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J 


THE 


GENTLEMAN'S  MAGAZINE 


JULY  TO  DECEMBER,  1876. 


lUibUtDtiou. 


LONDON : 
GRANT  &  CO.,  72  TO  78,  TURNMILL  STREET,  E.C 

i8;6. 


0^    ~^ 


LOXDOX 
CRAXT  b  CO..  PKIVTERS,  TURNMtU.  STKKET,   k.r. 


16639!^ 


Preface. 


iORE  than  once,  and  I  think  more  than  twice, 
in  the  one  hundred  and  forty-six  years  of  the 
life  of  the  GeniUfitan'  s  Ala^azinc   has  a  new 
point  of  departure  lioen  taken  by  its  rditor,  and 
the  phrase  "Xew  Series,"  or  -some  variation  of 
il,  has  been  set  upon  the  title-page.     When  the  ma^a/ine 
was  modernised  in  the  year  1868,  the  words  "  EntirelyXew 
Series  "  were  adopted,  and  the  monthly  parts  were  num- 
bered from  jMay,  186S.     There  were,  unquestionablv,  good 
I  reasons  on  each  occasion  for  making  an  apparent  break  in 
ihe  continuity  of  the  periodical;  but  after  all  the  GenHc- 
ti:nn's  Afagazirtc  from  January,  17,11,  to  December,  1876,13 
■one  magazine,  of  absolutely  unbroken  succession,  and  if 
marked  changes  have  been  introduced  from  time  to  time 
which  have  been  thought  to  demand  some  recognition  on 
the  citlo-page,  still  greater  changes  have  come  over  the 
character  of  the  publication  by  slow  and  insensible  natural 
processes,  and  from  time  to  time  the  question   must  arise 
whether  any  fresh  variation  can  be  played  upon  the  term 
"N'ew  Series."  Thewords"  Entirely  New  Series"  which  were 
printed  across  the  top  of  each  monthly  part  from   May, 
1868,  until  June  in  tht?  jjrescrit  year  have  led  to  misinter- 
pretation since  the  literary  management  has  been  in  the 
bands   of  the  present    editor;     for,   notwithstanding   the 
romaa  figures  which  accompanied  the  phrase,  when  it  became 
known,  some  three  years  ago,  that  the  magazine  had  passed 
out  of  the  hands  of  one  editor  and  into  those  of  another, 
some  readers  and  reviewers,  without  comparing  new  num- 
bers wnth  old,  jumped   to  the  conclusion  that   '*  Entirely 
Xew  Series"    was  then  for  the  first  lime  introduced.     By 
way,  therefore,  of  avoiding  all  possible  ambiguitv,  and  in 
token  of  respect  for  the  ripe  old  age  and  honourable  history 
cf  the  Gaiticmati's  .}/u^nzitu\  I  have  ventured  to  set  aside 
lhes<;  various  signs  of  epi>chs  and  to   return  to   the   old, 
simple.consecutive  numbering  of  theparts.  This  restoration 
of  th«*  original  line  of  figures  was  begun  in  the  July  num- 
ber with   which  the  present  volume   commenced,  so  that 
while  the  part  for  June  presented  itself  to  the  public  as 
"Nov  97»  Enlirely  New  Series,  June,  1876,"  the  Ju\y  t\um\«r 


i£ 


Preface. 


I 


wasstampedon  thebackthus:  "No.  1747,  July,  1876."  This 
change  has  been  continued  throughout  the  half-year,  and 
not  a  word  ho-s  reached  me,  in  print  or  otherwise,  to  indi- 
cate that  any  reader  has  observed  the  little  alteration  thus 
quietly  introduced,  by  which  the  magazine  has  been 
brought  back  to  its  true  can-er  of  succession.  The  part  for 
I>ecember,  concluding  this  volume,  is  numbered  1752,^^ 
being  the  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  fifiy-second" 
appearance  of  the  Gentleman' a  Miignzine,  counting  from  the 
first  number  which  was  produced  by  Edward  Cave  in 
January,  [731  :  "  Print<;il  for  the  Author;  and  sold  at  St. 
John's'frate;  byKdward  !■'.  Jcffcries  inLudgate  Street;  ancl 
all  other  BooksnlliTs,  and  by  the  Persons  who  ser\'i 
Gentlemen  with  the  Newspapers."* 

It  is  a  matter  of  odd  coincidence  that  as  the  first  volume 
of  the  first  "New  Series"  was  that  xvhich  was  published 
next  after  a  great  and  calamitous  Hre  at  the  printing  uHice 
of  the  Omih-mnn's  Afagii:iine  in  the  year   1S08,  so  ilie  first 
volume  in  which  all  recognition  of  any  change  of  series  is 
abandoned  appears  in  the  half-year  of  a  great  fire  at  th 
printing  office  of  the    Geniicmaiis  Alagazine   in  1876.     la 
I  8d8,  however,  the  fire  was  the  cause  of  the  change ;  for  the 
real  meaning  of  the  words  "New  Series"  on  the  title-page 
in  i8ofi  was  that  almost  the  entire  stock  of  back   numbers 
fi-om  178^  to  1807  was  destroyed  in  the  flames;  and  a-s  Mr 
Nichols  relates,   "So  fiercely  did  the  Fire  rage  that  man; 
hundred  copper-plates  (and  amongst    them  those  of  th 
magazine)   were    totally    destroyed    and    some    actual! 
melted."     After  stating,  in  the  yuar   18^1,   when  his  long 
Prefatory  Introduction  to  thr  index  was  written,  that  the 
numbers  of  the  New  Series  from  1807  might  be  obtained  at 
Messrs.    Jlarris  &  Son's,  in    St.  Paul's  Churchyard,   Mr. 
Nichols  added  in  a  footnote:  "Earlier  volumes,  or  single 
numbers,  are  occasionally  to  be  had  from  various  book- 
sellers, by  whom  they  are  treasured  whenever  they  are  found 
in  libraries."  There  are  many  complete  sets  of  the  magazine, 
from    J  731    to   the  present  date,  in   the   country,  but    the 
volumes  most  difficult  to  obtain  in  order  to  comijlete  broken 
sets  are  always  those  between  the  years  1783  and  1807. 

So  far  as  record  goes  in  the  files  of  the  magazine,  the 
great  fire  in  Tummill  Street  on  the  lolh  of  August  last  was 


•  I  luvc  BCTcr  seen  full  parlkolnri  uf  the  icniailtabiu-  success  of  the  firat  num- 
ber of  llie  UrrttUtnan' s  .^fa^iirn',  but  .Mr.  John  NitrhoU,  in  hU  prcfjicc  to  the 
•*Gcncni]  Index  Iw  the  GmUeman'sr  Jtfafii:i'nffn>m  llie  year  1787  (»  iStS,"  *ays  : 
**So  niplil  wui  the  sale  at  the  First  Volume  that  it  wu  (rcqncatl/  rcpriutcd ;  1 
kfeve  now  bebue  me  a  copy  »S  the  lyift  Etlition." 


"I 

i 

d 
e 

i 


^'1  — r  J 


53 
Preface. 


o^s '  J;;^^  24SI 


Vll 


thr  third  in  which  in  these  hundred  and  iorty-sJx  years  the 
GcnlUman's  Magazine  has  severely  suff"ere<i.  1  fin<i  in  the 
Febniarv  number  for  i8o8  a  long  account  of  the  "Dreadful 
Fire  in  feed  Lion  Passage"  which  broke  out  "on  the  fatal 
ni|^ht  of  Monday,  the  fith  of  Kebniary,"  in  which  "  the 
Printing-offices  and  extensive  Wnrehnuses  of  John  N'ichols. 
&  Son,  Printers  of  this  Magazine,  with  an  immenM>  stock 
of  books,  the  accumulation  of  nearly  50  years,  were  over- 
whelmetl  in  one  calamitous  ruin  by  a  most  awefiil  fire,  which 
commenced  about  a  quarter  before  ten  in  the  ground  floor 
of  a  lar^e  warehouse  situated  near  the  centre  t)f  the  build- 
ing." "vMl  attempts  to  save  either  the  Warehouse  or  the 
Printing  office  or  any  part  of  the  property  they  contained 
were  soon  found  ineJTectual,"  notwithstanding  that  the 
Firemen  with  their  "powerful  engines,"  and  "those  of  St. 
Bride's  and  St.  Dunstan'-s  and  the  surrounding  parishes, 
were  rapidly  on  duty."  Even  at  this  distance  of  time  there 
is  some  consolation  in  knowing  that  the  editor's  dwelling- 
house  was  saved,  as  well  as  the  Red  Lion,  in  the  occupation 
of  Mr.  Smith,  the  premises  of  Mr.  Edwards,  printer,  and 
those  of  the  Scottish  Corporation.  In  his  account  of  this 
disastrous  conflagration,  Air.  Xichols  gives  a  catalogue  of 
the  more  valuable  of  the  books  that  were  destroyed,  and  at 
the  end  of  those  which  might  "still  be  elsewhere  pur- 
chased,*"  he  describes  more  particularly  thuso  which  could 
not  be  thenceforward  obtained  at  any  pru^e ;  and  book-lovers 
■will  even  now  find  an  interest  in  reading  the  list ;  this  is 
how  it  ran: — 

The  uR«uM  cofMcs  of  the  InlrmTuclion  Xn  ihc  iwconil  votumc  of  the  Sepulchral 
Unoument%:  Huichiiu't.  r>ijr«-i%!iirf;  Hicbncl"*  ('FloiiceiIcf%hlrc-.  Hutcninnoo'it 
Duiham  :  Ihc  few  iiumbcts  vliiL-li  i(-iiijniti.[  uf  Ihc  fiihliolhcci  T(>poi;Tap1lica; 
the  ihinl  volume  of  KliEdbcthan  I'rofiTcsws  ;  the  lUusUarionn  of  Anlicnt  Man- 
ner*: Mr.  Ttiiugh's  History  of  Ilcnhy,  ami  his  Nvilu.ibtc  .lecouiit  of  ibe  Coins  of 
the  feclmciila!.  cnj^aved  hy  Barlolo:tn  ;  Colonel  Dc  b  MuUl'^  Alluxivc  Anw§  : 
£i*bop  AitcrbuTv'*  Epistolary  Correspondence ;  and  l.mt,  rml  lca»l.  the  whole  of 
lAa.  poniont  of  Mr.  Nichoh's  Leicc»tcnhhc  and  the  Kiitite  Slock  of  Jhc  Cenlh- 
mam'j  MoffoziHg,  from  1783  to  1807,  arc  brccovcrably  ioH. 

This  event  had  a  ver>-  painful  effect  on  the  mind  of 
Mr.  Xichols,  who  then,  and  for  many  years  before  and  after, 
occupied  the  chair  of  Sylvaxvs  Ukban.  Writing  on  the 
subject  thirteen  years  later,  he  spoke  of  the  event  as  one 
"at  which  the  present  writer  still  trembles  while  recording 
it,"  and  in  a  note  to  the  account  of  the  fire  itself  he  said  : — 

Who  that  has  ever  c)i|>ericiiccd  this  inHiclimi  of  Providence  hot  nut  fel<  al  the 
8une  lime  that  the  protluce  nf  an  intluittriuu)i  hfe  hax  been  almotii  annihilatcil : 
thai  the  chaia  of  useful  Ubour  and  piinfui  research  hat  been  broken ;  and  thai  h« 
hmn  to  bczin  the  world  without  the  rigour  of  joiith  or  the  proapecU  of  accom- 
|>lishiDent  ? 


VIII 


Pre/ace, 


At  that  time  the  magazine  was  "  Printed  by  John  Nichols 
&  Son,  at  Cicero's  J-Iead,  Red  Lion  Passajfe,  Fleet  St." 

In  r786,  twenty-two  years  earlier,  "  a  considerable  num- 
ber of  the  volumes  of  the  magazine,  from  178]  inclusive, 
were  unfortunately  consumed  by  a  fire  which  began  in 
Lud(;ate  Street  and  extended  its  ravages  to  Mrs.  Newber)'*s 
dwelling-house  and  warehouse  in  St.  I'aul's  Churchyard"; 
for  in  1786  the  magazine  was  "  Printed  by  John  Nichols, 
for  David  Henry,  late  of  St.  John's  Gate,  and  sold  by 
Elizabeth  Newbery,  the  comer  of  St.  Paul's  Churchyard, 
Ludgate  Street."  Of  this  fire  it  is  further  recorded  that 
"the  flames  were  so  rapid  that  the  maidservant  of  Mr. 
Gullebrand  fell  a  sacrifice  to  their  fury  ;  and  Mr.  Gould, 
j  late  Lyon,  .St.  Paul's  Cliurchyartl]  with  great  difficulty 
saved  his  two  daughters  at  the  imminent  danger  of  his  own 
life." 

The  Gi'uf/einafi's  Mcrgazirie  withstood  the  brunt  of  these 
disasters  and  has  yet,  to  all  appearance,  a  long  life  before  it. 
More  than  twelve  months  ago,  when  Mr.  Justin  McCarthy's 
last  novel,  "Dear  Lady  Disdain,"  had  become  one  of  the 
greatest  successes  of  the  seai^on,  I  consulted  him  with 
regard  to  the  early  publication  of  another  work  of  fiction  from 
his  pen  in  the  pages  of  this  periodical.  Me  declined  to  chal- 
lenge the  reading  public  with  another  novel  in  less  thaa 
twelve  months  from  the  conclusion  of  the  last ;  but  in  the 
numbcrfor  Januar)',  1877,  will  appear  the  opening  chapters 
of  his  new  work,  under  the  name  of"  Miss  Misanthrope." 
Among  the  other  contributions  will  bean  unpublished  post- 
humousstoryb}'  Mrs.  Shelley,  the  authorof  "I-Yankenstein"; 
a  paper  on  "  Prince  Bismarck's  Position  in  Literature,"  by 
Dr.  I''ranz  Ilueifer;  *' A  Dream  of  Sappho,"  a  poem  by 
Miss  M.  Mackay,  kc. 

In  justice  to  Mr.  Francillon  1  feel  bound  to  confess  that 
*•  Rare  Good  Luck,"  the  extra  Christmas  number  of  this 
magazine  for  1870,  xvhich  is  published  anonymously,  is  his 
exclusive  workmanship. 

The  Editor. 


Contents. 


PAOK 

Adventnroas  Simplidsaitnas,  Tbe.    By  Hekbkrt  Tuttle        ...        41 
Ascent  of  the  Matterhom,  An.      By  H.  Scuirrz  Wilson,  Member  of 

the  Alpine  Club 549 

As  He  Comes  up  the  Stair.    By  Helen  Mathers,  author  of  "  Coinin' 
thro'  the  Rye,"  "The  Token  of  the  Silver  Lily,"  &c.:— 

Part  I.    Chap.    I. — Ninon  257 

„      „        „       n. — Ninon 362 

364 
2fA 
269 
386 
390 
393 
399 
404 

185 
71+ 


„      „        „     m.— Wedding  Bells  .... 

„      „        ,,     IV. — Martin  Strange's  Reply 
,*      .,         ,t       v.— The  Midnight  Sally  ... 

Part  II.  Chap.    I.— Two  Yeats  After 
„      „        „      n.— The  Last  Friend       .... 
„      „        „     III.— At  the  Sign  of  the  "Golden  Apple" 
„      „        „     IV.— Part  of  the  Tnith      .... 

v.— The  Whole  Truth 

Bcrtran  de  Bom,  the  Troubadour.    By  Francis  Hl'EFFK:i 
Bunch  of  Wild  flowers,  A.    By  D,  Christie  Murrav 

Calbot's  Rival.    By  Jclian  Haavthorne 513 

Charles  Dickens  and  his  Letters,     By  Mary  Coivden  Clarke  : — 

Part  1 708 

Colonial  Political  Crisis,  A.    By  J.  A,  Langford,  LL.D.     .        .        .        573 
Deronda  the  Jew.    By  jAXiEsPicciOTTO.authorof  "Sketches  of  Anglo- 
Jewish  History-"  593 

Donf^  Jerrold  and    his  Letters.      By  CHARLES  and  Marv  Cowden 
Clarke  : — 

Part    1 350 

.,11.  498 

„    IIL  (concluded)  589 

Fleeing  from  Fate  :  A  Tale.     By  Mrs.  Parr 727 

George   Eliot's  First  Romance.       By  R.   E.    Francillon,  author  of 

"Olympia;  a  Romance,"  "  Streaked  with  Gold,"  &c.  .  .  .  411 
Grand  Tour  a  Hundred  and  Fifty  Years  ago.  The.  By  H,  SCHUTZ  Wilson  147 
In  Pastures  Green.      By  Charles  Gibbon,  author  of  "Robin   Gray," 

"  In  Honour  Bound,"  &c.  139 

In  Richmond  Park.      By  the  Earl  of  Soijthssk,  author  of  "Jonas 

Fisher" 31 

John  Chinaman  in  Australia  and  the  West.  By  J.  A.LamgfobJ),  LL.D,    .    ^IQ 


X  Contents. 

FACB 

Leaves  from  the  Jounia]  of  a  Chaplain  of  Ease.     Edited  by  his  Literary 
Eiccntor,  W.  McCullagh  Torrexs,  M.P.: — 

VIII.— The  Duodecimo  Dandy 214 

IX.— The  Refugee      .••-...  -356 

X.— The  Pasha  of  the  Pen 447 

XI. — Competitive  Examination 579 

XII. — Hafet  Meram 719 

I<ove  in  Idleness.  By  JcstinMcCastuv.  authorol  "Dear  Lady  Disdain"  i 
Afodem  Tactical  Organizations.    By  H.  B.  Ckosby,  late  Colonel  in  the 

United  States  Service 30S 

My  Ocean  Log  from  Newcastle  to  Brisbane.    By  Red  Spixner  : — 

Part    III 35 

„        IV i;8 

Oar  Easter  Excursion  in  Queensland.     ByRED  SPIX.VER        .                  .  290 

*'  Pitso,"  A.    By  T.  B.  Glanville 428 

Polynesian  in  Queensland,  The.      By  Wjlliau  S&.\10R  (  Red  Spinner  )  683 
Princess  Charlotte  and  Mrs.  Campbell,  The.      By  Louisa  Chaklotte 

Fraupton 275 

Recollections  of  ^Vriters  known  to  an  Old  Couple  when  Yoong.    By 
Charles  and  Mary  Cowden  Clakke  : — 

Part  XII. — Leigh  Hunt  and  his  Letters  (concluded  )        .         .  S9 
Recovery  of  Palestine,  The,    By  W.  Hepworth  Dixon  : — 

I. — Holy  Land  and  City        .......  165 

IL— The  Temple 298 

III. — Underground  Jerusalem 4S9 

rV. — Foondations  of  Zion 561 

V. — Sceneries  of  the  Baptism        ......  671 

Revolution  at  Dolma  Bacdj£.    By  Cauille  Bakrere          ...  79 
■Shadow  of  the  Sword,  The.    A  Romance.    By  Robert  BrcHAXAS  : — 

Chap.            XXX.— A  Parley 94 

„             XXXI.— In  the  Cave 100 

„           XXXII.— A  Siege  in  Miniature 106 

XXXin.— Hunger  and  Cold H2 

XXXIV.~A  Four-footed  Christian iiS 

XXXV.— VigU 122 

XXXVI.— Victory 232 

XXXVII.— The  Mirage  of  Leipsic          ....  237 

„      XXXVIII.—"  Home  they  brought  their  Warrior  Dead  "      .  24s 

„         XXXIX.— A  Chapel  of  Hate 354 

„                  XL. — Introduces  a  Scarecrow  of  Gloty       .        .        .  361 

„                  XLI. — Glimpses  of  a  Dead  World     ....  367 

„              XLIL— The  Aqueduct 372 

„            XLin.— "  The  Night  of  the  Dead "    .        .        .        .  465 

rt             XLIV.— Deluge 472 

„               XLV.—"  Mid  Waters  WOd " 477 

„             XLVI.— Marcelle 480 

„            XLVII.— The  Growing  of  the  Cloud  ....  604 


Contents. 


xc 


I  w  of  the  Sword,  Tiic  (fontinurd) : 


Cha 


XLVIU. 


'•  Vive  Ic  R-oi ' 


608' 


„  XI.IX.— The  Cofporal's  Cup  in  Kwll    .... 

„  L. — The  Hem  of  the  Hour 6a  j 

„  XX— BrealhinR  Sp.iec 638 

„  LII. — '*Ibi  otniii!(e(Tu<^U!>labQi !"       ....    641 

MIL-  Tht  Last  Cluince 64O 

„  LIV.— Thi;BcKmnin}>  of  ihe  End       ....    651 

N  LV. — Uaclc  Ewcii  gcu  his  Fur]oa|>b     .       .       .       65J 

„  L\1.— Bonapanc ^jt) 

I.\1I.— ".Sic  Semper  Tyiannus"      ....        664 

Epilogue      ...        - 66S 

TaUe  TaB:.    By  SvLVANL's  UnUAK,     Gcnllcman:— 

The  We-H  of  the  Ajiarc*— Bre  I  Hane— Style  in  Prose  -  writ  mc— The 

Flat-Iuirth  Theory 125 

ThcFUt'EjirthThcoty-— The  Legends nf  the  Ajtons—I'firallell'asugcs 

in  Litcralmc      .  2jl  > 

Kire  at  ihc  Gen/Umnn's  Xfa/^anint  Office — Tlic  laic  Mr-*.  Campbell — 
The  FUu-Eulh  lljeoi^- — Irish  Pronmicutliuii — On  hu  own  Rccom- 

mcnilatiDn 377 

The  Last  War  in  N'cw  Zcabml — Supenilitiou^TrwIitioos— On  Imuwii 

RscommctKlaiion 5o3 

Pope's  VaJa— ThcFIal-Eanli  Thcorj'  -The  Last  of  tlic  T.ismaniaoB— 

GffBUiD  Wii — Modem  Taciiirjl  OrganixAtJgiu        ....        637  { 
The  Shakespeare  Dinner  al  Philadelphia— Mr.  Plummer   otul  Mr. 
Jiimpden— Mr.    RobiosoD  and    .Mr.    Plummcr^M ahomcl— The 

North  I-ole— Wai 7S9 

Thitlctta.    By  the  Hon.  KoiiEK  Xof.l 160 

Three  Emperors' Policy.    By  U*.  Heswurth  Dixon     ....         51 ; 
Tokca  of  ibe  Silver  Lily,   The.    A  Poem.    By  the3i)lhor  or"Coniin' 
Ihro"  (he  Rye  ":— 

Pan  \. — (itibcn  { condusioa  > 

Tnigaaini.    .By  J.  A.  LAXGroao.  LL.D -       . 

Vivian  Grey,  Lord  Beoconsedd.    By  the  Mfjucr  for  the   CuiLTZK.** 
lICItbUDS 


Love  in  Idleness. 

BY  JUSTIN  McCarthy,  author  of  "dear  lady  disdaiw."  &c, 

NE  day  Mr.  Stepheo  Aclon,  a  Uteraiy  nun  and  a. 
bachelor,  Hvrng  in  lodgings  in  the  Piccadilly  neighbour* 
hood,  found  it  forced  upon  his  attention  that  he  could 
not  sleep  any  loagci  at  tlie  light  time  and  wa£  terribly 
tempted  to  fall  asleep  at  the  wrong  time.  ^Vhcn  he  went  to  bed  at 
acmie  advanced  hour  of  the  moming  he  became  remonelessly  wakeful 
and  tossed  and  tumbled,  and  once  or  twice  when  sitting  at  dinner  ia 
voy  pleasant  society  his  eyes  closed  and  he  became  for  a  moment  or 
two — only  that  much — positively  unconscious.  Nobody  noticed  the 
lad  but  himself.  He  did  not  like  it.  He  seemed  to  receive  for  the 
bst  time  a  hint  that  be  too  was  mortal.  Never  before  had  sleep 
appeared  to  him  in  any  other  light  than  as  a  condition  which  a  man 
accepted  when  be  had  nothing  better  to  do  and  which  he 
came  out  of  when  the  occupations  of  life  began  again.  It  was 
to  him  like  his  cold  bath,  which  he  got  in  and  out  of  when 
he  pleased  and  thought  no  more  about.  Or  it  was,  according  to 
Saucho  Fanza's  illustration,  like  the  garment  which  he  put  off  and  on 
at  bis  convenience.  Many  a  time  tiad  Mr.  Stephen  Acton  said  of 
himself,  in  the  words  of  Dr.  Johnson,  that  he  went  to  bed  in  order 
that  his  biends  might  sleep. 

Aiooog  his  friends  was  an  eminent  physician.  Mr.  Acton  consulted 

him  and  received  a  dedsive  answer ;  "  Vou  must  give  up  work  and 

play  alike  and  go  out  of  town  to  the  quietest  place  that  can  be  found, 

and  stay  there  at  least  two  or  three  months." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  mc,"  Stc^Vvea 

Vot,  XVIL,  K.5.  >»;6.  » 


^He  Gaiitemmis  Md^zzllie^ 

aaid.      "  Look    at    that    chest ! "      He    smote    his    broad'  breast 

defiantly. 

"  Nothing  much  the  matter  with  you  now  ;  but  there  will  be  if  jrou 
don't  do  as  I  tell  you.  It's  only  a  matter  of  time.  If  you  don't 
believe  mc  ask  Dr.  Lawrence." 

Mr.  Aclon  did  ask  Dr.  Lawrence,  and  got  the  same  advice.  Tliese 
medical  men  are  all  in  a  tale. 

J  For  many  years  Mr.  Stephen  Acton  had  been  London's  faithful 
}over.  He  had  taken  to  lown  life  as  other  men  take  to  gambling  or 
dlinking.  All  the  loves,  the  hopes,  (he  ambitions,  the  follies  of 
youth  had  been  swallowed,  buried  ali%-c  for  him  in  I,ondon.  He 
came  up  to  town  to  make  a  name,  to  find  a  career,  to  become  a  great 
author  or  (lolilician,  or  Lord  Chancellor,  or  something  of  that  sort : 

I  and  in  Loudon  all  he  found  was  London.  He  studied  for  the  bar, 
but  never  was  called-  He  had  written,  but  with  only  moderate  suc- 
cess. He  had  a  little  property — just  enough  to  live  on  and  gel  gloves 
and  white  ties,  pay  his  club  subscription,  and  have  a  hansom  when 
he  wanted  one.  That  little  patrimony  was  perhaps  as  fata]  to  him  as 
her  face  was  to  poor  Francesca.  Still  even  that  might  not  have  proved 

I  fatal  but  for  hts  passioa  for  London.  To  dine  out,  to  sit  up  until 
late  at  bis  club,  to  be  the  associate  of  eminent  authors,  artists,  and 
politicians,  to  lounge  in  the  parks,  to  "assist"  at  ail  first  perfonn- 
autcs — to  feel  tint  he  was  a  part  of  Loiidoa  as  it  of  him — this  con- 
tented his  natural  desire :  he  asked  no  angel's  wing,  no  seraph's  firo. 
Everybody  who  knew  him  tliouglit  him  a  wonderfully  clever  fellow. 
Being  much  with  men  of  distinction  he  came  to  pass  for  a  man  of 
distinction  himself.  Much  more  celebrated  authors  than  he  were  not 
in  society  as  he  was.  Much  bigger  persons  in  society  had  not  written 
clever  things  as  be  had.  Moreover,  he  was  a  handsome  fellow,  tall, 
strong,  genial,  who  could  do  almost  everything  and  could  talk  to 

I  anybody.  He  had  started  with  a  splendid  constitution,  and  dierefore 
of  course  was  careless  of  wliat  lie  did,  and  especially  likely  to  over- 
draw his  oaiural  resources.  He  was  still  much  under  forty  yeais  of 
age. 
For  years  he  had  not  left  London,  in  season  or  out  of  it  ^Vhy 
should  he  go  out  of  town,  he  reasonably  asked,  if  he  preferred  to 

•  stay  in  town?  He  had  done  all  his  travelling  long  .igo,  he  said,  and 
his  mind  was  at  rest  on  tJiat  score.  London  dull  out  of  season? 
Comparatively  perhaps,  but  far  less  dull  out  of,  Uian  any  other  place 
ill,  season.  Ucsides,  somebody  was  always  tliere.  besides,  even  if 
nobody  was  there  London  itself  was  always  to  hitn  the  best  of  com- 
pany.   A  clever  woman  once  said  to  him  "  You  arc  in  love  mrilh 


London,  as  a  schoolgirl  is  with  her  doll,  only  because  Uie  chance  of 
being  in  love  wiih  anything  else  has  not  come  yet.  Wait  awhiJe  I" 
But  that  was  aeveral  years  ago,  and  he  liad  waited  very  contentedly 
and  still  found  biniEclf  faithful  to  hi5  London. 

Now  he  must  leave  hef  :  for  a  little ;  and  she  would  not  caie  !  He 
thoufilit  of  many  placc$  of  exile  and  put  Lhcm  mentally  away.  He 
haled  the  idea  of  breaking  up  the  dear  routine  of  his  life ;  and  the 
season  was  not  even  yet  over.  He  did  not  care  to  return  to  his 
native  county.  He  had  no  kith  or  kin  there  any  more ;  but  people 
vould  Icitoir  him  and  bore  him.  They  would  either  make  too  much 
of  his  literary  repute,  which  to  him  who  knew  would  be  only  ridiculous 
and  humiliating ;  or  they  would  regard  him  as  a  failure — and  a  failure 
should  never  return  to  his  birthplace. 

He  reracrnbcred  with  pleasure  a  Hide  out-of-lheway  fishing  village 
wiiete  be  bad  often  gone  in  vacation  times  widi  an  old  companion  of 
fats :  where  they  used  to  go  for  quiet  reading,  and  where  tlie  reading 
chicSy  consisted  of  French  novels  (the  works  of  George  Sand  were 
tliought  terrible  tilings  to  read  in  those  nuld  days,  and  they  were  the 
fearful  joy  of  reckless  youth)  ;  and  the  quiet  was  made  up  of  harc- 
bnuoed  adventures  in  fishing  boats,  tremendously  long  walks,  and 
exhausting  swims.  There  used  to  be  a  clean,  pleasant,  and  orderly 
plnce  to  lodge  in  there.  If  that  place  were  alive  still  it  would  suit 
otir  Iriend  well  enough,  he  thought,  for  his  exile.  At  any  rate  he 
could  think  of  no  other  place  ihni.  promised  so  wclL  He  tore  him- 
self up  by  the  roots  from  his  London  setUement,  and  felt  as  he  took 
bh  place  in  the  train  to  seek  his  country  retreat  as  if  he  were  being 
'wtiiiled  vaguely  into  iu&nite  space  and  had  nothing  to  do  any  more 
with  the  regular  world  and  the  order  of  things.  The  impressioa 
pcffaaps  grew  stronger  when  he  came  to  the  station  at  which  he 
wns  to  get  out — where  the  railway  dropped  him — and  he  found 
that  be  had  twenty  miles  yet  to  go  in  order  to  reach  his  place  oi  rest. 
*'  It  is  idle,"  our  friend  thought,  wiih  a  sigh,  "  to  form  any  idea  of 
Tctuming.  I  never  could  do  all  this  over  again.  My  tomb  must  be 
fiude  among  the  rude  forefatliers  of  tliis  hamlet — if  ever  I  get 
there.  Why  did  I  leave  London  ?  Whatmatler  if  I  couldn't  sleep? 
Better  to  lie  awake  for  ever  in  London  than  to  sleep  away  one's  exist- 
caac  in  a  wretched  hole  like  lliis,  which  is  dearly  ordained  to  be  my 
grave." 

Yet  when  he  did  reach  the  place  some  kindlier  and  more  gracious 
foeliogg  awoke  in  him.  It  was  a  quiet,  sunny,  sleepy  litUe  hamlet* 
blinking  no  the  slope  of  a  hill,  The  hill  descended  so  quickly  to  the 
sea  that  it  seemed  a  wondur  the  houses  did  not  run  down  t\ie  %leev 


The  Cetttlemaits  Magasiine. 


'  place  and  plunge  into  the  waves.  There  were  two  {larallel  rows  of 
houses,  and  the  lower  windows  of  the  row  behind  were  about  on  a 
level  with  the  chimneys  of  the  row  in  front  Seen  from  the  water,  an 
hoDCSt  niiin  cultivating  the  kitchen  garden  behind  his  house  sccc 
as  if  he  were  walking  on  the  roof  of  his  own  dwellings 

Stephen  was  made  particularly  happy  by  finding  that  his  forme 
landlady  was  alive  and  blooming,  and  that  she  remembered  him  and 
B  could  give  him  a  pretty  room  looking  on  the  water,  with  a  bedroooi 
attached.  She  was  a  young  woman,  recently  married  to  a  gardener, 
when  he  knew  her.  Now  she  was  the  mother  of  two  pretty  brown- 
skinned  and  shy  damsels,  who  had  lovers  looking  after  them.  The 
husband  was  a  stcady^oing  man,  who  smoked  and  said  nothing,  was 
proud  of  having  never  been  in  London,  and  «-as  understood  to  have 
a  good  deal  of  money  in  the  bank. 

If  ever  there  was  a  place  with  absolutely  nothing  to  do  it  was 
lis  place.  When  you  looked  out  od  the  sea  and  back  on  the  hiD 
and  the  trees,  you  had  seen  the  whole  of  it.  Two  long  lanes  wound 
and  sira^led  up  the  hill,  and  you  might  climb  them  and  wander  in 
a  little  wood  there  if  you  liked.  There  was  a  rather  fine  demesne 
not  far  off  wliich  the  owner  hardly  ever  visited,  and  Stephen  was 
told  that  a  new  and  very  handsome  house  had  been  built  since  his 
time  by  some  rich  person  on  some  property  near  at  hand,  and  that 
there  were  pictures  there,  and  that  his  host,  who  did  gardening  there-, 
could  procure  him  admission  to  see  the  pictures  if  he  liked.  But 
Stephen  had  come  for  health  and  the  country,  not  pictures,  and  he 
was  resolved  to  throw  himself  into  the  very  heart  of  the  country  and 
to  imbibe  new  sources  of  strength  from  the  fresh  breast  of  Nature 
herself.  He  spent  a  whole  evening  in  the  open  air,  and  went  to 
bed  feeling  as  if  he  had  been  months  away  from  London  j  and  could 
not  sleep. 
H  Next  morning  he  rose  nearly  as  late  as  if  he  were  in  London,  aod 
^^ounged  down  to  the  beach.    No  man  or  mouse  was  there ;  only  a 

crazy  little  boat  moored  to  a  stone. 
^  He  jumped  into  the  boat,  and  worked  its  old  oars  pretty  vigorously 
^until  he  had  got  far  out  from  the  shore.  Then  he  undressed,  and 
took  a  sensation-header  into  the  water,  and  enjoyed  a  splendid  swim, 
Af^er  he  had  had  enough  of  this  he  scrambled  into  the  boat,  put  on 
some  of  his  clothes,  made  again  a  few  strokes  of  the  oars,  and  then 
lay  down  flat  along  the  seats  of  the  little  oM  tub,  and  let  her  stagger 
about  whither  she  would,  while  he  looked  up  at  the  sky  and  the  few- 
white  cEouds  that  crossed  it,  and  was  laxy,  motionless,  and  happy, 
i  was  delicious.    The  boat  rocked  and  turned  th 


Love  in  /dimness. 


with  a  listless,  onstcadj',  and  purposeless  raotion,  cotreaponding  with 
his  own  dream;  sense  of  flickering  happiness.  He  felt  as  if  he  were 
a  very  child  of  Nature.  His  life  was  near  its  youthful  sources  again. 
"  Why,  this  is  living ! "  our  geotlenun  of  the  pavement  exclaimed  to 
htinseIC  in  rapture  over  his  new  freedom  and  his  strange  unconveo. 

)Qal  hour. 

A  little  wave  made  the  boat  suddenly  tilt  and  dip  and  reel,  and 
the  momentary  effect  created  a  new  picture  for  idle  Stephen.  Before 
he  had  only  been  looking  up  into  the  summer  sky ;  the  world  for 
him  was  all  sky.  But  now  for  one  moment  he  had  a  glimpse  of  part 
cf  the  shore,  with  the  hill  and  trees,  and  a  path  losing  ixscM  among 
Ihc  trees.  All  in  an  instant  a  memory  sprang  up  wittiin  him :  a 
£weet,  strange,  piteous,  ecstatic  memory  pf  youth,  and  summer,  and 
trees,  and  love-making  beneath  the  trees.  Why,  those  trees  ought 
to  be  sacied  to  him  as  a  consecrated  grove  to  the  worslupper  of  a 
Pallas  or  a  Diana — for  there  under  those  very  trees  tie  had  heard  the 
lau^h  of  his  first  love  !  To  be  sure — he  remembered  all  about  it 
DOW — how  did  he  ever  come  to  forget  it?  It  \vas  up  that  path  among 
the  trees  tAty  used  to  walk  ;  and  She  had  been  with  him  ia  a  boat  on 
Ihis  very  water— and  once  when  he  was  tired  of  rowing  they  made  a 
sort  of  sail  ol  her  pocket-handkeithicf,  which  they  both  held  out- 
spread with  their  hands — and  they  were  so  happy  I  "  I  wonder  how 
old  I  was  then?"  our  exile  from  I/)ndon  began  to  ask  himself. 
"  Was  I  ten,  or  fifteen,  or  twenty,  or  what  ?  I  could  hardly  have 
been  twenty,  for  I  came  to  I.^ndon  in — let  roc  see :  wliat  year  ? — 
and  I  was  liardly  more  timii  twenty  then.  It  seems  a  century  ago. 
1  wonder  where  She  is  now  ? "  Through  the  dense,  heavy,  rather 
stifling  mists  of  the  social  valley  in  which  all  the  mid  years  had  been 
U}  through  nights  of  work  and  ptay;  through  vain  litcrarj-  ambi- 
and  futile  successes  and  disappointments,  and  half-contented, 
half-cynical  settlings  down ;  through  dining-rooms,  drawing-rooms, 
club  smoking-rooms,  green-rooms,  Greenwich  dinners,  Richmond 
dinners ;  through  billiards,  beer,  champagne,  brandy-and-sodo,  poli- 
tical contests,  the  lobby  of  the  House  of  Commons,  the  opening  day 
of  the  Academy,  and  an  almost  endless  succession  of  first  nights  at 
ptay  and  opera,  his  soul  mounted  up  again  for  a  moment  the  bright 
htU  of  youth,  and  stood  in  the  pure  sunlight  and  the  fresh 
'breeze. 

Alt  this  was  delightful  in  the  boat,  away  from  the  houses  and  under 
the  open  sky.  But  when  he  was  bock  again  in  his  lodgings  and  had 
caicn  his  dinner— with  uncommon  appetite  too — and  had  smoked  a 

litUe,  and  evening  came  on,  he  found  his  own  conipaaioM\wv  »-^*^* 


Tfie  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 


oppressive.  Acton  could  talk  to  anybody,  and  was  at  home  wiihi 
ever>'body.  He  heard  sounds  of  conversation  and  laughter  below 
stairs ;  and  he  had  indeed  already  divined  that  his  hostess's  little 
parlour  on  llic  ground-floor  was  a  sort  of  evening  rendez't'ous  or 
club  for  several  of  the  neighbours.  Any  comiMiny  would  be  pleasant 
to  him  just  then :  so  he  weni  downstairs,  determined  to  throw  him- 
self in  the  way  of  being  asked  into  the  parlour,  and  likenvise  deter- 
mined, if  need  should  be,  to  go  in  unasked.  One  flight  of  stairs 
made  ttie  easy  descent,  and  Stephen  at  once  saw  tliat  there  was  no 
obvious  reason  why  he  or  anybody  else  might  not  join  the  little 
company.  The  front  door  of  the  house  stood  broadly  and  innocently 
open  to  the  road  and  the  evening  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  place 
generally.     The  little  parlour  opened  on  the  right  of  our  Londoner 


i 

i 

4 

gcneraJiy.  ixic  iiiuc  pariour  opcnca  on  inc  rigni  oi  our  Lonaoncr  ^\ 
■  u  he  came  donm  the  stairs,  and  the  hall  below  was  so  small  that  it.  ^H 
would  not  have  been  easy  to  say  without  consideration  whether  a  ^^ 
person  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  belonged  to  the  company  in  the 
parlour  or  to  the  outer  world.  Mr.  Acton  had  only  to  stand  where 
he  was,  in  fact,  to  become  one  of  the  company,  but  as  his  standing 
there  evidenced  an  inclination  to  join  in  with  the  rest,  he  soon  found 
himself  cordially  invited,  and  even  installed  in  a  sort  of  place  of 
honour — a  chair  near  a  little  table  which  had  waxen  flowers  on  it 
tinder  a  glass  shade.  He  had  then  the  window  on  his  right,  and  the 
piano  on  his  left,  and  could  look  straight  through  the  parlour  door. 
He  was  evidently  in  the  chair  of  this  social  gathering.  He  was  king 
of  the  evening,  and  he  felt  inspired  by  the  very  dignity  of  his  posi- 
tion to  demean  himself  like  a  king. 

For  a  moment  the  awe  of  his  presence  seemed  in  danger  of 
breaking  the  good  mirth.  An  alarming  tendency  showed  itself  to 
start  fragmentary  remarks  about  the  weather.  One  undecided  moment, 
one  instant's  quailing  before  tlie  dtfliculties  of  his  nluation  on  the 
part  ot  Stephen  Acton,  and  all  would  have  been  lost.  The  talk  and 
jnerriment  and  music  would  have  been  broken  into  forma!  observa- 

^tion  and  timid  shrinking  from  overt  acts  of  mirth,  and  the  company  , 

Urould  presently  have  begun  to  dissolve.  But  Stephen  Acton  was 
one  of  tiiose  rarely-constituted  beings  in  whom  sudden  emergencies 
always  develop  unexpected  resources.  He  had  heard  some  singing 
just  as  he  came  down,  and  he  promptly  volunteered  a  song.  He 
wisely  chose  a  comic  song,  to  throw  the  company  out  of  their 
momenury  chill.  All  was  right  then,  and  he  began  to  study  his 
companions  a  little,  keeping  up,  however,  his  talk  with  everybody  the  , 
while.     There  were  the  two  daughters  of  the  hostess,   pretty,  round-  i 

fiwcd,  shecpisi),  and  giggling  girls,  at  once  proud  of  having  lovers  and         ^ 


Love  in  fdiencss. 

iliy  ©r  being  seen  with  Ihem,  each  occasionalljr  heard  to  intemipt 
some  overture  from  her  suitor  by  a  whispered  "  Uon't." 

Odc  of  the  young  men  was  the  soa  of  the  owner  of  the  only  place 
in  the  QcigbbouThood  where  hones  and  vehicles  could  be  hired.  It 
was  understood  that  he  went  up  to  the  Derby  and  to  Ascot  every 
year,  and  had  even  been  to  Pun<:hc5to»*n,  but  tl>at  he  was  deter- 
mined to  give  up  all  that  and  settle  down  as  soon  as  he  married. 
Another  was  the  son  of  the  housekeeper  who  took  care  of  the  hnitsc 
and  demesne  already  mentioned.  A  third  of  the  company  was  the 
skipper  of  x  collier  which  brought  coals  from  a  neighbouring  port. 
A  fourth  kqjt  a  general  shop,  to  which  the  post  oflice  was  aitaclicd. 
He  always  left  his  wife  to  settle  up  things  and  dose  the  shop,  and 
when  she  was  ready  she  put  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl  and  joined 
him.  But  she  never  came  with  him,  for  she  said  men  were  always  tn 
5t»ch  a  huny  and  put  one  about  «o  that  it  was  better  to  let  them  go 
by  themselves. 

This  tady  came  tn  while  Stephen  was  singing  his  second  song. 
Ic  was  a  sentimental  song  this  time.  One  of  the  daughters  of  the 
hostess.  Miss  Mary  Good,  liked  a  sentimental  song  of  all  things, 
and  being  spirited  on  by  her  sister  and  others  of  the  company,  even 
ventured  to  ask  if  Stephen  would  not  favour  iliem  with  "one  of  his 
owil"  She  was  sure  it  would  be  so  sweet,  she  said,  with  an  air 
of  appealing  devotion.  For  it  had  been  made  known  somehow  that 
Mr.  Acton  was  an  author,  and  in  the  minds  of  the  people  of  that 
region  an  author  could  only  be  a  poet  They  could  understand 
tliat  poetry  was  composed  out  of  the  head  of  an  individual  man  or 
woman  ;  but  literature  of  any  other  kind,  when  they  thought  about  it 
at  all,  they  took  as  it  came  in  the  shape  of  a  newspaper  or  a  volume 
of  stories  or  a  magazine,  but  had  no  notion  about  its  genesis.  They 
were  nne  degree  more  advanced  than  the  pretty  maiden  of  whom 
Boflmau  telts,  whom  he  always  found  reading  a  book  of  his,  and  to 
whom  he  imjiarted  one  day  in  proud  delight  the  fact  that  he  was 
its  author.  The  maiden  received  the  confidence  ^^uite  blankly. 
She  had  never  mentally  associated  the  existence  of  a  book  with 
the  existence  of  a  man,  and  she  was  only  perplexed  to  no  pur- 
po*e.  Mary  and  Alice  Good  always  connected  the  idea  of  a 
poem  with  the  Idea  of  a  perion  who  had  composed  it;  but.  as 
regards  other  works  of  literature,  Uiey  had  no  such  association  of 
ideas. 

Mt.  Acton  had  only  composed  one  poem  capable  of  being  sung 
itnce  his  boyish  days,  and  he  had  put  music  to  it  himself.  He  hiiiA 
eoroposcd  it  for  a  apcciif  parjjosr,  but  he  ihoughl  it  'kwVA  Tiv>'« 


murmured  Miss  Mary 
very  much !"   mur- 


I 


"  Oh,  how  STTcet '. — how  very  very  sweet 
Good. 

"  Oh,   thank  you  ! — so   very  much — 60  very 
mured  Miss  Alice. 

"Delightful:"— "capital!"— "first-rate !"— went  round  the  chorus 
of  approval. 

'*  But  I  don't  understand  it,"  said  one  voice  of  impatience  rather 
than  dissent ;  and  there  was  something  in  the  sound  of  the  voice 
which  aitmcted  the  author  of  the  sweet  poem  thus  called  into 
queslioD. 

Mr.  Acton  had  heard  the  postmaster's  v-nfe  come  in  just  as  he  was 
beginning  his  song,  and  he  glanced  round  and  saw  her.  But  he  had 
not  observed  that  immediately  in  her  wake  there  followed  a  new- 
comer, whose  appearance  caused  a  little  movement  and  hasty 
tendering  of  this  scat  and  that,  subdued  by  a  peremptory  motion 
for  quiet  on  the  part  of  the  late  -v-isitor.  This  was  the  girl  who  now 
ioierrupted  the  chorus  of  praise,  and  who  came  boldly  out  from 
among  them,  the  kindly  eulogists,  and  stood  near  the  singer.  Mr. 
Acton  could  see  tluougli  itie  evening  dusk  of  the  unlighted  room 
that  she  was  a  pretty  little  girl  with  vivacious  movements  and 
sparkling  eyes. 

"Don't  you  imdcrstind  it?"  he  asked  with  grave  wonder. 

"  No,  I  don't  Would  you  sing  it  again,  please?"  This  was  said 
rather  peremptorily. 

Stephen  was  much  amused.  "This  is  our  saucy  village  aide,'* 
he  thought  "  She  has  been  to  school  at  CLapham  perhaps,  and 
has  been  to  the  Albert  Hall,  and  to  spelling  bees,  and  reads  London 
Sedety,  I  shouldn't  wonder." 


J 


He  «ang  the  song  again  with  all  his  very  best  expression,  and  the 
girl  listened  stcadiostly. 
"  Now,"    he    said,     "  you    surely    understand    it    now  —  don't 

^H     "  I  don't  understand  one  word  of  it — there,  not  one  word !" 
^V     The  company  seemed  dismayed. 

^»      "  Does  Uiat  pass  for  poetry  in  London  ?"  the  relentless  little  critic 
r       went  on  to  ask. 

^H     *'  I  decline,"  Mr.  Actoo  said  gravely,  "to  answer  that  question." 
^B     *■  Well,  but  do  let  rae  know ;   I  don't  think  it's  my   stupidity. 
Would  you  repeat  it  for  me,  word  for  word?" 

Stephen  mouthed   the  poem  grandiloquently,   making  immense 
emphasis  here  and  there,  and  looking  with  a  whimsical  expression 
inio  the  bright  thoughtful  eyes  of  his  critic. 
^H      "Now?"  he  asked  triumphantly. 
^H     '*  I  ^ctit  understand  it !    And  I  don't  believe  you  do  I" 
^H    Stephen  laughed  loudly. 
^H     "  But  do  tell  me — has  it  any  meaning?'* 

^1  "  None  whatever.  Not  a  ray  of  me.ining  of  any  kind.  It  was 
done  for  the  fun  of  the  thing.  But  1  can  assure  you  it  has  been 
sung  many  a  time  with  great  success,  and  it  never  was  found  out 
by  the  uninitiated — until  now." 

"  Why,  Miss  Janet,  you  are  so  clever  !"  Mrs.  Good  declared. 
Miss  Janet  herself  was  fairly  wUd  with  dcIighL    She  insisted  on 
leaiBtng  the  song.    She  had  a  very  sweet  voice,  and  sang  «ith  some 
mimetic  power,  imparting  a  Uidicrous  scmbLince  of  meaning  and 
feeling  to  Stephen's  nonsense-words.     Mr.  Acton  enjoyed  his  music- 
very  much  indeed,  but  to  the  rest  of  the  company  it  must 
ha\'c  been  a  liitle  dull    Their  conversation  dropped  into  wliispcrs, 
or  bubbled  into  broken  scraps  of  dialogue.     "Janet "  did  not  seem 
to  care  about  theii  presence  or  absence,  and  Stephen  forgot  them. 
I^They  gradually  melted  away,  and  Mrs.  Good,  "Janet,"  and  Mr. 
ctOQ  remained  alone. 
"  It's  getting  late,  dear,"  Mrs.  Good  said. 
"  So  it  is.     I  must  get  home  as  fast  as  I  can." 
"  My  old  man  '1!  go  with  you." 
"  Not  he,  Mrs.  Good ;  he  mustn't  be  disturbed  for  me ;  and  he 

't     ni  run  along  myself.'' 
"Ill  see  you  home,"  said  Stephen,  starting  up,  "andtliere's  «d 
end  of  that.     You  might  be  robbed  and  murdered  on  some  of  these 
roads  for  anything  I  know  to  tlic  contnuy." 

"Oh  no,  Mr.  Acton,  Tto"  said  Mrs,  Good,  justly  pioud  oi  iVe 


lO 


The  GmtUtnatCs  ATagazine. 


I 


fair  repute  of  her  neighbonrfaood.  "  New  was  such  a  thing  kaovD 
I  do  assure  you." 

The  girl  only  laughed,  and  was  fastening  a  shawl  round  her  head 
and  shoulders.  The  shawl  was  of  some  fleecy  or  woolly  white  stuff 
— Stephen  did  not  exactly  know  what— and  the  dark  eyes  of  the 
wearer  sparkled  and  beamed  from  out  its  whiteness  with  a  prm'oking 
effect 

"  Anyhow  I'm  going  to  sec  her  home." 

Mrs.  Good  made  a  movement  as  if  to  demur. 

"You  are  not  afraiJ  Mr,  Acton  will  rob  or  murder  rae.  Mrs. 
Good  ? "  the  giri  asked  saucily.  She  dcariy  wanted  Mr,  Acton  to 
be  her  escort. 

Mrs.  Good  began  a  few  muttered  remonstrances,  and  mider  pre- 
tence of  pinning  more  securely  the  girl's  shawl  seemed  to  whisper 
some  caution  to  her,  which,  howe\-er,  appeared  to  be  peremptorily 
rejected.  And  then  his  yoong  charge  being  evidently  quite  ready, 
Mr.  ActoD  gave  her  his  arm  and  they  ste^^d  forth  into  the  open 
air. 

It  was  very  late.  It  roust  have  been  quite  nine  o'clock.  The 
people  were  nearly  all  in  lied.  Most  of  the  lights  were  extinguished 
in  the  cottages.  About  this  tirac  in  London  dinner  would  be  well 
on.  Our  hero  would  be  only  thinking  of  beginning  his  evening. 
Probably  after  he  had  left  the  place  where  he  dined  he  would  look 
into  a  drawing-room  or  two,  or  at  least  he  would  stand  upon  the 
stairs  at  one  or  two  places.  'J'hen  he  would  go  to  his  club  and  sit 
there  in  the  smoking-room  and  talk  and  listen  to  talk  until  he  grew 
tired.  Then  he  would  go  to  his  clumbers  and  begin  to  read,  or,  if  there 
happened  to  be  a  very  indaslHous  fit  on  him,  he  would  set  to  work 
and  write.  Really,  he  thought  to  himself,  the  part  of  life  worth 
having  or  thinking  about  began  at  the  hour  when  most  people  are  in 
bed  in  this  place  of  his  sojourn  or  exile,  and  when  he  had  reason  to 
fear  that  the  little  heart  of  hts  companion  was  beating  with  alarm 
lest  she  should  be  scolded  by  her  people  for  staying  out  too  late. 

But  the  girl's  alarm,  if  she  really  fell  any,  and  if  our  London  hero 
was  not  quite  mistaken  in  fancying  he  beard  the  beating  of  her  heart, 
did  not  seem  to  impel  her  to  any  great  speed.  She  walked 
composedly  and  slowly,  and  talked  to  Mr.  Acton  with  a  curious 
blending  of  simplicity  and  sclf-rciiance,  now  seeming  like  a  child  and 
now  like  a  woman  of  the  world. 

"  I  have  always  wanted  to  know  an  author,"  she  said  suddenly. 
"  I  heard  that  you  were  an  author,  and  so  I  came  to  see  you,  for  I 
never  saw  one  before.     Arc  you  a  great  author — are  you  famous; " 


Love  in  Idleness. 


II 


"No,"  Stephen  answered  with  good  humoured  resignation.  *■! 
am  a  very  small  aulhor;  and  Dol  in  Ihc  least  famous.  In  faci,  I 
AiDk  I  un  rather  a  failure." 

■But  you  have  wriuea — books?" 

"Oh  yes — there's  no  doubt  about  that  1  have  wriiteo— wliat  Ihey 
cdl  books.    The  difficulty  isn't  in  writing  them,  you  know." 

"Isn't  it?     In  what  then?" 

"Getting  people  to  read  thera,  tny  dear  child,"  Stephen  said, 
tiade  carelessly  familiar  by  the  girl's  manner  and  her  seeming  cliild- 
ishness.  She  started,  however,  and  drew  her  aim  partly  away  firom 
Ibb. 

"  Wh&^t  tiie  matter  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  am  not  a  child,"  she  said,  "  and  I  don't  choose  to  be  called 
so.  Tara  not  anybody's  dear  child.  I  won't  be  spoken  to  in  that 
sort  of  way.** 

•*  Ceiutnly  not  by  me,  if  you  don't  wish  it,  my .     I  mean,  of 

course  not ;  and  I  b^  your  pardon."    She  quietly  took  his  arm 
■gain,  and  they  went  on.   "  But  tell  me,  how  old  arc  you?" 

"  Don't  you  know  " — but  this  time  she  spoke  good-humouredly — 
"that  that  is  almost  as  bad  as  calling  me  your  dear  child?  It  is 
tcDug  me  at  ouce  that  yon  consider  me  a  child.  You  don't  ask  a 
gpowa  woman  how  old  she  is." 

•"  Well,  you  do  seem  veiy  young  lo  me.  But  that  is  because  I  ata 
very  old  to  you.     I  might  be  your  father." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  so  at  all ;  yon  seem  quite  >>oung  to  me.  But 
rn  icU  you  how  old  I  am  if  yo\i  care  to  know,  I  am  just  twent)-. 
Do  I  look  much  younger  than  that?  Tell  me — I  should  like  to 
know. 

"  Wen  then,  let  me  look  at  you." 

They  stood  in  the  moonlight,  and  the  girl  threw  back  her  shawl 
and  looked  up  at  him  xrith  eyes  wherein  the  very  insolence  of  self- 
aatisfaction  seemed  to  sparkle.  She  was  indeed  wonderfully  pretty. 
The  white  forehead,  the  large  deep  eyes,  the  rounded  and  delicate 
ehm,  the  full  throat,  the  winsome  figure  all  might  have  bewitched  a 
youneer  man,  our  hero  thought.  But  the  days  of  such  witchery  were 
oT  conne  all  over  for  him.  And  besides  he  began  to  fear  that  he 
wai  talking  lo  a  vain  little  vilbge  coquette  spoiled  by  the  calf-like 
admiration  of  the  young  boobies  of  the  neighbourhood. 

"  No,*  he  ansuKKd  coolly,  "  you  don't  look  quite  so  young  as  I 
tfaou^t  at  fine     But  1  am  not  much  of  a  judge  of  giils'  ages." 

They  went  on  for  a  few  paces  in  silence,  until  the  irrepressible 
auidcn  began  again. 


"  Won't  you  tell  mc  something  about  auUiors  and  Loadon  ?  " 
"  Have  you  never  been  to  London  ?" 

"  OH  yes,  but  I  don't  know  it  at  all.  I  have  not  gone  about  tbert 
— except  where  people  have  taken  me.  I  should  like  to  go  among 
great  authors — I  have  always  longed  to  knov  men  who  were 
interesting.  That's  why  I  wanted  to  see  you — even  before  I  heaid 
you  sing." 

"  But  I  am  not  a  great  author." 

"You  are  a  great  author  to  me.  Any  one  who  has  written  a  bod 
is  a  great  author  to  me." 

*'  Thank  Heaven  we  have  met,"  said  Stephen. 
"  Arc  you  reaHy  so  glad  ?     T  am  very  very  glad,  if  you  are.     It  is 
a  nuisance  that  I  can't  go  and  talk  to  somebody  about  it  and  tdl 
them  I  have  met  Mr.  Acton,  the  great  author — for  of  course  1 
should  call  you  a  great  author — and  describe  you,  and  all  that." 

"And  why  can't  you  do  all  that  if  it  gives  you  any  pleasure?' 
Stephen  asked,  putting  himself  on  her  level  of  easy,  unabashed 
speculation. 

"Oh,  they  wouldn't  know — they  wouldn't  care  here — there  is 
nobody." 

Our  hero  began  to  feel  more  and  more  interested  in  his  companioa 

He  thought  he  could  read  the  story  of  her  life  easily  enough.    She 

had  by  some  means  obtained  a  much  better  education  and  had  lar 

more  refined  tastes  than  her  Cimily  and  her  usual  acquaintances,  and 

yet,  of  course,  she  could  not  break  the  bounds  of  her  own  circle.   He 

looked  down  at  her,  and  she  seemed  prettier  than  ever.     That  dainty 

little  white  bare  hand  resting  on  his  anu,  must  it  some  day  bake  and 

brew  and  scour  and  dam,  and  all  Ihc  rest  of  it  ?     Would  she  marry 

^m         some  boathuilder,  or  the  miller,  or  the  principal  publican  of  the  place, 

^M         and  grow  heavy  and  prosaic  and  contented  with  licr  lot  ?     'Why  not? 

^m         The  prettiest,  gncefiillest  kitten  turns  into  a  dull  and  sleepy  old  cat 

^1        who  winks  and  blinks  before  the  household  (ire. 

^1  By  the  way,  where  did  she  live?    They  ought  to  be  getting  near 

^M        her  home.     Mr.  Acton  began  to  feci  as  if  it  was  not  quite  right  that 

^H        he  should  be  wandering  about  with  ttiis  pretty  half-artless,  half-coD- 

^M        ceited  girl  when  her  people  did  not  know  where  she  was  or  who  he 

H        was. 

^1  "^Vre  wc  near  your  house?"  he  asked. 

^M  She  certainly  started  a  little  at  the  question,  and  he  knew  by  the 

^B  sudden  glance  she  gave  to  the  right  that  her  home  must  be  some- 
^M  where  in  that  direction.  But  he  could  see  no  houses  or  house  that 
^B       way — only  a  road  and  dark  trees. 


Lmje  in  Idleness. 


»3 


** !  im  qniic  near  home  now,"  ihe  girl  said,  ''  and  you  need  not 
conic  any  farther,  Uuink  you." 

*'  But  I  must  sec  you  safely  to  your  door." 

"  No,  you  TTiust  not." 

"l^Tiyso?" 

"  Because  I  don't  want  you  to  know  where  I  live." 

"  Child — I  beg  pardon,  I  mean  young  lady  or  mademoiselle — you 
don't  suppose  I  am  going  to  leave  you  to  >rander  alone  in  the  dotk- 
oess  at  this  hour  of  the  night  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  first  angry  and  then  amused. 

"Well,"  she  said,  at  last,  "yon  may  see  me  home,  but  only  under 
conditions.  1  don't  want  you  to  know  where  I  am  living,  and  you 
arc  tmt  to  know  it  \  But  we'll  do  as  the  people  do  in  some  of  the 
old  stoHes.  You  must  close  your  ^-^^  and  let  me  lead  you  a  Uctlc 
way,  and  then  let  me  turn  you  round  once,  twice,  three  times, 
ttDd  after  that  of  course  you  never  could  know  where  you  were, 
and  never  could  find  your  way  to  the  place  again.  Will  you  do 
ihu?- 

"Certainly,  with  pleasure,  if  you  like  it"  "She  is  a  child  and  no 
nmtike,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Does  she  not  know  that  I  mu3t  tind 
ay  way  home,  and  if  I  can  fmd  my  way  home  from  this  mysterious 
place,  whatever  it  U,  why  not  find  my  way  there  again  ?  " 

**V«iy  well.    Now  dose  your  eyes." 

"Tley  are  dosed." 

"Your  word  of  honour  that  you  won't  open  them  tmtil  I  tell 
jwi?- 

"  My  word  of  honour ! " 

"  Thanks.    Give  roe  your  hand." 

He  held  his  hand  out,  and  the  girl  took  ii  in  one  of  hers.  She 
led  him  a  little  way. 

"Can't  j-ou  move  more  quickly  than  that?"  she  asked  impatiently, 
as  Mr.  Acton  was  creeping  and  stumbling  along  with  all  ihc  imcon- 
qnoable  aervousness  and  awkwardness  of  one  moving  blindfold  on 
a  ittange  path.  "Are  j-ou  aliaid  that  I  sliall  lead  you  into  the 
water?" 

"  I'm  afraid  yoo  are  a  very  malicious  young  woman." 

She  bughed. 

"1  am  not  leading  you  astray  for  all  that  1  Come,  step  boldly  on, 
and  don't  seem  as  if  you  were  alraid." 

The  position  of  our  friend  was  rather  ridiadous,  and  he  felt  a 
little  abashed  to  think  of  being  dragged  along  a  country  road  at 
■tight  with  his  eyes  shut  by  a  pretty  saucy  girl,  whose  little  es.p\oslo^^s 


The  GmiUmans  Magazin4. 


of  laughter  he  could  hear  at  every  step  of  the  way,  and  who,  for 
aught  he  couid  tell,  might  intend  some  delightful  practical  joke  such 
as  village  folk  find  mirth  in.  He  was  on  the  point  of  announcing 
that  he  withdrew  his  parole  and  opening  his  cyca,  when  bis  guide 
suddenly  stopped. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  "  you  must  turn  round  three  times." 

She  drew  hei  hand  away  from  his,  and  he  was  sorry  to  lose  lis 
touch.  Then  she  put  her  hands  upOD  his  shoulders  and  turned 
him  gravely  round. 

"Once,"  she  said.  "Stand  tKere  a  moment — tliat  will  da  JSoir 
Twice!" 

Stephen  wa.t  ransacking  his  brain  for  some  memories  of  blind- 
man'.<i-bu£r,  in  which  he  bad  a  wild  idea  that  tliere  was  &omc  privil^e 
of  kissing  a  girl  when  you  caught  her,  and  he  was  wondering  whether 
i^ter  his  third  twirl  lie  might  not  catch  his  litde  guide  and  try  his 
rights.  We  believe  as  a  nutter  of  fact  that  the  game  contains  no 
such  right*  or  opportunities,  and  that  in  his  present  imbecile 
state  our  friend  was  confusing  it  with  some  sport  in  the  nature  of 
forfeits,  which  he  had  a  recollection  of  having  played  in  very  caily 
boyhood,  when  he  would  much  ratlier  not  have  kissed  the  girls  if  he 
could  decently  have  waived  his  privileges.  Meantime,  however, 
while  tr>-ing  to  find  a  precedent  or  pretext  for  ttie  audacity  he  coa- 
tempbted,  he  did  not  observe  at  first  that  twirl  number  three  wss 
very  long  in  coming. 

"Now  then,"  he  said  aloud,  "give  me  my  lliird  turn,  and  let  me 
see  you  once  more.     Don't  leave  me  too  long  in  darkness." 

Nothing  came  of  this  appeal. 

"Come,  like  a  good  girl,"  Stephen  said  ratlicr  impatiently.  "  Tio 
set  me  free." 

No  answer.    The  silence  was  awfiiL 

"  I  give  you  fair  warning  that  I  shall  open  my  eyes  M  you  don't 
begin  the  last  turning  round  before  1  coi«t  three !  Now  mind ! 
One  I  two !  three  ! " 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  found  that  be  was  absolutely  alone.  No 
girl  or  other  living  creature  was  there  ;  and  the  place  where  he  WM 
standing  was  ever  so  much  nearer  to  his  lodging  than  the  spot  where 
he  first  consented  to  close  his  eyes.  The  girl  had  kd  him  round  l^ 
some  other  way  near  to  his  home  and  away  from  hers,  tlien  turned 
him  round  twice,  and  stole  away  and  left  him. 

He  felt  ashamed,  annoyed,  amused. 

"The  little  traitress  I "  he  murmiu-ed.  "  I  shall  he  the  laughing- 
stock of  the  village  1  dare  say  I    Well,  if  I  see  her  again,  and  if  she 


Love  in  Idleness. 


ipcE  without  paying  me  a  kiss  as  the  foifeit  of  her  treachery,  she 
may  laugh  at  mc  uid  welcome." 

Moandhile  Uie  advcotiirc  was  decidedly  odd  aod  piquant.  It 
comoled  our  friend  a  little  for  his  exile  from  LoiidoD,  ivfaicb  he  felt 
partkularly  as  night  came  on.  What  was  he  to  do  witii  himself 
now  ?  Kc  dill  nuc  care  to  go  to  his  lodgings  and  read.  The  lamps 
were  bad— ihey  gave  a  miserable  light,  and  compensated  for  the 
feebknesa  of  iheir  beams  by  the  strength  of  their  odour.  Going  to 
bed  was  simply  not  to  be  thought  of.  There  was  a  long,  low, 
■rmmHing  vail  on  the  edge  of  the  roadway  looking  over  the  water. 
fttr.  Acton  sat  on  this  wall,  smoked  a  agar,  looked  at  the  flLcker  of 
the  moon  on  the  wa^xs,  and  positively  grew  sentimental.  More 
than  that,  be  loMxvi  himself  thinking  unmistakably  about  the  gtil 
who  lud  niQ  away  from  him.  In  that  atmosphere,  in  that  hour, 
with  tbe  genius  of  the  place  tnBuencing  him,  and  its  memories  like 
the  scents  of  its  flowers  and  hedges  about  him,  it  is  not  surprising 
thai  the  laughing  girl  became  somehow  blended  with  the  long- 
forgoUen  image  of  that  tiist  love  of  many  years  syne.  The  con- 
fiision  was  all  the  mote  naluml,  seeing  tliat  Stephen  did  not  know 
the  name  of  the  one  and  lud  foigottca  the  name  of  the  other.  "  I 
nught  have  a  daughter  her  age,"  he  thought,  "at  least  tUmvst  her  age," 
(bv  m  some  qiysterious  way  he  felt  impelled  even  in  his  own  mind 
to  deprecate  making  his  years  loo  many.  "  Yes,  aimosi  her  age. 
What  a  very  suange  thing  it  would  be  if  she  proved  to  be  the 
daagbtct  of  the  girl  I  knew  here  long  ago!  In  a  romance  that  would 
be  the  very  thing  lo  happen." 

He  had  a  sort  of  recollection,  however,  that  the  first  young 
l&dy  bod  gone  to  Australia  when  she  married,  and  had  settled  there. 
AJlfaough  U  had  humoured  his  whimsical  mood  to  imagine  for  the 
moneni  that  his  new  acquaintance  might  be  the  child  of  his  long- 
kst  first  tore,  he  felt  somewlut  relieved  when  he  had  succeeded 
in  coavinciog  himself,  by  com[>arison  of  dates,  that  the  thing  was 
ottdly  absurd  and  impossible.  His  first  love,  single  some  flfieeo  or 
nxtecn  yearii  ago,  could  hardly  he  the  mother  of  a  girl  of  twenty, 

He  went  to  bed,  Lhinking  London  farther  off  than  ever,  but 
beginning  to  fancy  that  he  could  endure  bis  absence  from  it  tolerably 
wrD  after  all,  and  he  quickly  fell  asleep. 

Of  coutse  the  beauty  and  glory  of  a  country  life  is  to  have  long 
wilkB  hcforc  breakfasl.  The  performance  to  those  who  arc  fresh 
(irocn  town  and  unaccustomed  to  healthful  enjoyment  not  uncom- 
mocJy  gives  a  headache  and  takes  away  all  ap]>el)tc  for  breakfast 
Oar  hero,  however,  got  up  very  early  ncrt  morning,  determined  to 


i6 


Tfu  GeniUmatCs  Magazine, 


I 


go  in  fur  health  above  all  thmgs.    The  sun  was  rather  late  in  rismg 
and  Uie  atraosphere  was  stcciJcd  in  a  vr-arra  silvery  grey. 

"  Up  the  hill ! "  Acton  said  to  himself.  "  I've  not  been  up  that 
hill  for  fifteen  years.  If  there  were  a  toll-bar  there  I  ought  to  pay 
three  halfpennies  at  least,  like  the  man  in  the  poem.'^  For  he 
thought  of  the  invisible  companions  who  were  now  mounting  the 
hill  with  him. 

He  strode  on,  half  sad,  half  gay,  perhaps  in  the  sweetest  of  all 
mortal  moods.  'I'he  air,  the  scent  of  the  hedges,  the  faint  savour  of 
the  sea,  the  novelty,  the  memories,  all  made  a  delightful  season  for 
him.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  a  young  Sicilian  from  out  the  age  of 
Theocritus.  He  began  to  sing  with  full  lungs  and  splendid  voice 
any  snatch  of  song  that  came  into  his  mind.  Suddenly  he  came  K>  a 
stand,  and  his  song  subsided  almost  into  silence,  for  a  breath  of 
memory  bewitching  as  the  sudden  odour  of  swcctbriar  distracted 
him. 

The  lane  or  road  suddenly  turned  o^  to  the  lef^  among  trees,  so 
that  from  where  he  now  stood  he  could  see  do  lane.  One  stately  old 
elm  was  standing  just  where  the  path  turned,  and  seemed  to  close 
the  view  altogether.  But  our  hero  knew  that  the  view  did  not  close 
there;  for  he  saw  in  his  mind  the  lane  still  winding  on  amid  applc- 
trces  and  hawtliom  bushes,  and  he  saw  himself  a  youth  waiting  under 
the  tree  for  his  forgotten  sweetheart  of  auld  lang  sync  to  come  down 
the  path  and  meet  him.  He  must  have  had  something  of  the  poet 
in  him,  for  all  his  years  of  Londonism  and  clubism.  No  one 
without  some  vein  of  tlie  poetic  still  steeping  freshly  the  deeps  of  his 
nature  could  have  stood  so  long  in  that  dreamy  delight  of  mere 
memory  and  inane  reflection. 

But  he  started  all  of  a  sudden,  and  became  alarmed  almost  like 
the  nymph  of  pastoral  l^end,  surprised  in  the  pool  where  she  had 
just  entered  to  batlie.  For  he  heard  a  sweet  fresh  voice  singing  io 
the  air  somewhere  ;  and  there  turning  the  comer  of  the  lane  is  his 
old  tme  love  !— at  least — "  \Vhat  nonsense  ;  what  an  idiot  I  am," 
he  said  to  himself — at  least  there  was  the  saucy  little  beauty  who 
bad  tricked  him  the  night  before.  Both  were  a  little  confused,  but 
our  experienced  hero  was  by  far  the  more  confused  of  tlic  two.  The 
^1  presently  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter. 

"  Turn  about  once  :  turn  about  twice  ! "  she  began.     '*  She  tupied 
im  round  and  turned  him  round." 

"You  little  traitress  l"  Acton  said,  recovering  some  of  hi   cus 
ternary  ease  and  assurance.    "  You  turned  me  round  and  turasd  me 
indeed.     Yes,  you  did  make  a  fool  of_me  last  night."         ^^ 


Love  tn  Idlcficss. 


17 


opening  round  eyes    of  affect«d  simplicity, 
tbat  f    I  only  saw  you  for  the  lirst  time  last 


I?"   she  asked, 
I"  Was  it   I  who  did 

oighL™ 

"  Well,  you  supplemented  and  completed  the  work  of  N'ature." 

*'  People  teD  rae  I  am  a  child  of  Xaturc  when  they  mean  to  praise 
'TQC,"  she  sold.  "  So  I  ought  to  do  her  work,  oughtn't  I  ?  But  did 
i  make  a  fool  of  you  ? — 1  am  so  glad  '.  To  make  a  fool  of  a  great 
author  from  London : " 

"  Vou  roust  pay  the  forfeit  for  it  now,"  he  exclaimed.  "  You  had 
it  all  your  own  way  last  night,  my  young  friend.  It's  my  turn  now  : 
and  you  shan't  cwiipc  wlllioul  paying  forfeit" 

"  \Vhat  forfeit  ?  "  she  asked  rather  coldly. 

"  A  kiss,  dear,"  and  he  advanced  towards  her.  "  A  girl's  forfeit 
[always." 

"StufTl"  was  the  rather  unromantic  commentary  of  the  young 
t  Voman.  "  X  know  noUung  about  girls  and  their  ways.     No — do  keep 
away ;  I  won't  have  iL" 

Stephen  was  not  deterred.     He  caught  her  round  the  waist,  and 

[endcavovired  to  have  his  foifeit   kiss.      She    struggled,  grew   red. 

[Stephen  of  course  assumed  this  to  be  only  her  village  coquetry.    He 

held  her  with  gentle  hut  all  sufficing  force;  her  struggles  were 

wholly  in    vain.      He  had    his  kiss,    and  she  burst  into  tears  1 

Dismayed,  he  released  her,  and  she  Bung  herself  away  from  him. 

It  sen'es  rnc  right ! "  she  said,  when  her  vehement  sobs  would 
allow  her;  "  but  I  thought  you  were  a  gentleman ! " 

"  I  really  ask  your  pardon  a  thousand  times,"  said  the  abashed 
Stephen,  truly  now  wishing  in  his  heart  that  there  were  any  ])roccss  by 
which  one  could  retract  an  inflicted  kiss.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  offend 
you — I  didn't  think  j-ou  would  be  so  much  offended — I  never 
meant" 

'*  Do  you  attempt  to  kiss  ladies  in  London  when  you  have  met 
•them  for  the  second  time  ?  "  she  asked  with  anger  flashing  in  her  eyes, 
\ — in  which,  however,  Stephen  was  glad  to  see  that  no  fresh  tears  were 
themsdvcs.     "  Is  that  the  custom  among  the  people  you 
'  Why  don't  you  speak  ?    Is  it  ?  " 

"  WeD,  no ;  but  people  In  London  are  rather  formal — and  in  Ae 
I  country  one  thinks  things  are  different     And  I  have  made  a  fool  of 
myKli  now," 

"  You  thought,  i  suppose,  that  a  poor  little  village  girl  was  good 
enough  for  any  condescending  rudeness  t " 

"  No,  I  didn't,"  .^ton  answered  bluntly.  "  I  never  thought  any- 
thing of  the  kind.     I  wouldn't  wHlingl/  offend  the  ^otcsx.  ga\ 


L 


that  ever  lived.     But  I  didn't  think  you  would  be  offended,  that'* 
all." 

"  Why?"    Her  resolute  qneations  were  terribly  piercing. 

"  Why?     Well,  because  I  thought  you  were  only  a  merry  sort  of 
chool-girl,  and  wouldn't  sec  any  hann  in  it,  or  make  such  a  work 
about  it" 

Stephen  was  positively  trembling,  half  in  fear  of  having  really 
offended  her,  and  half  in  anger  at  her  being  so  easily  offended. 

"  i  can  only  apologise  to  you  again,"  he  said  :  "and  I  do  i>o  with 
all  my  heart.  I  ask  your  forgiveness — ^what  more  could  I  do  if  you 
were  a  princess?" 

The  girl  had  recovered  her  good  humour.  She  could  not  but  see 
that  Stephen  was  a  guntleiuaii,  that  he  had  meant  no  harm,  and  was 
sorry  for  his  litde  rashness. 

"  Youare  trembling,"  she  said.     "  What  is  that  for?" 

"  Because  I  am  afraid  I  have  made  you  angry." 

"  I  didn't  think  men  trembled  much  at  the  anger  of  girls,"  she 
said,  with  a  half  melancholy  smile.  "  I  know  one  man  who  doesn't. 
He  would  like  to  make  me  tremble  sometimes." 

"Your  father?"  Stephen  asked,  gently;  glad  to  turn  away  from  the 
subject  of  the  fatal  kiss,  and  thinking  what  a  very  remarkable  brute 
the  faiher  must  be  who  could  make  that  pretty  little  creature  tremble. 

"Oh,  no — I  haven't  any  faiher." 

"Not  your  brother,  surely — I  can't  believe  that  any  brother" 

"  I  haven't  any  brother." 

"  Her  lover  1 "  Stephen  thought.  "  She  is  engaged  to  some  jealou-s 
young  savage  of  this  place — some  ignorant  clown  no  doubt  Tliat's 
why  she  was  so  angry  about  the  kiss— he  might  have  come  up  at  the 
vcTy  moment !  Confound  him  1 "  Stephen  positively  wished  he  had 
come  up,  and  felt  himself  instinctively  throwing  out  hts  chest  and 
clenching  his  fists.  The  country  life  was  fast  demoralising  hiro.  After 
forty-eight  hours  he  was  almost  rwdy  for  a  bout  of  fisticuffs  in  a  lane 
for  the  smile  of  a  village  coquette  I 

"  Well,  I  forgive  you,"  the  girl  said,  with  a  smile  doubly  bright 
after  her  tears  ;  "and  I  know  you  will  not  be  rude  again.  You  must 
think  better  of  us  country  girls.  We  like  to  be  treated  as  if  we  were 
ladles.    I  forgive  you,  but  on  one  condition." 

"Only  tell  me" ^ 

"  Just  that  you  get  roe  one  of  the  lovely  soft  green  deliciou.s  little 
branches,  high  up  there,  in  that  tree  !  I  was  looking  up  at  them  so 
lovingly,  so  longingly,  as  I  came  down  the  lane,  and  wiiihing  that  I  had 
•^'  of  a  dove  or  could  climb  trees.    Won't  you  get  me  one?" 


Love  in  Idleness. 


19 


Mr.  Acton  looked  up  at  the  tree.  He  had  not  climbed  a  tree  Tor 
aearly  tweni)-  years.  It  was  not  the  trouble  he  thought  of,  or  the 
taking  the  skin  off  his  hands  or  his  knees,  or  the  damage  to  he  done 

his  trousers.     He  was  only  thinking   of  a  possibility  whirh  might 
lirly  have  cooled  the  enterprise  of  Sir  Tristram  :  Uie  powibihly  of 
bU  oot  being  able  to  get  up  into  the  tree,  and  tailing  dova  or  having 
lo  give  in.  and  in  either  case  being  ridiculous- 

"Oh,  picue  never  mind," she Kiid,  seeing  his  embartassmcnL  "I 
can  easily  gel  somebody  to  go  up." 

^  Yes— the  savage,  the  clo^vn,  the  brutal  lover ! "  Stephen  thought 
with  indignation.     "  Never — ^I'U  die  first  T 

Redcless  of  consequences  and  possibilities,  our  hero  sprang  at  the 
tree  and  dung  around  its  trunk.  Mere  desperation  and  nothing  else 
enabled  him  to  shin  up  with  awkward  clutching  hands  and  scraping 
knees.  As  a  dog  driven  wild  by  the  sight  of  a  cat  sconifully  spittin); 
at  him  from  the  height  of  a  lofty  wall  will  sometimes  rusli  at  the  wail 
and  by  sheer  fury  and  force  drive  himself  so  far  up  its  side  that  he 
seems  for  the  moment  almost  to  have  borrowed  the  cat's  own  power 
of  climbing,  so  did  our  resolute  Londoner  force  his  way  up  the  tree. 
He  could  distincdf  hear  peals  and  bursts  of  laughter  from  below. 
Once  he  flung  a  hasty  glance  downward,  and  he  could  sec  that  his 
pretty  tormenior  was  positively  sta^cring  alxnit  with  laughter.  If 
the  tree  were  as  high  as  Jack's  immortal  beanstalk  our  hero  would 
not  give  in  now.  Nc\'et !  If  he  fell  down  it  should  at  least  be  fronv 
a  height  tufhcient  to  kill  him.  and  when  his  crushed  and  mangled 
corpse  lay  at  her  feet  perhaps  she  would  not  laugh  (juitc  so  much  at 
that  I  At  last  he  grasps  a  branch  and  swings  himself  crashing  up 
among  the  tliick  boughs,  making  nearly  as  much  noise  ns  an  clcphan; 
plunging  through  a  forest  He  felt  all  right  now,  and  sat  astride 
vpon  a  great  projecting  branch  with  a  happily  assumed  air  of  jauaiy 
case,  as  if  his  habitual  occupation  was  bird-nesting,  and  as  if  he  wa'* 
oot  nearly  puffed  out  of  ail  use  of  his  lungs.  ^Vhen  he  made  a  dc- 
moiutration  of  going  still  higher  the  girl  cried  out  in  alarm — 
'  Don't ;  oh,  dou'L :  the  branches  won't  bear  you-  Oh  ! " 
'  Vl\aX  did  you  say  ?  "  Acton  called  out  in  careless  tones,  as  if  he 
not  hcjitd,  and  preparing  to  ascend. 

"Ob,  stop— ptmy—dont— you'll  be  killed  )" 

**  Ii^  my  turn  now,"'  Acton  thought  lo  himsel£  ferociously.  "  Vow 
well  .ie<  who  is  laughing  !"  Like  the  Irishman  in  the  story,  he  ».i< 
"  almou  in  hopes  "  for  the  moment  that  the  branches  would  give  way 
and  let  him  fall.  Nothing  makes  a  man  so  heroic  ax  llie  desire  lu 
a  pretty  and  sauc/^J  thaX  Jic  is  not  oTrsud. 

c  % 


20 


Tke  Gentleman  s  Afa 


Stephoi  lo(d:cd  doim  and  saw  that  the  giri  below  bad  covered  her 
e)vs  with  her  hands.  Delightedly  be  got  among  the  highest  brajichcs, 
broke  off  some  tender,  freshest  shoots  much  farther  up  than  aoy  she 
bad  asked  for,  ood  acxompUshed  his  descent  tn  safety,  while  she 
yet  dared  not  look.  He  touched  her  hands  lightly  with  his  green 
trophies,  and  then  she  sav^wtih  reddening  cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes 
that  he  was  safe. 

"  I  oughtn't  to  have  donc'that,"  she  said,  all  tremulous  stilL 

"Done  wliat?" 

"  Asked  you  to  go'up  there — you  might  have  been  killed !  But  I 
never  meant  you  to  go  so  high.     Thai's  all  very  well  for" 

"Yes— for  what?" 

"  WcU,  for  boys,''  she  answered,  looking  at  him  with  rccoveripg 
courage  and  malice. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  Stephen  said,  giavdy.  "The  wiuld  was  nude  for  boys, 
I  think." 

"  I  hate  boys,"  the  young  lady  oaetgetically  said. 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  Come  and  sit  here  on  the  grass — I  atn  not  a 
boy — and  well  talk  like  sensible  people," 

*'  Thank  you— I  had  rather  stand  ;  but  we  can  talk  like  sensible 
people  all  the  same." 

Acton  threw  himself  on  the  grass  imdcr  the  tree,  for  he  was  really 
a  good  deal  tired  by  his  exertions.  They  talked  for  a  while  like  sensi- 
ble people — like  sensible  people  under  similar  circumstances.  So 
fresh  and  winning  a  little  girl  Stephen  had  never  met  She  was  a 
curious  mixture  of  artlcssness  and  malice ;  saying  sharp  and  touching 
things  alternately — a  bittersweet  such  as  only  queer  out-of  the-way 
places  can  grow,  our  hero  thought  If  any  of  his  friends  from  Pall 
M.1II  could  have  seen  him  that  morning  scrambling  up  the  tree  and 
positively  risking  his  life  for  the  sake  of  showing  oit'  before  a  village 
giri — if  any  one  could  have  told  him  a  week  ago  that  he  n-ould  rbe 
at  an  unnatumi  hour  morning  after  morning  in  the  hope  of  meeting 
the  girl  and  having  tliirly  minutes'  talk  wiili  her  ! 

For  it  came  to  this.  Successive  mornings  he  found  himself  about 
the  same  hour  at  the  foot  of  the  same  tree,  and  there  somehow  did 
our  pretty  girl  always  come.  It.w-as  the  oddest,  sweetest  sort  of 
acquaintanceship.  It  was  not  love-making;  it  was  not  even  spoon- 
ing. There  never  was  a  word  of  open  love;  not  a  hint  of  mere 
flirtation  or  anything  of  that  kind.  A  man  and  his  favourite  niece 
might  almost  have  met  and  rambled  and  talked  in  the  same  u-ay. 
Yet  our  hero  found  the  horizon  of  his  life  contrscting  strangely  into 
the  limit  of  this  occasional  half-hour.    The  girl  came  no  more  to  the 


J 


cvcomg  meetings  m  the  little  parlour.  Stephen  could  5nd  out  nothing 
about  her,  for  he  would  not  question  bis  hostess,  who  never  men- 
tkmed  her.  From  Miss  Janet  herself  he  had  got  ihc  impression 
somehow  ttiat  her  home  was  unhappy  and  that  she  had  a  stepfather. 
Bat  he  did  not  even  yet  know  where  she  lived  or  anything  about  her 
people. 

"  What  do  T  want  to  know  ?  "  he  asltcd  himself.  '*  It's  no  affair  of 
mine.  Of  course  her  people  would  be  commonplace  and  stupid — 
vulgar,  perhaps.  Besides,  I  shall  be  going  away  soon.  It's  not  a 
lo\x-maJciog  business."  So  he  kept  assming  himself  often.  "  Any- 
how," he  thought,  with  a  certain  bitterness,  "  it  isn't  a  love-making 

jsiness  on  her  part.  I'm  not  of  an  age  to  start  such  thoughts  in  the 
linds  of  pretty  girls  like  her,  One  comfort  of  middle-aged  bachelor* 
,  is  that  wc  needn't  be  afraid  of  distressing  the  hearts  of  the  girls 
lect.'* 

One  unlucky  morning,  when  our  two  friends  were  talking  together 
like  sensible  people,  Mr.  Acton's  landlady  passed  .ilong  the  road 
from  which  the  lane  ascended.  They  were  just  coming  down 
the  hilly  lane:,  and  they  almost  mn  upon  her.  Mf.  Acton  might 
not  have  cored  much,  but  his  companion   reddened  and  looked 

^H"  Now  I'm  in  for  a  scolding,"  she  said.     "I  do  wish  the  hadn't 
^Ken  us." 

^B  "Why  so?"  Stephen  asked,  rather  offended  at  the  thought  that 
^^■ly  one  could  be  scolded  for  being  seen  with  him. 
^^  "  I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  be  about  the  roads  in  this  sort  of  way. 
1  generally  do  as  I  like— and  that  people  know  pretty  well.  But  I 
lose  courage  and  break  down  when  they  lecture  me,  even  though 
1  wouldn't  let  them  think  so  for  the  world.  1  dare  say  she'll  tell  my 
people — no  matter,  I  don't  care." 

She  looked  as  if  ^e  did  care,  however,  and  Stephen  was  a  good 

deal  troubled,  and  began  to  feel  remorseful,  and  to  ask  himself  if  he 

had  not  been  doing  a  very  WTong  thing  in  going  about  morning  after 

momin;;  witli  this  pretty  and  un80i'his(ic2le<l  girl,    "lliat's  the  worst 

being  in  the  counir)-,"  he  said  to  his  soul,  with  rueful  pleasantry. 

We  &ncy  ti  all  pastoral  and  simple  :  atid  it  isn't !    T  should  never 

of  making  such  a  fool  of  myself  in  Hyde  Park  of  mornings. 

all,  London  is  the  safest,  most  innocent,  and  best  conducted 

in  all  the  world.    Ill  go  back  at  once— I  thifik  111  go  back 

at  once." 

Mis.  Good  seemed  distant  and  gloomy,  Stephen  thought.    Perhapf 
he  wu  coosdence-stiickcn,  and  tliciefore  suspicious,     lie  beg&t^  lo 


22 


TIu  OeniUnuin  s  3£a^axine, 


I 
I 


gouu 

id  he      1 


lilk  to  ber  with  an  appeannce  of  gnat  case  aod  fiieadEness  aboot. 
**)luB  Janett"  bat  Mn.  Good  was  dry  aod  cold. 

Vif  the  way,  Nfn,  Good,  I  really  don't  knov  the  yrvxag 

name." 

"  Indeed,  rir?" 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  do.    Ferfiaps  yon  may  have  tnentioaed  it  i 
me" 

"  I  don't  think  I  did,  sir." 

**  No,  I  thouj;ht  not    So  odd,  isnl  it,  to  know  the  j-oung  lady 
not  to  know  her  name?" 

"  Very  odd,  sir." 

"  She  is  a  very  nice  girl,  Mrs.  Good." 

"  If  she  was  my  daughter,  sir,  I'd  make  her  keep  at  home  a  good 
deal  more,"  Mrs.  C>ood  broke  ouL     "  But  I  don't  blame  her,  sir- 
oihera,  that  ought  to  have  more  sense.    God  help  her." 

Mr,  .\cton  had  an  idea  that  this  was  directed  against  lum,  and 
was  about  to  burst  Tortli  iiito  some  indignant  vindication  uT  himself 
and  the  sweet  and  childlike  girl  who  had  nsade  his  exile  from  London 
so  happy.  But  he  restrained  himself  in  time.  He  thought  it  would 
be  an  insult  to  the  absent  girl,  and  to  himself,  to  get  into  such  an 
argumtmi  with  downright  Mrs.  Good ;  and  so  he  cut  the  conversatioa 
shon,  sauntered  with  seeming  carelessness  and  sullen  heart  down  to 
the  shore,  fuund  the  old  boat  again,  unmoored  it,  rowed  out  far  into 
the  water,  lay  down  in  the  boat,  and  began  to  think. 

"  I'll  go  back  to  London  lo-morrow  morning,"  was  his  iirsl  thought 
"  I'll  go  back  to  my  prosy  ruechujiical  mill-horse  round  of  stupid 
society  and  stupid  work  I"  This  was  his  way  now  of  regarding  tlie 
life  that  so  lately  seemed  the  only  life  he  could  endure.  "  What  have 
I  to  do  with  sentiments  and  feelings,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing?  I'll 
go  bark  lo  London." 

Then  the  bont  gave  a  little  heave  and  dipped,  and  the  hill  with  its 
trees  appeared  before  his  eyes,  :ind  a  sudden  thrill  of  passionate 
emotion  vibrated  through  him,  making  his  heart  beat  and  his  lips 
tremble. 

"  What  if  I  didn't  ever  go  back — unless  sfie  comes  too  ?  " 

The  thought  filled  his  very  soul.  He  lay  in  the  boat  possess 
with  the  idea.  All  youth  and  energy  and  sweet  emotion  seemed 
come  lo  life  again  within  htm.  He  could  not  shut  out  the  thought  now, 
nor  admit*u  doubt  that  it  could  be  made  real.  He  felt  like  a  poet  who, 
having  gone  about  for  days  yearning  for  inspiration,  and  blindly 
rraving  he  knows  not  what,  suddenly  finds  his  whole  soul  and  brala 
filled  with  a  subject  a  purpose,  the  divine  clear  fabric  of  a  poe; 


4«^ 

t 


* 


■amj 


Lffve  in  /dlettess. 


23 


ATtar  an  hour  of  dreamy  Lossing  in  the  boat  Acton  came  asliote, 
feeling  that  any  touch  of  the  hrni  earth  was  fraught  with  disenchant- 
^meot  to  such  a  dream. 

^ft    He  was  recalled  soon  to  reality,  and  to  rocmoncs  of  London 

^Hociety.    A  visitor  was  waiting  to  sec  him — and  such  an  important 

■visitor — Mr.  Vanderverl  Jocclyn,   M.P.,  of  Eaton  Square,  who,  he 

now  learned,  was  the  owner  of  the  new  house  near  at  hand  witli  the 

pictures  which  he  had  declined  to  sec.     Stephen  knew  Mr.  Vauder- 

vcrt  Jocclyn  very  well  by  name  and  reputation.     Mr.  Jocelyu  had 

^knly  assumed  his  latter  name  rather  lately.     He  was  of  some  sort  of 

foreign  extraction ;  had  made  an  immensity  of  money,  married  a 

widow,  the  daughter  of  an  earl  (her  lirst  husband  had  been  a  brilliant 

young  naval  officer,  who  was  killed  In  China),  went  into  Parliament, 

and  was  supposed  to  be  ambitious  of  a  peerage.     Mr.  Vandcrvert 

Jocclyn,  when  he  began  to  be  conspicuous  as  a  wealthy  man,  gave 

himself  out  as  a  liberal,  but  having  been  blackballed  wlien  put  up 

as  candidate  for  membership  in  a  great  Whig  club,  he  suddenly 

became  a  Conser\'ativc,  was  elected  into  a  Conservative  club,  wrested 

a  large  city  from  Liberal  representation,  and  was  now  a  leading  sup- 

porter  of  the  constitutional  and  anti-cosraopolitan  interest.     He  was 

a  great  patron  ol  literature,  art,  and  journalism,  and  ne%'cr  failed  to 

make  one  of  the  guests  at  the  Liierary  Fund  Dinner,  the  Artists' 

Beixevolcnt  Fund  Dinner,  the  Press  Fund  Dinnetj  and  so  forth.    He 

bought  pictures,  and  p;ii<l  fancy  ])rices  fcir  them  on  condition  Uiat 

they  were  not  to  be  exhibited  at  the  Royal  Academy.     Mr.  Jocclyn 

himself  did  not  care  twopence  about  art,  but  his  pride  was  to  have 

pictures  which  everybody  could  not  sec  for  a  shilling.     He  never 

read  books,  but  he  had  heard  Stephen  Acton's  name,  and  when  he 

found  tliat  .Icton  was  staying  in  his  neighbourhood  he  felt  that  the 

proper  thing  was  to  call  upon  the  author  and  ask  him  to  dinner. 

H      Mr-  Jocelyn  was  gracious  in  his  familiar  bluntness. 

H     *'  Ijidy  Jane  will  be  delighted  to  sec  you.  Mr.  Acton.    She  is  very 

^■fond  of  literature.    We  have  only  just  run  do\vn,  you  know,  from 

^■towD ;  and  we're  off  in  a  day  or  two.    You'll  just  take  us  as  we  are^ 

^pno  ceremony.     We  can't  let  you  off— you  great  literary  men  from 

London  don't  often  give  us  a  chance  of  your  company  down  here  in 

this  dull  little  place.    To-monow  evening — at  eight" 

Stephen  felt,  to  say  the  trutli,  a  little  touch  of  pleasure  on  receiving 
the  invit-ition.     For  all  his  love  of  the  country  and  the  trees  and  llie 
innocent  face  of  Natnre,  and  the  twilights,  and  the  sunsets,  he 
had  been  too  long  the  adopted  child  of  London  and  of  its  social 
Jifc  not  to  find  himself  a  little  more  at  home  at  a  dinner-party  than 


i 


i 


34 


T!u  Gtnilemans  Magazim. 


I 


in  Mn.  Good's  parlour.  Much  as  he  w-as  enjoying  his  exile  from 
the  w-aya  of  ihe  civilised  world,  there  was  a  gentle  throh  of  pleasant 
emotion  at  llic  thought  of  getting  back  to  thera  even  for  one  nighL 
Only  for  this  night ;  or  a  \-ery  few  nights  at  most.  With  r^ard  to 
the  future  his  mind  was  made  up.  He  WBuld  renounce  society;  he 
would  even  renounce  London  itself,  if  she  wished  il.  i'or  her  he 
would  give  up  gladly  all  llie  unreal  and  trumpery  amusements,  the 
mechanical  routine  of  vapid  and  so-called  pleasures  that  make  up  the 
life  of  an  unmarried  man  in  town.  If  she  would  have  him — and  he 
believed  she  would  have  liim.  He  fcU  almost  sure  thai  she  cared  for 
him,  and  he  knew — oh  yes,  he  knew — that  she  was  a  girl  to  love 
with  her  whole  heart.  He  would  take  her  away  from  her  dull  and 
vulgar  relatives,  for  whom  she  could  care  nothing.  And  they  would 
live  perhaps  in  Venice  or  in  Rome.  His  income,  small  as  it  was^ 
would  keep  them  well  enough,  and  he  could  add  a  good  deal  by 
writing.  He  would  work  with  a  new  inspiration.  MTio  could  say? — 
perhaps  under  her  influence  he  might  even  write  some  book  which 
the  world  would  not  willingly  let  die — at  least  not  as  willingly  a%  il 
had  let  his  other  books  die;  perhaps,  at  all  e^-ents,  not  before  it  had 
reached  its  second  edition.  And  in  any  case,  think  of  the  delight  of 
showing  Venice  or  Rome  to  her  \ 

Such  thoughts  filled  him  with  rapture  as  he  wandered  about  the 
village  and  the  shore  that  day  trying  to  lind  her.  Such  trifling  con- 
sideradons  affect  a  man  in  Acton's  condition  that  he  felt  delighted  at 
having  received  an  invitation  to  Lady  Jane  Jocclyn's  to  dine,  because 
it  reminded  him  that  he  was  actually  in  society,  and  th.it  he  really 
had  something  to  give  up  for  the  sake  of  his  love.  He  was  counting 
all  the  time  very  confidently,  it  will  be  seen,  on  the  consent  of  the- 
young  woman  in  question. 

He  did  not  sec  her  all  that  day  or  that  night.  He  had  no  hope 
that  she  would  look  into  Mrs.  Good's  little  parlour  any  more,  and 
indeed  he  feared  Mrs.  Good  had  been  scolding  her.  He  wandered 
about  the  beach  for  half  the  night,  and  rose  almost  with  the  sun  next 
morning.  Then  he  diought  he  must  do  something,  and  so  he 
■wrote  these  lines  on  a  scrap  of  paper :— 


i 

4 


"Dearest  Janet, — I  don't  know  who  you  are   or  even   your' 

name,  but  I  am  as  much  in  love  with  you,  Janet,  as  ever  man  of 

K  mature  years  was  with  a  girl  of  twenty — and  in  sad  truth  if  you  won't 

marry  me  I  shall  not  care  for  life  any  more.     But  if  yoii  will,  I  will 

tiy  to  make  you  happy.    I  love  you,  JancL 

"Stephen  Acton." 


1 


25 

He  went  about  with  Ihis  letter  in  his  band  ready  to  put  into  hers 
if  he  Kliould  see  her.  And  he  did  see  her.  She  passed  liis  lodging 
about  tcvcn  o'clock  ihst  cvcninji!.  He  darted  do»'o  stairs  and  nui 
after  hct.  She  turned  round  on  hearing  his  step,  blushed,  and 
seemed  half  amused,  half  alarmed. 

"I  am  in  such  haste,  Mr.  Acton,"  she  said.  "  I  must  not  stay  a 
moment." 

"  Read  that ! "  Stephen  whbpcrcd,  and  he  put  his  letter  into  her 
hand  and  ran  away  without  even  once  looking  back. 

Our  mature  Londoner  was  positively  trembling  with  boyish  excite- 
ment and  emotion  as  he  dressed  for  dinner.  But  he  dressed  very 
carefully,  nevertheless,  and  as  he  looked  In  the  glass  fett  a  thrill  qC 
gratification  to  see  that  there  was  uo  sign  of  middle  age  apparent  yet 
in  his  face,  and  that  hLs  whole  appearance  was  decidedly  striking. 
After  all  it  wouldn't  be  llie  story  of  Beauty  and  the  Beast,  he  Uiought, 
with  modest  self-uiisfaction. 

Acton  was  disagrt'cahly  impressed  with  Mr.  Vandcncrt  Jocclju's 
household  as  he  entered.  The  ostentation  was  in  unpleasant  con- 
trast with  Mr.  Jocelyn's  talk  of  country  ways  and  no  ceremony.  A 
dooble  Hnc  of  what  democrats  long  ago  used  to  call  pamjicrcd 
menials  in  gturgeoas  liveries  received  Mm,  and  the  house  was  full  of 
company.  There  were  one  or  two  men  whom  Acton  slightly  knew 
in  town,  and  had  always  rather  disliked  as  purse-proud  and  preteti- 
tioua  luunbugs — so,  ax  least,  our  conceited  autlior  chuse  to  set  tliem 
down.  The  only  person  he  liked  in  the  company  was  Lady  Jane 
Jocdyn,  his  hostess  ;  and  he  liked  her  because  she  seemed  to  him 
nuber  melancholy  and  out  of  tone  with  the  place  and  the  people, 
a  jiatc  flower  amid  a  display  of  gorfj^eous  waxen  imitations, 
had  sweet  bright  eyes,  which  looked  as  if  their  owner  might  ha\"e 
very  happy  once;  and  they  perplexed  him  with  vague  tanta- 
Gsing  half-mumorics  as  if  he  must  have  seen  them  before.  Acton 
amtmcd  at  once,  gooil-naturcdly,  tliat  Mr.  Vaudervert  Jocelyn  bullied 
has  wife ;  that  she  was  always  thinking  of  her  first  husband,  and  that 
she  lud  no  childrco.  This  last  notion,  however,  proved  to  be  a 
mistake,  for  as  she  was  talking  with  liim  in  the  drawing-room  she 
nddcniy  said — 

I  believe  you  have  not  seen,  my  daughter  yet,  Mr.  Acton.     She 
here  in  the  country  the  greater  part  of  her  time — as  yet." 

Mr.  Jocelyn  was  near,  and  always  seemed  to  have  an  ear  for  what 
his  wife  uTis  saying. 

"  Where  is  Janet  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Jocelyn. 

The  name  almost  caused  our  fnend  to  start.     It  was  not  &0  vCTf 


nube 

i 


sadc 


I 


26  Tfu  Gentletnaris  Afagazine. 

uncommoD  thai  tvo  girls  even  ia  that  small  place  might  not  have 
bome  it,  and  yet  to  bear  it  sent  a  thrill  thro^h  him. 

"  Oh — will  you  kindly  take  Miss  Douglas^my — my  stepdaugbto; 
to  dinner,  Mr.  Acton?"  said  his  host.     "Janet— Mr.  .*\,cton." 

For  the  drawing-room  door  had  opened  even  while  they  were 
speaking,  and  Janet  entered  the  room.  Her  eyes  were  demurely 
downcast,  her  full  and  pretty  lips  were  pressed  resolutely  together 
and  she  was  dearly  made  up  as  the  in^ue  of  private  life.  But  h 
was  all  the  same  the  Janet  of  ttie  morning  n-alks  and  Ihe  moonlit 
escapade  the  village  coquette  whom  Acton  had  resolved  at  any 
sacrifice  to  make  his  wife,  converted  suddenly  into  the  daughter  of 
an  earl's  daughter,  and  the  stepchild  of  a  millionaire.  What  a  pang 
shot  through  poor  Stephen's  heart  !  He  had  been  making  a  fool  of 
himself;  the  girl  had  been  pUying  a  practical  joke  on  him.  He 
could  liardly  get  out  the  few  words  of  conventional  courtesy.  But 
ai  Mr.  Jocelyn  still  stood  near  she  suddenly  raised  her  eyes,  and 
darted  into  Stephen's  face  one  look  quick  as  the  suddenest  sunbeam— 
■an  appealing,  apologetic,  beseeching,  half-droll  and  half-pathetic  look, 
which  almost  melted  his  anger  away.  "  Oh,  don't  betray  me,  dont 
bring  a  scolding  on  me  !  "  it  only  too  plainly  said.  Stephen  became 
a  man  and  a  Londoner  again.  He  recovered  his  self-conlrol  and  his 
good  manners  \  he  gave  her  his  arm  and  siiuke  of  the  beauty  of  that 
part  of  the  country,  and  asked  her  if  she  cared  about  liniuiig,  and 
whether  she  preferred  Salvim  to  Rossi. 

She  answered  his  questions  collectedly  and  vivaciously,  but  kept 
sending  surprised  glances  at  him  every  now  and  then  as  if  to  ask 
-"  is  this  real  ? — is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  know  me  ?  " 

Stephen's  looks  made  no  reply.  "  To  me,"  he  mentally  resolved, 
'*you  are  Lady  Jane  Jocclyn's  daughter  and  no  one  else."  His 
wounded  pride  found  some  sense  of  relief  in  that  sort  of  veo* 
geance. 

I"  I  hope  you  enjoy  your  stay  ia  the  country,  Mr.  Acton  ;  I  hope 
you  don't  find  it  dull  here  ?  " 
"  So  far  I  have  found  it  delightful." 
"  You  walk  a  good  deal,  1  suppose?" 
"  A  good  deal — oh  yes." 
"  In  the  roomings,  perhaps?  " 
This  was  when  tliey  were  seated  at  dinner^  and  she  sent  a  quidt, 
inquiring,  challenging  glance  at  him, 
"  In  the  mornings  chiefly." 
"  I  walk  a  great  deal  in  the  morning."    This  was  said  very  softly. 
"  1  love  the  mornings  here  at  this  time  of  the  year." 


Z«v  in  Idleness. 


27 


**  Charming  indeed :  most  charming.  X  am  only  >orry  I  can't 
milce  a  kioger  nxy  here." 

I^K   "Must  you  go  soon?" 

^P   **I  am  Sony  to  say,  yea.     I  must  return  to  town." 

^H    "  But  we  shall  see  you  often,  I  hope,  before  you  do  return  ?" 

^^  "  I  hope  to  have  the  pleasure  if  Lady  Jane  will  kindly  allow  me." 
Thus  the  dinner  went  on.  No  word  or  look  of  recognition  or  at 
reroembrance  could  Janet  draw  from  the  petrified  Londoner.  "It 
might  some  wonder  in  a  stranger  move  that  they  together  could  have 
talked  "  or  even  thought  '*  of  luve."  Iiitlcud  no  nirangcr  would  have 
bdiered  anything  of  the  kind.  Stephen's  heart  was  burning  within 
him.  .When  the  ladies  left  the  room  Janet  threw  liun  a  glance  like 
a  flower.  He  distinctly  declined  to  receive  it  The  girl  raised  het 
bouquet  to  her  face  to  liide  the  tearj  tliat  wore  in  her  eyes. 

She  was  not  a  girl  accustomed  to  be  easily  balked-  When  the 
cofspany  were  in  the  drawmg-room  she  actually  sought  out  Stephen, 
aded  him  quesi-ions  about  artists  and  the  Royal  Academy,  and  then 
asked  if  he  had  seen  the  paintings  by  Millais  that  Mr.  Jocclyn  had 
lately  bought.  "  I>o  come  and  let  me  show  them  to  you,"  she  said ; 
"ihcyaie  in  the  other  room;  they  have  not  been  properly  hung 

ii„,jct,  but  I  wont  you  to  see  them ;  and  1  -am  fond  of  doing  shuw- 

ipBun." 

Sicphcn  of  coiuBC  had  to  go  with  her,  and  she  hurried  liiin  aw.iy 
until  ihcy  stood  in  front  of  some  pictures  which  angry  Stephen  could 
tiot  aee.  A  schoolboy  in  his  first  lo^-c  affair  could  hardly  have  been 
more  emotional  than  the  literarj-  man-about-lown  ^vas  now.  He  was 
quite  conscious  of  the  fact  himself,  and  he  fell  ashamed  of  it.  As 
she  was  hurrying  him  along  he  looked  down  with  a  wonder  that 
could  not  have  been  put  into  words  at  the  small,  slight  young  thing 
that  had  such  power  over  him  and  could  turn  him  again  into  un 
angry  boy^  stirring  up  sucli  elementary  love  and  resentment  within 
htm. 

II         "  Wiy  liave  you  treated  me  in  this  way  ?  "  she  said,  and  hor  voice, 

^^bcgmning  in  anger,  ended  in  appeal. 

^"    "  In  what  way  ?  "  was  the  stupid  rejoinder  of  Mr.  Acion— the  only 
thing  he  could  think  of. 

"  You  hardly  s|>eak  to  me — you  go  on  as  if  you  didn't  know  me  : 

^^A  if  you  saw  me  for  the  first  time  to-night.'' 

^P   *'  t  have  seen  Miss  Douglas  for  ihc  first  lime  to-night"    He  wa» 

'^^iwRilly  (lately. 

"  Bat  what  is  the  meaning  of  that?— and  what  does  it  matter  about 
my  name  ?    1  am  the  same  J  anet  alwa^  " 


The  Gmtlcntafh  Magasine. 

"  You  arc  not  the  same  to  me.  ^Vh>■  did  you  play  off  this  prac- 
tical joke?  Was  this  well  done,  Janet?"  In  all  his  aiigcr  he 
adopted  wit]i  conscious  saLirical  puq^osc  and  in  bitterness  to  himself 
and  her  some  of  ihe  words  of  the  gallant  Macheaili  In  his  despair. 
The  meaning  was  lost  upon  Janet.  The  adventures  of  Machcath 
have  little  interest  for  audiences  of  to-day.  We  have  giown  virtuous 
since  the  time  when  he  was  a  hero,  and  we  like  the  daughter  of 
Madame  Angot  now. 

"Well  done  or  ill  done,  I  meant  no  harm,"  the  girl  pleaded.  "I 
thought  it  all  good  fun,  and  I  wanted  to  know  an  author.  I  was 
always  longing  to  know  an  author — and  to  have  him  all  to  myself 
just  for  a  Utile.  Ii  wouldn't  be  any  good  your  coming  here  firsj^l 
could  only  talk  to  you  about  the  fine  weather,  and  people  would  be 
alwuy!)  there.  1  tlicu);:ht  it  was  a  dcligUcful  httle  adventure — and 
now  you  are  only  offended." 

"But,"  said  Mr.  Acton,  trying  to  be  cool  and  unconcerned,  and 
•  to  lake  a  tone  of  kind  patenial  remonstrance,  "young  ladies  don't 
I^CDerally  hold  meetings  of  mornings  under  trees  with  strangers" 

"Of  course  not,"  she  broke  in  eagerly.     "That's  why  1  did  it." 

"  That's  why  you  did  it  ?  " 

"Yes — yes,  of  course.  Don't  you  sec?  I  couldn't  have  managed 
it  any  other  way." 

'*\Vhat  is. one  to  say  to  such  a  girl?"  our  hero  thought.  She  was 
looking  up  at  him  with  wide  open  eyes,  and  with  all  the  eager 
earnestness  of  one  who  means  to  say  "  Now  you  must  admit  the 
force  of  that  argument— you  must  see  that  1  am  riglu  after  all?" 

"But  1  never  tliought  you  would  be  offended  or  take  it  in  that 
way;  I  always  meant  to  explain  to  you" 

"  And  your  father  and  mollier,  Miss  Douglas?" 

"  I  have  Qo  lather,  and  my  stepfather  does  not  care  what  I  do, 
except  for  the  pleasure  of  scolding ;  nor  my  mother  much  lot  that 
matter,  once  she  has  blamed  me.  My  mother  forgives  everything 
because  she  cares  too  much  about  me,  and  my  stepfatlier  forgives 
everything  because  he  cares  too  little.  Oh,  I  should  only  have  had 
a  little  trouble  with  them.  Sue  the  thing  has  turned  out  badly,  and 
I  am  very  sorry.    That's  all." 

"  It  is  no  use,"  poor  Stephen  thought,  "to  take  this  too  seriously, 
and  treat  this  mad  child  as  if  she  were  a  responsible  woman.  Mad 
child  ?    If  it  were  only  the  child  who  was  mad  1" 

Their  talk  was  interrupted,  and  they  spoke  no  more  that  night 
Stephen  left  Mr.  Jocelyn's  rather  early,  and  walked  moodily  home- 
ward.    His  mind  was  filled  now  with  only  one  idea — the  resolve  to 


Lcve  in  Idleness.  ag 

30  back  10  Ivondon.  He  looked  round  upon  the  whole  scene — the 
-sea  heaving  languidly  under  a  sky  of  foding  colour,  ihe  hilt  dimly 
seen,  the  trees,  the  lights  in  cottage  windows,  ttie  speck  of  fire  in  a 
iisher-lioat  far  away.  "  Here,"  hu  said  to  his  sullen  and  angry  soul — 
**  here  1  have  made  an  Ass  of  myself  t" 

For  all  his  anger  he  might  have  remembered  tliat  he  liad  been 
making  formal  oS'cr  of  marriage  to  a  young  woman,  and  that  com* 
mon  jioliteness  required  that  he  should  watt  and  have  his  answer.  ] 
He  only  thought  of  himself  as  the  victim  of  a  wilful  girl's  practical 
joke,  with  which  all  the  place  would  soon  be  made  actjuaiated. 
He  thought  of  purse-proud  Jocclyn,  perhaps,  setting  him  down  as  a 
fortune-hunter  who  was  only  too  glad  to  get  a  chance  of  invciglingJ 
a  fooli&h  child  into  marriage.     He  tliought  of  himsclt'  as  laughed'^ 
at  for  a  fool  by  one  set  of  peisons,  and  sneered  at  for  a  disappointed 
«cbemer  by  another.     It  did  not  occur  10  him  to  think  that  in  the 
eyes  of  this  bright,  simple,  clever  girl  he  raiglit  ha\e  seemed  a  hero, 
whose  tender  of  love  was  a  tribute  to  fill  her  whole  heart  witli  pride. 
Contrar)-  to  general  opinion,  however,  it  is  the  fact  tliat  the  hero 
thinks  himself  a  fool  at  least  as  often  as  the  fool  thinks  himself  a 
hero. 

As  Stephen  sauntered  gloomily  along  his  eyes  turned  to  the  hill 
and  the  trees,  and  the  sky  behind  and  above  them.  Through  the 
openings  of  the  branches  he  could  see  a  livid  background  of  dark- 
greenish  sky,  from  which  the  daylight  bad  not  wholly  faded  even 
yet,  and  there  was  one  bright  planet  which  seemed  to  him,  because 
of  his  irregular  inuvements  as  he  walked  along,  to  be  positively 
dandng  among  ihc  trees.  A  whimsical  idea  occurred  10  luiu  diat 
the  sight  was  just  about  as  real  as  the  dream  of  a  rtHOantic  love- 
passion  playing  amony  the  dry  branches  of  his  life. 

