." 

"  It  isn't  quite  all  mine,  you  know.  Did  you  really  covet  it,  Miss  Con- 
way  ]  I'm  afraid  you  would  find  yourself  queen  of  rather  a  barren  domain." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  coveted  it,"  she  said.  "  I  think  I  was  more 
inclined  to  rebel  against  your  authority  over  it.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if 
it  ought  not  to  belong  to  anybody." 

"  A  common  possession  like  sea  and  sky  ?  I  hardly  know.  That 
arrangement  works  very  well  with  anything  that  can't  be  divided,  no 
doubt,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston.  "  I'm  a  Communist  myself,  as  far  as  clouds 
and  waves  are  concerned.  But  when  it  comes  to  a  small  thing  which 
might  easily  be  spoiled — don't  you  think  it  is  better  to  own  it  oneself1}  " 

Rachel  smiled.  "  Perhaps  it  is  best  that  some  one  who  appreciates  it 
should  have  it  and  take  care  of  it.  But  I  don't  think  I  want  it  myself." 

"  Why  not  1 "  said  Charley.  "  You'd  appreciate  it,  and  take  care  of 
it,  and  talk  poetry  over  it,  as  well  as  anybody — or  better." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  with  a  bright  little  nod.  Then  she  looked 
across  the  table,  "  But  I  would  rather  not  think  about  its  being  mine  or 
not  mine.  If  it  isn't  all  yours,  Mr.  Lauriston,  don't  you  recollect  where 
yours  ends  when  you  look  at  it  ?  " 

"  That  only  proves  that  I  ought  to  have  the  whole.  No,  I  know 
what  you  mean,  Miss  Conway,  the  idea  of  any  boundary  spoils  the 
enjoyment  you  are  thinking  of.  It  is  quite  true." 

"  You  had  better  buy  the  rest,"  said  Fanny. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  haven't  money  enough,"  Mr.  Lauriston  replied.    "  The 


DAMOCLES.  151 

world  is  a  big  place.     And  then  there  would  be  the  moon,  which  cer- 
tainly ought  to  belong  to  it." 

"  The  world  !  "  said  Fanny,  looking  a  little  perplexed.  "  I  meant  the 
rest  of  Bucksinill  Heath." 

"  Ah  yes,  the  rest  of  Bucksmill  Heath.  Perhaps  I  might  manage 
that.  I  wonder  whether  the  other  man  wants  to  sell." 

"  Who  is  he  1 "  Charley  inquired. 

"  Young  Philip  Allen  of  Brookfield  Hall." 

"  Philip  Allen  !  "  said  Eastwood  scornfully.  "  He  wouldn't  trouble 
you  much.  Why,  you  could  buy  up  every  acre  he  owns  and  never  feel  it." 

Mr.  Lauriston  slightly  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  if  he  would  disclaim 
any  idea  of  doing  his  boasting  by  deputy.  "After  all,"  he  said, 
"  Allen's  is  not  a  very  important  part.  And  if  it  turned  out  an  Ahab 
and  Naboth  affair,  Miss  Conway  would  never  forgive  me." 

"  Never  !  "  said  Rachel. 

"  No,  we'll  let  well  alone — things  are  better  as  they  are.  Miss 
Conway  merely  wants  the  heath  held  by  some  one  for  the  general  good 
till  the  Commune  is  established.  I  see  no  objection  to  that,  provided 
that  I  am  the  some  one.  So  we  need  not  quarrel,  I  hope." 

"  I  should  think  not,"  said  Mrs.  Eastwood  ;  "  I  am  sure  you  may  be 
trusted  with  it." 

"  Oh,  I'm  like  other  men,"  he  answered  lightly,  "  perfectly  trust- 
worthy up  to  temptation  point.  And,  to  be  honest,  I've  never  had  the 
smallest  temptation  in  this  case." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Miss  Conway,  "  I  feel  safer  so." 

"  You  are  quite  right.  Of  course  I  can't  tell  what  I  might  do  if  on 
the  loneliest  part  of  the  heath,  I  should  chance  to  meet  a  certain  person- 
age, with  a  prospectus  in  his  hand,  suggesting  a  Company  (Limited) 
which  would  improve  the  scenery  in  the  eyes  of  all  really  sensible  people, 
benefit  mankind,  and  treble  the  value  of  my  property.  But  at  present 
nobody  wants  to  build,  nobody  wants  to  dig,  and  I  am  not  tried." 

When  they  went  into  the  drawing  room  Effie  executed  a  little  dance, 
expressive  of  the  delight  she  felt  at  taking  off  her  company  manners  for 
awhile.  Rachel  stood  by,  laughing  as  the  quaint  little  figure  waltzed  in 
and  out  between  the  chairs.  ''Well,"  said  Effie,  as  she  came  to  a  halt, 
"  Charley  says  he's  just  the  same,  but  I  don't  think  he  is.  I  don't  believe 
he  used  to  use  such  long  words  when  he  talked." 

"  Don't  you  like  him  as  well  as  you  did  1 "  Fanny  inquired. 

"  That  depends — I  should  like  him  if  he  would  give  some  nice 
parties  at  the  Hall,"  was  the  prompt  reply.  "  But  I  don't  seem  to  know 
what  to  say  to  him  now." 

"  Well,  I  really  think  Mary  managed  very  well  altogether,"  said  Mrs. 
Eastwood.  "  I  had  to  give  her  a  hint  once  ;  she  forgot  the  bread-sauce, 
did  you  notice  ?  But  altogether  she  did  not  do  amiss.  We  must  have  a 
little  music  when  they  come  in." 

Miss  Conway  took  up  a  bit  of  embroidery 'and  stitched  with  silent 


152  DAMOCLfiS. 

industry,  while  her  thoughts  were  busy  with  Mr.  Lauriston.  She  had 
met  no  such  man  in  her  narrow  life ;  he  looked  as  if  he  had  stepped  out 
of  a  picture,  as  if  he  might  have  a  story ;  he  attracted  her,  and  yet  she 
doubted  whether  she  liked  him.  More  than  once  during  dinner  he  had 
drawn  her  into  the  conversation.  Unlike  Effie,  she  thought  that  it 
would  not  be  difficult  to  talk  to  him  ;  perhaps  she  had  almost  to  suppress 
the  consciousness  of  an  unwonted  sense  of  ease  and  freedom  with  which 
she  had  spoken.  When  he  came  into  the  room  again  she  could  not  help 
watching  him.  as  he  stood  by  Mrs.  Eastwood,  with  his  cup  in  his  hand, 
and  his  head  slightly  bent,  listening  to  the  even  flow  of  her  confidential 
talk.  (Rachel  had  not  the  least  idea  what  it  was  that  Mrs.  Eastwood 
was  saying.)  Charley  came  and  di-opped  into  a  low  chair  by  her  side, 
took  the  end  of  her  work  in  his  strong  fingers,  and  unrolled  it  curiously. 
Did  he  always  speak  in  such  blunt,  unfinished  sentences  1  He  was  good- 
looking,  she  knew,  but  why  had  it  never  struck  her  before  that  his 
features  expressed  only  a  few  simple  emotions,  such  as  pleasure,  ill- 
humour,  (the  latter  with  no  great  intensity,  for  Charley  was  a  kind- 
hearted  fellow)  impatience,  good- will,  and  an  easy  style  of  fondness  ? 
Miss  Conway  was  not  anxious  to  dwell  on  these  questions  by  attempting 
to  answer  them,  and  she  diverted  her  thoughts  as  quickly  as  she  could, 
by  pointing  out  to  Mr.  Eastwood  that  he  would  certainly  spoil  her 
scissors,  and  that  he  was  sitting  on  one  of  the  new  antimacassars. 

His  mother,  meanwhile,  was  telling  Mr.  Lauriston  what  a  happiness 
it  was  to  see  Charley  getting  on  so  well  with  his  uncle,  and  how 
pleased  she  should  be  to  have  him  settled  in  a  home  of  his  own  before 
very  long.  "  He  is  young,  of  course,  but  where  there  is  a  little  money" — 
Mrs.  Eastwood  glanced  meaningly  at  Rachel,  who  Avas  just  attempting 
to  rescue  her  scissors,  "for  I  should  be  the  last  person  to  advocate  any- 
thing imprudent — I  must  say  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  me,  especially 
with  any  one  the  girls  are  so  fond  of.  However  I  wish  my  dear  boy  to 
think  well  about  it." — "  Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston. — "  And  I  should 
like — I  must  say  I  should  like  my  brother  to  be  consulted.  He  is  so 
much  more  likely  to  do  something  for  Charley  if  his  advice  is  asked 
before  it  is  all  settled."  Mr.  Lauriston  sipped  his  tea,  agreed  with  her 
that  it  would  be  a  pity  to  be  hasty,  and  could  hardly  refrain  from  laugh- 
ing aloud  at  the  stupendous  folly  of  the  whole  affair.  That  that  girl 
should  think  of  marrying  Charles  Eastwood,  that  Charles  Eastwood 
should  play  the  lukewarm,  hesitating  lover,  and  that  the  old  lady's  one 
anxiety  should  be  lest  her  dear  boy  should  pledge  himself  without  due 
consideration — all  these  things  were  not  incredible,  only  because  no 
absurdity  was  incredible.  It  was  no  business  of  his,  but  what  could 
Miss  Conway's  motive  be  ? 

Something  was  said  about  some  music,  and  Mr.  Lauriston  set  his 
cup  down,  and  crossed  the  room  to  the  young  people.  His  feelings  were 
not  hinted  in  any  outward  expression,  and  yet,  when  Rachel  looked  up 
and  saw  him  coming,  'she  became  suddenly  conscious,  and  defiantly 


153 

Uiieasy  in  her  consciousness,  that  Charley's  flushed,  boyish  face  was  very 
near  her,  as  he  lounged  on  the  low  chair  by  her  side,  with  his  head 
thrown  carelessly  back.  He  smiled,  sat  up,  and  drew  in  his  long  legs 
when  Mr.  Lauriston  approached,  but  Rachel  would  not  stir.  Effie  came 
to  fetch  her  brother  to  sing  a  duet  with  her,  and  there  was  a  little  debate 
at  the  piano  as  to  which  it  should  be,  out  of  two  that  she  had  chosen. 

Mr.  Lauriston  took  a  chair  close  by,  not  the  one  which  Charley  had 
vacated,  but  one  that  placed  him  more  on  a  level  with  Rachel,  and  in 
such  a  position  that  his  eyes  met  hers  without  an  effort.  "  So  you  went 
hunting  for  wild  flowers  to-day  ?  "  he  began,  saying  the  first  thing  that 
came  into  his  head. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  with  a  smile.  "  There  was  one  place  where  the 
yellow  iris  grew  beautifully." 

"  Why  didn't  Eastwood  take  you  into  the  park  1  You  would  have 
found  plenty  there  without  tiring  yourselves." 

"  Into  your  park,  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Lauriston  1 " 
He  inclined  his  head  slightly,  but  added   almost  immediately,  "  J/// 
park  is  the  park  here,  Miss  Con  way  ;  Redlands  people  recognise  110  other." 
"  I  beg  your  pardon.     I'm  not  one  of  the  Redlands  people,  you  see, 
and  I  didn't  understand." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is  the  other  way,  and  that  you  understand  too  much 
of  the  outside  world  to  be  properly  impressed  by  the  importance  of 
Redlands." 

"  But  I  know  your  house  is  very  important,  Mr.  Lauriston,  and  I 
have  seen  it.  Mr.  Eastwood  pointed  it  out  to  me  from  the  top  of  the 
hill  yesterday  evening." 

"  Do  you  call  that  seeing  my  house  1     How  can  you  expect  it  to  be 
impressive  when  you  look  down  on  it  from  such  a  distance  ?     There  is  a 
county  handbook — it  was  published  forty  or  fifty  years  ago — in  which 
Redlands  Hall  occupies  quite  a  distinguished  place." 
"  And  what  does  the  county  handbook  say  1 " 

"  I  think  I  can  recollect  the  precise  words,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston,  after 
a  moment's  consideration.  "  It  says,  '  This  mansion  is  an  elegant 
modern  building,  occupying  a  pleasant  and  elevated  site,  and  surrounded 
by  grounds  beautifully  diversified  by  irregular  swells,  and  judiciously 
embellished  with _  plantations  of  forest  trees.'  Now,  Miss  Conway  ? 
There  is  some  more,  but  surely  that  must  be  enough." 

"  Quite  enough — what  can  I  say,  Mr.  Lauriston  1  May  I  congratu- 
late you  on  possessing  this  elegant  place  1 " 

"  The  handbook  adds,  Miss  Con  way,  that  it  well  repays  a  visit. 
And  you  climb  a  hill  ever  so  far  away,  and  consider  that  you  have  seen 
it  at  a  glance  !  I  won't  say  anything  about  the  irregular  swells ;  they 
have  a  slightly  ambiguous  sound  now-a-days,  I  admit.  But  don't  you 
take  any  interest  in  judiciously-planted  forest  trees  "2 " 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  looked  across  at  the  piano  as  Effie  began 
to  sing.     Rachel,  leaning  back,  with  her  hands  lying  idly  in  her  lap, 
VOL.  XLV. — NO.  266.  8 


154  DAMOCLES. 

glanced  at  him  once  or  twice  from  beneath  her  drooping  eyelids,  and 
wondered  what  he  thought  of  song  and  singers.  He  rose  when  it  was 
over,  and  thanked  them.  "  You  used  to  sing  to  me  a  long  while  ago," 
he  said  to  Effie.  "  I  remember  once,  when  you  came  to  see  me,  we  had 
1  Little  Bo-peep.' " 

"  Oh,  I  remember  that !  And  you  picked  me  eome  flowers,  Mr. 
Lauriston.'' 

"  That's  very  touching,"  he  said ;  "  I  remember  the  song,  and  you 
remember  the  bouquet  with  which  I  applauded  it.  I'm  sorry  the  flowers 
are  not  quite  so  close  at  hand  to-night." 

"  But  you  used  to  sing  too,  and  play — I  recollect  your  playing,"  said 
Mrs.  Eastwood. 

"  I  very  seldom  sing,"  he  answered.     "  I  play  a  little  now  and  then." 

"  Play  something  to  us  now,"  Effie  exclaimed. 

He  sat  down  without  a  word,  glanced  quickly  round  the  room,  and 
began.  Mrs.  Eastwood  took  up  her  knitting,  Fanny  turned  the  leaves 
of  the  nearest  book,  and  Effie,  catching  a  glimpse  of  herself  in  a  mirror, 
gazed  at  the  pretty  little  figure  in  a  pale  blue  dress,  while  her  hand  stole 
softly  upward  to  push  the  straying  rings  of  hair  from  her  forehead.  Miss 
Conway,  heeding  nothing  but  the  music,  turned  towards  Mr.  Lauriston 
with  brightening  eyes,  and  lips  half  parted  in  a  smile.  He  was  playing 
a  quaint,  light,  old-fashioned  tune,  which  seemed  to  call  again  to  shadowy 
life  the  courtly  beaux  and  belles  of  some  forgotten  ball-room.  To  Rachel's 
ear  there  were  thin,  faint  notes  of  sadness  in  it,  because  the  dancers  had 
so  long  ago  grown  weary,  and  the  sprightly  measure  had  a  lonely  sound, 
having  wandered  onward  into  these  later  years  where  their  feet  could 
not  follow  it.  They  were  all  dead  and  gone,  and  their  music  was  sound- 
ing still,  under  Mr.  Lauriston's  slim  fingers.  To  some  such  tune  as  this 
might  his  young  wife  have  danced,  masquerading  as  an  Arcadian  shep- 
herdess, as  Charley  saw  her  in  her  picture.  Rachel's  thoughts  turned 
vaguely  to  that  beautiful  woman  who  was  now  only  a  shadow  lingering 
on  the  outskirts  of  Mr.  Lauriston's  life.  Did  he  love  her  passionately 
two  years  before  1 — had  his  leisurely  speech  been  quickened  to  eager 
earnestness  for  her?^did  she  know  the  meaning  of  those  doubtful  smiles 
and  glances  which  puzzled  Rachel  1  The  music  came  back  again  and  yet 
again,  as  if  it  mocked  her  questions  with  an  ever-recurring  answer  which 
she  could  not  understand,  and  Mr.  Lauriston  turned  his  head  and 
looked  at  her  for  a  moment  as  he  played.  Her  eyes  fell  before  his,  and 
followed  the  white  hands  passing  deftly  over  the  keys,  while  the  candle- 
light flashed  on  his  ring.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  lost  all  reckoning  of 
the  time  during  which  those  busy  fingers  moved,  insisting  clearly  on  the 
silvery  notes  which  marked  the  pulses  of  the  dance.  But  all  at  once 
they  slackened,  glided  through  some  lingering  cadences,  paused,  and  Mr. 
Lauriston  rose  from  the  piano.  "  Where  did  you  pick  that  jolly  old 
thing  up  ?  It  is  old,  isn't  it  1 "  said  Eastwood,  breaking  through  the  polite 
chorus  of  "  Thank  you  !  "  which  came  as  readily  as  a  response  in  church. 


DAMOCLES.  155 

"  Yes,  it's  old — I  have  known  it  a  long  while,"  Mr.  Lauriston 
replied.  Miss  Conway  would  have  liked  to  ask  him  whether  he  had 
danced  to  it  a  century  or  so  before,  and  learned  its  meaning  so. 

"  I  like  it !  "  said  Charley  energetically.     "  It's  quite  new  to  me." 

"  Very  pretty,"  Mrs.  Eastwood  chimed  in,  looking  up  from  her  knit- 
ting. "  So  lively  and  sparkling,  and,  if  I  may  say  so,  Mr.-  Lauriston, 
very  beautifully  played." 

He  acknowledged  the  compliment  with  a  smile  and  a  little  bow,  and 
crossed  over  to  where  she  sat,  remaining  there  during  a  song  of  Miss 
Conway's.  But  after  a  few  minutes,  when  the  others  were  at  the  piano 
again,  he  came  back,  and,  pausing  by  Rachel's  side,  said  softly,  "  Mrs. 
Eastwood  has  been  promising  and  vowing  in  your  name." 

"  In  mine  I " 

"  Yours  was  included.  I  shall  be  out  to-morrow  morning,  I  have 
to  see  some  of  my  tenants,  and  I  leave  Redlands  on  Friday,  so  that  I 
have  very  little  time.  But  Mrs.  Eastwood  has  been  kind  enough  to 
promise  for  you  all,  that  you  will  come  and  dine  with  me  to-morrow 
evening.  I  hope  you  consider  yourself  bound  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  she  answered  with  a  smile.  "  I  shall  like  to  be  intro- 
duced to  the  elegant  modern  mansion.  And  then,"  she  hesitated  a 
little,  "  then  I  hope  you  will  play  to  us  again,  Mr.  Lauriston.  I  liked 
that  very  much." 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said,  "  I  thought  I  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  choose 
something  that  pleased  you.  Miss  Conway,  if  I  may  ask  the  question, 
how  came  you  to  know  these  good  friends  of  ours  ? " 

"  We  were  at  school  together.  Of  course  I  was  a  big  girl  when  Erne 
•was  one  of  the  little  ones." 

"  A  school-girl  friendship — I  see,"  he  said.  Both  words  and  tone 
were  harmless  enough,  and  yet  Miss  Conway  suspected  something  of 
contempt  underlying  them.  She  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  Mr. 
Lauriston  must  look  down  on  the  Eastwoods,  and  was  defiantly  inclined 
to  identify  herself  with  them.  "  It  began  with  a  school-girl  friendship," 
she  said. 

"  And  has  gone  on  to  something  more.  Eastwood  has  a  good  voice, 
hasn't  he  ? "  Mr.  Lauriston  remarked  after  a  pause.  Rachel  assented 
warmly,  though  she  had  never  been  so  keenly  aware  of  every  defect  in 
Charley's  performance. 

That  night,  as  the  girls  went  up  to  bed,  they  talked  of  their  visitor. 
"  Effie,"  said  Rachel  doubtfully,  "  tell  me,  when  you  were  little,  were 
rou  really  fond  of  Mr.  Lauriston  1 " 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course  I  was,"  said  Effie.  "  He  used  to  take  me  on 
us  knee,  and  he  was  always  giving  me  things,  you  know.  And  he  never 
3k  any  notice  of  Fanny." 

Rachel  smiled.  Erne's  feelings,  though  truthfully  expressed,  threw 
x'ery  little  light  upon  her  own. 


156 


Solthrir. 


SENANCOUR,  the  author  of  Obermann,  was  born  in  Paris  in  the  year 
1770.  His  parents  were  in  comfortable  circumstances  and  able  to  give 
him  a  good  education.  He  showed  considerable  precocity  in  his  studies. 
When  only  seven  years  of  age,  he  is  said  to  have  astonished  his  friends 
by  his  knowledge  of  geography  and  works  of  travel.  This  habit  of 
study  was  connected  with  the  want  of  bodily  vigour  which  precluded 
him  from  the  active  employments  of  youth.  He  seems  to  have  suffered 
from  muscular  weakness  in  the  arms.  In  an  interesting  passage  in 
Obermann,  which  may  be  pretty  safely  taken  as  autobiographical,  he 
lets  us  see  himself  at  this  time.  When  fourteen  he  was  taken  by  his 
parents  to  Fontainebleau.  "  After  a  childhood,"  he  writes,  "  passed  in 
the  house,  inactive  and  tedious,  if  I  felt  myself  a  man  in  certain  respects 
I  was  a  child  in  many  others.  Embarrassed,  uncertain,  glimpsing  every 
possibility,  yet  knowing  nothing  ;  a  stranger  to  that  which  surrounded 
me,  I  had  no  decided  characteristic  beside  that  of  being  restless  and 
unhappy.1'  On  this  visit  he  felt  the  attractions  of  the  vast  forest,  and 
he  recalls  the  impression  that  it  was  the  only  place  he  had  ever  wished  to 
revisit.  The  following  year  he  did  revisit  it,  and  now  the  far-reaching 
mysterious  vistas  of  his  forest- world  drew  him  irresistibly.  "  I  eagerly 
traversed  these  solitudes ;  I  purposely  went  astray  in  them,  content 
when  I  had  lost  every  trace  of  my  course,  and  could  not  perceive  any 
frequented  path.  When  I  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  forest,  I  saw 
with  pain  those  vast  naked  plains  and  those  steeples  in  the  distance. 
I  returned  at  once,  I  dived  into  the  thickest  part  of  the  wood ;  and 
when  I  found  a  region  bare  of  trees  and  shut  in  on  all  sides,  where  I 
could  see  nothing  but  sand  and  juniper  trees,  I  had  a  feeling  of  peace,  of 
liberty,  of  wild  joy — the  power  of  nature  felt  for  the  first  time  in  the 
age  which  is  easily  made  happy.  Nevertheless,  1  was  not  gay ;  though 
almost  happy,  I  only  had  the  agitation  of  well-being.  I  fatigued  myself 
while  enjoying,  and  I  always  returned  sad." 

Such  a  nature  was  a  soil  well  fitted  for  the  seed  of  Rousseau's 
visionary  ideas  of  a  return  to  primitive  life,  and  when  only  a  lad  he 
ardently  entered  into  Rousseau's  dream.  When  nineteen  years  old,  he 
declined  to  go  to  the  Seminaire  de  Saint  Sulpice,  where  his  father  wished 
him  to  carry  on  his  studies,  and  resolved,  apparently  with  the  conni- 
vance of  his  mother,  to  leave  Paris  for  some  quiet  retreat  in  Switzerland. 
By  a  curious  coincidence  this  synchronised  with  the  time  at  which 
Rene,  another  disciple  of  Rousseau,  exchanged  society  for  solitude. 


A  MODERN  SOLITARY.  157 

During  the  first  part  of  his  stay  in  Switzerland,  he  busied  himself 
with  painting,  and  did  not  attempt  to  write.  He  went  to  live  with  a 
family  in  Fribourg,  and  managed  at  the  unripe  age  of  twenty  to  get 
entangled  in  a  marriage  with  the  daughter  of  the  house.  He  tells  us  in 
some  notes  about  himself,  which  Sainte-Beuve  has  discovered,  that  his 
physical  helplessness  was  the  cause  of  his  marrying.  If,  as  Sainte- 
Beuve  thinks,  his  experience  is  shadowed  forth  in  that  of  Fonsalbe, 
narrated  towards  the  end  of  Obermann,  we  may  take  it  that  the  union 
was  entered  on  in  haste  and  repented  at  leisure.  Troubles  now  fell 
thickly  on  our  young  wanderer.  The  Revolution  pronounced  him 
suspect,  and  in  consequence  of  this  he  lost  the  fortune  to  which  he  was 
heir.  The  Swiss  Government,  moreover,  deprived  him  of  the  property 
which  should  have  come  to  him  through  his  wife.  Two  children  were 
born  to  him.  Then  his  wife  succumbed  to  a  long  illness  and  died  ;  and 
finally  he  appears  to  have  been  deprived  of  the  custody  of  his  children. 

After  a  youth  which,  as  he  tells  us,  was  full  of  trouble,  Senancour 
took  to  writing.  His  first  work,  Reveries  sur  la  Nature  primitive  de 
I'homme,  was  published  in  1799.  It  is  clearly  the  work  of  a  youthful 
rebel  against  society.  It  inveighs  eloquently  against  the  evils  of  social 
institutions,  and  grows  bitter  in  its  denunciations  of  Christianity,  and 
religion  in  general.  It  betrays,  too,  a  youthful  confidence  in  prescribing 
remedies  for  social  disease,  exhorting  men  to  carry  out  the  teachings  of 
the  Stoics  and  of  llousseau  combined,  and  so  to  rid  themselves  of  the 
burden  of  modern  existence.  Owing  to  the  din  of  the  Revolution,  this 
pagan  gospel  found  no  ears  capable  of  listening ;  yet  the  young  teacher 
went  on  undaunted.  In  1804,  there  appeared  his  best-known  work, 
Obermann,  of  which  more  will  be  said  presently.  Here  it  is  enough  to 
mention  that  it  shows  a  softening  of  young  rebelliousness,  and  a  toning 
down  of  young  assurance.  The  writer  no  longer  prescribes  for  society 
with  the  old  self-confidence.  He  appears  less  as  a  teacher  of  others  and 
a  social  reformer  than  as  an  observer  of  his  own  nature  and  experience, 
and  as  an  alleviator  of  the  evils  of  his  individual  life. 

We  need  not  follow  the  author  very  closely  through  the  rest  of  his 
life.  At  the  Restoration  (1814)  he  returned  to  Paris,  and  mixed  in 
journalism.  Among  other  publications  which  come  from  his  pen,  the 
most  noteworthy  is  Libres  Meditations  d'un  solitaire  inconnu,  which 
shows  little  of  the  early  spirit  of  revolt  against  society,  and  is  marked 
by  a  calm  and  more  conciliatory  tone.  He  died  in  1846  after  a  long 
and  painful  illness. 

Obermann  is  in  appearance  a  number  of  letters  addressed  by  a 
solitary,  who  is  most  of  his  time  in  Switzerland,  to  an  unnamed  friend. 
The  dates  and  references  give  an  air  of  reality  to  the  correspondence. 
It  is  known,  moreover,  that  there  is  a  general  agreement  between  the 
events  narrated  and  the  facts  of  Senancour's  life.  Yet  the  agreement 
fails  in  certain  respects,  the  author  seeming  to  have  wished  to  conceal 
his  personality.  This  fact,  together  with  the  absence  of  all  knowledge 


158  A  MODEEN  SOLITAEY. 

respecting  the  recipient  of  the  letters,  and  an  allusion  or  two  to  a  public, 
seems  to  shut  us  up  to  the  conclusion  that  the  solitary  chose  the  form 
of  letter  as  the  most  appropriate  for  his  purpose.  And  we  may  at  once 
recognise  this  appropriateness.  It  serves  as  the  natural  prose  vehicle 
for  the  outpourings  of  personal  feeling,  the  confession  of  personal  experi- 
ence, which  make  up  the  chief  part  of  the  subject-matter.  It  is  possible, 
indeed,  that  the  writer  was  able  to  realise  at  the  moment  of  writing 

'  O 

that  he  was  addressing  some  individual  friend.  At  least,  this  idea,  natu- 
rally occurs  to  one  when  reading  passages  like  the  following  :  "  If  I 
were  absolutely  alone,  these  moments  of  restlessness  would  be  intoler- 
able ;  but  I  write,  and  it  seems  as  if  the  task  of  expressing  to  you  what 
I  experience  were  a  distraction  which  lightens  the  sense  of  it.  To  whom 
could  I  open  myself  up  then  ?  What  other  would  bear  the  wearisome 
chatterings  of  a  gloomy  madman,  of  so  futile  a  sensitiveness1?  It  is 
my  one  pleasure  to  tell  you  what  I  can  only  tell  to  you,  what  I  would 
not  say  to  any  other,  what  others  would  not  understand." 

It  may  be  added  that  the  epistolary  form  very  well  suits  the  intellect 
and  habits  of  the  writer.  His  is  not  a  logical  intellect,  braced  to  follow 
out  ideas  to  their  remote  conclusions.  Thought  with  him  is  apt  to  be 
wandering  and  desultory,  being  ever  swayed  by  changing  currents  of 
emotion.  And  this  light  discursive  kind  of  reflection  is  just  what  we 
look  for  in  the  composition  of  a  letter.  Obermann  gives  us,  then,  just 
what  the  letters  of  a  recluse  to  a  sympathetic  friend  might  be  expected 
to  give.  They  present  in  broad  outline  the  few  external  incidents  of  the 
quietly  flowing  life ;  they  paint  its  natural  surroundings ;  they  afford 
glimpses  of  its  daily  round  of  occupations ;  and  lastly  they  record  its 
strange  inner  experience,  the  mixed  feelings,  the  yearnings,  the  dreamy 
musings  which  make  up  the  chief  part  of  the  solitary's  life. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  account  for  the  fascination  which  the  book  has 
exercised  on  the  few.  There  is  a  tone  of  sincerity  in  this  long  personal 
disclosure  which  arrests  the  attention.  We  feel  that  the  writer  is  laying 
bare  his  very  soul  to  our  gaze.  And  what  a  soul  is  here  laid  bare  ! 
What  a  strange  spiritual  experience,  this  succession  of  momentary 
upheavings  of  aspiration  and  long  swoonings  of  despair  downwards  to  its 
deepest  depths !  Under  all  the  wondrous  pictures  of  nature,  the  vivid 
descriptions  of  mountain  heights  with  their  awful  stillness  and  vastness 
of  outlook,  under  all  the  reflections  on  man  and  the  previsions  of  a 
happier  destiny  awaiting  him  afar  off,  there  betrays  itself  the  sensitive 
stricken  soul  of  the  writer  with  its  fugitive  flush  of  warm  life,  and  its 
abiding  cold  pallor  : — 

Yet  through  the  hum  of  torrent  lone, 

And  brooding  mountain-bee. 
There  sobs  I  know  not  -what  ground-tone 

Of  human  agony ! 

Such  a  revelation,  while  fitted  to  held  spell-bound  the  few,  is  not  exactly 


A  MODEEN  SOLITARY.  .  159 

what  the  many  run  after.     For,  as  is  well  said  by  the  writer  from  whom 
I  have  just  borrowed, — 

Some  secrets  may  the  poet  tell, 

For  the  world  loves  new  ways ; 
To  tell  too  deep  ones  is  not  •well — 

It  knows  not  what  it  says. 

The  characteristic  charm  of  Obermann  belongs  to  it  as  a  whole. 
There  is  hardly  any  prose  work  of  which  it  would  be  more  difficult  to 
give  an  impression  by  description  and  quotation.  To  enjoy  the  book,  it 
is  necessary  to  steep  the  mind  awhile  in  the  "  air  of  languor,  cold,  and 
death "  which  brooded  over  the  writer's  soul.  One  must  enter  by  an 
effort  of  imaginative  sympathy  into  this  unfamiliar  remote  type  of 
experience.  Not  only  so,  the  very  form  of  the  composition  is  essential 
to  the  delight.  The  reader  must  listen  to  the  wandering  melody  of  the 
writer's  story,  with  its  long  quest  of  the  repose  of  harmony  through  a 
tangle  of  dissonance ;  its  unexpected  yet  never  violent  change  of  theme 
and  of  key  ;  its  many  gradations  of  force  from  those  occasional  notes  of 
bitter  despair  which  have  something  of  the  violence  of  passion  to  those 
soft  passages  which  express  a  perfect  subsidence  of  emotion  and  a 
drowsy  languor  which  seem  like  the  oncoming  of  a  spiritual  stupor. 
This  being  so,  I  cannot  hope  to  do  more  here  than  excite  in  the  reader's 
mind  a  measure  of  curiosity  with  respect  to  a  book  which  is  still  com- 
paratively unknown. 

Obermann's  burden  is  that  of  despair.  He  looks  out  over  the  world 
and  recognises  that  it  is  a  world  in  which  he  has  no  part,  or,  to  use  his 
own  words,  that  he  does  not  really  live  but  merely  "  looks  at  life."  He 
looks  into  his  own  heart  and  detects  the  source  of  this  incapacity  to  live. 

This  regretting  of  life,  this  sad  renunciation  of  the  world,  may  spring 
from  different  causes.  The  actual  conflict  with  things  may  have  been  too 
painful  owing  to  a  weak  organisation,  as  in  Leopardi's  case ;  or  to  the 
presence  of  some  insuperable  obstacle  to  the  gratification  of  a  ruling 
passion,  as  in  Werther's ;  or  to  a  slow  and  painful  process  of  disillusion, 
as  in  that  of  Wordsworth's  Solitary.  Or  the  despair  may  be  the  outcome 
not  of  positive  pain  and  disappointment,  but  of  a  sense  of  want  or  of  nega- 
tion. And  here  we  may  follow  George  Sand  and  distinguish  the  suffering 
of  Rene,  which  has  its  roots  in  a  consciousness  of  high  faculty  unsupported 
by  effective  purpose,  from  that  of  Obermann,  which  arises  from  a  dis- 
tinct sense  of  incompleteness  of  power.  Obermann  abandons  himself  to 
grief  because  he  is  keenly  conscious  of  wanting  the  most  essential  per- 
sonal and  spiritual  conditions  of  life,  power  to  effect  something,  purpose 
to  attempt  something,  and  even  desire  to  possess  something. 

This  consciousness  of  the  want  of  desire  is  the  characteristic  note  of 
Obermann's  mood.  One  may  almost  say  that  he  makes  desire  the  object 
of  desire.  His  recurring  complaint  is  ennui.  Schopenhauer  says  that 
there  are  two  poles  of  misery  between  which  our  life  oscillates — that  of 
positive  disappointment,  which  follows  desire  and  effort ;  and  that  of  the 


160  A  MODERN  SOLITARY. 

burdensome  sense  of  life,  or  ennui,  which  remains  with  us  when  we  no 
longer  desire.  If  Manfred  represents  one  of  the  pessimist  extremes, 
Obermann  represents  the  other.  "  Without  desires,"  he  says  in  one  place, 
"  what  are  we  to  make  of  life  1  Stupidly  vegetate."  He  is  a  prey  to  the 
fatigue  which  attends  the  possession  of  life  without  its  effective  im- 
pulses. The  futility,  the  nothingness  of  such  a  vegetative  existence  con- 
tinually forces  itself  on  his  mind.  "  Why,"  he  cries,  "  vegetate  a  long  time 
yet,  useless  to  the  world  and  fatiguing  to  myself?  To  satisfy  the  futile 
instinct  of  life  !  in  order  to  breathe  and  advance  in  years !  to  awake 
bitterly  when  everything  rests,  and  seek  darkness  when  the  earth  is 
blooming  !  to  have  nothing  but  the  want  of  desire,  and  to  know  only  the 
dream  of  existence  !  to  remain  displaced,  isolated  on  the  scene  of  human 
affliction,  when  no  one  is  happy  through  me,  when  I  have  only  the  idea 
of  the  role  of  a  man  !  to  cling  to  a  dead  life,  a  spiritless  slave  whom  life 
repulses  and  who  attaches  himself  to  its  shadow,  greedy  of  existence,  as 
if  real  life  were  left  him,  and  wishing  to  exist  miserably  for  want  of  the 
courage  to  exist  no  longer  !  " 

Obermann  is  far  from  that  stage  of  perfect  quietism  in  which  the 
allm-ements  of  life  have  faded  away  from  the  vision.  He  is  consciously 
tearing  himself  away  from  the  world  :  he  suffers  through  a  long  wrench 
from  the  beguileinents  of  life  : — 

A  wounded  Iranian  spirit  turns 
Here  on  its  bed  of  pain. 

And  this  suffering  is  connected  with  his  richly-endowed  poetic  nature. 
He  possessed  in  a  high  degree  those  passive  sensibilities  which  seem  to 
promise  fulness  and  multiformity  of  enjoyment.  Sights,  sounds,  and 
odours  were  charged  for  his  mind  with  profoundest  meanings,  and 
stimulated  his  imagination  to  fashion  ravishing  forms  of  beauty  and 
happiness.  The  charm  of  equal  companionship,  the  warm  solaces  of  a 
quiet,  well-ordered  home  still  appear  to  his  vision  in  the  misty  distance. 
Yet,  though  he  gazes  on  the  lovely  phantoms,  he  cannot  approach  and 
seize  them,  but  is  chained  to  the  spot  as  by  a  moral  paralysis. 

Obermann's  lament  is  thus  a  regret ;  his  monody  is  an  elegy  in  which 
images  of  delight  recur  mingling  their  sweetness  with  the  bitterness  of 
loss.  The  sad  dirge-like  movement  becomes  now  and  again  for  a 
moment  more  rapid  and  more  joyous  as  life  beckons  to  him  with  her 
rosy  fingers,  wooing  him  back  to  her  arms.  Yet  it.  is  but  for  a  moment, 
and  then  the  spirit  sinks  again  in  a  swoon-like  movement  downwards  to ' 
its  accustomed  depth  of  despair  : — 

"  Soft  climates,  beautiful  nights,  the  sky  at  night,  certain  sounds,  old 
recollections ;  the  time,  the  occasion ;  nature  beautiful  and  expressive, 
gentleness,  affection,  all  has  passed  before  me ;  all  calls  me,  and  all  aban- 
dons me.  I  am  alone  ;  the  forces  of  my  heart  do  not  expand,  they  are  in 
suspense.  I  am  in  the  world,  wandering,  solitary  in  the  midst  of  the 
crowd  which  is  nothing  to  me ;  as  a  man  long  since  struck  with  deafness 
whose  eager  eye  f}xes  itself  on  a}l  those  dumb  beings  who  pags  before  him, 


A  MODERN  SOLITARY.  161 

He  sees  everything,  and  everything  is  refused  him  ;  he  divines  the  sounds 
which  he  loves,  he  seeks  them  and  does  not  hear  them ;  he  suffers  the 
silence  of  all  things  in  the  midst  of  the  noise  of  the  world." 

Among  the  allurements  which  life  still  holds  out  to  him  love  seems 
to  be  the  one  which  Obermann  can  least  easily  put  away.  He  lingers 
fondly  on  the  picture  of  married  life  sustained  by  mutual  sympathy  and 
graced  by  delicate  courtesies.  "  The  pleasures  of  confidence  and  inti- 
macy are  great  among  friends ;  but  animated  and  multiplied  by  all  the 
details  which  are  caused  by  the  feeling  of  the  difference  of  sex,  these 
delicate  pleasures  have  no  longer  any  limits."  "  Do  you  believe,"  he  says 
elsewhere,  "  that  a  man  who  ends  his  life  without  having  loved,  has  truly 
entered  into  the  mysteries  of  life,  that  his  heart  is  well  known  to  him, 
and  that  the  extent  of  his  existence  is  unveiled  to  him  1  It  seems  to  me 
that  he  has  remained  in  something  like  a  state  of  suspense,  and  that  he 
has  only  seen  from  afar  what  the  world  might  have  been  for  him." 

He  looks  on  this  as  his  own  case.  The  author's  marriage,  as  we  have 
seen,  brought  him  little  of  the  happiness  which  he  here  extols.  A  nearer 
a-pproach  to  an  experience  of  love  seems  to  be  recorded  in  the  reminis- 
cences of  an  incipient  attachment  to  a  Madame  Del which  recur  in 

the  Letters.  When  he  accidentally  meets  her,  or  when  he  is  reminded  of 
her  by  her  brother  Fonsalbe,  who  shares  his  retreat  towards  the  end,  his 
thoughts  linger  tenderly  about  her  image.  Yet  he  soon  dismisses  the 
pleasing  phantom  from  his  brain,  and  tries  to  persuade  himself  that  his 
sentiment  comes  far  short  of  love.  Here,  again,  the  far-off  gleam  of 
happiness  finds  a  way  into  the  darkness  of  night. 

"  This  recollection  was  not  love,  since  I  did  not  find  any  consolation 
in  it,  or  any  nourishment ;  it  left  me  in  the  void,  and  it  seemed  to  hold 
me  there  ;  it  gave  me  nothing,  and  it  seemed  to  prevent  my  possessing 
anything.  I  remained  thus  without  possessing  either  the  happy  intoxi- 
cation which  love  sustains,  or  that  better  and  pleasurable  melancholy 
with  which  our  hearts  like  to  consume  themselves  when  still  filled  with 
an  unhappy  love." 

Obermann  is  deeply  convinced  that  there  is  no  escape  from  his  con- 
dition of  lassitude  and  sad  regret.  It  is  not  the  present  only  that  is 
darkened  with  the  shadow  of  despair  ;  the  whole  of  his  past  shows  the 
same  gloomy  hue.  The  references  to  his  youth,  its  want  of  the  customary 
joys,  its  freedom  from  the  usual  illusory  hopes,  are  full  of  pathos.  In  going 
back  to  his  early  youth,  he  tells  us,  he  still  finds  the  "  fancy  of  a  melan- 
choly heart  which  has  never  had  a  real  childhood,  and  which  attached 
itself  to  strong  emotions  and  extraordinary  things  before  it  had  decided 
•whether  it  would  like  games  or  not."  And  again  :  "  Here  is  my  twenty- 
seventh  year  :  the  beautiful  days  have  passed,  and  I  have  not  even  seen 
them.  Unhappy  during  the  years  of  happiness,  what  shall  I  expect  from 
other  years  1  I  have  spent  in  emptiness  and  ennui  the  happy  season  of 
confidence  and  hope.  Everywhere  repressed,  suffering,  the  heart  empty 
and  broken,  I  reached,  when  still  young,  the  regrets  of  old  age." 

8—5 


162  A  MOJDERX  SOLITARY. 

And  in  looking  onwards  lie  is  certain  that  his  suffering  will  not 
diminish.  He  meets  the  proffered  consolations  of  his  imaginary  friend, 
as  Job  met  those  of  his  acquaintance.  "  Wait,  I  shall  be  told ;  moral 
evil  exhausts  itself  even  by  its  duration  :  wait,  times  will  change,  and 
you  will  be  satisfied  ;  or  if  they  remain  as  they  are  you  yourself  will  be 
changed.  In  using  the  present,  such  as  it  is,  you  will  have  dulled  the  too 
impetuous  presentiment  of  a  better  future  ;  and  when  you  have  tolerated 
life,  it  will  become  good  to  your  more  tranquil  heart — a  passion  ceases, 
a  loss  is  forgotten,  a  misfortune  is  repaired  :  I  have  no  passions,  I  de- 
plore neither  loss  nor  misfortune,  nothing  which  can  cease,  which  can  be 
forgotten,  which  can  be  repaired.  A  new  passion  may  divert  from 
another  which  is  growing  old  ;  but  where  shall  I  find  nourishment  for 
my  heart,  when  it  shall  have  lost  the  thirst  which  consumes  it  ?  It  de- 
sires everything,  it  wishes  everything,  it  contains  everything.  What 
shall  I  put  in  the  place  of  that  infinite  which  my  thought  requires  ?  Re- 
grets are  forgotten,  other  possessions  efface  them;  but  what  possessions 
can  cheat  universal  regrets  ? "  And  again  :  "  During  the  storm  hope 
maintains  itself,  and  you  stand  up  against  the  danger  because  it  may 
have  an  end ;  but  if  the  calm  itself  fatigues  you,  what  do  you  hope  for 
then  I " 

Life  is  to  him  an  unreal  phantom,  the  shadow  of  a  reality,  a  thing 
without  aim  or  reason  which  must  disappear  like  other  futilities  in  the 
great  shadow-spectacle  which  we  call  the  world.  I  quote  a  passage  in 
the  original  in  which  this  falling  away  of  the  soul  from  things  as  un- 
real, this  conscious  lapse  into  nothingness,  seems  to  be  expressed  in  the 
very  drowsy  rhythm  of  the  language. 

"  Que  nous  restera-t-il  dans  cet  abandon  de  la  vie,  seule  destinee  qui 
nous  soit  commune  1  Quand  tout  echappe  jusqu'aux  reves  de  nos  de- 
sirs  ;  quand  le  songe  de  1'aimable  et  de  1'honnete  vieillit  lui-meme  dans 
notre  pensee  incertaine  ;  quand  1'harmonie,  dans  sa  grace  ideale,  descend 
des  lieux  celestes,  s'approche  de  la  terre,  et  se  trouve  enveloppee  de  brumes, 
de  tenebres ;  quand  rien  ne  subsiste  de  nos  affections,  de  nos  esperances ; 
quand  nous  passons  nous-memes  avec  la  fuite  invariable  de  choses,  et 
dans  1'inevitable  instabilite  du  monde  !  mes  amis,  mes  seuls  amis,  elle  que 
j'ai  perdue,  vous  qui  vivez  loin  de  moi,  vous  qui  seuls  me  donnez  encore 
le  sentiment  de  la  vie  !  que  nous  restera-t-il,  et  que  sommes-nous  1  " 

Yet  while  the  burden  of  Obermann's  song  is  thus  a  sad  one,  he  is  by 
no  means  disposed  to  exaggerate  his  misery.  On  the  contrary,  with 
what  looks  like  a  touch  of  unconscious  inconsistency,  he  is  concerned  to 
make  out  that  his  state  must  be  distinguished  from  unhappiness.  It  is 
a  negative  rather  than  a  positive  condition.  "  Others,"  he  says,  "  are 
much  more  unhappy  than  I,  but  I  doubt  if  there  were  ever  a  man  less 
happy."  Not  only  so;  in  other  places  he  teaches  that  his  state  of  moral 
indifference,  in  which  the  impulses  of  will  slumber,  and  no  eager  longing 
brings  conflict  into  the  soul,  is  one  of  which  the  writer  is  in  a  measure 
proud.  He  speaks  of  it  after  the  manner  of  Schopenhauer  as  something 


A  MODERN  SOLITAEY.  163 

which  it  is  much  to  have  reached,"*  as  something  the  consciousness  of 
which  brings  even  a  positive  satisfaction.  At  other  times  again,  with 
more  palpable  inconsistency,  he  talks  of  the  sweet  pleasure  of  his  suffer- 
ing condition.  "  Whence,"  he  exclaims,  "  comes  to  man  the  most  lasting 
of  the  enjoyments  of  his  heart  ?  that  pleasure  of  melancholy,  this  charm 
full  of  secrets,  which  makes  him  live  on  his  griefs,  and  love  himself  still 
in  the  consciousness  of  his  ruin  1 "  He  enjoys,  he  says  elsewhere,  without 
being  happy  ;  for  enjoyment  is  not  the  same  thing  as  happiness,  just  as 
suffering  is  different  from  unhappiness.  There  is  a  deep  sincerity  about 
Obermann  which  marks  him  off  from  the  ordinary  pessimist.  He  does 
not  want  to  pose  as  the  martyr  of  martyrs,  nor  does  he  even  claim  to  be 
a  martyr  pure  and  simple.  His  honesty  shows  itself,  no  doubt,  at  the 
expense  of  his  consistency,  but  we  ought  not  to  look  for  consistency  in  a 
writer  who  openly  confesses  to  be  the  subject  of  the  passing  mood,  and 
who  has  expressly  warned  us  against  expecting  logical  connectedness  in 
his  writings. 

Obermann's  nature  retains  a  sound  and  healthy  core  beneath  all  -its 
surface  disease.  His  suffering  never  extinguishes  the  deeply  rooted  in- 
stincts of  man.  In  the  very  act  of  putting  away  happiness  as  a  phan.- 
tom,  a  kmd_of  will-o'-the-wisp,  which  can  never  be  grasped,  he  seeks  to  fill 
up  his  life  with  quiet  solaces.  In  his  lonesome  retreat  he  finds  his  inte- 
rests— natural  objects  to  contemplate,  homely  plans  to  make  and  carry 
out,  a  rough  but  sincere  type  of  human  nature  to  understand  and  aid,  and 
many  a  difficult  problem  to  ponder. 

Our  author  is  a  curious  illustration  of  the  combination  of  qualities 
which  make  up  the  Solitary.  On  the  one  hand,  he  is,  as  we  have  seen, 
bound  by  a  kind  of  moral  lethargy.  He  sees  the  allurements  of  life,  but 
without  actively  desiring  them.  Yet  he  lets  us  see  plainly  that  he  has 
energy  enough  when  a  sufficient  stimulus  presents  itself.  He  needed  to 
be  roused  to  exert  himself  by  some  pressing  external  difficulty  or  obstacle. 
In  his  seventh  Letter  he  describes  an  ascent  of  the  Dent  du  Midi,  which 
he  made  alone,  having  sent  his  guide  back,  and  relieved  himself  of  watch, 
money,  and  most  of  his  clothes.  And  he  tells  us  that  he  felt  his  "  being 
expand,  delivered  thus  alone  to  obstacles  and  dangers  of  a  difficult  nature." 
And  in  another  place  (Letter  xcl.)  he  narrates  an  adventure  of  still 
greater  hazard,  and  thus  winds  up  :  "  The  two  hours  of  my  life  when  I  was 
the  most  animated,  the  least  discontented  with  myself,  the  least  removed 
from  the  intoxication  of  happiness,  wei'e  those  in  which,  penetrated  with 
cold,  worn  out  with  efforts,  consumed  with  want,  thrust  sometimes  from 
precipice  to  precipice  before  perceiving  them,  and  only  escaping  alive 
with  surprise,  I  kept  ever  saying  to  myself,  and  I  spoke  simply  in  my 
pride  without  witness,  '  For  this  one  minute  more  I  will  that  which  I 
ought,  and  I  do  that  which  I  will.' " 

*  In  two  passages,  pp.  205,  272,  he  shows  that  this  calm  is  occasionally  disturbed 
by  sudden  unexpected  revivals  of  impulse. 


164  A  MODERN  SOLITARY. 

A  measure  of  this  surprising  energy,  called  forth  by  a  critical  posi- 
tion among  precipices  and  torrents,  was  evoked  by  the  daily  necessities 
of  the  solitary  condition.  Obermann  displays  something  of  the  industry, 
practical  insight,  and  inventive  resource  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  in  arranging 
the  details  of  his  simple  life.  Although  he  is  renouncing  the  world  in  a 
sense,  he  means  to  make  the  most  of  what  he  retains.  It  is  by  no  means 
a  matter  of  indifference  to  him  where  he  lives.  He  chooses  a  valley  for 
his  seclusion  where  his  own  language  is  spoken,  which,  moreover,  "  offers 
a  pasturage  isolated,  but  easily  accessible,  is  of  a  somewhat  mild  climate, 
well  situated,  traversed  by  a  stream,  and  from  which  one  may  hear 
either  the  fall  of  a  torrent,  or  the  waves  of  a  lake."  He  shows  the 
same  thoughtfulness  in  constructing  his  house,  in  laying  out  his  grounds, 
in  selecting  the  kinds  of  produce  to  be  cultivated  in  them.  Thus  he  will 
not  have  vines  planted  because  they  demand  painful  labour,  and  he  likes 
to  see  men  occupied,  but  not  swelking  and  moiling,  and  because  their 
produce  is  too  uncertain,  too  irregular  for  one  "  who  likes  to  know  what 
he  has  and  what  he  can  do."  All  this  arrangement  evidently  gives  him  a 
good  deal  of  quiet  enjoyment  ct  son  insu.  He  describes  his  hermitage, 
just  as  Crusoe  describes  his  hut,  with  a  certain  complacency.  His  keen 
sense  of  order,  which  makes  itself  felt  throughout  the  work,  lends  a 
special  interest  to  all  this  planning  and  arranging.  He  has  the  satis- 
faction of  surrounding  himself  by  an  orderliness  of  his  own  invention. 

The  passages  of  the  Letters  in  which  he  describes  the  construction 
of  his  dwelling,  the  quiet  activities  of  his  life,  his  simple  habits  with 
respect  to  eating,  drinking,  sleeping,  «tc.,  are  a  pleasant  relief  to  the  ear, 
after  the  long  strains  of  lamentation.  The  reader  feels  that  a  man  who 
is  interested  in  all  the  little  details  of  his  house  and  garden,  to  whom  it 
is  a  matter  of  importance  to  regulate  his  habits  of  tea  and  wine-drinking 
with  a  view  to  sound  sleeping,  has  preserved  something  of  the  common 
instincts  of  his  species.  He  has,  it  is  plain,  not  completely  narcotised 
the  "  will  to  live."  Indeed,  one  can  hardly  help  being  gently  amused 
at  the  idea  of  a  Solitary  who  imagines  himself  to  have  renounced  hap- 
piness, taking  so  much  trouble  to  make  the  place  in  which  the  renun- 
ciation is  to  be  carried  out,  comfortable,  and  even  delightful,  with  its 
pleasant  outlook,  and  its  tinkling  fountain  set  against  the  deep  roar  of 
the  distant  cataract. ' 

A  still  more  valuable  element  of  relief  in  Obermann's  monody  is  the 
presence  of  so  much  fine  description  of  Nature.  If  he  did  not,  like 
Shelley's  Alastor,  go  into  seclusion  for  the  express  purpose  of  con- 
templating the  universe,  this  contemplation  served  very  materially  to 
solace  him  in  his  retirement.*  He  looked  on  the  scenery  about  him 
with  the  eye  of  an  artist  and  with  the  imagination  of  a  poet.  He  appears 
to  have  had  no  special  interest  in  her  living  forms  except  as  beautiful 
or  poetically  suggestive ;  and  he  was,  in  general,  destitute  of  scientific 

*  There  is  a  curious  passage  in  which  he  rejects  the  idea  of  travel.     He  does  not 
want  to  see  many  places,  but  only  to  have  seen  them. 


A  MODERN  SOLITARY.  166 

curiosity.  Thus  throughout  his  Letters  the  problem  how  these  stupendous 
Alpine  forms  arose,  never  presents  itself  to  him.  En  revanche,  his  artistic 
and  poetic  insight  was  keen  and  true;  and  his  Letters  preserve  a  singularly 
clear  impression  of  the  effect  of  Alpine  scenery  on  a  refined  sensibility. 

Obermann  selected  Switzerland  as  a  resort  because  it  was  "  the  single 
country  in  Europe  in  which,  with  a  tolerably  favourable  climate,  are  to 
be  found  the  severe  beauties  of  natural  sites."  There  seems,  moreover, 
to  have  been  a  peculiar  affinity  between  his  mind  and  mountain  scenery. 
The  wide  plain  fatigued  him  with  its  monotony.  The  scenery  of  valley, 
lake,  and  towering  peak  offered  more  stimulus  to  his  eye  and  imagina- 
tion. A  slight  change  of  altitude  alters  the  world  in  these  places, 
hiding,  revealing,  and  transforming.  And  then  "  the  changes,  more 
sudden  and  grand  than  in  the  plains,"  due  to  passing  storms,  to  the 
progress  of  the  seasons,  were  grateful  to  his  mind.  "  An  irregular, 
stormy,  and  uncertain  climate  becomes  necessary  to  our  unrest."  To 
this  must  be  added  that  our  Solitary,  like  Manfred  and  his  other  brethren, 
was  keenly  susceptible  of  that  effect  of  perfect  solitude  which  is  only 
obtained  at  a  great  elevation ;  where  one  seems  to  be  transported  into 
mid-space,  and  where  the  lifeless  and  dreary  character  of  the  surround- 
ings, void  of  the  note  of  bird,  void  of  the  passing  bee  or  butterfly,  void 
even  of  the  loAver  life  of  shrub  and  grass,  strikes  home  on.  the  heart  a 
chill  yet  bracing  sense  of  being  cut  off  from  the  living  world. 

The  value  of  nature  to  the  wounded  heart  of  man  is,  that  it  takes 
the  thoughts  away  from  the  consuming  grief,  absorbing  the  spirit  in 
the  sense  of  a  larger  impersonal  existence.  Obermann  feels  this  salutary 
effect,  but  not  always.  Sometimes,  indeed,  so  far  from  distracting  his 
thoughts,  the  objects  about  him  seem  directly  to  image  and  express  them. 
Such  an  image  he  finds  in  "  the  fir  placed  by  chance  on  the  border  of 
the  marsh.  It  lifted  itself,  wild,  strong,  and  proud,  as  the  tree  of  the 
thick  forests  :  energy  too  vain !  The  roots  are  soaked  in  a  foul  water, 
they  plunge  into  the  unclean  mud ;  the  trunk  grows  weak  and  fatigued ; 
the  summit,  bent  by  the  damp  winds,  bows  down  despondingly ;  the 
fruits,  sparse  and  poor,  fall  into  the  mire,  and  are  lost  there,  useless. 
Languishing,  ill-shapen,  yellowed,  grown  old  before  the  time,  and  already 
leaning  towards  the  swamp,  it  seems  to  crave  for  the  storm  which  is  to 
overturn  it :  its  life  has  ceased  long  before  its  fall." 

Even  when  his  own  suffering  condition  is  not  thus  distinctly  sym- 
bolised by  some  object  in  nature,  it  is  now  and  again  brought  to  his 
mind  by  the  more  indirect  path  of  contrast.  The  sense  of  the  want  of 
permanence  in  human  things,  the  frequent  use  of  the  word  permanent, 
which  Sainte-Beuve  regards  as  one  of  his  characteristics,  is  without 
doubt  closely  related  to  the  fact  that  he  was  habitually  confronted  with 
the  enduring  work  of  Nature's  hands.  On  the  other  hand,  the  activity, 
life,  and  progress  of  nature  bring  home  to  him  his  own  arrested  ani- 
mation, his  living  death.  "  Spring  comes  for  Nature,  it  comes  not  for 
me.  The  days  of  life  woke  all  creatures  :  their  uncontrollable  fires 


166  A  MODERN  SOLITARY. 

wearied  me  without  reviving  me  :  I  became  a  stranger  in  the  world  of 
happiness.  .  .  .  The  snows  melt  on  the  summits ;  the  stormy  clouds  rise 
in  the  valley  :  unhappy  that  I  am.  The  sky  glows,  the  earth  ripens ; 
the  barren  winter  has  remained  in  me.  Soft  glimmerings  of  the  fading 
western  glow  !  great  shadows  of  the  abiding  snows  !  and  that  man  should 
have  only  bitter  pleasures  when  the  torrent  rolls  afar  in  the  universal 
silence,  when  the  chalets  are  shut  for  the  peace  of  night,  when  the  moon 
climbs  above  Velan  ! " 

Sometimes,  again,  the  very  force  of  the  beauty  around  him,  instead 
of  drawing  him  out  of  himself,  drives  him  back  to  his  old  regrets.  On 
one  occasion,  at  midnight,  seated  near  the  lake  amid  the  rustle  of  the 
pines,  the  murmur  of  the  waves,  and  the  rare  note  of  the  nightingale, 
nature  appeared  to  him  to  be  too  beautiful.  "  The  peaceful  harmony 
of  things  was  too  severe  to  my  agitated  heart.  I  thought  of  the  spring, 
of  the  perishable  world,  and  of  the  spring  of  my  life.  I  saw  these  years 
which  are  passing  dreary  and  barren." 

Yet  in  general  nature  is  quieting  and  soothing  to  our  Solitary.  The 
mountain  world,  with  its  vastnesses,  its  silences,  its  mysterious  movements 
of  light  and  shadow,  acted  as  a  sort  of  narcotic  on  his  wounded  heart. 
The  impression  of  this  world  answered  to  his  mood  sufficiently  to  in- 
sinuate itself  into  his  mind  and  take  captive  his  sense  without  any  feeling 
of  shock.  His  feelings,  when  on  the  summit  of  the  Dent  du  Midi,  illus- 
trate this.  "  I  could  not  give  you  a  just  conception  of  this  new  world, 
nor  express  the  permanence  of  the  mountains  in  a  language  belonging 
to  the  plains.  The  hours  seemed  to  me  at  once  more  tranquil  and  more 
fruitful;  and,  as  if  the  rolling  of  the  stars  had  been  retarded  in  the  uni- 
versal calm,  I  found  in  the  tardiness  and  the  energy  of  my  thoughts  a 
succession  which  nothing  precipitated,  and  which  nevertheless  outstripped 
its  usual  course.  When  I  wished  to  estimate  its  duration  I  saw  that  the 
sun  had  not  followed  it;  and  I  judged  that  the  sum  of  existence  was  really 
more  weighty  and  more  barren  in  the  commotion  of  inhabited  countries. 
I  saw  that,  in  spite  of  the  slowness  of  the  visible  movements,  it  is  in  the 
mountains,  on  their  peaceful  summits,  that  thought,  less  hurried,  is  truly 
active.  .  .  .  Before  I  was  aware  of  it,  mists  rose  from  the  glaciers  and 
formed  clouds  under  my  feet.  The  glitter  of  the  snow  no  longer  tired 
my  eyes,  and  the  sky  grew  still  gloomier  and  deeper.  A  fog  covered  the 
Alps ;  an  isolated  peak  or  two  rose  out  of  this  ocean  of  vapours ;  fillets 
of  shining  snow,  caught  in  the  crevices  of  their  uneven  surface,  made  the 
granite  blacker  and  more  severe.  The  snowy  dome  of  Mont  Blanc  lifted 
its  immovable  mass  above  this  grey  and  mobile  sea,  these  accumulated 
mists  which  the  wind  hollowed  out  and  raised  into  immense  billows. 
A  black  point  appeared  in  their  gulfs;  it  rose  rapidly,  it  came  straight 
to  me ;  it  was  the  mighty  eagle  of  the  Alps ;  his  wings  were  damp, 
and  his  eye  fierce.  He  sought  his  prey,  but  at  the  sight  of  a  man  he 
took  to  flight  with  a  weird  cry.  He  disappeared,  plunging  into  the 
clouds.  This  cry  was  repeated  twenty  times,  but  in  sounds  which  were 


A  MODEKN  SOLITAKY.  r  167 

sharp,  without  any  duration,  like  to  so  many  solitary  cries  in  the  uni- 
versal silence.  Then  all  returned  to  an  absolute  stillness,  as  if  sound 
itself  had  ceased  to  be,  and  the  property  of  sonorous  bodies  had  been 
effaced  from  the  universe.  Never  can  silence  be  known  in  the  noisy 
valleys ;  only  on  the  cold  mountain  peaks  does  there  reign  that  motion- 
lessness,  that  solemn  permanence,  which  no  tongue  will  ever  express,  nor 
imagination  ever  reach  unto." 

A  still  closer  approximation  to  self-absorption  in  the  repose  of  nature 
is  seen  in  the  following  passage,  which  gives  us  a  picture  that  reminds 
one  of  Salvator  Rosa  or  Claude  : — 

"  Imagine  a  plain  of  clear  and  white  water.  It  is  vast,  but  bounded;  its 
form,  oblong  and  somewhat  round,  stretches  towards  the  winter  sunset. 
Lofty  summits,  majestic  chains  enclose  it  on  three  sides.  You  are  seated 
on  the  slope  of  the  mountain  above  the  northern  strand,  which  the  waves 
are  ever  leaving  and  re-covering.  Behind  yon  perpendicular  rocks,  they 
reach  to  the  region  of  the  clouds  ;  the  dreary  north  wind  has  never  blown 
on  this  happy  shore.  To  your  left  the  mountains  part ;  a  quiet  valley 
stretches  into  their  depths ;  a  torrent  descends  from  the  snowy  peaks 
which  enclose  it,  and  when  the  morning  sun  appears  among  the  frozen 
peaks  or  the  mists,  where  the  mountain  rivers  point  out  the  chalets 
above  the  meadows  which  are  still  in  shadow,  it  is  the  dream  of  a  primi- 
tive earth — it  is  a  monument  of  our  ignored  destinies. 

"  The  first  moments  of  night  are  at  hand,  the  hour]  of  repose  and 
sublime  sadness.  The  valley  is  reeking ;  it  begins  to  disappear  in  the 
darkness.  Towards  the  south  the  lake  is  in  the  night ;  the  rocks  which 
enclose  it  are  a  dark  belt  under  the  frozen  dome  which  surrounds  them, 
and  which  seems  to  hold  in  its  rime  the  light  of  day.  Its  last  fires  yellow 
the  numerous  chestnuts  on  the  wild  rocks ;  they  pass  in  long  rays  under 
the  lofty  spires  of  the  Alpine  fir ;  they  embrown  the  mountains ;  they 
light  up  the  snows;  they  kindle  the  air;  and  the  water,  waveless,  brilliant 
with  light  and  blending  with  the  sky,  has  grown  boundless  like  this,  and 
still  more  pure,  more  ethereal,  more  beautiful.  Its  calm  astonishes,  its 
clearness  deceives ;  the  aerial  splendour  which  it  repeats  seems  to  pene- 
trate its  depths ;  and  beneath  the  mountains,  separated  from  the  globe 
and  as  it  were  suspended  in  the  air,  you  find  at  your  feet  the  void  of  the 
heavens,  and  the  immensity  of  the  world.  This  is  a  moment  of  enthral- 
ment  and  of  oblivion.  You  no  longer  know  where  the  sky  is,  where  the 
mountains  are,  nor  on  what  you  are  yourself  borne ;  you  no  longer  find 
any  level,  any  horizon;  the  ideas  are  changed,  the  sensations  unfamiliar; 
you  have  left  the  familiar  life.  And  when  the  shades  have  covered 
this  valley  of  water — when  the  eye  discerns  no  longer  objects  or  distances 
— when  the  evening  breeze  has  lifted  the  waves — then  towards  the  west 
the  end  of  the  lake  alone  remains  lit  up  with  a  pale  glimmer,  while  the 
rest  of  it  that  is  surrounded  by  mountains  is  only  an  indistinguishable 
abyss ;  and  in  the  midst  of  the  darkness  and  the  silence  you  hear,  a 
thousand  feet  beneath  you,  the  movement  of  the  ever  renewed  waves, 


168  A  MODERN  SOLITARY. 

which  pass  and  cease  not,  which  quiver  on  the  sand  in  equal  intervals, 
which  are  lost  among  the  rocks,  which  break  on  the  shore,  and  of  which 
the  sounds  seem  to  echo  in  a  long  murmur  in  the  invisible  abyss." 

One  is  tempted  to  linger  over  these  strange  dream-pictures,  these 
nocturnes  in  which  every  feature  contributes  to  the  mood  of  melancholy 
calm  which  they  induce.  But  I  must  pass  on  and  say  a  word  or  two,  in 
conclusion,  respecting  the  mass  of  reflection  which  the  letters  contain. 
Obermann's  thoughts  on  human  nature  and  life  are,  on  the  whole,  much 
less  interesting  than  his  record  of  personal  experience  and  his  portrayals 
of  the  nature  he  had  studied  so  well.  They  have  something  of  the  vague- 
ness which  belongs  to  the  man's  mind,  and  do  not  show  a  firm  grasp  of 
tangible  realities. 

Much  of  this  reflection  is,  of  course,  tinged  with  the  pessimistic  mood 
of  the  writer.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  vague  outcry  against  human  life 
as  a  miserable  sham  and  burlesque.  And  in  these  denunciations  the  evil 
appears  to .  be  regarded  as  inevitable,  as  a  proof  of  the  aimlessness  of 
Nature,  or  even  of  some  sinister  intention  on  her  part.  "  You  do  not  see," 
he  writes,  "that  this  state  of  things  in  which  an  incident  ruins  the  moral 
life,  in  which  a  single  whim  removes  a  thousand  rules,  and  which  you 
call  the  social  edifice,  is  nothing  but  a  mass  of  masqued  miseries  and 
illusory  errors,  and  that  yoxi  are  children  who  fancy  they  have  toys  which 
cost  a  great  deal  because  they  are  covered  with  gilded  paper.  You  say 
quietly  it  is  thus  that  the  world  is  made.  No  doubt ;  and  is  not  this  a 
proof  that  we  are  nothing  in  the  universe  but  burlesque  figures  which  a 
charlatan  moves,  confronts  one  with  another,  walks  about  .  .  .  makes 
laugh,  fight,  weep,  leap,  in  order  to  amuse — whom  ?  I  do  not  know." 

All  appearance  of  happiness,  he  elsewhere  tells  us  with  something  of 
the  grimness  of  Schopenhauer,  is  a  make-believe.  It  is  a  mask  put  on 
before  strangers  : — 

"  If  all  secrets  were  known,  if  we  could  see  in  the  recesses  of  the 
heart  the  bitterness  which  is  eating  it  away,  all  these  contented  men, 
these  pleasant  houses,  these  frivolous  gatherings,  would  be  no  more  than 
a  crowd  of  unfortunates  gnawing  at  the  bit  which  chafes  them,  and 
eating  the  thick  dregs  of  that  cup  of  sorrows  of  which  they  will  not  see 
the  bottom.  They  hide  all  their  pains,  they  parade  their  false  joys, 
they  move  about  in  order  to  make  them  flash  before  the  jealous  eyes 
which  are  always  directed  to  others.  They  so  place  themselves  that  the 
tear  which  remains  in  their  eye  may  give  it  an  apparent  lustre,  and  be 
envied  from  afar  as  the  expression  of  pleasure."  Nature,  too,  presents 
itself  to  him  as  a  blunder.  The  presence  of  general  laws  does  not 
convince  him  of  any  beneficent  purpose.  And  even  were  it  made  out  to 
him  that  the  totality  of  living  things  is  well  provided  for,  this  would  be 
but  a  poor  comfort  for  the  individuals  who  are  excluded  from  the 
providence.  "  These  laws  of  the  whole,  this  care  for  species,  this 
contempt  of  individuals,  this  march  of  beings,  is  very  hard  for  us  who 
are  the  individuals." 


A  MODERN  SOLITARY.  169 

Yet  amid  these  bitter,  despairing  tones  there  are  heard  more  cheerful 
strains.  Obermann  shows  in  many  passages  of  his  Letters  an  unexpected 
capability  of  rising  out  of  his  own  individual  experience.  He  recognises 
that  his  case  is  a  peculiar  one,  having  a  certain  morbid  character  and  even 
a  ludicrous  aspect.  He  does  not  make  his  own  experience  the  measure  of 
the  common  life,  but  surveys  this  with  tranquil  eye,  seeing  it  as  it  is,  and 
no  longer  as  it  appears  through  the  coloured  spectacles  of  the  surveyor's 
pessimistic  mood.  Add  to  this  that  he  displays  at  these  moments  some- 
thing of  that  shrewd  practical  sense  which  stands  him  in  such  good 
stead  in  carving  out  alone  the  framework  of  his  own  life. 

In  this  calmer  contemplative  mood  our  author  no  longer  ridicules 
the  idea  of  happiness,  but  seriously  discusses  its  conditions,  and,  oddly 
enough,  is  not  at  all  disposed  to  be  exacting  as  to  these.  In  one  place  he 
specifies  four  conditions  of  contentment — "  much  reason,  health,  some 
fortune,  and  a  little  of  the  good  luck  which  consists  in  having  fate  on 
our  side."  In  another  place  he  says  that  "  he  would  need  only  two 
things — a  fixed  climate,  and  truthful  men."  He  sets  a  high  value  on 
wealth,  combating  again  and  again  the  stoical  underestimate  of  its 
importance.  In  one  place  he  throws  himself  so  cordially  into  the 
common  ways  of  men  that  he  quite  seriously  discusses  the  advantages  of 
town  and  country,  and  concludes  that  Paris,  although  he  has  turned  his 
back  on  the  city,  is  "the  capital  which  combines  the  advantages  of 
towns  in  the  highest  degree." 

Our  author  not  only  displays  an  unexpected  practical  shrewdness  in. 
considering  the  external  conditions   of  comfort   and  contentment ;   he 
manifests  a  keen  and  subtle  insight  into  the  internal  or  psychological 
conditions  of  pleasure.     One  might  almost  imagine  that  in  some  of  the 
passages  referred  to  it  was  an  experienced  Epicurean  rather  than  a  poor 
famishing  Solitary  who  was  speaking.     "  I  said  to  myself  that  pure 
pleasures  are  in  a  manner  pleasures  that  one  only  makes  trial  of;  that 
economy  in  enjoyments  is  the  industry  of   happiness ;  that  it  is  not 
sufficient  that  a  pleasure  be  without  regret  or  even  without  mixture  of 
pain  in  order  to  be  a  pure  pleasure ;  that  it  is  desirable,  further,  that  one 
only  take  so  much  of  it  as  is  necessary  for  recognising  its  quality,  for 
cherishing  the  hope  of  it,  and  that  one  should  know  how  to  reserve  for 
other  times  its  most  seductive  promises."     On  the  other  hand,  he  sees 
the  risks  of  over-calculation  in  enjoyment.     "  It  is  of  the  nature  of  plea- 
sure that  it  should  be  possessed  with  a  kind  of  abandon  and  plenitude." 
Of  useful  practical  suggestion  for  the  bettering  of  life  Obermann  has 
little  to  offer.     He  is  still  too  fully  possessed  with  the  Rousseau  fancy 
for  primitive  life  to  apply  his  mind  seriously  to  the  problems  of  social 
amelioration.     The  only  approach  to  such  practical  counsel  is   to   be 
found  in  his  observations  on  marriage,  a  subject  about  which  he  has  a 
good  deal  to  say.     His  estimate  of  woman  is  a  lofty  one.     He  looks  on 
marriage  as  it  is,  as  tending  to  stunt  her  growth  and  to  debase  her.     And 
in  the  ideal  pictures  of  married  life  to  which  reference  has  been  made,  he 


170  A  MODERN  SOLITARY. 

goes  as  far  as  the  most  advanced  defender  of  woman's  rights  to-day  in 
claiming  for  her  equality  of  position  and  liberty. 

"  Is  there,"  he  asks,  "  a  domestic  custom  more  delightful  than  to  be 
good  and  just  in  the  eyes  of  a  beloved  woman;  to  do  everything  for  her, 
and  to  exact  nothing  from  her ;  to  expect  from  her  that  which  is  natural 
and  fair,  and  to  make  no  exclusive  claim  on  her ;  to  render  her  estimable 
and  to  leave  her  to  herself ;  to  sustain  her,  to  advise  her,  to  protect  her, 
without  governing  her,  without  subjecting  her,  to  make  of  her  a  friend 
who  conceals  nothing  and  who  has  nothing  to  conceal  ?  "  At  the  same 
time  he  sees  that  women  themselves  are  often  answerable  for  the  failure 
of  conjugal  relations,  and  he  puts  his  finger  on  the  weak  spots  in  their 
mental  training,  their  want  of  that  "  width  of  view  which  produces  less 
egoism,  less  obstinacy  of  opinion,  more  good  faith,  an  obliging  delicacy, 
and  a  hundred  means  of  conciliation."  Thus  in  every  way  he  anticipates 
the  latest  ideas  respecting  woman's  function  and  destiny. 

These  fragmentary  thoughts,  which  never  aspire  to  become  carefully 
elaborated  reasonings,  are  chiefly  valuable  as  showing  how,  in  spite  of  his 
anxiety  to  prove  his  complete  severance  from  the  aggregate  human  life, 
Obermann  is  still  attached  to  it  by  hidden  ligaments.  Although  he 
writes  in  one  place  in  open  revolt  against  society,  claiming  the  perfect 
right  of  suicide,  if  ever  this  last  resort  of  the  wretched  becomes  necessary, 
he  cherishes  in  his  heart  a  remote  interest  in  the  large  collective  life 
from  which  he  has  shut  himself  out.  The  reader's  assurance  of  this 
attachment  grows  much  stronger  towards  the  close  of  the  Letters,  where 
the  whole  tone  becomes  more  cheerful,  approaching  in  some  places  a 
playful  gaiety,  and  where  the  common  human  impulses  of  friendship, 
love,  conviviality  seem  to  be  struggling  into  life  again  through  the  thick 
crust  of  apathy  under  which  they  have  so  long  lain.* 

It  is  the  sense  of  this  distant  attachment  to  the  great  human  family 
which  completes  the  reader's  interest  in  Obermann.  In  his  far-off 
mountain  hermitage  his  thoughts  are  still  occupied  with  ourselves,  our 
aims  and  our  cares.  We  feel  that  the  recluse  is  leaning  tenderly  towards 
us  out  of  his  mysterious  dream-world.,  and  we  instinctively  respond  to 
the  movement  by  straining  the  ear  to  catch  his  soft  and  unfamiliar  tones, 
and  to  seize  the  clue  to  his  mazy  musings. 

J.  S. 

*  The  companionship  of  Fonsalbe,  who  joins  him  in  his  retreat,  may  be  said 
perhaps  to  prepare  the  way  for  his  return  to  society. 


171 


'"gti    goLobn    pass." 

A  GUARDSMAN'S  STORY. 

I. 

WHAT  construction  is  an  officer  to  put  on  the  order  "  Let  nobody 
pass  1 " 

To  Lieutenant  Archie  McEweu,  of  the  Guards,  the  order  seemed 
plain  enough.  His  Colonel  had  set  him  at  the  head  of  a  staircase  which 
was  barred  at  top  and  bottom  with  silken  ropes,  and  had  said  "  Nobody 
must  pass  here."  This  was  at  Dublin  Castle,  and  the  Lord  Liexitenant 
was  giving  a  ball  that  night.  Ireland  was  no  quieter  at  the  time  than 
it  usually  is,  and  there  had  lately  been  rumours  of  plots  and  explosions. 
Officers  were  consequently  on  the  strictest  alert  as  to  their  duties,  and 
it  did  not  occur  to  Archie  McEwen  that  there  could  be  a  twofold  in- 
terpretation of  his  Colonel's  order.  "  Nobody  must  pass "  obviously 
meant  that  a  passage  must  be  allowed  to  nobody. 

So  the  handsome  young  Guardsman  stood  on  the  landing,  where,  being 
alone,  in  full  view  of  the  guests  who  were  sweeping  through  the 
vestibule  below  to  a  broader  staircase  on  his  left,  he  cut  a  gallant  figure. 
He  wore  his  bearskin,  his  gold  sash  and  belt ;  and  he  held  his  drawn 
sword  with  its  beautiful  damasquined  blade  carelessly  in  hand.  Behind 
him  were  some  folding  doors  wide  open,  which  gave  access  to  a  large 
room  brilliantly  lit,  intended,  he  supposed,  as  a  resting  chamber  for  his 
Excellency's  more  distinguished  guests.  As  he  mounted  his  guard 
McEwen  received  many  nods  and  smiles  from  ladies  of  his  acquaintance 
passing  below,  and  some  pointing  with  their  fans  to  the  staircase,  arched 
their  eyebrows,  and  inquired  by  this  pantomime  whether  they  could 
ascend  and  shorten  their  distance  to  the  ball-room.  But  McEwen  had 
to  shake  his  head  laughing.  At  last  the  stately  Countess  of  Bellair  ap- 
peared, with  those  lovely  girls  of  hers,  the  Lady  Flora  and  the 
Lady  Amabel.  Archie  had  often  danced  with  the  Lady  Amabel,  and 
there  had  been  some  little  flirtations  between  them  which  had  not  left 
the  Guardsman  quite  heart-whole.  Her  young  ladyship  now  gave  him 
a  pretty  nod,  which  he  was  going  to  return,  when,  to  his  confusion,  he 
saw  Lady  Bellair  coolly  duck  under  the  silk  rope  at  the  foot  of  the  stair- 
case and  beckon  her  daughters  to  follow  her. 

Lady  Bellair  was  a  sister  of  the  Lord  Lieutenant's  wife  and  it  was 
evident  that  she  must  rank  among  the  most  privileged  guests.  What 
was  McEwen  to  do  ? 


172  "LET  NOBODY  PASS." 

"  I  am  afraid,  Lady  Bellair,  there  is  no  admittance  this  way,"  he 
said  very  deferentially,  and  standing  aside,  so  as  not  even  to  seem  as 
though  he  barred  her  progress. 

"  Oh,  the  order  does  not  apply  to  me,  Mr.  McEwen,"  answered  her 
ladyship  good-naturedly.  "  It  was  only  given  so  as  to  prevent  the  mob 
of  people  from  crushing  through  the  private  rooms,"  and  so  saying  Lady 
Bellair  quietly  unhooked  the  rope  at  the  top  of  the  staircase  and  swept 
on  with  her  daughters. 

"  What  a  dragon  you  are  !  "  whispered  Lady  Amabel  in  the  Guards- 
man's ear  as  she  passed  by. 

Unhappy  young  Scot !  The  ladies  had  scarcely  gone  when  he  per- 
ceived the  awkward  position  in  which  they  had  placed  him.  Many 
people  had  seen  them  pass.  Somebody  unhooked  the  rope  downstairs, 
and  a  whole  throng  now  ascended  the  steps,  having  at  their  head  a 
gentleman  in  Windsor  uniform,  attended  by  another  in  Court  dress. 

"  Confound  it,  that's  the  Chief  Secretary,"  muttered  Archie  to  him- 
self; but  this  time  he  stood  his  ground,  whilst  he  said  politely,  "  I  am 
sorry  I  cannot  admit  you  this  way." 

"  But  Lady  Bellair  has  just  passed,"  answered  the  statesman 
astonished. 

"  Her  ladyship  was  an  exception." 

"  I  should  think  I  ought  to  be  an  exception,  too  ?  "  suggested  the 
Chief  Secretary  with  a  shy  smile  ;  but  Mr.  McEwen  remained  firm  ;  and 
this  displeased  the  right  honourable  gentleman.  He  was  a  Parliamentary 
politician  who  knew  little  of  military  ways  ;  and  having  lately  risen  to 
office  had  an  exaggerated  estimate  of  his  own  dignity.  Turning  round 
he  saw  one  of  the  Lord  Lieutenant's  A.  D.  C.'s  at  the  foot  of  the  stair- 
case and  signed  to  him  to  come  up.  The  A.  D.  C.  hastened,  and  told 
McEwen  that  he  .could  let  the  Chief  Secretary  pass.  But  the  young 
Scot,  excitable  after  the  manner  of  his  countrymen,  reminded  him  rather 
bluntly  that  he  had  no  business  to  give  orders. 

"  Get  me  a  written  order  from  my  Colonel,  or  else  let  the  Colonel 
come  and  relieve  me,"  he  answered.  "  Otherwise,  you  know  I  can  let 
nobody  pass.  You,  as  a  brother  officer,  ought  to  uphold  me  in  this." 

The  better  disposed  persons  had  already  turned  their  backs  to  go 
dowrs ;  but  one  of  those  ill-bred  fools  who  creep  in  everywhere  and  who 
are  always  anxious  to  signalise  themselves  by  misbehaviour,  thought  to 
"show  off"  before  some  ladies  who  were  with  him  by  leading  a  rush 
who  should  force  their  way  past  the  Guardsman.  He  was  a  florid 
barrister  with  big  whiskers,  and  cried  facetiously,  "  Up  Guards,  and  at 
'em ;  "  while  he  threw  down  the  rope,  and  charged  across  the  landing 
with  a  girl  on  his  arm.  But  in  one  bound  McEwen  had  reached  the 
door,  and  barred  it  by  stretching  out  his  sword. 

The  sight  of  the  glittering  steel  had  its  effect  on  the  snob,  who 
stopped,  but  cried  out,  "  Come,  sir,  I  don't  suppose  you've  received 
orders  to  cut  down  his  Excellency's  guests  with  your  gabre," 


"LET  NOBODY  PASS.",  173 

"I  am  ashamed  of  you,  sir,"  replied  McEwen,  who  had  flushed 
scarlet.  "  You  know  I  ain  but  a  soldier  executing  my  orders.  I  request 
you  to  go  downstairs  this  instant." 

After  that  the  staircase  was  promptly  cleared,  many  ladies  declaring, 
as  they  went,  that,  after  all,  the  young  Guardsman  had  been  placed  in  a 
very  trying  position  and  had  behaved  remarkably  well.  But  soon  after- 
wards the  rumour  of  what  had  occurred,  amplified  and  distorted  by  the 
blatherings  of  the  man  with  the  whiskers,  reached  the  ears  of  McEwen's 
Colonel,  and  that  worthy  hurried  to  give  his  lieutenant  a  setting  down. 
This  Colonel  was  not  a  good  soldier,  nor  a  good  fellow.  He  was 
a  time-serving  courtier,  a  well-connected,  stupid  person,  very  conceited 
and  vexations  in  authority.  He  had  never  seen  service,  and  would  have 
been  sure  to  blunder  if  sent  into  action.  All  his  military  ism  consisted 
in  pipe-clay ;  and  in  a  pompous,  half-screeching  tone,  which  he  used  in 
addressing  his  subordinates,  he  now  asked  McEwen  why  the  d — 1  the 
latter  had  been  making  an  ass  of  himself  1 

"An  ass  of  myself1?"  echoed  Archie,  colouring  to  the  roots  of  his 
hair.  "  I  had  your  orders  to  let  nobody  pass,  sir." 

"  And  yon  allowed  Lady  Bellair  to  go  by.  Since  you  disobeyed  me 
to  please  yourself,  you  might  have  had  the  sense  to  conclude  that  my 
orders  did  not  apply  to  the  Chief  Secretary." 

"Lady  Bellair  is  the  Lord  Lieutenant's  sister-in-law,"  replied 
McEwen ;  "  but  I  admit,  sir,  that  I  was  wrong  to  let  her  pass.  As  for 

the  Chief  Secretary ." 

"  Well,  what  about  the  Chief  Secretary  ?  Don't  bandy  words  with 
me,  sir.  You  have  made  yourself  ridiculous,  and  me  too.  I  relieve 
you  of  your  duty.  Go  and  dance — that's  all  you're  fit  for.  I'll  put  a 
sergeant  here  who  will  understand  my  orders  better  than  you." 

McEwen  bowed  without  a  word  as  he  sheathed  his  sword ;  but  he 
was  not  the  man  to  stomach  such  a  lecture  from  a  Colonel  whom  he  little 
respected.  This  affair  of  the  guard  was  a  slight  matter  in  itself,  but  it 
formed  the  commencement  of  a  hopeless  misunderstanding  between  the 
pair.  McEwen  treated  his  Colonel  thenceforth  with  all  the  coldness 
compatible  with  subordination ;  and  the  Colonel,  who  discharged  his 
duties  too  ill  to  brook  the  presence  of  a  subaltern  alive  to  his-  faults, 
began  to  worry  the  Scotchman  with  petty  annoyances.  In  consequence 
Archie  McEwen  soon  applied  for  an  exchange.  It  should  have  been 
granted  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  the  Colonel,  pursuing  his  spite,  con- 
trived to  raise  obstacles,  and  thereupon  the  young  Guardsman  threw  up 
his  commission  in  disgust. 

He  was  a  younger  son,  however,  and  not  over-rich,  so  that  he  did 
not  know  what  to  do  with  himself  when  he  had  left  the  service. 
Animated  with  the  adventurous  spirit  of  Scotchmen,  he  loved  soldiering, 
and  nothing  but  the  unmannerly  conduct  of  his  Colonel  could  have  made 
him  forsake  a  profession  in  which  he  would  have  been  pretty  sure  to 
acquire  honour.  But  before  long  chance  threw  into  his  way  an  un- 


174  "LET  NOBODY  PASS." 

expected  chance  of  buckling  on  the  sword  again.  At  a  party  in  London 
McEwen  met  a  Russian  General,  who  knew  his  story  and  drew  him  on 
to  talk  about  his  wrongs.  "  Why  don't  you  enter  the  Russian  service  1  " 
asked  this  foreigner.  "  Our  two  countries  are  not  at  war,  and  I  trust 
never  will  be.  But  in  any  case  you  would  never  be  required  to  bear 
arms  against  England." 

"  But  should  I  be  admitted  into  the  Russian  army  ? "  asked  McEwen, 
recollecting  that  some  of  his  ancestors  had  served  in  the  Scottish  Guard 
of  the  Kings  of  France. 

"Oh,  I  think  there  would  be  no  difficulty  about  it,"  replied  the 
General.  "  We  have  many  Germans  amongst  our  officers,  and  a  few 
French.  A  Scotchman  would  be  welcome  coming  from  the  Queen  of 
England's  Guards.  Let  me  see ;  you  held  brevet  rank  as  captain,  did 
you  not  1  and  you  are  of  noble  blood?  " 

"  My  grandfather  was  an  earl,"  responded  McEwen. 

"  And  if  your  laws  of  succession  were  the  same  as  ours  you  would 
be  an  earl  too.  All  the  sons  of  a  count  are  with  us  counts.  You 
will  be  gazetted  as  Count  McEwen.  Let  me  manage  the  matter  for  you." 

II. 

Archie  McEwen  did  not  say  Yes  to  the  Russian  General's  proposal, 
but  he  did  not  say  No.  He  gave  the  matter  a  few  days'  thought  and 
consulted  his  relatives.  They  advised  him  that  it  would  be  better  he 
should  spend  the  next  ten  years  of  his  life,  at  least,  in  some  profitable 
occupation  than  loitering  as  an  idle  man  about  town.  They  hinted  that 
he  might  marry  a  wealthy  Russian  princess,  which  would  be  more 
sensible  than  dangling  after  Lady  Amabel,  who  would  never  give  her 
hand  to  a  younger  son.  At  the  same  time  McE wen's  relations  used  all 
their  interest  in  his  favour,  so  that  his  passage  into  the  Russian  army 
might  be  effected  under  the  most  honourable  conditions  possible.  Thus 
it  happened  that  the  valorous  young  Scot  one  day  found  himself  enrolled 
as  Captain  Count  Makuine,  in  the  Grand-Duchess  Paulina's  Cuirassier 
Guards,  one  of  the  finest  regiments  in  the  Russian  service,  and  one 
which  was  always  quartered  near  Court  residences. 

It  was  about  a  year  after  he  had  received  his  commission — a  year 
spent  very  agreeably — that  Archie  McEwen  was  one  night  told  off  on 
just  such  a  service  as  he  had  had  to  perform  at  Dublin  Castle.  By  this 
time  he  had  perfected  himself  in  French,  and,  by  dint  of  daily  lessons, 
had  come  to  speak  Russian  tolerably  well.  There  was  a  ball  at  the  Winter 
.Palace,  and  McEwen  was  posted  in  a  passage  leading  to  the  Emperor's 
private  apartments,  with  orders  to  let  nobody  pass  on  any  account. 

Remembering  the  trouble  that  had  befallen  him  in  Ireland  about  an 
order  of  this  kind,  the  young  Captain  asked  his  Colonel  (who  was  a 
thorough  soldier  and  gentleman)  whether  this  order  was  to  be  construed 
literally. 


"LET  NOBODY  PASS."  175 

"  Well,  of  course,  if  a  member  of  the  Imperial  family  presents  him- 
self, you  must  let  him  go  by,"  answered  the  Colonel ;  "  but  I  do  not 
think  that  is  likely.  The  order  is  absolute,  except  for  their  Imperial 
Highnesses." 

Accordingly,  McEwen  stood  with  the  confidence  of  a  man  who  has 
explicit  instructions.  He  was  habited  in  a  white  tunic,  with  gold 
epaulets  and  aiglets,  white  breeches,  with  knee  boots  and  gold  spurs,  a 
silver  breastplate  with  a  double-headed  golden  eagle  encrusted,  and  a 
silver  helmet,  with  a  gilt  eagle  perched  with  spread  wings  on  the  crest. 
Thus  brilliantly  accoutred,  with  a  troop  of  men  in  the  vestibule  below  to 
obey  his  behests,  and  with  a  lieutenant  and  cornet  standing  beside  him 
in  the  corridor  to  give  him  support,  our  young  Scotchman  was  in  braver 
circumstance  than  when  he  had  withstood  the  Chief  Secretary  for  Ireland 
in  the  Lord  Lieutenant's  palace.  And  yet,  though  his  stay  in  Russia  had 
been  a  pleasant  one,  though  his  Muscovite  comrades  had  treated  him 
with  that  kindness  and  consideration  which  Russians  can  render  extra- 
ordinarily charming  when  they  please,  Archie  McEwen  looked  back 
with  a  passing  regret  on  the  days  when  he  wore  a  red  coat,  and  when 
his  highest  ambition  was  to  win  a  smile  from  Lady  Bellair's  sweet 
daughter  Amabel. 

He  was  immersed  in  his  recollections  of  "  auld  lang  syne "  when 
suddenly  a  tall  officer,  wearing  a  helmet,  and  muffled  in  an  ample  cloak, 
climbed  the  staircase  two  steps  at  a  time  and  stood  before  him. 

"  You  cannot  pass,  sir,"  said  McEwen  in  the  peremptory  tone  more 
usual  in  Continental  armies  than  in  our  own. 

"  What,  Captain  !  do  you  not  know  the  Grand-Duke  Nicholas  ?  "  and 
the  officer,  throwing  back  his  cloak,  revealed  a  dark  whiskered  face,  and 
a  breast  covered  with  decorations. 

"  I  beg  your  Imperial  Highness's  pardon,"  said  McEwen,  lowering 
the  point  of  his  sword  ;  and  he  suffered  the  Grand-Duke  to  pass. 

Half  an  hour  elapsed ;  then  the  Grand- Duke  reappeared,  hurriedly 
answered  the  salute  of  the  three  officers,  and  ran  downstairs.  Scarcely 
had  he  gone  when  a  tall  form  darkened  the  doorway  at  the  end  of  the 
passage,  and  McEwen  raised  his  hand  to  his  helmet-peak  on  recognising 
the  Emperor. 

"  Captain,"  said  his  Majesty,  in  a  voice  which  trembled  from  excite- 
ment, "  did  you  not  receive  orders  to  let  nobody  pass  ? " 

"I  did,  sire;  but  I  thought  the  Grand-Duke  Nicholas " 

"  That  was  not  the  Grand-Duke,"  replied  the  Czar,  with  undiminished 
agitation.  "It  is  General  Strenko,  a  half-mad  fellow,  who  bears  some 
resemblance  to  his  Imperial  Highness,  and  who  thrusts  his  company  on 
me  for  the  purpose  of  giving  me  annoyance  with  his  crazy  advice.  How 
came  you  to  make  such  a  mistake  ?  " 

"  I  am  profoundly  sorry,  your  Imperial  Majesty,"  replied  Archie 
McEwen,  who  truly  felt  ashamed,  contrite,  and  sorrowful. 

"  I  absolve  you  from  all   bad  intention,"  said  the  Emperor,  in  a 


1/6  "LET  I70BODY  PASS." 

gentler  tone ;  "  but  I  am  ill  guarded  in  my  own  palace  if  my  guards  do 
not  know  the  men  who  should  be  forbidden  to  approach  me." 

Archie  McEwen  thrilled  all  over  as  he  heard  these  words.  The  con- 
sequences of  his  mistake  might  have  been  so  awful,  that,  as  soon  as  he 
was  relieved  from  duty  that  night,  he  sat  down,  conscience  stricken,  and 
wrote  out  his  resignation.  Next  day,  his  Colonel,  who  had  heard  an 
account  of  the  matter  from  the  Emperor's  own  lips,  good-naturedly  told 
him  that  his  Majesty  had  forgiven  his  indiscretion,  as  he  was  inclined  to 
lay  the  blame  on  the  officers  who  were  on  guard  in  the  vestibule,  and 
who  ought  not  to  have  allowed  the  crazy  General  to  get  so  far  as  the 
staircase.  The  Colonel  added  that  it  was  the  Czar's  desire  to  hush  up 
the  matter,  for  General  Strenko  was  a  man  whom  the  Court  wished  to 
humour,  while  keeping  him  at  a  distance. 

But  neither  the  kindness  of  his  Colonel,  nor  the  supplications  of  his 
brother  officers,  nor  the  graciously  expressed  wishes  of  the  Emperor  himself, 
wrought  any  effect  on  the  young  Scotchman.  He  persisted  in  his  purpose 
of  resigning  ;  and  of  course  his  application  had  at  length  to  be  acceded  to. 
A  s  soon,  however,  as  he  had  received  the  intimation  that  he  was  out 
of  commission,  Count  Makuine,  as  he  was  called,  made  immediate  use  of 
his  liberty  to  don  civilian  attire  and  to  pay  a  visit  to  his  former  Colonel, 
of  whom  he  asked  a  favour. 

"  Colonel,"  he  said,  "  I  would  beg  you  to  carry  a  challenge  from  me 
to  General  Strenko.  So  long  as  I  was  in  the  service  I  could  not  fight 
him,  for  he  was  my  superior ;  but  now  I  am  a  civilian  I  can  send  to  him 
to  say  that  he  lied  foully  in  telling  me  that  he  was  the  Grand-Duke 
Nicholas.  He  is  either  a  madman  or  a  rascal." 

"  I  am  afraid  he  is  only  a  fool,"  demurred  the  Colonel. 
"  Fools  are  as  dangerous  as  rogues,"  retorted  McEwen.     "  I  had  a 
fool  of  a  Colonel  to  deal  with  in  England,  who  would  have  been  all  the 
wiser  if  duelling  had  existed  amongst  us  to  teach  him  caution." 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  you  will  do  General  Strenko  any  harm  by  read- 
ing him  a  lesson  in  veracity,"  laughed  the  Colonel.  "  I  will  take  a  friend 
with  me  and  bear  your  challenge,  my  dear  Count." 

General  Strenko  could  not  refuse  Count  Makuine's  challenge.  He 
protested  at  first ;  tried,  with  the  fawning  grace  of  a  Russian,  to  explain 
that  a  lie  was  under  certain  circumstances  not  a  lie ;  that  he  was  labour- 
ing for  his  country's  good,  and  that  in  politics  subterfuge  was  sometimes 
a  necessity;  but  finally  he  was  obliged  to  accept  the  young  Scot's  cartel. 
The  two  men  met  at  early  morning,  the  weapons  chosen  being 
swords.  Before  the  duel  commenced,  General  Strenko  made  a  last 
effort  to  convince  his  puzzle-headed  antagonist  that  a  fib  might  some- 
times be  a  laudable  thing. 

"  I  have  proved  my  courage  often  enough  to  say  this  without 
appearing  to  falter,"  he  remarked,  sword  in  hand.  "  I  wished  to  see  my 
Sovereign,  and  I  availed  myself  of  the  only  means  at  my  disposal." 

"  You  told  an  infernal  lie,  and  you  left  me  to  bear  the  consequences," 


'LET  NOBODY  PASS."  177 

replied  the  contemptuous  Scot.  "  I  am  unversed  in  your  casuistry.  "We 
are  here  to  fight,  not  to  palaver." 

The  General  ground  his  teeth,  and  the  pair  of  antagonists  set  to. 
The  science  was  all  on  Strenko's  side ;  the  ardour  on  McE wen's.  The 
latter  quickly  got  a  cut  which  laid  his  arm  open  and  drenched  his  shirt 
with  blood ;  but  he  retaliated  with  a  lightning  stroke,  which,  breaking 
through  the  General's  guard,  fell  upon  his  cheek  and  clove  his  head  like 
an  apple.  The  wretched  man  dropped  senseless,  and  was  dead  before  he 
could  be  removed  from  the  ground. 

"  That  will  teach  others  not  to  trifle  with  soldiers  on  guard,"  re- 
marked McEwen,  as  the  surgeon  was  binding  up  his  arm.  "  If  that 
man  had  not  been  my  superior  I  might  have  remained  in  the  army  to 
derive  some  profit  from  the  lesson  I  have  taught." 

It  was  understood  then  that  McEwen  had  resigned  his  commission 
solely  that  he  might  wreak  his  vengeance  on  General  Strenko.  The 
news  of  the  latter 's  death  was  received  not  without  pleasure  at  Court, 
and  the  stubborn  spirit  which  Count  Makuine  had  shown  in  the  affair 
commended  him  to  the  authorities  as  an  officer  who  ought  not  to  be 
•allowed  to  leave  the  service  too  hastily.  It  was  conveniently  discovered 
that  there  had  been  some  informality  in  the  Captain's  resignation,  and 
he  was  asked  whether  it  would  please  him  to  withdraw  it.  He  grate- 
fully accepted  the  proposal,  and  was  reinstated,  with  promotion  as  Major, 
and  with  the  cross  of  the  order  of  St.  George. 

From  that  time,  Count  Makuine  was  often  ordered  for  palace  duty  on 
important  occasions,  and  the  saying  "  Let  nobody  pass  when  Makuine  is 
on  guard "  became  a  jesting  proverb  amongst  his  messmates.  The 
Scottish  officer's  troubles  were  not  yet  ended,  however ;  for  in  proportion 
as  a  man  is  trusted  so  do  occasions  arise  for  putting  his  presence  of  mind 
to  the  proof. 

One  summer  night,  while  the  Court  was  at  Tsarskoe-Selo  (the  Rus- 
sian Windsor  or  Versailles),  Count  Makuine  being  there  also  in  command 
of  a  squadron  of  cuirassiers,  it  fell  to  the  turn  of  one  of  his  troops  to 
furnish  the  outer  guard  of  the  palace.  The  guard  consisted  of  a  lieu- 
tenant, two  non-commissioned  officers,  a  trumpeter,  and  twenty-four 
troopers ;  and  their  duty  was  to  keep  two  mounted  sentries  stationed 
at  each  of  the  four  entrances  to  the  palace  grounds.  Makuine,  as  Major, 
was  not  on  guard  himself;  but  he  had  to  inspect  the  guards  in  and  out 
of  the  palace  twice  in  the  day.  He  had  just  finished  his  evening  in- 
spection, towards  nine  o'clock,  and  was  walking  across  the  park  in  one 
of  those  soft  June  twilights  which  are  so  beautifully  clear  in  Russia, 
when  he  heard  his  name  called,  and,  turning  round,  saw  a  young  captain 
of  the  Briskatstartine  Hussars,  Prince  "Wildotski,  walking  towards  him 
with  no  very  steady  steps. 

"  Makuine,  mon  cher,je  suis  gris  "  (I  am  tipsy),  said  this  young  man, 
with  an  apologetic  smile,  and  drawing  a  hand  across  his  forehead  as  if 
his  head  swam. 

VOL.  XLV. — NO.  266.  9. 


178  "LET  NOBODY  PASS." 

"And  you  are  on  guard  at  the  Grand-Duchess  Paulina's  apart- 
ments ? "  rejoined  the  Scotchman,  holding  out  his  arm  for  the  hussar  to 
lean  upon. 

"Yes,  that's  the  mischief  of  it,"  faltered  the  captain,  leaning  upon 
Makuine  with  all  his  weight.  "  I  was  on  guard  all  this  hot  afternoon 
without  touching  so  much  as  a  glass  of  lemonade;  but  at  seven  her 
Imperial  Highness's  maitre  d'hdtel  brought  me  dinner,  with  such  a  bottle 
of  champagne  as  I  have  never  tasted  before.  By  St.  Ivan  of  Kiew,  I 
believe  it  was  effervescing  brandy  !  and  I  had  no  idea  of  its  strength 
until  I  had  emptied  it." 

"  Well,  there  is  not  much  harm  done  if  nobody  save  myself  has  seen 
you,"  replied  Makuine,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  suppose  you  want  me  to  take 
your  guard  for  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  please  do,  for — for — a  couple  of  hours,"  hiccoughed  Wildotski. 
"  I'll  just  go  and  put  my  head  in  cold  water.  As  soon  as  I  am  fresh  I 
will  return." 

For  obvious  reasons  Archie  McEwen  never  missed  an  opportunity  of 
doing  anything  that  could  oblige  one  of  his  brother  officers.  In  this 
instance  he  good-naturedly  overlooked  the  fact  that  a  subaltern  officer 
had  committed  a  serious  offence,  both  in  getting  tipsy  on  duty  and  in 
quitting  his  post  without  leave.  He  had  learned  to  his  cost  that  the 
heady  champagne  bottled  in  France  for  the  Russian  market  was  not  a 
thing  to  be  trifled  with,  and  he  could  not  help  laughing  at  the  lamentable 
plight  into  which  Wildotski  had  put  himself  from  not  having  dealt  cau- 
tiously with  this  beverage. 

He  escorted  the  young  man  to  a  summer  house,  and  advised  him  to 
remain  seated  there  till  a  soldier  could  be  sent  to  him  with  some  water  ; 
and  then  he  turned  towards  the  palace.  As  he  went,  Wildotski  cried 
after  him  : 

"  Of  course  you  know  the  words  for  the  night  ?  Neuch&tel  is  the 
password,  and  Nesselrode  the  counterpass."  * 

III. 

The  Grand-Duchess  Paulina  and  her  suite  occupied  nearly  a  whole 
wing  of  the  palace.  Her  Imperial  Highness  was  a  good-natured  widowed 
princess,  about  forty  years  old,  who  had  many  children,  and  kept  a  Court 
of  her  own,  which  was  renowned  for  its  easy  intercourse  and  gaiety.  Her 
Highness — a  handsome  woman  of  majestic  stature  and  mien — was  very 
fond  of  the  society  of  artists,  authors,  and  wits,  and  almost  every  evening 
there  was  a  gathering  of  such  persons  in  her  hospitable  apartments. 

On  this  particular  night,  however,  no  company  was  expected ;  and 
Archie  McEwen  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  sit  in  a  nicely-furnished 
saloon,  which  was  set  apart  for  the  officers  on  guard,  and  which,  by  the 

*  The  password  is  always  the  name  of  a  city ;  the  counterpass  that  of  a  man. 
Both  words  must  begin  with  the  same  letter. 


"LET  NOBODY  PASS."  179 

thoughtful  princess's  orders,  was  always  liberally  stocked  with  pictorial 
albums  and  French  novels.  It  was  no  business  of  his  to  prevent  visitors 
from  coming  in  or  going  out,  unless  summoned  to  do  so  by  the  major- 
domo,  who  of  course  had  his  own  instructions  as  to  what  visitors  were 
to  be  admitted.  This  confidential  servant  informed  McEwen  that  her 
Imperial  Highness  was  not  at  present  indoors,  having  gone  out  with 
some  of  her  ladies  for  a  stroll  in  the  park. 

Seated  near  the  open  window  of  the  guard-room,  with  his  helmet, 
sword,  and  gauntlets  on  (for  he  could  not,  while  on  guard,  lay  these 
aside  for  a  minute),  McEwen  presently  saw  a  party  of  ladies — among 
whom  he  thought  he  recognised  the  Grand-Duchess — cross  the  lawn  and 
make  for  the  principal  entrance  of  the  palace  wing.  He  went  forth  at 
once  to  call  out  the  guard  and  receive  her  Highness  with  due  honours  ; 
but  when  they  were  at  about  a  hundred  yards  from  the  door  the  party 
of  ladies  branched  away  to  the  left,  and  made  for  the  main  building  of 
the  palace,  where  the  Czar's  apartments  were.  McEwen  remained 
standing  under  the  portico  to  enjoy  the  evening  air,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  three  ladies,  coming  from  another  direction  than  that  whither 
the  first  party  had  gone,  approached  the  entrance.  The  lady  in  the 
middle  was  closely  muffled  in  a  cloak  with  a  hood,  and  held  a  handker- 
chief before  her  mouth. 

"  It  is  the  Grand-Duchess,"  said  the  major-domo,  bustling  forward. 

"  Impossible ;  I  just  saw  her  Imperial  Highness  go  towards  the  main 
building,"  rejoined  the  Major. 

"  No ;  pardon  me.  It  was  the  Grand-Duchess  Anne  whom  you 
saw.  And  see,  Major,  you  need  not  call  out  the  guard.  One  of  the 
ladies  has  waved  her  handkerchief,  which  is  always  a  sign  that  her 
Imperial  Highness  wishes  to  enter  unnoticed." 

There  was  an  anxiety  about  the  major-domo's  manner  which  made 
McEwen  eye  him  closely.  He  had  not  seemed  pleased  when,  an  hour 
before,  the  cuirassier  officer  had  come  to  relieve  the  tipsy  hussar ;  and 
now  he  was  over -desirous  to  pack  off  the  Major  to  his  guard-room. 
McEwen  remembered  how  General  Strenko  had  fooled  him  by  pretend- 
ing to  be  the  Grand-Duke  Nicholas,  and  a  suspicion  flashed  upon  his 
mind  that  the  lady  now  advancing  was  not  the  Grand-Duchess  Paulina. 
Considering  the  political  condition  of  Russia,  such  a  suspicion,  once 
formed,  had  to  be  acted  upon  promptly. 

"  Please,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  stand  aside  !  "  exclaimed  the  major-domo, 
in  agitation.  "  Her  Imperial  Highness  does  not  wish  military  honours 
to  be  paid  her." 

"  My  post  is  here,"  answered  McEwen,  in  a  tone  which  struck  the 
old  servant  dumb  with  dismay ;  and,  flashing  out  his  sword,  he  made 
the  military  salute  as  the  three  ladies  entered. 

The  lady  who  was  said  to  be  the  Grand-Duchess  acknowledged  the 
courtesy  by  a  bend  of  the  head.  But  this  did  not  satisfy  McEwen.  A 
true  Grand-Duchess,  thought  he,  would  have  shown  her  face,  if  only  for 

9—2 


180  "LET  NOBODY  PASS." 

an  instant,  to  return  the  salute  of  an  officer  of  her  own  guards.  There 
was  no  reason  for  her  keeping  her  features  so  closely  muffled  in  summer 
time,  unless,  indeed,  she  had  a  toothache. 

While  these  reflections  passed  rapidly  through  the  soldier's  brain,  he 
remarked  that  the  step  of  the  suspicious  lady  was  less  assured  and  more 
quick  than  became  her  position.  She  tried  to  glide  by  with  her  face 
turned  away;  but  McEwen,  striding  to  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  boldly 
confronted  the  three,  though  he  lowered  his  sword's  point  and  made  a 
low  bow  as  he  did  so. 

"  Pardon  me,  Madam,"  he  said,  addressing  the  lady  to  the  right, 
whose  beautiful  young  face  was  unfamiliar  to  him.  "Will  you  tell 
me  whom  it  is  that  you  are  conducting  to  her  Imperial  Highness's 
presence  ? " 

"  Why,  do  you  not  know  the  Grand-Duchess  herself? "  exclaimed  the 
young  lady,  her  pretty  features  becoming  pink  with  confusion. 

"  What  is  the  password,  Madam  ? "  asked  McEwen,  convinced  now 
that  if  he  were  really  in  presence  of  the  Grand-Duchess,  she  would  put 
an  end  to  this  scene  immediately. 

"  I  forget  .  .  .  isn't  it  the  name  of  some  cheese  1 "  stammered  the 
young  lady,  whose  distress  was  now  painful.  "  Roquefort,  Brie, 
Gruyere.  .  .  ." 

"  Make  another  guess,"  said  the  Scotchman  ironically. 

"  Neuchatel,"  whispered  the  lady  in  the  middle  to  her  attendant,  but 
as  she  bent  her  head  to  do  this  McEwen  whisked  away  the  handkerchief 
she  had  been  holding  to  her  mouth,  and  lo !  the  moustached  face  of  a 
man  was  laid  bare  before  him  ! 

"  Soho,  sir,  who  are  you  that  come  masquerading  about  palaces  in 
this  fashion  ? "  cried  McEwen,  seizing  the  intruder  by  the  wrist ;  and 
he  was  about  to  call  for  the  guard,  when  the  young  lady  hastily  placing 
one  of  her  small  hands  on  his  mouth  implored  him  to  be  silent.  Her 
looks  had  such  a  wild  expression  of  entreaty  in  them  that  no  soldier 
could  have  resisted  it.  At  the  same  time  the  old  major-domo,  who  was 
rushing  about  like  an  old  hen  frightened  by  the  screech  of  a  hawk,  kept 
•on  cackling : 

"  For  pity's  sake,  sir,  have  patience  and  all  shall  be  explained.  Let 
us  come  into  the  officers'  room  where  we  shall  be  out  of  earshot.  Every- 
thing shall  be  explained." 

"  You  had  better  explain  things,"  cried  McEwen,  turning  all  his 
wrath  upon  the  major-domo  as  a  convenient  scapegoat.  "  You  were 
party  to  the  whole  affair  :  I  read  it  in  your  eyes.  March  on  in  front, 
my  man,  I  am  not  going  to  lose  sight  of  you/' 

The  old  servant,  trembling  as  if  he  had  the  ague,  shambled  on  in 
front ;  the  gentleman  in  female  attire,  followed,  muttering  some  not 
very  ladylike  oaths ;  but  of  the  two  attendant  ladies,  the  younger  and 
prettier  one  suddenly  darted  away  and  ran  up  the  stairs  as  hard  as  she 
could  go,  without  once  looking  round.  On  reaching  the  landing,  she 


"LET  NOBODY  PASS."  181 

darted  through  the  door  leading  to  the  Grand-Duchess's  private  apart- 
ments like  one  who  knows  her  way. 

Archie  McEwen  twirled  his  moustache  in  perplexity,  as  he  watched 
the  fair  fugitive  escape  him,  but  the  other  attendant,  who  was  a  middle- 
age  person  of  lowlier  station,  touched  his  arm  and  said  to  him  in 
Russian :  "  You  need  not  feel  uneasy,  my  lord.  Mdlle.  de  Cypri  has 
gone  to  fetch  her  Imperial  Highness  in  person." 

McEwen  thereupon  walked  into  the  guard-room,  where  he  imme- 
diately obtained  proof  that  the  adventure  which  he  had  nipped  in  the 
bud  had  no  such  serious  complexion  as  he  had  at  first  feared.  The 
gentleman  in  lady's  clothes  had  thrown  off  his  cloak,  and  an  elaborate 
blonde  wig,  and  showed  McEwen  the  good-looking  face  of  a  young 
nobleman  who  was  well  known  to  him. 

Addressing  him  in  a  tone  wherein  mortification  and  some  amuse- 
ment were  blended  with  vexation,  this  young  man  said  :  "  There, 
Makuine,  do  you  recognise  me — the  Marquis  de  Cypri  of  the  Preoba- 
jentski  Guards  1 " 

"  Certainly  I  do,"  answered  the  Scottish  officer,  who  was  too  much 
astonished  to  laugh.  "  But  why  on  earth  did  you  come  here  in  such  a 
disguise  1 " 

"  That  is  no  business  of  yours." 

"  I  will  leave  your  good  sense  to  judge  that.  If  you  had  been  on 
guard  and  I  had  come  here  masquerading  as  the  Grand-Duchess,  what 
should  you  have  done  1 " 

The  young  man  (who  was  a  nobleman  of  French  descent,  though 
naturalised  in  Russia)  made  no  direct  answer ;  but  a  moment  later, 
breaking  into  an  awkward  laugh,  he  said :  "  Am  I  to  consider  myself 
your  prisoner  ? " 

"  Certainly  not,  now  I  know  who  you  are,"  replied  McEwen.  "  If 
you  will  send  up  your  name  to  her  Imperial  Highness  and  she  likes  to 
receive  you,  the  matter  will  not  concern  me.  It  was  only  that  blunder- 
ing old  fool "  (pointing  to  the  shivering  major-domo)  "  who  made  me  stop 
you  by  saying  you  were  the  Grand-Duchess.  If  he  had  named  you  as 
any  other  lady  I  should  have  had  no  right  or  desire  to  pry  into  your 
face." 

"  I  think,  though,  you  might  have  guessed  that  any  one  coming  here 
with  my  sister,  who  is  a  maid  of  honour  to  the  Grand-Duchess,  had  a 
right  to  pass  unquestioned,"  remarked  the  Marquis  de  Cypri,  with  French 
testiness. 

"  Is  that  young  lady  "  (he  was  going  to  say  "  that  beautiful  young 
lady")  "your  sister?"  inquired  McEwen.  "  I  was  not  aware  that  she 
belonged  to  her  Highness's  household." 

"  It  is  true  she  was  only  appointed  a  fortnight  ago,"  answered  the 
Marquis.  "  But  anyhow,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  this  is  a  pretty  kettle  of 
fish  which  you  have  set  stirring.  "We  have  not  heard  the  last  of  it." 

McEwen  guessed  as  much,  and  wished  himself  a  hundred  miles  away. 


182  "LET  NOBODY  PASS." 

He  was  afraid  that  he  had  unwillingly  discovered  the  secret  of  some 
gallant  liaison  of  the  Grand-Duchess,  about  which  a  loyal  subject  would 
have  preferred  to  know  nothing,  and  he  muttered  silent  anathemas  upon 
Wildotski,  whose  tipsiness  had  brought  him  to  this  predicament. 

It  was  too  late,  however,  for  regrets.  Suddenly  the  door  opened, 
and  the  Grand-Duchess  Paulina  herself  entered  the  room,  followed  by 
Mdlle.  de  Cypri.  Her  Highness  had  a  commanding  figure,  and  now 
bore  her  head  with  an  imperial  air  rendered  the  more  significant  by  a 
flush  of  anger  that  suffused  her  cheeks.  Her  countenance  fell,  however, 
when  she  beheld  Makuine  :  "  I  thought  young  Wildotski  was  on  guard," 
she  said,  her  blush  fading  away  into  pallor. 

"  So  he  was,  but  he  is  unwell,  and  Makuine  took  his  place,"  answered 
Cypri,  who  looked  sulky  and  ashamed  in  his  feminine  clothes,  and  re- 
mained seated  in  the  Grand-Duchess's  presence. 

"  Ah  !  Malouieff,  leave  the  room,"  said  her  Highness,  addressing  the 
major-domo ;  and  for  a  moment  after  the  servant  had  retired  there  was 
silence  in  the  room.  The  Grand-Duchess  was  agitated,  a,nd  cast  two  or 
three  inquiring  glances  at  Makuine  before  she  ventured  to  speak.  She 
was  trying  to  observe  on  his  countenance  what  effect  the  scene  had 
produced  upon  him  ;  but  he  stood  in  a  respectful  attitude,  his  expression 
quite  composed. 

"  Count  Makuine,  you  are  a  man  of  honour  and  can  keep  a  secret," 
said  the  Grand-Duchess  at  last.  "  I  cannot  let  you  go  away  with  any 
false  impression  about  what  has  happened  to-night.  The  Marquis  de 
Cypri  is  my  husband."  Makuine  bowed  first  to  the  Grand-Duchess, 
then  to  the  Marquis,  and  tried  to  refrain  from  any  look  of  astonishment. 
The  princess  proceeded  with  more  calmness  and  dignity  now  that  her 
secret  was  out.  "  The  Marquis  and  I  were  privately  married  a  month 
ago,  but  for  many  reasons  we  cannot  yet  disclose  our  union.  The  Czar 
disapproves  our  attachment,  and  last  week  my  husband  was  ordered  to 
go  and  reside  for  six  months  upon  his  estates.  If  it  were  known  that 
he  was  here  he  would  be  arrested.  That  is  why  he  was  obliged  to  come 
to  my  house  this  night  in  disguise." 

"  You  understand  now  the  importance  of  holding  your  tongue  about 
all  this,"  remarked  De  Cypri,  whose  good-humour  was  returning,  though 
he  was  still  a  little  vexed,  and  cast  disgusted  glances  at  his  petticoats. 

"  Not  a  soul  shall  hear  the  secret  from  me,"  promised  the  Scotchman, 
bending  his  looks  rather  towards  the  beautiful  Mdlle.  de  Cypri  than 
towards  the  Grand-Duchess,  as  he  spoke.  That  young  lady  reddened 
and  turned  her  head  away. 

"  It  is  well  :  I  know  our  secret  could  not  be  in  safer  hands,"  declared 
the  Grand-Duchess  graciously,  and  a  very  sweet  smile  spread  itself  over 
her  plump  dimpled  cheeks,  that  were  like  cream  and  roses.  "  Since  you 
know  the  truth,  however,  Count  Makuine,  we  must  see  whether  we 
cannot  make  it  turn  to  your  advantage  and  to  ours.  Colonel  Solojine, 
my  aide-de-camp,  is  going  to  be  promoted,  and  his  place  will  become 


"LET  NOBODY  PASS."  183 

vacant.     If  you  will  please  to  accept  it  you  will  gain  a  step  and  be  able 
to  render  us  some  services." 

"  And  you  must  promise  me  that  I  shall  not  share  the  fate  of 
Strenko,"  laughed  the  Marquis  as  he  held  out  his  hand  laughing  to  the 
Scotchman.  "  We  have  all  heard  the  saying  '  Let  nobody  pass  when 
Makuine  is  on  guard.'  It  seems  you  are  a  terrible  fellow  with  those 
who  sail  under  false  colours." 

Here  the  interview  ended,  for  when  Makuine  had  kissed  the  Grand- 
Duchess's  hand,  her  Highness  retired  with  her  husband,  who  disguised 
himself  in  his  wig  and  cloak  again  to  pass  up  the  staircase  unnoticed. 
Presently  Prince  Wildotski  returned  sober,  with  his  hair  damp  from 
cold  water  ablutions,  and  a  merry  apology  on  his  lips  for  the  trouble 
which  he  had  given  his  comrade.  He  learned  nothing  of  what  had 
occurred  ;  and  Makuine  left  the  palace  to  return  to  his  lodgings. 

As  may  be  imagined,  he  was  not  quite  at  his  ease,  for  a  man  who 
has  surprised  a  momentous  Court  secret  experiences  many  of  the  qualms 
of  one  who  is  possessor  of  stolen  property.  It  was  no  slight  matter  that 
a  Grand- Duchess  of  immense  wealth  should  have  bestowed  her  widowed 
hand  upon  a  Frenchman  of  broken  fortune,  fifteen  years  younger  than 
herself.  The  Marquis  de  Cypri  had  a  reputation  as  a  gay  gambler  and 
libertine,  and  McEwen  quite  understood  why  the  infatuated  Grand- 
Duchess  should  desire  to  keep  her  espousals  with  him  a  secret.  But 
what  if  she  in  her  almost  sovereign  power  should  entertain  fears  about 
the  Scottish  officer's  discretion  ?  She  might  have  him  arrested  on  some 
trumped-up  charge  and  spirited  away  to  Siberia  before  he  could  raise 
a  voice  in  his  own  defence.  Archie  McEwen  was  the  reverse  of  a 
coward,  but  in  going  to  bed  that  night  he  put  a  six-chamber  revolver 
loaded  under  his  pillow,  and  resolved  to  sell  his  liberty  dearly  if  anyone 
should  come  to  molest  him. 

The  Grand-Duchess  Paulina  would  have  laughed  at  these  apprehen- 
sions had  she  been  aware  of  them,  for  she  was  a  kindly  princess,  who  had 
never  used  her  power  to  hurt  a  human  being.  At  heart  she  was  rather 
glad — now  the  thing  was  done — that  her  secret  was  known  to  the 
Scottish  officer,  and  this  for  two  reasons  :  firstly,  because  her  young 
husband,  being  somewhat  feather-brained  and  independent  in  character, 
was  likely  to  be  on  his  good-behaviour  now  that  his  status  was  known 
to  a  brother  officer  so  esteemed  as  Makuine ;  and  secondly,  because  the 
Grand-Duchess  reflected  that  an  officer  like  this  Scotchman,  brave,  cool, 
and  chivalrous,  was  just  the  kind  of  man  whom  it  would  be  useful  to 
have  about  her  person  in  order  that  her  secret  might  be  guarded  against 
eyes  less  discreet  than  his  own.  So  her  Imperial  Highness  very  quickly 
redeemed  her  promise  of  getting  Count  Makuine  appointed  to  her  house- 
hold. To  the  great  surprise  of  his  comrades,  who  could  not  explain  his 
unaccountably  sudden  rise  in  Court  favour,  Archie  McEwen  was  in  a 
few  days  promoted  to  the  rank  of  Lieutenant-Colonel,  and  gazetted  as 
Aide-de-Camp  in  ordinary  to  the  Grand-Duchess.  By  virtue  of  his  func- 


184  "LET  NOBODY  PASS." 

tions  he  had  apartments  in  the  palace,  and  became  practically,  by  reason  of 
the  confidence  which  his  mistress  placed  in  him,  Marshal  of  her  household. 
He  quickly  perceived  that,  although  not  blind  to  her  husband's 
faults,  the  Grand-Duchess  was  madly  in  love  with  the  scapegrace 
Frenchman.  The  Marquis  de  Cypri  was  just  such  a  person  as  women 
love  not  wisely  but  too  well.  Handsome,  mirthful,  overweeningly 
vain  and  self-confident,  he  was  alternately  wilful  as  a  spoilt  child  and 
docile  as  a  good-hearted  one.  There  were  moments  when  his  fits  of 
passion  made  his  wife  tremble  and  cry,  and  others  when  by  humouring 
his  weakness  she  could  do  with  him  as  she  pleased.  He  had  run  through 
a  large  fortune  as  a  bachelor ;  and  now  his  wife  was  engaged  in  privately 
paying  his  debts  for  him  and  relieving  his  estates  from  encumbrances- 
It  was  the  Marquis's  grandfather  who  had  settled  the  family  of  De  Cypri 
in  Russia,  at  the  time  of  the  French  Revolution,  but  Gaston  de  Cyprir 
the  Grand-Duchess's  husband,  though  born  in  Russia,  had  been  educated 
in  the  country  of  his  forefathers,  and  both  looked  and  talked  like  a 
thorough  Parisian.  He  was  so  extravagant  that  had  it  not  been  for 
his  lucky  marriage  he  must  have  been  reduced  to  utter  poverty  :  as  ifc 
was,  he  had  [brilliant  prospects,  for  his  wife  was  intriguing  to  get  him 
created  a  prince,  hoping  that  when  this  had  been  done,  and  when  De 
Cypri's  estates  had  been  reclaimed,  she  might  publish  her  marriage  with 
him  without  derogating.  Meanwhile  her  Highness  was  also  interesting 
herself  about  her  husband's  sister,  Mdlle.  Berthe  de  Cypri,  whom  she 
thought  of  matching  with  young  Prince  Wildotski — not  because  the  latter 
was  a  very  respectable  member  of  society,  but  because  he  was  part  owner 
of  a  silver  mine,  and  belonged  to  one  of  the  most  powerful  families  of 
the  Empire. 

The  last  scheme  of  the  good-natured  princess  was  upset,  however,  by 
Berthe  de  Cypri  and  Archie  McEwen  contracting  for  each  other  an 
attachment  that  was  not  long  in  ripening  into  strong  love.  They  saw 
each  other  daily,  and  the  young  Colonel,  who  was  not  bashful,  promptly 
cut  out  the  light-minded  Wildotski,  who  felt  as  yet  no  decided  vocation 
for  matrimony.  The  Grand-Duchess  discovered  the  courtship  between 
her  aide-de-camp  and  her  maid  of  honour,  when  the  young  couple  had 
already  exchanged  troths,  and  she  was  at  first  mortally  angry,  stamping 
her  foot,  as  Imperial  ladies  will  do  when  in  a  rage.  For  some  days  she 
would  not  speak  either  to  Archie  or  to  Berthe ;  and  she  even  threatened 
to  dismiss  the  former  from  his  post,  and  to  send  Mdlle.  de  Cypri  back 
to  her  relations.  But  events  shortly  occurred  which  restored  the  loving 
couple  to  her  Highness's  favour,  by  putting  her  in  need  of  their  attend- 
ance and  services. 

The  Marquis  de  Cypri  was  continually  hankering  after  Paris ;  and, 
unknown  to  his  wife,  had  applied  to  the  Czar  for  permission  to  travel 
for  six  months  in  France  instead  of  spending  the  term  of  his  exile  from 
Court  upon  his  own  estates.  The  truth  is,  he  felt  the  danger  of  visiting 
his  wife  in  disguise,  and  had  an  uneasy  dread  of  being  some  night  collared 


"LET  NOBODY  PASS."  185 

and  transported  to  Siberia.  The  petition  he  had  forwarded  was  acceded 
to,  and  the  confidential  servant  who  brought  him  his  passports  from  his 
country  mansion  to  Tsarskoe-Selo  advised  him  to  hasten  off  at  once,  as 
he  was  in  some  fear  that  his  master  was  suspected  of  not  being  in  re- 
sidence upon  his  estates.  The  Marquis  thereupon  made  instant  pre- 
parations for  starting.  He  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  be  gone,  and  so  anxious 
to  secure  the  friendly  co-operation  of  Makuine  to  abet  his  flight,  that  he 
said  to  the  latter,  "  You  shall  marry  my  sister  if  you  like,  Count ;  but 
for  Heaven's  sake,  help  me  out  of  this  hobble,  and  try  to  prevail  on  my 
wife  not  to  follow  me" 

The  Grand-Duchess,  however,  on  being  apprised  of  the  Marquis's 
intended  journey,  resolved  to  go  to  Paris  too.  She  would  not  be  se- 
parated from  her  husband.  Perhaps  she  feared  that  sprightly  young 
man's  infidelity.  At  any  rate,  twenty-four  hours  after  the  Marquis  had 
started,  her  Imperial  Highness  had  set  off  in  pursuit,  taking  only  with 
her  such  attendants  as  knew  her  secret — that  is,  Makuine,  Mdlle.  de 
Cypri,  and  two  female  servants,  besides  four  men  servants.  The  rest  of 
her  suite,  some  thirty  persons  in  all,  including  her  children,  were  ordered 
to  follow,  for  a  Russian  Grand-Duchess  on  her  travels  is  something  like 
an  army  on  the  march,  and  drags  a  long  train  of  camp-followers  behind. 

As  might  have  been  expected,  the  Grand-Duchess's  precipitate  de- 
parture excited  the  Czar's  suspicions,  and  before  her  Highness  had 
reached  Paris  the  Russian  ambassador  in  that  capital  had  received  in- 
structions about  her  by  telegraph.  His  Excellency  waited  on  the 
princess  as  soon  as  she  arrived  at  the  Grand  Hotel,  and  remained 
closeted  with  her  for  an  hour.  When  he  was  gone  Makuine  was  sent 
for,  and  found  the  Grand-Duchess  drying  her  eyes  with  her  handker- 
chief and  looking  quite  overwhelmed  with  sorrow.  Mdlle.  de  Cypri 
was  endeavouring  to  console  her. 

"  What  am  I  to  do,  Makuine  1 "  asked  her  Highness  dolefully.  "  The 
ambassador  has  told  me  that  I  am  on  no  account  to  receive  the  Marquis 
de  Cypri,  as  the  Czar  will  never  consent  to  our  marriage  !  " 

"  Let  me  return  to  St.  Petersburg  and  tell  his  Majesty  the  whole 
truth,"  replied  Makuine  fearlessly. 

"  Ah,  that  is  a  fine  proposal  enough;  but  you  do  not  know  what  you 
are  saying.  Before  you  could  reach  the  Czar  your  errand  would  be 
guessed,  and  you  would  be  placed  under  arrest,  so  that  you  might  not 
convey  your  message.  You  might  remain  in  confinement  for  months 
before  you  could  communicate  with  me." 

"  I  am  willing  to  run  the  risk,  Madam,"  answered  the  Scotchman, 
"  I  think  anything  is  better  than  secrecy  in  such  an  affair — especially 
transparent  secrecy." 

"  It  may  be,"  replied  the  Grand-Duchess  after  a  moment's  reflection, 
"  But  I  shall  not  consent  to  this.  After  all,  I  am  free  to  marry  whom  I 
please,  and  shall  not  let  myself  be  bullied.  Makuine,  can  you  execute 
with  the  utmost  strictness  an  order  I  shall  give  you  1 " 


186  "LET  NOBODY   PASS." 

"  Your  Imperial  Highness's  orders  would  be  obeyed  to  the  letter,  of 
whatever  sort  they  were." 

"  Then,  you  must  let  nobody  pass  to  my  presence  till  you  receive 
further  instructions." 

"  Nobody,  Madam  ? " 

"Nobody — not  even  the  ambassador,  not  even  my  husband.  You 
are  to  say  I  am  ill  and  can  receive  no  visitors.  Indeed,  I  do  feel  unwell, 

*/ 

and  require  to  be  quite  alone  for  reflection.     Can  I  rely  on  you  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  Madam.     But  the  Marquis   de    Cypri   will   no  doubt 

think   it   strange   that   I   should   deny   him   admittance   to  his   wife's 

apartments." 

"  No  matter  what  he  thinks.     Do  as  you  are  told  and  you  will 

understand  my  purpose  in  due  time.    If  you  obey  me  faithfully,  Berthe's 

hand  shall  be  your  reward." 

Archie  McEwen  bowed  to  the  Grand-Duchess,  exchanged  a  glance 

with  the  blushing  Berthe  de  Cypri,  and  left  the  room  to  mount  his  novel 

guard.     He  little  thought  how  long  and  arduous  a  one  it  was  to  prove. 

IV. 

Once  more  he  was  on  duty  with  that  trying  order  "  Let  nobody  pass  " 
to  execute.  But  this  time  he  was  not  in  uniform,  and  he  did  not  hang 
about  passages. 

The  Grand-Duchess  occupied  in  the  hotel  a  large  suite  of  state-rooms, 
which  was  reserved  for  personages  of  her  rank,  and  which  had  a  private 
entrance.  The  servants  of  the  hotel  admitted  nobody  without  referring 
to  the  Duchess's  major-domo,  Malouieff,  and  Malouieff  had  instructions 
to  dismiss  all  the  visitors  of  little  importance  himself,  but  to  refer 
persons  of  high  condition  to  her  Highness's  Aide-de-Camp  and  acting- 
Chamberlain,  Count  Makuine. 

But  this  arrangement  obliged  Makuine  to  remain  indoors  all  day 
and  night.  He  did  not  dare  to  leave  his  apartments  for  an  instant.  On 
the  morning  after  he  had  begun  his  guard  the  Russian  ambassador 
arrived,  and  his  Excellency  evidently  did  not  believe  the  story  which  he 
had  heard  from  Malouieff  about  the  Grand-Duchess's  indisposition. 

"  I  must  ask  you,  Colonel,  to  use  your  influence  with  the  Grand- 
Duchess  to  procure  me  an  instant  audience,"  he  said  confidentially. 
"  The  matter  is  very  important." 

"  I  have  no  influence  with  her  Imperial  Highness,  your  Excellency," 
replied  Makuine  coldly. 

"  But  you  are  aware  thajt,  as  ambassador,  I  represent  the  Czar  ? " 

"  Certainly,  but  even  his  Majesty  might  hesitate  to  penetrate  to  the 
Grand-Duchess's  bedroom  if  he  heard  she  was  ill." 

The  diplomatist  bit  his  lips.  "  Will  you  ring  for  one  of  her  Imperial 
Highness's  ladies  ?  "  he  said. 

Makuine  touched  a  bell  and  one  of  the  Grand-Duchess's  maids  ap- 


"LET  NOBODY  PASS."  187 

peared.  She  was  a  Russian,  in  the  national  costume,  with  a  light-blue 
kirtle,  and  a  velvet  headdress  like  a  tiara.  She  was  ordered  to  inquire 
if  her  mistress  would  receive  the  ambassador,  and  after  five  minutes' 
absence  returned  with  a  negative  reply.  Her  Imperial  Highness  was 
resting  after  a  sleepless  night  and  could  receive  nobody. 

The  ambassador  withdrew,  looking  ugly  despatches  as  a  soldier  is 
said  to  look  daggers.  Soon  afterwards  the  Marquis  de  Cypri  came 
tripping  up  the  stairs,  gay  as  a  lark,  with  a  flower  in  his  button-hole. 
He  was  not  staying  at  the  same  hotel  as  his  wife,  and  this  was  his  first 
visit  to  her  since  her  arrival.  He  pulled  a  very  strange  grimace  when 
Makuine  denied  him  admittance.  "  Why,  why — what's  the  matter,"  he 
stammered.  "  Is  she  angry  with  me  for  not  having  called  yesterday? 
Her  arrival  was  only  announced  in  the  papers  this  morning." 

"  I  think  that  the  simple  reason  is  that  her  Highness  is  ill — she  can 
have  no  other  reason  for  excluding  you"  answered  Makuine. 

"  I  say — you — you  don't  think  she  has  heard  of  my  having  supped 
with  actresses  the  night  before  last  ?  "  inqxiired  the  Marquis  in  a  nervous 
and  piteous  tone. 

"  I  am  sure  she  has  heard  nothing  to  your  damage,"  answered 
Makuine,  who  could  not  help  laughing. 

"  And  yet  she  gives  orders  to  exclude  me  !  "  exclaimed  the  Marquis, 
whose  temper  rose.  "  Do  you  know,  Count,  that,  as  her  husband,  I 
have  a  right  to  force  my  way  into  her  presence  ? " 

"  Hardly  that,  for  you  are  not  officially  recognised  as  the  Grand  - 
Duchess's  consort." 

"  And  supposing  I  did  force  my  way  through  ? "  asked  the  Marquis, 
scanning  the  Scotchman,  who  was  a  full  head  taller  than  himself. 

"  I  am  sure  you  would  not  put  me  in  such  an  awkward  position," 
replied  Makuine  gently.  "  You  would  only  oblige  me  to  give  orders  to 
the  servants  that  you  should  not  be  admitted  beyond  the  hall  when  you 
came  again." 

"  Go  to  the  devil,"  ejaculated  the  Marquis,  and  he  went  away  mutter- 
ing something  about  Jacks-in-office,  and  looking  exceedingly  uncomfort- 
able under  the  fear  that  he  had  by  some  freak  incurred  his  wife's  dis- 
pleasure. 

He  came  again  the  next  day,  and  the  next;  and  so  did  the  am- 
bassador; but  neither  of  them  were  admitted.  Makuine  was  lost  in 
wonder  at  the  length  of  the  Grand- Duchess's  seclusion ;  but  he  could 
only  obey  the  orders  he  received  every  morning  from  the  Russian 
waiting-woman.  The  ambassador  used  to  come  with  a  very  frigid  ex- 
pression, like  an  official  who  is  prepared  for  an  affront ;  but  who  only 
wants  to  be  able  to  say,  "  This  is  the  third — or  fourth— time  that  I 
have  had  the  door  shut  in  my  face."  After  the  fourth  day,  however,  his 
Excellency  grew  tired  of  this  work,  and  began  to  send  an  attache  every 
morning  in  his  stead.  The  attache  presented  himself  with  a  serious 
mien,  asked  pro  formd  at  what  hour  the  Grand-Duchess  would  give 


188  "LET  NOBODY  PASS." 

audience  to  the  ambassador,  and  on  being  told  that  her  Imperial  High- 
ness was  still  confined  to  her  room,  he  would  shake  hands  smiling  with 
Makuine,  and  go  away  without  arguing  the  point. 

The  Marquis  came  every  day  in  a  far  less  philosophical  mood.  He 
had  discarded  flowers  from  his  button-hole ;  he  was  pale  and  unhappy. 
Sometimes  he  tried  to  shake  Makuine  by  question  and  arguments ;  some- 
times he  lost  all  patience,  spoke  with  offended  dignity,  and  used  menaces. 
These  scenes  were  very  trying  to  the  A.  D.  C. ;  but  luckily  De  Cypri 
did  not  attempt  violence.  He  was  withheld  from  this  extreme  partly  by 
his  sense  of  propriety,  and  possibly  also  by  the  recollection,  as  proved  by 
the  hapless  Strenko's  case,  that  the  Scottish  officer  was  a  man  to  beware 
of.  He  confined  himself  to  vowing  that  so  long  as  he  had  a  voice  in 
the  disposal  of  his  sister's  hand,  he  would  never  suffer  her  to  become  the 
wife  of  a  man  who  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  flouting  him. 

Makuine  took  no  such  pleasure,  as  may  be  readily  believed,  for  his 
tiresome  guard  was  being  prolonged  beyond  all  reason.  He  had  im- 
agined in  the  beginning  that  it  would  last  a  day  at  most ;  but  a  whole 
week  went  by,  and  then  another,  and  still  he  was  not  relieved.  To  make 
matters  worse,  at  the  end  of  the  first  week  the  Grand-Duchess's  entire 
suite  arrived  from  Russia — children,  governesses,  tutors,  servants,  in  all 
thirty  souls ;  and  yet  her  Imperial  Highness  continued  to  be  invisible. 
Every  morning  the  children  used  to  come  in  a  row,  with  their  tutors, 
governesses,  and  nurses,  and  ask  the  Colonel  whether  they  would  be 
allowed  to  pay  their  respects  to  their  mamma,  and  Makuine  had  to  in- 
form them  that  their  mamma  was  unwell,  but  without  alarming  them. 
He  was  beginning  to  feel  alarmed,  however.  What  if  the  Grand-Duchess 
should  really  be  ill  ?  If  so,  why  was  no  doctor  summoned  ?  Makuine 
did  not  once  see  Berthe  de  Cypri,  who  might  have  told  him  the  truth ; 
but,  on  the  whole,  he  was  somewhat  reassured  by  this,  feeling  sure  that 
if  anything  serious  had  happened  she  would  have  come  to  tell  him.  For 
all  this  it  was  a  weary,  weary  watch  that  the  soldier  kept.  From  his 
window  he  could  see  the  bustle  of  the  Paris  boulevards;  view  the 
carriages  going  in  the  evening  to  the  brilliantly  lighted  Grand  Opera; 
and  yet  he  durst  not  stir  out.  During  the  whole  of  his  long  guard  he 
never  once  put  on  his  hat ;  and  withal  his  past  experience  did  not  afford 
him  the  comfort  of  feeling  that  a  man  who  obeys  orders  with  unrelenting 
strictness  is  always  the  better  thanked  for  it. 

It  was  on  the  seventeenth  day  of  Makuine's  vigil  that  a  change  at 
last  occurred.  He  was  taking  exercise  in  one  of  the  passages,  in  a  state 
of  mind  approaching  desperation,  when  he  heard  the  Marquis  de  Cypri 
laughing  in  the  hall  below,  as  that  gentleman  had  not  laughed  for  a 
fortnight,  and  next  minute  he  saw  him  ascending  the  stairs  cheek  by 
jowl  with  the  Russian  ambassador.  This  was  news  indeed,  for  hitherto 
the  diplomatist  and  the  Marquis  had  avoided  each  other  like  cat  and  dog. 
But  now  the  Marquis  waved  his  hat  and  cried  to  Makuine  before  he 
reached  the  landing — 


"LET  NOBODY  PASS."  189 

"  Well,  you  faithful  guardian  of  empty  coffers,  I  dare  say  you  will  be 
glad  to  be  relieved  from  your  watch  1 " 

"  Empty  coffers  ?  "  echoed  Makuine,  without  comprehending,  for  he 
saw  a  broad  smile  on  the  ambassador's  face. 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Colonel,  you  have  been  mounting  guard  for  seventeen 
days  over  nothing,"  laughed  the  Marquis,  deriving  a  keen,  vindictive 
enjoyment  from  his  friend's  perplexity.  "  Why,  the  Grand  Duchess  is 
at  present  in  Russia  !  " 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  inquired  the  Scotchman,  scarce  knowing  whether  he 
ought  to  feel  very  angry  or  very  foolish. 

The  two  gentlemen  passed  chuckling  into  a  sitting  room,  and  there, 
when  they  had  taken  seats,  the  Marquis,  who  was  in  the  highest  spirits, 
continued  his  explanations.  "  Why,  on  the  very  day  when  she  gave  you 
the  order  to  mount  this  guard,  the  Duchess  returned  to  St.  Petersburg. 
She  started  on  the  evening  of  the  day  when  she  arrived  here,  taking  my 
sister  with  her,  and  they  both  travelled  in  such  strict  privacy  that  nothing 
was  heard  of  their  movements  till  they  reached  the  Czar's  palace.  .  .  . 
Well,  as  you  imagine,  this  mysterious  journey  was  not  undertaken  for 
nothing.  The  Grand-Duchess,  perceiving  that  it  would  be  unwise  to  con- 
ceal the  marriage  to  which  everybody,  including  his  Excellency  here,  was 
objecting  [the  ambassador  smiled  and  made  a  deprecating  gesture  of  the 
hand],  thought  she  would  do  best  to  go  and  make  a  clean  confession  to  the 
Czar — taking  him  by  surprise  before  anyone  could  divine  her  intention 
and  prejudice  his  Majesty's  kind  heart  against  her.  The  result  has  been 
that  his  Majesty,  graciously  yielding  to  my  wife's  solicitations,  has 
created  me  Prince  of  Lukski,  and  has  commanded  that  our  marriage 
shall  be  publicly  acknowledged.  .  .  .  Here  read  this.  .  .  ." 

He  handed  Makuine  a  letter,  in  which  the  Grand-Duchess  in  great 
glee  related  the  complete  success  of  her  expedition.  The  Colonel,  having 
glanced  over  it,  returned  it  to  his  friend,  saying,  "  Well,  Prince,  I  am 
happy  in  being  the  second  to  congratulate  you,  for  I  suppose  his  Ex- 
cellency was  the  first  ? " 

The  ambassador  smiled  again.  Whatever  he  may  have  thought  of 
the  whole  affair,  he  had  the  diplomatic  tact  to  accept  irremediable  facts 
with  the  best  grace  possible.  "You  have  read  her  Imperial  Highness's 
postscript,  in  which  she  says  that  we  may  relieve  you  from  your  toilsome 
duty  ?  "  he  asked  good-humouredly. 

"  It  certainly  was  very  toilsome,"  answered  Makuine ;  "  but  may  I 
at  least  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  I  was  of  use  to  her  Imperial 
Highness  1 " 

"  Why,  unquestionably  you  were,  for  you  concealed  her  movements," 
replied  De  Cypri,  "and  you  played  your  rdle  uncommonly  well,  too.  If 
his  Excellency  here  had  suspected  the  truth,  he  would  have  set  the 
telegraph  wires  going,  and  my  good  wife's  affectionate  little  plans  would 
have  been  marred." 


190  "LET  NOBODY  PASS." 

"  I  have  not  to  mourn  over  lost  time,  then,"  exclaimed  Makuine 
cheerfully.  "  And  now  I  think  I'll  go  for  stroll  on  the  Boulevards." 

"  Yes,  we'll  all  go  together,  for  I  invite  his  Excellency  and  you  to 
dine  with  me  at  the  Cafe  Anglais  !  "  cried  the  new  Prince  in  the  elation 
of  his  blushing  honours.  "  But,  I  say,"  added  he  with  another  laugh  as 
the  A.  D.  C.  was  taking  up  his  hat,  "  you  will  get  quite  a  renown  for  your 
experiences  on  guard,  Makuine.  I  do  believe  if  you  were  told  to  mount 
guard  over  yourself  and  not  kiss  your  wife  till  further  orders,  you  would 
obey  without  a  murmur." 

"  We  shall  see  when  the  time  comes,"  rejoined  the  Colonel  smiling. 
"  Remember,  I  have  not  got  a  wife  yet." 

Archie  McEwen  did  soon  get  a  wife,  however,  for  when  the  Grand- 
Duchess  returned  to  Paris  she  was  so  overjoyed  as  to  be  in  the  humour 
for  making  evei-ybody  around  her  happy.  She  faithfully  redeemed  her 
promise  of  bestowing  her  maid  of  honour's  hand  on  her  faithful  aide-de- 
camp ;  and  on  the  occasion  of  the  wedding,  which  was  solemnised  in 
Paris,  she  made  the  bride  a  magnificent  present  of  jewels.  It  was  not 
necessary  that  she  should  add  a  dower  besides,  for  Mdlle.  de  Cypri  was 
passing  rich,  having  a  private  fortune  of  her  own,  which  her  spendthrift 
brother  had  never  been  able  to  touch.  So  the  Scottish  officer  in  getting 
a  beautiful  wife  obtained  money  enough  also  to  support  his  rank  as  be- 
came him. 

Here  his  stoiy  may  end.  Patronised  by  the  Grand-Duchess,  and 
recommended  by  his  exploits  and  qualities  to  the  highest  Court  favour 
as  a  trustworthy  soldier,  he  rose  from  honour  to  honour  in  the  Czar's 
service,  and  ended  by  becoming  completely  Puissianised.  A  little  time 
ago  his  former  love,  Lady  Amabel,  being  at  St.  Petersburg  with  her  hus- 
band, who  was  an  attache,  saw  a  glorious  being,  all  gold,  fur  and  stars, 
riding  behind  the  Czar  in  a  pageant ;  and  she  fancied  she  recognised 
in  his  lineaments  those  of  an  old  friend. 

Somebody  informed  her  that  this  gorgeous  personage  was  the  General 
of  Cavalry,  Prince  Archibald  Makuine,  a  Knight  of  St.  Andrew  and 
Governor  of  the  Province  of  Tcheremiss. 

"  He  is  a  Scotch  gentleman,  Lady,  who  is  very  brave  and  fortunate. 
It  has  become  a  saying  amongst  us  that  nobody  passes  Makuine  as  an 
enemy  without  rueing  it." 

"  He  does  not  look  very  savage,  though,"  mused  Lady  Amabel  as  the 
General's  eye  falling  upon  her  for  an  instant  beamed  with  good-humoured 
recognition.  Possibly  she  reflected  that  younger  sons  may  carve  out 
brilliant  careers  for  themselves  after  all. 


191 


<£piI0jgtte  an  IBibmttwn. 


FEW  things  are  more  trying,  even  to  a  disinterested  spectator,  than  to  see 
a  cause  suffering  from  its  own  advocates.  Especially  trying,  in  the  case  of 
an  exciting  and  many-sided  subject,  is  that  false  simplification  which 
reduces  the  disputants  to  two  violently  antagonistic  camps,  each  collec- 
tively responsible  in  the  eyes  of  the  other  for  every  sin  or  folly  of  its 
worst  or  weakest  members.  And  worst  of  all  is  it  when  this  thoroughly 
unscientific  procedure  is  adopted  by  the  very  camp  whose  express  watch- 
word is  Science,  the  camp  of  the  faithful  few  charged,  like  Gideon  and 
his  three  hundred  lamp-bearers,  to  confront  with  the  light  of  truth  the 
unscientific  hosts  of  darkness,  and  ipso  facto,  one  would  think,  to 
exhibit  the  virtues  of  fairness  and  accuracy  which  it  would  be  unreasonable 
to  expect  from  their  opponents.  Some  thought  of  this  kind  must 
surely  have  suggested  itself  to  many  not  wholly  uninstructed  persons 
while  perusing  the  case  for  uncontrolled  vivisection  in  the  Nineteenth 
Century  for  last  December.  The  papers  contained,  it  is  needless 
to  say,  much  that  was  true  and  instructive ;  all  the  more  ungrateful, 
though  in  the  scientific  interest  all  the  more  necessary,  it  is  to  point  out 
certain  defects  in  them,  which  are  only  too  typical  of  the  controversy, 
and  likely  in  the  present  case  to  change  what  might  have  been  weighty 
teaching  into  a  new  source  of  exacerbation.*  The  temper  of  Science  has 
no  doubt  been  sorely  tried.  Still  professed  enthusiasts  for  Truth,  as  re- 
vealed, e.g.,  in  the  cerebral  hemispheres  of  monkeys,  might  surely  extend 
even  to  the  inferior  workings  of  their  adversaries'  brains  some  measure 
of  just  attention;  and  the  benevolence  which  will  face  such  disagreeable 
labours  without  a  murmur  might  fairly  find  itself  above  the  level  of 
branding  ignorance  as  insincerity.f  But  at  the  very  least  one  might 

*  The  following  criticism  has  comparatively  little  application  to  Sir  J.  Paget's 
careful  and  temperate  paper,  except  as  regards  omissions,  and  the  single  positive  point 
noticed  on  the  next  page. 

t  Cf.  Professor  Owen's  talk  about  '  pseudo-humanitarians '  and  '  hired  scribes,' 
and  Dr.  Wilks's  endorsement  of  Virchow's  disastrous  remark  at  the  late  Medical 
Congress  that  "  the  charge  of  cruelty  was  a  subterfuge."  Few  blunders  seem  more 
wanton  than  this  affectation  of  ignoring  the  obvious  objection  to  torture  as  such,  by 
identifying  it  with  a  general  hostility  to  all  scientific  learning — a  hostility  which, 
according  to  Virchow's  prophecy,  will  soon  be  preventing  the  practical  study  of  ana- 
tomy. He  even  asserted  that  there  exist  in  every  country  "all  sorts  of  brotherhoods 
and  associations  which  work  energetically  against  scientific  examination  of  corpses." 
If  so,  their  energy  in  England  must  have  been  chiefly  devoted  to  their  own  conceal- 
ment. But  he  at  any  rate  might  convince  himself  in  half  an  hour  that  his  opponents 


192  AN  EPILOGUE  ON   VIVISECTION. 

expect  that  those  who  are  confessedly  writing  not  for  the  convinced,  but 
for  the  unconvinced — for  those,  that  is,  who  have  not  taken  a  definite 
side — would  scan  their  own  words,  as  far  as  possible,  with  the  eyes  of  the 
public  they  are  addressing ;  and  would  thus  be  led  to  perceive  the  picture 
of  two  sides,  one  consisting  wholly  of  able  and  blameless  devotees  to  duty 
and  philanthropy,  the  other  as  exclusively  of  persons  who  divide  their  time 
between  telling  lies,  placarding  the  walls  with  demoralising  pictures,  and 
shrieking  at  the  idea  of  a  mouse  being  pricked  with  a  needle,  to  be  almost 
too  dramatic  and  complete.  That  this  method  of  treating  all  criticism 
and  opposition  in  a  lump  is  as  unreasonable  as  it  is  obviously  impolitic 
will,  I  think,  in  the  present  instance  be  doubly  clear  from  an  examination 
of  the  arguments  which  accompany  it. 

It  is  noticeable  in  the  first  place  that  (with  a  single  unfortunate  ex- 
ception) no  effort  is  made  in  these  papers  to  obtain  any  deeper  or  more 
explicit  principle  of  permissible  inflictions  than  is  involved  in  the  licence 
which  contemporary  public  opinion  accords  to  inflictions  in  other  direc- 
tions, and  in  comparisons  of  degrees  of  pain  and  profit  in  the  respective 
cases.*  This  treatment  has  the  disadvantage  of  precluding  any  clear 
distinction  between  questions  of  principle  and  questions  of  fact — a  dis- 
tinction which  the  nature  of  the  controversy  renders  specially  desirable ; 
since  on  the  one  hand  the  search  after  an  ethical  basis  has  been  much 
confused,  or  often  overlaid,  by  disputes  about  all  sorts  of  practical  and 
personal  details ;  and  on  the  other  hand  the  evidence  of  facts,  including 
much  difficult  matter  not  only  of  science  but  of  human  character,  has 
been  involved  in  all  the  heat  of  ethical  controversy — the  very  worst  at- 
mosphere for  the  candid  weighing  of  it.  At  the  same  time  I  think  that 
one  may  dimly  trace  even  in  the  two  cruder  contributions,  what  is 
tolerably  clear  in  Sir  J.  Paget's,  a  sense  that  the  true  principle  on  which 
a  stand  must  be  taken  is  the  right  to  inflict  the  lesser  suffering  for  the 

on  vivisection  •would  repudiate  any  such  object ;  and  to  force  even  on  the  most  fanatical 
of  them  the  confusion  between  cutting  a  live  body  and  cutting  a  dead  one,  merely 
suggests  that  the  distinction  is  not  a  very  essential  one  to  Virchow  himself. 

*  In  the  comparison  of  the  pains  of  vivisection  with  those  inflicted  in  sport  and  in 
farming  operations,  while  fully  holding  with  Sir  J.  Paget  that  the  latter  are  on  the 
whole  far  more  severe,  and  of  course  infinitely  more  numerous,  than  vivisection  as 
properly  conducted  would  inflict,  I  cannot  but  think  that  he  strangely  under-estimates 
very  much  that  the  practice  has  included.  For  instance,  he  compares  Paris  vivi- 
sections, which  have  had  a  particularly  bad  name, with  the  shooting  of  lions  in  Algeria 
— a  rapid  death,  entailing  less  suffering  for  the  most  part  than  the  one  which  Nature 
•would  inevitably  bring.  He  says,  too,  that  he  never  saw  anything  in  any  experi- 
ment worse  than  Landseer's  "Death  of  the  Otter  ; "  but  the  minute's  death-struggle  of 
an  animal  with  free  power  to  struggle  and  cry  (a  vent  to  the  enormous  importance  of 
which  human  experience  amply  testifies)  is  surely  quite  incomparable — I  need  not  say, 
with  the  sufferings  of  the  bound  victims  in  the  prolonged  demonstrations  to  which  he 
has  himself  borne  witness,  or  with  the  multiplied  day-long  horrors  of  the  veterinary 
college  at  Alfort,  or  the  month-long  agony  at  the  laboratory  of  Pavia  (Lancet,  No. 
2482,  p.  415),  but  with  any  at  all  formidable  cutting  operation  performed,  as  so 
constantly  abroad,  without  anaesthetics. 


AN  EPILOGUE  ON  VIVISECTION.  193 

sake  of  averting  the  greater.  I  will  not  dwell  here  on  this  topic,  having 
lately  discussed  it  pretty  fully  elsewhere.*  One  remark  only  I  will 
venture  to  repeat,  as  no  suggestion  of  it  is  to  be  found  in  these  papers ; 
namely,  that  on  the  above  principle  we  must  face  the  difficulty  or  impos- 
sibility of  balancing  a  single  case  of  prolonged  and  extreme  pain  against 
a  number  of  cases  of  far  shorter  or  less  extreme  pain.  I  admit  with 
regret  that  this  reservation  must  throw  into  opposition  (theoretically  at 
all  events)  more  than  one  eminent  English  physiologist,  who,  recognising 
no  such  distinction  as  I  drew,  and  thinking  that  possible  alleviation  for 
the  many  might  be  set  against  certain  torture  for  the  one,  have  owned  that 
there  is  no  extreme  of  protracted  agony  which  they  would  think  it  wrong 
to  inflict  if  the  object  were  "  sufficient."  The  only  sufficient  object  in  my 
view  would  at  any  rate  have  some  close  reference  to  degree,  and  could  not  be 
settled  by  mere  numbers  :  just  as  I  would  sooner  that  ten  thousand  hares 
should  be  coursed  than  that  one  should  be  nailed  and  crushed  "with  much 
love  and  patience "  by  Mantegazza,  or  that  a  million  horses  should  be 
overdriven  than  that  one  should  illustrate  the  ghastly  traditions  of  Alfort. 
And  I  would  stake  a  good  deal  on  finding  that  of  persons  sufficiently 
interested  to  make  a  choice  at  all,  ninety-nine  out  of  every  hundred  would 
agree  with  me.  But,  leaving  this  difficulty,  it  is  much  to  find  the  general 
principle  even  covertly  acknowledged;  and  I  believe  that  it  is  in  the 
spirit  of  English  physiology  to  recognise  it  more  and  more  distinctly. 

Nevertheless  it  is  impossible  quite  to  pass  over  the  exception  above 
referred  to,  where  an  explicit  principle  is  laid  down  of  a  different  and 
even  opposite  nature  to  the  utilitarian  one.  It  has  figured  much  in  the 
controversy,  and  here  takes  the  form  of  a  quotation  from  an  eminent 
physician's  address  to  the  British  Association  : — "  The  only  restriction 
which  Christian  morality  imposes  upon  such  practices  is  that  no  more 
pain  shall  be  inflicted  than  is  necessary  for  the  object  in  view."  It  is 
really  amazing  that  any  one  should  fail  to  perceive  this  formula  to  be 
just  as  applicable  to  the  elaborate  Italian  method  of  ensuring  for  hours 
or  days  the  very  maximum  of  torture  without  destruction  of  life,  as  to 
the  momentary  pricking  of  a  baby's  arm;  "  the  object  in  view"  in  the 
former  case  being  the  observation  that  the  animal's  strength  or  tempera- 
ture is  appreciably  affected  by  that  amount  of  pain,  which  from  the 
very  meaning  of  the  words,  therefore,  is  no  more  than  is  "  necessary  " 
for  the  object.  "  I  am  seeking  after  truth,"  the  experimenter  here  might 
perfectly  plead  in  Dr.  Wilks's  own  words,  "  and  if  I  find  it  (which  in, 
this  case  I  have  done)  I  am  satisfied."  If  Dr.  Wilks  is  not  equally 
satisfied,  his  instincts  are  better  than  his  logic.  Disagreeably  in  accord- 
ance too  with  this  same  formula  are  his  remarks  on  scientific  method, 
according  to  which  "  the  rocks  are  broken  and  put  in  the  crucible,  the 
water  is  submitted  to  analysis,  the  plant  is  dissected ;  "  and  "  in  animal 
life  the  same  method  must  be  adopted  to  unlock  the  secrets  of  nature. 

*  In  the  Fortnightly  Review  for  December  1881. 
VOL.    XLV.— NO.  266.  10. 


194  AN  EPILOGUE  ON  VIVISECTION. 

The  question  of  the  animal  being  sensitive  cannot  alter  the  mode  of 
investigation."*  Nor  surely  could  the  "  question  "  of  the  animal  being 
human.  Had  these  remarks  been  published  a  month  earlier,  I  could 
hardly  have  expressed  myself  as  confidently  as  I  did  as  to  the  practical 
repudiation  by  English  physiology  of  the  Continental  view  that  a  chance 
of  knowledge,  however  remote  from  further  benefit,  may  be  bought  at 
any  price. 

But  I  think  it  would  be  harsh  to  judge  Dr.  Wilks's  ethical  position 
wholly  in  the  light  of  these  unfortunate  passages ;  and  that,  if  his 
favourite  method  of  analysis  were  fairly  applied  to  his  own  and  Professor 
Owen's  principles,  the  result  would  turn  out  to  their  advantage.  Even 
so,  unfortunately,  it  would  not  go  far  to  redeem  their  general  mode  of 
advocacy.  Their  argument  will  be  found  to  contain  one  misstatement, 
one  omission,  and  one  fallacy,  all  of  the  gravest  importance,  and  closely 
connected  with  one  another.  The  misstatement  is  that  the  sole  ground 
adduced  or  adducible  for  subjecting  vivisection  to  control  is  its  inutility, 
the  omission  is  of  any  hint  that  the  practice  has  ever  been  abused ;  from 
'which  two  lapses  is  born  the  fallacy,  that  the  practice  itself,  like  the 
opposition  to  it,  can  be  treated  in  the  lump,  and  that  it  is  enough  to 
prove  that  benefits  may  be  traced  to  it  for  the  case  against  restriction  to 
be  triumphantly  vindicated.  Of  course  those  who  deny  the  benefits  past 
-or  future  in  toto — like  the  baronet  who  wrote  to  the  Commission  that 
"  medical  science  has  arrived  probably  at  its  extreme  limits,"  and  can 
gain  nothing  from  a  practice  which  "  goes  hand  in  hand  with  atheism  " 
— deserve  any  castigation  they  get.  But  is  it  worthy  of  the  scientific 
•  cause  to  rely  substantially  on  an  argument  which  is  only  good  against 
these  hopeless  fanatics  ?  The  misrepresentation  is  twofold.  First,  a 
very  slight  dip  into  anti-vivisectionist  literature  would  reveal  that  its 
ablest  contributors  expressly  take  their  stand  not  on  the  inutility,  but  on 
the  independent  iniquity,  of  the  practice.  The  primd  facie  unreasonable- 
ness of  this  in  cases  of  palpable  benefit,  and  the  ethical  necessity  for  that 
fair  balancing  of  the  suffering  inflicted  and  the  suffering  saved  which 
these  persons  expressly  disown,  I  have  done  my  best  elsewhere  to  show; 
which  is  surely  on  the  whole  a  more  judicious  way  of  dealing  with  well- 
known  opponents  than  to  deny  their  existence.  But,  secondly,  the 
strength  of  the  opposition  to  vivisection  lies,  of  course,  in  the  notorious 
fact  that  an  immense  amount  of  the  suffering  it  has  caused  has  been 
absolutely  useless ;  in  the  way  partly  of  withholding  anaesthetics,  partly 
of  reckless  repetitions  and  so-called  demonstrations,  partly  of  experi- 
ments from  which  it  was  not  even  pretended  that  any  possible  benefit 
could  arise.  On  the  last  head  I  do  not  forget  that,  though  in  many 
particular  cases  a  mere  chance  of  benefit,  or  a  mere  grain  of  know- 

*  Contrast  with  this  Dr.  Sharpey's  and  Dr.  Acland's  evidence  before  the  Boyal 
Commission.  The  latter  expressly  deplores  that  "  so  many  persons  have  got  to  deal 
with  these  wonderful  and  beautiful  organisms  just  as  they  deal  with  physical  bodies 
that  have  no  feelirg  and  consciousness." 


AN  EPILOGUE  ON  VIVISECTION.  195 

ledge,  is  set  against  the  certainty  of  suffering,  this  goes  for  nothing 
if  now  and  again  the  thousand  chances  throw  up,  or  the  thousand 
grains  swell  into,  such  a  single  result  as  will  outweigh  all  the  suffer- 
ings put  together.  But  no  one  will  for  a  moment  pretend  that  this 
argument  applies  to  some  of  the  proceedings  I  have  mentioned,  or 
to  others  which,  though  we  have  the  operators'  own  testimony  for  them, 
I  will  not  risk  the  charge  of  sensationalism  by  recounting. 

"  These  charges  do  not  apply  to  England,"  Professor  Owen  and  Dr. 
Wilks  will  reply.     But  then,  surely,  had  they  known  the  things  that 
belong  to  their  peace,  that  is  the  exact  point  they  should  have  dwelt  on, 
instead  of  attributing  an  agitation  which  sees  these  atrocities  perpetrated 
in  the  name  of  Science  to  the  pricking  of  mice  with  needles.     On  the 
topic  of  pain  of  course,  no  less  than  on  that  of  utility,  the  ignorance  and 
haste  of  adverse  clamourers  have  bred  most  serious  injustice;  but  they 
would  have  been  comparatively  powerless,  had  vivisection  at  all  times 
and  places  kept  within  the  bounds  which  the  good  sense  and  good  feeling 
of  our  leading  physiologists  would  mark  out.     "  But  that  being  so," 
these  last  may  say,  "  why  should  our  apologia  be  concerned  with  any- 
thing beyond  ourselves  1 "     The  answer  lies  partly  in  the  very  nature  of 
a  practice  open  alike  to  persons  of  the  most  opposite  characters ;  partly 
in  the  presumable  oneness  of  the  "scientific  method."  The  appearances  of 
sympathetic  fellowship  with  their  foreign  brethren  are  of  necessity  quite 
sufficiently  strong  to  charge  our  experts  with  the  onus  of  defining  its 
limits.      None   can   know   better  than   they  the   enormous  difference 
between  the  English  and  the  Continental  practice  *  on  all  three  of  the 
heads  I  have  mentioned  ;  yet  we  may  hunt  through  their  writings  and 
listen  to  their  speeches  without  encountering  a  hint  of  this  knowledge. 
"  Scientific  books  and  discourses,"  they  may  urge,  "  are  not  the  places 
for  moral  discussions  or  judgments."     But  how  can  the  same  be  said  of 
professedly  popular  papers  like  those  I  am  discussing,  the  very  object  of 
which  should  be  to  remove  misapprehensions,  and  to   make  outsiders 
understand  what  true  and  humane  science  means  by  vivisection  ?  f     Is 
it  not  just  here  that  one  would  count  on  finding  this  highest  evidence  of 
superior  civilisation  emphasised  with  pride,   rather  than   kept  out  of 
sight  like  a  stigma?     Whatever  their  own  purity  of  aim,  however  safe 

*  For  a  single  instance,  I  may  refer  to  Dr.  Anthony's  evidence  before  the  Commis- 
sion, Answer  2437.  Or  Mr.  Darwin's  answer,  thoroughly  representative  of  the  English 
evidence  throughout,  as  to  the  duty  of  using  all  possible  means  of  mitigation,  might 
be  compared  with  the  evidence  of  the  single  foreign  witness — Answers  4672  and  3538 
-3544. 

•f  Dr.  Wilks  complains  that  his  opponents  have  selected  the  word  "  vivisection  " 
with  the  intention  of  conjuring  up  the  maximum  of  sensational  horror.  They  can 
scarcely  be  blamed  for  their  "  selection  "  of  the  only  word  they  found  in  use,  even 
though  its  connotation  be  often  regrettable  and  misleading.  But  the  physiologists 
have  not  been  very  consistent  in  their  objection  to  it.  Is  it  wholly  over-squeamishness 
which  revolts  when  laudation  of  so  great  a  man  as  Harvey  can  find  no  more  succulent 
title  for  its  hero  than  "  arch-vivisector  ?  "  The  infliction  of  suffering  even  to  save  other 
suffering  is  surely  at  the  best  a  grim  necessity,  not  a  thing  to  smack  one's  lips  over. 

10—2 


196  AN   EPILOGUE  ON  VIVISECTION. 

vivisection  would  be  in  their  hands,  those  who  publicly  heap  indiscrimi- 
nate laudation  on  a  practice  widely  associated  with  heartless  abuses  can 
hardly  complain  if  the  attack  also  is  somewhat  indiscriminate,  and  if 
their  sensitiveness  on  the  score  of  those  abuses  is  not  instantly  taken  fov 
granted.  What  they  treat  in  the  lump  and  call  beneficent,  others  will 
take  the  liberty  of  treating  also  in  the  lump  and  calling  damnable ; 
with  equal  reason  and  equal  unreason  in  either  case. 

But  there  are  things  more  damaging  even  than  this  reticence.  What 
are  we  to  say  when,  at  this  time  of  day,  we  find  it  seriously  set  forth  in 
black  and  white  that  it  is  impossible  for  a  clever  and  persevering  man 
to  fail  in  tender  regard  for  others'  feelings,  and  that  the  invention  of  an 
ingenious  machine  is  a  quite  sufiicient  diploma  of  humanity  ?  Clearly 
the  bull  of  Phalaris  and  its  mediaeval  equivalents  are  a  fable ;  Magendie 
never  lived ;  La  Fisiologia  del  Dolore  is  a  forgery,  or  its  description  of 
its  author's  patience  and  his  instrument-maker's  ingenuity  a  falsehood  ; 
and  Sir  J.  Paget's,  Dr.  Sharpey's,  and  Dr.  Anthony's  printed  evidence 
about  foreign  lecture-rooms  was  given  in  a  dream.  Why  does  Dr. 
Wilks  compel  a  reference  to  topics  so  irrelevant  to  English  science  and 
its  professors  as  these  ?  Might  not  such  defences  at  least  be  left  to  the 
rhetoric  of  scientific  platforms,  and  kept  out  of  the  open  arena  of  the 
Nineteenth  Century,  where  their  chief  effect  must  be  to  suggest  doubts  as 
to  the  humanity  that  can  need  them  ?  But  even  apart  from  this,  the 
argument  that  the  practice  is  not  in  danger  of  abuse  because  none  but 
ferocious  brutes  would  abuse  it,  is  radically  fallacious ;  the  dangerous 
fact  being  just  precisely  that  it  is  not  in  brutality  and  ferocity,  but  in 
defective  imagination  and  the  indifference  of  custom,  that  abuses  find 
their  normal  and  sufficient  cause.  Custom  is  powerful  for  good  as  well 
as  for  evil;  and  we  may  rejoice  to  know  that  in  English  laboratories 
needless  repetition  of  an  experiment  involving  pain,  or  omission  to 
administer  anaesthetics  for  the  sake  of  saving  time  or  trouble,  would  be 
regarded  as  a  wanton  outrage  to  scientific  routine  no  less  than  to  morality. 
But  this  happy  and  exceptional  state  of  things  is  no  contradiction  of 
the  general  truth  that  even  in  the  case  of  otherwise  humane  men, 
especially  in  youth,  the  prestige  and  fascination  of  research,  and  the 
weakening  of  separate  responsibility  in  the  atmosphere  of  a  skilled  and 
ambitious  guild,  may  be  serious  enemies  to  creatures  which  (pace  Dr. 
Wilks)  are  even  more  at  an  operator's  mercy  than  "  defenceless  children." 
A  natural  tendency,  implied  in  the  repentance  of  such  men  as  Haller 
and  Reid,  and  freely  acknowledged  by  some  of  our  foremost  experts, 
needs  not  to  be  indignantly  repudiated,  only  carefully  watched  against. 

And  this  brings  me  to  a  further  topic.  Both  Professor  Owen  and 
Dr.  Wilks  treat  any  sort  of  restraint  or  supervision  of  vivisection  not 
only  as  unnecessary  in  itself,  but  as  a  slur  on  an  honourable  class.  The 
same  two  objections  figured  to  some  slight  extent  in  the  evidence  before 
the  Commission  in  1875,  though  there  the  general  disposition  was  very 
decidedly  to  welcome  some  kind  of  authoritative  control.  A  third 


AN  EPILOGUE  ON  VIVISECTION.  197 

objection,  that  State  control  would  be  unfairly  restrictive,  seems  to  have 
proved,  under  the  present  Act  at  least,  only  too  well-founded ;  but  the 
other  two,  which  naturally  go  together,  stand  on  a  very  different  footing. 
As  regards  necessity,  there  was  a  tolerable  consensus  that  if  certain 
things  were  true  which  the  Commissioners  held  were  proved  true,  legis- 
lation must  come ;  and  it  may  be  inferred  that  there  would  have  been 
even  more  unanimity  had  the  information  of  some  of  the  witnesses  been 
at  the  time  within  the  knowledge  of  all.  At  any  rate,  evidence  of 
plague-spots  particularly  likely  to  be  kept  out  of  sight,  cannot  be  affected 
by  the  fact  of  their  not  having  attracted  wide  attention.  The  Commis- 
sion, after  referring  to  grosser  abuses  (which  they  trusted  were  abnormal, 
though  admitting  here  the  almost  insuperable  obstacles  to  obtaining 
evidence),  reported  that  there  were  other  cases  "in  which  carelessness  and 
indifference  prevail  to  an  extent  sufficient  to  form  a  ground  for  legislative 
interference."  It  is  to  be  presumed  that  Professor  Owen  had  not  recently 
perused  this  page  of  the  report  when  he  wrote  of  "  the  failure  of  a  Royal 
Commission  to  obtain  evidence  of  the  abuse  of  physiological  vivisection 
in  Great  Britain."  In  the  face  of  such  evidence,  to  speak  of  interference 
as  a  slur  would  be  to  imply  a  bond  of  scientific  esprit  de  corps  with  the 
clumsiest  injurers  of  science.  This  sort  of  objection  goes  rather  to  show 
that  the  recognition  of  the  rights  of  animals  is  still  even  in  England 
rather  instinct  than  principle  :  no  one  thinks  it  a  slur  in  any  business 
where  there  is  danger  of  unwarranted  injury  to  human  frames  that  con- 
trol should  be  exercised  :  no  one  takes  umbrage  at  doctors'  licences,  or  at 
the  Anatomy  or  the  Factory  Acts.  The  sore  point  in  the  present  case 
seems  really  to  be  the  old  subject  of  sport,  whose  unchartered  freedom 
not  unnaturally  keeps  up  by  comparison  a  perpetual  sense  of  ill-usage. 
Valid  reasons  might,  however,  be  found  for  postponing  that  subject  to  the 
other,  though,  in  a  Legislature  which  deserts  business  for  Epsom,  these  are 
of  course  not  the  reasons  for  which  it  is  postponed.  For  in  the  first 
place,  the  possible  degree  of  suffering,  as  opposed  to  the  mere  number  of 
sufferers,  must  again  be  remembered ;  and  British  abuses  need  not  ne- 
cessarily be  less  extreme  than  Continental  because  far  rarer.  And  in  the 
second  place,  abuses  in  sport  and  in  the  capture  of  wild  animals  may  at 
least  be  expected  to  decrease  (as  they  have  actually  done)  by  the  natural 
development  of  humanity, — being  due  to  stupidity  and  ignorance,  and 
exposed  to  the  full  influence  of  public  opinion ;  while  any  abuse  of  the 
other  sort  is  necessarily  a  private,  at  the  worst  even  a  hole-and-corner 
business,  far  more  demoralising  in  its  deliberateness  and  secrecy ;  and 
the  particular  curiosity  and  power  which  join  to  produce  the  danger  in 
the  lowest  stratum  of  the  student-world  are  inherent  in  the  particular 
education.  Legislation  here  is  more  than  a  barrier  :  it  is  a  nucleus 
round  which  nascent  moral  instinct  may  develop. 

I  should  be  sorry  to  seem  to  fail  in  sympathy  with  high-minded  men 
who  find  a  useful  career  checked  for  the  moment  by  unreasonable  re- 
strictions, and  themselves  the  objects  of  a  clamour  which  on  such  a  subject 


198  AN  EPILOGUE  ON  VIVISECTION. 

is  specially  easy  to  invoke,  and  in  which  ignorance  plays  a  large  (though 
as  we  have  seen  not  the  only)  part.  But  the  opportunity  of  December 
was  a  peculiarly  good  one ;  no  such  widely-read  defence  of  experimental 
physiology  is  likely  to  appear  for  years  to  come  ;  and  it  is  impossible  not 
to  regret  that  some  of  the  space  occupied  with  the  rebutting  of  slurs,  and 
with  sarcasms  about  the  follies  of  peers  and  prelates,  was  not  devoted  to 
more  practical  topics.  The  matter  will  be  finally  settled,  not  by  names 
and  authorities,  but  by  instruction ;  and  for  this  the  state  of  the  public 
mind  gives  ample  scope. 

For  example,  it  is  easy  to  trace  a  widely  diffused  impression  that 
even  in  this  country  anaesthetics  are  seldom  or  imperfectly  adminis- 
tered. When  examined,  the  case  here  will  be  found  to  rest  almost  entirely 
on  the  shoulders  of  a  single  witness,  whose  words  must  now  have  been 
quoted  many  hundreds  of  times ;  his  statement  being  that  complete  anaes- 
thesia is  seldom  attempted,  owing  to  the  difficulty  of  producing  it,  and 
that  if  produced,  it  "  only  lasts  for  at  most  a  minute  or  two."  Would 
it  not,  then,  be  well  worth  while  to  point  out  in  detail  how  little  this 
can  weigh  against  the  evidence  of  expert  after  expert  that  complete 
anaesthesia  is  producible  and  habitually  produced  with  perfect  ease,  and 
that  it  can  be  kept  up  for  hours  at  a  time,  and  was  so  kept  up,  e.g.  in  a 
long  experiment,  in  which  the  adverse  witness  declared  its  use  im- 
possible ?  *  The  only  difficulty  has  been  sometimes  to  prevent  its  passing 
on  into  death ;  and  this  has  been  assumed  to  mean  that  it  is  not  com- 
plete— an  assumption  of  just  enough  plausibility  to  deserve  the  very  few 
words  which  would  show  its  groundlessness.  Then  again,  so  long  as 
the  distinction  is  kept  clear  between  what  is  defended  and  what  is  inde- 
fensible— a  condition  as  much  of  good  faith  as  of  good  policy — there  can 
be  nothing  but  advantage  in  pointing  out  the  true  nature  of  certain  ex- 
periments which,  as  ordinarily  described,  are  calculated  to  strike  the  lay 
mind  as  quite  other  than  they  are.  The  pain  of  burning,  for  instance, 
known  by  all  to  be  excruciating,  is  so  through  its  destructive  effect  on  the 
surface-tissues  of  the  body.  Now  to  produce  this  effect  on  the  external 
tissues,  the  temperature  must  be  very  much  higher  than  the  maximum 
internal  temperature  compatible  with  life.  This  latter  differs  greatly 
for  different  animals,  and  is  much  lower,  for  example,  for  a  frog  than  for 
a  man.  It  follows  that  if  a  frog  were  kept  in  water  which  would  be  of 
quite  bearable  heat  for  a  man,  and  its  internal  temperature  thus  raised, 
it  would  rapidly  die ;  but  to  describe  it  as  "  boiled  to  death  "  would  be 
wholly  incorrect ;  since  the  phrase  would  suggest  the  well-known  action 
of  boiling  water  on  the  surface-tissues,  which,  together  with  the  pain  it 
entails,  would  in  the  supposed  case  have  no  existence.  There  would  be 
no  object  now  in  making  this  experiment,  but  it  serves  as  an  illustration. 
Similar  remarks  apply  to  the  "  baking  alive "  of  which  a  great  deal  has 

*  See  Answers  2205,  3383-6,  4334-7  and  5737-9  in  the  Eeport  of  the  Commis- 
sion, and  compare  5777-8  with  3454-7. 


AN  EPILOGUE  ON  VIVISECTION.  199 

been  made.  The  experiments  in  this  case  again  were  not  such  as  need 
to  be  repeated ;  but  the  actual  mode  of  death  was  certainly  not  excep- 
tionally painful.  The  animals  here  being  warm-blooded,  and  the  sur- 
rounding medium  not  water  but  air,  the  temperature  was  much  higher 
than  in  the  above  case  of  the  frog ;  but  it  was  considerably  under  the 
260°  Fahr.  which  men  have  endured  for  many  minutes  with  perfect 
impunity,  and  not  nearly  sufficiently  high  to  char  or  blister  the  surface- 
tissues.  The  stages  of  death  were  faintness  and  exhaustion,  passing  on 
into  coma,  and  finally  some  convulsive  movements.  What  this  means, 
as  compared  with  "  baking  alive,"  anyone  can  judge  by  imagining  his 
own  state  of  mind  if,  after  he  had  been  condemned  to  the  one,  his  sen- 
tence were  suddenly  changed  to  the  other.  Again  :  knowledge  once 
gained  does  not  need  to  be  re-established ;  and  it  may  be  said  as  a  rule 
that  the  earlier  and  more  salient  facts  of  physiology  are  those  requiring 
the  roughest  experimental  methods.  Even  apart  from  the  change  of 
chai'acter  wrought  by  anaesthetics,  ample  testimony  has  been  given  to 
the  diminution  of  the  need  for  the  severer  sorts  of  operations,  parallel 
with  the  increasing  organisation  of  facts ;  and  it  is  hard  even  to 
imagine  any  object  now  for  experiments  at  all  comparable  to  Bell's  on 
recurrent  sensibility.  The  pain  of  toxicological  experiments  is  almost 
invariably  short ;  and  the  distress  of  induced  diseases,  not  more  painful 
than  those  by  which  we  expect  that  the  majority  of  ourselves  will  die, 
cannot  weigh  for  a  moment  against  the  expected  benefits  both  to  men 
and  animals,  in  the  dawn  of  which  Pasteur's  contemporaries  may  be 
proud  to  live. 

These  examples  may  suggest  the  sort  of  facts  which  cannot  be  too 
often  repeated,  or  too  carefully  explained,  and  which  are  ten  times  more 
convincing  to  a  layman  than  the  most  imposing  array  of  testimonials  to 
character  or  of  ex  cathedrd  judgments.  But  I  do  not  believe  that  even 
the  best  instructors  can  exercise  their  legitimate  influence  on  popular 
opinion,  or  meet  opposition  in  a  really  effective  way,  without  paying 
more  heed  to  the  bearings  of  the  various  points  before  discussed — points 
which,  obvious  enough,  and  coming  with  no  force  at  all  from  me,  only 
need  to  be  fully  and  fairly  recognised  by  them  to  make  the  future  of 
English  physiology  secure. 

EDMUND  GUKNEY. 


200 


Sathl  j&tofc  xjf  tju  Jjdrrttos  Cto0  Cmtuws  §,0,0. 


THE  aim  of  this  paper  is  to  give  a  few  sketches  of  the  strange  social  state 
of  the  Highlands  and  Isles  at  the  date  of  the  Union.  The  sketches  are 
taken  from  a  somewhat  searching  study  of  material  unearthed  within 
the  past  few  years  at  various  spots  along  the  western  seaboard,  and  may 
be  accepted  as  true  or  only  too  real. 

The  first  thing  that  impresses  the  student  of  the  state  of  society  in 
the  Isles  at  that  period  is  the  remarkable  excess  to  which  whisky-drink- 
ing was  carried  by  nearly  all  classes.  Mr.  Martin,  a  native  of  Skye, 
and  a  staunch  advocate  of  Highland  virtues,  made  a  tour  through  the 
Hebrides  and  out  as  far  as  St.  Kilda  shortly  after  the  revolution.  He 
found  various  kinds  of  whisky.  There  was  the  ordinary  Usquebaugh, 
which  the  well-seasoned  Hebrideans  could  drink  in  large  quantities 
without  much  apparent  harm  ;  there  was  a  very  fiery  spirit  called 
Freslerig,  or  whisky  three  times  distilled ;  and,  much  stronger  than 
either,  there  was  a  third  kind,  known  as  Usquebaugh  baul,  of  which  two 
spoonfuls  would  stagger  the  most  creditable  toper.  To  an  ordinary 
tippler  a  glass  of  this  spirit  meant  instant  death.  In  those  days  whisky 
was  made  from  potatoes  and  heather  as  well  as  from  barley.  A  great 
deal  of  it  was  manufactured  at  home ;  it  was  hot,  coarse,  and  raw,  and 
all  who  could  afford  it  drank  deeply.  Sunday  was  the  great  day  of  riot 
and  debauch,  in  spite  of  the  most  strenuous  efforts  of  the  Kirk  and  the 
Kirk  Sessions.  Nothing  was  more  repugnant  to  the  people  than  the  long 
Presbyterian  services  introduced  in  the  reign  of  Dutch  "William,  and  they 
evaded  them  in  every  possible  way.  To  the  minister  and  his  office- 
bearers they  pled  all  sorts  of  excuses,  or  they  tried  to  baffle  them  in 
every  conceivable  way.  The  chief  mode  of  spending  Sunday  was  to  con- 
gregate in  little  country  public-houses,  or  wayside  shebeens,  of  which 
there  was  a  large  number  in  nearly  every  parish,  and  there  to  riot  and 
amuse  themselves  over  the  forbidden  cup.  In  the  records  of  several 
parishes  I  find  that  the  authorities  tried  hard  to  check  these  disgraceful 
practices.  Sometimes  they  went  in  couples  through  the  clachan  or 
hamlet,  during  the  stated  hours  of  service,  taking  note  of  all  whom  they 
found  lurking  in  the  drinking  bothies ;  sometimes  the  beadle  was  de- 
puted to  watch  the  notorious  drunkards ;  and  when  the  people  pled  the 
distance  from  church  and  the  means  of  grace,  the  elders  were  appointed 
to  gather  them  into  barns  and  read  the  Bible  to  them  whilst  the  minister 
was  preaching  in  the  parish  church.  But,  notwithstanding  the  vigilance 
of  the  beadle  and  the  stern  efforts  of  the  elders  to  keep  the  Sabbath  a  day 


THE  SOCIAL  STATE  OF  THE  HEBRIDES.  201 

of  serious  behaviour,  the  people,  in  spite  of  fines,  mulcts,  juggs,  canvas 
sheets,  and  pointed  reproofs  from  the  pulpit,  held  by  their  wild  drinking 
habits.  Even  great  religious  occasions  or  excitement — and  in  those 
days  great  wars  of  religious  excitement  or  revival  passed  over  the  land — 
only  stimulated  the  craving  of  the  people  for  strong  drink.  In  one  of 
the  local  records  I  got  an  account  of  a  great  Communion  season  which 
sprang  out  of  one  of  these  revivals,  and  which  lasted  altogether  five  days. 
The  messengers  who  went  to  the  nearest  town  for  the  elements,  i.e.  the 
bread  and  wine,  took  two  days  in  crossing  a  narrow  ferry,  and  had  to 
sleep  away  the  effects  of  deep  intoxication  at  both  sides  of  it.  On  the 
Monday  after  the  Communion  two  of  the  hearers  were  picked  up  dead 
drunk  near  the  preaching  tent,  where  they  had  fallen  down  on  the  pre- 
vious Lord's  day.  No  Highland  parish  is  better  known  to  the  general 
reader  than  that  now  ruled  over  by  the  High  Priest  of  Morven,  around 
which  the  robust  imagination  of  successive  generations  of  gigantic 
McLeods  has  cast  a  veil  of  charming  romance.  I  have  before  me  an 
unpublished  letter,  written  nearly  two  centuries  ago,  which  gives  rather 
a  ghastly  picture  of  the  state  of  the  parish — the  poorly  tilled  soil,  the 
squalid  huts  that  had  no  walls,  the  lean  features  of  the  peasantry,  and 
the  drunken  habits  of  the  lairds.  The  writer  was  well  educated,  the 
head  of  one  of  the  proudest  families  in  the  Western  Isles,  and  one  with 
the  oldest  and  most  genuine  pedigree.  He  and  his  party  started  from 
Oban  in  a  skiff  to  pay  some  visits  in  Morven  and  Mull.  The  first  land- 
ing place  was  Kinlochalim,  then  a  place  of  some  note,  for  it  had  not  yet 
become  a  cave  of  Adullam  for  the  outcast  of  the  neighbouring  clans. 
As  the  party  had  mounted  with  the  intention  of  riding  up  the  country, 
they  were  greeted  with  tremendous  bellowing  from  a  neighbouring 
whisky-shop,  out  of  which  four  gentlemen  of  good  position  in  the  district 
came  gloriously  full  at  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  The  gentlemen 
were  cursing  and  swearing  at  their  hardest ;  they  saluted  their  friends 
with  great  heartiness,  and  kicked  a  poor  "  Lazarus  of  a  smith  "  on  to  the 
nearest  refuse  heap  to  show  their  native  contempt  for  indoor  artisans. 
A  few  days  after  they  came  to  a  laird's  house,  where  a  kind  of  house- 
heating  was  to  take  place,  and  where  consequently  extra  hospitality  was 
shown.  They  sat  down  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  drank  on 
till  three  next  morning,  with  the  result  that  of  the  gentlemen  three  were 
barbarously  drunk,  three  more  in  a  tipsy  maudlin  state,  and  two,  of 
whom  the  writer  professed  to  be  one,  moderately  sober.  They  were 
carried  to  sleep  on  the  floor  of  the  barn,  and  the  ladies,  more  than  half-a- 
dozen,  slept  upon  the  floor  of  the  room  where  this  heavy  carousal  had 
been  going  on  for  eleven  hours  on  end. 

I  find  traces  of  another  singular  drinking  custom  lingering  after  the 
Union.  When  leagues  of  friendship  were  formed  between  families  or 
between  neighbouring  septs,  the  treaty  was  ratified  by  the  contracting 
parties  drinking  a  drop  of  each  other's  blood  drawn  from  the  little  finger. 
To  drink  blood  warm  from  the  animal  or  after  it  had  coagulated  was  not 


202  THE  SOCIAL  STATE  OE  THE  HEBRIDES 

considered  nauseous.  In  times  of  famine  the  cattle,  poor  and  lean  as 
they  were,  were  largely  bled,  and  their  blood  made  an  article  of  food  by 
the  starving  natives.  Phlebotomy  was  considered  a  cure  for  all  ailments, 
physical  and  mental.  Man  and  beast  were  regularly  bled  on  the  Sundays 
at  the  little  roadside  shebeens.  Even  as  late  as  the  time  of  Pennant  the 
Duke  of  Hamilton  employed  a  doctor  to  go  round  the  island  of  Arran 
and  bleed  the  people  of  each  duchan  twice  a  year  into  pits  dug  in  the 
ground. 

Some  of  the  Hebridean  customs  two  centuries  ago  were  very  pictu- 
resque. Chief  among  these  was  the  ceremony  of  marriage.  Some  of  the 
proceedings  that  heralded  the  event  cannot  now  be  quoted.  The  wedding 
itself  was  a  very  great  affair,  as  it  always  has  been  in  mountainous 
countries.  It  was  marked  by  a  prodigality  of  expense,  and  was  the 
occasion  of  much  genuine  joy.  All  the  oldest  ballads  give  a  wedding 
feast  of  at  least  some  days.  All  the  relatives  down  to  the  fourteenth 
cousin,  and  the  neighbours,  with  at  least  three  hamlets  or  glens,  were 
invited ;  the  wild  Highland  dances,  inspired  by  mirth  and  strong  spirits, 
went  round ;  all  the  pipers  within  reach  assisted ;  the  young  couple  were 
disposed  of,  and  merrymaking  went  on  until  many  of  the  festive  party 
vanished  in  utter  powerlessness.  The  oldest  Session  records  abundantly 
prove  that  these  festivals  and  days  of  rejoicing  were  frequently  the  occa- 
sion of  various  excesses.  The  marriage  tie  was  not  always  held  sacred, 
and  purity  of  life  was  rather  the  exception.  The  old  laws  of  divorce 
were  singular  enough.  To  the  church  of  Kilktvan  there  is  a  tradition 
attached  which  illustrates  a  phase  of  the  practice.  The  patron  saint  gave 
all  ill-assorted  couples  yearly  the  chance  of  escaping  blindfold  from  their 
bonds  and  getting  a  substitute.  Whether  or  not  this  tradition  represents 
a  fact,  it  is  certain  that  more  absurd  customs  prevailed  throughout  the 
Isles. 

Martin,  when  giving  an  account  of  the  small  outer  isles  belonging  to 
McNeill  of  Barra,  states  that  when  a  tenant's  wife  died,  either  on  Barra 
or  on  any  of  the  adjacent  isles,  the  tenant  addressed  himself  to  the  McNeill, 
representing  his  loss,  and  at  the  same  time  desiring  that  he  would  be 
pleased  to  recommend  a  wife  to  him  to  manage  his  affairs.  The  chief 
found  a  suitable  partner  for  his  clansman,  and  as  soon  as  the  widower 
got  her  name  he  proceeded  to  her  residence,  carrying  a  bottle  of  strong 
whisky  with  him,  and  the  marriage  was  consummated  without  much 
further  delay  or  ceremony.  So,  also,  the  disconsolate  widow  hurried  to 
her  chief,  McNeill  of  Barra,  and  he  speedily  found  a  suitable  successor 
to  the  departed.  McNeill,  however,  was  more  than  usually  patriarchal, 
and  appears  to  have  done  everything  for  everybody  on  his  vast  estates. 
Another  incident  related  by  Martin  illustrates  a  very  curious  phase  of 
social  life.  An  islander,  who  was  looking  out  for  a  wife,  happened  to 
receive  a  shilling,  which  he  supposed  was  a  coin  of  extraordinary  value, 
from  a  shipwrecked  seaman.  He  went  straightway  with  his  precious 
treasure  to  Mr.  Morrison,  the  parish  minister,  and  requested  him  on  his 


TWO   CENTUEIES  AGO.  203 

next  visit  to  Lewis  to  buy  a  wife  with  the  money,  and  bring  her  home 
to  him.  The  idea  of  wife-purchase  has  long  since  died  out  amongst  the 
Hebrideans,  but  that  of  the  inferiority  of  woman  still  survives.  She  is 
still  in  several  islands  the  ordinary  beast  of  burden,  and  the  general  slave 
of  her  lord  and  master. 

Captain  Burt,  who  wrote  in  the  blunt  style  of  the  English  soldier, 
gives  a  picture  of  the  state  of  Highland  society  that  agrees  in  all  essentials 
with  the  above  sketches.  According  to  him,  in  the  inland  parts  of  the 
North  women  did  nearly  all  the  hard  work,  and  were  the  common  carriers 
of  the  day.  A  person  who  was  a  gentleman  by  birth  and  descent — in 
other  words,  who  could  claim  something  like  a  fortieth  cousinship  with 
the  chief  of  the  clan — would  not  condescend  to  turn  his  hand  to  anything, 
or  do  any  kind  of  manual  labour.  His  idea  of  aristocratic  life  was  total 
abstinence  from  toil.  But  all  the  while  he  allowed  his  wife  and  daughters 
to  toil  away  like  slaves,  and  felt  their  slaving  to  reflect  no  discredit  upon 
himself.  A  French  officer,  travelling  through  Inverness-shire  on  a  recruit- 
ing expedition,  met  one  of  these  mighty  gentlemen  marching  in  a  lordly 
manner,  in  a  good  pair  of  brogues,  whilst  his  wife  was  trudging  barefoot 
some  distance  behind  him.  The  irate  Frenchman,  in  his  gallantry, 
leaped  off  his  horse,  and  compelled  the  man  of  long  descent  to  take  off 
his  brogues,  and  his  wife  to  put  them  on. 

The  poverty  was  very  great.  Along  with  poverty  there  was  much 
coarseness  in  living  and  rampant  immorality,  in  spite  of  the  persistent 
displeasure  of  the  kirk.  Children  were  fearfully  neglected  in  all  ranks 
of  society  from  their  birth  upwards,  and  the  law  of  the  survival  of  the 
fittest  was  allowed  to  have  full  and  free  scope.  When  a  small  tenant's 
wife  had  twins  in  the  Outer  Hebrides,  the  laird  took  one  of  them  to  be 
brought  up  in  his  family,  and  I  have  found  traces  of  as  many  as  sixteen 
or  twenty  of  these  twins  living  under  the  same  roof  at  the  same  time. 
Servant-girls  slept  in  the  byre  with  the  cows.  Some  of  them  took  off 
their  clothes  only  when  they  went  into  rags,  though  frequently,  as  Burfc 
significantly  states,  a  change  of  dress  occasionally  would  be  a  gain  in  the 
public  interest.  Plebeian  girls  of  every  grade,  though  in  some  respects 
thoroughly  moral,  rose  in  general  esteem  and  in  the  public  opinion  of 
their  social  circle  if  they  were  fortunate  enough  in  having  attracted  the 
illicit  attentions  of  the  laird  or  a  gentleman,  as  that  gave  them  a  sort  of 
relationship  with  the  local  aristocracy.  Such  was  one  of  the  distortions 
of  custom.  Even  the  lairds  and  their  wives  were  so  poor  that  frequently 
the  latter  had  to  go  barefoot,  and  that  the  former,  in  spite  of  their  lofty 
hereditary  notions,  had  to  make  a  very  sorry  appearance  in  public. 
Comfort  was  seldom  studied.  In  some  of  the  Isles  it  was  customary  to 
cook  the  mutton  in  the  skin  for  want  of  a  more  suitable  cooking  .vessel. 
Towards  the  end  of  spring,  the  season  of  direst  hardship,  when  often  the 
lean  cattle  were  so  weak  that  they  could  not  rise  or  stand  upright,  the 
emaciated  people  were  known  to  live  upon  a  little  oatmeal  mixed  with 
blood  drawn  from  those  exhausted  beasts  ;  and  though  there  was  plenty 


204  THE  SOCIAL  STATE  OF  THE  HEBRIDES. 

of  fish  in  the  sea  and  trout  in  the  lakes,  the  inhabitants  were  so  poor  and 
so  thriftless  that  they  had  not  proper  tackle  or  sufficient  energy  to  catch 
them.  Potatoes  were  scarce.  Crops  of  all  kinds  were  thin  and  poor, 
and  the  landlords  very  often  took  their  rents  in  kind  because  they  could 
get  it  in  no  other  way.  Field  labourers  suffered  most.  Owing  to  the 
want  of  skill  in  husbandry,  the  poverty  of  the  soil,  or  the  coldness  of 
the  season,  the  crops  frequently  did  not  ripen,  and  the  barley  had  to  be 
cut  down  green  and  grainless.  Sometimes  money  was  refused  by  the 
starving  poor  because  they  could  do  nothing  with  it. 

It  is  hard  to  say  whether  the  picture  given  in  books  of  travel  or 
that  taken  from  the  local  records  was  the  more  dreadful.  The  huts  or 
dwellings  of  the  common  people  were  so  small  and  so  ill-built,  that  the 
worst  Connemara  cabins  are  palaces  compared  to  them.  Few  of  them 
had  glass  windows ;  and  as  a  hole  in  the  low  roof  was  the  only  chimney, 
the  smoke  could  not  find  egress.  In  winter,  in  the  absence  of  amusements, 
the  poorer  cottiers  crouched  over  the  fire  till  their  legs  were  scorched 
and  they  themselves  were  as  black  as  sweeps.  When  a  flock  of  bottle- 
nosed  whales  were  driven  ashore  on  one  of  the  long  sandy  bays  of  Tiree, 
the  peasantry  took  them  and  devoured  them  speedily.  Famine  and 
starvation  thinned  the  population  periodically.  When  fever  or  small -pox 
came  over  the  islands,  it  swept  away  whole  villages.  The  people,  in 
their  ignorance,  were  either  in  mortal  dread  of  epidemics  or  indifferent. 
Hence  out  of  sheer  physical  weakness,  or  in  absolute  despair,  they  took 
to  drink  whenever  drink  could  be  obtained.  Their  dwellings  and  the 
squalor  of  their  surroundings  depressed  them.  Burt,  who  had  an  Eng- 
lish charger,  when  travelling  on  duty,  frequently  found  *the  stable-door 
too  small  to  admit  his  steed  ;  and  then  a  part  of  the  roof  was  removed 
and  the  animal  put  under  shelter.  At  a  little  roadside  inn  he  tried  to 
make  his  quarters  more  comfortable  by  stuffing  handfuls  of  straw  in  the 
holes  to  keep  out  the  snow ;  but  no  sooner  did  the  cows,  which  were 
taking  shelter  around  the  house,  see  the  straw  than  they  pulled  it  out 
and  consumed  it. 

The  state  of  the  tillage  was  very  primitive.  It  must  be  remembered 
that  there  were  no  roads  and  no  bridges  in  the  Isles  at  the  period  under 
review.  A  rough  sledge,  or  a  couple  of  reeds  slung  across  the  horse's 
back,  was  the  most  advanced  kind  of  carriage ;  horse  harness  was  made 
of  straw,  and  the  best  ropes  of  heather  or  horse-hair;  men  did  the  plough- 
ing, and  the  harrow,  whenever  used,  was  attached  to  the  horse's  tail. 
In  fact,  the  ploughing,  then  done  by  a  bent  implement  called  the  las- 
crow,  which  a  man  pushed  with  his  foot,  was  a  mere  scratching  of  the 
surface  of  the  field.  The  corn  was  dried  on  a  homely  kiln,  and  ground 
by  an  old  woman  generally  between  two  stones  called  a  quern. 

A  great  part  of  the  population  in  several  parishes  were  virtually 
paupers ;  vagrants  wandered  over  the  land ;  and  in  the  districts  near 
the  borderland  there  was  a  regular  stream  at  certain  times  of  the  year 
going  or  returning  from  the  rich  begging-ground  of  the  South.  The 


TWO   CENTURIES  AGO.  205 

Kirk  Sessions  and  the  Presbyteries  tried  hard  to  stop  this  vagrancy  and 
to  encourage  all  the  able-bodied  to  work,  but  with  no  great  success.  In 
the  densely  peopled  parish  of  Kilmun  and  Dunoon  the  authorities  found 
that,  with  a  decreasing  population  and  decreasing  finances,  the  number 
of  paupers  on  their  hands  was  so  large  that  they  could  not  afford  a  coffin 
to  each,  on  however  cheap  a  scale  the  coffin  was  made.  The  church- 
door  collections  were  very  small,  and  the  number  of  paupers  that  came 
upon  the  parish  for  burial  was  very  great.  Therefore  the  Session  got  a 
local  carpenter  to  make  a  strong  wooden  coffin  for  the  use  of  the  parish, 
and  in  this  the  remains  of  many  a  wretch  were  sent  to  their  last  resting- 
place. 

With  such  poverty  overrunning  the  land,  and  amidst  so  great  igno- 
rance, we  might  expect  that  pestilence  would  periodically  carry  away 
multitudes  of  the  people.  The  Isles  in  those  days  were  practically  be- 
yond the  sway  of  the  Government ;  and  it  was  only  during  last  century 
that  the  Imperial  Parliament  went  to  the  aid  of  the  starving  people. 
The  fact  is,  that  the  country  was  over-peopled  as  well  as  under-tilled, 
and  that  misery  of  many  kinds  was  chronic.  Disease  was  often  at  the 
door,  and  the  Hebrideans  had  a  regular  system  of  home-grown  medical 
treatment.  For  small- pox,  there  a  dreadful  scourge,  they  had  really  no 
cure.  The  general  treatment  was  blood-letting.  For  a  troublesome 
brochan,  a  kind  of  thin  gruel,  taken  in  large  quantities,  and  as  hot  as  it 
could  be  rendered,  was  the  common  remedy.  Roots  of  nettles,  boiled 
down,  gave  a  kind  of  medicine  that  was  used  as  a  tonic.  If  the  uvula 
became  enlarged,  or  fell  down,  they  cut  it  dexterously  with  a  horse-hair, 
which  was  twisted  round  it.  For  the  jaundice,  they  had  several  reme- 
dies, of  which  one  was  this  :  the  patient  was  made  to  lie  flat  on  the 
ground,  then  the  tongs  or  a  bar  of  iron  was  made  red-hot  and  gently 
applied  upwards  to  the  patient's  back,  till  he  got  into  a  great  fright  and 
rushed  furiously  out  of  doors  under  the  impression  that  he  was  being 
burnt.  The  shock  often  gave  him  the  turn,  it  was  supposed.  A  cure 
used  for  catarrh  or  inflammation  of  the  lungs  was  perhaps  more 
in  the  line  of  modern  therapeutics.  The  patient  was  made  to  walk 
out  into  the  sea  up  to  his  middle,  with  his  clothes  on,  and  imme- 
diately afterwards  to  go  to  bed  without  taking  them  off.  Then,  by  put- 
ting the  bedclothes  over  his  head,  he  frequently  succeeded  in  procuring 
copious  perspiration,  and  the  "  distemper  was  cured."  In  the  beautiful 
parish  of  Kilmartin,  which  contains  the  grave  of  many  a  nameless  king 
and  chief,  there  lived  at  the  time  of  the  Union  a  blacksmith,  who  had 
a  wide  reputation  in  his  skill  for  curing  every  phase  of  faintness  of  spirits 
or  nervous  complaints.  He  was  a  man  of  singular  muscular  power  and 
singular  command  over  his  arms.  He  placed  the  nervous  patient  on« 
the  anvil  with  his  face  uppermost ;  he  then  took  his  big  hammer  in  both 
his  hands  and  approached  the  sufferer  with  a  ferocious  aspect,  as  if  to- 
murder  him  with  one  blow  ;  and  the  shock  completely  restored  the- 
shattered  nervous  system  ! 


206  THE  SOCIAL  STATE  OF  THE  HEBRIDES 

"We  can  easily  understand  how  a  people  crushed  down  for  centuries, 
and  facing  perpetual  poverty  as  the  peasantry  of  the  Hebrides  were, 
would  become  the  prey  of  all  sorts  of  quacks,  and  would  have  to  pay  the 
penalty  due  to  their  credulity.  Bone-setters  were  numerous  amongst 
them,  and  appear  to  have  had  a  good  practice.  Herbalists  flourished, 
and  were  trusted.  Many  of  them,  no  doubt,  performed  their  cures, 
though  they  resorted  to  mysterious  proceedings,  through  their  superior 
knowledge  of  roots  and  herbs.  Frequently,  as  in  the  case  of  the  famous 
Neil  Beaton,  they  were  supposed  to  effect  their  cures  through  a  compact 
with  the  Devil,  rather  than  from  the  virtues  of  their  samples,  when  in 
reality  they  derived  their  medical  knowledge  from  their  forefathers.  Some- 
times a  knowledge  of  medicine  was  hereditary,  like  the  gift  of  poesy  or  of 
second  sight.  But  the  people  believed  in  the  personality  and  power  of  the 
Devil  notwithstanding,  and  when  all  lawful  or  recognised  means  failed, 
to  the  Devil  they  were  prepared  to  go  for  cure,  help,  or  deliverance. 
Hence  all  the  oldest  records  reveal  an  extraordinary  contest  between 
the  Kirk  on  the  one  hand  and  the  various  emissaries  of  Satan  on  the 
other.  We  are  dealing  with  a  period  when  belief  in  witchcraft  was  quite 
common,  and  when  those  suspected  of  trafficking  with  the  Devil  were 
put  to  death  by  burning  on  the  ordinary  Gallows-hill.  Death,  almost 
everywhere  the  King  of  Terrors,  was  made  very  horrid  in  the  Hebrides 
through  the  extraordinary  system  of  belief,  worked  up  by  the  prophets 
of  the  second  sight.  In  every  parish  there  was  at  least  one  person  who 
lived  by  performing  cures  by  means  of  charming.  Children  who  died 
unbaptized  were  supposed  to  be  doomed  to  eternal  torments ;  and  evil 
spirits  of  various  kinds  were  supposed  to  watch  over  helpless  infancy  to 
do  it  some  harm.  Some  of  the  records  swarm  with  curious  cases  of 
charming  and  trafficking  with  Satan.  Those  convicted  of  these  crimes 
were  severely  punished.  In  some  parishes  the  law  was  strong ;  offenders 
were  put  into  the  jugg  and  severely  flogged  at  the  church  door  every  Sab- 
bath till  they  left  the  locality ;  sometimes  they  were  handed  over  to  the 
civil  magistrate  to  be  fined ;  and  in  every  case  they  were  rebuked  from  the 
pulpit.  But  in  the  remote  parishes  there  was  little  law  and  scarcely 
any  authority  except  what  centred  in  the  laird,  or  chief,  and  he  did  not 
really  care  much  for  the  new-fangled  stringency  of  the  Presbyterian 
clergy. 

The  professional  bards  are  nowhere  highly  esteemed.  Before  the  time 
of  the  Union  they  had  come  down  very  much  in  public  opinion,  if,  indeed, 
they  ever  did  hold  a  high  place,  through  their  insolence  and  overbearing 
pride,  their  laziness  and  lofty  pretensions.  The  bard,  in  fact,  was  the 
laird's  tutor  or  genealogist,  who  sang  fulsome  lyrics  as  an  opiate  to  send 
the  great  man  to  sleep,  or  who  was  expected  to  keep  up  his  credit 
through  the  exercise  of  liberal  poetic  licence,  or  even  more  reprehensible 
means.  He  claimed,  and  as  a  rule  received,  considerable  attention  and 
honour ;  but  when  insulted  by  his  chief  he  could  very  well  pocket  his 
dignity,  as  happened  once  in  the  presence  of  Captain  Burt,  when  the 


TWO  CENTURIES  AGO.  207 

man  of  song  was  requested  by  the  chief  to  sit  down  below  the  salt 
amongst  a  parcel  of  dirty  retainers  over  a  cup  of  ale ;  and  when,  instead 
of  resenting  the  insult,  he  sang  readily  several  hoarse  stanzas  so  favour- 
able to  his  chief,  that  the  latter  exclaimed  that  there  was  nothing  so 
good  in  "Virgil  or  Homer. 

However  pressing  the  poverty  around  might  have  been,  and  however 
hard  up  the  chiefs  were,  they  liked  to  keep  the  semblance  of  power  after 
the  reality  had  passed  away  from  their  hands,  and  to  make  a  great  dis- 
play both  at  home  and  abroad.  Hence  they  kept  an  inordinate  number 
of  idle  attendants,  who  were  very  insolent  towards  the  poorer  section 
of  the  peasantry.  When  the  chief  went  a  journey,  he  marched  in 
ridiculous  state,  attended  by  such  officers,  as  his  henchmen,  who  fought 
his  quarrels,  and  were  always  near  him  as  a  trusty  support  and 
guide ;  the  bard,  who  sung  his  personal  valour  and  the  purity  of  his  long 
descent ;  his  spokesman,  who  expressed  his  sentiments,  sometimes  when 
they  did  not  exist ;  his  sword-bearer,  his  Gittie-Casfluie,  who  carried  him 
across  streams  and  over  marshes ;  the  Gillie-Coushaine,  who  led  his 
horse  over  rugged  or  dangerous  ground ;  the  piper,  who  was  always  a 
gentleman  by  birth,  and  who  in  his  turn  required  a  gillie  to  carry  his 
pipes ;  as  well  as  by  a  nondescript  multitude  of  lazy  rascals  who  somehow 
contrived  to  form  part  of  the  train,  and  to  partake  of  the  good  cheer  that 
awaited  him.  wherever  he  paid  visits.  And  as  the  chiefs  and  the  leading 
men  of  the  Isles  were  fond  of  paying  each  other  visits,  the  poor  re- 
sources of  a  country  which  prized  hospitality  above  all  the  Hebrew  com- 
mandments were  pretty  well  eaten  up ;  and  the  retainers,  who  always 
assumed  the  airs  of  spoiled  menials,  were  seldom  very  welcome  to  the 
peasantry.  The  piper,  especially,  with  his  upright  attitude,  his  tinsel 
pomp,  his  haughty  airs,  and  his  majestic  step,  was  regarded  as  a  most 
objectionable  personage,  far  more  difficult  to  please  than  the  genuine  head 
of  the  tribe.  He  looked  upon  himself  as  the  most  talented  of  musicians, 
and  he  was  never  very  gracious  to  the  claims  of  rivals  or  more  youthful 
aspirants.  This  narrow  conceit  was  not  confined  to  the  piper.  An  ac- 
count of  the  countiy  by  one  of  its  natives  was,  it  is  said,  even  then  like 
a  Gascon's  picture  of  himself,  strongly  and  highly  coloured,  but  not  his- 
torically accurate.  In  spite  of  the  prevailing  poverty,  and  the  misery 
consequent  on  the  semi-feudal  system,  which  kept  the  poor  down  almost 
in  slavery  and  neglected  the  resources  of  the  land,  all  classes,  and  most 
of  all  the  peasantry,  paid  blind  obedience  to  the  chiefs,  who  were 
treated  as  idols,  and  whose  blood  relations,  of  whatever  degree  and 
however  depraved,  were  treated  with  peculiar  respect.  Then,  as  now, 
it  was  usual  to  puff  Gaelic  as  the  most  expressive  and  the  most  co- 
pious of  all  languages,  the  sweetest  and  the  most  poetical,  as  well  as  un- 
questionably the  oldest,  to  boast  over  length  of  pedigree  and  the  un- 
paralleled virtues  of  the  race,  which  was  seriously  believed  in  the  islands 
to  be  the  first  in  the  arts  of  peace  and  war.  The  chieftains  had  a 
ludicrous  idea  of  their  own  grandeur  and  importance.  Their  followers 


208  THE  SOCIAL  STATE  OF  THE  HEBRIDES 

frequently  magnified  this,  as  when  McDonald  of  Keppoch  was  thought 
to  have  become  effeminate  when  he  took  a  snowball  for  his  pillow  on 
a  night  when  he  could  do  very  well  without  one. 

Though  the  power  of  the  chiefs  was  very  great,  a  ninny  or  a  fool  had 
little  chance  of  succeeding,  even  when  the  office  had  something  of  a 
hereditary  character.  For  every  heir  was  required  to  give  proof  of  his 
valour  before  succeeding,  or  before  he  was  allowed  to  lead  the  clan. 
This  proof  was  generally  given  in  a  raid  upon  some  hostile  clan,  or  upon 
the  Lowlands.  Such  a  raid  was  never  regarded  as  pure  robbery.  Indeed, 
at  the  date  under  review,  several  clans,  as  the  Cameixms  and  the  Mac- 
Donalds  and  theJMacGregors,  lived  by  theft  or  by  levying  blackmail  upon 
the  Lowlands,  whilst  within  their  own  borders  the  individual  members  of 
the  clan  were  scrupulously  honest.  It  is  surprising  how  very  slightly  theft 
figures  in  the  local  parish  records.  Breaches  of  the  seventh  commandment 
bristle  in  every  page,  and  offences  of  this  class  were  severely  punished. 
People  are  up  before  the  sessions  for  fighting,  brawling,  cursing  and 
swearing,  speaking  evil  of  dignities,  rioting  and  drunkenness,  idleness 
and  vagrancy.  The  laws  relating  to  Sabbath  observances  were  so  strict 
that  in  one  parish  in  1702,  or  five  years  before  the  Union,  a  poor 
woman  was  cited  and  punished  for  leading  home  one  of  her  sheep,  a 
man  who  gave  a  bundle  of  shorn  hay  to  his  cattle  was  heavily  fined,  a 
weaver  who  had  inadvertently  left  out  his  work  on  the  Sabbath  was 
made  to  do  penance  publicly,  a  farmer  was  punished  because  he  was 
overheard  speaking  of  some  secular  business,  and  a  number  of  boys  were 
flogged  because  they  were  discovered  "  hawking  a  bushie  byke,"  or 
digging  up  a  bees'  nest  on  the  Sabbath.  But  of  theft  and  the  penalties 
attached  to  it  we  hear  very  little.  The  explanation  is  either  that  the 
inhabitants  were  remarkably  honest,  or  that  theft  was  regarded  as 
scarcely  worthy  to  be  designated  a  punishable  offence.  In  reality, 
according  to  the  narrow  and  defective  standard  of  the  Isles  and  Highland 
glens  in  those  days,  a  very  subtle  distinction  was  drawn  between  appro- 
priating what  belonged  to  one's  kinsman,  friend,  or  countrymen,  and 
what  belonged  to  one's  natural  or  national  enemy.  Within  the  clan 
theft  was  severely  punished,  and  was  exceedingly  rare;  beyond  the 
borders  of  the  clan  it  was  a  very  meritorious  virtue.  The  same  dis- 
torted standard  ruled  other  parts  of  practical  morals.  If  loyalty  and 
fidelity  were  justly  regarded  as  virtues,  unfortunately  revenge  in  cer- 
tain cases  never  passed  for  a  heinous  vice.  Hundreds  of  instances 
might  be  given  of  assassins  being  employed  to  execute  revenge  stimu- 
lated by  private  hate  or  fancied  wrongs,  and  where  the  atrocity  thus 
displayed  seldom  brought  justice  down  upon  itself. 

It  must  in  fairness  be  admitted  that  in  this  respect  the  Hebridean 
or  Gaelic  conscience  was  a  very  unsafe  guide.  To  a  large  extent  true 
law  meant  revenge  with  the  unsophisticated  Highlander,  and  all  other 
law  was  a  foreign  imposition  that  received  only  very  slight  respect.  A 
story  is  told  of  a  widow  who  had  been  blessed  with  three  husbands  in 


TWO  CENTUKIES  AGO.  209 

siiccession,  and  Who,  when  asked  what  sort  of  men  the  deceased  had  been, 
replied  that  the  two  first  were  honest  men,  for  that  both  had  died  for  the 
law  (i.  c.  had  been  hanged  for  sheep-stealing),  whereas  the  third  was  a 
poor  creature  "  who  teid  at  hame  on  a  puckle  of  straw,  like  an  ould  tug." 
The  distinction  drawn  by  the  Gaelic  conscience  between  meum  and  tuum 
was,  that  thieving  on  a  small  scale  and  in  petty  things  within  the  clan 
was  highly  disreputable  and  dishonest,  but  that  wholesale  theft,  such  as 
cattle- lifting  from,  the  south  of  the  Grampians,  or  a  ship  wrecked  or  cast 
upon  the  coast  by  storms,  was  a  profession  highly  becoming  a  gentleman, 
and  in  full  accord  with  the  moral  law.  The  wretch  who  stole  a  cow  or 
a  sheep  was  a  common  thief;  he  who  soared  higher  and  hurried  past  the 
defile  with  a  hundred  was  a  gentleman  drover.  Ths  Lowlands  and  the 
East  Coast  clans  were  in  perpetual  conflict  with  these  veteran  freebooters, 
and  sometimes  tracked  the  lifted  cattle  into  the  fastnesses  of  Lochaber 
or  Glenorchy.  Sometimes  spies  and  experts  were  bribed  to  go  into  the 
suspected  country  and  gather  evidence  that  might  be  serviceable  against 
the  veterans.  But,  if  any  one  were  known  to  accept  the  reward  offered 
for  this  kind  of  information,  his  life  was  not  worth  a  single  day's  purchase. 
In  passing  to  give  a  sketch  of  the  second  sight,  the  most  extraor- 
dinary system  of  belief  ever  created  by  the  sensitive  Gaelic  imagination, 
I  may  give  one  or  two  curious  customs  which  partly  explain  it.  One  of 
these  meets  one  in  every  genuine  Hebridean  song  sung  by  a  true  islander. 
The  song  is  a  simple  but  wild  series  of  movements,  which  the  singers 
reproduce  in  the  sympathetic  swing  of  the  body.  When  the  Hebridean 
begins  his  song,  he  takes  out  his  handkerchief,  and  gives  the  end  of  it  to 
his  neighbour,  and  they  both  swing  it  as  a  sort  of  accompaniment — 

Our  voices  keep  tune,  and  our  oars  keep  time. 

Two  centuries  ago  this  rhythmic  movement  entered  into  the  ordinary  toil 
of  the  common  people,  who  were  always  eminently  social  and  gregarious. 
When  any  considerable  piece  of  work  was  to  be  done  on  the  farms 
of  the  tacksmen,  a  large  number  of  persons  were  set  to  work  together. 
Whatever  they  did  was  done  by  them  all  in  the  same  way.  If  they  were 
reaping  the  corn,  they  kept  time  by  singing  or  chanting,  swaying  their 
bodies  to  and  fro  in  unison,  bending  down  and  rising  up  at  the  same 
moment,  and  moving  with  the  regularity  of  a  regiment  of  soldiers, 
sometimes  to  the  strains  of  a  bagpipe  or  the  Jew's-harp.  In  the  same 
way  they  fulled  cloth,  sitting  in  two  opposite  rows  on  a  board,  with  the 
web  to  be  fulled  between,  to  be  kicked  from  side  to  side. 

Then,  as  in  a  less  degree  they  are  still,  the  Highlands  and  Islands  were 
the  land  par  excellence  of  apparitions,  ghosts,  and  shades,  overspread 
with  all  sorts  of  bewildering  terrors,  and  inhabited  by  an  underfed  and 
starving  people,  who  had  a  strong  hereditary  tendency  to  melancholy 
and  mystic  tears,  who  were  creatures  of  impulse  and  fantastic  in  their 
hopes,  and  whose  spirit  was  under  the  dominion  of  broken  beliefs  and 
harrowing  story.  From  intercourse  with  the  outside  world  the  mass  of 
VOL.  XLV. — NO.  266.  11. 


210  THE  SOCIAL  STATE  OF  THE  HEBRIDES 

the  people  got  little  or  no  light ;  and  in  the  troubled  shades  of  their 
own  traditions  and  pagan  creed  they  clung  to  many  venerable  follies  and 
continued  to  dream  idle  dreams.  The  spirit  of  the  old  pagan  religion 
lingered  under  the  alien  forms  of  the  Christian  faith,  and  the  Hebrideans 
left  to  themselves  became  the  easy  prey  of  false  prophets  and  soothsayers. 
Their  dearest  and  most  permanent  beliefs  were  founded  on  nothing  more 
solid  than  hearsay  evidence ;  the  thin  coating  of  Christianity  over  their 
pagan  faith  and  practice  had  no  other  effect  than  to  give  some  additional 
terror,  or  to  raise  some  fresh  or  wild  hope,  only  to  vanish  as  it  came. 
With  such  a  people  the  tendency  to  illusions  was  always  strong.  The 
whole  air  was  teeming  with  fantastic  creations.  The  fairies,  as  repre- 
senting the  shadows  and  the  unrealities  that  thwart  mortal  enterprise, 
were  an  important  element  then.  In  the  Gaelic  mythology  they  repre- 
sented the  painful  unreality  which  flitted  around  the  Gaelic  race,  in  the 
lethargic  atmosphere  of  the  Isles,  the  weird  mist  of  the  corries,  the 
luxuriant  growth  of  myths  and  fables,  and  the  tendency  to  illusion  and 
the  avoidance  of  facts  and  their  practical  lessons.  Tested  in  the  strong 
light  of  day,  many  of  the  beliefs  which  they  cherished  were  but  as  the 
shadow  of  some  inexplicable  shade.  The  folklore  of  the  Highlands  was 
copious  and  wild,  full  of  budding  romance  and  charged  with  much  fierce 
pessimism.  Relics  of  old  water  cult  were  wondrous  at  the  Union.  Each 
lake  had  its  dread  monster,  the  treacherous  Ealh  hirze,  who,  Proteus-like, 
could  assume  all  shapes,  and  who  was  ever  intent  on  mischief  to  the 
human  race;  every  storm  had  its  wraith;  and  a  thousand  grotesque 
figures  filled  and  frightened  the  troubled  imagination. 

Amongst  such  a  people  we  might  expect  to  find  prophets  of  the  second 
sight  thick  as  autumnal  leaves.  When  Presbyterianisn  was  established  in 
the  Isles  two  centuries  ago,  second  sight  was  already  reduced  to  a  system 
and  practised  as  an  art.  It  had  its  code  of  signals,  its  symbols,  and  its 
recognised  methods  of  interpretation.  The  prophets  of  the  second  sight 
pretended  to  be  born,  but  they  were  really  made.  It  was  not  professed 
that  the  gift  was  common,  or  that  every  one  could  see  the  signs  which 
were  to  be  interpreted.  But  the  favoured  few  who  could  see  what  was 
generally  invisible  read  the  symbols  according  to  the  recognised  rules  of 
a  recognised  craft.  The  prophet  or  the  seer  claimed  the  power  of  seeing 
into  the  dark  future,  and  of  foretelling  what  was  to  come  to  pass.  What 
he  saw  the  multitude  could  not  see ;  but,  if  he  deigned  to  reveal  what 
he  had  seen,  the  common  herd  could  foretell  as  well  as  he,  for  certain 
signs  always  indicated  certain  events.  For  example,  if  a  woman  was 
seen  standing  at  a  man's  right  hand,  that  was  accepted  as  a  proof  that  she 
should  become  his  wife,  whether  both  or  either  were  married  or  unmarried 
at  the  time  of  the  apparition.  If  three  women  were  seen  standing  at  a 
man's  right  hand,  the  nearest  would  be  his  first  wife,  and  so  on.  Through 
a  large  and  intricate  system,  the  growth  of  many  ages,  the  art  of  the 
Highland  seer  was  not  altogether  based  upon  quackery,  but  it  was 
strengthened  by  the  pretence  of  the  rogue.  So  long  as  an  Ayrshire 


TWO  CEKTU&IES  AGO.  211 

ploughman,  brought  up  like  his  class  in  the  rude  routine  of  the  furrow, 
can  suddenly  shake  himself  free  from  the  depressing  traditions  of  the 
soil,  and  astonish  after  ages  by  his  intense  appreciation  of  human  needs 
and  interests,  by  his  correct  reading  of  the  best  aspirations  of  our  nature, 
and  by  his  exquisite  sense  of  the  beauty  that  surrounds  us,  why  should 
not  a  shrewd  inhabitant  of  one  of  the  remote  Hebrides,  amidst  scenes 
that  tend  to  throw  a  veil  of  mystery  over  the  cloudy  judgment  and  the 
uncertain  penetration  of  his  contemporaries,  astonish  the  untutored 
rustics  around  him  by  the  force  and  accuracy  of  his  daring  prescience  1 
Belief  in  supernatural  interference  was  common  in  the  Western  Isles. 
By  assuming  that  he  was  more  unscrupulous  than  those  around  him,  that 
he  was  working  by  mystic  rules,  which  their  own  traditions  had  sanc- 
tioned, and  that  he  knew  his  neighbours'  weakness  as  well  as  his  own 
strength,  we  can  easily  understand  how  the  prophet  of  the  second  sight 
could  make  himself  an  object  of  regard  and  a  source  of  power  in  his 
locality.  To  some  extent  the  prophet  himself  occasionally  shared  in  the 
common  delusion.  For  the  Gaelic  race,  with  their  passionate  love  of  life, 
their  intense  impressibility  to  fear  and  hope,  their  sensitive  fibre,  their 
perturbed  feelings  and  uncertain  beliefs,  nurtured  the  very  conditions 
which  point  to  or  generate  definite  fulfilment  of  vague  prophecy.  For  in 
all  such  cases  there  is  a  wide  reserve  for  mental  confusion.  As  the 
patient,  by  brooding  over  his  disease,  insensibly  gives  it  unconquerable 
strength,  and  so  aids  in  hia  own  destruction,  so  the  Gaelic  race  helped 
their  own  seers  in  the  work  of  illusion.  In  some  cases,  no  doubt,  the 
seer  was  an  out-and-out  quack,  and  took  the  surest  means  to  strengthen 
his  reputation  by  divulging  the  oracle  after  the  fact,  or  by  vague  predic- 
tions which  might  mean  anything.  Sometimes  the  oracle  was  dark  or 
mysterious  on  purpose.  Instances  are  quite  common  in  which  a  vague 
statement  was  converted  into  a  direct  prophecy  through  ingenious  distor- 
tion or  suggestive  silence,  whereas  the  true  prophecy  was  only  an  after- 
thought. 

A  highly  strung  people,  who  had  an  abnormal  dread  of  the  super- 
natural, and  who  drew  largely  upon  the  horrors  of  various  pagan  creeds 
without  understanding  any,  would  have  a  certain  tendency  to  brace  up 
their  imagination  and  to  give  its  forecasts  a  certain  amount  of  intelli- 
gence which  was  not  altogether  fictitious.  Their  wisdom  was  contained 
in  their  songs,  proverbs,  and  sayings,  and  it  did  not  profess  to  encompass 
any  mystery  except  by  something  more  mysterious.  They  placed  the 
facts]  of  sense  and  of  imagination,  those  of  objective  fact  and  subjective 
feeling,  on  the  same  platform.  They  had  a  number  of  myths  and  time- 
honoured  legends  regarding  the  future  and  their  personal  salvation ;  but 
these  braced  up  the  resources  of  their  imagination  by  making  them 
more  fitful  and  more  melancholy.  To  the  view  of  their  philosophy 
and  religion  the  departed  soul  was  not  lost,  but  gone  before,  to  a  place 
where  there  would  be  fierce  retaliation,  and  where  salutary  terror  might 
strike  at  defiant  conscience  as  well  as  at  exasperated  affection.  And 

11—2 


212  THE  SOCIAL  STATE  OF  THE  HEBRIDES. 

hence  the  general  sense  of  vague  terror  greatly  aided  the  seer.  The 
Highland  seer  professed  to  see  what  Avas  invisible  to  ordinary  mortals. 
He  held  that  a  lively  impression  was  made  upon  the  nervous  system,  and 
that,  like  Socrates  under  the  influence  of  the  demon,  he  became  absorbed 
in  contemplation  to  an  extent  altogether  denied  to  the  multitude. 
The  veil  of  the  future,  he  said,  was  uplifted  before  him ;  coming  events 
projected  themselves  within  the  sphere  of  his  vision;  he  could  see 
strange  sights  and  hear  strange  sounds ;  and  he  knew  how  to  inter- 
pret them  aright.  This  much  he  claimed,  and  this  much  the  multitude 
readily  conceded.  But  even  as  early  as  the  reign  of  Dutch  William  the 
seers  had  their  critics,  who,  in  spite  of  the  conservative  tenacity  of  popular 
beliefs,  tried  to  pick  holes  in  their  practice.  It  was  held  that  they  were 
either  enthusiastic  visionaries  or  persons  of  disturbed  temperament ;  that 
not  one  of  the  fraternity  could  give  a  rational  explanation  of  his  practice, 
the  rules  of  his  art,  or  the  vague  predictions  of  his  order,  and  that  the 
whole  system  of  second  sight  was  an  imposition  by  skilful  and  unscrupu- 
lous rogues  upon  the  credulous  and  the  silly.  But  without  adopting  this 
extreme  view,  we  may  give  a  reasonable  explanation  of  the  practice. 
"Fire  never  gave  up  trembling,  and  woe  from  that  day  until  the  day  of 
for  ever ;  "  and  whoever  is  familiar  with  the  piercing  wail  of  the  Highland 
laments  as  they  used  to  resound  through  the  long,  narrow  glens,  or  has 
witnessed  the  rapid  hysterics  that  frequently  accompany  the  departure  of 
the  Clansman  or  the  Dunara  Castle  from  the  Broomielaw,  may  under- 
stand to  what  extent  sorrow  and  pain,  tears  and  trouble  entered  into  the 
life  of  the  islanders,  and  how  gladly  they  would  look  towards  any  sort  of 
prophet  that  professed  to  open  up  the  future.  Funeral  wailing  was  a 
profession  in  the  islands  at  the  time  of  the  Union.  I  know  nothing  more 
plaintive  than  "  McCrinnon's  Lament "  when  heard  in  a  lonely  glen  or  on 
a  solitary  isle.  It  is  the  essence  of  mystery  as  well  as  of  sorrow.  At  a 
period  when  each  noble  English  house  had  its  own  haunted  chamber  and  its 
own  sombre  ghost,  we  need  not  wonder  if  we  find  each  Highland  hamlet 
in  fanciful  intercourse  with  its  kith  and  kin  after  as  well  as  before  death, 
through  its  own  chosen  seers ;  that  the  underfed  Hebridean  saw  his  own 
ghost  heralding  his  approaching  death,  and  that  in  a  depressed  and  un- 
certain state  of  mind  the  Gael  pictured .  out  for  himself  an  uncertain 
future.  A  people  surrounded  by  many  intelligible  terrors — in  a  chang- 
ing phosphorescent  sea  and  a  troubled,  thundery  sky  and  frequent  storms 
— would  see  the  flickering  pale  light  as  it  moved  slowly  towards  the 
lonely  graveyard,  or  the  dark  funeral  crowd  around  the  hut  of  him  who 
was  fated  to  die,  or  they  would  hear  the  piercing  funeral  wail,  or  their 
imagination  would  derive  strange  pleasure  from  the  sorrowful  luxuiies 
of  the  literature  of  the  second  sight. 


213 


FROM  many  different  points  of  view  personal  nomenclature  presents 
itself  as  an  interesting  object  of  study.  What  have  been  the  main  forces 
concerned  in  the  production  of  personal  names  1  When,  where,  and  why 
were  the  several  denominations  now  current  in  England  introduced 
among  us  1  What  circumstances  have  condxiced  to  the  survival  of  some  of 
these  through  many  centuries,  and  to  the  total  disappearance  of  others 
once  popular  ?  Or,  again,  what  amount  of  reference  may  be  traced,  in 
the  name-creations  of  our  own  time,  to  the  men,  movements,  ideas,  and 
events  of  the  day  ?  These  questions  and  many  others  directly  or  indirectly 
connected  with  them  are,  it  will  generally  be  allowed,  not  wanting  in 
attractiveness. 

It  is  now  many  years  ago  that  such  questions  were  considered  by 
the  present  writer  in  the  pages  of  this  Magazine.*  In  the  article 
referred  to,  the  matter  of  personal  names  was,  so  far  as  available  space 
would  allow,  dealt  with  at  large,  and  its  history,  both  past  and  con- 
temporary, entered  into.  In  our  present  remarks  we  shall  be  mainly 
concerned  with  the  age  iu  which  we  live,  and  with  a  single  branch  of 
the  subject.  Our  facts  will  for  the  most  part  be  drawn  from  the  registers 
which  have  been  kept  under  statutory  provision  during  the  last  forty- 
four  years ;  and  we  shall,  as  our  title  implies,  treat  chiefly  of  the 
exceptional — the  odd  and  droll — in  personal  names. 

It  may  be  noticed,  however,  as  a  help  in  classifying  nominal  oddities, 
that  their  sources  are  necessarily  to  some  extent  identical  with  the 
sources  of  personal  names  altogether.  We  will  therefore  begin  our 
arrangement  of  facts  by  attributing  to  those  causes  with  respect  to 
which  the  identity  exists,  such  names  as  seem  to  justify  the  assignment. 
The  main  original  sources  of  personal  nomenclature  have  been — (1) 
Some  aspiration  on  the  part  of  the  parents  as  to  the  future  character  or 
career  of  the  infant  to  be  named;  (2)  some  fact  relative  to  the  circum- 
stances of  the  child's  birth ;  and  (3)  some  peculiarity  of  person  or  dis- 
position in  the  child  itself.  But  all  existing  eccentricities  of  personal 
denomination  cannot  be  ascribed  to  these  sources.  Among  their  further 
causes  we  may  mention  (4)  suggestive  surnames,  and  (5)  error  and 
ignorance.  It  will,  moreover,  be  convenient  to  keep  a  separate  place  (6) 
for  names  attribxitable  to  miscellaneous  fancies ;  while,  lastly  (7),  we 
shall  speak  of  those  appellational  oddities  which  cease  to  be  oddities,  or 
become  less  odd  than  before,  when  they  are  rightly  understood.  We 

*  See  CORNHILL  MAGAZIKE  for  March  1871, 


214  ODDITIES  OF  PERSONAL  NOMENCLATURE. 

are  far  from  claiming  perfection  for  this  arrangement ;  but  it  wDl  suffice 
for  the  purpose  now  in  view. 

I.  Name-oddities  answering  to  the  description  of  aspiration-names. 
Many  of  the  current  nominal  peculiarities  which  appear  to  express  the 
desires  of  parents  for  their  children  are  of  a  religious  character.  The 
religious  aspirations  which  in  the  time  of  our  pagan  forefathers  had 
shown  themselves  denominationally  by  the  simple  adoption  as  personal 
appellations  of  the  names  and  qualities  of  deities,  and  which,  seeking  a 
like  mode  of  expression  in  the  middle  ages,  had  been  mostly  content  to  use 
the  names  of  the  saints — as  pre-eminently  in  the  case  of  Mary,  probably 
to  this  day  the  commonest  English  name,  whether  male  or  female — 
found  a  more  startling  mode  of  iitterance  in  the  days  of  Puritanism. 
Not  only  did  the  Puritan  ransack  the  Bible  for  appellations  of  the 
strangest  sound,  and  call  his  child  Habakkuk,  Epaphroditus,  or  perhaps 
Mahershalalhashbaz ;  not  only  did  he  delight  in  fastening  upon  his 
offspring  a  prenomen  expressing  some  abstraction  familiar  in  his  re- 
ligious phraseology,  as  Experience,  Repentance,  or  Tribulation;  but  he 
sometimes  invented  for  his  infant's  personal  denomination  a  lengthy 
sentence,  either  admonitory,  doctrinal,  or  otherwise ;  such  as  Fight-the- 
yood-fight,  Sear  ch-tlie- Scriptures,  Hew-Agag-in-pieces-before-tlie-Lord,  or 
even  If-Christ-kad-not-died-for-you-you-had-been-damned.* 

These  well-known  extravagancies  are  here  referred  to  because, 
although  they  are  not  to  be  traced  in  all  their  forms  among  the  names  of 
to-day,  most  current  nominal  oddities  of  the  religious-aspiration  class 
are  nearly  related  to  them.  Some  of  this  class  have  been  by  continuous 
family  usage  handed  on  to  us  unaltered  from  the  seventeenth  century ; 
and  those  similar  names  with  respect  to  which  the  remark  cannot  be 
made  are  distinctly  owing  to  Puritan  taste  as  it  now  exists.  The  fol- 
lowing abstract  nouns — most  of  them  apparently  representing  parental 
aspirations,  and  many  having,  as  it  would  seem,  a  religious  meaning, 
occur  as  names  in  recent  registers :  Admonition,  Advice,  Affability, 
Comfort,  Deliverance,  Duty,  Equality,  faith,  Freedom,  Grace,  Gratitude, 
Hope,  Industry,  Innocence,  Liberty,  Love,  Meditation,  Mercy,  Modesty, 
Obedience,  Patience,  Peace,  Piety,  Providence,  Prudence,  Repentance, 
Sapience,  Silence,  Sobriety,  Temperance,  Truth,  Unity,  Virtue,  Wisdom, 
and  Zeal. 

We  shall  hereafter  refer  again  to  certain  of  these  names  in  various 
connections,  though  for  the  moment  we  place  them  as  abstractions  in  a 
single  list.  Some  amongst  them,  it  will  be  understood,  do  not  always 
mean  what  they  seem  to  mean.  For  example,  Grace,  Hope,  Peace,  and 
Virtue  are  surnames,  distinguishing  at  this  moment  in  most  minds 
well-known  labourers  in  different  and  somewhat  incongruous  fields  of 
exertion,  that  is  to  say,  a  cricketer  (or  family  of  cricketers),  a  member 

*  This  last  was  the  name  of  the  brother  of  the  famous  Praise-God  Barebone,     See 
Hume's  History,  chap.  Ixi.  footnote.     [Vol.  vii.  p.  230,  ed.  1797.] 


ODDITIES  OF  PERSONAL  NOMENCLATURE.  215 

of  Parliament,  a  recent  murderer,  and  a  London  publisher.  It  is  mani- 
fest that  any  personal  name  existing  also  as  a  surname  may  have  been 
given  to  children  in  its  surname-sense  alone,  •without  reference  to  the 
meaning  of  the  word.  This  reservation  as  to  surnames  it  will  often  be 
needful  to  make  passingly  as  we  go  on  ;  and  in  the  proper  place  special 
remarks  will  be  offered  on  the  subject.  The  abstractions  named  were 
many  of  them  used  as  prenomens  in  Puritan  times,  and  are  now  common 
as  such  in  America  among  the  descendants  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers. 
There  are  other  appellations  of  religious  reference,  which  may  also  have 
been  handed  down  as  they  are  from  the  seventeenth  century.  The 
daughter  of  a  shepherd,  born  near  Chichester  in  1879,  was  named  Hope- 
still ;  and  an  illegitimate  child,  born  near  Rye  in  1878,  was  called  Faint- 
not  ;  we  have  noted  also  Livewell  and  Diehappy.  These  are  quite  in  the 
religious  style  of  two  centuries  ago.  It  may  be  noticed  that  Puritan 
tradition  has  still  a  remarkably  firm  hold  of  the  personal  nomenclature 
of  Sussex,  where  two  of  the  specimens  last  mentioned  were  found.  The 
Old  Testament  names  so  commonly  met  with  in  that  county — the 
Enoses,  the  Ezras,  the  Jabezes,  the  Judahs,  the  Milcahs,  the  Naomis,  the 
Reubens,  and  the  Zabulons — point  probably  less  to  present  than  to  past 
religious  feeling.  Still,  when  every  allowance  of  this  kind  has  been 
made,  there  is  good  reason  for  recognising  in  many  eccentric  names  that 
are  given  the  religious  desires  of  existing  parents  for  their  children. 
Sometimes  the  aspiration  is  so  vague  as  to  find  expression  in  a  word 
merely  sacred  by  association,  and  quite  without  meaning  as  a  name. 
The  titles  of  the  books  of  Scripture  thus  become  appellations.  Acts  and 
Acts  Apostles  have  been  observed  as  registered  names,  and  a  labourer 
near  Lynn  called  his  son  Hebrews  in  1877.  We  have  also  met  with 
Abba,  Olivet,  Ramoth-Gilead,  Selak,  Talithacumi,  &c.,  which  we  suppose 
generally  to  represent  indeterminate  desires — very  roughly  expressed — 
for  the  religious  good  of  the  children  thus  named. 

Among  aspiration-names  that  are  not  religious  must  be  ranked  those 
given  out  of  admiration  for  heroes ;  for  mingled  with  the  admiration, 
and  with  the  desire  to  commemorate  it  and  glorify  the  child  to  be  named 
by  applying  to  it  the  hero's  title,  is  usually,  it  is  to  be  supposed,  a  wish 
that  the  infant  may  be  worthy  of  its  appellation  and  an  imitator  of  its 
namesake's  merits.  Sometimes  the  hero  appears  to  be  aristocracy  in 
general.  The  Gordon  Stanleys,  Spencer  Percys,  &c.,  so  often  now  present- 
ing themselves  among  the  lower  ranks,  seem  to  disclose  an  indiscriminate 
worship  of  the  patrician  order.  Or  the  homage  may  be  more  personal, 
the  reference  more  specific.  At  Reading  we  recently  found  a  Richard, 
Plantagenet  Temple  Nugent* Brydges  Chandos  Grenville ;  he  was  not  a 
duke,  but  a  waiter.  The  infant  daughter  of  a  farm-labourer  near  Bere 
Regis,  Dorsetshire,  lately  received  an  appellation  which  appears  to  point 
to  an  opposite  taste  in  heroes.  She  was  registered  Archiner,  and  this  we 
suppose  to  be  meant  for  Archina,  and  to  be  founded  on  the  surname  of 
Joseph  Arch,  the  champion  of  the  agricultural  labourers.  The  embellish- 


216  ODDITIES  OF  PERSONAL  NOMENCLATURE. 

merit  of  the  last  syllable  will  be  recognised  as  representing  a  common 
tendency  amongst  the  uneducated ;  it  is  one  that  received  not  long  since 
another  curious  exemplification.  A  gipsy  came  to  a  Hampshire  registrar 
to  give  information  of  a  birth,  and  to  his  astonishment  requested  that 
the  child's  name  might  be  entered  Liar.  He  remonstrated;  the  in- 
formant persisted ;  and  registration  was  put  off,  that  further  inquiry 
might  be  made  as  to  what  was  meant  by  the  offensive  name  proposed. 
It  proved  that  the  intention  was  to  call  the  infant  Lia  or  Liah,  and  this 
was  an  abbreviation  of  Athaliah,  an  appellation  already  in  use  in  the 
family  concerned. 

The  following  are  further  examples  of  that  variety  of  aspiration- 
names  which  is  based  upon  hero-worship  or  something  approaching  t. 
They  are  given  with  the  surnames  to  which  they  are  found  prefixed  in 
the  registers :  King  David  Haydon,  Martin  Luther  Upright,  John 
Bunyan  Parsonage,  General  George  Washington  Jones,  Lord  Nelson 
Portman,  Humphry  Davy  Avery,  King  George  Westgate,  Empress 
Eugenie  Aldridge,  John  Robinson  Crusoe  Heaton,  and  Man  Friday 
Wilson.  It  is  not  necessary  to  prolong  the  list. 

II.  We  go  on  now  to  consider  the  oddities  of  personal  nomenclature 
which  are  suggested  by  circumstances  of  birth. 

Twin  or  triple  births  supply  opportunities  for  the  selection  of  unusual 
names.  Some  of  these  are  pretty.  Twin  girls  were  lately  registered 
Pearl  and  Ruby,  at  "Wantage,  and  others  near  Cranleigh,  Sussex,  LUy 
and  Rose.  In  1878,  a  labourer  at  Robertsbridge,  in  the  same  county, 
presented  with  three  daughters  at  a  birth,  called  them  Faith,  Hope,  and 
Charity;  and  a  farm-labourer  near  Bridport  recently  gave  the  names 
Faith  and  Hope  to  twin  sons.  But  sometimes  dual  births  render  parents 
positively  cruel  in  their  choice  of  appellations.  We  have  known  the 
names  Hux  and  Buz  applied  to  twin  boys.  This  was  sheer  inhumanity. 
Peter  the  Great  Wright  and  William  the  Conqueror  Wright  figure  in 
registration  as  twins.  Here  the  parental  selection  seems  to  have  been 
in  part  determined  by  hero-worship,  though  probably  the  duality  of 
birth  excited  the  primary  desire  for  name-distinction.  Another  fancy 
created  by  twofold  births  is  that  of  furnishing  the  children  with  identical 
names  transposed.  Twin  sons  of  a  gardener  at  Chard  were  a  few  months 
since  endowed  respectively  with  the  names  James  Reginald  and  Reginald 
James ;  and  at  Ixworth,  Suffolk,  we  noticed  not  many  years  ago  the 
decease  of  a  Horace  Horatio,  whose  brother  Horatio  Horace  attested  the 
death-entry.  These  brothers  we  infer  to  have  been  twins  also.  An 
historian  of  parish  registers  remarks  that  about  the  sixteenth  century  it 
was  not  unusual  for  parents  to  give  the  same  name  to  two  or  more  of 
their  children,  with  the  view  perhaps  of  increasing  the  likelihood  of  its 
perpetuation  in  their  families.  He  cites,  by  way  of  proof,  the  following 
quotation  from  the  will  of  one  John  Parnell  de  Gyrton  :  "  8  Mar.,  1545. 
— Alice  my  wife  and  Old  John  my  son  to  occupy  my  farm  together  till 
elde  John  marries,  and  then  She  to  have  land  and  cattle.  Young 


ODDITIES  OF  PEKSONAL  NOMENCLATURE.  217 

John  my  son  shall   have  Brenlay's  land   plowed  and   sowed  at  Old 
John's  cost."  * 

The  inconvenient  practice  here  exemplified  does  not,  we  believe,  now 
survive  except  in  the  modified  shape  just  instanced;  but  it  is  not  un 
known  among  the  lower  classes  for  parents  to  give  to  their  later  children 
names  which  their  earlier  ones  deceased  have  previously  bome.  Some 
babies  have  been  named  Enough,  in  indication,  as  it  would  seem,  of 
numerous  predecessors  ;  and  on  the  other  hand  is  found  Welcome,  which 
appears  to  denote  satisfaction  at  a  novel  kind  of  blessing.  Una,  Unit, 
and  Unity  f  point,  it  may  be  supposed,  to  first  arrivals ;  Three  and 
Number  Seven  express  different  degrees  of  advance  in  family  multitude  ; 
Last  and  Omega  suggest  a  resolute  protest  against  further  increase ;  while 
Also  hints  at  the  grudging  acceptance  of  an  unwelcome  addition,  and 
seems  to  need  after  it  a  note  of  (melancholy)  exclamation.  Posthumous 
is  an  unmistakable  nominal  memorandum  of  a  painful  fact.  Places 
occasionally  give  their  names  to  children,  as  in  the  cases  of  Matilda 
Australasia  Yarra  Yarra  Holden,  Odessa  Sitty,  &c.  It  may  be  supposed 
that  in  these  instances  there  is  usually  some  family  connection  with  the 
locality  at  the  time  of  birth.  In  such  appellations  as  Tempest  Booth, 
Hustings  Moore,,  Farewell  Hampshire,  <fec.,  we  seem  to  trace  references  to 
special  incidents,  and  may  infer  again  that  the  occurrences  so  celebrated 
are  circumstantially  linked  to  the  arrivals  of  the  infants  whom  they 
name  ;  while  the  titles  Admonition,  Deliverance,  Repentance,  and  others 
already  mentioned  in  our  list  of  abstract  nouns  used  as  appellations, 
have  probably  sometimes  been  employed,  in  the  same  way,  in  allusion  to 
various  conditions  under  which  the  births  of  the  children  so  named  have 
taken  place. 

Festivals,  seasons,  &c.,  have  long  lent  their  titles  to  those  whose  en- 
ti-ances  into  the  world  have  been  associated  with  them,  and  not  a  few  of 
the  names  so  rendered  personal  have  become  surnames.  Munday,  Nod, 
Pascoe,  Pentecost,  Sumption  (i.e.  Assumption),  Yule,  and  others  are 
family  denominations  thus  originated.  This  class  of  personal  names  has 
apparently  not  declined  in  favour,  and  there  is  an  oddity  about  many 
that  belong  to  it.  The  months  of  the  year  and  days  of  the  week  some- 
times name  children  now,  particularly  foundlings ;  there  is  a  Sabbath 
Ada  Stone  amongst  our  collection  of  curiosities.  We  have  known  an 
infant  born  on  June  24  registered  Midsummer,  and  another  who  came 
into  existence  on  Loaf- mass  day  (August  1)  named  Lammas.  Neivyear 
we  lately  saw  as  a  personal  name.  Easter  is  not  unfrequent ;  nor  is 
Christmas — a  Merry  Christmas  Finnett  is  known  to  registration. 
Trinity,  too,  we  have  observed.  Lovedy  is  often  to  be  found  in  current 
registers,  especially  in  Cornwall.  The  meaning  of  this  name  deserves  a 
passing  notice,  although  it  is  now,  perhaps,  seldom  remembered  when  the 

*  See  History  of  Parish  Registers,  by  J.  S.  Burn,  p.  69. 

f   Unity,  however,  as  we  have  seen,  is  at  any  rate  sometimes  to  be  otherwise 
nnderstoocj.. 

11— 5 


218  ODDITIES  OF  PERSONAL  NOMENCLATURE. 

appellation  is  chosen.  "  In  former  times  there  was  often  a  day  fixed  for 
the  arrangement  of  differences,  in  which,  if  possible,  old  sores  were  to  be 
healed  up  and  old-standing  accounts  settled."  *  The  Love-day  sometimes 
gave  its  title  at  the  font  to  children  born  or  baptized  upon  it ;  hence  the 
name  mentioned,  which  may  often  have  been  handed  down  to  our  time 
as  a  personal  denomination  by  continuous  usage,  while — since  it  was 
early  appropriated  by  family  nomenclature — it  has  probably,  in  other 
cases,  been  returned  as  a  surname  to  the  category  of  personal  names. 
Noon  is  a  name  borne  by  a  few  people,  and  may  sometimes  indicate 
birth  at  midday ;  but  it  is  also  a  surname,  being  as  such,  in  all  proba- 
bility, a  north-country  corruption  of  Nunn  phonetically  spelt ;  hence  it 
must  not  be  claimed  as  necessarily  pointing  to  circumstance  of  birth. 
Anniversaries  of  events  in  royal  history  occasion  some  unusual  appella- 
tions. At  Culham,  near  Abingdon,  is  a  worthy  shoemaker  who  was 
named  Kimj  Charles  because  he  was  born  on  that  now  abandoned 
thanksgiving  day,  May  29  ;  and  an  old  man  lately  died  near  Oxford 
whose  pi'enomen  was  Jubilee,  his  birthday  having  fallen  on  the  fiftieth 
anniversary  of  the  accession  of  George  III. 

Any  matter  of  controversy  or  conversation  which  is  current  at  the 
time  of  nativity  may  supply  an  appellation  to  the  infant  born.  No  one 
probably  will  ever  know  the  number  of  Rogers  who  owe  their  names  to 
the  claimant  of  the  Tichborne  estates;  but  that  number  is  certainly 
large.  There  are,  too,  amongst  us  many  living  Cypruses,  who  came  into 
the  world  when  it  was  talking  about  the  acquisition  of  the  Mediterranean 
island ;  and  in  this  case  there  would  be  no  impossibility  in  reckoning 
the  extent  of  the  nominal  appropriation.  Again,  if  any  future  student 
of  English  registers  is  surprised  to  find  that  at  a  particular  point  in  the 
eighth  decade  of  our  century  the  name  Cleopatra  was  used  a  little  oftener 
than  before,  he  may  discover  the  explanation  in  the  fact  that  at  the  same 
period  the  famous  "  needle  "  made  its  difficult  passage  from  Alexandria 
to  the  Thames  Embankment.  A  name  recently  found  in  the  registers, 
viz.  Sidney  Joseph  Anti-Vaccinator  West,  seems  to  hint  that  the  bearer 
was  born  in  an  atmosphere  not  unfavourable  to  the  spread  of  disease  ; 
while  Temperance  Sober  Lane  must  have  come  into  being  under  con- 
ditions which  would  delight  Sir  "Wilfrid  Lawsou.  The  circumstances  of 
the  birth  of  DrinkaU  Cooper  might  perhaps,  on  the  other  hand,  be  less 
satisfactory  to  that  statesman. 

III.  We  are  to  speak  next  of  odd  names  referring  to  some  pecu- 
liarity of  person  or  disposition  in  the  children  to  whom  they  are  given. 

Every  one  knows  how  largely  our  forefathers  resorted  to  nicknames, 
both  complimentary  and  otherwise,  to  distinguish  individuals  one  from 
another,  and  how  many  of  the  sobriquets  thus  bestowed  have  established 
themselves  among  us  as  permanent  surnames.  The  Blythmans,  the  Cox- 
heads,  the  Cruikshanks,  the  Curtises,  the  Gentles,  the  Lily  whites,  the  Slys, 

*  English  Surnames,  Rev.  C.  W.  Bardsley,  p.  63.    (Chatto  and  Windus.) 


ODDITIES  OF  PERSONAL  NOMENCLATURE.  219 

and  a  host  of  other  families  give  evidence  of  these  facts  in  every  quarter. 
But  it  was  generally  the  outside  world  that  conferred  such  nicknames,  now 
become  hereditary ;  hence  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  a  large  number 
of  them  are  unfavourable,  for  men  are  not  given  to  be  tender  to  the 
oddities  of  those  who  do  not  belong  to  them.  The  personal  name,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  for  the  most  part  of  parental  choice;  and  as  parents 
usually  take  an  indulgent  view  of  the  defects  and  weaknesses  of  their 
offspring,  we  should  not  expect  to  find  among  our  prenomens  many  of 
uncomplimentary  character.  Some  such,  however,  there  undoubtedly  are  ; 
for  instance,  Giddy,  Dirty,  Faint,  Fearful,  Musty,  Shady,  Singular,  Stub- 
born, Tempestuous,  and  Troublesome  are  all  recorded  names.  It  will  be 
conjectured  that  the  infants  thus  styled  must  have  fallen  into  hands  other 
than  those  of  their  natural  guardians.  One  name  on  the  list  is  capable 
of  the  same  interpretation  as  many  other  prenominal  absurdities.  Giddy 
is  a  surname  :  as  such  we  lately  came  across  it  at  Neath.  It  is  perhaps 
possible  that  it  has  made  its  appearance  as  a  personal  name  only  in  this 
connection. 

Complimentary  references  to  personal  characteristics  we  are  not  sur- 
prised to  find  more  common  in  personal  nomenclature  than  the  uncom- 
plimentary. Pleasant  is  to  all  appearance  one  of  these.  When  Dickens 
introduced  this  name  into  Our  Mutual  Friend  he  was  not  inventing. 
It  has  been  a  good  deal  used,  and  personal  association,  it  is  likely  enough, 
has  now  as  much  to  do  with  its  employment  as  infantile  sweetness  of 
temper.  Happy  is  to  be  met  with  as  often.  Any  reader  who  may  be 
familiar  with  the  personal  names  about  Loddon,  Wymondham,  and  other 
parts  of  Norfolk  will  recognise  it  as  not  unfrequent.  Patient  we  have 
seen  in  Suffolk  ;  Grateful — as  the  last  of  four  names — at  Reading ;  Choice, 
near  Merthyr  Tydfil.  We  have  also  noticed  Smart,  which  may  sometimes 
belong  to  the  same  class ;  and  Treasure,  which  is,  it  may  be,  now  and 
then  used  as  a  parental  testimonial  to  general  personal  excellence ;  but 
it  will  not  be  forgotten  that  the  two  names  last  mentioned  lead  us  yet 
again  into  cognominal  territory.  Affable,  Bold,  Cautious,  CivU,  Energetic, 
Irresistible,  Nice,  Placid,  and  Thankful  have  all  appeared  in  modern  regis- 
tration, and  are  most  of  them  intelligible  enough  as  expressive  of  infant 
characteristics.  So  are  Affability,  Obedience,  Peace,  and  Silence  (already 
mentioned  in  our  list  of  names  created  from  abstract  nouns),  which  may 
sometimes  have  been  used  descriptively.  Wonderful,  too,  is  a  registered 
name,  but  it  means  nothing,  for  all  children  are  wonderful  in  the  eyes  of 
their  parents.  Loving,  again,  we  have  found,  and  Amorous ;  the  former 
may  perhaps  sometimes  point  to  disposition,  but  we  look  with  suspicion 
upon  the  latter,  because  in  some  places  the  name  Ambrose  is  so  pro- 
nounced as  to  be  easily  mistaken  for  it.  There  is  a  Sanspareil  Scamp 
in  the  registers,  Scamp  being  the  cognomen.  The  compliment  implied  in 
the  forename — if  compliment  it  be — is  rendered  doubly  doubtful  by  what 
follows  it. 

There  are  many  other  nominal  fancies  which,  although  not  outspoken 


220  ODDITIES  OF  PERSONAL  NOMENCLATURE. 

in  their  references  to  baby  idiosyncrasies,  appear  to  hint  at  them  figura- 
tively. When  we  find  such  appellations  as  Violet  Snowdrop,  Primrose, 
Mayblossom,  Rosebud,  Cuckoo,  and  Melody,  we  imagine  at  once  that  their 
bearers  may  have  possessed  early  a  flower-like  sweetneas,  vernal  benignity, 
or  musical  charm  of  disposition.  Sugar  seems  to  tell  a  like  tale  in  less 
poetic  image  ;  while  Angel  and  Cherubim  take  us  back  again  to  the  higher 
regions  of  metaphor,  and  offer  suggestions  of  even  celestial  temper.  It 
is  scarcely  needful  to  say  that  the  characteristics  alluded  to  in  the  appella- 
tions probably  had  a  larger  existence  in  the  imaginations  of  fond  parents 
than  in  fact.  There  are  some  rather  pretty  plant  names  which  may 
possibly  have  been  founded  on  personal  characteristics.  Such  are  Holly, 
Ivy,  and  Myrtle,  with  their  pleasant  intimations  of  merriment  and 
constancy. 

IV.  Suggestive  surnames  have  a  great  deal  to  answer  for  in  the  way 
of  strange  and  striking  personal  nomenclature.  There  is  a  story  of  a  Mr. 
Salmon,  who,  on  becoming  the  father  of  three  children  at  a  birth,  celebrated 
the  event  by  naming  them  Pickled,  Potted,  and  Fresh.  The  tale  is  probably 
apocryphal,  but  it  is  certain  that  names  no  less  remarkable  than  these 
are  often  actually  given  as  complemental  to  the  unfinished  ideas  discerned 
in  many  cognomens.*  Some  of  the  combinations  thus  created  are  merely 
the  names  of  familiar  heroes.  Let  us  adduce  a  few  examples.  Julius 
Ccesar  meets  our  eye  at  the  outset ;  it  is  the  name  of  a  man  who  wit- 
nessed a  marriage-register  at  Easthampstead  not  long  ago,  and  is  indeed 
a  couplet  that  has  often  appeared,  f  Ccesar  is  a  surname  that  was  pro- 
bably conferred  in  the  first  instance  as  a  nickname  for  some  assuming 
person.  J  It  commemorates  the  imperious,  not  the  imperial ;  so  that  the 
conjunction  in  question  merely  emphasises  an  old  joke  against  pretension. 
Many  other  such  combinations  alter  their  significance  when  closely  in- 
spected. Mark  Antony  was  doing  a  blacksmith's  humble  work  at 
Mynyddyslwyn,  Monmouthshire,  only  a  short  time  since.  Wat  Tyler 
died  scarcely  two  years  ago  at  Dover.  George  Frederick  Handel  reap- 
peared at  Heytesbury,  "Wilts,  in  1877  ;  Eveline  Berenger  lately  stepped 
from  fiction  into  fact,  and  took  the  shape  of  a  Margate  shopkeeper's 
daughter ;  and  there  are  German  Reeds  who  have  no  connection  with  the 
Gallery  of  Illustration  or  St.  George's  Hall,  and  who  perhaps  never 
"  entertain  "  any  one. 

Other  tricks  played  with  surnames  by  means  of  personal  prefixes  are 
very  various,  so  much  so  as  to  render  classification  difficult.  There  is 
Mr.  Lance  Lot,  who  was  married  at  Swansea  in  1878.  The  manner  in 
which  a  knightly  turn  has  been  given  to  his  unattractive  cognomen 
certainly  shows  resource  on  the  part  of  the  framer  of  the  couplet.  A 
little  Ivy  Berry  lately  fell  prematurely  to  mother  earth  at  Barnstaple, 


*  Since  the  above  was  written  we  hare  met  with  a   registered  Joseph  Frcsfc 
/Salmon. 

t  See  Lower's  Patronymipa  Brifaimicq,  p.  40.          }  English  Surname  p.  173. 


ODDITIES  OF  PERSONAL  NOMENCLATURE.  221 

Surnames  recalling  seasons  and  clays  occasion  some  facetious  combina- 
tions. The  registers  reveal  an  Ernest  Frosty  Winter,  an  Autumn  Winter, 
a  Winter  Summers,  an  Eve  Christinas,  and  a  Time  of  Day.  Sometimes 
a  prefix  is  so  judiciously  chosen  and  applied  to  an  ordinary  cognomen 
that  a  title  of  dignity  is  the  result :  we  have  in  the  registers  an  Arch 
Bishop,  a  Lord  Baron,  &c.  And,  to  be  brief,  those  records  further  dis- 
close, amongst  other  absurd  conjunctions,  the  following  :  Emperor 
Adrian,  Rose  Budd,  Rose  Bower,  Henry  Born  Noble,  J.  frost  Hoar, 
Harry  Bethlehem  Shepperd,  West  Shore,  Salmon  Fish,  Elizabeth  Foot 
Bath,  John  Cake  Baker,  True  Case,  Major  Minor,  Phoebe  Major  Key, 
Helen  Tight  Cord,  William  Rather  Brown,  Henry  Speaks  Welsh,  Thomas 
Christmas  Box,  and  Neivborn  Child. 

V.  Our  next  heading  brings  its  to  those  strange  names  which  must 
be  ascribed  to  error  and  ignorance.  Some  such  are  mere  misspellings, 
and  are  quite  without  interest.  These  may  arise  from  inadvertency,  or 
from  the  persistent  adherence  of  illiterate  people  to  what  is  wrong.  In 
questions  of  name-orthography  the  most  ignorant  are  not  unfrequently 
the  most  obstinate.  A  child,  it  is  often  insisted  at  registration,  must  bear 
exactly  the  name  borne  by  his  grandfather  and  father  before  him,  which 
name — sometimes,  in  such  cases  as  we  refer  to,  an  incorrectly  spelt  one — 
has  perhaps  been  expressly  written  out  by  some  "  scholard  "  of  the  family 
for  the  registrar's  guidance.  This  officer  may  not  oppose  a  deliberate 
demand  for  a  particular  spelling  ;  and  so  it  happens  that  some  nominal 
errors  of  one  generation  are  handed  on  to  the  next.  But  the  inaccuracies 
thus  reproduced  must  gradually  disappear  as  the  work  of  elementary 
education  goes  steadily  forward  amongst  the  masses  ;  unless  indeed,  while 
more  ambitious  studies  are  included  in  the  popular  curriculum,  instruc- 
tion in  the  art  of  writing  one's  own  name  should  chance  to  be  omitted 
from  it. 

The  inventions  of  ignorance  in  the  way  of  names  are  often  enter- 
taining. The  inventive  faculty  displays  itself  largely  with  regard  to 
female  appellations,  which  are  often  very  daringly  created,  or  com- 
pounded of  known  names  and  other  elements  not  always  to  be  traced. 
The  following  examples  have  lately  come  under  our  notice  :  Almetena, 
Alphenia,  Annarenia,  Arthurrena,  Athelia — this  last  may  be  an  attempt 
at  Athaliah,  which  we  have  already  pointed  out  in  still  more  remarkable 
disguise ;  Berdilia,  Bridelia,  Edwardina,  Elderline,  Floralla,  Fortituda, 
Henerilta,  Julinda,  Loiiena,  Margelina,  Millennarianna,  Perenna,  Reu- 
bena,  Sevena,  and  Seveena — probably  both  founded  upon  the  number 
seven ;  Swindinonia,  Tranquilla,  Tributina,  Uelya,  and  Ulelia.  From 
such  instances  as  these  it  is  evident  that  Mrs.  Kenwigs,  when  she  in- 
vented for  her  eldest  daughter  the  graceful  appellation  Morleena,  did  not 
lend  herself  to  the  charms  of  imagination  in  any  exceptional  degree.  Liber- 
tine has  been  found  registered  as  a  name.  It  is  perhaps  an  unfortunate 
attempt  to  give  an  especially  feminine  character  to  Libert y — an  abstrac- 
tion which  might  have  b,cen  supposed  to  be  sufficiently  feminine  before. 


222  ODDITIES  OF  PERSONAL  NOMENCLATURE. 

VI.  Odd  names  owing  their  creation  to  miscellaneous  fancies  might 
obviously  be  more  accurately  classed,  if  only  a  knowledge  of  the  facts 
which  helped  to  shape  the  individual  appellations  were  possessed ;  but 
in  the  absence  of  this  knowledge  it  becomes  necessary  to  resort  to  some 
such  inclusive  heading  as  that  now  to  be  dealt  with.  Who  could  ven- 
ture, for  example,  to  state  on  what  principle  a  Wiltshire  girl  inheriting 
the  family  surname  Snook,  came,  not  very  many  years  ago,  to  be  called 
Grecian  1  Who  would  presume  to  decide  why  a  Master  Rook,  registered 
at  Wye  in  Kent  two  or  three  years  back,  was  named  Sun  ?  or — to 
match  this  glorious  Apollo  with  a  suitable  Phoebe — whence  Luna  Milli- 
cent  Nation,  who  figures  among  our  notes  for  a  somewhat  later  period, 
derived  her  first  appellation?  A  quarryman  at  Portland,  surnamed 
White,  recently  called  his  infant  daughter  Mary  Avalanche.  He  would 
scarcely  be  personally  familiar  with  Alpine  disasters ;  is  it  to  be  inferred 
that  the  second  name  implies  the  child's  unwelcome  descent  upon  an 
unready  household  ?  Again,  what  volcanic  impulse  can  have  produced 
such  a  forename  as  that  of  Mrs.  Etna  Brooking,  whom  we  noticed  as 
having  become  a  mother  at  Saltash  not  long  since  1  It  is  quite  impos- 
sible to  answer  such  questions.  A  few  more  nominal  riddles — as  diffi- 
cult of  solution  and  classification  as  the  foregoing — may  be  propounded. 
The  registers  introduce  us  to  a  Doctor  Allred,  a  Tea  Bolton,  a  Longitude 
Blake,  a  Crescence  Boot,  an  Epliraim,  Very  Ott,  a  Hempseed  Barrass,  a 
Purify  Buckland,  a  Married  Brown,  a  Quilly  Booty,  a  Sir  Dusty 
Entwistle,  &c. 

Among  the  miscellaneous  fancies  must  be  placed  that  for  registering, 
as  formal  appellations,  those  abbreviations  and  pet-names  which  are 
commonly  applied  only  in  familiar  intercourse.  Of  these  the  ordinary 
monosyllabic  appellatives,  such  as  Alf,  Bob,  Bill,  Bess,  Dan,  Dick,  Meg, 
Nat,  Ned,  Poll,  Sail,  &c.,  are  unfortunately  not  at  all  unfrequent  in  the 
registers.  It  is  impossible  to  associate  gentleness  or  refinement  with  a 
preference  for  such  curt  nomenclature  as  this,  although  in  the  domestic 
circle  or  amongst  intimates  the  semi-jocose  employment  of  these  mono- 
syllables is  sometimes  excused.  On  the  other  hand,  the  pet  names 
ending  in  ie  or  y  are  always  tender,  and  often  pleasing ;  and  the  fact 
that  such  are  largely  resorted  to  in  registration  forms  an  agreeable  set- 
off  to  the  circumstance  that  the  inelegant  and  disrespectful  monosyllables 
are  also  much  employed.  Among  names  of  this  class,  none  has  been 
more  widely  used  than  Bertie,  which  of  course  owes  its  popularity  to 
the  Prince  of  Wales.  Pretty,  however,  as  many  such  denominations 
may  seem  in  the  earlier  hours  of  life,  they  are  apt  to  become  embarrass- 
ing possessions  at  a  later  period  ;  and  to  register  them — especially 
without  any  additional  names — is  a  manifest  mistake.  What  a  pitiable 
contradiction  would  be  a  pallid  Rosie  of  seventy-five,  a  Pussy  on 
crutches,  a  blind  Daisy,  or  a  Birdie  voiceless  from  chronic  bronchitis ! 

Some  name-choosers  indulge  a  fancy  for  extreme  brevity  in  personal 
nomenclature.  This  indulgence  reaches  its  most  foolish  extent  when 


ODDITIES  OF  PERSONAL  NOMENCLATURE.  223 

single  letters  are  inserted  in  the  registers.  Initials  (or  what  may  be 
supposed  to  be  such)  have,  from  time  to  time,  appeared  as  names  in 
those  records  ;  but  they  have  not  often  been  used  without  the  addition 
of  other  appellations  in  completer  form.  Ex,  Is,  No,  and  Si  are  recorded 
names.  The  opposite  taste  for  very  voluminous  denominations  now  and 
then  displays  itself.  Thomas  Hill  Joseph  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  Horatio 
Swindle-hurst  Nelson  is  an  incongruous  combination  in  which  length 
seems  to  have  been  aimed  at  more  than  anything  else;  and  Arphad 
Ambrose  Alexander  Habakkuk  William  Shelah  Woodcock  may  be  classed 
with  it.  Then,  again,  in  the  higher  ranks,  we  sometimes  find  ancestral 
names  piled  very  heavily  upon  single  heads,  as  in  the  case  of  Lyulph 
Y/ln-dllo  Odin  Nestor  Egbert  Lyonel  Toedmag  Hugh  Erchenwyne  Saxon 
Esa  Cromwell  Nevill  Dysart  Fleming  enet  Tollemache-Tollemache. 

VII.  In  the  last  place,  something  is  to  be  noted  concerning  those 
personal  name-oddities  which  cease  to  be  such,  or  become  'less  odd  than 
before  when  they  are  rightly  understood. 

It  has  many  times  been  conceded  in  the  foregoing  remarks  that 
different  drolleries  of  personal  nomenclature  are  found  to  exist  as  sur- 
names also.  It  does  not  follow  from  this  that  a  single  oddity  men- 
tioned has  been  wrongly  classed  ;  for  any  word  that  happens  to  form  a 
surname,  and  that  is  personally  applied  at  one  time  because  it  is  a  sur- 
name, may  at  another  time  be  so  applied  in  its  every-day  sense.  Never- 
theless, the  cognominal  explanation  ought  to  be  constantly  borne  in 
mind  when  strange  personal  names  are  under  consideration ;  for  it  is 
nearly  impossible  to  say  where  it  may  not  apply,  since  surnames,  which 
include  amongst  them  so  large  a  host  of  drolleries,  are  freely  used  as 
personal  appellations,  and  have  been  so  used  ever  since  the  Reformation. 

But  to  show  that  forename-oddities  are  cognominal  oddities  is 
merely  to  shift  the  difficulty  of  accounting  for  them  from  one  date  to 
another,  from  the  nineteenth  century  to  any  period  since  the  eleventh, 
when  the  surname  itself  was  created  or  moulded  into  its  present  droll 
shape.  How  did  these  absurd  surnames  come  to  'be  surnames  1 

It  is  not  easy  to  give  a  condensed  answer  to  this  wide  question  ; 
but  it  may  be  said  that  two  principal  causes  have  produced  the  odd 
cognominal  results  referred  to.  Firstly — the  large  use  of  sobriquets  in 
the  middle  ages  as  a  means  of  distinguishing  persons  bearing  the  same 
baptismal  names ;  and  secondly — the  almost  endless  corruption  which 
surnames  have  constantly  been  undergoing  since  they  came  to  be  such. 
The  corruptive  forces  have  been  :  the  tendency  of  men  in  former  days — 
almost  acknowledged  as  a  right  until  quite  lately — to  follow  their  own 
pleasure  as  to  the  orthography  of  their  own  family  denominations ;  the 
common  inclination  to  shape  unfamiliar  surnames  into  accustomed 
words  something  like  them  in  sound  ;  the  habit  among  uneducated 
people  of  deliberately  turning  foreign  words  (and  surnames  among  them) 
to  burlesque  ;  and  the  liability  of  local  peculiarities  of  speech  to  affect 
cognominal  spelling  in  places  where  these  peculiarities  are  not  under- 


224  ODDITIES  OF  PERSONAL  NOMENCLATURE. 

stood.     No  surname,  however  absurd,  can  be  greatly  wondered  at  when 
these  possibilities  as  to  its  creation  and  development  are  considered. 

There  is  a  kind  of  oddity  in  personal  nomenclature  which  arises 
from  seeming  discrepancy  between  name  and  sex.     For  instance,  a  man 
bearing  the  name  of  Jael — the  wife  of  Heber  the  Kenite — lately  died 
near    Newbury;  a   labourer   at  Ixworth,    named  Peck,   registered  his 
son    George    Venus,  in    1877 ;    Margaret  Absalom   Hughes    was  born 
near  Pontypool  in  1878,   and  Noah  Oatley,  recently  became  a  mother 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Devizes.     Family  nomenclature  will  account 
for   all   these   apparent    contradictions,    and    by   reference    to   it   the 
explanation  of  most  others  like  them  is  probably  to  be  found.     The 
following  female  names  we  know  to  exist  as  cognomens  :  Alice,  Amy, 
Ann,  Arabella,  Bessey,  Betty,  Dolly,  Eliza,  Ellen,  Eva,  Eve,  Fanny, 
Frances,  Hagar,  Hannah,  Harriot,  Helen,  Hester,  Jael,  Jane,  Judy, 
Kitty,  Leah,  Lucy,  Mary,  Maryan,  Matilda,  Maude,  Meggy,  Millicent, 
Molly,  Nan,  Nancy,   Nanny,  Nell,  Patty,  Polly,  Psyche,   Rosamond, 
Ruth,  Sail,  Satty,  Sara,  Sarah,  Susan,  Susanna,  and   Venus.     This  list 
by  no  means  exhausts  the  sum  of  those  surnames  which  coincide  with 
personal  names  of  women,  but  it  furnishes  all  that  is  needed  in  the  way 
of  example.      It  will  now  be  asked,  what  is  the  explanation  of  such 
family  denominations  as  these  ?      Many  of  the  class  are  not  actually 
female  names  at  all,  but  are  mere  corruptions  of  men's  names  and  of 
other  words.      A  respectable  remainder,   however,   are   acknowledged 
metronymics.     These  may  sometimes  point  to  the  illegitimate  birth  of 
the  founders  of  the  families  bearing  them  ;  or  they  may  simply  indicate 
that  at  the  point  from  which  the  cognomen  dates,  the  lady  rather  than 
the  lord  was  the  ruling  spirit  of  the  ancestral  household.     Of  the  per- 
sonal names  of  men  which  have  become  surnames  a  large  number  have 
been  modified  by  prefixes  and  suffixes,  and  consequently  the  seeming 
contradictions  now  under  consideration  cannot  be   produced   through 
their   means.     But   others   have   retained   their  original   shape.     The 
following  are  or  appear  to  be  examples  of  the  latter  class  ;  so  singular, 
however,  are  the  transformations  which  take  place  in  family  nomen- 
clature that  not  every  instance  quoted  can  be  guaranteed  as  being  in 
reality  that  which  it  looks  like.    Absalom,  Adam,  Ajax,  Arthur,  Balaam, 
Bertram,  Felix,   Gabriel,  Gomer,  Hector,  Herod,  Jack,  Jesse,  Lazarus, 
Louis,  Matthias,  Michael,  Noah,  Oliver,  Priam,  Ralph,  Roderick,  Simon, 
Stephen,  Toby,  Tommy,  Valentine,  Vincent,  and  Zebedee  will  probably  be 
thought  specimens  enough  to  produce. 


325 


IT  is  announced  that  the  Mathematical  Tripos  of  the  present  year  will  be 
the  last  on  the  old  system.     The  name  will  be  preserved,  and  to  some 
extent  the  thing  ;  but  the  regulations  will  be  so  far  changed  that  iti 
difficult  to  say  how  far  the  senior  wrangler  of  the  future  will  corre- 
spond to  the  senior  wrangler  of  the  past.     Without  attempting  to  throw 
any  light  upon  that  question,  we  may  take  the  opportunity  of  glancing 
briefly  at  the  past  history  of  the  most  famous  of  all  competitive  examina- 
tions.    The  first  list  preserved  in  that  fascinating  volume,  the  Cam- 
bridge Calendar,  is  dated  1748.     It  was  put  forth,  that  is,  twenty-one 
years  after  the  death  of  Newton,  and  six  years  after  the  death  of  Bentley; 
when  therefore  Cambridge,  though  it  had  produced  no  worthy  successors 
to  those  great  men,  was  still  surrounded  by  the  halo  of  their  glory.     The 
tripos  of  January  1882  will  be  the  135th  of  the  series;  and  as  it  is  the 
oldest  of  all  such  examinations,  it  has  certainly  been  one  of  the  most  con- 
spicuous, and  has  included  a  very  large  number  of  distinguished  names. 
Conservatives   of  the  good  old   school   may  tremble,  if  the  faculty  of 
trembling  be  still  left  to  them,  at  the  thought  that  a  sacrilegious  hand  is 
to  be  laid  upon  this  venerable  institution.     Amidst  all  the  bewildering 
series  of  educational  reforms  which  have  taken  place  at  the  universities, 
the  mathematical  tripos  seemed  to  be  a  sacred  and  unassailable  institu- 
tion.    It  may — let  us  hope  that  it  will — receive  fresh  life  under  its  new 
regulations ;  but  the  very  thought  that  it  is  capable  of  being  improved  is 
enough  to  startle  those  who  were  familiar  with  the  Cambridge  of  pre- 
Commission  days.     Considerable  changes  had,  indeed,  been  made  from 
time  to  time  in  the  mode  of  examining  ;  but  hitherto  they  have  not  been 
of  such  a  nature  as  in  any  degree  to  diminish  the  unique  and  special 
glory  attached  to  the  quaint  title  Senior  Wrangler. 