"  It  is  Nature,"  he  said  lo  himself— jesting  .-iftcr  his  way  with  his 
own  weakness  and  pain — "it  is  Nature  that  has  done  it  all  I  The 
sky,  and  the  trees,  and  the  stars,  and  the  waves,  and  all  the  restol 
it,  corrupt  senile  men  and  soften  their  brains.  I  renounce  Kature, 
except  in  the  scenes  of  the  theatre !  Ill  go  back  to  my  [mvement 
where  a  man  is  a  man,  and  I'll  never  again  look  up  any  higher  than 
the  altitude  of  a  gas-lamp." 

The  neat  evening  our  friend  was  in  London.  He  had  made  as 
rapid  way  as  he  could  to  the  place  where  the  railway  was  to  take  him 
up,  and  yet  he  had  missed  a  train  and  so  got  into  town  at  an 
awkward  hour — too  late  for  dinner.  It  was  raining ;  and  in  the  grey 
of  the  wet  dosk  London  looked  wretched.  Acton  uent  to  his  club, 
which  was  nearly  empty.    Evei^bod/  was  going  out  o(  \ovin  uow 


30 


The  Geniiemans  Magazine, 


tliat  he  had  come  back.  He  stood  oa  the  steps  and  looked  at  ttic 
dull  streets  where  the  season  seemed  to  lie  coffined.  He  did  not  feel 
l^adsomc. 

*'Howd'>-c  do,  Acton?  Haven't  seen  you  lately.  Been  out  of 
town?"  a  friend  asked. 

"  I've  been  in  the  country;  yes." 

"Come  back  so  soon?  Glad  to  get  back  to  London  I  dare 
say?" 

"  Oh — delighted,"  said  Acton. 

"  1  should  iliiuk  you  didn't  know  yourself  in  the  country?  * 

**I  didn't  know  myself  in  the  country,"  said  Actoo.  "That'squite 
true." 

A  wretched  day  or  two  passed  ;  and  then  thcie  came  a  letter  from 
Mrs.  Good  with  her  compliments,  and  begs  to  enclose  a  letter  left  for 
Mr.  Acton  the  d,iy  after  he  had  started  for  London.  Acton  opened 
the  enclosure  with  a  nervous  hand. 


*•  How  very  cruel  you  arc — .ind  rude  too  I  You  asked  mc  a  ques- 
tion and  ran  away  in  a  bad  temper  without  waiting  for  on  answer. 
Why  did  you  go  ?  Your  letter  m.ide  me  very  happy ;  and  I  do  want 
happiness.  Will  you  not  cume  again  ?  Vou  have  a  Jiiend  in  mamma, 
who  would  love  any  one  1  cared  for — [the  word  "loved"  was  first 
written,  then  scratched  out,  and  "cared  for"  subsliiuted] — and  Mr. 
Jocclyu  would  be  only  too  glad  to  get  rid  of  roc.  Will  you  not  come 
a^in — before  wc  leave  this  place — and  tell  me  you  forgive  my 
unlucky  practical  joke,  and  ask  me  for  an  answer  to  your  letter? 

Acton  put  a  few  tilings  into  a  portmanteau  and  sent  for  a  hansom. 
He  stopped  at  his  club  for  a  moment 

"  Going  out  of  town  again  ? "  tsaid  the  same  friend,  who  happened 
to  be  passing. 

"Yes,"  Acton  answered  radiantly;  "  Tm  going  back  to  the 
countr)*. 

"  Why,  you  have  fallen  in  love  with  the  country  1  think.  I  always 
thought  you  couldn't  live  out  of  London.  Wc  shall  heai  of  your 
getting  married  next,  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

Acton  only  laughed  and  nodded,  jumped  into  his  cab,  and  on  his 
way  to  the  train  read  Janet's  letter  again  and  again,  nor  once 
looked  back  at  the  long  loved  streets  he  was  leaving. 


In  Richmond  Park. 


BY  THE  EARL  OF  SOUTHESK,  AUTHOR  OF  "JONAS  FISHER." 


KjJg|g^^g%IfY  stands  she  there  so  solemo 
'^'■■™™*™^  Beside  the  whisp'nng  water, 

Like  some  memorial  column? 
>Vhat  misery  hath  sought  her? 


^im^ 


^VTiy  all  so  black  and  lonely 
lo  yon  wide  meadow  stoppb^  ? 

The  deer  aiound  her  only, 
Tlic  fragrant  herbage  cropping. 

Her  vesture,  crape-enshiouded, 
\\''ouid  seem  the  outward  token 

Of  sorrows -closely  crowded 
Beside  a  heart  half-broken ;— • 

And  mark  the  kerchiefs  whiteness 

Across  the  sable  going, 
To  meet  the  'mmisUed  brightness 

Of  eyes  with  anguish  flowing  ! 

Fdl  many  a  one,  lamenting, 
Will  compass  mournful  pleasure 

Where  Katm*  unrelenting 
Bestows  her  sternest  measur^-^ 

Amidst  the  rhythmic  thunders 

Of  ocean's  endless  story, 
Or  'neath  the  weirdly  wonders 

Of  forests  old  and  hoary ; 

Or  where  from  gtilfs  abhorrent 
The  mountain  rears  its  steepness, 

Or  where  tlic  furious  loncnt 

Descends  to  darksome  deepness. 

And  likewise  there  are  mourners 
Who  love  to  Lie  and  languish 

In  quiet  nooks  and  cornen. 
To  calm  their  spirii's  artguishy— 


32 


Tfu  GenilmuuC s  Magazitte, 

'Mong  gracious  gardea  roses 
Behind  the  yew-tree  screening, 

Or  where  the  brake  discloses 
Wild  blossoming  and  greening  j 

Or  where  the  river  stilly 
Moves  gently  in  iis  gliding 

Through  reed  and  waier-lily, 
And  loathes  to  leave  its  hiding. 


I'hus  some,  with  Nature's  madness 
And  frenzy  of  tunuoilings, 

Would  crush  their  sullen  sadness 
In  vast  pythonic  coilings. 

Tlius  some,  to  Nature's  mildness 
Their  weary  spirits  bringing, 

Would  charm  away  the  wildness 
Of  sorrow's  cruel  stinging. 

But  thou,  poor  lonely  woman  ! 

What  find'st  thou  in  that  station — 
Displayed  to  gazers  human — 

Of  comfort's  revelation  ? 

No  might  dwells  there  to  awe  thee, 
Grim  sorrow's  force  out-stressing  ; 

Nor  peaceful  power  to  draw  tlice 
From  tyrant  griei's  oppressing. 

Yea  !  siand'st  thou  there  as  martjT  ? 

In  mystical  emotion 
That  scorns  for  joy  to  barter 

One  drop  of  poisoned  potion? 

And  therefore  in  the  meadow 
Forlornly  stand'st  iliou  dreaming, 

A  black  mysterious  shadow 
In  the  pale  sunset's  gleaming? 

Vet.  may  be,  self-compassion 
Within  thy  soul  hath  spoken, 

Declaring  through  what  fashion 
Thy  bon^  might  best  be  broken ; 


In  Richmond  Park. 

And  in  the  peopled  loneness 
Of  this  vasi  park  of  pleasure 

Thou  find'st  a  subtle  proneness 
To  yidd  thy  heait  a  treasure. 

As  the  dun  deer  go  straying 
Around  thy  silent  figure, 

Perchance  in  thee  are  pUying 
Some  spells  of  joyous  vigourf 

Empowered  to  lift  thy  musing 
Beyond  the  woeful  present. 

Its  sombrcncss  transfusing 
With  memories  fair  and  pleasant 

For  God's  kind  forest-creatures — 
Great  Nature  in  them  dwellcth ; 

They  form  her  smiling  features, 
^V'hence  all  her  love  out-welleth : 

And,  like  to  children  tender 
That  know  not  guile  nor  sinning, 

Their  spirits  slim  and  slender 
Breathe  effluence  sweetly  mnning. 

Say,  dost  thou  feel  that  essence. 
Thou  solitary  weeper  ? 

And  brings  it  back  tlic  presence 
Of  a  loved  infant  s]cci>cr — 

Thine  infant  fondly  cKcrishcd  ? 

And  dotli  tlie  influx  cheer  thee, 
No  more  to  deem  it  perished. 

But  feci  it  moving  near  thee  ? 

Or  dost  thou  feel,  caressing 
Thy  widow-woeful  fimcies, 
A  touch  of  perfect  blessing, — 
'  At  which  thy  spirit  dances  ? 

A  touch  as  softly  (ailing 
As  thistle-down  alighted. 

Strong  thought  of  him  recalling 
To  whom  th/  JtfKC  i*-ai  i>Iighled— 
Vfi*.  xvn.,  S.S.  t8:6. 


35 


34 


The  Gcntlcntan's  Magazine, 

The  sharer  of  the  sweetness 

Of  all  thy  earthly  being, — 
Who  Hcd  with  aiigel  lleelness, 

And  vanished  from  thy  seeing ; — 

A  soul  of  nurture  simple, 

\Vho  loved  the  life  that  quivers 

Beneath  the  airs  that  dimple 
The  forest  lakes  and  rivers ; 

Who  loved  the  dell  dccp-holden 
Within  the  green-wood  mazes, 

Hare  thou  the  maosions  golden 
Where  fashion  blares  and  blazes ; 

And  counted  wild-wood  liapntcre— 

The  deer  of  spirit  tender — 
Far  lovelier  than  the  Saunters 

In  palaces  of  splendour. 

So,  dost  thou  seek  thy  vanished 
WTicrc  he  most  oft  hath  found  thfiv— 

WhCTc  man  is  seen  but  banished. 
And  wild  things  roam  around  thee? 

O  poor  unfriended  mourner  ! 

My  spirit  Hies  to  greet  Chee : 
Ah  I  thinlt  me  not  a  scoraer, 

But  let  my  spirit  meet  thee  ; 

Yea,  meet  thy  spirit,  bringing 
Such  balm  to  heal  thy  sorrow, 

As  prayers  and  sighs  u[j-winging 
From  angel  stores  can  borrow. 


My  Ocean  Log 
From  Newcastle  to  Brisbane. 


BY  RED  SPiNWER. 


Kail 


P.\RT  III. 

Soaetimat  we  sm  a  cloud  Ibal't  draBonisb ; 
A  vapoar  fometune«  like  a  bear  or  Uon. 
A  lower'd  citadel,  n  pendent  rode, 
A  furkcd  moaDtaia  or  blue  promontofy 
With  trees  upuD't  (bat  nod  ooto  tlu  world, 
And  mock  our  ej-es  vicb  air. 

N  boKrd  ship  oue  does  not  feel  mdlned  to  work  hard. 
The  motion  or  the  vessel,  the  insufficient  lights  below, 
or  the  liberties  talcen  by  the  wind  with  your  papers  on 
decV,  tempt  you  with  all  tnanner  of  excuses.  For  a 
few  dajrs  you  play  at  hide  and  scelc  with  conscience,  and  in  the 
end,  pomading  yourself  that  the  heat  or  cold  is  fatal  to  mental 
exertion,  locic  up  your  papers,  and  take  out  old  book  acquaintances, 
to  renew  fonner  loves  and  hold  sweet  counsel  with  tried  friends.  In 
the  tropical  seas  Shakespeare  was  thus  my  constant  deck  companion, 
and  cveiy  day  at  sunset  the  picttu-e  which  opetis  this  instalment  of 
*My  Ocean  Log"  was  hung  up  in  Nature's  artisdcally  lighted  picture 
cry.  The  sunsets  were  quite  indescribable.  All  too  brief  as  they 
'irere  in  duration,  they  combined  colours  that  no  painter  could 
imitate  without  being  condemned  as  an  idle  dreamer.  After  the 
usual  golden  proclamation  of  approaching  departure  the  sijn  would 
swiftly  descend  into  the  dcptliH,  and  then  would  begin  Hushes  and 
iiliuhes  of  tlie  most  ddtcate  carmine,  rose,  oninge,  blood  red,  purpl«, 
and  violet,  tinging  the  fantastic  sha]>c5  assumed  by  the  clouds 
■according  to  the  condition  of  the  atmosphere.  The  dinner  bell 
irould  generally  ring  as  we  watched  in  silence  the  glorious  scene,  bat 
few  stirred  from  the  deck  until  the  ^nal  curtain  of  dusk  had  fiiUen. 
Those  who  had  lost  loved  ones  thought  of  them,  associating  with  the 
cpcctocle  the  idea  that  the  angel  world  must  Mie  somewhere  beyond 
such  radiant  portals.  The  seriously  inclined  involuntarily  rcenena- 
bercd  the  description  of  the  city  whose  walls  were  of  jasper,  whose 
rooadstioos  were  gamisbod  with  all  nun/ier  of  precious  stones,  ^Yiosft 


I 


I 


g.ites  were  pearls,  and  whose  streets  were  pure  gold,  as  if  U 
transparent  glass — a  descnptiOD,  however,  prcficedbjr  the 
sUtcment  "and  there  was  no  more  sea."  The  starlights  were  in  their 
different  degree  e^jually  strange,  and  the  moon  was — in  other  than  the 
commonplace  meaning  of  the  term — new  to  her  admirers.  On  su 
as  on  bnd  no  doubt  it  is  a  bcaatiful  world. 

When  we  have  crossed  the  Bay  of  Bengal,  bhie  as  iodigo,  and 
good  deal  ruffled  by  the  change  of  monsoons,  we  must  look  more 
dosely  to  our  courses.     Upon  entering  the  Straits  of  Malaccx  yvA 
naturally  feel  that  another  phase  of  the  voyage  opens. 

From  the  captain  of  a  Dutch  troop-ship  calling  at  Singapore,  oi 
her  way  from  Acheen  to  Balavia,  it  was  possible  to  obtain  reply 
a  question  which  we  had  asked  each  other  on  passing  Acheen  head^^ 
as  to  whether  u[K>ti  those  beautiful  highlands,  so  welcome  to  the  sight 
after  the  monotony  of  ocean  travel,  the  wearying  war  of  races  was 
filill  going  on. 

"  Vcs^  we  are  fighting  still,"  the  Dutch  officer  said  to  me,  "  and 
there  seems  no  more  prospect  of  a  termination  to  the  campaign 
there  was  three  years  ago." 

On  the  deck,  within  a  (cvr  )-ards  of  the  bridge  upon  which  we 
were  sund'mg,  a  Javanese  lay  dying ;  around  him  were  other  natives 
(soldiers  and  coolies),  half-naked  skeletons  shocking  to  behold, 
stretched  helpless  upon  the  jilanks,  gasping  out  the  last  few  brcaili- 
ings  tliat  would  convulse  their  spectral  frames.  The  more  fortunate 
took  no  notice  of  their  nTetched  comrades,  whose  bodies  by  this 
time  have  feasted  the  sharks  swarming  in  yonder  str.iit.  'ITie  Malay, 
like  the  ignorant  Chinaman,  is  not  frighted  at  death,  for  the  suffi- 
cient reason  that  he  takes  no  notice  of  it.  There  was  one  exception. 
By  the  side  of  an  emaciated  man,  who  actually  died  before  I  left  llie 
ship,  sat  a  woman:  and  whctlier  wife  or  n^ere  companion,  it  must  to 
her  credit  be  said  that,  tliough  not  apparently  in  distress,  she 
patiently  tended  him>  putting  bits  of  banana  between  his  fevered 
lips.  The  ribs  protruded  tlirougK  the  malioganyskin,  the  black  eyes 
rolled  in  mortal  agony,  but  he  munched  on  at  the  juicy  fruit,  and  so 
munching,  died.  It  was  n  common  occurrence  apjKircntly  on  hoard 
tliat  ship,  for  it  wa.s  U-kon  by  everybody  as  a  matter  of  course.  Tlic 
bluc-cyed  Dutch  sailors,  gaunt  and  yellow,  and  each — for  so  tlie 
rules  of  the  Dutch  service  in  the  East  allow — accompanied 
tluough  the  wars  by  a  native  female  companion,  though  delighted 
at  the  prospect  of  rest  after  the  campaign,  were  bwt  shadows  of 
their  former  selves;  their  spirit  had  departed,  their  shabby  blue 
clothes — it  were  an  outrage  to  call  them  imiforms — hung  loosely 


■e 

I 


thaa^J 


My  Ocmn  Log  from  Newcasile  to  Brisbane.       37 


ibout  Ihem,  and  their  hungry  gaze  iruidcrcd  over  the  pineapple 
letts  and  cocoa-nut  groves  of  the  uland  opposite,  as  if  Paradise 
self  lay  beneath  the  bright  green  folUge  and  bowers  deeply  shaded 
ny  tropical  vegetation.  Those  heaps  of  matting  on  the  foredeck 
cover  dead  men ;  the  eight  tmtivcs  on  the  Tnaindeck  were  rebel 
[trisoner^,  very  jolly  indeed  with  tlieir  games  and  laughter,  though 
knowing  well  enough  that  their  brief  hours  were  numbered.  The 
Sat-Ciced  Javanese  women  cumbering  the  ship  laughed  and  chatted 
id  strolled  with  their  miserable  wliite  owners ;  the  Chinese  and 
^Hindoo  liawkers  displayed  their  wares;  the  business  of  the  vessel 
went  on  briskly ;  and  on  the  bare  decks  wherever  you  turned  the 
weakened  victims  of  jungle  fever  and  dysentery  lay  siienlly  staring 
into  space. 

TTii^  1  fear,  is  not  a  cheerful  beginning  for  a  description  of  the 

Siraiis  of  Malacca,  but  it  is  a  natural  one.    We  knew  now  that  the 

fairy  scenes  which  two  days  before  greeted  our  eyes  on  entering 

those  lovely  waters  were  falsi  to  the    F.tiropeans   lighting   against 

fearfiil  odds  to  subdue  tlie  Acheeneese  in  their  jungle  fastnesses. 

The  counHy  is  Eur  to  the  passing  eye,  but  pestilence  is  tlie  real 

lemy  against  whicli  the  I^Iollanders  have  to  contend,  and  against 

tiiich  no  weapon  yet  discovercLl  can  prevail.     The  war,  therefore, 

llili  dngs  its  slow  length  along.    Sometimes  another  stockade  is 

uried,  and  the  general's  despatches  give  three  or  four  more  of  the 

'foe  killed  or  wounded.    Meanwhile  regular  relays  of  soldiers  arrive 

from  Batavta  to  replace  worn-out  detachments  sucli   as  those  of 

whook  we  had  specimens  on  board  the  iroop-ship.    The  Dutchmen 

shmg  iheir  shoulders  and  are  content.    It  is  certain  enough  that  if  they 

had  at  the  outset  (four  years  ago)  wedded  a  liberal  expenditure  of 

(money  to  energetic  action  in  the  field  the  Acheeneese  would  have 

:-een  at  once  brought  to  tlmir  senses.    Just  what  we  did  in  the 

kshiDtee  bush  should  have  been  the  policy  adopted  in  the  .-Vcheen 

(angle.     Mountain  guns  ?  rockets  ?  roads  ?    Yes,  these  should  have 

seen  employed  certainly.     The  Dutchman  admits  it ;  but,  as  I  have 

ttd,  shrugs  his  shoulders  and  is  content.      For  ten  years  the  Dutch 

have  been  engaged  in  similar  trifling  in  Celebes,  and  now  the  fourth 

commander-in-chief  is  cxiwctcd  in  Achecn  to  fill  up  the  place  made 

vacant  by  the  sudden  death,  after  a  successful  advance,  of  General 

.JeU. 

From  the  deck  of  your  steamer  on  entering  the  Straits  of  ATalacca 
Su  spy  out  the  tall  white  lighthouse  on  Achcen  head.    This  portion 
'of  the  great   island   of  Sumatra  nevertheless  looks  peaceful   and 
smiling.     Here  verily  must  be  the   "green  islands  ot  g,\\tt,eTm& 


' 


I 


38  The  Gefitiemans  Magazine, 

sea£ "  which  in  the  fascinating  verse  of  Mr&.  Hemans  enchained 
the  wondering  thoughts  of  our  childhood.  Islands  clothed  in 
verdure  to  tlicir  lofty  crowns,  and  islets  set  like  gems  in  die  einendd 
waters,  at  last  break  the  endless  boundaiy  of  sea  and  sky  of  which 
through  day  and  night  you  have  been  the  solitary  centre.  Close  to  lite 
water's  edge  the  straight  bare  trunks  of  the  graceful  betel  palm  stand 
in  serried  array ;  behind  them  virgin  forest,  repository  of  unnumbered 
natural  wonders  peculiar  to  this  part  of  the  world,  rises  to  join  hancfe 
with  the  lower  clouds.  Tiny  islets — mere  hillocks  of  coral  above  tiic 
watery  plain — you  may  notice,  too  small  to  bear  a  plantation  but  not 
barren  enough  to  reject  the  solitary  cocoa-nut  palm  whose  plume 
nuds  high  above.  The  &t:a  is  untroubled  and  glass>',  and  the 
fleecy  clouds,  white  as  carded  wool,  hover  witli  gentle  wings  over 
the  land.  Not  soon  will  you  forget  tlxat  charming  passage  down  the 
Straits  of  Malacca.  Dim  in  the  distance,  you  can  make  out  the- 
Sumatra  Mounuins;  they  are  quite  worthy  of  that  name^  since  one 
of  the  peaks  reaches  the  brevet  rank  of  1 5,000  feet.  Ckilden  Mount, 
a  landmark  seen  under  favourable  conditions  of  atmosphere  ninety 
miles  off,  is  another  conspicuous  object,  and  our  eyes  rest  lovingly 
and  fondly  upon  beamiful  Water  Island,  rising  sheer  out  of  the  sea, 
and  presenting  all  the  variety  of  colour  and  form  of  which  gorgeous 
foliage  is  capable.  The  greatest  breadth  from  land  to  Und  in  the 
Straits  of  Malacca  is  160,  and  the  narrowest  about  twenty  miles. 
During  the  monsoon,  which  blows  from  November  to  May,  you  have 
thus  over  500  miles  of  exquisite  voyaging,  perpetual  glimpses  of 
tropic-land,  an  enjoyable  temperature,  and  a  prevalence  of  zephyrs 
rather  than  breezes. 

One  remembers  how  people  at  homt:  laughed  when  the  impor- 
tance of  the  Straits  of  Malacca  was  advanced  by  Mr.  Disraeli  as 
a  paramount  national  consideration.  But  after  making  personal 
acquaintance  with  this  great  highway  to  the  East  one  somehow 
moderates  one's  mirth  and  the  conviction  grows  that  our  possesions 
upon  the  Malacca  side  of  the  straits  are  of  immense  conse- 
quence to  us.  It  so  happened  that,  giving  the  island  of  Pcnang  a 
wide  berth,  we  missed  a  view  of  one  of  our  most  delightful  settle- 
ments. With  Malacca  wc  fared  better.  This  rare  old  town,  once 
the  trading  emporium  of  the  .A.rchipelago,  was  concealed  behind  the 
gauz}'  CTirtains  of  early  morning,  but  as  wc  ncared  it  the  hastening 
sun  came  up  in  all  his  majesty.  The  sudden  beams,  like  willing 
fingers,  seemed  to  search  for  and  promptly  loosen  the  strings  confin- 
ing  the  vapoury  veil,  and  iu  succession  there  appeared  the  while 
houses,  the  bungalows  amidst  the  rich  foliage,  the  banacks,  stadt- 


J 


I 


Ji/y  Ocean  L^from  Newcastle  to  Brisbane.       39 

nouoe,  and  other  promiDCBt  buildings ;  the  bold  hill  of  St.  Paul's 
with  its  remiumta  of  the  old  PormgHcse  fon,  and  the  niins  of  the 
church  erected  in  a  bj^one  era  by  the  conqueror  Albuquerque  to 
be  the  scene  of  the  heroic  labours  and  reputed  miraclca  of  St. 
Xavier.  If  a  pbotographec  on  an  expcditioti  round  the  world  should 
ever  pus  Ibis  way  let  him  take  a  view  of  Malacca  froro  the  road- 
sicad.  Tlie  tovU  lies  in  a  cresceat-shaped  bay,  with  a  {jrond  back- 
yCNind  of  bills  and  mountains,  termiiuied  towards  ilie  souUi  by 
Mount  Ophir,  a  lofty  liiple-pcukcd  mcnintaia.  famous  for  its  gold 
mines,  and  sometimes,  though  wrongly,  confounded  with  the  Ophir 
ithieh  the  Old  Testament  associates  with  the  riches  of  the 
East. 

Thestniits  contain  numberless  islands :  some  of  them  the  haunts  of  | 
pirates  ;  others  the  basking  gruuntis  of  turtle.  The  latter  aflbrd  the 
natives — who  take  very  kindly  indued  to  the  trade  of  t'l&hcnaan— a 
sQuxce  of  revenue,  and  X  can  ansiret  for  the  excellence  of  the 
crcMucet  captured.  There  are  worse  things  in  the  world  than  turtle 
cndttt  Bn,  and  soup.  As  to  the  pirates,  they  still  hnd  the  means, 
when  they  dare,  of  picking  up  a  dishonest  livelihood,  but  their  comb 
is  bcmg  cut  to  the  smallest  dimensions.  We  have  several  gunboats 
upon  the  coast,  and  the  Malays  have  long  itgo  learned  that  the  little 
cra6  bite  as  well  as  bark.  Formerly  the  straits  swarmed  with  mur- 
doroua  sea-robben,  who  lay  hidden  behind  the  headlands  watching 
far  the  becalmed  trader  caught  in  the  doldrums.  The  gallant 
maiiaers  might  resist  valorously  to  the  death,  but  they  would  be 
overpowered  by  numbers  and  barbarously  despatched.  The  modern 
stisini«hip  has,  amongst  other  lienetiia  conferred  u|xri  man- 
kind, ruined  the  ancient  Malay  business  of  murder  and  piracy. 
IIk  pirates,  nevertheless,  retain  their  old  characteristics.  Nothing 
but  the  unceasing  vigilance  and  determination  of  the  English  gun- 
Ixatx  and  law  AdmintstratoTs  on  shore  liolds  them  in  cheek.  They 
prey  u(>on  -my  small  craft  that  imwarily  falls  mio  their  clutcties, 
and  the  mariners'  handbooks  of  the  Archipelago  contain  fireqtieni 
pmagrapihs  that  conclude  with  warnings  to  boating  panics  landing  la 
cntkin  islands  for  water  or  provisions.  liy  this  time  the  straits  havc 
been  very  Etirly  surveyed.  In  the  infancy  of  hydrography  the  &is: 
India  Company  did  excellent  service  in  this  respect,  anil  the  Duti-h 
BXvigatOT3  have  ably  assistcil  in  the  production  of  a  good  chart  of  ih^ 
ceef  and  island  bestudded  seas. 

Tlie  beauties  of  the  Stimts  of  Malacca  grow  npon  )"on  aa  yon 
reach  their  southern  terminal  at  Singapore,  whicJi,  since  the  day* 
when  Malacca,  the  oldest  European  settlement  in  the  (ai  Ea'^i^ 


40  The  Gmtlemaiis  Magazine, 

declined  from  its  ancient  prestige,  has  become  not  only  the  seat  of 
government  in  this  quarter  of  the  world,  but  the  metropolis  of 
general  commerce.  'ITirough  Penang  come  the  sugar  gro^Ti  in 
the  province  of  Weltcsley  (about  140  miles  of  coast  country 
opposite  the  island)  and  the  fruits  of  Penang  itself.  Malacca,  too, 
has  not  entirely  retired  from  business,  but  lives  on  in  hopes  that  the 
development  of  the  mineral  resources  of  the  interior  of  ihc  peninsula 
will  by-and-by  give  it  a  new  lift  in  the  world.  But  SingajHin:  is  at 
present  master  of  the  situatioo,  and  Singapore  must  on  this  account, 
and  because  of  its  peculiar  attractions,  be  one  of  the  catling  places 
which  will  most  delight  the  traveller  who  is  bound  to  China,  or  who 
selects  the  short  and  diversified  sea  route  (the  Eastern  and  Austra- 
lian Company's  line)  to  Australia  through  the  Torres  Straits.  The 
island  of  Singapore  is  covered  with  small  hills  wooded,  as  is  the 
fashion  in  these  seas,  on  summit,  slope,  and  plain.  The  European 
residents  have  naturally  taken  advantage  of  these  lovely  coigns  of 
vantage,  and  it  is  their  cool  bungalows  which,  while  we  cluster  on  the 
poop,  with  eyes  hxcd  upon  land,  wc  discuss  admiringly,  and  not 
without  some  en^y,  as  the  engine  slows,  and  finally  stops  till  the 
pilot  arrives.  There  arc  the  airy  verandahs,  the  sleek  broad  leaves 
of  the  tropical  trees  and  shrubs,  which  arc  in  tlic  old  country  with 
difficulty  introduced  as  curiosities  into  mre  pabn  houses  ;  and  the 
residents  in  cool  white  garments  take  measure  of  us  from  under 
their  umbrellas.  In  latitudes  where  the  sun  ii2s  equatorial  power 
there  is  a  wonderful  clearness  of  perspective,  aud  withal  a  dreamy 
look  about  air,  earth,  and  sky  that  suggests  j/W/ti,  and  makes 
indolence — asinanda  shame  at  home — both  a  virtue  and  a  neccssi^. 
When  the  pilot  mounts  the  bridge,  and  the  propeller  chums  the  green 
water  once  more  into  milky  foam,  we  steam  slowly  through  a  tuurow 
channel,  past  clustering  islands  of  cocoa-nuts,  pineapples,  and 
bananas,  out  into  the  spacious  roadstead,  where  ships  of  e\'ery 
nation,  not  excluding  the  towering  Chinese  junk,  rock  lazUy  at 
anchor ;  and  so  by  a  broad  backward  sweep  abreast  of  the  distant 
toivn  we  arrive  at  the  wharf,  where  the  European  oRici^ils  and  natives 
in  all  their  oriental  strangeness  of  cosltime  or  no  costume  worth  men- 
tioning await  us.  Before  the  gangway  can  be  shipped  the  sun  has 
streamed  over  the  islets  opposite,  suffusing  them  with  a  final  outpour- 
ing of  gold,  purple,  and  rose  colour;  then  the  king  of  day  suddenly 
leaves  them  and  us  to  a  twilight  that  in  brevity,  as  in  scenic  effects, 
is  a  dissolving  view  of  amazing  splendour. 


The 
Adventurous    Simplicissimus. 

BY  HERBERT  TUTTLE. 

STNGUI-\R  question  of  Htcrarj'  taste  was  forced  upon 
the  consideration  of  the  Pimsian  House  of  I>epulie3 
last  winler.  Inspired  by  8  touching  respect  for  the 
decencies  of  life,  a  Catholic  member  Assailed  the 
^Itnisler  of  Public  Education  for  recommending  among  the  older 
Gemuo  classics  a  certain  novel  called  *'  Der  abenteuetliche  Sim- 
plidssimus."  The  worthy  critic  pronounced  it  both  immoral  and 
aoti-Christian ;  and  the  odicial  sanction  of  such  a  book  for  the  public 
[Schools  only  proved  the  demor:i!ising  effecl  of  the  Culturkampf. 

Fortunately  Dr.  Falk  found  a  champion  in  Professor  Virchow,  an 

eminent  pathologist  who  inquires  not  alone  into  the  diseases  of  the 

kbody  but  also  into  those  of  the  State  and  society.    The  book,  Dr. 

Xlrchow  said,  belonged  to  an  age  when  reading  was  confined  to  the 

learned  class,  and  in  a  measure  to  the  male  sex ;  it  contained, 

■  indeed,  many  passages  that  are  condemned  by  the  tas:e  and  the 

judgment  of  Uie  present  day,  and  this  necessarily  limited  the  free- 

dou  with  which  it  could  be  recomoiended  to  general  readers;  but 

klfaese  very  defects  were  characteristic,   and   increased  rather  than 

Mescened  its  value  to  the  student  of  literature. 

Here  the  subject  dropped  so  far  as  the  House  is  concerned.  But 
the  result  of  the  episode  was  what  must  have  been  foreseen  by  every 
rational  person,  and  even  by  the  deputy  who  was  the  cause  of  iL 
The  press  renewed  the  discussion  outside  of  the  Cliaraber ;  the  comic 
papers  had  their  jofces  about  it;  public  curiosity  was  aroused  ;  reprints 
aad  new  editions  of  the  pernicious  book  appeared  on  the  shelves  of 
the  booksellers;  and  it  acquired  a  sudden  and  remarkable  popu- 
larity. 

In  justice  to  Dr.  Falk,  to  whom  not  even  an  Ultramontane  would 
impute  a  conscious  preference  lor  obscene  literature,  it  ought  to  be 
laid  that  he  had  never  authorised  the  use  of  the  book  in  its  onginal 
form.  The  edition  which  he  sanctioned  was  that  of  Wolff,  carefully 
expurgated  «</  usum  pudla.  In  this  form  it  is  altogether  innoxious, 
and  may  be  studied  without  ablush  by  the  most  exacting  syvi\%V« 


I 


42  The  Gatthmans  Magazine. 

if  she  have  a  Uate  for  primitive  Iilerar>-  products.  Put  the  «-ork  is 
published  without  any  excisions  in  Brodchaus's  collection  of  Gennan 
classics,  of  which  Herren  Gocdeke  and  Tittmann  are  the  editors; 
and  the  latter  contributes  a  critical  and  explanatory  preface  which 
is  full  of  useful  learning  and  less  aseful  speculation.  Before  taking 
up  "  Siraplidsstmu^ "  himself,  therefore,  it  is  well  to  give  a  bnef 
account  of  his  creator. 

The  humour  of  the  ronuioce  b^jns  even  with  the  title,  which 
was  in  the  quaint  architectural  form  so  common  in  books  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  Its  archaic  Gennan  majr  ht  rendered  into 
modern  English  as  follows: — 

"  Tht  AdtvntmrvBs  Smtfiiiatsi'mnt,  GtnaQ»—4kai  rSi  th»  DtstriftKm 
of  Ike  Lift  of  a  mtr  V'agabcmd  namtd  Mflchior  Siertifcts  vf  Fuchsham  : 
whtrt  and  m  wAai  form  ht  tame  into  this  nvrfiJ,  tvhat  kt  therein  son-, 
itartud,  rxpirunced-,  and  <udurtd.  aitd  Tthy  he  quitted  the  same  dgatn 
wtuHiarily,  T%rvmgHimt  fe  mm  hearttly  and  huhly.  Gitvn  tmi  hv 
German  SekUifhtim  of  Suhftrl,  Mon^pttgari.  PrinUd  by  Jvhanit 
FiUion,  m  the  year  1669." 

The  author  named  on  the  title-page  is  a  purely  imaginary  per- 
sonage. The  press  censorship  in  those  days  may  have  been  less 
rigorous  than  it  is  to-day  under  the  liberal  legislation  of  the  new 
Empire,  but  it  was  doubtless  prudent  for  the  author  of  so  very  broad 
a  satire  to  conceal  his  real  name.  It  appears,  however,  that  he  was 
not  satisfied  even  with  the  deception  practised  on  the  title-page.  At 
the  end  of  ilie  work  is  an  ingenious  confession  that  the  writer  was 
one  Samuel  Greifnson  of  Hiischfeld,  among  whose  papers  tt  was 
found,  and  who  also  Irft  a  number  of  similar  works  which  wvutd  he 
published  if  "  SimplicJssimus "  should  succeed!  And  in  fact  they 
were  published,  some  half  a  dozen  of  them  in  order  and  known  as  the 
"  Simplician  writings"  'llie  titles  are  grotesque  enough  to  be  reprc- 
duced  for  the  reader  of  German.  "  Trot^simfiitx,  odtr  dit  Limd- 
stfirtztrin  Caurasfhf,  fy  Philanhia  Gmssus  von  Tmmmerhtim'* : 
**  Das  -ivHndtfhartirhe  Vogtlntst  der  Spn'Hgiiufeidischen  Lekntrfm,  by 
UceeffghkiiflwnnnnBorrxssHHti''* :  and  the   othms  are  equally  quaint. 

It  these  later  issues  seem  lo  have  thrown  no  light  upon  the  common 
authorship  of  the  whole.  It  is  (Hily  widiin  very  recent  times  that 
critics  and  literary  inqutrers  have  agreed  to  reco^ise  as  the  author 
of  these  clever  works  Hans  Jacob  Christopie  von  Grimntcls- 
hansen. 

Afler  a  lapse  of  two  centimes  it  was  of  courac  difficult  to  leara 
many  exact  details  of  such  a  man's  Hfc.  It  appears  that  he  was 
born  about  1625,  and  a  dozen  years  later  was  already  3  soldier; 


tt 


Tfu  Adveniurous  Simplicissimtts, 


45 


that  he  served  to  the  end  of  the  Thirty  Yenrs'  War,  and  then  retired 
to  Renncben,  in  the  Black  ForeiO:,  where  he  filled  .some  local  ti^et  -^ 
that  he  travelled  abroad,  ami  visited  Paris,  Amsterdam,  and  other 
cities;  asA  that  be  died  in  167(1.  ^^^  <vas  ihe  autJior  of  several 
miODT  woriu,  one  of  Ihem  being  a  political  treatise,  now  forgotten. 
All  tliat  is  knoii-n  of  hU  education  i»  to  be  f;atliercd  from  his  books, 
which  are  Ubeially  strewn  with  Latin  and  Freoch  plirases.  and  in- 
dicate some  considerable  acquaintance  with  history  theology,  aixl 
metaphrsic5.  ilut  the  learned  pedants  of  lh«  age  seem  to  have 
treated  him  and  his  productions  with  contemptuous  neglect. 

The  history  of  fiction  in  Germany  is  not  unlike  that  in  England. 
It  was  developed  somewhat  later,  indeed,  like  all  other  branches  of 
Utemture;  but  it  had  the  same  primitive  origin,  it  was  refreshed  at 
ihe  nme  fountain,  and  grevr  up  in  about  the  same  order  of  progress. 
Ono  difference  did,  indeed,  arise  at  a  late  epoch.  While  Oetiuony 
and  England  borrowed  alike  and  in  common  from  the  Romanic 
litenturrs,  Germoay  began  with  the  ei^jhleenth  century  to  borrow 
oho  from  Eatjlaud.  But  thb  W3»  long  subsequent  to  Grtmmels- 
hamtBi  The  author  of  "  Simplicissiraus "  is  as  distinct  a  product 
of  Gennan  culture  and  his  works  are  as  pure  German  creations  as 
the  most  captious  patriot  could  demand.  Indeed,  in  view  of  the 
low  state  of  general  education  at  the  time,  of  the  social  and  in- 
tcQedual  demoralisation  which  followed  llie  Thirty  Year>'  War,  and, 
above  all,  of  the  vast  autliority  enjoyed  by  French  and  Italian  fiction — 
in  view  of  tliese  circumstances,  the  production  of  such  a  work  as 
"  SimplicHsinms  "  must  be  regarded  as  a  very  striking  event  in  the 
Ustory  of  literniitre. 

The  school  of  UrimmelBhatisen  and  the  seventeenth  century  re- 
presents the  thini  stage  of  German  fiction.  After  the  early  t^dlads 
and  |H>pular  epic*— which,  if  poetical  in  form,  were  only  crude 
poctiral  Versions  of  legends,  toles^  and  chronicles  —came  the  flood 
translatisns  and  adaptations  from  the  Romanic  literatures,  and 
[lis  by  a  fresh  advance,  not  unlike  a  re\-olutiou,  was  followed  by 
works  of  fiction,  which  were  neither  verse  nor  translation. 

The  pioneer  in  German  prose  romance  was  probably  Philipp  von 
His  most  important  production  was  "The  Adriatic  Rose- 
"  a  lore-ftory  in  a  very  realistic  style,  which  he  avowedly 
to  dMw  his  countrymen  that  it  was  (oily  to  took  abroad  for 
works  which  their  own  invention  could  just  aa  well  produce- 
"Simson"  and  "Assenat"  were  further  products  of  the  same  reform 
spirit.  But  even  Zescn  was  not  innte  true  to  his  own  precepts,  for 
thft  snbutjuentiy  pabti»hed  sevetal  uanslations  from  ihc  I'tench,  mftK 


44 


The  CtntlemaiCs  Magazine. 


only  slight  modificntion.i  in  form.  His  successors,  as  Biichbols, 
Ziegler,  Ulricli  von  Braunschweig,  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have 
improved  upon  "  Roscmund,"  although  the  "Octavia*"  of  the  latter, 
an  historical  romance,  or  rather  a  Romsii  history  in  the  form  of  a 
novel,  was  a  great  popular  lavourite.  Lohenslein's  ponderous  novel 
in  four  volumes,  "Armitiius  and  Thusnelda,''  which  appeared  in 
1681J,  was  in  respect  to  form  and  style  the  most  complete  that 
Gennany  had  as  yet  produced.  But  in  originality,  in  humour,  in 
pictorial  vividness,  and  in  pennanent  interest,  it  was  far  inferior  to 
"  Simplicissimus." 

The  latter  is  what  the  Germans  call  a  "  Sittenroman."  It  is  a 
picture  of  contemporary  manners,  and  at  the  same  time  a  bold  satire 
on  the  vices  of  those  manoers.  'I'he  Gennan  even  affords  another 
polysyllabic  term  for  such  voiks—^CiifturgeschicMicAfrrvman^-noy^h 
which  throw  light  upon  civiliiation,  and  therefore  serve  the  Iiistoriaa 
of  civilisation.  Such  are  also  the  novels  of  Fielding,  Scott,  Cer- 
vantes, and  Le  Sage.  Such  was  the  Simplician  scries  of  Grimmels- 
haiiscn.  The  era  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War  is  rich  in  interest  even 
for  the  formal  academical  historians,  and  for  pictorial  treatment  at 
the  hands  of  the  novelist  it  Is  even  more  inviting ;  but  a  siccich  of 
those  times  in  the  form  of  a  novel  by  a  novelist  who  was  himself  a 
port  of  what  he  sketches  ought  to  have,  if  successful,  a  surpassing 
interest.  It  is  hardly  worth  while  lo  inquire  wlielher  the  work  is  the 
autobiography  of  (jriininelshausen.  That  the  outlines  of  the  two 
careers  correspond  is  indeed  possible,  but  nothing  more.  David 
was  a  shepherd  in  his  youth,  and  Grimmelshausen  may  have  tended 
swine;  but  if  a  German  peasant  who  at  ten  did  not  know  the  differ- 
ence between  a  wolf  and  a  Hessian  cuirassier  was  able  at  thirty  to 
write  the  Simplician  novels,  his  progress  was  one  of  the  most  rapid 
in  the  history  of  tlic  human  intellect.  Dr.  Tiitmann,  indeed,  sug- 
gests that  the  concealment  of  the  author's  name  was  inspired  by  his 
reluctance  to  expose  himself  to  a  comparison  with  his  leading 
character.  If  the  resemblance  did  exist  the  relucUiace  of  Grim- 
mclshausen  lo  announce  it  will  permit,  but  not  rofiuirc  demon- 
stration. If  it  docs  not  exist  his  invemioa  must  be  rated  so  much 
the  higher. 

The  history  of  SimpHctssimus  Is  the  history  of  the  vagabonds  of 
the  Thirty  Years'  War.  A  stupid  peasant  boy,  who  had  passed  a 
childhood  of  almost  supernatural  darkness,  his  only  school  being 
thai  of  menial  and  military  service,  emerged  the  most  itccom- 
plished  rascal  of  that  wild  and  disorderly  age.  The  picture  of  his 
gross  brutality   at   eleven  years  is  drawn  with  revolting  freedom. 


Tke  Adventurous  Simplidssimus. 


45 


Unhappily  there  is  nn  reason  to  suppose  that  it  is  free  at  the  cost  of 
tmih,  or  that  it  coatiuDs  even  the  pacdoiuble  exaggeration  of  the 
ctricalurist.  The  hero's  birtli  coincides  pretty  nearly  with  the  opening 
of  the  story ;  be  appears  on  the  scene  at  the  close  of  tlie  &rst  half  of 
the  war.  Tbe  two  great  rivais  Wallenstein  and  Guslavus  Adolphus 
were  dead,  and  while  their  successors  with  petty  forces  cairied  on 
desultory'  and  wasting  hostilities  in  licssc  and  Westphalia  and  Bran- 
denbuf}^  troops  of  freebooters  swept  the  country,  robbing,  burning, 
outraging,  and  murdering  in  the  name  of  the  CathoHc  Church  and 
the  Holy  Roman  Empire.  Villages  were  destroyed  by  Are,  and  rich 
agricoltutal  districts  were  devastated  ns  by  a  pestilence.  The  wolf 
vas  literally  at  every  peasant's  door.  It  ^vas  dangerous  to  have 
goods  and  thus  gratify — or  not  to  have  them  and  thus  disap[>oint — 
ilie  exacting  marauders.  Where  they  could  not  rob  they  kidnapped, 
and  where  they  could  oot  kidnap  they  killed.  At  this  crisis  of 
German  history  it  is  agreed  tJiat  satire  and  romance  can  hardly  paint 
the  moral  and  intellectual  degradation  of  the  people  in  stronger 
colours  than  the  sober  pencil  of  history. 

I'hc  first  chapter  of  the  novel  accordingly  affords  a  picture  of  the 
age  and  the  society  in  which  Simplidssimus  lived,  and  an  epitome  of 
the  events  which  marked  their  histor>'.     He  Is  a  swineherd  upon  the 
hillside,  and  he  plays  the  pastoral  bagpipe  not  to  cliarm  the  swine 
bat  to  frighten  tlie  wolves.     .-V  band  of  Imperialist  dragoons  swoop 
down  upon  the  scene,  Simplicissimus  is  seized,  his  parents  arc  swept 
■way,  the  maids  are  outraged,  the  house  is  burned,  and  the  troopers 
even    practise    their   cruelty    u[K>n    the    unwaiUke    sheep    and 
cah*es.      The  brutal  ignorance  of  Simplicissimus  seems  to  have 
I       aroused  the  contempt  of  his  captors,  for  he  is  jwrmittcd  to  escape 
^Hfrom  the  scene.    A  hermit  finds  htm  in  the  fore!yt,  succours  him,  and 
^^Bakes  him  with  him  to  his  hut.    To  this  pious  and  excellent  man 
^HSimpUdssimus  owes  his  first  rise  in  the  intellectual  scale  ;  but  even 
^^  s  bennit  may  have  been  embarrassed  by  the  initial  difficulties  of  the 
task.      'I*hc  first  catechism  of  the  waif  begins:  "Who  are  you?" 
**  I  am  Bub." — *^  I  see  that  )-ou  are  no  gicl,  but  what  did  your  father 
and  mother  call  you  V    "  1  had  no  father  or  mother." — "  Wio  gave 
you  this  &lurt,  tlien?"  "  Oh,  my  mam."—"  Well,  what  did  your  mam 
call  you?"    "She  called  me  Bub,  rascal,  and  gallows  bird."    The 
itcTTogation  continues  in  this  style,  but  the  point  of  the  replies 
n  depends  upon  the  confusion  of  similar  sounding  words,  and 
tliit  of  course  cannot  be  prescnrcU  in  a  translation.    The  end  of  it 
all  is  that  Simplicissimus  becomes  the  guest,  companitni,  and  pu^vl 
of  the  worthy  old  recluse. 


46 


The  Gmtlmums  Alagazine. 


I 
I 


Simplicissiiuiis  lived  in  the  woods  nntU  the  death  of  his  iirithful 
fiiend  the  hermit,  to  whom  he  was  indebted  not  ooty  for  shdter 
bm  also  for  his  name,  for  the  ludiments  of  an  education,  for  frugal 
habita,  and  a  devout  mind.  His  soliuide  was  soon  afterwards  invaded 
by  another  bond  of  soldien.  This  time  his  capure  were  Hessians, 
and  they  carried  him  to  the  town  of  Hanau.  He  receives  some 
ill-wiagc,  and  is  in  danger  of  more,  when  it  \s,  learned  that  the 
eKOcUsnt  hermit  was  a  brother  of  the  commandant  of  the  fortresg, 
ADd  this  discover}-  secures  for  SimpUoissimns  the  part  of  Court  or 
rather  garrison  jester.  Outside  the  walls  one  aight  he  is  captured  by  a 
piDwliag  band  of  Croats,  and  with  them  his  lot  is  hard  enough,  bat 
he  a^in  escapes  and  becomes  a  fiigjllve.  At  last  he  blunders  into 
on  Imi)erialist  camp  near  MagdebtiniT.  Trials  and  tiardshijis  have 
not  been  vithout  eilect  upon  his  origiital  stupidity,  for  liis  new 
captors  treat  him  with  respect  and  distni:it  rather  than  derision.  He 
t;ik.cs  Service  midet  thcni,  however,  und  is  enrolled  as  a  scout  From 
this  time  he  begins  to  ri*e.  From  this  point  he  begins  to  deserve 
the  choice  epithets  which  tender  maternal  love  had  formerly  applied 
to  him.  As  the  "Jaeger  of  Soest"  he  is  the  successful  leader  In 
predatory  enterprises  by  day  or  by  night,  and  he  becomes  the  temir 
of  priest,  matron,  and  peasant.  But  this  career  also  comes  to  an 
■end.  He  is  captured  by  Swedes  again  and  brought  to  T.ippestadt, 
where  on  parole  he  enjoys  a  degree  of  liberty  sufficient  to  make  die 
acquaintance  of  an  officer's  daughter,  and  finally  to  marry  her  in 
circumstance:)  which  the  taste  of  the  seventeenth  century  permitted 
the  autJior  to  describe  with  a  great  deal  of  particularity.  He  next 
of^ears  at  Cologne  in  search  of  a  sum  of  money,  the  spoils  of  the 
J«eger,  which  he  had  sent  thither  for  safe  keeping.  From  this 
ancient  episcopal  city  he  goes  to  Paris.  A  suspicious  friend,  *'  Mon- 
scigneur  Canard,"  persuades  him  to  the  journey,  and  when  the  end 
of  tlic  journey  is  reached  leads  him  into  all  sorts  of  dissipation,  from 
which  he  issues  with  broken  health  and  an  empty  purse.  Ily  selling 
an  insect  powder,  a  liniment,  and  other  infallible  preparations  he 
works  his  way  bock  across  tlie  Kiiine  near  Strasburg. 

Another  term  of  military  service  follows,  and  his  personal  ad- 
ventures are  no  less  novel  than  those  of  his  earlier  career.  His 
travels  extend  to  Vienna,  to  Swtt«erland,  Russia,  Turkey,  and  Italy. 
His  wife,  for  whom  he  always  professed  much  affection  and  showed 
little,  dies  at  Lippestadt,  and  then  he  marries  again,  and  even 
l«ss  wisely.  He  meets  the  old  peasant  his  supposed  father, 
irbo  turns  gut  to  be  only  his  foster  fnther,  while  he  himself  is  a 
waif  whom  the  calamities  of  woi  liad  thrown  into  the  XN>or  hovel  of 


i 


4 


The  Adventurous  Simpliciisinms, 


47 


Spaaut.    Uh  real  moibcr 


,    the  w 


a  Kjuaaj),  siater  of  tlic  old  bcnutt 

the  commandant  ai*  Hanaii.     The  wtuas  of  his  old  friend 

by  tfau  disouvGfy  to  have  been  reawakened  in  his  menDor>-. 

Siux  his  secoad  maniage  turned  out  unbappil)'  he  upcnljr  renounces 

the  worM  and  retitcs  ta  iht:  solitude  and  pious  meditotifiBs  of  a 

il.  and  thus  coini^ettjig  thu  circle  of  .his  adventures  the  novel 

priatety  cods. 

'i'he  revelatiou  «f  the  hcro'«  ptuenlage  n  the  only  ani&oe  which 

mars  the  scj-eaity  xti  GrtnauicUhdUseo's  art,  and  reduccii  him  tor  a 

Knnent  lo  tlie  level  of  oiodem  novelists.     But  in  the  nunncr  of  the 
■daiiot)  tbcfc  if  Aoihing  sensational.     The  i>oor  old  fiastcr  Cither 
"  g^Mly  lc4  *iloBS  into  tlie  details  of  tlie  sad  history  \  the  hardened 
herp  it  Moved  even  by  the  name  of  a  mother  ivhom  he  had  never 
seen ;  but  the  reader  is  judiciously  Left  to  make  his  on-n  rcScctions. 
U  is  a  surprise  and  a  pleasure  >u  this  singular  aorit  to  encounter 
in  which,  by  aniidpation  or  by  inspimtioQ  as  it   were, 
Uliauscn  suggests  and  discusses  problems  that  even  to-day  are 
WMoived.     In  the  fu:s(  book,  for  example,  are  ^ome  acute  reflections 
ttpoQ  the  undue  ioduencc  of  the  nobler  in  milit^iry  life,     'i'hcy  arc  in 
the  form  of  a  discussion  between  half  a  dozen  subalterns,  and  while 
of  than  believes  that  ariatocratic  officers  liave  more  authority  a 
npliesi  "Mlut  bJockhcnd,  then,  would  serve  if  he  could 
not  hope  to  be  promoted  lor  good  conduct,  and  to  be  paid  for  true 
service?     The  Devil  take  such  a  war.      It  makes   no  dificrcnce 
whether  a  ieUow  docs  his  duty  tir  not.     I  have  ufteo  heard  of  our 
old  colonel  that  he  would  iiave  no  private  in  liis  regiment  who  was 
not  inspired  by  the  beUef  that   through  good  conduct  he  might 
become  a  general."     Is  not  this  "t^d  colonel"  tlie  prototype  of 
NifWleon,  with  his  remarlc  about  the  nurshal's  baton   that  every 
Fi«och  soldier  carried  in  lus  knapsack  ? 

There  is   a    still   more  striking   example  of   Grimmdshause&'s 

prcKiesitt  almost    prophetic,   spirit.      In  one   of   his  exjieditioaa 

a4  the  *' Juger  of  Soest ''  he  comes  upon  a  poor  lunatic  who  calli 

htandf  Jupiter,    and    logically   enough,    being   Jupiter,    ^nciei 

thai   he   bos   supreme   auibodty    over   men  and  godb     Me   has 

phia  for  readjusting    Ihe  oSairs    of  earth,   and    reveals   il    to 

iplictssimus.     He  £ist  conjures  up  a  "  Getman  hero,"  who  shall 

and  fulc  Ihc  whole  worUl.  abolish  war,  armies,  and  crime, 

th«  schisms  in  the  Chsistian  Church,  and  introduce  a  pcopctual 

en  of  peace,  virtufl,  piety,  and  firoedom.     Hercnles  shall  give  this 

a  sound  body;  Venus  shall  endow  him  with  bcautj-  beyood 

'  Adcttis,  or  CaitTorede;  JViexcury  shall  liesU)W   tcafiou 


45  The  CentUnians  Magazim. 

upon  him ;  Pallas  shall  instruct  him  on  Panuuuus ;  Vulcan  shall 
forge  his  weapons ;  and  all  the  gods  and  goddesses  shall  contribuit 
from  their  ciualilies  to  his  perfection.  He  "  shall  first  reduce  all  the 
hostile  fuitresscG,  tlien  banish  all  criminals.  Peace  and  virtue  being 
thus  supieme,  he  shall  travel  through  his  dominions  from  one  dty  to 
another ;  give  to  each  the  free  government  of  its  own  territory ;  and 
then  assemble  two  of  the  wisest  men  of  each  city  in  a  Parliament* 
thus  uniting  the  cities  for  ever  together,  and  then  put  an  end  to 
serfdom,  as  well  as  all  taxes,  imposts,  and  other  feudal  tributes." 

The  influence  of  Sidney's  *'  Arcadia,"  to  which  Crimmclshausen 
oflen  alludes  with  affection,  may  indeed  be  seen  in  this  passage,  but 
its  originality  is  neverllieless  quite  distinct,  and,  as  it  were,  local. 
In  point  of  style  it  is  the  best  part  of  the  book.  The  whole  chapter, 
from  whidi  the  above  is  only  an  extract,  glows  with  a  fervid  and 
noble  benevolence,  and  swells  sometimes  into  an  imposing  clo* 
quence,  like  that  of  Milton  or  Hooker.  But  nobody  knew  belter 
than  Grimmelshausen  that  such  words  could  only  be  put  into  the 
mouth  of  a  madman.  Even  in  the  Germany  of  to-day,  two  centuries 
after  Grimmelshausen,  the  answer  to  such  extravagant  visions  might 
be  a  writ  ih  lunaiico  tjujuirmdo. 

I  find  in  "  Simpliclssiraus "  that  favourite  joke  upon  low-necTted 
dresses.  On  one  occasion,  while  he  is  still  tlie  garrison  fool  at  Hanau, 
the  commandant  tries  to  quiz  htra  by  demanding  his  opinion  about 
the  toilettes  of  some  noble  ladies,  his  guests,  whereupon  he  gravely 
replies ;  "Sire,  J  see  where  the  fault  lies.  The  rascally  tailor  is  to 
blame  for  it  all ;  he  has  put  at  tlie  bottom  of  the  skirt  the  cloth 
that  belonged  at  the  top,  so  that  it  drags  along  behind.  He  ought 
to  have  his  own  head  cut  off  if  he  cannot  cut  dresses  better." 

There  is  no  end  to  the  tricks  of  this  roguish  vagranL  Once  he 
equips  himself  with  ptilette  and  paints  and  passes  himself  for  an 
artist,  in  order  to  study  at  leisure  the  arrangements  of  a  church 
which  he  and  his  scouts  wish  to  plunder.  His  account  of  his 
journey  homeward  from  Paris  to  Strasburg  selling  quack  medicines  to 
the  peasantry  is  as  racy  as  the  incident  of  the  itinerant  apothecary 
in  Marryat's  novel.  He  once  piously  joins  an  old  friar  in  a  ptlgrimsige 
to  a  Swiss  shrine,  fills  his  shoes  with  peas  like  his  devout  companion, 
and  then  prudently  boils  them  at  the  first  inn.  To  a  dairymaid  whom 
he  saw  cooling  her  butler  at  the  spring,  he  cries  with  true  Irish 
gallaniry:  "Aha, ray  young  woman, you  liave  cooled  your  butler  in 
water  witli  your  beautiful  hands,  but  set  fire  to  my  heart  with  your 
glowing  eyes." 

Slmplidssimus  is  indeed  a  sorry   wight  j  but  Uic   author,   with 


TIu  Adventurous  Simplicissitmts. 

admirable  ait,  endows  him  with  certain  original  feelings  of  virtue 
which  come  out  at  the  most  novel  junctures.  They  seem  to  be 
tomelimes  real,  sometimes  affected.  But  they  are  aln-ay-i  striking 
because  unexpected  ;  and  as  they  are  groiestjuc  in  Uieir  own  nature, 
they  are  made  picturesque  by  the  clever  employment  of  surprise,  in 
which  the  essence  of  the  ludicrous  is  said  to  consist.  Thus  when 
Simplidssimus  is  shown  weeping  by  the  body  of  liis  second  wife,  who 
has  died  in  childbirth,  a  sense  of  pity  steals  over  the  reader.  But  the 
scene  is  changed  by  the  intrusion  of  another  mlant  child  of  the 
booYcd  widower,  whose  unmarried  mother  had  just  left  it  at  his 
door.  He  deserts  his  first  wife,  and  then  expounds  the  beanties  of 
the  maiital  relation.  He  discourses  most  feelingly  of  Christian 
civiliaa^OD,  while  by  his  example  he  is  daily  illustrating  that  of  Con- 
stantinople. These  singular  changes,  these  striking  contrasts  intro- 
duced with  such  consummate  art,  arc  among  the  most  important 
literary  features  of  the  work.  It  mqy  not  be  impossible  to  deduce 
from  this  constant  struggle  between  spontaneous  rice,  encouraged  by 
vicious  times,  and  helpless  virtue  enisling  only  in  reflection,  the 
profound  moral  purpose  of  the  author. 

When  the  remorse  dpes  really  come,  it  is  violent  and  final.  It  fills 
an  entire  chapter  with  its  extravagant  plaints,  and  leads  the  hero 
back  to  the  hermit's  cell.  This  chapter,  the  last  in  the  original  work, 
is  a  long  and  vehement  arraignment  of  a  wicked  world,  which  is 
treated  not  as  tlic  passive  scene,  but  rather  as  the  active  agenl  of  all 
hununwoes,  and  from  which  he  is  resolved  piously  and  for  ever  to 
depart  The  poetry  in  some  pans  is  of  a  high  order,  and  the  wealth 
of  diction  extraordinary,  as  a  specimen  or  two,  even  in  iran-slation, 
will  show : — 

"Adieu,  O!  World,  fur  in  tliee  cannot  be  trusted,  firom  thee  is 
nothing  to  hope ;  in  thy  house  tlie  past  is  already  vanished,  the 
present  vanishes  under  our  hands,  the  future  has  never  begun  ;  the 
all  secure  &lls,  the  all  strong  breaks,  the  all  eternal  comvs  to  an 
end ;  so  that  thou  art  dead  among  the  dead,  and  in  a  hundred  years 
suficrest  us  to  live  not  an  hour." 

And  again: — 

"Adieu,  WorJd !  for  in  th^  palace  neither  truth  nor  loyalty  finds 
shelter.  Whosoever  talks  with  tliee  loses  shame  ;  who  trusts  ihcc  is 
betrayed ;  who  follows  thee  is  seduced  ;  who  loves  thee  is  paid  in 
oil;  who  relics  on  thee  most  completely  is  most  completely  brought 
lo  niin,  \i\\\\  thee  av;uls  no  gift  that  one  may  make,  no  service 
that  one  may  extend,  no  loving  word  that  one  may  tender,  no  faith 
thai  one  may  observe,  and  no  friendship  that  one  may  show  ;  but 
tboD  betniyest,  overthrowest,  dcfilcst,  corruptcst,  threaten'st,  tuvuesit. 
Vol.  XVTL,  N.S.  i$t6.  %. 


50  Tlt4  Gtntleniafis  Magazine, 

and  forgettest  everybody,  therefore  eveiybody^weeps,  sig^,  laments^- 
complams,  and  has  an  aid."  .... 

These  are  only  fragments  of  this  remarkable  jeremiad,  and  for 
the  whole  the  inexhaustible  vocabulary  of  the  German  language  is 
alone  adequate. 

The  reader  will  already  have  drawn  the  conclusion  that  "Sim- 
plicissimus  "  resembles  in  fonn  the  masterpieces  of  Defbe>  X«  Sage, 
and  Cervantes.  Like  them,  it  narrates  the  adventures  of  a  central 
hero  without  the  minor  characters  and  the  dramatic'  intricacy^^hich 
belong  to  the  modem  novel  of  society.  Like  the  first,  it  is  marked 
by  an  artistic  realism  which  surprises  and  startles.  Like^the  last  two, 
it  is  a  social  caricature,  and  slightly  hides  a  very  powerful  satire. 
And  if,  unlike  those  three,  it  has  never  obtuned  currency  abroad 
one  must  remember  that  even  among  Germans  it  has  long  ceased  to 
be  read,  except  by  scholars. 


Three  Emperors*  Policy. 

BY  W.  HEPWORTH  DIXON. 

IPLOMATIC  wits  in  Moscow  and  Sl  Petersburg  are  as 
food  oi  phrases  as  Uieii  brethren  in  Paris  and  Ver- 
uuUex.  Diplomacy  is  Uie  art  of  juggling  with  words, 
and  a  true  professor  of  ihc  craft  b  never  so  much 

^ with  his  work  as  when  he  thinks  he  has  induced  maakind  to 

accept  his  pleasaBt  words  in  lieu  of  other  people's  ugly  facts.  Rus- 
wui  statesmen  are  adepu  in  a  my^inry  which  begins  in  make-believe, 
Bid  cod^  if  suDcessiul,  in  imposcurc.  Just  nov  (6rst  week  of  June, 
1876)  they  arc  happy  in  a  phrase  which  they  faocjr  conceals  the 
mked  tjudi  from  every  one's  observation  save  thtir  own.  They  are 
engsiged  in  a  onc'sidcd,  perilous,  and  nefarious  scheme.  Not  a 
igle  Power  in  Europe  takes  their  view  of  the  Mtuation,  or  would 
iendr  allow  them  to  carry  out  their  plans.  So  ihcy  try  to 
**  make-bdicvc "  that  what  ihey  seek  in  Statfiboul  is  something  in 
the  interest  of  other  nations  eis  well  as  of  their  own.  General  Igoa- 
deff  at  the  GoldeQ  Horn  pretends  to  be  an  ambassador  from  Beriin 
and  Vieiuu  do  leas  than  from  St.  Petersburg.  The  policy  he  pur- 
nies  in  Turkey  is  paraded  as  that  of  three  emperors,  not  of  a 
military  Action  in  Moscow  or  an  Imperial  cluncery  in  St. 
Petcraburg. 

The  phrase  is  no  more  new  than  the  fact  re|>rcsctited  is  true. 
Twelve  or  thirteen  years  ago  the  same  words  were  on  cvcrj-  states- 
loan's  lip  and  every  writer's  pen  tn  France.  The  rulers  were  not  the 
Mine,  the  policy  was  not  the  same,  as  now.  Times  change,  and 
diplomaric  fidsons  change.  By  the  "three  emperors,"  French 
UintReis  meant  Louii  Napoleon,  Fraoz  Josef,  and  Alexander  the 
Second.  But  then,  as  now,  the  policy  was  single,  the  fiction 
tnptft.  A  bstard  Cssai  sat  on  the  throne  of  lienn  Cjuatxe,  and 
that  iNUtard  Ca^ar  thoi^ht  himself  strong  enough  to  suggest,  and 
even  to  dictate,  the  march  to  be  taken  by  his  brethren  in  Uic  purple. 
Those  were  halc>'0n  da>*s  for  the  bastard  C»sar.  Palmcrston  had 
paid  him  a  great  compliment  "There  are  but  three  men  in  Europe," 
■id  the  Ki^Iish  Minister,  "  Cavonr,  Louis  Xapoleon,  and  mysclfl" 
MnientOB  died  in  ihit  belief;  just  before  the  world  w.is  startled  into 
tail  cooiciousness  of  the  "mantiood"  of  Bismarck  and  Moltke. 
Loos  NapokoQ  believed  in  Falueiston  and  in  hinudC 


5' 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazitu. 


General  IgoatictT  has  in  his  portfolio  a  new  map  of  Turkey. 
Louis  Napoleon  had  on  his  ^-riting  desk  a  new  map  of  EiirojK  and 
a  new  nup  of  America.  Ignatieff  is  said  to  be  bent  on  foundii^ 
&.  Russian  kingdom  of  Bulgaria,  an  Austrian  kingdom  of  Albania,  a 
Montenegro  kingdom  of  Bosno-Servia,  a  Slavonic  confe<ieration  of 
Constantinople,  and  a  Caliphate  of  Roumelia.  Louis  Napoleon'* 
schemes  were  evidently  wider,  and  France,  taking  a  lion's  share  ia 
the  enterprise,  was  to  have  had  a  lion's  shate  in  ilie  spoiL 

The  policy  then  suggested  as  that  of  "the  three  emperors "'  wai 
not  only  scltish,  but  infamous.  The  three  Powers  were  to  come  to 
an  understanding  with  each  other,  like  the  nefarious  combination 
which  destroyed  Poland.  England,  as  the  chief  pacific  and  con- 
servative Power,  was  to  be  practically  excluded  from  continental 
poliiics.  The  United  States,  dismembered  by  secession,  were  to  be 
hetd  in  check  by  a  Mexican  Empire  garrisoned  by  French  troops, 
under  the  nominal  sway  of  an  Austrian  prince.  Teutonic  ideas  were 
to  be  crushed,  and  the  Latin  nations  resume  tlieir  ancient  sway.  Rome 
was  to  rule  in  Mexico  and  New  Orleans,  as  she  ruled  ia  Paris  and 
Vienna  thirteen  years  ago.  All  this  was  openly  avowed.  The 
details  were  kept  back,  yet  enough  was  m^nde  known  to  show  tlic  line 
of  march.  English  pride  was  to  be  lowered,  English  territory  shorn. 
England,  the  Ministers  of  that  bastard  Cxsar  thought,  might  be 
cajoled  into  yielding  Gibraltar,  as  she  was  cajoled  into  pclding  the 
Ionian  Islands.  Her  growth  seemed  stopped ;  decay  had  set  in. 
Her  latest  aimexation,  that  of  the  Punjab,  was  sixteen  or  seventeen 
years  old.  People  were  forgetting  Waterloo,  and  even  Jnkermann. 
Our  armies  were  known  to  be  small,  our  fleets  were  thought  unfit  for 
sea.  A  little  fitimmcry,  backed  by  a  little  menace,  was  thought 
sufficient  to  betray  us  into  giving  up  Heligoland,  and  perhaps  Malta. 
Prussia  was  to  be  driven  back  on  the  Baltic  Italy  was  to  be  kept 
down,  Italian  unity  forbidden.  Turkey  in  Europe  was  to  be 
abolished.  France  was  to  choose  her  own  lime  for  seizing  the 
German  Rhine  and  occupying  Belgium.  Austrian  ascendancy  at 
Frankfort  was  to  be  maintained,  and  the  Kaiser  allowed  to  garrison 
Bosnia  and  the  Principalities.  Russia  was  &ce  to  march  in  her  own 
way  on  Constantinople.  Wh.it  came  of  that  plot?  Nikolsbtu^— 
Mexico — Sedan. 

Franz  Josef,  the  prince  then  reigning  at  Vienna,  was  a  genuine 
Oesar;  Emperor  of  Austria,  King  of  Hungary,  Bohemia,  Dalmatia, 
Croatia,  Slavonia,  Galicia,  Lodomeria,  Illyria,  and  Jerusalem  ;  Grand 
Duke  of  Tuscany  and  Cracow;  Duke  of  Lorraine,  Salzburg,  Carin- 
ihia,  Slyria,  Cariola,  Bukomna,  Silesia,  Modena,  Parma,  Plasenlia, 


Three  Emperors  Poltey. 

ind  GiionlJlb. ;  Grand  Prince  of  Transylvania,  Markgrafof  Mora%i.i, 
Count  of  Halsburg  and  T}to1,  and  actual  chief  of  the  Gemtanic  Bund. 
None  of  the  late  Ocsars  had  enjoyed  a  more  perfect  control  of  every 
bnnch  of  administration.  His  deputy  presided  in  the  executive 
counol  and  in  the  full  assembly.  For  every  purpose  he  wait  sure  of 
a  majori^  of  votes.  Bismarck,  when  at  Frankfott  as  Prussian 
deputy,  had  been  able  to  do  nothing  but  record  his  vote  and  post- 
pone  his  plans.  Prussia  was  losing  the  i;ui>port  of  all  those  German 
potiiots  wlio  had  been  looking  for  deliverance  towards  Berlin. 
Austrian  statesmen  treated  hei  with  contempt.  In  a  drawing-room  of 
the  Impcri.il  palace  Prince  Schwartzcnbci;g  Jiad  the  impudence  to 
My  aloud  "  II  faul  aviler  la  Prussc  d'abord  pour  ensuite  la  demoUr." 
Emilc  dc  Gifudin  was  yelling  for  the  "  natural  frontier  "  of  France^ 
andjcgiments  of  Zouaves  were  hiccuping  after  Alfred  dc  Mussel  their 
intentioQ  to  ktss  the  German  girls  and  drink  the  German  wines. 
Louts  Napoleon  thought  the  season  come  for  bold  and  dangerous 
moves.  He  templed  Franz  Josef  into  the  first  acts  of  a  political 
partoershi)).  Unttappily  for  himself,  the  Archduke  ^[3Aimilian  was 
seduced  into  the  plot ;  accepting  an  Imperial  crown  as  a  successor  of 
Iturbide  and  a  rival  of  Solouque. 

ITie  Muscovite  Emperor  listened  to  such  hints  as  came  to  him  with 
profound  respect  and  silence.  He  had  other  work  just  Uien  in 
hand.  His  Emancijiation  Act  was  only  two  years  old ;  his  nobles  were 
discontented,  his  finances  were  embarrassed ;  his  army  was  in  no 
ojodition  for  adventures.  The  rising  of  Anton  Petrof  in  the  pro- 
vince of  Kasan  betrayed  a  dangerous  tendency  in  the  lower  classes 
towards  agrarian  outrage.  Another  rising  in  the  name  of  Grand 
Duke  Constantine  warned  iiim  how  much  sway  his  deposed  and 
dead  uncle  still  held  on  the  Russ  imagination.  The  ashes  of  revolt 
were  stilt  smouldering  at  Warsaw.  Mahommcdon  mi^ionarics  were 
busy  on  die  Lower  Volga,  and  the  troops  which  could  be  spared 
from  the  iiarades  of  Moscow  and  St.  Petersburg  were  wasting  rapidly 
go  the  Kirghese  steppe.  He  made  a  note  for  future  use ;  but  held 
aloof  and  passed  unscathed.  VS'here  is  the  tempter  ?  Dead,  in  a  foreign 
gnvc  Where  are  the  tempted  ?  One,  driven  out  of  that  Germany 
which  he  called  his  own ;  the  other,  shot  like  a  dog  on  Mexican  soil. 
Unwarned  by  these  rcsulu  of  a  recent  attempt  to  pass  an  isolated 
and  nefarious  project  as  tlie  policy  of  three  emperors,  a  Ciction  in 
the  Russian  capital  seems  anxious  to  risk  adventures  under  the  same 
decepctve  appearance  of  august  approval.  Here,  again,  tlic  project 
H  single  and  sectarian.  France  is  to  be  ignored,  Austria  outwitted^ 
Cennany  deceived,  and  Enghad  de^ed.    So  a  plain  toan  Ta\{E,Uvux(«t 


54  ^'i*  Gttttl^nans  Alfxgazitu. 

from  Prince  Gortchakoffs  reported  sayings  in  Berlin,  jind  tlit 
accepted  contcnis  of  the  Berlin  memorandum.  But  there  is  good 
reason  to  doubt  the  literal  mith  of  the  gossip  lately  heard  from  Berlin, 
and  still  more  recently  from  Ems. 

When  I  was  in  Russia  every  one  near  the  Winter  Palace  had  an 
impressioii  that  the  reigning  Tsar  was  6xed  on  preserving  peace 
between  the  great  Powers.  He,  at  least,  was  bent  on  keeping  out  of 
war.  If  wat3  broke  out  among  his  neighbours  his  desire  was  to  con- 
fine them  within  locil  limits  and  to  the  ndversarics  first  cngnged. 
y{c  nctcd  that  part  of  mediator  and  neutraltser  in  the  Italian  war,  in 
the  Danish  war,  in  the  Austrian  war,  and  in  the  Frerrch  war.  But  for 
his  timdy  counsels  Prussia  might  have  intervened  in  the  Lombard 
campaign,  England  in  the  Sclileswig-Holstein  campaign,  France  in 
the  fiohemLm  campaign,  Austria  in  the  French  campaign.  Tile 
wisdom  of  his  counsels  jaa.'^  be  open  to  dispute.  The  [>ukc  of 
Cambridge  may  have  disliked  his  attitude  during  the  Schlea«'ig-Hol- 
stein  c.-unp.iign,  and  the  Kaiser  Franj;  Josef  may  have  bilteiiy 
resented  his  demeanour  during  the  first  week  of  the  campaign  in 
France.  But  neither  friend  nor  enemy  of  the  Tsw*s  policy  could 
deny  that  the  consequence  of  his  action  was  a  great  restricboo 
of  the  arcn  of  those  wars.  Tlie  motive  for  his  counsels  may 
have  been  far  from  philanthropic  1-et  us  assume  that  his  motive 
was  selfish.  In  politics  it  is  safe  and  simple  to  assume  thai  all  our 
actions  spring  from  selfish  interests.  Men  seetn  easier  to  compre- 
hend if  we  assume  that  they  never  say  a  wgrd,  never  do  a  thing, 
except  with  personal  ends  in  view.  When  the  Tsar  emancipated  the 
Iwenty-two  millions  of  common  .serfs  in  his  dominions  I  heard  in  more 
than  one  Russian  quarter  that  his  policy  was  selfish.  As  Emperor, 
he  owned  twenty-three  millions  of  Crown  peasants — serfs  under 
another  name — and  people  said  these  peasants  would  be  worth  more 
roubles  when  their  brethren  had  been  freed.  When  he  subsequently 
freed  these  twcnt)*-three  millions  of  Crown  peasants  from  their  old 
fom  of  bondage  people  said  hfs  policy  was  selfish.  His  army  hod 
been  wasted  by  the  Crimean  war,  not  so  much  from  sword  and  shot 
as  from  heat  and  cold,  dust  and  snow,  bad  roads,  bad  food,  bad 
lodgings,  and  the  thousand  miseries  which  come  to  men  in  camp*. 
The  former  streogth  had  never  been  restored,  and  seemed  as  though 
it  could  not  be  restored.  To  lose  his  army  waa  to  lose  his  Crown. 
Therefore  his  Crown  peasants  were  redeemed.  During  the  I.ombard 
and  Bohemian  campaigns  he  may  have  had  some  selfish  purposes  in 
mind.  If  .so,  they  never  came  to  light  He  gained  no  rod  of  land 
by  his  benevolent  neutrality.     It  is  true  he  took  advantage  of  the 


J 


of  Fcinc^  and  the  estrangement  of  England  from  hec 
fanner  ally,  to  denounce  "an  addition"  to  the  Treaty  pf  Paris  and  to 
set  that  clause  aside  without  first  consulting  the  signatory  Poircrs.  That 
was  a  selfish  acL  It  was,  moreover,  a  mistake.  Not  that  I  ibijak 
Ruasta  was  called  upon  to  suffer  under  that  clause  for  ever.  The 
Black  Sea  Convention,  annexed  to  the  Treaty  of  Pahs,  forbade 
Russa  to  do  such  and  such  things  within  her  own  ports  and  seas. 
That  was  a  penal  clause ;  a  punishment  for  past  uImjsc  of  power; 
precaution  taken  aj^ainst  her  too  speedy  return  to  tliat  abuse, 
ut  no  one  dreamt  of  making  that  prohibition  part  of  the  per- 
ent  public  Law  of  Europe.  In  a  time  of  peace  statesmen  would 
,re  been  ready  to  consider  any  project,  reasonably  framed  and 
courteously  preferred,  for  restoring  to  a  friendly  neighbour  one 
of  the  &ist  attributes  of  national  sovereignty.  A  man  who  is  bound 
in  penalties  to  keep  the  peace  is  never  bound  in  those  i>cnaltjes  for 
lilc.  Such  a  man  would  be  a  slave.  Russia  was  bound  tn  penalties 
to  keep  the  peace,  ood  though  the  terra  was  not  spccilied  the  period 
during  which  her  independence  was  curtailed  by  lier  conquerors  vras 
not  expected  to  last  for  twenty  years.  The  restriction  lasted  fifteen 
years.  Many  times  I  liavc  heard  merchants  in  Rostoff,  Taganrog, 
and  Odcfica  oioum  that  loss  of  independence.  "We  cannot  repair 
a  port  or  widen  a  dock  without  suspicion;  wc  are  not  allowed  m 
3d  and  arm  a  frigate.  In  LIvct^kmI  and  Marseilles,  m  Brest  and 
tyraouth,  you  Franks  cm  do  as  you  like  without  coneuUing 
At  Keitsh  and  Yalta,  which  I  visited  with  the  Tsar's 
,  Genera]  Anenkoff,  1  Jieard  the  same  compliint  from 
i  classes.  "  Look  at  our  situation, "  was  a  nut  unfre(]ucnt 
k  31  Kertsh ;  "  we  are  a  frontier  Power.  Greek,  Koman, 
esew  and  Russ  have  found  these  Straits  of  Vetu-Kali  the 
ig  Uoe  of  cii'ilised  and  savage  life.  Our  nomads  arc  at 
SiaiTopol,  and  on  all  the  uplands  beyond  Stawopol  Ycl  we  have 
keep  the  fieace  along  a  line  of  difKcuU  mountain  coast  without 
vtng  a  single  ship  of  war  on  that  coast."  At  Kertsh  the 
itaiy  thought  arises  first,  at  Yalta  the  dijilomaiic  thought  comes 
l.  "  The  position  created  for  us  by  die  Treaty  of  Paris  n-ax 
«aduralil<*  so  long  as  wc  were  prostrate  in  the  south.  As  we  revive, 
the  weight  h  foimil  too  great  for  us  to  bear.  Our  tonus  in  the  Sea 
of  Axof— Mariapol,  KostoiT,  Taganrog,  Bcrdiansk — arc  al!  open 
towoi.  In  the  Black  Sea  none  of  our  forts  and  dttes  are  ddensiblc. 
and  TlictKlosia  arc  open.  K'vm  and  Soukum  Kali  are  pno- 
,cctcd  by  ftuudl  forts  only,  and  Odessa  has  no  means  of  silcncit^  an 
clad  ship.    We  have  no  fleet  in  these  waters ;  wc  are  vio\u>jvte4. 


56 


Tlu  GcnllematCs  Magazine. 


from  arming  awar-6hipat  Kinbum  or  UikcJacff;  yet  bcj-ond  Ihc 
Kumeli  Hissar  lies  a  Turkish  fleet  of  ironclads — said  to  be  oik  of 
the  most  powerful  navies  afloat.  Tlie  situation  is  intolerable."  Yes; 
the  situation  was  Intolerdblc  ;  one  that  could  not  have  been  imposed 
on  England,  France,  or  the  United  States  for  a  single  year.  It  was 
a  moral  occupation  of  the  country  by  France,  England,  and  Italy 
for  fifteen  years.  ^Vhen  Gonchakoff  denounced  the  clause  in  St. 
Petersbuig,  every  Muscovite  rejoiced ;  and  when  lie  finished  the 
negotiation  in  London,  every  Russian  felt  that  his  country  had 
recovered  lier  lost  indepeadence.  It  is  not  with  the  fact  but  the 
method  thai  I  have  serious  fault  to  find. 

Prince  Gortchakoff  is  responsible  for  the  proceeding  which  gave 
so  much  ofl'ence  and  had  left  so  many  bitter  memories.  The  Russian 
Chancellor  comes  of  ancient  Muscovite  stock  ;  counting  among  his 
ancestors  and  their  connections  St.  Vladimir  and  Jaroslaw  tlie  Great. 
Like  all  the  old  Russians,  he  is  an  odd  mixture  of  European  and 
Asiatic,  with  the  manner  of  both  continents :  his  bearing  alwaj-s  that 
of  a  Jreuch  gentleman,  his  language  not  uufrequcntly  that  of  a 
Calmuck  chief.  Brusque  words  arc  understood  by  starost  and 
peasant,  and  whenGortchakoffha.s  to  speak  to  his  countrymen  he  never 
pauses  to  pick  his  words.  He  talks  to  Europe  in  the  terms  of  an 
Imperial  ukase.  Few  Cabinets  have  forgotten  his  tone  during  the 
Naples  trouble  and  the  Confederate  war.  The  insolence  was  harm- 
less, and  was  understood  as  diplomatic  bunkunx,  meant  to  conciliate 
the  KatkolTs  and  Samarins  of  Moscow.  His  behaviour  when  the 
Germans  were  in  front  of  Paris,  thoroughly  committed  to  their  work, 
was  more  important,  though  not  more  insolent.  The  day  before  he 
denounced  the  Black  Sea  Convention,  Russia  had  innumerable  friends 
in  England  ;  the  day  after  his  denunciation  she  had  none.  Those 
who  had  always  reviled  her  now  reviled  her  with  enkindling  fiiry. 
Those  who  had  previously  stood  by  her  were  condemned  to  silence. 
Thai  antagonism  to  Russia,  which  is  bom  of  our  belief  that  we  must 
fight  her  on  the  frontiers  of  India  if  we  fail  to  tackle  her  on  the 
frontlets  of  Turkey,  broke  into  fury,  and  tlie  whole  force  of  a  Liberal 
Government  had  to  be  put  out  tn  order  to  restrain  the  popular 
passion.  Since  that  date  the  animosity  has  grown.  Tlie  passing 
fervour  caused  by  Lord  Derby's  purchase  of  shares  in  the  Sue* 
Canal  was  owing  to  a  public  conviction  that  Russia  had  been 
f:hecked  and  defied.  Half  the  people  in  England  who  arc  burning 
to  cross  swords  with  the  Muscovites,  not  caring  whether  the  field  be 
Turkey,  Persia,  or  India,  have  had  their  passions  fanned  into  fianie 
by  Prince  Gortchakoff*s  despatch. 


Vet  in  my  opinion  neither  the  act  of  denunciation  nor  the  stib- 
i  conduct  of  Russia  in  Turkey  means  a  deliberate  intention 
10  provoke  war — either  next  week  or  next  year.  No  douht  there  13 
a  bctiou  in  Moscow  and  St  Petersburg  that  would  hail  a  declaration 
of  war  against  Turicey  with  rapture.  Tliere  is  a  party  in  Lundoa 
and  CalcutU  that  nould  hail  a  deciaration  of  war  .igainst  Kussia  with 
rapture.  In  cither  case  the  war  party  would  lind  support  in  %noraat 
and  fanatical  multitudes.  But  the  solid  interests  of  both  nations  are 
against  provokin,^  an  appeal  to  arms. 

In  his  youth  Alexander  had  enough  of  warlike  adventures.  He 
wu  thirty-four  when  his  imperious  father  gave  notice  that  he  was 
going  to  open  the  Eastern  Question  by  his  famoits  conversation 
with  Sir  Hamilton  Seymour.     "There  is  only  one  Power  with  whicli 

need  to  come  to  an  understanding — that  is  I'jiglanil.     France  no 

Dgei  counts.  Remember,  when  I  speak  for  Russia,  1  speak  also 
for  Austria.  Take  Egypt  and  Candia:  these  places  wiU  suit  you  : 
DO  one  will  object."  Three  years  after  Nicholas  had  thus  disposed 
of  Kunipe  he  wa;  dead  of  rage  and  disappointment,  his  great 
arsenal  in  the  Crimea  was  destroyed,  foreign  soldiers  were  encamped 
to  Rassia,  his  fleets  were  sunk,  his  armies  had  disappeared.  Russia 
was  driven  from  the  Danube,  and  compelled  to  surrender  territory 
00  the  Pnith.  Her  independence  in  the  Black  Sea  was  at  an  end. 
Alexander  Icamt  that  Russia  was  not  stiong  enough  to  march  alone 
on  Stamboul,  and  in  the  conduct  of  that  Austria  for  which  his  father 
answered  so  readily  he  saw  that  no  country,  Iiowcvcr  near  and 
dependent*  was  likely  to  assist  him  on  that  march. 

Alexander  Gortchakoff  is  an  old  genileman,  and  persons  with  his 
l^end,  training,  and  position  arc  not  often  seen  to  change  their 
after  ihcy  have  passed  llie  age  of  seventy.  When  I  had  last  the 
or  of  seeing  Prince  Gortchakoff  at  St.  Petersburg  he  was  past 
•event)-.  At  that  time  beseemed  to  hold  the  opinion— which  I  hope 
be  still  holds,  in  spite  of  all  appearances  to  the  contrary — that  there 
ii  no  road  open  for  Russia  to  Stamboul,  even  if  she  had  any  right  to 
march  tn  that  direction  and  the  objects  to  be  gained  by  her  were 
worth  the  price  she  would  necessarily  have  to  pay.  Every  one  near 
the  Winter  Palace  understood  that  this  view  was  taken  by  Prince 
GonchakofTs  Imperial  master,  and  that  a  common  opinion  of  the 
Tsar  and  his  Chancellor  on  the  chief  principles  of  Russian  policy 
enabled  Gortchakoff  to  defy  such  powerful  rivals  in  the  household 
a^  Count  SchouvalofT  and  in  the  army  as  General  IgnatiefP.  One  of 
these  rivab  may  perhaps  succeed  him  when  he  dies ;  but  either  of 
thorn  might  be  wilting  to  succeed  him  while  he  lives.    AccoT&  'hSxV 


^^uninds 
I^Runon 


J 


58 


Tiu  Gmtleman's  Magashtt. 


I 


Ahe  reigning  Tsar  on  the  policy  of  peac«  m  Etirope  U  GortchakolTs 
CDain  support  against  the  claims  of  younger,  abler,  and  more  enter* 
prising  men.  He  lus  no  motive  for  desiring  war.  FuU  of  years, 
covered  with  decorations,  satiated  with  prerogatives^  Chancellor  of 
the  Eniptre,  Member  of  tlic  Imperial  Council,  Chief  of  the  Cabinet, 
Chancellor  of  tlie  Orders  of  St.  Andrew,  SL  Geoi^e,  and  St.  Vladitnir ; 
with  the  right  of  being  addi'essed  as  Serene  Higluies»,  what  can  he 
bope  firom  fresh  adventures  ?  Ncsselrode  was  wrecked  by  the  Crimean 
war.  In  oriental  countries  defeat  means  blL  Uortchakoff  bai 
nothing  more  to  gain.  Every  honour  in  the  Emperor's  gift  he  Has 
-already  won.  ncmiticiation  of  the  Black  Sea  Convention  made  him 
Serene,  and  j^avc  htm  a  place  in  the  "  Aimauadi  de  Golbo."  Even 
emperors  have  no  more  to  give.  Any  failure  K'ould  be  nun. 
Gortchako^  suspects  liis  successor,  and  detests  him  as  men  usually 
do  their  successors.  If  Moltkc  had  failed  at  Sadowa,  Graff  von  Aroim 
might  have  been  at  the  Foreign  Office  in  Berlin,  and  Herr  von 
Bismarck  a  broken  atrabilious  statesman  at  Varzin,  retired  from  public 
life.  What  Amim  was  to  Bismarck,  Ign.-uicfi'  is  to  Gortchakoff — liis 
servant  and  rival,  with  a  chaitcc  of  being  his  successor.  On  per- 
sonal grounds,  then,  it  is  unlikely  that  Prince  GortchakofT  means  to 
-oiwn  up  the  Eastern  Question  by  a  serious  move,  and  with  a  Turkish 
fleet  of  ironcbds  under  Hobart  Pasha  near  at  hand  no  move  of  bis 
towards  Turkish  territory  could  be  for  him  otlier  tlian  a  serious  move; 

General  IgnatiefTwas  sent  by  Gortchakoff  to  Stomboul,  very  much 
as  Amim  was  sent  by  Bismarck  to  Paris.  At  Sl  Petersbuig 
General  IgnaticfT  was  felt  to  be  in  the  way.  He  is  a  wary, 
-cynical,  and  ambitiouii  man.  The  T^or  is  fond  of  him.  Count 
SchouvaloU'  has  been  sent  to  London  for  similar  reasons.  He 
*oo  was  in  Prince  Gortchakoff's  M*ay.  Ignatieff  has  powerftil  con- 
nectioiui  in  the  Emperor's  household,  and  is  a  personal  tavourite 
-with  the  militar)-  coteries  in  the  capital  Prince  Gortchakoff  is  well 
Awarc  that  if  the  Emperor  could  be  driven  into  war,  Ignatieff,  a  popular 
hero,  would  soon  be  master  of  events.  Gortchakoff  would  himself 
he  nowhere.  Like  Mcnchikoff  under  similar  circumstances,  General 
Ignatieff,  to  whom  every  nook  of  Constantinople  and  every  gun  on 
the  Bosphor\is  are  known,  would  in  all  probabilily  be  appointed  to 
the  first  oomraand.  In  case  of  dther  victory  or  disaster  Gortchakoff 
might  U3unt  on  being  swept  aside. 

in  Usteoing  to  the  patty  of  aggression — «^ch  in  such  a  matter  ts 
the  party  of  despair — both  Emperor  and  Chancellor  must  ask  them- 
selves how  they  are  to  move  on  Constantinople.  While  I  write  a 
telegram  conies,  from  Odessa  saying  that  twenty  thousand  men  ore 


1 


Three  Emperors*  Poltey,  59 


ready  to  embark.  If  tliU  report  is  credited  RiissUd  fiiodi  n-!II  rail. 
These  twenty  thoasand  men  arc  going  to  cither  dcaiii  or  captivity, 
A  Tiitlcish  ironclad  fleet  is  riding  in  the  Oolden  Ham.  That  fleet 
it  stroagcT  than  the  present  fleet  of  France.  It  is  commanded  by  a 
^OTDugh  sailor,  Admiral  KoLart — Captain  die  Hon.  Augustus 
HoUart  in  the  English  n-A,\y  list  The  ininchds  arc  English  built, 
ADd  most  of  them  tu\'e  English  captaios,  who  can  be  trusted  to  do 
lieir  duty.  ^Vith  the  exception  of  PopofTs  turret-ships,  of  which  not 
more  than  three  are  fit  for  sen-ice,  Russia  has  not  one  shii>-of-war  to 
protect  the  tmn?port  of  her  Iroop.'i.  A  word  whispered  from  Varna 
or  KuacDjc  would  bring  up  Hobart*5  ironclads  to  Serpent  Island, 
dose  Mo  the  Rusnan  frontier,  in  seventeen  or  eighteen  hours. 
Woe  to  the  poor  Muscovites  caught  at  sea.  Suppose  they  try  to 
land  ?  They  could  oot  bold  their  own  a  day.  Of  coune  no  landing 
oooid  be  attempted  in  the  presence  of  a  Turkish  fleet,  nor  under 
drctinstanccs  likely  to  be  inlemipted  by  a  visit  from  that  fleet,  tlut 
a  fleet  of  steatnsbips,  acting  on  a  short  line  of  coast  and  near  its  base 
of  opemtions,  would  practically  be  at  every  point.  The  whole  coast 
from  Varna  to  the  mouth  of  the   Bosphonis  is  less  than  a  hundred 

>aiid  fifty  miles.  When  Nicholas  attempted  to  force  a  way  into 
Ttirkey  by  way  of  the  Danube  he  was  foiled.  His  positions  in 
AVallarhia  were  disputed  by  Omar  PxhIxo,  and  his  advance  had  to 

I  be  turned  into  a  defence  of  his  own  soil,  which  ended  for  his  son 
Bad  socccisor  in  a  loss  of  territory.  When  hesucceeded  in  a  previous 
cuBini^  in  occupying  Bulgaria  he  had  an  undisputed  control  of 
tbe  Black  Sea.  He  landed  where  he  chose,  confident  of  being  able 
to  suiijwrt  his  troops ;  as  the  allies  were  afterwards  in  the  Crimea. 
The  utter  destruction  of  the  Russian  fleet  at  Sebastopol  has  rcvemcd 
the  wttiation.  Turkey  is  now  master  at  sea,  and  while  the  twenty 
thottsand  hapless  wretches  might  be  under  orders  for  Sianiboul  ait 
prifDners,  the  ironclads  would  be  shelling  Odessa,  peeping  into  the 
ittrboiirof  Sebastopol,  and  perhaps  bnisliing  i»a»t  Yalta  and  Tlieo- 
dosut   towards   Kcrtsli.     The  hill-side,  m   the  hollow  of  which  that 

I  <ity  lie*,  is  now  strongly  fortified,  but  the  town  itself  stands  open  to 
atUck  by  ml  Such  vessels  as  the  Mestfrnliye  and  llie  MfHtiviMyf, 
handle*)  by   English  ofhcers,   might  hold    their  own  against  the 

jknssian  guns  ai  Kertsh,  while  doing  what  they  pleased,  wHh 
tho  loan  craft  of  Benliansk  and  Rostoff  and  the  much  exposed 
tomes  of  the  town.     The   Russian  army  is  undoubtedly  strong  in 

j  Qumben,  and  in  seven  years  from  the  present  day  will  be  stronger  in 
trarahcra  slill.  Yet  the  Russian  army  is  not  an  anny  in  the  seme  in 
a  German  aiiuy  is  an  army.     In  tea  days  Kmkt  ViVfticVcft  cmv 


6o 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 


place  six  hundred  thousand  men,  infaQliy,  cavilr}-,  artiller)',  witli  all 
thu  services,  commissariat,  hospital,  and  iDtelligencc,  in  working 
order  for  the  field,  on  cither  the  Nicineu  or  the  Rhine.  Russia  could 
not  place  six  hundred  thousand  men  on  the  Prulh  in  ten  months, 
even  with  the  services  incomplete.  She  cannot  move  her 
immense  masses.  She  has  no  means  of  feeding  ihera.  \\*hen 
Nicholas  entered  Bulgaria  in  person  he  moved  with  a  nominal  force 
of  120,000  men ;  but  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  effective  in  front  of 
his  enemy  ever  mustered  more  thdti  thirty  thousand  troops  of  oil 
arms.  Great  efibrts  were  made  to  increase  the  number,  but  although 
he  was  their  master  at  sea,  the  invading  force  actually  on  Turkish 
soil  never  much  exceeded  thirty  thousand  men.  Even  in  the  Crimea 
it  was  impossible  to  keep  up  the  necessary  strength,  and  after  the 
fall  of  Sebastopol  the  Russian  generals  saw  they  could  not  hold  the 
field.  Nothing  remained  for  them — in  spite  of  their  million  of  men 
cai  paper — but  retreat  across  the  Taxlar  steppe;  that,  or  an  igno- 
minious peace. 

A  Russian  army  would  be  formidable,  even  to  a  great  Power,  oa 
the  lines  of  Warsaw  .ind  Smolensk,  Novgorod  and  St.  Petersburg, 
Moscow  and  Jaroslaw.  But  at  a  distance  from  the  central  pro- 
vinces Russia  never  finds  herself  able  to  dispose  of  strong  bodies. 
It  is  doubtful  whether  General  Kaufmann  has  ever  had  ten  thousand 
men  under  his  command  in  C:;nlra!  Asia,  A  mere  handful  of 
soldiers  captured  Tashkend,  and  tlie  several  Khanates  have  been 
enteicd  by  treachery  and  connivance  rather  than  by  force.  Weak- 
nes3  at  the  Seraglio  led  to  the  fall  of  Khokand  and  Khiva  ;  and  the 
presence  of  stronger  men  than  .-Vbdul  Azi/  and  honcatcr  men  than 
Mahmoud  at  the  Pone  may  render  Muscovite  influence  in  Bockhara 
less  secure.  Even  in  the  Caucasus,  which  Russia  affects  to  make  the 
pivot  of  her  military  power,  she  has  never  shown  herself  able  ta 
dispose  of  a  large  force.  During  the  Crimean  war  her  forces  operat- 
ing in  Annenia  were  extremely  few,  and  only  advanced  some  thirty 
miles  from  her  own  frontiers  inlu  Turkish  territory. 

All  Russian  documents  are  to  be  read  between  the  lines ;  yet  the 
military  returns  arc  probably  as  conect  as  the  financial  returns. 

To  move  an  army  is  a  very  expensive  luxury,  especially  in  a 
country  without  roads,  with  very  few  towns,  and  poor  in  canals  and 
railways.  The  north  of  Russia  is  poorly  supplied  with  railways  and 
canals,  even  for  a  waste  country  an<l  a  semi-sarage  people.  The 
centre  is  a  little  better  supplied,  and  the  south  is  worse  than  either. 
Ten  lines  of  railway  lead  from  Berlin  towards  the  Rhine.  Only  one 
line  cotmects  St.  Petersburg  with  the  Dnieper,  and  not  a  mile  of 


Three  Emperor^  Policy. 

T^way  helps  the  Russiaa  soldier  towards  the  Pmth.  Moving  by 
tnun  is  costly,  raa.rchii>g  by  road  ts  ruinous.  Where  is  Russia  to 
finii  the  money  for  a  war? 

Nothing  in  the  history  of  finance  is  more  singular  thaa  the  condi- 
tion of  Russian  credit.  The  finances  of  Russia  are  as  insecure  as 
those  of  Turkey  or  Egypt.  Yet  the  Tsar  has  been  able  to  borrow 
at  five  per  cent,  where  the  Sullan  and  Khedive  have  been  paying  six 
percent.,  and  Russian  stocks  have  been  fetching  from  90  to  98,  while 
those  of  Tiiricey  and  Eg>-pt  (before  the  late  dcprt-ciaiion)  ruled  from 
£0  to  80.  The  same  general  conditions  govern  these  loans.  Russia 
and  Turkey  are  both  despotic  States,  and  a  creditor  has  no  more 
security  in  one  than  in  the  otlier.  Doth  are  oritntai  and  autocratic ; 
"with  the  wasteful  habit  of  orientals,  and  the  disturbing  whimsies  of 
autocrats.  Neither  countr)*  publishes  a  true  and  simple  budget.  In 
each  there  is  a  Court  used  to  an  uctravagance  out  of  proportion  to 
its  actual  wealth.  In  each  there  is  a  vast  amount  of  official  cor- 
ruption, with  an  almost  perfect  freedom  from  exposure  and  punish- 
ment. Id  each  there  is  a  large  annual  deficit,  which  Ls  met  by  fresh 
loans.  The  amount  of  public  debt — floating  and  funded— is  nearly 
equal  for  Turkey  and  Russia:  in  each  a  little  under  ;£ 3 00,000,000. 
These  enormous  debts  have  been  contracted  by  the  two  countries, 
'SevciaUy,  in  nearly  the  same  period  of  time ;  that  is  to  say,  during 
the  past  lwcnty-fi%'c  years.  \\'hcn  the  Crimean  war  broke  out  Russia 
owed  about  ^£"1 2,000,000  to  her  foreign  creditors.  At  that  time 
Turkey  had  no  foreign  creditors ;  but  the  Sultan's  Government  pro- 
bably owed  about  the  same  amount  to  the  Armenians  and  Creeks  of 
Pcra.  ^Vhy,  then,  since  the  loans  have  so  much  in  common,  are 
Russian  stocks  so  much  higher  than  those  of  Turkey? 

Partly  from  illusion,  partly  from  decci)tion.  During  tlie  Crimean 
war  Nesselrode  did  two  sagacious  things.  He  paid  the  interest 
on  his  foreign  debt,  and  he  slackened  the  rules  against  English 
journals.  These  crafty  actions  cost  him  very  little.  The  Russian  debt 
being  only  ^13,000,000  the  half-yearly  dividends  came  to  no  large 
sum,  and  he  knew  that  failure  in  a  single  dividend  would  prevent 
him  making  another  loan.  English  was  not  then  read  by  many 
people  in  Russia  outside  St.  Petersburg,  and  the  people  who  read 
English  journals  were  generals,  Ministers,  and  secretaries,  whom 
it  was  right  to  keep  informed.  Both  measures  were  dicUtcd  by 
sdfish  motives;  but  the  consequences  have  been  fruitful  in  good- 
will, even  beyond  Nesselrodc's  demands.  People  with  money  to 
invest,  and  wishing  to  be  safe,  turned  to  Russian  stocks  by  prc- 
fiaence.     "  Russia  paid   her  dividends  even  during  iVve  Ci\kv«mv 


war"  is  a  saying  echoed  from  side  to  side.  Investors  never  think 
of  asking  what  the  debt  was,  and  how  much  tlie  dividends  were. 
They  take  the  thing  in  block.  It  is  an  amiable  "  illusion,"  but  if 
people  like  to  trick  themselves  the  RussLm  Government  Is  not  to 
blame.  For  the  "deception"  they  are  to  blame.  Russia  puts  out 
every  year  a  document  whkh  ordinary  per&i>Q8  take  to  be  her 
budget  n»is  paper  is  called  a  "project,"  and -appears  in  year 
books,  foreign  almanacks,  and  other  u-orks  of  reference.  Inrcalityit 
is  an  Estimate,  and,  like  a  Spanish  budget,  always  shows  a  surpitu. 
Many  persons  think  it  true.  Several  years  after  dale  a  paper  is 
printed  by  the  Finance  Department  professing  to  give  the  tiue 
figureti,  and  this  paper  always  shows  a  deficit.  But  the  figures  are 
supposed  by  knowiu};  people  to  be  as  little  trustworthy  as  the  esb- 
mates.  The  defititappears  as  sonictliing  under  two  million  pounds 
sterling  a  year.  .■Vmong  financial  people  in  St.  Petersburg  Uie  actual 
deficit  is  said  to  be  ten  millions  a  year,  every  copek  of  which  must 
be  met  by  new  loans.  When  I  \vas  in  Russia  an  exceptional  oppor- 
tunity came  to  me  of  learning  tlie  actual  facts.  I  then  heard  that 
for  several  years  past  the  balance  of  expenditure  over  income  had 
been  eleven  millions  every  yoar.  The  Franco-Gennan  war  broi^t 
in  a  new  military  system  involving  a  vast  amount  of  fresh  outtajr  in 
arms,  stores,.and  drill -stations.  The  deticit  is  not  now  likely  to  be  less 
than  twelve  millions  a  year.  The  known  progre&s  of  the  public  debt 
verities  these  figures.  No  Muscovite  secrecy  can  hide  the  amount 
of  the  external  loans.  In  twenty -five  years  Russia  has  borrowed, 
on  the  .tvcrage,  five  millions  a  year.  She  began  widi  small  sums; 
but  she  lias  gone  forward  at  a  rapid  rate.  She  is  now  borrowing  at 
the  rate  of  fifteen  millions  a  year.  Can  anybody  in  his  senses  think 
that  money  will  ever  come  back  from  Russia  tt)  its  lawful  owners  ^ 
As  soon  as  men  open  their  eyes  to  facts  Russian  credit  will  ccdlapse. 
In  case  o(  war  it  is  dilfieult  to  sec  where  !>he  could  raise  another 
loan,  and  witliout  another  loan  she  could  not  move  a  hundred 
thousand  tnen. 

Russia  is  a  semi- barbarous  State,  and  semi-tiorbarouE  States  arc 
moved  by  impulses  unknown  to  countries  like  England,  Germany, 
and  the  United  States.  But  If,  in  spite  of  all  these  obstacles,  men  of 
the  school  of  Katkoff  and  Ignatiefi'werc  to  plunge  the  country  into 
war,  how  are  the  Muscovite  uoops  to  march  on  Stamlxpul?  The  rc^ad 
by  sea  is  closed,  not  only  by  the  fortifications  of  the  Bosphorus,  but  by 
the  Turkish  fleet.  The  road  by  land  is  closed  by  Roumania  with  her 
Hohcnzollem  prince.  Austria  cannot  alio*  the  Russians  to  advance 
on  the  Danube,  neither  would  Germany  permit  the  neutrality  of 


^ 


Three  Emperors'  Policy. 


«J 


Roumania  to  be  disturbed,  Sen-ia  is  not  only  a  long  way  off,  but  \%- 
surrounded  by  jealous  provir^ces.  Montenegro  is  an  inland  ridge, 
without  a 'Single  port  The  Kussian  Baltic  squadron  canaot  get  inta 
the  Adriatic  without  Kiving  to  reckon  with  Hobart  Pasha,  not  tospcA 
— as  yet — of  Admirals  Dniramond  and  Back.  Even  if  tlie  Sirtfuruf 
and  Petropaulovski  could  evade  the  Turkish  fleet,  where  could  tlic 
Russian  admiral  land  an  auxiliary  force  ?  Austria  is  no  less  jealous  in 
the  Adriatic  than  on  the  Danube.  It  is  is  certain  that  Austria  would 
rtpel  an  attempt  to  land  at  Ragiisa,  as  iKit  England  would  repel  aa 
aitcmpc  to  bnd  at  Portsmouth.  What  road  remains  to  a  Russian' 
general?  The  line  from  TiBis.  In  Armenia  Russia  has  a  finmtier 
nmnii^g  along  jiart  of  Turkey.  The  distance  from  Tiflii>  to  Conslanji- 
nopic  is  aboat  a  thousand  miles.  The  way  leads  through  the  mounuiit 
passes  of  Armenia,  under  Ararat,  and  then  across  the  burning  plains- 
of  Anado).  Could  Moltke  and  a  German  army  fight  their  way  along 
that  line?  Tliey  woald  require  long  prc|>araUon,  eoormous  supply 
tmitts,  and  ^  powetfiilly  guarded  chain  of  posts.  The  inarch  would 
resemble  that  of  General  Sherman  from  Atalania  to  Clurleslon  ;  with 
the  vast  additions  of  a  foreign  people,  an  unknown  country,  and  an 
absence  of  rich  towns.  Hie  Russians  tried  that  road  during  the 
Crimean  war.  They  got  as  far  as  Kars,  some  thirty  miles  from  their 
froDtier.  There  they  sto|>ped.  The  people  of  Anadol  arc  Moslem 
in  creed.  They  are  extremely  brave  and  pugnacious.  2  doubt 
whether  any  modem  soldier  would  underUkc  to  lead  an  army  from 
Tiflis  to  Stamboul  by  way  of  Anadol.  But  imagine  such  a  soldier 
b  General  Ignatieff;  imagine  the  march  accomplished,  and  the 
slopes  of  Galala  reached.  Opposite,  on  the  European  side,  the 
exhausted  general  would  sec  the  miruuets  and  palaces  of  StambouV 
with  nothing  between  his  object  and  himself — except  two  or  three 
^miles  of  deei>  water  covered  by  an  ironclad  Turkisli  fleet. 

Nothing  less  than  a  direct  participation  in  llie  war  by  Geimany 
could  help  the  RuKians  to  strike  a  blow.  I'hat  such  a  participation 
is  in  the  highest  degree  unlikely  1  may  attempt  to  show  another 
day. 


The  Token  of  the  Silver  Lily* 
by  the  author  of  "comin'  thro"  the  rye." 


PART  v.— GILBERT. 

HERE  came  at  daybreak  thro'  the  quiet  wood 
A  slender  sihapt  which  might  have  been  the  wraith 
Of  some  fair  forest  flower  that,  having  bloomed 
Anil  died,  was  privileged  to  wander  o'er 
The  haunts  it  once  did  love,  and  one  who  saw 
That  form  approaching  stoned  as  a  man 
Who  sees  some  mocking  spirit  .  .  Ethelwyn 
(For  it  was  she)  not  seeing  him,  passed  on. 
And  O  '.  how  swiftly  o'er  the  silvered  grass 
Sped  those  poor  little  feet  l    He,  following. 
Her,  came  anon  unto  a  ninning  stream 
By  which  she  paused,  then  stooped  and  thro'  her  hand 
Slowly  (as  one  who  fears)  some  knot-grass  drew, 
Yet  plucked  it  not.     "Our  trysting  placf,"  she  said 
Below  her  breath,  and  sweet -faced  mem'ry  touched 
Some  sealM  chamber  of  that  icy  heart 
And  made  her  grief  more  human.     "  Just  a  year, 
A  year  ago,"  she  whispered,  and  her  eyes 
Wandering  around,  fell  on  a  little  grove 
Of  hazel  nuts,  all  hung  with  diamonds 
Of  grateful  dew  .  .  "a  year  ago,"  she  cried, 
Then  sudden  turned  and  saw  and  swer\-ed  aside 
As  from  a  thing  abhorred,  but  Harold  stayed 
Her  headlong  flight,  saying  "  Mistress,  you  were 
But  DOW  within  my  thoughts  when  I  beheld 
You  gliding  thro'  the  w<;od,  and  following 
O'crtook  ynu  here.    There  be  a  few  brief  words 
1  needs  must  utter " — but  she  cried  "  Not  here ! 
I  charge  you  open  not  your  lips  to  speak 
One  word  by  here  " — and  so  flashed  from  his  side. 
But  paused  at  last,  and  thro'  the  chilly  mom 
Saw  him  approaching,  and  some  madness  wrought 
Her  into  sudden  violence  of  speech 
That  moved  him  not  to  wonder :  well  he  knew 
HO"-  tures  when  aroused  are  fierce 


Tite  Token  of  the  Silver  Ltly. 


6=; 


And  wild  bejood  the  utmost  ]imit&  of 

Tliejr  that  an;  stroni;  and  stormy.    "  Histe  !  **  she  cried, 

"  Metliinks  your  footsteps  come  but  &lowly  for 

\  happy,  merry  bridegroom  .  ,  see  you  yon 

Red  daybreak  in  the  cast  ?     When  once  again 

It  shall  return  'twill  shine  upon  our  fair 

White  maniage  day,  and  I  shall  have  your  words 

Wlhin  -Oiy  ears  for  ever,  therefore  hive 

These  for  that  long  to-roorroir."  .  . 

Harold  said, 
"Mistress,  I  pray  that  unto  you  a  morrow 
Rosy  and  beautiful  dotli  dawn  indeed. 
But  unto  me  "  .  .  he  paused,  and  Ioo)ur.g  up, 
Gazed  at  the  sky,  unutterably  pure 
And  peaceful  in  its  coldness,  "  unto  me 
DavQs  no  to-morrow,  ycster  eve  my  sun 
Went  down  for  ever," — lifting  up  her  eyes 
She  marked  the  look  he  wore,  and  on  her  fcU 
A  sudden  stillness  as  when  shines  athwart 
A  weary  siorm-tossed  soul,  a  heavenly  ray 
Of  God-sent  peace^"  to  me  no  marriage  day 
Shall  come,  but  thro'  the  misi  I  seem  to  see 
Vou  in  your  bridal  govrn  and  at  your  side 
Htm  that  you  love  so  well  .  .  Mistress,  I  ara 
But  rough  and  rutle  in  speech,  and  seek  in  vain 
Some  gentle  fashion  in  tlie  which  to  tell 
You  how  I  know  the  sad  and  piteous  tale 
Of  your  most  foitliful  Io\-e,  and  nobler  still 
The  aacrifice  you  purposed ;  further  how 
Faltering  not  you  took  within  your  hands 
////  honour,  and  wilti  nev*er  backward  look 
At  love's  fair  garden  chose  the  sterile  path 
Of  duty  .  .  for  these  things  my  reverence 
I  yield  you,  and  in  d^ys  to  come  shall  find 
Some  solace  in  the  thought  that  she  I  loved 
Outshone  all  women  in  her  excellence, 
Of  heart  and  mind  and  soul."  .  .  Ethclwyn  cried. 
As  one  who  stricken  with  a  bitter  shame 
U  goaded  into  spcecli,  "  O  t  noble  hearty 
Have  you  no  consciousness  of  >'our  most  great 
And  cruel  wrongs  ?    Can  you  not  find  one  word 
Of  scorn  and  lulred  for  )he  treachery 

To  you,  for  whicA  do  4uito\a  sacrifice, 
yoL,xvn^N.S.  1876.  f 


66  The  GcniUmans  Magasine, 

Howevet  pure  ia  motive,  could  atone  ?  " 

He  answered  low  and  sadly,  "  No,  not  ooe." 

She  cried  again,  "  On  our  betrothal  day 

You  bade  me  tell  you  imty  from  my  heart 

If  I  could  love  you,  and  with  cunning  play 

Of  words,  and  tnith  half  hidden,  and  half  dressed 

In  falsehood,  I  betrayed  your  tnostful  heart  .  . 

Remembering  this,  can  you  not  find  oac  word 

To  brand  me  with  dishonour?" 

And  yet  again  he  answered,  "  No,  not  one ! 

Your  duly  did  compel  you  .  .  following 

One  urgent  voice  you  could  not  choose  but  pass 

AH  lesser  voices  by— only  believe 

Thai  whatsoe'er  you  did,  or  wliat  you  do, 

There  can  be  never  maiden  under  God 

So  sn'set  and  lovely  in  my  eyes  as  you. 

And  now  I  go  to  work  jour  happiness 

With  Ethelred  .  .  but  unto  him,  your  lover,  speak. 

No  word  of  this  or  tliat,  but  leave  to  mc 

To  deal  with  his  sad  humours,  for  methinVs 

No  woman's  heart  or  brain  could  comprehend 

The  mood  of  him,  who  with  his  blood  on  fire 

Wjtli  cross  disaster  and  harsh  stroke  of  Fate 

Discovers  that  his  sole  remaining  good 

On  earth  is  reft  from  him  .  .  his  nature  is 

In  wild  revolt,  Iiis  very  love  is  choked 

Witli  bitter  thoughts,  no  adder  is  more  deaf 

Than  he  to  reason,  but  he  will  outwear 

This  madness  ere  tiie  monow,  and  again 

You  shall  regain  your  fairness  iu  his  eyes."  .  . 

Ethclw)-n  Said, 
Thro'  sobs  that  brake  the  music  of  her  voice 
To  trembling  pain,  "  All  this,  and  this,  for  m^ 
Unworthy  that  I  am,  but  what  for — Thee  ?" 

She  droopsd  her  bTOW 
Upon  his  arm  as  some  (air  sister  might 
Creep  to  the  haven  of  a  bn>thcr's  love, 
Safe  and  secure  .  .  but  at  the  gentle  touch* 
Tiawonted  and  most  precious,  Uuo'  his  bloqd 
wd  such  a  fiery  joy,  as  at  a  breatli 


Tiie  Token  of  ihe  Silver  Lily. 

XJndui  Uie  decpcrale  and  roost  sternly  won 
Victory  of  the  night,  whose  evcrj*  liour 
Had  marked  the  feaiAil  conflict  of  jt  soul 
By  Cod  made  noble,  but  with  earthly  Qcsh 
Ciying  for  bread,  and  greedy  of  its  own, 
Warring  against  its  nobler  elements  ; 
And  in  (hat  fierce  delirium  it  acemed 
That  heaven  and  earth  forbade  him  to  give  tip 
Mis  darling  to  that  oilier  .  .  should  he  not 
Uy  passion,  padence,  rhetoric,  all  the  arts 
That  men  have  uted,  and  by  their  potency 
Won  on  all  women  hoH-soc\'cr  cold, 
Conquer  this  girl  through  importunity? 
Bm  not  the  lying  promise  of  his  brain, 
Or  hollow  pleading  of  a  cheating  hope, 
Could  long  obscure  the  confidence  that  irith  clear 
And  dazzling  light  shone  on  each  barren  plea 
And  cast  it  out,  inexorably  just, 
Bating  no  atom  of  the  naked  truth, 
Bui  took  her  heart,  aiui  gai^d  it  by  his  own, 
And  knew  that  love  bred  in  sucli  constancy 
Could  never  die.  .  .  So  the  convulsion  passed 
And  left  him  weak  yet  strong.     "  For  her,"  he  said 
Below  his  breaib,  then  jtale  and  haggard  looked 
Upwards  to  Heaven's  gate,  through  wbicli  the  sun 
Came  as  a  joyous  bridegroom,  with  the  clouds 
iJright  hued  and  deliaite  as  earthly  flowers 
Thronging  about  his  feet     "For  her,"  .  .  then  took 
Ilcr  face  between  his  hands  as  though  it  were 
Some  strangers  that  he  was  roost  6in  to  print 
Upon  his  mcmoiy.  .  .  ""O  !  rare  lips,"  he  said, 
"  That  I  have  never  kissed,  from  whose  sweet  gates 
Have  issued  not  one  stammering  word  of  love, 
Although  I  listened  alwajrs  .  .  eyes  tiiat  ntfer 
Have  brightened  at  my  coming,  or  grown  dim 
With  pain  at  my  departure  .  .  tender  cheeks, 
Twin  lilies,  that  have  worn  but  one  asptxt 
To  all  my  looks  and  words  .  .  soit  golden  hair 
That  never  twined  tn  tendrils  round  my  oeck, 
Or  filled  my  hands  with  beauQr.  .  .  Yea,  all  these 
'llut  I  thought  mine  «re  his ;  yet  no  man  can 
Jiuck  from  my  hean  the  Jore/^  memory 
Ofjva,  that  sbaU  entbtn  with  me  in  life 


TkMGtMlUmtdsMm, 


AaddeaA'  .  ■  and  lo  viA  mdo;  SiqaiBg  midi 
(like  to  a  mas  «to  bf«A  fioa  Ik  s^^ 
Sottc  pnodcs  B4S  fiv  ob)  loanB  bcr  fesB 
Rk  bold,  ud  bom^  aad  pwd  figa  ott  kr  fcen. 

Ai  Dooo  there  cxme 
ToBhAedpWho  iHiliil  aBh«y  twe 
or  woctas  ix  Ae  ■anov  cnae  ad  9B 
Wains  tlie  contrxrd.  Hm)id.    Side  I7  ade 
Tbcr  sdc  and  looked  abroad,  «»d  firm  ^  i9» 
Of  ooe  feQ  now  and  Aea  a  dicnnMBg  «ad 

Briomed,  yet  oooU  001  o'oAf^,    Aaon  Ukxc  feB 
A  aflenee  "twist  tfaea^  and  «ar  cndd  bTC  pnyed 
Thai  it  m^t  last  far  ercr;  bat  at  last 
With  troD  win,  and  patting  from  Ins  heart 
AB  rath  for  him  be  lored,  "  Father."  he  said 
(For  fo  would  EUhelred  be  called  of  himX 
"  There  runs  a  story  in  my  mind  to^iay 
Uomety  yet  pitifuL     Jost  such  an  one 
As  may  h^re  been,  or  be  again  for  aught 
That  you  or  I  can  tell  .  .  'twas  of  a  man 
Who  in  the  i^de  of  youth,  and  flush  of  strength 
Was  struck  to  earth  by  hand  of  Prov-idence, 
Aad  in  the  twilight  gloom  that  follonred  on 
His  glorious  noon  of  life,  there  lived  in  him 
A  bitter,  carking  sorrow  that  to  him 
Was  bom  no  son  who  should  in  days  to  come 
Uphold  the  honour  of  bis  father's  name. 
One  child  he  had,  a  daughter ;  but  his  heart 
Was  closed  to  her,  and  thro'  a  term  of  years, 
So  long  that  she  had  ftom  a  littic  babe 
Crown  into  maidenhood,  he  saw  her  not. 
Nor  ever  spoke  her  name,  while  she,  who  knev 
Naught  of  the  hate  he  bore  her,  loved  him  well 
Father  was  he,  and  o'er  that  tender^name 
She  mused,  until  it  stood  within  her  mind 
For  all  that  was  most  noble,  and  most  great 
Hero  was  he,  and  every  stirring  deed 
Wrought  by  his  hand  Uvcd  in  her  memory 
As  household  djiily  treasures  .  .  til!  there  camt 
A  day  when  willi  her  uembling  heart  astir 
"'••h  reverence  and  Joy  she  stood  witlun 
■rcscDce.  ..01  'twas  piteous  to  see 


Tlte  Token  of  the  Stiver  Lily. 

That  lovely,  loving  child  shrink  bid  aghast 

Before  the  cnicl  harshness  of  his  eye 

And  cold  and  careless  words  .  .  (Eihelred  stirred 

Suddenly  in  his  chair  and  turned  his  eyes 

Frowning  on  him  who  spoke)  $Jie  knew  not  why 

He  scorned  her,  but  she  suffered — and  her  heart 

Repulsed  and  wounded^  tiuned  with  tenderness 

Redoubled,  unto  one  who  had  beside 

Her  grown  to  manhood  .  .  when  she  was  a  babe 

(Her  mother  says,}  this  playmate  would  within 

His  little  sturdy  arms  bear  forth  the  child 

And  lay  her  midst  the  cowslips,  and  from  mom 

Till  eve  the)'  were  together,  and  one  cot 

Would  often  hold  the  twain  .  .  so  as  they  grew 

Their  love  grew  aUo,  and  from  day  to  day 

Strengthened  with  their  young  strength— till  soul  to  SOiil 

Was  knit  so  closely  that  the  breath  they  drew 

Wu  less  a  part  of  them  than  their  great  love  .  . 

My  lord,  my  &ncy  doth  supply  the  links 

Missing  in  this  my  stor)-,  but  I  think 

1  err  not  when  1  say  that  she  did  see 

Him  leaving  her  for  battle  with  such  fear 

As  she  may  know  who  looseth  fcom  her  hand 

A  clicrished  bird,  knowing  that  it  «-ill  speed 

Where  she  can  never  follow  .  .  and  I  seem 

To  see  her  watching  thro'  the  weary  months 

By  night  and  day,  and  always  on  her  lips 

A  prayer  for  Iiis  return. 

Upon  a  mora 
There  came  a  stranger  to  the  castle  gates 
Whose  errand  was  of  love.    Methinks  she  had 
Scarce  guessed  it,  when  one  came  and  said  to  her^ 
'  Thy  cousin  sleeps.'  .  .  She  turned  not  pale  nor  wept, 
N'or  gave  one  sign  of  rulhful  miser)-, 
•■Vnd  from  the  heart  of  him  who  came  to  woo 
Fell  down  the  jealous  fears  that  had  begun 
To  vex  it  .  .  but  what  mortal  tongue  shall  tell 
The  whirlwind  of  her  heart  who  dared  not  weep 
Or  taise  her  lamentations  unto  heaven, 
But  was  compelled  to  lend  a  iavouring  car. 
To  vows  and  love-words  from  liie  stranger's  lips. 
While  yet  the  dead  from  out  his  narrow  home 
Cned  for  remembrance  .  .  Ihfo'  what  fearful  ihiocs 


Gtmilatams  I^sga:MU^ 


or  ova*  atdcovnUnsorOie  scmI 

SbepMMd,  I  kaow  Boc,  ere  ihie  caff  aadc 

All  mmai%  ^"^fa**— .  and  innic  in 

SeKaetificKi  Md  far  Imt  fttfaei's  Bke 

Elected  to  B^  oW  her  bodf  to 

This  nmc  ablMoU  BBiaa,  udia  ane 

Had  beco  aide  wtf%  wImb  Eraa  ibc  tcit  gnn 

(Or  so  it  secned)  cvoe  bade  dw  lover  of 

Her  b^ipr,  dnldU  dvr*-"  .  .  He  paoed  and  madaed 

Etfaelred's  restless  hands  tfaai  to  and  fro 

Moved  with  iBoertaki  fpsp — "'tis  bat  a  lalfc 

Of  love  and  cohmbq  aouow,  jret  neuiniis 

*71s  passing  sad  .  .  Mykad,  if  foa  bad  been 

Tbe  &ther  of  tbts  prl,  and  acddeni 

At  the  eleventh  boar  revealed  to  jroa 

Her  giaod  ooselfish  purpose,  \a^you  Xsitsx 

At  bcr  frail  woman's  bands  such  sacrifice 

To  feed  TOUT  quick  ambitioD  ?    Ta'eo  from  her. 

That  tender  creature,  who,  defenceless  cast 

VpoD  your  mercy,  did  appeal  to  all 

Most  noble  in  your  manhood,  such  a  gift 

As  b^gaied  her  for  ever?" 

Etbelred  turned^ 
With  5erce  and  angry  gesture,  crying  out 
"  I  like  thy  story  ill !     Say  what  have  I 
To  do  with  maiden's  follies  or  what — thou  ? 
Tell  mc  no  more,  I  say,  it  is  enough. 
And  more  I  will  not  "  .  .   here  he  sudden  burst 
Inlrj  harsh  iaiightcr,  as  a  man  who,  moved 
To  anger  by  a  jest  that  he  has  ta'cn 
For  earnest,  doth  repent  him  of  his  heaL 
But  Harold  said,  "  My  lord,  I  must  beseech 
Your  patient  hearing  for  a  little  space^ 
This  stoiy  hath  significance  of  which 
You  guess  not  .  .  so,  I  say,  the  maiden  did 
Receive  her  treasure  back.     Twas  on  tbe  eve 
or  her  abhorrl-d  nuptials  .   .  pity  her 
When  waking  from  that  trance  of  ecstasy 
She  did  feimmler  .  .  nay,  I  pray  you  think 
Of  that  poor  way-worn  soldier  creeping  back 
In  {»iin  aikI  weariness  unto  his  home, 
To  find  his  true  love  stolen.     Nay,  mote,  he  liad 
whom  he  loved,  and  him  he  found 


The  Tokefi  of  the  Silver  Lity. 

Bc>'OQ(l  Ihe  reach  or  filial  tenderness 
For  ei-cr.  .  .  Father,  say,  if  you  bad  been 
llie  IoA*CT  Uiat  slic  loved  not,  and  by  cKance 
Had  heard  the  story,  would  not  you  have  stood 
Aside,  and  though  it  broke  your  lieart  in  tvrain 
Vidded  her  to  that  other  ?  " 


'*  No  \  by  my  soul  I  would  not ! "  thundered  out 

Tlie  £arl,  "  raethinks  a  man  who  stands  aside, 

And  sickly  smiles  while  his  heart's  flower  is  plucked 

£y  otlier  hand,  is  not  so  fine  a  thing 

As  .  .  pitiful,  a  man  who  loves  sliould  cleave 

His  way  as  thro'  a  balllc-Scld  that's  rife 

With  foes  at  every  step,  until  lie  wins 

Her  in  the  teeth  of  all  .  .  Trust  nie,  no  man 

Of  stubborn  stuflf  and  faith  in  his  own  self, 

Would  let  his  sweetheart  slip,  because,  forsootli, 

Sutnc  puling,  childish  folly  did  obscure 

Her  judgment !    Think  you  that  a  woman's  yea 

Or  nay,  should  have  such  power  to  come  between 

Strung  meo  and  their  strong  hopes  ?    Scarcely  a  year 

Shall  have  departed,  ere  she  has  forgot 

Her  love-sick  follies,  aod  have  centred  all 

Her  aims  and  hopes  in  you  .  .  a  woman  is 

Too  generous  to  take  the  bounteous  gift 

Of  an  o'erflowing  heart,  and  in  return 

Give  niggard's  share  of  liking  .  .  know  you  not 

How  oft  Ihe  longing  that  is  gratiAcd 

Turns  into  loathing,  and  recoiling  on 

Itself,  is  vile  indeed;  how  tunged-for  things 

Turn  into  bitterness?  .  .  and  he  would  set 

This  weak  fulfilment  of  ber  phantasy. 

That  lime  will  soon  outwear,  against  the  deep 

And  mighty  passions  of  two  men  who  lose 

All,  so  she  wins  her  bauble  I    0:1  say. 

He  was  too  thoughtful  for  that  other,  for 

Himself  too  careless  .  .  think  you  did  he  love 

Her  as  a  man  should  love?     And  in  his  veins 

Ran  there  hot  blood  or  ii^-atcr,  that  he  could 

With  such  indifference  give  o'er  his  girl 

Uuto  bis  enemy,  to  twine  about 

Him  in  the  hearth-place,  and  in  time  become 

Mother  olhls  /air  sons?" 


-J2 


The  Gcnllemati's  Mazasine. 


Harold  cried, 
"  My  lord,  forbear !    Nor  with  your  subtle  words, 
That  swarm  like  cunning  thieves  about  the  lock 
Of  my  integrity,  essay  to  woo 
Me  unto  sliame  of  manhood  .  .  O!  mcthoueht 
1  held  my  passions  in  a  Icash  so  strong 
As  naught  could  break  ;  but  lo  !  a  few  hot  words 
(Those  wayward  instruments  of  good  and  evil, 
That  wield  a  power  more  deadly  than  the  s^rord 
Or  poison  of  the  nsp  .  .  ihat  penetrate 
Beyond  the  common  flesh,  and  move  the  soul 
To  virtue  or  lo  vUencss ;  ay  !  and  liave 
Turned  honest  men  to  rogues,  and  yet  again 
Awakened  in  the  rogue  the  dormant  seed 
Of  good  that  makes  him  honest)  do  in  me 
Work  with  such  violence  as  prove  that  he 
Who,  decmcth  that  a  victory  once  won 
Is  won  for  ever,  errs  .  .  your  speech  impels 
Me  to  a  godless  licence  that  would  sei^e 
The  fruit  for  which  it  hungers,  recking  not 
Of  aughl  save  tlie  imperative  command. 
That  bids  it  taste  and  fear  not,  whispering 
That  in  that  joy  delirious  no  sting 
Of  memory  could  come ;  all  this,  my  lord, 
Your  gibing  breath  hath  done  ;  bethink  yon,  if 
The  man  who  tempts  another  to  Jay  down 
His  hard-won  weapons,  and  commit  himself 
Unto  the  base  and  coward  lap  of  case 
Is  worthy  of  niy  honour  ?    Fat]ier,  so 
I  yet  will  call  you  ere  I  pass  away 
From  out  your  sight  fur  ever,  let  mc  bear 
Away  with  mc  this  imngc  of  ilic  man 
Wiom  I  have  loved  so  fondly,  that  he  set 
Virtue  above  desire,  and  counting  all 
His  hopes  well  lost,  so  he  ui  honour  kept 
His  soul,  did  make  the  happiness  of  her 
^Vho  strove  so  hard  for  his.  ..01  never  shall 
This  heart  contain  the  mcm'ry  that  thou  didst 
Fail  where  thy  girl  o'crcame  V  .  ,  . 

But  Ethel  red 
Cried  with  wild  arms  uptosscd,  and  outspread  palms 
That  beat  the  air,  *'  I  charge  you  speak  no  word 
Of  that  poor  triflcr,  lest  I  lift  my  voice 


,     The 


coree  her,  with  a'father's  airee,  that  dings 
To  flesh  and  bone,  with  a  coiroding  rust, 
That  gnaws  and  eals,  and  hath  not  had  its  fill 
When  death  o'ertakes  her  ,  .  such  a  curse,  I  say, 
As  doth  oulspecd  thc'grave  and  weighcth  down 
The  spirit  unto'helL  .  .  O,.'  wretched  bane 
Of  my  existence,  that  hath  clouded  o'er 
My  all  too  bitter  life,  is  it  reserved 
To  thee,  to  plunge  mc  in  a  night  of  pilch 
Through  which  shall  struggle  not  one  dawoing  hope 
To  gild  my  bleak  to-morrow  ?    Must  I  lose 
Through  ihee  a  thing  that  hath  so  deeply  grotrn 
Inio  my  heart,  that  in  the  plucking  out 
My  life-blood  shall  be  squandered  ?    O  i  my  son, 
Thou  canst  not  love  thy  father  as  he  loves 
Thee,  or  thou  couldst  not  leave  him  .  .  Thou  wouldst  set 
//m  love  against  Aer  fancy  and  abide 
With  him  thro'  the  long  shadows  that  beset 
The  evening  of  his  days  .  .  O  !  deem  him  not 
loblc  and  insensible  to  good  .  . 
c  feels  your  fierce  appeals,  yea,  and  his  soul 
Gives  back  the  echo  to  your  noble  words 
Of  fire  and  supplication  .  .  yet  they  do 
Make  war  against  themselves,  for  as  in  you 
Some  nobler  attribute  or  fairer  trait 
Of  character  each  moment  doth  appear, 
It  binds  you  closer  to  him  and  doth  make 
Harder  than  c\'cr,  nay,  impossible 
Tliat  he  should  bid  you  go  "  .  .  sudden  his  ^-oice 
,Ccascd,  and  his  head  sank  heavily  upon 

is  weary  breast  .  .  and  saw  he  not  how  thro' 
ic  slowly  opening  door  there  softly  crept 
A  gentle  apparition  that  stood  mute 
Before  her  father's  presence  .  .  Harold  saw, 
And  waicd  her  back  as  one  who  sees  a  life 
Pass  'twixt  a  wolf  and  hunger,  but  she  stood 
Fearless,  and  through  the  silence  fell  one  word, 
"  Fa/Aer/"  bo  low  and  musical  with  love 
An  angel  might  have  breathed  it,  but  there  came 
No  sign,  no  look,  no  tremor  unto  him 

^hWHo  hearkened  ■  ■  ere  its  echoes  died  away 

^HAs  ripples  that  do  circle  round  a  stone 

^^frofped  in  the  bosom  of  a  peaceful  lakt) 


^Th< 


74  T^i-^  Gentleman  5  Magazine. 

She  spake  again,  "  Father,  bow  not  thou  down 

That  loveS  and  honoured,  head  .  .  I  come  to  tbee 

To  say  lh«t  whatsoe'er  may  be  x'tvf  will 

I  am  content  to  do  it  .  .  but  anon 

My  spirit  leaped  and  tioted  in  hope. 

And  misery  fell  from  rue,  hut  \  woke 

Ere  lang  to  consciousness  how  by  my  vow 

I  still  am  bound  to  count  myself  ns  lost 

So  I  can  yield  you  j'our  owiv  heart's  desirs  .  . 

And  none  save  you  for  whom  I  swarc  thii  vow 

Can  loose  from  it  .  .  and  if  yoii  shall  bid 

RIe  wed  your  favourite,  I  will  oheyk 

And  sir,"  she  turned  lo  HBrold,  who  stood  by 

Filled  with  aniai^c-mcnt,  "  since  you  loved  me  oncti 

And  bore  ray  moods  with  patience,  maybe  you 

Will  lovo  mc  yet  again,  a  little — 0  ! 

No  more  I  and  bo;»r  lo  lake  Die  for  your  wife, 

Who  will  ho  duteous,  meek,  and  serviceable 

Always  to  you  .  .  and  though  there  lie  a  grave 

New  made,  that  ever  yawns  'twixt  thee  and  me. 

Yet  shall  our  voices  cross  it,  and  we  will 

Endure  our  lives. 

It  ^rj«  not  longafo 
I  hated  you,  and  afterwards  there  spautg 
A  sister's  love  within  my  heart  for  you  .  ■> 
And  now  I  do  not  hale^we  arc  as  two 
Slaves  to  one  galley  chained,  our  common  caose 
Of  grief  shall  make  us  comrades,  and  to  as 
Out  of  our  Irarren  Hvt's  shall  grow  the  pure 
White  flower  of  PeaM." 


She  ceased,  and  Ethelred  half  stirred,  as  though 

He  miiised  that  lovely  voice,  then  reared  aloft 

His  brow,  and  harshly  cried,  "Thou  comest  hero. 

To  mock  me  !    (.) :  beware,  lest  I  lift  up 

My  voice  in  fearful  meaning  and  caU  down^ 

Tliat  which  shall  make  thee  tianblR  .  .  Nay!  'twas  well 

Imagined  that  wh«n  Harold's  picas  had  failed 

Thoa  shouldst  appear  with  this  rait^eemitig  t^e 

Of  duteous  sacriftco  .  .  therefore  it  moves 

Me  not  one  wliit"  .  .  Scorning  he  looked,  at  her. 

And  she  looked  back  in  silence;  but  her  nueii' 

Spake  for  her  as  no  uttered  words  could  speak. 


Tfu  Tokm  of  thi  Stiver  Lily, 

And  in  that  moment  was  revealed  to  hitn 

Her  na]ced  heait.  .  .  lie  said,  "  Tbou  wouldst  do  this 

For  one  who  never  loved  thee  ?  "    "  Ay  : "  she  said, 

"  If  he  should  bid  roe  do  W."    Stretching  out 

His  hand,  hu  drew  her  nearer,  muttering, 

"  My  gill,"  .  .  as  one  who  tiimeth  o'er  and  o'er 

An  unfamiliar  word,  "  it  was  but  now 

I  thought  to  curse  thee ;  but,  'tis  sttange  .  .  'tis  strange, 

1  cannot  curse  thee  now  .  .  what's  in  a  voice — 

A  maiden's  tender  voice  ?     What  in  a  face — 

Pale  and  distniughl,  with  heav)-,  teark-ss  eyes 

X-ilcc  bmisbd  \iole(s?    Yet  they  have  worked 

Such  wondrous  changes  in  me  that  I  seem 

To  my  own  self  not  Ethelred,  but  one 

Who  raves  .  .  and  sayest  thou  that  thou  wouldst  do  this 

For  one  who  never  loved  ihee?"    "Ay  !"  she  said, 

"For  I  luive  loved  him  always." 

On  the  lips, 
Quivering  and  inde,  he  kissed  her — 'twas  the  first 
CareM  .  -  "  So  cold  !  "  he  s;iid,  "  and  yet  shouldst  thou 
With  heart  that  bums  with  such  heroic  deeds 
Be  wanned  as  with  the  sun  .  .  kiss  me,  my  gid, 
For  thou  hast  found  a  father  and  a  friend  .  .  . 
Henceforth  love  lies  between  iis  .  .  but  for  thee, 
My  son,  whom  in  the  vct>'  self-saroe  day 
That  I  have  found  a  daughter  I  sliall  lose — 
What  hap?"    And  Harold  answered,  "That  which Heaveo 
Shall  send,"  and  turned  and  left  them. 

"  It  is  wen," 
He  said,  "and  to  the  vacancy  1  kave 
In  Ethelred's  strong  heart  this  girl  shall  creep. 
And  AD  ii  till  he  doth  forget  how  once 
He  loved  the  stranger,  and  tlie  influence 
Of  filial  love  shall  soften  him  until 
He  merges  his  ambition  in  the  jieuce 
Of  happy  hotne  affections."  .  .  . 

Came  there  one 
Across  tlte  fxnirt  to  meet  him,  haggard-cycd. 
And  gaunt  and  weaiy,  with  the  cotndtneBS 
And  gnice  of  early  manhood  fled  away 
Fof  ever.     Yet  as  face  to  face  they  stood, 
This  noble  pair  of  lovers,  ye  had  found 
It  hand  to  dtooae  bcitvixt  them  ,  .  and  the  stia 
•£5(VNf  dQwn  in  bitter  mockery  upon 


76 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 


The  Token  of  the  Lily.  .  .  Harold  said, 

"  In  days  gone  by  it  vas  my  lot  to  do 

You  such  slight  service  as  a  soldier  docs 

Unto  his  meanest  conuade,  aod  you  baie 

Me  gratitude  that  was  too  rich  a  giA: 

For  what  I  did  so  poorly  .  .  nay,  you  sware 

A  generous  vow  that  if  in  days  to  come 

You  could,  by  yielding  up  your  heart's  desire. 

Convey  me  one  hour's  gladness,  you  would  give 

It  freely,  reckoning  your  loss  but  gain  .  . 

We  knew  not  then  how  jiurbtind,  (ickle  Fate 

Had  wovea  in  one  knot  our  destinies, 

Or  how  in  striving  for  a  common  prize 

One  must  outspeed  the  other.  .  .  Sir,  you  loved 

Ethelred's  daughter,  atid  1  loved  her  too." 

Gilbert  cried, 
*'  Forbear  \  nor  make  ilie  folly  of  my  heart 
The  theme  of  your  cold  pity  (let  me  keep 
The  memory  of  my  vow,  my  vow,  lest  I 
Should  smite  him  to  the  earth).     Sir,  since  you  know 
The  siory  from  the  ready  lips  of  one 
Who  should  for  shame  keep  silence,  I  will  charge 
You  speak  no  nord  of  it,  I  can  endure 
My  lot    Go,  tcil  her  I  ara  well  content 
To  yield  her  up,  and  so  redeem  my  vow 
(For  she  was  precious  ona).  .  .  Now  are  we  quits  1 
No  more  am  I  indebted  unto  you 
Than  you  to  nic,  and  we  arc  free  .is  air 
To  hate,  and  hate,  and  Aa/c.  .  .  O  !  hadst  thou  been 
Not  Harold,  but  another,  I  had  torn 
From  out  thy  thicvi.sh  hand  the  gem  that  thou 
Didst  from  my  bosom  steal  .  .  for  though  she  be 
So  light,  melhinks  you  must  have  wooed  her  long 
With  dexterous  wileof  an  illicit  ^xpic*^ 
Ere  she  did  smile  upon  you  " — 

Harold  said, 
"  If  to  be  light  is  to  be  modest  as 
The  daisy  diat  with  modest  eye  looks  up 
Ever  to  Heaven,  then  is  she  light  indeed; 
If  to  be  fair  and  soilless  as  the  snow 
That  on  God's  hills  lies  spotless  evermore 
Is  to  be  light,  then  is  she  light  indeed, 
And  tliere  is  not  one  woman  upon  earth 
'ai  man  shall  reckon  pmc." 


Tlie  Token  of  the  Silver  Lily, 


77 


But  Gilbert  said, 
"This  obstinate  belief  doth  but  confirm 
My  thoughts  of  her  .  .  she  is  most  skilful  in 
Het  falseness  .  .  j'et  I  do  befoul  myself 
By  touching  on  her  frailties  unto  one 
Who  shall  become  her  husband.  .  .  Sir,  forget 
My  words,  they  arc  but  folly,  bom  and  bred 
Of  jealousy  and  spleen  .  .  oay,  deem  me  that 
Vile  thing,  a  slanderer,  that  would  dim  o'er 
The  face  of  Heaven  itself.  .  .  I  trust  that  long 
You  may  retain  your  exquisite  belief 
In  her.  .  .  Sir,  I  can  smile.     You  will  perceive 
My  heart  is  not  yet  broke,  and  I  shall  live 
To  see  your  happiness." 

So  passed  he  on. 
But  Harold  caught  and  stayed  him^  ciying  out, 
"  O  !  blind,  blind,  blind  !  an  angel'ii  voice  from  HeaveD 
Were  powerless  to  move  ihy  stubborn  heart ! 
-Know  that  this  girl  doth  in  her  constancy 
Beggar  all  (aithhil  women  that  have  loved 
^nce  was  the  world  begun  .  .  loathing  she  gave 
Her  word  to  be  my  wife,  compelled  thereto 
By  duly  .  .  of  the  violence  she  did 
To  memory  and  love,  and  those  sweet  ties 
That  bound  her  heart  as  surely  to  you  dead 
As  living,  'tis  for  yon  to  guess,  not  mine 
To  tell,  and  since  she  never  loved  but  you, 
Nor  ever  brooked  from,  me  one  touch  of  lips 
Or  privilege  of  'uotlial,  but  was  cold 
As  death  to  all  my  pleadings,  pray  you  now 
Restore  her  to  that  eminence  from  which 
She  hath  but  newly  fallen,  and  believe 
That  (hough  you  were  as  poor  as  one  who  begged 
His  bread  from  door  to  door,  possessing  her 
You  would  be  lich  iiKleed." 

As  one  who  sudden  hear* 
Tidings  of  such  great  gladness  that  his  brain 
Totters  beneath  their  weight,  and  cannot  grasp 
Their  full  and  glorious  meaning,  Gilbert  stood 
Silent  a  space,  then  bowed  his  head  and  cried : 
"  O  ]  noble  friend  tliat  I  have  outraged ! 
O I  noble  heart  tlut  by  its  purity 
Makes  black  indeed  this  bitter  heart  of  mine  I 
Ol  man  n-bo  makest  thy  fair  lifs  but  one 


78 


The  GmiUmans  Magazine, 


Ixtng  roll  of  splendid  deeds  fcr  which  thou  tak'st 
No  thanks,  but  strow'st  thy  dumond^  as  men 
Of  common  moult!  their  pebbles  .  .  hurl  on  me 
The  lightnings  of  your  scorn,  and  by  thy  wratb. 
Earthly  and  passionate,  bridge  o'er  the  gulf 
That  yawns  'twixt  thee  and  me  .  .  pray  you  put  on 
Your  soul  some  meaner  dcess,  so  shall  I  feel 
Less  worthless  in  )'our  presence.     O  !  I  am 
In  my  own  eyes  most  viie,  contemptible — 
A  very  scom  of  manhood  .  .  and  to  ktr 
I  have  been— what?    Sir,  think  you  that  she  can 
Forgive  me  ?    But  you  know  not  how  upon 
That  lovely  head  I  poured  my  cniel  words 
Until  she  shrank  beneath  thera  .  .  I  did  heap 
Insults  upon  her  that  do  turn  my  blood 
To  fire,  remembenug  .  .  0 1  fair  and  pure 
And  fitithfu)  sweetheart,  have  1  driven  you 
Away  from  xac  for  ever  ?  " 

Harold  said, 
"  Her  love  ye  cannot  break — ^it  doth  endure 
For  ever.     Be  ye  tender  with  her,  ne'er 
Wounding  that  faithiul  heart  with  chills  and  heats 
Of  jealousy  .  .  there  be  two  kinds  of  love — 
The  one  ttmt  oskelh  joy  for  its  own  self, 
And  reckons  all  a  woman's  sweetness  but 
As  made  to  mioister  to  its  delight ; 
And  one  that  dolh  desire  the  happiness 
Of  what  it  loves,  and  merges  its  own  self 
In  her  well-being  .  .  do  with  her  this  last. 
And  my  life's  sorrow  shall  not  be  in  vain." 
•  •#**» 

And  when  the  land  was  gay  and  beautiful 

^^'ith  summer's  fuller  ncliness,  Elhelwyn 

Was  wed,  and  from  a  distant  land  there  came 

A  marriage  gift  that  was  less  costly  than 

The  few  brief  words  tliat  bound  it.  .  .  And  there  dwelt 

With  huslwnd  and  wth  wife  a  memory  ; 

And  in  three  hearts  there  blossomed  as  a  flower. 

Immortal,  Harold's  name  .  .  .  And  shrink  to 

Their  loves,  ho  ever  seemed  to  be  a  part 

Of  their  existence,  and  from  year  to  year 

They  spake  of  his  home-coraing  .  .  .  -Bat  he-came 

Acveragwn — Oicy  saw  liis  tacenO'raore. 

THE  •BND. 


The   Revolution  at    Dolma- 
Bacdjh. 

iBY  CAHiaE  BARR&RC 

GREAT  misfoTluaf;  has  beeo  averted  during  these  few 
weeks.  It  ts  iodeed  the  occast<Hi  to  say  with  I*Mcal  that 
porterrtotrs  «vents  dei>end  on  infinitesimal  muscs.  War 
w«s  broodmg  m-er  Europe,  a  few  more  days  and  the 
dte  wta  caff,  bat  for  the  plot  of  three  Turkifth  statesmen, 
who  probably  were  not  quite  aware  that  the  (iitc  rtf  narions 
depended  upon  iheii  action.  One  memorable  night  they  meet, 
and  tleddc  thnc  the  reign  of  Abdul  Am  shall  not  List  twenty- 
four  hoars  longer ;  tliey  draw  from  a  cellar  a.  itembling  nun  vho 
tldnka  thxt  the  dagger  is  nearer  to  his  heart  than  the  crown  to 
hi!  head ;  with  a  facility  due  to  the  latent  abhorrence  kindled  in  every 
heart  for  a  cormpt  and  degraded  Sovereign  ihcy  hy  hands  on  the 
(loootcd  Sultan,  invest  his  successor,  and  arc  greeted  by  the  acclama- 
ttoos  of  the  whole  of  Stamboul.  The  new  Padishah,  bewildered  and  still 
heaiaiing  between  fear  and  joy,  makes  his  obeisance  to  his  loving 
Mlbjeett  hia  loving  subjects,  as  is  commonly  the  case  in  such  occur- 
RBces,  regarding  him  as  a  phenomenon  of  virtue  and  a  marvellous 
compound  of  various  abilities ;  and  the  Turkish  F.mpire  hails  his 
advent  as  the  welcome  omen  of  regeneration  and  serious  reform.  AH 
this,  inchitling  the  doubtful  suidde  of  the  wretched  Abdul  A'.!iz,  has 
been  moit  aDttoriental ;  as  such  it  may  be  considered  by  the  frtendi 
of  Turkey  as  a  first  token  of  national  reformation.  Itui  it  is  not  only 
the  y-  riftit  which  n  anonulous  ;  the  Ottoman  Empire  teems 

with  ,-\.  .:.:...  j,  and  the  Turk  is  as  much  of  a  puzzle  as  the  existence 
of  hisoomtry.  He  careses  English  merchants  and  French  levantines 
(M-tbe  talented  corrwpotrtent  of  the  TVm/i  Lnformfi  us)  while  he  cuts 
the  Amea  of  a  Freachnui  and  an  Englislimaii  at  Salonica,  with  no 
Wkerobvious  purpose  than  a  kind  of  artistic  pleasure  in  peiforming 
Ihe  opcTBtten.  He  loves  us  when  we  oi-cn  our  purse  to  his  ready 
land,  stnlieR  us  wlien  wc  provide  good  soldiers  and  sturdy  ^ips  for 
kn  jinXectioD,  is  UTish  of  piombiea  on  behalf  of  Christian  suflerers, 
and,  in  fine,  i»  elMnaing,  pliant,  and  compromising,  when  ho  needs 
our  aopport  and  money ;  but  when  both  have  been  geuerously  ien< 
dsed  tbc  good  old  Turk  wjthdrairs  the  nuuk  and  ulin!ly  xctnraic& 


I 


Tit  CtJi/liJmam's  Magazuu, 

When  he  comes  to  us  he  drinks  wine 
Us  R^pon,    ifiects  to  think  that 
k  hat  the  difference  of  name  and 
torn  what  he  is  at  home  I    His 
idcarify  htBL    Pexfaaps  they  oughi 
bqgin  10  tfaii^  ikc^  tktf  the  Meat  pnaooDced  type  of  unpro- 
tbaft  which  CUB  taamue  tibe  tftpetanrt  of  eoUghten- 
and  pnagio  <"'7   *>*  <Uc>t    t^    c^^    <>''  progress   and 
CBUghbcsBfeeu. 

The  late  Saten's  tacspfiiy  defied  ifl  edbfts  at  pmpess  on  the 
pan  of  Ttnhish  5ttte«»en,  wbSbt  lus  nascmpulous  avarice  focbade 
afl  hope  cf  ie-«9iiUiahng  aa  vpXbamn  in  the  public  finances, 
md  so  hce  as  six  wsmAs  ags  Aoc  was  hanlljr  a  person  in 
iri»  wodd  men  hare  bailed  viih  joy  even  the 
of  a  "*"™?^  auduu.  At  present  we  are  promised  new 
Fbnide^  faidikmieii^  "T^r^**"".  crudty  to  subjects  of 
Chmtiaa  tdjpoo,  arbitnry  fOvcnsncBt,  and  rexatMos  exactioos 
are  to  be  misdeeds  of  the  past,  resolatdy  eschewed  by  the  future ; 
the  Sovereiga's  ci'\'il  hst  is  to  be  reduced  to  reasonable  propor- 
doos ;  the  Sovereign  himself  shall  be  a  semi-constitutional  mcmaidit 
and  ^e  Grand  Vixier  a  respoosibic  Xinister ;  the  private  wealth  of 
the  loie  Abdul  Aziz  is  to  be  applied  to  national  purposes ;  Chris- 
tians  and  Mussulmans  shall  b«  equal  in  tights — in  fact,  all  the 
refonns,  and  much  more,  that  have  been  mged  by  European 
Powers  during  the  last  quarter  of  a  century  shall  soon  be  conceded 
gm  blsK,  and  Turkey  shall,  in  the  very  best  sense  of  the  word,  cease 
to  be  Turkey.  The  guarantees  offered  in  &vour  of  this  felicitous 
prospect  are  certainly  considerable,  and  if  Turkey  caniwt-  extricate 
herself  from  her  difficulties  by  the  agency  of  her  present  rulers  there 
seems  very  little  likelihood  of  her  ei-er  doing  so  at  all. 

Of  all  Ottoman  statesmen  Midhat  Pasha,  the  present  Turkish  king- 
maker, is  assuredly  the  ablest,  most  liberal,  and  most  trustworthy. 
This  eulogium  of  the  nun  who  seems  destined  to  carry  out  what  bene- 
6cial  reforms  are  to  be  enacted  in  the  empire  would  be  of  little  value 
were  it  based  on  a  comparison  with  his  fcUow  statesmen,  amongst 
whom  there  is  but  too  scanty  a  meed  of  honest>'  and  talent  Midhat 
Pasha,  however,  is  a  man  who  desen-es  to  rank  with  the  flower  of 
i-£uiopcan  statesmanship ;  and  of  his  sincere  wish  to  introduce  a  new 
leral  era  he  never  lost  an  occasion  of  giving  proofs  during  the  last 
years  of  the  reign  of  Abdul  Aziz.  It  is  he  who  promises  to  Europe 
a  new  phase  in  the  history  of  his  counti)',  and  had  he  his  own  way 
there  is  tittle  doubt  that  he  would  cany  out  his  programme  with 


Tfu  Revolution  at  Doltna-BacdJ^. 


8i 


the  same  ccloily  and  vigour  with  which  he  helped  to  dethrone  the 
iatc  Sultan.  Nor  is  the  disposition  of  the  new  Sovereign  calculated 
to  diminish  the  sanguine  expectations  raised  by  the  accession  of  this 
sensible  man  to  the  leadership  of  public  afTairs.  Sultan  Murod  lias 
been  extolled  to  the  skies  ;  he  has  been  endowed  by  public  chronicles 
with  all  the  qualities  in  which  bis  uncle  was  conspicuously  deficient. 
Making  due  allun'ance  for  die  exaggeration  uf  praise  ordinarily 
lavished  cm  a  new  monarch,  especially  when  his  predecessor  happens 
to  have  been  anything  but  meritorious,  it  is  a  notorious  fact 
uncmcst  tliose  who  nrere  privileged  to  approach  Iiim  when  his  life, 
as  heir  apparent,  was  in  constant  peril,  that  if  he  is  not  gifted  ttitli 
any  ability  «-orthy  of  note,  he  is  of  a  mild,  tractable  nature  which, 
if  it  rcouin  under  auspicious  influence,  is  not  likely  to  impede  the 
effbrts  of  his  advisers.  Sultan  &(urad  is,  then,  likely  to  be  little  more 
ihan  what  he  is  now — a  tool  in  the  hands  of  those  who  have  placed 
him  in  his  present  exalted  posidon ;  and  as  the  bands  are  honest 
there  seems  no  reason  why  the  Ottoman  Empire  should  not  quietly 
I  enfiage  in  the  course  which  is  as  yet  shaped  out  for  it  in  theory.  Great 
^^■Ihings  can  be  done  nnth  a  Sultan  like  Murad  and  a  Prime  Minister 
^^Jike  Midhat  Pasha,  and  from  the  moment  that  the  rulers  of  the  State 
1  are  clever  and  well-meaning  the  grave  financial  and  other  internal 
^^  dif&culdes  through  which  Turkey  has  been  brought  to  ihe  brink  of 
^H  the  grave  can  be  disposed  of  with  comparative  ease.  Otlier  countries 
^^  before  Tuikey  have  been  in  a  similar  plight,  and  although  they  had 
I  not,  like  Turkey,  rich  and  untouched  mineral  wealth,  they  re- 
€o\-ered  the  way  to  prosperity. 

But  this,  needles  to  say,  is  only  one  side  of  the  picture,  and  the 
other  side  is  an  ugly  one  to  look  at.  To  reform,  to  reconstruct 
flppcara  fine  enough  in  thcorj-,  and  very  pretty  on  paper ;  but  no 
moce  than  a  nation  can  go  to  ruin  between  one  day  and  another 
«in  it  regain  prosperity  in  a  fe^'  months.  The  case  of  Turkey, 
beudes^  is  singnlorly  complex.  It  is  not  merely  a  reform  of  govern- 
ment that  Midhat  Pasha  promises :  it  is  a  change  of  manners,  views, 
and  aistoms ;  and  that  I  hold  to  be  impossible,  as  I  shall  endeavour 
to  show  presently.  Meanwhile,  to  reply  to  minor  objections  is  un- 
fortunately but  too  easy,  and  whower  is  acquainted  with  the  Turks 
cannot  but  corroborate  what  I  allege.  True,  bankruptcy  has  failed  to 
(fitsolve  nations ;  but  Urc  countries  that  suffered  from  pcctmiary 
want  were  not  romposed  of  such  heterogeneous  elements  as  those 
whidi  constitute  die  Turkish  Empire ;  nolcnt  insurrections  have 
between  out  in  other  lands  before,  but  both  parties  belonged  to 
Ibe  same  race,  and  the  land  they  occupied  was  not  one  hdd  b^ 

VouXVTI..  N.S.  J»7«fc  Q 


s- 


Tfu  Gentleman  s  Afag^astne. 


comparative])-  recent  cooqaest.  To  whatever  extent  they  rewnxrwJ. 
aMkted  nations  yearned  not  lo  separate,  but  stuck  fastet  than  ever 
to  thcii  lutionality.  Patnotism  was  the  sovereign  remedy  for  all 
lifttional  evils,  and  that  public  virtue,  the  surest  safegaard  against 
dtssolutioa,  cannot  be  said  to  exist  in  the  Turkish  Empire.  "VChax 
other  national  quality  can  be  found  amongst  the  Osraanh's  as  a  mb- 
stitutc  for  this  connecting  link?  Jealousy  of  the  national  honour? 
Integrity  of  die  public  service  ?  High  moral  standard  of  the  masses  ? 
Feir  will  venture  seriously  to  pretend  that  any  one  of  tlicsc  exists 
among  the  Turks.  Yet  there  is  one  point  upon  which  they  are  all 
alike,  and  most  unlikely  to  recede  from :  leKgious  fanaticism— that 
is  the  very  cause  of  their  dissolution  :  the  feeling  which  has  led  them 
to  oppress  bejond  all  bounds,  and  thereby  excite  to  revolt,  which  has 
lett  t!iem  in  .-ilmnst  as  dark  a  state  of  intellectual  culture  as  when 
they  first  crossed  the  Bo^boms. 


n. 

The  fact  that  there  exists  little  or  no  patriotism  in  the  ranks  of  thi.- 
Turks,  as  a  body  comprising  both  Christians  and  Mussulmans,  has 
nothing  surprising  in   itseU.      Patriotism  cannot  exist   wlicn    the 
interests  and  bent  of  the  groups  tlut  compose  the  people  are  widely 
different-      Turks    consider  Christian    subjects  of  the    empire  as 
something  like  hens  with  golden  eggs,  and  Christians  look  upon  the 
Turk  as  a  tyrant  and  a  ustnTter.    But  one  small  class  of  the  Turkish 
community  has  put  its  pride  into  its  pocket  to  form  an  alliance  with 
the  Mussulmans.    The  .\rmenians,  being  considerably  more  cultivated 
than  the  remainder  of  the  population,  have  succeeded  in  rendering 
lemselvcs  indispen&able  to  the  Turks.     They  have  61lcd  the  public 
■offices, and  although  none  of  ihem  have  risen  to  a  hlghcrslationthan 
Under  Secretary  of  State,  or  Foreign  Minister,  still  the>have  pulled  the 
stringsofpublicbusinessand managed  toaccupcratcpowerful  influence. 
I  will  not  enter  into  the  question  whether  they  were  justified  or  not  in 
using  this  influence  for  ^ir  own  benefit  instead  of  giving  theStatethe 
full  benefit  of  their  talents.     Anyhow  they  enriched  themselves  at  its 
expense,  and  were  powerfully  instrumental  in  provoking  the  hopeless 
coofiision  and  open  plunder  which  prevailed  in  the  Turkic  Admini- 
stration lip  lo  the  last  day  of  the  reign  of  Abdul  Azit     Even    this 
minor  catcgor)-  of  Christians  cannot,  then,  be  considered  friendly  to 
Mussulmans ;   their  hostility  has  only  assumed  a  peculiar  way  of 
manifesting  itself.     On  the  other  hand,  religious  fan.ilicism  on  the 
part  of  the  followers  of  Mahomet  has  bred  almost  equal  religious 
animosity  on   the  side  of  other  Christian  subjects   of  the  CresceoL 


i 

J 


Tfu  Revolution  at  Dohna-Bac^Jt, 

Tbejr  bote  the  Turks  lutljr  as  much  as  the  Turks  hale  them,  and  thdr 
fcclingi  ma  so  high  Uiat  I  believe  it  will  be  witli  regret  that  the 
inraigcnts  will  receive  concessions  which  may  compel  iliem  by  their 
utisloiCtory  nature  to  Uy  down  their  arms.  Had  they  w^x  stained  their 
cause  with  acts  of  sangiiinarf  reprisals,  which  no  amount  or  violence 
cAuld  justifir,  their  miisc  would  have  deserved  the  fullest  extent  of 
European  syn)]xithy.  As  it  is,  animosity  of  race  has  ]>assed  into 
tbcir  blood,  and  will  not  leave  it  until  they  have  obtained  a  total 
sc{taration  from  the  nmin  countr}'.  They  may  be  induced  to  leave 
tlie  iicld  for  awliile,  but  their  iiaeiftcation  can  l>c  little  more  than 
a  temporary  trace.  They  have  held  their  own  against  the  Poctc, 
Ibcy  have  tested  their  powers  of  rcsistauce,  and  sooner  or  later  they 
wjl]  a(;Bin  have  recourse  to  arms,  not  to  vindicate  rights  which  may 
have  been  granted  them,  but  to  claim  the  tndcix-nijence  held  by 
thtrir  brothers  of  Roumania,  Ser\-ia,  and  Monten<^ro.  'i'heir  fccl- 
ingx  are  natiu^  enough.  Contiguous  to  their  land  of  abode  they 
behold  men  of  their  race  and  religion  who  enjoy  the  boon  of  free 
govcnuDCot ;  iliis  liberty  has  been  iiTcnchcd  from  the  Turk ;  why 
aliould  they  not  struggle  with  the  same  fortune?  This  will  mnklc  in 
tlieir  minds  until  they  have  realised  their  object,  or  ore  no  more. 
Thus,  it  may  be  safely  alfirmed  that  were  governors  Kiix'ihyett,  petiv 
govenMTS,  and  other  myrmidons  of  t}ie  Adminislratiun  to  abstain 
from  their  tiaditional  practices  of  extortion,  were  the  Porte  to 
iKCome  the  ideal  type  uf  a  Constitutional  Government — were  even 
the  foUonrers  of  the  Prophet  to  forsake  the  mosque  for  the  church. 
Bonna  and  Herzegovina  would  not  relent;  and  if  Midhnt  Pasha  or 
anybody  else  hopes  to  patch  over  the  feud  and  amalj^amatc  Mussub 
mans,  who  prefer  death  to  a  violation  of  their  rites,  and  Christians, 
who  prefer  the  hardships  and  cmcllics  of  a  wario  the  knife  to  the 
KcepUnce  of  ihc  supremacy  uf  Islauii&m,  he  is  ihu  most  sanguine 
staleuuji  who  lias  appeared  in  the  world  for  some  time. 

So  much  for  the  homogeneity  of  Euroixan  Turkey,  and  the  db- 
|K»iuons  of  Cluistian  subjects  towards  the  lords  of  the  land.  Apart 
Irom  all  these  grave  considerations,  the  aptitude  of  the  Mussulman 
population  for  the  requirements  of  modem  civilisation  has  yet  to  be 
considered.  I  have  said  that  I  regard  Midhat  Pasha's  project 
for  such  a  reform  as  he  mcdiutcs  as  wholly  unfeasible,  because  ti 
entails  a  revolution  In  the  customs  uf  Moslems — not  in  their  form 
of  worship  but  in  their  wa>-8  of  Ihiiiking,  in  their  manner  of  living — 
wUcb  would  leave  ilicin  of  their  nationality  but  the  name.  I>r. 
Frwinan  has  tightly  remarked  that  the  practices  of  the  Turk  are  so 
iahenni  to  his  creed  that  when  he  should  give  them  up  he  would  'au 


«4 


The  CmtlmtafCs  Ma^asine, 


longer  be  a  Tiirlt.  To  perceive  the  utter  unlikelihood  of  Tiirlts 
adopting  a  European  mode  of  government,  or  eschewing  the  formal 
dictates  of  their  religion  for  "Western  wnys  and  ideas,  it  is  sufficient 
to  imagine  a  Western  nation  accepting  the  truth  of  the  Koran,  and 
putting  its  moral  precepts  into  practice.  I  do  not  pretend  to  say 
that  the  Turkish  religion  excludes  virtue :  indeed  qualities  are  to  be 
found  among  the  Turks  whereof  the  Christians  of  the  empire  are 
devoid ;  but  Islamisra  devised  for  the  oriental  nature  is  altogethet 
antagonistic  with  modem  ajdvance,  were  it  only  because  such  as  it 
was  framed  such  it  exists  nowadays  in  its  integrity.  True  to  the 
spirit  of  their  belief,  Mahommcdans  have  remained  precisely  at  the 
stage  of  civilisation  attained  by  them  when  tlieycame  into  Europe;  and 
naturally  so,  since  their  religion  forbade  further  progress.  The  truth 
is.  the  Turk,  as  his  liistory  sufhcieatly  shoivs,  was  destined  to  be  no 
more  t1ian  a  nomad  out  of  his  Asiatic  cradle :  he  has  been  encamped 
and  is  stiU  camping  on  European  soil.  During  his  long  occupation 
he  has  entirely  failed  to  adapt  himself  to  the  mode  of  existence  of 
his  new  sphere ;  his  religious  fatalism  has  led  him  to  ignore 
the  extent  of  his  own  resources,  and  if  he  has  not  been  ejected  from 
his  conquered  territory  it  is  only  because  his  disappearance  would 
have  led  to  grave  Continental  complications.  In  vain  will  it  be 
urged  that  the  recent  revolution  of  the  Sottas,  and  the  subsequent 
fall  of  Abdul  Aziz,  prove  a  tendency  on  the  part  of  the  population 
to  inaugurate  a  new  era :  the  revolution  was  little  more  than  a  palace 
intrigue,  and  if  Midhat  Pasha  and  his  two  colleagues  had  not  taiten 
upon  themselves  the  overthrow  of  the  late  Suhan,  he  might  have 
continued  to  live  and  reign  his  time.  Taken  in  its  most  favourable 
light,  the  conspirators  satisfied  the  secret  yearnings  of  the  country, 
and  Turkey  rid  itself  of  a  detested  Sovereign.  But  surely  it  was  not 
because  Abdul  hzxz  was  opposed  to  the  introduction  of  liberal  ideas 
and  reforms  that  Iiis  subjects  hated  him  ;  it  was  not  on  behalf  of  the 
constitutional  schemes  of  Midhat  Pasha  that  they  hailed  his  over- 
throw. Abdul  Aziz  was  a  fool,  a  brute,  and  a  glutton  :  his  subjects 
considered  that  he  was  leading  them  to  ruin  ;  but  their  hostility  was 
never  caused  by  the  thought  that  he  was  too  strictly  an  adherent  to 
old  Turkish  ideas. 

To  commence  the  promised  work  of  regeneration  the  advanced 
Turkish  party  has,  therefore,  to  reform  the  aspirations  and  innate 
nature  of  Mussulmans,  to  instil  into  tlieir  hearts  feelings  of  frater- 
nity towards  their  Christian  fellow  subjects ;  in  short,  to  accomplish 
what  centuries  of  contact  with  Europe  has  failed,  to  do.  As  far  as 
leccn&tructiou  is  concerned  it  has  to  break  up  the  present  Adniinis- 


J 


Th€  Revolution  at  Dolma-Bacdj^. 


»' 


of  the  coanlry  and  frame  another  iii  iis  sicad,  ly  <JIijiini5s 
ly  or  swindling  fiinctionaries,  and  find  honest  and  clever  men 
to  minister  its  golden  promises.  A  mighty  task  indeed  1  There 
cxQ  be  no  great  difficulty  in  dissolving  the  machincr)'  of  Turkish 
foDctioDArism,  since,  in  its  actual  state  of  chaos,  ii  can  be  hardly  said 
to  exist  Hitherto  it  lias  been  a  .species  of  limited  company  of  roll- 
bay.  But  to  reconsimcl  a  new  system  of  Administration  is  not  so 
smoothly  done.  The  work  implies  the  eiustence  of  tn'o  classes  of 
rocn^of  talented  men  and  honest  men.  Now,  without  offence  to 
the  respected  statesman  whose  capacily  and  sterling  intentions  are 
generally  notorious,  it  may  be  alleged  that  in  the  higher  sphere  of 
Turkish  society  the  one  class  is  as  thin  as  the  other,  I  know  not 
hat  phcenixes  or  dullards  the  actual  generation  will  bring  forth, 
t  looking  around  for  those  who  are  able  to  contribute  to  the 
promised  wonders,  1  do  not  find  them.  The  ralu  of  Abdul  Aziz 
has  obviously  been  fiuaJ  both  to  the  intelligence  and  honesty  of  tlic 
upper  sphere  of  his  subjects ;  the  late  Sultan's  system  of  favouritism 
and  bnital  tyranny  seems  to  have  dulled  the  senses  of  those  who 
might  be  designated  to  occupy  high  functions;  and  as  to  honesty, 
Abdul  Aziz's  reign  was  lliat  of  pillage.  The  Sovereign  robbed  the 
public  treasury ;  his  servants  were  prompt  in  loUowing  the  whole- 
some example,  and  robbed  also,  although  on  a  more  modui^  scale. 
No  account  was  demanded  of  the  local  action  of  the  different 
provindat  governors,  provided  they  sent  in  to  the  trcasur)'  a  hcavj- 
sum  of  mone>' — and  tie  who  supplied  the  heaviest  was  tlic  most 
favoured  by  the  master — the  generous  governor  probably  being  the 
one  who  had  distributed  tlic  most  liberal  allowance  of  bastinado  in 
order  to  extort  their  pence  from  the  poor  slaves  of  the  land.  As  a 
mattet  of  course  these  irresponsible  functionaries,  who  cared  little 
whether  the  cries  of  the  tortured  populace  reached  Stamboul  pro- 
vided they  had  gold  to  atone  for  barbarity,  hoarded  up  on  their  own 
account  by  the  same  means.  How  far  they  succeeded  in  amassing  a 
comfortable  capital  can  be  verified  along  the  Bosphorus,  vliose  fair 
shores  are  studded  with  sumptuous  palaces.  How  much  bastinado 
these  batutiful  residences  rci»resent  it  would  be  folly  to  calculate. 
Those  who  held  office  in  the  capital  of  the  Sublime  Empire  were  but 
joit  a  degree  above  their  provincial  compeers — indolent,  corruptible, 
obtuse-  Tliis  class  cannot  continue  to  hold  public  trust  By  whom, 
JicD,  shall  Uicy  be  replaced  ?  There  may  be  some  honest  and  well- 
ling  men,  but  whose  capacity  is  unequal  to  their  good  inteii* 
;'  there  may  be,  too,  some  able  men,  but  the  chance  is  that  they 
isbonest     A«  may  be  seen,  the  case  is  somewhat  ho^c^tt^ 


» 


I 


I 


()M  Turks  arc  too  infatuated  with  Ideas  two  or  three  hundred  years 
old  to  lend  a  ready  hajid  to  the  liberal  reform ;  and  young  Turks, 
who  have  lud  the  privilege  of  European  education,  arc  unfit  for  sach 
serious  work.  Curiously  enough  it  has  been  found  by  Levantines  and 
casual  visitors  that  this  modern-bred  category  is  considerably  Inferior 
in  moral  worth  To  Turks  of  wholly  oricnial  education.  They  would 
seem  to  acquire,  in  the  close  contact  with  Europeans,  most  of 
their  vices  without  any  of  their  good  qualities,  and  to  lose  their 
native  virtues.  This,  again,  argues  poorly  on  behalf  of  the  future, 
Tlicse  facts,  of  course,  Midhat  Pnsha  and  his  friends  will  not  admit, 
though  at  Uie  bottom  of  their  hearts  they  are  only  too  conscious 
of  their  accuracy  :  they  will  deny  the  dearth  of  talent  which 
afflicts  Tnrkcy ;  they  will  lay  cverytliing  to  the  account  of  the 
last  reign.  L«t  them  prove  their  position  by  facts.  Unfortunately 
for  their  country  they  cannot,  as  e\'ents  will  soon  demon- 
strate. TTiey  arc  not  even  certain  of  the  power  and  indepen- 
dence they  require  in  order  to  set  to  work.  Sultan  Murad  is  l^indly 
disposed  and  open  to  persuasion ;  as  far  as  we  know,  so  was  h\s. 
predecessor  when  he  came  to  the  throne.  The  Sovereign  has  to-day 
the  vciy  best  of  advice — granted ;  but  to-morrow  his  counsellors 
may  be  dismissed :  flatterers  and  .imbitious  plotters  may  sAp  the 
ground  under  the  Grand  Vi/icr's  feet.  The  Imperial  eft/aaragt  at 
Dolma-Bacd]^  has  e*'er  been  a  hotbed  of  petty  conspiracy  and 
unbridled  cuplditj",  and  if  a  monarch  of  Murad's  disposition  is  likely 
to  remain  under  the  sahitary  patronage  of  the  wisest  of  Turkish  states- 
men, there  are  nearly  equal  chances  that  he  will  succumb  to  the 
ambushes  of  the  craftiest  of  Turkbh  courtiers.  Is  not  Hussein-Ami, 
who  was  not  one  of  the  least  peccant  of  Grand  Viziers  under  the 
preceding  reign,  albeit  he  has  just  helped  in  the  disgrace  of  his 
former  master,  one  of  the  magnates  of  the  new  Govemment  ? 

To  these  remarks  on  the  immediate  obstacles  which  arise  to  a  serious 
and  permanent  chan^ic  of  the  sfains  quo  in  Turkish  affairs,  I  nill  only 
aAA  a  few  words -concerning  the  financial  position  of  the  country.  It 
is  now  known  that  the  private  fortune  of  Abdul  t\t\z  is  much 
snialler  than  was  anticipated ;  and  although  it  is  to  become  national 
property  it  need  hardly  be  said  that  with  Turke/s  enormous  liabili- 
ties it  is  a  mere  sop  to  Cerberus.  It  was  within  the  resources  of 
Tin-key  to  pay  off  the  interests  and  capital  of  her  first  three  loans  ; 
but  the  .tdm  in  is  [ration  of  the  Porte  was  so  hopelessly  defective  that 
loan  after  loan  had  to  be  contracted,  chiefly  to  pay  the  interests  of 
preceding  li.ibilitics.  The  inland  revenues  of  Turkey  are  at  present 
unable  to  meet  the  engagement  taken  on  the  6th  October,  1875,  and 


The  Revolution  at  Dolma-Bacdj^. 


87 


liio  the  expenses  of  the  State.  Years  and  years  of  careful  administra- 

'lion  could  Uardly  rc&lore  tJie  balance  of  her  budget,  and  credulous 

u  EorDpcMi  finance  has  shown  Us«If  in  furmshiag  the  empire  n-ith 

.the  Buatts  of  sustenance,  it  can  scarcely  be  hoped  that  it  wQI  again 

^Mndia  gold  into  the  £a5t. 

Soeh  are  the  main  difficulties  Turkey  has  to  straggle  with  from 
within:  debased  state  of  public  mind,  partial  hankraptcy,  civil  war, 
mioo  of  territory  ;  some  of  which  evils  might  be  remediable  but 
far  the  peculiar  nature  of  the  people  amongst  whom  they  have  arisen, 
and  the  heterogeneous  compound  of  nationah'ty  and  creed  in  which 
sists  the  real  obstacle  to  the  pcnnantrnt  prosperity  of  the  Ottoman 
|2iat(iir&      Beyond  ite  fronuerE  it  has  stili  to  cope  with  standing 


III. 

In  brief,  the  rcvolurion  which  has   so  opportunely  arrested  an 

immtneni  rapture  of  the  peace  of  luiropc  has  manifestly  been  the 

tlnpineit  oecuirence  Turlccy  could  expect  in  present  drcumsiances. 

It  enables  the  new  Government  of  the  Porte  to  resist  the  encroach- 

tDcnls  oi  a  neighbouring  Power  and    to  contract  a  new  lease   of 

exiiiteace  under  the  j»otection  of  friendly  Stales.      It  airests  the 

ploitings  of  dial  crafty  diploiiutisi  General  Ignaiieff,  and  defeats 

the  policy  of  Russia  for  some  time  to  come ;  but  beyond  this   I 

«e  no  material  change  in  the  position  of  Turke)-.    The  Turks  must 

ot  one  time  or  another,  though  at  wtul  time  it  is  difficult  to  assign, 

leaire  Kuiopc  and  return  to  their  possessions  in  Asia  :  this  is  a  fatal 

■eii-cat  which  even  the  friends  of  the  Porte  consider  certain.    The 

interest  of  England,  Austria,  and    France  is  to  retard  this  retreat 

4S  long  as  possible.     The  re^'ohilion  at  Dolnia-Bacdjc  powerfully 

hdpc  towards   the   pursuance    of  (his  policy.      Beyottd   tliis  the 

4:iuu)ge  ^gnifics  little.      Revolt  will  continue  to  brew  in   Hcrzc- 

gonna  and  Bosnia,  Turks  will  continue  to  be  Turks,  and  Mussuhuam 

and  Lrvantine  Christians  will  continue  to  execrate  each  other  as 

long  as  they  form  a  single  nation.    Such  animosity  is  impciishable- 

Midhat  Pasha,  or  whoever  follows  in  his  steps,  will  be  arrested  in  his 

bread  minded  scheme  by  tlie  insurmountable  barrier  the  worship  of 

Malionict  raises  between  Western  civilisation  and  the  immutable 

precepts   of  Fatalism.     This   portion   of  his  sclfassigncd   task  is 

not  lo  be  realised  by  him  or  anybody  else :  the  vicissitudes  of 

his  minor  ob)cct  are  sufficient  in  themselves  to  tr>-  the  ability 

of  any  living  sutesman.     All  the  clcraeots  needed  by  the  new 

Oomnmcm  are  wanting:  it  lacks  men  and  raone>',  esprit  de  atrps^ 

y^xiA  pdiriotiara  ;  it  is  jjtw  supyjorted  by  general  appToVAVLOXi,>»i!t] 


icrease  the  arduousness 
made  glad  b>'  this  deliventnce  from  the  uTctchcd  rule  of  Abdul 
Aziz,  many — in  all  likelihood  the  majority — are  not  prepared  u> 
sanction  the  transformalioD  of  the  form  of  government  coiuecxated 
by  creed  and  traditicn.  A  few  months  will  show  us  of  what  prognss^ 
Turkey  is  capable.  At  all  events  it  is  to  some  extent  consolitig  to 
those  who  regard  with  alarm  the  extension  of  Russian  influence  to 
Vnow  that  in  the  T^evant  it  is  provisionally  brought  to  a  standstill.  It 
would  be  a  mistake,  however,  to  imagine  that  Russia  is  induced,  by  the 
deposition  of  a  monarch  who  played  so  well  into  her  hands^  to 
renounce  her  hopes  to  establish  a  protectorate  which  would  give  het 
all  the  advantages  entailed  by  the  possession  of  the  Sosphonis 
without  the  inconveniences  of  various  kinds  incumbent  on  a  formal 
Annexation.  TheCabinetof  Sl  Petersburg  knows  well  that  the  dissolu- 
tion of  Turkey  is  only  an  affair  of  lime,  and  that  if  it  can  secure  the 
co-operation  of  a  great  central  Power  the  chances  are  in  its  favour. 
This  time  Russian  hopes  are  adjourned,  so  is  the  final  settle- 
ment of  the  (ate  of  Turkey :  but  it  is  only  a  mice  to  the 
storm. 


Recollections  of  Writers 

KNO"\VN   TO   AN   OLD   COUPLE  WHEN"  YOUNG. 
BY  CHARLES  AND  MARY  COWDEN  CURKE. 


PART  XII.— LEIGH  HUNT  AND  HIS  LETTERS. 

(Continutd.J 

Stonehouse,  near  PJymouih,  March  aOth,  1822. 

,EAR  MARY  NOVELLO,— Your  Inst  letter  was  a 
great  disappointment  to  me,  but  I  have  been  so 
accustomed  to  disappointments  of  late,  that  I  looked 
out  for  the  pleasant  poinLs  it  contained  to  console  me, 
and  for  these  I  am  very  thankful.  I  should  have  written 
before,  bt!t  I  have  been  both  ill  and  rakish,  which  is  z.  ver>-  b.id  way  of 
making  oneself  better;  at  least  anywhere  but  in  old  pLices  with  old 
friends,  and  tliere  it  does  not  always  do.  Remember  me  alTectiDnatcly 
to  the  Lambs.  There  are  no  Lambs  here,  nor  Martin  Gunict'S  neither ; 
"  Ihouyh  by  your  smiling  you  don't  seem  to  think  so."  Smile  as  you 
may,  I  find  I  cannot  comfortably  give  up  anybody  whom  1  have 
been  accustomed  to  associate  with  the  idea  of  friends  in  London  ; 
and  besiijes,  there  ore  some  men,  like  CoUins's  music,  '^  by  distance 
nude  more  sweet ;"  wltich  is  a  sentiment  I  beg  you  will  not  tum  to 
ill  account  Hiiw  cheerful  I  find  inj*self  gettmg,  when  fancjing 
myself  in  Percy  Street '.  I  hope  Mr.  Garkc  will  find  himself 
quite  healthy  again  in  Somersetshire.  He  ought  to  be  so,  consider- 
ing the  prudence,  and  the  good  nature,  and  the  stout  legs,  and  the 
pleasant  little  hfota-ies  which  he  carries  about  with  him  ;  but  then 
be  must  renounce  those  devils  and  all  their  works,  the  cheesemonger 
and  pieman.  I'crhaps  he  has  ;  but  his  complexion  is  like  mine,  and 
I  remember  what  a  world  of  backsliding  and  nightmare  I  went 
throt^  before  I  could  deliver  myself  from  the  crumbling  ««- 
ciumbliogDcss  of  Cheshire  cheese,  and  that  profound  attraction, 
the  under  crust  of  a  veal  or  mutton  pie.    .    .    . 

It  is  kind  of  you  to  tell  me  of  die  gratification  which  Mr.  Holmes 
says  I  have  been  tlie  means  of  giving  him.  Tell  him  I  hope  to 
^ve  him  more  witli  my  crotchets  before  I  die,  and  recdve  as  much 
from  hit  crotcticts.  How  much  plca.<iure  have  you  all  given  me  ! 
And  this  reminds  me  that  I  must  t.ilk  a  Ultle  to  NoveUo;  bo  do 
more  at  present,  dear  black-headed,  good-hearted,  wilful  woman, 
from  jrotirs  most  sincerely,  L.  H. 

The  next  two  letters  explain  themselves : — 

To  V.  N.  aad  M.  S.  N. 

Genoa,  June  ijih,  1831. 
Amici  vbrj  e  costanti,— Miss  Kent  will  have  lold  -jwi  Siit 


I 


k 


The,  GentUmaiis  Magazine. 

reason  why  I  did  not  write  on  Saturday.  The  boatman  was  wait- 
ing to  snatch  the  letters  out  of  my  hand ;  and  besides  hers,  I  was 
compelled  to  wTice  three — one  to  my  brother  Jolin,  one  to  Mr. 
Shelley,  and  another  to  Lord  B. — Neillier  can  I  undertake  to  write 
you  a  long  letter  at  present,  and  1  must  communicate  with  my  other 
friends  by  driblets,  one  after  the  otlier;  for  ray  head  is  yet  very 
tender,  though  I  promise  to  get  more  health,  and  you  know  I  have  a 
great  deal  nf  Kiiting  to  think  about  and  to  do.  Be  good  enough 
therefore  to  show  this  letter  to  the  Gliddons,  the  I^ambs,  Mr.  CoiiU 
son,  and  Mr.  Hogg,  whom  I  ako  request  to  show  you  theirs,  or  such 
parts  of  Ihcm  as  contain  news  of  Italy  and  nothing  private.  Need 
I  add,  lliat  of  whatever  length  my  letters  may  be,  my  heart  is  still 
the  same  towards  you?  I  wish  you  could  know  how  often  we  have 
thought  and  talked  of  you.  You  know  my  taste  for  travelling.  I 
should  like  to  take  all  my  friends  with  me,  like  an  Arabian  caravan. 
Fond  as  I  am  of  home,  my  home  Is  dog-Uke,  in  the  persons — not 
cat-like,  in  the  phice;  and  1  should  desire  no  better  Paradise,  to  aU 
eternity,  than  gipsyising  with  those  I  love  all  over  the  world.  Bat 
I  must  tell  you  news,  instead  of  olds.  I  wrote  the  preceding  page, 
seated  upon  some  boxes  on  deck,  surrounded  by  the  shipping  aod 
beautiful  houses  o(  Genoa ;  an  awning  over  my  head,  a  fine  air  in 
my  litce,  and  only  comfortably  warm,  though  the  natives  themselves 
are  complaining  of  the  heat.  (I  have  not  forgotten,  by  the  bye,  that 
your  family,  XoveUo,  came  from  Piedmont,  so  that  I  rxm  nearer  to 
your  old  original  country,  and  to  England  too,  than  I  was  two  or 
three  weeks  ago.)  1  was  called  down  from  deck  to  Mrs.  Hunt,  who 
is  very  weak ;  a  winter  pas.s.igc  would  certainly  have  killed  har. 
The  Plaeidia  had  a  long  passage  for  winter  with  rough  winds;  and 
even  the  agitations  of  summer  Iraveiiing  are  almost  too  much  for  my 
wife  ;  nor  \\ixs,  that  miserable  spitting  of  biood  ceased  at  all.  But  we 
hope  much  from  rest  at  Pisa,  As  for  the  yaiu,  she  encountered  a 
violent  slom  in  the  Gulf  of  Lyons  which  laid  her  on  her  side,  and 
did  her  great  injury.  Only  tliink — as  the  young  ladies  say.  Captain 
Whitney  was  destined  after  all  to  land  me  in  Italy,  for  the  Jant  is 
here,  and  he  accompanied  me  yesterday  c\'cning  when  I  first  went 
on  shore.  I  found  him  a  capital  cicerone,  and  he  seemed  pleased  to 
perform  the  office.  My  sensations  on  first  touching  the  shore,  I 
cannot  express  to  you.  Cenoa  is  truly  la  sriperba.  Imagine  a  doKQ 
Hampsteads  one  over  the  other,  intcnningled  with  trees,  rock,  and 
while  streets,  houses,  and  palaces.  The  harboiu-  lies  at  the  foot  in  a 
semicircle,  with  a  quay  full  of  good  houses  and  public  buildings: 
ItethcrH,  both  male  and  female,  are  constantly  going  by  our  vessel  of 
a  morning  in  boats  with  awniags,  both  to  a  floating  bath,  ,ind  to 
swim  {i>.,  the  mate)  in  the  open  sea.  They  return  dressing  them- 
selves as  they  go,  with  an  indelicacy,  or  else  delicacy,  vcrj-  startling 
to  us  PapalcDgis.  The  ladies  think  it  judicious  to  conceal  their 
absolute  ribs;  but  a  man  (whether  gentleman  or  not  I  cannot  say) 
makes  nothing  of  putting  on  his  shirt,  as  he  returns  I  or  even  of 
alfrescoing  it  without  one,  as  he  goes  ;  and  people,  great  and  small, 
are  swiiniiiing  about  us  in  all  dirccrioni>.  The  servant,  a  jolly  Fly- 
mouth  damsel  (for  Elizabeth  was  .afraid  to  go  on)  thinks  it  necessaxy 


Recollections  of  IVriiers. 

10  kt  u»  know  that  she  takes  do  mamier  of  interest  in  such  spec- 

}taclaL     i  had  not  tjonc  through  a  street  or  two  on  shore  before  I 

[had  the  luck  to  meet  a  religiuus  procession,   the  last  this  season. 

iCoikI   Cud!   what  a  thing!     It  consiiited,    imprimU,  of  soldiers; 

I  secondly,  of  John  the  It-iptist,  four  }-ears  of  age,  in  a  sheepskin ; 

[thirdly,  of  the  Virgin,  five  or  six  ditt<^  witli  a  crown  on  her  head,  led 

two  ladies ;  fourthly,  friars— the  young  ones  (with  some  fine  fares 

[among  tlictn)  looking  as  if  the]*  were  in  earnest,  and  rather  mclan- 

|«.bol/ — the  othcni  apparently  getting  worldly,  sceptical,  and  laughing 

in  propiHtioR  as  they  grew  old ;  fifthly,  a  painting  of  St.  Antonio ; 

fiixthly.  DKinks  with  hidcoiu  btaclc.  cowls  all  over  their  faces,  with 

hol*«i  frt  look    through;   sevtrilhly,  a  cnicifix  as  large  as  life,  well 

'^tdecd,  every  work  of  art  here  has  an  <«>  of  that  son  if 

flsc) ;  eighthly,  more  friars,  holding    large   ivax-lighls,  the 

iwl^  of  which  were  supported,  or  rather  pulled  down,  by  the  rag- 

;odcsl  and  dirtiest  boys  in  the  city,  who  collect  the  dropping  wax  in 

'  paiMn"  and  sell  it  for  its  virtaes ;  ninthly,  music,  with  violins ;  tenthly 

'and  lastly,  a  large  piece  of  waxwork,  carried  on  a  bier  by  a  large 

number  of  friars,  who  were  occasionally  encouraged  by  others  to 

trot  stouUy  (for  a  shuflling  trot  is  their  pace),  and  representing  SL 

Antonio  paying  liomage  to  the  Virgin,  both  as  large  as  life,  sur- 

^Toumled  witli  lights  and  artiticbJ  flower;,  and  seated  on  wax  clouds 

id  cherubim.      It  wouhl  have  made  mc  melandioly  had  not  the 

[novelty  of  cvcr)*thing  and  the  enormous  q\i3nrit>*  of  women  of  all 

[mnks  diverted  my  thought.*.    The  women  are  in  general  very  plain, 

[jind  the  men  loo,  ihougli  le«  so;  but  when  you  do  meet  with  fine 

jrifts,  ihey  are  line  indeed  ;  and  the  ladies  are  apt  to  have  a  shape 

md  air  very  coasoling  for  the  want  of  better  features.       But  my 

icmhiing  hands,  as  well  as  the  paper,  tell  me  that  I  must  leave  off, 

that  1  have  gone,  like  Uilpin,  "farther  than  I  intended."    God 

you,  dear  friends.    La  Sposa  and  you  raust  get  me  up  a  good 

letter.     My  wife  sends   her  best  remembrances.    Your  ever 

tionate  friend, 

L.  H. 

ToT.  N.  and  M.  S.  N.     (By  favour  of  Mrs.  'Williams.) 

Fisa,  September  9th,  1822. 
Dear,  kind  Friends. — The  lady  who  brings  you  this  is  the 
widow  uf  Lieutenant  Williams.  You  know  the  dreadful  calamity 
we  have  sustained  here — an  unspeakable  one  to  me  as  welt  as  to 
her;  but  we  arc  on  every  nccount  ohiiged  and  liound  to  be  as 
futient  as  possible  mider  it.  The  natorc  of  the  friends  we  have  lost 
'at  onrc  demands  it  and  renders  it  hard.  I  have  reason  to  be 
ttiankful  that  I  have  suffered  so  much  in  my  life,  since  the  habit 
reftdcrs  endurance  more  lolerible  in  the  present  instance.  Think 
of  me  as  of  one  going  on  altogether  very  well  and  who  stili  finds  a 
muon  in  everything  for  rcposii^  on  those  who  love  him. 

Mrs.  Willtanis  wishes  to  know  you,  and  from  what  1  have  seen  and 
heard  of  her  is  worlliy  to  do  so.  My  departed  friend  had  a  great 
nqprd  for  her.  She  is  said  to  be  an  eleg»nt  miisiciiin,  but  she  has 
tkfjt  lud  the  licait  v.*  t-'fith  an  instrument  since  I  have  knouTi  her. 
EC  and  other  scenc-A  m\\  doubt/ess  show  hct  Vhc  tifetttSiVj  oS. 


brealciog  through  this  tender  dread.  There  is  something  peculiar  in 
her  history  which  she  will  one  day  perhaps  inform  you  of,  but  I  do 
not  feci  myself  at  liberty  to  disclose  it,  though  it  does  her  honour. 
AVlicn  she  relates  il,  you  will  do  justice  to  my  reasons  for  keeping 
silence.  I  envy  her  the  sight  of  you,  the  hearing  of  the  piano,  the 
sharing  of  your  sofa,  the  bookcase  on  the  n'ght-hand,  the  stares  of 
my  young  old  acquaintances,  etc.  But  I  still  hope  to  see  tlie  best 
part  of  these  movables  in  Italy.  I  dare  not  dwell  upon  the  break- 
up that  was  given  here  to  all  the  delights  1  had  anticipated.  Lord  1). 
is  veiy  kind,  and  i  may  possibly  find  a  new  acquaintance  or  two 
that  will  be  pleasant  \  but  what  con  (ill  up  the  place  that  such  a  man 
as  S.  occupied  in  my  heart?  Thank  God  it  has  places  still  occupied 
by  other  friends  or  it  would  be  well  content  to  break  at  once  against 
the  hardness  of  this  toiling  world.  Hut  let  me  hold  on.  It  is  a  good 
world  still  while  it  is  capable  of  producing  such  friends.  I  must  also 
tell  you,  to  comforl  you  for  all  this  dreary  tilking,  that  wc  have 
abundance  of  materials  for  our  new  work,  the  last  packet  for  the  firat 
number  of  which  goes  to  England  tliis  week. 

I  can  also  work  in  this  climate  better  than  in  England,  and  my 
brother  and  I  are  such  correspondents  again  as  we  ought  to  be. 
This  is  much.  My  wife  also  is  much  better,  and  I  hear  good 
accounts  of  her  sister  and  other  dear  friends.  I  had  heard  of  the 
I^mbs  and  their  ultra- voyages,  wiih  what  pleasure  at  first  and  with 
what  melancholy  at  last  you  may  guess.  Remember  nic  to  all  the 
kind  friends  who  send  me  their  remembrances — Mr.  Clatkc,  Mr, 
Holmes,  and  particularly  the  Gliddons,  w-hom  I  recollect  witli  A 
tenderness  which  they  will  give  me  credit  for  when  they  see — what 
they  shall  see,  to  wit,  the  letter  which  accompanies  the  present  one, 
and  which  I  bey  you  will  give  them. 

The  work  will  very  speedily  be  out  row,  entirely  made  up  by 
Ixird  B.,  dear  S.,  and  myself!  I  refer  you  to  it  for  some  account  kA 
Pisa, 

Cod  bless  you.  A  kiss  for  you,  Mary,  and  a  shake  of  the  hand 
for  you,  Vincent. — Your  affectionate  friend, 

L.  H. 

P.S. — We  drank  Novello's  health  on  his  birthday.  Be  sure  that 
we  always  drink  healths  on  birthdays. 

The  next  seven  are  still  from  Italy,  the  concluding  one  showing 

how  strong  was  his  yearning  to  be  back  in  dear  old  England. 

To  V.  N.     (By  favour  of  Mrs.  Shelley.) 

Albaro,  July  24lh,  1823. 
Mv  PEAR  N0VEI.LO, — Mary  WoUstonecraft's  daughter  brings  you 
this  letter.  I  know  you  would  receive  her  with  all  your  kindness 
and  respect  for  that  designation  alone;  but  there  are  a  hundred 
other  reasons  why  you  will  do  so,  including  her  own  extraordinar)- 
talents  (which,  at  the  same  time,  no  woman  tan  be  less  obtrusive 
with),  the  pleasure  you  will  find  in  her  society,  and  la.tt  not  least, 
her  love  of  miL-iic  and  regard  for  a  certain  professor  of  ditto — 'but  I 
have  spoken  of  this  introduction  already.    I  do  not  send  you  a  long 


RecoliectiottS  of  Wriicrs, 


93 


letter,  for  reasons  siven  in  the  same  place ;  but  I  trust  it  will  be  as 
good  as  a  lon^  letter  in  its  returns  to  wr,  because  it  sets  you  the 
example  of  wnting  a  short  one  when  you  cannot  do  more.  How  I 
envy  Maiy  Shelley  the  power  of  taking  you  all  by  the  hands  and 
j<unmg  your  kind-hearted  circle  \  But  I  am  there  very  oflen  myself,  I 
assure  you;  invisible,  it  is  true,  and  behind  thecurlain:  but  it  is  possible, 
you  know,  to  be  Ixjhind  a  curtain  and  yet  be  very  intensely  present 
besides.  But  do  not  let  any  one  consider  Mary  S.  in  the  hght  of  a 
Blue,  of  which  she  has  a  great  horror,  but  as  an  unaffected  person, 
with  her  faults  and  good  qualities  like  the  rest  of  us ;  the  former 
extremely  corrected  by  all  she  has  seen  and  endured,  the  latter  in- 
clining her,  like  a  wise  and  kind  being,  to  receive  all  the  consolaiioa 
which  the  ^ood  and  the  kind  can  give  her.  She  will  be  grave  with 
your  gravities  and  laugh  as  much  as  you  please  with  your  merriments. 
For  the  rest,  she  is  as  quiet  as  a  mouse,  and  will  drink  in  as  much 
Mozart  and  Paesieilo  as  you  choose  to  aJford  her,  with  an  enjoyment 
that  you  might  take  for  a  Quaker's,  unless  you  could  contrive  some 
day  to  put  her  into  a  slate  of  pain,  when  she  will  immediately  grow 
as  eloquent  and  say  as  many  fine  pleasurable  things  as  she  can  dis- 
coutse  in  a  novel. 

God  ble&s  you,  dear  Novcllo.  E-'rom  Florence  I  shall  send  yon 
some  muskr,  especially  wlul  you  wanted  in  Rome.  From  this  place 
I  can  send  >'OU  nothing  except  a  ring  of  my  hair,  which  you  must 
wear  for  the  sake  of  your  affectionate  frieud, 

L.H. 


(Ti  ii  ctnti'nueJ.J 


The  Shadow  of  the  Sword. 

A  ROMANCE. 
BY  ROBERT  BUCHANAN. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

A    PARLEY. 

LL  looked  up ;  and  theic,  standiog  high  above  them  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Cave,  with  dishevelled  liuii  and  a 
beard  of  many  weeks'  growth,  was  the  man  Uiey 
sought — 30  worn  and  tom,  so  wild  and  ragged,  that 
only  his  great  stature  made  him  recognisable.  The  goat  had  dis- 
appeared, cither  into  the  Cave  or  up  the  face  of  the  cliff,  and  Rohan 
stood  alone,  his  whole  figure  exposed  to  the  view  of  his  pur- 
suers. Standing  there  in  the  morning  light,  widi  his  naked  neck  and 
anus,  his  ruined  garments,  his  uncovered  head,  his  features  dis- 
torted and  fuU  of  the  quick  panting  imcnsiiy  of  a  hunted  aninial,  he 
showed  the  traces  alike  of  great  meutal  agony  and  ph>'sical  suffering ; 
but  over  and  beyond  its  predominant  took  of  pain,  his  face  displayed 
another  passion,  akin  to  hate  in  its  quick  and  dangerous  intensity, 
and  his  eyes,  whidi  were  fixed  on  the  face  of  Mikel  CraJIon,  burnt 
nith  a  fierce  fire.  At  tiist,  indeed,  it  seemed  as  if  he  would  preci- 
pitate himself  like  un  enraged  beast  prone  down  tijjon  the  spy, — but 
such  an  act  would  have  been  certain  and  immediate  death,  so  great 
^vas  the  height  at  which  he  stood.  He  remained  at  tlie  mouth  of 
the  Cave,  panting  and  watching.  As  to  Grallon,  he  .\lmost  crouched 
in  his  sudden  consternation  and  fcarj  while  Pipriac  and  the 
gendaraus  stared  up  at  the  vision,  too  stupelied  at  fiist  to  utter  a 
■word. 

*'  Holy  \'irgin,"  cried  Pipriac  at  last,  *'  it  is  he  I " — then  he  added 
witti  a  fierce  nod  and  at  the  pitch  of  his  voice,  "  !Jo  I  you  arc  there, 
men  gar^  /  " 

Rohan  made  no  re[)Iy,  but  kept  his  eye*  fixed  on  Mikel  Gratlon. 
Pipriac  pursued  his  speech  uneasily,  like  one  that  felt  the  awkward* 
ness  of  the  situation. 

"We  have  been  waiting  a  long  lime,  but  now  we  are  glad  to  find 
you  at  home.  What  arc  you  doing  up  there,  so  high  in  the  air  ? 
Diabie,  one  miglit  as  ttell  Hy  like  a  bird !    Well,  there  is  no  time  to 


Tke  SImdom  of  the  Sword. 


95 


loftc,  aud  aow  that  we  have  found  yoii,  you  had  belter  come  dcn-a 
at  once.     Come,  surrender  I    In  the  name  of  the  Emperor ! " 

At  these  words  the  gendarmes  gripped  their  guns  and  fell  back  in 
miiilaiy  Uoc,  looking  up  at  the  TVou  aad  ready  to  fire  at  the  word  of 
coranaod  Tlic  situation  wiis  aa  exciting  one,  but  Rohan  mcrrlv  put 
up  his  hand  to  tlu^w  back.  Iiis  hair  from  his  eyes,  smiled,  aad 
waited. 

"Come,  do  you  Jiear?"  proceeded  Pipriac  "J  shall  not  waste 
vonb,  mark  you,  if  you  delay  too  long.  The  game  ts  up;— nr;> 
have  tnunped  your  last  card,  and  you  will  gain  Utile  by  stoppiug  up^ 
there  like  a  bird  on  its  nest.  Descend,  Rohan  Gwenfcm,  descend 
and  surrender,  tlutt  we  may  lose  no  time/' 

Tbe  iwce  of  the  okl  martinet  rang  loudly  Uuough  the  hollow 
wills  of  the  Cathedral,  And  died  away  among  tbe  lonely  cliiTs  ubovi: 
All  below  was  in  shadow,  but  overhead  on  the  clilf  the  chill  light 
was  gleaming  as  oa  a  polished  mirror,  and  one  lonely  sunbeam, 
severed  as  it  were  from  its  companions,  was  glimmeriog  right  dowa 
upon   the   inaccessible    Trou  and  on   the  figure  of    Rohan.      So 
the  man  stood  dimly  illumed,  in  all  his  raggcdneas  and  jjliysical 
desolatioc;  and  the  light  touched  his  matted  golden  hair,  and  stole 
dom  and  glared  upon  his  feet,  whicli  were  tjuttc  naked. 
"  ^\'bat  do  yoa  want  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  hollow  voice. 
The  irascible  Sergeant  shook  his  6sc 
"  ^Vant  ?  .  .  Hear  him  \  .  .  Well,  you  !  Diahie,  have  wc  not  been 
searching  up  and  down  the  earth  until  our  souls  are  sick  of  search- 
ing?   It  is  a  good  joke,  to  ask  what  wc  want ;  you  are  laughing  at 
OS,  fox  that  you  are.    Surrender,  1  repeat '.    In  the  name  of  tlie 
Emperor ! " 
Then,  as  if  carried  away  by  a  common  inspiraUon,  all  ^cge/s- 
bmndished  their  weapons,  echoing    "Surrender!"      TJie 
uhedral  rang  with  the  crj*.     After  a  pause,  the  answer  came  from 
above,  in  a  low  yet  dear  and  decided  voice. 
**  Vou  are  wasting  your  time.    I  will  never  be  taken  alive." 

iac  glared  up  in  astonishment  ;  and  now,  for  the  first  time, 
tel  Giallun  looked  up  too,  still  with  sensations  the  reverse 
of  ctKufortablc,  for  the  figure  of  the  bunted  roan  seemed  terrible  as 
Ibat  of  some  wild  beast  at  bay.  The  black  rooulh  of  the  Cave  was 
now  lUuuiinalcd,  and  far  overhead  clouds  of  gulls  were  hovering 
like  tlakct  of  snow  in  the  light ;  but  the  floor  and  roofless  n-alls  of 
the  Cathedral,  never  Ut  unless  the  sim  was  straight  above  them  in 
ihc  tcnith,  were  untouched  by  the  golden  gleam. 
*  No  Donseiise  ! "  shrieked  Pipriac.    "  Come  down  1    Come,  ot " 


96 


Tlu  GeniUmatCs  Magazine. 


— here  the  speaker  glared  imbecilely  up  the  inaccessible  walls — "  or 
we  shall  come  and  take  you." 

"Come  !"  said  Rohan. 

Pi[tiiac  was  a  luan  who.  altliough  his  blustering  and  savage 
mannen;  concealed  a  certain  AindameDtal  good-nature,  could  never 
bear  to  be  openly  thwarted  or  plact-d  in  a  ridiculous  position ; 
and  now  a  complication  of  sentiments  rniidc  him  unusually 
irritable.  In  the  first  place,  he  would  much  rather  have  never 
discovered  the  deserter  at  alt,  for  after  all,  he  pitied  the  lad 
and  remembered  that  he  was  the  son  of  an  old  friend.  Again,  he 
had,  he  considered,  behaved  throughout  the  whoie  pursuit  with 
extraordinary  sympathy  and  forbearance,  and  had  thereby  almost 
laid  himself  open  to  the  suspicion  of  lacking  *'  leal."  Lastly — and 
this  feeling  was  perliaps  the  most  powerful  and  predominant 
at  the  moment — he  had  been  up  .ill  nisht,  without  a  drop 
of  liquor  to  wet  his  lips,  and  insomuch  as  that  Bardolphian  nose 
of  his  was  a  flame  that,  when  not  fed  with  natural  stimulants,  preyed 
fiercely  on  the  temper  of  its  owner,  he  was  in  no  mood  to  be  crossed 
— especially  by  one  who  had  so  stupidly  allowed  himself  to  be 
discovered.  So  he  took  fire  instantly  at  Rolian's  taunt,  and 
snatching  from  one  of  the  j,rm/ar>/Ks  his  loaded  gun,  he  cocked  it 
rapidly. 

"I  will  give  you  one  minute,"  he  cried,  "then,  if  you  do  not 
surrender,  I  shall  fire.  Do  you  hear  that,  deserter?  Come,  escape 
is  useless — do  not  be  a  fool,  for  I  mean  what  t  s.iy ;  T  will  pick  you 
off"  from  your  perch  as  if  you  were  a  crow."  After  a  paus^  he 
added  "  Are  you  ready  ?  time  is  up  ! " 

Rohan  had  not  stirred  from  his  position  ;  but  now,  with  a  strange 
smile  on  his  face,  he  stood  looking  down  at  his  tormentors.  Stand- 
ing thus,  with  his  tall  frame  fully  exposed,  he  presented  an  easy  maik 
for  a  bulleL 

*'  Once  more,  are  you  ready  ?    In  the  name  of  the  Emperor  1 " 

Rohan  replied  quietly,  without  stirring — - 

"  I  will  never  surrender." 

In  a  moment  there  was  a  flash,  a  roar,  and  Sergeant  Pipriac  had 
fired.  But  when  the  smoke  cleared  away  they  saw  Rohan  still 
standing  uninjured  at  the  mouth  of  the  Cave,  liam^uilly  looking 
down  as  if  aothing  whatever  had  occurred.  The  bullet  had  struck 
and  been  fattened  against  the  rock  in  his  close  vicinity,  but  whether 
Pipriac  had  really  taken  aim  at  his  person,  or  had  simply  fired  off  the 
weapon  with  the  view  of  intimid-iting  him,  is  a  question  that  cannot 
easily  be  answered.     If  intimidation  was  his  object,  he  reckoned 


* 


J 


The  Shadow  o/ihe  Sword, 


97 


without  his  min,  for  Rohaa  Gwenfem  was  the  last  person  in  the 
world  to  be  scared  into  !n]bmission  by  any  such  means. 

No  sooner  was  it  discovert-*!  that  Pipriac'g  hullct  had  mUsed  its 
mark  ihun  all  Uie  other  gendarnifs  had  their  weapons  cocked  and 
^leody  to  fire  also,  hut  the  Sergeant  immediately  interposed,  with  a 
savage  growL, 

"  Katt  arms  \  Tous  la  diablti,  he  who  6res  before  I  tell  him  shall 
smart  for  his  pains;"  then,  once  more  addressing  Rohao,  he  cried 
"  Well,  you  are  still  alive  '  Pcrhai>s,  Uicn,  after  all  you  will  be 
rational,  and  conic  <|uietly  down  and  trust  to  the  mercy  of  I'le 
Emperor.  L,ook  you,  I  promise  nothing,  but  I  will  do  my  best.  In 
any  case,  you  will  be  done  for  if  you  stay  up  there,  for  you  cannot 
escape  iis,  that  is  certain.  Now  then  !  I  am  giving  you  another 
chaiKC.  \V']iich  b  it  to  be  ?  " 
**  I  will  never  become  a  soldier." 

"It  is  too  kte  for  that,'  &aid  Mikel  Gralton,  speaking  for  the 
fitst  time  and  addieulng  Pipriac  "  Besides,  look  you,  he  is  a 
coward." 

Rohan,  who  heard  every  syllable,  so  clearly  and  a\;dibly  did  sound 
travel  among  those  silent  cliffs,  gazed  down  at  the  spy  with  a  terrible 
look,  and  seemed  once  more  prepared  to  hurl  himself  bodily  from 
the  height  where  he  stood.  Recovering  himself,  he  again  addressed 
fcis  speech  to  Pipriac 

"  I  tell  you  yuu  are  wasting  time.  Perliap.<i  I  am  a  coward,  as 
Mikel  Grallon  says  \  but  one  thing  is  certain,  tliat  1  will  never  go  to 
witf,  and  that  i  will  never  give  myself  up  alive." 

"Alive  or  dead,  we  shall  have  you — there  is  no  escape." 
"  Perhaps." 

"ITp  yonder  my  men  arc  on  the  watch;  this  way,  that  way,  all 
ways,  Aey  are  posted.    Take  old  Pipriac's  word  for  it,  and  give  in 
like  a  sensible  man  ; — yon  arc  surrounded." 
"  Thai  is  true." 

"  Ha  ha,  then  you  admit  that  I  am  teaching  you  good  sense.  Very 
well  1  If  evil  happens,  don't  say  old  Pipriac  did  not  warn  you  1 
Come  along ! " 

The  answer  from  above  wa^  a  quick  spasmodic  laugh,  full  of  the 
hollow  ring  of  a  bitter  and  despairing  heart  Leaning  over  from  the 
Dvoath  of  the  Cave,  Rohan  pointed  ([uietly  out  at  the  Gate  of  St. 
GBdas,  saying — 

"If  I  am  sunoundcd,  so  are  you.     Look  I " 

Pipriac  turned  iovoluntarily,  as  did  all  the  other  membcra  of  the 
group.     The  fir»t  man  to  uoderst-tnd  the  true  position  ot  afiai\4  w»a 
vot.  %,^a^  U.S.  1876.  u 


gS  The  Gentlftnan  s  Magazint, 

Mikcl  Grallon,  who,  the  moment  his  eyes  glanced  through  the  Gate, 
uttered  an  exclamatiotL 

"  Holy  virgin,  he  is  right— it  is  the  tide." 

Sure  enough,  the  sea  had  turned,  and  was  foaming  whitely  just 
beyond  the  Gate.  A  few  minutes  more,  and  it  would  enter  the 
Cath«Jnil,  when  retreat  would  be  impossible.  Grallon  rushed 
towards  the  Gate,  crying  "Follow!  ihcrcisnol  amomcnt  to  lose";  but 
Pipriac,  who,  though  irascible  under  slight  provocation,  never  lost  his 
head  in  an  emergency,  stood  his  ground  and  lootced  up  at  the  Cave. 
Rohan,  however,  was  no  longer  visible. 

"  Diable!"  cried  the  Sergeant,  shaking  his  fist  up  at  the  spot 
where  the  deserter  had  just  been  standing.  "Never  mind!  Give 
him  a  volley  ! " 

In  a  moment  tlie  ^udarmts  had  discharged  their  pieces  right  into 
the  mouth  of  the  Cave;  there  was  a  horrible  concussion,  and 
thunder  reverberating  far  up  among  the  cliffs.  Then  all  fled  foi 
their  lives. ' 

They  were  just  in  time ;  but  passing  round  the  point  of  land 
which  led  to  the  safe  shingle  beyond  the  Cathedral,  they  had  to 
wade  to  the  waist,  for  it  was  a  high  spring  tide.  The  retreat  was 
decidedly  ignominious,  and  little  calculated  to  improve  the  temper 
of  Pipriac  and  his  troop.  Coming  round  to  the  dry  land  imme- 
diately under  the  Ladder  of  St.  Triffine,  they  found  a  great  gathering 
from  the  village,  men  and  women,  young  and  old,  wailing,  chatter- 
ing, wondering.  Among  ihero  were  Alain  and  Jannick  Derval,  with 
their  sister  Morcelle. 

The  horrible  fascination  to  see  and  know  the  worst  had  been  too 
great  for  Marcelle  la  resist,  and  she  had  been  driwn  thither  with  the 
rest,  almost  against  her  will.  Descending  the  Ladder,  sUl:  liod  found 
the  tide  rising  round  the  point  M'hich  led  to  the  Cathedral,  and  had 
crouched  down,  wildly  listening,  when  the  reports  from  the  neigh- 
bouring Gate  broke  upon  her  ear.  What  could  those  shots  meao? 
Had  ihcy  discovered  him — was  he  fighting  for  his  life,  and  were  they 
shooting  him  down?  Her  face  grew  like  a  murdered  woman's  as 
she  waited,  with  the  hum  of  voices  around  her  sounding  as  in  a 
dream.  Then  as  die  gaidarmes  appeared,  wading  round  to  shore 
with  shouklered  muskets,  she  had  sprung  to  her  feet,  eagerly 
perusing  their  faces  as  they  came.  Others  flocked  eagerly  around 
them  too,  with  eager  questions.  Bui  Pipriac,  cursing  not  loud  but 
deep,  pushed  his  w.iy  through  ihc  crowd  followed  by  tiis  men, 
neither  of  whom  uttered  a  wrad. 


The  S/tadow  o/i/te  Sword. 


99 


Mikel  GraUon  was  following  when  he  fcJt  his  arm  fiercely  seized  ; 
be  iras  about  to  shake  off  the  offending  grip,  when  tuminy  slightly, 
be  recogntsed  Marcelle. 

**  Speak,  Miket  Gralloo!"  said  the  girt,  ho*  Urge  eyes  burning 
with  an  unnatural  light.  **  What  have  they  done  ?  Have  they 
found  him?     U  he  killed?" 

Honest  Mikel  shook  his  heat),  witli  what  was  meant  to  be  a 
reusumig  smile. 

"  He  is  safe— yonder  in  Uie  Catliedral  of  St.  Oildas," 

"In  the  Cathedral?" 

*' Up  in  the  Tnm  !" 

There  ^-as  a  general  munnur,  for  although  the  words  were  spe- 
dslly  addressed  lo  Marcdie,  an  eager  throng  had  caught  the  news. 
Maicelle  released  her  spasmodic  hold,  and  Grallon  ]}a.Hsed  on  up  to 
tlic  shore,  rejoining  Piptiac  and  bu  utellites,  who  stood  consulting 
tc^etlicT  in  a  group.  . 

And  now,  like  a  fountain  that  is  suddenly  unfiuzcQ  from  its 
prison  in  llie  ground,  the  long-suppressed  love  of  Marcelle  Derval 
rose  murmuring  within  her  heart  All  things  were  forgotten  save 
that  Rohan  lived,  and  that  he  wns  engaged  against  overwhelming 
odds  in  a  terrible  fight  for  life;  not  even  the  Emperor  was  remem> 
bcred,  nor  the  fiict  that  it  was  against  the  £tnperor  that  Rohan  stood 
in  rcToU;  it  was  enough  for  ihe  lime  being  to  feel  that  Kohan  had 
arisen,  aod  vitb  him  her  old  passionate  dre^m.  Only  a  few  hours 
before  she  had  moved  about  like  a  shadow,  certain  of  nothing  save 
of  a  great  void  mihin  her  soul,  of  a  great  unutterable  loss  and  pain  ; 
then  bad  come  Mikel  Grallon's  discovery — then  the  sound  of  the 
hue  and  cry  ;  so  that  indeed  she  had  scarcely  had  time  to  collect 
her  ttioughls  rightly  and  to  look  her  fate  in  the  face.  Despcur  had 
been  easy;  hope,  the  faint  wild  hope  that  had  now  come,  was  not 
BD  easy.  Sht;  had  kept  still  and  dead  amid  the  frost  of  her  great 
grief,  but  when  the  light  came,  and  the  winds  and  niins  were 
ktoscned.  she  bent  like  a  tree  before  the  storm. 

Not  without  pride  did  she  now  rcmeniber  her  lover's  strength,  and; 
obtcrvc  bow  it  had  hitherto  conquered  and  been  successful.     Me 
wa«  there,  unarmed,  within  a  litUc  distance,  and  yet  he  had  escaped 
hit  enemies  again,  as  he  had  often  escag^  them  Inrforc ;  indeed, 
there  seemed  a  charm  upon  Ms  life,  and  perhaps  the  good  Godj 
loved  bEm  after  all  1 

Gradttally,  from  group  to  group,  the  intelligence  spread  that 
Rohin  Gwenfem  hod  ensconced  htnuelf  up  in  iJic  TYvu  J  Gi/i/at, 
that  black  and  tcnible  abyss  into  which  few  feet  save  bis  0>*Ja\uA 

H  1 


I  oo  The  Genlletnans  Alagasine. 

ever  passed ;  and  that  there,  night  after  nijjht,  he  hid  alone,  com- 
muning perhaps  with  ghastly  spirits  of  the  darkness.  For  the  place,  all 
folk  knew,  was  haunted,  and  f^w  men  there  would  have  cared  to  pa&s 
along  that  strange  CathcdraE-floor  at  dead  of  night  Did  not  the 
phantoms  of  the  evil  monks  still  wander,  moaning  for  mercy  to  the 
pitiless  Saint  who  cast  them  into  eternal  chains?  Had  not  the 
awful  Saint  himself  been  seen,  again  and  again,  holding  spectral 
vigil,  while  the  seals  came  creeping  about  his  knees,  and  the  great 
cormorants  sat  gazing  silently  at  him  from  the  dripping  walls  ?  The 
place  was  terrihle,  curst  for  the  living  till  endless  time.  He  who 
lingered  there  safely  must  either  have  made  an  unholy  pact  with  the 
Prince  of  Evil,  or  be  under  the  special  protection  of  the  Saint  of 
Uod. 

As  to  this  last  point,  opinion  was  divided.  A  few  grim  pessimists 
held  firmly  that  Rohan  had  sold  himself  body  and  soul  to  "  Master 
Roberd,"  who  in  his  lum  had  carried  him  safely  through  so  many 
dangers,  and  was  now  watching  over  hiiu  catefully  in  his  "devil's 
nest"  up  in  the  Trcu.  The  niajority,  however,  were  inclined  to 
think  that  a  good  Spirit,  not  a  bad,  had  taken  the  nutter  in  Hand, 
and  that  this  good  Spirit  might  be  the  ble^ised  St-  Gildas  himself. 
Tliere  was  a  strong  undercurrent  of  anti^Imperial  feeling,  which 
speedily  resolved  itself  into  an  imraistakanle  sympathy  with  the 
deserter;  and  a  belief  that  he  was  under  Divine  protection. 

After  a  rapid  consultation  with  his  subordinates  Pipriac  deter- 
mined to  despatch  a  messenger  to  St  Gurbtt  for  more  assistance, 
and  meantime  tu  keep  ii  careful  watch  from  every  side  on  the  now 
inundated  Calhedm!.  Of  one  thing  lie  was  assured,  that  escape  out 
of  the  Cave  was  impossible,  so  long  as  the  cliffs  above  and  the  shore 
below  were  cjircfully  guarded.  There  was  no  secret  way  which  the 
fugitive  might  take ;  he  must  cither,  at  the  almost  certain  risk  of 
life,  creep  right  upward  along  the  nearly  inaccessible  face  of  the 
crag,  or  he  must  swim  out  to  sea,  or  he  must  pass  round  to  the  shore 
t^  the  way  the  others  had  gone  and  come.  Further  away  in  the 
direction  of  the  village,  a  great  promontory  projected,  surrounded  on 
every  side  and  at  all  sides  by  the  sea,  and  quite  impassable. 

"  He  is  in  the  trap,"  growled  Pipriac,  "  and  only  God  or  the 
Devil  can  get  him  out  .' " 

CH.VPTER    XXXI. 

IN   THE   CAVE. 

Wkilb  his  pursuers  were  speculating  and  deliberating,  Rohan 
Gwenfetn  waited  solitary  up  in  his  hiding  place,  making  no  attempt 


J 


The  Shadow  of  tfte  Sword. 


lOI 


■ 


at  Bight ;  which,  indeed,  he  well  knew  to  be  at  present  impossible. 
Now  and  then  he  listened,  but  die  only  sound  he  heard  was  tlie 
K»  creeping  in  and  covering  tlie  vast  Cathedral -floor.  He  was  safe, 
at  least  for  the  time  being,  since  the  waters  washed  below  and  no 
human  feet  could  reach  him  from  above. 

He  lay  within  a  va.5t  natural  cave,  hewn  in  the  very  heart  of  the 
granite  ctngs  and  dimly  lit  by  the  rays  that  crept  in  by  its  narrow 
mouth,  or  Trtm.  Great  elli|iiic  arches,  strangely  hung  with  purple 
moss  and  soot-black  fungi,  loomed  overhead,  while  on  every  side 
down  the  lie  ben-covered  walls  sparkled  a  dewy  fretwork  resembling 
that  external  curtain  of  glittering  mosaic  which  we  have  called  the 
"Altu."  The  place  was  rast  and  shadowy  as  the  \z\\\i  of  some 
cathedral  built  by  hands,  so  that  one  could  not  well  discern  its 
exact  extent ;  and  here  and  there  its  walls  were  gashed  with  streams 
of  water,  falling  down  and  stretching  out  into  blackest  pools.  The 
air  was  damp  and  cold,  and  would  have  been  fatal  to  one  of  tender 
frame ;  but  Rohan  breathed  it  with  the  cnmfort  of  a  hnrdy  animal. 
In  a  comer  of  the  Cave  he  had  strewn  a  thick  bed  of  dried  seaweed, 
on  which  he  wa^  lying.  By  hiii  side,  and  near  to  his  hand,  were  his 
fowler's  slafT,  a  pair  of  sabols,  and  part  of  a  black  loaf;  while  in 
a  iissute  of  ihc  wall  above  his  bed  was  fixed  a  small  rude  lamp  of 
tin. 

Here,  in  complete  solitude,  and  often  in  total  darkness,  he  had 
passed  many  a  night,  and  whether  it  was  calm  or  storm  he  had 
slept  sound.  He  was  well  used  to  such  haunts,  and  his  powerful 
physique  was  in  no  way  affected  by  the  exposure— indeed,  hnd 
U  not  been  for  the  constant  anxiety  of  mind  created  by  his  horrible 
situation,  he  might  have  remained  entirely  unchanged.  But  evea 
animals,  however  vigorous  by  nature,  will  waste  away  to  skin  and 
bone  under  the  strain  of  pcqictual  fear  and  peisecution ;  and  so 
Rohan  had  grown  into  the  shadow  of  his  former  self— a  gaunt, 
forkim-lookin^',  hunted  man,  with  large  eyes  looking  out  of  a  face 
pale  with  unutterable  pain.  His  garments,  not  new  when  he  first 
took  Sight,  had  turned  into  sorry  rags,  tlirough  which  gleamed 
the  naked  flesh  ;  his  hair  fell  below  his  shoulders  tu  a  wild  and 
auned  mass ;  bis  beard  and  moustache  had  grown  profusely  ;  and 
npoo  his  arms  and  limbs  were  cuts  and  bruises  left  by  danger* 
ous  falls.  One  foot  was  swollen  and  panly  useless — a  ftxct  over 
which  his  pursuers  would  have  gloated — for  it  left  him  practically 
in  their  power,  and  quite  unable  to  pursue  his  usual  flights  among 
the  cVtS\  even  liad  au  opportunity  oDered. 

Mtkel  Grallon  bad  suspected  shreivdly  when  be  guc&sci\  l\vaX 


loa  Tie  GgniiematCs  Magasine, 

Kohan  owed  his  daily  subsistoKC  to  tlic  secret  help  of  his  infirm 
mother.  Twtci;  or  thrice  weekly  Mother  Gwenfeni  had  come 
MxtvOy  to  the  neighbourhood,  bearing  with  her  such  pro^nsions 
u  she  WM  able  to  prepare  with  her  own  hands ;  these  she  had 
secretly  given  to  her  son,  or  placed  them  with  preconcerted  signals 
on  the  places  she  knew  him  to  frequent,  or  even  (as  wc  have  seen 
on  one  occasion)  let  them  right  down  to  his  hiding-place  from  the 
top  of  the  cli&  Without  this  assistance  the  man  would  necessarily 
ha>*e  sUir%'ed,  for  it  was  physically  impossible  to  exist  solely  on  the 
theU-bsh  and  dulse  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  gathering  from  the 
Ma. 

He  was  cot  now  alone' in  the  Cave.  The  goat  Jannedik  was 
perambulating  uneasily  to  and  fro,  carefiiUy  keeping  at  a  distaiKe 
from  the  mouth,  through  which  so  almning  a  volley  had  lately 
been  raining.  From  time  to  time  she  came  up  close,  and 
rubbed  her  bead  into  his  hand,  as  if  soliciting  an  explanation  of  the 
extraordinary  scene  which  had  just  taken  place. 

The  visits  of  Jannedik  to  her  master's  hiding-place  had  been 
arUic.  She  had  first  discovered  him  by  accident,  while  rooming 
at  nndom,  as  was  bcr  custom,  among  the  clifla  ;  then,  once  ac- 
quainted with  his  haunts,  she  had  come  again  ;  and  now  seldom  a 
day  passed  without  a  visit  from  her,  however  brief-  Her  coming 
and  going  soon  became  an  exciting  event,  for  when  she  ap- 
peared Rohan  did  noi  fed  altogether  without  companionship,  and 
she  had  strange  wild  ways  to  soothe  a  human  heart.  Nor  was  this 
aU.  Many  a  seciet  commonicaiiaa  had  been  concealed  about  the 
goal's  thick  coat,  and  borne  from  the  fugim'e  to  his  mother  in  hci 
cottage. 

More  than  an  hoar  had  passed  since  Pipnac  and  the  rest  had  fled 
from  the  CaUKdnd  wben  Roban  rose  frc»n  his  seat  and  passed  oot 
afaia  into  the  open  air  at  the  cavern's  mouth.  /Ji  was  perfectly  still ; 
the  gtvcn  water  hUed  tite  Boor  of  the  Cathedral,  covering  aU  its 
weedy  tombs,  and  a  add  was  swimaung  ronad  and  round,  wrfcmg 
in  vain  to  find  a  hnijiag  place  abwg  tihe  walk.  Sanding  up  ihoe^ 
he  k\x  like  one  suspended  between  water  and  ^. 

So  fiur  tbecc  had  been  a  cotn  fiocc  aatJActJon  in  leaiariBg 
what  so  many  hrtng  men  decned  Ac  IiscsiEaUc.  Weak  and  sof^e- 
handed  as  he  was.  he  bad  stood  up  in  revolt  against  the  Empenv— 
had  openly  *nd  uobctifeaiing^  de&ed  him  and  abjvied  ban — had 
co■{^lIcd  ttp  on  his  behftir  aS  the  power  and  detcno  oC  Nature — 
had  cried  to  the  Kanfa  '''  lUde  ue  !*  and  to  the  Sea  "  Protect  me  f 
and  had  not  cried  in  vain.    Ttne*  he  had  sudered  in  the  stmg^ 


™8^     I 


The  Shmiow  of  l!u  Sword, 


103 


as  on  that  revolt  must  suffer ;  but  so  far  no  specially  evil  con- 
seqaenc«,  apart  from  his  own  unpleasant  experiences,  had  ensued 
from  the  attitude  he  had  lalcen-  He  had  certainly  obeyed  the 
bdiest  of  his  conscience,  and  that  to  him,  then,  and  thenceforth  for 
ever,  was  the  veritable  voice  of  God. 