The  old  Cambridge  system — the  system  which  had  grown  into  full 
development  during  the  first  half  of  this  century — had,  one  may  say,  the 
apparent  stability  of  a  natural  growth,  when  the  first  University  Com- 
mission began  to  lay  hands  tipon  it.  It  was  not  only  a  well-understood 
system,  but  so  thoroughly  established  and  deeply  rooted  that  true  Cambridge 
men  were  incapable  of  conceiving  that  it  could  possibly  be  otherwise.  It 
seemed  to  be  part  of  the  eternal  order  of  things.  It  no  more  required  to 
be  justified  by  any  aid  external  to  itself  than  a  planet  or  the  solar  system. 
It  was  there ;  and  nobody  but  the  most  daring  sceptic  could  ask  why  it 
should  be  there.  A  speculative  mind  may  of  course  question  anything  ; 
it  may  ask  why  an  insect  should  pass  through  the  stages  of  caterpillar, 
chrysalis  and  butterfly,  but  the  ordinary  naturalist  is  content  to  explain 


22G  SENIOR  WRANGLERS. 

that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  such  is  the  existing  arrangement,  and  regards 
any  discussion  as  to  the  possibility  or  desirability  of  a  different  order  as 
beyond  his  sphere,  if  not  beyond  the  sphere  of  human  intelligence.  The 
true  Cambridge  man  took  the  same  view  of  the  academical  organisation  ; 
the  undergraduate  developed  into  the  Fellow,  the  Fellow  into  the  incum- 
bent of  a  college  living,  as  the  insect  passed  through  its  successive  trans- 
formations. If  some  silly  radical  or  wandering  foreigner  asked  what  was 
the  use  of  the  college  system,  whether  it  was  calculated  to  promote  edu- 
cation and  so  forth,  he  was  simply  ridiculous.  There  were,  indeed,  certain 
ostensible  answers  provided  for  the  confutation  of  such  cavillers,  but  the 
best  answer  was  that  the  question  was  absurd.  The  university  was  its 
own  end ;  its  existence  justified  itself.  You  might  ask  how  it  had  grown 
into  its  present  state  if  you  liked  antiquarian  discussions ;  but  to  ask 
why  it  should  not  be  changed  was  like  asking  why  men  should  not  be 
made  without  stomachs.  For  practical  purposes  we  are  content  to  have 
a  stomach,  without  asking  why ;  and  so  the  curiously  complex  system  of 
the  university  was  part  of  the  fundamental  data  from  which  you  started, 
not  an  accidental  arrangement  to  be  judged  by  its  fitness  for  producing 
some  assumed  result. 

All  this  has  been  changed ;  and  people  have  begun  to  ask  why  1 
even  in  regard  to  senior  wranglers.  Meanwhile,  let  us  admit  that  an 
institution  which  has  thus  developed  by  a  kind  of  spontaneous  and 
natural  growth,  has  always  something  picturesque  about  it ;  that  it  is 
pleasant  to  contemplate  in  a  time  of  restless  change ;  and  yet  more  that 
it  has  certain  merits  which  the  most  ardent  reformer  should  not  alto- 
gether neglect.  The  picturesqueness  will  hardly  be  doubted.  We  have 
often  thought,  and  we  make  a  present  of  the  suggestion  to  any  one  whom 
it  may  concern,  that  there  could  hardly  be  a  better  setting  for  a  novel 
than  one  of  the  old  colleges  before  the  days  of  Commissions.  The  society 
described  in  the  Mill  on  the  Floss  had  not  more  of  marked  idiosyncrasy, 
of  quaint  tradition  worked  into  its  very  structure,  than  the  old  college 
society  of  half  a  century  back.  The  novelists  who  have  touched  the 
subject,  as  Thackeray  in  Pendennis,  have  for  the  most  part  spoken  only 
of  the  undergraduates,  .and  the  undergraduate  is  pretty  much  like  other 
young  men.  He  had  not  been  exposed  to  the  influences  of  the  place 
long  enough  to  absorb  its  peculiar  local  colouring.  We  are  thinking 
rather  of  the  genuine  don ;  the  man  who  had  lived  for  years  amidst  old 
buildings,  on  which  every  generation  from  the  middle  ages  to  the  days 
of  Victoria  had  left  its  mark ;  who,  though  not  bound  by  vows,  loved 
his  college  as  the  aged  monk  loved  his  monastery  ;  to  whom  the  college 
!~tood  in  place  of  wife  and  family ;  who  held  its  traditions  sacred,  and 
resented  the  alteration  of  its  trifling  customs  as  sacrilege ;  who  found  all 
his  social  enjoyments  in  college  feasts  and  orthodox  rubbers  of  whist ;  whose 
furthest  rambles  were  daily  constitutionals  along  "  Senior  Wrangler's 
Walk  "  by  the  side  of  Hobson's  Conduit,  or  to  the  summit  of  Gogmagog 
Range ;  who  was  as  much  at  home  in  university  politics  and  intrigues 


SENIOR  WRANGLERS.  227 

for  the  headship  of  colleges  as  a  parliamentary  whip  in  the  intricacies  of 
political  struggles ;  who  sometimes  developed  into  a  cynical  old  bachelor, 
with  rather  too  keen  an  appreciation  of  his  famous  vintages  of  port ;  and 
sometimes  became  the  spiritual  guide  of  a  country  parish,  revisiting  his 
old  haunts  when  a  feast  was  towards ;  and  occasionally  by  good  luck 
reaching  a  kind  of  Nirvana  in  the  delicious  retirement  of  a  Master's 
Lodge.  The  society  in  which  such  men  were  prominent  figures  had  its 
failings,  but  there  was  in  it  plenty  of  real  good-fellowship ;  it  respected 
talent,  and  had  a  large  share  of  intelligence  ;  and,  if  the  novelist  might 
complain  of  a  want  of  the  feminine  element,  there  were  always  cases 
pathetic  enough  in  their  way,  if  the  pathos  had  been  revealed  to  the 
portrayer  of  poor  snuffy  old  Mr.  Gilfil.  A  long  engagement,  with  the 
pining  girl  in  the  distance,  the  stolid  incumbent  refusing  with  unreason- 
able obstinacy  to  exchange  the  vicarage  for  the  churchyard,  and  the 
youthful  lover  dwindling  into  the  peevish  don,  would  suggest  abundant 
motives  for  novelists  in  that  vein. 

We  are  digressing  :  but  the  old  mathematical  tripos  seemed  to  be 
the  natural  product  of  the  old  order.  There  was  something — so,  at 
least,  rash  reformers  were  inclined  to  whisper — arbitrary  about  the 
system.  They  sometimes  ventured  to  doubt  whether  the  vast  im- 
portance attached  to  success  in  the  examination  was  really  favourable 
to  edjjcation.  But  such  people  went  upon  the  assumption  that  the  true 
end  of  a  university  was  the  improvement  of  the  intellect :  the  true  end 
was  that  vigorous,  hard-headed  men  should  win  its  prizes  in  a  fair  field. 
If  a  contest  was  incidentally  good  in  an  educational  point  of  view,  so 
much  the  better ;  but  this  was  a  secondary  and  incidental  matter.  The 
primary  and  essential  thing  was  to  be  able  to  provide  an  automatic  test 
which  should  say  distinctly  that  A  was  worth  1,000  marks,  and  B  worth 
only  975.  Nothing  could  do  this  better  than  the  mathematical  tripos  ; 
and,  accordingly,  the  mathematical  tripos  had  a  kind  of  sacred  and  in- 
violable character.  Whilst  it  flourished,  Cambridge  would  flourish  ;  if 
it  decayed,  Cambridge  would  decay,  and  with  Cambridge  presumably  the 
world. 

The  ceremony  at  which  the  senior  wrangler  received  his  degree 
was  the  outward  and  visible  symbol  of  the  whole  system.  To  tamper 
with  it  would  have  seemed  to  your  true  Cambridge  man  as  profane  as  a 
radical  change  in  the  mode  of  electing  the  pope  would  seem  to  a  true 
Catholic.  The  college,  the  tutor,  even  the  bedmaker,  or  "  gyp,"  of  the 
senior  wrangler  had  a  momentary  share  of  his  glory.  To  his  humble 
competitors  he  was  as  imposing  a  spectacle  as  the  Lord  Chancellor  is  to 
the  briefless  barrister ;  he  was  at  one  of  the  culminating  points  of  earthly 
glory.  The  sentiment  still  survives  with  some  who  have  outlived  many 
illusions.  It  is  possible — as  we  know  by  experience — for  a  high  wrangler 
to  be  a  dull  human  being ;  but  we  cannot,  to  this  day,  look  back  to  a 
senior  wrangler  and  feel  ourselves  really  to  be  of  the  same  clay.  Many 
a  stern  republican,  who  holds  that  monarchy  is  a  mere  sham,  feels  his 


228  SENIOR  WRANGLERS. 

heart  sink  in  presence  of  a  real  monarch ;  and  our  sensations  in  presence 
of  these  eminent  persons  are  of  the  same  kind. 

Still,  we  may  ask  whether  experience  in  any  degree  justifies  the 
sentiment ;  whether  the  system  were  good  or  bad  from  an  educational 
point  of  view,  we  may  ask  whether  it  has,  in  fact,  succeeded  in  bringing 
out  the  ablest  men.  The  question  may  be  best  answered  by  applying  to 
the  Cambridge  Calendar ;  and  we  will  briefly  run  over  some  of  the  facts. 
In  the  earlier  lists  there  are  not  many  names  known  to  other  than  anti- 
quarians. The  first  name  we  notice  which  has  any  kind  of  fame  is  that 
of  Dodd,  of  Clare,  who  was  a  wrangler  or  a  "  senior  optime  "  (the  two 
classes  are  mixed  in  the  first  few  lists)  in  1750.  He  is  called  in  a  note 
the  author  of  Thoughts  in  Prison,  which  is  a  delicate  way  of  intimating 
that  he  was  probably  the  first  wrangler  who  was  hanged.  A  little 
further  on  we  find  a  man  of  whom  a  good  Tory  will  perhaps  say  that  he 
was  the  first  who  ought  to  have  been  hanged :  the  vigorous  and  acute 
radical  Home  Tooke  was  a  senior  optime  in  1758.  In  1761  we  find 
the  first  senior  wrangler  (Wilton)  who  afterwards  reached  the  bench.  In 
1763  there  is  a  more  characteristic  name  :  Paley,  the  senior  wrangler  of 
that  year,  represents  the  very  type  of  the  clear-beaded,  vigorous  north- 
countrymen  who  have  won  so  many  triumphs  in  this  field.  One  of  the 
moderators  in  this  year  was  Watson,  of  Trinity,  who  had  been  second 
wrangler  in  1759,  and  who  afterwards  became  Bishop  of  Llandaff.  His 
Anecdotes  give  one  of  the  most  curious  pictures  extant  of  an  old-fashioned 
variety  of  bishop.  He  thought  himself  a  most  exemplary  and  virtuous  man, 
whilst  it  never  even  occurred  to  him  that  he  ought  ever  to  go  near  his  dio- 
cese. He  was,  however,  a  man  of  great  ability,  and  had  he  been  on  the  right 
side  in  politics  might  not  have  had  to  complain  that  he  was  an  instance 
of  neglected  merit — a  luckless  wretch  with  nothing  but  a  bishopric  in 
Wales  and  a  rich  professorship  in  Cambridge  to  comfort  him  in  a  pleasant 
country  retirement  in  Windermere.  In  1771,  Law,  afterwards  Lord 
Ellenborough,  was  third  wrangler;  and  in  1772  the  senior  wrangler  was 
Pretyman  (Tomlace),  who  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  the  tutor  of  Pitt  at 
Pembroke  College,  and  who  afterwards  became  Bishop  of  Winchester  and 
biographer  of  his  pupil.  In  1774  the  senior  wrangler  was  Milner,  of 
Queen's,  a  name  of  great  Cambridge  celebrity,  though  less  familiar  else- 
where, who  was  at  one  time  a  tutor  of  Pitt's  friend,  Wilberforce,  and 
seems  to  have  had  a  great  influence  upon  the  young  man's  mind.  At 
Cambridge  he  was  famed  as  a  kind  of  local  Johnson,  and  was  for  many 
years  the  ruler  of  the  Conservative  party.  The  second  wrangler  of  1776 
was  a  man  of  very  different  type — the  pugnacious  and  crotchety,  versatile 
Gibbon  Wakefield,  scholar,  theologian,  and  politician,  who  took  the  road 
which  did  not  lead  to  preferment,  and  ended  his  days  shortly  after  an 
imprisonment  for  his  radical  utterances.  About  the  same  time  we  have 
names  of  a  more  strictly  academical  fame.  In  1778  the  senior  wrangler 
was  Farish,  a  well-known  mathematical  professor;  in  1783  the  same 
place  was  gained  by  Wollaston,  of  scientific  fame ;  and  in  the  previous 


SENIOR  V/EANGLERS.  229 

year  by  Wood,  whose  name  is  indelibly  associated  with  algebra  in  the 
minds  of  many  generations  of  Cambridge  men.  In  the  same  tripos 
(1782)  is  the  great  name  of  Person,  who,  however,  did  only  enough  in 
mathematics  to  qualify  him  to  win  the  classical  prize  of  a  chancellor's 
medal. 

A  period  follows  during  which  we  find  few  names  worth  mentioning 
here.  Professor  Smythe  was  a  wrangler  in  1787,  and  Archdeacon 
Wrangham  was  third  wrangler  and  first  chancellor's  medallist  in  1790 ; 
but  these  names  are  known  to  few.  There  were  some  eminent  students 
at  Cambridge  in  these  years,  especially  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth,  who 
were  both  there  about  1790.  But,  though  Cambridge  has  been  rich  in 
poets,  the  poets  have  not  apparently  taken  to  the  Cambridge  system.  In 
olden  days,  neither  Milton  nor  Dryden  seem  to  have  found  the  place 
congenial;  and,  in  our  own,  though  Mr.  Tennyson  condescended  to 
write  a  prize-poem,  his  name  does  not  appear  in  the  honour  lists. 
Neither  Coleridge  nor  Wordsworth  were  exceptions,  nor — it  need  hardly 
be  said — was  Byron,  a  few  years  afterwards.  Wordsworth's  brother, 
afterwards  Master  of  Trinity,  was,  we  may  notice,  a  wrangler  in  1796. 
In  1794  we  find  a  familiar  name:  Butler,  of  Sidney,  afterwards  the 
head-master  of  Harrow,  and  abused  as  such  by  Byron,  was  senior 
wrangler.  His  son,  the  present  head-master,  was  senior  classic  in  1855. 
In  the  next  year  we  find  the  first  appearance  of  another  name  famous  in 
a  later  generation  at  Cambridge :  Selwyn,  father  of  the  bishop,  was  a 
senior  optime  and  first  chancellor's  medallist  in  that  year. 

With  the  opening  of  the  present  century  comes  a  remarkable  series 
of  senior  wranglers.  In  1801  the  senior  wrangler  was  Henry  Martyn, 
the  devoted  missionary,  whose  fame  in  that  respect  is  unique  in  the 
annals  of  the  tripos ;  but  amongst  his  successors  in  the  honour  were  a 
number  who  took  the  more  commonplace  paths  to  success.  In  his  own 
year,  a  feat  was  performed  long  famous  in  Cambridge  tradition.  Two 
brothers,  Grant,  were  third  and  fourth  wrangler  and  second  and  first 
chancellor's  medallist,  respectively  :  the  third  wrangler  was  afterwards 
Governor-General  of  Bombay ;  the  fourth  became  Lord  Glenelg.  Kaye, 
afterwards  Bishop  of  Lincoln,  was  senior  wrangler  in  1804;  Turton, 
afterwards  Bishop  of  Ely,  in  1805  ;  Pollock,  afterwards  Chief  Baron  of 
the  Exchequer,  in  180G  ;  Bickersteth,  afterwards  Lord  Langdale  and 
Master  of  the  Rolls,  in  1808;  Alderson,  afterwards  a  Baron  of  the 
Exchequer,  in  1809;  and  Maule,  afterwards  a  Judge  of  the  Common 
Pleas,  in  1810.  Thus,  of  ten  successive  senior  wranglers,  four  became 
judges,  two  bishops,  one  achieved  a  glory  of  a  higher  kind,  whilst  of  the 
remaining  three,  one  (Starkie,  1803)  was  afterwards  a  professor.  The 
third  wrangler  in  Bickersteth's  year  was  Blomfield  (also  first  chancellor's 
medallist),  afterwards  Bishop  of  London,  and  the  fifth  wrangler  was 
Adam  Sedgwick,  most  charming  of  all  scientific  celebrities  (with  one 
living  exception).  With  Cambridge  men  of  this  standing  it  naturally 
became  an  accepted  principle  that  senior  wranglers  had  a  sort  of  pre- 


230  SEKIOR  WRANGLERS. 

scriptive  riglit  to  grow  into  judges;  but  an  examination  of  the  later 
records  fails  to  justify  that  belief.  In  the  next  ten  years  we  find  no 
judges,  but  some  names  of  scientific  interest.  Herschel — afterwards  Sir 
John — was  the  senior  wrangler  of  1813,  the  second  being  Peacock,  after- 
wards Dean  of  Ely  and  astronomical  professor;  and  1816  was  the  famous 
year  in  which  Whewell,  the  type  of  the  true  Cambridge  man  for  many 
years,  the  man  "  whose  foible  was  omniscience,"  whom  the  prize-fighter 
grudged  to  the  Church  as  obviously  fitted  for  his  own  profession — the 
Whewell  in  whom,  in  spite  of  certain  external  harshnesses,  all  Cambridge 
men  had  learned  to  take  a  pride — was  beaten  by  the  unknown  Jacob. 
Legends  long  circulated  to  account  for  this  defeat ;  and  it  was  told  how 
Jacob  had  "  run  dark,"  to  use  the  only  appropriate  phrase,  and  thrown 
Whewell  off  his  guard  by  professing  to  go  out  hunting,  and  really 
alighting  to  read  mathematics  at  some  distant  village. 

The  position,  however,  for  whatever  reason,  is  not  uncommon.  In 
the  year  1837  Professor  Sylvester,  in  1845  the  present  Sir  W.  Thomson, 
in  1854  the  late  Professor  Clerk-Maxwell,  and  in  1867  the  late  Pro- 
fessor Clifford  were  second  wranglers.  These  are  certainly  amongst 
the  most  brilliant  mathematicians  and  physicists  whom  Cambridge  has 
produced  of  late  years,  and  they  were  beaten  by  men  of  less  celebrity. 
This  may  point  to  the  fact  that  originality  is  rather  a  disadvantage  than 
otherwise  in  competitive  examinations.  The  man  succeeds  best  who  is 
most  receptive ;  and  though  receptiveness  does  not  exclude  originality, 
it  does  not  necessarily  accompany  it  in  an  equal  degree.  Another  senior 
wrangler  of  high  reputation  at  Cambridge  (to  resume  our  list)  was 
King  (1819),  afterwards  President  of  Queen's  College,  who  was  pre- 
vented, we  believe,  by  ill-health  from  justifying  his  reputation.  In  1823 
we  come  to  Airy,  afterwards  Astronomer  Royal,  and  in  1825  to  Professor 
Challis.  In  1827  the  famous  mathematician  De  Morgan  succeeded  only 
in  reaching  the  fourth  place,  the  third  being  filled  by  Cleasby,  afterwards 
a  Baron  of  the  Exchequer.  The  senior  wrangler  of  1828  was  Perry, 
afterwards  Bishop  of  Melbourne ;  and  the  sixth  wrangler  of  the  same 
year,  as  also  the  senior  classic  and  first  chancellor's  medallist,  was  Pro- 
fessor Selwyn,  who  thus  took  one  of  the  most  brilliant  degrees  on  record. 
His  brother,  the  bishop,  was  second  classic  three  years  later,  but  near 
the  bottom  of  the  mathematical  tripos.  In  1829,  the  senior  wrangler 
was  Philpott,  the  present  Bishop  of  Worcester,  and  the  second  wrangler 
Cavendish,  the  present  Duke  of  Devonshire  and  Chancellor  of  the 
University.  No  member  of  the  peerage,  it  seems,  has  ever  taken  such 
a  degree  until  the  present  Lord  Rayleigh  was  senior  wrangler  in  1865. 
For  some  time  there  follows  no  name  of  general  celebrity.  The  year 
1835  was  remarkable  for  a  degree  which  was  long  famous.  The  second 
•wrangler  of  that  year  was  Goulburn,  son  of  the  Right  Honourable  H. 
Goulburn,  for  many  years  member  for  the  University.  He  was  beaten 
by  Cotterill,  afterwards  Principal  of  Brighton  College  and  Bishop  of 
Edinburgh ;  but  he  was  senior  classic  and  first  chancellor's  medallist. 


SENIOR  WRANGLERS.  231 

So  neat  an  approach  to  supremacy  in  both  studies  has  never  been 
achieved.  Whether  it  would  have  been  followed  by  corresponding 
success  in  all  is  unknown  ;  for  poor  Goulburn  died  soon  afterwards.  It 
was  of  course  said,  and  equally  of  course  denied,  that  his  death  had  been 
hastened  by  excessive  intellectual  exertion.  A  more  melancholy  case 
perhaps  was  that  of  Leslie  Ellis,  the  senior  wrangler  of  1840,  who  made 
a  profound  impression  upon  all  his  contemporaries  of  the  highest  abilities 
as  well  as  of  singular  charm  of  character.  He  was  hopelessly  crippled 
by  a  rheumatic  fever  soon  afterwards,  and  doomed  to  a  life  of  severe 
pain  and  forced  inaction.  We  can  only  infer  what  he  might  have  done 
from  a  few  fragments  and  his  share  in  the  great  edition  of  Bacon,  in 
which  Spedding — who  took  a  second  class  in  the  classical  tripos  of  1831 
• — was  his  collaborator. 

In  1836,  to  return  to  the  order  of  time,  the  second  place  was  taken 
by  Bishop  Colenso,  and  in  1840  by  Harvey  Goodwin,  the  present  Bishop 
of  Carlisle.     The  following  years  were  remarkable  for  senior  wranglers 
of  scientific  eminence.    In  1841  the  senior  wrangler  was  Stokes,  in  1842 
Cayley,  and  in  1843  Adams;   all  of  whom  have  since  become  mathe- 
matical professors  at  Cambridge  ;  and  though  the  discovery  of  a  planet 
may  have  made  the  name  of  Professor  Adams  better  known  to  the  out- 
side world  than  that  of  his  eminent  colleagues,  we  do  not  presume  to 
say  which  has  penetrated  the  deepest  into  mysteries  unintelligible  to  all 
but  a  select  few.     We  know  that  Professor  Cayley  is  in  the  very  first 
rank  of  mathematicians ;   but  we  are  forced  to  take  his  greatness  on 
faith.     In  1845,  as  we  have  said,  Sir  W.  Thomson  was  second  wrangler; 
the  senior  wrangler  of  1848  was  Todhunter,  the  author  of  many  well- 
known  treatises,  and  of  1853  the  present  Professor  Tait.     And  here,  for 
the  moment,  we  pause ;   for  we  are  getting  amongst  the  present  gene- 
ration, and  therefore  amongst  men  whose  reputation  may  not  yet  corre- 
spond to  their  best  achievements.     The  list,  as  we  have  hastily  run 
through  it,  certainly  seems  to  suggest  one  conclusion.     There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  great  intellectual  vigour  has  always  been  a  necessary  con- 
dition of  success  in  these  triposes.     No  one  can  be  a  very  high  wrangler 
without  possessing  rare  mental  qualifications.     But  it  would  appear,  at 
first  sight,  that  the  kind  of  ability  has  changed ;   and  that  whilst  the 
senior  wranglers  of  earlier  years   were  men  who   satisfied   Johnson's 
definition  of  genius,  men,  that  is,  of  great  general  power  applied  to  a 
particular  pursuit,  the  later  senior  wranglers  have  been  more  commonly 
men   of  more   specific   taste  for   mathematical    inquiry.       The   senior 
wrangler  used  to  aim  at  the  bench ;  he  is  now  more  qualified  for  the 
professor's  chair.     Some  obvious  considerations  may  account  for  this. 
The  recent   development   of  our  educational  system   has   enormously 
increased  the  inducements  to   some  kind  of  professorial  career.     The 
senior  wrangler  is  very  often  a  poor  man,  who  has  to  make  a  living  by 
his  brains.     His  degree  is,  in  fact,  a  certificate  which  will  entitle  him  to 
preference  if  he  chooses  to  become  a  candidate  for  a  professorship.    It  is, 


232  SENIOK  WRANGLERS. 

on  the  other  hand,  a  very  slight  advantage  if  he  chooses  to  go  to  the  bai'. 
It  gains  for  him,  at  most,  a  prize  fellowship,  which  may  help  to  carry 
him  through  his  early  struggles.  Though  success  at  the  bar  may  pro- 
duce much  more  brilliant  results,  they  are,  of  course,  more  distant  and 
moi'e  precarious  than  those  which  are  already  secured  to  him  if  he  turns 
his  qualifications  to  immediate  account.  He  has,  therefore,  a  very 
strong  motive  for  accepting  the  certainty  of  a  modest  competence  instead 
of  the  uncertain  prospect  of  legal  success.  To  this,  again,  it  must  be 
added  that  the  enormous  increase  in  the  demands  of  the  tripos  tells  in 
the  same  direction.  In  the  old  days,  a  senior  wrangler  was  often  a  man 
who  had  never  opened  Euclid  till  he  went  to  Cambridge ;  and  his  whole 
stock  of  knowledge  when  he  took  his  degree  would  perhaps  be  not  more 
than  is  now  desirable  in  a  freshman  who  is  to  compete  for  high  honours. 
The  keen  competition,  which  now  begins  long  before  entrance  at  the 
university,  naturally  limits  the  competitors  to  those  who  have  a  special 
aptitude  for  the  study ;  and  the  encouragement  of  other  studies  at  the 
university  itself  must  draft  off  many  who,  in  the  old  days,  would  have 
taken  to  mathematics,  not  because  it  was  the  most  congenial,  but  because 
it  was  the  only  path  to  distinction.  Till  the  establishment  of  the  classi- 
cal tripos  in  1824,  no  one  could  gain  university  honours  without  some 
mathematical  ability  ;  and  many  eminent  Cambridge  men,  as  Macaulay, 
for  example,  have  therefore  failed  to  leave  a  name  on  the  class-lists. 
Others,  however,  distinguished  themselves  in  mathematics,  who  would, 
under  a  less  narrow  system  which  now  prevails,  have  found  other  means 
of  winning  academical  glory.  It  is  therefore  inevitable  that  the  tripos 
should  include  a  smaller  proportion  of  men  distinguished  in  after-life. 
We  may  still,  indeed,  find  cases  to  the  contrary.  More  than  one  senior- 
wrangler  of  the  last  twenty  years  is  eminent  at  the  bar ;  and  such  men 
deserve  all  the  more  credit,  from  lawyers  at  least,  in  so  far  as  they  have 
taken  to  that  thorny  career  in  spite  of  greater  temptations  to  stray  in 
the  flowery  paths  of  science. 

By  looking  briefly  at  the  men  who  have  won  positions  of  recognised 
distinction  we  may  see  this  more  clearly.  On  the  bench  of  bishops  there 
are,  of  course,  many  distinguished  university  men.  The  Bishop  of 
Llandaflf,  Dr.  Ollivant,  was  sixth  wrangler  and  first  chancellor's  medal- 
list (the  same  degree  as  Professor  Selwyn)  in  1821.  The  Bishop  of 
"Worcester  (Philpott)  was,  as  we  have  seen,  senior  wrangler  in  1829 ;  the 
Bishop  of  Winchester  (Browne)  twenty-third  wrangler  in  1832;  and  the 
Bishop  of  Carlisle  (Goodwin)  second  wrangler  in  1840.  The  other 
Cambridge  bishops  were  chiefly  distinguished  in  the  classical  tripos.  The 
Bishop  of  Lincoln  (Wordsworth)  was  senior  classic  in  1830,  and  the 
Bishop  of  Durham  (Lightfoot)  senior  classic  in  1851 ;  Dr.  Lightfoot  was 
also  a  wrangler.  The  Bishops  of  Bath  and  Wells  (Lord  A.  Hervey),  of 
Hereford  (Atlay),  and  of  Truro  (Benson)  were  first-class  men  in  1830, 
1840,  and  1852  respectively.  The  Bishop  of  Gloucester  (Ellicott)  was  in 
the  second  class  in  both  triposes  in  1841,  and  the  Bishop  of  Ely  (Wood- 


SENIOR  WRANGLERS.  233 

ford)  took  a  similar  degree  in  1842.  Amongst  the  judges  we  find  only 
three  names  mentioned  in  the  Cambridge  tripos  list.  Mr.  Justice  Bag- 
gallay  was  fourteenth  wrangler  in  1839,  and  Mr.  Justice  Brett  was  a 
senior  optime  of  the  same  year  and  college  (Caius) ;  whilst  Mr.  Justice 
Denman  was  senior  classic  of  1842,  his  second  being  the  distinguished 
editor  of  Lucretius,  Mr.  Munro.  Charles  Kingsley,  we  may  observe  in 
passing,  was  ninth  and  last  in  the  same  first  class.  Passing  to  political 
celebrities,  we  may  observe  that  the  triposes  have  contributed  some  men 
of  distinction  to  the  present  ministry,  though  we  do  ;not  find  any  senior 
wrangler  in  that  exalted  sphere.  The  nearest  approach  is  Mr.  Leonard 
Courtney,  who  was  second  wrangler  in  1855  ;  Mr.  Fawcett  was  seventh 
wrangler  in  the  following  year ;  Mr.  Childers  and  Lord  Hartington  were 
senior  optimes  in  1850  and  1854.  Besides  these  mathematical  honours, 
Sir  W.  Harcourt  was  a  classical  first-class  man  in  1851,  as  was  the 
present  Lord  Derby  in  1848  ;  and  Mr.  George  Trevelyan  was  second  in 
the  first  class  of  1861,  the  first  name  being  that  of  Mr.  Abbott,  the 
present  head-master  of  the  City  of  London  School.  Sir  Charles  Dilke, 
who,  like  Mr.  Fawcett,  is  a  member  of  Trinity  Hall,  was  first  in  the  law 
tripos  of  1865.  In  the  preceding  ministry  we  do  not  find  a  single  Cam- 
bridge name,  after  the  secession  of  Dord  Derby ;  a  circumstance  from 
which  we  decline  to  draw  any  inferences  as  to  the  political  tendencies  of 
the  university. 

Indeed,  the  most  obvious  inference  from  all  such  tests  is  that  very 
little  can  be  inferred.  Universities  and  schools  calmly  speak  of  "  pro- 
ducing "  great  men,  when  all  that  can  be  safely  said  is  that  they  have 
not  put  an  end  to  them.  So  when  a  list  is  given  of  men  who,  having 
distinguished  themselves  in  examinations,  have  distinguished  themselves 
in  after-life,  the  inference  is  suggested  that  the  examination  must  be  an 
admirable  test  of  merit.  The  truth  is  that  the  difference  between  a  man 
of  talent  and  a  fool  is  so  great  that  hardly  any  test  could  be  devised 
which  should  bring  them  together.  If  the  senior  wranglers  whom  we 
have  mentioned  had  been  invited  to  a  competition  in  whist,  in  law,  phi- 
losophy, bistor}-,  in  almost  anything  except  poetry,  it  is  probable  that 
they  would  have  occupied  much  the  same  position.  The  test  gives  of 
course  an  advantage  to  the  scientific  as  contrasted  with  the  artistic  and 
imaginative  class  of  intellect ;  but  amongst  those  to  whom  it  is  at  all 
congenial,  it  can  hardly  help  selecting  the  ablest.  If  we  examined  the 
classical  and  the  other  newer  triposes,  we  should  have  a  field  wide  enough 
for  the  display  of  most  kinds  of  ability,  and  should  probably  find  most  of 
the  names  of  the  oldest  Cambridge  men.  As  Cambridge  has  presumably 
its  fair  share  of  such  able  men  as  can  afford  a  vmiversity  education,  its 
examinations  will  probably  continue  to  be  full  of  names  to  be  hereafter 
eminent.  The  occasional  failure  of  examinations  to  pick  out  such  men 
seems  to  be  due  to  an  obvious  cause  already  hinted.  Originality  can 
never  be  adequately  estimated  by  such  measures,  and  originality  is  of 
course  the  great  condition  of  success.  Do  all  you  can  to  exclude  "  cram," 

VOL.  XLV.— NO.  266.  12 


234  SENIOR 

the  man  who  has  a  docile  mind,  who  is  capable  of  becoming  (as  Carlyle 
informs  us)  a  passive  bucket  to  be  pumped  into,  will  always  have  a  chance 
of  comparing  favourably  with  the  genius  who  is  content  to  be  wayward 
and  eccentric.  Your  poet  is  apt  to  dream  when  he  ought  ("  ought "  being 
used  in  the  examiner's  sense)  to  be  learning.  Your  mathematician  of 
genius  will  be  trying  problems  of  his  own  invention  instead  of  plodding 
along  the  track  ;  and  your  aspiring  politician  will  be  spouting  nonsense 
at  the  Union,  often,  we  may  add  in  a  whisper,  to  his  great  advantage. 
In  truth,  so  far  as  our  experience  has  gone,  these  irregular  manifestations 
are  in  that  sense  more  promising  than  distinction  of  the  more  recognised 
kind.  Prize  poems,  for  example,  are  a  recognised  topic  of  ridicule  ;  and 
a  young  man  who  goes  in  for  such  a  prize  must  have  such  a  propensity 
for  verse-making  as  to  overcome  his  dread  of  ridicule.  There  can  hardly 
be  a  better  symptom ;  and  we  find  accordingly  that  the  list  of  prize  poets 
includes  some  of  the  most  eminent  Cambridge  names,  and  many  perhaps 
compare  not  unfavourably  with  that  of  senior  wranglers.  We  find  in  it, 
in  fact,  in  the  space  of  fifty  years,  the  names  of  Whewell,  Macaulay 
(twice),  Praed  (twice),  Bulwer,  Bishop  Wordsworth  (twice),  Mr.  Tenny- 
son, Sir  Henry  Morris,  Canon  Farrar,  Mr.  F.  W.  Myers,  and  Professor 
Sydney  Colvin,  most  of  whom,  it  is  true,  were  also  distinguished  in  other 
ways.  If  we  concluded  that  it  was  better  and  wiser  to  draw  the  in- 
ference that  it  was  better  to  get  a  prize  poem  than  a  high  wranglership 
we  should  be  accused  of  preaching  immoral  doctrine.  In  truth,  how- 
ever, our  conclusion  is  a  very  simple  one,  and  perfectly  unobjectionable. 
It  is  simply  this,  that  university  distinctions  are  attainable  by  the  same 
qualities  which  lead  to  eminence  in  after-life  ;  and  therefore  obtained  for 
the  most  part  by  the  man  of  genius  if  he  cares  to  obtain  them.  But 
universities  cannot  of  course  make  any  adequate  summary  of  a  man's 
whole  character ;  sometimes  they  recognise  a  merit  which  is  too  shrinking 
and  confined  within  too  delicate  a  frame  to  make  itself  felt  in  after-life ; 
more  often  they  have  to  put  the  plodding  and  industrious  crammable 
youth  on  a  level  with  the  man  of  genius,  who  will  distance  him  by  an 
incalculable  amount  hereafter.  All  these  and  some  other  considerations 
are  enough  to  explain  why  this  little  preliminary  struggle  should  be  a 
very  inadequate  prophecy  of  the  wider  struggle  beyond.  High  promise 
has  come  to  little,  and  great  names  have  remained  obscure.  AVe  do  not 
find  Mr.  Darwin's  name  in  the  list  of  honours  full  of  scientific  celebrities ; 
and  we  could  mention  names  which  represented  extraordinary  hopes 
destined  to  be  completely  deceived.  But,  for  all  that,  we  respect  the 
senior  wranglers,  and  could  have  been  glad  of  such  a  distinction  our- 
selves. 


235 


ia  u  $;ioir  fojw  bus  mbBcft  0f  jm*  Jfelucls, 


WRITTEN   SEVERAL   YEARS   AGO. 


WHEN,  jewel- girt,  the  priest  to  pray 

Entered  his  holy  place  alone, 
From  Judah's  God  flashed  forth  a  ray 

Which  gave  a  soul  to  every  stone. 

Ay,  and  in  other  lands  men  taught 

How  gems  with  secret  power  shone  hright, 

And  that  their  changeless  charm  was  fraught 
With  something  of  a  spirit-light. 

Dead  is  that  dream,  but  none  the  less 
Life's  fountain  through  their  lustre  flows, 

And  fills  each  sparkling  barrenness 

With  growths  which  blossom  as  the  rose. 

As  we  look  back,  a  diamond  ring 
May  Hope's  white  flag  once  more  unfurl, 

Love's  blush  around  some  ruby  cling, 
And  Memories  throb  within  a  pearl. 

Then,  since  no  fresh  gaud  of  to-day 

Can  match  what  vanished  hours  endear, 

Let  thy  heart  frankly  have  its  way, 
And  sorrow  without  shame  of  fear. 

Yet,  sorrowing,  on  this  faith  repose, 
That  all  who  know  and  love  thee  feel 

The  richest  of  thy  gems  are  those 
No  thief — not  even  Time — can  steal. 

FRANCIS  HASTINGS  DOYLE. 


12 — 2 


236 


CHAPTER  XLII. 
BOB  AS  A  REFORMER. 

MR.  SAGAR,  like  every  one  who 
has  nothing  to  do,  was  a  very  busy 
person.  There  was  hardly  any 
kind  of  work  which  he  did  not 
touch,  and  he  touched  nothing  of 
which  he  did  not  tire.  His  work 
was  like  his  life,  a  perpetual  spring 
• — "  the  eternal  boyhood  of  an 
Irishman,"  of  which  somebody 
speaks — beautiful  and  numberless 
beginnings,  which,  like  an  Irish- 
man's promises,  were  leafy  and 
luxuriant,  but  unfruitful.  Leafy 
and  luxuriant  promises  generally 
are.  Now,  though  Mr.  Sagar  kept 
his  own  promises,  his  designs  didn't. 
His  life  was  like  an  artist's  studio 
— all  sketches.  Bob  was  not  with- 
out brains,  but  he  had  no  staying 
power,  and  was  thus  outrun  in  the 

race  of  life  by  men  who  were  as  dull  and  dogged  as  a  mill-horse. 
However,  he  returned  from  India  with  a  good  pension,  and  plenty  of 
time  to  begin  a  thousand  things.  Not  that  all  his  beginnings  were 
aborted.  Anything  that  could  be  begun  and  ended  in  a  day  was 
done.  Hence  his  opus  magnum,  the  inventory  of  the  goods  of  the 
Grange.  Bob  threw  himself  into  anything  with  a  terrific  force  and 
fury  for  the  first  few  hours,  and  if  in  that  time  it  could  be  carried 
by  assault,  he  carried  it,  not  without  the  beat  of  drums  and  blare  of 
trumpets.  But  there  are  not  many  things  worth  doing  which  can  be 
so  done,  and  Bob  therefore  did  not  do  many  things  worth  doing.  On 
the  other  hand,  there  are  few  things  which  cannot  be  undone  in  a  day, 
and  Bob  therefore  was  great  at  destruction — destruction,  of  course,  as  the 
fh'st  step  to  reconstruction.  Mabel's  cottage,  for  instance,  was,  within, 
in  a  state  of  the  most  perfect  preparation  for  the  introduction  of  every 
modern  improvement.  Under  Bob's  busy  hands,  the  old  order  changed  to 


"IT'S  XOT  YOUR  FAULT,  DEAR,  IF  YOU  CAN'T  CARE  FOB  HIM.' 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  237 

yield  place  to  the  new,  but  unfortunately  all  things  remained  in  this 
transitional  state.  Now  all  intermediate  states,  not  excepting  Purgatory, 
are  uncomfortable,  and  it  was  so  with  Mabel's  cottage.  It  was  not 
comfortable.  Bob  was  struck  with  the  convenience  of  electric  bells  and 
clocks  in  the  vast  hotels  where  he  stayed,  and  saw  at  a  glance  the 
advantage  of  their  introduction  into  Mabel's  cottage,  where  the  ticking 
of  a  clock  in  one  room  could  be  heard  in  the  other  three — the  doors 
being  open.  Bob  accordingly  tore  down  the  bells,  disembowelled  the 
kitchen  clock,  and  introduced  for  experiment  three  different  kinds  of 
batteries,  one  of  which,  being  charged  with  nitric  and  sulphuric  acid, 
filled  the  little  place  with  the  foulest  fumes,  and  cost  Bob  a  suit  of 
clothes  for  himself,  and  a  gown  for  the  discreet  Jane,  his  assistant. 
Everything,  in  fact,  was  in  hushed  preparation  for  the  great  improve- 
ment. 

But  it  never  came  to  birth.  In  truth,  Bob  was  as  sick  as  Jane  of  it 
in  a  day,  and  was  glad  to  consign  bells,  batteries,  and  clock-bowels  to  the 
cellar  "  until  he  had  a  little  more  time."  He  hadn't  a  moment  to  spare' 
at  present  from  the  pursuit  of  a  rat  which  Jane  had  seen  in  the  cellar  and 
which  besieged  the  house.  At  night,  at  least,  no  one  dared  hardly  move 
from  room  to  room,  and  as  for  the  cellar  and  the  beer,  they  were  unap- 
proachable. Bob,  however,  stormed  the  stronghold  with  extraordinary 
spirit.  Armed  simply  with  a  pickaxe  and  a  crowbar,  he  went  down  into 
the  cellar,  and  in  a  few  short  hours  had.  uprooted  half  its  flags.  Having 
assured  himself  by  this  simple  means  that  he  was  on  the  wrong  tack, 
he  retired,  leaving  the  cellar  in  this  picturesque  condition — as  if  it  had 
been  blown  up  with  dynamite — and  after  a  little  consideration  hit  upon 
a  happy  and  infallible  ratsbane.  He  would  purchase  a  couple  of  rats, 
tar  them,  and  let  them  loose  in  the  cellar,  and  so  kill  two  birds  with  one 
stone.  For  he  would  not  only  banish  the  rats — since  it  was  well  known 
that  these  creatures  could  not  bear  the  smell  of  tar — but  he  would,  by 
the  track  of  the  tar,  trace  their  route,  block  it  up,  and  secure  the  cellar 
for  all  time  against  their  return. 

Jane  objected  strongly  to  this  homoeopathic  remedy  t  but  Bob  chucked 
her  under  the  chin,  told  her  she  was  a  goose,  and  by  comparing  a  tarred 
rat  to  a  policeman,  brought  the  conscious  blush  to  her  cheek  and  silenced 
her  remonstrances.  When,  however,  the  rats  had  been  bought,  tarred, 
and  let  loose  in  the  cellar,  matters  were  not  much  mended.  One  of  them, 
which  Bob  had  chosen  for  its  great  size  and  the  vast  tarable  surface  it 
presented,  proved  to  be  of  the  interesting  sex,  and  in  an  interesting  con- 
dition ;  and  the  cellar  soon  swarmed  with  rats  and  ratlings,  who  made 
themselves  at  once  at  home,  burrowing  easily  under  the  unflagged 
surface  Bob  had  prepared  for  them  at  some  pains.  Then  Bob  began,  aa 
usual,  to  tire  of  the  enterprise,  and  made  it  over  to  the  ratcatcher  from 
whom  he  had  bought  the  beasts.  This  professional  gentleman  proceeded 
as  a  preliminary  to  empty  the  beer  barrel,  probably  under  the  impression 
that  the  rats  had  taken  refuge  there,  and  was  reduced  to  a  state  of  such 


238  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

stormy  intoxication  that  he  was  nearly  as  hard  to  get  rid  of  as  the  rats. 
Bob  then  advised  the  introduction  of  a  cat,  a  suggestion  which,  though 
brilliant,  was  not  original,  as  Jane  had  had  many  battles  upon  this 
subject  with  Margaret,  who  had  an  instinctive  and  intense  antipathy  to 
cats.  However,  a  cat  was  borrowed,  introduced  surreptitiously,  and 
shut  in  the  cellar  with  the  best  results,  for  which  Bob  took  much  credit 
to  himself. 

Meantime  he  was  not  idle,  but  made  himself  useful  in  many  other 
ways  in  the  house.  In  one  room  he  took  the  lock  off  a  door  to  free  the 
bolt ;  in  another  he  took  the  door  off  its  hinges  to  cure  a  draught ;  he 
took  down  the  gasalier  in  the  drawing-room  to  ascertain  if  it  was 
supplied  with  water,  and  he  took  Mabel's  sewing-machine  to  pieces  to 
silence  an  irritating  squeak  it  made  at  each  revolution.  It  is  true  that 
things  were  left  long  in  the  state  of  chaos  which  precedes  creation — the 
door  without  its  lock,  the  room  without  its  door,  the  drawing-room  in 
darkness,  and  the  sewing-machine  in  bits ;  but  eventually  everything 
was  set  right  by  the  British  workman  whom  Bob  had  at  last  to  call  in 
to  put  the  finishing  touch  to  his  work.  For  Bob  spoke  of  the  recon- 
structive work  of  these  hirelings  as  a  Stephenson  might  speak  of  the 
work  of  navvies  in  the  employ  of  his  contractor. 

"  Rather  an  improvement,  eh  ? "  he  would  say,  with  the  utmost 
self-complacency,  of  something  which  had  at  last  been  put  back  into  the 
state  in  which  it  was  before  he  had  meddled  with  it. 

Fortunately  for  the  tormented  house,  however,  Bob  found  a  new 
field  for  reform — no  other,  indeed,  than  political  reform,  for  which, 
perhaps,  his  cutting  down  of  domestic  upas-trees  was  the  best  possible 
training.  Besides,  Bob  was  as  chokeful  of  grievances  as  any  other  old 
Indian.  In  India  grievances — like  livers — are  forced  as  in  a  hot-house, 
in  a  rank  soil  of  idleness  and  luxury,  and  under  a  blazing  sun. 
And  Bob's  grievances  were  the  more  grievous  from  being  driven  inward, 
so  to  speak,  and  suppressed,  since  the  full  and  free  expression  of  them 
would  have  made  matters  tenfold  worse.  Therefore  Bob's  wrath  was 
like  the  wrath  of -the  dumb,  intemperate  because  inarticulate.  But  now 
there  came  to  him  in  Wefton,  in  the  shape  of  a  general  election,  a 
golden  chance  of  lifting  the  lever  and  letting  off  the  pent-up  pressure  of 
years.  For  who  should  come  down  to  seek  the  suffrages  of  the  electors 
of  Wefton  but  an  old  friend  of  Bob's,  Bindon  Crowe,  Esq.,  barrister-at- 
law.  Bindon  was  a  clever  compatriot  of  Bob's,  who  had  gone  to 
India,  realised  there  a  rapid  fortune  at  the  bar,  and  then  hurried  back 
to  England  to  get  his  foot  on  the  first  step  of  the  lawyer's  ladder  of 
promotion,  a  seat  in  the  House.  Bindon  was  not  what  you  would  call  a 
well-principled  man  ;  in  fact  he  had  to  apply  for  principles  to  his  agent, 
a  first-class  Wefton  solicitor,  John  Coates,  of  the  firm  of  Coates,  Jingle, 
and  Candy.  Bindon,  being  under  the  impression  that  Pickles  was  still 
a  Liberal,  had  composed  speeches,  which  almost  convinced  himself,  against 
the  suicidal  policy  of  Disintegration ;  i.e.  the  separation  of  Church  and 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  239 

State,  of  England  and  Ireland,  of  Great  Britain  and  the  Colonies,  of  the 
Empire  and  the  sun,  which  would  soon  set  upon  it  if  the  Socialist, 
Liberationist,  Home  Ruler,  and  Cosmopolitan  had  their  way. 

"  But  Pickles  has  turned  Tory,"  objected  the  practical  Mr.  Coates, 
to  whom  Bindon  was  delivering  an  epitome  of  his  speech  with  much 
fluency  and  fervour.  Bindon  looked  blank  for  a  moment,  but  quickly 
recovered  himself. 

"  You  should  hear  me  out,  Mr.  Coates ;  I'm  at  the  same  time  in 
favour  of  Home  Rule  in  the  best  and  broadest  sense.  I'm  not  against 
the  Church  being  allowed  to  rule  herself  without  being  hobbled  and 
hampered  by  the  State,  and  I  think  England  had  much  better  rule 
herself  and  attend  to  domestic  reforms  than  attempt  to  rule  Europe. 
I  don't  believe  in  having  a  finger  in  every  pie,  you  know,  and  I  don't  see 
what  business  we  have  to  interfere  with  the  Home  Rulers  of  Afghanistan  or 
Zululaud.  As  for  the  Colonies  and  Ireland,  they  ought  to  know  best  where 
the  shoe  pinches.  We  English  are  too  much  like  the  shoemaker  in  Le 
Bourgeois  Gentilhomme,  who  insisted  that  he  kneAv  better  than  M.' 
Jourdain  whether  the  shoes  he  made  for  him  hurt  or  no.  Faith,"  said 
Bindon,  beginning  now  to  fall  in  love  with  his  new  programme,  or  rather 
with  his  own  setting  of  it ;  "  faith !  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  cry,  Mr. 
Coates,  '  True  Home  Rule  ! ' — Home  Rule  at  home  and  abroad ;  in 
Church  and  State;  in  England  and  Ireland,  Canada,  Australia, 
Zululand,  and  Afghanistan.  Mind  your  own  business;  sweep  before 
your  own  door.  That  would  fetch  them,  eh  ? " 

"  You've  got  the  right  principle,  my  dear  sir,  but  you  must  push  it  a 
step  farther.     The  people  of  Wefton  are  Home  Rulers  to  a  man — to  a 
man.     They  mind  their  own  business,  as  you  say,  Mr.  Crowe,  and  don't 
concern  themselves  with  these  imperial  questions  at  all.     They  don't 
want  to  interfere  in  other  folks'  affairs,  but  they  don't  want  other  folks 
to  interfere  in  their  affairs  either.     There's  vaccination,  for  instance,  my 
dear  sir  ;  they  don't  want  compulsory  vaccination.    Then  there's  flogging 
in  the  army  and  navy  ;  there  are  some  Wefton  men  in  her  Majesty's  uni- 
form, and  that  a  Wefton  man  should  be  liable  to  be  flogged,  sir,  is 
monstrous.   Then,  sir,  there's  Local  Option ;  that's  a  Home  Rule  measure, 
if  you  like,  Local  Option ;  a  most  popular  measure.     Then  there's  the 
Burials  Bill.     The  Wefton  folk  are  so  independent,  my  dear  sir,  that 
they  can't  bear  to  be  oppressed  even  in  death.     They  must  be  buried 
when  and  where  and  how  they  like.     Then  there's — let  me  see,"  said 
Mr.  Coates,  counting  off*  upon  his  fingers  the  subjects  of  any  political 
interest  to  the  Weftonians  ;  "  the  Burials  Bill,  Local  Option,  Vaccination, 
Flogging  in  the  Army  and  Navy — Flogging  in  the  Army  and  Navy — ah, 
yes,  the  Buzzers  Bill." 

"  The  Buzzers  Bill ;  what  the  deuce  is  that  ? " 

"  It's  a  bill  against  the  use  of  steam- whistles  in  factories,  which  has, 
my  dear  sir,  done  more  to  alienate  the  loyalty  of  the  working  folk  of 
Wefton  than  any  measure  of  our  time — any  measure  of  our  time — a  most 


240  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

vexatious  measure,   which   must  be  repealed,  Mr.   Crowe,  before  the 
discontent  grows  to  a  dangerous  head." 

"  Am  I  to  say  nothing  on  home  or  foreign  politics  1  "  asked  Bindon 
petulantly,  for  he  could  talk  endlessly  on  either  subject  and  on  either 
side  of  either. 

"  I  should  fill  in  with  them,  Mr.  Crowe,  for  the  newspapers.  But 
the  main  questions  are  those  I  have  mentioned — and  trade.  Trade  has 
been  very  bad ;  harvests  have  been  bad  for  years,  very  bad.  You  must 
make  the  most  of  that,  Mr.  Crowe." 

"  We  must  change  all  that,"  said  Bindon  laughing.  "  What  would 
you  suggest,  Mr.  Coates?  Bring  in  a  ten  hours'  bill  for  the  sun, 
eh  ? " 

"  My  dear  sir,  you  must  show  that  the  sun  had  nothing  to  do  with 
it,  or  if  it  had,  that  the  sun  is  on  the  Liberal  side.  '  The  stars  in  their 
courses,'  you  know.  You  must  point  out  to  them  that  the  years  of 
famine  are  always  the  years  of  Tory  rule,  and  the  years  of  plenty  the 
years  of  Liberal  rule.  You  muse  bring  in  the  Corn  Laws  and  Free 
Trade,  and  so  on.  But  the  things  of  real  interest  and  importance  to  the 
people  at  large  are  Compulsory  Vaccination,  the  Buzzers,  the  Burials 
Bill,  Flogging  in  the  Services,  Local  Option,  and  bad  trade.  Stick  to 
them,  and  the  thing  is  done." 

"  But  how  about  the  publicans  ?  " 

"  We  must  take  every  important  public-house  for  our  committees, 
my  dear  sir,  and  you  must  explain  to  each  how  greatly  he  will  benefit 
by  Local  Option." 
"  Benefit  1 " 

"  To  be  sure.  If  his  house  is  shut  up,  he  must  receive  four  times  its 
value  for  compulsory  expropriation  ;  if  it  is  not  shut  up,  he  gets  all  the 
custom  of  his  neighbour's  house,  which  is." 

"  So  he  does,  by  Jove  !  "  exclaimed  Bindon,  delighted  at  the  prospect 
of  hauling  in  publicans  and  teetotallers  in  the  same  net.  "  But,"  he 
suggested  after  a  short  pause,  "  there  are  the  Home  Rulers.  They  are 
awkward  customers  to  meddle  with,  (me  way  or  another." 

"Not  they,  my  dear  sir.  If  you  call  it  'home  rule'  we  shall  lose 
two  votes  for  every  one  we  gain :  but  call  it  '  Justice  to  Ireland,'  which 
means  just  as  much  or  as  little,  and  we  have  the  Irish  without  losing  the 
English  vote.  What  the  Liberal  party  want,  Mr.  Crowe,  at  this  crisis, 
is  a  man  who  will  divide  them  least,  and  to  do  that  you  must  be  vague. 
Give  them  a  blank  cheque,  you  know,  Retrenchment,  Reform,  Religious 
Equality,  Justice  to  Ireland ;  a  great  word,  like  a  great-coat,  will  fit 

anyone." 

"  My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 

They  therefore  needs  must  fit," 
quoted  Bindon. 

"  John  Gilpin  1  Ay,  and  he  dropped  them  on  the  road — for  why  1 
they  were  too  big,"  responded  Mr.  Coates,  looking  slily  and  suggestively 
at  bis  plient,  <'  What  a  good,  many  of  you  gentlemen  do  on  the  road  tp 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  241 

St.  Stephen's,  Mr.  Crowe,  drop  your  pledges — for  why  ?  they  were  too 
big — ha,  ha,  ha  !  "  with  a  laugh  which  would  have  revolted  a  righteous 
Radical,  but  in  which,  we  regret  to  say,  Mr.  Bindon  Crowe  joined.  Mr. 
Coates,  thus  encouraged,  continued  his  sage  instructions. 

"  There's  another  cue  we  might  take  from  our  Liberal  leaders,  Mr. 
Crowe.  It's  not  only  a  good  thing  to  have  pledges  wide  enough  to  fit 
anyone,  but  it's  not  a  bad  thing  to  have  two  sets  of  pledges,  one  set  for 
the  Radical  and  another  set  for  the  Whig.  I  don't  mean  of  course — of 
course  not — that  you  should  promise  one  thing  to  a  "Whig  and  another 
thing  to  a  Radical,  but  that  you  should  put  your  pledges  differently — 
give  them  neat  to  the  Radical,  and  water  them  down  a  bit  for  the  Whig. 
A  great  deal  depends  upon  the  light  you  put  things  in,  my  dear  sir  ;  what 
looks  blue  by  daylight,  looks  green  by  candle-light,  and  the  same  political 
colour  looks  different  in  different  lights.  There  are  our  leaders,  for 

instance,  Mr.  G and  Lord  H .     There  are  not  two  honester 

men  in  England,  I  should  say — not  in  England.    Yet  you  see,  while  Lord 

H roars  as  gently  as  any  sucking  dove  for  the  stalls,  Mr.  G roars  - 

till  it  would  do  any  man's  heart  good  to  hear  him  for  the  gallery." 

"Ay,  begad,  they're  like  Face  and  Subtle  in  the  Alchemist" 
chuckled  Bindon,  whose  political  leanings,  such  as  they  were,  inclined 
to  Conservatism.  Mr.  Coates  knew  not  the  Alchemist. 

"  Well,  my  dear  sir,  in  choosing  canvassers  we  must  take  a  leaf  out 
of  their  book,  and  employ  Home  Rulers  for  the  Irish,  Whigs  for  men  of 
position  and  education,  and  Radicals  for  the  Dissenters  and  proletariat. 
Then  your  views  will  get  to  be  thoroughly  interpreted,  thoroughly  inter- 
preted, my  dear  sir." 

Now  it  was  to  this  piece  of  golden  counsel  that  Bob  was  indebted  for 
his  political  employment.  Mr.  Bindon  Crowe,  on-  the  day  of  his 
receiving  it,  came  upon  Bob  in  the  coffee-room  of  the  "  Queen,"  to  his 
amazement, 

"  Bob  Sagar ! " 

"  Bindon  !  " 

"  What  wind  has  blown  you  here  of  all  places?  "  asked  Bindon,  with 
a  moment's  misgiving  that  Bob  had  come  upon  the  same  errand  as 
himself. 

"  I  came  to  see  a  friend,  and  I've  found  two,  my  boy.  And  what's 
brought  you  here  of  all  places  1 " 

"  I  came  to  woo,  Bob." 

"  To  woo  ?  Have  you  seen  Dick  Burkitt  lately,  Bindon  1 "  Bob  asked 
solemnly. 

"  Burkitt  ?    No." 

"  Faith,  then,  Bindon,  I'd  go  see  him  if  I  were  you  before  I  committed 
myself,"  said  Bob,  with  a  nod. 

"  What !  Is  Dick  married  ?  Poor  devil !  he  was  always  unlucky. 
Do  you  remember  his  falling  into  Bastable's  clutches  ?  " 

"  Ay,  begad,  and  his  being  pulled  up  by  old  McClintock.     He  had 

12—5 


242  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

a  squeak  for  it  then,  but  he's  run  in  now,  and  no  mistake.  He  goes 
about  in  the  clubs  like  a  scarecrow,  and  frightens  all  the  fellows  out  of 
the  noose.  You  go  and  see  him,  my  boy ;  take  my  advice." 

"  Too  late,  Bob." 

"  You're  engaged  ? " 

"  I'm  married,  old  boy,  and  a  father.  I've  a  stake  in  the  country 
now,  Bob,  and  I  must  look  after  its  interests.  It's  the  constituency  I've 
come  to  woo  and  to  win.  Member  for  Wefton,  Solicitor-General, 
Attorney- General,  Lord  High  Chancellor  of  England  !  " 

Bob  listened  breathless  to  this  modest  programme. 

"  You'll  do  it,  too !  "  he  cried,  with  extorted  admiration,  given 
rather  to  the  brass  than  the  brains  of  his  old  school,  college,  and  Indian 
chum. 

"  Of  course  I'll  do  it,  with  your  help,  my  boy.  I  remember  how  you 
used  to  fire  away  at  the  Historical."  And  indeed,  Bob,  in  those  old 
Dublin  days,  had  been  "  the  Rupert  of  debate,"  first  in  the  Philoso- 
phical, and  afterwards  in  the  Historical  Society,  answering  to  the 
Union  in  Oxford  and  Cambridge.  In  those  dim  days  of  old  he  far 
outshone  the  sucking  Lord  Chancellor  who  had  since  far  outstripped  him. 

"  Ah,  that  tap's  run  out,  Bindon,  long  ago,"  sighed  Bob. 

"  Not  it.  You're  like  an  old  pump ;  you  only  want  priming  to 
spout  as  well  as  ever.  And  it's  the  old  liquor  too,  my  boy,  Kinahan's  LL 
Genuine  Irish  Whisky.  Home  Rule — Ireland  for  the  Irish — '  Who 
fears  to  speak  of  '98  ? '  Only  we  must  let  it  down  a  bit  for  English 
consumption." 

"  Why,  you  used  to  be  an  Orangeman,  and  pitch  into  me  as  a  snake 
that  stung  the  bosom  of  my  Alma  Mater  in  which  I  was  warmed,  and 
invoke  another  St.  Patrick  to  banish  such  pestilent  vermin  from  the 
country  they  cursed." 

"I've  learnt  the  error  of  my  ways,  Bob.  Not  too  late,  I  hope," 
pleaded  this  exemplary  penitent,  who  then  proceeded  to  put  his  pro- 
gramme before  Bob,  not  with  Mr.  Coates'  cynical  frankness,  for  Bob, 
among  his  other  weaknesses,  held  fast  by  his  political  principles. 

"  We'll  do  it,"  cried  Bob  enthusiastically. 

"  Of  course  we'll  do  it,"  reiterated  Bindon. 


CHAPTEK  XLIII. 
BOB  AS  AN  ORATOR. 

WE  are  still  some  way  off  the  reason  for  Mr.  Sagar's  most  mysterious 
disappearance  from  Wefton,  but  we  are  making  for  it  as  fast  as  the  im- 
portance of  the  matter  will  permit  us.  Corporal  Trim  could  not  have 
been-  more  eager  to  tell  the  story  of  "  the  King  of  Bohemia  and  his 
Seven  Castles."  Besides,  we  have  to  fill  the  stage  with  a  divertisement 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  243 

of  some  kind  while  the  carpenter  is  preparing  the  next  scene.     The 
interval  of  a  year  takes  some  time  to  fill  in. 

By  a  lucky  chance  Tarbutt,  who  was  to  have  opposed  Josiah  Pickles 
at  the  approaching  election,  gave  offence  to  the  Liberal  caucus.  This 
caucus,  composed  of  Dissenters,  who  were  accustomed  to  choose  their 
ministers  by  a  competitive  examination  in  preaching  and  to  keep  them 
up  to  the  mark  afterwards  by  a  criticism  which  was  frank  to  brutality, 
had  stretched  poor  Tarbutt  on  the  same  bed  of  Procrustes.  Tarbutt  was 
not  thin-skinned  by  any  means,  and  stood  all  the  heckling  and  hectoring 
without  wincing,  but  could  not  succeed  in  satisfying  the  Tooley  Street 
tailors.  On  the  contrary  he  succeeded  in  giving  offence  to  the  most 
influential,  that  is,  the  most  wealthy,  of  their  number,  a  man  named 
Jagger,  a  machine-maker,  a  self-made  man,  whose  education  just  enabled 
him  to  write  and  spell  his  name  correctly.  Mr.  Tarbutt,  upon  being 
brutally  bullied  at  a  meeting  by  Mr.  Jagger,  ventured  in  reply  to  object 
to  "  the  pragmatical  dogma  of  Mr.  Jagger."  Mr.  Tarbutt,  being  half- 
educated  and  of  Scotch  extraction,  always  used  the  very  longest  and  hardest, 
words  at  his  command.  Mr.  Jagger  jumped  up  and  appealed  to  the  chair- 
man for  protection,  at  least  from  ' '  such  blackguard  language  as  that."  Mr. 
Tarbutt  mildly  defended  the  words  as  innocent  in  themselves  and  inno- 
cently meant.  The  chairman,  an  oil  and  colour  merchant,  ruled  that  the 
words  were  no  doubt  very  offensive,  but  that  they  had  probably  slipped 
from  Mr.  Tarbutt  in  the  heat  of  debate.  Mr.  Tarbutt  instead  of  apolo- 
gising laughed,  and  the  laugh  exasperated  Mr.  Jagger  to  use  language 
so  outrageous  as  to  rouse  Mr.  Tarbutt  to  a  retort  which  cost  him  his 
candidature. 

Thus  the  caucus,  with  the  election  close  upon  them,  were  at  sea  for  a 
candidate.  Local  jealousies  prevented  the  choice  of  one  of  their  own 
number,  and  there  was  no  time  to  look  abroad  for  a  suitable  man.  At  this 
juncture  Bindon  Crowe  turned  up,  a  man  of  brains  and  "  brass,"  not 
only  in  Bob  Sagar's  sense,  but  in  the  Yorkshire  sense  of  the  word.  For 
Bindon  had  both  made  and  married  a  fortune.  Thus  Bindon  stepped 
at  once  into  Mr.  Tarbutt's  shoes.  He  rather  overdid  his  part,  but  that 
was  a  fault  on  the  right  side ;  the  only  difficulty  the  caucus  had  with 
him  was  to  cool  and  control  him.  It  was  with  extreme  reluctance  he 
•  could  be  dissuaded  from  going  in  for  the  Disestablishment  and  Disen- 
dowmeiit  of  the  Church,  and  reducing  the  Bishops  to  be  doorkeepers  in 
the  House  of  Lords.  This,  the  caucus  considered,  was  not  yet  within 
the  range  of  practical  politics,  and  Bindon  therefore  had  to  bow  to  their 
decision  with  as  good  a  grace  as  he  could.  For  the  rest,  they  approved 
of  his  principles,  but  suggested  that  he  should  moderate  his  expression 
of  them,  which  indeed  was  a  little  too,  too  strong. 

Thus  Bindon's  chances  were  good,  and  were  bettered  beyond  all 
expectation  by  Bob.  He  was  told  off  to  secure  the  Irish  vote,  which 
was  strong  and  solid,  and  was  so  successful  not  merely  as  a  canvasser 
but  as  an  orator,  that  his  compatriots  plumped  like  one  man  for  his 


244  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

friend.  Bob  earned  them  away  with  an  eloquence  which  was  after  their 
own  heart,  fluent,  fiery,  and  imaginative,  full  of  daring  illustrations  and 
exaggerations  and  relieved  by  ready,  racy,  and  rollicking  bursts  of 
humour.  He  painted  piteous  pictures  of  Ireland,  describing  her  as  not 
unlike  the  Hall  of  Eblis  in  Vathek,  in  herself  glorious  as  the  mind  of 
man  could  conceive,  with  everything  the  eye  loves  to  see,  or  the  ear  to 
hear,  or  the  hand  to  handle,  or  the  senses  to  enjoy,  but  there  was  no 
enjoyment.  The  unhappy  inhabitants,  like  the  doomed  multitude  in  the 
Hall  of  Eblis,  whose  right  hands  hid  hearts  on  fire  for  ever,  were  plunged 
in  restless  and  ceaseless  misery,  which  they  had  to  hide,  since  their 
tyrants  held  it  to  be  treason  even  to  disclose  it.  Then  Bob  would  paint  the 
millennium  which  the  return  of  his  friend  Bindon  was  to  hasten,  when 
the  accursed  Saxon  would  have  to  take  his  iron  heel  from  Erin's  neck, 
and  the  rapacious  landlord  would  have  to  withdraw  his  griping  hand 
from  her  pocket ;  when  her  daughters  would  once  more  smile  like  her 
lovely  plains,  and  her  sons  again  stand  erect  and  strong  as  her  towering 
hills ;  when  plenty,  like  her  rivers,  would  flow  eveiy where  and  for  ever  ; 
when,  to  put  all  in  one  word,  the  tenant  would  own  the  land  he  tilled, 
and  the  landlord  would  have  to  till  what  little  land  he  was  allowed  to 
own.  (Frantic  applause.)  Bob's  eloquence  always  got  out  of  hand 
towards  the  end  of  a  speech,  and  hurried  him  into  the  rankest  and 
rottenest  socialism. 

There  was,  too,  another  contrast  on  which  Bob  was  eloquent  besides 
that  between  the  Ireland  of  to-day  and  of  to-morrow,  the  contrast 
between  the  two  candidates,  Mr.  Bindon  Crowe  and  Mr.  Pickles.  He 
described  Mr.  Crowe's  brilliant  university  career  (Mr.  Crowe  had 
carried  off  one  prize,  that  for  putting  the  weight  at  the  university 
athletic  sports),  and  the  lich  rewards  which  Ireland,  England,  and  the 
three  learned  professions  had  held  out  to  him  if  he  would  stay  at  home. 
But  no ;  Mr.  Crowe's  heart  had  been  stirred  to  its  depths  by  the  tales 
of  Saxon  oppression  brought  by  every  mail  from  that  Ireland  of  the 
East — India.  Thither  he  would  go  and  devote  the  best  years  of  his  life 
in  a  foreign  and  far-off  land,  and  in  a  deadly  climate,  to  the  defence  of  those 
defenceless  and  down-trodden  millions — aliens  to  him  in  race,  in  creed, 
in  colour,  bound  to  him  only  by  the  bond  of  a  common  oppression  and  a 
common  oppressor.  It  is  true  that  Mr.  Crowe  had  come  back  fronv 
India.  Was  it  merely  because  his  health  was  shattered  in  that  cruel 
climate,  and  his  energies  impaired  by  an  unequal  struggle  of  twenty 
years  with  bayonet-backed  tyranny  1  No  ;  though  those  twenty  years 
had  left  their  mark  upon  his  body,  had  silvered  his  hair,  bowed  his 
frame,  brought  down  his  strength  in  his  journey,  and  shortened  his 
days,  his  spirit  they  could  not  blanch,  or  bow,  or  break;  it  was  still 
what  it  was  and  where  it  was,  foot  to  foot  with  the  foe ;  and  he  came 
back  to  England  to  give  him  battle  in  a  better  field,  to  stem,  the  torrent 
of  these  terrible  abuses,  not  at  their  mouth  in  India,  but  at  their  source 
in  the  British  House  of  Commons.  He  came  back  to  plead  the  common 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  245 

cause  of  India  and  Ireland  in  that  stern  Star  Chamber.  But  how  was 
he  to  enter  it  1  He  thought  of  his  native  town,  Ennis,  that  "  pole-star 
of  the  south,"  as  its  greatest  poet,  Dan  Dermody,  had  called  it  with 
exquisite  propriety,  but  he  knew  too  well  that  no  representative  of  an 
Irish  constituency  had  a  chance  of  a  hearing  in  an  alien  and  intolerant 
assembly.  He  must  seek  this  honour  from — might  he  not  say,  confer 
this  honour  on  1 — an  English  constituency  ;  but  an  English  constituency 
in  which  the  dear  old  country  was  weightily  and  worthily  represented. 
He  had  chosen  Wefton,  and  he  had  chosen  well.  (Wild  cheering.)  He 
had  come  to  Wefton  as  he  had  gone  to  India,  to  defend  the  defenceless 
and  represent  the  unrepresented.  For  who  represented  the  Irishmen  of 
Wefton  1  Mr.  Pickles  ?  Yes,  as  the  cucko6  represents  the  sparrows 
she  smothers  in  their  own  nest.  He  had  got  into  the  nest  under  false 
pretences,  and  now  that  he  was  big  enough  he  showed  his  true  colours. 
His  true  colours  1  Were  they  his  true  colours  1  Bedad,  nobody  knew. 
He  read  in  the  Wefton  Witness  that  morning  a  list  of  the  Liberal 
candidates  in  the  Parliament  j  ust  dissolved  in  which  Mr.  Pickles'  name 
did  not  appear ;  but  at  the  foot  of  the  list  was  a  note  explaining  the 
omission.  The  editor  had  no  return  of  Mr.  Pickles'  politics  later  than 
the  day  before  yesterday,  so  he  couldn't  safely  count  him.  Faith,  the 
poor  editor  was  like  Paddy  Burke,  the  omedhaun  of  Clonakilty. 
"  Paudheen,"  said  his  master,  "  did  ye  count  the  litter  of  pigs  ?  " 
"  I  did,  yere  honour,  barring  one  little  one,  and  he  ran  about  so  I 
couldn't  count  him  at  all  at  all." 

But  if  there  was  some  doubt  as  to  whom  Mr.  Pickles  represented, 
there  was  no  doubt  at  all  as  to  whom  he  did  not  represent.  He  did  not 
represent  the  Irishmen  of  Wefton.  The  Irish  in  Wefton  had  no  more 
bitter  enemy.  Was  there  a  single  Irishman  in  his  works  ?  Was  there  a 
single  Irishman  in  his  service  ?  Was  there  an  Irishman  tolerated  even  in 
his  Institute  1  cried  Bob,  drawing  a  bold  bow  at  a  venture.  Nay,  it  was 
well  known  that  "no  Irish  need  apply  "  to  him  even  for  justice  on  the 
bench.  And  this  man,  who  treats  you  as  outlaws,  asks  you  for  your 
vote.  (Three  groans  for  Josh,  given  with  heart-shaking  savageness.) 
Then  there  was  a  surging  towards  the  platform,  by  which  a  woman  had 
her  baby  nearly  crushed.  Bob,  with  great  presence  of  mind,  stooped 
over  and  had  the  baby  handed  up  to  him,  to  the  frantic  delight  of  the 
audience.  It  was  a  great  stroke  for  Bob,  though  not,  perhaps,  for  the 
baby,  which  he  held  by  the  neck  and  heels  as  if  he  was  measuring  it, 
and  which  howled  thereat  like  a  demon.  "  Give  it  the  breast,  sir. 
Lord  bless  you,  sir,  give  it  the  breast,"  shouted  a  facetious  youth  in  the 
gallery  in  an  accent  of  life  and  death  earnestness.  (Roars  of  laughter, 
during  which  the  mother  was  hoisted  on  to  the  platform,  and  received 
the  racked  infant  with  a  grateful  curtsey.)  I'm  not  a  mother  myself, 
resumed  Bob  in  a  plaintive  tone,  but  faith,  I'm  as  fit  to  nurse  a  baby  as 
Mr.  Pickles  is  to  nurse  a  constituency.  He  gives  it  the  bottle  instead 
of  the  milk  of  human  kindness.  (This  allusion  to  Mr.  Pickles  being  a 


246  '  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

brewer  was  taken  up  in  a  moment  and  uproariously  received.)  "  And  I 
tell  you  what,  boys,  I'd  rather  send  that  baby  to  Parliament  as  your 
representative  than  Mr.  Josiah  Pickles.  It  would  make  a  deal  more 
noise  there,  and  if  it  did  do  little  good,  it  'ud  do  no  mischief.  Yes,  by 
George,  if  you  had  to  choose  between  Josh  and  the  baby,  I'd  say, '  plump 
for  the  baby/  for  the  same  reason  that  Mick  Molloy  told  me  yesterday 
he  stuck  an  old  hat  in  his  broken  window,  not  to  let  in  the  light,  but  to 
keep  out  the  rain."  Then  he  proceeded  to  describe  the  millennium 
which  the  baby  would  live  to  see,  and  of  which  they  were  now  to  lay  the 
foundation  stone  by  the  election  of  Mr.  Crowe. 

We've  given  but  a  meagre  epitome  of  one  of  Bob's  speeches,  all  of 
which,  by  the  way,  owed  their  success  rather  to  the  manner  than  the 
matter  at  the  command  of  the  orator.  Bob's  jovial,  genial  manner, 
rolling  voice,  and  rich  Clare  brogue,  put  on  double  strong  for  the 
occasion,  were  irresistible  with  an  Irish  audience.  And  not  the  Irish 
only,  but  the  English  Radicals,  flocked  to  hear  him  as  his  fame  spread, 
and  Bob  for  the  nonce  became  the  most  popular  man  in  Wefton  with 
his  own  party.  To  the  other  side  he  was,  of  course,  proportionately 
detestable.  Now  if  the  Radicals  had  the  best  speakers — as  truly  they 
had — on  their  side,  the  Tories  had  the  best  caricaturists,  and  poor  Bob 
therefore  was  gibbeted  in  every  shop- window  in  Wefton.  He  and 
Bindon  were  sometimes  represented  as  "  carpet-baggers,"  Bindon  as  thin 
as  a  lath,  and  Bob  as  fat  as  Falstaff.  Indeed,  Falstaff  was  the  usual 
character  in  which  Bob  figured  when  he  was  not  represented  as  a 
carpet-bagger  or  as  a  wild  Irishman.  In  one  cartoon  as  Falstaff  one  of 
his  wild  exaggerations  streamed  out  of  his  mouth,  while  underneath  was 
the  quotation,  "  These  lies  are  like  their  father  that  begets  them,  gross 
as  a  mountain,  open,  palpable."  In  another  a  piece  of  sleuthering 
blarney  was  on  his  lips,  and  underneath  the  quotation,  "  Didst  thou 
never  see  Titan  kiss  a  dish  of  butter  ?  "  In  another  he  was  represented 
as  spouting  a  high-falutin  panegyric  on  Erin  to  an  audience  wholly 
hidden  from  him  under  his  enormous  paunch,  and  underneath,  "  How 
now,  my  sweet  creature  of  bombast !  How  long  is't  ago,  Bob,  since  thou 
sawest  thine  own  knee  ? "  till  poor  Bob,  like  Warren  Hastings,  began  to 
believe  himself  the  monster  his  enemies  painted  him.  He  went  privately 
and  got  himself  weighed — 232  Ibs.  It  wasn't  so  monstrous.  But 
perhaps  his  stomach  was  disproportionately  prominent.  He  looked  at  it 
in  and  out  of  the  glass  twenty  times  a  day  from  every  point  of  view 
except  that  of  which  his  audience  in  the  cartoon  (sitting  as  itwereiinder 
the  shadow  of  a  great  rock)  had  the  command.  He  yearned  to  ask  an 
impartial  opinion  on  the  point,  but  it  was  a  difficult  and  delicate  subject 
to  broach,  even  to  a  friend.  Besides,  the  only  friend  he  could  broach  it 
to,  Bindon,  was  as  jocose  on  the  subject  as  the  cartoons  themselves.  To 
him  Bob  was  always  "  Sweet  Jack,"  "  Plump  Jack,"  or  "  Sir  John  Sack 
and  Sugar ;  "  and  Bob's  occasional  melancholy  meditations  upon  this 
infirmity  of  the  flesh,  were  mocked  by  the  advice,  "  A  plague  of  sighing 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  247 

and  grief,  it  blows  a  man  up  like  a  bladder."  Thus  Bob's  trouble,  like 
all  incommunicable  miseries,  was  consuming.  For  the  present,  however, 
the  excitement  of  the  contest  and  the  opportunities  of  revenge  it  gave 
him  on  the  enemy  kept  him  from  brooding  over  it.  If  the  windows 
abused  him,  the  walls  flattered  him,  for  "  Mr.  Robert  Sagar  will  address 
tfcc."  appeared  on  every  dead  wall  in  letters  large  as  those  announcing 
the  appearances  of  the  candidates  themselves.  And  if  a  new  caricature  of 
him  appeared  every  morning,  a  new  oratorical  triumph  consoled  him 
every  evening.  For  Bob  never  tired  of  speaking,  and  his  audiences 
never  tired  of  hearing  him.  They  would  have  thought  themselves  repaid 
for  being  packed  like  herrings  in  a  barrel,  if  they  had  only  seen  Bob 
come  rolling  on  to  the  front  of  the  platform,  with  a  face  like  the  welcome 
of  an  Irish  hearth,  frank,  free-and-easy,  glowing,  and  generous,  and 
heard  him  take  his  revenge,  as  he  always  did  in  the  first  few  sentences. 
"  Well,  boys,"  he  would  say,  in  a  brogue  round  and  rich  as  a  roll  of  Cork 
butter  ;  "  well,  boys,  what's  the  news,  with  ye  to-night  ?  Have  ye  seen 
my  new  portrait  1 "  Then,  with  a  startling  change  of  manner,  "  Isn't  it 
disgraceful  1  For  what  do  you  think  they  call  me  now  1 "  half  a 
minute's  pause,  during  which  you  might  have  heard  a  pin  drop,  for 
Bob's  rage  seemed  so  savage  that  everyone  expected  the  announcement 
of  a  new  and  abominable  cartoon.  "  They  call  me  AN  IRISHMAN." 
At  this  unexpected  calumny  there  was  of  course  a  roar  of  laughter,  all 
the  more  hearty  for  the  preceding  suspense.  "  Ay,  ye  may  laugh," 
continued  Bob,  without  the  least  relaxation  of  muscle  or  manner,  "  but 
a  man  had  better  be  called  a  thief  than  an  Irishman  in  this  country ;  and 
Josh  knows  that,  and  takes  advantage  of  it,  and  thinks  he'll  win  the 
election  by  it,  and  blackguards  me  and  you  and  our  country  in  every 
window  in  Wefton,  and  then — asks  you  for  your  vote,"  with  a  sudden 
drop  of  the  voice  which  was  very  effective.  "  Ye'll  give  it  to  him,  won't 
ye  1  Ye'll  go  to  him,  and  ye'll  say  to  him, '  Mr.  Pickles,  yere  honour,  don't 
be  too  hard  on  us.  You  shut  us  out  from  your  Institute,  you  shut  us  out 
from  your  works,  you  shut  us  out  from  justice  when  you're  on  the  bench, 
you'd  shut  us  out  from  Wefton  if  you  could,  ay,  and  from  England  if 
you  could.  But  ye'll  not  shut  us  out  from  the  polling-booths,  yere 
honour,  will  ye  ?  Ye'll  allow  us  to  vote  for  ye  ?  God  bless  yere  honour, 
do  now.'  Maybe  he'll  let  ye.  If  not,  ye'll  have  to  put  up  with  Mr. 
Bindon  Crowe,  who  is  only  one  of  yourselves,  only  an  Irishman,  who  is  not 
ashamed  of  his  country,  and  not  ashamed  of  his  family  "  (here  a  signifi- 
cant pause  to  let  the  audience  take  in  the  allusion  to  Mr.  Pickles' 
neglect  of  his  niece,  which  was  taken  in  accordingly  with  intense  gusto) ; 
"  and  not  ashamed  of  his  colours.  He  doesn't  change  his  colours  like 
the  chameleon  to  suit  the  prevailing  hue — yellow  when  yellow  is  at  the 
top,  blue  when  blue.  No,  he's  not  ashamed  of  his  colour,  though  it's  not 
blue,  and  it's  not  yellow,  but  green.  That's  his  colour,  boys,  and  to  that 
he'll  stick,  as  nature  sticks  to  it,  for  the  blue  goes  with  the  spring,  and 
the  yellow  with  the  autumn,  but  green  lives  and  lasts  all  the  year  round. 


248  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 


"  When  laws  can  stop  the  blades 

From  growing  as  they  grow  ; 
And  when  the  leaves  in  summer  time 

Their  colour  dare  not  show; 
Then  he'll  change  that  colour  too 

He  wears  in  his  eaubeen, 
But  till  that  day,  please  God,  he'll  stick 

To  the  wearing  of  the  green." 

Bob  might  have  been  giving  out  a  hymn,  for  the  audience  rose  like  one 
man,  and  sang  the  truly  spirit-stirring  song,  The  Wearing  of  the  Green, 
amid  the  wildest  excitement. 

From  the  foregoing  specimen  it  will  be  seen  that  Bob's  eloquence  was 
dramatic,  and  gave  scope  for  good  acting,  and  to  this  it  owed  its  success, 
for  Bob  was  a  born  actor.  As  with  every  successful  speaker,  it  was  not 
what  he  said  but  how  he  said  it,  that  told,  and  an  extract  from  his 
speeches  gives  no  better  idea  of  their  effect  than  the  mere  reading  of  The 
Wearing  of  the  Green  gives  an  idea  of  its  effect  when  sung  by  a  crowd 
of  excited  Irishmen. 

Anyhow,  Bob's  eloquence,  such  as  it  was,  answered  its  purpose. 
Every  Irishman  in  Wefton,  out  of  jail  or  a  sick  bed,  went  to  the  poll 
and  voted  for  Bindon,  and  the  Irish  vote  turned  the  election. 

Bindon  Crowe,  Esq.     .         f         7,341 
Josiah  Pickles,  Esq.     .         .         6,212 

Majority  for  Crowe       .         1,129 

It  was  a  glorious  triumph,  of  which  Bob  deserved  much  of  the  credit 
and  assumed  it  all.  The  poll  was  no  sooner  declared  late  on  Thursday 
night  than  Bob  anticipated  the  candidates  by  starting  up  and  in 
stentorian  tones  thanking  the  electors.  It  was  Bob,  too,  not  Bindon, 
who  was  chaired,  a  really  stupendous  honour  when  his  weight  is  con- 
sidered. Of  course,  two  days  later  he  appeared  in  a  cartoon  as  Falstaff 
in  the  buck-basket,  coiled  in  it  like  a  colossal  snake,  covered  with  filthy 
Irish  rags,  and  carried  by  twenty  staggering  men  to  be  pitched  into  the 
Irish  Channel.  This  cartoon  Bob  never  saw.  He  had  disappeared 
from  Wefton.  Instead  of  waiting  to  enjoy  (and  no  man  would  have 
enjoyed  them  more)  the  golden  opinions  bought  from  all  sorts  of  people 
to  be  worn  now  in  their  newest  gloss,  he  had  fled,  no  man  Jmew  why  or 
whither.  He  might  have  been  burked  by  the  janissaries  of  the  furious 
Pickles  for  all  anyone  knew,  but  Mabel  and  Mabel  only  knew  that  some 
awful  and  ineffable  business  summoned  him  away.  Speculation  was 
rife  about  this  grave  mystery.  His  political  friends  hinted  that  he  was 
hurried  off  by  telegram  to  Ireland  to  advise  Mr.  Parnell.  His  foes  gave 
out  that  he  was  hurried  off  to  jail  to  join  the  Claimant  on  a  kindred  charge 
of  forgery.  Bindon  believed  he  had  gone  to  pick  up  a  seat  somewhere 
for  himself,  for  Bob  had  more  than  once  bragged  to  him  of  this  being  in 
his  power.  Mabel  imagined  from  his  sad  and  solemn  and  mysterious 


LOVE  THE  DEBT,  249 

leave-taking  that  he  had  been  summoned  to  help  some  old  friend  out  of 
a  horrible  scrape.  He  had  told  her  (the  day  after  the  election  and  two  days 
before  she  heard  from  Lawley  of  George's  fate)  that  he  had  to  leave 
Wefton  at  once  on  very  private  and  pressing  business,  but  what  it  was, 
where  it  took  him,  and  how  long  it  would  keep  him,  he  had  not  hinted. 
The  truth  was,  Bob  had  become  an  Omphalopsychyte.  Those  thrice 
accursed  cartoons  had  brought  on  stomach  on  the  brain.  An  adver- 
tisement of  a  famous  medicine  with  the  attractive  heading  "  No  more 
Stomachs  "  caught  his  eye  in  the  Wefton  Witness.  The  advertisement 
referred  to  an  article  in  the  Lancet.  The  article  in  the  Lancet  said  it 
was  either  double  or  quits,  but  that  whether  the  medicine  aggravated  or 
abated  the  stomach,  the  patient  must  take  it  in  retirement.  Double  or 
quits  !  It  was  an  awful  risk.  He  would  risk  it.  He  did.  In  three 
weeks  he  left  his  lonely  cottage  in  Wales  to  get  to  the  nearest  scales. 
He  was  263  Ibs. ! 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 
Two  MOBE  PROPOSALS. 

DUKING  the  year  which  has  elapsed  since  we  last  saw  Mabel,  Lady 
Saddlethwaite  contrived  that  she  should  meet  Lawley  occasionally  and 
hear  of  him  continually ;  and  all  that  she  saw  and  heard  of  him  forced 
her  to  feel  that  he  was  more  deeply  and  wretchedly  in  love  with  her 
than  ever.  And,  indeed,  Lawley  was  not  happy  about  his  prospects. 
Lady  Saddlethwaite  admitted  that  the  only  symptom  she  could  see  of  the 
softening  of  Mabel's  sorrow  was  her  willingness,  or  rather  eagerness,  to 
talk  about  George  and  his  fate — a  subject  from  which  she  shrank  in  the 
first  weeks  of  her  bereavement.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  true,  Lawley's 
love  for  her  was  certainly  the  next  thing  in  her  thoughts  and  among  her 
troubles.  Lady  Saddlethwaite  had  not  the  least  doubt  in  the  world  that 
Mabel's  yielding  was  only  a  question  of  time,  though  of  a  longer  time 
than  she  had  anticipated ;  but  Lawley  was  not  sanguine.  He  had  all  a 
lover's  impatience,  without  a  lover's  hopefulness. 

"  I  am  crying  for  the  moon,  Lady  Saddlethwaite." 

"  I  don't  think  she's  quite  so  changeable  as  that,"  she  answered  smil- 
ing, "  but  she'll  change." 

"  There's  not  much  sign  of  it." 

"There's  every  sign  of  it.  She  thinks  about  you  almost  as  much  as 
about  him." 

"  Yes,  but  very  difiereritly.  She  thinks  of  me  as  a  creditor  to  whom 
she  owes  what  she  can't  pay.  It's  not  so,  but  I  can  see  she  thinks  it 
is  so,  and  that's  against  me.  A  woman  likes  to  give  her  love,  not  pay 
it,  Lady  Saddlethwaite." 

"  I  thought  we  were  supposed  to  pay  it.  You  first  give  us  your  love 
and  we  return  it ;  isn't  it  so  ?  And  that's  the  debt  which  is  on  Mabel's 


250  -LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

mind,  Mr.  Lawley.  Not  her  life,  which  she  owes  you  also,  but  your  love, 
which  she  thinks  a  great  deal  more  of,  and  which  she  is  bound  to  pay 
you  back  one  day." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ? "  eagerly. 

"  Of  course  I  think  so,  and  you  know  that  I  think  so.  "What  else 
have  I  been  saying  for  a  year  ? " 

"  For  a  year  !  "  he  echoed  with  a  sigh. 

"  Yes ;  a  year.  What  would  you  have  1  Would  you  havo  the  funeral 
baked  meats  furnish  the  marriage  tables  ] " 

"  But  it  seems  no  nearer  now  than  a  year  ago,"  with  another  and 
profounder  sigh. 

"  It's  a  year  nearer ;  that's  all.  It  looks  the  same  on  the  surface, 
but  her  heart  is  being  slowly  undermined." 

"  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  I'd  give  all  I  have  in  the  world  to  think  so." 
"  That's  why  you  don't  think  so.  The  wish  is  not  always  father  to 
the  thought,  Mi-.  Lawley,  not  when  the  wish  is  a  passion.  But  it's  not 
in  human  nature  that  she  should  hold  out  much  longer.  A  girl  who  is 
always  thinking  and  talking  of  you,  and  is  almost  as  miserable  about  it 
as  you  are  !  " 

It  was  quite  true,  and  Lady  Saddlethwaite  had  taken  good  care  to 
make  it  so.  In  spite  of  her  love,  or  rather  because  of  her  love  for 
Mabel,  she  kept  her  wretched  by  dwelling  continually  on  Lawley's 
wretchedness. 

"  Mr.  Lawley  has  been  here  again  this  morning,  Mabel,  and  has  been 
making  love  to  me  as  usual." 

"  I  think  I  should  accept  him  if  I  were  you,  Lady  Saddlethwaite," 
with  an  assumption  of  gaiety. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  dear,  for  you  are  me  in  this  case. 
I'm  only  the  Talking  Oak,  and  you're  Olivia." 

"  What  would  you  have  me  do,  Lady  Saddlethwaite  1 "  in  a  distressed 
voice. 

"  I'd  have  you  keep  him  as  long  as  Rachel  kept  Jacob ;  seven  years, 
or  fourteen,  was  it  ?  if  he  wasn't  such  a  bore  to  me.  But,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  dear,  one  year  of  him  is  enough  for  me.  You  know  how  I  hate 
to  have  unhappy  faces  about  me,  and  to  have  this  knight  of  the  rueful 
countenance  come  every  other  clay,  and  sit,  and  speak,  and  look  like  a 
lost  soul  glaring  through  the  gates  of  Paradise,  is  too  much,  really.  I 
can't  well  tell  him  to  go  about  his  business,  you  know.  But  you  could, 
and  you  ought,  too,  if  you  don't  care  for  him." 

"  But  I  do  care  for  him — only  not  as  he  wishes,  not  as  he  deserves." 
"  Oh,  if  you  are  only  anxious  about  what  he  wishes,  I  have  no  doubt 
he  will  be  satisfied  with  what  you  can  give  him.  But,  speaking 
seriously,  Mabel  dear,  it  makes  me  wretched  to  see  how  unhappy  he  is 
about  you ;  more  unhappy,  I  think,  every  time  I  see  him.  You  should 
put  him  out  of  pain  ;  you  should,  indeed,  dear.  If  you  feel  you  do  not 
and  cannot  care  for  him,  tell  him  so  once  for  all.  It  will  be  best  for 


LOVE  THE   DEBT.  251 

both.  It  couldn't  make  him  more  wretched  than  he  is,  and  you  will  be 
easier  when  you  are  no  more  reminded  of  his  misery.  For  of  course 
he  will  leave  the  neighbourhood— leave  the  country,  probably.  He  is 
so  chivalrous  that  he  will  do  what  he  can  to  help  you  to  forget  him, 
if  he  is  persuaded  that  the  thought  of  him  gives  you  pain." 

Mabel  sat  silent,  looking  straight  before  her,  her  hands  lying  palm 
upwards  in  her  lap,  with  the  fingers  intertwined  and  pressed  convulsively 
together.  She  looked  a  piteoits  picture  of  distress,  and  moved  Lady 
Saddlethwaite  with  remorse  for  the  pain  she  had  given  and  had  meant 
to  give  for  her  good. 

"  It's  not  your  fault,  dear,  if  you  can't  care  for  him,"  she  said,  stand- 
ing over  Mabel  and  smoothing  back  her  hair  with  her  hand  soothingly. 

"  You  mean  love  him — love  him  as  I  loved — as  I  loved My 

love  died  with  him.  I  cannot  bring  it  back  to  life.  What  shall  I  do, 
Lady  Saddlethwaite  1 "  looking  up  helplessly  and  appealingly  into  the 
kind  face  above  her. 

"  Do  you  think  he  would  make  you  happy,  Mabel  ? " 

"  It's  not  that ;  but  should  I  make  him  happy  ?  " 

"  It's  the  same  thing,  dear.  He'll  never  be  happy  without  you  in 
this  world ;  I  know  that,  and  it  will  always  be  a  trouble  to  you  to 
think  so." 

"  But  could  he  be  happy  with  me  1  How  could  he  be  happy  1  He's 
too  noble  to  be  happy  without  love,  Lady  Saddlethwaite." 

"  But  I  think  you  do  love  him,  child.     How  could  you  help  it  ?  " 

"  Not  as  I  ought  to  love  him,  and  he  ought  to  be  loved.  I  love  him 
as  well  as  I  shall  ever  love  anyone  again ;  but  the  love  he  asks  for  I 
haven't  it  to  give  anyone — it's  gone  from  me  for  ever." 

"  If  you  love  him  as  well  as  you  can  love  anyone,  there  is  no  more 
to  be  said.  It  would  be  wrong  and  cruel,  too,  and  not  like  you,  dear,  to 
keep  him  wretched  an  hour  longer." 

"  To  make  him  wretched  for  life  !  Dear  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  it 
would  come  to  that." 

"  Indeed,  my  dear,  it  would  come  to  nothing  of  the  sort.  You've 
love  enough  left  in  your  heart  to  make  any  man  happy." 

Mabel  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"  I  might  have  thought  so  if  I  hadn't  loved,"  she  said  at  last  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  But  Mr.  Lawley  thinks  so,  and  he  is  the  best  judge  of  his  own 
happiness,  Mabel.  He  doesn't  want  finer  bread  than  can  be  made  of 
wheat.  He  is  starving  while  you  are  hesitating  whether  what  you  can 
give  him  is  choice  enough." 

"  Hesitating  whether  I  should  give  him  a  stone  when  he  asks  for 
bread,  Lady  Saddlethwaite." 

"  My  dear  child,  the  love  you  can  give  him  is  not  wedding-cake,  but 
it's  just  such  good  plain  wholesome  bread  as  all  married  couples  have  to 
come  down  to  when  the  honeymoon  is  over." 


252  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

Mabel  was  silenced,  or  silent  at  least.  Lady  Saddlethwaite  resumed 
after  a  pause.  "  I  know  you  and  Mr.  Lawley,  Mabel,  better  than  you 
know  each  other,  perhaps  better  than  you  know  yourselves,  and  I'm  sure 
of  this,  that  no  two  people  in  the  world  would  be  more  happy  together  or 
more  unhappy  apart.  At  least  I  can  answer  for  his  unhappiness ;  it  will 
last  his  life  and  mar  all  his  usefulness.  I  speak  most  of  his  happiness, 
dear,  because  I  know  that  is  most  in  your  mind ;  but  it  is  of  your  happi- 
ness that  I  am  thinking  most.  If  you  had  been  my  daughter — and  I 
think  you  were  sent  to  me,  Mabel,  in  place  of  my  dead  daughter — " 
Here  Lady  Saddlethwaite  paused  in  some  agitation,  stroking  Mabel's 
hair  with  a  trembling  hand  the  while.  But  soon  mastering  her  emotion 
she  continued — "  If  you  were  my  own  daughter,  dear,  I  would  urge  and 
press  his  suit  on  you  even  more  earnestly  than  I  venture  to  do  now ;  I 
should  be  so  certain  of  his  making  you  happy.  When  Lord  Charlecote 
proposed  to  you  last  autumn  I  said  nothing  in  his  favour,  did  I  ]  though 
he  was  one  of  the  best  matches  and  of  one  of  the  best  families  in  York- 
shire. But  I  knew  you  would  be  happier  with  Mr.  Lawley,  happier 
with  him  than  with  anyone  else  in  the  world ;  and  you  will  make  him 
so  happy,  and  me  too,  Mabel."  Who  could  resist  such  pressure  ]  Lady 
Saddlethwaite  pleading  so  for  Archer  Lawley — the  two  people  dearest  to 
her  in  the  world  !  It  was  irresistible.  As  for  Lord  Charlecote,  it  was 
quite  true  that  Lady  Saddlethwaite  had  not  urged  Mabel  to  accept  him, 
probably  because  she,  no  more  than  Mabel,  was  prepared  for  his  proposal. 
His  lordship  had  rushed  down  from  London  on  one  of  his  mad  and 
sudden  impulses,  bent  upon  carrying  Mabel  by  storm.  It  was  four 
months  since  he  had  met  her  in  Rome,  and  he  might  almost  have  for- 
gotten her,  after  his  manner,  by  this,  if  his  mother  had  not  judiciously 
kept  her  name  and  image  ever  before  him  by  twitting  him  thereabout 
perpetually.  He  had  rushed  off  to  Wefton,  then,  after  his  impulsive 
manner,  one  morning  upon  the  receipt  of  a  letter  from  Lady  Saddle- 
thwaite in  which  Mabel  was  casually  mentioned;  and  he  was  in  St. 
George's  Girls'  School  the  same  afternoon  at  3.30.  Mr.  Gant  was  just 
about  to  begin  his  religious  lecture  to  the  children,  but  was  struck 
speechless  by  hearing  Mabel  address  the  intruder  as  "  Lord  Charlecote.0 
Lord  Charlecote  was  a  great  name  in  the  West  Biding. 

"  Lord  Charlecote  ! "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Had  you  heard  I  was  dead  1 "  in  answer  to  Mabel's  look  of  amazement. 

"  No ;  but  it's  a  surprise  to  see  you  here,  my  lord.  Some  way,  I 
always  think  of  you  as  in  Italy." 

"  It's  a  pleasant  association.  I,  too,  think  of  you  always ; "  here  he 
paused  intentionally  or  unintentionally  and  changed  the  subject.  They 
were  standing  together  near  the  class-room  door,  out  of  earshot  of  the 
children,  the  teachers,  and  even  of  Mr.  Gant,  who  had  retired  in  dudgeon 
to  the  far  end  of  the  room  because  Mabel  had '  not  introduced  him. 
Still  it  is  difficult,  off  the  stage,  to  be  sentimental  with  two  hundred 
pairs  of  eyes  fastened  on  you.  "  And  SQ  this  is  a  national  school,"  said 


tOVE  tHE  DEfcT.  253 

his  lordship,  changing  the  subject,  and  looking  round  at  the  children 
with  such  an  expression  of  scientific  interest  in  these  strange  creatures 
as  made  Mabel  say — 

"  You  should  see  them  under  a  microscope,  my  lord.  They're  very 
interesting. 

Lord  Charlecote  laughed.  "  Can  you  tear  yourself  away  from 
them  ?  I  should  like,  if  you  will  kindly  accompany  me,  to  call  upon 
Colonel  Masters." 

"  He's  too  ill,  my  lord,  thank  you.  He  knows  no  one  now,  not  me 
even." 

"  I  am  very  sorry." 

"  But  you'll  come  in  for  a  moment  1 " 

"  Thank  you." 

Having  said  a  word  to  Mr.  Gant  and  the  assistant  mistress,  and  put 
her  things  on,  Mabel  accompanied  Lord  Charlecote  to  the  cottage.  She 
was  gratified  and  even  grateful  for  his  attention,  which  she  had  not  the 
least  idea  of  construing  into  '  attentions.'  He  had,  indeed,  all  but  pro- 
posed to  her  before  they  parted  in  Italy,  but  Lady  Sacldlethwaite  had 
warned  her  to  consider  his  attentions  as  of  the  value  of  Gratiano's  con- 
versation— two  grains  of  wheat  to  a  bushel  of  chaff.  It  was  only  '  his 
way  '  with  every  attractive  woman  he  met.  Mabel,  therefore,  not  being 
given  to  fancy  everyone  in  love  with  her,  was  duly  fortified  against 
what  she  considered  to  be  only  a  brisk  discharge  of  blank  cartridge. 
Lord  Charlecote,  on  the  other  hand,  was  perhaps  as  deeply  in  love  with 
her  as  he  could  be  with  anyone  except  himself.  She  was  the  only 
woman  he  remembered  a  month  after  she  was  out  of  his  sight ;  and,  while 
she  was  an  ideal  Cinderella,  there  was  no  part  he  would  better  like  to 
play  than  that  of  the  magnanimous  prince — King  Cophetua  in  fact. 
It  was  a  startling  and  eccentric  part,  would  set  everyone  talking  in 
amazement,  first  at  the  unworthiness,  and  afterwards  (when  he  exhibited 
his  prize)  at  the  worthiness  of  his  choice.  But  somehow  when  the  time 
came  for  him  to  put  out  his  hand  and  raise  the  beggar-maid  from  the 
dust  and  offer  her  a  coronet,  he  was  nervous  and  embarrassed,  and  began 
to  doubt  how  the  beggar-maid  would  take  it.  Mabel,  although  a  national 
schoolmistress,  was  a  stately  personage,  and  he  was  constrained  in  her 
presence  rather  to  look  up  to  her  than  down  upon  her.  In  fact,  when 
he  sat  face  to  face  with  her  in  the  cottage  sitting-room,  all  the  beggar- 
maid  series  of  scenes  which  had  filled  his  mind  while  c'oming  down  in  the 

O 

train  seemed  absurdly  inappropriate,  and  King  Cophetua  was  fain  to  be- 
come "  the  fated  fairy  prince."  "While  he  was  accommodating  his  mind 
to  the  new  role  they  talked  together,  of  course,  of  Italy. 

"  I  am  glad,"  he  said  at  last,  nerving  himself  for  the  spring,  "  I  am 
glad  you  associate  me  with  Italy.  I  always  associate  Italy  with  you." 
A  graceful  turn  to  the  compliment,  making  all  the  charms  of  Italy  but 
the  background  to  hers. 

"  It's  a  doubtful  compliment  from  you,  my  lord." 


254  LOVE  THE  DE±5T. 

"  What  ?  to  be  associated  with  Italy  1 " 

"  With  the  old  masters,  and  other  dreary  things  you  had  to  do." 

"  With  the  happiest  hours  of  my  life,"  he  said,  speaking  hurriedly  and 
nervously.  "  I  never  was  so  happy  before,  and  I've  not  had  a  happy 
moment  since  we  parted — Miss  Masters — Mabel " 

There  could  be  no  doubt  now  of  what  was  coming,  and  Mabel, 
amazed  and  confounded  as  she  was,  hurried  to  interrupt,  and  save  him 
from  the  humiliation  of  a  refusal. 

"  They  would  have  been  very  happy  hours  to  me,  too,  my  lord,  but 
that  I've  had  a  great  sorrow — a  great  sorrow  which  has  left  me  no  heart 
for  anything."  They  were  both  standing ;  he  having  risen  to  make,  and 
she  to  meet  and  ward  off  his  proposal.  There  was  no  mistaking  her 
meaning,  and  he,  though  a  good  deal  taken  aback,  didn't  mistake  it.  It 
was  not  their  words  but  their  manner  that  made  the  meaning  of  each  so 
unmistakeable  to  the  other. 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  intruded  on  your  trouble.  I  hope  you'll  for- 
give me,  and  in  time — perhaps  in  time ,"  pleadingly  taking  and  press- 
ing her  hand.  Mabel  did  not  "withdraw  it,  but  again  interrupting  him, 
said  very  gently,  but  very  firmly — 

"  I  have  no  hope,,  my  lord,  that  I  shall  ever  feel  differently  about  it 
than  I  do  now ;  but  your — your  sympathy  has  touched  me  deeply — 
more  than  I  can  express  to  you."  There  was  a  pleading  look  in  the 
pained  face  raised  to  his  that  said  more  eloquently  than  words,  "  Do  not 
urge  it,"  and  Lord  Charlecote  saw  that  to  urge  it  would  be  cruel  and 
useless. 

"  You  will  forgive  me,"  he  said  again. 

"  I  can  never  forget  your  kindness,  my  lord." 

So  they  parted  ;  Lord  Charlecote,  of  course,  more  in  love  than  ever, 
and  Mabel  taking  herself  sternly  to  task  for  the  unfeeling  and  unbecom- 
ing levity  which  could  alone  have  encouraged  so  true  a  gentleman  as 
Lord  Charlecote  to  think  her  heart  free. 

It  was  to  this  proposal  Lady  Saddlethwaite  alluded — of  a  second, 
which  Lord  Charlecote  five  months  later  made  to  Mabel  by  letter, 
she  had  never  heard  ;  but  of  the  first  she  had  heard  from  his  own  lips. 
He  had  gone  direct  from  Mabel's  house  to  Holly  hurst,  to  pour  all  his  love 
and  loss  into  her  sympathetic  ears. 

Lady  Saddlethwaite,  therefore,  didn't  deserve  the  credit  she  claimed 
of  not  pressing  upon  Mabel  a  suit  which  had  been  rejected  before  she 
heard  of  it.  But  she  did  deserve  much  credit  for  referring  to  Lord  Charle- 
cote's  brilliant  birth  and  position  not  more  than  once  or  twice  each  time 
she  met  Mabel,  and  for  throwing  the  weight  of  her  influence  into  Law- 
ley's  scale.  It  is  true  it  was  the  scale  in  which  alone  it  had  the  least 
chance  of  telling.  It  told,  as  we  have  suggested  above,  and  Lady  Saddle- 
thwaite lost  not  a  moment  in  letting  Lawley  know  of  her  success.  It 
was  Friday  evening  when  Mabel  appeared  to  capitulate,  and  Lady 
Saddlethwaite,  when  she  went  upstairs  to  dress  for  dinner,  scrawled  a 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  255 

tasty  pencilled  note  to  Lawley,  bidding  him  be  at  Hollyhurst  the  next 
morning  at  a  certain  hour,  when  he  would  find  Mabel  alone  in  the 
library — (if  Lady  Saddlethwaite  could  so  contrive  it) — and  might  press 
his  suit  at  last  with  some  hope  of  success.  Having  committed  this  happy 
despatch  to  Parker,  to  be  sent  at  once  to  the  post,  Lady  Saddlethwaite 
joined  Mabel  in  the  drawing-room,  with  a  face  dressed  in' such  innocent 
smiles  as  might  have  aroused  the  girl's  suspicions  if  she  had  been  sus- 
picious. But  she  wasn't,  and  she  fell  into  the  trap  (the  library)  set  for 
her,  and  was  duly  caught  therein  the  next  morning  by  Mr.  Archer 
Lawley. 

She  was  standing  on  an  improvised  ladder  of  two  hassocks,  on  a  chair, 
her  back  to  the  door,  her  right  hand  raised  above  her  head,  to  reach  down 
a  book  from  the  bookcase — an  attitude  which  showed  her  perfect  figure 
to  advantage.  She  didn't  turn  round  upon  hearing  the  door  opened — by 
Lady  Saddlethwaite  as  she  supposed. 

"I  have  found  Calebs,  Lady  Saddlethwaite."  For,  indeed,  Lady 
Saddlethwaite  had  told  her  facetiously  to  look  out  for  Ccelebs  in  Search 
of  a  Wife.  It  wasn't  the  most  refined  or  exquisite  of  jokes,  but  Lady 
Saddlethwaite  had  to  express  her  irrepressible  triumph  in  some  veiled 
form  or  other. 

"  It's  I,  Miss  Masters."  In  a  moment  Mabel  saw  the  trap  which 
had  been  set  for  her,  and  the  dull  point  of  the  poor  joke  Lady  Saddle- 
thwaite condescended  to  in  the  exuberance  of  her  triumph.  It  was  not 
in  human  nature  to  feel  no  annoyance  at  being  so  betrayed,  and  even 
Mabel  was  a  little  annoyed  even  with  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  and  ex- 
pressed the  feeling  in  the  tone  of  her  greeting  to  Lawley. 

"  Mr.  Lawley  !  "  with  a  little  vexation  as  well  as  surprise  in  the 
tone  of  the  exclamation,  and  in  the  expression  of  the  flushed  face  she 
turned  towards  him.  Lawley's  heart  sank  within  him.  It  was  not 
encouraging,  and  he  was  easily  discouraged. 

"  I  should  apologise  for  intruding,"  he  said  hesitatingly,  without  ad- 
vancing. Mabel  was  ashamed  of  her  pettishness,  and  touched  to  the 
quick  by  the  dejection  expressed  in  his  face. 

"  For  startling  me,  you  mean,  Mr.  Lawley.  You  couldn't  think  a 
visit  from  you  an  intrusion.  At  the  same  time  you  could  hardly  expect 
me  to  be  grateful  to  you  for  surprising  me  perched  up  here,  could  you  ? 
However,  if  you'll  help  me  down  I'll  forgive  you."  Lawley  was  not  slow 
to  earn  his  forgiveness. 

"Thank  you.  Have  you  seen  Lady  Saddlethwaite?  She  doesn't 
know  you  are  here,  perhaps,"  going  towards  the  bell.  She  would  have 
done  or  given  anything  to  put  off  the  decision  which  she  felt  must  be 
made  in  a  moment. 

" No.  Don't  ring.  I  came  to  see  you"  in  short,  quick,  agitated 
gasps,  which,  coming  from  Lawley,  suggested  a  volcanic  force  and  fire  of 
feeling  that  awed  and  arrested  Mabel.  "  Mabel,  I  bid  you  good-bye  at 
Genoa,  but  I  didn't  mean  it.  I  couldn't  mean  it.  I  hoped  you  would 


256  IOVE  THE  DEBT. 

come  one  day  to  feel  differently,  and  the  hope  has  been  my  life — my  life. 
I  cannot  live  without  it."  The  words  were  strong ;  but,  like  the  escape 
of  steam  at  a  tremendous  pressure,  they  rather  indicated  than  fully  ex- 
pressed the  force  which  underlay  them.  But  the  very  greatness  of  his 
love  only  made  Mabel  falter.  What  had  she  to  give  in  exchange  for 
this  Titanic  passion  1  Such  a  return  as  the  cold  pale  light  of  the  moon 
makes  to  the  glow  and  glory  of  the  sun  it  reflects.  There  was  a  kind  of 
childlike  awe  in  her  heart  and  in  her  face  as  she  looked  up  at  the  intense 
light  of  love  that  shone  down  upon  her  out  of  Lawley's  dark  eyes. 

"  What  shall  I  say  1 "  in  a  voice  that  trembled  and  seemed  to  plead 
for  forgiveness.  "  I  have  no  love  like  yours  to  give.  I  like  you,  and 
shall  like  you  always,  better  than  anyone  else,  but  that  is  not  enough." 

"It  is  enough  and  more  than  enough,"  cried  Lawley,  with  an  impetuo- 
sity which  was  startling  from  him,  seizing  and  imprisoning  both  her 
hands  in  his.  "  Only  take  my  love.  Do  not  reject  it.  It  is  all  I  ask." 

"  But  you  will  want  more.  You  will  not  be  happy ;  it  is  of  your 
happiness  I  think." 

"  My  happiness  !  "  He  drew  her  to  him  and  passionately  kissed  her 
on  the  brow,  cheeks,  and  lips,  rebuked  only  by  her  burning  blushes.  Yet 
Mabel's  heart  rebelled.  These  kisses  recalled  the  dead  to  her,  and  ac- 
cused her  of  unfaithfulness  to  his  memory.  Besides,  the  wild,  devouring 
passion  they  expressed  only  made  her  realise  more  miserably  the  differ- 
ence between  the  love  she  was  given  and  the  liking  she  had  to  give.  A 
love  which  was  a  mere  liking,  though  the  strongest  of  likings,  was  not 
what  he  asked  or  gave,  or  what  she  must  vow  to  him  at  the  altar.  On 
the  other  hand,  she  had  been  so  used  all  her  life  to  find  her  happiness  in 
the  happiness  of  others,  that  Lawley's  perfect  joy  was  sweet  to  her.  Not 
as  the  sweetest  of  flattery  only,  but  as  something  she  had  given  him  for 
all  he  had  been,  and  done,  and  suffered  for  her  sake. 

On  the  whole,  the  probabilities  were  all  on  Lady  Saddlethwaite's  side 
when  she  said  that  night  to  Mabel,  "  I  thank  you  now,  my  dear,  but 
the  time  will  come  when  you  will  thank  me  for  praying  you,  like  an 
Italian  beggar,  to  '  do  good  to  yourself.'  " 


THE 


CORNHILL    MAGAZINE. 


MAECH,  1882. 


grit. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 
PUSHED   FROM   HIS  STOOL. 

AWLEY  stayed  over 
Sunday  at  Hollyhurst. 
The  large  fortune  left 
him  by  his  uncle  en- 
abled him  to  keep, 
among  other  luxuries,  a 
citrate,  whom  he  over- 
whelmed by  a  telegram 
asking  him  to  take  all 
the  duty  of  the  day 
following.  One  sermon 
was  nearly  as  grievous 
a  burden  to  the  newly- 
ordained  curate  as  to 
his  hearers,  and  two 
were  crushing,  espe- 
cially when  ordered  late 
on  Saturday  afternoon; 
but,  though  Lawley 
r  knew  this,  and  felt  for 
his  wretched  victim,  he  could  not  tear  himself  away  from  Mabel.  She 
had  no  need  to  be  concerned  for  his  happiness  if  these  first  hours  of  their 
engagement  were  any  augury  of  the  future.  "  Usually  in  love,"  says 
the  cynical  Frenchman,  "one  loves  and  the  other  submits  to  be 
loved ; "  and  again,  "  In  love,  to  love  a  little  is  the  surest  way  to  be 
VOL.  XLV.— NO.  267.  13. 


258  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

loved  much."  Whatever  truth  there  is  in  these  maxims — and  no  doubt 
there  is  some  truth  in  them — helps  to  explain  the  intensity  of  Lawley's 
love  and  happiness.  It  was  enough  for  him  that  Mabel  accepted  his 
love  and  his  life.  Mabel  took  these  great  gifts  with  awe  and  exceeding 
diffidence,  and  found  them  even  greater  than  she  had  imagined. 
Lawley  disclosed  to  her  a  depth  of  tenderness  of  which  she  had  no 
conception.  Even  when  Lady  Saddlethwaite  was  present  all  his 
cynicism  was  sheathed.  Out  of  the  depths  sprung  up  a  fountain  of 
kindly  humour  as  a  fountain  of  sweet  water  sometimes  springs  out  from 
the  depths  of  the  ocean,  in  strange  contrast  to  the  acrid  cynicism  he  was 
given  to.  But  when  Mabel  and  he  were  tete-a-tete,  and  he  opened  his 
whole  heart  to  her,  she  found  in  it,  as  we  say,  a  depth  of  womanly  tender- 
ness which  amazed  and  touched  and  drew  her  to  him  irresistibly.  He  told 
her  frankly  of  the  source  of  his  cynicism  and  misogyny — the  treachery  of 
his  first  love,  a  young  lady  who  jilted  him  for  his  elder  brother — now 
dead — and  to  whom  he  allowed  no  small  proportion  of  his  income. 
About  her,  we  need  hardly  say,  Mabel  was  extremely  curious.  Lawley, 
however,  was  much  more  anxious  to  speak  of  his  present  love,  and 
could  hardly  be  got  off  this  fascinating  subject.  He  had  the  tact,  too, 
scarcely  to  be  looked  for  from  a  lunatic  or  a  lover,  to  dwell  upon  the 
amount  of  good  Mabel  could  do  as  a  clergyman's  wife  among  the  poor 
and  in  the  schools,  and  to  himself.  For,  he  gave  her  to  understand  with 
perfect  truth,  that  since  he  was  lost  in  love  he  had  no  heart  for  sacred 
or  secular  work,  or  anything  but  her.  Mabel  archly  suggested  that  this 
great  work  of  reclamation  put  at  such  length  before  her  might  have  been 
tersely  expressed  in  one  word — "  the  MacGucken ;  "  that  she  was  chosen 
as  the  -less  of  two  evils,  on  the  same  principle  as  that  by  which  a  special 
fiery  sherry  was  tried  by  the  late  Lord  Derby  to  expel  the  gout,  and  with 
probably  as  unsatisfactory  a  result,  for  his  lordship,  upon  trial  of  both, 
preferred  the  gout.  But,  indeed,  Mr.  Lawley  had  hit  upon  a  happy 
plan  for  ridding  himself  of  the  MacGucken,  or  rather,  for  ridding  the 
MacGucken  of  himself.  He  would  build  a  vicarage,  leaving  the  ould 
house  as  a  hospital  in  her  charge.  He  intended  to  make  the  church 
some  present,  and  might  as  well  pvit  it  in  a  form  which  would  benefit  at 
the  same  time  his  parish  and  himself.  But  while  the  vicarage  was 
being  built  he  meant  to  go  abroad — with  Mabel.  In  other  words,  he 
meant  that  they  should  be  married  at  once  and  spend  a  long  honeymoon 
in  those  places — treasured  carefully  in  his  memory — which  he  had  heard 
Mabel  at  different  times  express  a  wish  to  see.  Mabel,  thus  startled  into 
realising  her  betrothal,  recoiled  from  an  immediate  marriage,  and  was 
with  difficulty  wearied  into  consenting  to  its  taking  place  three  months 
hence.  With  this  hardly-wrung  concession  Lawley  was  fain  to  be 
content,  and  for  the  rest  was  absolutely  and  supremely  happy,  too 
happy,  fey.  As  he  drove  into  the  school  with  Mabel  on  Monday  morn- 
ing he  dwelt  on  the  happiness  she  had  given  him  in  terms  which  almost 
terrified  her.  Even  if  she  loved  him  with  her  whole  heart  she  could  not, 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  259 

have  made  him  half  as  happy  as  he  hoped,  but  as  it  was her  heart 

sank  within  her.  But  he — he  had  no  misgivings.  He  was  in  wild 
spirits,  intoxicated  with  that  true  vinum  Dcemonum,  day  dreams,  and 
little  thought  that  the  passionate  kiss  he  pressed  upon  her  lips  as  they 
neared  the  school  was  his  last.  Two  hours  after  they  parted  at  the  school 
door  he  was  again  at  Hollyhurst,  wild  and  bewildered  with  an  unopened 
letter  in  his  hand. 

"  Mr.  Lawley  !  what  has  happened  1 " 

He  handed  Lady  Saddlethwaite  the  unopened  letter,  whose  address, 
however,  told  her  no  story. 

"  From  him,"  he  said,  sinking  into  a  chair,  and  looking  wildly  up  at 
her.     Lady  Saddlethwaite  began  to  think  his  brain  was  affected. 
"  From  him  1     From  whom  ?  " 
"  Kneeshaw  !  " 
"  The  murdered  man  ?  " 
Lawley  nodded. 

"  Nonsense !      Impossible  !      You  haven't   opened  it."      She  still 
thought  his  head  turned. 

"  I  can't,"  he  said  hoarsely,  starting  up  and  striding  to  the  mantel- 
piece, and  leaning  his  face  upon  his  folded  arms. 
"  You  open  it." 

Lady   Saddlethwaite  tore   open  the  envelope  and  looked  at  the 
signature  of  the  letter.     "  George  B.  Kneeshaw."     She  looked  back  to 
the  address  and  date,  in  the  hope  which  Lawley  had  been  too  stunned  to 
think  of,  that  the  letter  was  an  old  one.     No,  it  was  dated  seven  weeks 
since.     She  sat  down,  stunned  also.     Presently  he  faced  round,  white, 
haggard,  looking  ten  years  older  than  he  looked  two  hours  since. 
"  What  does  he  say  ?  " 
"  I  haven't  read  it,  but  it's  from  him." 

"  Yes,  it's  from  him.     He  was  my  dearest  friend,  yet  I  wished  him 
dead.     God  !  how  I  love  that  girl !  " 

He  turned  from  her  again  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.     Lady 
Saddlethwaite  looked  on  in  helpless  pity.     At  last  she  said, 

"  He  cares  nothing  for  her.     "Why  didn't  he  write  to  her  all  this 
time  1     He  has  forgotten  her.     I  shotdd  let  her  forget  him." 

"  Does  he  say  nothing  of  her  ?  "  he  cried  with  sudden  hope,  turning 
once  more,  and  taking  the  letter  from  her  hand.     Its  very  first  worda 
had  an  application  little  intended  by  the  writer. 
"  My  dear  Lawley, 

The  times  hare  been, 

That  when  the  brains  were  out  the  man  would  die, 
And  there  an  end ;  but  now  they  rise  again, 
With  twenty  mortal  murders  on  their  crowns, 
And  push  us  from  our  stools. 

("  Ay  '  push  us  from  our  stools,' "  repeated  Lawley  bitterly.) 
"  You  at  least  will  rejoice  to  hear  that  I  am  alive ;  and  yet  I  left  you 
all  this  time  in  the  belief  that  I  was  murdered ;  and  I  should  not 

13—2 


260  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

/ 

have  written  even  now  even  to  you  if  it  was  not  for  the  horrible  news 
of  her  engagement,  which  I  came  upon  by  an  accident  in  a  scrap  of  an  old 
newspaper.  I've  gone  through  terrible  sufferings  since  we  parted,  but  I 
never  knew  what  agony  was  till  then.  I  thought  I  could  write  calmly ; 

I  cannot " 

Here  the  letter  broke  off  and  resumed  under  a  new  date  a  day 
latter. 

"  I  allowed  her  to  think  me  dead  that  she  might  be  free  to  do  as  she 
has  done ;  but  I  did  not  realise  what  it  would  be  to  me,  or  I  could  not 
have  done  it.  Poor  as  I  was,  broken  in  fortune  and  health,  a  beggar 
and  on  the  brink  of  starvation,  I  should  have  kept  her  to  her  miserable 
engagement  sooner  than  suffer  this  if  I  had  known  what  torture  it  would 
be  to  me.  I  did  try  to  keep  her  to  it  when  too  late,  when  it  would  only 
have  made  her  wretched  without  lightening  my  wretchedness.  When  I 
read  the  news  I  started  for  Castlemaine  as  I  was,  in  workman's  clothes, 
meaning  to  telegraph  both  to  her  and  you.  But  when  I  reached  the 
town  I  had  no  money,  and  could  get  none,  and  had  to  go  home,  two 
days'  journey,  and  so  had  time  to  come  to  myself,  and  to  come  to  thank 
God  that  I  was  saved  from  doing  a  cruel  and  dastardly  thing.  But  I 
was  mad  in  those  first  moments,  and  am  mad,  or  at  least,  not  sane,  at 
times  now.  That  she  should  engage  herself,  within  two  months  was  it  1 
of  the  news  of  my  murder !  It  is  maddening.  Who  was  this  Lord 
Charlecote?  She  was  the  last  girl  in  the  world  I  should  have 

thought .     Lawley,   you   can  never   know  how  I  loved  that  girl. 

I  could  have  died  for  her.  It  would  have  been  easier  and  better  for  me 
to  have  died  for  her  than  to  have  allowed  her  to  think  me  dead  that 
she  might  be  free  to  forget  me — in  two  months  !  Yet  since  the  day  we 
parted  there  has  not  been  one  waking  hour  in  which  she  was  out  of  my 
thoughts.  It  was  my  own  fault,  you  will  say.  I  should  have  written 
and  prevented  or  contradicted  the  report  of  my  murder.  You  will 
not  say  so  when  you  hear  my  story." 

The  letter  then  proceeded  to  give  in  outline  the  story  we  have 
already  told  of  George's  fortunes,  carrying  it  on  to  the  day  when  he 
came  upon  the  news  of  Mabel's  engagement  to  Lord  Charlecote.  Just 
before  he  chanced  upon  it,  a  wool  speculation  had  turned  out  so  extra- 
ordinarily well  that  he  had  made  his  mind  up  to  write  home  and  break 
the  news  of  his  being  alive  and  prosperous,  through  Lawley,  to  Mabel, 
if  she  still  were  free. 

George's  letter  closed  with  a  short,  simple,  and  touching  allusion  to 
their  friendship,  the  only  thing  now  left  to  him  in  the  world. 

The  letter  touched  Lawley  with  remorse,  and  brought  him  back  to 
his  stronger  and  better  self.  Nothing  showed  the  intensity  and  almost 
insanity  of  his  passion  more  than  the  breakdown  of  his  strength  of 
mind.  That  he,  of  all  men,  should  not  have  had  the  courage  to  open  the 
letter,  or  the  fortitude  to  bear  the  bitterness  of  the  blow  alone.  He 
must  forsooth  rush  off  to  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  like  a  hurt  child,  and 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  261 

hand  her  the  unopened  letter.  And  what  was  this  horrible  news  which 
he  could  not  read  himself,  or  bear  alone  1  That  his  dearest  friend, 
whose  murder  had  been  horrible  news  to  him,  was  alive  !  But  the  letter 
recalled  him  to  himself.  He  was  shocked  with  himself,  ashamed,  and 
humiliated.  "  You  must  break  it  to  her,"  he  said,  handing  Lady 
Saddlethwaite  the  letter,  which,  to-  tell  the  truth,  she  would  have  liked 
to  put  in  the  fire. 

"  And  you  ? "  she  asked,  with  the  deepest  sympathy  in  her  voice. 

"  Oh,  I'm  de  trop.  It's  my  turn  to  go  to  Australia  now,"  he 
answered  bitterly,  rising  to  take  leave. 

"Don't  go,"  she  said  entreatingly,  "wait  till  I  come  back.  There 
will  be  some  message." 

Lawley  shook  his  head.  "  She  will  not  have  a  thought  to  spare  to 
me.  I  must  go,  Lady  Saddlethwaite ;  I  am  better  alone." 

After  Lawley  had  gone,  Lady  Saddlethwaite  sat  with  the  letter  in  her 
lap,  enraged  at  heart.  Who  was  this  man  that  came  in  to  upset  her 
plans  at  the  moment  of  their  success,  to  disturb  and  destroy  the  happi- 
ness of  the  two  people  in  which  she  was  most  interested — this  dog  in 
the  manger,  who  showed  a  fine  indifference  to  Mabel  when  no  one  else 
wanted  her,  but  began  to  whine  when  she  was  won  by  another;  and 
who  showed  this  fine  indifference  not  to  his  own  feelings  only,  but  to 
hers,  since  a  telegram  would  have  saved  her  all  the  cruel  and  crushing 
anguish  she  had  gone  through  for  him  ?  Lady  Saddlethwaite  hadn't 
taken  in  what,  however,  was  plainly  put  in  the  letter,  that  the  news  of 
his  murder  did  not  reach  George  until  months  after  it  had  reached 
Mabel.  Indeed,  she  was  too  thorough  a  woman  to  be  just,  and  was 
really  enraged  with  George  because  he  wasn't  Lawley.  However,  there 
was  no  help  for  it,  she  must  herself  be  the  instrument  to  unravel  all 
the  work  she  had  painfully  knit  up  in  the  last  year.  She  must  at  once 
see  Mabel,  and  break  this  thing  to  her,  and  let  her  be  happy  in  her  own 
perverse  way.  There  was  at  least  the  consolation  that  the  girl  would  be 
happy.  Still  Lady  Saddlethwaite  set  forth  on  her  joyous  mission  in  not 
much  better  heart  than  she  had  gone  on  her  mission  of  consolation  more 
than  a  year  since. 

As  it  was  past  twelve  before  Lady  Saddlethwaite  reached  Wefton 
Mabel  was  at  home,  and  on  seeing  the  carriage  stop  she  hastened  in 
some  disquietude  to  meet  her  kind  friend  at  the  door.  What  could 
have  happened  to  bring  her  in  little  more  than  three  hours  after  they 
had  parted  ?  Mabel  was — what  with  her  was  most  unusual — nervous 
and  unstrung,  in  the  mood  for  imagining  evils  of  all  kinds.  Lawley's 
wild  raptures  had  frightened  her.  Such  a  love  must  be  exacting,  and 
what  had  she  to  pay  ?  It  was  wrong  to  marry  him — wrong  to  him, 
wrong  to  herself,  wrong  to  God.  And  to  the  memory  of  George  what 
was  it  1  She  read  his  letters  over,  and  looked  over  all  the  relics  of  him 
she  had  treasured  until  her  sorrow  came  upon  her  almost  as  fresh  as  the 
first  day,  and  flooded  her  heart  till  it  overflowed  in  unusual  tears. 


262  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

Traces  of  her  trouble  on  her  face  made  Lady  Saddlethwaite  ask  the 
question  which,  at  the  same  moment,  was  on  the  lips  of  Mahel. 
"  Has  anything  happened,  dear  1  " 

"  No,  nothing.  Had  you  heard  that  something  had  happened  to  me, 
Lady  Saddlethwaite  ? "  asked  Mahel,  surprised  and  perplexed. 

"  No,  dear,  but  you  have  trouble  in  your  face.     The  old  trouble  ? " 
Mabel  was  silent.     She  felt  that  Lady  Saddlethwaite  would  almost 
resent  her  relapse  into  mourning  for  George  at  the  very  moment  of  her 
engagement  to  Lawley.     She  was  relieved  when  Lady  Saddlethwaite 
said  pleasantly, 

"  You're  incorrigible,  my  dear ;  but  I  suppose  I  must  let  you  be 
happy  in  your  own  way,"  which  Mabel  of  course  construed  to  mean,  "  if 
fretting  is  a  relief  to  you,  I  mustn't  scold  you  for  it." 

"  You're  already  regretting  your  engagement,  child  ? "  interroga- 
tively. 

"  Dear  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  I'm  regretting  only  my  ingratitude  and 
heartlessness.  He  gives  me  so  much  for — for  nothing." 

"  You  don't  know  how  generous  he  is,  Mabel,"  cried  Lady  Saddle- 
thwaite impetuously.  And  then,  after  a  pause,  "  He's  been  with  me 
since  we  parted  this  morning,  and  asked  me  to  come  to  see  you." 
Another  pause,  during  which  Mabel  was  plunged  in  perplexity. 

"  He's  had  news  from  Australia,  dear.     Good  news,"  she  hastened  to 
add,  for  the  girl  looked  aghast  at  the  mere  name. 
"  Good  news !  " 

Mabel  sat,  white  as  marble,  with  wide  eyes  and  parted  lips,  as 
though  she  saw  a  spirit — George's  spirit.  Lady  Saddlethwaite  rose 
alarmed  to  ring  for  some  wine,  but  Mabel  clutched  her  dress  with  a 
convulsive  grasp. 

"  He's  not  dead  !  "  she  gasped. 

Lady  Saddlethwaite  was  distressed  and  disgusted  with  her  own 
clumsiness. 

"  There's  a  report,  dear,"  she  began  hesitatingly. 
"  Only  a  report !     You  wouldn't  bring  me  only  a  report.     He's  not 
dead ! "  she  cried  breathlessly,  with  a  desperate  intensity  in  her  look 
which  frightened  Lady  Saddlethwaite. 

"  No,  he's  not  dead ! "  she  said  bluntly,  thinking  the  shock  of  the 
truth  better  than  the  strain  of  the  suspense.  Mabel's  hand  relaxed  its 
hold  of  Lady  Saddlethwaite's  dress  as  she  fell  back — not  fainting — 
conscious,  but  helpless  as  in  a  dream.  Lady  Saddlethwaite  rung  the 
bell,  and  Mabel  followed  her  movements  with  her  eyes  with  the  listless 
curiosity  of  a  convalescent  who  cannot  collect  or  concentrate  his 
thoughts.  The  shock  had,  so  to  speak,  knocked  reason  off  the  box, 
and  the  scattered  team  of  her  faculties  wandered  at  will  without 
direction  or  control.  Jane  brought  in  wine,  which  Lady  Saddlethwaite 
administered  like  a  medicine  to  her  patient,  and  so  woke  her  up  as  from 
sleep. 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  263 

"  It  is  true  ? "  she  asked,  seizing  Lady  Saddlethwaite's  hand,  and 
looking  up  appealingly  as  for  life  into  her  face. 

"  Now,  Mabel,  I  shall  tell  you  nothing  till  you  are  calmer,"  Lady 
Saddlethwaite  answered  with  calculated  severity.  "  Let  me  help  you  to 
the  sofa,  and  lie  down  a  bit  till  you  are  more  composed." 

"  I  think  I  can  manage  that  without  help,  dear  Lady  Saddlethwaite," 
she  said,  rising  with  an  assumption  of  composed  strength,  but  she  had 
to  sit  down  again,  her  head  swimming,  and  her  limbs  trembling  and 
failing  her.  Lady  Saddlethwaite  made  her  finish  the  glass  of  sherry  and 
then  helped  her  to  the  sofa.  Mabel,  laid  on  the  sofa,  did  not  trust 
herself  again  to  speak,  lest  the  unsteadiness  of  her  voice  would  belie  any 
assurance  of  calmness,  but  she  expressed  her  yearning  more  eloquently 
through  the  pressure  of  Lady  Saddlethwaite's  hand,  through  her  parted 
lips  and  her  eyes  feverishly  bright  fastened  on  her  friend's  face  with  a 
devouring  eagerness. 

"  Yes,  he's  alive  dear,"  said  Lady  Saddlethwaite  in  a  voice  that  would 
have  suited  better  with  an  announcement  of  death,  for  she  could  not 
forgive  George  his  unconscionable  resurrection.  "  Mr.  Lawley  brought 
the  news  this  morning,  and  asked  me  to  break  it  to  you.  There  was  no 
one  to  break  it  to  him,"  she  continued,  thinking  it  both  wise  and  just  to 
divert  to  her  displaced  lover  Mabel's  strained  attention.  "  I  never  felt 
so  much  for  anyone — not  even  for  you,  dear — as  I  felt  for  him  this 
morning.  I  hardly  knew  him,  he  looked  so  wild  and  haggard.  He 
scarcely  knew  what  he  did  or  what  he  said,  and  could  not  bring  himself 
to  open  the  letter." 

"  A  letter  from  George  !  "  exclaimed  Mabel.  Alas,  for  Lawley  !  All 
his  love  and  grief  could  not  secure  him  now  a  higher  interest  than  that 
of  a  postman.  Love  is  as  jealous  and  cruel  as  an  eastern  despot  who 
slays  all  his  kindred  that  he  may  reign  in  secure  loneliness.  Lady 
Saddlethwaite  resented,  as  well  she  might,  this  insensibility  to  the 
sufferings  of  her  ill-used  protege. 

11  Yes ;  a  letter  from  Mr  Kneeshaw.  He  wrote  in  good  time,"  she 
said  bitterly. 

Mabel  heard  without  heeding  the  sarcasm. 

"  But  why  didn't  he  write  to why  didn't  he  write  before  1 " 

"  Why,  indeed ! "  cried  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  more  and  more  embittered. 

"  Doesn't  the  letter  explain  ? "  a  kind  of  terror  in  her  tremulous 
voice.  A  horrible  heart-sickness  seized  her.  Was  he  faithless  ?  Lady 
Saddlethwaite's  sympathies  deserted  at  once  to  her  side. 

"  It's  your  letter,  dear.  It's  all  about  you.  You'd  better  read  it. 
It  can't  upset  you  more  than  my  bungling."  She  drew  the  letter  from 
her  pocket  and  handed  it  to  Mabel.  Mabel  held  it  in  her  shaking 
hands  and  tried  to  read  it,  bxit  a  mist  dimmed  her  eyes  and  the  letters 
ran  together.  She  could  not  read  a  word. 

"  I  cannot  read  it,"  she  said  helplessly.  "  Will  you  read  it  for  me, 
Lady  Saddlethwaite  1  " 


264  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

"  There's  nothing  but  good  news  in  it,  child.  He  loves  you  still  to 
distraction ;  but  he's  been  ill  and  unfortunate,  and  did  not  think  it  fair 
to  keep  you  to  a  hopeless  engagement." 

"  Oh,  it  was  cruel,"  cried  Mabel,  trying  again  to  read  it  in  vain. 

"  Please  read  it  for  me,  Lady  Saddlethwaite." 

Lady  Saddlethwaite  read  the  first  few  lines. 

"What  engagement?"  cried  Mabel,  starting  up  into  a  sitting 
posture. 

"  Oh,  it  was  some  story  of  your  engagement  to  Lord  Charlecote  that 
got  into  Galignani  and  was  copied  into  an  Australian  paper."  Mabel 
stood  up  strong  with  excitement. 

"  I  must  telegraph.     Will  you  kindly  drive  me  down  to  the  office  ?  " 

"  That's  a  very  good  idea,  dear,"  said  Lady  Saddlethwaite,  knowing 
that  nothing  would  give  such  relief  to  Mabel  as  immediate  action.  "  I 
shall  just  finish  the  letter  and  take  you  down  with  me.  There,  sit 
down,  child.  It  won't  take  many  minutes  to  read  it  through." 

Mabel  sat  down  and  heard  the  long  letter  to  the  end.  But  when 
Lady  Saddlethwaite  had  finished  it,  and  Mabel  attempted  to  rise,  she 
trembled  so  that  she  could  hardly  stand,  and  was  fain  to  sit  down  again. 

"  You  will  go  ;  you  will  send  it,"  she  sobbed,  a  kind  of  tearless  sob. 

"  I  shall  send  Jane  with  it  at  once.  There,  lie  down,  dear.  I  shall 
stay  with  you,  and  Jane  will  take  it  at  once."  She  rose  and  went  to 
the  table  to  write  it. 

"  Tell  him  to  come  home,  Lady  Saddlethwaite." 

"  I  have  told  him,  child.  He'll  get  it  in  a  few  hours  and  be  here  in 
a  few  weeks." 

She  rang  and  gave  Jane  due  instructions,  and  nearly  sent  her  also 
into  hysterics  with  the  news.  But  as  Lady  Saddlethwaite  told  her  she 
must  not  lose  a  moment,  the  discreet  Jane  suppressed  her  feelings  for  the 
present.  In  a  short  time  she  came  back  breathless. 

"  Please,  my  lady,  the  post  office  man  wouldn't  send  it  at  first.  He 
said  there  must  be  some  mistake,  for  he  had  sent  it  off  half-an-hour  ago." 

"  Mr.  Lawley  ! "  exclaimed  Lady  Saddlethwaite. 

"  Yes,  my  lady ;  he  asked  me  if  I  wasn't  Mr.  Lawley's  servant,  but 
when  I  told  him  it  was  from  your  ladyship  he  sent  it." 

Yet  Mabel  had  forgotten  him. 

"  She  will  not  have  a  thought  to  spare  to  me,"  he  had  said,  and  said 
truly.  

CHAPTER  XLVI. 
"  THE    BRATTLE." 

LAWLEY  had  an  eccentric  habit  which  had  done  most — next  to  his  care- 
lessness about  money — to  get  him  the  character  of  being  "  a  bit  touched  " 
among  the  shrewder  folk  of  Fenton.  When  he  couldn't  sleep,  either 
from  over-smoking  or  over-working  his  brain,  he  would  get  up  and  go 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  265 

out  at  all  hours  of  the  night  or  early  morning  to  take  an  exhausting 
walk,  and  so  force  on  sleep  by  means  of  bodily  fatigue.  But  now  sleep 
seemed  to  have  gone  from  him  altogether,  and  beyond  recall.  For  two 
nights  after  the  receipt  of  George's  letter  he  had  not  closed  his  eyes.  On 
the  third  he  went  to  bed  late — or  early,  rather — at  about  two  in  the 
morning ;  and,  after  tossing  miserably  for  three  hours,  got  up  and  went 
out  to  walk  himself  weary.  On  starting  he  took  bye-paths,  out  of  the 
track  of  men  on  the  way  to  the  mine,  and  girls  to  the  factory ;  but  as 
these  streams  ceased  to  flow  at  six  o'clock,  he  ventured  to  return  home 
by  the  highway,  and  was  thereby  caught  in  a  torrent  he  little  expected. 
A  crowd  of  women,  not  girls,  but  matrons,  breathless,  frenzied,  flying  as 
for  life,  overtook  him  at  a  crossing,  and  swept  him  on  with  them.  They 
were  colliers'  wives  and  mothers,  and  he  knew  at  once  that  there  had 
been  a  pit  accident. 

"  An  accident  ?  " 

"  Aye." 

"  Where  1 " 

"  Garthoyles." 

"  How  many  down  1 " 

"Four." 

Four,  indeed,  was  the  number  that  this  poor  woman  had  in  the  pit 
— a  husband  and  three  sons,  and  she  had  no  room  in  her  mind  for  the 
sixty-three  others  who  were  down  also.  A  railway  accident  in  which 
twenty  are  killed  creates  a  greater  sensation  than  a  pit  accident  in  which 
three  hundred  lives  are  lost,  because  every  one  travels  by  rail,  but  only 
the  poorest  work  in  a  pit.  For  this  very  reason,  however,  a  pit  accident 
is  the  most  deplorable  possible,  since  all  the  killed  are  poor,  and  all 
bread-winners  ;  and  the  lighting  of  a  pipe  or  the  opening  of  a  lamp  deso- 
lates a  whole  village  like  an  earthquake.  In  this  case,  however,  it 
was  not  the  recklessness  of  any  of  the  sufferers,  but  the  carelessness  of 
the  engine  tenter  that  caused  the  accident.  The  man  was  bemused  from 
the  effects  of  a  drunken  debauch,  and  overwound  a  heavy  corve  of  'coal 
which,  carried  over  the  top  gearing,  broke  loose,  thundered  back  down 
the  shaft,  and,  crashing  against  some  massive  oaken  beams  more  than 
two-thirds  of  the  way  down,  shivered  them  to  matchwood,  and  wrecked 
the  lower  part  of  the  double  shaft  of  which  they  were  the  support. 
More  than  100  tons  of  earth,  rock,  and  timber  fell  in  and  choked  the 
shaft,  cutting  off  not  only  the  escape  of  the  miners,  but  their  air  supply 
also,  since  the  air  trunks  were  wrecked.  There  were  sixty-seven  men 
and  boys  down  at  the  time,  fifty-four  of  them  in  the  better-bed  seam, 
which  was  forty  yards  below  the  black-bed,  and  was  connected  with  it 
by  a  small  shaft.  Their  case  was  desperate.  Only  three  men  would 
have  had  room  to  work  at  removing  the  rubbish,  and  these  could 
work  only  at  the  risk  of  their  lives,  since  earth  and  stones  fell  at 
intervals  from  the  shattered  sides  of  the  shaft.  Long  before  so  few 
men,  working  under  such  difficulties,  could  have  cleared  the  shaft, 

13—5 


266  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

the  imprisoned  pitmen  would  have  been  starved  to  death ;  and  long 
before  they  could  have  been  starved,  they  would  have  been  suffocated, 
for  the  ventilating  shaft,  which  was  divided  only  by  a  partition  from 
the  main  shaft,  was  choked  with  its  ruins. 

It  was  hopeless  to  attempt  anything,  and  nothing  was  attempted. 
A  few  men  stood  silent  and  paralysed,  looking  down  the  mouth  of  the 
shaft ;  round  them  was  a  crowd  of  women,  the  wives  and  mothers  of 
the  doomed  miners — some  still,  as  though  turned  to  stone,  others  shriek- 
ing piteously ;  a  few  besieging  the  engine-house  and  clamouring  savagely 
for  the  engine  tenter,  while  those  nearest  the  inner  circle  of  men  clutched 
and  clung  to  them,  asking  the  same  question  in  the  same  words  a  hundred 
times  over.  A  sudden  and  a  moment's  silence  stilled  them  all  when 
Lawley  appeared.  It  was  a  touching  tribute  to  the  character  he  had  earned 
for  helping  the  helpless.  There  was  hardly  a  man  or  woman  there  whom 
he  had  not  helped  at  some  time  and  in  some  way,  and  who  had  not  a 
vague  hope  of  help  from  him  now.  In  another  moment,  and  as  they 
made  way  for  him  to  approach  the  pit's  mouth,  the  silence  was  broken, 
the  women  appealing  to  him  in  heart-rending  tones  for  the  lives  of  their 
sons  and  husbands,  as  if  he  held  them  in  his  hand. 

"  It's  awr  Tom  ;  he  taiched  i'  t'  Sunday  schooil." 

Another,  pushing  her  roughly  aside  and  clutching  his  arm  with  the 
grip  of  a  vice,  cried  in  a  fierce  hoarse  voice,  "  Think  on,  aw've  nowt 
aboon  ground  nah.  Aw've  five  dahn,  do  ye  hear,  five  !  " 

Another,  with  an  insane  look  in  her  eyes,  pressed  upon  him  a  basket 
with  her  husband  and  boy's  "  drinking  "  in  it,  which,  upon  hearing  of 
the  accident,  she  had  set  to  deliberately  and  packed.  "  Tak'  it  to  'em, 
wilt  ta?  Shoo  says,"  nodding  towards  a  neighbour,  "they'll  niver  coom 
up  agin  no  more." 

Lawley  made  his  way  through  all  this  misery  to  the  pit's  mouth. 

"How  was  it?" 

The  pit  steward  told  him. 

"  Have  you  been  down  ? " 

"  "We've  lowered  the  bucket,  sir,  and  it  won't  go  much  more  than 
half-way  ! 

Lawley  stepped  into  the  bucket,  taking  a  safety-lamp  from  one  of 
the  men.  "  Lower  away  ! "  he  cried. 

The  voices  of  these  poor  women  in  his  ears  drove  him  upon  action 
of  some  kind. 

"  The  sides  are  falling  in,  sir !  " 

"  Lower  away  !  "  he  cried  again,  impatiently. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Mr.  Lawley " 

"  I  shall  not  stay  down  more  than  a  minute,  Cook.  Lower  quickly, 
and  draw  up  quickly,  when  I  pull  the  rope." 

The  men  lowered  him  at  first  slowly,  but  very  fast  as  the  bucket 
neared  the  wreck.  It  stopped,  and  while  it  stayed  below  the  men,  as 
they  stooped  over,  could  hear  another  fall  of  debris.  Then  the  rope  was 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  267 

chucked,  and  they  hauled  up  the  bucket  swiftly,  and  Lawley  soon  re- 
appeared with  a  very  ugly  gash  in  his  forehead,  from  which  the  blood 
streamed  down  his  pale  face,  giving  him  the  ghastly  look  of  a  messenger 
of  death.  A  groan  burst  from  the  wretched  women  at  his  appearance, 
from  which  they  augured  the  worst. 

"  It's  a  terrible  business,"  he  said,  as  he  reached  the  top. 

"  You're  badly  hurt,  sir." 

"  No ;  it's  nothing,  thank  you.     How  deep  was  the  shaft  ?  " 

"  Thirty  yards  to  the  black-bed,  sir.  Let  me  tie  your  handkerchief 
round  it." 

"  Thank  you.     It  would  take  ten  days  to  clear  !  " 

"  Ten  days,  sir  !  It  wouldn't  be  cleared  in  three  weeks  if  men  could 
go  to  work  at  it  at  once.  But  they'd  have  to  repair  the  sides  first  before 
they  dared  put  a  spade  into  it." 

Lawley  sat  on  the  bucket  turned  bottom  upward,  while  Cook  bound 
the  handkerchief  about  his  forehead.  Suddenly  he  sprang  up,  dislodging 
the  bandage  and  reopening  the  wound. 

"Where  does  it  drain  into  ? " 

"  By  Gow  ! "  cried  one  of  the  men,  "  I  believe  there's  a  water  hoile 
into  '  the  Brattle.'  " 

"  The  Brattle  "  was  an  old  pit  which  had  been  worked  out  years  ago. 

Just  at  this  moment  Mr.  Murgatroyd,  the  manager,  drove  up,  leaped 
out  of  the  dog-cart,  and  joined  them.  Cook  explained  the  accident 
to  him,  while  one  of  the  men  rebound  the  bandage  about  Lawley's  fore- 
head. 

"  Mr.  Lawley  has  been  down,  and  got  badly  hurt,  as  you  see,  and 
it's  a  wonder  he  wasn't  killed.  There's  another ! "  as  a  sound  like 
distant  thunder  came  up  through  the  shaft. 

11  Does  it  drain  into  the  Brattle,  Mr.  Murgatroyd  ?  "  asked  Lawley. 

"  Yes ;  but  that  won't  help  us  much,  the  Brattle's  foul  as  a  cesspool. 
It  hasn't  been  worked  this  twenty  years." 

"  Does  the  drain  come  out  near  the  shaft  ? " 

"  I  can't  say.     It  was  before  my  time." 

"  Who  knows  anything  about  the  Brattle  ? "  asked  Lawley  of  Cook. 
He  was  irritated  at  the  calculating  coolness  of  Mr.  Murgatroyd,  who,  to 
tell  the  truth,  was  thinking  more  of  the  blame  that  might  attach  to  him 
for  the  accident  than  of  the  lives  of  the  miners. 

"  Bob  o'  Ben's  has  worked  in  it.     Him  that's  watchman  at  the  coal 


"  Mr.  Murgatroyd,"  cried  Lawley  excitedly,  "  will  you  order  a  corve 
and  windlass  to  be  taken  to  the  mouth  of  the  Brattle,  and  let  us  pick  up 
Bob  o'  Ben's  and  drive  there  at  once  ? " 

"  What's  the  use?    Who'll  go  down  when  we  get  there? " 

"  I'll  go." 

"  It's  all  nonsense,"  began  the  manager,  piqued  at  the  management 
being  taken  out  of  his  hands  in  this  way, 


268  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

Lawley  was  a  very  decided  person  when  he  chose,  and  now  life  and 
death  seemed  to  hang  upon  his  decision. 

"  Cook,"  he  said  imperiously,  "  take  that  rope  and  bucket  to  the 
dog-cart.  We  haven't  a  moment  to  lose,  Mr.  Murgatroyd." 

The  manager,  seeing  that  the  responsibility  he  dreaded  would  be. 
crushing  if  he  was  the  means  of  shutting  off  this  last  chance,  such 
as  it  was,  followed  Lawley  sulkily  to  the  dog-cart.  "While  they  were 
waiting  for  Cook  to  join  them  with  the  rope  and  bucket,  Lawley 
again  suggested  that  a  corve  and  windlass  be  sent  on  at  once  to  the 
Brattle,  and  the  manager  rather  sullenly  gave  the  necessaiy  order.  Then 
Cook  joined  them  with  the  rope  and  bucket,  and  got  up  behind  as  they 
drove  off  first  to  pick  up  Bob  o'  Ben's.  On  the  way,  Lawley  took  out 
his  pocket-book,  wrote  in  it  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  asked  the 
manager  and  Cook  to  attest  their  signatures.  "  It's  my  will,"  he  said,  "  in 
case  anything  happens  me."  Whereupon  the  manager  became  amiable, 
reflecting  that,  after  all,  he  who  paid  the  piper  might  well  call  the  tune, 
and  that  the  parson  was  certainly  paying  the  piper  in  this  case.  From 
Bob  o'  Ben's  they  gleaned  (out  of  an  immense  mass  of  valuable  but 
irrelevant  information  about  his  experiences,  man  and  boy,  in  the  coal- 
pits) that  the  watercourse  came  out  close  to  the  bottom  of  the  Brattle's 
shaft  in  a  direction  which  he  made  plain  enough  to  Lawley,  who  had 
been  down  a  pit  many  times  before.  Bob  o'  Ben's  was  of  opinion  that 
the  air  at  the  bottom  of  the  Brattle's  shaft  might  be  pure  enough  for 
anyone  else  to  go  down,  but  he  didn't  care  himself  to  have  to  do  with 
the  adventure.  "  He  warn't  paid  for  it,"  he  said. 

But  when  you  did  get  down,  Bob  o'  Ben's  believed  the  next  thing 
you  would  have  to  do  would  be  to  come  up  again,  for  the  drain  was  sure 
to  be  too  narrow,  and  pretty  sure  to  be  too  foul,  for  anyone  to  crawl 
along  it.  With  which  view  both  Cook  and  the  manager  were  disposed 
to  agree. 

"  But  is  there  any  other  chance  for  the  men  1 "  asked  Lawley. 

"  Well,  no  ;  I  can't  say  there  is." 

"  And  it  is  a  chance  ? " 

"  Yes,  it's  a  chance.  Do  you  think,  Cook,  any  of  the  men  themselves 
are  likely  to  know  of  the  passage  ? "  asked  the  manager  of  the  steward. 

Cook  shook  his  head,  while  Bob  o'  Ben's  was  even  more  positive  as 
to  their  ignorance.  Indeed,  he  seemed  to  think  no  one  knew  anything 
but  himself.  By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  bye  path  leading  to  the 
Brattle  and  leaving  the  horse  in  charge  of  Bob  o'  Ben's,  they  hurried 
to  the  pit  mouth,  which  was  covered  in  with  planks.  There  was  already 
a  large  crowd  about  it,  but  the  corve  and  windlass  had  not  yet  come. 

"  There's  not  a  moment  to  lose,"  cried  Lawley. 

"  Come,  my  lads,"  said  the  manager,  "  which  of  you  will  go  down  ? " 
He  hoped  some  unmarried  collier  would  volunteer,  since  his  life  was 
worth  less  and  his  experience  more  than  Lawley's.  No  one  spoke. 

"  It's  all  right,"  said  Lawley,  who  had  already  taken  off  his  coat  and 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  269 

waistcoat  and  put  them  and  his  pocket-book  (in  which  his  will  was)  into 
the  manager's  hands.  "  It's  all  right.  If  it's  a  fool's  errand  I  ought  to 
go  on  it  myself." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  planks  were  torn  up,  and  Cook  and  two  other 
men  brought  the  rope  and  bucket  and  safety-lamp  from  the  dog-cart. 
Lawley  stepped  into  the  bucket,  took  the  safety-lamp,  and  was  just  about 
to  be  lowered  into  the  shaft,  when  a  gigantic  miner  stepped  forward, 
took  his  hand,  gripped  it  till  the  blood  left  it  and  the  tears  came,  and 
said — probably  to  encourage  him — "  Good-bye,  sir." 

It  wasn't  encouraging,  but  it  was  affecting,  and  affected  many  of  the 
men.  Certainly  Lawley  was  not  a  cheerful  picture,  with  the  soaking 
bandage,  like  a  coronet  of  blood,  round  his  forehead,  and  his  pale  face  all 
the  paler  for  its  crimson  stains. 

"  Not  '  Good-bye,'  I  hope,  Mathew,  but '  God  be  with  you.'  God 
bless  you  all !  " 

Those  who  could  trust  themselves  to  answer  said,  "  God  bless  you, 
sir !  "  huskily,  some  of  them  ;  others  were  silent,  but  looked  the  blessing 
through  tears.  It  was  not  this  single  act  of  self-devotion  that  so  moved 
and  unmanned  them,  but  the  life  lived  for  others  of  which  this  act  was 
the  crown. 

"  Lower  away,  my  men." 

In  another  moment  he  had  disappeared,  and  there  was  the  silence  of 
death  while  the  rope  was  being  paid  out,  when  the  bucket  at  last  bumped 
the  bottom,  and  for  the  first  five  minutes  after,  while  they  waited  for  the 
signal  to  draw  up  which  most  of  them  expected.  It  did  not  come. 
Whether  he  would  not  or  could  not  give  it,  no  one  could  say.  He  might 
be  lying  dead,  suffocated,  at  the  pit  bottom,  or  he  might  be  making  his 
painful  way  along  the  drain.  In  the  hurry  of  the  moment  they  had  for- 
gotten to  pre-arrange  a  signal  to  assure  them  of  his  safety  up  to  the 
mouth  of  the  drain.  The  suspense  was  great,  and  grew.  It  became 
intense  and  all  but  intolerable  as  the  crowd  about  the  pit  increased  enor- 
mously, and  was  leavened  and  infected  by  the  agony  of  the  wives  and 
mothers  of  the  imprisoned  miners.  It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock  when 
Lawley  was  lowered  down  the  shaft.  An  hour  later  two  men  volun- 
teered to  go  down  and  search  for  him,  as  far,  at  least,  as  the  mouth  of 
the  drain.  They  had  first,  however,  satisfied  themselves  as  to  the  purity 
of  the  air  by  lowering  a  naked  lamp  and  leaving  it  for  some  minutes  at 
the  bottom.  It  came  up  still  alight.  Then  the  two  volunteers  were 
lowered,  remained  some  minutes  at  the  bottom,  and  were  drawn  up 
again.  They  reported  that  the  bottom  of  the  shaft  was  pure  enough, 
but  that  the  air  of  the  drain  was  very  foul.  They  had  no  doubt  at  all 
that  Lawley  lay  dead  in  it,  and  that  it  would  have  been  death  to  them 
to  have  searched  for  his  body.  The  sensation  this  news  created  was 
indescribable.  It  was  as  though  the  vast  crowd  had  heard  of  the  acci- 
dent then  for  the  first  time.  Something  between  a  sob  and  groan  broke 
simultaneously  from  the  men,  while  the  women  uttered  shriek  upon  shriek. 


270  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

"  Silence  ! "  cried  a  stentorian  voice. 

In  a  moment  there  was  the  silence  that  might  be  felt.  The  speaker — • 
the  gigantic  miner,  Mathew — lay  on  the  ground,  stooping  over  the 
pit.  Suddenly  he  sprang  up  like  a  madman  and  shouted,  "  Hurrah  !  I 
hear  them  !  Stop  !  Listen  !  "  Every  one  held  his  breath,  and  every 
one  heard  the  faint  shout  from  below.  "  Answer  it,  boys ! "  shouted 
Mathew,  standing  on  the  bottom  of  the  upturned  bucket,  and  acting  as 
fugleman.  "  Hip,  hip,  hurrah,  hurrah,  hurrah  ! "  The  shout  might 
have  been  heard  at  Wefton.  Meanwhile  the  corve  was  being  lowered, 
quick  as  the  windlass  could  be  unwound.  It  reached  the  bottom.  The 
rope  was  chucked.  It  was  hauled  up.  There  were  eight  in  it,  looking 
as  though  they  had  come  back  from  the  grave — as,  indeed,  they  had. 
White  and  exhausted,  they  could  tell  their  story  only  by  gasps.  They 
had  given  up  all  hope  of  life  as  the  air  was  fouling  fast,  and  had  all 
gathered  together  in  the  black-bed,  or  upper  pit,  where  the  air  was 
purest,  and  had  just  knelt  down  to  pray  at  the  suggestion  of  a  mere  lad, 
one  of  Lawley's  teachers,  when  the  boy  shrieked,  and  fell  back  almost 
fainting.  All  looked  round  and  cried  out  in  terror,  for  if  ever  a  man 
looked  like  a  spectre  Lawley  did,  in  the  dim  light  of  their  failing  lamps, 
as  he  came  towards  them,  all  white,  in  his  shirt  and  drawers,  his  face 
like  marble  where  it  was  not  blood-stained.  He  soon  reassured  them, 
and  hurrying  them  to  the  mouth  of  the  drain,  sent  them  all  before  him 
— the  boys  first  and  then  the  men.  The  drain  was  not  so  narrow  as  had 
been  supposed,  but  was  very  long  and  very  foul — fouler  -than  the  foulest 
part  of  the  pit  they  had  left — and  seemed  to  strangle  their  strength  so 
that  they  made  slow  way  through  it.  They  had  got  through,  however, 
thank  God,  and  here  they  were.  By  the  time  the  first  batch  (who  were 
all  boys)  had  told  their  story  piecemeal  and  incoherently,  the  last  batch 
were  being  expected  with  breathless  eagerness,  for  Lawley  would  be  with 
them.  The  very  women,  with  their  sons  and  husbands  just  restored  to 
them,  and  standing  by  them,  had  their  eyes  turned  still  towards  the  pit 
mouth. 

There  was  some  delay,  or  there  seemed  some  in  the  deep  silence  and 
suspense.  At  last  the  signal  came,  and  the  crowd  drew  a  long  breath  of 
relief  at  sight  of  the  first  wind  of  the  windlass.  There  were  only  four  to 
come — three  miners  and  Lawley,  and  the  windlass  went  round  quickly 
with  its  light  load.  It  was  lighter  even  than  they  looked  for,  as  there 
were  but  three  in  it  when  it  came  to  bank — the  three  miners  only. 
Lawley  had  not  followed  them  out  of  the  drain.  They  had  shouted,  but 
he  had  not  answered,  and  could  answer  to  no  shout  henceforth  but  the 
voice  of  the  Archangel  at  the  Resurrection.  He  lay  dead  midway  in  the 
watercourse.  He  had  been  very  weak  from  want  of  food  and  sleep  to 
begin  with,  and  had  been  still  further  weakened  by  loss  of  blood,  and  so 
fell  an  easy  prey  to  the  breath  of  death  in  the  foulest  part  of  the  drain. 
There  was  a  rush  of  volunteers  to  the  corve,  which,  filled  in  a  moment 
with  seven  miners  and  a  doctor,  was  lowered  away  swiftly.  Then,  for 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  271 

half-an-liour,  there  was  a  kind  of  religious  hush,  in  which  those  who 
spoke  spoke  under  their  breath.  It  was  now  as  though,  not  a  few 
women  only,  but  the  whole  crowd  had  each  a  life  dear  to  him  at  stake. 
All  Lawley's  kindnesses — and  his  life  had  been  all  kindnesses — came 
back  to  them  vividly  as  the  day  they  were  done,  and  all  looked  and  felt 
as  though  they  stood  in  a  sick-room  where  the  life  and  death  of  one  near 
to  them  trembled  in  the  balance.  When  little  more  than  half-an-hour 
had  passed,  the  windlass  was  again  seen  to  turn,  very  slowly  this  time, 
as  doubtful  what  its  burden  would  be.  When  it  reached  the  top  there 
was  a  wild  shout  of  joy  from  those  who  saw  Lawley,  as  it  seemed,  stand- 
ing upright  (for  he  had  to  be  held  upright  to  be  drawn  up),  but  in  another 
moment  the  body  was  seen  to  be  borne  as  they  bear  the  dead.  Mathew, 
mounting  his  modest  pulpit,  amid  a  hush  in  which  every  breath  was 
held,  tried  to  speak,  but  his  voice  broke  into  a  sob  which  told  his  story 
better  than  words.  There  was  an  overpowering  revulsion  of  feeling. 
Strong  men  broke  down  and  cried  like  children.  For  hours  there  had 
been  a  terrible  strain  on  the  nerves  of  suspense,  excitement,  and  the 
alternations  of  joy,  agony,  hope,  and  despair,  and  this  in  a  vast  crowd 
where  every  beat  of  the  heart  is,  so  to  say,  reverberated  and  magnified  a 
hundredfold  through  sympathy.  The  effect,  therefore,  of  this  crushing 
blow  on  nerves  already  strained  to  their  utmost  tension  was  almost 
hysterical.  The  men  in  the  inner  ring,  looking  down  on  the  peaceful 
face,  which  seemed  asleep  with  its  eyes  open,  wept  without  disguise  or 
sense  of  shame,  or  self-consciousness,  or  consciousness  of  anything  or  any 
one  but  the  dead.  They  were  quite  unnerved  and  helpless,  and  could  do 
nothing  and  think  of  nothing  ;  and  it  was  a  woman,  strangely  enough, 
who,  with  a  coolness  that  seemed  cruel,  ordered  the  arrangements  for  the 
removal  of  the  body.  She  had  it  laid  on  a  door  brought  from  a  cottage 
near,  she  shrouded  it  with  her  shawl,  and  ordered  the  least  exhausted  of 
the  rescued  miners  to  bear  it  home,  and  marshalled  the  rest  with  their 
wives  and  mothers  as  chief  mourners.  The  vast  crowd  followed  silent 
and  bareheaded.  As  they  were  passing  through  the  little  village  which 
was  the  home  of  most  of  the  rescued  miners,  the  bearers  stood  still — 
broke  down,  indeed.  The  same  thought  at  the  same  moment  was  in  all 
their  minds — that  he  had  taken  their  place ;  that,  but  for  the  dead,  there 
would  not  have  been  a  house  here  without  its  dead.  So  the  eight  bearers, 
weak  to  begin  with,  broke  down  altogether  and  had  to  be  replaced,  and 
then  the  procession  moved  on,  increasing  as  it  went,  till  it  reached  his 
home — that  home  where,  too,  his  only  mourners  were  strangers  he  had 
been  kind  to — the  little  children  of  his  hospital. 

No  one  should  judge  West  Biding  poor  on  the  surface,  or  at  sight, 
or  by  a  conventional  standard.  The  woman  who  showed  this  hard 
presence  of  mind  preserved  the  shawl  like  a  relic,  and  twenty-four  years 
later,  on  her  death-bed,  desired  that  it  should  be  her  shroud. 


272   '  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

CHAPTER  XLVII. 
FENTON  GRAVEYAKD. 

LAWLEY'S  will  was  not  characteristic  of  a  misogynist.  Having  no  near 
Delations  he  divided  the  bulk  of  his  property  between  the  two  women 
who  had  wrecked  his  life — his  brother's  widow  and  Mabel.  Mabel's 
portion,  indeed,  was  left  to  her  delicately  under  cover  to  George,  but  it 
was  love,  not  friendship,  which  inspired  the  bequest.  Still  more  eccen- 
tric was  his  choice  of  an  executor,  which  fell  upon  Robert  Sagar,  Esq. 
Lawley  himself  was  the  worst  business  man  in  the  world,  which  will 
account  for  his  idea  (got  from  Mr.  Sagar)  that  Bob  was  the  best. 
Besides,  Bob,  as  a  kind  of  guardian  of  Mabel's,  naturally  occurred  to  a 
mind  filled  with  Mabel. 

It  was  a  fortunate  choice  for  Bob,  and  brought  him,  as  we  shall  see, 
the  happiness  of  his  life. 

Bob  was  not  at  the  Queen  when  Mr.  Murgatroyd — who  took  the 
liberty  to  read  the  will  an  hour  after  Lawley's  death — sought  him  up 
there.  However,  Bob  was  easy  to  trace  in  Wefton,  where  he  had  attained 
to  the  celebrity  of  Lucian's  Ouroc  'Ek'sTroc  !  Men  stopped  to  look  at  the 
stupendous  figure  as  it  rolled  through  the  streets,  women  (Irishwomen) 
curtsied  to  him,  and  the  street  boys  cock-a-doodle-dooed  after  him — for 
this  had  been  the  war-whoop  of  the  Crowe  faction  during  the  elec- 
tion. Bob  took  it  all  in  good  and  gracious  part,  smiling  like  Malvolio, 
unless  when  some  miscreant  made  a  derisive  allusion  to  his  corpulence, 
now — thanks  to  "  No  more  Stomachs" — truly  portentous.  Then,  indeed, 
Bob  had  to  console  himself  with  the  reflection  that  the  greatness  he  had 
achieved  had  its  penalties  no  less  than  its  privileges.  But,  these  brutali- 
ties notwithstanding,  Bob  felt  justified  in  thinking  himself  the  most 
popular  man  in  Wefton,  so  he  walked  its  streets  as  a  captain  walks  his 
quarterdeck,  with  an  authoritative  roll.  Therefore  Mr.  Murgatroyd  had 
no  difiiculty  in  tracking  the  village  Hampden  from  the  Queen's  to  Mabel's, 
where,  indeed,  Bob  was  busy  adjusting  a  new  kind  of  window-blind, 
which  was  to  have  gone  up  and  down  with  a  spring,  but  which  could 
never  be  got  henceforth  to  go  either  up  or  down  at  all. 

Fortunately,  Mabel  was  not  in  when  Mr.  Murgatroyd  told  his  news. 
Bob  was  so  horrified  at  it,  and  at  Mabel's  share  in  it,  that  he  had  no 
room  in  his  heart  for  even  an  under  thought  of  pleasure  at  the  compli- 
ment paid  to  his  business  capacity — the  highest  possible  compliment  that 
could  be  paid  him.  He  could  think  for  the  moment  only  of  Mabel  and 
of  the  best  way  to  break  the  shock  of  the  news  to  her.  It  was  a  kind  of 
business  for  which  poor  Bob  had  the  least  fitness  or  fancy  of  anyone  in 
the  world ;  and  therefore,  after  some  perturbed  thought,  he  rushed  off, 
first  of  all,  to  telegraph  to  Lady  Saddlethwaite.  Then  he  hurried  back  to 
keep  Mabel  on  her  return  from  hearing  the  news  from  any  less  con- 
siderate friend.  But  when  Mabel,  on  her  return,  met  Bob  at  the  door 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  273 

with  his  kind-hearted  face  overcast,  and  as  indicative  of  news  of  death 
as  an  envelope  an  inch  deep  in  black,  she  faltered  out  at  once,  "  Who  is 
it,  Mr.  Sagar  ?  "  Of  course  she  thought  it  was  George. 

"  It  isn't  anyone,"  cried  Bob,  confused  by  the  failure  of  his  frank  face 
to  keep  a  secret  for  a  moment.  "  It's  Lady  Saddlethwaite.  I  mean 
she's  coming  to  see  you.  There ;  come  in  and  sit  down.  It's  not  from 
Australia — it  isn't,  indeed,"  taking  Mabel's  hand  and  leading  her  into  the 
room  and  to  a  chair. 

"  It's  Mr.  Lawley  1 "  looking  up  into  Bob's  troubled  face  with  the 
hopeless  yet  appealing  look  of  one  who  pleads  against  a  sentence  he  knows 
to  be  inevitable.  It  was  a  relief  to  be  assured  of  George's  safety,  but 
even  that  relief  gave  place  in  a  moment  to  this  other  and  only  less  poignant 
anxiety. 

"I(believe  he's  badly  hurt,"  said  Bob  helplessly ;  "there's  been  a  pit 
accident,  and  he  went  down  and  saved  all  the  men,  and  got  cut  about  the 
head  a  bit,  and  caught  by  the  choke-damp." 

"  I  must  go  to  him,"  cried  Mabel,  rising  with  the  sudden  strength  of 
excitement  and  of  a  fixed  resolution.  In  her  mind  at  the  moment  was  a 
letter  she  had  written  him  the  day  after  she  had  heard  of  George's  being 
alive,  a  letter  which  soothed  even  Lawley's  wounded  spirit.  It  seemed 
to  come,  as  it  had  come,  hot  from  her  heart.  It  was  full  of  all  he  had 
been  to  her,  and  of  all  he  would  be  ever  to  her,  and  of  her  own  unhappi- 
ness  in  having  so  little  to  give  in  return  for  it  all.  There  could  not 
have  been  a  more  simple,  touching,  and  complete  expression  of  a  love 
which  was  everything  but  what  Lawley  asked,  and  of  a  regret,  which 
was  all  but  a  remorse,  that  it  stopped  short  only  of  this.  This  letter 
was  in  her  mind  as  she  sprang  up ;  its  coldness,  its  thanklessness,  its 
heartlessness.  And  now  he  was  dying,  perhaps !  might  die  before  she 
could  see  him  and  bare  her  whole  heart  to  him,  its  love,  and  its  longing 
to  give  her  life  for  his. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  selfishness  in  these  thoughts,  alloying  what 
was  unselfish  in  them,  it  is  true ;  but  this  is  only  to  say  that  Mabel  was 
human. 

"  You  will  come  with  me,  Mr.  Sagar  ?  " 

"He's  too  ill  to  see  anyone,  Mabel.  He's  unconscious,  and  the 
doctors  are  very  doubtful.  Now,  do  sit  down,  dear;  it's  no  use; 
and  Lady  Saddlethwaite  will  be  here  soon,"  floundered  Bob,  more  and 
more  helplessly. 

"  He's  dead  !  "  cried  Mabel  with  a  wild  look,  as  though  she  saw  him 
as  he  lay  that  moment,  white,  still,  and  cold.  She  sat  down  again  with 
this  fixed,  wild  look  still  in  her  eyes,  certain  and  silent — poor  Bob  silent 
also, 

"  If  I  had  only  seen  him — only  once,"  she  moaned  piteously  after  a 
while;  "but  he'll  never  know  now."  And,  indeed,  this,  which  was  her 
first  thought  was  her  last  thought.  To  the  end  of  her  life  the  thought 
of  what  she  would  consider  the  coldness  of  her  last  letter  (and  she  often 


274  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

thought  of  it)  ached  in  her  heart  like  an  old  wound.  Now  the  shock  of 
this  terrible  news  broke  her  down  completely,  and  she  lay  prostrate  for 
weeks  ill  of  what  the  doctor  called  a  low  fever. 

Bob,  leaving  Mabel  in  Lady  Saddlethwaite's  charge,  thought  it 
incumbent  upon  him  as  executor  to  set  out  in  the  evening  for  Fenton. 
He  was  really  as  sorry  for  Mabel's  sorrow,  and  for  his  friend  Lawley  too, 
as  any  kind-hearted  man  could  be ;  and  yet  for  his  life  he  couldn't  help 
feeling  a  sense  of  pride  and  importance  in  his  executorship  stir  within 
him  when  he  had  got  over  the  first  shock  of  the  news ;  for  there  was 
nothing  of  which  Bob  had  become  so  proud  as  of  his  business  ability. 
He  was  not  the  first  great  man  who  thought  nature  meant  him  to  walk 
on  his  head,  so  to  speak — "  Optat  ephippia  bos  piger ;  optat  curare 
caballus." 

Bob  then,  we  say,  hurried  off  to  Fenton  Vicarage  to  look  after  his 
duties  and  make  all  the  necessary  arrangements  for  the  funeral.  As, 
however,  he  passed  through  the  village  and  saw  all  the  blinds  down,  and 
groups  of  women  about  the  doors,  and  men  at  street  corners  talking 
together  with  sad  face  and  subdued  voice,  he  again  forgot  his  business 
character  and  thought  only  of  Mabel's  loss  and  his  own. 

At  the  vicarage  the  McGucken  met  him  at  the  door.  She  was  a 
kind-hearted  woman  and  truly  attached  to  Lawley,  but  much  of  her  grief 
was  swallowed  up  by  the  immense  consolation  of  the  remembrance  of  all 
she  had  been  to  him  and  done  for  him,  and  by  her  indignation  at  the 
state  of  dirt  in  which  the  crowd  had  left  the  house. 

"  Coming  and  going  as  if  it  was  a  pothouse,  and  making  no  more  of 
one  than  if  aw  war  the  muck  under  their  feet.  And  muck  enough  they 
made,  Mr.  Sagar,  sir,  if  you  will  me  believe,  and  him  lying  dead  above 
that  couldn't  bide  to  see  a  speck  or  spot  on  tile  or  table  ;  and  little  had  he 
seen  for  up  aw  allus  war  late  and  early,  a-rubbing,  and  a-scrubbing,  and 
a-tubbing,  and  a-sweeping,  and  a-polishing  till  my  knees  war  that  sore 
aw  couldn't  bide  to  say  my  prayers  on  'em ;  aw  couldn't.  But  prayers  is 
for  them  as  has  nowt  else  to  think  on  but  theirsen,  not  for  sich  as  has 
childre  to  follow,  and  a  haase  to  tidy,  and  a  master  to  do  for  as  aw  hev 
done  for  him.  Niver  a  man  in  this  warld  was  better  done  for,  that  aw 
can  say,  and  nobbody  could  say  nowt  else,  and  aw  only  hope  he'll  be  as 
weel  done  for  where  he's  goan " — a  hope  expressed  despondently  and 
with  doubtful  tears.  Bob's  kind  heart  was  too  much  moved  by  the 
darkened  house,  and  what  its  darkness  symbolised  and  helped  him  to 
realise,  for  him  to  smile  at  the  McGucken's  doubt  of  Heaven  being 
Heaven  to  Lawley  without  her. 

When  he  had  at  last  got  rid  of  her,  he  sat  sad  in  the  still  study, 
thinking  of  the  last  time — not  so  long  since — he  had  sat  there  listening 
and  learning  many  things  from  Lawley's  brilliant  talk.  At  last  he  rose, 
moved  by  a  sudden  impulse,  to  go  and  see  the  dead.  He  stole  upstairs 
noiselessly,  partly  in  reverence  and  partly  to  elude  the  McGucken's  vigil- 
ance, and  went  on  tiptoe  along  the  corridor  to  Lawley's  room.  The 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  275 

door  was  wide  open  and  he  paused  at  it  for  a  moment,  fearing  the 
McGucken  was  within,  but  all  seeming  still,  he  entered. 

It  was  night,  the  room  dim,  the  gas  down,  and  Bob,  unused  to  death, 
stood  in  nervous  hesitation  inside  the  door.  He  could  hear  his  heart 
beat,  and  he  could  hear — he  was  sure  he  could  hear — in  the  frozen 
silence,  from  the  bed  where  the  body  lay  shrouded  within  curtains,  the 
sound  of  a  sleeper's  regular  breathing.  It  took  him  a  little  time  to 
summon  up  courage  to  advance  to  the  gas  and  turn  it  up,  and  then,  after 
another  hesitation,  to  steal  to  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Here  he  was  startled 
in  a  way  very  different  from  that  he  half  expected.  Lawley  lay  sleeping 
the  breathless  sleep  ;  but,  beside  him,  sharing  his  pillow,  her  face  flushed 
in  sleep,  all  but  touching  his,  and  making  it  by  contrast  more  ghastly,  lay 
a  little  girl,  between  three  and  four  years  of  age,  fast  asleep,  her  long  eye- 
lashes wet  with  tears,  and  her  bosom  heaving  still  in  sleep  with  the  swell 
of  a  storm  of  sobs.  One  word,  in  passing,  to  this  little  chief  mourner, 
who  was  to  be  all  the  world  to  Bob. 

She  had  been  brought  to  the  hospital  nearly  a  year  ago,  ill  mainly  of 
starvation  and  neglect,  from  which  she  soon  recovered.  As,  however, 
her  mother  was  dead  and  her  father  was  an  irreclaimable  drunkard, 
Lawley  had  not  the  heart  to  send  back  the  bright,  pretty,  engaging  child 
to  misery  and  degradation.  Even  the  McGucken  was  moved  by  her 
winning  face  and  ways  to  tolerate  her.  She  had  fast  grown  to  be  such  a 
pet  with  Lawley  in  his  loneliness,  that  when  she  could  elude  the  McGuc- 
ken she  would  steal,  sure  of  a  welcome,  into  his  bedroom  before  he  was 
up  in  the  morning,  and  in  the  evening,  before  her  bed-time,  into  his  study. 
The  child  had  much  of  her  dead  mother  in  her — a  refined  and  affectionate 
woman — and  Lawley  had  resolved  to  bring  the  little  one  up  to  be  what 
nature  had  meant  her  to  be,  a  lady.  As  for  Amy,  Lawley  was  father,  mother, 
sister,  brother,  all  to  her.  When  Sarah  Jane,  eager  to  find  anyone  who 
had  not  heard  the  news,  rushed  up  to  tell  the  sick  children  that  Mr. 
Lawley  was  dead,  Amy  took  her  to  mean  that  he  was  very  ill.  She  was 
but  a  year  old  when  her  mother  died,  and  knew  not  yet  of  death, 
imagining  it  to  be  simply  the  superlative  of  illness — an  impression  con- 
firmed by  Sarah  Jane's  tears. 

Illness  Amy  knew  too  well,  and  that  he  should  be  very  ill  was  terri- 
ble to  her.  In  the  confusion  no  one  heeded  her  or  her  timid  questions, 
and  she  was  kept  strictly  confined  to  the  hospital  end  of  the  house  all 
that  day.  At  night,  however,  when  she  could  not  sleep  through  think- 
ing of  this  trouble,  she  stole  out  of  bed  and  along  the  corridor  to  Lawley's 
room.  She  pushed  open  the  door,  which  was  ajar,  crept  to  the  bed, 
climbed  up  upon  it  by  means  of  a  chair,  and  saw  by  Lawley's  ghastly  face 
and  closed  eyes  that  he  was  very  ill  and  asleep,  and  not  to  be  disturbed. 
She  would  wait  till  he  waked,  as  she  had  done  many  a  morning,  and 
while  waiting  and  sobbing  piteously  over  the  terrible  change  in  the  face 
that  was  as  the  only  face  in  the  world  to  her,  she  fell  asleep  at  last  from 
exhaustion. 


276  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

So  it  came  about  that  Bob  found  the  little  flushed  face,  whose  troubles 
were  beginning,  nestling  in  the  shadow  of  the  still,  set,  marble  face, 
whose  troubles  were  over.  A  harder-hearted  man  than  Bob  would  have 
been  touched  by  the  picture,  and  by  its  suggestions  of  love  and  sorrow, 
and  of  all  that  is  best  in  our  nature  and  worst  in  our  lot,  and  Bob  was 
touched  by  it. 

While  he  stood  looking  on  it,  hesitating  to  disturb  the  child,  hesita- 
ting to  leave  her  there,  she  woke  from  her  troubled  sleep,  roused  either 
by  the  glare  of  the  gas  or  by  Bob's  concentrated  gaze. 

After  a  hurried  look  at  the  stranger,  whom  she  took  for  a  doctor,  she 
turned  at  once  to  see  if  Lawley  was  yet  awake. 

"  I  didn't  wake  him,"  she  said  in  a  guilty  voice  to  Bob. 

"  No,  dear,"  said  Bob,  not  steadily.  "Let  me  carry  you  back  to 
bed." 

Amy  looked  back  wistfully  at  the  still  face  with  half  a  hope  that 
their  talking  might  have  waked  him,  and  that  she  might  get  a  reprieve, 
or  at  least  a  word,  a  touch,  a  look  from  him  before  she  was  taken  away. 
While  looking  for  some  sign  of  waking  she  forgot  Bob  altogether,  for  the 
gash  in  the  forehead,  seen  now  in  the  full  glare  of  the  gaslight,  had  a 
horrible  fascination  for  her.  She  sat  up  transfixed,  a  piteous  picture  of 
horror,  till  Bob  broke  the  spell. 

"  Come,  dear,"  taking  her  up  in  his  arms. 

"  I  may  come  when  he  wakes.  I  may  come  in  the  morning.  He 
lets  me  come  in  the  morning  when  he  wakes,"  beseechingly. 

"  Ay,  dear ;  you  may  come  when  he  wakes." 

All  Bob's  kind  heart  was  in  his  face  and  in  his  voice,  so  that  Amy, 
though  a  shy  and  shrinking  child,  put  both  her  arms  round  his  neck  as 
he  carried  her  first  to  the  gaslight  to  lower  it,  and  then  from  the  room — 
her  head  being  turned  over  his  shoulder  toward  the  bed  and  its  burden 
to  the  last. 

She  guided  him  to  her  room,  and  Bob,  having  put  her  back  to  bed, 
sat  by  her  till  she  should  fall  asleep.  But  she  did  not  soon  fall  asleep. 
She  lay  long  wide  awake,  though  still ;  the  pale  face  with  that  terrible 
gash  in  the  forehead  looking  down  upon  her  distinctly  out  of  the  dark- 
ness. Bob,  hearing  that  she  was  crying  quietly  by  an  occasional  sob, 
soothed  her  now  and  then  as  he  could  by  caresses  and  caressing  words, 
till  at  length  "  Nature's  soft  nurse,  balm  of  hurt  minds,"  came  to  relieve 
him. 

We  have  dwelt  upon  Bob's  finding  of  Amy  because  it  was  a  fortunate 
accident  for  him.  The  impression  she  made  upon  him  that  night  was 
more  than  confirmed  in  the  next  few  days  of  her  utter  desolation  when 
he  had  at  last  to  make  clear  to  her  the  meaning  of  death.  Of  all  the 
bitter  tears  dropped  on  Lawley's  grave,  the  most  bitter  were  those  shed 
by  this  little  chief  mourner  as  she  looked  down  upon  it  from  Bob's  arms. 
There  is  no  sorrow  like  a  child's  sorrow,  for  in  its  intensity  it  is  eternal, 
without  hope  of  end,  break,  or  morrow  to  it.  And  Amy's  wretchedness  so 


LOVE  THE  DEBT.  277 

wrung  Bob's  heart  that  he  begged  her  from  George  (to  whose  care  Lawley 
had  bequeathed  her)  andadopted  her.  No  kind  act  was  ever  better  rewarded. 
Amy,  as  a  child,  girl,  and  woman  was  henceforth  the  happiness  of  Bob's 
life,  more  to  him  even  than  his  world-wide  political  fame  as  member  for 
Bally-Banagher  and  leader  in  the  House  of  Commons  of  one  of  the  seven 
sections  into  which  the  union  of  Irish  patriots  of  all  ranks  and  creeds 
against  the  tyranny  of  the  Saxon  resolved  itself  in  a  single  session. 

Nor,  in  taking  a  kindly  leave  of  our  kind  old  friend,  should  we  omit 
to  mention  a  third  source  of  his  happiness,  his  discovery  of  the  genuine 
"  No  more  Stomachs  "  receipt — a  sleepless  attendance  on  the  Speaker's 
eye  in  that  august  House:—- 

Where  prosy  speakers  painful  vigils  keep, 
Sleepless  themselves  to  give  their  hearers  sleep. 

If  Bob's  vigils  did  not  quite  reduce  him  to  "  an  eagle's  talon  in  the 
waist,"  at  least  they  relieved  him  of  the  scurrilous  notice  of  the 
street  boys. 

A  graveyard  is  an  appropriate  place  for  partings.  There,  late  or 
soon,  we  part  from  all,  or  all  from  us.  Here,  then,  at  Lawley's  grave, 
we  take  leave  of  others  besides  Bob,  of  Dr.  Clancy,  who,  for  his  know- 
ledge of  Greek,  was  made  a  missionary  bishop  of  the  South  Sea  Islands  ; 
of  Mr.  Gant,  who  obtained  at  last  the  pinnacle  of  his  ambition,  persecu- 
tion in  its  most  fiery  form — a  prosecution  for  ritualistic  practices ;  of 
Josiah  Pickles — we  beg  his  pardon — Sir  Josiah  Pickles,  for  his  large 
contributions  to  the  Carlton  electioneering  funds  was  rewarded  with 
knighthood ;  and  of  Clarence,  who  married  a  poor  but  highly  accomplished 
girl,  who  with  one  set  of  toes  on  the  boards  and  the  other  set  on  a  level 
with  her  head  could  spin  round  like  a  top  for  two  minutes  together. 

To  come  lower  down,  for  we  are  getting  dizzy  at  this  height,  here  too 
we  take  leave  of  Barney  McGrath,  who  had  his  own  good  reason  for  the 
tears  he  was  not  ashamed  to  shed  at  the  grave.  We  should  have  said 
something  of  the  prominent  part  Barney  took  aginst  his  old  enemy, 
Josiah  Pickles,  during  the  election,  but  that  poor  Barney  was  not 
presentable  for  the  greater  part  of  that  time.  He  threw  his  whole  soul 
into  the  work,  and  did  Bob  yeoman's  service  for  the  first  few  days  of  the 
canvass,  but  before  the  close  of  the  week  he  was  tempted  into  breaking 
the  pledge.  His  pledge  once  broken  he  drank  furiously  to  drown 
remembrance  of  the  breach  and  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  police — this 
time  most  justly.  It  would  have  gone  hard  with  Barney  if  Lawley  had 
not  overtaken  him  in  his  carriage  while  he  was  being  hauled  off  to  the 
station.  Lawley,  recognising  Mabel's  protege,  stopped,  and  by  a 
generous  tip  induced  the  police  to  commit  Barney  to  his  charge. 
Barney  was  shoved  into  the  carriage,  driven  to  Fenton  Vicarage,  and 
next  morning,  while  overwhelmed  with  shame,  remorse,  and  gratitude 
was  reconverted  to  temperance.  Henceforth  Barney  worshipped  him 
with  Celtic  fervour,  and  now  lamented  him  with  Celtic  demonstrative- 
ness.  Nor  did  he  again  relapse.  He  prospered  exceedingly  as  a  nursery- 


278  LOVE  THE  DEBT. 

man,  and  for  the  seventeen  years  of  life  that  remained  to  him  kept 
Lawley's  grave  beautiful  with  the  choicest  flowers  the  smoke  of  Fenton 
would  allow  to  live. 

At  the  grave  side  also  we  take  leave  of  the  McGucken,  her  eyes  not 
so  blinded  by  tears  as  to  prevent  her  noticing  that  the  sexton  blurred 
with  three  handfuls  of  earth  the  coffin  plate  she  had  burnished  like  a 
mirror.  She  married  a  scavenger,  a  widower,  with  seven  children  and 
a  temper,  whom  it  took  her  ten  years  to  bury. 

At  the  graveside  too  we  take  leave  of  the  Fenton  folk,  as  warm- 
hearted a  people  as  ever  lived.  For  that  day  the  factory  was  still,  the 
mine  empty,  the  school  closed,  and  only  the  bedridden  left  in  the  houses. 
All  men,  women,  and  little  children  were  in  the  church,  the  church- 
yard and  its  approaches,  all  in  black,  and  nearly  all  in  tears.  A 
hymn  was  to  have  been  sung  at  the  graveside,  but  the  singers  broke 
down  before  they  had  got  through  the  first  verse,  and  all  the  crowd  round 
the  grave  seemed  as  at  a  given  signal  to  break  down  with  them.  It  was 
such  a  scene  as  no  one  present  ever  remembered  or  ever  forgot. 

Lastly,  at  Lawley's  grave,  we  take  leave  of  Lady  Saddlethwaite, 
Mabel,  and  George.  Two  days  after  George's  return  from  Australia  the 
three  drove  together  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  grave,  marked  now  by  a 
cross  of  white  marble,  erected  to  his  memory  by  the  miners  he  had 
saved. 

It  was  a  silent  drive,  for  even  George  was  thinking  of  something 
besides  Mabel.  As  they  approached  the  grave  three  colliers  (one  with 
his  hat  off),  who  had  been  painfully  spelling  out  the  inscription,  gave 
place  to  them. 

It  was  a  long  inscription,  loosely  worded,  but  with  this  striking  line 
at  its  close,  "  Erected  to  his  memory  by  those  for  whom  he  lived  and 
died." 

"  There's  no  finer  epitaph  in  Westminster  Abbey,"  said  Lady 
Saddlethwaite  as  she  read  out  the  line,  and  then,  after  a  pause,  she 
added,  "  An  heroic  death  is,  after  all,  an  easy  thing  compared  with  an 
heroic  life,  and  there's  no  life  more  heroic  than  to  choose  to  be  unheroic 
and  obscure  for  the  sake  of  obscure  and  unheroic  people." 

"  It's  the  life  of  many  a  clergyman,"  said  George. 

"  It's  the  loveliest  of  all  lives,"  said  Lady  Saddlethwaite  emphatically. 

Mabel  said  nothing,  but  looked  through  tears  a  hope  which  lay  still 
deep  in  her  heart — the  hope,  or  rather  the  faith,  for  it  has  a  higher  source 
and  sustenance  than  hope,  that  he  will, 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds, 
Beat  at  last  his  music  out, 

and  find  there  is  an  honest  place  for  him  in  a  church  which  is  wide 
enough  to  comprehend  a  Clancy,  a  Gant,  and  a  Lawley. 

THE  END, 


279 


IT  is  a  comforting  reflection  in  a  world  still  "  full  of  violence  and  cruel 
habitations,"  that  the  behaviour  of  men  to  domestic  animals  must  have 
been,  on  the  whole,  more  kind  than  the  reverse.  Had  it  been  otherwise, 
the  "  set "  of  the  brute's  brains,  according  to  modern  theory,  would  have 
been  that  of  shyness  and  dread  of  us,  such  as  is  actually  exhibited  by 
the  rabbit  which  we  chase  in  the  field,  and  the  rat  we  pursue  in  the 
cupboard.  In  countries  where  cats  are  exceptionally  illtreated  (e.g.  the 
South  of  France),  poor  puss  is  almost  as  timid  as  a  hare,  while  the 
devotion  and  trustfulness  of  the  dog  towards  man  in  every  land  peopled 
by  an  Aryan  race  seem  to  prove  that,  with  all  our  faults,  he  has  not 
found  us  such  bad  masters  after  all.  Dogs  love  us,  and  could  only  love 
us,  because  we  have  bestowed  on  them  some  crumbs  of  love  and  goodwill, 
though  their  generous  little  hearts  have  repaid  the  debt  a  thousandfold. 
The  "  Shepherd's  Chief  Mourner  "  and  "  Grey  Friar's  Bobby "  had 
probably  received  in  their  time  only  a  few  pats  from  the  horny  hands  of 
their  masters,  and  a  gruff  word  of  approval  when  the  sheep  had  been 
particularly  cleverly  folded.  But  they  recognised  that  the  superior  being 
condescended  to  care  for  them,  and  their  adoring  fidelity  was  the  ready 
response.* 

Two  different  motives  of  course  have  influenced  men  to  such  kindness 
to  domestic  animals,  one  being  obvious  self-interest,  and  the  necessity,  if 
they  needed  the  creature's  services,  to  keep  it  in  some  degree  of  health 
and  comfort ;  and  the  other  being  the  special  affection  of  individual  men 
for  favourite  animals.  Of  the  frequent  manifestation  of  this  latter  senti- 
ment in  all  ages  literature  and  art  bear  repeated  testimony.  We  find  it 
in  the  parable  of  Nathan ;  in  the  pictured  tame  lion  running  beside  the 
chariot  of  Rameses ;  in  the  story  of  Argus  in  the  Odyssey ;  in  the  episode 
in  the  Mahabharata,  where  the  hero  refuses  to  ascend  to  heaven  in  the 
car  of  Indra  without  his  dog;  in  the  exquisite  passage  in  the  Zend 

*  A  touching  story  of  such  sheep  gathering  was  recently  told  me  on  good  authority. 
A  shepherd  lost  his  large  flock  on  the  Scotch  mountains  in  a  fog.  After  fruitless 
search  he  returned  to  his  cottage,  bidding  his  collie  find  the  sheep  if  she  could. 
The  collie,  who  "was  near  giving  birth  to  her  young,  understood  his  orders  and  dis- 
appeared in  the  mist,  not  returning  for  many  hours.  At  last  she  came  home  in 
miserable  plight,  driving  before  her  the  last  stray  sheep,  and  carrying  in  her  mouth 
a  puppy  of  her  own  !  She  had  of  necessity  left  the  rest  of  her  litter  to  perish  on  the 
hills,  and  in  the  intervals  of  their  birth  the  poor  beast  had  performed  her  task  and 
driven  home  the  sheep.  Her  last  puppy  only  she  had  contrived  to  save. 


280  ZOOPHILY. 

Avesta,  where  tlie  Lord  of  Good  speaks  to  JZoroaster  :  "  For  I  have 
made  the  dog,  I  who  am  Ahura  Muzda ;  "  in.  the  history  of  Alexander's 
hero  Bucephalus;  in  Pliny's  charming  tales  of  the  boy  and  the  pet 
dolphin,  and  of  the  poor  slave  thrown  down  the  Gemonian  stairs,  beside 
whose  corpse  his  dog  watched  and  wailed  till  even  the  stern  hearts  of 
the  Roman  populace  were  melted  to  pity. 

But  neither  the  everyday  self-interested  care  of  animals  by  their 
masters,  nor  the  occasional  genuine  affection  of  special  men  to  favourite 
animals — which  have  together  produced  the  actual  tameness  most  of 
the  domesticated  tribes  now  exhibit — seems  to  have  led  men  to  the 
acknowledgment  of  a  moral  obligation  on  their  part  towards  the  brutes. 
As  a  lady  will  finger  lovingly  a  bunch  of  flowers,  and  the  next  moment 
drop  it  carelessly  on  the  roadside,  or  pluck  the  blossoms  to  pieces  in 
sheer  thoughtlessness,  so  the  great  majority  of  mankind  have  always 
treated  animals. 

We  tread  them  to  death,  and  a  troop  of  them  dies 

Without  our  regard  or  concern, 

cheerfully  remarked  Dr.  Watts  concerning  ants ;  but  he  might  have  said 
the  same  of  our  "unconcern"  in  the  case  of  the  cruel  destruction  of 
thousands  of  harmless  birds  and  beasts,  and  the  starvation  of  their 
young ;  and  of  the  all-but-universal  recklessness  of  men  in  dealing  with 
animals  not  representing  value  in  money. 

It  is  not,  however,  to  be  reckoned  as  surprising  that  our  forefathers 
did  not  dream  of  such  a  thing  as  Duty  to  Animals.  They  learned  very 
slowly  that  they  owed  duties  to  men  of  other  races  than  their  own. 
Only  on  the  generation  which  recognised  thoroughly  for  the  first  time 
(thanks  in  great  measure  to  Wilberforco  and  Clarkson)  that  the  Negro 
was  "  a  man  and  a  brother,"  did  it  dawn  that  beyond  the  Negro  there 
were  other  still  humbler  claimants  for  benevolence  and  justice.  Within 
a  few  years  passed  the  Emancipation  of  the  West  Indian  slaves  and  that 
first  Act  for  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals,  of  which  Lord  Erskino 
so  truly  prophesied  that  "  it  would  prove  not  only  an  honour  to  the 
Parliament  of  England,  but  an  era  in  the  civilisation  of  the  world." 

But  the  noble  law  of  England — which  thus  forestalled  the  moralists 
and  set  an  example  which  every  civilised  nation,  with  one  solitary  excep- 
tion, has  followed — remains  even  to  this  day,  after  sixty  years,  still  in 
advance  of  the  systematic  teachers  of  human  duty.  Even  while  every 
year  sermons  specially  inculcating  humanity  to  animals  are  preached 
all  over  the  kingdom,  nobody  (so  far  as  the  present  writer  is  aware) 
has  attempted  formally  to  include  Duty  to  the  Lower  Animals  in  any 
complete  system  of  ethics  as  an  organic  part  of  the  Whole  Duty  of 
Man.* 

*  The  best  effort  to  supply  the  missing  chapter  of  ethics,  is  the  charming  and 
eloquent  volume,  Rights  of  an  Animal,  by  E.  B.  Nicholson.  I  thankfully  recognise 
the  candour  -wherewith  the  author  has  tackled  the  difficult  problems  of  the  case,  and 
the  value  of  his  demonstration  that  the  law  of  England  assumes  the  fundamental  priu- 


ZOOPHILY.  281 

Without  pretending  for  a  moment  to  fill  up  this  gap  in  ethics,  I 
would  fain  offer  to  those  who  are  interested  in  the  subject,  a  suggestion 
which  may  possibly  serve  as  a  scaffolding  till  the  solid  edifice  be  built  by 
stronger  hands.  We  must  perchance  yet  wait  to  determine  what  are 
the  right  actions  of  man  to  brute ;  but  I  do  not  think  we  need  lose  much 
time  in  deciding  what  must  be  the  right  sentiment :  the  general  feeling 
wherewith  it  is  fit  we  should  regard  the  lower  animals.  If  we  can  but 
clearly  define  that  sentiment,  it  will  indicate  roughly  the  actions  which 
will  be  consonant  therewith. 

In  the  first  place  it  seems  to  me  that  a  sense  of  serious  responsibility 
towards  the  brutes  ought  to  replace  our  "  lady-and-the-nosegay  "  con- 
dition of  insouciance.  The  "  ages  before  morality  "  are  at  an  end  at 
last,  even  in  this  remote  province  of  human  freedom.  Of  all  the  gro- 
tesque ideas  which  have  imposed  on  us  in  the  solemn  phraseology  of 
divines  and  moralists,  none  is  more  absurd  than  the  doctrine  that  our 
moral  obligations  stop  short  where  the  object  of  them  does  not  happen 
to  know  them  ;  and  assures  us  that,  because  the  brutes  cannot  call  us  to 
account  for  our  transgressions,  nothing  that  we  can  do  will  constitute 
a  transgression.  To  absolve  us  from  paying  for  a  pair  of  boots  because 
our  bootmaker's  ledger  had  unluckily  been  burned,  would  be  altogether  a 
parallel  lesson  in  morality.  It  is  plain  enough,  indeed,  that  the  creature 
who  is  (as  we  assume)  without  a  conscience  or  moral  arbitrament,  must 
always  be  exonerated  from  guilt,  no  matter  what  it  may  do  of  hurt  or 
evil;  and  the  judicial  proceedings  against,  and  executions  of,  oxen  and 
pigs  in  the  Middle  Ages  for  manslaughter  were  unspeakably  absurd. 
But  not  less  absurd,  on  the  other  side,  is  it  to  exonerate  men,  who 
have  consciences  and  free  will,  when  they  are  guilty  of  cruelty  to  brutes,  on 
the  plea — not  that  they — but  the  brutes,  are  immoral  and  irresponsible.* 

A  moral  being  is  not  moral  on  one  side  of  him  only,  but  moral  all 
round,  and  towards  all  who  are  above,  beside,  and  beneath  him  ;  just  as 
a  gentleman  is  a  gentleman  not  only  to  the  king  but  to  the  peasant ; 
and  as  a  truthful  man  speaks  truth  both  to  friend  and  stranger.  Just 
in  the  same  way  the  "  merciful  man  is  merciful  to  his  beast,"  as  he  is 
merciful  to  the  beggar  at  his  gate.  I  may  add  that  every  noble  quality 
is  specially  tested  by  its  exhibition  in  those  humbler  directions  wherein 
there  is  nothing  to  be  gained  by  showing  it,  and  nothing  to  be  lost  by 
contrary  behaviour. 

ciple  that  cruelty  to  an  animal  is  an  offence^er  se,  and  that  it  is  not  necessary  to  show 
that  it  injures  any  human  owner  or  spectator.  In  this  respect,  as  in  all  others,  our  Act 
(11  &  12  Viet.  c.  39)  immeasurably  transcends  the  French  Loi  Grammont,  "which 
condemns  only  cruelty  exhibited  in  public  places  and  painful  to  the  spectators.  Mr. 
Nicholson  justifies  Vivisection  only  so  far  as  it  can  be  rendered  absolutely  painless  by 
anaesthetics.  To  such  of  us  as  hare  seen  through  that  delusion,  cadit  quastio. 

*  As  a  recent  example  of  this  doctrine,   see  Dr.  Carpenter's  article  in  the  Fort- 
nightly  Review  for  February   1,  1882.     "  Is  it  not,"  he  says,   "  the  very  basis  of 
ethical  doctrine  (!)  that  the  moral  rights  of  any  being  depend  on  its  ethical  nature  ?  " 
VOL.  XLV. — NO.  267.  14. 


282  200PSILY. 

There  is  a  passage  from  Jeremy  Bentham,  quoted  in  Mrs.  Jameson's 
Common  Place  Book  and  elsewhere,  which  will  recur  to  many  readers  at 
this  point.  "  The  day  may  come,"  he  says,  "  when  the  rest  of  the  animal 
creation  may  acquire  those  rights  which  never  could  have  been  withheld 
from  them  but  by  the  hand  of  tyranny.  It  may  come  one  day  to  be 
recognised  that  the  number  of  legs,  the  villosity  of  the  skin,  or  the  termi- 
nation of  the  os  sacrum  are  reasons  insufficient  for  abandoning  a  sensitive 
being  to  the  caprice  of  a  tormentor.  .  .  .  The  question  is  not,  Can  they 
reason  ?  or  Can  they  speak  ?  but  Can  they  suffer  1 " 

Long  before  Bentham,  a  greater  mind,  travelling  along  a  nobler  road 
of  philosophy,  laid  down  the  canon  which  resolves  the  whole  question. 
Bishop  Butler  affirmed  that  it  was  on  the  simple  fact  of  a  creature  being 
SENTIENT — i.e.  capable  of  pain  and  pleasure — that  rests  our  responsibility 
to  save  it  pain  and  give  it  pleasure.  There  is  no  evading  this  obligation, 
then,  as  regards  the  lower  animals,  by  the  plea  that  they  are  not  moral 
beings,  It  is  our  morality,  not  theirs,  which  is  in  question.  There  are 
special  considerations  which  in  different  cases  may  modify  our  obligation, 
but  it  is  on  such  special  reasons,  not  on  the  universal  non-moral  nature 
of  the  brutes  (as  the  old  divines  taught),  that  our  exoneration  must  be 
founded  ;  and  the  onus  lies  on  us  to  show  cause  for  each  of  them. 

The  distinction  between  our  duties  to  animals  and  our  duties  to  oxir 
human  fellow-creatures  lies  here.  As  regards  them  both  we  are  indeed 
forbidden  to  inflict  avoidable  pain,  because  both  alike  are  sentient.  But 
as  regards  the  brutes,  our  duties  stop  there;  whereas,  as  regards  men,  they 
being  moral  as  well  as  sentient  beings,  our  primary  obligations  towards 
them  must  concern  their  higher  natures,  and  the  preservation  of  the  lives 
which  those  higher  natures  invest  with  a  sanctity  exclusively  their  own. 
Thus  we  reach  the  important  conclusion  that  the  infliction  of  avoidable 
Pain  is  the  supreme  offence  as  regards  the  lower  animals,  but  not  the 
supreme  offence  as  regards  man.  Sir  Henry  Taylor's  noble  lines  go  to 
the  very  root  of  the  question  : — 

Pain,  terror,  mortal  agonies,  which,  scare 
Thy  heart  in  man,  to  brutes  thou  wilt  not  spare. 
Are  theirs  less  sad  and  real  ?     Pain  in  man 
Scars  the  high  mission  of  the  flail  and  fan; 
In  brutes  'tis  purely  piteous. 

Pain  is  the  one  supreme  evil  of  the  existence  of  the  lower  animals ; 
an  evil  which  (so  far  as  we  can  see)  has  no  countervailing  good.  As  to 
Death — a  painless  one,  so  far  from  being  the  supreme  evil  to  them,  is 
often  the  truest  mercy.  Thus  instead  of  the  favourite  phrase  of  certain  phy- 
siologists, that  "  they  would  put  hecatombs  of  brutes  to  torture  to  save 
the  smallest  pain  of  a  man,"  true  ethics  bid  us  regard  man's  moral  welfare 
only  as  of  supreme  importance,  and  anything  which  can  injure  it 
(such,  for  example,  as  the  practice,  or  sanction  of  the  practice,  of  cruelty) 
as  the  worst  of  evils,  even  if  along  with  it  should  come  a  mitigation  of 
bodily  pain.  On  this  subject  the  present  Bishop  of  Winchester  has  made 


ZOOPHILY.  283 

an  admirable  remark — viz.  "  that  it  is  true  that  Man  is  superior  to  the 
beast,  but  the  part  of  Man  which  we  recognise  as  such  is  his  moral  and 
spiritual  nature.  So  far  as  his  body  and  its  pains  are  concerned,  there 
is  no  particular  reason  for  considering  them  more  than  the  body  and 
bodily  pains  of  a  brute." 

Of  course  the  ground  is  cut  from  under  us  in  this  whole  line  of  argu- 
ment by  those  ingenious  thinkers  who  have  recently  disinterred  (with 
such  ill-omened  timeliness  for  the  vivisection  debate)  Descartes'  supposed 
doctrine,  that  the  appearance  of  pain  and  pleasure  in  the  brutes  is  a  mere 
delusion,  and  that  they  are  only  automata — "  a  superior  kind  of  mario- 
nettes which  eat  without  pleasure,  cry  without  pain,  desire  nothing,  know 
nothing,  and  only  simulate  intelligence  as  a  bee  simulates  a  mathematician." 
If  this  conclusion  (on  which  modern  science  is  to  be  congratulated  !)  be 
accepted,  it  follows  of  course  that  we  should  give  no  more  consideration 
to  the  fatigue  of  a  noble  hunter  than  to  the  wood  of  a  rocking-horse  ;  and 
that  the  emotions  a  child  bestows  on  its  doll  will  be  more  serious  than 
those  we  bestow  on  a  dog  who  dies  of  grief  on  his  master's  grave.  Should 
it  appear  to  us,  however,  on  the  contrary  (as  it  certainly  does  to  me)  that 
there  is  quite  as  good  evidence  that  dogs  and  elephants  reason  as  that 
certain  physiologists  reason,  and  a  great  deal  better  evidence  that  they 
— the  animals — feel,  we  may  perhaps  dismiss  the  Cartesianism  of  the 
Nineteenth  Century,  and  proceed  without  further  delay  to  endeavour  to 
define  more  particularly  the  fitting  sentiment  of  man  to  sentient  brutes. 
We  have  seen  we  ought  to  start  with  a  distinct  sense  of  some  degree  of 
moral  responsibility  as  regards  them.  "What  shape  should  that  sense 
assume  ? 

We  have  been  in  the  habit  of  indulging  ourselves  in  all  manner  of 
antipathies  to  special  animals,  some  of  them  having,  perhaps,  their  source 
and  raison  d'etre  in  the  days  of  our  remote  but  not  illustrious  ancestors, 

When  wild  in  woods  the  noble  savage  ran  ; 

or  those  of  a  still  earlier  date,  who  were,  as  Mr.  Darwin  says,  "  arboreal 
in  their  habits,"  ere  yet  we  had  deserved  the  reproach  of  having  "  made 
oxirselves  tailless  and  hairless  and  multiplied  folds  to  our  brain."  Other 
prejudices,  again,  are  mere  personal  whims,  three-fourths  of  them  being 
pure  affectation.  A  man  will  decline  to  sit  in  a  room  with  an  in- 
offensive cat,  and  a  lady  screams  at  the  sight  of  a  mouse,  which  is  in- 
finitely more  distressed  at  the  rencontre  than  she.  I  have  known  an  indi- 
vidual, otherwise  distinguished  for  audacity,  "  make  tracks  "  across  several 
fields  to  avoid  a  placidly  ruminating  cow.  In  our  present  stage  of  civili- 
sation these  silly  prejudices  are  barbarisms  and  anachronisms,  if  not 
vulgarisms,  and  should  be  treated  like  exhibitions  of  ignorance  or  child- 
ishness. For  our  remote  progenitors  before  mentioned,  tusky  and  hirsute, 
struggling  for  existence  with  the  cave  bear  and  the  mammoth  in  the 
howling  wilderness  of  a  yet  uncultured  world,  there  was  no  doubt 
justification  for  regarding  the  terrible  beasts  around  them  with  the  hatred 

14—2 


284  ZOOPHILY. 

which  comes  of  fear.  But  the  animal  creation,  at  least  throughout 
Europe,  has  been  subdued  for  ages,  and  all  its  tribes  are  merely  dwellers 
by  sufferance  in  a  vanquished  province.  Their  position  as  regards  us 
appeals  to  every  spark  of  generosity  alight  in  our  bosoms,  and  ought  to 
make  us  ashamed  of  our  whims  and  antipathies  towards  beings  so  humble. 
Shall  man  arrogate  the  title  of  "  lord  of  creation  "  and  not  show  himself 
at  the  least  bon  prince  to  his  poor  subjects?  It  is  not  too  much  to 
ask  that,  even  towards  wild  animals,  our  feelings  should  be  those  of  royal 
clemency  and  indulgence — of  pleasure  in  the  beauty  and  grace  of  such  of 
them  as  are  beautiful ;  of  admiration  for  their  numberless  wondrous  in- 
stincts ;  of  sympathy  with  their  delight  in  the  joys  of  the  forest  and  the 
fields  of  air.  Few,  I  suppose,  of  men  with  any  impressionability  can  watch 
a  lark  ascending  into  the  sky  of  a  summer  morning  without  some  dim 
echo  of  the  feelings  which  inspired  Shelley's  Ode.  This  is,  however,  only  a 
specially  vivid  instance  of  a  sympathy  which  might  be  almost  universal, 
and  which,  so  far  as  we  learn  to  feel  it,  touches  all  nature  for  us  with  a 
magic  wand. 

If  we  are  compelled  to  fight  with  them — if  they  are  our  natural  ene- 
mies and  can  never  be  anything  else — then  let  us  wage  war  upon  them  in 
loyal  sort,  as  we  contended  against  the  Russians  at  Balaclava ;  and  if  we 
catch  any  prisoners,  deal  with  them  chivalrously,  or  at  least  mercifully. 
This,  indeed  (to  do  justice  to  sportsmen,  much  as  I  dislike  their  pursuit), 
I  have  always  observed  to  be  the  spirit  of  the  old-fashioned  country 
gentleman,  before  the  gross  slaughtering  of  battues  and  despicable  pigeon- 
matches  were  heard  of  in  the  land. 

As  to  domestic  animals,  their  demands  on  us,  did  we  read  them 
aright,  are  not  so  much  those  of  petitioners  for  Mercy  as  of  rightful 
claimants  of  Justice.  We  have  caused  their  existence,  and  are  responsible 
that  they  should  be  on  the  whole  happy  and  not  miserable.  We  take 
their  services  to  carry  our  burdens,  to  enhance  our  pleasures,  to  guard 
our  homes  and  our  flocks.  In  the  case  of  many  of  them  we  accept  the 
fondest  fidelity  and  an  affection  such  as  human  beings  scarcely  give  once 
in  a  lifetime.  They  watch  for  us,  work  for  us,  bear  often  weary  im- 
prisonment and  slavery  in  our  service,  and  not  seldom  mourn  for  us  with 
breaking  hearts  when  we  die.  If  we  conceive  of  an  Arbiter  sitting  by 
and  watching  alike  our  behaviour  and  the  poor  brutes'  toil  and  love,  can 
we  suppose  he  would  treat  it  as  merely  a  piece  of  generosity  on  our  part, 
which  we  were  free  to  leave  unfulfilled  without  blame,  that  we  should 
behave  considerately  to  such  an  humble  friend,  supply  him  with  food,  water, 
and  shelter,  forbear  to  overwork  him,  and  end  his  harmless  life  at  last 
with  the  least  possible  pain  ?  Would  he  not  demand  it  of  us  as  the 
simplest  matter  of  justice  1  * 

*  I  have  endeavoured  elsewhere  to  work  out  this  hypothesis  of  an  Umpire  between 
man  and  brute,  as  a  method  of  helping  us  to  a  solution  of  the  problem  of  what  are, 
and  -what  are  not,  lawful  actions  on  our  parts  towards  animals.  The  reader  who 
may  be  interested  in  the  inquiry  may  obtain  my  pamphlet,  the  Sight  of  Tormenting, 


ZOOPHILY.  285 

For  those  who  accept  the  Darwinian  theory,  and  believe  that  the  re- 
lationship between  man  and  the  brutes  is  not  only  one  of  similarity,  but 
of  actual  kinship  in  blood,  it  would  have  seemed  only  natural  that  this 
new  view  should  have  brought  forth  a  burst  of  fresh  sympathy  and 
tenderness.  If  our  physical  frames,  with  all  their  quivering  nerves  and 
susceptibilities  to  a  thousand  pains,  be  indeed  only  the  four-footed  crea- 
ture's body  a  little  modified  by  development ;  if  our  minds  only  overlap 
and  transcend  theirs,  but  are  grown  out  of  those  humbler  brains ;  if  all 
our  moral  qualities,  our  love  and  faith  and  sense  of  justice,  be  only  their 
affection  and  fidelity  and  dim  sense  of  wrong  extended  into  wider  realms, 
— then  we  bear  in  ourselves  the  irresistible  testimony  to  their  claims  on 
our  sympathy.  And  if,  like  so  many  of  the  disciples  of  the  same  new 
philosophy,  we  are  unhappy  enough  to  believe  that  both  man  and  brute  when 
laid  in  the  grave  awake  no  more,  then,  above  all,  it  would  seem  that  this 
common  lot  of  a  few  pleasures  and  many  pains,  to  be  followed  by  annihila- 
tion, would  move  any  heart  to  compassion.  In  the  great,  silent,  hollow 
universe  in  which  these  souls  believe  themselves  to  stand,  how  base 
does  it  seem  to  turn  on  the  weaker,  unoffending  beings  around  them  and 
spoil  their  little  gleam  of  life  and  joy  under  the  sun  ! 

Nothing  is  more  startling  to  me  than  the  fact  that  some  of  the  lead- 
ing apostles  of  this  philosophy,  and  even  its  respected  author  himself, 
should  in  one  and  the  same  breath  tell  us  that  an  ape,  for  example,  is 
actually  our  own  flesh  and  blood,  and  that  it  is  right  and  proper  to 
treat  apes  after  the  fashion  of  Professors  Munk  and  Goltz  and  Terrier. 
These  gentlemen,  as  regards  the  poor  quadrumana,  are  "  rather  more 
than  kin,  and  rather  less  than  kind." 

For  those  who,  whether  they  believe  in  Evolution  or  not,  still  hold 
faith  in  the  existence  of  a  Divine  Lord  of  man  and  brute,  the  reasons  for 
sympathy  are,  in  another  way,  still  stronger.  That  the  Christian 
religion  did  not,  from  the  first,  like  the  Zoroastrian,  Buddhist,  Brahmi- 
nist,  impress  its  followers  with  the  duty  of  mercy  to  the  brutes — that  it 
was  left  to  a  few  tender-hearted  saints,  like  S.  Francis,  to  connect  the  crea- 
tures in  any  way  with  the  worship  of  the  Creator,  and  to  the  later  de- 
velopment of  Protestantism  to  formulate  any  doctrine  on  the  subject  of 
duty  towards  them — is  a  paradox  which  would  need  much  space  to  ex- 
plain. Modern  religion,  at  all  events,  by  whatever  name  it  is  called, 
seems  tending  more  and  more  to  throw  an  additional  tender  sacredness 
over  our  relations  to  the  "  unoffending  creatures  which  He  " — their 
Maker — "  loves,"  and  to  make  us  recognise  a  latent  truth  in  the  curiously 
hackneyed  lines  of  Coleridge  concerning  him  who  "  prayeth  best "  and 
also  loveth  best  "  both  man  and  bird  and  beast."  Where  that  great  and 
far-reaching  softener  of  hearts — the  sense  of  our  own  failures  and  offences 
—is  vividly  present,  the  position  we  hold  to  creatures  who  have  never 
done  wrong  is  always  found  inexpressibly  touching.  To  be  kind  to  them, 

price  Id.,  at  the  office  of  the  Society  for  the  Protection  of  Animals  from  Vivisection, 
1  Victoria  Street,  Westminster. 


286  ZOOPHILY. 

and  rejoice  in  their  happiness,  seems  just  one  of  the  few  ways  in  which 
we  can  act  a  godlike  part  in  our  little  sphere,  and  display  the  mercy  for 
which  we  hope  in  our  turn.  Whichever  way  we  take  it,  I  conceive  we 
reach  the  same  conclusion.  The  only  befitting  feeling  for  human  beings 
to  entertain  towards  brutes  is — as  the  very  word  suggests — the  feeling  of 
Humanity ;  or,  as  we  may  interpret  it,  the  sentiment  of  Sympathy,  so 
far  as  we  can  cultivate  fellow-feeling ;  of  Pity,  so  far  as  we  know  them 
to  suffer ;  of  Mercy,  so  far  as  we  can  spare  their  sufferings ;  of  Kindness 
and  Benevolence,  so  far  as  it  is  in  our  power  to  make  them  happy. 

There  is  nothing  fanatical  about  this  Humanity.  It  does  not  call  on 
us  to  renounce  any  of  the  useful  or  needful  avocations  of  life  as  regards 
animals,  but  rather  would  it  make  the  man  imbued  with  it  perform  them 
all  the  better.*  \Ve  assuredly  need  not,  because  we  become  humane, 
sacrifice  the  higher  life  for  the  lower,  as  in  the  wondrous  Buddhist 
parable  so  beautifully  rendered  in  the  Light  of  Asia,  where  "  Lord 
Buddha,"  in  one  of  his  million  lives,  gives  himself,  out  of  pity,  to  be  de- 
voured by  a  famishing  tiger  who  cannot  feed  her  cubs,  and 

the  great  cat's  burning  breath 
Mix'd  with  the  last  sigh  of  such  fearless  love. 

We  need  not  even  oopy  the  sweet  lady  in  the  Sensitive  Plant  who 
made  the  bees  and  moths  and  ephemeridae  her  attendants  : — 
But  all  killing  insects  and  gnawing  worms, 
And  things  of  obscene  and  unlovely  forms, 
She  bare  in  a  basket  of  Indian  woof 
Into  the  rough  woods  far  aloof, — 

In  a  basket  of  grasses  and  wild  flowers  full 
The  softest  her  gentle  hands  could  pull ; 
For  the  poor  banish'd  insects,  whose  intent, 
Although  they  did  ill,  was  innocent. 

This  is  poetry  not  meant  for  practice,  and  yet  even  these  hyperboles 
carry  a  breath  as  of  Eden  along  with  them.  Of  Eden,  did  I  say  1  Nay, 
rather  of  the  later  Paradise  for  which  the  soul  of  the  greatest  of  the  pro- 
phets yearned,  where  "  they  shall  not  hurt  nor  destroy  in  all  my  holy 
mountain." 

I  will  not  attempt  here  to  define  how  the  sentiment  of  Humanity  to 
the  brutes,  thoroughly  ingrained  into  a  man's  heart,  would  make  him 
decide  the  question  of  field  sports.  My  own  impression  is  that  it  would 
lead  him  to  abandon  first,  and  with  utter  disgust,  such  wretched  amuse- 
ments as  pigeon-matches  and  battues  of  half-tame  pheasants ;  and  later, 
those  sports  in  which,  as  in  fox-hunting  and  coursing  and  duck-shooting, 
the  sympathy  of  the  sportsman  with  his  hounds  and  horse,  or  his  grey- 

*  In  fact,  many  men  who  pursue  such  trades,  notably  butchers,  are  genuinely 
humane,  and  do  their  best  to  get  through  their  work  in  the  most  merciful  way. 
Several  of  them  have  recently  expressed  warm  satisfaction  on  obtaining  Baxter's 
Mask,  whereby  oxen  may  be  instantaneously  killed  without  the  chance  of  a  misdirected 
blow.  The  mask  is  to  be  obtained  from  Mr.  Baxter,  Baling  Dean,  W. 


ZOOPHILY.  287 

hound  or  retriever,  is  uppermost  in  his  mind,  to  the  exclusion  of  the 
wild  and  scarcely  seen  object  of  his  pursuit.  In  nine  kinds  of  such 
sports,  I  believe,  out  of  ten,  it  is  rather  a  case  of  ill-divided  sympathy  for 
animals  than  of  lack  of  it  which  inspires  the  sportsman  ;  and  not  many 
would  find  enjoyment  where  neither  horse  nor  dog  had  part — like  poor 
Robertson,  of  Brighton,  sitting  for  hours  in  a  tub  in  a  marsh  to  shoot 
wild  duck,  and  counting  the  period  so  spent  as  "  hours  of  delight !  " 

But  there  is  one  practice  respecting  which  the  influence  of  such  a 
sentiment  of  humanity  as  we  have  supposed  must  have  an  unmistakable 
result.  It  must  put  an  absolute  stop  to  Vivisection.  To  accustom  our- 
selves and  our  children  to  regard  animals  with  sympathy,  to  beware  of 
giving  them  pain,  and  rejoice  when  it  is  possible  for  us  to  give  them 
pleasure ;  to  study  their  marvellous  instincts,  and  trace  the  dawnings  of 
reason  in  their  sagacious  acts ;  to  accept  their  services  and  their  affection, 
and  give  them  in  return  such  pledges  of  protection  as  our  kind  words  and 
caresses, — to  do  this,  and  then  calmly  consent  to  hand  them  over  to  be 
dissected  alive — this  is  too  monstrous  to  be  borne.  J)e  deux  choses  Fune. 
Either  we  must  cherish  animals — and  then  we  must  abolish  Vivisection, 
— or  we  must  sanction  Vivisection ;  and  then,  for  very  shame's  sake,  and 
lest  we  poison  the  springs  of  pity  and  sympathy  in  our  breasts  and  the 
breasts  of  our  children,  we  must  renounce  the  ghastly  farce  of  petting  or 
protecting  animals,  and  pretending  to  recognise  their  noble  and  lovable 
qualities.  If  love  and  courage  and  fidelity,  lodged  in  the  heart  of  a  dog, 
have  no  claim  on  us  to  prevent  us  from  dissecting  that  heart  even  while 
yet  it  beats  with  affection  ;  if  the  human-like  intelligence  working  in  a 
monkey's  brain  do  not  forbid  (but  rather  invite)  us  to  mutilate  that  brain, 
morsel  by  morsel,  till  the  last  glimmering  of  mind  and  playfulness  die 
out  in  dulness  and  death ; — if  this  be  so,  then,  in  Heaven's  name,  let  us  at 
least  have  done  with  our  cant  of  "  humanity,"  and  abolish  our  Acts  of  Par- 
liament, and  dissolve  our  Bands  of  Mercy  and  our  300  Societies  for  the 
Prevention  of  Cruelty  throughout  the  world. 

The  idea  of  Vivisection  (to  use  the  phrase  of  its  3,000  advocates  who 
memorialised  Sir  Richard  Cross)  rests  on  the  conception  of  an  animal 
(a  dog,  for  example)  as  "a  carnivorous  creature,  valuable  for  purposes  of 
research  " — a  mechanism,  in  short,  of  nerves  and  muscles,  bones  and 
arteries,  which,  as  they  add,  it  would  be  a  pity  to  "  withdraw  from  in- 
vestigation." The  crass  materialism  which  thus  regards  such  a  creature 
as  a  dog  (and  would,  doubtless,  if  its  followers  spoke  out,  be  found  simi- 
larly to  regard  a  man)  is  at  the  opposite  pole  of  thought  and  feeling  from 
the  recognition  of  the  animal  in  its  higher  nature  as  an  object  of  our 
tenderness  and  sympathy.  We  cannot  hold  both  views  at  once.  If  we 
take  the  higher  one  the  lower  must  become  abhorrent  in  our  eyes. 
There  is — there  ought  to  be — no  question  in  the  matter  of  a  little  more  or 
a  little  less  of  torture,  or  of  dispute  whether  anaesthetics,  when  they  can 
be  employed,  usually  effect  complete  and  final,  or  only  partial  and  tem- 
porary, insensibility ;  or  of  whether  such  processes  as  putting  an  animal 


288  ZOOPHILY. 

into  a  stove  over  a  fire  till  it  expires  in  ten  or  twenty  minutes  ought  to  be 
called  "  baking  it  alive,"  or  described  by  some  less  distressing  and  homely 
phraseology.*  It  is  the  simple  idea  of  dealing  with  a  living,  conscious, 
sensitive,  and  intelligent  creature  as  if  it  were  dead  and  senseless 
matter  against  which  the  whole  spirit  of  true  humanity  revolts.  It 
is  the  notion  of  such  absolute  despotism  as  shall  justify,  not  merely 
taking  life,  but  converting  the  entire  existence  of  the  animal  into  a  mis- 
fortune, which  we  denounce  as  a  brutal  misconception  of  the  relations 
between  the  higher  and  the  lower  creatures,  and  an  utter  anachronism  in 
the  present  stage  of  human  moral  feeling.  A  hundred  years  ago,  had 
physiologists  frankly  avowed  that  they  recognised  no  claims  on  the  part 
of  the  brutes  which  should  stop  them  from  torturing  them,  they  would 
have  been  only  on  the  level  of  their  contemporaries.  But  to-day  they  are 
behind  the  age ;  ay,  sixty  years  behind  the  legislature  and  the  poor  Irish 
gentleman  who  "  ruled  the  houseless  wilds  of  Connemara,"  and  had  the 
glory  of  giving  his  name  to  Martin's  Act.  How  their  claim  for  a 
"  free  vivisecting  table  "  may  be  looked  back  upon  a  century  to  come  we 
may  perhaps  foretell  with  no  great  chance  of  error.  In  his  last  book, 
published  ten  years  ago,  Sir  Arthur  Helps  wrote  these  memorable 
words  :  "  It  appears  to  me  that  the  advancement  of  the  world  is  to  be 
measured  by  the  increase  of  humanity  and  the  decrease  of  cruelty.  .  .  . 
I  am  convinced  that  if  an  historian  were  to  sum  the  gains  and  losses  of 
the  world  at  the  close  of  each  recorded  century,  there  might  be  much 
which  was  retrograde  in  other  aspects  of  human  life  and  conduct,  but 
nothing  could  show  a  backward  course  in  humanity"  (pp.  195,  196). 
As  I  have  said  ere  now,  the  battle  of  Mercy,  like  that  of  Freedom, 

once  begun, 
Though  often  lost,  is  always  won. 

Even  should  all  the  scientific  men  in  Europe  unite  in  a  Resolution 
that  "  Vivisection  is  Necessary,"  just  as  all  the  Dominicans  would  have 
united  three  hundred  years  ago  to  resolve  that  autos  da  fe  were  "  neces- 
sary," or  as  all  the  lawyers  and  magistrates  that  the  peine  forte  et  dure 
was  "  necessary,"  or,  as  our  fathers  would  have  done,  that  hanging  for 
forgery  was  "  necessary,"  yet  the  "  necessity  "  will  disappear  in  the  case 
of  the  scientific  torture  of  animals  as  in  all  the  rest.  The  days  of  Vivi- 
section are  numbered. 

FRANCES  POWER  COBBE. 

*  See  Mr.  Gurney's  remarks  on  this  matter  in  the  preceding  number  of  the 
COBNHILL  MAGAZINE,  and  Dr.  Hoggan's  reply  in  the  Spectator  for  February  11. 


289 


ferfe  fife  xrf  $;  Jf. 


THE  artist  of  the  Angelus  and  the  Semeur  is  perhaps  the  painter  of 
modern  times  to  whom  the  epithet  "  heroic  "  applies  most  readily  and  fitly. 
His  work  has  been  described  as  "  a  painted  epic,"  himself  as  "  a  Michel- 
angelo of  the  glebe  ;  "  and  to  those  who  are  in  sympathy  with  his  art  and 
its  motives,  with  the  type  and  quality  of  his  sentiment  and  the  manner 
of  its  expression,  the  descriptions  are  only  adequate,  and  the  claims 
implied  in  them  no  more  than  just.  Of  course  there  are  many  to  whom 
they  must  seem  fantastically  exaggerated.  Millet  has  been  but  five  or 
six  years  dead,  and  his  triumph  is  but  now  beginning.  The  world  has 
not  yet  had  time  nor  opportunity  to  search  out  his  meanings,  which  are 
profound — as  Beethoven's  were — nor  to  learn  to  understand  his  practice, 
which  was  peculiar — as  was  Rembrandt's ;  and  for  some  time  to  come 
there  must  be  picture-lovers  not  a  few  who  will  decline  to  feel  interested 
in  what  he  had  to  say,  or  to  be  at  the  pains  of  studying  the  terms  in 
which  he  said  it.  There  is  likely  to  be  no  such  dissent  about  the  man 
himself;  nor  is  it  probable  that  there  will  ever  be  two  opinions  as  to 
the  interest  of  his  life.  His  story  is  sad  enough  in  many  ways ;  but  it 
is  encouraging  in  the  main,  and  it  is  eminently  instructive.  It  may  be 
divided  into  three  parts  :  one,  1814-1837,  telling  of  Millet's  origin  and 
education;  another,  1837-1849,  of  his  apprenticeship  to  art  and  hia 
stay  in  Paris ;  a  third,  1849-1875,  of  his  sojourn  in  the  Forest  of  Fon- 
tainebleau  and  his  achievement  as  a  finished  and  an  individual  artist. 
The  last  two  are  mainly  records  of  production  more  or  less  unpopular, 
and  effort  more  or  less  unsuccessful,  in  a  worldly  sense  at  all  events ; 
there  are  many  such  chapters  in  the  chronicle  of  art,  and  there  will 
certainly  be  many  more.  Of  the  first,  the  general  colouring  of  which  is 
one  of  contentment  and  tranquillity,  the  circumstances  are  uncommon 
and  peculiar  enough  to  seem  worth  lingering  over  and  narrating  with 
Borne  fulness  of  detail. 

I. 

Gruchy  is  a  little  hamlet  in  the  Norman  commune  of  Greville, 
perched  upon  the  iron  cliffs  of  the  Hogue,  and  overlooking  the  troubled 
waters  of  Cherbourg  Roads.  It  was  there,  on  October  4,  1814,  that 
Millet  was  born.  His  birth  year  was  the  year  of  the  Campaign  of 
France,  it  will  be  remembered,  and  of  the  abdication  at  Fontainebleau ; 
and,  the  true  child  of  his  time — which  was  one  of  desperate  defensive 
and  the  agony  of  a  great  ambition,  when  hope  and  endeavour 

14-5 


290  THE  EARLY  LIFE  OF  J.-F.   MILLET. 

alternated  with  doubt  and  dejection,  and  general  distress  had  created  a 
disposition  to  individual  charity — he  seems  to  have  always  retained  an 
impression  of  his  ante-natal  circumstances.  He  was  a  man  strong  in 
heart  and  intellect,  and  noble  and  dignified  in  character,  with  an  indomit- 
able will  and  a  lofty  audacity  of  purpose.  But  his  imagination,  while 
it  was  heroic  and  daring,  was  also  mystical  and  solemn ;  he  perceived 
the  melancholy  of  things  more  readily  than  the  joy  in  them ;  his  message 
was  one  of  peace  and  of  pity.  He  represents  the  full  and  anxious  year 
that  gave  him  being  as  it  must  have  seemed  to  the  strong,  patient,  long- 
suffering  class  from  which  he  sprang.  Genius  and  the  artistic  sentiment 
apart,  he  was  a  peasant  of  the  best  and  highest  type,  with  that  develop- 
ment of  certain  special  capacities  and  qualities — as  quiet  hardihood, 
tenacity  under  trial,  and  dignified  and  thoughtful  submissiveness — which 
some  five-and-twenty  years  of  war  and  revolution  and  unwilling  con- 
quest might  be  expected  to  induce. 

He  was  exceptionally  fortunate  in  the  circumstances  of  his  early 
environment  and  the  facts  of  his  ancestry  and  immediate  parentage. 
Few  men  have  had  such  excellent  preparation  for  a  peculiar  task,  and 
fewer  still  have  made  so  good  a  use  of  their  opportunity.  The  bent  of 
his  genius  and  the  nature  of  his  function  were  determined  for  him  from 
the  first.  He  was  a  peasant  born  and  bred,  and  in  him  the  sympathies 
and  aspirations  of  many  generations  of  peasants  found  special  expression. 
The  several  strains  uniting  in  him — of  Millet,  and  Jumelin,  and  Henry 
du  Perron — were  exceptionally  choice  and  vigorous.  His  father,  Jean- 
Louis,  son  of  Nicolas  Millet  and  Louise  Jumelin,  came  of  an  alliance 
between  two  families  of  varying  temperaments  and  widely  different 
capacities.  The  characteristics  of  the  Millets  were  honesty,  sobriety, 
simplicity,  and  laboriousness ;  in  the  Jumelin  s,  with  all  of  these,  there 
was  a  dash  of  mysticism,  a  note  of  imaginativeness,  a  tendency  to  intel- 
lectual and  emotional  independence.  The  Millets  worked  hard,  lived 
cleanly  and  kindly,  and  worshipped  humbly  and  with  all  their  hearts ; 
the  Jumelins  practised  science,  and  essayed  adventure,  and  were  versed 
in  theology,  in  the  moralists,  in  the  literature  and  doctrine  of  Port-Royal. 
Jean-Louis,  the  heir  of  the  two  houses,  had  the  distinguishing  qualities 
of  both.  Tall  and  straight  and  limber,  with  fine  hands  and  mild  black 
eyes  and  curling  and  abundant  hair,  he  was  deeply  religious,  very 
thoughtful,  very  earnest  and  serious  in  temper,  and  so  pure  in  heart  and 
habit  that  his  neighbours  would  refrain  from  oaths  and  coarse  talk  in 
his  presence.  And  withal  he  was  a  kind  of  inarticulate  poet.  He  had 
a  fine  voice  and  a  good  ear ;  the  quire  he  led  and  trained  was  famed 
throughout  the  department ;  his  music,  says  Sensier,  is  copied  out  in  a 
hand  that  reminds  you  of  a  mediaeval  scribe's.  He  was  fond  of  plants 
and  trees,  and  interested  in  the  ways  and  characters  of  animals,  and 
curiously  susceptible  to  the  influences  of  nature ;  and  he  was  always 
seeking  to  fix,  or  to  translate,  his  impressions,  sometimes  by  modelling 
in  clay,  sometimes  by  carving  in  wood.  "  Vois  done,"  he  would  say  to 


THE  EARLY  LIFE  OF  J.-F.   MILLET.  291 

his  son,  as  they  were  walking  afield,  "  comme  cet  arbre  est  grand  et  Men 
fait ;  il  est  aussi  beau  &  voir  qu'une  fleur  :  " — or,  as  they  were  looking 
out  of  window  after  the  midday  meal,  "  Vois  done  comme  cette  maison 
a  moitie  enterrte  derriere  le  champ  est  bien ;  il  me  semble  qu'on  devrait 
la  dessiner  ainsi."  Of  this  good  man's  wife,  nee  Henry,  or  Henry  du 
Perron,  nothing  is  recorded  but  that  she  came  of  a  family  of  yeomen 
many  generations  old,  and  was  a  woman  of  exemplary  life  and  a  beautiful 
disposition.  With  her,  as  with  her  husband,  devoutness  was  second 
nature.  They  were  pious  and  charitable,  as  they  were  hardworking  and 
thrifty  and  affectionate,  without  effort  and  without  afterthought.  They 
were  poor,  but  they  gave  freely  of  their  substance,  and  would  accept  of 
none  but  honourable  gains.  They  were  hardly  literate,  but  they  knew 
the  Bible  by  heart,  and  Augustine  and  Jerome  were  household  oracles 
with  them.  They  worked  as  only  French  peasants  can  and  do,  but  they 
remained  generous  and  unsophisticated  always  ;  and  when,  years  after- 
wards, Madame  Millet  writes  to  her  son  in  Paris,  she  is  found  expressing 
herself  in  terms  and  with  an  accent  that  recall  the  mothers  of  antiquity. 
Nor  were  they  alone  in  virtue  among  the  members  of  their  household. 
Had  they  stood  in  need  of  examples,  they  would  have  found  them  with- 
out crossing  their  own  threshold.  Domesticated  with  them  were  the 
painter's  great-uncle,  the  Abbe  Charles  Millet,  and  his  grandmother 
Louise.  The  Abbe,  a  man  of  great  simplicity  and  sweetness,  and  of 
enormous  personal  strength,  had  been  eased  of  his  functions  by  the 
operation  of  the  Revolution,  and,  after  having  been  hunted  for  his  life, 
had  settled  quietly  down  to  till  the  fields  he  had  been  used  to  bless.  He 
was  a  kind  of  ideal  country  curate,  three  parts  labourer  and  one  part 
churchman — a  half-heroic  bete  du  bon  Dieu,  one  of  the  draught  oxen  of 
the  Church ;  taking  a  pride  in  building  walls  and  dykes,  without  help, 
of  stones  that  he  only  could  lift ;  teaching  stray  urchins  their  accidence 
and  their  catechism  for  the  love  of  God,  and  to  keep  them  out  of  mischief; 
watching  over  his  infant  grand-nephew  with  the  imperturbable  and  slow 
solicitude  of  an  animal  for  its  young.  The  grandmother  was  of  another 
temper.  She  was  a  woman  of  singular  piety  and  humanity,  and,  for  all  her 
fervent  Catholicism,  a  kind  of  unconscious  Pantheist,  who  saw  the  Deity 
in  all  created  things,  and  his  action  in  all  natural  and  human  incidents. 
She  had  a  great  deal  of  character  and  intelligence,  her  culture  was  ex- 
ceptional, she  was  full  of  morality  and  good  counsel,  hers  was  an  enter- 
prising and  commanding  personality ;  in  another  state  of  life  she  would 
certainly  have  been  a  personage  of  mark.  She  was  the  artist's  god- 
mother ;  and  she  named  him  Fran§ois  after  her  patron,  the  good  saint 
of  Assisi,  the  lover  of  nature,  the  open-air  apostle,  the  evangelist  of  the 
birds — as  fortunate  and  appropriate  a  protector  for  a  landscape  painter, 
I  think,  as  could  well  be  found  in  the  calendar.  He  was  her  special 
charge  for  many  years,  and  her  character  and  teaching  were  among  the 
best  and  most  active  influences  of  his  life.  One  of  his  earliest  recollec- 
tions is  of  a  bright  morning  when  she  came  and  roused  him  from  sleep, 


292  THE  EABLY  LIFE  OF  J.-F.  MILLET. 

saying  to  him,  with  gentle  and  loving  reproachfulness,  "  Si  tu  savais 
comme  il  y  a  longtemps  que  les  oiseaux  chantent  la  gloire  du  bon 
Dieu ; "  and  in  1846,  she  writes  to  him  of  the  St.  Jerome  he  is  painting, 
and  bids  him  "  work  for  Eternity  "  always.  "  Pour  quelque  raison  que 
ce  puisse  etre,"  she  adds  in  her  antique  and  simple  French,  "  ne  te  permets 
jamais  de  faire  de  mauvais  ouvrages,  ne  perds  pas  la  presence  de  Dieu  ; 
avec  saint  Jerome,  pense  incessament  entendre  la  trompette  qui  doit 
nous  appeler  au  Jugement."  Her  life  and  conversation  were  of  a  piece 
with  these  counsels;  and  Millet,  who  was  passionately  and  devoutly 
attached  to  her,  may  well  have  had  her  in  his  mind  when  he  painted 
and  etched  the  third  and  eldest  of  his  Glaneuses :  the  three  majestic 
and  mystical  figures — as  of  priestesses  upon  a  sacred  beach,  gathering 
the  pebbles  for  some  lofty  and  momentous  act  of  divination — the  "  Parcae 
of  Poverty,"  as  they  have  been  called,  in  which  he  has  embodied  all  the 
solemn  and  pathetic  beauty  and  all  the  old-world  dignity  and  romance 
of  the  gleaner's  toil.  His  work,  indeed,  may  be  described  as  in  some 
sort  an  expression  of  ideas  that,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree  and  in  one 
or  another  form,  were  common  to  the  three  or  four  of  his  immediate 
kindred  of  whom  I  have  spoken.  It  is  hard  to  believe  that  they  would 
not  have  understood  his  greater  pictures  better  than  did,  or  could,  the 
most  enthusiastic  of  his  critics.  He  dealt  with  facts  they  knew  in  a 
spirit  that,  elevated  and  ennobled  as  it  had  come  to  be,  was,  after  all, 
the  same  with  that  in  which  they  wrought  out  their  own  fortunes 
and  lived  their  own  lives.  To  me,  indeed,  they  have  a  sort  of  share 
in  Millet's  whole  achievement ;  for  I  cannot  but  think  his  character 
and  genius,  original  and  personal  as  they  were,  to  have  been  largely 
inherited  from  them,  and  to  have  been  deeply  moulded  and  permanently 
impressed  by  them  as  well ;  so  that  they  may,  in  a  certain  sense,  be 
said  to  have  been  as  much  his  masters  as  Poussin  and  Michelangelo 
themselves. 

It  is  the  same  with  his  early  environment  as  with  the  facts  of  his 
kinship.  Walter  Scott  himself,  the  most  fortunate  of  scholars,  was  not 
so  well  placed  for  the  study  of  Border  lore  and  Border  character  as 
Millet  for  the  study  of  the  external  aspects  and  the  inner  meanings  of 
peasant  life.  At  Gruchy,  between  the  green  and  pleasant  Norman  land- 
scape and  the  solemn  and  mysterious  seas,  manners  were  simple,  and 
life  was  earnest  and  hard.  The  villagers  tilled  their  own  little  plots  for 
food,  spun  their  own  linens,  coopered  their  own  tubs  and  pails,  and 
carpentered  their  own  tools  and  furniture.  In  summer  time  they  lived 
much  in  the  open  air.  On  winter  nights  they  gathered  round  the  fire 
to  sew  and  spin  and  work  in  wicker,  and  to  tell  old  stories  and  sing 
old  songs.  They  were  no  fishers.  If  they  harvested  the  sea  it  was  for 
weed  and  drift,  *  wherewith  to  fatten  their  fields  and  feed  their  hearths. 

*  Some  of  them  made  money  now  and  then  as  smugglers'  labourers.  The  contra- 
band trade  was  still  profitable ;  the  Channel  teemed  with  knavish  luggers  and  sloops ; 


THE  EAELY  LIFE  OF  J.-F.  MILLET. 


293 


For  they  were  essentially  a  race  of  husbandmen,  and  they  had  enough 
to  do  with  reaping  and  shearing,  and  grafting  and  harrowing  and 
delving,  and  the  hundred  other  tasks  of  rustic  labour.  Of  late  the 
farmer  and  his  lot  have  suffered  change.  Science  has  come  to  him,  and 
steam,  and  machinery — "  the  Divil's  oan  team."  He  has  grown  positive 
and  professional ;  and  his  trade,  the  oldest  trade  of  all,  has  lost  its  antique 
airs  of  naturalness  and  individuality.  In  Millet's  day  its  associations 
were  yet  biblical  and  solemn,  its  practice  was  yet  personal  and  traditional. 
The  sower  still  went  forth  to  sow ;  and  the  painter's  own  Semeur  is 
in  some  sort  an  illustration  of  the  matter  and  spirit  of  the  admirable 
line, 

Wi'  joy  the  tentie  seedsman  stalks, 

of  Robert  Burns.  The  sentiment  of  gleaning  was  practically  the  same 
that  it  had  been  with  Naomi  and  Ruth.  The  corn  was  reaped  with  sickles, 
and  threshed  upon  a  floor  with  flails,  and  ground  into  flour  between 
stones  under  the  impulse  of  water  or  of  wind.  The  art  of  ploughing  was 
human  and  majestic ;  and  it  was  natural  to  see,  upon  some  brown  up- 
land slopes,  or  far  away  on  the  luminous  level  of  the  plain,  that  noblest 
of  all  the  sights  of  labour — a  ploughman  working  with  his  team,  the 
stately  pacing  horses,  the  shining  shares,  the  alert  and  busy  following  of 
birds,  the  straight  furrows  lengthening  and  multiplying  under  the  work- 
man's will.  The  elemental  forces  were  romantic  and  passionate  as  of 
yore  ;  and  to  the  shepherd  watching  his  flock  by  night  the  darkness  had 
all  its  terrors  yet,  and  there  was  a  mystical  and  sacred  quality  in  the 
inexplicable  stars.  Ghostly  presences  were  still  formidable  and  dreadful, 
so  that  doubtfulness  and  awe  came  with  the  shadows,  and  the  dawning 
light  gave  argument  for  gratitude  and  joy.  Millet  was  reared  upon  the 
Bible,  the  most  open-air  of  books,  and  bred  to  open-air  employment 
under  all  the  old  solemn  and  picturesque  conditions.  Hardly  had 
he  entered  upon  his  teens  ere  he  went  to  work  in  the  fields ;  and  till 
two  or  three  and  twenty  he  was  to  all  intents  and  purposes  as  diligent 
and  complete  a  husbandman  as  Burns  himself.  During  infancy,  that  is 
to  say,  and  during  youth  and  early  manhood,  while  his  imagination 
was  at  its  quickest  and  freshest,  and  while  his  sympathies  were  readiest 
and  most  receptive,  he  was  engaged  in  assimilating  a  world  of  sincere 
and  memorable  impressions.  With  the  innumerable  details  of  country 
life  and  labour  he  was  familiar,  both  physically  and  intellectually,  from 
the  very  first.  He  grew  up  among  them,  and  took  part  in  them ; 
they  entered  into  and  became  a  portion  of  his  being ;  he  learned  by 
actual  experience  to  apprehend  and  express  the  peculiar  sentiment  of 

and  on  dark  and  moonless  nights,  when  cargo  could  be  run,  there  was  plenty  of  work 
for  long-shore  hands  all  down  the  coast.  It  is  characteristic  of  the  Millets  that  they 
would  not  meddle  with  this  traffic,  and  would  neither  deal  in  smuggled  wares  nor 
handle  smugglers'  wages.  They  were  strict,  too,  in  the  matter  of  wreckage,  and 
would  have  nothipg  whatever  to  do  with  it. 


294  THE  EARLY  LIFE  OF  J.-F.  MILLET. 

each,  as  he  learned  to  master  its  peculiar  practice  ;  they  were  elements 
in  an  unconscious  education  of  uncommon  breadth  and  thoroughness, 
and  they  became  the  sole  material  of  his  art.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say 
of  him  that,  given  the  circumstances  of  his  breeding  and  training,  he 
could  not  have  painted  otherwise  than  he  did.  His  work  is  the  natural 
outcome  of  his  life.  He  was  in  heart  and  mind  the  painter  of  the 
Semeur  and  the  Angelus  ere  he  quitted  Gruchy ;  he  was  "  Millet  le 
Kustique  "  while  he  was  yet  a  labourer  on  his  father's  laud. 

II. 

He  has  left  some  pleasant  memoranda  on  his  younger  years,  so  that 
the  nature  of  his  surroundings  and  the  tenour  of  his  occupations  are 
easily  explained.  He  was  the  second  child  in  a  family  of  eight :  his  elder 
being  the  beloved  sister  Emilie,  of  whose  death  he  has  written  so  simple 
and  touching  an  account,  and  who,  until  he  left  Normandy  for  Paris, 
was  the  dearest  of  his  companions  and  friends.  She  was  a  good  creature, 
it  would  seem — pious,  diligent,  fine-tempered,  careful ;  the  model  of  what 
an  elder  sister  should  be.  Millet  has  sketched  her  sitting  at  her  wheel, 
in  sabots  and  a  linen  cap,  and  in  the  short  homespun  skirts  and  quaint 
bodice  of  her  country  and  class,  and  differing  in  no  respect  from  the 
heroines  of  his  most  imaginative  work ;  and  the  portrait,  of  which  the 
chief  qualities  are  truthfulness  and  a  tender  melancholy,  is  like  a 
page  from  the  painter's  early  story.  In  after  years  he  appears  to  have 
looked  back  upon  his  childhood  and  his  youth  as  the  only  happy  parts 
of  his  life.  His  memories  were  clear,  definite,  and  pleasing ;  he  wrote 
them  down  affectionately  and  well,  as  if  the  task  were  a  pleasure  to  him, 
and  he  felt  himself  a  boy  again  in  doing  it. 

Jean-Louis  Millet  tilled  his  own  land,  and  had  labourers  in  his  employ 
to  help  him  with  tho  work.  The  farm-house  in  which  he  lived  was 
rude  enough  in  its  way,  no  doubt,  but  there  was  always  plenty  to  do  in 
it,  and  there  was  always  plenty  to  eat.  In  the  garden  was  a  great  laurel 
tree  by  which  Jean-Fra^ois  was  always  greatly  impressed,  and  which  he 
regarded  as  in  some  sort  worthy  of  Apollo  himself.  An  elm  hard  by  the 
cottage  divided  his  worship  with  the  laurel,  and  afforded  him  matter  for 
infinite  meditation.  "  Mon  vieil  orme,"  he  writes  to  Sensier  when  over 
fifty  years  old,  "  commence  deja  a  etre  ronge  par  le  vent.  Que  je  voudrais 
bien  pouvoir  le  degager  dans  1'espace  comme  mon  souvenir  le  voit.  O  es- 
paces  qui  m'ont  tant  fait  rever  quand  j'etais  enfant,  me  sera-t-il  jamais 
permis  de  vous  faire  soupfonner!"  That  was  the  way  in  which  he 
looked  at  nature  from  the  first,  and  the  way  in  which  he  prepared  him- 
self for  his  splendid  share  in  the  development  of  modern  art.  The 
glimpses  of  life  in  his  father's  house  which  he  gives  us  elsewhere  are 
cheerful  and  moving.  "  Je  me  rappelle,"  he  says,  "  m'etre  eveille  un 
matin  dans  mon  petit  lit  en  entendant  des  voix  de  gens  qui  causaient  dans 
la  chambre  ou  j'etais.  Parmi  les  voix  il  se  faisait  une  espece  de  ronfle- 


THE  EAELY  LIFE  OF  J.-F.  MILLET.  295 

ment  qui  s'interrompait  de  temps  en  temps.     C'etait  le  bruit  d'un  rouet, 
et  les  voix  etaient  celles  des  fernmes  qui  filaient  et  cardaient  la  laine. 
La  poussiere  de  la  chambre  venait  danser  dans  un  rayon  de  soleil  qui 
entrait  par  la  fenetre  etroite  et  un  peu  baute  qui  donnait  toute  seule  du 
jour  a  cette  chambre."   In  one  corner  of  tbe  room,  he  adds,  was  a  big  bed- 
stead, with  a  striped  coverlet  of  brown  and  red,  "  retombant  jusqu'aterre ; " 
and  against  the  wall  stood  a  tall  brown  cupbroad.   That  is  one  of  the  ear- 
liest of  his  definite  recollections.     Mingled  confusedly  in  his  mind  were 
vague  memories  of  the  time  between  sleeping  and  waking,  and  its  many 
morning  sounds  : — "  le  va-et-vient  qui  se  fait  dans  une  maison,  les  cris 
des  oies  dans  la  cour,  le  coq  qui  chantait,  le  bruit  du  fleau  dans  la  grange." 
Adventures  and  experiences  were  not  wanting  later  on.     Once,  when 
three  new  bells  were  waiting  to  be  christened  and  hung  in  the  village 
belfry  (the  old  ones  had  been  taken  away  and  cast  into  cannon),  he  went 
with  his  mother  and  a  little  girl  named  Julie  Lecacheux  to  see  them  in 
the  church.     All  his  life  long  he  remembered  the  feeling  of  wonderment 
he  had  when  he  found  himself  in  a  place  "  aussi  epouvantablement  vaste 
que  1'eglise,"  which  seemed  to  him  "  plus  immense  qu'une  grange,"  and 
his  admiration  of  the  great  windows  with  their  diamond  panes  and  leaden 
lattices.     The  bells,  too,  looked  formidable  and  gigantic ;  and  when  Julie 
Lecacheux  was  so  bold  as  to  rap  the  biggest  of  them,  which  was  taller 
than  he  was  himself,  with  the  church  key,  it  gave  forth  a  noise  that 
filled  him  with  amazement,  and  that  he  never  forgot.     He  was  much 
abroad  with  his  uncle,  the  Abbe  Charles,  whom  he  plagued  unmercifully, 
and  whose  despair  and  delight  he  was  alternately.     The  pair  would  go 
visiting  together  at  the  great  houses  in  the  neighbourhood,  where  the  old 
curate  was  well  known  and  greatly  regarded.     At  one  of  these  he  saw 
two  peacocks,  before  whose  tails  he  fell  into  a  kind  of  ecstasy,  which  was 
increased  when  the  lady  of  the  house  presented  him  with  a  slice  of  bread 
and  honey  and  an  inestimable  and  most  gorgeous  feather.     At  another, 
he  was  sometimes  allowed  to  gather  fir  cones  and  take  them  away  with 
him  :  "  ce  qui  me  causait  une  grande  joie."     As  a  rule,  he  seems  to  have 
been  a  solemn  and  diligent  kind  of  urchin ;  but  on  one  occasion,  which 
he  never  forgot,  he  was  guilty  of  chattering  during  mass,  and  when  his 
uncle  came  forward  to  take  him  from  his  seat  and  set  him  on  his  knees 
under  a  lamp  in  the  quire,  to  do  penance  for  his  crime,  he  was  so  unfor- 
tunate, by  some  mischance  or  other,  as  to  catch  his  foot  in  the  <*ood 
man's  surplice,  and  to  rend  the  garment  badly  ere  he  could  extricate 
himself  from  its  folds.     The  consequences  of  this  dreadful  deed,  which 
the  Abbe   looked   upon  as   deliberate  and  intentional,   were   terrible. 
"  Accable  de  1'acte  impie  que  je  venais  de  commettre,"  says  Millet,  "  il 
me  laissa  sans  me  donner  la  punition  pour  laquelle  il  s'etait  derange,  et 
retourna  s'asseoir  a  sa  place,  ou  il  resta  plus  mort  que  vif  jusqu'a  la  fin  de 
la  messe.     Je  n'avais  aucune  espece  de  conscience  de  1'enormite  que  j'avais 
commise;  je  fus  done  bien  etonne,  tout  le  monde  rentre  de  la  messe 
lorsque  mon  grand-oncle  se  mit  a  raconter  (encore  sous  le  coup  de  son 


296  THE  EAKLY  LIFE  OF  J-F.  MILLET. 

emotion)  a  toute  la  famille  1'abominable  action  que  j'avais  commise  sur 
sa  personne,  et  qu'il  ne  balangait  pas,  je  crois,  a  considerer  comme  une 
espdce  de  sacrilege.  Un  tel  acte  commis  sur  un  pretre  lui  faisait  presager 
pour  mon  avenir  les  plus  efiroyables  choses.  Dire  de  quel  air  consterne 
toute  la  famille  me  regardait  ne  serait  pas  possible.  Le  fait  est  que  je 
ne  comprenais  pas  comment  j'etais  devenu  tout  d'un  coup  un  objet  d'hor- 
reur,  et  que  mon  trouble  n'aurait  pas  pu  etre  plus  grand."  The  Abbe, 
who  appeai-s  to  have  taught  Millet  his  letters,  died  when  his  pupil  was 
seven  years  old ;  and  Millet  remembered  how,  the  day  of  his  uncle's 
death,  the  servant  came  to  fetch  him  home  from  school,  that  he  might 
not  shame  the  family  by  playing  and  shouting  through  the  street  with 
his  schoolfellows.  Another  memorable  circumstance  occurred  the  day 
of  the  Abbe's  funeral,  when  the  little  boy  heard  folks  talking  secretly 
and  stealthily  of  the  way  in  which  they  had  arranged  to  fortify  the  new- 
made  grave.  There  were  to  be  big  stones  about  the  head  of  the  coffin, 
it  appeared,  and  a  couple  of  trusses  of  hay  over  all : — "  car,  disait-on, 
c'est  ce  qui  leur  donne  le  plus  d'embarras.  Leur  outil  s'embarrasse 
d'abord  dans  les  bottes  de  foin,  et  apres,  il  se  brise  entre  les  pierres,  ce 
qui  les  empeche  de  pouvoir  crocheter  la  tete  et  de  tirer  le  corps  hors  de  la 
fosse."  He  did  not  know  to  whom  the  "  leur  "  of  this  sentence  referred, 
nor  could  he  understand  why  a  posse  of  labourers  and  friends,  armed 
with  guns  and  flails,  should  have  spent  several  nights  in  succession 
drinking  mulled  cider  and  watching  the  Abbe's  tomb.  Afterwards  he 
learned  that  they  were  on  the  look-out  for  body-snatchers.  These 
ruffians,  it  seemed,  were  in  the  habit  of  coming  in  the  night  with  long 
screws,  which  they  planted  from  above  in  corpses  newly  earthed,  and  so 
screwed  them  gently  from  their  graves.  Belated  villagers  had  often 
come  upon  them  on  their  way  from  the  churchyard,  supporting  their  prey 
between  them  as  if  it  were  alive  and  drunk,  and  they  were  merely 
engaged  in  helping  a  fellow-creature  in  distress ;  or  carrying  it  away  en 
croupe  on  horseback,  heavily  cloaked,  and  with  its  arms  tied  round 
the  rider's  waist : — "  mais  on  voyait  les  pieds  qui  passaient  au-dessous 
du  manteau."  On  grim  stories  of  this  sort,  on  legends  of  ghosts  and 
wild  rumours  of  goblins  and  fairies — one  is  sure  that  the  romance  of  the 
Witch,  of  Endor  was  a  special  favourite — the  lad  was  nursed  and  reared. 
An  old  book,  called  the  Tableau  des  Visions  Chrestiennes,  containing, 
he  says,  "  les  opinions  d'un  tas  de  casuistes  sur  une  infinite  de  choses 
qui  se  passeront  dans  1'autre  monde,"  was  constantly  in  his  hands ; 
it  had  for  him  the  fearful  charm  that  Stackhouse's  History  of  the 
Bible  had  for  Charles  Lamb.  He  was  always  a  lover  of  ghosts,  and 
to  the  day  of  his  death  he  could  never  confidently  say  that  he  was  not 
a  believer  in  them,  too.  To  me  it  has  always  been  a  matter  of  regret 
that  he  did  not  sometimes  paint  them.  With  his  astonishing  sense  of 
atmospherical  mystery  and  romance,  his  solemn  and  grandiose  imagi- 
nation, his  unequalled  capacity  for  the  portraiture  of  gesture,  he  might, 
I  think,  had  he  been  so  minded,  have  produced  a  Samuel  and 


THE  EARLY  LIFE  OF  J.-F.  MILLET.  297 

for  instance,  or  a  Meeting  of  the  Weird  Sisters,  that  would  have  pix>ved 
a  new  and  heroic  development  of  the  supernatural  in  art.  The  one 
essay,  however,  which  he  made  in  this  direction,  the  tremendous 
Le  Bdcheron  et  la  Mort,  turned  out,  so  far  as  the  Salon  and  the  public 
were  concerned,  an  utter  and  disastrous  failure.  The  jury  refused  to 
give  it  a  place  in  the  exhibition  ;  and  though  many  of  the  critics — Alex- 
andre  Dumas  among  the  number — took  up  the  painter's  cause,  and  pro- 
claimed the  merits  of  his  work  incomparable,  he  had  considerable  diffi- 
culty in  finding  a  buyer,  and  was  glad  in  the  end  to  sell  his  picture  for 
such  a  paltry  sum  as  40£.  It  is  not  surprising,  after  all,  that  with  the 
exception  of  a  strange  and  moving  drawing  of  the  Ascension  the 
Bdcheron  et  la  Mort  should  remain  the  painter's  only  achievement  in 
legendary  art. 

In  the  matter  of  formal  education  his  opportunities,  irregular  as  they 
were,  were  in  some  sort  good  and  fortunate :  as  even  Mr.  Ruskin  has 
deigned  resentfully  enough  to  allow ;  and  while  he  could  he  made  a  right 
use  of  them.  At  school  he  learned  but  little.  His  handwriting  was  fair 
and  neat,  and  he  could  read  anything ;  but  he  could  get  nothing  by  heart, 
and  in  arithmetic  he  never  advanced  beyond  simple  addition.  He  was 
better  in  the  playground  than  at  the  desk,  and  he  won  his  first  fight  gal- 
lantly enough.  It  came  off  as  soon  as  ever  he  became  a  schoolboy. 
His  fellows  picked  out  a  champion,  put  a  straw  on  his  shoulder,  and 
dared  the  new  comer  to  knock  it  off.  This  he  did  forthwith,  and  the 
consequences  were  battle  and  victory.  His  backers  were  much  pleased 
with  him.  "  Millet,"  they  said,  "  n'a  que  six  ans  et  demi,  et  il  a  battu  un 
gar9on  de  plus  de  sept  ans."  It  was  not  until  his  twelfth  year  that  he 
began  to  work  hard  at  his  books.  Then,  however,  he  had  to  prepare  for 
his  first  communion,  and  in  doing  so  he  won  the  heart  of  the  Abbe 
Herpent,  the  young  priest  who  was  teaching  him  his  catechism,  and 
fitting  him  to  take  the  sacrament.  The  Abbe  urged  him  to  learn  Latin ; 
and  though  Millet  at  first  declined  to  do  so,  inasmuch  as  he  had  to  be  a 
labourer  and  not  a  priest,  he  had  in  the  end  to  sit  down  to  his  accidence, 
and  to  grind  away  at  his  Selectee  e  Profanis  and  his  Epitome  Histories 
Sacrce.  Presently,  however,  he  fell  upon  the  old  Desfontaines'  edition, 
in  Latin  and  in  French,  of  the  Bucolics  and  Georgics,  and  had  a  revelation 
of  the  heroic  in  art,  and  of  that  epic  quality  in  rustic  life  of  which  his  own 
work  was  afterwards  to  present  so  many  striking  and  lofty  examples. 
Certain  verses  affected  him  prodigiously ;  and  Virgil  became  a  chief  in- 
fluence in  his  life,  to  be  studied  continually  in  the  original  tongue  side 
by  side  with  the  Vulgate  itself.  Meanwhile  the  Abb6  Herpent  had 
removed  to  Heauville,  a  hamlet  at  some  little  distance  from  Gruchy,  and 
had  taken  Millet  with  him.  The  boy,  however,  was  a  lover  of  home  and 
of  his  kinsfolk,  and  for  the  five  or  six  months  over  which  his  exile  ex- 
tended was  fond  of  likening  himself  to  Ovid  among  the  Goths.  On  his 
return  to  Gruchy  he  began  to  read  Latin  with  the  Abbe  Lebrisseux,  who 
had  succeeded  the  Abbe  Herpent  in  his  ministry,  and  found  in  him 


298  THE  EAELY  LIFE  OF  J.-F.   MILLET. 

a  firm  and  kindly  friend.  Between  them,  they  remind  one  of  Words- 
worth,— with  whom  Millet  has  so  much  else  in  common — and  his 
colloquies  with  old  Matthew  : — 

We  talked  with  open  heart,  and  tongue 

Affectionate  and  true, 
A  pair  of  friends,  though  I  was  young, 
And  Matthew  seventy-two. 

Millet  at  this  time  was  an  interesting  child  enough.  A  man  visiting 
in  the  neighbourhood,  a  professor  from  Versailles,  described  him,  indeed, 
after  a  day's  talk  with  him,  as  "  un  enfant  dont  1'ame  etait  aussi  char- 
mante  que  la  poesie  elle-meme."  Such  as  he  was,  he  was  never  weary 
of  questioning  and  confiding  in  the  good  Abb6  Lebrisseux ;  and  the  Abbe 
for  his  part  loved  nothing  better  than  to  speak  with  the  solemn,  imagina- 
tive boy  who  at  an  age  when  others  of  his  state  in  life  were  intent  on 
nothing  higher  than  chapman's  literature,  or  the  adventures  of  the  Sons 
of  Aymon,  was  deep  in  Virgil  and  in  Job,  and  had  thoughts  of  his  own 
about  the  wandering,  inexplicable  sea,  the  pageant  of  the  seasons,  the 
mystery  of  sailing  clouds  and  running  waters,  and  all  the  majesty  and 
romance  of  inanimate  nature.  There  is  no  doubt  that  he  recognised  his 
pupil's  genius,  and  there  is  none  that,  if  he  delighted  in  considering  and 
developing  it,  he  was  often  anxious  and  often  troubled  when  he  came  to 
think  of  what  the  world  would  make  of  it.  "  Va,  mon  pauvre  enfant," 
he  would  sometimes  say,  "tu  as  un  coaur  qui  te  donneras  du  fil  a  retordre  ; 
va,  tu  ne  sais  pas  ce  que  tu  souffriras."  That  was  unhappily  prophetic. 
But  the  evil  days  were  as  yet  far  off;  and  the  future  sufferer  had  naught 
to  do  for  the  moment  but  to  feed  his  mind  on  great  thoughts  and  good 
literature,  and  strengthen  his  body  by  toiling  at  his  father's  side  in  the 
fat  Norman  fields  and  meadows,  to  help  to  get  bread  for  his  seven  little 
brothers  and  sisters. 

He  was  never  what  is  called  cultured,  but  all  his  life  he  was  a  reader, 
and  what  he  read  he  read  well.  At  Gruchy  he  studied  Virgil  and  the  Bible, 
as  I  have  already  noted,  with  especial  ardour  and  intention ;  but  he  grew 
conversant  as  well  with  authors  like  Arnault  and  Nicole,  like  Fenelon 
and  Bossuet,  like  Jerome  and  Fra^ois  de  Sales,  like  Augustine  (in  the 
Confessions)  and  Pascal,  La  Fontaine  and  Charron  and  Montaigne. 
During  his  apprenticeship  at  Cherbourg,  his  appetite  for  books  appears 
to  have  been  insatiable.  His  list  of  authors  ranges  from  Shakespeare 
and  Homer  away  to  Paul  de  Kock  and  American  Cooper.  He  knew 
Byron  and  Scott  and  Chateaubriand ;  he  was  deep  in  Schiller  and 
Uhland  and  Biirger ;  he  read  Goethe  and  Corneille,  and  he  read  Hugo 
and  Beranger ;  he  was  already  versed  in  literature  of  many  sorts — in  the 
masterpieces  of  classicism  and  the  lucubrations  of  romanticism  alike — 
when  he  started  for  Paris,  to  worship  the  old  masters  in  the  Louvre,  and 
to  learn  painting  under  Paul  Delaroche.  Years  afterwards  he  is  found 
delighting  in  Burns  .and  in  Fran£ois  Hugo's  translation  of  Shakespeare, 
and  projecting  a  version,  informed  with  the  authority  of  his  own  prac- 


THE  EAKLY  LIFE  OF  J.-F.  MILLET.  299 

tical  rusticity,  of  one  of  the  Theocritean  idylls.  For  the  rest,  his  taste 
in  literature  was  exceptionally  sound.  In  his  choice  of  books,  as 
in  his  life  and  work,  he  was  emphatically  the  "  Jupiter  en  Sabots  "  of 
Gerome's  description.  He  liked  nothing  that  was  not  strong  and  sincere. 
Affectation,  corruption,  falsehood,  effeminacy,  were  eminently  displeas- 
ing. He  had  as  hard  a  word  for  the  random  cynicism  of  Musset  as  for 
the  pictorial  mummeries  of  Delaroche  and  the  Deverias  ;  he  believed  as 
little  in  the  renovated  maidenhood  of  Hugo's  Marion  Delorme  as  in  the 
lackadaisical  seuality  of  Ary  Scheffer's  Francesca  de  Rimini.  He  affected 
the  heroic  in  letters,  and  was  as  passionate  a  worshipper  of  Homer  and 
Shakespeare  as  of  Jeremy  and  Isaiah  themselves,  divinely  important  in 
his  belief  as  they  were. 

III. 

Millet's  artistic  education  appears  to  have  been  almost  as  informal  in 
its  beginnings  as  was  the  education  of  his  mind.  He  was  interested  in 
the  forms  of  things,  and  their  relations  to  each  other  and  to  their  sur- 
roundings, from  the  first,  and  he  was  young  indeed  when  he  began  to 
draw.  His  first  notions  of  design  were  derived  from  the  prints  in  an 
old  Bible.  These  he  reproduced  in  pencil  upon  paper,  or  with  chalk  upon 
doors  and  shutters,  as  best  he  might ;  and  no  doubt  he  learned  much 
from  them.  Not  for  nothing,  however,  was  he  a  born  great  painter,  and 
a  student  of  Virgil  and  the  Scriptures  withal.  He  soon  became  dis- 
satisfied with  the  imitation  of  other  people's  ideas,  and.anxious  to  express 
his  own ;  and  he  took  to  drawing  from  nature.  Of  an  afternoon,  while 
his  father  slept — or  feigned  to  sleep,  the  better  to  watch  him  at  his  work 
— he  would  sit  at  the  window  and  sketch  the  open  landscape  without. 
He  drew  his  father's  horses  and  his  cows  and  sheep.  He  made  studies 
of  trees,  and  studies  of  carts  and  ploughs.  He  reproduced  on  paper  the 
house  and  the  stables,  the  ivy  on  the  wall,  the  dandelions  in  the  grass, 
the  fowls  that  fussed  about  the  farmyard,  the  geese  in  the  pond,  the 
clouds  in  the  sky,  the  waves  on  the  sea ;  and  his  people  were  soon  proud 
of  him.  One  day  he  walked  home  from  mass  behind  a  bent  and  decrepit 
old  man,  and  as  he  walked  he  studied  the  crooked  spine,  deflected  at  an 
angle  from  the  point  of  curvature,  and  thrusting  the  head  far  forward  from 
the  centre  of  gravity.  When  he  got  home  he  took  a  piece  of  chalk  and 
drew  what  he  had  seen  upon  the  wall.  It  was  a  portrait  vu  de  dos,  and 
so  like  that  every  one  could  swear  to  the  original.  What  was  of  more 
consequence  was  that  from  that  time  forth  the  young  man  had  a  clear 
and  workmanlike  understanding  of  the  principle  of  foreshortening.  I 
may  note  in  this  connection  that  it  was  always  Millet's  way  to  find 
things  out  for  himself,  and  to  be  extremely  jealous  of  restraint  and  sus- 
picious of  authority.  "  Je  suis  venu  a  Paris,"  he  says  of  himself  at  three- 
and- twenty,  "  avec  mes  idees  toutes  faites  en  art,  et  je  n'ai  pas  jug6 
a  propos  de  les  modifier."  That  sentence  gives  the  measure  of  the  man. 
He  had  not  seen  a  dozen  good  pictures  in  his  life  when  he  had  to  make 


300  THE  EAELY  LIFE  OF  J.-F.  MILLET. 

his  choice  between  the  old  masters  in  the  Louvre  and  the  moderns  in  the 
Luxembourg ;  but  he  put  aside  the  little  talents  for  the  men  of  genius  as 
promptly  and  decisively  as  if  he  had  been  trained  in  the  studio  of  Rem- 
brandt himself.  His  master,  Delaroche,  considering  the  first  study  he 
produced,  opined  that  he  had  painted  much  and  often,  when,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  he  had  never  taken  brush  in  hand  before.  It  is  evident  that  if 
he  had  failed  to  do  great  work  he  would  have  belied  his  destiny. 

We  may  be  sure  that  the  portrait  in  chalk  was  seen  and  applauded 
by  all  the  hamlet,  and  that  the  wisdom  of  keeping  the  artist  at  the 
ploughtail  got  to  seem  very  questionable.  Millet  was  about  eighteen 
years  old,  and  the  feat,  which  was  sufficiently  surprising,  appears  to  have 
made  his  father  more  anxious  about  the  future  than  ever.  It  is  not,  I 
think,  to  be  wondered  at  if  the  Millet  family  met  often  in  council  on  the 
matter,  or  if,  after  many  months  of  argument  and  doubt,  Jean-Louis 
Millet  at  last  determined  to  make  his  son  a  painter  in  right  earnest, 
useful  as  he  was  upon  the  farm,  and  large  as  was  the  household  whose 
bread  he  had  helped  so  long  to  win.  "  Mon  pauvre  Francois,"  he  said, 
"  je  vois  bien  que  tu  es  tourmente  de  cette  id6e-la :  j'aurais  bien  voulu 
t'envoyer  faire  instruire  dans  ce  metier  de  peintre  qu'on  dit  si  beau,  mais 
je  ne  le  pouvais;  tu  es  1'aine  des  gardens,  et  j'avais  besoin  de  toi;  main- 
tenant  tes  freres  grandissent,  et  je  ne  veux  pas  t'empecher  d'apprendre  ce 
que  tu  as  tant  envie  de  savoir.  Nous  irons  bientot  a  Cherbourg ;  nous 
saurons  si  tu  as  vraiment  des  dispositions  dans  ce  metier  pour  y  gagner 
ta  vie."  This  manly  and  touching  little  speech  (which  Millet's  biographer 
declares  authentic)  gave  France  her  greatest  painter.  The  young  man  at 
once  produced  a  couple  of  drawings,  to  take,  as  specimens  of  his  skill,  to 
Cherbourg.  Both  were  compositions,  and  in  both  he  foreshadowed  him- 
self as  he  was  presently  to  be — the  Millet,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  Berger 
au  Pare  and  the  Grande  Toncleuse.  "  Yous  connaissez  mon  premier 
dessin,"  he  wrote  long  afterwards  to  his  friend  and  biographer,  "  fait  au 
pays,  sans  maitre,  sans  modele,  sans  guide ;  il  est  encore  la  dans  mon 
atelier ;  je  n'ai  jarnais  fait  autre  chose  depuis."  In  one  of  these  works  a 
shepherd  played  upon  a  pipe  among  his  sheep,  while  his  comrade  lounged 
and  listened  hard  by;  the  costume  was  that  of  Gruchy,  the  scene  was  one  of 
the  fields  on  Millet's  own  farm.  In  the  other,  in  darkness  under  a  starry 
sky,  a  peasant  stood  at  his  cottage  door  giving  bread  to  a  beggar ;  under- 
neath was  inscribed  a  verse  from  the  Vulgate  according  to  St.  Luke. 
They  were  certainly  most  striking  work ;  for  old  Mouchel,  the  painter  in 
Cherbourg,  to  whom  Jean-Louis  Millet  submitted  them  for  inspection, 
after  flatly  refusing  to  believe  that  the  young  bumpkin  he  saw  before 
him  could  possibly  be  their  author,  turned  round  upon  the  anxious  father 
and  threatened  him  with  eternal  damnation  for  having  kept  a  son  with 
the  makings  of  a  great  painter  in  him  so  long  from  labouring  at  his  true 
vocation.  In  this  way  Millet's  fate  was  decided.  He  became  Mouchel's 
pupil,  and  spent  two  months  with  him?  drawing  from  the  cast  and  copy- 
ing engravings, 


THE  EAELY  LIFE  OF  J.-F.  MILLET.  301 

Mouchel  was  an  oddity  in  his  way.  He  had  been  educated  for  the 
priesthood,  but  he  had  married  and  settled  down  to  gardening  and  paint- 
ing. He  hovered  continually  between  the  practice  of  scepticism  and  the 
practice  of  piety — between  open  warfare  with  all  the  priests  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood and  the  production  of  altar  pieces,  which  he  bestowed  on  any 
curate  who  might  happen  to  be  in  want  of  one.  He  was  a  lover  of 
animals,  and  spent  hours  in  communion  with  a  favourite  pig,  whose  con- 
versation he  declared  he  perfectly  understood,  and  for  whose  opinions  he 
professed  a  great  respect.  Odd  as  he  was,  however,  he  had  a  right  taste 
in  art,  for  he  worshipped  Rembrandt,  and  was  an  ardent  admirer 
of  Brauwer  and  Teniers.  He  showed,  too,  a  good  deal  of  sound 
sense  and  discrimination  in  dealing  with  his  new  pupil,  whom  he  re- 
fused to  advise  in  any  way :  merely  telling  him  to  do  exactly  as  he 
pleased,  draw  what  he  pleased,  work  how  he  pleased,  go  and  come 
when  he  pleased,  and  make  the  best  use  he  could  of  the  materials 
at  his  disposal.  Millet,  as  I  have  said,  was  suspicious  of  precept  and 
example;  and  I  doubt  not  that  he  obeyed  his  teacher  to  the  letter. 
Things  might  have  gone  on  in  this  way  for  a  long  time ;  but  in  1835, 
some  two  months  after  the  eventful  journey  to  Cherbourg,  Jean-Louis 
Millet  died  of  brain  fever,  and  the  student  had  to  return  to  Gruchy. 
He  had  resolved  to  give  up  art,  and  take  his  place  as  the  head  of  the 
family,  and  work  for  his  brothers  and  sisters ;  but  of  this  his  mother  and 
grandmother  refused  to  hear.  The  dead  man's  will,  they  said,  was  sacred 
to  them.  It  had  been  the  wish  of  his  life  that  his  son  should  be  a  painter, 
and  it  was  not  for  them  to  set  that  wish  aside.  Matters  must  be  with 
them  as  they  might ;  they  would  do  the  best  they  could ;  Millet  must 
return  to  Cherbourg  and  study  his  art.  And  this,  after  some  debate,  he 
did.  He  had  been  seen  at  work  in  the  picture-gallery ;  many  people  had 
conceived  an  interest  in  him  and  in  his  prospects ;  and  he  was  soon  a 
student  under  the  local  artist.  The  local  artist,  whose  name  was  Lang- 
lois,  and  who  had  been  a  pupil  of  Gros,  showed  himself  as  cautious  in 
his  dealings  with  Millet  as  Mouchel  himself  had  been,  though  probably 
for  very  different  reasons,  and  on  very  different  grounds.  He  made 
him  copy  some  of  his  old  teacher's  academical  studies  and  some  replicas 
of  famous  pictures ;  and  he  sent  him  back  to  work  in  the  picture-gallery. 
There  Millet  produced  a  copy  in  crayons,  6  ft.  long  and  5  ft  high,  of  Jor- 
daens'  Adoration  of  the  Magi ;  with  studies  after  Van  Loo,  Philippe  de 
Champagne,  Schidone,  Van  der  Mol,  and  some  of  the  older  Flemings. 
And  in  1837,  on  Langlois'  recommendation,  the  municipal  council  allotted 
him  a  yearly  pension  of  400  francs — afterwards  increased  to  1,000  francs 
by  the  Council  General  of  La  Manche,  and  very  seldom  paid  in  full  or 
up  to  date — and  despatched  him  to  Paris  to  finish  his  studies  under  Paul 
Delaroche,  the  idol  of  the  Philistines,  the  stagiest  of  painters,  the  master 
whose  art  is  to  his  own  much  as  is  Hernani  to  King  Lear,  or  the  Book 
of  Mormon  to  the  Book  of  Job. 