In  those  houre  of  dark  extremity  MarccUe  Dcrval  was  to  him  both 
an  anguish  and  a  consolation :  an  anguish,  because  he  feared  that 
she  loved  him  no  longer,  that  her  sympathy  was  with  his  enemies, 
that  she  believed  him  to  be  a  renegade  from  ^  ^ood  cnusc,  a  traitor, 
and  a  coward — a  consolation,  because  he  remembered  all  that  she 
had  been  to  htm,  and  because,  night  after  night,  passionate  and 
loving  OS  of  old,  she  came  10  him  in  dreams.  Many  n  lonely  hour, 
when  DO  soul  was  near,  he  had  lingered  in  the  centre  of  the 
Cathedral,  going  over  in  his  mind  all  the  details  of  tliat  divine  day 
when  &rst  he  clasped  lier  in  his  anns  and  felt  her  vii]gin  kiss  upon 
his  mouth. 

SAlitnde  ta  him 
Was  iwMt  Mcletf , 

when  he  had  for  companionship  her  quiet  image.  He  saw  her  then 
as  a  Uttle  child,  walking  with  him  hand  in  hand  along  the  sands  of  j 
the  village  ;  or  as  a  happy  girl,  climbing  with  him  the  lonely  crags, , 
and  watching  him  as  he  gathered  cliff-flowers  and  sea-birds'  egg5;j 
or  as  a  holy  maiden,  kneeling  by  his  side  before  llie  altar  of  ihej 
little  chapel  of  Notre  Dame  dc  la  Garde.  Such  happy  memories  are 
amseaaled  gleams,  which  make  this  low  eaith  Heaven. 

Yet  he  had  lost  her,  that  was  clear;  he  had  choseo  his  lot  with 
the  outcasts  of  the  earth,  with  those  Esaus  who  refuse  (o  acquiesce 
in  the  accepted  jurisdicdoD  of  the  world,  and  who  map  out  a  perilous 
existence  for  themselves  at  the  cost  of  family,  caste,  peace  of  body 
and  mind,  sympathy,  and  social  honour.  He  might  as  well — (nay, 
fer  better  from  this  mundane  point  of  view) — have  denied  his  God 
as  have  denied  his  Emperor;  for  the  Emperor  seemed  omnijwjtent, 
while  God  remained  so  acquiescent  in  evil,  and  st>  far  away.  Faith 
m  the  divine  order  of  things  had  long  forsaken  him.  His  only 
rduLOce  now  was  on  Nature,  and  on  bis  own  heart ;  for  if  the  worst 
came  to  the  worst,  he  could  die, 

Wiih  every  hour  and  every  day  that  he  brooded  tluis  his  hate  of 
Ww  grew  deeper,  the  justification  of  his  resisUnct;  seemed  more 
absolute.  Even  if  safe  submission  had  then  been  possible,  on  the 
coiuUlion  that  he  recanted  .-ind  joined  the  great  army  (hat  did 
Napoleon's  will,  he  would  have  resisie\l  with  even  more  tenacity 
than  at  tlic  hrst,  for  he  was  a  man  in   whom  Ideas  ^QW   Mvd. 


I 


L   too 
sensvH 


multiply  themselves,  and  become  sinews  of  strength  to  the  secret 
will.  With  his  moral  certainty  deepened  his  physical  horror. 
In  the  daikness  of  tliat  lonely  Cave  he  had  conjured  up  such 
Phantoms  of  the  batde-field  as  might  fitly  people  the  bloodrcd 
fields  of  UcIl ;  all  that  he  bad  read,  all  that  he  had  fancied  and 
feared,  took  tangible  shapes,  and  moved  to  and  fro  along  those 
sunless  walls ;  ghastly  spectres  and  adumbrations  of  an  all  too 
horrible  reality,  ihey  came  there  from  time  to  time,  paralysing 
heart  with  des|xiir  and  fear. 

So  that,  after  all,  if  we  must  have  it  so,  he  was  in  a  certain 
of  the  word  a  Covfoid,  capable  of  the  nervous  prostration  co\h-anls 
feel.  He  had  senses  ovcr-lceen  and  subtle,  and  could  detect  even 
there  in  Ms  Cave  the  fatal  scent  which  is  found  in  slaughter-houses 
where  cattle  arc  slain,  and  on  battle-fields  where  men  are  butchered ; 
he  could  hear  the  cry  of  the  slricken,  hold  the  cold  hand  of  the 
dead ;  he  was  conscious  of  the  widow  weeping,  the  orphan  wailing ; 
he  beheld  the  hnrning  trail  which  The  War-Serpent  left  wherever  it 
crawled,  the  bloofl  and  tears  which  fell  to  earth,  the  fire  and  smoke 
which  rose  to  heaven.  With  more  than  a  poet's  vision,  with  the^H 
conjuration  of  a  vivid  imagination  stirred  by  deep  personal  dread,^^ 
he  conid  srr  and  /lear  these  things.  Each  man  bears  his  own 
Inferno  within  his  breast;  and  these  were  Rohan  Gwenfero's;. 


I 


In  due  time  the  tide,  which  had  risen  high  up  the  walls  of  ihi 
Cathedral,  and  was  shining  smooth  as  gbss  and  green  as  malacWiCi 
began  to  ebb  out  through  the  Gate.  Rohan  stood  watching  it  from 
the  Trtfu,  while  gradually  it  sank  lower  and  lower,  till  a  man  might 
have  waded  waist-deep  on  the  shijigly  floor.  Gradually  the  jjreat 
weed-covered  buuldcrs  and  granite  slabs  became  visible,  and  a 
certain  space  immediately  under  llie  Cave  was  left  quite  dry. 
Standing  thus,  Rohan  calculated  his  chances.  Ascent  was  ccitaioly 
possible,  though  difficult  in  the  extreme,  and  beyond  measure 
dangerous :  impossible  certainly  to  a  man  encumbered  by  imns 
or  any  heavy  weapon.  Nor  could  more  than  one  man  approach 
at  a  time,  that  wii  certain.  In  a  word,  Rohan's  position  was 
virtually  impregnable,  so  long  as  he  kept  upon  the  watch.  ^M 

Just  then  JanrnLdik  came  out  from  the  Civc,  and  bi:gan  quietly  lO^* 
walk  upwards.  Her  path  was  easy  for  some  distance,  being  the  same 
Ijalh  by  which  Uohan  had  lately  de&cended.  but  when  she  had 
passed  a  certain  point  she  became  as  a  fly  walking  up  a  perpcn- 
diailar  wall.  At  last,  without  once  slipping  a  foot,  she  disappeared; 
like  a  bird  fading  away  into  the  skies. 


* 


The  Sliadow  of  i/ie  Sword. 

Which  skies  hod  darkened  again,  and  vera  blurred  with  &  dark 
mttt  The  laio,  blown  in  from  the  sea,  was  beating  pitilessly  against 
ihc  face  of  the  cliffs,  deepening  to  moisl  pijn>Ic  their  yranite  stains, 
and  iigbtiog  up  liquid  gleams  in  their  grassy  fissures.  It  fel)  now 
beavtljr  on  Rohan,  but  he  scarcely  heeded  it :  he  was  water-proof; 
[besides  it  was  warm  rain,  such  as  steals  sweet  scent  from  the 
^boughs  in  autumn  woods  and  lanes. 

Slowly,  calmly,  quite  sheltered  from  the  wet  wind  which  blew 
without,  the  sea  ebbed  from  the  Cathedral,  until  at  last  it  all  dbap- 
pcaied  through  the  Gate,  and  only  the  glistening  walls  and  shin^e 
showed  diat  it  bad  been  lately  there.  The  sea  washed,  and 
the  run  fell,  and  the  wind  moaned,  while  Rohan  stood  waiting 
and  watching.  Presently  he  heard  another  sound,  faintly  wafted 
10  him  through  the  Gate.  Human  voices.  His  pursuers  were 
returning. 

As  the  sounds  came  nearer  and  nearer,  he  quietly  withdrew  into  the 
Cave. 


• 


fipriac  and  the  gatdarmes  did  not  return  alone ;  besides  Mikel 
GtaHoD,  there  came  a  swarm  of  villagers,  men  and  women,  excited 
and  expectant  Krom  time  to  time  liie  Sergeant  turned  upon  them 
and  drove  them  back  with  oaths,  but  after  retreating  a  few  yards  they 
invariably  drew  nigh  once  more.  Pipriac  could  do  nothing,  for  he 
was  in  a  minority,  and  they  numbered  three  or  four  score  ;  and  so 
now,  when  he  re-eniered  the  Cathedral  with  his  men,  Uie  crowd, 
chattering  and  p<Mnting,  blocked  up  the  Gate  and  partially  filled  the 
Cathedral. 

f^m  the  darkness  of  his  Cave  Rohan,  himself  unseen,  could 
lidwld  this  picture ;  leaning  forward  to  the  Trim,  but  keeping  well 
in  darkness,  be  looke*l  down  upon  the  pigmy  shapes  below 
Iiira, — fast,  Pipriac  and  the  others,  crawling  up  towards  the 
*'AJl«r"  like  so  many  dwarfs,  their  bayonets  glittering,  their 
voices  muttering, — then  llic  vilbger*  in  their  quaint  dresses  of  many 
colours,  garing  up  in  wonder  and  tremulous  anticipation.  Suddenly 
his  heart  leapt  within  him  a  -.  1  he  grew  ghastly  pale ;  for  behold, 
nanifing  apart,  some  yards  in  front  of  the  group  from  the  village,  he 
rtcognised  Marceltc.  cjuietly  looking  upward.  He  could  see  her 
pole  face  set  in  its  saffron  coif,  he  could  fed  the  light  of  her  large 
upniniod  eyes.  What  had  brought  her  there?  Ah,  God,  was  she 
leagued  againit  him  with  his  persecutors  ?  Had  she  come  to  behold 
his  mmfoTtune  and  degradation,  perhaps  his  death  ?  Sirk  with  such 
thoughts,  he  strained  his  painful  sight  upon  her,  forgetimg  a\V  dsc  m 


106 


The  Geniiematis  Magazine, 


the  intensity  of  his  excitement.    So  a  wild  atiiina.1  gazes  &om  its  lui 
when  the  cmel  hunters  ore  close  at  hand. 

And  now,  O  Pipriac,  lo  business;  for  ye  are  many  against  one, 
and  the  Kniperor  is  impatient  to  settle  the  a0air,  of  this  revoUer, 
iliat  of  him  may  be  made  a  terror  and  a  shining  example  to  all  the 
flock  I  Fetch  him  down,  O  Pipriac,  from  his  hiding  place  ;  draw  the 
fox  from  his  hole  into  full  day  ;  spare  not,  but  take  him  alive,  with  a 
view  to  full  and  proper  retribution  !  It  is  useless,  indeed,  to  stand 
here  with  thy  myrmidons,  with  so  many  gaping  throats,  staring  up,  as 
if  the  deserter  would  droi)  into  thy  mouth  1 

Yet  this  is  exactly  what  Fipriac  Is  doing,  and,  indeed,  Uie  more  he 
Elares  and  gapes  the  more  puzzled  does  he  become.  If  one  were  a 
bird  or  a  fly,  yea  or  a  snail,  one  might  climb  up  yonder  to  the  Cave, 
but  being  a  man,  and  moreover  a  man  not  too  sleady  on  tlie  legs, 
Pipriac  justly  deems  the  feat  impossible  ;  nevertheless,  he  suggests  to 
this  comrade  and  to  that,  and  notably  to  Mikel  Grallon,  the  per- 
formance of  that  fortom  hope  ;  with  not  much  result,  save  grumbling 
refusals  and  mutinous  looks.  Meantime,  he  grows  savage,  for  he 
believes  the  villagers  are  laughing  at  his  discoraCiure,  and  fmding 
deeds  impossible,  again  has  recourse  to  words. 

"  What  ho,  deserter !  Listen  !  Are  you  here?  Dial'le,  do  you  hear 
me?    Attend  1" 

There  is  no  answer  save  the  echoes  reverberating  from  clrff  to 
cliff. 

"  Malediction  !"  cries  the  Sergeant  "  If  he  should  be  gone." 

"  That  is  impossible,"  said  Mikel  Grallon.  "  Unless  he  is  a  ghost, 
he  is  still  there." 

"  And  who  the  devil  says  he  is  not  a  ghost?"  snarls  Fipriac 
"  Fisherman,  you  are  an  aas— stand  back.  If  we  had  but  a  ladder, 
we  would  do;  maledicdoa  I  if  we  had  only  a  ladder."  And  he 
shrieked  aloud  again  at  the  top  of  his  voice,"  Deserter!  Number 
one  !     Rohan  Gwenfern  ! " 

But  there  was  no  answer  whatever,  no  stir,  no  sound.  The 
villagers  looked  at  one  another  and  smiled,  while  Marcelle  crossed 
herself  and  prayed. 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

A     SIEGE     IN     MINIATURE. 

It  is  necessary  to  be  precise  as  to  the  date  of  these  occurrences. 
When  the  fishermen  beheld  that  memorable  midnight  vision  in  the 
Cathedral,  and  mistook  for  Si.  Gildas  and  the  Fiend  the  living  shapes 
of  Rohan  and  Jannedik  the  goat,  it  was  just  after  the  June  festival 


The  SJiadow  of  the  Sword. 


107 


MoDy  weeks  had  ebjxed  while  Mikel  Gralloo  vi-as  secretly  upon  che 
scent  of  the  fugitive  ;  but  nearly  llucc  entire  months  had  passed  away 
before  he  actually  discovered  the  whole  tnith  that  Kolutn  lived 
and  was  biding  in  the  great  Cathedral.  So  that  il  was  now  the  end 
of  September,  1S13. 

A  tnemorable  time,  out  in  the  great  storrobeaten  world,  as  well  as 
here  in  lonely  KTomlaLt ;  other  tides  were  turning  besides  iliat  which 
comes  and  goes  with  weary  iteration  on  the  nca-shorc  \  stranger  Storms 
were  gathering  than  any  little  Kromlaix  knew :  nay,  had  gathered, 
and  were  burstii^  now  around  the  ftgure  of  the  one  Coios&us 
who  bestrode  the  world.  On  the  Rhine  had  Napoleon  paused, 
£icing  the  miillitudinoiis  waves  of  avenging  hosts  ;  had  lifted  up 
his  finger,  Hkc  K.ing  Canute  of  old,  crying  "  Thus  far  and  no 
farther!" — yet  to  his  wonder  the  waves  still  roared,  and  the  tide 
still  rose,  and  the  living  waters  were  now  washing  blood-red  about 
his  feeu  Would  he  bo  submerged?  Would  his  evil  genius  fail  him 
at  last  ?  These  were  the  supreme  questions  of  .Autumn,  iS  13.  All 
the  World  was  against  him  ;  nay,  the  World  and  the  Sea  and  the  Sky  ; 
yet  he  had  tamed  all  these  before,  and  might  again  \  and  his  word 
wu  stilt  a  power  to  conjure  with,  his  presence  still  an  inspiration,  his 
shadow  still  a  portent  and  a  doom.     He  might  emerge  ;  and  then  ? 

^^WTiy,  lliere  was  little  left  for  the  stabbed  and  bleeding  Karth  but  to 

^■fiic  ;  for,  alas  1  she  could  bear  no  more. 

^B    Our  business  is  not  yet  with  the  movement  of  great  armies,  with 

^Bhe  motion  of  those  elemental  forces  against  which  the  Avatar  was 

Nthen  struggling ;  our  picture  is  to  contain  the  microcosm,  not  the 
nacTocosm ;  yet  tlie  one  is  potential  in  the  other,  as  one  moncra  of 
noeckcl  represents  the  aggregate  of  a  million  moneras  visibly  covering 
the  sea-bottom  hut  gcnninated  from  one  invisible  speck.  No  human 
pen,  piling  horror  upon  boTroc,  con  represent  the  aggregate  of  war ;  it 
can  only  catalogue  individual  agonies,  each  of  which  brings  the  truth 
Dearer  home  tlian  any  number  of  generalities.  And  wc,  who  are 
about  to  chronicle  to  the  best  of  our  power  a  siege  in  miniiiturc, 
begin  by  affirming  that  it  represents  the  spirit  of  all  sieges,  however 
ilossal  p  scale,  however  aggrandised  by  endless  combinations  of 
E  infinitesima]. 

Here  in  Kromlaix  the  matter  is  simple  enough — il  is  one  man 
many ;  up  till  now  it  has  been  bloodless,  and  so  far  as  the 
n  himself  is  concerned  it  may  remain  so  till  tlic  end. 

And  now,  O  Muse,  for  a  pen  of  6rc  to  chronicle   the  doings  of 
Pipnac  tlic  indumiiable,  as  at  loii,  with  liery  liaido\p\t\an  uo^c  "^Sl^c^ 


in  the  air,  be  coDects  lus  nuitUl  forces  loge^ier  t  Small  pity  now 
b  left  in  his  heart  for  the  creaitirc  whom  he  punocs;  alt  his  fierce 
passions  arc  aitrased,  and  his  only  uptrauoD  is  for  cruel  victory  ;  his 
¥oice  is  choked,  his  eyes  are  dim  with  lage  and  bloodthitst.  He, 
Pipriac,  commissaiy  and  rcjirescntative  of  the  Empetor,  to  be  defied 
and  held  at  bay  by  a  single  peasant,  crotKhing  unaiued  like  a  fox 
in  a  bole  t  by  a  miserable  deserter,  who  hu  openly  refiued  to  %ht 
tot  bis  coontiy,  vbo  is  a  efwttan  and  a  ccvward,  with  a  price  upon  bis 
bead !  It  is  utterly  tncrodibic,  and  not  to  be  endured.  Up,  some  of 
jou,  and  drag  him  down  \  AndnJ,  Pierre,  HocI,  climb  !  Teus  la 
diahlit,  is  there  not  a  man  among  you — not  a  creaniFe  with  the  bean 
of  a  fly  ?  Ha,  if  Pipriac  were  not  old,  if  his  legs  were  not  shaky, 
would  he  not  read  you  a  lesson,  rogues  that  you  are  ! 

Stimalatcd  by  the  curses  of  his  superior,  Pierre  takes  off  his  shoes, 
puts  bis  bayonet  between  bis  teeth,  and  begins  to  clitnb  ;  the  rocks 
are  perpeiKlicular  and  slippery,  but  there  are  crevices  tor  the  hands 
and  feet.  Pierre  makes  way,  watched  eagerly  by  all  the  otheis  ;  sud- 
denly, however,  his  foot  slips  and  down  he  comes  with  a  groan. 
Fortunately,  he  had  not  gone  far,  and  beyond  a  few  braises  he  is 
little  hurt. 

N'ow  it  is  Andres  ttim ;  Andr^,  a  dark,  beetle-browed,  determined- 
looking  dog,  with  powerful  legs  and  stnewy  bands.  He  makes  even 
better  way  than  Pierre  ;  foot  by  foot,  bayoact  between  teetb,  he  goes 
up  :  there  b  not  a  word,  there  b  scarcely  it  breath  ;  he  b  half-way, 
clinging  to  the  treacherous  rocks  with  fingers  and  toes  like  a  cat's 
claws,  and  wearing  a  cat-like  determination  in  his  lace,  when  sud- 
denly one  utters  a  cry,  and  points  up.  Andr^  looks  up  too,  and 
there,  stretched  out  above  him,  arc  two  hands,  and  in  those  two 
bands,  poised,  an  enormous  fragment  of  rock.  A  white  murderous 
face  glares  over  at  him— the  face  of  Rohan  Gwenfem. 

It  would  be  easy  now  to  pick  off  the  deserter,  but  if  tliis  were 
done,  what  of  Andrtf  ? — down  would  descend  the  stone,  and  woe  to 
him  who  clung  below.  Andre  does  ilie  besc  he  caii  under  ilic  cb- 
cumslances :  he  descends  hand  over  hand,  more  rapidly  tlian  he 
ascended.  By  the  time  that  he  drops  again  upon  the  shingle  the 
Cicc  and  arms  above  are  gone. 

"  \faledtction,"  cries  Pipriac,  *'lhcn  he  means  to  fight !" 

Yes,  Pipriac,  make  sure  of  that ;  for  is  it  not  written  tliat  the  very 
worm  will  turn,  and  that  even  innocent  things  become  terrible  when 
they  struggle  for  sweet  life  ?  Nor  shall  ilits  man  be  blamed  if  he 
becomes  wliat  you  make  hlm,-~a  murderous  and  murdering  animal, 
witli  all  the  gentle  love  and  pity  burnt  up  within  his  veins, — and 


J 


The  Shadow  of  i/ie  Sword. 


wiih  oiie  (hmight  uppermost  only,  that  of  ovenhrowing  and  destroy- 
ing those  who  would  ovetituow  and  destroy  him, —  irhlcli  thought 
iiuy  in  due  time  U:  kindlud  to  fiercer  bloodihirst  and  more  hideous 
hunger  For  vengeance.  In  every  strong;  man's  beail  there  is  a  dc\il  j 
beware  how  you  rouse  it  /icrt .' 

Another  volley  into  the  mouth  of  the  Cave,  given  furiously  at  a 
sijinal  from  the  Sergeant,  ts  only  wojtte  of  ammunition.  The  bullets 
patter  on  ihc  lop  of  the  Irou,  and  fall  down  flattened  on  the  spot 
wht-ie  Rohan  lately  stood.  The  cliffs  roar,  the  villagers  utter  a 
terriiicd  murmur  ;  then  there  is  silence. 

Other  attempu  to  climh  follow,  all  without  success.  Once  the 
poised  rock  descends,  and  Andr^,  who  was  climbing  again,  only  just 
drops  to  the  earth  and  draws  aside  in  time.  Curses  and  threats  rise 
to  tbe  Cave ;  Pipriac  utters  horrible  imprecations.  Shots  arc  fired 
again  and  again ;  but  all  miss  their  mark,  for  Rohan  now  is  upon  his 
guaftt     The  siege  has  begun  in  earnest. 

Sunset  comes,  and  nothing  has  been  done ;  the  situation  seems 
letiully  unassailable.  The  rain  han  been  falling  more  or  less  all  day, 
iDd  every  nun  i.s  wet  through  and  out  of  temper.  The  cniwd  of 
vtUagers,  with  Marcelle  among  them,  still  look  on,  in  stupefied  con- 
tent that  the  gendarmes  are  bathed  at  every  turn. 

Now  liic  tide  creeps  up  to  the  Gate  once  more,  and  all  preci- 
pilBlcly  retreat,  the  military  with  an  au  rei<oir  of  threats  .ind  objurga- 
tiooK.  'I'he  great  Cathedral  is  empty,  all  is  silent  But  who  is 
this  that,  lingering  behind  the  rest,  creeps  op  close  under  the 
"  Altar,"  turns  her  white  i&cc  upward,  and  moans  out  the  deserter's 
name. 

"Rohan!  Rohan!" 

There  is  no  reply ;  she  stands  upIiAing  her  arms,  tears  streaming 
down  her  cheeks. 

"  Rohan  t  sp«ak  to  me  I  Ah,  God,  can  you  not  hear  ?  " 

Still  tliere  is  silence,  and  turning  sadly,  she  walks  down  the  dark 
Cathedral  and  follows  the  rest  out  of  the  Gate.  She  \%  in  time,  but 
At  the  |>romomory  the  water  is  knee-deep  as  she  wades  round. 

Yes,  he  had  heard ;  lying  in  there  upon  his  bed  of  weeds,  he  had 
heard  the  vnce,  and  peering  down,  himself  in  darkness,  he  had  seen 
the  piteous  (ace  be  loved,  looking  upward.  He  had  no  heart  to 
answer ;  her  face  shook  his  soul  mure  painfully  than  even  those 
6cTi:c  (aces  of  his  enemies ;  but  the  excitement  of  the  day  had 
made  him  mad,  suspicious,  and  distrustful  even  of  her.  He  saw  her 
pass  amy  after  tlic  rest ;  he  gazed  after  her  with  a.  duW  (\um\^ 


1 10  Tfu  GenilematCs  Magazine. 

dcs[>air,  tike  one  in  a  dream ;  then,  when  she  bad  gone,  he  threv 
himself  donii  upon  his  bed  and  wept  , 

Ah,  those  tears  of  a  strong  man  l^tmmg  like  drops  from  stone, 
like  moisture  from  iron  ;  shed  not  for  sorrow,  not  in  self-pity,  but  in 
pine  surcease  of  heart  With  the  aj^parition  of  that  face  came 
upon  him  (he  consciousness  of  all  that  he  had  lost,  of  all  the  love 
and  peace  that  he  had  nearly  won  :  tlic  c<.-nainty  of  what  he  was 
now,  who  had  once  been  so  strong  and  glad;  the  knowledge  of  bis 
almost  certain  doom,  for  was  not  tlic  fatal  mark  already  upon  bis 
forehead  ?  "  Marcelle  1  Marcelle  !  "  The  name  went  up  unto  the 
hollows  of  the  Cave,  and  voices  answered  him  like  cries  from  his  own 
heart,  and  all  hi&  force  was  broken.  So  tiight  came,  and  found  him 
wearied  ouL 

AU  that  night  he  was  left  in  peace,  but  he  knew  well  that  close 
watch  was  kept  without  the  Cathedral ;  in  no  case  would  he  have 
stirred,  for  no  other  place  was  so  safe,  and  his  foot  was  still  in  pain. 
He  rested  in  the  total  darkness,  without  a  lig^ht  of  any  kind ;  he 
heard  the  pigeons  come  in  to  their  roosts  in  the  rocks,  and  he  saw 
the  bats  slip  in  and  out  against  the  dim  blue  gleam  at  the  Cave's 
mouth ;  and  harmless  living  creatures  crawled  over  him  as  he  lay. 
About  midnight,  when  the  tide  was  ebbing,  he  waited  exijectoDt; 
but  no  one  returned.  A  cold  ni;>on  rose,  flooding  the  Cathedral 
with  her  beams,  and  shining  far  cut  with  one  silvery  track  upon  the 
sea. 

It  was  then  that  he  first  bestirred  himself  and  laboured  in  prepaira* 
tion  for  his  enemies.  Scattered  on  the  floor  of  the  Cave  were  many 
loose  pieces  of  rock,  both  huge  and  small,  which  in  course  of  time 
had  detached  themselves  from  the  chffs ;  these  he  carefully  carried 
to  the  mouth  of  the  Cave,  piliog  them  one  upon  anoUier  in  readiness 
to  be  rolled  over  on  3.ny  assailant  who  might  climb  from  below, 
liAing  some,  rolling  others  ;  now  and  then  involuntarily  letting  one 
slip  from  his  aching  hold,  and  crash  down  on  the  beach  below. 
For  hours  he  laboured,  for  it  wils  no  easy  task  ;  some  of  the  stones 
being  heavy  enough,  falling  from  that  height,  to  crush  an  ox.  When 
he  had  done,  his  hands  were  bleeding,  cut  by  the  sharp  edges  of  the 
gtones.  Finally,  when  the  tide  crept  into  the  place  once  more,  he 
threw  himself  on  his  bed  and  slept 

When,  he  awoke  it  was  broad  day — the  mouth  of  the  Cave  was 
bright,  and  a  confused  cuuraiur  broke  upon  his  car.  He  started  up 
and  listened.  .-V  loud  authoritative  voice  was  calling  hiui  by  name. 
CntwUag  forward  to  the  mouth  of  the  Cave,  aow  partially  blocked 


m 


Tlu  Shadow  of  t/u  Sword. 


iti 


op  by  the  rocks  lad  stones,  tie  peered  caudoasly  over,  and  saw, 
ftanding  on  tlie  shingle  below  him,  .a  crowd  of  men.  abiiost  all  of 
whom  were  in  uniform  and  carried  bayonets  ;  while  in  their  midst, 
caUing  out  his  name,  was  a  tall  grey-headed  man  in  semi-military 
dress,  whom  he  recognised  as  the  Afayor  of  St.  Gurlott 

Again,  tlie  Mayor,  holding  a  [Ktper  in  his  hand,  called  his  name 
aloud.    After  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  answered  "  I  am  here!" 
There  was  a  babble  of  voices,  a  flashing  of  weapons ;   then  the 
ayor  said  again — 
"Silence ! — Gwenfem,  are  you  attending?" 

Yes." 
"  Do  you  know  me  ?  " 
«  Yes." 

The  answers  were  given  dbtinctly,  but  Rohan  was  careful  to  keep 
his  person  totally  concealed. 

**  You  were  drawn  for  the  Conscription  in  the  early  summer,  and 
your  name  was  &rsl  upon  the  lisL     ^\^retched  man,  you  are  at  last 
discovered,  as  every  one  will  be  who  deserts  his  country  in  tlie  hour 
of  need ;  there  is  no  longer  any  chance  of  escape  ;  why  do  you  stiU 
penisl  in  a  miserable  resistance?    In  the  name  of  the  Emperor,  I 
you  yield  yourself  up." 
No  answer. 
Do  you  hear  me  ?    Are  you  still  refractory  ?    Have  you  not  one 
to  say  for  yourself?    None  ! " 
AAer  a  moment's  pause,  the  voice  from  the  Cave  replied — 
•*Ye8,  one." 
"Speak,  then  I" 

"  If  I  surrender  as  you  desire,  what  then?" 
The  Mayor  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"  You  will  be  iMfft,  of  course,  as  a  warning  to  others." 
"And  if  I  refuse;"* 

"  Why,  then,  you  will  die  too,  but  like  a  dog.    There  is  but  one 
taw  for  deserters — one  law  and  short  shrifL     Now,  do  you  under- 
od?" 

"  I  understand." 

"And  to  save  trouble,  will  you  surrender?" 
"Not  while  I  lire." 

The  Mayor,  folding  up  his  paper,  handed  it  to  Sergeant  Pipriac 
to  ail  tJiat  said  "  I  have  done  my  duty,  and  wash  my  hands  of 
A  long  colloquy  ensued,  at  the  end  of  which  the 
wning— 
llie  rest  is  b  your  hands,  and  should  be  easy ;  he  i&  onX")  one 


I 

I 


niait  be  taken,  dad  or  alive:** 

"That  U  more  easQjr  said  than  dooe,"  said  I^priac;  "it  is  more 
Than  a  man's  life  is  wonb  to  cUmb  up  there,  and  besides,  without 
ladders  only  fxie  nun  coald  ascend  at  a  time.' 

The  Majror  nntsed ;  be  was  a  grim  pale-looking  man,  with  cnid 
gR7  eyes  and  pitiless  month. 

*•  Tbe  example  is  a  daogenns  one.  Sergeant  Pipriac ;  at  all  risks 
he  roust  be  reached.    Are  there  no  Luldcrs  in  the  village  ?  " 

"Ab,  m'sicu,"  returned  Pipriac,  "just  cast  jouz  eye  ap  at  the 
Tivu;  it  would  be  a  loi^  ladder  utdeed  to  reach  so  far,  and  even 
then- 

At  this  moment  Mlltel  Grallon,  hat  in  band,  approached  the 
IkLtyor  as  ii*  to  speak. 

"  jtTtuu  U  Afairc" 

"What  man  is  this?"  asked  the  Mayor,  soowtiDg. 

"This  is  the  man  who  first  gave  inibrmatkiii,"  said  Pipriac 

'*  Stand  back,  bshenoan !     What  do  you  want  ?  " 

Mikel  GralloD,  instead  of  falling  back,  came  closer,  and  said  in  a 
low  voice — 

"  Fardoo,  M'siat  U  Mairt,  but  there  is  one  way  if  all  the  rest 
fail" 

"w'cU?" 

"The  deserter  is  without  means  of  subsistence, 
corae  to  the  worst,  he  most  starve  to  death." 


If  tbe  worst 


CHAPTER    XXXIIL 


UtINGER  AND  COLD. 


MiKEL  Grallon,  with  chatacteristic  and  cruel  foresight,  had  hit 
upon  tlie  truth :  that  however  successftil  Kohan  Gwenfem  might  be  in 
keeping  his  assailants  at  bay  from  his  seemingly  impregnable  posi- 
tion, he  must  inevitably,  unless  provisioned  for  a  period,  which  ms 
altogether  unlikely,  either  yield  himself  up,  or  famish  and  die.  To 
secure  this  latter  end  it  was  necessary  carefiilly  to  cut  oflf  all  avenues  of 
supply,  which,  indeed,  Pipriac  had  already  done,  evcrj-  portion  of  the 
cli/Fs,  both  above  and  below,  being  well  watched  and  guarded ;  and 
now  the  only  question  was  whether  to  try  al  once  to  take  the 
position  by  storm,  or  to  wait  patiently  until  such  time  as  the  deserter 
either  capitulated  or  perished  of  starvation.  Pipriac,  being  a  roan 
of  action,  was  for  an  immediate  aitacic ;  with  which  view  he  sent 
messengers  to  scour  the  village  for  \a4dcTs  o(  some  sort  ■,  but  when 


7^  Shadow  of  the  Sword, 


r»3 


thtse  messengers  returned  empty-handed,  after  searching^  high  and 
he  saw  the  hopelessness  of  rapid  «tUck,  and  determined  to 
idtict  the  siege  passively  until  such  time  as  capitulaliou  came. 
It  niiijht  t»ke  daj-s — weeks  \  but  he  tros  determined  lo  hold  fimi. 
[I  ibould  ne\-er  be  said  that  old  Pipriac  was  baffled  and  deOed  by  a 
tpcauot,  smiling  as  it  were  within  a  stone's-throw  of  his  hand.  Tous 
Ui  dutblfs,  duty  was  duty,  and  it  should  be  done  though  it  took  him 
a  score  of  yean  ! 

In  the  meantime,  huwcrer,  he  sent  to  St  Gurlott  for  ladders, 

which  might  be  useful  sootier  or  taivr.  if  not  for  reaching  ih^-  deserter 

E«ltTe,  ai  least  for  recovering  his  dead  body.     Then,  pending  ihe[r 

'urival  he  sat  down  like  a  mighty  genenil  with  his  aimy  suirounding 

a  beleaguered  town  before  the  7'rou  A  Gildas. 

Figiinlively,  not  literally;  for  the  constant  ebbing  and  flowing  of 
ihe  tide  left  the  Cathedral  quite  out  of  the  (]ucstion  for  hold 
quarters  ;  and  moreover,  it  «'as  necessary  for  Pipriac  to  p-iss  to  and 
fro,  insfMnng  and  directing  his  men,  both  those  stationed  on  the  high 
dills  and  those  below. 
A  day  and  a  night  passed ;  and  the  prisoner  made  no  sign. 
It  would  be  tedious  to  describe  the  various  harmless  sallies  of  the 
besiegers.  At  eveiy  mtrrtt  mer  they  watched  the  Cave  and  rccon- 
noitied,  but  saw  nothing  of  the  besieged  ;  sometimes  they  called 
aloud  upon  him,  at  others  they  crept  in  and  crept  out  in  silence.  All 
the  night  double  watdt  was  kept,  not  one  avenue  of  escape  being 
overlooked  \  and  to  make  assunincc  doubly  sure,  Pipriac  refused  to 
tec  any  villager,  man  or  woman,  approach  the  scene  of  the  siege. 
Twice  Marcelle  Dcrval  was  driven  back,  almost  at  bayonet-point, 
ftPT  the  men  were  growing  savage  through  sheer  impatience.  What 
her  cttAnd  wa»  nunc  knew ;  but  one  suspected  :  llial  it  was  to  carry 
tbc  deserter  bread. 

O     '  4  of  the  second  day  the  sea  rose  high,  and  llie  wind 

bk-.^  tfom  Ihe  south-east;  by  noon  ihc  wind  had  risen 

to  a  storm  ;  before  nighl  it  was  blowing  a  gale,  with  heavy  blinding 
rain.  For  two  daj-s  and  nights  more  the  storm  continued,  growing 
fierter  and  ticrixr,  on  the  land  and  on  the  sea:  the  great  cliffs 
shook,  the  cormorants  sat  half-stnrving  in  their  ledges  Inoliing  at  the 
la^g  sea.  The  ^endarma  kept  their  posts,  relieving  each  oilier  at 
regular  intervals.  The  sentinels  tore  lanterns,  which  wt-rc  Hashed 
fisU  all  I.  Ihc  dills  iti  Uie  neighbourhixxl  of  the  Ove. 

tn  tliL  '. ...1.  Ji  these  tempestuous  nights  Kohon  might  possibly 

hire  eacafied.  but  he  did  not  try  ;  out  in  the  open  country  he  would 
hav  '  L-n  tjkcn,  and  he  lcnewDO"coign  of  vantage"  et\vial\o 

;L,N.S.  i8;b.  I 


114 


T/ie  Gentleman  s  Ma^mn*. 


the  posirion  he  occupied.  Twice,  at  considerable  peril,  he  made  his 
way  in  the  darkness  up  the  cUfi"  to  the  spot  where  he  had  been  dis- 
covered by  Mikel  Cralloti  and  the  rest ;  and  on  the  second  occasion 
a  hand  from  above,  as  before,  let  him  down  food — black  bread  and 
coarse  cheese.     So  he  did  not  slan-c — ycl. 

And  now  the  storm  abated,  and  cahn  days  came,  arxl  nights  with 
a  bright  moon.  The  besiegers  made  no  attempt  to  reach  htm; 
they  had  clearly  determined  on  starving  him  out. 

On  ihc  fifth  niyht  from  the  commencement  of  the  siege  the 
besiegers  made  a  discovery.  The  sentinels  on  the  ciags  above, 
as  they  stood  twixt  sleeping  and  waking  at  their  posts,  saw  a  dark 
figure  creeping,  almost  crawling,  on  the  edges  of  the  crags ;  some- 
times it  paused  and  lay  quite  still,  at  others  it  almost  ran ;  and  at 
first  they  crossed  themselves  superstitious ly,  for  they  deemed  it  some- 
thing  unearthly.  There  was  a  moon,  but  from  time  to  rime  her  light 
was  buried  in  dense  clouds.  Now,  whenever  the  moonlight  shone 
out,  the  figure  lay  still ;  whenever  all  became  dark  it  again  moved 
forward. 

Ovii  iiendamic,  separating  Himself  &om  his  fellows,  followed  on  his 
hands  and  knees — moved  when  the  figure  moved — p>aused  when  the 
figure  paused — and  at  last,  with  a  powerful  effort  of  the  will — for  he 
had  his  supersritions — sprang  forward,  seized  the  figure — and  found 
it  flesh  and  blood. 

Then  the  others,  running  up  with  lanterns,  flashed  them  in  the 
pale  face  of  a  woman,  who  uttered  a  loud  wail :  Mother  Gwcnfem, 

Her  enand  was  instantly  discovered;  she  ouiied  food,  which  she 
was  obviously  about  to  convey  to  her  son  by  means  of  a  hempen 
cord,  which  they  also  found  upon  her  person.  It  was  a  pitiful 
business,  and  some  there  would  fain  hiivc  washed  their  hands  of  it; 
but  the  more  brutal  ones,  faithful  to  their  duty,  drove  the  old  woman 
back  to  her  cottage  at  the  bayonet  point.  From  that  time  forth  a 
still  closer  watch  was  kept,  so  that  no  soul  could  possibly  have  left 
the  village  and  approached  the  great  cliff-watl  unseen. 


■'  He  wiU  die  I" 

"  Mother,  he  shall  not  die  I" 

"  There  is  no  hope— there  Is  no  way  \  ah,  my  ctase  on  Fipiiac, 
and  on  lliem  all !" 

"  Pray  to  the  good  God  \  He  will  direct  us  !" 

"Why  should  I  pray  ?  God  is  against  us,  God  and  the  Emperor; 
my  boy  will  die,  my  boy  will  die  !" 

It  was  evening;  and  the  two  women — Mother  Gwcnfem  and 


The  Sftadow  of  the  Sword, 


MafceDe — nt  slooe  together  in  the  widow's  cottage,  clinging  to- 
gether and  ciytng  in  despair;  for  the  widow's  last  attempt  to  send 
Buocour  to  her  son  Imd  failc<l,  and  now  her  very  door  was  watdicd 
bjr  cruel  eyes.  Ah,  it  was  tenihie !  To  Uiink  that  the  son  of  her 
womb  was  out  yonder  starving  in  the  night,  tiiat  he  had  not  tasted 
bread  for  tnauy  hours,  that  she  was  powerless  to  stir  to  help  Inm  any 
more  !  WKat  she  had  pre^dously  been  able  to  convey  to  him  had 
been  barely  sufficient  to  support  life,  yet  it  had  sufficed;  huiiwu'/ 
— a  whole  day  and  night  had  passed  since  she  had  vainly  tried  to 
reach  him  and  had  been  discovered  in  the  attempt.  Alerciful  God  I 
to  think  of  the  darkness,  and  the  cold,  and  the  dreary  soUtudc  of  the 
Cave  ;  and  then,  to  crown  all,  the  hunger ! 

The  agony  of  those  months  of  horror  had  left  their  mark  on  the 
weary  woman ;  gaunter  and  more  grim  than  ever,  a  skeleton  only 
sustained  by  the  intensity  of  the  maternal  fire  that  butnt  within  her, 
she  wailcil  and  watched  :  that  ominous  blue  colour  of  the  lips  often 
faodaiming  the  secret  disease  that  preyed  within.  Her  comfort 
m  those  desolate  hours  had  been  Marcelle,  who  with  a  daughter's 
love  and  more  than  a  daughter's  duty  had  watched  over  her  and 
helped  her  in  her  holy  stniggle. 

Come  back  lo  the  Cathednl  of  St.  Gildos ;  it  is  night,  the  tide  is 
ftUl,  and  the  moon  is  shining  on  the  watery  fioor.  Far  above  on  the 
difis  the  sentinels  are  watching ;  on  the  shores  around  they  are  scat- 
tered, standing  or  lying ;  Pipriac  is  not  with  them,  but  he  too, 
vbetever  he  is,  is  on  the  ^ui  vive.  All  is  stilt  and  calm  :  stillest  of 
all  that  white  face  gazing  seaward  out  of  the  Cave. 

The  pinch  has  corac  at  last,  the  cruel  pinch  and  pang  which  no 
nrength  of  wit)  can  subdue,  which  nothing  hut  bread  can  appease. 
Lut  night  Rohan  Gwenfcm  ate  his  last  crust ;  then,  climbing 
up  to  the  old  spot,  watched  for  the  old  signal,  as  he  had  watched 
the  night  before,  in  vain.  When  food  hiui  come  he  liad  husbanded 
it  with  care — only  partaking  of  just  enough  to  support  simple  life, 
dividing  the  rest  into  portions  for  the  future  hours ;  but  he  had  come 
to  the  end  at  lasL  l>own  on  the  shores  there  might  be  shellfish 
capable  of  nourishing  life,  but  thither  he  dared  not  fare :  lie  must 
remain,  Uke  a  rat,  withiu  his  hole  ;  and  help  from  Utc  sea-birds  there 
WW  none,  for  the  puffins  had  all  fled  many  weeks  before,  and  the 
gulls  were  strong-winged  and  beyond  his  reach.  Water  he  lacked 
not ;  the  cold  rocks  distilled  f/itU  liberally  enough  ;  but  food  he  bad 
none — nay,  not  even  the  dtiUe  of  the  sea  lo  gnaw.  Ue  was  caged, 
trapped  i  and  now  he  starved. 

11 


• 


T%e  Geniiemans  Afagazim. 


"What  wonder,  then,  if  his  dee  looked  wild  and  despairing  as  he 
gued  out  OD  the  londf  sea  ?  Far  out  in  the  moon,  creeping  like 
bUck  water-snakes  along  the  water,  be  saw  the  fishing  boats  going 
seaward  : — ah,  bow  merrily  had  he  SAiled  with  them  in  those  peace- 
ful da>-7  that  were  gone !  He  hsd  lost  all  that ;  he  had  lost  the 
worid.  .  .  .  Yet  be  could  bear  ail,  he  would  not  care  if  he  had  odI|;, 
a  crust  of  bread  to  cat ! 

Sometimes  his  head  swooned  round,  for  already  hunger  had  be 
to  attack  the  citadels  of  life ;  soiAetinics  he  fell  away  into  a  doze  and 
awoke  shivering ;  yet  waking  or  asleep^  he  sat  watching  at  the  Care's 
mouth  in  desolatioQ  and  despair. 


"Rohan!  Rohan!" 

He  starts  from  his  half-sleep,  looking  wildly  round  him.  Almigh 
God,  is  it  a  dream  ?  Something  black  stirs  there  in  the  moonlight ; 
something  black,  and  amidst  it  something  white.  It  is  too  dim  for 
him  to  see  well — to  diainguish  shapes — I>ut  he  can  hear  the  well- 
known  voice,  though  it  comes  only  in  a  whisper.    Can  it  l>e  real  ? 

"  Rohan  I  Rohan  ! " 

Yes,  it  is  real  I  Peering  down  be  sees,  Boating  imdcr  the  Altar,  a 
small  boat  containing  two  figures.  Yes,  surely  a  boat,  by  the  move- 
ment of  the  muffled  oars.  It  moves  softly  up  and  down  on  the 
great  swell  that  rises  and  £iUs  in  the  Cathedral 

"  Rohan,  are  yon  there  ?    listen,  it  is  I — MarccUe  I    Ah,  now 
see  you^ — whisper  low,  for  they  arc  on  the  watch." 

'*  \\'ho  is  with  you  ?  " 

**  Jannick  Goron ;  we  crept  along  dose  to  shore  through  the  Parte 
d'Ingnal,  and  no  one  saw ;  but  tlieie  is  no  time  to  lose.  We  hove 
biDught  you  food  ! " 

The  man's  eyes  glitter  as  be  bends  over  the  descent,  looking 
down  at  the  boat.  As'  he  hangs  in  this  atu'tudc,  a  sound  strikes 
upon  his  car,  and  he  listens  wildly ;  again  t  yes,  it  is  the  sound  of 
oars  beyond  the  Gate. 

"Quick!  begone!"  he  cries;  "ihcy  are  cwning.  .  .  .  See! 
the  food  down  on  the  shingle  and  fly ! " 

The  tide  is  still  nearly  full,  but  just  under  the  Trau  there  is  a 
narrow  space  of  shingle  from  which  the  water  has  just  ebbed,  and 
on  which  the  boat's  prow  strikes  at  intcrvalsu  On  this  shingle 
Marccllc,  leaning  quickly  forn-ard,  deposits  what  she  bears;  then, 
with  on  impulsive  movement,  she  stretches  her  arms  eagerly  up  to 
him  who  hangs  above  her,  as  if  to  embrace  him,  while  Jannick 
Goron,  with  a  few  swift  strokes  of  the  oars,  forces  ihc  light  boat  oui 


'4 


throtaJ 

'^  is  g 


T^  S/iadouf  of  the  Sword,  117 

Cithedra,!  floor,  through  the  Gate,  and  out  to  the  sea 
l>cyoiid.  Scjucely  has  he  passed  the  shadow  of  the  Gate,  however, 
when  a  gmff  voice  demands  **  Who  goes  tliere  \ "  and  a  black 
piuuce,  rowed  by  sailors  of  the  coast>guard,  bears  down  from  the 
darkness.  In  an  instant  a  heavy  hand  is  laid  on  the  gunwale  of 
Goron's  boat ;  bayonets  and  cutlasses  glisten  in  the  dim  moonlight, 
and  a  familiar  voice  cries — 

"  Tims  ies  diables  !    It  is  a  woman  T 

The  speaker  b  Fipriac,  and  he  stands  in  the  stern  of  tbe  pixmace, 
glaring  over  at  Marcelle. 

"  The  lantern  I  let  us  sec  her  (aCC  f 

Some  one  lifts  a  lighted  lantern  from  the  bottom  of  the  boat  and 
ftishes  its  rays  right  into  the  face  of  Marccltc.  She  is  soon  recog- 
nised ;  and  then  the  same  proceeding  is  gone  through  with  Goron, 
whose  identity  is  hailed  with  a  volk-y  of  expletives. 

"Is  this  treason?"  cries  Pijiriac  "Malediction!  answer,  one  or 
both.  What  the  foul  fiend  are  you  doing  out  here  by  the  Gate  at 
such  an  hour?  Do  you  know  what  will  be  the  consequence  if  yon 
are  discovered  aiding  and  abetting  the  deserter?  Well,  it  will  be 
death  :— death,  look  you— even  for  you,  Marcelle  Derval,  though 
you  are  only  a  girl  and  a  child  1" 

Marcelle  answers  with  detenni  nation,  though  her  heart  is  dck 
with  apprehension  lest  her  ermnd  is  discovered. 

"Surely  one  may  row  upon  the  water  without  o^ence,  Sergeant 
Fipriac  r 

**  Ab,  boh !  Icll  that  to  the  fishes ;  old  Pipriac  is  not  so  stupid. 
Here,  one  of  yout  search  tlie  boat." 

A  man  leaps,  lantern  in  hand,  from  the  larger  boat  into  the 
lUoUcr,  searches  it,  and  finds  nothing:  at  which  Pipriac  shakes 
bis  head  and  growls.  It  is  characteristic  of  Pipriac  that  when  he 
is  least  rcaily  angry  he  vociferates  and  objurgates  the  most ;  when 
most  subdued  he  is  mo<!t  dangerous.  On  the  present  occasion  his 
bnifuage  is  quite  unquotable.  When  he  has  finished  one  of  the 
eaen  inquires  quietly  if  Marcelle  and  Goron  are  to  be  arrested  or 
snflcred  to  go  about  their  business. 

"Curses  upon  them,  let  them  go!  but  we  must  keep  our  eyes 
open  henceforth.  Jan  Goron,  I  suspect  you— be  warned,  and 
take  no  more  moonlight  excursions.  MarccUc,  you  too  arc  warned; 
yott  come  oft  good  stock,  and  1  should  be  soriy  to  see  you  get  into 
trouble.  Now,  away  with  you  '. — Home,  like  lightning  1  And  hark 
yon,  when  next  you  come  out  here  by  night  you  will  find  \t  %o  tu-td. 
with  you  indeed.  Ayooe  /" 
SoUaradle  and  Coron  go  free  —partly,  perhaps,  lhroug,Vi  nhe  sc»<X 


I 


I 


1 18  Tk^  GentUma^s  Magazint, 

good-nature  of  the  Sergeant.  Goron  pulls  rapidly  for  the  \TlUge,.' 
and  soun  his  boat  tuuchus  the  shore  imnictliaiely  beoealh  ihe^ 
cottage  of  Alotlier  Gwenfern. 

Meantime  Pipriac  lias  peered  through  the  Gate  into  the  Cathednl ; 
seeing  all  quiet  and  in  darkness,  he  gives  the  order  to  depart, 
and  so  his  boat,  too,  disappears  from  the  scene  No  sooner  has  the 
sound  of  his  oars  quite  died  away  in  the  distance  than  a  dark  figure 
begins  to  descend  from  the  Cave;  hanging  by  feet  and  Iiaodsto 
creep  down  from  crevice  to  crevice  of  the  dai^erous  wall,  until  tt 
reaches  the  space  of  shingle  beneath :  there  it  finds  the  burtben 
which  MarccUe  brought,  which  it  secures  carefully  before  again 
climbing ;  then,  even  more  rapidly  tha.Q  it  came  down,  it  proceeds 
to  rcasccnd,  and,  ere  long,  id  perfect  safety,  it  returns  to  the  mouth 
of  the  Cave.  So  Rohan  Gwcnfcm  is  saved  from  fanuoe  for  the  time 
being. 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

A    POUR-FOOTED  CHRISTIAN. 

The  siege  has  lasted  nearly  a  fortnight,  and  still  the  deseitei 
seems  as  i3s  off  from  surreudering  as  ever.  It  is  inscrutable,  in' 
ceivable;  for  every  avenue  of  aid  is  now  blocked,  and  there  is 
known  means  by  which  a  human  being  could  bring  him  help,  eith' 
by  land  or  sea.  Save  for  the  (act  that  from  time  to  time  glimpses 
are  caught  of  his  person,  and  indications  given  of  his  existence,  one 
would  imagine  the  deserter  to  be  dead.  Yet  he  Is  not  dead  \  and  he 
does  not  offer  to  surrender;  and,  indeed,  he  is  tiresomely  on 
alert.  Naturally,  the  patience  of  his  pursuers  is  exluusted; 
they  do  not  neglect  their  usual  precautions.  Pipriac,  in  his  secret 
mind  (where  he  is  supeistitious),  begins  to  think  he  is  dealing  with 
a  ghost  aAer  all ;  for  surely  no  human  being,  singte-haaded,  could  so 
consummately  and  so  calmly  set  at  defiance  all  the  forces  of  the  law, 
of  Pipriac,  and  of  the  great  Kmpcror.  Of  one  thing  Pipriac  is 
certain,  that  no  human  hand  brings  the  deserter  food ;  and  yet  he 
Ures ;  and  to  live  he  must  eat  \  and  how  all  the  de\-{ls  does  he 
provide  the  wherewithal?  Unless  he  is  mystcriou.sly  fed  by  an 
angel,  oi  (which  is  far  more  probable  in  Pipriac's  opioioD)  by  a  spirit 
of  a  darker  order,  he  must  himself  be  something  more  than  human  : 
in  which  case  affairs  look  grim,  and  yet  ridiculous  indeed.  Food 
does  not — at  least  in  these  degenerate  days — drop  from  heaven  ;  nor 
docs  it,  in  a  form  suitable  for  human  sustenance,  grow  in  rocks  and 
<^vcs  of  the  sea.  How  then  by  atl  that  is  diabolic  does  the  deserter 
procure  that  food  which  is  so  terrible  and  comittOtt-^\wx  a-Nsasm^ 
Jiecess-''  '  '2zJe8  thinking. 


M 


TAe  SAaehw  of  th^  Sword. 


119 


What  the  open-minded  and  irascible  soldier,  too  fair  and  loo  ficiy 
for  subtle  saspictons.  fails  altogether  to  discover,  is  finally,  after 
nuny  nights  and  da)'s,  rooted  out  and  brought  to  light  by  the  mole- 
tike  buTTOwer  in  mean  soil,  .Mikel  Grullon.  Honest  Miket  has  been 
all  this  time,  more  oc  les:,  a  liangcr-oD  to  the  skirts  of  the  besieging 
p«rty :  coming  and  going  at  irregutac  tnlervala.  but  never  quite 
abandoning  his  fiincaoas  as  scout  and  spy  in  general.  Him  Piprioc 
ever  regards  with  a  malignant  and  baleful  eye,  but  to  Pipnac's 
di&like  he  is  skin-proor.  His  business  now  is  to  ascertain  by  what 
secret  means  the  deserter  sets  his  enemies  at  defiance  and  cannot 
even  be  starved  out,  or  in,  his  citadel.  Here  Grallon,  unlike  the 
Sergeant,  has  no  supereiitions ;  he  is  convinced  with  all  his  cmfiy 
miod  that  tbere  are  sound  physical  reasons  for  all  that  is  taking 
[place:  Rohao  Gwcofcm  is  receiving  ordinary  sustenance — but  hcwt 

If  eooncs  upon  Gralton  in  one  illuminating  flnsh,  as  he  stands,  not 
fiv  from  Pipriac,  at  the  fool  of  the  Stairs  of  St.  Triffine,  looking 
upward.  Westward,  on  the  cliflTs  face,  not  far  from  the  Cathedral, 
something  is  moving,  walking  with  sure  footsteps  on  paths  inncces- 
^ble  to  man :  it  pauses  ever  and  anon,  gazing  round  with  quiet 
uncoQcem ;  then  it  leisurely  moves  on ;  nor  docs  it  halt  until  it  has 
descended  the  ^recn  side  in  the  very  neighbourhood  of  Rohan's  Trou. 
Great  impirations  coroc  suddenly ;  to  Grallon  it  seems  "  as  if  a  star 
has  burst  within  his  brain."  He  runs  up  to  Pipriac,  who  is  sullenly 
sttring  on  a  rock  with  a  group  of  his  men  around  him. 

"  1.00k,  Sergeant,  look  !  " 

And  he  points  at  the  object  in  the  distance.  Pipriac  rolls  his  one 
eye  round  in  no  amiable  fashion,  and  demands  by  all  the  devils 
what  Mikel  Grallon  means. 

••  Look  ! "  repeats  MikcL     "  The  Goat  I " 

"And  what  of  the  goat,  fishenoan  P  " 

*^  Only  this :  it  is  going  to  the  2>V)V,  and  it  goes  there  by  day  and 
a^ght  to  feed  its  ma!>ier :  now  at  the  cottage,  then  at  the  Cave.  IVhat 
Cools  we  have  been  I " 

Here  Grallon  chuckles  silently,  much  to  the  anger  of  the  Sergeant. 

"  Cease  grimacing,  and  explain  ! "  cries  Pipriac.     **  Well  ?  " 

"I  have  my  suspicions — nay,  am  I  not  certain? — tliat  Madame 
LoDgbtsud  yonder  is  in  the  plot  Is  she  not  ever  wandering  to  and 
fro  upon  the  clifls,  and  will  she  not  come  to  the  deserter's  call,  and 
would  it  not  be  easy  to  conceal  food  about  her  body? — no  nutter 
how  little ;  a  cntst  will  keep  life  alive.  Look  :  she  descends — she  is 
out  of  sight :  she  is  going  straight  down  to  the  Cave ! " 

Pipriac  keeps  his  live-coal  of  an  eye  6xcd  on  GTa!l\on'&,\oQVvn% 
ifarctv^  atber  than  upoa  Jiim,  in  a  grim  abstraction ',  Vhea  \it  toic*. 


I20 


Tfie  Gentkmatis  I^lagazine. 


grcnrling,  to  his  feet,  and  calls  a  consuludon,  the  result  of  which  uj 
that  the  goat  shall  be  strictly  watched. 

The  morning  after  Jannedik  is  intcrceiited  as  she  emerges  on 
cliff,  suTTouDded,  and  "  searched,"  but  nothing  being  discovered,  si 
is  suffered  to  go.  The  momii^  afterwards,  however,  Pipriac  is  more 
fortimaie ;  for  he  finds,  carefully  buried  among  the  long  hair  of  the 
goat's  throat,  and  suspended  by  a  strong  cord  round  the  neck 
amall  basket  of  wo%'en  Tt<A&  containing  black  bread  and  strong 
dteese.  It  is  now  clear  enougii  that  Janntdik  has  been  the  bearer 
of  supplies  from  time-  to  time. 

"  It  would  be  only  just.'*  saj-s  one  of  the  geadarma,  **  to  slioot 
for  treason  against  the  Emperor." 

Pipriac  scowled. 

"  No,  let  her  go,"  he  cried,  "  the  beast  knows  no  better ;"  and 
as  Janncdik  leapt  away  without  the  load,  and  began  descending 
the  cliffs  in  the  direction  of  the  Cathedral,  he  muttered,  "  She  wll 
not  he  so  welcome  to-day  as  usnal,  without  her  little  present." 

So  the  gendarmes  eat  the  bread  and  cheese,  and  laugh  as  thi 
reflect  that  Rohan  is  circumvenied  at  last;  while  Pipriac  paces  up 
and  down,  in  no  lamb-like  mood,  for  he  is  secretly  ashamed  of  the 
whole  business.    Still  duty  is  duty,  and  tlie  Sergeant,  with  dogged 
pertinacity,  meaus  to  perfomi  his. 

Henceforth  all  efforts  to  use  Janncdik  as  the  bearer  of  sup  pi 
arc  unavailing :  a  gendarme  is  posted  at  the  widow's  door  night  and 
day,  with  strict  orders  to  watch  the  whole  family,  especially  the  goat 
He  notices  that  Jannedik  seldom  comes  and  goes  at  all,  and  never 
stays  long  out  of  doors ;  for  lying  on  the  hearth  within  she  haa  ft 
little  kid,  who  requires  constant  maternal  attention.  When,  one 
night,  the  kid  dies  and  jantiedik  is  left  lamenting,  the  ^atiiiirmt 
regards  the  affair  as  of  no  impotiance  j — but  he  is  wrong. 

More  days  pass,  and  stilt  the  deserter  is  not  dead  but  liretlL 
Wild  winds  blow  with  rain  and  hail,  the  sea  roars  night  and  day,  the 
besiegers  have  a  hard  timic  of  it  and  are  growing  furious.  How  the 
fierce  rains  lash  the  rlitls  !  how  the  spindrift  flies  in  from  the  foaming 
waters  ! — and  yet  screened  from  all  this  sits  the  deserter,  while  the 
servants  of  the  Em]jeror  are  dripping  like  drowned  rats.  Hours  of 
storm,  when  Pipriac's  loudest  malediction  is  faint  as  tlie  scratch  of 
pin,  unheeded  and  scarce  heard!     Is  this  to  last  for  ever? 

To  Pijiriac  and  the  rest,  pacing  there  in  mist  and  cloud,  peepinj 
muffled  to  the  throat,  there  tome  &om  time  to  lime  tidings  from  th 
&r-off  seat  of  war.    The  great  Kmpcror  has  met  with  slight  reverses, 
and  B/iTTii-  of  his  old  friends  are  falling  away  from  him ;  indeed, 


■4 

up^ 

he      ' 

J4 


4 


of 


The  Shadow  of  the  Sttford.  i  a  i 

Pipiioc  could  only  discern  it,  the  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  prophet's 
hand  is  already  iooiuing  on  Uic  German  Khiuc  The  ^nuiarmes 
laugh  and  quote  the  bulletins  as  they  tminp  up  and  down.  They  are 
amused  at  the  folly  of  those  who  have  fallen  off  from  the  Emperor, 
and  look  forward  for  the  news  of  French  ^-ictory  which  is  lo  come 
Mxn ! 

Once  more,  as  they  stand  bilov  the  clifls,  Mikd  Grallon  ptunts 
upwnrd.  calling  the  attention  of  Pipriac 
"  Well  ?  "  snaps  the  ScrgcaoL 

"  That  accureed  goat ;  it  goes  to  the  Trvu  ofiener  than  ever." 
"  What  then  ?    It  goes  empty,  fisherman — we  take  care  of  thaL 
Pshaw,  you  are  an  ass," 
MikcJ  trembles  and  quivers  spitefully  as  he  replies — 
*'  I  will  tell  you  one  thing  that  you  have  overlooked,  clever  as 
you  think  yourself  j  if  you  had  thought  of  it  you  would  never  have 
let  the  goat  go." 
"  WeU?" 

"  The  goat  is  in  full  suck,  though  her  kid  ts  dead ;  and  a  moath 
draws  her  milk  each  day  ! " 

Pipriac  utters  an  cxclaniatioo ;  here  is  a  new  light  with  a  ven- 
geance I 

"  Is  this  true?"  he  growls,  glaring  round.  '*  Malediction,  but  this 
Mikcl  Grallon  is  the  devil !  After  all,  a  man  cannot  live  on  the 
milk  of  a  goat" 

"  It  may  sutlice  for  a  lime,"  says  Mikel  Grallon ;  "  there  is  life  in 
iL  Curses  on  the  beast  I  If  I  were  one  of  you,  I  would  soon  aettlc 
its  business." 

As  be  speaks  the  goat  is  passing  overhead,  at  a  distance  of  several 
hundred  ywds,  leisurely  pausing  ever  and  anon,  and  cropping  the 
ihin   herbage  ^*  *l»e   goes.      A  diabolical  twinkle  comes  into  tlje 
Sergeant's  eye. 
"  Can  you  shoot,  fisherman?"  he  asks. 
"  I  ou)  hit  a  mark,"  is  llie  reply. 

**  I  wiU  wager  a  bottle  ot  good  brandy  you  could  not  hit  a 
buD^oor  at  twenty  yards  I  Nevertheless,— Hocl,  give  hira  your 
gun." 

llie  gendarme  baiKls  his  weapon  to  Mikel  Grallon,  who  takes  it 
iiJcatly,  vnih  a  look  of  interrogation  at  Pipriac 
"Now,  hicl" 
-At  what?" 

"  )d«l«dicuon,  at  the  goat ;  let  us  see  wliat  you  arc  made  of.    Tvit, 
■nd  missl" 
The  Utia  lif^ofMikci  Grallon  are  pressed  tight  logeOict,  and  Vws 


133 


The  GeniUmaiCs  Magazine. 


brow  cx>nics  don-n  over  hb  eyes.  His  hand  does  not  tremble  ai, 
kneeling  down  on  knee,  he  steadies  the  piece  and  takes  aim.  Up 
above  him  Jannedik,  with  her  side  presented  full  to  him,  pauses 
unconscious. 

He  is  so  long  in  taking  aim  that  Pipriac  swears. 

"  Malediction  !-^/&y/" 

There  is  a  flash,  a  report,  and  the  bullet  (lies  on  to  its  mark  above. 
For  a  moment  it  seenis  to  have  missed,  for  the  goat,  though  il  seemed 
to  start  at  the  sound,  still  stands  in  the  same  position,  scarcely  sdr- 
ring ;  and  Hoci  is  snatching  his  giin  back  with  a  contemptuous 
laugh,  when  Pipriac,  pointing  upward,  cries — 

'•  Thus  ttt  diahitt  I — she  is  hit ;  she  is  coming  down !" 

But  the  niche  where  the  goat  stands  is  broad  and  safe,  and  she 
has  only  fallen  fonrard  on  her  knees ;  it  is  obvious  she  is  hurt,  foi 
she  quakes  and  seems  about  to  roll  o\-er ;  restraining  herself,  how- 
ever, she  staggers  to  her  legs,  and  then,  as  if  partially  recovered,  she 
runs  rapidly  along  the  cli&  in  the  direction  oi  the  Cave. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


ViCIU 

For  a  second  time  Mikcl  Grallon,  with  the  cunning  of  his  dass, 
had  guessed  correctly  ;  and  for  two  long  days  and  nights  Rohan 
Gwenfem  had  received  no  other  sustenance  thou  the  milk  of  the 
goat  At  hrst,  al\er  the  death  of  her  kid,  Jannedik  had  been 
running  about  the  clilfs  distracted,  burthcncd  with  the  weight  of 
the  milk  the  little  lips  could  no  longer  draw ;  and  the  famished 
man  in  the  Cave,  finding  in  her  discomfort  his  bodily  salvation, 
had  in  direst  extremity  put  his  moulh  to  her  teeming  udder  and 
drunk.  From  that  moment  forth  Jannedik  returned  many  times  a 
day  to  be  relieved  of  her  painful  burthen ;  and  the  more  relief 
came  the  freer  the  milk  flowed — a  vital  and  an  inviguradng  stream. 

But  by  this  time  the  struggle  was  weU-nigh  over,  and  Rohan 
Gwenfem  knew  well  that  ihe  end  was  near.  The  hand  of  Deatb 
seemed  upon  him,  the  wholesome  flesh  had  worn  from  off  his  bones, 
and  his  whole  frame  was  shrunken  and  famine  stricken.  No  eye  un< 
dimmed  with  tears  could  have  seen  him  there,  crouching  like  a 
starved  wolf  upon  his  dark  bed,  with  wild  eyes  glaring  out  through 
hair  unkempt,  his  cheeks  sunken,  his  jaw  drooping  in  cxhausboa 
mod  despair.  From  time  to  lime  he  wailed  out  to  God  inarticulate 
goands  of  misery ;  and  oflen  his  head  giew  V\%\\^,  aniVc  w»  vxvoqE!^ 
visions  Qittina  about  him  in  the  ^Voom.    'B^iv  aWa.-5V  -wVok  <&««. 


TTu  Shadow  of  the  Sword,  123 

come  any  sound  firom  below,  he  was  ready,  with  all  his  fierce  imtinct 
npoa  bim,  to  waich  and  to  resist. 

He  was  sitting  thus  towards  evening,  when  llie  tide  was  Tull  and 
the  wave*  were  roaring  in  storm  underneath  the  Cave,  when  the 
ectnnce  was  darkened,  and  JanDcdik  crept  in,  and  passing  across 
the  duDp  and  slimy  fioor,  lay  down  at  his  bctl.  For  a  o'mc  he 
sctieely  oolkcd  her,  for  he  was  light-headed,  muttering  and  mur- 
muring to  himself;  but  presently  his  attention  was  attracted  by  the 
rough  tongue  licking  his  hand.  Turning  his  hoUon-  eyes  upon  her, 
he  murmured  lier  name  and  touched  her  softly,  at  which 
abe  itiiTcd,  looking  up  into  his  face  and  uttering  a  low  cry  of 
pain  i  and  then,  quivering  from  head  to  foot  in  agony,  she  rolled  over 
at  his  feet  He  then  saw,  with  horror,  that  she  was  ^ufTcring  from  a 
terrible  wound  in  the  side,  some  distance  behind  the  shoulder;  and 
from  that  wound  her  life's  blood  was  ebbing  fast. 

Pitiful — even  more  pitiful  than  the  pain  of  human  beings  whose 
lips  can  speak — are  the  fatal  pangs  of  poor  beasts  that  the  good  God 
made  dumb.  By  an  instinct  diviner  than  out  reason  they  know 
and  fear  the  approach  of  death,  and  sometimes  they  seem  to  love 
hfe  well — so  well,  they  dart  not  die.  Shall  we  weep  by  mortal 
death-beds  and  keep  dry  eyes  by  these?  or  sliall  we  not  rather  deem 
that  the  Shadow  that  darkens  our  hearts  is  terrible  to  theirs,  and 
that  the  blessing  we  ask  upon  our  last  sleep  should  be  spoken  on 
didn  as  well :  with  the  same  hope  of  awakening,  with  the  same 
poor  gleam  of  comfort,  with  the  same  faith  iKjm  of  despair  in  the 
presence  of  that  great  darkness  we  cannot  understand  ? 

To  Rohan,  this  poor  goat  had  been  more  than  succour  and  solace : 
she  had  been  a  friend  and  a  companion,  almost  human  in  the  com- 
Ibtl  she  broughL  So  long  as  she  came  to  him,  with  or  without 
tidings  from  the  world,  he  did  not  seem  quite  deserted,  he  did  not 
liecl  quite  hcart-brokcD.  Se^-eral  times  he  had  Oung  his  arms  around 
her  neck,  and  almost  wept,  as  he  thought  of  the  loving  ones  from 
whom  she  came  ;  and  her  familiar  presence,  seen  from  day  to  day, 
had  made  the  dark  Cave  seem  tike  home. 

And  now  she  lay  at  hb  feet  panting,  dying,  her  large  eyes  upturned 
beaeechingly  to  his.  He  uttered  a  wild  groan,  and  knelt  beside 
bcr. 

"  Jtnnedik  !  Jannedik  1 " 

Tbe  poor  beast  knew  her  name  and  licked  the  hand  of  her  master; 
then,  with  one  last  quiver  of  the  bleeding  frame,  she  dropped  her 
gcodc  bead,  and  died. 


I         gcndc  be 
I VvHat 


pukaaa  cunc,  and  found  Rohan  Gwenfcrn  sliU  kneeVitvftV^  ^!s^e 


i 


The  GeniUmaiCs  Magazine. 


side  of  his  dead  friend,  liis  face  white  as  death  and  lit  with  Frenzy, 
his  frame  trembling  from  licad  to  fooL  All  his  own  physical  troubles 
were  forgotten  for  the  time,  in  this  new  surprise  and  pain  ;  be  gazed 
on  the  dead  goat  as  on  a  murdered  man,  innocent  yet  martyred  ; ; 
and  again  and  again  he  called  his  heart's  curse  on  the  hand  iliat 
struck  her  lov.  A  sick  horror  possessed  him :  he  could  not  rise  nor 
stir,  but  the  wild  thoughts  coursed  across  his  brain  like  clouds  across 
the  sky. 

The  moon  rose  in  the  high  heavens,  but  the  wind  had  noc  ■bated, 
and  the  sea  was  siill  thundering  on  the  shore.  It  was  one  of  those 
wild  autumn  nights  when  there  is  a  great  shining  in  the  upper  air, 
with  a  strange  trouble  and  conflict  of  the  forces  below  ;  when  the 
moon  and  stars  fulfil  their  ministrations  to  an  earth  (hat  trembles  in 
doritness  and  a  sea  that  moans  in  pain  \  a  night  of  elemental  con- 
tradictions :  %'ast  calm  in  the  heavens,  but  mighty  tumult  under  the 
heavens;  the  clouds  drifting  luminously  yet  softly  overhead,  but  the 
Noith-West  Wind  going  forth  lumuUuuusty  below,  with  his  foot  on 
the  neck  of  the  Deep. 

The  cold  moonlight  from  heaven  crept  into  the  Cave  and  touched 
the  dead  goat,  and  trembled  on  Kotum's  &cc  and  hands  as  if  in 
benediction ;  but  no  benediction  came ;  and  the  man's  heart  was 
fierce  as  a  beast's  within  him,  and  the  man's  brain  was  mad.  As  a 
wild  beast  broods  in  its  care,  gazing  out  through  the  lunar  sheen 
with  glazed  and  mindless  eyes,  Rohan  crouched  in  his  place  in  a 
sort  of  savage  trance.  One  hour — two — passed  thus.  He  seemed 
scarcely  to  see  or  hear. 

Mtamwhilc  the  foaming,  surging  tide  had  drifted  out  through  the 
Gate,  and  the  tomb-like  rocks  and  stoues  were  again  visible  on  the 
weedy,  shingly  shore.  Ilic  sea  roared  farther  oC  beyond  the  Gate, 
but  its  roar  was  still  deafening.  The  wind,  moreover,  was  yet  riudg, 
and  there  was  a  halo  like  Saturn's  ring  round  the  vitreous  Moon. 

All  at  once  Rohan  leapt  to  his  feet  and  listened;  for  abo%-e  the 
roar  nf  the  sea  and  the  shriek  of  the  wind  he  heard  a  stanling  sound, 
in  a  moment  be  sprang  lo  the  mouth  of  the  Cave — and  not  too 
soon ;  for  the  Cathedral  was  full  of  men,  and  wild  faces  were  moving 
up  from  beneath  towards  bis  hiding  place.  Ladden  bad  at  last 
been  procured  and,  lashed  together,  placed  against  the  dripping* 
Altar.  Up  these  ladders  men  were  clambering.  Uut  when  Rohan 
appeared  like  a  ghost  above  them  in  the  moonlight,  Utey  shrank 
back  with  a  loud  cry. 

Only  for  an  ioKtant ;  then  they  began  4o  swann  up  a^in. 


ft*  k*  nmtimuUJ 


I 


SoMK  Doles  of  legends  and  superstitions,  collected  in  the  course  of 
a  sojourn  on  the  Islands  of  the  Azores,  io  the  tnid-Atlantic,  sent  me 
by  Mr.  J.  E.  Muddock,  are  in  substance  curiously  like  some  of  those 
Ilushnun  legends  wrhirh  I  quoted  in  these  pages  in  April  and  Nfay, 
(rom  an  interesting  communication  which  I  had  received  from  the 
friends  of  the  late  Dr.  Bleek  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  They 
are  like  tn  substance,  in  spite  of  alt  the  difTercnces  of  race,  lime, 
place,  and  religion.  The  Bushmen  are  an  almost  isolated  race  of 
Icnr  type  pagans  ;  the  Inhabitants  of  the  Azores—the  Islands  of  the 
Hawks — are  Portuguese  Christians,  who  setdcd  there  nearly  Ibrec 
centuries  and  u  half  ago,  finding  theie  no  native  population  wlut* 
ever.  'Hiosc  readers  who  remember  our  Bnshnian  notes  of  April 
and  May  will  recollect  to  what  a  large  extent  the  legends  deal  with 
the  talking  of  animals,  and  with  animal  actions  running  on  the  same 
lines  and  proceeding  from  the  same  motives  as  those  of  human 
beings.  Similar  legends  form  the  unwritten  literature  of  the  luttves 
of  these  isolated  islands,  Wagtails,  for  example,  Mr.  Muddock 
Blntcs,  are  very  numerous  on  the  Azores ;  they  arc  among  the  most 
bmilixr  objects  in  the  streets,  they  perch  on  the  verandahs,  and 
they  ride  unmolested  on  tlic  hacks  of  the  donkeys,  for  do  one  thinks 
of  banning  a  wagtail    And  here  is  the  reason  :— 

Onlne  the  Aigbi  into  Egypt,  w)ul«  Uw  Virgin  Uaxy  and  St  JoMpk  wect 
g  the  (Inert  with  iLe  tliUd  Jnus,  a  qtuQ  uw  tliem,  and  uiiniediAtelf 
out — ••  A^ut  t\ii,  iifvi  vai  f"     iHcfC  they  go,  hae  ihej-fc^lt     Mofjr  beud 
■bliil  qiuO,  anil  jimviDg  ha  \i\mcd  cliarife  cluwr  to  licr  botom,  the  luined 
and  will— "Ob,  quiil,  be  cursed  !     For  tlib  cvD  dcoi  hniccfonb  and  for  ever 
thai  ilult  be  tutabls  to  riie  bii;h  iolo  tlic  ait,  but  be-  doomed  to  shun  nc^  the 
nrfiet  nt  the  esrlh.  >o  iti^t  thy  cncmici  can  sby  ihec."    It  hsppcntd  llut  a 
_Ml]  beard  the?  wickfid  (inail  and,  lilGoOy  foUow-inc  the  rai;Uivcs,  it 

I  .Ept  the  dcMTt  land  over  their  fool-prinu  wilb  ili  loug  toil,  w  tlut 
Ihcir  (■^cI^tca  itiighl  not  be  able  (o  ttack  them.  Mmy  Mw  tl>c  {Welty  bird  at  its 
*df>B|iixiti>leil  luk,  and  ahc  blcMed  the  tn)ttail,  and  pTOmiscH  that  It  shmild  for 
enatBOft  be  held  »acrcd  liy  muii.  And  ma  to  thi*  day  a  wagtail  i*  nevEf  wan- 
tonly killed,  and  fortviute  U>ile«d  t«  that  loan  vrbo  chancer  lo  5ce  a  'Waftail 
b  bla  pMfa  in  the  eoily  nominf. 

II  ta  a  pretty  story,  and  the  only  notable  difference  between  it  and 
llw  Ic£euila  of  the  oalive  tiibfs  uf  the  Cape  of  Good  Vlo\)e  cntts\s.x& 


126 


T^ie  Gmtlemans  Magazine, 


in  the  Tact  that  il  takes  the  form  of  a  Christian  tradition.    Here  is 

another  of  a  similar  character  : —     ^ 

The  lupine,'  a  pUnt  which  grown  mnrt  Ituunously  in  th«ec  islands,  wu  la 
romm  ages  a'lwrrt  and  pl^fsnl  dowet,  hut  rtuiinf;  th«  journey  of  the  Molhei  of 
JetDS  acTOM^the  desert  (he  passage  lay  thrciu(>li  a  field  of  lupiae*.  and  llu  d^ 
pods  ratlled  on  every  sicte  m  if  co  betray  her  ;  whereupon  llic  "Vlrjpa,  UcmbCog 
for  tbe  safety  of  her, charge,  cursed  ilie  pUnt  and  void  that  hmccftHth  tt  slwnld 
be  bitter  w  ijaU,  and  no  loiij^vr  ser^-e  mun  at  food. 

The  white  dove,  favoured  by  tradition  in  most  countries,  is  locally 
sacred  upon  the  Azores,  for : — 

Ubftppened  tliat  dunnj  tbe  Hlteenlh  century  San  Miguel  mui  rintcd  by  tke 
plague,  And  when  it  was  at  ilH  height  the  frightened  people  gathered  together  in 
the  Church  nf  the  Matrii,  lo  celebrate  Prccenor  tn-inJi,  and  to  pray  that  Goal  wonld 
stay  the  rava^gei  nf  the  vimtalion.  At  Ihe  cnncliision  nf  the  service  a  wtute  do«« 
fluttcicd  ill  at  an  open  window,  nnd  anci  flying  round  the  church  J  thiea  limci  it 
aliKbled  on  tbe  high  altar. 

"  A  mimcle,  a  miniclc !"  shouted  the  people, 

"  It  it  a  kii^  ftoin  heaven  (hat  our  prayers  have  been  heard,"  antrwerccl  the 
priests.  From  thai  hour  the  plague  wai  stayed.  And  ever  since  have  been 
celcbra(cd  the  feitivalsof  the  Pombiaha  or  white  dove,  which  begin  after  Euto 
and  last  fur  seven  wtidts. 

The  people  of  ihe  Azores,  transported  from  Europe  to  these  specks 
of  land  in  mid-ocean  before  the  dawn  of  modern  histoi)-,  have  scarcely 
yet  begun  to  emerge  from  the  middle  ages,  and  stories  like  these 
link  the  mcdiseval  races  of  Europe  with  the  aboriginal  African 
Bushmen. 

Iv  remembrance,  probably,  of  my  liaving  quoted  in  these  pages, 
two  months  ago,  his  lines  on  Biakii  and  Walt  Whitman^  Mr,  R.  H. 
Horne  favours  me  with  the  following  original  verses,  addressed  to 
another  famous  American  writer  : — 

TO    BRET    HARTE 

Faou  R.  H.  HoRKX. 

"  Om  iMuh  tf  Naiur*  mviMtj  tht  lohoU  ■mmU  kin.*' 

O  Uitn  of  many  a  (ouch,  deep  as  the  faieast 
Of  Nature— each  no  true  that  each  seems  liest— 

Between  us  swings  the  gmnd  Atlantic  sea  I 
We  arc  all  waves  alike  in  our  unrest. 

Bat  that  vast  depth,  and  distance  ever  fraught 
With  glones,  shadows,  wreck*  of  wealth  and  thoaght. 

Is  but  a  spirit's  touch  from  thee  to  me— 
Thy  words  electric  fresh  from  Nature  brought. 

Rno  clov  awhile,  (ny  sunny  sands — and  thine — 
Once  more  I'll  cross  (he  dragon-crested  brine ; 

And,  having  ate  the  fruit,  behold  a  Tree 
Hooted  in  Mother  Eaxlb's  olil  Vo^e  d\-nne. 
*«)«  »t,  1876. 


TabU  Talk. 


Bkiluakt  prose  writing  seems  to  be  going  out  of  &sh)OD.  Readen 
do  not  appear  to  look  for  it  or  care  for  it,  and  writers,  even  of  tbe' 
higher  class,  have  ccAsed  as  a  rule  Eo  aim  at  any  high  stacdard  of 
style.  It  is  not  long  since  a  great  occuTicnce,  happy,  or  sad,  or  ter- 
rible, would  be  celebrated  by  a  magnilicent  leading  article  in  the 
7«w,  sentences  and  passages  whereof  would  linger  on  the  memory 
for  day?  like  stanzas  from  the  great  poct!k  The  death  of  the  tirst 
Napoleon  and  the  death  of  Lord  Macauiay  are  examples,  that  sug- 
gest themselves  on  the  moment,  which  ehcited  articles  in  the  leading 
journal  full  of  such  a  rich,  fresh  eloquence  that  the  feeling  with 
which  one  read  Ihcm  is  a  memorable  scns-itioo  that  has  not  yet 
died  out.  During  the  Crimean  war  the  special  correspondence  in  the 
papers  was  marked  from  time  to  time  in  the  same  way.  Whatever 
happens  now — even  if  it  is  a  great  war  in  Europe  which  all  the  world 
stops  to  watch  with  breathless  interest — no  one  thinks  of  describing 
the  battles  as  Dr.  Russell  described  the  events  at  Balaclava  and 
Inkerman,  tbouith  the  author  of  those  jjassagcs  continues  himself  to 
be  one  of  the  chroniclL-rs  of  tlie  story.  And  people,  so  loi  as  1  con 
fudge,  do  not  recognise  the  difference.  If  in  bookwork  or  periodi- 
cal titcraturc  or  journalism  a  passage  with  the  old  ring  of  soul-stirring 
dorjuence  appears  it  gets  passed  by  unnoticed.  N'o  doubt  in  times 
past  the  taste  for  prose  [>itched  in  a  high  key  led  oAen  to  infladon ' 
and  fiistian,  and,  even  in  great  writers  sometimes,  to  a  tiresome  poising 
of  sentences  and  occasionally  to  a  straining  after  effect  which  would 
lead  to  the  introduction  uf  what  may  be  called  the  "stagey" 
dement  But  I  am  not  sure  that  we  are  not  now  falling  into  the 
habit  of  confounding  genuine  eloquence  and  power  in  the  use  of 
lasgtuge  with  meretricious  effects,  and  I  fmd  authors  of  gn;at  ability 
and  enviable  reputation  writing  as  though  it  were  not  of  the  smallest 
iropotuncc  whether  tbey  made  good  sentences  or  bad. 


A  CURIOSITY  among  the  monthly  magazines  of  the  time  is  one 
Called  Terra  J^rma,  which  appears  to  be  written,  edited,  printed, 
and  published  by  one  man,  and  to  be  alw.Tys  on  one  subject.  It  is 
tbe  organ  of  John  i!am|)deo,  who  is  also  the  "New  Geographical 
Society."  This  gentleman,  who  is  not  altogether  unknown  to  fame, 
ii  possessed  by  the  idea  thst  the  world  is  flat.  Since  he  has 
agitated  this  subject  for  a  great  many  years  without  making  many 
diidples  he  has  grown  angry  at  his  work,  and  in  the  June  number 
uf  hU  periodical  he  declares  with  much  emphasis  that  "  there  is  not 
%  Khoolmaster  in  the  kingdom,  not  3  member  of  the  College  of 
I'retrfitiiri,   not  a  n-icniific  professor  it^Eume,   not.   a  rxi^aX. 


The  Gentleman's  Magazttte. 


12S 


military  officer  in  Her  Majesty's  service  that  knows  the  shape  of  the 
world  on  which  he  lives,  or  is  even  competent  to  discuss  Uic  ques- 
tion."   And  then  he  goes  a  step  funher  and  insists  that  "  there  is 
not  a  minister  of  the  gos]iel,  in  the  Church  or  out  of  it,  tlial  has  the 
moral  courage  to  defend  the  inspired  wonl  of  God  against  the  in&dcl 
superstitioDS  with  difficulty  iinposed  upon  our  grandmothers  three 
hundred  years  ago."    MA  Hampden,  tt  seems,  has  appealed  in  vain 
to  all  these  authorities  to  abandon  the  perntcious  heresy  of  tlalileo, 
and  he  finds  his  last  resource  to  be  "to  awaken  popular  feeling  on 
the  subject,  and  to  urge  parents,  especially  of  the  middle  and  hum- 
bler classes,  to  resist  all  attempts  at  compulsory  education  till  the 
SchuuL  Boards  and  other  educational  professors  can,  in  the  most  open 
and  public  manner,  clear  tliemsclves  of  the  charges  herein  brougfal 
against   them."      Nutwithstandiug  the   little    progress    which     Mr, 
Hainpdeu  has  made  against  the  sciemific  delusion  of  tlie  uge  he  is 
very  sanguine.     He  tells  us  in  the  second  number  of  his  magazine 
that  he  is  "  resolved  to  crush  and  exterminate  all  such  baseless  and 
preposterous  fallacies,"  and  informs  us  that  '■  the  directors  of  the 
South  Kensington  Museum  daie  not  submit  to  any  adverse  scrutiny 
of  many  of  iheir  apparatus,  and  only  trust  by  the  exclusion  of  honest 
doubters  to  uphold  tlieii  baseless  Qctious  for  a  few  months  longer." 
As  for  as  1  can  judge  from  this  gentleman's  writings  he  is  consistent  va. 
his  theory,  which  appears  to  be  that  the  surface  of  the  earth  is  An  im- 
movable plane,  bearing  no  analogy  with  the  planets  or  stars,  and 
when  a  ship  travels  round  the  world  and  arrives  in  the  end  at  its 
starting  point  he  declares  that  it  has  simply  moved  in  a  circle  as  a 
horse  does  in  a  circus.    With  regard  to  the  limits  of  this  plane  which 
no  traveller  has  ever  passed,  I  imagine  he  would  contend  tliat  ihey 
ore  guarded  by  impassable  ice,  but  1  do  not  know  how  he  would 
account  fur  the  fact  that  about  the  largest  circuit  ibat  a  vessel  can 
make  ou  the  surface  of  the  world  is  made  without  approaching  very 
nearly  to  the  regions  of  intense  cold.   Mr.  Hampden,  vigoiout>  as  he 
is  in  the  use  of  language,  does  not  appear  to  me  to  grapple  closely 
with  the  arguments  of  his  numerous  opponents,  and  whun  he  finds 
himself  in  a  ditticulcy  he  seems  to  take  refuge  in  the  allcgatioit  that 
his  antagonist  has  begged  the  question  by  assuming  the  globular 
theory  in  the  course  of  the  aigument     Nevertheless,  even  allowing 
Mr.  Hampden  to  be  not  the  most  logical  or  even  the  most  candid  of 
rcasonets,  the  difiiculty  of  bringing  the  truth  of  tlie  globular  theory 
home  to  his  convictions  seems  to  me  to  be  a  point  of  some  scienii^c 
— or  at  least  of  some  psycliological  interest. 


Gentleman's    Magazine 

August,  1876. 


In  Pastures  Green. 

BY  CHARLESCIBBON.  AUTHOR  OF  "ROBIN  GRAY.    "IN  HONOUR 
BOUND.-  "  WHAT  WILL  THE  WORLD  SAY  ?"  4c. 


}HE  thick  hedge  which  enclosed  ihe  qtiaini  old  parsonage 
in  3  square  was  brilliant  vt-ith  red  bcrritsi.  The  hedjje 
bad  been  cunningly  trained  to  form  with  honeysuckle 
an  arch  over  the  wickec-woik  gate  wtiich  stood  oppo* 
lite  the  church.  Milly  Arnold  was  standing  under  the  axch  in  a 
fctrae  of  red  berries,  and  a  very  prttty  picture  she  made :  fair  hair, 
blue  eyes,  soft  rosy  checks,  and  lips  trembling  with  smiles  of  perfect 
happiness  in  mere  Hfc  and  the  sunshine  around  her.  She  was 
vailing  for  the  troop  of  young  sisters  and  brothers  who  were  to 
noicb  under  her  control  inio  the  Vicar's  pew. 

As  the  people  passed  into  the  church  they  saluted  Milly  with 
kindly  looks,  and  she  answered  with  smiles  and  bows.  The  bell 
wu  ringing  all  the  time,  and  its  loud  tongue  seemed  to  render  the 
nimnuiding  quietude  of  the  day  all  the  more  impressive.  It  was  a 
day  of  suusbine,  and  Uie  gieea  meadows  and  the  streams  glistened 
wtdi  joy. 

The  children — dght  of  them — came  out,  and  were  more  disposed 
to  shout  for  sheer  delight  tn  their  escape  from  the  nurse  who  had 
been  "tidying"  them,  than  to  behave  with  the  dcconim  exficcied 
fiom  the  Vicar's  family.  Ai  sight  of  .Vlilly  the  five  girls  became 
dcmiire  and  the  ihrec  boys  made  faces  at  each  other,  which  they 
Duded  was  so  cleverly  done  that  nobody  taw  them.  They  were 
Boi  at  oil  afnud  of  tlieii  eldest  sister,  who  had  lor  scvea  ^ean  faWeii 

tlu*  ellceaC  ^miJiM  Btathar  l  but  ihev   knew  ham  inuc^  \l  TnsneA. 


I 


i: 


her  when  ilie)-  behaved  badly,  and  whilst  their  young  robust  spirits 
craved  Tor  active  expression  in  shouting,  racing,  and  games  of  any 
sort,  tbey  made  an  efTort  to  control  their  humours  in  her  presence. 

"  Now.  do  try  to  walk  quietly,  and  like  ladies  and  gentleinen. 
Remember  all  the  other  children  expect  you  to  show  them  an 
example,"  twid  Milly,  with  a  pretended  assumption  of  the  authority 
of  a  schoolmistress. 

But  she  was  smiling  herself;  the  Iwys  grinned ;  the  girls  looked 
serious,  as  if  they  really  intended  to  behave  like  grown  up  ladies. 
The  youngest  lady,  Mtss  ToUy,  aged  four,  marched  up  to  Milly  and 
said — 

"  Where's  Misser  Tyler? — he  roalces  us  quiet  with  sugarsiicks." 

"  Oh,  naughty  Totty !  I  thought  yon  behaved  well  because  yott 
liked  Mr.  Tyler,  and  now  I  find  it  is  because  he  gives  you  sweets." 

"  Me  like  Tyler,  and  roe  like  sugarsdcks — don't  you  ?" 

The  qnestiim  might  have  Iwcn  an  awkward  one  in  .inswcr,  but 
Totty  did  not  wait:  she  caught  sight  of  a  tall  handsome  young 
fellow  coming  down  the  road,  and  she  ran  to  meet  him.  She  sprang 
into  his  arnu  without  paying  the  slightest  attentiou  to  liis  mother 
and  father  who  accompanied  him. 

Rlicn  Tyler  had  nothing  awkward  about  him :  his  movements 
were  prompt,  resolute,  and  manly  ;  his  voice  was  clear  and  decisive  ; 
his  step  was  firm,  as  with  the  sense  of  independence  which  charac- 
terised the  man.  Bill  his  Wack  frock-coat,  chiefly  worn  on  Sundays, 
fitted  him  badly;  his  hands  were  large  and  sunbrowncd;  and  his 
handsome  honest  Gice  had  not  a  shade  of  that  sickly  town-pallor 
which  country  ladies  arc  too  apt  to  regard  as  an  element  of  interest. 

Eben  the  elder  and  ^).^me  Tyler  passed  into  the  church. 

Ebcn  the  younger  lifted  Totty  in  his  strong  arms,  heaved  her  up 
in  the  sunshine,  caught  her  Again  with  a  pleasant  laugh,  and  kissed 
her.  Put  his  eyes  glanced  towards  the  wicker-gate,  and  a  shadow 
(perhaps  of  the  tree  overhead)  fell  on  his  foce. 

Only  it  happened  that  when  the  shadow  fell  Milly  was  crossing 
the  road  to  the  churr.h  with  a  j-oung  man  who  was  made  up  as  well 
as  Poole  could  make  up  a  smart  figure.  The  children  followed 
Milly  in  a  straggling  line ;  but  when  Kben  came  up  to  them  they 
clustered  round  him  and  had  a  chorus  ol  questions  to  ask,  which 
he  silenced  with  pleasant  promises  of  a  day's  coursing  for  the  boys 
and  a  pic-nic  in  Dunthorpc  Woods  for  the  girls. 

The  bell  stopped ;  the  rustle  of  skirts  and  the  preliminary  coughs 
had  ceased  ;  the  congregation  had  settled  down  to  worship,  and  the 
service  proceeded.     Kays  of  sunlight  streamed  in  through  the  dingy 


* 


In  Pastures  Green. 


I3t 


wbdows  of  the  old  church,  and  one  mote  beam  brake  on  Ebcn's 
facet  showing  ihai  the  shadow  was  stitl  there,  subdued  by  a  tinge  of 
melancholy. 

His  mother,  a  voman  of  fifty,  but  fresh  and  baadsomc  still  and 
^ill  (>r  the  energetic  spirit  of  youth,  glanced  uncisily  at  her  son  and 
tlicQ  at  the  Vicar's  pew,  where  Milly  sai  at  the  hc-.id  of  the  children. 
Ebeo's  father — a  mddy-faccd,  white-haired,  fat  uian  of  sixty  odd — 
settled  himself  comfortably  in  the  corner  to  indulge  in  his  usual 
atltrnlive  soooxe  u  soon  as  the  sennon  began. 

Cben  himself  sat  with  eyes  fixed  steadily  upon  the  altar,  oever 
glancing  to  right  or  to  left,  and  never  moving  except  when  the 
service  rendered  movement  necessary. 

But  behind  Milly  sat  the  young  gentleman  who  had  escorted  her 
across  the  road,  and  he,  very  quietly  and  decorously,  passed  his 
Pnyct-book  or  Bible  to  her,  which  she  accepted  in  silence.  Reside 
him  sat  his  father,  a  tall,  grave-lookiDg  gentleman,  who  was  mucli 
gazed  at  by  the  congregation,  for  he  was  Sir  Heni)'  Lewis,  the 
eminent  barrister  and  Q.C,  who  had  diiitinguishcd  himself  in  many 
popular  trials.  He  had  rccenUy  taken  Elizabeth  House,  which 
itood  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village  and  had  been  originally  the 
residence  of  the  Lords  of  the  Manor  for  gcneradons.  He  was 
4  handsome,  intellectual -looking  man,  and  die  son — in  spite  of  Poole 
— looked  insignificant  beside  him. 

The  son,  Montague  Lewis  (the  Christian  name  had  been  chosen 
by  his  mother,  as  it  belonged  to  Iier  family),  was  also  at  tlie  bar ; 
but  he  had  ne%'ei  praclii^ed,  and  gave  t>o  indication  of  a  desire  to 
practise.  Sir  Henry  had  f^vcn  him  one  case  to  conduct,  but  be 
OGTcr  gave  him  a  second ;  he  wjls  too  careful  of  his  own  reputation 
to  endanger  it  by  any  misuse  of  patroTUge. 

!k(ontague  was  indifferent ;  he  did  not  want  to  work  so  long  as  he 
had  eiuxigh  money  to  enjoy  himself,  and  his  mother  took  care  that 
tie  should  not  want.  He  wa^  idle  and  good-natutcd;  he  was  extra- 
vagant, l>ut  he  always  kept  within  certain  bounds ;  he  lived  in  his 
TctDpIc  chambers,  and  had  a  vogue  idea  that  some  day  he  would 
tike  to  work  in  earnest — not  in  tlic  plodding  way  of  his  father,  but 
in  a  grand  way.  He  would  go  into  IVIiament,  and  ubta'm  some 
sppoinlrocnt  which  would  develop  bis  genius  and  conduct  him 
imight  to  the  Woolsack. 

Meanwhile  he  wa»  at  Flizabcth  House  rusticating,  as  he  said, 
4ftet  the  weariness  of  lowu  liie,  and  he  had  becume  a  great  friend 
of  the  Vicy.   whereby  he  also  became  a  friend  of  the   Vicas.'^ 


Service  over,  Milly,  after  shaking  hands  with  the  lyiers  and 
hopiog  they  were  well,  passed  on  to  the  house,  accompanied  by 
Montague  LewL-i. 

Eben  the  younger  had  pressed  her  soft  hand,  looked  into  her 
clear  eyes  earnestly,  and  had  seen  tliere  nothing  but  frankness, 
truth,  and  good-aalure.  But  his  head  was  bowed  a  little  as  he 
walked  along  towards  the  inn  where  ihcy  had  left  the  waggonette. 

A  kindly  voice  whisjicrcd  in  his  car — 

"  Do  not  you  be  downcast,  lad  ;  she  is  comely,  but  she  is  tiot  for 
you.  She  was  bom  for  :i  town  life  and  line  folk  and  fine  fare.  I 
have  seen  her  like  when  1  was  iu  service  iu  London.  I'hough  she 
did  take  you  she'd  be  sick  herself  and  make  you  sick  too  before  a 
year  was  gone.  V'ou  do  not  want  to  make  her  unhappy,  now,  do 
you?'' 

"  No,  mother ;  but  she  is  a  good  girl." 

"  \Mio  said  she  was  anything  else  ?" 

"No  one;  and  Iwing  what  she  is,  if" 

"  Nay,  Eben — nay,  no  ifs,  or  you  will  ruin  yourself.  The  )'oang 
gentleman,  Lewis,  is  her  mate,  and  he  means  to  have  her." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?" 

There  was  sonielliing  cjuick  and  bitter  in  the  lone  which  betrayed 
him  in  spite  of  himself;  it  was  an  unusual  exhibition  on  his  ]>art, 
and  the  soft  handsome  face  of  the  mother  looked  up  lo  him  sadly. 

"  It  is  worse  with  you  than  I  thought,  Eben,  or  you  would  have 
had  eyes  and  seen — you  would  have  had  sense  and  known  that 
Milly  Arnold  would  he  happitr  at  the  head  of  a  big  house  like  the 
Elizabeth  than  aa  the  hard-working  wife  of  a  farmer.  She'is  a  good 
lass,  and  maybe  will  not  count  these  things  now ;  but  she  would  be 
sorry  after,  and  make  you  sorry  too." 

Eben  walked  on,  saying  nothing  till  tliey  reached  the  inn.    Then — 

"You'll  drive,  dad;  I  want  to  see  somebody  before  I  go  home, 
so  I'll  walk." 

Eben  the  elder  nodded  and  grinned,  winking  with  botli  eyes. 

"  All  right,  lad,  J  know ;  and  if  it  was  not  .Sunday  I'd  sing  ye  the 
old  song,  'Fair  the  Maid  and  sad  my  Heart'  "  (he  half  chanted  the 
words,  as  if  the  impulse  to  sing  were  too  rauch  for  him ;  indeed, 
on  market  days  he  was  the  musical  wonder  of  the  hours  after  dinner 
at  the  inn) ;  "but  keep  a  stout  heart:  there  are  more  lasses  want 
you  than  you  can  do  with." 

He  was  a  jovial  old  fellow,  and  proud  in  the  remembrance  of  his 

successes  in  the  bright  days  of  wooing,  as  he  had  reason  to  be,  for  the 

i/tjr  xdntirabh  fjualitics  of  his  wife  were  so  many  proo&of  Jui 


visdom  and  thumjih.  She  had  been  the  ballast  which  had  carried 
him  safcl)-  through  many  stomis  in  life,  aod  the  old  man  was  proud 
of  her — proud  also  of  himself  in  having  won  her.  Ht  thought  if 
Eben  had  only  the  pluck  of  his  dad  he  might  win  any  lady  in  the 
land. 

Eben  saw  the  waggonette  drive  off.  and  then  slowly  walked  out  of ' 
the  stable-yard  and  turned  towards  the  vicarage. 

He  intended  to  see  Milly,  and  yet  he  hesitated.  That  was 
unusual  with  him,  for  he  was  prompt  of  decision,  and  once  decided 
he  walked  straight  on  to  the  end.  But  his  mother's  words  made 
him  pause,  on  Milly's  account :  if  she  would  be  happier  at  the  big 
house  than  with  him,  why  should  he  disturb  her  by  seeking  an 
cxpLaJUtion  which  must  be  painful  to  both,  and  useless  ? 

II. 

Milly  was  a  g;irl  of  a  very  practical  tiira  of  mind,  and  the  turn 
was  due  panly  to  lulure  and  partly  to  the  conditions  under  which 
she  bad  lived  since  the  death  of  her  mother.  Whilst  she  was  still  a 
child  she  had  been  obliged  to  calculate  how  far  she  could  make 
three  shillings  do  the  work  of  live.  She  was  In  no  respect  mer- 
cenary :  never  a  sel&h  thought  entered  bio  her  calculations.  But 
her  father's  income  was  small,  and  his  family  large  ;  Milly  had  much 
10  do  and  little  to  do  It  with ;  and  so  having  a  practical  nature  she, 
had  the  habit  of  speculating  upon  the  conseiiucnccs  of  first  steps. 
For  instance,  Totty  required  a  new  frock  \  but  that  would  involve  a 
new  hat,  cape,  and  stockings ;  therefore  the  question  became,  in 
her  mind,  Could  not  the  frock  be  turned,  the  hat  renovated  and 
trimmed  with  a  bit  of  new  ribbon?  So  with  Tommy's  knicker- 
bockers, and  so  with  her  own  apparel,  although— perhaps  on-ing  to 
her  beauty — she  always  appeared  to  be  tlie  best  dressed  girl  in  the 
church.  Hut  she  was  plain  and  direct  in  her  thoughts ;  sentiment 
never  blinded  her  as  to  what  was  best  to  be  done  for  those 
around  her. 

She  was  on  her  way  this  Sunday  aflemoon  to  visit  an  invalic 
Widow  Hurst,  who  required  nourishment  and  kindly  gossip  to  keep- 
heralive.     Milly  had  to  cross  the  stile  a  little  way  below  the  church. 

Eben  Tyler  was  sitting  on  the  stile  swinging  his  legs,  and  his 
head  was  lo  doubted  upon  his  chest  tliat  he  did  not  obser%-e  het. 
appraoch,  and  she  cotild  not  recognise  him  until  she  was  quite  nearj 
Then  she  euJaimcd — 

"Wiu     Mr-  Tyler,  not  gone  hoiuc? 


ft 


154  The  GeniUmaa's  Magazine, 

He  sprang  up  as  if  a  cannon  had  exploded  under  hJra,  and  for  a 
moment  stood  with  the  decidedly  sheepish  expression  of  a  school- 
boy caught  playing  tniant.  Bnt  he  shook  off  his  awkwardness,  and 
with  a  hearty  laugh  at  himself  answered — 

'  "  I  beg  your  paidon ;  I  did  not  see  yon,  although  I  was  thinking 
about  you.  I  wanted  to  see  you,  but  I  was  too  late  for  dinner,  and 
have  been  waiting  here  till  I  could  call  without  bothering  you," 

"  Whflt  a  pity  you  did  not  come  at  once,  You  know  how  pleased 
papa  is  to  see  yon,  and  how  glad  the  children  are  when  you  come. 
There  now,  and  you  have  had  no  dinner  ?  How  vexed  you  have 
made  me!" 

He  became  rather  confused  at  this. 

*'  I  am  very  sorry — but  it  does  not  matter — I  could  not  have 
eaten  dinner  just  now.     Are  you  going  far?" 

"  Only  down  to  the  cottages.     I  hope  you  are  quite  well?" 

The  question  had  been  suggested  by  his  manner,  for  without 
suspecting  herself  to  be  the  cause,  she  »w  that  Ebcn  was  not 
speaking  or  acting  like  himself. 

**  Let  me  help  you  "  was  his  evasive  reply. 

He  assisted  her  over  the  stile,  and  released  her  hand  the  momeni 
she  descended  on  the  other  side. 

They  walked  down  through  the  meadows  side  by  side,  near,  and 
yet  so  far  apart.  They  exchanged  awkward  commonplaces  about 
the  weather,  the  hedges,  the  cattle  gazing  stolidly  at  them ;  the 
sennoD,  tlic  people  in  church — but  he  llew  off  from  that  subject — 
their  eyes  rnet,  and  she  saw  that  he  was  disturbed,  and  he  saw  that 
she  was  calm,  only  wondering  at  his  excitement. 

They  reached  the  Httic  foot-bridge,  with  its  single  hnnd-rail,  which 
crossed  the  shallow  stream,  or  river  as  it  was  called  locally.  In  wet 
seasons  it  gathered  into  a  sufficiently  powerful  current  to  justify  the 
name,  and  transformed  the  neighbouring  meadows  into  broad  lakes. 

He  halted  before  she  had  stcjijicd  upon  the  narrow  bridge. 

"  Shall  wc  cross  abreast  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Impossible !— one  of  us  would  tumble  into  the  water;  and 
although  it  is  not  deep,  the  wetting  would  be  uncomfortable.  We 
must  go  in  single  file,"  she  answered,  laughing  at  his  odd  question, 
and  yet  a  little  puzzled  \>y  his  way  of  putting  it 

She  was  about  to  pass  on,  but  he  stretched  his  arm  before  her, 
looking  earnestly  into  her  face  at  the  same  lime. 

"  I  have  a  fancy.    Suppose  this  were  the  bridge  of  life,  narrow 
like   this,   and  with    maybe    more  danger    of   getting  a  ducking  ; 
and  suppose  1  said   'Milly,  you  ha\c  knovitt  nw  maw^  ■^'»Av,*iU 


/«  Pastures  Green.  153 

yoa  try  the  bridge  abreast  with  me,  will  yoa  trust  mo  to  keep  you 
op,  however  narrow  the  way  ?"     What  would  you  say  ?" 

She  understood.  She  had  often  thought  of  somebody  asking  h( 
Id  be  bb  wife :  she  had  thought  of  Eben  doing  it ;  but  this  came  ul 
soch  an  unexpected  way  ihat  she  bhished  and  trembled.  lo  all  her 
dreams  of  a  proposal  &he  had  never  speculated  upon  what  het 
answer  was  to  be ;  and  now  she  was  put  lo  it,  so  many  con- 
siderations for  other?  prcscDted  themselves — so  many  doubts,  hopes, 
and  fears  contended  with  each  other  in  her  mind — that  she  was  not 
quite  sure  whether  she  wished  lo  say  yes  or  no. 

He  waited  patiently,  resting  his  arm  on  the  hand-rail  of  the  bridge 
And  watching  her  downcast  face.  He  was  thinking  of  Montague 
Lewis ;  she  was  thinking  of  her  father,  of  the  crowd  of  children  at- 
home,  and  of  her  brother  at  Cambridge.  At  length,  looking  him 
straight  in  the  face,  with  aa  honest  and  resolute  expression,  uuder 
which  lay  much  Icndeniess,  slie  said  frankly — 

"  I  know  what  you  meau,  Ebcti,  and  I  thank  yoo.  If  there  were 
only  myself  to  be  considered  in  this  mailer  my  answer  would  be  an 
easy  one;  but  1  cannot  uy  yea  or  ek>  until  I  can  realise  how  my 
Cither  and  the  children  may  be  affected  by  my  absence.  I  like  you, 
Cben,  moK  than  anybody  I  know,  outside  our  own  house,  and  I 
beiicve  my  liking  ts  strong  enough  to  niakc  mc  nn  honest  wife  to 
yoa  if  it  might  be ;  but  it  is  not  strong  enough  to  make  me  forget 
ay  father  and  his  children.  I  want  to  tell  you  what  I  feel — don't, 
please — don't  think  me  unkind." 

It  was  a  pathetic  appeal,  for  whilst  she  had  been  speaking  there 
bad  bees  presented  to  her  mind  such  a  pretty  picture  of  the  wedding 
in  the  old  church^-of  the  bridesmaids  in  favours  gay,  of  the  group 
of  eager  well-wishers,  of  Iter  father  repealing  Uie  solemn  service  in 
tones  of  emotion  tliat  were  made  up  of  joy  and  regret ;  and  she  saw 
this  bnwny,  handsome  iellow,  standing  by  her  side,  devotion  in  his 
eyes  and  sincenty  in  hi&  earnest  responses, — that  she  (ell  tt  vcr>-  hard 
to  say  no.  She;  was  nut  sure  lliai  she  loved  him  with  all  the  strength 
of  her  nature,  Indeed  she  hod  a  faint  suspicion  that  if  she  had  done 
so  the  never  could  have  said  no ;  but  she  felt  that  he  was  a  brave, 
honest  nan,  wlio  wouJd  have  naade  her  life  happy,  and  she  liked 
liim,  and  wislicd  that  she  miglii  have  said  yes. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  strange  expression  for  a  minute,  and 
then  wislfully — 

"Vou  an:  very  kind,  Milly;  you  are  thinking  of  others;  \i\ac« 

r  •■>.-"  -i  them,  aod  reaieuiber,  it  is  the  fate  ot  youi  We  ai\&  Q^ 


I 


L 


It  was  difficult,  and  he  was  unintentiooally  end;  bat  his  whole 
lire  seemed  to  depend  upon  her  answer ;  be  was  TuD  of  passionate 
love,  and  could  not  understand  why  anything  should  keep  tfaem 
apart  He  was  not  poor;  he  was  oflering  bei  comforts  eqtul  to 
any  she  poseeased  at  present,  and  he  was  ready  to  do  anything  that 
might  please  her.  He  would  not  sc[Kirate  her  from  her  family,  or 
from  the  pensioners  who  looked  to  her — a  great  deal  too  much — (or 
support  He  was  proposing  to  give  her  increased  power  and  means 
of  satisfying  "  the  others  "  of  whom  she  was  thinking. 

She  understood  all  that,  for  she  liad  a  keen  perception  of  the 
practical  advantages  of  this  arrangement  or  ihaL  JIal  slie  had  a 
sense  of  justice,  too,  and  she  could  not  reconcile  the  duties  of  a 
wife  with  those  which  she  owed  to  her  family.  But  it  was  a  hard 
struggle  for  the  girl. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Eben  ;  but  I  must  say  no." 

He  dropped  her  hand. 

"  We  arc  to  cross  the  bridge  in  single  file,"  he  swd ;  and  tfiere 
was  a  bitterness  in  his  tone  which  he  could  not  hide. 

He  was  still  thinking  of  young  I^wis ;  her  heart  was  aching,  for 
she  knew  that  he  was  pained,  and  she  would  have  been  glad  to 
spore  him. 

She  crossed  the  bridge,  and  he  followed  j  at  the  other  side  he 
held  out  his  hand,  saying  "Good-bye." 

"Good-bye!" 

And  she  walked  on,  and  he  stood  stiH  watching  her  as  she  passed 
on  through  the  green  meadows,  the  clear  glistening  water  of  the 
river  dancing  merrily  along  and  seeming  to  mock  his  despair. 

She  would  have  liked  to  look  back,  but  pride  and  sorrow  pre- 
vented her.  Thf  parting  had  been  so  verj-  unsatisfactory  on  both 
sides,  yet  she  liad  iricil  to  cxptnin,  and  he  knew  all  the  conditions 
of  her  |x>Gitioa.  He  would  come  again  on  market  day,  and  then 
she  would  have  a  long  talk  with  him,  and  compel  him  to  under- 
stand that  she  would  have  gladly  said  yes,  although  circumstances 
hiid  forced  her  to  say  no.  He  would  wait  a  little,  and  they  would  be 
very  ha|^y  hy-and-by.  What  a  sad  compound  is  that  "By- 
and-by." 

He  stood  by  the  river  in  the  midst  of  green  meadows,  the  hedge* 
rows  stretching  out  in  all  direciions,  sparkling  and  glowing  with 
vtiUl  flowers;  the  grey  old  church  with  its  square  dock  tower 
looking  down  upon  him.  Teace  was  in  the  atmosphere;  Uic 
dreamy  gaze  of  the  cattle  as  they  chewed  the  grass  filled  one  with 
a  sense  of  perfect  repose,  and  the  mvumvMT  o(  the  water  formed  a 


J 


In  Pastures  Green.  137 

tonotis  cadence  in  hannony  with  the  scene  and  its  Impres- 

In  the  midst  of  this  pastoral  quietude  stood  a  man  whose  whole 
nature  was  on  fire,  vrhose  heart  was  fierce  with  passioa  and  hatred 
of  the  world.  She  had  turned  from  )um,  and  he  thought  Chat  there 
was  nothing  for  htm  but  to  die. 


I 


m. 


^B*ni' 


^ 


Eben  the  elder  had  lost  his  temper;  a  wicked  pig  had  been 
working  much  damage  in  a  potato-pit,  aod  he  had  found  it  a  trouble- 
some business  getting  (he  animal  back  to  the  barn-yard.  The  sun 
had  scorched  the  meadows,  the  earth  was  aglow  with  heat,  old 
Ehcn  perspired  and  panted  as  the  pig  dodged  htm  to  and  fro,  and 
he  would  have  failed  attogclhcr  if  Susan  Carter  had  not  come  to  his 
aid.  A  maid  with  a  fresh,  kindly  face  and  bright  brown  eyes,  always 
ftiU  of  sympathy ;  strong  and  healthful,  she  had  from  childhood  taken 
delight  in  the  hardest  work  of  the  farm  ;  she  could  groom  and 
hzniess  a  horse  with  the  best  man  about  the  place,  and  she  could 
drive  or  ride  with  the  cleverest  expert. 

"I  don't  know  what  would  become  of  us,  Sue,  without  you," 
gasped  the  old  man;  "nothing  goes  right  now  unless  you  happen 
lo  be  by.     Where's  the  missus  ?" 

They  were  at  the  kitchen  door,  and  Susan  handed  him  a  brown 
mug.  around  the  ndes  of  which  were  quaint  figures,  the  top  being 
white  with  the  foam  of  good  home-brewed  ale. 

"  l)axn  dmi  pig,"  said  old  Eben,  as  if  he  were  giving  a  toast 

He  drank ;  recovered  his  breath  and  his  humour ;  and  when  Susan 

,ve  him  his  pipe  he  tunicd  a  pail  upside  down,  seated  himself,  and 

idced  contentedly.  Susan  was  flitting  out  juid  in,  between  the 
dairy  and  Uie  bouse,  and  the  farmer  watched  ber. 

Dame  Tyler  looked  out  at  the  kitchen  window,  and  he  nodded 
ignificantly  towards  Susan. 

"She's  got  ihc  right  stuff  in  her,  missus — just  like  you.  Manag- 
ing is  bom  in  some  women,  and  mismanaging  is  bom  in  most. 
They  can't  help  it,  poor  creatures ;  but  when  you  do  come  across 
the  man.iging  one,  catch  her — that's  what  I  say." 

'•  I  doubt  Eben  never  thinks  of  her,  although  he  knows  what  wc 
would  like,"  said  the  dame. 

Vou  wait ;  he  is  working  hard,  and  hard  work  is  first-rate  physic 

r  love  and  the  stomach.     He  ha.in't  been  to  church  for  six  months, 
and  that's  a  good  si^— I  mean,  of  course,  undet  \he  c\TC\imtta.w»i5. 


138  The  GentUma^s  Magazine, 

Mayhap  hell  take  a  thou;^lu  of  Susaa  sooner  titan  you  bargain  for. 
I'd  have  thought  on  her  long  ago." 

Old  Ebcn  laughed  as  if  quite  sure  tlut  Ebeu  the  younger  would 
follow  in  the  ways  of  his  father. 

The  gate  at  the  foot  of  the  road  swung  open,  and  Eben  Tyler 
rode  up  to  his  father.    The  latter  called  out  immediately— 

"  Vou  have  been  giving  the  marc  a  rare  gallop,  Ebcn  j  give  her  1 
walk  and  a  rub  down  afore  you  begin  to  speak.  She's  worth  a  cleu 
hundred  at  least,  and  we  can't  atford  lo  lose  that  in  Uiese  hard  times." 

Eben  nodded  and  obeyed.  Susan  stepped  up  to  him  when  he 
began  to  rub  the  mare  down. 

"Leave  her  to  me,  Ebcn.  Dad  is  dying  to  know  all  about  the 
meeting,  and  you  need  not  keep  him  waiting." 

"  Dad  seems  quiet  enough  with  his  pipe,  and  I  am  not  going  to 
let  you  have  this  work  to  do,  Susan." 

"  But  I  like  it,"  and  she  began  on  the  instant  to  prove  hcrr  words 
with  the  help  of  a  wisp  of  straw. 

"  There'll  no  use  arguing  with  a  woman ;  so  go  on,  if  you  like." 

She  was  on  one  side  of  the  marc,  he  on  the  other ;  their  wisps 
occasionally  came  in  contact;  but  there  was  no  coquetting  in  the 
action.  He  seemed  eager  to  fuii&h  the  task ;  she  seemed  to  be 
entirely  occupied  with  her  share  of  it,  and  only  a  very  close  observer 
would  have  seen  the  occasional  flash  of  her  eyes  on  his  face.  Whea 
she  did  look  at  him  her  expression  was  thai  of  niiliJ  wonder  and  pity 
raiher  than  of  love.  She  knew  of  his  disappointment,  for  he  kept 
no  secrets  from  his  mother,  and  the  dame  kept  no  secrets  from  Susan. 
There  was  no  jealous  rancour  in  her  heart,  only  sorrow  ou  his 
account,  and  a  yearning  to  make  liis  burden  lighter  anyhow  and  by 
any  sacrifice  of  herself. 

EShe  knew  what  the  dame's  wishes  were  ;  but  Susan  had  long  ago 
given  up  all  hope  that  they  might  ever  be  fulfilled.  She  only  wished 
to  sec  her  cousin  happy  ;  she  knew  how  she  would  have  striven  to 
make  liim  so,  and  sometimes  she  felt  a  queer  little  shiver  as  she 
imagined  the  day  when  he  would  bring  a  stranger  to  the  £inn  as  its 
mistress  and  cvcrj'thing  would  tc  changed. 
Perhaps  she  would  have  to  go  away,  and  ttiat  would  be  hard,  for 
she  had  never  known  any  oilier  home.  The  place  and  its  associa- 
tions made  all  her  world  \  Ebcn  the  elder  and  his  wife  had  been 
like  tender  parents  to  her  alwa)'S ;  she  loved  ihem  and  the  place, 
iftnd  the  mere  notion  of  going  away  was  like  the  notion  of  dciih,  so 
full  of  mystcrioas  terror  that  she  could  not  tlunk  of  it  at  all. 
JSben  took  the  marc  into  the  stab\e  ani  wcnv  va  \\\s  lajJ^a. 


Ih  Pastures  Green. 


t39 


"Wen,  what  was  the  m«ling  like?    Have  the  fools  come  to 

KUOD?" 

"They  had  a  large  gathering  at  the  inn,  and  some  fellow  who 
repTesenicd  the  Union  led  tliem  by  the  nose.  They  are  determined 
to  hold  out  unless  we  conic  to  their  terms." 

''Then  let  them  hold  out,  dam  them,"  cried  the  falher,  with 
dogged  emphasis ;  "  they  bave  nothing  to  complain  of  about  us. 
They  grumble  about  their  pay.  Let  them  drop  their  perquisites  and 
rm  willing  to  double  their  pay,  for  my  part.  They  are  an  un- 
grateful set  of  fools,  and  they'll  iind  it  out  in  the  long  run  " 

"  They  arc  only  trying  to  do  the  best  they  can  for  themselves, 
dad" 

"  But  they  aint  doing  tlie  best  for  themselves.  Was  there  ever  a 
toon,  woman,  or  child  of  them  that  ever  wanted  for  anything  on  the 
bim?    Was  there  ever  one  of  them  hungry  and  didn't  get  food  ?" 

"I  believe  not,  but  they  want  to  have  as  a  right  what  was  given 
•s  a  &TOUI,  and  I  don't  think  they  are  altogether  wrong." 

"  Are  you  going  to  join  ihcra  ?" 

"  Not  yet,"  answered  the  son,  with  a  smile  at  his  father's  obstinate 
refusal  to  admit  one  gleam  of  reason  in  the  movement  of  thcagri- 
calmral  labourers  to  improve  their  position.  **  Sut  meanwhile  there 
b  the  wheal  to  cat  and  not  a  man  to  help  in  the  work." 

*'  We'll  do  it  ourseU'es,".said  the  old  farmer,  sturdily. 

"  We  will  have  to  do  tt  The  new  reaping  machine  is  to  be  in  the 
field  to-night,  and  I  am  to  begin  work  in  the  moruing." 

'■  111  be  Willi  you." 

"And  I  will  go  loo,"  said  Susan;  "we  can  manage  it  aoooogst 

"You  arc  a  brave  wench,"  said  Eben  the  elder,  admiringly;  and 
he  muttered  something  else  to  himself  which  was  not  complimentary 
LobtssoiL 


In  the  morning  the  two  Ebena  and  Susan  went  to  the  dcld;  the 
younger  Eben  was  leading  the  horses  which  Susan  had  helped  to 
huncfts,  and  the  old  man  was  walking  with  tlie  girl. 

A  pole  clear  sky  overhead,  a  fresh  brceic  blowing  from  the  north 
Bnd  making  the  checks  tingle  and  the  heart  leap  wilh  a  sense  of 
Bncpeakabtc  gladness,  the  thrush  and  the  lark  making  the  clear  air 
ting  with  their  melody — the  melody  of  pure  joy  in  mere  existence. 
There  were  youth  and  strength  in  the  atmosphere;  and  the  three 
workers  w»nt  to  their  ta&k  with  good  will.    Old  Kben  dedaieti  \\uk\^^^ 

thj>  «ilri):i>  nf  9)1^  lattnnrfrx  hittLh^iut  ^  cauJ  M  nan  Inn  *n  *Va  hmnaaia    .^^^^1 


t40 


The  GeniiematCs  Magcizint* 


"We  were  growing  too  fat  and  loo  laz),"  he  said,  as  he  placed  the 

sheaves  which  Susan  had  bound,  "and  that's  what  was  the  matter 
^nth  us.  Darn  mc,  but  I  am  growing  young  again,  and  begin  to 
wonder  why  I've  been  so  long  out  of  the  harvest  field." 

And  he  really  did  enjoy  the  Isbour  which  had  been  forced  upon  him. 

Eben  and  Susan  worked  together :  but  he  was  now  in  ad^-ancc, 
ag^  a  long  way  behind  as  he  made  the  circle  of  the  field,  aad  they 
spoke  little,  save  to  make  an  occasional  conimenl  as  he  drove  by 
her  on  the  clean  job  the  new  machine  was  making  of  the  wheat. 
But  at  noon  the  dame  brought  down  the  dinner,  and  as  they  all  sat 
under  the  shade  of  a  massive  oak -tree  Eben  and  Susan  were  side 
by  side. 

In  the  evening  a  good  da/s  work  had  been  done.  The  old  man 
was  tired  and  proud ;  he  was  more  detennincd  than  ever  to  defy  the 
uniooi&ts;  and  the  dame,  with  anxious  eyes,  watclied  her  sod  and 
Susan  as  they  went  to  the  stable  with  the  horses. 

"You  are  as  strong,  Susan,  as  you  are  good-hearted,"  said  Eben 
Ihe  younger;  "what  a  wife  you  will  be  I" 

"We  have  to  lind  the  man  yet,"  said  Susan,  blushing;  and  then 
she  hurried  into  the  house. 

IV. 

A  bright  May  morning,  and  the  sun  carried  tlie  perfume  of  Ulac, 
wallSowcr,  and  sweetbruir  into  the  vicarage  through  the  wide  open 
windows.  In  the  parlour  the  sun  glared  upon  three  yards  of  the 
carpet,  and  left  the  corners  of  the  room  in  delightful  shade,  thanks 
to  the  small  windows  which  the  architect  had  provided  for  the  old 
house.  A  hum  of  bird  and  insect  life  in  the  sweet  drowsy  atmcv 
phere  mingled  with  many  curious  noises  proceeding  from  the 
nursery,  which  was  also  the  school-room,  for  Mil!y  was  at  this 
moment  waiting  upon  her  father,  and  the  young  people  were  left  to 
themselves. 

"  You  are  dreadfully  nervous  this  morning,  child,"  said  Mr.  Arnold, 
when  she  had  arranged  his  bands ;  and  then,  as  slie  step|>cd  on  to 
the  patch  of  carpel,  where  the  glare  of  sunlight  fell  upon  her,  be 
added :  "  and  you  look  weary." 

"Do  I,  papa?  The  children  have  been  a  little  tiresome  this 
morning,  and  insist  upon  going  to  see  the  wedding." 

"Why  not?  Give  them  an  hour's  freedom,  and  they  will  return 
to  their  tasks  with  all  the  more  good-will." 

"But  I  must  go  with  Lheni/'  and  there  was  someUui^  in  hei  tone 
almost  like  supprss&cd  alum. 


K 


P 


the  Vicar,  with  a  pleasant  smile. 
"You  will  some  day  have  to  go  through  the  ceremony  yourself,  and 
Diost  girls  like  to  sec  how  it  is  performed," 

He  was  an  cosy,  good-na.turcd  man,  who  had  been  spared  most 
household  caies  by  the  diligeace,  Arst,  of  his  wife,  and  then  of  liis 
daughter.  In  his  books  and  his  parish  work  he  found  iiifiaite 
^variety ;    he   vras    contented    and    unambitious.      He    appreciated 

CTOw  where  there  was  a  definite  cause  for  it,  but  he  was  slow 
detect  the  \-arying  shades  of  humour  which  indicate  secret 
anxiety  or  pain.  This  morning,  however,  he  felt  that  there  was 
something  wrong  with  Milly,  and  he  was  convinced  of  it  wlien  she 
said  in  a  curiously  low  voice — 

"  Veiy  well,  we  will  go." 

"Bat  do  not  go,  child,  if  there  is  anything  in  the  service  whicli 
ests  unhappy  thoughts.     I  am  afraid  ycu  are  thinking  gf  young 
Lewis" 

"  Oh,  no,  papa  !'*  she  answered  quickly,  and  glad  that  she  escaped 
through  his  mistake  the  necessity  of  paining  him  by  telling  the  truth 
about  the  interview  she  had  with  Eben  Tyler  to  the  meadows  two 
years  ago. 

**  I  am  glad  of  that,"  Mr.  Arnold  proceeded,  "  because  he  would 
not  have  settled  down  into  quiet  domestic  wa)-s  very  re^idtly,  and 
that  would  have  been  a  trial  for  you.  It  is  the  very  best  thing  thai 
could  have  happened  for  him,  his  obtaining  this  appointmenl  in 
India.  He  will  practise  there  ;  no  doubt  he  will  be  nude  a 
judge  some  day,  and  will  come  home  a  sober,  sensible  man,  for 
he  was  not  a  bad  young  fellow  in  tlie  main,  and  work  will  steady 
him. 

"1  hope  so,  papa ;  for  T,  too,  thought  he  was  not  really  such  a. 
wicked  young  man  as  jicople  said." 

**  All  the  same,  I  am  glad  you  did  not  care  particularly  about  him. 

would  much  rather  have  seen  you  the  wife  of  young  Tyler,  for  he 
b  a  steady-going,  faithful  lad,  and  wilt  be  a  good  husband.  But 
there  again,  you  see  how  happily  Providence  has  arranged  matters  ; 
Eben,  in  marrying  his  cousin,  obtains  the  wife  who  is  In  every  way 
best  fitted  for  him.  She  is  handsome,  strong,  has  been  brought  up 
on  the  farm,  knows  all  his  ways,  and  takes  interest  in  all  his  pur- 
jcits.     t  think  he  is  a  fortunate  young  man." 

*'  I  imist  get  ready  now  "  she  said  quickly,  and  left  the  room. 

There  was  a  crowd  of  villagers  in  the  church,  for  Eben  Tyler  was 

favourite  with  them  all,  and  the  bctl-ringers  had  of  their  own  free 

dl,  without  favour  or  reward,  determined  to  ring  a  mary  i^Vto. 


I 


142  The  Gentlentatis  Magazine. 

hoDOor  of  tus  manriace.  They  were  all  ready,  and  waiting  eageily 
for  the  signal  to  bt^. 

Eben  performed  his  part  with  admirable  calmness,  and  gave  his 
responses  clearly  and  firmly.  Nobody  would  have  suspected  that 
he  had  ever  thought  of  any  girl  save  the  tall  and  handsome  woman 
by  his  side.  Shu  had  a  bright  good-natured  face,  ruddy  at  all  limes 
with  health,  e.\erci£e,  and  humour;  but  ruddier  than  ever  now  with 
the  blushes  of  joy  and  timidity  at  her  novel  position. 

She,  too,  answered  bravely,  but  in  a  soft  tone.  Ebcn  had  been 
her  hero  ever  since  she  had  been  brought  an  orphan  to  the  farm, 
and  kindly  Dame  Tyler  and  F.ben  the  elder  had  received  her  with 
open  arms.  The  dame  looked  on  with  entire  conTentment  at  the 
fulfilment  of  one  of  her  most  aidenc  wishes.  She  knen*  that  Susan 
would  be  a  good  wife  and  would  keep  the  old  farm-house  trim  and 
neat,  as  she  had  done  herself,  when  llie  time  came  for  her  to  resign 
the  naanagement.  She  could  not  have  trusted  anybody  else  with 
the  care  of  Uie  place  and  of  her  son.  Eben  had  tlireatcncd  at  one 
time  to  imir  her  plans,  but  he  had  become  sensible  at  last — as  how 
could  he  help  it,  being  in  sorrow  at  the  rejection  of  his  love  \iif 
>Iil)y,  and  Uierefore  sensitive  to  the  sympathy  and  affectioti  of  tender- 
eyed  Susan  ? 

Old  Eben  had  a  broad  grin  on  his  face  as  he  gave  away  the  bride; 
he  was  happy  in  the  arrangement,  for  everything  had  fallen  out  just 
as  he  had  predicted.  He  found  another  proof  of  the  correctness  of 
his  commonplace  views  of  love  affairs  when  Miss  Arnold  advanced 
10  the  bride,  presented  her  willi  a  pretty  bouquet,  kissed  her,  and 
wished  her  all  happiness,  llicn  she  shook  hands  witli  Eben  and 
congratulated  him  upon  his  good  fortune  in  finding  such  a  wife. 
He  looked  into  her  eyes  with  just  the  least  bit  of  wistful  remem- 
brance of  the  Sunday  afternoon  in  the  meadows  so  long  ago  I  Then 
he  thanked  her  manfully  and  hoped  they  would  see  her  often  at  the 
farm. 

At  that  moment  the  joy-bells  began  their  merry  peal,  and  if  there 
had  been  any  confusion  to  liide  on  the  jiariof  the  old  lovers  it  tiras 
ea.sily  done  in  the  bustle  of  leaving  the  church  and  getting  into  the 
carriages,  whilst  the  bells  rang  loudly  and  gaily  overhead  and  the 
children  shouted  as  the  newly  married  couple  drove  off  anudst  a 
shower  of  flowers. 

"  1  told  you  it  would  be  all  right,"  chuckled  old  Ebcn  to  his  wife 
as  he  took  the  reins  ;  "why,  losing  a  lover  is  like  drawing  a  tooth — 
nasty  to  think  about,  but  when  it's  over  we  are  mostly  glad  of  it,  and 
find  we  can  eat  as  well  as  ever.     Bless  you  I  lost  many  a  tooth  afore 


J 


/«  Pastures  Green. 


J  squared  matters  with  you,  missus.  I  won't  say  how  many  I've 
lost  dnce." 

Milly,  standing  in  the  midst  of  the  excited  children,  who  were 
flioging  the  flowers  as  if  they  were  snowballs,  smiled  and  waved  her 
handkerchief  to  the  bride  and  bridegroom  as  they  drove  away.  She 
received  one  last  kindly  look  from  Ebcn  as  the  carriage  wheeled 
round  the  comer,  and  then  she  knew  that  his  face  was  turned  to  his 
wife. 

"We  must  go  to  our  lessons  now,"  she  snid  quietly,  as  the  last 
carriage  disappeared. 

And  she  went  to  her  lessons  also.  They  were  harder  tasks  than 
those  of  the  children ;  but  she  indulged  in  very  few  sentimental 
regrcis  or  longings.  She  did  not  think  that  Kben  lud  been  false  to 
her :  he  had  acted  wisely  and  would  be  haj^py — she  earnestly  prayed 
that  he  would  Tte  happy.  She  had  acted  wisely  also,  and  there 
would  be  happiness  fur  her  in  the  discharge  of  the  duties  which  had 
iailen  to  her  hands. 

There  was  a  shadow  in  her  bearl.  There  would  come  at  times  when 
ibe  was  alone  a  lingering  thought  of  all  that  might  have  been  if  on  a 
n  day  she  had  »aid  yes  instead  of  no;  but  it  cast  no 
shade  upon  her  £icc.  The  bright  quiet  smile  was  a!w3>-s  tlicre;  the 
ho»y  head  and  fingers  vrere  active  as  ever ;  and  hy-and-by  ihc 
shadow,  which  had  been  at  first  like  pain,  became  mellowed  into  a 
and  sweet  mcmor)-,  which  she  grccrcd  with  a  smile. 

She  went  to  her  lessons  bravely,  and  performed  them  faithfully. 
Her  lather  and  the  children  were  grateful  for  the  happy  home  she 
for  ibem,  and  knew  nothing  of  Mitl/s  sorrow. 

V. 

A  -  '         "      nn  flashed  upoh  the  trees  in  their  new  dress, 

here  .    :    pale  green,  and  tlicre  a  darker  hue;  and 

through  the  openings  of  the  trees  were  glimpses  of  cool  green  fields 
cckled  with  easy-minded  cattle :  the  whole  scene  refreshing  to  the 

and  to  the  souL 
A  caniige  was  driving  slowly  along  the  white  dusty  road  by  the 
TQlage  greun,  where  a  donkey  was  solemnly  regarding  the  raove- 
^luenu  of  a  noisy  flock  of  geese.     Tlie  red  sign-board  of  the  ale- 
house swung  gently  in  the  breeze. 

Id   the   carnage   were  two  gentlemen  :  the  one,  a  ruddy-faced 
white-haired  man,  who  was  the  ^-illagc  doctor;  the  other,  a  jaundtce- 
ihin,  dried-op  looking  man,  who  seemed  to  be  much  older 
lougli  he  was  at  least  twenty  yean  K\s  \\itvvcit. 


I 


144 


The  GenlUmans  Magazine. 


This  was  Montague  Lewis,  now  a  baronet,  as  his  father  had  recently 
died.  He  had  returned  from  India  to  tive  in  happiness  on  the  for* 
tunc  his  father  h;)d  bequeathed  to  him,  added  to  the  fortune  he  had 
himself  acquired  at  the  Indian  bar.  But  his  chief  happiness  seemed 
to  be  confined  to  a  series  of  consultations  with  physicians. 

"  What  couple  is  this  ?"  he  asked,  nodding  indifferently  towards 
two  approaching  figure :> ;  "thcuid  gentk-inan  appears  to  lean  heavily 
enough  on  the  lad/s  aim.  What  a  capital  figure  she  has  1  and  a 
good  face  too.  Is  she  a  widow? — that  old  fcUow  can't  be  her 
husband." 

The  doctor  laughed  heartily  at  the  jumble  of  comment  and 
question  which  proceeded  from  his  companion. 

"  That's  riglit ! — -ha,  ha  \ — 1  mean  it's  right  that  you  should  show 
interest  in  something  else  than  your  liver,  and  until  now  you  have 
not  done  so  since  jou  canie  liomc." 

"  1  can't  stand  jokes  about  my  liver,  doctor.  Tell  me  who  b  the 
lady — what  a  calm  face  !  She  has  never  known  what  the  worry  and 
humbug  of  the  world  mean." 

"Who  can  tcli  ?"  said  the  doctor,  thoughtfully;  "she  cenaiiily 
enjoys  the  world,  and  she  makes  other  jH-'OpIc  enjoy  tt  loo.  I  have 
known  the  sound  of  her  ])lcasant  voice  and  one  of  her  quiet  smiles 
do  more  to  relieve  a  paiient  in  five  minutes  than  aU  my  skill  and 
physic  could  do  in  as  many  weeks."' 

The  doctor  lifted  his  hat  as  the  carriage  drove  past  the  lady  and 
gentleman.    Then  he  proceeded — 

"  Old  you  not  recognise  her? — she  could  not  recognise  you — it  is 
Miss  Arnold  with  her  father.  The  poor  old  parson  is  laid  on  the 
shelf  now,  and  tlie  curate  does  all  the  work.  All  his  children, 
except  this  one,  have  started  olT  on  their  own  account ;  the  daughters 
are  married,  two  of  the  sons  are  in  business,  another  is  at  sea,  and 
the  eldest,  William,  has  got  a  fellowship  at  Cambridge  and  is  taking 
high  rank  in  scholarahi[)." 

"  Dear  lue,  and  is  that  MiUy  Arnold  ?  I  remember  her  quite  well 
— the  most  lovely  girl  1  ever  saw.  How  the  deuce  is  it  she  never 
got  married  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  have  often  wondered  where  the  eyes  ofouryoung 
men  were,  that  she  remained  single ;  but  it  has  been  a  blessing  for 
her  family  that  she  did  so.  They  could  never  have  pulled  through 
without  her.  She  has  seen  them  all  comfortably  settled  in  the  world, 
and  now  she  devotes  herself  entirely  to  the  old  man." 

"  HTiat  a  monotonous  life!" 
"  Vgna  my  tt'ord  1  tbu\k  sbe  eQioys  'v\,  \  %W  'wma  ^o  be  always 


k 


In  Pastures  Green,  145 

happy,  and  she  has  the  knack  of  making  everybody  who  comes  near 
lier  happy  tc».  She  U  the  gtiidc,  plulosopher,  and  friend  of  every 
maiit  woman,  and  child  m  Dunthorpe,  and  Uicy  go  as  near  to 
vonfaipping  her  as  she  will  allow  them." 

"  I  don't  think  she  would  h:ivc  remained  long  a  maiden  if  j-ou 
had  l)«n  a  widower,  doctor,"  said  Lewis,  grinning  at  the  doctor's 
enthusiasm , 

"  Faith,  I  would  have  made  her  an  offer,  at  any  rate,"  onsvered 
die  doctor,  gaily. 

•*  I  once  thought  of  it  myself." 

"  And  why  didn't  you  do  it  ?  " 

"Because  I  had  not  eooogh  to  keep  myself;  tlien  came  that 
appointment  in  India,  and  then — well,  then  came  other  distractions, 
and  I  forgot  about  her." 

"  More  fool  you." 

'•  I  must  go  and  see  her  after  hmchcon." 

The  Vicar  sat  in  the  garden  under  the  shade  of  a  huge  lilac  tree, 
Ins  bands  pladdly  clasped  before  him.  Milly  stood  near  him,  her 
finger  marking  the  place  in  the  book  from  which  she  had  been  read- 
ing to  him.  She  was  talking  10  a  burly  man  who  m-as  on  the  verge  of 
iMscoming  rather  too  &it  to  be  gainly. 

"  you  must  come,  Miss  Arnold,"  said  this  big  Eben  Tylet,  "  for 
tc»-morrow  is  Milly's  birthday  and  tlie  children  all  say  they  will  have 
no  fuD  unless  you  are  there." 

"  I  suppose  I  must  go,  then,"  she  answered  with  a  soft  pleased 
Isngh. 

"  You  really  must.  I  shall  come  down  for  you  about  eleven 
o'clock,  and  the  drive  will  do  your  father  good.  Do  you  not  tliink  so, 
Mr.  .\mold?" 

"  \Vliatcvcr  Milly  would  like  to  do,  I  am  agreeable,"  said  lli© 
Vicar. 

Sir  Montague  Lewis  presented  himself  and  interrupted  the  conver- 
aUioa 

"  You  do  not  recollect  me,  Miss  Arnold ;  but  your  father  will 
Tcmembei  his  old  friend  Sir  Henry  Lewis — I  am  his  son." 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  Vicar,  with  mild  surprise,  "are  you 
young  I>wis? — how  changed  you  are !" 

"  Fifteen  years  in  India  make  a  change  in  most  men.     Vou  majrj 
caill  me  old  l-ewis  now." 

They  shook  lunds,  and  expressed  pleasure  in  meeting  again. 
Eben  wondered  at  the  trtuisfornution  of  the  gay,  handsome  ^qmV^ 
into  the  withered  old  man ;  and  I^wis  marvetted  \\ow  Ve  >naA. 


146 


Tlie  GenilentafCs  Magazine. 


I 


managed  to  become  so  o0cnsivcly  fat.  Milly  vras  the  only  one  of 
the  party  who  appeared  to  retain  the  gmce  of  youth ;  and  her 
welcome  was  so  genial  that  Lewis  understood  the  doctor's  enthu- 
siasm about  her.  At  the  same  time  he  began  to  have  a  glimincriog 
idea  that  her  life  could  not  have  been  so  monotonous  after  all;  it 
had  been  full  of  pleasant  duties,  and  she  had  been  mosl  happy  in 
the  work  of  helping  others.  TKerefore  she  retained  the  fresh  heart  of 
youth. 

But  the  pas.sions  of  the  old  lime  barely  nifflcc!  the  memory,  and 
these  tliree — Milly,  Kbeo,  and  Lewis — were  friends.  So  much  go 
that  the  baronet,  having  heard  of  the  birthday  JHe  in  honour  of  Miss 
Amold's  god-child — Ebcn's  eldest  daughter — be^ed  to  be  permitted 
to  join  the  patty. 

There  were  grand  doings  in  the  orchard  at  the  farm  on  the  follow- 
ing day.  The  trees  were  glowing  with  apple-blossoms  and  the  grass- 
was  speckled  i^ith  them.  The  white-haired  Vicar,  leaning  on  Eben's 
arm,  watched  the  wild  sports  ofthe  children,  his  daughter  Mi Uy  being 
the  youngest  and  merriest  of  them  all,  and  yet  contriving  somehow 
to  keep  them  within  bounds. 

"  If  1  lud  not  been  such  a  witliered  old  wretch,  what  a  wife  she 
would  have  made !  "  thought  Lewis,  as  he  observed  Milly  flitting  to- 
and  fro  ;  and  tlien,  with  a  siiort  breath,  be  turned  to  Eben  and  the 
Vicai  to  continue  his  inquiries  as  to  the  chances  of  his  election  if  he 
should  ofter  himself  as  a  candidate  to  represent  the  county  in 
ParliamenL 

Sunshine,  laughter,  and  the  happiness  of  childhood;  and  Milly  was 
the  inspiration  of  it  all.  Her  life  had  been  one  of  noble  devotion, 
and  she  was  content  A  game  at  hide  and  seek,  and  Milly  was 
caught  under  Ifie  ajjple  trees  by  a  troop  of  tiicny  children.  The 
boys  shook  the  brandies,  and  a  shower  of  apple-blossoms  feil- 
npon  her. 


The  Grand  Tour  a 
Hundred  AND  Fifty  Years  Ago. 

BY  H.  SCHiJTZ  WILSON. 

>HE  year  is  ijao.    Wc  arc  about  to  «art  for  a  totnoai 

the  Conlincnt. 

George  I.,  in  the  sixth  year  of  his  rcigit,  is  on  tbe 

tlironc  of  Great  Britain,  Hanover,  and  Ireland.  Hia 
ex-wife,  now  Dtichcss  of  Ahlden,  is  i^ragging  out  slow  years,  dark 
with  one  tragic  memory,  in  Ahlden  Oistlc^  with  a  dreary  outloolc  over 
the  sandy  wastes  of  Uineburg  Heatb.  i<ouis  XV.  being  still  a  very 
minor,  France  is,  after  sonii;  scandalous  sort,  ruled,  by  the  Regent 
Ofleoos,  who  is  ruled  by  the  Abb^  Dubois  ;  and  the  countr>'  is  in 
training  Ibr  the  l-'rencli  Kevolution.  Clement  XI.  is  diawiog  near 
his  end.  Peter  the  Great  is  Caar  of  Moscovy.  I'Vcdciick  the 
Great  is  eight  years  old.  From  Marlborough's  eyes  the  streams 
of  dotage  flow.  Bolingbrokc  is  in  exile,  and  Swift  in  Ireland — 
/<tar  being  a  species  of  exile  to  the  great  and  gloomy  Dean. 
In  the  year  preceding  (1719)  Addison  had  died  at  Holland 
House,  and  "Robinson  Crusoe"  had  been  first  published.  In 
1730  Pope  brought 'out,  wiUi  a]  dedication  to  Congrcvc,  the  con- 
cluding vclume  of  his^translatioa  of  the  "  Iliad."  The  Jacobites, 
despite  their  defeat  in  1715,  were  still  intriguing  actively  and 
daogen^ly.  Steele  was  forty-mnc ;  Johnson,  a  boy  of  eleven,  was 
at  school  at  Lichfield;  Hogarth,  just  out  of  his  apprenticeship  to 
Mr.  tUtis  Gamble,  had  himself  designed  and  produced,  oa  t]ic  39th  of 
April,  an  ingenious  shop-card,  announcing  to  all  whom  it  might 
concern  that  he  b-id  just  set  up  for  himself  at  his  shop  in  Little 
Cranboum  Alley,  hard  by  tlic  Golden  Aogel.  Hogarth,  in  his 
abstmct  and  brief  chronicle  of  the  time,  keeps  olive  for  us  ihe  men 
and  women  of  his  day.  He  has  painted  them  for  us  in  the  costumes 
which  they  wore,  and  with  the  manncts  which  then  oUlained.  If 
ve  want  to  realise  to  our  imagination  the  year  1720  wc  shall  do  well 
to  keep  before  our  mind's  eye  the  Itgures,  the  furniture,  the  houses 
which  liogaith  has  drawn  andjpainied. 

About  that  time  a  notice  appeared  which  informed  the  tiavcWts.'^ 
public  thai — 


I 

4 


»4S 


The  GenilemaiCs  Afacazhte. 


to  London,  or  any  other  plact  on  that  RoaJ ;  Ltt  them  Rtpair  /#  tht 
* Blaek  Suttin'  in  Holhoum  in  London,  and  to  the  *  Black  Sivan'  i% 
Conty  Street  in  Yorb.     At  loth  xehick  Places,  they  may  he  retetved  in\ 
a  StOf^  Coach  et^ry  Monday,  Wtdmsday,  and  Friday,  ivhiih  performt^ 
iht  whoit  Journey  in  Four  Days  {if  God  permitt),  And  sets  Joiih  at 
Five  in  the  Morning. 

I'  Benjamix  Kimcman, 
Henrv  Harrisox, 
VVAt,TF-R    BAVSES." 

For  the  further  comfort  of  the  travelling  public  a  proclamation 
was  issued  on  ihe  21st  of  January,  1720,  in  which  a  reward  of  ,■{^100 
was  offered  for  taking  any  highwayman  within  five  miles  of  London 
er  Westminster.  Officers  in  the  army  sahited  by  "comporting" 
Iheir  lialf  pikes  according  to  certain  "figures"  contained  in  1 
•urioiis  manual,  now  before  mc ;  and  the  manual  and  platooa 
•xerdse  for  soldiers  included,  according  to  the  same  authority,  such 
motions  at  "  Handle  your  Primers,"  "Poise  your  Tirelock,"  "Club 
yoirr  FirclocJ;,"  "Shorten  your  Rammer,"  "Rest  on  your  Arms," 
»nd  ihc  hke.  Privates  wore  small  swords,  standing  out  from  stiff, 
wide  skirts.  The  "  Red  Book  "  of  to-day  contrasts  very  quaintly 
with  the  " Manual  of  our  British  Foot"  of  the  eighleenih  century. 
The  diifcrence  is  as  great  as  that  which  runs  through  all  costume. 

It  was  a  time  of  stock-jobbing  mania :  of  the  South  Sea  Scheme ; 
©f  Mr.  Law,  the  "  PEutus  of  France,"  and  of  his  Royal  Bank  and 
Mississippi  Company.  In  March,  1720,  South  Sea  Stock  rose  from 
130  to  above  300;  in  May,  it  rose  to  550;  in  June,  to  890;  in 
July,  to  900  and  1,000;  and  in  September  it  had  dropped  to  400. 
Nearly  every  one  gambled.  Smollett  says,  "  During  the  infatua- 
tion produced  by  the  infamous  .South  Sea  Bubble,  luxury,  vice,  and 
profligacy  increased  to  a  shocking  degree  of  extravagance."  In 
1721  the  crash  came;  but  in  17^0  the  bubble  was  blown  to  its 
greatest  distension.  This  South  Sea  Scheme  is  the  most  distinctive 
event  of  the  year.  Indies  tefl  the  card-table  for  Change  Alley ;  and 
Ihc  crowd  of  speculative  "adventurers,"  in  their  habits  as  they  lived, 
ttay  be  seen  in  Mr.  Ward's  well-known  picture. 

la  1720  Mr.  William  Hutchinson,  of  Goldesbro',  in  Yorkshire, 
and  of  Cambridge  University,  started  with  Robert  Byerley,  Esq., 
his  tutor  (always  called  by  Hutchinson  "ray  master"),  foragtand 
tour.  Mr.  Hutchinson  is  my  great-grandfather,  and  his  curious  un- 
published journal  and  "account"  of  his  travels  has  descended  to 
jtic.  The  journal  has  been  most  carefully  copied,  in  a  fair  round 
hand,  into  a  J^ound  book,  paged  and  wdextd,  aiT^  (umished  with  an 


4 


The  Grand  Tour,  149 

euct  comparative  uble  of  "the  measures  of  different  nations." 
The  work  has  been  Transcribed  with  loving  care  and  pride.  It  wai 
not  intended,  apparently,  for  publication.  The  uTitcr  thought  only 
of  recording  his  travels — even  in  a  day  in  which  travelling  was  so 
rare — for  the  information,  imd,  it  may  be,  the  admiration,  of  his 
fiunily  aiul  Irieods.  He  would,  probably,  have-  rcfoscd  to  bclieve^H 
that  portions,  at  least,  of  his  work  would  see  the  light  in  1876.  Tha^^l 
Utile  volume  has  been  scrupulously  preserved  in  the  tunily,  and 
recently  came  to  me  by  inheritance.  The  com|xirison  which  the 
jounial  suggests  between  travelling  then  and  travelling  now  secmx 
10  me  so  striking  and  so  airious  that — apart  from  the  quaintncss 
and  merit  of  the  narrative  itself^some  few  extracts  from  ray  an- 
cestor's journal  will,  I  feel  sure,  interest  readers  to-day. 

Every  one  has  some  puqiusc  in  travelling.  Let  us  hear  Mc 
Hutchinson's  ideas  00  the  subject  He  says,  in  a  kind  of  moral 
pretence  for  writing,  or  inlroduction  to  his  journal  :— 

"There  is  certainly  no  place  in  the  World  where  a  man  ma/ 
Travel  with  greater  advantage  tlian  in  Italy.  It  is  tlie  great  Sciiool 
of  Mu^ick  and  Painting,  and  contains  in  it  all  the  Noblest  Pro- 
ductions of  Statuary  and  Architecture,  both  Aoticnt  and  Modern: 
it  abounds  with  Cabinets  of  Curiosities,  and  vast  Colccttons  of  all 
kinds  of  Antiquities.  No  other  country  in  the  World  has  such  a 
variety  of  Governments  [remember  this  was  written  in  1720],  that 
are  so  different  in  their  Constitutions,    and  so  rc£n'd  in    tlielr 

Politicks One  may  ob5cr\'e  among  those  who  have  writtca 

on  luly,  that  di^crcnl  Authors  have  succeeded  best  on  difTerent 
Sorts  of  Curiosities  \  some  have  been  more  Fariiculai  in  theit 
accounts  of  Pictures,  Statues,  and  Duildings ;  some  have  searched 
into  Libraries,  Cabinets  of  Rarities,  and  Ct^ections  of  Medals,  as 
others  have  been  taken  up  with  Inscriptions,  Ruins,  and  Antiquities." 
Here  Mr.  Hutchinson  cites  some  of  his  predecessors  in  writing 
about  Italy— as  the  Bishop  of  "Sailsbuiy,"  Lassalls,  Kay,  M,  Mtsson. 
Mr.  Hutchinson  proceeds :  "For  my  own  part,  as  I  have  taken  notice 
of  Several  Places  and  Antiquities  tlut  Nobody  else  has  spoken  of)  sa 
I  ihtnk  I  have  meniioo'd  but  few  things  in  common  with  others  that 
are  not  cither  set  in  a  new  light,  or  accompanied  niUi  different 
Reflections."  Now  comes  the  Scholar,  who  tells  us, — "I  have 
taken  care  paniculariy  to  consider  the  Several  Passages  of  the 
Antient  Poets  which  have  any  Relatbns  to  y*  Places  or  Curiosiiiet 
tfau  I  met  with.  For  before  I  entered  on  my  Voiage,  I  took  care  to 
icfrah  my  Memory  among  the  Classick  authors,  and  Xo  maJLe  ^^lOa 

r^illM-tifin  rait  eif  ihfiit  nt   T  mitfbft   nftm  ■iiiiiili   .haw*  np«<««l(«>v. (rvT        '' 


1 50  The  GeiUlentans  Ala^asine. 

must  confess  it  was  not  one  of  the  least  of  Kniertaininents  that  I 
met  irilh  in  TravelUog,  to  Exaraiue  tliose  Several  Descriptioos  as  it- 
were,  upon  the  Spot,  and    to  compare    the   Natural   Face  of  the 
CountT}'  with  the  Ijindskips  that  the  Poets  Iiave  given  us  of  it." 

I  So  far  our  young  student  traveller  is  in  sweet  accord  nith  the  late 
ingenious  Mr.  Addison,  who  took  particular  delight  in  the  same 
enlertatnment  "  He  passed  Lake  Benacus  wliilc  a  gale  was  blow- 
iifg,  and  saw  the  waves  raging  as  they  raged  when  Virgil  looked 
lipon  Ihcm."  Macaiilay  says  furtlier — "The  crowd  of  readers  who 
expected  (from  Addison)  politics  and  scandal  ....  were  con- 
founded by  finding  that  the  writer's  niind  was  much  more  occupied 
by  the  -wra  between  the  Trojans  and  RutuUans  than  by  the  war 
between  France  and  Austria :  and  that  he  seemed  to  have  heard  no 
scandal  of  later  date  than  the  gallantries  of  the  Empress  Faustina." 
We  shall  see,  shortly,  how  far  oar  present  guide  looked  at  things 
only  with  a  scholar's  classic  eye. 

Now,  in  1876,  wc  need  very  little  prelude  to  an  excursion.  Wc 
start  to  the  Continent  at  very  short  notice  and  with  very  slight 
preparation.  Wc  arrange  with  our  friend,  or  friends,  to  dine,  jiro- 
bably  at  a  ctub,  and  wc  are  al  Cliaring  Cross  in  time  to  catch  the 
S.30.  Mr.  Hutchinson  proceeded,  necessarily,  with  more  delibera- 
tion. He  departed  from  Ravcnsworth,  in  Yorkshire,  on  the  17th  of 
Augnst,  1 7  20,  and  reached  London  on  the  2  7th  of  August.  He  stayed 
with  *' my  master  "  in  Queen  Square,  Westminster,  until  the  8th  of  Sep- 
tember; on  which  day  they  embarked  at  Rotherhitlie,  in  a  foreign 
sloop,  the  captain  being  one  "  Mathew  Skewering,  a  Dutchman 
bora,"  and  set  sail  slowly  for  Hamburg,  "in  Lower  Germany." 
They  anchored  and  dined  at  Gravesend.  'I"hey  often  anchored,  and 
indeed  pursued  their  voyage  with  a  comfortable  leisure.  They 
reached  Hamburg,  after  a  somewhat  tempestuous  passage,  on  tlie 
iSth  of  September;  and  there  lodged  at  the  "Klien  English  House,* 
k«pt  by  one  John  May,  presumably  a  cotmtryman. 

Travelling  in  thoB.c  days  was  not  connected  with  any  idea  of  huny. 
Ml*.  Hutchinson  and  his  "  master "  remained  in  Hamburg  until  the 
4lti  of  April,  1711,  when  they  quitted  the  Hanse  city,  "accoiD- 
poiu'ed  with  Sir  David  Kxcter,  servant,  and  Mr.  Charles  Lister." 
During  his  stay  in  Hamburg  oar  student  was  most  diligent  There, 
were  then  no  guide  books,  and  a  man  had  to  be  his  own  "  Murray." 
The  travellers  of  that  lime  studied  assiduously  and  learned  tho-. 
roughly.  Our  young  friend  in  Hamburg,  as  at  all  other  places,  finds 
out  for  himself  and  records  tlie  latitude  and  longitude  of  the  place  j 

its  disaace  torn  other  capitals  ;  its  ptodacts,  uaA^  mauufactuies ; 


^ 


4 


I 

I 


i. 


i 


: 


govemnient  and  histoiy;  its  Dotcworthy  object 
Btonumexits ;  and  its  habits  and  manners.    All  this  knowledge  was 
gained  paiolully,  from  special  pecsooal  tuqutij. 

Tbey  travelled  either  with  post-hones  or,  mwe  geoenilly,  on 
honeback,  anned,  and  accompamed  by  servants.  Leaving  iUm- 
borg,  they  travelled  through  Westphalia  and  Bavaria,  retuniing  t^ 
vay  erf  the  Rhine  to  Antwerp.  My  space  is  so  limited  that  I  can 
but  skim  this  comparatively  unimportant  portion  of  the  tour. 
Belgium  in  1 7x0  was  for  an  Englishman  much  what  it  Vi&  in  tSao. 
la  the  latter  year  the  glories  of  Waterloo  were  fresh  ;  in  1730  the 
many  triumphs  of  Marlborough  were  recent  enougli  to  stir  the 
patriotic  feeling  of  a  true  EngUshmaii.  Our  traveller  evidently  had  a 
fitir  share  of  patriotic  pride ;  he  repairs  to  the  scenes  of  Marlborough's 
wars,  and  records  tlie  fact  when  he  visits  any  town  that  had  "  mftde . 
submission  "  to  the  hero  of  Ijlenhciin.  Mr.  Hulcliinson  visits  Calaiv 
and  Boulogne,  and  sees  all  that  b  sceable  in  dries  and  in  country, 
mril,  on  May  the  9ih,  1 7S1,  we  find  him  arriving  in  a  state  of  some 
exdtemcni,  at  Paris. 

Pupil  and  tutor  arc  therefore  now  in  the  Paris  of  the  Regent 
Orleans.  They  lodged  first  at  the  "  Hotel  d'F,spaigne,"  Rue 
I>aaphia ;  and  moved  afterwards  to  *'  L*H6tet  de  Hotence,"  Rue 
dc  ToutQOD.  No  Lourre  or  Grand  Hdtel  then !  We  may 
inu^cine  tliem  enjoying  a  pleasure  which  we  of  a  later  generation 
have  also  enjoyed— that  of  walking,  for  the  first  lime,  alxwt  the 
streets  of  a  strange,  great  city.  Then  begin  their  laborious  studies 
towards  the  construction  of  their  own  "  Murray."  The  tutor,  pro- 
bably, furnishes  the  history,  the  solemn  notices  about  the  "  Mero- 
Tin^oa,  Carlovinion,  and  Capitinc  "  dynasties ;  while  the  pupil  does 
the  observation  and  the  "  Reflectioiw."  "  Paris,"  says  our  traveller, 
**  is  00c  of  the  BeautifiiUcst  Cities  that  I  ever  see ;  the  houses  well 
built,  and  very  High ;  the  streets  large  and  cxtrcamly  well  Paved, 
and  always  kept  very  dean."  Concerning  French  character,  we  find 
h  remarked  that ''  the  French  ate  generaly  a  Civil,  Quick,  and  active 
Sort  of  people,  but  Exlreamly  given  to  talking,  especially  those  of 
the  Female  Sex,  who  nevertheless  are  not  only  pleasing  in  discourse^ 
but  ahK>  of  ft  gracefoU  and  winning  depoctraenL  This  people  is  thui . 
oacteris'd  by  some,  that  they  are  aiery.  amoutous,  full  of  action, 
-cowplett  mastets  of  the  Art  of  DtssimubiJon,  and  above  all  things 
Conaentiotti.'*  The  bridges  are  hi^^ly  lauded,  "  especially  that  of 
Pont  House"  {Mr.  Hutchinson  often  spells  by  car),  "whidi  ts 
bcKtt  froD  end  to  end  with  liiUe  Booths,  and  Bairavkis  it\\eK.  a&_ 


15^ 


The  GentUniaiC&  Alagazine. 


I 


"  King  Hcncry  Uie  4tli "  is  commended.  Oui  ttavellcrs  saw 
tombs  of  ihe  Kings  of  France  at  St  Denis,  all  of  which  wert. 
destroyed  in  the  Revolution.  In  the  Bois  dc  Boulogne  they 
found  "aboundance  of  a  pertridge,  phcsants,  &c"  At  Versailles 
he  finds  that  "Lewis  the  Great "^ had  "made  it  his  pastime  to 
Embclish,  or  Exceed  Nature."  He  praises  very  waniilythe  influence 
of  tlie  French  Academy ;  and  points  out,  in  connection  with  poli- 
tics, that  "  there  were  antiently  in  tliis  Kingdom  many  jtotcnt  Dukes, 
Earls,  and  Lords,  who  claim'd  aud  currently  exercised  great  autho- 
rity; but  by  the  Kndeavouis  .'of  some  Grand  Minister  of  Stale 
{Richelieu?)  the  Power  and  Jurisdiction  of  the  Nobility  was 
strangely  impar'd  ttiat  uow.they  appear  as  so  many  Cyphers  in 
Nation.  The  Assembly  of  the  Three  Estates  was  likewise  in 
veneration  of  old,  and  the  Regal  Authority  itself  was  thereby  very 
much  limited ;  but  that  Assembly  not  having  been  convcn'd  since 
1614,  their  authority  is  now  suppres'd  finaly.  The  Parlcmcnt  of 
Paris  was  likewise  of  Power,  and  often  heretofore  oppos'd  the 
designs  of  the  Court ;  but  that  Assembly  has  been  taught  other 
things  of  late,  and  its  wings  so  strangely  dipt  that  it  does  not  appear 
in  the  least  against  any  Proposal  whicli  is  hatclicd  at  Versailles  (thai 
being  now  the  King's  only  Palace  aud  Residence),  so  that  the  F'rencb 
Mouaicliy  is  now  screwed  up  to  such  a  pitch  that  it  diflereth  but 
little,  or  Nothing,  from  any  of  the  most  absolute  Empires  ia  ihe 
World."  AVisc  after  the  event,  wc  know  how  the  Government  of 
that  day  was  "screwed  up,"  and  we  know  to  what  it  tended; 
Mr.  Hutchinson's  evidence  is,  at  least,  curious.  After  seeing  all  t' 
they  could  see,  our  travellers  quitted  Paris  on  September  the  ist,  172 
"accompanied  witli  Abm.  Elton,  Esq.,  and  his  sou,"  who,  howev 
left  them  on  the  day  fcllowtng. 

And  DOW  our  friends  began  to  ride  and  drive  through  the  grea 
part  of  France.  To  estimate  at  all  the  nimiber  of  places  whicli 
they  saw,  we  must  remember  that  they  could  only  travel  a  few  leagues 
a  day,  and  had  to  sleep  every  night  at  a  place  not  vcr>'  far  distant 
from  the  one  they  had  left  in  the  morning.  We  roust  imagine  the 
French  post-chaise,  yellow  and  lumbering,  of  the  day,  and  we  must 
fancy  a  party  armed  with  pistols  in  the  holster,  and  swords  by  the 
side,  with  portmanteaus  carried  behind  the  saddle,  wearing  Ramillics 
wigs,  and  great-coats  willi  wide  capes;  with  mounted  servant  or  scr* 
vauts  beliind,  riding  through  a  country  which  they  would  certaiul, 
have  leisure  to  observe  and  to  enjoy. 

Wc  can  only  touch  at  a  place  or  two  with  them.    At  Angers  th 
was,  they  tell  us,  an  "Accadcmy  for  Rideing,  Reckon'd  to  be  tlw 


A 


TIu  Grand  Tour,  153 

best  of  Europe,"  to  wiiich  many  Kuglish  resorted,  in  order,  probably, 

10  acquire  the  stately  equitation  of  the  hauie  mle,  Tlicse  English 
geuilemen  "set  upp"  their  coats  of  arms  in  the  sdiool.  They 
found  there  three  friends,  Mr.  Bartley,  Mr.  Bramley,  and  my  Lord 
Wltherington.  At  Nantes  they  saw  "  a  Gigantick  man,  whose  Height 
WM  8  foot,  Xam'd  Jean  Boblist  Casnove,  aged  forty  years,  a  Vinetian 

•  by  nation."    On  February  the  iSth,  r 733,  being  "Merdy  Gras,"  there 
was    great  rejoicing  and  masquerading    in    Nantes.     Airiving  at 

11  p.nu  at  Bordeaux,  tliey  found  the  gales  shut,  and  were  furced  to 
stsy  tn  the  suburbs,  "  in  a  dirty  Celler,  where  neitliei  Meat,  not  Beds 
fm  to  lay  In,"  At  "  Mersailes "  they  indulge  in  much  leanuug; 
but  here  Mr.  Hutchinson  is  recalled  to  England,  and  has  to  postpone 
for  the  present  his  visit  lo  that  Italy  which  was  his  chief  attraction 
in  liavelh'nj.  Repassing  Paris,  they  visit  Normandy,  and  on  May 
the  26th,  1722,  N.S.,  re^ed  Dieppe,  lod^g  there  at  the  "  Chasse 
Royal."  On  the  27th  of  May  they  engaged  with  the  master  ofa"  very 
tittle  vcsEcIl "  for  a  passage  to  Hastings,  paying  for  their  passage 
60  livres.  In  London  Mr.  Hutchinson  lodged  at  "  Maddam 
Tyadole'Sf  in  Devonshire  Street,  close  by  Red  Lion's  Sc|uare  i*  and 
then  &taited  to  post  to  Goldesbro*.  It  may  be  interesting  to  note 
the  stages  of  such  a  journey  performed  in  our  owa  country  in  173a, 
and  our  young  friend  has  recorded  them  for  us  with  his  wonted 
aocmacy,  giving  even  the  number  of  miles  between  each  town.  The 
Mages  are  "Ilenfieid  (Enfield),  Ware,  Roiaton,  P.  Cekson,  Hunting- 
don, Stilton,  Stamford,  Post  Wilton,  Grantliain,  Newark,  Tuxford, 
Bflwtry,  Doncastcr,  Ferrybridge,  Witlicrhy,  Goldesbro'."  We  may 
imagine  the  acclaim  with  whicli  such  a  traveller  was  received  by  his 
Own  family,  and  in  his  native  place. 

His  desiie  for  travel  had,  however,  only  been  whetted,  for  we 
God  hiio,  again  with  his  "  master,"  sailing  on  the  i9lh  of  July,  1713,  on 
board  the  Ann  and  yaiu.  Captain  John  Wilkinson,  from  Hull  to 
Amsterdam. 

"  Wee  both  sick,"  remarks  Mr.  Hutchinson,  thereby  connecting 
his  day  %-ividly  with  our  own.  A  hundred  and  fifty  years  produce  but 
little  difference  in  that  respect.  They  reached  Amsterdam  on  the 
a4A  of  July.  A  slow  passage,  considering  that  they  had  a  very 
"CivouTatilc  gale."  They  were  "  conducted  by  the  dptain  to  'John 
Mormoa's,'  at  the  Signc  of  the  City  of  Edcnborough,  iu  de  Marmoes 
SimL- 

Mr.  Hutchinson  was  very  much  delighted  with  Amsterdam,  which, 
he  i>j«,  is  "  without  Dispute  one  of  the  most  UeautUuW,  most  ^^juc, 
U  Cirrs  of^  Wotid,   The  iHtmbis  o(  tYtcir  SbuA  Ton)^ 


154  The  Getti lemon's  Ala^asim. 


I 

I 


Surpasseth  the  Number  of  their  Houses :  they  bring  {com  the 
corncni  of  tlic  World  everylhiug  that  Uie  Creator  lias  made  N 
and  Agreeable  for  nua."  He  notices  the  sluices  oad  the  chtircbeSt 
and  remarks  that  "  here  is  no  Coaches  with  Hliccls  allow'dt  only  W 
Stntngers  and  Physidans,  for  fear  of  Shaking  the  Houses  that  is  bat 
built  upon  Piles,  but  there  is  vast  numbers  of  Coaches  that  is  Ploc'd 
upon  Sledges,  but  it  goes  very  stow  and  is  very  disagreeable,  so  ti 
few  but  old  people  make  use  of  ihetn." 

He  found  in  Amstcnkm  a  ^ologiotl  Garden.  We  had  not,  at 
tliBt  time,  one  in  l^ndon,  and  our  young  traveller  is  very  modi 
suiptised  and  pleased.  "Thet«  is  one  (bird)  paitickularly  to  btf 
taken  Notice  of;  'tit  as  big  as  a  Goat,  having  Brisles  upon  it  like  x 
Hog ;  'tis  called  Vogte  Casuarious/  This  is  probably  oui  fiicnd  Uie 
-cassowary,  who  was  not,  at  that  period,  stained  with  the  blood  of  tlM 
unfortunate  missionary  and  his  hymn  book  too.  "  There  is  several 
hundred  more  curiosities,  but  a  whole  volume  would  not  contain  ali." 
They  left  Amsterdam,  August  the  j8ih,  1 723,  and  visited  all  the  chief 
places  in  Holland.  From  Antwerp  to  Bnixelles  "  the  coach  cost  Oi 
five  crowns, — and  we  lodged  at  L.'H6tel  de  Island,  Rue  de  I'HopitiL 
We  left  Bruxelles,  my  master  in  chaise,  I  on  horseback,  and  again 
reached  Pam  on  30th  September,  lodging  this  time  at  L'Hotel  do 
Luisuess,  dans  la  Kuc  de  Cotombier,  chcz  Monsieur  CabzinaquSi! 
TheUukeof  Orleans  died  at  Versailles  on  tlic  and  of  December,  I7»3|# 
while  otnr  friends  were  in  Paris.  They  left  on  the  aist  of  Febnia^ 
i724,aiid  travelled  in  the  old  way  through  France.  Sometimes  "wes 
•was  very  badly  Lodg'd  and  leanly  entertained ; "  and  frequent  roeatioi 
is  made  of  the  exceeding  badness  of  the  roods,  especially  in  Burgnn^ 
From  Ma^on  "  wee  could  see  at  a  vast  Distance  Stu]}endiou5 
Mountains,  whose  caoded  tops  being  covcr'd  with  Snows,  which 
seemed  to  Perce  the  Clouds.  At  the  sign  of  the  '  Golden  Cupt 
wee  found  a  very  Perverse  Landlady,  which  would  not  gtv«  ni 
Victuals  and  Drink  for  Money  :"  and  we  liad  the  happiness  of  faUing 
in  witii  two  English  friends,  Sir  Gcrrard  Aylmere  and  Mr.  Scott. 

Here  I  transcribe  an  amusing  little  incident  of  tra\'eL  "  Nert 
-day  coming  down  the  River,  Sir  Gerrard  see  some  Ducks,  and  aakU 
me  for  one  of  my  Pistols,  which  I  lent  him,  to  shoot  at  the  Duck& 
He  shot  one,  and  afterwards  by  Accident  dropp'd  my  Pistol  into  (be 
River.  Wee  can^c  that  Night  to  a  little  Village  about  a  LeagMd 
and  a  half  from  Lyons,  where  wc  Lodg'd,  being  too  late  to  reach  the 
TowxL  When  we  came  into  the  Inn  Sir  Gerrard  ask'd  for  some 
meat,  but  being  in  I.«nt,  the  woman  rcfus'd,  and  said  she  had  nona 
£ir  Ccuard,  being  a  merry  spaxk,  goes  uixo  S!c^  T>^  ^^  fcniyita 


^ 


J 


,  which  he  beheaded,  aud  order'd  her  to  dress  it,  for  which  he 
payd  Tea  Liveis,  thu'  being  so  old  nobody  could  eat  it.  At 
Lyons  our  merry  genOemao  Sir  Gerrard  left  us,  and  went  to  Geneva, 
ihe  loss  of  liis  good  company  much  Kegret'd  by  us."  We  wondered 
St  the  fiunous  clock — "  the  most  curious  nnd  most  machinal  Piece  of 
Wblltm&oship  that  was  ever  made " — and  we  describe  it  at  great 
length.  The  Roman  remains  at  Nismes  excite  our  enthusiasm  and 
ie  our  learning.  Montpelicr  is  found  to  be  "Remarkable  for 
riped  People,  espccialy  uf  tliu  female  kind,  ivliicb  uiisTorluue 
may  realy  be  imputed  to  have  its  original  in  their  Ludeaess,  being 
^tmiversaly  Tnclin'd  to  Laciviousness.  In  fme,  the  fair  Sex  is  Pritty 
isomc,  and  has  something  more  atracling  in  them  than  in  other 
of  France."  The  Jews  at  Avignon  "dare  not  go  out  without 
*^eir  yellow  Hatts,  and  the  Women  something  yellow  in  tlicir  Cips." 
After  a  bad  break-down  of  the  chuse,  near  Moulin,  "  to  my  master's 
ku'on,"  the  travellers  reach  Marseilles,  and  are  really  on  the  high- 
-road to  Italy. 

On  June  the  5th,  1724,  we  sailed  Irom  Marseilles  to  Genoa  in  a 
^shallop,  or  long  boat,"  intending  to  moke  a  coaxing  voyage.  After 
rpasiing  Toulon,  wc  arrived  at  night  in  a  Utde  credc,  went  ashore, 
and  supped,  believing  tliat  wc  were  upua  an  uninhabited  island.  At 
Nice  the  "  Prince's  cook  "  was  sent  for  to  dress  our  dinner,  W'c  saw 
Mofuco,  then  garrisoned  by  Ihc  French.  Mr.  iiutchinsoa  here 
makes  a  "Reflection"  to  the  effect  that  "without  the  Natural 
Beoetit  of  the  Climates,  the  Extream  Misery  and  Poverty  that  are  in 
most  of  the  Italian  Governments  would  be  Insuportable."  Arrived 
in  GcnoB,  we  pat  up  at  the  "  Croix  Blanche,  vis-a-vis  L'Anootia- 
tioo ;"  and  our  longing  is  fulfilled — we  are  at  last  in  Italy. 

Our  guide,  philosopher^  and  friend  is  naturally  much  elated  to 
find  himsdf  in  the  country  whicli  he  had  so  ardently  desired  to  visit 
I^P»ring  over  much  learned  diaqtiisition,  I  come  to  a  Utde  picture  of 
iCTs :  '*  ihc  Noblemen  is  Gcneraly  dress'd  in  Black,  with  cloaks, 
and  wears  no  swords."  This  absence  of  the  sword  w<iuld  be  very 
>  mticcable  to  a  young  gentleman  of  the  first  quarter  of  the  eighteenth 
"At  the  procession  of  the  Fete  Uieu  wee  see  Lhe  Senate 
in  Corps.  The  Doge  wears  a  Robe  of  a  Crimson  Colour,  with  a 
wit  yf  I'iuaie  cap.  They  cany  before  him  two  maces,  with  a  sword 
to  the  Scabcrl,  two  Senators  at  the  side  of  him  in  Black  Cloaks  made 
the  same  mode  as  bis.  They  entitle  the  Doge,  Serene  ■>  the 
Jofi,  fCicceUences ;  and  the  Nobles,  lllustre.  'ITiis  last  term 
btit  very  little  in  Italy,  for  one  need  but  hang  a  Ribbind 
lUustrissinio.'' 


tde 

the      m 
irra      ^H 


156 


Tiie  GeniiemaJis  Magazim. 


In  this  famous  procession  "  the  Houses  was  huiig  willi  Tajjistiy, 
the  Streets  strew'd  whh  Flowers,  the  Wiadows  and  tialleries  throDged 
with  Ladies,  as  well  sett  out  as  Fossablc,  these  Ladies  having  Baskets 
of  Flowers,  whidi  they  throw'd  down  upon  the  Procession  according 
to  the  Dift'crcnt  Motions  of  the  Heart,  sometimes  for  Devotion, 
jraetimes  for  Inclination,  or  Civility,  to  the  Gentlemen  of  thdr 
lintancc,  whose  Perukes  were  covcr'd  with  Flowers  at  each 
handful!  of  Favors  receiv'd.  These  Gcndemeti  made  very  submis- 
sive Reverences  to  their  Beaefactreses." 

Mr,  HutchinsoQ  then  narrates  a  iirctty  Uttlc  love  storiette,  which 
seems  to  me  so  characteristic  t}iat  it  is  worth  preserving.     He  sa)-j 
that  at  the  Church  of  *'  Saint  Mary  de  Chateau  ihey  keep  a  Crud&c 
which  is   Particularly  worshljiped  by  Demoiselles."    This   is  the 
reason :---"  A  certain  Gentleman,  who  had  made  love  to  a  yoang 
Woman,  but  with  no  intention  to  marry  her,  Notwithstanding,  at  the 
last  he  luid  promissed  her  Marriage  :  this  happen'd,  as  they  say,  la 
a  certain  Place  of  the  City  where  tliere  was  then  ■a  Crucifix :  in  fine, 
tlic  Gentleman  Rcfus'd  to  perform  his  Promise,  but  the  Woman  had 
him  before  the  Justice,  but  by  Misfortune  the  Girl  had  no  Eye  Wit- 
ness of  the  Promise;  but  whea  she  see  that  she  was  like  to  be  Dis- 
apointed  of  what  she   Pretended,  she  Rcmcmbrcd  that  he  made 
the  Promise  in  Presence  of  a  Crucifix.    She  cry'd  out,  with  Sorrow 
and  Tears,  that  she  would  take  that  Cross  in  Witness  against  hint 
She  desired  that  the  Justice  would  Suffer  it  to  be  brought  in  Witness 
against  himj  which  was  granted,  and  it  was  Kxamin'dj — but  truly  he 
(/>.,  the  Cross)  opened  not  his  mouth,  but  liowed  his  Head;  and 
tlic  Questions  y'  they  ask'd  was  Answer'd  after  such  a  maimer  that 
the  Signs  of  the  Head  could  not  be  explain'd  but  in  favour  of  tlie 
Poor  Afflicted  Girl ;  so  the  Court  ordered  tliat  the  Marriage  should 
be  celebrated  that  very  Day.     With  that  the  Husband's  Heart  grew 
so  tender,  that  never  any  lived  in  more  concord  and  satisfection 
than  these  two."      After  this  little  romance  otir  friend  gives  way,  for 
a  time,  to  erudition ;  but  presendy  proceeds  again  to  the  learning 
to  be  ac(iuired  through  the  eyes.     "  Another  thing  I  can't  omit, 
having  the  object  before  my  Eyes.    Tlie  Footmen  here  keeps  iheir 
Ladies,  to  Quilt  and  make  their  Cotillions,  and  Realy  I  believe  Puts 
on  tlicir  Smocks,  for  they  are   Geoeraly  Ptesant   while  they  we 
Dressing,  as    I  have  often  seen  out  of  the  Window   where  wee 
Lodg'd."     It  may  also  be  worth  while  to  take  our  young  fneod's 
evidence  on  the  state  of  the  country.    He  wiys,  "There  is  no  Place 
in  Europe  so  much  frequented  by  Strangers,  whether  they  come  oat 
y^  or  such  who  are  obVig,*4  to  axwfti  *\ti  Cwax.  ol  ■^joroe." 


J 


The  Grand  Tour. 


157 


tdict  XIII.  was,  by  the  way,  now  Pope.      "Notwithstanding 
lese  PromUing  Circumstances,  and  the  long  pence  that  has  so  many 
\T%   Reign'd  ID  Italy,  there  is  not  a  more  miserable  People  in 
Europe  than  the  Pope's  Subjects.     His  State  is  thin  of  Inhabitants, 
id  great  port    ot    his   Soil   is    uncultivated.       His  Subjects  are 
iTrcckedty  Poor  and  Idle,  and  have  neither  suflicient  Atanufacturs 
nor  TraAck  to  Employ  them.    These  ill  Efects  may  arise  in  a  great 
,  Measure  out  of  the  Arbitrariness  of  the  Govcmmcnl,  but  1   think 
ley  arc  chiefly  to  be  ascrib'd  to  the  Romain  Religion,  which  here 
jhows  itself  in  its  greatest  Perfection.    It  is  not  Strange  to  find  a 
cotintry  half  Unpeopled  where  so  great  a  Proportion  of  the  In- 
'hubitants,  of  both  Sexes,  ts  t)''d  under  Vows  of  Chastity.  .  ,  ,    Nor 
is  ii  less  easy  to  account  for  tlie  great  Poverty,  and  want,  y'  are  to  be 
met  with  in  a  Country  which  invites  into  it  such  a  Swarm  of  Vaga- 
bonds, under  the  Title  of  Pilgrims ;  and  Shuts  up  in  Cloysters  such 
as  Incredable  Number  of  Bcggcrs,  who,  instead  of  iacreasiog  the 
Common  Stock  by  their  Labour  and  Industry,  He  as  a  dead  Weight 
oa  their  Fellow  Subjects,  and  consume  the  Charity  that  ought  to 
jupport  the  Sickly,  the  Old,  and  Dccripid.  .  .  .  And  when  to  lliese 
Natural  Enb  in  the  Government  and  Religion,  there  arises  amongst 
them  an  averitious  Pope,  who  is  for  making  a  Family,  'tis  no  wonder 
if  the  People  sink  under  such  a  Complication  of  Desieinpers." 

Here,  for  the  second  lime,  for  some  cause  at  present  unknown  to 
this  editor,  Mr.  Hutchinson  was  recalled  to  England  ;  and  accord- 
ingly, on  Whit  Sunday,  May  the  aoth,  1735,  N.S.,  he  and  his  master 
cQitnrked  at  Genoa  on  board  iJie  "  Levant  Gaily,  one  hundred  and 
eighty  Tuns,  Commander  Captain  Robert  AVilistoa,"  bound  for 
London  ;  but  the  winds  being  very  contrary,  the  ship  lay  in  the 
"*  Mold"  (Mole)  until  Wednesday,  the  23rd,  when,  the  weather  being 
very  (air  and  the  wind  very  favourable,  they  stood  out  of  the  pott  of 
Genoa  imder  full  sail. 

Mentor  and  Tclcmachus  arc  therefore  now  at  sea,  and  homeward 
bound.  They  had  a  rather  long  and  rather  boisterous  passage,  the 
detafls  of  which  are  minutely  recorded  in  the  journal  of  the  inde- 
fatigable younger  traveller.  In  tlie  Straits  of  Gibraltar  "  wee  see  a 
sail  to  windward,  suppos'd  to  be  a  Rover;  in  the  Evening  made  all 
in  Readiness  for  fear  of  being  .<nirpris'd  in  the  Night,  but  the  next 
rooming  lost  sight  of  it."  *'  Next  day  wee  spoke  a  Dutch  man  of 
Wmt,  they  being  in  all  seven  Sail,  cnizing  for  the  Algarincs."  On  the 
voyage  they  spoke  several  shi|>s,  as,  for  instance,  the  AV/t/,  Cap- 
tain Andrew  Hixon,  bound  for  Jamaica ;  but  all  these  vessels  hav<£ 
torn  ships  to  us  now.    Once,  in  iHe  Hc^xlerriinc 


158 


Tkt  Gmtlematis  Mas^azine. 


**  die  sea  seam'd  all  in  a  flame."  At  kngtl),  on  Uie  lath  of  July. 
*'  wee  5L*e  Sl  Paul's  Church,"  and  at  near  midnight  of  that  day  we 
"  mooi'd  over  against  Rothcrhithc  Church,"  aud  our  voyages  and 
travels  arc  over. 

On  the  30th  of  July,  1725,  Mr.  Hutchinson  again  readies  dear  (rfd 
Goldesbro',  where  he  will,  nt)  doubt,  be  warmly  welcomed  by  his 
fcmily  and  friends.  He  will  have  for  some  time  a  pleasant  occupa- 
tion in  transferring  his  rough  notes  to  the  carefully  executed  volume 
now  lying  before  me;  and  it  may  be  hoped  thai,  in  addition  to  the 
natural  admiration  of  a  fond  family,  he  m^y  find  some  solace  in  the 
praise  and  estimation  of  a  polite  and  learned  drcle  in  the  Unirn- 
»ity,  and  elsewhere.  Tor  itjwas  "something  to  he  a  traveller  in  those 
days,  and  our  young  friend  may  fairly  boast  that  he  has  seen,  studied, 
^and  recorded  much.    Rest  to  the  traveller ! 

An  attempt  to  give  a  clear  idea  of  my  ancestor's  journal  within 
the  space  of  an  article  is  something  like  the  performance  of  pre- 
senting the  I-ord's  Prayer  within  the  compass  of  a  sixpence  I  have 
in  my  extmcts  rendered  but  little  justice  to  Mr.  Hutchinson's  team* 
ing  and  researcli,  I  have, -indeed,  in  all  cases  preferred  to  present 
pictures  of  men  and  manners.  We  do  not  very  much  care  to  Icaro 
from  a  traveller  in  Europe  the  history  of  the  past.  We  can  learn 
that  from  many  other  sources.  We  want  pictures  rather  llian  erudJ* 
tion ;  wc  desire  contemporary  painting  of  the  ■w'ann  li^^ng  life  of 
humanity.  Details  can  scarcely  be  too  small.  Wc  want  to  know 
what  the  streets  looked  like,  with  the  passengers  and  vehicles;  we 
are  curious  about  the  appearance  of  houses,  inside  and  out ;  we  Ulce 
to  see  the  room  in  which  the  tra\-cUcr  lived  with  its  furniture  and 
fittings ;  we  wish  to  realise  to  our  fancy  the  smiling,  obse<]uious  inn- 
keeper ;  the  brisk,  lively  .fiir^-t"/  of  the  time ;  the  captain  of  the  ship, 
tlie  postilion  and  his  carriage ;  wc  should  like  to  chat,  as  we  can 
do,  imaginatively,  assisted  by  Sterne,  with  the  grisffte  in  her  shop. 
Nothing  is  unimportant  so  long  as  the  narrator  can  give  it  signifi- 
cmcc  and  depict  it  graphically.  Pcpys,  dear  old  gossiping  Samuel, 
•with  his  love  of  detail  and  quaintncss  of  presentment,  would  have 
been  a  model  grand  tourist. 

The  little,  not  unpleasant,  tinge  of  pedantry  in  Mr.  Hutchinson  is 
the  pedantry  of  a  young  University  man  of  his  day,  wlio  ascertained 
his  learned  facts  from  books  rather  than  from  guide  books,  who 
iximpared  his  knowledge  with  the  monuments  which  he  found 
existing;  and  who,  probably,  rather  desired  the  reputation  of 
scho\anh\p  amongst  his  own  class  and  clique.  Young  men,  unless 
they  Are  poets,  do  not  commonly  Viavc  Vdeaia — c-skc^'i  vtv  ^omen ; 


The  Grand  Tour. 


»59 


and  our  fiiend  scents  to  have  vo^roged  witliout  any  tixed  idea  or 
theory,  unl<:ss  it  were  a  longing  for  the  enjoyment  of  travel,  a  lon]j- 
ing  ivhich  was  blended  with  purposes  of  hard  woric  and  serious 
Studf.  The  early  Grecnlandets,  as  Heine  tells  us,  were  not  attracted 
hf  the  prospect  held  out  to  them  of  the  Christian  heaven,  because 
the  description  conveyed  no  assurance  of  the  existence  there  of  seals. 
Onr  youog  fiiend  hod  no  morbid  yearning  for  anything  in  travel 
.vUch  a  seal  would  symbolise ;  but  he  seems  to  have  had  an  "open 
iensc."  Ii  may  l>c  thai  I  have  a  latent,  unconscious  warp  of  kinship, 
bat  I  certainly  like  the  young  fellow  as  I  izy  to  tnivd  with  bim 
thiough  the  yellow  pages  of  my  inheritance — his  journal.  Langii-ige 
is  a  type  of  thought ;  and  the  thought  of  a  man  out  of  the  past  is 
tjpical  of  at  least  the  thoughts  of  a  class  in  his  time.  I  like  the 
queer  spelling,  the  tangle  of  prepositions,  the  frequent  capital  letters, 
and  the  style  of  the  journal ;  they  are  typical  to  me.     He  seems  to 

rbare  been  modest,  well-bred,  cultured,  with  the  culture  of  his  day ;. 
RiH  of  resiied  for  learning  and  of  a  desire  to  acquire  knowledge. 
Uc  wu  probably  loyal  and  traditionally  Conscrvadve ;  for  I  &nd  in 
the  "Msiution  of  Yorkshire  "  a  forbear,  one  Edward  Hutchinson  of 
Widdiam,  who  died  in  1653,  and  had  been  a  Colonel  of  Hoise  in  y* 
army  of  Qiailcs  I. 

In  these  days  we  rush  through  in  one  swift  sweep  from  Paris,  say, 
to  Genera  or  Marseilles ;  but  what  do  we  see  of  the  country 
between.^  Mr.  Hutchinson  travelled  in  short  stages,  and  slept, 
while  travelling  between  places  of  importance,  every  ntght  in  a 
Afferent  village  and  in  a  new  inn.  In  remote  pans  of  France  you 
may  still  sec  the  kind  of  vehicle  in  which  pupil  and  tutor  joumeyed. 
Think  how  much  more  tliey  saw  than  we  do !  Remember,  also, 
that  in  theii  day  such  tiavelllng  as  theirs  was  a  solemn  undertaking, 
never  contemplated  in  connection  with  haste  or  speed.  It  takes  a 
Kttlc  time  and  some  thought  to  realise  the  difference  of  European 
travel  between  1720  and  1876.  Such  contrasts  have,  however,  a 
quaint  and  piquant  interest ;  and  hence  I  offer  to  the  readers  of  our 
day  a  glimpse  of  the  travclleis  and  travelling  of  a  century  and  a  half 
ago,  as  seen  throngh  the  medium  of  the  journal  of  \MlUani  Hutchio- 
wo,  Esq.,  of  Goldcsbro*  in  Yorkshire. 


Thalatta. 


BY  THE  HON.  RODEN  NOEL 


JHEN"  Love  is  &ding  from  thy  paLii,  &  faint  remem- 
IxTcd  gleam, 
^^'lIOsc  wonrrrous  glory  crowned  tliy  crest  in  youth's 
triumphat  mom, 
VthGii  Friendship  yields  a  willav-wand,  once  in   Loit's  generous 

dream, 
Leaned  on  with  all  thy  weight  of  soul,  defying  doubt  and  scom. 
Once  deemed  inviolable,  divine,  an  oaken  staff,  a  stay, 
Never  to  fail  thee  at  thy  need  in  all  the  perilous  way  ; 
When  thou  art  tossed  from  surge  to  surge,  a  helpless  waif  of  ocean, 
While  hell-born  lusts  and  base-bom  gusts  befool  thee  with   vain 

motion ; 
Mlicn  foolish  wants  and  angers  in  ignoble  eddies  wUitl 
A  human  spirit,  formed  to  front  God's  glor)-  unashamed; 
Nor  any  Cause  colossal,  like  a  catapult  may  hurl 
To  splendid  goals  all  powerful  souls,  chafing  uuloved,  unnamed : 
Then,  poet,  seek  alone  resounding  hollows  of  the  sea, 
And  plunge  thy  sullen  soul  in  ocean's  grand  immensity  I 

Pare  to  scale  the  water  mountains :  let  them  topple  in 
loud  ruin 

I  O'er  thee,  lusty  swimming  from  cliff-harboured  sandy  coves ; 
Though  stress  of  tides  impetuous  threaten  thine  undoing, 
Or  violent  swirl  of  undertow,  where  seething  emerald  moves 
Around  rude  leefs  and  promontories,  menace  with  swift  death, 
Confront  the  glorious  wild  Power,  who  plays  with  human  breath! 
Yea,  let  thy  reckless  shallop  dare  seas  rushing  round  the  caves, 
Smite  with  straining  oar  the  kindling  heavy  night  of  waves  ! 
Climb  the  sea-crag,  hand  and  foot,  little  carefu!  of  a  fall ! 
Storm  shall  be  thy  requiem,  fairy  foam  thy  pall. 
Ah  !  mighty  boisterous  hlorra  breath,  your  siren  song  for  rae  I 
I  quaff  exhilarating  draughts  of  wine  from  forth  the  sea. 
Soft  seething  masses  of  fair  froth  luring  delicioiisly ! 
Vaporous  blast !  voice  of  vast  long  sibilant  sea-thunder! 
Bellowing  explosions  in  abysmal  cavern-halts  1 
Stonu  my  sense  with  sound  iraperml,  vi\^  -s.  ^O'j  cubUme  and  wonda  I 


T/utlalia, 


l6i 


Throned  aloft  in  peritons  places  unto  rre  the  Mother  calls. 

Hear  Her  \  trefr.ble  not  I  but  echo  to  the  glowing  spirit's  core ; 

It  is  Her  voice ;  Her  sons  rejoice ;  they  shout  lo  Her  again  : 

By  sftcred  river-foiiiiuins,  in  the  desert  blast,  and  roar 

Of  bounding  cataracts,  in  forest,  by  foana  mountains  of  the  niaiOf 

In  the  grand  Atlantic  chaos,  in  his  elemental  war. 

She  convcr'^s;  I  have  heard  Her;  I  would  hearken  evermore  ! 

Ye,  my  brothers,  loved  and  worshipped;  all  your  music  rolls  with 

hers  I 
Human  sounds  inform  the  wind  that  like  a  trumpet  stirs  ! 
....  Verily  I  deem  I  hear  above  the  tumuli  of  the  blast, 
That  takes  my  brcalh,  and  dashes  all  the  salt  spray  over  me. 
Not  the  sea-mew's  cry,  nor  wind's  wai!, 

eerie  tones  of  some  who  passed, 

Wailing  in  the  wind's  wail,  shadows  drifting  desolately  I 

For   they  say  the  drowned   must  wander  on  the  cliffs  or  on   the 

wave, 
^V^IeTC  the  fatal  moment  plunged  them  in  their  "  wandering  grave." 

Travelling  mountain  iau-^t.  following  mountain  range ! 
Mow  the  foremost  wavering  tjrccii  crest  begins  to  smoke  ; 
Breaks  at  one  place,  and  suffers  dark  precipitous  change, 
Arching  slowly,  solemnly  ;  undir  ivliere  it  broke 
A  heavy  shadow  haunteth  the  grim  wall ;  till  emerald 
All  the  cliff  falls  over,  tumbles  a  dead  weight 
Of  crushed  and  crashing  water 

....  yonder  unenlhralled, 
A  rnonsirous  buHalo  in  headlong  strung  tumultuous  hate, 
Ptuogiog  wild  haired  upon  the  igck  !   immense  white  tongues  of 

5re 
Are  hurled  around,  enshroud,  envelope  with  a  cloud; 
Lo  ;  where  springs  lo  He-avcn  a  fairy  fretted  spire  ! 
Or  is  it  a  wan-warrior's  arms  thrown  up  iu  death's  despair? 
Death  while,  batBcd  in  grey  air  !  ...  . 

SliAttercd  upon  his  iron  Doom  in  armoured  onset  there  !  . 

Niagaras  upiliundering.  foamy  avalinches,  ^ 

Beetling,  flickering  huge  crags  of  secthbg  snowy  spurae, 
Wherein  are  caverns  uf  green  lint  among  pale  coral  branches, 
And  white  cornels  ihvvarl  more  shadowy  froth-precipice's  gloom  t 
Dark  founded  isles  evanish  in  the  flying  mountain  tomb; 
Albeit  their  wave-sculptured  forins  defiantly  abide  ^i 

Under  grey  vapours  hurrying  o'er  the  sombre  tide  : 

rent 'shores,  around  their  pillared  isolaiioi^ 

..  U.S.    <!•:■'.:      '  "" 


l62 


Tke  GeHilentans  Magazine. 


I 


Ocean  revelling  roars  with  terrible  elation  I 

Afar,  in  tlie  dull  of!ing  or  a  rurrotved  sullen  sea, 
O'er  yon  rock-rooted  i'haros  rises  awfully, 
Like  a  Phantom,  rises  slowly  a  white  cloud, 
Scales  llic  lofty  lantliom  whore  three  human  hearts  arc  bowed. 
Bowed  awhile,  involved  within  the  Sca-Plunic  that  ascends, 
Swallowing  a  hundred  feet  of  granite  ere  it  bends  \ 

Bchuld  !  the  sweep  of  tttiglity  crajjs,  whose  league-long 
front, 
\V1iose  frowning  granite  arc  de5es  with  stature  tall  and  steep 
Ocean's  embattled  billows :  the^e  have  borne  the  bnint 
or  teniblc  assaults  '  the  cannon  thunders,  and  a  Icaj> 
Of  smoke  ascends  the  ramparts  of  a  breached  and  broken  kee[>) 
At  each  discharge : 

The  Titan  targe  hstli  pinnacle  and  tower : 
Or  is  the  whole  an  organ  for  the  surge  lo  smite  with  power, 
That  hath  the  turbulent  storm-music  for  everlasting  dower? 

Cathedral  Heights  of  Titans,  hewn  by  colossal  Hands, 
Millennial  minister?  of  flood  and  frost,  wild  earthquake  and  fiero 

fire ! 
Lo  I  where  a  porphyry  portal  of  the  mountain  heart  expands, 
Portentous  shadowy  buttress,  weaihergoldened  spire  ; 
There  multitudinous  waters  wander  greyly  in  the  gloom  \ 
Within  the  high  sea-sanctuary  a  god  dispenses  doom  ; 
In  and  out  they  wandex,  sombre  courtiers  by  tlie  gate, 
Where  a  dim  Sca-Prcscnce  broodeth  in  solemn  sullen  state — 
Where  no  mortal  breath  dare  whisper,  only  hollow- sounding  suiges, 
A  welter  of  wild  waters  with  their  melancholy  dirges. 

Behold  :  they  rave  in  ct:hoin*ca,ve  their  wratli  rent  long  ago; 
Rent  (or  a  lair,  where  grim  L)esi>£r  rolls  shouldering  to  and  fro  : 
To  and  fro  they  furious  toll  prodigious  bouhlcts. 
Rounding  thcra  hke  ptbblcs  with  huge  Atlanlean  shoulders. 

Beyond  one  vast  rock-sentinel  guarding  the  awful  court, 
Surrounded  and  o'crshadowcd  by  walls  perpendicular, 
Before  those  palace-portals  foamy  serpents  huge  reaort, 
AN  allowing  uj>on  the  wilderness,  grey  and  cold  afar; 
While  ainong  the  tumbled  boulders,  before  the  gUnt  cave, 
Kobed  in  royal  purple,  royal  raiment  of  tlie  wave, 
Lie  crunched  and  shattered  timbers,  ribs  of  mighty  ships; 
Yea,  and  limbs  of  some  who,  craving  one  more  kiss  of  loviog  U{n, 
Were  slitlcd  in  the  violent  froth,  jammed  beneath  black  stones, 
Whose  g-Jossy  weed  may  dally  with  their  coral-cnisted  bone*. 


Thaiatta. 


163 


Tall,  gaunt  Phantom  yonder,  warding  portals  of  the  niglit, 
With  bilent,  sweeping  stature  growing  from  the  eastern  wall, 
I<anfc  long  arms  uprais^  and  cur\'ing  witli  the  vasty  cavern's  heigh!, 
A  IwAkcd  monster  face  between  them,  looking  downward  to  appid  I 
Art  thou  alone,  or  art  thou  spirit,  fcAffui  Shadow  weird  and  grey, 
During  mortals  to  advance  beyond  their  precincts  of  the  day  ? 
All  the  cliffs  arc  shrouded  to  the  waist,  or  only  loom 
Head  and  shoulders  through  a  dcatb-mlst,    but  where  tbe  rollers 

boom 
Their  feet  are  bare  and  slern :  pale  sand  I  discern 
Near  their  ruinud  grandeur ;  a  chrysoprase  pale  green 
NitTuw  water  isles  it,  with  a  mstlcss  flow  ; 
Ttie  tidal  heave  advances  ;  cormorants  of  swarthy  mien 
Squat  on  rocks  about  the  cave,  or  dive  in  deeps  below. 

While  sweet  samphire,  with  tufted  thrift,  glows  in  clefts  above. 
Ever  and  anon  a  sound,  with  oininous  power  to  move. 
Wanders  from  ilie  wildurncss  a  very  mournful  spell ; 
Through  the  wind  anJ,  wave  embroilment  ever  lolls  a  passing  bell. 
Whence  the  warning?  wlut  imparls  it?     WticQ  1  clamor,  when  . 

real. 
It  seems  !o  breathe  foreboding  in  a  fading  air. 
Ifl  it  from  the  sombre  ch\]rt'h  in  lonely  glen  deprcsl  ? 
There,  by  old  cross  and  coffin-stone,  on  immemorial  chair 
Of  rude  grey  granite,  hoary  ghosts  In  dark  concUve  miy  brood : 
Nay  1  but  tbe  tolling  lulleth  from  the  turbulent  flood  1 
Not  from  where  the  giants  hewed  them  vasty  scats  of  solid  rock. 
Or  Druid  with  poured  human  blood  adored  the  Logan  block  : 
Not  from  where  the  Cromlech  ponderous,  and  boary  cirque  remain, 
Though  wc  know  no   more  who  reared  them,    Celt   or  Djoe,  or 

Alhclstane ; 
Nor  whose  the  mouldered  dust  in  yonder  nrns  of  perished  prime, 
Bard's,  or  warrior's,  who  flared  a  mome:it  in  the  hollow  Night  of 

Time ! 
— There  on  dreary  moorland  liauntet'a  owl  and  raven  ; 
There  at  moonriitc  hooli  tiie  rucliv   am,  (o  confound  the  craven 
While  6endi  are  bunting  dark  \jM  souls    who  arc  shut  otit   from 

Heaven  — 
The  knell  is  knolled  by  wiU  wtiite  arms  of  surges  ramping  round 
The  btal  reef,  where  rairin<:rfi  are  drifted  to  be  drowned  ! 
It  is  the  Kuodlestonc  !     He  knolls  for  parsing  human  souls ; 
)m  from  forth  profound  Etctoily '. 


1 64  The  Gentleman^ s  Magazine, 

Weird  dragon  forms,  roughened  in  storms,  a  foamy  beryl  rolls 
Ever  around  you,  dumb  and  blind  stones,  who  confront  the  sky ! 
I  feel  that  in  your  soul  there  slumbers  a  dim  Deity. 
....  Were  it  not  better  to  dissolve  this  chaos  of  the  mind, 
And  in  the  twilight  of  your  world  long  consolation  find. 
Restoring  the  proud  Spirit  to  your  elemental  Powers, 
Dying  into  cliff,  and  cloud,  and  snowdrift  of  sea  flowers  ? 
....  Vanishes  the  storm-rack  in  the  gleaming  West : 
A  long  mde  chasm,  glowing  like  a  World  of  Rest, 
O'er  the  dusk  horiziHi  opens,  whereinto 
Visionary  domes  arise,  and  towers  of  tender  hue  ! 
A  holy  realm  of  Silence,  a  city  of  deep  Peace, 
Where  Death  leads  all  poor  prisoners  who  have  won  release ! 
Long  ranks  of  high  surges,  heaving  dark  against  the  bright 
Heaven,    fall  illumed   'thwart  irun   crags,   whose   frown  relents  to 

Light. 

Land's  End,  1875. 


t 


Recovery  of  Palestine. 

BY  W.  HEPWORTH  DIXON. 


I.— HOLY    LAND    AND    CITY. 


^ 


)\V0  projects  arc  afoot  for  the  recovery  of  Palestini 
One  prcject  aims  at  the  ()hy»cal.  a  second  at  ihe 
historical,  Recovery  of  the  Holy  Land.     One  aims 
at  regaining  lost  soil,  a  second   at  regaining  tost 
In  both  cases  the  instrument  to  be  ehiefly  used  ij 


knowledge, 
the  spade. 

Colonel  Cawler,  Caplatn  WarreD,  and  other  gentlemen  hive 
formed  a  society  for  colonising  Palestine.  Military  and 
engioecriiig  science  will  not  be  wanting  in  the  committee 
managemcnL  Their  purpose  is  to  traii&fer  the  dominion 
Palestine  from  the  Turk  and  Arab  to  the  Jew, 

The  means  are  pacific  ;  purchase  of  the  land,  settlement  it 
Ihe  towns,  and  cultivation  of  the  soil.  Money  is  to  open  Ja^a 
and  Acre  ;  industry  is  to  transform  the  plains  of  Sharon  and 
Shefeluh  into  gardens ;  a  npw  race  is  to  drive  back  the  Salhaoa 
Rovers,  and  to  hold  the  swarthy  children  of  Goblan  in  chcd^ 
The  wells  of  Esdrtelon  are  to  be  cleared  out,  the  vineyards  ot 
Samaria  to  be  planted,  and  the  lish  of  Gennesareth 


k 


The  Geniieman's  Magdzit 

caught  as  of  old.  Hundreds  of  cilics  arc  to  rise  on  the  ridge  ftf 
Judah^  and  tlie  voices  of  ih?  high- priests  to  echo  from  the  synagogues 
of  Zion.  BeHeving,  not  merely  in  the  literal  fullilmcnt  of  prophecy, 
but  in  the  duty  of  coming  to  (he  help  of  Providence,  the  members 
of  this  sucict/  are  clearing  ground  and  firing  opioion  for  a  physic^ 
restoration  of  the  jews  to  Palestine. 

To  these  carnc!?t  men  the  argument  for  such  a  course  appears 
complete.  Palestine  was  promised  to  the  seed  of  Abraham ;  in  a 
narrowed  sense  to  the  seed  of  Jacob,  The  descendants  of  th«se 
patriarchs  gut  possession,  and  for  many  ages  held  iheir  own.  Later 
on,  driven  out  of  Zion  and  Hebron  on  account  of  their  offenc 
they  left  the  land  a  prey  to  Greek,  Roman,  and  Byzantine 
qucrors ;  and  spread  into  foreign  lands,  v^here  they  had  lime  ti 
forget  their  ownership  of  the  sacred  soil. 

From  the  conquest  by  Alexander  the  Great  to  the  first  invasion 
by   Mohammed  elapsed  a   period  of  time  as  long  as  that  wbtrhr 
divides,  the  reign  of  Alfred   from   tlmi  of   Victoria.      During  alJ 
those  years  the  land  was   ruled  by  men  who   had    no  relation  to 
the   holy    nice,     'J'hcn  came  in   the  children  of  Ishiuael,  bringing , 
with  them  a  new  Judaism,  conceived  in    the  desert,  built  on  tbej 
Jewish    rituals,    and   fanned    into    vigorous    life    by    the    gcnins   of 
Nfohammed.     Under  many  trials,  with  only  two  or  three  breaks, 
that  new  Judaism  has  been  strong  enough   to  hold  the  land  fbi 
more  than    twelve    hundred  years.      Israel   wanders  far  and  wide; 
Ishmacl  never  quits  the  genuine  East.     "  Find  the  date-palm,  and 
pitch  thy  tent  beneath  its  fruit,"  appears  to  be  tlie  unwritten  lawj 
of  IshmaeL      Hence  these   children  of  the  first-born  of   Abraham' 
cling  to   Palestine,  Arabi.n,  Egypt ;  while  their  brethren,  children  «f 
the  youngei-born,   are    found  in    Rome  and    Rio,   in    Warsaw,  and 
Cape  Town,  in  Paris  and  Sydney,  in   London  and  San    Frandseo.  j 
The  sons  of   Isaac    have   abandoned    Palestine    to  the  sons  -of^ 
Ishmael.        1    have    met    Hebrews   pushing  up    the    mouuiains  of 
Nevada,  and   venturing  into  the  Red  M.an's  country,  in  search  of 
settlements;  but   I  have  never  seen  a  Hebrew  colonist  toiling  up 
the  hill-side  of  Judah  or  braving  bedouin  spears  in  the  fat  pUins 
of  F^drxlon.     It  is  only  in  his  prayers  that  a  Jew  now  turns  bis 
face  towards  Jerusalem. 

A    few    stragglers    have   been  gathered   in,    chiefly   in  Zion  «nd 
Sofcd,  Hebron  and  Tiberias  ;  iu  all  about  nine  or  ten  thousand  souls. 
These  people  ore  regarded  as  strangers  in  the  land.    They  own  0« 
soii ;  or  so  Utth  as  not  to  count     Tl\cy  follow  no  indu'.try  ;  or 
so  iitth  work  dial  it  hardly  couatJi.    Thc^  \«c  «»^  aiu5i\ 


4 


Recovery  of  Palatine.  167 

on  their  sacred  cities  by  pious  persons  at  a  di.stftnce;  mainly  by 
people  living  in  England  and  America,  who  feed  them  out 
of  ••  duty,"  while  they  neither  spcalc  tlieir  language,  understand 
their  creed,  nor  love  their  race.  Scattered  about  the  earth,  there  are 
supposed  10  be  ten  or  eleven  millions  of  Jews  alive.  Thousands  of 
these  people-  arc  rich,  some  of  ihcm  own  colossal  fortunes.  Roths- 
child could  buy  up  tlic  fee  simple  of  Palesiine.  Gotdsmid  might 
rebuild  the  Temple  of  Herod.  Montcfiorc  has  money  enough  to 
czst  a  golden  statue  of  King  Solomon.  Gut  of  these  wealthy 
Hebrews,  not  one  is  willing  to  go  back.  Rich  Jews  build  charming 
villas  in  ihc  gardens  of  Frankfort,  round  the  slopes  of  Montmorend, 
on  the  downs  of  Kent  and  Sussex.  No  returning  Hebrew  builds  his 
iralla  under  the  bluffs  of  Carmel,  in  the  groves  of  Jaffa,  on  the 
brows  of  Olivet,  among  the  springs  at  Siloam.  The  seed  of  Isra 
clin^  to  every  soil  except  their  own.  "  More  need,"  urge  Cjlon 
Gawlcr,  Captain  Warien,  and  the  earnest  men  associated  in  this 
enterprise,  "  for  slranyers  lo  help  their  blinJness  and  cxcile  their 
patriotism. "  The  work  is  all  up-hill,  and  the  hiU  is  very  steep ; 
yet  die  motive  of  these  helpers  Ls  so  free  from  selfishness  that 
every  one  most  wish  them  a  fair  geld  in  which  to  trytneir  great 
experiment. 

That  physical  Recovery  of  Palestine  may  be  near,  or  may  be  far 
off;  but  the  historical  Recovery  of  Palfs;ine  is  assuredly  nigh 
lund.  To  many  persons  the  second  event  may  scein  of  m' 
immedbte  and  more  practical  importance.  A  physical  Recovery  of 
Pokstiae  concerns  tlie  children  of  Israel  mainly ;  an  historical- 
Recovery  of  Palestine  affects  the  whole  commuuiiy  of  Christian 
men. 

The  Rucovcry  of  which  I  propose  to  write  a  brief  account  in  the 
iUtu!emaa's  I^fagatiHe  is  that  of  a  true,  detailed,  and  scicntiBc  know- 
ledge of  the  Holy  Land. 

In  April,  1865.  a  number  of  gentlemen,  connected  by  their  travels 
AXn\  ktudics  with  l*at»iine,  met  in  tlic  Chapter  House,  Westminster 
Abbey,  to  consider  the  eKisling  slate  nl  our  knowledge  of  that  country. 
Some  of  these  gentlemen,  such  as  Lord  Stratford  de  Redcliffe,  Sir 
Hrory  Rawlinson,  and  Mr.  A.  H.  bi^-ard,  had  special  knowlcil^e 
of  the  Eastern  world.  Odiers,  sis  Dean  S'.anlcy,  Dr.  Tristram,  and 
the  present  writer,  bad  published  books  on  the  Holy  Load.  Still 
tiKJce,  as    Professor  Owen,    Dr.   i'lisey,    Mr.    George    Grove,    Dr. 

iookcr,    Mr.  Morrison,    and    Mr,    l-'ergussou,  had  lievole^  nuiO^ 


1 68 


The  Genlicmatis  Magazine. 


I 
I 


I 
I 


and  sacred  sites.  One  gentleman,  Mr.  Tipping,  had  executed  a  re- 
markable scries  of  drawings  in  illustration  of  tlic  Jew-ish  Wars  ol 
Jasepliiis.  Anion^  Uj-  students,  intercMcd  in  a  tnorc  general  wafy 
ftTcre  llic  Dukes  of  Dtvonshire  and  Arg)1c,  Earls  Uerby,  Rt 
aod  .Shafiesl)ur>-.  Sir  Gilbert  Scott  and  Sir  Antonio  Panizzi,  M< 
Henry  Reeve,  Samuel  Morley,  William  lyongnian,  and  John  Munay^ 
riie  Ardibisliup  uf  York  |>reside<l  over  our  deliberations,  &upf)oi 
by  Ihe  Bishops  of  Londcn,  Oxford,  Ely,  and  RipOD.  On 
pnruig  notes  we  found  the  state  of  things  not  only  shameful 
incredible.  Travellers  in  Palestine  complained  that  there  was 
good  map  of  the  country,  no  accurate  dranring  of  ntoniiments  and 
other  remains.  Naturalists  gave  proofs  that  we  knew  little  of  the 
fauna  and  Hora  of  Palestine.  It  was  startling  to  hear  Professor 
Owen  say,  "That  often  as  we  read  about  fish  in  the  Sea  of  Galil 
we  don't  know  what  son  of  fish  exist  in  iliat  inland  lake."  Gi 
togists  said  the  country  was  extremely  notable  in  their  science,  ye 
hardly  any  of  the  facts  required  for  a  true  picture  of  the  country* 
been  ascertained.  Wc  knew  liiile  of  the  ridge  system  of  Ju( 
and  Samaria.  We  knicw  still  less  about  the  River  Jordan,  .ind  tfaf 
strange  ravine  through  which  it  flows.  We  knew  nothing  at 
about  the  .nncient  and  extinct  volcanoes.  In  the  department 
hydrography  a  little  had  been  dene.  Our  Admiralty  had  caused. 
stirvey  of  the  coast-line  to  be  made;  the  American  (loveinnicnt 
sent  Lieutenant  Lynch  to  survey  the  IJead  Sea.  So  far  as  sounc 
go,  these  works  had  been  well  done ;  but  naval  charts,  though 
iu  their  way,  add  Uttle  to  our  knowledge  of  a  country.  Str.tnge  le 
say,  J erusalem  was  hardly  better  known  tluin  the  land  outside 
gates.  Lady  Burdett  Coutts  had  furnished  funds  for  a  survey  of  I 
dty,  and  Captain  Wilson  was  making  hi*  capital  discovery  of  tl 
v.-iulted  chambers  now  known  by  his  name,  and  otheru-isc  coinluc 
those  in()uiries  of  which  he  afterwards  wrote  the  story  in  hb  Notes 
the  Ordnance  Survey.  But  his  discoveries  were  then  unkno* 
The  field  wa.H  fallow.  Looking  at  the  matter  in  a  broad  way,  th^ 
Holy  Land  was  barren  from  the  wilderness  of  Ueersheba  to 
frontiers  of  Dan. 

On  these  points  there  was  no  dispute,  nor  any  as  to  the  dc 
for  Knglishincn  to  undertake  a  real  recovery  of  Palestine  from 
condition  of  neglect.  1'he  Hible  is  an  English  book  —the  Anst 
English  books — and  an  cx:u:t  knowledge  of  the  Hceneries  of 
sacred  story  is  A  permanent  linglish  wanu  Most  people  are  pleaNcd 
to  rcid  about  the  antiquities  of  London,  York,  and  Chester ;  but  foi 
one  English  fumiiy  tliat  cares  about  ancient  London,  ancient  York, 


1 70  The  Gentleman* s  Maffocine. 

•aitd  anck-iit  Chester,  a  hundred  Knglish  fAinilies  are  aitYioux  10  bi 

'  true  pif-iiircs  in  their  minds  of  ancient  Jcnisalem,  aiicicni  Hetlilehem^ 
and  ancient  Nazareth.  Our  interest  in  the  Holy  Land  is  like  an 
Article  of  bith.  A  good  account  of  the  Roman  n*all  of  London,  with 
the  Gitualioa  of  the  several  portals,  may  excite  a  languid  cunosity  at 
an  archseological  pic-nic ;  but  a  disquisition  on  the  second  wall  of 
Zion,  and  on  the  real  position  of  the  Gale  Gcnnath,  is  followed  by 
thouKanils  of  people  with  rapt  attention.     Our  concern  with  Rami 

'London   is  archaic,   our  concern  with    Roman    Zion    is    reltgti 
CalvTuy  lay  outside  that  second  walL     The  way  from  Zion  to  the 
Sepulchre  was  through  Gennalh.     That  spot  was  the  scene  of  the 

iBiuial,  of  the  Watching,  of  the  Resurrection.  Time,  in  eSadug 
the  remains,  deadens  our  interest  in  London  Wall ;  liut  lime  has  no 
power  over  the  pa^ions,  every  day  born  ^ain,  which  cling  to  the 
Sepulchre  of  our  Lord.  If  any  spot  on  earth  is  holy  ground,  that 
■pot   is   holy  ground.      So,  in    their   degrees,  are    Bethlehem  and 

-  Nawrcth,    Bethabara   and   Cana,  A,tion   and   Capernauni.      While 
reverence  lives  in  the  hearts  of  men  we  shall  yeatn  with  inappcasable 
hunger  of  the  spirit  for  an  exact  acquaintance  with  tlie  true  1< 
and  outn-ard  aspect  of  these  sacred  s|>ot3. 

It  was  agreed  by  that  meeting  in  Westminster  Ahhcy  thai  wt 
should  name  an  executive  continiicee  and  go  to  work.  Knough  bad 
been  done  with  |>en  and  ink ;  libraries  had  been  written  on  the 
subject.  Wc  thought  that  for  awhile  we  might  drop  coatroversy  and 
excavate.  I'hc  old  was  buried  under  the  new.  'I'rutli  had  to  be 
dug  out  of  the  soil.  Our  instruments  were  to  be  the  spade,  the 
aneroid,  the  sounding- line,  and  the  measuring-chain.  The  highest 
skill  was  to  be  employe<l,  and  c\'ery  point  fixed  as  arcumtely  ai 
science  can  fix  the  position  of  hill  and  stream.  Near  and  uitdcr  the 
massive  walls  which  yet  remain  we  proposed  to  sink  shafts  and  ma 
galleties.  Down  thmugh  the  dust  of  centuries  we  meant  to  pierce, 
not  satisfied  till  wc  had  reached  the  living  rock,  as  the  original  builders 
had  been  forced  to  hnd  Uie  living  rock.  In  this  way,  but  in  no  other. 
we  might  hope  to  get  on  solid  ground. 
'  Since  the  lime  of  Edward  Robinson  and  EH  Smith  nearly  all  our 

rncrcd  places  had  been  the  objects  of  a  snarling  and  suspicious  ctiti- 

I  cism.  These  explorers  had  found  the  science  of  Biblical  illustni- 
I  tion  very  much  as  John  Lightfoot  and  Adrien  Retond  had  left  it. 
Keilher  Lightfoot  nor  Reland  ever  set  foot  on  Syrian  soil.     Leani- 

ting,  patience,  and  devotion  they  had  in  full  measure;  but  sciences  are 
not  forwarded  by  men  who  \canv  \htai  b-ua  (louv  books.     Original 

r^         '    -as  needed.     Robinsoii  and  SwaxV  ^it^^u  wii^Txiv  \«oi5:^ 


casable 
loca%y 

h-ii «  y 


patronage  (rf  Karl  Ritlcr, 
interest  in  the  Holy  Land.    Much  honour  is  due  to  them,  but  the 
ftmt  of  their  lalwur  is  Tnr  from  being  an  unmixed  good. 

Robinson  and  Smith  were  American  citizens.  They  carried  into 
an  ancient  land,  where  nothing  changes  in  a  thousand  years,  the 
nental  habits  of  a  coutiuy  in  vrhich  cvcr)'t]iing  diangcs  in  a  dozen 
jreais.  They  breathed,  and  boasted  of  bieathing,  the  spirit  of  an 
independent  and  progrcsiive  Church.  Robinson  was  a  Dissenting 
raiolstcf  and  the  son  of  a  Dissenting  minister.  Smith  wan  a  Dissent- 
iog  missionary,  chosen  on  account  of  his  sectarian  2cal  for  the  work 
nf  carrying  the  torch  of  free  American  thought  to  the  benighted 
Arabs  of  Syria.  They  laid  down  the  surprising  nile  that  "  ecclesias- 
tical tradition  is  of  no  value"  in  relation  to  holy  places;  in  other 
uronls,  that  the  owners  of  an  estate  are  not  likely  to  know  anything 
aboat  their  title-deeds  !  They  haicd  monks  and  distrusted  archiniaa- 
drilcs.  In  the  application  of  their  sin{{ular  rule,  they  as^timed  that 
all  testimony  of  a  later  date  than  Ihe  reign  of  Constanline  must  be 
T^sffded  as  ecclesiastical  iradilion,  and  thcrcrorc  of  no  value  ; 
aiKHbcr  way  of  saying  that  owners  w1k>  have  held  an  estate  for  more 
Uian  fifteen  hundred  years  are  sure  to  know  nothing  about  the  way 
in  which  it  raroe  into  their  jiossession  !  Pupils  of  Yale  are  not 
trained  in  habits  of  deference  for  ecclesiastical  legends.  Time  is 
not  sacred  to  art  American,  who,  as  a  rule,  believes  in  to-morrow, 
DDi  in  yenierday.  Of  ilie  two  explorers  Smith  was  the  more  learned 
and  wti)erienced  man.  He  knew  someliiing  of  Syria  ;  he  spoke  and 
Wrote  Arabic.  Armed  at  these  points,  he  was  far  more  cautious  than 
his  (eltow-Lil>ourer.  Robinson  had  all  the  superficial  defects,  as  well 
as  many  of  the  substantial  merits,  of  his  coimlrymen.  To  a  large 
nock  of  knowledge,  and  a  great  capacity  for  work,  he  added  the 
ijtialilies  of  suddenness  and  suspicion — of  doubt  approaching  to 
cynicism,  of  credulity  amounting  to  childishness.  No  man  saw 
more  quickly  the  weak  point  in  a  piece  of  evidence  ;  no  man  ever 
showed  more  courage  in  setting  historical  cvtd<iacc  aside.  Vet  the 
ttilk  who  rejected  the  evidence  of  written  records  and  architectural 
remains  was  ready  to  caldi  at  any  dubious  phrase  in  an  old  writer, 
and  to  pick  up  any  rubbish  from  a  peasant  on  the  road.  It  was 
tanl  for  him  to  believe  in  what  was  old ;  still  harder  for  him  not  to 
bflicve  in  what  seemeil  new.  At  Jerusalem  he  rejected  the  evi- 
dei>c«  of  hisiury  and  aidiiiectute  in  favour  of  the  present  Church  of 
Ihe  Holy  Sepulchre ;  at  Kaiarelh  he  caught  at  a  peasants  word  ta 
torkaJ  identity  of  Cana  of  Galil 


1 7a 


rentleman  smagazine. 


To  deny  the  merits  of  Robiosoo  and  Smith  would  be  most  ui 
If  they  had  done  no  more  than  notice  thai  ^prii^  of  an  ancient 
ia  the  Temple  wall,  which  g«ve  us  the  first  theory  for  the  Temple 
bridge,  they  would  have  deserved  well  of  scholars ;  but  their  credit 
has  a  wider  range  than  anything  due  to  one  happy  find. 

They  made  many  discoveries,  and  in  the  list  of  names  connected 
with  Biblical  illustration,  from  Eusebius  to  Lightfoot,  from  ReUod 
to  Stanley,  they  will  keep  a  place.    They  lose  no  part  of  their  tnie 
&jnc  when  they  arc  described  as  unnecessarily  sceptical  and  iinn^ 
cessarily  credulous.     No  one  will  say  that  Cireck  ecclesiaslics  an 
always  learned  and  always  honest ;  but  the  frauds  of  which  Robinson 
accused  them  were  beyond  their  po«'er,  if  not  beyond  their  desire. 
When  buildings  are  once  known  changes  of  locality  are  not  euilf 
made,  even  under  circumstances  favourable  to  frnud.     Can  any  mu 
in  his  senses    believe  that  our    monks  could  hare  changed  Sl 
Paul's  into  St  Peter's,  and  sent  pilgrims  of  Edward  the  Cunfessor 
to  the  edifice  on   Ludgatc  Hill  ?      I  ara   not  aware  of  any  facts 
which  prove  that  the  Syrian  monks  and    priests     have    practised 
conscious  and  systematic  fraud.     Where  is  the  evidence?    Nothing 
is  easier  thnn  to  hint  a  calumny.     "  Finding  the  place  out  of  the 
line  of  |>ilgrimage  the  monks  have  changed  it  to"  so  and  so,  is 
Robinson's  style  iluoughoiit.    Not  a  single  case  of  such  removal  is 
proved.    A  pupil  of  Yale  does  not  stoop  to  reason  with  a  pairiarch 
of  Jerusalem.     At  Bethabara  the  Dissenting  minbter  pokes  his  pity 
at  the  deluded  Greek  pilgrim  who  bathes  in  uue  p^rt  of  the  Jordan, 
and  at  the  equally  deluded  I  Jlin  pilgrim  who  bathes  a  few  pace* 
lower  down.    The  Greek  pilgrim  may  be  Tricoupi,  the  L.itio  pilgrim 
may  be  I-imarliiiL' ;  hut  in  either  case  Robinson  nnd  Smith  etped 
the  learned  and  eloquent  pilgrim  to  consider  himself  morally  *' whipt' 

From  Robinson  and -Smith  came  a  school  of  critics  noticeable, 
like  their  American  masters,  for  audacious  scepticism  and  puerile 
credulity.  This  schuul  has  tried  to  disturb  our  belief  in  all  the 
more  venerable  Christian  sites.  The  crowning  work  of  this 
school  was  the  theory  which  attempted  not  only  to  sweep 
aside  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  as  Robinson  and  Smith  had  done,  btil  to 
confuse  Mount  Calvary  with  the  threshing  floor  of  Araunah,  and  M 
find  the  basilica  of  Helena  in  the  Dome  of  the  .Rock  \ 

When  the  Palestine  Society  was  founded  we  had  no  map  of  the 

Hnly  I^md,  nor  any  chance  of  getting  one  from  the  Turkish  Govern- 

meiiL     Maps  and  charts,  like  roads   and  ports,  are   never  things 

essential  to  an  oriental.    One  day,a,%  \  wX  \mot\n%  the  pipe  of 


«74 


Tfu  GmiUmatCs  Magazine. 


eignea 
ticataM 


wMh  a  Syriui  pasha,  1  inquired  his  reason  for  not 
tk*  coast  and  Ujring  down  buo]r&.  "What  good?"  siglied 
padn,  breathing  tenderty  through  his  chibuuqtie.  "Ships 
OOMC  in  safely,"  I  replied.  "Frank  ships,'  he  answered,  in  a 
triiich  lold  QIC  there  was  nothing  tuore  to  add.  Suraya,  then  at  tbe 
Snai  in  Jerusalem,  made  &  similar  reply  to  niy  remunstrance  nn  ihe 
bad  roads  in  his  pashaltc  ''We  are  a  people  of  cameU  ;uid 
asses ;  ve  have  no  need  for  roads."  "  But  think  of  the  foreignea 
who  might  come  to  Jerusalem."  "  You  want  me  to  make  a  practi 
load  for  Russian  guns?"  These  orientals  had  ihcir  way,  which 
not  the  way  of  making  mapsu  No  sun-ey  bad  been  undertaki 
even  luugUy.  Hebron,  Tyre,  ajtd  Damascus  are  three  of  the 
cities  in  the  world  ;  the  triangle  of  country  lying  between  thcin  ts  the 
most  historical  in  the  wurld;  yet  the  hilLs  and  valleys  of  ihii 
triangle  were  as  little  known  to  science  as  the  snow-fields  ot' 
Ardumgel  and  tlic  sierras  of  New  Mexico.  Few  positions  had  beco 
accurately  ftxed-  No  road  plan  existed.  Mounds,  springs,  ami 
villages  were  |nit  in  wroi^  situations.  Every  traveller  had  drawn  his 
own  map.  I  had  been  forced  to  draw  some  parts  of  my  own.  No 
attempt  had  ticen  made  to  distinguish  mudctn  camel  tracks  frtini 
Mace^Ionian  and  Roiiun  roads ;  yet  this  distinction  is  of  the  first 
importance  m  dealing  with  that  difficult  point— the  personal  jouraeyi 
of  our  Lord.  The  Jordan  was  as  much  a  mystery  as  the  Nile;  its 
parent  source,  its  rate  of  flow,  and  its  actual  fall  being  equally  un- 
known. The  level  of  the  Sea  of  Galilee  had  not  been  asceruined. 
The  names,  numbers,  and  positions  of  the  Jordan  fords  were  still  to 
seek ;  nor  coiild  wc  say  with  certainty  that  we  knew  the  course 
any  one  ancient  road.  Some  sacreil  sites  liad  been  placed  in  ai 
tions  utterly  at  vamiice  with  the  sacred  texts. 