He  was  eager,  and  yet  afraid  and  doubtful.     Paris,  just  then  the 


302  THE  EAELY  LIFE  OF  J.-F.   MILLET. 

theatre  of  a  noisy  and  successful  revolution  in  aesthetics,  was  to  him  "  le 
centre  de  la  science  et  le  musee  de  toutes  les  grandes  choses ;  "  and  he  was 
impelled  to  adventure  himself  in  it  as  by  the  promptings  (he  says)  of  a 
familiar  spirit.  All  the  same  it  was  with  many  tears  and  misgivings — 
"  le  coeur  bien  enfle  " —  that  he  left  his  people  and  his  home.  The  journey 
was  all  by  broad,  straight  highways,  between  interminable  rows  of  trees, 
and  through  vast  flats  of  pasture  : — "  si  riches  en  verdure  et  en  bestiaux 
qu'ils  me  semblaient  plutot  des  decors  de  theatre  que  de  la  vraie  nature ;  " 
and  it  only  served  to  increase  his  sadness.  It  was  a  January  evening 
when  he  alighted.  The  lamps  were  dim  with  a  foul  fog ;  the  streets 
were  heavy  with  slush  and  dirty  snow.  The  air,  the  smells,  the  clamour 
of  wheels,  the  lights  and  voices  and  footsteps  were  too  much  for  him, 
and  he  wept  aloud  in  the  street.  He  bathed  his  face  at  a  fountain  and 
went  and  munched  an  apple — a  Gruchy  apple ! — before  a  printseller's 
window.  It  was  full  of  Gavarnis  and  Deverias,  of  cheap  sentiment  and 
specious  immodesty,  and  was  more  repulsive  to  him  than  the  roaring 
streets  themselves.  He  went  off  to  bed  in  a  cheap  lodging  house,  and 
lay  all  night  a  prey  to  monstrous  and  affecting  dreams  :  sometimes  of  his 
mother  and  grandmother  weeping  and  at  prayer  for  him  ;  and  sometimes 
of  pictures  ablaze  with  colour  and  form — "  que  je  trouvais  si  belles,  si 
eclatantes  qu'il  me  semblait  les  voir  s'enflammer  dans  une  gloire,  et  dis- 
paraitre  dans  un  nuage  celeste."  In  the  morning  he  arose  to  shudder  at 
the  vileness  and  squalor  of  his  room,  and  gradually  to  grow  calm  and 
determined  once  more.  But  his  melancholy  abided  with  him,  and  he 
mourned  for  himself  in  the  words  of  Job,  "  Let  the  day  perish  wherein 
I  was  born,  and  the  night  in  which  it  was  said,  There  is  a  man  child 
conceived" 

These  were  his  first  impressions  of  Paris  and  the  world.  It  was  as 
if  he  had  had  a  presentiment  of  the  forty  years  of  misery  and  derision 
and  uphill  battle  their  conquest  was  to  cost  him. 

W.  E  H. 


303 


g  *  at  jr- ferns. 


THE  conquests  made  by  science  are  varied  in  character,  sometimes  seem- 
ing to  promise  a  domain  more  hurtful  (on  the  whole)  than  fruitful ;  a 
sort  of  intellectual  Afghanistan.  In  other  cases  a  land  of  promise  seems 
before  us,  but  the  way  to  it  is  not  clear.  As  an  instance  of  the  former 
kind,  may  be  mentioned  the  progress  which  science  is  making  in  the 
study  of  explosive  substances  and  the  recognition  of  their  power.  Of 
the  latter  kind  no  more  marked  instance  could  be  cited  than  the 
researches  of  Pasteur  and  others  into  the  nature  of  the  germs  of  various 
diseases,  and  the  power  of  cultivating  these  germs  so  that  their  character 
may  be  modified. 

Let  us  for  a  moment  suppose  it  proved  (though  at  present  we  have 
only  promise  of  proof)  that  the  disease-germs  which  produce  vaccinia 
(the  disease — if  so  it  can  be  called — following  vaccination)  are  the  same 
in  species  as  those  which  produce  small-pox,  but  that  during  the  resi- 
dence of  those  germs  in  the  heifer  their  power  has  undergone  a  certain 
modification  which  renders  them  innocuous,  while  yet  they  produce  that 
particular  change  which  results  in  what  we  call  protection  from  small- 
pox. Then  it  would  follow,  as  at  least  highly  probable,  that  in  the  case 
of  any  other  illness  produced  by  living  germs,  we  may  learn  how  the 
disease-germs  can  be  so  cultivated  as  to  lose  their  power  for  serious  mischief, 
while  retaining  the  power  of  producing  protective  ailment  akin  to  the  more 
dangerous  illness  produced  by  the  unmodified  germs.  So  that  typhus, 
scarlet  fever,  diphtheria,  and  a  host  of  other  ailments,  which  are  more 
or  less  certainly  known  to  be  due  to  the  presence  of  living  organisms  in 
the  blood  or  tissues,  would  be  treated  as  we  now  treat  small-pox.  People 
inoculated  with  the  specific  "  matter "  for  each  of  these  diseases,  once 
perhaps  in  every  six  or  seven  years,  would  be  safe  from  them,  or  safe  at 
any  rate  from  severe  attacks.  Epidemics  of  such  diseases  would  be  ren- 
dered almost  impossible ;  but  when  they  occurred  sensible  people  could 
find  protection  even  as  they  now  find  protection  from  an  epidemic  of 
small-pox.  Of  course  there  would  follow  effects  similar  to  those  which 
have  led  many  to  imagine  that  vaccination  has  done  more  mischief  than 
good,  because  so  many  weakly  lives  which  would  otherwise  have  suc- 
cumbed to  the  unmodified  disease  have  been  saved.  Just  as  in  a  race  of 
warlike  savages  the  type  is  improved  by  the  constant  weeding  out  of  the 
weaker  in  battles  and  through  the  hardships  of  campaigning,  so  in  a 
people  exposed  to  many  dire  forms  of  disease  the  stronger  only  survive, 
and  the  race  seems  improved.  But  precisely  as  men  of  sense  would 


304  LIVING  DEATH-GERMS. 

object  to  see  their  nation  improved  in  physique  by  the  thinning  out 
resulting  from  constant  wars,  so  should  they  advocate  every  method  by 
which  the  action  of  the  more  fell  diseases  may  be  modified,  even  at  the 
risk  of  the  survival  of  many  weaker  members  who  would  otherwise  have 
been  weeded  out  by  disease. 

This,  then,  is  the  promised,  or  rather  suggested,  future, — protection 
for  those  who  are  wise  enough  to  accept  protection,  possibly  even  com- 
pulsory protection  from  those  diseases  which  now  produce  so  much 
misery  and  sorrow.  Let  us  see  how  the  matter  stands,  examining  the 
evidence  by  experiments  made  on  creatures  of  comparatively  smaller 
worth,  and,  be  it  noted,  not  made  on  them  that  man  alone  may  gain, 
but  directly  for  the  protection  of  the  lower  animals  from  disease. 

Let  us  take  first  a  disease  which  has  been  proved  to  be  produced  by 
living  germs, — by  creatures  capable  of  reproducing  their  kind,  so  that 
once  a  suitable  abode  is  found,  their  numbers  may  increase  until  they 
kill  their  unwilling  host. 

In  the  twenty  years  ending  1853,  the  silk  culture  of  France  had 
more  than  doubled,  and  there  seemed  every  reason  to  believe  that  it 
would  continue  to  increase  for  many  years  to  come.  The  weight  of  the 
cocoons  produced  in  1853  amounted  to  no  less  than  52  millions  of 
pounds.  But  on  a  sudden  the  aspect  of  affairs  changed.  A  disease 
appeared  which  rapidly  spread,  and  in  little  more  than  half  the  time 
during  which  the  silk  culture  had  doubled,  it  was  reduced  to  less  than 
the  sixth  part  of  its  amount  in  1853.  In  1865  the  cocoons  only  weighed 
eight  millions  of  pounds.  The  loss  in  revenue,  in  this  single  year, 
amounted  to  four  million  pounds  sterling. 

The  disease  which  had  produced  these  disastrous  results  has  received 
the  name  of  Pebrine.  It  shows  itself  in  the  silkworm  by  black  spots 
(whence  the  name).  When  it  is  fairly  developed  the  worms  become 
distorted  and  stunted,  their  movements  are  languid,  their  appetites  fail 
them,  and  they  die  prematurely.  But  the  disease  does  not  necessarily 
become  fairly  developed  in  the  worm.  On  the  contrary,  it  may  be  only 
incipient  during  this  stage  of  the  silkworm's  life.  The  worm  may  even 
produce  a  fine  cocoon.  Yet  the  disease  incipient  in  the  worm  will  be 
developed  in  the  moth,  and  the  eggs  produced  by  the  diseased  moth  will 
be  diseased  too  ! 

It  was  in  1849  that  the  characteristic  feature  of  the  disease  was  first 
recognised.  In  that  year  Guerin  Meneville  noticed  small  vibratory 
bodies  in  the  blood  of  silkworms.  It  was  shown  that  the  vibrations 
were  not  due  to  independent  life ;  and  the  error  was  made  of  supposing 
that  the  corpuscles  belonged  to  the  blood  of  the  worm.  In  reality  they 
are  capable  of  indefinite  multiplication.  They  are  the  real  germs  of  the 
disease.  These  living  bodies  "  first  take  possession  of  the  intestinal 
canal,  and  spread  thence  throughout  the  body  of  the  worm.  They  fill 
the  silk  cavities,"  says  Tyndall,  "  the  stricken  insect  often  going  auto- 
matically through  the  motions  of  spinning,  without  any  material  to  work 


LIVING   DEATH-GERMS.  305 

upon.  Its  organs,  instead  of  being  filled  with  the  clear  viscous  liquid  of 
the  silk,  are  packed  to  distension  by  the  corpuscles." 

The  case  of  the  silkworms  may  be  regarded  as  closely  similar  to  that 
of  a  nation  attacked  by  plague  or  pestilence.  If  anything,  the  case  of 
the  silkworms  seemed  even  more  difficult  to  deal  with.  At  any  rate,  no 
plague  which  has  fallen  on  man  ever  gave  rise  to  so  many  suggestions  for 
the  remedy  of  the  mischief.  "  The  pharmacopoeia  of  the  silkworm,"  wrote 
M.  Cornalia,  in  1860,  "is  now  as  complicated  as  that  of  man.  Gases, 
liquids,  and  solids  have  been  laid  under  contribution.  From  chlorine  to 
sulphurous  acid,  from  nitric  acid  to  rum,  from  sugar  to  sulphate  of 
quinine,  all  has  been  invoked  in  behalf  of  the  unhappy  insect." 
"  Pamphlets  were  showered  upon  the  public,"  says  Tyndall ;  "  the  mono- 
tony of  waste  paper  being  broken  at  rare  intervals  by  a  more  or  less 
useful  publication."  The  French  Minister  of  Agriculture  signed  an 
agreement  to  pay  500,000  francs  for  a  remedy,  which,  though  said  by  its 
inventor  to  be  infallible,  was  found  on  trial  to  be  useless. 

It  was  when  matters  were  in  this  state,  that  Pasteur  was  invited  by 
Dumas,  the  celebrated  chemist,  to  investigate  the  disease.  Pasteur  had 
never  even  seen  a  silkworm,  so  that  it  was  not  because  of  any  special 
experience  in  the  habits  of  the  creature  that  Dumas  considered  him 
likely  to  achieve  success  where  so  many  had  failed.  Yet  he  attached 
extreme  importance  to  Pasteur's  compliance  with  his  request.  "Je 
mets  un  prix  extreme,"  wrote  Dumas,  "  a  voir  votre  attention  fixee  sur 
la  question  qui  interesse  mon  pauvre  pays ;  la  misere  surpasse  tout 
ce  que  vous  pouvez  imaginer."  For  it  was  in  Dumas's  own  district 
that  the  disease  prevailed  most  terribly. 

Pasteur  first  studied  the  worm  at  various  stages  of  its  life.  Most  of 
our  readers  are  doubtless  aware  of  the  nature .  of  these  stages  ;  and 
doubtless  many  have  had  practical  experience,  as  we  have,  of  the  ways 
of  the  creature  as  they  progress.  First  the  eggs,  neatly  arranged  by  the 
mother  moth  on  some  suitable  surface  provided  by  the  worm-keeper,  are 
watched  until  in  due  course  comes  forth  a  small  dark  worm.  This 
grows,  and  as  it  grows  casts  its  skin,  three  or  four  times,  becoming 
lighter  at  each  such  moulting.  After  the  last  moulting  the  worm  has 
its  characteristic  white  colour.  It  continues  to  grow  (feeding  on  mul- 
berry-leaves), until,  the  proper  time  having  arrived,  it  climbs  into  what- 
ever suitable  place  has  been  provided  for  it  (silkowners  use  small 
brambles,  but  our  schoolboys  use  little  paper  cups)  and  there  spins  its 
cocoon.  "When  this  is  completed  and  the  silk  has  been  wound  off,  the 
chrysalis  is  found  inside,  which  becomes  a  moth,  and  the  moth  laying 
her  eggs,  the  cycle  is  recommenced. 

It  was  Pasteur  who  showed  that  the  disease  germs  might  lurk  in  the 
egg,  or  might  first  appear  in  the  worm,  and  in  either  of  these  stages 
might  escape  detection.  But  the  destructive  corpuscles  in  the  blood 
grow  with  the  growing  worm.  In  the  chrysalis  they  are  larger  than  in 
the  full-grown  silkworm ;  and,  finally,  in  the  moth  (assuming  the  germ  to 

voj,.  XLV. — NO.  267.  15. 


306  LIVING  DEATH-GEKMS. 

Lave  begun  either  in  the  egg  or  the  young  worm)  the  corpuscles  are 
easily  detected.  He  therefore  said  that  the  moth  and  not  the  egg  should 
be  the  starting  point  of  methods  intended  for  the  destruction  of  the  seeds 
of  disease.  For  in  the  egg  or  the  young  worm  the  germs  might  escape 
detection ;  in  the  moth,  he  affirmed,  they  could  not. 

"When  Pasteur,  in  September  1865,  announced  these  views,  physicists 
and  biologists  agreed  in  rejecting  them.  He  was  told  he  knew  nothing 
about  silkworms,  and  that  his  supposed  discoveries  were  old  mistakes 
long  since  shown  to  be  such. 

He  answered  by  the  simple  but  impressive  method  of  prediction. 
Parcels  of  eggs,  regarded  by  their  owners  as  healthy,  were  inspected  by 
him,  the  moths  which  had  produced  them  being  submitted  to  his  examina- 
tion. He  wrote  his  opinion  in  1866,  placing  it  in  a  sealed  letter,  in  the 
hands  of  the  Mayor  of  St.  Hippolyte.  In  1867,  the  cultivators  communi- 
cated their  results.  Pasteur's  letter  was  opened,  and  it  was  found  that 
in  twelve  cases  his  prediction  was  fulfilled  to  the  letter.  He  had  said 
that  many  of  the  groups  would  perish  totally,  the  rest  almost  totally ; 
and  this  happened  in  all  except  two  cases,  where,  instead  of  almost 
total  destruction,  half  an  average  crop  was  obtained.  The  owners  had 
hatched  and  tended  these  eggs  in  full  belief  that  they  were  healthy  : 
Pasteur's  test  applied  for  a  few  minutes  in  1866  would  have  saved  them 
this  useless  labour. 

Again,  two  parcels  of  eggs  were  submitted  to  Pasteur,  which,  after 
examination  of  the  moths  which  had  produced  them,  he  pronounced 
healthy.  In  their  case  an  excellent  crop  was  produced. 

Pasteur  carefully  investigated  the  development  of  the  disease-germs. 
He  took  healthy  worms  by  10,  20,  30,  40,  and  50,  and  placed  matter 
infected  with  the  germs  on  their  food.  "  Rubbing  a  small  diseased  worm 
in  water,  he  smeared  the  mixture,"  says  Tyndall,  "  over  mulberry-leaves. 
Assuring  himself  that  the  leaves  had  been  eaten,  he  watched  the  con- 
sequences from  day  to  day.  Side  by  side  with  the  infected  worms  he 
reared  their  fellows,  keeping  them  as  much  as  possible  out  of  the  way 
of  infection.  On  April  16,  1868,  he  thus  infected  thirty  worms.  Up  to 
the  23rd  they  remained  quite  well.  On  the  25th  they  seemed  well,  but 
on  that  day  corpuscles  were  found  in  the  intestines  of  two  of  them.  On 
the  2  7th,  or  eleven  days  after  the  infected  repast,  two  fresh  worms  were 
examined,  and  not  only  was  the  intestinal  canal  found  in  each  case 
invaded,  but  the  silk  organ  itself  was  charged  with  corpuscles.  On  the 
28th  the  twenty-six  remaining  worms  were  covered  by  the  black  spots 
of  pebrine.  On  the  30th,  the  difference  of  size  between  the  infected  and 
non-infected  worms  was  very  striking,  the  sick  worms  being  not  more 
than  two-thirds  of  the  bulk  of  the  healthy  ones.  On  May  2,  a  worm  which 
had  just  finished  its  fourth  moulting  was  examined.  Its  whole  body 
was  so  filled  with  the  parasite  as  to  excite  astonishment  that  it  could  live. 
The  disease  advanced,  the  worms  died  and  were  examined,  and  on  May  11 
only  six  out  of  the  thirty  remained.  They  were  the  strongest  of  the  lot, 


LIVING  DEATH-GERMS.  307 

but  on  being  searched  they  also  were  found  charged  with  corpuscles. 
Not  one  of  the  thirty  worms  had  escaped ;  a  single  meal  had  poisoned 
them  all.  The  standard  lot,  on  the  contrary,  spun  their  fine  cocoons, 
two  only  of  their  moths,  being  proved  to  contain  any  trace  of  the 
parasite,  which  had  doubtless  been  introduced  during  the  rearing  of  the 
worms." 

He  examined  the  progress  of  infection  still  more  carefully,  counting 
the  number  of  corpuscles,  which,  as  the  disease  increased,  rose  from  0  to 
10,  to  100,  and  even  to  1,000  or  1,500,  in  the  field  of  view  of  his  micro- 
scope. He  also  tried  different  modes  of  infection.  "  He  proved  that 
worms  inoculate  each  other  by  the  infliction  of  visible  wounds  with  their 
claws."  He  showed  that  by  the  simple  association  of  diseased  with 
healthy  worms  the  infection  spread.  He  demonstrated  in  fine  that  "  it 
was  no  hypothetical  infected  medium — no  problematical  pythogenic  gas 
— that  killed  the  worms,  but  a  definite  organism." 

Thus  did  Pasteur  teach  the  worm- cultivator  how  to  extinguish  the 
pestilence  which  had  destroyed  his  egg  crops.  The  plans  for  extirpating 
the  diseased  worms  had  failed  before  his  researches,  for  the  very  sufficient 
reason  that  no  sufficient  means  had  been  devised  for  distinguishing  the 
diseased  from  the  healthy.  As  Pasteur  himself  stated  the  matter, — 
"  the  most  skilful  cultivator,  even  the  most  expert  microscopist,  placed  in 
presence  of  large  cultivations  which  present  the  symptoms  described  in 
my  experiments,  will  necessarily  arrive  at  an  erroneous  conclusion  if  he 
confines  himself  to  the  knowledge  which  preceded  my  researches.  The 
worms  will  not  present  to  him  the  slightest  spot  of  p^brine  ;  the  micro- 
scope will  not  reveal  the  existence  of  corpuscles ;  the  mortality  of  the 
worms  will  be  null  or  insignificant ;  and  the  cocoons  leave  nothing  to  be 
desired.  Our  observer  would,  therefore,  conclude  without  hesitation 
that  the  eggs  produced  will  be  good  for  incubation.  The  truth  is,  on 
the  contrary,  that  all  the  worms  of  these  fine  crops  have  been  poisoned ; 
that  from  the  beginning  they  carried  in  them  the  germ  of  the  malady, 
ready  to  multiply  itself  beyond  measure  in  the  chrysalides  and  the  moths, 
tbence  to  pass  into  the  eggs  and  smite  with  sterility  the  next  generation. 
And  what  is  the  first  cause  of  the  evil  concealed  under  so  deceitful  an 
exterior  ?  In  our  experiments  we  can,  so  to  speak,  touch  it  with  our 
fingers.  It  is  entirely  the  effect  of  a  single  corpusculous  repast ;  an 
effect  more  or  less  prompt  according  to  the  epoch  of  life  of  the  worm 
that  has  eaten  the  poisoned  food." 

His  plans  for  the  elimination  of  diseased  worms,  and  for  the  isolation 
of  the  healthy  from  contagion  in  any  possible  form,  met  with  full  success. 
The  disease  has  not  been  eradicated,  because  the  silk- producing  districts 
cannot  be  completely  isolated ;  but  its  ravages  have  been  so  far  reduced 
that  the  cultivation  of  silk  promises  soon  to  reach  something  like  the 
position  which  had  been  hoped  for  before  the  disease  had  shown  itself. 

Now  between  the  ideas  .which  had  prevailed  respecting  pebrine  before 
Pasteur's  researches,  and  those  which  still  prevail  respecting  many  con- 

15—2 


308  LIVING  DEATH-GERMS. 

tagious  diseases,  there  is  a  striking  analogy.  Just  as  Pasteur  was  as- 
sured by  many  experienced  silk-growers  that  the  disease  was  due  to  some 
deleterious  medium,  rendered  more  or  less  poisonous  at  different  times 
by  some  mysterious  influence,  so  epidemic  diseases,  we  are  assured  by 
many  experienced  medical  men,  are  due  to  occult  influences  arising  spon- 
taneously in  foul  air.  It  matters  not  that  as  certainly  as  an  animal 
produces  creatures  of  its  own  kind,  and  not  of  some  other  kind,  so  the 
poison  of  one  fever  produces  always  that  fever,  and  not  some  other  fever. 
In  this  they  find  no  evidence  of  anything  akin  to  what  Dr.  Budd  has  called 
parentage.  The  followers  of  Pasteur  in  the  silk  districts,  and  those  who 
have  benefited  by  others  of  his  researches,  presently  to  be  described,  would 
as  soon  believe  in  the  spontaneous  generation  of  pebrine  and  kindred 
diseases,  as  in  the  spontaneous  generation  of  cats  and  dogs.  But  many 
still  believe  respecting  diseases  affecting  the  human  race  in  which  precisely 
the  same  phenomena  of  reproduction  are  presented,  that  they  arise  from 
some  spontaneous  fermentation  (unlike  every  form  of  fermentation  on 
which  experiments  have  yet  been  made).  . 

But  before  we  pass  to  consider  other  and  even  more  decisive  evi- 
dence, we  may  note  that,  so  far  as  the  researches  of  Pasteur  on  pebrine 
are  concerned,  we  have  not  yet  seen  the  way  to  any  means  of  safety  from 
the  contagious  diseases  which  affect  human  beings.  We  cannot  kill  all 
diseased  persons  in  order  that  we  may  get  rid  of  the  disease-germs  within 
them. 

Even  more  remarkable  than  his  investigation  of  the  silkworm  disease 
was  Pasteur's  investigation  of  the  disease  known  as  splenic  fever,  which 
affects  horses,  cattle,  and  sheep  on  the  continent.  In  the  rapidity  of  its 
action  this  disease  (known  also  as  "  anthrax,"  and  "  charbon")  resembles  the 
black  plague.  In  bad  cases  death  ensues  in  the  course  of  twenty-four 
hours.  In  less  severe  cases  the  creature  attacked  suffers  greatly,  and 
retains  the  traces  of  the  attack  during  the  rest  of  its  life.  It  is  stated 
that  between  the  years  1867  and  1870  no  less  than  56,000  deaths  oc- 
curred among  horses,  cattle,  and  sheep  in  the  district  of  Novgorod,  in 
Russia,  while  568  human  beings  perished,  to  whom  the  disease  had  been 
somehow  communicated.  In  France  the  disease  is  very  prevalent,  and 
many  proprietors  have  been  ruined  by  the  entire  destruction  of  their 
flocks  and  herds.  It  is  said  that  a  malady  which  occurs  among  the 
woolsorters  at  Bradford  (often  proving  fatal)  is  a  modification  of  anthrax 
communicated  by  the  wool  of  sheep  which  have  suffered  from  splenic 
fever. 

In  1850  MM.  Rayer  and  Devaine  discovered  minute  transparent 
rodlike  bodies  in  the  blood  of  animals  which  had  suffered  from  this 
disease.  Koch,  a  German  physician,  then  scarcely  known,  showed  that 
these  objects  are  of  a  fungoid  nature,  and  traced  the  various  stages  of 
their  existence.  Cohn  obtained  similar  results,  as  did  Ewart  in  England. 
The  growth  of  the  disease-producing  rods,  as  -studied  undei  microscopic 
examination,  is  as  follows  : — First,  germs  of  extreme  minuteness  are  seen 


LIVINO  DEATH-GERMS.  309 

in  the  form  of  simple  tubes  with  trans  verse  divisions ;  next,  minute  dots 
appear,  which  enlarge  into  egg-shaped  bodies  lying  in  rows  within  the 
tubes ;  lastly,  the  rods  break  up,  freeing  the  ovoid  germs.  It  has  been 
shown  that  "  the  minutest  drop  of  the  fluid  containing  these  germs,  if 
conveyed  into  another  portion  of  cultivated  fluid,  initiates  the  same 
process  of  growth  and  reproduction ;  and  this  may  be  repeated  many 
times  without  any  impairment  of  the  potency  of  the  germs,  which,  when 
introduced  by  inoculation  into  the  bodies  of  rabbits,  guinea-pigs,  and 
mice,  develop  in  them  all  the  characteristic  phenomena  of  splenic  fever. 
Koch  further  ascertained,"  continues  Dr.  Carpenter,  from  whom  the 
above  passage  is  quoted,  "  that  the  blood  of  animals  that  succumbed  to 
this  disease  might  be  dried  and  kept  for  four  years,  and  might  even  be 
pulverized  into  dust,  without  losing  its  power  of  infection." 

Pasteur's  first  steps  in  inquiring  into  this  disease  were  characterised 
by  the  same  keenness  of  judgment  which  he  displayed  in  investigating 
pebrine.  He  ascertained  that  "  charbon  "  would  often  appear  in  its  most 
malignant  form  among  sheep  feeding  in  seemingly  healthy  pastures,  where 
there  were  no  known  causes  of  infection.  He  found  on  inquiry  that 
animals  which  years  before  had  died  in  those  regions,  had  been  buried 
ten  or  twelve  feet  below  the  surface,  so  that  it  seemed  obvious  they 
could  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  reappearance  of  the  malady.  But 
in  inquiries  such  as  these,  Pasteur  has  taught  us  that  what  obviously 
cannot  be  has  an  unfortunately  perplexing  fashion  of  turning  out  to  be 
precisely  what  is.  He  quickly  became  persuaded  that  in  some  way  the 
germs  of  disease  supposed  to  be  buried  out  of  the  way  three  or  four  yards 
beneath  the  soil  reached  the  surface  and  originated  fresh  attacks  of  the 
"  charbon"  pestilence.  He  found  in  earth-worms — those  creatures  which 
Darwin  has  recently  shown  to  be  such  important  workers  in  the  eai-th's 
crust— the  cause  of  the  trouble.  He  was  ridiculed,  of  course.  But 
he  has  a  troublesome  way  of  turning  ridicule  upon  those  who  laugh  at 
him.  Collecting  worms  from  pastures  where  the  disease  had  reappeared, 
"  he  made  an  extract  of  the  contents  of  their  alimentary  canals,  and 
found  that  the  inoculation  of  rabbits  and  guinea-pigs  with  this  extract 
gave  them  the  severest  form  of  '  charbon,'  due  to  the  multiplication  in 
their  circulating  current  of  the  deadly  an thrax-  bacillus "  (this  is  the 
pleasing  way  science  has  of  describing  the  disease  germs),  "  with  which 
their  blood  was  found  after  death  to  be  loaded." 

Our  countryman,  Professor  Brown  Sanderson,  discovered  another 
way  in  which  "  anthrax  "  has  been  communicated.  He  found  that  herds 
affected  with  it  had  been  fed  with  brewers'  grains  supplied  from  a 
common  source,  "  and  on  examining  microscopically  a  sample  of  these 
grains,  they  were  seen  to  be  swarming  with  the  deadly  bacillus,  which, 
when  once  it  has  found  its  way  among  them,  grows  and  multiplies  with 
extraordinary  rapidity." 

But  now  comes  the  point  which  renders  this  inquiry  important  to 
ourselves.  The  poison  germs  are  small,  visible  only  in  the  microscope, 


310  LIVING  DEATH-GEKMS. 

but  they  are  fungoid,  and  the  laws  of  their  growth  and  development  are 
as  deterininable  (with  suitable  care)  as  the  laws  of  the  growth  and 
development  of  the  monarchs  of  a  forest.  Now  whatever  lives  and 
grows  and  produces  creatures  after  its  own  kind,  whether  animal  or 
vegetable,  can  be  cultivated.  With  due  care  and  watchfulness  it  may 
be  altered  in  type  and  character,  just  as  the  wild  plants  of  the  hedgerow 
may  be  altered  into  plants  producing  the  flowers  and  fruits  of  our 
gardens  and  hothouses.  The  methods  of  cultivation  are  not  precisely 
the  same,  because  as  yet  microscopists  do  not  know  how  to  select 
the  less  from  the  more  destructive  germs,  so  as  to  propagate  from  the 
former  only.  But,  as  Dr.  Carpenter  puts  the  matter,  two  modes  of 
"  culture  "  suggest  themselves  :  first,  "  the  introduction  of  the  germs 
into  the  circulating  current  of  animals  of  a  different  type,  and  its  re- 
peated transfusion  from  one  animal  into  another  ;  "  and  secondly,  "  cul- 
tivation carried  on  out  of  the  living  body,  in  fluids  (such  as  blood-serum 
or  meat  juice)  which  are  found  favourable  to  its  growth,  the  temperature 
of  the  fluid,  in  the  latter  case,  being  kept  up  nearly  to  blood-heat.  Both 
these  methods  have  been  used  by  Pasteur  himself  and  by  Professor 
Burdon  Sanderson ;  and  the  latter  especially  by  M.  Toussaint  of  Toulouse, 
who,  as  well  as  Pasteur,  has  experimented  also  on  another  bacillus  which 
he  had  found  to  be  the  disease-germ  of  a  malady  termed  '  fowl  cholera,' 
which  proves  fatal  among  poultry  in  France  and  Switzerland.  It  has 
been  by  Pasteur  that  the  conditions  of  the  mitigation  of  the  poison  by 
culture  have  been  most  completely  determined ;  so  that  the  disease  pro- 
duced by  the  inoculation  of  his  '  cultivated '  virus  may  be  rendered  so 
trivial  as  to  be  scarcely  worth  notice.  His  method  consists  in  cultivating 
the  bacillus  in  meat-juice  or  chicken-broth,  to  which  access  of  air  is  per- 
mitted while  dust  is  excluded  ;  and  then  allowing  a  certain  time  to  elapse 
before  it  is  made  use  of  in  inoculation  experiments.  If  the  period  does 
not  exceed  two  months  the  potency  of  the  bacillus  is  little  diminished ; 
but  if  the  interval  be  extended  to  three  or  four  months,  it  is  found  that 
though  animals  inoculated  with  the  organism  take  the  disease,  they  have 
it  in  a  milder  form,  and  a  considerable  proportion  recover ;  whilst  if  the 
time  be  still  further  prolonged,  say  to  eight  months,  the  disease  pro- 
duced by  it  is  so  mild  as  not  to  be  at  all  serious,  the  inoculated  animals 
speedily  regaining  perfect  health  and  vigour." 

Now,  if  we  consider  what  has  been  done  in  this  case  we  shall  recog- 
nise the  probability,  if  not  the  absolute  promise,  of  protection  being 
obtained  against  some  of  the  most  terrible  of  the  diseases  which  affect 
the  human  race.  We  see  that  in  some  cases,  at  any  rate,  the  germs  of  a 
deadly  disease  may  be  so  "  cultivated "  that  the  disease,  though  com- 
municable by  the  altered  germs,  is  no  longer  fatal.  Now  we  know  that 
the  milder  attacks  of  scarlet  fever,  measles,  whooping-cough,  diphtheria, 
and  other  such  diseases,  produce  as  completely  protective  a  change  in 
the  constitution  of  the  patient  as  the  severest  forms  short  of  absolutely 
fatal  attacks.  We  see,  then,  that  even  had  no  experiments  been  made 


LIVING  DEATH-GERMS.  311 

to  determine  whether  the  disease  communicated  by  cultivated  germs  is 
protective,  there  would  be  good  reason  to  believe  that  it  is  so. 

But  such  experiments  have  been  made.  What  Pasteur  calls  the 
"  vaccination  "  for  the  "  anthrax  "  disease  has  been  shown  by  repeated 
experiments  to  be  absolutely  protective.  Prof.  Greenfield  has  vaccinated 
cattle  from  rodents  (gnawing  animals  like  rats,  squirrels,  <fec.)  witli  the 
"  anthrax  disease,"  and  has  found  that  they  remain  free  from  all  disoider, 
local  or  constitutional.  The  same  result  has  attended  M.  Toussaint's 
experiments  with  the  bacillus  "  cultivated  "  in  special  fluids,  not  in  the 
living  body  of  any  creature :  sheep  and  dogs  inoculated  with  this  cul- 
tivated poison  showing  no  form  of  the  deadly  "  anthrax"  disease. 

The  experiment  was  conducted  on  a  large  scale  under  the  auspices  ot 
the  provincial  agricultural  societies  of  France.  A  flock  of  fifty  sheep 
was  placed  at  M.  Pasteur's  disposal.  Of  these  he  vaccinated  twenty- five 
with  the  cultivated  "anthrax"  poison  on  May  3,  1881,  repeating  the 
operation  a  fortnight  later.  All  the  animals  thus  treated  passed  through 
a  slight  illness,  but  at  the  end  of  the  month  were  as  well  as  their  fellows, 
the  twenty-five  which  had  not  been  vaccinated.  On  May  31,  all  the 
fifty  were  inoculated  with  the  strongest  anthrax  poison  "  M.  Pasteur 
predicted  that  on  the  following  day  the  twenty-five  which  were 
inoculated  for  the  first  time  would  all  be  dead,  whilst  those  protected  by 
previous  '  vaccination '  with  the  mild  virus  would  be  perfectly  free  from 
even  mild  indisposition.  A  large  assemblage  of  agricultural  authorities, 
cavalry  officers,  and  veterinary  surgeons  met  on  the  field  the  next  after- 
noon to  learn  the  result.  At  two  o'clock  twenty- three  of  the  unprotected 
sheep  were  dead ;  the  twenty-fourth  died  an  hour  later,  and  the  twenty- 
fifth  at  four.  But  the  twenty-five  '  vaccinated  '  sheep  were  all  in  perfectly 
good  condition ;  one  of  them,  which  had  been  designedly  inoculated  with 
an  extra  dose  of  the  poison,  having  been  slightly  indisposed  for  a  few 
hours,  but  having  then  recovered." 

These  experiments  are  important  in  themselves.  The  French  owners 
of  flocks  and  herds  have  now  an  infallible  protection  against  the  deadly 
"  charbon  "  poison,  which  had  caused  serious  loss  to  nearly  all  of  them,  and 
ruinous  loss  to  not  a  few.  But  such  experiments  are  infinitely  more 
important  in  what  they  promise.  If  the  law  which  they  seem  to  indicate 
is  general,  if  every  kind  of  disease-germ  can  be  "  cultivated  "  so  as  to  be 
deprived  of  its  malignancy,  but  not  of  its  protective  agency,  then  we  may 
hope  to  see  cholera,  diphtheria,  measles,  scarlatina,  and  other  diseases 
brought  as  thoroughly  under  control  as  one  which  formerly  was  the  most 
deadly  of  them  all — small-pox. 

Let  us  here  pause  for  a  moment  to  consider  some  inquiries  which 
have  been  made  by  two  American  doctors,  H.  C.  Wood  and  Formad, 
under  the  direction  of  the  American  National  Board  of  Health,  into  the 
nature  of  the  poison  which  is  active  in  diphtheritic  epidemics.  Read  in 
the  light  of  what  Pasteur,  Toussaint,  and  Greenfield  have  done  with 
diseases  affecting  the  lower  animals,  the  inquiries  of  Drs.  Wood  and 


312  LIVING   DEATH-GERMS. 

Formad  are  full  of  promise  that  before  long  complete  protection  will  be 
found  against  the  fatal  disease,  diphtheria. 

They  had  shown  long  ago  that  shreds  of  diphtheritic  membrane, 
taken  from  the  throats  of  human  patients  and  used  for  the  inoculation  of 
rabbits,  produced  tubercular  disease,  and  also  that  the  false  membrane 
sup]  osed  to  be  characteristic  of  diphtheria  appears  as  a  result  of  severe 
inflammation  of  the  trachea,  however  produced.  But  now  they  have 
found  that  in  every  case  of  true  diphtheria  the  membranes  are  loaded 
with  minute  organisms,  micrococci,  while  the  blood  and  the  internal 
organs  of  patients  dying  from  the  disease  are  similarly  infected.  They 
have  ascertained  also  how  these  micrococci  destroy  life.  They  attack  the 
white  corpuscles,  or  leucocytes  in  the  blood.  These  lose  their  form,  and 
eventually  burst,  giving  exit  to  an  irregular  transparent  mass  packed 
with  micrococci.  Hence  a  new  and  multiplied  crop  of  blood  foes,  and, 
with  the  increased  destruction  of  the  white  corpuscles  of  the  blood,  the 
destruction  of  the  person  in  whose  veins  the  contaminated  blood  flows. 
They  showed  also  that  the  disease  can  readily  be  communicated  artificially 
from  animal  to  animal.  Another  fact  detected  by  Drs.  Wood  and 
Formad  is  of  extreme  importance,  as  showing  how  epidemics  of 
diphtheria  may  be  brought  about  as  a  development  of  the  malignancy 
of  sore  throats  not  hitherto  regarded  as  akin  to  diphtheria.  They  showed 
that  in  ordinary  sore  throat  as  well  as  in  the  diphtheritic  sore  throat 
the  micrococci  are  present,  differing  only  in  development  and  activity. 
In  other  words,  diphtheria  may  be  regarded  as  due  to  naturally 
cultivated  micrococci,  the  cultivation  being  of  such  a  kind  as  to  increase 
their  destructiveness. 

Some  experiments  by  Pasteur  illustrate  the  kind  of  cultivation  just 
mentioned.  "  It  is  not  a  little  curious,"  writes  Dr.  Carpenter,  "  that,  as 
culture  of  one  kind  can  mitigate  the  action  of  the  poison  germs,  so  culture 
of  another  kind  may  restore  or  even  increase  their  original  potency.  It 
has  been  found  by  Pasteur  " — in  the  case  of  the  "  anthrax  "  or  "  charbon  " 
poison — "  that  this  may  be  effected  by  inoculating  with  the  mitigated 
virus  a  new-born  guinea-pig,  to  which  it  will  prove  fatal ;  then  using  its 
blood  for  the  inoculation  of  a  somewhat  older  animal ;  and  repeating  this 
process  several  times.  In  this  way  a  most  powerful  virus  may  be  ob- 
tained at  will."  "  This  discovery,"  proceeds  Dr.  Carpenter,  "  is  not  only 
practically  available  for  experimental  purposes,  but  of  great  scientific 
interest,  as  throwing  light  upon  the  way  in  which  mild  types  of  other 
diseases  may  be  converted  into  malignant."  Dr.  Grawitz  has,  indeed, 
recently  asserted  that  even  some  of  the  most  innocent  of  our  domestic 
forms  of  disease-germs  may  be  changed  by  artificial  culture  into  disease- 
germs  of  the  most  destructive  nature. 

Of  the  importance  of  such  researches  as  those  made  by  Wood  and 
Formad,  some  conception  may  be  formed  when  we  note  that  the  deaths 
from  diphtheria  in  England  and  Wales  during  the  last  ten  years  have 
amounted  to  nearly  30,000,  or  to  more  than  half  as  many  again  as  have 
been  caused  by  small-pox. 


LIVING   DEATH-GERMS.  313 

We  have  seen  that  in  diseases  known  to  be  due  to  living  germs,  the 
circumstances  under  which  propagation  of  the  disease  takes  place  are  pre- 
cisely those  which  medical  science  recognises  in  the  propagation  of  small- 
pox, measles,  scarlet  fever,  and  other  so-called  zymotic  diseases.  We  have 
seen  further  that  a  modified  form  of  "  anthrax  "  (as  of  "  fowl-cholera  ")  can 
be  produced  which,  while  by  no  means  desti  uctive  of  life,  exerts  a  perfectly 
protective  influence.  We  should  be  justified  in  inferring  that  the  pro- 
tective influence  of  vaccination  is  similar  in  character,  were  it  not  that 
in  such  matters  science  requires  proof,  not  surmise,  or  even  highly  pro- 
bable inference.  For,  as  we  have  seen,  one  disease  can  no  more  be  pro- 
duced by  the  germs  of  another  disease  than  cats  from  dogs  (to  use  an  apt 
illustration  of  Miss  Nightingale's) ;  nor  can  one  disease,  so  far  as  any 
experiments  yet  made  seem  to  show,  exert  a  protective  influence  against 
another  entirely  distinct.  If  this  last  rule  were  absolutely  certain,  in- 
stead of  being  but  exceedingly  probable,  we  might  at  once  argue  that  the 
germs  which  produce  vaccinia  (the  disturbance  following  vaccination)  are 
simply  the  germs  of  small-pox  "  cultivated  "  by  residing  for  a  while  in 
the  blood  of  the  heifer.  For  vaccination  exerts  a  protective  influence 
against  small-pox,  and,  if  such  influence  can  only  be  exerted  by  the  small- 
pox disease  germs,  it  follows  that  the  disease-germs  in  the  case  of  vacci- 
nation are  the  same  in  kind  as  those  to  which  small-pox  is  due,  differing 
only  in  the  energy  with  which  they  attack  the  springs  of  life. 

But  science  is  not  content  to  take  such  matters  for  granted.  The 
relationship  between  small-pox  and  vaccination  has  been  definitely  put 
to  the  test.  Unfortunately  the  results  hitherto  obtained  have  not  been 
in  satisfactory  agreement.  Dr.  Thiele  of  Kasan,  forty  years  ago,  re- 
peatedly succeeded  (according  to  a  report  issued  under  Government 
authority)  in  producing  genuine  vaccination  by  inoculating  heifers  with 
small-pox  poison ;  and  having  done  this  he  used  this  artificial  vaccine 
matter  in  vaccinating  human  beings,  "its  protective  power  being  found 
fully  equal  to  that  of  the  natural  vaccinia."  But  not  only  so — at  that 
comparatively  remote  date,  Dr.  Thiele  unconsciously  cultivated  the 
small-pox  poison  germs  after  the  second  manner  described  above.  Ac- 
cording to  his  own  account,  and  his  own  erroneous  idea  as  to  the  mean- 
ing of  what  resulted,  he  diluted  the  small-pox  poison  with  warm  milk,  or, 
as  Pasteur  would  say,  he  cultivated  the  living  germs  in  warm  milk  ;  and, 
with  the  poison  thus  modified,  he  produced  vaccinia,  without  passing  the 
small-pox  poison  through  the  blood  of  the  cow  at  all.  Now  this  was 
thought  so  unlikely  to  be  true,  in  those  days,  that  Dr.  Thiele's  other 
statements  were  by  many  physicians  discredited,  and  this  particular  re- 
sult was  simply  ignored  by  subsequent  workers.  But  now,  at  any  rate, 
the  very  improbability  of  what  he  achieved,  according  to  the  views  pre- 
valent in  his  day,  should  cause  us  to  regard  with  all  the  more  confidence 
his  account  of  his  experiments.  For  no  man,  still  less  a  skilful  physician 
as  Dr.  Thiele  undoubtedly  was,  would  invent  experiments  with  impro- 
bable results.  If  he  invented  at  all  he  would  at  any  rate  invent  what 


314  LIVING  DEATH-GERMS. 

seemed  likely  to  be  true,  especially  if  the  experiments  were  such  as  could 
be  very  readily  repeated.  In  our  own  time  this  particular  experiment 
might  be  invented  by  a  dishonest  person,  the  result  being  altogether 
likely  to  be  right :  others  might  be  left  to  make  the  experiments  and  the 
credit  claimed  by  him  who  asserted  that  he  had  made  them  himself.  But 
in  Thiele's  time  it  was  very  unlikely  that  this  would  be  done.  It  seems, 
therefore,  exceedingly  probable,  so  far  as  his  account  is  concerned,  that  in 
the  first  place  a  modified  form  of  the  true  small- pox  poison  is  communi- 
cated in  vaccination,  and  in  the  second,  that  a  suitably  modified  form 
can  be  obtained  without  the  use  of  the  cow  at  all,  by  simply  cultivating 
the  small-pox  disease-germs  in  warm  milk. 

But  simultaneously  with  Dr.  Thiele's  researches  others  were  made  in 
this  country  by  Mr.  Ceely,  of  Aylesbury,  which  led  to  results  not 
exactly  contrary  to  those  by  Dr.  Thiele,  but  which  were  certainly  less 
satisfactory.  He  was  able  to  produce  an  eruption  in  cows  inoculated 
with  small-pox  virus,  and  the  disease  was  transmissible  to  the  human 
subject;  but  it  resembled  small-pox  rather  than  vaccinia,  and  its  trans- 
mission by  inoculation  did  not  produce  what  the  best  judges  considered 
as  genuine  cowpock.  It  was  allowed  to  die  out. 

We  may  suggest  in  passing,  as  a  possible  cause  of  the  difference  thus 
observed  between  Ceely 's  and  Thiele's  results,  some  difference  in  the 
length  of  time  allowed  to  elapse  after  the  small- pox  virus  was  transmitted 
to  the  cow.  It  may  be  necessary,  in  making  such  experiments,  to  recall 
Pasteur's  experiments  with  "  fowl-cholera,"  when  it  was  found  that  the 
potency  of  the  bacillus  was  only  sufficiently  reduced  after  the  lapse  of  a 
considerable  time. 

On  the  contrary  the  experiments  made  a  few  years  later  than  Ceely's 
by  Mr.  Badcock,  of  Brighton,  were  similar  in  their  results  to  those  made 
by  Dr.  Thiele.  Dr.  Carpenter,  who  has  been  able  to  examine  the  record 
kept  by  Mr.  Badcock's  son,  states  that  Mr.  Badcock  "  inoculated  his 
cows  with  small-pox  virus  furnished  to  him  from  an  unquestionable 
source,  and  that  this  inoculation  produced  vesicles  which  were  pro- 
nounced by  some  of  the  best  practitioners  of  Brighton  to  have  the  cha- 
racters of  genuine  vaccinia,  while  the  lymph  drawn  from  these  vesicles, 
and  introduced  by  inoculation  into  the  arms  of  children,  produced  in 
them  vaccine  vesicles  of  the  true  Jennerian  type.  "  Free  exposure  of 
some  of  these  children  to  small-pox  infection,"  adds  Dr.  Carpenter, 
"  showed  them  to  have  acquired  a  complete  protection,  and  the  new  stock 
of  vaccine  has  been  extensively  diffused  through  the  country,  and  has 
been  fully  approved  by  the  best  judges  of  true  vaccinia  both  in  London 
and  the  provinces.  Mr.  Simon,  writing  in  1857,  stated  that  from  the 
new  stock  thus  obtained  by  Mr.  Badcock  (not  only  once  but  repeatedly), 
more  than  14,000  persons  had  been  vaccinated  by  Mr.  Badcock  himself, 
and  that  he  had  furnished  supplies  of  his  lymph  to  more  than  4,000 
medical  practitioners.  And  I  learn  from  Mr.  Badcock,  jun.,  who  is  now 
a  public  vaccinator  at  Brighton,  that  this  stock  is  still  in  use  in  that  town 
and  neighbourhood." 


LIVING  DEATH-GERMS.  315 

These  results  seem  decisive.  But  against  them  we  must  set  the  fai- 
lures of  attempts  made  by  Professors  Chauveau  and  Burdon  Sanderson, 
by  Belgian  physicians  who  have  recently  conducted  experiments  in  this 
direction,  and  the  earlier  experiments  of  Ceely.  But  as  Dr.  Carpenter 
well  remarks,  failures  cannot  be  regarded  as  negativing  the  absolute  and 
complete  successes  obtained  by  Thiele  and  Badcock.  We  can  perhaps 
learn  from  a  careful  study  of  the  failures  the  conditions  on  which  suc- 
cess and  failure  may  depend.  But  a  single  success  is  absolutely  decisive ; 
because,  as  we  have  seen,  persons  inocxtlated  with  the  poison  germs  ob- 
tained from  the  cows  experimented  on  by  Thiele  and  Badcock  were 
found  to  be  fully  protected  against  the  deadly  small-pox  poison — a  re- 
sult which  there  can  be  no  mistaking. 

It  is  gratifying  to  know  that  neither  Chauveau  nor  Burdon  Sander- 
son consider  their  failure  as  negativing  decisively  the  results  obtained  by 
Thiele  and  Badcock.  A  reinvestigation  of  the  matter  is  to  be  carried  on 
before  long,  and  as  Mr.  Badcock,  sen.,  himself  is  able  and  willing  to 
give  all  necessary  information  as  to  the  way  in  which  his  researches  were 
carried  on,  there  is  every  prospect  that  the  secret  of  success  in  such  re- 
searches will  be  discovered.  We  venture  to  predict  with  considerable 
confidence  that  the  new  researches  will  unmistakeably  confirm  those  of 
Badcock  and  Thiele. 

In  the  meantime  let  us  note  some  experiments  which  are  full  of  pro- 
mise in  another  direction. 

Anti-vaccinationists,  not  concerned  by  the  terrible  mischief  which  has 
followed  the  attempts  of  their  followers  to  escape  vaccination,  continue 
their  outcry  against  what  they  call  legalised  poisoning,  and  often  with  suc- 
cess, especially  in  America,  where  there  is  no  settled  system  of  compulsory 
vaccination.  But,  when  there  are  outbreaks  of  malignant  small-pox,  those 
who  have  seemed  to  agree  with  the  anti-vaccinationists  are  found  singu- 
larly ready  to  seek  the  protection  which  vaccination  affords;  and  in 
America  they  are  not  only  willing  to  be  vaccinated  themselves  in  such 
cases,  but  eager  to  pass  municipal  enactments  for  compulsory  vaccination. 
It  seems,  however,  that  even  independently  of  the  vaccination  of  the 
healthy,  there  is  a  resource  by  which  safety  can  be  secured  in  cases  of 
epidemic  small-pox,  and  the  disease  quickly  stamped  out.  The  impor- 
tance of  this  will  be  recognised  when  we  consider  the  probability  that 
protective  means  will  before  long  be  found  in  the  case  of  other  diseases, 
and  the  extreme  unlikelihood  that  (for  many  years  to  come)  all  adults 
would  consent,  except  perhaps  in  times  of  epidemics,  to  be  inoculated 
with  the  specific  poisons  of  other  diseases  than  small-pox. 

Dr.  Payne,  late  Professor  of  the  Theory  and  Practice  of  Medicine  in 
the  Southern  Medical  College,  Atlanta,  noticed,  as  far  back  as  1846, 
when  at  the  Small-pox  Hospital  in  New  York,  that  the  initial  fever  of 
small-pox  can  be  detected  by  the  pulse  for  some  time  before  any  other 
symptom  appears.  The  pulse  is  peculiar,  and  difficult  to  describe  ;  "  but 
recognisable  by  any  physician  who  will  patiently  and  carefully  investigate 


316  LIVING  DEATH-GERMS. 

the  subject  until  his  finger  becomes  educated."  "  When  once  recognised," 
says  Professor  Payne,  "  it  can  never  be  forgotten,  any  more  than  the 
peculiar  thrill  imparted  to  the  finger  by  the  pulse  of  a  patient  who  has 
lost  large  quantities  of  blood  by  haemorrhage  can  be  forgotten  by  a 
physician  who  has  once  learned  to  detect  it." 

Now  Dr.  Payne,  whenever  he  recognises  the  initial  fever  in  this  way, 
at  once  vaccinates  the  patient.  If  this  is  done  within  ten  or  twelve  hours 
after  the  initial  fever  of  small-pox  has  set  in,  the  patient  will  have  but  a 
slight  illness,  will  show  no  trace  of  eruption,  and  will  be  thenceforth  as 
perfectly  safe  from  a  recurrence  of  the  disease  as  if  he  had  had  small- 
pox in  its  most  malignant  form.  A  still  more  remarkable  feature  of 
the  case  is  this,  that  if  the  patient  is  vaccinated  after  the  initial  fever 
sets  in,  be  can  go  about  where  he  pleases  without  any  fear  of  imparting 
the  disease  to  others.  The  ingrafting  of  the  vaccine  matter  upon  the 
primary  small-pox  fever  seems  to  destroy  its  ability  of  reproduction  or 
propagation  entirely.  (Here,  of  course,  it  is  to  be  noted,  that  its  power 
of  reproduction  by  actual  re  vaccination  remains,  but  that  its  power 
of  reproduction  in  the  ordinary  way  in  which  small-pox  spreads  is 
destroyed,  just  as  in  vaccination.)  "  Another  peculiarity,"  says  Dr. 
Paye,  "  is  this ;  if  an  unprotected  patient  is  vaccinated  before  the 
beginning  of  the  fever,  and  the  vaccine  takes,  but  does  not  prevent,  only 
modifies  the  disease,  the  eruption  will  be  like  that  of  variola  in  its  appear- 
ance and  characteristics.  But  if  vaccinated  after  the  commencement  of 
the  initial  fever,  and  too  late  to  entirely  prevent  an  eruption,  the  eruption 
will  resemble  in  size  and  character  the  small-pox  eruption.  There  is,"  he 
adds,  "  as  great  a  difference  in  the  appearance  of  the  varioloid  and 
small-pox  eruption  as  there  is  between  grey  and  yellow." 

Dr.  Payne  relates  a  very  interesting  case  illustrating  his  method  of 
dealing  with  cases  of  small-pox,  first  where  the  patient  had  not  been 
vaccinated  in  good  time,  and  later  with  those  who  showed  signs  of  the 
initial  fever.  In  1873  an  epidemic  of  small-pox  broke  out  in  Virginia, 
the  small-pox  being  of  the  variety  known  as  variola  riigra,  and  when  not 
modified  by  some  benign  influence  was  invariably  confluent.  Both  in 
and  around  Manassas  the  cases  were  of  the  same  kind.  Being  called  on 
to  attend  a  coloured  servant-girl,  who  was  ill  in  a  room  over  the  kitchen 
of  a  large  hotel  near  his  own  dwelling,  he  recognised  in  her  the 
pulse  peculiar  to  small-pox,  and  next  day  the  eruption  appeared.  "  I 
saw,"  he  says,  "it  would  never  do  to  remove  this  woman,  and  I 
determined  to  isolate  the  case,  and  abide  the  consequences,  be  they  what 
they  might.  If  I  have  her  removed  the  poor  woman  will  die,  and  the 
prevailing  winds  will  blow  the  poison  for  miles  down  the  valley  below, 
and  the  disease  will  spread  beyond  control.  But  should  she  die  (of  which 
there  is  strong  probability)  my  plans  will  be  defeated.  Firm  in  faith  of 
the  greatest  good  to  the  greatest  number,  I  said  to  myself, '  If  she  dies,  I 
will  wrap  her  from  her  toes  to  the  crown  of  her  head  in  double  linen, 
and  with  the  aid  of  some  one  who  has  had  the  small-pox,  I  will  bury 


LIVING  DEATH-GERMS.  ',M7 

her.'  "  Luckily  she  recovered.  "  Three  persons  who  were  in  the  room 
at  the  time  were  ordered  to  report  to  the  Doctor  twice  daily.  One 
showed  the  peculiar  pulse  on  the  24th  ;  he  was  then  vaccinated,  and  after 
being  indisposed  for  two  days  (but  without  eruption)  recovered.  The 
others,  who  had  been  vaccinated  before,  did  not  take  it. 

In  one  case,  a  family  of  eight  persons,  "  poor  and  shiftless  coloured 
people,"  occupied  a  house  in  which  there  was  only  one  room,  and  where 
good  air  and  cleanliness  were  impossible.  The  father  suffered  from  a 
very  malignant  attack  of  varioloid  and  was  terribly  scarred,  but  the  rest 
of  the  family,  none  of  whom  had  ever  been  vaccinated  before,  were  vac- 
cinated after  the  initial  fever  began,  and  escaped  with  slight  attacks.  In 
another  case,  where  a  whole  family  were  exposed  to  the  infection,  he 
vaccinated  the  father  and  two  sisters,  but  an  old  aunt  who  had  not  been 
vaccinated  for  many  years,  refused  to  be  vaccinated,  being  attacked 
by  varioloid.  The  day  after  vaccinating  the  father  and  sisters,  a  brother 
who  had  returned  showed  the  peculiar  pulse.  Dr.  Payne  vaccinated  him 
at  once,  and  the  next  day  his  arm  looked  as  if  he  had  been  vaccinated 
eight  days  before ;  it  rapidly  became  sore ;  he  was  indisposed  for  two  or 
three  days,  and  recovered  without  a  single  sign  of  eruption.  These  cases 
are  taken  from  a  report  of  Dr.  Payne's  experiments  in  the  /Scientific 
American.  Dr.  Payne's  plan  has  been  tried  in  more  than  a  hundred 
cases,  extending  over  a  period  of  thirty-four  years,  without  a  single 
failure. 

Supposing  that  what  has  been  shown  to  be  true  of  small-pox  is  true 
also  of  other  malignant  diseases,  a  haven  of  safety  is  in  view,  though  it 
may  be  that  some  time  must  elapse  before  it  can  be  reached.  The  germ 
peculiar  to  each  disease  has  to  be  made  the  subject  of  special  study.  The 
proper  habitat  for  such  "  cultivation "  as  shall  result  in  mitigating  the 
virulence  of  its  action  has  to  be  determined,  and  the  degree  of  protective 
power  remaining  after  cultivation  has  to  be  ascertained.  Next  the 
indications  of  the  initial  stage  of  each  form  of  disease  have  to  be  recog- 
nised,* and  the  effects  of  inoculation  with  the  mitigated  disease  deter- 
mined. When  this  has  been  done  (always  on  the  assumption  we  have 
made  that  what  seems  most  probably  true  is  really  so),  "  plague  and 
pestilence "  will  no  longer  be  feared  as  they  now  are.  Isolation  of 
those  first  attacked  from  the  rest  will  go  a  great  way  to  diminish  the 
risk  of  the  infection  spreading.  A  careful  watch  for  the  signs  of  the 
initial  fever  among  those  exposed  to  infection  will  do  the  rest,  if  due 
measures  are  taken  in  every  case  when  the  initial  fever  shows  itself. 

And  as  the  inquiries  of  Pasteur  and  his  fellow- workers  seem  thus  to 
indicate  a  haven  of  safety,  so  also  do  they  show  the  presence  of  concealed 
rocks,  of  dangers  heretofore  unnoticed.  What  Pasteur  showed  respect- 

*  It  may  well  be  that  in  many  cases,  instead  of  the  comparatively  rough  test 
of  feeling  the  pulse,  the  use  of  the  sphygmograph,  or  some  other  instrument  for 
determining  minute  changes  in  the  character  of  the  pulse,  may  be  required. 


318  LIVING  DEATH-GEEMS. 

ing  the  deadly  "  anthrax  "  has  its  analogue,  we  may  be  sure,  in  diseases 
affecting  the  human  race.  Dangers  lurk  where  none  would  suspect  them, 
and  where  only  the  keen  eyes  of  the  trained  science-worker  can  find 
them.  The  poison-germ  may  attack  through  the  alimentary  canal  in 
the  food  we  eat,  through  the  lungs  in  the  air  we  breathe,  as  well  as 
directly  through  the  blood-current.  Disease  and  death  may  lurk  in  a 
dress,  a  child's  toy,  a  lock  of  hair,  a  letter,  or  a  carpet.  Neither  time 
nor  distance  avails  to  destroy  the  fatal  infection. 

We  may  note  lastly  a  point  to  which  attention  has  been  directed  by 
Dr.  Andrew  Wilson,  in  Knowledge,  that  the  practical  and  actual 
benefits  which  have  flowed  to  human  health,  and  which  are  likely  to 
flow  in  the  future  as  well — "  the  saving  of  life  by  the  prevention  and 
extermination  of  disease  " — have  arisen  from  a  simple  study  in  natural 
history.  So-called  practical  minds  are  often  given  to  loudly  express  their 
disapproval  of  any  science  which  deals  with  what  to  them  seem  mere 
abstractions.  Doubtless  to  such  minds  the  study  of  the  development  of 
the  "  rods "  cf  splenic  fever  under  a  watch-glass  must  seem  a  piece  of 
scientific  dilettantism,  just  as  information  respecting  the  solar  system 
may  seem  despicable  enough,  because  its  results  cannot  be  measured  by 
a  profitable  currency,  or,  in  plain  language,  because  it  does  not  seem  to 
pay.  The  best  answer  to  such  reasoning  is  found  in  the  recital  of  the 
results  to  human  and  animal  life,  to  which  studies  in  an  apparently  un- 
important field  of  research  in  natural  history  have  led  and  seem  likely 
to  lead  mankind. 

E.  A.  P. 


319 


:  a: 


THE  most  salient  features  of  a  region  are  not  always  its  most  character- 
istic ones,  those  which  a  longer  and  a  better  acquaintanceship  stamps 
upon  our  memories  as  final.  Roughly  speaking,  all  acquaintanceship 
with  scenery  may  be  said  to  come  under  one  or  other  of  two  heads  :  to  be 
either  extrinsic  or  intrinsic — the  point  of  view,  namely,  of  the  man  that 
looks  at  it  from  the  inside,  or  of  the  man  that  looks  at  it  from  the  out- 
side ;  in  other  words,  that  of  the  tourist  and  that  of  the  native.  With  the 
former  everything,  or  nearly  everything,  depends  upon  first  impressions. 
Should  things  go  ill  then  for  him,  that  scenery  is  destined  ever  after  to 
remain  blotted  with  the  mists  that  enshrouded  it  during  his  visit,  or, 
worse  still,  environed  with  the  discomforts  endured  at  that  diabolical  inn, 
whose  evil  memory  stands  out  as  the  most  prominent  fact  of  his  travels. 
He  is  also  (unless  possessed  of  unusual  strength  of  mind)  much  at  the 
mercy  of  his  guide-book ;  still  more  perhaps — at  all  events  in  Ireland — at 
that  of  his  local  Jehu.  Pursued  with  the  terror  of  not  seeing  everything, 
he  as  a  consequence  sees  little,  and  that  little  unsatisfactorily.  The  native, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  troubled  with  none  of  these  things.  He  keeps  to 
his  own  ground,  and  he  knows  it  well ;  its  roads,  lanes,  fields,  ditches, 
dykes — probably  its  sheep,  cows,  and  pigs.  Here,  however,  as  a  rule,  he 
stops.  Beyond  his  own  parish,  or  his  own  boundary,  he  knows  and 
professes  to  know  nothing.  Why  should  he  1  He  is  not  a  tourist  nor 
yet  a  land  surveyor;  why  should  he  trouble  himself,  therefore,  to  go 
poking  about  over  mountains  and  moors,  especially  out  of  the  shooting 
season  ?  Now  and  then,  however,  one  happens  to  come  across  a  being 
who  does  not  fall  strictly  speaking  into  either  one  or  other  of  these  cate- 
gories ;  who  is  not  tied  by  the  ties  and  shackled  by  the  shackles  of  the 
resident,  and  who,  on  the  other  hand,  does  not  believe  in  the  possibility 
of  exploring  an  entire  tract  of  country,  and  plucking  out  the  whole  heart 
of  its  mystery  within  a  space  of  twenty-four  hours ;  who  has  a  prejudice, 
too,  in  favour  of  forming  his  own  views  unbiassed  by  the  views  of  his 
predecessors.  Now  if  in  this  particular  region  named  in  my  heading  I 
were  happy  enough  to  find  myself  in  the  company  of  such  a  discriminating 
traveller  as  this,  what  course  should  I  suggest  his  pursuing  in  order  as 
quickly  as  may  be  to  come  at  the  main  facts  and  features  of  its  topography  ] 
All  things  considered,  I  should  suggest  his  first  and  foremost  clambering 
up  to  the  top  of  one  of  the  neighbouring  mountains — there  are  no  lack, 
fortunately,  to  choose  from — and  there,  having  first  seated  himself  as 
comfortably  as  may  be  upon  an  obliging  boulder,  to  proceed  leisurely  to 


320  IAR-CONNAUGHT :   A  SKETCH. 

spell  at  the  main  features  of  the  scene  below,  so  as  to  secure  some  general 
notion  of  its  character  previous  to  studying  it  in  greater  detail.  Before 
doing  this  it  may  be  as  well  for  me  to  state,  however,  a  little  more 
definitely  what  and  where  this  same  region  of  lar-Connaught  is,  since, 
beyond  a  general  impression  that  it  is  somewhere  or  other  in  Ireland,  it 
is  by  no  means  impossible  that  some  of  my  readers  may  be  completely 
at  sea  as  to  its  whereabouts.  lar,  or  West  Connaught,  then,  is,  or 
rather  was,  the  original  name  for  the  whole  of  the  region  now  known  to 
the  tourist  as  Connemara,  with  the  addition  of  a  further  strip  of  country 
stretching  eastward  as  far  as  the  town  of  Galway.  This  latter  and 
more  familiar  name  would  seem  to  have  crept  gradually  into  use,  and 
its  limits  consequently  to  have  never  been  very  accurately  defined.  In 
the  generality  of  maps  and  guide-books  it  will  be  found  to  begin  at  a 
line  drawn  from  somewhere  about  the  south-east  side  of  Kilkieran  Bay 
to  the  upper  end  of  Lough  Corrib — a  wholly  imaginary  line  where  no 
boundary  whatsoever  exists ;  west  of  this  line  being  called  Connemara, 
while  the  name  of  lar  or  West-Connaught  is  usually,  though  obviously 
improperly,  assigned  to  the  remaining  or  south-eastern  portion.  Any 
one  who  will  glance  at  the  map  of  Ireland  will  see  the  natural  boun- 
daries of  the  region  at  a  glance.  A  great  lake — the  second  or  third 
largest  in  the  kingdom — extends  nearly  due  north  and  south,  cutting 
the  county  of  Galway  into  an  eastward  and  a  westward  portion.  This 
lake  is  only  separated  from  the  sea  by  a  narrow  neck  of  land  barely  four 
miles  wide,  which  neck  of  land  is  again  divided  into  east  and  west  by 
the  salmon  river — dear  to  all  fishermen — which  falls  into  the  sea  just 
below  the  town.  Between  this  and  the  Atlantic  the  whole  region  to 
the  westward  is  more  or  less  mountainous  ground,  some  of  the  highest 
summits  in  Ireland  falling  within  its  area;  while,  on  the  other  side,  no 
sooner  do  we  leave  the  coast  than  we  get  upon  that  broad  limestone  plain 
which  occupies  the  whole  centre  of  Ireland.  Taking  all  this  into  con- 
sideration, it  will,  I  think,  be  admitted  that  the  original  boundaries  are 
as  good  as  need  be,  and  that  whether  we  call  the  region  lar-Connaught  or 
Connemara,  it  is  better  to  abide  by  them  than  by  the  newer  and  more 
obviously  arbitrary  ones.  North,  again,  the  boundary  of  our  region 
coincides  pretty  closely  with  those  of  the  counties  Mayo  and  Galway ; 
and  here,  too,  what  we  may  call  the  natural  frontier  is  veiy  sharply 
and  clearly  defined ;  the  Killary  Bay  stretching  its  long  arm  some  ten 
miles  or  so  inland,  while  from  the  other  side  a  long  loop  or  "  coose  "  at 
the  southern  extremity  of  Lough  Mask  stretches  seaward  in  friendly 
fashion  to  meet  it ;  the  intermediate  space  being  occupied  by  the  Lake 
Nafooey,  and  the  various  streams,  small  and  big,  which  flow  in  and 
out  of  it.  North  of  this,  again,  we  have  two  more  mountain  ranges  : 
the  Fornamore,  which,  with  Slieve  Partry  and  the  hill  called  the  Devil's 
Mother,  forms  a  single  continuous  train  of  summits ;  while  to  the  west, 
on  the  further  side  of  the  Killary  Bay,  rise  the  great  mountain-mass  of 
Mweelrea  and  its  two  brother  peaks ;  the  whole  constituting  a  sort  of 


IAR-COXNAUGHT  :    A   SKETCH.  321 

fraternity  or  community  of  mountains,  separated  by  the  sea  or  inter- 
vening plains  from  every  other. 

And  now  to  return  to  our  much-enduring  traveller,  who  has  been 
left  "  poised  in  mid-air  upon  the  giddy  top  "  of  one  of  the  Bennabeolas 
(commonly  known  as  the  Twelve  Pins),  and  whose  patience  will  pro- 
bably be  at  an  end  before  he  has  begun  even  to  acquire  his  lesson. 

The  first  thing  certain,  I  think,  to  strike  anyone  who  attains  to 
at  all  an  extended  view  over  lar-Connaught  is  the  extraordinary 
extent  to  which  land  and  water  have  here  invaded,  or  rather,  so  to 
speak,  interpenetrated,  one  another.  To  a  more  or  less  extent  this  of 
course  is  characteristic  of  all  rugged  coasts,  but  here  it  would  really 
seem  as  if  the  process  must  have  attained  its  maximum.  Looking  out 
from  x>ur  eyrie  over  the  surrounding  country,  the  general  effect  is  as 
though  the  sky  had  been  dropping  lakes  upon  the  land,  and  the  land  in 
return  had  been  showering  rocks  upon  the  sea.  Westward,  where  the 
two  great  headlands  of  Angrus  and  Slyne  Head  jut  into  the  sea,  we 
see,  between  their  outstretched  points,  and  to  right  and  left  of  them,  and 
far  out  over  the  sea  in  every  direction,  an  infinite  multitude  of  island 
points,  dark  above,  gleaming  and  glittering  below,  where  the  sun  catches 
upon  their  wave-washed  sides.  Some  of  these  islands  are  gathered  together 
into  clusters;  others  are  single  or  in  scattered  groups.  Round  islands, 
long  islands,  oblong  islands ;  islands  of  every  shape  and  size,  from  the 
tiny  illauns  and  carrigeens,  which  barely  afford  a  foothold  to  the  passing 
gull,  up  to  the  respectable-sized  islands  of  Inishbofin  and  Inishturk, 
which  boast  their  populations  of  five  and  six  hundred  inhabitants  apiece, 
and  carry  on,  or  did  until  lately  carry  on,  a  considerable  traffic  in  kelp, 
receiving  in  return  poteen  and  such  other  necessaries  of  life  as  are  not 
as  yet  grown  upon  the  islands.  Now  if,  turning  our  eyes  away  from 
the  sea,  we  look  inland,  we  shall  see  that  the  same  sort  of  general  effect 
presents  itself,  only  that  here  the  elements  are  reversed.  Here  the  sea 
has  everywhere  invaded  and  taken  possession  of  the  land.  Try  to 
follow  one  of  its  glittering  arms  to  its  end,  and  when  you  think  you 
have  seen  the  last  of  it,  lo !  it  reappears  on  the  other  side  of  some 
small  summit,  winding  away  in  intricate  curves  and  convolutions  far 
as  the  eye  can  see.  As  for  the  lakes,  they  are  endless,  bewildering,  past 
all  power  of  man  to  count  or  to  remember.  With  all  the  Celt's  talent 
for  bestowing  appropriate  names  upon  the  objects  with  which  he  finds 
himself  surrounded,  here  nature  has  been  too  many  for  him,  a  large  pro- 
portion of  these  lakes  having,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  received  no  names 
at  all.  Indeed,  even  to  know  them  apart  is  quite  sufficiently  perplexing. 
Lough  Inagh  and  Derryclare,  perhaps,  with  their  wooded  islands ;  Bal- 
linahiach,  with  its  castle  and  its  salmon  streams  ;  Kylemore  Lake  in  its 
wooded  glen,  and  Lough  Muck  and  Lough  Fee,  filling  up  the  deep  gorge 
which  stretches  seaward  between  two  steep  cliffs  ;  these,  and  perhaps  some 
dozen  or  so  more,  we  may  distinguish  readily  enough  ;  but  who  will 
undertake  to  give  an  account  of  the  countless  multitude  of  loughs  and 

VOL.  XLV. — NO.  267.  16. 


322  IAR-CONXAUGHT  :    A  SKETCH. 

lougheens,  drift-basins,  bog-basins,  and  rock-basins,  which  stud  the 
•whole  face  of  the  country  between  Lough  Corrib  and  the  sea  ?  Look 
at  the  low  ground  south  of  Clifden  and  between  us  and  Slyne  Head  ! 
You  might  compare  it  with  a  looking-glass  starred  with  cracks,  or 
to  a  net,  of  which  the  strands  stood  for  the  ground,  and  the  inter- 
mediate spaces  for  the  water  !  Many,  too,  of  these  lakes  lie  far  away 
out  of  every  one's  reach,  and  are  never  seen  at  all,  or  only  once  a  year, 
perhaps,  by  some  turf-cutter,  on  his  way  to  a  distant  bog,  or  some 
sportsman  taking  a  fresh  cast  in  hopes  of  coming  upon  that  pack  of 
grouse  someone  is  reported  to  have  seen  in  this  direction.  Others, 
again,  lie  high  up  upon  the  mountain  sides,  often  close  to  the  very 
summit,  where  they  are  still  less  likely  to  be  seen,  though  any  one  who 
will  take  the  trouble  of  clambering  xip  in  search  of  them  will  find  that 
few  things  are  more  beautiful  in  their  way  than  these  little  desolate 
tarns,  set  about  with  huge  rocks,  yet  so  clear  that  every  modulation  of 
the  skies  may  be  seen  reflected  on  their  surface.  Most  striking  of  these, 
perhaps,  are  the  so-called  "  corries  " — bowl-shaped  hollows,  usually  flat- 
bottomed,  and  cut  out  of  the  solid  rock.  Often  a  whole  series  of  these 
may  be  seen  lying  parallel  to  one  another  upon  the  vertical  sides  of 
precipices  ;  the  effect  from  below  being  very  rrmch  as  if  so  many  mouth- 
fuls  had  been  bitten  out  of  the  cliff.  Some  of  these  corries  contain 
water  ;  others  again  are  dry.  When  full  they  are  usually  partly  formed 
of  drift,  which,  accumulating  at  the  mouth  of  the  hollow,  hinders  the 
water  from  escaping.  As  to  their  origin,  geologists  differ  not  a  little, 
some  maintaining  that  they  are  due  to  direct  ice  action,  and  chiefly 
for  the  following  reasons  :  first,  that  they  differ  entirely  from  hollows 
made  by  any  other  agencies;  secondly,  that  nothing  in  the  least  re- 
sembling them  is  now  being  formed  by  the  sea ;  and,  thirdly,  that  they 
cannot  possibly  be  due  to  the  ordinary  meteoric  agents — rain,  snow, 
wind,  running  water,  &c. — since  these  very  agents  are  at  present  busily 
engaged  in  smoothing  them  away.  Others,  equally  entitled  to  our  con- 
fidence, maintain,  first,  that  other  agents  besides  ice  are  perfectly 
capable  of  making  similar  hollows ;  secondly,  that  the  sea  is  at  this 
very  moment  engaged  in  scooping  out  small  coves  and  cooses,  which,  if 
raised  in  a  general  elevation  of  the  land,  would  in  time  present  an 
appearance  very  similar  to  these  hill  corries,  such  as  we  now  see  them  ; 
and  thirdly,  that  the  original  cause,  or  at  any  rate  the  chief  agent, 
must  have  been,  not  ice,  but  faults  and  dislocations  in  the  rock,  aided 
subsequently  by  glacial  or  marine  action.  Where  experts  differ  to  such 
an  extent,  how,  it  may  be  asked,  is  the  humble  inquirer  to  steer  his 
modest  course  ? 

But  we  are  not  dependent  upon  rock  corries  for  our  evidence  of  ice 
action  in  this  neighbourhood ;  we  meet  it  in  ten  thousand  different  forms. 
In  fact  there  is  probably  no  district  in  Great  Britain  wThere  its  sign- 
manual  has  been  written  in  plainer  or  more  legible  characters.  In  thia 
respect  our  Bennabeola  range  is  of  special  interest,  as  from  it,  rather 


IAR-CONNAUGHT  :    A  SKETCH.  323 

than  from  either  of  the  neighbouring  and  rival  ranges,  is  held  to  have 
spread  that  great  ice-sheet  whose  effects  are  so  plainly  visible  upon 
every  scratched  stone  and  crag-rounded  hill-side  within  an  area  of  sixty 
miles.  Why  it  should  have  spread  here  is,  however,  at  first  by  no  means 
obvious.  On  the  conti'ary,  it  would  at  first  sight  seem  more  likely  that 
from  the  higher  and  on  the  whole  bulkier  mass  of  Mweelrea  and  its 
brother  peaks  would  have  come  that  impetus  which  has  thus  stamped 
itself  upon  all  the  country  round.  But  no — they  have  been  swept 
across  by  ice  coming  from  this  direction.  This  has  been  very  well  and 
clearly  shown  in  an  admirable  little  memoir  on  the  subject  published 
some  years  since  by  Messrs.  Close  and  Kinahan.*  "  The  ice  stream,"  say 
these  authors,  "  has  passed  on  and  moved,  not  only  against  Croagh 
Patrick,  but  farther  northward  against  the  range  of  the  Erris  and 
Tyrawley  mountains.  Although  partly  forced  out  of  its  way  by  them,  it 
has  nevertheless  streamed  across  them — certainly  through  their  passes, 
e.g.  that  of  Coolnabinnia  on  the  west  side  of  Nephin  (as  shown  by  the 
striations  on  the  summit  of  Tristia,  nearly  1,100  feet  above  the  sea),  that 
of  Lough  Feeagh  (witness  the  striations  on  the  side  of  Buckoogh  at 
1,200  feet),  and  that  of  Ballacragher  Bay  near  Molranny  (as  evidenced 
by  the  striations  in  Corraun  Achill  on  the  north-west  side  of  Clew  Bay) ; 
in  all  these  cases  the  movement  of  the  red  sandstone  blocks  corroborates 
the  evidence  of  the  striations." 

As  to  the  further  question  of  why  this  and  not  the  Mweelrea  range 
should  have  been  selected  for  the  honour  of  being  the  local  "  birthplace 
of  glaciers,"  that  is  believed  to  be  due,  partly  to  the  fact  that,  though 
less  high,  these  Bennabeolas  form  on  the  whole  a  more  compact  mass- 
than  the  Mayo  group;  but  still  more  to  the  circumstance  of  the  latter 
having  been  robbed  of  their  full  share  of  snow  by  the  former,  which, 
stretching  further  to  the  south-west,  then  as  now  were  the  first  to  inter- 
cept the  moisture-laden  winds  of  the  Atlantic.  Instead,  however,  of 
curdling  into  cloud  and  discharging  themselves  in  sheets  of  rain  as  they 
do  at  present,  their  burden  was  then  flung  down  in  the  form  of  snow,, 
which,  hardening  and  consolidating  into  ice,  rapidly  accumulated  in  the 
valleys,  heaped  itself  up  over  every  hillside,  in  many  instances  burying 
the  very  summits  themselves  under  what  was  practically  a  huge  super- 
imposed mountain  of  solid  ice. 

Though  often  spoken  of  as  a  glacier,  this,  it  must  always  be  remem- 
bered, is  not  what  in  Switzerland  and  elsewhere  is  understood  by  a 
glacier  at  all.  In  picturing  to  ourselves  the  state  of  things  which  must 
once  have  existed  in  these  islands,  we  are  too  apt  to  draw  all  our  ideas 
and  illustrations  from  these  Swiss  Alps — the  only  perpetually  snow- 
clad  region  with  which  most  of  us  have  any  practical  acquaintance. 
Now  nothing  can  be  more  misleading.  In  Switzerland  the  glaciers 
only  exist  down  to  a  cei'tain  well-defined  line,  where,  being  met  by  the 

*   Glaciation  of  lar-Connaught  and  its  Neighbourhood.     G.  H.  Kinahan,  M.K.I.A., 
and  Rev.  Maxwell  H.  Close. 

16—2 


324  IAR-CONNAUGHT  :    A   SKETCH. 

•warm  air  of  the  valleys,  they  pass  away  in  the  milky  torrents,  familiar  to 
any  one  who  has  stood,  for  instance,  beside  the  Rhone,  and  seen  it  pour  its 
white  volumes  into  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  where,  leaving  behind  it  all  the 
heavier  and  more  insoluble  part  of  its  burden,   it  issues  gaily  upon  the 
further  side,  the  bluest  of  blue  rivers  leaping  to  the  sea.     Here,  how- 
ever, a  very  different  order  of  things  from  this  existed.     The  ice  which 
has  scraped  and  planed  these  hill-sides  was  not  in  fact  a  glacier  at  all. 
No  puny  glacier,  such  as  hills  of  this  height  could  alone  have  given  birth 
to,  would  ever  have  reached   a  tithe  of  the  distance  covered  by  this 
mighty  stream,  one  arm  of  which  alone  has  been  traced  the  whole  way 
up  the  valley  of  Lough  Mask,  and  out  at  Killala  Bay,  a  distance  of 
over  sixty  miles ;  while  how  much  further  it  went  no  human   being 
of  course  can  tell,  all  further  traces  of  it  being  henceforth  hidden  by 
the   sea.      To  find  a   region  where  ice   is   now   really  moulding  and 
fashioning    the   landscape,   as   it   once   moulded    and    fashioned  these 
Galway  valleys  and  hillsides,  we  must  go,  not  to  Switzerland  or  to  any 
temperate  region  at  all,  but  to  a  very  much  less  comfortable  part  of  the 
world — to  Greenland  and  the  icy  shores  of  Baffin's  Bay.     There,  in  the 
grim  and  gruesome  regions  of  the  "  central  silence,"  few,  if  any,  of  the 
phenomena  familiar  to  us  in  Switzerland  are  to  be  seen ;  no  tall  peaks 
rising  out  of  green  laughing  valleys  ;  no  glaciers  with  their  wrinkled  ice 
falls,  their  blue  crevices,  and  their  brown  moraines  ;  everything,  save  a 
few  here  and  there  of  the  highest  summits,  being  hidden  away  under  a 
huge  all-encompassing  death-shroud  of  snow  and  ice,   from  which  all 
life,  and  nearly  all  movement,  have  vanished.     So,  too,  it  must  once  have 
been  with  our  Twelve  Pins,  and  with  all  the  region  round  about.     They 
too  have  known  what  it  is  to  be  smothered  up  in  ice  and  snow ;  ice 
which  in  this  instance  must  have  risen  high  above  their  heads,  as  its 
handiwork  can  be  seen  written  upon  the  crags  at  the  summit ;  though 
how  many  feet  or  hundreds  of  feet  higher,  it  would  doubtless  puzzle 
even  the  best  and  most  experienced  of  geologists  to  decide. 

Meanwhile  we  must  not  expend  the  whole  of  the  time  at  our  dis- 
posal upon  one  mountain  summit,  but  must  hasten  away  to  other 
though  not  perhaps  necessarily  more  attractive  scenes. 

I  just  now  said  that  lar-Connaught  was  a  land  of  lakes;  but,  if  so, 
it  is  even  more  emphatically  a  land  of  streams.  Go  where  we  will  our 
ears  are  filled  with  the  noise  of  running  water.  Streams  drop  upon  us 
from  the  rocks,  dash  across  the  road  under  our  feet,  and  appear  un- 
expectedly in  all  directions.  Many,  too,  of  the  lakes  are  united  to  one 
another  by  streams — strung  together,  as  it  were,  upon  a  thin  silvery  thread 
of  water.  Not  many,  certainly,  of  these  streams  attain  to  any  very  great 
volume,  but  what  they  lack  in  size  they  more  than  make  up  for  by 
their  multitude.  Larger  ones,  such  as  the  Erriff  and  Joyce's  River,  are 
fed  by  an  infinite  number  of  small  rivulets,  which  come  racing  down  the 
hillsides  from  a  thousand  invisible  sources,  and  after  prolonged  rains  the 
hills  appear  literally  streaked  with  white,  so  closely  do  the  torrents  lie 


IAR-CONXAUGHT  :    A  SKETCH.  325 

together.  Where  smaller  streams  find  their  own  way  to  the  sea,  their 
course -is  often  impeded  and  almost  obstructed  by  the  mass  of  stones  and 
detritus  which  they  have  themselves  brought  down  from  the  hills. 
Walking  up  one  of  these  stream-sides,  one  is  often  fairly  astounded  at 
the  size  and  the  number  of  these  blocks.  Boulders,  varying  from  the 
size  of  a  hencoop  to  that  of  a  comfortable-sized  cottage,  strew  the  bed  of 
the  stream,  witnesses  of  a  thousand  forgotten  storms.  In  the  wider 
portions  these  get  often  piled  up  into  small  rocky  islands,  where  sods  of 
peat  lodge,  and  where  the  young  birch  and  mountain  ash  spring  up  safe 
from  the  tooth  of  marauding  sheep  or  goats.  It  is  in  the  narrower 
portions,  however,  where  the  stream  has  had  to  saw  a  channel  for  itself 
through  the  hard  face  of  the  rock  that  the  boulders  become  jammed  and 
accumulate  to  such  an  extraordinary  degree,  often  filling  the  narrow 
channel  to  the  very  brim,  and  obliging  the  water  to  escape,  as  best  it 
can,  in  a  series  of  small  gushes  and  separate  torrents,  which  meet  again 
in  a  tumultuous  rush  below  the  obstruction.  No  one  can  wander  much 
over  this  district  without  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  these  streams 
are  very  much  smaller  most  of  them  now  than  they  once  were.  Several 
facts  point  to  this  conclusion.  Even  after  the  heaviest  rains  their  present 
carrying  power  is  certainly  insufficient  to  enable  them  to  transport  the 
enormous  blocks  with  which  we  find  their  course  encumbered ;  added  to 
which  the  channels  themselves  are  often  much  larger  than  are  at  present 
needed,  and  in  some  instances,  as  along  the  course  of  the  Erriff  River,  are 
being  actually  now  filled  up  with  bog.  Indeed,  when  we  remember  how 
lately  the  whole  of  this  district  was  one  great  forest,  traces — melancholy 
traces — of  which  are  to  be  seen  in  every  direction ;  when  we  come  upon 
stumps  of  oak  high  up  upon  the  bleak  hill-sides,  where  now  nothing 
taller  than  the  bilberry  or  the  bog  myrtle  grows ;  when,  on  the  other 
hand,  pushing  out  from  the  shore,  we  look  over  our  boat-side  and  see 
the  big  "  corkers  "  rising  up  out  of  the  marl  and  sand  in  which  their 
roots  lie  buried — seeing  all  this,  and  remembering  how  invariably  the 
destruction  of  forests  is  followed  by  a  diminution  of  rainfall,  it  is  not 
difficult  to  believe  that,  numerous  as  are  these  streams  and  rivers  now, 
they  were  once  more  numerous,  and  certainly  very  much  larger  than  they 
are  at  present. 

North  of  Gal  way  Bay  the  country  is  comparatively  flat,  and  there  the 
rivers  run  chiefly  between  low  ridges  or  hills  of  drift,  whose  sides  are 
thickly  strewn  with  the  omnipresent  granite  boulders  which  there  form 
such  a  prominent  feature  in  the  landscape.  Much  of  this  district  is 
uninteresting  and  monotonous  enough,  yet  even  here  the  scenery  along 
the  river  edge  is  often  full  of  interest  and  beauty.  As  often  as  the 
stream  takes  a  bend,  a  little  triangular  patch  of  intensely  fertile  ground 
accumulates  upon  the  convex  side,  where  the  river  year  by  year  has 
deposited  a  share  of  the  spoil  which  it  has  elsewhere  filched.  These 
little  fertile  plots  are  taken  advantage  of,  and  respectable  crops  of  oats 
and  potatoes  grown  right  up  to  the  brink  of  the  water,  which  is  only  too 


326  IAR-CONNAUGHT  :    A  SKETCH. 

apt  to  overflow  and  destroy  them  when  a  freshet  comes  down  from  the 
hills.  Here  too,  for  the  same  reason,  grow  the  loosestrifes  and  meadow- 
sweets, not  scattered  as  elsewhere,  but  in  a  dense  variegated  jungle,  which 
is  repeated,  leaf  for  leaf  and  petal  for  petal,  in  the  smooth  brown  currents 
below.  Nowadays  the  region  is  but  a  very  thinly  populated  one.  Looking 
around  us,  we  see  in  every  direction  rows  upon  rows  of  granite  boulders 
lifting  their  grey  sides  out  of  the  purple  heather,  while  in  one  direction, 
perhaps,  and  in  one  direction  only,  a  cottage,  or  a  couple  of  cottages, 
scarcely  less  grey  and  time-worn,  may  be  seen  peering  disconsolately  over 
the  little  hills.  As  for  trees,  often  for  long  distances  the  stunted, 
much-enduring  thorn-bushes  are  the  only  representatives  of  these  to  be 
seen  ;  then  a  corner  is  turned,  and  suddenly,  out  of  the  wild  melancholy 
moor,  the  stream  rushes  all  at  once  into  a  tiny  glen  or  valley  green  with 
brushwood,  and  gay  with  Osmunda  and  bell-heather  and  half-submerged 
willow-herbs — a  genuine  scrap  of  the  old  forest,  where  the  gnarled  oak 
stumps  have  sent  up  young  shoots,  and  where  the  birch  and  willow  and 
mountain  ash  dip  downward  so  as  almost  to  touch  the  water ;  then 
-another  turn,  and  the  glen  is  left  behind,  and  we  are  out  once  more  in  the 
-open  moor.  No  better  way  of  getting  to  know  this  country  can  be  devised 
than  by  following  the  vagrant  course  of  one  of  these  streams  from  its 
source  to  its  finish,  though  it  must  be  owned  that  the  walking  is  far 
from  invariably  delightful.  Where  footpaths,  with  stiles  or  holes  in  the 
walls,  have  been  left  for  the  benefit  of  fishermen,  there  matters,  of  course, 
are  simplified ;  this,  however,  is  quite  the  exception.  Generally  the  ex- 
plorer has  to  make  his  own  way  over  the  tottering  lacework  walls,  whose 
stones  have  a  most  uncomfortable  predisposition  to  fall  upon  his  toes. 
When  there  are  bridges,  which  is  seldom,  they  usually  consist  of  a  few 
logs,  supported  and  covered  over  with  huge  stones  in  a  primitive  and 
Cyclopean  fashion.  On  smaller  streams  the  bridges  are  of  loose  stones 
-only,  the  central  arch  being  flanked  right  and  left  with  lesser  ones,  so  as 
to  allow  the  water  in  flood-time  to  escape.  More  often  still  there  are  no 
bridges  at  all,  or  only  at  intervals  so  wide  as  to  be  practically  useless ; 
he  is  forced,  therefore,  to  find  out  his  own  crossing,  choosing  between 
stumping  bodily  through  the  stream,  or  picking  his  steps  along  the  slimy 
tops  of  the  stones,  where  the  water  rushes  and  races  under  his  feet  at  the 
rate  of  some  forty  miles  an  hour,  or  slips  by  in  those  long  oily  curves 
which  always  seem  to  draw  our  eyes  down  to  them  whether  we  will 
or  no.  Nor  is  this  the  only  or  even  the  chief  part  of  his  difficulties. 
What  with  crossing  and  re-crossing  the  stream ;  now  skirting  along 
where  the  projecting  rocks  nearly  push  him  into  the  water ;  now  out 
again  into  the  open,  clambering  over  huge  boulders  crouched  like  petrified 
dragons  or  mammoths  in  his  path ;  now  picking  his  steps  through 
squelching  bog-holes,  or,  again,  balancing  upon  tussocks  which  give 
way  under  his  tread — what  with  all  this,  and  the  endless  climbing 
of  walls,  the  explorer  who  has  conscientiously  followed  one  of  these 
streams  through  all  its  windings  and  doublings  will  find  that  he  has 


IAE-CONNAUGHT  :    A  SKETCH.  327 

about  had  his  full  share,  and  something  more  than  his  fair  share,  of 
walking  by  the  time  he  again  reaches  home.  In  wild  weather,  when  the 
wind  is  from  the  Atlantic,  gales  blow  straight  up  these  glens,  cutting 
the  tops  off  the  small  waves  as  they  come  careering  over  the  stones,  and 
apparently  doing  their  best  to  drive  the  water  up-stream  again.  A 
salmon  leap  is  a  fine  sight  on  such  a  day  as  that.  The  water,  no  longer 
a  series  of  insignificant  trickles,  comes  down  in  a  broad  yellow  gush, 
sending  out  great  flakes  of  foam  before  it,  to  be  carried  back  by  the 
wind  and  lodged  in  creamy  clots  upon  the  trees  and  upon  every  scrap  of 
herbage  within  reach.  On  such  days,  the  whole  glen  above  the  fall  may 
often  be  seen  through  a  sheet  of  finely  divided  spray,  caught  from  the 
fall  and  flung  backwards  by  the  wind.  Standing  above  the  leap,  and 
looking  down,  we  may  see  the  big  salmon  and  white  trout  crowding  in 
the  pool  below  us,  their  heads  held  well  up-stream,  despite  the  tug  of 
the  current  in  the  opposite  direction.  Now  and  then  one  detaches  him- 
self from  the  rest,  leaps  upward,  quivers  a  moment  in  mid-air,  and  then, 
in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  falls  headlong  down  into  the  pool  again.  The 
height  to  which  both  salmon  and  white  trout  will  spring  on  these  falls  is 
astonishing,  a  leap  of  eight  and  ten  feet  being  by  no  means  unusual ;  and, 
however  often  defeated,  after  a  few  moments'  rest  the  same  salmon  may 
be  seen  returning  again  and  again  to  the  assault.  When  thus  intent 
upon  business  the  fish  seem  to  lose  all  their  natural  shyness,  as  if  every 
faculty  was  for  the  moment  concentrated  wholly  in  the  effort  to  teach 
the  upper  waters.  Leaning  over  the  rocks  alongside  of  the  salmon  leap, 
we  may  stoop  so  as  to  actually  touch  with  a  stick  the  smooth  brown 
backs  so  temptingly  near  at  hand,  and  we  shall  find  that  they  take  little 
or  no  notice,  merely  moving  to  one  side,  without  for  a  moment  relaxing 
in  their  efforts  to  reach  the  top — a  trait  which  unfortunately  has  the 
effect  of  making  them  fall  only  too  easy  a  prey  to  the  local  poacher.  No 
art  of  any  sort  is  required  to  spear  a  salmon  when,  spent  and  exhausted, 
it  reaches  the  top  of  its  climb.  Armed  with  a  gaff — one  extemporised 
out  of  a  scythe — the  loafing  "  gossoon  "  or  village  ne'er-do-weel  may  pick 
and  choose  amongst  a  crowd  of  salmon  and  white  trout,  and  the  silvery 
scales  which  catch  the  eye  here  and  there  amongst  the  wet  grass  are  a 
proof  only  too  convincing  that  he  has  not  neglected  his  opportunities. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  this  part  of  lar-Connaught  the  presence  of 
the  granite  largely  influences  the  character  of  the.,  landscape.  Where 
limestone  predominates  we  usually  get  peculiarly  transparent  effects, 
delicate  aerial  greys  and  blues  everywhere  prevailing.  On  the  other 
hand,  limestone  is  cold,  and  even  when  weathered  the  rocks  seldom 
present  any  particular  beauty  of  detail.  Granite,  on  the  contrary,  lends 
itself  peculiarly  to  richness  of  colouring,  no  foreground  being  so  rich  as 
a  foreground  of  granite  rocks.  Here,  too,  the  granite  has  an  especial 
beauty  of  its  own,  from  the  presence  of  large  pink  or  violet  crystals  of 
feldspar,  which  in  weathered  places  frequently  stand  out  in  bold  relief, 
as  though  handfuls  of  pale  amethysts  had  been  sprinkled  loosely  over 


328  IAR-COXNAUGHT  :    A  SKETCH. 

the  surface.  Lichens,  too,  of  a  peculiar  brilliancy  and  beauty  cling  to 
the  granite,  so  that  whatever  else  is  wanting  to  the  picture  we  may 
always  count  upon  a  foreground  of  ever-varying  beauty  and  interest. 
A  few  of  these  boulders  might  nevertheless  be  spared  with  advantage  J 
The  multitude  strewn  broadcast  over  the  whole  face  of  the  country 
here  is  almost  past  belief,  and  increases  perceptibly  as  we  approach 
the  sea — here  cropping  up  in  the  middle  of  a  potato  patch — there  built 
into  the  sides  of  a  cabin — now  raised  en  stalks  showing  the  amount 
of  wear  and  tear  which  has  gone  on  since  they  took  their  place — now 
sunk  deep  in  the  ground  with  only  a  corner  appearing  above  the  brown 
turf  mould.  Many  show  signs  of  having  fallen  from  a  height,  lying 
broken  as  they  fell,  not  flung  about  in  fragments,  but  seamed  through 
and  through  with  a  single  crack,  which  has  been  further  prized  open  by 
small  stones  falling  in  at  the  top  and  gradually  working  their  way  to 
the  bottom  ;  others  again  stand  perched  high  overhead,  or  balanced  upon 
the  very  brink  of  a  cliff,  as  though  ready  to  be  launched  upon  some 
aerial  voyage.  Foreign  rocks,  quartzes,  sandstones,  and  mica-schists, 
coming  from  the  other  side  of  the  country,  mingle  occasionally  with  the 
granite,  all  contrasting  strongly,  in  their  rough-hewn  masses,  with  the 
smooth  glacier-ground  rocks  upon  which  they  rest,  and  which  are  as 
smooth  and  as  polished  still  as  if  the  great  ice- plane  had  only  left 
them  yesterday. 

Now  that  we  are  approaching  the  coast  we  find  that  our  stream 
widens.  Strengthened  by  a  couple  of  contributions,  it  has  swollen 
well-nigh  to  the  proportions  of  a  river.  No  longer  champing  and 
churning,  fretting  against  every  stone  in  its  bed,  it  rolls  silently, 
conscious  that  at  last  it  is  nearing  its  destiny.  Now  fast  and  fleet, 
but  with  hardly  a  sound,  it  swirls  along  under  the  tottering  banks, 
raking  out  all  the  loose  stones  and  water- weeds ;  now  widening  into  a 
mimic  lake,  and  then  again  narrowing  as  it  rushes  between  two  steeply 
overhanging  rocks.  The  last  corner  is  turned.  The  grey  hills  of  Clare 
rise  over  the  parapet  of  the  little  bridge ;  between  them  and  us  flash  the 
waters  of  the  bay,  with  perhaps  a  solitary  "  pookhaun  "  or  "  hooker  " 
working  upon  their  way  to  Galway  ;  under  the  bridge  darts  the  stream, 
and  with  a  flash  and  a  ripple,  and  a  quick  noisy  rattle  over  the  stones, 
it  has  taken  its  last  leap,  and  flung  itself  rejoicing  into  the  arms  of 
the  sea. 

From  the  hills  we  have  wandered  to  the  rivers ;  from  the  rivers  let  us 
now  glance  for  a  few  minutes  along  the  shore.  Leaving  Galway  with 
its  fringe  of  villas  and  of  bathing-houses  behind  us,  the  road  runs 
westward  for  many  a  mile,  along  a  low  coast,  varied  only  by  an 
occasional  ridge  or  "  esker  "  of  granite  drift.  The  shore  itself  mainly 
consists  of  loosely  piled  boulders,  alternating  with  small  sandy  bays ; 
the  most  unprofitable  of  all  shores,  by  the  way,  for  the  marine  zoologist, 
whose  game  is  apt  to  be  uprooted  with  every  tide.  Here  and  there, 
however,  long  reefs  project  seaward,  and  these  being  seamed  with  fissures 


IAR-COXXAUGHT  :    A  SKETCH.  329 

are  worth  exploring  when  they  can  be  reached,  which  generally  is  only 
at  the  dead  low  tide.  As  we  advance  we  find  ourselves  passing  over  an 
endless  succession  of  low  drift-hills  with  intervening  valleys  choked  with 
boulders,  the  road  keeping  steadily  west,  the  country  growing  wilder  and 
wilder  with  every  mile.  At  Barna  a  small  grove  of  trees  is  passed,  with 
grass  and  ferns  growing  rich  and  rank  beneath  their  shadow.  The 
trees  themselves  are  nothing  very  particular, — a  few  moderate  sized 
oaks,  with  ash,  and  a  sprinkling  of  sycamores,  and  elsewhere  doubt- 
less pass  "them  without  a  glance;  here,  however,  we  turn  to  look  at 
them  again  and  again  with  an  interest  quite  pathetic,  sighing  regret- 
fully as  we  pass  out  into  the  grey  desolate  moorland  again.  It  were 
worth  spending  a  few  weeks  in  lar-Connaught,  if  only  to  learn  to 
appreciate  trees  for  the  future  !  Still  on  and  on,  and  on,  mile  after 
mile,  over  a  treeless,  almost  featureless  tract,  abounding  in  stones  and 
abounding  in  very  little  else.  A  police  barrack,  green  with  ivy,  up 
which  some  dog-roses  are  creeping,  is  greeted  with  enthusiasm.  So, 
too,  are  a  couple  of  villas,  through  whose  gates  we  catch  a  pleasant 
vista  of  haycocks,  and  children  playing,  with  the  rocks  and  the  tumbled 
surf  beyond.  Turning  away  from  this  somewhat  lamentable  foreground, 
we  fix  our  eyes  upon  the  range  of  terraced  hills  which  stretch  beyond 
the  bay,  and  further  yet  again  to  where  a  line — worn  by  distance  to  a 
mere  thread — shows  where  the  far-famed  cliffs  of  Moher  lift  their  six 
hundred  feet  of  rock  above  the  sea.  Westward  again,  the  three  isles  of 
Aran  stream  across  the  horizon,  so  low  and  grey  as  hardly  to  be  visible, 
save  where  the  surf  catches  against  their  rock-girt  sides;  yet,  looking 
intently,  we  can,  even  at  this  distance,  distinguish  the  huge  outline  of 
Dun  Connor,  the  great  rath  which  crowns  the  middle  island,  and  whose 
watch-fires  when  lighted  must  have  been  visible  along  the  entire  line  of 
coast  from  the  Mayo  hills  to  the  mountains  of  Kerry.  About  Spidal 
the  scenery  begins  to  improve.  Far  in  the  distance  the  Twelve  Pins 
once  more  come  into  sight,  long  chains  of  lakes  stretching  northward 
to  their  very  feet.  Near  Tully  the  coast  is  broken  up  into  small  brown 
creeks,  where  turf  is  being  dug  at  low  tide ;  islands  dot  themselves  about 
in  the  bay  beyond ;  a  substantial-looking  row  of  coastguard  houses 
presently  rises  into  sight,  with  chimneys  hospitably  smoking ;  yet  another 
half-mile,  and  we  find  ourselves  brought  up  short  by  the  discovery  that 
our  road  ends  abruptly,  all  further  advance  in  this  direction  being  hope- 
lessly at  an  end.  We  have  in  fact  arrived  at  a  regular  cul-de-sac — one 
of  the  many  to  be  found  in  lar-Connaught.  Only  one  road  of  any 
kind  extends  beyond  this  point,  and  that  merely  lands  us  at  a  fishing 
lodge  some  three  miles  or  so  further  on.  To  reach  the  mountains 
which  we  see  so  distinctly  before  us,  we  must  either  retrace  our 
steps  to  Spidal,  and  so  round  by  Oughterard,  a  distance  of  over  forty 
miles,  or  else  take  to  the  moors,  and  try  to  make  our  own  way  across 
country,  an  attempt  which  would  probably  result  in  our  having  to  crave 
hospitality  for  the  night  at  some  cabin  door,  the  chances  of  reaching  any 


330  IAR-CONNAUGHT  :    A  SKETCH. 

other  shelter  before  nightfall  being  problematical  to  a  degree.  A  more 
unfrequented  and  a  more  unbefriended  region  is  perhaps  hardly  to  be 
found  in  Her  Majesty's  dominions  than  that  same  stretch  of  country 
between  Cashla  and  Roundstone  Bay.  Life  there  is  indeed  reduced  to 
the  very  elements.  A  few  villages  exist,  thinly  scattered  over  its  sur- 
face, but  hardly  any  roads  connecting  them — none  certainly  over  which 
vehicles  with  springs  could  travel.  Everywhere,  too,  the  land  is 
invaded  by  long  arms  of  sea,  still  further  increasing  the  difficulties  of  com- 
munication. For  instance,  as  the  crow  flies,  the  distance  between  this 
point  and  lioundstone  is  barely  twenty  miles  ;  whereas,  if  the  coast-line 
were  followed,  it  would  probably  be  found  to  extend  to  fully  five  times 
that  length.  The  variety  of  sea-board,  too,  is  extraordinary ;  many  of 
the  islands  being  separated  from  the  mainland  by  the  merest  streak  of 
sea,  the  promontories,  on  the  other  hand,  being  in  several  instances  con- 
nected by  strips  of  land  so  low  that  a  depression  of  a  few  feet  would 
result  in  the  setting  free  of  a  fresh  crop  of  islands.  The  best,  indeed  the 
only,  way  of  exploring  this,  the  wildest  bit  of  all  lar-Connaught,  is  to 
take  boat,  and  to  sail  from  headland  to  headland,  and  in  and  out  of 
the  archipelagoes  of  islands,  which  choke  up  every  bay,  and  lie  scattered 
in  a  thick  fringe  along  the  coast.  There  are  several  landing-places,  but 
the  most  convenient  probably  will  be  found  to  be  Roundstone,  where 
the  harbour  is  good,  and  a  pier,  built  when  dreams  of  an  Atlantic  packet 
station  were  in  the  air,  stands  ready  for  us  to  moor  up  our  yacht  or 
hooker.  Here,  too,  is  an  hotel,  and  here,  if  the  traveller  is  a  naturalist, 
he  can  hardly  do  better  than  spend  a  few  days,  for  not  only  is  the  shore 
itself  unusually  rich  in  zoology,  but  in  the  bay  below  he  will  find  perhaps 
the  best  dredging-ground  to  be  met  with  along  the  entire  line  of  coast. 
From  Roundstone  the  road  lies  direct  to  Clifden,  which  claims,  and  fairly 
claims  I  suppose,  to  be  the  capital  of  our  mountain  region.  Thence, 
turning  northward,  we  bowl  along  the  wide  coaching  road,  through  the 
refreshingly  clean  little  village  of  Letterfrack ;  through  the  valley  of 
Kylemore,  where  the  towering  crest  of  the  Diamond  stands  a  glittering 
sentry  over  our  heads ;  under  steep  wooded  banks  ;  past  more  lakes  and 
glens,  and  across  a  valley  floored  with  bog,  until  we  suddenly  find  that 
we  have  come  full  circle,  and  are  back  again  at  the  foot  of  the  Twelve 
Pins,  the  place  from  which  we  originally  started. 

Two  more  remarks  before  I  end.  First  as  to  the  question  of  popu- 
larity, or  rather  lack  of  popularity.  It  is  undeniable  that  few  regions 
equally  come-at-able,  and  equally  admittedly -striking  and  picturesque, 
find  so  few  admirers,  not  to  say  lovers,  as  Connemara.  People  come  and 
go,  drive  along  its  roads,  fish  in  its  lakes,  and  even  praise  it  after  a 
fashion,  but  grudgingly  ;  they  break  into  no  raptures,  as  for  instance  over 
Killarney.  and,  what  is  still  more  significant,  they  seldom  show  any 
particular  desire  to  return  to  it  again.  Now  this  probably  may  be  set 
down  to  a  combination  of  causes.  Its  hotels,  for  one  thing,  are  not 
(with  one  or  two  exceptions)  by  any  means  equal  to  the  demands  of 


IAR-CONNAUGHT  :    A  SKETCH.  331 

modern  sophistication ;  and  this,  deny  it  who  will,  is  a  very  import- 
ant factor  in  the  matter.  When  a  man's  cogitations  are  secretly  turn- 
ing upon  the  badness  of  his  breakfast,  and  the  yet  more  doubtful 
prospect  which  awaits  him  at  dinner,  he  is  seldom,  it  must  be  owned, 
in  the  mood  for  very  warmly  appreciating  scenery — especially  when  that 
scenery  is  admittedly  somewhat  of  the  bleak  and  hungry  kind.  Then, 
again,  there  is  another  and  a  very  serious  matter — the  weather  !  With- 
out going  into  the  vexed  and  oft-disputed  question  as  to  whether  this 
part  of  Ireland  or  the  west  of  Scotland  is  the  worst  and  the  wettest,  it 
may  be  admitted  at  once,  and  without  further  question,  that  it  is  bad — 
very  bad  indeed.  Even  while  in  the  very  act  of  abusing  it,  however, 
it  is  only  fair  to  add  that  to  this  very  badness,  fractiousness,  what 
you  will,  of  the  climate  the  scenery  owes  a  share,  and  to  my  mind  a 
by  no  means  inconsiderable  share,  of  its  charm.  The  actual  landscape 
doubtless  is  fine,  but  the  actual  landscape  is  nothing,  literally  nothing, 
until  you  have  seen  it  under  a  dozen  different  moods  :  now  grey  and 
sullen ;  now  fierce  and  passionate  ;  now,  when  you  least  expect  it,  flashing 
out  smile  after  smile,  as  only  an  Irish  landscape  can  smile  when  the  sun 
suddenly  catches  it  after  a  spell  of  rain.  At  all  events  I  can  personally 
vouch  for  the  fact  of  long-continued  dry  weather  being  anything  but  be- 
coming to  the  scenery.  Wanting  the  moisture  which  lends  them  atmo- 
sphere and  distance,  the  mountains  lose  their  aerial  tints,  become  dull 
and  grey,  oppressed  as  it  were  with  their  own  nakedness.  I  remember 
(the  statement,  by  the  way,  is  not  perhaps  a  particularly  credible  one) — 
nevertheless  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  do  remember  a  summer  in  the  west  of 
Ireland,  when  for  weeks  together  not  a  shower  fell.  The  loughs  sank  low 
in  their  beds  of  rock ;  the  bogs,  seamed  with  cracks,  showed  as  dry  as 
so  many  high  roads ;  the  grass  turned  brown ;  the  flowers  withered ; 
the  mountains,  hard  as  iron,  stood  out  with  every  muscle  in  their  stony 
anatomy  brought  into  the  strongest  possible  relief ;  now  and  then  a  wind 
got  up,  but  no  rain  fell ;  every  atom  of  moisture  seemed  to  have 
vanished  out  of  the  atmosphere,  and  from  morning  till  night  the  sun 
shone  down  with  the  same  broad,  unwinking  persistency.  It  was  exactly 
what  everybody  had  always  been  wishing  and  sighing  for,  but  somehow 
when  it  came  no  one  appeared  particularly  gratified,  and  I  can  recall 
no  very  genuine  expression  of  regret  when  at  last  one  morning  we  got 
up  to  find  that  the  sky  had  lost  its  brazen  look,  and  that  the  greys 
had  once  more  resumed  their  dominion.  Nowhere,  perhaps,  in  the  world 
are  there  such  greys  as  here — pale  greys,  dark  greys,  greys  tinted  with 
blue,  and  with  green,  and  with  rose-colour ;  greys  merging  and  melting 
into  one  another,  and  into  every  other  tint  imaginable.  Yet  nowhere, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  the  colouring  more  gorgeous  when  now  and  then 
the  sky  does  take  a  colouring  fit.  See  it  at  the  coming  on  of  rain ! 
A  minute,  perhaps,  ago  sky  and  sea  were  cloudless  ;  suddenly  as  you  look 
again  the  clouds  have  gathered,  struck  against  the  cold  sides  of  the 
mountains,  and  begun  to  descend  in  rain,  which  goes  sweeping  like  a  pall 


332  IAK-CONNAUGHT   :  A  SKETCH. 

along  the  whole  length  of  the  valley,  brushing  against  the  flanks  of  the 
mountains,  and  passing  away  eastward,  to  be  followed  by  a  rapid  burst 
of  sunshine,  bringing  out  the  colours  of  the  wet  grass  and  smoking  rocks ; 
in  its  turn  passing  on,  reappearing  for  an  instant  in  fantastic  patches  of 
light  upon  the  distant  slopes,  and  then  again  being  swallowed  up  in  the 
wide-spreading  darkness  of  another  sudden  storm.  The  brilliancy  and 
swift  chromatic  changes  of  these  alternate  sun-bursts  and  rain-squalls  are 
indescribable,  and,  when  seen  from  a  height  where  they  can  be  followed 
across  a  wide  stretch  of  mountain  and  sea,  they  constitute  a  never-failing 
panorama — a  drama  the  incidents  of  which  are  perpetually  varying. 
One  is  in  fact  tempted  to  dwell  far  too  much  upon  these  transitory  effects, 
because  in  a  climate  so  capricious  it  is  they  rather  than  the  [permanent 
features  which  create  the  most  vivid  and  lasting  impressions.  Looking 
back  into  that  private  picture-gallery  which  most  of  us,  consciously  or 
unconsciously,  carry  about  with  us,  two  scenes  at  this  moment  start  into 
my  memory,  and  both,  as  will  be  seen,  owe  the  fact  of  their  being  remem- 
bered at  all,  not  certainly  to  anything  in  the  actual  scenery,  but  wholly 
and  solely  to  the  disposition  of  the  lights  and  atmosphere. 

The  first  was  an  effect  of  early  morning  seen  from  a  window  over- 
looking a  wide  tract  of  comparatively  low-lying  land,  sodden  with  recent 
rain,  where  small  pools  caught  the  eye,  leading  it  on  to  a  large  fresh- 
water lough  which  lay  beyond.  Across  this  tract  lay  the  arch  of  a  rain- 
bow, stretching  from  the  grey  of  the  water  to  the  pale  green  of  the  hill- 
sides above.  Not  a  rainbow  which  came  and  vanished,  but  a  rainbow 
which  hovered  and  lingered ;  now  fading  until  it  was  all  but  invisible, 
now  unexpectedly  flaring  into  sudden  splendour  again.  And  behind, 
the  nearest  hills  were  vague  and  dim  with  mist,  while  the  distant  ones 
were  wholly  hidden  under  a  vast  and  capacious  cloud-canopy,  through 
which  a  pale  sun  shone  upon  the  lough,  so  that  it  gleamed  like  a 
tarnished  shield.  All  the  greens  and  blues  had  vanished  out  of  the 
landscape,  but  the  yellows  seemed  brighter  than  ever ;  the  highest  note 
of  all  being  struck  where  the  foam,  driven  in  a  long  sinuous  line  across 
the  lough,  was  washed  in  a  broad  palpitating  drift  against  the  yellow 
sand. 

The  second — an  effect  of  a  very  different  kind — occurred  at  the  end 
of  one  of  those  utterly  hopeless  days  when  the  weather,  after  holding  out 
some  slight  promise  in  the  morning,  settles  down  to  rain  with  a  dull  and 
dogged  self-satisfaction,  as  if  it  never  had  rained  before.  For  an  hour  or 
more  we  had  been  tramping  homeward,  knee-deep  in  drenching  heather, 
and  had  just  reached  the  crest  of  a  ridge,  overlooking  the  bay  and  the 
dull  grey  flanks  of  the  opposite  hills ;  already  the  sun  had  set  behind 
fourfold  walls  of  cloud  without  showing  itself,  and  without  a  moment's 
intermission  of  the  pelting  rain.  Suddenly,  when  we  least  expected  it, 
an  arrow  of  red  light  was  seen  to  shoot  across  the  leaden-coloured  sky. 
Another  and  another  followed.  Layer  after  layer  of  clouds  caught  the 
glow,  until  the  whole  heavily-laden  floor  of  heaven  was  burning  with  an 


IAR-CONNAUGHT  :    A  SKETCH.  333 

intense  and  terrible  conflagration,  out  of  the  very  midst  of  which  bars  of 
molten  metal  appeared  to  rise,  writhing  and  melting  as  in  a  furnace. 
Across  all  this  swept  a  few  lighter  clouds,  driven  by  the  wind,  each 
tipped  with  an  edge  of  light,  too  intensely  luminous  to  be  looked  at.  A 
rush  of  colour,  caught  from  the  sky,  spread  itself  over  the  dull  face  of  the 
bay,  the  very  stream  at  our  feet  being  tinged  with  the  pale  opal-coloured 
tints.  Nor  was  this  all ;  for  the  clouds,  which  had  been  rolling  over- 
head, began  suddenly  to  descend  ;  not  in  wisps  and  scrolls,  nor  in  a  thin 
impalpable  veil,  but  altogether,  in  a  vast  and  apparently  solid  body ; 
rolling,  pouring,  gathering  on  the  tops  of  the  hills,  and  streaming  down 
through  the  passes.  It  was  a  regular  cloud-avalanche  ;  and,  despite  our 
knowledge  that  we  were  too  near  home  to  run  any  risk  by  being  enve- 
loped in  its  folds,  there  was  something  curiously  alarming  in  the  sight 
of  these  huge  summits  rolling  downhill,  and  approaching  momently 
nearer.  On  and  on  they  came,  until  suddenly,  just  as  they  were  within 
about  a  hundred  yards  of  us,  their  course  was  arrested  by  a  fresh  con- 
flicting current  of  air.  Here,  then,  the  vanguard  stood  still,  and  began 
slowly  melting,  passing  away  in  thin  shreds  and  rags  of  vapour ;  but  the 
rearguard  still  continued  to  pour  in  fresh  reinforcements  from  behind ; 
which,  accumulating  faster  than  they  could  be  dissipated,  reared  them- 
selves up  in  vast  dome-like  masses,  towering  thousands  of  feet  in  air, 
and  gradually  slipping  downwards  until  they  had  enveloped  not  only  us, 
but  the  whole  valley  in  their  folds.  An  hour  later  the  overcharged 
atmosphere  relieved  itself  by  a  couple  of  violent  thunder-claps  following 
one  another  in  quick  succession ;  after  which  the  night  grew  calm  and 
clear,  and  the  next  morning  was  glorious ;  but,  alas !  before  the  day 
ended  the  dull,  persistent,  pitiless  drizzle  had  again  set  in. 

E.  L. 


ofonsiairs. 


A  ROSY  lass  stands  one  evening  in  a  bare-boarded  room  where  the 
shadows  are  gathering  quickly.  Except  for  some  wooden  chairs  and  a 
table,  and  a  few  books  upon  some  shelves  in  a  corner,  the  place  is  empty 
enough ;  but  the  windows  look  out  upon  the  river,  upon  a  great  vault  of 
drifting  sky,  iipon  the  floating  vapours,  and  the  thousand  lights  of  Lon- 
don that  are  kindling  along  the  banks  and  reflected  into  the  stream.  A 
small  maiden  stands  perched  upon  a  chair  in  the  window,  rubbing  her 
nose  against  the  pane  and  absorbed  by  the  unaccustomed  sight  of  the 
fiery  lights  and  the  rushing  waters,  and  above  all  by  the  swinging  creaks 
of  a  giant  crane  at  work  just  in  front  of  the  house.  The  little  one  has 
come  with  a  party  of  visitors,  who  together  with  the  rosy  girl,  and  a  busy 
lady  secretary,  just  leaving  the  room,  represent  for  the  moment  what 
the  report  calls  "  the  Central  Office  of  the  Metropolitan  Association  for 
Befriending  Young  Servants."  And  of  all  the  long  names  ever  given  to 
a  most  simple  and  efficient  piece  of  work  this  seems  to  be  one  of  the 
longest.  The  whole  thing  is  a  necessary  and  very  friendly  bit  of  machinery, 
chiefly  worked  by  the  goodwill  of  the  various  people  concerned  in  it. 
It  is  much  to  be  wished  that  the  number  of  those  who  are  kindly  dis- 
posed with  help  of  money  and  good  service  could  grow  with  the  society 
itself,  which  has  spread  in  one  direction  and  another,  and  which,  from 
the  few  hundreds  of  girls  with  which  it  began,  has  now  near  3,000  upon 
its  books — a  statistician  might  tell  us  how  many  more  there  are  growing 
up,  a  youthful  ever-increasing  congregation  of  many  necessities  and 
claims,  troublesome  enough,  at  times,  but  rarely  ungrateful.  These  girls 
are  divided  among  a  certain  number  of  associates,  who  are  prepared  to 
take  an  interest  in  their  affairs.  One  could  see  the  whole  thing  repre- 
sented that  evening  at  a  glance — the  books  xipon  the  shelf,  the  people 
who  wish  to  help,  the  office,  and  the  rosy  lass  herself,  an  item  of  the  3,000, 
who  had  come  in  by  chance  and  been  asked  to  tea.  She  stood  a  sturdy 
little  figure  in  the  usual  smart  hat  and  cloth  jacket  of  "  a  general,"  with 
a  round-faced  and  a  bright-eyed  and  unmistakable  "  out  for  a  holiday  " 
air.  She  seemed  quite  prepared  for  conversation,  but  our  first  start  was 
not  propitious. 

"  Are  you  in  service  1     Are  you  a  little  nurse  ? "  I  ask  affably. 

"  I  ain't  in  service ;  I'm  out  at  service,"  says  the  girl,  somewhat 
offended.  "  Nor  I  ain't  a  nurse  neither ;  I'm  a  general  servant ;  but 
master  says  I  could  be  a  housemaid  any  day.  I  don't  like  children 
myself,"  she  goes  on,  "  but  ours  ain't  no  trouble ;  they  are  such  good 
little  things.  I  minds  the  three ;  and  I  does  the  house  and  cleans  out 


UPSTAIRS  AND   DOWNSTAIRS.  335 

the  kitchen.  I've  had  a  very  nice  holiday  "  brightening  up  ;  "  I've  been 
round  and  round  by  myself,  and  across  the  bridge,  ever  so  far,  and  then 
I  come  back  here  at  las^  to  see  Miss  D ." 

"  You  look  like  a  country  girl,"  says  one  of  the  ladies.  "  Do  you 
know  your  way  about  London  ?  " 

"  I'm  a  London  girl,  I  am.  I  was  born  in  the  New  Cut.  I  knows 
my  way.  I  ain't  ever  been  in  the  country,"  says  the  child.  "  I've  heard 
say  mother  was  a  country  girl  once,  long  ago.  Mother's  dead,  she  is,  and 
father's  in  China,  aunt  says.  He  don't  care  nothen'  about  me  (angrily), 
and  I  don't  want  to  have  nothen'  to  do  with  him ;  he  never  did  nothen' 
for  me.  Miss  D she  found  me  my  place." 

And  this  was  true  enough,  and  Miss  D told  me  afterwards  of  all 

the  trouble  she  had  to  find  the  place,  which  had,  however,  turned  out  well. 
For  many  months  before  going  there  the  girl  had  been  tiresome  and  un- 
ruly, and  no  one  would  keep  her.  She  was  saucy,  intractable,  violent  at 
times ;  but  at  last  a  special  place  was  found,  and  in  this  special  friendly 
effort  lies  the  whole  secret  of  this  unpretending  work.  "  "We  are  often 

sorely  puzzled  what  to  do  with  them,"  said  Miss  D .  "  Sometimes, 

as  a  last  resource,  we  have  been  obliged  to  advertise,  '  Will  anybody  take 
a  difficult  tempered  or  dishonest  girl  on  trial  1 '  and  people  actually  do 
come  forward  in  answer,  and  very  often  the  girls  we  have  despaired  of  do 
well  after  all." 

Besides  the  Central  Office  of  the  Association  there  are  branch  offices 
all  over  London  now — at  Chelsea,  Islington,  Netting  Hill,  Paddington, 
North  St.  Pancras,  South  St.  Pancras,  Poplar,  Southwark,  Wandsworth, 
Westminster,  Whitechapel,  and  Fulham.  Each  of  these  offices  means  a 
committee  and  a  certain  number  of  visitors,  who  undertake  to  help  and 
care  about  a  certain  number  of  little  girls  who  are  from  circumstances 
among  the  most  absolutely  friendless  and  helpless  members  of  society. 
Their  fathers  have  abandoned  them  or  are  dead;  their  mothers  are 
dead,  or  mad,  or  drunk ;  they  have  no  relations,  or,  worse  still,  only  bad 
ones.  They  have  been  kept  alive,  indeed,  by  the  State ;  but  the  State 
at  best  is  more  of  an  incubator  than  a  parent,  and  this  Association  for 
years  past  has  tried  to  help  the  children,  with  some  heart  and  pity  to 
spare  for  so  much  helplessness  and  childish  misery. 

When  Mrs.  Nassau  Senior  was  appointed  Inspector  of  Girls'  Schools 
by  Mr.  Stansfeldt,  she  became  convinced  after  experience  (which  ex- 
perience she  had  gathered  together  during  many  previous  years)  that, 
although  most  of  the  masters  and  chaplains  of  district  schools  had  made 
an  effort  (quite  independently  of  their  own  hard  work)  towards  continuing 
the  care  of  the  children  after  they  had  left  the  district  schools,  yet  some 
further  organisation  was  absolutely  necessary  for  their  proper  supervision. 
Workhouse  girls  generally  leave  school  for  domestic  service  at  about 
fourteen,  and  are  not  at  that  early  age,  any  more  than  other  girls,  super- 
naturally  endowed  with  every  discretion  and  necessary  experience  of  life. 
Some  few  happily  constituted  little  creatures,  established  by  chance  in 


336  UPSTAIRS  AND   DOWNSTAIRS. 

comfortable  homes,  may  have  scrubbed  on  and  prospered  ;  but  the 
average  of  those  who  failed,  who  came  to  utter  grief  and  disaster,  to 
prison,  and  to  the  streets,  to  untimely  death  in  hospitals  and  workhouse 
wards,  was  something  cruel.  About  two-thirds  of  the  girls  whose  careers 
were  traced,  with  much  pains  and  difficulty,  by  Mrs.  Senior  and  her 
assistants  were  found  to  be  utter  failures.  And,  indeed,  when  one  thinks 
of  it,  three  clean  shifts  and  half  a  dozen  aprons  and  two  pairs  of  stout 
shoes,  or  whatever  the  outfit  may  be,  is  scarcely  to  be  regarded  as  a 
complete  armoury  against  the  many  perils  of  life.  Cruel  mistresses 
exist,  though  they  are  not  very  common,  I  am  told  ;  but  what  a  crowd 
of  insinuating  temptations,  of  possible  dangers  exist  as  well !  The  little 
stupid  creatures  come  friendless  and  scared,  or,  worse  still,  impudently 
ignorant,  to  the  little  places  where  they  are  as  much  at  the  mercy  of  their 
own  tempers  as  of  their  mistresses'.  If  temptation  comes,  if  they  succumb 
to  it,  if  they  break  down  from  over-work,  woe  betide  them ;  they  have 
not  a  friend  to  turn  to.  If  they  are  dismissed,  if  the  mistress  is  unkind, 
or  only  very  poor  and  overstrained  herself,  if  they  fall  ill  and  are  sent  to 
the  hospital,  or  if  they  are  sent  away,  they  wander  off  from  the  area  gate 
or  the  hospital  door,  with  no  human  being  to  help  them,  with  no  refuge 
except,  indeed,  the  casual  ward  of  the  workhouse,  from  which  they 
come,  and  to  which  they  must  return. 

The  Association  for  Befriending  Young  Servants  was  formed  upon  the 
model  of  another  which  had  been  tried  at  Bristol  by  some  kind  women 
who  felt  the  want  of  some  such  scheme  of  help  and  protection.  Some 
meetings  were  called  ;  a  certain  number  of  ladies  living  in  different  parts 
of  the  town  offered  their  services ;  a  certain  number  of  guardians  offered 
to  assist ;  lists  of  the  girls  as  they  left  the  schools  were  given  to  the 
Association;  various  small  offices  were  opened  here  and  there;  girls 
were  divided  among  the  ladies  willing  to  help  them,  and  henceforth 
were  visited  at  their  places,  distinguished  apart,  helped  in  case  of  neces- 
sity, advised  and  received  into  special  homes  when  necessary. 

One  kind  and  most  influential  friend  to  the  little  maid-servants,  no 
less  a  person  than  the  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons,  addressing  on 
their  behalf  the  Lord  Mayor  himself  and  any  kind-hearted  aldermen 
that  happened  to  take  an  interest  in  the  subject,  explained  in  a  few  terse 
and  lucid  sentences  the  whole  working  of  the  administration  : — • 

"  The  Speaker  said  that  he  had  for  the  last  two  days  laid  aside  the  con- 
sideration of  the  Land  Bill,  and  taken  to  the  study  of  the  reports  of  the 
Association.  The  composition  of  the  Association  had  some  peculiar  fea- 
tures, for  it  was  formed  wholly  of  women.  There  were  no  men  em- 
ployed, except  a  very  few  who  were  members  of  the  council  and  assisted 
its  deliberations  with  their  advice.  The  Association  was  founded  by  a 
lady — Mrs.  Senior — whose  memory  would  be  dear  to  most  of  those  pre- 
sent. The  work  of  the  Association  was  truly  a  woman's  work  from  be- 
ginning to  end.  The  friendless  girls,  for  whose  welfare  the  Association 
was  solicitous,  were  divided  into  two  classes — one  class  embracing  desti- 


UPSTAIRS  AND  DOWNSTAIRS.  337 

tute  and  friendless  girls  struggling  to  earn  a  livelihood  by  domestic  ser- 
vice in  the  Metropolis,  who  had  been  in  pauper  schools,  and  who,  when 
discharged  from  pauper  schools,  were  consigned  to  the  care  of  the  Asso- 
ciation every  year.  The  Association  took  care  of  them  until  they  were 
twenty  years  of  age ;  and  there  were  now  accumulated  917  destitute 
girls,  over  whom  the  Association  kept  careful  watch. 

"  The  girls  discharged  from  the  pauper  schools  were  brought  into  cor- 
respondence with  the  Association  in  this  way  : — The  Metropolis,  as  was 
well  known,  was  divided  into  thirty-two  unions,  the  guardians  of  most 
of  which  were  in  correspondence  with  the  Association,  and  he  hoped  the 
day  was  not  far  distant  when  all  of  them  would  be.  When  girls  left 
the  pauper  schools,  they  were  placed  in  domestic  service,  and  their  names 
and  addresses  were  sent  to  the  Central  Office  of  the  Association  by  order 
of  the  guardians.  The  work  of  the  Association  was  divided  amongst  eleven 
branches,  covering  the  greater  part  of  the  Metropolis.  The  girls  were 
each  placed  in  communication  with  some  branch  of  the  Association  ac- 
cording to  their  address,  and  each  girl  was  assigned  to  a  member  of  the 
branch,  who  made  herself  responsible  for  the  care  of  her,  and  reported 
upon  her  condition  and  conduct  from  time  to  time  to  the  committee. 
A  principle  of  the  Association  which  was  of  the  greatest  importance, 
and  to  the  maintenance  of  which,  he  believed,  much  of  the  success  which 
had  attended  the  work  of  the  Association  was  due,  was  the  intimate 
relationship  which  existed  between  the  lady  visitors  who  undertook  the 
care  of  the  girls  and  the  girls  themselves. 

"  As  to  the  second  class  of  girls  he  had  mentioned — those  who  had 
not  been  in  the  pauper  schools — he  found  from  the  Report  that  no 
less  than  1,600  had  been  during  the  past  year  placed  in  situations  in 
domestic  service,  while  many  more  girls  had  been  assisted  in  other  ways. 
This  class  of  girls  also  was  consigned  to  the  care  of  lady  visitors  who 
watched  over  their  welfare.  Attached  to  each  branch  of  the  Association 
was  a  registry  office,  which  had  proved  of  great  value  in  securing  em- 
ployment for  the  girls  coming  under  the  care  of  the  Association. 

"  With  regard  to  the  financial  condition  of  the  Association,  he  found 
that  the  Central  Office  cost  about  500?.  a  ye"ar,  and  the  Central  Home 
about  400?.  a  year.  This  Central  Home  of  the  Association  was  no  doubt 
somewhat  expensive,  but  was  absolutely  necessary,  as  the  Association  had 
to  deal  in  the  course  of  a  year  with  (speaking  roughly)  nearly  3,000 
girls,  in  whose  circumstances  there  were  many  changes.  The  Society 
•dealt  with  a  very  large  number  of  girls,  and  the  whole  cost  was  2,020/., 
which  gave  an  average  of  something  like  15*.  a  head." 

This  does  not  seem  a  very  exorbitant  subscription  for  the  results 
achieved — 3,000  little  charmaids  helped  and  comforted,  and  scolded  and 
advised,  and  kept  from  incalculable  temptation  and  wretchedness  ;  shel- 
tered when  homeless,  nursed  when  they  are  sick,  encouraged  and  com- 
forted in  every  way. 

If  only  some   philanthropist   or   millionaire,   instead   of    building 

VOL.  XLV.— NO.  267.  17. 


338  UPSTAIRS  AND  DOWNSTAIRS. 

another  empty  palace,  would  bestow  2,000?.  a  year  upon  the  Association, 
no  more  meetings,  articles,  or  collections  would  be  necessary ;  but  then  the 
millionaire  would  not  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his  bricks  and  mortar 
piled  up  before  his  eyes. 

The  first  office  the  Association  ever  opened  was  at  Chelsea,  a  friendly 
little  place  which  takes  a  benevolent  interest  in  the  various  domestic 
fortunes  and  misfortunes  of  the  neighbourhood.  If  you  go  there  of  a 
Monday  morning  you  may  find  a  room  full  of  customers  of  various  sizes, 
and  an  almost  providential  adjustment  of  different  requirements.  But 
indeed  most  of  these  offices  are  alike.  There  was  one  at  B.,  where  I 
spent  an  hour  the  other  morning  admiring  the  cheerful  presence  of  mind 
of  the  manager,  who  seemed  able  to  combine  all  sorts  of  difficult  require- 
ments. It  was,  as  usual,  crowded  when  I  went  in. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  a  stout  lady  was  saying  confidentially,  "  I'm  so 
much  alone  of  evenings,  my  husband  being  out  with  the  carriage,  I 
want  a  girl  for  comp'ny  as  much  as  anything  else.  I  don't  want  no 
house  work  from  her.  I  want  her  to  do  any  little  odd  jobs  I  can't  attend 
to  myself,  and  to  mind  the  children.  That  was  a  good  little  girl  enough 

you  sent  me,  Miss  Y ;  but,  dear  me,  she  was  always  a  crying  for 

her  mother.  I  let  her  out  on  Mondays,  and  Wednesdays,  and  Fridays ; 
but  she  wanted  to  go  home  at  night  as  well,  and  now  she  says  she  won't 
stay." 

"  It's  her  first  place,  m'am,"  says  Miss  Y- .     "  They  are  apt  to  be 

home-sick  at  first ;  but  here  is  a  very  good  little  girl  who  has  no  home, 
poor  child,  she  is  quite  alone.  Fanny,  my  dear,  should  you  like  to 

live  with   Mrs.  and  take  care  of  her  nice  little  children  1     You 

might  like  to  take  her  home  with  you  now  directly,  m'am,  and  show  her 
the  place  and  the  dear  children  ?" 

Smiling  Fanny  steps  forward  briskly,  and  off  they  go  together. 
Then  a  pretty  young  lady,  fashionably  dressed,  begins — 

"  That  girl  was  no  good  at  all,  Miss  Y .     Such  a  dance  as  she  led 

me  !  She  came  and  gave  me  a  reference  miles  away,  and,  ill  as  I  was,  I 
dragged  myself  there ;  and  when  I  got  to  the  house  she  opened  the  door, 
and  said  her  mistress  was  out  and  was  never  at  home  at  all.  I  said  at 
once,  '  You  don't  want  to  come  to  us,  and  you  haven't  the  courage  to  say 
so,'  and  then  she  shut  the  door  in  my  face  and  ran  away.  The  fact  is, 
many  girls  don't  like  houses  with  apartments.  Our  first  floor  is  vacant 
at  present,  but  I  hope  it  will  soon  be  let ;  and  I  should  be  so  glad  to 
find  a  girl  who  would  come  at  once,  and  who  knows  something  of  cookery, 
though  my  mother  always  likes  to  superintend  herself  in  the  kitchen." 

"  There  is  a  young  woman  here  who  says  she  can  cook,"  says  the 
superintendent  doubtfully,  "  but  there  seems  to  be  some  difficulty  about 
getting  her  character.  Do  you  think  we  had  better  write  to  your  mis- 
tress for  it,  my  dear  1 " 

A  poor,  fierce,  wildbeast-looking  creature,  who  had  been  glaring  in  a. 
corner,  here  in  answer  growls,  "  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure," 


UPSTATES  AND  DOWNSTAIRS.     ,  339 

"  Why  did  you  leave  ? "  says  the  young  lady. 

"  Cos  she  had  such  a  wiolent  temper,"  says  the  girl,  looking  more  and 
more  ferocious. 

"  That  is  a  sad  thing  for  anybody  to  have,"  said  the  young  lady  gravely. 

At  this  moment  a  boy  puts  his  head  in  at  the  door.  "  Got  any  work 
for  me  1 "  says  he. 

"No,  no,"  cry  all  the  girls  together.  "This  isn't  for  boys;  this  is 
for  females,"  and  the  head  disappears. 

"Well,  and  what  do  you  want1?"  says  the  superintendent,  quite 
bright  and  interested  with  each  case  as  it  turns  up,  and  a  spruce  young 
person,  who  had  been  listening  attentively,  steps  forward  and  says, 
looking  hard  at  the  young  lady  who  had  been  speaking, 

"  I  wish  for  a  place,  if  you  please,  m'am,  with  a  little  cooking  in  it, 
where  the  lady  herself  superintends  in  the  kitchen — a  ladies'  house  that 
lets  apartments,  if  you  please;  and  I  shouldn't  wish  for  a  private  house, 
only  an  apartment  house."  At  which  the  young  lady,  much  pleased, 
steps  forward,  and  a  private  confabulation  begins. 

While  these  two  people  are  settling  their  affairs  a  mysterious 
person  in  a  veil  enters  and  asks  anxiously  in  a  sort  of  whisper,  "  Have 
you  heard  of  anything  for  me,  miss  1  You  see  (emphatically)  it  is  some- 
thing so  very  particular  that  I  require,  quite  out  of  the  common." 

"  Just  so,"  says  Miss  Y .    "  I  won't  forget." 

"  It  is  peculiar,  and  you  won't  mention  it  to  anyone,"  says  the  other, 
and  exit  mysteriously  with  a  confidential  sign. 

Follows  a  smiling  little  creature,  with  large  round  eyes. 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Y ,  who  is  certainly  untiring  in  sympathy 

and  kindness,  "  is  it  all  right!     Are  you  engaged,  Polly  ?" 

"  Please,  miss,  I'm  much  too  short,"  says  the  little  maiden. 

As  we  have  said,  it  is  not  only  the  district  girls  who  apply  at  these 
offices ;  all  the  young  persons  of  the  neighbourhood  are  made  welcome  by 
the  recording  angels  (so  they  seemed  to  me),  who  remember  all  their  names, 
invite  them  to  take  a  seat  on  the  bench,  produce  big  books  where  their  his- 
tories, necessities,  and  qualifications  are  all  written  down,  and  by  the  help 
of  which  they  are  all  more  or  less  "  suited."  Besides  a  home,  a  mistress,  a 
kitchen  to  scrub,  if  they  behave  themselves  they  are  also  presented 
with  a  badge  and  honourable  decoration,  fastened  by  a  blue  ribbon,  and 
eventually  they  are  promoted  to  a  red  ribbon,  the  high  badge  of  honour 
for  these  young  warriors.  And  though  some  people  may  smile,  it  is, 
when  we  come  to  think  of  it,  a  hardly  earned  distinction,  well  deserved 
as  any  soldier's  cross.  What  a  campaign  it  is  for  them — a  daily  fight  with 
the  powers  of  darkness  and  ignorance,  with  dust,  with  dirt,  with  dis- 
order. Where  should  we  be  without  our  little  serving  girls  ?  At  this 
moment,  as  I  write  by  a  comfortable  fire,  I  hear  the  sound  of  the  virtuous 
and  matutinal  broom  in  the  cold  passages  below,  and  I  reflect  that  these 
3,000  little  beings  on  our  books  are  hard  at  work  all  over  London  and 
fighting  chaos  in  the  foggy  twilight  of  a  winter's  morning. 

17—2 


340  UPSTATES  AND  DOWNSTAIRS. 

It  is  a  hard  life  at  best  for  some  of  them ;  so  hard  that  they  break 
down  utterly  in  the  struggle  with  temper  and  other  tempers,  with  inex- 
perience, with  temptations  of  every  sort.  If  one  thinks  of  it  one  can 
imagine  it  all,  and  the  impatience,  and  the  petty  deceptions,  and  the  childish 
longings,  almost  irresistible,  one  might  think,  to  little  waifs  who  have  no 
one  to  look  to  for  praise  if  they  are  good  or  blame  if  they  are  naughty. 
And  yet  indeed  they  are  not  ungrateful ;  they  respond  to  any  word  of  real 
friendship.  "  I  am  quite  frightened  sometimes  to  find  how  much  they 
think  of  my  opinion,"  said  a  good  friend  the  other  day,  who  has  for  some 
years  past  worked  steadily  for  the  Association.  "  They  make  me  quite 
ashamed  when  they  produce  my  wretched  little  notes  out  of  their  pockets." 
"When  I  asked  this  lady  about  the  children's  comparative  friendl.essness, 
she  said  it  was  very  rare  to  find  them  absolutely  alone,  but  that  in  truth 
friends  are  often  far  worse  enemies  than  loneliness.  They  come  and  take 
their  poor  little  earnings.  They  lead  them  into  mischief  out  of  wanton 
wickedness,  and  desert  them  in  their  troubles.  A  girl  came  staggering 
into  her  office  not  long  ago  so  ill  that  she  could  hardly  stand.  She  had 
gone  to  her  sister,  whom  she  had  always  helped  with  her  wages,  and  been 
in  bed  two  days  with  fever,  and  then  her  sister  would  not  let  her  stay, 
and  turned  her  into  the  street,  though  she  fell  twice  as  she  was  dressing. 
It  was  a  case  of  small-pox,  and  the  poor  thing  was  sent  off  to  the  Small- 
pox Hospital.  "  I  went  to  see  her  there,"  said  Miss  T ,  speaking 

quite  as  a  matter  of  course.  "  The  poor  child  began  searching  under  her 
pillow  and  showed  me  a  little  scrap  of  a  note  I  had  written  her  a  year  be- 
fore, which  she  had  carried  about  ever  since.  One  can  scarcely  believe," 
the  kind  lady  said,  "  how  they  prize  a  little  interest,  a  little  friendly 
intercourse  with  some  one  who  cares  about  what  happens  to  them." 

The  letters  which  come  to  Miss  T are  of  every  variety.  The 

first  I  take  up  comes  from  a  curious  sort  of  girl : — 

"Dear  Madam, — You  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  I  have  left 

Mrs. ,  but  she  was  so  unkind  that  I  left  her  on  Friday,  which 

was  two  days  before  the  time  was  up,  so  she  kept  2s.  6c7.  out  of  my 
wages.  But  before  leaving  I  asked  God  to  open  some  other  place,  but 
thought  that  He  had  not  heard  me  ;  and  as  I  was  going  to  the  station, 
I  thought  of  the  woman  that  did  the  washing.  She  had  been  very 
kind  to  me,  and  I  did  not  like  to  go  home  without  saying  good-bye  to 
her  ;  and  if  I  had  not  I  should  not  have  heard  of  this  place,  and  then  I 
found  that  my  prayer  had  been  heard.  And  the  housekeeper  under 
whom  I  am  living  is  a  Christian,  and  has  taught  me  a  great  deal 
about  the  Second  Coming,  which  troubled  me  so  much  that  I  want  to 
hear  more  and  more,  and  am  glad  to  say  am  saved  from  the  wrath 
to  come,  and  never  was  so  happy  in  my  life ;  and  I  only  went  to 

church  twice  in  the  ten  weeks  at  Mrs.  ,  and  I  now  go  to  chapel 

three  times  on  Sunday  and  three  evenings  in  the  week. — Your  humble 
Servant,  B.  B." 

Another  little  girl,  for  whose  theological  leanings  one  certainly  feels 


UPSTAIRS  AND  DOWNSTAIRS.  341 

more  sympathy  than  for  "  B.  B.'s,"  writes  to  say  that  since  the  family 
has  moved  she  goes  "  to  a  very  nice  little  chappie  every  Sunday  even- 
ing." She  thinks  she  likes  it  better  than  church;  it  is  more  understanding. 
And  this  seems  an  excellent  summary  in  one  simple  word  of  the  great 
vexed  question  of  Dissent  versus  Church  and  State. 

But  neither  chapel  arousings  nor  church  exhortings  can  touch  these 
little  creatures  so  closely  as  does  that  most  divine  function  of  human 
kindness  which  makes  them  truly  feel  their  kinship  to  those  who  wish 
to  be  their  friends  :  those  who  have  been  created  true  ministers  to  those 
who  are  in  need. 

"  Would  you  be  kind  enought  to  get  me  a  Place1?"  writes  a  very 
naughty  girl,  who  is  dismissed  for  complaining  that  she  is  starved  (a 
fancy  statement).  "  Do  get  me  a  place,"  she  repeats ;  "  please  do — not 
near  home — as  I  will  promise  you  to  be  a  better  girl ;  and  I  do  ask  God  to 
help  me  to  be  a  good  servent,  as  you  told  me  in  your  letter  yousesentme 
three  years  ago ;  and  it  was  such  a  nise  letter  that  I  have  got  it  now,  1878, 
and  shall  not  part  with  it,  for  I  am  so  prode  of  it ;  and  beleave  me  to  be 
your  humble  servent,  K.  E." 

Then  follows  a  penitential  letter  from  a  nurse  of  twelve  years  old,  and 
who  slapped  the  baby.  She  is  very  sorry.  "  I  have  done  everything  to  make 
her  come  to  me,  and  yet  sometimes  the  baby  will  not  come  to  me ;  some- 
times she  will  love  me  and  kiss  me,  and  other  times  the  baby  will  tell  me 
to  go  away.  I'll  try  very  much  to  be  good  ;  I  want  to  be  good  ;  and  I  go 
to  church  every  Sunday  afternoon  with  the  little  baby. — Yours  respect- 
fully, JEMIMA." 

Some  of  the  children's  letters  are  really  very  touching ;  one  writes 
of  her  mistresses,  "  They  are  such  dear  ladies."  "  I  like  my  Mrs.  and 
Mr.,"  says  another.  "  Sometimes  I  feel  very  downhearted,  for  it  is 
lonely  in  the  nursery,  and  it  brings  all  manner  of  thoughts  of  home  and 
how  I  should  like  to  see  them."  But  wholesome  distractions  arise,  for  her 
Mrs.  has  said  she  "  could  clean  a  grate  beautifully,  and  her  stove  looks 
very  nicely." 

The  letters  are  almost  all  warm-hearted  and  full  of  expression  of 
affection.  "  May  God  give  you  strength  as  long  as  you  live  on  this  earth," 
says  one  little  scrub ;  "  and  I  hope  we  shall  meet  in  heaven,  and  we  shall 
never  part  again  there." 

"  Dear  Miss, — I  now  take  the  pleasure  of  writing  to  you.  Will  you 
write  to  me  as  soon  as  you  can  1  It  would  make  me  feel  so  very  happy." 
"  I  think  I  have  said  all,  as  I  have  to  get  the  supper  ready  now ;  so  good 
night,"  writes  another,  finishing  with,  "  My  dear  friend,  I  remain  your 
obedient  servant,  MARY  ANNE.  Will  you  please  tell  me  if  I  don't  end 
my  letters  right  1  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  writen  to  a  lady." 

Here  is  a  litany  to  another  friend  of  mine  from  a  little  grateful  girl : 
— "  0,  I  hope  you  have  not  forsaken  me,  for  I  don't  feel  at  all  comfort- 
able, for  you  have  been  a  dear  kind  loving  friend  to  me,  and  I  should 
miss  you  very  much.  You  have  been  kinder  than  a  mother.  I  hope 


342  UPSTAIRS  AND  DOWNSTAIRS. 

you  had  a  happy  Christmas,  also  dear  Miss  S.  (the  cook),  and  Emily ;  it 
seems  a  long,  long  time  since  I  see  them,  and  let  me  give  my  love  to  them, 
and  I  remain,  yours  ebendiently,  EMMA  W."  Emma  is  seventeen.  She 
had  a  disreputable,  drunken  mother  and  sister,  from  whom  she  is  always 
trying  to  get  away.  She  may  well  say,  "  Kinder  than  a  mother,"  poor 
child! 

The  other  day  I  asked  a  neighbour,  whom  I  shall  call  Lucia,  if  she 
could  tell  me  anything  about  any  of  the  girls  she  had  known.  "  I  have 
nothing  at  all  romantic  to  tell  you,"  said  Mrs.  Lucia  with  a  smile. 
"  They  are  all  very  commonplace  girls  that  I  have  ever  had  to  do  with. 
One  little  thing  called  Eliza  sometimes  comes  to  play  in  the  garden  with 
my  own  little  daughter.  Eliza  is  a  funny  little  creature,  with  a  nice 
fresh  face,  though  she  was  brought  up  in  a  workhouse ;  but  she  never 
opens  her  lips.  She  is  more  fortunate  than  some  of  them,  for  her  mis- 
tress, the  grocer's  wife,  is  a  good  woman.  Not  long  ago  I  went  to  see 
Eliza,  and  Mrs.  Grocer  came  in  and  asked  me  if  I  could  do  anything  to 
help  a  school  friend  of  Eliza's  who  was  to  be  sent  by  the  guardians  to  the 
chandler's  round  the  corner.  Mrs.  Grocer  declared  that  Mrs.  Chandler 
was  quite  unfit  to  have  any  child  at  her  mercy.  She  got  tipsy  and  beat 
her  maids,  and  turned  them  out  at  night  into  the  street.  It  is  always  a 
little  difficult  to  interfere,"  said  Lxicia.  But  the  guardians  were  spoken 
to  privately  and  inquiry  was  made.  The  story  was  found  to  be  true, 
and  the  poor  child  was  not  allowed  to  go.  "  And  don't  you  think,"  said 
kind  Lucia,  "  that  this  is  one  veiy  real  way  in  which  the  Association  can 
be  of  use  ?  It  would  be  almost  impossible,  without  some  such  means,  to 
know  the  truth  about  the  poor  children." 

The  children  may  not  know  their  friends'  names  or  their  existence 
as  yet,  but  it  is  something  after  all  to  feel  that  there  are  people  trying 
to  find  out  the  truth  for  them  and  patiently  trying  to  enforce  it. 

My  little  girls  gave  an  entertainment  the  other  day  which  is  not 
inapplicable  to  the  subject.  "We  had  poked  the  fire  again  and  again,  and 
lit  the  candles  and  waited  expectantly  for  nearly  half-an-hour,  the  kettle 
was  boiling,  the  buns  were  crying  "  Come,  eat  us  !  come,  eat  us,"  the  tea 
was  getting  cold.  "  "Where  can  they  be  ? "  says  Molly,  "  can  they  have 
lost  their  way  ?  " 

"  Are  the  poor  little  girls  walking  round  and  round  all  alone  in  the 
streets,  and  haven't  they  got  no  mammas  to  hold  their  hands  ? "  says 
little  Cuckoo,  who  has  already  appeared  perched  on  one  of  the  chairs  at 
the  central  office. 

"  Perhaps  a  policeman  will  tell  them  where  to  go,"  says  Nancy. 
Are  the  children  talking  metaphors  1  One  might  almost  think  so,  but 
there  is  no  more  time  for  speculation ;  we  hear  a  diffident  tinkle  at  the 
bell,  and  after  a  minute's  delay  the  company  comes  filing  in  one  by  one 
out  of  the  dark  street  into  the  little  lighted-up  dining-room,  where  is 
spread  a  modest  share  of  the  night's  festivities — some  two  pennyworth  of 


UPSTAIRS  AND  DOWNSTAIRS.  343 

welcome,  a  few  crackers  and  oranges,  and  a  Christmas  card  or  two.  It 
is  little  enough,  but  the  guests  look  with  admiring  eyes  and  seem  more 
than  satisfied  and  ready  to  enjoy  the  banquet.  They  are  welcomed  shyly 
by  their  young  hostesses,  and  by  a  very  short  host  with  gold  curls  and 
steel  buttons,  and  a  white  frock,  who  cuts  a  caper  as  they  come  in. 
"  Oh,  you  dear  little  chap ! "  cries  the  company,  catching  sight  of  his 
beaming  face,  and  rushing  forward  in  a  body.  The  poor  little  host  is 
frightened,  and  pulls  a  piteous  lip,  and  suddenly  the  phalanx  stops  short. 
"  Take  care,  don't  make  him  cry,  poor  little  dear !  "  says  one  to  another, 
and  so  they  all  take  their  places,  still  nodding  and  smiling  at  him  over 
their  shoulders.  Then  the  banquet  begins. 

Fashions  change  about  in  names,  as  in  every  thing  else.  Edith, 
Emily,  Amelia,  who  are  the  little  washerwomen,  sit  down  to  tea,  while 
Molly  and  Nancy  hand  the  buns,  and  the  little  host,  whose  courage  has 
come  back,  trots  assiduously,  without  stopping  for  a  moment,  round  and 
round  the  table  with  a  plate  of  bread  and  butter  at  a  surprising  angle. 

"  /  ironed  his  pinnyfore,  m'am,"  says  one  of  the  little  girls,  looking 
after  him. 

The  guests  come  from  a  small  laundry  establishment  at  Fulham, 
which  was  opened  a  year  or  two  ago  for  their  use  and  ours.  It  is  hoped 
that  high  tempers  may  be  there  ironed  a  little  smooth,  and  difficult 
natures  soaped  down  and  scrubbed,  and  that  meanwhile  fewer  temptations 
may  assail  the  little  maidens  than  out  at  service,  where  they  are  left 
to  their  own  resources.  And  this  hope  has  been  in  a  measure  justified ; 
for  there  are  many  girls  unfit  for  domestic  service,  though  they  are  strong 
and  able  to  work.  Some  are  saucy,  some  feel  the  inevitable  worry  of 
constant  restrictions  and  demands,  some  of  them  have  forfeited  their 
character  by  petty  pilfering  and  come  here  to  earn  another  before  they 
can  start  again.  If  you  ask  them  their  stories,  they  are  much  alike. 
They  were  taken  to  the  District  School  when  mother  died,  or  left  them. 
They  were  sent  to  service  and  didn't  get  on ;  out  of  the  six  here  at  tea, 
two  had  been  in  hospital  after  leaving  their  places,  and  the  district  lady 
had  fetched  them  away.  I  ask  after  a  girl  who  had  not  come  with  the 
others. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  said  Edith,  conversationally,  "  Elizabeth  she  went 
away  one  night  from  the  home ;  she  ran  away  to  her  mother,  she  did,  and 
her  mother  she  turned  her  into  the  street.  She  said  she  couldn't  have 
her  there  no  more,  and  so  Elizabeth  she  come  back  to  us  and  hid,  and  the 
girls  gave  her  what  they  could ;  she  slep'  on  the  mangle  at  night,  and 
all  day  long  she  sat  in  the  coal-cellar.  She  used  to  tell  us  she  could  get 
half-a-crownd  a  day  six  clays  in  the  week  if  she  left,  but  I  don't  think 
she  got  so  much  as  that  or  she  wouldn't  have  come  back  so  soon.  One  of 
the  ladies  looked  into  the  coal- cellar  and  found  her  sitting  on  the  coals, 
and  took  her  to  another  home." 

All  this  is  recounted  by  Edith  in  a  most  natural  and  easy-going 
manner.  Next  to  Edith  sits  Emily,  a  pretty  girl  with  fair  hair  and  a 
pleasant  placid  smile,  who  takes  up  the  tale. 


344  UPSTAIRS  AND  DOWNSTAIRS. 

"I  don't  mind  the  laundry  work,"  says  Emily.  "I  like  it  better 
than  service.  I  was  a  very  long  time  in  my  situation,  and  I  didn't  like 
it  at  all.  Why  didn't  I  like  my  situation  1  The  lady  she  used  to  beat 
me  till  I  was  all  over  marks  and  bruises.  1  had  to  show  my  arms  to 
the  police  after  I  left." 

The  little  hostesses  here  gather  round  in  sympathy  and  horror,  while 
Emily  continues  with  a  certain  complacency,  "  I  don't  think  they  put 
the  lady  in  the  papers ;  they  put  me  in,  so  I  was  told.  I  was  very  short 
at  the  time,  and  she  used  to  beat  me  about  the  head  and  shoulders  too  ; 
some  days  she  would  go  out  all  day  and  lock  me  in,  and  she  would  only 
leave  out  two  bits  of  bread  for  all  the  time.  She  had  a  little  boy  of  her 
own  ;  she  used  to  beat  him  just  the  same." 

"  And  how  did  you  get  away  1 "  says  little  Molly,  breathless  with 
pity. 

"  Well,  you  see  Miss,  she  was  a-bed  one  morning,  and  I  was  a  light- 
ing of  her  fire,  and  she  had  a  cane  by  her,  and  she  called  me  and  began 
to  cut  at  me,  and  I  run  out  of  the  room,  and  the  key  was  in  the  street 
door,  and  I  went  out  and  she  being  in  her  nightgownd  couldn't  come  after 
me,  and  I  run  a  very  long  way  till  I  met  someone  who  told  me  to  go  to 
the  office,  and  when  they  see  what  a  state  I  was  in  they  sent  for  the 
police,  and  the  police  put  me  in  the  papers,"  says  Emily,  taking  another 
bun. 

Emily's  is  an  extreme  case,  but  it  is  one  which  tells  its  own  lesson 
and  proves  the  necessity  for  the  existence  of  the  Office  of  Help  to  which 
she  ran  by  some  hapless  chance.  The  school  from  which  she  had  been 
sent  to  this  vile  mistress  was  a  country  union  not  falling  as  yet  into  the 
Society's  organisation. 

"  I  was  a  nurse,  I  was,"  says  a  little  creature  about  as  big  as  a  child 
of  nine  years  old.  "  I  had  twins  and  three  more  to  mind  ;  they  wasn't 
much  trouble.  I  did  the  rooms  and  missus  made  weskits.  I  used  to 
help  her  when  I  had  time,  but  there  wasn't  much,  for  I  did  the  cooking 
too,  and  took  the  children  out  in  the  perambulator.  I  left  because  I 
was  so  very  ill  and  had  to  go  to  the  'ospital,  and  one  of  the  ladies  she 
called  at  the  'ospital,  and  I  was  sent  to  a  covalest  'ospital,  and  Miss 
S took  me  into  the  laundry  after  that." 

As  the  Speaker  said  in  his  speech,  it  is  an  absolute  necessity  to  have 
some  one  or  two  homes  connected  with  the  Association  where  girls  may 
be  received  and  harboured  for  a  time  in  between  their  places.  Lodgings 
are  dangerous  and  expensive,  and  besides  this,  some  girls  are  absolutely 
unfitted  for  common  domestic  service,  and  require  some  sort  of  training  to 
quiet  them  down.  "  When  they  are  at  work  from  breakfast  to  dinner,  and 
from  dinner  to  tea,  and  then  till  bsdtime  again,  they  have  no  time  to  be 
naughty,"  said  one  of  their  matrons.  It  must  be  remembered  that  these 
poor  little  creatures  are  no  community  of  immaculate  beings,  but  many 
of  them  belong  to  a  most  turbulent  and  inexperienced  class.  They  are 
obstinate,  credulous,  hot-tempered,  with  every  disadvantage  of  birth  and 


UPSTAIRS  AND  DOWXSTAIES.  345 

education  to  counterbalance  the  efforts  of  their  well-wishers.  One  of 
these,  a  very  delightful  person,  who  is,  happily  for  them  all,  still  alive  and 
prospering  in  her  undertaking,  told  me  that  there  is  a  saying  among  them, 
''  that  three  Sutton  girls  would  kill  any  matron."  This  lady  told  me  that 
no  one  who  had  not  gone  through  the  actual  experience  could  imagine  the 
difficulty  of  keeping  the  troublesome,  among  them  in  order  and  tolerably 
happy  too.  They  are  so  ignorant  and  careless  of  opinion  that  there  is  at 
first  scarcely  any  standard  by  which  to  get  at  them.  Little  by  little  they 
learn  better  things  and  gain  some  experience  in  the  ways  of  the  civilised 
world. 

One  of  these  little  Bosjes  girls  had  been  chosen  out  to  wait  upon  the 
matron  of  the  Hammersmith  Home,  and  to  bring  in  her  meals.  When 
the  young  person  was  told  she  need  not  bring  in  the  luncheon-tray  with 
her  face  and  hands  all  over  streaks  of  black  lead,  and  that  she  should 
always  try  to  look  nice  and  tidy  whenever  she  came  into  the  Superinten- 
dent's room,  she  put  down  the  tray,  stared  in  absolute  amazement,  and 
exclaimed,  "  Well !  I  call  that  cheek."  There  are  many  more  stories 
such  as  this,  which  give  one  a  curious  impression  of  the  state  of  these  un- 
sophisticated minds ;  and  yet  when  I  paid  a  visit  to  this  very  Laundry 
Home,  I  could  not  but  notice  the  good  understanding  and  pleasantness 
of  manner  which  seemed  to  exist  between  the  inmates.  Certainly  there 
was  no  sign  of  any  strxiggle  going  on,  but  cheerful  noises,  and  voices,  and 
echoes  of  singing  everywhere.  The  Hammersmith  Home  stands  at  the 
corner  of  Chiswick  Lane,  on  the  high  road  to  Richmond  ;  it  is  close  to 
that  pretty  colony  at  Bedford  Park  ;  and  the  old  Home  where  the  little 
laundry  girls  live  may  well  hold  its  own  with  the  most  successful 
of  Mr.  Norman  Shaw's  beautiful  designs.  The  pretty  old  country  house 
which  was  once  a  family  dwelling  place,  and  where  wide  oaken  staircases 
and  carved  chimneys  tell  of  some  ancient  dignity  and  splendour,  is  now 
promoted  to  new  dignity,  and  shelters  a  wider  family  than  it  ever  did 
before.  Dwelling  houses  shelter  people  for  years,  make  a  pleasant 
background  to  their  comfortable  existence,  but  homes  such  as  these  take 
in  a  whole  ban-en  life,  stock  it  with  memories,  teach  it  a  useful  craft, 
and  make  a  future  for  it  as  well  as  a  past. 

"  This  is  the  good  girls'  room,"  said  the  Superintendent,  opening  a 
door  into  a  tidy  little  square  room  neatly  put  up  in  order,  and  vacant. 
"  She  is  just  gone  to  a  situation  ;  she  learned  her  work  nicely  while  she 
was  with  us.  This  is  the  naughty  girls'  room,"  she  continued,  showing 
us  another  equally  pleasant,  with  a  neat  little  bed,  and  a  cheerful  wide 
view  over  the  apple  trees.  "  The  naughty  girls,  alas !  are  always  with 
us,  and  are  more  difficult  to  place  than  the  good.  Six  months'  training 
is  supposed  to  be  sufficient  to  change  the  one  into  the  other ;  at  all  events, 
it  is  long  enough  to  teach  them  all  to  do  laundry  work — they  take  to  it 
very  kindly — and  scrub,  and  starch,  and  rinse,  and  iron  from  winter  time 
to  summer,  fulfilling  their  appointed  task  in  the  economy  of  the  world." 

17—5 


346  UPSTATES  AND  DOWNSTAIRS. 

They  had  all  been  up  very  early  the  morning  I  saw  them,  preparing  for 
one  of  the  festivals  of  the  Church .  On  these  occasions  the  neighbouring  rector, 
the  curate,  the  choristers,  all  come  out  resplendent  in  dazzling  white  robes, 
and  the  little  girls  peep  from  their  places  and  wonder  which  particular 
surplice  is  their  own  handiwork,  which  is  their  own  special  saint  out  of 
the  great  white  assemblage  round  the  Communion-table.  It  is  affecting 
to  think  of  our  little  scrubs  preparing  Easter  splendours  and  ceremonial ; 
and  meanwhile,  as  we  have  said,  let  us  hope  our  little  washerwomen 
themselves  are  being  starched  into  shape  and  washed  and  smoothed  into 
order. 

The  Superintendent  led  the  way  to  the  pretty  old  drawing-room,  with 
the  arched  windows,  where  some  stately  lady  had  perhaps  once  lived,  and 
looked  out  across  the  fields  towards  the  river ;  now  the  yellow  winter  light 
shone  in  upon  the  heads  of  the  busy  girls  as  they  bent  over  their  ironing 
boards.  A  stove  was  heating  the  irons  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  the 
floating  trophies  of  their  day's  work  hung  across  the  room  from  long 
lines.  Down  below  again  were  wash-houses,  and  cheerful  mermaids 
perched  upon  planks  in  a  floating  sea  were  singing  at  their  work. 

"With  all  the  dreary  things  there  are  to  think  about,  it  is  as  well  to 
have  some  bright  places  to  turn  to,  and  of  these  surely  none  are  more 
cheering  to  melancholy  souls  bemoaning  the  darkness  of  humanity  than 
the  gas  becks  and  beacons  that  are  flaring  cheerfully  and  lighting  up  the 
hours  of  hard-worked,  scant- paid  little  toilers.  I  have  no  room  here  to 
enumerate  the  various  useful  busy  undertakings  and  admirable  sugges- 
tions and  enterprises  which  have  been  started  of  late,  but  I  cannot 
refrain  from  here  mentioning  (quite  apart  from  the  Association,  but 
closely  connected  with  it  in  warm  and  true  sympathy  with  those  it  con- 
cerns) a  most  successful  club  or  guild  for  working  girls,  which  was 
started  some  little  time  ago  by  the  Hon.  Miss  Stanley,  in  Soho. 

The  lights  are  bright,  the  big  room  is  made  warm  and  ready,  the 
girls  come  in  after  their  ten  hours'  and  twelve  hours'  work.  There  are 
books  for  them  and  papers  ;  there  is  companionship  and  a  pleasant  hour 
after  the  long  day's  grind.  There  are  classes  to  attend  if  they  wish  it. 
The  working  girls  themselves  thoroughly  like  the  place,  and  enjoy 
coming  to  it,  and  willingly  pay  twopence  a  week  out  of  their  scant  earn- 
ings for  the  club  membership ;  they  chatter  and  sing  and  laugh  as  girls 
should  do.  One  lady  or  another  attends  regularly.  They  are  made  at 
home,  welcomed  warmly  to  good  wholesome  things,  and  kept  out  of  the 
temptations  of  the  streets.  "  Will  Miss  Smith  favour  the  company  with 
a  song  1 "  Miss  Smith,  blushing  and  laughing,  stands  up  and  sings  a 
ditty  as  merrily  as  some  bird  might  sing  it  to  its  small  brown  companions 
in  a  woodland  glade. 

There  is  no  great  machinery  about  this,  no  special  appeals  and  pro- 
testations any  more  than  in  the  working  of  the  society  about  which  I 
have  now  been  writing.  I  am  told  that  as  the  society  extends  its  opera- 
tions it  finds  more  and  more  difficulty  in  meeting  the  necessary  expenses 


UPSTAIRS  AND  DOWNSTAIRS.  347 

of  its  work.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that,  with  the  help  of  many  who  are 
kindly  disposed,  neither  help  in  money  nor  in  good  services  may  be  found 
to  fail.  Two  thousand  a  year  does  not  seem  so  very  large  a  sum  to 
count  upon  when  it  is  to  be  spent  to  such  good  purpose  and  with  so 
much  common  sense,  and  common  sense  seems  on  the  whole  to  be  one 
of  the  most  uncommon  and  most  valuable  of  qualities,  and  far  beyond 
gold.  It  means  all  sorts  of  things — unselfishness,  modesty,  constancy, 
patience  and  hopefulness,  a  sense  of  duty  in  the  place  of  vague  and 
passionate  impulse,  and  intelligent  sympathy  shown  by  quiet  and  re- 
peated good  offices,  which  will  bear  more  and  more  fruit  in  good  time. 


348 


THE  fire  is  in  a  steadfast  glow, 

The  curtains  drawn  against  the  night; 

Upon  the  red  couch  soft  and  low 
Between  the  fire  arid  lamp  alight 

She  rests  half-sitting,  half-reclining, 

Encompassed  by  the  cosy  shining, 

Her  ruby  dress  with  lace  trimmed  white. 

II. 
Her  left  hand  shades  her  drooping  eyes 

Against  the  fervour  of  the  fire  • 
The  right  upon  her  cincture  lies 

In  languid  grace  beyond  desire, 
A  lily  fallen  among  roses ; 
So  placidly  her  form  reposes, 

It  scarcely  seemeth  to  respire. 

in. 
Sho  is  not  surely  all  awake, 

As  yet  she  is  not  all  asleep; 
The  eyes  with  lids  half  open  take 

A  startled  deprecating  peep 
Of  quivering  drowsiness,  then  slowly 
The  lids  sink  back,  before  she  wholly 

Resigns  herself  to  slumber  deep. 

IV. 

The  side-neck  gleams  so  pure  beneath 

The  underfringe  of  gossamer, 
The  tendrils  of  whose  faery  wreath 

The  softest  sigh  suppressed  would  stir. 
The  little  jink-shell  ear-rim  flushes 
"With  her  young  blood's  translucent  blushes, 

Nestling  in  tresses  warm  as  far. 


THE  SLEEPER.  349 

v. 
The  contour  of  her  cheek  and  chin 

Is  curved  in  one  delicious  line, 
Pure  as  a  vase  of  porcelain  thin 

Through  which  a  tender  light  may  shine; 
Her  brow  and  blue- veined  temple  gleaming 
Beneath  the  dusk  of  hair  back-streaming 

Are  as  a  virgin's  marble  shrine. 

VI. 

The  ear  is  burning  crimson  fire, 

The  flush  is  brightening  on  the  face, 
The  lips  are  parting  to  suspire, 

The  hair  grows  restless  in  its  place 
As  if  itself  new  tangles  wreathing, 
The  bosom  with  her  deeper  breathing 

Swells  and  subsides  with  ravishing  grace. 

VII. 

The  hand  slides  softly  to  caress, 

Unconscious,  that  fine- pencilled  curve 
"  Her  lip's  contour  and  downiness," 

Unbending  with  a  sweet  reserve ; 
A  tender  darkness  that  abashes 
Steals  out  beneath  the  long  dark  lashes, 

Whose  sightless  eyes  make  eyesight  swerve. 

/ 

VIII. 

The  hand  on  chin  and  throat  downslips, 

Then  softly,  softly  on  her  breast ; 
A  dream  comes  fluttering  o'er  the  lips, 

And  stirs  the  eyelids  in  their  rest, 
And  makes  their  undershadows  quiver, 
And  like  a  ripple  on  a  river 

Glides  through  her  breathing  manifest. 

IX. 

I  feel  an  awe  to  read  this  dream 

So  clearly  written  in  her  smile ; 
A  pleasant  not  a  passionate  theme, 

A  little  love,  a  little  guile; 


350  THE  SLEEPEE. 

I  fear  lest  she  shotild  speak,  revealing 
The  secret  of  some  maiden  feeling 
I  have  no  right  to  hear  the  while. 

x. 

The  dream  has  passed  without  a  word 

Of  all  that  hovered  finely  traced ; 
The  hand  has  slipt  clown,  gently  stirred 

To  join  the  other  at  her  waist; 
Her  breath  from  that  light  agitation 
Has  settled  to  its  slow  pulsation; 

She  is  by  deep  sleep  re- embraced. 

XI. 

Deep  sleep,  so  holy  in  its  calm, 

So  helpless,  yet  so  awful  too; 
Whose  silence  sheds  as  sweet  a  balm 

As  ever  sweetest  voice  could  do; 
Whose  tranced  eyes,  unseen,  unseeing, 
Shadowed  by  pure  love,  thrill  our  being 

With  tender  yearnings  through  and  through. 

XII. 

Sweet  sleep;  no  hope,  no  fear,  no  strife; 

The  solemn  sanctity  of  death, 
With  all  the  loveliest  bloom  of  life ; 

Eternal  peace  in  mortal  breath : 
Pure  sleep,  from  which  she  will  awaken 
Refreshed  as  one  who  hath  partaken 

New  strength,  new  hope,  new  love,  new  faith. 

January  1882.  JAMES   THOMSON, 


r 

l  -    : 


HE   STOOPED  TO  GATHER  THEM. 


351 


gmnodes, 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  FOB  PEKCIVAL." 


CHAPTEE   III. 
SHADOWS  AND  A  GHOST. 

MRS.  EASTWOOD'S 
hopes  with  regard  to  the 
weather  were  not  destined 
to  be  fulfilled.  The  next 
day  was  mild  and  grey, 
with  persistent,  softly- 
dropping  showers  which 
kept  all  the  party  indoors. 
"  Better  to-day  than  to- 
morrow," said  Charley, 
who  had  fixed  Friday  for 
Effie  and  himself  to  visit 
some  friends  at  Brook- 
field.  Good-tempered  as 
he  was,  it  vexed  him  to 
see  his  holiday  melting 
away  in  these  soft  spring 
rains,  when  there  were  so 
many  walks  he  would 
have  liked  to  take  with 
Rachel.  Nor  could  he  find  much  occupation  indoors.  When  he  had 
done  with  the  newspaper,  he  was  reduced  to  studying  the  sky  from  the 
front  and  back  of  the  house  alternately,  and  strolling  in  and  out  of  the 
rooms  to  see  what  other  people  were  doing.  "  Oh,  here's  Charley  ! "  said 
Fanny  on  one  of  the  occasions.  "  Now  please  don't  tease  Fido — he  has 
just  gone  to  sleep  on  his  cushion,  poor  dear  ! " 

"  I  tease  Fido !— what  next  ? "  said  Eastwood.  "  I'm  sure  you  tease 
him  much  more  than  I  do — you  are  always  washing  the  miserable  little 
beast,  and  combing  him,  and  fussing  after  him,  and  putting  ribbons 
round  his  neck — only  he  hasn't  got  any  neck,  he's  so  fat." 

"  Well,  I  know  you  do  tease  him,  and  he  doesn't  like  you,"  Fanny 
replied  as  she  threaded  her  needle.     "  Now,  Effie,  doesn't  he  tease  him  ? " 
"  Not  very  often,  I  think,"  said  Effie.     "  Only  now  and  then.     You're 
a  nice,  kind  boy,  Charley  dear,  but  you  are  very  cruel  on  a  wet  day." 


352  DAMOCLES. 

Rachel  looked  up  from  her  book.  "  At  that  rate  you'll  be  something 
terrible  if  this  rain  goes  on,"  she  remarked. 

"  Shan't  1 1 "  said  Charley.  "  I  should  think  the  effect  would  be 
permanent."  He  meditated  a  little.  "  Lucky  I  wasn't  one  of  Noah's 
sons — fancy  me  shut  up  in  the  ark  with  all  that  live  stock  !  But  you 
needn't  trouble  yourselves,  you  two ;  I'm  never  going  to  tease  a  dog 
again." 

"  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Fanny. 

" Never  again,"  Charley  repeated  in  a  tone  of  regret.  "I'm  a  re- 
formed character." 

"  What's  the  cause  of  the  reformation  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  saw  the  error  of  my  ways  a  day  or  two  ago,"  he  replied.  "  I 
don't  know  about  cats — you  had  better  keep  that  kitten  out  of  my  way, 
Erne.  But  I'm  never  to  tease  dogs  any  more — especially  tied-up  ones. 
I'm  not  sure  that  a  mad  bull-dog,  loose,  would  come  under  this  rule  ; 
perhaps  I  might  be  allowed  to  amuse  myself  with  that."  He  turned  to 
Miss  Conway.  "  What  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  perhaps  you  might — on  a  wet  day." 

"  Oh,  yes,  on  a  wet  day,  of  course."  He  stood  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  looking  down.  But  he  felt  so  strong  an  impulse  to  kick  Fido, 
who  lay,  snow-white  and  snoring,  at  his  feet,  that  he  judged  it  prudent 
to  fly  from  temptation,  and  went  away  to  smoke  a  pipe  in  the  porch. 

The  only  pleasant  interruption  to  the  monotony  of  the  day  was  the 
arrival  of  a  messenger  from  the  Hall.  Erne  happened  to  meet  Mary  in 
the  passage,  and  came  running  into  the  drawing-room,  where  Rachel, 
book  in  hand,  leaned  by  the  window,  looking  out  into  a  bower  of  damp 
greenery,  and  listening  to  the  gentle  falling  of  the  rain. 

"  Look  !  "  cried  Erne,  "  look  what  lovely  flowers  Mr.  Lauriston  has 
sent  me ! " 

Rachel  rushed  to  see  them.  "  Oh,  how  beautiful !  How  very 
beautiful !  That's  because  of  your  song  last  night,  Effie  !  " 

"  It's  worth  while  singing  songs,  then,"  said  the  girl  coolly,  as  she 
laid  her  treasures  out  one  by  one.  "Oh,  aren't  they  sweet ]"  she  ex- 
claimed, stooping  over  the  delicate  blossoms.  "  Rachel,  weren't  we  silly 
to  go  hunting  for  wild  flowers  yesterday  ?  " 

"  They  are  pretty,  too,"  said  Miss  Conway,  "  only  they  faded  so." 

"  But  not  pretty  like  these."  She  stood  looking  at  the  tender  waxen 
petals  on  their  background  of  dusky  green  cloth.  "  Rich  people  have 
all  the  nice  things,"  she  said  with  a  sigh.  "  lie  never  goes  out  and  picks 
a  bunch  of  rubbish  out  of  the  hedges." 

"  Mr.  Lauriston  ?     No,  I  don't  suppose  he  does." 

'•'No,  and  Mrs.  Lauriston  didn't,  /  know,"  said  Effie  with  a  little 
nod.  "  Not  when  she  could  have  all  the  flowers  she  wanted.  She 
made  believe  she  liked  them,  I  suppose,  when  she  was  a  shepherdess. 
So  would  I  make  believe  I  liked  them  now  and  then  if  I  had  the  others 
every  day." 


DAMOCLES.  353 

"  Effie,  we  heard  more  than  once  how  charming  wild  flowers  were, 
when  we  went  out  yesterday." 

"  That  was  because  I  couldn't  get  any  others.  Let's  turn  out  those 
shabby  old  things  of  Fanny's,  and  put  these  beauties  in."  Effie  sighed 
again  as  she  began  to  arrange  them,  and  felt  that  Fate  was  very  cruel 
to  her.  She  remembered  the  time  when  she  could  please  Mr.  Lauriston 
without  an  effort,  when  she  might  sit  on  his  knee,  and  play  with  his 
watchguard,  and  turn  the  ring  on  his  finger,  and  kiss  him,  instead  of 
having  to  keep  up  the  conversation  and  behave  like  a  young  lady.  She 
did  not  particulai-ly  wish  for  any  alteration  in  herself,  but  she  thought 
that  Mr.  Lauiiston  might  be  changed  in  many  respects  with  advantage. 

Why  wasn't  he  easy  to  talk  to,  like  Charley,  or  like 1  Effie  had 

had  more  than  one  harmless  little  flirtation  already,  and  could  have 
supplied  a  name  or  two  to  fill  up  the  blank. 

She  felt  this  cruelty  of  Fate  still  more  that  evening  when  Mr. 
Lauriston  sent  his  carriage  to  fetch  them.  As  they  rolled  easily  and 
swiftly  through  the  park,  Effie  remembered  what  miles  and  miles  her 
little  feet  had  trudged  through  country  lanes,  and  recalled  her  experience 
of  cab  and  omnibus  in  London  streets.  For  the  time  the  hothouse 
flowers  were  half  forgotten,  and  the  possession  of  a  carriage  became  the 
height  of  felicity.  Rachel  meanwhile  sat  opposite,  and  looked  with 
obedient  interest  at  every  view  which  Mrs.  Eastwood  pointed  out.  "  You 
don't  see  it  to  advantage,"  said  the  latter  regretfully.  But  Miss  Conway 
liked  the  green  dimness  of  the  judiciously  designed  plantations,  and  the 
softened  outlines  of  the  irregular  swells,  as  she  saw  them  first  that 
evening  through  a  thin  veil  of  rain.  She  was  almost  sorry  when  they 
arrived  at  the  Hall,  where  Effie,  alighting,  added  two  tall  footmen  to  her 
dream  of  joy. 

Mr.  Lauriston  had  invited  Mr.  Brand,  the  curate,  to  meet  them. 
Rachel  had  already  seen  him  in  church — a  dark,  rather  handsome  man, 
with  a  narrow  forehead  and  a  determined  mouth.  The  young  ladies  of 
the  parish  worshipped  him,  and  he  accepted  their  adoration  with  un- 
affected ease  as  a  matter  of  course.  Even  before  they  went  to  dinner 
he  began  to  talk  of  parish  matters  to  Fanny  and  Effie,  while  Mrs.  East- 
wood monopolised  Mr.  Lauriston,  and  boldly  questioned  him  about  the 
little  boy. 

"  He  is  very  well,  thank  you,"  was  the  reply.  "  No,  I  never  see 
him  in  the  evening — don't  such  young  people  go  to  bed  before  this 
time  ?  " 

"Well,  yes,  Mrs.  Eastwood  had  no  doubt  that  he  would  be  in  bed. 
She  was  glad  to  hear  he  was  well. 

"  Yes,"  Mr.  Lauriston  repeated,  "  he  is  very  well.  Not  a  very  strong 
child,  they  tell  me,  but  he  never  seems  to  be  ill." 

"  A  great  favourite,  of  course  1 "  she  said  with  a  beaming  smile, 
though  in  fact  she  had  her  doubts.  "  I  daresay  his  papa  spoils  him,  if 
the  truth  were  known." 


354  DAMOCLES. 

"  I  believe  I'm  not  bound  to  criminate  myself,  am  I  ? "  he  replied. 

"  I  suppose  he  goes  with  you  to-morrow  ? "  she  said,  returning  to  the 
charge.  "  Or  does  he  stay  on  at  the  Hall  while  you  are  away  ? " 

"Oh,  no — my  sisters  will  take  him.  I'm  a  rolling  stone,  you 
know." 

"  Your  sisters  ?  They  have  not  been  to  Redlands  for  a  long  while, 
I  think  ?  I  hope  they  are  well — Miss  Mary  especially." 

Mr.  Lauriston  smiled.  "  Not  Miss  Mary  now — you  did  not  know 
that  she  married  a  year  and  a  half  ago,"  he  said,  as  he  offered  her  his 
arm,  and  they  went  to  dinner.  He  foiled  most  of  her  questions,  and 
she  was  obliged  to  be  satisfied  with  learning  that  Miss  Mary  Lauriston 
was  Mrs.  Clarke,  and,  vaguely,  that  she  had  gone  to  America  with  her 
husband.  "  Henrietta  and  Eliza  will  take  the  child ;  they  have  more 
room  than  they  want  in  their  house,"  he  said. 

Miss  Conway  was  hardly  as  much  amused  during  dinner  as  she  had 
been  the  day  before.  She  sat  by  Mr.  Lauriston  (for  he  had  asked  Mrs. 
Eastwood  to  take  the  head  of  the  table,  which  she  did  with  much 
dignity),  but  Mr.  Brand  led  the  conversation  to  local  matters  which  she 
did  not  understand,  and  Charley  kept  up  a  dropping  fire  of  unconnected 
remarks.  She  found  it  difficult  to  talk  to  Charley  with  Mr.  Lauriston 
at  her  side,  and  she  hardly  acknowledged  to  herself  that  she  would  have 
liked  to  talk  to  Mr.  Lauriston.  "  Do  you  dine  in  this  great  room 
when  you  are  quite  alone  1 "  she  asked  him  once  when  the  question  was 
covered  by  the  general  conversation. 

"  Always,"  he  said.     "  You  think  it  dreary  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  think  I  should  like  the  shadows  in  all  the 
corners  if  I  were  alone." 

"  No  ?  They  are  very  good  company  when  you  are  used  to  them. 
I  daresay  many  people  would  call  it  dreary ;  but  do  you  know,  Miss 
Conway,  I  think  I  fancied  you  would  like  my  room." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Not  if  I  were  by  myself.  I  would  have 
a  little  room  and  light  it  well." 

"  It  would  be  difficult  to  light  this  " — he  began,  when  Mr.  Brand 
was  heard  saying, 

"  "We  have  been  talking  about  the  possibility  of  getting  a  cottage 
for  mission-work,  and  a  night-school,  in  Brook  Lane,  Mr.  Lauriston. 
Something  ought  to  be  done  there.  Can't  you  help  us  1 " 

He  answered ;  but  Rachel,  who  knew  nothing  of  Brook  Lane,  took 
advantage  of  a  momentary  silence  on  Charley's  part  to  glance  round  the 
room,  and  picture  to  herself  the  little  island  of  light  in  the  dusk,  with 
Mr.  Lauriston  sitting  there  all  alone.  She  could  see  it  vividly  enough, 
till  all  at  once  the  thought  of  his  dead  wife  came  into  it,  and  the  girl 
sat  with  drooping  eyelids,  wondering  what  those  two  had  looked  like  in 
the  lamplight  together,  and  whether  that  beautiful  memory  lingered  in 
the  shadows  that  Mr.  Lauriston  found  good  company.  Did  he  think  of 
her  in  those  lonely  evenings,  or  not  ?  Rachel  could  have  believed  either 


DAMOCLES.  355 

answer  to  her  question.  It  was  absurd — she  knew  it  was  perfectly 
absurd — he  was  only  a  gentlemanly,  well-dressed  man,  with  quiet 
manners  and  a  gentle  voice,  who  had  just  refilled  his  glass  as  he  sat  by 
her  side,  and  was  pushing  the  decanter  to  Mr.  Brand,  yet  it  seemed  to 
her  as  if  in  some  way  he  belonged  to  the  shadow  of  which  he  had 
spoken. 

Mrs.  Eastwood  was  eager  to  tell  her  girls  the  news  she  had  learned 
from  their  host,  and  to  exclaim  over  it  with  them.  "  Only  think,"  she 
said,  when  they  had  left  the  gentlemen  to  their  wine  and  were  safe  in 
the  drawing-room,  "  Mary  Lauriston  is  married !  Fanny,  you  must  re- 
member Mary  1 " 

"Oh,  I  remember  them  all.  Mary  was  the  fair  one — she  was 
younger  than  the  others." 

"  But  she  was  older  than  Mr.  Lauriston,"  said  Effie  scornfully.  She 
must  be  ever  so  old  now." 

"  Well,  she  is  about  five  or  six  and  forty,"  Mrs.  Eastwood  allowed. 
"  Still,  she  was  the  youngest  of  the  three,  and  much  the  best-looking.  I 
think  Adam  Lauriston  was  fond  of  her  in  his  own  way,  and  I  always 
thought  she  might  have  got  on  all  right  with  her  stepmother  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  others.  But  if  ever  there  were  a  couple  of  old  cats — they 
were  enough  to  make  mischief  with  anybody  !  " 

"  I  remember  them,"  said  Effie.  "  I  remember  their  coming  once 
when  I  was  quite  little  and  walking  round  the  garden  with  papa." 

"  Well,  even  he  didn't  like  them ! "  Mrs.  Eastwood  exclaimed 
triumphantly,  "  though  we  were  all  saints  and  angels  according  to  your 
papa.  And  now  Adam  Lauriston  is  going  to  send  that  poor  child  to 
live  with  them  !  I  shouldn't  have  wondered  if  Mary  had  been  there — 
but  to  send  a  child  to  those  two  old  maids  !  " 

"  Poor  little  wretch  !  "  said  Fanny. 

"  And  Mary  married  more  than  a  year  !  I  wonder  I  never  heard  of 
it.  I  shouldn't  be  much  surprised,"  Mrs.  Eastwood  remarked  sagely, 
"  if  they  weren't  pleased  with  the  marriage  for  some  reason." 

"  Perhaps  Miss  Henrietta  thought  he  ought  to  have  asked  the  eldest 
first,"  said  Effie.  "  I  say,  Rachel,  let's  go  round  the  room  and  look  at 
the  pictures  and  things  while  we  are  by  ourselves.  I  never  had  the 
chance  before." 

The  gentlemen  did  not  stay  very  long  in  the  dining-room.  It  would 
have  been  difficult  to  find  three  men  who  had  less  in  common,  and,  in 
spite  of  Mr.  Lauriston's  best  endeavours,  the  conversation  flagged.  He 
tried  politics,  but  without  success.  Charley  was  a  Conservative,  and 
a  strong  partisan.  It  was  evident  to  Charley  that  all  who  differed 
from  him  were  not  only  blind,  but  wilfully  blind,  to  the  truth.  It  was 
neither  very  easy  nor  very  profitable  to  discuss  political  questions  with 
him,  but  at  least  in  so  doing  you  knew  what  you  might  expecb.  Now 
Mr.  Brand  tested  all  statesmen  by  their  Church  principles — that  is,  by 
their  opinions  concerning  vestments  and  candles — and  in  his  talk  with 


356  DAMOCLES. 

young  Eastwood  this  classification  led  to  an  occasional  agreement  which 
was  far  more  irritating  than  any  discord.  That  was  the  last  attempt  at 
conversation,  and,  after  its  failure,  they  adjourned  to  the  drawing-room. 
Mr.  Lauriston,  pausing  on  the  threshold  to  let  his  guests  precede  him, 
looked  across  the  room  at  the  girls  who  bad  just  completed  their  tour  of 
inspection.  Effie  had  thrown  herself  into  a  stately  old-fashioned  arm- 
chair, a  chair  which  seemed  to  proclaim  itself  the  master's  seat.  The 
childish  little  figure  was  half  lost  in  its  depths  ;  but  the  light  gleamed  on 
the  soft  white  folds  of  her  dress,  and  on  her  bright  face  as  she  leaned 
forward,  speaking  to  her  friend.  Mr.  Lauriston,  however,  hardly 
noticed  Effia.  He  looked  at  Miss  Conway  who  stood  on  the  hearth-rug, 
erect  and  slender,  idly  fanning  herself  with  a  fan  of  peacock  feathers 
which  she  had  picked  up.  It  was  like  a  picture,  he  thought — the  girl's 
head  with  the  golden-brown  hair  drawn  back  and  wound  in  a  soft, 
shining  knot,  the  dark  eyes,  the  delicately  tinted  face,  against  the  carved 
white  marble  of  the  great  chimney-piece.  He  saw  it  all  in  one  quick 
glance,  for  Rachel  looked  round  when  she  heard  them  coming,  and 
paused,  with  the  fan  drooping  in  her  hand.  Eastwood  went  straight  up 
to  her,  and  Mr.  Lauriston  stood  discreetly  aside. 

His  turn  came  a  little  later,  however,  while  Mr.  Brand  was  turning 
over  a  portfolio  of  photographs,  and  talking  to  Fanny  and  Effie.  (If 
Miss  Conway  had  been  willing,  the  curate  would  very  readily  have  added 
her  to  his  listeners,  experience  having  given  him  confidence  in  dealing 
with  numbers.)  On  the  outskirts  of  the  little  group  sat  Mrs.  Eastwood, 
inspecting  a  photograph  through  her  gold  eye-glass  from  time  to  time, 
with  gentle  little  nods  of  which  she  was  happily  unconscious.  Charley, 
as  he  sat  near  Rachel,  rested  an  elbow  on  the  table,  and  turned  the  leaves 
of  the  last  Punch.  Apparently  his  occasional  remarks  did  not  engi'oss 
all  her  attention,  for  she  raised  her  eyes  to  Mr.  Lauriston,  who  had 
been  answering  a  question  about  one  of  the  photographs,  and  was  turning 
away.  "  We  were  looking  at  your  pictures  before  you  came  in — Effie 
and  I,"  she  said. 

He  came  directly  and  took  a  chair  by  her  side.  "  You  couldn't  see 
much  of  them  by  this  light,  I'm  afraid.  I'm  very  unlucky,  Miss 
Conway ;  there  are  some  things  I  should  like  to  show  you,  and  I  haven't 
the  chance." 

"  Thank  you,  you  are  very  kind.  I  should  have  been  very 
pleased." 

"  I  have  travelled  a  good  deal,"  he  went  on,  "  and  one  picks  up 
things — treasures  one  thinks  them.  And  to  find  some  one  else  who  will 
think  so  too — or  successfully  make  believe  to  think  so — is  one  of  the 
greatest  pleasures  I  know.  I  doubt  you  wouldn't  make  believe,  Miss 
Conway,  but  there  is  the  other  possibility." 

"  I  hope  I  wouldn't  make  believe,"  she  said  with  a  smile.  "  But  I 
can't  say  ;  I  might  try,  perhaps." 

"  It  would  be  very  kind,  you  know.     But  I  don't  think  you  would. 


DAMOCLES.  357 

You  didn't  pretend  to  like  my  gloomy  rooms.  If  I  had  only  known,  I 
would  have  bought  up  all  the  candles  in  Badlands,  and  lighted  them  in 
your  honour." 

"Perhaps  it  was  just  as  well  you  didn't  know.  And  I  only  said  I 
didn't  like  shadows  when  I  was  alone.  Your  house  is  too  big,  Mr. 
Lauriston,  and  it  sounds  hollow.  There  is  room  for  too  many  shadows 
in  it ;  but  I  don't  mind  them  to-night,  as  I  am  not  alone." 

There  was  a  pause.  "  Do  you  like  ghosts  1  I  have  a  ghost  belong- 
ing to  me,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston.  "  Did  you  know  that  1  " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  It  won't  do,  I  won't  be  frightened.  People 
don't  have  ghosts  in  elegant  modern  mansions.  I  don't  believe  in  it." 

"Ah,  but  my  ghost  is  not  to  be  disposed  of  in  that  summary  fashion. 
It  lives  out  of  doors." 

"  In  the  park,  then  ?  " 

"  No,  in  the  garden,  in  a  wide  grassy  walk  between  two  high  yew 
hedges." 

"  Is  it  dreadful  to  look  at  1 " 

"  Not  at  all.  At  least  I  hope  not,  for  the  credit  of  the  family,  since 
it  is  my  great-great-grandmother.  She  comes  hurrying  down  the  middle 
of  the  walk,  and  looks  backward  over  her  shoulder  as  she  comes." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  her,  Mr.  Lauriston  ? " 

"  Never ;  and  never  knew  any  one  who  did." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Rachel  with  a  smile,  "  that  this  is  only  the 
ghost  of  a  ghost  story." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  said  Lauriston.  "  That  is  the  charm  of  it. 
It  keeps  out  of  the  way,  and  cannot  be  explained  into  something  prosaic. 
I  hate  a  clumsy,  meaningless  ghost ;  but  this  story  of  mine  is  just  a 
shadowy  expression  of  the  tradition  that  the  walk  was  once  haunted  by 
a  most  miserable  woman." 

Rachel  looked  at  him  with  startled  eyes.  "  Why  did  she  haunt  it  ] 
Did  she  do  anything  dreadful  ?  " 

"  Nobody  knows  that  she  did  anything  at  all." 

"  Mr.  Lauriston,  you  and  your  story  are  very  mysterious." 

"  Shall  I  explain  1 "  he  said.  "  But  mind,  I  vouch  for  nothing.  This 
— what  shall  I  say  1 — this  distant  grandmother  of  mine  had  a  boy 
of  whom  she  was  passionately  fond.  He  was  not  the  heir,  for  her  hus- 
band was  the  second  son,  and  the  elder  brother  had  left  a  little  child, 
younger  than  her  own.  There  is  a  deep  pond  in  the  garden  close  to  the 
end  of  this  walk  I  told  you  of,  and  one  day  the  little  fellow  fell  into  it 
and  was  drowned.  The  nurse  who  ought  to  have  been  with  him  heard 
him  scream,  and  hurried  to  him  by  the  nearest  way,  (which  was  not  the 
yew  walk)  but  she  had  some  distance  to  go,  and  was  too  late.  It  was 
all  simple  enough,  and  there  was  nothing  to  connect  my  great-great- 
grandmother  with  it  in  the  slightest  degree." 
"  No,"  said  Rachel  wonderingly. 
"  But  after  that  time,  according  to  the  story,  her  people  noticed  that 


358  DAMOCLES. 

she  was  changed.  She  walked  continually  in  the  yew  walk,  but  never 
turned  the  corner  by  the  pond.  Naturally  they  said  that  she  had  been 
there  the  day  the  child  was  drowned,  and  might  have  saved  him." 

"  Do  you  suppose  she  was  there  1 " 

"  I  can't  say,"  he  answered  with  a  smile.  "  It  sounds  unpleasantly 
probable." 

"  But  it  is  horrible  !  "  said  Miss  Conway.  "  I  don't  like  your  story 
at  all,  Mr.  Lauriston.  I  can  fancy  her  walking  there,  and  never  daring 
to  look  round  the  corner,  because  she  would  not  look  that  one  moment !  " 
There  was  a  pause.  "  And  what  became  of  the  boy  for  whose  sake  she 
did  it?  Did  he  die?" 

"He  died,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston  gravely,  "at  the  age  of  eighty- 
three." 

"  What — he  lived  ?     But  was  he  happy  ?  was  he  fortunate  ?  " 

"  He  married  a  beautiful  heiress,  was  universally  respected,  paid  off 
most  of  the  mortgages,  and  left  the  estate  to  his  grandson,  my  uncle. 
You  seem  disappointed,  Miss  Conway,  but  it  was  a  very  good  thing  for 
the  family." 

"  No ;  but  I  felt  as  if  it  ought  not  to  end  so,"  she  answered.  "  I  felt 
as  if  she  ought  to  fail,  somehow,  and  instead  of  that  she  succeeded 
after  all." 

"Well,  if  she  had  failed,  that  would  have  been  tragic,  no  doubt,  but 
this  may  have  been  more  tragic  still.  Failure  leaves  you  your  ideal ; 
you  can  think,  '  If  it  had  been  ! '  But  suppose  you  succeed  and  find 
that  it  was  not  worth  while  " — he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  wonder  whether  she  thought  it  was  worth  while,"  said  Miss 
Conway. 

"  Assuming  the  truth  of  the  story,  I  suspect  not." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  think  not." 

"  Well,  from  the  nature  of  things  in  general — will  that  do  ?  If  it 
will  not  do,  I  will  remind  you  that  the  people  who  knew  her  best 
thought  not,  or  they  would  not  have  seen  her  haunting  the  yew  walk." 

Charles  Eastwood,  who  had  committed  himself  to  the  prediction  that 
Mr.  Lauriston  and  Miss  Conway  would  get  on  together,  was  very  well 
content  to  heai  the  quick  interchange  of  speech  going  on  at  his  elbow.  He 
had  been  listening,  too,  as  he  glanced  at  his  paper,  and  of  course  he  knew 
what  it  was  all  about.  They  were  talking  about  ghosts.  Now  he  saw 
the  Field  lying  at  a  little  distance  on  the  table,  and  pushed  his  chair 
rather  further  to  reach  it.  Rachel  turned  her  head,  looked  at  him,  and 
there  was  a  brief  pause  before  she  spoke  again. 

"  But,  Mr.  Lauriston,  perhaps  she  loved  him  so  much  that  she  thought 
it  was  worth  while  in  spite  of  all  her  suffering." 

"  Again  I  think  not,  Miss  Conway." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  If  she  could  have  been  capable  of  such  love  as  that  she  would  have 
been  brave  enough  to  face  the  consequences.  Afraid  of  that  pool ! 


DAMOCLES.  359 

Why  she  would  have  played  ducks  and  drakes  across  it,  unless  "  — Mr. 
Lauriston  suddenly  recollected  himself — "  unless  she  thought  that  per- 
haps people  might  consider  it  improper.  No,  it  was  an  impulse,  not  a 
great  passion.  And  she  was  thinking  of  herself,  not  of  her  boy,  when 
she  haunted  the  yew  walk.  Don't  you  agree  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  Perhaps.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a 
judge." 

"  Why  not  ?  We  all  know  how  women  can  sacrifice  themselves  for 
their  children,  or  their  lovers.  Don't  you  think  the  love  might  deaden 
the  pain  1  One  would  be  sorry  to  suppose  they  always  regretted  it," 
said  Mr.  Lauriston  drily. 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,"  was  her  hurried  reply,  while  the  colour  came 
into  her  face.  "  I  only  meant  that  I  was  not  romantic ;  I  don't  know,  I 
am  sure,  whether  I  should  be  capable  of  a  great  passion  or  self-sacrifice 
under  any  circumstances — most  likely  not ;  and  so  I  could  not  pretend 
to  decide  what  a  woman  might  do  or  feel.  That  was  all  I  meant." 

"  I  understand.  You  must  allow  me  to  draw  my  own  conclusion 
from  your  doubt." 

She  looked  curiously  at  him.     "  Tell  me  what  it  is,  Mr.  Lauriston." 

He  smiled.  "  Well,  since  you  ask  me,  if  I  may  say  so,  I  conclude 
that  there  is  a  possibility  that  you  are  capable." 

"  I  don't  see  why — you  don't  know  me  well  enough  to  tell,"  she 
said,  while  her  colour  deepened. 

"  I  never  meant  to  imply  that  I  did  know  you  well  enough  to  tell. 
I  was  only  judging  by  a  general  rule.  If  a  woman  is  certain  that  she  is 
capable  of  a  great  passion,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston  lightly,  "  one  suspects 
that  she  bases  her  certainty  on  half  a  dozen  lesser  ones.  If  she  doubts 
— one  may  at  least  doubt  too." 

She  laughed,  a  little  uneasily.  "  Well,  I  don't  want  to  prove  my 
capability,"  she  said,  half  to  herself.  Mr.  Lauriston  arched  his  brows, 
but  did  not  speak.  "  I  don't,"  she  repeated.  "  If  a  good  fairy  could 
give  me  my  wish,  I  would  choose  to  be  always  quiet,  and  peaceful,  and 
safe,  and  commonplace — yes,  I  would  choose  to  be  commonplace." 

Mr.  Lauriston  took  the  feather  fan  which  lay  idly  in  her  lap,  and 
turned  it  in  his  hands.  "  It  is  a  curious  wish,"  he  said.  "  But  I  don't 
think  it  sounds  unreasonable.  I  should  say  there  could  be  hardly  any 
difficulty  about  bestowing  that  boon  on  one  more." 

"  But  I  mean  it — I  mean  it,  really.  I'm  not  ambitious.  I  hope  and 
trust  that  I  am  just  fit  to  lead  a  commonplace  life  like  my  neighbours." 

"  You  think  that  1  Well,  if  so — pardon  me,  Miss  Conway — your 
looks  belie  you." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  my  looks  !  "  she  answered  hotly.  "  I'm  very 
sorry,  but  I  do  hope  it." 

"  So  much  the  worse  !  What  next  ?  "  said  Mr.  Lauriston.  "  First 
I  am  to  believe  that  you  wish  to  be  commonplace.  Well,  it  is  an  effort, 
but  I  consider  faith  my  strong  point.  But  this  is  too  much.  I  am  to 


360  DAMOCLES. 

believe  that  a  woman  not  only  wishes  to  be  commonplace — let  that  pass 
— but  to  look  commonplace  !     Forgive  me,  but  I  can't." 

He  smiled  as  he  said  it,  and  Rachel  smiled  too,  and  answered  honestly, 
"  Well,  I'm  not  quite  sure  about  the  looks  myself.  We  won't  say  any- 
thing more  about  them,  please." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  the  rest? " 

"  Yes  !  "  She  turned  her  head  and  met  his  eyes.  "  Oh,  you  may 
laugh ;  I  know  you  think  I  am  talking  nonsense,  but  it  is  true." 

Mr.  Lauriston  slightly  bent  his  head  in  token  of  acquiescence.  "  So 
be  it,"  he  said.  "  Must  I  wish  you  success  in  the  attainment  of  your 
ideal  1 "  It  might  be  a  mere  accident,  but  he  fixed  his  eyes  as  he  spoke 
on  Mrs.  Eastwood,  who  was  just  getting  the  gold  eye-glass  into  position 
to  examine  Salisbury  Cathedral. 

"  Looking  east,  mamma ;  but  you've  got  it  sideways,"  eaid  Fanny. 

Miss  Conway  looked  defiantly  at  Mr.  Lauriston.  "No,  I  won't 
trouble  you  for  your  good  wishes,"  she  said. 

"  Thank  you.     They  would  be  rather  grudgingly  given,  I'm  afraid." 

There  was  a  pause.  She  held  out  her  hand  for  the  fan,  which  he 
resigned.  "  Is  it — is  it  very  strange  to  wish  not  to  be  peculiar  in  any 
way  1 "  she  said  presently.  "  Don't  you  think  people  are  happier  so  ?  " 

"  It  is  difficult  to  put  happiness  into  figures  and  add  it  up,"  said 
Mr.  Lauriston.  "How  many  days  of  a  comfortable  life  will  equal  a 
moment  of  rapture  ? " 

The  fan  moved  slowly  to  and  fro,  and  Miss  Conway  did  not  attempt 
an  answer.  "  I  suppose  your  great-great-grandmother  wasn't  common- 
place," she  said  after  a  time.  "  And  she  wasn't  happy.  People  whose 
ghosts  walk  can't  be  quite  commonplace,  I  think." 

Mr.  Lauriston  smiled.  "  After  all,  I  know  very  little  about  my  great- 
great-grandmother.  The  whole  story,  you  perceive,  rests  on  nothing  more 
than  the  facts  that  she  walked  in  that  particular  path,  and  that  her 
spirits  were  not  good.  Still  I  admit  that  she  was  not  altogether  com- 
monplace. But  I  didn't  propose  her  as  an  ideal ;  in  fact  I  think  we 
decided  that  she  was  weak." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Miss  Conway  absently ;  and  for  a  few  moments 
the  two  seemed  to  be  pursuing  their  different  trains  of  thought.  Mr. 
Lauriston  spoke  first  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Suppose,  now,  the  story  I  told  you  was  true,  I  don't  mean  the 
apparition — that  doesn't  matter — but  that  lifelong  dread  and  horror  of 
hers ;  doesn't  it  seem  strange  that  it  should  fade  away  to  a  faint  uncer- 
tain shadow — oh,  a  human  shadow,  I  grant  you,"  for  Miss  Conway 
had  made  a  quick  gesture  of  dissent,  "  and  we  can't  tell  whether  there  is 
anything  real  behind  it  or  not  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  know  that  there  was  not,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  very  likely  there  was  not,  and  you  have  wasted  your  pity  on 
a  shadow.  But  it  seems  strange  that  we  cannot  be  sure.  Don't  you 
feel  that,  more  or  less,  with  all  old  stories  ?  Loves  and  hates  which  were 


DAMOCLES.  361 

all  fire,  and  madness,  and  blood,  and  nothing  left  but  a  little  shadowy 
sentiment  hovering  about  old  houses." 

Charley  Eastwood  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  his  neighbours.  In 
spite  of  his  reading  he  had  listened  to  their  conversation.  They  were 
still  talking  about  ghosts.  Being  an  observant  young  man,  he  noted 
the  fact  that  Rachel  looked  grave  and  preoccupied,  and  he  hoped  that 
she  had  not  got  a  headache.  As  he  pushed  his  paper  away,  the  heading 
to  a  paragraph  caught  his  eye,  and  he  stopped  to  read  it. 

"  She  thought  the  whole  world  was  miserable,  and  it  was  only  she 
herself  who  was  changed,"  said  the  girl. 

"  True ;  but  you  are  taking  this  grandmother  of  mine  much  too 
seriously,  Miss  Conway.  I  could  almost  fancy  that  you  had  been  in  the 
yew  walk,  and  seen  her  with  your  own  eyes." 

She  looked  at  him.  "  Do  you  tell  everybody  about  her,  Mr. 
Lauriston  ? " 

He  shook  his  head,  meeting  her  look  with  a  smile.  "  There,  that 
will  do,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "  Shall  we  have  some  music,  and  drive 
the  ghost  away  1  I  haven't  forgot  your  flattering  speech  to  me  last 
night,  but  I'm  not  quite  sure  that  I  can  play  the  part  of  David.  I 
shouldn't  look  the  character,  should  I  ? "  said  Mr.  Lauriston  with  a  laugh. 
"  '  Ruddy  and  of  a  fair  countenance  ' — Eastwood  is  our  man.  We'll  make 
him  begin,  and  my  turn  shall  come  afterwards." 

And  two  minutes  later  Charley  was  singing,  and  Mr.  Brand  had 
come  softly  across  the  room  with  a  couple  of  photographs,  to  ask  Miss 
Conway  if  she  had  ever  seen  Furness  Abbey. 

When  Mr.  Lauriston  had  said  goodbye  to  his  guests  that  evening 
he  came  back  to  the  drawing-room.  Standing  on  the  hearthrug  he  sur- 
veyed the  photographs  strewn  over  the  table,  the  piano  with  its  scattered 
sheets  of  music,  the  chairs  that  stood  about  with  a  queer  meaning  in 
their  disarray.  There  was  the  group  that  suggested  the  Eastwoods  wor- 
shipping the  curate ;  that  other,  somewhat  apart,  which  brought  back 
Charley,  a  little  bored,  perhaps,  and  conscious  that  he  had  got  through 
an  unusual  amount  of  reading ;  and  here  was  one  with  something  in 
its  position  that  instantly  recalled  the  fluent  ease  with  which  Mr.  Brand 
discoursed  of  Furness  Abbey.  Mr.  Lauriston,  softly  whistling  to  him- 
self, stepped  forward,  and  picked  up  the  feather  fan  which  lay  where 
Rachel  Conway  had  left  it. 

The  tune  grew  fainter  and  died.  He  looked  round  the  room.  "  So 
— it  is  too  big,  and  dreary,  and  full  of  shadows.  Well,  perhaps  it  is. 
I  suppose  Eastwood  will  take  a  neat  little  suburban  villa  somewhere, 
and  they  will  have  the  curtains  drawn,  and  the  gas  lighted,  when  he 
comes  home  from  the  office.  And  Mrs.  Charles  Eastwood  will  do  her 
best  to  think  of  nothing  outside  that  little  house,  and  Charley  will  cri- 
ticise her  dress,  and  her  manners,  whenever  he  feels  inclined,  and  the  girls 
will  go  and  stay  there,  and  old  Mrs.  Eastwood  will  give  her  good  advice 
about  the  servants  and  the  furniture.  Ah !  by  the  way,  the  little 
VOL.  XLV.— NO.  267.  18. 


362  DAMOCLES. 

drawing-room  will  be  full  of  hideous  wedding  presents.  And  sometimes 
they  will  have  a  few  friends  to  dinner,  or  some  musical  fellow  clerk  of 
Charley's,  who  sings  comic  songs,  will  drop  in.  And  she  thinks  she 
can  live  that  life  and  be  happy  !  Is  the  girl  mad  1  And  what  will  be 
the  end  of  it  1 " 

He  stood  for  a  moment,  pursuing  the  thought  which  seemed  to  grow 
more  distasteful  as  he  viewed  it  more  clearly.  Then  he  threw  down  the 
fan.  "  Charles  Eastwood's  wife  !  Well,  it's  no  business  of  mine,  but  I 
wish  to  heaven  I  had  never  seen  her." 


CHAPTEE  IV. 
AN  AFTERNOON  IN  REDLANDS  PARK. 

"  La  melancolie, 

Cette  fleur  du  Nord  et  d'un  ciel  souffrant, 
Dont  le  froid  calice,  inonde  de  pluie, 
S' exhale  en  poison." 

RACHEL  came  down  on  Friday  morning  in  a  dreamy  mood,  which  found 
no  satisfactory  response  from  the  faces  round  her.  Charley  had  a  faint 
perception  of  a  far-away  look  in  her  eyes,  and  he  called  attention  to  the 
fact,  causing  Fanny  to  suggest  that  she  was  thinking  of  Mr.  Lauriston. 
Miss  Conway  met  this  remark  with  a  lofty  silence,  which  might  be 
taken  as  jest  or  earnest.  In  point  of  fact  she  was  very  much  displeased. 
And  yet  she  was  thinking  of  Mr.  Lauriston. 

It  had  been  almost  a  relief  to  her  to  come  away  from  Redlands  Hall 
the  night  before.  The  great  lonely  house  had  cast  a  shadow  over  her, 
Mr.  Lauriston  had  perplexed  her,  and  the  thought  of  his  young  wife,  so 
early  lost,  had  saddened  her  through  its  very  vagueness.  The  woman  in 
his  story,  with  her  vain  remorse,  had  pressed  too  closely  on  Rachel's 
excited  imagination.  It  seemed  as  if,  after  long  years  of  silence,  finding 
some  one  who  could  understand  her  pain,  she  had  poured  a  share  of  her 
guilty  anguish  into  a  pure  soul.  Rachel  had  been  glad  to  watch  Effie's 
pretty  little  head  nodding  sleepily  in  the  dim  light  as  they  drove  home, 
and  Charley's  pleasant  cheery  voice  had  been  a  welcome  sound.  The 
clasp  of  his  strong  hand  as  he  said  goodnight  had  been  effectual  to  banish 
the  lingering  pressure  with  which  Mr.  Lauriston  bade  her  farewell, 
wondering,  with  a  curious  expression  in  his  eyes,  how  and  when  they 
would  meet  again.  That  touch  had  been  with  her  all  the  way,  till 
Charley  held  her  hand,  and  told  her  that  she  looked  tired,  and  must 
sleep  well. 

But  things  were  altered  with  the  morning.  She  had  slept,  and  the 
visionary  fancies  of  the  night  before  were  too  hopelessly  worsted  by  the 
daylight  to  be  any  longer  formidable.  Indeed,  they  were  slipping  away 
so  fast  that  Rachel  found  herself  regretting  them,  and  would  willingly 


DAMOCLES.  363 

have  called  them  back,  and  given  them  a  little  shelter.  But  where  ? 
The  aggressive  daylight  filled  every  corner  of  the  Eastwoods'  house.  If 
it  had  even  been  sunshine  it  would  have  brought  its  shadows  with  it ; 
but  the  sky  was  cloudy,  and  the  pale  diffused  light  shed  a  common- place 
clearness  over  all  the  world. 

And  Mr.  Lauriston  1  Rachel  could  not  help  wondering  what  effect 
the  daylight  would  have  on  him.  If  she  could  see  him  that  morning, 
would  he  seem  different,  like  everything  else  ?  She  tried  to  imagine 
him  taking  his  ticket,  and  starting  off  to  town,  as  anybody  might  do, 
and  in  the  effort  she  realised  that  he  was  gone,  and  that  life  seemed 
smaller,  and  speech  more  contracted,  in  his  absence. 

"  I  suppose  he  will  drive  past  here,"  said  Mrs.  Eastwood,  breaking 
strangely  into  the  girl's  thoughts. 

"  Lauriston  1  Oh,  he's  gone  before  now,"  Charley  replied,  looking  up 
from  his  paper.  "  He  always  drives  to  the  station  by  Raymond's  End." 

Miss  Conway  turned  away  her  eyes  indifferently.  "  Surely  that  is 
further  than  the  other  way,  isn't  it  ] "  said  his  mother. 

"  A  little,  perhaps.  But  there  isn't  a  quarter  of  a  mile's  difference 
between  them,  and  it's  a  better  road,  you  know — not  so  much  up  and 
down.  Still  I  dare  say  he'd  have  come  this  way  if  he'd  known  you 
wished  it." 

"  Well,  it  wouldn't  really  have  been  any  good,  but  I  must  own 
I  should  have  liked  just  a  glimpse  of  the  child,"  said  Mrs.  Eastwood. 

"  The  child  !  "  Charley  burst  out  laughing.  "  What  on  earth  did 
you  want  to  see  the  child  for]  Just  like  other  babies,  I  suppose, 
especially  driving  by  at  the  pace  Lauriston's  horses  mostly  go." 

"  Well,  I  said  it  wouldn't  be  any  good.  Still — you  didn't  see  him 
at  all,  did  you  ?  " 

"  No — only  heard  him  howl,  as  I  told  you.  The  little  beggar  has 
tolerable  lungs,  I  should  say,  if  that  interests  you." 

"  I  cannot  think  how  he  can  send  him  to  those  two  old  maids,"  said 
Mrs.  Eastwood,  whose  surprise  could  bear  several  such  repetitions  before 
losing  the  keenness  of  its  edge.  "  I  cannot  understand  it !  " 

"  Well,  it's  his  own  look-out.  And  I  see  no  particular  objection  so 
long  as  he  doesn't  want  to  send  me.  Is  Efiie  getting  ready  for  this  pre- 
cious Brookfield  expedition  of  ours,  does  anybody  know  ]  " 

Rachel  was  sorry  when  Charley  and  Effie  drove  off,  Effie  waving  her 
a  bright  farewell,  and  Charley  looking  back  with  an  easy  disregard  of 
the  old  horse  from  the  "  Falcon."  His  carelessness  mattered  the  less,  as 
that  sagacious  animal  was  accustomed  to  a  variety  of  incapable  drivers. 
And  though  it  did  young  Eastwood  some  injustice — not  understanding 
the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  case — it  turned  safely  into  the  Brook- 
field  road,  which  was  the  important  thing,  and  started  off  at  what  it 
considered  a  suitable  pace.  "  I  do  hope  Charley  will  be  careful,"  said 
Mrs.  Eastwood,  as  she  and  Rachel  went  back  into  the  house. 

Fanny  was  happy  in  the  prospect  of  a  morning's  dressmaking.  She 

18—2 


364  DAMOCLES. 

had  cleared  the  table  in  readiness  for  cutting  out,  and  she  was  impa- 
tiently waiting,  with  a  fashion-book  in  her  hand,  to  consult  Rachel  about 
the  pattern  of  a  trimming.  Rachel  tried  to  throw  herself  heart  and  soul 
into  the  work,  and  she  partly  succeeded.  But  even  while  she  considered 
what  style  was  best  adapted  for  Fanny's  neat,  plump  figure,  and  quite 
agreed  with  Mrs.  Eastwood  that  the  material  was  very  pretty,  and  likely 
to  wear  well,  and  not  expensive — no,  not  at  all  expensive — she  was  con- 
scious of  an  underlying  life  of  fancy  in  her  brain.  The  world  was  full 
of  wonders,  and  splendours,  and  shadows — was  it  not  ?  At  least  it  had 
seemed  so  the  night  before — full  of  doubts  and  fears,  of  dreams  high  as 
heaven  and  deep  as  hell.  And  meanwhile  she  measured  and  pinned. 
"  You  will  get  it  out  of  that,  I  am  sure,  and  then  it  will  come  all  right 
for  cutting  on  the  cross ;  of  course  those  folds  must  be  cut  on  the  cross," 
she  said  to  Fanny,  who  stood  by  with  a  great  pair  of  scissors,  eager  to 
begin.  The  work  progressed  rapidly,  yet  they  were  surprised  when  one 
o'clock  came  and  found  them  absorbed  in  it.  However,  as  Fanny  re- 
marked, the  cutting  out  was  just  finished,  and  she  could  do  up  some  of 
the  seams  that  afternoon  in  the  machine.  She  made  up  her  mind  on  a 
question  of  buttons,  between  the  meat  and  pudding  at  their  early  dinner, 
but  hesitated  about  fringe  till  the  cloth  was  taken  away.  Miss  Conway 
never  failed  to  show  an  intelligent  interest  in  these  matters,  though  it 
occurred  to  her  once  to  wonder  what  Mr.  Lauriston's  great-great-grand- 
mother did  when  she  wanted  a  new  gown.  "I  suppose  she  chose  the 
colour  she  liked  best,  in  spite  of  her  misery,"  the  girl  thought  to  herself, 
''  and  settled  what  buttons  she  would  have — like  Fanny !  " 

"  You  look  pale,"  said  Mrs.{;Eastwood ;  "  you  mustn't  stay  indoors  all 
day.  I  don't  suppose  Fanny  will  leave  her  work  " — Fanny  shook  her 
head — "  but  you  might  walk  into  the  village  with  me,  and  while  I  call 
on  Mrs.  Wilkinson  you  could  go  a  little  way  by  yourself." 

Rachel  readily  assented.  She  was  glad  to  be  in  the  open  air,  though 
they  talked  of  Fanny's  dress  till  they  reached  Mrs.  Wilkinson's  door. 
But  she  rejoiced  still  more  when  she  found  herself  alone  and  free,  walk- 
ing with  swift  steps,  she  hardly  heeded  where.  It  was  one  of  those 
spring  days  when  the  damp  soft  air  is  like  the  breath  of  a  hothouse, 
smelling  of  earth  and  leaves.  Every  bud  was  opening,  all  life  quicken- 
ing, under  the  low,  grey  sky.  It  was  so  sunless  and  still  that  it  would 
have  been  melancholy,  if  the  year  had  not  been  so  young,  and  it  seemed 
to  Rachel,  as  she  walked,  as  if  the  birds  were  singing  through  a  strange 
and  silent  dream.  She  let  her  fancy  wander  where  it  would;  she  was 
content  to  listen  to  the  ever  flowing  stream  of  song,  yet  not  even  that 
with  too  much  earnestness,  lest  a  thought  should  break  the  spell.  She 
liked  to  be  alone,  going  her  way  between  the  white- blossomed  hedges, 
Avith  her  head  high,  as  if  the  often  trodden  country  lane  were  a  pathway 
leading  into  an  unknown  world. 

Other  steps,  as  light  and  quick  as  if  they  were  echoes  of  her  own, 
were  drawing  near,  Miss  Conway  turned  a  corner  of  the  road,  came 


DAMOCLES.  365 

suddenly  upon  a  small  gate  leading  into  the  park,  and  found  hei'self  face 
to  face  with  Mr.  Lauriston. 

There  -was  the  briefest  possible  pause  of  surprise  before  he  spoke. 
"  Alone,  Miss  Con  way  ? "  He  unfastened  the  gate,  and  came  forward, 
holding  out  his  hand.  "  What,  did  I  startle  you  ? " 

"  I  thought  you  had  gone  away,"  she  answered. 

" L'homme  propose"  said  Mr.  Lauriston,  with  that  slight  shrug  of 
his  shoulders  which  was  already  so  familiar  to  Rachel,  "  but,  to  finish  in 
plain  English,  my  sister  has  fallen  downstairs,  and  is  too  much  shaken 
to  be  able  to  i ravel  to-day." 

"  Is  she  much  hurt  ?  "  inquired  Rachel,  still  confused,  but  prompted 
by  an  instinct  of  politeness. 

"  Only  shaken ;  nothing  serious,  I  think,  as  she  hopes  to  meet  me  in 
town  to-morrow.  But  when  I  had  the  telegram  I  decided  to  wait  here, 
rather  than  there.  And  now  it  is  your  own  turn  to  account  for 
yourself;  hew  come  you  to  be  wandering  about  alone?"  said  Mr. 
Lauriston,  with  a  quick  glance,  as  if  he  half  expected  to  see  some  one 
else  turn  the  corner.  "  Where  are  the  rest  ?  " 

"  Effie  and  Mr.  Eastwood  are  gone  to  Brookfield  for  the  day,  Fanny 
is  busy,  and  Fido  is  asleep.  So  I  went  into  the  village  with  Mrs. 
Eastwood,  and  left  her  to  pay  some  calls,  while  I  came  a  little  way  by 
myself." 

"  I  see.    And  where  are  you  going  1 " 

"Going!     Oh,  nowhere." 

Mr.  Lauriston  swung  the  little  gate  back  on  its  hinges,  and  leaned 
against  it.  "You  will  find  this  the  most  direct  route,  Miss  Con- 
way." 

Rachel  laughed  doubtfully,  and  looked  along  the  lane.  He  followed 
the  direction  of  her  eyes. 

"  In  less  than  three  minutes  that  way  wfll  take  you  into  the  Bucks- 
mill  Hill  road,  which,  as  you  know,  is  nothing  remarkable,  at  any  rate 
till  you  get  to  the  farm.  Besides,  you  have  been  there  already.  Come 
where  you  have  not  been." 

She  smiled  again,  and  this  time  she  looked  towards  the  park.  In 
the  grey  canopy  of  cloud  there  was  a  spot  of  luminous  mist,  and  the 
only  gleam  of  sunshine  which  that  Friday  afternoon  was  destined  to 
know  stole  softly  over  the  face  of  the  land,  and  brightened  it  with  a 
yellow  glow.  It  was  like  an  answering  smile  to  Rachel. 

"  Well  ? "  said  Mr.  Lauriston,  still  leaning  on  the  gate.  Something 
of  easy  grace  in  his  attitude  caught  the  girl's  eye,  as  he  stood  in  the  fore- 
ground of  the  picture,  waiting  her  decision.  "  It  is  evident  to  me,"  he 
said,  "that  'the  good  fates  please '  that  you  should  be  introduced  to  my 
domain  in  spite  of  your  indifference,  or  why  did  they  bring  us  together 
exactly  at  the  gate  ?  Come,  Miss  Conway,"  he  went  on,  with  a  sudden 
change  of  tone  ;  "  come  and  see  the  irregular  swells  !  " 

The  pathetic   entreaty   triumphed,  though  even  then  she  paused. 


366  DAMOCLES. 

"  Promise  me  that  you  won't  take  me  to  that  yew  walk,  Mr.  Lau- 
riston." 

"  No,  no,  I  won't/'  he  promised,  as  he  held  the  gate  for  her  to  pass. 

"  Nor  the  pond,"  she  said,  stopping  short. 

"  Nor  the  pond.  And  the  pond  and  the  yew  walk  shall  be  taken  as 
including  everything  else  of  the  same  kind,  though  I  don't  think  there 
ift  anything  else  ?  Will  that  do  1  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Con  way  gravely,  "  that  will  do.  But  weren't  you 
going  anywhere,  Mr.  Lauriston  1  " 

''•  Nowhere.     Our  destination  is  precisely  the  same,  you  perceive." 

Towards  that  destination  they  walked  together  through  the  warm 
stillness  of  the  afternoon,  from  which  the  soft  glow  had  not  yet  quite 
faded.  Rachel  found  it  hard  to  believe  that  it  was  scarcely  more  than 
half  an  hour  since  she  left  the  hot  little  house  which  was  full  of  the 
busy  noise  of  Fanny's  machine,  and  the  smell  of  early  dinner.  In  the 
first  surprise  of  her  meeting  with  Mr.  Lauriston  she  had  forgotten  all 
about  the  birds  ;  but  now  they  were  singing  afresh,  and  filling  all  the 
pauses  in  her  thoughts  with  gushes  of  music.  There  were  leafy  whispers 
overhead  as  they  went  across  "  shady  levels,  mossy  fine."  Between  the 
trunks  there  were  glimpses  of  the  tranquil  reaches  of  the  river,  and 
beyond  that  were  slopes  and  lawns  of  greenest  grass  among  the  oaks  and 
beeches.  Miss  Conway  felt  as  if  Fanny,  working  at  her  seam,  must  be 
miles  and  miles  away  ;  or  rather,  perhaps,  some  strange  distance  which 
could  not  be  expressed  in  miles.  And  yet  through  it  all,  with  a  half 
smile,  half  sigh,  she  was  conscious  that  she  herself  should  go  home  to  a 
meat  tea. 

"  Why  did  you  smile  1 "  said  Mr.  LaurLston.  "  What  were  you 
thinking  of?" 

"  Nothing,"  she  answered.  How  could  she  tell  him  that  she  was 
thinking  about  her  tea — why,  he  would  suppose  she  was  hungry  ! — or 
about  Fanny's  new  dress  ?  Besides,  she  was  not  really  thinking  of  these 
things,  and  she  hardly  knew  what  made  her  smile. 

"  You  are  going  nowhere,  and  thinking  of  nothing  by  the  way.  Well, 
it  is  exceedingly  appropriate,  but  you  seem  to  be  in  rather  a  negative 
mood  this  afternoon,  Miss  Conway." 

"  I  don't  quite  know  what  I  was  thinking  of,"  she  said.  "  But  I 
fancy  I  must  have  been  thinking  how  beautiful  all  this  is — how  could 
one  think  of  anything  else  here  1  " 

"Oh,  I  am  silenced,"  said  Mr.  Lauri&ton  with  a  well  pleased  smile, 
and  they  went  some  little  distance  before  he  spoke  again.  "  Come  this 
way,  and  I  will  show  you  something  that  you  will  like." 

She  followed  obediently  as  he  led  the  way  up  a  little  knoll  close  by. 
"  Mr.  Lauriston,"  she  said,  and  he  turned  round  quickly,  "  is  this  an 
irregular  swell  1 " 

"  Unquestionably,"  he  replied,  with  extreme  gravity.  "  Though  it 
is  rather  a  small  specimen,  there  is  no  doubt  whatever  about  it." 


DAMOCLES.  367 

"  Well,  it  isn't  very  big,  certainly,  but  it  is  very  nice.  And  what 
am  I  to  see  now  that  I  am  here  1  " 

"  Do  you  know  what  that  is  ? "  Mr.  Lauriston  inquired.  She  looked 
where  he  pointed,  and  in  the  distance  she  saw  the  rounded  top  of  Bucks- 
mill  Hill  against  the  soft  grey  sky.  She  could  distinguish  the  roof  of 
the  farm  at  its  foot,  among  the  clustered  orchard  trees,  and,  looking  up- 
ward for  the  track  which  they  followed  that  night,  she  caught  sight  of  a 
bit  of  it,  like  a  scar  on  the  hillside,  just  below  the  spot  where  it  branched 
off  to  the  purple  moorland.  "  You  would  see  it  better  if  the  sun  were 
shining,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston. 

"  It  is  very  pretty  now."  And  Rachel  paused,  with  parted  lips  and 
eager  eyes,  looking  at  it.  Only  three  days  earlier  she  had  stood  on  that 
hill,  and  looked  at  Redlands  Hall,  where  it  lay  far  off  in  its  moonlit 
woodland.  She  remembered  how  they  had  talked  of  Mr.  Lauriston,  "  a 
little  dark  man  with  bright  eyes,"  and  how  her  fancy  had  called  up  a 
shadow  to  haunt  the  shadowy  moor.  And  now  they  stood  together 
looking  at  Bucksmill  Hill.  Charley's  words  came  back  to  her  so  clearly 
that  it  seemed  as  if  they  had  that  minute  been  spoken,  and,  turning 
to  her  companion,  she  said  with  a  smile,  "  And  all  that  belongs  to  you, 
Mr.  Lauriston  !  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  It  belongs  to  me,  or  —sometimes  I  think  it  is  the 
other  way,  and  that  I  belong  to  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  Why,  it  seems  rather  absurd  to  talk  about  owning  all  that,  when 
there  is  so  little  I  can  do  with  it.  In  what  sense  do  I  really  possess 
the  earth  that  is  under  our  feet  1  I  could  cut  down  some  trees  if  I 
liked,  and  leave  my  mark  so,  but  even  that  wouldn't  last  for  ever.  And 
when  I'm  underground  there'll  be  the  grass  growing,  and  the  river 
flowing,  and  Bucksmill  Hill  up  aloft  against  the  sky,  just  the  same." 

"  That's  true,"  said  the  girl. 

"  And  meanwhile  here  I  am,  tied  to  the  place  after  a  fashion." 

"  But  you  like  it  1 " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  like  it,"  he  said  with  a  laugh.  "  I'm  not  complaining, 
Miss  Con  way.  I  was  only  trying  to  make  out  whether  I  own  Redlands, 
or  Redlands  owns  me." 

"  You  could  sell  it,  I  suppose  1 " 

"  I  have  the  legal  power  to  do  so — it  isn't  entailed — did  you  mean 
that  1  But  I  couldn't  do  it.  There  are  tenants  who  have  held  under  us 
for  many  years  ;  all  the  old  people  in  the  village  know  us.  I'm  not  a 
model  landlord  by  any  means.  In  fact,  I'm  simply  King  Log.  But, 
such  as  I  am,  these  good  folks  understand  me,  and  we  get  on  very  well. 
Suppose  I  sold  the  place  to  a  cotton  spinner.  He  might  take  to  im- 
proving them — I  don't  see  how  I  could  stipulate  that  he  shouldn't  im- 
prove them — and  they  wouldn't  like  it  at  all.  And  I  have  an  idea  that 
I  should  feel  as  if  I  had  deserted  my  post." 


368  DAMOCLES. 

"I  think  you  would.  I'm  afraid  there's  no  help  for  it,  Mr. 
Lauriston." 

"  No,  I  must  stick  to  the  old  place  till  I  die.  Till  I  die,"  he  repeated 
with  a  whimsical  smile,  and  faced  round  abruptly,  with  his  back  to 
Bucksmill  Hill.  "  Look  there,  Miss  Conway;  do  you  see  that  glimpse 
of  road  across  there,  through  the  trees  1 " 

She  turned  and  looked.     "  Yes  ;  I  see  it." 

"  Well,  that's  the  straight  road  to  the  village.  That's  the  way  my 
funeral  will  go,  one  of  these  days.  Now  do  you  understand  what  I  mean 
when  I  say  I  feel  as  if  I  belonged  to  the  estate  ]  You  don't  know  where 
you  will  be  buried."  He  stood  with  his  bright  eyes  fixed  upon  the  bit 
of  road,  as  if  he  saw  the  slowly  moving  blots  upon  its  whiteness. 
Rachel  looked  too,  and  suddenly  remembered  that  the  last  funeral  pro- 
cession was  little  more  than  a  year  before,  when  his  wife  was  buried. 
The  thought  startled  her,  and  she  wondered  whether  he  was  thinking  of 
the  same  thing.  It  seemed  to  her — though  what  did  she  know  about 
him  1 — that  it  was  impossible  to  imagine  Mr.  Lauriston  grieving  in  a 
commonplace,  customary  way.  She  could  fancy  a  strange  intensity  of 
sorrow  on  his  part,  or  a  cool  indifference — anything  but  the  honest  yet 
not  all-absorbing  griefs,  which  are  woven  like  black  threads  into  ordinary 
lives.  Miss  Conway  might  be  foolish  in  this  fancy  of  hers.  She  was 
only  two  and  twenty,  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  and  Mr.  Lauriston  was  the 
first  man  she  had  known  who  looked  like  the  possible  hero  of  a  story, 
for  her  imagination  could  hardly  glorify  Charley  Eastwood  to  that  extent. 
At  any  rate  she  had  this  fancy  ;  and  since  she  was  thinking  of  a  beautiful 
young  wife,  won  and  lost  within  a  year,  did  it  not  follow  that  her  com- 
panion was  hiding  a  lifelong  sorrow  1 

He  had  turned  and  was  looking  at  her.  "  Don't  you  like  people  to 
talk  about  dying  and  being  buried,  Miss  Conway  ?  You  look  grave, 
as  you  looked  last  night  when  you  took  my  ghost  so  seriously." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  I  mind,"  she  said,  as  they  resumed  their  walk. 
"  Everybody  must  die ;  it  would  be  silly  to  be  afraid  to  talk  of  that. 
But  I'm  not  like  you,  Mr.  Lauriston;  I  don't  like  talking  about 
horrors." 

«  Do  I  talk  about  horrors  1 " 

"  I  think  you  do,  don't  you  ] " 

"  That  depends  partly  on  your  definition  of  horrors,  perhaps." 

"  Well,  crimes,"  she  said.  "  Or — or  dreadful  sufferings,  or  " — she 
stopped  short,  glanced  at  him,  and,  as  he  did  not  speak,  she  made  another 
attempt.  "  I  think  you  want  to  know  about  people  who  are  strange  in 
any  way.  I  think  you  want  to  study  them  and  understand  how  they 
feel.  Oh,  I  can't  tell  you  exactly  what  I  mean !  " 

"  But  that  will  do  ;  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston. 
"  Well,  such  things  are  in  the  world — misshapen  lives,  and  all  manner  of 
queer  growths — one  must  look  at  them,  surely.  But  I  have  no  morbid 
taste  for  them,  I  hope ;  I  don't  think  I  particularly  want  to  talk  about 


DAMOCLES.  369 

them.   Certainly  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  them  to  you,  Miss  Conway," 
he  said,  -with  one  of  his  swift  smiles. 

"  But  why  do  you  like  to  think  about  such  things  at  all  1 — things 
that  cannot  be  mended,  I  mean ;  it  is  terrible  to  think  about  them. 
Why  do  you  want  to  look  at  them,  Mr.  Lauriston  1 " 

"  I  won't  retort  that  it  is  difficult  to  say  what  can  or  can't  be 
mended,"  he  replied,  "  because  I  don't  profess  to  do  anything  in  that 
line.  I  simply  take  things  as  I  find  them,  one  with  another.  What  do 
you  want  me  to  do  1  Go  through  the  world  with  my  eyes  shut,  and 
swear  that  it  is  Eden  ? " 

"  It  might  be  like  Eden,  perhaps,  if  one  only  looked  at  what  was 
good  and  beautiful,"  said  the  girl.  "  Dying  doesn't  matter  so  much. 
But  if  one  thinks  of  dreadful  things,  they  come  back  over  and  over 
again " 

She  was  looking  at  the  ground  as  she  walked,  and  Mr.  Lauriston  had 
time  for  a  quick  curious  glance  at  her  face,  before  she  raised  her  eyes. 
He  saw  that  her  lip  trembled. 

"  This  is  only  a  better  version  of  your  desire  to  be  commonplace," 
he  said,  and  was  apparently  interested  in  a  distant  group  of  trees.  "  Of 
course,  as  you  say,  innocence  can  make  an  Eden  of  its  own,  let  the  world 
be  what  it  may." 

"  Well,  then,  isn't  that  the  best  ? " 

"  If  you  like,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston.  "  It  is  very  beautiful,  no  doubt. 
But  give  me  my  choice,  and  I  should  like  to  see  this  queer  world  of  ours 
just  as  it  really  is,  if  that  were  possible — shadows,  blood-stains,  smoulder- 
ing fires,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  as  well  as  the  beauty.  Innocence  such  as 
you  talk  of — pardon  me — is  something  like  jaundice  ;  you  see  the  universe 
your  own  colour,  only  of  course  it  is  white  instead  of  yellow.  It  is  far 
better  than  a  preference  for  horrors ;  but  I  should  like  the  truth  best,  if 
such  a  vision  could  be  !  " 

He  had  apparently  given  her  time  to  recover  something  of  the  self- 
possession  which  she  had  so  unaccountably  lost,  for  she  smiled  as  she 
answered,  "  I  didn't  know  you  were  so  prejudiced  against  innocence, 
Mr.  Lauriston.  Well,  it  is  easily  got  rid  of,  isn't  it  ?  " 

He  arched  his  brows.  "  Do  you  really  think  that,  Miss  Conway  ? 
Did  your  favourite  preacher  tell  you  so,  and  did  you  believe  him  1  But 
that  is  a  mistake.  The  beautiful  trustfulness,  which  sees  Eden  in  this 
everyday  world,  clings  to  some  characters.  I  knew  a  man  once  " — Mr. 
Lauriston  looked  straight  before  him,  with  a  half  smile,  as  if  he  called 
up  the  face  of  his  friend — "  who  thought  himself  just  a  little  embittered 
by  his  knowledge.  He  fell  in  love,  and  made  up  his  mind  that  happi- 
ness might  fairly  be  hoped  for  in  an  alliance  between  a  little  too  much 
keen-sightedness  and  the  softest  and  most  confiding  innocence.  What 
should  you  say  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.     Did  he  try  it  ]  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  he  tried  it." 

18-5 


370  DAMOCLES. 

"  Well,  what  happened  ? "  said  Eachel,  as  if  she  were  compelled  to 
ask  the  question. 

"  Why,  it  turned  out  rather  unexpectedly.  He  found  that  he  had 
mistaken  the  parts,  and  had  been  playing  the  wrong  one  all  the  time." 

"Well,  even  then  I  think  your  friend  had  the  best  of  it,"  Miss 
Conway  began  defiantly ;  but  a  look  at  Mr.  Lauriston's  face  disconcerted 
her.  "  I  believe  you  invented  that  man,"  she  said.  "  You  are 
laughing." 

"  Not  at  you,  then." 

They  walked  a  little  further.  Rachel,  distrustfully  silent,  gazed  at 
the  dull  sky,  while  Mr.  Lauriston  was  still  half  smiling  at  his  jest.  He 
was  the  first  to  speak.  "  Ghost  stories  are  not  included  among  the 
horrors,  really,  I  hope  1  My  great-grcat-grandmother  didn't  haunt  you 
last  night,  did  she  1 " 

"I'm  afraid  she  did,  a  little,"  said  Rachel,  with  a  quick  glance. 
"  But  I  don't  think  the  ghost  had  very  much  to  do  with  it." 

"  No,  of  course  not.  One  can't  well  be  frightened  by  the  spectres  of 
past  agas.  There  is  a  fashion  in  terrors  as  in  everything  else.  A  man 
who  has  an  encounter  with  the  devil  doesn't  do  now ;  the  brimstone- 
buming  red-hot  style  of  thing  has  gone  by.  It  wanted  twilight,  like 
snapdragon." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  but  how  dreadful  it  is  to  think  of 
the  people  who  lived  and  died  in  the  twilight,  and  believed  all  that !     It 
is  easy  for  you  to  laugh  at  their  fancies." 
"  And  for  you,  too,  I  hope  ] " 

"  Yes,  here  and  now.  But  suppose  one  were  to  be  alone,  and  to 
believe  something  hideous  and  dreadful !  If  I  did,  it  would  be  true  for 
me  then,  you  know." 

Mr.  Lauriston  was  touched  by  the  little  cloud  of  sadness  on  Miss 
Conway's  pure  face,  the  faint,  passing  shadow  cast  by  darker  ages. 
"  No  doubt,"  he  said.  "  But  I  don't  see  how  that  is  to  be,  unless  one 
went  mad." 

"  Well  1 "  said  the  girl  breathlessly,  and  looked  straight  into  his  eyes. 

He  felt  a  cold  shock  as  he  met  that  look  with  its  sudden  revelation 

of  fear.     There  was  a  moment  of  startled  silence,  and  she  turned  her 

face  away.     "  So  that  is  the  bugbear,"  he  said  after  a  pause.     "  And 

why,  Miss  Conway  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  trying  to  make  her  tone  indifferent. 
"  There  isn't  any  real  reason.  I  suppose  everybody  has  fancies." 

"  But  tell  me  why,"  he  said,  and  there  was  something  different  in 
his  voice.  "  Stay,  you  will  be  tired ;  why  shouldn't  you  rest  a  little 
while  1  Sit  down  here." 

They  were  close  to  some  felled  trees,  and  Rachel  obeyed  without  a 
word.  He  chose  his  place  somewhat  lower,  and  rested  his  elbow  on  the 
tree  she  sat  on.  Again  she  heard  the  birds  singing  through  the  grey 
stillness.  The  whole  afternoon  seemed  like  a  dream,  and  Mr.  Lauriston — 


DAMOCLES.  371 

who  was  studiously  looking  down,  and  lightly  touching  a  daisy  with  his 
foot — was  more  dream-like  than  anything  else.  He  had  drawn  off  his 
glove,  and  she  gazed  absently  at  the  white  hand  with  the  black  signet 
ring  on  it,  which  lay  on  the  rough  bark. 

"  Now  tell  me  about  this  fancy  of  yours,"  he  said.  It  was  neither 
an  entreaty  which  left  the  decision  to  her,  nor  a  command  which  might 
arouse  defiance,  but  something  between  the  two.  And  why  should  she 
not  tell  him  1  It  was  nothing — how  often  she  had  told  herself  it  was 
nothing,  in  the  loneliest  hours  of  the  night !  He  might  laugh — but  if 
he  did,  would  not  that  laugh  help  her  1  Could  she  not  despise  her  terror, 
remembering  his  scorn  ?  Or  if — if  in  the  very  folly  of  her  fears,  he  saw 
their  meaning  plainly  written,  what  then  ?  Had  she  not  seen  it  many  a 
time  before  ?  Why  should  she  not  tell  him  1  She  could  not  have  told 
Effie,  or  Mrs.  Eastwood,  or  Charley,  but  Mr.  Lauriston  would  understand. 
This  was  but  the  third  time  she  had  seen  him ;  a  week  earlier  he  had  been 
only  the  merest  name  to  her,  and  yet  she  was  sure  he  would  understand. 
Besides,  he  was  going  away.  She  would  not  have  told  him  if  he  had 
stayed  on  at  Redlands ;  but  he  was  going,  and  she  herself  would  leave  on 
Monday,  and  the  Eastwoods  were  only  to  remain  a  few  days  longer. 
Perhaps  she  would  never  see  Mr.  Lauriston  again. 

"  There  isn't  anything  to  tell,  really,"  she  said  in  a  tremulous  voice. 
"  You  will  say  that  I  am  silly  ;  that  will  be  the  kindest  thing  that  you 
can  say.  It  was  only  something  that  frightened  me  when  I  was  a 
little  child." 

"  And  frightens  you  still  because  it  frightened  you  then,"  he  said, 
looking  up  at  her  very  kindly.  "  We  leave  most  of  our  childish  terrors 
behind  us  as  we  grow  up,  but  now  and  then  we  find  one  which  grows 
up  with  us.  Well,  Miss  Conway  1 " 

She  clasped  and  unclasped  her  restless  hands  as  she  sat.  "  I  wasn't 
more  than  ten  years  old,"  she  said  suddenly.  "  It  was  before  mamma 
died,  and  before  my  father  died,  too ;  but  he  was  ill,  and  away  from 
home,  and  mamma  and  I  were  alone.  It  was  one  day  in  the  spring — 
something  like  this — and  she  told  me  she  was  going  for  a  drive  to  see  a 
lady  who  was  ill,  and  she  would  take  me  with  her.  I  don't  know  where 
the  place  was.  It  was  a  long  way,  and  I  remember  crossing  a  little 
bridge,  and  then  turning  the  corner  and  seeing  the  house — a  grey  house 
with  some  fir-trees  growing  on  a  little  hill  by  it,  and  a  steep  drive  up  to 
the  door.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  see  it  now,"  said  Miss  Conway.  "  There 
were  some  straggling  laurels,  and  I  remember  two  vases  with  the  last 
year's  dead  geraniums  in  them.  We  went  into  a  room  where  there  were 
three  ladies.  One  was  quite  old,  and  I  think  she  was  nearly  blind,  for 
I  know  they  had  to  explain  to  her  that  I  was  there.  She  told  them  to 
give  me  some  cake,  and  that  would  help  to  pass  the  time ;  and  then  my 
mother  said  we  could  not  stay  long,  and  might  she  see  Miss  Agatha  ? 

"I  didn't  understand  that  I  was  meant  to  stay  with  the  blind  lady, 
and  eat  my  cake.  I  always  went  everywhere  with  mamma,  so  I 


372  DAMOCLES. 

followed  her  when  she  went  out  with  the  others,  and  nobody  took  any 
notice.  It  was  an  old-fashioned  dark  passage,  and  I  was  small,  so  as 
soon  as  they  opened  a  door  I  squeezed  in  amongst  them,  und  stood  just 
inside  the  room. 

"  There  was  a  window  at  the  further  end,  a  great  desolate-looking 
grey  window,  and  a  lady  was  standing  by  it.  I  fancy  she  must  have 
been  between  fifty  and  sixty.  She  was  very  tall,  I  know.  When  she 
heard  the  door  open,  she  came  towards  us,  waving  her  hand  to  us  to  stay 
where  we  were,  while  she  swept  a  great  courtesy  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  and  then  came  a  step  or  two  further  and  courtesied  again,  and  all 
the  time  she  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  me.  I  don't  know  what  the  others 
said  or  did,  I  only  heard  the  rustling  of  her  grey  silk  dress.  I  couldn't 
move,  she  frightened  me  so  with  her  great  staring  eyes.  It  wasn't  that 
she  was  ugly — I  think  she  must  have  been  handsome  once — but  it  was  a 
dreadful  face ;  one  was  forced  to  watch  it,  one  didn't  know  what  she 
would  do  next,  it  was  like  a  nightmare.  She  took  no  notice  of  mamma  ; 
she  just  nodded  and  said,  'I'm  welcoming  my  new  visitor;  she  shall 
come  and  stay  with  me — she  shall  come  and  stay  with  me.'  Of  course 
it  was  only  a  moment,  really  ;  and  then  a  woman  at  a  work-table,  who 
stood  up  when  we  went  in,  stepped  forward,  and  said,  '  It's  little  miss 
she  means,  ma'am  ; '  and  my  mother  looked  round  and  saw  me  standing 
there.  She  ran  and  caught  me,  and  took  me  into  the  passage,  and  held 
me  in  her  arms,  and  said  I  mustn't  be  frightened,  that  the  lady  didn't 
mean  any  harm,  but  she  never  intended  me  to  go  in  to  see  her.  I  heard 
Miss  Agatha  calling  after  me  as  we  went  back  to  the  other  room.  I 
waited  there  with  the  blind  lady  till  mamma  was  ready  to  go.  She 
was  crying  when  she  came,  and  she  cried  in  the  carriage  as  we  drove 
away.  And  I  remember  looking  back  just  before  we  crossed  the  little 
bridge,  and  seeing  the  old  house  on  the  hill,  and  the  fir-trees  all  black 
and  twisted  against  the  clouds,  and  feeling  as  if  there  must  be  something 
wicked  about  the  place." 

"  You  poor  little  frightened  child ! "  said  Mr.  Lauriston  softly. 
"  And  what  more  did  you  learn  about  Miss  Agatha  1 " 

11  Only  that  my  mother  used  to  stay  with  her  when  she  was  a  girl. 
Miss  Agatha  and  her  sisters  were  no  relations  of  hers,  but  they  lived  in 
the  same  place,  and  were  rich  people.  I  know  I  thought  that  those  were 
the  sisters  I  had  seen ;  but  she  said,  'No,  only  Miss  Agatha  lived  with 
them  ;  their  brother  was  a  doctor.'  She  would  not  tell  me  much,  and 
she  did  not  know  how  frightened  I  was,  nor  how  I  used  to  dream  at 
night." 

Miss  Conway  stopped  all  at  once.  "  It  does  sound  childish,"  she 
said.  "  Are  you  laughing  at  me,  Mr.  Lauriston  ]  I  don't  think  I  knew 
how  silly  it  would  seem.  But  yet,  indeed,  there  hasn't  been  one  day 
since  that  day  that  I  haven't  thought  of  that  madwoman.  And  I  don't 
care  if  you  are  laughing,"  she  said  desperately,  while  the  hot  colour 
flushed  her  face ;  "  I  am  going  to  finish  since  I've  begun." 


DAMOCLES.  373 

"  I'm  not  laughing,"  Mr.  Lauriston  replied. 

"And  there  isn't  much  more  to  say,  luckily.  Only  it  was  just  then 
that  my  father  died.  He  was  away  and  mamma  went  to  him.  She 
had  never  been  very  strong — she  was  tiny  and  slight,  with  dark  eyes — 
not  like  me,  I'm  like  papa — and  she  caught  a  cold,  and  that  was  the 
beginning  of  the  end.  She  was  dead  too  before  I  was  twelve.  I  will 
tell  you  what  is  dreadful,  Mr.  Lauriston,  even  if  you  do  laugh.  If  you 
are  alone  in  a  big  school,  and  would  give  all  the  world  to  dream  of  your 
mother  at  night,  and  yet  you  would  keep  awake  if  you  could,  because 
you  know  you  will  dream  of  something  else.  It  is  perfectly  silly,  I 
know,  but  it  is  dreadful  all  the  same." 

"  Poor  child,  how  you  must  have  suffered  !  But  now — surely 
not  now  ? " 

"  Not  now,"  Miss  Conway  repeated.  "  But,  Mr.  Lauriston,  why  is 
it  that  even  now  it  haunts  me,  only  in  a  different  way  1  I  feel  as  if 
that  madwoman  had  somehow  laid  hands  on  my  life,  and,  though  I  fight 
for  it,  it  is  all  spoiled  and  ruined  in  the  struggle.  Why  am  I  so 
frightened  if  people  only  mention  the  word  '  madness  1 '  If  anybody 
points  out  a  building,  and  says  it  is  a  lunatic  asylum,  the  blood  runs  cold 
in  my  veins.  Suppose  one  went  mad  and  were  shut  up  in  one  of  those 
awful  places" — Miss  Conway  made  a  gallant  attempt  to  smile — "  shut  up 
with  people  who  came  courtesying  to  one,  and  had  staring  eyes !  I 
know  all  this  is  folly,  but  that  is  just  what  frightens  me  most  of  all. 
Why  should  such  a  little  thing  take  possession  of  me  like  this  1  Would 
it  if  I  were  like  other  people  ? "  She  turned  her  appealing  eyes  to 
Mr.  Lauriston.  "  You  laughed  at  me  last  night  when  I  said  I  wanted 
to  be  commonplace,  but  if  I  could  only  be  sure  that  I  should  live  and 
die  like  the  millions  of  happy  commonplace  folks — if  I  could  be  quite 

sure " 

"  You  would  have  a  security  that  not  one  man,  woman,  or  child  of 
all  those  millions  possesses,"  he  replied.  "  You  would  be  the  one 
standing  apart  from  all  our  common  fears  and  perils.  All  that  you 
have  told  me  is  natural  enough — a  most  unlucky  chance,  but  nothing 
more.  This  mad  friend  of  your  mother's  saw  you  and  forgot  you  within 
the  day  ;  you  were  no  more  to  her  than  she  really  was  to  you ;  but,  being 
a  child  with  a  powerful  imagination,  you  were  haunted  by  her  meaning- 
less looks  and  words.  And  then  your  mother's  death  left  you  alone 
with  your  terror." 

"  But  now,"  said  Rachel,  "  now  that  I  know  all  this  1 " 
"Well,"  Mr.  Lauriston  replied,  "what  is  unnatural  now?  Your 
thoughts  have  been  fixed  on  this  one  dark  subject,  till  madness  has 
assumed  too  prominent  a  position  in  your  vision  of  the  world.  People 
who  make  it  their  study  generally  do  so  with  some  hope  of  alleviating 
its  misery.  That  gives  a  healthful  interest ;  but  you  know  nothing  of  it, 
you  have  not  studied  it,  you  have  only  brooded  over  your  childish 
fancy." 


374  %  DAMOCLES. 

"  Are  you  blaming  mel  "  she  asked  doubtfully. 

"  Blaming  you,  no !  You  could  not  help  it.  I  am  merely  trying 
to  put  the  matter  in  the  right  light,  to  show  you  that  there  is  nothing 
awful  and  exceptional  about  it.  I  want  you  to  see  that  the  cause  of 
your  trouble  is  simple  enough."  He  stopped  abruptly.  "  Good  heavens! 
what  can  I  say  ?  I  believe  that  I  am  talking  the  most  excellent  sense, 
and  yet  how  atrocuwsly  cold  it  all  sounds ! " 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  she  said,  looking  down.  "  I  don't  think  you 
are  cold." 

"  Thank  you.  No,  I  hope  I  am  not.  And,  really,  I  am  saying  the 
best  I  have  to  say.  If  it  is  any  good  to  tell  you  that  I  am  very  sorry, 
and  that  I  would  help  you  if  I  could,  I  can  give  you  that  assurance. 
But  I  have  no  stock  of  universally  consoling  maxims  to  offer  you,  Miss 
Conway.  I  don't  deal  in  them.  It  matters  the  less,  as  I  have  no 
doubt  that  some  one  has  already  suggested  the  usual  style  of  comfort." 
"  But  I  have  never  told  any  one  else,"  she  said. 

"  Never  told  any  one  else — do  you  mean  that  literally  1  Never  when 
you  were  a  child  1  Never  since  then  1 " 

"  Never,"  she  repeated.  "  I  was  afraid.  I  thought  people  wouldn't 
understand.  I  never  said  anything  from  that  day  to  this." 

"  You  told  no  one  through  all  these  years  ? "  said  Mr.  Lauriston,  half 
to  himself.  "  And  now  you  have  told  me  ! " 

Simple  as  the  words  were,  they  gave  a  new  significance  to  Rachel's 
confession.  She  felt  a  weight  of  meaning  in  them,  and  drew  back, 
colouring  afresh  as  she  met  his  eyes.  This  secret  of  hers  might  be  the 
merest  folly,  a  trifle,  an  absurdity ;  but  she  had  guarded  it  from  her 
childhood,  she  had  spoken  no  syllable  of  it  to  those  who  knew  her  best, 
and  she  had  told  it  unreservedly  to  this  chance  acquaintance  of  three 
days.  The  passing  touch  of  his  surprise  awoke  her  own.  Why  had  she 
done  it1?  She  was  not  even  sure  that  she  liked  Mr.  Lauriston — at  that 
moment  she  was  half  inclined  to  believe  that  she  hated  him.  And  what 
would  he  think  of  her  ? 

It  was  true  that  he  was  surprised,  but  he  was  not,  as  Rachel 
imagined,  reckoning  the  hours  of  their  acquaintance.  That  she  should 
have  spoken  after  three  days  was  no  more  in  his  eyes  than  if  she  had 
spoken  after  three  weeks,  or  three  months,  but  that  she  had  told  her 
secret  suffering  to  him  alone  out  of  all  the  world  was  an  all-important 
fact.  "What  did  she  think  of  him  that  she  had  done  it  1 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  told  you,"  she  said,  as  she  drew  back,  with  a 
quick  glance  of  distrust  and  defiance,  a  sign  of  the  inevitable  reaction 
after  the  strong  impulse  of  confidence.  "  It  was  too  bad  to  bore  you 
with  that  silly  story." 

"  I  hope  you  told  me  because  you  felt  you  might  trust  me.  You  did 
not  bore  me." 

"Trust  you  with  my  nightmare  fancies?"  said  the  girl,  trying  to 
laugh.  "Well,  perhaps.  At  any  rate  I  think  I  knew  you  would 


DAMOCLES.  375 

understand.  Some  people  wouldn't,  you  know,  even  if  they  were  my 
best  friends." 

"  The  Eastwoods,  for  instance  ?  "  Mr.  Lauriston  suggested.  "  I  don't 
know  much  about  the  girls.  Charley  is  a  good  fellow  ;  but,  possibly,  if 
I  had  a  fanciful  secret " 

"  Tell  him  !  No,  I  couldn't,"  said  Rachel.  "  He  always  seems  so 
bright,  and  all  his  life  so  frank  and  open.  Why,  I  hardly  think  of  such 
things  when  he  is  by." 

"  So,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston  to  himself,  "  that  is  the  charm ;  "  and  aloud 
he  answered,  "  And,  though  you  have  told  me,  it  seems  to  me  that  I 
have  said  nothing,  and  done  nothing.  What  can  I  do,  Miss  Con- 
way?" 

"  You  can't  do  anything,"  she  said,  "  except  tell  me  the  truth.  Do 
you  think  me— mad  to  be  frightened  as  I  am  1 " 

"  No,  I  don't.     Did  I  not  tell  you  that  before  ? " 

She  leaned  towards  him,  pleading  with  earnest  eyes,  and  half  reach- 
ing out  a  timid  hand.  "  Do  tell  me  the  truth,  Mr.  Lauriston." 

"  I  don't  think  anything  of  the  kind,  upon  my  honour  I  don't,"  he 
repeated.  "Anybody  might  be  frightened.  I'm  speaking  the  simple 
truth — you  believe  me  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  Thank  you.  I  am  very  glad."  There  was  a 
pause  during  which  she  looked  far  away  into  the  green  dimness  of  the 
wooded  landscape.  Mr.  Lauriston  felt  as  if  that  spot  would  be  haunted 
for  ever  by  the  pale,  beautiful  shadow  of  a  girl,  questioning  the  distance 
with  an  anxious  gaze.  The  little  interval  of  silence  seemed  curiously 
long  to  him,  and  it  was  a  relief  when  a  shiver  in  the  branches  overhead 
broke  the  spell,  and  she  looked  at  the  sullen  sky  and  stood  up. 

"  Miss  Conway,"  he  said  as  he  rose,  "  you  must  try  not  to  think  of 
all  this." 

She  smiled.  "  Do  you  know,  I  was  wishing,  as  I  sat  there,  that  I 
had  never  said  a  word  about  it.  You  can't  think  how  vividly  it  has  all 
come  back  to  me.  It  might  be  yesterday — or  to-day." 

"  But  that  will  pass  off,"  he  urged  in  his  gentle  voice.  "  And  then 
do  you  not  think  that  you  will  like  to  remember  that  you  have  a  friend 
who  tells  you  that  all  this  fear  is  nothing — that  there  is  no  foundation 
for  it  ?  For  we  shall  be  friends,  shall  we  not  ? " 

"  If  you  like,"  she  said  absently,  but  after  a  moment  she  recollected 
herself.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Lauriston,  I  didn't  mean  to  be  un- 
grateful ;  you  have  been  very  good  to  me.  Yes,  let  us  be  friends,  please. 
It  is  quite  true,  I  shall  like  to  think  that  there  is  some  one  who  knows 
about  my  stupid  fancies  ;  it  will  help  me.  It  was  silly  of  me  to  say  I 
was  sorry  I  had  talked  about  it ;  if  it  does  make  me  realise  it  more  just 
to-day,  what  does  it  matter1?"  She  stood,  drawing  a  long  blade  of 
grass  through  her  fingers.  "  It  isn't  as  if  we  were  likely  to  meet  often," 
she  added  softly. 

Even  if  she  had  been  looking  at  Mr.  Lauriston  she  might  hardly  have 


376  DAMOCLES. 

understood  the  flash  of  expression  which  crossed  his  face.  As  it  was,  she 
•was  utterly  unconscious  of  it. 

"  No,  I  suppose  we  shan't  meet  often,"  he  replied.  "  And  perhaps 
it  is  just  as  well,  if  you  are  always  going  to  see  me  in  your  mind's  eye 
side  by  side  with  the  madwoman." 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  I  only  meant  that  of  course  I  should  remember  that 
you  knew.  I  must  remember  that." 

"  Naturally,"  he  said  with  a  smile.  "  Of  course  you  must.  So  all  I 
can  do  for  you  is  to  stand  out  of  the  sunshine  1  It  doesn't  sound  like 
asking  very  much  of  me,  and  yet  I'm  tempted  to  ask  for  something  in 
return." 

"  What  is  that  1 " 

"  Well,  in  common  fairness  that  something  mustn't  be  very  much 
either,  must  it  1  Don't  look  round  as  if  you  were  thinking  of  turning 
back." 

"  But  I  must  go  back  now,  Mr.  Lauriston." 

"  No ;  come  a  little  further  through  a  bit  of  the  garden,  and  you  shall 
go  out  another  way,  nearer  the  village.  There  is  my  request,"  he  said, 
still  smiling. 

"Is it  far!". 

"  No,  not  far.  Oh,  no,  you  needn't  look  at  the  sky.  It  will  not 
rain." 

"  I  feel  as  if  there  might  be  thunder,  don't  you  ?  But  I  shall  like 
very  much  to  come,"  she  added  politely. 

Why  did  Mr.  Lauriston  wish  to  prolong  their  walk  1  Did  he  want 
his  garden,  as  well  as  the  park,  haunted  by  that  pale  memory  of  Rachel 
Conway  ?  Or  was  it  only  a  whim  ?  He  did  his  best  to  amuse  her,  with 
anxious  kindness  in  every  word  and  look,  and  she  did  her  best  to  be 
amused,  but  it  was  an  effort.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  in  dreamland  still, 
as  if  a  melancholy  change  had  passed  over  everything.  It  almost  seemed 
as  if,  when  she  uttered  her  secret,  the  trees  and  flowers  had  heard  it,  and 
would  whisper  it  mournfully  one  to  another  through  all  the  world. 
The  grey  sadness  of  the  afternoon  was  her  sadness,  the  singing  of  the 
birds  was  strange  and  new,  the  very  daisies  in  the  grass  looked  up  with 
eyes  of  deep  significance.  She  was  half  frightened  at  her  wandering 
fancies  while  she  tried  to  talk  to  Mr.  Lauriston.  They  pursued  her 
when  she  passed  into  the  old-fashioned  garden,  which  had  been  the  glory 
of  an  earlier  Redlands  Hall.  Mr.  Lauriston  showed  her  where  the  old 
house  once  stood.  She  answered  almost  mechanically,  and  she  looked 
round  with  a  show  of  interest ;  but  she  walked  in  dreamland  all  the  while, 
and  felt  oppressed  and  dull  among  the  high  clipped  hedges  and  formal 
paths.  Her  companion's  soft  voice  was  saying  in  her  ear,  "  I've  no  doubt 
that  my  great-grandfather  would  have  done  away  with  it  all,  but  happily 
he  was  so  busy  laying  out  the  grounds  about  his  new  house,  that  he  never 
found  time  to  modernise  this." 

"  That  was  very  lucky,"  she  replied. 


DAMOCLES.  377 

"  Yes ;  for  it  is  a  quaint  old  place,  isn't  it  1  And  my  uncle  cared  so 
much  for  it,  that  nothing  would  have  induced  him  to  make  the  slightest 
change.  Judging  from  a  sketch  we  have,  the  old  house  was  pictur- 
esquely suited  to  the  garden,  and  I  don't  think  he  ever  forgave  its  de- 
struction." 

"  "Well,  it  was  a  pity.     Don't  you  think  so? " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Yes,  it  was  a  great  pity.  I'm  only 
thankful  that  the  present  Hall  is  a  tolerably  comfortable  place  in  which 
to  deplore  my  ancestor's  want  of  taste.  It  was  a  very  great  pity,  of 
course,  and  I  am  exceedingly  sorry.  It  is  sad  to  think  of  such  utter 
want  of  reverence  for  the  memories  that  had  gathered  round  the  old 
home."  After  a  moment's  pause  he  added  gravely,  "  I  always  feel  that 
there  is  such  scope  for  beautiful  sentiment  when  a  thing  cannot  possibly 
be  altered." 

Rachel  answered  only  with  a  languid  smile,  glancing  from  Mr.  Lau- 
riston's  face  to  the  site  of  the  old  house,  a  bit  of  smooth  sward,  green 
and  fresh  as  countless  graves  are  green.  She  drew  a  long  breath  as  they 
turned  their  backs  on  it,  and  went  forward  under  the  trees.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  the  low  arch  of  sky  dropped  its  curtain  of  cloud  so  heavily 
about  the  narrow  landscape  that  all  the  air  was  dead.  And,  as  she 
walked,  she  pictured  to  herself  how  the  madwoman  might  suddenly  turn 
the  corner  of  one  of  those  long  avenues,  and  come  towards  her,  sweeping 
stately  courtesies,  while  Mr.  Lauriston  would  vanish  with  a  polite  bow, 
and  leave  her  alone  with  her  terror.  Of  course  she  knew  perfectly  well 
that  it  was  utter  nonsense ;  but  the  scenery  was  so  curiously  suited  to 
the  visionary  drama,  that  she  felt  as  if  she  could  actually  see  it,  and  it 
troubled  her  as  an  ill  dream  might  have  done. 

"  You  are  tired,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston,  in  a  tone  of  self-reproach. 

Any  other  voice  would  have  startled  her  out  of  her  fancies,  but  Mr. 
Lauriston's  words  came  softly,  with  no  discord,  as  if  he  belonged  to  her 
dream  world.  "  No,  I'm  not  tired  ;  not  really  tired,"  she  replied.  And 
when  he  persisted,  she  answered,  with  a  determination  which  he  recog- 
nised as  unchangeable,  "  No ;  she  would  walk  home,  he  should  not  send 
her."  As  she  spoke  they  turned  into  a  wide  path,  and  he  crossed  it 
quickly  and  went  on.  For  a  moment  it  occurred  to  her  to  wonder 
whether  it  could  be  the  yew  walk  of  which  he  had  talked.  The  doubt 
lasted  only  for  a  moment,  the  place  did  not  answer  to  his  description, 
but  her  backward  glance,  as  she  followed  him,  gave  her  a  glimpse  of  a 
nursemaid  and  child  at  the  further  end  of  the  avenue. 

Mr.  Lauriston  slackened  his  pace  and  was  silent,  and  Rachel's  heart 
smote  her.  He  had  been  kind  to  her ;  had  she  spoken  coldly  ?  Even  if 
she  had  not,  she  was  conscious  of  a  longing  to  escape  from  her  companion 
and  the  dreary  fancies  which  his  talk  had  called  up,  and  she  felt  the  un- 
spoken desire  an  ingratitude,  for  which  she  wanted  to  make  amends. 
Instinct  told  her  that  to  ask  a  favour,  however  trifling,  would  be  the 
best  way  to  please  Mr.  Lauriston.  She  looked  round.  "  May  I  have 


378  DAMOCLES. 

one  or  two  of  those  lilies  of  tlie  valley?"  she  said.  "I  like  them  so 
much." 

He  stooped  to  gather  them,  and  she  watched  his  fingers  parting  the 
broad  leaves.  "  Shall  you  ever  come  to  Redlands  again,  Miss  Con  way  ?  " 
he  asked,  with  a  quick,  upward  glance. 

"  Ah,  that  is  more  than  I  can  say.  But  I  don't  think  it  is  very 
likely." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not.  And  even  if  you  did,  you  would  not  want  to 
come  here." 

"  Why  not  1 "  she  said,  looking  down,  as  she  took  the  flowers  from 
his  hand.  "  How  sweet  these  lilies  are !  " 

"  You  would  not,"  he  repeated.  "  I  meant  you  to  enjoy  your  walk 
this  afternoon ;  or,  perhaps,"  with  a  smile,  "  I  meant  to  enjoy  it." 

"  Well,"  said  the  girl,  "  I  did  enjoy  it — at  first.  And  if,  afterwards 
— it  was  no  fault  of  yours  !  " 

"  That  may  be,"  Mr.  Lauriston  replied.  "  I  didn't  say  I  was  to 
blame.  But  you  yourself  allow  that  it  did  not  end  as  it  began.  I  am 
not  surprised,  for,  judging  from  my  own  experience,  Fate  is  generally 
ironical.  As  a  rule  I  get  what  I  want,  and  then  I  discover  either  that 
I  didn't  want  it,  or  that  it  has  slipped  through  my  fingers.  Have  you 
found  that  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  She  understood  that  he  was  thinking  of 
his  beautiful  wife  so  quickly  lost,  of  his  son  and  heir  a  poor  little  cripple, 
of  Redlands,  perhaps,  so  full  of  memories  of  that  year  of  happiness,  and 
now  almost  a  burden  to  him.  She  was  touched  by  his  half  confidence, 
and  looked  timidly  at  him. 

"  And  so  I  am  sorry,"  he  went  on,  "  sorry  that  you  are  less  happy 
than  I  fancied " 

"  Oh,  but  I  am  very  happy  sometimes,"  she  said.  "I'm  not  always 
thinking  about  that." 

"  No,  indeed,  I  should  hope  not.  And  I'm  sorry,  too,  that  you  seem 
to  regret  having  trusted  me.  You  need  not,  Miss  Conway.  I  suppose 
you  haven't  any  brothers  or  sisters  ?  "  he  said  abruptly. 

"  I  have  nobody,"  Rachel  answered,  "  not  even  a  cousin.  I  live  with 
a  Miss  Whitney,  who  was  a  friend  of  my  mother's." 

"  Then  do  you  think  you  could  look  upon  me  as  a  kind  of  elder 
brother  ?  "  said  Mr.  Lauriston,  half  smiling  in  his  deliberate  speech ;  "  so 
that  you  might  take  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  I  was  very  much  at 
your  service,  if  ever  I  could  help  you  in  any  way  ?  No,  I  see  that  won't 
do  ;  you  don't  like  the  idea.  Is  it  that  you  fancy  that  brothers  are  too 
apt  to  dictate  to  their  sisters  1 " 

Rachel  blushed,  perceiving  that  she  had  betrayed  herself.  It  was 
true  that  the  idea  of  Mr.  Lauriston  as  a  brother  had  struck  her  as 
absurdly  impossible.  She  might  not  know  what  a  girl's  feelings  towards 
a  brother  would  be,  but  she  was  quite  certain  that  they  could  not  be  the 
least  like  the  curiosity,  the  fanciful  wonder,  the  alternate  attraction  and 


DAMOCLES.  379 

repulsion,  trust  and  distrust,  which  she  felt  as  she  looked  at  Mr.  Lau- 
riston.  And  his  soft-voiced  politeness  was  not  a  brother's  manner  as 
she  had  imagined  it.  "  I  don't  think  I  can  fancy  what  it  would  be  like 
to  have  a  brother,"  she  said  doubtfully. 

"  Well,  then,  it  shall  be  friendship,  as  you  said  a  minute  ago.  Per- 
haps that  will  bo  best."  They  had  left  the  garden,  and  were  walking 
along  the  drive  which  crossed  the  park.  As  they  passed  a  clump  of  trees 
the  great  gates,  with  the  Lauristoii  crest  upon  them,  came  in  sight,  and 
Miss  Conway  paused.  "  Don't  come  all  the  way  with  me,  please,"  she 
said.  "  I  think  I  would  rather  go  back  alone." 

He  stopped  at  once.  "  You  granted  my  request,"  he  said,  "so  I  must 
not  complain.  You  won't  have  far  to  go  when  once  you  are  in  the  road, 
Miss  Conway.  I  hope  you  won't  be  tired." 

"  Mr.  Lauriston,"  said  Rachel,  "  you  have  been  very  kind  to  me, 
and  it  seems  to  me  that  I've  been  very  ungrateful  all  the  time." 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  politely  assured  her ;  but  there  was  an  expression  in 
his  bright  eyes  which  she  did  not  quite  understand. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,"  she  said.  "  I'm  afraid  I  was  rather  rude  once.  I 
think  I  said  more  than  I  meant  to  say.  I  don't  quite  know  how  to 
make  you  understand.  I  meant  " — she  hesitated,  looking  down  at  the 
lilies  in  her  hand — "  that  is,  I  didn't  mean " 

"  I  fancy  I  know  what  you  meant,"  he  said.  "  Sui'ely  I've  made  it 
clear  that  I  haven't  taken  anything  amiss." 

"  But  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have  done  something  amiss." 

"  No,  indeed  you  have  not.  And  for  proof  of  it,"  he  said,  with  a 
peculiar  little  laugh,  "  for  proof  that  you  have  not,  we.  are  sworn  friends, 
you  know."  Rachel  glanced  at  him,  fancying  she  detected  something  of 
mockery  in  his  laugh ;  but  the  next  moment  he  went  on,  and  his  voice 
took  a  fuller  and  deeper  tone,  "  Do  not  apologise,  Miss  Conway,  and 
never  trouble  yourself  about  anything  you  have  said  or  done  to  me." 

She  held  out  her  hand.     "  Goodbye,"  she  said  softly,  "  and  thank  you." 

"  Ah,  don't  thank  me  !  It  sounds  so  cruelly  ironical,  when  I  would 
have  done  something,  and  could  do  nothing.  Goodbye." 

But,  as  she  turned  away,  he  called  after  her,  "  Miss  Conway,"  and 
rejoined  her.  "  I  think  I'm  old  enough  to  claim  the  privilege  of  giving 
advice,"  he  said.  "  Of  course  you  have  the  privilege  of  taking  no  heed 
of  it — that  belongs  to  us  all  from  our  cradles.  May  I  speak  ? " 

"  Yes,"  Rachel  answered,  looking  at  him  in  some  surprise. 

"You  want  to  be  commonplace,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston,  "  but  you  are 
not  commonplace,  and  you  can't  be.  Don't  ruin  your  life  in  the  attempt. 
You  are  so  young,  you  have  many  years  before  you,  take  care  what  you 
are  about.  Half  a  century  or  so  of  weariness  would  be  a  terrible  penalty 
to  pay  for  a  blunder.  Pardon  me  for  saying  this,  and  once  more  good- 
bye." 

His  earnestness  startled  her.  "Goodbye,"  she  echoed,  and  went 
hurriedly  towards  the  gate.  "  Half  a  century  !  "  The  words  had  caught 


380  DAMOCLES. 

her  attention  and  held  it.  They  pursued  her  as  she  walked,  and,  brief 
as  they  were,  they  overwhelmed  her  with  their  volume  of  meaning.  He 
could  not  know — could  he  know  1 — what  need  there  was  of  his  warning, 
how,  in  the  terror  of  her  loneliness,  she  longed  to  mix  her  life  with  lives 
narrower  than  her  own,  and  to  rest  in  their  homely  shelter.  It  would 
not  be  hard  to  speak  a  word  on  one  of  those  spring  days,  just  a  word 
which  would  give  an  undefined  future  into  Charley's  kindly  keeping. 
But  half  a  century  with  Charley  Eastwood  !  She  went  out  into  the 
road,  burdened  with  the  weight  of  those  accumulated  years.  She  ques- 
tioned within  herself  whether  it  was  fair  to  expect  any  one  to  live  as  long 
as  that.  Half  a  century  !  The  mere  thought  of  it  was  like  putting  life 
under  a  microscope ;  every  little  failing,  every  harmless  habit,  was  ex- 
aggerated into  something  enormous,  grotesque,  oppressive.  Why  should 
not  Charley  go  to  sleep  on  Sunday  afternoons  if  he  liked  ?  She  knew  he 
always  did,  and  on  the  previous  Sunday  she  had  exchanged  amused  and 
stealthy  glances  with  Eflfie,  when,  after  letting  his  book  slip  downward 
to  the  floor,  he  laid  his  head  on  the  end  of  the  sofa,  and  slumbered 
peacefully  with  his  mouth  open.  Miss  Conway,  a  little  listless  herself, 
had  felt  no  ill  will  towards  the  sleeping  youth.  But  now  she  could  not 
escape  from  a  whimsical  calculation  of  two  thousand  six  hundred  heavy 
Sundays,  an  unbroken  vista  of  drowsy  afternoons,  at  the  end  of  which 
she  saw  Charley  waking  up,  and  stretching  himself  in  his  far-off  old  age, 
before  he  went  down  into  his  grave.  And  every  nap,  in  that  lifelong 
series,  would  mark  a  completed  week  of  little  thoughts  and  cares.  It 
was  terrible,  and  she  felt  her  heart  grow  sick  within  her,  even  while  she 
was  fully  conscious  of  the  ridiculous  aspect  which  Mr.  Lauriston's  half- 
century  had  assumed  in  her  thoughts.  The  laughter  which  trembled  on 
her  lip  did  not  mend  the  matter,  for  absurdities  are  often  of  all  things 
most  intolerable.  How  was  she  to  live  through  all  those  Sunday  after- 
noons, and  what  would  she  be  at  the  end  of  them  ? 

Coming  to  a  curve  in  the  road,  she  turned  for  a  last  look  at  Redlands 
Hall.  Through  the  fanciful  spirals  and  bars  of  the  iron  gates,  she  could 
see  the  long  drive,  the  smooth  green  turf,  the  trees,  in  their  heavy  leafi- 
ness  of  early  summer,  massed  round  the  great  brick  house,  and  the  sullen 
sky  above  them  all.  As  she  looked,  she  had  a  momentary  glimpse  of 
Mr.  Lauriston,  crossing  an  open  space.  He  passed  behind  a  widely 
sweeping  cedar,  and,  though  she  watched,  wondering  whether  the  slim 
far-off  black  figure  would  appear  again,  she  watched  in  vain,  for  he  was 
gone.  "  Sworn  friends,"  he  had  said,  and  already  it  seemed  to  her  that 
her  friend  was  out  of  reach.  It  was  true  that  only  a  few  minutes  earlier 
she  had  wished  to  escape  from  him  ;  but  nevertheless,  as  she  lingered  on 
the  road,  looking  backward  at  that  sunless  picture,  she  felt  lonely  and 
deserted. 

It  was,  however,  too  late  to  stand  gazing,  even  if  it  had  not  been  so 
utterly  useless.  Miss  Conway  looked  at  her  watch,  and  set  her  face 
homeward,  making  a  resolute  effort  to  banish  all  thoughts  of  that  after- 


DAMOCLES.  381 

noon,  and  to  fix  her  mind  on  the  speedy  return  of  Charley  and  Effie 
from  their  drive,  and  the  prospect  of  a  meat  tea.  She  planned  a  brief 
and  bald  account  of  her  walk  with  Mr.  Lauriston,  which  she  hoped  would 
not  offend  anybody's  sense  of  propriety,  though  she  felt  a  little  dubious 
about  Mrs.  Eastwood's  view  of  the  matter.  "  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to 
tell  her  first,"  she  thought.  "  Well,  it  can't  be  helped,  and  it's  lucky  it 
isn't  Miss  Whitney."  So  she  walked  bravely  on,  with  curiously  mingled 
feelings  of  guilt  and  innocence.  She  was  quite  certain  that  Mrs.  East- 
wood would  strongly  disapprove  of  such  confidential  talk  between  a 
young  lady  and  a  gentleman,  especially  when  the  confidences  were  all  on 
the  young  lady's  side ;  and,  indeed,  Rachel  felt  the  colour  rising  to  her 
cheeks  again,  as  she  remembered  her  own  frankness.  But  below  this 
guilty  trouble  lay  the  consciousness  of  utter  guiltlessness. 

There  was  a  quick  sound  of  pursuing  wheels,  a  cry  of  "  Rachel ! 
Rachel !  "  in  Effie's  clear  little  voice,  and  Charley  was  pulling  up,  and 
calling  to  her  to  jump  in.  "Room — yes,  lots  !  "  was  his  answer  to  an 
attempted  objection,  "  and  I'm  not  going  on  without  you — so  there ! 
Jump  in  at  once.  That's  it — are  you  all  right  ?  If  you  haven't  room 
enough  it's  Effie's  fault ;  take  it  out  of  her.  And  what  have  you  been 
doing  with  yourself,  eh  1 "  So  before  Rachel  well  knew  what  had  hap- 
pened, she  was  perched  up  between  Charley  and  Effie,  and  they  were 
rattling  along  the  lane. 

She  answered  their  questions  lightly  and  shortly,  and  found  it  easier 
to  do  than  she  had  expected.  "  Then  Lauriston  has  made  you  walk  too 
far,"  said  Charley.  "  He  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  march 
you  about  like  that." 

"  I'm  not  tired,  really." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  the  young  fellow,  "  not  at  all.  Does  he  think  he's 
the  only  man  in  the  world  with  a  park  and  gardens,  that  he's  so  awfully 
anxious  to  show  them  off?  And  he  tired  you  last  night,  too.  I  wish 
I'd  been  there  this  afternoon ;  don't  you  think  I'd  have  taken  better  care 
of  you  than  that  ?  " 

Rachel  laughed.  Her  fantastic  terrors  were  vanishing  at  the  cheery 
sound  of  Charley's  voice,  and  she  could  almost  believe  that  the  skies  were 
brightening  round  her  as  they  drove.  A  touch  of  the  whip  quickened 
the  leisurely  old  horse,  and  the  evening  air  came  freshly  tto  her  face. 
They  jolted  over  a  stone,  Rachel  swayed  a  little,  and  her  shoulder  came 
into  momentary  contact  with  Charley,  while,  on  the  other  side,  Effie's 
small,  caressing  hand  stole  under  her  arm.  She  felt  safe  in  a  little  world 
of  simple,  everyday  facts,  and  honest  kindliness.  "  And  now  tell  me 
what  you  have  been  doing,"  she  said. 

"  Rowing  on  the  river,"  Effie  promptly  replied.  "  I've  been  rowing ; 
Reggie  Maxwell  has  been  teaching  me.  Such  fun ;  I  wish  you'd  been 
with  us." 

"  Here  we  are  !  "  said  Charley.  "  The  old  horse  wanted  to  take  us 
up  that  last  turning  to  his  stable,  did  you  see  ?  " 


382  DAMOCLES. 

Fanny  came  running  out  of  the  leafy  porch  to  meet  them.  "Oh, 
you've  got  Rachel ! — we  began  to  wonder — why,  Effie,  you've  torn  your 
dress,  did  you  know  1  Have  you  had  a  pleasant  day  ?  " 

Charley  helped  Rachel  down,  and  answered  Fanny's  question  in  her 
ear  as  he  did  so.  "  I'd  rather  have  been  here,"  he  said  softly. 

"  Oh,  a  glorious  day!  "  Effie  exclaimed.  " Only  we  kept  thinking  it 
was  going  to  pour.  I  say,  Fanny,  Susie  Maxwell  has  grown  quite 
pretty,  and  Reggie  is  such  a  nice  fellow,  not  a  bit  shy." 

"  By  Jove,  no,  I  should  think  he  wasn't,"  said  Charley. 

"  Well,  he  used  to  be  very  shy,"  Effie  replied.  "  Did  you  say  I'd 
torn  my  dress,  Fanny  1  Where  is  it  1  Is  it  very  bad  1 " 

"  Here — no,  not  so  very  bad.  You  can  put  a  little  bit  in — you  had 
some  bits  left,  hadn't  you  ?  Oh,  Effie,  who  do  you  think  came  to  call 
this  afternoon  1  " 

"  Who  ? "  Effie  asked,  passing  the  hem  of  her  dress  between  her 
fingers.  "  I  daresay  I  caught  it  on  one  of  those  bushes  by  the  river 
when  I  was  getting  into  the  boat.  Who  called,  Fanny  1 " 

"  Mr.  Brand.  Rachel,  Mr.  Brand  came  just  as  mother  came  back. 
He  stayed  ever  so  long." 

"  Mr.  Brand ! ''  Effie  repeated,  with  a  faint  accent  of  regret  in  her 
voice.  But  in  a  moment  she  recovered  herself.  "  And  Fanny,  I  was 
going  to  tell  you,  Reggie  Maxwell's  hair  isn't  bad  now  at  all.  Only  a 
nice  red,  you  know,  like  what  they  put  in  pictures — isn't  it,  Charley?  " 

"  Yes,  just  like  what  you'd  put  into  a  picture  of  a  tomato,"  Charley 
replied.  "  Nice  cheerful  colour  for  a  dull  day." 

"  I  daresay  you  think  that's  clever.  I  call  it  silly,"  said  Effie. 
"  Oh,  here's  mother  !  Mother,  Mrs.  Maxwell  sent  you  her  love,  and 
there's  some  asparagus  for  you.  Charley,  where's  that  asparagus  ?  I 
know  it's  somewhere ;  I  saw  Reggie  put  it  in  just  before  we  started.  Oh, 
you  dear  darling  Fido,  aren't  you  glad  to  see  me  again — aren't  you,  then  ] 
And  was  it  a  dear  little  doggie,  and  would  it  have  liked  to  come  to 
Brookfield,  too,  and  didn't  Rachel  take  it  out  for  a  nice  little  run — didn't 
she,  then  1  Oh,  a  naughty  Rachel,  wasn't  she,  going  for  her  walks  with 
her  Mr.  Lauristons,  and  never  thinking  about  a  poor  Fido,  a  poor  old 
bow-wow  ! " 

"  He  was  asleep,"  said  Miss  Conway.  She  rejoiced  to  find  that  in 
the  eager  haste  of  question  and  reply,  her  own  adventures  seemed  likely 
to  be  lightly  passed  over.  Mrs.  Eastwood,  it  is  true,  wondered  several 
times  how  Miss  Lauriston  happened  to  fall  downstairs,  which  Miss 
Lauriston  it  was  who  had  fallen  downstairs,  and  how  many  stairs  she 
fell  down  ;  but  being  greatly  intei-ested  in  telling  Rachel  about  an  aunt 
of  hers,  who  slipped  from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of  a  flight  of  stone  steps, 
and  only  took  a  bit  of  skin  about  the  size  of  a  three-penny  piece  off  her 
elbow,  it  did  not  occur  to  her  to  ask  many  questions  about  the  walk. 
Later  in  the  evening,  when  tea  was  over,  and  Rachel  had  begun  a  game 
of  bezique  with  Charley,  Effie,  who  was  looking  over  her  friend's  hand 


DAMOCLES.  383 

and  scoring  for  her,  was  suddenly  struck  with  an  idea.  "  What  on 
earth  did  you  talk  about  all  this  afternoon,  you  and  Mr.  Lauriston  1 " 
she  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know — all  sorts  of  things.  Aces,  Effie.  You  think 
he  isn't  easy  to  talk  to,  but  he  has  plenty  to  say,  really." 

"  Oh,  Lauriston  can  talk  as  fast  as  you  please,"  said  Eastwood. 
"  Not  much  in  my  style,  though ;  I  suppose  I'm  not  clever  enough  to 
appreciate  him."  He  smiled  good-humouredly,  as  if  cleverness  were  an 
amiable  weakness  which  he  had  happily  escaped.  "And  if  I'm  not 
much  mistaken  he  bored  you  last  night,  didn't  he  ?  You  were  curious 
about  the  Squire  before  you  saw  him — weren't  you  1 — and  I  rather 
thought  you  two  would  get  on ;  but  I  fancy  you've  had  about  enough 
of  him  if  the  truth  were  known,  eh  1 "  And  Charley  nodded,  pleased 
at  his  own  penetration. 

"  Did  he  bore  you  1 "  said  Effie,  sympathetically,  as  she  marked 
sixty  for  queens.  "The  park  is  lovely;  but  I'm  sure  if  I  had  to  walk 
about  there,  tete-c(,-tete  with  Mr.  Lauriston,  I  should  soon  have  had 
enough  of  him,  and  wanted  somebody  else.  That's  a  common  marriage, 
isn't  it?" 

"  Reggie  Maxwell,  for  instance  1  "  said  Charley,  and  the  discussion 
ended  in  a  scuffle,  which  rather  interfered  with  the  bezique. 

When  Rachel  went  up  to  her  room  that  night,  there  was  a  faint 
sweetness  in  the  air,  which  puzzled  her  for  a  moment,  till  she  remem- 
bered Mr.  Lauriston's  gift  of  lilies.  She  had  put  them  in  a  glass  of 
water  on  her  table,  and,  as  she  paused  before  them,  she  recalled  the  spot 
where  they  grew,  his  quick  hands  seeking  among  the  leaves,  and  the 
dark  brightness  of  his  eyes,  as  he  rose  and  gave  them  to  her.  It  was 
commonplace  enough ;  and  yet  she  fancied  that  the  flowers  were  like 
those  which  blossom  here  and  there  in  old  legends,  gathered  hastily  in 
some  borderland  of  strange  visions,  and  brought  back  to  fade  in  the 
light  of  common  day,  and  she  turned  away,  feeling  as  if  their  perfume 
were  the  subtle  essence  of  her  melancholy.  Outside,  the  rain  was  falling 
in  heavy  drops.  She  opened  the  window,  and  instantly  the  dreary 
pattering  upon  the  roof  became  a  rushing  wave  of  sound,  and  a  breath 
of  pleasant  coolness.  One  might  have  fancied  whispers  of  unknown 
meaning  abroad  in  the  night,  mixed  with  a  multitude  of  softly  falling 
footsteps.  Rachel  gazed  out  into  the  darkness.  Close  at  hand  she 
could  see  the  glimmer  of  her  candle  on  the  wet  sill,  and  the  shining 
leaves  of  ivy  and  wistaria.  She  could  partly  make  out  the  dark  mass  of 
the  great  elm-tree  which  overshadowed  the  house,  and  further  off  she 
knew  were  lights  in  the  village  windows.  Beyond  those,  gaze  as  she 
would,  she  saw  nothing,  but  she  leaned  and  looked  till  she  seemed  to 
understand  the  message  of  the  rain.  It  told  her  of  the  drops  that  were 
falling  on  the  whispering  leaves  in  Redlands  Park,  soaking  the  heather 
on  the  dusky  moor,  feeding  the  scarcely  formed  fruit  in  Mrs.  Pattenden's 
quaint  orchard,  and  roughening  the  river's  glassy  surface  into  countless 


384  DAMOCLES. 

little  eddies.  All  these  things  became  present  to  her  as  she  looked. 
And  beyond  them — what?  She  gazed  into  the  darkness  in  an  ever- 
widening  dream.  There  were  roads  leading  outward  into  a  great  world 
— fields,  sown  for  the  food  of  busy  millions,  drinking  the  fallen  rain — 
islands  and  vast  continents — mountains  with  lonely  summits — forests, 
and  seas,  with  strange  life  in  their  hiding-places — cities  with  flaring  lights, 
all  lying  behind  the  thin  black  curtain  of  the  night.  The  darkness  was 
full  of  that  great  life.  Rachel  saw  her  own  existence  as  the  merest  atom, 
built  into  a  mighty  fabric,  which  could  crush,  but  could  not  shelter. 

What  had  Mr.  Lauriston  said1?  That  if  she  could  be  secure  she 
would  stand  apart  from  all  mankind.  There  was  no  one  of  all  those 
myriads,  then,  who  was  safe — no  refuge  in  all  the  weary  miles  of  earth 
and  sea.  She  felt  as  if  her  fear  had  become  the  fear  of  all  the  world. 
And  she  had  thought  that  he  might  help  her,  or  Charley  Eastwood  ! 

It  was  long  before  she  slept  that  night.  She  tossed  restlessly  from 
side  to  side,  she  recalled  the  events  of  the  past  clay,  she  burned  with  un- 
easy shame  at  the  thought  of  her  silly  confidences,  she  was  angry  with 
Mr.  Lauriston  for  her  own  foolishness,  she  was  angry  with  Charley  for 
being  exactly  what  he  had  been  ever  since  she  first  knew  him  and 
liked  him.  She  was  tired  out,  and  yet  she  could  not  sleep,  and  as 
the  slow  hours  wore  away  she  was  frightened.  The  grey  lady  came 
back  to  her  more  vividly  than  she  had  done  since  those  nights  of  childish 
agony.  The  stiff  silk  dress  swept  over  the  floor,  the  great  eyes  sought 
her  own,  the  shadows  of  those  other  figures  stood,  as  they  stood  on  that 
terrible  day,  with  their  backs  to  her,  unheeding.  The  darkness  seemed 
to  stifle  her ;  and  in  the  darkness  lurked  thoughts  from  which  she  turned 
in  dismay,  fearing  lest  a  glance  should  stamp  them  for  ever  on  her 
soul — thoughts  of  barred  windows,  and  alien  faces,  and  passionate  frenzies 
of  delusion,  breaking  like  beaten  waves  against  the  immovable  might  of 
common  sense.  Her  inconstant  humour  veered  round  again.  Oh,  for 
Charley,  Charley  Eastwood  with  his  simple  pleasure  in  living,  and  his 
healthy  scorn  of  sick  and  baseless  fancies !  Oh,  for  Charley's  pleasant 
smile,  and  one  breath-  of  the  happy  breezes  blowing  over  Bucksmill 
Hill! 

Sleep  came  at  last ;  but  not  till  the  tired  eyes  had  seen  the  light 
stealing  drearily  over  the  village  roofs,  while  the  wistaria  which  by 
day  was  all  blossom  and  perfume  and  colour,  and  busy  humming  of  the 
bees,  hung  in  cold  grey  clusters  against  a  desolate  morning  sky. 


THE 


CORNHILL    MAGAZINE. 


APKIL,  1882. 


CHAPTER  I. 
FRIENDSHIP. 

T  is  now  close  upon  three  thousand 
years  since  an  old  king  in  Jerusalem 
sat  down  in  some  weariness  and 
bitterness  of  spirit  to  record  his 
conviction  that  nothing  new  was 
discoverable  by  human  wisdom : 
"  The  thing  that  hath  been,  it  is 
that  which  shall  be ;  and  that  which 
is  done  is  that  which  shall  be  done ; 
and  there  is  no  new  thing  under  the 
sun."  A  later  and  less  famous  philo- 
sopher has  added  to  this  that  there 
is  nothing  true,  together  with  the 
comfortable  conclusion  that  "it 
don't  signify."  To  such  extreme 
lengths  not  many  of  us  will  be  pre- 
pared to  go ;  but  it  will  be  agreed 
on  all  hands  that  our  common 
mortal  nature  remains  much  the 
same  to-day  as  it  was  in  King 
Solomon's  time.  Now,  as  then,  gardens  and  orchards,  men-singers  and 
women-singers,  gold  and  silver,  and  all  the  delights  of  the  sons  of  men 
can  bestow  nothing  but  satiety ;  now,  as  then,  the  experience  of  all 
the  past  generations  is  of  very  little  service  to  the  passing  one ;  now, 
as  then,  the  wise  man's  eyes  are  in  his  head,  while  the  fool  walketh  in 

VOL.  XLY.— NO.  268.  19. 


386  NO   NEW  THINS. 

darkness,  and  one  event  happenetk  to  them  all ;  very  much  the  same 
vices  and  virtues  flourish,  and  meet  with  very  much  the  same  degree  of 
recognition.  And  so,  when  a  small  novelist  of  the  nineteenth  century 
takes  up  his  pen  to  describe,  within  the  limits  of  his  small  capacity, 
that  infinitesimal  section  of  humanity  which  has  come  under  his  own 
observation,  no  one,  surely — except  a  very  unreasonable  person — will 
expect  his  work  to  be  novel  in  anything  save  the  name. 

The  following  story,  then,  will  professedly  contain  nothing  new.  The 
personages  who  are  to  figure  in  it  will  be,  without  exception,  unremark- 
able personages.  There  will  be  good  and  bad  folks  among  them ;  but 
none  of  these  will  be  very  good  or  very  bad,  and  the  events  of  their 
several  and  joint  lives  will  not  be  half  so  startling  as  many  that  may  be 
read  of  in  the  newspapers  every  day. 

It  is  to  be  hoped,  however,  that  readers  will  not  allow  themselves  to 
be  discouraged  by  the  candour  of  this  preliminary  confession,  but  will 
plod  cheerfully  on  ;  and  who  knows  but  that,  before  they  reach  the  last 
words  of  the  last  chapter,  they  may  light  upon  something  that  will  be  at 
any  rate  new  to  them  1 — seeing  that  they  will  not  be  all  of  them  Solomons. 
For,  although  there  be  nothing  new  in  the  planet  which  we  inhabit,  it 
by  no  means  follows  that  phenomena  calculated  to  fill  us  with  the  most 
profound  astonishment  are  not  daily  occurring  upon  its  surface.  Are 
we  not  invariably  astonished  by  some  proof  that  our  fellow-creatures  are 
made  of  the  same  clay  as  ourselves  ]  Does  not  ingratitude,  for  instance, 
shock  to  the  full  as  much  as  it  angers  us,  especially  when  we  suffer 
personally  in  consequence  of  it  ?  When  we  are  brought  face  to  face 
with  selfishness,  baseness,  infidelity,  are  we  not  usually  as  much  surprised 
at  the  sorry  spectacle  as  if  such  failings  had  never  been  heard  of  before, 
and  as  if  we  ourselves  were  wholly  exempt  from  them  ?  Does  any  man 
understand  how  his  neighbour  can  be  so  utterly  stupid  as  to  fall  a  victim 
to  self-deception  ? 

All  these  qualities,  and  their  opposites,  will  appear  incidentally  in 
the  course  of  the  ensuing  pages;  so  that  the  fault  will  lie  with  the 
writer,  not  with  the  subject,  if  no  interest  is  felt  in  the  persons  treated 
of;  the  first  of  whom  shall,  without  further  waste  of  words,  be  introduced 
upon  the  scene  as  he  hurries  along  the  platform  of  the  Charing  Cross 
station  on  a  bright  summer's  morning. 

"  Guard,"  says  he,  "  I  want  a  smoking-carriage." 

"  Very  good,  sir." 

"  And — here  you  are,  guard." 

"  Thank  you,  sir." 

"  Just  lock  the  door,  will  you,  till  we're  off?  I  don't  want  anybody 
else  in  here." 

"  I'll  do  the  best  I  can,  sir,"  says  the  functionary,  making  use  of 
the  time-honoured  formula  of  his  genus ;  and  apparently  his  efforts  to 
earn  five  shillings  in  defiance  of  the  Company's  regulations  are  crowned 
with  the  success  which  honest  labour  merits,  for  presently  the  train 


NO  NEW  THING.  387 

glides    out  of  the   station  with  but  one  occupant  of  the  carriage  in 
question. 

The  passenger  who  had  displayed  so  great  a  love  of  privacy  as  to 
require  an  entire  smoking-compartment  for  his  own  use  lit  a  cigar,  sighed 
heavily  once  or  twice,  and  dropped  into  a  brown  study,  which,  judging 
by  the  frown  on  his  brow  and  the  worried  expression  of  his  face,  must 
have  had  some  intricate  and  perplexing  matter  for  its  starting-point.  He 
was  a  tall,  thin  man,  whom  some  people  might  have  called  fine-looking, 
but  whom  no  one,  probably,  would  have  considered  handsome.  He  had 
a  pair  of  pleasant  brown  eyes,  a  nose  which  was  decidedly  too  large  for 
beauty,  and  his  mouth  was  concealed  by  a  long  moustache,  which  he 
twisted  and  tugged  in  the  course  of  his  meditations.  He  had  in  no  way 
the  appearance  of  a  young  man,  although  his  age  at  this  time  could 
hardly  have  exceeded  three-and- thirty.  Some  men,  as  the  casual  observer 
has  doubtless  noticed,  preserve  the  ways  and  the  air  of  youth  up  to  the 
confines  of  middle  age ;  while  others — and  these  are  perhaps  the  majority 
— pass  through  a  transition  period  which  is  neither  the  one  thing  nor 
the  other.  Our  solitary  passenger  was  of  the  latter  class.  The  casual 
observer  would  scarcely  have  found  anything  sufficiently  striking  about 
him  to  excite  curious  speculations  as  to  his  identity ;  but  no  observer, 
however  casual,  could  have  felt  one  instant's  doubt  as  to  what  was  his 
calling  in  life.  He  was  a  soldier  from  the  crown  of  his  closely-cropped 
head  to  the  tips  of  his  well-blacked  boots ;  and  observers  with  an  eye  for 
detail  might  even  have  formed  a  tolerably  confident  guess  at  the  branch 
of  the  service  to  which  he  belonged.  Had  he  been  an  officer  of  infantry 
he  would  not  have  had  a  clearly-defined  diagonal  line  across  his  forehead, 
separating  a  corner  of  white  skin  from  a  larger  expanse  of  red  brown ; 
-a  hussar  or  a  lancer  would  have  been  more  fashionably,  and  a  plunger 
more  loudly,  dressed.  There  remain  the  two  scientific  corps ;  and  some 
trifling  points  about  this  gentleman,  such  as  his  attitude,  as  he  sat 
slightly  sideways,  his  right  leg  tucked  under  the  seat  and  his  left 
stretched  out  stiffly  before  him,  seemed  to  harmonise  with  the  addresses 
upon  a  packet  of  letters  which  he  presently  drew  from  his  pocket — 
"  Captain  Kenyon,  R.H.A.,  Aldershot." 

He  had  read  his  letters  before,  for  the  envelopes  were  all  torn  open  ; 
but  possibly  he  may  have  desired  to  refresh  his  memory  by  reading 
them  again.  He  ran  through  the  first  two  or  three  briskly  enough ; 
they  had  a  legal  aspect,  and  evidently  related  to  matters  of  business. 
But  over  the  last  he  lingered  for  a  long  time,  often  referring  back  to 
words  already  perused,  breaking  off  every  now  and  again  to  gaze  ab- 
stractedly out  of  the  window,  smiling  faintly  sometimes,  yet  sighing 
even  while  he  smiled,  and  maintaining  always  the  puzzled  and  anxious 
expression  of  one  who  has  got  into  a  situation  of  which  the  full  signifi- 
cance is  not  yet  clear  to  him.  This  letter  was  written  in  a  woman's 
firm,  flowing  hand,  upon  paper  with  a  broad  black  border,  and  ran  as 
follows : — 

19—2 


388  NO  NEW  THING. 

"  LONGBOUBNE  :  18th  August. 

"  MY  DEAR  HUGH, 

"  I  ought  to  have  written  before  this  to  thank  you  for  the  kind 
letter  which  you  sent  me  four  months  ago ;  but  I  am  sure  that  I  need 
not  really  apologise,  and  that  you  will  know  that  I  did  not  value  your 
sympathy  the  less  because  I  could  not  acknowledge  it  just  at  once.  If 
I  could  have  written  to  anybody,  it  would  have  been  to  you.  Now  I 
am  quite  able  to  write,  and  to  talk  to  you  too ;  and  you  need  not  have 
any  scruple  about  discussing  the  business  matters  which  you  say  we  must 
go  into,  because  I  want  to  hear  about  them,  and  to  know  what  my  duties 
are,  and  where  I  am  to  begin,  and  all  the  rest. 

"  And  I  do  very  much  long  to  see  you.  The  others  mean  to  be  kind, 
but  they  don't  understand ;  and  of  course  they  cannot,  never  having  had 
to  suffer  in  quite  the  same  way  that  I  do.  It  is  only  you  who  have  the 
secret  of  putting  yourself  in  everybody's  place,  and  knowing  things  that 
you  have  never  been  told,  and  could  not  have  been  told.  Do  you  re- 
member how  poor  old  nurse  used  to  say,  '  There's  not  a  man  or  woman 
in  Cray  minster  as  can  hold  a  candle  to  'Ugh '  ?  And  then  the  person 
whom  she  was  addressing  would  simper,  and  look  down  with  an  air  of 
modest  deprecation,  till  she  explained,  '  Bless  your  soul,  I  don't  mean 
you !  I  mean  'Ugh  Kenyon.'  I  reminded  them  of  it  yesterday,  when 
we  were  talking  of  your  coming  down ;  and  I  think  they  were  a  little 
shocked  at  my  laughing.  They  think  I  ought  not  to  be  able  to  laugh, 
and  at  the  same  time  they  talk  of  the  necessity  of  my  '  rousing  myself,' 
and  are  in  a  terrible  fright  lest  I  should  '  shut  myself  up  and  mope.' 
My  father  reminds  me  that  I  have  many  duties  and  responsibilities  to 
face,  and  a  career  of  great  usefulness  open  to  me ;  and  Mr.  Langley 
warns  me  to  beware  of  the  temptation  of  a  selfish  sorrow,  and  is  con- 
vinced that  I  should  be  better  in  mind  and  body  if  I  went  to  confession. 
I  don't  think  I  will  go  to  confession ;  but  of  course  I  should  like  to  be 
of  use  to  others,  if  I  can,  and  I  do  wish  and  intend  to  put  my  wretched 
self  out  of  sight,  and  let  my  neighbours  suppose  that  I  have  '  got  over  ' 
my  trouble,  as  everyone  is  expected  to  do  after  a  time.  But,  oh !  dear 
old  Hugh,  you  know,  if  nobody  else  does,  that  that  is  quite  an  impossi- 
bility, and  that  neither  four  months,  nor  four  years,  nor  any  number  of 
years  can  make  the  smallest  difference.  It  won't  be  the  same  Margaret 
whom  you  used  to  chase  round  the  Precincts  when  she  was  a  child,  and 
whom  you  used  to  dance  with  at  the  county  balls  when  she  was  a  gawky 
girl — it  won't  be  that  Margaret  who  will  meet  you  to-morrow,  but 
another  person  altogether,  who  has  somehow  got  into  her  skin,  and 
would  give  anything  to  be  out  of  it.  I  died  when  Jack  died  :  that  was 
the  end  of  my  happiness  and  the  end  of  my  life.  Only  someone,  who  is 
I,  and  yet  not  I,  has  got  to  live  many  years  longer  in  a  world  which  is 
the  old  world,  and  yet  is  a  totally  new  one ;  for,  like  auld  Robin  Gray's 
wife,  '  I'm  no  like  to  dee.'  And  so  it  is  all  bewilderment  and  a  puzzle ; 
and  I  think,  if  anyone  can  give  the  clue  to  it,  it  will  be  you.  You  re- 


NO  NEW  THING.  389 

member  how  I  used  to  run  to  you  in  all  my  little  troubles  in  the  old 
days ;  you  were  always  my  best  friend.  And  then  you  were  Jack's  best 
friend  too.  I  have  got  a  few  things  of  his  to  give  you — his  gun,  and  a 
trout-rod,  and  some  other  things.  I  don't  know  whether  they  are  good 
of  their  kind ;  but  I  thought  you  would  like  to  have  them,  so  I  set  them 
aside  for  you.  It  has  been  such  a  comfort  to  me  that  he  made  you  his 

executor.     Old  Mr.  Stanniforth  has  written  to  me  :  but  he  seemed  to 

•  •• 

think  you  would  tell  me  all  that  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  know — and 
I  would  very  much  rather  have  it  so.  I  can't  tell  you  what  a  relief  it 
will  be  to  me  to  be  able  to  talk  to  someone  just  as  I  feel. 

"  I  should  never  have  ventured  to  inflict  all  this  rambling  egotism 
upon  anyone  but  you,  and  perhaps,  after  now,  I  won't  make  even  that 
exception ;  but  I  know  you  will  forgive  it  for  this  once.  I  have  a  great 
deal  to  tell  you  and  ask  you  about ;  but  it  will  be  better  Said  than 

written. 

"  Ever  your  affectionate  friend, 

"  MARGARET  STANNIFORTH." 

"A  comfort  to  her  that  Jack  made  me  his  executor!"  muttered 
Captain  Kenyon,  as  he  restored  this  letter  to  his  pocket,  after  having 
perused  it  often  enough  to  have  learnt  its  contents  by  heart.  "I  hope 
it  may  be  a  comfort  to  her,  poor  thing !  I  hope  so,  I'm  sure,  with  all 
my  heart.  It  ain't  much  of  a  comfort  to  me,  I  know." 

He  sighed,  re- lighted  his  cigar,  which  had  gone  out,  and  shifted  his 
place  from  one  side  of  the  carriage  to  the  other  and  then  back  again. 
"  Not  that  I  grudge  the  trouble,  mind  you,"  he  added,  apologetically 
addressing  an  imaginary  hearer,  "  nor  the— the — awkwardness  of  it ;  it 

isn't  that.  But "  He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  presently 

resumed,  in  a  more  decided  and  cheerful  voice,  "  Well,  Lord  knows  how 
it  will  all  end  !  but  for  the  present  my  duty  is  clear  and  simple  enough ; 
there's  some  consolation  in  that." 

So  he  gave  his  broad  shoulders  a  shake,  as  though  mental  burdens 
could  be  cast  off  after  that  easy  fashion,  and,  turning  to  the  window, 
looked  out  at  the  woods  and  hills  and  pastures  of  the  pleasant  county 
where  he  had  been  born  and  bred,  and  through  which  the  train  was  now 
rushing.  It  was  a  year  since  he  had  last  gazed  at  those  familiar  scenes 
and  landmarks.  Barely  twelve  months  before  he  had  travelled  down 
from  Aldershot,  on  just  such  a  sunny  summer's  morning,  to  be  present 
at  a  gay  wedding  in  Crayminster  Cathedral.  It  had  been  his  pleasing 
duty  to  act  as  best  man  on  that  occasion,  and  the  bridegroom  had  been 
his  old  friend  Jack  Stanniforth,  and  the  bride  his  still  older  friend 
Margaret  Wlnnington,  the  daughter  of  the  Bishop.  The  ceremony  had 
been  a  grand  and  largely  attended  one,  and  had  created  no  small  stir  in 
the  county,  where  Mrs.  Winnington,  whose  eldest  daughter  had  recently 
been  led  to  the  altar  by  no  less  a  personage  than  Lord  Travers,  enjoyed 
that  mixture  of  respect,  envy,  and  detraction  which  commonly  falls  to 


390  NO  NEW  THING. 

the  lot  of  mothers  who  marry  their  daughters  well.  Jack  Stanniforth, 
to  be  sure,  was  hardly  so  big  a  fish  as  Lord  Travers,  being  not  only 
unconnected  with  the  aristocracy,  but  devoid,  to  all  intents  and  purposes, 
of  so  much  as  an  authentic  grandfather.  But  then,  as  everybody  re- 
marked, Kate  had  been  a  beauty,  whereas  Margaret  was  really  almost 
what  you  might  call  a  plain,  girl,  and  the  riches  of  the  Stanniforths  were 
understood  to  be  boundless. 

Big  fish  or  little  fish,  Jack  had,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  been  landed  by 
no  skill  on  the  part  of  his  future  mother-in-law,  but  simply  by  his  own 
good  will  and  pleasure.  He  had  been  brought  down  into  those  waters 
by  Hugh  Kenyon,  who  was  thus  responsible,  if  anyone  was,  for  his 
subsequent  capture ;  and  it  was  therefore  only  right  and  proper  that 
Hugh  should  have  been  present,  in  his  best  blue  frock-coat  and  with  a 
sprig  of  stephanotis  in  his  buttonhole,  to  stand  behind  the  bridegroom 
on  the  auspicious  day. 

Of  old  Mr.  Stanniforth,  the  wealthy  Manchester  merchant,  who  dwelt 
in  a  palace  near  the  city  in  which  he  had  made  his  fortune,  and  who 
rarely  stirred  beyond  his  own  park-gates,  Crayminster  knew  nothing  and 
London  very  little ;  but  his  two  sons  had  the  privilege  of  a  large  ac- 
quaintance in  the  metropolis  and  beyond  it,  and  were  as  popular  as  rich, 
well-mannered,  and  modest  men  are  sure  to  be.  Tom,  the  elder,  had 
for  some  time  sat  as  one  of  the  members  for  a  large  manufacturing 
borough  ;  Jack,  the  younger,  had  entered  a  smart  hussar  regiment,  and 
had  disported  himself  therein,  during  the  early  years  of  his  youth,  to  the 
satisfaction  of  himself  and  his  broth er-officers,  and  to  the  intense  admi- 
ration of  the  opposite  sex,  until  he  had  added  to  all  his  other  charms 
the  crowning  one  of  inheriting  unexpectedly  a  large  fortune  by  the 
death  of  a  maternal  uncle.  Upon  this  he  had  sent  in  his  papers ;  and 
almost  immediately  afterwards,  having  happened  to  go  down  to  Cray- 
minster  with  his  friend  Kenyon,  had  seen  Margaret,  had  fallen  in  love 
with  her,  and,  after  a  very  brief  courtship,  had  proposed  and  been 
accepted. 

Little  as  Captain  Kenyon  had  foreseen  such  a  result  of  his  intro- 
duction of  the  ex-hussar  to  the  Bishop's  family,  his  share  in  bringing  it 
about  was  not  the  less  gratefully  and  magnanimously  acknowledged  by 
Mrs.  Winnington.  "  Dear  Hugh,"  she  had  said,  in  her  most  benign 
manner,  "  I  shall  never  forget,  and  I  am  sure  Margaret  will  never 
forget,  that  her  happiness  has  come  to  her  through  you."  And  this 
compliment  should  have  been  the  more  agreeable  to  its  recipient,  inas- 
much as  Mrs.  Winnington  had  not  always  been  used  to  address  him  in 
so  friendly  a  tone.  Of  course — as  she  would  often  explain  to  her  in- 
timates— she  was  devoted  to  dear  old  Hugh,  and  during  the  lifetime  of 
his  uncle  the  Dean,  he  had  almost  lived  in  the  house,  and  had  been  quite 
like  a  son  to  herself  and  an  elder  brother  to  her  daughters ;  but  now 
that  Kate  and  Margaret  were  growing  up,  one  really  had  to  be  a  little 
more  careful ;  because  people  would  talk,  and  there  was  no  saying  what 


NO   NEW   THING.  391 

preposterous  notions  men  might  not  get  into  their  heads  if  proper  pre- 
cautions were  not  taken  to  nip  such  notions  in  the  bud.  There  had, 
therefore,  been  occasions  upon  which  a  sense  of  duty  had  led  Mrs.  Win- 
nington  to  turn  the  cold  shoulder  to  her  dear  old  Hugh,  and  to  point 
out  to  him  with  somewhat  unnecessary  emphasis  how  great  was  the 
disparity  of  years  between  him  aud  the  young  ladies  to  whom  he  had 
been  "  quite  like  an  elder  brother."  Now  a  glance  at  Hart's  Army  List 
would  have  disclosed  the  fact  that  Jack  Stanniforth  was  only  Captain 
Kenyon's  junior  by  a  year ;  but,  as  has  been  already  remarked,  some 
men  are  young  up  to  the  verge  of  middle  age,  while  others  have  ceased 
to  be  so  before  they  are  out  of  the  twenties ;  and  Jack  certainly  be- 
longed to  the  former  and  Hugh  to  the  latter  category.  He  had,  indeed, 
been  so  long  accustomed  to  hearing  himself  addressed  as  "  old  Hugh  " 
that  he  had  ended  by  accepting  the  adjective  in  its  literal  sense  and 
acquiescing  in  its  propriety ;  nor  had  he  failed  to  join  in  the  laughter 
which  arose  from  all  sides  when  the  bridegroom,  in  returning  thanks  at 
the  wedding-breakfast,  had  expressed  a  hope  that  his  best  man  would 
soon  follow  his  bright  example.  Old  Hugh  was  so  evidently  a  pre- 
destined old  bachelor. 

Immediately  after  the  wedding  the  young  couple  had  started  for 
Switzerland  and  Italy  upon  a  tour  which  was  prolonged  far  beyond  the 
limits  of  ordinary  honeymoons,  the  excuse  for  their  protracted  absence 
being  that  their  new  home  could  not  possibly  be  made  ready  to  receive 
them  in  less  than  six  months  at  earliest.  This  new  home  was  that  fine 
old  place  Longbourne,  near  Cray  minster,  for  many  generations  the 
residence  of  the  Brune  family.  It  had  come  into  the  market  some  years 
previously,  owing  to  the  necessitous  circumstances  of  the  owner,  and  had 
found  a  purchaser  in  Mr.  Stanniforth  of  Manchester.  What  could  have 
been  Mr.  Stanniforth's  object  in  acquiring  an  estate  which  he  had 
scarcely  seen  and  showed  no  disposition  to  occupy  was  a  puzzle  to  every- 
body, until  the  construction  of  the  Crayminster  and  Craybridge  branch 
line,  which  cut  through  an  angle  of  the  property,  with  satisfactory 
results  to  the  pocket  of  its  new  owner,  seemed  to  throw  some  light 
upon  the  mystery.  Now,  the  old  gentleman,  in  an  easy  and  princely 
fashion,  had  offered  Longbourne  as  a  wedding  gift  to  his  second  son, 
stipulating  only  that  he  should  be  allowed  to  put  the  place  in  order 
before  the  bride  and  bridegroom  took  possession  of  it.  They,  for  their 
part,  were  nothing  loth  to  consent  to  an  arrangement  which  promised 
them  a  somewhat  longer  holiday  under  southern  skies ;  and  so  archi- 
tects and  artists,  landscape-gardeners,  stonemasons,  and  upholsterers,  had 
come  down  from  London  in  a  small  army,  and  had  busied  themselves 
throughout  the  winter  in  beautifying  the  house  and  grounds,  which  were 
destined  never  to  be  enjoyed  by  those  for  whose  sake  all  this  expense 
and  trouble  had  been  incurred.  For,  one  afternoon,  Jack  Stanniforth, 
a  strong  man,  who  had  scarcely  known  what  illness  was  in  the  course  of 
his  merry  life,  rode  back  to  Rome  feeling  tired  and  chilled  after  hunting 


392  NO  NEW  THING. 

on  the  Campagna ;  and  the  next  day  he  took  to  his  bed  ;  and  before  the 
week  was  out  he  was  dead  and  buried. 

Under  the  shock  of  this  sudden  and  terrible  calamity  the  young 
widow  had  fallen  into  a  sort  of  stupor,  which  at  first  caused  considerable 
alarm  both  to  her  friends  and  to  her  medical  advisers.  The  latter  had 
enjoined  absolute  rest,  change  of  scene,  a  bracing  atmosphere,  and  what 
not — since  doctors,  when  they  are  called  in,  must  needs  enjoin  some- 
thing— and  Mrs.  "VVinnington  had  hastened  out  to  Italy,  and  had  taken 
her  daughter,  passive  and  indifferent,  to  the  Engadine.  After  a  time 
Margaret  had  rallied,  had  returned,  by  her  own  desire,  to  England,  and 
had  taken  up  her  residence  at  Longbourne,  where  it  now  became  neces- 
sary that  Hugh  Kenyon  should  seek  her  out,  in  order  to  explain  to  her 
the  provisions  of  her  husband's  will,  under  which  he  and  the  dead  man's 
father  had  been  appointed  executors  and  trustees. 

Such  was  the  condensed  tragedy  of  which  the  details  passed  quickly 
through  Captain  Kenyon's  mind,  as  he  sat  looking  out  of  the  railway- 
carriage  window.  And  as  he  remembered  it  all,  and  how,  only  the 
other  day,  he  had  travelled  over  the  same  ground  on  his  way  down  to 
the  wedding,  and  how,  but  a  few  months  before  that,  Margaret  had  not 
even  seen  the  man  who  was  to  be  her  husband,  he  could  not  help  saying 
to  himself  that  it  was  impossible  that  so  brief  an  episode — however 
terrible  it  might  be — should  cast  a  permanent  gloom  over  a  young 
life. 

"  It  isn't  the  same  thing,"  he  mused,  "  it  can't  be  the  same  thing,  as 
losing  a  husband  or  a  wife  after  twenty  years  of  married  life.  That 
would  be  like  having  an  arm  or  a  leg  cut  off — there  would  be  something 
gone  from  one  which  one  could  never  forget  nor  replace.  But  this — 
well,  this  is  more  like  having  a  tooth  out ;  a  wrench  and  a  howl,  and 
all's  over."  Then,  repenting  of  having  used  so  homely  a  metaphor,  even 
in  thought,  he  muttered  sadly,  "  Poor  Jack — poor  old  fellow  !  " 

Presently  the  train  drew  up  in  Crayminster  station,  and  a  groom  in 
mourning  livery  came  to  the  door  and  touched  his  hat.  The  dog-cart 
was  waiting  outside,  he  said,  and  was  there  any  luggage,  please  1  No ; 
Kenyon  answered,  there  was  no  luggage ;  he  was  going  back  that  same 
evening.  He  climbed  into  the  dog-cart,  but  declined  to  take  the  reins. 
With  an  odd  sort  of  pang  and  feeling  of  compunction,  he  had  recog- 
nised the  cart  as  one  that  Jack  used  to  drive,  and  the  horse  as  one  of 
his  friend's  old  hunters.  As  the  vehicle  clattered  through  the  narrow 
streets  of  the  old  town,  more  than  one  pedestrian  nodded  and  waved  his 
hand  to  its  occupant ;  but  Hugh,  who  kept  his  eyes  obstinately  fixed 
iipon  his  boots,  saw  none  of  these  friendly  signals.  He  knew  that  by 
no  possibility  could  he  traverse  Crayminster  on  any  day  of  the  week 
without  encountering  at  least  a  dozen  acquaintances ;  and  he  was  afraid 
of  being  stopped  and  questioned.  Therefore  he  would  not  look  up,  and 
was  relieved  when  he  had  left  the  town  behind  him  and  was  well  out 
into  the  open  country. 


NO  NEW  THING.  393 

Half  an  hour's  drive,  at  first  across  broad  water-meadows  and  then 
through  woods  and  up  a  long  gradual  incline,  brought  him  to  the  lodge 
gates  of  Longbourne — new  gates  and  a  new  lodge,  as  Hugh  observed. 
He  had  known  the  place  well  in  the  late  Mr.  Brune's  time,  and  was 
prepared  to  find  it  altered,  not  altogether  for  the  better,  by  the  touch  of 
the  Manchester  millionaire.  It  appeared,  however,  that  Mr.  Stanni- 
forth's  taste,  or  the  taste  of  those  employed  by  him,  had  been  better  than 
Hugh  had  anticipated ;  for  the  alterations  were  not  conspicuous,  and 
such  as  there  were  were  of  a  kind  to  which  exception  could  not  be 
taken.  In  the  undulating  park  and  in  the  long  avenue  of  lime-trees 
which  was  the  pride  of  Longbourne  there  was  no  room  for  change ;  only 
the  gardens  had  been  extended  and  improved ;  new  lawns  and  terraces 
had  been  laid  out,  and  brilliant  masses  and  ribbons  of  colour  replaced 
the  scanty  and  ill-tended  flower-beds  of  former  years.  The  house  itself, 
a  red-brick  structure,  which,  like  most  country-houses  of  its  date,  was 
said  to  have  been  built  after  designs  of  Inigo  Jones,  showed  no  traces  of 
interference,  except  in  so  far  as  that  its  white  stone  facings  had  been 
renewed  or  cleaned ;  no  plate-glass  had  superseded  the  many  panes  of 
the  large  oblong  windows,  nor  was  the  long  flat  fagade  disfigured  by 
any  modern  bows  or  bays. 

But  when  once  the  hall-door  was  passed,  Hugh  found  himself  upon 
totally  unknown  ground.  Under  the  Brune  regime  the  furniture  of  the 
mansion  had  been  meagre  and  its  servants  few ;  now  there  was  per- 
haps rather  a  superabundance  of  both.  The  entrance-hall  was  embel- 
lished with  antlers,  with  old  carved-oak  chests  and  cabinets,  with  huge 
vases  of  Oriental  china  and  with  arm-chairs  in  stamped  leather.  The 
drawing-room,  into  which  Hugh  was  ushered,  had  been  despoiled  of 
its  tarnished  gilding,  its  brocade  and  three-pile  Axminster;  and  in 
lieu  of  these  departed  glories  was  a  more  sober  style  of  decoration; 
subdued  colouring ;  a  few  paintings  by  old  Dutch  masters ;  chairs,  sofas, 
and  tables  more  valuable  than  resplendent.  Everything  was  perfectly 
correct — a  little  too  correct,  Hugh  thought ;  for  at  the  time  with  which 
we  are  concerned  correctness  of  upholstery  had  not  yet  become  the  chief 
aim  and  object  of  the  British  householder.  The  place  looked  a  trifle 
cold  and  stiff  and  uninhabited ;  and  over  the  whole  establishment  there 
brooded  the  solemn  hush  of  wealth. 

While  Captain  Kenyon  was  proceeding  with  his  unspoken  criticisms 
the  door  opened,  and  a  tall,  slim  woman,  dressed  in  widow's  weeds, 
entered,  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  saying,  "  How  do  you  do,  Hugh?" 
in  a  low,  quiet  voice.  Though  he  could  hardly  have  been  unprepared 
for  the  appearance  of  this  lady,  he  started  as  violently  as  if  he  had  seen 
a  ghost,  and,  finding  not  a  word  to  say,  grasped  her  hand  silently,  while 
he  looked  into  her  face  with  an  eager,  questioning  gaze. 

The  face  that  he  scanned  so  anxiously  was  not  beautiful,  nor  even 
pretty.  For  one  thing,  it  was  extremely  pale,  with  that  grey  pallor 
which  comes  only  from  illness  or  suffering;  and,  as  is  often  the  case 

19—5 


394  NO  NEW  THING. 

with  fair-complexioned  -women,  the  colourlessness  was  not  confined  to 
the  cheeks,  but  seemed  to  have  extended  to  the  hair  and  eyes,  the 
former  of  which  ought  to  have  been,  but  was  not,  golden,  while  the 
latter  ought  to  have  been,  but  were  not,  blue.  An  old-fashioned  pass- 
port would  probably  have  summed  up  the  remaining  features  tersely 
with  "  forehead  high,  nose  ordinary,  mouth  rather  large."  It  was, 
however,  an  honest,  trustworthy,  and  kind  face — a  face  which  all  dogs 
and  children,  and  some  discriminating  adults,  understood  and  loved  at 
the  first  glance.  Margaret  Sfcanniforth  had  never  been  accounted  a 
beauty,  yet  she  had  never  lacked  admirers ;  and,  when  in  the  glow  of 
youth  and  health,  she  might  even  have  passed  for  a  pretty  girl,  had  she 
not  happened  to  be  the  plain  one  of  a  family  somewhat  notorious  for 
good  looks.  For  the  rest,  she  had  a  good  figure  ;  she  carried  her  head 
well,  as  all  the  Winningtons  do,  and  she  had,  as  they  all  have,  a  certain 
undefinable  grace  and  air  of  good  breeding. 

The  sight  of  her  in  those  deep  mourning  robes  almost  unmanned  the 
soft-hearted  Hugh;  and,  instead  of  one  of  the  brisk  little  cheerful 
speeches  which  he  had  rehearsed  on  his  way  from  the  station,  he  blurted 
out  something  awkward  and  incoherent,  at  last,  about  never  having 
thought  he  should  meet  her  again  like  this  ;  but  she  had  the  quiet  ease 
of  manner  which  belongs  to  unselfish  people,  and  she  gave  him  time  to 
recover  himself  by  talking  about  the  proposed  restoration  of  the  cathe- 
dral, and  her  father's  speech  in  the  House  of  Lords,  and  other  matters 
which  could  be  treated  of  without  danger  of  disturbance  to  anyone's 
equanimity. 

"  Are  you  all  alone  here  ? "  Hugh  asked  at  length. 

"  I  am  now.  I  had  two  of  the  boys  with  me  until  yesterday ;  but 
they  have  gone  back  to  school."  She  added  after  a  pause,  "  My  mother 
is  very  kind,  and  would  stay  with  me  as  long  as  I  liked  ;  but  of  course 
she  is  wanted  at  home  ;  and,  as  I  shall  have  to  be  a  great  deal  by  myself 
in  future,  I  thought  it  was  better  to  begin  at  once." 

She  spoke  without  a  tremor  in  her  voice,  quite  calmly  and  almost 
coldly;  and  Hugh  was  just  the  least  bit  in  the  world  disappointed  and 
chilled.  Her  speech  was  so  very  unlike  her  letter,  he  thought.  But  then 
the  speech  of  most  people  is  unlike  their  letters.  Presently  luncheon  was 
announced,  and  he  had  to  seat  himself  opposite  Mrs.  Stannifortb  in  a 
dining-room,  or  rather  dining-hall,  which  would  have  accommodated 
fifty  guests  comfortably.  He  had  hoped  that  a  cover  might  have  been 
laid  for  him  beside  her,  for  he  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  about  occu- 
pying Jack's  place ;  but  the  butler  had  probably  omitted  to  take  this 
delicate  scruple  into  account.  The  repast  was  prolonged  and  very  dreary. 
The  table,  though  narrowed  to  its  smallest  dimensions,  was  still  a  long 
one ;  and  Hugh  and  Margaret  laboriously  kept  up  conversation  in  a  high 
key  across  it,  conscious  all  the  time  of  being  furtively  watched  by  a  dis- 
creet butler  and  two  stealthy  giants  in  mourning  livery.  Hugh  thought 
to  himself  that,  if  he  were  Margaret,  and  if  he  were  compelled  to  eat  his 


NO  NEW  THING.  395 

meals  every  day  with  three  respectful  pairs  of  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  he 
should  infallibly  go  out  of  his  senses  in  less  than  a  week. 

Perhaps  she  guessed  what  was  passing  through  his  mind ;  for,  as  soon 
as  they  were  alone,  she  said,  laughing  a  little,  "  Those  servants  are  a  ter- 
rible ordeal  to  me.  I  found  them  here  when  I  arrived  :  Mr.  Stanniforth 
had  supplied  them,  with  the  furniture  and  the  carriages  and  all  the  rest. 
I  am  hoping  that  you  will  tell  me  I  must  dismiss  at  least  two  of  them." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  there  will  be  any  need  for  that,"  answered  Hugh. 

"  No  ?  So  much  the  worse  for  me,  then.  Shall  we  go  back  to  the 
drawing-room  now,  and  get  our  business  talk  over  1 " 

Jack  Stanniforth's  will  was  a  portentous  document  of  the  old- 
fashioned  pattern,  drawn  xip  for  him  by  his  father's  lawyers  and  signed 
by  him  on  his  wedding-day.  The  effect  of  it — there  being  no  child  born 
of  the  marriage — was  that,  subject  to  the  usxial  restrictions,  his  widow 
took  a  life-interest  in  all  his  property,  real  and  personal ;  which,  together 
with  her  settlements,  would  give  her  an  income  of  from  fourteen  to 
fifteen  thousand  a  year.  But  it  took  Captain  Kenyon  some  little  time 
to  state  this  simple  fact.  He  was  a  man  of  an  orderly  and  somewhat 
slowly-moving  mind ;  and  he  thought  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  explain 
the  will,  clause  by  clause,  going  into  many  details  which  his  hearer  only 
half  understood,  and  with  which  it  is  needless  that  the  reader  should  be 
wearied. 

"  Fifteen  thousand  a  year !  "  ejaculated  Margaret,  with  a  sigh,  when 
he  had  at  last  reached  his  conclusion ;  "  that  sounds  an  enormous  sum 
of  money." 

"  Well,  yes ;  it  is  a  large  sum.  Not  so  large  as  it  might  have  been, 
if  we  had  not  been  so  tied  down  as  to  investments ;  still " 

"  Still,  enough  to  live  upon  with  strict  economy,"  interrupted  Mar- 
garet, with  a  slight  laugh.  "  Hugh,"  she  added  suddenly,  "  do  you 
know  what  I  should  like  to  do  1 " 

"  Yes ;  you  would  like  to  give  away  the  whole  of  it  to  somebody 
without  loss  of  time." 

"  Not  exactly  that ;  but  I  should  like  to  give  Longbourne  away  \  or 
at  least  to  restore  it  to  its  proper  owner." 

"  To  Mr.  Stanniforth,  do  you  mean  1  " 

"  No  ;  to  the  Brunes.  It  really  belongs  to  them,  you  know ;  we 
have  no  right  to  the  place.  Jack  felt  that  very  strongly,  and  he  did  not 
at  all  like  the  idea  of  coming  to  live  here.  He  always  used  to  say  that 
Mr.  Brune  had  been  deprived  of  his  property  by  an  unfair  bargain." 

"  Hardly  that,  I  think.  Of  course  it  was  a  bit  of  bad  luck  for  him. 
If  he  had  held  on  a  little  longer,  the  railway  would  have  put  him  pretty 
nearly  straight,  I  suppose ;  but  no  one  could  have  foreseen  that  at  the 
time  of  the  sale." 

Margaret  was  silent.  "  At  all  events,"  she  said  presently,  "  I  want 
to  let  him  have  his  own  back  now,  if  it  can  be  managed." 

"  But,  my  dear  Margaret,  it  cannot  possibly  be  managed." 


396  NO   NEW  THING. 

"Why  not?" 

"  For  many  good  reasons ;  but  one  of  them  is  final.  The  place  is  not 
yours  to  dispose  of.  I  am  afraid  I  must  have  explained  matters  very 
stupidly ;  but  the  fact  is  that  you  are  only  a  tenant  for  life." 

"  It  is  I  who  was  stupid ;  I  ought  to  have  listened  more  attentively. 
And  what  becomes  of  Longbourne  after  my  death  ]  " 

"  Well,  then  it  goes,  with  the  rest  of  the  property,  to  Tom  Stanni- 
forth  or  his  heirs." 

"  Tom  Stanniforth  will  have  more  money  than  he  will  know  what  to 
do  with,"  observed  Margaret.  "  I  am  sure  he  would  willingly  surrender 
his  chance  of  inheriting  Longbourne." 

"  I  am  not  much  of  a  lawyer ;  but  I  almost  doubt  whether  he  could. 
In  aJiy  case,  Mr.  Brune  would  not  be  very  likely  to  accept  a  gift  of  an 
estate  from  a  stranger  ;  and  he  could  not  buy  it  back.  I  used  to  see  the 
elder  brother  sometimes  in  years  gone  by  :  this  one  I  hardly  knew  ;  but 
from  what  I  have  heard  of  him,  I  should  think  he  was  about  the  last 
man  in  the  world  to  whom  one  could  venture  to  propose  such  a  thing." 

Margaret  rose,  and  walked  to  the  window.  "  Ah,  well,"  she  said, 
"  it  was  only  an  idea  of  mine ;  I  scarcely  expected  to  be  able  to  carry  it 
out.  But,  Hugh,  I  feel  almost  certain  of  one  thing  :  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  go  on  living  here." 

Hugh  wrinkled  up  his  forehead,  and  looked  distressed.  If  he  had 
felt  free  to  speak  out  plainly  the  thought  that  was  in  his  mind,  he  would 
have  answered,  "  I'm  sure  you  won't.  Flesh  and  blood  couldn't  stand  it." 
But  women  are  so  uncertain,  and  so  prone  to  act  upon  impulse  :  and  it 
is  not  always  wise  or  kind  to  show  all  the  sympathy  that  one  may  feel. 
Upon  the  whole,  it  seemed  best  to  reply,  "  I  wouldn't  do  anything  in  a 
hurry,  if  I  were  }  ou." 

Margaret  went  on,  as  if  she  had  not  heard  him.  "  It  isn't  the  soli- 
tude that  I  mind  ;  I  could  be  contented  enough  in  a  little  cottage,  with 
a  cook  and  a  housemaid  to  look  after  me ;  but  I  was  never  meant  to 
rule  over  a  large  establishment.  The  small  worries  of  it  suffocate  me. 
One  would  think  that  a  great  sorrow,  like  mine,  ought  to  make  one  in- 
different to  small  worries ;  but  somehow  or  other  it  doesn't.  You 
would  be  amused  if  you  knew  how  frightened  I  am  of  the  servants. 
There  is  an  old  housekeeper,  a  Mrs.  Prosser,  who  was  here  under  Mr. 
Brune,  and  who  took  care  of  the  house  all  the  time  that  it  stood  empty, 
after  Mr.  Stanniforth  bought  it.  I  am  obliged  to  have  an  interview 
with  her  every  morning,  and  she  is  very  respectful  and  deferential ;  but 
of  course  she  looks  upon  me  as  an  interloper,  and  she  has  a  way  of 
standing  with  her  hands  clasped  before  her,  turning  one  thumb  slowly 
over  the  other  and  staring  at  me  with  her  little  black  eyes,  which  makes 
me  so  nervous  that  I  hardly  know  what  I  am  saying  to  her." 

"  Give  her  the  sack." 

"  I  don't  think  I  should  ever  dare.  And  there  would  be  no  excuse 
for  sending  her  away  either ;  for,  as  far  as  I  can  judge,  she  is  an  ad- 


NO   NEW  THING.  397 

mirable  housekeeper.  Besides,  the  butler  and  the  coachman  are  quite 
as  bad  in  their  way.  Sometimes  I  have  thought  of  entering  a  sister- 
hood. Would  that  be  very  wrong,  do  you  think  1 " 

"  I  don't  think  it  would  be  wrong,"  answered  Hugh  slowly ; 
«  but " 

"  Yes ;  I  know  there  are  a  great  many  buts ;  too  many  for  me  to 
think,  except  in  a  vague  sort  of  way,  of  doing  such  a  thing  as  yet.  I 
keep  it  as  a  last  resource — in  case  I  should  find  my  life  quite  unbear- 
able." 

Captain  Kenyon  had  risen,  and  was  standing  beside  her  at  the 
window  now. 

"  Oh,  Hugh,"  she  said  suddenly,  clasping  her  hands  round  his 
arm,  "  what  am  I  to  do  ?  What  am  I  to  do  with  my  life  ? " 

"  My  dear,"  he  answered,  greatly  moved  and  full  of  pity,  yet  quite 
unable  to  express  what  he  felt,  "  how  can  I  tell  you  ?  You  must  have 
patience.  When  things  go  wrong  with  us,  there  is  nothing  for  it  but 
patience." 

After  all,  it  is  seldom  by  speech  that  a  sense  of  sympathy  and  friend- 
ship is  conveyed.  Perhaps  no  eloquence  could  have  given  Margaret 
more  comfort  than  these  few  words  from  a  friend  who  was  himself 
always  patient,  always  brave,  and  whose  life  had  been  full  of  petty 
troubles,  arising  for  the  most  part  out  of  the  lack  of  that  which  she 
found  so  heavy  a  burden. 

"  I  will  try,"  she  said,  straightening  herself  up.  "  Only  it  seems  to 
me  that  it  would  be  so  much  easier  if  I  were  not  rich.  Everybody  keeps 
repeating  to  me  that  money  is  such  a  blessing,  and  that  I  ought  to  be  so 
thankful  for  it ;  and  yet  what  can  it  do  for  me  ?  Nothing — absolutely 
nothing ! " 

"  It  is  at  least  so  far  a  blessing  that  it  brings  independence  with  it." 

"  'But  if  one  does  not  want  to  be  independent  ?  I  am  one  of  those 
weak  people  who  are  born  to  be  subordinates  and  to  be  told  their  duty 
day  by  day.  Is  there  no  way  in  which  I  could  rid  myself  of  this  enor- 
mous income  ? " 

"  I'm  afraid  not.  You  see,  the  will  says — let  me  see;  where  is  it1? 
Oh,  here — '  Trusts.'  "  And  Hugh  began  reading,  in  a  hurried,  mumb- 
ling voice — "  '  To  be  received  by  her  my  said  wife  for  her  own  use  and 
benefit  during  her  life  or  until  she  shall  marry  again  or  until  she  shall 
sell  assign  mortgage  or  charge  or  otherwise  incumber  the  same  or  attempt 
so  to  do  or  shall  do  or  suffer  or  become  subject  or  liable  to  some  act  pro- 
ceeding matter  or  thing  whereby  the  same  interest  dividends  and  annual 
produce  if  payable  to  her  absolutely  for  her  life  would  become  vested  in 
or  payable  to  some  other  person  or  persons  Provided  nevertheless 
and ' " 

"  Oh,  never  mind,"  interrupted  Margaret,  with  a  half  laugh.  "  I 
quite  understand  that  there  is  no  legal  way  out  of  the  difficulty."  And 
she  wondered  why  a  slight  flush  had  mounted  into  Hugh's  brown  cheeks 


398  NO   NEW  THING. 

•while  he  had  been  reading,  and  why  he  looked  so  oddly,  and  was  such  a 
long  time  in  folding  up  the  big  document  again. 

How  could  she  tell  that  he  had  loved  her  almost  from  her  childhood  1 
How  could  she  tell  that  her  marriage  to  his  friend  had  shattered  all  his 
hopes  and  day-dreams  ?  How  could  she  tell  that  that  possibility  of  her 
re-marriage,  contemplated  as  a  mere  formality  by  the  will,  was  one  that, 
despite  poor  Hugh's  honest  efforts  to  banish  it  from  his  mind,  was  forcing 
its  way  thither  every  day  and  every  hour1?  These  were  secrets  which 
Captain  Kenyon  had  hitherto  successfully  kept,  and  was  likely  to  con- 
tinue to  keep,  to  himself.  If,  in  the  depths  of  his  heart,  he  had  begun 
to  look  forward  to  some  remote  future  time,  at  which  Margaret,  having 
read  and  re-read  this  dark  page  of  her  life,  might  find  that  the  power 
was  still  in  her  to  open  a  fresh  one,  and  if  he  had  heard  with  a  certain 
inward  exultation  of  her  anxiety  to  be  free  from  that  wealth  which  must 
needs  be  hers  so  long  as  she  bore  the  name  of  Stanniforth,  he  was  sin- 
cerely ashamed  of  such  thoughts,  and  did  his  best  to  stifle  them.  For 
he  had  been  loved  and  trusted  by  the  man  who  was  dead;  he  was 
trusted,  and  in  a  manner  also  loved,  by  the  dead  man's  widow ;  and  to 
be  guilty  of  an  unspoken  treachery  to  either  of  them  was  what  he  could 
not  bear  without  self-reproach. 

But  if  the  tongue  is  an  unruly  member,  the  brain  is  a  substance  yet 
more  unruly,  and  is  wont  to  assert  its  independence  after  a  specially 
vexatious  fashion  when  it  receives  direct  orders  from  the  will.  There- 
fore this  conscientious  executor  and  compassionate  friend  was  ill  at  ease, 
and  discharged  himself  of  his  double  functions  in  an  awkward,  guilty 
and  half-hearted  manner.  He  fancied,  at  least,  that  he  was  doing  so  : 
as  a  fact,  he  could  hardly  have  shown  greater  kindness  to  Margaret  than 
by  abstaining,  as  he  did,  from  counsel  or  consolation,  and  by  listening  to 
her  in  silence  while  she  told  him  of  the  incidents  of  her  short  wedded 
life  and  of  the  swift  catastrophe  which  had  closed  it.  She  shed  no  tears  ; 
she  had  a  low,  pleasantly-modulated  voice ;  she  talked  so  calmly  that  it 
might  almost  have  been  the  story  of  another  woman's  life  that  she  was 
relating.  Pacing  by  her  side  along  the  shady  lawns,  he  heard  her  with 
a  mixture  of  pleasure  and  pain  and  hopelessness.  He  knew — though  she 
never  said  so — that  he  was  the  first  person  to  whom  she  had  spoken  so 
openly  since  her  husband's  death ;  he  knew  that  she  was  treating  him 
with  a  confidence  which  she  would  not  have  reposed  in  her  father  or 
mother ;  but  this  knowledge  made  him  neither  more  sanguine  nor  less 
remorseful. 

"  You  will  come  and  see  me  again  soon,  won't  you  1 "  she  asked,  when 
the  time  came  for  him  to  bid  her  good-bye.  And  he  answered  hurriedly, 
"  Yes ;  as  soon  as  I  can — that  is,  as  soon  as  you  please.  I  can  almost 
always  get  away  for  a  day  now ;  and  you  know  you  can't  give  me 
greater  pleasure  than  by  sending  for  me  whenever  you  want  me." 

Nevertheless,  as  he  drove  away,  he  hoped  that  no  very  speedy  sum- 
mons from  her  would  reach  him.  Such  advice  or  assistance  as  it  was  in  his 


NO  NEW  THING.  399 

power  to  give  her  would  be  more  easily  and  safely  conveyed  by  letter 
than  by  word  of  mouth,  he  thought ;  and  it  even  occurred  to  him  once 
or  twice  to  regret  that  he  had  not  effected  an  exchange  to  India  which 
had  been  upon  the  point  of  arrangement  when  the  news  of  Jack  Stanni- 
forth's  death  and  his  own  appointment  as  executor  had  caused  him  to 
abandon  the  project. 

On  the  platform  he  encountered  the  Bishop  of  Crayminster,  who  was 
on  his  way  to  hold  a  series  of  confirmations  in  neighbouring  towns,  and 
who  hurried  up  to  him  with  trembling  hands  outstretched. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Kenyon,  my  dear  friend,  this  is  a  sad  meeting  !  You 
have  been  with  our  poor  Margaret — poor  dear ! — poor  dear  !  How  little 
we  anticipated  this  a  year  ago  !  " 

The  Bishop  of  Crayminster  was  a  tall,  thin  old  gentleman,  with  a 
weak,  handsome  face,  blue  eyes,  and  white  hair.  He  spoke  habitually 
in  tremulous  lachrymose  accents,  addressed  all  men  as  "  my  dear  friend," 
was  greatly  beloved  by  the  clergy  of  his  diocese  and  commiserated  by 
their  wives,  who  asserted  that  Mrs.  Winnington  ruled  him  with  a  rod  of 
iron. 

"  I  should  like  much  to  have  a  few  minutes'  conversation  with  you," 
he  said,  casting  an  imploring  glance  at  his  chaplain,  who  discreetly  got 
into  a  carriage  lower  down  in  the  train,  leaving  Hugh  to  enter  the  empty 
compartment  which  had  been  reserved  for  the  Bishop. 

"  And  how  did  you  find  her  ?  "  asked  the  latter,  when  the  train  had 
hegun  to  move.  "  Sadly  altered,  I  fear :  terribly  shaken  and  bowed 
down?" 

"Well,  no,"  answered  Hugh,  "I  can't  say  that  she  struck  me  as 
being  exactly  that.  Of  course  she  feels  the  loneliness  of  her  position  a 
good  deal,  and  the — the  weight  of  her  wealth,  you  know." 

"Ah  yes,  dear  me,  yes  !  Riches  are  indeed  a  doubtful  blessing.  But 
Ave  must  not  repine.  Poverty  is  perhaps  a  more  severe  trial." 

"  Perhaps  it  is." 

"  In  some  ways — in  some  ways.  I  don't  know  what  she  will  do 
with  herself,  poor  child." 

"  She  spoke  of  entering  a  sisterhood,"  Hugh  remarked. 

The  Bishop  threw  up  his  white  hands  in  dismay.  "  A  sisterhood  ! 
Oh,  my  dear  friend,  I  trust  you  dissuaded  her  from  taking  so  serious  a 
step  as  that." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  she  contemplated  it  very  seriously.  In  time,  I 
dare  say,  she  will  learn  to  stand  alone ;  but  it  comes  a  little  hard  upon 
a  woman  just  at  first." 

"  It  does — it  does  indeed.  Her  mother  thinks — of  course  it  is  early 
days  yet  to  speak  of  anything  of  the  kind ;  but  mothers  will  look  for- 
ward— she  thinks  that  dear  Margaret  may  eventually  marry  again.  Per- 
haps we  ought  to  hope  that  it  may  be  so.  I  doubt  whether  our  dear 
Margaret's  shoulders  are  broad  enough  to  bear  the  cares  of  life  unaided." 

"  If  she  does  marry  again,  she  will  be  delivered  from  the  cares  of  a 


400  SO  NEW  THING. 

large  fortune,"  said  Hugh  bluntly.  "  Her  interest  in  Stanniforth's 
estate  terminates  with  her  death  or  re-marriage." 

"  Eh  1 — really  ?  I  don't  think  Mrs.  Winnington — I—  er — I  did  not 
understand  that.  Is  it  not  rather  an — unusual  arrangement  1  " 

11 1  believe  not  at  all." 

"  Ah,  well ;  I  am  very  ignorant  of  such  matters — very  ignorant. 
Can  this  be  Craybridge  already  ?  "Well,  my  dear  friend,  I  must  bid  you 
goodbye.  I  trust  we  shall  see  you  in  these  parts  again  before  long.  Dear 
Margaret,  I  know,  leans  very  much  upon  your  help  and  advice ;  and  I 
am  sure  you  will  advise  her  wisely." 

The  Bishop  had  taken  Hugh's  big  brown  hand,  and  was  patting  it 
paternally.  "We  must  trust  to  time  and  Providence,"  he  said,  "and 
not  try  overmuch  to  rule  the  destinies  of  others.  For  my  own  part,  I 
am  disposed  to  be  of  St.  Paul's  mind  with  regard  to  widows.  They  are 
happier  if  they  so  abide — happier  if  they  so  abide." 

And  with  that,  his  lordship  descended  slowly  to  the  platform,  and 
shuffled  away  on  his  chaplain's  arm. 


CHAPTER  II. 
MRS.  STANNIFORTH'S  NEIGHBOURS. 

THE  venerable  city  of  Crayminster  stands  in  a  vast  hollow.  From  the 
neighbouring  heights  its  gabled  roofs  may  be  seen  huddled  together  in  a 
compact  phalanx  round  the  cathedral  towers,  having  changed  little  in 
aspect  or  area  in  the  course  of  the  last  hundred  years  or  so,  and  having 
only  thrown  out  here  and  there  an  outpost  in  the  shape  of  a  detached 
suburban  villa.  The  slow-flowing  Cray  intersects  the  town  and  winds 
down  the  long  valley,  through  water-meadows  where  cattle  crop  the  rich 
grass,  and  over  which  light  mists  usually  hang  in  summer  and  cold  fogs 
in  winter.  The  valley  of  the  Cray  does  not  indeed  bear  a  high  character 
for  salubrity,  and  the  strangers  who  are  attracted  to  Crayminster  by  the 
fame  of  its  ancient  cathedral  seldom  carry  away  with  them  a  favourable 
impression  of  the  surrounding  district.  For  when,  having  duly  admired 
the  Lady-chapel,  descended  into  the  crypt,  and  climbed  the  tower,  they 
escape  from  the  hands  of  the  verger  into  those  of  the  flyman,  the  latter, 
whose  generic  instinct  leads  him  to  shirk  up-hill  work,  commonly  suggests 
to  them  a  nice  drive  along  one  of  the  excellent  turnpike  roads  which 
leave  the  town  either  by  the  eastern  or  western  gate,  and  pass  through 
mile  after  mile  of  flat,  fertile,  and  monotonous  country,  where  sleepy 
silence  reigns,  where  there  are  but  few  habitations,  and  those  of  an  un  • 
pretending  and  eminently  unpicturesque  order. 

But  if,  instead  of  following  these  rather  dreary  thoroughfares,  they 
were  to  strike  off  due  north  or  due  south,  they  would  find  themselves 


NO   NEW  THING.  401 

almost  immediately  in  a  higher,  healthier  region — a  region  of  low,  rolling 
hills  and  leafy  coverts,  a  region  of  hop-gardens  and  waving  cornfields  and 
frequent  hamlets,  diversified  by  glimpses  of  park  lands  and  old  timber — 
for  properties  do  not  run  to  any  great  size  hereabouts,  and  the  squirearchy 
rules  in  force— a  region  rich  in  pleasant  mansions  and  substantial,  pros- 
perous-looking farmhouses. 

Near  the  high-road,  some  two  miles  beyond  Longbourne,  is  a  long, 
low  edifice,  which  can  hardly  be  said  to  come  under  either  of  the  above' 
denominations.  The  paddocks  which  surround  it  could  not,  by  any 
stretch  of  courtesy,  be  made  to  duty  for  a  park  j  adjoining  it  are  barns  and 
ricks  and  a  large  strawy ard,  while  the  sunny  slope  of  the  hill  behind  it  is 
occupied  by  a  well-filled  orchard  in  the  place  of  terraces  and  shrubberies. 
These  and  other  indications  sufficiently  show  its  tenant  to  be  a  farmer ; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  the  house  itself  has  an  air  of  comfort  and  refine- 
ment somewhat  above  the  aspirations  of  an  ordinary  yeoman.  This 
house,  known  as  Broom  Leas  Court,  had  at  the  time  with  which  we  are 
concerned  been  for  a  good  many  years  owned  by  Mr.  Neville  Brune,  and 
inhabited  by  him  and  his  numerous  family.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
give  an  accurate  description  of  it.  It  had  been  constructed  bit  by  bit  as 
occasion  had  seemed  to  require,  and  as  funds  to  pay  the  builder  had  been 
forthcoming,  and  was  a  complete  architectitral  jumble.  Here  was  a 
fragment  of  the  original  structure,  with  gables,  overhanging  upper  story, 
latticed  casements  and  black  beams  upon  plaster  of  a  yellowish-white 
tinge ;  there  a  modern  bay,  with  French  windows  opening  upon  the 
lawn ;  every  kind  of  building  material  seemed  to  have  been  employed, 
brick  in  one  place,  stone  in  another,  stucco  in  a  third ;  over  all  was  a 
mantle  of  ivy,  of  swaying  Virginia-creeper  and  clematis. 

A  great  deal  of  money  had  been  spent,  first  and  last,  upon  the  creation 
of  this  queer  domicile,  for  Neville  Brune  had  the  family  incapacity  for 
doing  anything  cheaply,  and  the  family  dislike  to  being  worried  by  small 
economical  details.  With  the  fortune  which  he  had  inherited  from  his 
father — a  very  respectable  one  for  a  younger  son — he  had  purchased  and 
stocked  the  Broom  Leas  farm ;  there  he  had  dwelt  ever  since,  and  there, 
to  all  appearance,  he  was  now  likely  to  end  his  days. 

A  gentleman  who  adopts  farming  as  a  trade  is,  by  common  consent, 
only  a  step  removed  from  the  proverbial  fool  who  chooses  to  be  his  own 
lawyer ;  and  Neville  Brune's  friends  and  neighbours,  who  were  acquainted 
with  his  hereditary  failings,  smiled  and  shook  their  heads  when  they 
heard  after  what  fashion  he  proposed  to  make  his  living.  A  considerable 
time,  however,  elapsed,  during  which  he  lived,  not  extravagantly,  yet 
with  a  certain  careless  profusion  of  expenditure,  and  if  he  did  not  make 
his  fortune,  neither  did  he  figure  in  the  Gazette.  Then  he  married  Miss 
Boulger,  the  daughter  of  a  rich  banker,  and  began  those  building  opera- 
tions which  were  long  the  delight  of  his  life,  and  which  were  renewed 
intermittently,  year  after  year,  to  meet  the  requirements  of  a  rapidly 
increasing  family.  It  was  rumoured  that  Mr.  Brune  was  getting  into 


402  NO  NEW  THING. 

difficulties,  when  his  elder  brother  and  his  father-in-law  died  suddenly 
within  a  few  days  of  one  another.  Either  of  these  events  might  have 
been  expected  to  convert  him  into  a  much  richer  man,  but  it  so  happened 
that  neither  of  them  did  produce  that  desirable  effect,  for  the  old  banker 
bequeathed  to  his  daughter  a  thousand  pounds,  her  mother's  jewels,  and 
nothing  more ;  and  Mr.  Brune  the  elder,  who  had  been  a  very  eccentric 
and  expensive  personage,  living  much  in  foreign  countries,  and  squander- 
ing money  through  every  channel  whereby  money  can  be  squandered, 
left  his  affairs  in  such  inextricable  confusion,  and  his  estate  so  heavily 
encumbered,  that  Longbourne  seemed  likely  to  prove  a  white  elephant  to 
the  heir.  It  was  always  Neville  Brune's  way  to  make  up  his  mind 
quickly,  after  holding  counsel  with  himself  and  with  nobody  else.  He 
saw  clearly  that  neither  he  nor  his  son  would  ever  be  able  to  live  at 
Longbourne.  To  let  it  would  be  a  mere  protracting  of  misery  and  putting 
off  of  the  evil  day ;  moreover,  he  wanted  ready  money  badly.  He  there- 
fore determined  to  offer  the  place  for  sale,  and  it  was  immediately  snapped 
up  by  Mr.  Stanniforth. 

No  sooner  had  this  decisive  act  been  accomplished  than  there  arose 
up  to  heaven  such  a  weeping  and  wailing  from  the  numerous  collateral 
Brunes,  to  whom  Longbourne  had  ever  been  as  the  Palladium  to  the 
Trojans,  that  the  luckless  head  of  the  family  was  like  to  have  been 
deafened  by  the  din  of  it.  Uncle  John  and  Uncle  James,  Aunt  Harriet 
and  Aunt  Elizabeth,  not  to  mention  a  host  of  cousins  far  and  near,  all 
wrote  to  say  that  they  could  find  no  words  adequate  to  express  their 
horror  of  the  sacrilege  which  had  been  committed.  Sooner  would  they 
have  starved,  sooner  would  they  have  united  their  own  small  means  and 
purchased  the  estate  between  them,  than  that  it  should  have  passed  into 
the  hands  of  a  stranger.  And,  great  as  had  been  the  wrath  of  these 
worthy  people  at  the  outset,  it  was  naturally  increased  tenfold  when  that 
windfall  of  the  Crayminster  and  Craybridge  railway  went  to  swell  the 
already  overflowing  money  bags  of  the  infamous  Stanniforth.  Then  it 
was  that  the  insane — the  indecent  precipitancy  of  Neville's  conduct  cried 
aloud  for  denunciation.  Then  it  was  that  Aunt  Elizabeth,  in  an  eloquent 
and  breathless  letter,  drew  a  parallel  between  her  nephew  and  Esau,  and 
predicted  that  his  ill-gotten  gains  would  prosper  no  better  than  those  of 
Ananias.  Nor,  unhappily,  was  it  only  by  reproaches  from  without  that 
the  delinquent  was  made  to  feel  the  heinousness  of  his  guilt.  Mrs. 
Brune,  who  had  once  been  pretty  and  fond  of  society,  who  had  always 
detested  a  rural  life,  and  had  consoled  herself  through  long  years  of 
monotony  with  an  undefined  expectation  of  one  day  escaping  from  it, 
considered  that  she  had  a  strong  case  against  destiny.  Being  blessed 
with  high  principles  and  a  fine  sense  of  duty,  she  could  not  breathe  a 
word  reflecting  upon  the  memory  of  her  father,  and  for  the  same  unex- 
ceptionable reasons  she  refrained  from  bringing  railing  accusations  against 
her  husband ;  but  neither  principle  nor  duty  forbade  her  to  sigh  over  the 
loss  of  Longbourne,  and  accordingly  her  life  became,  so  to  *penk,  one 


NO  NEW  THING.  403 

protracted  sigh.  She  had  long  wanted  a  grievance,  and  now  that  she 
had  got  one,  she  did  not  stint  herself  in  the  indulgence  of  it.  Never  a 
day  passed  without  some  reference  being  made  by  her  to  the  fallen 
fortunes  of  the  Brunes.  Her  children  were  taught  to  regard  themselves 
as  despoiled  and  the  Stanniforths  as  their  despoilers ;  and  her  husband, 
who  would  fain  have  allowed  the  whole  matter  to  pass  into  the  category 
of  those  misfortunes  which,  being  irreparable,  are  best  not  talked  about, 
was  soon  driven  to  recognise  the  impracticability  of  such  a  course.  Mrs. 
Brune  was  a  weak,  plaintive,  and  disappointed  woman,  much  given  to 
religious  exercises  and  to  breakfasting  in  bed.  Her  health  was  bad,  and 
so  perhaps  was  her  temper;  but  as  the  latter  defect  did  not  manifest 
itself  in  any  of  the  recognised  fashions,  she  passed  pretty  generally  for  a 
martyr,  and  was  as  much  commiserated  as  she  was  respected  by  the  entire 
parish. 

From  all  this  it  will  be  seen  that  the  world  had  not  gone  altogether 
well  with  Neville  Brune,  but  he  was  not  one  of  those  who  cry  out  when 
they  are  hurt,  nor  had  any  one  ever  heard  him  complain  of  his  luck. 
Acquaintance  with  disappointment  had  not  soured  his  strong  and  sweet 
nature,  but  had  bred  in  him  a  disposition  to  make  the  best  of  things,  an 
increased  enjoyment  of  the  woods  and  fields,  and  a  kindly  humour  which 
was  not  always  understood  by  those  of  his  own  household.  It  had  not 
been  without  a  sharp  struggle  that  he  had  brought  himself  to  part  with 
the  old  home  where  he  had  been  born,  and  where  the  happiest  years  of 
his  life  had  been  spent ;  but  of  this  he  had  said  nothing.  Only — unlike  Mrs. 
Brune,  who,  through  the  long  period  during  which  Longbourne  had  re- 
mained untenanted,  had  loved  to  wander  among  its  silent  paths  and  gardens 
like  a  Peri  at  the  gates  of  Paradise — he  had  never  once  set  foot  upon  the 
property  since  it  had  ceased  to  be  his.  At  the  time  when  this  story  opens 
he  was  a  small,  spare,  wiry  man  of  forty  or  thereabouts,  dark  com- 
plexioned  and  a  trifle  stern  of  aspect,  as  his  father  had  been  before  him, 
but  by  no  means  stern  of  character.  He  had  a  trick  of  looking  straight 
into  the  face  of  any  person  whom  he  might  be  addressing,  which  some- 
times gave  offence,  and  which  was  certainly  rather  embarrassing,  for  his 
grey  eyes  were  as  keen  as  a  hawk's ;  but,  in  truth,  he  meant  no  offence 
by  this  practice.  At  people  whom  he  disliked — there  were  not  many 
such — he  avoided  looking  at  all. 

One  day,  shortly  after  that  on  which  Hugh  Kenyon  had  paid  his  first 
visit  to  Longbourne,  Mr.  Brune  came  in  late  for  luncheon.  This  was  a 
most  unusual  event,  for  at  Broom  Leas  punctuality  was  a  duty  rigidly 
inculcated  and  practised,  and  a  number  of  small  heads  were  turned  in- 
quisitively towards  the  master  of  the  house  as  he  took  his  seat  at  the  end 
of  the  long  table. 

"  I  will  give  you  all  three  shots  apiece,"  he  said,  "  and  bet  you  a  big 
apple  that  you  don't  guess  where  I  have  been  this  morning." 

"  Oh,  Neville,"  murmured  Mrs.  Brune  plaintively,  "  do  let  the  child- 
ren eat  their  dinner." 


404  NO  NEW  THING. 

"  My  dear,  I  feel  sure  that  you  need  be  under  no  apprehension  of 
their  failing  to  do  that.  But  suspense  is  bad  for  digestion,  I  dare  say. 
Will  you  make  a  guess  yourself?" 

"  I  am  not  curious,"  said  Mrs.  Brune  languidly. 

"  Still,  you  are  susceptible  of  astonishment,  and  I  am  confident  that 
I  shall  astonish  you  when  I  say  that  I  have  been  at  Longbourne." 

A  slightly  incredulous  murmur  ran  round  the  table,  starting  with 
Walter  the  eldest  boy,  who  was  at  home  for  the  holidays,  and  ending 
with  Geoffrey,  a  young  gentleman  in  his  third  year,  who  cried  "  Oh,  oh  ! " 
from  a  precocious  tendency  to  shout  with  the  majority.  Mrs.  Brune 
straightened  herself  in  her  armchair,  and  gathered  her  shawl  about  her 
with  a  quick  nervous  movement. 

"  Has  that  woman  gone  away,  then1?"  she  asked. 

"  On  the  contrary,  that  woman  is  making  up  her  mind  to  settle  down 
at  Longbourne,  and  it  was  she  who  took  me  up  to  the  house." 

"  Upon  what  pretence  ?" 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  said  that  she  took  me.  I  walked  up  with  her 
of  my  own  accord,  and  a  very  pleasant  walk  it  was.  To  avoid  future 
unpleasantness,  Ellinor,  I  may  as  well  confess  at  once  that  I  have  fallen 
in  love  with  that  woman." 

Mrs.  Brune  laughed  a  little,  in  a  forced,  perfunctory  way.  She 
had  a  notion  that  her  husband  often  intended  to  be  funny,  and  that, 
though  he  failed  to  amuse  her,  it  was  her  duty  to  make  some  polite 
acknowledgment  of  his  efforts. 

"  I  met  her,"  Mr.  Brune  went  on,  "  at  the  church  door.  I  wanted  to 
see  Langley  this  morning  about  some  parish  matters,  and  feeling  pretty 
sure  that  he  would  be  reading  complines  or  nones,  or  whatever  it  is " 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  matins?" 

"  I  suppose  I  do.  Feeling  sure  that  something  of  the  kind  would  be 
going  on,  I  went  down  to  the  church,  and  there,  sure  enough,  I  heard 
his  voice  murmuring  melodiously  within.  So  I  sat  in  the  porch  till  he 
came  out  in  his  cassock  and  biretta,  accompanied  by  a  tall  lady  in  widow's 
weeds,  who  had  one  of  the  most  interesting  faces  I  have  ever  seen  in  my 
life.  I  stated  my  business  while  she  stood  reading  the  inscriptions  on 
the  tombstones,  and  then,  as  Langley  didn't  introduce  me,  I  made  bold 
to  introduce  myself." 

"Really,  Neville!"  cried  Mrs.  Brune  in  a  tone  of  great  vexation, 
"  you  are  like  nobody  else  in  the  world.  How  extraordinary  she  must 
have  thought  it  of  you  ! " 

"  Perhaps  she  did ;  but,  if  so,  she  was  well-bred  enough  to  disguise 
her  feelings  and  to  behave  as  though  it  gave  her  pleasure  to  meet  me. 
We  walked  away  together  quite  amicably,  and  were  fast  friends  in  less 
than  ten  minutes." 

"  But  what  induced  you  to  go  up  to  the  house  with  her  ?" 

"  The  pleasure  of  talking  to  her,  I  suppose.  I  daresay  you  would 
have  been  equally  weak  in  my  place." 


NO  NEW  THING.  405 

"  I  should  certainly  not  have  entered  Longbourne  as  the  guest  of  that 
woman.  I  shall  always  feel  that  Longbourne  no  more  belongs  to  the 
Stanniforths  than — than  Lorraine  does  to  the  Germans." 

"  You  will  be  interested  in  hearing  that  that  is  precisely  her  own 
view  of  the  case.  She  told  me  so,  blushing  and  looking  as  much  ashamed 
of  herself  as  if  she  had  picked  my  pocket.  Really,  Ellinor,  she  has  strong 
claims  of  various  kinds  upon  your  sympathy." 

Mrs.  Brune  shook  her  head  decisively.  "  I  could  never  feel  sympathy 
with  any  one  bearing  the  name  of  Stanniforth,"  she  declared. 

"  Why  not  1  Here  is  a  woman  who  not  only  attends  matins  and 
sends  down  a  cartload  of  flowers  to  decorate  the  altar,  but  confesses  her  sins 
with  every  appearance  of  sincere  remorse.  Are  we  to  be  so  inconsistent 
to  all  Christian  principles  as  to  refuse  her  forgiveness  ?  Her  sin,  if  you 
come  to  think  of  it,  is  not  an  unpardonable  one ;  it  only  consists  in  her 
being  the  daughter-in-law  of  a  man  who  once  bought  some  property  of 
mine  and  paid  me  my  own  price  for  it.  Seriously,  Ellinor,  I  want  you 
to  be  kind  to  this  poor  Mrs.  Stanniforth.  It  made  my  heart  ache  to 
think  of  her  living  all  alone  in  that  great  barrack,  and  trying  to  put  a 
good  face  upon  it  too.  It  would  be  a  real  act  of  charity  if  you  would 
call  upon  her.  And,  in  point  of  fact,  I  have  promised  that  you  will  do  so." 

The  silence  that  followed  this  announcement  was  broken  by  a  small 
childish  voice,  which  asked — 

"  Papa,  does  Longbourne  belong  to  Mrs.  Stanniforth  ? " 

"  To  the  best  of  my  belief  it  does,  Nellie.  Anyhow  it  will  be  her 
home  for  the  rest  of  her  life,  most  likely." 

"  Then  /  won't  go  and  see  her,"  declared  the  young  lady  emphatically. 
And  Walter,  with  his  mouth  full  of  tart,  growled  out,  "  Hear,  hear, 
Nellie!" 

"  Upon  my  word  ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Brune,  "  you  are  a  pretty  set  of 
young  mutineers.  I  have  a  great  mind  to  order  the  whole  tribe  of  you 
up  to  Longbourne  this  very  afternoon.  After  this  I  suppose  I  must 
expect  nothing  less  than  a  flat  refusal  from  your  mother." 

"  Of  course,  Neville,"  said  Mrs.  Brune,  "  if  you  tell  me  to  leave  cards 
I  must  obey  you ;  but  I  do  think  it  will  look  very  odd.  You  never 
consider  what  people  will  say." 

"  Not  very  much,  I  confess." 

"  I  always  thought,"  Mrs.  Brune  continued,  "  that  you  did  not  wish 
me  to  visit  strangers.  During  all  these  years  that  the  Bishop  has  been 
at  Crayminster  we  have  never  called  upon  Mrs.  Winnington,  though 
everybody  else  in  the  county  has ;  and  to  thrust  ourselves  upon  their 
daughter  now — under  the  very  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  case  too — 
does  seem  to  me  unnecessary,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  As  to  my  being 
kind  to  her,  that  is  nonsense.  She  has  plenty  of  friends,  and  needs  no 
kindness  from  me.  Probably  she  thinks  she  would  do  me  a  kindness  in 
receiving  me." 

"  I  assure  you  she  is  not  a  born  idiot." 


406  NO  NEW  THING, 

"  I  don't  see  hotf  you  can  possibly  tell  what  she  may  be.  Besides  I 
must  say  I  should  hardly  have  expected  that  she  would  wish  for  visitors 
yet,  considering  that  her  husband  has  not  been  dead  a  year." 

"  My  dear  Ellinor,  I  am  not  asking  you  to  pay  a  formal  visit,  still 
less  to  leave  cards  at  the  door.  "What  I  wanted  you  to  do  was  to  go  in 
a  neighbourly  way,  and  try  to  be  of  some  comfort  to  a  fellow-creature, 
who  perhaps  has  not  so  many  friends  as  you  credit  her  with.  However, 
I  have  not  the  gift  of  persuasiveness,  and  I  see  I  had  better  leave  you  to 
Langley,  who  is  coming  up  to  dinner,  and  who  will  probably  use  his 
ghostly  authority  over  you  in  the  matter.  Come  along,  Miss  Nell." 

And  Mr.  Brune  rose  and  left  the  table,  Nellie,  a  sturdy  little  brown- 
haired  maiden,  toddling  after  him  with  the  important  air  which  beseemed 
her  father's  chosen  companion  and  the  only  girl  out  of  a  family  of  ten. 

Mr.  Brune  had  not  erred  in  attributing  to  Mr.  Langley  an  influence 
more  powerful  than  he  could  hope  to  exercise.  The  rector  of  Longbourne 
was  a  gentleman  who  took  himself  very  seriously,  and  who,  as  a  natural 
consequence,  was  accepted  at  his  own  valuation  by  the  majority  of  his 
flock.  The  female  portion  of  it,  in  particular,  looked  up  to  him  with  an 
unquestioning  faith  and  devotion  which  may  have  been  called  forth  in  part 
by  his  pale,  smooth-shaven  face,  his  stooping  figure  and  his  reputation  for 
asceticism,  but  which  was  doubtless  also  due  to  the  blameless  integrity 
of  his  life,  and  to  the  known  fact  that  he  spent  three-fourths  of  his  income 
upon  his  church  and  upon  the  poor.  When  he  mentioned  his  new 
parishioner  emphatically  as  one  whom  it  was  a  privilege  to  know,  Mrs. 
Brune  capitulated  without  a  protest,  murmuring  that  it  would  give  her 
great  pleasure  to  make  Mrs.  Stanniforth's  acquaintance.  Accordingly 
she  walked  over  to  Longbourne  the  following  day,  accompanied  by  the 
recalcitrant  Nellie,  and  confessed  on  her  return  that  she  had  found  her 
neighbour  a  very  quiet  and  ladylike  person.  "  A  little  cold  and  reserved 
in  manner  perhaps,  but  that  was  far  better  than  rushing  into  the  opposite 
extreme,  as  I  was  half  afraid  from  your  description  of  her,  Neville,  that 
she  would  do.  If  she  had  begun  about  the  question  of  her  title  to  be 
where  she  is,  I  hardly  know  how  I  could  have  answered  her  j  but  I  am 
glad  to  say  that  she  had  the  good  taste  not  to  refer  to  the  subject." 

It  was  in  this  somewhat  unpromising  fashion  that  the  foundation 
was  laid  of  an  intimacy  between  the  houses  of  Longbourne  and  Broom 
Leas  which  lasted  throughout  the  lives  of  their  respective  occupants. 
Mrs.  Brune  did  not,  it  is  true,  at  once  accord  her  friendship  to  the  new- 
comer :  she  tolerated  her ;  and  that,  according  to  her  lights,  was  of  itself 
no  small  concession.  But  of  the  children  Margaret  made  a  prompt  and 
facile  conquest.  It  was  agreed  among  these  young  people  that  the  re- 
sentment which  they  were  bound  to  harbour  against  the  whole  Stanni- 
forth  family  should  not  be  extended  to  this  alien,  who  was  not  by  birth 
one  of  the  proscribed  race,  and  whose  personal  amiability  took  forms  diffi- 
cult  to  resist.  They  soon  found  out  that  they  were  welcome  in  her  house 
at  all  hours  of  the  day,  and  needed  but  little  persuasion  to  convert  her 


NO  NEW  THING.  407 

gardens  into  a  playground.  She  let  them  come  and  go  as  they  pleased, 
sometimes  looking  on  at  their  games,  sometimes  taking  part  in  them,  and 
being  always  ready  to  act  as  arbitrator  and  referee  in  those  disputes 
which  sports  of  all  kinds  are  apt  to  engender,  be  the  players  young  or 
old.  And  then  no  one  could  tell  fairy-tales  with  so  leisurely,  serious, 
and  convincing  an  air  as  she  did.  One  day  "Walter  announced  gravely 
that  he  had  discovered  a  simple  solution  of  certain  family  difficulties. 

"  When  I  am  grown  up,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  marry  Mrs.  Stanniforth  ; 
and  then  we  will  all  live  at  Longbourne  together." 

"  That  is  such  an  admirable  plan,"  Mr.  Brune  remarked,  "  that  I 
cannot  think  how  your  mother  has  failed  to  hit  upon  it  before  this.  You 
have  obtained  the  lady's  consent,  I  presume  1  " 

"Oh,  that'll  be  all  right,"  Walter  replied  confidently.  "I  told  her 
about  it,  and  she  said  she  would  have  to  take  a  little  time  to  consider  of 
it.  She'll  have  a  good  ten  years,  you  see,  to  think  it  over  in ; — or,  per- 
haps, we  might  make  it  eight  years.  I  don't  want  to  marry  before  I 
leave  Oxford,  though." 

"Walter,"  said  Mrs.  Brune,  "you  ought  not  to  talk  nonsense  upon 
such  a  subject  as  that  to  Mrs.  Stanniforth ;  it  is  very  thoughtless  of  you. 
I  don't  know  where  you  children  get  your  want  of  consideration  for  the 
feelings  of  others  from.  I  am  sure  you  do  not  inherit  it  from  me." 

"  The  inference,"  remarked  Mr.  Brune,  "  is  unavoidable.  Still,  a 
capacity  for  better  things  will  crop  up  occasionally  even  in  the  worst  of 
us;  and  to  prove  it,  I  mean  to  go  up  to  Longbourne  this  afternoon  and 
meet  Mrs.  Winnington  at  five  o'clock  tea ;  and  I  shall  make  an  excuse 
for  you,  Ellinor.  I  need  not  point  out  to  you  what  that  implies ;  for 
you  know  how  I  love  five  o'clock  tea — not  to  speak  of  Mrs.  Winnington." 

The  truth  is  that  Mrs.  Winnington  had  not  contrived,  and  probably 
had  not  endeavoured,  to  make  herself  beloved  by  the  Brunes.  She  was 
a  person  of  the  fine-lady  type,  common  enough  twenty  years  or  so  ago, 
but  now  rapidly  becoming  extinct.  Of  a  commanding  presence,  and  with 
the  remains  of  considerable  beauty,  she  was  always  dressed  handsomely 
and  in  bright,  decided  colours ;  she  carried  a  gold-mounted  double  eye- 
glass, through  which  she  was  accustomed  to  survey  inferior  mortals  with 
amusing  impertinence ;  while,  in  speaking  to  them,  her  voice  assumed  a 
drawl  so  exaggerated  as  to  render  her  valuable  remarks  almost  unintelli- 
gible at  times.  These  little  graces  of  manner  had  doubtless  come  to  her 
from  a  study  of  the  best  models,  for  she  went  a  good  deal  into  the 
fashionable  world  at  that  time ;  but,  in  addition  to  these,  she  possessed 
a  complacent  density  and  an  unfeigned  self-confidence  which  were  all  her 
own,  and  which  would  probably  have  sufficed  at  any  epoch,  and  under  any 
circumstances,  to  render  her  at  once  as  disagreeable  and  as  contented  a 
woman  as  could  have  been  found  under  the  sun. 

Whether  because  she  resented  the  slight  put  upon  her  by  the  Brunes 
in  that  they  had  never  seen  fit  to  call  at  the  Palace,  or  because  she  had 
an  inkling  that  their  pride  surpassed  her  own  vain-glory,  she  made  up 


408  SO  NEW  THING. 

her  mind  to  snub  them ;  and  when  Mrs.  Winnington  made  up  her  mind 
to  any  course  of  action,  it  was  usually  carried  through  with  a  will.  The 
plainness  with  which  these  worthy  folks  were  given  to  xinderstand  that, 
in  her  opinion,  they  were  no  better  than  country  bumpkins,  and  the  mix- 
ture of  patronage  and  insolence  with  which  she  bore  herself  towards 
them,  were  in  their  way  inimitable.  There  are  some  people  magnanimous 
enough,  or  indifferent  enough,  to  smile  at  such  small  discourtesies ;  and 
probably  the  former  owner  of  Longbourne  was  more  amused  than  angry 
when  he  was  informed  that  the  house  had  been  a  positive  pig-stye  before  it 
had  been  put  in  order,  and  that  Mrs.  Winnington  really  could  not  imagine 
how  any  one  had  found  it  possible  to  live  in  such  a  place.  But  Mrs. 
Brune,  who  was  more  irritable,  trembled  with  suppressed  wrath  at  the 
contemptuous  allusions  which  were  frequently  made  in  her  presence  to 
"  bankers,  and  brewers,  and  people  of  that  class  " ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  not 
likely  that  friendly  relations  could  long  have  been  maintained  between 
Broom  Leas  and  Longbourne  if  Mrs.  Winnington  had  not,  fortunately, 
been  due  in  Scotland  early  in  September. 

What  Mrs.  Stanniforth  thought  of  the  cavalier  manner  in  which  her 
new  friends  had  been  treated  it  was  not  easy  to  say.  She  never  at- 
tempted to  check  or  soften  down  her  mother's  rude  speeches ;  for  she 
had  not  that  exasperating  quality  which  is  known  as  tact,  and  she  was 
probably  aware  that  by  no  amount  of  stirring  can  oil  and  vinegar  be 
made  to  mix.  Also  she  loved  her  mother — ("  The  Lord  knows  why !  " 
said  Mr.  Brune,  who  had  observed  this  phenomenon) ;  and  it  may  have 
been  that  she  was  a  little  blind  to  the  defects  of  that  unamiable  lady. 
However,  Mrs.  Winnington  departed  for  Scotland  to  pay  a  round 
of  visits  to  various  aristocratic  friends;  and  then  all  went  smoothly 
again. 

Mr.  Langley  was  much  pleased  by  the  amicable  spirit  in  which  the 
new  lady  of  the  manor  had  been  received  by  her  nearest  neighbours.  He 
had  been  interested  in  Margaret  as  a  doctor  is  interested  in  a  difficult 
case ;  he  had  perceived  that  company  and  occupation  were  the  medicines 
of  which  she  stood  chiefly  in  need,  and  he  had  at  first  hardly  seen  how 
or  whence  these  two  alteratives  were  to  be  obtained.  But  the  com- 
panionship of  the  Brune  children  had  seemed  in  a  great  measure  to  sup- 
ply the  first  want,  and  he  had  himself  been  able  to  satisfy  the  second  by 
an  ample  provision  of  parish  work,  so  soon  as  he  had  found  that  the 
patient  had  aptitudes  that  way.  He  thought  she  was  doing  very  nicely 
now,  and  would  soon  be  convalescent. 

In  truth,  however,  she  was  not  doing  so  well,  either  in  mind  or  in 
body,  as  Mr.  Langley  and  others  supposed.  When  she  was  alone — and 
she  was  a  great  deal  alone — she  was  listless  and  miserable ;  she  slept 
badly  and  had  little  appetite ;  and  no  sooner  had  the  autumn  set  in  with 
chilly  winds  and  rain  than  she  caught  a  cold,  which  settled  on  her  chest 
and  kept  her  in  bed  for  a  week. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Hugh  Kenyon,  who,  throughout  the 


NO  NEW  THING.  409 

summer,  had  been  inventing  one  excuse  after  another  to  defer  his  second 
visit  to  Longbourne,  reappeared  upon  the  scene,  and  was  frightened  out 
of  his  wits  by  the  change  in  Margaret's  aspect.  He  found  her  lying 
upon  the  sofa,  looking  flushed  and  feverish,  and  coughing  at  every  other 
word,  and  was  horrified  to  hear  that  she  had  not  yet  thought  it  necessary 
to  call  in  a  doctor.  Shortly  afterwards  it  was  known  in  Crayrninster 
and  the  vicinity  that  Mrs.  Stanniforth  had  been  ordered  to  the  Riviera 
for  the  winter,  and  would  start  immediately.  Hugh  had  remembered 
that  the  Winningtons  were  a  consumptive  family,  and  had  been  seized 
with  a  panic  which  had  found  relief  in  prompt  action.  By  mere  force 
of  will,  and  in  spite  of  Margaret's  protestations,  he  carried  her  off  to 
London,  and  took  her  to  see  an  eminent  specialist,  by  whom  his  fears 
were  to  some  extent  confirmed.  Then  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Winnington  to 
come  back  from  Scotland  instantly  ;  and,  without  waiting  for  an  answer, 
telegraphed  to  Nice  to  secure  suitable  rooms.  Mrs.  Winnington  arrived 
from  the  Highlands  in  no  very  good  humour,  and  informed  Hugh  in  so 
many  words  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  over-officious  friendship ;  but 
when  she  heard  the  doctor's  report,  she  said  no  more,  but  packed  up  her 
trunks,  and  prepared  to  accompany  her  daughter  once  more  to  the 
continent.  Hugh  took  first  leave,  and  travelled  with  the  ladies  to  their 
destination. 

"After  all,"  said  Mrs.  Brune,  with  unwonted  charity,  "there  must  be 
some  good  in  that  horrid  vulgar  woman.  I  shoxild  have  imagined  her 
utterly  heartless  and  devoid  of  all  maternal  affection ;  but  I  suppose  I 
must  have  judged  her  too  harshly." 

"We  are  all  of  us  too  prone  to  judge  our  neighbours  harshly,"  her 
husband  remarked  ;  "  but  I  don't  think  that,  in  my  moments  of  bitterest 
injustice  towards  Mrs.  Winnington,  I  should  ever  have  suspected  her  of 
being  the  sort  of  old  woman  to  kill  the  goose  that  lays  the  golden  eggs." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Neville,"  said  Mrs.  Brune.  "Mrs. 
Winnington  is  not  an  old  woman,  and " 

"  And  Mrs.  Stanniforth  is  not  a  goose  1  Well,  I  don't  know.  If 
ever  you  find  me  deliberately  spending  a  winter  in  the  south  in  such 
company  as  she  has  chos~n,  I  will  give  you  leave  to  call  me  a  goose,  at 
all  events." 


VOL.  XLV.— NO.  268.  20. 


(EaJIt 


Sir,  we  had  a  good  talk. — JOHNSON. 

As  \ve  must  account  for  every  idle  word,  so  we  must  for   every  idle  silence. — 
FKANKLIN. 

THERE  can  be  no  fairer  ambition  than  to  excel  in  talk ;  to  be  affable, 
gay,  ready,  clear,  and  welcome ;  to  have  a  fact,  a  thought,  or  an  illus- 
tration, pat  to  every  subject ;  and  not  only  to  cheer  the  flight  of  time 
among  our  intimates,  but  bear  our  part  in  that  great  international  con- 
gress, always  sitting,  where  public  wrongs  are  first  declared,  public  errors 
first  corrected,  and  the  course  of  public  opinion  shaped,  day  by  day,  a 
little  nearer  to  the  right.  No  measure  comes  before  Parliament  but  it 
has  been  long  ago  prepared  by  the  grand  jury  of  the  talkers ;  no  book  is 
written  that  has  not  been  largely  composed  by  their  assistance.  Litera- 
ture in  many  of  its  branches  is  no  other  than  the  shadow  of  good  talk ; 
but  the  imitation  falls  far  short  of  the  original  in  life,  freedom,  and 
effect.  There  are  always  two  to  a  talk,  giving  and  taking,  comparing 
experience  and  according  conclusions.  Talk  is  fluid,  tentative,  continu- 
ally "in  further  search  and  progress;"  while  written  words  remain  fixed, 
become  idols  even  to  the  writer,  found  wooden  dogmatisms,  and  preserve 
flies  of  obvious  error  in  the  amber  of  the  truth.  Last  and  chief,  while 
literature,  gagged  with  linsey-woolsey,  can  only  deal  with  a  fraction  of 
the  life  of  man,  talk  goes  fancy  free  and  calls  a  spade  a  spade.  Talk  has 
none  of  the  freezing  immunities  of  the  pulpit.  It  cannot,  even  if  it 
would,  become  merely  {esthetic  or  merely  classical  like  literature.  A 
jest  intervenes,  the  solemn  humbug  is  dissolved  in  laughter,  and  speech 
runs  forth  out  of  the  contemporary  groove  into  the  open  fields  of  nature, 
cheery  and  cheering,  like  schoolboys  out  of  school.  And  it  is  in  talk 
alone  that  we  can  learn  our  period  and  ourselves.  In  short,  the  first 
duty  of  a  man  is  to  speak  ;  that  is  his  chief  business  in  this  world ;  and 
talk,  which  is  the  harmonious  speech  of  two  or  more,  is  by  far  the  most 
accessible  of  pleasures.  It  costs  nothing  in  money ;  it  is  all  profit ;  it 
completes  our  education,  founds  and  fosters  our  friendships,  and  can  be 
enjoyed  at  any  age  and  in  almost  any  state  of  health. 

One  of  the  greatest  pleasures  to  a  youth  is  his  first  success  in  con- 
versation ;  the  first  time  that  he  falls  among  congenial  people,  that  the 
talk  runs  on  some  point  of  common  interest,  that  words  come  to  him 
full  of  authority  and  point,  and  that  he  is  heard  in  silence  and  answered 
with  approval.  Next,  after  he  has  found  that  he  can  talk  himself,  he 
goes  on  to  meet  others  who  can  talk  as  well  or  better  than  he,  finishing 


TALK  AND   TALKERS.  411 

his  thoughts,  uttering  the  tilings  he  had  forgotten,  using  his  own  lan- 
guage, or  one  yet  more  apt  and  copious,  but  still  native  to  his  under- 
standing. The  first  discovery  is  the  more  striking,  but  the  second  is 
the  more  cheerful.  Then  is  the  date  of  his  first  conversation  worth  the 
name,  when  he  shall  measure  himself  against  his  match,  Greek  meeting 
Greek,  and  in  the  discovery  of  another  soul,  glow  into  the  knowledge  of 
his  own.  The  spice  of  life  is  battle ;  the  friendliest  relations  are  still 
a  kind  of  contest ;  and  if  we  would  not  forego  all  that  is  valuable  in 
our  lot,  we  must  continually  face  some  other  person,  eye  to  eye,  and 
wrestle  a  fall  whether  in  love  or  enmity.  It  is  still  by  force  of  body, 
or  power  of  character  or  intellect,  that  we  attain  to  worthy  pleasures. 
Men  and  women  contend  for  each  other  in  the  lists  of  love,  like  rival 
mesmerists ;  the  active  and  adroit  decide  their  challenges  in  the  sports 
of  the  body ;  and  the  sedentary  sit  down  to  chess  or  conversation.  All 
sluggish  and  pacific  pleasures  are,  to  the  same  degree,  solitary  and 
selfish ;  and  every  durable  bond  between  human  beings  is  founded  in 
or  heightened  by  some  element  of  competition.  Now  the  relation  that 
has  the  least  root  in  matter  is  undoubtedly  that  airy  one  of  friendship ; 
and  hence,  T  suppose,  it  is  that  good  talk  most  commonly  arises  among 
friends.  Talk  is,  indeed,  both  the  scene  and  instrument  of  friendship. 
It  is  in  talk  alone  that  the  friends  can  measure  strength,  and  enjoy  that' 
amicable  counter- assertion  of  personality  which  is  the  gauge  of  relations 
and  the  sport  of  life. 

A  good  talk  is  not  to  be  had  for  the  asking.  Humours  must  first 
be  accorded  in  a  kind  of  overture  or  prologue ;  hour,  company,  and  cir- 
cumstance be  suited;  and  then,  at  a  fit  juncture,  the  subject,  the  quarry 
of  two  heated  minds,  spring  up  like  a  deer  out  of  the  wood.  Not 
that  the  talker  has  any  of  the  hunter's  pride,  though  he  has  all  and 
more  than  all  his  ardour.  The  talker  will  lose  his  fox  and  run  a  hare,} 
miss  the  hare  and  come  in,  at  the  end  of  his  day's  sport,  flushed  and ) 
happy  and  triumphant,  though  with  empty  hands.  There  are  some, 
indeed,  who  will  bait  the  same  subject  by  the  hour,  as  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  cry  treason  on  the  man  who  flags  or  wanders.  But  this 
is  not  the  stamp  of  the  true  talker.  These  talk  for  victory,  or  to  improve 
their  minds — a  purpose  that  defeats  itself.  The  genuine  artist  follows 
the  stream  of  conversation  as  an  angler  follows  the  windings  of  a  brook, 
not  dallying  where  he  fails  to  "  kill."  He  trusts  implicitly  to  hazard  ; 
and  he  is  rewarded  by  continual  variety,_cpntinual  pleasure,  and  jbhose 
changing^prospects^of_the  truth  that  are  the  best  of  education.  There 
is  nothing  in  a  subject,  so  called,  that  we  should  regard  it  as  an  idol,  or 
follow  it  beyond  the  promptings  of  desire.  Indeed,  there  are  few  sub- 
jects ;  and  so  far  as  they  are  truly  talkable,  more  than  the  half  of  them 
may  be  reduced  to  three  :  that  I  am  I,  that  you  are  you,  and  that  there 
are  other  people  dimly  understood  to  be  not  quite  the  same  as  either. 
Wherever  talk  may  range,  it  still  runs  half  the  time  on  these  eternal 
lines.  The  theme  being  set,  each  plays  on  himself  as  on  an  instrument ; 

20— 2 


412  TALK   AND   TALKERS. 

asscrbe  and  justifies  himself;  ransacks  his  brain  for  instances  and  opinions, 
and  brings  them  forth  new-minted,  to  his  own  surprise  and  the  admira- 
tion of  his  adversary.  All  natural  talk  is  a  festival  of  ostentation ; 
and  by  the  laws  of  the  game,  each  accepts  and  fans  the  vanity  of  the 
other.  It  is  from  that  reason  that  we  venture  to  lay  ourselves  so  open, 
that  we  dare  to  be  so  warmly  eloquent,  and  that  we  swell  in  each  other's 
eyes  to  such  a  vast  proportion.  For  talkers,  once  launched,  begin  to 
overflow  the  limits  of  their  ordinaiy  selves,  tower  up  to  the  height  of 
their  secret  pretensions,  and  give  themselves  out  for  the  heroes,  brave, 
pious,  musical,  and  wise,  that  in 'their  most  shining  moments  they  aspire 
to  be.  So  they  weave  for  themselves  with  words,  and  for  a  while  inhabit  a 
palace  of  delights,  temple  at  once  and  theatre,  where  they  fill  the  round  of 
the  world's  dignities,  and  feast  with  the  gods,  exulting  in  Kudos.  And 
when  the  talk  is  over,  each  goes  his  way,  still  flushed  at  once  with  vanity 
and  admiration,  still  trailing  clouds  of  glory ;  each  declines  from  the 
height  of  this  ideal  orgie,  not  in  a  moment,  but  by  slow  declension.  I 
remember,  in  the  entr'acte  of  an  afternoon  performance,  coming  forth 
into  the  sunshine,  in  a  beautiful  green,  gardened  corner  of  a  romantic 
city ;  and  as  I  sat  and  smoked,  the  music  moving  in  my  blood,  I  seemed 
to  sit  there  and  evaporate  the  Flying  Dutchman  (for  it  was  that  I  had 
been  hearing)  with  a  wonderful  sense  of  life,  warmth,  well-being,  and 
pride ;  and  the  noises  of  the  city,  voices,  bells,  and  marching  feet,  fell  to- 
gether in  my  ears  like  a  symphonious  orchestra.  In  the  same  way,  the 
excitement  of  a  good  talk  lives  for  a  long  while  after  in  the  blood,  the 
heart  still  hot  within  you,  the  brain  still  simmering,  and  the  physical 
earth  swimming  around  you  with  the  colours  of  the  sunset. 

Natural  talk,  like  ploughing,  should  turn  up  a  large  surface  of  life, 
rather  than  dig  mines  into  geological  strata.  Masses  of  experience, 
anecdote,  incident,  cross-lights,  quotation,  historical  instances,  the  whole 
flotsam  and  jetsam  of  two  minds  forced  in  and  in  upon  the  matter  in  hand 
from  every  point  of  the  compass  and  from  every  degree  of  mental  eleva- 
tion and  abasement — these  are  the  material  with  which  talk  is  fortified, 
the  food  on  which  the  talkers  thrive.  Such  argument  as  is  proper  to 
the  exercise  should  still  be  brief  and  seizing.  Talk  should  proceed  by 
instances;  by  the  apposite,  not  the  expository.  It  should  keep  close 
along  the  lines  of  humanity,  near  the  bosoms  and  businesses  of  men,  at 
the  level  where  history,  fiction,  and  experience  intersect  and  illuminate 
each  other.  Into  that  illusory  region  where  the  speakers  reign  supreme, 
mankind  must  be  evoked,  not  only  in  the  august  names  and  shadowy 
attributes  of  history,  but  in  the  life,  the  humour,  the  very  bodily  figure 
of  their  common  friends.  It  is  thus  that  they  begin  to  marshal  armies 
of  evidence  on  either  side  of  their  contention ;  and  as  they  sit  aloft  and 
reason  high,  the  whole  pageant  of  man's  life  passes  before  them  in  review. 
I  am  I,  and  You  are  You,  with  all  my  heart ;  but  conceive  how  these 
lean  propositions  change  and  brighten  when,  instead  of  words,  the  actual 
you  and  I  sit  cheek  by  jowl,  the  spirit  housed  in  the  live  body,  and  the 


TALK  AND  TALKERS.  413 

very  clothes  uttering  voices  to  corroborate  the  story  in  the  face.  Not 
less  surprising  is  the  change  when  we  leave  off  to  speak  of  generalities — 
the  bad,  the  good,  the  miser,  and  all  the  characters  of  Theophrastus — 
and  call  up  other  men,  by  anecdote  or  instance,  in  their  very  trick  and 
feature;  or  trading  on  a  common  knowledge,  toss  each  other  famous 
names,  still  glowing  with  the  hues  of  life.  Communication  is  no  longer 
by  words,  but  by  the  instancing  of  whole  biographies,  epics,  systems 
of  philosophy,  and  epochs  of  history,  in  bulk.  That  which  is  under- 
stood excels  that  which  is  spoken  in  quantity  and  quality  alike ;  ideas 
thus  figured  and  personified,  change  hands,  as  we  may  say,  like  coin ; 
and  the  speakers  imply  without  effort  the  most  obscure  and  intricate 
thoughts.  Strangers  who  have  a  large  common  ground  of  reading, 
will,  for  this  reason,  come  the  sooner  to  the  grapple  of  genuine  converse. 
If  they  know  Othello  and  Napoleon,  Consuelo  and  Clarissa  Harlowe, 
Yautrin  and  Steenie  Steenson,  they  can  leave  generalities  and  begin  at 
once  to  speak  by  figures. 

Conduct  and  art  are  the  two  subjects  that  arise  most  freqxiently  and 
that  embrace  the  widest  range  of  facts.  A  few  pleasures  bear  discussion 
for  their  own  sake  ;  but  only  those  which  are  most  social  or  most  radi- 
cally human ;  and  even  these  can  only  be  discussed  among  their  devotees. 
A  technicality  is  always  welcome  to  the  expert,  whether  in  athletics,  art, 
or  law  ;  I  have  heard  the  best  kind  of  talk  on  technicalities  from  such 
rare  and  happy  persons  as  both  know  and  love  their  business.  No  human 
being  ever  spoke  of  scenery  for  above  two  minutes  at  a  time,  which  makes 
me  suspect  we  hear  too  much  of  it  in  literature.  The  weather  is  re- 
garded as  the  very  nadir  and  scoff  of  conversational  topics.  And  yet  the 
weather,  the  dramatic  element  in  scenery,  is  far  more  tractable  in  lan- 
guage, and  far  more  human  both  in  import  and  suggestion  than  the 
stable  features  of  the  landscape ;  sailors  and  shepherds,  and  the  people 
generally  of  coast  and  mountain,  talk  well  of  it ;  it  is  often  excitingly 
presented  in  literature,  and  Mr.  Clark  Russell's  squalls  and  hurricanes  are 
things  to  be  remembered  during  life.  But  the  tendency  of  all  living  talk 
draws  it  back  and  back  into  the  common  focus  of  humanity ;  talk  is  a 
creature  of  the  street  and  market-place,  feeding  on  gossip;  and  its 
last  resort  is  still  in  a  discussion  on  morals.  That  is  the  heroic  form  of 
gossip ;  heroic,  in  virtue  of  its  high  pretensions ;  but  still  gossip,  because 
it  turns  on  personalities.  You  can  keep  no  men  long,  nor  Scotchmen  at 
all,  off  moral  or  theological  discussion.  These  are  to  all  the  world  what 
law  is  to  lawyers ;  they  are  everybody's  technicalities ;  the  medium 
through  which  all  consider  life,  and  the  dialect  in  which  they  express 
their  judgments.  I  knew  three  yoting  men  who  walked  together  daily 
for  some  two  months,  in  a  solemn  and  beautiful  forest  and  in  cloudless 
summer  weather;  daily  they  talked  with  unabated  zest,  and  yet  scarce 
wavered  that  whole  time  beyond  two  subjects  :  theology  and  love.  And 
perhaps  neither  a  court  of  love  nor  an  assembly  of  divines  would  have 
granted  their  premisses  or  welcomed  their  conclusions. 


414  TALK  AND  TALKERS. 

Conclusions,  indeed,  are  not  often  reached  by  talk  any  more  than  by 
private  thinking,  that  is  not  the  profit ;  the  profit  is  in  the  exercise,  and 
above  all  in  the  experience ;  for  when  we  reason  at  large  on  any  subject, 
we  review  our  state  and  history  in  life.  Here  we  may  apply  the  fable  of 
the  father  and  his  sons ;  there  is,  after  all,  no  hidden  treasure,  no  sound- 
ing discovery  is  made;  but  the  soil  is  laboured  and  oxygenated,  and 
yields  more  freely  of  its  natural  products.  From  time  to  time,  however, 
and  specially,  I  think,  in  talking  art,  talk  becomes  effective,  conquering 
like  war,  widening  the  boundaries  of  knowledge  like  an  exploration.  A 
point  arises ;  the  question  takes  a  problematical,  a  baffling,  yet  a  likely 
air ;  the  talkers  begin  to  feel  lively  presentiments  of  some  conclusion  near 
at  hand ;  towards  this  they  strive  with  emulous  ardour,  each  by  his  own 
path,  and  struggling  for  first  utterance;  and  then  one  leaps  upon  the 
summit  of  that  matter  with  a  shout,  and  almost  at  the  same  moment  the 
other  is  beside  him,  and  behold  they  are  agreed.  Like  enough,  the  pro- 
gress is  illusory,  a  mere  cat's  cradle  having  been  wound  and  unwound 
out  of  words.  But  the  sense  of  joint  discovery  is  none  the  less  giddy  and 
inspiriting.  And  in  the  life  of  the  talker  such  triumphs,  though  imagi- 
nary, are  neither  few  nor  far  apart ;  they  are  attained  with  speed  and 
pleasure,  in  the  hour  of  mirth ;  and  by  the  nature  of  the  process,  they 
are  always  worthily  shared. 

This  emulous,  bright,  progressive  talking,  the  pick  of  common  life, 
is  most  usually  enjoyed  in  a  duet.  Three,  in  spite  of  the  proverb,  is  often 
excellent  company,  but  the  talk  must  run  more  gently.  When  we  reach 
these  breathless  moments,  when  there  comes  a  difference  to  be  resolved, 
the  third  party  is  either  badgered  by  a  coalition,  or  the  two  others  ad- 
dress him  as  an  audience  and  strive  for-  victory ;  and  in  either  case,  the 
necessary  temper  and  sincerity  are  lost.  With  any  greater  number  than 
three,  fighting  talk  becomes  impossible ;  and  you  have  either  indolent, 
laughter-loving  divagation,  or  the  whole  company  breaks  up  into  a 
preacher  and  an  audience.  It  is  odd,  but  true,  that  T  have  never  known 
a  good  brisk  debate  between  persons  of  opposite  sex.  Between  these  it 
has  always  turned  into  that  very  different  matter,  a  dispute.  Instead  of 
pushing  forward  and  continually  changing  ground  in  quest  of  some  agree- 
ment, the  parties  have  instantly  fortified  their  starting-point,  and  held 
that,  as  for  a  wager,  against  all  odds  and  argument.  To  me,  as  a  man, 
the  cause  seems  to  reside  in  the  superior  obstinacy  of  woman  ;  but  there 
is  little  question  that  the  fault  is  shared  ;  for  the  prosperity  of  talk  lies 
not  in  one  or  other,  but  in  both.  There  is  a  certain  attitude,  combative 
at  once  and  deferential,  eager  to  fight  yet  most  averse  to  quarrel,  which 
marks  out  at  once  the  talkable  man.  It  is  not  eloquence,  not  fairness, 
not  obstinacy,  but  a  certain  proportion  of  all  of  these,  that  I  love  to  en- 
counter in  my  amicable  adversaries.  They  must  not  be  pontiffs  holding 
doctrine,  but  huntsmen  questing  after  elements  of  truth.  Neither  must 
they  be  boys  to  be  instructed,  but  fellow-teachers  with  whom  I  may 
wrangle  and  agree  on  equal  terms.  We  must  reach  some  solution,  some 


TALK  AND  TALKERS.  415 

shadow  of  consent ;  for  without  that,  eager  talk  becomes  a  torture ;  but 
we  do  not  wish  to  reach  it  cheaply,  or  quickly,  or  without  the  tussle  and 
effort  wherein  pleasure  lies. 

The  very  best  talker,  with  me,  is  one  whom  I  shall  call  Spring-Heel'd 
Jack.  I  say  so,  because  I  never  knew  anyone  who  mingled  so  largely 
the  possible  ingredients  of  converse.  In  the  Spanish  proverb,  the  fourth 
man  necessary  to  compound  a  salad,  is  a  madman  to  mix  it :  Jack  is  that 
madman.  I  know  not  which  is  more  remarkable ;  the  insane  lucidity  of 
his  conclusions,  the  humorous  eloquence  of  his  language,  or  his  power 
of  method,  bringing  the  whole  of  life  into  the  focus  of  the  subject  treated, 
mixing  the  conversational  salad  like  a  drunken  god.  He  doubles  like 
the  serpent,  changes  and  flashes  like  the  shaken  kaleidoscope,  transmi- 
grates bodily  into  the  views  of  others,  and  so,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
and  with  a  heady  rapture,  turns  questions  inside  out  and  flings  them 
empty  before  you  on  the  ground,  like  a  triumphant  conjuror.  It  is  my 
common  practice  when  a  piece  of  conduct  puzzles  me,  to  attack  it  in  the 
presence  of  Jack  with  such  grossness,  such  partiality  and  such  wearing 
iteration,  as  at  length  shall  spur  him  up  in  its  defence.  In  a  moment 
he  transmigrates,  dons  the  required  character,  and  with  moonstruck  phi- 
losophy, justifies  the  act  in  question.  I  can  fancy  nothing  to  compare 
with  the  vim  of  these  impersonations,  the  strange  scale  of  language,  flying 
from  Shakspeare  to  Kant,  and  from  Kant  to  Major  Dyngwell, 

As  fast  as  a  musician  scatters  sounds 
Out  of  an  instrument — 

the  sudden,  sweeping  generalisations,  the  absurd  irrelevant  particu- 
larities, the  wit,  wisdom,  folly,  humour,  eloqiience,  and  bathos,  each 
startling  in  its  kind,  and  yet  all  luminous  in  the  admired  disorder  of 
their  combination.  A  talker  of  a  different  calibre,  though  belonging 
to  the  same  school,  is  Burly.  Burly  is  a  man  of  a  great  presence;  he 
commands  a  larger  atmosphere,  gives  the  impression  of  a  grosser  mass 
of  character  than  most  men.  It  has  been  said  of  him  that  his  pre- 
sence could  be  felt  in  a  room  you  entered  blindfold ;  and  the  same,  I 
think,  has  been  said  of  other  powerful  constitutions  condemned  to  much 
physical  inaction.  There  is  something  boisterous  and  piratic  in  Burly's 
manner  of  talk  which  suits  well  enough  with  this  impression.  He 
will  roar  you  down,  he  will  bury  his  face  in  his  hands,  he  will  undergo 
passions  of  revolt  and  agony ;  and  meanwhile  his  attitude  of  mind  is 
really  both  conciliatory  and  receptive ;  and  after  Pistol  has  been  out- 
Pistol'd,  and  the  welkin  rung  for  hours,  you  begin  to  perceive  a  certain 
subsidence  in  these  spring  torrents,  points  of  agreement  issue,  and  you 
end  arm-in-arm,  and  in  a  glow  of  mutual  admiration.  The  outcry  only 
serves  to  make  your  final  union  the  more  unexpected  and  precious. 
Throughout  there  has  been  perfect  sincerity,  perfect  intelligence,  a  desire 
to  hear  although  not  always  to  listen,  and  an  unaffected  eagerness  to  meet 
concessions.  You  have,  with  Burly,  none  of  the  dangers  that  attend 


416  TALK  AND  TALKERS. 

debate  with  Spring- Heel'd  Jack;  who  may  at  any  moment  turn  his 
powers  of  transmigration  on  yourself,  create  for  you  a  view  you  never 
held,  and  then  furiously  fall  on  you  for  holding  it.  These,  at  least,  are 
my  two  favourites,  and  both  are  loud,  copious,  intolerant  talkers.  This 
argues  that  I  myself  am  in  the  same  category ;  for  if  we  love  talking  at 
all,  we  love  a  bright,  fierce  adversary,  who  will  hold  his  ground,  foot  by 
foot,  in  much  our  own  manner,  sell  his  attention  dearly,  and  give  us 
our  full  measure  of  the  dust  and  exertion  of  battle.  Both  these  men  can 
be  beat  from  a  position,  but  it  takes  six  hours  to  do  it ;  a  high  and  hard 
adventure,  worth  attempting.  With  both  you  can  pass  days  in  an  en- 
chanted country  of  the  mind,  with  people,  scenery,  and  manners  of  its 
own ;  live  a  life  apart,  more  arduous,  active,  and  glowing  than  any  real 
existence ;  and  come  forth  again  when  the  talk  is  over,  as  out  of  a  theatre 
or  a  dream,  to  find  the  east  wind  still  blowing  and  the  chimney-pots  of 
the  old  battered  city  still  around  you.  Jack  has  the  far  finer  mind, 
Burly  the  far  more  honest ;  Jack  gives  us  the  animated  poetry,  Burly 
the  romantic  prose,  of  similar  themes ;  the  one  glances  high  like  a  me- 
teor and  makes  a  light  in  darkness ;  the  other,  with  many  changing  hues 
of  fire,  burns  at  the  sea  level,  like  a  conflagration ;  but  both  have  the 
same  humour  and  artistic  interests,  the  same  unquenched  ardour  in  pur- 
suit, the  same  gusts  of  talk  and  thunderclaps  of  contradiction. 

Cockshot  is  a  different  article,  but  vastly  entertaining,  and  has  been 
meat  and  drink  to  me  for  many  a  long  evening.  His  manner  is  dry, 
brisk,  and  pertinacious,  and  the  choice  of  words  not  much.  The  point 
about  him  is  his  extraordinary  readiness  and  spirit.  You  can  propound 
nothing  but  he  has  either  a  theory  about  it  ready  made,  or  will  have  one 
instantly  on  the  stocks,  and  proceed  to  lay  its  timbers  and  launch  it  in 
your  presence.  "Let  me  see,"  he  will  say.  "Give  me  a  moment.  I 
should  have  some  theory  for  that."  A  blither  spectacle  than  the  vigour 
with  which  he  sets  about  the  task,  it  were  hard  to  fancy.  He  is  possessed 
by  a  demoniac  energy,  welding  the  elements  for  his  life,  and  bending 
ideas,  as  an  athlete  bends  a  horseshoe,  with  'a  visible  and  lively  effort. 
He  has,  in  theorising,  a  compass,  an  art ;  what  I  would  call  the  synthe- 
tic gusto  ;  something  of  a  Herbert  Spencer,  who  should  see  the  fun  of  the 
thing.  You  are  not  bound,  and  no  more  is  he,  to  place  your  faith  in 
these  brand-new  opinions.  But  some  of  them  are  right  enough,  durable 
even  for  life ;  and  the  poorest  scene  for  a  cock-shy — as  when  idle  people, 
after  picnics,  float  a  bottle  on  a  pond  and  have  an  hour's  diversion  ere  it 
sinks.  Whichever  they  are,  serious  opinions  or  humours  of  the  moment, 
he  still  defends  his  ventures  with  indefatigable  wit  and  spirit,  hitting 
savagely  himself,  but  taking  punishment  like  a  man.  He  knows  and 
never  forgets  that  people  talk,  first  of  all,  for  the  sake  of  talking ;  con- 
ducts himself  in  the  ring,  to  use  the  old  slang,  like  a  thorough  "  glutton," 
and  honestly  enjoys  a  telling  facer  from  his  adversary.  Cockshot  is 
bottled  effervescency,  the  sworn  foe  of  sleep.  Three-in-the-morning 
Cockshot,  says  a  victim.  His  talk  is  like  the  driest  of  all  imaginable 


TALK  AND  TALKERS.  417 

dry  champagnes.  Sleight  of  hand  and  inimitable  quickness  are  the 
qualities  by  which  he  lives.  Athelred,  on  the  other  hand,  presents  you 
with  the  spectacle  of  a  sincere  and  somewhat  slow  nature  thinking  aloud. 
He  is  the  most  unready  man  I  ever  knew  to  shine  in  conversation.  You 
may  see  him  sometimes  wrestle  with  a  refractory  jest  for  a  minute  or  two 
together,  and  perhaps  fail  to  throw  it  in  the  end.  And  there  is  something 
singularly  engaging,  often  instructive,  in  the  simplicity  with  which  he 
thus  exposes  the  process  as  well  as  the  result,  the  works  as  well  as  the 
dial  of  the  clock.  Withal  he  has  his  hours  of  inspiration.  Apt  words 
come  to  him  as  if  by  accident,  and,  coming  from  deeper  down,  they  smack 
the  more  personally,  they  have  the  more  of  fine  old  crusted  humanity, 
rich  in  sediment  and  humour.  There  are  sayings  of  his  in  which  he  has 
stamped  himself  into  the  very  grain  of  the  language ;  you  would  think 
he  must  have  worn  the  words  next  his  skin  and  slept  with  them.  Yet 
it  is  not  as  a  sayer  of  particular  good  things  that  Athelred  is  most  to  be 
regarded,  rather  as  the  stalwart  woodman  of  thought.  I  have  pulled  on 
a  light  cord  often  enough,  while  he  has  been  wielding  the  broad-axe ;  and 
between  us,  on  this  unequal  division,  many  a  specious  fallacy  has  fallen.  I 
have  known  him  to  battle  the  same  question  night  after  night  for  years, 
keeping  it  in  the  reign  of  talk,  constantly  applying  it  and  re-applying  it 
to  life  with  humorous  or  grave  intention,  and  all  the  while,  never  hur- 
rying, nor  flagging,  nor  taking  an  unfair  advantage  of  the  facts.  Jack 
at  a  given  moment,  when  arising,  as  it  were,  from  the  tripod,  can  be  more 
radiantly  just  to  those  from  whom  he  differs;  but  then  the  tenor  of  his 
thoughts  is  even  calumnious ;  while  Athelred,  slower  to  forge  excuses,  is 
yet  slower  to  condemn,  and  sits  over  the  welter  of  the  world,  vacillating 
but  still  judicial,  and  still  faithfully  contending  with  his  doubts. 

Both  the  last  talkers  deal  much  in  points  of  conduct  and  religion, 
studied  in  the  "  dry  light "  of  prose.  Indirectly  and  as  if  against  his 
will  the  same  qualities  from  time  to  time  appear  in  the  troubled  and 
poetic  talk  of  Opalstein.  His  various  and  exotic  knowledge,  complete 
although  unready  sympathies,  and  fine,  full,  discriminative  flow  of  lan- 
guage, fit  him  out  to  be  the  best  of  talkers ;  so  perhaps  he  is  with  some, 
not  quite  with  me — proxime  accessit,  I  should  say.  He  sings  the  praises 
of  the  earth  and  the  arts,  flowers  and  jewels,  wine  and  music,  in  a  moon- 
light, serenading  manner,  as  to  the  light  guitar;  even  wisdom  comes  from 
his  tongue  like  singing ;  no  one  is,  indeed,  more  tuneful  in  the  upper  notes. 
But  even  while  he  sings  the  song  of  the  Sirens,  he  still  hearkens  to  the 
barking  of  the  Sphinx.  Jarring  Byronic  notes  interrupt  the  flow  of  his 
Horatian  humours.  His  mirth  has  something  of  the  tragedy  of  the  world 
for  its  perpetual  background ;  and  he  feasts  like  Don  Giovanni  to  a  double 
orchestra,  one  lightly  sounding  for  the  dance,  one  pealing  Beethoven  in 
the  distance.  He  is  not  truly  reconciled  either  with  life  or  with  himself ; 
and  this  instant  war  in  his  members  sometimes  divides  the  man's  atten- 
tion. He  does  not  always,  perhaps  not  often,  frankly  surrender  himself 
in  conversation.  He  brings  into  the  talk  other  thoughts  than  those 


418  TALK  AND  TALKERS. 

which  he  expresses ;  you  are  conscious  that  he  keeps  an  eye  on  some- 
thing else,  that  he  does  not  shake  off  the  world,  nor  quite  forget  himself. 
Hence  arise  occasional  disappointments ;  even  an  occasional  unfairness 
for  his  companions,  who  find  themselves  one  day  giving  too  much,  and 
the  next,  when  they  are  wary  out  of  season,  giving  perhaps  too  little. 
Purcel  is  in  another  class  from  any  I  have  mentioned.  He  is  no  debater, 
but  appears  in  conversation,  as  occasion  rises,  in  two  distinct  characters, 
one  of  which  I  admire  and  fear,  and  the  other  love.  In  the  first,  he  is 
radiantly  civil  and  rather  silent,  sits  on  a  high,  courtly  hilltop,  and  from 
that  vantage  ground  drops  you  his  remarks  like  favours.  He  seems  not 
to  share  in  our  sublunary  contentions ;  he  wears  no  sign  of  interest ; 
when  on  a  sudden  there  falls  in  a  crystal  of  wit,  so  polished  that  the 
dull  do  not  perceive  it,  but  so  right  that  the  sensitive  are  silenced. 
True  talk  should  have  more  body  and  blood,  should  be  louder,  vainer 
and  more  declaratory  of  the  man ;  the  true  talker  should  not  hold  so 
steady  an  advantage  over  whom  he  speaks  with  ;  and  that  is  one  reason 
out  of  a  score,  why  I  prefer  my  Purcel  in  his  second  character,  when  he 
unbends  into  a  strain  of  graceful  gossip,  singing  like  the  fireside  kettle. 
In  these  moods,  he  has  an  elegant  homeliness  that  rings  of  the  true 
Queen  Anne.  I  know  another  person  who  attains,  in  his  moments,  to 
the  insolence  of  a  Restoration  comedy,  speaking,  I  declare,  as  Congreve 
•wrote ;  but  that  is  a  sport  of  nature,  and  scarce  falls  under  the  rubric, 
for  there  is  none,  alas  !  to  give  him  answer. 

One  last  remark  occurs  :  It  is  the  mark  of  genuine  conversation  that* 
the  sayings  can  scarce  be  quoted  with  their  full  effect  beyond  the  circle . 
of  common  friends.  To  have  their  proper  weight,  they  should  appear  ( 
in  a  biography  and  with  the  portrait  of  the  speaker.  Good  talk  is 
dramatic ;  it  is  like  an  impromptu  piece  of  acting  where  each  should 
represent  himself  to  the  greatest  advantage ;  and  that  is  the  best  kind 
of  talk  where  each  speaker  is  most  fully  and  candidly  himself,  and 
where,  if  you  were  to  shift  the  speeches  round  from  one  to  another,  there 
would  be  the  greatest  loss  in  significance  and  perspicuity.  It  is  for  this 
reason  that  talk  depends  so  wholly  on  our  company.  We  should  like 
to  introduce  Falstaff  and  Mercutio,  or  Falstaff  and  Sir  Toby ;  but 
Falstaff  in  talk  with  Cordelia  seems  even  painful.  Most  of  us,  by  the 
Protean  quality  of  man,  can  talk  to  some  degree  with  all ;  but  the  true 
talk,  that  strikes  out  all  the  slumbering  best  of  us,  comes  only  with 
the  peculiar  brethren  of  our  spirits,  is  founded  as  deep  as  love  in  the 
constitution  of  our  being,  and  is  a  thing  to  relish  with  all  our  energy, 
while  yet  we  have  it,  and  to  be  grateful  for  for  ever. 

E.  L.  S. 


419 


Cbcsfcrs, 


EVEEYBODY  knows,  of  course,  that  up  and  down  over  the  face  of  England 
a  whole  crop  of  places  may  be  found  with  such  terminations  as  Lancaster, 
Doncaster,  Manchester,  Leicester,  Gloucester,  or  Exeter  ;  and  everybody 
also  knows  that  these  words  are  various  corruptions  or  alterations  of  the 
Latin  castra,  or  perhaps  we  ought  rather  to  say  of  the  singular  form, 
castrum.  So  much  we  have  all  been  told  from  our  childhood  upward ; 
and  for  the  most  part  we  have  been  quite  ready  to  acquiesce  in  the  state- 
ment without  any  further  troublesome  inquiry  on  our  own  account.  But 
in  reality  the  explanation  thus  vouchsafed  us  does  not  help  us  much 
towards  explaining  the  real  origin  and  nature  of  these  ancient  names. 
It  is  true  enough  as  far  as  it  goes,  but  it  does  not  go  nearly  far  enough. 
It  reminds  one  a  little  of  Charles  Kingsley's  accomplished  pupil-teacher, 
with  his  glib  derivation  of  amphibious  "  from  two  Greek  words,  amphi, 
the  land,  and  bios,  the  water."  A  detailed  history  of  the  root  "Chester  " 
in  its  various  British  usages  may  serve  to  show  how  far  such  a  rough- 
and-ready  solution  as  the  pupil-teacher's  falls  short  of  complete  accuracy 
and  comprehensiveness. 

In  the  first  place,  without  troubling  ourselves  for  the  time  being  with 
the  diverse  forms  of  the  word  as  now  existing,  a  difficulty  meets  us  at  the 
very  outset  as  to  how  it  ever  got  into  the  English  language  at  all.  "  It 
was  left  behind  by  the  Romans,"  says  the  pupil-teacher  unhesitatingly. 
No  doubt ;  but  if  so,  the  only  language  in  which  it  could  be  left  would 
be  Welsh ;  for  when  the  Romans  quitted  Britain  there  were  probably 
as  yet  no  English  settlements  on  any  part  of  the  eastern  coast.  Now  the 
Welsh  form  of  the  word,  even  as  given  vis  in  the  veiy  ancient  Latin 
Welsh  tract  ascribed  to  Nennius,  is  "Caer"  or  "Kair;"  and  there  is 
every  reason  to  believe  that  the  Celtic  cathir  or  the  Latin  castrum  had  been 
already  worn  down  into  this  corrupt  form  at  least  as  early  as  the  day.s 
of  the  first  English  colonisation  of  Britain.  Indeed  I  shall  show  ground 
hereafter  for  believing  that  that  form  survives  even  now  in  one  or  two 
parts  of  Teutonic  England.  But  if  this  be  so,  it  is  quite  clear  that  the 
earliest  English  conquerors  could  not  have  acquired  the  use  of  the  word 
from  the  vanquished  Welsh  whom  they  spared  as  slaves  or  tributaries. 
The  new-comers  could  not  have  learned  to  speak  of  a  Ceaster  or  Chester 
from  Welshmen  who  called  it  a  Caer ;  nor  could  they  have  adopted  the 
names  of  Leicester  or  Gloucester  from  Welshmen  who  knew  those  towns 
only  as  Kair  Legion  or  Kair  Gloui.  It  is  clear  that  this  easy  off-hand 
theory  shirks  all  the  real  difficulties  of  the  question,  and  that  we  must 


420  CASTERS  AND  CHESTERS. 

look   a  little  closer   into  the  matter   in  order  to  understand  tlio  true 
history  of  these  interesting  philological  fossils. 

Already  we  have  got  one  clear  and  distinct  principle  to  begin  with, 
which  is  too  often  overlooked  by  amateur  philologists.  The  Latin  lan- 
guage, as  spoken  by  Romans  in  Britain  during  their  occupation  of  the 
island,  has  left  and  can  have  left  absolutely  no  direct  marks  upon  our 
English  tongue,  for  the  simple  reason  that  English  (or  Anglo-Saxon  as 
we  call  it  in  its  earlier  stages)  did  not  begin  to  be  spoken  in  any  part  of 
Britain  for  twenty  or  thirty  years  after  the  Romans  retired.  Whatever 
Latin  words  have  come  down  to  us  in  unbroken  succession  from  the 
Roman  times — and  they  are  but  a  few — must  have  come  down  from 
Welsh  sources.  The  Britons  may  have  learnt  them  from  their  Italian 
masters,  and  may  then  have  imparted  them,  after  the  brief  period  of 
precarious  independence,  to  their  Teutonic  masters ;  but  of  direct  inter- 
course between  Roman  and  Englishman  there  was  probably  little  or 
none. 

Three  ways  out  of  this  difficulty  might  possibly  be  suggested  by  any 
humble  imitator  of  Mr.  Gladstone.  First,  the  early  English  pirates  may 
have  learnt  the  word  castrum  (they  always  used  it  as  a  singular)  years 
before  they  ever  came  to  Britain  as  settlers  at  all.  For  during  the  long 
decay  of  the  empire,  the  corsairs  of  the  flat  banks  and  islets  of  Sleswick 
and  Friesland  made  many  a  light-hearted  plundering  expedition  upon 
the  unlucky  coasts  of  the  maritime  Roman  provinces ;  and  it  was  to  repel 
their  dreaded  attacks  that  the  Count  of  the  Saxon  Shore  was  appointed  to 
the  charge  of  the  long  exposed  tract  from  the  fenland  of  the  Wash  to  the 
estuary  of  the  Rother  in  Sussex.  On  one  occasion  they  even  sacked 
London  itself,  already  the  chief  trading  town  of  the  whole  island.  During 
some  such  excursions,  the  pirates  would  be  certain  to  pick  up  a  few  Latin 
words,  especially  such  as  related  to  new  objects,  unseen  in  the  rude 
society  of  their  own  native  heather-clad  wastes  ;  and  amongst  these  we 
maybe  sure  that  the  great  Roman  fortresses  would  rank  first  and  highest 
in  their  barbaric  eyes.  Indeed,  modern  comparative  philologists  have 
shown  beyond  doubt  that  a  few  southern  forms  of  speech  had  already 
penetrated  to  the  primitive  English  marshland  by  the  shores  of  the  Baltic 
and  the  mouth  of  the  Elbe,  before  the  great  exodus  of  the  fifth  century ; 
and  we  know  that  Roman  or  Byzantine  coins,  and  other  objects  belong- 
ing to  the  Mediterranean  civilisation,  are  found  abundantly  in  barrows 
of  the  first  Christian  centuries  in  Sleswick — the  primitive  England  of 
the  colonists  who  conquered  Britain.  But  if  the  word  castrum  did  not 
get  into  early  English  by  some  such  means,  then  we  must  fall  back  either 
upon  our  second  alternative  explanation,  that  the  townspeople  of  the 
south-eastern  plains  in  England  had  become  thoroughly  Latinised  in 
speech  during  the  Roman  occupation ;  or  upon  our  third,  that  they  spoke 
a  Celtic  dialect  more  akin  to  Gaulish  than  the  modern  Welsh  of  Wales, 
which  may  be  descended  from  the  ruder  and  older  tongue  of  the  western 
aborigines.  This  last  opinion  would  fit  in  very  well  with  the  views  of 


CASTERS  AND   CHESTEES.  421 

Mr.  Rhys,  the  Celtic  professor  at  Oxford,  who  thinks  that  all  south- 
eastern Britain  was  conquered  and  colonised  by  the  Gauls  before  the 
Roman  invasion.  If  so,  it  may  be  only  the  western  Welsh  who  said 
Caer  ;  the  eastern  may  have  said  castrum,  as  the  Romans  did.  In  either 
of  the  latter  two  cases,  we  must  suppose  that  the  early  English  learnt 
the  word  from  the  conquered  Britons  of  the  districts  they  overran.  But 
I  myself  have  very  little  doubt  that  they  had  borrowed  it  long  before 
their  settlement  in  our  island  at  all. 

However  this  may  be — and  I  confess  I  have  been  a  little  puritanically 
minute  upon  the  subject — the  English  settlers  learned  to  use  the  word 
from  the  first  moment  they  landed  in  Britain.  In  its  earliest  English 
dress  it  appears  as  Ceaster,  pronounced  like  Keaster,  for  the  soft  sound 
of  the  initial  in  modern  English  is  due  to  later  Norman  influences.  The 
newcomers — Anglo-Saxons,  if  you  choose  to  call  them  so — applied  the 
word  to  every  Roman  town  or  ruin  they  found  in  Britain.  Indeed,  all 
the  Latin  words  of  the  first  crop  in  English — those  used  during  the 
heathen  age,  before  Augustine  and  his  monks  introduced  the  Roman 
civilisation — belong  to  such  material  relics  of  the  older  provincial  culture 
as  the  Sleswick  pirates  had  never  before  known  :  way  from  via,  wall  from 
vallum,  street  from  strata,  and  port  from  portus.  In  this  first  crop  of 
foreign  words,  Ceaster  also  must  be  reckoned,  and  it  was  originally  em- 
ployed in  English  as  a  common  rather  than  as  a  proper  name.  Thus  we 
read  in  the  brief  chronicle  of  the  West  Saxon  kings,  under  the  year 
577,  "  Cuthwine  and  Ceawlin  fought  against  the  Welsh,  and  offslew 
three  kings,  Conmail  and  Condidan  and  Farinmail,  and  took  three 
ceasters,  Gleawan  ceaster  and  Ciren  ceaster  and  Bathan  ceaster."  We 
might  modernise  a  little,  so  as  to  show  the  real  sense,  by  saying,  "  Glevum 
city  and  Corinium  city  and  Bath  city."  Here  it  is  noticeable  that  in 
two  of  the  cases — Gloucester  and  Cirencester — the  descriptive  termination 
has  become  at  last  part  of  the  name ;  but  in  the  third  case — that  of  Bath 
— it  has  never  succeeded  in  doing  so.  Ages  after,  in  the  reign  of  King 
Alfred,  we  still  find  the  word  used  as  a  common  noun ;  for  the  Chronicle 
mentions  that  a  body  of  Danish  freebooters  "  fared  to  a  waste  ceaster  in 
Wirral ;  it  is  hight  Lega  ceaster ; "  that  is  to  say,  Legionis  castra,  now 
Chester.  The  grand  old  English  epic  of  Beowulf,  which  is  perhaps  older 
than  the  colonisation  of  Britain,  speaks  of  townsfolk  as  "  the  dwellers  in 
ceasters." 

As  a  rule,  each  particular  Roman  town  retained  its  full  name,  in  a 
more  or  less  clipped  form,  for  official  uses  ;  but  in  the  ordinary  colloquial 
language  of  the  neighbourhood  they  all  seem  to  have  been  described  as 
"  the  Ceaster"  simply,  just  as  we  ourselves  habitually  speak  of  "  town," 
meaning  the  particular  town  near  which  we  live,  or,  in  a  more  general 
sense,  London.  Thus,  in  the  north,  Ceaster  usually  means  York,  the 
Roman  capital  of  the  province ;  as  when  the  Chronicle  tells  us  that 
"John  succeeded  to  the  bishopric  of  Ceaster;"  that  "  Wilfrith  was 
hallowed  as  bishop  at  Ceaster ; "  or  that  "  ^Ethelberht  the  archbishop  died 


422  CASTERS  AND  CHESTERS. 

at  Ceaster."  In  the  south  it  is  employed  to  mean  Winchester,  the  capital 
of  the  West  Saxon  kings  and  overlords  of  all  Britain;  as  when  the 
Chronicle  says  that  "  King  Edgar  drove  out  the  priests  at  Ceaster  from 
the  Old  Minster  and  the  New  Minster,  and  set  them  with  monks."  So, 
as  late  as  the  days  of  Charles  II.,  "  to  go  to  town  "  meant  in  Shropshire 
to  go  to  Shrewsbury,  and  in  Norfolk  to  go  to  Norwich.  In  only  one 
instance  has  this  colloquial  usage  survived  down  to  our  own  days  in  a 
large  town,  and  that  is  at  Chester,  where  the  short  form  has  quite  ousted 
the  full  name  of  Lega  ceaster.  But  in  the  case  of  small  towns  or  unim- 
portant Roman  stations,  which  would  seldom  need  to  be  mentioned 
outside  their  own  immediate  neighbourhood,  the  simple  form  is  quite 
common,  as  at  Caistor  in  Norfolk,  Castor  in  Hunts,  and  elsewhere.  At 
times,  too,  we  get  an  added  English  termination,  as  at  Casterton,  Chester- 
ton, and  Chesterholme ;  or  a  slight  distinguishing  mark,  as  at  Great 
Chesters,  Little  Chester,  Bridge  Casterton,  and  Chester-le-Street.  All 
these  have  now  quite  lost  their  old  distinctive  names,  though  they  have 
acquired  new  ones  to  distinguish  them  from  the  Chester,  or  from  one 
another.  For  example,  Chester-le-Street  was  Conderco  in  Roman  times, 
and  Cunega  ceaster  in  the  early  English  period.  Both  names  are  derived 
from  the  little  river  Cone,  which  flows  through  the  village. 

Before  we  pass  on  to  the  consideration  of  those  castra  which,  like 
Manchester  and  Lancaster,  have  preserved  to  the  present  day  their  origi- 
nal Roman  or  Celtic  prefixes  in  more  or  less  altered  shapes,  we  must 
glance  briefly  at  a  general  principle  running  through  the  modernised  forms 
now  in  use.  The  reader,  with  his  usual  acuteness,  will  have  noticed  that 
the  word  Ceaster  reappears  under  many  separate  disguises  in  the  names 
of  different  modern  towns.  Sometimes  it  is  caster,  sometimes  Chester, 
sometimes  cester,  and  sometimes  even  it  gets  worn  down  to  a  mere  fugi- 
tive relic,  as  ceter  or  eter.  But  these  different  corruptions  do  not  occur 
irregularly  up  and  down  the  country,  one  here  and  one  there ;  they  fol- 
low a  distinct  law,  and  are  due  to  certain  definite  underlying  facts  of  race 
or  language.  Each  set  of  names  lies  in  a  regular  stratum ;  and  the  dif- 
ferent strata  succeed  one  another  like  waves  over  the  face  of  England, 
from  north-east  to  south-westward.  In  the  extreme  north  and  east, 
where  the  English  or  Anglian  blood  is  purest,  or  is  'mixed  only  with 
Danes  and  Northmen  to  any  large  extent,  such  forms  as  Lancaster,  Don- 
caster,  Caistor,  and  Casterton  abound.  In  the  mixed  midlands  and  the 
Saxon  south,  the  sound  softens  into  Chesterfield,  Chester,  Winchester, 
and  Dorchester.  In  the  inner  midlands  and  the  Severn  vale,  where  the 
proportion  of  Celtic  blood  becomes  much  stronger,  the  termination  grows 
still  softer  in  Leicester,  Bicester,  Cirencester,  Gloucester,  and  Worcester, 
while  at  the  same  time  a  marked  tendency  towards  elision  occurs ;  for 
these  words  are  really  pronounced  as  if  written  Lester,  Bister,  Cisseter, 
Gloster,  and  Wooster.  Finally,  on  the  very  borders  of  Wales,  and 
of  that  Damnonian  country  which  was  once  known  to  our  fathers  as 
West  Wales,  we  get  the  very  abbreviated  forms  Wroxeter,  Uttoxeter, 


CASTERS  AND   CHESTERS.  423 

and  Exeter,  of  which  the  second  is  colloquially  "still  further  shortened 
into  Uxeter.  Sometimes  these  tracts  approach  very  closely  to  one  an- 
other, as  on  the  banks  of  the  Nene,  where  the  two  halves  of  the  Roman 
Durobrivse  have  become  Castor  on  one  side  of  the  river,  and  Chesterton 
on  the  other ;  but  the  line  can  be  marked  distinctly  on  the  map,  with  a 
slight  outward  bulge,  with  as  great  regularity  as  the  geological  strata. 
It  will  be  most  convenient  here,  therefore,  to  begin  with  the  casters, 
which  have  undergone  the  least  amount  of  rubbing  down,  and  from  them 
to  pass  on  regularly  to  the  successively  weaker  forms  in  Chester,  cester, 
ceter,  and  eter. 

Nothing,  indeed,  can  be  more  deceptive  than  the  common  fashion  of 
quoting  a  Roman  name  from  the  often  blundering  lists  of  the  Itineraries, 
and  then  passing  on  at  once  to  the  modern  English  form,  without  any 
hint  of  the  intermediate  stages.  To  say  that  Glevum  is  now  Gloucester 
is  to  tell  only  half  the  truth ;  until  we  know  that  the  two  were  linked  to- 
gether by  the  gradual  steps  of  Glevum  castrum,  Gleawan  ceaster,  Gleawe 
cester,  Gloucester,  and  Gloster,  we  have  not  really  explained  the  words 
at  all.  By  beginning  with  the  least  corrupt  forms  we  shall  best  be  able 
to  see  the  slow  nature  of  the  change,  and  we  shall  also  find  at  the  same 
time  that  a  good  deal  of  incidental  light  is  shed  upon  the  importance  and 
extent  of  the  English  settlement. 

Doncaster  is  an  excellent  example  of  the  simplest  form  of  modernisa- 
tion. It  appears  in  the  Antonine  Itinerary  and  in  the  Notitia  Imperil 
as  Danum.  This,  with  the  ordinary  termination  affixed,  becomes  at 
once  Dona  ceaster  or  Doncaster.  The  name  is  of  course  originally  de- 
rived in  either  form  from  the  river  Don,  which  flows  beside  it ;  and  the 
Northumbrian  invaders  must  have  learnt  the  names  of  both  river  and 
station  from  their  Brigantian  British  serfs.  It  shows  the  fluctuating 
nature  of  the  early  local  nomenclature,  however,  when  we  find  that  Bsecla 
("  the  Venerable  Bede  ")  describes  the  place  in  his  Latinised  vocabulary 
as  Campodonum — that  is  to  say,  the  Field  of  Don,  or,  more  idiomatically, 
Donfield,  a  name  exactly  analogous  to  those  of  Chesterfield,  Macclesfield, 
Mansfield,  Sheffield,  and  Huddersfielcl  in  the  neighbouring  region.  The 
comparison  of  Doncaster  and  Chesterfield  is  thus  most  interesting :  for 
here  we  have  two  Roman  stations,  each  of  which  must  once  have  had 
two  alternative  names ;  but  in  the  one  case  the  old  Roman  name  has 
ultimately  prevailed,  and  in  the  other  case  the  modern  English  one. 

The  second  best  example  of  a  Caster,  perhaps,  is  Lancaster.  In  all 
probability  this  is  the  station  which  appears  in  the  Notitia  Imperil  as 
Longovico,  an  oblique  case  which  it  might  be  hazardous  to  put  in  the 
nominative,  seeing  that  it  seems  rather  to  mean  the  Town  on  the  Lune 
or  Loan  than  the  Long  Village.  Here,  as  in  many  other  cases,  the  for- 
mative element,  vicus,  is  exchanged  for  Ceaster,  and  we  get  something  like 
Lon-ceaster  or  finally  Lancaster.  Other  remarkable  Casters  are  Bran- 
caster  in  Norfolk,  once  Branadunum  (where  the  British  termination 
<lun  has  been  similarly  dropped)  ;  Ancaster  in  Lincolnshire,  whose  Roman 


424  CASTERS  AND  CHESTERS. 

name  is  not  certainly  known ;  and  Caistor,  near  Norwich,  once  Venta 
Icenorum,  a  case  which  may  best  be  considered  under  the  head  of  Win- 
chester. On  the  other  hand,  Tadcaster  gives  us  an  instance  where  the 
Roman  prefix  has  apparently  been  entirely  altered,  for  it  appears  in  the 
Antonine  Itinerary  (according  to  the  best  identification)  as  Calcaria,  so 
that  we  might  reasonably  expect  it  to  be  modernised  as  Calcaster.  Even 
here,  however,  we  might  well  suspect  an  earlier  alternative  title,  of 
which  we  shall  get  plenty  when  we  come  to  examine  the  Cheaters ;  and 
in  fact,  in  Bseda,  it  still  bears  its  old  name  in  a  slightly  disguised  form  as 
Kaelca  ceaster. 

First  among  the  softer  forms,  let  us  examine  the  interesting  group  to 
which  Chester  itself  belongs.  Its  Roman  name  was,  beyond  doubt,  Diva, 
the  station  on  the  Dee — as  Doncaster  is  the  station  on  the  Don,  and  Lan- 
caster the  station  on  the  Lune.  Its  proper  modern  form  ought,  there- 
fore, to  be  Deechester.  But  it  would  seem  that  in  certain  places  the 
neighbouring  rustics  knew  the  great  Roman  town  of  their  district,  not  by 
its  official  title,  but  as  the  Legion's  Camp — Castra  Legionis.  At  least 
three  such  cases  undoubtedly  occur — one  at  Deva  or  Chester ;  one  at 
Ratffi  or  Leicester ;  and  one  at  Isca  Silurum  or  Caerleon-upon-Usk.  In 
each  case  the  modernisation  has  taken  a  very  different  form.  Diva  was 
captured  by  the  heathen  English  king,  ^Ethelfrith  of  Northumbria, 
in  a  battle  rendered  famous  by  Baeda,  who  calls  the  place  "  the  City  of 
Legions."  The  Latin  compilation  by  some  Welsh  writer,  ascribed  to 
Nennius,  calls  it  Cair  Legion,  which  is  also  its  name  in  the  Irish  annals. 
In  the  English  Chronicle  it  appears  as  Lege  ceaster,  Lsege  ceaster,  and 
Leg  ceaster ;  but  after  the  Norman  Conquest  it  becomes  Ceaster  alone.  On 
midland  lips  the  sound  soon  grew  into  the  familiar  Chester.  About  the 
second  case,  that  of  Leicester,  there  is  a  slight  difficulty,  for  it  assumes 
in  the  Chronicle  the  form  of  Laegra  ceaster,  with  an  apparently  intrusive 
letter ;  and  the  later  Welsh  writers  seized  upon  the  form  to  fit  in  with 
their  own  ancient  legend  of  King  Lear.  Nennius  calls  it  Cair  Lerion  ; 
and  that  unblushing  romancer,  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  makes  it  at  once 
into  Kair  Leir,  the  city  of  Leir.  More  probably  the  name  is  a  mixture 
of  Legionis  and  Ratae,  Leg-rat  ceaster,  the  camp  of  the  Legion  at  Rate. 
This,  again,  grew  into  Legra  ceaster,  Leg  ceaster,  and  Lei  ceaster,  while 
the  word,  though  written  Leicester,  is  now  shortened  by  south  midland 
voices  to  Lester.  The  third  Legionis  Castra  remained  always  Welsh, 
and  so  hardened  on  Cymric  lips  into  Kair  Leon  or  Caerleon.  Nennius 
applies  the  very  similar  name  of  Cair  Legeion  to  Exeter,  still  in  his  time 
a  Damnonian  or  West  Welsh  fortress. 

Equally  interesting  have  been  the  fortunes  of  the  three  towns  of 
which  Winchester  is  the  type.  In  the  old  Welsh  tongue,  Gwent  means 
a  champaign  country,  or  level  alluvial  plain.  The  Romans  borrowed 
the  word  as  Venta,  and  applied  it  to  the  three  local  centres  of  Venta 
Icenorum  in  Norfolk,  Venta  Belgarum  in  Hampshire,  and  Venta  Silu- 
rum in  Monmouth.  When  the  first  West  Saxon  pirates,  under  their 


CASTERS  AND  CHESTERS.  425 

real  or  mythical  leader,  Cerdic,  swarmed  up  Southampton  Water  and 
occupied  the  Gwent  of  the  Belgse,  they  called  their  new  conquest  Wintan 
ceaster,  though  the  still  closer  form  Wa3ntan  once  occurs.  Thence  to 
Winte  ceaster  and  Winchester  is  no  far  cry.  Gwent  of  the  Iceni  had  a 
different  history.  No  doubt  it  also  was  known  at  first  as  Wintan  ceas- 
ter ;  but,  as  at  Winchester,  the  shorter  form  Ceaster  would  naturally 
be  employed  in  local  colloquial  usage ;  and  when  the  chief  centre  of 
East  Anglian  population  was  removed  a  few  miles  north  to  Norwich,  the 
north  wick — then  a  port  on  the  navigable  estuary  of  the  Yare — the 
older  station  sank  into  insignificance,  and  was  only  locally  remembered 
as  Caistor.  Lastly,  Gwent  of  the  Silurians  has  left  its  name  alone  to 
Caer-Went  in  Monmouthshire,  where  hardly  any  relics  now  remain  of 
the  Roman  occupation. 

Manchester  belongs  to  exactly  the  same  class  as  Winchester.  Its 
Roman  name  was  Mancunium,  which  would  easily  glide  into  Mancun- 
ceaster.  In  the  English  Chronicle  it  is  only  once  mentioned,  and  then 
as  Mame  ceaster — a  form  explained  by  the  alternative  Mamucium  in  the 
Itinerary,  which  would  naturally  become  Mamuc  ceaster.  Colchester  of 
course  represents  Colonia,  corrupted  first  into  Coin  ceaster,  and  so 
through  Col  ceaster  into  its  present  form.  Porchester  in  Hants  is  Portus 
Magnus ;  Dorchester, is  Dumovaria,  and  then  Dorn  ceaster.  Grantches- 
ter,  Godmanchester,  Chesterfield,  Woodchester,  and  many  others,  help 
us  to  trace  the  line  across  the  map  of  England,  to  the  most  western  limit 
of  all  at  Ilchester,  anciently  Ischalis,  though  the  intermediate  form  of 
Givel  ceaster  is  certainly  an  odd  one. 

Besides  these  Chesters  of  the  regular  order,  there  are  several  curious 
outlying  instances  in  Durham  and  Northumberland,  and  along  the 
Roman  Wall,  islanded,  as  it  were,  beyond  the  intermediate  belt  of 
Casters.  Such  are  Lanchester  in  Durham,  which  may  be  compared  with 
the  more  familiar  Lancaster;  Great  Chesters  in  Northumberland, 
Ebchester  on  the  northern  Watling  Street,  and  a  dozen  more.  How  to 
account  for  these  is  rather  a  puzzle.  Perhaps  the  Casters  may  be  mainly 
due  to  Danish  influence  (which  is  the  common  explanation),  and  it  is 
known  that  the  Danes  spread  but  sparingly  to  the  north  of  the  Tees. 
However,  this  rough  solution  of  the  problem  proves  too  much ;  for  how 
then  can  we  have  a  still  softer  form  in  Danish  Leicester  itself?  Probably 
we  shall  be  nearer  the  truth  if  we  say  that  these  are  late  names ;  for 
Northumberland  was  a  desert  long  after  the  great  harrying  by  William  the 
Conqueror ;  and  by  the  time  it  was  repeopled,  Chester  had  become  the 
recognised  English  form,  so  that  it  would  naturally  be  employed  by  the 
new  occupants  of  the  districts  about  the  Wall. 

No  name  in  Britain,  however,  is  more  interesting  than  that  of 
Rochester,  which  admirably  shows  us  how  so  many  other  Roman  names 
have  acquired  a  delusively  English  form,  or  have  been  mistaken  for 
memorials  of  the  English  conquest.  The  Roman  town  was  known  as 
Durobrivse,  which  does  not  in  the  least  resemble  Rochester ;  and  what  is 


426  CASTERS  AND  CHESTERS. 

more,  Bseda  distinctly  tells  us  that  Justus,  the  first  bishop  of  the  West 
Kentish  see,  was  consecrated  "  in  the  city  of  Dorubrevi,  which  the  Eng- 
lish call  Hrofses  ceaster,  from  one  of  its  former  masters,  by  name  Hrof." 
If  this  were  all  we  knew  about  it,  we  should  be  told  that  Bseda  clearly 
described  the  town  as  being  called  Hrof's  Chester,  from  an  English  con- 
queror Hrof,  and  that  to  contradict  this  clear  statement  of  an  early 
writer  was  presumptuous  or  absurd.  Fortunately,  however,  we  have 
the  clearest  possible  proof  that  Hrof  never  existed,  and  that  he  was  a 
pure  creation  of  Baeda's  own  simple  etymological  guesswork.  King 
Alfred  clearly  knew  better,  for  he  omitted  this  wild  derivation  from  his 
English  translation.  The  valuable  fragment  of  a  map  of  Roman  Britain 
preserved  for  us  in  the  mediaeval  transcript  known  as  the  Peutinger 
Tables,  sets  down  Rochester  as  Rotibis.  Hence  it  is  pretty  certain  that 
it  must  have  had  two  alternative  names,  of  which  the  other  was  Duro- 
brivse.  Rotibis  would  easily  pass  (on  the  regular  analogies)  into  Rotifi 
ceaster,  and  that  agairi  into  Hrofi  ceaster  and  Rochester  ;  just  as  Rhutu- 
pise  or  Ritupae  passed  into  Rituf  burh,  and  so  finally  into  Richborough. 
Moreover,  in  a  charter  of  King  ^Ethelberht  of  Kent,  older  a  good  deal 
than  Bseda's  time,  we  find  the  town  described  under  the  mixed  form 
of  Hrofi-brevi.  After  such  a  certain  instance  of  philological  blundering 
as  this,  I  for  one  am  not  inclined  to  place  great  faith  in  such  statements 
as  that  made  by  the  English  Chronicle  about  Chichester,  which  it  attri- 
butes to  the  mythical  South  Saxon  king  Cissa.  Whatever  Cissan- 
ceaster  may  mean,  it  seems  to  me  much  more  likely  that  it  represents 
another  case  of  double  naming;  for  though  the  Roman  town  was 
commonly  known  as  Regnum,  that  is  clearly  a  mere  administrative  form, 
derived  from  the  tribal  name  of  the  Regni.  Considering  that  the  same 
veracious  Chronicle  derives  Portsmouth,  the  Roman  Portus,  from  an 
imaginary  Teutonic  invader,  Port,  and  commits  itself  to  other  wild 
statements  of  the  same  sort,  I  don't  think  we  need  greatly  hesitate 
about  rejecting  its  authority  in  these  earlier  and  conjectural  portions. 

Silchester  is  another  much  disputed  name.  As  a  rule,  the  site  has 
been  identified  with  that  of  Calleva  Atrebatum ;  but  the  proofs  are 
scanty,  and  the  identification  must  be  regarded  as  a  doubtful  one.  I 
have  already  ventured  to  suggest  in  this  magazine  that  the  word  may 
contain  the  root  Silva,  as  the  town  is  situated  close  upon  the  ancient 
borders  of  Pamber  Forest.  The  absence  of  early  forms,  however,  makes 
this  somewhat  of  a  random  shot.  Indeed,  it  is  difficult  to  arrive  at  any 
definite  conclusions  in  these  cases,  except  by  patiently  following  up  the 
name  from  first  to  last,  through  all  its  variations,  corruptions,  and  mis- 
spellings. 

The  Cesters  are  even  more  degraded  (philologically  speaking)  than 
the  Chesters,  but  are  not  less  interesting  and  illustrative  in  their  way. 
Their  furthest  north-easterly  extension,  I  believe,  is  to  be  found  at  Lei- 
cester and  Towcester.  The  former  we  have  already  considered  :  the 
latter  appears  in  the  Chronicle  as  Tofe  ceaster,  and  derives  its  name  from 


CASTERS  AND   CHESTEES.  427 

the  little  river  Towe,  on  which  it  is  situated.  Anciently,  no  doubt,  the 
river  was  called  Tofe  or  Ton,  like  the  Tavy  in  Devonshire  ;  for  all  these 
river- words  recur  over  and  over  again,  both  in  England  and  on  the  Con- 
tinent. In  this  case,  there  seems  no  immediate  connection  with  the 
Roman  name,  if  the  site  be  rightly  identified  with  that  of  Lactodorum  ; 
but  at  any  rate  the  river  name  is  Celtic,  so  that  Towcester  cannot  be 
claimed  as  a  Teutonic  settlement. 

Cirencester,  the  meeting-place  of  all  the  great  Roman  roads,  is  the 
Latin  Corinium,  sometimes  given  as  Durocornovium,  which  well  illus- 
trates the  fluctuating  state  of  Roman  nomenclature  in  Britain.  As  this 
great  strategical  centre — the  key  of  the  west — had  formerly  been  the 
capital  of  the  Dobuni,  whose  name  it  sometimes  bears,  it  might  easily 
have  come  down  to  us  as  Durchester,  or  Dobchester,  instead  of  under  its 
existing  guise.  The  city  was  captured  by  the  "West  Saxons  in  577,  and 
is  then  called  Ciren  ceaster  in  the  brief  record  of  the  conquerors.  A 
few  years  later,  the  Chronicle  gives  it  as  Cirn  ceaster ;  and  since  the  river 
is  called  Chirn,  this  is  the  form  it  might  fairly  have  been  expected  to 
retain,  as  in  the  case  of  Cerney  close  by.  But  the  city  was  too  far  west 
not  to  have  its  name  largely  rubbed  down  in  use ;  so  it  softened  both  its 
initials  into  Cirencester,  while  Cissan  ceaster  only  got  (through  Cisse 
ceaster)  as  far  as  Chichester.  At  that  point  the  spelling  of  the  western 
town  has  stopped  short,  but  the  tongues  of  the  natives  have  run  on  till 
nothing  now  remains  but  Cisseter.  If  we  had  only  that  written  form 
on  the  one  hand,  and  Durocornovium  on  the  other,  even  the  boldest  ety- 
mologist would  hardly  venture  to  suggest  that  they  had  any  connection 
with  one  another.  Of  course  the  common  prefix  Duro-  is  only  the  Welsh 
Dwr,  water,  and  its  occurrence  in  a  name  merely  implies  a  ford  or  river. 
The  alternative  forms  may  be  Anglicised  as  Churn,  and  Churn- water,  just 
like  Grasmere,  and  Grasmere  Lake. 

I  wish  I  could  avoid  saying  anything  about  Worcester,  for  it  is  an 
obscure  and  difficult  subject ;  but  I  fear  the  attempt  to  shirk  it  would  be 
useless  in  the  long  run.  I  know  from  sad  experience  that  if  I  omit  it 
every  inhabitant  of  Worcestershire  who  reads  this  article  will  hunt  me 
out  somehow,  and  run  me  to  earth  at  last,  with  a  letter  demanding  a 
full  and  explicit  explanation  of  this  silent  insult  to  his  native  county. 
So  I  must  try  to  put  the  best  possible  face  upon  a  troublesome  matter. 
The  earliest  existing  form  of  the  name,  after  the  English  conquest,  seems 
to  be  that  given  in  a  Latin  charter  of  the  eighth  century  as  Weogorna 
civitas.  (Here  it  is  difficult  to  disentangle  the  English  from  its  Latin 
dress.)  A  little  later  it  appears  in  a  vernacular  shape  (also  in  a  charter) 
as  Wigran  ceaster.  In  the  later  part  of  the  English  Chronicle  it 
becomes  Wigera  ceaster,  and  Wigra  ceaster ;  but  by  the  twelfth  century 
it  has  grown  into  Wigor  ceaster,  from  which  the  change  to  Wire  ceaster 
and  Worcester  (fully  pronounced)  is  not  violent.  This  is  all  plain 
sailing  enough.  But  what  is  the  meaning  of  Wigorna  ceaster  or  Wigran 
ceaster  1  And  what  Roman  or  English  name  does  it  represent  ?  The  old 


428  CASTERS  AND  CHESTEES. 

English  settlers  of  the  neighbourhood  formed  a  little  independent  princi- 
pality of  Hwiccas  (afterwards  subdued  by  the  Mercians),  and  some  have 
accordingly  suggested  that  the  original  word  may  have  been  Hwicc- 
wara  ceaster,  the  Chester  of  the  Hwicca  men,  which  would  be  analogous 
to  Cant-wara  burh  (Canterbury),  the  Bury  of  the  Kent  men,  or  to 
Wiht-gara  burh  (Carisbrooke),  the  Bury  of  the  Wight  men.  Others, 
again,  connect  it  with  the  Brannogenium  of  the  Ravenna  geographer, 
and  the  Cair  Guoranegon  or  Guiragon  of  Nennius,  which  latter  is  pro- 
bably itself  a  corrupted  version  of  the  English  name.  Altogether,  it  must 
be  allowed  that  Worcester  presents  a  genuine  difficulty,  and  that  the 
facts  about  its  early  forms  are  themselves  decidedly  confused,  if  not  con- 
tradictory. The  only  other  notable  C 'esters  are  Aicester,  once  Alne- 
ceaster,  in  Worcestershire,  the  Roman  Alauna  ;  Gloucester  or  Glevurn? 
already  sufficiently  explained;  and  Mancester  in  Staffordshire,  supposed 
to  occupy  the  site  of  Manduessedum. 

Among  the  most  corrupted  forms  of  all,  Exeter  may  rank  first.  Its 
Latin  equivalent  was  Isca  Damnoniorum,  Usk  of  the  Devonians  ;  Isca 
being  the  Latinised  form  of  that  prevalent  Celtic  river  name  which  crops 
up  again  in  the  Usk,  Esk,  Exe,  and  Axe,  besides  forming  the  first  ele- 
ment of  Uxbridge  and  Oxford  ;  while  the  tribal  qualification  was  added 
to  distinguish  it  from  its  namesake,  Isca  Silurum,  Usk  of  the  Silurians, 
now  Caerleon-upon-Usk.  In  the  west  country,  to  this  day,  ask  always 
becomes  ax,  or  rather  remains  so,  for  that  provincial  form  was  the 
King's  English  at  the  court  of  Alfred  ;  and  so  Isca  became  on  Devonian 
lips  Exan  ceaster,  after  the  West  Saxon  conquest.  Thence  it  passed 
rapidly  through  the  stages  of  Exe  ceaster  and  Exe  cester  till  it  finally 
settled  down  into  Exeter.  At  the  same  time,  the  river  itself  became  the 
Exe;  and  the  Exan-mutha  of  the  Chronicle  dropped  into  Exmouth. 
We  must  never  forget,  however,  that  Exeter  was  a  Welsh  town  up  to 
the  reign  of  Athelstan,  and  that  Cornish  Welsh  was  still  spoken  in 
parts  of  Devonshire  till  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 

Wroxeter  is  another  immensely  interesting  fossil  word.  It  lies  just 
at  the  foot  of  the  Wrekin,  and  the  hill  which  takes  that  name  in  English 
must  have  been  pronounced  by  the  old  Celtic  inhabitants  much  like 
Uricon  :  for  of  course  the  awkward  initial  letter  has  only  become  silent 
in  these  later  lazy  centuries.  The  Romans  turned  it  into  Uriconium  ; 
but  after  their  departure,  it  was  captured  and  burnt  to  the  ground  by  a 
party  of  raiding  West  Saxons,  and  its  fall  is  graphically  described  in  the 
wild  old  Welsh  elegy  of  Lly warch  the  Aged.  The  ruins  are  still  charred 
and  blackened  by  the  West  Saxon  fires.  The  English  colonists  of  the 
neighbourhood  called  themselves  the  Wroken-ssetas,  or  Settlers  by  the 
Wrekin — a  word  analogous  to  that  of  Wilsaetas,  or  Settlers  by  the  Wyly  ; 
Dorssetas,  or  Settlers  among  the  Durotriges ;  and  Sumorsa3tas  or  Settlers 
among  the  Sumor-folk, — which  survive  in  the  modern  counties  of  Wilts, 
Dorset,  and  Somerset.  Similar  forms  elsewhere  are  the  Pecsaetas  of  the 
Derbyshire  Peak,  the  Elmedscetas  in  the  Forest  of  Elmet,  and  the 


CASTERS  AND  CH  ESTERS,  429 

Cilternssetas  in  the  Cliiltern  Hills.  No  doubt  the  Wroken-ssetas  called 
the  ruined  Roman  fort  by  the  analogous  name  of  Wroken  ceaster ;  and 
this  would  slowly  become  Wrok  ceaster,  Wrok  cester,  and  Wroxeter,  by 
the  ordinary  abbreviating  tendency  of  the  Welsh  borderlands.  Wrexham 
doubtless  preserves  the  same  original  root. 

Having  thus  carried  the  Castro,  to  the  very  confines  of  Wales,  it  would 
be  unkind  to  a  generous  and  amiable  people  not  to  carry  them  across 
the  border  and  011  to  the  Western  sea.  The  Welsh  corruption,  whether 
of  the  Latin  word  or  of  a  native  equivalent  cathir,  assumes  the  guise 
of  Caer.  Thus  the  old  Roman  station  of  Segontium,  near  the  Menai 
Straits,  is  now  called  Caer  Seiont ;  but  the  neighbouring  modern  town 
which  has  gathered  around  Edward's  new  castle  on  the  actual  shore,  the 
later  metropolis  of  the  land  of  Arfon,  became  known  to  Welshmen  as 
Caer-yn-Arfon,  now  corrupted  into  Caernarvon  or  even  into  Carnarvon. 
Gray's  familiar  line  about  the  murdered  bards — '  On  Arvon's  dreary  shore 
they  lie  '—keeps  up  in  some  dim  fashion  the  memory  of  the  true  ety- 
.  mology.  Caermarthen  is  in  like  manner  the  Roman  Muridunum  or 
Moridunum — the  fort  by  the  sea — though  a  duplicate  Moridunum  in 
South  Devon  ha's  been  simply  translated  into  English  as  Seaton.  In- 
numerable other  Caers,  mostly  representing  Roman  sites,  may  be  found 
scattered  up  and  down  over  the  face  of  Wales,  such  as  Caersws,  Caerleon, 
Caergwrle,  Caerhun,  and  Caerwys,  all  of  which  still  contain  traces  of 
Roman  occupation.  On  the  other  hand,  Cardigan,  which  looks  delusively 
like  a  shortened  Caer,  has  really  nothing  to  do  with  this  group  of  ancient 
names,  being  a  mere  corruption  of  Ceredigion. 

But  outside  Wales  itself,  in  the  more  Celtic  parts  of  England  proper, 
a  good  many  relics  of  the  old  Welsh  Caers  still  bespeak  the  incomplete- 
ness of  the  early  Teutonic  conquest.  If  we  might  trust  the  mendacious 
Nennius,  indeed,  all  our  Casters  and  Chesters  were  once  good  Cymric 
Caers ;  for  he  gives  a  doubtful  list  of  the  chief  towns  in  Britain,  where 
Gloucester  appears  as  Cair  Gloui,  Colchester  as  Cair  Colun,  and  York  as 
Cair  Ebrauc.  These,  if  true,  would  be  invaluable  forms ;  but  unfor- 
tunately there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  Nennius  invented  them 
himself,  by  a  simple  transposition  of  the  English  names.  Henry  of 
Huntingdon  is  nearly  as  bad,  if  not  worse  ;  for  when  he  calls  Dorchester 
"  Kair  Dauri,"  and  Chichester  "  Kair  Kei,"  he  was  almost  certainly  evolv- 
ing what  he  supposed  to  be  appropriate  old  British  names  from  the  depths 
of  his  own  consciousness.  His  guesswork  was  on  a  par  with  that  of  the 
schoolboys  who  introduce  "  Stirlingia  "  or  "Liverpolia  "  into  their  Ovidian 
elegiacs.  That  abandoned  story-teller,  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  goes  a 
step  further,  and  concocts  a  Caer  Lud  for  London  and  a  Caer  Osc  for 
Exeter,  whenever  the  fancy  seizes  him.  The  only  examples  amongst 
these  pretended  old  Welsh  forms  which  seem  to  me  to  have  any  real 
historical  value  are  an  unknown  Kair  Eden,  mentioned  by  Gildas,  and 
a  Cair  Wise,  mentioned  by  Simeon  of  Durham,  undoubtedly  the  true 
native  name  of  Exeter. 


430  CASTERS  AND   CHESTERS. 

Still,  we  have  a  few  indubitable  Caers  in  England  itself  surviving  to 
our  own  day.  Most  of  them  are  not  far  from  the  "Welsh  border,  as  in 
the  case  of  the  two  Caer  Caradocs,  in  Shropshire,  crowned  by  ancient 
British  fortifications.  Others,  however,  lie  further  within  the  true 
English  pale,  though  always  in  districts  which  long  preserved  the  "Welsh 
speech,  at  least  among  the  lower  classes  of  the  population.  The  earth- 
work overhanging  Bath  bears  to  this  day  its  ancient  British  title  of 
Caer  Badon.  An  old  history  written  in  the  monastery  of  Malmesbury 
describes  that  town  as  Caer  Bladon,  and  speaks  of  a  Caer  Dur  in  the 
immediate  neighbourhood.  There  still  remains  a  Caer  Riden  on  the  line 
of  the  Roman  wall  in  the  Lothians.  Near  Aspatria,  in  Cumberland, 
stands  a  mouldering  Roman  camp  known  even  now  as  Caer  Mote.  In 
Carvoran,  Northumberland,  the  first  syllable  has  undergone  a  slight  con- 
traction, but  may  still  be  readily  recognised.  The  Carr-dyke  in  Norfolk 
seems  to  me  to  be  referable  to  a  similar  origin. 

Most  curious  of  all  the  English  Caers,  however,  is  Carlisle.  The 
Antonine  Itinerary  gives  the  town  as  Luguvallium.  Baeda,  in  his  bar- 
barised  Latin  fashion,  calls  it  Lugubalia.  "  The  Saxons,"  says  Murray's 
Guide,  with  charming  naivete,  "abbreviated  the  name  into  Luel,  and 
afterwards  called  it  Caer  Luel."  This  astounding  hotchpotch  forms  an 
admirable  example  of  the  way  in  which  local  etymology  is  still  generally 
treated  in  highly  respectable  publications.  So  far  as  we  know,  there 
never  was  at  any  time  a  single  Saxon  in  Cumberland ;  and  why  the 
Saxons,  or  any  other  tribe  of  Englishmen,  should  have  called  a  town  by  a 
purely  Welsh  name,  it  would  be  difficult  to  decide.  If  they  had  given 
it  any  name  at  all,  that  name  would  probably  have  been  Lxil  ceaster,  which 
might  have  been  modernised  into  Lulcaster  or  Lulchester.  The  real 
facts  are  these.  Cumberland,  as  its  name  imports,  was  long  a  land  of  the 
Cymry — a  northern  Welsh  principality,  dependent  upon  the  great  king- 
dom of  Strathclyde,  which  held  out  for  ages  against  the  Northumbrian 
English  invaders  among  the  braes  and  fells  of  Ayrshire  and  the  Lake 
District.  These  Cumbrian  Welshmen  called  their  chief  town  Caer  Luel, 
or  something  of  the  sort ;  and  there  is  some  reason  for  believing  that  it 
was  the  capital  of  the  historical  Arthur,  if  any  Arthur  ever  existed, 
though  later  ages  transferred  the  legend  of  the  British  hero  to  Caerleon- 
upon-TJsk,  after  men  had  begun  to  forget  that  the  region  between  the 
Clyde  and  the  Mersey  had  once  been  true  Welsh  soil.  The  English 
overran  Cumberland  very  slowly  ;  and  when  they  did  finally  conquer  it, 
they  probably  left  the  original  inhabitants  in  possession  of  the  country, 
and  only  imposed  their  own  overlordship  upon  the  conquered  race.  The 
story  is  too  long  a  one  to  repeat  in  full  here  :  it  must  suffice  to  say  that, 
though  the  Northumbrian  kings  had  made  the  "  Strathclyde  Welsh ;'  their 
tributaries,  the  district  was  never  thoroughly  subdued  till  the  days  of 
Edmund  the  West  Saxon,  who  harried  the  land,  and  handed  it  over 
to  the  King  of  Scots.  Thus  it  happens  that  Carlisle,  alone  among 
large  English  towns,  still  keeps  unchanged  its  Cymric  name,  instead  of 


CASTEES  AND  CHESTERS.  431 

having  sunk  into  an  Anglicised  Chester.  The  present  spelling  is  a  mere 
etymological  blunder,  exactly  similar  to  that  which  has  turned  the  old 
English  word  igland  into  island,  through  the  false  analogy  of  isle,  which 
of  course  comes  from  the  old  French  isle,  derived  through  some  form 
akin  to  the  Italian  isola,  from  the  original  Latin  insula.  Kair  Leil  is 
the  spelling  in  Geoffrey ;  Cardeol  (by  a  clerical  error  for  Carleol,  I 
suspect)  that  in  the  English  Chronicle,  which  only  once  mentions  the 
town  ;  and  Carleol  that  of  the  ordinary  mediaeval  historians.  The  sur- 
names Carlyle  and  Carlile  still  preserve  the  better  orthography. 

To  complete  the  subject,  it  will  be  well  to  say  a  few  words  about 
those  towns  which  were  once  Ceasters,  but  which  have  never  become 
Casters  or  Chesters.  Numerous  as  are  the  places  now  so  called,  a  number 
more  may  be  reckoned  in  the  illimitable  chapter  of  the  might-have-beens  ; 
and  it  is  interesting  to  speculate  on  the  forms  which  they  would  have 
taken,  "  si  qua  fata  aspera  rupissent."  Among  these  still-born  Chesters, 
Newcastle-upon-Tyne  may  fairly  rank  first.  It  stands  on  the  Roman 
site,  called,  from  its  bridge  across  the  Tyne,  Pons  Aelii,  and  known  later 
on,  from  its  position  on  the  great  wall,  as  Ad  Murum.  Under  the  early 
English,  after  their  conversion  to  Christianity,  the  monks  became  the 
accepted  inheritors  of  Roman  ruins ;  and  the  small  monastery  which  was 
established  here  procured  it  the  English  name  of  Muneca-ceaster,  or,  as 
we  should  now  say,  Monk-ch  ester,  though  no  doubt  the  local  modernisa- 
tion would  have  taken  the  form  of  Muncaster.  William  of  Normandy 
utterly  destroyed  the  town  during  his  great  harrying  of  Northumber- 
land ;  and  when  his  son,  Robert  Curthose,  built  a  fortress  on  the  site, 
the  place  came  to  be  called  Newcastle — a  word  whose  very  form  shows 
its  comparatively  modern  origin.  Castra  and  Ceasters  were  now  out  of 
date,  and  castles  had  taken  their  place.  Still,  we  stick  even  here  to  the 
old  root :  for  of  course  castle  is  only  the  diminutive  castettum — a  scion  of 
the  same  Roman  stock,  which,  like  so  many  other  members  of  aristo- 
cratic families,  "  came  over  with  William  the  Conqueror."  The  word 
c(istel  is  never  used,  I  believe,  in  any  English  document  before  the  Con- 
quest ;  but  in  the  very  year  of  William's  invasion,  the  Chronicle  tells  us, 
"  Willelm  earl  came  from  Normandy  into  Pevensey,  and  wrought  a 
castel  at  Hastings  port."  So,  while  in  France  itself  the  word  has  de- 
clined through  chastel  into  chdteau,  we  in  England  have  kept  it  in  com- 
parative purity  as  castle. 

York  is  another  town  which  had  a  narrow  escape  of  becoming  Yor- 
chester.  Its  Roman  name  was  Eburacum,  which  the  English  queerly 
rendered  as  Eoforwic,  by  a  very  interesting  piece  of  folks-etymology. 
Eofor  is  Old  English  for  a  boar,  and  wic  for  a  town ;  so  our  rude  ances- 
tors metamorphosed  the  Latinised  Celtic  name  into  this  familiar  and 
significant  form,  much  as  our  own  sailors  turn  the  Bellerophon  into  the 
Billy  Ruffun,  and  the  Anse  des  Cousins  into  the  Nancy  Cozens.  In 
the  same  way,  I  have  known  an  illiterate  Englishman  speak  of  Aix-la- 
Chapelle  as  Hexley  Chapel.  To  the  name,  thus  distorted,  our  forefathers 


432  CASTERS  AND   CHESTERS. 

of  course  added  the  generic  word  for  a  Roman  town,  and  so  made  the 
cumbrous  title  of  Eoforwic-ceaster,  which  is  the  almost  universal  form 
in  the  earlier  parts  of  the  English  Chronicle.  This  was  too  much  of  a 
mouthful  even  for  the  hardy  Anglo-Saxon,  so  we  soon  find  a  disposition 
to  shorten  it  into  Ceaster  on  the  one  hand,  or  Eoforwic  on  the  other. 
Should  the  final  name  be  Chester  or  York  ? — that  was  the  question. 
Usage  decided  in  favour  of  the  more  distinctive  title.  The  town  became 
Eoforwic  alone,  and  thence  gradually  declined  through  Evorwic,  Euor- 
wic,  Eurewic,  and  Yorick  into  the  modern  York.  It  is  curious  to  note 
that  some  of  these  intermediate  forms  very  closely  approach  the  original 
Eburac,  which  must  have  been  the  root  of  the  Roman  name.  Was  the 
change  partly  due  to  the  preservation  of  the  older  sound  on  the  lips  of 
Celtic  serfs  1  It  is  not  impossible,  for  marks  of  British  blood  are  strong 
in  Yorkshire ;  and  Nennius  confirms  the  idea  by  calling  the  town  Kair 
Ebrauc. 

Among  the  other  Ceasters  which  have  never  developed  into  full-blown 
Chesters,  I  may  mention  Bath,  given  as  Akemannes  ceaster  and  Bathan 
ceaster  in  our  old  documents,  so  that  it  might  have  become  Acheman- 
chester  or  Bathceter  in  the  course  of  ordinary  changes.  Canterbury, 
again,  the  Roman  Durovernum,  dropped  through  Dorobernia  into 
Dorwit  ceaster,  which  would  no  doubt  have  turned  into  a  third  Dor- 
chester, to  puzzle  our  heads  by  its  likeness  to  Dome  ceaster  in  Dor- 
setshire, and  to  Dorce  ceaster  near  Oxford ;  while  Chesterton  in  Hun- 
tingdonshire, which  was  once  Dorrne  ceaster,  narrowly  escaped  burdening 
a  distracted  world  with  a  fourth.  Happily,  the  colloquial  form  Cant- 
wara  burh,  or  Kent-men's  bury,  gained  the  day,  and  so  every  trace  of 
Durovernum  is  now  quite  lost  in  Canterbury.  North  Shields  was  once 
Scythles-ceaster,  but  here  the  Chester  has  simply  dropped  out.  Yerulam, 
or  St.  Albans,  is  another  curious  case.  Its  Romano -British  name  was 
Verulamium,  and  Baeda  calls  it  Verlama  ceaster.  But  the  early  Eng- 
lish in  Sleswick  believed  in  a  race  of  mythical  giants,  the  Waatlingas  or 
Watlings,  from  whom  they  called  the  Milky  Way  "  Watling  Street." 
When  the  rude  pirates  from  those  trackless  marshes  came  over  to 
Britain  and  first  beheld  the  great  Roman  paved  causeway  which  ran 
across  the  face  of  the  country  from  London  to  Caernarvon,  they  seem  to 
have  imagined  that  such  a  mighty  work  could  not  have  been  the  handi- 
craft of  men;  and  just  as  the  Arabs  ascribe  the  rock-hewn  houses  of 
Petra  to  the  architectural  fancy  of  the  Devil,  so  our  old  English 
ancestors  ascribed  the  Roman  road  to  the  Titanic  Watlings.  Even  in  our 
own  day,  it  is  known  along  its  whole  course  as  Watling  Street.  Yerulam 
stands  right  in  its  track,  and  long  contained  some  of  the  greatest  Roman 
remains  in  England  ;  so  the  town,  too,  came  to  be  considered  as  another 
example  of  the  work  of  the  Watlings.  Baeda,  in  his  Latinised  Northum- 
brian, calls  it  Yzetlinga  ceaster,  as  an  alternative  title  with  Yerlama 
ceaster ;  so  that  it  might  nowadays  have  been  familiar  to  us  all  either 
as  Watlingchester  or  Ye rlam Chester.  This  is  one  of  the  numerous  cases 


CASTERS  AND  CHESTEES.  433 

where  a  Roman  and  English  name  lived  on  during  the  dark  period  side 
by  side.  In  some  of  Mr.  Kemble's  charters  it  appears  as  Watlinga 
ceaster.  But  when  Oflfa  of  Mercia  founded  his  great  abbey  on  the  very 
spot  where  the  Welsh  martyr  Alban  had  suffered  during  the  persecution 
of  Diocletian,  Roman  and  English  names  were  alike  forgotten,  and  the 
place  was  remembered  only  after  the  British  Christian  as  St.  Albans. 

There  are  other  instances  where  the  very  memory  of  a  Roman  city 
seems  now  to  have  failed  altogether.  For  example,  Bseda  mentions  a 
certain  town  called  Tiowulfinga  ceaster — that  is  to  say,  the  Chester  of  the 
Tiowulfings,  or  sons  of  Tiowulf.  Here  an  English  clan  would  seem  to 
have  taken  up  its  abode  in  a  ruined  Roman  station,  and  to  have  called 
the  place  by  the  clan-name — a  rare  or  almost  unparalleled  case.  But  its 
precise  site  is  now  unknown.  However,  Bseda's  description  clearly  points 
to  some  town  in  Nottinghamshire,  situated  on  the  Trent ;  for  St.  Pauli- 
nus  of  York  baptized  large  numbers  of  converts  in  that  river  at  Tiowulf- 
inga ceaster ;  and  the  site  may  therefore  be  confidently  identified  with 
Southwell,  where  St.  Mary's  Minster  has  always  traditionally  claimed 
Paulinus  as  its  founder.  Bseda  also  mentions  a  place  called  Tunna 
ceaster,  so  named  from  an  abbot  Tunna,  who  exists  merely  for  the  sake 
of  a  legend,  and  is  clearly  as  unhistorical  as  his  piratical  compeer  Hrof — a 
wild  guess  of  the  eponymic  sort  with  which  we  are  all  so  familiar  in  Greek 
literature.  Simeon  of  Durham  speaks  of  an  equally  unknown  Delver- 
cester.  Syddena  ceaster  or  Sidna  cester — the  earliest  see  of  the  Lincoln- 
shire diocese — has  likewise  dropped  out  of  human  memory ;  though  Mr. 
Pearson  suggests  that  it  may  be  identical  with  Ancaster — a  notion  which 
appears  to  me  extremely  unlikely.  Wude  cester  is  no  doubt  Outchester, 
and  other  doubtful  instances  might  easily  be  recognised  by  local  anti- 
quaries, though  they  may  readily  escape  the  general  archaeologist.  In 
one  case  at  least — that  of  Othonse  in  Essex — town,  site,  and  name  have 
all  disappeared  together.  Bseda  calls  it  Ythan  ceaster,  and  in  his  time 
it  Avas  the  seat  of  a  monastery  founded  by  St.  Cedd ;  but  the  whole  place 
has  long  since  been  swept  away  by  an  inundation  of  the  Blackwater. 
Anderida,  which  is  called  Andredes-ceaster  in  the  Chronicle,  becomes 
Pefenes-ea,  or  Pevensey,  before  the  date  of  the  Norman  Conquest. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  list  given  here  is  by  any  means  ex- 
haustive of  all  the  Casters  and  Chesters,  past  and  present,  throughout  the 
whole  length  and  breadth  of  Britain.  On  the  contrary,  many  more 
might  easily  be  added,  such  as  Ribbel  ceaster,  now  Ribchester ;  Berne 
ceaster,  now  Bicester;  and  Blsedbyrig  ceaster,  now  simply  Bladbury. 
In  Northumberland  alone,  there  are  a  large  number  of  instances  which 
I  might  have  quoted,  such  as  Rutchester,  Halton  Chesters,  and  Little 
Chesters  on  the  Roman  Wall,  together  with  Hetchester,  Holy  Chesters, 
and  Rochester  elsewhere — the  county  containing  no  less  than  four  places 
of  the  last  name.  Indeed,  one  can  track  the  Roman  roads  across  England 
by  the  Chesters  which  accompany  their  route.  But  enough  instances 
have  probably  been  adduced  to  exemplify  fully  the  general  principles  at 

VOL.    XLV.— NO.  268.  21. 


434  CASTERS  AND  CHESTEES. 

issue.  I  think  it  will  be  clear  that  the  English  conquerors  did  not 
usually  change  the  names  of  Roman  or  Welsh  towns,  but  simply  mis- 
pronounced them  about  as  much  as  we  habitually  mispronounce  Llan- 
gollen  or  Llandudno.  Sometimes  they  called  the  place  by  its  Romanised 
title  alone,  with  the  addition  of  Ceaster ;  sometimes  they  employed  the 
servile  British  form ;  sometimes  they  even  invented  an  English  alterna- 
tive ;  but  in  no  case  can  it  be  shown  that  they  at  once  disused  the  origi- 
nal name,  and  introduced  a  totally  new  one  of  their  own  manufacture. 
In  this,  as  in  all  other  matters,  the  continuity  between  Romano-British 
and  English  times  is  far  greater  than  it  is  generally  represented  to  be. 
The  English  invasion  was  a  cruel  and  a  desolating  [one,  no  doubt ;  but 
it  could  not  and  it  did  not  sweep  away  wholly  the  old  order  of  things, 
or  blot  out  all  the  past  annals  of  Britain,  so  as  to  prepare  a  tabula,  rasa 
on  which  Mr.  Green  might  begin  his  History  of  the  English  People  with 
the  landing  of  Hengest  and  Horsa  in  the  Isle  of  Thanet.  The  English 
people  of  to-day  is  far  more  deeply  rooted  in  the  soil  than  that :  our  an- 
cestors have  lived  here,  not  for  a  thousand  years  alone,  but  for  ten 
thousand  or  a  hundred  thousand,  in  certain  lines  at  least.  And  the 
very  names  of  our  towns,  our  rivers,  and  our  hills,  go  back  in  many 
cases,  not  merely  to  the  Roman  corruptions,  but  to  the  aboriginal  Celtic, 
and  the  still  more  aboriginal  Euskarian  tongue. 

G.  A. 


435 


TWENTY-FOUR   HOURS    WITH   A   NEAPOLITAN    STREET-BOY. 


I. 

IF  you  have  ever  sauntered  along  the  Strada  del  Molo  at  Naples,  you 
can  hardly  have  failed  to  notice  the  mozzonari  who  gather  there  in 
greater  numbers  than  in  any  other  part  of  the  city.  You  frequently 
catch  sight  of  a  single  mozzonare  in  other  places,  it  is  true — lounging  on 
the  steps  of  a  church,  it  may  be,  or  basking  in  the  hottest  corner  of  a 
piazza ;  but  here  is  the  great  centre  of  the  trade  in  old  cigar  ends,  and 
here  its  "  merchants  most  do  congregate  " — as  ragged,  dirty,  an  dunkempt 
a  set  of  little  beggar-boys  as  any  European  city -can  show.  Each  has 
his  stock-in-trade  spread  out  before  him  on  the  sheet  of  an  old  news^ 
paper,  and  carefully  divided  into  little  heaps  of  eight  or  nine  ends  apiece. 
The  lots  have  been  carefully  selected  according  to  the  quality  of  the 
cigars  of  which  they  are  composed,  and  cost  one  soldo  each;  for  the 
mozzonari  are  almost  the  only  Neapolitan  traders  who  have  really  fixed 
prices,  and  with  whom  it  is  useless  to  bargain,  though  even  they  stoop 
to  human  weakness  in  so  far  as  to  keep  a  general  heap  from  which  each 
purchaser  is  allowed  to  select  a  stump. 

Perhaps  you  may  wonder  who  can  be  found  to  buy  such  nasty 
rubbish.  Wait  a  minute  or  two,  and  you  will  see. 

But  first  fix  your  eyes  on  the  boy  who  lounges  at  the  corner  of  the 
road  leading  down  to  the  custom-house  and  the  landing-place.  His  name 
is  Peppiniello,  and  he  is  about  twelve  years  old.  Judging  from  his  face 
you  might  fancy  him  older,  it  wears  in  its  moments  of  rest  so  astute  and 
self-reliant  an  expression ;  but  if  you  looked  at  his  body  you  would  think 
him  at  least  a  year  or  two  younger,  for  a  scanty  diet  has  checked  his 
growth.  Otherwise  his  limbs  are  not  ill-formed.  If  you  watch  him 
while  bathing  in  the  dirty  waters  of  the  harbour,  you  will  be  amazed  at 
their  suppleness  and  activity,  and  also  at  their  leanness.  He  seems  to 
consist  of  nothing  but  skin  and  bone.  "  The  wonder  is,"  as  an  Italian 
shopkeeper  once  remarked  to  me,  "  that  there  should  be  so  much  life  in 
so  little  flesh  !  "  The  whole  of  his  skin  is  of  one  colour,  a  deep  greyish- 
brown  ;  there  is  not  blood  enough  in  the  veins  to  lend  it  the  warmer 
tint  that  the  Venetian  painters  loved.  The  upper  part  of  the  face  is 
well  formed,  and  the  eyes  are  very  bright  and  intelligent ;  the  mouth, 
however,  is  not  only  too  large,  but  there  is  a  precocious  trait  about  it 
of  something  which  generally  appears  to  be  merely  humour,  bxit  at 

21—2 


436  PEPPINIELLO. 

times  looks  unpleasantly  like  cunning.  Still  it  is,  at  the  worst,  a  quick, 
cheerful,  not  unkindly  face,  and  it  would  look  far  better  if  the  hair  were 
not  shorn  so  closely  to  the  head.  In  dress,  Peppiniello  does  not  greatly 
differ  from  his  companions.  His  shirt  is  open  before  and  torn  behind  ; 
his  trousers  are  so  full  of  holes  that  you  wonder  he  should  think  it 
worth  while  to  put  them  on  at  all,  particularly  in  a  town  where  their 
absence  in  a  boy  of  his  age  would  attract  but  little  attention.  He  is 
wiser  than  you,  however,  and  he  knows  that  in  Naples  it  is  only  the 
children  who  have  parents  to  care  for  them  that  can  afford  to  run  about 
in  their  shirts.  He  does  not  look  at  the  nether  article  of  his  dress — at 
least  during  the  summer  months — as  a  matter  either  of  comfort  or 
decency,  but  simply  as  the  badge  of  the  social  position  he  is  desirous  of 
occupying.  In  the  same  light,  too,  he  regards  the  little  round  cap,  of 
nearly  the  same  colour  as  his  skin,  which  seems  to  be  made  of  some 
woollen  material.  I  have  never  been  daring  enough  to  examine  it 
closely.  It  is  rarely  to  be  seen  upon  his  head,  and  its  chief  practical 
purpose  seems  to  be  to  serve  as  an  elbow  cushion. 

At  present  Peppiniello  looks  idle  enough.  He  is  stretched  at  full 
length  upon  the  ground,  watching  a  game  which  two  other  boys  are 
playing  with  peach-stones,  a  natural  substitute  for  marbles ;  but  he  has 
a  keen  eye  for  business,  and  makes  more  money  than  any  of  the  fra- 
ternity. This  his  comrades  attribute  to  his  luck ;  but  it  is  really  the 
result  of  a  number  of  small  observations.  Thus,  more  than  a  year  and 
a  half  ago  he  noticed  that  when  four  or  five  of  them  sat  in  a  row  those 
at  the  two  ends  were  sure  to  sell  their  wares  quickest ;  for  if  the  pur- 
chaser is  in  haste  he  will  buy  of  the  first  that  he  sees,  and  hurry  on  ;  if 
he  is  at  leisure  he  will  probably  inspect  all  the  piles,  and,  finding  them 
pretty  much  alike,  he  will  take  his  tobacco  of  the  last,  in  order  that 
he  may  not  have  to  retrace  his  steps.  Some  months  passed  before  he 
made  a  second  discovery,  namely,  that  the  spot  he  now  occupies  is  the 
best  for  its  purpose  in  all  Naples,  because  the  mechanics  who  pass  along 
the  Strada  del  Molo  are  generally  anxious  to  get  to  or  from  their  work 
as  quickly  as  may  be,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  boatmen  who  return 
from  the  landing-place  have  usually  finished  their  task,  and  have  nothing 
very  particular  to  do.  As  soon  as  he  had  noticed  this,  he  made  a  point 
of  occupying  the  corner  before  any  of  his  comrades  were  astir,  and  he  has 
now  almost  a  prescriptive  right  to  it.  Some  of  his  success  must  also  be 
attributed  to  his  good-nature.  When  his  wares  are  exhausted,  or  there 
is  no  hope  of  custom,  he  is  always  ready  to  run  an  errand  for  the  men 
who  are  working  near.  Sometimes  he  is  rewarded  by  a  crust,  a  slice  of 
cabbage,  or  a  handful  of  fruit,  and  more  rarely  by  a  centesimo  or  two ; 
but  on  such  occasions  he  never  asks  for  anything,  and  those  whom  he 
serves  in  this  way  naturally  repay  him  by  giving  him  their  own  custom 
and  recommending  him  to  their  friends.  In  fact,  he  is  a  favourite  with 
most  of  the  men  who  are  employed  in  the  neighbourhood ;  and  this  is 
useful  to  him  in  more  ways  than  one. 


PEPPINIELLO.  437 

Among  Peppiniello's  other  observations  is  this — that  during  the 
morning  hours  it  is  useless  for  him  to  take  much  trouble  in  recommend- 
ing his  wares.  Those  who  want  old  cigar  ends  will  come  and  buy  them ; 
but  everyone  is  then  too  busy  to  pay  attention  to  his  noise  and  non- 
sense. Later  in  the  day  it  will  be  different — a  joke  may  secure  a 
customer,  or  a  grin  and  a  caper  draw  a  soldo  from  the  pocket  of  some 
foreign  gentleman,  and  Peppiniello  is  as  equal  to  these  as  to  the  other 
requirements  of  his  trade.  But  there  is  a  time  for  everything,  and  at 
present  the  most  brilliant  display  of  his  talents  would  make  no  impression 
on  anyone  but  his  companions,  for  whose  applause  he  does  not  greatly 
care ;  so  he  lies  at  his  ease  with  the  happy  conviction  that  his  own  stock 
is  the  finest  in  this  morning's  market. 

It  consists  of  eleven  piles,  and  a  little  heap  of  foreign  cigar  ends, 
which  are  their  possessor's  great  joy  and  pride,  though  he  is  a  little 
uncertain  as  to  their  exact  market  value.  If  a  sailor  of  luxurious  tastes 
and  reduced  means  happens  to  pass,  he  will  probably  offer  a  good  price 
for  them ;  but  at  present  the  boy  is  not  anxious  to  sell,  for  he  knows 
the  unusual  display  will  attract  customers  for  his  other  wares.  This 
special  heap  is  the  result  of  a  daring  raid  into  the  Grand  Cafe,  which  he 
made  the  other  evening,  and  in  which  his  retreat  was  covered  by  a  party 
of  good-natured  foreigners.  When  he  found  himself  in  safety,  and  ges- 
ticulated his  thanks  from  the  middle  of  the  street,  they  threw  him  a 
soldo  or  two,  and  one  of  them,  supposing  that  an  infantile  craving  for 
the  prohibited  joys  of  tobacco  was  the  cause  of  his  boldness,  added  a 
cigar  which  he  had  only  just  lighted.  There  it  lies  at  the  top  of  the 
sheet  of  paper.  Peppiniello  is  resolved  not  to  part  with  it  for  less  than 
eight  centesimi.  It  must  surely  be  worth  ten,  he  thinks ;  but,  unfor- 
tunately, those  who  are  ready  to  pay  such  a  price  for  a  cigar  usually 
prefer  to  buy  it  in  a  shop. 

But  see,  a  mechanic  in  his  working-dress  pauses  for  a  moment,  lays 
down  two  soldi,  sweeps  up  two  piles,  which  he  wraps  in  a  piece  of  paper, 
and  thrusts  them  into  his  pocket  as  he  walks  on.  The  whole  transaction 
has  been  the  work  of  a  few  seconds,  and  has  not  cost  a  single  word.  The 
next  customer  is  of  a  very  different  type :  he  is  a  fisherman  coming  up 
from  the  landing-place  to  fill  his  morning  pipe.  He  feels  the  deepest 
contempt  and  animosity  for  the  mechanic  on  account  of  his  calling ;  but, 
At  the  same  time,  he  has  a  firm  conviction  that  he  belongs  to  a  class 
which  knows  how  to  cheat  the  devil,  and  that  consequently  it  is  by  no 
means  unadvisable  for  a  good,  simple,  Christian  fisherman  to  take  a  hint 
from  it  in  worldly  matters.  He  has,  consequently,  made  up  his  mind 
as  to  which  of  the  mozzonari  he  will  patronise  long  before  he  reaches 
the  first  of  them  ;  but  that  does  not  prevent  him  inspecting  all  the  other 
papers  with  a  critical,  irresolute  air.  When  he  reaches  Peppiniello,  he 
looks  at  his  wares  with  a  new  expression  of  marked  contempt,  pauses  for 
half  a  minute,  and  then  commences  to  gesticulate.  To  all  his  movements 
Peppiniello  only  replies  by  that  slight  and  peculiar  toss  of  the  head  which 


438  PEPPINIELLO. 

every  Neapolitan  accepts  as  a  final  refusal.  In  fact,  they  have  been 
having  an  animated  discussion,  although  not  a  single  word  has  been 
spoken;  for  the  common  people  of  Naples,  though  ready  enough  with 
their  tongues,  are  fond  of  "  conversing  silently  "  with  each  other — not 
exactly  as  lovers  are  said  to  do,  but  by  means  of  a  perfect  language  of 
signs.  The  fisherman  has  offered,  first  three,  and  then  four  centesimi 
for  a  single  lot,  and  then  nine  centesimi  for  two.  These  offers  have  of 
course  been  refused.  He  knew  from  the  first  that  they  would  be,  for 
any  mozzonare  who  was  observed  to  increase  the  size  of  his  piles,  or 
even  suspected  of  selling  below  the  established  price,  would  not  only  lose 
caste,  but  be  subjected  to  constant  persecution  by  his  comrades ;  but 
then,  as  a  fisherman,  he  feels  he  would  be  outraging  every  feeling  of 
propriety  if  he  were  to  buy  any  article  whatever  without  at  least 
attempting  to  cheapen  it.  It  would  almost  look  as  if  he  wished  to  be 
taken  for  a  signore.  At  last,  with  a  sigh,  he  places  the  exact'price  of 
a  single  pile — which  he  has  all  the  time  been  holding  ready — upon  the 
paper,  and  then,  with  a  most  innocent  expression,  he  stretches  out  his 
hand  to  the  foreign  tobacco  at  the  top  of  the  sheet.  He  knows  that  is 
not  its  price,  and  he  does  not  want  it,  as  he  greatly  prefers  the  Italian 
tobacco  below  :  he  only  wishes  to  show  that  he  is  not  quite  a  fool. 
Peppiniello  gently  pushes  back  his  hand,  draws  a  line  with  his  own 
finger  between  the  upper  and  the  lower  lots,  and  points  to  the  latter. 
He  is  very  careful  not  to  touch  the  money,  as  that  might  lead  to  an 
unpleasant  discussion  with  respect  to  the  exact  amount.  The  fisherman 
now  makes  as  if  he  intended  to  resume  it,  and  purchase  of  the  next 
dealer ;  but,  as  he  sees  Peppiniello  is  still  unmoved,  he  takes  instead  the 
heap  on  which  from  the  first  his  heart  has  been  set,  seizes  the  largest 
cigar  end  in  the  general  pile,  and  moves  off  slowly  till  he  finds  an  empty 
place  on  the  coping  on  which  to  seat  himself.  When  he  feels  quite  com- 
fortable, he  slowly  takes  off  that  peculiar  piece  of  headgear,  which  young 
artists  and  enthusiastic  antiquarians  delight  to  call  Phrygian,  but  which 
to  the  uninitiated  eyes  of  ordinary  mortals  rather  suggests  a  cross  between 
an  overgrown  nightcap  and  a  gouty  stocking ;  from  this,  after  fumbling 
about  in  it  for  a  time,  he  draws  a  red  clay  pipe  with  a  cane  stem,  and  a 
clasp  knife,  and  begins  to  prepare  for  the  enjoyment  of  a  morning  smoke. 
If  you  could  get  near  enough  to  look  into  that  Phrygian  headdress  of  his, 
as  it  lies  there  beside  him,  you  would  probably  find  that  it  still  contains 
a  hunch  of  bread,  half  an  onion,  an  apple,  two  peaches,  a  few  small  fish 
wrapped  up  in  seaweed,  and  a  picture  of  San  Antonio ;  for  the  fisher- 
man's cap  is  not  only  his  purse  and  tobacco-pouch,  but  a  general 
receptacle  for  miscellaneous  articles  of  his  personal  property.  It  is  but 
just  to  add,  however,  that  the  fish  he  carries  in  this  way  is  always 
intended  for  his  own  consumption. 


PEPPINIELLO.  439 


II. 

At  ten  o'clock,  Peppiniello  has  disposed  of  all  his  wares.  As  the  day 
is  hot  he  feels  almost  inclined  to  have  a  swim  in  the  harbour ;  but  he 
sees  no  one  near  with  whom  he  could  safely  deposit  the  eleven  soldi 
which  he  has  made  by  his  morning's  work,  and,  besides,  he  is  hungry,  as 
well  he  may  be,  for  he  has  been  up  since  dawn  and  has  eaten  nothing  yet. 
Where  to  get  a  dinner  ] — that  is  the  question ;  for  it  never  even  occurs 
to  him  that  he  might  spend  a  part  of  his  hard-earned  gains  upon  common 
food,  though  now  and  then,  when  the  times  are  good,  he  will  buy  a  slice 
of  water-melon.  He  would  hardly  feel  justified  in  doing  even  that  to- 
day ;  so,  as  he  rolls  up  the  foreign  tobacco,  which  he  has  not  sold,  in  the 
old  newspaper,  and  places  it  inside  the  breast  of  his  shirt,  which  serves 
all  Neapolitans  of  his  class  as  a  capacious  pocket,  he  revolves  in  his  mind 
the  chances  that  are  open  to  him.  He  knows  he  could  have  what  he 
wants  at  once  by  going  to  the  narrow  street  near  the  Porta  Capuana, 
where  his  father  used  to  live ;  for  there  are  still  several  women  in  the 
neighbourhood  who  remember  his  family,  and  who  would  give  him  a 
crust  of  bread,  a  slice  of  raw  cabbage,  or  a  part  of  whatever  their  own 
dinner  happened  to  be.  But  he  has  noticed  that  the  more  rarely  he 
comes  the  warmer  his  welcome  is  ;  and  he  wishes  to  leave  these  friends 
as  a  last  resource  in  cases  of  the  utmost  need.  Though  it  is  not  the  hour 
during  which  strangers  are  likely  to  be  moving  about,  it  might  be  worth 
while  to  saunter  down  to  Santa  Lucia,  as  there  is  no  saying  what  a 
foreigner  may  not  do,  and,  if  he  is  out,  that  is  the  likeliest  place  to  find 
him.  But  the  children  in  that  district  hold  together,  and  look  upon  him 
as  an  intruder  on  the  hunting-grounds  that  belong  by  right  to  them. 
They  will  crowd  him  out  of  the  circle,  if  possible,  spoil  his  antics,  and 
snatch  the  soldi  out  of  his  very  hand.  Nay,  a  few  weeks  ago,  when  he 
stole  the  purse  from  the  English  gentleman,  they  seemed  half  inclined  to 
betray  him  instead  of  covering  his  retreat.  It  is  true  that,  at  last,  their 
instinctive  hatred  of  law  and  the  police  got  the  better  of  their  local 
jealousy,  and  he  made  his  escape.  In  half-an-hour,  when  he  had  brought 
his  booty  into  safety,  he  returned,  and  invited  the  boys  who  had  helped 
him  into  a  neighbouring  taverna,  where  he  placed  four  litres  of  wine 
before  them.  That  was  the  right  thing  to  do,  and  he  did  it ;  nay,  as  the 
purse  had  contained  nearly  twenty  lire — though  that  he  confessed  to 
nobody — he  even  added  a  kilo  of  bread  to  the  repast.  Since  then  he  has 
enjoyed  a  half- unwilling  respect  in  that  quarter.  But  Peppiniello  is  not 
the  boy  to  forget  their  hesitation,  which  seems  to  him  the  basest  of 
treachery.  Besides,  their  manners  disgust  him.  It  is  right  enough  that 
boys  should  cut  capers,  and  make  grimaces,  and  beg,  and  steal ;  but  it  is 
indecent  for  girls  of  eleven  or  twelve  to  do  so.  If  he  has  a  contempt  for 
anything  in  the  world,  it  is  for  those  girls  and  their  relations.  No ;  he 
will  not  go  to  Santa  Lucia. 


440  PEPPINIELLO. 

So  he  turns  up  one  of  the  dark  narrow  ways  that  lead  away  from  the 
Porto,  looking  wistfully  into  every  taverna  that  he  passes.  Most  of  them 
are  empty.  In  some  a  single  workman  is  sitting,  with  a  small  piece  of 
bread  and  one  glass  of  wine  before  him,  or  half-a-dozen  have  clubbed 
together  to  buy  a  loaf  and  a  bottle.  Peppiniello  knows  it  is  useless  to 
beg  of  these — they  have  little  enough  to  stay  their  own  appetites.  "Ah  ! " 
thinks  he,  who,  like  all  his  class,  is  a  bitter  enemy  of  the  present  govern- 
ment— perhaps  only  because  it  is  the  government — "  it  was  different  in 
good  King  Ferdinand's  days,  when  bread  only  cost  four  soldi  the  kilo,  and 
wine  seven  centesimi  the  litre.  Then,  they  say,  if  a  hungry  beggar-boy 
could  find  a  workman  at  his  dinner,  he  was  sure  of  a  crust  and  a  sup ; 
but  how  can  they  give  anything  now,  with  bread  at  eight  and  wine  at 
twelve  soldi  ?  "  At  last  he  sees  what  appears  to  be  a  well-dressed  man, 
sitting  at  the  further  end  of  the  low,  dark  room.  He  slips  in  in  a 
moment,  and  stands  before  him  making  that  movement  of  the  forefinger 
and  thumb  to  the  mouth  by  which  Neapolitan  beggars  express  their 
hunger.  The  man  cuts  off  a  small  fragment  of  his  bread  and  gives  it 
him.  Now  Peppiniello  is  near,  he  can  see  by  the  pinched  face  and  bright 
eyes  of  the  man  that  he,  too,  has  nothing  to  spare.  He  is  almost  ashamed 
of  having  begged  of  him ;  but  he  munches  the  bread  as  he  goes  along.  It 
is  such  a  little  piece  that  it  seems  only  to  make  him  hungrier.  He  hardly 
knows  what  to  do ;  so  he  sits  down  on  a  doorstep  to  reflect. 

He  knows  an  English  ship  came  into  port  last  night.  The  chance  is 
that  some  of  the  sailors  are  ashore.  If  he  could  find  them,  they  would 
very  likely  give  him  something,  and  he  fancies  he  can  guess  pretty  nearly 
where  they  are;  but  then — to  tell  the  truth — he  is  afraid.  Such  sailors, 
it  is  true,  have  never  shown  him  anything  but  kindness ;  but  who  knows 
what  they  may  do  ?  They  are  so  strong  and  rough,  and  have  no  respect 
for  anything.  He  looks  upon  them  as  he  does  on  the  forces  of  nature, 
as  something  entirely  capricious,  incalculable,  and  uncontrollable.  They 
threw  him  a  handful  of  soldi  the  other  day ;  perhaps  to-day  they  may 
throw  him  out  of  the  window.  The  people  say  they  are  not  even 
Christians.  Who  can  tell  ?  Yet  surely  the  Madonna  must  have  power 
over  them  too ;  and  he  is  very  hungry.  So  he  rises,  and  turns  once 
more  in  the  direction  of  the  Porto,  murmuring  a  Paternoster  and  an 
Ave,  with  eyes  in  the  meantime  perfectly  open  to  any  other  chance  of 
provender. 

He  goes  to  one,  two,  three  of  the  houses  they  are  likely  to  frequent, 
and  convinces  himself  they  are  not  there.  At  last  he  hears  them  in  the 
front  room  of  the  first  story  of  the  fourth.  It  is  the  very  worst  house 
for  his  purpose  that  they  could  have  chosen ;  for  the  hostess  is  a  very — 
well,  I  know  no  English  word  which  would  not  be  degraded  if  applied 
to  her.  She  looks  upon  all  the  money  in  the  pockets  of  her  guests  up- 
stairs as  already  her  own,  and  naturally  resents  any  new  claim  upon  it, 
however  small.  Peppiniello  knows  her  well ;  but  he  has  not  come  thus 
far  to  be  turned  back  at  last  bv  fear  of  an  old  woman.  He  saunters 


PEPPINIELLO.  441 

carelessly  and  yet  wearily  into  the  street,  and  seats  himself  on  the  step 
opposite  the  door  of  the  locanda,  leans  his  head  upon  his  arm,  and  finally 
stretches  himself  at  full  length.  Any  passer  would  fancy  him  asleep ;  in 
fact,  he  is  on  the  watch.  He  knows  his  only  chance  is  to  wait  till  the 
lower  room  and,  if  possible,  the  kitchen  behind  it,  are  empty,  and  then 
make  a  dart  for  the  staircase.  He  lies  there  for  more  than  half-an-hour. 
At  last  the  cook  is  sent  out  to  fetch  something,  as  it  seems  from  a  dis- 
tance ;  for  he  takes  his  coat  and  hat.  The  hostess  stands  at  a  table  at 
the  back  of  the  front  room,  with  a  tray  of  grog-glasses  before  her  which 
are  half  full  of  spirits.  In  a  moment  more  the  scullion  comes  with  a 
kettle  of  boiling  water,  which  he  pours  into  the  glasses  while  the  hostess 
stirs  them.  By  some  accident  a  drop  or  two  falls  upon  her  hand  ;  she 
says  nothing,  but  simply  wipes  it  with  a  cloth  beside  her.  As  soon, 
however,  as  the  last  glass  is  full,  and  the  scullion  has  taken  two  steps 
away  from  the  table,  she  gives  him  such  a  cuff  as  sends  him  flying  to  the 
other  end  of  the  kitchen,  with  the  scalding  water  streaming  down  his 
legs.  Of  course  there  is  a  howl.  He,  at  least,  is  not  likely  to  take 
much  notice  of  anything  at  present.  The  hostess  quietly  takes  up  the 
tray,  puts  on  a  bland  smile,  and  mounts  the  stairs.  This  is  Peppiniello's 
chance.  He  lets  her  ascend  three  or  four  steps,  and  then,  with  a  spring 
as  stealthy  as  a  cat's,  he  follows  her.  His  bare  feet  fall  noiselessly,  and 
he  steals  up  so  close  behind  her  that  there  is  no  chance  of  her  seeing  him, 
even  if  she  should  turn,  which  she  can  hardly  do,  as  the  stairs  are  narrow 
and  she  has  the  tray  in  her  hand.  When  she  reaches  the  landing,  she 
stops  to  place  her  burden  on  a  table,  in  order  that  she  may  open  the 
door;  Peppiniello  at  once  springs  forward,  and  enters  without  being 
announced,  satisfied  so  far  with  his  success,  but  by  no  means  certain 
that  he  may  not  have  sprung  out  of  the  frying-pan  into  the  fire. 

Round  a  table  which  is  strewed  with  the  remnants  of  what  seems  to 
have  been  a  sumptuous  though  rather  coarse  meal,  six  sailors  are  seated 
in  company  not  of  the  most  respectable. 

Peppiniello  knows  that  boldness  is  now  his  only  hope,  for  if  the  hostess 
can  catch  hold  of  him  before  he  has  attracted  the  men's  attention  he  will 
certainly  fly  down  the  stairs  much  more  quickly  than  he  ascended  them. 
So  he  advances  at  once,  and  with  a  low  bow  and  a  grin  makes  the  gesture 
that  indicates  his  hunger. 

"  What  does  the  young  devil  mean  1 "  asks  one  of  the  men  in  very 
imperfect  Italian. 

"  He  only  wants  some  of  the  broken  bread,"  replies  a  girl,  throwing 
him  half  a  loaf. 

Peppiniello  springs  into  the  air,  catches  it  halfway,  makes  a  gesture 
of  the  wildest  joy,  and  then,  with  a  face  of  preternatural  gravity,  bows 
his  thanks  and  stands  like  a  soldier  on  parade.  The  men  are  amused, 
and  soon  all  the  bread  upon  the  table  is  stowed  away  within  his  shirt. 
This  gives  him  a  strange  appearance,  as  the  slender  arms  and  legs  form  a 
striking  contrast  to  the  enormous  trunk.  He  at  once  sees  his  advantage. 


442  PEPPINIELLO. 

and  proceeds  to  contort  his  face  and  limbs  in  a  way  that  makes  him 
appear  hardly  human.  Shouts  of  laughter  follow,  and  one  of  the  girls 
hands  him  a  glass  of  wine.  Meanwhile  the  grog  has  been  placed  on  the 
table  and  the  men  have  lighted  their  pipes.  One  pulls  out  an  Italian 
cigar,  but  after  the  first  whiff  he  throws  it  away  with  a  curse,  declaring 
that  it  is  made  of  a  mixture  of  rotten  cabbage-leaves  and  india-rubber. 
Peppiniello  seizes  it  almost  before  it  falls,  seats  himself  in  a  corner,  and 
begins  to  puff  away  with  an  expression  of  the  most  luxurious  enjoyment. 

"  What,  you  smoke,  do  you,  you  little  imp  of  hell  1  You'd  better 

take  the  whole  lot  of  them,  for  I'll  be  d d  if  any  human  being  can 

smoke  them." 

The  words  are  spoken  in  English,  and  Peppiniello  can  hardly  believe 
his  eyes  when  a  parcel  of  cigars  comes  flying  across  the  room  into  his  lap. 

"  Ask  him  if  his  mother  knows  he's  out,"  says  one  of  the  men.  His 
companion  puts  the  question  into  such  Italian  as  he  can  command.  One 
of  the  girls  repeats  it  in  the  Neapolitan  dialect,  and  explains  Peppiniello's 
answer,  which  is  then  translated  into  English  for  the  benefit  of  the  male 
part  of  the  company. 

"  I  have  no  mother." 

"His  father,  then?" 

"  I  have  no  father." 

"  How  does  he  live,  then  ?" 

"  How  I  can." 

"  Ask  him  if  he'll  come  aboard  with  us ;  and  tell  him  we'll  make  a 
man  of  him." 

"  What  would  my  sisters  do  then  ? " 

"  How  many  sisters  has  he  ? " 

"Four." 

"How  old?" 

"  One  a  year  older  and  three  younger  than  I  am,  and  they  have  no- 
body in  the  world  to  take  care  of  them  but  me." 

The  idea  of  that  little  monkey  being  the  father  of  a  family  is  too 
comic  not  to  excite  a  laugh,  yet  there  is  something  pathetic  in  it.  None 
of  the  girls  believe  the  tale  ;  but  if  questioned  by  their  companions  they 
would  all  assert  a  firm  conviction  of  its  truth.  Nay,  one  or  two  of 
them  would  probably  say  they  were  personally  acquainted  with  all  the 
facts  of  the  case. 

"  It's  all  a  d d  lie,  of  course,"  says  another  of  the  men ;  "  but  it 

don't  matter,"  and  he  throws  the  boy  a  two-soldi  piece.  The  other  sailors 
follow  his  example. 

Peppiniello  gathers  up  his  riches.  He  feels  that  it  is  time  for  him  to 
withdraw,  but  he  knows  the  landlady  is  waiting  below  with  a  stick,  and 
that  she  purposes  first  to  beat  him  as  unmercifully  as  she  can,  then  to 
rob  him  of  all  that  has  been  given  him,  and  finally  to  kick  him  into  the 
street.  He  is  afraid  that  even  his  morning's  earnings  will  go  with  the 
rest  of  his  gains.  It  is  not  a  pleasant  prospect.  Fortunately  for  him 


PEPPINIELLO.  443 

the  girls  at  the  table  know  all  this  as  well  as  he  does.  One  of  them 
whispers  a  word  or  two  to  her  companion,  rises,  beckons  slightly  to  the 
boy,  and  goes  downstairs.  He  makes  a  silent  bow  to  the  company  and 
slinks  after  her,  but  when  they  reach  the  lower  room  she  takes  him  by 
the  hand  and  leads  him  to  the  street  door  amid  a  perfect  storm  of  abuse 
from  the  landlady,  who,  however,  does  not  venture  to  give  any  more 
practical  expression  to  her  rage. 

"  Now  run,  you  little  devil,  run  ! " 

Peppiniello  only  pauses  for  a  single  moment  to  raise  the  girl's  hand 
gently  to  his  lips,  and  before  half  a  minute  is  past  he  has  put  a  dozen 
corners  between  himself  and  the  scene  of  his  adventure. 

But  the  girl  turns  and  faces  the  infuriated  hostess.  "  What  harm 
has  the  boy  done  you  1"  she  says  quietly.  "  If  the  gentlemen  upstairs 
had  been  angry  I  could  understand  it,  but  they  were  amused.  What 
harm  has  he  done  you  ? " 

The  hostess  is  rather  cowed  by  the  girl's  manner,  and  she  replies  in 
an  almost  whining  tone,  "  All  that  bread  he  has  robbed  me  of — is  that 
nothing  ? " 

"Why.  what  can  you  do  with  broken  bread1?" 

"  Sell  it  to  the  poor." 

The  girl's  form  assumes  a  sudden  dignity  ;  she  feels  that  this  woman 
has  sunk  far  below  her,  and  her  voice  is  very  low  but  very  biting  as  she 
says,  "  Donna  Estere,  you  are  as  hard  and  wicked  as  a  Piedmontese. 
If  you  speak  another  word  I  will  never  enter  your  house  again,  but  take 
all  my  friends  over  there,"  and  she  moves  her  head  slightly  in  the  direc- 
tion of  a  rival  establishment. 

This  is  a  threat  that  Donna  Estere  cannot  afford  to  disregard,  but 
she  is  still  too  excited  to  be  able  to  fawn  on  the  girl  and  flatter  her  as 
she  will  in  half  an  hour's  time.  So  she  retires  silently  into  the  kitchen, 
to  vent  her  rage  first  in  abusing  and  then  in  beating  the  scullion. 

III. 

When  Peppiniello  feels  himself  well  out  of  the  reach  of  danger,  he  draws 
out  a  piece  of  bread  and  eats  it  greedily  as  he  walks  slowly  in  the  direc- 
tion of  his  father's  old  home.  He  has  not  gone  far  before  he  sees  another 
boy  of  his  own  class  seated  in  a  doorway  and  dining  off  a  raw  cabbage 
head  and  two  onions.  Peppiniello  squats  down  opposite,  and  by  way  of 
beginning  a  conversation  he  remarks  in  a  friendly  tone  that  the  cabbage 
doesn't  look  very  fresh.  The  owner  of  the  maligned  vegetable  replies 
that  he  pulled  it  that  very  morning  in  his  uncle's  garden,  and  adds  that 
he  is  sorry  for  boys  who  are  obliged  to  dine  off  stale  bread.  This  gives 
rise  to  an  animated  discussion,  which  in  about  five  minutes  leads  to  the 
exchange  of  a  thick  slice  of  cabbage  and  half  an  onion  for  a  piece  of 
bread.  Each  now  feels  that  he  is  dining  sumptuously,  and  in  order  to 
remove -any  unpleasant  impression  that  may  have  been  left  on  his  neigh- 


444  PEPPIXIELLO. 

hour's  mind,  he  praises  the  provisions  he  has  just  received  at  least  as 
warmly  as  he  before  disparaged  them.  The  stranger  then  gives  a  glow- 
ing description  of  his  uncle's  garden,  which,  by  his  account,  must  cer- 
tainly be  the  most  remarkable  estate  ever  possessed  by  a  violent  and 
eccentric  old  gentleman,  whose  only  weakness  is  a  doting  fondness  for 
his  nephew.  Peppiniello  has  his  own  doubts  as  to  the  existence  of  that 
earthly  paradise,  but  he  is  far  too  polite  to  express  any.  In  his  turn  he 
relates  how  his  father  went  to  sea  a  year  and  a  half  ago  and  was,  as  they 
thought,  lost,  and  how  they  mourned  for  him,  and  how  that  very  morn- 
ing his  aunt  had  received  a  letter  stating  that  he  had  married  a  great 
heiress  in  Palermo,  and  was  going  to  return  to  Naples  in  a  few  weeks. 

"Ah,  won't  your  stepmother  just  beat  you  !"  says  the  stranger,  in  a 
tone  which  implies  that  he  could  quite  enter  into  the  fun  of  the 
operation. 

"  Ah,  but  she  can't ! "  replies  Peppiniello.  "  That's  the  best  of  it. 
She's  only  one  leg ;  the  other's  a  wooden  one,  but  they  say  it's  stuffed 
full  of  good  French  gold  pieces." 

And  so,  having  finished  his  meal,  he  proceeds  upon  his  way,  ponder- 
ing upon  what  to  do  with  the  fortune  he  has  so  unexpectedly  invented 
for  himself.  The  stranger,  as  he  saunters  in  the  opposite  direction,  con- 
siders the  important  question  whether  a  ferocious  miser  of  an  uncle  who 
can  refuse  nothing  to  his  single  pet,  or  a  stepmother  with  a  wooden  leg 
stuffed  with  gold  pieces,  is  the  most  desirable  imaginary  possession  for  a 
little  street-boy  of  limited  means. 

Peppiniello  at  last  reaches  a  small  tobacco-shop  at  the  corner  of  a 
narrow  close.  "  Good  day,  Donna  Amalia,"  he  says  as  he  enters. 

"  What,  Peppiniello  !  you  here  again,  and  dinner's  over,  and  I  don't 
believe  there's  a  bite  left  in  the  house."  Her  tone  is  rough,  but  she  turns 
with  the  evident  intention  of  searching  her  larder. 

"  Thank  you  ;  I've  eaten  to-day.  I  only  want  to  ask  you  to  take  care 
of  this  for  me  till  the  evening ; "  and  he  heaps  the  bread  upon  the  counter. 

"  "What,  ten  pieces ;  you  have  had  luck  to-day ! " 

"  And  here  are  some  cigars.  Will  you  sell  them  for  me  ?  Of  course 
I  should  not  expect  the  full  price." 

It  goes  rather  against  Donna  Amalia's  conscience  to  refuse  any  lawful 
profit  that  may  fall  in  her  way  ;  but  she  remembers  that  the  boy  is  an 
orphan,  and  that  the  Virgin  has  a  way  of  rewarding  those  who  are  pitiful 
to  such. 

"  Well,  let  me  see  them.  Yes,  they  are  whole.  They  cost,  you  know, 
eight  centesimi  apiece;  that  makes  fourteen  soldi  and  two  centesimi. 
There  it  is,"  and  she  pays  him  the  whole  sum.  She  has  no  doubt  in  her 
own  mind  that  she  is  receiving  stolen  goods,  but  no  one  can  identify  a 
cigar,  and  it  is  no  business  oi  hers,  so  she  asks  no  questions.  Peppiniello 
puts  it  together  with  the  rest,  and  then  commits  the  whole  to  her  care. 
She  counts  over  the  sum  with  him  very  carefully,  wraps  it  in  a  piece  of 
paper,  and  places  it  on  a  shelf  in  the  inside  room  beside  the  bread.  He 


PEPPINIELLO.  445 

has  already  bidden  her  good-bye,  and  is  passing  out  of  the  shop,  when 
she  calls  him  back. 

"  You  will  never  be  able  to  eat  all  that  bread  while  it  is  fresh." 

"  It  is  quite  at  your  service,  Donna  Amalia ; "  but  there  is  something 
in  the  eyes  that  contradicts  the  tone  and  the  words. 

"  Nay,  boy,  I  don't  want  to  beg  your  bread  of  you ;  but  look  here, 
these  three  pieces  are  as  good  as  when  they  came  from  the  baker's.  If 
you  like,  I  will  take  them  to-day,  and  give  you  new  bread  for  them  to- 
morrow." 

"A  thousand  thanks,  but  let  it  be  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  Yery  well." 

He  is  really  grateful  to  the  rough  kind  woman,  but  he  does  not  kiss 
her  hand.  That  one  only  does  to  people  of  a  higher  social  class,  and  he 
does  not  feel  so  very  much  below  Donna  Amalia. 

It  is  now  more  than  time  for  the  mid-day  sleep,  so  Peppiniello  retires 
into  a  doorway  where  the  stones  are  pretty  smooth,  and  there  is  no 
danger  of  the  sunshine  stealing  in  to  waken  him.  He  does  not  go  to 
sleep  so  quickly  as  usual,  perhaps  because  he  has  dined  better ;  and  as  he 
reviews  the  events  of  the  morning  he  comes  to  the  conclusion  that  it  is 
his  duty  to  go  to  mass  next  morning,  to  return  thanks  for  his  deliverance 
from  danger.  He  has  no  doubt  that  it  was  the  Madonna  who  saved 
him  from  Donna  Estere,  and  it  never  occurs  to  him  that  she  chose  rather 
a  strange  messenger.  Then  he  begins  to  consider  on  what  numbers  he 
had  better  set  in  this  week's  lotto.  He  is  rather  doubtful  of  his  luck, 
for  he  has  lost  six  of  the  francs  he  found  in  the  purse  in  that  way.  How 
he  wishes  he  could  dream  of  numbers,  but  somehow  he  never  does.  The 
priests  of  course  know  them  all,  for  they  are  learned,  but  they  are  bound 
by  a  vow  not  to  impart  their  knowledge  to  anyone ;  yet  they  say  that 
sometimes  a  monk  will  whisper  the  sacred  secret  to  a  friend.  Surely 
they  ought  to  do  so,  if  only  to  be  revenged  on  the  government  who  has 
turned  them  out  of  their  monasteries.  Peppiniello  resolves  to  be  very 
polite  to  all  monks  in  future.  If  he  could  read,  he  would  try  and  get 
hold  of  one  of  those  wonderful  books  which  explain  things  so  well  you 
can  hardly  dream  of  anything  without  finding  the  number  it  signifies  in 
them.  Well,  this  time  he  will  set  upon  32,  the  number  of  Donna 
Estere's  house,  and  upon  12,  for  there  were  twelve  guests  at  table.  Fate 
will  doubtless  give  him  another  number  before  the  time  for  playing  comes 
round.  Pondering  these  things,  he  falls  asleep. 

It  is  later  than  usual  when  he  awakens,  and  he  sees  with  some  con- 
sternation how  low  the  sun  has  already  sunk.  He  has  missed  the  best 
early  harvest  for  old  cigar  ends,  which  is  at  its  height  at  two  o'clock, 
when  the  gentlemen  who  have  lunched  and  smoked  return  to  their  places 
of  business.  He  must  make  haste  or  he  will  have  nothing  for  the  even- 
ing market  and  miss  that  too.  So  he  hastens  off  to  the  railway  station, 
picking  up  here  and  there  a  bit  of  merchandise  by  the  way.  He  is  not 
lucky  even  there,  though  a  good-natured  porter  lets  him  slip  into  the 


446  PEPPINIELLO. 

waiting  room,  which  is  empty  for  the  moment ;  and  on  his  way  to  the 
Porto,  which  he  chooses  to  take  through  the  narrow  streets  and  not  by 
the  most  frequented  road,  he  walks  slowly,  as  if  in  doubt.  At  last  he 
sits  down  and  counts  over  his  scanty  gleanings  with  a  look  that  says 
plainly  enough,  "  They  won't  do."  So  he  turns  once  more  away  from 
the  Porto,  and  after  climbing  two  or  three  streets  at  rather  a  rapid  pace, 
he  reaches  the  corner  of  one  in  which  a  poverty-stricken  cafe  is  situated. 
Then  his  whole  manner  changes  ;  he  assumes  an  indolent  but  merry  air, 
and  begins  to  sing  a  Neapolitan  song.  The  threadbare  waiter  who 
is  sitting  at  the  door  hails  him  with  a  loud  jest,  and  then  asks  in  a  low 
voice, — "  Don't  you  want  any  cigar-ends  to-day  1 " 

11  Well,  I  hardly  know.  I  have  such  a  large  stock,  and  I  sell  so  few: 
but  let  me  see  them." 

They  enter  the  empty  cafe"  together,  and  the  treasure  is  displayed. 

"  What  do  you  want  for  them  ? " 

"  What  will  you  give — four  soldi  1 " 

"  Not  two  for  that  lot,"  says  the  boy  contemptuously. 

A  discussion  of  course  follows,  and  Peppiniello  finally  agrees  to  give 
two  soldi,  but  only  that  he  may  not  lose  the  waiter's  friendship  and 
patronage.  The  tobacco  he  still  insists  is  not  worth  the  price. 

"  And  when  am  I  to  be  paid  ?" 

"  To-night,  if  I  sell  enough." 

He  resumes  his  indolent  walk  and  his  song,  which  he  continues  till 
lie  reaches  the  end  of  the  street,  when  he  quickens  his  pace  and  leaves  off 
singing.  Both  parties  are  rather  ashamed  of  this  transaction.  The  waiter 
knows  he  has  been  acting  meanly,  and  the  boy,  who  looks  upon  all  cigar- 
ends  as  the  rightful  property  of  the  mozzonari,  feels  he  has  been  put 
upon.  It  is  only  in  extreme  cases  like  to-day's  that  he  will  submit  to  this. 
In  fact,  this  perfectly  legitimate  purchase,  by  which  he  is  sure  of  making 
a  large  profit,  weighs  on  his  conscience  far  more  heavily  than  any  of  his 
thefts.  Hence  each  is  sure  of  the  other's  secrecy. 

As  Peppiniello  turns  again  in  the  direction  of  the  Porto,  he  fancies 
that  some  misfortune  is  sure  to  overtake  him  shortly,  for  he  feels  he 
has  deserved  a  punishment,  and  only  hopes  the  avenging  powers  will  lay 
it  on  with  a  light  hand.  So  when  he  finds  a  perfect  stranger  to  the 
whole  company  of  mozzonari — a  great  hulking  youth  of  some  fifteen 
years — has  taken  possession  of  his  place,  he  looks  upon  it  as  the  result 
of  their  immediate  interposition,  but  this  does  not  make  him  feel  any  the 
more  inclined  to  bear  it  patiently.  Besides,  he  knows  that  if  he  gives 
way  now  his  favourite  seat  is  lost  for  ever.  Accordingly  he  utters  an 
indignant  protest,  which  calls  forth  a  contemptuous  answer.  An  angry 
altercation  follows,  in  which  sufficiently  strong  language  is  used  on  both 
sides.  A  boatman  passing  up  from  the  landing-place  soon  puts  an  end 
to  the  situation  by  first  pushing  the  youth  to  a  distance  of  some  yards 
and  then  tossing  his  wares  after  him.  This  being  done,  he  passes  on, 
fully  satisfied  that  he  has  been  performing  an  act  of  justice,  for  he  knows 


PEPPINIELLO.  447 

Peppiniello  does  usually  sit  there,  and  then  his  opponent  is  old  enough 
to  gain  his  living  in  some  other  way.  The  sale  of  old  cigar  ends  is  work 
that  children  can  do,  and  so  it  ought  to  be  left  to  them. 

Peppiniello  quietly  takes  his  old  seat,  from  which  the  new-comer 
does  not  venture  to  expel  him  by  force — he  has  evidently  too  powerful 
allies ;  so  he  crouches  down  at  a  distance  of  a  few  yards  in  front  of  him, 
and  covers  him  with  every  term  of  abuse.  Hitherto  the  language, 
though  strong,  has  been  confined  within  the  wide  limits  of  what  the 
lower  class  Neapolitans  consider  decent,  or  at  least  tolerable ;  now  the 
vilest  and  most  offensive  terms  which  their  unusually  expressive  dialect 
furnishes  are  freely  used.  At  first  the  boy  gives  epithet  for  epithet,  but 
then  he  falls  silent,  his  eyes  dilate,  his  lips  tighten,  his  right  hand  is 
fumbling  inside  his  shirt. 

"  You  son  of  a  priest." 

The  words  are  scarcely  uttered,  when  the  boy's  knife  is  unclasped, 
and,  with  a  spring  as  sudden  and  unexpected  as  a  cat's,  he  has  flown  at  his 
enemy's  throat. 

Fortunately  for  both,  a  well-dressed  man  has  been  silently  watching 
the  scene,  and  with  a  motion  as  quick  as  Peppiniello's  he  has  seized  the 
boy,  clasping  his  body  with  his  right  arm  and  grasping  the  knife  with 
his  left  hand.  Another  moment,  and  a  hearty  kick  has  sent  the  intruder 
sprawling  upon  the  stones.  The  latter  gathers  up  first  himself  and  then 
his  wares,  and  goes  off  muttering  threats  and  curses.  A  single  glance  at 
his  face,  however,  is  sufficient  to  show  that  he  will  never  venture  to 
interfere  with  Peppiniello  again. 

"  If  you  had  ever  seen  the  inside  of  a  prison,  my  boy,"  says  the  man 
whose  intervention  has  just  been  so  opportune,  "  you  would  not  run  the 
risk  of  being  sent  there  for  such  a  foul-mouthed  fool  as  that ;  nor,"  he 
adds  in  a  voice  that  none  but  the  child  in  his  arms  can  hear — "  nor  for  a 
purse  either,  even  if  it  did  contain  twenty  lire ; "  and  so  he  pushes  him 
with  apparent  roughness,  but  real  gentleness,  back  into  his  place. 

Peppiniello  stretches  himself  at  full  length.  His  face  is  on  the 
ground  and  covered  by  his  two  arms,  his  whole  body  is  still  quivering, 
but  his  protector  sees  at  a  glance  that  it  is  only  with  subsiding  rage,  so 
he  passes  on  as  if  nothing  particular  had  happened.  When  he  returns  in 
an  hour's  time  the  boy  is  jesting  merrily  with  his  comrades ;  but  his 
quick  eyes  catch  the  approaching  form,  he  draws  back  into  his  corner, 
and  whispers  with  a  downbent  head,  "  Thank  you,  Don  Antonio." 

Don  Antonio,  if  that  is  his  name,  takes  no  notice ;  he  does  not  even 
cast  a  passing  glance  at  the  scene  of  the  late  conflict. 

IV. 

At  about  eight  o'clock,  Peppiniello  resolves  to  give  up  business  for 
that  evening.  It  is  true  the  market  is  at  its  height,  and  he  has  not  yet 
sold  more  than  half  his  wares,  but  he  will  want  a  new  supply  to-morrow, 
and  the  best  time  for  gathering  it  has  now  begun.  To-night,  too,  he 


448  PEPPINIELLQ. 

must  make  good  use  of  his  time,  for  he  will  have  to  return  home  earlier 
than  usual,  as  Donna  Amalia  goes  to  bed  between  eleven  and  twelve. 
He  turns  in  the  direction  of  San  Carlo,  and  walks  slowly  past  the  small 
theatres,  picking  up  what  he  can  by  the  way,  till  he  reaches  the  garden 
gate  of  the  palace,  over  which  he  throws  a  two-centesimo  piece,  with  a 
hardly  perceptible  motion  of  his  hand,  and  without  turning  his  head. 
On  each  side  stands  a  colossal  bronze  statue  of  a  man  governing  an 
unruly  horse.  The  Emperor  Nicholas  of  Russia  sent  them  as  a  present 
to  King  Ferdinand  after  his  return  from  Italy,  and  they  were  supposed 
by  the  Italian  liberals  of  those  days  to  convey  a  delicate  hint  as  to  what 
the  Autocrat  of  the  North  considered  the  true  principles  of  government. 
Of  all  this  Peppiniello  of  course  knows  nothing ;  but  the  stalwart  forms 
have  made  a  deep  impression  on  his  imagination,  and  he  has  invented 
this  strange  way  of  paying  his  adoration  to  them.  He  does  not  number 
them  with  the  saints,  still  less  has  he  any  intention  of  paying  them 
divine  honours.  What  he  attributes  to  them  is  great,  though  by  no 
means  unlimited,  power,  and  some  such  capricious  goodwill  to  himself  as 
the  boatmen  frequently  show.  He  is  not  given  to  analysis,  and  he  sees 
no  contradiction  between  this  worship  and  the  rest  of  his  religious  creed ; 
indeed,  the  bronze  statues  fill  a  place  that  would  otherwise  be  left  vacant 
in  his  pantheon.  He  looks  upon  them  as  leading  strong  joyous  lives  of 
their  own,  and  caring  on  the  whole  very  little  for  human  affairs,  though 
he  thinks  they  must  be  somewhat  pleased  by  sincere  devotion.  At  best 
they  are  only  good-natured,  not  good  ;  and  so  they  stand  far  below  the 
saints,  whose  whole  time  is  spent  in  acts  of  graciousness  and  pity.  But 
then  you  cannot  call  upon  the  saints  to  help  you  in  committing  what 
the  Church  calls  a  sin,  though  doubtless  they  will  often  save  you  from 
its  consequences.  With  respect  to  the  two  bronze  figures,  he  has  no 
such  scruples,  for  he  is  convinced  that  their  moral  code  is  no  more  strin- 
gent than  his  own.  So  he  called  upon  them  when  the  children  at  Santa 
Lucia  seemed  inclined  to  abandon  him  to  the  police,  and  we  know  how 
well  he  got  out  of  that  scrape.  Nevertheless,  he  keeps  his  irreligious 
faith  a  profound  secret,  partly  from  a  fear  of  ridicule,  no  doubt,  but 
partly  also  because  he  has  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  the  objects  of  it  are 
more  likely  to  pay  attention  to  his  prayers  if  the  number  of  their  wor- 
shippers remains  strictly  limited. 

Peppiniello  now  sets  to  work  in  good  earnest,  and  by  twelve  o'clock 
he  has  collected  an  ample  stock-in-trade,  paid  the  waiter  the  two  soldi 
he  owed  him,  and  received  his  bread  and  money  from  Donna  Amalia. 
He  now  turns  homewards.  It  is  a  long  way,  but  he  only  pauses  to  buy 
two  slices  of  water-melon  at  a  stall,  and  these  he  carries  in  his  hand  until 
he  reaches  a  small  open  court  at  the  mouth  of  a  cavern,  where  a  number 
of  women  are  seated  to  enjoy  as  much  of  the  freshness  of  the  night  as  the 
high  walls  of  the  neighbouring  houses  will  allow.  He  gives  a  sharp 
whistle,  and  immediately  a  girl  hastens  towards  him.  You  can  see  at  a 
glance  that  she  is  Peppiniello's  sister.  Her  name  is  Concetta,  and  she  is 


PEPPINIELLO.  449 

about  thirteen  years  old,  though  a  Northerner  would  probably  think  her 
a  year  and  a  half  older.  Her  complexion  is  sallower  than  her  brother's, 
her  eyes  are  very  bright,  and  her  black  hair,  which  is  tied  in  a  rough 
wisp  round  her  head,  has  been  burnt  and  bleached  by  exposure  till  the 
surface  coil  is  almost  brown.  With  a  little  care  it  might  be  made  to 
look  well,  but  it  has  never  been  brushed  since  her  mother's  death,  and  is 
rarely  combed  more  than  once  a  week.  Her  dress  is  decent,  but  it  has 
been  patched  in  many  places  with  different  materials,  and  she  is  far 
dirtier  than  Peppiniello,  to  whom  custom  allows  the  luxury  of  sea-bath- 
ing. Still  there  is  a  great  deal  of  intelligence,  some  kindness,  and  not  a 
little  care  in  her  look.  Yet  at  times  she  can  break  into  wild  fits  of 
merriment,  and  dance  the  tarantella  with  all  the  wild  passion  of  a 
bacchanal.  She  seldom  does  that,  however,  when  her  brother  or, 
indeed,  any  male  person  is  present,  and  to-night  she  follows  him  very 
quietly  down  a  narrow  street  to  a  little  open  place,  and  there  seats  herself 
on  a  doorstep  beside  him.  She  feels  quite  as  strongly  as  he  does  that  it 
would  be  beneath  his  dignity  to  take  a  place  among  the  women  and  girls 
at  the  cavern's  mouth. 

"  The  children  are  asleep  1 "  asks  Peppiniello,  as  he  gives  his  sister  a 
hunch  of  bread  and  one  of  the  slices  of  water-melon. 

"  Yes ;  and  Donna  Lucia  has  promised  to  have  an  eye  on  them  till  I 
come  back." 

Peppiniello  now  gives  the  girl  four  soldi  for  the  household  expenses 
of  the  morrow,  and  when  he  adds  eight  centesimi  to  enable  them  each  to 
buy  a  piece  of  water-melon,  she  knows  he  has  had  a  prosperous  day,  for 
in  hard  times  she  and  her  sisters  are  obliged  to  live  on  a  soldi  each,  and 
what  they  can  manage  to  earn  or  pick  up.  The  bread  is  a  new  and 
pleasant  surprise  over  which  her  eyes  brighten ;  to-morrow,  housekeep- 
ing will  be  an  easy  task. 

Business  being  over,  the  two  fall  to  their  suppers  with  a  hearty  appe- 
tite, while  Peppiniello  relates  all  his  day's  adventures,  with  the  exception 
of  the  bargain  with  the  waiter,  and  his  sacrifice  to  the  statues.  The 
manner  of  both  is  quite  changed ;  they  are  mere  children  chatting 
together  as  merrily  as  if  they  had  never  known  want  or  care.  When  he 
has  finished  his  tale,  he  places  the  money  in  her  hand — all  except  a  single 
soldo  which  he  has  hid  away  before.  She  counts  it  over  carefully,  and 
then  exclaims  joyously,  "  Why,  you  have  been  lucky  !  With  the  rest 
this  makes  seven  lire  and  a  half  :  only  ten  soldi  more  and  the  month's 
rent  is  ready,  and  to-morrow  is  only  the  thirteenth." 

Peppiniello's  tone  assumes  some  of  its  old  business  weightiness,  as  he 
replies,  "  Yes,  but  that  must  be  made  up  before  we  spend  anything." 

Concetta  readily  assents  to  this,  and  then  goes  on  to  propose  that, 
even  when  their  rent  is  ready,  they  shall  continue  to  hoard  their  gains 
until  they  have  money  enough  to  buy  one  of  the  children  a  nice  dress,  so 
that  they  may  be  able  to  send  her  out  of  an  evening  to  sell  flowers  to 
the  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  the  villa.  "  That  is  the  way  to  make 

VOL.  XLV.— NO.  268.  22. 


450  PEPPINIELLO. 

money."     But  Peppiniello  very  decisively  rejects  the  proposal,  and  the 
girl,  who,  like  most  affectionate   women  that  have  not  been  spoiled  by 
culture,  has  a  habit  of  obeying  even   the  unreasonable  wishes  of  those 
whom  she  loves,  gives  way  at  once,  and  all  who  know  more  of  Neapoli- 
tan life  than  she  does  will  feel  that  in  this  difference  her  brother  is  in  the 
right.     Still,  though  she  does  not  sulk  or  quarrel,  she  is  disappointed  by 
the  rejection  of  her  plan,  and  more  silent  than  usual.     She  has  a  great 
trust,  love,  and  admiration  for  her  brother :  they  never  quarrel,  partly 
perhaps  because  they  are  so  little  together,  and,  what  is  more,  she  never 
yet  had  a  secret  from  him.     He,  as  we  have  seen,  is  not  so  open.     He 
never  told  his  sister  anything  about  that  purse  ;  but  he  had  several  good 
reasons  for  this.     He  does  not  wish  her  to  know  that  he  steals,  for  she 
might  imitate  his  example,  and  that  would  be  unfeminine.     There  is  no 
harm  in  boys  doing  a  great  many  things  that  girls  must  not  do,  and  he 
would  be  as  much,  shocked  to  hear  that  Concetta  had  been  guilty  of  a  theft 
as  to  find  her  swimming  in  the  waters  of  the  harbour.     But  he  had 
also  another  reason  for  keeping  that  secret.     He  knew  exactly  what  he 
wanted  to  do  with  the  money.     The  great  terror  of  his  life  is  that  some 
month  he  may  be  unable  to  pay  the  rent,  and  that  they  will  consequently 
be  turned  into  the  street.  For  himself  the  discomfort  would  not  be  great, 
as  in  most  weathers  he  can  sleep  at  least  as  comfortably  on  a  doorstep  as 
in  bed;  but  he  dreads  it  for  the  children's,  and  still  more  for  Concetta's, 
sake.  So  as  soon  as  the  money  fell  into  his  hands,  he  resolved  to  keep  eight 
lire  constantly  in  store  as  a  resource  against  cases  of  the  utmost  need, 
and  to  say  nothing  about  this,  in  order  that  neither  he  nor  his  sister 
might  be  tempted  to  be  less  careful  in  always  getting  the  rent  together 
as  early  in  the  month  as  possible.     Nearly  three  lire  were  spent  on  the 
banquet  he  had  to  give  to  his  half-hearted  associates.     He  has  still  three 
left  to  dispose  of,  but  they  will  go,  as  six  have  already  gone,  to  the  lotto. 
For  that,  too,  he  reserves  the  soldo  which  he  daily  abstracts  from  his 
earnings.     It  is  the  only  way  he  knows  of  investing  his  savings,  but  he 
is  afraid  of  awakening  hopes  in  his  sister's  mind  which  a  sad  experience 
has  shown  to  be  so  often  fallacious.     Yet  he  has  many  compunctions  of 
conscience  about  that  soldo,  which  he  tries  to  quiet  by  remembering  that 
he  allows  each  of  the  others  the  same  sum  for  her  daily  expenditure. 
Otherwise  he  scrupulously  shares  everything  he  gains  with  the  rest.     If 
he  buys  a  little  fruit,  the  only  way  in  which  he  ever  spends  anything 
upon  himself,  he  brings  them  some,  or  gives  them  money  to  do  the  same. 
What  Concetta  and  the'children  can  earn  or  pick  up  they  do  as  they  like 
with,  bvit  though  she  keeps  the  family  purse,  into  which  all  his  gains 
flow,  she  never  thinks  of  taking  a  centesimo  out  of  it  without  his  pre- 
vious consent. 

But,  by  this  time,  Peppiniello  and  his  sister  have  finished  their  supper 
and  are  returning  to  the  cavern's  mouth.  More  than  twenty  families 
sleep  in  that  gloomy  hole,  divided  from  each  other  by  no  partition  greater 
than  a  line  drawn  upon  the  floor.  The  sides  of  the  grotto  are  damp, 


PEPPINIELLO.  451 

and  the  air  close  and  fetid  with  a  thousand  evil  odours,  though  the 
entrance  and  the  roof  are  lofty.  You  can  catch  no  glimpse  of  the  latter 
at  this  time  of  night ;  there  is  only  one  great  starless  darkness  overhead, 
but  below,  here  and  there,  a  tiny  oil  flame  glimmers  before  the  picture 
of  some  saint.  There  is  one  burning  at  the  foot  of  Peppiniello's  bed, 
which  occupies  the  worst  place  but  one,  that  farthest  from  the  entrance, 
and  when  the  two  reach  it,  after  exchanging  a  few  friendly  words  with 
Donna  Lucia,  one  of  the  occupants  of  the  neighbouring  bed,  they  refill 
the  lamp  from  a  little  flask,  and  then  kneel  down  before  a  rough  print  of 
the  Virgin  to  repeat  a  Paternoster  and  an  Ave. 

The  bed  itself  is  large  enough  not  only  for  the  whole  family,  but  also 
to  accommodate  a  stranger  now  and  then,  when,  of  a  stormy  night,  Pep- 
piniello  happens  to  find  some  homeless  boy  shivering  on  a  doorstep  that 
does  not  shelter  him  from  the  rain.  Three  children  are  now  sleeping 
quietly  enough  in  it.  The  eldest  of  them,  who  may  be  nine,  has  a  strong 
family  likeness  to  Concetta,  and  so  has  one  of  the  younger  girls,  whom 
you  take  to  be  six ;  but  the  third,  who  seems  to  be  of  nearly  the  same 
age,  has  quite  a  different  face  and  figure.  She  is  far  more  slightly  built, 
has  a  little  rosy  mouth  and  tiny  hands  and  feet.  Her  skin,  though  it  is 
bronzed  by  the  sun,  is  far  fairer  than  that  of  her  bedfellows,  and  she  has 
fine  light  brown  hair  which  would  be  silken  if  it  were  kept  in  proper 
order.  Her  name  is  Mariannina,  and  she  is  not  in  fact  one  of  Peppiniello's 
sisters.  This  is  her  story  : — 

One  night,  about  a  year  ago,  when  the  boy  was  returning  home,  he 
saw  her  sleeping  all  alone  in  the  portico  of  a  church.  If  it  had  been  a 
boy  he  would  have  passed  on  without  taking  any  notice,  but  that  wasn't  _ 
a  proper  place  for  little  girls  to  sleep  in,  so  he  wakened  her,  and  asked 
where  her  home  was  that  he  might  take  her  there.  It  was  a  long  way  off, 
she  said ;  she  didn't  know  where,  but  a  long,  long  way.  At  length,  in  answer 
to  many  questions  and  a  good  deal  of  coaxing,  she  told  him  she  lived  alone 
with  her  mother,  who,  as  soon  as  she  had  had  her  breakfast,  used  to  give 
her  a  hunch  of  bread,  turn  her  into  the  street,  lock  the  door,  and  go  to 
her  work,  from  which  she  did  not  return  till  after  dark.  But  one  mom- 
ing  some  time  ago — Mariannina  did  not  know  exactly  how  long :  it 
seemed  a  long  while — her  mother  was  lazy  and  would  not  get  up.  The 
child  had  nothing  to  eat  that  day,  but  in  the  evening  her  mother  gave 
her  the  key  of  the  cupboard  where  the  bread  was,  and  told  her  where  to 
find  some  money.  Mariannina  had  a  good  time  of  it  for  several  days,  as 
her  mother  took  no  notice  of  her,  and  would  not  eat  anything ;  but 
when  the  money  was  all  spent  she  told  her  she  had  no  more,  and  that 
she  must  get  her  breakfast  how  she  could.  She  went  out  to  play  as 
usual,  and  a  neighbour  gave  her  something  to  eat.  When  she  came  back 
her  mother  was  talking  very  loud,  but  there  was  no  one  else  in  the  room, 
and  the  child  could  not  understand  what  she  said.  She  went  on  in  that 
way  for  a  long  time,  but  at  last  she  made  a  strange  noise  and  then  she 
was  quite  still.  Afterwards  the  lamp  before  the  Virgin  went  out;  there 

22—2 


452  PEPPISIELLO. 

had  been  no  oil  to  replenish  it  with.  Next  morning  when  Mariannina 
awoke  her  mother  was  still  asleep.  When  she  touched  her  she  was  quite 
cold.  At  first  she  had  tried  to  awaken  her,  but  she  would  not  speak 
nor  move,  so  the  child  was  frightened  and  ran  away.  All  day  she  had 
tried  to  get  as  far  away  as  she  could.  She  did  not  want  to  go  home  ; 
she  would  go  with  Peppiniello,  and  she  was  hungry. 

The  kindest  as  well  as  the  wisest  thing  would  of  course  have  been  to 
take  the  little  orphan  to  the  Foundling  Hospital,  but  Peppiniello  never 
thought  of  that.  He  was  convinced  that  the  Holy  Virgin  had  sent  him 
to  take  care  of  this  child,  and  he  was  not  the  boy  to  shrink  from  such  a 
trust.  Concetta  was  of  the  same  opinion,  and  from  that  day  to  this 
Mariannina  has  been  a  member  of  the  family.  She  is  a  quiet  child,  with 
soft,  caressing  ways,  and  never  has  those  fits  of  wild  merriment  into 
which  the  others  fall ;  but  she  has  also  less  cheerfulness  to  face  hard 
times  with,  and  when  the  supply  of  food  is  very  scanty,  she  is  apt  to  be 
rather  subdued  and  to  look  weary.  The  girls  treat  her  exactly  as  they 
do  each  other,  but  there  is  just  a  shade  of  extra  gentleness  in  the  relation 
between  her  and  her  protector,  which  may  arise  from  the  consciousness 
that  the  ties  between  them  have  been  formed  by  their  own  free  choice,  or 
perhaps  from  the  belief  which  both  entertain  that  it  was  the  Blessed 
Virgin  who  brought  them  together. 

As  soon  as  Peppiniello  and  Concetta  have  finished  their  prayers  they 
arm  themselves  with  two  long  sticks.  A  rusty  fork  is  firmly  bound  to 
the  end  of  that  which  the  girl  leans  against  her  side  of  the  bed,  while  her 
brother's  terminates  in  the  blade  of  an  old  knife,  carefully  sharpened. 
As  he  creeps  into  his  place,  Mariannina  puts  her  hands  up  to  his  cheeks 
and  falls  asleep  again  in  the  midst  of  the  caress.  And  now  the  purpose 
of  the  strange  weapons  soon  becomes  clear,  for  scarcely  has  quiet  been 
restored  than  the  floor  is  literally  covered  with  hundreds  of  rats.  Con- 
cetta makes  several  ineffectual  thrusts  before  Peppiniello  moves  his  arm, 
but  at  his  first  blow  he  succeeds  in  wounding  one  of  them,  which  utters  a 
sharp  squeak  as  it  disappears.  In  a  moment  all  the  rest  have  vanished, 
and  a  shrill  yet  tremulous  voice  is  raised  in  angry  protest  from  the  dark- 
ness beyond.  At  first  it  utters  nothing  but  vile  abuse  and  frightful 
curses,  but  then  in  a  whine  it  urges  that  it  is  a  sin  to  maim  and  injure 
the  poor  creatures.  "  They,  too,  are  God's  children." 

"  Why  doesn't  he  keep  them  at  home,  then  1  While  I'm  here,  they're 
not  going  to  nibble  Mariannina's  toes,"  replies  Peppiniello,  but  in  a  tone 
only  just  loud  enough  to  catch  Concetta's  ear,  for  he  respects  the  age  and 
pities  the  suffering  of  the  wretched  being  who  has  just  spoken. 

It  is  Donna  Lucia's  mother,  who,  having  been  found  too  loathsome  to 
retain  her  place  in  the  family  bed,  has  been  accommodated  with  a  sack 
of  dried  maize  leaves  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  cave.  As  her  daughter 
and  son-in-law  are  abroad  at  their  work  all  day,  their  children  are  too  little 
to  be  of  any  use,  and  she  cannot  move  from  her  pallet,  she  has  perhaps 
some  reason  to  be  grateful  to  the  natural  scavengers  she  vainly  endea- 


PEPPINIELLO.  453 

vours  to  protect.  Perhaps,  too,  the  last  affectionate  instincts  of  a  motherly 
nature  have  centred  themselves  on  the  only  living  beings  that  constantly 
surround  her.  At  length  the  querulous  voice  dies  away,  the  stick  falls 
from  Peppiniello's  hand,  and  he  sinks  into  a  sound  sleep.* 

V. 

When  Peppiniello  wakes  he  feels  instinctively  that  it  is  dawn,  though 
as  yet  no  ray  of  light  has  penetrated  even  to  the  entrance  of  the  cavern, 
so  he  awakens  Concetta.  She  is  tired,  and  would  willingly  sleep  another 
hour  or  two  as  she  usually  does,  but  in  that  case  she  could  not  go  to 
mass  with  her  brother,  so  she  rouses  herself,  and  they  are  soon  on  their 
way  to  a  neighbouring  church. 

It  is  still  dusk,  the  larger  stars  have  not  yet  faded  out  of  the  sky, 
and  the  freshness  of  the  morning  air  is  felt  even  in  the  narrow  streets 
through  which  their  way  leads  them.  There  is  a  stillness  everywhere, 
and  an  unusual  light  on  common  things  which  impress  both  the  children, 
but  chiefly  Concetta,  who  never  rises  so  early  except  when  she  goes  to 
mass.  And  when  they  pass  the  portal  of  the  church  the  blaze  of  the 
candles  upon  the  altar,  the  glow  of  the  polished  marble,  the  rich  colours 
of  the  hangings,  seem  to  stand  in  a  strange  contrast,  not  only  to  the  quiet 
twilight  outside,  but  also  to  all  their  ordinary  surroundings.  To  you  and 
me  the  church  looks  gaudy,  a  miracle  of  bad  taste  it  may  be ;  to  them 
it  is  a  little  glimpse  of  splendour  which  they  feel  all  the  more  keenly 
because  it  is  so  different  from  all  the  sordid  circumstances  of  their  daily  life. 
And  they  are  so  safe  here,  too.  Dirty  as  they  are,  no  one  rudely  for- 
bids their  entrance  or  will  push  them  from  the  altar  step  at  which  they 
kneel.  For  this  is  no  great  man's  palace,  but  the  house  of  God  and  the 
Madonna,  and  even  these  outcast  children  have  a  right  to  a.  place  in  it. 

And  so  the  mass  begins,  and  Peppiniello  remembers  a  number  of 
trifles,  and  asks  forgiveness  for  them.  He  thinks  about  the  daily  soldo- 

*  The  incident  of  the  old  woman's  affection  for  the  rats  is  borrowed  from  Eenato 
Fucini's  interesting  "  Napoli  a  occhio  nudo"  p.  67.  On  his  visiting  one  of  the  habita- 
tions of  the  poor,  some  such  wretched  being  as  Donna  Lucia's  mother  used  the  ex- 
pression employed  in  the  text,  in  reproving  him  for  frightening  the  rats  away.  The 
Italian  words  are  " Son  creature  di  Dio  anche  lore"  and  the  verbal  translation  would 
of  course  be,  "  They,  too,  are  God's  creatures  ;  "  but  this  would  quite  fail  to  give  the 
point  of  the  reproof,  for  the  word  creatura  is  constantly  applied  in  affectionate 
excuse  for  little  children,  or  to  urge  their  claim  on  the  pity  of  adults.  When  a  poor 
widow  says  in  begging  "  lengo  tre  creature"  she  means  to  insist  on  their  inability  to 
care  for  themselves  in  anyway,  and  " Sono  creature"  is  the  constant  plea  of  the 
mother  whose  children  have  excited  the  anger  of  a  grown-up  person  ;  pretty  much  as 
an  Englishwoman  might  say,  "  They  are  too  young  to  know  what  they  are  doing, 
poor  things."  In  calling  the  rats  "  creature  di  Dio,"  therefore,  the  old  woman  wished 
to  insist  upon  their  weakness  and  their  ignorance  of  right  and  wrong  as  a  claim  upon 
human  pity,  quite  as  much  as  on  the  fact  of  their  having  been  created  by  God  ;  almost 
as  if  she  had  said.  "  Spare  the  poor  helpless  innocents  who  have  no  protector  but  Him 
who  made  them." 


454  PEPPINIELLO. 

lie  conceals  from  his  sister,  and  has  half  a  mind  not  to  do  so  any  more, 
though  he  is  by  no  means  sure  it  is  a  sin,  and  he  thanks  God  and  the 
Madonna  for  having  taken  care  of  him  so  often,  but  particularly  yester- 
day, and  prays  them  still  to  be  good  to  him  and  his  sisters  and  Marian- 
nina,  and  to  the  girl  who  so  kindly  befriended  him  yesterday.  For  the 
rest  of  his  friends  and  benefactors  he  prays  in  a  general  way  and  in  the 
usual  form ;  he  does  not  specially  think  even  of  Donna  Amalia  or  Don 
Antonio  (though  he  would  pray  for  both  if  they  asked  him),  far  less  of 
the  English  sailors ;  and  when  he  repeats  the  petition  which  he  has 
been  taught  to  use  with  respect  to  his  enemies,  I  doubt  whether  any 
remembrance  of  Donna  Estere  comes  into  his  head.  When  the  elevation 
of  the  host  is  past,  and  the  time  has  come  to  remember  the  dead,  Con- 
cetta  gently  presses  his  hand,  and  he  prays  for  the  souls  of  his  parents 
and  of  Mariannina's  mother,  and  for  "  all  that  rest  in  Christ."  She 
remembers  their  old  home  better,  and  thinks  ofbener  about  it,  than  he 
does,  and  so  she  is  more  moved  by  this  part  of  the  service,  which  he  is 
sometimes  apt  to  forget. 

And  all  his  real  sins,  his  lies  and  thefts,  doesn't  he  repent  of  them  ? 
I  am  afraid  not.  Some  time  ago  he  took  his  sisters  to  see  the  miracle  of 
San  Gennaro,  and  when  the  liquefaction  of  the  blood  was  long  delayed, 
did  not  think  of  all  the  other  spectators  who  crowded  the  church,  but 
concluded  that  it  was  some  personal  sin  of  his  that  had  offended  the 
saint.  So  he  searched  his  conscience,  and  remembered  that  some  time 
before  he  had  refused  an  old  woman  a  part  of  his  scanty  dinner,  even 
though  she  had  begged  for  it  in  the  Madonna's  name,  and  that  he  had 
spoken  harshly  to  Donna  Lucia's  mother  a  few  days  afterwards  ;  and  he 
resolved  to  be  gentler  and  kinder  to  the  aged  and  infirm  in  future.  Then 
the  miracle  was  wrought,  and  hitherto  he  has  kept  his  resolution.  But 
his  lies  and  thefts  he  did  not  remember.  Nay,  when  he  next  prepares 
himself  for  confession,  they  will  probably  be  the  last  sins  that  come  into 
his  mind.  When  the  priest  insists  on  their  wickedness,  the  boy  will  be 
moved,  and  he  will  really  repent,  and  make  up  his  mind  to  give  them 
up  altogether,  and  for  a  day  or  two  he  will  persevere ;  but  then  he  will 
begin  to  consider  the  matter  from  a  worldly  point  of  view.  The  priest 
was  doubtless  right  in  what  he  said.  Peppiniello  himself  can  hardly 
imagine  that  a  saint  ever  picked  anyone's  pocket,  but  then  there  is  no 
chance  of  his  ever  becoming  a  saint,  and  they  know  how  hard  a  poor 
mozzonare's  life  is,  and  will  not  judge  him  too  harshly.  In  some  such 
way  he  will  probably  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  perfect  honesty  is  a 
luxury  as  far  beyond  his  means  as  the  whelks  and  periwinkles  which 
are  heaped  upon  the  itinerant  vendor's  tray,  and  whose  dainty  odours  so 
often  vainly  excite  his  appetite. 

But  now  the  mass  is  over,  and  Peppiniello  and  Concetta  pass  out  of 
the  church  into  the  golden  morning  sunshine  and  there  part,  each  to 
begin  anew  the  labours  and  adventures  of  the  day.  And  here  we  must 
leave  them  for  the  present. 


455 


No.  IV. — THE  STATE  TRIALS. 

IT  sometimes  strikes  readers  of  books  that  literature  is,  on  the  whole,  a 
snare  and  a  delusion.  Writers,  of  course,  do  not  generally  share  that 
impression ;  and,  on  the  contrary,  have  said  a  great  many  fine  things 
about  the  charm  of  conversing  with  the  choice  minds  of  all  ages,  with  the 
innuendo,  to  use  the  legal  phrase,  that  they  themselves  modestly  demand 
some  place  amongst  the  aforesaid  choice  minds.  But  at  times  we  are 
disposed  to  retort  upon  our  teachers.  Are  you  not,  we  observe,  ex- 
ceedingly given  to  humbug  1  The  youthful  student  takes  the  poet's 
ecstasies  and  agonies  in  solemn  earnest.  We  who  have  grown  a  little 
wiser  cannot  forget  how  complacently  delighted  the  poet  has  been  to  hit 
upon  a  new  agony ;  how  he  has  set  it  to  a  pretty  tune ;  how  he  has 
treasured  up  his  sorrows  and  despairs  to  make  his  literary  stock  in  trade, 
has  taken  them  to  market,  and  squabbled  with  publishers  and  writhed 
under  petty  critics,  and  purred  and  bridled  under  judicious  flattery ; 
and  we  begin  to  resent  his  demand  upon  our  sympathies.  Are  not  poetry 
and  art  a  terrible  waste  of  energy  in  a  world  where  so  much  enei'gy  is 
already  being  dissipated  1  The  great  musician,  according  to  the  well-worn 
anecdote,  hears  the  people  crying  for  bread  in  the  street,  and  the  wave 
of  emotion  passing  through  his  mind  comes  out  in  the  shape,  not  of  active 
benevolence,  but  of  some  new  and  exquisite  jangle  of  sounds.  It  is  all 
very  well.  The  musician,  as  is  probable  enough,  could  have  done  nothing 
better.  But  there  are  times  when  we  feel  that  we  would  rather  have  the 
actual  sounds,  the  downright  utterance  of  an  agonised  human  being,  than 
the  far  away  echo  of  passion  set  up  in  the  artistic  brain.  We  prefer  the 
roar  of  the  tempest  to  the  squeaking  of  the  seolian  harp.  We  tire  of  the 
skilfully  prepared  sentiment,  the  pretty  fancies,  the  unreal  imaginations, 
and  long  for  the  harsh,  crude,  substantial  fact,  the  actual  utterance  of 
men  struggling  in  the  dire  grasp  of  unmitigated  realities.  We  want  to 
see  Nature  itself,  not  to  look  at  the  distorted  images  presented  in  the 
magical  mirror  of  a  Shakspeare.  The  purpose  of  playing  is,  as  that 
excellent  avithority  is  constantly  brought  to  us,  to  show  the  very  age  and 
body  of  the  time,  his  form  and  pressure.  But,  upon  that  hypothesis, 
why  should  we  not  see  the  age  itself  instead  of  being  bothered  by  im- 
possible kings  and  queens  and  ghosts  mixed  up  in  supernatural  cata- 
strophes 1  If  this  theory  of  art  be  sound,  is  not  the  most  realistic  historian 
the  only  artist  ?  Nay,  since  every  historian  is  more  or  less  a  sophisticator, 
should  we  not  go  back  to  the  materials  from  which  histories  are  made  1 


456  EAMBLES  AMONG  BOOKS. 

I  feel  some  touch  of  sympathy  for  those  simple-minded  readers  who 
avowedly  prefer  the  police  reports  to  any  other  kind  of  literature.  There 
at  least  they  come  into  contact  with  solid  facts ;  shocking,  it  may'  be, 
to  well-regulated  minds,  but  possessing  all  the  charm  of  their  brutal 
reality ;  not  worked  into  the  carefully  doctored  theories  and  rose-coloured 
pictures  set  forth  by  the  judicious  author,  whose  real  aim  is  to  pose  as  an 
amiable  and  interesting  being.  It  is  true  that  there  are  certain  objec- 
tions to  such  studies.  They  generally  imply  a  wrong  state  of  mind  in 
the  student.  He  too  often  reads,  it  is  to  be  feared,  with  that  pleasure 
in  loathsome  details  which  seems  to  spring  from  a  survival  of  the  old 
cruel  instincts  capable  of  finding  pleasure  in  the  sight  of  torture  and 
bloodshed.  Certainly  one  would  not,  even  in  a  passing  phrase,  suggest 
that  the  indulgence  of  such  a  temper  can  be  anything  but.  loathsome. 
But  it  is  not  necessary  to  assume  this  evil  propensity  in  all  cases ;  or 
what  must  be  our  judgment  of  the  many  excellent  members  of  society 
who  studied  day  by  day  the  reports  of  the  Tichborne  case,  for  example, 
and  felt  that  there  was'a  real  blank  in  their  lives  when  the  newspapers 
had  to  fill  their  columns  with  nothing  better  than  discussions  of  inter- 
national relations  and  social  reforms  ?  You  might  perhaps  laugh  at 
such  a  man  if  he  asserted  that  he  was  conscientiously  studying  human 
nature.  But  you  might  give  him  credit  if  he  replied  that  he  was  reading 
a  novel  which  atoned  for  any  defects  of  construction  by  the  incomparable 
interest  of  reality.  And  the'reply  would  be  more  plausible  in  defence  of 
another  kind  of  reading.  When  literature  palls  upon  me  I  sometimes 
turn  for  relief  to  the  great  collection  of  State  Trials.  They  are  nothing, 
you  may  say,  but  the  police  reports  of  the  past.  But  it  makes  all  the 
difference  that  they  are  of  the  past.  I  may  be  ashamed  of  myself  when- 
I  read  some  hideous  revelation  of  modern  crime,  not  to  stimulate  my 
ardour  as  a  patriot  and  a  reformer,  but  to  add  a  zest  to  my  comfortable 
chair  in  the  club  window  or  at  the  bar  of  my  favourite  public  house. 
But  I  can  read  without  such  a  pang  of  remorse  about  Charles  I.  and  the 
regicides.  I  can  do  nothing  for  them.  I  cannot  turn  the  tide  of  battle 
at  Naseby,  or  rush  into  the  streets  with  the  enthusiastic  Yenner.  They 
make  no  appeal  to  me  for  help,  and  I  have  not  to  harden  my  heart  by 
resisting,  but  only  for  a  sympathy  which  cannot  be  wasted  because  it 
could  not  be  turned  to  account.  I  may  indulge  in  it,  for  it  strengthens 
the  bond  between  me  and  my  ancestors.  My  sense  of  relationship  is 
stimulated  and  strengthened  as  I  gaze  at  the  forms  sinking  slowly  beyond 
my  grasp  down  into  the  abyss  of  the  past,  and  try  in  imagination  to  raise 
them  once  more  to  the  surface.  I  do  all  that  I  can  for  them  in  simply 
acknowledging  that  they  form  a  part  of  the  great  process  in  which  I  am 
for  the  instant  on  the  knife-edge  of  actual  existence,  and  unreal  only 
in  the  sense  in  which  the  last  motion  of  my  pen  is  unreal  now.  "  I  was 
once,"  says  one  of  the  earliest  performers,  "  a  looker-on  of  the  pageant  as 
others  be  here  now,  but  now,  woe  is  me  !  I  am  a  player  in  that  doleful 
tragedy."  This  "  now  "  is  become  our  "  once,"  and  we  may  leave  it  to* 


THE  STATE  TKIALS.  457 

the  harmless  enthusiasts  who  play  at  metaphysics  to  explain  or  to  darken 
the  meaning  of  the  familiar  phrase.  Whatever  time  may  be — a  point,  I 
believe,  not  quite  settled — there  is  always  a  singular  fascination  in  any 
study  which  makes  us  vividly  conscious  of  its  ceaseless  lapse,  and  gives 
us  the  sense  of  rolling  back  the  ever  closing  scroll.  Historians,  especially 
of  the  graphic  variety,  try  to  do  that  service  for  us ;  but  we  can  only  get 
the  full  enjoyment  by  studying  at  firsthand  direct  contemporary  reports 
of  actual  words  and  deeds. 