The  geology  and  natural  history  of  Palestine  were  blanks  in  the 
btrak  of  knowledge.  To  geologists  the  depression  of  the  Jordan 
valley  is  one  ol  the  most  notable  thii^  on  the  earth's  surlace,  yet 
nollung  had  been  done  towards  xettbng  the  question  of  how  that 
amazing  trench  M-iit  formed.  Had  the  land  sunk  ?  Had  tbc  Hough 
bet.-it  tilled  by  a  great  inland  sea  ?  Had  that  trough  an  outlet  in  the 
Gulf  of  Akabah  ?  It  was  the  same  in  regard  to  fauna  and  flora.  As 
to  cedar  and  sycamore,  lily  and  lentil,  eagle  and  raven,  dove  and 
sparrow,  fox  and  jackal,  litUe  was  known,  and  every  point  was 
dispute. 

So,  again,  with  towns  and  cities.     We  were  in  doubt  as  to  the  true 
Jericho^  tbc  true  Gilgal,  the  true  Capernaum,  and  a  hundred  oi 


11    lU 


Recovery  of  PaUsihu. 

places.  Wc  had  not  settled  on  a  true  site  for  BetKabara,  the  scene  of 
John's  rainisiiy  and  our  I^Dnl's  hapli^m.  There  were  disputes  about 
^□on  near  to  Salem.  Iktlisaida  was  in  duubt ;  Choraein  was  in 
doubt.  Some  people  thought  Cdna  ot  Cililec  bad  been  "artfiilly 
caofounded"  by  the  monks.  Xo  man  couIJ  lay  his  linger  on  Modin 
and  <juar.  Quoirels  had  waged  around  Scopus,  aiid  the  battle  had 
spread  to  >[o»inl  OUvct.  Nothing  had  yet  been  done  to  unearth  the 
mysteries  of  licrodiuni.  Muunt  Gcri/im  had  not  been  searched  for 
lliC  sactcd  stones,  Wc  knew  little  of  Cxsarca  and  Auiipalris.  The 
pons  of  Gaza  and  Jamnia  awaited  investigation.  Askehin  was  un- 
broken ground.  The  remains  of  jezreel  and  of  Bcisan  courted 
inquir)-.  Hardly  anything  had  been  done  at  Seb.x9ie,  at  Khersa,  or 
at  AthltL  In  fact,  the  whole  counuy  was  a  mine  of  wcalcli,  waiting  for 
the  working  parties  to  come  in. 

Yet  the  chief  labour  wa&  required  in  Jerusalem.  It  is  «  safe  thing 
to  tt]^  that,  ten  years  ago,  ordinary  English  readers  had  a  more  exact 
knowledge  of  ancieiil  Athens  and  ancieul  Rome  than  they  could 
pictcnd  to  have  of  ancient  Jerusalem.  No  man  had  ever  brought  the 
positions  of  the  Acropolis  and  the  Capitolinc  into  question.  Writers 
Buy  wrxngle  over  the  exact  position  of  the  Temple  of  Jupiter,  as 
Uiey  wrangle  over  the  exact  position  of  the  Temple  of  Solomon, 
bat  no  one  disputes  the  fact  that  Jupiter's  fane  stood  on  the 
Capitolinc  hill,  and  that  Jehovah's  fane  stood  on  the  Holy  Mount. 
But  wi'h  respect  to  the  \&y  site  of  Mount  7,ion  there  was  fierce 
dispute. 

Ever}*  one  \&  aware  that  the  sacred  city  stood  on  four  bills — Zion, 
Acra,  BeJtethiL,  and  Moriah.  These  heights  are  named  in  very  early 
timet.  Zion  b  mentioned  in  the  Book  of  Kings  and  ia  more  than  one 
of  the  Psalms.  Acra  is  mentioned  by  Joscphus,  both  in  his 
*■  Antiquities "  and  in  his  "Jewish  Wars."  Bezctlia  is  also  men- 
tioned many  times  by  Josephus.  Moriah  is  mentioned  in  Kings  and 
Chronicles.  These  heights  are  about  aa  far  from  each  other,  speak- 
'sa%  roughly,  as  the  Aventine  and  Capitoline,  the  Ksquiline  and 
the  Quirinal  in  Rome.  They  are  much  more  strongly  marked  by 
BUure  than  Tower  Hill,  Ludgatc  Hill,  and  Holborn  Hill  in  London. 
They  wen:  marked  by  walls,  gates,  palaces,  and  castles — structures 
as  impoitant  and  enduring  as  llie  Teraplc  of  Jupiter  and  the  Palace 
of  the  Cecs.irs  in  Rome,  as  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  and  the  White  Tower 
in  {.ondon.  The  house  of  David  rose  on  Zion.  Acra  was  the 
dtadcl,  and  after  the  disTnonlling  of  that  fortress  the  site  of  a  royal 
On  bczelha  stood  the  palace  of  Herod  Agnpiia.     )Aona.\v 


was  the  Tetnpte  hilL    Yet  so  late  as  ten  years  ago  only  one  oF 
four  hills  was  fixed  beyond  dispute  ! 

No  critic  had  displaced  Muriah  from  the  traditional  site,  thoo 
some  critics  had  diioinished  the  area  aud  disputed  the  rock-( 
of  that  holy  mount.  But  theorists  had  denied  the  ideouty  of 
Zion,  Acra,  and  Bczetha.  Clarke  had  ouintained  that  the 
true  Zion  was  the  height  now  known  as  the  Hill  of  Evil 
Council:  very  much  like  sayi^  that  the  true  sice  of  Roman 
London  was  Greenwich  HilL  Tr^ells  had  asserted  that  Zion  stood 
on  (he  castem  ndge—tiiat  is  on  Mount  Moriah.  Lewin  had  sup- 
posed thai  the  dty  of  David,  the  palace  of  David,  and  the  house 
of  David,  all  mentioned  in  Scripture,  stood  on  the  dropping  ridge  of 
Ophla,  now  called  OpheL  Smith  had  assumed  that  the  whole  crest 
or  back,  starting  from  the  To*-cr  of  Siloam,  rising  to  the  Temple 
platform,  and  running  north  to  the  present  Birkct  Israel,  was  the 
original  Zion.  Acra  was  the  subject  of  as  many  quarrels  as  Zion, 
Olshausen  had  i)laced  Acia  on  the  south  of  Mount  Moriah. 
Porter  had  fixed  ii  on  the  west ;  exactly  west  of  the  Dome  of  the 
Rock.  ToblcT  had  marked  Ophel  as  Acra.  Lewin  hod  buill  bis 
Acta,  or  fonrc&s  of  the  Macedonians,  due  nonh  of  the  Temple, 
on  the  site  now  occupied  by  the  SeroL  Bezeiha  was  unhxed.  The 
texts  of  Josephus,  which  alone  make  it  known  to  us,  place  it  north 
of  the  Temple.  Bexetlia  alone  "overshadowed  the  Temple  on  the 
north,"  so  that  the  range  of  error  was  narrowed  ;  yet  within  the  Utnits 
of  thai  text  imagination  had  run  riot.  Porter  had  placed  Bezeiha 
on  the  north  of  Moriah.  Toblcr  fixed  it  on  the  west  and  nortb-west, 
covering  ground  from  the  present  Jaffa  gate  to  the  northern  tower  of 
the  wall  looking  over  the  Fullers'  monument  Lewin  had  partially 
adopted  Tobler's  view.  A  part  of  the  ridge  which  they  call  Bezetha 
contains  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 

As  with  the  four  hills,  so  with  the  ravines  which  divided  them. 
\\'hi(;h  was  the  Asmooean  valley  ?  Where  did  the  TjTopxan  valley 
begin  ?  Where  lay  the  Cedron  ravine,  so  oHen  mentioned  by 
Josephus  during  the  great  siege?  Clarke  contended  that  the  Valley 
of  Hinnom  was  the  Tyropxan  o(  Jewish  history.  Robinson  confused 
the  Cedron  ravine  with  the  Valley  of  Jehoshaphat.  The  true  course 
of  the  I'yropscan  was  lost,  and  with  it  alt  means  of  determining 
the  site  of  Acra  and  the  boundary  line  of  Zion.  For  Jerusalem  ihii 
loss  was  like  ihc  filling  in  of  Fleet  Ditch,  so  that  we  could  no 
longer  trace  the  lines  which  parted  Sinithfield  from  Holbom  and 
Cleikeowell. 


Recovery  of  Palestine. 


177 


So  again  with  the  great  walls.  In  later  times  three  walls  sur- 
rounded and  protected  Jerusalem.  The  first  wall  dated  from  the 
reigns  of  David  and  Solomon ;  the  second  wall  was  repaired  and 
altered  by  Hezekiah ;  the  third  wall  was  erected  some  years  after  the 
Crucifixion  by  Agrippa.  The  position  of  these  walls  was  in  dispute. 
I  have  before  me  at  this  moment  sixteen  plans  of  Jerusalem  by 
eminent  scholars  and  explorers.  They  are  utterly  unlike  in  outline 
and  in  detail.    No  two  agree  in  all  particulars. 

Thus,  when  we  began  our  labour  in  Jerusalem,  every  point  was  in 
dispute,  down  to  the  most  elementary  features  of  rock  and  ravine. 
Nothing  could  solve  these  problems  but  the  spade,  and  we  at  once 
attacked  them  spade  in  hand. 


(To  he  continued.) 


I 


■N  the  Iliwalaya  troop-ship  Ij-ing  at  the  Tanjong  whaif  l' 
Singapore  I  recognised  the  vessel  in  which  I  once  made 
passage  on  a  journah'stic  expedition,  and  X  was  not  long 
in  paying  my  respects  to  Captain  GratiL  Need  \  say 
tiiat  slie  was  "  alow  and  aloft "  precisely  what  every  Engli!^ 
navy  ship  is  wherever  you  may  find  her — a  pattern  of  order  and 
efficiency?  Nor  need  I  apologise  for  observing  that  when  next  day  I 
stood  upon  the  littered  and  lumbered  decks  of  the  Dutch  troop- 
ship I  remembered  with  pride  the  perfect  discipline  sweet  air,  and 
irreproachable  cleanliness  of  our  own  UansporL 

There  is  no  place  perhaps  in  the  far  East  which  has  recured 
greater  immcdinlc  advantages  from  the  Suez  Canal  than  Singapore. 
Most  of  tlie  vessels  which  piiss  Port  Said  wthout  increasing  its  trad 
by  so  much  as  the  value  of  half  a  dollar  holt  at  this  curious  capiti 
of  the  Straits  SetUenicots.  It  is  the  half-way  house  between  England 
and  China  on  the  one  hand,  and  Australasia  on  tlic  other.  At  the 
beginning  of  the  present  centur)-  it  was  a  collection  of  Malay  fisher- 
men's huts.  Even  Sir  Stamford  RafRes,  througli  whose  forethought 
the  island  became  part  of  the  British  possessions  in  1819,  could  never 
have  dreamt  of  the  great  commercial  importance  it  would  some  day 
obtain.  A  convenience  it  was  from  the  first ;  now  it  is  a  necessity. 
Fine  docT(s  have  been  built  by  the  Tanjong  Paggar  Doclt  Company, 
near  the  western  entrance  of  the  roadstead,  where  the  handful  of 
fishermen  have  grown  into  a  thriving  population  of  over  36,000 
persons,  who  are  enjoying  the  advantages  of  European  trade  and 
Eoglish  rule,  and  who,  though  chiefly  orientals,  are  content  and 
happy  because  well  governed  and  prosperous.  And  there  is  do 
town  in  the  far  East  which  affords  the  traveller  a  better  insight  into 
certain  phases  of  oriental  life.    At  Poittt-dc-Gallc  you  arc  delighted 


4 


My  Ocmn  Log  from  Newcastle  to  Briibane.     179 

with  the  KastCTn  scenery  and  Fjistem  humanu)',  but  it  is  Eastern 
humanity  wiih  a  prevailing  flavour  of  Indti.  At  Sinyapore  you  have 
the  MaIa}-aD*races  at  home,  with  aU  their  natioual  characteristics ; 
the  Chinese  quartcrbarc  as  much  Chinese  as  streets  in  Hung  Kong  or 
Cantun ;  and  in  snuUer  pToportions,  the  singuloi'  diversiiy  uf  races 
is  increased  by  the  Kling  from  Madras,  the  slender  Bengali,  the 
I'jrecc,  the  ChittJe,  the  Armenian  Jew,  and  the  Arab.  .\n  Kcgiishman 
&rsh  from  home  wil!  be  surprised  at  the  busy  appcanuicc  of  the 
doelca.  Chmcsc  carpenters  and  blacksmilhs  arc  hammcrinp;  and 
iawins  in  the  sheds,  using  tools  as  primijive  as  those  which  stood 
upun  Joseph  the  Carpenter's  bench  eighteen  hundred  years  ago. 
Xothiiig  can  induce  these  remarkable  people  to  adopt  modern  inven- 
tions. They  do  their  work  well,  but  It  must  be  in  their  own  way, 
aad  at  their  own  slow  speed.  The  better  class  of  Chinese  ardsaiis 
tou  may  distinguib)i  by  the  Ught  cluthing  which  they. permit  them- 
selves to  wear.  The  majority  of  the  Chinese  and  Malays  .iboul  the 
docks,  like  their  cranpatriots  up  in  the  town,  are  content  witli  »  wisp 
of  dotli  fastened  ronnd  the  loins,  to  hang  more  or  less  (generally 
considerably  less)  to  the  knees.  To  be  snrc  you  h."ive  on  your  otrt- 
vard  voy^c,  beginning  at  Port  Said,  become  accustomed  to  this, 
nnd  by  the  time  you  have  travelled  far  enough  to  be  able  to  look 
about  you  in  the  Singapore  docks  you  rcgaid  any  clothing  exceeding 
in  dtmcnstoDs  on  ordinary  Iiaodkerchief  as  a  reckless  and  Gurpri<;ing 
eitravagance  in  "the  lower  orders."  Strong  and  lissome  are  some 
of  tbcac  rice  and  fish  fed  fellows  ;  tall,  straight,  and  displaying  good 
Bousclcs.  That  this  semblance  of  strength  and  condition  is  not 
dt^luttve  yott  nwy  perceive  by  the  amount  of  work  the  Chinese  or 
Malay  coolies  gel  through,  and  the  weights  they  carry.  As  a  rule  it 
takes  5C\'enil  orienials  to  accomplish  one  Englishman's  labour,  but 
the  is  a  rule  not  without  a  wide  margin  of  exception.  Speaking  of 
lacn  as  they  find  them,  the  European  employers  give  the  native 
ineiihonics  and  the  copper-skinned  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of 
wiler  an  excellent  character ;  indeed,  you  will  often  be  not  a  little 
;a.ncd  10  hear  English  employers  speak  better  of  them  than  of  the 
.<.rkman,  who  is  taught  to  pity  his  dusky  heathen  brother 
:ijwrt  to  blocks  of  wood  and  stone.  However,  I  wish  to  draw 
4  picture,  not  to  moralise.  So  wc  will  leave  the  docks  and  the 
iroikrom  there,  many-tinted,  from  the  sickly  yclbw  of  the  fair 
Chinaman  with  his  shaven  pate  and  everlasting  pigtail,  down 
thrjugh  ertrry  shade  of  brown  until  you  come  to  the  sable  Hiadoa 
,  .1   i.j    flossy  bUck  rin-'-^^     Iiefore  starting  fot  ihe  lovm,  amAt 


I  So 


7hc  GeniUmaiis  Magazine. 


for  F.nglish  seamen  and  passengers.  It  is  a.  rcaiJing-room, 
travellers  in  a  thirsty  land  scarcely  welcome  water  with  greater 
-eagerness  than  that  with  which  wc,  who  had  not  seen  an  English 
newsjiaper  for  six  weeks,  charge  at  the  files  of  the  Daily  JVn.i, 
Pumh,  Fun,  the  illustrated  journals,  and  one  or  two  of  the  cheaper 
magazines 

The  gharries,  driven  generally  by  Bengali  boys  under  strict  %o 
Band-yard-likc  hackney  carriage  regulations,  are  drawn  by  cajiiial 
ponies ;  they  are  Singapore  specialities,  born  and  bred  in  Sumam 
and  in  certain  portions  of  the  Malay  peninsula,  and  though  dimimi- 
tivc  they  are  perfectly  shaped,  safe,  swift  trotters,  and  hardy.  As  to 
coiour  lliey  run  a  ggod  deal  to  piebald  ;  alEO  Ihey  arc  most  kiudly 
treated  by  their  owners.  Along  the  Tanjong  Poggar  Road  you  con- 
tinually meet  carts  heavily  laden  with  merchandise — gambier  and 
pepper,  hides,  or  fancy  woods  from  the  interior,  where  tlie  irrepressible 
Chinaman  is  gardener,  woodman,  and  all  else  that  is  remunerative. 
To  the  carts  are  yoked  hump-shouldered  bulls,  slcck-hided  as  a  deer, 
mostly  fawn-eoloured,  and  as  docile  as  the  lamb.  Fan  palms, 
bananas,  cocoanut  and  betel  puhns,  tree  ferns,  tropical  creepers  and 
flowers,  and  vtstas  of  strange  and  beautiful  trees  appear  on  cither 
side  of  the  well-kept  road.  Next  you  pass  ihroitgh  a  native  street, 
probably  holding  your  nose  until  you  become  accUmatiscd  to  the 
indescribable  stenches  of  the  native  quarters.  There  are  "rows" 
on  either  side  of  the  thoroughfare,  very  different  from  the  picturesque 
covered  ways  of  ancient  Chester  or  the  continental  towns,  but 
affording  ample  shelter  from  the  sun  for  the  inhabitants,  who 
Iiavc  a  wonderful  love  of  squatting  on  thcfr  h:ims  outside  their 
small  primitive  places  of  business — squatting  in  company,  sqiiatting 
in  silence,  squatting  morning,  noon,  and  night.  There  are  miles  of 
streets  in  Singapore,  but  in  every  one  of  them  the  people  shall  be 
found  perseveringly  engaged  in  this  absorbing  do-nothing  occupation. 
J-ongfellow  would  be  charmed  with  the  perfect  way  ia  which  tliey 
have  learned,  if  not  to  labour,  at  least  to  wait.  John  Chinaman,  of 
course,  is  everywhere.  The  little  ba/aars  with  the  hieroglyphs  over 
the  door,  the  lanterns  suspended  from  the  ceiling  inside,  the  idol 
over  the  candle-lit  shrine,  and  the  cwrtaincd-off  inner  apartment ;  the 
licensed  opium  shops,  the  places  of  the  tailors,  butchers,  and  baken 
— these  all  inaik  the  whereabouts  of  the  Chinaman.  In  the  heart  of 
the  town  the  native  shops  (all  open  to  tlie  street)  admirably  illustrate 
the  industrious  character  of  the  Chinese  artisan ;  illustrate  also 
the  teeming  numbers  of  the  race,  their  sobriety,  their  quietness, 
their  skill.    A  blacksmith's  establishment  I  was  told  contained  sixty 


'A 


My  Ocmn  Log  from  Newcastle  io  Brisbane. 


inmates,  who  all  slept  in  one  garret    Tbe  great  houses  of  the  Euro- 
pean merchants — Scotchmen  predominating  in  the  ratio  of  five  to 
seven — are  confined  to  the  centra)  and  best  portion  of  ihe  tomm, 
near  which  is  "The  PUin,"  a  fine  promenade,  with  cathedral  and 
public  buildings  around,  and  a  wide  and  well-shaded    lower  road 
parallel  with  and  close  to  the  beach.     Here  in  coot  e\-cntide  the  fair 
European  ladies  take  their  drives  in  gharr>',  waggonette,  or  buggy, 
'reclining  listlessly  after  their  manner  when  once  they  deign  to  take 
wings  to  the  East     Here  tlie  while  robes  and  scailet  sashes  of  tbe 
Government  House  peons,  and  the  pronounced  colours  of  other 
.  gr<*at  folk's  liveries,  flash  amongst  the  green  trees;  here  the  young 
[gentlemen  of  the  place  in  spotless  white  trousers,  gossamer  morning 
coat,  and  solar  topee  saunter  and  smoke  their  manillas. 

The  wonderful  morVets,  provision,  shops,  and  thickest  centres  of 

[native  poxiulation  are  not  farolf;  an  inner  harbour  and  canals  full 

of  broad-stemed  sampans  and  sharp-pruwcd  ^fa]ay  proas  penetrating 

into  tlieir  midst.     You  can  buy  almost  iOny  thing  you  require  at  Singa- 

rpOTf :  costly  goods  at  the  European  repositories,  and  odds  and  ends, 

chiefly  Brummagem,  at  the  petty  Chinese  stalls  and  shops.     Native 

tuwl:eis,  their  heads  covered  with  a  large  circular  disc  of  straw-work 

pointed  on  the  outer  centre  like  an  ancient  shield,  trot  about,  their 

wares  suspended  in  baskets  from  a  bamboo  pole  balanced  over  the 

'fhonlder.    Sometimes  it  is  pork  for  the  Chinaman,  or  rice  or  fish 

or  fruit,  or  compounds  unmentionable,   but  apparently  all  fairly 

clean  and  appetising,  offered  for  sale  by  street  cries  which  in  an 

unknown  tongue  have  still  a  family  resemblance  to  those  wc  have 

been  accustomai  to  in  the  wcll-bclovcd  home  afar  off.     Here  comes 

,  a  rqfutar  Chinese  sw£ll,  a  youug  innoceni-faced  flowery-Lander,  into 

I  whose  pigtail  has  been  woven  scarlet  silk  as  a  recognised  hall-mark 

'of  gentility.     He  is  attired  in  the  wide  loose  trousers  and  wide  loose 

smock   characteristic  of   the  clothes-wearing  Chinotnan    in   every 

quarter  of  the  globe,  but  the  materials  are  of  exquisitely  fine  silk 

or   cloth,  and   not  the  simple  glazed  stuff  of   the    commonalty. 

Moreover,  his  head  is  surmounted  by  a  natty  drab  English  deer* 

stalker,  and  his  umbrella  and  Ian  are  of  dainty  workmanship.    Then 

wc  have  a  native  policeman,  a  Malay,  or  more  probably  a  Klii^,  in 

the  blue  uniform  of  "  the  force,"  leading  by  their  pigtails  a  couple 

of  handcuffed  thieves,  upon  whom  the  scantily-robed  shop  people 

come  out  to  look  with  that  expression  of  sweet  smiling  innocence 

which  is  OS  characteristic  of  the  Chinanun  as  are  his  pigtail  and  his 

quecrly  placed  eyes.     At  night  there  are  certain  streets  all  ablaze 

kind  of  oriental  New  Cut,  where  eveTv\)oCkV  ^X:^  Qti, 


: 


I 


I 


i 


hi*  haunches  and  ukcs  life  easy,  giving  or  rccciviog  iht:  purcbascd 
binana,  cocoahuI,  nuiiyustccii,  pinc-appic,  durian,  oninge,  betel  nut 
and  leaf  wrapper,  with  an  air  of  supreme  iDdiiferencc  on  both  udes. 
The  durian  i$  the  fruit  by  which  $omc  Europeans  swear,  while  otlicrs 
hate  it  with  a  bitter  hatred.  They  ^ay  you  have  6ist  to  overcome 
the  stench  of  the  thing,  and  they  say  truly ;  a  sltunt  is  nothing  to  it. 
The  mangostecn  is  a  delicious  little  fruit,  confined  to  limited  aieu 
40  the  MaLiy  ArcliipeUgo.  It  is  round,  apple-sized,  and  a  deep  dead 
Ijurplc  ill  colour.  V'ou  cut  through  Uie  rind,  whicJi  is  a  third  ol  aa 
inch  in  thickness,  and  pulling  oft  half  tlie  cup  discover  a  wlule  pulpy 
interior  in  five,  six,  or  seven  sections.  This,  removed  by  a  fcdk, 
'becomes  a  mouthful  for  an  epicure,  blending  in  one  happy  seosatioQ 
the  flavours  of  swect-wator  grape,  mulberry,  ja^oncUe  pear,  and 
hoitA  fiJf  Johannisbcrg.  The  natives  eat  bananas  by  the  bushcL  I 
bought  three  pine-apples,  magnilicent  in  weight  as  in  flavour,  for  two- 
pence halfpenny  ;  with  three  cents  the  thirs^  coolie  obtains  a  fresh 
cocoanut  containing  a  pint  and  a  haK  of  refreshingly  cool  milk  ;  and 
there  arc  other  fruits,  all  new  to  tlic  European,  loo  numerous  to 
mention.  Fish  of  grand  size  and  quaUty  are  caught  wiUiout  much 
art  or  toil  within  half  a  rallc  of  shore.  You  may  pity  these  benighted 
barbarians,  as  it  is  Uie  Christian  Briton's  duty  to  do;  nevertheless 
they  appear  to  enjoy  life  very  tolerably,  having  few  wants  and  an 
abundance  of  good  things  dropping  into  their  very  mouths,  no 
tailor's  bills,  no  religious  or  educational  difficulties,  no  votes,  no 
superfluous  furniture.  The  Chinaman  certainly  has  to  prov'tdc  him- 
self witli  a  brace  of  chop-sticks,  but  they  are  inexpensive ;  the  Alalay 
does  without  even  these. 

It  was  very  interesting  to  me  lo  visit  the  gaol  under  the  guidance 
of  one  of  the  magistrates  and  lo  sec  the  prisoners  printing  in  English, 
Chinese,  and  Malay,  weaving  blankets,  making  superb  rattan  wicket 
ware,  and  working  in  the  most  orderly  manner  at  the  commonest 
trades.  A  few  were  "  in  "■  for  piracy,  sonic  for  assault,  the  majority 
for  thefr.  This  latter  assertion  of  course  is  the  same  as  saying  tltat 
the  majority  are  Chinamen.  Some  of  our  good  reformalor;*  workers 
at  home  would  liavc  been  gratified  beyond  measure  at  the  excellent 
way  in  which  the  present  superintendent  works  the  institulion.  The 
prisoners  up  to  the  present  time  have  been  housed — one  might  almost 
say  caged — in  general  sheds  aud  dormitories.  Now,  under  the 
presence  of  pressure  from  without,  the  separate  system  is  to  be  tried, 
and  solitary  cells  arc  being  built.  The  men,  especially  the  MaUyx, 
ore  generally  very  tractable.  All  being  in  chains  the  prisoners  move 
about  with  the  oldiashioned  cVant-cVank  familiar  to  the  present 


My  Ocean  Log  from  NeweastU  io  BsHsbane. 

.::generaiton  at  h<»ne  only  on  the  melo-dramatic  stage.  Out  of  620 
prisoners  there  were  only  tjoo  women  (not  bad  for  a  set  of  heathens), 
-and  the  few  prisoners  in  the  European  quarter  were  suldiers  and 
sailors  vrlio  had  been  overtempted  by  the  low  grog  shops  (there  are 
by  far  too  many  of  these)  into  the  commission  of  minor  mts- 
demc:maurs.  Formerly  there  were  not  more  than  half  a  dozen 
European  warders  to  manage  this  Urge  prison,  Lo  which  perhaps  it 
should  be  mentioned  are  brought  long-sentence  men  from  other  por- 
tions of  the  Struts  Settlements. 

Last  year  there  was  an  outbrealc,  and  Mr.  Dent,  the  superintendent, 
was  murdered.  The  plot  was  no  doubt  hatched  in  the  common  dor- 
mitory, or  in  the  gangs,  and  for  a  wonder  the  conspirators  united 
sufBdeotly  to  effect  their  purpose,  a  fact  to  be  noted  when  it  is  known 
that  the  Kfalays  and  Chinese  have  different  languages  of  their  own, 
and  that  the  Chinese  and  Malays  liavc  no  fervid  love  for  each  other. 
Many  readers  will  doubtless  remember  the  story  as  briefly  told  i 
the  English  newspapers  at  the  time,  but  I  cannot  call  to  mind 
that  one  particular  incident  was  included  in  the  account  I  will  give 
it  for  Uie  benefit  of  Ibe  autlior  of  any  projected  work  on  "  The  Brave 
Deeds  of  Women."  Fame  has  been  acquired  by  less  worthy  pre- 
tences. Fw  a.  while  on  the  fatal  evening  it  seemed  as  if  die  prisoners 
would  overcome  and,  of  course,  massacre  the  authorities  and  overrun 
the  town.  The  6nal  obstacle  to  their  complete  success  was  ultimately 
foimd  m  the  comer  of  the  prison  area  defended  by  Mr.  Uimb,  an 
Eogtish  or  rather  Scotch  warder,  who  throughout  behavcti  splendidly. 
He  conceived  and  promptly  put  in  action  the  bold  idea  of  calling  to 
hU  autsiancc  and  arming  the  handful  of  European  prisoners  und 
xoolineraent.  The  project  answered  thoroughly.  Pending  its  e.\ecu 
tion,  however,  Mrs-  Lamb  undertook  the  defence  of  a  certain  central 
^loor  ag,ainst  which  the  howling  mob  of  natives  were  concentr-itingall 
ihetr  fury  and  strength.  The  plucky  woman  seized  a  sword  and 
hacked  and  slashed  at  the  n.iked  feet  and  legs  of  the  foe,  as  often  as 
they  appeared  through  the  space  between  the  bottom  of  the  door  and 
the  ground.  The  brcalcing  down  of  this  barrier  was  expected  every 
moment,  but  Mr^  I..aml>  never  flinched  from  the  post  or  relaxed  her 
attacks,  and  the  good  woman's  bravery  gave  her  husband  time  to 
bring  op  his  reinforcement.  This  manceuvre  was  so  effectual  that 
%bca  the  Brigade  Major,  who  liappened  to  be  the  senior  military 
officer  within  (all,  on  rctjuisition  from  the  Commissioner  of  Police, 
kutened  to  the  prison  with  what  troops  wcie  then  in  Fort  Canning 
the  disturbance  was  virtually  over.  More  than  a  dozen  prisoners  ha.d 
rand  otlicrs  were  in  aistody,lo  be  aftcrKaiis  \ujr' 


»«4 


Tkt  Gtntitmms  MagaztMi, 


or  re-sentcBced.  Tbe  jmkes  pciiliuiacJ  Ac  Home  Govenuaent  t» 
rcvsid  Mr.  Liiab's  aemea  by  «  saaB  asnairf,  bot  so  fax  as  I  could 
bear  no  rcfpoase  has  jct  beeo  sent  oot  to  ihis  toj  reasonaU«  tug- 
nstioa.  Of  connc  sodi  an  ttiaaigjK  at  the  Colonial  Office  (if  the 
pedtiao  has  not  dreadj  been  goMcd)  b  an  acddent  Anyhov, 
Iamb  and  his  cwiagMus  viie  were  mainly  instntmcntal  in  checking 
vhal  ni^  bare  been  a  most  dangeious  outbreak  of  muidcious 
CDnunais* 

Tbe  Botukal  Gardens  are  situated  at  Taaglio,  about  three  miles 
from  Singj^wre^  and  the  drive  o^-er  periect  road,  with  beauiirol 
tropical  sceoetyco  ettber  sideband  here  and  there  glimpses  oTjuogJe, 
is  a  trcfli  no  passtog  sttanga  dwald  miss.  The  garden5i  owned  by 
^  Roc  Mr.  ^Vhampoa,  the  wealdijr  Chinese  merchant  receni:>' 
inweMcd  with  the  order  of  Sl  ^[ichael  and  St  George,  should 
also  be  sees,  both  becaose  of  tbe  rare  plants  and  trees  cultiratcd 
there  and,the  quaint  Chinese  dcYices  into  whicb  many  of  the  shrubs 
hare  been  dipped.  The  ptettjr  orange  coloured  flow^cr^  which  so 
pcx)&ise1]r  covers  Uie  hedges  cvcnrwhere,  io  perfume  and  fonnatioa 
sotnewhat  resembling  oar  hehotrope,  is  a  common  jungle  flower. 
Nearing  the  town  OD  tout  retom  from  the  gardens  look  out  for  the 
Benpli  vasfaennen  in  tbe  nuddle  of  the  stream  provided  for  them; 
yon  win  tlun  understand  why  your  linen  comes  home  so  sadly  per- 
forated with  uniDCsdable  holes.  The  sniall  plantation  of  sugaitancs 
fringing  die  highway  so  prettily  is  evidence  of  the  sweet  tooth  of  tbe 
comitty ;  every  other  native  you  meet  in  the  evening  is  munching  his 
section  of  cane,  for  which  he  has  paid  some  decimal  portion  of  a 
£&rthing.  As  you  drive  to  yxyiu  quartets  at  night,  the  birds  beio£ 
silent  and  the  lizards  at  rest,  the  insects  arc  in  loud  concert  in  the 
hedges,  gardens,  and  jungle ;  and  the  musk  may  be  heard  high  above 
the  shrill  rattle  of  the  ghatT>-.  It  will  be  necessary  to  look  carefully 
after  your  mosquito  curtains,  and  to  be  at  all  times  prepared  for  a 
K  really  elegant  little  lizard  running  up  the  wall,  or  a  brown-winged 
H  cockroach,  not  much  less  than  two  inches  lon^  scampering  across 
I       your  dressing  table. 

E 


I 


fli  bi  eenHmud^ 


Bertiovn  de  Born  the  Trouba- 
dour. 

BY  FRANCIS  HUEFFER. 

)ItE  old  manuscripts  in  which  the  worlcs  of  the  trouba- 
dours are    preserved    to  lis   frequently   contain  shot 
biographical  notices  of  the  poets  theniscK-cs,  interestin| 
alike  by  the  personil  incidents  related  and  by  the  light 
which  such  anecdotes  throw  on  tlie  quaint  and  complex  organism  of 
mediaeval  life.  In  most  cases,  however,  tliese  biograplucs  are  confined 
to  the  relation,  more  or  less  romantically  embellislied,  of  those 
affains  du  urur  which  to  a  genuine  poet  of  I'rovcncc  were  a  matlcTj 
of  vital  necessity.     For  onc-sidctl  and  incomplete  as  is  the  idea  of  the' 
troubadour  as  the  expounder  and  nothing  but  the  expounder  of 
media-^-nl  scntimentalism,  it  must  ne%'er  be  forgotten  that  a  favouritej 
and  indispensable  subject  of  his  song  was  love.     It  is  true  that  the) 
sirvtaits^*  or  satirical  poem,  was  a  dangerous  weapon  in  ihe  hands 
of  the   Provencal  singer,  with  which  be  ruthlessly  attacked   his 
enemies,  private  or  pohlical,  clerks  or  laymen.     But  the  great  social 
influence  derived  from  this  self-assuraed  ollice  of  public  censorship 
was  naturally  localised,  and  General  History,  although  it  records  the 
deeds  of  many  distinguished  amateurs  of  Ibe  ^nya  taivnsa,  such  as 
King  .Mfons  of  .Aragoo  and  our  own   Cojur  de  I.ion,  does  not. 
mention   the  names  of  any  troubadours  ^mJ  troubadours  with  one 
exception — Bertxan  de  Bom. 

BertroD  de  Burn  is  a  perfect  type  of  the  warlike  haron  of  tlic 
middle  ages,  continually  Sgbting  witli  his  neighbours  or  with  his  own 
vassals,  and  treating  the  \-illcins  and  clowns  on  his  esute  with  a 

■  Tlie  exact  debiutioa  of  tintnttt  is  a  matter  oTsoinc  (Bfiealljr.  Etymolo^Blly 
It  b  no  doubt  dmii-cd  from  the  Latin  verb  len-tre,  and  might  ibcrcibie  be 
ttndetcd  as  "  the  taag  or  a  senrlag  man,"  or  the  xHig  sung  in  the  service  oreotne 
BUMICT  or,  il  may  be,  cause.  The  Uys  ifaiMun  (Laws  of  Lave)— under  which 
proniibg  title  i»  clitguiicd  an  nceviimg,ly  dry  Kbotadic  trc^lisi.'  on  I'lorcnfal 
gnmnuT  anil  inctncal  art— <ra]l>  the  uni-nt^t  "  a  long  conEainifl);  teptoot  and 
vllnpmlion,  ami  ciUigaling  the  ttickcd  and  foolith  ;  it  Aho  ntuy  tre.it  oT  waiUke 
rieedi."  Ibii  definition  fairly  ilcscnbes  the  general  chaidclcr  of  the  strtvntet 
witboui,  howevn,  cahimlini;  iu  scope  and  variety  oi  subject -matlcr.  The  im* 
pttdanl  (Kirnt  fot  Odt  pment  iiurpote  b  to  diitinguith  the  lintnUi,  wbicii  aettt 


t 
I 
I 

I 


no     ' 


I 

L 


The  GenlkifiatCs  Magaeine. 

bniul  contempt  all  the  more  uopudoiuble  in  hts  case  as  be  op 
and  deliberately  advocates  such  oppressioa  in  his  songs.  But  his 
VkrUkc  ambition  was  not  confined  to  the  squabbles  of  petty  feudal 
lords.  ^Vith  sword  and  song  he  fought  in  the  great  political  struggles 
of  the  time,  and  the  important  part  he  played  in  the  incessant  va/^  of 
Ilenry  II.  of  England  with  -the  King  of  France  and  with  his  own 
rebellious  sons  ought  to  secure  Bcitran  a  place  in  any  comprehensive 
history  of  our  Angevin  kings.  I  am  glad  to  see  that  Mr.  Green,  in 
his  "  Short  History  of  the  English  People,"  has  done  justice  to 
bold  troubadour's  claims. 

As  to  the  exact  date  of  Itcrtran's  birth  the  mannscripts  contab  so 
information.  By  inference  we  find  it  must  liave  been  about  the 
middle  of  the  twelfth  century.  The  old  biographers  call  him  Viscount 
of  Autafort,  a  castle  and  borough  of  about  a  thousand  inhabitants  in 
the  dioeese  of  Pcrigord.  His  manhood  fell  into  a  stormy  time 
external  and  internal  wariarc. 

Thcmarriageof  Henry  of  Anjou,  afterwards  Henry  II.  of 
with  the  divorced  faithless  wife  of  the  Frenck  King  was  an  a 
Eoutce  of  evil  to  the  young  adventurer.  It  is  true  that  the  possesions 
of  Aquitain  accruing  to  him  from  the  marriage  for  the  moment  added 
to  his  power,  hut  in  the  long  run  his  huge  dominions  in  the  west  and 
south'Wcst  of  France  tended  to  divert  his  attention  from  the  tree 
focus  of  his  strength — England,  llie  tedious  qiiarrels  in  which  his 
continental  posiicssions  involved  him  witli  his  feudal  overlord,  the 
King  of  France,  greatly  increased  the  troubles  of  his  eventful  reign. 
But  iax  more  disastrous  were  the  domestic  conscQucnccs  of  thb 
ill-assoned  union.  History  and  popular  myth  have  combined  to 
depict  Eleanor  as  the  prototype  of  a  ruthless  termagant.  What- 
ever may  have  been  the  provocations  of  her  truant  husliand — pro- 
vocations which,  by  the  way,  her  own  conduct  hardly  justiged  her 
in  resenting  too  liarehly — the  charge  remains  against  her  that  by 
her  instigation  her  sons  were  first  incited  to  rebel  against  their 
father.  With  much  trouble  and  danger  to  himself  Henry  had 
in  1170  induced  his  English  bishops  to  assist  at  a  prospective 
coronation  of  liis  eldest  son  and  namesake.  Two  years  hitcr  the 
ceremony  was  repeated,  young  Henry's  wife,  the  daughter  of  King 
Louis  VII.  of  France,  being  inc;ludcd,  having  for  reastms  unknown 
been  absent  on  the  former  occasion.  The  return  which  Heni^'  received 
for  this  highest  mark  of  confidence  was  the  claim  on  the  part  i^ 
his  son  to  be  put  in  Lmmediale  poj^session  eitlier  of  Normandy  or  of 
Ejlgland.  The  refusal  of  this  outrageous  demand  became  the  cause 
■of  aaimosities  between  father  and  son.    "CVcanw  fannied  the  flames 


M 


BtriraK  de  Bom  the  Traubadour^ 


'87 


dLicord,  ajMl  it  seems  to  have  been  by  her  ad^'icc  mainly  that 
"•yout^g  Henry  at  last  broke  out  into  open  rebellion.  He  fled  from 
fais  Cither's  Court  at  Limoges  and  took  refuge  Triih  the  King  of 
i'rancc  at  St.  Denis,  where  tJirec  days  afterwards  he  was  joined  by 
his  two  brothers  Kicluud  and  Geoffrey.  The  war  which  ea&ucd 
WW  earned  on  by  both  sides  with  atrocious  brutality,  not  even 
relieved  by  bold  exploits  of  arms.  The  name  of  the  hirelings 
tnlislcd  by  the  King  of  Englond — Braban^ons,  from  Brabaod,  Ihc 
fx>untf>'  of  many  of  them->has  become  a  bye-word  in  history,  and  the 
otter  u-ant  of  filial  piety,  or  indeed  of  any  higher  motive  on  the  part 
-of  liic  young  princes  is  at  once  revolting  andaslonislung.  Afore 
Uum  once  duriug  his  repeated  wars  widi  his  sons  tlie  King's  life  vt-as 
attempted,  and  on  one  occasion  when  be  was  going  to  a  parley  with 
young  Xlcnry  be  was  received  by  a  shower  of  arrows  and  slightly 
wouuucd.  Sous  who  tlius  disregarded  t}ie  demands  of  natural 
Jiflcction  could  not  be  expected  to  be  more  scrupulous  where  their 
country  was  concerned.  Patriotism,  more  especially  English 
patrioiism,  never  was  the  strong  side  of  the  Plantagencts.  In  con- 
.  wqucDCc  the  young  princes  did  not  hesitate  for  a  moment  to  barter 
avny  some  of  die  fairest  portions  of  England  for  promises  of  assist- 
^aoce  from  the  Ring  of  Scotland  and  the  Earl  of  Flanders,  and  it 
waji  oqIj'  by  Henry's  energy  and  good  fortimc  that  these  disgraceful 
bargains  were  frustrated.  The  war  dragged  on  till  1174,  and  ended 
witii  a  semblance  of  recoociliation ;  Ricliard  being  the  last  to  submit 
_tD  his  father. 

It  *u  necessary  lo  dwell  to  this  extent  on  these  circumstances 
In  order  to  gain  a  background  for  our  centre-figure  Uic  Troubadour. 
There  u  no  direct  evidence  that  Beriran  de  Born  took  a  prominent 
in  the  £rst  rebellion  of  the  English  princes,  neither  do  any  of 
his  watrlike  songs  seem  to  refer  to  iL  Bui  c^en  in  case  bisiyouth  or 
Olber  circumstances  prevented  him  irom  l>eiug  an  ac'.or  in  the  events 
■JBU  dcsciibcdf  he  was  sure  to  be  an  eager  spectator.  Soon  afterwards 
We  »ce  him  in  tlic  thick  of  Uie  fighu  1  Ic  seems  to  have  been  on  terms 
kof  intiouicy  with  iJjc  three  elder  sons  of  Henry,  as  is  proved  by  the 
latnttikr  nicknames  by  which  he  addresses  them.  Young  Ilenr)'  he 
uied  lo  call  "Marinier"  (seaman),  an  interesting  fact  which  shows 
i-tfaat  n  sailor.prince  in  the  Royal  family  is  not  altogetlier  a  modem 
invcnticm.  CcoRrey,  by  marriage  Duke  of  Brittany,  was  "Rawia," 
a  Dame  without  any  distinct  meaning  to  us  ;  and  Richard  "  Oc  c  no," 
Ikil  is  *'  Yes  and  no,"  which  might  pass  for  an  indication  of  slraight- 
for  '  plain  deeding,  or,  indeed,  of  the  reverse,  according  to 

printo  and  poet  Iiapnened  10  "Vie.     lioVtaiJ* 


tSS 


The  Gaitiarians  Maga^ne, 


\ 


■ttachmcnt  to  Prince  HcQiy,  the  "Young  King,"  as  he  and  the  old 
chroniclers  frequently  call  hiiii,  -u-as  of  the  utmost  imp(»tancc  for  the 
poet's  lire.  It  is,  indeed,  the  redeeming  feature  of  his  character. 
Pram  the  Arsi  he  seems  to  have  espoused  the  young  prince's  cause, 
and  no  turn  of  fortune  could  ever  make  him  waver  from  his  fealty. 
It  is  sad  to  think  that  the  influence  thus  acquired  was  used  Jn  ^rthcr 
inflaming  a  nature  already  Iiol  nitli  pride  and  ambition.  Bertian's 
biographers  lay  paiticubr  stress  on  this  point.  "  Whenever  be  chose  " 
— the  old  manuscript  says — "  he  was  master  of  the  King  of  England 
and  of  his  son;  but  be  wished  that  the  father  should  always  beat 
war  with  the  son,  and  the  brothers  n-ilh  one  another;  and  he  also 
desired  that  there  should  be  incessant  feud  between  the  Kings  of 
France  and  England,  and  whenever  there  was  peace  or  trace 
between  them  he  was  at  great  jiains  and  trouble  to  undo  the  peace 
by  means  of  his  sirttttteuSf  and  to  prove  to  cadi  of  lliem  how  itiey 
were  dishpnoured  by  such  a  peace  ;  and  he  derived  much  good  and 
also  much  evil  from  the  mischief  he  made  amongst  them."  In 
another  place  we  are  told  tliat  Kiug  Henry  haled  Bertran  because 
the  poet  was  "  the  fnend  and  counsellor  erf  the  young  King,  his 
(Henry's)  son,  who  had  made  war  against  him  ;  and  he  believed  Sir 
Bcnrnn  bore  the  whole  guilt  of  it."  Not  without  reason  does  Dante 
place  the  troubadour  in  the  ninth  pit  of  hell,  where,  with  Mahomet 
Ali,  Mosca  dei  Lamberti,  and  other  disturbers  of  Church  and  State, 
he  is  made  to  do  penance  for  his  disastrous  counsels.  Dante  de- 
scribes him  carrying  his  onu  head  severed  from  lus  body  in  his 
hard.  *'  Know  then,"  says  tlie  spectre  addressing  the  poet,  "that  I 
am  Beitran'de  Bom,  he  who  gave  evil  encouragement  to  the  younj 
King,  causing  father  and  son  to  T^-agc  war  against  each  other. 
Because  I  parted  men  thus  joined  together  I  now  carry  my  own 
head  setered  from  its  principle  of  life,  my  body." 

How  his  great  influence  over  the  young  King  was  acquired  the 
old  manuscripts  do  not  tell  us.  The  first  time  thai  we  hear  of 
Bettian  in  history  is  in  connection  with  the  (luariels  between  Richard, 
at  that  time  Count  of  Poitou,  and  his  unruly  barons  in  the  south  of 
France.  Amongst  tliese  Bertraa  de  Bom  tCKjk  a  prominent  position. 
His  worldly  possessions  were  of  comparatively  small  imporunce, 
but  his  fame  as  a  poet,  his  personal  valour,  his  indomitable  fierce- 
ness and  love  of  war  mode  up  for  this  want,  and  qualified  him  for 
the  part  of  ringleader  and  prime  intellectual  mover  of  the  rebeUious 
party.  A  cause  of  quanel  between  such  an  overlord  as  Rtchaid 
and  such  a  vassal  as  Bertran  may  easily  be  imagined ;  but  beyond 
these  public  grounds  of  mutual  ai\m«M\\,'j  vVvcrti  seems  to  have  beea 


Seriran  He  Born  the  Tr<mbadQur.  1 89 

«ome  personal  grudge  between  them.  The  manuscripts  speak  of  a 
lady  ia  whose  heart  the  troubadour  supplanted  his  princely  rival, 
and  in  addition  to  this  fact— [jerliaps  in  consequence  of  it — we  hear 
of  Richard's  hostile  interference  in  his  adversary's  pri^'ote  concerns, 
iJennm  de  Born  had  a  brother,  Constantinc  by  name,  with  whom  he 
shared  the  possession  of  Casilc  AutaforL  He  is  described  by  the 
ttianuscnpts  as  "  a  good  knight,  but  not  a  man  to  (rouble  himself 
much  about  valour  or  honour."  A  man  of  this  kind  stood  little 
chance  of  holding  his  own  against  our  troubadour,  and  internal 
-evidence  strongly  points  low-aids  the  latter  as  the  aggressor  in  the 
«ndle$s  quarrels  between  tlie  two  brothers.  Tliis,  Iiowever,  IJertran'fi 
biographer  does  not  acknowledge.  He  goes  on  to  say  that  Con- 
stantinc "hated  BcTtran  at  all  seasons,  and  wished  well  to  those 
who  wished  ill  to  Bertran,  and  tie  took  from  him  the  Castie  of 
Autafort,  which  belonged  to  them  both  in  common.  But  Sir 
Ecrtran  soon  recovered  it,  and  drove  his  brother  from  all  his 
possessions."  At  this  juncture^  Richard  interfered  in  favour  of 
Constantine.  Together  with  Aimar,  A'iscount  of  T-imogcs,  and 
other  powerful  barons,  he  invaded  Rcrtran's  domains,  which  soon 
Itecamc  the  scene  of  atrocities  such  as  are  the  usual  concomitants 
of  dvit  feud.  Castle  Autafort  itself  was  threatened,  but  its  master 
remained  undaunted  In  a  powerful  sin'enlts  he  hurls  defiance  at 
his  enemies.  A  war-song  more  recklessly  bold,  more  graphically 
Teal,  has  seldom  been  heard. 

Let  the  reader  judge.  "  All  day  long,"  Pcrtmn  says,  "  I  fight, 
and  am  at  work,  to  make  a  thrust  at  them  and  defend  mj-sclf,  for 
ihey  are  laying  waste  my  land  and  burning  my  crops ;  they  pull  up 
my  trees  by  the  root  and  mix  my  com  with  the  straw.  Cowards  and 
brave  men  arc  down  upon  me.  I  constantly  disunite  and  sow  hatred 
amongst  the  barons,  and  then  I  remould  and  join  Uiem  together 
again,  and  I  try  to  give  them  brave  hearts  and  strong ;  but  I  am  a 
fool  for  my  trouble,  for  they  arc  made  of  base  metal." 

Id  these  last  sentences  the  poet  discloses  the  secret  of  his 
power.  It  was  the  irresistible  sway  of  his  eloquence  over  men's 
minds,  his  "don  terrible  de  la  familiarity,"  as  The  elder  Mirabeau 
pDtx  it,  which  enabled  Rcrtnin  to  play  on  men's  minds  as  on 
the  strings  of  his  lute,  and  to  make  them  form  and  %'ary  their 
purpose  according  to  his  impulse.  In  this  very  sifrmia  wc  gain  an 
idea  uf  the  manner  in  which  he  loslies  the  hesitating  barons  into 
resistance  against  the  common  oppressor.  Talairand  is  accused  of 
Uuiolcacc — "  he  does  not  trot  nor  gallop,  motionless  be  Uci  \tvV\i 
ice  nor  arrow  docs  he  raovc.     He  Vwes  ^V.e  a'VjO'CtJ 


I 

I 


t 


1 90  Tht  Genilcmmis  Magazine. 

pedlar,  and  when  others  depart  Tur  die  war  he  stretches  himself 
yawns."  Another  baron,  whose  name,  William  of  Gordon.strikcsthe 
English  car  M-ith  fatniliar  note,  is  warned  against  KJchiuxTs  per- 
soasivc  stitccmft.  *' I  Invc  you  well,"  Bcrtran  says,  "but  my 
enemies  want  to  make  a  fool  and  a  dupe  of  you,  and  the  time  seems 
3ong  to  them  before  they  see  you  in  iheir  ranks."  The  «rn 
innds  up  with  a  climax  of  fierce  invective  against  Richard  lif 
"  To  I'erigeux  close  to  llie  wall,  so  that  I  can  throw  my  batile^ 
over  it,  I  wilt  come  well  armed,  and  riding  on  my  horse  Bayaid; 
and  if  1  find  the  glutton  of  Poitou  he  shall  Itnow  the  cut  of  my 
svord.  A  mixture  of  brain  and  splinters  of  iron  he  shall  wear  on 
his  brow." 

Bertran's  assertions  of  his  dangerous  influence  over  men's  miixls 
^vere  not  the  idle  lioaslings  of  poetic  vanity.  A  terrible  conspiracy 
was  formed  against  Ricliord  and  the  greatest  cobles  of  the  country. 
The  Viscounts  of  Ventadorn,  of  Cambora,  of  Scgur,  and  of  Limoges, 
the  Count  of  Pcrigord,  William  of  Gordon,  the  Lord  of  Montftjrt, 
besides  many  important  cities,  ore  mentioned  amongst  the  rebels.  A 
meeting  toot  place,  and  we  may  imagine  the  picturesque  scene  when 
"in  the  old  'monastery  of  San  Marsal  they  swore  on  a  missal'  to 
stand  by  each  other  and  never  to  enter  into  separate  treaties  with 
Richard.  The  special  causes  of  this  rebellion  arc  not  knoun  to  us. 
\Vc  may  sunnise,  and  indeed  know  in  a  general  way,  that  the  band 
of  their  lion-hearted  lord  weighed  heavily  on  the  proWnces  of 
Southern  France.  But  the  veil  which  covers  this  portion  of 
Henry  IL's  reign  has  never  yet  been  fuHy  lifted,  and  till  that  13  doi 
we  must  be  satisfied  with  such  hints  as  may  lie  gleaned  from  scatte 
bits  of  information  in  ancient  writers.  Our  Provencal  manuscript 
offers  a  clue  not  without  interest  to  the  historical  student  It  speaks 
of  certain  rendas  de  caretJ!,  rates  of  carts  or  waggons,  most  likely 
toll  which  Richard  had  unlawfully  appropriated,  and  which  in  renli 
belonged  to  the  "Young  King,"  that  is  10  Prince  Henry,  to  wh 
they  were  given  by  his  father.  This  Utter  circumstance  connects 
our  story  with  less  obscure  portions  of  history.  It  is  well  known 
that  in  ii8a  King  Hcnr)-  demanded  of  his  sons  Richard  and  Geof- 
frey to  do  homage  to  their  elder  brother  for  the  possessions  re 
tivcly  licld  by  them,  a  demand  indignantly  refused  by  Rf 
Hence  the  invasion  of  Aquitain  by  young  Henry,  and  hence 
perhaps  also  the  latter*s  intimac>*  \vith  our  poet,  who,  as  the  intel- 
lectual mover  of  the  rebellion  again&t  Ridiard,  was  an  ally  by  so 
means  to  be  despised.  Thus  Ihc  wai  between  the  brothers  went  on 
rjgiag  for  a  lime,  BerLran  fighling  in  0\e  fottmow.  ^itite,  «n&,  w.  *« 


■rc<^^ 

ript 

aks 

icti^ 
iwn 
_;of- 

chaid^H 


ft 


a 


Bertran  de  Born  tite  Troubadour,  1 9 1 

same  time  tonoLDg  the  flame  with  his  songs.  \*z  possess  a  sirventtr 
ID  whicii  he  addresses  the  chief  barons  by  oame,  leminding  them  of 
their  grievances,  praising  the  brave  and  castigating  the  wavcrcrs  with 
Kii  sitirc.  Such  were  the  means  of  diplomatic  pressure  in  those 
days.  But  primitive  though  such  measures  of  admonition  may 
appear,  they  were  none  the  less  e/ficacious  with  those  concemt:d. 
P^iiol,  Bctcntn's  faithful  minstrel,  went  about  the  country  boldly 
recidng  his  master's  taunts  in  the  loidly  hall  of  the  boron  or  at  the 
gate  of  the  castle,  where  the  throng  of  the  vassals  would  listen  to  his 
song.  By  taking  into  account  the  excitability  of  the  southern  nature 
further  inflamed  by  U\e  struggles  of  tlw  time,  together  with  the 
general  tDtcrest  of  the  subject  and  the  consummate  art  of  treatment 
and  delivery,  one  can  form  some  idea  of  the  dangerous  influence  of 
the  troubadours,  too  dangerous  and  too  generally  acknowledged  to 
be  despised  by  the  mightiest  princes  of  the  time. 

Bertraii  de  Boni  is  evidently  quiie  conscioiis  of  the  force  of  his 
scmgs,  and  the  use  he  makes  of  his  ix>wer  betrays  great  sagacity 
of  political  purpose  But  with  him  the  love  of  war  for  Avar's 
sake  is  so  great  that  sometimes  every  deeper  design  seems  to 
vaai^  before  this  ruling  passion.  His  character  is  a  psychological 
problem  in  this  respect.  A  man  who,  after  a  life  of  wildest  storm 
and  stress,  passed  in  continual  strife  with  domestic  and  political 
foes,  dies  in  peace  and  in  the  quiet  possession  of  his  usuq>cd 
domiiuon,  must  have  been  endowed  in  a  more  than  usual  degree 
with  calmness  and  dehberatioo.  But  there  is  no  trace  of  this  in  hi^ 
songs.  They  breathe  one  and  all  the  recklessness  and  animal 
buoyancy  of  a  sa^'agc  chieftain  who  regards  fighting  as  the  only 
enjoyment  and  true  vocation  of  a  man.  One  of  his  warlike  sir- 
'ru7  ends  with  the  naive  exclamation  by  way  of  iornaila  or 
of,  **  Would  that  the  great  barons  could  always  be  inflamed  against 
each  other!"  In  another  he  gives  vent] to  his  insatiate  pugnacity 
with  most  nnqualilicd  openness.  "Tlicre  is  peace  cver)-wliere,"  he 
says,  *'but  I  still  retain  a  rag  {pans)  of  warfare  ;  a  sore  in  his  eye 
ijmttiia  en  sm  hufth)  to  him  who  tries  to  part  rae  from  it  although 
I  may  have  begun  the  quarrel.  Peace  gives  me  no  pleasure,  war  is 
my  deUghL  Tliis  is  my  law,  other  I  liave  none,  f  don't  regard 
Monday  or  Tnesday,  or  week,  or  month,  or  year,  April  or  March 

I  would  not  hinder  me  in  doing  damage  to  those  who  wrong  me.    Tluee 
bf  litem  would  not  get  the  value  of  an  old  leather  strap  from  me."  * 
[   Things  in  Aquitain  began  in  the  meantime  to  take  a  more  peaceful 

■  I  must  WITH  the  ruder  not  to  tnisoke  ihe  above  lines  for  &n  ^U.tiTiv^  ^'^ 
tcadamif  « tomevlixt  siauidr  wu-toag  generally  ssctibed  to  KeiVnoi  <ic  'bonvf. 


enjo) 


I 


turn  Uian  our  warlike  singer  could  wish  or  expect     King  Hen 
appeared  on  the  scene  as  peacemaker  between  his  sons,  and  by 

command  young  Ilcnr)-  had  to  declare  himself  satisfied  with  a  money 
com|>i;nsation  for  IiIs  claims  of  ovcrlordship.  This  compliance  drew 
on  him  the  momentary-  indignation  of  our  tro^ibadour,  who  calls  him 
*'a  king  of  cowards";  and  adds  that  "  not  by  Ij-ing  asleep  will  he 
become  master  of  Cumberland,  or  King  of  England,  or  coaqunorof 
Ireland."  The  defection  of  their  leader  proved  fatal  to  the  league 
cl  the  haroQs,  who  separately  tried  to  make  their  peace  with  Richard 
and  qtiiclly  submitted  to  his  punishing  wrath.  Not  so  Bcrtran  dc 
IJom.  His  first  impulse  was  to  give  utterance  to  his  contempt  for  Ihc 
nobles  who  by  their  want  of  courage  and  union  destroyed  their 
last  chn.nce  of  safety.  "I  will  sing  a  JfWrn/^^f,"  Bertran  exclaims, 
*'of  the  cowardly  barons,  and  after  that  not  waste  another  word 
upon  them.  Mare  than  a  thousand  spurs  have  I  broken  in  them, 
and  never  could  I  make  them  trot  or  gallop.  Now  tliey  allow  them- 
selves to  be  robbed  without  saying  a  word.  God's  curse  upon 
ihcm."  His  next  thought  must  have  been  to  find  a  new  head  and 
centre  for  such  remnants  of  the  rebellious  forces  as  stilt  remained 
unsubdued.  In  this  endeavour  he  was  more  successful  than  might 
have  been  cjcpectcd  under  the  circumstances.  Geoffrey,  Henry's 
younger  brother,  who  had  been  commissioned  by  the  King  to  facilitate 
the  reconciliation  between  Richard  and  his  barons,  suddenly  declared 
himself  in  favour  of  the  latter,  and  began  to  invade  Poitou  with  all 
the  forces  at  his  disposal.  We  have  no  direct  e%-idcnce  of  Bertran's 
active  participation  in  this  matter.  But  we  know  of  his  intimacy 
with  Geoffrey,  whom  after  the  desertion  of  the  cause  by  young  Henry 
he  hails  as  a  worthy  pretender  to  the  crowns  of  England  and  Nor- 
mandy. We  arc  therefore  justified  in  conjecturing  that  the  bold 
troubadour's  advice  may  have  had  much  weight  with  a  prince  of 
Ccoffre)-'s  ambition. 

But  here  the  matter  was  not  to  end.  In  this  emergency  young 
Henry  offered  his  services  to  his  father,  promising  to  advise  or  if 
necessary  to  enforce  a  reconciliation  between  his  brothers.  But  no 
sooner  had  he  arrived  at  the  seat  of  war  than  he  also  joined  the 
league  of  the  barons.     Richard  in  his  extreme  need  implored  the 

nd  eran  IranBlatcd  into  EnelUh  »  one  of  bis  pocnit.    It  is  the  iD3£nifi' 

jintnta  bcglnnlni;  "  Beni  pl.iu  lo  gsjs  temps  dc  pucor"  (Well  1  lore  ihc 
lime  of  spritiK^  ftiid  so  iimcli  is  it  in  the  spirit  of  our  troubadour  that  ctcd 
of  the  old  manuscriplt  has  lus  name  afliicd  to  it.    UnfoTlunatcly,  however,  ihv 
evidence  of  namcruus  otlicr  and  better  manuscripts  i.t  a^iut  ihU  plausible 
iiTiTinL<e,  and  by  ihdr  authority  the  poem  muit   be  nscribed  to  William  de  Si 
Crefoty,  a  iroabadour  compantively  little  known  to  us. 


;4 


.ih»  ^ 


Bertran  de  Born  lite  Troubadour. 


aid  of  Ills  father,  who  tmmedtatcly  entered  into  oliiance  uitli  Alfons  of 
An^n  for  the  purpose  of  subduing  liis  rebellious  sons.  The 
ptinces  souglit  the  support  of  the  Count  of  Toulouse  and  other 
powerful  nobles  of  the  south  of  France.  War  on  a  large  scale 
Iwcunc  inevitable,  and  iliis  prospect  w-^s  greeted  by  Bertran  with  an 
exuberance  of  joy.  He  revels  beforehand  in  the  brilliant  and 
temble  scenes  of  a  field  of  battle.  "  As  soon  as  wc  arrive,"  he 
cxdaims,  "the  tournameut  shall  begin-  The  Catalans  and  the 
Aiagoncsc  will  fall  to  the  ground  fast  and  thick.  The  pummels  of 
their  saddles  will  be  o(  no  use  to  them,  for  our  friends  s;rtke  long 
blows.  And  the  splinters  wtll  Oy  up  to  heaven,  and  silk,  and  samiie 
trill  be  toni  to  shreds,  and  tents  and  huts  destroyed." 

But  once  more  Bertran's  liigh  hopes  of  victory  were  to  be  cut 
by  the  hand  of  fate.  King  Henr^  was  laying  siege  to  Limoges, 
his  two  rebellious  sons  were  preparing  a  large  expedition  for  the 
ue  of  the  threatened  city,  when  suddenly  young  Mcnry  was  taken 
with  a  \-iolcnt  fct-er  and  died  shortly  afterwards.  On  his  death- 
d  he  implored  his  father's  pardon  and  asked  for  a  last  inter- 
view, but  the  King,  although  deeply  moved,  was  persuaded  by  his 
LCOliiiseU(»s  to  refuse  lliLs  favour.  Tt  is  said  that  he  fcrart-d  a  snare, 
after  liis  fonoer  experiences  this  suspicion  was  but  too  easily 
accounted  for.  He,  however,  sent  a  ting  in  token  of  forgiveness, 
iriiich  his  son  pressed  to  his  dying  lips.  This  death  was  a  blow  to 
Iwth  contending  jiartics.  In  spite  of  their  dissensions.  King  Ileruy 
had  deeply  loved  his  son,  who,  according  to  the  unanimous  testimony 
of  his  coDtemporaries,  was  a  high-spirited  youtli  of  undaunted 
courage  and  noblest  aspirations.  Bertran's  grief  also  was  true,  and, 
the  moment  at  least,  unsellish.  His  unwavering  friendship  for 
ing  Henry  is  the  one  redeeming  feamre  in  the  reckless  warrior's 
',  and  this  feeling,  which  death  itself  had  not  destroyed,  now 
inspired  him  with  a  song  of  noblest  pathos.  It  is  a.  dirge  as  sad  and 
lU  true  as  ever  friend  lias  sung  for  friend.  1  have  attempted  the 
lUowing  literal  translation  of  tliree  stanzas,  in  which  the  metrical 
peculiarities  of  the  original  are  stricdy  adhered  to.  These  peculiarities, 
which  ftequtinUy  serve  the  troubadours  for  the  display  of  thctr 
consummate  skill,  .-trc  here  made  the  vehicle  of  genuine  emotion, 
d  give  tniLh  and  colour  to  the  poera.  Note  particularly  the  rcpcti- 
of  the  same  words  at  the  end  of  the  first,  fifth,  and  cightli  lines 
of  each  stanza,  which  strikes  the  note  of  unrelieved  sadness  with  tlie 
monotony  of  a  death-kncU  : — 


Ji  (h. 


n.iin,  the  grid^  Ibt  Uttvr  leai^ 


7Xr  G^MiiamoMi  Magaziitt, 

■  ail  Sft  tte  bvdes  bean 

wdddbeligbc 


tkM.  oC  AeaeUest  kni^ 
tobaauiean. 
Vo  Eme  so  bright 
EkaUKmc. 
Laid,  t»p« 
kDitanfin 
HBbatnvcCa 

Ito  !■«•  bi  Acd,  its  pieiaBC  pHwd  rrsjr ; 
A  Mm  hi  ml  i>  in  OMk.    Sack  dsjr  ofipun, 
Bm  m  R^tf.  Its  bcHti  ^Btao^. 
IaA  ■!».  yc  kH  u  ow  roov  El«)bh  KiRff, 
n»  b«t  iM»e  ihc  bM«  Md  ^prioRw ! 

Nov  s  hk  pMfe  ^  ate  *n  «• 

Aad  «•  sn  kA  la  flartctm  sad  aoBav. 

WHh  the  death  of  jtuog  Hcmy  the  rebellion  was  practic 
aa  eod.  Again  the  bonoB  tried  to  make  peace  with  Richard  and 
the  King;  again  tfac7  admitted  to  the  most  httmiliattng  trnns  of 
■nrfwnhwo'T;  but  again  also  Batnn  de  Bom's  coonge  irmaiaed 
uodiunted,  alihoagh  against  him,  as  the  ertl  counsellor  of  yoosg 
Hcnix,  the  wnth  of  the  K.ing  was  hottest  Soon  the  anny  o(  the 
ailies  arrived  before  Castle  Autafort,  and  little  hope  of  lescoe 
remained.  Slill  Beitran  held  ont,  and  altimately  succumbed  only 
to  the  treachery  of  a  friend. 

TTic  manuscripts  tell  a  curious  story  with  regard  to  this  latter 
point  The  reader  will  remember  chat  at  the  beginning  of  tfce 
tt-ar  Henrj*  had  entered  into  a  league  with  the  King  of  Aragon. 
This  king  was  Atfons  II.,  well  known  as  one  of  the  inoist  libcnl 
I'Totectors  of  the  troubadours,  who  in  return  lavished  their  praise 
upon  him.  Bertran  dc  Bom  was  on  terms  of  intimacy  with 
him,  and  the  manuscript  telb  us  that  **hc  n'as  very  glad  thai 
King  AlTons  was  amongst  the  besieging  army,  for  he  ^s^^  his  most 
eqwcial  fritnd."  It  api)car>  that  Castle  Autafort  was  better  provided 
with  meat  and  drink  than  the  camp,  for  King  Alfons,  cm  the  ground 
of  their  intimacy,  .iskcd  Bertran  for  a  supply  of  bread,  wine,  aad 
meat.  This  the  troubadour  genwously  granted,  but  in  return  he 
ted  another  favour,  which  was  noOun^  \ewi  than  that  the  King  of 


I 


Seriran  de  Bom  the  Troubadour. 

Jlragon  should  use  his  authority  to  remove  the  besieging  engines 
from  8  certain  side  of  the  casUe  vhere  the  wall  was  rotten  and 
would  give  way  easily.  Such  a  demand  implied  llie  fullest  con- 
fidence in  him  to  whom  it  was  made,  and  thb  confidence  unfor- 
tunately turned  out  to  be  misplaced.  The  King  of  Aragon  im- 
medtatcly  bctniyed  the  »ccret  to  Henry;  the  assault  was  directed 
■against  the  weak  point  of  the  defences,  and  the  castle  fell. 

Such  is  the  story  as  told  by  Bertran's  biographer,  and,  if  true,  it 
fitlly  accounts  for  the  troubadour's  imiiLumble  hatred  evinced  by 
many  poetic  onslaughts  on  the  private  and  political  character  of 
Alfons.  But  we  ought  to  hesitate  in  condemning  on  such  doubtful 
eridtnce  the  conduct  of  a  king  who  by  the  all  but  unanimous  testi- 
mony of  contcmporarj-  writers  was  a  model  of  knightly  virtues  azid 
wholly  incapable  of  tlie  base  treachery  here  laid  to  his  chaise. 

However  this  may  have  been,  Bcrtran's  castle  was  taken,  and  he 
vas  a  prisoner  in  the  hands  of  his  bitterest  enemies.  But  even  in 
this  extremity  Bertnin's  genius  did  not  forsake  him,  and  it  is  on  this 
-occasion  chiefly  that  wc  catch  a  glimpse  of  that  undaantable  strength 
of  character  which,  combined  with  a  keen  insight  into  the  secret 
springs  of  human  impulse,  explains  his  extraordinary  sway  over  men's 
coinds.  I  follow  closely  tlic  graphic  description  of  the  Proven^ 
inan-uscript : — "  After  the  castle  was  taken  Sir  Berlran,  mth  all  his 
people,  was  brought  to  the  tent  of  King  Henry.  And  the  King 
received  liioi  very  ill,  and  said  to  him, 

"'Bcrtian,  Botranl  you  have  boasted  that  never  half  of  yoor 
sense  would  be  needful  to  you  at  any  time,  but  know  that  now  you 
stand  in  need  of  the  whole  of  it' 

" '  Sir,'  replied  Beitran, '  it  is  tnie  that  I  have  said  so,  and  I  have- 
spoken  the  truth.' 

"  And  the  King  said,  *  Then  now,  it  seems,  you  have  lost  yoor  wits 
altogether.' 

" '  Sir,'  said  Bertran,  *  it  is  true  that  I  have  lost  all  my  wits.' 

" '  And  bow  is  that  ?'  replied  the  King. 

'•  •  Sir.'  said  Bertran,  '  the  day  thai  the  valiant  young  Hcmy  yonr 
sOD'died  1  lost  sense  and  cunning  and  consciousness.' 

**  Arul  the  King,  when  he  heard  Bcrtran's  words,  wept  for  his  son, 
maA  greet  grief  rose  to  his  heart  and  to  his  eyes,  and  he  could  not 
coastrain  lumsel^  and  funted  away  hrom  pain.  .And  when  he 
recovered  himself  he  called  out  to  Berttan,  and  said,  weeping, 

**  *  Sir  Bertran !  Sir  Bertrnn  !  you  are  right  and  wise  in  saying  that 
you  lost  your  sense  for  the  sake  of  my  son,  for  he  loved  ^oa  \M9.\et 

than  .snv_ aA«f  man  in  fJw>  am^ft^  flnrfJ^4W.bKMij«CLU«M.1_i 


196  7%r  GaUUmmni  Magctsiiu. 

ynor  pcno^  jow  laod^  aad  jw  csstlc,  and  I  vDl  receive  you 

■f  pice  aad  brotn,  and  I  gh«  ;m  firre  bundled  marks  of  silver  lor      . 

Ike  Qftm^  J^^"  uftic  sunscd  at  njr  oaiids.'  ^^| 

*ABd  Bertiaa  feO  at  lu  feet,  teadqii^hfaa  service  and  gratitiide.^^ 

Ve  BH^  fied  mc&Md  to  look  npon  the  substantul  dAU  of  thc^ 
doaivK  **^"'«'^  vidi  soae  .moiiDt  of  scepticism  \  but  the  con- 
■§■■■16  sfc3  vtt  vfaacfa  Booaa  at  first  excites  the  curiosity  of  the 
K)B^  Ibe  maj  Id  vbich  be  fitullr  acts  upon  his  feelings,  all  ilic 
■OR  jiiiHiifiinj  «s  fab  on  gtief  is  Inw  and  powerful — all  tlut  U 
vndi  bejpQiid  die  inreplioo  «<  a  sii^ilefluiuled  Provencal  saibe. 
Tbese  tnuts  are  too  iotrinsiadlr  real  for  mere  fictjon ;  the/  are 
iobacnt  m  tbe  nature  of  a  sttong  man  and  a  great  poet  It  it' 
alM  an  undeniable  &uct  that  aooa  after  tbe  oeats  described  Iknnn 
was  again  in  possession  of  his  castle,  and  that  the  remonstrances  of 
bit  nnfattonate  bnxfaer  Cotutantine  vere  treated  with  scorn  by 
Ridard  and  King  Hemr- 

To  the  former  Bcrtran  now  seems  u>  hare  attached  himself,  asd 
daring  the  incessant  feuds  in  which  the  lion-hearted  monarch  subse- 
quently was  in%-o]ved  with  the  King  of  France  and  his  own  nnnilf 
vassals  the  troubadour  seems  to  have  Temained  faithful  to  tiim,  barrios 
always  such  inclinations  low'aids  whoever  might  be  the  aggressive 
party  which  Bertran's  unbounded  love  of  fighting  made  excusable. 
We  possess  a  sinvHi^s  dated  many  years  later  in  which  the  poet 
rejoices  at  Richard's  release  from  his  German  prison,  "because  now 
again  vc  shall  see  walls  des[ro}'ed  and  towers  overthrown  and  our 
enemies  in  chains." 

Cut  I  must  not  detain  the  reader  with  further  stories  of  feuds  and 
battles,  of  which  most  likely  be  has  had  already  more  than  his  fill. 
It  remains  to  add  a  few  words  with  regard  to  another  side  of  Bertran's 
life  and  poclr^',  his  love  aflaiis.  These,  it  must  be  hoped,  will  form 
a  somewhat  more  haimoQious  conclusion  to  this  account  of  a  wild, 
reckless  career. 

Bertran's  love-songs  are  not  the  emanations  of  a  pure  ga3eleSB 
heart,  such  as  the  atrt:^  of  GutUero  de  Cabestanh  or  Folqnct  of 
Marseilles.  Upon  the  whole  one  is  glad  to  find  tliat  tliey  are  sot 
and  do  not  pretend  to  be  such;  for  a  lover's  unselfish  devotion  couU 
be  nothing  but  pretension  in  a  man  of  his  character,  fiertran  was, 
and  appears  even  in  his  canzos,  a  nian  of  the  world,  to  whom  his 
lo\-e  affairs  are  of  secondary  importance.  Yet  these  canxos  arc  not 
without  passion,  and  not  seldom  they  have  a  peculiar  charm  oi 
simple  grace,  all  tlic  more  delightful  because  of  its  contrast  with  the 
warlike  iiorshness  of  his  ordinary  strains,    \Wax^  lOTvoaAjaKitiCaa  be 


J 


Bertran  df  Bom  t/te  Troubadour.  197 

more  sweet  and  graceful  than  the  following  stanza,  which  occurs  at 
the  beginning  of  one  of  Bertran's  sirvcrtleses  t — 

Wbea  the  young  blossoms  of  the  BpriBg  appear 
And  paiat  tlw  bushes  pink  and  wliitc  xnd  K'^i^i 
Hich  ia  (be  sweetness  of  the  nascent  year 
1  ckitbe  my  song ;  at  all  Urnet  such  lias  been 
Tbe  wont  of  biids :  and  as  a  biid  am  I 
Win  love  the  Gtirest  kdy  tenderly : 
I  dare  to  lore  her  loncin^  for  love's  fruit. 
But  nerer  dare  to  speak ;  my  heart  t.<i  mute. 

After  stich  an  opening  the  reader  expects  a  love-song  of  Icndcrest 
patho5.  But  no.  After  another  stanza,  Bertran  suddenly  changes 
his  mind.  Pcihai>s  the  lady  whom  he  silently  adored  did  not  under- 
stand or  appreciate  his  [lassion.  "  As  wilhonl  a  lady" — he  now 
exclaims — "one  cannot  make  a  love-song,  I  am  going  to  sing  a 
fresh  and  novel  sin'cnta."  And  forthwith  he  begins  his  ordinary 
strain  of  invective  against  a  whole  catalogue  of  hostile  barons. 

Of  the  objects  of  Bertran's  passion— for  we  know  of  two,  and 
there  may  have  been  others  of  whom  wc  do  not  know — the  old 
numitscripts  give  us  a  prolix  account.  We  first  hear  of  a  I^dy  MaenK 
or  Matilda  of  Xonttgnac,  wife  of  Count  Talairand  (for  as  a  matter  of 
course  she  was  married),  and  sister  to  two  other  ladies  celebrated  by 
the  troubadours  for  their  beauty  and  courteous  dcmeauour.  The 
Lady  Maenz  was  wooed  by  many  noble  knights  and  barons,  and 
even  three  scions  of  royalty,  the  Princes  Richard  and  GeofiVey  of 
England  and  King  Alfoiis  of  Aragon,  are  mentioned  amongst  her 
suitors.  But  Bertran's  valoiur  and  fame  as  a  poet  gained  the  victory 
in  her  heart  over  power  and  riches.  Such  at  lenst  is  the  account  of 
ihe  old  biography,  founded,  it  seems,  on  a  somewhat  vague  statement 
in  one  of  iknrau's  own  |x>ems,  to  the  effect  lliat  tiis  lady  "refused 
PoilQU,  and  Tolosa,  and  Bretagnc  and  Saragosa,  but  has  given  her 
love  to  the  valorous  poor  knight " — meaning  of  cotirse  himself. 

Unfortunately  the  course  of  true  love  did  not  nm  smooth  for  long; 
the  blast  of  }eatousy  troubled  its  waters.  Bertran  had  written  a  few 
songn  in  praise  of  another  lady,  the  wife  of  his  friend  the  Viscount  of 
Ounbom.  Van  gallantry,  he  alleged,  was  the  motive,  but  the  I^y 
Maenz  refiised  to  view  the  matter  in  tliis  innocent  light,  and  angiOy 
discarded  her  lover.  Bertran  was  in  despair;  he  knew,  the  manu- 
script says,  "  that  he  could  never  regain  her,  neither  could  he  fmd 
another  lady  so  beautiful,  so  good,  so  gentle,  and  so  learned."  In 
this  dilemma  Bertran  liad  recourse  to  the  following  prttt)-  conceit  of 
Whether  he  had  heard  the  story  of  the  Mhetiun  MVaV 
led  charma  at  the  most  befludfu\  vomcn. 


19S  Tlie  GmtUmans  Magazin*. 

•the  type  of  the  Goddess  of  Love  seems  very  doubtful;  but 
coincidence  of  ideas  between  the  troubadour  and  the  antiqac 
sculptor  is  striking.  For  Bertran  de  Bom,  the  biographer  tells  us, 
vent  to  the  most  beaudful  ladies  of  the  country  asking  from  each 
the  loan  of  her  greatest  charm  (meta])horically  it  must  be  understood], 
and  from  tliese  he  recooslructed  the  ideal  type  of  his  lost  love.  Tbe 
poem  ill  which  thb  is  done  is  a  model  of  grace  and  gaUantrj*,  flattei- 
ing  alike  to  tlie  divers  ladies  whose  beauties  are  commemontied,  and 
to  the  one  who  in  her  being  concentrates  and  surpasses  the  channs  of 
uU  others. 

But  her  heart  was  unmoved,  and,  in  a  fit  of  amorous  despair  we 
muBt  suppose,  the  troubadour  now  ofTercd  his  services  as  knight  and 
poet  to  another  lady,  complaining  at  the  same  time  bitterly  of  the 
craehy  of  his  former  love.  His  offer  was  not  accepted,  neither  was  it 
disdainfully  rejected.  It  would  have  been  a  breach  of  courtesy  and 
good  taitli  to  depiivc  a  lady  of  her  lover,  and  much  as  the  Lad;r 
Tibon  (this  wu  the  tuuae  of  Bertian's  new  ilame)  may  tiave  been 
desirous  of  the  praise  ot  one  of  the  greatest  troubadours  of  the 
tinir»  she  resisted  the  temptations  of  vanity.  Her  answer  to  Bertran 
is  a  nwdel  of  good  sense ;  at  the  same  time  it  smacks  a  little  of  that 
technical  pedantiy  with  which  the  ladies  of  Provence  were  wont  t& 
trait  diAicuIt  cases  of  love  "  Either/'  said  the  Lady  Tibors,  ''your 
Vg$KiA  tt  of  a  sU^t  and  temporary  kind — and  in  that  case  I  will  try 
to  cflcct  your  peace  with  yout  lady  \  or  else  you  have  been  guilty  oT 
a  Mtious  offence  towards  hei — and,  if  so,  neither  I  ntM'  any  good  lady 
OU^t  to  KQtpt  ]mr  services.  Bat  in  case  I  find  00  iniiuiry  that 
your  Udybu  left  you  from  fickleness  and  caprice,  I  shall  behocounrd 
\t$  yuur  love."  The  fint  of  these  surmises  fortunately  tunted  out  t» 
Im  VUC.  By  the  interfneiwe  of  lady  Tibois  the  lovers'  quarrel  W3s 
MCded,  and  in  oommenocuion  of  the  eveet  Bertran  was  ordctcd  to 
writea  song  in  which  he  dccbres  his  immutable  love  Cor  Lady  Maenz, 
imyiag  at  Um  sine  time  a  gntefid  and  psce&d  ufljute  to  the  kind  i 
SMCKuakw. 

Thia  n  all  wc  bear  of  tbe  bcmti&ii  I^y  Maenx.  But  Berttan 
tfirnn  proHM^jr  asibcpnBoattea^iinerofaBallKr  lady,  ofrosdi 
■Ml*  «a*hftd  vaiL.  Ik  Moa  have  been  kmb  after  hti  lecoDcaliadfla 
wtlh  Count  KidtHd  (^  Ccztian  tact  in  his  camp  the  Count's  ststa 
UMluhUi  tbe  wife  of  the  ockUatei  Duke  Ueory  of  Bntoswkk. 
"Vttt  JftjUBiiwhtr  heait  of  tbe  tronbaifeiv  caqgbt  Sr  at  iKrbcaalir. 
aadl  bii  wthuskisiic  pnue  seoas  to  bavc  been  iccieiwcd  with  nodi 
iiai>dcwmii,in     it  tends  tu  peon  Bcscaao^  JcmortMce  that  it  was 

b ^ 


Berlran  de  Bom  the  Troubadour. 


199 


tnmbadour,  who,  ihe  manuscript  adds,  '*  was  a  renowned  man  and 
Tiknous,  and  might  be  of  gieat  use  to  the  Count."  In  the  praise  of 
Mathilda  Bcrtran  wrote  several  beautiful  eanstfs,  one  of  which  is 
partJculaily  remaikablc  by  an  allusion  in  the  lin>t  line  to  so  prosaic  a 
subject  as  dinner — the  poem  being  composed,  it  is  said,  one  Sunday 
nhcn  that  meal  failed  to  be  focthcoming  at  the  ill-provided  camp. 

In  addition  to  these  amorous  entanglemL-nts  Bertran  was  also 
married,  although  neither  he  nor  his  biogmpher  deigns  to  mention  so 
uxiiraportant  a  personage  as  his  wife.  We  know,  however,  that  his 
cliiklrGD  at  Bertian's  deatli  came  to  a  compromise  with  their  uncle 
CoMtantine  as  to  tlie  possession  c^  Castle  Autalbrt  and  its  dependen- 
cies. The  exact  date  of  this  event  we  do  not  leatn  Irom  the  manu- 
scripts. We  only  know  that  Bettran  died  at  an  advanced  age,  bavii^ 
catered  a  monastery  not  long  before  his  death. 

Such  was  the  not  inappropriate  dose  of  a  life  passed  in  the  wildest 
tinrooil  of  political  strife.  As  a  type  of  the  warlike  mediaeval  baron, 
reckless  and  ruthless,  he  stands  uns^iipasscd  in  history  or  literature. 
But  we  have  seen  that  the  reiining  and  softening  influences  of 
Iricodsiup,  of  love,  of  knightly  courtesy  were  noi  wholly  absent  from 
his  career. 

Another  consideration  suggests  itseLT.     Would   it  not  be  worth 

while  for  the  authorities  of  the  Record  O^ce  to  secure  a  competeot 

hand  to  glcnn  from  the  biography  of  this  and  other  trouha4lours 

the  n^any  important  and  hitherto  totally  neglected  facts  bearing  on 

,j;he  continental  policy  of  the  Flantagenets  ? 


Under  Foreign  Mahogany. 

BY    FIS    BEC,  AUTHOR    OF   "THE   BOOK    OF   MENUS."   "THt 
EPICURE'S  YEAR-BOOK,"  && 


IL— HOTEL  LIFE  IN  MILAN. 

^T  wts  u  Bretunt's.  A  frequenter,  whose  orders  were  alwiyi 
cudully  aneaded  to,  complained  that  his  tet^dtes  uutiit 
were  mamfmia,  that  they  were  not  eatable.  The  cA^,  in  gnai 
dtslKSS, 'appeared  ;  and  while  the  complainant  poured  fordl 
his  griennce  ^ed  pensively  out  of  window  upon  the  bleak  and 
iret  boulcx-ards.  When  the  sennon  was  ended  he  turned  upon  his 
sofTC  critic  and  said  :  "  Yes,  monsieur,  I  admit  it  It  is  bad  wtufc 
But.  I  ask  you,  can  one  do  one's  self  justice  in  weather  like  this?" 
It  b  perhaps  provoking,  occasionally,  to  be  sen-ed  by  artists  widi 
mans  so  ht^ly  strung ;  bat  these  gentlemen,  with  their  many  n-hims 
and  airs,  an  tfie  price  we  must  pay  for  general  excellence  in  a 
aftboui  aimm.  Thew  are  the  exemplars  who  maintain  throughout 
^  nighty  corporation  of  cooks  a.lofty  ideal  Without  liie  sr-mJe 
tmMu  the  /dite  will  become '  pooc  and  rough.  '  The  -  hum' 
MoBiQa  must  catty  in  tus  girdl«'the  flashii^  knife  of  a  chrfJe 
mtjjtm.  Ihtt  Dctiher  the  hotel  nor  the  restaurant  is  the  school 
whjich  the  perfect  cook  is  reared.  A.  B.  de  Perigord  in  the  "  Tnfsor< 
U  Cuisani^  '  warned  dbe  e{Hcure  many  years  ago  that  he  would 
find  masten>ieces  of  the  ttuam  ia  the  best  restaurants  of  Paris.  la 
the  huny  ud  coafbsian  of  a  rcstuuant  kitchen  it  is  imposnble  for 
ft  dl^ia  grrt  lua  onod  eotndy  to  any  dinner.  He  loses  the  calm 
ant^  yoMle  cunent  of  thought  which  are  necessary  to  the  perfect 
aitttt  He  is  seldom  called  npoa  to  create  a  matu .-  he  has  descended 
from  the  {K^sitiaa  of  creative  attist  U»  be  the  joumej-nian  o{  the 
wtwMs  and  incoognious  tastes  of  a  mtscdlaneous  crowd  of  costomcn. 
Hence  the  very  prcteottoos,  and  at  the  same  time  the  very  indiffe- 
rent. cocAery  of  great  hotels  as  well  as  restaurants.  The  fetnack 
ai^ilies  10  some  extent  to  crowded  chibs.  The  M^  of  a  great  cliib 
b  not  at  tus  best  at  the  height  of  the  season.  Take  him  before  aO 
the  work!  has  codm  to  town — say  earW  in  that  exceUent  gastrooanic 
BMH»h.  February— if  you  would  have  him  hold  a  quiet  aikl  pleasant 
Gonvenation  with  you  on  a  fitde  dinner,  and  serve  it  up  to  yoa 


I 


ter  p&reign  Moncgai^,  aoi 

lus  onii  salisbction  and  yours.  When  all  the  country  members  are 
io  town  and  are  giving  scores  of  dinneni  to  un discriminating  bucolic 
appetites,  Monsieur  Felix  is  Sunied  and  has  not  time  to  distinguish 
between  members  who  know  ^how  to  cat  and  members  vrbo  can 
hardly  distinguish  between  a  wnsommi  and  mutton  bioth.  A;  ttiis 
time  of  the  year,  when  at  the  club,  talcc  your  slice  of  broiled  salmon, 
your  cut  at  the  lamb,  and  your  dish  of  strawberries,  and  look  for  your 
^n/r  fin  elsewhere.  You  may  find  it,  possibly,  at  a  small  dub,  if 
you  belong  to  one.  ^  ^, 

In  the  same  way,  although  yoa  cannot  often  cat  well  in  a  big  hotel 
where  the  daily  dinners  are  counted  by  tlie  hundred,  you  may 
sometimes  find  an  admirable  cuitifie  in  a  small  hostelry  frequented  by 
refined  and  fastidious  travellers.  Here  the  (■/(</" will  \)<z  a  quiet,  con- 
scientious artist  with  no  ambition  to  cook  for  crowned  heads,  but 
with  a  sincere  love  of  his  art  for  its  own  sake.  He  will  throw  his 
whole  soul  into  the  owiu  of  a  fuzrti  carri  even  when  the  dishes  are  to 
be  few  and  plain.  He  prides  himself  on  giving  die  same  care  to 
teufs  sur  U  plat  as  to  a  supreme;  unlike  his  show)'  brothers  who 
delight  in  sensation  mmus  and  leave  nine-tenths  of  their  work,  like 
the  late  Mr.  Soyer,  to  their  underlings.  X  have  dined  in  one  or  two 
little  hotels  in  Paris  as  no  man  ever  dined  at  the  Louvre  or  the 
nd.  The  best  restaurants  are  small  eslabllsbmcnls.  ^  The  Cai^ 
oy  and  the  Richc,  where  the  Bignous  reign,  arc  not  extensive 
Tilajces.  ,  ■,     .,  - 

Everybody's  Palace  is  a  highly  ornamented  establishment.  It  is 
an  ancient  noble's  palace,  in  a  comer  of  the  bright  and  beautifid  city 
cf  Milan,  near  the  quaint  Verziere.  The  state  staircase,  richly  dight 
with  shrubs  and  flowers,  leads  to  state  rooms  which  suggest  courtly 
ceremonies.  The  panelled  walls  are  hung  with  ancient  pictures  and 
nre  tapestry,  and  from  the  oaken  ceilings  andcnt  Iinuss  cbandc!icn> 
are  suspended.  The  furniture  suggests  CLuny  rather  than  a  prosaic 
nineteenth  century  hotel ;  and  the  spadous  chambers  have  still  a 
courtly  atmo«y)hcre  in  them.  You  e-xpcct  to  meet  tiic  quiet,  well- 
ordered  retainers  of  the  noble  Iiost  in  the  corridors,  and  to  be 
bowed  to  your  room  by  a  grand  old  gcnrieraan — a  Colonna  at  least. 
This  ancient  house  of  patrician  splendours  has  courtjMrds  in  which 
stately  gatherings  of  knights  have  taken  hotse.  The  double  gntcs 
by  the  street,  where  high-voiced  urchins  arc  hawking  the  Pungoh, 
declare  the  former  greatness  of  the  place  and  the  tare  with  which 
the  approaches  to  it  were  guarded. 

But  now  the  palace  gates  arc  thrown  wide  open  night  and  day, 
^^od  the  noble  passages,  the  banquettlng  hall,  the  chambers   and 


^pra 

^^"oy 


4 


boudoirs  arc  open  to  cvcTybody — as  the  London  Tavern  vu  opa 
to  everybody,  until  it  was  bought  up  the  other  day.  WithiD  the 
massive  gates  of  Everybod/s  Palace  stands  a  porter  in  skj-blue,  with 
mousUiche  equal  to  that  of  the  Re  Galontuomo,  bis  Sovereign.  He 
is  Kvcrybody's  retainer,  with  politeness  always  on  hand,  in  Ihf 
expectation  of  a  la'c  or  two  when  Everybody  passes  out  of  the 
palace.  Around  him  the  walls  arc  covered  with  illummaied  and 
ilUisiratcd  posters  of  the  hotels  with  which  Everybody's  Palace 
is  on  good  terms.  To  this  has  the  threshold  of  the  noble  hrcn 
reduced  I 

As  you  pass  to  the  grand  courtyard  your  carnage,  even  yois 
omnibus,  is  at  once  surround ed^^vith  respectful  servants  in  black, 
slaaduig  a  few  paces  behind  the  bare-tieaded  bosL  He  wekocucs 
you  to  his  aiicLCDt  halls,  inquires  tlie  Dumber  of  chambers  you  «'»ai ; 
and  while  you  parley  with  him  his  gms  take  possession  of  your 
mpidimtufa  and  prepare  to  follow  you  to  your  quarters.  They  ne 
in  build  and  aspect  unlike  your  ordiniiry  hotel  bedroom.  Somethiif 
of  their  original  grandeur  clings  about  them,  and  the  servants  arc  ao 
nimble,  quiet,  and  respectful  that  tliey  prolong  the  illusion  tliat  you 
are  the  guest  of  a  great  noble.  But  on  tiie  door  being  dosed  yi»i 
find  a  printed  paper  pasted  behind  it.  You  make  a  turn  in  ycur 
sp.tcious  chamber,  .ind  you  light  upon  a  second  printed  notice. 
Here  you  are  made  acquainted  with  the  regulations  of  thc'pabce, 
among  them  the  strict  and  regular  settlement  of  your  bill  bctag 
prominent ;  and  there  you  Icam  the  terms  on  which  an  Italian 
washerwoman  will  prepare  your  linen.  A  gaudy  red  book  lies  before 
you.  It  is  a  table  of  the  prices  on  which  your  host  is  prepared 
to  open  his  cellar  to  you.  These  prices  are  cxtra^-agandy  hi^  in 
Everybody's  J'alace;  and  the  list  is  remarkable  for  die  absence  of 
every  ordinary  lulian  wine.  Your  host,  it  is  plain,  is  anxious  that  yw 
should  not  waste  yxiur  appetite  on  such  vintages  as  Baxolo  and 
Barbcra  ;  he  will  not  admit  to  his  cellar  the  Chianti  grape  ;  he  scom* 
the  red  Falcmian  (which,  by  the  bye,  the  reader  may  taste  to  advanU^ 
at  the  Cappcllo  Nero  on  the  Piazza,  in  Venice),  he  gives  a  cold 
shoulder  to  the  Capris  white  and  red :  I  doubt  whether  his  high 
mightiness  has  ever  heard  of  such  petti  bleu  as  that  of  Conegliano. 
The  wines  wlitch  are  chc3[) — which  arc  of  his  native  soil ;  which 
flow  from  the  vines  you  have  seen  interlacing  the  fruit  trees  between 
Turin  and  Mil.in,  and  between  MUw  and  Venice — are  not  for  bil 
cellar  nor  for  his  guests.  So  high  is  his  respect  for  you  that  be  mQ 
not  permit  your  lips  to  be  moistened  with  a  vin  du  pays. 
rather  prefers  to  sell  you  a  very  ordinary  Bordeaux,  as  Su  JuUcn, 


i^H^^ 


1 


price  a  gentleman  likes  to  pay  for  his  wine — say  something  near 
double  its  hcmest  value.  His  serving  men  arc  xc-ilous  promoters  of 
his  wishes,  and  when  you  are  seated  at  table  push  the  vintages  that 
nrn  between  six  and  ten  lire  as  those  -which  they  can  recommend— all 
those  below  being  of  course  kitchen  wines,  on  which  such  folk  as 
Ihc  porter  in  sky-blue  and  the  facihini  who  shoulder  your  port- 
manleau  make  merry,  upon  a  foundation  of  poienta. 

In  Everybody's  Palace,  in  the  centre  of  busy  Milan,  the  com- 
merdal  metropolis  of  Italy,  it  occasion<al]y  occurs  to  a  guest  that  he 
would  be  pleased  to  taste  of  some  of  the  national  dishes.  Milan, 
monovcr,  be  it  known  to  the  untravellcd  epicure,  has  a  eniHne 
di  its  own,  aiid  one  which  includes  some  excellent  modest  works 
of  ait.  Of  course  cutlets  in  the  Milanese  way  iirx;  famous  now  all 
the  world  over ;  and  they  ore  good  items  in  a  breaklast  mettu.  But 
"II  Re  dci  Cuochi"  (a  portly  volume  of  upwards  of  a  thousand 
pi^es,  which  now  lies  before  me)  will  soon  demonstrate  to  the 
curious  the  claims  which  the  aiirine  of  Milan  lias  on  the  gratitude 
of  the  himian  creature  who  knows  how  to  cat.  How  tantalising 
then  is  it  to  the  guest  at  Everybody's  Palace,  who  is  naturally 
ycBming  for  a  dip  into  Italian  desh-pots,  to  find  that  the  law  of 
banishment  put  upon  Italian  wines  extends  to  Itulian  dishes  I 
While  dressing  himself  for  dinner  his  mind  reverts  to  macckeroni^ 
ravioii,  polpetti;  and  he  has  a  tooth  ready  for  a  saba/on,  and  a 
lip  for  a  lUOTsel  of  tocca  di  dama.  He  has  heard  of  soups  alta 
lomtMrdaj  medntest,  and  romana,  frnfa  alia  tescana  or  venftfa$ia, 
and  of  trippc  alia  mi/anar;  of  the  Milanese  risotto  and  b&dinOf 
ci  troqiuUcs,  of  polenta  aW  ttatiaiut,  ot  crostafine  di  gttdcchi  alia 
Migmse,  of  the  Roman  and  Genoese  /ritfo,  of  dindo  alia  napa- 
iitana^  of  stii/ato  alia  lomlmrda,  of  atppom  farato  alia  mt/nfiesf, 
of  l/pre  alia  miiarteic,  of  CT'ote  alia  romana  eon  spinaci;  or  of  some 
of  these,  or  of  other  items  of  the  Italian  cuisitte.  He  is  prepared 
ftocordingly  for  a  series  of  pleasant  experiments. 

But  great  is  his  disappointmcnL  The  soup,  the  entries^  the  rSt^ 
and  the  entremets  are  French ;  and  as  for  the  diners,  there  is  not  an 
f*^i;-in  among  them.  They  are  English  and  American,  on  their 
•mvf  to  or  from  Venice  or  Como.  The  conversmion  is  carried 
gn  with  bated  breatli— when  there  is  any  conversation  at  all  ;  and 
Mm  Brown  asks  her  brother  Tom  to  pa.ss  the  salt  with  die  air  and 
Wiice  of  a  person  communicating  an  awful  event.  The  rule  with 
the  guests  at  Everybody's  Palace  is  to  sit  bolt  upright,  with  lite  eyes 
fixed  on  the  opposite  wall,  until  the  waiters  bring  the  next  dish ; 
then  to  eat  of  it  in  silence,  and  to  become  rigid  again  while  the. 


L 


204 


Tli4  Gcntlematis  Magasine. 


\ 

I 


plates  are  changed.  The  reader  who  has  expaience  of  an  English 
table  H'M(e,  or  of  a.  foreign  one,  where  his  beloved  cauntr)-men  and 
countrywomen  air  their  angularities,  pride,  and  prejudices,  and  feed 
tike  mourners  bidden  to  fUnereal  baked  meats ;  will  easily  realise  the 
kind  of  cajoymcnt  to  be  had  at  tlic  table  of  Evcrybod/s  Fakct. 
.(^COtionally  the  host  thrusts  roast  beef  into  his  mffiu,  and  is  rc- 
IMlmd  by  a  relaxation  of  his  guests*  features  which  amounts  almoa 
to  a  tuile.  But  the  dishes  are  Trench  as  a  rule :  Sagou  om  etn- 
Mmmif  tiiur]pon  sauce  grwi^ist,  lmf;e  4i  vtau  d  la  paysatuu, 
pcmtaes  dt  terns  sautis,  cutddtes  de  mouton  d  lafinaiuiire^  ckow^eun 
au  bfum,  dindcfintau _rSfi  au  eresion^' glace  J  tffrange^  gbmte  « 
kineM,  I  quote  from  a  menu  before  me.  You  perceive  that  there 
ifl  not  a  un^le  Italian  dish.  Let  me  remark,  in  justice  to  the  di4 
of  l^vvrybody's  Pidiice,  that  his  enirits  are  fairly  well  put  together— 
COAncly  it  may  be  here  and  there — but  as  hotel  dishes  go  tbey  are 
creditable  second-rate  performances.  As  a  rule  they  arc  quite  good 
Cnoitght  and  often  too  good,  for  tlic  company.  \V'hat  does  the 
orrilmtry  I^nglishm^^n,  who  is  travelling  with  his  wife,  and  a  brace  of 
daughters  of  solemn  aspect,  and  nil  clouded  in  blue  veils,  and  armed 
with  "  Biidckcn,"  know  about  sauce genevcise  and  the  delicate  nuamt 
of  A  omMmwUt  Ttie  few  who  alight  at  Everybody's  Palace. bap- 
peniud  to  know  what's  what  in  gastronomic  matters  cannot  be  im- 
{■nncil^  by  the  French  cooker)*  of  the  Milanese. .  And  so  the  bod^H 
U  wmnn  on.scvcral  RTDuuds.  ■•  :    vn    r  ■,  •  '*" 

Now,  if  in  this  andcnt  Italian  palace — if  in  these  splendid  panelled 
hlhtb— the  .hott,  who  has  ever>-body  who  can  pay  for  his  gnests, 
VouVI  Ik  tnic  to  hiu\self  and  to  his  country,  and  would  serve  soch 
a  tabic  as_  would  content  the  fastidious  Lombard  nobles,  who  may 
bt  teca  loui]gin£  in  the  aftonoon  on  iho  shady  side  of  the  Corso 
Vittorio  Bmanuele,  or  airing  thenuelves  at  the  fashionable  hour  on 
the  lUstioai ;  he  would  initiate  the  foreigner  into  the  pleasant 
Hjplcries  of  the  national  oHnv  on  itw  one  hand,  and  he  would  pat 
iwaiy  in  his  iMcket  (a  process  ntost  dear  to  tlie  Italian  heart  of 
KWkv)  on  th«  uihcr.  He  would  be  in  a  mild  way  a  beacEwtor 
v<t  KU  ncv,  and  in  a  dtccided  wsy  the  firioKi  of  hb  children.  Not 
l)wt  ntany  of  his  pxt  ttghts  of  Anglo^AiDerican  guests  would 
liMtjm  ht»  IiaUau  mmMi.  The  mass  would  eat  in  unbroken  sileoccv 
Mwl  ipatt  on  to  "do"  Venict-.  and  patronise  dte  beauties  of  the  Lake 
i«l  iNHUtx  ttut  the  fiew  would  ponder  tASx  tbey  ate,  and  wooU 
iMftr  vmsf  nWk  tivn  UmaSmiatoam^  notts  on  du«Es  to  be  remem- 
Imwlaii 


Under  foreign  Mahogany. 


205 


Consider  how  wofully  poor  and  monotonous  our  British  domestic 
fan  is.  Where  l^e  Englishman  of  the  humhie  classes  has  three  or 
four  varieties  of  food,  tlic  Frcnchm-an,  the  Italian,  and  the  German 
have  twenty.  A  peep  into  one  of  the- paste-shops  of  Milan,  where 
mauhtroni  and  its  congeners  lie  in  dainty  heaps,  and  in  infinite 
varielies  of  shape  and  substance,  from  the  broad  snirccfii  riband  to 
the  &ne  threads  of  sfiag/ietli  and  iagliateUe^  i\iQV!i  ilie  many  materials 
tbe  Italian  cook  has  at  his  command  for  supplying  an  Intinitelj 
various,  as  well  as  an  ecoQoinical,  bill  of  fare. 

The  maaAeranis,  pclotic,  and  ruottt  offer  to  the  host  of  Everybody's 
Palace  an  opportunity  of  showing  the  euisiiu  of  his  native  country  to 
advantage^  and  of  imparting  a  little  useful  experience  to  carrj- away 
wilh  them,  to  the  fonstitti  who  flock  within  his  gates  throughout 
the  tourist  season.  He  surely  owes  thent  this  little  concession  in 
return  for  the  submissive  aspect  his  guests  put  upon  his  bills.  Let 
him  look  upon  them  as  birds  whom  he  has  a  right  to  pluck  at  his 
leisure  during  twenty-three  out  of  every  twenty-four  hours ;  but,  in 
pity,  he  should  devote  the  twenty-fourth  to  something  for  their  good. 
This  hour  could  not  be  better  spent  than  in  his  kitchen,  which  he 
would  lum  into  a  practical  school  of  cookery  for  the  travellers  of  all 
|Aations. 

I  A  friend  of  mine  who  has  travelled,  and  mtli  his  eyes  open,  in 
erery  quarter  of  the  globe,  once  found  himself  stranded  at  Dresden 
— forced  to  spend  three  or  four  weeks  llierc  doing  nothing.  His 
wife  and  daughters  were  widi  him.  The  young  ladies  bad  completed 
their  education.  They  had  been  under  distinguished  professors  in 
half  tlic  capitals  of  Kurope.  Accomplished  artists,  facile  linguists, 
excellent  musicians,  and  endowed  with  a  fund  of  common  sense 
which  is  seldom  possessed  by  your  "  finished "  young  lady,  my 
friend  Sir  Anthony's  daughters  aspired  to  be  efficient  little  house- 
wives. A  woman  who  can  hold  a  palette  and  a  fiying  pan  witli 
equal  grace,  and  who  can  talk  well  about  Bach  and  b^bamel  sauce^ 
is  a  treasure  not  to  be  foimd  in  many  salons  as  the  world  goes.  Sir 
Anthony  was  a  man  who  enjoyed  no  mean  reputation  in  Paris  and 
London  as  a  refined  fettrchtth;  and  had  been  begged  to  join  the 
committee  of  his  club  as  a  gastronomic  authority  who  could  keep 
the  chff  in  order.  U  occurred  then  naturally  to  him  that  the  little 
month  he  was  obliged  to  kill  in  Dresden  might  be  used  in  giving  his 
girls  at  least  an  elementary-  knowledge  of  cookery. 

" My  good  girls,"  he  observed  10  lliem  one  morning,  "  we  shall 
have  no  time  for  you  to  set  about  any  serious  study  here ;  it  would 
be  a  pity  to  waste  three  weeks  of  your  time ;  so  I  have  an  idea  to 


L 


3o6  T^Ae  Genllemans  Magasine. 

propose  to  you.    The  cief  of  this  hotel  is  an  artist  fiu-supmor  ta 
those  generally  found  administering  to  the  lAstcs«of  txavellets. 
have  had  a  long  talk  with  him  this  morning  on  iJie  pminiety 
unparting  to  youog  ladles  who  will  in  the  ordinary  course  of  i. 
become  household  mistresses  a  fiiir  knowledge  of  the  cookery  tiMjr 
will   be  called  upon   to  direct  and  criticise.      He  is  quite  of  ray 
opinion ;  and  observed  to  me,  with  much  good  sense,  that  the  science 
of  cooker)',  which  is  at  so  low  an  ebb  in  our  country,  would  receive 
an  important  impetus  If  English  young  ladies  were  taught  to  dtstis- 
guish  bctwceu  a  good  and  a  bad  dish,  and  ^vere  able  to  dntwttp 
mmm,  and  to  lay  the'u-  fingers  on  any  mistake  committed  by  the 
cook.     As  it  is,  a  man,  unless  he  can  keep  a  chtfoit  a  very  expensive 
tordoH  I'leu,  must  trust  to  his  club  when  he  wants  a  diner  Jin  or  hasa 
mind  for  any  delicate  dish.    This,  you  sec,  takes  the  husband 
But  don't  let  us  moralise;  it  isn't  necessary.     The  advantage 
having  a  lady  at  the  licad  of  one's  house  who  can  ccmtrol 
elevate  the  kitchen,  sauie  aux  yoix.    Do  you  agree  to  this,  giris  ^  do 
you  see  it  ?  " 

The  young  ladies,  being  shown  the  kitchen  through  a  wedding 
ring,  vowed    that  it  looked  vastly  attractive,   and  entreated   theid^H 
Cilher  to  unfold  his  plan  without  further  preliminary  observations.     ^^ 

"  Well,  I  have  agreed  with  Monsieur  Firmin,  the  c/irf,  as  to  termi ; 
and  he  is  prepared  to  receive  you  into  his  kitchen  at  once,  and  teach 
you  an  elementary  knowledge  of  his  art — on  one  condition  " 

"  We  agree  to  it,  without  knowing  it,"  the  young  ladies 
cried.  j 

"The  condition  is  this.  You  must  obey  him  as  though  you  were  ! 
apprenticed  to  him,  and  you  must  be  prepared  to  do  the  dirty  as 
well  as  the  clean  work.  You  will  have  to  draw  the  poultry,  scale 
the  fish,  wash  the  dishes  and  saucepans ;  I  suppose,  clean  the  knives 
and  forks.  And  you  will  wear  rough  linen  aprons  of  the  most 
unbecoming  appearance." 

All  this  Sir  Anthony's  daughters  agreed  to  do ;  and  they  were 
forlhwiLh  installed  in  the  hotel  kitchen  under  the  tuLoiship  of 
Monsieur  Firmin.  They  worked  bravely  and  gaily.  One  of  them  is 
said  to  have  struck  when  first  requested  to  draw  a  fowl,  but  she  was 
soon  brought  to  reason ;  and  during  tlie  three  weeks'  course  of 
instruction  in  tlic  preparation  of  coniommls,  suprhna,  and  salimt 
the  baronet's  daughter?  obeyed  Monsieur  Firmin,  as  he  observed  afiet*- 
wards,  "with  an  intelUgcnt  alacrity  that  made  lesson-giving  a  pleasure 
to  me."  While  the  young  ladies  were  busy  one  rooming  in  the 
hotel  kitchen  their  uncle  arrived  to  present  his  ncniy-matried  bride 


J 


Under  F<freign  Maltogany. 

%o  his  brother's  family.     Tlic  uade,  a  very  pompous  gcnileman, 
ioquired  for  his  biother. 
"  Sir  Anthony,*  said  the   Tiotel-kceper,    "  is   out  mUi  milady ; 
l^but  the  young  ladies  arc  at  work  in  the  kitchen," 
^B    **  In  the  kitchen  !    There  must  be  some  mutakc  !    My  nieces  in 
^Hw  Ititchcn  V     Before  the  uncle  had  recovered  from  his  astonishment 
^^fae  g^Hs  had  rushed  into  the  room  in  tlieir  aprons,  and  had  ihrown 
I      tliemselves  about  his  neck — covering  him  with  kisses — and  flourl 
Tlie   bride  stood  disdain^y  apart,  wondering  that  such  an  inci- 
dent could  happen  in  the  bosom  of  one  of  the  oldest  families  in 
England. 

"■\Vhat   ncw-Cangled   idea,   will  you  hit  upon   next?"  said  Sir 

Anthony's  brother  when  they  met.     "  %Vhy  not  set  the  girbi  to  lum  a 

noADglcat  once?  You  really  should  be  warned  by  poor  Lady  Amber's 

example;  she,  poor  woman,  Iiod  actually  become  her  own  chamber- 

nuid  and  washemroman  before  death  put  3>n  end  to  lier  ccccntriddes. 

I  am  told  that  she  had  commissioned  Mr.  Richmond  to  paint  her  lord 

l^^lacking  his  own  boots  for  tJic  good  of  the  human  race  ;  and  she  insisted 

^Hhat  the  young  vl-icount  should  go  bare-footed.    I  ask  you,  Anthony, 

^Bco  we  want  any  Lady  Ambers  in  our  iamily?     Before  the  ccccntri- 

^rcitics  of  philanthropy  arc  complete,  wc  shall  see  a  man  wearing  his 

own  livciy  behind  liis  own  carriage.    Are  your  boys  good  tailors 

yet?" 

"  Come,  come,"  Sir  Anthony  retorted,  "  give  your  wit  a  holiday 
to-day,  my  good  brother.  My  girls  are  learning  to  be  eflidect 
managers,  not  servants,  of  a  household.  They  may  many  poor 
men :  well,  they  will  be  excellent  economists — and  keep  a  good  tabic 
at  half  the  price  you  will  spend  on  yours." 

fear  that  the  host  of  F.veT>-body's  Palace  is  with  Sir  Anthony's 
er  rather  than   with  Sir  Anthony  \  and  therefore  tliat  he  will 
Kvs  be  brought  to  entertain  the  idea  of  turning  his  kitchen  Into  a 
idiool  of  cookery  for  the  travellers  of  all  nations. 

Fastidious  travellers  ate  the  bitti  noirti  of  hotel-keepers.  The  tourist 
who  cannot  read  the  mmu,  who  eats  stolidly  and  silently  the  dishes 
which  arc  handed  round  to  him,  who  never  asks  tite  price  of  the  tabU 
'J:3it,  who  pays  two  lire  cheerfully  for  the  candles  which  light  him 
bed,  who  makes  no  remark  when  an  extra  sum  is  levied  to 
lify  tlie  establishment  for  the  trouble  of  carrying  the  morning 
of  cofTee  to  his  bedroom — albeit  he  has  paid  a  handsome  daily 
tax  for  service,  and  is  to  be  dunned  by  the  servants  oU  round  when 
^^  be  is  leaving ;  who  puts  himself  with  touching  docility  in  the  hands 
^Vof  the  hotel  zaift-de-plaee,  and  buys  va  the  shops  to  which  the  rogue 


I 


I 


Tk*  GentiemaiCs  Magazine, 

of  a  valet  leads  him,  ajid  where  tlie  vulct  dntws  a  commtsnon  oa 
every  purchase;  in  short,  the  tourist  who  submits  with  a  lamb- 
like meekness  to  have  his  blood  shed  where%"er  his  landlord  can 
find  an  excuse  for  tapping  it,  is  the  welcome  guest  at  Eveiybody*8 
Fakcc.  In  that  palace  even  the  pictures  wiiicli  adorn  the  lordly 
waits  are  for  sale :  I  believe  the  comer  stone  of  the  building  is  at 
the  disposal  of  the  fereslieri — at  a  price. 