The  charm  of  the  State  Trials  is  in  the  singular  fulness  and  apparent 
authenticity  of  many  of  the  reports  of  viva  voce  examinations.  There  are 
not  more  links  between  us,  for  example,  and  Sir  Nicholas  Throgmorton — 
whose  words  I  have  just  quoted — than  between  us  and  the  last  witness  at 
a  contemporary  trial.  The  very  words  are  given  fresh  from  the  speaker's 
mouth.  The  volumes  of  course  contain  vast  masses  of  the  dismal 
materials  which  can  be  quarried  only  by  the  patience  of  a  Dryasdust. 
If  we  open  them  at  random  we  may  coine  upon  reading  which  is  anything 
but  exhilarating.  There  are  pages  upon  pages  of  constitutional  eloquence 
in  the  Sacheverell  case  about  the  blessed  revolution,  and  the  social  com- 
pact and  the  theory  of  passive  resistance,  which  are  as  hopelessly  unread- 
able as  the  last  parliamentary  debate  in  the  Times.  If  we  chance  upon 
the  great  case  of  Shipmoney,  and  the  arguments  for  and  against  the  im- 
mortal Hampden,  we  have  to  dig  through  strata  of  legal  antiquarianism 
solid  enough  to  daunt  the  most  intrepid  explorer.  And,  as  trials  expand 
in  later  times,  and  the  efforts  of  the  British  barrister  to  establish  certain 
important  rules  of  evidence  become  fully  reported,  we,  as  innocent  lay- 
men, feel  bound  to  withdraw  from  the  sacred  place.  Indeed,  one  is 
forced  to  ask  in  passing  whether  any  English  lawyer,  with  one  exception, 
ever  made  a  speech  in  court  which  it  was  possible  for  any  one,  not  a 
lawyer,  to  read  in  cold  blood.  Speeches,  of  course,  have  been  made 
beyond  number  of  admirable  efficacy  for  the  persuasion  of  judges  and 
juries ;  but  so  far  as  the  State  Trials  inform  us,  one  can  only  suppose  that 
lawyers  regarded  eloquence  as  a  deadly  sin,  perhaps  because  jurymen 
had  a  kind  of  dumb  instinct  which  led  them  to  associate  eloquence  with 
humbug.  The  one  exception  is  Erskine,  whose  speeches  are  true  works 
of  art,  and  perfect  models  of  lucid  logical  exposition.  The  strangely  in- 
articulate utterance  of  his  brethren  reconciles  us  in  a  literary  sense  to  the 
rule — outrageous  in  a  moral  and  political  point  of  view — which  for  cen- 
turies forbade  the  assistance  of  counsel  in  the  most  serious  cases.  In 
the  older  trials,  therefore,  we  assist  at  a  series  of  tragedies,  which  may 
shock  our  sense  of  justice,  but  in  their  rough-and-ready  fashion  go  at  once 
to  the  point  and  show  us  all  the  passions  of  human  beings  fighting  in 
deadly  earnest  over  the  issues  of  life  and  death.  The  unities  of  time  and 
place  are  strictly  observed.  In  the  good  old  days  the  juiy,  when  once 
empanelled,  had  to  go  on  to  the  end.  There  was  no  dilatory  adjourning 
from  day  to  day.*  As  wrestlers  who  have  once  taken  hold  must  struggle 

*  In  the  trial  of  Home  Tooke  in  1 794  it  was  decided  by  the  judges  that  an  ad- 


458  RAMBLES   AMONG-   BOOKS. 

till  one  touches  earth,  the  prisoner  had  to  finish  his  agony  there  and 
then.  The  case  might  go  on  by  candlelight,  and  into  the  early  hours  of 
a  second  morning,  till  even  the  spectators,  wedged  together  in  the  close 
court,  with  a  pestilential  atmosphere,  loaded,  if  they  had  only  known  it, 
with  the  germs  of  gaol  fever,  were  well-nigh  exhausted;  till  the  judge 
confessed  himself  too  faint  to  sum  up,  and  even  to  recollect  the  evidence; 
till  the  unfortunate  prisoner,  browbeaten  by  the  judge  and  the  opposite 
counsel,  bewildered  by  the  legal  subtleties,  often  surprised  by  unexpected 
evidence,  and  unable  to  produce  contradictory  witnesses  at  the  in- 
stant, overwhelmed  with  all  the  labour  and  impossibility  of  a  task  to 
which  he  was  totally  unaccustomed,  could  only  stammer  out  a  vague 
assertion  of  innocence.  Here  and  there  some  sturdy  prisoner — a  Throg- 
morton  or  a  Lilburne — thus  brought  to  bay  under  every  disadvantage, 
managed  to  fight  his  way  through,  and  to  persuade  a  jury  to  let  him  off 
even  at  their  own  peril.  As  time  goes  on,  things  get  better,  and  the 
professions  of  fair  play  have  more  reality ;  but  it  is  also  true  that  the 
performance  becomes  less  exciting.  In  the  degenerate  eighteenth  century 
it  came  to  be  settled  that  a  minister  might  be  turned  out  of  office  without 
losing  his  head ;  and  it  is  perhaps  only  from  an  aesthetic  point  of  view 
that  the  old  practice  was  better,  which  provided  historians  with  so  many 
moving  stories  of  judicial  tyranny.  But  in  that  point  of  view  we  may 
certainly  prefer  the  old  system,  for  the  tragedies  generally  have  a  worthy 
ending ;  and  instead  of  those  sudden  interventions  of  a  benevolent  author 
which  are  meant  to  save  our  feelings  at  the  end  of  a  modern  novel,  we 
are  generally  thrilled  by  a  scene  on  the  scaffold,  in  which  it  is  rare  indeed 
for  the  actors  to  play  their  parts  unworthily. 

The  most  interesting  period  of  the  State  Trials  is  perhaps  the  last  half 
of  the  seventeenth  century,  when  the  art  of  reporting  seems  to  have  been 
sufficiently  developed  to  give  a  minute  verbal  record — vivid  as  a  photo- 
graph— of  the  actual  scene,  and  before  the  interest  was  diluted  by  floods 
of  legal  rhetoric.  Pepys  himself  does  not  restore  the  past  more  vividly 
than  do  some  of  those  anonymous  reporters.  The  records  indeed  of  the 
trials  give  the  fullest  picture  of  a  social  period,  which  is  too  often  treated 
from  some  limited  point  of  view.  The  great  political  movements  of  the 
day  leave  their  mark  upon  the  trials ;  the  last  struggle  of  parties  was 
fought  out  by  judges  and  juries  with  whatever  partiality  in  open  court. 
We  may  start,  if  we  please,  with  the  "  memorable  scene "  in  which 
Charles  I.  won  his  title  to  martyrdom  ;  then  comes  the  gloomy  procession 
of  regicides ;  and  presently  to  come  we  have  the  martyrs  to  the  Popish 
plot,  and  they  are  followed  by  the  Whig  martyr,  Russell,  and  by  the 
miserable  victims  who  got  the  worst  of  Sedgemoor  fight.  The  Church 
of  England  has  its  share  of  interest  in  the  exciting  case  of  the  Seven 
Bishops ;  and  Nonconformists  are  represented  by  Baxter's  sufferings  under 
Jeffreys,  and  by  luckless  frequenters  of  prohibited  conventicles ;  and 

journment  might  take  place  in  case  of  "  physical  necessity,"  but  the  only  previous 
case  of  an  adjournment  cited  was  that  of  Canning  (in  1753). 


THE  STATE  TRIALS.  459 

beneath  the  more  stirring  events  described  in  different  histories,  we  have 
strange  glimpses  of  the  domestic  histories  which  were  being  transacted 
at  the  time;  there  are  murderers  and  forgers  and  housebreakers,  who 
cared  little  for  Whig  or  Tory;  superstition  is  represented  by  an  occa- 
sional case  of  witchcraft.  And  we  have  some  curious  illustrations  of 
the  manners  and  customs  of  the  fast  young  men  of  the  period,  the  dis- 
solute noblemen,  the  "sons  of  Belial  flown  with  insolence  and  wine," 
who  disturbed  Milton's  meditations,  and  got  upon  the  stage  to  see  Nell 
Gwyn  and  Mrs.  Bracegirdle,  in  the  comedies  of  Dryden  and  Etherege.  It 
is  unfair  to  take  the  reports  of  a  police  court  as  fully  representing  the 
characteristics  of  a  time  ;  but  there  never  was  a  time  which  left  a  fuller 
impression  of  its  idiosyncrasies  in  such  an  unsavoury  record  office.  Let 
us  pick  up  a  case  or  two  pretty  much  at  random. 

It  is  pleasantest,  perhaps,  to  avoid  the  more  familiar  and  pompous 
scenes.  It  is  rather  in  the  byplay — in  the  little  vignettes  of  real  life 
which  turn  up  amidst  more  serious  events — that  we  may  find  the  cha- 
racteristic charm  of  the  narrative.  The  trials,  for  example,  of  the  regi- 
cides have  an  interest.  They  died  for  the  most  part  (Hugh  Peters 
seems  to  have  been  an  exception)  as  became  the  survivors  of  the  terrible 
Ironsides,  glorying,  till  drums  beat  under  the  scaffold  to  silence  them,  in 
their  fidelity  to  the  "  good  old  cause,"  and  showing  a  stern  front  to  the 
jubilant  royalists.  But  one  must  admit  that  they  show  something, 
too,  of  the  peculiarities  which  made  the  race  tiresome  to  their  con- 
temporaries as  they  probably  would  be  to  us.  They  cannot  submit 
without  a  wrangle — which  they  know  to  be  futile — over  some  legal  point, 
where  simple  submission  to  the  inevitable  would  have  been  more  dignified; 
and  their  dying  prayers  and  orations  are  echoes  of  the  long-winded 
sermons  of  the  Blathergowls.  They  showed  fully  as  much  courage,  but 
not  so  much  taste  as  the  "  royal  actor  "  on  the  same  scene.  But  amidst 
the  trials  there  occurs  here  and  there  a  fragment  of  picturesque  evidence. 
A  waterman  tells  us  how  he  was  walking  about  Whitehall  on  the  morning 
of  the  "  fatal  blow."  "  Down  came  a  file  of  musketeers."  They  hurried 
the  hangman  into  his  boat,  and  said,  "  Waterman,  away  with  him  ;  be- 
gone quickly."  "  So,"  says  the  waterman,  "  out  I  launched,  and  having 
got  a  little  way  in  the  water,  says  I,  '  Who  the  devil  have  I  got  in  my 
boat  ] '  Says  my  fellow,  says  he,  '  Why  1 '  I  directed  my  speech  to  him, 
saying,  '  Are  you  the  hangman  that  cut  off  the  King's  head  ? '  '  No,  as  I 
am  a  sinner  to  God,'  saith  he,  '  not  I.'  He  shook,  every  joint  of  him.  I 
knew  not  what  to  do.  I  rowed  away  a  little  further,  and  fell  to  a  new 
examination  of  him.  '  Tell  me  true,'  says  I,  'are  you  the  hangman  that 
hath  cut  off  the  King's  head  ?  I  cannot  carry  you,'  said  I.  '  No,'  saith  he; " 
and  explains  that  his  instruments  had  been  used,  but  not  himself;  and 
though  the  waterman  threatened  to  sink  his  boat,  the  supposed  hangman 
stuck  to  his  story,  and  was  presumably  landed  in  safety.  The  evidence 
seems  to  be  rather  ambiguous  as  concerns  the  prisoner,  who  was  accused 
of  being  the  actual  executioner ;  but  the  vivacity  with  which  Mr.  Abra- 


460  EAMBLES   AMONG  BOOKS. 

ham  Smith  tells  his  story  is  admirable.  Doubtless  it  had  been  his 
favourite  anecdote  to  his  fellows  and  his  fares  during  the  intervening 
years,  and  he  felt,  rightly  as  it  has  turned  out,  that  this  accidental  contact 
with  one  of  the  great  events  of  history  would  be  his  sole  title  to  a  kind 
of  obscure  immortality. 

Another  hero  of  that  time,  unfortunately  a  principal  instead  of  a 
mere  spectator  in  the  recorded  tragedy,  is  so  full  of  exuberant  vitality 
that  we  can  scarcely  reconcile  ourselves  to  the  belief  that  the  poor  man 
was  hanged  two  centuries  ago.  The  gallant  Colonel  Turner  had  served 
in  the  royal  army,  and,  if  we  may  believe  his  dying  words,  was  specially 
valued  by  his  Majesty.  The  poor  colonel,  however,  got  into  difficulties  :  he 
made  acquaintance  with  a  rich  old  merchant  named  Tryon,  and  tried  to 
get  a  will  forged  in  his  favour  by  one  of  Tryon's  clerks ;  failing  in  this,  he 
decided  upon  speedier  measures.  He  tied  down  poor  old  Tryon  in  his 
bed  one  night,  and  then  carried  off  jewels  to  the  value  of  3,000£.  An 
energetic  alderman  suspected  the  colonel,  clutched  him  a  day  or  two 
afterwards,  and  forced  him  to  disgorge.  When  put  upon  his  defence,  he 
could  only  tell  one  of  those  familiar  fictions  common  to  pickpockets ; 
how  he  had  accidentally  collared  the  thief,  who  had  transferred  the  stolen 
goods  to  him,  and  how  he  was  thus  entitled  to  gratitude  instead  of 
punishment.  It  is  not  surprising  that  the  jury  declined  to  believe  him  ; 
but  we  are  almost  surprised  that  any  judge  had  the  courage  to  sentence 
him.  For  Colonel  Turner  is  a  splendid  scoundrel.  There  is  something 
truly  heroic  in  his  magnificent  self-complacency ;  the  fine  placid  glow  of 
conscious  virtue  diffused  over  his  speeches.  He  is  a  link  between  Dugald 
Dalgetty,  Captain  Bobadil,  and  the  audacious  promoter  of  some  modern 
financiering  scheme.  Had  he  lived  in  days  when  old  merchants  invest 
their  savings  in  shares  instead  of  diamonds,  he  would  have  been  an  in- 
valuable director  of  a  bubble  company.  There  is  a  dash  of  the  Pecksniff 
about  him ;  but  he  has  far  too  much  pith  and  courage  to  be  dashed  like 
that  miserable  creature  by  a  single  exposure.  Old  Chuzzlewit  would  never 
have  broken  loose  from  his  bonds.  It  is  delightful  to  see,  in  days  when  most 
criminals  prostrated  themselves  in  abject  humiliation,  how  this  splendid 
colonel  takes  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  into  his  confidence,  verbally  button- 
holes "  my  dear  lord  "  with  a  pleasant  assumption  that,  though  for  form's 
sake  some  inquiry  might  be  necessary,  every  reasonable  man  must  see 
the  humour  of  an  accusation  directed  against  so  innocent  a  patriot.  The 
whole  thing  is  manifestly  absurd.  And  then  the  colonel  gracefully  slides 
in  little  compliments  to  his  own  domestic  virtues.  Part  of  his  story  had 
to  be  that  he  had  sent  his  wife  (who  was  accused  as  an  accomplice)  on 
an  embassy  to  recover  the  stolen  goods.  "  I  sent  my  poor  wife  away," 
he  says,  "  and,  saving  your  lordship's  presence,  she  did  all  bedirt  herself 
— a  thing  she  did  not  use  to  do,  poor  soul.  She  found  this  Nagshead,  she 
sat  down,  being  somewhat  fat  and  weary,  poor  heart !  I  have  had 
twenty-seven  children  by  her,  fifteen  sons  and  twelve  daughters."  "  Seven 
or  eight  times  this  fellow  did  round  her."  "  Let  me  give  that  relation," 


THE  STATE  TRIALS.  461 

interrupts  the  wife.  "  You  cannot,"  replies  the  colonel,  "it  is  as  well. 
Prythee,  sit  down,  dear  Moll ;  sit  thee  down,  good  child,  all  will  be 
well."  And  so  the  colonel  proceeds  with  admirable  volubility,  and  we 
sympathise  with  this  admirable  father  of  twenty-seven  children  under  so 
cruel  a  hardship.  But — not  to  follow  the  trial — the  colonel  culminated 
under  the  most  trying  circumstances.  His  dying  speech  is  superb.  He 
is  honourably  confessing  his  sins,  but  his  natural  instinct  asserts  itself. 
He  cannot  but  admit,  in  common  honesty,  that  he  is  a  model  character, 
and  speaks  under  his  gallows  as  if  he  were  the  good  apprentice  just 
arrived  at  the  mayoralty.  He  admits,  indeed,  that  he  occasionally  gave 
way  to  swearing,  though  he  "  hated  and  loathed  "  the  sin  when  he  ob- 
served it ;  but  he  was — it  was  the  source  of  all  his  troubles — of  a  "  hasty 
nature."  But  he  was  brought  up  in  an  honest  family  in  the  good  old 
times,  and  laments  the  bad  times  that  have  since  come  in.  He  has  been 
a  devoted  loyalist ;  he  has  lived  civilly  and  honestly  at  the  upper  end  of 
Cheapside  as  became  a  freeman  of  the  Company  of  Drapers ;  he  was 
never  known  to  be  "  disguised  in  drink ;  "  a  small  cup  of  cider  in  the 
morning,  and  two  little  glasses  of  sack  and  one  of  claret  at  dinner,  were 
enough  for  him  ;  he  was  a  constant  churchgoer,  and  of  such  delicate  pro- 
priety of  behaviour  that  he  never  "  saw  a  man  in  church  with  his  hat  on 
but  it  troubled  him  very  much  "  (a  phrase  which  reminds  us  of  Johnson's 
famous  friend)  ;  "  there  must  be,"  he  is  sure,  when  he  thinks  of  all  his 
virtues,  "  a  thousand  sorrowful  souls  and  weeping  eyes  "  for  him  this 
day.  The  attendant  clergy  are  a  little  scandalised  at  this  peculiar  kind 
of  penitence  ;  and  he  is  good  enough  to  declare  that  he  "  disclaims  any 
desert  of  his  own  " — a  sentiment  which  we  feel  to  be  a  graceful  conces- 
sion, but  not  to  be  too  strictly  interpreted.  The  hangman  is  obliged  to 
put  the  rope  round  his  neck.  "  Dost  thou  mean  to  choke  me,  fellow  ?  " 
exclaims  the  indignant  colonel.  "  What  a  simple  fellow  is  this !  how  long 
have  you  been  executioner  that  you  know  not  how  to  put  the  knot  1  "  He 
then  utters  some  pious  ejaculations,  and  as  he  is  assuming  the  fatal  cap, 
sees  a  lady  at  a  window  ;  he  kisses  his  hand  to  her,  and  says,  "  Your  ser- 
vant, Mistress  ;  "  and  so  pulling  down  the  cap,  the  brave  colonel  vanishes, 
as  the  reporter  tells  us,  with  a  very  undaunted  'carriage  to  his  last 
breath. 

Sir  Thomas  More  with  his  flashes  of  playfulness,  or  Charles  with 
his  solemn  "  remember,"  could  scarcely  play  their  parts  more  gallantly 
than  Colonel  Turner,  and  they  had  the  advantage  of  a  belief  in  the  good- 
ness of  their  cause.  Perhaps  it  is  illogical  to  sympathise  all  the  more 
with  poor  Colonel  Turner,  because  we  know  that  his  courage  had  not 
the  adventitious  aid  of  a  good  conscience.  But  surely  he  was  a  very 
prince  of  burglars  !  We  turn  a  page  and  come  to  a  very  different  ques- 
tion of  casuistry.  Law  and  morality  are  at  a  deadlock.  Instead  of  the 
florid,  swaggering  cavalier,  we  have  a  pair  of  Quakers,  Margaret  Fell 
and  the  famous  George  Fox,  arguing  with  the  most  irritating  calmness 
and  logic  against  the  imposition  of  an  oath.  "  Give  me  the  book  in  my 


462  EAMBLES  AMONG   BOOKS. 

hand,"  says  Fox ;  and  they  are  all  gazing  in  hopes  that  he  is  about  to 
swear.  Then  he  holds  up  the  Bible  and  exclaims,  "  This  book  commands 
me  not  to  swear."  To  which  dramatic  argument  (the  report,  it  is  to  be 
observed,  comes  from  Fox's  side)  there  is  no  possible  reply  but  to  "  pluck 
the  book  forth  of  his  hand  again,"  and  send  him  back  to  prison.  The 
Quakers  vanish  in  their  invincible  passiveness  ;  and  in  the  next  page,  we 
find  ourselves  at  Bury  St.  Edmunds.  The  venerated  Sir  Matthew  Hale 
is  on  the  bench,  and  the  learned  and  eloquent  Sir  Thomas  Browne  ap- 
pears in  the  witness-box.  They  listen  to  a  wretched  story  of  two  poor  old 
women  accused  of  bewitching  children.  The  children  swear  that  they 
have  been  tormented  by  imps,  in  the  shape  of  flies,  which  flew  into  their 
mouths  with  crooked  pins — the  said  imps  being  presumably  the  diabolical 
emissaries  of  the  witches.  Then  Sir  Thomas  Browne  gravely  delivers 
his  opinion ;  he  quotes  a  case  of  witchcraft  in  Denmark,  and  decides, 
after  due  talk  about  "  superabundant  humours  "  and  judicious  balancing 
of  conflicting  considerations,  that  the  fits  into  which  the  children  fell  were 
strictly  natural,  but  "  heightened  to  a  great  excess  by  the  subtlety  of  the 
devil  co-operating  with  the  malice  of  the  witches."  An  "  ingenious 
person,"  however,  suggests  an  experiment.  The  child  who  had  sworn 
that  the  touch  of  the  witch  threw  her  into  fits,  was  blindfolded  and 
touched  by  another  person  passed  off  as  the  witch.  The  young  sinner 
fell  into  the  same  fits,  and  the  "ingenious  person"  pronounced  the  whole 
affair  to  be  an  imposture.  However,  a  more  ingenious  person  gets  up 
and  proves  by  dexterous  logic,  curiously  like  that  of  a  detected  "medium  " 
of  to-day,  that,  on  the  contrary,  it  confirms  the  evidence.*  Where- 
upon, the  witches  were  found  guilty,  the  judge  and  all  the  court  being 
fully  satisfied  with  the  verdict,  and  were  hanged  accordingly,  though 
absolutely  refusing  to  confess. 

Our  ancestors'  justice  strikes  us  as  rather  heavy-handed  and  dull- 
eyed  on  these  occasions.  In  another  class  of  trials  we  see  the  opposite 
phase — the  manifestation  of  that  curious  tenderness  which  has  shown 
itself  in  so  many  forms  since  the  days  when  highway  robbery  appeared 
to  be  a  graceful  accomplishment  if  practised  by  a  wild  Prince  and  Poins. 
Things  were  made  delightfully  easy  in  the  race  which  flourished  after 
the  Restoration.  Every  Peer,  by  the  amazing  privilege  of  the  "  benefit 
of  clergy,"  had  a  right  to  commit  one  manslaughter.  Like  a  school- 
boy, he  was  allowed  to  plead  "  first  fault ;  "  and  a  good  many  Peers  took 
advantage  of  the  system. 

Lord  Morley,  for  example,  has  a  quarrel  "about  half-a-crown."  A 
Mr.  Hastings,  against  whom  he  has  some  previous  grudge,  contemptuously 
throws  down  four  half-crowns.  Therefore  Lord  Morley  and  an  attendant 
bully  insult  Hastings,  assault  him  repeatedly,  and  at  last  fall  upon 

*  This  case  was  in  1665.  It  is  curious  that  in  the  case  of  Hathaway  in  1702,  a 
precisely  similar  experiment  convinced  everybody  that  the  accuser  was  an  impostor; 
and  got  him  a  -whipping  and  a  place  in  the  pillory. 


THE   STATE   TRIALS.  463 

him  "  just  tinder  the  arch  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,"  and  there  Lord  Mor- 
ley  stabs  him  to  death,  "  with  a  desperate  imprecation."  The  Attorney- 
General  argues  that  this  shows  malice,  and  urges  that  Mr.  Hastings,  too, 
was  a  man  of  good  family.  But  the  Peers  only  find  their  fellow  guilty 
of  manslaughter.  He  claims  his  privilege,  and  is  dismissed  with  a 
benevolent  admonition  not  to  do  it  again.  Elsewhere,  we  have  Lord 
Cornwallis  and  a  friend  coming  out  of  Whitehall  in  the  early  morning, 
drunk  and  using  the  foulest  language.  After  trying  in  vain  to  quarrel 
with  a  sentinel,  they  swear  that  they  will  kill  somebody  before  going 
home.  An  unlucky  youth  comes  home  to  his  lodgings  close  by,  and 
after  some  abuse  from  the  Peer  and  his  friend,  the  lad  is  somehow  tum- 
bled downstairs  and  killed  on  the  spot.  As  it  seems  not  to  be  clear 
whether  Lord  Cornwallis  gave  the  fatal  kick,  he  is  honourably  acquitted. 
Then  we  have  a  free  fight  at  a  tavern,  where  Lord  Pembroke  is  drinking 
with  a  lot  of  friends.  One  of  them  says  that  he  is  as  good  a  gentleman 
as  Lord  Pembroke.  The  witnesses  were  all  too  drunk  to  remember  how 
and  why  anything  happened  ;  but  after  a  time  one  of  them  is  kicked  out 
of  the  tavern ;  another,  a  Mr.  Cony,  is  knocked  down  and  trampled,  and 
swears  that  he  has  received  what  turned  out  some  days  later  to  be  mortal 
injuries  from  the  boots  of  Lord  Pembroke.  The  case  is,  indeed,  doubt- 
ful ;  for  the  doctor  who  was  called  in  refused  to  make  a  post-mortem 
examination  on  the  ground  that  it  might  lead  him  into  "  a  troublesome 
matter  ;  "  and  another  was  disposed  to  attribute  the  death  to  poor  Mr. 
Cony's  inordinate  love  of  "  cold  small  beer."  He  drank  three  whole 
tankards  the  night  before  his  death ;  and  when  actually  dying,  declined 
"  white  wine  posset  drink,"  suggested  by  the  doctor,  and  "  swore  a  great 
oath  he  would  have  small  beer."  And  so  he  died,  whether  by  boots  or  beer ; 
and  the  Lord  High  Steward  in  due  time  had  to  inform  Lord  Pembroke 
that  his  lordship  was  guilty  of  manslaughter,  but,  being  entitled  to  his 
clergy,  was  to  be  discharged  on  paying  his  fees.  The  most  sinister  figure 
amongst  these  wild  gallants  is  the  Lord  Mohun,  who  killed,  and  was 
killed  by,  the  Duke  of  Hamilton,  as  all  the  readers  of  the  Journals 
of  Swift  or  of  Colonel  Esmond  remember.  He  appears  twice  in  the 
collection.  On  December  9,  1690,  Mohun  and  his  friend  Colonel  Hill 
come  swaggering  into  the  play-house,  and  got  from  the  pit  upon  the 
stage.  An  attendant  asks  them  to  pay  for  their  places  ;  whereupon  Lord 
Mohun  nobly  refuses,  saying,  "  If  you  bring  any  of  your  masters  I  will 
slit  their  noses."  The  pair  have  a  coach- an d-six  waiting  in  the  street  to 
carry  off  Mrs.  Bracegirdle,  to  whom  Hill  has  been  making  love.  As  she 
is  going  home  to  supper,  they  try  to  force  her  into  it  with  the  help  of  half- 
a-dozen  soldiers.  The  by-standers  prevent  this;  but  the  pair  insist 
upon  seeing  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  to  her  house,  and  mount  guard  outside 
with  their  swords  drawn.  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  and  her  friends  stand  listen- 
ing at  the  door,  and  hear  them  vowing  vengeance  against  Mountford,  of 
whom  Hill  was  jealous.  Presently  the  watch  appears — the  constable 
and  the  beadle,  and  a  man  in  front  with  a  lantern.  The  constable  asks 


464  EAMBLES  AMONG  BOOKS. 

why  are  the  swords  drawn.  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  through  the  door  hears 
Mohun  reply,  "  I  am  a  Peer  of  England,  touch  me  if  you  dare."  "  God 
bless  your  honour,"  replies  the  constable,  "  I  know  not  what  you  are, 
but  I  hope  you  are  doing  no  harm."  "  No,"  said  he.  "  You  may  knock 
me  down,  if  you  please,"  adds  Colonel  Hill.  "  Nay,  said  I  "  (the  lantern- 
bearer),  "  we  never  use  to  knock  gentlemen  down  unless  there  be  occa- 
sion." And  the  judicious  watch  retire  to  a  tavern  in  the  next  street,  in 
order,  as  they  say,  "  to  examine  what  they  (Mohun  and  Hill)  were,  and 
what  they  were  doing."  There  was,  as  the  constable  explains,  "  a 
drawer  there,  who  had  formerly  lived  over  against  him,"  and  might  throw 
some  light  upon  the  proceedings  of  these  polite  gentlemen.  But,  alas  ! 
"  in  the  meantime  the  murder  was  done."  For  as  another  witness  tells 
us,  Mr.  Mountford  came  up  the  street  and  was  speaking  coolly  to  Mohun, 
when  Hill  came  up  behind  and  gave  him  a  box  on  the  ear.  "  Saith  Mr. 
Mountford,  what's  that  for  1  And  with  that  he  (Hill)  whipped  out 
his  sword  and  made  a  pass  at  him,  and  I  turned  about  and  cried  mur- 
der ! "  Mountford  was  instantly  killed ;  but  witnesses  peeping  through 
doors,  and  looking  out  of  windows,  gave  conflicting  accounts  of  the 
scuffle  in  the  dim  street,  and  Lord  Mohun,  after  much  argument  as  to 
the  law,  was  acquitted.  Five  years  later,  he  appears  in  the  case  reported 
by  Esmond,  with  little  more  than  a  change  in  the  names.  An  insensate 
tavern-brawl  is  followed  by  an  adjoiirnment  to  Leicester  Fields ;  six 
noblemen  and  gentlemen  in  chairs ;  Mr.  Coote,  the  chief  actor  in  the 
quarrel,  urging  his  chairman  by  threatening  to  goad  him  with  his  sword. 
The  gentlemen  get  over  the  railings  and  vanish  into  the  "  dark  wet " 
night,  whilst  the  chairmen  philosophically  light  their  pipes.  The  pipes  are 
scarcely  alight,  when  there  is  a  cry  for  help.  Somehow  a  chair  is 
hoisted  over  the  rails,  and  poor  Mr.  Coote  is  found  prostrate  in  a  pool  of 
blood.  The  chairmen  strongly  object  to  spoiling  their  chairs  by  putting  a 
"  bloody  man  "  into  them.  They  are  pacified  by  a  promise  of  IQOl.  security ; 
but  the  chair  is  somehow  broken,  and  the  watch  will  not  come  to  help, 
because  it  is  out  of  their  ward ;  "  and  I  staid  half-an-hour,"  says  the 
chief  witness  pathetically,  "  with  my  chair  broken,  and  afterwards  I  was 
laid  hold  upon,  both  I  and  my  partner,  and  kept  till  next  night  at 
eleven  o'clock  ;  and  that  is  all  the  satisfaction  I  have  had  for  my  chair 
and  everything."  This  damage  to  the  chair  was  clearly  the  chief  point 
of  interest  for  poor  Eobert  Browne,  the  chairman,  and  it  may  be  feared 
that  his  account  is  still  unsettled.  Mohun  escaped  upon  this  occasion, 
and,  indeed,  Esmond  is  unjust  in  giving  to  him  a  principal  part  in  the 
tragedy. 

Such  were  the  sights  to  be  seen  occasionally  in  London  by  the  watch- 
man's lantern,  or  the  candle  glimmering  across  the  narrow  ally,  or  some 
occasional  lamp  swinging  across  the  street ;  for  it  was  by  such  a  lamp 
that  a  girl  looked  into  the  hackney-coach  and  saw  the  face  of  the  man 
who  had  sent  for  Dr.  Clench  ostensibly  to  visit  a  patient,  but  really  in 
order  to  strangle  the  poor  doctor  on  the  way.  They  are  strange  illu- 


THE  STATE  TEIALS.  465 

initiations  on  the  margin  of  the  pompous  page  of  official  history ;  and  the 
incidental  details  give  form  and  colour  to  the  incidents  in  Pepys'  Jour- 
nals or  Grammont's  Memoirs.  We  have  kept  at  a  distance  from  the 
more  dignified  records  of  the  famous  constitutional  struggles  which 
fill  the  greatest  numher  of  pages.  Yet  those  pages  are  not  barren  for 
the  lover  of  the  picturesque.  And  here  I  must  put  in  a  word  for  one 
much  reviled  character.  If  ever  I  were  to  try  my  hand  at  the  historical 
amusement  of  whitewashing,  I  should  be  tempted  to  take  for  my  hero 
the  infamous  Jeffreys.  He  was,  I  dare  say,  as  bad  as  he  is  painted  ;  so 
perhaps  were  Nero  and  Richard  III.,  and  other  much  abused  persons  ; 
but  no  miscreant  of  them  all  could  be  more  amusing.  Wherever  the 
name  of  Jeffreys  appears  we  may  be  certain  of  good  sport.  With  all  his 
inexpressible  brutality,  his  buffoonery,  his  baseness,  we  can  see  that  he 
was  a  man  of  remarkable  talent.  We  think  of  him  generally  as  he 
appeared  when  bullying  Baxter ;  when  "  he  snorted  and  squeaked,  blew 
his  nose  and  clenched  his  hands,  and  lifted  up  his  eyes,  mimicking  their 
(the  Nonconformists')  manner,  and  running  on  furiously,  as  he  said  they 
used  to  pray ; "  and  we  may  regard  him  as  his  victims  must  have 
regarded  him,  as  a  kind  of  demoniacal  baboon  placed  on  the  bench 
in  robes  and  wig,  in  hideous  caricature  of  justice.  But  the  vigour 
and  skill  of  the  man  when  he  has  to  worry  the  truth  out  of  a  stub- 
born witness,  is  also  amazing.  When  a  knavish  witness  produced  a 
forged  deed  in  support  of  the  claim  of  a  certain  Lady  Ity  to  a  great  part 
of  Shadwell,  Jeffreys  is  in  his  element.  He  is  perhaps  a  little  too  exube- 
rant. "  Ask  him  what  questions  you  will,"  he  breaks  out,  "  but  if  he 
should  swear  as  long  as  Sir  John  Falstaff  fought "  (the  Chief  Justice 
can  quote  Shakspeare),  "  I  would  never  believe  a  word  he  says."  His 
lordship  may  be  too  violent,  but  he  is  substantially  doing  justice;  and 
shows  himself  a  dead  hand  at  unmasking  a  cheat.  The  most  striking 
proof  of  Jeffreys'  power  is  in  the  dramatic  trial  of  Lady  Lisle.  The  poor 
lady  was  accused  of  harbouring  one  Hicks,  a  Dissenting  preacher,  after 
Sedgemoor.  It  was  clear  that  a  certain  James  Dunne  had  guided  Hicks 
to  Lady  Lisle's  house.  The  difficulty  was  to  prove  that  Lady  Lisle 
knew  Hicks  to  be  a  traitor.  Dunne  had  talked  to  her  in  presence  of 
another  witness,  and  it  was  suggested  that  he  had  given  her  the  fatal 
information.  But  Dunne  tried  hard  in  telling  his  story  to  sink  this 
vital  fact.  The  effort  of  Jeffreys  to  twist  it  out  of  poor  Dunne,  and 
Dunne's  futile  and  prolonged  wriggling  to  escape  the  confession,  are 
reported  at  full,  and  form  one  of  the  most  striking  passages  in  the  State 
Trials.  Jeffreys  shouts  at  him  ;  dilates  in  most  edifying  terms  upon  the 
bottomless  lake  of  fire  and  brimstone  which  awaits  all  perjurers  ;  snatches 
at  any  slip ;  pins  the  witness  down ;  fastens  inconsistencies  upon  him 
through  page  after  page  ;  but  poor  Dunne  desperately  clutches  the  secret 
in  spite  of  the  tremendous  strain.  He  almost  seems  to  have  escaped, 
when  the  other  witness  establishes  the  fact  that  some  conversation  took 
place.  Armed  with  this  new  thumbscrew,  Jeffreys  leaps  upon  poor 
VOL.  XLV.— NO.  268.  23. 


466  EAMBLES  AMONG  BOOKS. 

Dunne  again.  The  storm  of  objurgations,  appeals,  confutations,  bursts 
forth  with  increased  force ;  poor  Dunne  slips  into  a  fatal  admission  : 
he  has  admitted  some  talk,  but  cannot  explain  what  it  was.  He  tries 
dogged  silence.  The  torture  of  Jeffreys'  tongue  urges  him  to  fresh  blun- 
dering. A  candle  is  held  up  to  his  nose  that  the  court  "  may  see  his 
brazen  face."  At  last  he  exclaims,  the  candle  "  still  nearer  to  his  nose," 
and  feeling  himself  the  very  focus  of  all  attention,  "  I  am  quite  cluttered 
out  of  my  senses  ;  I  do  not  know  what  I  say."  The  wretched  creature 
is  allowed  to  reflect  for  a  time,  and  then  at  last  declares  that  he  will  tell 
the  truth.  He  tells  enough  in  fact  for  the  purpose,  though  he  feebly 
tries  to  keep  back  the  most  damning  words.  Enough  has  been  wrenched 
out  of  him  to  send  poor  Lady  Lisle  to  the  scaffold.  The  figure  of  the 
poor  old  lady  falling  asleep,  as  it  is  said,  while  Jeffreys'  thunder,  and 
lightning  was  raging  in  this  terrific  fashion  round  the  feeble  defence  of 
Dunne's  reticence,  is  so  pathetic,  and  her  fate  so  piteous  and  disgraceful, 
that  we  have  little  sense  for  anything  but  Jeffreys'  brutality.  But  if  the 
power  of  worming  the  truth  out  of  a  grudging  witness  were  the  sole  test 
of  a  judge's  excellence,  we  must  admit  the  amazing  efficiency  of  Jeffreys' 
method.  He  is  the  ideal  cross-examiner,  and  we  may  overlook  the 
cruelty  to  victims  who  have  so  long  ceased  to  suffer. 

In  the  post-revolutionary  period  the  world  becomes  more  merciful 
and  duller.  Lawyers  speak  at  greater  length  ;  and  even  the  victims  of 
'45,  the  strange  Lord  Lovat  himself,  give  little  sport  at  the  respectable 
bar  of  the  House  of  Lords.  But  the  domestic  trials  become  perhaps 
more  interesting,  if  only  by  way  of  commentary  upon  Tom  Jones  or 
Roderick  Random.  Novelists  indeed  have  occasionally  sought  to  turn 
these  records  to  account.  The  great  Annesley  case  has  been  used  by 
Mr.  Charles  Reade,  and  Scott  took  some  hints  from  it  in  one  of  the  very 
best  of  his  performances,  the  inimitable  Guy  Mannering.  Scott's  adapta- 
tion should,  indeed,  be  rather  a  warning  than  a  precedent ;  for  the  sur- 
passing merit  of  his  great  novel  consists  in  the  display  of  character,  in 
Meg  Merrilies  and  Dandie  Dinmontand  Counsellor  Pleydell,  and  certainly 
not  in  the  rather  childish  plot  with  the  long-lost  heir  business.  He  falls 
into  the  common  error  of  supposing  that  the  actual  occurrence  of  events 
must  be  a  sufficient  guarantee  for  employing  them  in  fiction.  The  Annes- 
ley case  is  almost  the  only  one  in  the  collection  in  which  facts  descend  to 
the  level  of  romance.  The  claimant's  case  was  clearly  established  up  to 
a  certain  point.  There  was  no  doubt  that  he  had  passed  for  Lord 
Annesley's  son  in  his  childhood ;  that  he  had  for  that  reason  been 
spirited  away  by  his  uncle,  and  sold  as  a  slave  in  America ;  and,  further, 
that  when  he  returned  to  make  his  claim  and  killed  a  man  by  accident  (an 
incident  used  by  Scott) — that  his  uncle  did  his  best  to  have  him  convicted 
for  murder.  The  more  difficult  point  was  to  prove  that  he  was  the 
legitimate  son  of  the  deceased  lord  by  his  wife,  who  was  also  dead.  A 
servant  of  the  supposed  mother  gave  evidence  which,  if  true,  conclusively 
disproved  this  assumption ;  and  though  young  Annesley  won  his  first 


STATfi  TEiALS.  467 

trial,  he  afterwards  failed  to  convict  this  witness  of  perjury.     The  case 

may  therefore  be  still  doubtful,  though  the  weight  of  evidence  seems 

decidedly  against  the  claimant.     The  case — the  "  longest  ever  known  "  at 

that  time — lasted  fifteen  days,  and  gives  some  queer  illustrations  of  the 

domestic  life  of  a  disreputable  Irish  nobleman  of  the  period.     Perhaps, 

however,  the  most  curious  piece  of  evidence  is  given  by  the  attorney  who 

was  employed  to  prosecute  the  claimant  for  a  murder  of  which  he  was 

clearly  innocent.     "  What  was  the  intention  of  the  prosecution  ? "  he  is 

asked.    "  To  put  this  man  out  of  the  way  that  he  (Lord  Anglesea,  the 

uncle)  might  enjoy  the  estate  easy  and  quiet."     "  You  understood,  then, 

that  Lord  Anglesea  would  give  10,000£.  to  get  the  plaintiff  hanged  ?" 

"  I  did."     "  Did  you  not  apprehend  that  to  be  a  most  wicked  crime  ? " 

"  I  did."     "  If  so,  how  could  you  engage  in  that  project,  without  making 

any  objection  to  it  1 "     "I  may  as  well  ask  you,"  is  the  reply,  "  how  you 

came  to  be  engaged  in  this  suit."     He  is  afterwards  asked  whether  any 

honest  man  would  do  such  an  action.    "  Yes,  I  believe  they  would,  or 

else   I  would  not  have   carried  it   on."     This  is  one   of  the  prettiest 

instances  on  record  of  that  ingenious  adaptation  of  the  conscience,  which 

allows  a  man  to  think  himself  thoroughly  honest  for  committing  a  most 

wicked  crime  in  his  professional  capacity.     The  novelist  who  wishes 

rather  to  display  character  than  to  amuse  us  with  intricacies  of  plot,  will 

find  more  matter  in  less  ambitious  narratives.    A  most  pathetic  romance, 

which  may  remind  us  of  more  famous  fictions,  underlies  the  great  murder 

case  in   which  Cowper  the  poet's  grandfather  was  defendant.     Sarah 

Stout,  the  daughter  of  a  Quaker  at  Hertford,  fell  desperately  in  love  with 

Cowper,  who  was  a  barrister,  and  sometimes  lodged  at  her  father's  house 

when  on  circuit.     She  wrote  passionate  letters  to  him  of  the  Eloise  to 

Abelard  kind,    which   Cowper  was  ultimately   forced   to   produce  in 

evidence.     He  therefore  had  a  final  interview  with  her,  explained  to  her 

the  folly  of  her  passion,  there  being  already  a  Mrs.  Cowper,  and  left  her 

late  in  the  evening  to  go  to  his  lodgings  elsewhere.     Poor  Sarah  Stout 

rushed  out  in  despair  and  threw  herself  into  the  Priory  river.     There  she 

was  found  dead  next  morning,  when  the  miller  came  to  pull  up  his 

sluices.     All  the  gossips  of  Hertford  came  immediately  to  look  at  the 

body  and  make  moral  or  judicial  reflections  upon  the  facts.     Wiseacres 

suggested  that  Cowper  was  the  last  man  seen  in  her  company,  and  it 

came  out  that  two  or  three  other  men  attending  the  assizes  had  gossiped 

about  her  on  the  previous  evening,  and  one  of  them  had,  strange  to  relate, 

left  a  cord  close  by  his  trunk.     These  facts,  transfigured  by  the  Hertford 

imagination,  became   the  nucleus  of  a   theory,   set  forth   in  delicious 

legal  verbosity,  that  the  said  Cowper,  John  Masson,  and  others   "a 

certain  rope  of  no  value  about  the  neck  of  the  said  Sarah,  then  and  there 

feloniously,  voluntarily,  and  of  malice  aforethought  did  put,  place,  fix, 

and  bind ;  and  the  neck  and  throat  of  the  said  Sarah,  then  and  there 

with  the  hands  of  you,  the  said  Cowper,  Masson,  Stephens,  and  Rogers, 

feloniously,  voluntarily,   and  of  your  malice   aforethought,    did    hold, 

23—2 


468  RAMBLES  AMONG  BOOKS. 

squeeze,  and  gripe."  By  the  said  squeezing  and  griping,  to  abbreviate" 
a  little,  Sarah  Stout  was  choked  and  strangled;  and  being  choked  and 
strangled  instantly  died,  and  was  then  secretly  and  maliciously  put 
and  cast  into  the  river.  The  evidence,  it  is  plain,  required  a  little 
straining,  but  then  Cowper  belonged  to  the  great  Whig  family  of  the 
town,  and  Sarah  Stout  was  a  Quaker.  Tories  thought  it  would  be  well 
to  get  a  Cowper  hanged,  and  Quakers  wished  to  escape  the  imputation 
that  one  of  their  sect  had  committed  suicide.  The  trial  lasted  so  long 
that  the  poor  judge  became  faint  and  confessed  that  he  could  not  sum  up 
properly.  The  whole  strength  of  the  case,  however,  such  as  it  was, 
depended  upon  an  ingenious  theory  set  up  by  the  prosecution,  to  the 
effect  that  the  bodies  of  the  drowned  always  sink,  whereas  Miss  Stout 
was  found  floating,  and  must  therefore  have  been  dead  before  she  was 
put  in  the  river.  The  chief  witness  was  a  sailor,  who  swore  that  this 
doctrine,  as  to  sinking  and  swimming  was  universal  in  the  navy.  He 
had  seen  the  shipwreck  of  the  "  Coronation  "  in  1691.  "  We  saw  the 
ship  sink  down,"  he  says,  "  and  they  swam  up  and  down  like  a  shoal  of 
fish  one  over  another,  and  I  see  them  hover  one  upon  another,  and  see 
them  drop  away  by  scores  at  a  time ; "  some  nine  escaped,  "  but  there 
were  no  more  saved  out  of  the  ship's  complement,  which  was  between 
500  and  600,  and  the  rest  I  saw  sinking  downright,  twenty  at  a  time." 
He  has  a  clinching  argument,  though  a  less  graphic  instance,  to  prove 
that  men  already  dead  do  not  sink.  "  Otherwise,  why  should  Govern- 
ment be  at  that  vast  charge  to  allow  threescore  or  fourscore  weight  of 
iron  to  sink  every  man,  but  only  that  their  swimming  about  should  not 
be  a  discouragement  to  others  1 "  Cowper's  scientific  witnesses,  some  of 
the  medical  bigwigs  of  the  day,  had  very  little  trouble  in  confuting  this 
evidence  :  but  the  letters  which  he  at  last  produced,  and  the  evidence 
that  poor  Miss  Stout  had  been  talking  of  suicide,  should  have  made  the 
whole  story  clear  even  to  the  beinuddled  judges.  The  novelist  would 
throw  into  the  background  this  crowd  of  gossiping  and  malicious  quid- 
nuncs of  Hertford  ;  but  we  must  be  content  to  catch  glimpses  of  her  pre- 
vious history  from  these  absurdly  irrelevant  twaddlings,  as  in  actual  life 
we  catch  sight  of  tragedies  below  the  surface  of  social  small-talk.  Sarah 
Stout  was  clearly  a  Maggie  Tulliver.  a  potential  heroine,  unable  to  be 
happy  amidst  the  broad-brimmed,  drab-coated  respectabilities  of  quiet 
little  Hertford.  Her  rebellion  was  rasher  than  Maggie's,  but  perhaps  in 
a  more  characteristic  fashion.  The  case  suggests  the  wish  that  Mr.  Stephen 
Guest  might  have  been  hanged  on  some  such  suspicion  as  was  nearly 
fatal  to  Cowper. 

Half  a  century  later  our  ancestors  were  in  a  state  of  intense  excite- 
ment about  another  tragedy  of  a  darker  kind.  Mary  Blandy,  the 
only  daughter  of  a  gentleman  at  Henley,  made  acquaintance  with  a 
Captain  Cranstoun,  who  was  recruiting  in  the  town.  The  father 
objected  to  a  marriage,  from  a  suspicion,  apparently  well  founded,  that 
Cranstoun  was  already  married  in  Scotland.  Thereupon  Mary  Blandy 


THE  STATE  TEIALS.  469 

administered  to  her  father  certain  powders  sent  to  her  by  Cranstoun. 
According  to  her  own  account,  she  intended  them  as  a  kind  of  charm  to 
act  upon  her  father's  affections.     As  they  were,  in  fact,  composed  of 
arsenic,  they  soon  put  an  end  to  her  father  altogether,  and  it  is  too  clear 
that  she  really  knew  what  she  was  doing.     It  was  sworn  that  she  used 
brutal  and  unfeeling  language  about  the  poor  old  man's  sufferings,  for 
the  poison  was  given  at  intervals  during  some  months.     But  the  pathetic 
touch  which  moved  the  sympathies  of  contemporaries  was  the  behaviour 
of  the  father.     In  the  last  day  or  two  of  his  life,  he  was  told  that  his 
daughter  had  been  the  cause  of  his  fatal  illness.     His  comment  was  : 
"  Poor  lovesick  girl !  What  will  not  a  woman  do  for  the  man  she  loves." 
When  she  came  to  his  room  his  only  thought  was  apparently  to  comfort 
her.     His  most  reproachful  phrase  was  :  "  Thee  should  have  considered 
better   than  to   have   attempted   anything   against   thy   father."      The 
daughter  went  down  on  her  knees  and  begged  him  not  to  curse  her.      "  I 
curse  thee  !  "  he  exclaimed.    "  My  dear,  how  couldst  thou  think  I  should 
curse  thee  1     No,  I  bless  thee,  and  hope  God  will  bless  thee  and  amend 
thy  life."     And  then  he  added,  "  Do,  my  dear,  go  out  of  the  room  and 
say  no  more,  lest  thou  shouldst  say  anything  to  thy  prejudice  ;  go  to 
thy  uncle   Stevens,  take  him  for  thy  friend ;  poor  man,  I  am  sorry  for 
him."     The  tragedy  behind  these  homely  words  is  almost  too  pathetic 
and  painful   for   dramatic   purposes;   and  it  is   not  strange   that  our 
ancestors    were    affected.      The  sympathy,   however,   took   the   queer 
illogical  twist  which  perhaps,  who  can  tell  1  it  might  do  at  the  present 
day.     Miss  Blandy  became  -a  sort  of  quasi  saint,  the  tenderness  due  to 
the  murdered  man  extended  itself  to  his  murderer,  and  her  penitence 
profoundly  edified  all  observers.     Crowds  of  people  flocked  to  see  her 
j  in  chapel,  and  she  accepted  the  homage  gracefully.     She  was  extremely 
shocked,  we  are  told,  by  oue  insinuation  made  by  uncharitable  persons; 
I  namely,  that  her  intimacy  with  Cranstoun,  who  was  supposed  to  be 
a  freethinker,  might  justify  doubts  upon  her  orthodoxy.     She  declared 
that  he  had  always  talked  to  her  "perfectly  in  the  style  of  a  Christian," 
and  she  had  read  the  works  of  some  of  our  most  celebrated  divines.     In 
spite  of  her  moving  conduct,  however,  the  "  prejudices  she  had  to  struggle 
with  had  taken  too  deep  root  in  some  men's  minds "  to  allow  of  her 
getting  a  pardon.     And  so,  5,000  people  saw  poor  Miss  Blandy  mount 
:he  ladder  in  "  a  black  bombazine,  short  sack  and  petticoat,"  on  an  April 
norning  at  Oxford,  and  many,  "  particularly  several  gentlemen  of  the 
Jniversity,"  were  observed  to  shed  tears.     She  left  a  declaration    of 
nnocence  which,  in  spite  of  its  solemnity,  must  have  been  a  lie ;  and 
vhich  contained  an  allusion  from  which  it  appears  that  Miss  Blandy, 
ike  other  prisoners,  was  suspected  of  previous  crimes. 

"  It  is  shocking  to  think,"  says  Horace  Walpole,  in  noticing  Miss 
Tandy's  case,  "  what  a  shambles  this  country  has  become.  Seventeen 
;rere  executed  this  morning,  after  having  murdered  the  turnkey  on 
friday  night,  and  almost  forced  open  Newgate,"  Another  woman  was 


470  EAMBLES  AMONG-  BOOKS. 

hanged  in  the  same  year  for  murdering  her  uncle  at  Walthamstow ;  and 
the  public  could  talk  about  nothing  but   the   marriage   of  the   Miss 
Gunnings  and  the  hanging  of  two  murderesses.     Fielding,  then  approach- 
ing the  end  of  his  career,  was  moved  by  this  and  other  atrocities  to 
publish  a  queer  collection  of  instances  of  the  providential  punishment 
of  murderers.     Another  famous  author  of  the  day  was  commonly  said 
to  have  turned  a  famous  murder  to   account  in  a   different  fashion. 
Foote,  it  is  said,  was  introduced  at  a  club  in  the  words,  "  This  is  the 
nephew  of  the  gentleman  who  was  lately  hung  in  chains  for  murdering 
his  brother  ;  "  and  it  is  added  that  Foote's  first  pamphlet  was  an  account 
of  this  disagreeable  domestic  incident.    A  more  serious  author  might  have 
found  in  it  materials  for  a  striking  narrative.     Captain  Goodere  com- 
manded his  Majesty's  ship  Ruby,  lying  in  the  King's  Road  off  Bristol. 
He  had  a  quarrel  with  his  brother,  Sir  John  Goodere,  about  a  certain 
estate.     The  family  solicitor  arranged  a  meeting  in  his  house,  where  the 
two  brothers  appeared  to  be  reconciled.     Exit  Sir  John  had  scarcely  left 
the  house,  when  he  was  seized  in  broad  daylight  by  a  set  of  sailors  who 
had  been  drinking  in  a  public-house,  and  carried  down  forcibly  to  the 
Captain's  barge.     The  Captain  himself  followed  and  rowed  off  with  his 
brother  to  the  ship.     There  Sir  John  was  confined  in  a  cabin,  a  sugges- 
tion  being  thrown  out  to  the  crew  that  he  was  a  madman.     A  few 
hours  later,  one  Mahony,  who  played  the  part  of  "  hairy-faced  Dick  "  to 
Hamilton  Tighe,  strangled  the  unfortunate  man,  with  an  accomplice 
called  White.    Attention  had  been  aroused  amongst  the  crew  by  ominous  ; 
sounds,  groans  and  scufflings  heard  in  the   dead  of  night,   and   next 
morning,  the  lieutenant,  after  a  talk  with  the  surgeon,  resolved  to  seize 
their  captain  for  murder.     A  more  outrageous  and  reckless  proceeding, 
indeed,  could  scarcely  have  been  imagined,  even  in  the  days  when  a 
press-gang  was  a  familiar  sight,  and  the  captain  of  a  ship  at  sea  was  as 
absolute  as  an  Eastern  despot.     Every  detail  seemed  to  be  arranged 
with  an  express  view  to  publicity.     One  piece  of  evidence,  however,  was 
required  to  bring  the  matter  home  to  the  captain ;  and  it  is  of  ghastly 
picturesqueness.     The  ship's  cooper  and  his  wife  were  sleeping  in  the 
cabin  next  to  the  scene  of  the  murder.     The  cooper  had  heard  the  poor 
man  exclaim  that  he  was  going  to  be  murdered,  and  praying  that  the 
murder  might  come  to  light.     This,  however,  seemed  to  be  the  wander- 
ing of  a  madman,  and  the  cooper  went  to  sleep.     Presently  his  wife 
called  him  up  :  "I  believe  they  are  murdering  the  gentleman."    He 
heard  broken  words  and  saw  a  light  glimmering  through  a  crevice  in 
the  partition.     Peeping  through,  he  could  distinguish  the  two  ruffians, 
standing  with  a  candle  over  the  dead  body  and  taking  a  watch  from  £ 
pocket.     And  then,  through  the  gloom,  he  made  out  a  hand  upon  the 
throat  of  the  victim.     The  owner  of  the  hand  was  invisible ;  but  it  wa.- 
whiter  than  that  of  a  common  sailor.     "  I  have  often  seen  Mahony : 
and  White's  hands,"  he  added,  "  and  I  thought  the  hand  was  whitei 
than  either  of  theirs."     The  trembling  cooper  wanted  to  leave  the  cabin 


THE  STATE  TRIALS.  471 

but  his  wife  held  him  back,  as,  indeed,  with  three  murderers  in  the  dark 
passage  outside,  it  required  some  courage  to  move.  So  they  watched 
trembling,  till  he  heard  a  sentinel  outside,  and  thought  himself  safe  at 
last :  he  roused  the  doctor,  peeped  at  the  dead  body  through  a  "  scuttle  " 
which  opened  into  the  cabin ;  and  then  urged  the  lieutenant  to  seize  the 
captain.  The  captain  was  deservedly  hanged,  bequeathing  to  us  that 
ghastly  Rembrandt-like  picture  of  the  white  hand  seen  through  the 
crevice  by  the  trembling  cooper  on  the  throat  of  the  murdered  man. 
There  is  no  touch  which  appeals  so  forcibly  to  the  imagination  in  De 
Quincey's  famous  narrative  of  the  Mar  murders. 

I  have  made  but  a  random  selection  from  the  long  gallery  of  grim 
and  grotesque  portraiture  of  the  less  reputable  of  our  ancestry.  It  must 
be  confessed  that  a  first  impression  tends  to  reconcile  us  to  the  com- 
fortable creed  of  progress.  The  eighteenth  century  had  some  little 
defects  which  have  been  frequently  expounded;  but  it  can  certainly 
afford  to  show  courts  of  justice  against  its  predecessor.  The  old  judicial 
murder  of  the  Popish  Plot  variety  has  become  extinct;  if  the  judges  try 
to  strain  the  law  of  libel,  for  example,  the  prisoner  has  every  chance  of 
making  a  good  fight ;  for  which  the  readers  of  Home  Tooke's  gallant 
defences,  and  of  some  of  Erskine's  speeches,  may  be  duly  grateful.  The 
ancient  brag  of  fair  play  has  become  something  of  a  reality.  And  the 
character  of  the  crimes  has  changed  in  a  noticeable  way.  There  are 
hideous  crimes  enough.  A  brutal  murder  by  smugglers  near  the  case  of 
Mary  Blandy,  surpasses  in  its  barbarity  the  worst  of  modern  agrarian 
outrages ;  though  it  is  not  clear  that  in  number  of  horrors  the  present 
century  is  unable  to  match  its  predecessor.  When  the  wild  blood  of  the 
Byrons  shows  itself  in  the  last  of  the  old  tavern  brawls  a  la  Mohun,  we 
feel  that  it  is  a  case  (in  modern  slang)  of  a  "  survival."  The  poet's 
grand-uncle,  the  wicked  Lord  Byron,  got  into  a  quarrel  with  Mr. 
Chaworth  about  the  game  laws  at  a  dinner  of  country  gentlemen  at 
the  Star  and  Garter;  whereupon,  in  an  ambiguous  affair,  half  scuffle 
and  half  duel,  Byron  sent  his  sword  through  Chaworth's  body,  and  then 
politely  requested  Mr.  Chaworth  to  admit  that  he  (Byron)  was  as  brave 
a  man  as  any  in  the  kingdom.  But  this  little  ebullition  required 
Byronic  impulsiveness,  and  was  not  a  recognised  part  of  a  gentleman's  con- 
duct. Lord  Ferrers,  a  short  time  before,  was  hanged,  to  the  admiration 
of  all  men,  like  a  common  felon,  for  shooting  his  own  steward  ;  whereas  in 
our  day,  he  would  almost  certainly  have  escaped  on  the  plea  of  insanity. 
Other  cases  mark  the  advent  of  the  meddlesome,  but  perhaps  on  the 
whole  useful  person,  the  social  reformer.  Momentary  gleams  of  light, 
for  example,  are  thrown  upon  the  scandals  which  ruined  the  trade  of  the 
parsons  of  the  Fleet.  Poor  Miss  Pleasant  Rawlins  is  arrested  for  an 
imaginary  debt,  carried  to  a  sponging-house,  and  there  persuaded  (she 
was  only  seventeen  or  thereabouts),  that  she  could  obtain  her  liberty  by 
an  immediate  marriage  to  an  adventurer  who  had  scraped  acquain- 
tance with  her  and  taken  a  liking  to  her  fortune.  The  famous  (he  was 


472  »  KAMBLES  AMONG  BOOKS. 

once  famous)  Beau  Fielding  falls  into  a  trap  unworthy  of  an  experienced 
man  of  the  world.  He  is  persuaded  that  a  lady  of  fortune  has  fallen  in 
love  with  him  on  seeing  him  walking  in  her  grounds  at  a  distance.  A 
lady,  by  no  means  of  fortune,  comes  to  his  lodgings,  and  passes  herself 
off  as  this  susceptible  person.  Hereupon  Fielding  sends  off  for  a  priest 
of  one  of  the  foreign  embassies,  gets  himself  married  at  his  lodgings  the 
same  evening,  and  discovers  a  few  days  afterwards  that  he  is  married  to 
the  wrong  person.  It  is  exactly  a  comedy  of  the  period  performed  by 
real  flesh  and  blood  actors.  The  catastrophe  is  painful.  Mr.  Fielding 
ventures  to  grant  himself  a  divorce,  and  to  many  the  wretched  old 
Duchess  of  Cleveland ;  and  in  due  time  the  Duchess  finds  it  very  con- 
venient to  have  him  tried  for  bigamy.  It  did  not  take  more  than  half 
a  century  or  so  of  such  scandals  to  get  an  improvement  in  the  marriage 
law,  which  implies,  on  the  whole,  a  creditable  rate  of  progress.  Another 
set  of  cases  illustrates  a  grievance  familiar  to  novel  readers.  In  Amelia, 
the  atrocities  of  bailiffs,  sponging-houses  and  debtors'  prisons,  are  drawn 
with  startling  realism.  We  may  easily  convince  ourselves  that  Fielding 
was  not  speaking  without  book.  The  bailiff  who  has  arrested  Captain 
Booth  gives  a  "  wipe  or  two  with  his  hanger,"  as  he  pleasantly  expresses 
it,  to  an  unlucky  wretch  who  gives  trouble,  and  delivers  an  admirable 
discourse  upon  the  ethics  of  killing  in  such  cases.  It  might  have  come  from 
the  mouth  of  one  Tranter,  a  bailiff,  who,  a  few  years  before,  had  stabbed 
poor  Captain  Luttrell,  for  objecting  to  leave  his  wife  in  a  delicate  state  of 
health.  Soon  after,  we  find  a  society  of  philanthropists  headed  by  Ogle- 
thorpe  of  "  strong  benevolence  of  soul,"  endeavouring  to  expose  the  horrors 
of  the  Fleet  and  the  Marshalsea.  A  series  of  trials,  ordered  by  the  House 
of  Commons,  had  the  ending  too  characteristic  of  all  such  movements. 
Witnesses  swore  to  atrocities  enough  to  make  one's  blood  run  cold  ;  of 
men  guilty  only  of  impecuniosity,  half-starved,  thrust  naked  into  loath- 
some and  pestiferous  dungeons,  beaten  and  chained,  and  persecuted  to 
death.  But  then  arise  another  set  of  unimpeachable  witnesses,  who 
swear  with  equal  vigour,  that  the  unfortunate  debtors  were  treated  with 
every  consideration ;  that  they  were  made  as  comfortable  as  their 
mutinous  spirit  would  allow  ;  that  they  were  discharged  in  good  health 
and  died  months  afterwards  from  entirely  different  causes  ;  that  the 
accused  were  not  the  responsible  authorities  ;  that  they  had  never  inter- 
fered except  from  kindness,  and  that  they  were  the  humanest  and  best 
of  mankind.  Nothing  remained  but  an  acquittal;  though  the  inves- 
tigation did  something  towards  letting  daylight  into  abodes  of  horror 
which  Mr.  Pickwick  found  capable  of  improvement  a  century  later. 

Other  cases  might  show  how  in  various  ways  the  strange  power  called 
Public  Opinion  was  beginning  to  increase  its  capricious  and  desultory 
influence.  The  strange  case  of  Elizabeth  Canning  (1753)  is  one  of  the 
most  picturesque  in  the  collection.  Miss  Canning  was  a  maid-servant, 
who  disappeared  for  a  month,  and  coming  home  told  a  story  of  kid- 
napping by  a  gipsy.  Officious  neighbours  rushed  in,  and  by  judicious 


THE  STATE  TEIALS.  473 

leading  questions  managed  to  help  her  to  manufacture  evidence  against 
a  poor  old  gipsy  woman,  preternaturally  hideous,  who  sits  smoking 
her  pipe  in  blank  wonder  as  the  crowd  of  virtuous  avengers  of  inno- 
cence rush  into  her  kitchen.  Mary  Squires,  the  gipsy,  was  sentenced 
to  be  hanged,  and  doubtless  at  an  earlier  period  she  would  have  been 
turned  off  without  delay.  But  in  that  delicious  calm  in  the  middle  of 
the  last  century,  when  wars,  and  rebellions,  and  constitutional  agitations 
were  quiet  for  the  moment,  and  people  had  time  to  read  their  modest 
newspapers  without  spoiling  their  digestions  and  their  nerves,  the  case 
came  to  absorb  the  popular  interest.  If  the  news  did  not  flash  through 
the  country  as  rapidly  as  that  of  the  Lefroy  murder,  it  slowly  dribbled 
along  the  post-roads  and  set  people  gossipping  in  alehouses  far  away  in 
quiet  country  villages.  A  whole  host  of  witnesses  appeared  and  put 
together  a  diary  of  a  gipsy's  tour.  We  follow  the  party  to  village  dances ; 
we  hear  the  venerable  piece  of  scandal  about  the  schoolmaster  who  "  got 
fuddled  "  with  the  gipsies;  and  what  the  gipsies  had  for  dinner  on 
January  1,  1753,  and  how  they  paid  their  bill;  we  have  a  glimpse  of 
the  little  flirtation  carried  on  by  the  gipsy's  daughter,  and  the  poor 
trembling  little  letter  is  produced,  which  she  managed  to  write  to  her 
lover,  and  which  cost  her  sevenpence  :  threepence  being  charged  for  it  from 
Basingstoke  to  London,  and  fourpence  from  London  to  Dorchester.  After 
more  than  a  week  spent  in  overhauling  this  and  other  evidence,  proving 
amongst  other  things  that  the  scene  of  the  girl's  supposed  confinement  was 
really  tenanted  the  whole  time  by  a  man  strangely  and  most  inappro- 
priately named  Fortune  Natus,  the  jury  decided  that  the  accuser  was 
guilty  of  perjury,  but  boggled  characteristically  as  to  its  being  "  wilful 
and  corrupt."  However,  Elizabeth  Canning  got  her  deserts,  and  was 
transported  to  New  England,  still  sticking  to  the  truth  of  her  story. 
Her  guilt  is  plain  enough,  if  anybody  could  care  about  it,  but  the  little 
details  of  English  country  life  a  century  ago  are  as  fresh  as  the  doings  of 
the  rustics  in  one  of  Mr.  Hardy's  novels. 

It  all  happened  a  long  time  ago,  but  we  cannot  hope  with  the  old 
lady  who  made  that  consolatory  remark  about  other  historical  narratives 
that  "  it  ain't  none  of  it  true."  On  the  contrary  such  vivid  little 
pictures  flash  out  upon  us  as  we  read  that  we  have  a  difficulty  in  supposing 
that  they  were  not  taken  yesterday.  Abundance  of  morals  may  ba 
drawn  by  historians  and  others  who  deal  in  that  kind  of  ware ;  it  is 
enough  here  to  have  indicated  as  well  as  we  can,  what  pleasant  reading 
may  be  found  in  the  dusty  old  volumes  which  are  too  often  left  to  repose 
undisturbed  on  the  repulsive  shelves  of  a  lawyer's  library. 


23—5 


474 


ort  at  i\t  fast. 


THERE  is  only  one  thing  in  the  world  more  wonderful  than  Rome,  and 
that  is  the  neighbourhood  of  Rome.  Yet  of  the  myriads  of  tourists  who 
annually  pass  through  the  Eternal  City,  how  few  are  there  who  con- 
descend to  do  more  than  take  one  or  two  desultory  drives  in  theCampagna ! 
Perhaps  they  get  as  far  as  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Metella  on  the  Via  Appia. 
Possibly  they  drive  out  to  Sant'  Agnese  on  the  Nomentan  Way.  If  very 
enterprising,  conceivably  they  take  the  tram  to  Frascati,  or  the  railway 
to  Albano.  But  of  the  scores  of  places  of  absorbing  historical  and 
antiquarian  interest  within  a  twenty  miles'  radius  of  the  Seven  Hills 
they  know  and  care  nothing.  In  this  respect  modern  travellers  have 
greatly  changed  for  the  worse  as  compared  with  their  forerunners.  They 
cover  a  vast  amount  of  space  with  their  locomotives  and  their  hired 
carriages;  but  they  keep  to  the  more  beaten  tracks,  and  they  skim  a 
country  almost  with  the  swiftness  of  swallows.  Like  gold  nuggets, 
human  intelligence  and  human  curiosity  can  either  be  beaten  out  very 
thin,  and  so  be  made  to  cover  a  considerable  superficial  area,  or  they 
may  be  compressed  and  concentrated  till  their  depth  is  equal  to  their 
breadth.  The  spreading-out  process  seems  to  be  the  one  most  in  vogue 
in  these  days.  People  prefer  to  make  a  superficial  journey  round  the 
world  in  a  given  number  of  days,  rather  than  to  devote  an  ungiven 
number  of  days  to  the  world's  most  precious  and  sacred  localities.  One 
place  is  treated  exactly  like  another.  Florence  occupies  no  more  of  the 
tourist's  time  than  Vienna ;  and  Rome  is  supposed  to  be  seen  in  the  same 
number  of  hours  that  are  required  for  Berlin.  In  olden  days,  fewer 
people,  far  fewer  people,  visited  Rome ;  but  those  who  visited  it  did  so 
with  intelligent  interest  and  to  some  useful  purpose.  They  remained 
for  months  at  a  time  in  a  city  which  is  not  to  be  thoroughly  explored  in 
less ;  and  to  their  acquaintance  with  intramural  Rome  they  added  some 
familiarity  with  the  numerous  suburbs  that  lie  between  Rome  and  the 
sea,  or  between  Rome  and  the  mountains. 

One  of  the  most  delightful  excursions  to  be  made  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Rome,  and  one  which  best  repays  the  expense  of  the  journey,  is 
a  clay's  trip  by  carriage  to  Ostia  and  Castel  Fusano.  The  time  was  when 
a  carriage  that  held  four  persons  could  be  hired  for  this  purpose  for  five 
scudi,  or  little  more  than  a  sovereign.  But  last  spring  nearly  twice  that 
sum  was  demanded  for  the  cost  of  the  expedition.  The  temporal  power 
of  the  Popes  has  disappeared ;  Rome  boasts  a  Parliament,  a  free  press,  and 
many  new  thoroughfares ;  and  these  are  luxuries  which  invariably  bring 
costly  living  in  their  train.  Even  in  the  middle  of  March,  w  en  you 


A  POET  OF  THE  PAST.  475 

are  going  to  undertake  a  journey  of  this  kind — only  fifteen  miles  out  and 
fifteen  back — a  Roman  coachman  is  anxious  to  be  off  betimes ;  and  if 
you  know  what  a  Roman  sun  can  do  long  before  noon,  even  at  the  Vernal 
Equinox,  you  will  second  his  humour,  and  be  settling  into  your  seat  not 
long  after  8  A.M.  strikes.  People  are  not  taking  down  shutters  in  Rome 
at  that  hour,  as  in  Oxford  Street  or  Piccadilly.  All  the  world  is  up  and 
about ;  the  streets  are  thronged ;  the  markets  are  crowded ;  and  a  fair 
amount  of  the  day's  work  has  already  been  done.  How  charming  it  is 
at  that  hour  to  wind  through  the  streets  that  lead  to  the  Forum,  where 
all  modern  improvements  despite,  the  buffaloes  are  still  lying  down  in 
the  shafts  of  the  two- wheeled  country  carts  that  are  stacked  with  fodder 
for  the  use  of  the  Capital.  You  can  see  at  a  glance  that  Rome  is 
still  far  from  being  an  opulent  city;  that  the  old  ways  of  primitive 
poverty,  as  shown  in  garb,  in  victual,  in  harness-gear,  in  every  turn  and 
detail  of  life,  still  subsist ;  and  as  you  pass  out  of  the  Porta  San  Paolo, 
and  get  upon  the  Ostian  Way,  you  can  hardly  believe  that  you  are  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  a  great  Capital.  It  is  not  that  the  Campagna  is 
as  yet  about  you,  or  that  signs  of  moral  cultivation  do  not  abound.  But 
there  is  a  ruggedness,  a  carelessness,  a  don't-mind  air  about  everything, 
that  is  more  than  provincial  in  character.  The  only  houses  are  roadside 
Osterie,  or  inns,  their  walls  decorated  with  flaming  frescoes  or  trellis 
decoration  of  the  rudest  sort,  intimating  that  a  good  rest  and  vino 
nostrale  are,  on  the  whole,. the  best  things  in  this  world.  The  Roman 
peasant,  and  indeed  the  Roman  citizen  of  a  certain  class,  readily  believes 
this  otiose  philosophy ;  and  the  amount  of  drinking  and  reposing  that 
is  got  through  in  these  suburban  gardens  is  amazing.  For  gardens  they  all 
of  them  possess ;  and  when  summer  comes,  there  will  be  a  pergola  of  vine 
leaves,  and  under  the  grapes  of  this  year  the  stalwart  contadini  and 
handsome  Trasteverine  matrons  will  quaff  the  juice  of  the  grapes  of  last. 
They  are  true  descendants  of  Horace.  They  love  their  Falernian  or 
their  Massic ;  they  gather  rosebuds  when  they  may ;  and  they  take  as 
little  heed  of  the  morrow  as  possible.  Yet  they  are  amiable  and  grace- 
ful in  their  cups  unless  the  demon  of  jealousy  lurks  at  the  bottom  of 
the  draught ;  and  then  their  bouts  are  terrible. 

By  degrees,  however,  these  wayside  inns  become  more  and  more 
sparse,  and  finally  vanish  altogether.  You  have  passed  the  great 
Basilica  of  St.  Paul,  so  tame  and  poor  externally,  so  splendid  and 
gorgeous  within,  with  its  attendant  Convent,  stricken  with  annual 
malaria,  and  you  find  yourself  following  the  course  of  the  truly  yellow 
Tiber,  through  scrub,  through  rough  pasture,  and  past  little  low  hills 
scarce  deserving  of  the  name.  It  is  the  horizon  rather  than  the  fore- 
ground that  now  attracts  your  eye  ;  and  you  note  where,  far  away  to  the 
left,  lies  Frascati,  further  still,  Tivoli.  There  is  little  traffic  along  the 
road,  though  it  leads  to  the  most  famous  port  of  Ancient  Rome  and  to 
where  the  Tiber  still  debouches.  Sheep  grazing,  lambs  frisking, 
shepherds  in  goat-skin  garments  leaning  upon  their  crooks,  troops  of 


476  A  PORT  OF  THE  PAST.  . 

young  colts,  shaggy,  spare,  and  easily  startled,  are  the  main  objects  and 
incidents  of  your  progress.  Now  and  again  there  is  a  green  thicket 
and  a  deep-banked  stream,  and  now  you  catch  sight  of  the  sea.  What 
is  that  ?  That  is  Ostia  ?  "Which  1  That  round  Tower,  with  some  farm 
buildings  clustered  round  it  1  Precisely.  That  is  all  which  represents  the 
greatest  port  of  the  most  celebrated  city  in  the  world.  Listen  to  the  de- 
scription of  what  it  once  was.  The  historian  is  describing  one  of  the  feats  of 
Alaric.  "  Instead  of  assaulting  the  Capital,  he  successively  directed  his 
efforts  against  the  Port  of  Ostia,  one  of  the  boldest  and  most  stupendous 
works  of  Roman  magnificence.  The  accidents  to  which  the  precarious 
subsistence  of  the  city  was  continually  exposed  in  a  winter  navigation 
and  an  open  road,  had  suggested  to  the  genius  of  the  first  Caesar  the 
useful  design,  which  was  executed  under  the  reign  of  Claudius.  The 
artificial  moles,  which  formed  the  narrow  entrance,  advanced  far  into 
the  sea,  and  firmly  repelled  the  fury  of  the  waves ;  while  the  largest 
vessels  securely  rode  at  anchor  within  three  deep  and  capacious  basins, 
which  received  the  northern  branch  of  the  Tiber,  about  two  miles  from 
the  ancient  colony  of  Ostia.  The  Roman  Port  insensibly  swelled  to  the 
size  of  an  Episcopal  City,  where  the  corn  of  Africa  was  deposited  in 
spacious  granaries  for  the  use  of  the  Capital."  The  rest  may  be  easily 
surmised.  As  soon  as  Alaric  got  possession  of  Ostia  he  menaced  Rome 
with  the  destruction  of  these  granaries  unless  the  Capital  was  instantly 
surrendered  into  his  hands ;  and  the  clamours  of  the  people,  and  the 
terror  of  famine,  subdued  the  pride  of  the  Senate.  It  would  be  im- 
possible to  terrify  Rome  to-day  by  threats  directed  against  Ostia.  An 
invader  might  flog  the  waves  like  Xerxes,  or  sack  the  barren  sands ;  but 
his  power  of  mischief  would  end  with  those  bootless  exploits. 

Ostia  never  recovered  from  that  famous  assault  in  the  fifth  century, 
and  till  A.D.  830  it  remained  to  all  intents  and  purposes  deserted,  the 
sea-sand  continually  silting  up  and  adding  future  uselessness  to  past 
ravages.  Then  Gregory  IV.  founded  another  Ostia,  about  a  mile  distant 
from  the  site  of  the  original  city ;  and  it  is  at  what  is  left  of  this  second 
Ostia  that  your  coachman  will  descend,  take  out  his  horses,  and  show 
every  intention  of  having  nothing  more  to  say  to  you  till  you  think 
proper  to  turn  your  face  Romewards  again.  It  is  some  distance  hence 
to  the  Roman  Ostia,  some  distance  again  in  another  direction  to  the 
woods  of  Castel  Fusano ;  but  the  day  is  young,  and  one  wants  to  walk 
and  to  have  as  little  company  as  possible  while  prowling  among  ruins  and 
excavations.  A  malaria-stricken  peasant  emerges  from  a  massive  stone 
doorway,  and  helps  to  stable  the  horses.  A  priest,  dirty  and  unshaven, 
is  amusing  himself  by  feeding  with  coarse  oatmeal  the  litter  of  a  wild 
boar,  which  he  has  tamed  to  be  his  companion  in  this  solitary  pla'ce. 
The  old  sow,  in  spite  of  her  fierce  appearance  and  shaggy  bristles,  is  very 
friendly ;  and  but  for  his  cassock  the  padre  would  look  far  more  like  a 
professional  swineherd  than  a  servant  of  the  Altar.  Once  upon  a  time 
the  Bishopric  of  Ostia  was  the  most  famous  in  the  world.  Pious  tra- 


A  POET  OF  THE  PAST.  477 

dition  has  always  maintained  that  it  was  established  in  the  time  of  the 
Apostles;  though  I  fear  that  erudite  sceptics  would  claim  for  it  no  earlier 
origin  than  the  Pontificate  of  Urban  L,  about  229  A.D.  This  privilege, 
however,  it  undoubtedly  had,  that  when  the  Pope  elect  happened  to  be  in 
priest's  orders  he  was  enthroned  by  the  Bishop  of  Ostia,  who  was  re- 
garded as  the  Dean  of  the  Sacred  College,  and  must  therefore  have  had 
the  dignity  of  Cardinal  by  virtue  of  his  ofiice.  Apparently  this  smiling, 
grimy  ecclesiastic  is  all  that  is  left  of  the  Ostian  bishopric,  which  is  now 
mei'ged  in  that  of  Velletri.  We  ask  him  if  he  will  show  us  his  church. 
"With  all  the  pleasure  in  the  world,  for  it  gives  him  something  to  do;  but 
it  evidently  surprises  him  that  anybody  should  wish  to  see  it.  Truly,  it  is 
unremarkable  and,  to  the  eye,  devoid  of  interest.  But  look  at  that  fresco  in 
the  side  chapel  on  the  right.  It  represents  the  death  and  apotheosis  of  Santa 
Monica.  And  then  you  remember  that  it  was  here,  at  Ostia,  that  St. 
Atigustine,  on  his  way  to  Africa,  had  to  bid  adieu  to  his  saintly  mother. 
The  records  of  history  contain  no  tenderer  chapter  than  the  relations 
of  Monica  with  her  ardent,  erratic,  and  finally  repentant,  immortal  son. 
Who  does  not  remember  Ary  Scheffer's  picture  of  the  pair  gazing  cut  to 
sea  together  !  So  did  they  .at  Ostia  before  Monica  died.  And  here,  at 
Ostia,  Augustine  buried  her,  lingering  awhile  to  write  his  treatise  De 
Libero  Arbitrio,  and  then  sailed  for  the  African  see  with  which  his  name 
is  for  ever  associated.  Not  content  with  trying  to  revive  the  existence 
of  Ostia,  Gregory  IV.  surrounded  it  with  walls,  and  the  sycophants  of 
the  time  tried  to  christen  it  Gregoriopolis,  but  the  name  Ostia  could  not 
be  got  rid  of.  Under  Leo  IV.  the  Saracens  swooped  down  upon  it  and  got 
that  picturesque  thrashing  which  Raphael  has  commemorated  in  the 
Stanze  of  the  Vatican.  That  event  must  have  administered  a  fillip  to 
the  place,  for  it  was  important  enough  to  be  besieged  and  captured  by 
the  King  of  Naples  in  1413.  Then  the  famous  Cardinal  Giuliano  della 
Rovere,  better  known  as  Julius  II.,  took  a  fancy  to  it,  and  employed 
Sangallo  to  build,  and  Baldassare  Peruzzi  to  decorate.  The  decorations 
have  gone  the  way  of  all  such ;  but  the  massive  circular  Tower,  sur- 
rounded by  bastions  connected  by  a  curtain  and  defended  by  a  ditch,  still 
remains.  Everywhere  where  they  can  be  put  are  the  arms  of  the  Delia 
Rovere — an  evergreen  oak,  the  robur  of  the  Italian  poets.  The  cardinal 
gallantly  defended  his  tower  against  the  French  for  two  whole  years,  and 
finally  drove  them  off.  After  that,  new  Ostia  languished;  and  now 
nothing  survives  but  this  same  Tower,  a  small  church,  and  a  farmyard 
with  the  litter  of  a  wild  boar.  Inside  the  tower  are  staircases,  vaults, 
mutilated  statues,  undecipherable  inscriptions,  votive  altars,  funeral 
tablets,  broken  utensils  of  bronze,  pottery,  and  glass,  the  disjecta  membra 
of  a  vanished  civilisation.  I  am  told  the  population  of  the  paese,  or 
neighbourhood,  is  sometimes  as  high  as  one  hundred  souls,  though  in  the 
season  of  malaria  it  sinks  below  this  figure.  I  can  only  speak  of  it  as  I 
found  it,  and  I  saw  only  one  priest  and  one  peasant.  To  make  the 
population  larger  I  must  count  the  wild  sow's  litter. 


478  A  PORT  OF  THE  PAST. 

And  now,  with  your  face  seawards,  you  may  walk  through  sandy 
drives  to  the  site  of  ancient  Ostia.     Of  late  years,  the  excavations  begun 
in  the  time  of  Cosmo  de'  Medici,  under  the  direction  of  Poggio  Bracciolini, 
and  then  for  many  a  generation  suspended  till  the  present  century,  have 
been  pushed  on  diligently.     Cosmo  found  what  folks  there  were  upon 
the  spot,  occupied  in  reducing  an  entire  temple  back  again  into  lime ;  and 
doubtless  that  was  the  chief  industry  of  the  place  for  many  centuries. 
Is  there  much  to  see  1     Well,  yes,  and  no.     No,  if  you  expect  to  find 
a  huge  city  disinterred — a  Herculaneum  or  a  Pompeii.     But  yes,  if  you 
are  satisfied  with  a  street  or  two,  part  of  a  theatre,  portions  of  a  temple, 
and  many  a  roadway  with  the  marks  of  the  chariot- wheels  of  senator, 
consul,  and  augur  cut  into  them.     There  is  enough,  if  you  are  learned, 
to  embarrass  your  erudition;   there  is  more  than   enough,  if  you   be 
sensitive,  to  flood  your  feelings.     You  may  say  that  this  temple  was 
dedicated  to  Jupiter ;  or,  if  you  like,  you  may  safely  contradict  anybody 
who  affirms  as  much.     It  is  still  a  fine  brick  structure.     The  cello,  is 
entire ;  much  of  the  floor,  which  is  of  African  marble,  is  there  to  testify 
to  you.     The  altar  of  the  Divinity  still  stands.     But  where  are  the  wor- 
shippers ?  Here  they  come,  down  that  winding  grass-grown  street  of  tombs. 
First,  an  old  crone,  I  should  think  as  old  as  Ostia  itself,  her  face  not 
only  withered  parchment,  but  a  very  palimpsest  upon  which  many  a 
generation  has  inscribed  its  obscure  meaning.    She  has  the  comely  square 
towel  upon  her  head  ;  the  hard,  unyielding  bodice  round  her  waist ;  the  I 
short,  gay  petticoat ;  and  the  ciocce  or  sheepskin  sandals  round  hep  feet 
and  legs,  which  otherwise  are  encased  in  stoutly  knitted  blue  stockings. 
She  is  fingering  her  rosary,  for  it  is  Sunday,  and  she  totters  along,  the 
genius  of  the  place.     Second,  a  young  girl,  dressed  in  precisely  the  same 
garb,  but  somehow  making  it  look  quite  different.     She  stands  erect  like 
a  goddess,  and  her  gaze  is  that  of  the  ox-eyed  Juno.     She  has  no  rosary, 
no  anything.     She  is  a  splendid  mass  of  colours,  a  splendid  embodiment 
of  form,  and  she  is  an  ignorant  pagan  who  hopes  the  Madonna  will  send 
her  a  lover.     Third,  a  lamb,  decked  with  bright  ribands,  and  following 
for  company's  sake,  as  for  company's  sake  it  has  been  adopted.     Beyond 
these,  deeply-worn  slabs,  draped  statues  without  heads,  prone  and  splin- 
tered columns,   acanthus  leaves,  heaps  of  chipped  marble,  and  the  un- 
dying associations  of  the  mightiest  empire  man  has  ever  built  or  seen. 
Antiquarians  would  prattle  to  you  by  the  hour  about  Ancus  Martins, 
who,  if  you  please,  founded  Ostia ;  about  Claudius,  Procopius,  Hadrian, 
Septimius  Severus,  and  Aurelian.     I  think  such  lore  goes  in  at  one  ear 
and  out  at  the  other,  when  there  is  so  little  visible  and  tangible  to  im- 
press it  on  the  memory.     One  of  the  strangest  relics  of  the  place  is  an 
oblong  room  with  an  apse  at  the  end  of  it,  in  the  middle  of  which  is  a 
sacrificial  altar  with  Mithraic  reliefs.      Statues  of  priests  of  Mithras  were 
likewise  found  upon  the  spot.     In  the  front  part  of  the  altar  you  may 
plainly  see  the  circular  depression  that  received  the  blood  of  the  victims 
sacrificed.     There  is,  too,  an  inscription  recording  that  Caius  Cselius, 


A  POET  OF  THE  PAST.  479 

antistes  Jmjus  loci,  erected  it  de  sud  pecunid,  or  at  his  own  expense. 
Obviously,  then,  there  was  here  a  Temple  of  Mithra.  Many  charming 
statues  have  been  found  hereabouts  :  the  bust  of  the  young  Augustus, 
the  Ganymede  of  Phaedimius,  and  excellent  bas-reliefs  of  Diana  and  En- 
dymion.  The  early  Christians,  too,  have  left  visible  traces  of  themselves, 
of  their  creed,  of  their  martyrdom,  and  of  their  special  modes  of  inter- 
ment ;  and  there  is  one  headless  statue,  much  steeped  in  fading  colour,  of 
which  the  toe  is  worn  away  with  constant  kissing,  as  is  that  of  St.  Peter 
in  the  Vatican  Basilica,  known  to  all  men  and  tourists.  But  nothing 
has  availed  to  save  Ostia ;  neither  emperor  nor  cardinal,  neither  pope 
nor  martyr,  neither  Jove,  Mithra,  nor  Augustine. ' 

From  the  summit  of  the  excavated  ruins  of  ancient  Ostia,  or,  still  better, 
from  the  top  of  the  Torre  Boacciano,  a  trifle  nearer  to  the  sea,  you  com- 
mand a  splendid  view  of  that  branch  of  the  Tiber  by  which  Yirgil  makes 
^Eneas  and  his  companions  enter  Latium.  Hither  it  was  that,  as  the  poet 
describes,  propitious  Neptune  directed  theif  ships.  Here  was  it  that 
the  cakes  of  bread  were  spread  under  a  shady  tree ;  that  the  wandering 
Trojans  ate  their  trenchers,  as  provender  was  running  short,  and 
thereby  reminded  ^Eneas  of  a  prediction  of  Anchises,  which  convinced 
him  that  he  had  "  touched  land  "  at  last.  It  was  from  this  very  spot 
that  the  embassy  set  out  to  the  Court  of  King  Latinus  at  Laurentum, 
only  a  few  miles  away,  received  as  gifts  the  three  hundred  horses,  and 
took  back  to  ^Eneas  the  message  concerning  Lavinia.  The  woods 
described  by  Virgil  have  gone ;  but  it  is  as  true  to-day  as  then,  that  the 
Tiber,  dimpled  with  whirlpools,  and  driving  the  sand  along,  "  rolls  his 
yellow  billows  to  the  sea."  True  now,  as  then,  that  the  seabirds 
"  cethera  mulcebant  cantu"  were  softening  the  air  with  their  song.  How 
is  it  possible,  with  such  tender  phrases  as  these  abounding  in  Virgil, 
that  critics  can  pretend  it  was  left  to  modern  poets  to  divine  the  subtlety 
of  Nature  ?  No  doubt  Dry  den  renders  this  lovely  phrase,  "  to  tuneful 
songs  their  narrow  throats  applied ;  "  but  we  may  depend  upon  it  that 
this  horrible  parody  would  have  revolted  Virgil  as  much  as  it  does 
ourselves.  What  a  fascination  Virgil  still  sheds  around  all  this  Latin 
coast !  "  Nunc  magnum  manet  Ardea  nomen,"  he  wrote,  hundreds  of 
years  ago,  of  the  Argive  capital  of  Turnus ;  and  magnum  nomen  is  all 
that  can  now  be  predicted  of  Laurentum,  of  Lavinium,  of  Antium,  of 
Alba  Longa.  But  the  names  will  always  remain  great,  because  of  the 
author  of  the  jEneid.  It  was  from  this  same  mouth  of  the  Tiber  that 
Claudius  sailed  for  Britain.  We  know  that  Claudius  lived,  and  we  are 
all  considerably  interested  in  the  island  he  subdued.  But  who  can  bring 
himself  to  associate  Ostia  with  either  or  both,  in  the  same  sense  in  which 
he  does  so  with  the  mythical  landing  of  .^Eneas  and  his  followers  ?  Clau- 
dius has  fared  but  ill  at  the  hands  of  historians,  and  poets  have  troubled 
themselves  about  him  not  at  all.  Why  does  Gibbon  speak  of  him  as 
"  the  most  stupid  of  Roman  Emperors  1  "  But  if  neglected  by  the  bard, 
and  stigmatised  by  the  chronicler,  Claudius,  after  the  Expedition  he 


480  A  POET  OF  THE  PAST. 

organised  from  here,  evidently  had  his  flatterers.  There  was  an  Arch 
of  Claudius  in  Home,  in  the  Piazza  Sciarra,  which  Andrea  Fulvio  tells 
us  existed  even  down  to  his  time.  In  1565,  excavations  were  made  in 
its  neighbourhood,  and  many  sculptured  marbles  were  disinterred; 
among  them,  a  head  of  Claudius,  and  a  relief,  in  which  he  is  repre- 
sented as  addressing  his  troops.  It  is  still  to  be  seen  in  the  Villa 
Borghese.  In  a  garden  wall,  behind  the  Barberini  Palace,  is  a  com- 
placent inscription  to  Claudius,  "  Quod  Reges  Britannos  absque  ulla 
jactura  domuerit,  gentes  Barbaras  primus  judicio  subegerit."  But  these 
haughty  imperial  boasts  are  all  in  vain ;  and  the  "  cet/iera  mulcebant 
cantu  "  moves  us  infinitely  more. 

To  the  pine-woods  of  Castel  Fusano  is  a  smartish  little  walk,  in  the 
heat  of  the  March  sun,  which  is  now  high  in  the  heavens.  But  under 
their  dense  canopy  of  shade,  upon  turf  growing  a  harvest  of  asphodels, 
you  may  spread  your  table-cloth,  set  out  your  luncheon,  uncork  your 
Montepulciano,  eat  your  oranges,  and  be  very  happy.  What  is  it  that 
smells  so  sweet  ?  It  is  the  rosemary  you  are  lying  on,  for  the  forest  is 
full  of  it.  There  is  a  Casino  or  villa  belonging  to  Prince  Chigi,  which 
is  inhabited  only  for  a  few  weeks  in  the  spring.  "Why  not  for  more  1 
They  say  the  malaria  strikes  no  one,  at  a  certain  height  above  the 
ground.  Then  why  not  make  yourself  a  hammock  in  the  topmost 
boughs  of  those  lofty  murmuring  pines?  Better  couch,  better  cradle, 
no  man  could  have  ;  and  from  your  eyrie  you  would  descry  the  winding 
of  the  Tiber,  the  Tyrrhene  main,  and  Rome  itself.  The  word  reminds 
you  that  you  must  sleep  there  to-night ;  for  it  is  a  conventional  world, 
and  men  no  longer  couch  in  trees.  If  you  did,  where  would  you  find 
your  breakfast  1  Like  the  followers  of  .^Eneas,  you  would  have  to  eat 
your  trenchers ;  and  I  much  doubt  if  any  Lavinia  would  be  in  store  for 
you,  or  any  Latin  king  send  you  horses  and  provender.  Back  to  Rome  ! 
It  would  always  be  worth  while  to  go  fifteen  miles  from  Rome,  if  only 
for  the  sake  of  the  pleasure  of  driving  back  to  it.  Its  majesty  never 
ends  nor  pails  ;  and  nothing  can  stale  its  infinite  variety.  Etruscan  civi- 
lisation, Roman  civilisation,  Greek  civilisation,  the  early  Christian,  the 
mediaeval,  the  Papal,  the  strictly  modern,  all  are  there.  Rome  is  the 
compendium  of  History;  and  you  [may  open  the  human  story  at  what 
page  you  will. 


481 


Morftr's 


"  Great  !alk  among  people  how  some  of  the  Fanatiques  do  say  that  the  end  of  the 
worldis  at  hand,  and  that  next  Tuesday"  (Dec.  2,  1662),  "  is  to  be  the  day." — Pcpi/s 
Diary. 

IN  the  year  1000  A.D.  it  was  almost  the  universal  opinion  that  the  world 
approached  its  end.  Early  Mother  Shiptons  had  indicated  that  as  the 
fateful  year.  Satan  had  been  chained  for  a  thousand  years,  and  was  to  be 
loosened  when  the  thousand  years  were  complete.  The  end  of  the  world 
was  to  be  brought  about  by  him  indirectly,  for  his  temporary  triumph 
was  to  lead  to  the  second  coming  of  Christ,  the  Day  of  Judgment,  and 
the  end  of  all  things  terrestrial.  The  anticipation  of  these  events 
caused  natural  phenomena,  such  as  are  occurring  all  the  time,  to 
assume  a  more  than  usually  portentous  aspect.  Just  as  last  year,  when, 
according  to  the  Shipton  prophecy,  our  world  was  to  come  to  an  end, 
everyone  who  believed  in  the  prophecy  found  in  the  weather  reports 
from  different  parts  of  the  earth  proof  positive,  or  at  least  confirmation 
strong,  of  the  threatened  end — men's  hearts  failing  them  for  fear  because 
of  earthquakes,  storms,  and  so  forth,  which  ordinarily  pass  without 
attracting  special  attention;  so  in  the  year  1000,  every  meteorological 
and  celestial  phenomenon  was  anxiously  watched  as  the  possible  precursor 
of  the  coming  catastrophe.  A  comet  appeared  and  was  visible  for  nine 
days,  and  everyone  began  to  ask  (like  Fanny  Squeers),  "  Is  this  the 
end  1 "  A  wonderful  meteor  was  seen,  and  men's  frightened  fancies 
enabled  them  to  see  what  men  of  science  seldom  have  the  opportunity  of 
observing  now  during  meteoric  displays.  "  The  heavens  opened,"  we  are 
told,  "  and  a  kind  of  flaming  torch  fell  upon  the  earth,  leaving  behind 
a  long  track  of  light  like  the  path  of  a  flash  of  lightning.  Its  brightness 
was  so  great  that  it  frightened  not  only  those  who  were  in  the  fields,  but 
even  those  who  were  in  the  houses.  As  this  opening  in  the  sky  slowly 
closed,  men  saw  with  horror  the  figure  of  a  dragon,  whose  feet  were  blue, 
and  whose  head  seemed  to  grow  larger  and  larger."  A  terrible  picture 
accompanies  this  description.  There  is  the  meteor  track,  with  various 
coruscations  and  widenings,  so  arranged  as  to  correspond  with  the  figure 
of  a  dragon  assigned  to  the  portentous  object ;  but  as  the  resemblance 
might  not  seem  absolutely  convincing  to  unimaginative  persons,  a  dragon 
to  match  is  set  beside  the  celestial  apparition,  and  this  creature  is 
labelled  for  the  benefit  of  the  inexperienced,  "  Serpens  cum  ceruleis 
pedibus." 

It  is  exceedingly  pro*bable  that  if  general  literature  had  reached  as 


482  THE  WORLD'S  END. 

widely  then  as  it  does  now,  the  fears  entertained  in  the  year  1000  would 
have  surpassed  in  intensity  those  which  have  been  engendered  since  that 
time  by  successive  predictions  of  the  world's  approaching  end.  But  the 
great  bulk  of  the  population  here  and  elsewhere  probably  hearl  very 
little  of  these  terrible  forewarnings.  They  had  many  other  things  to 
attend  to  in  those  "  good  old  times,"  and  some  of  their  surroundings 
might  very  likely  have  suggested  that  they  could  not  be  much  worse  off 
if  the  world  should  actually  perish  at  that  time.  As  for  their  betters, 
they  also  were  pretty  busily  engaged  plundering  each  other  and  fighting 
with  such  zeal  that  manifestly  for  a  considerable  number  the  end  was 
likely  to  come  at  least  as  soon  as  the  general  destruction  threatened  by 
the  prophets.  At  any  rate,  though  we  have  clear  evidence  that  many 
believed  in  the  predicted  end  of  the  world  (indeed  it  was  thought  very 
wicked  to  be  in  doubt  about  it),  matters  went  on  much  as  usual ;  the 
year  1001  began  and  still  the  world  endured,  with  every  sign  of  con- 
tinuing. 

The  belief  that  the  world  would  come  to  an  end  in  the  year  1000  was 
associated  with,  if  not  absolutely  derived  from,  a  much  older  belief 
entertained  by  the  earliest  astronomers  of  whom  any  records  remain  to 
us.  They  considered  that  certain  cyclic  periods  of  the  planetary  motions 
begin  and  end  with  terrestrial  calamities,  these  calamities  being  of  dif- 
ferent characters  according  to  the  zodiacal  relations  of  the  planetary 
conjunctions.  Thus  the  ancient  Chaldeans  taught  (according  to  Diodorus 
Siculus)  that  when  all  the  planets  are  conjoined  in  Capricornus  the 
earth  is  destroyed  by  flood ;  when  they  are  all  conjoined  in  Cancer  the 
earth  is  destroyed  by  fire.  But  after  each  such  end  comes  the  beginning 
of  a  new  cycle,  at  which  time  all  things  are  created  afresh.  A  favourite 
doctrine  respecting  these  cyclic  destructions  was  that  the  period  inter- 
vening between  each  was  the  Annus  Magnus,  or  great  year,  required  for 
the  return  of  the  then  known  planets  to  the  position  (of  conjunction) 
which  they  were  understood  to  have  had  at  the  beginning  of  the  great 
year.  According  to  some  this  period  lasted  360,000  years ;  others 
assigned  to  it  300,000  years,  while  according  to  Orpheus  it  lasted  only 
120,000  years.  But  it  was  in  every  case  a  multiple  of  a  thousand  years, 
and  the  subordinate  catastrophes  were  supposed  to  divide  the  great  year 
into  sets  of  so  many  thousand  years. 

In  Plato's  Timceus  we  have  some  account  of  the  Egyptian  ideas  con- 
cerning these  successive  world-endings,  though  minor  catastrophes  only 
are  referred  to ;  but  when  Solon  described  to  the  Egyptian  priests  Deuca- 
lion's flood,  and  counted  for  them  the  generations  which  had  elapsed 
since  it  occurred,  an  aged  priest  said  to  him  :  "  Like  the  rest  of  mankind 
the  Greek  nation  has  suffered  from  natural  convulsions,  which  occur  from 
time  to  time  according  to  the  position  of  the  heavenly  bodies,  when  parts 
of  the  earth  are  destroyed  by  the  two  great  agents,  fire  and  water.  At 
certain  periods  portions  of  the  human  race  perish  in  the  waters,  and  rude 
survivors  too  often  fail  to  transmit  historical  evidence  of  the  event, 


THE  WORLD'S  END.  483 

You  Greeks  remember  one  record  only.  There  have  been  many.  You 
do  not  even  know  at  present  anything  of  that  fairest  and  noblest  race  of 
which  you  are  a  seed  or  remnant."  The  aged  priest  then  read  from 
Egyptian  annals  the  records  of  events  which  had  happened  in  Greece 
9,000  years  before ;  he  described  the  founding  of  the  city  of  Sais  8,000 
years  before ;  and  this  account,  registered  in  their  ancient  and  sacred 
records,  Solon  read  at  leisure.  The  most  remarkable  of  the  earth's  cata- 
clysms were  there  described,  including  the  destruction  by  flood  of  the 
great  island  of  Atlantis.  This  was  described  as  a  continent  opposite  the 
Pillars  of  Hercules  (the  Straits  of  Gibraltar),  larger  in  extent  than 
Lybia  and  Asia  together  (!),  and  was  on  the  road  to  other  islands,  and  to 
a  great  continent  of  which  the  whole  of  the  Mediterranean  Sea  was  then 
but  the  harbour.  Within  the  Pillars  the  empire  of  Atlantis  reached  to 
Egypt  and  Tyrrhenia.  In  remote  times  this  mighty  power  was  arrayed 
against  Egypt  and  Hellas,  and  all  those  countries  which  bordered  on  the 
Mediterranean.  Greece  bravely  repelled  the  invaders  and  freed  all 
nations  within  the  Pillars.  Some  time  after,  there  was  a  great  earth- 
quake, and  the  warrior  races  of  Hellas  were  drowned — the  great  island 
of  Atlantis  also  disappeared,  being  submerged  beneath  the  sea. 

The  conflagrations  and  deluges  by  which  portions  of  the  earth,  and 
at  times  the  whole  earth,  were  destroyed,  were  believed  to  be  intended 
for  the  regeneration  of  the  world.  After  each  catastrophe,  men  were 
created  afresh  free  from  vice  and  misery ;  but  gradually  they  fell  away 
from  this  happy  state  to  a  condition  of  immorality,  which  rendered  a  new 
decree  of  destruction  necessary. 

Lyell  notes  that  the  sect  of  Stoics  adopted  most  fully  the  system  of 
catastrophes  thus  designed  for  the  alternate  destruction  and  regeneration 
of  the  world.  They  taught  that  they  were  of  two  kinds — "  the  cataclysm, 
or  destruction  by  water,  which  sweeps  away  the  whole  human  race,  and 
annihilates  all  the  animal  and  vegetable  productions  of  nature ;  and  the 
epyrosis,  or  destruction  by  fire,  which  dissolves  the  globe  itself.  From  the 
Egyptians  also  they  derived  the  doctrine  of  the  gradual  debasement  of 
man  from  a  state  of  innocence.  Towards  the  termination  of  each  era 
the  gods  could  no  longer  bear  the  wickedness  of  men,  and  a  shock  of  the 
elements,  or  a  deluge,  overwhelmed  them ;  after  which  calamity  Astrsea 
again  descended  on  the  earth,  to  renew  the  golden  age." 

That  the  partial  destructions  of  the  earth,  whether  by  flood  or  fire, 
were  associated  with  the  movements  of  the  heavenly  bodies  is  evident  from 
the  fact  that,  wherever  we  meet  with  these  ideas,  whether  in  Egyptian, 
Assyrian,  Indian,  or  Chinese  records,  direct  reference  is  always  made  to 
the  conjunction  of  the  planets,  the  position  of  the  sun  and  moon,  and 
occasionally  to  the  apparition  of  comets  and  the  fall  of  meteoric  bodies. 
The  following  account  of  the  Chinese  Flood,  attributed  to  the  reign  of 
Yu,  is  traced  in  the  order  of  Hangshan,  a  mountain  on  which  for  many 
ages  annual  sacrifices  were  made  by  the  ancient  emperors  of  China.  "  The 
great  and  little  islets  and  inhabited  places,"  says  the  venerable  emperor  of  the 


484  THE  WOELD'S  END. 

house  of  Hia,  "  even  to  their  summits,  the  abodes  of  the  beasts  and  birds 
and  all  beings,  are  widely  inundated.  I  repose  on  the  top  of  the  moun- 
tain Yohlu.  By  prudence  and  labours  I  have  communicated  with  spirits. 
I  know  not  the  hours,  but  repose  myself  only  amid  incessant  labours. 
By  the  dark  influence  of  sun  and  moon  the  mountains  Hwa,  Yoh,  Tai, 
and  Hang  alone  remain  above  the  waters.  Upon  them  has  been  the 
beginning  and  end  of  my  enterprise.  When  my  labours  were  completed 
I  offered  a  thanksgiving  sacrifice  at  the  solstice.  My  affliction  has  ceased ; 
the  confusion  in  nature  has  disappeared ;  the  deep  currents  coming  from 
the  south  flow  into  the  sea.  The  flood  began  at  equinox.  The  skies  rained 
meteoric  showers  of  iron  of  extraordinary  duration."  Some  poi'tions  of 
the  country  remained  under  water  several  years  until  B.C.  2233,  when 
canals  ordered  to  be  cut  by  the  Emperor  Ta  Yu  conveyed  to  the  sea  the 
immense  bodies  of  water  which  had  been  precipitated .  upon  and  over- 
flowed so  large  a  part  of  China.  By  this  means  river  beds  were  finally 
cut,  shedding  water  in  new  directions,  and  continued  to  be  worn  deeper 
by  the  receding  flow,  until  the  whole  country  was  tolerably  free  from 
inundation. 

Sir  Charles  Lyell  remarks  of  this  flood  that  it  rather  interrupted  the 
work  of  agriculture  than  involved  any  widespread  destruction  of  the 
human  race.  Mr.  Davis,  who  accompanied  two  British  embassies  to 
China,  points  out  that  "  even  now  a  great  derangement  of  the  waters  of 
the  Yellow  Kiver  might  cause  the  flood  of  Yaou  to  be  repeated,  and  lay 
the  most  fertile  and  populous  plains  of  China  under  water."  It  is  note- 
worthy, however,  that  in  the  ancient  records  the  action  of  the  sun  and 
moon,  presumably  in  raising  tides,  is  mentioned,  while  meteoric  showers 
are  distinctly  associated  with  the  occurrence  of  the  flood — though 
whether  they  came  at  the  beginning  of  the  disturbance,  or  simply 
occurred  while  the  waters  were  out  over  the  plains  of  China,  does  not 
clearly  appear. 

After  the  threatened  but  not  accomplished  destruction  of  the  world 
in  the  year  A.D.  1000,  comets  were  for  a  while  looked  on  with  suspicion, 
an  idea  appearing  to  prevail  that  the  torch  which  was  to  light  the  final 
conflagration  would  be  a  cometic  one.  For  several  centuries,  however, 
no  comet  came  near  enough  to  the  earth  or  sun  to  excite  any  serious 
terrors  founded  on  observed  astronomical  relations.  But  the  comet 
of  1680  really  presented  characteristics  which  suggested  dangers  even 
to  men  of  science.  It  was  a  comet  of  remarkable  appearance ;  its 
course  seemed  at  first  directed  full  upon  the  sun ;  and  though  in  those 
days  it  was  the  erroneous  idea  that  the  comet  might  supply  an  undue 
amount  of  fuel  to  the  central  fire  of  the  solar  system,  which  chiefly 
occupied  men's  thoughts  (even  Newton  sharing  the  idea),  the  danger 
from  which  the  solar  system  then  escaped  was  considered  to  be  real  and 
serious. 

In  the  year  1773  a  report  got  abroad — how  engendered  is  not  known 
— that  Lalande,  one  of  the  ablest  mathematicians  of  the  day,  had  pre- 


THE  WORLD'S  END.  485 

dieted  the  end  of  the  world,  as  the  result  of  a  collision  to  take  place 
between  a  comet  and  the  earth.  We  say  it  is  not  known  how  the  report 
got  abroad.  The  circumstance  which  gave  rise  to  the  report,  is,  however, 
well  known,  though  avowedly  there  was  nothing  in  it  to  have  sug- 
gested special  anxiety.  The  difficulty  is  to  connect  the  circumstance 
with  the  exaggerated  terrors  presently  excited.  It  had  been  announced 
that  Lalande  would  read  before  the  Academy  of  Sciences  a  paper  entitled 
"  Reflections  on  those  comets  which  can  approach  the  earth."  It  would  be 
difficult  to  inquire  how  the  report  of  this  came  gradually  to  be  changed  into 
the  definite  news  that  in  the  year  1773 — nay,  the  very  day  was  named, 
on  May  20, 1773 — a  comet  would  encounter  and  destroy  the  earth,  did  not 
recent  experience  show  how  a  statement  of  one  kind  may  be  changed — 
through  carelessness,  not  through  wilful  misrepresentation — into  a  state- 
ment of  an  entirely  different  kind,  when  (in  its  later  form)  it  seems  to 
indicate  the  approach  of  some  great  danger  to  the  earth.  Plantamour, 
lecturing  in  1872  about  comets  and  meteors,  says  that  the  comet  of  1862 
passed  near  the  earth's  orbit;  that  along  its  track  are  travelling  millions 
and  millions  of  meteoric  bodies ;  and  that  when  the  earth  crosses  its  track 
meteoric  displays  may  be  expected;  adding  that  the  next  display  of  the 
kind  may  be  expected  on  or  about  August  11  or  12.  Presently  the 
news  is  travelling  about  that  on  August  12,  1872,  a  comet  will  fall  upon 
the  earth  and  we  shall  all  be  destroyed.  Who  gave  to  Plantamour's  true 
and  innocent  statement  this  false  and  mischievous  form  ?  No  one  can 
say ;  no  one  can  point  out  where  or  how  the  true  became  merged  into 
the  misleading,  the  misleading  into  the  incorrect,  the  incorrect  into  the 
utterly  false.  But  the  terrors  excited  were  none  the  less  real  that  no 
one  could  tell  whence  they  came  or  how  they  were  generated. 

Once  such  fears  have  been  excited,  it  seems  useless  to  attempt  to 
quiet  them,  at  least  among  the  hopelessly  ignorant,  who  unfortunately 
are  so  numerous  and  so  readily  made  the  victims  of  idle  terrors.  Lalande 
published  in  the  Gazette  de  France  of  May  7,  1773,  the  following  adver- 
tisement, to  quiet,  as  he  hoped,  the  public  mind  :  "  M.  Lalande  had  not 
time  to  read  his  memoir  upon  comets  which  may  approach  the  earth  and 
cause  changes  in  her  motions;  but  he  would  observe  that  it  is  im- 
possible to  assign  the  epochs  of  such  events.  The  next  comet  whose 
return  is  expected  is  the  one  which  should  return  in  eighteen  years  ;  but 
it  is  not  one  of  those  which  can  hurt  the  earth."  But  this  tolerably  ex- 
plicit statement  had  no  effect.  M.  Lalande's  study  was  ci'owded  day  after 
day  with  anxious  inquirers.  A  number  of  pious  people,  of  whom  a  con- 
temporary journal  made  the  very  rude  remark  that  "  they  were  as  igno- 
rant as  they  were  imbecile,"  begged  the  Archbishop  of  Paris  to  appoint  a 
forty  days'  prayer  to  avert  the  threatened  danger,  which  for  some  reason 
they  agreed  was  to  take  the  form  of  a  mighty  deluge.  And  he  would 
have  complied  with  their  request  only  he  was  told  by  members  of  the 
Academy  that  he  would  bring  ridicule  upon  himself  and  upon  science  if 
he  did  so. 


486  THE  WORLD'S 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Voltaire  wrote  his  well-known  "  Letter  on 
the  pretended  Comet."  It  ran  thus  : — 

Grenoble,  May  17,  1773. 

Certain  Parisians  who  are  not  philosophers,  and  who,  if  we  are  to  believe  them, 
will  not  have  time  to  become  such,  have  informed  me  that  the  end  of  the  world  ap- 
proaches, and  will  occur  without  fail  on  the  20th  of  this  present  month  of  May.  They 
expect  that  day  a  comet,  which  is  to  take  our  little  globe  from  behind  and  reduce  it 
to  impalpable  powder,  according  to  a  certain  prediction  of  the  Academy  of  Sciences 
which  has  not  yet  been  made.  Nothing  is  more  likely  than  this  event,  for  James 
Bernouilli,  in  his  treatise  upon  the  comet  of  1680,  predicted  expressly  that  that 
famous  comet  would  return  with  a  terrible  uproar  on  May  19,  1719 ;  he  asstired  us 
that  its  peruque  indeed  would  signify  nothing  mischievous,  but  that  its  tail  would  be 
an  infallible  sign  of  the  wrath  of  heaven.  If  James  Bernouilli  mistook,  it  is,  after 
all,  but  a  matter  of  fifty-four  years  and  three  days.  Now,  so  small  an  error  as  this 
being  regarded  by  all  geometricians  as  of  little  moment  in  the  immensityof  ages,  it  is 
manifest  that  nothing  can  be  more  reasonable  than  to  hope  for  the  end  of  the  world 
on  the  20th  of  this  present  month  of  May  1773,  or  in  some  other  year.  If  the  thing 
should  not  come  to  pass,  "  omittance  is  no  quittance  "  (ce  qui  est  differe,  n'est  pas  perdu). 
There  is  certainly  no  reason  for  laughing  at  M.  Trissotin,  triple  idiot  though  he  is 
(tout  Trissotin  qu'il  est),  when  he  says  to  Madame  Philaminte  (Moliere's  Femmes 
Savantes,  act.  iv.  sc.  3) : — 

Nous  1'avons  en  dormant,  madame,  e"chappe  belle  ; 
Un  monde  pres  de  nous  a  passe  tout  du  long, 
Est  chu  tout  au  travers  de  notre  tourbillon  ; 
Et  s'il  cut  en  chemin  rencontre  notre  terre, 
Elle  cut  etc  brisee  en  morceaux  comme  verre. 

"  A  comet  coursing  along  its  parabolic  may  come  full  tilt  against  our  earth."  But 
then,  what  will  happen  ?  Either  that  comet  will  have  a  force  equal  to  that  of  our 
earth,  or  greater,  or  less.  If  equal,  we  shall  do  the  comet  as  much  harm  as  it  will  do 
us,  action  and  reaction  being  equal ;  if  greater,  the  comet  will  bear  us  away  with  it ; 
if  less,  we  shall  bear  away  the  comet.  This  great  event  may  occur  in  a  thousand  ways, 
and  no  one  can  affirm  that  our  earth  and  the  other  planets  have  not  experienced  more 
than  one  revolution  through  the  mischance  of  encountering  a  comet  on  their  path.  The 
Parisians  will  not  desert  their  city  on  the  20th  inst.;  they  will  sing  songs.'and  the  play 
of  "  The  Comet  and  the  World's  End  "  will  be  performed  at  the  Opera  Comique. 

Singularly  enough,  something  even  more  preposterous  than  what  the 
great  wit  had  thus  suggested  did  actually  occur  on  this  occasion.  The  fears 
inspired  by  the  predicted  approach  of  the  comet  were  so  great  that 
speculators  took  advantage  of  the  terrors  of  the  ignorant,  and  absolutely 
persuaded  many  that  the  priesthood  had  by  special  intercession  obtained 
the  privilege  of  dispensing  a  number  of  tickets  for  seats  in  Paradise ;  and 
these  pretended  tickets  were  sold  at  a  very  high  rate.  It  would  be  in- 
teresting to  inquire  what  idea  was  entertained  by  those  who  purchased 
these  tickets  as  to  the  way  in  which  they  were  to  be  used,  to  whom  pre- 
sented, at  what  time,  and  where. 

The  story  to  which  I  have  just  referred  was  quoted  by  a  Parisian 
professor  in  1832,  when  a  similar  scare  prevailed  in  France.  It  had 
been  announced  that  the  comet  of  1826  (Biela's)  would  return  in  1832; 
and  it  had  also  been  stated  that  the  path  of  the  comet  intersected,  or 


THE  WORLD'S  END.  487 

very  nearly  intersected,  the  path  of  the  earth.  This  was  immediately 
interpreted  to  signify  an  approaching  collision  between  the  earth  and  the 
comet,  though  nothing  of  the  kind  was  implied.  These  fears,  said  the 
worthy  professor,  may  produce  effects  as  mischievous  as  those  produced 
by  the  cometic  panic  in  1773,  unless  the  authority  of  the  Academy  apply 
a  prompt  remedy ;  and  this  salutary  intervention  is  at  this  moment  im- 
plored by  many  benevolent  persons. 

At  the  present  time,  the  end  of  the  world  is  threatened  in  more  ways 
than  one.  The  methods  of  destruction  are  incongruous*;  but  that  is  a 
detail  hardly  worth  considering.  If  Scylla  does  not  destroy  us,  Charybdis 
i-;  bound  to  do  the  work,  and  vice  versa.  There  is  no  escape  for  us. 

A  few  months  ago,  the  prophecy  of  Mother  Shipton  was  chiefly 
feared.  But  as  the  world  certainly  did  not  come  to  an  end  in  1881 
(though  Gerald  Massey  says  Mother  Shipton's  prophecy — which  she 
never  made  by  the  way — was  really  fulfilled)  we  must  now  look  for  the 
world's  destruction  in  other  ways. 

And  first  we  see  it  clearly  indicated  in  the  Great  Pyramid.  By 
slightly  altering  the  dates  accepted  by  historians,  adding  a  few  years  in 
one  place  and  taking  off  a  few  years  in  another,  it  can  be  proved  to 
demonstration  that  the  number  of  inches  in  the  descending  or  entrance 
passages,  as  far  as  the  place  where  the  ascending  begins,  is  equal  to  the 
number  of  years  from  the  descent  of  man  to  the  Exodus  ;  and  that  the 
ascending  passage  contains  as  many  inches  as  there  are  years  from  the 
Exodus  to  the  beginning  of  the  Christian  era.  (The  rest  of  the  descending 
passage,  as  far  as  the  bottomless  pit,  or  the  pit  with  ruin-hidden  bottom 
— it  is  the  same  thing — clearly  represents  the  progress  of  the  rest  of  the 
human  race  downwards.)  This  being  so,  of  course  it  follows  that  the 
grand  gallery  represents  the  Christian  era.  This  gallery  has  a  length  of 
1882  inches,  or,  according  to  recent  statements  (not  new  measurements), 
1881*59.  Hence,  in  the  year  1882,  or  more  exactly  at  the  time  1881'59, 
which  corresponds  to  1881  years  +  7  months  +  2^  days,  or  to  midnight 
between  August  3rd*  and  4th,  the  Christian  era  is  to  end.  The  reader  is 
not  to  be  alarmed,  however,  by  this  seemingly  precise  statement.  As 
the  time  has  drawn  nearer,  the  pyramidalists  have  seen  fit  to  add  fifty 
years  (more  or  less,  according  to  circumstances)  during  which  the  end 
is  to  be  finally  brought  about ;  August  3  will  only  mark  the  "  begin- 
ning of  the  end."  Still,  it  may  fairly  be  presumed  that  something  sig- 
nificant will  happen  about  that  time.  Possibly  some  remarkable  person, 
or  person  who  is  hereafter  to  be  remarkable,  will  be  born  at  midnight 
August  3  ;  in  which  case  it  seems  possible  that  the  world  might  remain 
in  ignorance  of  the  fact  for  a  year  or  two. 

But  next  the  planets  take  their  turn.     The  terrible  words  "  peri- 
helion conjunctions  "  are  heard  with  appalling  effect.     It  is  true  they 


*  Astronomically  the  second  day  in  August  ends  at  noon  August  3. 


488  THE  WORLD'S  END. 

are  entirely  without  meaning ;  science  knows  nothing  about  perihelion 
conjunctions;  but  that  is  nothing — any  name  is  good  enough  to  conjure 
by.  Let  us  see  what  perihelion  mischief  is  in  store  for  us. 

Jupiter  was  in  perihelion  on  September  25,  1880  !  "  The  perihelia 
of  other  planets  in  1881  occurred  "  (this  is  not  a  scientific  mode  of  pre- 
senting the  matter;  but  that  is  not  the  fault  of  the  prophets — they  speak 
as  correctly  as  they  can)  "  as  follows  :  Mercury,  February  21 ;  Venus, 
March  6;  Mercury,  May  20;  Mars,  May  26;  Mercury,  August  16; 
Venus,  October  1§;  Mercury,  November  12."  This  was  very  dreadful ; 
though  somehow  the  earth  escaped  that  time.  Imagine  Mercury  being 
four  times  in  perihelion  in  one  year !  We  may  perhaps  find  an  explana- 
tion in  the  circumstance  that  he  completes  the  circuit  of  his  orbit  more 
than  four  times  a  year,  and  must  pass  his  perihelion  each  time ;  but 
science  tries  to  explain  everything,  and  we  must  not  be  too  precise  in 
such  matters.  The  year  1882,  in  which  we  are  more  interested,  is  even 
worse.  Mercury  has  already  been  in  perihelion,  viz.  on  February  8 ; 
then  we  have  March  25  (April  9  1),  Uranus  ;  May  7,  Mercury ;  August  3, 
Mercury ;  October  29,  Mercury  again ;  and  absolutely  on  December  6 
Venus  transits  the  sun's  disc  !  Something  will  surely  come  of  this,  if  we 
only  live  to  see  it. 

But  worse  remains  behind.  "  In  August  1885,  Saturn  will  be  in 
perihelion  !  "  "  Neptune  is  in  apparent  perihelion  "  (whatever  that  may 
mean)  "  from  1876  to  1886,  the  height  (?)  being  about  1881^  !  "  "  Those 
skilled  in  astronomy  inform  us  it  is  fully  6,000  years  since  the  occur- 
rence of  a  similarly  powerful  situation,  although  conjunctions  and  peri- 
helia have  occurred  at  more  frequent  intervals  of  time.  To  form  an 
approximate  opinion  of  what  the  earth  is  liable  to  experience  at  such 
periods,  we  must  review  the  records  of  effects  attending  similar  situations, 
remembering  that  with  the  ripening  of  our  planet  the  effects  upon  the 
earth  and  its  inhabitants  will  be  more  generally  distributed." 

This  being  so,  these  perihelia  occurring  in  so  unusual  a  way,  being 
also  rendered  very  terrible  by  being  called  perihelion  conjunctions,  and 
the  dependence  of  terrestrial  disturbances  on  planetary  motions  being  too 
obvious  to  be  worth  proving,  we  have  only  to  consider  what  has  hap- 
pened during  past  floods,  earthquakes,  and  so  forth,  to  see  exactly  what 
is  in  store  for  us  pretty  soon.  Science,  which  is  always  too  particular  in 
such  matters,  may  perhaps  show  that  whatever  influences  the  outer  and 
larger  planets  may  produce  on  the  earth  (it  is  very  doubtful  whether 
they  produce  any  except  very  slight  deviations  from  her  mean  track) 
cannot  be  effectively  greater  when  the  planets  are  in  perihelion  than 
when  they  are  in  aphelion  ;  that  terrestrial  disturbances  have  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  these  relations ;  and  that  as  perihelion  passages 
and  planetary  conjunctions  are  occurring  every  year,  earthquakes  and 
floods  could  not  possibly  occur  in  years  when  there  were  no  such  phe- 
nomena :  bat  tlie  prophets  have  nothing  to  say  to  all  that ;  they  calmly  go 
on  to  describe  the  various  terrestrial  disturbances  which  have  occurred 


THE  WORLD'S  END'.  48 9 

regarding  any  attempt  to  show  that  there  is  the  slightest  real  connection 
between  the  planetary  movements  and  the  earth's  throes  as  qiiite  un- 
necessary. 

Here,  however,  is  the  summing  up  of  the  planetary  prophecies  by 
one  of  the  most  earnest,  and  therefore  wildest,  of  the  prophets.  "  In 
cases  of  planetary  attraction,  the  earth's  crust  becomes  attracted  as  a 
solid  whole.  Its  fluid  and  aerial  envelope  responds  when  irregularly 
attracted,  by  oscillating  in  high  and  low  tides,  alternating  with  unequal 
pressure.  We  are  approaching  both  stellar  and  planetary  conditions 
which  fortunately  will  require  a  certain  number  of  years — say  1880  to 
1885 — for  their  complete  unfoldment ;  hence  their  action  may  not  be 
wholly  manifest  in  a  special  month  of  any  year ;  but  this  whole  cycle  of 
years  is  liable  to  be  affected  by  a  generally  disturbed  condition  of  the 
earth  and  its  inhabitants." 

But  utter  rubbish  as  all  this  is — the  offspring  of  sheer  ignorance  and 
hysteric  vapours — it  is  not  much  more  absurd  than  the  prediction 
recently  based  on  the  observed  fact  that  the  comet  of  1880  travelled 
along  the  same  path  as  that  of  1843,  this  path  lying  very  close  indeed  to 
the  sun.  Assuming,  as  is  really  not  improbable,  that  the  comet  of 
1843  passed  so  near  to  the  sun  as  to  have  been  retarded  by  the  resistance 
of  the  corona,  and  so  came  back  after  a  shorter  circuit  than  it  had  before 
traversed,  it  is  likely  enough  that  the  comet  will  next  return  after  a  yet 
shorter  interval.  Possibly  Marth's  period — "  say  seventeen  years  "  he 
puts  it — may  be  near  the  truth,  in  .which  case  the  comet  would  come 
back  in  1897.  The  next  return  after  that  might  be  in  seven  or  eight 
years,  say  in  1904.  The  next  perhaps  is  three  or  four,  and  very  likely 
by  about  the  year  1920  or  ]925  that  comet  may  reach  the  end  of  its 
career,  being  finally  absorbed  by  the  sun.  It  is  also  very  likely  that  if, 
instead  of  being  thus  gradually  checked  off,  so  to  speak,  this  comet  in  its 
original  full-sized  condition,  with  many  millions  of  millions  of  meteoric 
attendants,  had  rushed  full  tilt  upon  the  sun,  it  might  have  done  a  deal 
of  mischief.  A  very  able  astronomer,  Professor  Kirkwood,  of  Blooming- 
ton,  Indiana,  believes  (and  very  likely  he  is  right)  that  two  of  the  larger 
meteoric  attendants  on  this  comet  falling  into  the  sun  in  September 
1859,  produced  that  remarkable  solar  disturbance  which  was  accom- 
panied by  very  remarkable  magnetic  disturbances  and  auroral  displays  all 
over  the  earth ;  so  that  doubtless  the  whole  comet  with  its  attendants 
pouring  all  at  once  upon  the  sun  would  have  stirred  him  in  a  way  which 
we  should  have  found  very  noteworthy,  even  if  we  did  not  find  it  abso- 
lutely destructive  to  the  earth  and  its  inhabitants.  But  as  a  mere  matter 
of  fact  (and  so  counting  for  something  what  end-of-the-world  prophets 
may  imagine)  the  comet  of  1843  and  1880  does  not  travel  full  tilt  upon 
the  sun,  and  can  never  do  so;  its  meteoric  attendants  are  not  all  gathered 
in  a  single  cluster,  but  form  an  immensely  long  train  (if  Kirkwood  was 
right  in  the  above-quoted  surmise,  those  which  fell  into  the  sun  in  1859 
•were  at  least  sixteen  years  behind  the  main  body) ;  and  it  is  clear  that  a 

VOL.  XLV.— NO.  268.  24. 


490  THE  WORLD'S  END. 

very  effective  interruption  of  the  comet's  career  in  1843,  repeated  in 
1880,  can  take  place  without  in  any  appreciable  degree  affecting  our 
comfort,  still  less  our  existence.  If  the  comet  of  1880  was  the  same 
object  as  the  object  of  1843,  it  showed  very  evident  signs  of  having 
suffered  grievously  during  its  former  perihelion  passage.  If  it  is  pro- 
portionately reduced  at  its  next  return,  we  might  even  see  it  fall  straight 
upon  the  sun  (were  that  possible)  without  much  fearing'any  evil  conse- 
quences. Nothing  which  is  known  about  comets  in  general,  or  about 
this  comet  in  particular,  suggests  the  slightest  danger  to  the  solar  system, 
though  everything  suggests  that  the  comet's  career  as  an  independent 
body  will  before  very  long'come  to  an  end.  If  the  comet  ever  was  a 
dangerous  one,  owing  to  the  concentration  of  its  meteoric  components, 
it  is  not  so  now.  If  it  really  has  been  effectively  checked  in  its  career,  it 
is  evident  such  interruption  can  take  place  without  harming  us,  and 
therefore  the  final  throes  of  the  comet  need  not  trouble  us  in  the  least. 
If  it  has  not  been  effectively  interrupted,  then  the  end  is  not  nearer — in 
any  appreciable  degree — now  than  it  was  in  1843  or  in  1686.  In  any 
case,  the  end  of  this  comet's  career,  whether  far  off  or  near  at  hand,  will 
in  all  probability  take  place  in  such  a  way  that  terrestrial  astronomers 
will  never  know  of  the  event. 

R  A.  P. 


491 


Cjntrcjj  I™ 


i. 

THAT  spirit  of  wit,  whose  quenchless  ray 
To  wakening  England  Holland  lent, 

In  whose  frail  wasted  body  lay 
The  orient  and  the  Occident, 

n. 
Still  wandering  in  the  night  of  time, 

Nor  yet  conceiving  dawn  should  be, 
A  pilgrim  with  a  gift  of  rhyme, 

Sought  out  Our  Lady  by  the  Sea. 

in. 
Along  the  desolate  downs  he  rode, 

And  pondered  on  God's  mystic  name, 
Till  with  his  beads  and  votive  ode, 

To  Walsingham  Erasmus  came. 

IV. 

He  found  the  famous  chapel  there, 

Unswept,  un windowed,  undivine, 
And  the  bleak  gusts  of  autumn  air 

Blew  sand  across  the  holy  shrine. 

v. 

Two  tapers  in  a  spicy  mist 

Scarce  lit  the  jewelled  heaps  of  gold, 

As  pilgrim  after  pilgrim  kissed 

The  relics  that  were  bought  and  sold. 

VI. 
A  greedy  Canon  still  beguiled 

The  wealthy  at  his  wicket-gate, 
And  o'er  his  shining  tonsure  smiled 
A  Virgin  doubly  desecrate. 

24—2 


492  THE   CHURCH  BY  THE  SEA. 

VII. 
The  pattered  prayers,  the  incense  swung", 

The  embroidered  throne,  the  golden  stall, 
The  precious  gifts  at  random  flung, — 

And  North  Sea  sand  across  it  all ! 

VIII. 

He  mocked,  that  spirit  of  matchless  wit; 

He  mourned  the  rite  that  warps  and  seres : 
And  seeing  no  hopa  of  health  in  it, 

He  laughed  lest  he  should  break  in  tears. 

IX. 

And  we,  if  still  our  reverend  fanes 

Lie  open  to  the  salt-sea  deep, 
If  flying  sand  our  choir  profanes, 

Shall  we  not  laugh,  shall  we  not  weep  1 

x. 

We  toll  the  bell,  we  throng  the  aisle, 
We  pay  a  wealth  in  tithe  and  fee, 

We  wreathe  the  shrine,  and  all  the  while 
Our  Church  lies  open  to  the  sea. 

XI. 

The  brackish  wind  that  stirs  the  flame, 
And  fans  the  painted  saints  asleep, 

From  heaven  above  it  never  came, 
But  from  the  starless  Eastern  deep. 

XII. 

The  storm  is  rising  o'er  the  sea, 

The  long  bleak  windward  line  is  grey, 

And  when  it  rises,  how  shall  we 

And  our  weak  tapers  fare  that  day  ? 

XIII. 

Perchance  amid  the  roar  and  crack 
Of  starting  beams  we  yet  shall  stand ; 

Perchance  our  idols  shall  not  lack 
Deep  bmial  in  the  shifting  sand. 

EDMUND  W.  GOSSE. 


493 


gmwrtles. 


By  THE  AUTHOR  OP  "FOR  PEUCIVAL." 


CHAPTER  V. 
ON  THE  CLIFF. 

"  Can  I  not  say  a.  -word  shall  do  you  good  ?  " 

AUGUST  by  the  sea.  The 
words  are  enough  to  call 
up  a  picture  of  boats, 
bathing  -  machines,  don- 
keys, children,  mammas, 
nursemaids,  seaweed, 
shells,  wooden  spades, 
and  parasols,  all  gathered 
together  on  a  strip  of 
sand  under  a  hot  sky. 
The  seaside  place  which 
Miss  Whitney  had  chosen 
for  a  three  weeks'  stay 
had  its  share  of  most,  if 
not  all,  of  these,  but 
a  comparatively  small 
share,  being  a  quiet  little 
village,  not  very  widely 
known.  As  it  could  not 
be  reached  by  rail,  it 
escaped  the  hordes  of  excursionists  who  are  attracted  from  afar  by  the 
promise  of  a  day  at  the  seaside.  A  few  came  occasionally  by  boat  from 
a  fashionable  town  across  the  bay,  but,  as  a  rule,  the  lesser  place  was  left 
to  its  regular  visitors. 

Rachel  Conway  had  left  the  shore,  followed  an  often-trodden  upward 
path,  and  now  sat  near  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  gazing  seaward.  The 
dog's-eared,  untidy  novel,  which  lay  on  the  grass  beside  her,  might  be 
supposed  to  represent  amusement  by  any  one  who  had  never  looked 
into  it.  Rachel  rather  suspected  that  its  shabbiness  was  due  less  to  study 
than  to  the  resentful  carelessness  of  would-be  readers.  (What  power 
presides  over  the  choice  of  books  in  seaside  libraries?  Blind  chance 
must  surely  produce  happier  results.)  Luckily  the  dulness  of  the  story 
was  of  little  importance  in  this  case,  as  Miss  Conway  was  dreamily 


494  DAMOCLES. 

thoughtful.  Beyond  her  and  far  away  to  the  south  lay  the  level  sea, 
breaking  in  restless  ripples  through  a  dazzling  network  of  sunlight. 
With  half-closed  eyes  she  watched  the  diamond  flashes,  varying  at  every 
glance,  and  yet  eternally  the  same.  Time  after  time  she  listened  to  the 
wave  as  it  drew  backward,  and  waited  through  the  momentary  pause 
for  the  soft  recurring  rush  of  water  far  below.  Or,  lifting  her  head,  she 
gazed  up  into  the  blue  at  the  swiftly-flying  birds,  or  the  shreds  of  cloud 
which  changed  and  disappeared,  leaving  no  trace  to  tell  that  they  had 
ever  been.  Little  gusts  of  wind  came  idly  to  her  upturned  face — little 
wandering  breezes  that  seemed  to  faint  in  the  hot  air  and  die  upon  her 
cheek. 

She  was  content  that  her  thoughts  should  drift  as  idly  as  the  clouds 
in  the  languor  of  the  August  afternoon.  She  had  spent  more  than  a 
fortnight  by  the  sea,  and  she  felt  as  if  she  had  been  steeped  in  sun- 
shine and  saltness,  till  she  could  -half  defy  and  half  forget  her  melancholy. 
She  would  not  endanger  her  lazy  happiness  by  thinking,  in  any  earnest 
meaning  of  the  word.  Besides,  it  was  too  late  to  think.  She  had  a 
letter  in  her  pocket,  and  Charley  Eastwood  was  coming  by  the  coach  the 
next  day.  She  hardly  knew  how  or  when  she  had  made  a  momentous 
decision ;  but  she  knew  that  it  was  made,  and  felt  it  a  relief  that  no 
room  was  left  for  further  hesitation.  It  was  true  that  the  final  word 
was  yet  to  be  spoken,  but  there  was  no  doubt  what  that  final  word  must 
be.  Charley,  when  he  proposed  to  come  to  the  little  seaside  village  for 
a  couple  of  days,  had  so  worded  the  suggestion  that  Miss  Whitney  under- 
stood the  state  of  affairs  in  a  moment.  And  when  Rachel  said,  in  a 
tone  which  was  intended  to  convey  a  proper  degree  of  unconsciousness, 
that  it  would  be  very  nice  if  Mr.  Eastwood  would  come  and  wake  them 
up  a  little,  Miss  Whitney's  invitation  was  written  and  re-written  with 
the  utmost  care,  and,  after  being  submitted  to  Rachel  for  her  approval, 
was  posted  with  her  own  hands  as  a  document  of  vast  importance.  The 
girl  understood  what  it  all  meant,  and  smiled  to  herself.  Of  course  she 
was  going  to  say  "  Yes "  to  Charley,  who  had  sent  her  a  little  note 
naming  the  train  by  which  he  would  leave  town,  and  more  than  hinting 
at  the  reason  of  his  coming.  It  was  not  for  one  moment  to  be  supposed 
that  she  would  invite  him  to  travel  that  distance,  and  tell  her  about  his 
increase  of  salary,  in  order  that  she  might  have  an  opportunity  of  saying 
"  No."  Nor  did  she  wish  to  say  it.  Charley  was  not  perfect ;  but  he 
was  a  dear,  good  fellow,  frank,  fearless,  sweet-tempered,  and  he  loved 
her.  And  perhaps  Rachel  found  more  romance  in  Charley's  love- 
making  than  any  one  else  could  have  done.  It  dated  from  the  time 
when  she  was  a  shy,  lonely  schoolgirl,  and  the  Eastwoods'  house  was  her 
first  glimpse  of  a  real  home  since  the  day  that  her  mother  died.  Charley 
was  the  pride  and  darling  of  that  home,  a  long-limbed,  smooth-faced, 
curly-haired  youth,  with  more  possibilities,  if  not  more  actual  promise, 
of  brightness  and  distinction  than  he  ever  attained.  It  would  have  been 
a  kind  of  treason  to  the  house  which  sheltered  her,  to  have  refused  to 


DAMOCLES.  495 

believe  in  the  young  hero ;  and  she  did  believe  in  him,  and  was  delighted 
with  his  homage.     Effie's  innocent   wonder  at  the   revelation  of   her 
brother  in  a  new  character  touched  Rachel  with  her  first  delicious  con- 
sciousness of  power,  and  with  the  certainty  that  there  was  some  one  in 
the  world  who  cared  for  her  lightest  word.      Charley's  boyish   love- 
making  was  mixed  up  with  all  manner  of  pleasant  things — with  the 
sweetness  of  that  happy  midsummer,  with  bright  days,  with  long  evenings 
under  the  trees,  with  sunlight  and  moonlight,  and  flowers.     On  the  eve 
of  her  departure  they  stood  together  by  the  rose-covered  trellis  in  the 
garden,  looking  at  the  last  faint  glow  in  the  western  sky.     Some  one 
called  Effie,  who  was  with  them,  and  they  found  themselves  alone  in  the 
warm  twilight.     Charley  turned  to  his  companion.     "  Shall  you  forget 
us  ?  "  he  said.     She  shook  her  head,  with  one  quick  upward  glance,  and 
the  boy  put  his  arm  about  her  waist,  drew  her  to  him,  and  kissed  her 
with  lips  as  smooth  as  her  own.     Rachel's  heart  beat  fast ;  she  did  not 
speak,  but  she  felt  as  if  Charley  and  she  stood  together  in  the  centre  of 
the  whole  world,  and  she  never  forgot  that  moment.     They  parted  thus 
for  a  couple  of  years,  during  which  time  she  thought  of  him  with  simple 
fidelity,  and  when  they  met  again  his  rekindled  admiration  did  duty  for 
the  most  exemplary  constancy.     He  was  not  much  altered.     His  good 
looks  were  somewhat  more  defined,  his  boyish  bashfulness  was  almost 
gone,  he  felt  himself  vastly  improved,  and  naturally  supposed  that  the 
improvement  was  as  evident  to  others  as  to  himself.     Rachel,  however, 
regretted  the  slight  change,  though  she  regarded  it  as  something  in- 
separable from  manhood.     She  imagined  that  she,  too,  had  grown  more 
practical,  and  she  neither  expected  nor  desired  that  they  should  take  up 
their  love-story  precisely  where  they  laid  it   down.     To  no   one  else 
could  she  ever  give  her  love  with  the  delicate  bloom  of  a  first  fancy,  a 
first  kiss,  upon  it,  and  her  self-respect  bound  her  to  him  more  strongly 
than  a  thousand  spoken  words.     Since  Charley  was  constant,  she  asked 
no  more,  but  was  content  to  wait,  never  doubting  that  the  recollection 
of  their  parting  was  as  present  to  his  mind  as  to  her  own.     As  far  as 
the  main  fact  was  concerned  she  was  quite  right.     Charley  perfectly  re- 
membered that  he  had  kissed  her  in  the  garden,  though  it  might  be 
questioned  whether  he  remembered  that  he  had  kissed  her  but  once. 

Thus  Rachel  continued  to  idealise  her  first  love,  with  an  instinctive 
delicacy  which  justified  her  fidelity  while  it  preserved  a  likeness.  Instead 
of  picturing  a  splendid  hero,  and  calling  him  Charles  Eastwood,  she 
frankly  accepted  her  lover's  deficiencies,  yet  touched  them  with  such  a 
tender  hand  that  she  could  hardly  have  wished  them  away.  The  hardest 
matter  to  idealise  would  have  been  the  easy  style  of  flirtation  which  was 
Charley's  way  with  girls ;  but  of  that  she  knew  nothing.  He  did  not 
merely  conceal  it,  he  forgot  it  in  her  presence.  And,  for  her  part,  she 
had  never  doubted  herself  till  she  met  Mr.  Lauriston.  During  those 
three  days  she  had  been  perplexed  and  uneasy,  but  when  he  went  his 
disquieting  influence  seemed  to  go  too.  Three  days  failed  to  undo  the 


496  DAMOCLES. 

bonds  that  years  had  woven ;  and  Eachel,  though  swayed  for  a  moment 
from  her  course,  reverted  to  it  on  his  departure,  and  thought  of  the 
temporary  lapse  as  a  kind  of  dream,  unreal,  yet  leaving  a  peculiar  im- 
pression on  her  mind.  She  would  have  fought  against  any  temptation 
to  be  false,  and  she  turned  to  Charley  with  something  of  renewed  tender- 
ness, because  it  seemed  to  her  that,  after  a  fashion,  she  had  been  false 
without  any  temptation  to  fight  against.  She  was  very  certain  that 
she  was  in  no  danger  of  caring  for  Mr.  Lauriston.  Her  thoughts  of 
him  were  poisoned  by  a  faint  aftertaste  of  distrust  and  repentance,  but, 
while  they  were  together,  she  was  compelled  by  some  strange  sympathy 
to  see  Charley  with  his  eyes.  Since,  however,  she  felt  that  anything 
that  degraded  Charley  degraded  her  also,  she  liked  Mr.  Lauriston  none 
the  more  for  that. 

But  she  was  not  thinking  of  Mr.  Lauriston  as  she  sat  by  the  edge 
of  the  cliff,  seeking  her  love-letter  from  time  to  time  where  it  lay  hidden 
in  her  pocket,  and  caressing  it  with  dainty  finger-tips  while  she  looked 
out  to  sea.     She  had  been  curiously  touched  by  the  half- expressed  tender- 
ness, and  the  unwonted  humility,  with  which  Eastwood  asked  permission 
to  plead  his  cause.     As  a  rule,  he  found  no  particular  difficulty  in  saying 
what  he  wanted  to  say.     Such  as  they  were,  his  ideas  and  -words  were 
very  tolerably  matched.     But  on  this  special  occasion  his  clumsy  attempt 
to  express  a  feeling  altogether  beyond  his  ordinary  range  was  laughable 
or  pathetic  according  to  the  reader's  mood.     Rachel  liked  it  better  than 
if  he  had  been  more  fluent.     Words  had  so  obviously  failed  him  that 
the  underlying  sentiment  was  left  to  her  generous  imagination,  and  she 
found  a  manly  sincerity  in  his  very  clumsiness.     And  if  he  were  com- 
monplace, did  she  not  wish  to  be  commonplace  ?     She  looked  forward  to 
her  future  with  Charley  as  to  something  far  more  honest  and  energetic 
than  the  aimless  monotony  of  life  as  she  knew  it.     She  was  grateful  to 
Miss  Whitney  for  much  kindness,  but  she  longed  intensely  for  more 
liberty.     Miss  Whitney  in  the  gentlest,  meekest,  most  unanswerable  way 
uttered  oracles  for  the  guidance  of  conduct.     Having  lived  longer  than 
Rachel,  she  knew  what  Everybody  did,  and  she  knew  what  Nobody  did, 
so  that  she  could  speak  with  a  kind  of  frightened  authority  on  every 
question  that  arose.     It  would  have  mattered  less  if  Rachel  had  not  in- 
variably found  herself  on  Nobody's  side.     Nobody  did  what  she  wanted 
to  do,  and  she  was  thwarted  at  every  turn  by  Miss  Whitney's  fluttering 
anxiety.     She  never  felt  so  free  as  when  she  was  with  the  Eastwoods, 
and  their  warm  kindliness  contrasted  pleasantly  with  the  timid  and  well- 
regulated  affection  which  was  all  that  Miss  Whitney  had  to  bestow. 

"  This  time  to-morrow  he  will  be  here,"  Rachel  was  saying  to  herself, 
as  she  looked  out  to  the  far  horizon.  "  What  shall  we  do  when  he 
comes  1  I  must  make  the  most  of  my  two  days.  Suppose  we  have  a 
boat  in  the  evening ;  there  will  be  a  moon,  and  the  bay  will  be  beautiful. 
And  on  Sunday  afternoon  we  will'go  for  a  walk  on  the  downs — a  real, 
good?  long  walk — there  can't  be  any  harm  in  my  going  for  a  walk  with 


DAMOCLES.  497 

Charley  on  Sunday  afternoon.  I've  half  a  mind  to  meet  the  coach  to- 
morrow, but  I  doubt  it  wouldn't  do ;  I'm  afraid  it  wouldn't  be  proper 
for  me  to  go  all  by  myself,  and  claim  a  young  man  when  the  passengers 
were  divided.  "Well,  it  doesn't  matter ;  he  will  find  us  out  fast  enough. 
Last  time  I  saw  him  was  at  the  station,  when  I  came  away  from  Red- 
lands."  Miss  Conway  smiled  to  herself,  recalling  that  day.  Charley, 
Erne,  and  Fido  went  with  her  to  the  train.  Fido  joined  the  party 
entirely  on  his  own  responsibility,  his  presence  not  being  discovered  till 
it  was  too  late  to  send  him  back.  On  reaching  the  station  he  became 
somewhat  bewildered,  pursued  an  imaginary  path  of  safety  across  the 
track  of  the  coming  express,  and  then  started  off  down  the  line  in  a 
determined  search  for  Effie,  who  was  calling  him  from  the  platform. 
He  was  captured  at  last,  and  Rachel  from  the  carriage  window  saw  him 
safe  in  Charley's  arms,  with  Charley  showing  a  face  of  flushed  and 
smiling  triumph  over  the  struggling  mass  of  white  hair.  He  had  not  a 
hand  to  spare,  so,  as  the  train  began  to  move,  he  stooped,  with  a  smile, 
for  Eflie  to  lift  his  straw  hat.  She  obeyed ;  but,  absorbed  in  gazing  after 
her  friend,  she  absently  replaced  it  very  much  on  one  side,  and  Rachel 
caught  a  last  glimpse  of  him  laughing  and  remonstrating,  and  tossing 
his  curly  head  in  a  vain  attempt  to  set  it  right.  And  now,  recalling 
this,  she  looked  up  with  a  smile  which  suddenly  died  away.  Perhaps 
it  was  partly  because  her  thoughts  were  already  turned  to  Redlands  that 
she  was  reminded  of  Mr.  Lauriston  by  a  small,  dark  figure  which  was 
leisurely  descending  the  opposite  slope.  She  sat  up  and  looked  again, 
but  the  man  had  disappeared  behind  some  palings  and  tamarisk  bushes. 
"  How  stupid  of  me  !  "  she  said  to  herself.  "  I  wish  I  hadn't  thought  of 
him  just  now,  and  yet  he  really  was  a  little  like."  A  shadow  came  over 
her  face  as  she  sat  pulling  dry  little  blades  of  grass,  with  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  spot  where  she  had  seen  the  figure  which  startled  her.  She  never 
thought  of  Mr.  Lauriston  willingly.  There  might  be  an  unacknowledged 
comfort  in  the  certainty  that  some  one  understood  her  trouble ;  but 
shame  at  her  impulsive  confidence  was  still  hot  within  her  soul,  and  Mr. 
Lauriston  was  for  ever  identified  with  that  stinging  memory.  Had  the 
confession  been  made  to  some  old  and  trusted  friend,  there  would  have 
been  pleasant  associations  as  well  as  the  painful  one,  and  a  better  under- 
standing of  his  feelings  towards  herself.  But  this  stranger  seemed  to 
have  entered  into  her  life  for  no  purpose  but  to  possess  himself  of  her 
secret.  And  kind  as  his  manner  might  be,  she  said  to  herself  uneasily 
that  Mr.  Lauriston  could  use  words  as  he  pleased,  and  play  any  part  he 
chose.  He  was  not  like  Charley.  He  understood,  but  perhaps  he  had 
laughed,  or — she  could  not  precisely  say  what ''she  feared  he  might  have 
done.  She  would  have  known  if  Charley  had  laughed,  but  she  did  not 
feel  certain  about  Mr.  Lauriston. 

She  was  vexed  that  this  chance  resemblance  should  have  disturbed 
the  drowsy  quiet  of  the  afternoon,  and  she  ^resolutely  turned  her  eyes 
from  the  tamarisk  bushes  and  stretched  out  her  hand  towards  her  novel. 

•24—5 


493  DAMOCLES. 

But,  even  as  she  did  so,  she  saw  the  man  again.  He  had  followed  the 
footpath  by  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  was  coming  up  from  the  hollow. 
Now  that  he  was  nearer  the  likeness  was  curiously  strong,  or — "  It  is 
Mr.  Lauriston !  "  she  said  to  herself  with  a  shock  of  surprise.  Her 
outstretched  hand  dropped  loosely  by  her  side,  and  she  watched  the  slim, 
dark  figure,  advancing  with  no  change  of  pace,  till  she  felt  as  if  she 
waited  for  it  in  a  dream.  It  might  have  been  that  fear  of  hers  climbing 
the  hillside  to  return  to  her  once  more.  Why  did  such  idle  fancies 
always  come  into  her  mind  when  she  met  Mr.  Lauriston  ?  She  glanced 
over  her  shoulder,  and  wondered  what  strange  chances  might  be  silently 
travelling,  by  converging  ways,  to  find  her  where  she  sat  and  waited  for 
them  all. 

When  she  looked  back  Mr.  Lauriston  had  left  the  footpath,  and  was 
coming  towards  her  across  the  sunburnt  turf.  He  was  so  close  at  hand 
that  she  could  see  the  expression  of  his  face.  It  is  a  trying  thing  to 
manage  that  expression  of  face  when  a  friend  is  seen  at  a  distance. 
Naturally  you  smile  at  the  earliest  moment,  and  almost  unconsciously 
you  emphasise  the  smile  lest  it  should  not  be  visible ;  you,  as  it  were, 
telegraph  your  gladness  at  the  prospect  of  meeting.  But  having  got 
this  broad  smile,  what  are  you  to  do  with  it  1  It  is  painful  to  maintain, 
and  you  feel  that  it  is  fast  becoming  fixed  and  ghastly.  You  are  glad 
to  see  your  friend — you  are  very  glad ;  but  you  are  not  accustomed  to 
wear  a  smile  like  that.  And  yet  you  must  not  let  it  go,  lest  it  should 
look  as  if  you  had  changed  your  mind,  and  were  not  particularly  pleased 
after  all.  Mr.  Lauriston  passed  through  the  ordeal  very  well,  with  a 
touch  of  amusement  as  well  as  pleasure  about  his  eyes  and  mouth,  but 
even  he  came  forward  a  little  hastily  just  at  last.  "  And  how  are  you, 
Miss  Conway  1 "  he  said,  as  he  held  out  his  hand.  "  You  didn't  expect 
to  see  me,  did  you  1 " 

"  I  began  to  expect  you  about  five  minutes  ago,"  she  answered. 

"  Ah  !  as  long  as  that  ?  I  didn't  find  you  out.  till  I  was  halfway  up 
the  hill." 

"  Didn't  jou  really  ?  I  was  surprised  when  I  saw  you  first,  and  I 
watched  you ;  but  you  never  seemed  the  least  surprised,  and  you  came 
so  straight  to  me  that  I  fancied  you  knew." 

"  Well,  I  did  know  that  you  were  in  the  place.  But  I  was  surprised 
when  I  looked  up  and  saw  you  just  above  me." 

"  You  didn't  show  it,  then." 

"  Well,  no,  perhaps  not,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston,  as  he  sat  down  on  the 
grass.  "  For  one  thing,  I  don't  think  I  quite  know  how  to  express  my 
feelings  in  dumb  show  all  that  way  off.  A  startled  pause,  and  then  a 
hasty  rush — would  that  have  been  right  ?  But  it  was  uphill,  you  see. 
Besides,  there  are  five  small  boys  on  the  slope,  and  I  think,  if  it  can  be 
helped,  it  is  as  well  not  to  display  strong  emotion  before  five  small  boys." 

Miss  Conway  laughed.  "  I  should  think  you  contrive  to  avoid  it 
pretty  successfully  as  a  rule,  don't  you  ? " 


DAMOCLES.  499 

<£  Yes,  I  suppose  I  do."  He  leaned  on  his  elbow  and  looked  round. 
"  You  have  chosen  a  pleasant  place  to  rest  in,"  he  said.  "  And  I  think 
the  sea  air  has  done  you  good,  Miss  Conway." 

She  drew  off  one  of  her  long  gloves  slowly,  looking  at  her  wrist. 
"  Is  that  a  polite  way  of  telling  me  that  I  am  of  a  fine  mahogany  colour  ? 
But  I  know  that  already ;  I've  nearly  driven  Miss  Whitney  to  despair. 
I  can't  keep  my  gloves  on,  and  I  can't  keep  my  parasol  up." 

Mr.  Lauriston  smiled.  She  was  not  burnt,  but  there  was  a  tinge 
of  richer  colour  in  the  face  which  had  seemed  a  little  too  pale  that  day 
in  Redlands  Park.  He  tried  to  find  an  adjective  to  describe  the  happy 
change  to  himself,  and  "  sun-warmed  "  came  into  his  mind  as  he  looked 
at  her.  Suddenly  she  blushed. 

"  Miss  Whitney  must  be  very  observant,"  he  said.  "  You  are  not 
quite  a  nut-brown  maid  at  present." 

"  Then  perhaps  there  is  some  hope  for  me,  as  we  have  nearly  come 
to  an  end  of  our  time  here.  We  go  home  on  Wednesday."  She  looked 
down  as  she  spoke,  and  absently  lifted  the  cover  of  the  book  by  her 
side. 

"  Am  I  disturbing  you  ?  "  Mr.  Lauriston  asked.  "  Are  you  impatient 
to  finish  the  story  ?  " 

"  The  story ! — what,  this  1  Oh,  no  !  It  is  horribly  dull.  I  did  try 
when  I  came  up  here  first,  but  it  is  too  stupid." 

"  And  so  you  were  thinking  instead  ?  Well,  may  I  interrupt  your 
daydream  for  a  few  minutes  1 " 

"  If  you  like,"  she  answered  a  little  confusedly.  She  had  not  wished 
him  to  come,  and  yet  she  hardly  wished  him  to  go.  He  had  interrupted 
the  daydream  so  effectually  that  she  felt  as  if  it  would  be  impossible  to 
return  to  it.  She  made  no  effort  to  do  so ;  in  fact,  she  instinctively  felt 
that  she  must  not  think  of  Charley  while  Mr.  Lauriston  was  there. 
After  his  question  she  expected  him  to  speak  again,  but  he  did  not,  and 
there  was  a  brief  silence  while  he  looked  at  the  headlands  right  and  left, 
at  the  lightly-flying  birds,  at  the  brazen  glitter  of  the  sea.  She  cast  a 
quick  glance  at  him,  and  once  more  she  was  struck  with  the  easy  grace 
of  attitude  which  she  had  noticed  that  afternoon  in  Redlands  Park.  It 
was  curious  to  Rachel  that  she  could  recall  that  afternoon  so  quietly. 
Ten  minutes  earlier  the  thought  of  Mr.  Lauriston  had  been  a  disturbing 
shock,  but  now  that  he  was  actually  by  her  side  she  did  not  feel  so  much 
ashamed  of  having  told  him  her  secret.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  he  be- 
longed to  that  hidden  life  of  hers — that  life  which  struck  its  roots  deep 
down  into  strange  thoughts  and  shadowy  places.  He  had  nothing  to  do 
with  her  happier,  healthier  everyday  life.  But  which  life  was  most 
truly  hers?  She  could  hardly  have  answered  the  question  at  that 
moment,  and  yet  she  was  pledged.  Charley  was  coming  by  the  coach 
next  day ;  it  was  too  late — everything  was  too  late.  Why  had  he  come 
to  make  her  feel  as  if  that  which  must  be  were  nevertheless  impossible  1 
11  And  it  isn't  as  if  he  meant  to  do  it,"  she  said  to  herself;  "  it  is  just  the 


500  DAMOCLES. 

way  he  speaks,  and  looks,  and  moves.  And  it  isn't  that  I  like  him,  only 
when  he  is  here  I  like  no  one  else.  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  him,  and 
yet " 

Mr.  Lauriston  looked  round,  but  Miss  Con  way  was  apparently 
absorbed  in  uprooting  some  of  the  little  closely-clinging  weeds  which 
were  woven  in  the  turf.  He  watched  her  for  a  moment,  then  took  a 
knife  from  his  pocket,  opened  it,  and  politely  offered  it  to  her.  She 
took  it  with  perfect  composure,  used  it  to  dig  up  one  peculiarly  obstinate 
root,  and  returned  it  with  a  word  of  thanks.  "  You  are  fond  of  garden- 
ing ? "  he  inquired. 

"  I  suppose  so.  I've  never  had  much  opportunity  of  trying,  but  it 
must  have  been  some  kind  of  gardening  instinct  which  made  me  pull  up 
that  unlucky  weed.  Did  you  come  by  the  coach,  Mr.  Lauriston  1  "  She 
was  trying  hard  to  keep  the  thought  of  Charley  somewhere  apart  and 
safe,  but  only  with  moderate  success. 

"  No  ;  I  took  a  fly." 

"  And  are  you  going  to  stay  here  ]  " 

"  I  hardly  know.     Not  for  any  length  of  time." 

Here  she  might  have  remarked,  "  Mr.  Eastwood  is  coming  to- 
morrow ; "  but  though  she  felt  that  it  must  be  said,  sooner  or  later,  she 
was  afraid  lest  Mr.  Lauriston  should  look  up  and  she  should  be  forced 
to  remember  what  he  thought  of  Charley.  While  she  hesitated  he  spoke 
again. 

"  I  was  going  to  tell  you  how  I  happened  to  come  here  to-day.  The 
fact  is  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  apologise " 

"  To  apologise — why  ?     Do  you  mean  to  me  1 " 

"  No,  not  to  you.  To  fate,  or  fortune,  or  luck,  or  whatever  you 
please  to  call  it.  I  have  sometimes  said  that  it  was  ironical.  Occasion- 
ally I  miss  what  I  want  by  a  hair's-breadth,  and  that  is  the  worst  kind  of 
failure  ;  in  fact,  no  other  is  really  of  any  importance.  But  very  often  I 
get  it,  and  then  it  turns  out  to  be  something  quite  different  from  what  I 
had  supposed,  and  I  shouldn't  have  wanted  it  if  I  had  known.  Or  else 
I  lose  it."  He  paused.  "  Miss  Conway,  I  fancy  I  have  said  this  to  you 
already." 

"  I  think  you  have,  or  something  rather  like  it." 

"  Very  likely.  Well,  for  this  once  I  apologise  to  luck.  By  the 
merest  chance  I  have  come  in  for  a  great  pleasure  ;  an  hour  earlier  or 
an  hour  later,  I  might  have  missed  it.  There  is  no  merit  of  mine  in 
the  matter ;  I  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it.  But  I  am  very 
glad." 

Miss  Conway  was  a  little  puzzled ;  but  she  looked  at  him  and  she 
thought  that  he  was  glad.  His  eyes  were  shining,  and  his  quick  smile 
came  and  went  as  he  spoke.  She  had  not  fancied  that  Mr.  Lauriston 
could  look  glad.  Amused — yes ;  but  gladness  was  more  for  some  one  like 
Charley  Eastwood. 

"  What  is  it  1 "  she  asked. 


DAMOCLES.  501 

"  It  concerns  you.  Ah !  but  let  me  guard  against  any  possible 
chance  that  my  pleasure  may  turn  out  a  pain  after  all.  Miss  Con  way, 
did  you  not  tell  me  that  you  had  no  relations ;  that  you  lived  with  this 
Miss  Whitney,  and  that  she  was  only  a  friend  1  " 

"  Yes,  I  did  say  so,"  she  answered,  fixing  her  great  eyes  on  his  face. 
"  I  have  no  relations — why  ? " 

He  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  "  I  thought  so,"  he  said,  "  and  yet 
I  was  half  afraid.  The  truth  is,  there  is  death  in  my  news — there  is 
death  in  everything,  isn't  there  1 — but  it  is  death  so  far  away,  and  so 
natural,  that  it  cannot  pain  you  much." 

"  Who  is  dead  1 " 

"Well,  it  is  a  relation,  though  it  seems  you  didn't  know  of  her.  She 
was  an  aunt  of  your  father's — a  confirmed  invalid,  I  understand — and 
she  died  abroad  a  few  days  ago." 

"  I  didn't  even  know  my  father  had  an  aunt." 

"  She  had  very  bad  health,"  Mr.  Lauriston  repeated.  "  They  repre- 
sented it  as  a  kind  of  miracle  that  she  should  have  lived  so  long.  I  don't 
think  she  had  been  in  England  for  many  years.  But  I  can't  tell  you 
much  about  her — I  really  hardly  know  anything." 

"  But  who  was  she  ? — you  can  tell  me  her  name? " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  Mrs.  Elliott." 

"  Mrs.  Elliott — no,  I  never  heard  of  her.  I  don't  think  Miss  Whitney 
mows,  either.  She  was  my  great-aunt,  then?  Fancy  having  a  great- 
lunt  for  one's  only  relation,  and  never  hearing  of  her  till  now !  It 
very  absurd,  but  somehow  it  makes  me  feel  even  more  lonely  than 
rhen  I  thought  I  bad  nobody." 

"  I  think  I  can  understand  that,"  he  said. 

"  But  how  did  you  hear  anything  about  her,  Mr.  Lauriston  ?  Who 
d  you  1  And  what  is  the  news  that  pleases  you  ? " 

He  answered  with  a  question.     "  Do  you  know  Mr.  James  Goodwin  1 " 

"  Why,  yes.  At  least  I  know  a  Mr.  James  Goodwin.  If  I  wanted 
to  be  very  dignified,  I  should  say  he  was  my  lawyer." 

"  Then  you  may  always  be  dignified  if  you  please,  for  you  will  want 
a  lawyer.  If  I  had  known  I  was  going  to  see  you  now — isn't  it  strange 
how  fate  seems  determined  that  we  shall  meet  1 — I  should  have  brought 
you  a  letter  from  him.  As  it  is,  the  letter  is  in  my  portmanteau  at  the 
hotel,  and  my  man  has  orders  to  find  out  your  lodgings  before  I  get  back 
from  my  stroll.  Will  you  be  content  for  the  present  with  an  informal 
announcement  that  all  Mrs.  Elliott's  money  comes  to  you,  or  shall  I 
go  and  fetch  the  letter  at  once  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Rachel,  putting  out  her  hand  as  if  to  stop  him  ;  "  don't 

go-" 

"  May  I  congratulate  you  ?  " 

She  sat  looking  at  him  with  a  startled  face.  "  Do  you  mean  that  I 
shall  be  rich?" 

He  smiled  and  bent  his  head.     "  You  are  surprised,"  he  said.     "  You 


502  DAMOCLES. 

didn't  expect  me  to  come  and  tell  you  this.  But  it  is  very  simple. 
Goodwin  is  my  lawyer,  too  ;  I  called  at  his  house  last  night  to  speak  to 
him  about  some  business,  and  as  I  was  coming  away  he  asked  me  if  I  knew 
the  Eastwoods'  address.  I  told  him  where  Charles  Eastwood  was ;  and 
then  it  turned  out  that  there  was  a  romance  in  the  matter — a  young  lady 
had  come  in  for  a  fortune  and  her  whereabouts  was  unknown,  but  Good- 
win thought  the  Eastwoods  might  be  able  to  tell  him." 

"  Yes,"  said  Eachel ;  "  I  was  staying  with  them  when  I  came  of  age, 
and  Mrs.  Eastwood  went  with  me  when  I  saw  Mr.  Goodwin." 

"  The  Eastwoods  and  a  young  lady  ! — my  curiosity  was  excited.  I 
asked  a  question  or  two,  and  ascertained  that  you  were  the  young  lady. 
I  had  heard  from  Eastwood  that  you  were  staying  here,  and  I  was  coming 
to  this  part  of  the  world  myself ;  so  I  explained  that  I  knew  you  and 
would  find  you  out,  and  deliver  the  letter  to-day,  which  would  be  quicker 
than  writing  to  ask  your  address,  and  then  sending  it  by  post.  Simple 
enough,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  quite  simple,"  Miss  Conway  repeated  absently.  Then  sud- 
denly waking  up  to  a  remembrance  of  manners,  "  And  it  was  very  good 
of  you  to  take  the  trouble,"  she  added. 

"  But  that  was  the  pleasure  I  told  you  of,"  he  replied. 

She  smiled,  at  first  in  acknowledgment  of  his  words,  then  vaguely, 
looking  away  and  following  her  new  and  wondering  thoughts.  To  her 
companion  the  sea,  the  western  sunlight,  the  long  line  of  the  downs,  the 
arch  of  sky,  seemed  all  to  take  fresh  meaning  from  that  musing  smile, 
and  the  brief  pause  was  strangely  bright  and  calm.  She  was  the  first  to 
speak,  and  the  smile  deepened  on  her  lips  as  she  looked  round.  Whim- 
sically enough,  her  talk  with  Effie,  before  she  even  saw  Mr.  Lauriston, 
had  come  back  to  her.  "  A  little  dark  man,  with  bright  eyes,  and  a 
pocketful  of  presents,"  she  had  called  him  then.  And  there  he  sat  on 
the  turf  by  her  side,  his  bright  glances  ready  to  meet  her  eyes,  as  if  he 
had  just  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  pulled  out  a  fortune  to  give  her. 
"I  think  I'm  dreaming,"  she  said  softly,  leaning  slightly  towards  him  as 
ehe  spoke.  "  Mr.  Lauriston,  is  it  really  true  ?  Am  I  rich  ? " 

"  Yes,  it's  quite  true." 

"  But  tell  me  some  more — make  it  seem  real — what  do  you  mean  by 
rich  1 " 

"  I  think  you  had  better  wait  till  you  read  Mr.  Goodwin's  letter.  I 
wish  I  had  brought  it  with  me.  When  you  are  ready  we  will  go  back, 
and  you  shall  have  it." 

"  Not  just  this  minute,"  she  said.  "  I'm  too  much  startled ;  I  want 
to  understand  it  if  I  can.  But  you  might  tell  me  a  little."  He  was 
silent,  still  brightly  looking  at  her,  and  after  a  moment  she  went  on  : 
"  You  don't  mean  something  like  that  man  everybody  quotes,  '  Passing 
rich  on  forty  pounds  a  year,'  do  you  ?  I  don't  call  that  rich ;  I've  more 
than  that  already." 

"  No,  no  ;  I  don't  mean  that." 


DAMOCLES.  503 

"  Well,  then" — a  sudden  idea  presenting  itself — "  am  las  rich  as  you 
are,  Mr.  Lauriston  1 " 

"  No.  Of  course  you  haven't  a  big  house  to  keep  up ;  but  still — no, 
not  so  rich  as  I  am." 

"  You  are  afraid  of  saying  anything  lest  I  should  be  disappointed 
afterwards  if  you  made  a  mistake  1  Something  between  you  and  the 
forty-pound  man — that's  a  little  vague,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Mr.  Lauriston  laughed.  "  I  think  I  can  safely  say,  if  I  understood 
Goodwin,  that  you  won't  have  less  than  three  or  four  thousand  a  year." 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Rachel,  opening  her  eyes.  "  I  didn't  know  you  really 
meant  as  rich  as  that ! " 

"  And  what  will  you  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  I  had  better  go  and  buy  myself  a  new 
dress ;  Miss  Whitney  told  me  this  morning  I  wasn't  fit  to  be  seen." 
She  glanced  smilingly  at  the  linen  gown  of  dusky  blue,  from  which  spray 
and  sun  and  wind  had  taken  any  freshness  it  might  once  have  possessed. 
Mr.  Lauriston  looked  down,  too,  at  the  dark  sleeve,  and  the  warm  White 
wrist  and  hand  which  rested  idly  on  the  turf. 

"  By  all  means  get  another  gown,"  he  said ;  "  but  can't  it  be  just  the 
same  colour  as  this  one  1 " 

"  Am  I  only  to  get  one  ?  Or  are  they  all  to  be  this  colour  ?  Do  you 
like  it  so  much  ?  " 

"  Yes.     You  wore  black,  though,  the  first  time  I  saw  you." 

"  But  I'm  not  going  to  spend  all  my  money  on  dresses ;  I'll  travel,  and 
see  all  manner  of  beautiful  places  and  things.  And  I'll  tell  you  what  I 
will  do — I'll  buy  pictures.  Fancy  being  able  to  buy  a  picture  that  one 
liked,  instead  of  having  just  to  stand  and  look  at  it,  and  go  away.  And 

I'll "  She  stopped  short,  glanced  at  Mr.  Lauriston  with  a  startled 

expression  in  her  eyes,  and  turned  away  her  head. 

"  And — what  1 "  he  said  softly,  after  a  pause. 

"  Oh,  nothing  !  "  she  replied,  looking  round  and  laughing.  "  Isn't  it 
silly  to  make  all  these  plans,  when  one  doesn't  really  know  what  one  will 
do  ?  I  dare  say  I  shan't  carry  any  of  them  out." 

It  was  the  thought  of  Charley  that  had  startled  her.  For  the  moment 
she  had  actually  forgotten  him ;  he  had  slipped  out  of  her  mind  as  if  he 
belonged  to  a  past  existence.  Now  she  suddenly  realised  that  every- 
thing was  changed  except  Charley.  He  was  the  same  as  ever,  he  was 
coming  to  claim  her,  this  new  life  would  be  his  as  inevitably  as  the  old. 
And  was  Charley  to  travel  about,  see  beautiful  things,  and  buy  pictures  ? 
She  might  well  laugh  as  she  looked  round. 

Had  she  not  laughed,  Mr.  Lauriston  would  have  thought  that  he 
understood  her.  As  it  was,  he  was  puzzled,  but  he  perceived  that  the 
conversation  had  somehow  touched  a  dangerous  point,  and  hastened  to 
turn  it  with  a  harmless  remark.  "  Well,  I  dare  say  you  will  find  plenty 
to  do  with  your  money,"  he  said.  "  At  any  rate,  I'm  glad  you  have 
it,  and  glad  that  I  had  the  chance  of  bringing  you  the  news." 


504  DAMOCLES. 

"  One  would  think  you  imagined  that  I  was  very  anxious  to  be  rich," 

said  Rachel.     "  I  suppose  it  is  a  good  thing,  but " 

"  Don't  say  it  isn't  everything  ;  I'm  sure  your  friend,  Miss  Whitney, 
will  take  an  early  opportunity  of  telling  you  that.  Of  course  it  is  a 
good  thing,  and  of  course  you  wish  to  be  rich.  Riches  are  a  kind  of 
royalty,  and  every  woman  would  like  to  be  a  queen  in  her  own 
right." 

"There  I  don't  agree  with  you,  Mr.  Lauriston.  You  may  say 
what  you  please,  but  I'm  quite  sure  we  are  not  all  of  us  so  fond  of 
ruling." 

"  Of  ruling — no.  A  few  want  to  rule,  but  the  majority  want  to  abdi- 
cate. That  is  a  woman's  idea  of  happiness." 

Rachel  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  turf.  "  Oh,  was  that  what  you 
meant1?  "  she  said.  "  Well,  I  suppose  we  do  like  to  give  up  better  than 
you  do.  But  why  do  you  sneer  at  us  for  that  ?  It  sounded  as  if  you 
were  sneering." 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  "  said  he.  "  Why  should  I  sneer  ?  By  all  means 
let  woman  sacrifice  herself  for  man ;  it  seems  to  me  quite  right  and 
proper  that  she  should  do  so.  Unluckily,"  he  added,  slightly  shrugging 
his  shoulders,  "  she  will  insist  on  sacrificing  herself  for  some  other  man, 
and  he  generally  happens  to  be  a  fool." 

Rachel  laughed,  as  he  intended  she  should  laugh ;  but  the  shaft 
struck  home.  She  knew  pretty  well  what  Mr.  Lauriston  thought  of 
Charles  Eastwood,  and  she  thought  she  knew  what  he  would  think  of 
her.  Well,  he  must  think  what  he  liked.  She  threw  back  her  head, 
and  looked  out  to  sea  with  a  defiant  face.  Charley  was  a  dear,  good 
fellow,  even  if  Mr.  Lauriston  thought  him  a  fool.  He  loved  her,  and 
she  loved  him ;  he  was  brave  and  strong  and  true,  a  good  son,  a  good 
brother,  though  he  might  not  be  able  to  talk  fluently  like  this  man. 
Why  should  Mr.  Lauriston  depreciate  Charley  ?  As  it  happened,  Mr. 
Lauriston  had  not  mentioned  his  name,  but  Miss.  Conway  was  too  much 
vexed  to  consider  this  just  then.  And  perhaps  she  was  not  far  wrong ; 
for  while  Mr.  Lauriston  sat  on  the  grass  by  her  side,  he  had  thought  of 
Eastwood,  and  said  devoutly  to  himself,  "  Thank  Heaven  that  the  old 
lady  wouldn't  let  her  dear  boy  do  anything  rash.  And  blessings  on  the 
old  uncle  who  had  to  be  consulted  — how  mad  they  will  be  !  Their  hesita- 
tion has  saved  her.  Eastwood  can't  very  well  rush  off  and  propose  to 
her  the  moment  she  comes  into  a  fortune,  and  he  would  never  have  had 
a  chance  with  her  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  ignorance  and  loneliness. 
Once  let  her  understand  what  her  new  life  will  be,  and  she  will  be  out  of 
his  reach  for  ever."  He  could  hardly  keep  a  smile  from  his  lips  at  this 
triumphant  conclusion.  He  knew  nothing  of  that  letter,  which  was  only 
at  arm's  length,  in  the  pocket  of  the  blue  linen  gown,  and,  as  he  sat  by 
Rachel,  he  could  afford  to  wonder  whether  he  could  not  contrive  to  do 
John  Eastwood's  son  a  good  turn,  and  help  him  on  in  his  business  a  little. 
"  It  is  time  for  me  to  go  now,  I  think,"  said  Miss  Conway.  She  did 


DAMOCLES.  505 

not  intend  that  the  angry  perplexity  of  her  feelings  should  find  any  ex- 
pression in  the  tone  of  her  voice,  but  Mr.  Lauriston  turned  his  head  and 
looked  at  her. 

"  By  all  means,"  he  said ;  and  rose  without  another  word. 
The  quick  inquiry  of  his  glance  told  her  that  her  manner  had  been 
ungracious,  and  she  was  ashamed.  For,  after  all,  he  had  been  good  to 
her ;  that  very  day  he  had  come  out  of  his  way  to  serve  her  ;  he  did  not 
know  that  she  was  going  to  marry  Charley,  and  it  would  be  absurd  if 
she  were  to  be  indignant  with  everybody  who — well,  who  was  not  so 
much  in  love  with  Charley  as  she  was  herself.  She  blushed ;  and,  though 
she  stood  up,  she  hesitated  for  a  moment  before  she  moved.  "  I  am  so 
very  much  obliged  to  you,"  she  began. 

''  What  for  ?  As  I  told  you,  it  is  simply  luck.  I  had  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  I'm  just  a  fortunate  messenger,  nothing  more." 

Still  she  hesitated.  "  This  is  not  the  only  time  I  have  had  to  thank 
you." 

It  was  her  first  allusion  to  their  walk  in  Redlands  Park.  "  Ah  !  " 
he  said,  as  their  eyes  met,  "  that  afternoon  gave  mo  the  wish  to  help  you, 
but  it  didn't  give  me  the  power." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  looked  away.  "I'm  not  so 
sure  of  that,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  think  perhaps,  without  know- 
ing it  you  have  helped  me — Oh  !  but  I  don't  want  to  think  of  that  just 
now,  Mr.  Lauriston  !  " 

"  No  ;  why  should  you  ? "  He  put  out  his  hand  as  he  spoke,  and 
took  hers.  "  Remember  only — but,  no — forget  it  all.  You  will  have 
plenty  to  think  of  in  this  new  life  of  yours  which  begins  to-day." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  simply,  "  I  hope  so.     I  had  not  been  thinking,  but 

seeing  you  again  like  this " 

Mr.  Lauriston   released   her  hand.     "Forget  it  all,"  he   repeated, 
looking  far  away  at  a  white  sail.  Rachel's  eyes  followed  his,  and  watched 
the  vessel  moving  slowly  on  the  sunlit  sea. 
"  Must  we  be  going,  then  1, "  he  said  at  last. 

"  I  suppose  we  must."  Yet  even  then  she  lingered,  and  stooped  to 
pick  a  late-blown  scarlet  poppy  by  the  footpath.  "  I  don't  like  going," 
she  said,  half  laughing,  yet  in  a  disconsolate  voice.  "  Everybody  will 
have  to  be  told,  and  there  will  be  such  a  fuss." 

"  Is  that  such  a  heavy  price  to  pay  ?  "  he  asked  with  a  smile. 
"  I  don't  like  anybody  to  make  a  fuss  about  me,"  she  replied.     "  And 
I  don't  want  to  make  a  fuss  about  anybody.     Why  can't  people  always 
understand  1 " 

"  Who  is  everybody  in  this  case  1 "  said  Mr.  Lauriston. 
"Well,  Miss  Whitney.     And  she  will  make  a  dreadful  fuss.     Oh! 
you  needn't  laugh ;  you  don't  know  what  a  fuss  Miss  Whitney    can 
make.     You  should  have  heard  her  about  my  dress  this  morning,  and 
even  that  will  be  doubly  dreadful  now." 

"Oh,  no,  I  think  not,"  he  replied,  with  a  glance  at  her  as  she*stood 


506  DAMOCLES. 

in  the  western  sunlight,  tall  and  slender,  pulling  on  one  of  her  gloves, 
and  smiling  at  him  from  under  the  brim  of  her  broad  hat.  The  over- 
blown poppy  in  her  hand  dropped  all  at  once,  and  a  couple  of  delicate 
red  petals  floated  lightly  down  the  dusky  blue  folds.  "  Mark  my  words," 
he  continued,  "  you'll  find  that  an  old  blue  gown  with  all  the  starch  out 
of  it  is  universally  admired,  and  quite  the  correct  thing — if  you'll  go  on 
wearing  it." 

"  You  admired  it,  I  think,  Mr.  Lauriston  1 " 
"  Yes,  I  did.     And  I'll  go  on  admiring  it  on  that  condition." 
"  I  can't  promise  to  fulfil  my  part  of  the  bargain,  I'm  afraid,  so  you 
needn't  mind  about  yours,"  said  Miss  Conway,  as  she  threw  away  the 
remains  of  the  poppy.     Mr.  Lauriston  acknowledged  his  release  from 
this  obligation,  with  a  slight  bow  and  a  slighter  smile.     Why  did  it  occur 
to  Rachel,  at  that  moment,  that  she  had  never  found  an  opportunity  to 
remark,  in  a  casual  way,  that  Mr.  Eastwood  was  coming  by  the  coach  the 
next  day  ?     She  felt  that  it  must  be  done  before  Mr.  Lauriston  met  Miss 
Whitney  ;  but  she  could  not  possibly  say  it  just  then,  and  she  hastened 
to  say  something  else.     "  Will  your  wonderful  letter  tell  me  everything, 
do  you  suppose  ?     I  can't  make  out  how  Mrs.  Elliott  had  all  this  money." 
"  Perhaps  her  husband  was  rich,"  Mr.  Lauriston  suggested.     "  And 
she  was  the  last  survivor  of  a  family  of  three  or  four.     I  fancy  she  in- 
herited all  the  property,  and  one  after  the  other,  as  the  Rutherfords 

died " 

"  What  ? "  said  Rachel. 

He  turned  towards  her.     "  As  the "  he  began,  and  stopped  short. 

She  looked  straight  into  his  eyes.  "  Oh  !  "  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"  it's  the  madwoman's  money  !  " 

Lauriston  stepped  back.  "  No  !  "  he  cried,  "  it  can't  be  !  It  isn't ! 
You  shall  not  say  that !  "  He  did  not  know  what  he  was  saying.  He 
only  felt  that  something  awful  had  risen  up  between  them  as  they  stood, 
which  must  be  crushed  that  moment. 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  she  repeated,  still  in  the  same  tone.  "  Miss  Agatha 
Rutherford.  That  was  her  name — I  didn't  say  so,  but  I  knew.  But  I 
didn't  know  that  my  grandmother's  name  was  Rutherford.  Nor  does  Miss 
Whitney,  but  she  never  knew  much  about  my  father's  people."  As  she 
spoke  she  was  nervously  unbuttoning  the  gloves  she  had  just  drawn  on. 
There  was  no  other  sign  of  agitation  in  her  manner. 

Lauriston  was  pale  as  death.  He  understood  now,  and  he  was 
frightened  at  what  he  had  said,  and  at  her  calmness.  "  It  can't  be  !  "  he 
persisted,  but  he  felt  as  if  the  words  were  choking  him. 

"  I  think  I'll  stop  for  a  few  minutes,"  said  Rachel,  turning  back 
towards  the  edge  of  the  cliff. 

He  followed  her.  "  Sit  down,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  with  anxious 
eyes. 

"  You  startled  me  for  a  moment,"  she  said,  "  but  I  don't  think  I  am 
surprised  really.  Now  it  has  come  I  feel  as  if  I  had  expected  it." 


DAMOCLES.  507 

Mr.  Lauriston  watched  her  with,  something  of  fascination  as  she  laid 
her  gloves  on  the  grass  by  her  side,"pulling  them  straight  and  arranging 
them  carefully.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  whole  world  of  sky  and 
glittering  sea  were  an  absolute  blank,  in  which  he  could  find  no  breath 
to  draw,  no  single  word  to  say  to  her.  How  much  did  she  understand  ? 
"  When  I  was  sitting  here  only  a  little  while  ago,"  she  went  on,  "  and 
saw  you  coming  up  the  hill,  I  wondered  all  at  once  what  strange  things 
might  fee  coming  from  ever  so  far  away,  and  climbing  slowly  up  to  find 
me  here.  Wasn't  it  curious  ?  And  this  has  been  coming  all  these  years." 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,"  he  entreated.  "  There  may  be  some  mistake  ; 
perhaps  the  name  wasn't  Rutherford." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  faint  smile,  and  the  slightest  possible 
movement  of  her  head. 

"  Or  there  might  have  been  some  other  Rutherfords.  It  isn't  such  a 
very  uncommon  name." 

Again  she  made  the  little  negative  sign.  "  What's  the  use  of  trying 
to  persuade  me  it  isn't  true  when  it  is  1  I  know  all  about  it  now.  This 
Mrs.  Elliott's  name  was  Phoebe  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said. 

"  You'll  find  her  name  was  Phosbe.  I  remember  they  said  it  was  so 
sad  that  every  one  of  them  should  be  like  that — a  touch  of  it  at  any  rate — 
except  Phoebe,  and  people  always  thought  she  was  the  weakest  of  them 
all.  Then  my  grandmother  must  have  been — mad,  my  father's  mother — 
ah,  and  my  father  too  !  " 

With  the  last  words  came  the  break  in  her  voice  for  which  Lauriston 
had  waited  in  terror.  They  were  uttered  in  a  sharp  and  sudden  cry  of 
pain,  as  if  her  heart  had  broken.  He  threw  himself  on  his  knees  beside 
her,  and  caught  her  hands  in  his.  "  No,  no,  no  !  "  he  cried.  "  What 
do  you  mean  ]  I  never  told  you  that !  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  frightened  entreaty  in  her  eyes,  as  if  she  be- 
sought him  to  save  her  from  the  horrible  dread  which  came  nearer  in 
successive  strides.  "  My  father  too !  "  she  repeated  more  than  once. 
One  would  have  said  that  her  lips  had  learned  the  terrible  lesson,  and 
spoke  without  her  will. 

"  Don't !  don't !  "  he  entreated. 

Her  eyes  were  still  fixed  upon  his  face,  but  all  at  once  it  seemed  to 
him  as  if  she  did  not  see  him.  "  Can't  I  die  ? "  she  said. 

Lauriston  was  silent.  Her  hands  were  in  his,  and  yet  it  seemed  to 
him  as  if  she  were  worlds  away ;  he  could  not  follow  her,  he  could  not 
help  her,  he  had  not  a  word  to  speak.  And  of  what  use  would  a  thousand 
words  have  been  1  He  knew,  as  no  other  man  could  know,  the  meaning 
of  the  tidings  he  had  brought  her,  and  he  said  to  himself  that  it  was 
enough  to  drive  her  mad.  Yet  what  could  he  do  ?  It  was  altogether 
beyond  his  reach ;  he  could  no  more  change  it  than  he  could  change  the 
colour  of  the  sky  overhead.  That  which  had  been,  had  been,  and  he  was 
as  helpless  as  Rachel  herself  in  the  grasp  of  that  unalterable  past. 


508  DAMOCLES. 

The  voices  of  the  children  playing  and  wrangling  on  the  hillside 
came  through  the  hot  stillness  of  the  afternoon.  Some  men  in  a  boat 
shouted  to  those  on  shore,  and  pushed  off  with  a  measured  beat  of  oars, 
and  the  commonplace  sounds  were  unfamiliar  and  strange  as  if  they  be- 
longed to  another  existence.  Rachel  drew  one  of  her  hands  away,  and 
listened,  turning  aside  her  head.  "  It's  all  just  the  same  as  when  I  came 
here,"  she  said,  "  only  the  sun  is  a  little  lower.  Oh  !  Mr.  Lauriston,  you 
didn't  know  what  your  news  was  !  " 

"  No  !     Don't  remind  me  of  that !     If  I  had  known " 

"  You  couldn't  have  helped  it.     I  must  have  known  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow ;  yes ;  but  not  to-day." 

"  A  clay  doesn't  matter  much,"  she  answered  gently. 

"Doesn't  it?  Who  knows  what  may  happen  in  a  day?"  He 
thought  to  himself,  as  he  spoke,  that  Rachel  might  have  died  that  night. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  Death's  random  strokes  must  surely  sometimes 
fall  where  Pit}'  would  strike.  "Well,  much  or  little,  I  have  robbed 
you  of  a  day,"  he  said,  "  and  I  can't  give  it  back  to  you." 

"  No ;  but  it  is  best  as  it  is.  I'm  glad  you  told  me."  He  questioned 
her  downcast  face  with  a  quick  glance.  "  I  can  bear  it  better  so.  Per- 
haps if  you  hadn't  come  to-day  Charley  would  have  brought  the  news." 

"  Eastwood  ? " 

"  Yes ;  he  is  coming  to-morrow.  But  he  mustn't  come ;  somebody 
must  stop  him ;  I  couldn't  bear  it.  I  know  you  are  sorry  for  me,  Mr. 
Lam'iston,  but  it  isn't  like  Charley." 

"  No,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice ;  "  you  are  right ;  it  isn't  like  Charley." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him,  but  he  was  twisting  the  signet  ring  on 
his  finger  and  did  not  meet  her  eyes.  "  I  was  going  to  marry  him,"  she 
said,  "  you  didn't  know  ;  but  now  that  is  all  over.  I  shall  never  marry." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  then  Lauriston  spoke  in  a  slightly  altered 
voice.  "  You  must  not  think  too  much  of  this.  After  all,  you  are  not 
changed."  The  words,  as  he  uttered  them,  seemed  weak  to  the  point  of 
silliness ;  but  he  had  nothing  better  to  say. 

"  Not  think  too  much  of  this  !  What  am  I  to  think  of,  then  1  It 
isn't  that  I  am  changed,  but  I  know  now  what  it  all  meant.  Mr. 
Lauriston,  I  thought  you  understood ; "  their  glances  met ;  "  yes,  and 
you  do  understand.  I  can  never  marry.  I'm  the  last,  and  I'll  be  the 
last ;  no  one  who  has  this  money  after  me  shall  hate  it  as  I  do.  Oh  ! 
please  go,  and  leave  me  by  myself  just  for  a  minute." 

He  got  up,  and  strolled  slowly  to  and  fro  on  the  footpath.  He  turned 
his  eyes  steadily  inland,  and  yet  he  seemed  to  see  nothing  but  the  girl  at 
the  cliff's  edge,  looking  at  her  ruined  life.  The  noise  of  the  water  softly 
lapping  on  the  stones  grew  louder  and  louder  in  his  ears,  and  the  height 
of  the  cliff  became  terrible.  A  dim  thought  lay  underneath  the  sight 
and  sound,  but  he  dared  not  suffer  it  to  rise  up.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
if  it  were  once  distinctly  realised  it  must  fill  the  air,  and  reach  Rachel 
Gonway  sooner  than  he  could ;  but,  while  he  was  still  contending  with  it, 


DAMOCLES.  509 

he  heard  her  call  "  Mr.  Lauriston,"  and  the  unnamed  dread  passed  away 
like  a  dream  as  he  went  towai'ds  her. 

"I'm  not  going  to  be  stupid  any  more,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him. 
"  I  was  trying  to  be  brave  at  first,  but  when  I  thought  of  my  father 
it  took  me  by  surprise,  and  I  don't  quite  know  what  I  said." 

Lauriston  sat  down  on  the  turf.  "  What  made  you  think  it  1  "  he 
asked. 

"  He  was  away  for  more  than  a  year  before  he  died,  and  I  used  to 
wonder  where  mamma  went  sometimes.  I  know  now." 

The  girl's  dreary  certainty  impressed  her  companion,  and  he  made  no 
answer. 

"  I  wanted  to  be  by  myself  for  a  few  moments,"  said  Rachel,  "  to 
try  to  get  used  to  it.  Now  will  you  let  me  wait  a  little  longer  till  I 
make  sure  that  T  can  talk  to  you  without  being  foolish — talk  about  any- 
thing or  nothing,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  We  will  stay  exactly  as  long  as  you  like,"  he  replied.  Then  they 
were  silent ;  Rachel  looking'along  the  line  of  coast,  Mr.  Lauriston  staring 
absently  at  the  dry  grass. 

"  I  haven't  anything  to  say  now,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  faint  smile. 

"But  I  have."     He  continued  to  look  down  as  he  spoke.     "Miss 

Conway,  I  think  I  understand  what  all  this  means  to  you.     You  said 

yourself  you  thought  I   understood.     Well,  suppose  the  worst — mind, 

I  don't  for  a  moment  anticipate  it — but  suppose  that  your  fears  were 

realised " 

"  Yes,"  said  Rachel,  looking  intently  at  him.     "  Go  on." 
"  I  think  you  are  afraid  not  only  of — of  the  thing  itself,  but  of  places 
and  people  connected  with  it,  are  you  not  1  "    He  was  painfully  conscious 
of  the  clumsiness  of  his  expressions,  but  he  could  not  speak  more  ex- 
plicitly.    "  When  one  pictures  that  kind  of  thing — as  I  suppose  most  of 
us  have  done  some  time  or  other — one  imagines  oneself  put  out  of  the 
way,  not  listened  to,  forgotten,  out  of  sight,  out  of  mind." 
"Yes,"  said  Rachel  in  a  whisper. 

"  And  I  fancy,  from  what  you  said,  that  you  feel  that  you  have  not 
many  friends." 

"  There  will  be  no  one  who  will  care  for  me,"  she  answered,  with 
something  of  defiance  in  her  voice.  "  If  that  happened,  Miss  Whitney 
would  be  sorry  for  me — from  a  safe  distance.  There  is  nobody  else 
now." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston,  "  will  you  let  me  say  that,  failing 
any  one  else,  I  will  do  what  I  can  ?  It  may  not  be  much,  but  I  can  pro- 
mise at  any  rate  that  I  will  know  what  happens  to  you,  and  where  you 
are,  and  that  you  shall  not  be  forgotten.  Not  for  a  single  day,"  he 
added  in  a  lower  voice.  "  What  do  you  say  1  Is  it  a  bargain  ?  " 

Rachel  hesitated.  "  I  don't  see  why  you  should  take  so  much  trouble 
about  me,  Mr.  Lauriston." 

(<  I  don't  think  you  will  give  me  any  trouble  at  all.  And  I'm  an  idle 


510  DAMOCLES. 

man,  you  know.     It  is  a  bargain,  then  1 "  and  he  held  out  his  hand  with 
a  keen  glance  at  her. 

Rachel  put  hers  into  it  gratefully ;  yet,  even  as  she  did  so,  she  felt  as 
if  Mr.  Lauriston  were  in  some  way  connected  with  her  fear,  and  as  if 
the  shadowy  half  of  her  life  grew  nearer  and  more  real  at  his  touch. 

"  That  is  settled,  then,"  the  said,  as  she  attempted  some  word  of 
thanks;  "don't  let  us  talk  anymore  about  it."  There  was  a  pause. 
"  Let  us  talk  about  anything,  or  nothing,  as  you  said."  He  half  smiled 
as  he  spoke,  and  Rachel  looked  round  obediently  to  see  if  the  wide 
world  held  anything  that  could  by  any  possibility  be  talked  about.  The 
red  sunlight  from  the  west  shone  on  her  pale  face,  and  touched  it  with 
colour.  She  put  up  her  hand,  and  after  a  moment  she  moved  a  little  to 
escape  the  level  gleam,  and,  as  she  did  so,  her  eyes  fell  on  a  dwarfed  and 
stubborn  shrub  beside  her.  She  broke  off  a  bit.  "  Rest-harrow  they 
call  it ;  did  you  know  ? "  she  said,  showing  it  to  Mr.  Lauriston,  who 
was  looking  at  her.  "  Isn't  it  a  queer  name  ?  "  She  touched  her  lips 
absently  with  the  dull  pink  blossoms.  "  Oh,  I  hate  it !  I  hate  it !  How 
sickly  it  smells !  "  And  she  threw  it  from  her  with  a  passionate  move- 
ment of  disgust.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  she  threw  away  more  than  the 
flower,  and  indeed  Rachel  felt  as  if  all  that  life  contained  had  grown 
sickly  and  horrible. 

At  that  moment  the  children  who  had  been  playing  on  the  hillside 
came  trooping  along  the  path,  calling  to  one  another  in  shrill  boyish 
voices,  and  staring  at  the  lady  who  sat  on  the  grass  with  her  white  face 
turned  towards  them.  She  looked  absently  at  the  sturdy  fresh-coloured 
little  lads  who  tramped  so  unconsciously,  in  a  commonplace  little  pro- 
cession, through  her  world  of  shadowy  terror.  The  foremost  made  a 
wonderful  discovery  of  some  insect  creeping  in  the  grass,  and  they  all 
huddled  together  to  look  at  it,  and  bandied  questions,  assertions,  and 
contradictions,  till  with  vehement  stamping  of  a  small  hobnailed  boot 
the  investigation  and  the  wonder  came  to  an  end  together.  Rachel's 
preoccupied  gaze  softened  to  something  of  interest  and  wistful  kindli- 
ness, as  the  little  group  broke  xip.  "  Look  at  them,"  she  said.  "  I  wish 
I  were  one  of  those  boys.  I  think  I  should,  like  to  be  that  small  one 
who  lags  behind." 

Mr.  Lauriston  glanced  at  the  little,  white-headed,  shortlegged  urchin, 
and  then  at  Miss  Conway.  "  I  think  not,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 

"  Yes,  I  should.  I  should  be  just  trotting  home  to  my  tea.  Per- 
haps my  mother  would  box  my  ears  for  being  late.  And  after  tea  I 
should  hardly  be  able  to  keep  my  eyes  open ;  I  should  tumble  into  bed, 
and,  oh,  how  I  should  sleep  till  the  morning  came  again  !  " 

Her  companion  shook  his  head.  "  I  can't  wish  that,"  he  said.  "  A 
thickheaded  little  urchin,  with  a  hopeful  prospect  of  developing  into  a 
rheumatic  ploughman  and  pauper !  No  !  a  thousand  times  better  be 
what  you  are  and  face  your  risk." 

She  looked  at  him ;  then  rose  with  an  unconscious  grace  which  em 


DAMOCLES.  511 

phasised  the  immeasurable  difference  between  herself  and  the  little 
rustic  she  envied.  "  So  be  it,"  she  said,  "  especially  as  I  can't  help  my- 
self." 

"  I  suppose  that's  about  as  wise  a  speech  as  it  is  possible  for  man 
to  make,"  said  Lauriston,  as  they  turned  their  faces  eastward,  and  began 
to  descend  the  slope.  Kachel  did  not  answer,  and  they  went  almost  to 
the  foot  of  it  in  silence,  when  she  suddenly  stopped  and  looked  back. 
"  Oh,  the  library  book  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  I'll  get  it !  "  and  he  was  gone  in  a  moment. 

She  watched  him  as  he  hurried  up  the  hill,  and  saw  him  stoop  in  the 
distance  and  pick  up  the  volume  from  the  turf,  and  she  realised,  as  he 
did  so,  how  dingy  and  dog's-eared  and  utterly  unimportant  it  was.  "  I 
suppose  I  could  buy  up  all  the  shop  and  hardly  know  it,"  she  said  to 
herself.  She  seemed  to  enter  into  possession  of  her  wealth  at  that 
moment,  and  many  things  grew  clearer  to  her.  "  It  wasn't  worth  send- 
ing you  back  for."  she  said  when  Mr.  Lauriston  rejoined  her. 

"  Why  not  1 "  he  answered,  turning  the  leaves  as  he  walked.  "  Send 
me  where  you  please." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  but  you  can't  be  always  at  my  beck  and  call 
like  that." 

"  Why  not  1  "  he  said  again. 

"Of  course  you  can't  be."  He  made  no  reply;  and  presently  she 
said  in  a  low  voice,  "  Mr.  Lauriston,  shall  you  remember  what  you 
promised  me  ?  If  ever  I  did  want  you,  it  might  be  years  hence,  years 

and  years " 

"  And  what  if  it  were  1  I  shall  remember  this  day  as  long  as  I  live. 
Why  is  it  you  cannot  trust  me  ]  " 

"  Haven't  I  trusted  you  ? "  said  Rachel,  lifting  her  brows  a  little. 
"  It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had  !  " 

"  Yes ;  you  trust  me  for  a  moment,  and  then  distrust  your  first  im- 
pulse. The  repentance  has  been  at  least  as  evident  as  the  confidence. 
Oh,  I'm  not  reproaching  you  ;  don't  look  at  me  like  that !  You  can't 
help  it,  of  course,  but  I  should  like  to  know  where  it  is  that  I  fail. 
Miss  Conway,  how  can  you  possibly  think  that  I  shall  forget  ?  " 

"  I  don't,"  she  said,  with  her  sad  eyes  fixed  upon  the  sea.  "  But 
when  I  am  alone  I  shall  think  so,"  she  added  with  dreary  foreknow- 
ledge. 

"  If  I  knew  anything  more  binding  than  my  word "  he  began. 

"  What  can  I  do  1 — Stay  !  "  He  drew  the  black  signet  ring  from  his 
finger.  "  Will  you  take  this  ] "  he  said.  "  Take  it  to  be  an  assurance 
of  my  promise  when  you  are  alone,  and  think  yourself  forgotten." 
Rachel  hesitated  and  drew  back,  glancing  doubtfully  at  him.  "  What 
are  you  afraid  of  now  1 "  he  asked,  with  a  slight  despairing  shrug  of  his 
shoulders. 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  she  said  ;  and  in  the  act  of  holding  out  her  hand 
she  paused,  drew  off  a  thin  little  ring  of  chased  gold,  and  offered  it  to 


512  DAMOCLES. 

Mr.  Lauriston.  Her  confidence  had  something  proudly  defiant  about  it, 
like  a  challenge.  He  took  her  gift  silently,  with  an  inclination  of  his 
head,  and  slipped  the  ring  on  a  finger  as  slender  as  Rachel's  own.  She 
watched  him,  and  her  eyes  filled  suddenly  with  tears.  "  It  was  my 
mother's,"  she  said  ;  "  it  has  her  name  inside." 

"  Then  I  make  my  promise  to  your  mother,"  Mr.  Lauriston  an- 
swered. 

This  "  giving  and  receiving  of  a  ring  "  so  far  fulfilled  his  intention 
that  it  impressed  Rachel's  mind  with  a  sense  of  the  reality  of  their  com- 
pact. Yet  it  turned  her  thoughts  rather  to  the  past  than  to  the  future. 
As  she  looked  down  and  saw  his  signet  ring  upon  her  hand,  she  remem- 
bered Redlands.  She  seemed  to  see  once  more  the  great  shadowy  room, 
in  which  her  companion  leaned  forward,  with  bright  eyes  fixed  upon  her 
face,  and  told  her  of  the  haunted  walk.  But,  above  all,  the  ring  re- 
called that  dim  afternoon  which  they  had  spent  together  in  Redlands 
Park.  The  low  arch  of  sad-coloured  sky,  the  misty  distances,  the 
rounded  masses  of  foliage,  the  quaintly-ordered  garden  paths,  came  back 
to  her  remembrance  like  the  landscape  of  a  recurring  dream.  Again 
she  felt  as  if  she  could  hardly  draw  breath  in  the  heavy  atmosphere ;  and, 
in  the  effort  to  escape  from  the  haunting  impression,  she  thought  of 
Bucksmill  Hill,  as  she  saw  it  the  last  evening  of  her  earlier  life,  before 
she  knew  Mr.  Lauriston.  She  recalled  the  white  splendour  of  moon- 
light, the  fresh  breeze  blowing  over  the  height,  the  dusky  purple  moor 
stretching  far  away  like  a  poet's,  land  of  rest  and  mysterious  peace.  And 
Charley  was  there — strong,  fearless,  honest,  kindly,  banishing  all  sickly 
fears  by  his  mere  presence.  As  she  stood  in  the  hollow  between  the 
hills,  turning  the  black  ring  on  her  finger,  as  Mr.  Lauriston  had  turned 
it  on  his  only  a  few  minutes  earlier,  she  realised  with  a  sudden  heart- 
ache that  she  and  Charley  were  parted  for  ever.  She  had  said  it 
before,  she  had  repeated  it  to  herself  over  and  over  again,  but  she  had 
never  understood  the  meaning  of  her  words.  .She  shivered  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  her  loneliness,  and  turned  to  Mr.  Lauriston  with  a  desire 
to  propitiate  him,  which  was  strangely  unlike  anything  she  had  ever 
felt  before.  "  Please  take  me  home,"  she  said,  with  a  tremor  in  her 
voice.  He  offered  her  his  arm,  and  she  took  it  with  an  appealing  glance 
at  him.  "  You  know,"  she  said  abruptly,  "  this  is  only  the  fourth  time 
I  have  seen  you."  He  hardly  knew  what  he  said  in  answer,  but  the  ex- 
pression of  her  eyes  haunted  him  after  they  parted.  It  was  like  the 
look  of  a  dumb  animal  in  pain. 


THE 


COKNHILL    MAGAZINE. 


MAY,  1882. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "FOR  PERCIVAL." 


CHAPTER  VI. 
Miss  WHITNEY, 

MR.  LAURISTON  had 
pledged  himself  to  hold 
his  life  at  Miss  Conway's 
beck  and  call.  He  was 
so  much  in  earnest  that 
existence  seemed  to  gain 
a  new  meaning  as  he 
spoke,  and  desire  to  serve 
her  demanded  an  instant 
outlet  of  expression.  But 
when  he  had  sent  Mr. 
Goodwin's  letter  to  her 
lodgings,  and  despatched 
a  telegram  to  Charles 
Eastwood,  he  found 
nothing  better  to  do  than 
to  return  her  novel  to 
the  library.  He  hoped  as 
he  gave  back  Sir  Hu- 
bert's Vow,  a  Romance  of 
Real  Life,  that  the  action  of  paying  twopence  for  it  was  ennobled  by 
the  depth  of  his  feelings,  since  otherwise  it  seemed  inadequate.  He 
could  only  remind  himself,  as  he  took  his  change  from  the  counter,  that 
feelings  and  opportunities  are  often  grotesquely  mismatched.  If  splendid 
VOL.  XLV. — NO.  269.  25. 


514  DAMOCLES. 

deeds  spring  occasionally  from  a  combination  of  good  luck  and  rather 
queer  motives,  it  is  certain  that  devotion  enough  to  equip  a  forlorn  hope 
may  find  no  better  expression  than  an  inquiry  at  the  door,  and  the 
one  chance  might  as  well  befall  him  as  the  other. 

He  strolled  back  to  his  hotel,  and  dined,  slowly  and  meditatively, 
looking  out  at  the  picture  of  sea  and  sky  which  was  framed  by  the  open 
window.  It  lost  its  brightness  as  he  watched  it,  and  took  the  soft 
indistinctness  of  twilight.  From  his  lighted  room  he  saw  how  the 
night,  flowing  into  the  little  bay  like  a  dusky  tide,  filled  its  narrow 
bounds  with  all  that  they  could  hold  of  mystery  and  suggestive  sadness, 
and  the  greyness  of  the  dim  expanse  made  a  fitting  background  for  the 
pale  vision  of  Rachel  Conway  which  ruled  his  thoughts.  His  sympathy 
with  her  was  like  a  talisman,  suddenly  revealing  the  existence  of  a 
multitude  of  obscure  and  unsuspected  sorrows,  stirring  confusedly  be- 
neath the  surface  of  ordinary  life.  He  touched  the  little  ring  upon  his 
hand,  as  if  it  might  by  chance  call  up  an  obedient  genius  to  ask  his 
pleasure,  though  if  the  twilight  had  thickened  then  and  there  to  such  a 
shape,  he  would  not  have  known  what  command  he  could  utter.  This 
was  not  one  of  the  simple  difficulties  of  the  old  fairy  tales ;  and  only  a 
power  which  could  undo  the  past,  and  alter  the  complex  influences 
which  had  shaped  the  lives  of  Con  ways  and  Rutherfords  dead  and  gone, 
could  be  of  any  service.  The  facts  of  the  case  were  cold  and  hard  as 
adamant,  and  the  girl's  quivering  life  was  driven  against  them. 
Lauriston  pictured  it  as  actual  tender  flesh,  dashed  on  cruel  rocks,  and 
himself  as  a  bystander.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  these  inexorable  facts,  he 
was  well  aware  that  the  whole  matter  had  its  fanciful  and  visionary 
aspect.  It  belonged  to  a  world  of  shadows,  •M-~"~'u  a  world  in  which 
shadows  took  the  form  of  unconquerable  fai  wood  would  say 

that  Rachel  Conway  and  1  were  mad  together,"  %v  the  sum  of  Mr. 
Lauriston's  reflections,  as  he  threw  himself  b;  ?hair,  and  looked 

at  the  thin  circlet  of  gold.  "  And  upon  my  a  not  at  all  sure 

that  we  are  not.  But  it  is  a  kind  of  madnes  which  will  be  more  than 
a  match  for  Master  Charley's  sanity,  I  ft  ad,  with  all  his 

knowledge  of  Rachel's  pain,  he  laughed  softly  ught  of  Charley's 

discomfiture. 

He  had  sent  word  with  Mr.  Goodwin's  le  be  would  call  in 

the  evening  to  see  if  he  could  be  of  any  servi  ry  ttu  vo  ladies,  and  he 
rose,  with  the  smile  still  on  his  lips,  to  fulfil  ise.  He  had  not 

far  to  go.  Five  minutes'  walk,  through  cool  ir  which  smelt  of 

the  sea,  brought  him  to  a  tiny  garden,  when  ure  flagstaff  was 

erected  in  the  midst  of  fuchsias  and  marigo  ter  a  brief  pause 

he  was  ushered  into  a  little  gaslit  sitting-room  •.  ere  Rachel  came 
forward  to  meet  him  and  to  introduce  him  t  LLss  \*  dtney. 

The  introduction  might  have  made  a  e  picture  for  an 

untroubled  spectator,  and  even  Rachel  perc.  contrast  between 

Mr.  Lauriston's  easy  courtesy  and  pliant  _  •  ;titude,  and  Miss 


DAMOCLES.  515 

Whitney's  timid  formality.  Miss  Whitney  was  not  ugly.  In  earlier 
years  she  had  possessed  a  certain  blonde  girlish  prettiness ;  but  she  had 
stiffened  and  grown  cold,  till  she  was  like  one  of  those  prim,  pale  figures 
which  archaeologists  discover  on  a  whitened  wall.  She  was  gentle, 
bloodless,  depressing.  She  measured  out  a  little  smile,  and  extended  a 
chalk- white  hand  to  her  visitor ;  but  she  eyed  him  cautiously  through 
her  bleached  lashes  as  she  did  so,  for  men,  in  her  opinion,  were  danger- 
ous creatures.  It  is  true  that  she  was  slightly  acquainted  with  an 
archdeacon  who  was  very  nearly  perfect,  and  she  knew  two  or  three 
beneficed  clergymen,  and  one  family  doctor,  who  might  be  trusted ;  but, 
as  a  rule,  she  disapproved  of  men.  They  broke  right  and  left  through 
the  little  code  of  laws  by  which  she  regulated  morals  and  manners ;  they 
offended  her  sense  of  propriety,  almost  by  the  fact  of  their  existence ; 
they  made  jokes,  they  laughed  at  things  which  should  not  be  laughed  at, 
they  were  careless  and  extravagant,  they  stayed  out  late  at  night,  they 
unsettled  the  servants,  and  they  smelt  of  smoke.  She  supposed  that 
Mr.  Charles  Eastwood  was  a  deserving  and  right-minded  young  man, 
and  she  had  sanctioned  his  attentions  to  Eachel,  partly  for  his  mother's 
sake,  though  she  did  not  approve  of  his  style  of  dress  and  conversation. 
She  saw  that  his  friend  did  not  at  all  resemble  him  ;  but  she  was  not 
certain  that  it  was  altogether  a  gain,  for  the  brilliant  swiftness  of  Mr. 
Lauriston's  glances,  and  something  a  little  picturesque  and  singular  in 
his  general  appearance,  made  her  vaguely  uneasy. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Lauriston,  bowing  politely,  saw  through  Miss 
Whitney  at  once,  as  a  clever  man  sees  through  a  prudish,  narrow- 
minded  woman — he  understood  her  too  clearly.  The  very  touch  of  her 
chilly,  reluctant  fingers  was  a  revelation  to  him,  and  every  word  she 
uttered  helped  to  justify  Rachel  in  her  longing  for  the  warmth  and 
kindliness  of  the  Eastwoods'  home.  It  seemed  strange  to  him  that  Miss 
Whitney,  with  her  timid  scruples  and  hesitations,  should  feel  herself 
qualified  to  rule  the  girl,  but  that  was  because  he  could  not  understand 
how  feebly  she  apprehended  her  own  incompetence. 

Miss  Whitney  realised  the  change  in  Rachel's  prospects  as  small 
people  always  realise  a  great  fact,  that  is,  in  its  smaller  aspects.  She 
was  anxious  about  their  packing,  and  their  lodgings,  and  preoccupied 
concerning  mourning.  She  moved  restlessly  about  the  room,  taking  up 
things  and  laying  them  down  in  an  aimless  way,  and  talking  discon- 
nectedly. "  Isn't  it  wonderful  ? "  she  said.  "  Such  a  legacy  !  And 
coming  all  at  once,  too  !  "  She  repeated  this  two  or  three  times,  as  if  a 
legacy  usually  took  the  form  of  a  succession  of  sixpences. 

Rachel  looked  up  with  a  tired  smile.  "  Dear  Miss  Whitney,  do 
sit  down.  You  will  be  worn  out." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Miss  Whitney  gently,  "  you  forget  that  there  is  a 
great  deal  to  do.  Mr.  Lauriston  will  excuse  me,  I'm  sure.  Some- 
body must  do  it.  By  all  means  sit  still  and  rest,  and  enjoy  your 
prospects,"  she  added,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  I  don't  want  to  disturb 

25—2 


516  DAMOCLES. 

you.  Excuse  me  " — she  leaned  before  Eachel  to  pick  up  some  books, 
and  then  behind  her  to  take  a  workbox  from  a  little  table — "  we  can't 
all  rest,  you  know." 

"  But  I  can't  rest  if  you  don't,"  Rachel  answered. 

Mr.  Lauriston  did  not  care  whether  Miss  Whitney  was  tired  or  not, 
but  there  was  an  accent  of  weariness  in  the  girl's  voice  which  told  him 
that  she  could  not  bear  much  more.  "  You  don't  know  what  a  fuss 
Miss  Whitney  can  make,"  she  had  said  laughingly  as  he  stood  beside 
her  on  the  cliff.  Miss  Whitney  had  been  making  a  fuss  ever  since. 
While  he  was  quietly  eating  his  dinner,  and  looking  out  at  the  little 
harbour  with  its  shadowy  shores,  she  had  been  worrying  Eachel.  It 
was  intolerable,  but  here  again  he  was  helpless.  What  could  he  do  ? 
A  life's  devotion  was  very  much  at  Miss  Conway's  service,  but  he  could 
not  make  Miss  Whitney  sit  down  and  hold  her  tongue. 

"  Of  course  there  is  a  great  deal  to  do,"  he  said,  wondering,  as  he  spoke, 
what  it  could  possibly  be.  "  But  I'm  not  tired;  can't  you  set  me  to  work1? " 

"  Thank  you,  you  are  very  kind ;  but  no,  I  think  not."  She  put  the 
things  she  had  collected  in  a  confused  heap  on  the  table.  "  How 
strange  that  you  should  have  met  Eachel  this  afternoon !  And 

yet  I  don't  know.  If  she  will  go  sitting  about  the  rocks But  I'm 

afraid  you'll  think  I  don't  take  proper  care  of  her." 

"  I  thought  I  was  very  fortunate,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston. 

"  I  can't  climb  up  those  places  and  sit  in  the  sun,"  Miss  Whitney 
continued.  "  It  affects  my  head.  And  Eachel  is  not  happy  indoors.  I 
tell  her  sometimes  that  she  really  ought  to  take  an  interest  in  this  new 
crewel  work  or  something ;  she  seems  to  have  no  occupation." 

He  looked  across  to  the  girl  where  she  sat,  with  her  hands  idly 
folded  on  her  lap.  On  the  wall  above  her  head  was  a  coloured  print  of 
the  Queen  and  Prince  Albert,  in  a  gilt  frame  swathed  in  yellow  gauze. 
This  work  of  art  was  tilted  forward  so  much  that  Eachel  seemed  to  be 
under  the  especial  patronage  of  the  Eoyal  family.  "  This  is  a  very  sad 
account  of  you,  Miss  Conway,"  he  said.  "  What  do  you  do  with  yourself 
when  you  can't  get  out  ?  In  a  November  fog,  for  instance  1 " 

She  lifted  her  tired  eyelids  a  little.  "  Oh,  I  despair  !  "  she  answered 
lightly.  "  What  else  can  one  do  in  a  November  fog  1 ' 

"  My  dear,  how  foolish ! '.'  said  Miss  Whitney.  "  Of  course,  you  can't 
see  to  do  any  black  work,  but  you  can  have  a  strip  of  embroidery 
always  on  hand.  It's  wonderful  how  much  I  have  done  in  really  bad 
weather.  But  then  I  can  always  make  myself  happy  indoors." 

Mr.  Lauriston,  murmuring  something  about  "  extremely  fortunate," 
tried  to  imagine  what  Miss  Whitney's  idea  of  happiness  might  be.  She 
meanwhile  gathered  up  most  of  the  things  which  she  had  just  laid  down, 
and  suddenly  reverted  to  her  previous  remark.  "  I'm  really  afraid  you 
will  think  I  don't  take  care  of  Eachel." 

"  Indeed  you  do,"  said  Eachel  herself.  "  I'm  sure  Mr.  Lauriaton 
won't  think  anything  of  the  kind." 


DAMOCLES.  517 

Miss  Whitney  cut  his  protestations  short.  "  Mrs.  Eastwood  would 
be  more  particular,  I  know." 

The  memory  of  that  long  afternoon  in  the  leafy  shades  of  Redlands 
Park,  rose  up  suddenly  before  Lauriston  and  Rachel.  The  colour  came 
into  her  face  ;  but  he  answered  quickly,  "  Oh,  Redlands  is  a  very  quiet 
place.  I  meet  Miss  Eastwood  sometimes  going  about  the  lanes ;  she 
visits  the  poor  people,  I  think." 

"  Yes,"  said  Rachel,  "  Fanny  has  a  district." 

"  Oh,  Rachel !  "  Miss  "Whitney  exclaimed ;  "  what  are  we  to  do 
about  Mr.  Charles  Eastwood  1  Did  you  forget  him  ?  " 

Rachel  glanced  at  Mr.  Lauriston.  "  Hadn't  we  better  telegraph  ]  " 
she  said.  "  I  don't  think  I  can  write." 

"  It  is  done,"  he  replied.  "  You  said  he  must  not  come  here,  so  I 
ventured  to  send  word  that  your  plans  were  changed."  Her  look  of 
gratitude  pained  him.  He  was  eager  to  serve  her,  yet  he  felt  that  only 
her  secret  loneliness  drove  her  to  accept  his  help.  Had  she  been  happy 
and  hopeful  she  would  not  have  worn  his  ring  upon  her  finger,  nor 
appealed  to  him  in  her  difficulties.  The  expression  of  her  eyes  was  not 
so  much  confidence  in  him,  as  helpless  resignation.  He  felt  as  if  he  had 
watched  some  beautiful  wild  creature,  out  of  his  reach,  and  all  at  once  it 
was  driven  to  his  feet  by  hunger,  or  some  cruel  hurt.  He  might  lay  his 
hand  upon  it  if  he  liked,  but  it  would  never  have  come  to  him  had  it  not 
been  for  its  mischance. 

"  I'm  sure  we  are  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  Miss  Whitney  began, 
just  as  the  door  opened  and  the  servant  announced,  "  Mrs.  Allen,  ma'am, 
says  she  can  come  and  speak  to  you  now  if  it  suits  you." 

"  Thank  you ;  tell  her  I  will  come  to  her  almost  directly,"  Miss 
Whitney  replied.  "  Our  landlady,"  she  explained  to  Mr.  Lauriston. 
"  Going  away  so  hurriedly  makes  it  necessary  to  have  our  little  settlement 
to-night.  Rachel,  my  dear,  have  you  seen  my  account-book — the  little 
black  one  ?  Oh,  I  remember  now,  I  took  it  upstairs." 

"  I'll  get  it,"  said  Rachel,  and  departed  in  search  of  it. 

"  Don't  go,"  said  Miss  Whitney  to  her  guest.  "  I  wanted  to  ask  you 
if  you  knew  about  trains.  The  time-table  is  here  somewhere ;  Rachel  will 
find  it  when  she  comes  down.  Trains  are  so  perplexing,  aren't  they  ? 
Rachel  thinks  she  understands ;  she  is  very  independent ;  but  I  like  to 
ask  somebody ;  I  like  to  be  sure." 

"  If  I  can  be  of  any  use  I  shall  be  delighted,"  Mr.  Lauriston  replied. 
"  I  feared  I  was  only  hindering  you." 

"  Not  at  all."  She  had  a  preoccupied  air,  being  still  inwardly 
troubled  by  his  possible  doubt  of  her  efficiency  as  a  guardian.  "  I  am 
afraid,"  she  said  after  a  pause,  "  that,  in  consequence  of  my  delicate 
health,  Rachel  is  perhaps  a  little  too  independent.  I  doubt  she  has 
more  liberty  than  is  quite  advisable." 

Mr.  Lauriston  was  not  inclined  to  talk  over  Rachel  with  Miss 
Whitney.  "  But  isn't  liberty  a  very  good  thing  1 "  he  asked,  preferring 
to  discuss  the  question  in  the  abstract. 


518  DAMOCLES. 

"  A  very  dangerous  thing,"  she  gently  corrected  him.  "  Few  people 
know  how  to  use  it,  I  fear." 

To  that  he  assented.  "  But  I  suppose  we  must  become  fitted  for  it 
by  possessing  it ;  there  is  no  other  way,  is  there  ? "  He  spoke  with  a 
suggestion  of  deference  in  his  tone,  as  if  he  were  seeking  information. 

Miss  Whitney  considered  a  moment  before  she  replied.  "  Perhaps 
not.  But  in  that  case  I  am  sure  that  girls  are  better  without  it. 
Liberty,  when  people  are  not  fitted  for  it,  tends  to  singularity."  A 
flush  mounted  to  her  pale  cheek,  as  it  struck  her  that  she  was  turning 
her  sentences  rather  successfully,  and  with  gentle  self-approval  she 
repeated,  "  Yes ;  decidedly  it  tends  to  singularity." 

"  No  doubt."  Mr.  Lauriston  gazed  at  the  floor,  and  softly  stroked 
his  lip,  as  if  he  were  seriously  weighing  her  words.  "  You  are  perfectly 
right ;  there  is  such  a  tendency " 

"  In  people  who  are  not  fitted  for  it,"  she  said,  hastening  to  supply 
the  qualification.  "  Those  who  are  fitted  for  it  would  of  course  wish 
always  to  act  according  to  the  rules  of  propriety." 

"I  see,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston,  still  reflectively  intent  on  Miss 
Whitney's  view  of  the  matter.  "  But  do  you  think,"  he  asked,  raising 
his  bright  eyes  to  her  face,  "  that  singularity  is  altogether  objectionable  1 
Doesn't  it  occasionally  give  something  of  a  charm  ?  " 

"  To  a  young  girl  1 "  Miss  Whitney  inquired ;  and  there  was  a  sound 
of  warning  in  her  articulation  of  the  words. 

"  Well,  yes,  to  a  young  girl,"  Mr.  Lauriston  repeated.  "  Don't  you 
think  it  may  ?  "  If  there  was  a  touch  of  defiance  in  this  persistence,  he 
seemed  to  make  amends  by  the  even  more  strongly  marked  deference  of 
his  manner. 

"  It  is  very  possible,"  she  answered  frigidly ;  "  I  daresay  it  may. 
But  I  should  have  my  own  opinion  of  the  people  who  could  find  a  charm 
in  a  lady's  eccentricity."  The  good  creature  looked  away  as  she  spoke, 
as  if  she  felt  it  her  duty  to  crush  him  with  this  reply,  but  would  rather 
not  see  the  effect  of  her  blow. 

"  I  am  answered,"  he  said  simply. 

Miss  Whitney  was  pleased.  "  If  you  reconsider  the  matter,"  she 
said,  magnanimously  offering  him  a  way  of  escape,  "  I  hardly  think 
that  you  would  be  charmed  by  singularity  in  the  manners  of — of  your 
sisters,  or  of — well,  of  any  lady  in  whom  you  might — a — take  an 
interest." 

•  B,achel's  entrance  spared  his  answer.  "  I  can't  find  your  book  any- 
where," she  said,  pausing  in  the  doorway.  "  Are  you  quite  sure  it  isn't 
here  ?  Why,  what  is  that  on  the  table  by  your  workbox  1 " 

Miss  Whitney  apologised  for  her  mistake.  "  I  quite  thought  I  had 
taken  it  upstairs,"  she  said,  as  she  hurriedly  turned  the  pages.  "  Thank 
you,  my  dear.  And  now,  if  you  will  excuse  me  for  five  minutes,  I  will 
have  my  little  talk  with  Mrs.  Allen.  Of  course,  going  away  like  this, 
we  must  pay  for  our  lodgings  till  next  Wednesday ;  but  I  don't  think 


DAMOCLES.  519 

•we  ought  to  pay  for  gas,  do  you,  Mr.  Lauriston  ?  It's  sixpence  a  week 
for  each  burner.  You  see  she  may  not  be  able  to  let  the  rooms,  and  we 
took  them  by  the  week  ;  but  if  the  gas  isn't  burnt  she  won't  have  to  pay 
for  it — so  why  should  we?  And  kitchen  fire,  too.  I  would  not  do 
anything  unladylike,  but  I  think  she  ought  not  to  charge  us  for  kitchen 
fire  after  to-morrow." 

Mr.  Lauriston  replied  that,  strictly  speaking,  such  a  demand  would 
not  be  fair.  "  But  lodging-house  keepers  are  birds  of  prey,  you  know," 
he  said.  "  Don't  be  too  sanguine." 

Miss  Whitney  shook  her  head.  "I  am  not.  But  I  shall  try  what  I 
can  do." 

The  door  closed  behind  her.  Mr.  Lauriston  drew  a  long  breath.  "  Sit 
down,"  he  said  to  Rachel.  "  How  tired  you  are  ! " 

"  By  the  window,  please,"  she  answered,  as  he  pushed  an  easy-chair 
towards  her.  She  dropped  into  it  and  leaned  back,  resting  her  head  on 
an  anti-macassar  adorned  with  a  bouquet  of  gigantic  light-blue  hare- 
bells. He  stood  at  the  other  side  of  the  window,  and  looked  at  her  in 
silence.  She  seemed  so  curiously  out  of  place  in  the  cheap  little  draw- 
ing-room, and  he  remembered  how  the  same  idea  struck  him  when  he 
saw  her  first  at  the  Eastwoods'  house.  At  Redlands  Hall,  as  she  stood 
on  the  rug  with  the  yellowish- white  marble  of  the  great  carved  chimney- 
piece  for  a  background,  she  had  made  a  picture  whose  delicate  grace  and 
harmony  lived  in  his  memory.  And  again,  in  Redlands  Park,  her  beauty 
and  sadness  had  given  a  deeper  meaning  to  the  soft  melancholy  of  the 
sunless  afternoon,  so  that  he  recalled  them  together.  But  here  her 
commonplace  surroundings  pained  him  like  a  jarring  discord. 

After  a  time  she  put  out  her  hand,  and  lifted  a  corner  of  the  blind» 
"  I  am  not  so  very  tired,  really,"  she  said,  "  but  I  can't  help  feeling 
worried.  Oh,  I  would  give  anything  to  get  out  into  the  coolness  and  the 
dark  !  I  daresay  I  want  it  all  the  more  because  I  know  it's  impossible." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  impossible."  His  brilliant  eyes  were  very  eager. 
'  The  fresh  air  and  the  darkness  are  conveniently  close  at  hand,  only  it 
isn't  very  dark." 

Rachel  was  still  looking  out.  "  Would  you  like  to  suggest  it  to  Miss 
Whitney  1  Tell  her,  please,  that  it  is  between  nine  and  ten  at  night,  and 
that  I  should  like  to  go  for  a  walk  on  the  downs." 

"  With  me  for  your  escort." 

"  But  that  would  only  be  a  variation  in  the  way  of  impropriety," 
Miss  Conway  answered,  as  she  let  the  blind  fall.  "  No,  it  is  utterly  im- 
possible. Besides,  that  isn't  what  I  really  want." 

"  What  do  you  really  want  ? "  he  asked.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on 
her,  but  the  direct  and  continued  gaze  did  not  seem  to  trouble  her  in  the 
least. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know."  Again  for  a  moment  she  lifted  the  corner  of  the 
blind.  "No;  as  you  say,  it  isn't  very  dark.  The  moon  is  just  rising 
over  the  hills.  If  one  were  on  Bucksmill  Hill  now,  how  it  would  shine 


520  DAMOCLES. 

on  that  moor  of  yours !  There  was  a  path  across  it.  Do  jou  re- 
member  1  " 

"  Yea ;  I  know  there  is  a  path,"  he  answered. 

"  A  straight  path  ;  and  it  seemed  to  melt  away  into  the  dusky  purple. 
I  feel  as  if  I  should  like  to  travel  on  and  on  and  on,  along  that  path, 
with  a  cool  wind  blowing  over  the  heather." 

"  And  never  coma  back,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston  softly,  as  if  he  were 
finishing  her  sentence. 

^-;  "'No;  that's  the  worst  of  it.  Unless  I  died,  the  morning  would 
come ;  and  it  wouldn't  matter  where  I  was,  I  couldn't  get  away.  I  should 
be  obliged  to  come  back  and  meet  Charley." 

Her  voice  quivered,  and  she  turned  her  head  a  little  away.  Mr, 
Lauriston  looked  down ;  and  there  was  a  silence,  soon  broken  by  the 
arrival  of  Miss  Whitney,  triumphant  as  far  as  she  considered  triumph 
ladylike. 

"  I've  had  a  little  difficulty  with  Mrs.  Allen,"  she  announced,  "  but 
she  has  taken  off  one-and-ninepence." 

Mr.  Lauriston,  called  suddenly  from  Rachel's  dreamland  to  the  im- 
portant realities  of  life,  looked  blankly  at  Miss  Whitney  for  a  moment, 
and  then  barely  suppressed  a  smile.  It  is  so  hard  for  people,  accustomed 
to  well-filled  pockets,  to  understand  why  their  fellow-creatures  do  such 
unpleasant  and  unnecessary  things.  But  he  quickly  recovered  himself. 
"  Ah,  that's  good  news  !  "  he  said  sympathetically. 

"  It  ought  to  have  been  more,"  Miss  Whitney  replied  with  a  little 
smile.  "  But  I  can't  do  anything  mean.  People  take  advantage  of  me, 
I  know,  but  I  can't  help  it.  Well,  one-and-ninepence  is  something." 
She  was  in  the  act  of  laying  down  the  account-book  when  she  suddenly 
exclaimed,  "  Oh,  those  eggs !  Rachel,  I  forgot  to  speak  to  her  about  those 
eggs  she  put  down  for  last  Tuesday — the  three  eggs  that  we  never  had." 

"  Oh,  never  mind,"  said  Rachel,  sitting  up  in  her  easy-chair.  "  Please 
don't  take  any  more  trouble ;  it  doesn't  matter."  She  could  not  alto- 
gether realise  her  change  of  fortune ;  her  grasp  of  the  fact  was  inter- 
mittent. But  she  understood  it  perfectly  while  Mr.  Lauriston  stood 
there  congratulating  Miss  Whitney  on  her  one-and-ninepence.  "  It 
isn't  worth  while — it  really  doesn't  matter,"  she  repeated  eagerly. 

Miss  Whitney  shook  her  head.  "  That's  a  bad  principle  to  begin 
with,"  she  said.  "  Everything  matters.  You  mustn't  think  that  because 
your  circumstances  are  changed  it  is  right  to  be  extravagant.  There 
will  be  fresh  claims  on  you;  there  will  be  just  as  much  need  for  care. 
Isn't  it  so,  Mr.  Lauriston  1 " 

He  looked  up  with  a  quick  smile.  "  Oh,  yes ;  there  ai'e  always 
plenty  of  claims,"  he  said,  "  if  you  choose  to  attend  to  them." 

"  And  I'm  sure  you  will  agree  with  me  that  no  fortune,  however 
large,  will  justify  extravagance,"  Miss  Whitney  persisted. 

"  Of  course  it  won't,"  he  readily  assented.  "  Unluckily,  so  many 
people  don't  seem  to  understand  what  extravagance  really  is." 


DAMOCLES.  521 

"  That  is  quite  true."  Miss  Whitney  was  pleased  with  Mr.  Lauris- 
ton's  manner,  and,  fortified  by  his  approval,  she  determined,  as  a  matter 
of  principle,  to  fight  the  question  of  the  three  eggs  that  they  never  had. 
"  You  will  excuse  me  once  more,  I  hope,"  she  said ;  "  it  is  really  very 
rude,  running  away  like  this ;  but,  you  see,  business  is  business.  I  shall 
not  be  a  moment." 

He  assured  her  that  he  perfectly  understood;  that  he  only  blamed 
himself  for  coming  at  an  inconvenient  time.  He  gave  her  the  account- 
book,  which  she  had  again  mislaid.  He  closed  the  door  after  her,  and 
then  went  back  to  the  window,  where  Miss  Con  way  watched  him  with 
a  spark  of  something  like  defiance  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  have  lived  with  Miss  Whitney  ever  since  you  were  a  child," 
he  said  meditatively,  as  he  drew  a  chair  towards  her. 

Rachel  leaned  forward.  "You  shall  not  find  fault  with  Miss  Whit- 
ney !  you  must  not !  "  she  exclaimed  with  sudden  passion.  "  She  was 
my  mother's  friend.  She  has  always  been  good  to  me.  I  should  hate 
myself  if  I  said  anything  unkind  of  her." 

Mr.  Lauriston  paused  with  his  hand  on  the  back  of  the  chair.  "  Yes," 
he  replied.  "  And  I  said — what  did  I  say  ?  I'm  very  sorry,  whatever 
it  was." 

She  smiled  unwillingly.  "  You  didn't  say  anything,  of  course  ;  but 
you  were  laughing  at  her.  Well,  you  must  laugh,  I  suppose,  but  not 
to  me." 

He  sat  down.  "  You  didn't  laugh,  then  1 "  he  said,  after  a  moment's 
silence. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  hate  myself  1"  the  girl  demanded.  "Yes;  I 
did." 

Mr.  Lauriston,  leaning  back,  surveyed  the  overhanging  portrait  of 
the  Queen.  "I  don't  know  that  I  particularly  want  to  laugh,"  he  said. 

"  And  you  mustn't  be  sorry  for  me,  either." 

"  Very  well.  You  don't  leave  me  much  liberty,  do  you  ? "  He  smiled 
as  he  spoke,  and  looked  at  her,  and  she  answered  his  eyes. 

"  But  you  are  sorry,  Mr.  Lauriston  !  " 

"  Why  do  you  torment  yourself?  "  he  asked.  "  If  Miss  Whitney  has 
been  good  to  you,  I  shall  not  laugh  at  her  for  that.  And  as  for  her 
friendship  with  your  mother,  why,  that  is  a  bygone  affair.  I  fancy  it 
wasn't  precisely  this  Miss  Whitney  that  your  mother  knew.  We  don't 
all  of  us  grow  brighter  and  broader-minded  as  we  grow  old.  Perhaps 
Miss  Whitney  would  not  have  been  quite  the  same  if  her  friend  had 
lived." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Rachel.     "  They  were  friends  at  school." 

Mr.  Lauriston  smiled.  "  At  school !  "  he  repeated.  "  And,  in  good 
time,  here  she  comes.  I  hope  she  has  not  paid  for  the  eggs  you  never 
had." 

Rachel  smiled  too,  though  with  a  little  hesitation,  as  Miss  Whitney 
came  in.  "Is  it  all  right  1  "  she  asked. 

26—5 


522  DAMOCLES. 

"Quite  right,"  Miss  Whitney  replied,  taking  the  chair  Mr.  Lauriston 
offered  her.  She  was  evidently  calmed  and  soothed  by  the  consciousness 
of  success.  "  It  is  the  principle,  you  know,"  she  said,  smoothing  the 
little  white  frills  at  her  wrists  ;  "  it  isn't  the  fourpence-halfpenny." 

"  Of  course  not,"  he  replied ;  and  then  suggested  that  if  he  could  be 
of  any  service  in  making  arrangements  for  their  journey,  he  should  be 
only  too  happy. 

The  time-table  was  found,  and  Miss  Whitney's  mind  was  set  at  rest 
on  the  subject  of  trains.  Mr.  Lauriston  was  prepared  to  explain  every- 
thing, and  to  undertake  everything ;  and  she  began  to  think  that  this 
friend  of  Mr.  Charles  Eastwood's  was  really  very  pleasant  and  gentle- 
manly. 

"  I  want  to  be  in  town  in  good  time,"  she  said  to  him,  "  because  of 
the  mourning.  Saturday  is  an  awkward  day ;  but,  if  we  can  manage  to 
give  the  order  some  time  in  the  afternoon,  they  can  at  any  rate  begin  it 
the  first  thing  on  Monday." 

"  Oh,  the  mourning ! "  said  Mr.  Lauriston.  "  I  never  thought  of  that. 
Yes,  of  course." 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  one  of  those  people  who  disregard  such  things," 
said  Miss  Whitney.  "  There  are  such  Radical  ideas  abroad  now  that  one 
never  knows  what  will  be  attacked  next." 

"  I  ?  Oh,  I'm  not  the  man  for'hasty  innovations.  And  as  to  mourn- 
ing, I  think  it  most  desirable  that  there  should  be  a  recognised  expression 
of  the  feelings  one  ought  to  have  on  such  occasions.  What,  now,  do  yoii 
consider  a  proper  depth  of  blackness  for  a  great-aunt  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  couldn't  decide  a  thing  like  that  off-hand.  I 
must  talk  it  over  with  a  regular  dressmaker,  or  perhaps  we  had  better  go 
to  Jay's.  Rachel,  dear,  I  wonder  whether  we  had  better  go  to  Jay's  ? " 

"  I  really  don't  mind  where  we  go,"  said  Rachel.  "  Just  where  you 
like." 

"  Crape,  of  course,"  said  Miss  Whitney,  pursuing  her  train  of  thought. 
"  Some  crape,  I  mean.  Not  always  for  a  great-aunt,  but  in  this  case  I 
should  say  certainly  some  crape.  You  see,  there's  the  money." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston  with  bright  interest,  "  there's  the  money. 
I  should  think  it  would  be  a  tolerably  safe  rule  always  to  say  crape 
when  there's  money.  It  would  be  a  kind  of  grateful  acknowledgment, 
wouldn't  it  ? " 

Miss  Whitney  hesitated.  General  rules  were  all  very  well,  but  she 
would  have  preferred  an  appeal  to  a  dressmaker.  "  Well,"  she  said, 
"perhaps  it  might  be  a  safe  rule;  it  would  show  proper  feeling  cer- 
tainly." 

Satisfied  on  this  important  point,  Mr.  Lauriston  rose  to  go.  He  felt 
that  he  was  on  dangerous  ground.  He  could  not  resist  his  impulse  to 
draw  Miss  Whitney  out — not  from  any  vulgar  pleasure  in  her  folly,  but 
because  every  word  she  uttered  helped  him  to  understand  what  Rachel's 
life  had  been.  It  was  absurd,  it  was  detestable ;  it  was  like  the  tortures 


DAMOCLES.  523 

of  which  one  reads — a  thousand  times  more  hateful  because  they  were 
grotesque.  He  felt  as  if  he  ought  to  apologise  for  his  own  freedom  and 
independence,  when  he  realised  the  worrying,  well-meaning  tyranny 
which  Rachel  had  had  to  endure.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  had 
more  than  his  fair  share  of  liberty.  Miss  Whitney  was  an  excellent 
woman,  sincerely  anxious  to  do  right,  to  behave  as  a  lady  should  under 
all  circumstances,  and  to  do  the  best  she  could  for  her  charge ;  but  to 
Lauriston  she  was  a  nightmare.  There  was  something  ghastly  in  the 
thought  of  the  girl's  long  agony  of  dread  lying  hidden  iinder  the  discreet 
propriety  of  such  a  narrow  little  life.  He  cast  one  of  his  swift  sidelong 
glances  at  Rachel  as  he  said  "  good-night  "  to  Miss  Whitney,  and  saw  how 
she  had  lifted  the  blind  again,  and  was  gazing  at  the  night  into  which 
he  was  going.  He  longed  to  defy  everything,  and  take  her  out  with  him 
then  and  there.  If  they  two  could  but  stand  together,  in  silei.ce  if  she 
pleased,  in  the  silver  lights  and  dusky  shadows  of  the  world  without,  she 
would  surely  find  rest  and  healing  in  that  great  calm.  She  would  see — 
she  must  see — that  Miss  Whitney  was  impossible  and  absurd  ;  yes,  and 
Charles  Eastwood  too.  But,  of  course,  as  she  had  told  him,  it  was  out 
of  the  question. 

"  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow,"  he  said,  in  reply  to  Miss  Whitney's 
thanks.  "  And  if  there  is  anything  I  can  do,  pray  let  me  know.  Yes, 
I  will  see  that  the  fly  is  ordered  for  a  quarter  past  ten ;  it  shall  not  be 
forgotten.  Good-night."  He  turned  to  Rachel,  who  had  risen.  She 
gave  him  her  hand  lifelessly  enough,  but,  as  their  eyes  met,  it  suddenly 
quickened  in  his  clasp,  as  if  with  a  throb  of  fear  and  remembrance. 

He  went  hastily  out,  but  paused  in  the  road  and  looked  back  at  the 
little  house,  with  its  gleaming  yellow  windows,  and  the  diminutive 
flagstaff  asserting  itself  in  the  strip  of  garden.  Such  houses  may  be 
counted  by  scores  in  seaside  places  ;  but  to  Mr.  Lauriston,  at  that 
moment,  Arundel  Cottage  had  a  distinct  individuality.  It  held  his  idea 
of  Rachel's  previous  life.  He  knew  very  well  that  she  had  only  stayed 
there  for  two  or  three  weeks ;  but  he  understood  what  that  everyday  life 
was,  which  spent  its  holidays  in  Arundel  Cottage,  and  succeeded  in 
getting  one-and-ninepence  taken  off  its  account  for  gas  and  kitchen  fire. 
There  is  a  dignity  in  earning  and  a  dignity  in  spending ;  but  this  empty 
existence,  with  its  petty  economies,  seemed  to  miss  both.  As  Mr. 
Lauriston  walked  thoughtfully  away,  the  expression  of  his  face  was 
not  scorn,  nor  was  it  precisely  pity,  but  rather  distaste.  Life,  as  ruled 
by  Miss  Whitney,  without  grace,  or  freedom,  or  honest  endeavour,  was 
not  a  pleasant  subject  for  meditation.  At  the  same  time  he  did  not 
blame  anybody.  Unless  Miss  Whitney  had  been  more  amply  gifted 
with  heart  and  brains,  he  did  not  see  that  she  could  have  done  any  better, 
and  she  might  easily  have  done  much  worse.  Only  it  was  all  so  dreary, 
so  ignoble,  so  joyless  for  Rachel.  "  Well,  at  any  rate,  that  is  ended,"  he 
said  to  himself;  and,,  as  he  said  it,  he  awoke  to  the  consciousness  that  he 
had  mechanically  taken  the  path  which  led  to  the  cliff.  He  hesitated  a 


524  DAMOCLES. 

moment,  half  laughed  at  his  absence  of  mind,  and  then  went  on,  climbing 
the  hillside  to  the  spot  where  Rachel  had  waited  for  him  and  for  her 
fate.  Was  it  only  that  afternoon  1  The  south-west  wind  blew  softly,  yet 
strongly,  over  the  sea — such  a  wind  as  the  girl  had  longed  for,  to  cool  her 
tired  brow  and  drive  away  her  thickly-crowding  thoughts  and  fancies. 
The  white  clouds  went  hurrying  across  the  arch  of  moonlit  sky.  Rachel 
herself  could  see  those  hurrying  white  clouds  above  the  hills,  as  she  looked 
out  of  her  little  window,  while  Miss  Whitney  was  folding  her  Sunday 
dress  and  counting  her  pocket-handkerchiefs.  She  spent  that  brief  in- 
terval of  peace  in  wondering  uselessly  how  Charley  would  take  it.  Mr. 
Lauriston,  if  the  question  had  been  put  to  him,  and  he  had  thought  fit 
to  answer  frankly,  would  have  said,  "  He  will  not  understand  you;  he 
will  not  believe  you ;  he  will  take  it  brutally,"  and  would  have  put  the 
matter  aside.  He  was  not  thinking  of  Charley  as  he  stood,  a  slim,  black 
figure  at  the  cliff's  edge,  gazing  at  the  heaving  breadth  of  the  sea.  He 
was  looking  beyond  Charley,  and  wondering  what  the  end  would  be ;  but 
the  waves  below  seemed  only  to  whisper  with  sad  persistence  of  some* 
thing  that  could  have  no  end,  but  must  go  on  and  on  for  ever. 


CHAPTEK  VII. 
CHARLEY'S  EXPECTATIONS. 

MR.  LAURISTON'S  hurried  telegram  to  Charley  was  quickly  followed  by  a 
carefully-written  note  from  Miss  Whitney,  suggesting  that  he  should  put 
off  calling  on  them  in  their  London  lodgings  for  two  or  three  days.  The 
good  lady  had  not  the  faintest  idea  of  the  blow  which  awaited  young 
Eastwood.  To  do  her  justice,  she  was  not  mercenary.  When  an  honest 
young  man  had  been  encouraged,  and  as  good  as  accepted,  it  would  be, 
in  her  opinion,  neither  true  nor  ladylike  to  dismiss  him  in  consequence 
of  an  accession  of  fortune.  She  had  no  deeper  motive  in  postponing 
Charley's  visit,  than  a  desire  to  see  Rachel  duly  clothed  in  crape  before 
his  arrival.  She  doubted  whether  it  was  proper  that  an  engagement 
should  be  ratified  at  all  at  such  a  time  of  mourning.  She  feared,  how- 
ever, that  this  impropriety  was  inevitable,  and  it  only  remained  to  her 
to  prevent  a  meeting  during  the  few  days  which  the  heiress  was  obliged 
to  spend  in  her  old  clothes.  So  she  wrote  on  black-edged  paper,  and 
spoke  of  deep  affliction. 

The  note  lay  waiting  for  Charley  in  a  little  suburban  drawing-room 
which  Rachel  knew  well.  The  bright  green  Venetian  blinds  were  down 
to  save  the  bright  green  cai-pet  from  the  rays  of  the  western  sun,  and  in 
the  airless  obscurity  Mrs.  Eastwood  sat  alone,  dozing  over  her  knitting, 
amid  her  household  treasures.  The  room  was  full  of  traces  of  the  decora- 
tive skill  of  the  family.  Mrs.  Eastwood  herself  had  painted  a  couple  of 
little  cardboard  screens,  still  occupying  honourable  places  by  the  fireside, 


DAMOCLES.  525 

though  their  gilded  handles  were  somewhat  tarnished,  and  she  had  made 
the  wax  flowers  which  bloomed  perennially  under  a  glass  shade  on  a  side 
table.  EfSe's  crewel  work  adorned  the  chimney-piece  with  sprays  of 
yellow  jasmine,  and  she  had  gathered  and  dried  the  grasses  which  once 
were  airily  beautiful  in  Redlands  fields.  Fanny's  sketches  hung  upon 
the  walls.  Fanny,  while  at  school,  had  shown  a  marked  devotion  to  art, 
and  had  produced  six  water-colour  landscapes  of  singular  equality  of  ex- 
cellence. Returning  home,  she  had  rested  on  these  six  laurels.  Perhaps 
she  was  justified  in  feeling  that  her  work  was  done,  since  they  were  ad- 
vantageously hung,  four  in  the  drawing-room  and  two  in  the  dining- 
room,  and  there  were  really  no  suitable  places  for  more.  Those  who 
have  a  leaning  towards  mystical  and  poetical  fancies  may  find  a  virtue 
in  irregular  numbers,  such  as  three,  or  seven,  or  nine,  but  there  are  minds 
which  find  more  satisfaction  in  an  even  half-dozen  or  dozen.  Fanny 
liked  things  to  be  symmetrical  and  in  order.  The  pile  of  music  which 
belonged  to  Effie  and  Charley  was  the  untidiest  thing  in  the  room,  but 
Fanny's  back  numbers  of  the  Queen  were  laid  neatly  on  the  table,  with 
her  work-basket  set  on  them  to  keep  them  in  their  place. 

As  young  Eastwood  opened  the  door  his  mother  recommenced  work 
with  sudden  energy.  "  There's  a  letter  for  you,"  she  said.  "  Who  is  it 
from  1 " 

Charley  glanced  at  the  address.     "  Miss  Whitney." 

Mrs.  Eastwood  looked  up  eagerly.  "  I  thought  it  was  Miss  Whitney. 
What  does  she  say  1 " 

Charley  read,  and  his  face  grew  grave.  Miss  Whitney  alluded  to 
altered  circumstances,  and  the  unlooked-for  bereavement,  so  solemnly  that 
he  was  seriously  disquieted,  not  with  any  fear  about  Rachel,  but  with  a 
doubt  as  to  the  demands  which  might  be  made  on  his  sympathy.  "  I 
can't  go  and  cry  about  the  old  woman,"  he  said,  as  he  gave  Miss  Whit- 
ney's note  to  his  mother.  "  And  I  don't  see  that  it's  much  of  a  bereave- 
ment after  all." 

Mrs.  Eastwood  laid  down  her  knitting,  and  read  the  letter  with 
serious  attention.  "  I  wish  matters  had  been  settled  with  you  and 
Rachel  a  little  sooner,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  confound  it !"  said  Charley.  "  Weren't  you  always  telling  me 
not  to  be  imprudent  ?  Whose  doing  was  it  that  things  were  not  settled 
when  she  was  with  us  in  the  spring  ?  Why,  you  were  for  ever  at  me, — 
'  Make  sure  of  your  uncle's  approval,'  and,  '  Wait — wait.'  " 

"  You  needn't  be  in  such  a  hurry  to  blame  your  mother,  I  think,"  said 
Mrs.  Eastwood.  "  I  don't  remember  that  I  said  all  that,  but  I'm  sure 
I  gave  you  very  good  advice  under  the  circumstances.  Of  course  you 
couldn't  be  too  careful  then ;  but  now,  you  see,  circumstances  are  altered." 

"  I  should  think  they  were,"  Charley  answered,  almost  in  a  tone  of 
awe.  "  They  say  it's  five  or  six  thousand  a  year." 

"  As  much  as  that  1  "  Mrs.  Eastwood  read  the  note  through  a  second 
time,  while  Charley  whistled  sweetly  to  himself,  and  stood  with  his  eyes 


526  DAMOCLES. 

fixed  on  some  imaginary  prospect.  What  that  vision  was,  only  Charley 
could  tell. 

"  Miss  Whitney  writes  a  very  kind  letter,  and  that  is  something," 
said  his  mother,  "  though  I  do  wish,  as  it  has  turned  out,  that  you  had 
spoken  sooner.  Still,  she  doesn't  seem  to  think  it  will  make  any 
difference." 

Charley  stopped  whistling,  opened  his  eyes  more  widely,  and  looked 
at  his  mother.  "  Any  difference  ? "  he  repeated. 

"  Well,  of  course  it  ought  not  to  make  any  difference.  It  is  really 
as  good  as  an  engagement.  And  Miss  Whitney  says  nothing  to  the 
contrary." 

"  What  does  it  matter  what  Miss  Whitney  says  or  does  ?  Stupid  old 
woman !  " 

"  Well,  everything  matters  at  such  a  time.  But,  for  my  own  part,  I 
shall  think  very  badly  of  Rachel  Conway,  very  badly  indeed,  if  she  backs 
out  of  her  engagement — for  it  really  is  an  engagement — because  she  has 
come  into  this  money.  When  I  have  treated  her  like  my  own  daughter, 

too!" 

"  What  possesses  you  to  suppose  that  Rachel  will  do  anything  of  the 
kind  ?  Some  girls  might,  but  not  Rachel ! "  said  Charley  indignantly. 
He  drew  himself  up,  his  grey  eyes  shone,  his  lip  curved,  he  stood  there 
finely  defiant.  "  She  isn't  that  sort.  Don't  you  know  her  better  than 
that  ]  Why,  I'm  as  sure  of  her  as  I  am  of  myself.  No,  I'm  a  pfecious 
deal  surer  ! " 

"  Well,  I  hope  so,"  said  Mrs.  Eastwood  dubiously.  "  As  I  say,  she 
ought  to  be  the  same.  Since  you  really  are  engaged " 

"  Queer  way  of  being  engaged,"  said  Charley,  staring  at  the  ceiling. 
"  She  was,  and  I  wasn't." 

Charley  had  a  feeling  for  fair  play  which  sometimes  made  a  clean 
sweep  of  his  mother's  assertions,  explanations,  accusations,  lamentations, 
or  whatever  they  might  happen  to  be.  He  sat  down  on  the  end  of  the 
little  cretonne-covered  sofa,  with  a  whimsical  smile  on  his  face.  He 
could  afford  to  smile  ;  for  while  Mrs.  Eastwood  was  toiling  to  spin  a  rope 
to  hold  the  reluctant  heiress,  out  of  countless  little  cobweb  strands,  Charley 
was  happily  confident  in  his  knowledge  of  Rachel's  heart.  His  trust  in 
her  seemed  to  ennoble  his  features  in  some  undefinable  way. 

"  Oh,  if  you  are  going  to  make  fun  of  everything  I  say,  I  had  better 
hold  ray  tongue,"  Mrs.  Eastwood  rejoined.  "  I  hope  it  will  all  turn  out 
as  it  should.  I  hope  so  ;  but  money  changes  people  strangely." 

"  Wonder  whether  it  will  change  me  ! "  said  Charley.  "  Hullo !  here's 
Effie.  Well,  young  woman,  and  where  have  you  been  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  only  ran  round  to  the  Robinsons  and  the  Parkers.  I  wanted 
to  tell  them  about  Rachel.  Fanny  tells  all  the  people  if  I  don't  look 
sharp,  so  I  thought  I  would  tell  Ada  Robinson  and  Gwendolen  Parker." 

"  Here's  my  mother  prophesying  that  Rachel  will  throw  us  all  over," 
said  Charley. 


DAMOCLES.  527 

"Rachel"?  Why,  mother,  dear,  how  can  you  think  it?  You  don't 
mean  it,  now  do  you  1 " 

"  I  didn't  say  she  would.  I  said  I  hoped  she  wouldn't,"  Mrs.  East- 
wood explained,  in  a  tone  conveying  a  sense  of  injury  and  affront. 

"  But,  of  course,  she  won't.  Why,  Rachel  couldn't  do  anything 
mean.  I  don't  believe  she  cares  for  money  a  bit,  and  she  doesn't  care 
for  dukes  and  people  like  that.  If  I  were  rich  I  should  want  to  marry 
a  duke  ;  but  Rachel  wouldn't.  She'll  be  just  the  same  to  Charley  "  (here 
the  brother  and  sister  exchanged  quick  glances  which  lighted  up  their 
faces)  "  as  if  she  hadn't  a  penny  more  than  she  had  a  week  ago.  Oh, 
Charley,  don't  ever  think  Rachel  will  change  !  " 

"  I  don't,"  said  Charley. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  say  she  will,"  Mrs.  Eastwood  exclaimed,  a  little 
reassured  by  this  unanimity  of  confidence.  "  But  such  things  do  make 
a  great  difference.  You  young  people  think  everything  is  to  be  just  as 
you  want  to  have  it ;  but  when  you  have  lived  as  long  as  I  have  you'll 
know  better." 

Effie  took  off  her  hat,  and  stood  before  the  glass  arranging  the  little 
rings  of  fair  hair  about  her  forehead.  "  Rachel  isn't  like  the  rest  of  us," 
she  said  meditatively.  "  She  is  like  a  girl  in  a  novel.  That's  half  the 
fun  in  telling  people  about  her  fortune.  They  say,  '  How  nice  ! '  when 
they  hear  that  my  friend  has  come  into  a  lot  of  money ;  and  '  How  de- 
lighted you  must  be  ! '  and  all  the  time  they  are  thinking,  '  Oh,  you  poor 
little  silly,  much  you'll  see  of  your  friend  now  she's  rich  ! '  They  are 
very  clever,  but  they  don't  know  Rachel."  She  moved  away  from  the 
glass  as  she  spoke,  looking  back  at  it,  nevertheless,  over  her  shoulder. 
Charley  suddenly  put  out  his  hand,  pulled  her  to  him,  and  kissed  her. 
"  And  did  he  like  to  hear  his  Rachel  praised,  then,  did  he  1"  said  Effie, 
leaning  back  against  his  arm,  and  looking  at  him  with  her  pretty  little 
head  on  one  side.  "  And  he  wasn't  such  a  bad-looking  boy,  either, 
though  he  wasn't  a  duke.  Oh,  Charley,  how  I  wish  you  were ! " 

"  So  that  Rachel  might  be  a  duchess  1" 

"  Why  I  should  be  Lady — Lady  Euphemia." 

"  But  you  were  christened  Effie.  Wasn't  she,  mother  It  You're  not 
Euphemia,  not  a  bit  of  it." 

"  Ah,  but  I  shouldn't  have  been  Effie  then.  It's  quite  good  enough 
as  it  is,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  half-contemptuous  resignation,  an  ex- 
pression to  which  the  curves  and  dimples  of  her  soft,  childish  face  gave 
a  very  droll  effect,  "Little  Effie  Eastwood — that's  what  I  am,  and 
that's  all." 

"  'Tisn't  much,  is  it  1 "  said  Charley  in  a  sympathetic  voice. 

Whereupon  she  boxed  his  ears,  and  then,  recurring  suddenly  to  the 
original  subject  of  conversation,  "  When  are  you  going  to  see  Rachel  1 " 
she  asked. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  young  Eastwood  replied.  "  It  seems  she's 
very  much  bereaved,  and  can't  receive  anybody." 


528  DAMOCLES. 

"Rachel  can't?" 

"  So  Miss  Whitney  says.  You  can  read  the  note  if  you  like.  Some- 
body had  better  get  me  a  black-edged  handkerchief,  and  I'll  try  to  weep 
when  I  go.  She  talks  about '  a  house  of  mourning.'  That  means  full 
of  dressmakers,  doesn't  it  ? " 

"  Yes ;  I  suppose  so,"  said  Effie  abstractedly,  knitting  her  little  brows 
over  Miss  Whitney's  long  loops  and  undecided  letters.  "  '  This  ' — what  ? 
Oh,  I  see  !  '  This  sad  bereavement  was  very  sudden,  but  I  am  thankful 
to  say  that,  so  far,  our  dear  Rachel  has  borne  it  better  than  I  could  have 
expected." "  Effie  paused  a  moment  to  consider.  "  Well,  I  should  have 
expected  her  to  bear  it  pretty  well,"  she  remarked.  "  What's  this  bit 
squeezed  up  in  the  corner  ?  Something  about  the  death  of  an  only  rela- 
tion. I  can't  make  it  out." 

Charley  looked.  He  did  not  read  the  sentence,  but  he  recognised  it. 
"Oh,"  he  promptly  replied,  "she  says  it's  necessarily  a  shock  to  a  sensi- 
tive nature." 

"  But  Rachel  had  never  seen  her !  She  has  told  me  ever  so  often 
that  all  her  people  were  dead,  and  that  she  hadn't  anybody.  Well,  I 
haven't  a  sensitive  nature,  I  suppose,  for  I  shouldn't  mind  how  often  my 
only  relation  died,  if  I  hadn't  known  she  was  alive." 

"  I'm  shocked  at  you,"  said  Charley.  "  Now  /  understand  it  per- 
fectly. She  says  at  the  end  that  she  is  sure  I  shall." 

"Here,  take  your  note.  Why  doesn't  Rachel  write  herself?  I 
suppose  Miss  Whitney  won't  let  her.  Who  sent  the  telegram,  Charley  ? 
Was  that  Rachel]" 

"  No ;  Lauriston."  His  own  utterance  of  the  name  seemed  suddenly 
to  arrest  his  attention.  "  I  wonder  what  took  him  there,"  he  said. 
"  I'm  never  surprised  at  hearing  of  him  anywhere,  only  I've  just  this 
minute  remembered  that  he  certainly  told  me  he  was  going  to  North 
Wales." 

"  Perhaps  he  meant  to  travel  all  round  the  coast.  He  would  get 
there  some  day,"  said  Effie  flippantly. 

"  He  couldn't  have  gone  on  purpose,  surely.  I  don't  see  that  it  was 
any  business  of  his,"  Charley  went  on. 

Mrs.  Eastwood  looked  up  from  her  knitting.  "  If  you  choose  to  take 
any  heed  of  my  opinion,"  she  said  with  a  solemn  air,  "  I  should  recom- 
mend you  to  be  on  your  guard  with  Mr.  Lauriston.  But  I  daresay  you 
will  prefer  to  go  your  own  way." 

"What  next?"  said  Charley.  "Look  here;  if  you've  changed  all 
your  opinions,  you'd  better  say  so  at  once  and  get  it  over.  You've 
always  wanted  me  to  keep  in  with  Lauriston.  I've  told  you  scores  of 
times  that,  though  he  was  well  enough  in  his  way,  he'd  never  be  much 
good  to  me,  but  you  would  have  it  he  was  to  help  me  somehow.  And 
now  here  you  are  turning  round  on  him.  What  has  he  done  1 " 

"  Nothing  yet,  I  hope,"  Mrs.  Eastwood  replied. 

"  What  do  youjsuppos9  he  is  going  to  do  ?    Cut  me  out  with  Rachel  ? " 


DAMOCLES.  529 

"  Perhaps,  if  you  are  not  careful." 

"  Not  he,"  said  Charley. 

"  Well,  I  have  warned  you,"  said  his  mother.  "  There  was  always 
something  crafty-looking  about  Mr.  Lauriston  to  my  mind,  and  if  I  were 
you  I  wouldn't  trust  him." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  trust  him.  But  I  trust  Rachel,  and  Lauriston 
may  do  his  worst." 

"  Rachel  doesn't  like  him,"  said  Effie.   .  "  I  know  she  doesn't." 

"Well,  but  circumstances  are  changed,"  Mrs.  Eastwood  persisted, 
"and  Mr.  Lauriston  can  make  himself  very  agreeable  if  he  pleases,  very 
agreeable  indeed." 

"  Oh,  yes,  to  those  who  like  his  style,"  said  Charley,  getting  up  with 
a  prolonged  yawn,  and  adding  half  to  himself,  "  But  if  he  were  as  tempt- 
ing as  the  devil  himself,  Rachel  wouldn't  listen  to  him."  He  drew  a 
long  breath,  as  if  there  were  not  air  enough  in  the  little  room  without 
an  effort  to  get  it.  And  indeed  it  was  somewhat  small  and  close,  and 
the  big  young  fellow,  yawning  and  stretching  himself,  seemed  to  take  up 
a  great  deal  of  space.  At  that  moment  Fanny  opened  the  door,  and 
walked  in  with  an  aggrieved  expression. 

"  You  went  in  and  told  Gwendolen  Parker !  "  she  said  to  Effie.  "  I 
said,  before  I  went  out,  that  perhaps  I  might  find  time  to  call  on  the 
Parkers.  It  looks  so  silly  both  of  us  going  in,  as  if  we  were  so  very 
anxious  to  tell  a  bit  of  news." 

Charley  began  to  laugh.  "  So  Effie  was  beforehand  with  you,  was 
she!" 

"Come  now,"  Effie  expostulated,  "you  said  you  meant  to  tell  the 
Pembertons,  though  I'm  sure  Gertrude  and  Muriel  are  much  more  my 
friends  than  yours.  I  thought  you  had  gone  off  there." 

"  Yes,"  said  Fanny,  "  I  did  go,  but  they  weren't  at  home." 

"  I  call  that  hard,"  said  Charley  sympathetically.  "  And  so  you  told 
nobody?" 

"  Nobody  but  old  Miss  Humphreys.  I  met  her  as  I  was  coming 
back." 

"  Oh,  well,  then  you've  told  all  the  world ! "  cried  Effie.  "  She'll 
find  the  Pembertons  at  home,  or  she'll  sit  on  the  doorstep  till  they  come. 
You  needn't  take  any  more  trouble,  my  dear;  if  you've  told  Miss  Hum- 
phreys there's  nobody  left  to  tell." 

"  Well,  never  mind,"  Fanny  answered  a  little  shortly.  "  What  were 
you  all  talking  about  when  I  came  in  ? " 

"  Rachel,  of  course,"  said  young  Eastwood.  "  We  don't  talk  of  any- 
thing else,  do  we  ?  Give  her  Miss  Whitney's  note,  Effie ;  it's  on  the  sofa 
by  you." 

Fanny  deciphered  it  without  asking  for  any  assistance,  and  apparently 
accepted  Rachel's  deep  affliction  as  a  simple  matter  which  needed  no  com- 
ment. "  You  won't  go  for  a  day  or  two,  of  course,"  she  said  to  Charley. 
"  But  I  think  some  of  us  ought  to  call ;  I  think  mamma  ought.  It 


530  DAMOCLES. 

looks  so  strange  to  take  no  notice  of  her  at  such,  a  time.  She  could  see 
mamma,  you  know,  even  if  she  hadn't  got  her  mourning." 

Mrs.  Eastwood  was  rather  pleased  with  this  suggestion,  but  Charley 
objected.  In  spite  of  his  faith  in  Rachel,  which  was  very  real,  he  felt 
that  he  stood  at  the  turning  point  of  his  fortunes,  and  that  the  moment 
was  critical.  He  was  too  honest  to  pretend  that  Rachel  was  more  bound 
to  him  than  he  was  to  her,  and  he  knew  very  well  that  if,  instead  of  in- 
heriting this  money,  she  had  lost  the  little  she  already  possessed,  his 
mother  would  have  declared  that  there  was  really  no  engagement  at  all. 
As  the  merest  matter  of  course  she,  his  uncle,  and  his  relations  generally 
would  have  done  their  utmost  to  dissuade  him  from  marrying  a  penniless 
girl.  He  did  not  expect  Rachel's  friends  to  welcome  him — she  was  sure 
to  have  friends  now — and  he  so  far  agreed  with  Mrs.  Eastwood's  latest 
opinion  as  to  think  that  Lauriston,  if  he  had  anything  {to  say  on  the 
matter,  could  hardly  be  reckoned  as  an  ally.  "  He'll  sneer,  and  shrug 
his  shoulders,  and  say  I'm  a  very  good  fellow — confound  him  ! "  said 
Charley  to  himself.  "  What  business  has  he  to  meddle  ? "  But  neither 
did  he  think  his  mother's  interference  was  likely  to  help  him.  "  I  can 
manage  well  enough  if  they'll  only  let  me  alone,"  he  murmured  with  a 
not  unjustifiable  irritation.  "  I  understand  Rachel ;  why  can't  they 
leave  me  to  go  my  own  way  ? "  He  expressed  his  disapprobation  so 
strongly  that  Mrs.  Eastwood  reluctantly  gave  up  the  proposed  visit. 
"  If  you  go,  I  don't,  that's  all !  "  said  Charley  obstinately ;  and  it  was  so 
evident  that  nothing  could  be  done  towards  securing  Rachel's  fortune 
without  Charley,  that  his  mother  was  compelled  to  yield.  She  was  per- 
mitted to  write,  however,  and  sat  awhile,  with  her  pen  in  her  hand, 
questioning  what  she  should  say  to  account  for  her  failure  to  go  and  see 
her  dearest  Rachel  at  this  melancholy  time.  Happily  she  sneezed,  and 
it  suddenly  occurred  to  her  that  she  certainly  had  had  a  severe  cold 
hanging  about  her  for  some  time,  which  would  make  it  imprudent  for 
her  to  go  out.  She  explained  this  so  beautifully  in  her  note  that  she 
honestly  began  to  shiver,  and  was  obliged  to  ask  Fanny  to  get  her  a  shawl. 

"  I  really  don't  think  I  should  ever  have  got  there,  even  if  Charley 
hadn't  been  so  disagreeable  about  it,"  she  said  as  she  wrapped  herself  up. 
"  It  was  for  his  sake  I  thought  of  trying,  but  it  is  so  unwise  to  go  out  with 
a  nasty  lingering  cold  like  this.  One  always  suffers  for  it.  There,  see 
what  I've  said  ;  do  you  think  that  will  do  ?  "  Fanny  read,  and  thought 
it  would  do  very  well  indeed.  "  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Eastwood  with  a  smile 
of  mournful  satisfaction,  "  and  when  Rachel  asks  Charley  how  my  cold 
is,  he'll  stare  and  say  he  never  knew  anything  about  it.  He  never  takes 
any  notice.  I  believe  I  might  break  every  bone  in  my  body  and  he'd 
go  about  saying  I  was  very  well,  thank  you." 

"  I'll  remind  him  just  before  he  starts,"  said  the  practical  Fanny. 

Mrs.  Eastwood  might  perhaps  have  found  more  justification  for  her 
newly-developed  distrust  of  Mr.  Lauriston,  if  she  had  known  how 
much  he  was.  allowed  to  do  for  Miss  Whitney  and  Rachel.  The  truth 


DAMOCLES.  531 

is,  they  were  both  perplexed  and  helpless — the  one  because  she  was 
taken  suddenly  out  of  her  narrow  groove,  and  set  down  in  the  midst 
of  a  bewildering  crowd  of  events  and  people ;  the  other  because  she  had 
no  thought  for  anything  but  her  shadowy  dread,  and  the  approaching 
interview  with  Charley.  She  was  willing  to  leave  everything  in  Mr. 
Lauriston's  hands,  if  only  she  might  be  undisturbed.  Lying  awake 
through  many  hours  of  the  hot  August  nights,  she  saw  her  life  spread  • 
visibly  before  her,  as  if  it  were  a  country,  mapped  out,  through 
which  she  had  to  travel.  She  could  trace  the  path  by  which  she  had 
already  come,  through  a  region,  commonplace  and  melancholy  enough, 
yet  brightened  by  flying  gleams  of  sunlight  and  hope,  and  budding 
with  the  pale  and  tender  promise  of  spring.  The  fears  which  had  sad- 
dened it  seemed  only  like  passing  clouds,  compared  with  the  dull  eternal 
shadow  hanging  over  the  wide  level  on  which  she  was  about  to  enter. 
That  monotonous  waste  stretched  before  her  to  a  grey  horizon,  a  cheer- 
less boundary  which  limited  the  view,  but  knew  no  light  either  of 
dawn  or  sunset.  All  the  healthful  brightness  of  the  earlier  days 
gathered  about  the  thought  of  her  young  lover,  and  her  overwrought 
and  wearied  brain  idealised  the  simplicity  of  his  fondness.  That  first 
kiss  in  the  garden  was  still  fresh  as  very  dew  upon  her  lips,  and  sadder 
than  tears,  because  she  might  have  so  long  to  live,  and  yet  it  must  be 
the  last.  Charley  would  go,  must  go,  and  leave  her  to  that  hopeless 
life,  and  Mr.  Lauriston's  friendship.  At  night  she  gazed  into  the  future, 
and  during  the  day  she  tried  to  play  the  part  of  her  ordinary  self.  She 
partially  succeeded ;  though  Miss  Whitney,  who  was  pleased  from  the 
first  that  her  manner  betrayed  no  undue  exultation  or  eagerness,  but 
was  passive  and  ladylike,  began  to  think  after  a  day  or  two  that  Rachel 
really  felt  her  great-aunt's  death  quite  as  much  as  anybody  could  have 
expected.  She  was  rather  proud  of  the  girl's  sadness,  as  an  instance  of 
inborn  propriety  of  feeling. 

Mr.  Lauriston,  while  doing  all  in  his  power  to  help  Miss  Whitney, 
had  yet  made  up  his  mind  that  she  must  no  longer  pretend  to  rule 
Rachel.  A  quiet  country  town,  where  she  would  find  congenial  un- 
married friends,  was  the  haven  he  pictured  for  her.  Miss  Conway's 
gratitude  would  of  course  arrange  a  pleasant  addition  to  her  guardian's 
narrow  income,  and  permit  her  to  spend  the  remainder  of  her  days  in 
comfort,  and  in  strict  accordance  with  the  laws  of  good  society.  With 
a  view  to  this  he  made  appalling  allusions  to  what  Miss  Conway 
would  probably  do,  in  fact,  what  would  be  expected  of  her  in  her  new 
position,  opening  a  terrible  vista  of  difficulties  and  duties  before  Miss 
Whitney's  eyes.  The  poor  lady  began  to  think  that  it  was  a  mercy 
that  Rachel  would  marry  Charles  Eastwood  before  long,  and  so  relieve 
her  of  such  responsibilities.  Nor  did  Mr.  Lauriston  stop  there,  but 
brought  his  coxisin  Mrs.  Latham  to  call. 

Laura  Latham  was  a  woman  of  five-and-thirty,  who  had  been  a 
widow  for  seven  or  eight  years.  When  she  walked  into  the  room 


532  DAMOCLES. 

Rachel  looked  first  at  Mr.  Lauriston,  and  then  at  her,  with  a  questioning 
uncertainty  of  expression.  She  was  vaguely  afraid  of  a  reinforcement 
of  the  curious  influence,  the  mixture  of  attraction  and  repulsion,  which 
Mr.  Lauriston  exerted  over  her.  She  half  expected  to  see  his  eyes  look- 
ing at  her  from  a  new  face,  and  his  smile  coming  and  going  on  a  woman's 
lips.  It  was  with  a  feeling  of  relief  that  she  said  to  herself,  "  No,  they 
are  not  alike,"  just  as  Miss  Whitney  exclaimed,  "  Oh  !  I  should  have 
known  you  were  Mr.  Lauriston's  cousin,  there  is  no  mistake  about  it ! 
Or  you  might  he  his  sister." 

"  I  hope  you  are  flattered,  Adam  1 "  said  the  new-comer  in  a  prompt, 
pleasant  voice.  Rachel's  eyes  turned  quickly  towards  him.  The  un- 
affected utterance  of  his  name,  "Adam,"  seemed  somehow  to -reveal  him 
in  a  new  aspect. 

"  I  should  have  thought  it  might  have  been  a  certainty  instead  of  a 
hope,"  he  answered  quietly. 

Miss  Whitney  was  right.  Mr.  Lauriston  and  Mrs.  Latham  were 
very  much  alike.  She  was  somewhat  bigger  for  a  woman  than  he  was 
for  a  man,  but  the  similarity  of  feature  was  great.  Her  eyes  were  dark, 
like  his,  and  bright,  though  with  a  steadier  brightness ;  her  brows  were 
arched  like  his,  but  thicker  and  not  so  intensely  black  ;  her  lips  as  flex- 
ible, but  with  a  franker  and  less  subtle  smile.  Her  dark  hair  was  as 
soft  and  fine,  and,  though  she  had  not  his  colourless  complexion,  she  was 
pale  rather  than  florid.  The  likeness  was  evident,  and  could  not  but  be 
unfavourable  to  one  or  other  of  the  pair.  It  was  a  question  of  taste 
whether  one  should  say  that  in  Laura  the  type  became  commonplace,  or 
that  in  Adam  it  was  refined  to  something  over-delicate,  intense,  and 
somewhat  morbid. 

Rachel  was  right  too.  There  was  no  overmastering  influence  to  be 
feared  from  Mrs.  Latham.  She  was  not  without  a  touch  of  her  cousin's 
quickness  of  apprehension,  and  she  set  the  girl  at  her  ease  before  she  had 
said  a  dozen  words.  Miss  Whitney  did  not  quite  know  what  to  make  of 
the  stranger.  Mrs.  Latham's  ideas  of  what  it  was  fit  and  right  for  Miss 
Conway  to  do  were  not  hers,  but  they  seemed  to  be  based  on  the  one 
thing  essential,  that  which  was  done  by  the  best  people.  The  poor 
country  lady  was  bewildered,  and  began  to  doubt  her  own  infallibility, 
and  to  think  that  perhaps  times  were  changed.  After  a  long  call,  Mrs. 
Latham  rose  to  take  her  leave,  proposing  to  help  in  some  necessary 
shopping  the  next  day.  "  It  must  be  in  the  morning  then,"  Miss  Whit- 
ney said.  "  We  have  a  friend  coming  in  the  afternoon."  She  hesitated 
a  moment  and  then  named  him,  "  Mr.  Charles  Eastwood." 

"  Oh  !  is  Eastwood  coming  1 "  said  Mr.  Lauriston.  But  when  his 
cousin  and  Miss  Whitney  were  saying  goodbye  he  looked  at  Rachel.  The 
girl  stood  with  set  lips,  and  hanging  hands,  and  did  not  meet  his  eyes, 
and  he  carried  away  a  melancholy  little  picture  of  her  in  that  passive 
attitude  of  patience. 

"  Your  friend  is  not  in  the  highest  spirits  on  account  of  her  change 


DAMOCLES.  533 

of  fortune,1'  said  Mrs.  Latham,  when  they  were  outside  the  door.     "  She 
tries  to  seem  cheerful,  but  it  isn't  much  of  a  success.     I  think  I  could 
do  better  if  some  one  would  kindly  leave  me  a  few  thousands  a  year." 
"  I  hope  you  may  have  a  chance  of  trying,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston. 
"  I  don't  see  who  is  to  do  it.     I  know  the  family  tree  too  well  to 
have  any  hope  of  discovering  new  relations.     Herbert's  people  were  all 
as  poor  as  church  mice,  and  not  over  fond  of  me,  and  you've  got  all  the 
Lauriston  money." 

"  Is  that  a  hint  to  me  to  do  it  1  " 

11  It  wouldn't  be  any  good.  To  begin  with,  you  ought  to  be  forty  or 
fifty  years  older.  I  can't  wait  till  I  am  eighty,  and  you  are  ready  to 
dispose  of  your  spare  cash." 

Mr.  Lauriston  looked  at  her  with  something  of  significance  in  glance 
and  gesture,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  Nonsense,"  she  said.  "  Why,  they  said  the  same  of  your  uncle.  I 
don't  believe  in  it." 

"  I  do.  But  I  am  not  anxious  that  you  should  be  convinced  of  your 
error  yet  awhile." 

"  And  then,"  she  went  on  lightly,  "  there's  the  boy.    And  thirdly  and 
lastly,  if  you  were  ninety,  and  there  was  no  boy,  you  wouldn't  do  it." 
"  Being  in  my  second  childhood,  I  might,"  he  replied. 
Mrs.  Latham  laughed.     "  Well,"  she  said,  "  if  you  want  me  to  see 
much  of  Miss  Conway,  I   hope   she'll  manage  to  be  a  little  happier. 
What  is  amiss  with  her  1     Not  grief  for  the  great-aunt,  surely  ?  " 

"  Can't  say.  I  think  Miss  Whitney's  society  might  be  enough  to 
depress  anybody,  without  losing  a  great-aunt.  But  you  might  ask  Miss 
Conway." 

"  Heaven  forbid !  Of  all  things  I  abhor  confidences.  It's  quite 
enough  to  do  one's  own  weeping  and  wailing ;  and  to  have  to  pull  a  long 
face  j  ust  when  one  happens  to  be  in  excellent  spirits  is  intolerable.  Then 
of  course  if  one  has  the  toothache,  and  could  be  gloomy  without  any 
trouble,  it's  just  the  other  way,  and  ecstatic  idiots  come  blushing  in  to 
say  they  are  engaged.  No ;  I  like  people  who  can  hold  their  tongues." 

"As  far  as  I  can  judge,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston,  "you  will  find  Miss 
Conway  quite  capable  of  holding  hers." 


534 


This  is  no  my  ain  house  ; 
I  ken  l>y  the  biggin'  o't. 

Two  recent  books,  one  by  Mr.  Grant  White  on  England,  one  on  France 
by  the  diabolically  clever  Mr.  Hillebrand,  may  well  have  set  people 
thinking  on  the  divisions  of  races  and  nations.  Such  thoughts  should 
arise  with  particular  congruity  and  force  to  inhabitants  of  that  United 
Kingdom,  peopled  from  so  many  different  stocks,  babbling  with  so  many 
different  dialects,  and  offering  in  its  extent  such  singular  contrasts,  from 
the  busiest  overpopulation  to  the  unkindliest  desert,  from  the  Black 
Country  to  the  Moor  of  Rannoch.  It  is  not  only  when  we  cross  the 
seas  that  we  go  abroad ;  there  are  foreign  parts  of  England ;  and  the 
race  that  has  conquered  so  wide  an  empire  has  not  yet  managed  to 
assimilate  the  islands  whence  she  sprang.  Ireland,  Wales,  and  the 
Scottish  mountains  still  cling,  in  part,  to  their  old  Gaelic  speech.  It 
was  but  the  other  day  that  English  triumphed  in  Cornwall,  and  they 
still  show  in  Mousehole,  in  St.  Michael's  Bay,  the  house  of  the  last 
Cornish-speaking  woman.  English  itself,  which  will  now  frank  the 
traveller  through  the  most  of  North  America,  through  the  greater 
South  Sea  islands,  in  India,  along  much  of  the  coast  of  Africa,  and 
in  the  ports  of  China  and  Japan,  is  still  to  be  heard,  in  its  home 
country,  in  half  a  hundred  varying  stages  of  transition.  You  may  go 
all  over  the  States,  and — setting  aside  the  actual  intrusion  and  influence 
of  foreigners,  negro,  French,  or  Chinese — you  shall  scarce  meet  with 
so  marked  a  difference  of  accent  as  in  the  forty  miles  between  Edinburgh 
and  Glasgow,  or  of  dialect  as  in  the  hundred  miles  between  Edinburgh 
and  Aberdeen.  Book  English  has  gone  round  the  world,  but  at  home 
we  still  preserve  the  racy  idioms  of  our  fathers,  and  every  county,  in 
some  parts  every  dale,  has  its  own  quality  of  speech,  vocal  or  verbal. 
In  like  manner,  local  custom  and  prejudice,  even  in  spots  local  religion 
and  local  law,  linger  on  into  the  latter  end  of  the  nineteenth  century — 
impend  in  imperio,  foreign  things  at  home. 

In  spite  of  these  promptings  to  reflection,  ignorance  of  his  neighbours 
is  the  character  of  the  typical  John  Bull.  His  is  a  domineering  nature, 
steady  in  fight,  imperious  to  command,  but  neither  curious  nor  quick 
about  the  life  of  others.  In  French  colonies,  and  still  more  in  the 
Dutch,  I  have  read  that  there  is  an  immediate  and  lively  contact 
between  the  dominant  and  the  dominated  race,  that  a  certain  sympathy 
is  begotten,  or  at  the  least  a  transfusion  of  prejudices,  making  life  easier 
for  both.  But  the  Englishman  sits  apart,  bursting  with  pride  and 


THE  FOREIGNER  AT  HOME.  535 

ignorance.  He  figures  among  his  vassals  in  the  hour  of  peace  with  the 
same  disdainful  air  that  led  him  on  to  victory.  A  passing  enthusiasm 
for  some  foreign  art  or  fashion  may  deceive  the  world,  but  it  cannot 
impose  upon  his  intimates.  He  may  be  amused  by  a  foreigner  as  by  a 
monkey,  but  he  will  never  condescend  to  study  him  with  any  patience. 
Miss  Bird,  an  authoress  with  whom  I  profess  myself  in  love,  declares  all 
the  viands  of  Japan  to  be  uneatable — a  staggering  pretension.  So, 
when  the  Prince  of  Wales's  marriage  was  celebrated  at  Mentone  by  a 
dinner  to  the  Mentonese,  it  was  proposed  to  give  them  solid  English 
fare — roast  beef  and  plum  pudding,  and  no  tomfoolery.  Here  we  have 
either  pole  of  the  Britannic  folly.  We  will  not  eat  the  food  of  any 
foreigner ;  nor,  when  we  have  the  chance,  will  we  suffer  him  to  eat  of  it 
himself.  The  same  spirit  inspired  Miss  Bird's  American  missionaries, 
who  had  come  thousands  of  miles  to  change  the  faith  of  Japan  and 
openly  professed  their  ignorance  of  the  religions  they  were  trying  to 
supplant.  They  had  no  time,  they  said,  to  squander  on  such  trifles. 

I  quote  an  American,  in  this  connection,  without  scruple.  Uncle 
Sam  is  better  than  John  Bull,  but  he  is  tarred  with  the  English  stick. 
For  Mr.  Grant  White  the  States  are  the  New  England  States  and 
nothing  more.  He  wonders  at  the  amount  of  drinking  in  London ;  let 
him  try  San  Francisco.  He  wittily  reproves  English  ignorance  as  to  the 
status  of  women  in  America ;  but  has  he  not  himself  forgotten  Wyoming  ? 
The  name  Yankee,  of  which  he  is  so  tenacious,  is  used  over  the  most 
of  the  great  Union  as  a  term  of  reproach.  The  Yankee  States,  of  which 
he  is  so  staunch  a  subject,  are  but  a  drop  in  the  bucket.  And  we  find 
in  his  book  a  vast  virgin  ignorance  of  the  life  and  prospects  of  America ; 
every  view  partial,  parochial,  not  raised  to  the  horizon ;  the  moral 
feeling  proper,  at  the  largest,  to  a  clique  of  States ;  and  the  whole  scope 
and  atmosphere  not  American,  but  mei-ely  Yankee.  I  will  go  far  beyond 
him  in  reprobating  the  assumption  and  the  incivility  of  my  countryfolk 
to  their  cousins  from  beyond  the  sea  ;  I  grill  in  my  blood  over  the  silly 
rudeness  of  our  newspaper  articles ;  and  I  do  not  know  where  to  look 
when  I  find  myself  in  company  with  an  American  and  see  my  country- 
men unbending  to  him  as  to  a  performing  dog.  But  in  the  case  of 
Mr.  Grant  White  example  were  better  than  precept.  Wyoming  is, 
after  all,  more  readily  accessible  to  Mr.  White  than  Boston  to  the 
English,  and  the  New  England  self-sufficiency  no  better  justified  than 
the  Britannic.  I  hate  to  find  fault  with  a  book  so  loyal,  kind,  and 
clever,  or  a  man  so  amiable  by  his  simplicities  and  so  formidable  from  his 
slogging  style  of  controversy.  But  the  fact  is  one  which  would  have 
been  held,  in  the  old  days,  worthy  of  italics  :  he  seems  to  know  more  of 
England  than  America  and  to  be  most  at  home  abroad. 

It  is  so,  perhaps,  in  all  countries ;  perhaps  in  all,  men  are  most 
ignorant  of  the  foreigners  at  home.  John  Bull  is  ignorant  of  the  States ; 
he  is  probably  ignorant  of  India  ;  but,  considering  his  opportunities,  he 
is  far  more  ignorant  of  countries  nearer  his  own  door.  There  is  one 


536  THE  FOREIGNER  AT  HOME. 

country,  for  instance — its  frontier  not  so  far  from  London,  its  people 
closely  akin,  its  language  the  same  in  all  essentials  with  the  English — of 
which  I  will  go  bail  he  knows  nothing.  His  ignorance  of  the  sister 
kingdom  cannot  be  described ;  it  can  only  be  illustrated  by  anecdote.  I 
once  travelled  with  a  man  of  plausible  manners  and  good  intelligence — 
a  University  man,  as  the  phrase  goes — a  man,  besides,  who  had  taken 
his  degree  in  life  and  knew  a  thing  or  two  about  the  age  we  live  in. 
We  were  deep  in  talk,  whirling  between  Peterborough  and  London ; 
among  other  things,  he  began  to  describe  some  piece  of  legal  injustice  he 
had  recently  encountered,  and  I  observed  in  my  innocence  that  things 
were  not  so  in  Scotland.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he,  "  this  is  a 
matter  of  law."  He  had  never  heard  of  the  Scots'  law ;  nor  did  he 
choose  to  be  informed  ;  the  law  was  the  same  for  the  whole  country,  he 
told  me  roundly  ;  every  child  knew  that.  At  last,  to  settle  matters  at 
one  blow,  I  explained  to  him  that  I  was  a  member  of  a  Scottish  legal 
body,  and  had  stood  the  brunt  of  an  examination  in  the  very  law  in 
question.  Thereupon  he  looked  me  for  a  moment  full  in  the  face  and 
dropped  the  conversation.  .  This  is  a  monstrous  instance,  if  you  like, 
but  it  does  not  stand  alone  in  the  experience  of  Scots. 

England  and  Scotland  differ,  indeed,  in  law,  in  history,  in  religion, 
in  education,  and  in  the  very  look  of  nature  and  men's  faces,  not  always 
widely,  but  always  trenchantly.  Many  particulars  that  struck  Mr. 
Grant  White,  a  Yankee,  struck  me,  a  Scot,  no  less  forcibly ;  he  and  I  felt 
ourselves  foreigners  on  many  common  provocations.  A  Scotchman  may 
tramp  the  better  part  of  Europe  and  the  United  States,  and  never  again 
receive  so  vivid  an  impression  of  foreign  travel  and  strange  lands  and 
manners  as  on  his  first  excursion  into  England.  The  change  from  a  hilly 
to  a  level  country  strikes  him  with  delighted  wonder.  Along  the  flat 
horizon  there  arise  the  frequent  venerable  towers  of  churches.  He  sees, 
at  the  end  of  airy  vistas,  the  revolution  of  the  windmill  sails.  He  may 
go  where  he  pleases  in  the  future;  he  may  see  Alps,  and  Pyramids,  and 
lions  ;  but  it  will  be  hard  to  beat  the  pleasure  of  that  moment.  There 
are,  indeed,  few  merrier  spectacles  than  that  of  many  windmills 
bickering  together  in  a  fresh  breeze  over  a  woody  country;  their 
halting  alacrity  of  movement,  their  pleasant  business,  making  bread  all 
day,  with  uncouth  gesticulations,  their  air,  gigantically  human,  as  of  a 
creature  half  alive,  put  a  spirit  of  romance  into  the  tamest  landscape; 
when  the  Scotch  child  sees  them  first  he  falls  immediately  in  love ; 
and  from  that  time  forward  windmills  keep  turning  in  his  dreams. 
And  so,  in  their  degree,  with  every  feature  of  the  life  and  landscape. 
The  warm,  habitable  age  of  towns  and  hamlets,  the  green,  settled, 
ancient  look  of  the  country;  the  lush  hedgerows,  stiles  and  privy 
pathways  in  the  fields  ;  the  sluggish,  brimming  rivers  ;  chalk  and  smock- 
frocks  ;  chimes  of  bells  and  the  rapid,  pertly-sounding  English  speech — 
they  are  all  new  to  the  curiosity ;  they  are  all  set  to  English  airs  in  the 
child's  story  that  he  tells  himself  at  night.  The  sharp  edge  of  novelty 


THE  FOREIGNER  AT  HOME.  537 

soon  wears  off;  the  feeling  is  soon  scotched,  but  I  doubt  whether  it  is 
ever  killed.  Rather  it  keeps  returning,  ever  the  more  rarely  and 
strangely,  and  even  in  scenes  to  which  you  have  been  long  accustomed 
suddenly  awakes  and  gives  a  relish  to  enjoyment  or  heightens  the  sense 
of  isolation. 

One  thing  especially  continues  unfamiliar  to  the  Scotchman's  eye — 
the  domestic  architecture,  the  look  of  streets  and  buildings ;  the  quaint, 
venerable  age  of  many,  and  the  thin  walls  and  warm  colouring  of  all. 
We  have,  in  Scotland,  far  fewer  ancient  buildings,  above  all  in  country 
places ;  and  those  that  we  have  are  all  of  hewn  or  harled  masonry. 
Wood  has  been  sparsely  used  in  their  construction  ;  the  window-frames 
are  sunken  in  the  wall,  not  flat  to  the  front,  as  in  England ;  the  roofs 
are  steeper-pitched ;  even  a  hill  farm  will  have  a  massy,  square,  cold, 
and  permanent  appearance.  English  houses,  in  comparison,  have  the  look 
of  cardboard  toys,  such  as  a  puff  might  shatter.  And  to  this  the  Scotchman 
never  becomes  used.  His  eye  can  never  rest  consciously  on  one  of  these 
brick  houses — rickles  of  brick,  as  he  might  call  them — or  on  one  of  these 
flat-chested  streets,  but  he  is  instantly  reminded  where  he  is,  and  instantly 
travels  back  in  fancy  to  his  home.  "  This  is  no  my  ain  house  ;  I  ken 
by  the  biggin'  o't."  And  yet  perhaps  it  is  his  own,  bought  with  his  own 
money,  the  key  of  it  long  polished  in  his  pocket ;  but  it  has  not  yet, 
and  never  will  be,  thoroughly  adopted  by  his  imagination ;  nor  does  he 
cease  to  remember  that,  in  the  whole  length  and  breadth  of  his  native 
countiy,  there  is  no  building  even  distantly  resembling  it. 

But  it  is  not  alone  in  scenery  and  architecture  that  we  count 
England  foreign.  The  constitution  of  society,  the  very  pillars  of  the 
empire,  surprise  and  even  pain  us.  The  dull,  neglected  peasant,  sunk  in 
matter,  insolent,  gross,  and  servile,  makes  a  startling  contrast  with  our 
own  long-legged,  long-headed,  thoughtful,  Bible-quoting  ploughman.  A 
week  or  two  in  such  a  place  as  Suffolk  leaves  the  Scotchman  gasping. 
It  seems  incredible  that  within  the  boundaries  of  his  own  island  a  class 
should  have  been  thus  forgotten.  Even  the  educated  and  intelligent,  who 
hold  our  own  opinions  and  speak  in  our  own  words,  yet  seem  to  hold 
them  with  a  difference  or  from  another  reason,  and  to  speak  on  all  things 
with  less  interest  and  conviction.  The  first  shock  of  English  society  is 
like  a  cold  plunge.  It  is  possible  that  the  Scot  comes  looking  for  too 
much,  and  to  be  sure  his  first  experiment  will  be  in  the  wrong 
direction.  Yet  surely  his  complaint  is  grounded ;  surely  the  speech  of 
Englishmen  is  too  often  lacking  in  generous  ardour,  the  better  part  of 
the  man  too  often  withheld  from  the  social  commerce,  and  the  contact  of 
mind  with  mind  evaded  as  with  terror.  A  Scotch  peasant  will  talk 
more  liberally  out  of  his  own  experience.  He  will  not  put  you  by  with 
conversational  counters  and  small  jests ;  he  will  give  you  the  best  of 
himself,  like  one  interested  in  life  and  man's  chief  end.  A  Scotchman  is 
vain,  interested  in  himself  and  others,  eager  for  sympathy,  setting  forth 
his  thoughts  and  experience  in  the  best  light.  The  egoism  of  the 

VOL.  XLV.— NO.  269.  26. 


538  THE  FOREIGNER  AT  HOME. 

Englishman  is  self-contained.  He  does  not  seek  to  proselytise.  He 
takes  no  interest  in  Scotland  or  the  Scotch,  and,  what  is  the  unkindest  cut 
of  all,  he  does  not  care  to  justify  his  indifference.  Give  him  the  wages  of 
going  on  and  being  an  Englishman,  that  is  all  he  asks;  and  in  the  meantime, 
while  you  continue  to  associate,  he  would  rather  not  be  reminded  of  yoiir 
baser  origin.  Compared  with  the  grand,  tree-like  self-sufficiency  of  his 
demeanour,  the  vanity  and  curiosity  of  the  Scot  seem  uneasy,  vulgar, 
and  immodest.  That  you  should  continually  try  to  establish  human 
and  serious  relations,  that  you  should  actually  feel  an  interest  in  John 
Bull,  and  desire  and  invite  a  return  of  interest  from  him,  may  argue 
something  more  awake  and  lively  in  your  mind,  but  it  still  puts  you  in 
the  attitude  of  a  suitor  and  a  poor  relation.  Thus  even  the  lowest  class 
of  the  educated  English  towers  over  a  poor  Scotchman  by  the  head  and 
shoulders. 

Different  indeed  is  the  atmosphere  in  which  Scotch  and  English 
youth  begin  to  look  about  them,  come  to  themselves  in  life,  and  gather 
up  those  first  apprehensions  which  are  the  material  of  future  thought 
and,  to  a  great  extent,  the  rule  of  future  conduct.  I  have  been  to  school 
in  both  countries,  and  I  found,  in  the  boys  of  the  North,  something 
at  once  rougher  and  more  tender,  at  once  more  reserve  and  more 
expansion,  a  greater  habitual  distance  chequered  by  glimpses  of  a  nearer 
intimacy,  and  on  the  whole  wider  extremes  of  temperament  and 
sensibility.  The  boy  of  the  South  seems  more  wholesome,  but  less 
thoughtful ;  he  gives  himself  to  games  as  to  a  business,  striving  to  excel, 
but  is  not  readily  transported  by  imagination ;  the  type  remains  with 
me  as  cleaner  in  mind  and  body,  more  active,  fonder  of  eating,  endowed 
with  a  lesser  and  a  less  romantic  sense  of  life  and  of  the  future,  and 
more  immersed  in  present  circumstances.  And  certainly,  for  one  thing, 
English  boys  are  younger  for  their  age.  Sabbath  observance  makes  a 
series  of  grim,  and  perhaps  serviceable,  pauses  in  the  tenor  of  Scotch 
boyhood — days  of  great  stillness  and  solitude  for  the  rebellious  mind, 
when  in  the  dearth  of  books  and  play,  and  in  the  intervals  of  studying 
the  Shorter  Catechism,  the  intellect  and  senses  prey  upon  and  test  each 
other.  The  typical  English  Sunday,  with  the  huge  midday  dinner  and 
the  plethoric  afternoon,  leads  perhaps  to  different  resxilts.  About  the  very 
cradle  of  the  Scot  there  goes  a  hum  of  metaphysical  divinity;  and  the 
whole  of  two  divergent  systems  is  summed  up,  not  merely  speciously,  in  the 
two  first  questions  of  the  rival  catechisms,  the  English  tritely  inquiring, 
"  What  is  your  name  1  "  the  Scottish  striking  at  the  very  roots  of  life 
with,  "  What  is  the  chief  end  of  man  ? "  and  answering  nobly,  if  obscurely, 
"  To  glorify  God  and  to  enjoy  Him  for  ever."  I  do  not  -wish  to  make  an 
idol  of  the  Shorter  Catechism ;  but  the  fact  of  such  a  question  bein^ 
asked  opens  to  us  Scotch  a  great  field  of  speculation ;  and  the  fact  tl 
it  is  asked  of  all  of  us,  from  the  peer  to  the  ploughboy,  binds  us  mor 
nearly  together.  No  Englishman,  of  Byron's  age,  character,  and  history, 
would  have  had  patience  for  long  theological  discussions  on  the  way 


THE  FOREIGNER  AT  HOME.  539 

fight  for  Greece ;  but  the  daft  Gordon  blood  and  the  Aberdonian 
schooldays  kept  their  influence  to  the  end.  We  have  spoken  of  the 
material  conditions ;  nor  need  much  more  be  said  of  these ;  of  the  land 
lying  everywhere  more  exposed,  of  the  wind  always  louder  and  bleaker, 
of  the  black,  roaring  winters,  of  the  gloom  of  high-lying,  old  stone  cities, 
imminent  on  the  windy  seaboard,  compared  with  the  level  streets,  the 
warm  colouring  of  the  brick,  the  domestic  quaintness  of  the  architecture, 
among  which  English  children  begin  to  grow  up  and  come  to  themselves  in 
life.  As  the  stage  of  the  University  approaches  the  contrast  only  grows 
more  telling.  The  English  lad  goes  to  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  there,  in  an 
ideal  world  of  gardens,  to  lead  a  semi-scenic  life,  costumed,  disciplined, 
and  drilled  by  proctors.  Nor  is  this  to  be  regarded  merely  as  a  stage 
of  education ',  it  is  a  piece  of  privilege  besides,  and  a  step  that  separates 
him  farther  from  the  bulk  of  his  compatriots.  At  an  earlier  age  the 
Scottish  lad  begins  his  greatly  different  experience  of  crowded  class-rooms, 
of  a  gaunt  quadrangle,  of  a  bell  hourly  booming  over  the  traffic  of  the 
city  to  recall  him  from  the  public  house  where  he  has  been  lunching,  or 
the  streets  where  he  has  been  wandering  fancy-free.  His  college  life  has 
little  of  restraint,  and  nothing  of  necessary  gentility.  He  will  find  no 
quiet  clique  of  the  exclusive,  studious,  and  cultured,  no  rotten  borough  of 
the  arts.  All  classes  rub  shoulders  on  the  greasy  benches.  The  raffish 
young  gentleman  in  gloves  must  measure  his  scholarship  with  the  plain, 
clownish  laddie  from  the  parish  school.  They  separate,  at  the  session's 
end,  one  to  smoke  cigars  about  a  watering-place,  the  other  to  resume  the 
labours  of  the  field  beside  his  peasant  family.  The  first  muster  of  a 
college  class  in  Scotland  is  a  scene  of  curious  and  painful  interest ;  so  many 
lads,  fresh  from  the  heather,  hang  round  the  stove  in  cloddish  embarrass- 
ment, ruffled  by  the  presence  of  their  smarter  comrades  and  afraid  of 
the  sound  of  their  own  rustic  voices.  It  is  in  these  early  days,  I  think, 
that  Professor  Blackie  wins  the  affection  of  his  pupils,  putting  these 
uncouth,  umbrageous  students  at  their  ease  with  ready  human  geniality. 
Thus,  at  least,  we  have  a  healthy  democratic  atmosphere  to  breathe  in 
while  at  work  ;  even  when  there  is  no  cordiality  there  is  always  a  juxta- 
position of  the  different  classes,  and  in  the  competition  of 'study  the 
intellectual  power  of  each  is  plainly  demonstrated  to  the  other.  Our  tasks 
ended,  we  of  the  North  go  forth  as  freemen  into  the  humming,  lamplit  city. 
At  five  o'clock  you  may  see  the  last  of  us  hiving  from  the  college  gates, 
in  the  glare  of  the  shop  windows,  under  the  green  glimmer  of  the  winter 
sunset.  The  frost  tingles  in  our  blood ;  no  proctor  lies  in  wait  to  inter- 
cept us ;  till  the  bell  sounds  again,  we  are  the  masters  of  the  world ; 
and  some  portion  of  our  lives  is  always  Saturday,  la  treve  de  Dieu. 

Nor  must  we  omit  the  sense  of  the  nature  of  his  country  and  his 
country's  history  gradually  growing  in  the  child's  mind  from  story  and 
from  observation.  A  Scottish  child  hears  much  of  shipwreck,  outlying  iron 
skerries,  pitiless  breakers,  and  great  sea-lights ;  much  of  heathery  moun- 
tains, wild  clans,  and  hunted  Covenanters.  Breaths  come  to  him  in  song 

26—2 


540  THE  FOREIGNER  AT  HOME. 

of  the  distant  Cheviots  and  the  ring  of  foraying  hoofs.  He  glories  in  his 
hard-fisted  forefathers,  of  the  iron  girdle  and  the  handful  of  oatmeal,  who 
rode  so  swiftly  and  lived  so  sparely  on  their  raids.  Poverty,  ill-luck, 
enterprise,  and  constant  resolution  are  the  fibres  of  the  legend  of  his 
country's  history.  The  heroes  and  kings  of  Scotland  have  been  tragically 
fated  ;  the  most  marking  incidents  in  Scottish  history — Flodden,  Darien, 
or  the  Forty-five — were  still  either  failures  or  defeats ;  and  the  fall  of 
"Wallace  and  the  repeated  reverses  of  the  Bruce  combine  with  the  very 
smallness  of  the  country,  to  teach  rather  a  moral  than  a  material  cri- 
terion for  life.  Britain  is  altogether  small,  the  mere  taproot  of  her 
extended  empire ;  Scotland,  again,  which  alone  the  Scottish  boy  adopts 
in  his  imagination,  is  but  a  little  part  of  that,  and  avowedly  cold,  sterile, 
and  unpopulous.  It  is  not  so  for  nothing.  I  seem  to  have  perceived  in 
an  American  boy  a  greater  readiness  of  sympathy  for  lands  that  are 
great,  and  rich,  and  growing,  like  his  own.  I  am  sure,  at  least,  that  the 
heart  of  young  Scotland  will  be  always  touched  more  nearly  by  paucity 
of  number  and  Spartan  poverty  of  life. 

So  we  may  argue,  and  yet  the  difference  is  not  explained.  That 
Shorter  Catechism  which  I  took  as  being  so  typical  of  Scotland,  was  yet 
composed  in  the  city  of  Westminster.  The  division  of  races  is  more 
sharply  marked  within  the  borders  of  Scotland  itself  than  between  the 
counti'ies.  Galloway  and  Buchan,  Lothian  and  Lochaber,  are  like  foreign 
parts;  yet  you  may  choose  a  man  from  any  of  them,  and,  ten  to  one,  he 
shall  prove  to  have  the  headmark  of  a  Scot.  Indeed,  the  sense  of  national 
identity  is  more  hard  to  be  explained  than  that  of  national  difference. 
A.  century  and  a  half  ago  the  Highlander  wore  a  different  costume,  spoke 
a  different  language,  worshipped  in  another  church,  held  different  morals, 
and  obeyed  a  different  social  constitution  from  his  fellow-countrymen 
either  of  the  south  or  north.  Even  tha  English,  it  is  recorded,  did  not 
loathe  the  Highlander  and  the  Highland  costume  as  they  were  loathed 
by  the  remainder  of  the  Scotch.  Yet  the  Highlander  felt  himself  a 
Scot.  He  would  willingly  raid  into  the  Scotch  lowlands ;  but  his  courage 
failed  him  at  the  border,  and  he  regarded  England  as  a  perilous,  un- 
homely  land.  When  the  Black  Watch,  after  years  of  foreign  service, 
returned  to  Scotland,  veterans  leaped  out  and  kissed  the  earth  at  Port 
Patrick.  They  had  been  in  Ireland,  stationed  among  men  of  their  own 
race  and  language,  where  they  were  well  liked  and  treated  with  affection ; 
but  it  was  the  soil  of  Galloway  that  they  kissed,  at  the  extreme  end  of 
the  hostile  lowlands,  among  a  people  who  did  not  understand  their 
speech,  and  who  had  hated,  harried,  and  hanged  them  since  the  dawn  of 
history.  Last,  and  perhaps  most  curious,  the  sons  of  chieftains  were 
often  educated  on  the  continent  of  Europe.  They  went  abroad  speaking 
Gaelic ;  they  returned  speaking,  not  English,  but  the  broad  dialect  of 
Scotland.  Now,  what  idea  had  they  in  their  minds  when  they  thus,  in 
thought,  identified  themselves  with  their  ancestral  enemies  1  What  was 
the  sense  in  which  they  were  Scotch  and  not  English,  or  Scotch  and  not 


THE  FOREIGNER  AT  HOME.  541 

Irish  ?  Can  a  bare  name  be  thus  influential  on  the  minds  and  affections 
of  men,  and  a  political  aggregation  blind  them  to  the  nature  of  facts  1 
The  story  of  the  Austrian  Empire  would  seem  to  answer,  No ;  the  far 
more  galling  business  of  Ireland  clenches  the  negative  from  nearer  home. 
Is  it  common  education,  common  morals,  a  common  faith,  that  joins  men 
into  nations  ?  There  were  practically  none  of  these  in  the  case  we  are 
considering.  I  will  hand  the  problem  over  to  those  more  ingenious 
than  myself;  to  Mr.  Green,  Mr.  Grant  Allen,  and  the  other  rival  nation- 
makers.  It  is  one  they  will  do  well  to  weigh. 

The  fact  remains  :  in  spite  of  the  difference  of  blood  and  language, 
the  Lowlander  feels  himself  the  sentimental  countryman  of  the  High- 
lander. When  they  meet  abroad,  they  fall  upon  each  other's  necks  in 
spirit ;  even  at  home  there  is  a  kind  of  clannish  intimacy  in  their  talk. 
But  from  his  true  compatriot  in  the  south  the  Lowlander  stands  con- 
sciously apart.  He  has  had  a  different  training;  he  obeys  different  laws  ; 
he  makes  his  will  in  other  terms,  is  otherwise  divorced  and  married  ;  his 
eyes  are  not  at  home  in  an  English  landscape  or  with  English  houses ; 
his  ear  continues  to  remark  the  English  speech ;  and  even  though  his 
tongue  acquire  the  Southern  knack,  he  will  still  have  a  strong  Scotch 
accent  of  the  mind.  Nay,  and  if  you  consider  even  his  English  friends 
you  will  find  them,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  chosen  for  some  Scottish 
trait  of  character  or  mind. 

R.  L.  S. 


542 


SITTING  here  on  the  stile  that  leads  into  the  Fore  Acre,  I  have  just  dis- 
entangled from  my  nether  integuments  a  long  trailing  spray  of  cling- 
ing goose-grass,  which  has  fastened  itself  to  my  legs  by  the  innumerable 
little  prickly  hooks  that  line  the  angles  of  its  four-cornered  stem.  It  is 
well  forward  for  the  time  of  year,  thanks  to  our  wonderfully  mild  and 
genial  winter ;  for  it  is  already  thickly  covered  with  its  tiny  white  star- 
shaped  flowers,  which  have  even  set  here  and  there  into  the  final  mature 
stage  of  small  burr-like  fruits.  Goose-grass,  or  cleavers,  as  we  ordinarily 
call  it,  is  one  of  the  very  commonest  among  English  weeds,  and  yet  I 
dare  say  you  never  even  heard  its  name  till  I  told  it  to  you  just  now  j 
for  it  is  an  inconspicuous,  petty  sort  of  plant,  which  would  never  gain 
any  attention  at  all  if  it  were  not  for  its  rough  clinging  leaves,  that 
catch  one's  fingers  slightly  when  drawn  through  them,  and  often  obtrude 
themselves  casually  upon  one's  notice  by  looping  themselves  in  graceful 
festoons  about  one's  person.  Now  I  am  glad  to  have  got  you  button- 
holed here  upon  the  stile,  because  I  can  tell  you  all  about  the  goose- 
grass  as  we  sit  on  the  top  bar  without  risk  of  interruption ;  and  I  dare 
say  you  will  be  quite  surprised  to  learn  what  a  very  interesting  and 
historical  plant  it  is  after  all,  in  spite  of  its  uninviting  external  aspect. 
You  will  find  that  ito  prickly  leaves,  its  square  stem,  its  white  flowers, 
and  its  odd  little  fruit  all  tell  us  some  curious  incident  in  its  past  evo- 
lution, and  are  full  of  suggestiveness  as  to  the  general  course  of  plant 
development.  Here  is  our  weed  in  abundance,  growing  all  along  the 
hedgerow  by  our  side,  and  clambering  for  yards  from  its  root  over  all  the 
bushes  and  shrubs  in  the  thicket.  Pick  a  piece  for  yourself  before  I 
begin,  and  then  you  can  follow  my  preaching  at  your  leisure,  with  the 
text  always  open  before  you  for  reference  and  verification. 

Of  course  goose-grass  had  not  always  all  its  present  marked  pecu- 
liarities. Like  every  other  living  thing,  it  has  acquired  its  existing 
shape  by  slow  modification  from  a  thousand  widely  different  ancestral 
forms.  One  of  the  best  ways  to  discover  certain  lost  links  in  the  pedi- 
gree of  plants  or  animals  is  to  watch  the  development  of  an  individual 
specimen  from  the  seed  or  the  egg ;  for  the  individual,  we  have  all  often 
been  told,  to  some  extent  recapitulates  in  itself  the  whole  past  history  of 
its  race.  Thus  the  caterpillar  shows  us  an  early  ancestral  form  of  the 

*  The  substance  of  this  article  originally  formed  the  subject  of  a  lecture  delivered 
at  the  London  Institution,  Finsbury  Circus,  in  February  last.  The  scenery  and 
accessories  have,  however,  been  thoroughly  redecorated  throughout  for  this  occasion. 


AN  ENGLISH  WEED.  543 

butterfly,  while  it  was  still  a  wingless  grub  ;  and  the  tadpole  shows  us 
an  early  ancestral  form  of  the  frog,  while  it  was  still  a  limbless  mtid-fish. 
So,  too,  the  chick  hatching  within  the  shell  goes  through  stages  analo- 
gous to  those  of  the  fish,  the  amphibian,  the  reptile,  and  the  bird  suc- 
cessively. In  just  the  same  way  young  plants  pass  through  a  first 
simple  shape  which  helps  us  to  picture  to  ourselves  what  they  once 
were — what,  for  example,  the  ancestors  of  the  goose-grass  looked  like, 
long  before  they  were  goose-grasses  at  all.  Now  here  in  my  hand  I  have 
got  a  young  specimen  in  its  very  earliest  stage,  which  closely  reproduces 
the  primitive  type  of  its  first  progenitors,  a  million  ages  since.  Goose- 
grass  is  an  annual  weed  :  it  dies  down  utterly  every  autumn,  and  only 
reproduces  itself  by  seed  in  the  succeeding  spring ;  but  this  year  the 
weather  has  been  so  exceptionally  warm  and  summerlike  that  thousands 
of  young  plants  have  sprouted  from  the  seed  ever  since  Christmas;  and 
among  them  is  this  which  I  have  just  picked,  and  which  you  may  have 
for  examination  if  you  will  take  the  trouble.  Look  into  it,  and  you 
will  see  that  its  two  first  leaves  are  quite  unlike  the  upper  ones — a 
phenomenon  which  frequently  occurs  in  seedling  plants,  and  with  which 
you  are  probably  familiar  in  the  case  of  the  pea  and  of  the  garden 
bean.  But  this  difference  is  always  a  difference  in  one  direction  only ; 
the  first  leaves  which  come  out  of  the  seed  are  invariably  simpler  in 
shape  and  type  than  all  the  other  leaves  which  come  after  them.  In  the 
language  of  science,  they  are  less  specialized ;  they  represent  an  earlier 
and  undeveloped  form  of  leaf — nature's  rough  sketch,  so  to  speak — 
while  the  later  foliage  represents  the  final  improvements  introduced  with 
time,  and  perfected  by  the  action  of  natural  selection. 

These  large  oval  leaves  which  you  see  in  the   seedling  are  mere 
general  models  or  central  ideals  of  what  a  leaf  should  be;  they  are 
quite  unadapted  to  any   one   special   or   definite  situation.     They   are 
not  divided   into  many  little  separate  leaflets,  or  prolonged  into  points 
and  angles,  or  gracefully  vandyked  round  the  edges,  or  beautifully  cut 
out  into  lacelike  patterns,  or  armed  at  every  rib  with  stout  defensive 
prickles,   like  many  other   leaves   that   you   know   familiarly.     Their 
outline  is  quite  simple  and  unbroken;  they  preserve  for  us  still  the 
extremely  plain  ancestral  form  from  which  such  different  leaves  as  those 
of  the  horse-chestnut,  the  oak,  the  clover,  the  milfoil,  the  parsley,  and 
the  holly  are  ultimately  derived.     An   expanded  oval,  something  like 
this,  is  the  prime  original,  the  central  point  from  which  every  variety  of 
foliage  first  set  out,  and  from  which  they  have  all  diverged  in  various 
directions,   according   as   different   circumstances   favoured   or   checked 
their  development  in   this,   that,    or   the  other  particular.     Just  as  a 
single  little   cartilaginous   mud-haunter — a   blind   and   skulking   small 
creature,    something   like   a   lancelet,   something   like   a    tadpole,    and 
something   like    the    famous    ascidian    larva — has    gradually    evolved, 
through  diverse  lines,  all  the  existing  races  of  beasts,  birds,   reptiles, 
and   fishes,   so   too    a    single    little    primeval    plant,    something    like 


544  AN  ENGLISH  WEED. 

these  two  lowest  leaves  of  the  goose-grass,  has  gradually  evolved  all 
the  oaks  and  elms  and  ashes  ;  all  the  roses,  and  geraniums,  and  carna- 
tions ;  all  the  cabbages,  and  melons,  and  apples,  which  we  see  in  the 
world  around  us  at  the  present  day.  And,  again,  just  as  the  larval  form 
of  the  ascidian  and  of  the  frog  still  preserves  for  us  a  general  idea  of  that 
earliest  ancestral  vertebrate,  so  too  these  larval  leaves  of  the  goose-grass, 
if  I  may  venture  so  to  describe  them,  still  preserve  for  us  a  general  idea 
of  that  earliest  dicotyledonous  plant. 

Dicotyledonous  is  a  very  ugly  word,  and  I  shall  not  stop  now  to  ex- 
plain it  from  the  top  of  a  turnstile.     It  must  suffice  if  I  tell  you  confi- 
dentially that  the  little  plant  we  have  thus  ideally  reconstructed  was  the 
first  ancestor  of  almost  all  the  forest  trees,  and  of  all  the  besb  known 
English  herbs  and  flowers ;  but  not  of  the  lilies,  the  grasses,  and  the 
cereal  kinds,  which  belong  to  the  opposite  or  monocotyledonous  division 
of  flowering  plants.    When  this  sprig  of  goose-grass  first  appeared  above 
the  ground,  it  probably  represented  that  typical  ancestor  almost  to  the 
life ;  for  it  had  then  only  the  two  rounded  leaves  you  see  at  its  base, 
and  none  of  these  six-rowed  upper  whorls,  which  are  so  strikingly  differ- 
ent from  them.     Now,  how  did  the  upper  whorls  get  there  1     Why,  of 
course  they  grew,  you  say.     Yes,  no  doubt,  but  what  made  them  grow  ? 
Well,  the  first  pair  of  leaves  grew  out  of  the  seed,  where  the  mother 
plant  had  laid  by  a  little  store  of  albumen  on  purpose  to  feed  them, 
exactly  as  a  slightly  different  sort  of  albumen  is  laid  by  in  the  egg  of  a 
hen  to  feed  the  growing  chick.     Under  the  influence  of  heat  and  mois- 
ture the  seed  began  to  germinate,  as  we  call  it — that  is  to  say,  oxygen 
began  to  combine  with  its  food  stuffs,  and  motion  or  sprouting  was  the 
natural  result.     This  motion  takes  in  each  plant  a  determinate  course, 
dependent  upon  the  intimate  molecular  structure  of  the  seed  itself;  and 
so  each  seed  reproduces  a  plant  exactly  like  the  parent,  bar  those  small 
individual  variations  which  are  the  ultimate  basis  of  new  species — the 
groundwork  upon  which  natural  selection  incessantly  works.     In  the 
case  of  this  goose-grass  seed  the  first  thing  to  appear  was  the  pair  of  little 
oval  leaves ;  and,  as  the  small  store  of  albumen  laid  by  in  the  seed  was 
all  used  up  in  producing  them,  they  had  to  set  to  work  at  once  manu- 
facturing new  organic  material  for  the  further  development  of  the  plant. 
Luckily  they  happened  to  grow  in  a  position  where  the  sunlight  could 
fall  upon  them — a  good  many  seedlings  rare  more  unfortunate,  and  so 
starve  to  death  at  the  very  outset  of  their  careers — and  by  the  aid  of  the 
light  they  immediately  began  decomposing  the  carbonic  acid  of  the  air 
and  laying  by  starch  for  the  use  of  the  younger  generation  of  leaves.    At 
the  same  time  the  vigorous  young  sap  carried  these  fresh  materials  of 
growth  into  the  tiny  sprouting  bud  which  lay  between  them,  and  rapidly 
unfolded  it  into  such  a  shoot  as  you  see  now  before  you,  with  level 
whorls  of  quite  differently  shaped  and  highly  developed  leaves,  disposed 
in  rows  of  six  or  eight  around  the  stem. 

Observe  that  the  adult  type  of  leaf  appears  here  suddenly  and  as  it 


AN  ENGLISH  WEED.  545 

were  by  a  leap.  If  we  could  reconstruct  the  whole  past  history  of  the 
goose-grass,  we  should  doubtless  find  that  each  change  in  its  foliage  took 
place  very  gradually,  by  a  thousand  minute  intermediate  stages.  Indeed, 
many  of  these  stages  still  survive  for  us  among  allied  plants.  But  the 
impulsive  goose-grass  itself  clears  the  whole  distance  between  the  primi- 
tive ancestor  and  its  own  advanced  type  at  a  single  bound.  The  inter- 
mediate stages  are  all  suppressed.  This  is  not  always  the  case :  there 
are  many  plants  which  begin  with  a  simple  type  of  leaf,  and  gradually 
progress  to  a  complex  one  by  many  small  steps;  just  as  the  tadpole 
grows  slowly  to  be  a  frog  by  budding  out  first  one  pair  of  legs  and  then 
another,  and  next  losing  his  tail  and  his  gills,  and  finally  emerging  on 
dry  land  a  full-fledged  amphibian.  The  goose-grass,  however,  rather  re- 
sembles the  butterfly,  which  passes  at  once  from  the  creeping  caterpillar 
to  the  complete  winged  form,  all  the  intermediate  stages  being  com- 
pressed into  the  short  chrysalis  period ;  only  our  plant  has  not  even  a 
chrysalis  shape  to  pass  through.  It  is  in  reality  a  very  advanced  and 
specially  developed  type — the  analogue,  if  not  of  man  among  the  animals, 
at  least  of  a  highly  respectable  chimpanzee  or  intelligent  gorilla — and  so 
it  has  learnt  at  last  to  pass  straight  from  its  embryo  state  as  a  two-leaved 
plantlet  to  its  typical  adult  form  as  a  trailing,  whorled,  and  prickly 
creeper. 

And  now  let  us  next  look  at  this  adult  form  itself.  Here  I  have 
cut  a  little  bit  of  it  for  you  with  my  penknife,  and,  if  you  like,  I  will 
lend  you  my  pocket  lens  to  magnify  it  slightly.  The  fragment  I  have 
cut  for  you  consists  of  a  single  half-inch  of  the  stem,  with  one  whorl  of 
six  long  pointed  leaves.  You  will  observe,  first,  that  the  stem  is  quad- 
rangular, not  round ;  secondly,  that  the  leaves  are  lance-shaped,  not 
oval ;  and  thirdly,  that  both  stem  and  leaves  are  edged  with  little  sharp 
curved  prickles,  pointing  backward  the  opposite  way  to  the  general 
growth  of  the  plant.  Let  us  try  to  find  out  what  is  the  origin  and 
meaning  of  these  three  marked  peculiarities. 

To  do  so  rightly  we  must  begin  by  considering  the  near  relations  of 
the  goose-grass.  In  a  systematic  botanical  classification  our  plant  is 
ranked  as  one  of  the  stellate  tribe,  a  subdivision  of  the  great  family  of 
the  Rubiacea?,  or  madder  kind.  Now,  the  stellates  are  so  called  because 
of  their  little  star-shaped  flowers,  and  they  are  all  characterised  by  two 
of  these  goose-grass  peculiarities — namely,  the  square  stems  and  the 
whorled  leaves — while  the  third  point,  the  possession  of  recurved 
prickles  on  the  angles  of  the  stalk  and  the  edges  of  the  leaves,  is  a  special 
personal  habit  of  the  goose-grass  species  itself,  with  one  or  two  more  of  its 
near  relations.  It  will  be  best  for  us,  therefore,  to  ask  first  what  is  the 
origin  and  meaning  of  the  characteristics  which  our  plant  shares  with 
all  its  tribe,  and  afterwards  to  pass  on  to  those  which  are  quite  confined 
to  its  own  little  minor  group  of  highly  evolved  species. 

What,  then,  is  the  use  to  the  goose-grass  of  these  small,  narrow, 
thickly  whorled  leaves  ?  Why  are  they  not  all  and  always  large,  flat, 

26—5 


546  AN  ENGLISH  WEED. 

and  oval,  like  the  two  seed  leaves  ?  The  answer  must  be  sought  in  the 
common  habits  of  all  the  stellate  tribe.  They  are  without  exception 
small  creeping,  weedy  plants,  which  grow  among  the  dense  and  matted 
vegetation  of  hedgerows,  banks,  heaths,  thickets,  and  ether  very  tangled 
places.  Now,  plants  which  live  in  such  situations  must  necessarily  have 
small  or  minutely  subdivided  leaves,  like  those  of  wild  chervil,  fool's 
parsley,  herb-Robert,  and  starwort.  The  reason  for  this  is  clear  enough. 
Leaves  depend  for  their  growth  upon  air  and  sunlight :  they  must  be 
supplied  with  carbonic  acid  to  assimilate,  and  solar  rays  to  turn  off  the 
oxygen  and  build  up  the  carbon  into  their  system.  In  open  fields  or 
bare  spaces,  big  leaves  like  burdock,  or  rhubarb,  or  coltsfoot  can  find  food 
and  space ;  but  where  carbonic  acid  is  scarce,  and  light  is  intercepted  by 
neighbouring  plants,  all  the  leaves  must  needs  be  fine  and  divided  into 
almost  threadlike  segments.  The  competition  for  the  carbon  is  fierce. 
For  example,  in  water  only  very  small  quantities  of  gas  are  dissolved, 
so  that  all  submerged  water-plants  have  extremely  thin  waving  filaments 
instead  of  flat  blades ;  and  one  such  plant,  the  water- crowfoot,  has  even 
two  types  of  foliage  on  the  same  stem — submerged  leaves  of  this  lacelike 
character,  together  with  large,  expanded,  floating  leaves  upon  the  surface 
something  like  those  of  the  water-lily.  In  the  same  way  hedgerow 
weeds,  which  jostle  thickly  against  one  another,  have  a  constant  hard 
struggle  for  the  carbon  and  the  sunshine,  and  grow  out  accordingly  into 
numerous  small  subdivided  leaflets,  often  split  up  time  after  time  into 
segments  and  sub-segments  of  the  most  intricate  sort.  I  do  not  mean, 
of  course,  that  each  individual  leaf  has  its  shape  wholly  determined 
for  it  by  the  amount  of  sun  and  air  which  it  in  particular  happens  to 
obtain,  but  that  each  species  has  slowly  acquired  by  natural  selection 
the  kind  of  leaf  which  best  fitted  its  peculiar  habitat.  Those  plants  sur- 
vive whose  foliage  adapts  them  to  live  in  the  circumstances  where  it 
has  pleased  nature  to  place  them,  and  those  plants  die  out  without 
descendants  whose  constitution  fails  in  any  respect  to  square  with 
that  inconvenient  conglomeration  of  external  facts  that  we  call  their 
environment. 

That  is  why  the  goose-grass  and  the  other  stellate  weeds  have  foliage 
of  this  minute  character,  instead  of  broad  blades  like  the  two  seed  leaves. 
But  all  plants  of  tangly  growth  do  not  attain  their  end  in  precisely  the 
same  manner.  Sometimes  one  plan  succeeds  best  and  sometimes  another. 
In  most  cases  the  originally  round  and  simple  leaf  gets  split  up  by  gra- 
dual steps  into  several  smaller  leaflets.  In  the  stellate  tribe,  however, 
the  same  object  is  provided  for  in  a  widely  different  fashion.  Instead  of 
the  primitive  leaf  dividing  into  numerous  leaflets,  a  number  of  organs 
which  were  not  originally  leaves  grow  into  exact  structural  and  func- 
tional resemblance  to  those  which  were.  Strictly  speaking,  in  this 
whorl  of  six  little  lance-shaped  blades,  precisely  similar  to  one  another, 
only  two  opposite  ones  are  true  leaves ;  the  other  four  are  in  fact,  to  use 
a  very  technical  term,  interpetiolar  stipules.  A  stipule,  you  know,  of 


AN  ENGLISH  WEED.      •  547 

course,  is  a  little  fringe  or  tag  which  often  appears  at  the  point  where 
the  leaf  stalk  joins  the  stem,  and  its  chief  use  seems  to  be  to  prevent 
ants  and  other  destructive  insects  from  creeping  up  the  petiole.  But  in 
all  the  stellate  plants  the  two  little  stipules  on  each  side  of  each  leaf 
have  grown  gradually  out  into  active  green  foliar  organs,  to  supplement 
and  assist  the  leaves,  until  at  last  they  have  become  as  long  and  broad 
as  the  original  leaflets,  and  have  formed  with  them  a  perfect  whorl  of  six 
or  eight  precisely  similar  blades.  How  do  we  know  that  ?  you  ask.  In 
this  simple  way,  my  dear  sir.  The  other  Rubiaceae — that  is  to  say,  the 
remainder  of  the  great  family  to  which  the  stellate  tribe  belongs — have 
no  whorls,  but  only  two  opposite  leaves  ;  and  we  have  many  reasons  for 
supposing  that  they  represent  the  simpler  and  more  primitive  type,  from 
which  the  stellate  plants  are  specialised  and  highly  developed  descend- 
ants. But  between  the  opposite  leaves  grow  a  pair  of  sma)l  stipules, 
occupying  just  the  same  place  as  the  whorled  leaflets  in  the  goose-grass  ; 
and  in  some  intermediate  species  these  stipules  have  begun  to  grow  out 
into  expanded  green  blades,  thus  preserving  for  us  an  early  stage  on  the 
road  towards  the  development  of  the  true  stellates.  Accordingly,  we 
are  justified  in  believing  that  in  the  whorls  of  goose-grass  the  same  pro- 
cess has  been  carried  a  step  further,  till  leaves  and  stipules  have  at  last 
become  absolutely  indistinguishable. 

"What  may  be  the  use  of  the  square  stem  it  would  be  more  difficult  to 
decide.  Perhaps  it  may  serve  to  protect  the  plant  from  being  trodden 
down  and  broken;  perhaps  by  its  angularity  and  stringiness  it  may 
render  it  unpalatable  to  herbivorous  animals.  This  much  at  least  is 
certain,  that  very  few  cows  or  donkeys  will  eat  goose-grass.  There  is 
another  large  family  of  plants — the  dead-nettle  tribe — all  of  which  have 
also  square  stems ;  and  they  are  similarly  rejected  as  fodder  by  cattle. 
Indeed,  the  very  fact  that  the  stellate  tribe  have  become  thus  quadrangu- 
lar, while  the  other  and  earlier  members  of  the  madder  kind,  like  coffee 
and  gardenia,  have  round  stems,  in  itself  suggests  the  idea  that  there 
must  be  some  sufficient  reason  for  the  change,  or  else  it  would  never 
have  taken  place ;  but,  as  in  many  other  cases,  what  that  reason  may 
bo  I  really  cannot  with  any  confidence  inform  you  from  my  simple 
professional  chair  on  the  stile  here.  If  I  were  only  at  Kew  Gardens, 
now — well,  that  might  be  a  different  matter.  , 

And  now  let  us  come  down  to  the  individual  peculiarities  of  the 
goose-grass,  and  ask  what  is  the  use  of  the  wee  recurved  prickles  which 
you  can  see  thickly  scattered  on  the  stalk  and  whorls  by  the  aid  of  my 
pocket  lens.  You  observe  that  they  occur  all  along  each  angle  of  the 
stem,  and  around  the  edge  and  midribs  of  the  leaflets  as  well.  If  you 
try  to  pull  a  bit  of  goose-grass  out  of  the  thicket  entire,  you  will  soon  see 
the  function  they  subserve.  The  plant,  you  notice,  resists  your  effort 
at  once ;  the  little  prickles  catch  securely  on  to  the  bushes  and  defeat  all 
endeavours  to  tear  it  away.  It  is  these  prickles,  indeed,  which  are  the 
raison  d'etre  of  the  goose-grass  as  a  separate  species  :  they  mark  it  off  at 


548  -AN  ENGLISH  WEED. 

once  from  almost  all  the  other  members  of  the  same  genus.  There  are 
many  allied  kinds  of  galium  in  England  (for  galium  is  the  botanical  name 
of  the  gen  vis),  with  very  similar  leaves  and  flowers,  but  they  all  grow  in 
shorter  bunches  and  frequent  less  thickly  populated  situations.  Goose- 
orass,  however,  has  survived  and  become  a  distinct  kind  just  in  virtue 
of  these  very  hooks.  By  their  aid  it  is  enabled  to  scramble  for  many 
feet  over  hedges  and  bushes,  though  it  is  but  an  annual  plant ;  and  it  thus 
makes  use  of  the  firm  stem  of  yonder  hawthorn  and  this  privet  bush  by 
our  sides  to  raise  its  leaves  into  open  sunny  situations  which  it  could 
never  reach  with  its  own  slender  stalk  alone.  Such  an  obvious  improve- 
ment gives  it  an  undoubted  advantage  in  the  struggle  for  life,  and  so  in 
its  own  special  positions  it  has  fairly  beaten  all  the  other  galiums  out  of 
the  field.  One  of  its  common  English  names — Robin  Run-the-heclge — 
sufficiently  expresses  the  exact  place  in  nature  which  it  has  thus  adapted 
itself  to  fill  and  to  adorn. 

But  how  did  the  goose-grass  first  develop  these  little  prickles  ?  That 
is  the  question.  Granting  that  their  possession  would  give  it  an  extra 
chance  in  the  struggle  for  existence,  if  once  they  were  to  occur,  how  are 
we  to  account  for  their  first  beginning  ?  In  this  way,  as  it  seems  to  me. 
Viewed  structurally,  the  stout  little  hooks  which  arm  the  stem  and 
leaves  are  only  thickened  hairs.  Now  hairs,  or  long  pointed  projections 
from  the  epidermis,  constantly  occur  in  almost  all  plants,  and  in  this 
very  family  they  are  found  on  the  edges  of  the  leaflets  and  on  the  angles 
of  the  stem  among  several  allied  species.  But  such  hairs  may  easily 
happen  to  grow  a  little  thicker  or  harder,  by  mere  individual  or  consti- 
tutional variation ;  and  in  a  plant  with  habits  like  the  goose-grass  every 
increase  in  thickness  and  hardness  would  prove  beneficial,  by  helping  the 
festoons  to  creep  over  the  bushes  among  which  they  live.  Thus  genera- 
tion after  generation  those  incipient  goose-grasses  which  best  succeeded 
in  climbing  would  set  most  seed  and  produce  most  young,  while  the 
less  successful  would  languish  in  the  shade  and  never  become  the  proud 
ancestors  of  future  plantlets.  Even  the  less  highly  developed  species, 
such  as  the  wall  galium  and  the  swamp  galium,  have  little  asperities  on 
the  edge  of  the  stem ;  but,  as  they  need  to  climb  far  less  than  the  hedge- 
row goose-grass,  their  roughnesses  hardly  deserve  to  be  described  as 
prickles.  Our  own  special  subject,  on  the  other  hand,  being  a  confirmed 
creeper,  finds  the  prickles  of  immense  use  to  it,  and  so  has  developed 
them  to  a  very  marked  extent.  The  corn  galium,  too,  which  clings  to 
the  growing  haulms  or  stubble  of  wheat,  has  learnt  to  produce  very 
similar  stout  hooks ;  while  the  wild  madder,  which  I  suspect  is  far  more 
closely  related  to  goose-grass  than  many  other  plants  artificially 
placed  in  the  same  genus,  has  prickles  of  like  character,  but  much 
larger,  by  whose  aid  it  trails  over  bushes  and  hedges  for  immense  dis- 
tances. 

After  the  leaves  and  stem  we  have  to  consider  the  nature  of  the 
flower.     Look  at  one  of  the  blossoms  on  the  piece  I  gave  you,  and  you 


AN  ENGLISH  WEED.  549 

will  easily  understand  the  main  points  of  structure.  You  notice  that  it 
consists  of  a  single  united  corolla,  having  four  lobes  joined  at  the  base 
instead  of  distinct  and  separate  petals,  while  the  centre  of  course  is  occu- 
pied by  the  usual  little  yellow  knobs  representing  the  stamens  and  pistil. 
Each  goose-grass  plant  produces  many  hundreds  of  such  flowers,  spring- 
ing in  small  loose  bunches  from  the  axils  of  the  leaves.  What  we  have 
to  consider  now  is  the  origin  and  meaning  of  the  parts  which  make 
them  up. 

I  suppose  I  should  insult  you,  my  dear  and  patient  listener,  if  I  were 
to  tell  you  at  the  present  time  of  day  that  the  really  important  parts  of 
the  blossom  are  the  little  central  yellow  knobs,  which  do  all  the  active 
work  of  fertilising  the  ovary  and  producing  the  seeds.  You  know,  I  am 
sure,  that  the  stamens  manufacture  the  pollen,  and  when  the  pistil  is  im- 
pregnated with  a  grain  of  this  golden  dust  the  fruit  begins  to  cwell  and 
ripen.  But  the  corolla  or  coloured  frill  around  the  central  organs,  which 
alone  is  what  we  call  a  flower  in  ordinary  parlance,  shows  that  the  goose- 
grass  is  one  of  those  plants  which  owe  their  fertilisation  to  the  friendly 
aid  of  insects.  Blossoms  of  this  sort  usually  seek  to  attract  the  obsequious 
bee  or  the  thirsty  butterfly  by  a  drop  of  honey  in  their  nectaries,  supple- 
mented by  the  advertising  allurements  of  a  sweet  perfume  and  a  set  of 
coloured  petals.  So  much  knowledge  on  your  part  about  flowers  in 
general  I  take  for  granted ;  you  know  it  well  already.  The  question  for 
our  present  consideration  is  this  :  What  gives  the  goose-grass  flower  in 
particular  its  peculiar  shape,  colour,  and  arrangement  ? 

First  of  all,  you  will  notice  that  it  has  a  united  corolla — a  single 
fringe  of  bloom  instead  of  several  distinct  flower  leaves.  This  marks  its 
position  as  a  very  proud  one  in  the  floral  hierarchy ;  for  only  the  most 
advanced  blossoms  have  their  originally  separate  petals  welded  into  a 
solid  continuous  piece.  Once  upon  a  time,  indeed,  the  early  ancestors  of 
our  little  creeper  had  five  distinct  petals,  like  those  of  a  dog-rose  or  a 
buttercup ;  but  that  was  many,  many  generations  since.  In  time  these 
petals  began  to  coalesce  slightly  at  the  base,  so  as  to  form  a  short  tube ; 
and,  as  this  arrangement  made  it  easier  for  the  insect  to  fertilise  the 
flowers,  because  he  was  more  certain  to  brush  his  head  in  hunting  for 
honey  against  the  pollen-bearing  stamens  and  the  sensitive  summit  of 
the  pistil,  all  the  flowers  which  exhibited  such  a  tendency  gained  a 
decided  advantage  over  their  competitors,  and  lived  and  flourished  ac- 
cordingly, while  their  less  fortunate  compeers  went  to  the  wall.  So  in 
the  course  of  ages  such  tubular  flowers,  like  harebells  and  heaths,  became 
very  common,  and  to  a  great  extent  usurped  all  the  best  and  most 
profitable  situations  in  nature.  Among  them  were  the  immediate  an- 
cestors of  the  goose-grass,  which  had  then  regular  long  tubular  blossoms, 
instead  of  having  a  mere  flat,  disk-shaped  corolla  like  the  one  you  see  in 
the  goose-grass  before  you.  But,  for  a  reason  which  I  will  presently  tell 
you,  in  the  goose-grass  tribe  itself  the  tube  has  gradually  become  shorter 
and  shorter  again,  till  at  last  there  is  nothing  left  of  it  at  all.  and  the 


5.50  AX   ENGLISH  WEED. 

corolla  consists  simply  of  four  spreading  lobes  slightly  joined  together  by 
a  little  rim  or  margin  at  the  base. 

How  do  we  know,  you  ask,  that  the  goose-grass  is  descended  from 
such  ancestral  flowers  having  a  long  hollow  tube  1  "Why  may  it  not  be 
an  early  form  of  tubular  blossom,  a  plant  which  is  just  acquiring  such  a 
type  of  flower,  rather  than  one  which  has  once  possessed  it  and  after- 
wards lost  it  ?  Well,  my  dear  sir,  your  objection  is  natural ;  but  we  know 
it  for  this  reason.  I  told  you  some  time  since  that  the  other  great  branch 
of  the  madder  family,  which  had  stipules  instead  of  whorled  leaves,  was 
thereby  shown  to  be  a  more  primitive  form  of  the  common  type  than  the 
stellate  tribe,  iu  which  these  stipules  have  developed  into  full-grown 
leaves.  Now,  all  these  tropical  niadderlike  plants  have  large  tubular 
blossoms,  perfectly  developed ;  so  that  we  may  reasonably  infer  the  an- 
cestors of  the  goose-grass  had  the  same  sort  of  flowers  when  they  were  at 
the  same  or  some  analogous  stage  of  development.  Moreover,  amongst 
the  stellate  plants  themselves  there  are  several  which  still  retain  the  long 
tubes  to  the  blossom ;  and  these  are  rather  the  less  developed  than  the  more 
developed  members  of  the  little  group.  Such  are  the  pretty  blue  field- 
madder,  which  has  a  funnel-shaped  corolla,  and  the  sweet  woodruff, 
which  has  bell-shaped  flowers.  But  the  galiums,  which  are  the  most 
advanced  (or  degraded)  species  of  all,  have  the  tube  very  short  or  hardly 
perceptible,  and  the  more  so  in  proportion  as  they  are  most  widely  diver- 
gent from  the  primitive  type. 

Why,  however,  should  a  flower  which  was  once  tubular  have  lost  its 
tube  1  If  it  was  an  advantage  to  acquire  such  a  long  narrow  throat, 
must  it  not  also  be  an  advantage  always  to  retain  it  1  That  depends 
entirely  upon  the  nature  of  the  circumstances  to  which  the  plant  must 
adapt  itself.  Now  the  fact  is,  the  original  madder  group  seems  to  have 
had  large  and  showy  flowers,  which  were  fertilised  by  regular  honey- 
sucking  insects,  such  as  bees  and  butterflies  and  humming-bird  hawk- 
moths.  These  are  tropical  shrubs,  often  of  considerable  size,  and  of  very 
different  habits  from  our  little  goose-grass.  But  in  the  temperate  regions, 
since  the  earth  has  begun  to  cool  into  zones,  some  of  these  rubiaceous 
plants  have  found  out  that  they  could  get  along  better  by  becoming  little 
creeping  weeds  ;  and  these  are  the  stellates,  including  our  present  friend. 
Accordingly  they  have  mostly  given  up  the  attempt  to  attract  big  honey- 
sucking  insects  whose  long  proboscis  can  probe  the  recesses  of  jasmine  or 
woodbine,  and  have  laid  themselves  out  to  please  the  small  flies  and  mis- 
cellaneous little  beetles,  which  serve  almost  equally  well  to  carry  their 
pollen  from  head  to  head.  Now  the  flowers  which  specially  cater  for 
such  minor  insects  are  usually  quite  flat,  so  that  every  kind  alike  can  get 
at  the  honey  or  the  pollen  ;  and  that,  I  fancy,  is  why  the  goose-grass  and 
so  many  of  its  allies  have  lost  their  tubes.  They  are,  in  fact,  somewhat 
degenerate  forms,  descended  from  highly  adapted  tropical  types,  but  now 
readjusted  to  a  humbler  though  more  successful  grade  of  existence. 

Closely  connected  with  this  question  is  the  other  and  very  interesting 


AN  ENGLISH  WEED.  551 

question  of  their  colour.  Why  is  goose-grass  white  ?  For  the  very  same 
reason — because  it  wishes  to  attract  all  sorts  of  little  insects  impartially. 
For  this  purpose  white  is  the  best  colour.  Almost  all  flowers  which  thus 
depend  for  fertilisation  upon  many  different  species  of  winged  visitors 
are  white.  And,  indeed,  the  sort  of  colour  in  each  kind  of  stellate  flower 
(as  in  all  others)  depends  largely  upon  the  sort  of  insects  it  wishes  to 
attract.  Thus  the  little  field-madder,  which  has  a  long  tube  and  is  fer- 
tilised by  honey-suckers  of  a  high  type,  is  blue  or  pink,  as  all  the  family 
once  was,  no  doubt,  before  it  began  to  bid  for  more  vulgar  aid.  Then 
the  woodruff,  whose  tube  is  shorter,  has  white  cups  tinged  with  lilac. 
The  lady's  bedstraw,  which  has  no  tube,  depends  upon  little  colour-loving 
beetles  for  fertilisation,  and,  like  many  other  beetle  flowers,  it  is  bright 
yellow.  Last  of  all,  the  goose-grass  and  most  of  its  neighbours,  whose 
flowers  have  undergone  the  greatest  degeneration  of  any,  aro  simply 
white,  because  they  wish  to  please  all  parties  equally,  and  white  is  of 
course  the  most  neutral  colour  they  could  possibly  assume. 

Again,  you  may  have  observed  that  I  said  just  now  the  primitive 
ancestor  of  the  goose-gi  ass  had  five  petals.  But  the  present  united  corolla 
has  only  four  lobes  instead  of  five,  and  it  is  this  arrangement,  apparently, 
which  has  gained  for  the  whole  tribe  the  name  of  stellate.  Now  the 
tropical  Rubiacese,  which  we  saw  reason  to  believe  represent  an  earlier 
stage  of  development  than  the  goose-grass  group,  have  usually  five  lobes 
to  the  corolla ;  and  in  this  respect  they  agree  in  the  lump  with  the  whole 
great  class  of  dicotyledonous  plants  to  which  they  belong.  Therefore  we 
may  fairly  conclude  that  to  have  four  lobes  instead  of  five  is  a  mark  of 
further  specialisation  in  the  stellates;  in  other  words,  it  is  they  that  have 
lost  a  lobe,  not  the  other  madder- worts  that  have  added  one.  This,  then, 
gives  us  a  further  test  of  relative  development — or  perhaps  we  ought 
rather  to  say  of  relative  degeneration — among  the  stellate  tribe.  Wild 
madder,  whose  flowers  are  comparatively  large,  has  usually  five  lobes. 
Yellow  crosswort  has  most  of  its  blossoms  four-lobed,  interspersed  with 
a  few  five-lobed  specimens.  Goose-grass  occasionally  produces  large  five- 
lobed  flowers,  but  has  normally  only  four  lobes.  The  still  smaller 
skulking  species  have  almost  in  variably  four  only.  In  fact,  the  suppres- 
sion of  one  original  petal  seems  to  be  due  to  the  general  dwarfing  of  the 
flower  in  most  of  the  stellate  tribe.  The  corolla  has  got  too  small  to  find 
room  for  five  lobes,  so  it  cuts  the  number  down  to  four  instead.  This  is 
a  common  result  of  extreme  dwarfing.  For  example,  the  tiny  central 
florets  of  the  daisy  ought  properly  to  be  pinked  out  into  five  points,  re- 
presenting the  five  primitive  petals,  but  they  often  have  the  number 
reduced  to  four.  So,  too,  in  the  little  moschatel,  the  outer  flowers  of 
each  bunch  have  five  lobes,  but  the  central  one,  which  is  crowded  around 
and  closely  jammed  by  the  others,  has  regularly  lost  one  in  every  case. 

There  is  just  one  more  peculiarity  of  the  goose-grass  blossom  which  I 
must  not  wholly  overlook.  You  see  this  rough  little  bulb  or  ball  beneath 
the  corolla,  covered  with  incipient  prickles  1  That  is  the  part  which  will 


552  AN  ENGLISH  WEED. 

finally  grow  into  the  fruit,  after  some  friendly  insect  has  brought  pollen 
on  his  legs  from  some  neighbouring  flower  to  impregnate  the  ovary  of 
this.  Now,  what  I  want  you  to  notice  is  the  fact  that  the  future  fruit 
here  lies  below  the  corolla — below  the  flower,  as  most  of  us  would  say  in 
ordinary  language.  But  if  you  think  of  a  strawberry,  a  raspberry,  or  a 
poppy,  you  will  recollect  that  the  part  which  is  to  become  the  fruit  there 
grows  above  the  corolla,  and  that  the  petals  are  inserted  at  its  base.  This 
last  is  the  original  and  normal  position  of  the  parts.  How  and  why, 
then,  has  the  ovary  in  the  goose  grass  kind  managed  to  get  below  the 
petals  1  Well,  the  process  has  been  something  like  this :  When  the 
flowers  were  tubular  they  were  surrounded  by  a  tubular  calyx,  and  the 
ovary  stood  in  the  middle  of  both.  But  in  the  course  of  time,  in  order 
to  increase  the  chances  of  successful  fertilisation,  the  calyx  tube,  the 
corolla  tube,  and  the  ovary  in  the  centre  all  coalesced  into  one  solid 
piece — grew  together,  in  fact,  just  as  the  five  petals  had  already  done. 
So  now  this  little  bulb  really  represents  the  calyx  and  ovary  combined  ; 
while  the  corolla,  only  beginning  to  show  at  the^top,  where  it  expands 
into  its  four  lobes,  looks  as  if  it  started  from  the  head  of  the  fruit, 
whereas  in  reality  it  once  started  at  the  bottom,  but  has  now  so  com- 
pletely united  with  the  calyx  in  its  lower  part  as  to  be  quite  indis- 
tinguishable. Thus  the  fruit  is  not  in  this  plant  a  mere  ripe  form  of 
the  ovary,  but  is  a  compound  organ  consisting  of  the  calyx  outside,  and 
the  ovary  inside,  with  the  tube  of  the  corolla  quite  crushed  out  of  exist- 
ence between  them. 

Last  of  all,  let  us  look  at  the  prickly  fruit  itself  in  its  ripe  condition. 
Some  small  fly  has  now  fertilised  the  head  with  pollen  from  a  brother 
blossom;  the  corolla  and  the  stamens  have  fallen  off;  the  embryo  seeds 
within  have  begun  to  swell ;  the  mother  plant  has  stocked  them  with  a 
little  store  of  horny  albumen  to  feed  the  tiny  plantlets  when  they  are 
first  cast  forth  to  shift  for  themselves  in  an  unsympathetic  world ;  and 
now  the  fruit  here  is  almost  ready  to  be  detached  from  the  stalk  and 
borne  to  the  spot  where  it  must  make  its  small  experiment  in  getting  on 
in  life  on  its  own  account.  Before  I  tell  you  how  it  manages  to  get 
itself  transported  free  of  cost  to  a  suitable  situation,  I  should  like  you  to 
observe  its  shape  and  arrangement.  It  consists  of  two  cells  or  carpels 
united  in  the  middle,  and  each  of  these  contains  a  single  seed.  Once 
upon  a  time  there  were  several  cells,  as  there  still  are  in  some  of  the 
tropical  Rubiacese,  and  each  cell  contained  several  seeds,  as  is  the  case 
with  many  of  the  southern  species  to  the  present  day.  But  when  the 
stellate  tribe  took  to  being  small  and  weedy,  they  gave  up  their  additional 
seeds  and  limited  themselves  to  one  only  in  each  cell.  This  is  another 
common  result  of  the  dwarfing  process,  and  it  is  found  again  in  all  the 
daisy  tribe  and  in  the  umbellates,  such  as  fool's  parsley.  To  make  up, 
however,  for  the  loss  in  number  of  the  seeds  in  each  fruit,  the  number 
of  fruits  on  each  plant  is  still  enormoiis.  How  many  there  are  on  a 
single  weed  of  goose-grass  I  have  never  had  the  patience  to  count,  but 


AN  ENGLISH  WEED.  553 

certainly  not  less  than  several  hundreds.  You  might  find  it  a  nice 
amusement  for  a  statistical  mind  to  fill  up  this  lacuna  in  our  botanical 
knowledge. 

Most  of  the  stellate  plants  have  simple   little  fruits  without  any 
special  means  of  dispersion,  but  in  the  goose-grass  the  same  sort  of 
prickles  as  those  of  the  stem  and  leaves  are  further  utilised  for  carrying 
the  seed  to  its  proper  place.     You  know  seeds  have  many  devices  for 
ensuring  their  dispersion  to  a  distance  from  the  mother  plant.     Some  are 
surrounded  by  edible  pulp,  as  in  the  case  of  the  raspberry  or  the  gooseberry; 
and  these  are  swallowed  by  birds  or  animals,  through  whose  bodies  they 
pass  undigested,  and  thus  get  deposited  under  circumstances  peculiarly 
favourable  to  their  germination  and  growth.    Others  have  little  wings  or 
filaments,  as  in  the  case  of  the  dandelion  or  the  valerian ;  and  these  get 
blown  by  the  wind  to  their  final  resting-place.     Yet  others,  again,  are 
provided  with  hooks  or  prickles,  like  the  burr  and  the  houndstongue,  by 
whose  means  they  cling  to  the  wool  of  sheep,  the  feathers  and  legs  of  birds, 
or  the  hair  of  animals,  and  thus  get  carried  from  hedge  to  hedge  and  rubbed 
off  against  the  bushes,  so  as  to  fall  on  to  the  ground  beneath.     Now  this 
last  plan  is  especially  well  adapted  for  a  plant  like  the  goose-grass,  which 
lives  by  straggling  over  low  brambles  and  hawthorns,  for  it  ensures  the 
deposition  of  the  seed  in  the  exact  place  where  the  full-grown  weed  will 
find  such  support  and  friendly  assistance  as  it  peculiarly  requires.     Ac- 
cordingly, we  may  be  sure  that  if  any  half- developed  goose-grass  ever 
showed  any  tendency  to  prickliness  on  its  fruit,  it  would  gain  a  great 
advantage  over  its  neighbours   in  the  struggle  for  existence,  and  the 
tendency  would  soon  harden  down  under  the  influence  of  natural  selec- 
tion into  a  fixed  habit  of  the  species.     Is  there  any  way  in  which  such  a 
tendency  could  be  set  up  ? 

Yes,  easily  enough,  as  it  seems  to  me.  You  remember  the  outer  coat 
of  the  fruit  is  really  the  calyx,  and  this  calyx  would  be  naturally  more 
or  less  hairy,  like  the  original  leaves.  We  have  only  to  suppose  that  the 
calyx  hairs  followed  suit  with  the  stem  hairs,  and  began  to  develop  into 
stiff  prickles,  in  order  to  understand  how  the  burrlike  mechanism  was 
first  set  up.  Supposing  it  once  begun,  in  ever  so  slight  a  degree,  every 
little  burr  which  succeeded  in  sticking  to  a  sheep's  legs  or  a  small  bird's 
breast  would  be  pretty  sure,  sooner  or  later,  of  reaching  a  place  where 
its  seeds  could  live  and  thrive.  It  is  from  this  habit  of  cleaving  or 
sticking  to  one's  legs  that  the  plant  has  obtained  one  of  its  English  names 
— cleavers.  Moreover,  to  make  the  development  of  the  burr  all  the 
more  comprehensible,  many  of  the  other  galiums  have  rather  rough  or 
granulated  fruits,  while  one  kind — the  wall  galium — which  in  England 
has  smooth  or  warty  fruit,  has  its  surface  covered  in  southern  Europe 
with  stiff  hairs  or  bristles.  Another  English  galium  besides  goose-grass 
has  hooked  bristles  on  its  fruit,  though  they  are  not  so  hard  or  adhesive 
as  in  our  own  proper  subject,  Thus  the  very  steps  in  the  evolution  of 


554  AN  ENGLISH  WEED. 

the  bristly  fruit  are  clearly  preserved  for  us  to  the  present  day  in  one  or 
other  of  the  allied  species. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  very  similar  little  corn  galium,  which  has 
prickles  on  its  stem  and  leaves  to  enable  it  to  cling  to  the  growing  straw 
in  the  wheat-fields,  has  no  hooks  at  all  upon  its  fruit.  Instead  of  a  burr 
it  produces  only  little  rough-looking  knobs  or  capsules.  At  first  sight 
this  difference  between  the  plants  is  rather  puzzling,  but  when  we  come 
to  consider  the  peculiar  habits  of  the  corn  galium  we  can  see  at  once  the 
reason  for  the  change.  Like  most  other  cornfield  weeds,  it  blossoms  with 
the  wheat,  and  its  seed  ripens  with  the  mellowing  of  the  shocks.  Both 
are  cut  down  together,  and  the  seed  of  the  galium  is  thrashed  out  at  the 
same  time  as  the  grain.  Thus  it  gets  sown  with  the  seed  corn  from  year 
to  year,  and  it  would  only  lose  by  having  a  prickly  fruit,  which  would 
get  carried  away  to  places  less  adapted  for  its  special  habits  than  the 
arable  fields.  It  has  accommodated  itself  to  its  own  peculiar  corner  in 
nature,  just  as  the  goose-grass  has  accommodated  itself  to  the  hedgerows 
and  thickets.  So,  again,  in  the  wild  madder,  the  fruit,  instead  of  be- 
coming rough  and  clinging,  has  grown  soft  and  pulpy,  so  as  to  form  a 
small  blackish  berry,  much  appreciated  by  birds,  who  thus  help  uncon- 
sciously to  disperse  its  seeds.  Each  plant  simply  goes  in  the  way  that 
circumstances  lead  it,  and  that  is  why  we  get  such  infinite  variety  of 
detail  and  special  adaptation  even  within  the  narrow  limits  of  a  single 
small  group. 

And  now  I  think  you  are  tired  both  of  your  seat  on  the  stile  and  of 
my  long  sermon.  Yet  the  points  to  which  I  have  called  your  attention 
are  really  only  a  very  few  out  of  all  the  facts  which  go  to  make  up  the 
strange,  eventful  life-history  of  this  little  creeper.  If  you  had  only 
leisure  and  patience  to  hear  me  I  might  go  on  to  point  out  many  other 
curious  details  of  organisation  which  help  us  to  reconstruct  the  family 
pedigree  of  the  goose-grass.  There  is  not  a  single  organ  in  the  plant  which 
does  not  imply  whole  volumes  of  unwritten  ancestral  annals ;  and  to  set 
them  all  forth  in  full  would  require  not  a  single  hour,  but  a  whole  course 
of  ten  or  twenty  sermons.  Still,  I  hope  I  have  done  enough  to  suggest 
to  you  the  immense  wealth  of  thought  which  the  goose-grass  is  capable  of 
calling  up  in  the  mind  of  the  evolutionary  botanist ;  and  I  trust  when 
you  next  get  your  clothes  covered  with  those  horrid  little  cleavers,  you 
will  be  disposed  to  think  more  tenderly  and  respectfully  than  formerly 
of  an  ancient  and  highly  developed  English  weed. 

GEAXT  ALLEX. 


555 


IT  has  become  a  common  complaint  that  prices  have  been  levelled  up 
everywhere,  and  that  an  Englishman's  quest  after  a  cheap  foreign  place 
to  live  in  mostly  ends  in  disappointment.  Even  the  old  fiction  of  a  franc 
going  as  far  as  a  shilling  is  getting  discredited,  for  the  plateful  of  meat 
and  vegetables  for  which  a  franc  used  to  be  charged  in  railway  buffets 
and  small  French  restaurants  is  now  quoted  at  1  fr.  25  cent.  ;  and  so  it 
is  with  many  other  things.  There  is  no  cheapness  in  .  Swiss  and  Italian 
hotels.  A  bottle  of  native  wine  in  Austria  costs  almost  as  dear  as  Bor- 
deaux ;  and  the  tourist  who  has  thought  to  make  a  bargain  by  buying 
Brussels  lace  in  the  Belgian  capital,  finds  that  he  could  have  effected 
his  purchase  on  more  advantageous  terms  at  a  London  co-operative 
store.  Why  should  a  Montreuil  peach  bought  at  Montreuil  itself  cost 
50  centimes,  when  it  can  be  had  in  London  for  3d.  ?  and  what  is  the 
sense  of  paying  2d.  for  a  bunch  of  violets  at  Nice,  when  a  bunch  of 
sister  flowers,  gathered  out  of  the  same  field  perhaps,  can  be  had  for  Id. 
in  Paris  1  More  doleful  queries  still  have  been  propounded  by  wretched 
wanderers  who  had  bought  "  lovely  Tuscan  jewelry  "  at  Florence,  and 
thought  it  both  rare  and  cheap,  till  they  discovered  it  was  manufactured 
at  Birmingham,  and  could  have  been  obtained  for  half  the  price  in  the 
Warwickshire  city. 

These  are  the  grumbles  of  sore  tourists,  and  there  is  a  grain  of  truth 
in  them,  but  no  more.  There  are  plenty  of  cheap  places  abroad,  as  is 
proved  by  the  fact  that  the  Continent  swarms  with  English  colonies, 
which  consist  for  the  most  part  of  families  who  had  found  it  impossible 
to  live  respectably  in  England  on  their  incomes.  But  these  settlers 
often  grumble  as  loudly  as  tourists,  and  one  need  not  wonder  at  it,  for 
many  of  them  were  driven  from  England  by  their  own  improvidence 
and  they  have  not  mended  their  manners  in  crossing  the  Channel.  They 
were  shiftless  and  self-indulgent  at  home  ;  they  remain  so  abroad,  and 
spending  every  penny  they  possess,  cannot  own  that  their  circumstances 
have  changed  for  the  better.  As  a  rule,  an  English  family  can  live  much 
less  expensively  on  the  Continent  than  at  home,  because  in  no  foreign 
country,  except  Russia,  are  the  upper  classes  so  wealthy  as  in  England ; 
and  nowhere,  consequently,  are  the  middle  classes  tempted  to  such  ex- 
travagance in  trying  to  imitate  them.  But  whether  it  be  always  worth 
a  man's  while  to  expatriate  himself  because  he  cannot  keep  pace  with  the 
expenditure  of  persons  richer  than  himself,  is  a  question  which  each  indi- 
vidual must  solve  according  to  his  own  lights.  After  all,  there  are 


556  CHEAP  PLACES  TO  LIVE  IX. 

thousands  of  families  in  England  who  are  not  rich,  but  who  contrive 
to  live  very  pleasantly  within  their  means,  without  losing  caste,  because 
they  keep  their  wants  under  control. 

But  assuming  that  a  man  has  made  up  his  mind  to  emigrate — say 
that  he  has  about  500?.  a  year  and  six  children — where  shall  he  go  ? 
Within  a  few  hours  of  the  English  coast  Belgium  offers  its  many  cities 
of  refuge.  Brussels  and  Bruges  are  crowded  with  English ;  and  there 
are  smaller  colonies  of  them  at  Antwerp,  Ghent,  Namur,  and  Liege.  A 
glance  at  any  guide-book  will  show  what  are  the  capabilities  of  these 
cities  as  regards  house-room.  Ghent  once  had  a  population  of  300,000, 
which  has  sunk  to  120,000  ;  Bruges  formerly  had  200,000  souls  within 
its  walls  (now  destroyed),  and  was  a  second  London  in  commercial  im- 
portance ;  its  population  is  reduced  to  47,000 ;  but  more  striking  than 
all  has  been  the  fall  of  Ypres,  from  200,000  to  18,000.  Malines,  the 
seat  of  an  archbishopric,  and  the  city  where  Charles  Quint  once  held  his 
court,  stands  in  much  the  same  case ;  while  Louvain,  again,  covers  an 
area  and  holds  a  mass  of  houses  quite  disproportionate  to  the  number  of 
inhabitants.  On  the  whole,  Ypres  and  Malines  would  afford  most  at- 
tractions to  one  of  our  countrymen  seeking  a  fine,  cheap,  and  healthy 
city,  and  willing  to  live  entirely  among  Belgians.  He  would  not  get 
English  society  there  as  at  Bruges  and  Brussels,  nor  find  an  English 
church ;  but  English  society,  if  it  have  its  advantages,  has  also  its  draw- 
backs. It  tends  to  raise  prices.  House-rent,  though  cheap  at  Bruges  as 
compared  with  home  rates,  is  far  dearer  than  at  Ypres  and  Malines,  be- 
cause there  are  always  plenty  of  English  bidders  for  the  larger  and  finer 
class  of  furnished  houses  that  fall  vacant. 

At  Ypres  there  are  no  English,  or  so  few  that  they  make  no  show 
and  yet  the  city  is  really  a  most  eligible  one  for  a  residence.  Many  ves- 
tiges of  its  former  grandeur  remain.  A  girdle  of  fortifications,  whose 
ramparts  laid  out  as  public  gardens  form  a  picturesque  walk  of  several 
miles  circuit,  and  a  capital  playground  for  children ;  a  noble  Cloth  Hall 
and  H6tel-de-Ville,  one  of  the  grandest  municipal  buildings  in  the  world, 
which  fronts  a  huge  Place  where  fifty  regiments  might  be  reviewed ; 
noble  churches,  and  then  numbers  of  houses  both  handsome  and  roomy 
nestling  amid  their  own  gardens  at  the  corners  of  grass-grown  streets. 
Almost  any  one  of  these  mansions  can  be  had  furnished  for  a  rental  of 
from  40?.  to  70?.  a  year,  the  owners  being  often  so  glad  to  let  that  they 
will  cheerfully  accept  the  former  price  after  asking  the  latter,  provided 
the  tenant  will  sign  a  three-years'  lease.  At  Malines  also  there  are 
superb  buildings,  agreeable  walks,  and  delicious  old  houses  in  sequestered 
nooks.  One  need  not  pay  so  much  as  40?.  to  find  a  good  one.  An  ordi- 
nary ten-room  dwelling-house  without  a  garden  may  be  had  either  at 
Ypres  or  Malines  for  20?. 

Of  course  these  places  are  dull.  A  man  must  go  to  them  predisposed 
to  make  the  best  of  the  enjoyment  they  offer,  not  to  fret  and  find  fault 
with  everything.  If  he  be  of  a  sociable  disposition  he  will  soon  become 


CHEAP  PLACES  TO  LIVE  Itf.  557 

acquainted  with  the  local  gentry,  officials,  and  officers  of  the  garrison, 
who  will  admit  him  to  their  club,  where  he  can  play  penny  whist,  and 
billiards  for  5d.  an  hour.  Living  in  a  good  house  with  fine  airy  rooms, 
once  the  mansion  of  a  prosperous  Flemish  burgher,  he  may  have  the 
services  of  a  good  cook  for  about  twenty  francs  a  month,  and  of  a  house- 
maid for  about  fifteen  francs.  These  women  will  probably  speak  no 
French ;  but  one  must  have  a  little  patience,  and  in  a  few  weeks  an 
English  mistress  will  pick  up  enough  Flemish  to  get  on  quite  smoothly. 
Milk,  eggs,  poultry,  fruit,  vegetables,  are  all  thirty  per  cent,  cheaper  at 
Ypres  and  Malines  than  in  England ;  and  about  fifteen  per  cent,  cheaper 
than  at  Bruges,  for  the  last-named  city  being  close  to  Ostend  and  Blan- 
kenberghe,  fashionable  watering-places,  the  price  of  eatables  rise  there  in 
summer.  Beer  is  good  and  cheap  all  over  Belgium ;  tobacco  and  cigars 
also ;  wine  is  of  course  dear,  as  none  is  produced  in  the  country  ;  furni- 
ture and  clothes  are  no  cheaper  than  in  England.  As  to  amusements, 
the  Belgians  are  a  gay  people  who  delight  in  fairs,  kermesses,  and  quaint 
pageants  in  commemoration  of  historical  events.  In  all  their  towns 
there  are  musical  societies  which  give  concerts  all  the  year  round,  and 
redoutes  where  subscription  balls  are  held  in  winter.  In  the  Flemish 
cities  archery  is  held  in  high  honour ;  and  in  those  of  the  Walloon 
country  the  favourite  outdoor  game  is  a  jeu  de  balle,  which  may  be  de- 
scribed as  a  kind  of  lawn  tennis  played  without  net  or  rackets,  and  with 
an  india-rubber  ball  as  large  as  a  Dutch  cheese,  which  the  players  strike 
to  and  fro  over  a  base  with  gloved  hands. 

But  one  of  the  chief  inducements  of  a  paterfamilias  to  settle  in  Bel- 
gium will  be  found  in  the  cheapness  and  excellence  of  its  schools.  The 
father  of  a  large  family  does  not  find  education  cheap  in  England,  and 
there  are  social  considerations  which  may  render  him  unwilling  to  send 
his  boys  to  a  school  which,  though  fairly  good  and  inexpensive,  enjoys 
no  prestige,  and  confers  none  on  those  who  are  brought  up  there.  In 
after  life  a  young  Englishman  is  not  always  proud  to  acknowledge  that 
he  was  educated  at  Smalltown  Grammar  School ;  but  it  is  rather  grati- 
fying than  derogatory  to  state  that  one  was  educated  in  a  historic  town 
of  the  continent  full  of  ecclesiastical  and  collegiate  associations ;  especially 
if  such  education  has  conduced  to  one's  becoming  an  expert  linguist. 
The  cost  of  a  first-rate  education  in  any  Belgian  Athenee  ranges  between 
Ql.  and  81.  a  year  for  home-boarders ;  and  the  prices  are  about  the  same 
in  the  schools  and  convents  for  girls.  Boys  are  thoroughly  well  grounded 
in  French,  German,  the  classics,  mathematics,  and  natural  sciences  ;  and 
at  eighteen  might  present  themselves  for  any  examination  in  England, 
knowing  quite  as  much  as  if  they  had  passed  through  Eton  or  Harrow, 
and  in  fact  more,  for  they  would  speak  French  fluently.  There  is  a 
capital  plan  of  inculcating  practical  knowledge  upon  schoolboys  in  Bel- 
gium by  taking  them  to  visit  factories,  mines,  and  dockyards ;  and  by 
getting  up  excursions  in  summer  to  the  different  cities  of  historical  and 
archaeological  interest.  These  trips  are  greatly  favoured  by  the  Minister 


558  CHEAP  PLACES  TO  LIVE  IN. 

of  Public  Instruction,  -who  issues  passes  at  reduced  rates  on  the  State 
railways,  and  arranges  for  the  hospitable  entertainment  of  the  young 
tourists  at  the  Athenees  of  the  towns  which  they  may  happen  to  be  visit- 
ing ;  so  that  these  instructive  oxitings  cost  very  little.  For  girls  con- 
vents will  be  found  better  and  cheaper  than  the  lay  schools.  Protestants 
are  admitted  to  them  as  well  as  Catholics,  and  the  nuns  will  make  no 
attempt  to  convert  the  children  of  English  parents.  As  there  is  a  great 
rivalry  between  the  religious  and  lay  schools,  and  as  all  the  religious 
orders  are  on  their  mettle  just  now  in  consequence  of  the  recent  passing 
of  an  education  law  which  has  greatly  improved  the  State  schools,  the 
nuns  are  diligently  striving  to  raise  their  schools  to  the  highest  level,  and 
are  much  assisted  in  this  purpose  by  pious  donations  from  the  Catholics 
of  the  country.  Languages,  music,  and  drawing  are  admirably  taught 
in  these  convents ;  and  it  may  be  added  that  the  nuns  look  more  care- 
fully after  the  morals,  manners,  and  deportment  of  their  pupils  than  do 
the  mistresses  of  the  lay  schools,  who,  though  clever  enough,  often  pride 
themselves  overmuch  on  being  freethinkers. 

Holland  is  neighbour  to  Belgium,  but  it  is  not  a  cheap  country  nor 
a  pleasant  one.  The  Dutch  are  an  inhospitable  people,  who  care  little 
to  cultivate  the  acquaintance  of  English  settlers,  but  who  have  no 
scruples  about  overcharging  them.  The  unit  of  currency  being  the 
florin,  the  commonest  articles  are  charged  for  according  to  fractions  of 
that  coin  and  are  about  25  per  cent,  dearer  than  in  countries  where  the 
franc  and  its  decimals  are  used.  Dutch  houses  are  absurdly  small,  and 
in  the  principal  cities  the  rent  is  high ;  in  towns  like  Dordrecht,  Breda, 
and  Nimeguen  lodgings  can  no  doubt  be  had  at  moderate  prices  and  the 
general  cost  of  living  there  will  be  cheaper  than  in  England ;  but  the 
difference  is  not  great  enough  to  afford  any  compensation  for  residence  in 
a  country  which  possesses  such  few  charms.  To  get  English  children 
educated  in  Dutch  schools  would  be  a  senseless  proceeding,  unless  they 
were  likely  to  remain  connected  with  Holland  all  their  lives,  for  Dutch 
is  a  useless  language,  and  the  only  foreign  tongue  thoroughly  well  taught 
in  Dtitch  schools  is  English.  Most  Dutch  ladies  talk  English,  read 
English  novels,  and  drink  tea;  but  here  their  resemblance  to  our 
countrywomen  ceases,  and  they  form  a  race  of  women  so  curiously  plain, 
ungraceful,  and  frumpish  that  the  application  of  any  such  term  as  "  fair 
sex "  to  them  would  be  inadmissible  flattery.  Letters  of  introduction 
are  of  very  little  use  in  Holland.  The  Dutchman  to  whom  you  may 
have  been  warmly  recommended  allows  you  to  call  on  him  first,  offers 
you  no  refreshment,  and  gives  you  no  invitation,  but  he  asks  if  you  have 
any  money  to  change,  because  he  will  change  it  for  you  himself  at  a 
discount ;  and  he  will  bestir  himself  about  siiiting  you  with  lodgings  in 
a  private  house  or  hotel  because  he  will  levy  a  commission  from  your 
landlord  for  so  doing.  Once  you  have  settled  down,  he  will  furnish  you 
with  a  list  of  his  tradesmen,  on  whom  he  will  call  the  same  day  to 
stipulate  for  a  reduction  from  his  own  next  accounts ;  and  after  this  he 


CHEAP  PLACES  TO  LIVE  IN.  559 

will  wash  his  hands  of  you,  unless,  mayhap,  he  turns  up  now  and  then 
to  try  and  drive  a  hard  bargain  with  you  over  some  tea  or  tobacco,  or  to 
borrow  some  of  your  English  books,  which  he  will  never  return  unless 
you  dun  him  for  them.  If  you  let  him  keep  the  books  he  will  sell  them 
and  ask  you  for  some  more. 

In  Germany,  on  the  contrary,  an  English  family  will  find  many 
attractions  which  are  likely  to  endear  the  country  to  them  for  the  rest 
of  their  lives.  It  is  a  noticeable  thing  that  English  people  who  have 
lived  long  in  France  generally  speak  of  it  with  disparagement  and 
allude  to  the  French  with  ridicule,  if  not  with  downright  hatred  : 
whereas  those  who  have  been  sojourners  in  Germany  are  never  tired  of 
praising  the  country,  its  customs,  and  all  about  it.  The  reason  of  this 
is  that  simplicity  is  the  rule  of  German  life,  and  a  very  winning 
simplicity  it  is.  The  upper  classes  are  not  rich,  and  live  unostenta- 
tiously;  the  upper  middle  classes,  com  prising  professors,  lawyers,  doctors, 
and  a  good  many  officers,  exist  upon  incomes  which  according  to  our 
notions  would  seem  beggarly,  yet  they  rub  along  comfortably  and 
merrily,  because  their  women  are  so  versed  in  economy.  In  the  richest 
German  household  the  mistress  superintends  the  kitchen  and  lends  a 
hand  to  the  cook.  There  are  certain  dishes  which  she  always  makes 
with  her  own  hands,  because  her  Fritz  likes  them  so.  She  may  boast 
thirty-two  quarteriugs  on  her  escutcheon  and  be  terribly  proud  of  her 
lineage,  but  she  has  no  nonsensical  ideas  about  its  being  degrading  to 
put  on  a  canvas  apron,  lard  a  piece  of  veal,  make  jams,  or  dole  out 
with  her  own  hands  the  prunes  that  are  to  be  put  into  the  potato  stew. 
She  keeps  her  best  attire  for  Sundays,  and  makes  it  serve  on  a  good 
many  of  these  festal  days,  for  she  does  not  follow  fashion  blindly  or  in  a 
hurry.  On  ordinary  days  she  dresses  with  a  plainness  which  would 
excite  the  contempt  of  a  Frenchwoman ;  but  then  her  culinary  pursuits 
do  not  prevent  her  from  being  by  far  the  intellectual  superior  of  her 
French  or  Belgian  sister.  She  reads  serious  books  that  she  may  be  able 
to  converse  as  an  equal  with  her  well-taught  sons ;  she  practises  music 
that  she  may  remain  on  a  level  with  her  daughters  who  are  trained  to  be 
brilliant  pianists  ;  and  she  finds  time  to  read  the  newspaper  in  order  that 
she  may  understand  what  her  Fritz  has  to  say  about  the  topics  of  the  day. 

The  example  thus  set  in  high  life  by  the  "  Frau  Grafin  "  is  copied  in 
lower  spheres  by  the  "  Frau  Doctorin  "  and  the  "  Frau  Professorin." 
These  ladies  keep  no  cooks  ;  they  perform  most  of  the  household  labours 
with  the  assistance  of  a  maid-of-all-work,  and  whenever  practicable  they 
do  all  the  washing  of  the  family  linen  at  home,  and  make  their  own 
dresses.  Withal  they  are  very  hospitable  in  a  homely  way.  They 
delight  in  evening  parties  at  which  cafe  au  lait  is  served  with  cakes  and 
sausage-sandwiches.  A  carpet  dance,  a  little  singing  and  music,  round 
games  and  a  good  deal  of  frank  flirtation  between  the  young  people, 
furnish  the  diversions  at  these  entertainments.  In  the  winter  several 
families  club  together  to  hire  a  large  room  in  which  Dreistemache  (literally 


560  CHEAP  PLACES  TO  LIVE  IN. 

make-lold)  assemblies  are  held  once  a  week.  Each  family  brings  a 
certain  quantum  of  the  refreshments,  as  at  old-fashioned  picnics,  and 
dancing  is  carried  on  within  sensible  hours,  between  7  and  11  P.M. 
The  object  of  these  assemblies  is  to  make  young  people  "  bold  "  to  disport 
themselves  at  more  ceremonious  balls  should  they  be  called  upon  to  do 
so ;  in  fact,  they  ai'e  unceremonious  dancing  parties  at  which  the  guests 
appear  in  morning  attire  and  expect  no  costlier  beverages  at  supper  than 
lemonade  and  beer.  Nor  must  the  Biergartens  of  Germany  be  forgotten, 
where  whole  families  flock  on  summer  evenings  to  hear  good  music  as  they 
take  their  suppers ;  nor  the  many  musical  societies,  Gesangverei-ns  and 
Orpheums,  which  give  the  most  pleasant  concerts ;  nor  the  Turnvereins  or 
gymnastic  societies,  where  young'men  learn  to  become  hardy,  and  perform 
surprising  feats  with  their  arms  and  legs.  Germany  is  far  from  being  a 
dull  country,  and  English  families  quickly  fall  into  the  swing  of  its 
customs  and  amusements.  They  become  intimate  with  the  natives,  are 
received  indeed  by  them  almost  as  countrymen,  and  intermarriages  are 
frequent.  This  is  an  inducement  to  be  found  nowhere  else,  as  in  almost  all 
other  countries  the  English  colonies  are  separated  from  the  natives  by 
religious  differences,  which  cause  intermarriages  to  be  very  rare. 

The  cheapest  towns  to  go  to  in  Germany  are  the  capitals  of  small 
Duchies.  Berlin  has  become  very  dear.  Dresden,  Leipzig,  Stuttgart, 
Munich,  are  all  cheap  in  comparison  with  English  cities,  and  they  offer 
fii-pt-rate  educational  advantages  ;  but  they  will  be  found  more  expensive 
on  the  whole  than  such  places  as  Brunswick,  Cassel,  Darmstadt,  Weimar, 
and  Coburg.  Taking  Brunswick  as  a  specimen  of  these  second-rate 
towns,  it  is  a  place  where  a  family  can  live  in  the  utmost  enjoyment  and 
dignity  on  a  small  income.  It  is  an  old-fashioned  town  of  picturesque 
architecture ;  but  the  streets  are  broad,  and  the  houses  large,  with 
spacious  and  lofty  rooms,  wide  courtyards,  and  grand  staircases.  Most 
of  these  dwellings  are  let  in  flats,  each  of  which  has  its  separate  kitchen, 
with  its  wooden  balcony  overlooking  the  yard  and  a  separate  staircase 
for  servants.  A  ten-room  flat  furnished  can  be  had  on  a  first  floor  in 
the  best  quarter  for  about  sixty  pounds  a  year;  on  a  second,  for 
forty -five  pounds;  and  on  a  third,  for  thirty  pounds;  but  prices  are 
lower  in  the  old  streets  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city.  It  is  not  the 
custom  to  let  unfurnished,  as  almost  all  the  houses  contain  a  stock  of 
old-fashioned  furniture  dating  from  the  last  century,  when  the  court  of 
Brunswick  was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  in  Germany,  and  when  the 
city  was  crowded  with  wealthy  residents.  It  has  all  the  appearance  of 
a  wealthy  city  still,  though  the  present  Duke  lives  most  of  the  year  in 
Italy,  and  does  little  to  attract  strangers  to  his  handsome  palace.  It 
has  a  university,  a  gymnasium,  a  public  school  for  boys,  several  private 
schools,  and  a  large  academy  for  girls ;  a  museum,  and  public  library,  and 
a  noble  theatre.  The  Duke  chiefly  helps  to  support  the  Theatre,  and 
for  this  much  deserves  the  thanks  of  his  subjects.  For  many  years 
the  conductor  of  the  orchestra  was  Franz  Abt,  the  eminent  composer, 


CHEAP  PLACES  TO  LIVE  IN.  561 

and  at  one  time  he  had  the  best  quatuor  of  violinists  in  Germany  under 
his  orders.  Performances  are  given  at  the  theatre  four  times  a  week, 
operas  being  performed  on  two  nights,  and  plays  on  the  other  two ;  and 
the  cost  of  a  Spersitz  or  stall  is  only  six  thalers,  or  eighteen  shillings  a 
month.  All  the  ducal  cities  have  good  theatres,  as  it  is  a  point  of 
honour  with  the  princelings  who  rule  in  them  to  show  that  they  are 
enlightened  patrons  of  music  and  the  drama.  The  theatre  of  Coburg  has 
a  well-deserved  reputation. 

Tourists  will  not  find  German  hotels  cheap,  even  in  the  small  towns, 
for  landlords  have  got  into  the  habit  of  overcharging  Englishmen,  and 
nothing  seems  likely  to  cure  them  of  it ;  but  the  restaurations  are  very 
cheap.  A  substantial  dinner  with  beer  can  be  had  for  fifteen  pence ;  and 
in  the  braueries,  which  officers  frequent,  a  good  supper,  consisting  of  a 
plate  of  veal  cutlets  with  fried  potatoes,  or  bacon  sausage  and  sauer- 
kraut, costs  but  sevenpence,  glass  of  beer  included.  Schooling  is  as 
cheap  as  in  Belgium,  and  better,  for  the  disposition  of  German  youth  is 
studious,  and  the  professors  are  stimulated  by  the  assiduity  and  sharpness 
of  their  pupils.  No  English  boy  educated  at  a  German  school  is  likely 
to  come  home  a  dunce. 

These  are  the  advantages  of  Germany  ;  but  the  country  of  course  has 
its  drawbacks  from  the  English  point  of  view,  although  these  may  be  less 
discernible  to  our  countrymen  who  inhabit  the  Fatherland,  than  to  their 
friends  at  home  who  notice  their  peculiarities  when  they  have  returned 
from  it.  German  schooling  tends  to  convert  an  English  boy  into  a  very 
unpleasant  species  of  young  prig,  conceited  and  pragmatical;  while  it 
makes  a  girl  tame  and  dreamy.  The  dreamy  propensities  of  German 
maidenhood  are  counteracted  by  the  hard  labour  they  perform  among 
the  dishclouts  and  saucepans  of  the  paternal  kitchen ;  but  as  English 
girls  seldom  take  kindly  to  culinary  tasks,  the  sentimentalism  they 
acquire  at  German  schools  has  no  checks.  Add  to  this,  that  German 
ladies  have  no  taste  in  dress  and  set  sad  examples  of  dowdiness  to  the 
girls  who  live  among  them.  It  would  be  [agreeable  to  be  able  to  say 
that  the  German  matron,  when  she  has  helped  to  dish  up  the  family 
dinner,  sits  down  cool  and  smart,  with  hair  neatly  dressed,  to  do  the 
honours  of  her  own  table ;  but  the  truth  is,  she  sits  down  looking  hot 
and  untidy.  She  may  talk  finely  about  culture,  but  her  gown  is  a  very 
uncultured  affair  ;  she  may  play  exquisitely  on  the  piano,  but  it  will  be 
grief  to  watch  her  coarse  red  hands  moving  over  the  keys ;  she  may 
waltz  to  perfection,  but  the  sight  of  her  large  ill-shod  feet  will  be  enough 
to  make  a  sensitive  man  sit  down  in  a  corner  and  sigh.  The  best  cor- 
rective to  a  girl's  education  in  Germany  would  be  a  year's  finishing  in 
France. 

The  English  in  France  may  be  reckoned  by  tens  of  thousands. 
They  are  to  be  found  in  the  smallest  towns ;  and  in  some  of  the  large 
cities  they  form  important  colonies ;  but  they  nowhere  amalgamate  with 
the  natives.  The  differences  between  them  and  the  French  in  manners, 

VOL.  XLV. — NO.  269.  27. 


562  CHEAP  PLACES  TO  LIVE  IN. 

customs,  and  modes  of  thought  are  so  many  and  so  deep  as  to  preclude 
much  intercourse  and  even  friendly  feeling.  Frenchmen  are  tolerably 
fond  of  the  English ;  but  Frenchwomen  cannot  appreciate  English- 
women, and  generally  harbour  the  most  irrational  prejudices  against 
them  and  their  ways.  The  "  forwardness  "  and  "  eccentricity  "  of  Eng- 
lish girls  form  topics  on  which  the  French  mother  is  never  wearied  of 
expatiating  with  amazement,  and  she  looks  upon  these  young  ladies  as 
dangerous  companions  for  her  own  daughters ;  on  the  other  hand,  Eng- 
lish boys  do  not  get  on  at  all  well  with  French  ones,  who,  taking  them 
all  in  all,  are  as  precociously  depraved  and  offensive  a  set  of  little  wretches 
as  one  can  meet  in  any  country.  Thus  the  English  in  France  are  more 
than  elsewhere  thrown  on  their  own  resources.  They  may  remain  a 
long  while  in  the  land  without  contracting  any  sincere  friendships  with 
the  natives,  unless  indeed  they  be  Roman  Catholics,  in  which  case  they 
may  get  introductions  to  the  best  families  through  the  clergy,  and  will 
cease  to  be  regarded  as  semi-barbarians. 

One  of  the  most  enticing  features  of  life  in  France  is  the  vast  number 
of  chdteaux  dotted  over  the  country.  The  soil  of  France  is  divided 
among  eight  millions  of  proprietors,  and  whenever  a  Frenchman  has 
made  a  little  money  he  proceeds  to  buy  a  small  estate  with  a  pretty  country- 
house  on  it,  which  he  styles  a  "  castle."  If  he  be  a  man  of  artistic  tastes 
he  has  a  chdteau  specially  built  for  him  with  the  latest  architectural 
improvements,  and  expends  much  money  on  the  furnishing.  There  is 
not  a  retired  tradesman,  painter,  journalist,  or  actor  of  any  standing  in 
France,  but  owns  his  chateau,  where  he  resides  only  during  the  summer 
months ;  and  at  his  death  this  mansion  almost  invariably  goes  to  the 
hammer.  Owing  to  the  French  laws  of  succession,  which  oblige  a  man 
to  divide  his  property  equally  amongst  his  children,  it  is  very  seldom 
that  a  family  lives  throughout  two  generations  in  the  same  chdteau;  so 
that  pleasant  country  houses  are  continually  in  the  market,  and  an  Eng- 
lishman with  a  little  capital  can  make  astonishing  bargains  if  he  selects 
the  right  time  for  buying  or  signing  a  lease. 

The  seasons  propitious  for  such  operations  come  but  too  frequently, 
thanks  to  the  political  instability  of  the  country.  The  effect  of  every 
revolution  in  France  is  to  cast  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  chdteaux  upon 
the  market,  and  most  of  them  can  be  had  for  a  song,  furniture  included. 
There  is  absolutely  no  ratio  between  the  price  of  French  house-property 
in  times  of  peace  and  at  periods  of  turmoil.  When  a  revolution  breaks  out 
owners  of  chdteaux  are  smitten  with  a  deadly  panic  ;  they  imagine  that 
the  end  of  all  things  has  come ;  that  Socialism  and  Communism  are 
going  to  confiscate  the  soil  and  part  it  among  the  rabble ;  their  only 
thought  then  is  how  to  realize  cash  that  they  may  bolt  to  some  less 
accursed  land.  During  the  troubles  of  1848,  an  Englishman  came  to 
France  and  heard  of  a  chdteau  at  Neuilly  which  was  for  sale.  It  was  a 
lovely  house,  beautifully  furnished,  and  stood  in  a  park  of  eighteen  acres. 
The  owner,  a  Peer  of  France,  appalled  by  seeing  Louis  Philippe's  palace 


CHEAP  PLACES  TO  LIVE  IN.  563 

at  Neuilly  pillaged  and  destroyed  by  the  mob,  accepted  5,000?.  for  the 
chateau,  furniture,  park,  and  all,  and  thought  himself  lucky  to  get  that 
money.  Four  years  later,  in  1852,  when  the  Second  Empire  was  estab- 
lished by  the  coup  d'etat,  and  property  became  secure  again,  the  English- 
man let  his  mansion  and  grounds  on  a  three  years'  lease  for  480?.  a  year  ; 
the  lease  was  renewed  in  1855  for  six  years  at  a  rental  of  720?.  a  year; 
and  in  1862,  when  the  lease  had  expired,  the  Englishman  sold  his  pro- 
perty for  1,200,000  francs  (48,000?.).  Eight  years  then  elapsed;  the 
war  with  Germany  broke  out :  the  Empire  was  overthrown,  Paris  was 
besieged,  the  Commune  supervened ;  the  Three  per  Cent.  Rentes  (now 
quoted  at  81)  had  sunk  to  45  ;  and  the  chateau  at  Neuilly  coming  once 
more  into  the  market,  was  rebought  by  its  late  English  owner  for 
12,000?.  ready  money.  This  fortunate  speculator  bided  his  time,  and  in 
1878,  the  Exhibition  year,  resold  the  estate  for  36,000?. 

These  ups  and  downs  have  proved  boons  to  many  English  people 
besides  the  gentleman  just  mentioned.  Revolutions  are  sure  to  be  fol- 
lowed by  a  return  to  order,  for  the  fickle  character  of  the  French  sickens 
of  riot  as  it  does  of  everything  else  ;  so  that  a  man  who  has  money  to 
invest  cannot  do  better  than  look  about  him  while  the  disturbance  lasts, 
and  buy  valuables  of  any  sort  in  the  full  certainty  that  he  will  resell 
them  at  a  great  profit  within  a  few  years.  Not  only  country-houses, 
but  the  leases  of  houses  in  Paris,  furniture,  works  of  art,  and  family 
jewels  may  be  had  at  extraordinary  cheap  rates  while  the  canaille  are 
enjoying  themselves  at  the  game  of  governing ;  and  by  such  means  living; 
in  France  can  be  made  not  only  a  cheap  thing,  but  a  very  lucrative  busi- 
ness. 

From   France  we  may  pass   to   Switzerland.     This   much-trodden 
country  is  dear  or  cheap  according  to  the  season  when  you  visit  it.  There 
is  no  dearer  city  in  Europe  than  Geneva  from  May  till  October ;  but 
during  the  seven  other  months  families  may  live  there  in  the  best  hotels 
at  the  rate  of  about  seven  or  eight  francs  a  day,  or  single  men  for  ten  francs. 
The  large  hotels  are  almost  empty,  and  their  owners  expect  to  make  no 
profit  during  the  winter  season ;  they  ai-e  content  if  they  can  simply  pay 
their  expenses  of  rent,  and  the  hire  of  their  servants  ;  therefore  they  vie 
rith  one  another  in  trying  to  attract  strangers,  and  several  of  them 
icceed  very  well.     It  is  much  the  same  at  Lausanne  and  Lucerne, 
lough  neither  of  these  towns  has  so  many  hotels  as  Geneva.     The  last- 
wned  city  can  offer  many  pleasures  to  winter  and  spring  residents,  and 
ertainly  the  satisfaction  of  being  lodged  in  a  comfortable  room  and 
getting  three  good  meals  for  ten  francs  a  day,  is  not  the  smallest  of  these. 
Jut  there  are  places  in  Switzerland  which  remain  fairly  cheap  all  the 
pear  round  if  one  will  seek  them  out  of  the  beaten  track  of  tourists, 
[here  is  a  little  town  called  Morges  on  the  Lake  Leman.  between  Geneva 
and  Ouchy.     All  the  steamers  stop  there,  though  few  passengers  alight 
at  the  place.     It  is  a  clean,  bright,  and  happy-looking  little  town,  with 
many  a  fine  old  house,  and  abundance  of  lodgings  which  can  be  had 

27 — 2 


564  CHEAP  PLACES   TO   LIVE  IX. 

cheap.  It  is  mentioned  here  as  a  sample  town,  but  there  are  plenty  of 
others  like  it  ready  to  give  an  hospitable  welcome  to  strangers  who  have 
any  particular  reason  for  preferring  Switzerland  as  a  permanent  residence 
to  other  countries.  Swiss  schools  are  good  and  cheap  ;  and,  as  every  one 
knows,  the  country  is  full  of  attractions  for  artists.  On  the  whole,  how- 
ever, it  cannot  be  called  a  cheap  country  in  the  same  general  sense  as 
Belgium,  Germany,  or  Italy. 

Italy  remains  of  all  countries  in  Europe  the  cheapest.  Money  goes 
very  far  there  when  people  spend  it  rationally ;  but  English  families 
who  want  to  live  economically  must  be  very  careful  not  to  let  it  be  sus- 
pected that  they  ai-e  rich,  else  they  will  be  fleeced  with  a  shamelessness 
hardly  to  be  credited  by  those  who  have  not  witnessed  it.  An  Italian 
becomes  utterly  demoralised  when  he  sees  a  chance  of  making  money 
out  of  a  simpleton.  If  he  succeeds  in  one  overcharge  his  only  regret  will 
be  that  he  did  not  ask  for  more ;  and  he  will  move  away  grumbling,  so 
that  the  more  you  give  him  the  less  pleased  will  he  appear  to  be.  Partly 
from  ignorance,  partly  from  vulgar  ostentation,  Englishmen  and  Ameri- 
cans in  Italy  pay  for  many  things  ten  or  twenty  times  more  than  they 
ought  to  do.  The  basket  of  fruit  which  the  Marchese  living  sumptu- 
ously for  100?.  a  year  in  the  upper  rooms  of  his  ancestral  palace,  may 
buy  for  four  soldi,  will  be  sold  for  as  many  francs  to  the  Signora  Brown, 
who  will  declare  it  cheap,  reckoning  by  Covent  Garden  prices;  and  the 
same  discriminating  lady,  in  bargaining  for  apartments,  will  allow  her 
head  to  be  turned  by  accounts  of  the  distinguished  persons  who  have 
inhabited  those  apartments  in  old  times,  and  will  readily  pay  three  times 
more  than  the  rooms  are  worth. 

People  who  mean  to  live  in  Italy  must  do  business  on  a  very  dif- 
ferent plan  :  they  must  take  pattern  by  the  Italians  themselves.  Most 
of  the  Italian  gentry,  sporting  high-sounding  titles,  are  not  only  poor, 
but  miserly.  They  dress  well  out  of  doors,  frequent  the  theatre  (which 
can  be  done  for  a  small  cost  by  taking  a  yearly  subscription),  and  now 
and  then  they  are  to  be  seen  driving  about  in  antiquated  barouches ;  but 
in  their  homes  they  make  no  show,  and  they  bargain  for  every  article  of 
food  they  buy  till  they  reach  the  lowest  sum  at  which  the  seller  will  part 
with  his  merchandise.  If  an  Englishman  wants  to  make  quite  sure  of 
not  being  cheated,  he  had  better  begin  by  offering  one-third  of  the  sum 
demanded  of  him  for  anything,  from  a  house  to  a  bunch  of  grapes.  When 
he  has  been  a  little  time  in  the  country  he  will  discover  that  even  in 
this  way  he  will  be  made  to  pay  considerably  more  than  a  native.  It 
may  happen  that  at  first  his  offers  will  be  refused,  as  tradesmen  will  be 
anxious  to  prove  him  ;  but  if  he  perseveres  he  will  quickly  acquire  the 
reputation  of  being  a  sensible  man,  and  will  get  the  fat  of  the  land  for 
its  marketable  value. 

Rome,  Naples,  Turin,  and  Florence  should  be  avoided  by  people 
with  small  purses ;  but  there  is  only  an  embarras  de  cholx  with  respect 
to  other  cities  suitable  for  settling.  There  are  twenty  towns  in  the 


CHEAP  PLACES  TO  LIVE  IN.  565 

Peninsula  which  have  fallen  from  a  high  estate  and  abound  with  empty 
palaces.  Genoa,  Milan,  Venice,  Pisa,  Ravenna,  Ferrara,  Modena, 
Parma,  Bologna,  Sienna,  stand  in  this  case,  and  the  further  you  go 
south  the  more  opportunities  have  you  of  renting  lands  as  well  as 
houses  on  low  terms.  The  country  wears  a  look  of  ruin,  but  it  is 
wonderfully  fertile  >  very  little  capital  is  needed  to  work  its  rich  soil, 
and  many  of  our  countrymen  who  carry  their  money  to  America  or 
Australia  at  great  risk  of  getting  no  return  for  it,  would  find  a  much 
safer  investment  in  those  sunny  fields  of  Italy,  where  the  crops  of 
wheat,  grapes,  and  olives  never  fail.  The  Italian  climate,  moreover, 
promotes  economy,  for  there  is  no  necessity  for  taking  stimulants  there,  or 
for  eating  meat  more  than  once  a  day.  The  natives  are  strangely  abste- 
mious. A  cup  of  chocolate  with  some  pastry  in  the  morning;  a  dish  of 
meat  and  vegetables  at  midday ;  some  fruit  and  salad,  or  maccaroni  in  the 
evening,  will  form  an  Italian  nobleman's  bill  of  fare  for  the  day ;  and  the 
only  extras  will  be  an  occasional  ice  or  cup  of  coffee  at  the  cafe.  The  social 
life  of  the  country  is  most  pleasant,  for  you  get  as  much  society  as  you 
please  there  without  its  costing  anything.  The  Italians  do  not,  like  the 
French,  give  elaborate  breakfasts  and  dinners.  The  richer  among  them 
give  musical  parties  at  their  own  houses,  serving  ices  and  coffee  to  their 
guests ;  but  the  majority  meet  their  friends  in  the  open  air  promenades, 
in  the  cafes,  and  at  the  theatre,  which  is  the  chief  place  for  paying  visits. 
Manners  are  free  and  easy ;  morals  are  not  perhaps  all  that  they  might 
be ;  but  English  people  at  least  have  no  reason  to  complain  that  they  are 
received  with  coldness.  They  are  liked  and  respected  all  over  the 
peninsula  in  proportion  as  the  French  and  Germans  are  hated.  It  is 
an  understood  thing  that  the  Englishman  is  an  "  eccentric "  and  a 
"  heretic,"  but  he  is  credited  with  the  possession  of  all  the  serious  quali- 
ties which  the  Italians  themselves  lack,  and  his  very  oddities  are 
supposed  to  be  amusing. 

Spain  is  another  country  where  the  English  are  held  in  esteem ;  but 
an  English  family  would  do  well  not  to  settle  in  that  country  unless  they 
are  Catholics,  and  carry  letters  of  warm  introduction  to  Spanish  families. 
At  their  best  the  Spaniards  are  not  hospitable.  They  live  at  home,  having 
no  propensities  for  outdoor  life  and  meetings  in  cafes,  as  the  Italians 
have ;  they  are  bigoted  in  their  religion,  and  so  touchy  on  the  score  of 
their  personal  dignity  that  the  most  magnanimous  among  them  are  con- 
intly  forgiving  you  for  slights  which  you  had  no  intention  of  inflicting. 
When  offended  they  will  sulk  for  years,  treating  you  with  a  painfully 
eremonious  politeness,  and  never  vouchsafing  a  reason  for  their  displea- 
ire  against  you.  An  Englishman  who  had  thus  been  sent  to  Coventry 
by  a  Spaniard,  discovered  by  accident,  after  the  misunderstanding  had 
lasted  two  years,  that  the  proud  Don  had  been  cut  to  the  soul  by  hearing 
the  Englishman  mimic  the  arrogant  tones  of  a  beggar  who  had  asked 
alms  of  him  in  the  street.  The  Don  had  imagined  that  the  Englishman 


566 


CHEAP  PLACES  TO  LIVE  IN. 


had  intended  to  turn  all  Spaniards  and  their  language  into  ridicule,  and 
he  was  mortally  displeased. 

In  a  country  where  ladies  dress  in  black,  where  a  mess  of  bacon  and 
pease,  called  olla-podrida,  forms  the  staple  diet  of  rich  and  poor,  and 
where  it  is  not  customary  to  give  dinners  or  parties,  expenditure  may 
be  kept  within  narrow  limits.  Some  things,  however,  are  expensive. 
Spanish  schools,  for  instance,  are  both  dear  and  bad.  The  best  of  them 
are  under  clerical  direction,  but  the  priests  who  teach  boys,  and  the  nuns 
who  instruct  girls,  are  alike  inefficient  in  their  duties.  They  consider 
themselves  rather  as  guardians  appointed  to  keep  young  people  out  of 
mischief  than  as  professors  whose  mission  it  is  to  impart  knowledge. 
There  may  be  exceptions,  but  this  is  the  general  rule,  and  English  fami- 
lies in  the  Peninsula  act  wisely  when  they  have  their  children  educated 
at  home.  These  remarks  apply  in  a  more  or  less  degree  to  the  schools 
of  France  and  Italy.  In  none  of  the  Latin  countries  are  the  schools  to 
be  compared  with  those  of  Belgium,  Germany,  and  Switzerland. 

To  sum  up  these  observations  about  cheap  places  to  live  in,  it  may  be 
laid  down  that  the  essentials  for  economical  living  abroad  are  the  follow- 
ing: — 1,  to  start  with  the  intention  of  making  the  best  of  things; 
2,  to  select  for  residence  a  city  of  second-rate  importance,  as  yet  unspoilt 
by  crowds  of  English ;  and,  3,  to  accommodate  oneself  to  the  style  of 
living  adopted  by  the  natives.  If  these  conditions  are  not  adhered  to, 
there  is  no  reason  why  an  English  family  should  not  squander  as  much 
money  abroad  as  at  home ;  but  by  following  the  above  rules  a  cheerful, 
sensible  English  family  are  sure  to  derive  some  benefits  from  their  expa- 
triation. No  mention  has  been  made  in  this  paper  of  Sweden  and  Nor- 
way, Denmark,  Russia,  or  Hungary  as  desirable  countries  for  English 
wanderers ;  but  cheap  towns  exist  in  them  all,  and  for  commercial  pur- 
poses of  the  languages  these  lands  may  in  certain  cases  prove  valuable 
to  young  people.  A  thorough  knowledge  of  Uussian  would  .be  no  bad 
stock-in-trade  for  a  young  Englishman  to  set  up  with  in  business ;  for  it 
would  enable  him  to  establish  relations  with  a  great  many  Russian  towns, 
where  customers  might  be  found  for  English  goods  if  an  Englishman 
could  only  get  to  understand  their  ways  and  wants. 


567 


t  Crmbmt  0f  Wianh  (Dlifrtto,  mar  Sims. 


IN  former  days  the  traveller  had  choice  of  two  old  hostelries  in  the  chief 
street  of  Siena.  Here,  if  he  was  fortunate,  he  might  secure  a  prophet's 
chamber,  with  a  view  across  tiled  houseroofs  to  the  distant  Tuscan  cham- 
paign— glimpses  of  russet  field  and  olive-garden  framed  by  jutting  city 
walls,  which  in  some  measure  compensated  for  much  discomfort.  He  now 
betakes  himself  to  the  more  modern  Albergo  di  Siena,  overlooking  the 
public  promenade  La  Lizza.  Horsechestnuts  and  acacias  make  a  pleasant 
foreground  to  a  prospect  of  considerable  extent.  The  front  of  the  house 
is  turned  toward  Belcaro  and  the  mountains  between  Grosseto  and 
Vbl  terra.  Sideways  its  windows  command  the  brown  bulk  of  San  Do- 
menico,  and  the  Duomo,  set  like  a  marble  coronet  upon  the  forehead  of 
the  town.  When  we  arrived  there  one  October  afternoon  the  sun  was 
setting  amid  flying  clouds  and  watery  yellow  spaces  of  pure  sky,  with  a 
wind  blowing  soft  and  humid  from  the  sea.  Long  after  he  had  sunk 
below  the  hills,  a  fading  chord  of  golden  and  rose-coloui-ed  tints  burned 
on  the  city.  The  cathedral  bell-tower  was  glistening  with  recent  rain,  and 
we  could  see  right  through  its  lancet  windows  to  the  clear  blue  heavens 
beyond.  Then,  as  the  day  descended  into  evening,  the  autumn  trees 
assumed  that  wonderful  effect  of  luminousness  self-evolved,  and  the  red 
brick  walls  that  crimson  after-glow,  which  Tuscan  twilight  takes  from 
singular  transparency  of  atmosphere. 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  define  the  specific  character  of  each  Italian 
city,  assigning  its  proper  share  to  natural  circumstances,  to  the  temper 
of  the  population,  and  to  the  monuments  of  art  in  which  these  elements  of 
nature  and  of  human  qualities  are  blended.  The  fusion  is  too  delicate  and 
subtle  for  complete  analysis;  and  the  total  effect  in  each  particular  case  may 
best  be  compared  to  that  impressed  on  us  by  a  strong  personality,  making 
itself  felt  in  the  minutest  details.  Climate,  situation,  ethnological  con- 
ditions, the  political  vicissitudes  of  past  ages,  the  bias  of  the  people  to 
certain  industries  and  occupations,  the  emergence  of  distinguished  men  at 
critical  epochs,  have  all  contributed  their  quota  to  the  composition  of  an 
individuality  which  abides  long  after  the  locality  has  lost  its  ancient  vigour. 

Since  the  year  1557,  when  Gian  Giacomo  de'  Medici  laid  the  country 
of  Siena  waste,  levelled  her  luxurious  suburbs,  and  delivered  her  famine- 
stricken  citizens  to  the  tyranny  of  the  Grand  Duke  Cosimo,  this  town  has 
gone  on  dreaming  in  suspended  decadence.  Yet  the  epithet  which  was 
given  to  her  in  her  days  of  glory,  the  title  of  "  Fair  Soft  Siena,"  still  de- 
scribes the  city.  She  claims  it  by  right  of  the  gentle  manners,  joyous  but 
sedate,  of  her  inhabitants,  by  the  grace  of  their  pure  Tuscan  speech,  and 


568  THE  CONVENT  OF  MONTE  OLIVETO,  NEAR  SIENA. 

by  the  unique  delicacy  of  her  architecture.  Those  palaces  of  brick,  with 
finely-moulded  lancet  windows,  and  the  lovely  use  of  sculptured  marbles 
in  pilastered  colonnades,  are  fit  abodes  for  the  nobles  who  reared  them  five 
centuries  ago,  of  whose  refined  and  costly  living  we  read  in  the  pages  of 
Dante  or  of  Folgore  da  San  Gemignano.  And  though  the  necessities  of 
modern  life,  the  decay  of  wealth,  the  dwindling  of  old  aristocracy,  and  the 
absorption  of  what  was  once  an  independent  state  in  the  Italian  nation, 
have  obliterated  that  large  signorial  splendour  of  the  middle  ages,  we  feel 
that  the  modern  Sienese  are  not  unworthy  of  their  courteous  ancestry. 

Superficially,  much  of  the  present  charm  of  Siena  consists  in  the  soft 
opening  valleys,  the  glimpses  of  long  blue  hills  and  fertile  country-side, 
framed  by  irregular  brown  houses  stretching  along  the  slopes  on  which 
the  town  is  built,  and  losing  themselves  abruptly  in  olive  fields  and 
orchards.  This  element  of  beauty,  which  brings  the  city  into  immediate 
relation  with  the  country,  is  indeed  not  peculiar  to  Siena.  We  find  it 
in  Perugia,  in  Assisi,  in  Montepulciano,  in  nearly  all  the  hill  towns  of 
Umbria  and  Tuscany.  But  their  landscape  is  often  tragic  and  austere, 
while  this  is  always  suave.  City  and  country  blend  here  in  delightful 
amity.  Neither  yields  that  sense  of  aloofness  which  stirs  melancholy. 

The  most  charming  district  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  Siena 
lies  westward,  near  Belcaro,  a  villa  high  up  on  a  hill.  It  is  a  region  of 
deep  lanes  and  golden-green  cak- woods,  with  cypresses  and  stone-pines, 
and  little  streams  in  all  directions  flowing  over  the  brown  sandstone. 
The  country  is  like  some  parts  of  rural  England — Devonshire  or  Sussex, 
Not  only  is  the  sandstone  here,  as  there,  broken  into  deep  gullies ;  but 
the  vegetation  is  much  the  same :  tufted  spleenwort,  primroses,  and 
broom  tangle  the  hedges'  under  boughs  of  hornbeam  and  sweet-chestnut. 
This  is  the  landscape  which  the  two  sixteenth  century  novelists  of  Siena, 
Fortini  and  Sermini,  so  lovingly  depicted  in  their  tales.  Of  literature 
absorbing  in  itself  the  specific  character  of  a  country,  and  conveying  it  to 
the  reader  less  by  description  than  by  sustained  quality  of  style,  I  know 
none  to  surpass  Fortini's  sketches.  The  prospect  from  Belcaro  is  one  of 
the  finest  to  be  seen  in  Tuscany.  The  villa  stands  at  a  considerable  ele- 
vation, and  commands  an  immense  extent  of  hill  and  dale.  Nowhere, 
except  Maremma-wards,  a  level  plain.  The  Tuscan  mountains,  from 
Monte  Amiata  westward  to  Volterra,  round  Valdelsa,  down  to  Monte- 
pulciano and  Radicofani,  with  their  innumerable  windings  and  intrica- 
cies of  descending  valleys,  are  dappled  with  light  and  shade  from  flying 
storm-  clouds,  sunshine  here  and  there  cloud-shadows.  Girdling  the  villa 
stands  a  grove  of  ilex  trees,  cut  so  as  to  embrace  its  high-built  walls  with 
dark  continuous  green.  In  the  courtyard  are  lemon- trees  and  pome- 
granates laden  with  fruit.  From  a  terrace  on  the  roof  the  whole  wide 
view  is  seen  ;  and  here  upon  a  parapet,  from  which  we  leaned  one  autumn 
afternoon,  my  friend  discovered  this  graffito  :  "  E  vidi  e  piansi  il  fato 
amaro  /" — "  I  gazed,  and  gazing,  wept  the  bitterness  of  fate." 

The  prevailing  note  of  Siena  and  the  Sienese  seems,  as  I  have  said,  to 
be  a  soft  and  tranquil  grace ;  yet  this  people  had  one  of  the  stormiest  and 


THE   CONVENT  OF  MONTE  OLIVETO,  NEAR  SIENA.  569 

maddest  of  Italian  histories.  They  were  passionate  in  love  and  hate,  ve- 
hement in  their  popular  amusements,  almost  frantic  in  their  political  con- 
duct of  affairs.  The  luxury,  for  which  Dante  blamed  them,  the  levity  which 
De  Comines  noticed  in  their  government,  found  counterpoise  in  more 
than  usual  piety  and  fervour.  S.  Bernardino,  the  great  preacher  and  peace- 
maker of  the  middle  ages  ;  S.  Catherine,  the  worthiest  of  all  women  to  be 
canonised;  the  blessed  Colombini,  who  founded  the  order  of  the  Gesuatior 
Brothers  of  the  Poor  in  Christ ;  the  blessed  Bernardo,  who  founded  that 
of  Monte  Oliveto,  were  all  Sienese.  Few  cities  have  given  four  such 
saints  to  modern  Christendom.  The  biography  of  one  of  these  may  serve 
as  prelude  to  an  account  of  the  Sienese  monastery  of  Oliveto  Maggiore. 

The  family  of  Tolomei  was  among  the  noblest  of  the  Sienese  aristo- 
cracy. On  May  10,  1272,  Mino  Tolomei  and  his  wife  Fulvia,  of  the 
Tancredi,  had  a  son  whom  they  christened  Giovanni,  but  who,  when  he 
entered  the  religious  life,  assumed  the  name  of  Bernard,  in  memory  of 
the  great  Abbot  of  Clairvaux.  Of  this  child,  Fulvia  is  said  to  have 
dreamed,  long  before  his  birth,  that  he  assumed  the  form  of  a  white  swan, 
and  sang  melodiously,  and  settled  in  the  boughs  of  an  olive  tree,  whence 
afterwards  he  winged  his  way  to  heaven  amid  a  flock  of  swans  as  dazzling 
white  as  he.  The  boy  was  educated  in  the  Dominican  Cloister  at  Siena, 
under  the  care  of  his  uncle  Cristoforo  Tolomei.  There,  and  afterwards  in 
the  fraternity  of  S.  Ansano,  he  felt  that  impulse  towards  a  life  of  piety, 
which  after  a  short  but  brilliant  episode  of  secular  ambition,  was  destined 
to  return  with  overwhelming  force  npon  his  nature.  He  was  a  youth  of 
promise,  and  at  the  age  of  sixteen  he  obtained  the  doctorate  in  philosophy 
and  both  laws,  civil  and  canonical.  The  Tolomei  upon  this  occasion 
adorned  their  palaces  and  threw  them  open  to  the  people  of  Siena.  The 
Republic  hailed  with  acclamation  the  early  honours  of  a  noble,  born  to  be 
one  of  their  chief  leaders.  Soon  after  this  event  Mino  obtained  for  his 
son  from  the  Emperor  the  title  of  Caesarian  Knight;  and  when  the 
diploma  arrived,  new  festivities  proclaimed  the  fortunate  youth  to  his 
fellow-citizens.  Bernardo  cused  his  limbs  in  steel,  and  rode  in  procession 
with  ladies  and  young  nobles  through  the  streets.  The  ceremonies  of  a 
knight's  reception  in  Siena  at  that  period  were  magnificent.  From  con- 
temporary chronicles  and  from  the  sonnets  written  by  Folgore  da  San 
Gemignano  for  a  similar  occasion,  we  gather  that  the  whole  resources  of 
a  wealthy  family  and  all  their  friends  were  strained  to  the  utmost  to  do 
honour  to  the  order  of  chivalry.  Open  house  was  held  for  several  days. 
Rich  presents  of  jewels,  armour,  dresses,  chargers  were  freely  distributed. 
Tournaments  alternated  with  dances.  But  the  climax  of  the  pageant 
was  the  novice's  investiture  with  sword  and  spurs  and  belt  in  the  cathe- 
dral. This,  as  it  appears  from  a  record  of  the  year  1326,  actually  took 
place  in  the  great  marble  pulpit  carved  by  the  Pisani ;  and  the  most 
illustrious  knights  of  his  acquaintance  were  summoned  by  the  squire  to 
acts  as  sponsors  for  his  fealty. 

It  is  said  that  young  Bernardo  Tolomei's  head  was  turned  to  vanity 
by  these  honours  showered  upon  him  in  his  earliest  manhood.  Yet,  after 


570 


THE  CONVENT  OF  MONTE  OLIVETO,  NEAR  SIENA. 


a  short  period  of  aberration,  lie  rejoined  his  confraternity  and  mortified 
his  flesh  by  discipline  and  strict  attendance  on  the  poor.  The  time  had 
come,  however,  when  he  should  choose  a  career  suitable  to  his  high  rank. 
He  devoted  himself  to  jurisprudence,  and  began  to  lecture  publicly  on 
law.  Already  at  the  age  of  twenty-five  his  fellow-citizens  admitted  him 
to  the  highest  political  offices,  and  in  the  legend  of  his  life  it  is  written, 
not  without  exaggeration  doubtless,  that  he  mled  the  State.  There  is, 
however,  no  reason  to  suppose  that  he  did  not  play  an  important  part  in 
its  government.  Though  a  just  and  virtuous  statesman,  Bernardo  now 
forgot  the  special  service  of  God,  and  gave  himself  with  heart  and  soul 
to  mundane  interests.  At  the  age  of  forty,  supported  by  the  wealth, 
aKiances,  and  reputation  of  his  semi-princely  house,  he  had  become  one 
of  the  most  considerable  party-leaders  in  that  age  of  faction.  If  we  may 
trust  his  monastic  biographer,  he  was  aiming  at  nothing  less  than  the 
tyranny  of  Siena.  But  in  that  year,  when  he  was  forty,  a  change,  which 
can  only  be  described  as  conversion,  came  over  him.  He  had  advertised 
a  public  disputation,  in  which  he  proposed  before  all  comers  to  solve  the 
most  arduous  problems  of  scholastic  science.  The  concourse  was  great, 
the  assembly  brilliant ;  but  the  hero  of  the  day,  who  had  designed  it  for 
his  glory,  was  stricken  with  sudden  blindness.  In  one  moment  he  com- 
prehended the  internal  void  he  had  created  for  his  soul,  and  the  blindness 
of  the  body  was  illumination  to  the  spirit.  The  pride,  power,  and  splen- 
dour of  this  world  seemed  to  him  a  smoke  that  passes.  God,  penitence, 
eternity  appeared  in  all  the  awful  clarity  of  an  authentic  vision.  He 
fell  upon  his  knees  and  prayed  to  Mary  that  he  might  receive  his  sight 
again.  This  boon  was  granted ;  but  the  revelation  which  had  come  to 
him  in  blindness  was  not  withdrawn.  Meanwhile  the  hall  of  disputation 
was  crowded  with  an  expectant  audience.  Bernardo  rose  from  bis  knees, 
made  his  entry,  and  ascended  the  chair;  but  instead  of  the  scholastic 
subtleties  he  had  designed  to  treat,  he  pronounced  the  old  text,  "  Vanity 
of  vanities,  all  is  vanity." 

Afterwards,  attended  by  two  noble  comrades,  Patrizio  Patrizzi  and 
Ambrogio  Piccolomini,  he  went  forth  into  the  wilderness.  For  the 
liuman  soul,  at  strife  with  strange  experience,  betakes  itself  instinctively 
to  solitude.  Not  only  prophets  of  Israel,  saints  of  the  Thebaid,  and 
founders  of  religions  in  the  mystic  East  have  done  so  ;  even  the  Greek 
Menander  recognised,  although  he  sneered  at,  the  phenomenon.  "  The  de- 
sert, they  say,  is  the  place  for  discoveries."  For  the  mediaeval  mind  it  had 
peculiar  attractions.  The  wilderness  these  comrades  chose  was  Accona, 
a  doleful  place,  hemmed  in  with  earthen  precipices,  some  fifteen  miles  to 
the  south  of  Siena.  Of  his  vast  possessions  Bernardo  retained  but  this — 

The  lonesome  lodge, 
That  stood  so  low  in  a  lonely  glen. 

The  rest  of  his  substance  he  abandoned  to  the  poor.  This  was  in 
1313,  the  very  year  of  the  Emperor  Henry  VII.'s  death  at  Buoncon- 
vento,  which  is  a  little  walled  town  between  Siena  and  the  desert  of 
Accona.  Whether  Bernardo's  retirement  was  in  any  way  due  to  the 


THE  CONVENT  OF  MONTE  OLIVETO,  NEAK  SIENA.  571 

extinction  of  immediate  hope  for  the  G-hibelline  party  by  this  event,  we 
do  not  gather  from  his  legend.  That,  as  is  natural,  refers  his  action 
wholly  to  the  operation  of  divine  grace.  Yet  we  may  remember  how  a 
more  illustrious  refugee,  the  singer  of  the  Divine  Comedy,  betook  him- 
self upon  the  same  occasion  to  the  lonely  convent  of  Fonte  Avellana  on 
the  Alps  of  Catria,  and  meditated  there  the  cantos  of  his  Purgatory. 
While  Bernardo  Tolomei  was  founding  the  Order  of  Monte  Oliveto, 
Dante  penned  his  letter  to  the  cardinals  of  Italy  :  Quomodo  sola  sedet 
civitas  plena  populo  :  facta  est  quasi  vidua  domina  gentium. 

Bernardo  and  his  friends  hollowed  with  their  own  hands  grottos  in 
the  rock,  and  strewed  their  stone  beds  with  withered  chestnut-leaves. 
For  S.  Scolastica,  the  sister  of  S.  Benedict,  they  built  a  little  chapel. 
Their  food  was  wild  fruit,  and  their  drink  the  water  of  the  brook. 
Through  the  day  they  delved,  for  it  was  in  their  mind  to  turn  the 
wilderness  into  a  land  of  plenty.  By  night  they  meditated  on  eternal 
truth.  The  contrast  between  their  rude  life  and  the  delicate  nurture  of 
Sienese  nobles,  in  an  age  when  Siena  had  become  a  by-word  for  luxury, 
must  have  been  cruel.  But  it  fascinated  the  mediaeval  imagination,  and 
the  three  anchorites  were  speedily  joined  by  recruits  of  a  like  temper. 
As  yet  the  new-born  order  had  no  rules ;  for  Bernardo,  when  he  re- 
nounced the  world,  embraced  humility.  The  brethren  were  bound 
together  only  by  the  ties  of  charity.  They  lived  in  common ;  and  under 
their  sustained  efforts  Accona  soon  became  a  garden. 

The  society  could  not,  however,  hold  together  without  further 
organisation.  It  began  to  be  ill  spoken  of,  inasmuch  as  vulgar  minds 
can  recognise  no  good  except  in  what  is  formed  upon  a  pattern  they  are 
familiar  with.  Then  Bernardo  had  a  vision.  In  his  sleep  he  saw  a 
ladder  of  light  ascending  to  the  heavens.  Above  sat  Jesus  with  Our 
Lady  in  white  raiment,  and  the  celestial  hierarchies  around  them  were 
attired  in  white.  Up  the  ladder,  led  by  angels,  climbed  men  in  vesture 
of  dazzling  white ;  and  among  these  Bernardo  recognised  his  own  com- 
panions. Soon  after  this  dream,  he  called  Ambrogio  Piccolomini,  and 
bade  him  get  ready  for  a  journey  to  the  Pope  at  Avignon. 

John  XXII.  received  the  pilgrims  graciously,  and  gave  them  letters 
to  the  Bishop  of  Arezzo,  commanding  him  to  furnish  the  new  brother- 
hood with  one  of  the  rules  authorised  by  Holy  Church  for  governance 
of  a  monastic  order.  Guido  Tarlati,  of  the  great  Pietra-mala  house,  was 
Bishop  and  despot  of  Arezzo  at  this  epoch.  A  man  less  in  harmony 
with  crenobitical  enthusiasm  than  this  warrior  prelate,  could  scarcely 
have  been  found.  Yet  attendance  to  such  matters  formed  part  of  his 
business,  and  the  legend  even  credits  him  with  an  inspired  dream ;  for 
Our  Lady  appeared  to  him,  and  said  :  "  I  love  the  valley  of  Accona  and 
its  pious  solitaries.  Give  them  the  rule  of  Benedict.  But  thou  shalt 
strip  them  of  their  mourning  weeds,  and  clothe  them  in  white  raiment, 
the  symbol  of  my  virgin  purity.  Their  hermitage  shall  change  its  name, 
and  henceforth  shall  be  called  Mount  Olivet,  in  memory  of  the  ascension 
of  my  divine  Son,  the  which  took  place  upon  the  Mount  of  Olives.  I 


572  THE  CONVENT  OF  MONTE  OLIVETO,  NEAR  SIENA. 

take  this  family  beneath  my  own  protection  ;  and  therefore  it  is  my  will 
it  should  be  called  henceforth  the  congregation  of  S.  Mary  of  Mount 
Olivet."  After  this,  the  Blessed  Virgin  took  forethought  for  the  heraldic 
designs  of  her  monks,  dictating  to  Guido  Tarlati  the  blazon  they  still 
bear ;  it  is  of  three  hills  or,  whereof  the  third  and  highest  is  surmounted 
with  a  cross  gules,  and  from,  the  meeting-point  of  the  three  hillocks  upon 
either  hand  a  branch  of  olive  vert.  This  was  in  1319.  In  1324,  John 
XXII.  confirmed  the  Order,  and  in  1344  it  was  further  approved  by 
Clement  VI.  Affiliated  societies  sprang  up  in  several  Tuscan  cities  ;  and 
in  1347,  Bernardo  Tolomei,  at  that  time  General  of  the  Order,  held  a 
chapter  of  its  several  houses.  The  next  year  was  the  year  of  the  great 
plague  or  Black  Death.  Bernardo  bade  his  brethren  leave  their  seclusion, 
and  go  forth  on  works  of  mercy  among  the  sick.  Some  went  to  Florence, 
some  to  Siena,  others  to  the  smaller  hill-set  towns  of  Tuscany.  All  were 
bidden  to  assemble  on  the  feast  of  the  Assumption  at  Siena.  Here  the 
founder  addi'essed  his  spiritual  children  for  the  last  time.  Soon  afterwards 
he  died  himself,  at  the  age  of  seventy-seven,  and  the  place  of  his  grave  is 
not  known.  He  was  beatified  by  the  Church  for  his  great  virtues. 

At  noon  we  started,  four  of  us,  in  an  open  waggonette  with  a  pair 
of  horses,  for  Monte  Oliveto,  the  luggage  heaped  mountain-high  and 
tied  in  a  top-heavy  mass  above  us.  After  leaving  the  gateway,  with  its 
massive  fortifications  and  frescoed  arches,  the  road  passes  into  a  dull 
earthy  country,  very  much  like  some  parts — and  not  the  best  parts — of 
England.  The  beauty  of  the  Sienese  contado  is  clearly  on  the  sandstone, 
not  upon  the  clay.  Hedges,  haystacks,  isolated  farms — all  were  English 
in  their  details.  Only  the  vines,  and  mulberries,  and  wattled  waggons 
drawn  by  oxen,  most  Roman  in  aspect,  reminded  us  we  were  in  Tuscany. 
In  such  carpenta  may  the  vestal  virgins  have  ascended  the  Capitol.  It 
is  the  primitive  war-chariot  also,  capable  of  holding  four  with  ease  ;  and 
Romulus  may  have  mounted  with  the  images  of  Roman  gods  in  even 
such  a  vehicle  to  Latiarian  Jove  upon  the  Alban  hill.  Nothing  changes 
in  Italy.  The  wooden  ploughs  are  those  which  Virgil  knew.  The 
sight  of  one  of  them  would  save  an  intelligent  lad  much  trouble  in 
mastering  a  certain  passage  of  the  Georgics. 

Siena  is  visible  behind  us  nearly  the  whole  way  to  Buon  Convento, 
a  little  town  where  the  Emperor  Henry  VII.  died,  as  it  was  supposed, 
of  poison,  in  1313.  It  is  still  circled  with  the  wall  and  gates  built  by 
the  Sienese  in  1366,  and  is  a  fair  specimen  of  an  intact  mediaeval  strong- 
hold. Here  we  leave  the  main  road,  and  break  into  a  country-track 
across  a  bed  of  sandstone,  with  the  delicate  volcanic  lines  of  Monte 
Amiata  in  front,  and  the  aerial  pile  of  Montalcino  to  our  right. 
The  pyracanthus  bushes  in  the  hedge  yield  their  clusters  of  bright 
yellow  berries,  mingled  with  more  glowing  hues  of  red  from  haws  and 
glossy  hips.  On  the  pale  grey  earthen  slopes  men  and  women  are 
plying  the  long  Sabellian  hoes  of  their  forefathers,  and  ploughmen  are 
driving  furrows  down  steep  hills.  The  labour  of  the  husbandmen  in 

" 


THE  CONVENT  OF  MONTE  OLIVETO,  NEAR  SIENA.  573 

Tuscany  is  very  graceful,  partly,  I  think,  because  it  is  so  primitive, 
but  also  because  the  people  have  an  eminently  noble  carriage,  and  are 
fashioned  on  the  lines  of  antique  statues.  I  noticed  two  young  conta- 
dini  in  one  field,  whom  Frederick  Walker  might  have  painted  with  the 
dignity  of  Pheidian  form.  They  were  guiding  their  ploughs  along  a 
hedge  of  olive-trees,  slanting  upwards,  the  white-horned  oxen  moving 
slowly  through  the  marl,  and  the  lads  bending  to  press  the  ploughshares 
home.  It  was  a  delicate  piece  of  colour — the  grey  mist  of  olive  branches, 
the  warm  smoking  earth,  the  creamy  flanks  of  the  oxen,  the  brown 
limbs  and  dark  eyes  of  the  men,  who  paused  awhile  to  gaze  at  us,  with 
shadows  cast  upon  the  furrows  from  their  tall  straight  figures.  Then 
they  turned  to  their  work  again,  and  rhythmic  movement  was  added  to 
the  picture.  I  wonder  when  an  Italian  artist  will  condescend  to  pluck 
these  flowers  of  beauty,  so  abundantly  offered  by  the  simplest  things  in 
his  own  native  land.  Each  city  has  an  Accademia  delle  Belle  Arti, 
and  there  is  no  lack  of  students.  But  the  painters,  having  learned  their 
trade,  make  copies  ten  times  distant  from  the  truth  of  famous  master- 
pieces for  the  American  market.  Few  seem  to  look  beyond  their 
picture  galleries.  Thus  the  great  democratic  art,  the  art  of  life  and 
nature  and  the  people,  waits. 

As  we  mount,  the  soil  grows  of  a  richer  brown  ;  and  there  are  woods 
of  oak  where  herds  of  swine  are  feeding  on  the  acorns.  Monte  Oliveto 
comes  in  sight — a  mass  of  red  brick,  backed  up  with  cypresses,  among 
dishevelled  earthy  precipices,  baize  as  they  are  called — upon  the  hill 
below  the  village  of  Chiusure.  This  Chiusure  was  once  a  promising 
town ;  but  the  life  was  crushed  out  of  it  in  the  throes  of  mediaeval  civil 
wars,  and  since  the  thirteenth  century  it  has  been  dwindling  to  a  hamlet. 
The  struggle  for  existence,  from  which  the  larger  communes  of  this 
district,  Siena  and  Montepulciano,  emerged  at  the  expense  of  their 
neighbours,  must  have  been  tragical.  The  baize  now  grow  sterner, 
drier,  more  dreadful.  We  see  how  deluges  outpoured  from  thunder- 
storms bring  down  their  viscous  streams  of  loam,  destroying  in  an  hour 
the  terraces  it  took  a  year  to  build,  and  spreading  wasteful  mud  upon 
the  scanty  corn-fields.  The  people  call  this  soil  creta ;  but  it  seems  to 
be  less  like  a  chalk,  than  a  marl,  or  mama.  It  is  always  washing  away 
into  ravines  and  gullies,  exposing  the  roots  of  trees,  and  rendering  the 
tillage  of  the  land  a  thankless  labour.  One  marvels  how  any  vegetation 
has  the  faith  to  settle  on  its  dreary  waste,  or  how  men  have  the  patience, 
generation  after  generation,  to  renew  the  industry,  still  beginning,  never 
ending,  which  reclaims  such  wildernesses.  Comparing  Monte  Oliveto 
with  similar  districts  of  cretaceous  soil — with  the  country,  for  example, 
between  Pienza  and  San  Quirico — we  perceive  how  much  is  owed  to  the 
perseverance  of  the  monks  whom  Bernard  Tolomei  planted  here.  So  far 
as  it  is  clothed  at  all  with  crop  and  wood,  this  is  their  service. 

At  last  we  climb  the  crowning  hill,  emerge  from  a  copse  of  oak, 
glide  along  a  terraced  pathway  through  the  broom,  and  find  ourselves  in 
front  of  the  convent  gateway.  A  substantial  tower  of  red  brick,  machico- 


574  THE  CONVENT  OF  MONTE  OLIVETO,  NEAR  SIENA. 

lated  at  the  top  and  pierced  with  small  square  windows,  guards  this 
portal,  reminding  us  that  at  some  time  or  other  the  monks  found  it 
needful  to  arm  their  solitude  against  a  force  descending  from  Chhisure. 
There  is  an  avenue  of  slender  cypresses  ;  and  over  the  gate,  protected  by 
a  jutting  roof,  shines  a  fresco  of  Madonna  and  Child.  Passing  rapidly 
downwards,  we  are  in  the  courtyard  of  the  monastery  among  its  stables, 
barns,  and  outhouses,  with  the  forlorn  bulk  of  the  huge  red  building, 
spreading  wide,  and  towering  up  above  us.  As  good  luck  ruled  our 
arrival,  we  came  face  to  face  with  the  Abbate  de  Negro,  who  administers 
the  domain  of  Monte  Oliveto  for  the  Government  of  Italy,  and  exercises 
a  kindly  hospitality  to  chance-comers.  He  was  standing  near  the 
church,  which,  with  its  tall  square  campanile,  breaks  the  long  stern  out- 
line of  the  convent.  The  whole  edifice,  it  may  be  said,  is  composed  of  a 
red  brick  inclining  to  purple  in  tone,  which  contrasts  not  unpleasantly 
with  the  lustrous  green  of  the  cypresses,  and  the  glaucous  sheen  of  olives. 
Advantage  has  been  taken  of  a  steep  crest ;  and  the  monastery,  enlarged 
from  time  to  time  through  the  last  five  centuries,  has  here  and  there 
been  reared  upon  gigantic  buttresses,  which  jut  upon  the  baize  at  a  some- 
times giddy  height. 

The  Abbate  received  us  with  true  courtesy,  and  gave  us  spacious 
rooms,  three  cells  apiece,  facing  Siena  and  the  western  mountains. 
There  is  accommodation,  he  told  us,  for  three  hundred  monks ;  but  only 
three  are  left  in  it.  As  this  order  was  confined  to  members  of  the 
nobility,  each  of  the  religious  had  his  own  apartment — not  a  cubicle 
such  as  the  uninstructed  dream  of  when  they  read  of  monks,  but  separate 
chambers  for  sleep  and  study  and  recreation. 

In  the  middle  of  the  vast  sad  landscape,  the  place  is  still,  with  a 
silence  that  can  be  almost  heard.  The  deserted  state  of  those  innume- 
rable cells,  those  echoing  corridors  and  shadowy  cloisters,  exercises  over- 
powering tyranny  over  the  imagination.  Siena  is  so  far  away,  and 
Montalcino  is  so  faintly  outlined  on  its  airy  parapet,  that  these  cities 
only  deepen  our  sense  of  desolation.  It  is  a  relief  to  mark  at  no  great 
distance  on  the  hill-side  a  contadino  guiding  his  oxen,  and  from  a  lonely 
farm  yon  column  of  ascending  smoke.  At  least  the  world  goes  on,  and 
life  is  somewhere  resonant  with  song.  But  here  there  rests  a  pall  of 
silence  among  the  oak  groves  and  the  cypresses  and  baize.  As  I  leaned 
and  mused,  while  Christian  (my  good  friend  and  fellow-traveller  from 
the  Grisons)  made  our  beds,  a  melancholy  sunset  flamed  up  from  a  ram- 
part of  cloud,  built  like  a  city  of  the  air  above  the  mountains  of  Yol terra 
— fire  issuing  from  its  battlements,  and  smiting  the  fretted  roof 
heaven  above.  It  was  a  conflagration  of  celestial  rose  upon  the  saddes 
purples  and  cavernous  recesses  of  intensest  azure. 

We  had  an  excellent  supper  in  the  visitors'  refectory — soup,  gc 
bread  and  country  wine,  ham,  a  roast  chicken  with  potatoes,  a  nic 
white  cheese  made  of  sheep's  milk,  and  grapes  for  dessert.  The  kinc 
Abbate  sat  by,  and  watched  his  four  guests  eat,  tapping  his  tortoise-shell 
snuffbox,  and  telling  us  many  interesting  things  about  the  past  and  pre- 


THE  CONVENT  OF  MONTE  OLIVETO,  NEAE  SIENA.  575 

sent  state  of  the  convent.  Our  company  was  completed  with  Lupo,  the 
pet  cat,  and  Pirro,  a  woolly  Corsican  dog,  very  good  friends,  and  both 
enormously  voracious.  Lupo  in  particular  engraved  himself  upon  the 
memory  of  Christian,  into  whose  large  legs  he  thrust  his  claws,  when  the 
cheese-parings  and  scraps  were  not  supplied  him  with  sufficient  prompti- 
tude. I  never  saw  a  hungrier  and  bolder  cat.  It  made  one  fancy  that 
even  the  mice  had  been  exiled  from  this  solitude.  And  truly  the  rule  of 
the  monastic  order,  no  less  than  the  habit  of  Italian  gentlemen,  is  frugal 
in  the  matter  of  the  table,  beyond  the  conception  of  northern  folk. 

Monte  Oliveto,  the  Superior  told  us,  owned  thii-ty-two  yioderi,  or 
large  farms,  of  which  five  have  recently  been  sold.  They  are  worked  on 
the  mezzeria  system,  whereby  peasants  and  proprietors  divide  the  pro- 
duce of  the  soil,  and  which  he  thinks  far  inferior  for  developing  the 
resources  to  that  of  affitto,  or  lease-holding. 

The  contadini  live  in  scattered  houses ;  and  he  says  the  estate  would  be 
greatly  improved  by  doubling  the  number  of  these  dwellings,  and  letting 
the  subdivided  farms  to  more  energetic  people.  The  village  of  Chiusure  is 
inhabited  by  labourers.  The  contadini  are  poor  :  a  dower,  for  instance, 
of  fifty  lire  is  thought  something :  whereas  near  Genoa,  upon  the 
leasehold  system,  a  farmer  may  sometimes  provide  a  dower  of  twenty 
thousand  lire.  The  country  produces  grain  of  different  sorts,  excellent 
oil,  and  timber.  It  also  yields  a  tolerable  red  wine.  The  Government 
makes  from  eight  to  nine  per  cent,  upon  the  value  of  the  land,  employ- 
ing him  and  his  two  religious  brethren  as  agents. 

In  such  conversation  the  evening  passed.  We  rested  well  in  large 
hard  beds  with  dry  rough  sheets.  But  there  was  a  fretful  wind  abroad, 
which  went  wailing  round  the  convent  walls  and  rattling  the  doors  in  its 
deserted  corridors.  One  of  our  party  had  been  placed  by  himself  at  the 
end  of  a  long  suite  of  apartments,  with  balconies  commanding  the  wide 
sweep  of  hills  that  Monte  Amiata  crowns.  He  confessed  in  the  morning 
to  having  passed  a  restless  night,  tormented  by  the  ghostly  noises  of  the 
wind,  a  wanderer,  "  like  the  world's  rejected  guest,"  through  those  un- 
tenanted  chambers.  The  olives  tossed  their  filmy  boughs  in  twilight 
underneath  his  windows,  sighing  and  shuddering,  with  a  sheen  in  them 
as  eery  as  that  of  willows  by  some  haunted  mere. 

The  great  attraction  to  students  of  Italian  art  in  the  convent  of 
Monte  Oliveto  is  a  large  square  cloister,  covered  with  wall-paintings  by 
Luca  Signorelli  and  Giovannantonio  Bazzi,  surnamed  II  Sodoma.  These 
represent  various  episodes  in  the  life  of  S.  Benedict ;  while  one  picture,  in 
some  respects  the  best  of  the  whole  series,  is  devoted  to  the  founder  of  the 
Olivetan  Order,  Bernardo  Tolomei,  dispensing  the  rule  of  his  institution 
to  a  consistory  of  white-robed  monks.  Signorelli,  that  great  master  of  Cor- 
tona,  may  be  studied  to  better  advantage  elsewhere,  especially  at  Orvieto 
and  in  his  native  city.  His  work  in  this  cloister,  consisting  of  eight 
frescoes,  has  been  much  spoiled  by  time  and  restoration.  Yet  it  can  be 
referred  to  a  good  period  of  his  artistic  activity,  the  year  1497,  and  dis- 
plays much  which  is  specially  characteristic  of  his  manner.  In  Totila's 


576  THE  CONVENT  OF  MONTE  OLIVETO,  NEAK  SIENA. 

barbaric  train,  he  painted  a  crowd  of  fierce  emphatic  figures,  combining 
all  ages  and  the  most  varied  attitudes,  and  reproducing  with  singular 
vividness  the  Italian  soldiers  of  adventure  of  his  day.  We  see  before  us 
the  long-haired  followers  of  Braccio  and  the  Baglioni ;  their  handsome 
savage  faces;  their  brawny  limbs  clad  in  the  particoloured  hose  and 
jackets  of  that  period  ;  feathered  caps  stuck  sideways  on  their  heads  ;  a 
splendid  swagger  in  their  straddling  legs.  Female  beauty  lay  outside 
the  sphere  of  Signorelli's  sympathy ;  and  in  the  Monte  Oliveto  cloister 
he  was  not  called  upon  to  paint  it.  But  none  of  the  Italian  masters  felt 
more  keenly,  or  more  powerfully  represented  in  their  work,  the  muscu- 
lar vigour  of  young  manhood.  Two  of  the  remaining  frescoes,  different 
from  these  in  motive,  might  be  selected  as  no  less  characteristic  of  Sig- 
norelli's manner.  One  represents  three  sturdy  monks,  clad  in  brown, 
•working  with  all  their  strength  to  stir  a  boulder,  which  has  been  be- 
witched, and  needs  a  miracle  to  move  it  from  its  place.  The  square, 
powerfully  outlined  design  of  these  figures  is  beyond  all  praise  for  its  effect 
of  massive  solidity.  The  other  shows  us  the  interior  of  a  fifteenth  cen- 
tury tavern,  where  two  monks  are  regaling  themselves  upon  the  sly. 
A  country  girl,  with  shapely  arms  and  shoulders,  her  upper  skirts  tucked 
round  the  ample  waist  to  which  broad  sweeping  lines  of  back  and  breasts 
descend,  is  serving  wine.  The  exuberance  of  animal  life,  the  freedom  of 
attitude  expressed  in  this,  the  mainly  interesting  figure  of  the  composi- 
tion, show  that  Signorelli  might  have  been  a  great  master  of  realistic 
painting.  Nor  are  the  accessories  less  effective.  A  wide-roofed  kitchen- 
chimney,  a  page-boy  leaving  the  room  by  a  flight  of  steps,  which  leads  to 
the  house  door,  and  the  table  at  which  the  truant  monks  are  seated,  com- 
plete a  picture  of  homely  Italian  life.  It  may  still  be  matched  out  of 
many  an  inn  in  this  hill-district. 

Called  to  graver  work  at  Orvieto,  where  he  painted  his  gigantic 
series  of  frescoes  illustrating  the  coming  of  Antichrist,  the  destruction  of 
the  world,  the  Resurrection,  the  Last  Judgment,  and  the  final  state  of 
souls  in  Paradise  and  Hell,  Signorelli  left  his  work  at  Monte  Oliveto  un- 
accomplished. Seven  years  later  it  was  taken  up  by  a  painter  of  very 
different  genius.  Sodoma  was  a  native  of  Vercelli,  and  had  received  his 
first  training  in  the  Lombard  schools,  which  owed  so  much  to  Lionardo 
da  Vinci's  influence.  He  was  about  thirty  years  of  age  when  chance 
brought  him  to  Siena.  Here  he  made  acquaintance  with  Pandolfo 
Petrucci,  who  had  recently  established  himself  in  a  species  of  tyranny 
over  the  Republic.  The  work  he  did  for  this  patron  and  other  nobles  of 
Siena  brought  him  into  notice.  Vasari  observes  that  his  hot  Lombard 
colouring,  a  something  florid  and  attractive  in  his  style,  which  contrasted 
with  the  severity  of  the  Tuscan  school,  rendered  him  no  less  agreeable 
as  an  artist  than  his  free  manners  made  him  acceptable  as  a  house- 
friend.  Fra  Domenico  da  Leccio,  also  a  Lombard,  was  at  that  time 
general  of  the  monks  of  Monte  Oliveto.  On  a  visit  to  this  compatriot  in 
1505,  Sodoma  received  a  commission  to  complete  the  cloister ;  and 
during  the  next  two  years  he  worked  there,  producing  in  all  twenty-five 


THE  CONVENT  OF  MONTE  OLIVETO,   NEAE  SIENA.          577 

frescoes.  For  his  pains  he  seems  to  have  received  but  little  pay — Va- 
sari  says,  only  the  expenses  of  some  colour-grinders  who  assisted  him ; 
but  from  the  books  of  the  convent  it  appears  that  241  ducats,  or  some- 
thing over  60£.  of  our  money,  were  disbursed  to  him. 

Sodoma  was  so  singular  a  fellow,  even  in  that  age  of  piquant  perso- 
nalities, that  it  may  be  worth  while  to  translate  a  fragment  of  Vasari's 
gossip  about  him.  We  must,  however,  bear  in  mind  that,  for  some  un- 
known reason,  the  Aretine  historian  bore  a  rancorous  grudge  against 
this  Lombard,  whose  splendid  gifts  and  great  achievements  he  did  all  he 
could  by  writing  to  depreciate.  "  He  was  fond,"  says  Vasari,  "  of  keeping 
in  his  house  all  sorts  of  strange  animals  :  badgers,  squirrels,  monkeys, 
cat-a-mountains,  dwarf- donkeys,  horses,  racers,  little  Elba  ponies,  jack- 
daws, bantams,  doves  of  India,  and  other  creatures  of  this  kind,  as  many 
as  he  could  lay  his  hands  on.  Over  and  above  these  beasts,  he  had  a 
raven,  which  had  learned  so  well  from  him  to  talk,  that  it  could  imitate 
its  master's  voice,  especially  in  answering  the  door  when  some  one 
knocked,  and  this  it  did  so  cleverly  that  people  took  it  for  Giovannan- 
tonio  himself,  as  all  the  folk  of  Siena  know  quite  well.  In  like  manner, 
his  other  pets  were  so  much  at  home  with  him  that  they  never  left  his 
house,  but  played  the  strangest  tricks  and  maddest  pranks  imaginable,  so 
that  his  house  was  like  nothing  more  than  a  Noah's  Ark."  He  was  a 
bold  rider,  it  seems ;  for  with  one  of  his  racers,  ridden  by  himself,  he 
bore  away  the  prize  in  that  wild  horse-race  they  run  upon  the  Piazza 
at  Siena.  For  the  rest,  "  he  attired  himself  in  pompous  clothes,  wearing 
doublets  of  brocade,  cloaks  trimmed  with  gold  lace,  gorgeous  caps,  neck- 
chains,  and  other  vanities  of  a  like  description,  fit  for  buffoons  and 
mountebanks."  In  one  of  the  frescoes  of  Monte  Oliveto,  Sodoma  painted 
his  own  portrait,  with  some  of  his  curious  pets  around  him.  He  there 
appears  as  a  young  man  with  large  and  decidedly  handsome  features,  a 
great  shock  of  dark  curbed  hair  escaping  from  a  yellow  cap,  and  flowing 
down  over  a  rich  mantle  which  drapes  his  shoulders.  If  we  may  trust 
Vasari,  he  showed  his  curious  humours  freely  to  the  monks.  "  Nobody 
could  describe  the  amusement  he  furnished  to  those  good  fathers,  who 
christened  him  Mattaccio  (the  big  madman),  or  the  insane  tricks  le 
played  there." 

In  spite  of  Vasari's  malevolence,  the  portrait  he  has  given  us  of  Bazzi 
has  so  far  nothing  unpleasant  about  it.  The  man  seems  to  have  been  a 
madcap  artist,  combining  with  his  love  for  his  profession  a  taste  for 
fine  clothes,  and  what  was  then,  perhaps,  rarer  in  people  of  his  sort,  a 
great  partiality  for  living  creatures  of  all  kinds.  The  darker  shades  of 
Vasari's  picture  have  been  purposely  omitted  from  these  pages.  We 
only  know  for  certain,  about  Bazzi's  private  life,  that  he  was  married  in 
1510  to  a  certain  Beatrice,  who  bore  him  two  children,  and  who  was 
still  living  with  him  in  1541.  The  further  suggestion  that  he  painted  at 
Monte  Oliveto  subjects  unworthy  of  a  religious  house,  is  wholly  dis- 
proved by  the  frescoes  which  still  exist  in  a  state  of  very  tolerable  pre- 

VOL.  XLV.— NO.  269.  28. 


578  THE  CONVENT   OF  MONTE   OLIVETO,   NEAR   SIENA. 

servation.  They  represent  various  episodes  in  the  legend  of  S.  Benedict ; 
all  marked  by  that  spirit  of  simple,  almost  childish  piety  which  is  a 
special  characteristic  of  Italian  religious  history.  The  series  forms,  in 
fact,  a  painted  novella  of  monastic  life;  its  petty  jealousies,  its  petty 
trials,  its  tribulations  and  temptations,  and  its  indescribably  petty 
miracles.  Bazzi  was  well  fitted  for  the  execution  of  this  task.  He  had 
a  swift  and  facile  brush,  considerable  versatility  in  the  treatment  of 
monotonous  subjects,  and  a  never-failing  sense  of  humour.  .His  white- 
cowled  monks,  some  of  them  with  the  rosy  freshness  of  boys,  some  with 
the  handsome  brown  faces  of  middle  life,  others  astute  and  crafty,  others 
again  wrinkled  with  old  age,  have  clearly  been  copied  from  real  models. 
He  puts  them  into  action  without  the  slightest  effort,  and  surrounds 
them  with  landscapes,  architecture,  and  furniture,  appropriate  to  each 
successive  situation.  The  whole  is  done  with  so  much  grace,  such  sim- 
plicity of  composition,  and  transparency  of  style,  corresponding  to  the 
naif  and  superficial  legend,  that  we  feel  a  perfect  harmony  between  the 
artist's  mind  and  the  motives  he  was  made  to  handle.  In  this  respect 
Bazzi's  portion  of  the  legend  of  S.  Benedict  is  more  successful  than  Sig- 
norelli's.  It  was  fortunate,  perhaps,  that  the  conditions  of  his  task 
confined  him  to  uncomplicated  groupings,  and  a  scale  of  colour  in  which 
white  predominates.  For  Bazzi,  as  is  shown  by  subsequent  work  in  the 
Farnesina  Villa  at  Rome,  and  in  the  church  of  S.  Domenico  at  Siena, 
was  no  master  of  composition ;  and  the  tone,  even  of  his  masterpieces, 
inclines  to  heat.  Unlike  Signorelli,  Bazzi  felt  a  deep  artistic  sympathy 
with  female  beauty ;  and  the  most  attractive  fresco  in  the  whole  series  is 
that  in  which  the  evil  monk  Florentius  brings  a  bevy  of  fair  damsels 
to  the  convent.  There  is  one  group,  in  particular,  of  six  women,  so 
delicately  varied  in  carriage  of  the  head  and  suggested  movement  of  the 
body,  as  to  be  comparable  only  to  a  strain  of  concerted  music.  This  is, 
perhaps,  the  painter's  masterpiece  in  the  rendering  of  pure  beauty,  if  we 
except  his  S.  Sebastian  of  the  Uffizzi. 

We  tire  of  studying  pictures,  hardly  less  than  of  reading  about  them  ! 
I  was  glad  enough,  after  three  hours  spent  among  the  frescoes  of  this 
cloister,  to  wander  forth  into  the  copses  which  surround  the  convent. 
Sunlight  was  streaming  treacherously  from  flying  clouds ;  and  though 
it  was  high  noon,  the  oak-leaves  were  still  a-tremble  with  dew.  Pink 
cyclamens  and  yellow  amaryllis  starred  the  moist  brown  earth;  and 
under  the  cypress  trees,  where  alleys  had  been  cut  in  former  time  for 
pious  feet,  the  short  firm  turf  was  soft  and  mossy.  Before  bidding  the 
hospitable  Padre  farewell,  and  starting  in  our  waggonette  for  Asciano,  it 
was  pleasant  to  meditate  awhile  in  these  green  solitudes.  Generations 
of  white-stoled  monks  who  had  sat  or  knelt  upon  the  now  deserted  ter- 
races, or  had  slowly  paced  the  winding  paths  to  Calvaries  aloft  and 
points  of  vantage  high  above  the  wood,  rose  up  before  me.  My  mind, 
still  full  of  Bazzi's  frescoes,  peopled  the  wilderness  with  grave  monastic 

forms,  and  gracious,  young-eyed  faces  of  boyish  novices. 

J.  A.  S. 


r>79 


CHRONOLOGY  is  no  test  of  antiquity.  Wherever  we  see  progressive,  rest- 
less men,  politicians,  artists,  men  of  affairs  and  society,  like  our  beloved 
Periklean  Greeks,  we  feel  that  they  are  men  of  to-day,  our  own  inspiring 
and  instructive  companions.  Wherever  we  see  stationary,  contented 
men,  who  plough  with  a  stick,  and  fight  with  a  club,  think  the  earth  to  be 
flat  and  their  ancestors  gods,  there  are  your  ancient,  outgrown  generations, 
whatever  their  date.  Thus,  the  primitive  ages  of  bronze  and  stone  still 
linger  among  Patagonian  and  Oceanic  savages  ;  Homeric  races  exist  in 
Russia  and  Africa ;  you  can  see  what  feudalism  was  if  you  hasten  to 
Japan  before  the  race  it  there  has  reared  passes  away;  and  yes,  you  may 
even  see  your  own  ancestors  in  the  heart  of  the  Appalachians  of  the 
eastern  United  States. 

-  I  have  made  personal  experience  of  these  truths  lately,  in  a  visit  of 
two  months  to  the  mountain  region  of  Kentucky.  I  was  there  so  shut 
off  from  the  nineteenth  century  that  it  was  like  a  dream  to  think  that 
out  beyond  the  mountain-barrier,  existed  a  contemporaneous  world,  full 
of  ideas,  projects,  motion.  And  now,  how  like  a  dream  it  is,  to  think 
that  in  the  heart  of  this  world  exists  that  other,  of  men  who  have  never 
heard  the  shriek  of  an  engine,  the  click  of  the  telegraph,  the  whirr  of 
machinery ;  of  men  who,  in  many  cases,  neither  read  nor  write,  who 
never  take  a  newspaper,  and  who  often  can  barely  count  ten.  These 
are  the  "  no  account "  people,  the  "  poor  white  trash." 

They  are  attached  to  the  land  in  two  relations  :  they  are  either  tenants 
of  some  large  landholder,  and  pay  their  rent  in  produce ;  or,  more  rarely, 
they  are  independent  owners  of  little  "  patches."  In  either  case,  they 
raise  an  easy  living  of  maize  and  bacon,  and  are  therewith  content.  They 
all  live  in  log-houses,  with  a  great  chimney  at  one  end,  into  which  a 
mighty  fireplace,  fit  for  a  yule-log,  opens  from  the  interior.  I  was  quite 
startled,  a  few  days  ago,  by  seeing  identically  such  a  chimney  in  the 
vicinity  of  Ely.  The  wide  chinks  between  the  badly-fitting  logs  are 
plastered  up  in  winter  with  mud,  which  is  knocked  out  in  summer  to 
let  the  breezes  in.  Many  of  these  houses  have  no  window,  and  depend 
for  light  on  the  door  or  the  fire,  according  to  the  season.  I  once  had 
occasion  to  need  a  candle  in  the  night,  but  I  was  seventeen  miles  from  a 
match,  and  had  to  send  to  a  neighbouring  house,  whence  my  wants  were 
supplied  by  a  pine  torch,  lit  from  the  embers  on  the  hearth.  I  have 
never  seen  more  than  three  rooms  in  a  house,  and  frequently  there  is  but 
one.  In  this  the  whole  household  sleep,  and  the  "  stranger  within  their 
gates  "  shares  with  them  the  floor  and  fire. 

28—2 


580  "POOR  WHITE  TRASH." 

My  Kentucky  hostess  was  the  owner  of  something  like  three  thousand 
acres  of  land,  and  in  her  company  I  visited  many  of  the  "  poor  white 
trash,"  tenants  on  her  own  or  neighbouring  farms.  One  Saturday,  we- 
went  to  see  a  "  foot  washing  "  at  a  little  church  several  miles  away. 
Soon  after  breakfast,  my  friend  and  I  were  in  the  saddle  and  on  the  way — 
a  charming  way,  through  the  bright  American  air  of  an  October  morning ; 
up-hill  and  down-hill,  through  woodland  and  clearing,  now  by  rough  and 
stony  paths,  now  by  bits  of  half-made  road,  and  over  the  creeks  by  primi- 
tive fords.  It  needed  but  a  change  of  costume  and  one  wild  bugle-call, 
to  change  us  all  to  mediaeval  times.  Rounded  mountains  stretch 
away  from  the  rough  wooded  knolls  close  by  to  the  soft  purple  curves  in 
the  horizon.  Ragged  cultivation  varies  the  scene  with  interest,  if  not 
with  beauty.  Here,  the  wild  verdure  of  a  square  of  woodland  has  been 
all  burned  away  ;  the  tall  trunks,  stripped  and  blackened,  stand  gaunt 
in  the  midst  of  rank,  uneven  maize  or  sweet  potatoes.  There,  the  whole 
valley  lies  open  to  the  sun  and  rich  in  corn.  Every  mile  or  so,  a  little 
log-cabin  sits  in  a  varied  growth  of  beans,  potatoes,  maize  and  tobacco  ; 
over  its  fence  sprangles  a  squash-vine  in  ungainly  joy,  and  the  precious 
melon  patch  has  not  yet  lost  all  its  melons,  prime  resource  of  Kentucky 
hospitality  in  these  autumn  days.  The  cabin  has  for  its  roof- tree,  per- 
haps, two  or  three  tall  stalks  of  sorghum,  waving  about  their  dried-up, 
long,  yellowish  pennons ;  but  more  likely  it  has  a  high-grown  castor-oil 
bean,  whose  palmate  leaves  and  dead-red,  clustered  fruit  give  a  tropical 
sense  to  the  eye.  Doubtless,  too,  it  has  a  "  piazza,"  emulating  the  stately 
pillai'ed  coolness  of  the  southern  villa  by  a  shaggy  roof  of  bark  upheld 
by  crotched  saplings,  fresh  cut  from  the  wood.  Under  it  stands  the 
water- pail,  a  dried  gourd  floating  about  in  it  to  serve  as  a  glass  ;  under 
it  hang  the  saddles  and  brooms,  the  gear  of  house  and  cattle  ;  under  it, 
perhaps,  an  old  woman  sits  spinning  or  weaving. 

Often  we  pass  by  groves  of  young  pawpaws,  whose  long  leaves 
already  cover  the  ground  with  a  yellow  carpet.  Here  and  there  a  soli- 
tary fruit  clings  to  the  twig,  but  for  the  most  part  they  have  fallen  to 
the  children  and  pigs,  who  have  a  great  appetite  for  this  small,  insipid, 
banana-like  fruit.  The  pigs  have  not  given  up  hope  yet,  and  still  haunt 
about,  rustling  the  dry  leaves,  and  every  now  and  then  suddenly  running 
forth  into  the  road,  to  the  terror,  which  seems  half-playful,  of  our  horses, 
who  veer  at  every  appearance  of  the  black  little  beasts. 

Occasionally,  we  meet  a  woman  slowly  jogging  along  on  horseback, 
a  child  behind  her,  lightly  holding  by  her  dress,  while  another  sits  in 
her  lap.  In  some  mysterious  way  she  seems  to  manage  with  perfect 
ease  the  horse,  the  baby,  the  switch,  and  the  umbrella  she  holds  above 
her.  Passengers  are  few,  however ;  those  we  do  meet  pass  us  with  a 
bow  and  an  indistinct  greeting,  unless,  as  is  generally  the  case,  they 
know  my  friend,  when  they  say,  "  How  do  you  make  it,  Miss  Laura  ? " 
to  which  she  cheerfully  replies,  "  Very  well,  thank  you." 

When  we  reach  the  last  creek,  the  horses  wade  into  the  deepest 


'•'POOR  WHITE  TRASH."  581 

middle,  and  there  stop  to  drink,  while  we  look  up  and  down.  It  is  a 
pretty  scene — the  broad  clear  stream  overhung  with  rich  foliage,  sun  and 
shadow  and  reflection  playing  in  its  waters,  green  mosses  glinting 
brightly  here  and  there  where  a  rough  root  or  boulder  lifts  them  into 
morning  light.  And  over  the  stepping-stones  down  at  the  turn  of  the 
creek,  in  her  brilliant  white  sun-bonnet,  goes  a  Kentucky  maid,  barefoot 
and  slender,  with  a  water-melon  under  her  arm. 

A  pull  up  the  steepish  bank,  a  moment's  ride  in  a  noble  native 
avenue  of  oaks,  and  we  are  at  the  church.  It  is  a  rough  structure  of 
hewn  logs ;  at  one  end,  a  huge  outside  chimney  rises,  made  of  stones 
picked  from  the  field  or  the  stream,  and  unshaped  by  any  tool.  Just  six 
logs  make  the  side  wall.  From  one  of  these  logs,  a  longish  section  has 
been  cut,  and  into  this  a  rude  window  fitted,  two  panes  high  and  several 
long.  Below  it  flaps  a  board  which  serves  as  a  blind  at  night.  Thus 
Kentucky  gains  that  necessary  "  dim  religious  light."  The  ragweed 
grows  undisturbed  up  to  the  walls  on  every  side,  and  a  row  of  saddled 
horses  stand  tied  to  the  "  snake-fence  "  close  by.  These  two  facts  alone 
indicate  that  this  rough  cabin  is  a  church.  It  must  be  admitted,  how- 
ever, that  it  is  built  far  more  solidly  and  carefully  than  most  houses  in 
this  region. 

Within,  two  or  three  rough  benches  stand  about  at  every  angle,  as 
they  may ;  one  or  two  seats  are  made  of  boards,  laid  across  stones  that 
are  equal  neither  in  stability  nor  height.  A  rough  kind  of  scaffolding 
serves  as  a  pulpit,  on  which  now  stand  a  water-pail,  a  rusty  tin  basin,  and 
two  or  three  straw  hats. 

Like  house,  like  audience ;  the  women  are  all  in  sun-bonnets,  the 
plainest  of  calico  gowns  and  great  aprons — the  men  in  homespun  or  jeans, 
and  mostly  in  homespun.  They  sit  about  as  it  chances ;  a  great  dog 
lies  sleeping  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  ;  a  little  boy  tries  a  somersault 
once  in  a  while  over  the  back  of  a  bench ;  a  bareheaded  woman  with  her 
hair  down  her  back,  sits  nursing  her  child  on  the  floor,  with  two  or 
three  half-grown  girls  in  slouchy  sun-bonnets  for  company  ;  others  walk 
about  as  the  spirit  moves  them;  but  as  for  the  preacher — like  Tennyson's 
brook, 

"  Men  may  come  and  men  may  go,  but  he  goes  on  for  ever." 

At  last,  a  short  intermission  is  announced,  in  which  the  people  sit 
around  on  the  grass  outside  and  eat  great  lunches,  which  they  have 
brought  in  carpet-bags  hung  to  their  saddlehorns.  Presently,  a  sort  of 
discordant  wail  sounds  forth  from  the  church ;  it  is  intended  for  the 
singing  of  a  hymn,  and  the  people  slowly  [put  up  their  ancient  carpet- 
bags and  return  to  the  service.  The  Communion  proper  now  begins. 
There  is  at  first  nothing  unusual  about  it  except  its  style.  During  our 
absence  a  rough  little  table,  unsteady  in  the  legs,  has  been  set  out  and 
covered  with  a  coarse  but  clean  white  cloth.  Upon  this  stands  a  bottle 
of  wine  and  two  glasses,  and  two  plates  of  unleavened  bread.  After 
the  latter  is  passed,  what  is  left  is  tumbled  off  upon  the  table,  and  a  glass 


582  "POOK  WHITE  TRASH." 

of  wine  set  on  each  plate.  When  this  returns  its  remaining  contents 
are  carefully  poured  back  into  the  bottle  through  a  funnel,  an  operation 
which  absorbs  the  whole  interest  of  the  congregation.  Without  waiting 
for  the  end  of  the  services,  nor  in  fact  for  anything  else,  a  woman  imme- 
diately comes  up  and  hustles  the  whole  "  plunder  "  into  her  carpet-bag. 
Meanwhile  her  "  back-hair "  falls  down,  but  nothing  disturbs  the 
preacher,  who  goes  right  on,  solemnly  and  regularly. 

The  peculiar  part  of  the  Communion,  the  foot- washing,  now  followed, 
for  this  sect  believes  that  we  are  bound  to  obey  the  command  to  wash 
one  another's  feet  as  literally  as  the  other  commands  given  in  regard  to 
the  sacrament.  The  pi-eacher,  telling  them  to  prepare  by  taking  off  their 
shoes,  pulled  off  his  coat,  tied  a  towel  about  his  waist,  took  the  basin 
and  washed  the  feet  of  the  nearest  man  ;  he,  in  turn,  washed  his  neigh- 
bour's feet,  and  so  on,  the  last  man  washing  the  preacher's  feet.  The 
women  did  not  join  in  this  part  of  the  ceremony.  After  it  was  over, 
the  preacher  tried  to  turn  the  water  out  of  a  broken  window-pane,  but, 
not  succeeding,  he  set  down  the  basin  with  great  deliberation  as  though 
he  had  attempted  nothing. 

Now  followed  a  hymn.  There  was  but  one  hymn-book  in  the  whole 
church.  This  the  minister  and  three  men,  chosen  for  their  stentorian 
powers,  held  between  them  after  the  fashion  of  one  of  Luca  della  Robbia's 
groups.  The  minister  read  a  line,  then  everyone  sang  it  independently, 
coming  to  a  sudden  stop  at  the  end  and  waiting  for  the  next  line.  Thus 
they  worked  their  way  through  to  the  end  of  four  stanzas ;  the  whole 
congregation  then  stood  until  the  minister,  with  much  seriousness,  shook 
hands  with  each  one.  The  "  foot-washing "  was  over.  The  women 
climbed  into  their  saddles  with  the  help  of  the  snake-fence  or  of  the  stout 
hand  of  some  friend,  and  all  were  off. 

The  dignity  of  these  later  proceedings  had  been  no  less  striking  than 
their  simplicity.  These  people  had  been  present  at  what  was,  to  them, 
a  rare  and  impressive  ceremony,  and  their  feeling  for  it  made  an  atmo- 
sphere which  any  sensitive  visitor  must  feel,  in  spite  of  the  dog,  the  rusty 
basin,  the  sun-bonnets  and  the  logs ;  the  human  spirit  makes  its  own 
drama.  This  had  been  a  sacred  place  and  a  sacred  time  to  these  hearts  ; 
to  them  there  had  been  no  incongruities.  To  us,  doubtless,  fresh  from 
Boston  Trinity,  its  congregation  and  its  pastor,  this  rough  cabin,  this 
rude  pastor  and  his  ruder  flock,  seemed  foreign  enough  to  all  our  ideas 
of  worship ;  but  these  people  had  no  such  standard  ;  church  and  servic 
alike  were  in  perfect  harmony  with  their  whole  life  and  with  all  thei 
ideas;  we,  indeed,  were  the  incongruous  element,  with  our  outside 
manners  and  fashions. 

As  we  were  leaving  the  church,  the  preacher  invited  us  and  near! 
half  his  congregation  beside,  home  to  dinner.     He  himself  belonged 
rather  the  better  class  of  "  poor  whites."     He  had  three  rooms  in  Y 
house,  sent  his  children  to  school,  sometimes  even  taught  school  himsel 
The  room  into  which  he  first  introduced  us  was  furnished  with  two  gi 


"POOE  WHITE  TBASH."  583 

feather-beds,  a  spinning-wheel,  and  a  table;  his  water-pail  had  a  tin 
dipper  in  it  instead  of  a  gourd.  I  laid  my  hat  aside  on  the  bed,  when  it 
was  speedily,  though  with  some  shyness,  seized  on  by  the  women,  who 
presently  began  to  "  try  it  on."  The  men  meanwhile  sat  and  talked, 
rocking  their  chairs  back  and  forth.  I  was  pleased  to  hear  the  preacher 
close  a  discussion  upon  the  dogma  of  foot- washing  in  the  following  liberal 
words  : — "  I  read  the  Book  that  we  should  wash  feet ;  the  early  disciples 
practised  it  as  much  as  they  did  the  rest  of  the  sacrament,  and  ez  for 
those  who  say  we  have  no  record  of  it,  neither  have  we  any  record  of 
the  practise  of  the  rest  of  the  sacrament.  But  if  any  body  reads  the  Book 
differently,  let  him  believe  it,  and  all  be  friendly."  He  was  a  man  of 
breadth  in  his  own  range.  The  talk  then  ran  off  to  politics,  the  grand 
question  being — if  a  man  might  carry  "concealed  weepons."  The 
majority  of  the  company  were  of  the  decided  opinion  that  he  should  be 
allowed  to  carry  them,  but  be  "  brought  up  right  smart,"  if  he  used  them 
for  anything  but  self-defence. 

Dinner  was  now  ready  ;  although  about  a  dozen  great  water-melons 
had  already  been  eaten ;  but  the  Kentuckian  never  counts  water-melons. 
On  our  first  arrival,  a  dog  had  been  sent  out  to  catch  the  chickens,  while 
the  two  daughters  ground  maize  for  fresh  meal,  between  two  millstones  ! 
"We  had  for  dinner  everything  that  the  land  and  the  season  could  pro- 
duce— chicken,  bacon,  green  maize,  beans,  sweet  and  Irish  potatoes,  honey 
and  baked  apples,  biscuit,  "  cookies,"  cake,  and  a  jovial  apple-pudding. 
"We  could  barely  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  table-cloth,  and  we  sat  crowded 
up  between  a  door  and  a  bed  behind  us,  and  the  feast  before  us.  The 
meat  was  passed  on  great  platters,  from  which  we  helped  ourselves, 
with  our  own  knives  and  forks ;  and  butter  was  served  in  the  same 
style. 

But  if  we  had  neither  napkins  nor  pie-plates,  still  we  had  a  fly-flap  ; 
for  a  small  boy  hovered  behind  us,  wearing  the  most  preposterous  hard 
round  hat  that  civilisation  can  produce,  or  barbarism  admire — the  only 
thing  of  the  kind  I  ever  saw  a  "  poor  white"  have — and  he  waved  above 
us  a  long  paw  paw- switch  with  the  hand  that  happened  to  be  out  of  his 
pocket. 

Here  again,  as  at  the  church,  we  were  struck  with  a  certain  dignity 
arising  from  self-respect,  content,  an  easy  hospitality  and  unconscious 
ignorance. 

I  do  not  need  to  multiply  proofs  of  the  status  of  this  people  in 
material  civilisation  ;  every  traveller  in  the  southern  United  States  can 
tell  scores  of  stories  to  illustrate  it.  Their  ideas  and  their  morals  are 
co-ordinate  with  their  habits  and  their  manners.  Their  crimes  are  not 
the  cool,  calculating  crimes  of  the  intellect ;  but  the  hot,  quick  crimes  of 
the  passions  are  common — one  even  hears  of  murder  with  startling  fre- 
quency. 

One  of  the  most  striking  characteristics  of  the  "poor  white  trash  "  is 
content :  I  mean  by  that,  an  utter  lack  of  emulation  and  ambition. 


584 


"POOR  WHITE   TRASH." 


They  care  neither  for  better  houses,  schools,  nor  churches,  nor  even  for 
better  clothes  or  more  money.  They  indeed  "  let  the  world  wag  on  as  it 
will,"  with  little  care  and  less  thought. 

How  came  men  so  ancient  in  their  type,  so  indifferent  to  progress  or 
"  style,"  to  exist  in  the  heart  of  the  nineteenth  century,  in  the  United 
States,  at  that  1  Slavery  and  isolation  have  done  it.  They  sprang  from 
slavery  and  will  continue,  until  the  railroad  breaks  the  spell  of  the 
mountains,  their  simple,  peaceful  life.  In  former  times  they  had  no 
money  with  which  to  buy  slaves,  machinery,  and  land,  and  so  could  not 
compete  as  farmers ;  en  the  other  hand,  there  was  no  room  for  them  as 
farm-labourers.  So  they  settled  down  on  unoccupied  lands,  and  became 
in  time  the  contented  owners  of  little  patches  that  supported  them. 
Slavery,  to  be  sure,  no  longer  exists;  but  the  habit  continues  wherever 
the  new  life  does  not  penetrate ;  and  the  new  life  does  not  penetrate 
readily  over  roads  varied  by  the  deepest  of  ruts  and  the  largest  of  stones, 
and  changing  their  course  from  season  to  season,  now  to  get  around  a 
fallen  tree,  and  now  to  avoid  the  effects  of  a  flood. 

So  they  go  on,  all  by  themselves,  jogging  along  on  horseback,  clad  in 
homespun,  content  with  the  primitive  plenty  of  maize  and  bacon,  pleased 
with  the  luxuries  of  water-melons  and  the  entertainments  of  the  "  meet- 
ing-house," buried  at  last  on  the  sunny  hillside.  The  world  without 
asks  nought  of  them,  nor  they  ought  of  the  world  without. 

As  soon  as  the  railroads  enter,  all  will  change.  First  of  all,  they  will 
bring  a  market ;  at  once  with  them  will  come  a  sense  of  a  wider  world, 
a  motive  to  labour  for  more  than  daily  bread.  Their  very  existence  will 
carry  a  motion  and  a  thrill  to  the  heart  of  every  region  within  hearing- 
range  of  their  shrieking  engines ;  they  will  teach  what  education  and 
business  are  worth — the  ideas  of  men  and  the  use  of  the  world. 

But,  one  is  tempted  to  ask,  why  not  let  these  Arcadians  alone  1  Why 
should  we  wish  them  to  exchange  their  simple,  easy,  assured  living,  their 
contented  quiet  minds,  their  hospitable  hearts,  for  the  complex  conditions 
of  a  high  civilisation,  for  anxious,  driving  ambitions,  for  the  hard  selfish- 
ness of  a  life- and- death  competition  1 

There  is  an  old  saga  of  a  king  and  queen  to  whom  a  fair  son  was 
born.  Twelve  fairies  came  to  the  christening,  each  with  a  gift.  A  noble 
presence,  wisdom,  strength,  beauty — all  were  poured  upon  him  until  it 
seemed  he  must  excel  all  mortal  men.  Then  came  the  twelfth  fairy  with 
the  gift  of  discontent,  but  the  angry  father  turned  away  the  fairy  and 
her  gift.  And  the  lad  grew  apace,  a  wonder  of  perfect  powers ;  but, 
content  in  their  possession,  he  cai'ed  to  use  them  for  neither  good  nor 
ill;  there  was  no  eagerness  in  him;  good-natured  and  quiet,  he  let  life 
use  him  as  it  would.  And  at  last  the  king  knew  that  the  rejected  had 
been  the  crowning  gift. 


585 


Surt  m  a  IJjerpttal 


AMONG  the  problems  which  have  proved  most  perplexing  to  astro- 
nomers and  physicists,  there  are  few  which  surpass  in  difficulty  the 
problem  of  the  conservation  of  solar  energy.  The  mighty  orb  of  the  sun 
pours  forth  in  each  second  of  time  as  much  heat  as  would  come  from 
the  burning  of  16,436  millions  of  millions  of  tons  of  the  best  anthracite 
coal.  Yet  of  all  this  tremendous  radiation  of  heat  all  the  planets 
together  receive  less  than  one  230,000,000th  part.  When  we  consider 
this  it  seems  at  first  view  as  though  there  were  some  degree  of  truth  in 
the  saying  that  in  the  universe  "  we  find  Nature  upsetting  a  gallon  to 
fill  a  wine-glass." 

In  company  with  this  great  mystery  of  seeming  waste  comes  the  yet 
more  difficult  problem,  How  to  explain  the  apparent  continuance  of  solar 
light  and  heat  during  millions  of  years.  We  know  from  the  results  of 
geological  research  that  the  earth  has  been  exposed  to  the  action  of  the 
solar  rays  with  their  present  activity  during  at  least  a  hundred  million 
years.  Yet  it  is  difficult  to  see  how  on  any  hypothesis  of  the  genera- 
tion of  solar  heat,  or  by  combining  together  all  possible  modes  of  heat 
generation,  a  supply  for  more  than  20  millions  of  years  in  the  past  and 
a  possible  supply  for  as  long  a  period  in  the  future  can  be  accounted 
for. 

It  is  well  known,  of  course,  to  all  who  are  likely  to  read  these  lines 
that  Dr.  Siemens  is  the  inventor  of  what  is  called  the  regenerative 
furnace,  in  which  the  heat,  which  in  ordinary  furnaces  goes  up  the  furnace 
chimney  and  is  wasted,  is  carried  back  and  made  to  do  work.  His  theory 
of  the  solar  heat  seems  to  have  been  suggested  by  this  invention  of  his  own. 
The  enormous  waste  of  solar  energy  which  unquestionably  takes  place  if 
those  rays  which  do  not  fall  on  planets  do  not  do  their  proper  work  is 
obviated,  he  believes,  by  a  contrivance  (if  one  may  so  speak)  which 
enables  them  to  store  up  work  in  interstellar  space,  which  is  presently 
brought  back  to  its  source  for  fresh  use.  According  to  this  view,  and  it  is 
this  which  renders  the  theory  attractive  to  many  who  had  been  appalled 
by  the  seemingly  wanton  waste  of  all  save  the  minutest  fraction  of  the 
sun's  heat,  only  those  rays  which  fall  on  the  planets  are  actually  and 
finally  used  up,  so  that,  if  the  theory  be  true,  the  supply  of  solar  heat 
will  last  230  millions  of  times  longer  than  it  otherwise  would.  More- 
over, the  theory  has  its  retrospective  side.  The  difficulty  about  the  past 
would  be  removed  as  completely  as  what  had  seemed  a  danger  in  the 
future.  If  the  theory  is  correct  we  may  multiply  every  year  during 


586  THE   SUN   AS   A  PERPETUAL  MACHINE. 

which  it  had  been  calculated  that  the  supply  has  continued  by  230 
millions,  to  obtain  a  rough  approximation  to  the  time  during  which  the 
sun  has  actually  been  at  work  at  his  present  rate  of  emission. 

In  the  first  place  we  are  to  assume  that  the  gaseous  atmospheres 
surrounding  the  sun  and  the  planets  are  not  limited,  as  Wollaston  and 
others  have  supposed,  but  extend  to  indefinite  distances,  though  of 
course  in  a  very  attenuated  condition.  "  Following  out  the  molecular 
theory  of  gases  as  laid  down  by  Clerk  Maxwell,  Clausius,  and  Thomson," 
says  Dr.  Siemens,  "  it  would  be  difficult  to  assign  a  limit  to  a  gaseous 
atmosphere  in  space;  and  further,  some  writers,  among  whom  I  will 
here  mention  only  Grove,  Humboldt,  Zollner,  and  Mattieu  Williams, 
have  boldly  asserted  the  existence  of  a  space  filled  with  matter,  and 
Newton  himself,  as  Dr.  Sterry  Hunt  tells  us,  has  expressed  views  in 
favour  of  such  an  assumption."  He  proceeds  to  notice  the  evidence  in 
favour  of  this  view  derived  from  the  condition  in  which  meteorolites 
reach  the  earth.  They  are  known,  he  says,  to  contain  as  much  as  six 
times  their  own  volume  of  gases  (taken  at  atmospheric  pressure).  In 
one  of  these  meteorolites  recently  examined  by  Dr.  Flight,  the  following 
percentages  of  various  gases  were  noted.  Of  carbonic  oxide  31*88,  of 
carbonic  acid  gas  O12,  of  hydrogen  45'79,  of  olefiant  gas  4'55,  and  of 
nitrogen  17 '6 6.  Here,  however,  I  may  note  in  passing  that  although 
it  is  quite  certain  these  gases  were  not  taken  up  by  the  meteorolite 
during  its  flight  through  our  air,  it  by  no  means  follows,  and  is  indeed 
exceedingly  improbable,  if  not  impossible,  that  they  were  taken  up  while 
the  meteorolite  was  travelling  freely  through  interplanetary  or  interstellar 
space.  The  general  belief  is  that,  as  the  late  Professor  Graham  aptly 
expressed  it,  these  bodies  bring  to  us  the  hydrogen  of  the  fixed  stars 
(including  our  own  sun) — that,  in  fact,  they  were  expelled  from  bodies 
in  a  state  resembling  our  sun,  and  that  during  their  abode  within  the 
intensely  hot  orb  of  their  parent  sun,  the  hydrogen  and  other  gases 
which  we  know  to  exist  in  the  sun  and  his  fellow  stars  were  forced  into 
(or  became  occluded  in)  the  substance  of  the  mass  which  was  after- 
wards to  become  a  meteorolite,  and  after  long  and  devious  wanderings 
to  reach  our  earth.  Thus,  and  thus  only  it  is  believed  by  chemists, 
can  the  enormous  quantity  of  occluded  hydrogen  in  the  substance  of 
meteors  be  explained ;  for  nowhere  else,  but  in  the  interior  of  suns,  is 
there  either  the  necessary  heat  or  the  necessary  pressure.  The  absence 
of  any  trace  of  aqueous  vapour,  which  Dr.  Siemens  finds  surprising,  as 
indeed  it  is  on  his  theory,  is  thus  readily  accounted  for ;  indeed,  no  one 
would  expect  to  find  aqueous  vapour  in  the  substance  of  a  meteoric  mass 
which  had  ever  had  its  abode  in  the  interior  of  a  sun. 

Dr.  Siemens  considers  tbe  objection  that  if  interplanetary  space  were 
occupied  by  gases,  the  planets  would  be  seriously  retarded,  pointing  out 
that,  assuming  the  matter  occupying  space  to  be  an  almost  perfect  fluid 
not  limited  by  border  surfaces,  it  can  be  shown  on  purely  mechanical 
grounds  that  the  retardation  by  friction  through  such  an  attenuated 


THE  SUN  AS  A  PERPETUAL  MACHINE.         587 

medium  would  be  very  slight  indeed,  even  on  bodies  moving  with  plane- 
tary velocities. 

He  notes  also  another  objection,  namely,  that  if  the  theory  of  gaseous 
interplanetary  matter  were  true  the  sun  should  draw  to  himself  the 
greater  part  of  the  heavier  gases,  such  as  carbonic  acid  gas  (carbonic  anhy- 
dride), carbonic  oxide,  oxygen  and  nitrogen ;  whereas  spectroscopic  analy- 
sis indicates  at  least  the  much  greater  prevalence  of  hydrogen,  if  not 
the  absolute  absence  of  these  gases.  Oxygen,  indeed,  has  been  shown  by 
Dr.  Draper  to  be  present  in  the  sun.  Dr.  Siemens  points  out  that 
at  the  tremendous  heat  of  the  sun's  mass  such  compound  gases  as  car- 
bonic oxide  and  carbonic  acid  could  not  exist  as  such.  But  he  says  that 
there  must  be  regions,  outside  the  intensely  heated  regions,  where  the 
existence  of  these  gases  would  not  be  jeopardised  by  heat ;  and  in  these 
regions  accumulation  of  these  comparatively  heavy  gases  would  take  place 
"were  it  not  for  a  certain  counterbalancing  action." 

And  here  we  approach  what  Dr.  Siemens  describes  as  a  point  of 
principal  importance  in  his  argument,  upon  the  proof  of  which  his  further 
conclusions  must  depend. 

The  sun  rotates  on  his  axis,  completing  one  revolution  in  about 
twenty-five  days,  and  "  the  sun's  diameter  being  taken  at  882,000  miles  " 
(it  is  really  considerably  less  than  this,  however),  "  it  follows  that  the 
tangential  velocity  amounts  to  1'25  miles  per  second,  or  to  4'41  times 
the  tangential  velocity  of  our  earth.  This  high  rotative  velocity  of  the 
sun  must  cause  "  (it  is  Dr.  Siemens  who  speaks)  "  an  equatorial  rise  of 
the  solar  atmosphere  to  which  Mairan,  in  1731,  attributed  the  appear- 
ance of  the  zodiacal  light."  He  goes  on  to  consider  Laplace's  objection 
to  this  explanation  on  the  ground  that  the  zodiacal  light  extends  to  a, 
distance  from  the  sun  exceeding  our  own  distance,  whereas  the  equatorial 
rise  of  the  solar  atmosphere  due  to  its  rotation  could  not  exceed  9-20ths. 
of  the  distance  of  Mercury."  But  Dr.  Siemens  finds  in  the  existence  of 
a  medium  of  unbounded  extension  an  answer  to  Laplace's  objection. 
"In  this  case,"  he  says,  "pressures  would  be  balanced  all  round,  and 
the  sun  would  act  mechanically  upon  the  floating  matter  surrounding  it, 
in  the  manner  of  a  fan,  drawing  it  towards  itself  upon  the  solar  surfaces, 
and  projecting  it  outwards  in  a  continuous  disc-like  stream." 

Now  it  is  just  at  this  critical  part  of  the  theory,  on  the  proof  of 
which  the  further  conclusions  of  the  theorist  must  depend,  that  dynamical 
considerations  throw  doubt,  and  something  more  than  doubt,  upon  the 
entire  speculation. 

We  have  a  supposed  fan-like  action,  by  which  hydrogen,  hydro- 
carbons, and  oxygen,  are  supposed  to  be  drawn  in  enormous  quantities 
towards  the  polar  surface  of  the  sun.  During  their  approach  they  are 
supposed  to  pass  from  their  condition  of  extreme  attenuation  and  extreme 
cold,  to  that  of  compression,  accompanied  with  rise  of  temperature,  until 
on  approaching  the  photosphere  they  burst  into  flame,  giving  rise  to  a, 
great  development  of  heat,  and  a  temperature  commensurate  with  their 


588  THE   SUN   AS   A   PERPETUAL  MACHINE. 

point  of  dissociation  at  the  solar  density.  The  result  of  their  combus- 
tion is  aqueous  vapour  and  carbonic  acid  or  carbonic  oxide,  according  to 
the  sufficiency  or  insufficiency  of  oxygen  present  to  complete  the  com- 
bustion, and  these  products  of  combustion  in  yielding  to  the  influence 
of  centrifugal  force  Avill  flow  towards  the  solar  equator.  .  .  .  So  much 
we  may  regard  as  possible,  though  much  would  have  to  be  proved  before 
it  could  be  regarded  as  probable.  But  Dr.  Siemens  goes  on  to  say  that 
the  matter  thus  carried  towards  the  solar  equator  will  be  thence  projected 
into  space. 

Now  there  can  be  nothing  simpler  than  the  considerations  on  which 
such  projection  into  space  would  depend.  The  question  whether  a  body 
moving  in  a  particular  way  at  any  part  of  the  sun's  surface  will  travel 
outwards  into  space,  or  will  not  travel  outwards,  can  be  answered  accord- 
ing to  certain  very  definite  laws.  If  the  velocity  of  its  motion  exceeds  a 
certain  amount,  the  body  will  recede  from  the  sun';  if  it  falls  short  of 
that  amount  the  body  will  tend  to  approach  the  sun's  centre ;  if  the  body 
.has  just  that  velocity,  then  the  body  will  neither  recede  nor  approach. 
Now  it  suggests  the  idea  of  tremendous  centrifugal  tendency  to  say 
that  at  the  sun's  equator  the  velocity  is  4'41  times  the  tangential  velocity 
•(at  the  equator)  of  our  earth.  Bodies  do  not  fly  from  our  earth's  equator 
on  account  of  the  enormous  tangential  velocity  there  (more  than  a 
thousand  miles  per  hour) ;  but  it  is  easy  to  imagine,  as  Dr.  Siemens 
evidently  does,  that  with  the  much  greater  velocity  at  the  sun's  equator 
there  may  be  such  a  tendency  as  his  theory  requires.  What  is,  however, 
the  actual  state  of  the  case  1  Centrifugal  tendency  varies  in  the  first 
place  as  the  square  of  the  velocity;  and  squaring  4'41  we  get  19'45; 
so  that  if  our  earth  were  to  rotate  4'41  times  as  fast  as  she  actually 
does,  the  centrifugal  force  at  the  equator  would  be  increased  19 '45 
times.  Even  that  would  not  be  nearly  enough  to  make  bodies  fly  off 
at  the  equator.  (In  fact  it  can  easily  be  shown  that  for  bodies  just  to 
become  weightless  at  the  equator  the  earth  should  rotate  in  1^  hours, 
or  sixteen  times  as  fast  as  at  present.)  But  this  is  only  a  small  part  of 
the  matter.  Centrifugal  force  not  only  varies  as  the  square  of  the 
velocity,  but  inversely  as  the  distance  from  the  centre  of  motion.  So 
that  as  the  sun's  diameter  exceeds  the  earth's  about  108  times,  centri- 
fugal tendency  at  his  equator  is  diminished  in  this  degree  so  far  as  this 
particular  circumstance  is  concerned.  Increasing  the  tendency  19 '45 
times  and  reducing  it  103  times,  means  in  all  reducing  it  to  about  two- 
elevenths  of  the  centrifugal  tendency  at  the  earth's  equator.  Yet  even 
this  is  not  all.  Not  only  is  the  centrifugal  tendency  at  the  sun's 
equator  less  than  a  fifth  that  at  the  earth's  equator,  which  diminishes  by 
a  very  small  part  the  force  of  terrestrial  gravity,  but  the  centrifugal 
tendency  due  to  the  sun's  attractive  force  is  very  much  greater  at  the 
Bun's  surface  than  terrestrial  gravity  at  the  earth's  equator.  It  is  roughly 
about  twenty-seven  times  as  great.  Thus  the  centripetal  tendency  of 
matter  at  the  sun's  equator  is  very  much  greater  (many  hundreds  of 


THE  SUN  AS   A  PERPETUAL  MACHINE.  589 

times  greater)  than  its  centrifugal  tendency ;  and  there  is  not  the 
slightest  possibility  of  matter  being  projected  into  space  from  the  sun's 
surface  by  centrifugal  tendency.  Nor  is  there  any  part  of  the  sun's 
mass  where  the  centrifugal  tendency  is  greater  than  at  the  surface  near 
the  equator.  So  that  whatever  else  the  sun  may  be  doing  to  utilise  his 
mighty  energies  he  is  certainly  not  throwing  off  matter  constantly  from, 
his  equatorial  regions,  as  Dr.  Siemens'  theory  requires. 

This  being  so,  the  theory  failing  thus  in  a  matter  absolutely  essential 
to  its  validity,  we  may  feel  less  tempted  than  perhaps  we  otherwise 
might  be,  to  endeavour  to  overlook  other  difficulties,  though  these  on 
careful  consideration  appear  scarcely  less  decisive.  It  might  perhaps 
appear  a  work  of  supererogation  to  consider  difficulties  when  we  have 
already  noted  an  impossibility.  But  some  perhaps  will  consider  that 
although  the  sun  may  not,  after  drawing  to  himself  the  matter  occupying 
space,  reject  it  from  him  in  the  manner  supposed,  he  may  reject  it  in 
some  other  manner.  If  so  there  might  still  be  reason  for  inquiring  how 
far  it  is  likely  that  the  sun's  rays  may  be  utilised  when  falling  on  the 
matter  occupying  space,  in  the  way  suggested  by  Dr.  Siemens. 

Let  us  then  grant  the  existence  in  interplanetary  space  of  those 
products  of  combustion  which  Dr.  Siemens  supposes  to  be  constantly 
projected  from  the  sun,  and  let  us  inquire  with  him  what  would  become 
of  them.  At  a  first  view  it  seems  as  though  they  must  gradually  change 
the  condition  of  the  matter  which  had  formed  part  of  stars  and  suns,  by 
rendering  that  matter  neutral.  But  Dr.  Siemens  endeavours  to  show 
the  possibility,  nay,  the  probability,  that  solar  radiation  would  under 
these  circumstances  step  in  to  bring  back  the  combined  materials  to  a 
condition  of  separation  by  a  process  of  dissociation,  carried  into  effect  at 
the  expense  of  that  solar  energy  which  is  now  supposed  to  be  lost  to  our 
planetary  system. 

Dr.  Siemens  points  out  that  the  temperature  at  which  the  dissociation 
of  different  compounds  is  effected  depends  on  the  pressure.  Thus  at  a 
temperature  of  2,800°  Centigrade  only  one  half  of  the  vapour  of  water 
at  atmospheric  pressure  remains  as  aqueous  vapour,  the  remaining  half 
being  found  as  a  mechanical  mixture  of  hydrogen  and  oxygen.  But  with 
the  pressure  the  temperature  of  dissociation  rises  and  falls.  It  is  there- 
fore conceivable,  he  says,  that  the  temperature  of  the  solar  photosphere 
may  be  raised  by  combustion  to  a  temperature  exceeding  2,800°  Centi- 
grade, whereas  in  interstellar  and  interplanetary  space  dissociation  may 
be  effected  at  a  much  lower  temperature.  Some  experiments  by  Dr. 
Siemens  appear  to  show  that  at  the  small  pressure  which  we  may  con- 
ceive to  exist  in  space,  the  sun's  radiation  may  suffice  to  produce  dissocia- 
tion either  of  aqueous  vapour  or  of  carbonic  acid  gas.  Employing  glass 
tubes  furnished  with  platinum  electrodes,  and  filled  with  aqueous  vapour, 
he  reduced  the  pressure  to  T-gW^h  of  an  atmosphere,  the  temperature 
being  reduced  to  32°  Centigrade.  When  so  cooled,  no  electric  discharge 
took  place  on  connecting  the  two  electrodes  with  a  small  induction  coil. 


590         THE  SUN  AS  A  PEKPETUAL  MACHINE. 

He  then  exposed  the  end  of  the  tube  projecting  out  of  the  freezing 
mixture,  backed  by  white  paper,  to  solar  radiation  on  a  clear  summer's 
day  for  several  hours,  when  upon  again  connecting  up  to  the  inductorium, 
a  discharge,  apparently  that  of  a  hydrogen  vacuum,  was  obtained.  "  This 
experiment  being  repeated,  furnished,"  says  Dr.  Siemens,  "  unmistakable 
evidence  I  thought  that  aqueous  vapour  had  been  dissociated  by  exposure 
to  solar  radiation."  "When  carbonic  acid  gas  was  similarly  treated,  less 
trustworthy  results  were  obtained.  "  Not  satisfied  with  these  qualitative 
results,  I  made  arrangements  to  collect  the  permanent  gases  so  produced, 
by  means  of  a  Sprengel  pump,  but  was  prevented  by  lack  of  time  from 
pursuing  the  inquiry,  which  I  purpose,  however,"  adds  Dr.  Siemens, 
"  to  resume  shortly,  being  of  opinion  that,  independently  of  my  present 
speculation,  the  experiments  may  prove  useful  in  extending  our  know- 
ledge regarding  the  laws  of  dissociation." 

The  idea  is,  then,  that  solar  radiation  acting  on  the  aqueous  vapour 
and  carbonic  acid  gas,  and  other  compound  gases  supposed  to  occupy 
interplanetary  and  interstellar  space,  may  dissociate  such  compounds, 
and  that  solar  energy  may  thus  be  utilised,  instead  of  being  wasted  in 
the  enormous  degree  in  which  it  appears  to  be,  according  to  what  has 
been  shown  above. 

Now  it  appears  to  me  somewhat  bold  to  assume  that  what  happens 
in  the  case  of  aqueous  vapour  or  carbonic  acid  enclosed  in  a  tube  and 
exposed  to  solar  radiation,  would  happen  to  such  vapour  exposed  to  the 
same  radiation  in  free  space.  But  there  is  a  more  serious  objection,  I  take 
it,  than  this,  to  Dr.  Siemens'  ingenious  system  for  the  utilisation  of  solar 
energy.  If  the  rays  of  heat  (and  light)  are  thus  utilised  within  the 
solar  domain,  regarding  that  if  we  please  as  extending  many  times 
further  than  the  orbit  of  Neptune,  they  have  either  done  their  work  and 
have  been  completely  utilised,  or  they  have  not.  If  they  have  done 
their  work,  these  rays  proceed  no  further,  and  the  sun  would  therefore 
be  invisible  from  any  point  outside  his  own  domain.  (For  we  must  not 
fall  into  the  mistake  of  supposing  that  light  and  heat  can  be  considered 
separately  in  this  inquiry  :  those  solar  rays  which  give  us  what  we  call 
light,  give  us  also  a  large  quantity  of  the  solar  heat,  and  the  mystery  of 
seemingly  infinite  waste  would  remain,  even  if  we  supposed  that  only 
those  heat  rays  which  are  not  also  light  rays  were  utilised  in  the  way 
supposed.  Apart  from  this,  Dr.  Siemens  specially  shows  how  the  light 
rays  act  in  accordance  with  his  views.)  Now  what  is  true  of  our  sun  is 
true  of  the  other  suns,  the  stars.  They  also  ought  to  be  invisible  outside 
their  several  domains.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact  they  are  visible.  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  solar  rays  have  not  done  their  work  in  traversing 
what  may  be  regarded  as  the  solar  domain,  the  mystery  of  infinite  waste 
is  not  removed,  scarcely  even  diminished,  by  Dr.  Siemens'  theory.  If 
those  other  suns,  the  stars,  are  able  to  send  across  the  vast  distances 
which  separate  us  from  them,  such  supplies  of  light  (to  say  nothing  of 
stellar  heat,  which  Hmggins  and  others  have  measured)  that  by  measur- 


THE  SUX  AS  A  PERPETUAL  MACHINE.         591 

ing  it  we  can  say  that  all  of  them  are  suns  like  our  own,  but  many  far 
larger  and  giving  out  much  more  light  than  he, — what  is  the  amount  of 
work  which  we  can  suppose  the  stellar  rajs  to  have  done  on  their  way  ? 
If  they  have  done  much  (in  proportion  to  the  total  quantity  which  they 
are  capable  of  doing),  then  the  stars  must  be  very  much  larger,  brighter, 
and  hotter  than  we  suppose  them  to  be,  and  already  we  regard  them  as 
the  rivals,  and  something  more  than  the  rivals,  of  our  sun.  If  they  have 
done  little,  the  mystery  of  infinite  waste  remains. 

But  indeed,  apart  from  the  considerations  last  urged,  it  is  certain 
that  even  if  the  whole  of  interstellar  space  were  filled  with  matter  dis- 
sociated by  solar  rays  (that  is  by  the  rays  which  all  suns  are  continually 
pouring  forth),  even  then  those  rays  would  have  been  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  wasted  ;  for  suns  never  could  gather  in  more  than  the  minutest 
fraction  of  the  matter  thus  permeating  space.  We  cannot  adopt  Dr. 
Siemens'  theory,  supposing  it  otherwise  tenable,  as  a  means  of  utilising 
solar  and  stellar  energy,  unless  we  supposed  the  work  done  by  the  light 
and  heat  of  suns  to  be  done  close  to  those  orbs,  certainly  far  within  the 
orbits  of  their  outer  planets,  for  otherwise  the  matter  prepared  for  fuel 
by  the  action  of  the  rays  could  never  be  gathered  in,  or  the  products  of 
combustion  expelled,  within  reasonable  time,  throughout  the  domain 
thus  affected.  But  we  know  certainly  that  within  such  relatively  in- 
significant domains  the  stellar  rays  are  not  used  up,  for  we  see  the  stars 
shining,  though  we  lie  millions  of  times  farther  away  than  any  conceivable 
limits  of  such  domains.  We  know  it  in  the  case  of  our  own  sun,  because 
we  see  the  planets  Saturn,  Mars,  and  Neptune,  shining  with  light  which 
has  reached  them  from  the  sun.  In  the  case  of  the  Siemens'  regenerative 
furnace,  we  know  that  the  heat  is  utilised  in  the  particular  manner 
intended,  not  only  because  we  find  the  heat  so  saved  doing  its  proper 
work,  but  because  we  find  that  this  heat  no  longer  goes  idly  up  the 
furnace  chimney  as  before.  The  heat  cannot  be  doing  its  full  work  in 
the  furnace  if  part  goes  up  the  furnace  chimney  ;  but  also,  part  cannot 
be  going  up  the  furnace  chimney  if  the  heat  is  doing  its  full  work.  This, 
however,  is  what  Dr.  Siemens'  theory  requires  the  solar  heat  to  do.  It 
is  to  be  continually  utilised  in  dissociating  compound  vapours  in  inter- 
planetary space,  although  it  is  continually  passing  beyond  interplanetary 
space  to  shine  through  interstellar  space,  and  to  show  our  sun  as  a  star 
to  worlds  circling  round  his  fellow  stars  the  suns.  We  have  in  fact 
the  fallacy  of  the  perpetual  motion  in  a  modified  form. 

Parts  of  Dr.  Siemens'  reasoning  remain  tenable,  however,  even  when 
the  centrifugal  projective  force  (which  has  no  existence)  is  removed,  and 
when  the  perpetual  utilisation  of  stellar  rays  is  shown  to  be  inconsistent 
with  their  perpetual  passage  with  undiminished  brightness  through  inter- 
stellar space. 

Dr.  Siemens'  reasoning  respecting  the  zodiacal  light,  for  instance,  is 
sound,  though  the  theory  with  which  it  is  associated  is  not  so.  Astro- 
nomers do  not  and  cannot  accept  the  views  of  Mairan,  which  are  simply 


592  THE   SUN   AS  A  PERPETUAL  MACHINE. 

inconsistent  with  the  known  laws  of  dynamics.  But  there  is  every 
reason  for  regarding  the  zodiacal  as  consisting  in  the  main  of  meteorolithic 
masses,  a  sort  of  cosmical  dust,  rushing  through  interplanetary  space 
with  planetary  velocities.  To  such  matter,  assuming,  as  we  well  may, 
that  space  really  is  occupied  by  attenuated  vapours,  the  following  reasoning 
applies  with  scarcely  the  change  of  a  word  (by  which,  however,  I  do  not 
mean  that  the  opinions  expressed  as  probably  or  possibly  true  are  really 
and  necessarily  so).  The  luminosity  of  the  zodiacal  "  would  be  attri- 
butable to  particles  of  dust,  emitting  light  reflected  from  the  sun,  or  by 
phosphorescence  "  (this  last  may  be  seriously  questioned).  "  But  there 
is  another  cause  for  luminosity  of  these  particles,  which  may  deserve  a 
passing  consideration.  Each  particle  would  be  electrified  by  gaseous 
friction  in  its  acceleration,  and  its  electric  tension  would  be  vastly 
increased  in  its  forcible  removal,  in  the  same  way  as  the  fine  dust  of  the 
desert  has  been  observed  by  Werner  Siemens  to  be  in  a  state  of  high 
electrification  on  the*  apex  of  the  Cheops  Pyramid.  Would  not  the 
zodiacal  light  also  find  explanation  by  slow  electric  discharges  backward 
from  the  dust  towards  the  sun  ? " 

Take,  again,  the  phenomena  of  comets  which  still  remain  among 
the  greatest  of  nature's  mysteries.  We  have  reason  to  believe — though 
Dr.  Siemens  goes  a  little  beyond  the  truth  in  saying  astronomical 
physicists  assert — that  the  nucleus  of  a  comet  consists  of  an  aggregation 
of  stones  similar  to  meteorolites.  Adopting  this  view,  and  assuming  that 
these  stones  have  absorbed  somewhere  (not  necessarily  "  in  stellar  space," 
as  Dr.  Siemens  suggests)  gases  to  the  amount  of  six  times  their  volume 
(taken  at  atmospheric  pressure),  we  may  ask  with  Dr.  Siemens,  what  will 
be  the  effect  of  such  a  mass  of  stone  advancing  towards  the  sun  at  a  velo- 
city reaching  in  perihelion  the  prodigious  rate  of  366  miles  per  second 
(as  observed  in  the  comet  of  1843),  being  twenty-three  times  our  orbital 
rate  of  motion  1  "  It  appears  evident  that  the  entry  of  such  a  divided  mass 
into  a  comparatively  dense  atmosphere  must  be  accompanied  by  a  rise  of 
temperature  by  frictional  resistance,  aided  by  attractive  condensation. 
At  a  certain  point  the  increase  of  temperature  must  cause  ignition,  and 
the  heat  thus  produced  must  drive  out  the  occluded  gases,  which  in  an 
atmosphere  3,000  times  less  dense  than  that  of  our  earth  would  produce 
(6  x  3,000=)18,000  times  the  volume  of  the  stones  themselves.  These 
gases  would  issue  forth  in  all  directions,  but  would  remain  unobserved 
except  in  that  of  motion,  in  which  they  would  meet  the  interplanetary 
atmosphere  with  the  compound  velocity  and  from  a  zone  of  intense  com- 
bustion, such  as  Dr.  Huggins  has  lately  observed  to  surround  one  side 
of  the  nucleus,  evidently  the  side  of  forward  motion.  The  nucleus 
would  thus  emit  original  light,  whereas  the  tail  may  be  supposed  to 
consist  of  stellar  dust  rendered  luminous  by  reflex  action  produced  by 
the  light  of  the  sun  and  comet  combined."  (This  assumption  respecting 
the  tail  is,  however,  untenable,  being  based  on  a  misapprehension  of  the 
distinction  between  a  comet's  tail  and  its  train  of  meteoric  attendants.) 


THE  SUN  AS  A  PERPETUAL  MACHINE.  593 

These  views  respecting  the  zodiacal  light  and  comets  are  independent 
in  the  main  of  those  parts  of  Dr.  Siemens'  views  which  are  manifestly 
inadmissible.  They  seem  to  accord  well  with  possibilities  if  not  with 
probabilities. 

A  similar  remark  applies  to  two  of  the  fundamental  conditions  of 
Dr.  Siemens'  ingenious  theory.  We  may  admit  the  possibility  that  the 
aqueous  vapour  and  carbon  compounds  are  present  in  stellar  or  inter- 
planetary space ;  we  may  concede,  though  not  perhaps  quite  so  readily, 
that  these  gaseous  compounds  are  capable  of  being  dissociated  by  radiant 
solar  energy  while  in  a  state  of  extreme  attenuation.  What  we  cannot 
admit,  simply  because  it  is  inconsistent  with  human  laws,  is  the  third 
condition,  "  That  these  dissociated  vapours  are  capable  of  being  com- 
pressed into  the  solar  photosphere  by  a  process  of  interchange  with  an 
equal  amount  of  reassociated  vapours,  this  interchange  being  effected  by 
the  centrifugal  action  of  the  sun  itself."  As  this  condition  is  essential  to 
the  theory  itself,  we  are  compelled,  regretfully  perhaps,  but  still  unhesi- 
tatingly, to  give  up  that  satisfaction  which,  as  Dr.  Siemens  remarks,  we 
should  gain,  could  we  believe  that  our  solar  system  need  "  no  longer 
impress  us  with  the  idea  of  prodigious  waste  through  the  dissipation  of 
energy  into  space,  but  rather  with  that  of  well-ordered,  self-sustaining 
action,  capable  of  perpetuating  solar  radiation  to  the  remotest  future." 
Yet  though  not  in  this  way,  to  this  end  all  thoughtful  study  of  the 
mechanism  of  the  universe  seems  unquestionably  to  tend ;  not  by  centri- 
fugal tendencies  of  the  kind  imagined,  for  none  such  exist ;  not  by  work 
which,  viewed  in  reference  to  the  universe  as  we  know  it,  means  end]  ess 
production  without  exhaustion ;  but  in  other  ways  (associating  perhaps 
our  visible  universe  with  others,  permeating  it  as  the  ether  of  space 
permeates  the  densest  solids,  and  in  turn  with  others  so  permeated  by  it) 
there  may  be  that  constant  interchange,  that  perpetual  harmony,  of  which 
Goethe  sung — 

See  all  things  with  each  other  blending, 

Each  to  all  its  being  lending, 

Each  on  all  in  turn  depending : 

Heavenly  ministers  descending, 

And  again  to  Heaven  uptending, 

Floating,  mingling,  interweaving, 

Kising,  sinking,  and  receiving — 

Each  from  each,  while  each  is  giving 

On  to  each,  and  each  relieving 

Each — the  pails  of  gold.     The  living 

Current  through  the  air  is  heaving ; 

Breathing  blessings  see  them  bending, 

Balanced  worlds  from  change  defending, 

While  everywhere  diffused  is  harmony  unending. 

K.  A.  P. 


VOL.  XLV.-— NO.  269.  29. 


594 


Utklwtg"  anft  % 

BY  KARL  BLIND. 


I. 

IN  a  few  days  Richard  Wagner's  powerful  musical  drama — The  Ring  of 
the  Nibelung — will  burst  upon  the  London  public  with  all  its  mythic 
grandeur  and  scenic  pomp.  Siegfried's  name  will  then  be  on  everybody's 
lips.  "  Daughters  of  the  Rhine  "  will  sing  their  spell-songs  in  the  green 
waves  of  the  gold-glistening  river ;  mocking  the  love- sick  Dark  Elf  who  is 
to  rob  them  of  the  glowing  hoard.  Valkyrs,  Virgins  of  Battle,  headed 
by  Briinnhilde,  will  shake  the  thunder-clouds  with  their  stormy  ride,  as 
heralds  of  Fate.  Giants,  the  builders  of  Asgard,  who  carried  away  the 
Goddess  of  Love  in  reward  for  their  having  reared  the  Heavenly  Hall, 
will  enter  into  a  threatening  contest  with  "Wotan  and  Fricka — a  danger 
from  which  the  divine  pair  are  only  rescued  by  the  wiles  of  the  fire-god 
Loge,  who  filches  the  treasure  from  the  Nibelung,  and  therewith  ransoms 
Freia  from  the  gigantic  forces  of  Nature. 

But  the  curse  placed  by  the  irate  dwarf,  Alberich,  upon  the  Ring — 
the  talismanic  symbol  of  power  and  most  valuable  part  of  the  hoard — 
will  work  evil  for  Gods  and  men.  Siegfried,  the  blameless,  is  destined 
to  forge  the  main  link  in  the  fatal  chain  of  tragic  events.  He,  the  off- 
spring of  the  forbidden  love  between  Siegmund  and  Sieglinde — who  in 
their  turn  both  hail  from  All-father  when  he  had  assumed  Wolsung  shape 
— will,  no  doubt,  destroy  the  poisonous  Dragon  Fafner,  that  guards  the 
hoard.  Siegfried  will  thus  become  the  owner  of  the  treasure,  as  well  as 
wonderfully  wise  by  having  tasted  the  Worm's  blood.  But  then,  in  spite 
of  All-father's  decree,  he  will  also  free  the  entranced  Shield  Maiden  from 
the  Blazing  Rock,  and  bind  himself  to  her  who  had  disobeyed  the  God, 
by  vows  of  eternal  love.  Having  afterwards  been  made  to  forget  her,  in 
favour  of  Gutrune,  by  a  magic  potion  in  a  King's  Hall  on  the  Rhine, 
Siegfried  will  unwittingly  be  the  means  of  forcing  Briinnhilde,  his  own 
early  love,  into  an  unwished-for  wedlock  with  Gunther.  Through  such 
complication  the  Hero  will  meet  with  his  death  by  the  weapon  of  Hagen, 
who  professes  to  avenge  the  betrayed  Valkyr,  whilst  being  in  reality 
bent  upon  getting  possession  of  the  Ring. 

In  these  fateful  struggles,  Siegfried's  mighty  sword,  an  heirloom  from 
his  divine  forebear,  shatters  the  once  invincible  spear  of  the  God,  who  in 
Wanderer's  guise  had  crossed  the  path  of  his  venturesome  descendant. 
Wotan's  power  is  thus  sadly  crippled.  Over  the  Heavenly  Hall  a  doom 
is  approaching.  Overcome  with  grief  at  the  death  of  her  own  Siegfried 
whom  she  had  wrongfully  thought  faithless,  Briinnhilde  resolves  to  unite 


WAGNER'S  "NIBEIAJNG"  AND  THE  SIEGFRIED  TALE.       595 

herself  with  him  once  more  and  for  aye,  by  spurring  her  steed  into  the 
flaming  pyre  on  which  his  body  is  being  consumed.  Meanwhile  the 
rapacious  Hagen  kills  her  lawful  husband  Gunther.  But  as  Briinnhilde, 
before  entering  the  pile,  had  drawn  the  charmful  ring  from  Siegfried's 
hand  and  thrown  it  into  the  Rhine  to  be  lost  for  ever,  the  greedy  mur- 
derer of  the  Hero  madly  plunges  into  the  stream,  when  the  Rhine 
Daughters  drag  him  down  into  the  ever-rising  flood. 

Finally,  remembering  the  injury  she  once  suffered  from  Wotan,  the 
self-sacrificing  Valkyr,  seeing  All-father's  birds  rising  from  the  banks  of 
the  river,  exclaims  as  she  mounts  her  courser  for  the  death-ride  : — 

Fly  away,  ye  ravens  !       Whisper  to  your  Lord 

What  here  on  the  Rhine  you  have  heard ! 

By  Brunnhilde's  rock      your  road  shall  lie : 

The  lowe  that  still  burns  there,       lead  up  to  Walhall ! 

For  -with  the  Doom  of  Gods      the  day  is  now  darkened  : 

Thus  the  brand  I  throw      into      Walhall's  proud  burgh !  * 

Such  are  the  outlines,  necessarily  very  incomplete,  of  Richard  Wag- 
ner's grand  tetralogy  :  Rhine-gold ;  The  Valkyr ;  Siegfried  ;  and  The 
Gloaming  of  the  World  of  Gods.  A  who'e  array  of  figures  from  German 
and  Norse  mythology  comes  up  in  that  tragedy.  May  I  now,  without  fur- 
ther ado,  astonish  some  of  the  readers  by  saying  that  the  hero  of  this 
eminently  Teutonic  drama,  Siegfried,  or  Sigurd,  was  a  Hun,  and  that  as 
a  Hun  he  is  the  nearest  kinsman  of  the  English  ? 

II. 

This  point  I  will,  before  all,  proceed  to  make  good.  In  doing  so,  I 
begin  with  the  Edda  and  other  Norse  records.  Their  Sigurd  tales  have 
by  Richard  Wagner  been  combined  with  the  German  tradition ;  an! 
surely,  he  had  the  fullest  right  to  do  so ;  for  in  the  Edda,  also,  the 
Hero  is  by  no  means  a  Scandinavian,  but  a  "  southern  "  (that  is,  a 
German)  chief  whose  feats  are  performed  near  the  Rhine.  On  the  Rhine 
is  the  scene  of  the  Icelandic  account  of  the  Killing  of  the  Worm ;  of 
Brynhild's  fire-encircled  Rock  of  Punishment;  as  well  as  of  Sigurd's 
murder  by  Hogni. 

First,  then,  to  settle  the  question  of  the  Hero's  nationality,  or  tribal 
origin :  Sigurd's  fatherland  is,  in  the  Edda  and  in  the  Volsunga  Saga, 
called  the  Land  of  the  Huns.  He  is  described  as  a  Hunic  ruler.  His 
forefathers  were  Hunic  Kings.  Herborg,  who  comes  to  console  Gudrun 
at  Sigurd's  death,  is  a  widowed  Queen  from  Huna-land,  whose  seven 
sons,  as  well  as  her  husband,  had  been  killed  in  battle,  whilst  her  father 
and  her  mother,  together  with  her  four  brothers,  had  been  whelmed  in 
the  waves  of  the  sea.  A.11  this — the  Hunic  Niobe  says — had  happened 
within  a  half-year  :  none  was  left  to  console  her ;  herself  she  had  to 
raise  the  pyre  for  her  kinsfolk's  death-ride  to  Hel.  And  before  the  six 

*  All  the  poetical  quotations  contain  my  own  English  version. 

29—2 


596       WAGNER'S  "NIBELUNG"  AND  THE  SIEGFRIED  TALE. 

months  even  were  over,  she  had  become  a  captive,  taken  in  war,  when 
she  had  to  do  humble  service,  every  morning,  to  the  victor's  wife ;  menially 
adorning  the  latter's  person,  and  tying  her  shoes.  Thus  Hunic  Queen 
conveys  sad  comfort  to  the  relict  of  the  murdered  ruler  of  Huna-Land. 

So  we  read  in  the  first  Lay  of  Gudrun.  In  the  second  we  find 
Sigurd's  widow  and  King  Theodric  grieving  together  over  losses  each  has 
suffered.  Telling  her  first  feelings  of  unutterable  woe,  Gudrun  says  : — 

No  wail  I  uttered,      nor  wrung  my  hands  ; 

No  sobs  I  had,       as  is  women's  wont. 

When  heart-broken  I  sat      at  the  bier  of  Sigurd.  .  ,  . 

From  the  fell  I  went  forth.     After  the  fifth  night 
I  neared  the  high  halls  of  Alf. 
Seven  half-years      with  Thora  I  stayed, 
Hakon's  daughter  in  Denmark. 

In  gold  she  wrought,      to  soothe  my  wandering  mind, 
Southern  (German)  halls      and  Danish  swans. 

With  handiwork  deft      we  there  embroidered 
The  warriors'  games,       the  weaponed  band — 
Red-bucklered  heroes       of  the  Hunic  home, 
A  sworded  host,       a  helmed  troop. 

Again,  "  Hunic  maidens,  skilful  in  weaving  tapestry  and  golden 
girdles,"  are  promised  to  Gudrun  by  Grimhild,  after  the  former  had 
become  reconciled  with  her  brothers  for  the  murder  of  Sigurd.  So  also 
Brynhild  speaks  of  the  castle  of  her  kinsmen  as  the  "  Hall  of  the  Hunic 
Folk  ";  and  in  connection  with  her,  Hunic  Shield- Maidens  are  mentioned.* 

Do,  then,  these  Hunic  designations  point  to  the  Hunns  of  the  Mongol 
Attila,  the  "  Scourge  of  God  "1 

Most  certainly  not ! 

III. 

In  the  Norse  texts,  the  words  "  Huna  Land,"  "  Hun,"  and  "  Hunic," 
as  well  as  "  southern,"  are  meant  to  describe  Germany  and  the  Germans. 
Sigurd  was  a  Rhenish  hero,  like  the  one  in  the  Nibelungen  Epic.  His 
father  ruled  in  Frank-Land,  t  In  the  Rhine-lands,  also,  according  to  the 
Edda,  was  the  original  dwelling-place  of  Volundr,  or  Wayland  the  Smith, 
who,  as  a  mutilated  captive  in  Sweden,  speaks  thus  of  his  native  country, 
and  its  gold-carrying  river,  in  comparison  with  the  North  : — 

No  gold  is  here      as  on  Grani's  path  ;  J 
Far  is  this  land      from  the  rocks  of  the  Ehine. 
More  of  treasures      might  we  possess, 
When  hale  we  lived      in  our  own  home. 

*  Volsunga  Saga;  2,  19. — The  Lay  of  Sigurd  the  Dragon  Killer;  iii.  4,  8,  18,  63, 
64.—  The  Lay  of  Gudrun  ;  i,  5,  24;  and  ii.  15,  26.— The  Wail  of  Oddrun,  4.— The 
Greenland  Tale  of  Atli ;  2,  4,  7,  15,  16,  27,  34,  38,  42.— Comp.  Wilhelm  Grimm's 
Deutsche  Heldensage. 

f  Binfiottts  End. 

$  Grani  is  Sigurd's  horse,  but  also  one  of  the  appellations  of  Odin ;  and,  as  I  have 


WAGNER'S  "NIBELUNG"  AND  THE  SIEGFEIED  TALE.        597 

It  was  in  the  Rhine  that  the  Hunic  Sigurd  whom  the  Edda  sings, 
proved  the  sharpness  of  his  sword  Grani,  which  the  skilful  dwarf  Regin 
had  forged  for  him.  Dipping  the  blade  into  the  river,  he  let  a  flake 
of  wool  down  the  stream,  when  the  good  sword  cut  the  fleece  asunder  as 
if  it  were  water.*  With  the  same  sword  he  afterwards  clove  Regin's 
anvil  in  twain.  In  the  Rhine,  Gunnar  and  Hb'gni  (whose  names  are 
identical  with  those  of  Gunther  and  Hagen  of  the  German  Epic)  hide 
the  golden  treasure,  the  "  inheritance  from  the  Dragon."  f  So  says 
Gunnar  to  Hb'gni,  in  the  third  Lay  of  Sigurd  the  Fafner's  Killer  (26)  : — 

"Wilt  thou  help  us,  Hogni,      the  hero  to  rob  ? 
Good  'tis  to  possess      the  gold  of  the  Rhine, 
At  ease  to  rule       over  many  riches  ; 
Eight  well  enjoying  them      in  rest  and  peace. 

But  Hogni  this      for  answer  him  gave: 

"It  beseems  us  not      to  do  such  deed — 

With  the  sword  to  break      the  oaths  we  have  sworn, 

The  oaths  we  have  sworn,       and  the  plighted  troth. 

We  wot  than  on  earth      no  happier  men  will  dwell, 

Whilst  we  four      over  the  folk  will  rule, 

And  the  Hunic  leader      with  us  lives. 

Nor  will  the  world  ever  see      a  nobler  sib, 

Than  if  we  five  give  rise      to  a  chieftains'  race: 

The  very  Gods  we  might  throw      from  their  thrones  above !  " 

Thus  the  scene  of  the  crime  plotted  against  the  Hunic  chieftain  is 
localised  on  Germany's  great  river.  The  Gnita- Heath,  too,  on  which  the 
Dragon  lay,  is,  in  the  Norse  texts,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Rhine, 
not  far  from  the  "  Holy  Mountains  "  f  over  which  Sigurd  had  ridden. 
We  recognise  in  them  the  Sieben-Gebirge,  or  Seven  Mountains,  whose 
number  is  a  holy  one.  To  this  day,  one  of  those  hills  is  called  the 
Drachen-Fels,  the  Dragon's  Rock.  The  Seven  Mountains  lie  south  of 
the  river  Sieg.  Its  name  may  be  in  connection  with  that  of  Siegfried ; 
river-names  being  apt — as  we  see  on  Trojan  ground — to  bear  occasionally 
an  heroic  or  divine  meaning. 

It  is  on  a  hill  in  the  German  Frankland  that  Sigurd  frees  Sigurdrifa 
(Brynhild)  from  the  magic  slumber,  into  which  she  had  been  thrown  by 
Odin,  for  having  killed,  as  one  of  his  shield-maidens,  a  Gothic  King  to 
whom  the  Lord  of  Hosts  had  promised  victory.  "  In  the  south,  on  the 
Rhine,  Sigurd  sank  down," — says  the  "  Fragment  of  a  Brynhild  Lay  " 
(5),  one  of  the  most  touching  in  the  weird  cycle  of  Eddie  songs.  In  a 
prose  note,  German  men  (tyyftverskir  menu)  are  quoted  for  the  report 
that  he  had  been  murdered  in  a  forest,  whilst  others,  in  the  North,  had 

explained  elsewhere,  "  Grani's  path"  probably  means  the  Ehine,  conceived  under  the 
image  of  Odin  as  a  divine  Water-Horse. 

*  The  second  Lay  of  Sigurd  the  Dragon-Killer ;  1 4. 

f  Skalda :  "  The  Niflungs  and  Giukungs ; "  and  "  The  Tale  of  Atli ; "  27. 

j  The  Song  of  Fafnir ;  26. 


598       WAGNER'S  "  NIBELUNG  "  AND  THE  SIEGFRIED  TALE. 

laid  the  scene  of  his  death  in  his  own  room,  where  they  said  he  had  been 
stabbed  when  asleep  in  his  bed.  Again,  in  the  Vilkina  Saga,  German 
men  from  Soest,  Bremen,  and  Miinster,  are  referred  to  as  sources  for  the 
Sigurd  tale* 

Besides  the  Holy  Mountains,  a'Black  Forest  (Myrkviftr)  is  repeatedly 
mentioned  in.  the  Icelandic  songs.  It  stands,  no  doubt,  in  most  passages, 
for  the  vast  wood  of  that  name  on  the  Upper  Rhine.  These  references 
to  Germany  are  scattered  all  over  the  Norse  Scripture.  Franks. 
Saxons,  Burgundians,  Goths — even  a  Swawa-land,  or  Swabian  land,  half 
mythological,  half  real — meet  us  in  the  Edda,  together  with  the  name  of 
the  Huns,  or  Hunes ;  which  latter  (and  here  we  come  upon  Siegfried's 
special  kinship  with  the  English)  we  find  again  among  the  German 
tribes  that  took  part  in  the  "  Making  of  England." 


IV. 

After  this,  a  passage  in  Baeda's  Church  History,  which  I  believe  has 
puzzled  many  readers,  will  easily  explain  itself.  In  chapter  ix.  of  his 
fifth  book,  he  says  that  the  Angles  or  Saxons  who  now  inhabit  Britain,  are 
known  to  have  sprung  from  Germany,  "  for  which  reason  they  are  still 
corruptly  called  '  Garmans '  by  the  neighbouring  nation  of  the  Britons." 
Among  the  tribes  of  Germany,  which  had  sent  forth  war-hosts  for  the 
conquest  of  Britain,  Baeda  names  "  Frisians,  Rugians,  Danes,  Huns,  the 
Old  Saxons,  and  the  Boructuars."  The  last  are  unquestionably  the  same 
whom  Tacitus  calls  Bructerians.  The  "  Danes "  were  the  aboriginal 
German  inhabitants  of  Jutland,  who  only  later  became  replaced  by 
Scandinavian  Teutons.  The  Huns,  or  Hunes,  fully  explain  themselves 
as  a  purely  German  tribe  from  what  has  been  stated  in  the  foregoing. 

In  the  Anglo-Saxon  "Wanderer's  Tale,"  Hunas  are  among  the 
sibs  which  the  Traveller  visited.  Now,  there  are  in  England  not  a 
few  places  which  bear  the  clear  trace  of  a  Hunic  settlement.  Angles, 
or  Englas,  have  given  their  name  to  Anglesey  in  Cambridgeshire;  to 
Anglesey,  the  island  on  the  Welsh  coast ;  to  Englefield  in  Berkshire ; 
and  to  the  Englewood  Forest.  Saxons,  or  Seaxas,  have  given  theirs 
to  Saxthorpe  in  Norfolk ;  to  Saxham  and  Saxtead  in  Suffolk ;  to  Saxby 
in  Lincolnshire ;  to  Saxton  in  Lincolnshire  ;  to  Saxby  in  Leicestershire. 
In  the  same  way,  Hunes,  or  Hunas,  have  given  theirs  to  Hunton 
(Kent) ;  to  Hundon  (Suffolk) ;  to  Hun  worth  and  Hunstanton  (Norfolk) ; 
to  Huncote  (Leicestershire) ;  to  Huncoat  and  Hunslet  (Lancashire) ;  to 
Hunmanby  and  Hunton  (Yorkshire) ;  to  Hunwick  (Durham) ;  to  the 
Head  of  Hunna  and  the  lele  of  Hunie  (Shetland),*  and  so  forth. 

No  wonder  we  meet  with,  on  English  ground,  such  personal  names 
Ethelhun  (Noble  Hune)  as  that  of  King  Edwin's  son,  or  as  that  of 

*  Comp.  The  Anglo-Saxon  Sagas,  by  Daniel  H.  Haigh ;  where,  however,  by  no 
means  all  the  Ifruiic  place-names  of  England  are  given, 


WAGNER'S  "NIBELUNG"  AND  THE  SIEGFRIED  TALE.       599 

a  monk,* — even  as  we  find  the  German  and  Norse  "  Finn  "  name  on  the 
English  side  of  this  country,  as  well  as  in  Ireland,  from  ancient  times. 

Turning  back  once  more  to  Germany  where  Baeda's  English  Hunes 
came  from,  we  meet  with  the  same  name  in  our  own  tribal  sagas,  in  our 
history,  in  our  geography,  as  well  as  in  our  martial  folk-lore.  In 
Beowulf,  which  dates  from  before  the  time  of  the  German  conquest  of 
Britain,  several  personal  names  occur  composed  with  "  Hun."  Hunlaf, 
Hunferd,  Hunbrecht  are  heroic  names  which  turn  up  among  Frisians 
and  Rhinelanders,  as  among  the  men  of  Dietrich  von  Bern.  The  Hunsings 
were  a  Frisian  tribe.  The  Hunsriick  mountain  in  north-western  Ger- 
many has  probably  as  little  to  do  with  the  Mongolia  Hunns,  as  Hiiningen 
on  the  upper  Rhine  has.  Its  meaning  must  be  sought  for  in  Siegfried's 
kinsmen.  Humboldt,  too,  is  a  Hunic  name ;  meaning  "  bold  like  a  giant." 

Hune,  or  Heune,  a  word  of  obscure  etymology,  meant  eminently  a 
warrior,  a  hero.  That  martial  name  was  assumed,  of  old,  by  a  German 
tribe  located  in  the  quarters  where  the  Siegfried  tale  arose.  Gigantic 
grave-monuments  are  to  this  day  called,  in  northern  Germany, "  Hunic 
Graves,"  or  "  Hune-Beds."  About  Osnabriick,  funeral  clothes  are  called 
"  Hune-garments  "  (Hunen-Kkid).  Among  the  Frisians,  "  Hiine,"  or 
"  Heune,"  is  even  now  used  for  a  corpse.  It  is  as  if  the  fatal  mark  set 
on  a  Hiine's,  or  warrior's,  brow  had  imperceptibly  led  to  a  generalisation 
of  the  term.  From  a  picked  war-band  of  heroes  destined  for  Walhalla, 
the  Hunes,  in  course  of  time,  simply  became  dead  men. 

V. 

So,  then,  Sigurd  was  a  German  Hune,  and  therefore  the  closest  rela- 
tion of  the  founders  of  England.  And  quite  in  harmony  with  the  Edda, 
we  hear  in  the  Nibelungen  Lied  that  Sigmund's  son  "  grew  up  in  the 
Netherlands,  in  a  castle  known  far  and  wide,  at  Xanten  on  the  Rhine." 
Only  the  mother's  name  is  differently  given  in  the  Icelandic  text ;  but 
that  is  easily  accounted  for  by  the  transformation  of  the  tale  abroad. 

All  over  the  Scandinavian  North,  including  the  Faroe'r,  this  grand 
and  typical  saga  was  once  spread.  In  the  Hvenic  Chronicle,  in  Danish 
hero-songs,  we  even  meet  Siegfried  (Old  German  :  Sigufrid)  as  Sigfred, 
instead  of  thecontracted  Norse  form  "  Sigurd  ;"  Kriemhild  as  "  Gremild  " 
— and  she  is  married  to  the  hero  at  Worms,  as  in  the  Nibelungen  Lied ; 
whereas,  in  the  Edda,  Gudrun  is  Sigurd's  wife,  and  the  remembrance  of 
the  town  of  Worms  is  lost.  So  strong  was  the  tradition  of  the  German 
origin  of  the  Sigurd  tale  down  to  the  twelfth  century,  that  in  a  geogra- 
phical work  written  in  Norse  by  the  Abbot  Nicolaus,  the  Gnita-Heath 
where  Sigurd  had  killed  the  Worm  was  still  placed  half-way  between 
Paderborn  and  Mainz,  f 

*  Baeda  ii.  14;  and  iii.  27. 

f  Itinerarium ;  edited  by  "Werlauff  in  the  Symb,  ad  Geographiam  Medii  JEvi ; 
Copenhagen,  1821, 


600       WAGNER'S   "  NIBELUNG  "  AND  THE  SIEGFEIED  TALE. 

In  the  lays  and  sagas  of  the  Scandinavians,  much  of  those  "  most 
ancient  songs  "  is,  in  fact,  preserved,  which  the  German  people,  in  its 
heroic  age,  once  possessed,  and  which  Karl  (called  the  Great),  the 
Emperor  of  the  Franks — according  to  the  statement  of  Eginhard — 
ordered  to  be  collected.  Monkish  fanaticism  afterwards  destroyed  the 
rescued  valuable  relics.  It  is  an  irreparable  loss.  Fortunately,  Icelanders 
travelling  in  Germany  had  gathered  some  of  those  tale-treasures.  Bringing 
them  home,  they  presented  the  Norse  bards  with  a  subject  which  the 
latter  treated  in  their  own  way  in  the  form  of  heroic  lyrics,  and  with  a 
poetical  beauty  and  dramatic  power  of  which  the  whole  Teutonic  race 
may  well  be  proud. 

It  is  in  the  Sigurd-,  Fafnir's-,  Brynhild-,  Gudrun-,  Oddrun-,  Atli-, 
and  Hamdir  Lays,  as  well  as  in  some  prose  fragments  of  Norse  literature, 
that  the  subject  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied  has  been  saved  to  us  in  its  older 
form.  It  is  an  earlier,  a  purer,  a  wholly  heathen  version  of  that  noble 
saga  which  on  its  native  soil  was  worked  out,  in  a  half-Christianised 
shape,  into  an  epic  similar  to  the  Homeric  one.  Between  the  Icelandic 
poems  and  the  Nibelungen  Lied — the  Iliad  of  Germany — there  are  a 
number  of  divergences,  the  result  of  the  transplantation  of  the  German 
tales  to  the  North.  Thus  Kriemhild's  name  is,  in  the  Edda,  replaced 
by  that  of  Gudrun.  Hbgni  plays  a  part  somewhat  different  from  that 
of  Hagen.  The  heart  and  root  of  the  story  are,  however,  the  same. 
The  fact  is,  the  Nibelungen  Lied  arose  out  of  the  productions  of  rhapso- 
dists,  which  on  German  soil  disappeared — just  as  the  original  lays  referring 
to  the  siege  of  Troy  disappeared  in  Greece.  In  this  way,  the  Norse 
poems  are  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  link  between  our  national  epic  and 
our  lost  Siegfried  Lieder. 

The  hold  which  the  story  itself  has  had  on  the  German  people 
through  ages,  can  be  gathered  from  the  fact  of  its  having  kept  its 
place  in  the  workman's  house  and  the  peasant's  hut,  first  by  oral  tradi- 
tion, and  then  by  some  of  those  rudely-printed  penny  books,  sold  at 
fairs,  under  the  title  of  Die  Geschichte  vom  hornenen  Siegfried ;  that 
is,  "  The  Story  of  Siegfried  made  invulnerable  by  the  Dragon's 
blood."  Well  do  I  remember  the  eagerness  with  which,  as  a  child — 
snatching  a  little  time  from  the  too-early  Latin  lessons — I  pored  over 
one  of  those  chap-books,  with  its  clumsy  woodcuts  and  its  half-boorish 
representation  of  the  inspiriting  tale,  at  a  time  when  most  of  our  learned 
men  utterly  neglected,  nay,  often  scarcely  even  knew,  the  national  Helden- 
Sage,  though  the  poorest  among  the  masses  yet  clung  to  it  in  their  own 
wretched  traditions. 

VI. 

Now  for  some  of  the  details  of  the  Nibelung  Tale,  as  contained  in 
the  Edda. 

In  the  first  Lay  of  Sigurd  the  Dragon-Killer — also  called  Gripir's 
Prophecy — we  find  the  hero  riding  to  the  Hall  of  the  Seer,  in  order  to 


WAGNER'S  "NIBELUNG"  AND  THE  SIEGFRIED  TALE.       601 

learn  his  own  fate.  Gripir  foretells  all  that  will  happen  :  Sigurd's 
martial  revenge  of  his  father's  death ;  his  victory  over  the  Dragon,  and 
how  he  thus  will  gain  golden  treasures ;  his  ride  to  the  Rock  where  a 
Maiden  awaits  her  deliverance  : — 

Gripir. 

Queenly  maiden  fair      on  the  mountain  sleeps, 
Harness-encased,      after  Helgi's  death. 
With  the  sword's  keen  edge      thou'lt  the  corslet  sever; 
Ripping  the  bonds      with  Fafnir's  bane. 

Sigurd. 

The  armour  breaks.      Now  speaks  the  bride, 
The  fair  one,       freed  from  the  fettering  trance ! 
What  museful  saws      will  the  Maiden  utter  ? 
What  words  of  wisdom      for  the  Hero's  weal  ? 

All  kinds  of  runic  wisdom,  and  the  knowledge  of  all  men's  tongues, 
will  she — so  Gripir  prophesies — confer  upon  Sigurd.  Further  questions 
the  Seer  seeks  to  evade.  But  being  pressed  to  foretell  even  the  darkest 
and  the  worst,"  because  all  is  ordained  before,"  he  predicts  that  Sigurd, 
after  having  been  the  guest,  for  a  single  night,  of  King  Giuki,  will  forget 
Brynhild's  love  and  the  oath  pledge  he  had  given  to  her,  for  the  sake 
of  a  new  love — namely,  of  Gudrun,  Giuki's  daughter. 

Unconscious  of  fickleness,  the  alarmed  inquirer  protests  : — 

Seest  thou  such  wavering      in  my  will  ? 
Shall  my  word  I  break      to  the  maiden  dear 
Whom  with  my  whole  heart      I  thought  to  love  ? 

Gripir,  however,  explains  that  the  fatal  spell  will  be  wrought  upon 
him  by  the  wiles  of  Grimhild,  Giuki's  queen.  Ay,  she  will  so  beguile 
him  as  to  make  him  woo  Brynhild  in  the  name  of  Gunnar,  the  king  of 
the  Goths.  The  magical  exchange  of  shape  between  Sigurd  and  Gunnar, 
through  which  Brynhild — as  we  see  in  the  Nibelungen  epic  and  in 
Wagner's  musical  drama — is  ensnared  to  become  the  Gothic  ruler's  queen, 
is  here  foretold  by  the  Seer.  Deep  sorrow  comes  over  Sigurd  at  this  sad 
prospect  of  having  to  court,  for  another's  sake,  her  who  reigns  in  his  own 
bosom.  He  is  also  pained  by  the  thought  of  being  held  to  be  false  in 
men's  opinion,  even  though  Gripir  tells  him  that  he  will  accomplish  his 
mission  with  such  honesty  as  to  "  make  his  name  an  exalted  one  as  long 
as  the  world  lasts." 

Three  nights — the  Seer  says — the  hero  will  pass  on  the  deceived 
Brynhild's  couch ;  but  he  will  do  so  in  blameless  purity.  After  that, 
Sigurd  and  Gunnar,  having  changed  back  into  their  own  proper  forms 
— "  but  each  retaining  his  heart " — are  to  be  joined  in  wedlock,  in 
Giuki's  Hall,  to  Gudrun  and  Brynhild.  Disaster,  nevertheless,  must 
come  from  the  fraudulent  wooing.  Though  Sigurd  loves  Gudrun  in 
honest  wedlock,  Brynhild  thinks  herself  evilly  matched  to  Gunnar,  and 
basely  betrayed.  Her  love  for  Sigurd  is  turned  into  revengeful  hate. 

29—5 


602       WAGNER'S  "  NIBELUNG  "  AND  THE  SIEGFRIED  TALE. 

Belying  herself,  through  overwhelming  grief,  she  now  falsely  accuses 
Sigurd,  before  Gunnar,  of  not  having  kept  faith  to  him  during  those 

three  nights. 

Sigurd. 

Will  Gunnar  the  wise,      will  Guthorm  and  Hogni, 
Be  stirred  to  deeds      by  her  stinging  appeal  ? 
Will  Giuki's  sons      in  their  sib-man's  blood 
Redden  their  swords  ?       Gripir !  speak ! 

Gripir. 

Gudrun's  heart  will  fret      with  anguish  and  fury, 
When  her  brothers  with  harmful      plans  shall  beset  thee. 
All  joy  will  flee      from  her  for  ever : 
Such  woeful  end      is  the  work  of  Grimhild. 

That  solace,  however — Gripir  lastly  says — will  remain  to  the  valorous 
leader  of  men,  who  is  to  be  the  spotless  victim  of  guile,  that  a  nobler 
man  than  he  will  never  be  seen  under  the  Sun's  abode.  "  Hail  now, 
and  farewell ! "  answers  Sigurd ;  "  Fate  cannot  be  o'ercome  ! " 

In  this  prophecy,  the  chief  points  of  the  German  Siegfried's  tale  are 
condensed,  with  slight  variation — less  the  all-destroying  revenge  of  his 
death,  which  forms  the  final  catastrophe  in  the  Nibelungen  Lied. 

VII. 

The  second  Lay  of  Sigurd  the  Dragon-Killer,  together  with  the 
Song  of  Fafnir — of  which  there  are  corresponding  traits  in  the  German 
epic — furnished  Richard  Wagner  with  the  essential  ideas  of  his  Shine- 
gold  and  his  Siegfried.  Still,  the  composer-poet  has  so  largely  altered 
the  subject-matter  that  in  a  great  measure  the  invention  may  be  said 
to  be  his  own.  In  the  Icelandic  poems,  we  find  Sigurd  as  the  ward  of 
the  Dwarf  Regin,  who  tells  him  of  his  forefathers'  proud  deeds  and  of 
the  adventures  of  the  Asa  Trinity,  Odin,  Hb'nir,  and  Loki.  For  the 
killing,  by  Loki,  of  Regin's  and  Fafnir's  brother  Otur  who  had  changed 
himself  into  the  shape  of  an  otter,  the  Aesir  had  to  pay  a  gold-ransom 
which  was  wholly  to  cover  its  skin.  A  gold  ring  alone  was  retained  by 
All-father,  out  of  the  Asic  treasure;  but  as  a  single  hair  of  the  otter 
was  still  visible,  the  Ring,  too — Odin's  very  symbol  of  power — had  to  be 
added  to  the  ransom.  Thereupon,  Loki  utters  a  curse  upon  the  whole 
treasure,  foretelling  a  "  future  struggle  about  a  woman,"  as  well  as 
"  hatred  among  ethelings  on  account  of  the  hoard  of  gold." 

The  curse  becomes  true.  The  two  brothers,  Regin  and  Fafnir,  after 
having  murdered  their  father,  fall  out  among  themselves  for  the  ex- 
clusive ownership  of  the  treasure.  We  hear  of  the  terrifying  Oegir's 
helmet  (the  hiding  hood  of  the  German  epic)  by  which  Fafnir,  in 
Dragon's  guise,  maintains  himself  in  possession  of  the  hoard,  on  the 
Heath  of  Envy.  With  the  sword  forged  by  Regin,  Sigurd,  however,  kills 
the  giant  Worm.  Having  accidentally  tasted  its  blood,  when  eating  its 


WAGNER'S  "  NIBELUNG  "  AND   THE  SIEGFRIED  TALE.       603 

heart,  he  suddenly  understands  the  prophetic  language  of  the  birds. 
Seven  eagles  tell  him  that  Regin,  having  got  rid,  through  Sigurd's  valour, 
of  his  own  brother  Fafnir,  is  about  to  brew  mischief  against  the  young 
Volsung  himself;  and  that,  for  his  personal  safety,  he  must  now  kill 
Regin,  too.  The  Dwarf's  head  being  consequently  struck  off,  the  eagles 
counsel  Sigurd  to  take  possession  of  the  gold-hoard,  and  then  to  ride  to 
Giuki's  Hall,  where  a  beautiful  woman  is  to  be  wooed.  On  his  way,  he 
is  to  meet,  on  a  high  hill,  with  a  warrior-maid  entranced  by  a  sleeping- 
thorn  with  which  Odin  stung  her.  She  is  surrounded  by  a  fiery  charm 
which  no  hero  may  break  before  the  Norns  have  ordained  it. 

In  the  Song  of  Sigurdrifa,  that  Valkyr  is  freed  by  Sigurd  who  rides 
up  to  Hindarfiall,  in  Frank-land.  Her  vow,  on  going  into  the  magic 
sleep,  had  been,  that  if  ever  she  were  to  be  wedded  to  a  man,  she  would 
only  confer  her  hand  upon  him  who  was  incapable  of  fear.  Being  de- 
livered, she  teaches  Sigurd  much  wisdom,  and  both  then  pledge  troth  to 
each  other,  for  aye  and  for  ever. 

In  the  third  Lay  of  Sigurd  the  Dragon-Killer,  as  well  as  in  a  frag- 
ment of  a  Brynhild  Lay,  and  in  the  Volsung  Saga,  we  hear  how  Sigurd, 
when  wooing  Brynhild  in  Gunnar's  name,  had  placed  a  sword  on  the 
couch  between  her  and  himself — "  a  sword  with  gold  adorned ;  outward 
its  edges  with  fire  were  wrought,  with  venom-drops  covered  within." 
His  own  love  for  Brynhild  he  had  been  made  to  forget  through  a  potion 
pf  oblivigusness.  But  "  grim  Norns  were  walking  athwart." 

Alone  she  sat      -when  the  day  sank  down  ; 
Aloud  she  began      to  herself  to  speak  : — 
"  Sigurd  must  be  mine  ;      or  I  must  die, 
If  I  cannot  enfold  him      in  my  arms ! 

Of  the  rash  -words  now      I  again  repent : 

Gtidrun  is  his  wife ;      and  I  am  Gunnar's  ! 

Oh,  the  sorrow  wrought      by  the  spell  of  the  Norn !" 

Often  she  wandered,       filled  with  wrath, 

O'er  ice  and  fells      at  even-tide, 

Thinking  where  he      and  Gudrun  now  were  .... 

How  the  Hunic  King      his  consort  caressed. 

Thus  her  vengeful  mood      to  murder  she  turned. 

For  a  time,  Gunnar,  being  in  doubt,  hesitates  to  take  revenge  upon 
the  wrongfully  accused  Sigurd.  At  last,  he  and  Hbgni  induce  their 
younger  brother,  the  half-witted  Guthorm,  to  do  the  bloody  deed.  With 
powerful  brevity  the  Eddie  poem  says  : — 

Easy  it  was      his  wild  spirit  to  move : 

There  stood  the  sword      in  the  heart  of  Sigurd ! 

However,  strength  enough  was  yet  left  in  the  hands  of  the  dying  hero 

«  at  whose  side,"  as  a  Saga  has  it,  "  all  others  looked  low  in  stature  " 

to  fell  his  murderer  by  throwing  his  spear.     Gudrun,  startled  from  her 


6 1)4        WAGNER'S   "NIBELUNG"   AND   TIIE  SIEGFEIED  TALE. 

sleep,  finds  herself  swimming  in  the  blood  of  "  Freyr's  friend  ; "  that  is, 
of  her  blameless  Sigurd  : — 

Loudly  moaned  the  Queen  ;       life  ebbed  from  the  King. 
So  heavily  she  struck       her  hands  together, 
That  the  beakers  on  the  board       responsive  rang, 
And  shrilly  the  geese       in  the  court  did  scream. 

Then  laughed  Brynhild,      the  daughter  of  Budli, 
For  once  again       with  all  her  heart, 
As,  up  to  her  bed,       there  broke  through  the  Hall 
The  direful  yell      of  Giuki's  daughter. 

Then  Brynhild  resolves  to  "  go  forth  to  the  long  journey."  Stabbing 
herself,  she  prophesies  that  Gudrun  will  be  given  in  marriage  to  her 
(Brynhild's)  brother  Atli,  who  will  lose  his  life  at  Gudrun's  hands. 
With  a  woman's  bitter  taunt  against  her  rival,  the  dying  Valkyr  cries  : — 

More  seemly  't  would  be      if  our  sister  Gudrun 
Were  to  lie  on  the  pyre  with  her  husband  and  lord — 
Had  good  spirits  to  her      but  given  the  counsel, 
Or  had  she  a  soul      resembling  mine ! 

Her  own  fire-burial  she  thus  orders  : — 

One  prayer  yet      I  have  to  pray  thee ; 

'Twill  be  the  last      in  this  my  life : 

A  spacious  pile      build  up  in  the  plain, 

That  room  there  be      for  all  of  those 

Who  came  to  die       together  with  Sigurd ! 

Surround  the  pile      with  shields  and  garments, 

With  funeral  cloth      and  chosen  suite ! 

And  the  Hunic  King  burn      at  my  own  side !  .  .  . 

Let  also  lie      between  us  both 

The  ring-set  sword,       the  keen-edged  steel, 

Again  so  placed,       as  when  the  couch  we  ascended, 

And  were  then  called      by  the  name  of  consorts.  .  .  . 

Much  have  I  said.  More  would  I  say 

If  the  God  yet  time  would  grant  me  for  speech. 
My  voice  now  falters.  My  wounds  are  swelling. 

The  truth  I  spoke.  So  will  I  die. 

In  "  Brynhild's  Ride  to  the  Nether  World,"  a  giant  woman,  acting 
as  a  Judge  of  the  Dead,  crosses  the  path  of  the  self-sacrificed  Valkyr- 
bride  of  Sigurd,  before  she  nears  the  gates  of  Hel,  to  upbraid  her  with 
having  longed  for  the  possession  of  the  consort  of  another.  Brynhild 
nobly  defends  herself.  Of  the  coming  murder  of  the  Nibelungs  we  learn 
in  the  Gudrun  Lays  as  well  as  in  the  Tales  of  Atli;  and  the  details  of 
that  struggle  are  even  far  more  gruesome  than  in  the  German  epic.  It 
is  as  if  the  fierce  Hunic  spirit  had  changed,  not  only  for  the  crueller 
Norse  one,  but  for  Hunnish  ferocity. 

In  the  Nibelungen  Lied,  enraged  Kriemhild,  who  has  become  Etzel's 
Queen  in  the  Hunic  land,  allures  her  sib-men  to  that  Court,  when  a 


WAGNER'S  "NIBELUNG"  AND  THE  SIEGFRIED  TALE.        605 

treacherous  surprise  and  frightful  carnage  follows,  at  the  end  of  which 
she  holds  the  bleeding  head  of  her  brother  Gunther,  by  the  hair,  before 
Hagen  in  his  dungeon  ;  asking  him  for  the  indication  of  the  hidden  gold- 
hoard,  as  the  ransom  of  his  life.  With  a  shudder,  Hagen  looks  at  the 
head ;  but  quietly  and  coldly  meeting  his  death,  he  says  : — 

None  knows  now  of  the  gold-hoard       but  God  and  I  alone ! 
From  thee,  thou  demon-woman,       'tis  now  for  ever  gone ! 

These  horrors  are  surpassed  in  the  Eddie  lay.  There  Hialli's  heart 
is  first  cut  from  his  li ving  body,  and  brought  to  the  captive  Gunnar ; 
and  then  "  Hbgni  laughs  aloud  whilst  his  own  heart  is  cut  out  "  : — 

Calmly  said  Gunnar       the  stout  Niblung  warrior  : 
"  Here  have  I  the  heart      of  Hogni  the  bold ; 
'Tis  unlike  the  heart       of  Hialli  the  fearsome. 
It  does  not  quake       as  in  the  dish  it  lies ; 
It  quaked  less       when  in  the  breast  it  lay." 

So  far  shalt  thou,  Atli.      be  from  the  eyes  of  men 
As  thou  from  the  treasure        now  wilt  be  ! 
Of  the  hidden  hoard      of  the  Niblungs'  gold 
Alone  I  now  know,       since  Hogni  lives  not. 

In  doubt  I  wavered,      whilst  we  two  were  breathing. 
In  fear  I'm  no  longer,       since  alone  I  am  left. 
The  Rhine  shall  be  master      of  the  baleful  metal ; 
The  stream  shall  possess    the  As-known  Niblung  hoard. 
In  the  rolling  waves       the  golden  rings  shall  glow, 
Rather  than  on  the  hands      of  the  Hume  sons  ! 

Then  follows  the  ghastly  scene  of  Gunnar's  imprisonment  in  the 
Serpent's  Tower ;  the  murder  of  Atli,  made  drunk  by  Gudrun  who  had 
prepared  for  him  a  meal  of  the  hearts,  dipped  in  honey,  of  his  own  little 
children,  whose  skulls  she  made  into  beakers,  filling  them  with  their  own 
blood ; — when  all,  on  hearing  it,  wept,  "  but  Gudrun  alone  not."  We 
are  told  of  the  letting  loose  of  the  pack  of  hounds  for  the  purpose  of 
carnage ;  and,  as  in  the  German  epic,  of  the  Hall  gutted  by  fire.  "  Upon 
horror's  head  horrors  accumulate."  But  the  Eddie  Atli  Song  says  : — 

Blissful  is,  since,  called  he      who  such  a  bold  daughter 

Boasts  of,  as  Giuki  begat. 

In  every  land  will       for  ever  live 

This  wedlock's  tale      wherever  men  can  hear. 

Unlike  the  German  Kriemhild,  upon  whom  the  very  foe  of  Hagen, 
the  hoary-headed  Hildebrand,  takes  revenge  for  her  fiendish  cruelty, 
Gudrun  still  lives  after  all  these  horrors.  Though  seeking  death  in  the 
waves,  she  cannot  sink,  and  is  carried  ashore,  when  she  enters  upon  a 
third  marriage.  In  the  course  of  fresh  complications,  her  dearest  daugh- 
ter from  the  union  with  Sigurd,  Swanhild — "who  had  been  in  her 
halls  as  a  sunbeam,  fair  to  behold " — is  ordered  to  be  trodden  under 
horses'  hoofs.  At  last,  Gudrun  also  seeks  death  by  mounting  the  pyre, 


606      WAGNER'S  "NIBELUNG"  AND  THE  SIEGFRIED  TALE. 


calling  upon  her  departed  husband  to  turn  his  swift  steed  from  the  other 
world  towards  her  : — 

Kemember,  Sigurd,      what  we  together  said, 
"When  on  our  bed      we  both  were  sitting : 
That  thou,  0  brave  one,      wouldst  come  to  me 
From  the  Hall  of  Hel,      to  fetch  me  back, 

Now  build,  ye  Jarls,      the  oaken  pile, 
That  high  it  may  rise      under  Heaven's  vault ! 
May  the  fire  burn      a  breast  full  of  woes, 
The  flames  round  my  heart      its  sorrows  melt ! 

May  more  peace  be  given      to  all  men's  minds, 

All  women's  sorrows      be  lessened, 

If  they  hear  to  the  end      this  song  of  grief ! 


VIII. 

So  far  the  Eddie  poems.  But  the  question  must  now  be  put :  What 
is  the  inner  significance,  the  philosophical  kernel,  of  the  Nibelung  Tale  1 
Or  is  it,  perhaps,  simply  a  fable  without  a  meaning  ? 

The  tale  centres  about  the  Rhine,  that  noble  river  at  whose  aspect 
Richard  Wagner,  in  his  days  of  poverty — when  seeing  it  for  the  first 
time,  on  his  return  from  Paris,  in  1842 — shed  tears  of  joy,  making  a 
vow  of  fidelity  for  ever  to  the  Fatherland;  as  he  has  told  us  in  his 
Autobiographical  Sketch.  More  especially,  it  is  a  Prankish  saga — having 
arisen  in  that  powerful  German  tribe  which  once  held  sway  in  the  greater 
part  of  Europe. 

In  its  origin,  however,  the  Nibelungen  cycle  is  by  the  best  in- 
vestigators rightly  held — and  is  held  also  by  Richard  Wagner — to 
have  been  a  Nature-myth,  upon  which  historical  elements  became  en- 
grafted. Light,  the  Day,  the  Sun — the  eminent  composer  says — filled 
man,  in  early  ages,  with  the  impression  that  in  them  is  involved  the 
condition  of  all  existence,  or,  at  least,  the  condition  of  our  knowledge  of 
all  that  is  contained  in  Nature ;  whilst  Darkness,  the  Night,  the  nebulous 
home  of  gloomy  Mistiness  ("  Niflheim  "  among  the  Northmen),  gave  rise 
to  feelings  of  horror.  Light  thus  was  looked  upon  as  the  creative,  the 
fatherly,  or  divine  spirit,  the  spirit  of  Friendliness  and  All-goodness ; 
and  from  this,  as  human  refinement  went  on,  moral  ideas  were  evolved, 
connected  with  a  God  of  Light.  In  its  most  ancient  germs,  the  tribal 
myth  of  the  Franks  appears  to  have  been  the  individualisation  of  the 
God  of  Light  who  overcomes  the  monster  of  the  chaotic  aboriginal 
Night.  This  is  the  earliest  meaning  of  Siegfried's  victory  over  the 
Dragon.  It  is,  on  German  ground,  the  overthrow  of  Python  by  Apollon. 

But  even  as  Day  is,  in  its  turn,  vanquished  by  Night ;  as  Summer 
must  yield  to  Winter  :  so  also  Siegfried  falls  in  the  end.  The  God,  which 
he  originally  was,  thus  becomes  human;  the  sad  fate  of  so  noble  a 
champion  gives  rise  to  motives  of  revenge  for  what  is  held  to  have  been 


WAGNER'S  "NIBELUNG"  AND  THE  SIEGFRIED  TALE.       607 

an  evil  and  criminal  deed ;  and  a  tragedy  is  constructed,  in  which  genera- 
tions appear  as  actors  and  victims. 

A  special  feature  of  the  Frankish  nature-myth  is  the  hoard,  the  fatal 
treasure  which  works  never-ending  mischief.  It  represents  the  metal 
veins  of  the  subterranean  Region  of  Gloom.  There,  as  we  see  from  Eddie 
records,  Dark  Elves  (Nibelungs,  or  nebulous  Sons  of  the  Night)  are 
digging  and  working,  melting  and  forging  the  ore  in  their  smithies — pro- 
ducing charmful  rings  that  remind  us  of  the  diadems  which  bind  the 
brow  of  rulers ;  golden  ornaments,  and  sharp  weapons  :  all  of  which 
confer  immense  power  upon  their  owner.  Such  a  Nibelung  ring  of  mystic 
strength  was  said  to  embody  the  mastery  over  the  world. 

When  Light  overcomes  Darkness ;  when  Siegfried  slays  the  Dragon  : 
this  hoard  is  his  booty,  and  he  becomes  master  of  the  Nibelungs.  But 
the  Dragon's  dark  heir  ever  seeks  to  regain  it  from  the  victor :  so 
Night  malignantly  murders  the  Day ;  Hagen  kills  Siegfried.  The  trea- 
sure, on  which  Siegfried's  power  is  founded,  becomes  the  cause  of  his 
death  ;  and  through  death  he  himself,  albeit  originally  a  refulgent  God 
of  Light,  is  turned  into  a  Figure  of  Gloom — that  is,  a  Nibelung. 