I  am  not  among  tliose  who  pity  the  guests  who  slumber  under  the 
roof-lrcc  of  Everybody's  Palace.  If  it  pleased  the  host  (and  I 
wonder  he  has  not  thought  of  it)  to  make  the  use  of  a  boot-jack  )uA 
one  lira  a  night,  his  guests  would  mibution  their  pockets  and  beg 
him  to  be  good  enough  to  pay  himself.  But  I  do  pity  the  poor  mei 
and  women  of  rcfincmcDt  who  cannot  make  autumnal  tours  became 
the  rich  vulgarians  have  tempted  troops  of  banditti  to  post  them- 
selves along  every  continental  highroad.  Our  American  cousins  are 
answerable  for  much  of  the  mischief.  They  have  trundled  the 
almighty  dollar  along  every  bye-way  of  travel ;  and  turned  hundred* 
of  old-fashioned  inns  where  you  could  get  the  simple  fare  of  the 
country  in  perfection,  and  at  a  price  within  the  rench  of  the  poorest 
student's  purse,  into  execrable  hotels,  with  peasants  dressed  up 
waiters,  regulations  pasted  behind  the  creaking  doors,  and  a  cui^i 
that  would  disgrace  a  barrfere gargoUe.  At  none  of  these  places  cut' 
you  get  the  national  fare.  I  write  these  pages  in  the  depth  of  the  Black 
Forest,  where  a  village  inn  lias  been  turned  into  the  hotel  of  a  Kur; 
and  I  am  charged  extra  for  .i  pat  of  butter  with  my  momuig  coffee. 
In  a  belvedere  perched  on  tlie  woody  height  opposite  my  windov 
the  names  of  Washington  Conk  of  Chicago  and  Ulysses  Bagg  of 
Cincinnati  are  cut  deep  into  the  wood;  and  I  think  of  them  when  I 
pay  for  my  butter,  and  I  hope  that  for  their  sins  of  ostentation  they 
were  among  the  citizens  of  the  Great  Republic  who  got  shut  into 
Paris  during  the  siege,  and  had  reason  to  complain  of  "  the  slim 
pickings "  even  their  dollars  commanded  during  tliat  tragic  episode 
of  our  neighbours'  history. 

There  is  but  one  way  nowadays  of  escaping  from  the  dead  and 
dreary  level  of  the  continental  hotel  cuisine.     You  must  avoid  the 
Beau  Ri%-3ge5,  the  Bellcvues,  the  Hotels  d'Angletcrre,  the  Grand 
Hotels,   the  Etnmgcrs,   the   Royals  and    Imperials.      These 
tourist  traps  where  English    is    spoken  and  the  French  au'siru  is' 
travestied ;  and  where  no  native  of  the  land  in  which  the  hotel  t»^^ 
sitUJite  is  ever  to  be  sceu.     Without   wandering  far  from  Kyeiyif^| 
body's  Palace  you  will  not  fail  to  discover  some  quiet  albergo  where 
the  country  cousins  of  the  ttouii&hiti^  "Milaii,e5i<;  \aV.i  mv  ^wt  ojiMMss 


Bds 

the 
■est  J 

ick        \ 


the      j 
and^^ 


Under  Foreign  Mahogatty.  209 

for*  trcci;,  and  where  IUIUd  commercial  gentlemen  or  landowners 
(ind  there  are  some  considerable  ones  hereabouts)  abide,  while  they 
transact  (heir  business  in  the  beautiful  capital  of  Ixjmbardy. 

Let  me  take  you  to  an  albergo.  The  house  is  Italian  from 
the  gay  landlord  who  bids  you  uelcome  to  the  laughing 
chainbeniiaid  who  answers  your  bell—not  very  swiftly  it  may  be, 
but  merrily  always — and  attends  to  yoiir  wants  with  a  song 
upon  her  lip.  You  have  struck  your  hargnin  with  the  padrone,  and 
now  you  have  the  run  of  the  cheerful  hostelry.  You  arc  in  the  midst 
of  Italians  (a  most  affable,  light-hearted  people),  who  make  the  day 
pleasant  with  their  undying  gaiety.  It  msy  be  ihat  many  of 
these  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  eat  maahereni  and  a  cutlet  at 
noon,  and  drink  the  padrone's  excellent  ordinary,  of  which  there  is 
neither  stint  nor  measure,  arc  bent  on  very  grave  commercial  or 
family  aSaln ;  but  they  are  playful  as  cliildren  in  the  meal-tirae,  and 
give  cakes  to  the  wild  bivrtbiniGi  the  house,  and  laugh  at  the  pranks 
of  two  while  poodles,  faniasticatiy  sliaved,  who  frequent  the  saUf-d- 
manner,-  and  in  short,  are  as  easily  amused  as  scholars  just  let  out 
from  school.  The  chambers  arc  handsomely  furnished,  and  they 
are  furnished  in  the  Italian  style.  In  short,  at  the  wcll-selecced 
hostelry  you  are  in  Italy :  Di  Everybody's  Palace  you  axe  in  the 
atmosphere  of  the  Grand  Hotel  in  Paris,  or  say  tlie  I^angham  in 
London.  You  pay  a  daily  pcnsiwi,  which  covers  e^'erythiiig  in  the 
way  of  lodging  and  food.  Your  breakfast,  your  luncheon,  and  your 
dinner  are  served  to  you  at  your  own  hour  ;  and  any  wishes*  as  to 
porticutar  dishes  which  you  may  express  are  heartily  met.  These 
dishes  are  for  the  most  part  Italian,  and  although  no  man  of  taste 
could  compare  the  Italian  with  the  French  cuisine,  Milan  boasts 
many  nifts  which  arc  eminently  wholesome,  succulent,  and  tooth- 
some. The  beef  ^rais^  with  maalifrcm,  Modcncsc  sausage  with 
lentils  (not  m  puret,  but  boiled  like  haricots),  the  Lombard  fhito^ 
the  croifoniaW  iialiana,  )hc  pasta  frclla  aila  lomiKinia,  the  panelfane 
aUa  mdanae,  with  a  delicate  cream,  are  just  one  or  two  of  tlie 
good  things  of  the  table.  I  pass  over  the  long  list  of  pitstiidni  and 
other  sweet  deUcacics  of  Milan.  But  let  me  observe  that  whereas 
in  Everybody's  Palace  evcr}'thing  is  measured  out,  and  the  meats 
arc  cut  (it  must  be  by  machinery)  into  slabs  which  led  a  lady  at  my 
elbow  to  remark  she  didn't  like  roast  mutton  of  the  thickness  of 
forei^  note-paper;  at  the  cheery  albergo  where  the  Anglo-Saxon 
traveller  seldom  enters  an  appearance,  and  where  the  sweet  Italian 
voices,  if  not  always  the  itn^M  Toscana  in  bccca  Ronxamx.^  ft'i'w 
unceasing]/  in  hall,  corridor,  and  chatobcts  J  you  \\ivc  1  v:»5.<;  ci^ 
Vac  XVn.,  U.S.  SS76.  V 


310 


TiStf  GatlUinan  s  ^la^azittf. 


plenty  about  yoii,  oScred  to  you  in  very  good  fellonrship  by 
nsosl  sympathetic  of  hotel-keepers,  who  just  hands  >-o«  your  little 
bill  once  A  week  fonnallr,  and  then  rcbpses  at  once  to  the  friendly 
host  who  b  alva)-s  ready  for  a  chat,  and  appears  to  take  it  as  a  per- 
sonal favour  that  you  occasionally  a&k  his  advice  or  suggest  some 
little  improvements  in  Uie  adjuunients  of  your  chamber.  He 
is  on  tenns  of  pcisooal  intimacy  with  alt  his  custoinerE ;  and,  iT 
he  is  a  little  ceremonious  now  and  then,  it  is  in  attending  tn 
the  directions  of  the  ron:cssa  who  occupies  the  principal  roomi, 
with  the  balcony  fronting  the  Corso,  where  she  sits  by  the  hwr 
fanning  herself  and  bowiog  occasionally  to  passing  acquaintances, 
who  nncovcr  with  marked  respect. 

It  was  at  the  albei;go  that  I  bad  occasion  to  observe  once  nunc 
the  friendliness  which  exists  among  all  classes  of  Italians,  Tourist 
Brown,  of  Balbain,  would  have  called  it  impudence,  and  would 
have  remarlted  that  Virginia  the  diambennaid  would  do  well  to  leAni 
to  know  her  place;  and  he  trouM  have  stared  to  see  &i(>nor  the 
hotel-keeper  holding  quite  a  friendly  and  familiar  conversation  with 
his  gorgeously-decked  hall-porter,  or  exchanging  a  plcasantr}-  inlh 
one  of  rhe/acMni  outride.  Hut  I  am  not  sure  that  it  would  not 
have  done  Brown  good  to  see  howmenjiiay  hold  their  relative  places 
in  the  worid  with  proper  dignity  and  sdf-respcct,  and  yet  feel 
brotherly  sentiment  towards  their  inferiors.  I  am  sure  t  only  fell 
my  he;irt  warm  towards  laughing,  good-natured  Virginia  when  she 
burst  in  upon  me,  and,  pointing  with  vehement  gestures  to  the  deep 
t>tuc  Italian  sky,  implored  the  signor  to  put  away  his  p^^pcrs  and 
go  for  a  walk.  "  You  cannot  know,"  she  added,  "  that  Ihc  bind  i* 
playing  on  the  Piazza  delta  Scata ! " 


III.— ON   THE  RIVA. 

The  Italian  work-folk  of  the  towns  live  on  cheap  and  simple  fair, 
but  they  have  enough  ;  the  food  is  wholesome,  aod  ihey  look  lU 
and  merry  on  it.  Under  my  window  at  Milan  there  was  a  cabstand, 
and  every  morning  .it  eight  I  saw  the  mcny  cabmen  (for  even  Ibe 
cabmcn-nre  merry  south  of  the  Alps)  lay  out  their  breakfast.  It  was 
gencmlty  a  fresh  salad  in  a  white  bowl,  with  some  lish.  frihrre,  a 
sausage,  a  rough  kind  of  mayonnaise,  and  a  lump  of  brcfld ;  and 
from  under  the  bojt  se.it  the  cabman  withdrew  a  bottle  of  wine.  In 
the  Gallcria,  at  the  hour  of  rest  from  work,  workmen  arc  to  be  seen 
pacing  the  marble  floors  eating  their /h/avAi  and  bread  and  some 
appetising  morsels  of  tifritto,  in  pleasant  convene,  the  meal  bi 


Under  Foreign  Malwgavy.  2 1 1 

■ended  by  a  drink  at  die  founuin.  The  gondolier  ac  Venice  will  sit 
in  his  boai  and.  in  ihe  hot  weather,  eat  his  di^h  of  beans  and  bread. 
and  sing  die  while,  waiting  lor  a  lore— crying  "La  gondola  I  Ut 
gondola ! "  to  passers  by  at  intervals,  to  sJiow  tliat  he  isi  ready  to  put 
die  fcMsi  aside  at  any  momenL  A  lady  told  me  tliat  she  interrupted 
a  i'oppc  eating  and  reading,  and  that  when  he  sprang  up  to  attend 
10  her  he  left  upon  the  scat  a  volume  of  Ta&so— his  place  marked  by 
a  liimii  of  garlic.  Here  was  plain  living  and  high  thinking  !  But 
although  the  fnigalily  of  the  well-to-do  gondoliers,  who  can  trace 
back  many  generations  of  ancestors  that  have  driven  the  silent  and 
stealthy  gondola  under  Uie  shadows  of  the  ducal  palace  and  the 
Bridge  or  Sighs,  is  that  of  hard-working  and  far-seeing  men  ;  Venice 
indudes  a  mighty  host  of  lazy,  vicious,  brazen-faced  vagabonds  who 
will  not  work,  even  under  the  recent  law  which  forbids  them  to  b^. 
They  love  to  lie  about  the  Riva  in  the  i>un,  cliatteriug  and  singing, 
and  spreading  their  vices  among  the  yoimg.  All  they  want  is  a  hole 
into  which  diey  can  crawl  at  night,  and  a  centime  or  two  to  buy  a 
bit  of  fried  devil-fish  and  vcgcUble  b  the  moining.  For  clothes, 
they  patch  and  mend  from  lather  to  son.  When  it  rains,  the  Riva 
Tflfpibood  will  cast  his  garments,  and  tranquilly  sit  down  beside  them 
while  they  dry  in  the  sun. 

*'  They  arc  too  much  for  the  authorities^"  said  a  Venetian  gentle- 
man to  me.  "The  only  hope  is  to  get  hold  of  the  children.  The 
fitthers  and  mothers  arc  incurably  buy,  and  look  upon  begging  as 
their  right.  They  are  gathered  into  fralemilies,  and  almost  command 
Uie  cliarity  of  the  satUre  in  which  they  abide,  i  only  know  there 
are  a  few  stalwart,  insolent,  and  threatening  beggars  near  mc,  whom 
I  relieve  .is  an  act  of  prudence  towards  my  own  skin.  But  you 
strangers  have  done  much  towards  perpctiming  the  race.  Vou  are 
the  nutin  support  of  the  Riva  rascals."  The  only  use  of  the  Riva 
population,  with  dieir  stately  walk,  their  handsome  faces,  and  Uie 
wondcrfid  patehes  of  colour  which  Uicir  costumes  present,  is  as  fore- 
ground to  the  artists.  These  delight  in  painting  the  splendid  confusion 
of  form  and  glowing  tints  whidi  appears  under  an  Italian  sky  when 
a  licet  of  die  Chioggia  boats  puU  in,  and  cox'ers  Uie  marble  r^uajTS 
with  fi*li. 

The  z3Ay  tcrni-i  on  which  body  and  soul  may  be  kept  together  on 
tlic  shores  of  the  Adriatic  ore  extraordinary,  and  help  to  keep  up 
the  mixture  of  pride,  lajiincss,  and  ban  naturtt  which  make  the 
Venetian  character.    The  stately  girls  who  pace  the  Kiva  in  dauiling 

wU  and  ribands,  and  gaudy  slippers,  disdain  domc«Uc  wttvvcK, 
'  'le  glass  beads  /or  which  Venice  is  buao\i&,  3:n4  %o 


■ 


112 


The  Gentlentaiis  Magazine. 


pou-     . 
cost     j 

some 


I 


ihe  Tew  lire  a  week  necessary  to  Ihcir  existence,  while  ihcy 
the  liberty  to  lounge  and  tliit  aj]d  sing  iniacL 

At  the  greengrocers'  shops  steaming  hot  vegetables  and  fruits  are 
to  be  seen  at  all  seasons.  Fagiuoli,  or  brown  beans,  brocoU,  pota- 
toes, beetroot,  tucta  or  pumpkin,  are  always  ready.  Fitg^iucH 
eight  ccntcssimi  a  pound  ;  potatoes,  six  ccnlcssimi ;  a  good  slice 
pumpkin,  one  centessimo.  These  are  eaten  with  plenty  of  oil . 
vinegar ;  and,  with  polenta,  they  form  a  nutritious  and  wholesome 
diet.  The  poorer  working  class  have  coffee  with  sugar  and  a  sr 
piece  of  bread  at  six  o'clock  in  the  niaming;  and  at  six  in  the  eve 
ing  they  have  some  polenta  and  iried  lish.  The  poienia  they  nuke 
themselves  (it  being  cheaper  than  buying  it  ready  cooked)  with  hot 
water  and  a  Utile  salt.  The  people  who  can  afford  it  have  a  third 
meal  at  noon ;  but  the  rule  among  the  poor  is  two  meals.  Fish 
enough  for  a  small  family  may  be  had  for  about  fifty  centessimi.  But 
what  lish  !  Everything  that  swims  goes  into  the  Venetian  cauldron. 
An  octopus  is  freely  devoured.  On  winter  mornings  hungry  groups 
gather  about  the  great  saucepans  of  smoking  fish  which  are  cooked 
on  the  Kiva  in  the  open  air ;  and  for  something  like  a  halfpenny  tbe 
hungry  man  can  have  his  fill.  A  common  Venetian //v'/w/r,  as  )Xfli 
will  find  it  smoking  at  a  greengrocer's,  seems  to  be  the  scouring  of 
the  l)c<I  of  tl')C  ocean.  Shrimps  and  other  Crustacea,  soft  crabs,  little 
lish  of  all  kinds,  are  in  the  mess  of  oil,  and  make  a  rich  odour  in  the 
air,  ttilh  the  help  of  the  popular  neighbouring  stew  of  browTi  beau; 
macaroni,  oil,  vinegar,  and  onion.  These  mixtures  suffice  for  the 
(l.iily  creature  wanu  of  two-thirds  of  the  population  of  Vt-nice.  The 
hot  foods  kept  atw.T,ys  ready  are  most  welcome  to  the  poor  in  the 
winter  months,  when  the  white  mist  falls  upon  the  lion  of  Sl  Mark, 
and  the  cast  wind  reaches  the  marrow  of  the  Kiva  beggar's  bones, 
but  still  is  not  keen  enough  to  make  him  try  his  hand  at  \\ 
work. 

The  remaining  third  of  the  popuLition  of  the  "superb  "  cily  Ijvt 
— but  let  us  step  into  the  Cappello  Nero,  on  the  threshold  of  which ' 
have  been  lingering,  listening  to  the  gossip  of  a  Neapolitan  friend 
who  has  his  eouvcrt  laid  daily  at  the  more  select  (^aiiri. 

At  the  old  sife'n  of  the  Black  Hat,  under  tlie  colonnade  of  the  Piaz^ 
will  be  found  the  Neapolitans  of  modest  fortune,  the  naval  ofliccis  of 
the  P.  and  O.,  the  Austrian,  Lloyd's,  and  other  oceangoing  shi|>s  in  the 
harbour;  the  superior  officers  of  the  garrison,  Italian  tiavcllcrs  irfio 
ore  not  to  be  caught  in  the  expensive  meshes  of  the  Victoria 
Danieli's,  and  a  sprinkling  of  Englishmen,  Frenchmen,  and  Gcmuii 
The  C-iniipllo  supplies  a  good  bourgeois  uble,  at  the  prices  of  a  secoi 


A 


Under  Foreign  MaJiogany.  %  \  3 

class  Paris  restaurant  The  fare  is  succulent,  generally  speaking, 
inclined  to  be  greasy,  like  all  Italian  atisines,  and  imitative  of  Paris. 
The  lista  delle  vivande  presents  to  the  reader  a  wonderful  array  of  cor- 
rupted words,  and  a  dreadfiil  confusion  of  cuisines: — Fricandb, 
^eletle,  rosbif,  zi^  de  moutone,  beefsteaek — eon  novo  /  pasticcio  di 
Sirasburgo,  crem-versi,  omlette,  blan-mangi;  mixed  up  with  iaglia- 
idle,  gnocchi  al  burro,  Irippa,  risotio,  eardoffi  alia  romana,  funghi  alia 
eorbolyon,  mortadella,  olive  verdi,  beccafichi,  ucceili  fini,  ortolani, 
gorgonzola,  zabajon  /  The  Italian  dishes  are  the  best  The  pasle 
are  all  excellent,  and  so  are  the  creams,  and  so  are  the  Italian  fritti. 
They  have  an  admirable  dish  at  the  Black  Hat — a  macaroni  pie — aii 
Jus,  which  would  be  an  easy  and  a  most  welcome  and  wholesome 
addition  to  the  bourgeois  kitchens  of  London,  if  English  cooks  had 
the  sense  or  spirit  to  add  a  single  dish  to  their  narrow  round  of  roast 
and  boiled. 

Uut  it  is  not  here  that  the  diner  who  hath  a  sweet  tooth  can  revel. 
There  is  the  eternal  zabajon — a  delightful  cream  custard,  flavoured 
chiefly  with  rum — which  flows  over  many  tarts  and  tartlets,  or  may 
be  taken  alone.  But  the  gourmets  of  the  Cappello  Nero  seem  to 
prefer  it  in  the  company  of  bocca  di  dama.  Ladies'  lips  !  Did  ever 
pastrycook  hit  upon  a  more  delightful  name  for  a  triumph  of  his 
sweet  art  ?  And  yet  bocca  di  dama  is  but  very  tame  jam  tart — with 
the  jam  almost  lost  in  the  paste. 


Leaves  from  the  Journal  of  a 
Chaplain  of  Ease. 

MMlyMimMMj  tnttMs  W.  loCULUGH  T0RREN5.  HP. 


I 


VIII.— THE  DUODECIMO  DANDY. 

N  TOf  w^  bofDC  after  a  pleasant  sojooni  in  the  Vi 
I  sta^  a  daf  or  two  at  Paris,  and  there  iirst  leamed 
fnm  Galipiani  the  recent  death  of  M.  Dcrluscan. 
His  later  years  had  been  siKtil  in  seclusion  and 
obscurity  at  Amiens  with  some  aged  relaiires,  on  whose  bountj* 
he  was  glad  to  subsist.  Bom  and  brot^t  up  in  Englaztd,  he  had 
throughout  his  gay  and  gtittcriny  career  retained  Uttlc  of  his 
French  extraction  but  his  name.  His  father  had  been  natiiralised 
on  taking  up  his  residence  at  Bath  soon  after  the  emigration  of  1 791. 
Although  he  himself  had  never  had  the  advantages  of  a  public 
school  or  universit)',  he  enjoyed  from  almost  .his  outset  in  life  cota> 
panioQship  with  not  a  few  young  men  of  fiusily  and  fortune.  Old 
Dccluseau  was,  I  have  been  told,  a  otan  of  culture:  and  rcTinemcut 
who  had  luckily  contrived  to  recover  the  greater  portion  of  his  pro- 
perty near  Paris  when  the  waiere  of  the  Revolution  went  do«ra. 
Kothing  would,  indeed,  induce  him  to  abandon  the  security  of  )iis 
adopted  country  or  retam  to  that  from  which  he  had  been  compelled 
to  fly.  Bui  during  the  daj-s  of  the  Consulate  he  realised  the  whole  of 
what  he  was  worth,  and  invested  in  the  Ei^lish  Funds  what  was  after 
all  no  more  than  a  decent  competency.  He  would  probably  haix 
dirunk  from  aJloifting  his  son  to  take  military  service  against  France 
had  she  been  governed  fay  any  branch  of  the  old  Monarchy.  But 
Bonapartism  be  regarded  as  mere  usurpation  which  it  was  lawful  hy 
any  means  to  resist  or  if  possible  overthrow.  He  gladly  a\-ailcd 
himself^  therefore,  of  the  offer  of  a  commission  for  Narcissc  as  soon^ 
as  he  was  of  military-  age ;  and  though  the  war  terminated  soon 
afterwards  the  young  cadet  remained  under  the  colours  for  se 
ycars»  and  attained  the  rank  of  captain  long  before  he  sold  ouL 
In  all  tlie  tricks  of  m;mncr  and  demeanour  rcciuisite  10 
entrance  into  West  Knd  life  and  quick  advancement  Uiere  he 
had  excellent  training.      Old  Dccluscau  had  himself   nipped  the 


soon 
rvcial^j 

:  bodH 


Leaver  from  ihejoitrnai  of  a  ChapMn  of  Ease,    215 

shell  of  experience  in  ihc  lai^ghing  days  of  unbelief  in  feoiale  conr 
slanQ*,  patriotic  seU-de\-olion,  or  earnest  faith  in  any  kind  of  good 
bej-ond  airow-shot  of  Voltairian  epigram  which  marked  the  reign  of 
Marie  Antoinelie  over  French  society.  He  came  of  one  of  the  old 
Pnrliarnentiry  families  whose  chiefs  furnished  judges  to  the  provinces, 
whose  younger  sons  became  abbis  without  cure  of  souls,  staff 
officers  without  campaigning,  or  farmers-general  of  taxes  ;  and  whose 
pretty  sisters  became  sometimes  the  wives,  often  the  mistresses,  of 
grands  sei^iairi  for  wliosc  use  and  benefit  society  appeared  to  have 
been  made.  Even  they  laughed  at  it  all  in  their  comic  moods,  or 
marvelled  at  the  indolent  endurance  of  mankind  in  general  when 
a  fit  of  indigestion  made  them  peevish  or  philosophical.  But  the 
diaintegtation  of  the  old  belief  and  the  malerialism  of  the  new 
phitosop!iy  had  rotted  away  too  completely  the  nen'es  and  sincivs  of 
privileged  life  ;  and  the  classes  that  lived  by  law,  literatiue,  aud  art 
were  morally  and  socially  loo  imitative  of  Court  and  fashion  to  allow 
any  notions  to  grow  up  or  find  acceptance  other  llian  those  which 
prevailed  at  Versailles.  It  was  the  last  grand  revel  of  "  Kat,  Drink, 
and  Die  ';  and  the  education  of  a  gentleman  was  directed  mainly  to 
the  acfiuisition  of  the  accomplishments  and  knaclta  by  which  the 
grvflicst  amount  of  plunder  could  be  got  by  him  individually  out  of 
the  public  revenues,  civil  or  ecclesiastical ;  and  how  ttie  produce 
could  be  moiit  sagaciously  laid  out  in  personal  pleasures  from  day  to 
day,  A  varnish  of  sentimenulisra  coniinued  to  be  in  vogue,  like 
rouge  and  hair  powder,  which  was  used  in  degrees  tlul  varied  with 
the  whim  of  the  hour;  but  nobody  mistook  it  for  being  genuine  or 
natural,  or  ftncied  it  vras  nscd  for  any  other  purpose  than  to  fill  up  ugly 
wrinkles  or  hide  unbecoming  flaws.  Scru[»les  about  right  and 
wrong  were  as  much  bygone  and  forgotten  as  the  belief  in  witches 
or  the  philosopher's  stone.  The  strong-minded  motherof  the  Queen 
had  on  her  dying  bed  muttered,  after  receiving  the  last  rights  of  the 
Chtirch,  "I  am  going  to  see  what  truth  there  is  in  the  gnnd 
fattUrt  whieh  LiebniL2  says  is  all  we  know."  With  Cardinal  dc 
Rohan  for  a  confident  and  a  dull  machinist  for  a  husband,  the  fall 
and  frivolous  Goddess  of  Trianon  had  hardly  one  about  her  capable! 
of  telling  tier  the  trutJi  or  startling  her  from  her  (atuoits  dream  that 
to-morrow  should  be  even  as  yesterday,  or  yul  more  abundant 

When  Uw  flood  came  it  was  too  laie  to   repent    or   retrieve 
indeed,  there  is  litite  evidence  that  any  of  Uic  survivors  changed 
ctscutially  :".  .  res  or  dicir  notions.  Those  who  could  not  escape 

drtwwd  pi'  for  tlu-  KofTold  and  viewed  \hc«  «lc^  &iiLWoi.;i_ 

-    TVinse«>^tHA.«:9i 


Th^  Geniiema»s  Ma^azitts^ 


QlC 


tiroe  were  faia  to  became  teachers  of  insular  rerbSt  tnnslaton 

irrcguLu  plays.  oOiceis  of  iireguiai  hone,  or  companions  or  irreguLc 
folk  in  Russia.  Gemuny,  or  En^and,  where  the  com  and  wl-ic  and  inl 
ofaristocracy  hadnot  failed.  In  the  shcUer  of  genial  hospitalily  dwit 
grarefiil  versatility  returned,  and  even  m  the  flicker  of  northeni 
sunshine  they  were  glad  once  mcwe  to  be  gay.  Bat  disinheriied  and 
disenchanted,  in  what  were  they  to  believe?  They  had  surviv-edi 
Church  w!iose  prelates  had  apostatised ;  an  order  (hat  bad  committed 
suicid'.*;  a  country  that  had  burnt  its  almanack  for  fear  of  bang 
reminded  that  it  had  a  yesterday.  Hie  Duke  of  Brunswick  and  Mr. 
Fitt  had  promised  to  float  tbem  all  back  in  an  ark  of  counter  revolu- 
tion, with  Dti  Mourier  for  a  pilot  and  Louis  Dix>hu!t  for  a  figure- 
head ;  but  the  ark  foundered,  the  pilot  disappeared,  the  unadven- 
tm-ous  Pretender  grew  iat  and  forgiving  in  Hertfordshire ;  Germany 
made  tcrros  with  the  Republic;  and  Mr.  Pitt,  after  wrecking  his 
reputation  and  half  ruining  his  country,  died  of  old  age  at  fony-seroi. 
It  would  have  been  sirange  indeed  if  the  emigrh  bad  been  able  to 
bring  up  their  children  with  any  deep  convictions  of  the  wonh  of 
right  or  the  good  of  consistency.  They  had  beueved  in  little  before 
the  general  overturn ;  ihey  believed  in  nothing  alter  it,  except  that  if 
a.  man  could  make  himself  pleasant  and  popular  he  would  probalily 
eat  a  better  dinner  and  possibly  might  get  on.  "  Dress  and  address 
are  the  two  great  things  to  understand,"  said  the  exiled  father  to  his 
bright-eyed  son.  That  was  the  philosophy  of  life  according  to  oU 
Deduseau.  In  those  days  cveryltody  wore  nightcaps,  and  XardsK 
never  forgot  a  showy  specimen  of  that  article  of  tuxur>'  which 
dropped  out  of  iu  wrapping  of  tissue  paper  when  his  father  was 
packing  his  best  clothes  into  a  portmanteau  before  leaving  lui 
lodgings  in  Soho  for  a  three  days'  visit  to  a  great  house  in  the  country. 
"I  never  saw  this  before,"  be  exclaimed  j  "do  you  ever  wear  it?" 
"  Oh  I  dear,  no,"  was  the  reply,  "  I  only  lay  it  on  tlie  dressing  table 
before  going  down  to  breakfast,  that  it  may  be  seen  by  the  ser\-aDts." 
The  youth  grew  up  in  the  secrets  of  petty  imposwre,  and  It 
last  to  apply  the  science  of  imposition  to  all  things. 

In  vain  the  sister  of  Iiis  mother  tried  after  his  mother's 
awaken  in  the  youthful  heart  at  first  some  unworldly  notions  of  con- 
scientiousness \  and  failing  that,  somewhat  of  tlie  maternal  sense  of 
delicacy  and  some  romance  of  higher  ambition.  While  he  was  a  child 
her  tenderness  was  of  course  del^htful,  and  he  kissed  her  h.ind  as  she 
read  him  to  sleep  with  moral  narralives  from  "  Tales  of  the 
But  at  fourteen  she  found  out  to  her  dismay  that  he  was  already: 
adept  in  tricks  at  cards  and  acquainted  prematurely  with  other 


:1L  I  t  AUt^ 

Icaino^^ 


Lmves  front  ihejottrjialofa  drnplain  of  Ease.     217 

of  which  she  had  not  dreamed.  Her  brother-in-law,  when  spoken 
on  iht*  sulycci,  replied  only  with  a  shrug,  and  "thought  he  was  n 
much  older  himself  when  he  began."  Time  wore  on,  and  at  twen 
there  was  nothing  hard  or  coarse  in  London  life  with  whldi  young 
Occluscau  was  itnf:inuliar.  If  he  did  not  become  actually  btask  before 
his  noon  it  was  rattier  owing  to  his  constitutional  exemption  from 
strong  impulse  or  strong  passion.  His  cmiosity  was  boundless,  and 
to  gralify  it  he  would  lake  any  amount  of  trouble  and  spend  any 
amount  of  time.  An  instinctive  facility  of  adapting  his  voice  and 
person  to  van'ous  characters  enabled  htm  belter  than  his  fellows  to 
gratify  his  love  of  adventure.  He  was  by  nature  a  comedian,  and 
could  not  only  take  with  ease  and  grace  his  part  in  private  theatricals^ 
where  lie  bore  off  more  than  his  share  of  apijlausc  j  bm  every  now 
and  then  he  would  in  disguise  leave  home,  and  for  d.iys  remain  away 
on  some  social  adventure  of  whose  deuils  he  was  seldom  communi 
cative  and  about  which  Aunt  Justine  gradually  ceased  to  ask  from  3 
painful  uncertainty  as  to  huw  much  she  could  veulure  to  believe. 
Her  love  for  him  did  not  abate  as  her  faith  in  him  died.  -She  still 
bot>ed  on  that  some  day  he  might  encounter  a  being  belter  and 
subtler  than  himself  by  whose  ascendency  over  him  he  might  yet  be 
redeemed  from  c)*nicism,  insincerity,  and  self-worship.  Must  no 
there  still  be  in  him  something  of  his  mother's  nature,  gentle,  pure^ 
believing,  selfdenjing,  and  must  it  not  come  to  the  surface  soon  or 
bite,  if  there  was  any  reliance  to  be  placed  in  the  doctrine  af| 
transnussible  qnalilics  or  the  value  of  a  mother's  prayers  ?  Justioe 
added  Iter  own  daily  in  secret ;  and  if  no  appreciable  answer  came 
in  his  habits  of  demeanour,  her  own  sore  tried  and  lonely  heart  was 
sDOihcd  and  consoled  by  the  hope,  however  dim  and  di:ttant,  which 
"iitx  incxtinguisliablc  faith  in  pious  importunity  served  to  keep 
Alive. 

When  offered  a  commission,  through  the  kindness  of  one  of  his 
talhcc's  friends,  in  a  regiment  under  orders  for  Canada  tlic  young 
idler  about  town  (somewhat  to  his  father's  sur|}rise}  did  not  object. 
He  would  like  to  see  something  of  the  world  before  settling  down. 
The  notion  of  hb  wishing  to  fight  anybody,  or  kill  anybody,  or 
of  keeping  to  the  killing  business  as  a  pursuit  for  life,  would  be  of 
course  ridiculous.  Political  or  national  feeling  he  did  not  pretend 
lb :  and  without  money  to  purchase  steps,  or  connections  to  job  for 
one,  the  profession  was  not  worth  following  :  but  the  name  of  it  and 
the  uniform  would  at  six-and-(wenty  be  trump  cards  worth  holding; 
Why  throw  them  away?  He  actually  spent,  I  believe,  three  or  four 
risons,  and  at  the  end  o(  iVin  l\me,\\w\w^ 


3 18  The  Gattlemari s  MagaziTie. 

together  a  report  on  the  undeveloped  resources  of  a  district  he  had 
traversed  in  search  of  g3.inc,  he  was  so  comiDendcd  by  the  miUair 
governOT,  who  seut  it  home  with  atlcsUtions  of  its  value,  that  he 
found  httJc  difficulty  in  obtaining  permission  to  exchange.     Binack 
life  in  I^ncashire  or  Munster  was  harder  lo  bear,  however,  thin  it 
Quebec  or  Rcrmiida  ;  and  after  the  first  hunting  season  was  ova  he 
resolved  to  sell  out  and  set  up  in  business  in  St.  James's  Strcm  as  a 
man  about  town.    Oockford's  was  then  in  its  glot)'.     Every  sprig 
of  quahty  wlio  sought  the  reputation  of  speoding  mcnie)',  and  ever; 
scamp  of  fashion  who  sought  in  a  gentleman-like  way  to  gather  it  tqi. 
frequented  its  glittering  saloons.     It  was  to  the  oligarchic  rkgimtt  of 
gambling  what  Carlton  House  had  in  the  preceding  decades  beentffiH 
the   dynastic      When    the   First    Gentleman   in   Ei^Kiiid   gave  u^^^ 
dancing  he  likewise  gave  up  high  play,  and  contented  himself  for 
the  rest  o^^  his  days  with  the  endless  pleasures  of  cookery,  tailoring, 
and  wort)*ing  hi.?  Ministers.    To  men  of  old  family  or  new  wealth  a 
regal  palace  of  ruin  no  longer  opened  its  doors,  but  the  right  of 
going  to  the  devil  5]»lendidly  remained,  and  the  elective   principle 
was  introduced  into  the  constitution  of  helis.     The  K.ing  riru.c-l 
to  Brighton,  a»d  the  dandies  reigned  in  St-  James's.      Atmacl* 
was     said     to    be    a    revolutionary     innovation,    as     such    e»- 
croachments  have  ever  been,  by  the  sprightly  ambition  of  a  mal- 
content few  women  of  quaUty.     Its  cxchisivcDCSs  was  as  srbitmy 
as  that  of  the  Court  in  its  cmnkiest  dnys  had  been ;  but  the  caprices 
of  eight  independent  fine  ladies  balanced  or  checked  one  another, 
and  widened  the  sphere  of  waltzing  liberty.    So,  too,  in  tlic  trann- 
tion  stage  of  gambling  emancipation.      If  epicurean   suppcr-tablcs 
were  to  be  sprc-id  in  rooms  of  palatial  luxury,  the  circle  of  con* 
tribution,  whether  by  joint-stock  or  the  more  elegant  and  elastic 
way  of  general    pluckability.    must   be  kept  up  and  the  means 
of  access  must  be  mdcned.     Dandyism  was  not  prepared,  indeed, 
to  r.ilgarisc  its  vices,  as  had  been  done   in    Paris  since  the  dajl 
of  the    Revolution.      The   very    name  of  democracy   was  odious; 
and  there  must  be  no  shaking  hands  with  unglowd  pnw3,     If  name- 
less fellows  wanted  to  be  robbed  let  them  go  TO  Frascati's,  or  some 
of  the  noisy  places  of  the  Palais  Royal ;  but  English  society  had 
not  come  to  that     Nobody  could  pass  the  swing-doors  of  the  build- 
ing opposite  ■^\'hite's  who  was  "  not  known."  FaciUs  tfcscmsus  /ftrnti 
was  all  right  and  proper  among  gentlemen ;  but  the  steps  should 
be  double  carpeted  and  nobody  should   tread  them  who  vm   tuw 
well  bred  or  at  all  events  well  dressed :  and  at  the  first  snsptcioa 
of  not  playing  fair,  he  must  disappear. 


Leaves  from  they  our nal  of  a  C/taplain  ofEaye.     219 

It  was  in  the  heyday  of  dandyism  that  young  Dccluscau  Tirst 
Appeared  above  the  horizon.  Bnimmcl  had  indeed  passed  the 
meridian  of  impudence,  and  no  rival  had  as  yet  succeeded  him  in 
DolorictT.  But  there  were  aspirants  to  the  mosr  conspicuous 
place  in  the  world  of  foppery.  Tom  DuncomUc  starred  it  in  the 
green  room ;  Henry  Mildmay  on  the  box-scat ;  and  Lytton  Bulwe: 
in  the  last  new  novel.  But  the  hour  and  the  man  had  not  come, 
for  D'Orsaty  hod  not  yet  begun  to  reign.  With  liim  tlic  dazzling 
day  of  coxcombry  reached  the  climax  of  affectation  and  thea 
faded  for  ever  into  forgetful ness.  Soon  after  his  comii^  into 
England  Deduseau  pire  hud  been  of  use  to  D'Orsay  in  getting  him 
credit  with  a  saddler  and  a  wine  mcrcluut,  and  I  have  heard  that 
Decluscau  yf/f  had  shown  him  the  way  to  his  first  hatter's,  A  choice 
among  tailors  was  not  so  ca:sily  made.  That  required  deliberation 
and  study  of  character.  At  first,  I  have  been  told,  the  Count 
tried  to  iinjiort  a  Parisian  cut  and  colour,  especially  in  his  nether 
garmenui ;  but  the  sagacity  that  di^jtinguished  him  from  all  his 
competitors  in  foUy  rjuickly  led  him  to  perceive  that  to  be  lord  (^ 
the  ascendant  in  the  Park  and  Pall  Mall  he  must  be  in  all  things 
undetectable  to  the  vulgar  eye  as  a  foreigner ;  while  inconlestably  the 
moBt  exquisitely  allired  among  those  who  lounged  or  ambled  up 
or  down  among  the  native-born  lords  of  the  creation.  D'Orsay 
disdained  the  tricks  and  arts  by  which  less  refined  pmctitioners  in 
imposture  had-  been  wont  to  make  men  siarc  and  women  ogle.  He 
remained,  indeed,  patriotically  faithful  to  the  gloves  and  boots  of  his 
country,  but  in  the  residue  of  his  garments  he  was  scrapnlonsly 
English ;  and  his  adoption  of  the  plain  black  frock  was  in  itself  a 
proof  of  his  ]Trofound  confidence  that  it  was  his  destiny  to  rule  the 
coats  of  men.  1  luve  myself  seen  Pelham  not  only  in  his  early  but 
in  his  Utter  days  indulge  in  a  combination  of  tints  and  hues  in  the 
patting  on  of  apparel  tliat  would  sound  fabulous  were  I  to  depict  it 
D'Orsay  pitiucd  himself  uiK>n  being  a  master  in  the  severer  school 
of  clairic  dandyism.  He  contended  that  true  art  shone  in  the 
firmness  of  a  collar,  ilic  expansion  of  a  lappel,  the  expression  of  a 
hat,  not  in  the  mere  exaggeration  of  these  articles,  which  was  *'gautAt 
and  sec-ly."'  Everything  about  him  was  elaborately  studied,  not 
merely  for  the  soke  of  its  own  form  and  tone,  but  with  reference  to 
the  onrivalled  being  who  wns  to  enjoy  and  use  it  His  cabriolet 
(whiit  :•  ■  "  'it  was!)  had  nothing  showy  about  it;  and  horse  and 

Dgci,  1: :    I  r.  whip,  were  in  equal  pericctlon  of  keeping  with  the 

clastic  vehicle  which  was  his  ambulatory  throne.    Tradesmen  vied 

sion  to  have  their  ptoAut^ows  a:is 


320 


Tlie  Gentianans  Magazine, 


was 


by  his  patioDage,  and  he  came  at  last  to  be  regarded  as  the 
most  approved  method  of  letting  the  pacing  wotld  know  how  it 
could  be  served. 

Ultle  Dccluseau  had  suffident  tuma  to  n'in  the  ^ncy  frieniyup 
cf  the  illustrious  fop.  At  first  he  vos  a  %'alking  dictioDan*,  then  an 
active  vidette ;  always  a  pleasant  and  presentable  guest  at  a  pindi, 
and  always  versatile  and  handy  as  a  fht:nd  in  a  scrape ;  never  at  3 
loss  tor  an  answer  or  the  show  of  one ;  up  to  everything  that  was 
going  OQ,  no  matter  how  good  or  how  bad ;  having  the  name  of  cvi 
}ockey,  duellist,  actress,  politician,  painter,  or  puppy  at  his  tongue' 
end ;  and  above  all  with  a  knowledge,  partly  dcri*  cd  from  cxpcriei 
and  partly  from  hearsay,  of  where  it  was  best  worth  while  lo  din& 
In  public  Dedoseau  took  care  never  to  affect  the  air  of  more  thaa  a 
passing  acquaintanceship  n'ith  a  Master  of  Modes.  At  the  Open 
he  seldom  stayed  long  in  his  1k)x,  and  at  Crockford's  it  would  have 
been  «-asic  of  time  to  play  at  tlie  same  table.  None  but  real 
intimates  knew  of  their  real  intimacy ;  and  this  had  been  scllled 
from  tlie  outset  without  a  word  of  stipulation  or  arrangement,  bet 
simply  by  the  instinctive  sense  on  the  part  of  the  little  dandy  of 
what  the  great  dandy  would  like  bcsL  Never  was  the  duoJccimo 
seen  to  rest  upon  the  imperial  folio ;  never  did  he  allow  any  one 
to  suspect  him  to  be  an  abbreviation  or  abstract  of  that  wondofiil 
production  of  human  thought  and  skill.  Ri\-alry  or  jealousy  never 
entered  his  clear  calculating  little  head.  Height,  beauty,  nobility  of 
birth,  and  skill  as  an  amateur  sculptor  were  possessions  past  praying 
for.  But  to  live  luxuriously  without  fortune ;  to  many  brilliantly 
without  laud  or  title ;  and  to  dress,  drive,  and  dine,  as  a  Itieod  of 
D'Orsay's  ought  to  do,  by  gains  at  Crockford's  and  Tattcrsall's,  was  a 
vocation  worthy  of  any  ooe,  even  though  he  were  only  five  feet  four 
without  his  boots.  Beneath  the  narrow  shadow  of  a  wcll-de&igned 
hat  he  looked  three  inches  nwrc  ;  it  was,  however,  a  tender  subject 
with  him  J  and  the  only  occasion  I  am  told  on  which  he  was  seen 
to  lose  his  temper  from  the  pitiless  badinage  of  D'Orsay  was  when 
he  heard  himself  introduced  to  a  pretty  woman  as  "  a  diamond  and 
gilt-edged  edition  of  Man."  To  this  susceptibility  likewise  was  d^h 
doubt  due  his  insuperable  antipathy  to  be  modeUed  by  the  subl^H 
caricaturist  in  clay.  It  might  be  all  very  well  to  make  statuettes 
of  Napoleon  Ic  Grand,  or  the  victor  of  Waterloo,  but  the  vanity 
of  Decluseau  coul  J  not  betray  him  into  sitting  or  standing  even  for 
five  minutes  the  result  of  which  might  be  at  his  expense  to  fumisb 
his  best  friends  with  food  for  ineffable  fun. 

The  astute  Count  was  not  slow  in  discovering,  moreover,  after  a 


Leaves  from  the  yonntal  of  a  Chapiain  of  Ease,     a  a  i 

touch  or  two  of  playful  piessure,  tliat  hU  small  Eainiliar  had  a  hide  of 
plock  as  hard  as  steel  bcneatli  the  delicate  epidermis  wliich  womcn- 
kiod  so  much  admired.  Without  an  angry  word  beforehand,  or 
condescending  lo  more  than  a  sardonic  smile  of  indifference  after- 
wards, Decluseau  had  gone  out  tvo  or  three  times,  and  one  of  his 
antagonists  had  been  lamed  for  life  by  him.  As  he  became  indis- 
pensable, the  Count  made  up  his  mind  that  it  would  not  be  kind  to 
ytx  him,  and  he  never  did  so. 

I  first  met  the  greater  and  the  lesser  dandy  together  at  the  house  of 
a  City  banker  whose  wife  was  ambitious  of  inclusion  in  the  muster 
roll  of  fashion.  Many  h.id  been  the  costly  banquets  spread  by  her 
in  Grosvcoor  Street  without  the  coveted  presence  of  any  one  of  real 
note.  \X  length  she  became  acquainted  with  tJic  Duodecimo,  who 
was  never  known  to  throw  away  a  chance  of  making  himself  agree- 
able to  a  hospitable  banker  or  an  aspiring  bcanty.  Both  might  be 
mode  exceedingly  convenient  upon  occasion,  if  dexterously  piqued 
oa  his  part  by  a  proper  degree  of  inattention.  ^VilhQUt  being  in  the 
least  degree  puppyisli  or  supercilious,  he  made  it  a  rule  to  be  diilicult 
at  first  and  rather  disappointing.  His  engagements  were  so  many, 
and  so  provokingly  long  dated,  that  he  was  constantly  unable  (o 
accept  what  he  should  have  greatly  preferred,  and  "greatly"  was 
uttered  in  a  bewitching  tone,  and  with  a  look  to  match.  For  Little 
Lu.\ury,  as  he  was  sometimes  called,  was  in  his  way  a  perfect  actor  ; 
and  he  knew  how  to  play  upon  the  weaknesses  and  fuibles  of  those 
surrounding  him  with  an  air  as  effortless  and  natural  as  if  he  existed 
only  for  their  amusement.  Very  amusing  he  was  indeed ;  quizzical 
to  the  last  degree  of  those  who  were  not  present,  whose  peculiarities 
and  mistakes  furnished  him  with  materials  of  pleasantry  for  tlie  next 
set  of  people  amid  whom  he  fotind  himself.  Indulgence  in  the 
plea-iore  of  impertinence  he  left  to  his  friend,  and  few  men  took 
gteaicr  licence  in  this  way.  Our  hostess  on  the  fKcasJon  in  question 
was  in  a  low  fever  of  anxiety  about  dinner ;  for  she  lud  accomplished 
at  lost  along  dufemxl  desire  of  having  two  notorious  coxcombs  for 
her  ^ests  :  and  anxiously  she  looked  for  any  indication  of  approval 
or  the  contrary  in  their  impassive  features.  Decluseau  was  not  to  be 
detected  in  the  faintest  show  of  dissatisfaction,  and  he  took  care 
lo  drop  an  audible  commendation  more  than  once  of  what  n-as  set 
before  him.  But  D'Orsay,  as  he  explained  to  a  remonstrating  friend 
on  another  occasion,  had  a  conscientious  scruple  about  lending  his 
sanction  to  imperfect  cookery  or  carelessly  decanted  wine.  He  had  a 
duiacter  to  support,  a  reputation  to  maintain ;  and  if  people  would  ^ro- 
:  jadpnent,  they  must  take  it,  even  though  Vv  veic  >3,uw^£0't 


2  22  The  Gentlenians  Magamnt, 

Few  reall/  good  tilings,  however,  were  said  by  him,  and  by  his  &idh 
ful  aide-de-xfi?;;//  still  fewer.  What  amused  people  was  the  intensi^ 
of  the  impudence  which  put  resentment  &irly  out  of  countenance,  and 
mode  oven  an  affront  rather  forget  itself  in  laughter.  In  an  evil  hour 
Dccluseau  caught  the  infection,  prevalent  for  a  time  among  the 
dandies,  of  going  into  Parliament,  for  which  he  had  no  qualification  of 
any  sort,  and  where  his  emptiness  was  soon  found  out  His  maiden 
speech  was  well  got  up,  and  delivered  with  ineffable  sangfroid.  He 
had  nothing  particular  to  say,  but  he  said  it  well ;  and  had  he  taken 
D'Orsay's  advice  against  risking  detection  by  a  second  attempt  he 
might  possibly  have  kept  up  the  delusion  of  being  a  sort  of  success. 
But  his  vanity  would  be  drowned  and  nobody  should  save  it  His 
second  performance  was  so  ineffective  that  it  was  not  reported,  andfor 
his  third  he  could  not  get  even  a  hearing.  Before  the  end  of  a  short 
Parliament  he  was  at  a  sad  discount  with  the  electors  of  SwiUington; 
and  his  discomfiture  was  attended  with  circumstances,  I  believe,  of  a 
pecuniary  kind  which  led  to  his  betaking  himself  abroad  by  the  end  of 
the  year.  How  he  had  contrived  to  live  and  thrive  and  wive;  to 
ride  a  good  horse ;  frequent  the  Opera,  and  obtain  a  seat  at  St 
Stephen's  the  plodding  crowd  never  knew.  But  when  he  wu 
gone  the  story  ran  that  he  had  been  indefatigable  and  fortunate  at 
play  ;  and  that  if  he  had  had  the  sense  to  keep  out  of  politics  be 
might  have  floated  down  the  stream  a  good  while  longer  withoi^ 
capsizing. 


Recollections  of  Writers 

KNOWJf  TO   AN   OLD   COUPLE  WHEN  YOUNG. 
BY  CHARLES  AMD  KARY  COWDEN  CURKE. 


<^^r'^ 


! 


u 


PART  Xm.—LEIGII  HUKT  AND  HIS  LETTERS. 

fCimtiiiu^.J 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Novelto  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gliddon, 
imfirimis:  secondly,  to  Mrs.  Novella  alone.  (Favoured 
by  Mra.  Shelley.) 

Albaro,  July  35th,  1823. 

I  EAR  FRIEXDS, — I  send  you  these  modicums  of 
distributive  justice — first  because,  though  now  getting 
Well  again,  I  have  been  unwell,  and  secondly  because 
I  have  so  much  to  do  with  ray  pen  just  now  that, 
as  I  wish  to  keep  a  head  on  my  nhouldeis  for  alt  your 
sakcs,  1  am  sure  you  would  not  willingly  let  me  tax  it  beyond  my 
stiength.  I  shall  answer,  however,  whatever  letters  you  liavc  been 
kind  enough  to  send  me  by  the  box  separately  and  at  proper  length. 
But  lo :  the  box  has  not  yet  arrived,  and  when  it  will  airivc  ^v 
knows.  Meanwhile  let  me  introduce  to  you  all  in  a  body  the  dear 
friend  who  brings  you  this  tetter,  and  witli  whom  you  are  already 
ac(|uainted  in  some  measure  both  privately  and  publicly.  Yon  "will 
show  her  all  the  kindness  and  respect  in  your  power,  1  am  sure,  for 
her  husband's  sake,  and  for  her  mother's  sake,  and  for  my  sake,  and 
for  her  own.  I  am  getting  grave  here.  So  now  we  arc  nil  in  com- 
pany a^ain  I  will  rouse  my  spirits  and  attack  you  separately ;  and 
first  for  '*  Wilful  Woman  "  :— 

Mm>'  Xovdlo, 
1  knnw  not  yotir  fellow 
For  Laving   your  ycay 
Hoth  by  night  and  \)y  day. 

It  was  Uius  I  once  began  a  letter  in  verse  to  the  said  Mary  Movello, 
which  happened  not  to  be  sent ;  and  it  is  thus  I  now  begin  a  letter 
in  prose  to  her  because  it  is  of  course  as  applicable  as  ever — is  it 
nolf  thou  "  wilful  i\*oman"?  (Here  I  look  full  in  the  face  of  the 
some  M.  N.,  shaking  my  head  at  her :  upon  which  she  looks  tiUta 
at  me — for  we  cinnot  say  ditto  of  a  bdy — and  shakes  her  head  in 
lelurn,  imiimdently  denying  the  fact  with  her  good-humoured  twink- 
ling ryes  and  her  laughing  mouih.  which,  how  it  ever  happened  to 
become  wilful,  o>iti  only  knows— odd  is  to  be  read  in  a  genteel  Bond 
Street  .ilyle,  Novello  knows  how.)  So  I  understand,  \Mlfii1,  that 
you  sometimes  get  up  during  tlie  perusal  of  pas^ges  ol  Onc&e,  tuctvi 


I 


epistles  and  unthinkingly  insist  tliat  tired  ladies  who  have  a  regard 
for  you  should  eat  their  dinners,  as  if  the  legard  for  me,  Wilful,  is 
not  to  swallow  up  everything— appetite,  hunger,  sickness,  faiiiiness. 
and  all.  Do  you  hear?  The  best  passage  in  all  Mr.  Rc)-nolds's 
plays  is  one  that  Mary  SheHcy  has  reminded  mc  of.  It  is  wliere 
a  gentleman  iiaveller  and  the  governor  of  a  citadel  complimeni 
each  other  in  a  duet,  dancing,  I  believe,  at  the  same  time  :- 


DaiKing  Governor ! 


n  iUS!!!^ 


\ 


Now  you  must  know  that  the  At tomc}- -General  once,  in  an  indict- 
ment for  libel,  had  the  temerity  to  designate  me  as  *'  a  yeoman  "— 
*'  Leigh  Hunt,  yeoman."  However,  the  word  rhymes  to  ''  Woman," 
which  is  a  pleasing  response  :  so  I  shall  end  my  present  epistle 
imagining  you  and  me  on  a  Twelfth  Night  harmoniously  plaj-ing  > 
cross  purposes,  and  singing  to  one  another — 

U'ilful  Woman  I 
Kevengcrul  Yeorofta ! 

God  bless  the  hearts  of  you  both. — Your  aBTectlonate  friend, 

Leigh  HumtJ 

P.S. — I  send  you  a  ring  of  my  hair,  value  2s.  Sd,  When  T  can 
afford  another  such  splendid  sum  I  will  try  and  get  some  little 
insCTiption  engraved  on  it,  and  would  have  done  so  indeed  already 
had  I  thought  of  it  in  time.  I'd  have  you  to  know,  at  the  same 
time,  that  the  gold  is  "right  earnest,"  which,  if  you  mention  the 
sum,  I'd  he  glad  you'll  also  let  the  curious  inquirofs  undo 
stand.  .So  don't  be  ashamed,  now,  but  wear  it  If  you  don't  I'j 
fineit  bad. 

The  ring  tihts  worn  by  "  Mary  Novello,"  and  the  name  of  "  Le^ 
Hunt"  was  engraved  upon  ilie  small  piece  of  "gold"  as  an  "inscrip- 
tion."   It  is  now  iu  our  possession,  mounted  on  a  card,  beari 
memorial  lines : — 

SONNET  ON  A  RING  OF  LEIGH  HUNT'S  HAIR. 

,Kor  co;il,  nor  jet,  nor  laveu'it  wing  moic  blocl: 

Than  this  small  crispy  pLail  of  ebon  luur : 

And  well  I  CAn  remember  wbcn  the  x^n 
YoUDg  pocl'head.  It)  iragcr  thought  thraum  b:id(, 
Bore  jiiil  sudi  clutlci^  ;  mp  the  wliiteniDj;  rack 

OrycLirs  DRd  (oil.  dcvt>icJ  to  the  eaic 

Fgr  human  -vtcaI,  had  bl.-inch'd  and  ^ven  tu  air 
Of  snow-bci^ht  biilo  lo  tbc  iiiau  oucc  black. 

In  pnblic  Bcr\-ice.  in  hijtli  contcmi)latioiu, 

Jii  poeiy's  «citrinent,  in  the  earnest 
Cullui*  o(  (bvinest  aspinitiunf, 

Tby  sable  curU  crew  ^ty ;  and  now  tkoii  tumest 
Them  to  radiant  1us\tc,  lilvti.^oldeti. 
Touch'd  by  that  LijjViV  rwj  «r(c  UaX\^  'jt».\»iAio\icii. 


n 


k 


Albaro,  August  31st,  iSzj. 
WaKUL  WojrAS  :— And  so  you  Kivc  got  a  great  Uiige  big  SJiacUe- 
weU  liousc,  and  a  garden,  and  good-natiircd  trees  in  Jt  (like  those  in 
my  Chcace) — 

And  Clulie  and  Mr.  Holmes  are  s«en 
Peeping  from  foifti  their  alleys  green  ; 

and  you  are  looking  after  the  "  tilings,"  and  you  arc  all  to  be  gay 
and  merry,  and  I  am  not  to  be  there.  Well,  I  don't  deserve  it,  what- 
ever Fate  may  say,  and  it  shall  go  hard  but  I'll  hnve  my  revenge, 
and  my  house,  and  My  garden  and  things,  all  at  Florence ;  and 
IJicDds,  fair  and  brown  too,  will  come  to  see  me  there,  though  yoii 
won't ;  and  I'll  peep,  wUJmst  being  seen,  from  forth  my  alleys 
green.  ' 

We  go  oflf  to-morrow,  and  I  shall  send  you  such  accounts  as  shall 
make  you  ready  to  ask  Clara's  help  (she  being  the  bigger)  to  toss  you 
all,  as  she  threatened,  "out  of  the  window.i."  There  is  nobody  tlial 
■will  do  it  witli  so  proper  and  grave  a  face.  So  there's  for  your  Shackle- 
weli  house  and  your  ncver-uot-coniing«at-alI  to  Ilaly.  And  now  you 
shan't  get  a  word  mure  out  of  me  for  the  present,  excepting  that  I 
ora  your  old,  grateful,  and  alTectionate  friend, 

LiiiCM  Hunt. 

Mis.  Hunt  joins  in  love  to  all  the  old  circle. 

To  V.  X.  (favoured  by  Mrs.  Payne.) 

Florence,  SepL  9di,  1S23. 
My  dkar  NoviiLLU, — You  must  not  imagine  1  am  going  to  send 
you  all  the  pleo&ant  people  I  may  hajipen  to  meet  with ;  but  I  could 
not  resist  the  chance  of  introducing  you  to  the  grand -daughter  of 
Dr.  humey,  daughter  of  Captain  Cooke's  Burney.  niece  of  Kvehna's 
And  Camilla's  Burney,  friend  of  Ctiartcs  nnd  Mary  Lamb,  and  a  most 
Jivcly,  refreshing,  intelligent,  good-humoured  person  to  boot,  who  is 
alio  a  singer  and  pianoforte  player.  .-Yll  this,  at  least,  she  seems  to 
nic,  in  my  gratitude  for  having  met  with  a  rountryivoman  who  could 
talk  to  me  of  my  old  friends.  I  cannot  write  farlhcr.  for  I  hear  the 
voices  of  gentlemen  who  have  come  10  go  uilh  mc,  to  take  leave  of 
her  and  her  husband  :  but  whether  she  happens  to  bring  this  letter 
or  not,  1  couhl  not  help  giving  you  the  chance  I  spcakof,  nor  har 
that  of  knowing  you  aiKl  yours,  your  music,  ^c,  which  is  the  best 
return  1  can  make  her  for  the  recreation  she  has  afforded  me :  and, 
besides,  this  will  show  you  wc  were  going  on  well.  Florence,  besides 
its  other  goods,  has  libraries,  bookstalls,  and  Cockney-meadows  ;  and 
we  begin  to  breathe  again.  1  hope  by  this  time  you  and  Mrs. 
Shelley  have  shaken  coidiol  hands. — Your  affectionate  friend, 

L.  H. 
To  V.  N.  and  M.  &  X. 

Florence,  January  9tb,  1814. 
Ilappy  New  Years  for  all  of  us:  and  may  we  all,  as  we  do  now, 
hcl])  to  make  thcin  happier  to  one  another. 

nw.vnw  w(lf,  1  hjive  at  length  found  out  the  scctev  t^V  TftaVvn*;,  •^'aa 
write  a  whole  \cit&T,   It  is  to  set  you  upon  some  paJnfvA  vasV  ^ct  ict'w 


The  Gentietnafi s  Magazitu. 

friends;  so  having  the  prospect  notr  before  me  of  getting  out  of 
mjubles,  I  think  I  must  contrive  to  £i!I  into  some  others,  purely  in 
order  that  you  may  be  epistolary.  Dear  Novello,  how  heartily  I  thank 
you  !  !  must  tell  you  that  I  had  written  a  long  letter  to  my  brother 
m  answer  to  his  second  one,  in  which  I  had  agreed  to  submit  the 
whole  matter  to  arbitration,  and  had  called  upon  your  friendship  to 
enter  into  it,  especially  in  case  you  had  any  fears  that  yo«  should  be 
obliged  in  impartiality  to  be  less  for  me  than  you  wished.  His  third 
letter  hxs  done  away  with  the  necessity  of  sending  this,  and  he  will 
show  you-thc  letter  I  have  written  to  him  instead.  All  will  now  pro- 
ceed amicably ;  but  if  you  tliink  me  a  little  too  inordinate  aod 
haggliug,  I  beg  you  lirst  of  ail  to  count  the  heads  of  seven  of  yous^ 
children  with  their  mother  besides  them.  I  have  no  other  arithmctilH 
in  my  calculations,  But  1  will  not  return  to  my  melancholy  now  thaiffll 
you  have  helped  to  brighten  life  for  me  again.  1  assure  you  it  was 
new-buniished  on  New  Year's  Day,  for  then  I  received  all  j-ourletten 
at  once.  .  .  .  liut  enough,  judge  only  from  wlut  a  load  of  care 
you  have  helped  to  relieve  me,  and  take  your  pride  and  pleasure 
accordingly,  you,  you — you  Vincent,  yotL  Observe,  however :— all 
this  is  not  to  hinder  from  the  absolute  necessity  and  sworn  dut>*  of 
coming  to  see  us  ns  you  promised.  //  will  he  shctr  inhumanity  i/jtmi 
do  not :  always  excepting  it  would  make  you  ill  to  be  away  from  hoaMjfl 
(Mary  SheUcy  will  laugh  to  hear  this) ;  but  then  j-ou  are  to  have  cooi^l 
panions,  .who  will  also  be  very  inhuman  to  all  of  us,  if  ihey  do  not 
doM«>duty.  The  cheating  of  the  Italians  in  conjunction  »-iih  all 
the  other  circumstances  have  made  us  frightened,  or  rather  agreciblj- 
economical  (a  little  difference  1).  We  have  taken  wood,  oil,  and  cvaj 
possible  thing  out  of  the  hands  of  the  ser\*ants,  locking  it  up  and 
doling  it  out,  and  even  (oh,  new  and  odd  paradise  of  sensation  | 
chuckling  over  the  inizii  and  t^n.tlihui  that  we  save.  1  teU  you 
to  show  you  liow  well  we  prepare  for  visitors.  Hut  wine,  and  very" 
pleasant  wine  too,  and  wholesome,  is  as  cheap  in  this  countrj*  a* 
small  beer;  and  then  there  will  be  ourselves,  and jiww  selves,  and 
beautiful  w.ilk3  and  wcaihcr,  and  novelty,  and  Ood  known  how  many 
pleasures  besides,  for  alL  are  comptised  in  tlie  thought  of  secii^ 
friends  from  Knghnd.  So  mind— I  will  not  hear  of  the  least  sludoi 
of  the  remotest  approach  to  the  smallest  possible  distant  hint  of. 
put-oft"  All  the  "  Gods  in  Council "  would  rise  up  anfl  say, 
IS  a  shame!"  So  in  your  next  tell  mc  when  you  are  coming.  I  must 
only  premise  that  it  must  be  when  the  snows  are  well  off  the  moun- 
tain road.  You  see  by  this  how  early,  as  well  as  how  certainly,  I 
expect  )'ou.  I  must  leave  off  and  rest  a  little ;  for  I  have  had  much 
letter  writing  after  much  other  writing,  and  I  am  going  to  have  much 
other  ivriting.  But  my  head  and  spirits  ha\-c  both  bettered  with  my 
prospects  ;  at  least  the  latter  have,  and  I  have  every  reason  to  Ijclicvc 
the  fonner  will,  though  E  shall  have  more  original  composition  to  do 
than  of  late.  Hut  I  shall  work  with  crriaintiti  upon  me,  in  ray  oW 
paper,  and  not  be  lied  down  to  particuLir  dimensions.  As  you  have 
seen  a// my  infirmities,  I  must  tell  >-ou  of  a  virtue  of  mine,  w> 

iSf   th.it  Iia\ing    no    pianoforte    at   \>i«en^,  V  \tnv,  witlt  lage  ; 

benevolence  in  my  heart,  aU  ihc  new  m>\<\a  >ja>i  «w.  ««  v»^> 


and 

-4 

very    ' 
y  a* 

and 
lony 

•rh^ 


m 


Recollections  of  WriUrs.  227 

who  is  going  to  Koine.  It  is  very  aaie,  or  you  may  believe  my 
beoevoknce  would  not  luve  goae  so  rar.  Uedtlvs,  il  vras  lo  be  |j|ayed 
and  sung  by  the  I'oiie's  u«vn  musiciaas.  Think  uf  tliat,  thou  chorister. 
I  shall  h3\-e  it  back  bcfurc  you  cunie,  and  shall  lay  aside  a  [urticuiar 
hoard  to  hiie  an  tnsttumcnt  for  your  playing  it.  Thank.  Charles 
Clarke  for  his  letter,  and  tell  him  that  he  will  be  as  welcome  in  luly 
as  he  was  in  my  less  romantic  prison  of  Horsemonger  Gaol.  I  am 
truly  obliged  to  him,  also,  for  his  kindness  to  Miss  Kent's  booV,  and 
shall  wTitc  to  tell  tiim  so  after  I  ha%'e  desiwtched  a  few  articles  for 
the  Examiner — all  wliich  articles,  observe  also,  are  wriitcn  lo  my 
friends, — Your  affectionate  friend, 

Leigh  Hunt. 
To  Mrs.  Movcllo. 
Oh  ihou  wilful — for  art  thou  not  wilful  ?  Charles  CUrke  9^yi 
no,  and  thai  your  name  is  Brougham;  "but  I,  Mr.,  calls  him 
BrufTani " — but  art  ihini  not  abvays  wilful  wfonian,  and  oughtest  Uiou 
not  for  ever  to  remain  so,  seeing  that  thy  will  is  bent  upon  "  inditing 
a  good  matter,"  and  that  thou  sittust  up  at  midnight  with  .^n  infinitely 
virtuous  jirolligaty  to  write  long  and  kind  and  delightful  letters  to 
exiles  on  iheir  birtlidays?  Do  not  think  me  ungrateful  for  not 
havin;;  answered  it  sooner.  It  is  not,  as  you  might  suppose,  my 
trouGles  that  have  hindered  me,  saving  and  except  that  the  «juaniity 
of  writing  that  I  liave  had,  or  rather  the  effect  which  writing  day  after 
day  lias  upon  me,  made  me  put  oil  an  answer  which  I  wished  to  be 
a  very  long  ono.  Had  1  not  wished  thai,  I  should  have  written 
Monct ;  and  wishing  it  or  not,  I  ought  to  have  done  so ;  hut  your 
last  letter  shows  that  you  can  aJTord  to  forgive  mc.  I^aticrly,  1  will 
confess  that  the  pitch  of  trouble  to  which  my  feelings  hatl  been 
wroiighi  made  it  more  difficult  for  mc  than  usual  to  come  into  the 
company  of  my  friends,  witli  the  air  they  have  alw-ays  inspired  me 
with;  l«it  I  bring  as  well  as  receive  a  pleasure  now,  and  wish  I  could 
find  some  means  of  showing  you  how  grateful  I  am  for  all  your 
sendings,  those  in  the  box  included.  Good  God !  i  liave  never  yet 
thanked  you  even  for  tliat.  But  you  know  how  Ute  it  must  have 
conw.  My  wife  has  been  brilliant  ever  since  in  the  steel  bracelets, 
which  she  finds  e<|ually  useful  and  ornamental.  They  were  the  joy 
and  amazement  of  an  American  artist  (now  in  K.ome),  who  had  never 
been  in  Kngland,  and  wIk>  is  wise  enough  to  be  proud  of  the  supe* 
nor  workmanship  of  his  cousins  die  Knglish,  though  a  sturdy  Ke- 
publiLan.  (Speaking  of  Rome,  pray  lell  Nuvello  to  send  me  the  name 
of  the  musical  work  which  he  w&ntcd  there,  which  1  have  put  away 
in  some  pbcc  so  very  safe  that  it  is  undistoverable.)  The  needles 
abo  were  more  than  welcome.  Ah  to  the  pencils,  J  made  a  legiti- 
mate use  of  my  despotic  right  as  a  iather  of  a  family,  and  appro- 
priated them  almost  all  to  myself.  "  Consider  the  value  of  such  rimber 
nere."  Here  the  needles  don't  prick,  and  the  pencils  do  :  and  as  to 
elastic  bracelets,  you  may  go  to  a  ball,  if  you  please,  in  a  couple  ol 
nisty  iron  hoops  made  to  fit.  Do  you  know  that  1  had  half  a  mind 
lo  accept  your  offer  of  coming  over  to  take  us  to  Kngland,  purely 
that  you  might  go  back  without  us — including  ^ovM  Ma>i  \u  vVc  wvtMi- 
lime.     Von  nntst  not  raise  such  images  to  cxi\c5  wvlVouV  ttsfftiro^ 


Tli4  GentleniafCs  Magazint. 


them.  I  hope  some  *lay  or  other  to  he  able  to  take  some  oppoi 
of  running  over  during  a  summer,  though  Mary  Shelley  will  taush 
this  aniJ  I  know  not  what  Marianne  Hunt  would  say  to  iL  Proflip 
fellow  that  I  am  !  I  never  slept  out  of  ray  bed  ever  since  1  was 
married,  but  two  nights  at  Sydenham.  As  to  coming  to  England  to 
slay,  it  is  quite  out  cf  the  question  for  cither  of  us  at  prcHcnt.  The 
winters  would  kill  her  side  and  my  head.  On  the  other  hand,  Ihe 
vessel  in  her  side  is  absolutely  closing  again  here  in  winter  time,  and 
our  happier  prospects  in  other  respects  render  the  prospect  happier 
in  (his.  Cannot  jou  a.s  well  as  C.  C.  come  with  Novcllo?  Biing 
some  of  the  children  with  you.  Why  cannot  you  all  come — you  and 
Statia,  and  Mrs.  Williams,  and  Mary  S.,  and  Miss  Kent,  and  Holmi 
{to  study),  and  ever)'  other  possible  and  impossible  body?  Wi 
mc  another  good,  kind,  long  letter,  to  show  that  you  forgive 
heartily  for  not  writing  myself  aod  tell  me  all  these  oJld  a  thousand 
other  things.  I  think  of  you  all  every  day  more  or  less,  but  par- 
ticularly on  sui:h  days  as  birth-days  and  'IVclUhdays.  We  drant: 
your  health  the  other  night  sitting  in  our  country  solitude,  and 
longinit  ifijiiiiiel)\  as  we  often  do,  for  a  larger  party — but  always  a 
party  from  home.  What  a  hinhnight  you  gave  mc !  These  are 
laurels  indeed!  ^  'J'ell  me  in  your  next  how  all  the  children  arc,  not 
forgetting  (^laro,  who  threatened  in  a  voice  of  tender  acquiescence 
to  throw  us  all  out  of  the  window,  herself  included.  All  our  children 
I'ontiniic  extremely  well,  little  Vincent  amorg  them,  who  is  one  of  the 
liveliest  yet  gentlest  creatures  in  the  world. 

Pray  remember  me  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  B.  H.  1  would  give  anything 
at  present  to  hear  one  of  her  songs  ;  and  I  suppose  she  would  give 
.inyiliing  to  have  a  little  of  my  sunshine.  Such  is  the  world  !  But 
it  makes  one  love  and  help  one  another  too.  So  love  mc  and  bc)[> 
mc  still,  dear  friends  all.  L.   H, 

To  M.  S.  N. 

Florence,  November  13th,  1S24. 
Oh,  Wii.KLri. !— Am  I  to  expect  another  birthday  letter?  If  so 
(but  two  sitt;h  birthdays  can  hardly  come  together),  1  will  do  my  bert 
to  be  grateful,  and  send  you  a  w;/r///-day  letter.  Do  you  know  that 
however  ditTcrcntly-shapcd  you  may  regard  yourself  at  present  at 
Sliacklcwell,  here  at  Horcnce  you  arc  a  square?  and  that  1  am 
writing  at  present  in  one  of  your  second  stories  at  ^[^s.  llrown's 
lodgings,  who  can  only  find  ine  this  h.ilf  sheet  of  paper  10  write 
upon  ?  J  iliould  have  tliouglu  better  of  you,  considering  yoii  have 
'.])e  literary  interest  so  much  at  heart.  Vour  name  is  Siwcta  Maria 
.\v:xHiT,  and  there  is  a  church  in  a  corner  of  you,  which  makes  a 
t'igure  in  the  opening  of  Hoccaccio's  "Decatuerou."  So  adieu,  drar 
Sancla. — liver  youn*,  sick  or  mcrr)-,  L.  R 

To  Mrs.  Novello,  to  Mrs.  Gliddon,  to  "  dear  Arthur." 

Florence,  September  7tli,  1825. 
The  Ladies  firei— To  Mrs.  Novcllo, 
.IJ.iiMM,— My  |ulitnce  is  not  so  easily  vom  out  as  your  WilfuUhiii 
imsigincn.     I  allow  you  have  ae*:u  xok.  \vss\a\\K^\  o(  Ixie  on  tuie  sult- 
ject;  but  I  beg  you  to  beUcve  1  confcn^  w\i(  wa-WtA  V'-vxVwii^i ; 


^ 


lecoUciihrn  of  Wriicrs. 


239 


that  single  point    That  is  the  wolf  in  my  liArmony.    On  all  other 
nutters  (a  Uircc-ycars^an do-half 's  dilapidation  excepted)  you  will  find 
^joe  the  same  man  I  was  ever— lialf  melancholy  aud  half  mirth — and 
Hnatcfully  ready  to  forego  the  one  whenever  in  the  company  of  my 
^Hiend$.    So,  NUdam,  I'd  have  you  to  know  tliat  I  am  extremely* 
^Baticnt,  and  lliat  if  I  do  not  {ake  courage  it  is  because  I  have  U 
^Tlfcudy  ;  and  you  must  farther  know,  Madnm,  that  we  do  not  mean 
to  live  ul  Plymouth,  Init  at  a  reasonable  distance  from  town ;  and 
also  that  if  wc  cannot  gel  a  cottage  to  go  into  immediately  we  shall 
go  fur  a  month  or  tiro  into  metropolitan  lodgings :  iUm,  that  we 
shall  all  be  glad  to  hear  of  any  cottage  twenty  or  twenty-five  miles  off, 
or  any  lodgmgs  in  any  quiet  and  cheap  street  in  London ;  farther- 
more,  tlui  besides  taking  courage,  we  have  taken  the  coach  from 
Florence  to  Calais ;  and  finally,  ihat  we  set  off  next  Saturday,  the 
loth  instant,  and  by  the  time  you  receive  this  shall  be  at  the  foot  of 
the  Alps.    "  I  think  here  be  proofs."    \Vc  go  by  Parma,  Turin,  Mont 
Cenis,  Lyons,  and  Paris.     Mrs.  Shelley  will  be  better  able  to  tell  yon 
where  a  letter  can  reach  ns  than  I  can — yet  a  calculation,  loo,  might 
be  made,  for  we  (ravel  forty  miles  a  day,  and  stop  four  days  out  of 
the  thirty-one  allotted  to  us ;  one  at  Modcna,  one  at  Turin,  one  at 
Lyons,  one  at  Paris.    Can  we  do  anything  for  you?    I  wish  I  could 
bring  you  some  bottled  sunshine  for  your  fruitlrccs.     It  is  a  drug  we 
arc  iircd  uf  here.     Mud — mud— Is  our  object;  cold  weather  out  of 
dvcri,  and  warm  hearts  within.     By  the  way,  as  yo\i  know  notliing 
about  it,  I  must  tell  you  that  somebody  has  been  dedicating  a  book 
to  inc  under  the  title  of  "  A  Uay  in  Stowe  Cardens  "  (send  and  buy  it 
for  ray  sake),  and  it  is  a  very  pretty  book,  tluiugh  witli  the  airs 
natural  to  a  dedicatee,  1  have  picked  some  verbal  faults  with  it  here 
and  there.    What  I  like  least  is  the  story  larded  with  French  cookery. 
Some  of  ilie  others  made  me  shed  tears,  which  is  very  hard  upon  me, 
^^om  a:i  Old  Ik>y  (fur  such  on  inspection  you  will  find  the  author  to 
^Be) ;   1  should  not  have  minded  it   had  it  been  a  woman.     The 
^^panish  Tale  ends  with  a  truly  dramatic  surprise;  and  the  Magdalen 
Story  made  m%  long  to  htiy  all  the  parties  concerned,  the  writer 
included.     So  get  the  book,  and  like  it,  as  you  regard  the  sympathies 
and  honours  of  yours,  ever  cordially,  L.   H. 


I 


¥ 


if 


To  Mrs.  Gliddon. 
Welt.  Madam,  and  as  to  you.  They  tell  me  you  are  getting  rich  : 
so  you  are  to  suppose  that  during  my  silence  1  have  been  standing 
u]X)n  the  dignity  of  my  character,  as  a  i»oor  patriot,  and  not  chosen 
y>  risk  a  sus|)icion  of  my  independence.  Being  •*  Peadi-Face,"  and 
'""  Nice-One,"  and  missing  your  sister's  children,  I  might  have  vcn- 
iired  to  express  my  regard  ;  but  how  am  I  to  appear  before  the  rich 
lady  and  the  Sultana?  I  suppose  you  never  go  out  but  in  a  covered 
iticr,  forty  blacks  clearing  the  way.  Then  you  enter  the  bath,  alt 
f  pcrftunetl  water,  and  beautiful  attendant  slaves,  like  full  moons : 
after  which  you  retire  into  a  delicious  apartment,  walled  with  irellia- 
work  Qf  mothcr-of-i«eArI,  covered  witli  myrtle  and  roses,  and  whist- 
ling with  a  fountain ;  and  clapping  your  lunds,  ten  aViv^a  TO^itt 
beautiful  than  the  last  serve  up  an  unheard-ot  drautt  ■.  iSvM  N*\Cvt^^ 


I 


230  The  Genltetnaii s  Magazine. 

twenty  slaves,  much  more  beautiful  than  those,  play  to  you  upon" 
lutes ;  after  which  the  Sultan  comes  in.  uiion  which  thirty  *la/«. 
infinitely  more  beautiful  than  the  preceding,  sinj;  the  most  e\qui«Te 
compliments  out  of  the  Eastern  poets,  and  a  pi|*e,  forty  yards  long, 
and  fresh  from  the  Uivan,  is  sen-ed  up,  burning  with  the  Sultan's 
mixture,  and  the  totit^uin  bean.     However,  1  shall  come  for  a  chop. 

Dear   Mr.    Arthur,— I   am  called  off   in  the    midst  of  my 

oriental  description,  and  have  only  time  to  say    that  I  tlunl:  y«u 
heartily  for  your   zeal    and   kindness  in    my  behalf,  and  am  san: 
Novello  could  not  have  cho<!cn  a  second  more  agreeable  to  rnvvlf, 
whatever  the  persons  concerned  may  resolve  upon.     I  hope 
^hafcc  you  by  the  hand. 


mv-self,     , 

SOODtoJ 

■I 


The  following  oue  affords  a  specimen  of  the  manfUl  way  in  wfcidi 
lA'igh  Hunt  dealt  with  depression,  and  strove  to  l>e  cheery  for  his 
friends'  sake,  in  acknowledgment  of  their  friendship  for  him : 


To  V.  N.  and  M.  S.  K. 

Paris,  October  Sih,  1815. 
Dear  Frif.ni>s, — I  can  write  you  Txit  a  word.  We  shall  be  11 
London  next  Thursday,  provided  thtfte  is  room  in  the  sleamboat,  as 
we  understand  there  rrrt.iinly  will  he  :  but  we  arc  not  certain  of  the 
hour  of  anivaL  They  talk  here  at  the  agency  ofhce  of  the  boats 
leaving  Calais  at  two  In  the  morning  (night-time).  If  so,  we  ought 
10  he  in  toivn  at  one.  This,  however,  is  not  to  be  dei>endedon; 
and  there  will  not  be  time  to  write  to  you  again.  The  best  wa]r, 
I  think,  would  be  to  send  a  note  for  us  to  the  place  where  the  boat 
jiuts  up,  staling  where  the  lodgings  are.  The  lodgings  (by  the  nighl 
]>ost)  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  take  for  us  {if  there  is  time)  in  the 
"luietest  and  airiest  situation  you  have  met  with.  We  prefer,  for 
instance,  the  street  in  the  Hampstead  Road,  or  thereabouts,  to  the 
one  ill  l^ndoo  Street,  to  whicli  said  street  I  happen  to  haw  a 
particular  objection  ;  said  particular  objection,  however,  being  of  no 
account,  if  it  cannot  be  helped.  Should  any  ciraimstance  prevent 
onr  having  a  note  at  the  boat-ofiicc  we  shall  put  up  in  the  nei^- 
bourhood  for  the  night,  and  communicate  with  you  as  fast  ti 
possible.  ....  I  write  in  ill  spirits,  which  the  sight  of  >-oor  faces, 
and  the  firm  work  I  have  to  set  about,  xvill  do  away,  I  feel  that  tJic 
only  way  to  settle  these  things  is  to  meet  and  get  through  thctn. 
sword  in  hand,  as  stoully  as  I  may.  If  I  delayed  1  might  be  pinned 
for  ever  to  a  distance,  like  a  fluttering  bird  to  a  wall,  and  so  die  in 
that  helpless  yearning.  I  have  been  mistaken.  During  my  strength 
my  weakness,  perhaps,  only  was  apparent ;  now  tliat  I  am  weaker, 
indignatioQ  has  given  a  tittip  to  my  suength.  Hut  how  am  1 
digressing)  1  said  I  should  only  write  a  word,  and  1  certainly  did 
not  intend  that  that  word  should  he  upon  any  lcs»  agreeable  subject 
.xhan  a  steamboat  Yet  I  nuist  .ndd,  that  I  remember  the  memo 
randum  you  allude  to  about  tW  baVance.  I  laid  it  to  a  very  dil- 
ferent  account .'       Lord '.  lx>id ;    We\\  m^  Acm  N\iyxa.v^"»i  have 


1 


ii»^i 


Recollections  of  Writers.  23 1 

a  considerable  fool  for  your  friend,  but  one  who  is  nevertheless 
wise  enough  to  be,  very  truly  yours, 

L,  H. 

P.S. — Thanks  to  the  two  Marys  for  their  kind  letters.  I  must 
bring  them  the  answers  myself.  This  is  what  women  ought  to  do. 
They  ought  to  be  very  kind  and  write,  and  read  books,  and  go 
about  through  the  mud  for  their  friends. 

The  three  next  give  an  excellent  idea  of  Leigh  Hunt's  manner  of 
writing  to  a  friend  suiTering  from  nervous  illness :  by  turns  remon- 
strating, rallying,  urging,  humouring,  consoling  and  strengthening — 
all  done  tenderly,  and  with  true  affection  for  the  friend  addressed : — 

To  V.  N, 

30,  Hadlow  Street,  Dec  6th,  1825. 
My  dear  Novello, — I  expected  you  at  Harry  Robertson's,  and 
I  looked  for  you  last  fine  We4pesday  at  Highgate,  and  I  have  been 
to  seek  you  to-day  at  Shacklewell.  I  thought  we  were  sometimes  to 
have  two  Sabbaths,  always  one,  and  I  find  we  have  none.  How  is 
this  ?  If  you  are  not  well  enough  to  meet  me  at  Highgate,  and  will  not 
make  yourself  better  by  coming  and  living  near  your  fHends  some- 
where, why  I  must  come  to  you  at  Shacklewell  on  a  Wednesday, 
that's  all ;  and  come  I  will,  unless  you  will  have  none  of  me.  I 
should  begin  to  have  fears  on  that  score,  when  I  hear  that  you  are 
in  town  twice  a  week,  and  yet  never  come  near  me ;  but  in  truth, 
coxcomb  as  i  have  been  called,  and  as  I  sometimes  fear  I  show 
myself  when  I  talk  of  prevailing  on  ray  friends  to  do  this  and  that, 
ihis  is  a  blow  which  would  really  be  too  hard  for  the  vanity  of,  and 
let^mejadd,  the  affection  of  your  ever  true  fnend, 

Leigh  Hunt. 

WUl  you  not  give  us  a  call  this  evening,  and  at  what  time  ?  Have 
I  not  a  chop  for  a  friend  ?  And  is  there  not  Souchong  in  the  town 
of  Somers  ? 

(To  he  contimud.) 


The  Shadow  of  the  Sword. 


A  ROMANCE, 
BY  ROBERT   BUCHANAN. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 


VlCTOfeV. 


rben 

IluCt 


^T  was  the  work  of  a  moment  for  Rohan,  exerting  ai 
extraordinary  strengili,  to  hurl  back  the  two  ladders,  ibfr! 
highest  mngs  of  which  rested  against  the  foot  of  the  7>vif. 
Fortunalely,  Chose  upon  Uiem  had  nut  climbed  far,  and  f^l 
backwards  shrickinj;,  but  little  harmed ;  while,  urged  to  frenzy  by  the 
appearance  of  the  besieging  crowd,  Rohan  straightway  commenced 
to  hurl  down  upon  the  mass  the  ponderous  fragments  of  rock  which 
he  had  pUiccd,  ready  for  use,  at  the  Cave's  inouth.  Shrieks,  cries, 
oaths  arose;  and  the  men  withdrevriumuUuously  out  of  reach.  Then 
a  voice  shrieked  "  Kire  !"  and  a  shower  of  bullets  rained  nniod 
deserter's  form;  but  all  missed  their  mark. 

It  vrzs  DOiv  quite  clear  tliat  Pipriac,  weary  of  so  long  waJti 
hud  made  up  his  marlioL  uiiud  to  carry  the  position  by  stonu.  U 
cover  of  the  firing  a  number  of  ^rniiarMfs  advanced  again,  and  the 
ladders  were  once  more  placed  against  the  dripping  wall  of  the  "Altar"; 
but  in  another  moment  the  besiegers  were  again  baffled  and  driven 
back  by  terrible  showers  of  rocks  and  stones.  More  like  a  wild  beast 
than  a  human  creature,  Rohan  flitted  above  in  the  dark  moutit  of  the 
Cave  :  silently,  willi  inad  outrcachinganns,  gathering  and  discharging 
his  rude  ammunition ;  gazing  hungrily  and  fiercely  down  on  the 
cruel  faces  congregating  below  him ;  uking  of  tlie  bullets  }>ouiiag 
around  him  no  more  heed  than  he  might  have  done  of  falling  rain  or 
hail.  In  theii  excitement  and  fury  the  men  aimed  wildly  and  at 
random  ;  so  that,  although  his  body  was  a  constant  target  for  their 
bullets,  the  deserter  remained  unliarmcd. 

Presently,  discovering  all  attempts  to  be  unavailing,  the  gcitdtt. 
withdrew  back  out  of  reach  in  eager  consultation.     Behind  tl 
filling  the  aperture  of  the  Ga.te,  gathered  villagers  of  both 
from  whose  lips  &om  time  to  lime  came  low  ciies  of  terror  and 
amaze. 


I 


The  S/iadaw  of  tJie  Sword.  233 

Finding  the  position  liis  own  and  his  security  no  longer  assailed,, 
Rohan  withdrew  back  into  the  Cave. 

But  the  patience  of  the  bcsiejfcrs  had  Ikcu  long  exhausted,  and  the 
suspension  of  attack  was  not  destined  to  last  long.  Now  tliat  they 
possessed  scaling  ladders  and  other  implements  of  attack  ready  to 
Uietr  hand,  they  were  determined  at  :]ny  risk  to  uueartii  the  creature 
vrho  had  resisted  tlicm  so  calmly  for  so  prolonged  a  period.  Dead 
oraiive,  they  would  secure  him  ;  and  that  night.  The  storm  which 
was  raging  all  around  did  not  interfere  with  their  inana-uvrcs  ;  on  the 
€:onlrary,  it  facilitated  ihcm ;  and  from  time  to  time,  when  the  moon 
was  veiled  uiM]cr  the  clouds  and  all  was  darkness  and  confusion,  the 
assault  seemed  easy. 

Under  cover  of  a  sharp  fire  of  bullets  given  by  a  file  of  gcmhirmfs 
told  off  for  that  purjMse,  a  number  of  men  again  advanced  to  the^_ 
attack.  Lying  flat  on  his  face,  Rohan  kepi  liimself  well  concealed^^J 
behind  the  heap  of  rocks  and  stones  which  lie  had  accumulated  at 
tlic  niuuth  of  the  Cave;  so  that,  although  he  presented  no  mark  for 
the  bullets,  his  arms  were  ready  to  precipit;ttc  his  heavy  missiles  on 
those  below.  So  soon  as  the  advance  n-as  uuide,  and  the  ladders 
were  rested  against  the  face  of  the  cliff,  the  defence  began  anew. 

Showers  of  rocks,  great  and  smalt,  rolled  down  from  the  Tron. 
Had  some  of  the  larger  missiles  slnick  their  mark  the  result  would 
speedily  have  been  fatal;  but  the  besiegers  were  wary,  and  by  their 
rapid  movements  escaped  much  of  Rohan's  i>oini-bIank  fire.  From 
lime  to  time,  indeed,  llicrc  was  a  yell  of  fury  when  a  stray  stone 
struck  home  and  caused  some  furious  besieger  to  limp  or  crawl  _ 
back  to  his  comrades  in  the  safe  part  of  the  Cathedral ;  but  as  yeti^^l 
no  man  was  dangerously  hurt,  and  etc  long  the  ladders  were  again  ^* 
safely  placed  against  the  clilT,  and  men  began  rapidly  to  ascend.  It 
was  now  that  Rohan,  springing  erect  and  holding  high  in  the  air  a 
huge  fragment  of  rock,  dashed  it  down  widi  incredible  force  and  fury 
on  one  of  the  ladders.  Fortunately,  no  human  being  had  reached  the 
point  where  the  rock  struck  j  but  the  rungs  of  the  ladder  snapped  like 
dry  faggois,  and  amid  a  yell  of  execration,  the  entire  Udder  itself 
collapsed,  and  those  who  were  cliiubing  fell  back  hea\'ily,  bleeding 
and  half  stunned. 

"Fire!  fire"*  slirickcd  Pipriac,  pointing  at  the  figure  of  Rohan, 
which  was  now  distinctly  visible  above  him  in  the  moonlighL  Before 
the  command  could  be  obeyed  Rohan  had  crouchcddown  under 
shriier,  and  the  ballets  rained  harmlessly  round  the  spot  where  he 
had  just  stood. 


234 


TIu  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 


"Dtvill  deserter!  dmtanf"  yelled  the  infumted  Sergeant, 
shaking  his  fist  im[>otcnt]>-  at  the  Trm.  "  We  will  have  yon  alive  or 
dead  ! " — and  turning  .igain  to  his  men,  Uc  cried,  "  Fortk-ard  again ! 
to  the  .tttack  ! " 

Again  the  body  of  men  moved  forward  under  cover  of  fire,  and 
again  llie  extraordinary  contest  was  renewed. 

It  W.1S  a  scene  to  be  remembered.  The  dark  masses  mo\iiig  and 
crj-ing  in  the  Cathedral,  with  glistening  of  bayonets  and  flashing  of  guns ; 
llie  wild  astonished  groups  of  villagers  congregated  ai  the  Gate,  Cir 
without  which  the  sea  was  roaring  and  gleaming  in  furious  storm ;  the 
great  black  fiUffs  above,  reaching  up  as  it  were  into  the  very  heaven, 
and  ever  and  again  gleaming  like  sheet  lightning  under  the  sudden 
illumination  of  the  moon  ;  and  high  up  above  the  Cathedral  floor  the 
lonely  Cave,  with  the  wild  figure  of  a  nun  coming  and  going  across  it 
like  a  ghosl.  To  the  cannonade  of  wind  and  sea,  before  which  the 
mighty  cmgs  seemed  to  shake  to  their  fouadatiuiu^  there  was  added 
the  sharp  sound  of  the  muskets  and  the  hoarse  roaring  from  the 
threats  of  men;  but  at  intervals,  when  all  sounds  ceased  for  an 
instant,  both  the  roar  of  tlie  elements  and  the  disturbing  cries  of 
mortals,  the  stillness  was  deathlike  though  uiomentar)*,  and  you 
could  distinctly  hear  the  cry  of  some  disturbed  sea-bird  far  u[>  amoa| 
the  crags. 

The  conflict  greiv  tumultuous.  .\s  a  succession  of  huge  clouds 
came  up  obscuring  the  moon  for  many  minutes  together,  there  ww 
frequently  almost  total  darkness. 

Only  the  cxtraorciinary  impregnability  of  Rohan's  position  pre- 
vented it  from  being  carried  twenty  times  over ;  for  xi  the  time  flew, 
and  the  atuck  continued  unabated,  the  man's  strength  began  to  fiul 
him.  Hours  passed,  and  he  still  succeeded  in  keeping  his  enenua 
at  bay;  but  his  hands  were  bleeding  from  ihe  sharp  rocks,  his  head 
seemed  whirling  round,  his  eyes  were  blinded  with  fatigue,  and  he 
heard  rather  than  saw  the  crowd  lliat  nigcd  ;tnd  climbed  bcneatli  liis 
feet.  Tor  remember,  he  was  spent  with  burner,  woni  with  loDg 
watching  aiid  waiting,  and  he  possessed  only  a  tithe  of  his  old 
gigantic  strengtii. 

Again  and  again  the  besiegers  were  repulsed ;  more  than  one  was 
woimded  and  had  crept  away;  but  the  shower  of  rocks  continued 
terrific  whenever  they  approached  again.  Over  all  the  other  tumult 
rose  the  voice  of  Fijiriac  urging  on  his  men. 

Had  the  ^aularmes  been  marksmen  Rohan  would  have  fallen  early  ■ 
in  the  fight ;  but  paaly  from  want  of  skill,  and  [lortly  from  excessive 
vxcitement,  Ihey  fired  at  random,  unuV  vhe«  ammim,ition  was  almost 


TIi€  Sitadffiu  of  £/ie  Sword. 


=  35 


M.iny  hoars  had  passed  away  whea  the  besiegers  iiude  a  final 
atudc,  more  desperate  than  any  that  had  Ltken  place  before. 
Advancing  umler  cover  of  darkness,  they  set  their  ladtlcr  against 
the  cliff,  while  their  comrades  covered  the  mouth  of  ihc  Ca%'e  with 
their  gunii.  In  a  moment  Rohan  had  sprung  up  again,  and  had 
hurled  back  the  Liddcr  with  Ircmcndons  strength.  There  was  a  (1ash| 
— a  roar— and  once  more  the  bullets  rained  round  him.  He  drew 
bock  startled,  and  before  he  could  recover  himself  the  assault  M*as 
Tcnewed. 

Simultaneously  will)  the  central  attack  two  gtnifur/Hes,  taking  off 
their  shoes  and  holding  their  bayonets  between  their  teeth,  began, 
completely  unstevn  and  unsuspected,  to  make  their  way  upward  by 
the  fissures  in  the  rock  at  the  side  of  the  "  Altar."  Rohan  had  twice 
again  hurled  back  the  ladder,  and  was  in  the  act  of  discharging  down 
a  fresh  volley  of  stones,  when  he  was  startled  by  the  apparition  of 
two  human  faces  arising  at  his  feet  and  glaring  upward.  A  wild 
excbnmiion  burst  from  his  lips,  and  stooping  down,  he  loosened  &om 
ihe  rock  at  his  feet  two  convulsive  human  hands. 

With  a.  shrill  cry  the  man  fell  backward  iolo  the  crowd  below  ; 
fortunately  his  fall  was  broken  by  the  moving  heaving  mass,  and 
although  be  was  half  stunned  and  had  half  stunned  several  others,  no 
life  was  lost.  Meantime  iiis  companion,  fcarhil  of  meeting  the  same 
(ate,  Iwd  mpidly  dcFccndcd. 

But  in  the  meantime  the  ladder  was  again  fixed  and  held  firmly 
down  against  the  cliff,  while  more  men  were  rapidly  climbing.  By 
this  time  Rohan  was  well  nigh  exhausted  and  yielding  rapidly  to  a 
species  of  vertigo.  He  no  longer  saw  his  enemies,  but,  seizing  rocTt 
after  rock,  he  hurled  them  down  furiously  into  tlie  darkness  !  Sud- 
denly, however,  he  became  conscious  of  dark  figures  rising  to 
him  from  below.  His  head  swam  round.  Uplifting  with  all  his 
strength  a  gigantic  fragment  of  rock,  almost  the  last  remaining  of  his 
store,  he  |x>iscd  it  for  one  moment  over  his  head,  and  then,  with  a 
wild  cry,  hurled  it  downward  at  the  sh.^pes  he  saw  approaching ! 
There  was  a  crash,  a  shriek ;  under  the  frightful  weight  of  the  rock 
the  ladder  yielded,  and  the  figures  upon  it  shrank  groaning  down  ; 
horrible  cries  followed,  of  agony  and  terror ; — and  then,  overcome  by 
Itis  exriiement  and  fatigue,  Kohan  swooned  away. 


How  long  he  lay  unconscious  he  could  not  tell;  but  when  he 

opened  liis  eyes  he  was  l)'ing  unmolested  in  the  mouth  of  the  Cave. 
The  wind  was  still  cryiug  and  the  sea  was  still  roaring,  but  all  oth^r 
sounds  were  silent ;  and  when,  remembering  K\s  tcccta  ij*^,  wa,?i. 


The  Gmllanans  Magazim, 


Utiir  expecting  to  tind  himself  face  to  face  with  his  enemies,  he 
started  up  and  gazed  around  him,  he  saw  no  sign  of  any  homaal 
being.  Tlie  moon  iras  out  without  a  cloud,  her  beams  were 
ftooding  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Gilda^;  and  lo  1  the  faaining  tide  \aA 
eutered  Uie  Gate  and  was  rapidly  creepiug  nearer  and  neater  to  the 
great  Altar.  The  silence  was  now  explained.  The  hesicgcn  had 
withdrawn  as  before  at  the  tide's  approach,  and  leF^  him  master  ol. 
the  situation. 

Peering  over  Into  the  gloom  he  saw  the  shingle  below 
strewn  with  huge  rocks  and  stones,  the  dlbris  of  the  recent  struj 
but  of  any  lingering  hunian  being  there  was  no  sign.  Indeed.  Tor 
any  one  remaining  in  the  Cathedral,  and  lacking  the  skill  or  power 
to  ascend  lo  the  Cave,  there  would  only  have  been  one  doom— a 
swift  deatli  in  tlie  cruel  crawling  tide.  Inch  by  inch,  foot  by  foot, 
the  slunny  waters  were  coming  in,  and  already  the  great  Calhednl 
tloor  W.15  half  paved  witii  the  liquid  shimmering  pools. 

Well,  the  battle  was  over,  and  he  had  conquered ;  and,  indeed, 
properly  provisioned  for  llic  purpose,  and  duly  recovered  from  the 
effects  of  his  long  privation,  he  could  have  held  the  position  for  an 
indehnite  jieriod  against  hundreds  of  men,  But  now,  alas  1  all  bis 
force  liad  gone  from  him.  Hunger  and  cold  had  done  th«r  wort, 
and  the  last  citadel  of  his  bodily  strength  seemed  overct>me. 
Trembling  and  shivering  he  Iook.i.-d  around  him,  conscious  of  no 
feeling  save  a  sense  of  utter  desolation  and  despair.  He  Iiad  hdd 
out  bravely,  but  he  knew  that  he  could  hold  out  no  longer;  he  was 
safe  for  a  little  space,  but  he  knew  that  his  persecutors  would  soon 
return ;  and  altogether  both  man  and  God  seemed  against  Xxoi 
he  had  feared  and  believed  from  the  beginning. 

The  Gate  of  tlie  Cathedral  was  now  full  of  the  boiling,  nia 
whiriing  waveSj  and  the  lloor  was  niorc  than  two-thirds  covered. 
roar  like  thunder  was  tn  tlie  air,  and  the  salt  flakes  of  foam  were 
blown  by  the  wind  up  into  his  very  face.  As  he  stooped  again, 
gaeing  down,  he  beheld  for  the  fust  time  right  under  him  in  the 
moonlight  somelhing  which  rivclted  his  attention,  something  dirV 
and  moveless,  extended  on  the  shingle  immediately  below  the  Cave. 
and  toivards  which  tlie  tide  was  rapidly  rushing,  with  white  lips  , 
ready  to  touch  and  t?ar  I  ^H 

He  gazed  on  for  some  moments  in  silent  fascination,  with  M^^ 
heart  quite  cold  and  sick  with  dread;  then,  eager  to  satisfy  a  wild 
curiosity,  he  preiiared  to  descend  the  face  of  the  cliff. 


a  soon 


The  Shadow  of  the  Sword. 


337 


CHAPTER  XXXVll. 

THE    MIRAGE    OP    LCIPSIC. 

Slowly,  sn-inging  in  the  darkness,  Rohan  descended  the  face  of 
Ihc  cliff  until  he  reached  the  narrow  place  of  shingle  below,  on  which 
the  troubled  tide  was  momentarily  creeping ;  and  suddenly  iJie 
moonliglit  came  out  anew  upon  the  Cathedral,  flooding  its  weedy 
walls  and  watery  floor  with  streams  of  liquid  silver.  *nie  wind  still 
shrieked  and  moaned,  and  the  sea  roared  terribly  without  the  Gate  \ 
but  within  the  Cathedral  there  was  a  solenm  calm,  as  in  some  cot 
secraled  temple  made  by  hands. 

Slipping  6q\xxv  upon  the  wet  shingle,  and  involunLirily  looking 
from  side  to  side  in  dread  of  a  pursuer,  R^ihan  saw  the  sea  rushlngj 
in  through  the  Gate  with  a  roar  like  thunder  and  a  snow-white  flash  of 
foam  ;  and  the  waters  as  they  entered  boiled  in  eddies  whirling  round 
and  round,  while  the  great  faraway  heart  of  the  ocean  uplifted  tlicin 
in  one  throbbing  pulsation  till  they  washed  and  splashed  wildly 
against  the  dripping  walls.  Overhead  the  mo^-ing  he.nvcns,  roofing 
ihe  great  Cathedral,  were  sailing  past,  drifting  and  changing, 
brightening  and  d.iT]tening,  in  one  wild  rush  of  wavclikc  shades  and 
gleams.  So  loud  was  the  tumult  ;hat  it  would  have  drowned  a 
strong  roan's  shritk  as  easily  as  an  infant's  cry. 

But  the  light  of  the  moon  increased,  illuming  the  boiling  surgdJ 
uHlhin  the  Gate  and  creeping  onward  until  it  touched  the  rery  feet  of 
the  fugitive.  Kohan  shivered,  as  if  a  cold  hand  had  been  hiid  on  his 
shoulder;  for  the  rays  fell  luminously  on  something  horrible — on  a 
white  ^is-cz  upturned  to  the  sky. 

He  drew  back  with  a  shudder.  After  a  moment  he  looked  again. 
The  Cice  still  there,  touched  by  the  glimmering  fingers  of  the  moon  ; 
and  half  testing  on  the  shingle,  half  submerged  in  the  waters  of  the 
still  rising  tide,  was  the  body  of  a  man. 

One  of  the  great  rocks  hurled  down  by  Rohan  in  his  iiud  fury  had 
struck  the  creature  down  ;  and  hence,  doubtless,  that  wild  shriek  of 
horror  which  had  arisen  from  his  pursuers  before  ihey  fled.  Tlic 
rock  still  lay  upon  the  man's  crushed  breast,  fot  death  had  been 
instantaneous,  fine  white  hand  glimmered  from  beneath,  while  the 
awful  face  looked  with  open  c'j-zi  at  heaven. 

Words  cannot  depict,  human  language  is  too  weak  to  represent, 
the  feelings  which  at  that  moment  filled  the  soul  of  Rohan  Uwenfero. 
\  dull,  dumb  sciuation,  morally  the  analogue  of  the  physical  feeling 
of  intense  cold,  numbed  and  for  the  time  being  paxaV^seA  Vvs 
fcculden;  so  that  he  sM^gered  and  almosi  kW  ■,  aT\i\v\%  cj's'c\,\wtM\. 


43S  The  Gmtlmtans  Magazine. 

sccmcil  crushed  tinder  a  load  like  the  rock  upon  the  dead  man' 
breast.     Fire  flashed  before  his  e>'es,  with  a  horrid  glimmer  of  blood. 
He  W2S  comiwllcd  to  lean  hts  head  against  a  crag,  breathing  han'. 
like  a  thing  m  mortal  pain. 

His  first  wild  emotions  of  wrath  and  bloodthirst  had  worn  awsy, 
now  Uiat  his  enemies  were  do  longer  near  to  fan  the  fierce  fkuncs  to 
fur)'>     The  battle  was  over,  and  he  was  the  Victor,  standing  alo: 
upon  the  field ;  and  at  his  feet,  the  slain. 

If  at  that  moment  his  persecutors  had  returned  he  might  have 
renewed  the  fray,  have  struck  again,  and  have  been  ihcoccforth 
insensible  to  blood ;  but  it  had  been  so  willed  that  his  victory  should 
be  complete  as  well  as  single  ;  his  enemies  would  not  return  that 
night,  and  tlicy  lud  left  behind  them,  glimmering  solitary 
moonlight,  tlieir  dead  1 

Bear  in  mind  that  Rohan,  like  alt  men  of  hts  race  and  r«1 
had  been  familiar  with  Death  before,  under  other  and  more  licau 
conditions.  The  gentle  sleep  of  men  and  women  dying  in  their 
beds;  the  low  farewell  of  wearied  out  old  age,  blest  by  the  Churdi 
and  consecrated  by  the  priest— these  he  knew  well ;  and  he  had 
loved  to  hear  tlae  solemn  music  of  the  Celtic  dirge  sung  round  the 
slirouded  forms  of  those  who  had  passed  away  under  natural  cir- 
cumstances. His  hands  were  bloodless  then.  He  had  now  to 
realise,  under  the  fullest  and  most  terrible  of  conditions,  the  presence 
of  the  cold  Phantom  as  it  appears  to  the  eyes  of  miuxlerers  and  of 
uninitiated  men  upon  the  battlefield.  He  had  now  to  conceive,  witli 
a  horrible  and  sickening  fascination,  that  his  hands  had  destroyed  thit 
strangest  and  solemnest  of  mysteries— a  breathing,  moving  human 
life. 

True,  he  was  vindicated  by  the  circumstance  that  he  had  merd!" 
stricken  iu  selfdefence ;  but  what  is  circumstance  to  one  whose  soul, 
like  Rohan  Gwenfem's,  is  fashioned  of  stuff  as  sensitive  as  the  feelers 
of  the  gleaming  medusa;  of  the  ocean  ?  For  hint  there  was  btai 
one  perception.  K  blinding  white  light  of  agony  arose  before  him. 
He,  whose  heart  was  framed  of  gentleness,  whose  nature  was  Iwrii 
and  bred  in  love  and  kindness,  he  out  of  whose  hand  the  lamb  ate 
and  the  dove  fed,  who  had  never  before  destroyed  any  ciealure  willi 
life,  not  even  the  helpless  sea-birds  of  the  crags,  had  now  done  dreadfcl 
murder,  lud  hurried  into  eternity  the  miserable  soul  of  a  fellow  man 
For  him,  for  Kohan  (iwenfern,  there  was  no  vindication,  life  wto 
l>oisoncd  to  hiiii ;  the  air  he  breathed  «-as  sick  and  sacrificial.  T 
then,  iras  Ihe  end  of  all  his  dreams  of  love  and  peace  ! 

The  c/oiids  drifted  above  Viina  vfrtV  ftYm^^'iMOi  <A  TOWEKSC'j^'^Ott 


The  S/uidow  of  the  Sword. 

wind  shrieked  and  the  sea  roared  with  hollow  cannonade  beyond  the 
Gate— as,  partially  recovering  his  self  jmsscssion,  he  stooped  dovm 
to  look  at  the  face  of  t!i«  murdered  man.  In  his  terror  he  waa 
praying  that  he  might  recognise  some  bitter  enemy — Mikcl  Cirallon, 
for  example,— and  thus  discover  some  partial  justification  for  his  own 
deed.  The  first  look  made  him  despair.  The  man  wore  tmiform, 
and  his  hair  and  beard  were  qiiitt:  white.  It  was  Pipriac  himself, 
gazing  with  a  bloodless  face  at  heaven  ! 

Strangely  enough,  he  had  never,  although  Pipriac  led  the  besieging 
party,  looked  upon  him  in  the  light  of  a  deadly  foe.  He  had  been 
his  father's  boon-comrade ;  under  all  liis  fierce  sw.-ish-bucUer  air,  lliere 
had  ever  existed  a  certain  rude  generosity  and  kmlmnU ;  and  alter 
all  he  had  only  been  doing  his  duly  in  attempting  to  secure  a  deserter 
dead  or  alive.  In  his  own  mind,  moreover,  Rohan  knew  that  Pipriac 
would  cheerfully  have  winked  at  his  escape,  had  such  escape  beea 
possible. 

Death  gives  strange  dignity  to  the  commonest  of  faces,  and  the 
features  of  the  old  Sergeant  looked  solemn  ami  venerable  in  their 
fixed  and  a«-ful  pallor.  The  moon  rose  high  over  the  Cathedral, 
within  which  the  tide  had  now  grown  calm  ;  but  the  waten,  the  deep 
ululation  of  which  filled  the  air,  had  now  reached  to  Kolian's  feet. 
Above,  the  mighty  crags  rose  black  as  jet,  save  where  at  interval*^ 
some  space  of  moist  granite  flashed  in  the  changeful  light.  .  .  Rohan 
listened-  Far  overhead  there  was  a  sound  like  httman  voices,  dying 
faintly  away. 


And  non-,  old  Pipriac,  all  thy  grim  jokes  and  oaths  are  over,  all 
thy  voice  ii  hushed  for  ever,  and  the  frame  that  once  strutted  in  the 
sunshine  floats  idly  as  a  weed  in  the  shallop's  of  the  tide.  Bottle  of 
red  wine  or  flask  of  corn  brandy  will  never  delight  dice  more.  Thou, 
loo,  hast  (alien  at  thy  post  with  many  a  thousai>d  better  men,  in  the 
cause  of  Ihc  great  Colossus  who  bestrides  the  world  ;  and  though  thy 
fall  has  l>ecn  inglorious  and  lar  away  from  all  the  splendours  of  the 
busy  field,  thoti  hast  fulfilled  thine  allotted  task,  my  veteran,  as  truly 
7L%  any  of  the  rest.  After  all,  thou  wcrt  a  good  fellow,  and  thy  heart 
was  kindly,  though  thy  tongue  was  rough.  So  at  lexst  thinks  Kobaa ' 
Gwcnfem,  as  he  beutls  above  thee,  looking  sadly  in  ihy  face. 

Ah  Cod,  to  kill :  — to  tiuenOi  the  living  spark  in  howsoever  base  a 
heart  it  bums  I  To  strike  down  the  quivering  life,  lo  let  loose  the 
sad  and  perhaps  despairing  soul '.  Better  to  be  dead  like  Tipriai:, 
than  to  be  looking  down  with  this  agony  of  the  heart,  as  Koluin  is 
looking  now. 


240 


7y«  GettiUmatis  Magazine 


The  Jjeavy  rock  still  lies  on  Pipriac"s  breast ;  but  now,  stooping 
softly,  Rohan  lifts  it  in  his  anns  and  casts  it  out  into  the  tide.  The 
coq)se,  Treed  from  its  load,  washes  upward  and  swings  from  side  to 
side  as  if  it  lived,  and  turning  over  on  its  stomach,  floats  face  dowB- 
ward  at  Rohan's  feeL  And  now  the  place  where  Rolum  stands  is 
ankle  dee]),  and  the  tide  lias  yet  another  hour  to  rise.  With  one  last 
desiairiiig  look  at  tlic  dead  man,  Rohan  turns  away,  and  slo«iy,  wiiii 
feet  and  hands  that  tremble  in  the  fissures  of  the  rock,  he  reascends 
to  the  Cave  above. 

Scarcely  has  he  reached  his  old  position  when  his  sense  is  once 
more  attracted  by  the  sound  of  voices  far  above  him.  HeaUrts, 
listening  intently,  and  looks  upward.  Tlicn.  for  the  6rst  time,  the 
reality  of  his  situation  returns  upon  him,  and  he  remembers  the  con- 
sequences of  his  oiNTi  deed.  Though  he  has  slain  a  man  in  seU- 
defence,  rather  than  become  an  authentic  and  accredited  slayer  of 
men,  his  act,  in  ilie  eye  of  the  law,  is  murder,  and  doubtless,  soonw 
or  later,  he  will  have  to  die  a  murderer's  death. 

Stooping  over  from  tlic  Cavc^hc  gazes  down  on  tlic  spot  where  be 
so  lately  stood.  The  floor  of  the  Cathedral  is  now  completely 
covered,  and  there,  glimmering  in  one  gleaming  patch  of  moootigbl. 
is  the  sight  he  dreads.  He  utters  a,  wild  cry  of  agony  and  despair 
and  falls  upon  his  knees. 

Hear  him,  O  merciful  God,  for  he  is  praying  !  Have  pity,  aod 
hearken  to  his  entreatj-,  for  he  is  in  Thy  hand !  .Mi,  but  this  wild 
cry  which  rises  on  the  night  is  not  a  gentle  prayer  for  pity  01  for 
mercy ;  say  rather,  it  is  a  frantic  wail  for  redress  and  for  revenge. 
"  I  have  been  innocent  in  this  thing,  O  God ;  not  on  my  head  be  die 
guilt,  but  on  his  who  Iiunlcd  me  down  and  made  me  what  I  am ;  00 
him  whose  red  Sword  shadows  all  the  world,  on  hira  who  points  Thy 
creatures  on  to  doom,  let  the  just  retribution  fall !  As  he  has  curst 
my  days,  be  his  accurst;  and  spare  him  not,  O  God  !"  Even  thus, 
not  in  such  speech,  hut  with  the  s.T.me  annihilating  tliought,  pra>^— 
or  curses — Rohan  Gwenfem.  Then,  rising  wildly  to  his  feet,  careless 
now  of  his  life,  he  foltows  the  dizzy  path  that  leads  up  the  face  oftlie 
clifs. 