Yet  each  fresh  generation,  whilst  being  destined  to  death,  strives  for 
the  Dragon's  treasure — even  as  Day  and  Night,  creative  warmth  and 
death-bringing  cold,  succeed  each  other  in  a  ring-like  cycle  of  contests. 

This  seems  to  have  been  the  earliest  Nature-myth,  as  elaborated  by 
the  Frankish  Germans.  In  Wagner's  view,  Karl  the  Great  knew  well 
what  he  did  when  ordering  the  old  heroic  songs  to  be  carefully  gathered  ; 
for  in  them  the  title  of  the  supremacy  of  the  Franks  must  have  been 
contained,  at  whose  head  he  stood.  Richard  Wagner  even  ventures  upon 
the  conjecture  that,  in  the  Asiatic  home  of  the  German  race,  Nibelung 
Franks  may  already  have  held  supreme  sway  among  the  Teutonic  race. 
This  latter  speculation,  of  course,  lacks  historical  support. 

Yet,  if  powerful  "  Franks  "  of  an  earlier  time  than  those  who  founded 
the  empire  of  that  name,  had  to  be  pointed  out,  I  would  draw  attention 
to  the  great  Phrygian  nation.  Its  name  meant,  according  to  the  Greek 
interpreters,  a  free-man,  or  Frank.  Curiously  enough,  "  Frakk  "  (which 
comes  nearest  to  Phryg,  or  Frik)  is  the  Eddie  word  for  the  Rhenish 
Frank  in  whose  land  Brynhild  lies,  surrounded  by  the  flaming  charm. 
As  to  the  Phrygian  Franks  of  classic  times,  they  were  a  section  of  that 
vast  Thrakian  nation  whose  Getic,  Gothic,  Germanic  kinship  clearly 
results  from  Greek  and  Roman  testimony.  Noted  in  antiquity  as  well 
for  their  discoveries  and  skilfulness  in  metallurgy,  as  for  their  martial 
and  musical  spirit,  the  Phrygians  largely  modified  the  religion  of  the 
Hellenic  and  Latin  world  *  by  their  own  rites,  among  which  the  cult 
of  Mother  Earth  stood  foremost — truly  a  Nibelung  cult ! 

Those  who  idly  doubt  the  fact  of  a  Nature-myth  being  involved  in 
the  Siegfried  tale,  had  better  look  at  once  into  the  account  of  the  Norse 

*  Grote's  History  of  Greece ;  iii.  29. 


608       WAGNER'S  "NIBELUNG"  AND  THE  SIEGFRIED  TALE. 

Skalda,  concerning  the  Niblungs  and  Giukungs.  That  account  begins 
in  a  thoroughly  mythic  manner  with  Aesir,  or  Gods,  and  nebulous  Black 
Elves,  or  Dwarfs,  which  latter  are  the  possessors  of  the  golden  hoard, 
and  one  of  whom  watches  over  it,  assuming  the  form  of  a  Dragon. 
Presently,  however,  we  find  ourselves,  in  the  company  of  one  of  those 
Niblung  Elves,  in  the  realm  of  Hialprek,  King  in  Thiodi — which  names 
remind  us  of  the  Frankish  Chilperich,  and  of  the  very  root  of  the  word 
from  which  the  Thiodisk,  or  Deutsch  (German)  people  are  called. 

In  the  course  of  the  Skaldic  story  which  contains  the  essence  of  the 
Nibelungen  Lied,  we  hear  of  the  Giukungs  that  dwell  on  the  Rhine. 
Giuk  is  the  Norse  form  for  the  Frankish,  or  Rhenish,  King  Gibich 
(Gothic :  Gibika.  Old  Saxon :  Kipicho).  This  name — like  so  many 
Teutonic  chieftains'  names,  including  that  of  Odin  himself — was  at  one 
time  a  divine  appellation.  Gibich  means  "  the  Giver  " — him  who  gives 
freely.  With  the  Rhenish  localisation  of  the  Siegfried  story,  we  seem 
to  tread  upon  the  ground  of  tribal,  historical  tales.  Nevertheless  I 
believe  that  passage  in  the  Skalda,  which  attributes  "  raven-black  hair  " 
to  Gunnar  and  Hb'gni  and  the  other  Niblungs,  to  be  a  mythological 
indication  of  the  original  abode  of  the  Sons  of  Darkness  in  the  bowels  of 
the  earth. 

The  name  of  Siegfried's  murderer,  Hagen — who  is  one-eyed,  even  as 
Hb'dur,  the  God  of  Night,  who  kills  Baldur,  the  God  of  Light,  is  blind 
— has  also  been  adduced  for  a  mythological  interpretation.  Hagen  is 
the  Thorn  of  Death,  the  Haw-thorn  (German  :  Hage-dorn),  with  which 
men  are  stung  into  eternal  sleep.  Odin  stings  Brynhild  into  her  trance 
with  a  "  Sleeping-Thorn."  Hagen,  in  the  sense  of  Death,  still  lingers 
in  the  German  expression  "  Friend  Hain,"  as  a  euphemism  for  the  figure 
which  announces  that  one's  hour  has  come.  The  haw-thorn,  as  we 
know  from  a  mass  of  testimony,  was  the  special  wood  used  for  Germanic 
fire-burial.  Hence  the  sacredness,  almost  down  to  our  days,  of  many  old 
haw-thorn  bushes  in  various  localities  of  this  country. 

But  though  a  Nature-myth  is  involved  in  the  Siegfried  tale,  many  his- 
torical facts  have  clustered  round  it,  and  at  last  perhaps  even  overborne 
it.  Attempts  have  been  made  to  see  in  it  traces  of  the  hero-songs  sung, 
according  to  Tacitus,  in  honour  of  Armin,  the  Deliverer  of  Germany 
from  the  Roman  yoke ;  and  of  the  deeds  done  by  Civilis,  the  leader  of  the 
Batavian  Germans  against  Roman  dominion.  An  echo  of  the  overthrow 
of  the  Burgundian  King  Gunther  by  Attila ;  of  the  feats  of  Theodorich, 
the  ruler  of  the  Eastern  Goths;  even  of  the  conquest  of  Britain  by 
Hengest,  has  been  assumed  to  be  contained  in  these  Siegfried  tales. 
Others  have  pointed  to  the  fate  of  Siegbert,  the  king  of  the  Australian 
Franks,  who  was  murdered  at  the  instigation  of  Fredegunda ;  and  to  the 
powerful  Frankish  family  of  the  Pipins,  from  whom  Karl  the  Great 
himself  descended.  With  these  Pipins  of  "Nivella"  we  come  upon  a 
word  in  consonance  with  "Nibelung."  Again,  the  wars  which  the 
powerful  and  in  a  certain  sense  patriotically  German,  but  despotic, 


WAGNER'S   "  NIBELUNG  "  AND  THE  SIEGFEIED  TALE.        609 

Prankish  Emperor  waged  against  the  Saxons  of  Witukind,  who  clung  to 
their  independence,  their  self-government,  and  their  Wodanic  creed,  have 
been  held  to  be  indicated  in  the  war  which  the  Frankish  Siegfried  wages 
against  the  Saxons  in  the  Nibelungen  Lied. 

But  I  will  not  pursue  this  vast  subject  any  further.  Be  it  enough 
to  say  that  the  ground  of  the  tale  was  repeatedly  shifted ;  that,  from  the 
Franks  of  the  Lower  Rhine,  its  centre  was  transferred  to  the  Burgun- 
dians  on  the  upper  course  of  the  glorious  river ;  that  German  Hunes, 
once  dwelling  between  the  Hunsriick  range,  the  Netherlands,  and  the 
Frisian  shores  of  the  German  Ocean,  became  confounded,  after  the  Great 
Migrations,  with  the  Hunns ;  that  the  Atli  of  the  Edda,  whose  name 
has  a  corresponding  form  (Azilo,  Ezilo)  on  German  ground,  was 
misunderstood  for  Attila;  and  that,  then,  the  death  of  Siegfried,  the 
Hune,  was  fittingly  supposed  to  have  been  avenged  by  Kriemhild  in 
the  land  of  the  Hunns  ! 

Such  confusion  of  myth  and  history  is  not  unfrequent  in  the  morning- 
time  of  a  nation's  life.  Yet,  above  all  these  uncertain  shadows  of  blood- 
boltered  historical  figures  which  flit  over  the  stage,  searing  our  eyes, 
there  towers  the  image  of  the  Hero  who  represents  Light  and  Right ; 
whose  purity  of  soul  makes  him  the  victim,  of  cunning  craft ;  but  whose 
name  and  deeds  are  admiringly  held  up  by  each  succeeding  generation. 
In  town  and  thorpe,  as  we  know  from  many  a  stray  allusion  in  our  older 
literature,  Siegfried  lays  were  once  sung  among  an  attentive  crowd. 
Hans  Sachs,  the  father  of  the  German  drama,  tried  his  inexperienced 
hand  at  this  subject.  And  the  Mastersinger  schools,  by  whose  exertions 
some  spark  of  poetry,  however  weak,  was  kept  alive  among  the  burgher 
class,  often  turned  their  thoughts  to  the  "  old  songs." 

With  the  fall  of  Germany  through  the  miseries  of  the  Thirty  Years' 
War,  when  her  very  life-blood  seemed  to  ebb  away  in  a  struggle  for 
religious  liberty,  the  poetical  remembrance  of  our  people's  heroic  past 
grew  dimmer  evermore — until,  with  a  national  revival  dating  from  the 
War  of  Independence  against  Napoleon  I.,  the  ancient  tale-treasures 
were  valued  anew.  It  is  the  great  merit  of  Richard  Wagner  to  have 
formed  the  plan  for  his  Nibelung  Tragedy  in  the  summer  of  1848,  during 
a  promising  political  upheaval  for  national  freedom  and  union.  The 
subject  he  chose  is  one  that  appeals  to  the  heart  and  to  the  recollections 
of  the  whole  Teutonic  race — from  the  Rhine  to  the  Scandinavian  fiords, 
and  from  the  Northern  Thule  to  the  white  cliffs  of  England,  where 
Hunic  warriors  have  left  the  imprint  of  their  once  famous  name. 


610 


|10  P' 


CHAPTER  III. 
DISTRUST. 


NCE  upon  a  time 
there  dwelt  in  the 
East  a  king  so 
mighty  and  weal- 
thy that  he  was 
the  envy  of  all 
mankind.  He  had 
armies  and  palaces 
and  treasure- 
houses,  and  shady 
gardens,  where 
fountains  rose  and 
fell  all  the  day 
long,  and  where 
neither  roses  nor 
bulbuls  were  lack- 
ing ;  not  to  men- 
tion sherbet,  and 
jewels  innumer- 
able, and  a  plural- 


short,  all  that  the 
Oriental        mind 

could  find  to  desire.  And  this  made  him  sad  ;  for  he  was  a  thought- 
ful monarch,  and  he  soon  found  out  that  the  fact  of  having  nothing 
left  to  wish  for  is  not  only  insufficient  to  render  kings  happy,  but  is 
apt  to  have  a  precisely  opposite  effect  upon  them.  Therefore  he  sum- 
moned the  wise  men  of  his  kingdom,  one  by  one,  and  demanded  of  each 
of  them  privately  how  happiness  might  be  gained.  And  some  said 
one  thing,  and  some  said  another  ;  but  the  inquirer  could  find  no  sug- 
gestion to  satisfy  him  till  it  came  to  the  turn  of  a  certain  dervish  to 
be  heard.  "  Happiness,  0  King,"  said  this  holy  man,  "  belongs  not 
to  our  world  ;  but  I  have  with  me  a  talisman  which,  if  a  man  will 
but  consent  to  wear  it  next  his  skin  for  a  twelvemonth,  will  assuredly 
confer  upon  him  as  near  an  approach  thereto  as  is  obtainable  by 
mprtajs."  And  so,  permission  having  been  asked  and  given,  he  prg- 


NO  NEW  THING.  611 

ceeded  to  place  this  wondrous  charm  upon  his  master's  person.     It  con- 
sisted of  a  collar  and  a  waistband,  loosely  united  by  a  strip  of  leather  so 
arranged  as  to  follow  the  line  of  the  wearer's  backbone,  and  to  the  middle 
of  this  strip   was   affixed  a   good  stout  thorn.     The  thorn  pierced  his 
Majesty's  august  skin,  and  he  smiled  graciously,  for  he  thought  he  had 
divined  the   dervish's  meaning.     For  a  year  he  wore  the  talisman  ;  and 
it  caused  him  all  the  suffering  and  inconvenience  imaginable.    He  could 
not  bow  without  receiving  a  sharp  stab  which  almost  caused  him  to 
shriek  aloud ;  to  lean  back  upon  his  throne  was  out  of  the  question ; 
when  he  walked,  the  strip  of  leather  swayed  to  and  fro,  leaving  a  hori- 
zontal scratch  for  every  step,  and  when  he  rode,  it  flapped  till  his  back 
was  punctured  like  a  pin-cushion.     But  all  this  he  bore  manfully,  know- 
ing that  every  hour  brought  him  nearer  to  the  end,  and  looking  forward 
to  the  time  when  he  should  taste  the  greatest  of  earthly  joys,  which  is 
relief  from  pain.     Besides  it  pleased  him  to  think  how  heroically  he  was 
supporting  a  torment  of  which  only  one  man  in  his  dominions  suspected 
the  existence.     But,  when  the  longed-for  day  of  deliverance  came,  lo  and 
behold  !  the  poor  king  was  no  better  off  than  he  had  been  at  starting. 
Repose  indeed  he  had  gained ;  but  that  he  had  had  before ;  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  had  lost  a  hundred  small  daily  solaces,  of  which  antici- 
pation had  not  been  the  least.     If  the  dervish  had  not  prudently  made 
himself  scarce  at  the  time,  it  is  probable  that  he  would  have  had  his  head 
cut  off  for  his  pains. 

The  allegory  has  more  than  one  moral ;  but  the  most  direct  of  them 
lies  upon  the  surface,  and  there  are  few  men  or  women  who  have  not 
had  occasion,  at  one  time  or  another  of  their  lives,  to  recognise  its  force. 
(( Ah  !  Fheureux  temps  quand  j'etais  si  malheureux  !  " — one  hears  the 
cry  every  day  in  more  or  less  articulate  accents,  and  there  are  certain 
poets  whose  whole  utterances  amount  to  little  else.  Looking  back,  in 
after  years,  upon  the  few  weeks  which  he  had  spent  at  Nice  under  the 
same  roof  with  Margaret  Stanniforth — upon  their  drives  along  the  sunny 
Cornice,  upon  their  long  talks  on  the  balcony,  during  warm  southern 
evenings,  after  Mrs.  Winnington  had  gone  out  to  the  opera,  or  to  a 
party  given  by  some  English  friend — upon  numberless  incidents  and 
speeches  remembered  only  by  himself,  Hugh  Kenyon  often  sighed  for  his 
lost  thorn.  It  is  doubtful  whether  he  would  have  consented  to  part 
with  it  even  at  the  time,  although  it  galled  him  cruelly ;  and  in  truth  his 
lot  was  not  without  compensations.  Like  the  Eastern  potentate,  he 
wanted  what  he  was  very  nearly  sure  that  he  could  never  obtain ;  but, 
like  him,  he  perhaps  got  as  near  an  approach  to  it  as  was  to  be  had. 
It  was  something  to  see  Margaret  growing  better  in  health  with  every 
day ;  it  was  something  to  be  always  near  her,  and  to  possess  her  entire 
confidence.  If  that  confidence  usually  showed  itself  after  a  fashion  that 
made  him  wince,  he  accepted  the  punishment  as  a  just  and  inevitable 
one,  deriving  such  consolation  as  he  could  from  conscious  stoicism. 

Nice  was  full  pf  English,  as  it  always  used  tp  be  in  the  days  when 


612  NO  NEW  THING. 

Cannes  was  as  yet  little  frequented,  and  San  Remo,  Pegli,  and  other 
winter  resorts  all  but  undiscovered  ;  and  among  these  were,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  many  of  Mrs.  Winnington's  numerous  acquaintances.  That 
lady  was  persuaded  to  exhibit  her  mauve  and  purple  gowns,  night  after 
night,  at  various  social  gatherings,  apologizing  a  little  for  going  into  the 
world  so  soon  after  her  daughter's  loss  ;  and  one,  at  least,  of  her  fellow- 
travellers  was  only  too  ready  to  excuse  her,  and  to  keep  Margaret  com- 
pany through  the  long  evenings. 

The  intercourse  of  these  two  people  was  of  that  pleasant  and  easy 
kind  which  can  only  subsist  between  old  friends  who  have  many  tastes 
and  reminiscences  in  common,  and  it  was  but  occasionally  that  Mar- 
garet referred  to  the  subject  which  was  always  in  her  thoughts.  Hugh 
noticed  with  pleasure  that  she  did  not  shrink  from  receiving  casual 
visitors,  and  was  able  to  talk  cheerfully  ;  and  what  pleased  him  still 
more  was  that  her  cough  had  almost  left  her,  and  that  the  danger 
which  he  had  dreaded  seemed  to  have  passed  away.  He  could  not 
help  telling  her  as  much  one  evening ;  and  her  rejoinder  disconcerted 
him  a  little. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  1 "  she  asked  quietly.  "  I  never  thought  I 
was  going  to  die ;  but  if  I  had  died,  it  would  have  been  the  best  thing 
that  could  have  happened  to  me.  You  know  I  have  nothing  to  live  for." 

"  You  are  too  young  to  talk  so  ;  you  will  feel  differently  some  day,  I 
hope,"  said  Hugh,  rather  stupidly. 

But  she  went  on,  without  heeding  his  interruption  :  "  If  we  could 
only  know  a  little  more !  If  I  could  feel  quite  sure  that  we  should  all  be 
together  again  some  day — you,  and  Jack,  and  I,  and  all  of  us — just  as  we 
used  to  be,  it  would  be  easy  enough  to  live  through  the  rest  of  my  time. 
Do  you  think  it  is  at  all  possible  that  we  should  meet  like  that,  and  talk 
over  old  days,  and  ask  one  another  heaps  of  questions,  as  we  should  do  if 
we  had  been  separated  for  a  time  here  1 " 

Hugh  had  not  bestowed  much  reflection  upon  this  problem.  He 
considered  it  now  for  a  brief  space,  pulling  his  moustache  thoughtfully, 
and  then  said,  "  Well,  I  always  think,  you  know,  that  the  less  we  bother 
ourselves  about  a  future  state  the  better." 

At  this  Margaret  had  a  little  laugh,  which  ended  in  a  sigh.  "  Some- 
times I  feel  quite  hopeless,"  she  said ;  "  and  it  seems  to  me  that  in 
reality  everybody  else  is  hopeless  too.  When  people  want  to  comfort  me, 
they  all  say  the  same  thing,  though  of  course  not  in  the  same  words  : 
1  You  have  no  business  to  go  on  groaning  over  what  can't  be  helped. 
Nothing  is  known  about  the  next  world ;  and  all  that  is  certain  is  that 
you  have  lost  what  you  can  never  by  any  possibility  find  again  here.  The 
best  thing  that  you  can  do  is  to  forget  all  about  it,  and  make  a  fresh 
start.' " 

This  so  very  nearly  expressed  Captain  Kenyon's  own  view  of  the 
subject  that  he  could  only  remain  silent. 

"  After  all,"  Margaret  resumed,  "  it  is  unreasonable,  I  suppose,  to 


NO   NEW  THING.  613 

expect  comfort  from  others.  One  must  bear  one's  own  burden,  and  fight 
one's  own  fight  as  best  one  can.  I  don't  mean,"  she  added  quickly, 
"  that  it  isn't  the  greatest  possible  comfort  to  have  a  friend  like  you ;  I 
am  not  so  ungrateful  as  that.  I  often  think  that  life  can  never  become 
quite  unendurable  to  me  so  long  as  I  can  talk  to  you  or  write  to  you 
sometimes ;  for  I  know  I  may  tell  you  all  my  troubles  and  perplexities 
and  every  stupid  notion  that  comes  into  my  head.  There  can't  be  many 
people  in  the  world  fortunate  enough  to  have  such  a  friend." 

Speeches  of  this  kind  went  far  towards  consoling  Hugh  for  many  an 
hour  of  dejection.  There  were  moments  when  he  almost  felt  as  if  the 
friendship  of  which  she  spoke  might  be  sufficient  to  satisfy  him ;  but 
then  again  there  were  others  when  he  was  perfectly  sure  that  friendship 
would  not  do  at  all,  that  it  was  dangerous  to  linger  upon  these  sunny 
shores,  and  that  prudence  and  duty  alike  pointed  him  northwards.  At 
the  end  of  a  month  this  conviction  forced  itself  upon  him  so  strongly 
that  he  struck  while  the  iron  was  hot,  and  left  for  England  rather  abruptly. 

Before  Christmas,  Mrs.  Winnington  followed  his  example.  Her 
daughter,  whose  health  no  longer  gave  cause  for  anxiety,  had  plenty  of 
friends  in  Nice  to  cheer  her  solitude ;  and  there  were  other  persons  at 
home  who  had  claims  upon  Mrs.  Winnington's  care  and  supervision. 
The  fact  was  that  the  Bishop,  if  left  too  long  to  himself,  was  apt  to  get 
into  scrapes,  accepting  invitations  which  he  ought  not  to  have  accepted, 
allowing  his  children  to  make  acquaintances  which  they  ought  not  to 
have  made,  and  otherwise  usurping  functions  which  he  was  ill  qualified 
to  exercise. 

Meanwhile  the  mistress  of  Longbourne  was  greatly  missed  by  those 
who  dwelt  around  her  new  home,  and  her  movements  were  discussed  as 
such  matters  only  are  discussed  in  country  neighbourhoods.  The  winter 
passed  away  as  usual,  with  gales  and  rains  and  frosts ;  and,  as  usual, 
everybody  said  that  there  had  not  been  so  hard  a  season  for  twenty  years. 
Then,  when  the  customary  easterly  winds  of  spring  had  blown  themselves 
out,  Mrs.  Stanniforth  returned ;  and  a  welcome  stimulus  was  afforded  to 
local  conversation  by  the  circumstance  that  she  did  not  return  alone.  It 
was  Mr.  Brune's  privilege  to  be  the  first  to  acquaint  the  parish  with  this 
bit  of  intelligence.  Trudging  across  the  fields,  one  sunshiny  April  morning, 
ho  encountered  Margaret,  accompanied  by  Hugh  Kenyon  and  by  a  pale- 
faced  little  boy  with  enormous  dark  brown  eyes,  whose  hand  she  held. 

"  I  have  brought  this  little  man  home  with  me,"  said  she,  as  soon  as 

the  usual  greetings  and  inquiries  had  been  interchanged,  "  to  make  an 

Englishman  of  him.     Or  rather,  I  have  brought  him  to  have  an  English 

education  ;  for  his  father  was  a  countryman  of  ours,  though  he  has  lived 

11  his  life  with  his  mother  in  Italy." 

"  He  looks  as  if  he  might  have  been  left  to  his  mother  a  little  longer 
with  advantage,"  Mr.  Brune  remarked. 

"  His  mother  is  dead,"  answered  Margaret,  gently.  "  You  are  my 
little  boy  now,  aren't  you,  Philip  ?  " 


614  NO  NEW 

A  dissentient  growl  from  Hugh  Kenyon  died  away  Unnoticed. 

"  And  what  is  your  name,  my  lad  ? "  asked  Mr.  Brune. 

Margaret  answered  for  him,  after  a  momentary  hesitation,  "  His 
name  is  Filippo  Marescalchi.  I  am  counting  upon  my  friend  Walter  to 
take  a  little  care  of  him  just  at  first,  till  he  learns  to  fight  his  own 
battles." 

"  I  can  say  on  Walter's  behalf  that  he  will  be  proud  to  obey  any 
commands  from  Mrs.  Stanniforth  ;  and,  physically  speaking,  Walter  is 
all  that  a  fond  father  could  wish  him  to  be.  You  intend  to  send  this 
young  gentleman  to  school,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  at  twelve  years  old  it  is  time,  is  it  not  1  And  he  wants  to 
go  to  school,  and  he  isn't  a  bit  afraid  of  English  boys ;  are  you,  Philip  1 " 

The  child  shrank  closer  to  the  side  of  his  protectress  with  a  move- 
ment which  certainly  did  not  convey  the  idea  of  any  great  natural 
intrepidity.  He  was  frightened  of  the  wiry  little  man  whose  keen  grey 
eyes  had  been  fixed  upon  him  throughout  this  brief  explanation,  and  if 
he  had  been  in  a  position  to  follow  the  bent  of  his  own  inclinations,  he 
would  probably  have  turned  and  run  back  to  the  house  as  fast  as  his  legs 
could  carry  him.  As  he  •will  play  a  principal  part  in  the  course  of  the 
succeeding  narrative,  and  as  the  reader  will  be  supposed  to  be  interested 
in  the  progress  of  his  career,  it  may  be  as  well  to  state,  without  further 
delay,  so  much  of  his  origin  and  past  life  as  was  known  to  his  present 
patroness. 

During  the  winter  which  was  just  over  he  had  been  freqitently  seen 
wandering  all  by  himself  along  the  Promenade  des  Anglais  at  Nice ;  and 
Margaret,  who  loved  all  children,  had  soon  scraped  acquaintance  with 
this  one.  Through  him  she  had  come  to  know  his  mother,  a  certain 
Countess  Marescalchi,  who  had  come  to  the  Riviera  in  the  last  stages  of 
consumption,  who  had  apparently  neither  kith  nor  kin  to  look  after  her, 
and  whose  means  were  evidently  of  the  narrowest.  The  poor  woman 
was  inordinately  grateful  for  such  kindnesses  as  Margaret  was  able  to 
show  her,  and,  with  the  communicativeness  of  her  nation,  had  ere  long 
put  this  English  Samaritan  in  possession  of  all  the  details  of  a  sufficiently 
sad  history.  She  had,  it  appeared,  been  married,  some  twelve  or  thir- 
teen years  before,  to  a  wealthy  Englishman  named  Brown,  who  had 
assumed  the  title  of  Count  Marescalchi  on  purchasing  an  estate  in  the 
dominions  of  King  Bomba,  which,  as  a  matter  of  course,  carried  nobility 
with  it.  She  had  lived  happily  with  him,  she  said,  during  the  first  year 
of  their  married  life,  more  or  less  unhappily  during  the  second,  a,nd 
before  the  third  was  at  an  end  he  had  departed  for  his  native  land,  and 
had  never  returned.  She  had  received  from  his  lawyers  the  title-deeds 
of  the  Italian  estate,  together  with  an  intimation  that  she  might  now 
regard  the  same  as  her  own,  and  that  Mr.  Brown  did  not  desire  to  hold 
any  further  direct  intercourse  with  her.  After  that  she  had  had  remit- 
tances at  irregular  intervals ;  but  these  had  soon  ceased,  and  it  was 
her  belief  that  her  husband  was  dead.  By  her  own  family  she  had 


tfO  SEW  THINGS  615 

not  been  treated  ovei*  well.  She  had  two  brothers  living  ]  but  they  had 
absolutely  declined  to  do  anything  for  her  when  her  funds  had  begun  to 
run  low,  alleging  that  the  sale  of  her  property  should  produce  a  sufficient 
income  for  her  to  live  upon,  and  declaring  that,  in  any  case,  it  was  not 
their  business  to  support  one  who  had  managed  her  affairs  so  badly, 
"  What  would  you  have  ? "  she  said,  with  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders. 
"  They  were  terribly  disappointed  at  the  disappearance  of  my  husband, 
whom  they  had  counted  upon  to  make  them  rich ;  and  indeed  I  think 
it  was  as  much  they  as  I  who  drove  him  out  of  the  country,  poor  man  !  " 

For  her  own  part,  she  confessed  that  she  had  never  had  any  wish  to 
become  reconciled  with  Mr.  Brown,  whose  temper  had  been  of  a  most 
trying  kind.  All  the  love  that  was  in  her  had  been  lavished  upon  her 
bambino ;  and  when  she  thought  that  she  must  soon  leave  him  utterly 
alone  in  the  world,  or  at  best  under  the  care  of  two  uncles  from  whom 
he  could  expect  nothing  but  harsh  treatment,  she  was  tempted  to  take 
him  down  to  the  harbour  some  night,  and  let  the  sea  put  an  end  to  the 
troubles  of  both  of  them  at  once. 

"  What  could  I  say  to  the  poor  creature  ? "  Margaret  asked,  relating 
all  this  to  Hugh  Kenyon.  "  Of  course  I  told  her  to  set  her  mind  at  rest, 
and  that  her  boy  should  never  want,  and  that  I  would  do  my  best  to 
take  his  mother's  place  as  long  as  I  lived." 

"  I  don't  see  any  of  course  about  it,"  returned  Hugh,  who  was  by  no 
means  pleased  with  Margaret's  impulsive  behaviour  in  this  matter. 

"  Well,  at  all  events,  I  did  tell  her  so  ;  and  I  am  glad  to  think  that 
she  died  more  peacefully  for  knowing  that  the  poor  bambino  would  not 
be  uncared  for  after  she  was  gone.  To  me  he  will  be  the  greatest  pos» 
sible  blessing ;  he  has  given  me  the  very  thing  I  needed — an  object  to 
live  for.  And  he  is  a  pretty  child,  isn't  he  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  a  little  white  thing,  all  eyes.  Yes  ;  I  dare  say 
he's  pretty  enough,  if  that's  any  advantage.  The  question  is  whether 
you  haven't  saddled  yourself  with  a  burden  which  nothing  in  the  world 
compelled  you  to  take  upon  your  shoulders.  I  suppose  you  never  thought 
of  making  any  inquiries  as  to  the  truth  of  the  mother's  story.  The 
chances  are,  you  know,  that  she  was  never  really  married  to  the  indi- 
vidual calling  himself  Brown — supposing  that  there  ever  was  such  a 
person." 

"  I  am  not  so  imprudent  as  you  would  make  me  out.  I  wrote  to  the 
uncles ;  and  the  elder  of  these  Signori  Cavestri  came  from  Florence  and 
saw  me.  He  confirmed  all  that  I  had  heard  from  his  sister,  and  was 
quite  willing  that  I  should  adopt  the  boy." 

"  No  doubt  he  was." 

"  And  we  signed  an  agreement  in  the  presence  of  witnesses  ;  so  you 
see  everything  was  quite  business-like.  My  only  fear  is  that  Mr.  Brown 
may  turn  up,  some  clay,  and  claim  his  son." 

"  That,  I  shoiild  think,  is  in  the  last  degree  improbable.  By-the- 
by,  what  is  the  young  gentleman  to  be  called  1 " 


616  NO  NEW  THING. 

"I  hesitated  a  little  about  that  at  first;  but  I  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  would  be  really  too  bad  to  call  him  Brown  when  he  has  a  very 
fair  right  to  the  name  of  Marescalchi.  I  don't  think  we  need  say  any- 
thing about  the  Count.  Fortunately,  he  talks  English  as  well  as  I  do  ; 
and  he  is  a  friendly  little  fellow.  I  do  hope  he  will  be  happy  at  school." 

"  I  hope  he  will,  I'm  sure ;  but  I  hope  still  more  that  he  won't  make 
you  unhappy  at  home — which  seems  to  be  quite  on^the  cards.  Why  did 
you  never  consult  me  about  all  this  1 " 

"  Because,  my  dear  Hugh,  I  knew  you  would  make  all  sorts  of  objec- 
tions, and,  as  I  was  determined  to  have  my  own  way,  it  was  better  to 
take  it,  without  preliminary  fuss.  Isn't  that  a  sufficient  reason  1 " 

In  truth  Hugh  Kenyon  was  not  alone  in  raising  objections  to  the 
adoption  of  this  little  waif  and  stray.  Mrs.  Stanniforth's  relations,  one 
and  all,  declared  themselves  against  her  in  the  matter.  Old  Mr.  Stan- 
niforth  wrote  from  Manchester  to  say  that  charity  was  all  very  well, 
but  that  it  was  pushing  charity  beyond  its  legitimate  limits  to  pick  up 
small  Italian  boys  from  the  gutter  and  seat  them  in  your  drawing-room. 
In  his  opinion,  a  barrel-organ  and  a  couple  of  white  mice  would  have 
met  all  the  requirements  of  the  present  case.  As  for  the  Bishop,  he 
almost  shed  tears  over  it ;  while  Mrs.  Winnington  was  so  angry  that  she 
reverted  to  a  freedom  of  language  with  which  her  daughters  had  been 
familiar  in  their  schoolroom  days,  and  roundly  told  Margaret  that  she 
was  a  fool.  What  was  to  be  the  future  of  this  imp  ?  she  reasonably  in- 
quired. Who  was  to  support  him,  in  case  anything  should  happen 
to  his  present  protectress  1  Did  Margaret  remember  that  it  would  not 
be  in  her  power  to  make  any  permanent  provision  either  for  him  or  for 
any  other  chance  object  of  benevolence  ?  And  the  good  lady's  wrath  was 
by  no  means  appeased  when  her  daughter  answered  quietly  that  she 
hoped  to  be  able  to  lay  by  several  thousands  a  year,  and  that,  for  the 
rest,  she  proposed  to  insure  her  life  in  Philip's  favour.  If  one  came  to 
talk  of  insuring  lives,  Mrs.  Winnington  thought,  it  should  be  the  wants 
of  one's  own  relations  that  one  ought  first  to  consider.  She  was,  how- 
ever, a  woman  of  some  practical  good  sense,  and  after  her  first  natural 
outbreak  of  indignation,  she  wisely  resolved  not  to  quarrel  with  accom- 
plished facts  and  to  make  the  best  of  a  vexatious  business. 

Nor  was  Margaret  unreasonable.  Having  carried  her  point  in  the 
main  matter  of  providing  herself  with  an  adopted  son,  she  was  quite 
willing  to  listen  to  counsel  as  regarded  his  education  and  prospects,  and 
even  to  follow  it,  when  it  coincided  with  her  own  views.  And  harmony 
was  in  no  small  degree  promoted  by  the  unanimity  with  which  her  ad- 
visers decided  upon  what  was  the  first  thing  to  be  done.  "  Send  him  to 
school,"  cried  each  and  all  of  them,  without  a  moment's  hesitation ;  and 
to  little  Philip,  listening  eagerly  to  the  discussion,  this  sentence  seemed 
to  be  delivered  with  a  certain  triumphant  ring  which  was  far  from  being 
reassuring.  Many  people  imagine,  or  behave  as  if  they  imagined,  that 
children  are  conveniently  deaf,  except  when  spoken  to,  and  that  of  con- 


NO  NEW  THING.  617 

versation  held  in  their  presence  they  understand  only  so  much  as  it  is 
desirable  that  they  should  understand.  Philip  Marescalchi  heard  and 
understood  very  well.  He  understood,  for  one  thing,  that  all  these 
strange  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  inclined  to  be  against  him ;  and,  as  he 
had  never  done  any  of  them  an  injury,  this  struck  him  as  an  unjust  pre- 
disposition, and  one  that  reflected  little  credit  upon  the  English  as  a 
nation.  Mrs.  Stanniforth  he  loved  with  all  the  demonstrative  passion  of 
a  southern  nature  ;  but  by  the  time  that  he  met  Mr.  Brune  in  the  man- 
ner already  described,  he  had  learnt  to  look  upon  each  fresh  face  with 
suspicion,  as  upon  that  of  a  probable  enemy ;  and,  as  we  have  seen,  Mr. 
Brune's  greeting  had  failed  to  inspire  him  with  any  confidence. 

Nevertheless,  he  felt  a  strong  interest  in  this  alarming  personage ; 
for  he  had  found  out  who  Walter  was,  and  that  his  own  destiny  was  to 
be  sent  to  Walter's  school  after  Easter ;  and  when  it  transpired  that 
Mr.  Brune  was  to  dine  at  Longboume  that  night,  Philip  guessed  at  once 
why  the  invitation  had  been  given.  He  would  gladly,  if  he  had  dared, 
have  concealed  himself  behind  the  window-curtains  during  dinner-time,  and 
heard  a  few  particulars  as  to  the  mysterious  place  of  discipline  whither 
he  was  to  be  despatched  ;  but  this  was  for  various  reasons  out  of  the 
question,  and  he  was  fain  to  console  himself  with  the  hope  of  gleaning 
some  information  at  dessert. 

When  the  expected  guest  arrived,  Master  Philip  was  lurking  on  the 
top  landing  of  the  staircase,  and,  peering  beneath  the  banisters,  saw 
the  butler  help  him  off  with  his  coat,  after  which  he  was  shown  into  the 
library.  Then  the  servants  went  away  ;  and  Philip,  stealing  down  the 
broad,  shallow  stairs  on  tip-toe,  approached  Mr.  Brune's  Inverness  cape, 
and  began  touching  it  and  lifting  up  the  corners  of  it  with  a  half- 
frightened  curiosity,  much  as  you  may  see  a  little  dog  timidly  poking 
his  nose  into  the  empty  kennel  of  a  big  one.  Growing  bolder  after  a 
time,  he  proceeded  to  examine  this  garment  (an  altogether  novel  one  to 
him)  more  closely,  wondering  at  its  weight  and  thickness,  and  at  the 
multiplicity  of  its  pockets.  Presently  it  became  almost  a  necessity  to  dis- 
cover whether  these  pockets  contained  anything,  and,  if  so,  what ;  and 
just  as  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  set  these  questions  at  rest,  and  was 
fully  committed  to  an  investigation,  the  library  door  was  suddenly  flung 
open,  and  Mr.  Brune  himself  suddenly  strode  out  into  the  hall. 

"  Hullo,  youngster  !  "  cried  he,  "  are  you  looking  for  oranges  ?  You 
won't  find  any  in  the  pockets  of  my  coat,  I'm  afraid ;  but  if  you'll  come 
up  and  see  me  at  Broom  Leas,  you  shall  have  as  many  as  you  can  eat ; 
though  we  don't  pick  them  off  the  trees  in  our  country.  All  I  have  got 
here  is  a  letter  from  your  future  schoolmaster,  which  I  forgot  to  take  in 
with  me ;  and  you  will  soon  see  as  much  of  his  handwriting  as  you  will 
care  about,  I  daresay." 

Mr.  Brune  did  not  appear  to  be  angry  at  the  liberty  which  had  been 
taken  witt  his  property ;  but  the  culprit  was  none  the  less  terrified. 
He  drew  lack,  stammering  out : — 

TOL.  xiv.— NO.  269.  30. 


618  NO  NEW  THING. 

"  I  was  not  touching  your  coat,  sir.  I — I  thought  I  had  left  my 
ball  here." 

"  Oh,  indeed  !  "  said  Mr.  Brune,  curtly ;  and,  having  found  his  letter, 
he  returned  to  the  library  without  another  word. 

This  unlucky  encounter  robbed  Philip  of  any  desire  to  face  the  com- 
pany at  dessert ;  but  in  due  time  he  was  sent  for  as  usual,  and  led  into  the 
dining-room,  where  he  stationed  himself  beside  Margaret's  chair — a 
picturesque  little  figure  in  his  black  velvet  costume. 

There  was  nothing  that  should  have  excited  apprehension  in  the 
aspect  of  the  five  guests  who  were  seated  round  that  well-lighted  and 
prettily  decorated  table.  They  were  in  good  humour,  as  most  people  are 
after  an  excellent  dinner,  and  when  the  Bishop  called  out,  "  Hey !  not 
in  bed  yet  ? "  he  meant  to  express  nothing  more  than  playful  amiability. 
But  Philip  snuggled  under  Margaret's  wing,  and  made  no  reply.  To 
him  these  good  folks  were  all  enemies,  and  he  answered  their  questions 
in  monosyllables  and  with  downcast  eyes ;  so  that  they  all  thought  him 
shy  (which  he  was  not),  and  some  of  them  set  him  down  as  sulky  into 
the  bargain.  As  soon  as  he  had  disposed  of  his  grapes  and  biscuits 
he  threw  his  arms  round  Margaret's  neck,  and  kissed  her  on  both 
cheeks ;  after  which,  with  a  fanny  little  old-fashioned  bow  to  the  rest 
of  the  company,  he  made  his  escape.  As  he  was  in  the  act  of  shut- 
ting the  door  behind  him,  he  heard  Mr.  Brune  say,  "  He  is  a  pretty 
little  fellow.  Don't  get  too  fond  of  him."  But  Mrs.  Stanniforth's 
answer,  if  she  made  any,  was  inaudible ;  and  the  boy  went  away,  won- 
dering what  Mr.  Brune  could  have  meant  by  that  rather  unkind  piece 
of  advice. 

Later  in  the  evening  this  enigma  was  explained  to  him  after  a  fashion 
confirmatory  of  the  old  adage  that  listeners  hear  no  good  of  themselves. 
Being  wide  awake,  and  hearing  a  carriage  drive  up  to  the  door  and  the 
sound  of  voices  in  the  hall,  he  slipped  out  of  bed  and  crept  to  his  old 
post  of  observation  at  the  top  of  the  staircase,  whence  he  could  see  the 
Bishop  and  Mrs.  Winnington  enveloping  themselves  in  wraps,  and  could 
hear  them  remarking  upon  the  loveliness  of  the  evening  to  the  others,  who 
had  come  out  to  bid  them  good-night.  Presently  they  took  their  depar- 
ture, and  were  soon  followed  by  Mr.  Langley,  who  had  got  the  good- 
natured  Hugh  by  the  button-hole,  and  was  haranguing  him  upon  the 
undue  facilities  afforded  to  the  British  private  soldier  for  changing  his 
religion,  whenever  it  might  suit  the  convenience  of  that  ignorant  and 
erratic  creature  to  do  so. 

"  It  is  a  grave  scandal,"  Philip  heard  him  saying,  "  and  one  to  which 
the  authorities  do  not  seem  to  be  properly  alive.  Good-night,  Mis.  Stanni- 
forth,  good-night — most  delightful  evening — thank  you  so  very  much. 
Such  a  state  of  things  is  a  disgrace  to  the  country,  Captain  Kenyon.  I 
understand  that  it  is  an  absolute  fact  that  these  men  will  shift  about 
from  one  denomination  to  another — Anglicans  to-day,  Romanists  to- 
morrow, Dissenters  next  day— simply  with  a  view  to  attending  the  place 


NO  NEW  THING.  619 

of  worship  in  which  they  are  likely  to  be  detained  for  the  shortest  time. 
Now,  so  long  as  the  army  chaplains  are  not  backed  up " 

"  I  think  I'll  just  light  a  cigar  and  walk  down  as  far  as  the  gate  with 
you,"  Hugh  said,  resignedly.  And  so  Mr.  Brune  and  his  hostess  were 
left  alone  in  the  hall,  and  the  proceedings  took  a  turn  more  interesting 
to  the  small  watcher  overhead. 

"  What  made  you  tell  me  not  to  get  too  fond  of  the  boy  1 "  Margaret 
asked,  rather  abruptly. 

"  It  is  a  mistake  to  get  too  fond  of  anybody  or  anything  in  a  world  of 
change,"  answered  Mr.  Brune,  sententiously. 

"  Yes ;  but  that  was  not  what  you  meant.  I  wish  you  would  tell 
me  what  you  did  mean." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Stanniforth,  if  I  were  to  answer  your  question 
honestly,  you  would  only  be  angry  with  me,  and  I  should  not  convince 
you  that  I  had  any  good  reason  for  my  warning." 

"  Having  said  that  much,  you  must  be  perfectly  aware  that  I  shall 
not  let  you  go  until  you  have  explained  yourself." 

"  This  is  what  one  gets  by  allowing  one's  tongue  too  much  freedom. 
Well,  then,  I  recommended  you  not  to  grow  too  fond  of  him  because  I 
suspect  that  he  is  not  likely  to  prove  worth  it.  There  !  " 

"  I  did  not  know  it  was  so  easy  to  foresee  what  a  child  of  twelve 
years  old  was  likely  to  prove  worth." 

"  It  is  less  difficult  than  people  are  willing  to  allow.  Anyone  who  has 
had  as  much  to  do  with  the  breaking- in  of  young  animals  as  I  have  will 
tell  you  that  they  all  possess  hereditary  vices  and  defects,  or  the  reverse ; 
and,  humiliating  and  puzzling  as  the  fact  may  be,  I  fear  that  we  mortals 
are  subject  to  the  same  laws.  Of  course,  if  you  or  I  were  creating  a 
world,  we  should  give  everybody  a  fair  start,  and  little  boys  and  girls 
would  be  little  lumps  of  clay,  to  be  moulded  by  the  care  and  wisdom  of 
their  parents  or  guardians ;  but  even  that  system  might  be  found  open 
to  objections,  and  it  is  pretty  clear  that  that  is  not  the  system  which 
actually  prevails.  Therefore,  I  say  that  there  will  always  be  specimens 
of  the  race  for  whom  it  is  advisable  not  to  care  overmuch." 

"What  defects  and  vices  have  you  discovered  in  my  poor  little  Philip?  " 

"  I  have  discovered  that  he  is  a  liar,  and  I  am  half  afraid  that  he 
is  a  coward  too  ;  but  I  won't  insist  upon  the  latter  point.  I  told  you  I 
should  make  you  angry.  Come,  it  is  only  a  question  of  words,  after  all. 
Let  us  say  that  he  has  a  highly-strung  nervous  temperament,  and  that 
his  intelligence  is  precocious.  How  much  nicer  that  sounds  !  And  it 
means  very  nearly  the  same  thing." 

"  I  don't  think  it  means  the  same  thing  at  all ;  and  I  can't  under- 
stand your  being  unjust  and  cruel  enough  to  speak  so  of  a  child  whom  you 
have  onlj  seen  for  a  few  minutes.  You  were  certainly  right  in  saying 
that  your  prejudice  would  not  convince  me.  And  even  if  he  were  what 
you  pretend,  I  should  not  be  the  less  fond  of  him,  especially  as,  by 
your  own  showing,  he  would  not  be  to  Iblame  for  his  faults." 

30—2 


620  NO  NEW  THING. 

"  But  I  didn't  blame  him,  if  you  remember.  Well,  well ;  don't  say 
I  never  warned  you,  that's  all." 

Mr.  Brune  had  struggled  into  his  Inverness  cape  by  this  time,  and 
had  got  as  far  as  the  doorstep,  whither  he  was  followed  by  Margaret. 

"  I  daresay  I  am  unjust,"  he  said  ;  "  that  is  likely  enough,  goodness 
knows  ! — though  I  won't  admit  that  I  am  cruel.  It  was  only  a  little 
fib  that  he  told  me,  Mrs.  Stanniforth.  I  caught  him  with  his  arm  thrust 
up  to  the  elbow  in  the  pocket  of  my  coat,  and  he  assured  me  that  he 
had  never  touched  my  coat  at  all.  An  accomplished  liar  would  hardly 
have  said  that,  would  he  ?  So  there's  comfort  for  you.  I  suppose  we 
have  most  of  us  told  lies  in  our  time.  I  am  ready  to  confess  that  I  have, 
and  that  if  I  had  no  worse  sins  on  my  conscience  than  your  young  rascal 
has  been  guilty  of,  I  should  be  a  happier  man  than  I  am.  Let  us  shake 
hands,  and  acknowledge  that  we  are  all  miserable  sinners,  and  say  no 
more  about  it." 

But  these  last  consolatory  sentences  did  not  reach  the  ears  of  Philip, 
who  stole  back  to  •  his  room,  got  into  bed  again,  and  cried  himself  to 
sleep. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  RISING  AND  THE  SETTING  SUN. 

BAD  beginnings  do  not  always  make  bad  endings.  After  the  cold 
welcome  which  had  greeted  Philip's  entrance  into  the  land  of  his  adop- 
tion, he  was  so  fortunate  as  to  earn  speedily  a  general  good-will  which — 
if  he  had  rightly  understood  the  case — should  have  been  especially 
gratifying  to  him,  seeing  that  it  was  evidently  due  to  his  personal 
merits  alone.  As  an  institution  Mrs.  Stanniforth's  relations  and  ad- 
visers had  felt  bound  to  object  to  him  ;  but  as  an  individual  they  were 
quite  willing  to  let  him  have  a  fair  trial ;  and  further  acquaintance 
showed  him  to  be  an  attractive  little  individual  enough.  His  manners, 
when  he  got  a  chance  of  displaying  them,  were  acknowledged  to  be 
charming,  albeit  a  trifle  odd  and  old-fashioned ;  being  accustomed  to 
shift  for  himself,  he  had  none  of  the  tiresome  habits  of  a  spoilt  child, 
and  required  nobody  to  entertain  him ;  he  was  quick  at  picking  up  the 
tone  and  falling  into  the  ways  of  those  about  him ;  and  a  select  few 
were  privileged  to  make  the  discovery  that  he  was  an  excellent  mimic. 
The  guffaws  that  arose  from  the  region  of  the  servants'  hall  when  he 
took  off  Mr.  Langley's  hurried  gait  and  nasal  intonation,  caused  the 
grooms  in  the  stable-yard  to  pause  in  their  work  and  grin  at  one  another 
from  the  mere  contagion  of  merriment ;  he  had  caught  the  good  Bishop's 
trick  of  murmuring  "  Oh,  my  dear  friend,  my  dear  friend  "  so  perfectly 
that  a  listener  with  his  eyes  shut  would  have  been  puzzled  to  listinguish 
the  imitation  from  the  original ;  and  even  Mrs.  Prosser,  the  sour-tern- 


NO  NEW  THING.  621 

pered  housekeeper,  condescended  to  smile  when  he  sailed  across  the 
room,  holding  up  invisible  skirts  with  his  left  hand,  peering  here  and 
there  through  imaginary  eye-glasses,  and  ejaculating,  "  My  dearest 
Margaret,  you  ought  really  to  insist  upon  your  servants'  doing  their 
work  properly  !  "  For  Mrs.  Prosser  did  not  love  her  mistress's  mother. 

But  these  exhibitions  were  reserved  for  those  who  appreciated  them, 
and  were  never  indulged  in  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Stanniforth ;  for, 
young  as  he  was,  Master  Philip  knew  that  what  is  one  man's  meat  is 
another  man's  poison,  and  had  learnt  the  important  lesson  of  how  to 
adapt  his  demeanour  to  his  company.  Mrs.  Brune,  for  instance,  thought 
him  a  sweet,  gentle-mannered  child,  and  wished,  with  a  sigh,  that  her 
own  rough  little  mob  were  more  like  him ;  while,  if  he  had  failed  to 
ingratiate  himself  with  her  husband,  it  was  only  because  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  that  any  effort  to  do  so  would  be  hopeless,  and  because 
(pardonably  enough)  he  entertained  for  that  gentleman  a  deep-seated 
aversion,  not  unmixed  with  dread.  As  for  the  children  at  Broom  Leas, 
they  sat  in  judgment  upon  him,  for  a  day  or  two,  after  the  pitiless  and 
uncompromising  fashion  of  children,  and  finally  pronounced  a  verdict 
in  his  favour.  Probably  they  were  influenced  in  no  small  degree  by 
his  independence  and  his  assumption  of  certain  airs  of  superiority  to 
which  his  experience  and  knowledge  of  the  world  entitled  him  ;  but,  be 
that  as  it  may,  their  friendship,  once  accorded,  was  given  without  reserve, 
and  he  was  immediately  admitted  into  a  freemasonry  which  no  parental 
orders  or  entreaties  could  have  thrown  open  to  him.  He,  on  his  side, 
was  greatly  taken  with  these  new  companions,  and  especially  with 
Nellie,  to  whom  he  made  love  so  openly  that  Mrs.  Brune  actually  began 
to  speculate  upon  what  might  come  to  pass  in  ten  or  fifteen  years'  time, 
and  asked  her  husband  privately  whether  he  supposed  that  Mrs.  Stanni- 
forth's  protege  had  anything  substantial  in  the  way  of  expectations. 

Philip  was  strolling  across  the  fields  from  Longbourne  to  Broom 
Leas,  one  morning,  when  he  was  met  by  a  broad-shouldered,  fresh- 
coloured  boy  of  about  his  own  age  and  about  twice  his  size,  who  left  off 
whistling  on  catching  sight  of  the  stranger,  and  presently  called  out :  "  I 
say  !  is  your  name  Marescalchi  ?  " 

Philip  said,  "Yes." 

"  Oh,  all  right !  You're  going  to  school  with  me  next  half.  I'm 
Brune — Walter,  you  know  :  you've  heard  of  me  from  the  young  'uns  ? " 

Philip  smiled  amiably,  said,  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  and  held  out 
his  hand,  which  the  other  took,  staring  and  laughing  a  little.  Walter 
was  not  accustomed  to  so  much  ceremony. 

"  I  say,"  he  began  again,  after  a  pause,  "  can  you  play  cricket  ?  " 

Philip  answered  in  the  words  of  the  gentleman  who  was  asked 
whether  he  could  play  the  flute,  that  he  didn't  know,  never  having  tried. 

"  Hun  !  that's  a  pity.     Football  ?  " 

Philip  had  never  even  seen  a  football ;  and  his  questioner  was  visibly 
depressed  by  this  intelligence.  It  was  evidently  in  no  sanguine  spirit 


622  NO  NEW  THING. 

that  he  suggested  "  Fives  ? "  and  a  third  disclaimer  appeared  to  grieve 
rather  than  surprise  him.  "  Well,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  remon- 
strance, "  you'll  have  to  learn,  you  know."  And  then,  "  You  don't 
ride,  I  suppose." 

This  time  Philip  was  able  to  nod  affirmatively.  "  I  have  got  a  new 
pony,"  he  said. 

"  Have  you  though  1 "  cried  the  other,  brightening.  "  Where  is  he  1 
Up  at  the  Longbourne  stables  ?  Come  along,  and  let's  have  a  look  at  him." 
So  Walter  was  taken  to  admire  the  purchase  which  Hugh  Kenyon 
had  made,  a  short  time  before,  at  Mrs.  Stanniforth's  desire ;  and  after 
that,  the  two  boys  visited  the  other  stalls  and  loose- boxes  together,  and 
were  very  knowing  upon  the  subject  of  horseflesh,  and  in  that  way  made 
friends.  Philip  could  stick  to  his  saddle  as  well  as  most  boys  of  his  age  ; 
for  his  mother  had  had  him  taught  to  ride,  just  as  she  had  been  careful 
to  provide  him  with  an  English  nurse,  so  long  as  that  extravagance  had 
been  possible  to  her.  No  one  could  tell  what  might  happen,  she  used  to 
say  to  herself,  when  in  a  hopeful  mood,  and  there  was  no  harm  in  being 
prepared  for  all  contingencies.  In  her  heart  she  had  always  cherished 
a  notion  that,  one  day  or  another,  Mr.  Brown's  relatives  might  claim 
their  kinsman,  and  bear  him  away  to  wealth  and  honours  in  that  far-off 
northern  island  which  she  well  knew  that  she  herself  would  never  see. 
Her  pains  and  forethought  had  their  reward  now;  though  not  under 
such  circumstances  as  she  had  anticipated. 

"  I  think  he'll  do,"  Walter  announced  confidentially  to  his  father 
some  days  later.  "I  should  not  wonder  if  he  was  to  get  just  a  little 
bit  kicked  at  first " 

"  If  you  are  quite  sure  that  it  will  be  only  just  a  little  bit,  Walter, 
I  should  be  inclined  to  doubt  whether  that  would  be  an  altogether 
unmixed  evil." 

"  Oh,  there's  no  such  thing  as  bullying  nowadays,"  answered  the  boy, 
who  was  not  himself  made  of  the  stuff  which  is  easily  bullied ;  "  he'll  get 
on  all  right.  The  only  danger  is — he's  awfully  clever,  you  know — the 
danger  is  that  he  may  turn  out  a  sap,  and  stick  indoors  all  day." 

"  I  am  convinced,  my  dear  boy,  that  we  may  rely  upon  you  to  do 
your  utmost,  both  by  precept  and  example,  to  avert  such  &  calamity. 
Judging  by  the  report  which  you  were  kind  enough  to  hand  to  me  on 
your  return,  the  disgrace  of  being  known  as  a  '  sap '  is  one  which  you 
are  in  no  danger  of  incurring.  Can  you  conjugate  vapulo,  for  instance  1 " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Walter,  "  I  can ;  but  I'd  rather  not ;  because " 

"  Quite  so.  I  respect  your  feelings,  and  have  no  desire  to  stir  up 
painful  memories  during  the  holidays.  But  mind  you,  if  this  youngster 
is  promoted  over  your  head,  there  shall  be  no  Eton  for  you.  I  can't 
afford  to  send  more  than  one  of  you  to  the  old  school ;  and  if  you  won't 
learn,  why  Dick  must  take  your  place;  and  I  shall — well,  I  think  I 
shall  ship  you  off  to  the  colonies,  and  make  you  work  your  passage  out 
as  cabin-boy," 


NO  NEW  THING.  623 

Walter  grinned,  knowing  that  there  was  no  likelihood  of  this  threat 
being  carried  into  effect,  though  he  considered  it  quite  upon  the  cards 
that  the  supposition  which  had  given  rise  to  it  might  be  fulfilled.  For 
he  had  discovered,  to  his  astonishment,  that  little  Marescalchi  could  do 
Latin  verses,  not  to  speak  of  construing  a  page  of  Virgil  without  the  aid 
of  a  crib ;  and  he  had  the  best  reasons  for  thinking  modestly  of  his  own 
classical  attainments. 

Meanwhile,  it  was  indispensable  that  this  benighted  foreigner  should 
gain  some  elementary  knowledge  of  how  to  hit  and  how  to  throw  up  a 
ball,  before  being  sent  to  school.  Therefore  Walter,  who  was  the  most 
good-natured  soul  alive,  spent  a  large  portion  of  his  three  weeks'  holidays 
in  bowling  lobs  to  the  stranger,  while  Nellie  long-stopped ;  and  at  the 
end  of  the  time  he  was  able  to  speak  with  qualified  approbation  of  his 
pupil's  progress.  The  last  day  was  a  trying  one  for  Philip — and  not  for 
Philip  alone — but  it  passed  away  without  any  unseemly  exhibition ;  and 
if  there  were  tears  in  anybody's  eyes  when  the  moment  of  parting  came, 
they  were  resolutely  winked  away. 

"  Oh  dear  !  I  almost  wish  he  had  been  a  girl,"  sighed  Margaret,  as 
she  stood  looking  after  the  carriage  which  was  bearing  away  her  adopted 
child  and  his  juvenile  protector. 

"  It  would  have  been  much  better  in  all  respects  if  he  had  been," 
agreed  Mr.  Brune ;  "  but,  my  dear  Mrs.  Stanniforth,  why  didn't  you 
think  of  that  before  1  Boys  are  a  nuisance  even  when  they  come  into 
one's  possession  in  the  ordinary  course  of  nature ;  but  nothing  compels 
one  to  adopt  other  people's  boys.  Considering  the  vast  preponderance 
of  the  female  over  the  male  population,  it  does  seem  odd  that,  when  you 
had  made  up  your  mind  to  relieve  the  destitute,  you  should  have  fixed 
upon  one  of  the  wrong  sex." 

"  The  destitute  females  did  not  happen  to  come  in  my  way,  you  see  ; 
and  Philip  belongs  to  me  now  as  much  as  your  boys  belong  to  you.  I 
am  sure  I  have  no  right  to  grumble.  He  has  been  a  godsend  to  me 
already,  and  I  don't  doubt  but  that  he  will  be  the  joy  of  my  life  and  the 
prop  of  my  old  age." 

"  Unless  he  comes  to  the  gallows  in  the  meantime.  Now,  Mrs. 
Stanniforth,  don't  look  so  reproachfully  at  me ;  I  did  not  really  mean 
that.  Set  it  down  to  jealousy  of  your  boy,  who  is  so  much  better- 
looking  and  cleverer  than  mine,  you  know.  I  foresee  how  you  will 
crow  over  me  for  the  next  three  months,  and  I  can't  help  feeling  sore  in 
anticipation." 

It  must  be  confessed  that,  if  Margaret  did  not  actually  crow  over 
Mr.  Brune,  she  was  very  exultant  when  the  first  reports  from  Philip's 
school  reached  her,  and  that  she  talked  about  him  and  his  triumphs  a 
little  too  much  for  the  patience  of  her  mother,  who  was  at  that  time 
spending  a  few  days  with  her. 

"  Now  I  do  think  there  are  very  few  boys  of  twelve  years  old  who 
could  produce  anything  so  good  as  that,"  she  exclaimed,  one  morning, 


624  NO  NEW  THING. 

throwing  across  the  breakfast-table  a  letter  which,  in  truth,  was  not  ill 
written  and  was  disfigured  by  no  blots. 

Mrs.  Winnington  picked  it  up,  and  surveyed  it  through  her  glasses. 
"  My  dearest  Meg,"  it  began. 

"  Really,"  cried  Mrs.  Winnington,  laying  down  the  sheet,  "  I  am 
surprised  at  your  encouraging  the  boy  to  address  you  in  that  disrespectful 
way.  '  Meg,'  indeed  !  Why,  I  should  never  have  allowed  even  your 
brothers  and  sisters  to  make  use  of  such  a  vulgar  nickname." 

"  But  '  Mrs.  Stanniforth  '  would  be  so  formal.  He  always  used  to 
call  me  Meg  at  Nice,  and  I  rather  liked  it.  I  don't  think  it  sounds 
disrespectful." 

"  Oh,  very  well !  I  suppose  the  young  gentleman  will  be  addressing 
me  as  Sukey  next,"  said  Mrs.  Winnington,  whose  Christian  name  was 
Susan.  And  then  she  raised  her  eye-glasses  again,  and  went  on  with 
the  letter. 

"  My  dearest  Meg, — This  is  a  half-holiday,  so  I  am  going  to  write  to 
you  as  I  promised.  We  have  two  half-holidays  a  week.  1  like  it  very 
much,  only  I  want  to  go  to  Eton  at  Christmas  when  Walter  goes.  Please 
dear  Meg  let  me  go.  Walter  says  he  is  sure  I  should  take  middle  fourth, 
which  is  Upper  School  you  know.  I  play  cricket  every  day.  I  never 
cry,  and  I  say  my  prayers  as  you  told  me.  All  the  boys  say  their 
prayers  here  because  one  of  the  masters  comes  into  the  dormitry  in  the 
morning  and  then  we  have  to  do  it  while  he  is  there  and  then  we  dress 
and  then  we  go  into  school.  We  don't  get  much  butter  with  our  bread 
at  brekfast.  Walter  says  all  the  boys  at  Eton  have  rooms  of  their 
own  and  buy  what  they  like  for  brekfast.  I  should  always  buy  sossiges. 
I  wish  I  was  there.  But  I  am  very  happy  here.  Please  send  me  ten 
shillings  as  I  have  got  no  money  left.  I  must  stop  now  for  I  have  no 
more  to  say.  Give  my  love  to  Prosser  and  Wilson  and  James  and 
Thomas  and  all  the  animals  and  Mrs.  Winnington,  and 

"  Believe  me 

"  Ever  your  loving 

PHILIP." 

"  There  are  a  few  mistakes  in  spelling,"  Margaret  observed  in  an 
apologetic  tone. 

"  A  few,"  said  Mrs.  Winnington  drily.  "  It  is  a  comfort  to  think 
that  Philip  is  not  likely  to  fail  in  life  through  any  foolish  feeling  of 
delicacy  as  to  asking  for  what  he  wants.  I  suppose  you  have  already 
begun  to  make  inquiries  about  a  house  at  Eton." 

"  Well,  it  would  be  a  great  thing  if  he  and  Walter  could  go  there 
together,  would  it  not  1  And  you  know,  mother,  it  is  one  of  your 
maxims  that  those  who  won't  ask  don't  deserve  to  receive." 

Mi's.  Winnington,  who  had  consistently  acted  in  accordance  with 
this  principle  for  many  years,  did  not  find  it  convenient  to  make  any 
direct  rejoinder,  and  merely  remarked  :  "  Eton  was  thought  too  expen- 


NO  NEW  THING.  625 

sive  a  school  for  your  brothers  :  but  I  dare  say  I  had  better  not  inter- 
fere. I  hope  you  will  thank  your  young  prodigy  for  his  polite  mention 
of  me  when  you  write." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  will  certainly,"  replied  Margaret,  quite  seriously.  And 
she  despatched  an  answer  to  Philip's  letter  that  same  afternoon,  enclosing 
the  ten  shillings,  as  requested,  and  promising  that  if  he  continued  to  be 
good,  and  was  careful  about  the  orthography  of  "  dormitory  "  and  other 
recondite  words,  the  propriety  of  sending  him  to  Eton  in  eight  months' 
time  should  be  considered. 

The  boy  had  not  told  the  truth  in  asserting  that  he  was  happy  at 
school.  But  what  boy  ever  does  tell  the  truth  in  such  matters  1  He 
was  physically  weak,  nervous,  and  sensitive,  and  he  experienced  the 
inevitable  fate  of  those  who  possess  such  organisations.  This  private 
school,  which  was  neither  better  nor  worse  than  other  establishments  of 
its  kind,  did  him  some  good  and  some  harm.  It  taught  him  a  respect 
for  discipline ;  it  gave  him  a  rough  notion  of  what  commonly  passes  for 
justice  in  this  world ;  and  it  confirmed  his  previous  impression  that  the 
English,  with  a  few  bright  exceptions,  were  a  thick-headed  and  hard- 
hearted race.  Probably  he  would  not  have  pulled  through  as  well  as  he 
did  had  he  not  had  a  powerful  friend  in  Walter  Brune.  With  the  help 
of  that  good-natured  son  of  Anak,  he  just  managed  to  hold  his  own 
among  his  companions,  and,  although  he  did  not  achieve  popularity,  he 
was  not  much  tormented  after  the  first  few  weeks.  To  set  against  this 
mediocre  social  success,  he  had  the  good  word  of  all  his  masters,  and  he 
returned  to  Longbourne  at  Midsummer  with  a  pile  of  prizes  under  his 
arm  and  a  highly  eulogistic  letter,  addressed  to  Mrs.  Stanniforth,  in  the 
pocket  of  his  jacket. 

Perhaps,  if  Philip  had  known  it,  that  first  day  of  his  first  holidays 
was  the  happiest  of  his  life.  The  joy  of  regained  liberty ;  the  joy  of 
being  surrounded  by  none  but  friendly  faces ;  and  the  joy  of  once  more 
embracing  his  beloved  Meg — the  only  person  in  the  world  in  whom  he 
had  complete  confidence  :  these  would  of  themselves  have  satisfied  him. 
But  when  to  such  delights  was  joined  the  supreme  one  of  returning  to 
them  in  the  character  of  a  conquering  hero,  the  measure  of  his  content- 
ment was  filled  up  to  overflowing ;  for  it  was  a  part  of  his  nature  to 
adore  applause.  Margaret  was  not  alone  when  he  arrived ;  she  had 
Captain  Kenyon  and  two  of  her  young  brothers,  schoolboys  like  himself, 
staying  with  her.  But  Hugh  was  so  kind  and  complimentary  that  his 
presence  could  hardly  be  considered  as  a  drawback ;  and  the  Winnington 
boys  had  the  pleasant,  soft  manners  of  their  father's  family,  and  did  not 
look  askance  at  Philip,  as  at  an  intruder,  after  the  fashion  of  certain 
other  people  whom  he  had  met  at  Longbourne  earlier  in  the  year. 

In  the  afternoon  Walter  came  up ;  and  then  there  were  the  stables 
to  be  visited,  and  various  plans  for  the  employment  of  eight  blissful 
weeks  to  be  concocted ;  after  which  came  late  dinner,  to  which — the 
occasion  being  so  auspicious  a  one — the  juveniles  sat  down  with  their 

30—5 


C26  NO  NEW  THING. 

elders.  But  what  pleased  Philip  more  than  all  this,  more  even  than  the 
news  that  his  hopes  were  to  be  fulfilled,  and  that  he  was  to  go  to  Eton 
after  Christmas,  was  the  footing  upon  which  he  felt  himself  to  stand 
with  regard  to  those  about  him.  He  was  no  longer  the  little  Italian 
waif,  picked  up  nobody  knew  whence,  and  eyed  from  every  quarter  with 
curiosity  and  suspicion ;  he  was  a  recognised  member  of  the  family,  and 
one  who  was  acknowledged  to  have  brought  credit  upon  it  in  the  shape 
of  those  gilded  volumes  which  were  lying  in  a  conspicuous  place  upon 
the  drawing-room  table. 

Thus  it  was,  in  all  respects,  a  day  to  be  marked  with  a  white  stone ; 
but,  somehow  or  other,  Margaret's  spirits  did  not  seem  to  be  as  high  as 
they  ought  to  have  been  under  the  circumstances  ;  and  Philip,  who  was 
an  observant  little  person,  was  not  slow  to  detect  this  deficiency.  He 
noticed  also  that  Captain  Kenyon  was  not  himself.  That  ordinarily 
quiet  and  taciturn  gentleman  was  so  talkative  and  so  laboriously  jovial 
that  a  far  less  shrewd  listener  than  Master  Marescalchi  must  have 
suspected  that  something  was  amiss.  Taking  one  thing  with  another, 
and  remarking  that  no  direct  interchange  of  words  took  place  between 
the  head  and  the  foot  of  the  table,  our  young  friend  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  Captain  Kenyon  had  been  misbehaving  himself  in  some 
way,  and  that  Margaret  was  displeased  with  him ;  and  this  impi-ession 
was  confirmed  by  what  took  place  subsequently  in  the  drawing-room. 
Hugh  began  talking  about  Eton,  and,  mentioning  as  a  curious  circum- 
stance that  he  himself  had  never  seen  the  place,  added  that  he  would 
now  have  a  pretext  for  running  down  there  occasionally. 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  Oxford  ? "  asked  Margaret,  looking  up  for  an 
instant  from  her  embroidery. 

"  Well,  no  •  oddly  enough,  I  never  have.     Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Only  because  your  pretext  will  most  likely  have  moved  there  before 
you  come  back." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  it  will  not  be  so  bad  as  that,"  answered  Hugh,  laughing 
in  an  uncomfortable,  nervous  sort  of  way. 

"  I  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Stanniforth,  rising  slowly,  and  gathering  up 
her  skeins  and  scissors  and  needles,  "  that  you  told  me  you  would  not 
be  in  England  again  for  another  five  or  six  years  at  least." 

And  with  that  she  walked  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  engaged 
one  of  her  young  brothers  in  a  game  of  backgammon,  disregarding  Hugh's 
confused  murmurs  about  getting  leave,  he  hoped,  and  distance  being 
nothing  in  these  days,  and  more  to  the  like  effect.  Whereupon  the 
latter  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  stretched  his  long  legs  out  before 
him,  and  became  lost  in  frowning  meditation. 

It  was  Margaret's  custom  to  peep  into  Philip's  room,  before  retiring 
to  rest,  for  a  last  look  at  her  boy,  who  was  generally  sound  asleep  at  the 
hour  of  these  visits.  Upon  this  occasion,  however,  she  found  him  sitting 
up  in  bed,  and  eager  for  conversation ;  and  one  of  the  first  things  he 
asked  was — • 


NO  NEW  THING.  627 

"  Meg,  is  Captain  Kenyon  going  away  1 " 

Margaret  said  yes ;  Captain  Kenyon  was  going  to  India  very  soon. 
«  What  for?"  Philip  inquired. 

"  He  is  sent  there,  my  dear.     Soldiers  are  sent  to  India  sometimes." 
"  Is  India  a  long  way  off]  " 

"  Yes ;  a  long  way.  I  dare  say  you  won't  see  Captain  Kenyon  again 
until  you  are  almost  a  man.  Aren't  you  soriy  ?  " 

Philip  did  not  feel  that  the  prospect  was  one  which  affected  him  very 
greatly  ;  hut  he  expressed  a  proper  amount  of  civil  regret,  and  then  went 
on  with  his  inquiries. 

"  Why  are  soldiers  sent  to  India,  Meg  ?  For  a  punishment  1 " 
"  Oh  dear,  no  !  many  of  them  don't  think  it  a  punishment  at  all. 
There  are  tigers  to  he  shot  in  India,  and  pigs  to  be  stuck,  and  other 
excitements  which  are  not  to  be  had  in  this  country.  Of  course  those 
who  go  leave  their  friends  behind  them,  which  some  might  consider  a 
drawback." 

"  And  are  they  obliged  to  go  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  believe  they  can  generally  arrange  to  remain  at  home  if 
they  wish  it." 

"  Captain  Kenyon  doesn't  wish  it  then  1  " 

"  I  suppose  not.  But  we  must  not  talk  any  more  now ;  it  is  high 
time  for  you  to  lie  down  and  go  to  sleep." 

So  Margaret  went  away,  leaving  Philip  still  a  victim  to  baffled 
curiosity.  He  perceived  that  Captain  Kenyon's  departure  was  arousing 
no  small  amount  of  resentment ;  but  he  did  not  clearly  understand  why 
that  officer  should  not  go  and  kill  tigers,  or  be  killed  by  them,  if  the 
current  of  his  ambition  set  that  way.  If  it  had  been  a  question  of  the 
Bishop's  or  of  Mrs.  Winnington's  incurring  such  perils,  that  would  of 
course  have  been  another  thing  ;  but  what,  after  all,  was  Captain 
Kenyon  to  Margaret  1  Only  a  friend — and  not  a  very  interesting  friend 
either,  in  his  (the  speculator's)  opinion.  It  will  be  seen  that  Philip  was 
not  too  young  to  be  jealous. 

Poor  Hiigh  was  innocent  enough  of  any  desire  to  quit  his  native 
shores,  and  not  all  the  tigers  in  Bengal  would  have  tempted  him  away, 
had  he  felt  at  liberty  to  consult  his  own  inclinations ;  but  there  were 
more  considerations  than  one  which  weighed  with  him  when  his  battery, 
somewhat  unexpectedly,  received  orders  to  hold  itself  in  readiness  to 
proceed  on  foreign  service.  In  the  first  place,  he  was  a  poor  man,  and 
could  not  well  have  afforded  the  expense  of  an  exchange ;  secondly,  he 
had  a  mother  and  sisters  whom  he  had  accustomed  to  look  for  occasional 
remittances  from  him,  and  to  whose  comforts  the  double  pay  of  the  Indian 
establishment  might  be  expected  to  minister  considerably  ;  thirdly — and 
this,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  what  he  thought  of  most — he  had  con- 
vinced himself  that  it  would  be  better  for  him  to  dwell  no  longer  than 
was  necessary  in  the  same  quarter  of  the  globe  as  Margaret. 

The  first  two  of  these  reasons  were  such  as,  in  an  ordinary  man, 


628  NO  NEW  THING. 

might  have  been  held  to  be  sufficient,  not  to  say  creditable ;  but  those 
who  choose  habitually  to  study  the  convenience  of  others  rather  than 
their  own  must  be  prepared  to  pay  the  penalty  which  such  an  imprudent 
rule  of  conduct  entails.  Hugh,  having  cheerfully  served  his  fellow- 
creatures  all  his  life  long,  had  ceased,  in  the  eyes  of  most  of  them,  to  be 
a  free  agent ;  and  Margaret,  for  one,  though  she  was  not  unreasonable 
enough  to  desire  that  he  should  sacrifice  his  career  in  order  that  she 
might  have  an  adviser  and  confidant  always  at  her  elbow,  yet  thought 
that  friendship  demanded  of  him  some  expression  of  regret  and  some 
explanation  of  the  causes  that  were  leading  him  to  abandon  her  at  a 
time  when  she  stood  so  much  in  need  of  support.  When,  therefore,  he 
announced  in  a  brisk,  off-hand  manner  that  he  was  about  to  sail  for 
India,  and  might  be  absent  for  a  matter  of  half-a-dozen  years  or  so,  she 
felt  that  she  had  every  right  to  be  hurt  and  offended  ;  and  so  it  was  that 
she  treated  the  delinquent  with  marked  coldness,  and  made  the  sarcastic 
allusions  above-mentioned  to  tigers  and  pigs. 

The  next  morning,  Philip  espied  Hugh  smoking  his  pipe  pensively  on 
the  lawn  before  breakfast,  and  attacked  him  point-blank  with — 

"  Captain  Kenyon,  why  are  you  going  to  India  ?  " 

"  Why  am  I  going,  my  boy  1 "  echoed  Hugh,  looking  down  at  the 
inquisitive  little  face  which  was  turned  up  to  his.  "  Well,  I  am  going 
because  it  comes  in  the  way  of  my  duty  to  go,  if  you  understand  what 
that  means." 

"  But  Meg  said  you  could  stay  at  home  if  you  liked." 

"  Did  she  say  that  ? "  exclaimed  Hugh,  in  an  altered  voice  ;  and  for 
a  moment  Philip  experienced  the  uncomfortable  sensation  of  one  who 
has  trodden  upon  a  sleeping  lion's  tail.  But  it  presently  appeared  that 
Captain  Kenyon  was  not  going  to  be  angry. 

"  Ah,"  said  he,  "  ladies  won't  understand  that  a  man  can't  always  do 
as  he  likes.  Don't  you  let  them  put  any  notion  of  that  kind  into  your 
head,  my  young  friend,  or  you'll  come  to  grief  one  of  these  fine  days. 
One  of  the  first  lessons  that  men  and  boys  have  to  learn  is  that  they  will 
very  seldom  be  able  to  do  as  they  like,  and  the  next,  that  they  may  as 
well  grin  and  bear  it." 

Hugh,  however,  was  not  allowed  to  beg  the  question  in  that  way. 

"  But  you  can  do  as  you  like  about  going  to  India,"  persisted  his 
cross-examiner.  "Meg  said  so." 

"  Perhaps  neither  you  nor  Margaret  know  much  about  that,"  answered 
Hugh,  good-humouredly.  "  At  all  events,  I  am  not  going  to  be  bullied 
by  any  of  you  ;  and  you'll  see  me  back  sooner  than  you  want  me,  I  have 
no  doubt.  That's  enough  said  about  me.  What  you  have  to  do  is  to 
grow  into  a  big  boy  as  soon  as  you  can,  and  to  try  to  be  some  comfort 
to — to — to — the  person  to  whom  you  owe  pretty  well  everything.  You 
have  made  a  good  start :  keep  it  up.  And  mind  you,  it  isn't  enough  to 
get  prizes,  and  be  at  the  top  of  your  class,  and  all  that.  Not  that  study 
isn't  a  very  fine  thing  in  its  way ;  still,  it's  not  all  that's  wanted.  You 


NO  NEW  THING.  629 

are  sent  to  school,  I  take  it,  not  only  to  learn  Latin  and  Greek  and  a 
smattering  of  mathematics,  but  to  learn  to  be  a  gentleman  and  a  good 
fellow.  At  Eton  you  will  fall  in  with  companions  of  all  ranks  and 
fortunes,  just  as  you  will  in  the  world  later  on,  and  the  chances  are  that 
you  will  have  as  much  pocket  money  as  any  of  them ;  but  don't  let  that 
make  you  forget  that  you  will  have  to  earn  your  own  bread  some  day. 
Never  pretend  that  you  are  anything  but  what  you  really  are ;  never 
shirk  either  your  work  or  your  play ;  and  never  say  a  w'ord  behind  a 
fellow's  back  that  you  wouldn't  dare  to  say  to  his  face.  That  isn't  an 
impossible  system  to  follow ;  though  it's  a  hard  one,  I  grant  you.  You 
stick  to  it,  and  you'll  have  your  reward  in  due  time." 

In  this  strain  Hugh  went  on,  expounding  his  simple  theory  of  ethics 
between  the  whiffs  of  his  pipe,  and  the  boy  listened  to  him  with  about 
as  much  attention  as  boys  usually  vouchsafe  to  the  wisdom  of  their 
elders.  The-  speaker's  words  gained  something  in  impressiveness,  it  is 
true,  when  it  transpired  that  this  was  a  valedictory  address,  and  that 
Captain  Kenyon  proposed  to  leave  for  Aldershot  within  a  few  hours. 
He  would  not  actually  sail  for  some  time  to  come ;  but  the  little  leave 
that  he  could  hope  to  obtain  after  this  must,  he  explained,  be  spent  with 
his  own  family,  and  it  was  unlikely  that  he  would  be  able  to  visit 
Longbourne  again.  "  So  you  see,"  he  concluded,  "  this  will  be  my  last 
opportunity  of  lecturing  all  you  good  folks  and  telling  you  your  duty  ; 
and  I  am  making  the  most  of  it." 

But,  although  Hugh  could  be  fluent  enough  in  the  presence  of  this 
small  member  of  the  household,  he  became  a  changed  man  under  the  eye 
of  its  mistress,  and  his  eloquence  entirely  deserted  him  when  the  time 
came  for  him  to  hold  his  farewell  interview  with  her.  They  sat  facing, 
but  not  looking  at  one  another,  in  the  library,  she  stitching  at  her 
embroidery,  and  he  pulling  his  moustache  and  studying  the  pattern  of 
the  carpet ;  and,  like  the  sentimental  couple  in  the  ballad, 

They  spoke  of  common  things, 
But  the  tears  "were  in  their  eyes. 

At  length  Hugh  could  stand  this  absurd  constraint  no  longer,  and 
broke  out  with — "  I  hope  you  don't  think  I  am  going  to  India  for  my 
own  amusement.  The  boy  said  something  to  me  just  now  which — he 
told  me  you  had  said  I  need  not  go  unless  I  liked." 

"  I  fancied,"  said  Margaret,  "  that  exchanges  were  not  difficult  to 
obtain.  But  I  don't  know  why  you  should  not  wish  to  go." 

"  Ah,  that  is  not  like  you !  that  is  not  quite  honestly  said.  You 
must  know  that  it  can  be  no  pleasure  to  me  to  leave — all  that  I  shall 
have  to  leave,  and  that  I  should  not  go,  unless  I  had  a  good  reason  for 
doing  so.  I  have  a  good  reason — several  good  reasons." 

He  broke  off,  and  looked  at  her  half  apprehensively.  He  was  un- 
decided whether  to  hope  that  she  would  understand  him  or  to  hope  that 
she  would  not.  But  she  looked  up  with  a  pleasant  smile,  and  an  evident 


630  NO  NEW  THING. 

unconsciousness  of  any  deeper  meaning  than  his  words  seemed  to 
imply. 

"  Dear  old  Hugh !  "  she  said,  "  I  know  you  have  reasons,  and  I 
suppose  I  can  guess  what  some  of  them  are.  I  ought  to  know,  if  anyone 
does,  that  your  own  pleasure  is  about  the  last  thing  that  you  ever  think 
of;  and  I  beg  your  pardon  for  having  been  so  disagreeable  to  you.  But 
I  confess  that  the  way  you  spoke  yesterday  made  me  unhappy,  and 
vexed  me.  I  thought  you  seemed  glad  to  go." 

"  No,"  said  Hugh,  in  a  low  voice ;  "  I  was  not  glad." 

"  Of  course  you  were  not;  and  even  if  you  had  been,  one  has  not  so 
many  friends  in  the  world  that  one  can  afford  to  quarrel  with  the  best 
of  them." 

"  Quarrel !  "  cried  Hugh,  aghast.     "  My  dear  Margaret !  " 

"  "Well,  I  won't  say  anything  about  quarrels ;  it  takes  two  to  make 
one,  doesn't  it  1  But  I  dare  say  you  don't  know  what  a  loss  you  will  be 
to  me.  It  seems  as  if  I  must  lose  everyone  I  cared  for." 

Hugh  was  perfectly  well  aware  that  if  she  had  cared  for  him  in  the 
way  that  he  wished  her  to  do  she  would  never  have  said  that.  "  You 
won't  lose  me,  if  I  can  help  it,"  he  answered,  cheerily ;  "  and  you  have 
the  boy,  remember.  He  will  very  soon  take  my  place — and  more  than 
my  place,  I'm  afraid.  His  sun  is  rising,  and  mine  is  setting ;  and  that 
is  quite  as  it  should  be.  Only  don't  let  him  put  me  altogether  out  of 
your  memory." 

From  which  it  may  be  inferred  that,  if  Philip  was  inclined  to  be 
jealous  of  Captain  Kenyon,  his  sentiments  were  not  far  from  being 
returned. 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  should  say  that,"  cried  Margaret,  with  some 
warmth.  "  Is  one  only  to  care  for  one  person  in  the  world  1  You  are 
not  the  less  my  friend  because  I  have  found  a  son  in  Philip.  If  Jack 
were  alive,  you  don't  think,  do  you,  that  I  should  care  less  to  see  you 
and  hear  from  you  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  answered  Hugh.  "  Why  it  stands  to  reason  that  you 
would." 

"  Then  you  don't  know  the  meaning  of  friendship,  that's  all." 

"  Don't  II"  said  Hugh,  meekly.  And  then  she  begged  his  pardon 
again,  and  they  both  laughed,  and  Margaret  cried  a  little ;  and  before 
much  more  could  be  said,  the  butler  came  in  to  announce  that  the  dog- 
cart was  at  the  door.  One  of  them  was  not  sorry  to  have  his  adieux 
cut  short.  He  promised  to  write  often ;  and  they  shook  hands,  saying 
that  they  would  certainly  meet  again  soon. 

So  they  two  parted ;  and  did  not  meet  again  for  many  a  long  day. 


NO  NEW  THING.  631 

CHAPTER  V. 
THE  YOUNG  GENERATION. 

TEN  years  make  up  a  very  respectable  slice  to  take  out  of  any  man's  life. 
Ten  years  advance  the  restless  world  so  far  in  its  eternal  task  of  waste 
and  renewal,  bring  such  a  vast  accumulation  of  announcements  to 
the  first  column  of  the  Times,  and  witness  so  much  laughing  and 
weeping,  learning  and  forgetting,  that  they  cannot  but  leave  perceptible 
traces  upon  bodies  which  at  best  are  only  constructed  to  endure  through 
six  or  seven  of  such  periods.  Yet  when,  after  protracted  wanderings, 
we  revisit  familiar  scenes,  it  is  seldom  change  so  much  as  the  lack  of  it, 
that  astonishes  us.  The  houses  are  where  they  were ;  the  church  steeple 
maintains  its  position,  looking  down  upon  the  well-known  tombstones, 
with  but  a  few  additions  to  their  number ;  everywhere  are  evidences  of 
the  mortifying  fact  that  summer  and  winter,  seed-time  and  harvest,  have 
succeeded  one  another  quite  in  the  usual  fashion,  in  spite  of  our  absence. 
It  takes  nothing  less  than  an  earthquake,  a  conflagration,  or  a  deluge,  to 
give  us  the  shock  which  we  had  half  looked  forward  to.  In  individuals, 
too,  as  in  places,  the  work  of  a  twelvemonth  is  often  more  destructive  than 
that  of  a  dozen.  We  return,  after  ten  years  of  not  more  than  ordinary 
vicissitude,  to  find  our  friends  a  little  greyer  perhaps,  a  little  stouter, 
a  little  less  active,  but  otherwise  scarcely  altered.  They  are  busied  with 
the  same  employments  as  of  yore ;  they  are  absorbed  in  the  same  petty 
cares  and  amusements ;  we  recognise  the  old  tricks  of  speech  and  ges- 
ture, the  old  virtues  and  failings,  and  too  often,  alas  !  the  old  jokes. 
The  only  startling  sensation  we  are  likely  to  experience  is  the  discovery 
that  those  whom  we  left  in  the  nursery  have  in  some  unaccountable 
manner  been  replaced  by  young  men  and  women.  The  reader  must  now 
be  asked  to  renew  acquaintance,  after  a  supposed  interval  of  ten  years, 
with  the  personages  parted  from  at  the  end  of  the  last  chapter ;  some  of 
whom,  as  will  be  seen,  have  grown  almost  out  of  recognition  in  that 
lapse  of  time,  while  others  have  remained  as  nearly  stationary  as  the 
laws  of  nature  will  permit,  and  two  have  quietly  slipped  off  the  stage 
altogether,  and  have  already  been  all  but  forgotten  by  the  survivors. 

To  Margaret  this  decade  has  given  what,  in  the  common  course  of 
things,  it  could  hardly  fail  to  do — a  less  impatient  acquiescence  in  her 
lot  as  a  rich  woman  to  whom  money  is  no  blessing  and  a  lonely  woman 
who  is  seldom  allowed  to  be  alone ;  a  clear  understanding  of  the  uses  and 
drawbacks  of  wealth ;  and,  in  addition  to  these  advantages,  a  considerable 
increase  of  employment  for  body  and  mind  in  the  shape  of  certain  re- 
sponsibilities which  shall  be  more  fully  dwelt  upon  by-and-by.  Upon 
Hugh  Ken  yon,  earning  distinction,  unaccompanied  by  notoriety,  in  de- 
sultory frontier  warfare,  and  groaning  over  uncongenial  office  work  as 
holder  of  a  staff  appointment  in  the  sweltering  heat  of  Madras,  it  has 


632  NO  NEW  THING. 

bestowed  a  fine  crop  of  grey  hairs,  a  heartfelt  detestation  of  the  East,  and 
a  brevet-colonelcy.  To  Mrs.  Winnington  it  has  brought  a  change  of 
circumstances  which,  anticipated  and  discounted  as  it  might  have  been 
by  so  far-seeing  a  lady,  has  not  the  less  contributed  towards  souring  a 
temper  which  was  never  of  the  sweetest.  The  truth  is  that,  after  the 
poor  old  Bishop  of  Crayminster's  death  and  burial,  his  savings  were 
found  to  fall  far  short  of  the  amount  which  he  had  always  led  his  wife 
to  imagine  that  she  might  trust  to  inheriting ;  and  Mr.  Brune  declared 
that,  in  the  first  agony  of  so  cruel  an  aggravation  of  her  bereavement, 
the  widow  was  for  countermanding  that  handsome  marble  eifigy  which 
adorns  the  north  transept  of  the  cathedral  and  keeps  the  virtues  of 
Bishop  Winnington  before  the  eyes  of  a  too  forgetful  public.  Possibly, 
however,  it  was  not  Mrs.  Winnington  who  defrayed  the  cost  of  the 
monument. 

When  these  lamentable  events  occurred,  Mr.  Brune  had  himself  been 
for  some  time  a  widower.  The  fragile  mistress  of  Broom  Leas  shivered 
out  of  the  world  one  bitter  January  morning,  and  was  regretted  as  much 
as,  and  missed  perhaps  rather  more  than,  she  deserved.  Her  place  was 
supplied,  so  far  as  a  mother's  place  can  be  supplied,  by  Margaret,  who 
took  almost  entire  charge  of  little  Nellie,  saw  that  the  boys  had  buttons 
on  their  shirts  and  jackets  on  their  backs,  and  in  numberless  other  ways 
proved  herself  of  invaluable  service  to  a  distressed  elderly  gentleman 
whose  notions  on  the  subject  of  household  economy  were  of  a  most  ele- 
mentary kind. 

That  Mrs.  Winnington  and  her  only  unmarried  daughter  Edith 
should  take  up  their  abode  for  a  time  with  Mrs.  Stanniforth,  after  cir- 
cumstances obliged  them  to  vacate  the  Palace,  was  but  natural  and 
proper.  It  was  only  a  temporary  arrangement,  Mrs.  Winnington  was 
careful  to  explain.  She  herself  disapproved  on  principle  of  joint  estab- 
lishments ;  and,  although  she  was  willing  so  far  to  comply  with  dear 
Margaret's  wishes  as  to  remain  where  she  was  until  a  suitable  home 
could  be  found  for  her  elsewhere,  it  must  be  clearly  understood  that  she 
could  never  consent  to  inhabit  Longbourne  upon  any  other  footing 
than  that  of  a  guest.  Nevertheless,  time  went  on,  and,  somehow  or  other, 
the  suitable  home  could  not  be  discovered.  Sometimes  Mrs.  Winnington 
took  lodgings  in  London  for  a  month  or  so,  sometimes  she  allowed  her- 
self a  brief  period  of  rest  and  relaxation  at  the  sea-side,  and  her  inter- 
views with  house-agents  were  constant ;  but  nothing  came  of  it  all ;  and 
Mrs.  Prosser,  the  housekeeper,  respectfully  begged  to  be  informed 
whether  she  was  expected  to  take  her  orders  from  visitors  ;  because,  in 
that  case,  she  should  be  wishful  to  give  up  the  situation,  not  having  been 
accustomed  to  serve  two  mistresses. 

Perhaps  Mrs.  Prosser  was  not  the  only  person  who  would  fain  have 
sped  the  parting  guest ;  for  in  ten  years'  time  there  had  sprung  up  a 
generation  of  young  people,  whose  views  were  clear  and  decided,  as  the 
views  of  young  people  generally  are,  and  who  did  not  hesitate  to  give 


NO  NEW  THING.  633 

expression  to  them  among  themselves.  It  is  with  this  younger  genera- 
tion that  we  shall  henceforth  principally  have  to  deal ;  and  probably 
the  best  day  on  which  to  bring  them  under  the  reader's  notice  will  be 
that  of  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  cricket  match,  a  day  memorable  on 
various  grounds — memorable  in  the  annals  of  cricket  as  having  witnessed 
the  defeat  of  Cambridge  in  a  single  innings ;  memorable  to  the  Brunes 
and  Stanniforths  as  being  the  crown  and  finish  of  their  respective  repre- 
sentatives' Oxford  career ;  memorable,  above  all,  as  the  day  on  which 
"Walter  carried  out  his  bat,  after  having  put  together  a  score  of  182, 
without  giving  a  single  chance  from  beginning  to  end. 

Of  the  many  thousands  who  strolled  round  and  round  Lord's  ground 
during  the  two  days  of  the  match,  not  a  few  stood  still  to  stare  at  a  re- 
markably pretty  girl,  who,  perched  upon  the  box  of  a  carriage,  with  her 
eyes  fixed  intently  upon  the  players,  was  evidently  unconscious  of  the 
admiration  which  she  was  exciting.  A  very  small  proportion  of  them — 
one  in  a  thousand,  perhaps — knew  her  name ;  for  Miss  Brune's  visits 
to  London  were  few  and  far  between,  and  her  acquaintance  with 
fashionable  society  was  confined  to  such  members  of  it  as  dwelt 
within  the  limits  of  her  own  county.  Nor,  indeed,  had  she  any 
present  desire  to  enlarge  that  acquaintance,  or  to  scrutinise  the  throng 
of  celebrities  and  beauties  collected  in  her  neighbourhood,  having 
little  in  common  with  the  ladies  who  frequent  Lord's  rather  with 
a  view  to  be  seen  than  to  see.  Everything  at  its  proper  time.  Miss 
Bnine  had  no  objection  to  the  pleasures  of  social  intercourse  as  obtain- 
able at  the  half-dozen  or  so  of  balls  to  which  she  was  taken  in  the 
course  of  the  year,  or  at  the  garden-parties  which  were  the  form  of  enter- 
tainment most  in  favour  round  Crayminster ;  but  she  went  to  Lord's  to 
look  at  cricket,  and  it  is  certain  that  she  was  as  capable  a  judge  of  the 
game  as  any  man  in  the  Pavilion.  It  was  not  for  nothing  that  she  had 
had  her  shins  bruised  and  her  finger-nails  cracked  by  the  bowling  of  a 
succession  of  brothers,  all  of  whom  had  subsequently  achieved  renown 
on  better-known  fields  than  that  of  Broom  Leas;  and.  although  long 
skirts  and  conventional  prejudices  forbade  her  any  longer  to  handle  the 
bat  and  ball  on  her  own  account,  there  were  few  of  the  great  annual 
contests  in  which  she  did  not  take  a  vicarious  part.  This  particular 
University  match — the  last  in  which  Walter  was  to  figure — had  occupied 
all  her  thoughts  for  weeks  beforehand,  and  during  the  earlier  part  of  it 
she  had  sat  motionless  upon  her  perch,  her  right  hand  supporting  her 
chin  and  her  left  holding  up  her  parasol,  as  inattentive  to  the  ceaseless 
babble  of  her  younger  brothers  as  she  had  been  unconscious  of  the 
flattering  remarks  to  which  her  small  regular  features,  her  abundant 
dark  hair,  and  her  blue  eyes  were  giving  rise  among  the  ranks  of  the 
bystanders. 

But  now  the  first  day  was  past  and  gone,  the  morning  of  the  second 
was  wearing  away;  Cambridge,  having  followed  their  innings,  were 
making  a  bad  fight  of  it ;  the  result  of  the  game  was  a  foregone  conclusion, 


634  NO   NEW  THING. 

and  Miss  Brune  was  able  to  bestow  some  notice  upon  the  outer  world, 
and  to  nod  in  a  friendly  way  to  a  strikingly  handsome  and  well-dressed 
young  man,  who  lounged  up  to  the  side  of  the  carriage  and  took  off  his 
hat  to  her. 

"  Rather  poor  fun,"  he  remarked,  with  a  backward  jerk  of  his  head 
towards  the  field. 

"  Yes ;  isn't  it  horrid  1     I  do  hate  a  follow-on." 

"  It  is  better  than  a  draw,  though,  I  suppose." 

"  Oh,  of  course ;  but  it's  disappointing  all  the  same.  I  wanted  to 
see  Walter  go  in  again." 

"  How  inconsiderate  of  you  to  wish  for  such  a  thing  on  a  blazing  hot 
day  like  this  !  If  I  were  Waltei1,  I  should  be  very  well  satisfied  to  rest 
upon  my  laurels." 

"Ah,  but  you  don't  care  about  cricket,"  said  Miss  Brune,  looking 
down  pityingly  upon  her  interlocutor,  who  had  drawn  a  mat  over  the 
top  of  the  wheel  to  protect  his  coat-sleeves,  and  was  resting  his  elbows 
upon  it,  while  he  contemplated  her  with  a  sort  of  lazy  complacency  and 
approbation. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  like  cricket  very  well — in  a  mild  way.  I 
don't  think  it  quite  the  only  thing  in  the  world  worth  living  for,  1 
confess." 

"  No  more  does  Walter,"  retorted  Miss  Brune,  with  quick  resentment. 

"  Who  said  he  did  ?  Don't  be  so  peppery,  Nell !  Perhaps  I  wasn't 
thinking  of  Walter  at  all." 

"  You  meant  me,  then,  I  suppose.  Now,  Philip,  if  you  are  going  to 
say  disagreeable  things,  you  had  better  take  yourself  off." 

"  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  answered  the  other,  climbing  de- 
liberately into  the  carriage,  which  was  empty  at  that  moment,  and 
kneeling  upon  the  seat,  so  that  his  face  was  close  to  Miss  Brune's  elbow. 
"  I  shall  stay  as  long  as  I  please,  and  say  as  many  disagreeable  things  as 
I  like." 

"  You  cannot  force  me  to  listen  to  you,  at  all  events,"  cried  the  girl, 
resolutely  turning  her  back  upon  him. 

"  Very  well ;  I'll  endeavour  to  be  amiable.  I  think  cricket  a  glorious 
national  pastime ;  and  if  I  could  play  as  well  as  Walter,  I  should  think 
it  more  glorious  still.  Will  that  satisfy  you  ?  You'll  allow  that  it  isn't 
a  game  for  a  bad  player." 

"  You  could  play  well  enough,  if  you  chose  to  take  the  trouble," 
answered  Nellie,  seriously ;  "  it's  no  use  attempting  to  do  anything 
without  practice.  But,  I  suppose,"  she  added  presently,  "you  like 
private  theatricals  and  dancing  and  flirtation,  and  all  that  sort  of  amuse- 
ment better." 

"  Who's  saying  disagreeable  things  now  ?  I  never  knew  anybody 
so  quarrelsome  as  you  are.  One  would  have  thought  that  you  would 
have  been  on  your  good  behaviour  for  the  first  two  or  three  days  after 
meeting  an  old  friend  whom  you  haven't  seen  for  so  many  months — bi\t 


NO   NEW  THINQ.  635 

no  !  However,  I  don't  mean  to  quarrel  with  you.  In  the  first  place,  it  is 
too  hot ;  in  the  second  place,  we  have  the  whole  summer  before  us ;  and 
in  the  third  place,  public  wrangling  is  unseemly," 

Nellie  turned  her  dark  blue  eyes  upon  the  speaker  with  a  look  of 
some  alarm  and  contrition.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  be  disagreeable  really, 
Philip,"  she  said. 

"  I  forgive  you,"  replied  the  other,  gravely.  "  Try  not  to  do  it  again, 
that's  all.  Now  tell  me  all  the  Longbourne  news.  Between  ourselves, 
I  am  sick  of  Oxford  and  sick  of  private  theatricals ;  and,  as  for  dancing 
and  flirtation,  I  should  imagine  you  were  more  proficient  in  those  arts 
than  I  can.pretend  to  be." 

But  Miss  Brune  was  not  listening  to  him.  "  Oh,  what  was  that  1 " 
she  exclaimed.  "  Eight  wickets  down  !  How  did  he  get  out  ?  I  didn't 
see  it  at  all,  did  you  ?  This  comes  of  talking,  instead  of  looking  at  the 
game." 

"  Oh,  bowled,  or  caught,  or  run  out,  or  something ;  /  don't  know. 
Anyhow,  there's  an  end  of  him  :  and  there  will  be  an  end  of  the  whole 
business  presently.  Tell  me  about  Longbourne  !  " 

"  There  is  no  Longbourne  news  to  tell.  Nothing  ever  happens  in  our 
part  of  the  world,  you  know ;  at  least,  nothing  that  you  would  care  to 
hear  about.  Mrs.  Stanniforth  is  looking  tired  and  ill,  I  think.  I 
wanted  her  to  come  up  with  us  and  see  the  match ;  but  she  said  she 
could  hardly  manage  it.  Of  course,  if  you  had  been  in  the  eleven,  it 
would  have  been  another  thing.  How  glad  she  will  be  to  have  you  back 
again !  " 

"  Dear  old  Meg  !  Any  prospect  of  Mrs.  Winnington's  finding  a 
house  1 " 

Nellie  shook  her  head  and  sighed.  "Papa  says  the  only  chance  of 
getting  rid  of  her  would  be  for  Mrs.  Stanniforth  to  let  Longbourne,  and 
go  away  until  she  was  settled  somewhere.  But,  unfortunately,  Mrs. 
Stanniforth  doesn't  want  to  get  rid  of  her." 

"I  wonder  now,"  said  Philip,  musingly,  "whether  somebody  couldn't 
be  found  to  marry  Mrs.  Winnington  1 " 

"  Oh,  I'm  afraid  not.  Oh  no ;  I  should  think  there  could  not  be  the 
faintest  shadow  of  a  hope  of  that." 

"  Well,  one  never  can  tell ;  a  fool  is  born  every  hour.  Do  you  know 
that  Colonel  Kenyon  is  expected  home  from  India  1 " 

"  Yes  ;  Mrs.  Stanniforth  told  me.  You  are  not  thinking  of  him  as 
a  husband  for  Mrs.  Winnington,  are  you  1 " 

"  No ;  hardly.  Though,  now  you  mention  it,  I  don't  know  that  he 
mightn't  do.  Perhaps  it  wouldn't  be  an  altogether  unsuitable  match. 
He  must  be  some  years  younger  than  the  dear  old  lady,  certainly  ;  but  I 
should  imagine  him  the  sort  of  man  who  would  look  about  twice  his  age, 
whereas  our  beloved  Winnington  is  still  quite  blooming  by  candlelight ; 
and,  at  all  events,  they  would  have  one  point  of  resemblance,  they  are 
both  bores." 


636  NO  NEW  THING. 

"  Why  do  you  think  Colonel  Kenyon  a  bore  1  Mrs.  Stanniforth  says 
he  is  one  of  the  best  men  that  ever  lived." 

"  You  give  me  question  and  answer  in  the  same  breath.  However, 
I  admit  that  I  am  prejudiced.  I  daresay  he  isn't  a  bad  sort  of  old  fogey, 
when  you  know  him.  I  don't  remember  much  about  him  myself;  only 
I  can  answer  for  the  fact  that  he  writes  uncommonly  long-winded  letters, 
and  then  he  has  been  held  up  before  me  all  my  life  as  a  bright  example. 
One  can't  feel  very  amiably  towards  people  of  that  stamp.  He  is  such 
a  very,  very  white  sheep,  that  I,  who  have  a  tuft  or  two  of  black  on  my 
fleece,  have  some  difficulty  in  recognising  him  as  a  brother.  Speaking 
honestly  now,  don't  you  think  that,  if  it  were  literally  true  that  the 
King  could  do  no  wrong,  it  would  be  about  time  to  cut  off  the  King's 
head,  and  despatch  him  into  a  world  where  he  could  feel  himself  more 
at  home  than  in  this  one  ? " 

But  Nellie  was  spared  the  necessity  of  making  any  reply,  for  at  this 
juncture  one  of  the  players  hit  the  ball  well  up  into  the  air,  and  the  next 
moment  a  roar  ran  round  the  ground,  to  which  Philip  contributed  his 
share  by  singing  out,  "  Well  caught !  " 

"  Well  caught !  "  echoed  Miss  Brune,  rather  contemptuously ;  "  why, 
my  dear  Philip,  how  could  he  help  himself !  He  might  have  caught  it 
in  his  mouth." 

"  Perhaps  so ;  but  I  never  saw  the  catch  yet  that  did  not  fill  me 
with  admiration  and  amazement.  If  I  had  been  in  that  man's  place,  the 
ball  would  inevitably  have  slipped  through  my  fingers,  and  you  would  be 
inwardly  joining  in  the  hooting  at  this  moment.  I  tremble  when  I  think 
of  the  number  of  times  that  I  shall  be  disgraced  in  your  eyes  before  the 
autumn." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  will  play  in  a  single  match,  unless  Walter 
absolutely  drags  you  on  to  the  ground,"  said  Nellie. 

And  then  Mr.  Brune  came  up,  followed  by  a  small  phalanx  of  young 
sons,  and  Philip  descended  from  the  carriage,  and  presently  sauntered 
away. 

He  met  with  many  greetings,  and  had  to  remove  his  glossy  hat  over  and 
over  again,  as  he  made  his  way  through  the  crowd;  for  Mr.  Marescalchi 
was  tolerably  well  known  in  London  as  one  of  the  best  amateur  actors 
of  the  day,  and  his  pleasant  address  had  recommended  him  to  the  favour 
of  a  few  great  ladies,  and  consequently  to  that  of  numerous  others  who 
aspired  to  be  great.  At  Oxford  he  had  been  in  a  good  set ;  that  is  to 
say,  that  he  had  associated  principally  with  youths  of  noble  birth  or 
noble  fortunes;  and  as  he  had  adapted  himself  to  their  manners  and 
customs,  had  spent  money  freely  and  had  always  been  cheery  and  in 
good  spirits,  he  had  ended  by  acquiring  a  popularity  extending  beyond 
University  circles.  Through  the  medium  of  his  college  acquaintances  he 
had  made  his  way  into  houses  the  portals  of  which  Mrs.  Winnington, 
for  instance,  with  all  her  superior  claims  to  recognition,  had  never  suc- 
ceeded in  forcing  :  hence  some  severe  observations  about  snobs  and 


NO  NEW  THING.  637 

toadies  were  occasionally  heard  in  the  vicinity  of  Longbourne.  Mrs. 
Winnington  did  not  love  this  upstart;  but  society  at  large,  which 
naturally  did  not  care  a  pin  whether  he  were  an  upstart  or  no,  liked 
him  very  well,  and  petted  him  as  much  as  his  heart  could  desire. 

He  threaded  his  way  among  the  carriage- wheels  and  luncheon- 
baskets  and  bright-coloured  parasols  and  attendant  flunkeys,  basking  in 
the  moral  and  material  sunshine,  smiled  upon  by  the  world,  and  smiling 
back  in  return — a  faultlessly  appointed  little  figure,  from  the  bouquet 
in  his  button-hole  to  the  tips  of  his  shiny  boots ;  and  doubtless  many 
of  those  who  watched  his  progress  thought  him  much  to  be  envied. 
There  is  a  certain  combination  of  youth,  health,  prosperity,  good  looks, 
and  fine  clothes  upon  which  even  the  sternest  philosopher  can  hardly 
help  casting  just  one  longing,  lingering  look.  When  the  match  and  the 
shouting  were  over,  and  the  released  spectators  were  rushing  towards 
the  gates,  jostling  one  another  in  accordance  with  the  custom  of  all 
assemblages  after  a  show,  Mr.  Marescalchi  loitered  on  the  ground,  and 
let  the  stream  pass  by.  He  himself  was  seldom  in  a  hurry,  and  dis- 
liked being  pushed  about  and  elbowed.  And  while,  half-sitting  upon 
his  stick,  he  surveyed  with  placid  compassion  the  foolish  people  who 
were  making  themselves  so  unnecessarily  hot,  a  tall,  broad-shouldered 
young  man  came  striding  across  the  grass  behind  him,  and  clapped  him 
on  the  shoulder,  with — 

"  Hullo,  Philip !  you're  the  very  fellow  I  wanted  to  see.  What  train 
are  you  going  down  by  ?  " 

Marescalchi  turned  round,  rubbed  his  shoulder,  and  looked  up 
reproachfully  at  the  new-comer.  "  How  you  made  me  jump  !  "  he 
exclaimed. 

The  other  burst  into  a  great  laugh.  "Made  you  jump,  indeed  !  one 
would  think  you  were  an  old  woman.  This  comes  of  ruining  your  nerves 
by  smoking  all  day  and  sitting  up  all  night.  Perhaps  you  thought  I 
was  going  to  serve  a  writ  upon  you,  though  1  "  he  added,  in  a  more  sober 
tone. 

"  My  dear,  good  fellow,  don't  talk  about  such  horrid  things  !  So  you 
never  got  a  second  innings,  after  all.  Nellie  was  quite  plaintive  over 
it,  and  snubbed  me  savagely  because  I  suggested  that  the  weather  was 
haixlly  suitable  for  athletics." 

"  What  a  lazy  little  beggar  you  are  !  Well,  you  haven't  answered  my 
question  yet.  Are  you  going  down  by  the  3.45  or  the  6.20?  Nellie  and 
the  others  have  gone  off  to  look  at  the  pictures,  so  I  don't  suppose  we 
shall  catch  the  express." 

Marescalchi  had  put  a  cigarette  between  his  lips,  and  was  stooping 
down  to  scrape  a  match  upon  the  sole  of  his  boot.  "  I  don't  think  I 
can  manage  to  get  down  to  Longbourne  this  evening,"  he  said;  "  I've 
got  a  lot  of  things  to  do  in  town." 

"  Oh  bosh !  "  returned  his  friend ;  "  what  can  you  want  to  do  in 
London  at  this  time  of  the  year  ?  You  had  much  better  come  down  with 


638  NO  NEW  THING, 

us."  He  added,  after  a  momentary  hesitation,  "  It  '11  be  an  awful  sell 
for  Mrs.  Stanniforth  if  you  don't  turn  up." 

Walter  Brune  the  man  was  an  enlarged  duplicate  of  Walter  the 
boy.  Fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  fresh-complexioned,  he  bore  no  trace  of 
resemblance  to  the  Brunes,  who  were  a  small,  dark,  and  wiry  race. 
"  Walter  is  a  Boulger  from  crown  to  heel,"  his  father  used  to  say,  "  and 
if  I  were  not  afraid  of  his  giving  me  a  thrashing,  I'd  disown  him." 
Walter,  indeed,  could  have  thrashed  most  men.  He  was  not  handsome, 
except  in  so  far  as  he  had  the  beauty  of  glowing  health  and  a  splendid 
physique ;  but  his  face  was  the  embodiment  of  honesty  and  good  humour, 
and  he  was  certainly  pleasant  to  look  at. 

Marescalchi,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  did  not  look  at  him  now,  but 
answered  in  an  off- hand  way  :  "  Oh,  I  shall  turn  up  all  right  some  time 
to-morrow.  No ;  not  to-morrow,  by-the-by,  but  next  day.  I  remember 
now  that  I  promised  to  dine  with  Salford  to-morrow." 

Walter  looked  dissatisfied.  "  Throw  him  over,  then,"  he  said, 
curtly.  "  He  won't  miss  you,  I'll  be  bound ;  and  Mrs.  Stanniforth  will." 

"  My  dear  Walter,"  began  Marescalchi,  still  smiling,  but  with  eye- 
brows slightly  raised,  "  don't  you  think ?  " 

"  Don't  I  think  I  had  better  mind  my  own  business,  eh  ?  No ;  I 
don't.  After  dry-nursing  you  for  so  many  years,  I  have  a  right  to  lec- 
ture you  occasionally ;  and  you  can't  say  I  claim  it  very  often  now-a- 
days.  I  have  never  said  a  word  against  any  other  of  your  great  swell 
friends — have  I  ? — though  I  don't  think  you  have  got  much  good  from 
some  of  them  ;  but  I  do  wish  you  would  drop  that  fellow  Salford.  He's 
as  thorough  a  blackguard  as  ever  stepped." 

"  Dear,  dear  !  what  has  he  been  doing  1 "  asked  Philip,  with  an  air  of 
innocent  wonder. 

"  You  know  well  enough.  For  one  thing,  he  is  never  quite  sober, 
and  I  hate  a  sot.  But  that's  not  the  worst  of  him.  I  don't  think  I'm 
particularly  straitlaced,  but  there  are  some  things  that  I  can't  get 
over.  I  have  never  seen  Salford  without  longing  to  break  his  neck 
since  that  poor  little  girl  from  the  pastrycook's  disappeared.  She  was  a 
silly  little  giggling  thing ;  but  there  wasn't  a  bit  of  harm  in  her  till 
you  fellows  chose  to  amuse  yourselves  by  turning  her  empty  head  ;  and 
now  she  is  irretrievably  ruined,  poor  wretch  !  If  you  or  I  had  done  such 
a  thing,  we  should  have  been  called  infernal  scoundrels ;  but  Salford  is 
a  marquis ;  so  he's  a  fine  fellow,  and  Miss  Fanny  is  a  deuced  lucky  girl. 
That's  the  way  you  look  at  it,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  There  is  one  thing,"  remarked  Philip,  imperturbably,  "  that  I  have 
always  noticed  about  people  who  go  twice  to  church  on  Sunday ;  they 
get  so  puffed  up  that  they  can't  believe  in  their  neighbours'  possessing  a 
comparative  degree  of  virtue.  It's  a  proud  boast,  I  know,  to  be  able 
to  sit  out  two  sermons  in  a  week ;  I  couldn't  do  it  myself,  and  I  look 
with  awe  and  reverence  upon  those  who  can ;  but  it  doesn't  exactly 
confer  upon  you  a  monopoly  of  righteousness.  Where's  your  Christian 


NO  NEW  THING.  639 

charity,  my  dear  Walter  1  How  do  you  know  that  Salford  was  the  cul- 
prit ?  For  anything  he  has  ever  said  to  me  about  it,  he  may  be  as  inno- 
cent of  spiriting  Fanny  away  as  I  am  myself.  I  wish  the  man,  whoever 
he  was,  could  have  made  it  convenient  to  wait  a  few  months,  I  know  ; 
for  her  successor  was  ugly  enough  to  frighten  one  out  of  the  shop." 

"  I  didn't  think  Salford  made  much  of  a  secret  of  it,"  said  Walter. 
"  At  all  events,  everybody  put  it  down  to  him." 

"  And  do  you  believe  what  everybody  says  ? " 

"  If  you  ask  me,  I  do  in  the  present  instance.  And  I  do  not  believe 
in  Salford's  possessing  even  what  you  call  a  comparative  degree  of 
virtue.  And  here  he  comes,  blind  drunk,  as  usual.  Well ;  I  shall 
be  off." 

But  Lord  Salford  had  joined  the  two  friends  before  Walter  could 
effect  his  escape,  and  was  offering  civil  congratulations  to  the  latter,  who 
received  him  as  a  badger  receives  a  terrier.  "  Never  saw  you  in  such 
form  before,  Brune ;  you  made  their  bowling  look  pretty  foolish.  That's 
what  I  call  real  cricket,  you  know." 

"  Do  you  ? " 

"  I  do,  upon  my  word — first  class.  I  mean  to  say,  it  was  the  game 
you  know." 

Walter  growled  out  something  about  hoping  he  always  played  the 
game. 

"  Oh  Lord,  yes,  my  dear  fellow,  I  know  you  do  ;  but  everybody  gets 
careless  and  makes  mistakes  sometimes — everybody,  except  you,  that  is. 
You  never  make  mistakes,  by  George  !  " 

Lord  Salford  was  certainly  not  blind  drunk,  nor  perhaps  was  he 
what  a  policeman  would  have  called  drunk  at  all;  but  it  would  be 
saying  too  much  to  assert  that  he  had  not  been  drunk  the  night  before, 
and  it  is  probable  that  he  had  been  refreshing  himself  with  liberal 
draughts  of  brandy  and  soda  in  the  course  of  the  morning.  He  was  a 
red  young  man — red  as  to  his  hair,  his  complexion,  his  eyes  and  his  hands ; 
and  he  was  so  singularly  ugly  that  it  must  have  required  all  the  added 
halo  of  his  marquisate  to  touch  the  heart  of  any  pastrycook's  assistant. 
As  he  stood  talking,  with  his  thumbs  in  his  trousers'  pockets,  and  his  stick 
tucked  under  his  arm,  Walter  looked  him  slowly  all  over,  from  head  to 
foot,  with  an  undisguised  contempt  which  he  could  hardly  have  failed 
to  notice,  if  he  had  been  at  all  an  observant  person.  But  he  was  not 
very  observant.  He  went  on,  in  blissful  unconsciousness  of  these 
withering  glances  : — 

"  Well,  Marescalchi,  what's  going  to  become  of  you  now  ?  Going 
down  the  country  1  Devilish  slow  work  down  in  the  country  at  this 
time  of  the  year.  I'm  off  to  Norway  to-morrow  morning.  Fishing,  fresh 
air,  early  hours — all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know.  Doctor  says  I  must 
go  easy  for  a  bit." 

Oddly  enough,  it  was  not  Philip,  but  Walter  who  looked  confused 
by  this  embarrassing  announcement.  That  artless  giant  turned  as  red 


640  NO  NEW  THING. 

as  Lord  Salford  himself,  fidgeted,  cast  his  eyes  down,  and  altogether 
presented  much  more  the  appearance  of  a  detected  liar  than  of  one  who 
has  detected  his  neighbour  in  a  lie.  Marescalchi's  calm  was  not  in  the 
least  disturbed. 

"  Going  to  Norway,  are  you  ? "  said  he ;  "  I'm  very  glad  you  men- 
tioned it.  When  you  came  up,  I  was  just  telling  Brune  that  I  was  going 
to  dine  with  you  to-morrow  evening ;  and  I  should  certainly  have  gone 
to  your  club  at  eight  o'clock,  if  I  hadn't  happened  to  meet  you  now.  Are 
you  quite  certain  you  didn't  ask  me  ?  " 

Lord  Salford  stared.  "  No,  I  ain't  quite  certain,"  he  answered.  "  I 
don't  remember  anything  about  it ;  but  I  wouldn't  take  my  oath  I 
didn't  ask  you.  Beg  your  pardon  if  I  did,  I'm  sure." 

"  Oh,  never  mind,"  said  Philip  magnanimously ;  "  I  dare  say  it  was 
my  mistake :  I'm  always  getting  my  engagements  all  wrong."  And 
when  Lord  Salford  had  passed  on,  he  added  :  "  I  believe  he  did  ask  me, 
all  the  same ;  biit  perhaps  I  haven't  lost  much.  After  all,  Walter,  I 
think  you're  not  far  wrong  about  him;  he  is  a  drunken  sort  of  sweep." 

"  Anyhow,"  remarked  Walter,  who  had  recovered  his  cheerfulness, 
"  you  have  not  got  to  dine  with  him  now ;  so  you  may  as  well  come 
home  with  me." 

But  Philip  explained  that  he  really  couldn't  do  that.  Upon  further 
reflection,  he  felt  sure  that  he  had  some  engagement  or  other  for  the 
following  evening.  If  it  wasn't  Salford,  it  must  have  been  somebody 
else  who  had  asked  him  to  dinner.  He  couldn't  speak  with  any  cer- 
tainty upon  the  point  until  he  should  have  been  to  his  hotel  and  glanced 
over  his  notes. 

"  Well,  then,  go  back  to  your  hotel,"  persisted  Walter,  "  and  if  you 
find  you  are  free,  you  will  have  plenty  of  time  to  pack  up  and  join  us 
at  the  station." 

Philip  said,  "All  right,  old  man";  and  so  Walter  went  away, 
knowing  full  well  that  he  would  search  the  platform  in  vain  for  his 
friend's  figure,  when  the  hour  of  departure  arrived. 

As  soon  as  he  was  quite  out  of  sight,  Philip  heav  ed  a  sigh  of  relief 
and  walked  off,  humming  an  air  from  an  opera. 


THE 


CORNHILL    MAGAZINE. 


JUNE,  1882. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN. 

HAT  Colonel  Kenyon  should  make 
for  Longbourne  immediately  after 
landing  upon  his  native  shores  was 
quite  natural  and  proper.  Mrs. 
Winnington  conceded  as  much,  and 
Mrs.  Winnington  was  admitted  to 
be  an  authority  upon  matters  of 
propriety.  "I  think,  my  dear," 
said  she,  "  that  you  ought  to  have 
Hugh  here  for  a  time,  when  he 
comes  back.  Now  that  his  mother 
is  dead,  he  has  no  home  of  his  own 
to  go  to,  and  perhaps  you  owe  it  to 
him  to  show  him  a  little  civility. 
You  might  send  a  note  to  Ports- 
mouth to  await  his  arrival,  inviting 
him  to  come  and  stay  with  you  for 
ten  days  or  a  fortnight.  It  would 
be  as  well  just  to  mention  the  dates, 
because  people  who  have  been  in 
India  get  such  very  queer  notions  of  hospitality,  and  poor  dear  Hugh 
was  always  a  little  dense  about  knowing  when  to  take  himself  off.  I 
remember,  in  days  gone  by,  when  he  used  to  call  upon  us  at  the  Palace, 
how  much  help  he  required  to  get  out  of  the  room.  Upon  one  occasion 
I  actually  had  to  pick  up  his  hat  and  umbrella,  and  thrust  them  into 
VOL.  XLV. — NO.  270.  31. 


642  NO  NEW  THING. 

his  hand.  Quite  in  a  friendly  way,  you  know,  making  a  sort  of  joke  of 
it ;  but  if  I  had  not  done  something  of  the  kind  he  would  never  have 
moved  at  all.  Yes ;  I  think  you  should  let  him  find  an  invitation 
waiting  for  him.  He  would  feel  it  as  a  very  kind  piece  of  attention,  I 
am  sure." 

And  Margaret  did  not  consider  herself  called  upon  to  state  that  such 
an  invitation,  minus  the  time-limit,  as  her  mother  described,  had  been 
written  and  despatched  to  Madras  some  months  before. 

Various'  circumstances  had  prevented  Colonel  Kenyon  from  breaking 
his  long  spell  of  foreign  service  by  a  return  to  England  on  leave.  The 
battery  of  horse  artillery  to  which  he  had  been  attached  had  been 
ordered  home  long  ago,  directly  after  the  first  of  the  little  wars  in  which 
he  had  been  engaged  \  but  he  had  not  accompanied  it,  as  at  that  time  he 
had  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  some  further  service.  Then  had  come 
in  quick  succession  the  marriage  of  his  two  sisters  and  the  death  of  his 
mother,  entailing  a  disruption  of  all  direct  home  ties ;  and,  although 
when  the  fighting  was  over,  and  he  had  gained  a  brevet-colonelcy,  a 
C.B.,  and  a  bullet  in  his  left  shoulder  as  his  share  in  the  results  of  the 
same,  he  might  have  got  away  for  a  time  from  a  country  that  he  hated, 
he  chose  rather,  upon  mature  consideration,  to  accept  the  offer  of  a  well- 
paid  staff  appointment,  to  serve  out  his  five  years,  and  then  to  turn  his 
back  upon  India  for  good  and  all.  To  lay  by  money  and  provide  himself 
with  something  like  a  competency  was  the  chief  object  of  his  life ;  for  he 
had  ever  before  him  a  distant,  bright  ideal,  towards  the  realisation  of 
which  this  prosaic  achievement  was  a  small,  yet  absolutely  necessary, 
step.  A  journey  from  Madras  to  London  and  back  is  not  to  be  per- 
formed without  a  considerable  outlay ;  therefore  he  had  stoutly  resisted 
his  own  longings  and  Margaret's  frequent  entreaties,  and  had  patiently 
bided  his  time,  comforting  himself  in  moments  of  depression  with  an 
altogether  illogical  conviction  that  so  much  labour  and  self-denial  must 
surely  obtain  their  reward  at  last. 

A  more  ardent  lover  might  perhaps  have  acted  differently,  but  a 
more  ardent  lover  might  have  been  less  consistently  faithful.  Fidelity  to 
a  dream  would  appear  to  be  about  the  toughest  sort  of  fidelity  of  which 
we  mortals  are  capable ;  and,  according  to  enlightened  students  of  human 
nature,  all  love,  in  the  romantic  acceptation  of  the  term,  partakes  of  the 
character  of  dreams.  Nothing,  say  they,  is  so  inevitably  certain  to  dispel 
its  illusions  as  daily  intercourse  with  the  adored  creature ;  and  in  those 
rare  cases  in  which  men  have  remained  true  to  their  first  love  for  a 
matter  of  ten  years  or  more,  it  is  almost  invariably  absence  that  has  kept 
them  so.  Be  that  as  it  may,  Hugh  Kenyon  was  as  much  in  love  with 
Margaret  Stanniforth  all  through  his  Indian  career  as  he  had  been  at 
the  beginning  of  it.  His  love,  it  is  true,  was  of  a  sober  kind,  as  became 
a  grey-headed  man  whose  acquaintance  had  been  chiefly  with  the  seamy 
side  of  life ;  but  it  may  have  been  to  that  very  attribute  that  it  owed  its 
constancy.  For  the  rest,  nobody  knew  better  than  he  did  that  his  vision 


NO  NEW  THING.  643 

of  happiness  rested  upon  no  more  solid  foundation  than  strength  of  will 
and  a  vague  faith  in  poetical  justice.  Margaret's  long  letters,  in  which 
the  cares  and  interests  of  her  daily  life  were  fully  treated  of,  and  most  of 
the  episodes  of  Philip  Marescalchi's  school  and  college  career  were  duly 
set  forth,  had  convinced  him  that  time  had  passed  a  healing  hand  over 
her  wounds ;  and  he  no  longer  feared,  as  he  had  once  done,  that  in  asking 
her  to  be  his  wife  he  might  seem  to  outrage  the  memory  of  her  husband 
and  his  friend.  This  was  a  comfort,  so  far  as  it  went,  but  it  did  not  go 
very  far.  He  perceived  that,  if  she  was  less  forlorn,  she  stood  in  the 
less  need  of  a  protector ;  nor  could  he  disguise  from  himself  that  his 
prediction  was  in  course  of  fulfilment,  and  that  Marescalchi  already  stood, 
to  some  extent,  in  the  position  which  he  had  once  occupied. 

All  this  being  so,  it  is  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at  that  Colonel 
Kenyon  should  have  made  few  new  friends  during  the  lengthy  period  of 
his  exile,  nor  that  he  should  have  passed  for  a  rather  dull  and  morose 
fellow  in  the  Madras  Presidency.  He  possessed  a  photograph  of 
Margaret,  taken  years  before  by  the  one  Crayminster  photographer, 
which,  in  the  absence  of  its  original,  served  him  as  companion  and 
friend.  This  work  of  art  represented  a  simpering  girl  of  sixteen,  stand 
ing  beside  a  top-heavy  table,  and  dragging  a  wreath  of  paper  flowers  out 
of  a  leather- work  basket.  It  did  not  even  remotely  resemble  Margaret 
Stanniforth ;  but  its  owner  considered  it,  upon  the  whole,  a  very  satisfactory 
likeness — not  complimentary,  to  be  sure,  still  quite  pleasing.  It  accom- 
panied him  through  all  his  campaigns,  it  was  gazed  at  with  religious  fervour 
every  morning  and  evening,  and  Hugh  never  sat  down  to  indite  one  of  his 
voluminous  epistles  to  Longbourne  without  propping  it  up  on  the  desk 
before  him  to  lend  inspiration  to  his  ideas.  Sometimes  he  even  stopped 
writing  to  talk  to  it  for  a  few  minutes,  for  the  wisest  and  most  sober  of 
men  will  do  silly  things  when  nobody  is  looking  on. 

When  at  length  the  time  came  for  our  love-lorn  warrior  to  exchange 
letters  for  speech,  and  doubt  for  certainty,  he  was  by  no  means  so  over- 
joyed as  he  had  expected  to  be.  In  his  patient,  matter-of-course  sort  of 
way,  he  had  been  rather  unhappy  for  ten  years  ;  but  his  condition  had 
not  been  so  bad  but  that  it  might  easily  become  worse,  and  at  forty- 
five  a  man  takes  such  possibilities  into  consideration.  Perhaps  he  feared 
his  fate  too  much  :  it  cannot  be  said  that  his  deserts  were  small.  He 
did  not  rush  home  overland — there  being  really  no  need  for  hurry — but 
economically  took  passage  in  a  troopship,  and  in  due  time  disembarked 
at  Portsmouth,  accompanied  by  a  few  comrades  in  arms  who,  like  him- 
self, had  been  away  long  enough  to  look  for  no  very  enthusiastic  welcome 
on  their  return  to  the  mother- country. 

Colonel  Kenyon  was  so  far  more  fortunate  than  they  that  he  found  at 
his  club  in  London  a  very  kind  and  cordial  note,  informing  him  that  his 
Longbourne  friends  were  anxiously  expecting  his  arrival.  Having 
despatched  a  postcard  in  answer  to  this,  he  took  his  ticket,  on  the  following 
afternoon,  for  Crayminster,  where  a  further  and  a  wholly  unanticipated 

31—2 


644  NO  NEW  THING. 

compliment  awaited  him.  For  the  first  thing  that  he  saw,  when  the 
train  entered  the  station,  was  a  tall  lady,  dressed  all  in  black,  who  was 
eagerly  scanning  the  carriages  as  they  passed  her,  as  if  in  search  of 
some  one  whom  she  could  not  discover,  and  whose  features  and  figure  he 
would  have  recognised  among  a  thousand. 

Hugh's  heart  came  up  into  his  mouth.  He  had  never  supposed  that 
Margaret  would  think  of  coming  down  to  Orayminster  to  meet  him,  and 
her  having  done  so  filled  him  with  an  absurd  delight  and  elation.  "When 
her  eyes  rested  upon  him  for  a  second,  and  then  passed  on,  he  was  not 
hurt.  "  No  wonder  she  doesn't  know  my  yellow  cheeks  and  grey  hair," 
he  thought  to  himself.  Her  own  hair,  as  he  noticed,  in  that  momentary 
glimpse,  had  a  streak  of  silver  in  it  here  and  there ;  but  her  face — that 
pleasant,  kindly  face,  which  was  to  him  the  most  beautiful  the  world 
could  show — was  unaltered,  or  had  altered  only  for  the  better.  She  had 
a  bright  colour,  and  had  the  appearance  of  being  in  good  health  and 
good  spirits ;  and  he  could  not  help  being  a  little  glad  to  see  that  her 
widows  cap  had  disappeared,  though  she  still  wore  mourning.  All 
these  details  he  took  in  at  one  glance,  and  then  the  train  glided  on,  and 
he  lost  sight  of  her.  But,  before  it  came  to  a  standstill,  Colonel  Kenyon's 
head  was  thrust  out  of  the  window,  his  right  hand  was  fumbling  for  the 
door-handle,  and  he  was  waving  a  greeting  with  his  left,  while  he  called 
out  cheerily,  "  This  is  really  too  good  of  you." 

The  next  instant  he  was  thanking  his  stars  that  Mrs.  Stanniforth's 
back  had  been  turned  towards  him,  and  that  she  had  neither  seen  his 
signals  nor  heard  his  joyous  hail.  For  lo  and  behold  !  a  very  good-look- 
ing young  man  had  jumped  down  on  to  the  platform  and  was  embracing  her 
publicly,  in  total  disregard  of  the  customs  of  a  self-restrained  nation,  and 
Hugh  heard  her  cry,  "  At  last !  I  am  so  glad !  I  was  afraid  you  were 
not  coming  after  all." 

Colonel  Kenyon  collected  his  coats  and  umbrellas  with  the  saddened 
and  humiliated  feelings  of  a  man  who  has  answered  when  he  has  not 
been  spoken  to.  Fain  would  he  have  sneaked  out  of  the  station  without 
making  himself  known ;  but  this  was  hardly  practicable,  so  he  advanced, 
putting  as  good  a  face  upon  things  as  he  could  assume ;  and  as  soon  as 
Margaret  caught  sight  of  him  she  knew  him,  and  bade  him  welcome 
with  a  warmth  which  left  nothing  to  be  desired. 

"  Oh,  Hugh  ! "  she  exclaimed,  holding  out  both  hands ;  and  with  that 
brief  ejaculation  her  hearer  was  satisfied,  understanding  by  it  all  that  he 
was  intended  to  do.  He  himself  could  find  no  more  striking  rejoinder 
than,  "  Here  I  am,  you  see." 

"  Yes ;  but  why  did  you  not  tell  us  that  you  were  coming  by  this 
train  ?  You  only  said  you  would  be  down  in  time  for  dinner,  and  I  was 
just  thinking  of  asking  Philip  to  wait  in  the  town,  so  as  to  meet  you.  I 
needn't  introduce  you  to  Philip,  need  1 1 " 

Colonel  Kenyon  intimated  that  no  such  introduction  was  necessary  ; 
and,  as  the  two  men  shook  hands,  each  inwardly  passed  a  hasty  judgment 


NO  NEW  THING.  645 

upon  the  other.  Colonel  Kenyon  set  Philip  down  as  a  swaggeiing  young 
puppy ;  and  Marescalchi  said  to  himself  that  the  new-comer  was  a  solemn 
old  bore,  who  looked  as  if  he  would  be  certain  to  make  himself 
obnoxious  in  one  way  or  another  before  very  long.  Of  course,  however, 
they  smiled  upon  one  another  amicably,  and  said  what  the  occasion 
appeared  to  call  for ;  the  younger  man,  who  was  the  more  at  his  ease, 
showing  to  greater  advantage  than  the  elder  in  this  interchange  of 
civilities.  Marescalchi,  indeed,  prided  himself  upon  always  knowing 
the  proper  thing  to  say  and  do,  and  presently  he  gave  evidence  of  his 
nice  perception  by  a  truly  magnanimous  offer. 

"  You  two  will  have  lots  to  talk  about,"  he  remarked,  when  they  had 
passed  out  of  the  station,  and  were  standing  beside  the  open  carriage 
which  was  waiting  for  them.  "  You  had  better  drive  up  together,  and 
I'll  walk." 

"  But  it  is  such  a  long  walk,  Philip,  and  it  is  so  hot,"  said  Margaret 
irresolutely. 

"  Never  mind,"  answered  Philip,  with  a  rather  plaintive  look  at  the 
long  stretch  of  sunny  landscape  that  lay  before  him. 

And  then  a  bright  idea  occurred  to  Margaret.  "  Suppose  we  were  to 
walk  ?  "  she  suggested  to  Hugh.  "  We  might  go  across  the  fields,  you 
know,  and  it  would  be  quite  like  old  times.  Would  it  be  too  much 
for  you  ? " 

Hugh  said  he  should  enjoy  the  walk  of  all  things,  and  it  certainly 
would  not  be  too  much  for  him.  "  But  will  not  you  be  tired  yourself?" 
he  asked.  "You  said  something  about  the  heat  just  now,  and  it  is  a 
good  three  miles,  as  I  well  remember." 

"  You  must  have  forgotten  other  things  if  you  think  I  am  afraid  of  a 
three-mile  walk.  I  like  walking  much  better  than  driving ;  and,  besides, 
I  mean  to  go  very  slowly,  so  as  to  have  as  long  a  time  as  possible  to 
talk  to  you  in." 

Hugh  could  say  no  more ;  and  the  arrangement  evidently  met  the 
views  of  Mr.  Marescalchi,  who  got  into  the  carriage  without  more  ado,  and 
was  speedily  driven  away,  leaning  back  luxuriously,  and  blowing  a  cloud 
from  the  cigarette  which  he  had  just  lighted. 

The  two  friends  who  were  thus  left  to  themselves  had,  no  doubt,  a 
great  deal  to  say  to  one  another ;  but  they  experienced  the  common 
difficulty  of  friends  who  have  been  long  separated  in  not  knowing 
exactly  where  to  begin.  During  the  first  quarter  of  a  mile  of  their  walk, 
which  led  them  across  pasture-land  and  through  hop-gardens,  little  passed 
between  them  save  questions  and  answers  referring  to  the  productiveness 
of  the  soil  and  the  changes  which  time  had  wrought  in  the  ownership 
thereof,  occasional  allusions  to  bygone  years,  and  comparisons  between 
the  climate  of  England  and  that  of  India.  Mrs.  Stanniforth  led  the 
way,  and  did  most  of  the  talking.  Hugh  was  contented  to  listen,  to 
steal  furtive  glances  at  his  companion  while  she  walked  beside  him,  and 
to  study  her  full-length  figure  when,  as  sometimes  happened,  the 


646  NO  NEW  THING. 

narrowness  of  the  path  forced  them  to  advance  in  single  file.  But  when 
they  reached  a  certain  stile,  beyond  which  stretched  sloping  fields  of  oats 
and  barley,  Mrs.  Staiiniforth,  instead  of  getting  over  it,  wheeled  round, 
and,  resting  her  elbows  upon  its  topmost  bar,  attacked  Hugh  point-blank 
with  : — 

"  Well";  what  do  you  think  of  him ?  " 

There  was  no  need  to  particularise  the  individual  to  whom  her 
question  referred.  Hugh  laughed  and  said,  "I  think  he  has  a  very 
pretty  suit  of  clothes  on,  and  his  hair  is  nicely  brushed,  and  his 
moustache  promises  well.  Also,  I  am  glad  to  observe  that  he  does  not 
suffer  from  shyness,  and  that  he  pronounces  the  English  language  after 
the  most  fashionable  style." 

Margaret  looked  a  little  annoyed.  "  You  know  that  is  not  what  I 
mean,"  she  said. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  say  ?  I  only  saw  the  young  man  for  five 
minutes,  and,  considering  that  during  those  five  minutes  I  was  a  great 
deal  more  anxious  to  examine  you  than  him,  I  think  I  made  a  pretty 
good  use  of  my  opportunities.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  noticed  all  about 
him  that  there  was  to  notice." 

This  was  so  undeniably  true  that  Margaret  was  silenced  for  a  few 
minutes.  Presently,  however,  she  felt  constrained  to  add,  "  Some  people 
attach  a  good  deal  of  importance  to  first  impressions.  You  don't,  I  dare 
say,  because  you  are  so  sensible ;  still,  I  suppose  you  do  have  them." 
"  I  seldom  take  to  strangers,"  answered  Hugh  evasively. 
"  Ah !  I  know  what  you  think ;  you  think  him  conceited.  Well, 
perhaps,  he  may  be  a  little  conceited,  but  what  of  that  1  Almost  all 
young  men  are  so,  and  it  soon  wears  off.  And  Philip  has — I  won't  say 
more  reason,  but  certainly  more  excuse — for  being  conceited  than  most 
of  them.  You  have  no  idea  how  he  is  run  after.  I  wrote  to  you,  you 
know,  about  his  wonderful  acting,  and  the  quantity  of  engagements  that 
he  always  has  in  consequence ;  and  latterly  his  acquaintance  seems  to 
have  grown  larger.  He  has  only  just  managed  to  escape  from  London, 
though  he  wanted  very  much  to  come  down  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
match.  He  has  declined  I  don't  know  how  many  invitations  for  the 
next  two  months.  It  would  not  be  very  surprising  if  all  that  attention 
had  turned  his  head  just  a  little  bit,  would  it  1 " 

Hugh  admitted  that  such  a  result  was  only  what  might  be  expected. 
"  But  it  hasn't  done  so  really ;  to  me  he  is  just  the  same  as  he 
always  was.     You  won't  allow  yourself  to  be  prejudiced  against  poor 
Philip,  will  you,  Hugh  1     I  can't  tell  you  what  a  disappointment  it  will 
be  to  me  if  you  do  not  like  him.     He  has  had  to  fight  against  so  much 
prejudice ;  and  I  sometimes  think  that,  with  the  exception  of  myself  and 
Walter  Brune,  he  has  no  real  friends  in  the  world." 
"  I  thought  you  said  he  was  so  popular." 

"  So  he  is ;  but  popularity  of  that  kind  is  a  poor  substitute  for  the 
family  affection  which  other  young  men  have  to  fall  back  upon ;  and, 


NO  NEW  THING.  647 

although  you  might  not  suppose  it  until  you  knew  him  well,  Philip  is 
very  affectionate  and  very  sensitive.  I  don't  think  I  should  ever  have 
cared  for  him  so  much  as  I  do  if  all  my  friends  had  not  set  their  faces 
against  him  so  in  the  beginning.  He  is  my  ugly  duckling,"  she  added 
with  a  smile. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  you  could  call  him  ugly  ! "  said  Hugh  generously. 
The  truth  is  that  esteem  was  the  measure  of  Colonel  Kenyon's  notion  of 
comeliness.  He  honestly  believed  all  the  persons  whom  he  was  fond 
of  to  be  well-looking,  and  could  never  be  brought  to  acknowledge  that 
there  was  anything  to  admire  in  those  whom  he  disliked. 

Margaret  laughed.  "  No,"  she  said ;  "  his  worst  enemies  could 
hardly  bring  that  accusation  against  him.  He  isn't  an  ugly  duckling 
any  more  now  ;  he  is  a  full-grown  swan,  and  I  am  not  afraid  of  any  one's 
failing  to  do  justice  to  his  plumage.  But  after  all,  as  good-natured 
people  used  to  say  to  me  in  the  days  when  I  was  a  lanky  girl  and 
painfully  conscious  of  my  lankiness,  beauty  is  only  skin-deep." 

"  Oh  dear,  yes  !  what  does  it  signify  whether  a  man's  nose  is  straight 
or  crooked  1  So  Philip  has  made  up  his  mind  to  be  called  to  the  bar, 
has  he  1 " 

"  Yes  ;  he  is  eating  his  dinners." 

"  And  working  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so.  At  least  he  is  a  pupil  in  a  barrister's  chambers  ;  of 
course  he  could  not  do  much  in  that  way  while  he  was  at  Oxford.  Shall 
we  walk  on  ? " 

They  passed  upwards,  brushing  their  way  against  the  whispering 
barley  that  clothed  the  hill-side.  It  was  a  lovely  summer  afternoon  ; 
shadows  of  light  clouds  were  creeping  over  the  woods ;  the  pleasant 
English  landscape  was  at  its  best.  In  the  universal  greenness,  in  the 
softness  of  the  atmosphere,  in  the  hazy  blue  distances,  there  was  infinite 
refreshment  for  eyes  that  had  ached  under  a  tropical  sun  and  had  grown 
weary  of  gazing  upon  palms,  and  rice-fields,  and  parched  yellow  plains. 
Hugh  soon  ceased  to  think  about  Marescalchi  and  his  prospects — a 
subject  with  which  his  correspondence  for  the  past  few  years  had  dealt 
pretty  exhaustively — and  began  building  castles  in  the  air  on  his  own 
account.  But  his  companion's  thoughts,  it  appeared,  were  still  running 
in  the  same  channel.  On  the  edge  of  the  woods  which  bounded  the 
Longbourne  estate  she  halted  again,  and  said  abruptly  : — 

"  Don't  you  think  it  is  much  the  best  and  wisest  plan  to  let  a  young 
man  have  perfect  liberty  of  action  1 " 

Hugh  considered  for  a  moment,  as  his  habit  was,  before  replying, 
"  Well ;  if  I  had  a  son  of  my  own,  I  think  I  should  be  inclined  to  see 
what  use  he  was  likely  to  make  of  his  liberty  before  I  quite  gave  it  up 
to  him." 

"Yes,  in  theory  that  is  all  very  well;  but  practically  there  are 
difficulties  in  the  way  of  setting  limits,  especially  for  a  woman.  I  doubt 
whether  it  would  be  wise  to  tie  your  son  to  your  apron- string,  if  you 


648  NO  NEW  THING. 

could  ;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  you  can't.  Supposing  you  do  establish  a 
sort  of  surveillance  over  him,  and  make  him  understand  that  he  must 
never  absent  himself  for  two  or  three  days  without  some  excuse,  and 
ask  him  questions  about  where  he  has  been  and  what  he  has  been  doing — 
what  is  the  good  1  You  only  make  him  dislike  you,  and  he  takes  his 
own  way  all  the  same." 

Hugh  said  there  was  something  in  that  certainly.  "  Has  any  one 
been  advising  you  to  establish  a  surveillance  over  Philip  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  am  always  being  inundated  with  good  advice ;  that  is  the 
inevitable  fate  of  a  lone,  lorn  woman,"  she  answered  laughing,  and 
walked  on  into  the  wood. 

"  What  a  treat  it  is  to  see  oaks  and  beeches  again !  "  Hugh  ex- 
claimed. "  Dear  old  country !  I  should  like  to  go  upon  half-pay,  and 
buy  a  cottage  near  Cray  minster,  and  end  my  days  there." 

"  Oh,  how  I  wish  you  would !  Only  of  course  you  would  hate  it 
before  a  year  was  over.  I  have  missed  you  so  dreadfully,  Hugh.  Now 
that  I  have  got  you  again,  I  intend  to  keep  you  for  a  long,  long  time. 
You  do  owe  me  a  proper  visit,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I'll  stay  as  long  as  you'll  keep  me,"  answered  Hugh,  smiling ;  "  and 
look  here,  Margaret,  don't  you  let  yourself  be  worried  about  Philip. 
We'll  make  a  man  of  him  between  us ;  and  if  ever  he  should  want  a 
friend,  he  may  count  upon  finding  one  in  me — for  your  sake." 

Her  face  lighted  up  with  pleasure.  "  How  good  you  are  !  "  she  cried. 
"  But  I  need  not  have  doubted  you.  I  might  have  known  that  you 
would  at  least  give  him  a  fair  trial.  Some  people  seem  as  if  they  could 
only  see  his  faults.  They  might  remember  that  we  are  not  all  faultless 
ourselves." 

"  Tell  them  to  mind  their  own  business,"  said  Hugh.  A  natural 
association  of  ideas  prompted  him  to  add,  after  a  short  pause,  "  Mrs. 
Winnington  is  still  with  you,  I  suppose." 

Margaret  turned  her  head  quickly,  and  gave  him  a  half- deprecatory, 
half-suspicious  glance.  "Yes,"  she  answered;  "  and  I  hope  to  be  able  to 
induce  her  to  remain  with  me  permanently.  At  present  she  won't  hear 
of  it ;  but  I  think,  little  by  little,  I  may  accustom  her  to  the  idea.  Of 
course  it  is  a  great  thing  for  me  to  have  her  and  Edith  in  the  house, 
instead  of  living  quite  alone,  as  I  used  to  do." 

"  I  am  sure  it  must  be,"  said  Hugh  in  perfect  good  faith. 

"  And  in  some  ways  it  is  an  advantage  to  them  too.  There  is  really 
no  house  in  this  neighbourhood  that  would  do  for  them ;  and  if  they  go 
away,  there  seems  nothing  for  it  but  settling  in  London,  which  neither 
of  them  would  like,  or  else  in  some  watering-place  or  other.  My 
mother,  I  know,  dreads  the  society  of  a  watering-place  on  Edith's  account ; 
and  she  is  always  so  anxious  to  do  the  best  she  can  for  us  all,  that  I  quite 
hope  she  will  come  round  to  admitting  that  Longbourne  is  the  only 
possible  home  for  her." 

("  Our  dear  Mrs.  Stanniforth,"  Mr.  Brune  remarked,  on  a  subsequent 


NO  NEW  THING.  649 

occasion,  to  Hugh,  "expends  an  immense  amount  of  wasted  energy  in 
the  effort  to  persuade  herself  and  others  that  her  mother  is  not  an 
infernally  disagreeable  old  woman.") 

Colonel  Kenyon,  as  the  reader  may  have  noticed,  was  not  very  quick 
at  receiving  ideas,  and  he  pondered  over  Margaret's  last  observation  for 
some  minutes  before  he  came  out  with  the  following  brilliant  discovery  : 
"  By  Jove !  Mrs.  Winnington  must  be  looking  out  for  a  husband  for 
Edith.  Dear,  dear,  how  time  does  go  on  !  " 

"  Well,"  returned  Margaret ;  "  and  if  she  does  want  her  daughters  to 
marry,  and  to  marry  well,  do  you  suppose  all  mothers  don't  wish  the 
same  thing  ?  I  can't  see  what  there  is  to  be  ashamed  of  in  such  a  very 
natural  ambition." 

"  No,  to  be  sure,"  acquiesced  Hugh  hastily  ;  "  in  fact,  she  would  be 
neglecting  her  duty  if  she  didn't  look  after  her  daughter's  prospects. 
Only  1  should  have  thought  London  would  have  been  a  better  place 
than  Longbourne.  Seeing  so  few  people  as  you  do " 

"  Ah,  but  I  see  more  people  nowadays  !  The  house  is  often  full  of 
visitors — friends  of  my  mother's,  you  know — and  I  dare  say  it  is  very 
good  for  me'  to  be  obliged,  to  come  out  of  my  shell.  By-the-bye,  I 
have  a  friend  of  my  own  coming  down  next  week  whom  I  particularly 
want  you  to  meet — Tom  Stanniforth.  I  think  I  wrote  to  you  about  him, 
did  I  not ?" 

"  You  told  me  in  one  of  your  letters  that  you  had  met  him  in 
London,  and  that  you  thought  him  a  very  good  fellow." 

"  I  don't  think  I  used  those  words,  but  they  describe  him  accurately 
enough.  He  is  exactly  that — a  thoroughly  good  fellow.  Isn't  it  odd 
that  with  all  his  riches,  and  amiability,  and  love  of  society,  he  should 
have  remained  a  bachelor  for  so  many  years  1 " 

This  time  Colonel  Kenyon's  mother-wit  showed  itself  more  acute. 
He  assumed  an  air  of  extreme  knowingness,  and  ejaculated,  "  Oho  !  " 

And  then  Margaret  laughed  a  little,  and  said,  "  Well,  it  would  be  a 
good  thing ;  don't  you  think  so  now  ?  But  most  likely  nothing  will 
come  of  it." 

"  H'm  !  I  don't  know,"  said  Hugh,  meditatively ;  "  I  wouldn't  give 
much  for  his  chance  if  Mrs.  Winnington  means " 

''What?" 

"  I  say  there  is  every  chance  of  his  falling  in  love  with  Miss  Win- 
nington if  she  at  all  resembles  her  sisters.  But  what  about  young 
Marescalchi  ]  Isn't  he  rather  a  dangerous  sort  of  customer  to  have  in 
the  house  1 " 

"  Philip  ?  oh,  no  !  I  am  glad  to  say  that  there  is  no  fear  of  any 
complication  in  that  quarter.  You  will  think  I  am  becoming  a  con- 
firmed match-maker  in  my  old  age ;  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  have  a 
plan  in  my  head  for  Philip's  future  also.  You  remember  Nellie  Brune 
— or  perhaps  you  don't  remember  her,  for  she  was  a  very  small  child 
when  you  went  away.  Well,  she  has  grown  up  into  quite  the  prettiest 

31—5 


650  .         NO  NEW  THING. 

girl  in  the  county ;  and  I  feel  in  a  sort  of  way  as  if  she  were  a  child  of 
rny  own,  for,  since  her  mother's  death,  she  has  lived  almost  as  much  with 
me  as  at  home.  And  so,  in  the  nature  of  things,  she  and  Philip  have 
been  a  good  deal  thrown  together." 

"  I  see.  But  hadn't  Philip  better  be  earning  an  income  for  himself 
before  he  thinks  about  taking  a  wife  1 " 

"  Oh,  of  course  !  They  are  both  very  young  yet,  and  this  is  only  a 
dream  of  mine,  you  must  understand ;  I  have  never  mentioned  it  to 
any  one  but  you,  and  I  don't  even  know  that  there  is  anything  more 
than  a  brotherly  and  sisterly  affection  between  them.  Sometimes  I  have 
fancied  that  there  might  be,  that  is  all ;  and  perhaps  the  wish  was  father 
to  the  thought." 

By  this  time  they  had  traversed  the  Longbourne  park,  and  were  in 
sight  of  the  great  house,  rising  square  and  red  from  among  its  surrounding 
lawns  and  flower-beds,  its  windows  blazing  with  the  light  of  the 
sinking  sun. 

"  What  a  fine  old  place  it  is  !  "  said  Hugh  admiringly.  "  After  all, 
there  is  nothing  in  the  world  to  beat  an  English  country-house." 

"  It  is  thrown  away  upon  me,"  said  Margaret  with  a  sigh.  "  I  want 
a  roof  of  some  kind  to  shelter  me,  but  I  had  rather  it  had  been  any  but 
this  one.  I  have  never  become  reconciled  to  the  idea  of  living  at 
Longbourne,  and  I  never  shall.  Unfortunately,  too,  the  Brunes  feel 
quite  as  strongly  upon  the  subject  as  I  do.  They  don't  object  to  me, 
because  they  know  that  it  is  by  no  fault  of  my  own  that  I  am  here ;  but 
they  do  object  very  much  to  my  successor.  I  told  Nellie,  the  other  day, 
that  we  were  expecting  Tom  Stanniforth,  and  she  begged  me  at  once 
not  to  ask  her  to  come  to  the  house  until  after  he  had  gone.  I  only 
wish  it  were  really  my  own  property;  for  then  I  should  leave  it  to 
Walter." 

"  No,  you  wouldn't,"  said  Hugh  with  a  perspicuity  which  did  him 
credit ;  "  you  would  leave  it  to  Philip,  and  that  would  make  things 
worse  than  ever." 

"  Perhaps  I  might;  I  don't  know.  While  I  am  wishing,  I  might  as  well 
wish  that  I  were  a  capitalist,  instead  of  a  pensioner.  Nature  never 
intended  me  to  be  a  rich  woman,  but  sometimes  I  am  afraid  that  she  did 
cut  out  Philip  for  a  rich  man." 

And  then  they  entered  the  house,  and  this  prolonged  dialogue  came 
to  an  end. 

Colonel  Kenyon  thought  it  over  while  dressing  for  dinner,  and 
made  a  mental  note  of  two  things  :  firstly,  that  Jack's  name  had  not 
once  been  mentioned  in  the  course  of  it ;  and  secondly,  that  Mrs. 
Stanniforth  no  longer  desired  to  be  rid  of  her  wealth,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
would  gladly  have  gained  a  firmer  grasp  of  it,  had  that  been  practicable. 
Balancing  the  one  consideration  against  the  other,  he  was  forced  to 
conclude  that  a  ten  years'  sojourn  in  foreign  parts  had  been  rather  preju- 
dicial than  favourable  to  his  personal  chances  of  happiness. 


NO  NEW  THING.  651 

CHAPTER  VII. 
COLONEL  KENYON  LOOKS  ON. 

COLONEL  KENYON  was  not  the  only  guest  at  Longbourne.  There  were 
other  people  staying  in  the  house  :  people  with  high-sounding  names ; 
people  whom  he  did  not  know,  and  for  that  matter — as  he  said  to 
himself  with  a  touch  of  ill-humour — did  not  want  to  know.  He  had 
caught  sight  of  some  of  them  playing  lawn-tennis  in  the  garden ;  he  had 
heard  the  voices  of  others  in  the  library,  whither  he  had  declined  to 
follow  his  hostess,  alleging  that  he  was  too  dirty  and  dusty  after  his 
journey  to  face  an  introduction  to  strangers.  There  was  something  in 
the  discovery  that  he  was  only  to  be  one  in  a  crowd,  which  chilled  and 
disappointed  him  a  little.  Not  that  he  had  anything  to  urge  in  the 
abstract  against  Mrs.  Stanniforth's  filling  her  house  with  her  friends,  if 
she  were  so  minded ;  still,  he  wished  she  had  not  chosen  to  do  so  at  this 
particular  time ;  and  the  contrast  between  her  life  as  it  appeared  actually 
to  be,  and  the  secluded,  charitable,  uneventful  sort  of  existence  which  he 
had  always  pictured  her  to  himself  as  leading,  struck  him  somewhat 
disagreeably.  He  shut  himself  up  in  his  room ;  sat  there,  doing  nothing, 
for  an  hour  or  more ;  and  was  dressed  for  dinner  long  before  eight 
o'clock. 

Mrs.  Winnington  was  alone  in  the  drawing-room  when  he  went 
downstairs,  and  was  very  glad  to  see  him,  or,  at  all  events,  was  kind 
enough  to  say  that  she  was  so. 

"  You  are  looking  very  old,"  she  remarked  at  once,  with  the  pleasing 
candour  of  a  friend  of  many  years'  standing ;  "very  old  and  worn  out. 
I  suppose  India  is  quite  fatal  to  health  and  appearance,  especially  in  the 
case  of  officers,  who  always  drink  more  than  they  ought  to  do  in  those 
hot  climates,  I  believe.  It  must  be  a  detestable  country.  I  was 
talking  about  it  this  morning  to  Lady  Laura  Smythe,  who  is  staying 
with  us  for  a  few  days.  She  spent  a  year  out  there,  at  the  time  when 
her  brother  was  Viceroy,  you  know,  and  she  describes  the  society  of 
Calcutta  as  something  too  dreadful.  Isn't  there  a  place  called  Simla, 
where  everybody  goes  in  the  summer  months  ? — I  don't  pretend  to  be 
well  up  in  the  geography  of  those  regions.  She  told  me  some  odd  stories 
of  the  things  that  went  on  there — very  amusing,  but  really  very 
shocking.  From  all  that  I  could  make  out,  the  vulgarity  of  those 
people  is  only  equalled  by  their  immorality.  No  wonder  you  are  such  a 
wreck." 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  either  drink  or  the  vulgarity  of  Anglo-Indian 
society  that  has  turned  my  hair  grey,"  Hugh  said.  "  You  don't  look  a 
day  older,  Mrs.  "Winnington." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Hugh  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Winnington,  not  ill-pleased,  "  that 
is  absurd.  After  all  that  I  have  gone  through,  it  would  be  strange 
indeed  if  I  were  not  more  wrinkled  than  I  used  to  be ;  and  I  have 


6.52  NO  NEW  THIN& 

grandchildren  growing  up  fast,  as  you  know.  Now  tell  me,  how  did 
you  think  dear  Margaret  looking?  Better  than  when  you  left  her? 
Rather  brighter  and  more  cheerful  ?  Ah  !  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  you 
say  that,  for  I  take  it  as  a  compliment  to  myself." 

"  She  said  it  was  a  great  comfort  to  her  to  have  you  with  her," 
Hugh  remarked. 

"  Poor  dear  !  I  do  what  I  can,  and  I  try  to  be  with  her  as  much  as 
possible  ;  but  I  have  other  duties ;  I  cannot  always  be  here,  you  under- 
stand." 

"  I  suppose  not." 

"  No ;  and  now  I  shall  look  to  you  to  help  me  out  in  my  task  and  to 
take  my  place  sometimes,  when  I  am  away,"  said  Mrs.  Winnington  very 
graciously.  "  Between  ourselves,  dear  Margaret  ought  never  to  be  left 
long  without  some  trustworthy  adviser  and  protector  at  her  elbow." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Hugh  curtly. 

"  Oh !  you  will  soon  find  out  why ;  I  had  rather  you  made  the 
discovery  for  yourself.  You  remember  my  old  weakness ;  I  can't  bear 
speaking  against  anybody  who  is  absent.  But  you  can  easily  imagine 
the  sort  of  dangers  to  which  a  woman  of  her  generous  and  unsuspecting 
nature  is  exposed.  Her  servants,  of  course,  rob  her  right  and  left ;  that 
I  cannot  help,  for  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  interfere  in  household 
matters.  But,  unfortunately,  it  is  not  only  her  servants  who  live  upon 
her.  Servants,  one  knows,  have  not  very  exalted  ideas  of  honesty,  and 
one  is  prepared  to  take  them  as  one  finds  them  ;  but  from  people  of  one's 
own  class  one  does  expect  a  certain  degree  of  pride  and  delicacy ;  and 

when  it  comes  to  giving  a  girl  literally  all  her  dresses However, 

if  Mr.  Brune  does  not  object,  I  am  sure  it  is  no  business  of  mine.  You 
met  young  Marescalchi  at  the  station,  I  hear." 

"  Yes;  I  saw  him  for  a  few  minutes." 

Mrs.  Winnington  shook  her  head  and  sighed  so  profoundly  once  or 
twice  that  all  the  garments  in  which  her  ample  form  was  enveloped 
rustled  and  groaned,  as  in  a  soft  chorus  to  their  wearer's  unspoken 
eloquence.  Colonel  Kenyon,  however,  expressing  no  curiosity  as  to  the 
signification  of  these  portentous  heavings,  the  good  lady  was  constrained 
to  express  herself  with  more  distinctness. 

"  I  greatly  fear,"  said  she,  "  that  poor  Margaret  will  have  cause  to 
rue  the  day  when  she  set  that  beggar  on  horseback.  One  might  have 
foreseen  what  wovild  happen ;  in  fact,  I  did  foresee  it ;  but  that  is  a 
poor  consolation.  He  is  going  to  the  dogs  as  fast  as  he  can." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Hugh. 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  ask  you  to  take  my  word  for  it :  use  your  own  eyes 
and  ears,  and  I  have  very  little  doubt  as  to  what  your  conclusion  will  be. 
I  should  feel  sorry  for  the  young  man,  if  he  were  not  so  absurdly  self- 
satisfied.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  foolish  and  fatal  than 
launching  him  into  all  the  temptations  of  Oxford ;  but  Margaret  would 
take  her  own  way." 


NO  NEW  THING.  65-3 

"  Why,  what  would  you  have  had  her  do?"  asked  Hugh.  "  What 
alternative  had  you  to  suggest  ?  " 

"That  is  not  the  question,"  answered  Mrs.  Winnington,  employing  a 
phrase  which  she  had  found  very  effective  in  controversies  with  the  late 
Bishop,  and  which  still  rose  instinctively  to  her  lips  in  moments  of  em- 
barrassment ;  "  that  is  not  the  question.  And  pray  do  not  suppose  that 
I  am  blaming  poor  Margaret  for  her  infatuation ;  it  has  brought  its  own 
punishment,  I  am  sorry  to  say.  I  happen  to  know,"  she  continued 
impressively — "  this  is  between  ourselves,  and  you  need  not  mention 
that  I  spoke  to  you  about  it — but  I  happen  to  know  that  Margaret  has 
paid  his  debts  upon  three  separate  occasions.  Heavy  debts ;  and  that 
notwithstanding  the  fact  that  he  has  a  most  unwisely  liberal  allowance." 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  Well,  that  is  very  bad  of  course ;  but  such 
things  have  happened  before  now.  I  mean  to  say  that  it  don't  follow 
that,  because  a  young  fellow  runs  up  bills  at  college,  he  must  go  to  the 
dogs.  Depend  upon  it,  Philip  will  sow  his  wild  oats,  like  other  boys, 
and  turn  out  no  worse  than  the  generality  of  them." 

Mrs.  Winnington,  however,  was  not  disposed  to  entertain  this  sanguine 
view  of  the  case.  "  Mark  my  words,"  she  was  beginning  solemnly  ;  but 
she  had  to  withdraw  the  conclusion  of  her  sentence  under  cover  of  a 
cough,  for  at  this  moment  Marescalchi  himself  appeared  upon  the  scene, 
and  was  closely  followed  by  Margaret. 

Then  the  remainder  of  the  house  party  began  to  drop  in,  singly  and 
in  couples  :  A  fat  countess,  who  was  immediately  engaged  in  confidential 
conversation  by  Mrs.  Winnington ;  Lady  Laura  Smythe,  a  dowdy  little 
woman  married  to  a  resplendent  stockbroker;  a  pompous  colonial 
governor  and  his  wife ;  the  senior  partner  of  a  well-known  firm  of 
solicitors;  and  sundry  Winningtons  of  both  sexes — uncles,  aunts,  and 
cousins — whose  faces  Hugh  dimly  remembered  to  have  seen  round  the 
Bishop's  table  at  the  Christmas  gatherings  of  long  ago.  It  was  Mr. 
Marescalchi  who  was  obliging  enough  to  join  the  stranger  on  the  otto- 
man where  he  was  sitting  apart,  and  to  classify  for  his  benefit  the 
people  who  were  forming  themselves  into  groups  in  different  parts  of 
the  long  room. 

"  A  queer,  incongruous  sort  of  crew,  are  they  not  ? "  said  he.  "  Mrs. 
Winnington  asks  them  down  here,  and  she  doesn't  understand  mixing 
her  people  any  better  than  she  understands  mixing  her  colours,  poor  old 
thing  !  However,  her  intentions  are  good,  and  she  has  a  reason  for 
inviting  every  one  of  them.  Lady  Flintshire  and  Lady  Laura  Smythe 
entertain  a  good  deal  in  London  ;  they  will  be  good  for  at  least  two  balls 
apiece  next  season,  and  perhaps  for  an  invitation  to  the  country  in 
the  autumn.  Sir  Benjamin  Wilkinson  is  here  because  Charley  Win- 
nington thinks  he  would  like  to  be  the  old  fellow's  aide-de-camp  when 
he  goes  back  to  the  Cannibal  Islands,  or  wherever  it  is  that  he  hangs 
out.  Hobson,  the  solicitor,  has  been  asked  in  order  that  he  may  help 
Harry  out  with  a  brief  or  two  some  day.  That  is  a  piece  of  hospitality 


654  NO   NEW  THING. 

thrown  away;  Hobson  stays  longer  than  he  is  wanted,  contradicts 
everybody,  makes  a  horrible  noise  over  his  soup,  and  will  see  Harry 
further  before  he'll  bother  himself  about  him.  It  is  rather  hard  upon 
poor  Meg,  who  has  to  make  all  these  people  talk  to  each  other,  and  to 
keep  them  from  quarrelling.  Half  of  them  are  furious  at  having  been 
asked  to  meet  the  other  half ;  and  one  and  all  arc  -wondering  what  the 
dickens  made  them  come  here.  Most  likely  they  will  grow  mellow  and 
make  friends  after  dinner ;  but  then  there  is  always  just  a  hope  of  a  free 
fight  at  one  of  these  gatherings,  and  that  enables  one  to  bear  up  under 
the  dreadful  wearisomeness  of  it  all." 

Hugh  hardly  listened  to  his  neighbour's  easy  flow  of  talk.  He  was 
watching  Margaret,  as  she  moved  hither  and  thither  in  the  fading  light, 
discharging  her  duties  after  a  quiet,  perfunctory  fashion ;  and  presently 
he  rose  unceremoniously  and  walked  off  to  renew  his  acquaintance  with 
Edith,  whom  he  had  recognised,  not  so  much  by  anything  about  her 
that  could  remind  him  of  the  child  whom  he  had  once  known,  as  by  her 
remarkable  resemblance  to  her  eldest  sister,  Lady  Travers.  When  he 
drew  near  enough  to  her  to  distinguish  her  features,  he  was  still  more 
struck  with  this  family  likeness,  as  well  as  with  the  girl's  beauty,  which 
quite  surpassed  what  he  had  been  led  to  expect.  Edith  Winnington — 
tall,  slight,  and  extremely  fair,  with  delicate,  refined  features,  and  eyes 
of  a  forget-me-not  blue — represented  the  family  type  raised  to  its  ultimate 
expression.  Hugh,  who  remembered  Lady  Travers  in  the  days  of  her 
youthful  triumphs,  and  who  remembered  also  that  Lady  Travers's 
marriage  had  turned  out  a  notoriously  unhappy  one,  felt  a  pang  of  pity 
for  this  victim  unconscious  of  her  doom.  While  he  was  shaking  hands 
with  her,  he  was  thinking  to  himself,  "  Poor  girl !  I  wonder  her 
mother  is  satisfied  with  Tom  Stanniforth.  With  such  a  face  and  figure 
as  that,  she  might  have  been  made  to  aim  at  something  higher,  I  should 
have  thought.  I  hope  he'll  marry  her,  though,  for  he  is  a  decent  sort  of 
man,  by  all  accounts,  and  at  least  he  won't  beat  her." 

"  You  have  been  a  long  time  away,"  said  Edith ;  "  you  must  be  very 
glad  to  be  at  home  again ;  I  suppose  it  must  be  very  hot  in  India.  No; 
I  am  afraid  I  do  not  quite  know  where  Madras  is.  I  could  find  it  on  the 
map,  I  think." 

Her  manner  had  a  touch  of  shyness  and  hesitation  which  was  not 
unbecoming ;  her  colour  kept  coming  and  going  while  she  spoke,  and 
her  eyes  wandered  over  the  room.  She  seemed  to  lend  an  only  half- 
attentive  ear  to  Hugh's  geographical  information,  and  answered  his  ques- 
tions a  little  at  random.  From  all  of  which  signs  that  astute  observer 
was  led  to  conclude  that  the  young  woman  was  looking  for  somebody. 
Could  it  be  Marescalchi,  he  wondered,  whom  she  missed  t 

Presently  Philip  joined  them,  saying  in  a  confidential  undertone  that 
all  these  old  ladies  and  gentlemen  frightened  him.  "  I  daren't  speak  to 
them ;  they  are  getting  hungry ;  they  are  snapping  and  growling  already ; 
and  if  dinner  isn't  announced  in  a  few  minutes  they  will  begin  devouring 


NO  NEW  THING.  655 

one  another.  Where  is  Walter,  by-the-bye  ?  Meg  said  she  had  asked 
him  to  come  up." 

Edith  said  that  there  had  been  a  cricket-match  at  Crayb ridge  that 
day ;  very  likely  Walter  had  not  been  able  to  get  away  in  time.  But 
at  this  moment  the  defaulter  hurried  in  to  answer  for  himself ;  and  after 
that,  Miss  Winnington's  eyes  became  perceptibly  less  restless. 

"  I  wonder  which  of  them  it  is,"  Hugh  speculated  within  himself. 
"  I  would  bet  any  money  that  it's  one  or  the  other.  That's  the  way 
with  your  over-clever  people,  they  never  see  what  is  going  on  under 
their  noses.  Now,  if  I  were  an  ambitious  old  woman,  I  should  take 
precious  good  care  to  keep  my  daughter  out  of  the  way  of  those 
youngsters  ;  but  I  suppose  it  comes  to  much  the  same  thing  in  the  long 
run.  If  there  is  a  difference  of  opinion  between  that  poor  girl  and  her 
mother,  it  is  easy  to  see  who  will  go  to  the  wall." 

"  Will  you  take  in  Lady  Wilkinson,  please,  and  sit  on  the  left  side 
of  the  table  ?  "  whispered  Margaret,  interrupting  his  meditations. 

He  had  ample  leisure  to  resume  and  pursue  them  in  the  dining-room, 
for  Lady  Wilkinson  was  sulky,  and  did  not  choose  to  respond  to  his 
well-meant  efforts  at  starting  a  conversation.  Poor  Lady  Wilkinson 
had  played  at  royalty  for  so  many  years,  and  had  grown  so  accustomed 
to  taking  the  chief  place  at  feasts  that  it  pained  her  to  walk  out  of  the 
room  behind  a  Lady  Laura  Somebody,  and  to  be  herself  escorted  by  a 
mere  colonel  of  artillery.  The  treatment  by  the  mother-country  of  its 
returned  colonial  governors  seemed  to  her  to  be  wanting  in  all  propriety 
and  decency ;  and,  by  way  of  vindicating  the  slighted  dignity  of  the  class 
which  she  represented,  she  thought  fit  to  reply  to  her  neighbour's  advances 
with  haughty  "  Oha  "  and  "  Indeeds  "  and  a  liberal  display  of  the  cold 
shoulder.  Colonel  Kenyon  accepted  his  lot  with  fitting  philosophy. 
He  had  no  anxiety  to  talk  or  to  be  talked  to.  The  scene  and  the 
personages  affected  him  with  a  vague  bewilderment,  being  so  unlike 
those  shadowy  visions  of  Longbourne  and  its  inmates  which  had  haunted 
his  fancy  in  the  East,  and  he  wanted  to  familiarise  himself  with  them. 
He  ate  his  dinner  (which  was  a  very  excellent  and  well-served  one),  and 
gazed  about  him  at  surrounding  objects — at  the  oval  table,  with  its  load 
of  flowers  and  old  Chelsea  china,  upon  which  a  flood  of  light  was  thrown 
down  from  the  shaded  hanging-lamps ;  at  the  servants,  flitting  noiselessly 
to  and  fro  in  the  vast  space  of  semi-obscurity  beyond ;  at  Margaret, 
leaning  back  in  her  chair  between  Lord  Flintshire  and  Sir  Benjamin 
Wilkinson,  with  a  look  of  cheerful  resignation  upon  her  face  •  at  Mrs. 
Winnington,  voluble  and  smiling,  playing  the  part  of  hostess  rather  too 
ostentatiously ;  at  Mr.  Hobson,  eating  voraciously,  with  his  head  bent 
down  over  his  plate  and  his  elbows  on  a  level  with  his  red  ears ;  at 
Philip,  making  open  and  undisguised  love  to  Edith;  and  at  Walter, 
watching  this  couple  with  an  inexplicable  broad  grin  upon  his  honest 
countenance.  Times  were  changed  indeed  since  Margaret  had  complained 
of  the  misery  of  solitary  repasts.  Here  was  company  enough  to  satisfy 


NO  NEW  THING. 

anybody  ;  company,  too,  which,  if  not  wildly  hilarious,  appeared  to  an 
outsider  quite  sufficiently  animated.  As  Marescalchi  had  predicted 
would  be  the  case,  the  guests  were  growing  mellow  under  the  influence 
of  good  cheer ;  and,  with  the  exception  of  Lady  Wilkinson,  who  still 
maintained  a  proud  reserve,  and  of  Mr.  Hobson,  who  was  otherwise 
engaged,  everybody  was  contributing  his  or  her  share  to  the  general  buzz 
of  speech. 

"  The  island  of  Semolina,"  Sir  Benjamin  was  saying  in  a  loud  voice, 
"  requires  only  to  be  left  to  itself.  All  the  troubles  that  have  taken 
place  there  have  arisen  out  of  injudicious  interference  on  the  part  of  the 
home  government.  I  was  talking  to  the  Secretary  of  State  the  other 
day,  and  I  said  to  him,  '  La,  Semolina  fara  da  se.'  Many  men  have 
found  the  island  a  difficult  one  to  govern — my  predecessor,  as  you  know, 
made  a  sad  hash  of  it — but  I  have  always  got  on  perfectly  well  with 
the  planters  myself.  The  whole  question  is  one  of  cheap  labour,  and  is 
not  at  all  understood  in  this  country.  You  will  recollect  the  agitation 
that  was  got  up,  a  few  years  back,  about  the  supposed  wrongs  of  the 
coolies  ? " 

Lord  Flintshire,  a  mild-mannered  little  man,  to  whom  these  re- 
marks were  addressed,  answered  hazily,  "  Oh,  yes ;  to  be  sure.  Niggers 
— slave  trade — that  sort  of  thing,  eh  ?  "  and  had  to  be  set  right  at  some 
length. 

Lady  Laura  Smythe  was  shrilly  advocating  the  claims  of  a  Home  for 
Adult  Idiots  which  had  lately  been  established  under  her  patronage. 
"  We  are  terribly  in  need  of  funds  to  carry  us  on  just  now.  No ;  I 
don't  want  donations,  I  want  annual  subscriptions.  Let  me  enter  your 
name  among  the  ten-guinea  subscribers ;  I  am  sure  that  won't  ruin  you. 
Mr.  Hobson,  I  am  going  to  put  you  down  as  a  subscriber  to  my  Home 
for  Adult  Idiots.  You  shall  have  a  prospectus  to-morrow." 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself,  Lady  Laura,"  says  Mr.  Hobson  resolutely, 
with  his  mouth  full.  "  Yery  sorry,  but  I  must  decline.  I  have  never 
felt  any  interest  in  idiots.  Don't  like  'em.  Don't  sympathise  with  'em." 

"  How  unnatural !  "  ejaculates  the  lady  in  an  audible  aside.  "  Oh  ! 
but  you  must  sympathise  with  them,  you  know ;  you  must  be  made  to 
sympathise  with  them.  Mrs.  Winnington,  your  daughter  has  most 
kindly  promised  me  a  twenty-five  guinea  subscription ;  I  hope  you'll 
allow  me  to  put  you  down  for  a  like  sum." 

"  Oh,  no,  dear  Lady  Laura  !  "  cries  Mrs.  Winnington,  with  a  piteous 
face.  "  Five  guineas,  please ;  I  really  cannot  do  more.  You  forget 
what  a  wretched  pauper  I  am,  and  there  are  so  many  calls  that  one 
cannot  turn  a  deaf  ear  to.  Where  did  you  go  for  your  drive  to-day  1 " 

Mrs.  Winnington  was  a  trifle  flushed,  and  exhibited  symptoms  of 
uneasiness  and  absence  of  mind.  Every  now  and  again  her  eye-glasses 
went  up  to  her  nose,  and  were  furtively  directed  at  the  other  side  of  the 
table,  where  Philip's  dark  head  was  in  close  proximity  to  Edith's  blonde 
one.  At  last  she  could  keep  silence  no  longer,  and  called  out,  in  a  sharp 


NO   NEW  THING.  657 

voice,  "  Edith,  my  dear,  Lady  Laura  is  very  anxious  to  be  shown  the 
cathedral.  Will  you  go  with  her  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Quite  out  of  the  question,  Mrs.  Winnington,"  answered  Philip 
gravely.  "  Your  daughter  has  a  previous  engagement ;  she  has  promised 
to  ride  with  me." 

Mrs.  Winnington  scowled  so  fiercely  at  this  that  the  girl  looked 
frightened,  and  exclaimed  hastily  : — 

"  Nonsense,  Philip  !  you  know  I  never  promised  any  such  thing. 
Of  course  I  can  go,  mamma." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Philip  placidly  ;  "  we'll  all  go.  Mrs.  Winnington, 
why  shouldn't  you  come  too  ?  You  could  sit  down  with  Lady  Laura  and 
rest,  while  Edith  dragged  me  to  the  topmost  pinnacle  of  the  temple.  I 
have  always  meant  to  climb  up  there  some  day,  but  one  wants  a 
strongish  inducement  to  overcome  one's  constitutional  laziness." 

"  We  will  keep  to  our  original  plan,  if  you  please,"  answered  Mrs. 
Winnington  loftily.  "  As  for  what  you  are  pleased  to  call  your  consti- 
tutional laziness,  I  suppose  that  if  Dr.  Goodford  could  not  cure  you  of 
that,  Edith  is  not  very  likely  to  be  able  to  do  so.  In  any  case,  the  task 
is  not  one  which  I  should  think  it  worth  while  to  confide  to  her.  Your 
laziness  would  have  been  whipped  out  of  you  many  years  ago,  if  I  had 
had  anything  to  do  with  your  education." 

To  this  Philip  only  replied,  "  Now,  now,  Mrs.  Winnington,"  in  a 
soothing  voice,  which  had  the  effect  of  causing  that  lady's  cheeks  to 
assume  a  fine  rich  hue,  and  of  eliciting  an  abrupt  and  startling  chuckle 
from  Walter,  who  looked  very  much  abashed  when  everybody  turned 
and  stared  at  him. 

After  this  little  passage  of  arms  there  was  a  hollow  truce,  which 
lasted  up  till  the  time  when  the  ladies  left  the  dining-room  ;  but  later  in 
the  evening  hostilities  were  resumed,  and  several  sharp  encounters  took 
place  ;  the  advantage  remaining  in  every  instance  with  the  younger  and 
cooler  combatant.  Philip  had  dropped  into  a  reclining  attitude  upon 
the  sofa  where  Edith  was  seated,  and  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so  he 
amused  himself  by  baffling  Mrs.  Winnington's  attempts  to  force  him  or 
her  daughter  from  this  position ;  but  at  length,  growing  weary,  ap- 
parently, of  that  form  of  provocation,  he  voluntarily  changed  his  ground, 
strolled  deliberately  up  to  his  enemy's  arm-chair,  and,  leaning  back 
against  the  wall  with  folded  arms,  struck  into  the  middle  of  the  conver- 
sation which  she  had  been  keeping  up  under  difficulties  with  Lady 
Flintshire.  Mrs.  Winnington  at  first  endeavoured  to  ignore  him  alto- 
gether ;  but  he  did  not  choose  to  be  ignored,  and  very  soon  he  had  drawn 
upon  himself  as  brisk  and  well-sustained  an  attack  as  he  could  have 
wished  for. 

Hugh,  who  had  vainly  attempted  to  get  near  to  Margaret,  and  who 
had  now  nothing  to  do  and  no  one  to  talk  to,  listened  with  some  enter- 
tainment to  Mrs.  Winnington's  onset,  which  certainly  did  not  lack  vigour. 
He  heard  Philip  accused  by  no  obscure  implication  of  being  a  coxcomb, 


658 


NO   NEW  THING. 


an  adventurer,  a  spendthrift,  and  a  libertine,  and  he  could  not  help 
admiring  the  perfect  good  humour  with  which  the  young  fellow  met 
these  charges.  Not  for  some  time  did  he  realise  what  was  actually 
going  on,  and  why  the  little  knot  of  silent  spectators  who  had  gradually 
come  together  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  unconscious  lady's  chair  were 
exchanging  looks  of  keen  appreciation  and  amusement.  Philip  was 
audaciously  mimicking  Mrs.  Winnington  to  her  face.  He  had  caught 
the  exact  pitch  of  her  voice,  the  droop  of  her  eyelids,  the  emphatic 
tapping  of  her  left  palm  with  the  first  and  second  fingers  of  her  right 
hand,  and  the  phrases  with  which  she  was  in  the  habit  of  embellishing 
her  discourse.  When  he  ejaculated,  "  That  is  not  the  question,"  any  one 
whose  back  had  been  turned  might  have  sworn  that  it  was  Mrs. 
"Winnington  herself  who  was  speaking.  It  was  undoubtedly  a  very 
clever  performance,  and  the  more  so  because  Mrs.  Wilmington's  speech 
and  demeanour  did  not,  after  all,  afford  any  specially  salient  points  for  a 
caricaturist  to  seize  upon.  Philip's  rendering  of  her  was  strictly  faithful, 
free  from  any  exaggeration,  and,  when  taken  in  conjunction  with  the 
severe  castigation  which  he  was  ostensibly  undergoing,  inexpressibly 
ludicrous.  Fat  Lady  Flintshire  was  quivering  with  suppressed  laughter 
from  head  to  foot ;  Lady  Laura  Smythe  was  grinning  sardonically ;  Mr. 
Hobson  at  one  moment  was  threatened  with  an  apoplexy,  and  had  to 
walk  away  hastily  to  recover  himself  in  the  background;  and  the 
victim  herself  never  suspected  from  first  to  last  that  she  was  being  made 
a  fool  of,  but  was  only  uneasily  conscious  that  she  was  not  getting  the 
best  of  it,  when,  by  all  rights,  she  ought  to  have  been  doing  so. 

The  exhibitor  knew  better  than  to  fatigue  his  audience  with  too 
protracted  an  entertainment.  He  desisted  in  due  time,  and,  as  he  moved 
away,  Mrs.  Winnington  had  the  mortification  of  hearing  Lady  Flint- 
shire say  : — 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Marescalchi,  I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  come  to  us  for  a 
week  in  September.  We  shall  have  a  good  many  of  your  friends  with 
us,  and ,  we  are  thinking  of  getting  up  a  little  acting  for  the  young 
people." 

Philip  civilly  declined  the  invitation  which  his  late  antagonist  had 
been  angling  for  all  day,  excusing  himself  upon  the  plea  of  other  engage- 
ments, and  so  his  triumph  was  complete ;  and  the  initiated  among  those 
who  had  been  listening  to  him  no  doubt  felt  that  talent  had  met  with 
its  just  reward.  Perhaps,  however,  they  had  missed  the  best  part  of  the 
joke,  after  all ;  for  it  was  only  Hugh  who  had  noticed  that,  under  cover 
of  the  encounter  above  described,  Walter  Brune  and  Edith  had  quietly 
withdrawn  into  a  secluded  corner,  and  were  enjoying  a  long  and  un- 
molested tete-d-tete. 

"  Sic  vos  non  vobis,"  muttered  Colonel  Kenyon,  whose  stock  of 
classical  quotations  was  somewhat  limited.  "  I  suppose  Walter  must  be 
the  man ;  I  knew  it  was  one  of  them."  And  he  walked  away,  quite 
pleased  with  his  penetration. 


NO  NEW  THING.  659 

He  strolled  to  one  of  the  open  windows,  and  looked  out.  The  night 
was  warm  and  still ;  the  silent  lawns  lay  bathed  in  a  soft  and  inviting 
moonlight.  The  wainscot  was  not  a  high  one,  and  nobody  was  looking. 
Hugh  yielded  to  temptation,  swung  his  legs  over  the  sill,  dropped  on  to 
the  ground,  and,  walking  round  to  the  front  door,  got  his  hat  and  a 
cigar.  Soon  he  had  forgotten  all  about  the  little  comedy  which  was 
being  enacted  within,  and  had  reverted  to  the  thought  of  his  own  love 
troubles.  As  he  paced  to  and  fro,  he  could  hear  the  continuous 
murmur  of  talk  rising  and  falling  in  the  drawing-room ;  puffs  of  heated 
air  escaped  through  the  open  windows ;  somebody  was  singing  French 
songs  in  an  absurd,  cracked  voice. 

"  How  she  must  hate  all  this  !  "  Hugh  thought.  "  How  she  must 
wish  that  she  could  give  up  her  house  to  that  confounded  old  mother  of 
hers,  and  get  away,  and  live  her  own  life  !  But  she  can't  give  it  up  to 
her  mother,  and  she  won't  give  it  up  in  the  only  way  that  it  can  be  given 
up.  Her  pleasure  is  to  sacrifice  herself  for  others ;  110  woman  ever 
surrenders  a  pleasure  of  that  kind.  What  is  the  good  of  my  speaking] 
I  had  better  hold  my  tongue,  and  go  on  hoping  against  hope,  like  the 
superannuated  ass  that  I  am,  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  It  isn't  very 
delightful  staying  at  Longbourne  under  existing  circumstances,  but  it  is 
just  a  shade  better  than  being  sent  away  with  a  flea  in  my  ear." 

"  Si  vous  n'avez  rien  a,  me  dire,"  shrieked  the  invisible  songstress ; 
"  pourquoi  venir  aupres  de  moi  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  damned  old  screech-owl ! "  muttered  Hugh ;  and  with  that 
profane  and  improper  apostrophe  he  turned  on  his  heel,  and  sought  a 
more  sequestered  place  for  meditation. 

After  a  time,  two  dark  figures  came  striding  down  the  drive,  talking 
and  laughing ;  and  one  of  them  called  out,  "  Hullo !  here's  Colonel 
Kenyon ;  I  thought  he  wouldn't  be  able  to  stand  those  delightful  people 
much  longer.  Are  you  inclined  for  a  walk  this  fine  night,  Colonel 
Kenyon  1  I'm  going  to  see  .Walter  home." 

When  we  are  young,  it  flatters  us  to  be  asked  to  join  our  elders,  but 
when  we  have  reached  middle  age  it  flatters  us  a  great  deal  more  if  our 
juniors  express  a  wish  for  our  company.  Little  as  Hugh  was  disposed 
to  like  Marescalchi,  he  yet  began  to  think  that  there  might  be  good 
points  about  that  very  self-satisfied  young  gentleman,  as  he  walked 
beside  him  across  the  long  stretches  of  moonlit  grass.  Walter  he  did 
like.  Walter  was  a  youth  after  his  own  heart ;  a  youth  of  thews  and 
sinews,  of  fair  average  intelligence — Colonel  Kenyon  had  no  great  love 
for  very  clever  people — of  obvious  honesty  and  sincerity.  He  was  a 
sportsman,  too,  and  was  deeply  interested  in  hearing  about  the  pursuit 
of  the  big  game  in  India.  It  was  a  thousand  pities  that  such  another 
had  not  chanced  to  be  stranded  on  the  Riviera  at  the  time  when 
Margaret  had  taken  it  into  her  head  to  go  in  for  orphans. 

Two  out  of  the  three  men  hit  it  off  together  excellently  well ;  and  as 
the  third  was  of  so  pliant  a  character  that  it  came  naturally  to  him  to  fall 


660  NO  NEW  THING. 

in  with  any  one's  and  every  one's  humour,  their  conversation  did  not  flag 
until  they  reached  the  confines  of  the  Broom  Leas  paddocks,  where, 
notwithstanding  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  Miss  Brune  was  leaning  over 
a  fence,  waiting  for  her  brother. 

"  Whom  have  you  got  with  you,  Walter  ? "  she  called  out,  while 
they  were  still  under  the  shadow  of  a  hedge  and  she  was  in  the  full 
light  of  the  moon.  "  Has  Philip  actually  exerted  himself  to  walk  all 
this  way  with  you  ?  What  condescension  !  How  did  you  get  on  at 
dinner  ?  It  was  awfully  heavy,  I  suppose.  Did  Colonel  Kenyon  turn 
up  ?  and  what  do  you  think  of  him  ? " 

"  Colonel  Kenyon,"  answered  Philip,  gently  holding  Hugh  back  in 
the  shade,  "  turned  up,  as  per  arrangement,  and  he  is  all  that  your  fancy 
painted  him." 

"  Ah,  he  has  been  snubbing  you  !  I  knew  that  at  once  by  your  voice. 
Come  out  of  the  dark,  and  tell  me  all  about  him.  What  sort  of  a  looking 
person  is  he  1 " 

"  Well,"  answered  Philip,  "  it's  a  matter  of  opinion.  Here  he  is,  so 
you  can  form  yours  as  soon  as  you  like." 

Hugh  stepped  forward,  taking  off  his  hat  and  looking  a  little  foolish  ; 
while  Nellie  murmured,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,"  and  looked  rather  foolish 
too.  There  was  a  spice  of  the  monkey  in  Philip's  composition.  He 
was  not  ill-natured ;  but  he  was  himself  a  total  stranger  to  false  shame, 
and  the  spectacle  of  two  full-grown  fellow-creatures  demeaning  them- 
selves towards  one  another  after  the  fashion  of  a  couple  of  shy  children 
was  to  him  so  queer  and  entertaining  a  one  that  he  could  seldom  deny 
himself  the  pleasure  of  bringing  it  about,  when  a  good  opportunity 
offered.  He  did  not  get  much  amusement  for  his  pains  upon  the  present 
occasion ;  for  his  indiscretion  had  the  effect  of  causing  Miss  Brune  to 
beat  a  hasty  retreat,  and  in  a  very  few  minutes  he  and  Colonel  Kenyon 
were  wending  their  way  homewards. 

"  What  a  pretty  girl  Nellie — or  perhaps  I  ought  to  say  Miss  Brune 
— has  turned  out !  "  the  latter  remarked. 

"The  prettiest  girl  in  England,"  said  Marescalchi  with  decision. 
"  You  couldn't  judge  of  her  properly  just  now ;  but  when  you  see  her  by 
daylight,  you  will  understand  at  once  why  the  whole  county  raves  about 
her.  She  is  the  only  woman- 1  know  who  has  really  dark  blue  eyes. 
Edith  is  pretty,  very  pretty;  but  she  can't  hold  a  candle  to  Nellie." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  cried  Hugh,  half  amused,  half  angry  at  this 
dispassionate  criticism,  "you  are  a  very  lucky  fellow.  Many  a  man 
would  give  his  ears  to  be  allowed  to  call  two  such  charming  young 
ladies  by  their  Christian  names." 

"  People  are  always  telling  me  I  am  a  lucky  fellow,"  Philip  remarked. 
"  I  gave  up  protesting  against  the  accusation — for  it  is  a  sort  of  accusa- 
tion, you  know — long  ago.  But  only  the  wearer  knows  where  the  shoe 
pinches." 

Hugh  made  no  rejoinder,  for  it  flashed  across  him  that  there  could 


NO   NEW  THING.  661 

hardly  fail  to  be  a  dash  of  bitterness  in  the  lot  of  a  waif  and  stray ;  and 
so  the  remainder  of  the  walk  was  accomplished  in  silence.  Philip,  like 
many  other  persons  who  shine  in  society,  was  subject  to  occasional  fits 
of  depression  when  off  the  stage.  One  of  these  fits  fell  upon  him  now, 
and  Hugh  was  quite  startled  to  see  how  pale  and  haggard  he  looked 
when  he  bade  him  good-night  in  the  hall. 

"  Owes  money,  I  expect,"  the  Colonel  thought,  as  he  went  upstairs  ; 
"  I  wonder  what  Margaret  allows  him." 

And  then  this  good-natured  and  foolish  gentleman  actually  began 
calculating  the  amount  that  stood  to  his  credit  in  the  hands  of  Messrs. 
Cox  and  Co.  Hugh  had  felt  the  pinch  of  poverty  so  often  himself  that 
all  his  sympathies  were  stirred  by  a  suspicion  of  embarrassed  circum- 
stances in  others,  and  he  had  never  in  his  life  been  able  to  refuse  a  loan 
when  asked  for  one.  It  was  to  this  unfortunate  weakness  that  he  owed 
the  loss  of  more  than  one  old  friend. 


662 


THE  entrance  of  two  judges  into  an  English  assize  town  is,  weather 
favouring,  an  impressive  sight ;  or  at  least  it  can  be  made  so.  It  is  not 
often  that  a  sheriff  evinces  his  parsimony  after  the  manner  of  a  certain 
official  of  that  rank,  who  went  out  to  receive  Lord  Chief  Justice 
Cockburn  in  a  hansom  cab,  and  was  straightway  fined  500£.  for  his 
impudence.  Most  sheriffs  are  anxious  to  acquit  themselves  creditably 
of  the  task  which  the  law  imposes  upon  them,  and  some  would  no  doubt 
go  to  extremes  in  the  matter  of  pageantry  had  not  an  etiquette  arisen 
which  informally  regulates  to  what  extent  the  ceremonial  of  receiving 
the  judges  shall  go.  The  judges  must  have  fine  carriages  with  four 
horses,  servants  in  livery,  javelin  men  ;  a  comfortable  house  to  lodge  in, 
and  the  sheriff,  who  houses  and  feeds  them  at  his  own  expense,  must 
attend  them  into  court  daily  attired  in  uniform.  If  the  calendar  at  the 
assizes  be  a  heavy  one,  the  sheriff's  expenses  in  entertaining  the  judges 
for  several  days  must  often  be  considerable.  In  France,  where  the 
calendars  are  always  heavy,  the  assize  judges  have  not  only  to  defray  all 
their  own  expenses,  but  they  are  expected  to  give  at  least  one  dinner  to 
the  local  officials.  By  way  of  indemnity  they  receive  from  the  state  a 
fee  of  500  francs,  or  201.  The  regular  salaries  of  these  assize  judges, 
who  are  councillors  of  the  District  Court  of  Appeal,  specially  com- 
missioned, vary  between  240£.  and  360£. ;  but  never  exceed  this  last 
figure. 

This  is  only  another  way  of  saying  that  French  judges  are  as  a  rule 
men  of  private  means  who  have  accepted  judicial  office  for  the  honour 
of  the  thing.  The  Republican  party  now  in  power  have  resolved  to 
effect  a  radical  reform  in  the  judicature,  and  to  bestow  the  highest 
offices  on  the  Bench,  as  they  are  conferred  in  England,  on  successful 
barristers  whom  they  will  attract  by  the  offer  of  salaries  twice  and  three 
times  larger  than  those  now  paid.  Thus  it  is  proposed  to  give 
councillors  of  Appeal  Courts  (whose  numbers  will  be  diminished)  from 
600£.  to  1,000£.  a  year,  and  presidents  of  Appeal  Courts  from  1,200Z.  to 
2,000£  ;  under  the  new  system  also,  should  it  ever  come  into  force,  the 
judges  of  assize  will  have  all  their  expenses  paid  for  them  and  receive  a 
fee  of  4:1.  a  day  into  the  bargain.  These  reforms  must  altogether  change 
the  organisation  of  the  French  judicature;  but  speaking  of  French 
judges  as  they  are  now,  one  must  say  of  them  that,  if  not  always  intellec- 
tually brilliant,  they  are  without  exception  a  highly  dignified,  honourable 


A  FEENCH  ASSIZE.  663 

and  well-trained  body  of  men.  Those  of  them  who  are  commissioned  to 
hold  assizes  have  generally  sat  for  many  years  on  the  Bench.  They 
belong  in  most  cases  to  the  provincial  noblesse  and  commenced  their 
career  in  the  Magistrature  Assise,  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  or  twenty- 
seven,  by  being  appointed  assistant  judges  in  the  tribunals  of  Correctional 
Police ;  after  which  they  became  assessors  in  those  tribunals,  juges  &  in- 
struction (examining  magistrates),  and  finally  councillors  of  a  Court  of 
Appeal.  There  are  twenty-one  of  these  Appeal  Courts,  formerly  called 
lloyal  or  Imperial  Courts,  and  the  staff  of  each  includes  a  president  and 
an  indefinite  number  of  councillors.  Some  courts  have  but  six  or  eight 
councillors,  others  more  than  twenty.  A  councillorship  is  the  supreme 
dignity  to  which  a  judge  can  claim  to  rise  by  length  of  service,  though 
by  Government  favour  he  may  be  promoted  to  the  higher  functions  of 
president  of  a  Court,  or  councillor  of  the  Court  of  Cassation  in  Paris. 
The  presidentships,  however,  are  very  often  conferred  on  the  most 
distinguished  members  of  the  Magistrature  Debout,  the  Procurator 
General,  or  Chief  Public  Prosecutor  of  Appeal  Courts ;  and  it  may  be 
mentioned  that  councillors  seldom  care  to  accept  these  high  posts  unless 
they  are  quite  rich  men.  The  president  of  a  Cour  d'Appel  gets  600£. 
a  year,  but  he  is  required  to  keep  up  so  much  state  and  to  give  so  many 
dinners  and  parties  that  he  spends  his  salary  two  or  three  times  over. 
The  councillorships  of  the  Court  of  Cassation,  which  involve  a  residence 
in  Paris,  are  likewise  sought  only  by  the  most  affluent.  As  for  the 
highest  judicial  office  of  all,  that  of  President  of  the  Court  of  Cassation 
or  Supreme  Court  of  Civil  and  Criminal  Appeal,  the  salary  is  1,200?. ; 
but  the  holder  of  this  most  venerated  office  has  to  pay  for  his  dignity  on  a 
scale  which  only  an  income  of  several  thousands  of  pounds  will  suffice 
to  meet. 

Assizes  are  held  twice,  or  if  needful  three  times  a  year,  in  the  chief 
towns  of  each  department,  and  three  councillors  of  the  district  Cour 
d'Appel  are  commissioned  to  hold  them.  The  senior  councillor  takes  the 
temporary  title  of  President  of  the  Assizes,  and  on  him  devolve  all  the 
principal  duties,  ceremonial  and  other.  The  judges  arrive  in  the  town 
without  any  display,  but  as  soon  as  they  have  alighted  at  the  chief  hotel 
in  the  place  they  must  begin  paying  their  official  visits  in  a  carriage  and 
pair.  They  are  bound  to  call  first  on  the  prefect,  on  the  commander  of 
the  garrison  if  he  be  a  general  of  division,  and  on  the  diocesan  if  he  be 
an  archbishop,  and  the  visits  in  such  cases  must  be  paid  in  their  scarlet 
robes.  If,  however,  the  garrison  commander  be  a  general  of  brigade, 
and  the  diocesan  only  a  bishop,  the  Assize  President  and  his  assessors 
return  to  their  hotel  after  calling  on  the  prefect,  for  they  rank  higher 
for  the  nonce  than  all  other  officials,  and  are  entitled  to  receive  first 
visits  from  them.  The  prefect,  accompanied  by  his  secretary  and  the 
councillors  of  prefecture,  all  in  full  uniform,  speedily  arrives  at  the 
hotel  to  pay  his  return  visit,  and  after  him  come,  in  what  order  they 
please,  the  general,  the  bishop,  the  mayor  of  the  town,  the  president, 


664  A  FEENCH  ASSIZE. 

assessor,  and  public  prosecutor  of  the  local  tribunal,  the  Central 
Commissioner  of  Police,  and  divers  other  functionaries.  They  make  but 
a  short  stay,  and  as  soon  as  they  are  gone  the  judges  divest  themselves 
of  their  robes,  and  set  out  to  pay  their  return  visits  in  evening-dress. 
The  etiquette  in  all  these  points  is  strictly  defined.  It  was  originally 
regulated  by  Napoleon,  and  has  been  adhered  to  with  but  little  variation 
ever  since.  At  times  attempts  have  been  made  to  condense  the  whole 
formality  into  a  mere  exchange  of  cards ;  but  the  French  love  ceremony, 
and  of  late  the  secret  antagonism  between  aristocratic  judges  and  the 
Republican  government  has  induced  Republican  prefects  to  stickle  most 
punctiliously  for  the  observance  of  all  official  courtesies  due  towards 
them.  Not  long  ago  an  assize  president  who  was  by  birth  a  marquis 
called  upon  a  prefect,  and  made  him  the  stiffest  of  bows,  saying,  "  Sir,  I 
have  come  to  pay  you  the  visit  which  the  law  requires."  The  prefect 
was  a  good  fellow,  and  returning  the  call  an  hour  afterwards,  said  with 
the  blandest  of  smiles,  "  Sir,  I  come  to  pay  a  visit  which  in  some  cases 
might  be  a  mere  duty,  but  which  in  this  instance  is  a  real  pleasure." 
The  interviews  between  judges  and  bishops  are  generally  more  genial 
than  this. 

While  the  judges  have  been  getting  through  their  visits,  the  Avocat- 
General  appointed  to  act  as  Public  Prosecutor  at  the  assizes  has  also  been 
exchanging  civilities  with  the  local  authorities;  but  in  his  case  card 
leaving  is  held  to  be  sufficient.  The  Avocat-General  is  one  of  the  assist- 
ants of  the  Procureur  General  or  chief  Public  Prosecutor  of  the  district 
over  which  the  Appeal  Court  has  jurisdiction.  He  sits  in  the  assize 
court  in  red  robes,  and  conducts  the  prosecution  of  all  the  prisoners  :  it 
is  only  in  cases  where  private  prosecutors  want  to  get  pecuniary  damages 
out  of  a  prisoner,  besides  seeing  him  punished  according  to  law,  that  they 
are  represented  by  counsel  of  their  own.  They  are  then  said  to  constitute 
themselves  civil  parties  to  the  suit.  They  may  do  this  even  when  a 
prisoner  is  on  his  trial  for  murder,  and  indeed  pecuniary  damages  are 
almost  always  claimed  when  a  prisoner  is  supposed  to  be  able  to  pay 
them.  It  has  not  unfrequently  happened  that  a  murderer,  besides  being 
sentenced  to  death,  has  been  made  to  pay  a  heavy  fine  to  the  relations  of 
his  victim.  These  fines  are  inflicted,  not  by  the  jury,  but  by  the  Bench. 
A  few  years  ago  a  gentleman  named  Armand,  of  Bordeaux,  was  put 
upon  his  trial  for  trying  to  murder  his  servant,  Maurice  Roux.  The 
jury  acquitted  him,  but  the  Bench,  having  their  doubts  about  the  matter, 
sentenced  him  to  pay  20,000  francs  damages  to  Roux,  and  the  Court  of 
Cassation  upheld  this  curious  decision.  Prince  Pierre  Bonaparte,  when 
acquitted  of  the  murder  of  Victor  Noir,  the  journalist,  in  1870,  was  also 
made  to  pay  20,000  francs  damages  to  his  victim's  mother ;  and  only  a 
few  months  since  a  country  gentleman,  who  was  convicted  of  having  killed 
an  antagonist  in  a  duel,  was  sentenced  to  pay  4,OOOZ.  compensation  to 
the  deceased's  widow,  in  addition  to  undergoing  a  year's  imprisonment, 
and  paying  a  fine  of  40£  to  the  State  with  all  the  costs  of  the  trial. 


A  FRENCH  ASSIZE.  665 


II. 

French  assizes  are  only  held  to  try  criminal  causes.  All  civil  suits 
are  heard  at  the  Courts  of  Appeal,  which  are  stationary,  and  whose  presi- 
dents never  figure  in  assize  commissions.  When  a  calendar  is  xinusually 
heavy,  the  judges  arrive  two  or  three  days  before  the  proceedings  com- 
mence ;  but  in  any  case  they  come  one  clear  day  beforehand,  in  order  that 
they  may  have  ample  time  to  examine  the  dossiers  of  all  the  causes. 
This  is  always  done  with  the  utmost  care.  The  dossier  is  a  compilation 
which  includes  not  only  the  indictment  and  the  depositions  of  witnesses 
before  the  examining  magistrate,  but  all  the  facts  and  rumours  which  the 
police  have  been  able  to  collect  concerning  the  antecedents  of  the  accused. 
A  copy  of  each  dossier  handed  to  the  judges  is  laid  before  the  Chamlre 
des  Mises  en  Accusation,  which  performs  the  same  functions  as  an  English 
grand  jury.  The  members  composing  it  are  specially  delegated  judges  or 
magistrates  of  a  lower  rank  than  councillors,  and  it  rests  with  them  to 
determine  whether  prisoners  shall  be  put  upon  their  trial.  They  are  not 
limited,  however,  to  the  two  alternatives  of  finding  a  true  bill  or  ignoring 
the  bill  altogether.  They  may  order  a  supplement  d 'instruction,  that 
is,  send  back  the  case  to  the  examining  magistrate  for  further  inquiry. 
It  is  the  main  principle  of  French  procedure  that  a  case  should  come  up 
to  a  criminal  court  complete  in  all  its  details,  and  this  throws  upon 
examining  magistrates  an  amount  of  labour  and  responsibility  almost 
incredible. 

Four  categories  of  offences  are  tried  at  the  assizes  :  firstly,  crimes 
involving  sentences  of  death  or  penal  servitude ;  secondly,  political  of- 
fences; thirdly,  by  the  Act  of  1881,  press  offences;  and  fourthly,  man- 
slaughters caused  by  duelling.  The  offenders  in  the  last  three  categories 
are  generally,  though  not  always,  treated  with  courtesy.  They  have  been 
at  large  on  their  own  recognisances ;  they  are  not  required  to  surrender 
themselves  into  actual  custody,  and  they  do  not  sit  in  the  dock  during  trial. 
All  other  offenders,  however,  even  when  they  have  been  admitted  to  bail, 
must  surrender  at  the  House  of  Detention  on  the  day  before  the  assizes 
open,  and  must  be  brought  up  in  custody.  It  is  the  public  prosecutor, 
and  not  the  bench,  who  decides  to  what  extent  accused  persons  shall  be 
enlarged  before  and  during  trial.  He  may  if  he  pleases  keep  a  political 
offender  or  a  journalist  or  duellist  as  strictly  confined  before  trial  as  an 
ordinary  felon ;  and  he  may  at  his  discretion  stay  the  execution  of  a 
sentence,  and  allow  the  convicted  man  to  walk  freely  out  of  court. 
Political  offenders,  journalists  and  duellists,  who  get  sentenced  to  a  few 
months'  imprisonment  only,  are  seldom  detained  immediately  after  their 
conviction.  Except  in  very  serious  cases,  or  in  cases  where  the  govern- 
ment harbours  a  special  animosity  against  the  culprit,  the  latter  leaves 
the  court  free,  and  does  not  surrender  to  undergo  his  punishment  until 
he  receives  a  summons  to  do  so  from  the  public  prosecutor.  And  some- 

VQL.   XLV.— NO.    270.  32. 


666  A  FRENCH  ASSIZE. 

times,  as  for  instance  when  a  sudden  change  of  ministry  brings  the  friends 
of  a  political  offender  to  power,  the  summons  is  never  sent  at  all.  It 
may  be  remembered  that  during  the  last  days  of  the  Duke  de  Broglie's 
administration  in  1877,  M.  Gambetta  was  sentenced  to  four  months'  im- 
prisonment for  an  attack  on  Marshal  MacMahon,  but  the  order  to  sur- 
render was  never  communicated  to  him. 

The  first  business  of  the  assizes  is  to  draw  the  juries.  A  panel  of 
forty  jurymen  is  summoned,  and  the  prisoners  are  all  brought  up  one  by 
one  into  the  president's  room  to  see  the  drawing  done.  For  each  trial 
fourteen  names  are  drawn  by  lot,  that  is,  twelve  to  form  the  jury  and 
two  others  to  act  as  suppleants  in  case  one  of  the  jury  should  fall  ill. 
These  suppleants  are  sworn  like  the  rest,  and  they  sit  in  the  jury  box, 
but  take  no  part  in  finding  the  verdict  unless  they  are  required  to  fill  up 
vacancies.  This  system  of  having  a  couple  of  extra  men  on  a  jury  is 
evidently  more  sensible  than  the  English  plan  of  empaneling  just  the 
number  needed.  How  absurd  this  system  would  have  seemed  if  one  of 
the  jury  in  the  Tichborne  case  had  died  on  the  150th  day  of  the  trial, 
thereby  rendering  it  necessary  that  the  whole  trial  should  be  recom- 
menced !  In  France,  if  a  trial  bade  fair  to  last  a  hundred  days,  it  is 
probable  that  the  Bench  would  order  six  suppleants  to  be  empaneled  in 
order  to  guard  against  all  chance  of  a  miscarriage  of  justice. 

Every  prisoner  is  attended  at  the  drawing  by  his  counsel,  and  it  is  a 
merciful  provision  of  French  law  that  no  prisoner  shall  be  arraigned 
at  the  assizes  without  having  a  barrister  to  defend  him.  A  few  days 
before  the  assizes  a  notice  is  sent  to  the  House  of  Detention  requesting 
that  all  prisoners  unable  to  pay  for  counsel  shall  forward  their  applica- 
tions to  be  defended  at  the  expense  of  the  State ;  and  the  judges  appoint 
a  counsel  for  each  prisoner  as  soon  as  they  have  taken  cognisance  of  the 
dossiers.  The  avocat  may  not  always  be  of  much  use  to  a  prisoner,  but 
there  he  is,  and  he  seldom  fails  to  exercise  his  privilege  of  challenging 
some  of  the  names  called  for  the  jury.  This  is  done  by  merely  lifting  up 
his  toque  or  headdress  when  the  name  is  called.  The  public  prosecutor 
may  also  challenge,  and  challenges  coming  from  either  side  are  always 
allowed  without  question. 

The  administration  of  justice  in  France  is  never  rendered  undignified 
by  sordid  surroundings,  such  as  small,  frowsy  courts.  All  the  courts  of 
assize  are  spacious  and  handsome ;  there  is  plenty  of  room  for  all  who 
have  business  there,  and  it  is  always  possible  to  accommodate  a  good 
many  sight-seers.  The  public  prosecutor  sits  in  a  rostrum  to  right  or 
left  of  the  bench  according  to  the  position  of  the  windows,  the  dock  being 
always  opposite  the  light  so  that  the  prosecutor  may  enjoy  a  full  view  of 
the  prisoner's  face.  The  three  judges  in  their  robes  of  scarlet  and  ermine 
sit  in  armchairs  at  a  long  table  on  a  dais.  Behind  them  hangs  a  life-size 
painting  of  the  Saviour  on  the  Cross,  and  there  is  a  crucifix  on  the  table 
fronting  the  president's  chair.  These  emblems  of  mercy  and  redemption 
form  part  of  the  furniture  of  all  assize  courts.  No  freethinking  judge 


A  FRENCH  ASSIZE.  667 

has  yet  ordered  their  removal,  though  judges  must  be  pretty  well  tired 
by  this  time  of  healing  young  avocata  adjure  them  by  the  crucifix  not  to 
slay  the  innocent.  This  is  a  piece  of  rhetorical  flourish  which  may  have 
been  effective  sometimes,  but  it  has  been  sadly  overdone  and  misused. 


in. 

"  Bring  in  the  accused,"  says  the  president,  as  soon  as  the  judges  have 
taken  their  seats ;  and  the  prisoner  is  introduced  into  the  dock  between 
a  couple  of  gendarmes  heavily  armed,  who  sit  on  either  side  of  him  and 
keep  their  cocked  hats  on  throughout  the  proceedings.  From  this  time 
and  until  the  end  of  the  trial  it  may  occur  to  the  prisoner  to  wonder  why 
three  judges  have  been  put  to  the  trouble  of  trying  him,  seeing  that  it  is 
the  president  who  does  all  the  work.  It  is  said  that  the  two  assessors 
have  a  voice  in  the  infliction  of  the  sentence,  but  they  take  no  ostensible 
part  in  the  trial,  and  sit  all  the  while  as  dumb  as  fish.  The  president, 
on  the  contrary,  has  a  great  deal  both  to  say  and  to  do. 

The  procedure  of  the  French  assize  court  differs  totally  from  the 
English.  The  proceedings  commence  with  the  reading  of  the  indictment 
in  a  sing-song  voice  by  the  clerk  of  the  court,  and  this  visually  lasts  more 
than  an  hour,  for  the  indictment  is  of  portentous  length,  touching  upon 
almost  every  incident  in  the  accused's  life.  The  prisoner,  who  remains 
seated  during  this  reading,  is  then  told  to  stand  up,  and  the  president 
begins  to  interrogate  him.  Now  the  bias  of  French  judges  against 
accused  persons  is  always  so  strong  as  to  have  become  proverbial,  and 
any  Englishman  hearing  a  judicial  interrogatory  is  shocked  by  perceiving 
that  the  president  speaks  as  if  the  prisoner's  guilt  had  already  been  made 
manifest.  He  says  to  him,  "  Now  don't  deny  your  guilt.  Don't  equivo- 
cate. You  know  very  well  that  you  are  telling  lies.  You  seem  to  have 
been  a  bad  character  from  your  youth  up ; "  and  so  on.  This  kind  of 
thing  quite  unsettles  a  nervous  person,  or  makes  a  bold  one  saucy,  and 
it  produces  a  bad  effect  on  juries.  It  is  a  marvel  that  judges  should  not 
yet  have  discovered  how  bad  an  effect  it  produces.  Many  of  the  scanda- 
lously lenient  verdicts  which  have  disgraced  French  courts  of  justice  of 
late  years  may  be  ascribed  entirely  to  the  irritation  caused  in  the  minds 
of  jurymen  by  the  bullying  tone  adopted  by  judges  towards  prisoners. 
A  wretched  man  driven  to  exasperation  one  day  exclaimed,  "  You  are 
not  judging  my  cause;  you  have  made  up  your  mind  about  it  without 
hearing  me.  What  is  the  use  of  my  answering  you  1 "  and  he  was 
acquitted  for  this  speech,  though  in  truth  he  was  guilty.  A  judge  who 
believes  in  a  prisoner's  guilt  and  wants  to  see  him  punished  cannot  do 
better  than  speak  to  him  in  the  most  moderate  tone,  as  the  jury  will 
probably  do  their  duty  if  their  vanity  is  not  ruffled  by  the  feeling  that 
they  are  being  cowed.  By  an  Act  passed  in  1880  the  summing  up  of 
judges  was  abolished.  This  Act  may  be  said  to  have  been  a  very  severe 
vote  of  censure  passed  by  the  Parliament  upon  the  Judicature,  and  it 

32—2 


668  A  FRENCH  ASSIZE. 

ought  to  have  had  a  sobering  and  somewhat  humiliating  effect  upon 
presidents  of  assize.  But  it  has  apparently  had  none.  The  truth  is, 
judges  come  into  court  with  their  minds  utterly  saturated  with  the  facts 
accumulated  in  most  cleverly  drawn  indictments,  and  it  should  be  added 
that  the  preliminary  investigations  conducted  before  the  examining  magis- 
trates are  generally  so  long,  so  minute,  and  painstaking  that  it  is  very 
seldom  indeed  that  an  innocent  man  is  committed  for  trial.  Innocent  men 
frequently  remain  for  months  and  months  in  gaol  while  the  charge  against 
them  is  being  investigated  by  examining  magistrates ;  but  as  it  is  the 
juge  d' instruction' s  business  to  frame  a  perfect  indictment,  and  not  merely 
to  establish  a  primd  facie  case,  he  will  end  by  discharging  a  prisoner  if 
not  fully  satisfied  of  his  guilt,  sooner  than  risk  a  snub  from  the  Chambre 
des  Mises  en  Accusation  by  sending  up  an  incomplete  case.  Nevertheless 
innocent  men  do  get  committed  and  convicted  sometimes  in  France ;  and 
rare  as  such  occurrences  may  be,  they  ought,  one  would  think,  to  render 
presidents  of  assize  more  dispassionate.  When  the  prisoner  has  been  ques- 
tioned and  harried  till  he  is  faint  and  despairing,  he  is  allowed  to  sit 
down  again.  The  president  has  done  his  duty,  according  to  his  lights,  in 
endeavouring  to  wring  a  confession  from  the  man,  and,  having  failed,  he 
is  content  to  let  him  alone  thenceforth.  Now  comes  the  time  for  the 
witnesses  to  be  heard.  They  are  not  sworn  upon  a  Testament,  but  are 
enjoined  to  lift  up  their  right  hand  and  swear  to  tell  "  the  truth,  the 
whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth."  A  rather  needless  question  is 
asked  them  to  start  with,  "How  old  are  you?"  After  this  they  have 
to  say  whether  they  stand  in  any  degree  of  relationship  towards  the 
accused.  There  is  no  cross-examination  by  the  counsel  for  the  defence 
as  in  England.  It  is  the  president  who  does  all  the  interrogating.  The 
prosecution  and  the  defence  may  from  time  to  time  interpolate  a  question, 
but  this  is  not  done  on  any  systematic  plan,  and  the  questions  are  always 
put  through  the  president  with  his  leave.  In  the  newest  built  assize 
courts  the  witnesses  sit  while  giving  their  evidence. 

After  the  witnesses  for  the  prosecution  have  been  heard,  those  for 
the  defence  come  forward,  without  any  interposition  in  the  shape  of  a 
speech  from  the  prisoner's  counsel.  This  is  another  point  of  difference 
from  English  procedure.  The  speeches  are  all  delivered  at  the  close  of 
the  evidence.  The  Public  Prosecutor  leads  off  with  his  requisitoire ;  if 
there  be  a  claim  for  damages,  the  avocat  of  the  civil  parties  to  the  suit 
follows,  and  then  the  counsel  for  the  defence  makes  his  harangue.  One 
must  call  it  a  harangue,  for  whether  the  orator  be  one  of  the  foremost 
men  at  the  Bar,  or  a  mere  forensic  tyro,  he  is  sure  to  indulge  in  a  set 
declamation  with  a  great  deal  of  what  is  on  this  side  of  the  Channel 
contemptuously  termed  'gush.'  As  there  are  no  juries  in  civil  causes  or 
in  correctional  courts,  avocats  gladly  avail  themselves  of  the  chances 
furnished  by  the  assizes  to  try  their  lurking  powers  of  humour,  pathos, 
or  sophistry  on  "  twelve  honest  and  intelligent  jurymen."  One  of  the 
most  consummate  jurists,  the  late  M.  Chaix  d'Est  Ange,  whose  practice 


A  FEENCH  ASSIZE.  669 

lay  entirely  in  the  civil  courts,  used  to  say  that  it  "  refreshed  "  him  to 
defend  a  prisoner  now  and  then  at  the  assizes.  "  It  is  good  exercise 
for  the  whole  body,"  he  added  naively.  "  To  a  judge  one  must  talk 
with  the  head,  but  to  a  jury  one  may  speak  with  head,  heart,  eyes, 
hands,  and  legs." 

Let  us  not  make  too  light  of  assize  court  oratory.  It  is  of  an  infinitely 
higher  quality  than  that  so  met  with  at  the  Old  Bailey.  To  begin  with, 
the  French  are  born  talkers  ;  they  are,  moreover,  warm-hearted,  quick- 
willed,  and  {esthetic.  You  can  appeal  to  the  feelings  of  the  least 
cultured  among  them  by  lofty  theories  upon  humanity,  and  you  may 
captivate  the  minds  of  the  most  intelligent  and  highly  educated  by  in- 
genious paradoxes.  Jurymen  are  for  the  most  part  plain  men  of  square 
sense ;  but  one  or  two  "  thinkers  "  among  the  twelve  will  leaven  the 
whole  lump.  The  others  will  undergo  the  influence  of  their  superior 
minds,  and  while  not  comprehending  their  theories  perhaps  will  feel 
secretly  ashamed  of  their  own  dulness,  and  will  be  anxious  to  prove  that 
they,  too,  comprehend  a  "  grande  idee."  The  "  grande  idee  "  may  happen 
to  be  this,  that  a  man  is  justified  in  slaying  his  mother-in-law  if  she 
nterferes  too  perseveringly  with  his  domestic  arrangements ;  but  what 
matter  if  the  verdict  which  consecrates  this  doctrine  be  received  by  the 
public  with  loud  cheers  1 

In  England  we  have  by  our  sneers  at  "  gush,"  "  humbug,"  "  clap- 
trap," "  sentimentalism,"  &c.,  made  our  barristers  ashamed  to  talk  nobly. 
Very  few  of  them,  indeed,  would  care  to  risk  that  reputation  for  good 
sense  which  is  so  valued  amongst  us  by  launching  hazardous  theories  in 
justification  of  great  crimes.  In  cases  of  murder  especially  the  plea  of 
provocation  can  only  be  urged  with  the  extremest  caution.  Neither 
judges  nor  juries  will  stand  much  of  it,  and  some  of  the  theories  occasion- 
ally advanced  in  French  courts  of  justice  to  save  the  necks  of  desperate 
scoundrels  would  be  received  in  England  not  only  with  indignation,  but 
with  contemptuous  laughter.  Some  time  ago  a  Parisian  tradesman 
named  Martin,  being  on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy,  was  moved  to  right 
his  affairs  by  murdering  and  robbing  one  of  those  messengers  of  the 
Bank  of  France  who  may  be  seen  going  about  the  streets  on  the  first  and 
fifteenth  of  eve  ry  month  to  collect  payment  of  bills.  These  messengers 
are  very  cons]  icuous  from  wearing  a  grey  uniform  and  carrying  their 
satchels  full  cf  notes  and  go'd  slung  by  a  chain  to  their  sides.  Martin 
decoyed  one  of  these  poor  fellows  into  his  shop  under  pretence  of 
wanting  change  for  a  thous  tnd  franc  note,  and  while  the  messenger  was 
stooping  over  his  counter  to  spread  out  the  gold,  he  clove  his  head  open 
with  a  hatchet.  The  murder  had  been  craftily  planned,  and  might  well 
have  gone  undetected,  for  Martin  was  alone  in  his  shop ;  he  had 
littered  the  floor  thickly  with  saw-dust,  and  he  had  made  all  his 
arrangements  for  dragging  his  victim  down  to  the  cellar  and  there 
burying  him.  Unfortunately  for  him  the  messenger  was  not  killed 


670  A  FRENCH  ASSIZE. 

outright.  He  had  just  strength  enough  left  to  wrench  open  the  shop 
door  and  stagger  into  the  street,  where  he  died  on  the  pavement. 

How  promptly  an  English  judge  and  jury  would  have  have  sent 
Martin  to  the  gallows  need  not  be  insisted  upon  ;  but  M.  Lachaud,  who 
defended  the  ruffian  before  a  Parisian  jury,  did  it  with  such  skill  that  he 
moved  them  to  tears.  He  drew  a  touching  picture  of  the  honest 
tradesman,  the  good  husband  and  father,  driven  to  despair  by  seeing 
himself  on  the  point  of  ruin.  He  implored  the  jury  to  have  mercy  on  a 
man  who  wanted  to  save  his  "commercial  honour."  No  doubt  it  was 
wrong  to  try  and  save  one's  honour  by  murder  and  robbery,  but  such  a 
wild  design  only  proved  the  extent  of  mental  aberration  to  which  poor 
Martin  had  been  brought  by  the  prospect  of  seeing  his  credit  broken. 
The  jury,  taking  this  kindly  view  of  the  matter,  found  "  extenuating 
circumstances  "  in  favour  of  Martin,  who  was  consequently  saved  from  the 
guillotine,  and  sentenced  to  transportation  for  life.  As  he  has  now 
undergone  five  years  of  his  time,  he  is  probably  living  as  a  free  colonist 
in  New  Caledonia. 

Such  miscarriages  of  justice  may  seem  to  us  monstrous,  but  they  may 
be  matched  by  plenty  of  others  from  recent  judicial  annals.  M.  Lachaud, 
who  exercises  a  magical  influence  over  juries,  was  three  years  ago  called 
upon  to  defend  a  girl  named  Marie  Biere,  who  had  shot  at  her  paramour 
with  a  revolver  and  wounded  him  so  dangerously  that  for  weeks  he  lay 
at  the  point  of  death.  Marie  Biere  was  not  an  artless  girl  wreaking 
frantic  vengeance  on  a  man  who  had  seduced  her,  but  a  person  of 
worthless  antecedents,  who,  having  formed  a  liaison  with  a  young 
gentleman  of  property,  wished  to  induce  him  to  marry  her,  and  shot  him 
because  he  was  going  to  marry  somebody  else.  It  ought  to  have  been 
regarded  as  an  aggravating  circumstance  in  her  crime  that  her  paramour 
had  not  sought  to  cast  her  off  penniless,  but  had  liberally  settled  an 
income  of  1 447.  a  year  on  her  for  life ;  and  yet  it  was  precisely  on  this 
fact  that  M.  Lachaud  based  his  most  masterly  defence  of-  the  girl  and 
obtained  her  acquittal.  He  fully  admitted  how  bad  Mdlle.  Biere's 
antecedents  had  been  ;  "  but,"  he  asked,  with  his  fiery  eloquence,  "  what 
has  that  to  do  with  it  1  If  this  poor  creature  conceived  a  true  and 
tender  feeling  of  love  for  this  man,  if  she  had  cherished  the  dream  of 
becoming  his  wife  and  leading  a  life  of  purity  thenceforth,  was  it  not  a 
most  pitiable  thing  that  her  hopes  of  redemption  should  have  been 
destroyed1?  You  saw  how  she  spurned  his  money — her  love  had 
purified  her — he  had  won  her  heart  and  his  desertion  made  her  desperate. 
Are  you  going  now  by  your  verdict  to  affirm  that  women  who  have  once 
fallen  shall  never  be  allowed  to  love,  shall  never  blot  out  the  past,  shall 
be  subject  all  their  lives  to  the  degradation  of  offers  such  as  this  by  which 
Marie  Biere's  lover  sought,  as  he  cynically  said,  to  compensate  her? 
Compensation  at  the  rate  of  three  hundred  francs  a  month  for  a  broken 
heart !  Compensation  by  insult  for  a  wrong  most  cruel,  most  worthy  of 
good  men's  compassion  1 " 


A  FRENCH  ASSIZE.  671 

There  were  numbers  of  fine  ladies,  actresses,  authors — the  author  of 
the  Dame  aux  Camelias  among  them — who  wept  in  court  during  this 
stirring  address;  and  the  bewildered  jury  brought  in  a  verdict  of  Not 
Guilty,  which  was  hailed  with  tremendous  applause,  waving  of  handker- 
chiefs and  hats.  Marie  Biere,  in  leaving  the  court,  received  an 
enthusiastic  ovation  from  the  crowd  in  the  Salle  des  Pas  Perdus,  and 
for  several  days  afterwards  the  girl's  lodgings  were  beset  by  warm-hearted 
people,  who  brought  her  bouquets,  cards,  and  more  substantial  gifts. 
But  her  acquittal  produced  most  disastrous  consequences.  It  led  in  fact 
to  a  very  epidemic  of  shooting  and  vitriol-throwing.  In  the  course  of 
the  last  two  years,  at  least  twenty  girls  have  been  arraigned  at  the  assizes 
for  seeking  reparation  for  their  blighted  hopes  vi  et  armis,  and  M. 
Lachaud's  famous  speech,  repeated  with  every  kind  of  variation  suitable  to 
particular  circumstances,  by  barristers  great  and  small,  has  always  led 
to  acquittals.  In  one  of  these  cases  M.  Georges  Lachaud,  nephew  of 
the  great  Lachaud,  had  to  meet  the  remonstrances  of  the  Public  Prose- 
cutor, who  plainly  pointed  out  that  the  constant  acquittal  of  adven- 
turesses who  had  no  object  but  to  bring  themselves  into  notoriety  by 
committing  murder  was  really  a  public  scandal  and  a  danger  to  society. 
"  I  contend,  on  the  contrary,  that  such  acquittals  are  tending  unmistake- 
ably  to  moralise  society,"  answered  M.  Georges  Lachaud.  "  By  proving 
that  you  have  no  sympathy  with  young  men  of  loose  morals  you  are 
making  them  cautious.  All  laws  have  failed  to  make  them  virtuous,  but 
one  such  verdict  as  you  may  render  can  frighten  them  into  becom- 
ing so." 

Such  appeals  to  juries  to  judge  a  case  on  higher  grounds  than  those  of 
mere  law  seldom  miss  their  effect ;  and  it  has  gradually  come  to  be  ac- 
cepted as  a  doctrine  in  France  that  the  jurymen  need  not  feel  themselves 
tethered  by  the  letter  of  the  oath  which  they  swear.  They  are  represen- 
tatives of  the  people  rendering  popular  justice,  not  according  to  the  hard, 
unelastic  texts  of  the  law,  but  according  to  the  highest  dictates  of 
abstract  equity,  common  sense,  and  mercy.  M.  Lachaud,  who  is  a  truly 
great  orator,  and  has  done  more  than  any  man  alive  to  educate  juries 
into  the  notion  that  they  must  judge  with  their  hearts  and  not  with  their 
heads,  is  ably  seconded  in  his  theories  by  his  son,  and  his  nephew,  and 
by  MM.  Allon,  Nicolet,  Demange,  Carraby  and  others.  All  these 
avocats  are  arch  blarneyers.  Their  fantastic  arguments  and  hysteric 
declamations  make  judges  to  moan,  but  they  cause  juries  to  weep,  and 
all  the  gain  is  for  the  prisoners.  A  curious  result  of  this  state  of  things 
is  this,  that  if  a  man  have  a  quarrel  with  his  enemy  he  had  far  better 
for  his  own  sake  kill  him  outright  than  maim  him.  For  an  aggravated 
assault  he  will  be  tried  before  three  judges  without  a  jury  in  the 
Correctional  Court,  and  stands  a  good  chance  of  getting  five  years'  im- 
prisonment; but  if  he  kills  his  man,  he  will  be  tried  before  a  jury,  and  if 
it  be  proved  that.(  he  acted  in  hot  blood  without  premeditation,  an 
acquittal  will  very  likely  follow.  It  will  certainly  follow  if  the  murder 


672  A  FRENCH  ASSIZE. 

in  hot  blood  have  been  the  upshot  of  a  quarrel  between  husband  and  wife 
in  consequence  of  some  infidelity  on  one  side  or  the  other.  Juries  never 
will  punish  the  betrayed  husband  or  wife  who  takes  the  law  into  his 
or  her  own  hands.  Lately  a  husband  who  had  an  unfaithful  wife  gave 
her  a  tremendous  thrashing  and  broke  her  arm,  for  which  he  was 
sentenced  to  a  year's  imprisonment  by  a  Correctional  Court.  As  he  left 
the  dock  he  exclaimed  ruefully,  "  Mon  Dieu,  voilcl  c?  qu'on  gaym  ct  se 
montrer  trop  doux  !  " 

IV. 

When  the  counsel  for  the  defence  has  finished  his  speech,  the  public 
prosecutor  replies ;  but  this  privilege  will  probably  be  taken  from  him 
before  long,  on  the  same  principle  as  that  which  made  the  Legislature 
suppress  the  summing  up  of  the  judge.  Humanitarians  think  that  the 
last  word  in  a  trial  should  be  spoken  by  the  defence,  so  that  the  jury 
may  retire  with  cries  for  mercy  still  ringing  in  their  ears. 

French  jurymen  are  not  detained,  as  in  England,  throughout  the 

whole  duration  of  a  trial  for  felony.     They  may  return  to  their  homes 

in  the  evening,  and  go  where  they  please,  and  speak  with  whom  they 

please  during  the  adjournments  for  lunch.     Once  they  have  retired  to 

consider  their  verdict,  however,  they  are  locked  up  until  they  have  come 

to  a  decision.     The  only  person  with  whom  they  may  communicate  is 

the  President  of  the  Court ;  and  if  they  desire  to  see  him  he  is  summoned 

to  their  room.     Their  verdict  has  to  be  given  under  the  form  of  answers 

by  "  Yes  "  or  "  No  "  to  a  number  of  questions  stated  for  them  in  writing 

by  the  president.     These  questions  sometimes  exceed  a  hundred,  and 

cover  several  pages  of  foolscap  in  the  Clerk  of  Arraign's  handwriting. 

Unanimity  is  not  required  for  the  finding  of  a  verdict,  but  there  must  be 

a  majority  of  eight  to  four  to  carry  a  full  conviction.     If  the  votes  are 

equally   divided  the  prisoner  is   acquitted ;  if  five   pronounce  for  an 

acquittal  and  seven  for  a  conviction,  the  prisoner  gets  the  benefit  of  what 

is  called  minor  ite  defaveur,  and  the  Bench  by  adding  their  three  votes  to 

the  five  given  in  his  favour  may  acquit  him  if  they  think  fit.     A  verdict 

delivered  without  any  finding  of  "extenuating  circumstances"  carries 

with  it  the  maximum  penalty ;  but  the  maximum  can  never  be  inflicted 

when  "  extenuating  circumstances  "  are  allowed.     Thus  murderers  tried 

for  their  lives  always  escape  the  guillotine  when  the  judges  find  cimm- 

stdnces  attenuantes.      Verdicts  of  this  description  are  often  delivered 

simply  because  the  majority  of  a  jury  may  object  to  capital  punishment. 

They  none  the  less  produce  a  painful  and  startling  effect  upon  the  minds 

of  right-thinking  persons  when  the  recipient  of  clemency  happens  to  be 

a  villanous  scoundrel  for  whose  crime,  humanly  speaking,  there  should 

be  no  mercy  at  all.     It  shocks  people  to  hear  a  jury  find  extenuating 

circumstances  in  favour  of  a  brute  who  has  murdered  his  aged  parents 

to  rob  them  of  their  savings ;  or  of  a  monster,  like  that  man  in  the  Ain, 


A  FRENCH  ASSIZE.  673 

who  last  year  blew  up  a  house,  and  killed  three  people,  because  he  wanted 
to  destroy  at  one  stroke  five  relations  who  stood  between  him  and 
some  property.  The  inmates  of  the  house  were  nine  in  number,  and  the 
murderer  had  coldly  planned  to  kill  them  all.  It  was  by  a  sheer 
miracle  that  six  of  them  escaped  death.  Nevertheless,  the  jury  found 
"  extenuating  circumstances,"  and  the  judges  were  so  indignant  at  this 
scandalous  verdict  that  they  marked  their  sense  of  it  in  a  rather  odd 
fashion  by  sentencing  the  prisoner  to  twenty  years'  transportation  only, 
instead  of  to  transportation  for  life.  The  effect  of  this  would  be  that  the 
convict  might  in  ten  years  obtain  a  pardon  and  return  to  France ; 
whereas,  if  sentenced  for  life,  he  would  have  to  spend  the  remainder  of  his 
days  in  New  Caledonia,  even  if  discharged  from  the  penal  colony  there 
on  ticket-of-leave.  The  judges  practically  said  to  the  jury  : — "  Since 
you  take  an  interest  in  this  malefactor,  you  shall  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  him  among  you  again  in  a  few  years." 

It  must  be  remarked  that  juries  who  are  so  compassionate  towards 
the  perpetrators  of  violent  murders  are  seldom  tender  towards  forgers, 
burglars,  and  other  offenders  against  property;  they  are  not  lenient 
towards  poisoners  either.  Murder  with  a  knife,  revolver,  or  bludgeon 
is  all  very  well,  but  treacherous  poisoning  strikes  even  the  most  opaque- 
minded  juryman  as  a  thing  to  be  discouraged.  Even  M.  Lachaud  has 
often  expended  his  eloquence  quite  vainly  in  the  attempt  to  enlist  pity 
for  wives  who  put  lucifer  matches  into  their  husband's  soup,  or  sons  who 
drugged  their  father's  coffee  with  laudanum.  Since  M.  Grevy's  acces- 
sion to  the  presidency  of  the  Republic,  however,  capital  punishment  has 
been  suffered  to  fall  into  disuse,  so  that  murderers  of  the  most  unpopular 
categories,  though  sentenced  to  death,  are  no  longer  executed. 

When  the  jury  have  found  their  verdict  they  return  into  court,  and 
the  foreman  delivers  the  finding  in  an  impressive  manner.  He  lays 
his  hand  upon  his  heart  and  says,  "  On  my  honour  and  conscience, 
before  God  and  men,  the  verdict  of  the  jury  is  unanimously  (or  by  a 
majority,  as  the  case  may  be)  on  the  first  question  "  Yes  " ;  on  the  second 
question  "  Yes  " ;  and  so  on.  The  prisoner  is  not  in  court  either  when 
the  verdict  is  delivered  or  when  sentence  ia  pronounced.  He  has  been 
led  out  when  the  jury  retired,  and  he  is  not  brought  into  the  dock  again 
until  the  court  have  publicly  pronounced  sentence.  The  object  of  this 
arrangement  is  to  prevent  the  judges  being  disturbed  in  their  calm  deli- 
berations by  the  prisoner's  shrieks  and  entreaties  for  mercy.  When  the 
prisoner  is  brought  into  court  he  knoAvs  that  mercy  is  past  praying  for. 
He  is  informed  of  his  conviction  and  doom  by  the  clerk  of  the  court,  who 
reads  him  the  sentence  which  has  been  drawn  up  on  paper ;  and  he  is 
then  told  that  he  has  three  days  before  him  in  which  to  appeal  to  the 
Court  of  Cassation. 

Every  prisoner  appeals  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  but  the  Court  of  Cas- 
sation is  only  a  Court  of  Appeal  after  a  fashion.  It  does  not  enter  into 
the  rights  or  wrongs  of  an  appellant's  cause ;  it  has  simply  to  determine 

32- 


674  A  FKENCH  ASSIZE. 

whether  his  trial  was  conducted  with  all  the  requisite  legal  formalities. 
If  there  have  been  an  informality  of  the  most  trivial  kind,  the  proceed- 
ings are  quashed,  and  a  new  trial  is  ordered.  It  is  this  that  makes 
French  judges  and  procurators  so  minutely  careful  in  framing  indict- 
ments and  wording  sentences.  If  there  have  been  the  omission  of  a 
single  letter  in  the  prisoner's  name,  or  a  misstatement  about  his  age,  it  is 
enough  to  form  un  cas  de  cassation.  The  barristers  who  plead  before 
the  Cour  de  Cassation  practise  in  no  other  courts.  They  are  a  special 
class  of  hair-splitters  who  apply  all  their  acumen  to  the  detection  of 
little  flaws  in  masses  of  documents.  So  thoroughly  impersonal  are  their 
pleadings  that,  in  a  famous  case  of  murder,  where  a  whole  day  was  spent 
in  arguing  on  the  appeal  for  a  new  trial,  the  name  of  the  convict  was 
never  once  mentioned. 

To  return  to  the  Assize  Court.  It  is  a  good  practice  in  France  to 
carry  on  a  trial  once  commenced  uninterruptedly  to  its  conclusion.  If 
it  cannot  be  terminated  on  a  Saturday  night,  the  court  sits  on  Sunday ; 
and  from  the  moment  when  the  counsel  for  the  defence  has  begun  his 
speech  there  is  no  more  break  in  the  proceedings,  even  though  that 
speech  be  finished  very  late  in  the  evening.  No  case  has  yet  occurred  in 
France  of  a  speech  in  a  criminal  case  lasting  more  than  one  day ;  but  it 
often  happens  that  juries  are  not  dismissed  to  consider  their  verdicts  till 
past  midnight,  and  only  return  into  court  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morn- 
ing. There  is  no  law  to  prevent  judges  from  adjourning  their  courts  at 
the  conclusion  of  the  defence  if  the  hour  be  late ;  but  it  is  not  customary 
for  them  to  do  so  now  that  the  summing-up  has  been  abolished.  On 
ordinary  days  the  court  opens  at  10  A.M.  and  rises  at  6  or  7  P.M. 
There  is  always  on  the  part  of  French  judges  a  laudable  desire  to  consult 
the  convenience  of  witnesses  by  keeping  them  as  short  a  time  as  possible 
in  attendance  at  the  court ;  and  barristers  assist  this  object  by  consenting 
without  a  murmur  to  remain  in  court  as  late  in  the  evening  as  may  be 
necessary  to  expedite  business. 

This  does  not  prevent  Bench  and  Bar  from  enjoying  themselves  in  the 
usual  festive  manner  at  the  close  of  each  day's  proceedings.  The  assizes 
furnish  occasion  for  a  round  of  dinners.  The  local  authorities  each  give 
one,  turn  by  turn ;  and  after  the  assizes  are  over  the  president  generally 
entertains  all  his  late  hosts  at  a  banquet.  This  repast  is  followed  by  a 
grand  reception  which  is  attended  by  all  public  or  private  persons  who 
desire  to  pay  their  respects  to  the  judges.  It  is  a  matter  of  etiquette  that 
the  forty  members  of  the  jury  panel  should  always  come. 

As  for  the  prisoners,  it  may  be  remarked  of  those  sentenced  to  death 
that  they  stand  in  quite  a  different  position  to  that  of  English  convicts  in 
the  same  case.  They  receive  no  intimation  of  the  date  when  their  execution 
will  take  place.  The  Court  of  Cassation  to  which  they  have  appealed  may 
perhaps  not  call  up  their  case  fora  couple  of  months;  and  after  that  some 
more  days  will  be  occupied  in  forwarding  a  recours  en  grace,  or  petition 
for  mercy,  to  the  President  of  the  Republic.  M.  Grevy  is  opposed  to 


A  FKENCH  ASSIZE.  675 

capital  punishment ;  but  not  so  determinedly  opposed  to  it  as  never 
to  have  signed  a  death  warrant.  He  has  allowed  three  men  to  be 
guillotined  out  of  about  sixty  who  have  been  sentenced  to  death  since 
his  accession,  and  this  proportion,  small  as  it  is,  is  sufficient  to  prevent 
murderers  from  feeling  absolutely  reassured  as  to  the  fate  awaiting  them. 
They  hear  nothing  of  what  is  being  done  for  or  against  them  outside  the 
prison  walls.  The  avocats  who  defended  them  draw  up  the  recours  en 
grace,  but  the  convicts  are  not  supposed  to  know  what  chances  there  are 
of  these  petitions  being  entertained  or  rejected.  If  a  convict  is  to  be 
executed,  the  first  certain  intimation  which  he  receives  of  the  painful  fact 
comes  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  his  head  drops  into  the  sawdust 
basket  of  the  guillotine.  Some  morning — it  may  be  two  or  three  months 
after  his  trial — he  is  aroused  at  break  of  day  by  the  governor  of  the 

prison  entering  his  cell  and  saying  kindly  : — "  A ,  your  appeal  has 

been  rejected,  and  your  petition  dismissed  :  the  moment  has  arrived  ..." 
The  unhappy  man,  rolling  out  of  bed  and  staggering  to  his  feet,  sees  the 
gaol  chaplain,  who  has  walked  in  behind  the  governor,  and  two  or  three 
warders  who  assist  him  hastily  to  dress.  From  this  moment  everything 
is  done  with  the  utmost  celerity.  The  prisoner  has  wine  pressed  upon 
him ;  three  minutes  are  allowed  him  to  make  his  shrift,  then  he  is  led 
out  and  pinioned.  Next  moment  he  is  half  conducted,  half  pushed,  into 
the  open  air,  where  the  guillotine  stands  surrounded  by  dense  squares 
of  mounted  troops  and  police,  behind  whom  are  massed  large  crowds 
straining  their  eyes,  with  not  much  effect,  to  see  what  is  about  to  take 
place.  The  modern  guillotine  is  not  erected  on  a  platform,  but  is  placed 
on  the  ground.  The  convict  makes  half  a  dozen  steps  ;  the  executioner's 
assistants  seize  him,  push  him  roughly  against  an  upright  board,  which 
falls  forward,  pivoting  under  his  weight,  and  brings  him  in  a  horizontal 
position  with  his  neck  between  the  grooves,  above  which  the  knife  is 
suspended.  The  executioner  touches  a  spring ;  the  knife  flashes  as  it 
falls  ;  and  all  is  over.  Watch  in  hand  it  has  been  reckoned  that  when 
all  the  preliminaries  of  execution  are  smartly  conducted,  no  more  than 
fourteen  minutes  ought  to  elapse  from  the  time  when  the  convict  is 
startled  out  of  sleep  to  the  instant  when  his  head  and  body  part  com- 
pany. 

From  the  Christian  point  of  view  it  is  certainly  deplorable  that  a 
convict  having  a  sure  knowledge  of  his  impending  death  should  never  be 
able  seriously  to  prepare  his  mind  for  it.  But  the  French  act  upon  the 
principle  of  making  things  as  easy  as  possible  for  the  doomed  man.  Even 
the  prison  chaplain  thinks  it  his  duty  to  hold  out  hopes  of  a  commutation, 
though  he  may  have  no  good  reason  for  feeling  that  the  sentence  will  not 
be  carried  out.  The  convict  then  passes  his  last  weeks  of  existence  in  a 
fool's  paradise.  He  is  encouraged  to  smoke,  he  is  allowed  enough  wine  to 
make  him,  if  not  drunk,  at  least  merry — that  is  a  quart  a  day — and  the 
warders  in  his  cell  play  cards  with  him  as  much  as  he  likes — it  being  their 
chief  care  to  keep  the  man  from  moping  and  giving  them  trouble. 


6?6 


CHAPTER  I. 
EILEAN    ARCS. 

IT  was  a  beautiful  morning  in  the  late  July  when  I  set  forth  on  foot 
for  the  last  time  for  Aros.  A  boat  had  put  me  ashore  the  night  before 
at  Grisapol ;  I  had  such  breakfast  as  the  little  inn  afforded,  and,  leaving 
all  my  baggage  till  I  had  an  occasion  to  come  round  for  it  by  sea,  struck 
right  across  the  promontory  with  a  cheerful  heart. 

I  was  far  from  being  a  native  of  these  parts,  springing,  as  I  did,  from 
an  unmixed  lowland  stock.  But  an  uncle  of  mine,  Gordon  Darnaway, 
after  a  poor,  rough  youth,  and  some  years  at  sea,  had  married  a  young 
wife  in  the  Islands;  Mary  Maclean  she  was  called,  the  last  of  her 
family ;  and  when  she  died  in  giving  birth  to  a  daughter,  Aros,  the  sea- 
girt farm,  had  remained  in  his  possession.  It  brought  him  in  nothing 
but  the  means  of  life,  as  I  was  well  aware ;  but  he  was  a  man  whom  ill- 
fortune  had  pursued ;  he  feared,  cumbered  as  he  was  with  the  young 
child,  to  make  a  fresh  adventure  upon  life ;  and  remained  in  Aros,  biting 
his  nails  at  destiny.  Years  passed  over  his  head  in  that  isolation,  and 
brought  neither  help  nor  contentment.  Meantime  our  family  was  dying 
out  in  the  lowlands  ;  there  is  little  luck  for  any  of  that  race;  and  per- 
haps my  father  was  the  luckiest  of  all,  for  not  only  was  he  one  of  the 
last  to  die,  but  he  left  a  son  to  his  name  and  a  little  money  to  support  it. 
I  was  a  student  of  Edinburgh  University,  living  well  enough  at  my  own 
charges,  but  without  kith  or  kin ;  when  some  news  of  me  found  its  way 
to  Uncle  Gordon  on  the  Ross  of  Grisapol ;  and  he,  as  he  was  a  man  who 
held  blood  thicker  than  water,  wrote  to  me  the  day  he  heard  of  my 
existence,  and  taught  me  to  count  Aros  as  my  home.  Thus  it  was  that 
I  came  to  spend  my  vacations  in  that  part  of  the  country,  so  far  from  all 
society  and  comfort,  between  the  codfish  and  the  moorcocks,  as  I  used  to 
say ;  and  thus  it  was  that  now,  when  I  had  done  with  my  classes,  I  was 
returning  thither  with  so  light  a  heart  that  July  day. 

The  Ross,  as  we  call  it,  is  a  promontory  neither  wide  nor  high,  but 
as  rough  as  God  made  it  to  this  day;  the  deep  sea  on  either  hand  of  it, 
full  of  rugged  isles  and  reefs  most  perilous  to  seamen — all  overlooked 
from  the  eastward  by  some  very  high  cliffs  and  the  great  peak  of  Ben 
Ryan,  the  Mountain,  of  the  Mist,  they  say  the  words  signify  in  the 
Gaelic  tongue;  and  it  is  well  named.  For  that  hill- top,  which  is  more 
than  three  thousand  feet  in  height,  catches  all  the  clouds  that  come 
blowing  from  the  seaward  ;  and,  indeed,  I  used  often  to  think  that  it  must 


THE  MERRY  MEN.  677 

make  them  for  itself;  since  when  all  heaven  was  clear  to  the  sea  level, 
there  would  ever  be  a  streamer  on  Ben  Ryan.  It  brought  water,  too, 
and  was  mossy  to  the  top  in  consequence.  I  have  seen  us  sitting  in 
broad  sunshine  on  the  Ross,  and  the  rain  falling  black  like  crape  upon 
the  mountain.  But  the  wetness  of  it  made  it  often  appear  more  beau- 
tiful to  my  eyes ;  for  when  the  sun  struck  upon  the  hill  sides,  there  were 
many  wet  rocks  and  watercourses  that  shone  like  jewels  even  as  far  as 
Aros,  fifteen  miles  away, 

The  road  that  I  followed  was  a  cattle-track.  It  twisted  so  as  nearly 
to  double  the  length  of  my  journey  ;  it  went  over  rough  boulders  so  that 
a  man  had  to  leap  from  one  to  another,  and  through  soft  bottoms  where 
the  moss  came  nearly  to  the  knee.  There  was  no  cultivation  anywhere, 
and  not  one  house  in  the  ten  miles  from  Grisapol  to  Aros.  Houses  of 
course  there  were — three  at  least ;  but  they  lay  so  far  on  the  one  side  or 
the  other  that  no  stranger  could  have  found  them  from  the  track.  A 
large  part  of  the  Ross  is  covered  with  big  granite  rocks,  some  of  them 
larger  than  a  two-roomed  house,  one  beside  another,  with  fern  and  deep 
heather  in  between  them  where  the  vipers  breed.  Anyway  the  wind 
was,  it  was  always  sea  air,  as  salt  as  on  a  ship ;  the  gulls  were  as  free  ns 
moorfowl  over  all  the  Ross ;  and  whenever  the  way  rose  a  little,  your 
eye  would  kindle  with  the  brightness  of  the  sea.  From  the  very  midst 
of  the  land,  on  a  day  of  wind  and  a  high  spring,  I  have  heard  the  Roost 
roaring  like  a  battle  where  it  runs  by  Aros,  and  the  great  and  fearful 
voices  of  the  breakers  that  we  call  the  Merry  Men. 

Aros  itself — Aros  Jay,  I  have  heard  the  natives  call  it,  and  they  say 
it  means  the  House  of  God — Aros  itself  was  not  properly  a  piece  of  the 
Ross,  nor  was  it  quite  an  islet.  It  formed  the  south-west  corner  of  the 
land,  fitted  close  to  it,  and  was  in  one  place  only  separated  from  the  coast 
by  a  little  gut  of  the  sea,  not  forty  feet  across  at  the  narrowest.  When 
the  tide  was  full,  this  was  clear  and  still,  like  a  pool  on  a  land  river  ; 
only  there  was  a  difference  in  the  weeds  and  fishes,  and  the  water  itself 
was  green  instead  of  brown  ;  but  when  the  tide  went  out,  in  the  bottom 
of  the  ebb,  there  was  a  day  or  two  in  every  month  when  you  could  pass 
dryshod  from  Aros  to  the  mainland.  There  was  some  good  pasture, 
where  my  uncle  fed  the  sheep  he  lived  on  ;  perhaps  the  feed  was  better 
because  the  ground  rose  higher  on  the  islet  than  the  main  level  of  the 
Ross,  but  this  I  am  not  skilled  enough  to  settle.  The  house  was  a  good 
one  for  that  country,  two  stories  high.  It  looked  westward  over  a  bay, 
with  a  pier  hard  by  for  a  boat,  and  from  the  door  you  could  watch  the 
vapours  blowing  on  Ben  Ryan. 

On  all  this  part  of  the  coast,  and  especially  near  Aros,  these  great 
granite  rocks  that  I  have  spoken  of  go  down  together  in  troops  into  the 
sea,  like  cattle  on  a  summer's  day.  There  they  stand,  for  all  the  world 
like  their  neighbours  ashore  ;  only  the  salt  water  sobbing  between  them 
instead  of  the  quiet  earth,  and  clots  of  sea-pink  blooming  on  their  sides 
instead  of  heather ;  and  the  great  sea  conger  to  wreathe  about  the  base 


G78  THE  MEKRY  MEN. 

of  them  instead  of  the  poisonous  viper  of  the  land.  On  calm  days  you 
can  go  wandering  between  them  in  a  boat  for  hours,  echoes  following  you 
about  the  labyrinth ;  but  when  the  sea  is  up,  Heaven  help  the  man  that 
hears  that  caldron  boiling. 

Off  the  south-west  end  of  Arcs  these  blocks  are  very  many,  and  much 
greater  in  size.  Indeed,  they  must  grow  monstrously  bigger  out  to  sea, 
for  there  must  be  ten  sea  miles  of  open  water  sown  with  them  as  thick 
as  a  country  place  with  houses,  some  standing  thirty  feet  above  the  tides, 
some  covered,  but  all  perilous  to  ships ;  so  that  on  a  clear,  westerly- 
blowing  day,  I  have  counted,  from  the  top  of  Aros,  the  great  rollers 
breaking  white  and  heavy  over  as  many  as  six-and-forty  buried  reefs. 
But  it  is  nearer  in  shore  that  the  danger  is  worst ;  for  the  tide,  here  run- 
ning like  a  mill  race,  makes  a  long  belt  of  broken  water — a  Roost,  we 
call  it — at  the  tail  of  the  land.  I  have  often  been  out  there  in  a  dead 
calm  at  the  slack  of  the  tide ;  and  a  strange  place  it  is,  with  the  sea 
swirling  and  combing  up  and  boiling  like  the  cauldrons  of  a  linn,  and 
now  and  again  a  little  dancing  mutter  of  sound  as  though  the  Roost  were 
talking  to  itself.  But  when  the  tide  begins  to  run  again,  and  above  all 
in  heavy  weather,  there  is  no  man  could  take  a  boat  within  half  a  mile 
of  it,  nor  a  ship  afloat  that  could  either  steer  or  live  in  such  a  place. 
You  can  hear  the  roaring  of  it  six  miles  away.  At  the  seaward  end 
there  comes  the  strongest  of  the  bubble ;  and  it's  here  that  these  big 
breakers  dance  together — the  dance  of  death,  it  may  be  called — that  have 
got  the  name,  in  these  parts,  of  the  Merry  Men.  I  have  heard  it  said 
that  they  run  fifty  feet  high ;  but  that  must  be  the  green  water  only,  for 
the  spray  runs  twice  as  high  as  that.  Whether  they  got  the  name  from 
their  movements,  which  are  swift  and  antic,  or  from  the  shouting  they 
make  about  the  turn  of  the  tide,  so  that  all  Aros  shakes  with  it,  is  more 
than  I  can  tell. 

The  truth  is,  that  in  a  south-westerly  wind,  that  part  of  our  archi- 
pelago is  no  better  than  a  trap.  If  a  ship  got  through  the  reefs,  and 
weathered  the  Merry  Men,  it  would  be  to  come  ashore  on  the  south  coast 
of  Aros,  in  Sandag  Bay,  where  so  many  dismal  things  befel  our  family, 
as  I  propose  to  tell.  The  thought  of  all  these  dangers,  in  the  place  I 
knew  so  long,  makes  me  particularly  welcome  the  works  now  going 
forward  to  set  lights  upon  the  headlands  and  buoys  along  the  channels 
of  our  iron-bound,  inhospitable  islands. 

The  country  people  had  many  a  story  about  Aros,  as  I  used  to  hear 
from  my  uncle's  man,  Rorie,  an  old  servant  of  the  Macleans,  who  had 
transferred  his  services  without  afterthought  on  the  occasion  of  the 
marriage.  There  was  some  tale  of  an  unlucky  creature,  a  sea- kelpie,  that 
dwelt  and  did  business  in  some  fearful  manner  of  his  own  among  the 
boiling  breakers  of  the  Roost.  A  mermaid  had  once  met  a  piper  on 
Sandag  beach,  and  there  sung  to  him  a  long,  bright  midsummer's 
night,  so  that  in  the  morning  he  was  found  stricken  crazy,  and  from 
thenceforward,  till  the  day  he  died,  said  only  one  form  of  words;  what 


THE  MEERY  MEN.  679 

they  were  in  the  original  Gaelic  I  cannot  tell,  but  they  were  thus  trans- 
lated :  ''•  Ah,  the  sweet  singing  out  of  the  sea."  Seals  that  haunted  on 
that  coast  have  been  known  to  speak  to  man  in  his  own  tongue,  presag- 
ing great  disasters.  It  was  here  that  a  certain  saint  first  landed  on  his 
voyage  out  of  Ireland  to  convert  the  Hebrideans.  And,  indeed,  I  think 
he  had  some  claim  to  be  called  saint ;  for,  with  the  boats  of  that  past  age, 
to  make  so  rough  a  passage,  and  land  on  such  a  ticklish  coast,  was  surely 
not  far  short  of  the  miraculous.  It  was  to  him,  or  to  some  of  his  monkish 
underlings  who  had  a  cell  there,  that  the  islet  owes  its  holy  and  beautiful 
name,  the  House  of  God. 

Among  these  old  wives'  stories  there  was  one  which  I  was  inclined  to 
hear  with  more  credulity.  As  I  was  told,  in  that  tempest  which  scat- 
tered the  ships  of  the  Invincible  Armada  over  all  the  north  ar>d  west  of 
Scotland,  one  great  vessel  came  ashore  on  Aros,  and,  before  the  eyes  of 
some  solitary  people  on  a  hill-top,  went  down  in  a  moment  with  all 
hands,  her  colours  flying  even  as  she  sank.  There  was  some  likelihood 
in  this  tale ;  for  another  of  that  fleet  lay  sunk  on  the  north  side,  twenty 
miles  from  Grisapol.  It  was  told,  I  thought,  with  more  detail  and 
gravity  than  its  companion  stories,  and  there  was  one  particularity  which 
went  far  to  convince  me  of  its  truth  :  the  name,  that  is,  of  the  ship  was 
still  remembered,  and  sounded,  in  my  ears,  Spanishly.  The  Espirito  Santo 
they  called  it,  a  great  ship  of  many  decks  of  guns,  laden  with  treasure 
and  grandees  of  Spain,  and  fierce  soldadoes,  that  now  lay  fathom  deep  to 
all  eternity,  done  with  her  wars  and  voyages,  in  Sandag  bay,  upon  the 
west  of  Aros.  No  more  salvos  of  ordnance  for  that  tall  ship,  the  "  Holy 
Spirit,"  no  more  fair  winds  or  happy  ventures  ;  only  to  rot  there  deep  in 
the  sea-tangle  and  hear  the  shoutings  of  the  Merry  Men  as  the  tide  ran 
high  about  the  island.  It  was  a  strange  thought  to  me  first  and  last,  and 
only  grew  stranger  as  I  leamed  the  name  of  Spain,  from  which  she  had 
set  sail  with  so  proud  a  company,  and  King  Philip,  the  wealthy  king, 
that  sent  her  on  that  voyage. 

And  now  I  must  tell  you,  as  I  walked  from  Grisapol  that  day,  the 
Espirito  Santo  was  very  much  in  my  reflections.  I  had  been  favourably 
remarked  by  our  then  Principal  in  Edinburgh  College,  that  famous 
writer,  Dr.  Robertson,  and  by  him  had  been  set  to  work  on  some  papers 
of  an  ancient  date  to  rearrange  and  sift  of  what  was  worthless  ;  and  in 
one  of  these,  to  my  great  wonder,  I  found  a  note  of  this  very  ship,  the 
Espirito  Santo,  with  her  captain's  name,  and  how  she  carried  a  great 
part  of  the  Spaniards'  treasure,  and  had  been  lost  upon  the  Ross  of 
Grisapol ;  but  in  what  particular  spot,  the  wild  tribes  of  that  place  and 
period  would  give  no  information  to  the  king's  inquiries.  Putting  one 
thing  with  another,  and  taking  our  island  tradition  together  with  this 
note  of  old  King  James's  perquisitions  after  wealth,  it  had  come  strongly 
on  my  mind  that  the  spot  for  which  he  sought  in  vain  could  be  no  other 
than  the  small  bay  of  Sandag  on  my  uncle's  land ;  and,  being  a  fellow  of  a 
mechanical  turn,  I  had  ever  since  been  plotting  how  to  weigh  that  good 


680  THE  MERRY  MEN. 

ship  up  again  with  all  her  ingots,  ounces,  and  doubloons,  and  bring  back 
our  house  of  Darnaway  to  its  long-forgotten  dignity  and  wealth. 

This  was  a  design  of  which  I  soon  had  reason  to  repent.  My  mind 
was  sharply  turned  on  different  reflections;  and  since  I  became  the 
witness  of  a  strange  judgment  of  God's,  the  thought  of  dead  men's  trea- 
sures has  been  intolerable  to  my  conscience.  But  even  at  that  time  I 
must  acquit  myself  of  sordid  greed ;  for  if  I  desired  riches,  it  was  not 
for  their  own  sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  a  person  who  was  dear  to  my 
heart — my  uncle's  daughter,  Mary  Ellen.  She  had  been  educated  well, 
and  had  been  a  time  to  school  upon  the  mainland ;  which,  poor  girl,  she 
would  have  been  happier  without.  For  Aros  was  no  place  for  her,  with 
old  Rorie  the  servant,  and  her  father,  who  was  one  of  the  unhappiest 
men  in  Scotland,  plainly  bred  up  in  a  country  place  among  Cameronians, 
long  a  skipper  sailing  out  of  the  Clyde  about  the  islands,  and  now,  with 
infinite  discontent,  managing  his  sheep  and  a  little  'long-shore  fishing  for 
the  necessary  bread.  If  it  was  sometimes  weariful  to  me,  who  was  there 
but  a  month  or  two,  you  may  fancy  what  it  was  to  her,  who  dwelt  in 
that  same  desert  all  the  year  round,  with  the  sheep  and  flying  sea-gulls, 
and  the  Merry  Men  singing  and  dancing  in  the  Roost ! 


CHAPTER  II. 

WHAT  THE  WRECK  HAD  BROUGHT  TO  AROS. 

IT  was  half-flood  when  I  got  the  length  of  Aros ;  and  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  stand  on  the  far  shore  and  whistle  for  Rorie  with  the  boat. 
I  had  no  need  to  repeat  the  signal.  At  the  first  sound,  Mary  was  at  the 
door  flying  a  handkerchief  by  way  of  answer,  and  the  old,  long-legged 
serving-man  was  shambling  down  the  gravel  to  the-  pier.  For  all  his 
hurry,  it  took  him  a  long  while  to  pull  across  the  bay ;  and  I  observed 
him  several  times  to  pause,  go  into  the  stern,  and  look  over  curiously 
into  the  wake.  As  he  came  nearer,  he  seemed  to  me  aged  and  haggard, 
and  I  thought  he  avoided  my  eye.  The  coble  had  been  repaired,  with  two 
new  thwarts  and  several  patches  of  some  rare  and  beautiful  foreign  wood, 
the  name  of  it  unknown  to  me. 

"  Why,  Rorie,"  said  I,  as  we  began  the  return  voyage,  "  this  is  fine 
wood.  How  came  you  by  that  ?  " 

"It  will  be  hard  to  cheesel,"  Rorie  opined  reluctantly;  and  just 
then,  dropping  the  oars,  he  made  another  of  those  dives  into  the  stern 
which  I  had  remarked  as  he  came  across  to  fetch  me,  and,  leaning  his 
hand  on  my  shoulder,  stared  with  an  aweful  look  into  the  waters  of  the 
bay. 

"  What  is  wrong  ?  "  I  asked,  a  good  deal  startled. 

"  It  will  be  a  great  feesh,"  said  the  old  man,  returning  to  his  oars ; 
and  nothing  more  could  I  get  out  of  him,  but  strange  glances  and  an 
ominous  nodding  of  the  head.  In  spite  of  myself,  I  was  infected  with  a 


THE  MEERY  MEN.  681 

measure  of  uneasiness ;  I  turned  also,  and  studied  the  wake.  The  water 
was  still  and  transparent,  but,  out  here  in  the  middle  of  the  bay,  ex- 
ceeding deep.  For  some  time  I  could  see  nought ;  but  at  last  it  did 
seem  to  me  as  if  something  dark — a  great  fish,  or  perhaps  only  a  shadow 
— followed  studiously  in  the  track  of  the  moving  coble.  And  then  I 
remembered  one  of  Rorie's  superstitions  :  how  in  a  ferry  in  Morvar,  in 
some  great,  exterminating  feud  among  the  clans,  a  fish,  the  like  of  it 
unknown  in  all  our  waters,  followed  for  some  years  the  passage  of  the 
ferry-boat,  until  no  man  dared  to  make  the  crossing. 
"  He  will  be  waiting  for  the  right  man,"  said  Rorie. 
Mary  met  me  on  the  beach,  and  led  me  up  the  brae  and  into  the 
house  of  Aros.  Outside  and  inside  there  were  many  changes.  The 
garden  was  fenced  with  the  same  wood  that  I  had  noted  in  the  boat ; 
there  were  new  chairs  in  the  kitchen,  covered  with  strange  brocade; 
curtains  of  brocade  hung  from  the  window ;  a  clock  stood  silent  on  the 
dresser ;  a  lamp  of  brass  was  swinging  from  the  roof ;  the  table  was  set 
for  dinner  with  the  finest  of  linen  and  silver ;  and  all  these  new  riches 
were  displayed  in  the  plain  old  kitchen  that  I  knew  so  well,  with  the 
high-backed  settle,  and  the  stools,  and  the  closet  bed  for  Rorie;  with 
the  wide  chimney  the  sun  shone  into,  and  the  clear-smouldering  peats  ; 
with  the  pipes  on  the  mantelshelf  and  the  three-cornered  spittoons, 
filled  with  sea-shells  instead  of  sand,  on  the  floor ;  with  the  bare  stone 
walls  and  the  bare  wooden  floor,  and  the  three  patchwork  rugs  that  were 
of  yore  its  sole  adornment — poor  man's  patchwork,  the  like  of  it  un- 
known in  cities,  woven  with  homespun,  and  Sunday  black,  and  sea-cloth 
polished  on  the  bench  of  rowing.  The  room,  like  the  house,  had  been  a 
sort  of  wonder  in  that  country-side,  it  was  so  neat  and  habitable ;  and 
to  see  it  now,  shamed  by  these  incongruous  additions,  filled  me  with 
indignation  and  a  kind  of  anger.  In  view  of  the  errand  I  had  come  upon 
to  Aros,  the  feeling  was  baseless  and  unjust ;  but  it  burned  high,  at  the 
first  moment,  in  my  heart. 

"  Mary,  girl,"  said  I,  "  this  is  the  place  I  had  learned  to  call  my  home, 
and  I  do  not  know  it." 

"  It  is  my  home  by  nature,  not  by  the  learning,"  she  replied  ;  "  the 
place  I  was  born  and  the  place  I'm  like  to  die  in ;  and  I  neither  like 
these  changes,  nor  the  way  they  came,  nor  that  which  came  with  them. 
I  would  have  liked  better,  under  God's  pleasure,  they  had  gone  down 
into  the  sea,  and  the  Merry  Men  were  dancing  on  them  now." 

Mary  was  always  serious ;  it  was  perhaps  the  only  trait  that  she 
shared  with  her  father ;  but  the  tone  with  which  she  uttered  these 
words  was  even  graver  than  of  custom. 

"  Aye,"  said  I,  "  I  feared  it  came  by  wreck,  and  that's  by  death ;  yet 
when  my  father  died,  I  took  his  goods  without  remorse." 

"  Your  father  died  a  clean  strae  death,  as  the  folk  say,"  said  Mary. 

"  True,"  I  returned ;  "  and  a  wreck  is  like  a  judgment.  What  was 
she  called?" 


682  THE  MERRY  MEN. 

"  They  ca'd  her  the  Christ-Anna"  said  a  voice  behind  me ;  and, 
turning  round,  I  saw  my  uncle  standing  in  the  doorway. 

He  was  a  sour,  small,  bilious  man,  with  a  long  face  and  very  dark 
yees;  fifty-six  years  old,  sound  and  active  in  body,  and  with  an  air 
somewhat  between  that  of  a  shepherd  and  that  of  a  man  following  the 
sea.  He  never  laughed,  that  I  heard ;  read  long  at  the  Bible ;  prayed 
much,  like  the  Cameronians  he  had  been  brought  up  among ;  and  indeed, 
in  many  ways,  used  to  remind  me  of  one  of  the  hill-preachers  in  the 
killing  times  before  the  Revolution.  But  he  never  got  much  comfort, 
nor  even,  as  I  used  to  think,  much  guidance,  by  his  piety.  He  had  his 
black  fits  when  he  was  afraid  of  hell ;  but  he  had  led  a  rough  life,  to 
which  he  would  look  back  with  envy,  and  was  still  a  rough,  cold,  gloomy 
man. 

As  he  came  in  at  the  door  out  of  the  sunlight,  with  his  bonnet 
on  his  head  and  a  pipe  hanging  in  his  button-hole,  he  seemed,  like  Rorie, 
to  have  grown  older  and  paler,  the  lines  were  deeplier  ploughed  upon 
his  face,  and  the  whites  of  his  eyes  were  yellow,  like  old,  stained  ivory, 
or  the  bones  of  the  dead. 

"  Aye,"  he  repeated,  dwelling  upon  the  first  part  of  the  word ;  "  the 
Christ-Anna.  It's  an  awfu'  name." 

I  made  him  my  salutations,  and  complimented  him  upon  his  look  of 
health  ;  for  I  feared  he  had  perhaps  been  ill. 

"I'm  in  the  body,"  he  replied,  ungraciously  enough;  "aye,  in  the 
body  and  the  sins  of  the  body,  like  yoursel'.  Denner,"  he  said  abruptly 
to  Mary,  and  then  ran  on  to  me  :  "  They're  grand  braws,  this  that  we 
have  gotten,  are  they  no  ?  Yon's  a  bonny  knock  (clock),  but  it'll  no 
gang  ;  and  the  napery's  by  ordnar.  Bonny,  bairnly  braws  ;  it's  fur  the 
like  o'  them  folk  sells  the  peace  of  God  that  passeth  understanding ;  it's 
fur  the  like  o'  them,  an'  maybe  no  even  sae  muckle  worth,  folk  daunton 
God  to  His  face  and  burn  in  muckle  hell ;  and  it's  fur  that  reason  the 
Scripture  ca's  them,  as  I  read  the  passage,  the  accursed  thing.  Mary, 
ye  girgie,"  he  interrupted  himself  to  cry  with  some  asperity,  "  what  for 
ha'e  ye  no  put  out  the  twa  candlesticks  ?  " 

"  Why  should  we  need  them  at  high  noon  ?  "  she  asked. 

But  my  uncle  was  not  to  be  turned  from  his  idea.  "  We'll  bruik 
them  while  we  may,"  he  said  ;  and  so  two  massive  candlesticks  of 
wrought  silver  were  added  to  the  table  equipage,  already  so  unsuited 
to  that  rough  sea-side  farm. 

"  She  cam'  ashore  Februar'  10th,  about  ten  at  nicht,"  he  went  on  to 
me.  "  There  was  nae  wind,  and  a  sair  run  .o'  sea ;  and  she  was  in  the 
sook  o'  the  Roost,  as  I  jaloose.  We  had  seen  her  a'  day,  Rorie  and  me, 
beating  to  the  wind.  She  wasnae  a  handy  craft,  I'm  thinking,  that 
Christ-Anna ;  for  she  would  neither  steer  nor  stey  wi'  them.  A  sair 
day  they  had  of  it ;  their  hands  was  never  aff  the  sheets,  and  it  perishin' 
cauld — ower  cauld  to  snaw ;  and  aye  they  would  get  a  bit  nip  o'  wind, 
and  awa'  again,  to  put  the  emp'y  hope  into  them.  Eh,  man  !  but  they 


THE  MERRY  MEN.  683 

had  a  sair  day  for  the  last  o't !  He  would  have  had  a  prood,  prood 
heart  thab  won  ashore  upon  the  back  o'  that." 

"  And  were  all  lost  ?  "  I  cried.     "  God  help  them  !  " 

"  Wheesht ! "  he  said  sternly.  "  Nane  shall  pray  for  the  deid  on  my 
hearth-stane." 

I  disclaimed  a  Popish  sense  for  my  ejaculation ;  and  he  seemed  to 
accept  my  disclaimer  with  unusual  facility,  and  \'an  on  once  more  upon 
what  had  evidently  become  a  favourite  subject. 

"  We  fand  her  in  Sandag  Bay,  Rorie  an'  me,  and  a'  thae  braws  in 
the  inside  of  her.  There's  a  kittle  bit,  ye  see,  about  Sandag,  whiles  the 
sook  rins  strong  for  the  Merry  Men ;  an'  whiles  again,  when  the  tide's 
makin'  hard  an'  ye  can  hear  the  Roost  blawin'  at  the  far-end  of  Aros, 
there  comes  a  back  spang  of  current  straucht  into  Sandag  Bay.  Weel, 
there's  the  thing  that  got  the  grip  on  the  Christ-Anna.  She  but  to  have 
come  in  ram-stam  an'  stern  forrit ;  for  the  bows  of  her  are  aften  under, 
and  the  back-side  of  her  is  clear  at  hie-water  o'  neaps.  But,  man  !  the 
dunt  that  she  cam  doon  wi'  when  she  struck  !  Lord  safe  us  a' !  but  it's 
an  unco  life  to  be  a  sailor — a  cauld,  wan  chancy  life.  Mony's  the  gliff  I 
got  mysel'  in  the  great  deep ;  and  why  the  Lord  should  ha'e  made  yon 
unco  water  is  mair  than  ever  I  could  win  to  understand.  He  made  the 
vales  and  the  pastures,  the  bonny  green  yaird,  the  halesome,  canty 
land — 

And  now  they  shout  and  sing  to  Thee, 
For  Thou  hast  made  them  glad, 

as  the  Psalms  say  in  the  metrical  version.  No  that  I  would  preen  my 
faith  to  that  clink  neither  ;  but  it's  bonny,  and  easier  to  mind.  '  Who 
go  to  sea  in  ships,'  they  ha'e't  again — 

And  in 

Great  waters  trading  be, 
Within  the  deep  these  men  God's  works 
And  His  great  wonders  see. 

Weel,  it's  easy  sayin'  sae.  Maybe  Dauvit  wasnae  very  weel  acquant 
wi'  the  sea,  though  I'm  no  misdoobtin'  inspiration.  But,  troth,  if  it 
wasnae  prentit  in  the  Bible,  I  wad  whiles  be  temp'it  to  think  it  wasnae 
the  Lord,  but  the  muckle,  black  deil  that  made  the  sea.  There's  nae- 
thing  good  comes  oot  o't  but  the  fish ;  an'  the  spectacle  o'  God  riding  on 
the  tempest,  to  be  shiire,  whilk  would  be  what  Dauvit  was  likely  ettling 
at.  But,  man,  they  were  sair  wonders  that  God  showed  to  the  Christ- 
Anna — wonders,  do  I  ca'  them  ?  Judgments,  rather  :  judgments  in  the 
mirk  nicht  among  the  draggons  o'  the  deep.  And  their  souls — to  think 
o'  that — their  souls,  man,  maybe  no  prepared  !  The  sea — a  muckle  yett 
to  hell ! " 

I  observed,  as  my  uncle  spoke,  that  his  voice  was  unnaturally  moved 
and  his  manner  unwontedly  demonstrative.  He  leaned  forward  at  these 
last  words,  for  example,  and  touched  me  on  the  knee  with  his  spread 


684  THE  MEREY  MEN. 

fingers,  looking  up  into  my  face  with  a  certain  pallor,  and  I  could  see 
that  his  eyes  shone  with  a  deep-seated  fire,  and  that  the  lines  about  his 
mouth  were  drawn  and  tremulous. 

Even  the  entrance  of  Rorie,  and  the  beginning  of  our  meal,  did  not 
detach  him  from  his  train  of  thought  beyond  a  moment.  He  conde- 
scended, indeed,  to  ask  me  some  questions  as  to  my  success  at  college, 
but  I  thought  it  was  with  half  his  mind ;  and  even  in  his  extempore 
grace,  which  was,  as  usual,  long  and  wandering,  I  could  find  the  trace  of 
his  preoccupation,  praying,  as  he  did,  that  God  would  "  remember  in 
mercy  fower  puir,  feckless,  fiddling  sinful  creatures  here  by  their  lee-lane 
beside  the  great  and  dowie  waters." 

Soon  there  came  an  interchange  of  speeches  between  him  and 
Rorie. 

"  Was  it  there  1 "  asked  my  uncle. 

"  Oh,  aye  !  "  said  Rorie. 

I  observed  that  they  both  spoke  in  a  manner  of  aside,  and  with 
some  show  of  embarrassment,  and  that  Mary  herself  appeared  to  colour, 
and  looked  down  on  her  plate.  Partly  to  show  my  knowledge,  and  so 
relieve  the  party  from  an  awkward  strain,  partly  because  I  was  curious, 
I  pursued  the  subject. 

"  You  mean  the  fish  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Whatten  fish  ?  "  cried  my  uncle.  "  Fish,  quo'  he  !  Fish  !  Your 
een  are  fu'  o'  fatness,  man ;  your  heid  dozened  wi'  carnal  leir.  Fish  ! 
it's  a  bogle  !  " 

He  spoke  with  great  vehemence,  as  though  angry ;  and  perhaps  I 
was  not  very  willing  to  be  put  down  so  shortly,  for  young  men  are 
disputatious.  At  least  I  remember  I  retorted  hotly,  crying  out  upon 
childish  superstitions. 

"  And  ye  come  frae  the  College !  "  sneered  Uncle  Gordon.  "  Gude 
kens  what  they  learn  folk  there ;  it's  no  muckle  service  ony way.  Do 
ye  think,  man,  that  there's  naething  in  a'  your  saut  wilderness  o'  a 
world  oot  wast  there,  wi'  the  sea  grasses  growing,  an'  the  sea  beasts 
fechtin',  an'  the  sun  glintin'  down  into  it,  day  by  day  ?  Na ;  the  sea's 
like  the  land,  but  fearsomer.  If  there's  folk  ashore,  there's  folk  in  the 
sea — deid  they  may  be,  but  they're  folk  whatever;  and  as  for  deils, 
there's  nane  that's  like  the  sea  deils.  There's  no  sae  muckle  harm  in  the 
land  deils,  when  a's  said  and  done.  Lang  syne,  when  I  was  a  callant  in 
the  south  country,  I  mind  there  was  an  auld,  bald  bogle  in  the  Peewie 
Moss.  I  got  a  glisk  o'  him  mysel',  sittin'  on  his  hunkers  in  a  hag,  as 
gray's  a  tombstane.  An',  troth,  he  was  a  fearsome-like  taed.  But  he 
steered  naebody.  Nae  doobt,  if  ane  that  was  a  reprobate,  ane  the  Lord 
hated,  had  gane  by  there  wi'  his  sin  still  upon  his  stamach,  nae  doobt 
the  creature  would  ha'e  louped  upo'  the  like  o'  him.  But  there's  deils 
in  the  deep  sea  would  yoke  on  a  communicant !  Eh,  sirs,  if  ye  had  gane 
doon  wi'  the  puir  lads  in  the  Christ-Anna,  ye  would  ken  by  now  the 
mercy  o'  the  seas.  If  ye  had  sailed  it  fur  as  lang  as  me,  ye  would  hate 


THE  MERRY  MEN.  685 

the  thocht  of  it  as  I  do.  If  ye  had  but  used  the  een  God  gave  ye,  ye 
would  have  learned  the  wickedness  o'  that  fause,  saut,  cauld,  bullering 
creature,  and  of  a'  that's  in  it  by  the  Lord's  permission :  labsters  an' 
partans,  ane  sic  like,  howking  in  the  deid;  muckle,  gutsy,  blawing 
whales  ;  an'  fish — the  hale  clan  o'  them — cauld-wamed,  blind-eed 
uncanny  ferlies.  Oh,  sirs,"  he  cried,  "  the  horror — the  horror  o'  the 
sea!" 

We  were  all  somewhat  staggered  by  this  outburst ;  and  the  speaker 
himself,  after  that  last  hoarse  apostrophe,  appeared  to  sink  gloomily  into 
his  own  thoughts,  But  Rorie,  who  was  greedy  of  superstitious  lore, 
recalled  him  to  the  subject  by  a  question. 

"  You  will  not  ever  have  seen  a  teevil  of  the  sea  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No  clearly,"  replied  the  other.  "  I  misdoobt  if  a  mere  man  could 
see  ane  clearly  and  conteenue  in  the  body.  I  ha'e  sailed  wi5  a  lad — they 
ca'd  him  Sandy  Gobart ;  he  saw  ane,  shiire  eneuch,  an'  shlire  eneuch  it 
was  the  end  of  him.  We  were  seeven  days  oot  frae  the  Clyde — a  sair 
wark  we  had  had — gaun  north  wi'  seeds  an'  braws  an'  things  for  the 
Macleod.  We  had  got  in  ower  near  under  the  Cutchull'ns,  an'  had  just 
gane  about  by  Soa,  an'  were  off  on  a  lang  tack,  we  thocht  would  maybe 
hauld  as  far's  Copnahow.  I  mind  the  nicht  weel :  a  mune  smoored  wi' 
mist ;  a  fine  gaun  breeze  upon  the  water,  but  no  steedy ;  an' — what  nane 
o'  us  likit  to  hear — anither  wund  gurlin'  owerheid,  amang  thae  fearsome, 
auld  stane  craigs  o'  the  Cutchull'ns.  Weel,  Sandy  was  forrit  wi'  the 
jib  sheet ;  we  couldnae  see  him  for  the  mains'],  that  had  just  begude  to 
draw,  when  a'  at  once  he  gied  a  skirl.  I  luffed  for  my  life,  for  I  thocht 
we  were  ower  near  Soa ;  but  na,  it  wasnae  that,  it  was  puir  Sandy 
Gabart's  deid  skreigh,  or  near  hand,  for  he  was  deid  in  half  an  hour. 
A't  he  could  tell  was  that  a  sea  deil,  or  sea  bogle,  or  sea  spenster,  or 
sic-like,  had  clum  up  by  the  bowsprit,  an'  gi'en  him  ae  cauld,  uncanny 
look.  An',  or  the  life  was  oot  o'  Sandy's  body,  we  kent  weel  what  the 
thing  betokened,  and  why  the  wund  gurled  in  the  tops  o'  the  Cutchull'ns ; 
for  doon  it  cam' — a  wund  do  I  ca'  it  ?  It  was  the  wund  o'  the  Lord's 
anger — an'  a'  that  nicht  we  foucht  like  men  dementit,  and  the  niest  that 
we  kenned  we  were  ashore  in  Loch  Uskevagh,  an'  the  cocks  were  crawin' 
in  Benbecula. 

"  It  will  have  been  a  merman,"  Rorie  said. 

"  A  merman  !  "  screamed  my  uncle  with  immeasurable  scorn.  "  Auld 
wives'  clavers  !  There's  nae  sic  things  as  mermen." 

"  But  what  was  the  creature  like  ? "  I  asked. 

"  What  like  was  it  ?  Gude  forbid  that  we  suld  ken  what  like 
it  was !  It  had  a  kind  of  a  heid  upon  it — man  could  say  nae 
mair." 

Then  Rorie,  smarting  under  the  affront,  told  several  tales  of  mermen, 
mermaids,  and  sea-horses  that  had  come  ashore  upon  the  islands  and 
attacked  the  crews  of  boats  upon  the  sea ;  and  my  uncle,  in  spite  of  his 
incredulity,  listened  with  uneasy  interest. 


686  THE  MERRY  MEN. 

"  Aweel,  aweel,"  he  said,  "  it  may  be  sae ;  I  may  be  wrang ;  but  I 
find  nae  word  o'  mermen  in  the  Scriptures." 

.  "  And  you  will  find  nae  word  of  Aros  Roost,  maybe,"  objected  Rorie, 
and  his  argument  appeared  to  carry  weight. 

When  dinner  was  over,  my  uncle  carried  me  forth  with  him  to  a 
bank  behind  the  house.  It  was  a  very  hot  and  quiet  afternoon ;  scarce 
a  ripple  anywhere  upon  the  sea,  nor  any  voice  but  the  familiar  voice  of 
sheep  and  gulls  ;  and  perhaps  in  consequence  of  thisVepose  in  nature,  my 
kinsman  showed  himself  more  rational  and  tranquil  than  before.  He 
spoke  evenly  and  almost  cheerfully  of  my  career,  with  every  now  and 
then  a  reference  to  the  lost  ship  or  the  treasures  it  had  brought  to  Aros. 
For  my  part,  I  had  listened  to  him  in  a  sort  of  trance,  gazing  with  all 
my  heart  on  that  remembered  scene,  and  drinking  gladly  the  sea-air  and 
the  smoke  of  peats  that  had  been  lit  by  Mary. 

Perhaps  an  hour  had  passed  when  my  uncle,  who  had  all  the  while 
been  covertly  gazing  on  the  surface  of  the  little  bay,  rose  to  his  feet  and 
bade  me  follow  his  example.  Now  I  should  say  that  the  great  run  of 
tide  at  the  south-west  end  of  Aros  exercises  a  perturbing  influence  round 
all  the  coast.  In  Sandag  Bay,  to  the  south,  a  strong  current  runs  at 
certain  periods  of  the  flood  and  ebb  respectively ;  but  in  this  northern 
bay — Aros  Bay,  as  it  is  called — where  the  house  stands  and  on  which 
my  uncle  was  now  gazing,  the  only  sign  of  disturbance  is  towards  the 
end  of  the  ebb,  and  even  then  it  is  too  slight  to  be  remarkable.  When 
there  is  any  swell,  nothing  can  be  seen  at  all ;  but  when  it  is  calm,  as  it 
often  is,  there  appear  certain  strange,  undecipherable  marks — sea-runes,  as 
we  may  name  them — on  the  glassy  surface  of  the  bay.  The  like  is  common 
in  a  thousand  places  on  the  coast ;  and  many  a  boy  must  have  amused 
himself  as  I  did,  seeking  to  read  in  them  some  reference  to  himself  or 
those  he  loved.  It  was  to  these  marks  that  my  uncle  now  directed  my 
attention,  struggling,  as  he  did  so,  with  an  evident  reluctance. 

"  Do  ye  see  yon  scart  upo'  the  water  ? "  he  inquired ;  "  yon  ane 
beneath  the  gray  stane  ?  Aye  ?  Weel,  it'll  no  be  like  a  letter,  wullit  1 " 

"  Certainly  it  is,"  I  replied.  "  I  have  often  remarked  it.  It  is  like 
aC." 

He  heaved  a  sigh  as  if  heavily  disappointed  with  my  answer,  and 
then  added  below  his  breath  :  "  Aye,  for  the  Christ-Anna" 

'   "  I  used  to  suppose,  sir,  it  was  for  myself,"  said  I ;  "  for  my  name  is 
Charles." 

"  And  so  ye  saw't  afore  ] "  he  ran  on,  not  heeding  my  remark. 
"  Weel,  weel,  but  that's  unco  strange.  Maybe  it's  been  there,  waitin'  as 
a  man  wad  say,  through  a'  the  weary  ages.  Man,  but  that's  awfu'." 
And  then,  breaking  off:  "  You'll  no  see  anither,  will  ye?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  I.  "  I  see  another  very  plainly,  near  the  Ross  side, 
where  the  road  comes  down — an  M." 

"  An  M,"  he  repeated  very  low ;  and  then,  again  after  another  pause  : 
"  An'  what  wad  ye  make  o'  that  ?  "  he  inquired. 


THE  MERRY  MEN.  687 

"  I  had  always  thought  it  to  mean  Mary,  sir,"  I  answered,  growing 
somewhat  red,  convinced  as  I  was  in  my  own  mind  that  I  was  on  the 
threshold  of  a  decisive  explanation. 

But  we  were  each  following  his  own  train  of  thought  to  the  exclusion 
of  the  other's.  My  uncle  once  more  paid  no  attention  to  my  words ; 
only  hung  his  head  and  held  his  peace ;  and  I  might  have  been  led  to 
fancy  that  he  had  not  heard  me,  if  his  next  speech  had  not  contained  a 
kind  of  echo  from  my  own. 

"  I  would  say  naething  o'  thae  clavers  to  Mary,"  he  observed,  and 
began  to  walk  forward. 

There  is  a  belt  of  turf  along  the  side  of  Aros  Bay  where  walking  is 
easy ;  and  it  was  along  this  that  I  silently  followed  my  silent  kinsman. 
I  was  perhaps  a  little  disappointed  at  having  lost  so  good  an  opportunity 
to  declare  my  love ;  but  I  was  at  the  same  time  far  more  dseply  exer- 
cised at  the  change  that  had  befallen  my  uncle.  He  was  never  an  ordi- 
nary, never,  in  the  strict  sense,  an  amiable,  man ;  but  there  was  nothing 
in  even  the  worst  that  I  had  known  of  him  before,  to  prepare  me  for  so 
strange  a  transformation.  It  was  impossible  to  close  the  eyes  against 
one  fact ;  that  he  had,  as  the  saying  goes,  something  on  his  mind ;  and 
as  I  mentally  ran  over  the  different  words  which  might  be  represented 
by  the  letter  M — misery,  mercy,  marriage,  money,  and  the  like — I  was 
arrested  with  a  sort  of  start  by  the  word  murder.  I  was  still  consider- 
ing the  ugly  sound  and  fatal  meaning  of  the  word,  when  the  direction  of 
our  walk  brought  us  to  a  point  from  which  a  view  was  to  be  had  to 
either  side,  back  towards  Aros  Bay  and  homestead,  and  forward  on 
the  ocean,  dotted  to  the  north  isles  and  lying  to  the  southward,  blue 
and  open  to  the  sky.  There  my  guide  came  to  a  halt,  and  stood  staring 
for  awhile  on  that  expanse.  Then  he  turned  to  me  and  laid  a  hand  upon 
my  arm. 

f  "  Ye  think  there's  naething  there  1 "  he  said,  pointing  with  his  pipe ; 
and  then  cried  out  aloud,  with  a  kind  of  exultation  :  "  I'll  tell  ye,  man  ! 
The  deid  are  down  there — thick  like  rat  tons  !  " 

He  turned  at  once,  and,  without  another  word,  we  retraced  our  steps 
to  the  house  of  Aros. 

I  was  eager  to  be  alone  with  Mary ;  yet  it  was  not  till  after  supper, 
and  then  but  for  a  short  while,  that  I  could  have  a  word  with  her.  I 
lost  no  time  beating  about  the  bush,  but  spoke  out  plainly  what  was  on 
my  mind. 

"  Mary,"  I  said,  "  I  have  not  come  to  Aros  without  a  hope.  If 
that'should  prove  well  founded,  we  all  leave  and  go  somewhere  else,  secure 
of  daily  bread  and  comfort;  secure,  perhaps,  of  something  far  beyond 
that,  which  it  would  seem  extravagant  in  me  to  promise.  But  there's  a 
hope  that  lies  nearer  to  my  heart  than  money.  All  my  days  I  have 
loved  and  honoured  you ;  the  love  and  the  honour  keep  on  growing 
with  the  years ;  I  could  not  think  to  be  happy  or  hearty  in  my  life 
without  you.  Do  you  think  you  could  take  me  for  a  husband  ? " 


688  THE  MERRY  MEN. 

"  I  would  not  ask  a  better,"  she  replied. 

"  Well  then,"  said  I,  "  shake  hands  upon  it." 

She  did  so  very  heartily;  and  "That's  a  bargain,  lad,"  said  she, 
which  was  all  that  passed  between  us  on  the  subject,  for  though  I  loved 
her,  I  stood  in  awe  of  her  tranquillity  of  character. 

About  her  father  she  would  tell  me  nothing,  only  shook  her  head, 
and  said  he  was  not  well  and  not  like  himself,  and  it  was  a  great  pity. 
She  knew  nothing  of  the  wreck.  "  I  ha  venae  been  near  it,"  said  she. 
"  What  for  would  I  go  near  it,  Charlie  lad?  The  poor  souls  are  gone  to 
their  account  lang  syne;  and  I  would  just  have  wished  they  had  ta'en 
their  gear  with  them — poor  souls  !  " 

This  was  scarcely  any  great  encouragement  for  me  to  tell  her  of  the 
Espirlto  Santa ;  yet  I  did  so,  and  at  the  very  first  word  she  cried  out  in 
surprise.  "  There  was  a  man  at  Grisapol,"  she  said,  "  in  the  month  of 
]Vlay — a  little,  yellow,  black-avised  body,  they  tell  me,  with  gold  rings 
upon  his  fingers,  and  a  beard ;  and  he  was  spearing  high  and  low  for  that 
same  ship." 

It  was  towards  the  end  of  April  that  I  had  been  given  these  papers 
to  sort  out  by  Dr.  Robertson  :  and  it  came  suddenly  back  upon  my 
mind  that  they  were  thus  prepared  for  a  Spanish  historian,  or  a  man 
calling  himself  such,  who  had  come  with  high  recommendations  to  the 
Principal,  on  a  mission  of  inquiry  as  to  the  dispersion  of  the  great 
Armada.  Putting  one  thing  with  another,  I  fancied  that  the  visitor 
"  with  the  gold  rings  upon  his  fingers  "  might  be  the  same  with  Dr. 
Robertson's  historian  from  Madrid.  If  that  were  so,  he  would  be  more 
likely  after  treasure  for  himself  than  information  for  a  learned  society. 
I  made  up  my  mind,  I  should  lose  no  time  over  my  undertaking ;  and  if 
the  ship  lay  sunk  in  Sandag  Bay,  as  perhaps  both  he  and  I  supposed,  it 
should  not  be  for  the  advantage  of  this  ringed  adventurer,  but  for  Mary 
and  myself,  and  for  the  good,  old,  honest,  kindly  family  of  the  Danna- 
ways. 

CHAPTER  III. 
LAD  AND  LEO  IN  SANDAG  BAY. 

I  WAS  early  afoot  next  morning ;  and  as  soon  as  I  had  a  bite  to  eat,  set 
forth  upon  a  tour  of  exploration.  Something  in  my  heart  distinctly  told 
me  that  I  should  find  the  ship  of  the  Armada ;  and  although  I  did  not 
give  way  entirely  to  such  hopeful  thoughts,  I  was  still  very  light  in 
spirits  and  walked  upon  air.  Aros  is  a  very  rough  islet,  its  surface 
strewn  with  great  rocks  and  shaggy  with  fern  and  heather ;  my  way  lay 
almost  north  and  south  across  the  highest  peak  ;  and  though  the  whole 
distance  was  inside  of  two  miles,  it  took  more  time  and  exertion  than 
four  upon  a  level  road.  Upon  the  summit,  I  paused.  Although  not 
very  high — not  three  hundred  feet,  as  I  think — it  yet  outtops  all  the 
neighbouring  lowlands  of  the  Ross,  and  commands  a  great  view  of  sea. 


THE  MEKRY  MEN.  689 

arid  islands.  The  sun,  which  had  been  up  some  time,  was  already  hot 
upon  my  neck ;  the  air  was  listless  and  thundery,  although  purely  clear ; 
away  over  the  north-west,  where  the  isles  lie  thickliest  congregated, 
some  half-a-dozen  small  and  ragged  clouds  hung  together  in  a  covey  ;  and 
the  head  of  Ben  Ryan  wore,  not  merely  a  few  streamers,  but  a  solid 
hood  of  vapour.  There  was  a  threat  in  the  weather.  The  sea,  it  is 
true,  was  smooth  like  glass :  even  the  Roost  was  but  a  seam  on  that 
wide  mirror,  and  the  Merry  Men  no  more  than  caps  of  foam  ;  but  to 
my  eye  and  ear,  so  long  familiar  with  these  places,  the  sea  also  seemed 
to  lie  uneasily ;  a  sound  of  it,  like  a  long  sigh,  mounted  to  me  where  I 
stood ;  and,  quiet  as  it  was,  the  Roost  itself  appeared  to  be  evolving 
mischief.  For  I  ought  to  say  that  all  we  dwellers  in  these  parts  attri- 
buted, if  not  prescience,  at  least  a  quality  of  warning,  to  that  strange  and 
dangerous  creature  of  the  tides. 

I  hurried  on,  then,  with  the  greater  speed,  and  had  soon  descended 
the  slope  of  Aros  to  the  part  that  we  call  Sandag  Bay.  It  is  a  pretty  large 
piece  of  water  compared  with  the  size  of  the  isle ;  well  sheltered  from 
all  but  the  prevailing  wind ;  sandy  and  shoal  and  bounded  by  low  sand- 
hills to  the  west,  but  to  the  eastward  lying  several  fathoms  deep  along  a 
ledge  of  rocks.  It  is  upon  that  side  that,  at  a  certain  time  each  flood, 
the  current  mentioned  by  my  uncle  sets  so  strong  into  the  bay ;  a  little 
later,  when  the  Roost  begins  to  work  higher,  an  undertow  runs  still 
more  strongly  in  the  reverse  direction ;  and  it  is  the  action  of  this  last, 
as  I  suppose,  that  has  scoured  that  part  so  deep.  Nothing  is  to  be  seen 
out  of  Sandag  Bay  but  one  small  segment  of  the  horizon  and,  in  heavy 
weather,  the  breakers  flying  high  over  a  deep-sea  reef. 

From  half-way  down  the  hill,  I  had  perceived  the  wreck  of  February 
last,  a  brig  of  considerable  tonnage,  lying,  with  her  back  broken,  high 
and  dry  on  the  west  corner  of  the  sands ;  and  I  was  making  directly 
towards  it,  and  already  almost  on  the  margin  of  the  turf,  when  my  eyes 
were  suddenly  arrested  by  a  spot,  cleared  of  fern  and  heather,  and  marked 
by  one  of  those  long,  low,  and  almost  human-looking  mounds  that  we 
see  so  commonly  in  graveyards.  I  stopped  like  a  man  shot.  Nothing 
had  been  said  to  me  of  any  dead  man  or  interment  on  the  island;  Rorie, 
Mary,  and  my  uncle  had  all  equally  held  their  peace ;  of  her  at  least,  I 
was  certain  that  she  must  be  ignorant ;  and  yet  here,  before  my  eyes, 
was  proof  indubitable  of  the  fact.  Here  was  a  grave  ;  and  I  had  to  ask 
myself,  with  a  chill,  what  manner  of  man  lay  there  in  his  last  sleep, 
awaiting  the  signal  of  the  Lord  in  that  solitary,  sea- beat  resting-place. 
My  mind  supplied  no  answer  but  what  I  feared  to  entertain.  Ship- 
wrecked, at  least,  he  must  have  been ;  perhaps,  like  the  old  Armada 
mariners,  from  some  far  and  rich  land  oversea ;  or  perhaps  one  of  my 
own  race,  perishing  within  eyesight  of  the  smoke  of  home.  I  stood 
awhile  uncovered  by  his  side,  and  I  could  have  desired  that  it  had  lain 
in  our  religion  to  put  up  some  prayer  for  that  unhappy  stranger,  or, 
in  the  old  classic  way,  outwardly  honour  his  misfortune.  But  I  knew, 
VOL.  XLV.— NO.  270.  33. 


690  THE  MERRY  MEN. 

although  his  bones  lay  there,  a  part  of  Aros,  till  the  trumpet  sounded, 
his  imperishable  soul  was  forth  and  far  away,  among  the  raptures  of  the 
everlasting  Sabbath,  or  the  pangs  of  hell ;  and  my  mind  misgave  me, 
even  with  a  fear  that  perhaps  he  was  near  me  where  I  stood,  guarding 
his  sepulchre,  and  lingering  on  the  scene  of  his  unhappy  fate. 

Certainly  it  was  with  a  spirit  somewhat  overshadowed  that  I  turned 
away  from  the  grave  to  the  hardly  less  melancholy  spectacle  of  the  wreck. 
Her  stem  was  above  the  last  circle  of  the  flood ;  she  was  broken  in  two 
a  little  abaft  the  foremast — though  indeed  she  had  none,  both  having 
broken  short  in  her  disaster ;  and  as  the  pitch  of  the  beach  was  very  sharp 
and  sudden,  and  the  bows  lay  many  feet  below  the  stern,  the  fracture 
gaped  widely  open,  and  you  could  see  right  through  her  poor  hull  upon 
the  further  side.  Her  name  was  much  defaced,  and  I  could  not  make 
out  clearly  whether  she  was  called  Christiania,  after  the  Swedish  city,  or 
Christiana,  after  the  good  woman,  Christian's  wife,  in  that  old  book  the 
Pilgrim's  Progress.  By  her  build  she  was  a  foreign  ship,  but  I  was  not 
certain  of  her  nationality.  She  had  been  painted  green,  but  the  colour 
was  faded  and  weathered,  and  the  paint  peeling  off  in  strips.  The  wreck 
of  the  mainmast  lay  alongside,  half  buried  in  sand.  She  was  a  forlorn 
sight  indeed,  and  I  could  scarce  look  without  tears  at  the  bits  of  rope 
that  still  hung  about  her,  so  often  handled  of  yore  by  shouting  seamen  ; 
or  the  little  scuttle  where  they  had  passed  up  and  down  to  their  affairs ; 
or  that  poor  voiceless  angel  of  a  figure-head  that  had  dipped  into  so  many 
running  billows. 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  came  most  from  the  ship  or  from  the  grave, 
but  I  fell  into  some  melancholy  scruples,  as  I  stood  there,  leaning  with 
one  hand  against  the  battered  timbers.  The  homelessness  of  men  and 
even  of  inanimate  vessels,  cast  away  upon  strange  shores,  came  strongly 
in  upon  my  mind.  To  make  a  profit  of  such  pitiful  misadventures 
seemed  an  unmanly  and  a  sordid  act ;  and  I  began  to  think  of  my  then 
quest  as  of  something  sacrilegious  in  its  natxire.  But  when  I  remem- 
bered Mary,  I  took  heart  again.  My  uncle  would  never  consent  to  an 
imprudent  marriage,  nor  would  she,  as  I  was  persuaded,  wed  without  his 
full  approval.  It  behoved  me,  then,  to  be  up  and  doing  for  my  wife  : 
and  I  thought  with  a  laugh  how  long  it  was  since  that  great  sea-castle, 
the  Espirito  Santo,  had  left  her  bones  in  Sandag  Bay,  and  how  weak  it 
would  be  to  consider  rights  so  long  extinguished  and  misfortunes  so  long 
forgotten  in  the  process  of  time. 

I  had  my  theory  of  where  to  seek  for  her  remains.  The  set  of  the 
current  and  the  soundings  both  pointed  to  the  east  side  of  the  bay  under 
the  ledge  of  rocks.  If  she  had  been  lost  in  Sandag  Bay,  and  if,  after 
these  centuries,  any  portion  of  her  held  together,  it  was  there  that  I 
should  find  it.  The  water  deepens,  as  I  have  said,  with  great  rapidity, 
and  even  close  alongside  the  rocks  four  or  five  fathoms  may  be  found. 
As  I  walked  upon  the  edge  I  could  see  far  and  wide  over  the  sandy 
bottom  of  the  bay ;  the  sun  shone  clear  and  green  and  steady  in  the 


THE  MERRY  MEN.  G91 

deeps ;  the  bay  seemed  rather  like  a  great  transparent  crystal,  as  one 
sees  them  in  a  lapidary's  shop  ;  there  was  naught  to  show  what  it  was, 
but  an  internal  trembling,  a  hovering  within  of  sun-glints  and  netted 
shadows,  and  a  faint  lap,  and  now  and  then  a  dying  bubble  round  the 
edge.  The  shadows  of  the  rocks  lay  out  for  some  distance  at  their  feet, 
so  that  my  own  shadow,  moving,  pausing,  and  stooping  on  the  top  of 
that,  reached  sometimes  half  across  the  bay.  It  was  above  all  in  this 
belt  of  shadows  that  I  hunted  for  the  Espirito  Santo ;  since  it  was  there 
the  xindertow  ran  strongest,  whether  in  or  out.  Cool  as  the  whole  water 
seemed  this  broiling  day,  it  looked,  in  that  part,  yet  cooler,  and  had  a 
mysterious  invitation  for  the  eyes.  Peer  as  I  pleased,  however,  I  could 
see  nothing  but  a  few  fishes  or  a  bush  of  sea-tangle,  and  here  and  there 
a  lump  of  rock  that  had  fallen  from  above  and  now  lay  separate  on  the 
sandy  floor.  Twice  did  I  pass  from  one  end  to  the  other  of  the  rocks, 
and  in  the  whole  distance  I  could  see  nothing  of  the  wreck,  nor  any 
place  but  one  where  it  was  possible  for  it  to  be.  This  was  a  large 
terrace  in  five  fathoms  of  water,  raised  off  the  surface  of  the  sand  to  a 
considerable  height,  and  looking  from  above  like  a  mere  outgrowth  of 
the  rocks  on  which  I  walked.  It  was  one  mass  of  great  sea-tangles  like 
a  grove,  which  prevented  me  judging  of  its  nature,  but  in  shape  and  size 
it  bore  some  likeness  to  a  vessel's  hull.  At  least  it  was  my  best  chance. 
If  the  Espirito  Santo  lay  not  there  under  the  tangles,  it  lay  nowhere  at 
all  in  Sanclag  Bay ;  and  I  prepared  to  put  the  question  to  the  proof,  once 
and  for  all,  and  either  go  back  to  Aros  a  rich  man  or  cured  for  ever  of 
my  dreams  of  wealth. 

I  stripped  to  the  skin,  and  stood  on  the  extreme  margin  with  my 
hands  clasped,  irresolute.  The  bay  at  that  time  was  utterly  quiet ;  there 
was  no  sound  but  from  a  school  of  porpoises  somewhere  out  of  sight 
behind  the  point ;  yet  a  certain  fear  withheld  me  on  the  threshold  of  my 
venture.  Sad  sea-feelings,  scraps  of  my  uncle's  superstitions,  thoughts 
of  the  dead,  of  the  grave,  of  the  old  broken  ships  drifted  through  my 
mind.  But  the  strong  sun  upon  my  shoulders  warmed  me  to  the  heart, 
and  I  stooped  forward  and  plunged  into  the  sea. 

It  was  all  that  I  could  do  to  catch  a  trail  of  the  sea-tangle  that 
bloomed  so  thickly  on  the  terrace ;  but  once  so  far  anchored  I  secured 
myself  by  grasping  a  whole  armful  of  these  thick  and  slimy  stalks,  and, 
planting  my  feet  against  the  edge,  I  looked  around  me.  On  all  sides  the 
clear  sand  stretched  forth  unbroken ;  it  came  to  the  foot  of  the  rocks, 
scoured  like  an  alley  in  a  garden  by  the  action  of  the  tides ;  and  even 
behind  me,  for  as  far  as  I  could  see>  nothing  was  visible  but  the  same 
many- folded  sand  upon  the  sun-bright  bottom  of  the  bay.  Yet  the 
terrace  to  which  I  was  then  holding  was  as  thick  with  strong  sea-growths 
as  a  tuft  of  heather,  and  the  cliff  from  which  it  bulged  hung  draped 
below  the  water-line  with  brown  lianas.  In  this  complexity  of  forms,  all 
swaying  together  in  the  current,  things  were  hard  to  be  distinguished  ; 
and  I  was  still  uncertain  whether  my  feet  were  pressed  upon  the  natural 

33—2 


692  THE  MERRY  MEN. 

rock  or  upon  the  timbers  of  the  Armada  treasure-ship,  when  the  whole 
tuft  of  tangle  came  away  in  my  hand,  and  in  an  instant  I  was  on  the 
surface,  and  the  shoi-es  of  the  bay  and  the  bright  water  swam  before  my 
eyes  in  a  glory  of  crimson. 

I  clambered  back  upon  the  rocks,  and  threw  the  plant  of  tangle  at 
my  feet.  Something  at  the  same  moment  rang  sharply,  like  a  falling 
coin.  I  stooped,  and  there,  sure  enough,  crusted  with  the  red  rust,  there 
lay  an  iron  shoe-buckle.  The  sight  of  this  poor  human  relic  thrilled  me 
to  the  heart,  but  not  with  hope  nor  fear,  only  with  a  desolate  melancholy. 
I  held  it  in  my  hand,  and  the  thought  of  its  owner  appeared  before  me 
like  the  presence  of  an  actual  man.  His  weather-beaten  face,  his  sailor's 
hands,  his  sea- voice  hoarse  with  singing  at  the  capstan,  the  very  foot  that 
had  once  worn  that  buckle  and  trod  so  much  along  the  swerving  decks — 
the  whole  human  fact  of  him,  as  a  creature  like  myself,  with  hair  and 
blood  and  seeing  eyes,  haunted  me  in  that  sunny,  solitary  place,  not  like 
a  spectre,  but  like  some  friend  whom  I  had  basely  injured.  "Was  the 
great  treasure  ship  indeed  below  there,  with  her  guns  and  chain  and 
treasure,  as  she  had  sailed  from  Spain ;  her  decks  a  garden  for  the  sea- 
weed, her  cabin  a  breeding  place  for  fish,  soundless  but  for  the  dredging 
water,  motionless  but  for  the  waving  of  the  tangle  upon  her  battlements 
— that  old,  populous,  sea-riding  castle,  now  a  reef  in  Sandag  Bay  ?  Or, 
as  I  thought  it  likelier,  was  this  a  waif  from  the  disaster  of  the  foreign 
brig — was  this  shoe-buckle  bought  but  the  other  day  and  worn  by  a  man 
of  my  own  period  in  the  world's  history,  hearing  the  same  news  from  day 
to  day,  thinking  the  same  thoughts,  praying,  perhaps,  in  the  same  temple 
with  myself  ?  However  it  was,  I  was  assailed  with  dreary  thoughts ; 
my  uncle's  words,  "  the  dead  are  down  there,"  echoed  in  my  ears ;  and 
though  I  determined  to  dive  once  more,  it  was  with  a  strong  repugnance 
that  I  stepped  forward  to  the  margin  of  the  rocks. 

A  great  change  passed  at  that  moment  over  the  appearance  of  the 
bay.  It  was  no  more  that  clear,  visible  interior,  like  a  house  roofed  with 
glass,  where  the  green,  submarine  sunshine  slept  so  stilly.  A  breeze,  I 
suppose,  had  flamed  the  surface,  and  a  sort  of  trouble  and  blackness  filled 
its  bosom,  where  flashes  of  light  and  clouds  of  shadow  tossed  confusedly 
together.  Even  the  terrace  below  was  obscurely  rocked  and  quivered. 
It  seemed  a  graver  thing  to  venture  on  this  place  of  ambushes ;  and 
when  I  leaped  into  the  sea  the  second  time  it  was  with  a  quaking  in  my 
soul. 

I  secured  myself  as  at  first,  and  groped  among  the  waving  tangle. 
All  that  met  my  touch  was  cold  and  soft  and  gluey.  The  thicket  was 
alive  with  crabs  and  lobsters,  trundling  to  and  fro  lopsidedly,  and  I  had 
to  harden  my  heart  against  the  horror  of  their  curious  neighbourhood. 
On  all  sides  I  could  feel  the  clefts  and  roots  of  hard,  living  stone ;  no 
planks,  no  iron,  not  a  sign  of  any  wreck ;  the  Espirito  Santo  was  not 
there.  I  remember  I  had  almost  a  sense  of  relief  in  my  disappointment, 
and  I  was  about  ready  to  leave  go  when  something  happened  that  sent 


THE  MEREY  MEN.  693 

me  to  the  surface  with  my  heart  in  my  mouth.  I  had  already  stayed 
somewhat  late  over  my  explorations ;  the  current  was  freshening  with 
the  change  of  the  tide,  and  Sandag  Bay  was  no  longer  a  safe  place  for  a 
single  swimmer.  Well,  just  at  the  last  moment  there  came  a  sudden 
flush  of  current,  dredging  through  the  tangles  like  a  wave.  I  lost  one 
hold,  was  flung  sprawling  on  my  side,  and,  instinctively  grasping  for  a 
fresh  support,  my  fingers  closed  on  something  hard  and  cold.  I  think  I 
knew  at  that  moment  what  it  was.  At  least  I  instantly  left  go,  leaped 
for  the  surface,  and  clambered  out  next  moment  on  to  the  friendly  rocks 
with  the  bone  of  a  man's  leg  in  my  grasp. 

Mankind  is  a  material  creature,  slow  to  think  and  dull  to  perceive 
connections.  The  grave,  the  wreck  of  the  brig,  and  the  rusty  shoe- 
buckle  were  surely  plain  advertisements.  A  child  might  have  read  this 
dismal  story,  and  yet  it  was  not  until  I  touched  that  actual  piece  of 
mankind  that  the  full  horror  of  the  charnel  brean  burst  upon  my  spirit. 
I  laid  the  bone  beside  the  buckle,  picked  up  my  clothes,  and  ran  as  I 
was  along  the  rocks  towards  the  human  shore.  I  could  not  be  far  enough 
from  the  spot;  no  fortune  was  vast  enough  to  tempt  me  back  again. 
The  bones  of  the  drowned  dead  should  henceforth  roll  undisturbed  by  me, 
whether  on  tangle  or  minted  gold.  But  as  soon  as  I  trod  the  good  earth 
again,  and  had  covered  my  nakedness  against  the  sun,  I  knelt  down  over 
against  the  ruins  of  the  brig,  and  out  of  the  fulness  of  my  heart'  prayed 
long  and  passionately  for  all  poor  souls  upon  the  sea.  A  generous  prayer 
is  never  presented  in  vain ;  the  petition  may  be  refused,  but  the  petitioner 
is  always,  I  believe,  rewarded  by  some  gracious  visitation.  The  horror, 
at  least,  was  lifted  from  my  mind ;  I  could  look  with  calm  of  spirit  on 
that  great  bright  creature,  God's  ocean ;  and  as  I  set  off  homeward  up 
the  rough  sides  of  Aros,  nothing  remained  of  my  concern  beyond  a  deep 
determination  to  meddle  no  more  with  the  spoils  of  wrecked  vessels  or 
the  treasures  of  the  dead. 

I  was  already  some  way  up  the  hill  before  I  paused  to  breathe  and 
look  behind  me.  The  sight  that  met  my  eyes  was  doubly  strange. 

For,  first,  the  storm  that  I  had  foreseen  was  now  advancing  with 
almost  tropical  rapidity.  The  whole  surface  of  the  sea  had  been  dulled 
from  its  conspicuous  brightness  to  an  ugly  hue  of  corrugated  lead ; 
already  in  the  distance  the  white  waves,  the  "skipper's  daughters,"  had 
begun  to  flee  before  a  breeze  that  was  still  insensible  on  Aros ;  and 
already  along  the  curve  on  Sandag  Bay  there  was  a  splashing  run  of  sea 
that  I  could  hear  from  where  I  stood.  The  change  upon  the  sky  was 
even  more  remarkable.  There  had  begun  to  arise  out  of  the  south-west 
a  huge  and  solid  continent  of  scowling  cloud ;  here  and  there,  through 
rents  in  its  contexture,  the  sun  still  poured  a  sheaf  of  spreading  rays  ; 
and  here  and  there,  from  all  its  edges,  vast  inky  streamers  lay  forth  along 
the  yet  unclouded  sky.  The  menace  was  express  and  imminent.  Even 
as  I  gazed,  the  sun  was  blotted  out.  At  any  moment  the  tempest  might 
fall  upon  Aros  in  its  might. 


694  THE  MERRY  MEN. 

The  suddenness  of  this  change  of  weather  so  fixed  my  eyes  on  heaven 
that  it  was  some  seconds  before  they  alighted  on  the  bay,  mapped  out 
l>elow  my  feet,  and  robbed  a  moment  later  of  the  sun.  The  knoll  which 
I  had  just  surmounted  overflanked  a  little  amphitheatre  of  lower  hillocks 
sloping  towards  the  sea,  and  beyond  that  the  yellow  arc  of  beach  and  the 
whole  extent  of  Sandag  Bay.  It  was  a  scene  on  which  I  had  often 
looked  down,  but  where  I  had  never  before  beheld  a  human  figure.  I 
had  but  just  turned  my  back  upon  it  and  left  it  empty,  and  my  wonder 
may  be  fancied  when  I  saw  a  boat  and  several  men  in  that  deserted  spot. 
The  boat  was  lying  by  the  rocks.  A  pair  of  fellows,  bareheaded,  with 
their  sleeves  rolled  up,  and  one  with  a  boathook,  kept  her  with  difficulty 
to  her  moorings,  for  the  current  was  growing  brisker  eveiy  moment.  A 
little  way  off  upon  the  ledge  two  men  in  black  clothes,  whom  I  judged 
to  be  superior  in  rank,  laid  their  heads  together  over  some  task  which  at 
first  I  did  not  understand,  but  a  second  after  I  had  made  it  out — they 
were  taking  bearings  with  the  compass  ;  and  just  then  I  saw  one  of  them 
unroll  a  sheet  of  paper  and  lay  his  finger  down,  as  though  identifying 
features  in  a  map.  Meanwhile  a  third  was  walking  to  and  fro,  poking 
among  the  rocks  and  peering  over  the  edge  into  the  water.  While  I  was 
still  watching  them  with  the  stupefaction  of  surprise,  my  mind  hardly 
yet  able  to  work  on  what  my  eyes  reported,  this  third  person  suddenly 
•stooped  and  summoned  his  companions  with  a  cry  so  loud  that  it  reached 
my  ears  upon  the  hill.  The  others  ran  to  him,  even  dropping  the  compass 
in  their  hurry,  and  I  could  see  the  bone  and  the  shoe-buckle  going  from 
hand  to  hand,  causing  the  most  unusual  gesticulations  of  surprise  and 
interest.  Just  then  I  could  hear  the  seamen  crying  from  the  boat,  and 
saw  them  point  westward  to  that  cloud  continent  which  was  ever  the 
more  rapidly  unfurling  its  blackness  over  heaven.  The  others  seemed  to 
consult ;  but  the  danger  was  too  pressing  to  be  braved,  and  they  bundled 
into  the  boat  carrying  my  relics  with  them,  and  set  forth  out  of  the  bay 
with  all  speed  of  oars. 

I  made  no  more  ado  about  the  matter,  but  turned  and  ran  for  the 
house.  Whoever  these  men  were,  it  was  fit  my  uncle  should  be  instantly 
informed.  It  was  not  then  altogether  too  late  in  the  day  for  a  descent 
of  the  Jacobites ;  and  may  be  Prince  Charlie,  whom  I  knew  my  uncle  to 
detest,  was  one  of  the  three  superiors  whom  I  had  seen  upon  the  rock. 
Yet  as  I  ran,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  and  turned  the  matter  loosely  in 
my  mind,  this  theory  grew  ever  the  larger  the  less  welcome  to  my  reason. 
The  compass,  the  map,  the  interest  awakened  by  the  buckle,  and  the 
conduct  of  that  one  among  the  strangers  who  had  looked  so  often  below 
him  in  the  water,  all  seemed  to  point  to  a  different  explanation  of  their 
presence  on  that  outlying,  obscure  islet  of  the  western  sea.  The  Madrid 
historian,  the  search  instituted  by  Dr.  Robertson,  the  bearded  stranger 
with  the  rings,  my  own  fruitless  search  that  very  morning  in  the  deep 
water  of  Sandag  Bay,  ran  together,  piece  by  piece,  in  my  memoiy,  and  I 
made  sure  that  these  strangers  must  be  Spaniards  in  quest  of  ancient 


THE   MERRY   MEN.  695 

treasure  and  the  lost  ship  of  the  Armada.  But  the  people  living  in  out- 
lying islands,  such  as  Aros,  are  answerable  for  their  own  security;  there 
is  none  near  by  to  protect  or  even  to  help  them ;  and  the  presence  in 
such  a  spot  of  a  crew  of  foreign  adventurers,  poor,  greedy,  and  most 
likely  lawless,  filled  me  with  apprehensions  for  my  uncle's  money,  and 
even  for  the  safety  of  his  daughter.  I  was  still  wondering  how  we  were 
to  get  rid  of  them  when  I  came,  all  breathless,  to  the  top  of  Aros.  The 
whole  world  was  shadowed  over ;  only  in  the  extreme  east,  on  a  few  hills 
of  the  mainland,  one  last  gleam  of  sunshine  lingered  like  a  jewel ;  rain 
had  begun  to  fall,  not  heavily,  but  in  great  drops ;  the  sea  was  rising 
with  each  moment,  and  already  a  band  of  white  encircled  Aros  and  the 
nearer  coasts  of  Grisapol.  The  boat  was  still  pulling  seaward,  but  I 
now  became  aware  of  what  had  been  hidden  from  me  lower  down — a 
large,  heavily-sparred,  handsome  schooner,  lying  to  at  the  south  end  of 
Aros.  Since  I  had  not  seen  her  in  the  morning  when  I  had  looked 
nround  so  closely  at  the  signs  of  the  weather,  and  upon  these  lone  waters 
where  a  sail  was  rarely  visible,  it  was  clear  she  must  have  lain  last  night 
behind  the  uninhabited  Eilean  Gour,  and  this  proved  conclusively  that 
she  was  manned  by  strangers  to  our  coast,  for  that  anchorage,  though 
good  enough  to  look  at,  is  little  better  than  a  trap  for  ships.  With  such 
ignorant  sailors  upon  so  wild  a  coast  the  coming  gale  was  not  unlikely  to 
bring  death  upon  its  wings. 


696 


lorcjanh 


AMIDST  the  dusty  confusion  of  intellectual  furniture,  set  aside  and  almost 
forgotten  in  the  dark  lumber-room  of  old  Italian  wit  and  imagination, 
lies  a  large  quarto,  with  double  columns,  without  pagination  or  number 
of  canto — the  commencement  of  which  is  distinguished  by  a  small 
letter  followed  by  a  capital — or  of  stanza ;  full  of  peculiar  figures  and 
abbreviations  of  the  printing  press,  and  bearing  the  following  subscrip- 
tion :  "  The  end  of  the  book  called  Morgante  Maygiore,  made  by  Luigi 
dei  Pulci,  at  the  request  of  the  most  excellent  Mona  Lucrezia  di  Piero  di 
Cosimo  de'  Medici ;  set  in  type  by  me,  Francesco  di  Dino  di  Jacopo  di 
Rigaletto,  the  young  Florentine  bookseller.  Printed  in  the  city  of 
Florence,  on  the  seventh  day  of  February,  hard  by  the  convent  of 
Foligno,  in  the  year  1482.  Drawn  from  the  original,  and  reviewed  and 
corrected  by  the  author  himself,  whom  may  God  happily  preserve,  and 
give  pleasure  to  him  who  reads,  with  health  of  soul  and  body.  Amen." 

This  volume,  which  by  good  fortune  escaped  the  religious  zeal  of  the 
inquisitorial  Savonarola,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  Carnival  of  1497,  when 
that  unlucky  apostle  did  excellent  service  to  the  cause  of  literature  and 
science  by  burning,  in  the  public  square,  such  abominations  of  vanity  as 
were  the  best  editions  of  the  Decameron,  and  other  books  of  a  like  kind, 
is  supposed  by  Audin  to  be  the  first  complete  edition  of  Pulci's  Morgante. 
Audin  is  of  opinion  that  it  was  not  wholly  set  up  by  Francesco  di  Dino, 
hard  by  the  Convent  of  Foligno,  but  that  at  a  neighbouring  convent  of 
Bipoli,  divided  only  by  a  garden  wall,  a  certain  Suor  Marietta  assisted 
in  setting  up  such  parts  of  the  poem  as  were  not  calculated  to  shock 
maiden  modesty  or  claustral  reserve.  In  those  old  days  were  certain 
Hercules  pillars  of  propriety,  long  since  sailed  past  by  ladies  who,  having 
been  at  finishing  schools,  have  nothing  left  them  to  learn. 

Luigi  di  Jacopo  Francesco  dei  Pulci  was  born  in  Florence,  about 
1430.  His  life  was  literary  and  uneventful.  The  faUentis  semita  vitce 
suited  him.  He  preferred  the  cool  shadows  of  speculative  philosophy  to 
the  garish  heat  of  political  discussion.  Perhaps  the  only  piece  of  in- 
formation about  his  personal  appearance  is  to  be  found  in  the  Poem  on 
Hawking,  composed  by  his  father,  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  surnamed  the 
Magnificent.  Therein  posterity  learns  that  he  had  a  huge  nose,  which 
overshadowed  the  dogs  and  made  the  horses  restive,  "  so  that  none  of 
us,"  says  the  Magnificent,  "  cared  for  his  presence  at  the  hunt."  Even 
the  date  of  his  death  is  uncertain.  From  the  internal  evidence  of  his 
poem,  it  probably  occurred  late  in  the  fifteenth  century.  The  favourite 
date  is  1486.  There  is  a  story  that  his  excommunicated  carcass  was 


MOKGANTE  MAGGIORE.  697 

buried,  without  the  customary  religious  patter,  in  a  ruined  well.  Pulci 
certainly  behaved  very  badly  to  the  Church ;  bub  the  story  militates 
against  all  our  ideas,  based  on  a  long  and  wide  experience  of  ecclesi- 
astical charity,  long-suffering,  and  forgiveness. 

For  the  amusement  of  their  common  Mecrenas,  Lorenzo  Pulci  agreed 
with  a  certain  canon  of  Florence,  Matteo  Franco,  to  write  a  series  of 
mutually  abusive  sonnets.  In  them  each  gives  the  other  a  Roland  for 
his  Oliver,  pan  per  focaccia,  in  the  way  of  personal  insult,  cynical 
ribaldry,  and  gross  invective.  Becoming  at  last  sick  of  this  solace, 
Pulci  took  to  investigating  the  nature  of  the  soul.  After  rejecting  the 
opinions  of  Plato  and  Aristotle  on  the  subject,  he  says  he  regards  the 
soul  as  a  mere  piece  of  pine-kernel  paste  wedged  in  a  hot  white  loaf, 
or  a  pork  sausage  set  in  a  split  roll.  It  cannot,  he  continues,  reach 
easily,  even  with  the  assistance  of  a  ladder,  that  other  life,  where  some 
folk  fancy  they  will  find  beccafichi  and  ortolans  all  ready  picked,  and 
fine  sweet  wines,  and  well-made  feather  beds,  and  so  follow  the  curate. 
"  I,  however,"  concludes  Pulci,  "  shall  depart  into  the  valley  of  darkness, 
and  never  hear  the  song  of  Hallelujah."  Upon  this  the  Inquisition, 
stepped  in  to  defend  the  holy  faith  with  such  effect  that  Pulci  soon  after 
composed  A  Confession  to  the  Virgin,  a  most  orthodox  and  pious  poem, 
equally  pure  and  pointless,  teeming  with  devotion,  but  terribly  dull.  It 
may  have  made  his  peace  with  the  "  pulpit-parrots,"  but  it  must  have  set 
him  at  variance  with  all  true  lovers  of  verse. 

Pulci's  romantic  epopee,  known  as  the  Morgante  Maggiore,  is  written 
in  twenty-eight  cantos,  composed  in  the  ottava  rima  of  the  Teseide  of 
Boccace,  who  is  supposed  to  have  invented  that  metre.  The  first  part 
of  the  material  is  taken  chiefly  from  the  Reali  di  Francia,  which  gives 
the  history  of  Orlando,  or  Rotolando,  so  named^from  his  rolling  himself 
about  the  room,  apparently  without  reason,  the  instant  he  was  bom. 
Only  the  last  four  cantos  are  taken  from,  that  ancient  compilation 
ascribed  to  Turpin,  or  rather  Tilpin — a  church  dignitary,  not  sufficiently 
venerated  by  our  author,  who  quotes  him  as  an  authority  for  audacious 
extravagances  of  which  he  was  as  innocent  as  Ptolemy;  and  on  one 
occasion  represents  him  as  a  candidate  for  the  office  of  public  hangman. 
Moreover,  he  abuses  his  work.  "  The  story  of  this  Charles  is,"  says 
Pulci,  "  for  all  I  see,  ill  understood  and  worse  expressed." 

The  most  excellent  Mona  Lucrezia,  the  mother  of  Lorenzo,  who  sent 
her  poet  into  the  deep  sea  of  mock-heroic  verse,  did  not  live  to  see  how 
he  came  out  of  it.  Her  he  addresses,  at  the  end  of  his  work,  as  a 
blessed  spirit  of  defence,  his  star,  and  his  St.  Elmo,  observing  inci- 
dentally that  if  anyone  attacks  him,  she,  being  in  heaven,  will  well 
know  how  to  card  that  person's  wool.  This  is  a  sample  of  that  con- 
fusion of  the  serious  and  the  comic  which,  like  that  of  the  customary 
conditions  of  space  and  time,  pervades  Pulci's  poem. 

Its  chief  ingredients  are  the  conquests  of  Charlemagne  over  distant 
disbelievers,  the  memorable  prowesses  of  his  peers,  only  comparable  with 


698  MORGANTE   MAGGIOEK. 

those  of  Jashobeam  the  Hachmonite,  that  mighty  man  of  David,  who 
lifted  up  his  spear  against  three  hundred,  slain  by  him  at  one  time,  and 
the  hatred  of  Gan,  the  perfidious  knight  of  Maganza  or  Mayence,  a  traitor 
before  his  birth,  for  Orlando.  Gan's  deceit  and  covin,  confronted  with 
the  raisons  d'Etat  of  the  present  century,  are  indeed  as  a  midge  to  a 
mammoth  ;  but  it  is  scarcely  fair  to  examine  them  in  this  pure  and  per- 
fect light  of  European  civilisation.  The  poem  is  stuffed  full — a  bizzrffe, 
as  the  Italians  say — of  giants  and  dragons  and  unicorns.  There  is  a 
pretty  sprinkling  of  devils,  and  ladies  of  royal  lineage  are  as  plentiful  as 
religious  tracts  on  a  Sunday  afternoon.  The  whole  is  spiced  with  love 
and  magic,  fasts — dream-feasts,  as  Pulci  calls  them — duels,  battles, 
and  kingdoms  conquered  in  a  single  day.  The  chances  of  the  fight 
are  commonly,  if  not  always,  in  favour  of  the  militant  Christian. 
The  defeated  Pagan  usually  curses  Mahomet.  Even  the  orthodox 
Jlinaldo  can  curse  Heaven  devoutly,  on  occasion  of  any  contretemjys. 
"  Few  men,"  says  Epictetus,  "  love  anything,  even  their  Gcd,  so  much  as 
their  own  interest.  As  Alexander  burnt,  at  the  death  of  Hephsestion, 
the  temple  of  ^Esculapius,  so  we  are  ready  to  abuse  our  divinities  and 
overturn  their  statues  at  the  least  obstruction  of  our  desire."  The 
giant  Morgante,  from  whom  the  work  borrows  its  name,  plays  in  it 
comparatively  a  minor  rdle.  Orlando  kills  Morgan te's  brothers  for 
interfering  with  the  repose  of  a  certain  abbey,  and  takes  Morgante,  after 
his  conversion  to  the  only  true  faith,  for  his  companion.  Attired  in  a 
broad  steel  headpiece,  the  giant  is  compared  by  the  Paladin  to  a  mushroom 
with  an  abnormally  extended  stalk.  He  does  execution  on  infidels  with 
a  bell-clapper,  afterwards  studded  with  the  teeth  of  a  crocodile.  His  appe- 
tite is  good.  One  day  he  unfolds  the  wrinkles  of  his  belly  by  eating  an 
elephant,  all  but  the  head  and  the  feet.  This  exact  minuteness  of  detail  in 
narration  materially  assists  in  supporting  the  authenticity  of  the  account. 
On  another  day  he  disposes,  with  one  bite,  of  the  hump  of  a  camel.  He 
eventually  dies,  eight  cantos  before  the  end  of  the  poem,  from  the  nip  of  a 
small  crab — granc/tiolino — freely  rendered  by  a  French  translation,  here- 
after to  be  considered,  in  one  place  a  fish,  and  in  another  an  aquatic  serpent ! 

In  the  Morgante  is  nothing  of  what  is  now  understood  by  plot.  If 
Pulci  had  any  other  end  than  that  of  his  own  diversion  and  possible 
profit  in  composing  it,  it  was  probably  to  set  people  free  from  the  pitfalls 
of  sacerdotal  chicanery  and  imposture.  Many  episodes  are  introduced, 
perhaps  to  allay  the  weariness  of  the  audience,  for  Pulci  probably  sang 
his  own  poem  at  the  table  of  the  Medici,  as  Bojardo  at  that  of  the  family 
of  Este.  These  episodes  are  seldom  concluded  with  the  canto,  and  there 
is  always  a  polite  promise  of  their  continuation.  Thus  the  attendance 
of  the  audience  on  the  morrow  was  secured  as  deftly  as  the  prosaic  "  To 
be  continued "  of  our  present  serials  insures  a  crop  of  readers  for  the 
next  month. 

Each  canto  commences  with  a  pious  invocation,  taken  xisually  from  the 
offices  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church.  So  we  find  the  Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo, 


MORGAXTE  MAGGIOEE.  699 


the  Magnificat,  the  Te  JJmini  laudamus,  and  an  address  to  Christ  as  "  O 
liighest  Jove,  for  us  cruciiied,"  all  of  which  have  as  little  to  do  with  the 
subject  of  the  poem  as  its  concluding  paraphrase  of  Salve  Regina.  These 
familiar  formulae,  the  fashion  of  the  time,  were  of  avail  in  fastening  the 
attention  of  a  bird-witted  audience.  Even  in  Dante's  comedy  and  the 
amorous  ditties  of  Petrarch,  they  are  not  found  wanting,  and  they 
abound  in  the  rarely  read  romances  of  the  Queen  Ancroja  and  Buovo 
(PAntona.  Ancroja,  by  the  way,  is  the  name  of  a  reprobate  Pagan,  who 
dies  unconverted,  and  Buovo  or  Beuves  was  Orlando's  grandfather.  The 
names  of  the  authors  of  the  poems  are  unknown.  In  favour  of  these 
invocations  it  may  be  said,  they  are  at  least  more  in  accordance  with 
Christian  propriety  than  the  modern  addresses  of  Protestant  poets  to 
Apollo  and  the  Muses.  With  these  the  satirist  of  Ferney,  who  gave 
Pulci  the  credit  of  being  a  canon,  defended  his  Pucette.  "  There  are  no 
such  liberties,"  says  he,  "in  my  discreet  work,  as  those  which  the 
Florentine  doctor  has  taken  in  his  Morgante"  From  these  the  whole 
poem  has  been  regarded  by  some  as  a  rich  satire  on  Christianity,  and 
even  Hallam  went  so  far  as  to  say  he  considered  Pulci  intended  to  bring 
religion  into  contempt.  Probably  he  cared  rather  to  expose  the  true 
character  of  its  priests  and  professors.  About  religion  itself  he  was 
apparently  in  much  the  same  condition  as  Margutte,  a  species  of 
Panurge,  whom  Morgante  met  one  day  at  a  cross  road.  This  hero 
wished  to  be  a  giant,  but,  repenting  when  half-way  there,  remained  only 
some  twenty  hands  high  as  a  result.  Morgante  asks  him  to  take  a 
drink,  with  the  politeness  of  one  gentleman  to  another  in  the  present 
generation,  and  then  proceeds  to  examine  him  straitly  as  to  his  reli- 
gious belief.  But  the  miserable  Margutte  has  no  settled  creed  whatever. 
He  is  neither  Saracen  nor  Christian,  believes  neither  in  Christ  nor 
Apollo  ;  "  but,"  says  he,  "  I  believe  in  a  boiled  fowl,  or  roast  if  you  will, 
and  occasionally  I  believe  in  butter,  in  beer  too  ;  but,  above  all,  in  good 
wine  ;  and  I  believe  he  will  be  saved,  whosoever  believes  therein.  The 
only  true  Paternoster  is  a  piece  of  roasted  liver.  Faith  is  like  tickling, 
it  affects  men  in  different  ways  and  degrees.  I  am  myself  the  son  of  a 
Greek  nun  and  a  Turkish  priest,  and  bear  with  me  the  sins  of  both 
countries.  Twenty-and-seven  mortal  sins  have  I,  which  never  leave  me, 
summer  or  winter.  Whilst  I  have  money,  I  am  ready  to  gamble  at  any 
time  and  in  any  place.  As  to  gluttony,  if  you  could  only  see  the 
manner  in  which  I  baste  !  To  watch  in  how  many  ways  I  can  hash 
a  lamprey  would  make  your  hair  stand  on  end.  If  one  ingredient  fail, 
the  whole  dish  is  spoilt  ;  heaven  itself  could  not  remedy  the  matter  after-* 
wards.  I  could  teach  you  secrets  of  cookery  till  to-morrow.  But  hear 
another  cardinal  virtue  of  mine.  What  I  have  told  you  already  does 
not  come  to  F.  ;  imagine  what  it  will  be  when  we  arrive  at  II.  I  care 
no  more  for  relations  than  strangers.  I  can  make  augers,  and  crowbars, 
and  soft  files,  and  wimbles  of  every  kind,  and  picklocks,  and  ladders  of 
rope  or  wood,  and  levers,  and  felt  shoes.  In  a  church  I  always  fly  first  to 


700  MOKGAXTE  MAGGIOEE. 

the  sacristy.  I  have  a  great  affection  for  crosses,  chalices,  and  cruci6xes ; 
after  that  I  spoil  the  virgins  and  saints.  There  is  no  tneum  and  tuum  for 
me.  Everything  in  the  beginning  belonged  to  God.  I  should  strip  the 
finest  saint,  if  saints  in  heaven  there  be,  for  a  farthing.  The  theological 
virtues  yet  remain.  Perjuries  slip  through  my  mouth  like  ripe  figs, 
For  alms,  prayer,  and  fasting,  I  meddle  not  with  any  of  them.  I  have 
omitted  to  mention  some  thousand  other  sins  of  mine,  but  will  conclude 
with  this — I  was  never  a  traitor." 

In  this  short  specimen  of  Pulci's  style  much  of  Margutte's  creed 
and  many  of  his  virtues  are  omitted.  They  could  not  be  read  now,  and 
they  could  only  have  been  written  in  that  abandoned  time  before  the 
Holy  Council  of  Trent  had  confined  the  liberty  of  unlicensed  speech. 
To  get  rid  of  this  Margutte  as  soon  as  possible,  it  may  be  here  added 
that  after  laughing  at  everybody  and  everything,  man,  woman,  child, 
saint  and  devil,  he  at  last  sees  a  monkey  putting  on  a  pair  of  boots,  and, 
his  usual  fit  of  merriment  attacking  him  too  suddenly,  he  is  unable  to 
unbutton  himself,  and  with  one  loud  and  final  bellow,  bursts. 

An  awful  amazement  must  possess  the  soul  of  Pulci,  if  still  cognisant 
of  mundane  matters,  to  find  his  Morgante  considered  as  a  serious  work, 
and  almost  labelled  with  a  purpose  like  a  modern  Tendenzschrift.  In 
spite  of  his  saying  that  the  impossibility  of  saving  Orlando  will  turn 
his  comedy  into  a  tragedy  ;  in  spite  of  the  popular  style  of  his  poem  and 
its  vast  number  of  vulgar  proverbs  and  forms  of  speech  ;  in  spite  of  a 
geography  widely  removed  from  that  of  Pinnock,  which  transports  his 
heroes  to  Paris  from  Persia  or  Egypt  as  easily  as  from  Lyons  or  Toulouse ; 
in  spite  of  works  of  many  years  being  ended  in  one  day  ;  in  spite  of  an 
utter  disregard  of  all  conditions  of  space  and  time ;  in  spite  of  the  notice 
of  Milton,  who  may  be  supposed  an  excellent  judge,  and  yet  speaks  of  the 
Morgante  as  a  sportful  poem,  much  to  the  same  purpose  as  the  Margites  ; 
in  spite  of  the  comic  deaths  of  Morgante  and  Margutte,  and  a  thousand 
other  absurdities  sufficient  to  make  even  Heraclitus  laugh,  such  men  as 
Foscolo  and  Panizzi  have  found  in  their  compatriot's  monument  a  corner 
stone  of  gravity  and  momentous  significance. 

It  is  true  that  many  lines  of  the  old  poets,  written  by  them  in  all 
sad  and  sober  seriousness,  have  now  a  somewhat  comic  character.  Dante, 
for  example,  whom  few  would  accuse  of  mirth,  makes  Minos  to  deliver 
his  sentences  by  the  motions  of  his  tail,  each  curl  of  that  member  round 
the  accused  condemning  him  to  a  lower  depth, 

Giudica,  c  manda  secundo  die  avvingkia : 

but  the  tout  ensemble  of  Pulci's  poem — his  laughter  alike  at  Christian 
and  Pagan  heroes,  the  former  of  whom  his  predecessors  as  well  as  suc- 
cessors loved  to  elevate  and  idolise — can  leave  little  doubt  of  his 
merry  purpose,  which  was(  so  apparent  to  Gravina  and  Corniani,  to 
Hallam  and  Ginguene.  Indeed,  one  great  defect  in  Pulci  is  his  want  of 
continued  sobriety,  the  pathos  and  occasional  grandeur  in  the  concluding 


MORGANTE  MAGGIORE.  701 

scene  of  the  dolorous  rout  at  Roncesvalles  is  over  and  over  again  inter- 
rupted by  farcical  incident  and  sardonic  comment.  Thrice  the  sound  of 
the  weird  ivory  horn  of  Childe  Rowland  wails  through  the  wood,  but 
the  child  makes  his  nose  bleed  by  blowing  it.  He  takes  an  affecting 
farewell  of  Vegliantin,  his  horse,  begging  his  pardon  ;  but  then  the  dead 
beast  accords  it,  winking  his  eye  the  while.  Determined,  as  Arthur  in 
the  case  of  Excalibur,  that  none  shall  hereafter  hold  his  famous  brand, 
he  smites  Durlindana,  so  called,  says  Turpin,  quia  durum  dabat  ictum, 
against  a  rock  to  break  it,  but  Durlindana  divides  the  rock  in  twain  as 
it  were  a  splinter.  He  is  told  by  the  angel  Gabriel  that  Aldabella  his 
wife — of  whom,  by  the  way,  he  sees  as  little  as  he  well  can  while  on 
earth — shall  wear  widow's  weeds  till  she  rejoins  him  in  heaven ;  but 
then  he  is  also  told  by  the  same  angel  that  Morgante  shall  be  of  the 
heavenly  party,  and  that  Margutte  is  already  herald  of  Beelzebub,  and 
amusing  with  his  wonted  laughter  all  the  hosts  of  hell.  Pulci  adds  to 
this,  that  the  sun  stood  still  at  the  prayer  of  Charlemagne,  though  he 
will  not  believe,  as  some  lying  writers,  soon  to  be  neglected,  affirm,  that 
the  mountains  became  a  level  plain.  Also,  that  at  the  request  of  his 
liege  lord,  the  defunct  Orlando  rose,  and  with  due  respect,  stretching 
out  his  hand,  offered  Charles  his  sword — no  marvellous  matter,  says  the 
incorrigible  Pulci,  when  we  consider  that  for  him  the  sun  stopped  its 
course  through  the  firmament. 

In  a  conversation  between  Ririaldo  and  Ashtaroth,  one  of  the  chief 
of  the  fallen  angels,  there  is  a  mixture  of  a  vulgar  verbal  delivery  with 
a  very  sublime  despair.  Rinaldo  expresses  his  hope  of  a  remission  of 
Ashtaroth's  punishment.  Ashtaroth  replies  :  "  For  me  the  keys  are  lost 
for  ever.  For  you,  O  lucky  Christian !  a  single  tear,  a  punch  on  the 
breast,  a  Domlne,  tibi  soli  peccavi,  will  wash  away  all  your  peccadilloes. 
I  sinned  but  once,  and  am  packed  off  to  hell  till  the  end  of  time.  If  but 
after  a  million  ages  I  might  hope  to  see  the  faintest  spark  of  that  Light, 
my  yoke  would  then  be  easy.  But  of  what  avail  are  words  ?  What  can. 
not  be,  one  should  not  wish  for.  I  prithee  let  us  change  the  subject." 

Perhaps  the  only  piece  of  pure  pathos  of  any  extent  in  the  whole 
poem  is  that  of  the  death  of  Baldwin.  This  hero  is  protected  at  Ron- 
cesvalles by  a  garment  which  Gan,  his  traitorous  father,  induces  him  to 
wear.  Baldwin's  friend  Orlando  hears  about  this  garment,  and  accuses 
Baldwin  of  treachery.  Baldwin  tears  it  off,  and  rushes  into  the  battle, 
crying,  "  I  am  no  traitor,  God  help  me  !  but  you  shall  not  see  me  again 
alive.  You  have  wronged  me,  Orlando,  but  I  followed  you  with  perfect 
love."  Soon  after,  Orlando  finds  him  with  two  lance  thrusts  through  his 
breast  dying.  Then  Baldwin  rose  and  cried,  "  Now  am  I  no  more  a 
traitor,"  and  as  he  said  it,  fell  back  upon  the  ground,  dead. 

The  amount  of  baptisms  into  the  only  true  faith  in  the  Morgante 
puts  to  shame  the  present  poor  results  of  the  spirit  of  conversion,  and  is 
.such  as  would  fill  the  heart  of  any  decent  missionary  with  delight. 
Indeed,  it  may  be  said  of  the  Paladins  that  their  life  was  pleasantly 


702  MORGANTE  MAGGIOPxK. 

divided  between  baptism  and  butchery.  Uinnldo,  a  devout  hero  on  the 
whole,  though  he  sometimes  says  things  not  to  to  be  found  in  the  Mass, 
murders  under  circumstances  of  peculiar  atrocity  the  innocent  wife  and 
helpless  children  of  Fieramonte.  Fieramonte's  people,  thus  finding  out  the 
tender  loving-kindness  of  the  only  true  faith,  become  at  once  believers  and 
are  baptised.  But  the  reader  must  not  forget  that  their  conversion 
agreed  with  their  interest,  and  may  therefore  be  justly  suspected.  Had 
they  not  become  Christians,  they  had  all  been  massacred  as  surely  and 
completely  as  the  unhappy  heathen  who  held  unfortunately,  once  on  ;i 
time,  the  promised  land.  So,  too,  Corbante,  king  of  the  city  of  Car- 
vava,  escapes,  under  a  like  dilemma,  with  all  his  people,  by  the  sprink- 
ling of  enchanted  water.  But  the  most  interesting  case  of  a  sudden 
conversion  to  Christianity  is  that  of  Meridiana.  This  is  the  lucky  mis- 
tress of  the  swift  horse  with  the  serpent's  head,  which  bellowed  like  a 
bull.  She  is  informed  by  Oliver  of  the  mystery  of  the  Holy  Trinity, 
under  the  image  of  a  candle  which  lights  a  thousand  others  and  yet 
itself  suffers  no  diminution  of  splendour.  So  Orlando  endeavours  to 
elucidate  to  Ancroja  the  same  cardinal  difficulty  by  various  comparisons  ; 
but  as  the  Pagan  queen  still  continues  unable  to  understand  it,  the 
Paladin  supposes  her  to  be  possessed  by  a  devil,  and  despatches  her  out 
of  hand.  Oliver,  however,  is  more  successful,  and  after  the  mention  of 
Lazarus  and  a  miracle  or  two,  Meridiana  is  satisfactorily  anointed  with 
the  sacred  chrism.  But  the  good  Paladin,  as  we  find  a  few  lines  farther 
on,  is  not  contented  with  making  Meridiana  a  Christian,  he  has  made 
her  a  mother  also. 

The  readiness  with  which  the  dutiful  Meridiana  becomes  a  Christian 
without  any  regard  to  her  father  or  family,  is  common  in  romance. 
Infidel  daughters  almost  invariably  lose  at  least  their  piety  on  their 
conversion.  They  think  nothing  of  assisting  an  orthodox  lover  to  cut- 
up  a  pagan  parent.  Too  often  they  lose  more  than  their  piety,  as  was 
•the  case  with  our  heroine,  who,  like  Chaucer's  Soudan  of  Surrie,  "  rather 
than  lese  Custance  wold  be  cristened  douteles,"  and  "  reneged  Mahound 
her  creance "  only  to  gratify  her  amorous  passion.  With  this  nai've 
account  of  Meridiana's  amour  with  Oliver  may  be  compared  a  passage  in 
the  old  tale  of  La  Culotte  des  Cordeliers,  in  which  the  fair  Orleanoise 
and  her  lover,  before  the  fearful  mistake  of  the  breeches  is  found  out, 
vary  devotion  with  delight  after  much  the  same  bizarre  fashion  : 

....   puis  s'entrefont 
Lc  geu  por<joi  assanble  sont, 
Et  quant  il  orent  fct  lor  gieu, 
Si  s'entrecommandeiit  u  Dien. 

Even  Gan  is  seized  with  the  epidemic  of  proselytising.  He  is 
not  satisfied  with  making  Marsilio,  the  Saracen  king  of  Spain,  a  traitor, 
he  must  needs  have  him,  to  complete  his  character,  a  Christian.  "  If 
you  believe  the  true  gospel,  you  will,"  quoth  Gan,  "be  happy  in  tin. s 
world  and  the  next."  Whereunto  Marsilio  responds  with  a  singular 


MORGANTE  MAGGIORE.  70S 

story.  "  In  a  certain  wood,"  says  lie, "  near  Saragossa,  is  a  large  cloister 
with  a  small  opening,  wherein  are  six  tall  pillars  guarded  by  gentle 
spirits  in  varied  vestments.  The  pillars  are  made  respectively  of  gold, 
silver,  copper,  iron,  tin,  and  lead,  and  signify  the  six  religions  with  their 
proper  relative  values.  Every  soul  before  entering  the  body  must  here 
make  choice  of  a  religion,  and  be  marked  with  the  characters  convenient. 
Each  guardian  spirit,  as  a  soul  passes  by,  prays  it  to  select  its  own  par- 
ticular pillar.  The  simple  soul,  as  yet  without  intelligence,  flies  like  a 
bird  into  the  snare.  It  turns  whithersoever  desire  directs  it.  Which- 
ever pillar  it  embraces  becomes  its  faith  for  the  future.  Each  soul  has 
freedom  of  choice,  but  '  blessed  is  that  soul  which  embraces  the  pillar  of 
gold  ! '  "  Many  of  the  untranslated  tales  in  the  Arabian  Nights  show  a 
zeal  for  conversion  as  ardent  as  that  in  the  Morgante,  though  of  course 
in  an  opposite  direction,  from  Christ  to  Mahomet.  But  we  find  in  them 
no  philosophic  fable  like  that  of  Marsilio. 

Oliver,  who  is  represented  as  a  staid  married  man  with  two  grown-up 
sons  in  the  Furioso,  plays  an  entirely  different  part  in  the  Morgante. 
He  is  a  gay  Lothario,  flitting  from  flower  to  flower  in  the  garden  of 
girls,  and  not  infrequently  caught  in  amatory  birdlime,  out  of  which, 
however,  he  soon  manages  to  escape.  He  admires  the  sex  too  much  to 
devote  himself  to  any  individual.  Moreover,  he  seems  to  have  been  a 
man  of  little  faith  in  feminine  fidelity.  Like  Farquhar's  Inconstant, 
he  thought  "  till  they're  key-cold  dead,  there's  no  trusting  them." 
Meantime  over  every  maiden's  portal  he  hangs  his  may,  and  halts  at 
every  woman's  door  come  I'asin  del  pentolaio,  like  the  potter's  donkey, 
but  without  professing  himself  to  be  an  Oroondates  or  an  Amadis. 
His  character  is  somewhat  repulsive  to  the  feelings  of  the  present 
age,  for  inviolable  and  eternal  constancy  was  not  his  virtue.  Nor  was 
Binaldo  much  superior  to  Oliver  in  fidelity.  He  plays  as  ill  a  part  to 
Luciana,  who  presents  him  with  a  wonderful  pavilion,  and  to  Anthea, 
that  most  beautiful  Sultan's  daughter,  as  Oliver  to  Meridiana,  the 
lady  we  wot  of,  subsequently  deserted,  and  to  Forasene,  who,  for  his 
unworthy  sake,  throws  herself  out  of  the  window.  Once  upon  a  time 
this  same  Binaldo  had  promised  to  marry  an  innkeeper's  daughter,  but 
after,  as  is  customary,  thought  better  of  it.  Then  he  addresses  the  luck- 
less lady  thus  :  "  Listen.  I  promised  to  marry  you,  but  this  is  indeed 
impossible,  for  I  have  already  a  wife  in  France.  However,  Greco  here 
may  be  your  husband  !  "  And  she  marries  Greco  accordingly.  This  is 
quite  in  the  style  of  old  Spanish  romance.  A  little  before  Binaldo  had 
distinguished  himself  after  another  fashion  by  turning  highwayman, 
professing  his  readiness  to  rob  and  murder  even  St.  Peter. 

Of  the  other  chief  characters  of  the  poem,  the  magician  Malagigi 
seems  to  enter  like  a  harlequin  only  to  cause  confusion.  On  one  occasion 
he  nearly  engages  the  cousins  Orlando  and  Binaldo  in  a  desperate  battle, 
by  a  ruse  which  in  the  end  leads  to  nothing.  Pepin's  son  is  made  a  tool 
and  a  fool  throughout  by  his  intimate  friend  Gan.  This  great  defender 


704  MORGAXTE  MAGGIORE. 

of  the  Christian  creed  becomes  in  the  Morgante  a  despicable  idiot.  One 
after  another  the  mighty  emperor  insults  and  exiles  all  his  faithful  fol- 
lowers, blinded  like  a  buzzard  by  the  wiles  of  his  cunning  and  impudent 
confidant.  Sobbing  like  one  of  the  heroes  of  Homer  at  intervals,  when 
he  is  awaked  into  sanity  from  illusion,  he  very  soon  nods  again  and  falls 
back  into  the  snare.  Pulci  endeavours  in  more  than  one  instance  to  ac- 
count for  the  emperor's  extraordinary  dullness,  by  saying  that  the  divinity 
interfered.  By  heaven's  permission  what  Gan  said  to  him  appeared  to 
be  Gospel.  Some  suppose  that  Pulci  meant  to  satirise  that  idle  re- 
liance of  a  king  on  a  favourite  courtier,  which  has  too  often  involved  a 
kingdom  in  discontent  or  worse.  Others,  that  there  was  historic  founda- 
tion for  this  credulity  in  the  potentate's  excessive  jealousy  of  his  own 
Paladins.  But,  however  that  may  be,  it  seems  to  the  reader,  who  finds 
him  for  ever  falling  into  the  pit  which  Gan  has  digged  for  him,  that 
Rinaldo  had  good  reason,  though  he  lacked  reverence,  in  calling  him  in 
his  wrath,  "  a  childish,  ridiculous  old  rascal." 

The  character  of  Gan  is  perhaps  the  most  artistically  contrived  and 
executed.  His  envy,  obstinacy,  falsehood  and  dissimulation  are  painted 
admirably.  We  see  him  in  his  proper  light  sitting  by  the  carob  tree, 
under  which  is  concocted  the  conspiracy  with  Marsilio  which  leads  to 
the  rout  at  Roncesvalles,  and  on  which,  by  a  retribution  as  rare  and 
remarkable  as  it  is  just,  Marsilio  is  ultimately  hanged.  This  tree — the 
tree  on  which  Judas,  as  men  say,  ended  his  unlucky  life — sweats  drops 
of  blood,  and  moults  the  leaves  from  its  suddenly  withered  branches  in 
horror  of  the  wickedness  which  is  being  weaved  under  its  shadow.  A 
fruit  falling  on  Gan's  head  raises  his  fell  of  hair.  The  description  is 
graphic  and  impressive  ;  but,  Pulci,  of  course,  ruins  it  after  his  wont  by 
a  final  piece  of  raillery.  "  I  must  not  foist  in  a  falsehood,  for  this  is  no 
history  of  lies."  Gan  has  his  reward.  He  is  torn  with  redhot  pincers, 
and  after  this  life  Dante  places  him  in  a  suitable  situation  in  the  next. 

Orlando  is  neither  furious  nor  enamoured.  He  is  a  mean  between 
Charlemagne,  who  believes  too  much,  and  Rinaldo,  who  believes  too  little. 
Being  a  Paladin,  he  is,  of  course,  moderate  in  neither  word  nor  deed. 
When  asked  to  blow  his  horn  he  at  first  refuses  to  do  so,  though  attacked 
by  Csesar,  Scipio,  Hannibal,  Marcel lus,  Darius,  Xerxes,  Alexander,  and 
Nebuchadnezzar  with  all  their  armies.  A  minor,  but  a  well-drawn  charac- 
ter, is  that  of  Terigi,  Orlando's  squire.  To  him  a  remarkable  vision  is 
accorded.  The  giant  Marcovaldo  lying  slain  by  his  master,  and,  of  course, 
baptised,  Terigi  sees  the  giant's  soul  in  heaven  singing  a  sweet  melody 
with  multitudes  of  a.ngels. 

It  has  been  said  by  those  who  will  say  anything  that  the  whole  of  the 
Jforgante  was  written  by  a  famous  friend  of  Pulci's,  Angelo  Politian. 
Pulci  says  in  his  poem,  that  his  dear  little  angel  (Politian)  had  shown 
him  the  way  out  of  a  dark  wood  by  giving  him  notice  of  the  works  of 
Amaldo,  the  Provencal  troubadour,  and  of  Alcuin,  Charlemagne's  earliest 
historian,  who  received  in  his  cradle  the  special  grace  of  the  strictest 
veracity.  It  is  sufficient  to  read  half  a  dozen  pages  of  the  two  poets  to 


MOKGANTE  MAGGIORE.  705 

be  satisfied  of  their  widely  different  styles.  Nor  could  the  complimentary 
lines  in  the  last  canto  and  elsewhere,  touching  Politian,  be  well  'addressed 
by  that  poet  to  himself. 

But  a  high  authority,  Torquato  Tasso,  has  affirmed  that  Marsilio 
Ficino,  another  friend  of  Pulci's,  composed  that  part  of  the  poem  wherein 
Malagigi  having  by  enchantment  consti^ained  the  very  wise  and  terrible 
devil  Ashtaroth  to  possess  the  body  of  Bayard,  and  bring  Rinaldo  in  three 
days  from  Egypt  to  Roncesvalles,  a  conversation  takes  place  on  the  way 
between  the  devil  and  his  rider.  The  astounding  theological  acxiteness  dis- 
played in  the  arguments  of  Ashtaroth  induced  Tasso  to  ascribe  this  portion 
of  the  work  to  Ficino,  the  celebrated  neo-Platonist,  who  held  Socrates  to  be 
a  type  of  Christ,  and  considered  divine  revelation  only  intelligible  through 
his  favourite  author.  But  there  seems  nothing  more  in  the  dialogue  than 
Pulci,  who  lived  in  familiarity  with  the  chief  theologians,  might  of  him- 
self have  written.  Ashtaroth  first  distinguishes  himself  as  a  geographer, 
by  telling  Rlnaldo  it  is  possible  to  pass  the  pillars  of  Hercules,  that  this 
hero  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself  for  his  ignorance,  that  the  earth 
hangs  sublime  by  a  divine  mystery  amidst  the  stars  dim  in  the  intense 
inane,  that  it  is  round  and  inhabited  by  antipodes,  who  pray  and  fight 
like  other  moi'tals.  All  this  it  must  be  recollected  was  written  before 
Columbus's  discovery,  and  while  Copernicus  and  Galileo  were  names  un- 
known. One  of  Petrarch's  lines  may  here  be  quoted  : — 
E  le  tenebre  nostre  altrui  fan  alba. 

But  the  devil  is  no  less?  of  a  theologian  than  of  a  geographer.  As  these 
antipodes  adore  Mars  and  Jupiter,  a  fearful  doubt  strikes  Rlnaldo  about 
the  possibility  of  the  future  salvation  of  the  poor  folk.  Ashtaroth  replies 
virtually  that  every  man  shall  be  saved  by  the  law  or  sect  which  he 

professeth — • 

Siche  non  debbe  disperar  merzede 
Chi  rettamente  la  sua  legge  tiene. 

For  which  damnable  and  dangerous  heresy,  however,  he  afterwards  com- 
pensates by  saying  that  the  only  true  faith  is  that  of  the  Christians. 
In  a  previous  talk  with  Malagigi  he  advances  a  position  somewhat 
strange  in  the  mouth  of  a  devil.  "  Free  will,"  he  says,  "  was  the  cause 
of  the  fall  of  Lucifer,  and  God,  though  foreknowing,  is  not  unjust." 
The  reader  of  Paradise  Lost  is  irresistibly  reminded  of  that  dialogue  be- 
tween the  Father  and  the  Son,  in  which  the  former,  as  Pope  says,  speaks 
like  a  school  divine  : 

Libero  arbitrio  e  1'  uno  e  1'  altro  danna, 
is  exactly, 

I  formed  them  free  .  .  .  they  themselves  ordained  their  fall. 

And  Milton's  reason  of  the  difference  in  fate  between  the  erring  men  and 
erring  angels  is  Pulci's,  word  for  word. 

Man  falls  deceived 

By  the  other  first :  man  therefore  shall  find  grace; 

The  other  none. 

VOL.  XLV. — NO.  270,  34. 


706'  MOKGANTE  MAGGIORE. 

Ashtaroth  goes  on  to  tell  Malagigi  that  he  was  one  of  the  principal  sera- 
phim of  heaven,  and  yet  knew  not  what  Gregory  and  Dionysius  have 
ventured  to  proclaim  on  earth.  This  is  a  piece  of  excellent  satire.  He 
concludes  ci  la  Pulci,  by  saying,  "  Never  put  faith  in  fiends,  for  they  can 
affirm  nought  but  falsehoods."  Ashtaroth  amuses  himself  during  the 
battle  by  sitting  on  the  top  of  a  church  belfry,  where  he  catches  Pagan 
souls  and  presents  them  to  the  infernal  judge.  Here  he  keeps  a  sharp 
look-out  like  a  sparrow-hawk,  and  finds  plenty  to  occupy  his  hands. 
"  You  can  imagine,"  says  the  sober  Pulci,  "  how  Satan  enjoyed  himself 
on  that  occasion,  and  how  Charon  sang  in  his  boat  and  patched  up  his 
old  sails  and  set  his  sculls  in  order,  and  what  a  dance  and  a  hurly-burly 
there  was  down  there  in  hell.  However,  heaven  too  is  preparing  for  the 
souls  of  the  Paladins,  carried  up  by  the  angels,  nectar,  manna,  and  am- 
brosia. Peter,  poor  old  fellow,  waxes  something  aweary  of  unlocking 
the  gate — a  strong  ear,  too,  he  must  have  had,  so  loudly  did  those  souls 
cry  Hosanna,  so  that  all  his  beard  and  his  hair  sweated." 

Palmieri,  called  by  Ficino  the  theological  poet,  awoke  the  anger  of  the 
Inquisition  by  opining  that  men's  souls  are  those  spirits  which  remained 
neutral  in  the  great  rebellion,  those  which  Dante  sets  in  the  suburbs  of 
hell,  as  too  good  for  that  great  metropolis,  and  yet  too  bad  for  heaven. 
"  As  bees  in  summer-time  buzz  about  violet  buds,  so  these  spirits,"  says 
Palmieri,  "  flit  eagerly  about  men's  bodies  in  which  they  are  to  have  one 
chance  more  before  they  meet  with  eternal  happiness  or  misery."  To  this 
opinion  of  Palmieri,  Pulci  seems  from  one  of  his  sonnets  himself  inclined, 
but  in  the  Moryante  the  theological  poet  is  quoted  as  an  advocate  of 
metempsychosis. 

Pulci's  style  is  said  to  have  been  cited  by  Macchiavelli  as  a  model  of 
elegance  and  purity.  The  Virgin  certainly  accorded  him  many  of  those 
sweet  cadences  and  gracious  words  which  he  begs  of  her  at  the  beginning 
of  his  poem.  His  rhyme  is  easy,  and  his  expression  simple  and  natural. 
He  boldly  nominates  a  spade  a  spade.  But  his  phrases  are  often  discon- 
nected, his  ideas  abrupt,  and  his  grammar  not  always  accurate.  His 
strength  leads  him  occasionally  into  harshness,  and  his  love  of  concise- 
ness makes  him  sometimes  obscure.  Like  Antony,  he  speaks  right  on, 
and  seldom  stays  to  illustrate  or  adorn  by  any  trope  of  rhetoric.  A  want 
of  unity  is  the  dominant  fault  in  all  heroic  romance.  The  reader  soon 
becomes  callous  to  these  cruel  and  sudden  departures.  "  Let  us  leave 

Orlando  and  return  to  the  Peers Let  us  leave  the  Peers  in 

Christ's  care  and  turn  to  the  giant,"  and  so  on.  But  Pulci  is  in  par- 
ticular blameable  for  such  repetitions  of  incident  as  the  love  of  the  great 
Marcovaldo  for  Chiariella,  the  daughter  of  the  Arnostante  of  Persia, 
which  is  the  exact  counterpart  of  that  of  Manfredonio  for  Caradoro's 
daughter  Meridiana. 

Imitations  of  Pulci  are  frequent.  It  has  been  seen  how  Milton  was 
indebted  to  this  "sportive  poem."  Tasso  and  Ariosto  took  a  liberal 
share  of  it,  and  Berni  probably  found  therein  that  inspiration  of  subtle 


ilORGANTE  MAGGIOKE.  707 

bumour  which,  prochiced  his  rifacimento  of  Bojardo.  Una's  aide  de  camp 
in  the  "  Faeiy  Queen  "  has  its  prototype  in  the  Moryante.  A  fierce  green, 
and  yellow  dragon  is  battling  with  a  large  lion  by  moonlight.  The  fire 
of  the  dragon's  mouth  fills  all  the  wood  with  splendour,  but,  says  Pulci, 
this  fire  seemed  no  joke  to  the  lion.  Rinaldo  kills  the  dragon,  and  the 
lion,  is  extremely  grateful.  He  refrains,  indeed,  from  shedding  tears, 
like  the  horses  of  Achilles,  but  he  follows  his  deliverer  for  some  time 
after  as  a  faithful  body-guard.  Pulci  in  his  turn  copied  other  poets. 
His  imitations  of  Dante  are  numerous.  In  one  of  his  pious  preliminary 
petitions  he  addresses  God  as  the  uncircuinscribed,  reminding  us  of  the 
Paradiso  : 

That  one  and  two  and  three,  that  ever  lives, 

Uncircumscribed  but  circumscribing  all. 

The  wondroxis  pavilion,  the  work  of  Luciana  and  by  her  presented  to 
Rinaldo,  is  all  of  silk  and  gold.  Some  fifty  stanzas  are  occupied  in  de- 
tailing its  magnificence.  It  is  divided  into  four  parts,  figuring  the  four 
elements  and  all  that  in  them  is,  or  at  least  very  little  short  of  it.  In 
the  aqueous  division  is  a  description  of  many  ships  and  marine  gods. 
The  laborious  Luciana,  amidst  oysters,  sea-calves,  cuttles,  mullets  and 
fish  equally  unknown  to  dictionaries  and  aquariums,  displayed  dolphins 
showing  their  backs,  and  so  teaching  the  sailors  to  bring  their  vessels 
into  safety.  This  is  exactly  the  conduct  of  these  excellent  beasts  in, 
Dante's  Inferno : 

Come  i  delfini,  quando  fanno  segno 
A'  marinar  con  1'  arco  della  schiena 
Che  s'  argomentin  di  campar  lor  legno. 

So,  too,  Dante  in  his  Paradiso  speaks  of  St.  John  the  Evangelist 
as  the  apostle  who  lay  on  the  breast  of  our  pelican,  using  the  bird  in  the 
same  sacred  sense  as  Pulci. 

None  but  the  student  of  the  Inferno  can  understand  that  allusion 
in  Gail's  conspiracy  with  Marsilio  to  the  bitter  fruits  of  Friar  Alberic. 
This  member  of  the  Frati  Godenti  devised  a  feast  like  that  of  Lucrezia 
Borgia,  in  which  at  a  given  signal — his  call  for  the  fruit — the  guests 
were  to  be  assassinated.  Hence  one  who  had  been  stabbed  is  said  pro- 
verbially to  have  eaten  of  the  fruit  of  Friar  Alberigo.  Pulci  also  quotes 
Laura's  lover,  and  puts  on  one  occasion  a  line  of  that  poet  into  Rinaldo's 
mouth  : 

Oh  sommo  amore !  oh  nuova  cortesia ! 

Adding  that  some  might  believe  this  line  to  be  Petrarch's,  and  yet 
Rinaldo  spoke  it  all  that  time  ago.  This  reminds  us  of  the  Fool  in 
King  Lear — "  This  prophecy  shall  Merlin  make,  for  I  live  before  his 
time." 

Apart  from  its  other  merits,  the  Morgante  possesses  no  small 
amount  of  philologic  interest.  Its  linguistic  is  by  no  means  its  least 
attraction.  Old  Tuscan  forms  of  expression  known  as  riboboli,  and 

34—2 


708  MORGANTE  MAGGIOEE. 

Florentine  proverbs  long  ago  passed  into  desuetude,  not  such  hard  meat 
as  asks  more  pain  in  chewing  than  it  can  give  nutriment,  abound  every- 
where. To  dig  these  out  of  their  quiet  graves  in  dusty  dictionaries  is  t® 
the  student  of  ancient  Italian  a  labour  of  long  delight.  Familiarity  is 
expressed  by  being  more  at  home  than  the  hearth-broom.  To  sleep  in 
the  open  air  is  to  make  your  ears  whistles  for  the  wind.  To  attempt  a 
difficulty  is  to  shoe  geese.  To  go  away  without  settling  your  account  is  to 
pay  the  priest's  reckoning.  And  we  have  a  proverb  against  inadvertence 
in  "  Keep  one  eye  on  the  puss  and  the  other  on  the  frying  pan."  Binaldo 
on  one  occasion  passes  the  night  in  the  house  of  a  certain  hermit.  The 
description  of  this  abode  presents  a  piece  of  word-play  not  easily  sur- 
passed for  sustained  ingenuity.  The  bisticcio  as  it  is  called,  arising  from 
the  assemblage  of  terms,  diverse  in  signification  but  similar  in  sound, 
cannot  well  be  translated  without  a  loss  : 

La  casa  cosa  parea  bretta  e  brutta, 
Vinta  dal  vento,  e  la  natta  e  la  notte 
Stilla  le  stelle,  ch'  a  tetto  era  tutta  : 
Del  pane  appena  ne  dette  ta'  dotte  ; 
Pere  area  pure  e  qualche  fratta  frutta, 
E  svina  e  svena  di  botto  una  botte  ; 
Poscia  per  pesci  lasche  prese  all'  es.ca, 
Ma  il  letto  allotta  alia  frasca  fu  fresca. 

A  like  piece  of  verbal  conceit  may  be  seen  in  the  epistle  of  Luca  Pulci 
which  Circe  writes  to  Ulysses  : — 

Ulisse,  o  lasso,  o  dolce  amore,  io  moro, 

There  is  another  affectation  of  language  frequent  amidst  early  Italian 
poets,known  to  Rhetoric  as  anaphora,  which  consists  in  beginning  a  series 
of  lines,  sometimes  extended  into  stanzas,  with  the  same  word  or  words. 
The  afflicted  Florinetta  afflicts  the  reader  in  her  turn  with  such  symmetri- 
cal SOITOW  as  this  :  "0  father  !  0  mother  !  0  brothers !  O  sisters !  0  sweet 
friends !  O  companions  !  0  kinsfolk  !  0  wearied  limbs  ! "  and  so  on,  with 
"  O's  "  to  the  end  of  the  stanza.  Then  comes — "  Is  this  the  country  of 
my  birth  1  Is  this  my  palace  1  Is  this  my  nest  ?  Is  this  my  people  ? " 
and  so  with  notes  of  interrogation  to  the  end  of  that  stanza.  Then, 
"  Where  are  my  purple  robes  ?  "Where  are  my  jewels  1  Where  are  my 
nightly  feasts  ?  "  and  so  for  two  stanzas  more.  Here  indeed  is  a  case  of 
exceptional  length,  but  short  fits  of  the  same  fever  occur  at  intervals 
through  all  the  poem.  One  can  scarcely  fail  on  reading  them  to  be 
reminded  of  that  famous  soliloquy  of  Henry  VI.  in  the  battle  which 
decided  the  fate  of  the  House  of  Lancaster  : 

0  God  !  methinks  it  were  a  happy  life 

-    .    To  see  the  minutes  how  they  run, 
How  many  make  the  hour  full  complete, 
How  many  hours  bring  about  the  day, 
How  many  days  will  finish  up  the  year, 
How  many  years,  &c. 


MORGANTE  MAGGIORE.  709 

But   Shakespeare  knew  better  than  to  repeat  this  style  of  thing  too 
often. 

The  Morgante  has  been  seldom  rendered  in  any  other  language. 
Byron's  translation  of  the  first  canto  was  not  a  success  in  public  estima- 
tion. Though  Byron  thought  it  the  best  thing  he  ever  wrote,  and  would 
not  allow  a  line  to  be  altered,  the  British  public  decided  that  he  should 
not  continue  his  labour.  Its  chief  merit,  a  rare  one,  as  affording  no 
cover  for  a  translator's  ignorance,  is  its  close  rendering  of  the  original. 
In  a  more  flowery  or  flowing  version,  one  might  not  have  detected  that 
Byron  thought  gambellava  adequately  represented  by  "  lay  tripped  up," 
per  chi  m'  aveva  scorto  by  "  why  did  I  fight,"  and  pettignon  by  "  bosom. ' 
Nor  indeed  does  the  facility  of  rhyme  formation  which  distinguished  that 
soi-disant  misunderstood  and  miserable  being  appear  to  advantage  in 
such  a  couplet  as — 

He  kept  upon  the  standard,  and  the  laurels 
In  fact  and  fairness  are  his  earning,  Charles ; 

which  forces  us  to  defame  Charlemagne  by  speaking  of  him  as  a  certain 
Charrels. 

The  Morgante  has  also  been  reproduced  in  French.  A  book  entitled 
L'Histoire  de  Morgant  le  Geant  was  published  at  Ti-oyes,  in  1625,  by 
Nicholas  Oudat,  living  in  the  street  of  Notre-Dame  by  the  golden-crowned 
capon.  It  is  a  prose  version,  giving  no  idea  of  the  style  and  very  little  of 
the  wit  of  the  original.  It  is  indeed  rather  an  analysis  than  a  translation. 
The  commencement  differs  entirely  ;  the  old  idiomatic  forms  are  omitted 
generally  or  misconstrued ;  and  most  of  Pulci's  peculiar  humour  is  lost. 
Tie  episodes  of  Margutte,  and  the  destruction  of  the  Tower  of  Babylon 
compared  by  Pulci  to  the  destruction  of  the  Philistine  theatre  by  Samson, 
are  entirely  cut  out.  "  The  ancient  fathers  in  the  desert,"  says  the 
Abbot  to  Orlando,  when  complaining  of  the  stones  thrown  upon  his 
abbey  by  the  giant,  "  had  some  reward  for  serving  God.  I  don't  think 
they  lived  on  locusts  alone ;  manna  rained  from  heaven,  that's  certain  ; 
but  our  manna  rained  from  yonder  rock  we  find  a  trifle  hard."  All  this 
is  excluded  from  the  French  version,  as  is  the  putting  to  sleep  of  the 
breviaries  and  utter  oblivion  of  fast  days  by  the  monks  when  Morgante 
brings  them  the  wild  boar  which  needs  no  salting ;  and  the  advice  of 
Orlando  to  the  giant  to  feel  no  pity  for  his  murdered  brothers  in  hell, 
since  a  righteous  person  is  content  with  divine  judgment,  and  does  not 
"  disturb  himself  even  though  his  father  and  mother  be  condemned  to 
everlasting  damnation." 


10 


Jlanus  0f  J; lotes. 


(SI 


THERE  is  a  favourite  legend  in  Germany  of  a  certain  luck-flower,  which 
admits  its  fortunate  finder  into  the  recesses  of  a  mountain  or  castle, 
where  untold  riches  invite  his  grasp.  Dazzled  by  so  much  wealth,  with 
which  he  fills  his  pockets  and  hat,  the  favoured  mortal  leaves  behind  him 
the  flower  to  which  he  owes  his  fortune ;  and  as  he  leaves  the  enchanted 
ground,  the  words  "  Forget  not  the  best  of  all  "  reproach  him  for  his  in- 
gratitude, and  the  suddenly  closing  door  either  descends  on  one  of  his 
heels  and  lames  him  for  life  or  else  imprisons  him  for  ever. 

If  Grimm  is  right,  this  is  the  origin  of  the  word  Forget-me-not,  and 
not  the  last  words  of  the  lover  drowning  in  the  Danube,  as  he  threw  to 
his  lady-love  the  flower  she  craved  of  him.  The  tradition,  however,  that 
the  luck-flower,  or  key-flower,  was  blue  is  inconsistent  with  the  fact  that 
the  primrose  is  the  Schliisselblume  (key-flower).  However  this  may  be, 
there  exist  in  Germany  many  subterranean  passages  under  hill- sides, 
dating  from  heathen  times  and  associated  with  legends  of  former  trea- 
sures there ;  *  and  it  certainly  seems  more  likely  that  the  flower  was 
simply  adapted  to  the  legend  as  readily  occurring  to  the  story-maker's 
mind,  than  that  it  really  signifies  the  lightning  which  opens  the  clouds, 
that  "  primal  wealth  of  the  pastoral  Aryans,  the  rain  that  refreshes  the 
thirsty  earth,  and  the  sun  that  comes  after  the  tempest."  t 

This  method  of  explaining  in  poetical  language  every  fanciful  belief  of 
past  times,  by  referring  it  to  some  common  phenomenon  of  the  skies,  is 
happily  less  common  than  it  was ;  it  being  obvious  that,  if  the  early  Aryans 
really  thought  of  the  lightning  opening  the  clouds  as  of  a  flower  opening 
a  mountain,  their  minds  must  have  been  so  confused  as  to  make  one  sorry 
to  think  of  them  as  the  progenitors  of  our  race.  Some  of  the  names  and 
some  of  the  legends  which  belong  to  our  commonest  flowers  perhaps  go* 
back  to  an  antiquity  too  remote  ever  to  furnish  their  explanation ;  but 
by  reference  to  others  of  them,  as  we  know  them  to  have  been  made 
within  historical  memory  by  Catholic  monks  in  their  gardens,  or  by 
poets  in  country  lanes,  we  may  perhaps  guess  with  some  correctness  as  to- 
how  they  were  formed  in  times  when  the  Indo-Germanic  races  lived  in 
their  supposed  common  home. 

In  the  flax-fields  of  Flanders  there  grows  a  plant  called  the  Rood- 
selken,  the  red  spots  of  which  on  its  bright  green  leaves  betoken  the  blood 

*  Panzer,  Beitrag  zur  Deutschen  Mythologie,  21,  40,  "with  plans  of  the  passages  at 
the  end  of  the  volume. 

t  Kelly,  Curiosities  of  Indo-  Germanic  Tradition,  173. 


NAMES   OF  FLOWERS.  711 

which  fell  on  it  from  the  Cross,  and  which  neither  snow  nor  rain  has  ever 
since  been  able  to  wash  off.*  In  Cheshire  the  same  account  is  given  of 
the  spots  on  the  Orchis  maculata,  and  in  Palestine  of  the  colours  of  the 
red  anemone,  f  The  fancy  is  perhaps  more  intelligible  than  that  which 
saw  in  the  passion-flower  of  Peru  the  resemblance  of  nails,J  or  that 
which  believes  the  St.  John's-wort  to  show  red  spots  on  the  day  the 
Baptist  was  beheaded.  The  Crown  of  Thorns  has  given  to  the  holly 
(holy-tree)  in  Germany  the  name  of  Christ-dorn,  whilst  in  Italy  it  has 
ennobled  the  barbery,  and  in  France  given  to  the  hawthorn  the  name  of 
the  "  noble  thorn  "  (Vepine  noble). 

The  similarity  of  these  legends,  applied  as  they  are  to  different 
flowers,  illustrates  the  tendency  which  exists  to  seek  to  give  greater 
reality  to  beliefs  by  leaving  no  part  of  them  unprovided  with  details, 
and  to  resort  for  such  details  to  the  commonest  objects  of  daily  experi- 
ence. They  also  show  how  the  general  philosophy  of  a  people  imprints 
itself  on  everything  for  which  they  need  and  seek  an  explanation. 
Many  of  our  plant-names  to  this  day  are  a  proof  of  this  mental  ten- 
dency. A  Catholic  writer  has  complained  that  at  the  Reformation  "  the 
very  names  of  plants  were  changed  in  order  to  divert  men's  minds 
from  the  least  recollection  of  ancient  Christian  piety ; "  §  and  the  Protes- 
tant writer  Jones  of  Nayland,  in  his  Reflections  on  the  Growth  of 
Heathenism  among  Modern  Christians  (1798),  equally  complains  that 
"  Botany,  which  in  ancient  times  was  full  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary, 
....  is  now  as  full  of  the  heathen  Venus."  ||  But  the  meaning  of 
many  of  the  monkish  names  of  flowers  had  been  lost  before  the  new 
nomenclature  began ;  neither  is  it  easy  to  see  how  the  interests  of  piety 
were  subserved  by  calling  the  holyhock  a  holy  oak,  the  pansy  herb 
Trinity  or  the  daffodil  a  Lent-lily.  No  one  is  morally  better  when  he 
uses  the  old  name  herb-Robert  as  a  synonym  of  the  cranesbill,  if  he  think 
of  St.  Robert,  Abbot  of  Molesme  in  the  eleventh  century,  and  founder  of 
the  Cistercian  order.  Every  flower  became  connected  with  some  saint  of 
the  Calendar,  either  from  blowing  about  the  time  of  the  saint's  festival, 
or  from  being  connected  with  him  in  some  long-lost  legend.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  think  that  such  name-giving  had  any  distinct  pious  purpose. 
The  name  of  Canterbury-bells  for  the  campanula  was  given  to  it  in 
memory  of  St.  Augustine  ;  but  something  more  than  mere  commemora- 
tion must  have  given  to  the  common  dead  nettle  the  name  of  the  red 
archangel,  or  to  the  cowslip  that  of  Our  Lady's  bunch  of  keys. 

Of  a  similar  nature  to  these  extravagant  fancies  of  the  monks  is  the 

*  Thorpe's  Northern  Mythology,  iii.  268. 

f  Flower  Lore,  14,  an  excellent  work  on  the  subject,  published  anonymously,  to 
•which  the  present  writer  is  much  indebted. 

$  In  Rene  Eapin's  Hortorum.  Nam  surgens  flore  e  medio  capita  alta  tricuspis 
Sursum  tollit  apex,  clavos  imitatus  aduncos. 

§  T.  Foster,  in  Prologomena  to  Catholic  Annual  for  1831. 

||   Works,  iii.  433. 


712  NAMES  OF  FLOWERS. 

Turkish  explanation  of  the  geranium  as  a  mallow  that  was  touched  by 
the  garments  of  Mahomet ;  or  the  Chinese  legend  that  tea- leaves  are  the 
eyelids  of  a  pious  hermit,  who,  being  too  frequently  overcome  by  sleep, 
cut  them  off  in  despair  and  threw  them  from  him. 

Names  of  plants,  even  if  given  only  in  commemoration  at  first, 
obviously  tend  to  suggest  legends  ;  and  if  there  were  no  legend  before,  it 
is  easy  to  imagine  how  easily  they  might  arise  from  calling  a  plant  after 
St.  Robert  or  St.  Christopher.  Whether  in  any  given  case  the  name  or 
the  legend  came  first  it  is  generally  impossible  to  say.  But  the  name 
herb-Margaret  for  the  daisy  (the  eye  of  the  day,  according  to  Chaucer) 
illustrates  the  tendency  of  a  name  to  attract  a  legend  to  it.  Chaucer 
refers  the  name  Margaret,  as  applied  to  the  daisy,  to  St.  Margaret  of 
Hungary,  who  was  martyred  in  the  thirteenth  century  ;  whilst  another 
legend  refers  it  in  the  following  verses  to  St.  Margaret  of  Cortona,  whose 
penitence  edified  the  world  about  the  same  period  : — 

There  is  a  double  flowret,  -white  and  red, 

That  our  lasses  call  herb  Margaret, 

In  honour  of  Cortona's  penitent, 

Whose  contrite  soul  with  red  remorse  was  rent; 

While  on  her  penitence  kind  Heaven  did  throw 

The  white  of  purity  surpassing  snow  ; 

So  white  and  red  in  this  fair  flower  entwine, 

Which  maids  are  wont  to  scatter  at  her  shrine. 

The  flower,  however,  was  really  so  called  from  its  supposed  resem- 
blance to  a  pearl,  and  had  nothing  to  do  with  any  St.  Margaret.  The 
Greek  for  pearl  was  juapyap/rjjs,  which,  passing  into  Latin  as  Margarita, 
remained  in  Italian  the  same  word,  and  in  French  became  Marguerite, 
the  same  word  in  either  language  serving  both  for  the  pearl  and  the 
flower.  Had  the  name  really  come  from  the  saint  and  not  from  the 
pearl,  it  would  surely  have  been  also  called  after  her  in  Germany,  instead 
of  being  there  the  Ganseblume,  or  goose-flower,  and  actually  having  for 
one  of  its  synonyms  the  name  meadow-pearl.* 

The  peculiarities  of  flowers  in  colour,  form,  or  smell  have  given  birth 
to  poetical  fancies  about  them  which  are  more  remarkable  for  monotony 
of  invention  than  for  beauty  of  feeling.  As  a  general  rule,  flowers 
spring  from  tears  if  they  are  white,  from  blushes  or  from  blood  if  they 
are  red.  Lilies-of-the- valley  are  in  France  the  Virgin's  tears ;  anemo- 
nes in  Bion's  idyl  are  the  tears  of  Venus  for  Adonis  ;  and  the  Helenium, 
which,  according  to  Pliny,  was  supposed  to  have  sprung  from  the  tears 
of  Helen,  was  probably  a  white  flower.  If  we  may  believe  Catullus,  the 
rose  is  red  from  blushing  for  the  wound  it  inflicted  on  the  foot  of  Venus 
as  she  hastened  to  help  Adonis.  But  if  Stephen  Herrick  is  right,  who 
of  all  our  old  poets  deals  most  fancifully  with  flowers,  roses  were  origi- 
nally white,  till,  after  being  worsted  in  a  dispute  as  to  whether  their 
whiteness  excelled  that  of  Sappho's  breast,  they  blushed  and  "first  came 

*  Perger,  Deutsche  Pflanzensagen,  62. 


NAMES  OF  FLOWEKS.  713 

red."  This  is  very  like  Ovid's  account  of  the  mulberry-fruit  having  been 
originally  white,  till  it  blushed  for  ever  after  witnessing  the  tragedy 
enacted  beneath  it  of  the  sad  suicides  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe.  In 
German  folk-lore  the  heath  owes  its  colour  to  the  blood  of  the  slain 
heathen,*  apparently  in  recollection  of  Charlemagne's  method  of  con- 
verting the  Saxons,  the  two  words  being  connected  in  the  same  way  as 
are  pagus  and  paganus  ;  for  as  in  Latin  the  inhabitants  of  the  country 
villages  far  from  the  Christia.n  culture  of  the  towns  came  to  be  called 
pagans,  so  in  German  the  inhabitants  of  the  uncultivated  fields  where 
the  heath  (or  heide)  grew  came  to  be  known  as  heathen  (or  heide). 

The  blueness  of  the  violet  is  interpreted  in  a  similar  strain  to  the 
foregoing.  In  one  of  the  poems  of  Herrick's  Hesperides,  violets  are  said 
to  be  girls,  who,  having  defeated  Venus  in  a  dispute  she  had  with  Cupid 
as  to  whether  she  or  they  excelled  in  sweetness,  were  beaten  blue  by  the 
goddess  in  her  wrath.  But  according  to  the  Jesuit  Rene  Rapin,  whose 
once  famous  Latin  poem  Hortorum  contains  so  many  references  to  the 
flower-lore  of  his  time,  the  violet  was  once  a  nymph,  who,  unable  to 
escape  the  love  of  Pheebus,  exclaimed  at  last  in  despair  : — 

"  Formosae  si  non  licet  esse  pudicam, 
Ah !  pereat  potius  quse  non  fert  forma  pudorem." 
Dixit,  et  obscura  infecit  ferrugine  vultum. 

Phoebus  being  a  synonym  for  the  sun,  it  would  of  course  be  easy  to 
interpret  this  voluntary  transformation  of  a  nymph  into  a  violet  as  the 
daylight  changing  into  the  purple  twilight  to  escape  the  sun  that  has 
followed  it  all  day.  So  also  of  the  marsh  marygold,  or  Caltha,  which, 
according  to  Rapin,  was  once  a  girl  who,  from  constant  gazing  on  the  sun 
that  she  adored,  attracted  the  colour  which  the  flower  now  wears  : — 

Calthaque,  Solisamans,  Solemdum  spectat  amatum, 
Duxit  eum,  quern  fert,  ipso  de  Sole  colorem. 

Its  modern  Italian  name  is  actually  sposa  di  sole.  What  is  more 
evident  than  that  the  marigold  really  means  the  moon,  which  derives 
the  light  she  wears  from  the  sun  that  she  adores  and  follows  ! 

The  sun  also  plays  a  part  in  Rapin's  account  of  the  origin  of  the 
rose,  which  is  worth  noticing  for  the  general  resemblance  it  bears  to  the 
story  of  the  rose  springing  from  the  ashes  of  a  girl  burnt  alive  at  Beth- 
lehem, which  Sir  John  Mandeville  found  in  the  fourteenth  century,  and 
which  Southey  commemorated  in  his  poem  on  the  Rose  in  the  following 

words  :—  The  stake 

Branches  and  buds,  and  spreading  its  green  leaves 
Embowers  and  canopies  the  fair  maid, 
Who  there  stands  glorified ;  and  roses,  then 
First  seen  on  earth  since  Paradise  was  lost. 
Profusely  blossom  round  her,  white  and  red, 
In  all  their  rich  variety  of  hues. 

*  Warnke,  Pfiamen  in  Side,  212. 


714  NAMES   OF  FLOWERS. 

The  Rose,  in  Rapin's  verse,  was  once  Rhodanthe,  a  beautiful  Greek 
maiden,  of  whose  many  suitors  the  principal  were  Halesus,  Brias,  and 
Orcas.  Entering  the  temple  with  her  father  and  people,  and  being  still 
pursued  by  her  suitors,  the  excitement  of  the  contest  so  enhanced  her 
beauty  that  the  people  shouted,  "  Let  Rhodanthe  be  a  goddess,  and  let 
the  image  of  Diana  give  place  to  her  ! "  Rhodanthe  being  thereupon 
raised  upon  the  altar,  Phoebus,  Diana's  brother,  was  so  incensed  at  the 
insult  to  his  sister,  that  he  turned  his  rays  against  the  new-made  goddess. 
Then  it  soon  repented  Rhodanthe  of  her  divinity ;  for  her  feet  became 
fixed  to  the  altar  as  roots,  and  the  hands  she  stretched  out  became 
branches,  whilst  the  people  who  defended  her  became  protecting  thorns, 
and  her  too-ardent  lovers  a  convolvulus,  a  drone,  and  a  butterfly. 

Rapin's  poem  is  full  of  similar  transformations.  The  anemone  Avas  a 
nymph  changed  by  the  jealous  Flora  into  a  flower;  the  peony  (from 
Ilatoji',  the  god  of  medicine)  a  nymph  whose  deep  red  is  not  the  blush 
of  modesty,  but  the  proof  of  her  flagrant  sin ;  and  the  daisies  were  once 
nymphs.  The  nasturtium  and  cytisus  were  in  their  origin  beautiful 
youths ;  the  tulip  was  a  Dalmatian  virgin  beloved  by  the  good  Ver- 
tumnus.  How  far  these  transformations  were  Rapin's  own  fictions, 
or  traditions  of  his  time,  cannot  easily  be  decided.  They  are  not  to  be 
found  in  Ovid,  though  they  closely  follow  that  poet's  fancy,  and  remind 
us  of  Daphne  being  changed  by  her  father  Peneus  into  a  laurel,  to  escape 
the  attentions  of  Phoebus ;  of  Clytie,  deserted  by  Phcebus,  following  him 
as  the  sunflower ;  of  the  sisters  of  Phaethon  turning  into  poplars ;  of 
Cyparissus,  grieved  for  the  stag  he  killed,  and  wishing  for  death,  being 
changed  by  Apollo  into  a  cypress ;  of  the  Apulian  shepherd  becoming 
an  oleaster ;  or  of  the  origin  of  the  narcissus  and  hyacinth  from  beautiful 
youths  of  the  same  name ; — with  all  which  metamorphoses  we  may  com- 
pare Herrick's  account  of  the  origin  of  the  heart's-ease  as  having  been 
formerly 

Frolic  virgins,  ever  loving, 

Being  here  their  ends  denied, 

Kan  for  sweethearts  mad  and  died. 

Love,  in  pity  of  their  tears, 

And  their  loss  in  blooming  years 

For  their  restless  here-spent  lives, 

Gave  them  hcarfs-casc  turned  to  flowers. 

So  similar  in  conception  to  these  stories  of  Rapin  or  Ovid  is  the  story 
told  in  Malaca,  of  a  flower  growing  there,  that  it  is  worth  quoting  it  as 
it  is  given  by  Argensola  in  his  History  of  the  Conquest  of  the  Molucca 
Islands.  The  tree  has  the  peculiarity  of  flowering  at  night  and  drooping 
in  the  day-time,  so  that  the  Portuguese  gave  it  the  name  of  the  "  sad 
tree,"  like  the  appellation  given  by  LinnaBus  to  night-flowering  plants 
(flores  tristes).  "  The  idolaters  pretend,  or  believe  to,"  says  the  writer, 
"  that  in  older  days  a  person  of  singular  beauty,  daughter  of  the  Satrap 
Parizatico,  fell  in  love  with  the  Sun,  who,  having  at  first  responded  to 


NAMES  OF  FLOWERS.  715 

her  affection  and  become  engaged  to  her,  changed  his  mind  and  gave  his 
love  to  another ;  that  the  first  lover,  seeing  herself  despised,  could  not 
bear  it,  and  killed  herself.  In  those  countries  it  is  still  the  custom  to 
burn  the  dead  body,  and  they  say  that  hers  was  burnt,  and  that  from 
her  ashes  sprang  this  tree,  the  flowers  of  which  still  retain  the  memory 
of  her  grief,  and  so  abhor  the  sun  that  they  cannot  bear  its  light.  This 
plant  is  called  in  some  places  Parizatico,  from  the  name  of  the  father  of 
this  metamorphosed  Indian  girl."  * 

This  story  is  a  good  illustration  of  the  extreme  crudity  of  thought  out 
of  which  such  legends  seem  to  rise — a  state  of  thought  in  which  there  is 
nothing  absurd  in  the  Sun  actually  loving  and  pledging  his  troth  to  a 
human  maiden,  and  in  which  the  story  so  appeals  to  men's  sense  of  the 
probable  that  they  actually  trouble  to  remember  the  name  of  the  girl's 
father,  in  order  to  apply  it  to  the  flower.  Plants  are  mentioned  by  De 
Gubernatis  Avhose  Sanskrit  name  also  means  the  "  sun-lover,"  or  the 
"  sun-beloved."  f  He  also  mentions  one  called  "  moon-beloved."  Such 
names,  or  such  flower  traditions  as  those  preserved  by  Ovid  or  Eapin, 
have  less  to  do  with  solar  myths  than  with  the  common  notion  of  primi- 
tive or  savage  philosophy  that  there  is  nothing  inconceivable  in  the 
heavenly  bodies  possessing  human  attributes.  They  arise  from  no  for- 
gotten metaphors,  but  from  a  belief,  once  real  and  vivid,  that  everything 
in  nature  is  inter-convertible ;  and  they  go  back  to  a  time  when  the 
changes  of  men,  animals,  plants,  and  stars  into  one  another  expressed  not 
merely  poetical  metamorphoses,  but  the  common  possibilities  of  nature  : 
as  in  the  Bushmen  myth  of  the  bits  of  red  root,  thrown  up  in  the  air  by 
an  angry  girl,  becoming  stars,  or  in  the  Kasias'  explanation  of  the  stars 
as  men  from  whom,  after  they  had  climbed  to  the  skies,  the  tree  they 
had  climbed  by  was  cut  down.  Even  Ovid  seems  really  to  have  believed 
that  Philemon  and  Baucis,  the  poor  cottage  couple  who,  unaware,  enter- 
tained Jupiter  and  Mercury  in  the  guise  of  men,  were  really  changed  into 
a  shrub  and  lime-tree  that  stood  before  a  temple ;  for  he  says  : — 

Hsec  mihi  non  vani  (neque  erat  cur  fallere  vellent) 
Narravere  senes. 

Fantastic  as  are  most  of  the  foregoing  legends,  or  the  comparisons  out 
of  which  they  arose,  it  would  be  unfair  to  the  reader  to  pass  over  the 
most  extraordinary  fancy  of  this  kind  that  has  perhaps  ever  crossed  the 
brain  of  a  poet,  and  is  to  be  found  in  Hurdis'  poem  called  "  The  Village 
Curate,"  published  early  in  the  nineteenth  century.  Everybody  knows 
the  difference  between  the  dandelion  in  all  the  glory  of  its  full  blossom 
and  the  same  flower  in  the  gravity  of  its  decay ;  but  it  was  reserved  to 
Hurdis,  in  the  following  lines,  to  see  in  these  two  stages  of  the  dandelion 
the  contrast  between  the  grave  divine  and  the  flashy  undergraduate  of 
earlier  years  : — 

*  Argensola,  Hist,  de  la  Conquete  des  lies  Moluqucs,  i.  85-6. 
•f  Mythologie  des  Plantcs,  289. 


716  NAMES   OF  FLOWERS. 

Dandelion  tbis, 

A  college  youth,  that  flashes  for  a  day 
All  gold  :  anon  he  doffs  his  gaudy  suit, 
Touched  by  the  magic  hand  of  some  grave  bishop, 
And  all  at  once  becomes  a  reverend  divine — how  sleek! 

But  let  me  tell  you,  in  the  pompous  globe 
Which  rounds  the  dandelion's  head,  is  couched 
Divinity  most  rare.* 

In  the  same  way,  then,  that  the  peculiarities  of  flowers  and  shrubs 
have  been  connected  with  transformations  of  men,  or  with  the  chief 
personages  of  Christian  theology,  we  may  assume  that  they  were  con- 
nected with  the  gods  of  the  Hindu,  Greek,  or  Norse  Pantheon,  and  that 
they  are  sometimes  called  after  Indra  or  Zeus,  Jupiter  or  Thunar,  not 
on  account  of  any  remote  symbolical  relation  to  those  deities,  but  because 
there  existed  nothing  so  lowly  on  earth  as  not  to  be  worthy  of  playing  a 
part  in  their  history.  The  connection  of  those  powers  with  the  humble 
plants  of  earth  is  a  great  obstacle  in  the  way  of  that  popular  mode  of 
explanation  which  refers  every  legend  of  Zeus  or  Jupiter  to  some  feature 
of  the  skies,  or  some  common  episode  in  the  history  of  a  day. 

In  a  learned  German  work,  in  which  the  resemblance  between  the 
Hindu  storm-god  Indra  and  the  god  Thor  of  Thunar,  of  Norse  mytho- 
logy, is  worked  out  in  great  detail,  the  naming  of  many  Indian  plants 
after  Indra  is  shown  to  have  its  parallel  in  Germany  in  the  number  of 
plants  called  after  Thunar,  or  rather  after  its  synonym  Donner,  "  the 
Thunder."  f  The  naming  of  plants  after  *[ndra  is  quite  in  accordance 
with  naming  them  after  Our  Lady,  or  the  saints  of  the  Calendar ;  but 
the  naming  of  such  plants  as  the  Johanniskraut  or  Sedum  Telephium  after 
the  thunder,  as  in  the  words  Donnerkraut,  Donnerbart,  &c.,  admits  of 
an  easier  explanation  than  a  fanciful  relation  to  Thor.  Pliny  mentions 
the  vibro,  which  he  calls  herba  Britannica,  as  a  plant  which,  if  picked 
before  the  first  thunder  was  heard,  was  supposed  to  be  a  safeguard  against 
lightning.  To  this  day,  in  the  Tyrol,  the  Alpine  rose  is  placed  in  the 
roofs  of  houses  to  ensure  them  from  lightning,!  and  the  Donnerkraut 
(the  English  orpine,  or  live-long)  may  be  seen  in  the  houses  of  West- 
phalia as  a  preservative  from  thunder.  §  In  England  the  same  function 
was  subserved  in  the  same  way  by  the  houseleek,  or  stonecrop ;  whilst 
in  the  Netherlands  St.  John's-wort,  gathered  before  sunrise,  effects  the 
same  purpose.  For  what  reason  the  old  Aryan  medicine-men,  or  their 
successors  in  Europje,  attributed  storm-proof  virtues  to  this  plant  or  to 
that  speculation  will  perhaps  never  discover,  nor  need  perhaps  trouble 
to  inquire. 

*  Tlw  Village  Curate,  36. 

f  Mannhardt,  Germanische  Mythen,  136-8. 

J  Zingerle  :  Sitten,  $c.  des  Tirolen  Volkes,  100/ 

§  Kuhn :  Sagen  aus  Westfalien,  ii.  90. 


NAMES  OF  FLOWERS.  717 

The  necessity  of  gathering  certain  plants  before  sunrise,  as  in  the  case 
of  the  St.  John's-wort,  or  in  the  gathering  of  May-day  garlands,  seems  to 
go  back  at  least  as  far  as  the  days  of  Pliny,  who  mentions  that  some 
flowers,  as  the  lily-of- the- valley,  had  to  be  gathered  in  secrecy,  and  therefore 
before  daybreak,  to  ensure  their  efficacy.  It  is  perhaps  no  loss  that  the 
purpose  for  which  the  wizard-world  employed  these  flowers  have  passed 
into  oblivion  ;  but  it  is  probable  that  without  some  such  knowledge  the 
explanation  of  the  names  or  superstitions  attached  to  many  of  our  plants 
must  remain  impossible.  Poppies  are  said  to  have  once  been  offered  to 
the  dead  to  appease  their  manes,  which  may  account  for  their  surviving 
as  a  funeral  flower,  in  spite  of  their  brightness  of  colour.  The  use  of  the 
vervain,  or  holy-herb,  in  the  Tyrol  worn  in  the  shoe  to  keep  off"  fatigue, 
may  point  to  the  origin  of  our  own  word  speedwell ;  and  there  are  other 
English  names  of  plants  which  are  capable  of  explanation  by  a  studied 
comparison  with  their  names  in  other  countries  or  in  earlier  times. 

Some  of  the  names  of  flowers  are  simple  enough,  being  suggested  by 
some  obvious  characteristic,  or  by  some  comparison  to  something  rather 
like  it.  The  sage,  or  Salvia  verbenaca,  owes  its  synonym  "  clary  "  to  its 
old  use  as  an  eye  remedy,  or  clear-eye ;  and  the  comparison  of  the  Adonis 
autumnalis  (which  in  most  languages  of  Europe  still  retains  in  its  name 
its  old  connection  with  the  blood  of  the  slain  Adonis,  and  in  popular 
German  is  still  Blutstropfchen)  *  to  the  eye  of  a  pheasant  leaves  no 
mystery  about  its  name.  But  sometimes  the  explanation  of  names,  founded 
on  the  principle  of  comparison,  seems  somewhat  absurd.  Of  course  we 
all  know  that  we  call  the  dandelion  from  the  French  dent  de  lion,  and  we 
are  asked  to  see  in  the  plant's  indented  leaf  a  resemblance  to  the  tooth 
of  a  lion,  little  as  we  can  explain  how  the  French  became  so  conversant 
with  lions  as  to  compare  their  teeth  with  the  leaf  of  a  dandelion.  Is  it 
not  more  likely  that  this  plant  derived  its  name  from  its  supposed 
efficacy,  in  some  country  or  time,  as  a  protection  to  a  man  from  a  lion's 
tooth,  just  as  in  Lower  Bavaria,  at  this  day,  a  certain  plant  carried  on 
the  person  is  thought  to  be  a  safeguard  against  a  dog's  bite  ?  f  Or  take 
the  honeysuckle,  which  in  French,  Italian,  and  Spanish,  and  in  the 
English  of  Spenser  and  Shakespeare,  is  the  caprifole,  or  goat-leaf.  Are 
we  seriously  to  believe,  what  all  the  botanical  books  gravely  tell  us, 
that  it  was  so  called  because  it  seemed  to  climb  rocks  like  a  goat,  when 
a  hundred  other  climbing  plants  might  as  readily  suggest  that  animal's 
activity  1  May  it  not  be  that  the  goat,  which  is  fond  of  the  leaves  of 
shrubs,  shows  a  particular  partiality  to  those  of  the  honeysuckle  1  The 
zoologist  here  might  come  to  the  aid  of  the  botanist.' 

Any  flower-name,  the  meaning  of  which  at  any  period  of  its  exist- 
ence became  obscure  or  passed  out  of  memory,  would  naturally  invite 
reflection  and  excite  ingenuity ;  and  in  this  way  doubtless  many  of  the 

*  Dierbach:   Flora  Mythologica,  153. 
t  Panzer:  Deutsche  Mythologie,  249. 


718  NAMES   OF  FLOWERS. 

legends  relating  to  them  arose,  the  interpretation  being  either  rational- 
istic, as  in  the  case  of  a  dandelion  or  goat-leaf,  or  poetical,  as  in  Herrick's 
derivation  of  heart's-ease,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  mind  brought 
to  bear  on  it.  The  application  of  different  stories  to  the  same  flower  is 
consequently  almost  inevitable,  and  the  cause  of  some  confusion  in  floral 
mythology.  Thus  the  Greek  letters  at  at,  supposed  to  be  discernible  in 
the  hyacinth,*  were  interpreted  in  Ovid  either  as  the  wail  of  Apollo  for 
Hyacinthus,  or  as  the  first  letters  in  the  name  of  Ajax,  with  whom  also 
the  flower  was  connected.  So  with  the  forget-me-not,  for  which, 
besides  the  two  derivations  already  mentioned,  or  the  derivation  which 
explains  it  as  a  souvenir  given  by  Henry  of  Lancaster  when  in  exile  to 
the  Duchess  of  Bretagne,  there  is  yet  a  fourth  interpretation  which,  as  it 
is  less  generally  known,  may  be  worth  repeating.  According  to  this 
version,  Adam,  as  he  named  the  plants  in  Paradise,  bade  them  all 
remember  what  he  called  them.  One  little  flower,  ashamed  of  not 
having  heeded  its  name,  asked  the  father  of  men,  "  By  what  name  dost 
thou  call  me  1 "  "  Forget-me-not,"  was  the  reply ;  and  ever  since  that 
humble  flower  has  drooped  its  head  in  shame  and  ignominy. 

Such  a  profusion  of  explanations  throws  discredit  upon  each  one  of 
them ;  and  we  shall  perhaps  be  quite  as  correct  if  we  imagine  the  forget- 
me-not  to  have  once  been  a  flower  most  important  in  some  medicine- 
man's prescriptions,  and  on  that  account  never  to  be  forgotten  in  the 
search  for  more  imposing  magic-flowers.  So,  perhaps,  also  with  the 
pansy  (y>ensee)  which  in  Dutch  is  also  called  forget-me-not. 

From  the  magical  use  of  flowers  in  the  hands  of  the  primitive 
medicine-men  to  the  scientific  knowledge  and  use  of  them  in  modern 
botany  or  pharmaceutics,  the  general  progress  is  clearer  than  of  course 
are  the  successive  steps.  The  veriest  savages  have  been  often  found  to 
possess  a  knowledge  of  plants  far  in  advance  of  their  development  in 
other  respects ;  and  this  knowledge  must  have  arisen  from  the  greater 
attention  which  flowers  naturally  attracted  from  their  sorcerers  than  any 
of  the  less  common  products  of  nature.  For  their  clients  who  might 
wish  to  be  cured  of  any  sickness,  to  gain  another's  love  or  avert  it  from 
a  rival,  to  keep  off  evil  spirits  from  their  dwellings,  herbs  would 
naturally  suggest  themselves  as  the  readiest  kind  of  cure  or  charm  to  all 
who  aspired  to  enjoy  the  prestige  and  practice  of  a  sorcerer. 

In  this  way  some  positive  knowledge  would  be  gradually  collected, 
similar  to  that  which  abounds  in  the  old  herbals  of  Turner  or  Gerard,  and 
which  causes  one  to  wonder  that,  if  plants  possessed  half  the  virtues  therein 
ascribed  to  them,  any  such  thing  as  illness  should  be  left  in  the  world. 

Whilst  in  this  manner  some  knowledge  would  be  gained  of  what 
herbs  could  really  effect  for  the  human  body,  the  belief  of  the 
efficacy  of  some  of  them  against  thunder  or  witchcraft  would  not  be 

*  The  Gladiolus  byzantinus  is  said  to  have  most  claims  to  represent  the  classical 
hyacinth.  Dierbach,  Flora  Mythologica,  137. 


NAMES   OF  FLOAYEKS.  719 

lessened ;  and  thus  it  would  come  to  pass  that  floral  magic  would  long 
survive  the  transition  of  botany  into  a  real  science,  bearing  indeed  to 
the  latter,  both  in  its  origin  and  history,  very  much  the  same  relation 
that  astrology  bears  to  astronomy.  Floral  magic  dies  hard.  In  the 
Tyrol  they  can  still  point  out  by  name  the  flowers  which  are  good 
against  witchcraft  or  curses,  against  lightning,  or  against  fatigue,*  and 
in  Wales  it  is  still  lucky  to  have  a  house  covered  with  stonecrop  to  keep 
off  disease,  f  as  it  also  is  in  Germany  and  Scandinavia  to  keep  off  the 
lightning.J  Albertus  Magnus  mentions  plants  that  were  efficacious  to 
restore  peace  between  combatants  or  harmony  between  husband  and 
wife  ;  and  there  is  still  a  plant  used  for  matrimonial  divination  in  Italy 
called  Concordia,  as  well  as  one  with  contrary  attributes,  Discordia.§ 
The  old  name  for  the  hypericum,  or  St.  John's-wort,  was  Fuga  dcemonum, 
dispeller  of  demons.  ||  and  in  Russia  a  plant  called  the  devil-chaser  is 
still  shaken  against  the  arch-fiend  if  he  come  to  trouble  the  grief  of  a 
mourner.^!  In  the  same  country  there  is  a  plant  that  is  useful  to 
destroy  calumnies  spread  abroad  for  the  hindrance  of  marriages.** 

If,  then,  certain  flowers  have  retained  even  to  this  day  such  belief  in 
their  magical  efficacy,  we  may  imagine  with  what  feelings  they  were 
regarded  when  they  first  gained  their  reputation  for  magical  properties, 
and  when  no  science  interposed  to  correct  the  delusion.  We  may  fancy 
how  the  most  famous  flowers  would  commend  themselves  to  the  minds 
of  the  first  human  beings  who  felt  the  need  of  explaining  some  of  the 
things  that  puzzled  them  in  nature.  Already  used  for  so  many 
mysterious  purposes  in  human  life,  they  would  naturally  occur  as  the 
best  key  to  many  of  the  mysteries  which  occurred  beyond  it.  If  Goethe 
called  the  flowers  the  stars  of  earth,  the  earlier  process  would  have  been 
to  regard  the  stars  literally  as  flowers,  as  they  were  regarded  together 
with  the  sun  and  moon,  in  the  Indian  cosmogonies;  ft  and  thus  we  may 
understand  how  in  German  mythology  admission  to  the  skies  was  also 
an  entrance  to  a  paradise  of  flowers  ;  and  allusions  to  the  garden  of  the 
sun  become  more  intelligible.  We  see  how  flowers  would  natiirally  mix 
themselves  with  stories  of  the  gods,  such  as  Zeus,  Hercules,  Indra,  or 
Isiris,  when  we  consider  how  they  have  mixed  themselves  with  legends 
of  the  Virgin,  or  St.  John  the  Baptist.  As  in  the  Yedas  one  plant  is 
called  Indra's  drink,  another  his  food,  so  the  caroub-bean  is  St.  John's 
bread,  gooseberries  are  his  grapes,  and  the  wormwood  his  girdle.  As 

*  Zingerle,  Sittcn  $c.des  Tirolen  Voltes,  100-111. 
f  Dyer,  English  Folklore,  12. 
\  DC  Gubcrnatis,  195. 
§  Ibid.  99. 

||  Bauhinus,  DC  plant  is  a  divis  sanctisve  nomcn  habcntibus,  35. 
IT  De  Gubirnatis,  109,  110. 
**  Ibid.  87. 

ft  Ibid.   145.      "  Le    soleil  et  la  lune,   les  etoiles  sont  dee  f eurs  du    jardia 
celeste." 


720  NAMES  OF  FLOWERS. 

four  distinct  plants  lay  claim  to  the  title  of  Our  Lady's  tears  (to  say 
nothing  of  those  which  are  her  smock,  her  mantle,  or  her  tresses),  so  in 
Roman  times  numerous  plants  took  their '  names  from  Hercules.  We 
gain  insight  into  the  origin  of  Aryan  mythology  when  we  remember 
that  it  was  with  the  help  of  a  herb  that  Indra  fought  with  demons ;  and 
that  in  the  Vedic  hymns  plants  are  invoked  to  destroy  evil,  to  avert 
curses,  or  to  act  as  love- philtres.  The  soma  plant,  by  which  Indra 
conquers  Vritra,  or  puts  to  flight  demons,  does  for  him  exactly  what  the 
St.  John's-wort  or  Fuga  dcemonum  did  for  Europeans  a  few  centuries 
ago.  The  moly,  by  which  the  god  Hermes  enables  Ulysses  to  conquer  the 
charms  of  Circe,  does  for  him  what  any  Tyrolese  sorcerer  could  do  now 
for  a  man  with  a  sprig  of  juniper.  And  the  lotus  or  nepenthe,  which 
confers  forgetfulness,rgive  what  any  old  herbalist  could  have  readily 
supplied  from  his  herbarium. 

The  great  extent  therefore  to  which  plants  are  mixed  up  with  the 
gods  of  old  mythology,  doing  for  them  exactly  what  they  would  do  for 
sorcerers  on  earth,  shows  under  how  human  an  aspect  those  deities  were 
originally  regarded,  and  how  much  more  nearly  related  they  were  with 
this  world  than  with  the  phenomena  of  the  storms  and  sunshine. 

This,  however,  is  heresy ;  and  the  names  and  legends  of  plants  have 
also  another  interpretation,  which  traces  their  place  in  mythology,  not  to 
their  great  use  in  sorcery,  but  to  their  symbolical  application  to  the  phe- 
nomena of  the  solar  system.  It  would  be  unfair  to  pass  unnoticed  the 
wealth  of  explanation  which  this  other  theory  affords ;  for  which  let  us 
refer  to  De  Gubernatis'  book  on  La  Mylhologie  des  Plantes,  from  which 
so  many  facts  of  interest  have  already  been  taken. 

To  begin,  then,  with  that  large  class  of  plants  which  in  India  or  Europe 
take  their  name  from  different  parts  of  the  lion.  "  The  lion,"  says  De 
Gubernatis,  "  represents  the  sun ;  the  plants  which  owe  their  name  to 
him  are  essentially  solar.  Such  is  visibly  the  character  of  the  Lowen- 
zahn,  or  Dentde  Lion."  (Yet  we  are  not  told  how  Indian  plants  called 
after  the  elephant  are  related  to  the  sun.)  The  humble  stonecrop  or 
sempervivum  (aizoon),  once  called  by  the  Romans  occhio  di  Dio,  and 
still  in  French  retaining  its  name  of  Jupiter's  beard,  or  Joubarbe, 
must  refer  either  to  the  sun  or  moon  as  the  "  everlasting "  of  the 
heaven.  The  grass-destroying  demon  of  German  folk-lore,  called  the 
grass-wolf,  is  the  dog  Sirius,  the  sun  at  the  end  of  July  that  destroys  the 
vegetation,  seemingly  because  in  Sanskrit  the  word  "  vrika  "  meant  both 
dog  and  sun. 

Next  to  the  sun  the  moon  is  most  strongly  represented  in  the  plant 
world.  The  herb  which  opens  or  discloses  treasures  is  evidently  the 
moon,  the  herb  par  excellence,  the  queen  of  herbs,  which  discovers  the 
hiding-places  of  robbers.  The  molu-plant  that  frees  Ulysses  from  Circe 
is  the  lunar  herb,  or  the  moon  which  enables  the  sun  to  continue  its 
course.  The  plant  mentioned  by  ^Elian  as  a  cure  for  the  eyes,  like  our 
clary,  can  be  explained  mythologically  as  the  moon  or  dawn  chasing  the 


NAMES   OF   FLOWERS.  721 


darkness  which  blinds  us  all.  The  selenite  (from  atXi'jvr),  the  moon), 
mentioned  by  Plutarch  as  used  by  shepherds  to  keep  their  feet  safe  from 
snake-  bites,  is  connected  with  the  moon  that  slays  the  serpents  or  monsters 
of  the  sky.  The  aglaophotis,  spoken  of  by  Pliny  as  also  called  marmorites 
from  its  resemblance  to  Persian  marble,  refers  to  that  luminous  plant  of 
the  East,  the  dawn,  or  the  white.  And,  lastly,  the  flower  of  the  fern,  by 
aid  of  which,  in  Russian  legend,  the  shepherd  finds  his  hidden  cattle,  and 
is  also  shown  where  treasure  lies,  is  either  the  thunderbolt  or  the  sun 
itself,  which  with  its  light  tears  open  the  darksome  caverns  of  the  cloud. 
Enough  illustrations  have  perhaps  been  given  to  enable  the  reader  to 
estimate  the  value  of  the  solar  method  of  interpreting  plant-legends.  It 
may  occur  to  him  that  in  the  above  cases  the  imagination  of  science  has 
let  itself  go  too  far;  and  has  resorted  for  an  explanation,  when  quite 
a  simple  one  was  at  hand,  to  a  theory  of  the  human  mind  which  has 
nothing  analogous  to  it  in  the  mental  condition  of  any  known  race  of 
men,  and  can  only  be  adapted  to  facts  by  a  most  painful  distortion  of 
the  most  obvious  meaning  of  the  stories  themselves.  Should  he  think 
so,  let  him  weigh  the  merits  of  the  other  theory,  which  makes  less  of  the 
sun  and  more  of  the  sorcerer  and  magician. 

J.  A.  F. 


VOL.  XLV.— NO.  270.  35. 


722 


nf  a  C0ur  m     ntfanjr. 


IN  one  of  those  charming  letters  addressed  by  the  late  Bishop  Thirl- 
wall  to  a  young  lady  friend,  he  asks  his  fair  correspondent  whether  she 
is  aware  of  the  "  atrocious  Vandalism,  worse  than  that  of  the  Bande 
Noire,"  which  is  being  perpetrated  by  the  Breton  farmers,  who  "  are 
actively  engaged  in  removing  all  the  Druidical  remains  for  some  '  use- 
ful '  purpose,  so  that,  if  nobody  interferes,  they  will  before  long  have 
entirely  disappeared."  *  The  letter  is  dated  just  thirteen  years  ago,  and 
what  attempts  may  have  since  been  made  to  arrest  the  progress  of  this 
utilitarian  Vandalism  I  am  unable  to  say,  but  it  is  currently  reported 
that  above  2,000  Celtic  monuments  have  been  thus  wantonly  destroyed 
since  the  beginning  of  this  century  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Carnac. 
The  Romans  had  used  many  of  them  in  constructing  their  works  of 
defence  some  eighteen  centuries  before.  And  certainly  no  traveller  at 
the  present  day  can  fail  to  detect  frequent  traces  of  dilapidated  menhirs 
or  dolmens  in  the  courtyards  and  out-buildings  of  farmhouses  at  Carnac, 
Locmariaker,  Troguer,  and  elsewhere,  though  the  danger  of  their  total 
disappearance  is  still  happily  a  remote  one.  It  might  perhaps  be  a 
wise  precaution  to  protect  at  least  the  principal  of  them,  as  Benedict 
XIV.  secured  the  Coliseum — which  had  been  used  for  a  common 
quarry  by  the  Roman  nobles  in  the  Middle  Ages — against  further 
maltreatment,  by  a  religious  consecration,  which  in  Brittany  would 
certainly  be  respected.  Meanwhile,  -  it  may  be  feared  that  in  other 
matters  besides  dolmens  and  menhirs — to  which  we  shall  have  to 
return  presently — the  advancing  tide  of  modern  civilisation  is  sweep- 
ing away  the  old  landmarks  in  a  country  which  enjoyed  till  lately  a 
quite  unique  reputation  for  its  curious  survivals  both  of  pagan  and 
mediaeval  usage,  and  was  therefore  denounced  by  Parisian  savans  as 
"  le  pays  le  plus  arriere  de  la  France  ;  "  or,  according  to  Michelet's  angry 
sneer,  "  so  Gaulish  that  it  is  hardly  Freneh."  M.  Souvestre,  himself  a 
native  of  Brittany,  and  a  far  more  sympathetic  observer  of  its  speci- 
alities, speaks  regretfully  of  "  a  race  almost  extinct  even  there,  among 
whom  the  strong  and  simple  faith  of  another  age  still  survives."  And 
he  has  strange  stories  to  tell  of  phantom  mules  and  tinkling  fog-bells 
which  lure  the  unwary  midnight  traveller  to  his  destruction ;  of  dragons 
watching  treasures  hidden  under  the  menhirs ;  of  the  ceaseless  throbbing 
of  the  blue  waters  in  the  Bay  of  Douarnenez,  where  the  wicked  city  of 
Ys,  from  which  King  Gradlon  fled  to  Quimper  in  obedience  to  a 

*  Thirl-wall's  Letters  to  a  Friend,  p.  180. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  TOUE  IN  BRITTANY.       723 

heavenly  warning,  lies  buried  like  a  second  Sodom,  and  whence,  on  All 
Souls'  Day,  the  pale  ghosts  may  be  seen  rising  on  the  crest  of  the  wave, 
while  at  mysterious  Carnac  the  skeletons  come  forth  from  their  graves 
and  kneel  by  thousands  in  the  dimly-lighted  church ;  of  the  half  scornful, 
half  jubilant  familiarity  which  nicknames  the  evil  spirit  "  Old  William," 
perhaps  from  a  forgotten  play  on  the  name  of  the  Conqueror  ;  *  and  of 
many  other  old-world  legends  and  customs  peculiar  to  Brittany,  or 
common  to  the  whole  Celtic  race. 

Souvestre  tells  us  again  of  the  cantiques,  which  hold  the  first  place 
among  Breton  songs,  and  are  "  utterly  unlike  the  wretched  French 
rhapsodies  sung  in  our  churches,"  for  there  "  poetry  has  preserved  its 
primitive  religious  character,  and  is  chiefly  remarkable  for  the  ardent  faith 
it  reveals."  It  is  true,  of  course,  that  the  belief  must  first  exist  before 
such  poems  can  be  composed ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  the  popularity  of 
the  songs  sustains  and  kindles  the  ardour  of  the  belief;  "children  are 
bom  and  grow  up  to  the  music  of  these  songs ;  from  the  time  they  can 
speak  they  learn  them,  they  are  possessed  by  them,  till  they  come  at  last 
to  sing  them  unconsciously,  as  they  breathe  or  walk  or  look  around  them." 
And  not  only  are  the  most  popular  songs  in  Brittany  religious,  but  the 
best-known  tragedies,  too,  begin  in  the  name  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  and 
deal  with  sacred  themes,  as  may  be  inferred  from  the  very  titles  of  those 
still  extant,  such  as  "  St.  William,"  "  St.  Barbe,"  "  St.  Triffine,"  "  Jacob," 
"  Pharaoh,"  the  "  Creation  of  the  World."  Nor  is  the  Breton  tongue 
itself  merely  one  of  the  thousand  dialects  of  Europe,  or,  as  others  have 
supposed,  "  a  Punic  dialect,"  but  the  ancient  Celtic  or  Gaulish,  as  Strabo 
says,  Nomen  Celtarum  imiversis  Gallis  inditum  ob  gentis  claritatem. 
According  to  Souvestre,  this  Celtic  or  Gaulish  language  was  originally 
spoken  throughout  Gaul  with  slight  variation  of  dialect,  and  in  Great 
Britain,  which  was  peopled  from  Gaul ;  and  thus  the  Bretons,  who  came 
from  England,  found  their  own  language  in  the  country,  where  it  has 
been  preserved  with  some  modifications  to  the  present  day.  Certainly 
the  language  now  spoken  in  Breton  villages  is  quite  unlike  ordinary 
French,  of  which  the  natives — the  women  especially — do  not  understand 
a  word,  and  sounds  much  more  like  German  or  Welsh.  It  need  hardly 
be  said  that  the  very  names  of  Wales  and  Cornwall — the  latter  corre- 
sponding to  the  old  Breton  district  of  Cornouaille — bear  witness  to  the 
identity  of  race  of  those  who  in  all  those  regions  alike  have  left  indelible 
traces  of  their  common  origin  as  well  on  the  material  structures  as  in  the 
blood  and  language  and  traditions  of  the  people.  The  coast  line  between 
Lannion  and  Treguier  is  the  home  and  centre  of  Arthurian  legend,  and 
Merlin  had  his  birthplace  in  an  island  on  the  Bay  of  Trepasses. 

Souvestre  was  describing  forty  years  ago  a  Brittany  which,  even  then, 
was  becoming  a  thing  of  the  past;  and  a  generation  of  railways  and 
cheap  newspapers  has  done  much  since  his  death  to  modify  still  further 

*  He  is,  however,  also  called  "  Spountus,"  the  Terrible  One. 

35—2 


724      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  TOUK  IN  BRITTANY. 

the  quaint  anachronisms  of  thought,  of  habit,  and  of  outward  costume 
so  long  characteristic  of  the  denizens  of  that  mystic  land.  What  an 
English  traveller  said  less  than  forty  years  ago  could  hardly  be  repeated 
now,  that  within  a  day's  journey  of  Paris  or  Southampton,  in  the  midst 
of  English  manufactories  and  French  Revolutions  and  wars  of  the 
Empire,  stretching  out  its  granite  base  into  a  sea  ploughed  by  steam- 
ships, "  dark  old  Brittany  goes  on  unmoved,  unsympathising,  believing 
and  working  as  it  and  its  fellow  nations  did  five  hundred  years  ago." 
The  very  names  are  changing,  and  the  old  divisions — corresponding  to  the 
four  ancient  bishoprics — of  Leon,  Cornouaille,  Treguier,  and  Vannes  are 
merged  in  the  modern  "  departments  "  of  Finistere,  comprehending  the 
two  first,  Cotes-du-Nord,  and  Morbihan.  Of  the  nine  episcopal  sees 
existing  before  the  French  Revolution  four,  including  St.  Pol-de-Leon 
and  Treguier,  were  suppressed  by  the  Concordat  of  1801,  though  the 
unmitred  cathedrals  survive  to  recall  the  old  ecclesiastical  order.* 
The  stone  cross  or  crucifix  still  guards  the  entrance  of  every  town  or 
village,  and  the  quaintly-carved  Calvaries  stand  in  many  churchyards, 
though  the  peasants  seldom  remember  now,  as  is  still  customary  in  the 
Tyrol,  to  doff  their  caps  in  passing.  And  the  picturesque  Breton  cos- 
tume which  once  attracted  the  gaze  of  travellers  of  a  former  gene- 
ration, and  of  which  splendid  specimens  are  preserved  in  the  museum  at 
Quimper,  is  no  longer  to  be  seen  in  ordinary  wear,  except  in  a  few  out- 
of-the-way  places  like  Pont  1'Abbe.  It  should  be  said,  however,  that  I 
had  not,  unfortunately,  an  opportunity  of  witnessing  one  of  the  famous 
pardons  or  pilgrimages  solemnised  annually  at  certain  sacred  spots, 
when  the  old  dresses  are  still,  I  believe,  often  worn.  The  common  dress 
of  the  women  is  more  distinctive  than  that  of  the  men,  though  not  so 
picturesque  as  the  tall  white  caps  worn  on  Sundays  and  festivals  in 
Normandy ;  it  is,  in  fact,  very  like  the  religious  habit  of  nuns,  and  as 
female  attendants  are  usually  employed  at  Breton  hotels,  it  is  difficult  at 
first  to  get  rid  of  the  impression  that  you  are  being  waited  on  at  dinner 
by  the  lay  sisters  of  a  convent.  If  the  old  costumes,  however,  are 
passing  away,  there  is  a  marked  character  in  the  physiognomy  and  tone 
of  voice  of  the  Breton  peasantry.  The  men,  as  a  rule,  are  decidedly 
better  looking  as  well  as  more  intelligent  than  the  women,  whose  faces 
acquire  very  early  a  kind  of  wizened  parchment-like  appearance,  but 
still  there  is  often  something  weird  about  their  look.  And  the  Breton 
peasant  retains  the  strong  local  attachments,  and  absence  of  the  spirit 
of  enterprise  and  ambition,  we  are  wont  to  associate  with  the  Irish  ;  the 
distinction  of  language,  of  course,  helps  to  keep  him  apart,  in  temper  as 
in  place,  from  the  generality  of  Frenchmen.  "  II  ne  court  apres  la 
fortune  ni  ne  1'attend ;  c'est  la  seule  superstition  populaire  a  laquelle  il 
soit  demeure  Stranger  ...  II  y  a  dans  la  nature  du  Breton  quelque 

*  The  four  sees  suppressed  are  Dol,  St.  Pol-de-Leon,  Treguier,  and  St.  Malo ;  the 
five  remaining  ones  being  Rennes,  Nantes.  Quimper-Corentin,  St.  Brieuc,  and  Vannes. 
They  are  suffragan  sees  of  the  Archbishopric  of  Tours. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  TOUR  IN  BRITTANY.       725 

chose  d'antipathique  aux  vastes  entreprises.  II  ne  peut  paa  disperser 
ainsi  son  activity  sur  un  large  espace ;  il  aime  &  la  resserrer,  a  concentrer 
toute  son  energie  sur  un  seul  point."  *  But  with  this  narrow  and  some- 
what melancholy  temper  of  stern  resignation  is  combined  a  simple  piety 
and  trust  which  the  modern  "  march  of  intellect"  has  not  yet  stamped 
out.  The  cathedrals  and  churches  of  Brittany,  unlike  those  in  other 
parts  of  France,  are  crowded  with  men  at  the  early  masses  on  Sundays, 
and  even  on  weekdays  men  and  boys  constitute  an  appreciable  element 
in  the  congregations.  The  simplicity  of  Breton  faith  is  curiously  exem- 
plified in  the  reverence  long  paid  to  idiots,  and  which  has  found  abiding 
expression  in  the  most  splendid  and  most  famous  of  the  parish  churches 
in  the  country,  Notre  Dame  de  Folgoet.  A  childlike  instinct  of  devotion 
recognised  in  the  extremity  of  mental  as  of  physical  degradation — for 
leprosy,  too,  in  the  middle  ages  was  surrounded  with  special  ministries 
of  mingled  awe  and  tenderness — the  tokens  of  His  merciful  visitation 
who  chastens  those  He  loves. 

The  church  of  Folgoet  is,  in  truth,  a  magnificent  edifice,  but  it  offers 
no  exception  to  the  rule  that  in  Brittany  "  the  well-known  forms  of 
church  architecture  reappear,  but  with  altered  proportions,  and  a  pecu- 
liar grotesque  stamp."     It  is  built  of  the  sharp  dark  grey  Kersanton 
stone,  much  used  in  Brittany,  and  the  general  effect  both  without  and 
within  is  solemn  and  impressive.     The  carving  on  the  western  porch, 
with  its  delicate  wreath  of  thistles  and  vine  leaves,  and  on  the  larger 
and  more  elaborate  porch  in  the  south  transept,  attributed  to  Anne  of 
Brittany,  as  well  as  the  sculpture  on  the  jube  or  roodloft,  and  the 
exquisite  tracery  of  the  windows,  will  reward  a  minute  inspection.    This 
long  south  transept  projects  like  an  aisle  turned  at  right  angles  from  the 
choir  which,  according  to  a  plan  not  uncommon  in  Breton  churches,  does 
not  extend  eastwards  beyond  it.     Against  the  eastern  wall  stand  five 
altars,  three  in  the  transept  to  the  south  of  the  high  altar,  which  is 
beautifully  sculptured  in   stone.     The   noble  tower  and   spire  at   the 
north-western  end,  about  170  feet  high — the  southern  tower  is  lower, 
and  terminates  in  a  dome — adds  much  to  the  dignity   and  grace   of 
the  building.     A  basin  under  an  arched  niche  outside  the  eastern  wall 
receives  the  water  flowing  from  the  miraculous  fountain  beneath  the 
high  altar,  to  which  pilgrims  still  resort.     At  the  west  end  of  the  nave, 
on  the  right  of  the  entrance,  is  the  chapel  dedicated  to  the  canonised 
idiot  boy,  Salaun,  covered  with  mouldering  frescoes.     But  the  leading 
incidents  of  his  life  are  depicted  in  bright  colours  on  the  wooden  panels 
of  the  new  pulpit ;  and  the  story,  which  explains  how  the  church  came 
to  be  built,  may  be  read  at  length  on  a  board  suspended  from  one  of  the 
pillars.     It  will  not  be  out  of  place  to  cite  here  the  main  points  of  a 
tradition  which  supplies  so  striking  an  illustration  of  native  habits  of 
belief. 

*  Souvestre.  A  curious  memento  of  the  old  isolation  of  Brittany  is  found  in  a 
petition  retained  up  to  the  present  century  in  the  Litany,  as  sung  in  the  Breton 
churches  "A  furore  Normanorum  libera  nos,  Domine." 


726  EECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  TOUR  IX  BRITTANY. 

"  On  the  Sunday  before  All  Saints  1370  died  the  blessed  Salaun  or 
Solomon,  commonly  called  the  fool,  because  he  was  thought  naturally 
foolish  and  destitute  of  reason,  never  having  been  able  to  learn  anything 
but  these  two  words,  Ave  Maria,  which  he  would  continually  repeat. 
Thi«  poor  innocent  had  made  himself  a  wretched  abode  under  a  tree 
with  very  low  branches,  which  served  him  for  roof  and  walls,  and  there 
he  lived  by  himself,  lying  on  the  bare  ground.  When  he  was  hungry, 
he  would  go  to  Lesneven  (about  a  mile  off)  and  ask  for  bread,  saying 
'  Ave  Maria,  Salaun  a  de  pre  bara ' — which  means, '  Solomon  would  fain 
eat  bread ' — and  then  he  returned  to  his  home  and  dipped  his  bread  in  a 
fountain  close  by,  nor  could  he  ever  be  induced  to  eat  anything  else  or 
to  sleep  elsewhere.  When  he  was  cold  in  winter,  he  used  to  climb  the 
tree  and  warm  himself  by  swinging  backwards  and  forwards  from  the 
branches,  singing  in  a  loud  voice,  0  Maria.  And  so,  from  his  sim- 
plicity, he  came  to  be  called  'the  fool.'  " 

The  record  goes  on  to  tell  how,  at  last,  when  he  died,  he  was  refused 
Christian  burial  in  consecrated  earth,  and  laid  by  some  peasants  under 
his  tree,  "  like  a  beast,"  without  the  rites  of  the  Church. 

"  But  the  good  and  merciful  God,  to  whom  alone  it  belongs  to  judge 
of  the  end  of  all  men,  whether  happy  or  miserable,  made  it  plain,  for 
the  consolation  of  the  poor  and  simple-minded,  that  Paradise  is  not  only 
for  those  whom  the  world  calls  wise  and  understanding,  and  that  the 
invocation  of  His  Holy  Mother  is  indeed  a  mark  of  predestination.  For 
on  the  night  after  the  burial  of  this  innocent,  there  grew  up  miraculously 
from  his  grave  a  lily  covered  with  flowers,  though  it  was  near  winter 
time,  and  on  the  flowers  and  leaves  were  seen  these  words,  as  it  were, 
traced  and  graven,  '  0  Maria '  and  '  Ave  Maria,1  which  remained  till  the 
leaves  and  flowers  fell  off.  And  the  fame  of  this  marvel  brought  together 
an  immense  multitude  of  clergy,  nobility,  and  other  folk  from  all 
quarters,  who  resolved  to  build  on  the  site  consecrated  by  so  evident  a 
miracle  a  clmrch  in  honour  of  the  glorious  Virgin,  the  invocation  of 
whose  Holy  Name  had  proved  so  effectual." 

The  church  of  Folgoet,  making  allowance  for  its  exceptional  splen- 
dour, may  be  taken  in  some  respects  as  a  typical,  though  a  peculiarly 
beautiful,  specimen  of  the  native  style  of  church  architecture  in  Brit- 
tany ;  the  granite  walls,  the  perforated  towers  and  spires,  the  cross 
transept  at  the  east  end  without  any  projecting  chancel,  are  features 
that  recur  again  and  again  elsewhere.  And  this  arrangement  of  the 
east  end,  giving  the  building  the  form  of  a  T  rather  than  a  cross,  adds 
much  generally — though  at  Folgoet  it  does  not  offend  the  eye — to  that 
heaviness  of  outline  so  often  noticeable  in  the  older  parish  churches  of 
Brittany,  which  is  also  partly  caused  by  the  same  unbroken  line  of  long 
low  roof  extending  over  nave  and  chancel,  where  there  is  one,  and  over- 
lapping the  side  aisles — there  are  none  at  Folgoet — without  any  clerestory. 
Even  the  grand  old  collegiate  church  of  Pont  Croix,  with  its  tapering 
spire,  over  200  feet  high,  visible  for  miles  round,  suffers  in  grace  and 


EECOLLECTIOKS  OF  A  TOUE  IN  BEITTANY.  727 

dignity  of  appearance  from  this  defect.  It  must  be  said,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  these  pierced  granite  spires,  of  which  Ploare,  near  Douarnenez, 
may  be  cited  as  an  exceptionally  perfect  specimen,  are  very  common 
even  in  little  village  churches  not  otherwise  at  all  remarkable,  and 
deserve  high  praise.  No  such  commendation  can  be  bestowed  on  the 
familiar  whitewash  which  imparts  a  cold  and  dreary  look  to  the  interior 
of  the  empty  churches  ;  they  stand  open  all  day,  and  the  sound  almost 
invariably  heard  in  them  of  a  loud-ticking  clock  seems  to  deepen  the 
unearthly  silence,  which  for  hours  is  not  otherwise  disturbed,  except  by 
the  intermittent  clattering  of  the  sabots  of  a  few  old  women;  in  the 
early  morning,  however,  as  was  observed  before,  and  often  in  the  even- 
ing, groups  of  worshippers  of  both  sexes  may  be  seen  kneeling  before 
the  different  altars.  Closely  connected,  both  in  site  and  in  character, 
with  the  churches  are  the  quaintly-sculptured  Calvaries  still  remaining, 
sometimes  in  a  mutilated  condition,  in  many  of  the  churchyards,  of  which 
that  at  Plougastel-Daoulas,  approached  by  a  very  pretty  drive  along 
the  estuary  of  the  Elorn  from  Landerneau,  is  the  most  elaborate  extant 
example,  though  it  dates  only  from  1602,  and  has  been  allowed  to  fall 
into  a  somewhat  dilapidated  state.  An  English  gentleman  whom  I  met 
at  Morlaix  told  me  that  an  antiquarian  society,  to  which  he  belonged, 
had  undertaken  its  restoration.  It  is  constructed  of  the  Kersanton  stone 
found  in  the  neighbouring  quarries,  and  raised  on  a  lofty  pedestal  with 
scenes  from  the  Life  and  Passion  of  our  Lord  sculptured  round  the  base. 
Its  rude  medievalism  of  form  is  strangely  out  of  keeping  with  the 
spacious  modern  church  which  overshadows  it,  with  a  tower  commanding 
an  extensive  view  over  the  Bay  of  Daoulas. 

If  from  the  parish  churches  of  Brittany  we  turn  to  the  cathedrals, 
we  shall  find  that,  while  retaining  many  points  in  common,  they  are 
distinguished  by  a  certain  stern  and  stately  simplicity  of  their  own  from 
the  general  type  of  French  cathedrals ;  the  contrast  perhaps  impressed 
me  the  more  just  after  visiting  Charties  and  Le  Mans.  Quimper,  or 
as  it  is  properly  named  from  St.  Corentin  its  first  bishop,  Quimper- 
Corentin,  which  is  the  largest,  as  St.  Pol-de-Leon  is  the  most  antique 
and  unworldly-looking  of  them,  bear  a  strong  family  likeness  to  each 
other.  Quimper  is  rich,  though  not  so  rich  as  Charti-es,  in  painted 
glass,  and  both  Quimper  and  Leon  have  that  double  cincture  of  choir 
aisles  which  adds  so  much  to  the  effect  both  of  Chartres  and  Le  Mans, 
but  neither  of  them  can  rival  the  unique  and  marvellous  grace  of  the 
latter  as  viewed  from  the  broad  open  space  beyond  the  east  end.  The 
lofty  roof  of  Quimper  Cathedral,  which  is  120  feet  high,  with  its  twin 
spires  rising  to  more  than  double  that  height,  as  well  as  the  rich  sculp- 
ture of  the  western  front  beneath  them,  with  the  equestrian  statue  of 
King  Gradlon,  reputed  founder  of  the  see,  over  the  central  porch,  give 
it  an  imposing  dignity.  The  solemnity  of  the  interior  is  enhanced  by 
the  absence — which  is  happily  characteristic  of  Breton  cathedrals — of 
the  tawdry  and  incongruous  ornamentation  which  disfigures  too  many 


728      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  TOUR  IN  BRITTANY. 

French  churches  elsewhere.  The  choir  inclines  perceptibly  towards  the 
north,  as  is  not  unusual  in  Brittany ;  both  high  altar  and  font  stand 
under  a  massive  baldachino,  the  former  of  wood  richly  carved,  the  latter 
of  stone.  Quimper  is  still  an  episcopal  see,  and  the  bishop  was  present 
at  high  mass  and  vespers  the  Sunday  we  were  there.  At  St.  Pol-de- 
L6on,  on  the  other  hand,  may  be  seen  in  the  north  choir  aisle  of  the 
cathedral  the  kneeling  figure  of  John  Francis  de  la  Marche,  the  last 
bishop  and  count  of  Leon,  who  died  in  London  in  November  1806,  five 
years  after  the  suppression  of  his  see,  and  after  fourteen  years'  residence 
in  England,  from  whence  his  body  was  removed  in  1866  to  its  present 
resting-place  in  his  own  cathedral.  A  long  Latin  inscription  records 
his  ancient  lineage  and  many  virtues,  and  how  he  was  employed  in  the 
administration  of  the  funds  provided,  partly  by  the  English  Govern- 
ment partly  by  private  benevolence,  for  the  relief  of  the  French  emigre 
clergy  in  this  country.  He  declined,  in  common  with  the  other  exiled 
bishops  in  England,  to  resign  his  see  in  obedience  to  the  Papal  Brief 
Tarn  multa,  and  adhered  to  what  was  termed  la  Petite  Eglise.  The 
graceful  spires  of  Leon  Cathedral,  lofty  as  they  are,  are  somewhat  dwarfed 
by  the  near  neighbourhood  of  the  gigantic  Creisker  spire,  nearly  300 
feet  high,  said  to  be  the  work  of  an  English  architect,  which  looks  even 
higher  than  it  is  from  being  attached  to  a  comparatively  small  chapel, 
not  otherwise  remarkable,  except  for  the  perceptible  inclination  of  the 
nave,  if  I  remember  right,  in  a  southerly  direction.  The  cathedral,  the 
west  end  especially,  reminds  one  of  Quimper  on  a  smaller  scale,  but  all 
the  stained  glass  is  modern,  though  mostly  good ;  there  is  a  fine  rose- 
window  in  the  south  transept.  But,  apart  from  the  interest  of  its 
separate  buildings,  "  the  sacred  city  "  of  Leon,  in  olden  times  the  chief 
see  of  Brittany,  has  a  speciality  of  its  own  ;  an  atmosphere  of  unearthly 
repose,  which  may  be  called  unique,  broods  over  its  desolate  granite 
streets  and  square  and  solemn  cemetery  on  the  shore  of  the  silent  sea. 
It  has  been  compared  to  St.  Andrew's,  the  primatial  city  of  Scotland ; 
but  even  more  than  St.  Andrew's  in  vacation  time — and  I  have  never 
seen  it  during  the  university  term — St.  Pol-de-Leon  looks  like  a  city  of 
the  dead. 

The  other  Breton  cathedrals  which  we  saw,  though  possessing  each 
of  them  a  distinct  character  and  history,  are  inferior  in  size  or  in  general 
effect  to  Quimper  and  Leon.  The  abbey  of  Tr^guier  was  founded  in  the 
sixth  century,  and  the  episcopal  see — now  suppressed — in  the  ninth. 
The  quiet  old  cathedral  in  the  market-place  has  a  fine  triforium  and  a 
cloister  of  the  twelfth  century  opening  out  of  the  north  transept ;  none 
of  the  old  glass  has  been  preserved.  There  is  a  still  more  sombre  and 
antique  air  about  the  cathedral  of  Dol,  also  now  dethroned,  which  stands 
at  the  outskirts  of  the  forlorn  looking  little  town.  Its  most  distinctive 
feature,  which  contributes  to  the  stern  quaintness  of  the  exterior,  is  the 
square  ending  of  the  choir  and  choir-aisles,  beyond  which  extends  a 
small  Lady  Chapel ;  the  choir-aisles  are  flanked  by  side  chapels  project- 


RECOLLECTIONS  OP  A  TOtfE  IN  BRITTANY.  729 

ing  laterally  as  far  as  the  transepts;  there  is  some  fine  old  glass  in  the 
east  window.  Dol,  like  many  other  Breton  churches,  is  said  to  be  the 
work  of  an  English  architect,  and  the  style  tells  in  favour  of  this 
tradition.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  the  suppression  of  ancient  sees,  once  the 
centres  of  ecclesiastical  life,  serves  to  deepen  the  actual,  and  still  further, 
perhaps,  the  sentimental,  air  of  deathlike  stillness  and  melancholy  in 
these  deserted  cities,  where  one  is  tempted  instinctively  to  whisper  to 
oneself,  Reliquice  mortis  hie  inhabitant.  The  cathedral  of  Nantes, 
which  is  still  the  seat  of  a  bishopric,  does  not  certainly  deserve  Murray's 
indictment  of  "  an  unsightly  pile ; "  but  the  incomplete  state  of  the  two 
western  towers,  hardly  raised  above  the  lofty  roof  of  the  nave  (120  feet), 
is,  of  course,  a  drawback  to  the  external  effect ;  still  the  tout  ensemble  of 
the  nave,  with  its  stately  western  front,  is  imposing,  though  marred 
internally  by  the  walling  off  of  the  unfinished  choir.  There  are  one  or 
two  good  modern  churches  in  the  city,  but  the  chief  interest  of  Nantes 
must  always  remain  the  historical  one.  The  castle,  formerly  the  resi- 
dence of  the  Dukes  of  Brittany,  does  not  equal  in  extent  and  massive 
grander  r  of  proportions  that  of  Angers,  built  by  St.  Louis  and  said  to 
be  the  finest  mediceval  castle  left  standing  in  France.  But  it  is  memor- 
able as  the  birthplace  and  early  home  of  Anne  of  Brittany,  who  was 
married  there — in  a  chapel  now  destroyed — to  Louis  XII.,  as  also  for 
the  hall  where  Henry  IV.  signed  the  Edict  of  Nantes,  and  the  prison 
from  which  Cardinal  de  Retz  effected  his  escape,  and  where  a  century  and 
a  half  later  the  Duchess  of  Berry  was  for  a  time  immured. 

But  a  deeper  and  darker  interest  than  any  connected  with  the  castle 
of  Nantes  attaches  to  the  gloomy  Salorges,  a  long  low  building  about  a 
mile  off  from  it  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Loire,  opposite  the  island  of 
Gloriette,  originally  designed  and  still  used  for  a  warehouse,  but  converted 
in  1793  by  the  infamous  Carrier  into  a  temporary  prison  for  the  royalist 
victims  of  his  inhuman  cruelty.  It  was  from  thence  they  were  drafted 
off  in  batches  of  twenty  or  thirty  at  a  time,  at  first  by  night,  but  after- 
wards in  broad  daylight,  to  be  towed  out  into  the  middle  of  the  stream 
in  barges,  which  were  then  sunk  by  opening  a  trapdoor  at  the  bottom, 
in  what  he  was  pleased  to  designate  La  Baignoire  Nationale.  The  first 
victims  were  twenty- four  priests,  condemned  to  transportation,  on  whom, 
to  cite  Carrier's  brutal  jest,  "  le  decret  de  deportation  a  et6  execute  ver- 
ticalement,"  and  some  9,000  persons,  including  a  large  proportion  of 
women  and  children — "louvetaux"  and  "viperes"  he  called  them — 
perished  in  the  course  of  three  or  four  months  in  these  hideous  noyades  \ 
the  whole  number  sacrificed  during  the  year  at  Nantes — by  drowning, 
guillotine,  fusillades,  and  nameless  butcheries  of  all  kinds — amounted  to 
about  30,000.  There  is  a  famous  saying  of  his  on  record,  "  We  will 
make  France  a  burial-ground  sooner  than  not  regenerate  the  country 
after  our  own  fashion."  And  as  their  fashion  happened  to  be  one  to 
which  "the  most  backward  district  of  France,"  with  its  old-world 
notions  of  loyalty  and  religion,  was  obstinately  opposed,  it  had  to  take 

35—5 


730      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  TOUR  IN  BRITTANY. 

the  consequences.  But  Carrier,  too,  fell,  like  Domitian,  posiguam  cer- 
donibus  esse  timendus  cceperat.  And  when,  at  the  next  turn  of  the  tide, 
his  masters  of  the  Convention  found  themselves  compelled  to  arraign  the 
too  willing  instrument  of  their  sanguinary  despotism,  his  demand  for 
proofs  of  his  guilt  was  answered,  aptly  enough — only  that  his  judges  had 
no  right  to  the  retort — "  Vous  demandez  des  preuves  1  faites  done  refluer 
la  Loire."  The  refluent  tide  of  the  river  had,  in  fact,  vomited  out  its 
ghastly  burden  on  the  shore,  till  the  putrefying  corpses  bred  a  pestilence. 
It  is  "  a  far  cry,"  not  in  point  of  distance  or  of  sentiment,  but  of 
outward  surroundings,  from  the  Salorges,  close  to  the  railway  and  river 
on  the  busy  quay  of  Nantes,  where  it  is  difficult  to  realise,  as  you  gaze 
on  the  sunny  surface  of  the  waters,  that  within  less  than  a  century  so 
frightful  a  tragedy  was  veritably  there  enacted,  to  the  still  seclusion  of 
the  Chamjjs  des  Martyrs  near  Auray,  the  scene  of  a  yet  more  treacherous 
massacre.  A  double  row  of  pines  stretching  from  the  tall  memorial 
cross  by  the  roadside  to  the  little  Grecian  chapel  at  the  further  end  of 
the  now  disused  cemetery  marks  the  spot  where,  in  1795,  about  a 
thousand  French  soldiers  sent  from  England  on  the  fatal  Quiberon 
expedition,  and  who  had  surrendered  to  General  Hoche  on  a  promise  of 
their  lives  being  spared,  were  shot  down  in  cold  blood  by  order  of  the 
Convention,  and  where  for  twenty  years  their  bodies  lay,  till  after  the 
Restoration  they  were  removed  to  their  present  resting  place  in  a  ciypt 
under  the  Chapette  Expiatoire  attached  to  the  neighbouring  church  of 
the  Chartreuse.  St.  Anne  of  Auray,  about  four  miles  from  the  town 
itself,  is  a  more  cheerful  and  popular,  but  certainly  not  a  more  impres- 
sive, spot.  It  is  even  reported,  though  the  cult  only  dates  from  the 
middle  of  the  seventeenth  century,  to  be  the  most  popular  pilgrimage 
place  in  Brittany,  and  on  the  feast  of  the  patron  saint  (July  26)  a  vast 
throng  of  votaries  from  all  the  country  round  is  poured  along  the  broad 
dusty  road  from  Auray  to  St.  Anne's.  But  the  place  appeals  exclusively 
to  the  devotional,  not  at  all  to  the  aesthetic,  sentiment.  There  is  not 
much  to  impress  the  casual  observer  in  the  sacred  spring  enclosed  in  a 
carved  stone  basin,  and  still  less  in  the  spacious  brand-new  church,  a 
respectable  but  rather  staring  specimen  of  modern  Gothic.  Nor  is  there 
any  beauty  in  the  square  paddock  at  one  end  of  the  village,  where  it  is 
reckoned  that  from  20,000  to  25,000  persons  can  hear  mass  said  in  the 
open  air  at  an  altar  raised  on  a  lofty  platform,  and  approached  by  two 
broad  flights  of  steps,  one  of  which — like  the  Scala  Santa  at  Rome — 
nobody  is  allowed  to  mount  except  on  his  knees.  Three  or  four  pil- 
grims were  thus  engaged  the  Sunday  afternoon  I  was  there,  and  multi- 
tudes, I  believe,  are  accustomed  to  make  the  slow  ascent  at  the  time  of 
the  annual  pardon.  But  for  picturesque  effect,  both  natural  and  archi- 
tectural, St.  Anne  must  yield  the  palm  to  the  lovely  but  comparatively 
unfrequented  shrines  of  St.  Fiacre  and  St.  Barbe,  both  of  them  within 
easy  reach  of  Quimperl6.  The  chapel  of  St.  Fiacre,  indeed,  was  sadly 
mauled  during  the  Revolution,  and  remains  in  a  very  neglected  state, 


EECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  TOUR  IN  BRITTANY.       731 

though  mass  is  still  sometimes  celebrated  there ;  but  the  architecture  is 
good,  and  the  fine  old  roodloft  of  carved  and  painted  oak  is  well  pre- 
served. The  chapel  of  St.  Barbe,  perched  on  a  rocky  ledge  overlooking 
the  Elle,  about  a  mile  from  the  village  of  La  Faouet,  is  more  striking 
in  construction  and  in  site,  but  seems  to  be  little  cared  for  by  any  but 
the  old  woman  who  inhabits  an  adjoining  cottage  and  keeps  the  key, 
who  betrayed  a  laudable  anxiety  to  make  up  by  her  enthusiastic  devotion 
during  the  few  minutes  we  spent  in  the  church  for  the  paucity  of  wor- 
shippers. 

These  rural  shrines,  if  they  have  lost  something  of  their  former 
religious  prestige,  serve  at  least  to  recall  an  aspect  of  the  country  too 
apt  to  be  lost  sight  of  by  those  whose  interest  is  absorbed  in  the 
mysterious  charm  of  its  Celtic  and  mediaeval  monuments.  Quimperle, 
situated  on  the  confluence  of  "  the  two  rivers  which  flow  as  harmoniously 
as  their  Hellenic  names,  the  Isole  and  the  Elle,"  is  justly  called  by 
Souvestre  "  the  Arcadia  of  Lower  Brittany ; "  but  it  receives  very  scant 
notice  in  the  guide-books — even  in  Joanne's,  which  is  much  more  reliable 
than  Murray — and  had  we  trusted  to  such  authorities  alone,  we  should 
probably  never  have  visited  it  at  all.  The  little  town  itself  is  very  prettily 
situated  on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  and  both  the  churches,  of  St.  Michael  on 
the  summit,  and  St.  Cross  by  the  river  banks,  are  in  their  way  remark- 
able, especially  the  latter,  rebuilt  on  the  model  of  an  older  one  of  the 
eleventh  century,  in  a  style  closely  resembling  the  round  churches  of  the 
Templars  in  England,  only  that  the  choir,  raised  on  several  steps  over  a 
crypt,  is  under  the  central  dome,  with  a  nave,  Lady  Chapel,  and  apsidal 
transepts,  forming  together  an  equilateral  cross  round  it.  But  the  chief 
attraction  of  Quimperle  is  the  "Arcadian"  one.  You  may  roam  for 
miles  along  the  steep  mossy  banks  of  the  Isole  or  Elle",  which  strongly 
reminded  me  of  our  Devonshire  mountain  streams,  and  find  fresh  beauties 
at  almost  every  turn ;  or,  if  you  pursue  your  way  further  up  the  stream 
to  St.  Barbe,  already  mentioned,  or  the  Rochers  au  Diable,  there  is  much 
in  the  general  aspect  to  suggest  recollections  of  Dartmoor.  And  if 
Quimperle  and  its  neighbourhood  form  the  Arcadia  of  Lower  Brittany, 
scenery  no  less  charming  and  unlike  the  average  monotonous  dead  level 
of  northern  France  may  be  found  in  the  long  reaches  of  wood  and  moor- 
land between  Carhaix  and  Huelgoet,  or  further  north  on  the  banks  of 
the  sparkling  Guier,  as  it  speeds  its  foaming  course  from  the  once  impreg- 
nable castle  of  Tonquedec — dismantled  by  Richelieu — by  the  narrow 
tortuous  streets,  and  under  the  old  Gothic  bridge  of  Lannion,  and  on 
seawards  through  a  region  which  is  the  very  cradleland  of  Arthurian 
romance.  The  rocky  streams  with  their  deep  pools  and  roaring  cata- 
racts and  varied  fringe  of  fern,  the  narrow  lanes  fenced  in  with  high 
banks  and  hedges,  or  roughly  constructed  walls  of  the  granite  sprinkled 
far  and  wide  over  wood  and  heathery  moor — all  these  are  features  of  the 
landscape  we  associate  rather  with  England  than  with  France,  and 
especially  with  Devonshire  and  the  Lake  district.  And  thus  the  old 


732  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  TOUR  IN  BRITTANY. 

Armorica  *  may  fairly  claim,  no  less  from  the  character  of  the  soil  than  of 
its  denizens,  the  name  of  Little  Britain.  For,  while  there  is  much  to 
arrest  the  traveller's  attention,  as  well  on  antiquarian  as  on  aesthetic 
grounds,  in  the  ancient  Breton  towns  like  Morlaix,  Quimper,  Dinan 
— with  its  mouldering  Gothic  gateway  and  long  precipitous  Rue  de 
Jerzual,  once,  in  an  evil  day  for  man  and  beast,  the  sole  approach  from 
the  East — it  yet  remains  true  that  the  main  interest  of  the  country, 
moral  and  material,  lies  elsewhere.  Old  Brittany,  it  has  been  truly  said, 
is  outside  the  towns. 

The  presence  of  Celtic  or,  as  they  are  vaguely  termed  by  most 
writers,  "  Druidical  "  monuments — which  is,  in  truth,  only  a  phrase  to 
disguise  our  ignorance,  for  of  the  Druids  and  their  worship  we  know 
next  to  nothing — may  be  said  to  be  almost  universal  throughout  Brit- 
tany. But  the  most  famous  and  striking  of  the  "  dolmens  "  are  congre- 
gated near  Locmariaker  (the  place  of  Mary),  and  on  the  adjacent  islands  of 
the  little  Morbihan  archipelago,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Auray,  while  the 
largest  collective  groups  of  "  menhirs  "  are  found  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Carnac  (the  place  of  cairns)  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  gulf.  These 
menhirs  or  monoliths — the  word  menhir  means  a  long-standing  stone — 
are  single  upright  stones  of  various  heights,  the  smaller  ones  being 
properly  called  "  peulvang ; "  and  as  they  could  not  well  be  uprooted, 
some  of  them  have  been  "christianised  by  surmounting  them  with  a 
cross,"  for,  as  Souvestre  puts  it,  "  the  dweller  in  Morbihan  is  a  baptized 
Celt " ;  f  but  this  incongruous  combination  is  comparatively  rare.  The 
dolmens,  or  cromlechs,  as  similar  monuments  are  designated  in  Cornwall 
— Souvestre  uses  the  latter  term  for  "  Druidic  circles "  of  menhirs — 
consist  of  two  or  more  upright  stones  with  others  laid  over  them  so  as 
to  form  a  kind  of  table,  the  word  dolmen  meaning  stone  table ;  but  they 
cannot  ever  have  served  for  altars,  as  is  supposed  by  some,  though  one  on 
the  Monks'  Island  now  goes  by  the  name  of  the  Altar  of  Sacrifice ;  apart 
from  other  objections,  they  are  generally  much  too  high  for  that. 
Moreover,  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  all  of  them  were  originally 
covered  with  a  barrow  or  tumulus,  as  several  still  are,  while  from  others 
the  earth  has  been  removed,  or  has  fallen  away  in  the  lapse  of  ages,  and 
that  they  were  designed  for  burial  places ;  recent  researches  have  indeed 
led  in  every  case  to  the  discovery  of  human  remains  under  them.  The 
most  interesting  dolmen,  perhaps,  is  that  under  a  tumulus,  on  the  little 
islet  of  Gavr'  Innis,  about  two  miles'  sail  from  Locmariaker.  The 
granite  walls  of  the  inner  cave,  which  you  have  to  creep  into  through  a 
narrow  passage  on  hands  and  knees,  are  covered  with  quaint  devices, 
including  the  S  pattern,  commonly  taken  to  denote  serpent-worship, 
and  which  is  also  foxind  sculptured  in  similar  grottoes  in  Ireland. 
This  interpretation,  however,  is  not  now  so  generally  admitted  by 

*  Armorica  is  the  Latinised  form  of  Ar-mor-ik,  "  the  little  sea,"  having  thus  the 
same  meaning  as  Morbihan,  from  mor,  "sea,"  and  bihan,  "little." 

t  It  is  curious  that  the  Celtic  name  for  the  Druids,  "Bellec'h,"  is  still  applied  to 
Catholic  priests  in  Brittany. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  TOUR  IN  BRITTANY.  733 

experts,  and  it  is  anyhow  a  point  on  which  antiquarian  science  has  not 
yet  spoken  its  last  word.  The  Butte  du  Cesar,  on  the  mainland  near 
Locmariaker,  is  about  the  same  size  as  the  tumulus  on  Gavr'  Innis, 
but  the  sculpture  on  the  walls  is  scantier  and  of  less  curious  work- 
manship. Another  large  dolmen  in  the  neighbourhood  called  "  The 
Merchants'  Table  "  has  no  tumulus  over  it.  The  largest  known  menhir, 
nearly  sixty  feet  long,  is  in  close  proximity  to  this  dolmen,  but  it  is 
unfortunately  broken  into  four  separate  fragments  lying  on  the  ground.* 
There  is  one,  however,  standing  erect  near  Concarneau,  which  I  did  not 
see  myself,  reported  to  be  of  about  equal  dimensions. 

It  is  by  no  means  easy  to  ascertain  the  original  purpose  of  these 
menhirs,  which  have  been  too  hastily  assumed  to  mark,  like  the  dolmens, 
a  place  of  sepulture ;  but  the  late  Mr.  Miln,  who  adopted  this  view,  and 
had  spent  several  years  in  making  excavations  at  Carnac,  was  not  able 
to  produce  a  single  instance  of  the  discovery  of  human  remains  under 
menhirs,  whereas  they  are  constantly  found  under  dolmens,  sometimes 
incinerated  and  sometimes  not.  Souvestre  speaks  of  the  eleven  lines  of 
colossal  stones  at  Carnac,  extending  for  above  two  leagues,  but  this, 
begging  his  pardon,  is  an  inexact  or  exaggerated  representation.  The 
eleven  rows  or  "  alignments  "  of  menhirs  at  one  extremity  of  the  line  at 
Mcanac  do  not  extend  for  any  great  distance,  and  there  is  rather  a  recur- 
rence of  frequent  groups  than  a  continuous  succession  between  Moanac 
and  Kerlescant  at  the  opposite  extremity ;  nor  is  there  anything  to  show 
that  the  line  ever  was  continuous.  These  parallel  streets  or  aisles,  so  to 
call  them,  of  rude  granite  columns,  averaging  from  four  to  eighteen  feet 
in  height,  do  not  suggest  either  to  the  eye  or  to  the  mind  a  sepulchral  or 
a  sacred  use ;  there  is  nothing  to  present  any  resemblance  of  temple  or 
altar,  which  has  been  held  to  offer  a  possible  explanation  of  Stonehenge. 
The  appearance,  indeed,  of  this  army  of  stones,  as  though  drawn  up  in 
regiments,  is  not  ill  represented  in  the  local  traditions  still  current  on 
the  spot,  that  they  are  the  pagan  soldiers  who  pursued  St.  Corneille, 
the  patron  saint  of  the  village,  to  the  seashore,  where  he  turned  and 
changed  them  into  stones.  But  the  original  destination  of  the  menhirs, 
in  spite  of  Mr.  Miln's  protracted  and  minute  investigations,  is  a  problem 
that  still  remains  unsolved.  His  arguments  for  their  sepulchral  character 
appear  to  me  partly  irrelevant  and  wholly  inconclusive,  and  it  must 
be  remembered  that  he  did  not  live  to  complete  his  intended  work. 
Their  antiquity,  indeed,  is  sufficiently  attested  by  his  discovery  of  three 
Roman  camps  near  Carnac,  in  the  ramparts  of  which  menhirs  were 
embedded,  bearing  traces  of  previous  exposure  to  the  weather,  in  some 
cases  for  many  centuries.  But,  so  far  as  we  can  at  present  judge,  they  are 
at  least  as  likely  to  have  had  a  civil  or  military  object  as  a  religious  one. 
It  would  be  clearly  premature  and  probably  untrue  to  affirm  of  the 

*  Souvestre  speaks  of  it  as  "  le  menhir  gigantesque  qui  s'eleve  a  plus  de  soixante 
pieds,  et  sous  lequel  des  troupeaux  se  mettant  a  1'ombre,"  as  though  it  was  still  erect 
at  the  time. 


734      RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  TOUR  IN  BRITTANY. 

unknown  architects  of  these  mysterious  dolmens  and  alignments,  what 
liuskin  says  with  characteristic  grace  of  the  builders  of  our  old  Gothic 
cathedrals,  that,  while  they  have  carried  with  them  to  the  grave  their 
powers,  their  honours,  and  their  errors,  "  they  have  left  us  their  adora- 
tion." Joanne  informs  us  that  Canon  Moreau  in  the  sixteenth  century 
counted  from  12,000  to  15,000  menhirs  at  Carnac,  the  great  majority 
of  which  must  since  then  have  disappeared  in  the  way  already  explained, 
if  it  is  correctly  estimated  that  only  about  one  thousand  remain 
standing  now.  It  may  be  wise  therefore  for  those  who  are  interested  in 
such  matters  not  to  run  the  risk  of  delaying  their  exploration  till  further 
mischief  has  been  done. 

But,  if  there  is  reason  for  urging  the  English  tourist  who  has  never  yet 
been  there  not  to  defer  his  visit  to  Brittany  till  modern  utilitarianism  has 
made  further  havoc  of  its  Druidical  remains,  there  is  stronger  ground  for 
cautioning  him  against  needless  delay  in  the  corrosive  influences  already 
beginning  to  work,  surely  if  slowly,  on  that  seemingly  fixed  and  impassive 
type  of  medievalism  stamped  on  the  native  mind  as  unmistakably  as  the 
life  of  two  successive  epochs,  social  and  religious,  is  impressed  on  the 
Celtic  monuments  of  Carnac  and  the  Christian  shrines  of  Folgoet  or  St.  Pol- 
de-Leon.  It  has  been  justly  observed  by  friend  and  foe  alike  that  "  the 
ideas  of  '89  "  involved  not  merely  a  new  departure  in  politics,  but  a  new 
way  of  understanding  life  altogether,  or,  as  De  Maistre  expresses  it,  "  a 
new  religion."  To  that  religion  Brittany  till  of  late  has  remained 
entirely  a  stranger.  It  is  still  a  religious  country  in  the  old  sense  of  the 
word,  or,  as  hostile  critics  have  bitterly  complained,  "  it  still  believes  in 
its  priests."  Quel  torrent  revolutionnaire  que  cette  Loire  !  exclaimed  Carrier 
as  he  gazed  on  the  noyades,  "  enraptured,"  says  Michelet,  "  with  the 
poetry  of  his  crime."  But  the  revolutionary  torrent  engulfed  the  bodies, 
not  the  souls,  of  the  Bretons.  "  It  was  a  murderous  war,"  to  cite  Souvestre 
once  more,  "  between  the  guillotine  and  belief,  in  which  the  guillotine  used 
its  knife,  and  was  beaten."  When  Jean  Bon-Saint-Andre  said  to  the 
maire  of  a  village,  "  I  will  have  your  church  tower  pulled  down,  that  you 
may  have  no  visible  object  to  remind  you  of  your  old  superstitions  " — my 
readers  will  recollect  what  has  been  said  of  the  village  towers  and  spires 
in  Brittany — he  replied,  "  You  will  at  least  have  to  leave  us  the  stars, 
and  we  can  see  them  further  off  than  the  church  tower."  Even  the 
monarchical  sentiment  of  Brittany  is  not  yet  dead,  as  was  shown  at  the 
last  elections.  The  first  Napoleon  changed  the  name  of  Pontivy — so 
called  after  Ivy,  an  English  monk  from  Lindisfarne,  who  founded  a 
monastery  there  in  the  fourth  century — to  Napoleonville,  and  wanted  to 
make  it  the  capital,  but  it  returned  at  the  Restoration  to  its  old  name, 
and  has  kept  it  ever  since.  What,  however,  noyades  and  fusillades 
wholly  failed  to  accomplish,  may,  according  to  the  old  fable  of  the  wind 
and  the  sun,  be  brought  about  by  the  subtler  and  more  penetrating  in- 
fluence of  railways,  telegraphs,  and  a  cheap  press,  from  which  no  region  of 
modern  France  can  permanently  isolate  itself.  I  do  not  say  that  the 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  TOUE  IN  BRITTANY.  735 

change  will  be  rapid,  or  that  it  will  be  complete,  and  still  less  do  I  desire 
it.  The  Breton  peasant  may  never  succeed  in  mastering  the  lesson  of 
combined  religious  and  political  Liberalism,  taught  with  an  exquisitely 
French  naivete  in  a  popular  Catechisme  du  Libre  Penseur,  recently  pub- 
lished for  the  express  edification  of  "  the  masses,"  who  are  instructed 
therein  that  the  superfluous  interposition  of  a  Creator  and  Moral  Governor 
of  the  Universe  may  be  dispensed  with,  because  "  Nature  always  has 
been,  is,  and  always  will  be,  republican,  and  therefore  fitted  to  govern 
herself."  But  still  a  change  there  must  and  will  be,  and  indeed  it  is 
already  in  progress,  though  it  may  fail  after  all  to  satisfy  the  aspirations 
of  Parisian  savans  or  politicians  of  the  type  of  M.  Paul  Bert.  And 
whatever  other  effects  it  may  produce,  beneficial  or  the  reverse,  it  must 
inevitably  tend  to  modify  or  obliterate  what  for  many  centuries  have  been 
the  distinctive  idiosyncrasies  of  Breton  thought  and  life.  The  country, 
as  it  advances  in  this  direction,  will  become  more  civilised,  wealthier, 
possibly  happier ;  but,  in  proportion  as  it  ceases  to  deserve  the  reproach 
of  being  "  so  Gaulish  that  it  is  hardly  French,"  it  will  certainly  become 
less  interesting  than  before. 

H.  N.  0. 


736 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OP  "FOR  PERCIVAL." 


CHAPTER;  vui. 
GOODBYE. 

"  Swift  from  her  life  the  sun  of  gold  "declined  ; 
Nothing  remained  but  those  grey  shades  that  thicken." 

MEANWHILE  Misa 
Whitney  was  saying  to 
Rachel,  "It  would  be 
best,  perhaps,  not  to  tell 
Mr.  Eastwood  that  Mr. 
Lauriston  and  his  cousin 
have  been  here." 

Rachel  looked  at  her 
in  astonishment. 

"  I  don't  want  to  be 
untruthful,"  the  elder 
lady  hastened  to  explain. 
"  But  perhaps  he  might 
think  that  if  you  could 

see  Mr.  Lauriston " 

"But  it's  Charley's 
own  doing,"  said  Rachel. 
"  You  said  he  wasn't  to 
come  for  two  or  thi-ee 
days,  didn't  you  1  And 
he  fixed  to-morrow  afternoon.  If  he  had  fixed  this  afternoon  I  should 
have  seen  him  and  not  Mr.  Lauriston." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  right  that  they  should  have  come 
to-day,  I  really  don't,"  said  Miss  Whitney.  "  It  is  unfortunate  that  your 
great-aunt  happened  to  die  abroad.  A  funeral  in  the  house  is  very  dis- 
tressing, of  course,  but  it  settles  all  such  matters.  You  keep  the  blinds 
down,  and  you  don't  see  anybody  but  the  dressmaker  till  it's  over.  Ah  ! 
well,"  she  went  on,  rousing  herself  from  the  contemplation  of  an  imaginary 
hearse,  "  I  don't  suppose  Mr.  Eastwood  will  find  much  fault ;  I  only 
thought  I  would  warn  you  in  case  there  might  be  some  little  irritation. 
But  I  am  sure  I  may  safely  leave  him  to  you."  She  nodded,  and  there 
was  a  faint  remembrance  of  archness  in  her  smile. 


''GO  NOW,  I'LEASE." 


DAMOCLES.  737 

"  It  won't  make  any  difference  to  him ;  he  has  his  own  day,"  Rachel 
repeated.  "  It  will  be  all  the  same."  She  turned  quickly  away,  and 
looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  sultry  griminess  of  the  London  street. 
It  led  into  a  square,  and  she  had  a  glimpse  of  two  or  three  trees  which 
displayed  their  thin,  seared  foliage  against  a  grey-blue  sky. 

"  I  thought  Mr.  Lauriston  would  have  gone  away  before  this,'  said 
Miss  Whitney.  "  I  thought  nobody  stayed  in  London  at  this  time  of 
year.  There  seem  to  be  some  respectable  people  in  the  streets  ;  I  don't 
understand  it." 

The  black-clothed  figure  by  the  window  stirred  a  little.  "  Mrs. 
Latham  is  here,  you  see." 

"  Yes,  but  didn't  you  hear  1  She  didn't  like  her  house,  she  said,  and 
she  had  a  chance  of  getting  rid  of  it  at  the  half-quarter,  so  she  came  up  to 
see  about  it,  two  days  after  she  went  to  Brighton.  And  she  has  been 
kept  a  fortnight  or  more,  what  with  one  thing  and  another.  Sho  seems 
pleasant,"  said  Miss  Whitney  doubtfully. 

"  Very  pleasant,"  said  the  listless  watcher.     "  I  like  her." 

"  We  must  mind  we  are  in  good  time  to-morrow,"  Miss  Whitney 
continued  as  she  camp  to  the  window.  "  Better  too  early  than  too  late, 
as  I  always  say.  Now,  there's  a  very  gentlemanly  young  man  just  gone 
by ;  I  wonder  how  he  happens  to  be  in  town  towards  the  end  of  August. 
Though,  to  be  sure,"  :;he  added,  slipping  her  hand  under  Rachel's  arm, 
"  anybody  might  say  the  same  of  Mr.  Eastwood.  Perhaps  our  friend 
just  going  round  the  corner  has  as  good  a  reason  for  staying." 

Rachel  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  Miss  Whitney  with  a  smile,  as 
in  duty  bound.  She  longed  to  speak  out  bluntly,  and  say  what  it  was 
that  Charles  Eastwood  would  hear  from  her  the  next  day,  but  experience 
taught  her  the  price  she  must  pay  for  such  frankness.  The  moment's 
gratification  would  be  followed  by  four-and-twenty  hours'  endurance  of 
Miss  Whitney's  surprise,  bewilderment,  questioning,  doubt,  mixed  up 
together  or  following  each  other,  till  her  head  was  swimming  and  her 
heart  sick.  If  she  wished  to  face  Charley  with  any  degree  of  strength 
and  calmness,  she  must  keep  her  secret  till  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
of  his  coming,  and  then  avow  it  with  the  utmost  distinctness,  since  other- 
wise Miss  Whitney  would  probably  lie  in  wait  on  the  stairs,  to  congra- 
tulate the  young  man  as  he  was  going  away. 

It  seemed  to  Rachel,  as  she  stood  looking  out  on  the  dusty  pavement 
and  the  glaring  sunshine,  that  the  terrible  time  which  Charley  had  fixed 
would  never  come.  A  minute's  thought  sufficed  to  range  over  all  the 
years  that  she  had  ever  known,  to  pass  from  the  madwoman's  home  by 
the  clump  of  twisted  fir-trees,  to  the  garden  where  she  stood  with 
Charley,  to  Bucksmill  Hill,  to  Redlands  Park,  to  the  hot  slope  at  the 
cliffs  edge  where  the  rest-harrow  grew.  What  lifetimes  of  weariness  and 
dread  might  await  her  in  that  long  procession  of  chiming  hours  which 
must  pass  her  by  before  Charley's  turn  would  come  !  Things  rose  up 
with  strange  clearness  before  her,  and  became  oddly  and  overpoweringly 


738  DAMOCLES. 

visible.  The  lapse  of  a  day  and  a  night  suddenly  revealed  itself  as  the 
turning  of  the  whole  world  to  bring  Charley  to  her  side,  and  she  seemed 
to  see  the  vast  ball,  with  all  its  seas  and  continents,  swinging  round,  as  if 
with  a  gigantic  effort,  for  no  other  end.  She  was  gazing  dizzily  at  it 
when  Miss  Whitney's  hand  tightened  on  her  arm.  "  Look,  there's  a 
carriage  and  pair,  really  very  nice.  I  do  wonder  at  that,  unless  it's  a 
doctor.  I  never  thought  of  that.  Of  course  if  it's  a  doctor  it  doesn't 
prove  anything,  does  it  1 " 

Rachel  agreed  that  if  it  happened  to  be  a  doctor  it  proved  nothing 
at  all. 

In  spite  of  all  her  forebodings  the  moments  slipped  away,  dusk 
deepened  into  darkness,  which  gave  place  in  its  turn  to  dusk  and  day- 
light again,  the  sun  brightened  the  opposite  windows,  and  glided  im- 
perceptibly from  them  to  shine  on  hers  once  more,  till  she  was  startled 
to  find  that  she  must  speak  to  Miss  Whitney  at  once,  or  Charley's  knock 
would  be  sounding  at  the  door.  How  she  spoke,  or  indeed  what  she 
said,  she  had  the  vaguest  possible  idea,  but  she  saw  the  gathering  per- 
plexity, horror,  and  doubt  on  the  pale  face  at  which  she  was  looking. 
"  I  shall  not  marry  him — I  shall  never  marry,"  she  said,  when  Miss 
Whitney  threw  up  her  hands  suddenly. 

"  Don't !  don't !  Listen  !  There  he  is  !  Oh, 'Rachel,  this  is  dreadful ! 
but  don't  you  think  you  may  be  mistaken  ?  Pray  consider  what  you  are 
going  to  do  !  Oh,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  before  * — we  might  have  talked 
it  over.  Oh,  I  hear  them  going  to  the  door  ! — what  will  you  say  to  him  ? 
Pray,  pray,  don't  be  rash  !  Oh,  I  can't  stop  and  meet  him  !  "  And  the 
poor  lady  fled  with  the  greater  haste,  because,  as  she  passed  the  top  of  the 
stairs,  she  glanced  downwards  into  a  dingy  passage,  rather  like  a  dry 
well,  and  saw  the  maid  opening  the  door  to  a  tall  young  fellow,  who 
stood  with  a  blaze  of  yellow  sunlight  shining  on  his  fair  hair  and  light 
coat.  Charley  stepped  in,  looking  hopeful  and  bright.  The  sudden 
shadow  bewildered  him,  so  that  he  nearly  fell  over  the  umbrella-stand,  and 
uttered  an  impatient  exclamation  under  his  breath.  He  was,  perhaps, 
a  little  more  nervous  than  he  would  have  cared  to  own,  even  to  himself, 
and  an  umbrella-stand  is  an  irrational  and  trying  thing  at  the  crisis 
of  one's  life.  He  recovered  himself,  however,  and  followed  the  servant 
upstairs  to  the  drawing-room,  where  he  looked  round  for  Miss  Whitney, 
and  then  saw  Rachel  standing  in  her  long  black  dress,  with  her  back  to 
the  window. 

"  Rachel !  "  he  exclaimed,  and  went  quickly  towards  her,  with  both 
hands  extended. 

She  drew  back  a  little.  "  Don't !  "  she  said.  "  Please  wait  a 
moment." 

Charley,  with  all  his  faith  in  Rachel,  was  quite  prepared  for  a  whim 
or  two.  Her  whims  were  often  rather  incomprehensible  to  him,  but  he 
would  not  contest  her  right  to  a  few,  especially  under  present  circum- 
stances. He  stopped  short,  smiling.  "  Why  am  I  to  wait  1  "  he  asked 


DAMOCLES.  739 

as  he  took  the  chair  to  which  she  pointed.     "  I've  been  waiting  ever  so 
long  already,  don't  you  know  ? " 

"  Yes.     Since  last  week.     Miss  "Whitney  thought " 

"  Oh,  I  daresay  Miss  Whitney  was  quite  right.  Only,  you  see,  I  was 
counting  on  that  Sunday  by  the  seaside  when  the  telegram  came.  By 
Jove,  I  haven't  congratulated  you  yet !  I  do,  with  all  my  heart." 

"  No,  don't  congratulate  me  ;  I  would  rather  you  didn't." 

"  No  1  What,  isn't  it  right  to  congratulate  you  on  anybody's  death  ? 
I  don't  mean  any  harm,"  said  young  Eastwood.  "  I  wouldn't  wish  any 
one  to  die ;  but  when  it  is  only  a  great-aunt,  and  she  is  dead,  and  you 
did  not  know  her — surely  there  isn't  any  harm,  is  there  1 " 

"  It  isn't  that,  but  I  wanted  to  tell  you  something  about  her,"  said 
Rachel. 

Charley  smiled  with  a  slightly  perplexed  expression.  "  All  right," 
he  replied.  "  Tell  away.  But  I'd  much  rather  you'd  tell  me  something 
about  yourself.  You  don't  look  well." 

"  Oh,  I'm  well  enough." 

"  You  don't  look  it,  then.  Is  that  all  that  the  sea  air  has  done  for 
you  1 "  He  drew  his  chair  a  little  nearer.  "  I  say,  you  remember  my 
last  letter?" 

The  girl  was  growing  desperate.  What  she  had  to  say  pressed  upon 
her  like  an  intolerable  load,  and  she  could  find  no  words.  She  looked 
straight  at  Charley,  put  her  hand  into  her  pocket,  pulled  out  his  letter, 
and  held  it  towards  him. 

"  Oh,  I  say !  That's  very  good  of  you,  but  wasn't  it  awfully  stupidly 
written  1 "  he  exclaimed,  colouring  with  both  shame  and  satisfaction. 
"  I  think  you'd  better  put  it  on  the  fire.  I  never  could  write  letters 
properly ;  but  I'm  glad  you  got  it,  and  kept  it !  I  had  to  keep  Miss 
Whitney's,"  he  said  with  a  little  laugh.  "  That  was  all  I  got ;  but  there 
was  a  message  from  you  in  it,  that  you'd  be  glad  to  see  me,  and  so  long 
as  that  was  all  right,  it  was  enough  for  me." 

Rachel's  white  hand,  with  the  letter  in  it,  dropped  and  rested  on  the 
dusky  folds  of  her  gown.  "  That  wasn't  worth  keeping,"  she  said. 

"  Not  for  the  handwriting,"  Charley  answered,  still  smiling.  "  But 
if  you  said  it,  and  meant  it — you  did,  didn't  you  ? "  he  questioned  with 
a  sudden  anxiety  in  his  voice. 

"  Yes  ;  I  said  it,  and  I  meant  it." 

"  Then  it  was  worth  keeping  if  the  biggest  scoundrel  on  earth  had 
written  it !  I  knew  you  would  say  so — I  knew  it  would  make  no  differ- 
ence to  you.  People  talk,  but  Effie  and  I  were  sure  you  would  be  just 
the  same."  He  had  drawn  his  chair  a  little  nearer  yet,  and  was  leaning 
forward  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  looking  eagerly  at  Rachel.  "tEffie 
knew  you,"  he  said.  "  And  so  did  I." 
"  Yes,"  she  answered  confusedly. 

"  I'm  poor,  I  know,"  said  Charley.  "  And  I  don't  profess  to  be  one 
of  your  clever  people.  But  since  you  were  going  to  let  me  say  what  I 


740  •  DAMOCLES. 

could  for  myself,  down  by  the  seaside — on  that  Sunday  I  didn't  have — 
I  knew  you  would  let  me  say  it  now.  For  you  were  going  to  let  me 
say  it,  weren't  you  1  You  knew  what  my  letter  meant." 

There  was  no  attempt  at  evasion  in  her  answer.  "  Yes ;  I  knew 
what  it  meant." 

"  And  you  said  you  would  see  me." 

She  drew  back,  feeling  that  in  a  moment  she  would  be  in  Charley's 
arms,  with  his  lips  on  hers,  unless  she  could  find  the  words  which  would 
not  come.  "  Oh,  you  are  making  it  so  hard  !  "  she  said.  "  There  is 
something  I  must  tell  you."  • 

He  stopped,  looking  wonderingly  at  her.     It  had  seemed  to  Charley 
that  he  was  getting  on  remarkably  well,  and  he  did  not  understand  this 
obstacle.     The  sense  of  her  first  exclamation  altogether  escaped  him, 
i   but  the  "  something  I  must  tell  you  "  had  a  familiar  sound. 

"  Oh,  I  remember  ! "  he  said.  "  Something  about  the  great-aunt. 
And  I  interrupted  you  ;  I  beg  your  pardon."  He  sat  up,  ready  to  hear 
what  she  had  to  tell  him,  a  little  impatient,  yet  determined  to  control 
himself. 

Rachel  half  started,  as  she  began  to  speak,  at  the  sound  of  her  own 
words,  but  Charley  took  no  notice.  She  said  nothing  about  her  childish 
fears,  nor  about  the  house  by  the  fir-trees  and  the  grey  lady.  She  simply 
told  him  what  little  she  knew  about  the  Rutherfords  and  their  unhappy 
history,  in  a  voice,  tremulous  at  first,  which,  as  she  went  on,  grew  almost 
hard  with  the  effort  she  made  to  keep  it  steady.  He  listened,  respect- 
fully enough,  to  the  misfortunes  of  her  wealthy  relations,  and  when  she 
paused,  he  sighed. 

"  By  Jove  ! "  he  said  sympathetically,  "  they  were  an  unlucky  lot ! " 
And  with  that  he  was  prepared  to  dismiss  the  Rutherfords  from  his 
mind,  and  return  to  the  more  important  business  of  his  courtship. 

She  looked  at  him  with  incredulous  eyes.  The  great  revelation  was 
a  failure.  She  had  been  under  the  impression  that  she  was  saying 
everything,  and  she  had  said  nothing — nothing  at  all.  It  is  true  that 
Charley  had  not  been  prepared  for  her  tidings  as  Mr.  Lauriston  was,  but 
with  what  intuitive  sympathy  Mr.  Lauriston  had  divined  her  first  fear  ! 
The  blankness  of  her  gaze  arrested  the  words  on  young  Eastwood's  lips, 
and  he  looked  questioningly  at  her,  with  a  faint,  half- amused  irritation. 
He  did  not  like  to  be  checked  in  this  mysterious  fashion,  and  yet  he 
felt  himself  so  much  stronger  than  Rachel  that  he  was  bound  to  be 
patient  with  her  inscrutable  fancies.  "  What  now  1  "  he  asked,  after  a 
pause. 

"  Charles,"  she  said,  "  don't  you  see  what  difference  this  must  make 
to  me — and  to  you  ?  " 

Even  then  the  first  thing  which  struck  him  was  her  use  of  his  name. 
The  unaccustomed  "  Charles  "  roused  his  attention,  and  rightly,  for  there 
was  a  subtle  meaning  in  it.  Not  "  Mr.  Eastwood,"  as  if  she  held  him 
a  stranger  and  denied  his  claim  upon  her,  but  not  the  familiar  home- 


DAMOCLES.  741 

name  of  "  Charley,"  since  she  had  nothing  more  to  do  with  his  home- 
life. 

"  Difference  !  "  he  repeated.  "  That  is  what  everybody  said — that  it 
would  make  a  difference." 

She  started.  Was  this  dread  of  hers  common  talk  already  ?  In  a 
moment,  however,  she  understood,  even  before  he  went  on. 

"  But  we  were  sure  it  wouldn't — Effie  and  I.      What  do  you  mean  1 
You  wouldn't  have  let  me  come  here  to-day  if  you  meant  it  to  make  any 
difference — it  wouldn't  be  fair.     And  you  said  just  now  you  knew  what 
I  meant."  He  was  evidently  growing  uneasy,  and  was  speaking  as  much 
to  himself  as  to  her.     "  What  difference  ?  "  he  said  again. 
"  Didn't  you  understand  1     These  Rutherfords  were  mad." 
"  Well,  what  then  ] " 

"  And  I  am  a  Rutherford,  though  my  name  happens  to  be  Con  way. 
At  least  I  have  their  blood  in  my  veins." 

"  What  then  ?     You  may  be  a  Rutherford,  but  you  are  not  mad." 
"  No,  I  hope  not.     Not  at  present.     I  can't  tell  what  I  may  be." 
Charley  laughed,  but  the  laugh  was  not  quite  spontaneous.     "Are 
you  trying  to  frighten  me  1  "  he  asked. 

"  No.     Why  won't  you   understand  1     If  this   madness   is  in  my 

blood " 

"  Oh,  that's  all  nonsense  !  "  said  Charley.  "  You  don't  frighten  me  so. 
I  know  all  about  that.  That's  the  sort  of  trash  doctors  talk  when  they 
want  to  get  a  man  off  who  richly  deserves  to  be  hanged.  We're  all 
mad,  when  it's  convenient,  according  to  them.  You  shouldn't  think 
about  such  things." 

"  I  know  I  shouldn't,"  she  answered  meekly  and  seriously.  "  And 
I  shall  try  not  to  think  about  them  after  to-day.  But  to-day  I  must — 
I  have  all  my  life  to  settle  to-day.  You  must  forgive  me."  She  leaned 
forward,  and  stretched  out  her  hands  in  deprecating  tenderness.  "  You 
know  I  would  have  been  true  to  you — you  and  Effie  were  right.  But 
now,"  she  fixed  her  eyes  earnestly  on  his  face,  "  now  I  can  never  marry." 
Charley  stared  at  her  in  honest  amazement,  and  threw  himself  back 
in  his  chair.  "  What  do  you  mean  1 "  he  exclaimed.  "  Never  marry, 
because  some  people  you  never  saw  were  cracked  ?  Good  heavens  ! 
what  idiotic  folly !  Rachel,  you  don't  mean  it — you  cannot  seriously 
mean  that  you  would  sacrifice  my  love  and  all  my  hopes  to  such  nonsense 
as  that ! " 

"  Oh,  but  I  must !  I  must !  Don't  you  understand  1  If  I  could  take 
all  the  pain,  I  would — 

"  Rubbish  !  "  said  Charley,  leaning  forward  in  his  turn,  and  catching 
her  hands  in  his.  "  You  have  been  letting  your  thoughts  dwell  on  these 
miserable  fancies  till  you  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about — you 
want  me  to  take  care  of  you.  My  dearest  girl,  since  you  are  true  to 
me,  as  I  always  knew  you  would  be,  do  you  think  I  am  going  to  let  this 
foolish  notion  of  yours  stand  between  us  ?  " 


742  DAMOCLES. 

She  tried  to  draw  her  hands  away,  but  could  not.  Then  she  yielded 
her  hands,  and  suffered  them  to  lie  passively  in  his,  but  her  eyes  with- 
stood him.  Yet  they  were  full  of  the  tenderest  compassion. 

"  It  is  no  notion  of  mine  stands  between  us,  it  is  Fate,"  she  said. 
The  tone  as  well  as  the  words  told  of  her  sad  certainty.  "  I  cannot  help 
what  I  am  doing.  It  breaks  my  heart " 

"  I  suppose  it  is  welcome  to  break  mine  !  "  he  retorted.  "  Oh,  Rachel, 
how  can  you  torture  me  with  this  nonsense  1  I  never  heard  anything 
so  absurd  in  my  life.  You  love  me — you  have  said  so — and  I  am  to  lose 
you  because  your  great-aunt  wasn't  right  in  her  head  !  You  think  I'm 
going  to  be  robbed  of  my  happiness  for  no  better  reason  than  that ! 
Rachel,  you  can't !  Either  you  are  laughing  at  me,  or  you  must  be 
cracked  ! "  The  singular  infelicity  of  this  line  of  argument  struck  even 
Charley  as  soon  as  the  words  had  passed  his  lips.  k<  No  !  I  didn't  mean 
that !  "  he  said,  colouring,  and  releasing  one  of  Rachel's  hands  in  his  em- 
barrassment. "  You  know  I  didn't ! " 

"  Of  course  you  didn't,"  she  answered  gently,  "and  it  doesn't  matter. 
You  didn't  hurt  me.  It  was  a  very  natural  thing  to  say."  She  looked 
at  him  appealingly,  humbly,  as  if  she  entreated  him  to  understand,  and 
spare  her.  And  yet  in  her  inmost  heart  she  was  proud  of  Charley's 
incapacity  to  enter  into  her  feelings,  proud  of  that  fearless  sanity  which 
was  unable  to  imagine  that  she  could  be  moved  by  such  morbid  fancies. 
As  she  looked  at  the  handsome  boyish  face,  confronting  her  with  a  per- 
plexed and  incredulous  expression,  she  had  no  contempt  for  Charley's 
obtuseness.  He  had  called  her  shuddering  terror  "  idiotic  folly,"  and 
she  preferred  his  healthy  scorn  to  Mr.  Lauriston's  delicate  sympathy. 
It  seemed  to  her  that,  if  Fate  had  not  forbidden  it,  she,  too,  might  have 
learned  to  scorn  her  fears,  with  her  hand  in  her  young  lover's  clasp. 

Suddenly  a  light  flashed  in  Charley's  eyes,  his  whole  face  softened 
and  grew  brighter.  "  Rachel,"  he  said,  "  what  does  it  all  matter  so  long 
as  I  am  not  afraid  1  My  dearest,  I'll  face  the  chance  with  you,  and 
would,  with  all  my  heart,  if  it  were  fifty  times  worse.  Only  trust  your- 
self to  me  and  I  will  take  care  of  you.  And  if  the  worst  came  to  the 
worst,  do  you  think  I  wouldn't  take  care  of  you  then  1  It  won't  come ; 
but  trust  me,  and  we'll  face  the  chance  together." 

She  smiled  proudly.  "  I  know  you  would  take  care  of  me,"  she  said. 
"  I  could  trust  you  if  that  were  all,  and  I  thank  you.  But  I  can't  marry 
you.  It  is  impossible."  She  drew  her  hand  quickly  out  of  his,  and  rose 
to  her  feet.  "  Oh,"  she  said,  "  if  this  pains  you,  think  how  it  pains  me 
too,  and  forgive  me  ! " 

He  got  up  when  she  did,  and  stood  obstinately  before  her,  as  if  he 
feared  she  would  leave  him  then  and  there.  "  But  if  you  could  trust 
me,  and  I  am  not  afraid  " — he  began. 

"  Yes,  I  could  trust  you,"  she  repeated.  "  It  isn't  that."  She  hesi- 
tated, looked  up  at  him,  and  then  spoke  with  sudden  resolution.  "  Do 
you  not  see  that  this  is  not  a  question  for  you  and  me  only,  but  for  those 


DAMOCLES.  743 

who  are  to  come  after  us  1  I  will  never  marry.  I  must  bear  iny  own 
fear ;  it  has  haunted  me  all  my  life,  and  I  suppose  it  must  haunt  me  to 
the  last.  But  it  shall  end  with  me.  Now  you  understand,"  she  said, 
turning  quickly  away.  "  And  you  are  not  angry  with  me  1  " 

Eastwood  stood  as  if  rooted  to  the  ground,  unable  to  find  an  argu- 
ment, and  yet  more  unable  to  believe  that  his  prize  was  literally  escaping 
from  his  grasp.  He  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  Rachel  would  have 
her  whims  and  fancies ;  but  then  he  had  always  supposed  that  they 
would  yield,  if  necessary,  to  masculine  common  sense  as  the  one  reality. 
Now  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  an  obstacle  which  he  could  not 
remove,  and  yet  which  seemed  to  him  incredible  and  unreal.  After  a 
moment  his  mind  went  back  to  the  words  she  had  uttered,  which  at  the 
time  he  had  only  partially  understood. 

"  You  have  been  afraid  all  your  life  ?  But  you  never  knew  of  these 
Rutherfords  till  just  now — you  said  so." 

"  No,"  said  the  girl,  "  I  didn't.  But  I  was  afraid  before  I  knew  of 
them ;  I  have  always  been  afraid.  I  was  frightened  by  a  madwoman 
when  I  was  a  child,  and  I  have  dreamed  of  madness  ever  since.  Only 
I  thought  there  was  no  cause  for  it.  I  hoped  I  should  forget  it  with 
Effie  and  you."  Charley  stood,  moodily  thoughtful.  She  looked  at  him 
and  then  went  on.  "  That  is  partly  what  frightens  me  now,  the  instinc- 
tive fear  I  had  when  I  knew  no  reason  for  it." 
"  Why,  you  were  frightened,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  but  I  don't  think  most  children  would  have  been  frightened 
by  such  a  little  thing.  It  has  made  my  life  very  sad,"  she  said,  with  a 
glance  that  asked  his  pity.  "  Sometimes  I  hardly  knew  how  to  bear  it." 
"  But  this  is  all  nonsense  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  You  are  worried  and 
tired ;  you  are  fancying  all  this.  Why,  you  never  said  a  word  of  it  to 
me!" 

"  No,  I  didn't  think  of  it  so  much  with  you." 
"  Nor  to  Effie  ?     Nor  to  Miss  Whitney  ? " 
"  No." 

"  And  you  expect  me  to  believe  that  you  were  afraid  all  your  life 
and  never  breathed  a  word  to  anybody  !  Oh,  you  are  exaggerating ;  you 
don't  think  so,  but  you  are.  Now  that  you  know  of  these  mad  Ruther- 
fords, they  have  reminded  you  of  your  fright  when  you  were  a  child. 
If  you  had  ever  spoken  of  it  to  anybody  before  you  knew  of  them,  it 

might  be  a  different  thing " 

Loathing  of  the  lie  which  would  have  been  implied  by  silence,  drove 
Rachel  to  interrupt  him,  heedless  of  consequences.  "  I  never  did  speak 
to  any  one  about  it,"  she  said,  "  till  last  spring." 

"  Till  last  spring  1 "  Eastwood's  attention  was  awakened.  "  Who 
heard  of  it  then  ]  " 

Rachel  did  not  know  how  pale  she  was.  "  I  told  Mr.  Lauriston," 
she  said  in  a  clear  voice. 

He  stared  at  her  for  a  moment.     "  Lauriston  !  you  told  Lauriston  !  " 


744  DAMOCLES. 

he  repeated.  Then  he  stepped  backward  with  a  laugh.  This  was  some- 
thing he  could  understand,  not  like  all  that  vague  talk  of  insanity. 
Charley  felt  as  if  he  had  reached  firm  ground,  and  encountered  a  face 
he  knew,  with  a  familiar  smile,  mocking  him.  "  So  Lauriston  is  at  the 
bottom  of  all  this  !  "  he  said.  "  I  might  have  guessed  it.  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Miss  Conway.  I've  very  been  dull,  but  I  see  now — oh,  I  quite 
understand  now !  " 

Rachel  blushed,  not  that  she  fully  understood  what  Charley  meant, 
but  the  mere  sound  of  his  laugh  brought  the  blood  to  her  cheeks.  To 
him  a  blush  was  a  confession,  quickening  his  jealousy. 

"  I  might  have  guessed  it !  "  he  said  again.  "  What  a  fool  I've  been  ! 
So  Lauriston  was  the  confidant,  and  we  told  him  our  little  secrets  last 
spring?  Was  he  very  sympathetic?  It  must  have  been  a  touching 
scene.  He  can  keep  his  face  straight,  can  Lauriston." 

"  What  has  Mr.  Lauriston  to  do  with  it  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  I 
don't  understand  you  !  " 

"  You  needn't  ask  me,  we  both  know  what  he  has  to  do  with  it. 
At  least  you  know,  and  I  guess — it  comes  to  much  the  same  thing.  So 
my  mother  was  right  after  all ;  she  told  me  he  was  hatching  some  mis- 
chief— damn  him !  I  wouldn't  believe  her ;  I  said  he  might  do  his 
worst,  if  only  you  were  true.  And  so  he  might !  " 

"  If  I  were  true !     If !     Do  you  mean  that  I  am  not  1 " 

"  Better  not  ask  me  that  either,"  said  Charley.  "  So  you  told  him 
last  spring,  down  at  Redlands.  Good  Lord !  how  blind  I  was  !  How 
did  you  manage  it  ?"  A  sudden  remembrance  flashed  across  his  mind. 
"  What  ?  "  he  said.  "  That  afuernoon  when  I  was  safely  out  of  the  way, 
and  you  met  him  so  unexpectedly  ? "  Rachel,  silent  in  utter  bewilder- 
ment and  horror,  looked  blankly  at  him,  and  he  hurried  on.  "  That 
must  have  been  good  fun  for  Lauriston.  /  told  him  down  at  Redlands 
how  I  worshipped  you.  He  must  have  laughed  when  he  found  you  were 
ready  for  a  bit  of  flirtation  the  moment  my  back  was  turned  !  " 

By  a  mere  instinct  the  girl  faced  him,  as  he  pelted  her  with  his  angry 
words.  She  did  not  attempt  to  defend  herself.  She  was  scared  by  the 
signs  of  Charley's  passion,  the  veins  swelling  on  his  forehead,  and  the 
furious  indistinctness  of  his  utterance.  "  You  must  be  mad  !  "  she  said 
in  a  low  voice,  "  you  must  be  mad  ! " 

"  Mad  ?  Yes,  very  likely.  But  you  are  sane  enough,  never  fear. 
Sane  enough,  and  clever  enough.  I'm  no  match  for  you — I  only  loved 
you,"  said  Charley,  with  something  that  was  almost  a  sob  in  his  voice. 
But  in  an  instant  his  anger  flared  up  again.  "  I  understand  all  that," 
he  cried.  "  What  I  don't  understand  is  why  you  didn't  throw  me  over 
at  once  down  at  Redlands.  What  was  the  good  of  keeping  me  hanging 
on  all  this  time  ?  Why  did  you  tell  me  I  might  come  to  you  down  by 
the  sea  ?  Didn't  Lauriston  come  forward  quickly  enough  1  Did  you 
think  you  could  use  me  to  bring  him  to  the  point,  eh  ?  Or  was  I  just 
the  second  string  to  your  bow,  if  he  should  fail  you  after  all  ?  Was 


DAMOCLES.  745 

that  it  ?  And  so  you  let  me  come  here  this  afternoon,  thinking — fool 
that  I  was  ! — that  you  cared  for  me ;  you  let  me  come  that  you  might 
tell  me  all  that  humbugging  story  about  the  Rutherfords,  which  you  had 
settled  beforehand  with  him  !  Is  he  here  1 "  said  Charley  fiercely.  "  Is 
he  waiting  behind  the  scenes  till  you  have  got  rid  of  me  ?  " 

Then  at  last  Rachel  was  driven  to  find  words.  "  Why  do  you  say 
such  wicked,  hateful  things  1 "  she  said.  "  You  cannot  think  there  is  a 
word  of  truth  in  it  all — you  must  know  that  it  is  a  lie  !  " 

"  A  lie  !     No  !     The  lies  are  on  Lauriston's  side  and  yours  !  " 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence.  Rachel  stood,  resting  her  hand  on 
the  back  of  a  chair  to  steady  herself,  and  looked  up  at  the  young  man. 
"  Go  now,  please,"  she  said  in  a  voice  hardly  above  a  whisper.  "  I  can- 
not listen  to  this,  and  I  will  not  answer  you — I  will  not ! "  With  her 
other  hand  she  made  a  gesture  of  dismissal. 

Something  in  the  expression  of  her  white  lips  and  dilated  eyes 
sobered  Charley.  Suddenly,  before  she  knew  what  he  was  doing,  he  was 
kneeling  on  the  seat  of  the  chair  on  which  she  leaned,  and  had  caught 
her  hand.  His  face  was  on  a  level  with  her  own. 

"  You  madden  me  !  "  he  said.  "  I  don't  know  what  is  true  if  you 
are  not !  I  frightened  you  ;  I  saw  it  in  your  face,  but  you  will  forgive 
me  ?  Say  you  will  forgive  me  !  You  don't  know  how  I  loved  you ;  you 
don't  know  how  I  felt  when  I  knew  that  Lauriston  had  come  between 
us  !  How  could  I  tell  what  I  said  or  did  ?  Rachel,  I  don't  believe  you 
are  false.  I  was  mad  when  I  said  it.  It  is  all  his  doing.  He  has 
deceived  you;  he  has  frightened  you  with  these  stories  just  to  part 
us " 

"  No  !  "  said  Rachel,  trying  to  draw  back. 

"  Yes  !  "  said  Charley.  "  But  he  shall  not !  You  will  forgive  me  ; 
I  was  angry  because  I  loved  you  so  ! "  His  tone,  his  nearness  to  her, 
the  unconscious  strength  with  which  his  hand  closed  on  hers,  sent  a 
thrill  of  troubled  feeling  through  her  as  she  faced  him.  It  was  a  moment 
like  that  moment  in  the  garden,  when  their  lips  met,  and  the  world  held 
only  herself  and  Charley.  "  You  will  come  back  to  me,  you  will,  you 
must !  "  he  said.  "  You  will  forget  what  I  said ;  you  know  we  always 
loved  you,  always  believed  in  you  at  home — Effie  and  I.  Speak  to  me, 
say  you  forgive  me,  don't  only  look  at  me  ! "  Charley  implored,  fasten- 
ing his  eager  eyes  on  her  face. 

Even  the  sound  of  his  voice  in  her  ears  was  half  lost  in  the  hurried 
beating  of  her  heart.  She  made  an  effort  to  obtain  self-mastery.  "  What 
am  I  to  say  to  you  ?  What  can  I  say  ]  Let  me  go  ! "  she  cried.  He 
released  her  instantly  and  stood  up.  Later,  when  the  words  and  inci- 
dents of  that  afternoon  came  back  to  her  in  the  clearness  of  lonely  re- 
membrance, she  could  better  understand  what  Charley's  jealous  doubts 
meant.  She  could  see  how  utterly  he  misunderstood  her.  But  at  the 
time  his  anger  had  burst  on  her  like  a  blinding  tempest,  and  then  his 
pleading,  and  his  humble  obedience,  had  touched  her  to  remembrance 

VOL.  XLV.— NO.  270.  36. 


746  DAMOCLES. 

and  pity ;  she  was  bewildered,  she  hardly  knew  what  had  happened.  And 
Charley,  for  whom  she  was  so  sorry,  stood  silently  waiting  for  her 
pardon. 

"  Oh,  I  forgive  you  !  "  she  cried.  "  It  isn't  I  who  ought  to  forgive  you 
anything  to-day,  but  I  do.  And  you  forgive  me  I " 

"  What  1 "  he  asked.  You  didn't  mean  any  harm,  telling  Lauriston. 
I'm  sure  you  didn't.  It  was  all  a  mistake." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Rachel  gratefully.  "  No,  I  didn't  mean  any 
harm,  but  perhaps  it  was  foolish.  Only,  you  see,  I  couldn't  have  told 
you,  Charley ;  I  used  to  have  happier  thoughts  with  you  and  Effie.  But 
I  never  dreamed  you  would  doubt  me." 

"  I  never  will !  "  he  answered  fervently. 

"  No.     And  we  will  be  friends,"  she  hazarded. 

"  Friends ! "  he  repeated,  with  a  dismayed  and  darkening  face.  He 
had  been  so  absolutely  certain  that  Lauriston's  influence  was  the  real 
obstacle  in  his  path,  that  with  Eachel's  assurance  of  pardon  came  triumph 
and  rekindled  hope.  His  outstretched  hand  dropped  by  his  side.  "  You 
said  you  forgave  me  ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Are  you  going  to  send  me  away 
like  this  ?  Oh,  I  know  what  that  means  well  enough.  I  shall  be  out 
of  the  way,  and  Lauriston " 

"  Again  !  "  she  said.  "  Is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  understand  ] 
Mr.  Lauriston  !  He  has  been  kind,  but  nothing  more ;  that  is  all  that 
anybody  can  be  to  me  now.  He  is  your  friend  as  well  as  mine.  Why  will 
you  insult  him  and  me  with  these  suspicions  1 " 

Eastwood  muttered  doggedly  that  he  knew  Lauriston. 

"  I  think  not,"  she  answered. 

"  Not  so  well  as  you  do,  you  mean  ? " 

"  As  you  please."  She  half  turned  away.  "  What  have  I  to  do  with 
him,  or  any  one  now  1 "  she  said  with  averted  face.  But  after  a  moment, 
as  if  the  coldness  of  her  own  tone  had  pained  her,  she  looked  round  and 
made  one  last  effort.  "  I  told  you  I  should  never  many,"  she  said.  "  As 
for  Mr.  Lauriston,  he  does  not  care  for  me,  nor  I  for  him.  Oh,  why  do 
you  make  me  say  it  ? " 

"  Wait  and  see,"  said  Charley,  looking  down.  "  Lauriston's  game  isn't 
played  out  yet." 

"  Mine  is,"  she  answered,  with  a  bitterness  he  did  not  in  the  least 
comprehend.  "  Thin^  of  me  as  if  I  were  dead.  Charley,  you.  wouldn't 
be  jealous  of  a  dead  woman,  would  you  ? " 

"  Don't  talk  like  that !  "  he  cried. 

"  But  I  am  dead,"  she  persisted.  "  The  old  time  and  I  are  dead 
together.  Think  of  me  kindly  as  you  think  of  people  when  they  are 
gone.  And  now,  will  you  leave  me,  Charley  ?  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could 
talk  any  more  just  now." 

"  But  I  can't  go  like  this !  "  he  exclaimed.  The  idea  of  going  home 
with  his  story  of  failure  and  dismissal  was  intolerable.  If  he  could  have 
trusted  Rachel,  there  would  have  been  the  bitter  pain  of  loss,  but  at 


DAMOCLES.  747 

least  there  would  have  been  no  humiliation.  But  he  did  not  trust  her, 
he  could  not,  and  he  was  tortured  by  his  unbelief.  He  felt  that  Lau- 
riston  had  outwitted  him,  that  he  would  be  laughed  at  as  a  dupe,  and  he 
raged  in  helpless  fury  at  the  thought.  Later,  Rachel  could  never  exactly 
remember  how  that  interview  ended.  Nothing  remained  of  it  in  her 
mind  but  a  vague  and  boundless  sensation  of  misery  and  distaste.  East- 
wood, always  on  the  point  of  going,  lingered  to  repeat  the  protestations, 
questions,  and  remonstrances  which  had  been  uttered  a  score  of  times 
already.  What  might  have  been  remembered  as  pathetically  simple, 
entreaties,  touching,  though  spoken  in  vain,  became  a  weariness,  blurred 
and  confused,  and  mixed  with  angry  upbraiding.  He  spoke  because  he 
could  not  stay  and  keep  silence,  and  he  could  not  resolve  to  go.  His 
talk  was  like  a  tide  chafing  against  rocks,  all  impotent  foam  and  fury. 
Rachel  had  dropped  into  a  chair,  and  heard  him  as  if  in  a  dream.  Her 
sad  eyes  followed  him  as  he  came  and  went  with  impatient  steps.  He 
reminded  her  of  old  days,  but  his  reproachful  voice  seemed  to  have 
nothing  in  common  with  the  pleasant  sunshine  and  kindness  which  had 
brightened  her  life.  He  complained,  and  she  listened  hopelessly.  Over 
and  over  again  came  the  same  wearisome  words,  blunted  and  ineffectual, 
which  could  not  pierce  or  touch.  He  reiterated  his  attack  till  the  girl 
felt  as  if  her  very  soul  were  the  arena,  not  of  a  swift,  courteous,  fatal 
encounter,  but  of  a  clumsy  struggle,  prolonged  with  brutal  and  useless 
persistence,  till  the  feelings  which  Mr.  Lauriston  had  handled  as  deli- 
cately as  if  they  were  flowers  were  like  trodden  clay  under  Charley's 
feet.  When  at  last  he  went,  baffled  and  boyishly  sullen,  pausing  on 
the  threshold  to  look  back  with  angry  eyes,  her  first  impulse  was  to  rush 
to  the  door  and  make  it  fast.  She  turned  the  key  with  shaking  fingers, 
not  feeling  safe  till  Eastwood's  footsteps  sounded  in  the  passage  below. 
Hiding  behind  the  curtain,  she  watched  him  as  he  went  out  into  the 
sunshine,  striding  moodily  up  the  street  with  his  head  down,  while  his 
shadow  on  the  glaring  pavement  accompanied  him  with  long-legged  steps, 
as  if  there  were  some  malice  in  its  mockery.  When  he  crossed  into  the 
square  and  disappeared,  she  let  the  curtain  fall  into  its  accustomed  place, 
with  a  transient  thought  of  the  many  hands  which  might  have  drawn 
those  meagre  folds  for  a  moment's  concealment,  as  she  had  done.  Other 
illusions  might  have  died  in  that  big  silent  room  with  its  tarnished  fur- 
niture. The  air  seemed  heavy  and  dead,  as  if  other  sighs  of  utter  hope- 
lessness might  have  been  breathed  into  it.  Rachel  threw  herself  on  the 
sofa,  and  sobbed  in  pain  and  shame  and  utter  weariness,  stretching  out 
hands  which  there  was  none  to  take.  At  that  moment  she  sickened  at 
the  mere  thought  of  existence.  Nothing  was  left  to  her.  She  had 
dreaded  this  interview  with  her  lover,  not  only  for  her  own  pain  in 
uttering  the  words  which  must  part  them,  but  far  more  for  the  thought 
of  his  pain.  She  had  wondered  how  Charley  would  take  it.  She  had 
no  idea  what  a  man's  sorrow  might  be  like,  and  she  had  trembled  at  the 
possibility  of  some  terrible  momentary  outbreak  of  rebellious  anguish. 

36—2 


748  DAMOCLES. 

But  she  had  never  feared  that  he  would  misunderstand  her.  She  had 
looked  forward  to  this  parting  as  to  a  supreme  hour  which  would  hold 
faith  and  friendship  even  in  the  bitterness  of  renunciation,  and  which, 
when  she  looked  baek  to  it  in  later  days,  would  glorify  her  love.  She 
had  not  expected  fine  speeches  or  attitudes.  But  she  had  hoped  that  she 
should  remember  the  warm  pressure  of  Charley's  hand,  the  troubled 
sympathy  in  his  kind  eyes,  and,  perhaps,  assurances  of  constancy,  and 
attempts  at  consolation  and  encouragement,  worded  simply,  or  even 
clumsily,  but  spoken  in  that  honest  voice  which  she  liked  to  hear.  He 
would  promise  to  be  her  brother,  and  that  Effie  should  be  her  sister. 
Then  he  would  go  away.  And  in  course  of  time  he  would  marry — she 
would  be  glad  that  he  should  marry — and  in  his  happiness  he  would 
perhaps  forget  that  first  boyish  love  which  she  would  always  remember. 
At  any  rate  it  would  be  buried  in  silence ;  but  it  would  be  hers,  like  the 
remembrance  of  flowers  in  a  bygone  spring,  and  in  her  lonely  life  it  would 
be  an  ever  living  bond  of  sympathy  between  her  and  all  young  hearts 
that  loved  and  hoped  around  her. 

That  was  her  dream,  and  in  reality  the  parting  had  been  a  miserable 
confusion  of  wrangling  words  and  hateful  suspicions.  Rachel,  pressing 
her  face  against  the  cushion  on  which  she  rested,  tried  hard  not  to  realise 
how  great  a  gulf  had  opened  between  herself  and  Charles  Eastwood.  In 
her  weariness  the  very  thought  of  him  was  so  distasteful  that  it  seemed 
to  her  as  if  she  must  have  been  in  some  degree  false  to  him.  Not  false 
as  he  had  thought,  but  could  she  have  deceived  herself?  This  was  the 
only  love  her  life  could  hold,  and  was  it  possible  that  it  was  a  mistake 
from  first  to  last  ]  Had  she  given  herself  away  and  never  really  loved 
at  all  1  She  could  not  tell,  but  she  knew  that  she  dared  not  look  back 
to  the  old  days  which  were  to  have  been  the  treasured  remembrance  of 
her  life.  Charley  had  never  understood  her,  nor  she  Charley.  Could  it 
be  that  she  had  lost  both  past  and  future,  and  that  nothing  was  left  to 
her  1  Miss  Whitney  ?  Even  in  her  misery  Rachel  could  not  help  faintly 
smiling.  Effie  1  No,  she  was  lost  with  Charley.  Mr.  Lauriston  1 

Yes ;  Mr.  Lauriston  remained.  She  lifted  her  hand  as  she  lay,  and 
held  it  up  to  the  light,  looking  at  the  ring  with  the  black  stone  in  it. 
Charley  had  looked  at  that  ring  more  than  once  during  his  talk,  with  a 
certainty  that  it  was  unfamiliar,  which  was  simple  enough,  and  yet  with 
a  vague  sense  that  somehow  it  was  familiar  too.  This  had  puzzled  him, 
but  as  he  had  not  happened  to  connect  it  with  Lauriston,  he  had  taken 
it  for  granted  that  it  had  come  to  Rachel  from  the  Rutherfords,  and  had 
not  spoken  of  it.  Rachel  herself  had  thought  of  the  ring  before  Charley 
came,  meaning  to  tell  him  of  it,  but  had  forgotten  it  later.  Now  she 
looked  at  it  dreamily  and  almost  apathetically,  holding  her  hand  at  a 
little  distance,  not  touching  the  ring  with  the  other  hand,  as  a  woman 
touches  and  turns  a  ring  she  loves.  After  a  minute  she  let  her  hand  fall 
and  lie.  Yes  ;  Mr.  Lauriston  remained,  but  the  taunting  iteration  with 
which  Eastwood  had  spoken  his  name  lingered  in  her  ear's.  "  Lauriston  ! 


DAMOCLES.  749 

You  told  Lauriston  !  How  Lauriston  must  have  laughed  !  "  Was  it 
possible  that  he  had  laughed  ?  Rachel's  feeling  towards  him  was  a  per- 
plexity to  herself,  an  attraction  which  was  seldom  for  any  length  of  time 
free  from  a  shadow  of  uneasy  doubt.  She  liked  the  thought  of  that 
afternoon  in  Redlands  Park,  less  now  that  she  knew  that  Charles  East- 
wood had  also  carried  his  confidences  to  Mr.  Lauriston.  Perhaps  he 
might  have  had  good  cause  to  smile  over  the  two  confessions.  She 
imagined  no  boisterous  laughter,  but  a  quiet  analytical  amusement, 
which  would  not  prevent  his  helping  her  to  the  utmost  of  his  power. 

She  determined  that  she  would  not  think  of  Mr.  Lauriston.  She 
clasped  her  hands  above  her  head,  so  that  she  did  not  see  his  ring,  and 
idly  watched  the  yellow  sunlight  on  the  wall.  There  was  a  restless 
buzzing  of  flies  on  the  window  panes,  and  from  time  to  time  a  street  cry, 
or  the  rattle  of  a  passing  cab.  She  fancied  that  she  was  thinking  only 
of  the  sights  and  sounds  around  her,  when  all  at  once  she  found  herself 
wondering  what  Mr.  Lauriston  would  have  thought  of  Charley  and  her- 
self that  afternoon.  Even  as  she  sprang  up  and  crossed  the  room,  hoping 
to  escape  the  importunate  and  intolerable  thought  by  movement,  there 
came  a  heavy  knocking  at  the  closed  door,  and  Miss  Whitney's  voice 
asking  admission.  For  an  instant  the  girl  paused  in  the  centre  of  the 
floor,  looking  vainly  round,  like  a  creature  caught  and  caged.  Then, 
with  a  half  laugh  at  her  own  folly,  she  answered  the  appeal,  and  braced 
herself  to  endure  the  inevitable  questioning.  As  she  turned  the  key  she 
foresaw  that  Miss  Whitney,  when  she  heard  what  had  passed,  would 
pride  herself  on  her  superior  sagacity.  Had  she  not  feared  some  little 
irritation  on  Mr.  Eastwood's  part  1  "  It  seems  she  knew  him  better 
than  I  did,"  said  Rachel  to  herself. 


CHAPTER  IX. 
ALONE. 

MR.  LAURISTON,  ushered  in  the  next  morning,  looked  round  the  room  for 
Miss  Whitney,  as  Charles  Eastwood  had  looked  the  day  before,  and  saw 
only  Rachel,  standing  by  the  chimney-piece.  She  was  evidently  await- 
ing him.  As  he  went  forward  to  greet  her  he  had  time,  with  one  of  his 
swift  glances,  to  recognise  a  certain  difference  in  her  appearance.  She 
was  very  tired,  any  one  might  see  that.  And  the  vague  sadness  and 
apprehension,  which  formerly  passed  like  cloud  shadows  over  her  face,  had 
given  place  to  a  more  definite  and  settled  melancholy.  But  what  impressed 
him  chiefly  was  something  of  loneliness  in  her  look  and  attitude. 

"  Miss  Whitney  isn't  well,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand.  "  She 
has  a  headache,  and  she  thought  she  would  lie  down." 

"  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that.  Had  I  better  come  again  later  ?  She  sent 
me  a  message,  you  know." 


750  DAMOCLES. 

"  I  know.     But  it  was  I  who  wanted  to  see  you." 

Mr.  Lauriston  bent  his  head  slightly.  "  In  that  case  I'm  very  much 
at  your  service,"  he  said,  as  he  drew  a  chair  forward.  "  Is  it  anything 
I  can  do  for  you  1  You  look  as  if  somebody  ought  to  do  something  for 

you." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Eachel. 

"  Well,  you  look  as  if  you  had  been  doing  rather  too  much  for  your- 
self and  other  people." 

"  I  didn't  sleep  very  well  last  night,"  the  girl  replied.  There  was  a 
brief  pause.  "  Mr.  Lauriston,"  she  said,  "  Charles  Eastwood  was  here 
yesterday." 

Her  eyes  met  a  vivid  glance  of  interest  and  inquiry,  but  he  looked 
down  instantly,  as  if  he  would  not  press  her  with  a  question.  "  Miss 
Whitney  told  me  he  was  coming,"  he  said. 

"Yes."     Again  there  was  a  pause.     "  He  was  very  angry." 

"  Angry  ?     How  was  that  1 " 

"  Well,"  said  Rachel,  "  he  didn't  believe  me.  You  see  it  came  upon 
him  by  surprise.  He  wasn't  prepared." 

Mr.  Lauriston,  still  looking  down,  did  not  seem  ready  with  a  reply, 
and  after  a  moment  she  went  on.  "  If  you  think  of  it,  perhaps  it  is  not 
wonderful.  He  came  with  such  different  thoughts  in  his  head,  and  I  had 
done  nothing  to  warn  him  beforehand."  .Rachel  had  tried  so  hard  to 
defend  Charley  to  herself,  that  she  found  it  comparatively  easy  to  plead 
for  him  to  Mr.  Lauriston.  "  It  was  my  fault ;  I  thought  it  would  be 
easier  to  tell  than  to  write,  and  it  did  not  seem  so  when  the  time  came. 
But  I  don't  think  it  was  wonderful  that  he  did  not  understand  just  at 
first,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  would  have  been  wonderful  if  he  had,"  was  the  slightly 
ambiguous  reply.  "  But  did  he  understand  at  last  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Rachel  reluctantly  ;   "  I'm  afraid  he  didn't." 

"And  he  went  away  angry,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston  half  to  himself. 
"  But,  Miss  Con  way,  if  you  are  going  to  tell  me  about  this " 

She  nodded. 

"  There  is  a  question  I  must  ask.  If  Eastwood  didn't  believe  what 
you  told  him,  what  did  he  believe  ?  " 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  want  to  tell  you,"  said  Rachel ;  "  I  think  you 
ought  to  know."  She  looked  him  in  the  face  with  a  coolness  which  even 
to  herself  seemed  singular.  "  Charley  does  not  believe  I  have  told  him 
the  real  reason.  He  blames  you.  Mr.  Lauriston,  you  are  not  to  be 
angry,"  she  said  with  simple  confidence.  "  He  thinks  I  am  not  true  to 
him,  but  that  I  should  have  been  true  if  you  had  not  been  against  him, 
and  persuaded  me  to  give  him  up." 

Mr.  Lauriston  showed  no  signs  of  anger.  In  fact  he  smiled. 
"  Eastwood  overrates  my  influence,"  he  said. 

"  But  it  was  not  unnatural,"  she  persisted.  "  It  was  my  fault  for  ever 
troubling  you.  with  my  foolish  fancies.  I  see  now  that  it  was  a  mistake." 


DAMOCLES.  751 

"  I  am  sorry "  he  began,  but  the  girl  interrupted  him. 

"  It  seems  as  if  I  were  always  saying  something  ungracious,  but  you 
must  understand,  please.  It  is  not  because  of  anything  you  have  done 
that  I  say  it  was  a  mistake.  But  I  see  now  that  if  I  meant  to  tell  any 
one  I  ought  to  have  told  Charley,  only  somehow  I  couldn't.  I  hoped  it 
was  all  such  silly  nonsense  that  it  did  not  matter,  but  as  things  have 
turned  out  it  is  different.  It  was  difficult  to  explain  yesterday " 

Mr.  Lauriston  made  a  little  gesture  of  assent,  and  waited  for  her  to 
go  on. 

"  In  fact  it  seemed  that  I  couldn't  explain,"  she  said.  "  And  when  I 
denied  it,  I  felt  as  if  I  were  insulting  you.  There  are  things  one  ought 
not  to  be  obliged  to  deny,  but  Charley  was  too  startled  and  angry  to 
think  what  he  was  saying." 

"  Of  course  he  was.  But,  Miss  Conway,  what  did  you  want  me  to 
do  in  this  matter  ? " 

"  Nothing,"  she  said  quickly.  "  But  I  thought — I  was  afraid  you 
might  meet  him." 

"  Ah  !  "  Lauriston  looked  up  with  quick  intelligence.  "  He  is  in  a 
threatening  mood  ? " 

"  You  must  be  patient  with  him,"  she  said,  very  earnestly.  "  It  was 
my  fault,  Mr.  Lauriston,  and  you  must  bear  with  him  for  my  sake.  You 
don't  like  Charley,  I  know,  but  you  must  remember  it  was  hard  on  him." 

"You  do  me  something  less  than  justice,"  he  replied,  "if  you  don't 
believe  that  I  am  sincerely  sorry  for  Eastwood  now.  As  for  his  want  of 
belief  in  you — well,  I  haven't  any  right  to  resent  that." 

"  But  for  yourself,  Mr.  Lauriston  ;  if  he  is  angry  1 " 

"  If  I  met  him,  and  if  he  were  angry,  I  would  remember  what  you 
have  said.  But  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  meet  him,  and  I  don't  much 
think  he  is  as  angry  to-day.  I  know  Charley's  tempers  pretty  well ; 
they  are  hot,  but  they  don't  last.  You  may  depend  upon  it  he  has 
cooled  down,  forgotten  half  he  said,  and  repented  of  some  of  the  rest. 
Have  you  been  worrying  yourself  about  this  ?  " 

"  A  little,  perhaps,"  said  Rachel.  In  truth,  the  thought  had  haunted 
her  during  the  long  hours  of  that  sleepless  night.  She  had  feared  some 
outbreak  of  violence  if  the  two  met.  Charley's  furious  jealousy  had  ter- 
rified her,  and  when  she  closed  her  eyes  his  face  rose  up  before  her  in  the 
shadows,  as  she  had  seen  it  when  he  paused  at  the  door  to  threaten  Mr. 
Lauriston.  At  the  time  his  threat  had  passed  unheeded,  lost  in  the 
storm  of  his  menacing  words ;  but  she  realised  its  meaning  afterwards, 
and  her  fevered  fancy  dwelt  on  it,  and  intensified  her  recollection,  till  she 
feared  the  worst.  Nor  was  it  only  Charley's  face  that  haunted  her.  By 
a  curious  divination,  though  she  had  never  known  Mr.  Lauriston  other- 
wise than  quiet  and  courteous,  she  seemed  to  see  him  also,  not  distinctly 
like  the  other,  but  as  a  pale  mask  against  the  background  of  darkness, 
floating  uncertainly  till  she  fixed  her  attention  on  eyes  or  lips,  when  the 
expression  became  visible.  As  she  lay  there,  too  weak  and  weary  to 


752  DAMOCLES. 

control  her  excited  imagination,  she  seemed  to  see  how  Charles  East- 
wood's utmost  fury  would  be  that  of  a  brute,  and  Adam  Lauriston's  that 
of  a  devil.  Of  course  the  morning  light  banished  these  grotesquely 
exaggerated  terrors,  and  brought  saner  thoughts,  though  enough  un- 
easiness remained  to  make  her  anxious  to  see  Mr.  Lauriston,  and  speak 
a  word  of  warning.  But  even  the  morning's  apprehension  seemed  absurd 
when  Mr.  Lauriston  was  actually  before  her,  looking  much  as  usual,  and 
saying  in  his  quiet  voice  that  he  knew  Charley's  tempers  pretty  well. 
Rachel  was  half  ashamed  of  her  own  fancies,  and  half  frightened  at  their 
fantastic  madness,  as  she  allowed  that  she  had  worried  herself  about  this 
matter  "  a  little,  perhaps." 

"  Then  pray  don't  do  so  any  more.  Eastwood  and  I  are  not  going  to 
quarrel.  What  makes  you  think  I  don't  like  him  1  " 

"  Well,  you  don't,"  she  said  unanswerably. 

Mr.  Lauriston  slightly  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I  thought  I  did, 
with  reasonable  limitations,"  he  said.  "  Not  in  a  David  and  Jonathan 
fashion,  of  course.  I  never  professed  that." 

"  People  don't  trouble  themselves  about  reasonable  limitations  in  a 
case  of  real  liking,"  said  the  girl.  "  I  don't  suppose  that  you  dislike 
Charley,  but  you  are  not  quite  just  to  him,  I  think." 

"  Very  likely  not.  Justice  is  about  the  most  unattainable  thing 
going." 

"  Not  intentionally  unjust,"  she  said.  "  I  didn't  mean  that,  but  I 
don't  think  you  understand  him."  A  sudden  colour  dyed  her  face,  and 
she  looked  at  her  companion.  "  I  oughtn't  to  talk  of  understanding 
him,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  didn't  yesterday." 

Mr.  Lauriston  stooped  to  pick  up  his  glove.  "  What  are  you  and 
Miss  Whitney  going  to  do  ? "  he  asked,  as  he  threw  himself  back  in  his 
chair,  with  a  glance  round  the  room.  "  Isn't  your  business  with  Goodwin 
pretty  nearly  finished  by  now  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  don't  know  that  there  is  anything  to  stay  for." 

"  Then  I  think  you  ought  to  get  away  into  fresher  air,"  he  said,  look- 
ing critically  at  her  pale  cheeks  and  heavy-lidded  eyes.  "  These  rooms 
are  gloomy  too  ;  all  this  old  furniture  must  have  had  a  long  acquaintance 
with  London  dust,  and  dirt,  and  fogs.  You  don't  want  to  breathe  the 
stored-up  smoke  of  bygone  years,  the  ordinary  supply  is  quite  sufficient. 
Have  you  made  any  plans  yet  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  make  any  plans,"  said  Rachel.  "  I  must,  I 
suppose,  but  I  don't  know  how  to  begin." 

"  What  does  Miss  Whitney  say  ?  " 

"  Miss  Whitney's  plans  won't  be  mine  any  more,"  she  answered, 
looking  down. 

There  was  a  flash  of  surprise  in  Mr.  Lauriston's  eyes.  "  No  ?  "  he 
said.  "  Already !  " 

Rachel  laughed.  She  had  not  even  smiled  before,  and  there  was 
something  sad  in  this  brief  and  sudden  laughter.  "  I'm  hard  to  please," 


DAMOCLES.  753 

she  said.     "  Nobody  believes  exactly  what  I  want  them  to  believe,  un- 
less you  do,  Mr.  Lauriston  !  " 

"  What  does  Miss  Whitney  believe,  then  1  " 

"  All  that  I  tell  her,  and  a  little  more.  Miss  Whitney  is  quite  im- 
pressed with  the  fact  of  the  Rutherford  madness.  She  has  been  seriously 
considering  it  ever  since  I  told  her  why  I  could  never  marry." 

"  But  what  does  she  say  1 " 

"  Nothing,  or  very  little.     But  she  is  afraid  of  me." 

Mr.  Lauriston  sprang  up  with  a  hasty  exclamation,  which  Rachel 
could  not  catch,  but  she  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  his  face  for  a 
moment  under  a  new  aspect.  He  walked  quickly  across  the  room  and 
back  before  he  spoke.  "  Miss  Conway,"  he  said,  halting  before  her,  "  are 
you  serious  ? " 

"  Quite,"  she  answered.  "  I  don't  mean  it  is  only  that.  You  see  she 
thought  I  was  going  to  be  married,  and  of  coui-se  that  would  have  made 
a  difference.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  that  we  must  be  parted  soon. 
And  now  she  knows  of  this  she  is  so  dreadfully  nervous "j 

"  Good  God  !  "  said  Lauriston,  still  looking  down  at  the  gii-l's  white 
face. 

"  She  doesn't  say  anything,  but  she  watches  me  anxiously  to  see  what 
I  am  likely  to  do,"  Rachel  explained.  "  We  can't  go  on  so,  you  know. 
I  can't  live  with  somebody  who  wants  me  to  feed  myself  with  a  spoon, 
and  Miss  Whitney  can't  live  with  somebody  who  may  put  a  dinner-knife 
to  her  throat  at  any  minute.  It  isn't  possible." 

Mr.  Lauriston  had  recovered  something  of  his  ordinary  manner. 
"  Well,  you  wouldn't  either  of  you  enjoy  your  meals,"  he  said  drily. 

"  No.  Poor  Miss  Whitney  has  the  worst  of  it,  I  think,  so  for  her 
sake  the  sooner  it  is  ended  the  better.  But  I  don't  quite  know  how  to 
set  about  it." 

"  You  are  so  utterly  alone  !  "  he  said.  It  was  half  a  question,  half 
an  exclamation. 

"  She  will  not  leave  me  till  I  have  settled  what  I  am  going  to  do. 
Mr.  Lauriston,  you  must  not  be  hard  on  Miss  Whitney.  She  has  always 
been  kind  to  me,  and  she  can't  help  being  nervous,  you  know.  Upon 
my  word,"  said  Rachel  with  a  little  laugh,  "  I  think  it  is  wonderfully 
brave  of  her  to  stay  with  me  at  all,  when  she  feels  like  that.  Why,  it's 
as  bad  as  if  I  were  shut  up  with  my  grey  lady  ! " 

She  spoke  in  what  was  intended  for  a  lightly  defiant  tone,  but  there 
was  a  touch  of  painful  effort  in  it  in  spite  of  her.  "  I  don't  think  it's 
quite  a  parallel  case,  is  it  1 "  said  Mr.  Lauriston,  with  a  curious  smile. 
"  Well,  it  doesn't  matter.  I  will  respectfully  admire  Miss  Whitney's 
valour,  since  you  intend  to  dispense  with  it,  and  her,  as  soon  as  may  be." 

Rachel  sighed.  "  I  always  thought  if  she  and  I  were  parted  that 
there  would  be  the  Eastwoods.  I  never  fancied  that  I  should  be  quite 
alone.  Erne  and  I  used  to  plan  how  we  would  live  together,  and  Mrs. 
Eastwood  often  said  she  felt  as  if  I  were  one  of  her  girls.  Well,  that's 


754  DAMOCLES. 

all  over  !  And  now  the  question  is,  what  am  I  to  do  1  I  must  have 
some  lady  to  live  with  me ;  ought  I  to  advertise  ? " 

"  That  would  be  one  way,  no  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston,  sitting 
down  again  in  the  same  low  chair  on  which  Charles  Eastwood  had  knelt 
while  he  begged  Rachel  to  forgive  him.  He  leaned  back,  and  his  head 
rested  just  where  their  clasped  hands  had  been.  "  One  way,  but  hardly 
the  best.  You  must  be  careful,  you  and  Miss  "Whitney,  I  mean." 

"  I  don't  see  any  other  way,"  Rachel  replied.  "  And  if  I  do  adver- 
tise, you  will  have  to  write  the  advertisement  for  me.  You  don't  know 
how  helpless  I  am,  and  though,  as  I  said,  Miss  Whitney  will  stay  with 
me  till  everything  is  arranged,  I  think  you  must  take  it  for  granted  that 
she  has  abdicated.  We  had  a  talk  last  night,"  the  girl  coloured  as  if  at 
some  remembrance,  and  hurried  on,  "  and  I  don't  think  I  must  depend 
on  her  to  manage  anything  for  me.  But  surely  it  can't  be  very  difficult. 
I  want  to  find  a  lady  who  will  know  about  everything  for  me,  and  who 
will  be  pleasant  and  kind,  and  let  me  go  my  own  way  in  peace.  Can't  I 
find  one  like  that  ?  Oh  !  Mr.  Lauriston,  ask  your  cousin ;  ask  Mrs. 
Latham  if  she  knows  anybody,  will  you  1  I  could  trust  her ;  I  think  she 
would  understand.  I  would  rather  have  somebody  she  knew  than  just 
a  stranger  who  answered  an  advertisement." 

He  looked  hard  at  her.     "  Why  not  Mrs.  Latham  herself  ]  "  he  said. 

For  a  moment  Rachel  did  not  speak ;  but  there  came  into  the  clear 
depths  of  her  grey  eyes  something  that  was  like  a  gleam  of  sunshine  on  a 
rainy  day.  It  was  the  first  light  of  anything  like  hope  or  pleasure  that 
had  crossed  her  face  since  she  came  into  her  inheritance,  and,  faint  as  it 
was,  it  was  reflected  in  Mr.  Lauriston's  glance  ;  yet  it  seemed  to  him  the 
saddest  revelation  of  her  loneliness,  that  she  should  catch  so  eagerly  at 
this  slight  bond  of  acquaintanceship.  "  Mrs.  Latham  ! "  she  repeated. 
"  But  she  wouldn't." 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  "  but  I  think  she  would  like  it." 

Rachel  looked  down,  smiling  to  herself,  and  following  out  this  new 
idea.  Mrs.  Latham  had  pleased  her,  had  seemed  to  her  a  woman  who 
would  have  tact  and  readiness  in  little  everyday  matters,  and  who  would 
not  want  to  search  into  deeper  springs  of  thought  and  feeling.  The  girl 
desired  to  possess  her  own  soul  in  silence.  Her  haunting  sense  of  loneli- 
ness and  dread  had  overcome  this  instinct  once,  and  compelled  her  to 
accept  Mr.  Lauriston's  friendship ;  but  there  were  times  when  she  re- 
santed  his  presence  in  the  sanctuary  to  which  she  had  herself  admitted 
him.  And  even  had  she  wished  for  sympathy,  she  saw  clearly  that,  in 
taking  him  for  her  confidant,  she  had  for  ever  shut  herself  out  from  the 
possibility  of  frank  speech  with  any  other.  The  mere  fact  of  the  Ruther- 
ford madness  might  be  told  to  all  the  world,  but  the  dusky  terror  which 
lurked  in  all  the  shadows  of  her  life,  and  gave  the  fact  its  dark  signifi- 
cance, could  never  again  be  drawn  forth  and  put  into  words,  without  a 
consciousness  of  Mr.  Lauriston  as  a  third  in  the  interview,  mute,  but 
with  expressive  eyes  and  lips.  Such  as  he  was,  he  was  her  only  possible 


DAMOCLES.  755 

friend,  and  Rachel  was  glad  to  think  that  Mrs.  Latham  was  his  cousin. 
The  relationship  assured  a  continued  communication  between  herself  and 
Mr.  Lauriston  in  an  easy  and  matter-of-fact  way,  which  would  not 
be  a  strain  on  her  uncertain  feelings  towards  him.  Such  lifelong 
bonds,  if  they  are  not  to  fray  and  grow  thin,  should  be  formed  either  of 
the  deepest  and  truest  sentiments,  or  of  the  circumstances  of  daily  life 
which  hold  people  together  till  habit  has  united  them.  It  was  unnatural 
that  these  two  should  have  no  common  ground  on  which  to  meet,  except 
the  darkest  and  most  shadowy  recesses  of  the  woman's  soul,  and  that 
they  should  be  bound  so  closely  together  with  neither  custom  nor  love. 
Rachel,  thinking  thus  of  Mr.  Lauriston,  looked  up  and  met  his  eyes. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said,  "  I  thought  you  were  weighing  advantages  and  dis- 
advantages, but  I  fancy  you  had  wandered  away  to  something  more 
abstract,  had  you  not?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  need  weigh  them,"  she  replied,  "  if  Mrs.  Latham 
is  willing  to  try  me  ;  but  will  you  ask  her  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it,  or  you  might  ask  her  yourself.  But,  Miss 
Conway,  there  are  one  or  two  things  you  ought  to  consider.  I  think 
myself  the  plan  is  a  good  one.  I  believe  you  will  find  Laura  very  pleasant 
to  live  with.  I  don't  imagine  that  there  will  be  any  very  deep  sympathy 
between  you " 

"  I  don't  want  it,"  said  Rachel  hastily. 

There  was  a  scarcely  perceptible  pause,  and  then  Mr.  Lauriston  half 
smiled  as  he  went  on.  "  But  I  think  you  will  be  good  friends,  as  people 
use  the  term.  And  there  is  one  great  advantage,  that  if  you  have  made 
a  mistake,  there  will  be  no  difficulty  about  parting.  Laura  has  her  own 
income — not  large,  but  sufficient  to  allow  her  to  go  her  own  way  as  freely 
as  you  can  go  yours.  You  need  have  no  scruples ;  you  need  not  feel 

bound  in  any  way.  But  on  the  other  hand "  He  stopped  and  looked 

questioningly  at  her. 

"  I  don't  see  what  there  is  on  the  other  hand,"  she  said. 

"  No  1  Perhaps  you  have  seen  it  and  made  up  your  mind  about  it. 
It  is  no  business  of  mine,  I  suppose ;  yet  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  remind 
you.  that,  if  you  live  with  ray  cousin,  Eastwood  will  certainly  attribute 
the  arrangement  to  that  influence  of  mine  which  he  over-estimates  in 
such  a  flattering  way.  I  know  better,  but  perhaps  from  his  point  of 
view " 

Rachel,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  looked  at  Mr.  Lauriston,  and  drew 
her  brows  down.  Her  face  hardened  painfully  into  decision  as  he  waited. 
"  That  will  not  make  any  difference,"  she  said  slowly. 

"  So  be  it." 

After  a  moment  she  continued,  as  if  she  had  not  heeded  his  ready 
assent.  "  I  cannot  make  Charley  believe  me.  My  word  is  not  enough. 
I  was  silly  enough  to  think  that  I  myself  was  enough  ;  that  he  knew  me, 
and  would  not  want  even  words.  But  it  seems  I  was  wrong.  If  this  is 
as  you  say,  I  think  I  would  rather  do  something  decisive,  and  make  sure 


756  DAMOCLES. 

that  it  is  all  over.  What  business  have  I  to  think  any  more  about  him 
now  1 " 

11  Well,"  said  Mr.  Lauriston,  as  if  he  were  carrying  on  the  general 
conversation  rather  than  answering  her  last  speech,  "  there  is  no  hurry, 
is  there  ]  Suppose  you  let  me  know  what  you  think  to-morrow.  That 
will  give  you  time  to  talk  it  over  with  Miss  Whitney  if  you  like.  Laura 
is  stationary  for  the  next  few  days,  so  it  will  be  just  the  same,  as  far  as 
she  is  concerned,  whether  we  speak  to  her  to-day  or  next  week." 

"  I  thought  she  was  seeing  about  a  house,"  said  Rachel. 

"  No ;  only  getting  rid  of  the  house  she  had.  She  is  going  to  the  sea 
when  that  is  settled,  I  believe.  You  might  go  together  and  try  how  you 
liked  each  other  before  you  pledged  yourselves  to  anything.  Where 
should  you  like  to  got" 

Rachel  hesitated  over  her  answer.  Places  seemed  very  indifferent 
to  her  just  then,  always  provided  they  were  not  the  places  which  she 
had  known  with  Miss  Whitney  and  the  Eastwoods.  She  had  an  intense 
desire  for  something  new,  but  she  questioned  whether  the  world  held  it. 
There  is  as  yet  no  "  Murray  "  to  guide  us  to  the  country  where  one  can 
travel  away  from  one's  shadow,  and  nothing  is  quite  new  in  that  familiar 
company.  Rachel's  vague  aspirations  were  directed  towards  a  world 
which,  by  the  hazard  of  an  impression,  apparently  unimportant,  yet 
proving  curiously  permanent,  lay  in  purple  mystery  beyond  a  wide 
stretch  of  shadowy  moorland.  The  very  road  which  led  to  it  revealed 
itself  in  the  moonlight,  white,  straight,  and  untrodden.  She  did  not 
imagine  that  she  was  destined  to  tread  that  path  with  Mrs.  Latham,  or 
indeed  with  any  human  being,  but  it  was  to  her  the  symbol  of  all  she 
longed  to  discover. 

"  I  don't  mind,  she  said  languidly.  "  I  should  like  to  go  to  some 
place  where  I  have  never  been ;  but  that  is  easy,  for  I  have  hardly  been 
anywhere.  Anything  else  that  Mrs.  Latham  liked  I  should  like.  You 
can  fancy — can't  you  ? — that  if  I  went  to  the  seaside,  I  should  not  cai*e  to 
go  up  that  cliff  path  again.  I  feel  as  if  I  would  not  rather  go  there  any 
more." 

"  I  can  quite  imagine  that,"  he  replied. 

Rachel  was  silent  for  a  moment,  leaning  back  in  an  easy  chair  of  dusky 
red.  The  sombre  colour,  and  her  heavy  black  dress,  emphasised  the  pallor 
of  her  clearly-cut  features. 

"  How  very  tired  you  are !"  said  Mr.  Lauriston,  as  he  had  said  a  few- 
days  before. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  absently,  as  if  her  weariness  were  so  much  a 
matter  of  course  that  an  allusion  to  it  did  not  arouse  her  attention.  "  I 
was  thinking  what  places  were  haunted  for  me.  There  is  that  bit  of 
turf  by  the  cliff's  edge,  and  there  is  the  house  where  the  grey  lady  lived. 
It  is  queer  to  think  that  that  house  is  really  standing  somewhere  on  the 
face  of  the  earth.  I  fancy  now  and  then  that  some  day,  when  I  am  least 
expecting  it,  I  shall  find  myself  driving  across  that  little  bridge,  with 


DAMOCLES.  757 

the  water  rushing  over  the  stones  below,  and  I  shall  start  and  look  up, 
and,  as  the  carriage  swings  round  the  corner,  I  shall  see  the  grey  house 
on  the  hill-side,  and  the  black  fir-trees  up  against  the  clouds." 

"  But  don't  you  know  where  it  is  1 "  he  asked  in  some  surprise. 

"  Well,  yes,  to  a  certain  extent  I  do.  I  could  find  it,  of  course,  if  I 
tried,  because  I  know  where  we  were  living  just  then.  But  it  was  a  long 
drive — twelve  or  thirteen  miles,  I  should  think — and  whether  we  went 
north,  south,  east,  or  west  I  don't  know." 

"Possibly  it  might  wear  a  more  commonplace  aspect  if  you  did 
find  it." 

"  Then  I  would  rather  not.  It  would  be  just  as  terrible — nothing 
could  alter  that.  I  would  rather  have  it  unlike  everything  else." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  said.  "  If  our  terrors  are  to  continue 
to  exist  they  may  as  well  be  poetical.  And  are  there  any  more  haunted 
places,  Miss  Con  way  1 " 

"  Yes,  there  is  the  school  where  Miss  Whitney  sent  me  after  mamma 
died.  I  was  so  very  miserable  there.  They  were  not  unkind  to  me,  but 
I  was  so  utterly  alone.  Sometimes  I  used  to  feel  as  if  all  the  girls  and 
governesses  were  just  a  noisy  dream,  and  only  the  madwoman  and  I  were 
real.  Yes,  before  Effie  came,  that  school  was  certainly  one  of  my  haunted 
places." 

"And — Redlands?"  said  Mr.  Lauriston.  "  Ah  !  but  I  ought  not  to 
ask  that ! "  For  Rachel,  hesitating  in  her  turn,  raised  her  eyes,  and 
looked  at  him  with  an  appealing  glance. 

"  Your  park  is  very  beautiful,"  she  said  after  a  pause.  "  It  was  such 
a  dim,  melancholy  day  when  you  showed  it  to  me ;  I  hardly  know  what 
it  would  be  in  the  sunshine.  But  I  remember  how  good  the  earth  and 
all  the  green  leaves  smelt.  I  wonder  whether  it  would  be  as  sweet  now." 

"  Scarcely  so  fresh  and  green  late  in  August,"  he  said. 

"  No ;  but  something  better  than  these  town  trees,"  she  said  musingly. 
Her  thoughts  went  back  to  the  grass,  and  mossy  stems,  and  shining 
ivy-leaves  of  that  spring  day,  and  to  the  great  bed  of  thickly-grown 
lilies,  where  Mr.  Lauriston  stooped  and  gathered  her  that  handful  of 
flowers,  whose  penetrating  sweetness  mixed  strangely  with  her  strange 
fancies.  "  At  least,"  she  said,  looking  up,  "  I  have  only  kind  memories 
of  Redlands.  And  if  I  insisted  on  taking  my  own  ghost  into  your  park, 
it  wasn't  your  fault,  Mr.  Lauriston." 

"  Perhaps  I  had  talked  too  much  of  mine,"  he  said  lightly.  But  he 
was  thinking,  as  he  said  it,  that  there  was  nothing  that  he  possessed  which 
had  not  in  some  measure  taken  the  impression  of  her  sadness.  She  had 
told  him  that  his  house  was  too  big,  and  hollow,  and  full  of  shadows ; 
and  he  suspected  that,  in  her  thoughts,  his  garden  was  only  the  scene  of 
that  hinted  story  of  which  he  had  spoken  when  be  did  not  know  her, 
and  when  he  was  trying  to  awaken  her  interest  that  he  might  study  it. 
And  his  park — must  not  Rachel  feel  as  if  the  low  clouds,  that  hung  so 
sullenly  above  its  trees  that  afternoon,  were  heavy  with  the  bolt  which 


758  DAMOCLES. 

was  to  shatter  her  life  a  few  weeks  later  1  Nothing  of  his  could  ever 
seem  new  and  hopeful  to  her. 

"  Where  do  you  think  Mrs.  Latham  is  going  ? "  she  asked  presently, 
and  he  promptly  came  back  to  everyday  life. 

He  did  not  know  what  Laura's  plans  were,  he  said.  But  he  talked 
a  little  of  possible  places  pleasantly  enough,  and  then  rose  to  go.  He 
left  a  civil  message  of  regret  concerning  Miss  Whitney's  indisposition, 
promised  to  be  Miss  Conway's  ambassador  to  his  cousin  on  the  morrow, 
if  she  wished  it,  and  was  politely  bowing  himself  out  when  the  girl  re- 
called him. 

"  Mr.  Lauriston,"  she  said,  "  I  want  to  know " 

"  Well  ?"  he  smiled,  as  she  paused.  "  But  perhaps  it  is  something  I 
want  to  know  too." 

"  No ;  you  know  it.  Did  you  settle  this  beforehand  about  Mrs. 
Latham  ?  Did  you  plan  it,  I  mean  ] " 

"  Yes  and  no,"  he  answered  instantly.  "  I  did  not  fancy  you  would 
live  very  long  with  Miss  Whitney.  I  thought  she  would  find  the  change 
too  great.  I  did  not  see  why  you  and  Laura  should  not  be  friends 
meanwhile,  and  then  afterwards,  if  you  had  cared  to  make  any  arrange- 
ment  " 

"  I  see,"  said  Rachel.     "  I  thought  I  should  like  to  know." 

"  But  I  did  not  anticipate  this  hurried  dissolution  of  partnership,  and 
I  have  never  said  a  word  to  Laura,"  Mr.  Lauriston  continued.  "  My 
idea  was  only  of  a  distant  possibility,  if  you  had  become  friends." 

"  I  see,"  said  Rachel  again. 

He  waited  a  moment,  but,  as  she  asked  no  further  question,  he  re- 
peated his  goodbye,  and  went. 

Rachel,  left  to  herself,  did  not  watch  Mr.  Lauriston  down  the  street 
as  she  had  watched  Charley  the  day  before.  She  went  slowly  back  to 
her  chair  and  propped  her  head  on  her  hand,  meditating.  He  had  said, 
when  he  rose  to  go,  that  he  feared  he  was  tiring  her,  but  in  truth  it 
was  only  his  presence  that  gave  her  any  feeling  of  rest.  While  he  was 
there  she  had  some  one  to  answer  her,  some  one  who  was  ready  to  offer 
suggestions,  and  who,  if  need  were,  could  help  her  to  resolve.  Depressed 
and  burdened  as  she  was,  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  turn  her  thoughts 
from  her  own  anxieties,  and  Mr.  Lauriston's  talk  demanded  no  such 
effort,  but  lingered  about  that  central  subject,  dealing  with  lighter 
matters,  such  as  her  approaching  journey,  yet  always  with  an  underlying 
remembrance.  In  his  absence  she  saw  her  life  under  a  more  common- 
place aspect.  Fate  was  no  longer  mysterious,  working  in  the  shadows  of 
the  past  and  future,  but  cold,  dull,  hard-featured,  prosaic,  something 
which  had  to  be  explained  to  Miss  Whitney.  Rachel,  as  she  sat  gazing 
at  the  hearthrug,  was  heavily  conscious  of  the  good  lady  in  the  best  bed- 
room overhead. 

Poor  Miss  Whitney  had  suffered  more  in  the  matter  than  the  girl 
quite  understood.  After  her  own  frigid  fashion  she  had  loved  the 


DAMOCLES.  759 

daughter  of  her  dead  friend,  and  Rachel,  opening  into  beautiful  woman- 
hood, was  the  blossom  of  her  narrowly  enclosed  life.  Miss  Whitney 
would  have  preferred  a  more  formal  and  sapless  flower,  but  at  least  she 
had  never  spared  careful  training  and  guardianship.  The  tidings  of 
Rachel's  fortune  bewildered  her  ;  she  could  neither  understand  nor  enjoy 
so  great  a  change.  Still,  for  Rachel's  sake,  she  rejoiced  in  her  wealth, 
and  at  the  first  moment  was  not  disposed  to  attach  too  much  importance 
to  the  story  of  the  Rutherford  madness  which  accompanied  it.  She 
believed  that,  even  among  the  highest  families,  instances  of  the  traditional 
skeleton  in  the  cupboard  were  not  unknown.  Such  things  were  very  sad, 
and,  according  to  Miss  Whitney,  should  be  hushed  up.  What  frightened 
her  in  Rachel's  case  was  the  insistence  with  which  the  girl  dwelt  on  this 
terrible  thought,  as  a  matter  not  of  the  past  but  of  the  present.  Miss 
Whitney  was  compelled  to  look  upon  it  as  a  fact,  so  powerful  and  so 
close  at  hand  that  it  changed  the  whole  course  and  direction  of  life,  and 
when  it  was  thus  brought  home  to  her  she  was  aghast.  Moreover,  there 
was  something  improper  in  dragging  these  hidden  mysteries  into  the 
light  of  day,  and  discussing  them  with  a  young  man.  When  she  ques- 
tioned Rachel  concerning  her  interview  with  Charley,  she  drew  forth  an 
avowal  that  he  had  said  that  he  was  not  afraid,  and  that  his  feelings 
were  unchanged.  "  That  was  very  nice  of  him,"  Miss  Whitney  remarked. 
"  I  don't  see  what  you  could  say  to  him  after  that." 

"  It  didn't  concern  Charley  only,"  Rachel  replied. 

"  No ;  of  course  it  concerned  you  too.  But  you  were  not  changed 
either." 

"  Nor  me  only,"  was  the  answer.  "  Were  our  children  to  be  born  to 
this  same  fear  of  mine  1 " 

"  But  you  couldn't  say  that  to  Mr.  Eastwood  ! " 

Miss  Whitney  would  have  doomed  any  number  of  possible  children 
to  a  lunatic  asylum,  and  would  have  gone  herself  resignedly  to  the  stake, 
sooner  than  have  spoken  of  them  to  a  young  man.  She  would  not  even 
have  owned  in  so  many  words  to  herself  that  she  had  ever  thought  of 
them ;  and  when  the  girl  fronted  her,  and,  with  a  hot  wave  of  colour 
flushing  her  pure  face,  said,  "  Yes ;  I  did  say  it,  or  something  vei-y  like  it 
— he  understood  what  I  meant,"  poor  Miss  Whitney,  blushing  too,  could 
only  cry,  "  Oh,  Rachel ! "  in  low  tones  of  horror. 

"  Well,  what  else  could  I  do  ?     I  had  no  choice." 

"  It  is  my  fault,"  groaned  the  elder  lady.  "  I  have  left  you  too  much 
to  yourself.  I  ought  to  have  taken  more  care.  You  have  been  so  inde- 
pendent; but,  oh,  Rachel!  I  didn't  think  I  need  tell  you  that  girls 
don't  say  such  things  to  gentlemen." 

Rachel  turned  away  proudly  and  gravely ;  but  in  Miss  Whitney's 
eyes,  which  followed  her  with  sorrowful  glances,  she  had  lost  the  bloom 
of  perfectly  preserved  modesty.  There  might  have  been  a  touch  of  "  im- 
proper propriety  "  in  this  judgment,  only  with  Miss  Whitney  there  was 
such  a  simple  and  single-minded  desire  to  do  what  was  correct  that  the 


760  DAMOCLES. 

imputation  would  not  have  been  deserved.  She  blamed  herself ;  it  was 
her  first  impulse  to  exclaim,  "  It  is  my  fault ! "  but  her  second  thought 
was  a  doubt  whether  there  was  not  something  lawless  and  eccentric  in 
the  girl's  nature,  which  might  indeed  be  inherited  from  the  mad  Ruther- 
fords.  The  wilful  manner  in  which  Rachel  had  taken  the  management 
of  her  affair  with  young  Eastwood  into  her  own  hands,  breathing  no 
word  of  her  secret,  and  her  resolution,  till  his  arrival  at  the  door  made 
counsel  impossible,  proved  to  Miss  Whitney  that  her  control  was  a  thing 
of  the  past.  "  I  don't  think  she  can  be  quite  right,"  the  good  lady  said 
to  herself,  "  or  she  would  never  behave  so  strangely."  Then  it  was  that 
she  began  to  look  anxiously  at  the  dinner-knives,  not  so  much  in  fear 
for  her  own  safety,  as  in  doubt  whether  Rachel,  being  certainly  a  little 
mad,  might  not  think  of  ending  her  love  troubles  by  an  attempt  on  her 
own  life.  Thus  harassed  and  frightened,  she  had  meekly  consented  to 
write  the  note  which  summoned  Mr.  Lauriston,  and  had  then  retired  to 
her  room  with  a  headache,  which  was  made  worse  by  speculations  as  to 
what  people  would  think,  what  Mrs.  Eastwood  would  say,  what  Rachel 
would  do,  and  whether  they  would  not  all  end  by  getting  into  the  papers. 
It  was  not  likely  that  Miss  Whitney  would  offer  any  opposition  to  the 
scheme  which  would  confide  her  terrible  charge  to  Mrs.  Latham's  guar- 
dianship. 


LOSDOX  :    PiUXTKD    BY 

BFOTTISWOODE    AND    CO.,    XEW-STllKET    SQUAKB 
AXD    PARLIAMENT    STREET 


The  Cornhill  magazine 


PLEASE  DO  NOT  REMOVE 
CARDS  OR  SLIPS  FROM  THIS  POCKET 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO  LIBRARY