The  date  of  that  night  is  meraor;i.ble.  It  was  the  i6th  of  Octobtr, 
1S13. 

l"he  circHmsfince  which  we  are  noift*  about  to  relate  is  variously 
given  by  those  femiliar  with  Rohan  Cwcnfcm's  life-history.  Soukt, 
among  Uie  more  credulous  and  superstitious,  believe  iliat  the  man 
actually  ou   that  occasion  beheld  an  a|]ocalyptic  vision;  oihen. 


4 


Tlu  S/tadozu  of  ike  Sword.  241 


allboagh  adiuhting  that  be  seemed  to  see  such  a  vision,  alSnn  that  it 
most  have  been  merely  menui  and  psychical,  due  to  Ihe  wanderings 
of  a  naturally  wild  and  tcmpoiaiily  couscicacc-stiicken  imagination  ; 
while  the  purely  sceptical,  furaiiug  a  suull  minority,  go  the  Icuylh  of 
aRinning  that  the  fancy  only  occurred  to  the  man  in  after  years,  when 
mind  and  memor)-  were  so  confused  as  to  blend  all  associations  into 
one  citraoulinary  picture.  Be  that  as  it  may,  llie  siory,  resting  on 
the  solemn  testimony  of  the  man  himself,  asserts  that  Rohan  Gweot' 
fern,  as  he  fled  upward  that  night  from  the  scene  of  his  conflict  and 
left  the  body  of  Pipriac  doating  in  the  sea  below  him,  was  suddenly 
arrested  by  a  miraculous  Mirage  in  the  heavens. 

The  moon  liad  passed  into  a  cloud,  whence,  as  from  the  Uiid& 
of  a  transparent  tent,  her  light  was  disused  over  the  open  iky; 
tumultuously,  in  troubled  masses,  the  vapours  still  continued  to  drift 
in  the  direction  in  which  the  wind  was  blowing ;  when  suddenly,  as 
if  at  the  signal  of  a  Hand,  the  wind  ceased,  the  clouds  stood  still, 
and  there  was  silence  both  in  sky  and  sea.  This  terrible  silence  only 
lasted  for  a  moment,  during  which  Rohan  hung  his  bead  in  hornbte 
expectation.  Gazing  up  once  more,  he  saw  the  forms  of  heaven  again 
in  motion  ;  and  lo  !  they  had  assumed  the  likeness  of  mighty  Armies 
lurouhuously  passing  overhead.  The  vision  grew.  He  saw  theflash- 
tng  of  steel,  the  movement  of  great  bodies  of  men, — the  heavy 
squadrons  of  soldiers  on  foot,  the  dark  tUhauetit  of  tlie  artillery  rapidly 
drawn ! 

The  Mirage  extended.  The  whole  heavens  became  as  the  moonlit 
earth,  crossed  by  moving  bodies  of  men,  and  strewn  with  dead  and 
dying ;  and  in  the  heart  of  heaven  was  a  great  river,  through  which 
ibe  tumultuous  l^ons  came. 

Clear  and  distinct,  yet  ghostlike  and  unreal,  the  Shapes  passed  by ; 
and  far  away  as  the  faces  loomed  he  setimcd  to  sec  each  one  dis- 
tinctly, tike  that  dead  lace  from  which  he  was  flying.  Presently, 
however,  alt  his  faculties  became  absorbed  in  Ihe  contemplation  of 
ODC  Form  which  rose  gigantic,  close  to  the  transparent  cloud  which 
veiled  the  moon.  It  sat  on  horseback,  cloaked  and  hooded,  with 
one  liand  pointing  onward ;  and  though  iu  outline  was  gigantic,  far 
exceeding  that  of  any  human  thing,  its  face  seemed  that  of  a  man. 
He  fav  the  face  dearly,  white  as  marble,  cold  as  death. 

Slowly,  as  a  cloud  moves,  this  Form  passed  across  the  heavens  ; 
and  all  around  it  the  flying  legions  gathered,  pointed  on  in  flight  by 
the  index  finger  of  its  hand ;  but  the  head  was  dejected,  the  chia 
drooped  upon  the  breast,  and  the  eyes,  cold  and  pitiless,  looked  down 
in  still  despair.  Awestricken,  amazed,  Roban  &\qq4  tfxtVOriwM^  \ia 
Vot.  XVi/.,  2f.S.  i8j6.  a. 


34.3  The  GentUmans  Magazim. 

tutods  upwards  with  %  cry,  for  tlie  itneaineats  on  which  he  gazed 
seemed  almost  godlike,  .ind  the  Form  too  seemed  divine.  But  m  ht 
looked  the  features  took  another  likeness  and  grew  tembty  Jamiliar. 
until  he  recotjoised  the  face  which  had  so  long  haunted  his  life  aod 
vhich  the  white  Christ  had  once  revealed  to  him  in  dream  t 

Column  after  coluuiD  moved  |>abL,  ttie  whole  heavens  were  darkeoel 
aiid  m  llicir  luidst,  latauc  and  cotoiaaadiog,  moved  the  Ji'lutUom  of 
Bonapatte. 

It  wa»  the  i6lh  of  October,  1^13,  and  at  that  very  moment  the 
French  armies  were  in  fiiU  retreat  froni  Lcipsic, — with  Bonaparte  at 
their  head. 

CHArXER  XXXVIIL 
"home  they   BROUCHT  TBEIR  WARRJOK  DEAD." 

When  the  besieging  pany  returned  to  the  Cathedral  they  fotuid 
the  body  of  the  Scrgcaut  stranded  high  and  dry  near  the  Gait 
Kot  wiUiout  fear  and  trembling,  they  ajjain  placed  their  laddos 
a)j:iin.sL  the  waU,  and  mounting  without  opposition  they  searched 
the  Cave.  However,  not  a  trace  of  Rohan  was  to  be  found  ;  horror* 
stricken,  doubtless,  at  his  own  decd^  he  had  fled — whither  thejr 
knew  not,  nor  did  they  greatly  care  ju3t  then  to  know,  for  the  dcadi 
of  Pipriac  had  filled  tlu;m  with  terror  and  amaze.  By  this  time  dawn 
had  come  and  tlie  stonu  had  ceased.  Dejectedly  enough,  followed 
by  a  crowd  of  villagers,  they  bore  their  burllien  away — out  throng 
the  Gate,  up  the  Stairs  of  "St  TriHtne,  aad  aloiij;  the  green  platoa 
towards  the  village.  It  was  a  sorrowful  processior^  for  with  all  \as 
faults  the  Sergeant  was  a  favourite. 

Passing  imdcrncath  the  biinch  of  mistletoe  which  hung  as  a  sign 
over  the  door  of  the  little  cabaret,  they  bore  in  their  burthen  and 
placed  it  down  on  the  great  table  which  stood  in  the  centre  of  tti< 
kitchen.  'XTien  Hotil,  the  gendarmtt  took  off  his  greatcoat  and 
placed  it  over  the  corpse,  covering  the  blood-stained  face  from  sigbt 
Poor  old  Pipriac  t  Many  a  raoroing  had  he  swaggered  into  that 
kitchen  to  taste  the  Widow  Ploriet's  brandy  !  Many  a  lime  had  he 
smoked  his  pipe  beside  tlut  kitchen  fire  !  Many  a  time  also,  widi  a 
wink  of  his  one  eye,  had  he  wound  his  arm  in  tipsy  affection  round 
the  waist  of  the  red-haired  waiting  wench  Yvonne  !  It  was  all  ovff 
now,  and  there  he  lay,  a  statelier  and  more  solemn  figure  than  he  had 
ever  been  in  life ;  whiL-  the  trembling  rvidow,  in  honour  of  the  sad 
occasion,  duitrLbuted  little  cordial  glasses  all  round. 

The  cabaret  was  soon  full,  for  the  dreadlul  news  bad  spread  Cur 


« 


silent  praycT.     When  he  had  linuhcd  he  rose  to  his  feci  and  ques- 
tioned ihc  gd»darm£t. 

*'  And  the  other— Rohan— where  is  he  ?    Is  he  taken  ?" 
The  gendarme  Hoc!  shook  his  head. 

"  He   b   not  token,  and  nc%-er  will  be  taken,  alive ;   we  have 
searched  the  Cave,  the  cliffs ;   but  the  Fiend  protects  him.  Father 
RglUnd,  and  it  is  all  in  vain." 
Theie  was  a  loud  murniur  of  astonishment  and  aci^uicsccnce. 
"  How  did  it  all  happen  ?  "  pursued  the  I'lie^L     "  Vou  attempted 
to  take  him,  and  he  struck  In  scir-dcfencc ;  but  then  ?  " 

This  was  the  signal  for  Hoel  to  launch  forth  into  a  long  description 
of  the  latter  part  of  the  siege,  during  which  he  was  ever  and  anon 
interrupted  by  bis  excited  comrades.  The  consensus  of  testimony 
vent  to  show  that  Rohan,  in  his  maniacal  resisiance,  had  neither 
been  alone  nor  unassisted  ;  but  that,  in  the  shadow  of  the  night,  and 
amid  the  loudness  of  the  storm,  he  had  conjured  to  his  aid  the 
powers  of  darkness,  whose  hands  had  hurled  down  upon  the  besiegers 
fragments  of  rock  far  too  huge  to  be  uplificd  by  human  strength. 
That  he  had  sold  himself  to  the  Devil,  who  had  formally  undvrtakcn 
to  protect  him  from  the  Emperor,  was  a  statement  which  received 
^general  affirmation.  "  Master  Robert,"  it  was  well  knowi,  was  ever 
on  the  look  out  for  such  bargains;  and  the  belief  that  he  had  been 
leagued  with  the  deserter  against  ihem  flattered  alike  the  vanity  of 
the  gendarmes  and  their  superstition. 

Down  from  his  corLigc  slumped  the  old  Corporal,  followed  by  the 
remnant  uf  his  "  Maccabees";  and  when  he  looked  in  the  dead  man's 
face  his  eyes  were  for  a  moment  dim. 

*'  Peace  to  his  soul — he  was  a  brave  man  ! "  ejaculated  the  veteran. 
"  He  did  his  duty  to  the  Emperor,  and  tlic  good  God  will  give  him 
his  reward." 

"And  after  all,"  said  the  Priest  in  a  low  voice,  "he  died  in  feir 
iight,  as  it  might  be  on  the  open  field." 

"Hiat  is  not  so,"  answered  the  Corporal,  limily,  looking  very 
irhite  round  ihe  edges  of  his  mouiti.  "  That  is  not  so,  msieur  U 
turi,  for  he  was  foully  murdered  by  a  coward  and  a  chona/i,  whom 
God  will  punish  in  his  turn.  Hear  me — 1  say  it,  tbough  the  man 
was  ticsh  and  blood  of  mine." 

The  little  euri  shook  his  head  dolcfiilly. 
**  It  is  a  sad  thing,  and  it  all  comes,  doubtless,  of  tcsVsvSTi?,\Vt\i'«^ 
and  the  Emperor;  hut  look  yoa,  it  was  a  Uung  oi  Ulc  and  deaxVi,  a.i\4. 


I 


244  The  Gentleman  5  Magasim. 

if  he  had  not  stn'rkcn  in  aelMcfcncc  he  would  have  been  taten 
slain.     Aftcf  all,  il  was  one  man  against  nuny."* 

"  One  man  !— a  thousand  De\-il3 ! "  cried  Hoa,  unconsdouslf 
repenting  his  dead  leader's  favourite  expression. 

"  He  was  wrong  from  the  begicning."  pursued  the  Priest  moralising. 
"  One  man  cannot  set  the  world  right  if  it  is  in  error ;  and  it  is  one's 
place  to  obey  the  law,  and  to  do  one's  duty  to  God  and  the 
Kmperor.  He  would  not  obey,  and  now  he  has  shed  blood,  for 
which,  alas !  the  good  God  will  have  a  reckoning  late  or  soon." 

To  such  purpose,  and  in  so  many  words,  moralised  Father  Rot 
land  ;  and  those  who  heard  shuddered  and  crossed  themselves  in  fcan 
It  occurred  to  no  one  present  to  reflect  that  Pipriac  had  fallen  in  &ir 
war,  in  a  war,  moreover,  tn  which  he  was  the  aggressor ;  and  tbat 
Rohan  Gwenfem  was  as  justified  in  the  si)jht  of  Heaven  as  aa^ 
qualified  bcenti^te  of  the  art  of  killing.  So  strange  a  law  is  it  of  our 
human  consciousness,  that  murder  loses  its  horror  when  muhiplicd 
by  twenty  thousand!  Those  who  would  have  calmly  surveyed  1 
battlefield  strewn  with  dead  rniild  not  regard  one  solitary  corpse 
with  equanimity.  Those  who  would  have  adored  Napoleon  as  a  great 
man,  who  would  have  kissed  his  raiment  hem  in  reverence  aod 
tears,  turned  their  hearts  against  GwenferD  as  against  some  base 
and  abominable  creature. 

"  Aunt  Loiz,  il  is  al!  true  t — Pipriac  is  dead,  and  they  have  carried 
his  body  up  yonder ;  but  Rohan  is  yet  alive.  Yes,  he  has  killed 
Pipriac." 

"  What  could  he  do  ?    It  was  a  fight  for  life." 

"And  now  no  man  will  pity  him,  for  there  is  blood  upon  to 
hands;  and  no  man  will  give  him  bread  or  yield  him  shelter;  and 
till  he  yields  himself  up  no  priest  will  shrive  his  poor  soul  and  nuke 
his  peace  with  God." 

"  Is  that  so,  Marcellc  ?  " 

"  Yes,  they  all  say  it  \%  murder — even  Father  Rolland,  who  has  a 
kind  heart     But  it  is  false,  Aunt  L012  ! " 

'*  Of  course  it  is  false  ;  for  what  could  he  do  ?  It  is  they  who  we 
to  blame,  not  he,  not  ray  poor  persecuted  boy.  May  the  good  God 
forgive  him,  for  he  struck  in  self-defence  and  he  was  mad.  O  roj 
son,  my  son  ! " 

They  sat  together  in  the  cottage  under  the  cliff;  and  they  spoke 

with  sobs  and  tears,  clinging  to  each  other.    The  honor  of  Roburt 

deed  b.y  upon  them  ViVe  sotrw:  \,cTt\bk  shadow.     It  seemed  Kke 

horrible  blasphemy  to  have  stnvdt  Aomn.  S^t  «Kaaarj  ^A  ■«(«,  ^^ 


Tfu  Shadffw  of  Ike  Sioord, 


245 


EiBpenw  ;  and  they  kaew  that  foi  such  a  deed,  however  justifiable, 
there  would  be  no  mercy,  that  for  such  a  murderer  there  would  be 
no  pity.     Rohan  was  outlawed  for  ever,  and  every  human    hand 
^  vould  now  be  raised  against  him. 

H  To  them,  as  they  sat  together,  came  J^n  Goron,  with  more  tidings 
I  of  what  was  m>ing  on  in  the  village.  The  gendarma,  furious  and 
revengeful, had  been  searching  the  Cave  and  scouring  the  cliffsagain^ 
but  not  a  trace  of  Rohan  could  now  be  found.  In  the  darkness  aud 
•confusion  of  last  night's  storm  be  had  doubtless  sought  some  other 
hiding  place 

I  "There  ts  other  news,"  said  Goron,  aaxtous  to  change  the  sad 
snbjecL  "  The  King  of  Saxony  has  deserted  the  Emperor,  and  the 
jtimies  of  France  have  fallen  back  on  Lcipsic.  Some  say  the 
Empetor  is  meeting  his  match  at  last,  and  that  all  the  Kings  arc  now 
against  him.  ^VelI,  he  lias  eaten  half  a  dozen  Kings  for  breakfitst 
I      before  now,  and  will  do  so  agaio." 

B      At  aaotha  time  these  tidings  would  have  greatly  excited  Marcdle 
^  Ucrval  ;  but  now  they  seemed  almost  devoid  of  interest.     The  for- 
tunes of  France  and  the  F.uipcror  were  utterly  forgotten  in  her  indi- 
vidual   trouble.      However,    she    shrugged    bcr    pretty    shoulders 
^incredulously  when  Goron  hinted  at  dtfeat,  and  said  listlessly — 
f      "At  Ldpsic,  say  you?— both  Hoel  and   Gihlas  will  be  tliece." 
And  she  added  in  a  low  weary  votc«,  ''  We  had  a  letter  from  Gildas 
last  week,  and  he  has  been  three  times  under  £rc  without  so  much 
as  a  scratch  or  a  burn.     He  has  seen  the  Etnpcror  ^uite  close,  and 
4ic  says  he  is  looking  very  old.     Hoel,  too,  is  well...  Ah  God,  if  my 
cousin  Rohan  were  with  them  as  he  might  have  been,  happy  and 
well  and  strong,  fighting  for  the  Emperor ! " 

As  she  spoke  her  tears  burst  forth  again,  and  Mother  Gwcnfem 
answered  her  with  a  bitter  waiL  Yes,  this  doubtless  was  the  bitterest 
of  all :  the  feeling  tliat  Rohan  had  been  madly  flying  from  a  mere 
phantom,  and  that,  had  he  quiutly  accepted  his  fate,  iic  would  still 
tiave  bucu  livmg  honoured  and  happy,  like  Hoel  and  Gihias.  h>f 
<iotng  his  duty  and  becoming  a  brave  soldier,  he  would  have  avoided 
all  that  scries  of  troubles  and  sins  which  bad  been  the  conscijucnce 
of  his  restsiance.  Blood  he  might  have  shed,  but  only  the  blood  of 
enemies ;  which,  as  all  good  patriots  knew,  would  have  been  of  small 
consequence  !  It  was  not  for  simple  women  like  these  to  grasp  the 
fiubtime  truth  that  all  men  are  brothers,  and  tliat  c%'cn  suunch 
patriots  may  wear  die  livery  of  Cain. 


4 
4 


I 
I 


JtfigA/  aune  OB,  blMk  aad  stormy.     The  wind,  w\\\t\i.  Vai  ^a2\«k 


durmg  the  day,  rose  ag.iin,  and  heavens  and  seas  were  blindly  blent 
together.  In  the  cottage,  which  qoakcd  with  every  blast  and 
cowered  before  the  fierce  torrents  of  rain,  Marcelk  still  lingered, 
having  sent  word  home  that  she  would  not  return  that  night 

The  turf  fire  had  burnt  nearly  out,  and  the  only  light  in  the  bflC 
was  cast  from  a  miserable  lam|j  which  swung  to  the  rafters.  Side  by 
side,  now  speaking  in  wKisj>ers.  now  silent,  the  women  fiat  on  the 
rude  form  before  the  lire  ;  feeling  all  the  world  against  them,  heut- 
broken,  soul-stricken,  listening  lo  the  etements  that  raved  without 
and  echoed  the  hopeless  nail  of  their  own  weaiy  lives.  Suddenly, 
above  the  roaring  of  the  wind  and  the  beating  of  the  rain,  they  heard 
a  sound  without— something  tapping  at  tlie  pane. 

Marcelle  rose  uy  and  listened.  The  sound  was  repeated,  and  Sal- 
lowed  by  a  low  knocking  at  the  door,  the  latch  of  wtiich  was  secured 
for  the  night. 

"  Open  !"  cried  a  voice  withooL 

Something  iu  the  sound  woke  a  wild  answer  in  their  beartE.  The 
mother  rose  lo  her  feet,  white  as  death ;  Marcelle  tottered  to  the 
door  and  tlirew  it  open ;  and  silently,  swiftly^  crouching  like  some 
hunted  animal,  a  man  crept  in. 

There  was  no  need  for  one  look,  for  one  word,  of  vecognition  j 
swift  as  an  electric  flash  the  recognition  came,  in  one  mad  leaping  of 
the  heart ;  and  before  they  could  grasp  his  hand  or  gaxe  into  his 
face  they  knew  it  was  he — tUe  one  creature  they  held  dearest  in  ihe 
world. 

Rapidly,  with  her  characteristic  presence  of  mind,  Marcelle  secured 
the  door ;  then,  while  Rohan  ran  shivering  across  to  the  nearly  ex- 
tinguished fire,  she  carefully  drew  the  airtain  of  the  window,  closiiig 
all  view  from  withouL  It  was  a  terrible  moment  Then,  loo  excited 
to  speak,  the  women  stood  gazing  with  affrighted  ^es  at  the  netr 
comer.  Ragged  and  haU"  naked,  soakLng  and  dripping,  with  hi* 
wild  hair  falling  over  his  s^houldcrs,  and  a  beard  of  many  weeks^ 
growth  covering  iiis  lace,  he  stood,  or  rather  crouctied,  before  ibeto, 
with  his  eyes  on  theirs. 

Certainly  the  dark  heavens  that  night  did  not  look  down  on  any 
creature  more  pitiahlc ;  and  mnst  pitiable  of  all  was  the  white  ligjlt 
upon  his  face,  the  dull  dead  fire  that  burned  in  his  eyes. 

With  no  word  or  sign  of  greeting  he  gazed  rouod  him ;  tbeiy 
pointing  with  his  hand,  he  cried,  hoarsely — 

"  Bread  T' 

Now  for  the  first  time  they  remembered  that  he  was  starving,  and 
knew  thAt  the  mad  light  in  his  fact  "was  vVic  W^t  qC  (aiaine.     Swiftly 


I 

I 


4 
I 


n 


The  Shadow  of  the  Sword. 

vithout  3  word,  Marcelle  brsught  out  food  and  placed  it  before  him ; 
be  seized  it  fiercely,  and  devoured  it  like  a  wild  beast.  Then  tbe 
mother's  heart  broke  to  see  him  eat.  Kneelmg  by  his  side,  wtiile  he 
was  eagerly^  dutching  foiHl  with  his  right  bund,  she  togk  the  other 
haad  and  coveted  it  with  kisses. 

"  O  my  son,  my  son  !"  she  sobbed. 

He  did  not  seem  to  heed;  all  his  &cu1ties  seemed  absorbed  in 
seeking  sustenance,  and  his  eyes  only  moved  this  way  and  that  like 
a  hungry  hound's,  When  Marcclle  brought  brandy  and  placed  it 
before  him — he  drank;  tlien,  and  not;  till  then,  his  eyes  fell  on  hers 
with  some  sort  of  recogniiioo,  and  be  said  in  a  hard  and  hollow 
voice — 

"  Is  it  thou,  Marcelle  T 
H     She  did  not  reply,  but  her  eyes  were  blind  with  tears ;  then  he 
laughed  vacantly,  and  looked  down  at  his  mother. 

"  I  was  stam'ng,  and  so  I  came ;  they  are  busy  up  there,  and  they 
viU  not  follow ;  but  if  thL7  do,  I  am  ready.  Vou  have  heard  of 
Pipriacj  the  old  fool  has  got  his  deserts,  that  is  aUl  What  a 
night  r 

There  was  something  in  his  tone  so  reckless,  so  distraught,  that  they 
almost  shrank  away  from  him,  and  ever  and  anon  he  g.^vc  a  low 
mindless  laugh,  very  painful  to  hear.  Presently  he  gazed  again  at 
MaKcUe,  saying — 

"Yon  keep  yow  good  looks,  little  one;  ah,  but  you  have  never 
known  what  it  is  to  starve  !  But  for  the  starvation,  look  you,  it 
would  all  have  been  a  good  joke.  See,  I  am  worn  to  the  bone — I 
have  no  flesh  left— if  you  met  me  out  of  doors  you  would  say  1  -was 
a  ghost  How  you  look  at  me !  I  frighten  you,  and  no  wonder, 
Marcelle  E)er\al.     Ah,  God  1  you  are  afraid  V 

"  No,  Rohan,  I  am  not  afraid  1"  aaswered  the  girl,  sobbing. 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  looked  fixedly  at  her,  then  his  breast 
.ved  paiaftilly,  and  he  held  his  hand  upon  his  hearL 

"TelJ  me  then,"  he  cried  quickly,  "why  do  you  look  at  me  like 
that?  Do  you  hate  me?  Mother  of  God,  answer !  Do  you  hate 
roe,  Mfiztff 

"  No,  no ! — God  help  you,  Kohan !" 

And  she  sank,  still  sobbing,  at  his  feet;  and  while  the  widow 
graaped  one  hand,  she  held  the  other,  resting  her  head  upon  his 
knee.  He  sat  spell-boimd,  like  one  between  sleep  and  waking, 
wfaile  his  frame  was  shaken  with  the  sol)s  of  his  mother  artd  his 
beloved.     Suddenly  he  snatched  his  hands  away. 

"  You  aie  tnndf  1  think,  yoa  women  ;  you  do  not  V-no*  "wWw^o*. 


r-' 


k 


* 


« 


4 


L 


248  TA^  Gentlemads  Magazme, 

are  touching;  you  do  not  know  whom  you  are  embracing.  Gotf 
and  man  arc  against  rae,  for  I  am  a  murderer,  and  for  murderei* 
there  is  no  mercy.  Look  yoiJ,  I  have  killed  Pipriac,  who  was  my 
father's  friend.  Ah,  if  you  had  seen — it  was  horrible !  The  rock 
crushed  in  his  breast  like  a  crab's  shell,  and  in  a  moment  he  was 
dead — old  Pipriac  whom  my  father  ioved  !" 

Their  answer  was  a  low  wail,  but  ihcy  only  clung  ihe  closer  to 
him,  and  l>oth  his  hands  were  wet  wilti  tears.     His  own  soul  was 
shaken,  and  bis  feverish  eyes  grew  dim  and  moist.     Reaching  out 
his  trembling  amis,  he  drew  the  women  to  him   with  a  low  heart-— 
broken  cry.  f 

"  Mother !  Marcclle !  You  do  not  hate  roe,  you  are  not 
afraid?" 

They  looked  irp  into  his  face,  and  their  fciiurcs  shone  with  that 
love  which  passcth  understanding.  The  old  worn  woman  and  the 
pale  beniitiful  girl  alike  looked  up  with  the  same  passionate  yeamiog, 
holding  him  the  dearer  for  his  sorrows,  even  for  his  sins.  His  eyes 
Ungered  most  on  the  countenance  of  MarccUe ;  Arr  devotion  was  aa 
unexpected  revelation.  Then  across  his  brain  flashed  the  memory  of 
all  the  happy  past,  and  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands,  he  sobbed  like  a 
child,  but  almost  without  tears — for  tears  his  famished  heart  was 
too  dry. 

Suddenly,  while  they  watched  him  in  awe  and  pain,  his  attitude 
changed,  and  he  sprang  wildly  to  his  feet,  listening  with  that  fierce 
look  upon  his  fece  which  they  at  first  had  feared  so  mucli.     Despite 
tlie  sound  of  wind  and  rain,  his  quick  ear  had  detected  footfalls  <^^fl 
the  shingle  without  t!ie  cottage.  ^ 

Before  they  could  say  another  word  a  knock  came  to  the 
door. 

"Put  out  the  light!"  whispered  Marccllc;  and  in  a  momeal 
Rohan  had  extinguished  the  swinging  lamp,  which,  indeed,  had 
almost  burnt  out  aheady.  The  cottage  was  now  quite  dait ; 
and  while  Rohan,  crawling  stealthily  across  the  floor,  concealed  him- 
self in  the  blackest  corner  of  the  chamber,  MarceUe  crossed  over  to 
the  door. 

"  Within  there  I"  cried  a  voice.  "  Answer,  I  say !  WiH  >-ou  keep^ 
a  good  Christian  dripping  here  all  night  like  a  drowned  rat?" 

*'  Vou  cannot  enter,"  said  MarceUe  j  "  it  is  too  late,  and  we 
abed." 

The  answer  was  a  heav}'  blow  on  the  door,  which  was  only  secured 
by  a  ihiil  latch. 


A 


The  Sfuid&iv  of  tke  Sivordr  249 


f'*  I  know  your  voice,  Marcelle  Derval,  and  I  have  come  all  this 
way  to  fiod  you  out.     I  have  news  to  tell  you ;  so  open  at  once.    It 
H  I,  Mikcl  Oration  ! " 
*•  AVhocvcr  )-ou  arc,  go  away  \  "  answered  Marcelle  in  agony. 
"  Go  away?    Not  I,  till  I  have  seen  and  spoken  with  you.     Open 
the  door,  or  I  will  break  it  open — Ah  !" 

As  he  spoke,  the  man  dealt  heavy  blows  upon  the  frail  woodwork, 
and  suddenly,  before  Marcelle  could  interfere,  the  latch  yielded,  and 
the  door,  to  whicli  tlicrc  was  no  bolt,  flew  open.  Mother  Gwcnfccn 
uttered  a  scream,  while  amid  a  roar  of  wind  and  a  shower  of  rain, 
Mikcl  Grallon  entered  in.  But  white  as  death  Marcelle  blocked  up 
the  entrance,  and  when  the  man's  heavy  form  fell  .igainst  her,  pushed 
it  fiercely  back. 

*'  What  brings  you  here  at  this  time,  Mikel  Gralloo?"  she 
dananded.  "  Stand  still — you  shall  not  pass  another  step.  Ah, 
that  Alain,  or  Jannick,  or  even  my  uncle  were  here,  you  would  not 
dare  I  Begone,  or  I  shall  strike  you,  though  I  am  only  a 
piU" 

The  reply  was  an  imbecile  laugh ;  and  now  for  the  first  time 
Maxcellc  i«:rccivcd  that  Grallon  was  under  the  influence  of  sirong 
drink.  His  usually  subdued  aud  deliberate  air  was  cxcliangcd  for 
one  of  impudent  audacity,  and  his  voice  was  insolent,  threatening, 
and  devil-may-care. 

*'  Strike  me ! "  he  cried  huskily ;  •*  T  do  not  think  your  little  hand 
win  hurt  much;  twit  I  know  you  do  not  mean  it — it  is  only  the  way 
of  you  women.  Ah,  my  little  Marcelle,  you  and  I  understand  each 
other,  and  it  is  all  settled ;  it  is  all  settled,  and  your  uncle  is  pleased. 
Now  tlut  that  coward  of  a  cousin  is  done  for,  you  will  listen  to  reason 
—win  you  not,  Marcelle  Grallou?  Ah  yes,  for  Marcelle  Grallon 
sounds  prettier  than  Marcelle  DervaL'^ 

Ijcering  tipsily,  he  advanced,  and  before  she  could  resist  had  thrown 
his  arms  around  her  \  ithe  struggled  in  his  hold,  and  struck  him  with 
her  clenched  hand  upon  the  faic,  Uit  he  only  laughed.  Strange  to  say, 
she  uttered  00  cry.  Her  heart  was  too  full  uf  terror  lest  Rohan, 
whom  she  knew  to  be  listening,  should  betray  himself  or  be  dis- 
covered. 

"  Let  me  go  I"  she  said  in  a  low  intense  voice.  "  In  God's  name, 
let  me  go  ! " 

So  saying,  with  a  powerful  efibrt,  she  shook  herself  free,  while 
Grallon  staggered  fons-ard  into  the  centre  of  the  room.  Recovering 
himself  with  a  fierce  oaih,  he  found  himself  dec  to  face  widi  MoO,\c:c 


350  The  Genilemaris  Magazine. 

Gwenfem,  who,  wiih  wild  skeleton  frame  ami  gleaming  ey«,  stood 
before  him  like  some  ivcaiy  ghost. 

"  Aha,  you  are  there,  mother ! "  he  cried  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  ber. 
"  Well,  I  suppose  you  have  heard  all  the  news,  and  you  know  now 
Tfhat  to  think  of  your  wretch  of  a  son.  He  has  killed  a  man.  and 
when  he  is  caught,  which  will  be  soon,  he  will  be  tortured  like  a  dog. 
This  is  your  reward  for  bringing  cowards  into  the  world,  old  woman ; 
I  am  sorry  for  you,  but  it  is  you  that  arc  to  blame." 

"Silence,  Mikel  Grallonl"  said  Marcelle,  still  terror  strickea; 
"  silence,  and  go  aw«y.  For  the  love  of  God  go  away  this  night,  and 
leave  us  in  peace." 

She  had  come  quite  close  to  him  as  she  spoke,  and  he  again  reached 
out  his  arms  and  seized  her  with  a  laugh. 

" I  have  come  down  to  fetch  you  back,"  he  said,  "for  you  shall 
not  sleep  under  this  roof-  As  sure  as  you  will  be  Marcelle  Gralton 
you  shall  not  stay ;  the  home  of  a  chouan  and  a  coward  is  no  place 
for  you,  and  Mother  Gwenfem  knows  that  as  well  as  I  know  it  Do 
not  be  obstinate,  or  I  shall  lie  angry — I  who  adore  you.  Ah  !  you 
may  struggle,  but  I  tiave  you  fast." 

His  arms  were  around  her,  and  his  hot  face  was  pressed  close  to 
hers,  when  suddenly  a  hand  interposed,  and  seizing  Giallon  by  the 
throat  with  terrific  grip,  choked  him  off.  It  was  .the  work  of  a 
moment ;  and  Gratlon,  looking  up  in  stupefaction,  found  himself  in 
the  hold  of  a  man  who  was  gazing  down  upon  him  with  eyes  of 
murderous  rage.  Then  his  blood  went  cold  with  terror,  for  even  in 
the  dimness  of  the  room  he  recognised  Rohan  Gwenfem. 

"  Help  !  the  deserter !  help !"  he  gasped  out ;  but  one  iron  hand 
was  on  his  throat,  and  another  was  uplifted  to  smite  and  biuise  him 

"Silence  I"  said  Rohan,  while  the  wretch  groaned  half  strangled; 
then  he  said  in  a  lower,  more  intense  voice,  "  1  have  you  now,  Mikel 
Grallon.  if  you  know  a  prayer  say  it  quickly,  for  1  mean  to  kill  yoo. 
Ah,  wretch  I  to  you  I  owe  so  much  that  I  have  suffered  ;  you  hare 
hunted  me  down  like  a  dog,  you  have  driven  me  mad  with  hunger 
and  cold,  but  now  it  is  my  turn.  Fipriac  is  dead,  but  you  are  more 
guilty  than  Pipriac,  and  you  shall  follow  him  to-night." 

CJrallon  struggled  and  gasped  for  breath ;  sober  now  through  sheer 
excess  of  terror,  he  glared  up  at  his  captor  and  writhed  in  vain  to 
set  himself  free.  It  wotild  doubtless  have  gone  ill  with  him.  had  not 
the  two  women  interfered  and  called  in  agonised  tones  upon  Rohan 
not  io  lA\te  his  life.    The  somad  ot  \i«\i  beseeching  voices  teemed 


Xhe  Shadow  of  ike  Sword.  251 

to allay^the  fiiiy  in  Rohan's  breast  and  to  call  him  to  a  sense  of  his 
own  danger.  He  thr6w  off  Grallon,  and  made  a  movement  as  if  to 
apftroach  the  door. 

At  this  juncture  Grallon,  finding  himself  free,  and  seeing  Rohan 
about  to  escape,  had  the  indiscretion  to  interfere  once  more. 

"  Help ! — the  deserter . — help  !"  he  shrieked  in  a  loud  voice. 

Before  he  could  repeat  the  alarm  Rohan  had  turned  again  upon 
him,  uplifted  him  in  his  powerful  arms,  and  dashed  him  down  with 
great  iurce  upon  the  hard  earthen  floor,  where  he  lay  senseless 
as  if  dead.  Thai  Rohan,  with  one  last  wild  look  at  his  mother  and 
Maicelle,  passed  out  tfaroogh  the  door  and  disappeared  into  the 
oight 

fTo  bt  amtimud.) 


Mk.Johm  Hahpubn  favours  me  n-ith  a  letter  consequent  upon  my 
note  of  last  monUi  touching  his  tlieory  of  the  flatness  and  immobility 
of  the  earth.  I  cai.not  ca.ll  it  a  reply,  because  he  does  not  colld^ 
scend  to  take  any  notice  of  the  lactt  which  I  mentioned  in  proof  of 
the  rotundity  of  the  wo^rld,  that  if  a  traveller  journeys  in  an  ea&terlji 
or  a  westerly  direction  till  he  arrives  at  his  starting  point  it  is  a  long 
journey  of  some  twenty-four  thousand  miles  if  he  keeps  from  6rst  to 
tost  in  the  heat  of  the  tropics,  and  a  slioner  journey  in  proportioD  as 
it  is  a  colder  journey,  whether  the  voyage  is  made  on  the  north  or  on 
tlie  south  side  of  the  equator.  My  argument  is  that  if  the  earth  ts  a 
plane,  bounded  so  far  as  the  possibility  of  human  exploration  goes 
by  impassable  barriers  of  tee,  the  largest  possible  circuit  the  tiavclkr 
can  take  is  also  the  coldest  possible  circuit :  and  this  is  contraiy  lo 
experience.  I  did  not  expect  Mr.  Hampden  to  take  any  trouble 
ovo'  my  merely  amateur  reference  to  the  i)robIcm  which  he  discusses 
with  so  much  fierceness  ;  but  since  he  lias  not  disdained  to  write  to 
me  on  the  subject  of  my  paragraph  I  think  he  might  have  pointed  out 
the  &tlacy  in  my  iUustralion.  Instead  of  doing  sq  this  is  what  hesaji 
politely  : — 

Pray  do  nol  opoee  younelf  and  yoiu  waot  of  cQimnon  sense  by  talkJag  alxnu 
"  arEutnenls."  I  want  facls— palpable,  pn»ieable  (acts.  Wlut  hve  argaauBU 
to  do  with  simple  laeAsnremeats  7 

I  imagine  that  every  demonstration  wKitcver  is  made  up  partly  of 
fitcts  and  partly  of  arguments.  T  laboured  under  the  imiwessioQ  tfiit 
I  had  stated  a  simple  and  well-known  fact  when  I  pointed  out  thai 
the  man  who  travels  in  the  direction  in  which  the  sunlight  trards 
makes  the  largest  possible  circuit  if  his  whole  voyage  is  a  very  hot 
one,  and  the  smallest  possible  if  his  journey  is  a  very  cold  one.  This 
fact  appears  to  me  to  be  incompatible  with  the  pUm«  earth  theory- 
Instead  of  kindly  pointing  out  the  weak  place  in  this  little  fact  and 
inference,  Mr.  Hampden  asks  with  some  impetuosity — 

T\1icre  b  my  antagonist  ?     Bring  him  fcnwanl  if  you  know  where  to  iuid  Ubi- 

I  coirpbin  that  I  liave  dow  but  a  iM  of  (la«tard)ycow-iird«  to  deal  with,  who  dan 

not  come  font-aid  as  defenders  of  ihe  "  arxtimcats"  of  tny  opponenti.  Wbatut 

tbtM  ar^JTtcnts  ?    The  entire  syfttcm  n«t.t  qd.  \^%  ifu  ifin/  of  mne  ooe  wfait 

bos  acvet  attempted  10  argut  XA  "Hit  ixioy^.    .    .    \  »wei\ -uA  «Sfanfcftali 


I 


I 


ll 


Table  Talk.        ^^^"^  253 

glabolxr  itphere  muH  have  a  cnrvature  ttomewhcre  upon  its  ^nrraci: :  lhi9  curvature 
luit  nrvcT  yet  been  disoorered.  .  .  It  is  a  mndcr  of  m^uurcnicDt,  ami  not  of 
«r£tirocm.  Do  prav  bear  this  in  minrt.  1  can  sh«»w  a  tbouMnd  mild  aX  jiat  ; 
caa  yos  show  t«n  miles  af  a  curve .' 

If  Mr.  Hampden  can  really  show  a  thousanij  miles  of  flat  he  irill 
prove  his  case,  and  there  need  be  no  more  of  the  "argument"  to 
which  he  seems  to  hive  so  much  aversion.  He  sends  me  a  pamphkt 
by  Mr.  ^tllltam  Carpenter  dealing  with  Mr.  J.  Norman  Lockyer*s 
demonstration  of  Die  curvature  of  the  earth  by  the  fact  that  the  hull 
oi  a  ship  at  sea  becomes  invisible  whUe  the  masts  can  still  be  seen — 
for  Mr.  Carpenter,  it  appears,  La  a  believer  in  the  plane  earth  theory ; 
and  Mr.  Hampden  asks  : — 

Whf  don't  joa  cuQ  upan  Mr.  Lockyer  to  defend  himseLT  rrom  the  altacks  raadv 
npQD  bim  in  ihb  pamphlet  ? 

1  have  read  the  pamphlet,  and  I  do  rot  see  that  it  in  any  way 
conftjtcs  Mr.  I^ockyer's  demonslration,  Mr.  Carpenter  attempts  to 
accoimt  for  the  first  disappearance  of  the  hull  of  the  vessel  by 
stating  that  it  is  a  l.iw  of  eyesight  that  the  surface  of  earth  and  sea 
appears  to  rise  to  the  level  of  sight.  But  if  that  is  so,  what  becomes 
of  that  part  of  the  surface  of  the  sea  which  washes  the  hull  of  the 
Teuel?  Why  shotild  that  portion  be  hidden  by  the  intervening 
surface?  1  have  read  a  good  deal  of  Mr.  Hampden's  writing  as  well 
as  that  of  Mr.  Carpenter,  and  nowhere  have  t  found  the  slightest 
valid  explanation,  on  the  plane  earth  theory,  of  the  apparent  dis- 
appearance of  the  hull  of  the  vessel  before  the  masts  are  lost  to 
nghi.  

Last  month  I  quoted,  from  a  MS.  sent  me  by  Mr.  Mtlddock,  some 
legends  of  the  Azores  which  struck  me  as  being  in  character  curiously    , 
like  the  Bushman  traditions  on  which  I  introduced  some  gossip  a   I 
month  or  two  before.     Turning  back  this  month  to  Mr.  Muddock's 
memoranda,  I  Dnd  some  interesting  traditions  of  another  sort,  fantastic 
CDOugh  in  themselves,  but  yet  accepted,  apparently,  as  indubitable 
history  by  the  devout  Rooum  Catliolic  inhabitants.     Here  is  one  of   J 
them,  called  the  Legend  of  the  Furnas  : —  1 

The  Valley  ol  thcFomu  (ijrcavcnu^u  dtuntcd  at  theeattnn  end  of  the  Island 
et  St.  ifkhael'i.  It  ahoundi  in  some  of  the  wildest  and  most  romantic  KCDcry. 
Bat  Its  greatest  wondeni  are  the  boiling  spria^  which  ari^  in  all  purtt.  In  a 
aaudl  caTem  at  the  foot  of  a  fonta«rtc  rock  covered  with  .tnlphnr  and  dxrk  slale- 
colowed  nitid  is  the  Bxct)  d'/n/gnta.  Nothing  more  weird  or  awful  could  bo 
feund  in  any  part  of  the  world.  It  is  the  entrance  to  a  crater,  and  here  the 
MaUint;  lavatic  mud  ih  pumped  out,  and  fallt  back  again  into  the  hoUwH  m^  a. 
torible  noiie,  while  immense  voluma  ol  tnlphurou^  vapotu  luccnA  VOVo  VW  ui. 
Oae  taaj  attad  so  ckae  to  this  place  as  to  be  9pUt\ic<l  wit.Vk  Vhe  TWi&t  *x^i 


L 


254  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

feel  lh«  earth  Ucmblo  beneath  bis  Tcct,  while  the  cavern  spils  and  funcs  ufl  ttat' 
little  pool  of  mud  boiU  tcm£c«llf .  It  appears  that  in  the  twcJanioc  of  tht 
Afleenib  century  a  conrcnt  was  situated  in  the  Valley  of  the  Fumis,  awl  dflHnj 
a /i^JM  the  vi.l!ni;en  were  Hinging  and  rfandng  ttear  the  convent.  One  of  the 
tromen  went  out  to  draw  iiome  water  from  a  spring  chat  hid  hitherto  been  noted 
for  its  puniy  nnd  coolness.  But  what  wiu  h«r  utoni$hmcnt  and  terror  to  laid 
BOW  that  the  water  was  so  hot  as  to  scald  her  hands.  Kushing  back  to  the 
dancm,  »hc  called  ur3d)f  on  them  to  stop  thrir  festivities,  as  tlie  Day  of  JudKneol 
had  come.  But  (lie  proplc  only  laii(;'f>c;d  at  licr,  and  aald  "  You  are  not  God  to 
tell  UK  'if  Juitgmcnt."  And  no  they  couttnued  their  uports.  The  tcrriSed  woaun 
nest  appealed  (o  the  friari,  iindwlicnane  of  them  went  with  her  to  the  ipol 
flames  wen;  butnting  forth  frwin  Ihc  place  where  the  w:iicr  had  issued.  But  as 
the  friar  carried  the  crucifix,  and  held  it  abore  the  wutnan,  the  llamct  did  not 
hann  her.  She  hurried  back  to  try  and  persuade  her  friend*  to  fly,  bat  ibef 
decided  to  cuulinue  their  iotcIk,  for  they  had  all  drunk  much  wine  and  wen 
careless,  and  %n  the  woman  went  by  herself.  A  little  nhile  afterwards  the  iky 
vas  daikcDcd.  There  was  a  terrtlic:  eruption,  nnd  Satan  was  seen  to  rise  la  1 
columaof  fiie.  AU  (be  houses  were  destroyed,  and  many  of  the  tiUiabttaiiU  wot 
killed.  Wlieo  Che  ciuption  ceased  those  of  tbe  people  who  bad  been  fortttaaie 
enout^b  10  esc.ipe  from  the  valley  sonowfuUy  relutned  tu  search  foi  their  loU 
hou&ehotd  Ircnsuri^.  They  found  tliat  fioui  what  had  once  beva  the  bcauifit 
tprittt;  boQing  hoi  mud  wasbelni;  forced  up,  and  «<)  they  oaii:cd  the  place  the 
Bmc9  d'infemo,  that  it  miehl  ever  serve  to  remind  tbem  of  ihdr  sins. 

There  are  old  stories  of  this  kind  connected  with  natural  vooden 
and  cxtmnrdinary  events  ever)'where,  but  nowhere  can  they  be  so 
profitably  studied  as  in  a  cottntry  like  tKese  Western  Isles,  where 
mediiieval  civilisation  is  crystallised,  and  where  the  peasantry  repeal 
such  legends  In  ptrrfect  good  faitli,  as  if  Ihey  were  telling  you  what 
happened  yesterday  in  the  presence  of  abundant  living  witnesses.  A 
day  wll  come,  perhaps,  when  primitive  and  antiquated  states  of 
human  intelligence  can  only  be  speculated  upon  as  phenomeiui 
which  have  gone  out  of  the  range  of  human  observation ;  but  that  day 
is  not  yet,  and  the  Anthropological  Society  might  find  it  worth  the 
trouble  to  make  a  more  searching  analytical  cxaminaiion  of  psj-cho- 
logical  plienumena  on  the  Azores  than  was  possible  to  Mr.  Muddock 
in  his  brief  stay  at  St.  Michael's.  From  fables  and  theological  legends 
I  will  turn  to  pure  romance.  This  is  a  veiy  good  siory  iJlusirating 
the  marvellous  vicissitudes  possible  in  the  times  not  long  after  those 
islands  were  first  peopled  by  pious  Portuguese  colonists.  It  is  tbe 
Romance  of  San  Miguel : —  ^H 

Severn!  ceiilurics  ago  a  young  and  beautiful  maiden  was  one  day  walking  <V^ 
the  northcni  coast  of  the  iiUnd  of  St.  Michael  when  she  was  suddenly  surprised 
by  a  band  of  Moorinh  piiaten,  who  m.-ide  her  a  prisoner  and  carried  her  off  tO 
Africa.  Tlicre  she  was  sold  into  slavery,  and  after  a  lime  mold  snd  taken  by 
£«- sew  master  through  Aiabia  and  into  P«isia.  After  m.iny  Iroublca  she  was 
Al  leagtii  lakcn  to  a  town  in  W'mcm  CWia,  und  \«&.um,'!L  >.'&.<»« 'ux\»b;&at^<:.  l& 


her  highlntd  bome  of  St.  Mich«d  lhi«  rnakleB  bad  been  hctrothed,  and  after  her 
uqrtivity  her  lover  feU  into  the  deepen  deipair,  aiid  thinking  La  deaden  his 
■onow*  in  a  rcckleia  life  he  became  a  noldier.  In  a.  little  while  he  was  sent  to 
Coa  in  India,  and  here  he  give  fainMdf  up  to  the  wildest  ci>;cs5ei.  But  at  length 
a  change  came  over  him,  and  rcpenliri-;  of  hi»  win  he  left  the  army  ind  became  a 
Jesiuit  prim.  In  thin  cnpacity  he  irat  vnC  on  a  miwon  to  Thibet,  aud  one  day 
while  in  a  htlle  iowd  on  tHe  bcw Jers  of  China  he  was  taken  suddenly  and  dna- 
geroudy  ill.  Foi  a  long  time  he  sufTcied  inten&e  a^itny,  but  do  one  cuuld  uadet- 
stand  hi*  language.  At  ld«t  it  «->«  »uj;ge«ted  that  the  uiikuowc  tongue  resembled 
thai  spoken  by  a  Oai'v  who  had  been  brousbt  to  the  town  mniiy  year*  ptevjotisly. 
The  slave  still  dwelt  ihcie,  and  so  the  people  biuut^bl  liei  lu  (he  bed  Dftbcdyinj; 
man.  She  was  an  old  and  decrcpid  wuraaii,  but  in  the  slrickcn  priest  her 
voeoan't  heart  eoabk-d  bcr  tn  recognise  her  loag  lost  lover.  Then  sbci  threw  up 
bcr  amu  and  cried  "  J<»4.  toy  beloved.  God  is  gaad,  for  He  has  permitted  us  to 
tDcet  once  again."  The  priest  turned  his  d^ing  eyes  on  Ihe  withered  face  of  the 
speaker,  and  in  a  litllc  while  hi*  duied  brain  camprebended  that  the  idol  of  liis 
yoath  stood  before  him.  lie  pmsed  hit  parched  lips  to  her  forehead  and  ntur- 
mated,  "  Kalrina,  darling,  wc  will  never  part  more."  Then  the  lovers  were  very 
Mill,  and  when  the  ailoni^ihcd  onlookers  touched  them  it  was  fooiid  that  thiry' 
wot  dead.  They  wcfc  buried  in  one  giikve,  and  miui:  nftcrwaidi  a  vciy  hii|{c  and 
beanliful  ra»e  Uce  was  seeu  lu  be  gTuwinji  uver  the  grave;  and  amoug  the 
branches  of  the  tree  two  bulbulu  came  to  dwell.  And  a*  the  people  liUen  to  the 
■onga  of  the  beautiful  birds  they  »ay  that  it  it  the  louU  of  the  lover*  that 
nog. 


I 


A  REGULAR  reader 'of  Uiese  pages  of  Table  Talk  adds  one  more 
to  those  Dotabltf  coincidences  in  litcratuie  ol  which  ray  corr»pon- 
dcDls  sciil  ttK  su  many  a  few  muothb  ago.  In  Julm  U'cbsler's 
tragedy  of  "llie  White , Devi! "  occurs  the  following  passage  on 
tiAturai  death  : — 

O,  thou  soft  natural  decitb,  that  art  joint  twin 

To  sweetest  slumber :  no  rough-bearded  comet 

Sutrei  on  thy  mild  depurtuie :  the  dtdl  owl 

Beat*  not  agaiosE  Ihy  casement :  the  hoarse  wolf 

SccntM  not  iby  camon. 

Place  thi<i  side  by  side  with  the  following  lines  from  I^ord  f.)-t1on'5 
"  Last  Words  "  :— 

1  tball  sleep  into  death  ;  night  «lcep« ;  Ihe  hoarse  wolf  howU  not  near  ; 

No  duU  owt  beats  tlie  cascmenl ;  and  no  rough  •bear  ded  atar 

States  on  my  mild  departure  from  ynn  dark  window  bar. 

In  quoting  parallel  pa-ssages  (rom  time  to  time  I  have  not  cared  to 
run  loo  easily  to  the  conclusion  that  the  second  tn  point  of  time 
would  not  have  been  written  had  the  author  not  seen  the  first ;  but 
here  the  images  arc  so  unusual  in  furtii,  and  Ihcy  follow  each  otlier  in 
iDch  close  relationship,  lltat  it  is  difficult  to  arrive  at  any  other  con- 
clusioa  than  that  Lord  Lyiion's  thoughts  on  death  a.Te  a,  it\pT(i4M«A\Ci'a 
of  Webster's iposUophc,    It  is  inteiesting  to  iioV«  \i\aV  'wViSit^^x^wafc 


I 


256  The  Gentlemaris  Magazine. 

passage  is  little  more  than  a  paraphrase  of  the  other  the  videl; 
differcDt  characteristics  of  the  two  authors  respectively  find  distinct 
expression  in  the  one  and  the  other.  In  Webster's  words  we  see 
something  of  the  "  supernumerary  horrors  "  with  which  his  woric  has 
been  said  to  be  charged,  and  are  reminded  of  that  "  intenseness  of 
feeling"  which  according  to  Charles  Lamb  "seems  to  reserve  itself 
into  the  elements  which  it  contemplates  "  in  the  play  of  "  The  White 
Devil."  Somehow  even  while  declaring  their  absence  Webster  sug- 
gests the  presence  of  the  hoarse  woU|  the  beating  of  the  owl  against 
the  casement,  the  staring  of  the  rough-bearded  comet :  but  the  veiy 
tone  of  Lord  Lyttoo's  muse  gives  assurance  and  comfort  of  the 
absence  of  these  horrors.  In  Webster's  mind  thoughts  of  tenv 
intrude  upon  the  picture  to  which  no  terror  belongs ;  in  Lytton^ 
picture  the  ruling  feeling  is  one  of  comfort  and  peace  enhanced  \tj 
the  absence  of  horrors  that  might  have  been  there.  Webster's  tragedy 
was  put  upon  the  stage  (and  failed)  about  two  hundred  years  befcve 
the  appearance  of  Lord  Lytton's  "  Last  Words."  Here  is  a  chann- 
ing  example  of  the  fine  pathetic  texture  of  the  work  in  "The  White 
Devil":— 

I  found  them  vindiDg  of  Marcello's  cone^ 

And  there  is  sach  a  soleiDO  melody 

'Tween  doleful  songs,  tears,  and  sad  elegies 

Such  as  old  giandames  watching  bjr  the  dead 

Were  wont  to  outwear  the  nights  with ;  that,  bdiere  me, 

/  had  no  eyes  to  guide  wu  forth  tkt  room, 

TTkey  were  to  tfercharged  with  water. 


THE 


i. 


ENTLEMAN'S   MAGAZINE. 

September,  1876. 


.As  He  Comes  Up  The  Stair. 


''COM  IN' 


BY  HELEN  MATHERS,  AUTHOR  OF 

THRO'    THE    RYE,"    "THE    TOKEN 

SILVER  LILY/'  ETC. 

PART  I.— CHAPTER  I.— NINON. 


OF   THE 


.AH!"  said  Rose  Nichol,  "he  is  besotted,— mad,  the 
winds  would  pause  to  hearken  better  than  he  ;  and  all," 
she  added  bitterly,  "  for  a  foolish,  flighty,  waxen  white 

t^^ doll!" 
**  Nevertheless,  it  is  a  fine  thing  10  be  made  of  wai  when  it  gives 
you  the  handsomest  man,  the  besi  cottage,  and  the  longest  purse 
in  Lynaway '. " 

I    Rose  did  not  lepiy.  -She  was  thinking  that  not  the  best  cottage 
Or  the  longest  purse  aroused  her  envy,  but  the  roan  Michael,  who 
would  have  been  beautiful  in  her  eyes  though   he    had  been  a 
houseless,  homeless  beggar. 
"  It  wna  a  great  pity  Michael's  going  aw-ay  to  foreign  lands,"  con- 
tinued Martha,  wisely ;  "he  went  away  just  one  of  ourselves,  and  he 
came  back  with  his  head  all  filled  with  learning  and  thoughts,  though 
H  they  didn't  prevent  his  goingdown  before  Ninon  like  a  lad  of  twenty! " 
^     "  Ye  see,"  said  Enoch,  speaking  for  the  first  time,  "  he  was  nivcr 

in  love  afore,  an'  so  " 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  but  looked  out  at  the  sea  beyond, 
that  seemed  in  the  stillness  of  the  June  evening  to  mirror  back  the 
bunt  blue  green  of  the  sky  overhead.  A  boat  was  pulling  off  fmm 
the  shore,  a  lugger  was  coming  slowly  in,  from  the  beach  below  floated 
up  a  snatch  of  children's  laughter ;  over  all  was  lh«  vtatc  mA 
repose  of  the  evening  hours,  when  work  is  accoinpVi%\ve&  an^\%A 
Vol.  XVII.,  JV.S.  1876.  s 


4 

M 


aside,  and  the  onl)-  rest  worth  the  taking — the  rest  that  lies 

the  cessation  of  one  duty  niid  the  commencement  of  another — begins. 

"  T'  vHU  be  a  gran'  day  for  the  wcddjo'  to-mcTTOw,"  he  said,  u 
Martha  went  back  into  the  cottage.  "Eh  !  but  'tis  you  an'  I  as 
should  be  dirabin'  the  church  stiirs  to-morrow,  for  we've  been 
courtin',  my  dear,  a  mailer  o' " 

'•Two  years,"  she  broke  in  abruptly,  "and  we're  not  able  to  be 
married  yet,  while  that  Ninon  girl,  who  only  came  here  six  niontta 
ago,  nnd  has  had  more  lovers  than  one,  is  to  be  married  in  a  reil 
silk  gown — to-morrow  ! " 

"Tut!"  he  said,  laying  his  brown  hand  on  her  shoulder,  "oat 
tum  will  come  in  good  time,  an'  'nsn*t  always  the  married  sweet- 
hearts as  is  the  happiest,  my  dear  I " 

The  girl's  frowning  face  softened.  Although  this  man's  love  could 
not  content  her,  it  was  ncveithctcss  sweet ;  and  his  unfailing  tnstAil 
tenderness  always  came  to  her  like  a  solace,  hiding  for  a  moment 
from  her  own  regard  the  restless,  jjassionatc,  bitter-hearted  self  that  rfie 
knew  so  well,  and  bringing  forward  the  one,  not  beautiful  or  noble 
in  any  way,  but  lovable  and  bright,  that  Enoch  thought  he  knew 
and  loved. 

"  Thou  wast  never  ^ddy,  dear  heart,"  he  said,  drawing  her  nearei 
to  him ;  "  an'  I  shall  have  no  cause  to  fear  for  thee,  as  Michael  may  for 
yon  pretty  heedless  Ninon  ;  an'  when  I  am  away  far  from  thee  I  shall 
always  have  a  sure  heart  of  findin"  thee  faithfu'  an'  luvia'  on  my  retiun." 

The  girl  looked  down  for  a  moment,  ashamed,  then,  and  as  though 
the  words  escaped  her  lips  involuntarily,  exclaimed, 

"And  will  not  Michael  ha^  that  same  ftiith  in  Ninon  ?  Do  you 
think  so  badly  of  her  as  /Aa/,  Enoch  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  ill  o'  the  lass,"  Ije  said  slowly;  *'  maybe  her  faults 
're  more  o'  head  than  o'  heart ;  an'  you  mind,  my  dear,  she  is  not 
one  o*  us,  an'  she  came'  from  a  heathenish  place — they  wcr'nt  so 
particular  about  things  over  there,  pVaps." 

■■  But  (he  strangest  part  of  it  all  is,"  said  Rose  (who  six>kc  vttj 
differently  from  her  companion,  having  received  a  good  cducalioo 
at  the  town  of  Marmot,  up  yonder),  "that  Michael,  so  strict  and 
stem  as  he  always  was,  so  keen  to  see  a  woman's  ways,  if  ihcy  woe 
ever  so  little  light,— it  is  strange,  I  say,  that  he  never  noticed  anything, 
only  seemed  to  think  her  too  good  to  go  to  and  fro  among  us  I" 

"P'ra'ps   he  understood   her  better  'n   wc  did,"   said    Enocb, 

simply,  *'  for  ye  mind  he  loves  her.  an"  love  gives  a  wonderfu'  ktMJw- 

Jedge  o'  the  heart ;  an'  1  don't  think  the  lad  'ud  ha*  gone  on  k 

her  if  he  hadn't  found  a  wurldo*  gooiimVi" 


As  He  Comes  Up  tk4  Sinir. 


259 


r 


r 


^e  is  not  x  nan  to  doubt  widiout  good  reason,"  said  Rose, 
Jookiog  down.  "He  was  away  all  the  time  she  was  can>'ing  on 
with  Martin  Strange  ^  and  then,  when  he  came  back  and  the  lads 
saw  how  he  fell  in  love  with  her,  not  one  of  them  daicd  to  warn 
him,  and  ao  ■  ■  ■" 

*'  Peter  tried  to  speak,"  said  Enoch,  slowly,  "  but  afore  he'd  got 
ten  words  out  o'  his  mouth  Michael  slopped  him,  and  bade  him 
look  to 't  that  he  nivex  did  such  a  tiling  ^igain  ;  and  nobody  iver  did, 
they  was  all  afeanL" 

"If  Matiin  only  chose  to  Open  his  lips — do  you  think,  he  ever 
•n//  choose,  Enoch  ?  " 

"  No,  he  luv'd  her  too  well  for  that  'Tis  a  pale  face  the  lad 
carries  always ;  an'  have  you  noticed  it,  my  dear,  a  kinder  desprit 
look  upon  it  sometimes.  I'm  thinkin*  the  mom  'U  he  a  black  dajr 
to  Am." 

"And  she,"  said  Rose  eagerly,  "  is  in  constant  fear  and  piun, — 
any  one  can  see  that,  as  if  ihe  expected  something  bad  to  rush  out 
upon  her  at  any  moment ;  and  when  she  meets  Martin,  hark  you, 
Enoch,  she  trembles  and  turns  aside.  Yestereven  I  was  coming 
along  the  sands  with  father,  and  we  met  Ninon.  liVhile  we  were 
speaking  to  her  Kfarin  passed.  For  once  she  stood  quite  still,  but 
oh !  die  look  she  gave  hioi,  as  though  she  were  I>egBing  hard  for 
something  he  would  not  grant — I  don't  know  which  went  the  palest, 
and  then  we  all  separated  and  went  different  waj-s." 

"Was  it  just  after  sundown?"  said  Enoch,  and  something  in  his 
voice  arrested  Kose's  attention i  "was  it  anywheie  near  the  old 
Chapel  Stairs,  my  dear  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  her  hand  tightening  on  his  arm  ;  '*  at  least,  ike 
went  towards  the  ruins,  he  towards  liie  village." 

"Then 'twas  Ninon,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  half-awakened,  wholly 
I>erturbed  voice." 

"You  saw  them  together,"  cried  Rose,  breathlessly,  "they  met 
Up  there — Ninon  and  Martin  algiui" 

Be  did  not  immediately  reply ;  be  was  recalling  with  a  certain 
amazed  sense  of  misfortune  the  woman's  iigure  that  he  hod  seen  in 
extremcst  abandonment  of  entreaty,  kneeling  at  Martin's  feet,  as 
he  passed  with  rapid  steps  a  few  paces  away  from  them,  in  the 
darkening  twtlighL  It  had  in  no  way  occurred  to  him  then  that  the 
soppliant  was  Micliael's  promised  wife  ;  the  old  gossip  concerning 
her  and  Martin  Strange  was  rarely  whispered  now,  but  Rose's  A 
words  sent  a  sudden  sharp  conviction  IhroogU  Km  VVi'a.^  ^V  "wu 
Nino's  v^' seJf  iJm  he  had  &een.     Nevertheless,  beuv^  %tv  Vo'Ut&V 

%  1 


I 


• 


]< 


260  The  Gentletnatis  Magazine. 

man  and  a  true ;   moreover  possesaing  that  sense  of  honour  tl; 
would  make  the  secret  of  another  absotulely  safe  in  his  keeping, 
never  dreamt  of  tctling  Rose  what  he  had  seea,  and  to  all  her 
entreaties  and  cajolings  turned  a  deaf  car. 

"Good  evening,  Kosc  Nichol/'  said  a  familiar  voice  behind  ihein. 
and  turning,  she  saw  olil  Peter  standing  dose  b)'. 

"  Good  even,"  she  said,  crossly,  and  wishing  the  old  gossip  at  tlif 
bottom  of  the  sea  yonder,  for  in  anotlier  minute  would  she  not  have 
extracted  from  Enoch  the  information  that  she  so  ardently  desired? 

"  It  should  be  a  grate  weddin'  to-morrow,"  said  the  new-co*ner, 
looking  up  at  the  sky,  and  making  the  remark  that  every  soul  in  the 
village  had  made  at  some  period  or  other  of  the  day. 

"  One  would  think  that  no  one  had  ever  been  inarricil  in  Lynavay 
before,  nor  ever  would  be  again,"  said  Rose,  angrily,  "  to  judge  by 
the  fuss  that  is  being  made  over  the  affair  ! " 

Old  Peter,  rcrgarding  her  for  a  moment,  turned  his  head  slowly 
away,  and,  looking  at  the  sea,  deliberately  winked.  No  one  knew 
better  than  he  the  reason  Mistress  Rose  hated  to  hear  of  ihi* 
wedding,  and  in  his  feeble  inconsequential  way  he  thought  Enoch  a 
fool  for  not  having  found  out  the  state  of  his  sweetheart's  feeUi^ ; 
whereby  he  hurt  nobody,  least  of  all  Enoch,  for,  since  the  wodd 
began,  Has  there  lived  a  single  man  who  ha.-!  not  been  dubbed  at 
some  period  or  other  of  his  existence  a  fool?  It  is  a  pleasant, 
opprobrious,  non-compromising  way  of  vilifying  one's  neighbour 
that  commends  itself  to  human  nature,  that  fancies  it  displays  tts 
own  wisdom  in  discovering  tlie  folly  of  others. 

"  Not  bm  what  'twill  be  all  show  and  no  joy,  or  I'm  mucli 
taken,"  said   Peter,  turning  his  head  round,   *'an'  Michael  'ud 
done  better  to  choose  an  honest  God-fearin'  lass  as  was  bom  an' 
bred  in  Lynaway.     'Handsome  is  as  handsome  does,'  an'  Nino(^_ 
might  well  be  plainer  in  her  face  an'  handsomer  in  her  ways."  ^| 

What  could  there  be  in  this  poor  Ninon  to  set  even  the  men,^ 
those  swora  friends  to  beauty,  against  her?  Was  it  that  in  this 
old-world,  primitive  fishing-place  men  must  either  condemn  utterly 
the  merest  suKpicion  of  lightness  in  a  woman,  or  by  accepting  and 
making  excuses  for  it  that  arc  creditable  neither  to  her  nor  them- 
selves, stand  on  a  lower  platform  altogether  with  her  and  their  own 
consciences?  To  the  fionour  of  these  men  be  it  said  that  they  were 
free  of  one  of  the  worst  vices  of  our  great  cities,  that  consists  in  the 
ignoble  pleasure  men  take  in  amusing  themselves  at  the  expense  of 
women  ;  in  the  pains  they  arc  at  to  draw  out  and  encourage  their 
frivolity,  their  lightness,  and  their  vanity;  beckoning  them  onward 


rs  tts 


* 


rar^i 


As  He  Comes  Up  the  Stair. 


261 


I 


k 


tn  llietr  downward  course,  when  a  few  words  of  earnest  wamingj  a 
steady  attitude  of  scom  and  reprobation,  and  entire  withdrawal  from 
componion&hip  that  can  only  be  continued  without  the  semblance  of 
respect  and  honest  liking,  might  warn  the  poor  heedless  butterfly 
from  the  path  along  which  she  flutters.  They  knew  nothing, 
these  horacly  fellows,  of  the  lest  bestowed  on  a  woman's  smile  or 
caress  because  it  had  been  one  man's  yesterdny  and  might  be 
another's  to^norrow ;  they  could  no  more  have  condoned  her  levity 
for  the  sake  of  the  amusement  that  it  might  yield  to  them  in  the 
future  than  they  could  have  slain  a  comrade  in  cold  blood.  Out 
yonder,  in  the  great  town  of  Marmot,  many  a  gay  young  fellow 
would  liave  taken  up  the  cudgels  gladly  enough  for  beautiful  Ninon  ; 
but  here,  where  hearts  were  true  and  the  mind  had  not  been  obscured 
and  defaced  by  the  world's  casuistry,  there  were  found  Init  two  men 
who  had  any  belief  in  her. 

"He  is  content,"  said  Rose.  "What  would  you  have  more? 
Some  day " 

She  paused  abruptly. 

Two  people  were  coming  along  the  path  that  lay  between  the 
shingle  and  the  irregular  line  of  cottages  and  houses  that  formed 
the  village  of  l.ynaway — a  girl  and  a  man. 

"Ninon,"  muttered  Rose  below  her  breath,  lifting  her  Iiand  lo 
her  brow  to  ward  off  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  and  marking  with 
jealous  unwilling  admiration  the  delicate  peach-blossom  face  of 
Michael's  sweetheart,  the  gracious  curves  of  the  youthful,  lovely 
figine,  the  very  poise  of  the  pretty  slender  feet,  and  the  love,  sincere 
and  warm,  that  lit  the  blue  eyes  turned  full  upon  Michael's. 

*'  It  is  no  wonder,"  said  Rose  to  herself,  and  hating  passionately 
her  own  dark  face,  almost  as  swanhy,  every  whit  as  handsome  in  its 
way  as  Michael's  own. 

"There  is  Rose,"  said  Ninon,  stopping  short,  her  baud  still  thrust 
through  her  lover's  arm,  his  left  hand  holding  it  there  as  closely  as 
tboogh  it  were  a  bird  that  he  feared  to  see  flutter  away  out  of  his 
reach. 

The  girls  had  been  no  ill  friends  in  the  early  days  of  Ninon's 
coming  to  Lynaway,  and  before  the  man  Rose  loved  so  desperately 
had  grown  to  covet  the  sunny-haired  half  French,  half  English  girl, 
and  they  were  friends  after  a  onesided  fashion  still. 

Ninon  crossed  over  Lo  Rose's  side,  Martlia  came  out  to  the  door ; 
their  young  voices  should  have  made  a  pleasant  enough  music  to 
the  ears  of  the  men  who  listened,  but  Knoch  seemed  ill  at  case, 
Michael  tinpaiient,  and  Uw  exchange  of  words  between  the  two  men. 


I 


The  GeniUntatCs  Magazitte. 


The  fastest  friends,  Uie  most  sworn  comrades  in  all  Lynaway,  was 
forced  and  dull.  Enoch  was  considering  Ninon  from  a  new  point 
of  view,  trying  to  read  her  heatt  by  her  face,  asking  himself  if  he  did 
rightly  ill  holding  his  pcate  concerning  her,  and  whether  or  no  it 
was  unfaithful  on  his  patt  to  suiter  his  fne&d  to  walk  blindfolded  into 
ftittffc  sorrow. 

All  at  once  Midmel  caught  Ninon's  hand,  and  with  u.  gaj 
night  to  all,  hurried  her  away. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  looking  back;  then,  moved  b)' some  tin- 
accountabfe  impulse,  she  escaped  from  his  side  and  fled  back  to  the 
group  that  looked  after  rhom.  *'  Will  you  not  n-ish  mc  a  good  lack  ?'' 
she  said,  her  broken  English  sounding  quaint  and  pretty  from  her 
tender,  childish  tips.  "You  shall  sec  mc  never  no  more  as  Ninoi 
Levcsquc;  to-morrow  I  will  be  Ninon  Winter  I" 

And  that  young  and  winsome  face,  so  imploring,  so  sweet,  touched 
every  heart  there  save  one ;  and  Ibcy  wished  her  all  good-bye  and 
God  speed,  and  no  one  observed  that,  though  Rose  Nichol's  lip« 
moved  with  the  rest,  there  came  from  them  never  a  word. 


no  i[ 

1  inH»,i 


CHAPTER  H. 


I 


ft 


NINON. 

"Why  did  you  do  that,  Ninon?"  said  Michael,  as  the  girl 
badtto  his  side;  "why  should  it  matter  to  you  whether  ManhJi^ 
and  Rose,  and  old  Peter  wish  you  good  or  evil  P  You  need  caie 
for  no  one's  words  or  wishes  now  but  mine." 

The  jealousy  in  his  voice,  nay  the  ver)-  impatience  of  it,  announced 
him  emphaticTlIy  to  be  under  the  delirious  influence  of  that  folly 
yclejjt  love.  Probably  no  healthily-constituted  man  ever  dreams  or 
thinks  of  love  until  he  i«  brought  under  the  direct  influence  of 
women,  and  thereby  is  made  to  experience  emotion ;  and  of  Michael 
it  might  truly  be  said  that  upon  love  he  had  never  wasted  a  thought, 
much  less  a  desire,  until  he  had  met  Ninon.  When  a  man  who  is 
always  more  or  less  under  the  dominion  of  illness  is  taken  with  a 
fever  or  any  other  d;ingerous  disease,  he  oftener  than  not  gets  over 
it ;  but  when  one  who  has  never  been  ill  in  his  life,  and  is  soond 
and  strong  in  every  part,  is  attacked,  it  is  more  than  probable  that 
he  will  die.  The  disease  but  t.ikcs  the  firmer  hold  upon  him  Erom,^ 
the  very  strength  of  the  restst-incc  it  meets,  and  the  old  fable 
oak  And  tJjc  ash  recurs  to  the  ■memory*,  where  the  comparative!] 
worihluss  rncc,  by  bowing  to  tive  unsdUcvoua  Uasx,  cawa^iicK  ■ 


Je  the  sturdy  oak,  refusing  to  yield,  is  upiootcd,  and  hurled  broken 
^  to  the  eanb. 

■  "I  know  that  it  is  not  for  me  to  care,"  said  Ninon ;  " but  they  ar« 
good  to  me — aU, — and  1  desire  lo  have  their  kind  llioughts  always." 

He  took  her  liaiid,— such  a  frajjiiti,  fair  little  liand,  so  different  from 

■  his  big,  weatfae£-beat£D  one — and  kissed  it.  Was  she  not  beiier  than  he 
in  eveiy  way.  and  did  not  gentle  btood  run  in  her  veins,  while  he 
differed  in  no  whit,  save  in  his  clear  head  and  speech,  from  Uie  other 
fishermen  here  ?  It  was  now  nineteen  years  since  Ninon's  mother, 
fonaking  her  people  for  the  fair-laced,  soft-spoken  Frencliman,  who 
came  one  day  to  I.)'naway,  lud  departed  with  him  for  his  own  land, 
returning  thence  a  widow  just  six  months  ago,  also  bringing  with  her 
a  daughter  of  eighteen,  and  a  heart  soured  and  embiiiered  by  the 
sufferings  and  misfonunes  of  her  life. 

The  sky  and  sea  were  melting  each  into  the  other  in  that  exquisite, 
indescnbable  grey  tliat  ever  heralds  the  advent  of  starlight  in  the 
hea^icns,  when  Michael  and  the  girl  paused  before  a  cottage  that  was 
surely  very  homely  to  be  the  best  in  the  village ;  yet  it  had  a 
summer  beauty  of  its  own  in  the  golden  mantle  of  lush  honey- 
uiddc  by  which  it  was  covered,  and  in  the  great  bushes  of  roses, 
white  and  red,  that  stood  one  on  either  side  of  the  door.  Like  all 
common  things,  they  were  prodigal  in  their  abundance,  and  the 
snowy  and  scarlet  clusters  seemed  po»tively  countless.  The  white 
bush  was  on  Ninon's  side,  the  red  one  on  Michael's,  as  tliey  entered, 
and  it  passed  through  his  mind  how  like  she  was  in  her  purity  and 
irmoccncc  to  tlio^  spotless  flowers  ;  and  so  thirdting.  he  drew  her 
over  the  threshold,  and  ga\-e  her  sweetest  welcome  by  word  and  lip 
to  the  home  of  which  she  would  bo  mis.tre5S  ere  twenty-four  houiB 
had  passed,  and  all  unwcdded  though  she  wa.s,  this,  I  think,  was  her 
real  homeK:oming  ;  on  this  night  she  entered  radiant  and  joyous  into 
her  kingdom ;  lo-ntght,  and  not  to-morrow,  she  felt  the  careless 
days  of  her  maidenliood  fallen  away  from  her,  and  a  new  sensation 
of  wifely  happiness  and  peace  stirring  at  her  heart.  'I'hcy  went 
hand-in-liand,  like  two  ha|>py  children,  into  the  sitting-room,  orderly 
and  neat,  .ill  brightened  with  the  dowers  that  Michael's  dating  loved, 
wfaeK  his  old  mother  sat  in  her  high-backed  chair  fast  asleep, 
spectacles  on  nose  and  knitting  in  hand,  ready  to  lake  up  the  stitch 
where  it    had   dropped    when  she  should   awake.      Treading  on 

•tipuse  they  left  her  there,  and  wandered  up  and  down,  in  and  about 
Iheir  little  domain,  loving  all  things  that  they  saw,  since  diey  were  to 
belong  equally  to  both. 
They  sat  down  at  hst  in  the  aj-bottrat  the  end  ot  xVie  oV^^asiW 


I 


k 


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I 


I 

\ 


garden,  in  wliicli  clove-pinks,  sweet-williams,  and  other  swecl-swflicd, 
homely  flowcra  flourished ;  and  Michael,  taking  his  sweetheart  in 
thos:  strong  and  faithful  arms  that  had  never  yet  hungered  for  butden 
of  rtny  other  woman,  bade  her  tell  him  from  her  heart  if  she  were 
content — if  she  wouIJ  have  aught  rc-fashioncd  or  otherwise  planned 
— if  there  lingered  with  lier  one  doubt  of  the  new  life  that  would 
begin  on  the  morrow — if  she  harboured  one  regret  for  the  innocent, 
happy  days  of  her  girlhood  that  she  was  leading  behind  her;  and 
she  clasped  those  tender,  sofl  arms  of  hers  about  his  neck,  and  for 
all  answer  only  prayed  him  to  love  her  always,  never  to  care  for  her 
lejis  because  she  w-as  his  foolish  tittle  wife,  not  his  sweetheart,  whose 
faults  he  could  never  see — cried  to  him  as  one  in  fear  to  idl 
her  whether  slio  would  he  his  wife,  ii^dy  his  wife,  by  to-monowtt 
th.it  hour.  And  there  camenoteventhenight-cry  of  a  wandering  bird 
to  break  the  haimony  of  those  soft,  passionate  love-whispeis.  and. 
they  two,  hoverinij  as  they  believed  on  the  brink  of  a  happier  and 
more  perfect  existence  than  either  had  ever  yet  ex|>ericnced,  knew  not 
that  the  promise  had  in  its  sweetness  outsped  the  fulfilment,  the 
dream  outstripped  the  reality — that  nc^xr  again  in  spring  or  summer. 
autumn  or  winter,  should  come  to  them  the  unal!o}*cd  unbroken  tnisl 
and  happiness  of  this  one  hour,  stolen  out  of  the  silent,  dusky,  mid- 
summer night. 

CHAPTER    III. 
WEDOIKC   BELL& 

The  bride  came  stepping  through  the  dark  and  frowning  doffl?) 
the  old  village  church,  the  bridegroom  by  her  side,  and  at  her  heels 
half-a-dozen  smiling,  red-cheeked  lasses,  dressed  in  whatsoever  seemed 
most  goodly  in  their  eyes,  and  each  attended  by  a  sweetheart  eve^^H 
whit  OS  rosy  and  cheerful  as  herselil  ^| 

Until  the  moment  of  the  bride's  appearance,  it  had  been  a  matter 
of  doubt  whether  the  crowd  assembled  would  give  as  ringing  a  ch«r 
as  so  good  a  fellow  .as  the  bridegroom,  so  fair  a  maiden  as  the  bride 
deserved  on  their  wedding-day ;  but  no  sooner  was  that  dainty  littk 
apparition  in  while  visible  than  a  hearty  and  simultaneous  shout 
burst  from  the  throat  of  every  man  present,  bringing  a  blush  to  the 
cheek  of  Ninon,  and  a  smile  to  the  lip  of  her  husband.  Such  a 
beautiful  little  bride  as  she  made,  with  such  shining,  twinkling  little 
feet,  and  such  a  happy  light  on  the  blushing  delicate  little  Cicc, 
as  surely  could  not  fa.il  to  waim  ail  hcatis  to  her,  whether  thi 
would  or  J 


As  He  Comes  Up  the  Siair, 


265 


And  yel  in  tw^o  breasts  lay  stones,  not  hearts — but  a  little  away 
apart,  too,  in  the  eager  excited  crowd,  and  two  faces  alone  were 
pale  and  cold  and  set— the  laces  of  Rose  Nichol  and  Martin  Strange. 
His  looks  might  surely  have  drawn  Ninon's ;  his  eyca  miglit  surely 
liave  compelled  some  answering  glance  lo  his  inten&e  and  steady 
gaze ;  but  as  though  some  talisman  in  her  heart  turned  aside  the 
evil  that  had  until  now  been  jiotcnt  to  molest  her,  slie  did  not  look 
once  towards  liim,  did  not  even  notice  that  her  gown — nay  her  very 
hand,  on  which  the  plain  gold  wedding-ring  shone,  brushed  against 
his  garroents  as  she  passed  him  slowly  by. 

They  look  their  way  along  the  familiar  path,  and  the  motley 
procession  followed  after,  man  and  matron,  youth  and  maid,  and  came 
ere  long  to  the  house  where  Ninon's  mother  dwelt,  and  where  the 
wcdding-fcast,  abundant  and  simple,  was  set.  Of  how  all  Lynaway 
was  bidden  lo  it,  and  how,  when  the  house  overflowed,  the  remainder 
ied,  happily  enough,  in  the  open  nir ;  of  how  the  healths  of  the  bride 
and  bridegroom  were  drunk  again  and  again,  while  all  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  their  suspicions  of  her,  now  that  she  was  an  honest  man's 
wife,  with  an  honest  wedding-ring  upon  her  finger,  I  will  not  pause 
lo  tell ;  only  relate  how  poor  Ninon,  who  had  been  growing  paler 
and  paler  through  the  long  hours  of  the  burning  summer  afternoon 
and  evening,  slipped  away  with  her  mother,  and  being  despoiled  of 
all  her  wedding  finery,  donned  her  daily  dress  and  set  out  with  her 
husband  on  the  homeward  walk. 

Now  they  met  not  a  soul  by  the  way ;  the  very  maid  being 
junketing  up  yonder  with  the  rest,  and  the  mother  having  gone  away 
to  her  own  home ;  so  that  they  found  an  empty  house  when  they 
arrived.  Of  how  he  left  her  presently  to  despatch  the  wassailers  up 
jronder,  and  bid  them  all  good-night,  leaving  her  with  a  willingness 
that  he  had  never  known,  had  not  the  thought  lain  close  at  his  heart 
that  he  would  be  returning  to  her  immediately.  O !  that  we  could 
call  him  back  as  he  goes  away,  away  to  Ihe  cottage  up  yonder !  O  \ 
that  the  twelve  houra'  wife,  who  leans  out  of  the  upper  window  to 
catch  an  uncertain  glimpiic  of  him  as  he  goes,  to  hear  the  echo  of 
his  steps  on  the  footpath,  could  cry  to  him,  with  the  voice  that  he 
has  never  learned  to  disobey,  lo  remain  with  her,  and  let  the  revellers 
linger  as  they  will  ....  but  she  only  turns  back  lo  the  lami>lit 
room,  thanking  God  aloud  for  making  her  so  blessed  a  woman,  so 
|Aappy  a  wife  ....  You  do  well  poor  hapless  child  to  praine  God 
rhilc  jrou  may  1 


266 


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;sta."s 


It  was  wholly  dark  now,  save  for  ihe  pale  uncertain  I 
and  the  tnoon  that 

I'ut  forth  ■  little  riiamonil  peak. 
No  biggci  than  An  unobserved  star, 
Or  tiny  point  of  fairy  scimiur, 
BiiK^it  ■^sffxA  that  she  only  uoop'd  co  lie 
Ilcr  silver  undals,  «*er  ddidousljr 
She  bowed  into  ike  heai^'ens  hei  limid  beid. 


Ninon  sees  not  how  below  her  window,  half-hidden,  half-i 
stands  a  man  whose  face,  U\'id,  frightful  even,  by  reason 
intense  emotion  that  convulses  it,  gleams  out  from  the  partial  sow) 
of  leaves  aiTorded  by  the  >'ou]ig  bcccii-trce  by  which  he  stands. 
Though  her  eyes  fell  upon  it,  she  would  scarcely  know  the  (ace  (or 
that  uf  Martin  Strange,  the  man  ^iio  might  have  worked  such  deadly 
mischief  between  her  and  Michael,  and  who  has  rotborne,  as  she 
had  once  wiUi  sick  fear  believed  he  would  not  forbear-  She  gu££i*s 
not  how  out  yonder  one  H-atchcs  her  shadow  i^ass  and  repass' the 
blindj  as  she  lays  aside  the  silken  'kerchief  and  chain  and^croa 
from  her  neck,  Michael's  gifts  all  ...  .  who  can  even  see  the  deft 
movement  of  her  fingers  as  she  unlaces  the  blue  bodice,  marks  the 
uplifted  armn  as  they  unbind  the  rippling  hea\-y  masses  of  the 
glorious  hair  he  had  once  deemed  his  own  ....  all  this,  I  say,  be 
sees  and  notes,  neither  stirring  one  hair^sbrcadth  nor  moving  ooe 
step  towards  the  bouse,  although  she  is  there  absolutely  alone  and 
at  his  mercy.  So  he  can  have  no  thought  of  harming  \\ex,  and. 
after  all,  it  may  be  but  the  titful  light  that  makes  his  face  appear  so 
gha-slly,  his  air  so  wild  I  Thus  he  stands,  immovable,  his  e>-es 
uplifted,  his  hands  clenched,  and  sees  not  how  a  woman's  form  fiits 
far  behind  him  and  \-anishes,  nor  hears  later  a  man's  foalaU|it 
approach,  slacken,  and  pause  by  his  side. 


CHAPTER  lY. 

MARTIN  STHASGE's  REPLT. 

"It  is  you,  Martin  Strange?"  said  a  voice  beside  the  watcher  that 
made  him  turn,  starting  violently.  He  had  taken  up  his  positioa 
here  since  Michael  left  his  house,  and  believed  him  to  be  at  that 
moment  in  yonder  room  with  his  wife.  Albeit  no  coward,  he  wis 
thoroughly  thrown  off  his  centre  by  Michael's  imlooked-for  appear- 
aiice,  and  stoo'd  the  very  image  of  detected  shame  and  guilt,  incapable 
o/aitic-ulating  one  word. 


As  He  Coines  Up  the  Stair.  267 

"T  wcnild  Iwve  speech  with  you,"  said  Michael,  in  the  voice  of  a 
nun  who  is  divided  between  a  mad  desire  to  slay  the  thing  before 
him,  and  an  et|ually  violent  and  imperative  need  that  compels  him 
to  bUy  his  hand.  In  thai  impotence  of  desire,  that  nrgcnfy  of 
inaciioD,  he  unconsciously  tore  off  a  bough  ol  (he  tree  by  which  they 
stood,  his  hand  strengthening  upon  it  like  a  vice,  a£  though  thus  and 
thus  only  could  he  restrain  it  from  fastening  with  murderous  intent 
upon  the  man  before  him. 

**  I  have  a  question  to  ask  of  you,"  said  Michac!  slowly,  and  his 
voice  vas  stnu^Ied  and  as  the  voice  of  a  stranger.  A  quarter  of  an 
hour  igo  I  discovered  for  tlic  lir&t  time  that  you  are  a  fonner  lover 
of  my — wife's." 

He  made  a  slight  gesture  with  his  empty  band  towards  the 
oott^e. 

"'NVliat  I  have  to  ask  you  is  tJus:  Do  you  know  anything,  great 
or  small,  to  her  discredit  ?  Is  there  any  reason  (and  1  charge  you 
ai  before  your  God,  to  answer  me  the  whole  truth)  why  I  should 
not  have  made  Ninon  I-evesque  my  wife  to^ay?" 

Ko  reply.  Only  the  far-away  sound  of  what  might  be  a  far-away 
footfall,  or  the  patter  of  a  leaf  falling  to  the  ground,  or  the  stining 
of  a  sleepy  bird  in  his  warm  brown  nest. 

"A  quarter  of  an  hour  ago,"  said  Michael,  still  in  that  slow, 
painful  way,  as  though  he  had  learned  a  lesson  by  rote,  and  feared 
to  forget  some  important  words  of  it,  "  as  I  was  coming  towards  my 
— home,  1  overheard  certain  words  between  Stephen  Prentice  nnd 
WiUiam  Marly,  honest  men  both,  as  I  have  found  them,  therefore 
to  be  bcHcvcd  even  in  their  cups,  beyond  the  I)elicf  that  I  should 
have  given  to  Peter  the  gossip,  or  Seili  the  scandalmonger.  They 
spoke  of  my  wife — of  me,  lastly  of  you.  Enough  that  I  listened 
and  understood.  I  said  to  myself,  '  There  is  R<:>se  Nichol  passing 
by,  she  was  always  my  wife's  friend — my  wife  loved  her'  <it  was 
strange  to  hear  how  he  said  '  my  nife '  at  every  o|iportunity,  as 
though  the  mere  name  heartened  him),  and  1  said  to  her,  '  They 
have  been  speaking  ill  of  her  ....  you  know  my  dear's  spotless 
heart,  and  mind,  and  ways ;  you  know  that  this  thing  is  ini|Kj5siblc, 
that  it  cannot  be ;  idl  nie  of  it,  assure  me  of  ii,  that  I  may  go  back 
to  her  without  one  doubt  in  my  mind,  without  my  being  forced  to 
insult  her  jjurity — by  one  question,  or  look,  or  word'  ....  but 
she  only  fell  away  from  me  like  water,  sa)ing  o^-cr  and  over  again, 
'  I  know  nothing — nothing,  go  to  linoch,  may  be  he  knows.'  .... 
I  left  "her  there,  and  findinx  her  lover,  said,  '  Rose,  has  stvA  tftc  Va 
that  jrou  may  tell  me  that  my  Ninon  is  tVu&  '^u^  v&oocecvV 


JWOJ 


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n,  uux 
r-bTuB 


maiden  thai  I  loved— and  that  Stephen  Prenli<x  and  Wtlliam 

arc  liars'  ....  ami   I   laid  him,  as  1  could  uoc  lell  his  giiltl 
words  that  they  had  said." 

He  paused,  and  looked  upm-ards  at  the  lamp  that  shone  like  %\ 
beacon  in  Ninon's  room.  "  The  man  I  honour  most  on  earth,* 
he  went  on,  still  in  that  unnaturally,  stony  way,  "  the  truest,  (he  wa 
upright,  the  bMt,  filtered  and  turned  aside ;  only  in  his  btx  1 
seemed  to  read  that  which  should  have  blinded  my  eyes  in  the 
reading,  so  I  tumcd  and  left  him,  saying  to  myself,  '  There  il 
only  one  man  en  earth  whose  words  can  heal  or  kill  me  doh,' 
atid  while  1  sought  for  you,  Rose  crossed  my  path  once  more,  trA 
bade  me  come  here,  where  I  should  find  you.  she  said." 

And  now  he  cried,  his  voice  (monotonous  and  slow  no  loogcf) 
leaping  forth  like  the  sword  from  the  scabbard,  "  answer  me  this— 
arc  these  words  that  I  have  heard  to-night  but  tipsy  rumours,  EUse 
as  the  hearts  and  tongues  that  bred  them,  or  is  there  any 
why  she  should  have  liecn  your  wife,  not  mine,  lo-day  ?" 

Martin's  eyes,  straying  upwards,  rested  on  the  window-bTii 
across  which  was  flung  at  that  moment  the  grotesque  and 
gerated  shadow  of  her  exquisite  form,  then,  summoning  the  whole 
forces  of  his  nature  to  meet  the  s(uj)endous  tax  imposed  upoa 
them,  he  uttered  the  one  damning  syllable,  "Yes  !" 

Ninon  now  came  to  the  window,  and  lifting  one  comer  of  the 
blind,  looked  abroad  inw  the  night. 

"  He  is  long  aiv.T.y,"  they  heard  her  soft  voice  say,  then,  whhoui 
one  glance  towards  the  two  faces  that  glared  upon  each  other  belov. 
she  drojiped  the  blind  and  vanished. 

With  a  low  sound,  that  in  its  iiitciisity  reached  not  so  high  as  a 
cry,  Michael  hurled  himself  upon  the  man  before  him,  and  snatching 
him  by  the  throat  dashed  him  head  downwards  against  the  earth,  ss 
one  may  destroy  some  hurtful  noisome  tiling  that,  to  a  certain 
extent,  expiates  the  hatefulncss  of  its  existence  by  the  rioleocc  of  it* 
end. 

It  seemed  but  a  moment  later,  when,  the  paroxysm  passed  be 
fotiiul  himself  kneeling  by  the  side  of  the  jironc  man,  seeking  soar 
sign  of  life,  nay,  that  a  thrill  passed  through  him  as  Maniii< 
stirred,  sat  op,  and  unsteadily  rose  to  his  leet 

"  And  now,"  said  Michael,  "  come  with  me  into  her  very  prettncf. 
and  rciwat  this  lie  if  you  dare." 

He  suddenly  broke  off  Rcmembcnng  the  str-iightforward.  honest 
traditions  of  the  I,ynaway  men,  it  flashed  through  his  brain  that 
Mariin  dared  not  so  belie  his  name  and  caUing,  any  more  tbso  b* 


rPVMkfip.     I 


the  wit  to  conceive  so  frightful  a  falsehood  as  the  oni* 
of  which  he  now  stood  accused. 

"It  it  trueV  said  Michael,  .ind  in  (h«c  three  wcrds  was  .in 
appeal  lo  the  honour,  good  faith,  and  to  that  nameless  tsprilde  corps 
that  subsisted  between  Lynan'ay  men,  and  that  would  outlive  injury, 
treachery,  and  even  the  foulest  wrong,  that  the  man  addressed 
understood  to  the  inmost  nbrc  of  his  nature. 

Foi  a  few  seconds  there  was  silence,  then  the  answer  csunc,  "  Ay  ! 
it  is  true." 

Michael  broke  into  sudden,  almost  voiceless  laughter,  as  he  lifted 
his  hand,  and  pointed  upwards  to  Ninon's  window. 

"  Why  do  you  not  go  to  her  ?"  he  said.  "  She  was  your  light  o' 
love  once;  let  her  be  your  light  o'  love  again.  A  marriage  cercniony 
can  count  for  little  between  such  as  you  and  she.  Do  you  hear 
me,"  he  cried,  with  the  echo  of  thai    unnatural  laughter  still  in 

Ci  voisx,  "go  to  her,  and  tell  her  that  I  sent  you,  hark  ytiu 
that  I  saU  you,  and  how  I  have  found  out,  before  it  is  yet 
>  late,  that  she  stood  at  the  altar  with  the  wrong  man  to-day ! 
TcU  her,  that  if  but  now  I  could  have  killed  you,  and  gloried  in 
the  deed,  that  I  now  thank  God  thai  I  have  not  stained  my  soul 
with  murder  for  such  as  she — that  what  you  were  to  her  once  you 
can  now  be  again,  that  I  thank  you  for  being  the  means  by  which  I 
have  discovered  her  vileness,  now  instead  of  hereafter.  For  if  she 
could  come  to  me  what  she  is,  she  would  have  betrayed  me  again 
afterwards,  and  it  is  better  now  than  then.  Who  was  it  said  that  I 
loved  her?  A  lie — a  lie— the  woman  I  loved  was  jjurc  as  Heaven 
,  .  .  .  ihe\%  dead,  the  thing  that  remains.  Martin  Strange,  is  youi^ 
and  yours  alone." 

TTien  he  turned  on  his  heel,  and  went  away  with  rapid  footsteps 
through  the  night. 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE   MIDKIGHT   SALLV. 

The  bride,  listening  in  vain  for  the  sound  of  Michael's  foot  on  the 
stair,  )>assed  from  surprise  to  doubt,  from  doubt  to  fear,  from  fear  to 
a  chill  and  deadly  foreboding  of  evil,  that  swept  like  a  dimming, 
destroying  mist  between  her  and  the  restful  perfect  happiness  she 
had  known  since  Michael  had  placed  the  wedding-ring  upon  her 
hand.  "Martin  could  not  have  the  heart  lodo  it," she  moaned,  her 
hands  clasped,  her  blue  eyes  wild  with  terror,  the  veil  of  her  ri[>pling 
hair  half  hiding,  half  revealing  the  beauty  of  het  snowy  neck  and 


i 


270  The  Gentleman  s  Afagaztne. 

arms.  "  Michael  would  not  believe  him,"  she  said  again ;  "  he  vould 
be  sure ;  O  yes,  he  would  be  sure  to  come  to  me  aod  say, '  Xmoo, 
will  it  be  trve'"'f 

A  thought  seemed  to  strike  her,  and  hastily  gathering  op  her  hur, 
she  proceeded  to  put  on  her  bodice  and  petticoat,  kerchief  and  shoes, 
and  creeping  softly  past  the  room  where  the  scrrant  soundly  and  aadiMy 
slept,  she  gaint-d  the  Kail  door,  thai  was  stiU  set  open  against  dK-. 
return  of  the  master 

As  she  stood  there,  hesitating  whether  she  should  talie  the 
along  which  Michael  so  strangely  tarried,  she  heard  voices  on 
beach  below,  and  straining  her  eyes,  made  out  the  mdistiiKt  oat' 
lines  of  figures  moving  to  and  fro — could  e^'cn  caich  tlie  occMOoal 
gleam  of  the  weapons  they  carried  as  they  busied  thcmaelies  »boul 
the  boat  in  their  midst  One  voice,  rising  suddenly  above  the  test 
with  startling  clearness,  made  her  heart  bound  in  her  breast — it  was 
the  voice  of  her  bridegroom,  Michael  Winter. 

"What  will  he  be  doing  there?"  she  thought,  her  presentimeoia 
in  no  way  kssened,  for  did  she  not  know  that  the  Custom  House 
officers  were  bent  Out  night  on  one  of  those  dangerous,  nay,  dcspoate 
errands  that  had  already  cost  more  than  one  Lynaway  man  bu  life? 
And  Michael's  being  in  their  midst  o^ued  his  intentiott  of  going 
with  ihcm.  It  had  come  to  be  understood  in  the  village  that  no 
man  with  others  dependent  on  him,  or  who  was  not  reckless  and  over- 
bold, ought  to  take  his  life  in  his  hand  and  risk  it  in  these  midoighi 
sallies,  and  not  often  did  one  volunteer  his  services.  AAer  all  ii 
was  no  afiair  of  the  village  folks  j  and  if  the  bold  smug^en  wese 
resolved  to  struggle  so  long  and  successfully  against  the  law,  it  did 
not  hurt  them,  and  it  was  not  worth  while  to  be  made  a  dead  ouo 
of  for  nothing. 

Ninon,  passing  almost  as  rapidly  as  a  shadow  chased  from  the 
hill-side  by  the  sun,  fled  across  the  garden  and  shingle  ;  but  as  she 
drew  nearer,  saw  to  her  dismay  that  the  boat  was  already  upon  the 
water,  that  the  last  man  was  in  the  act  of  leaping  in  ;  nay,  thai  is 
she  approached,  it  receded  rapidly,  although  it  was  as  yet  so  mar 
that  she  could  make  out  Micbael's  face  among  those  that  filled  it 

"  Michael ! "  she  cried,  stretching  out  her  arms  towards  him,  imd 
never  heeding  how  the  sea  was  flowing  o\-er  her  feet  and  ankles, 
"are  you  going  away?  will  you  not  then  speak  to  me  ?" 

She  saw  that  the  rowers  shipped  their  oars  and  paused,  and  heud 
M  one  man  say  to  another,  "  Is  he  mad  to  leave  her  like  this  on  his 
■       wedding  night  ?  " 

But  Michael  sat  there  like  a  slone,  and  said  ne\'er  a  word. 


L 


A 


authority  anaong  them  ;  "  ire 
are  late  as  it  is,  and  theie  is  oo  time  for  paikying.    Will  you  be  put 
out  and  return  with  your  wife  yontier?" 
"  I  have  no  wife,"  said  Michael  Winter. 

The  oflftcer  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  gave  the  word  of  corn- 
He  pitied  the  giri  for  her  heaut/s  sake,  but  business  was 
less,  and  there  was  no  time  to  trouble  himself  about  the  aftair, 
and  in  aaothur  moment  the  long,  swift  strokes  of  the  rowers  had 
carried  the  boat  out  of  earshot 

Ninon  stood  immovable,  heeding  nothing  but  the  faint  splash  of 
the  muffied  oars,  that  almost  immediately  died  away  in  the  distance^ 
gazing  as  though  her  life  hung  upon  it,  on  the  shadow)-  receding 
outline  that  stood  to  her  for  Michael,  her  poor  pale  lips  repeating 
over  and  over  again,  "  I  have  no  wife."    What  did  it  all  mean? 

B     **  Miscreas  Winter,  Mistress  Winter,"  cried  old  Peter,  "what  are 
^you  doing  here,  and  where  is  Michael  ?     Oh,  fie  !  have  you  run  away 
ftvHn  him  to  catch  youi  death  of  cold  on  your  wedding  night,  and 
stare  yourself  mad  at  the  sea  ?  " 

"  Michael  is  gone  away,"   she  said,  slowly  and  painfully,  like  a 
child  repeating  a  lesson  it  fears  to  forget,  "and  he  said,  t>efore  he 
out,  that  I  was  not  his  wife." 

"  Hey  !"  said  Peter,  scenting  a  scandal,  and  opening  his  eyes  and 
'cars  greedily  for  the  same,  "  are  ye  joking  ?    Did  he  tell  ye  to  yer 
iace  that  ye  was  not  married  to  him  ?" 
^    "  Yes,"  said  Ninon,  "  he  did  say  that,  just  that." 
^P     Peter,  misled  by  the  calmness  uf  a  manner  that  might  well  have 
misled  wiser  men  than  he,  cried  in  high  glee,  "Is  the  lad  mad P 
Did  we  not  all  see  him  put  the  ling  upon  your  finger  t&4ay  i    He's 
teasin'  you,  Mistress  Winter," 

"  Will  it  be  but  a  dream,  Peter,"  said  poor  Ninon,  pate  and  cold, 
"  that  he  did  leave  me,  saying  he  would  immediately  return  to  mc, 
but  I  did  seek  and  find  him  here?" 

I  "O' course  you  didn't  dream  it?"  said  Peter,  deeply  interested, 
and  o*'crjoyctl  at  getting  the  slor>-  in  its  int(^ity — insteail  of  ha\'ing 
to  pick  up  a  bit  here  and  a  bit  there,  with  all  the  trouble  afterwards 
of  dovetailing  them  into  a  respectable  whole.  "  .\n*  so  you  came  to 
look  for  him,  my  dear  ?"  he  said,  pressing  a  little  nearer  to  her, 
looking  into  the  widely-opened,  fixed  blue  eyes  that  seemed  to  be 

■looking  far,  (ar  bcyoiid  him. 
"Yes,"  she  said,  in  that  slow,  monotonous  voice,  as  though  she 
were  tmder  some  mesmeric  influence  that  compelled  hei  to  utter  her 


I 

I 


t 


I 


thoughts  and  s<xrcts  aloud.     "  Do  you  not  know — can  you  not  < 
to  tell  me,"  she  said,  la>-ing  her  slender  h^nd  upon  the  old  mkn^il 
arm,  "  why  he  did  go  ?     WU!  it  be  that  he  did  meet  and  have  spMch 
with  any  of  the  men — with  Martin  Strange — after  he  did  take  mt, 
home?" 

Peter,  louking  down  on  tliat  lovely,  imploring  young  face,  fdt  ihlll 
out  of  her  own  Mps  was  she  condemned,  and  sighed  i  for  his  bead 
was  not  a  bad  one,  and  he  thought  he  would  even  forego  the  repe- 
tition of  this  higlily-spiccd  story  to  know  that  MichAcl  had  no  good 
cause  to  leave  her  in  this  fashion  ;  to  know  that,  imprudent  as  she 
may  have  been,  there  was  no  real  harm  or  disgrace  in  her  fw 
hi&lory. 

"  I  dunno',''  he  said,  drawing  his  arm  away  frotn  her  touch ;  and 
his  voice,  all  worthless  and  disrepuuble  though  the  man  was,cani«i 
a  weight  of  reprobation  that  would  havu  fallen  heavily  enough  upun 
any  woman  less  ignorant  of  the  penalties  of  evil  than  Ninon.  She 
did  not  even  observe  his  manner  any  more  than  »he  had  ever  ooted 
the  questioning  looks  of  the  other  men  and  women  of  the  x-iiUfc. 
There  was  a  curious  simplicity  and  singleness  of  heart  about  the 
girl  th.it  blinded  her  to  many  things  clear  as  daylight  to  ever}- 
one  else. 

"  Ye  had  better  go  home  with  yc,  Mistress  Winter,"  said  Peter, 
not  unkindly ;  "  the  boat  will  not  be  back  till  break  o'day,  an*  wh« 
'tis  in  Michael  'uLl  go  up  to  ye  yonder,  an'  if  there's  aught  amiss 
between  you,  may  be  'twill  all  be  set  right  the  mom." 

Bm  in  hiii  heart  he  thought  nothing  of  the  kind. 

"At  break  of  day,"  she  repeated  to  herself,  "and  may  bc'twfll     i 
all  come  right.''  ^P 

■'It  cannot  be  that  he  will  fail  to  conic,  Pbtet?" 

"  He's  sure  to  come,"  said  Peter,  addiof  to  himself,  "  if  » 
be  a.s  he's  not  liilled  as  Jack  Spillcr  an'  Tom  Masters  was  last 
fall." 

Finding  that  his  remonstrances  had  no  effect  upon  her,  and  that 
nothing  would  move  her  from  where  she  stood ;  bein^  moreover 
resolved  not  :o  so  misu&e  his  advantages  as  to  depart  before  he  bad 
seen  the  end  of  this  exciting  little  story,  he  retired  to  the  shelter  of 
a  boat  and  fell  fast  asleep,  making  night  hideou.<t  with  the  resounding 
echoes  of  his  snores.  Ninon  sat  down  on  the  pebbles,  crossed  hes^^ 
hands  on  her  kncds,  and  wailed.  ^| 

Who  shall  succeed  in  pourtraying  the  state  of  a  human  soul  ia 

the  moments  that  immediately  follow  aflcr  its  being  .stricken  byi 

great  calamity?  To  say  tluii  m  titve  tvnX  raivQiVwax  tveo  hours  oftf 


J 


Siair. 

the  blow  has  fallen  intense  agonjr  is  experienced  would  be  false ; 
these  come  afterwards,  and  arc  the  result  of  a  certain  and  absolute 
rcrognition  of  the  knowledge  that  it  has  at  first  refused  to  accept  j 
rather  is  the  soul  in  this  early  stage  in  a  state  of  confusion,  excite- 
ment, and  horror,  fearing  all  tilings  while  accepting  none ;  therefore, 
not  yet  within  the  gTai>p  of  that  irou  and  remorseless  hand  that  will 
by-and-bye  dash  out  the  uncertainty  and  fear,  substituting  a  caJm 
and  dispassionate  certainty  in  its  place. 

Thu5  Ninon  could  scarcely  be  said  to  suffer ;  she  was  as  yet 
bomc  up  by  an  intensity  of  forward  look-out  that  in  liappier  cir- 
cumstances would  have  gone  by  the  name  of  hope.  After  all,  she 
could  have  had  but  little  pride,  this  poor  Ninon,  to  wait  here 
thus  humbly  and  patiently  for  the  man  who  had  but  now  treated 
her  with  such  bitter  scorn ;  and,  in  truth,  with  her,  perfect  love  had 
cast  out  pride,  as  it  does  in  all  purely,  faithful,  gentle,  women. 

The  love  that  can  suspend  itself,  or  wax  cooler  by  reason  of  the 
n^Iect  or  cruelty  of  the  thing  it  loves,  ts  not  worthy  of  the  name  of 
love  at  all.  but  may  be  termed  a  bastard  imitation  of  the  divine 
passion,  being  compounded  by  love  of  admiration,  satisfaction  at 
being  adored,  and  a  cold  and  practical  adjustment  of  the  scales  on 
the  give-and-take  principle,  that  accords  but  ill  with  the  whole- 
heartedncss,  the  la^'i3h  abundance  of  the  essence  and  soul  of  real 
love 

"At  break  of  day,"  so  her  lips  murmured  over  and  over  again,  as 
the  receding  tide  whispered  and  moaned  itself  further  and  further 
away  from  her  feet. 

I'he  coolness  of  The  midsummer  night  deepened  for  the  space  of 
an  hour  or  so  into  cold.  About  the  same  time  the  lamps  tided  out 
of  the  sky.  the  uncertain  moonlight  died  away,  out  yonder  in  the 
East  the  duli<olourvd  sky  look  on  a  clearer,  lighter  hue,  as  though 
the  sun  which  yet  a  long,  long  w-iy  off  sent  forth  some  pale  and 
chilly  message  of  his  coming. 

It  was  in  this  hour,  gre>-  and  unbeautiful  in  sky  and  land  and  sea, 
that  there  came  over  the  water  six  or  seven  edioes  very  faint  and 
indistinct,  yet  Ninon  instantly  recognised  them  for  what  they  reallf 
were,  the  iiring  of  shots. 

These  sounds,  with  their  suggestion  of  violence  and  danyer, 
gave  an  altogether  new  turn  to  Ninon's  thoughts,  and  for  the 
first  unjc  the  im^^  of  Michael  wounded,  even  killed,  passed 
like  lightning  Ix'fore  her  eyes.  All  the  time  that  she  had  been 
dreaming  of  his  anger  and  his  despair,  his  life  was  jwrhaps  in  actual 
iJargcr ;  and  now,  in  the  swift  transition  from  oTve  ovtiiTOaa.w.'K^ 
Vou  XWll,  KS.  lS;&  T 


* 


The  GentlemafCs  Maga^ne^ 


an  aiifr    1 


idea  to  another,  it  Kocmcd  to  her  that  she  cared  nothing 
wrath,  his  scorn,  his  haired,  even  ao  she  could  sec  him  relum ' 
her,  O  God,  alive  I  It  was  the  otd  trinmph  of  matter  over  mind, 
of  things  actual  over  things  spiritual,  of  the  danger  that  mcnac«  tlie 
breathing  body  over  the  impalpable  ills  that  threaten  the  mind ;  and 
Kmon,  as  with  all  of  us  who  fret  and  chafe  and  weary  ourselves  over 
trifles  until  some  great  catastrophe  comes  that  ficsuera  oarpuaf 
worries  to  the  winds,  found  in  her  healthy,  engrossiiig  feais  ao  aiili'_ 
dote  against  those  by  which  she  had  been  so  lately  possessed. 

How  long  she  stood  by  the  edge  of  the  freshening  waves 
never  knew — time  was  not  for  her,  nor  had  she  any  actual  exis 
until  by  the  light  of  the  now  straggling  daybreak  she  discerned  i 
tlack  and  distant  speck  that  fier  leaping  heart  told  her  was  the 
home-returning  boat.  .  .  .  Tootstops  came  across  the  shin^e,  bnt 
she  heeded  them  not ;  a  voice  sounded  in  her  ears,  the  voice  Of 
Martin  Strange — but  it  went  past  her  like  the  foolish  crj-  of  a  bird 
at  even.  She  saw  not  his  haggard,  shamed  face, — shamed  througli 
all  its  new-found  honour  of  a  strong  and  good  resolve, — her  life,  h« 
soul,  her  eyi^s  were  concentrated  on  one  object — the  advauciilj 
boat,  straining  to  discover  whether  among  the  men  who  filled  it  wis 
her  husband,  alive  and  unhurt. 

The  boat  came  slowly  in.  It  appeared  to  be  heavily  laden,  rad 
assuredly  there  was  not  one  man  less  tn  it  than  set  out  four  hom 
ago;  nay,  there  even  seemed  to  be  more!  And  now  it  is  near 
enough  to  see  their  faces,  to  mark  that  all  are  hnggaid  and  weary, 
ino»t  of  them  woiuided  and  splashed  witli  blood,  and  that  ai  the 
bottom  of  the  l)oat  lie  three  or  four  smugglers  bound  hand  and  foot 

As  the  keel  of  the  bo.it  grates  against  the  shore,  and  Peter  and 
Martin  catch  the  ropes  flung  to  them,  Ninon,  still  seeking,  seekiiif 
among  the  crowd  of  faces  before  her,  steps  forward,  and  uUe«  two 
words  :  "  Michael  Wtnter  ?  " 

There  is  a  moment's  silence,  since  it  is  known  to  rvearly  all  of 
those  present  that  it  is  Michael's  new-made  wife  who  asks  the  ques- 
tion ;  then  one  of  the  captured  men,  his  tice  gashed  and  bleedinft 
his  right  arm  broken  and  hanging  by  hui  side,  cries  out  with  a  teuible 
oath  from  the  place  where  he  lies : 

"Shot  through  the  breast,  woman,  an  hoiu-  ago,  fell  overboard  and 
sank  like  a  lump  of  lead.  Serve  him  well  right  [an  OEith],  fivool 
Staying  at  home  and  minding  his  own  business ! 


I CI 


The  Princess  Charlotte 
AND  Mrs.  Campbell. 

BY    LOUISA    CHARLOTTE    FRAMPTON, 

CHAPTER    I. 

0   the  younger  readers  of  the  history  of  the    Eogliah 
Court  of  sixty  or  seventy  years  ago  Mrs.  Campbell  is 
known  chiefly  by  the  ungenerous  and  prejudiced  sketch 
of  her  contained  in  Baron  Stockmai's  "  Memoirs."    My 
own  recollections  of  her  and  licr  story,  tliroush  her  long  and  dose 
iendfhip  with  my  family  and  a  mass  of  letters  and  other  material 
and   memoranda    touching    her    relations    towards    the    Princess 
Charlotte  of  Wales  and  the  royal  personages  of  the  English  Court 
the  Princess's  time,  enable  me  to  present  a  sketch  of  Mrs.  Camp- 
;U's  life  which  I  trust  mil  be  not  altogether  devoid  of  historical 
interest  and  value. 

Ah'da  Campbell  was  the  daughter  of  Thomas  Kelly,  Esq.,  of 
Pawson's  Grove,  County  Armagh.  She  was  bom  in  Ireland  in  1768. 
Of  her  six  brothers,  Colonel  Samuel  Kelly  was  Governor  of  the 
Molucca  Islands  >  Colonel  William  Kelly  commanded  the  aSth 
TCgiraent  in  the  Peninsular  War  and  was  a  brigadier-genera!  in  India; 
Lieut. -CoL  Dawson  Kelly  was  on  the  Duke  of  Wellington's  staff  ia 
the  Peninsula,  but  took  the  command  of  his  regiment,  the  73rd,  at 
Waterloo,  when  the  officer  previously  in  command  was  wounded.  He 
had  two  horses  killed  under  him  in  that  battle,  and  brought  a.  third 
luxne  to  England  with  a  bullet  in  it.  The  gallant  charger  was  turned 
oat  iu  the  Earl  of  llchcstcr's  park  at  Melbury,  Dorsetshire.  Arthur 
eUy,  the  sbtth  son  of  Mrs.  Campbell's  father,  was  the  last 
*  Sovereign*  of  Armagh,  by  which  title  mayors  were  designated 
1)Cfore  the  union  with  England. 

In  1785  or  1786  Miss  Alicia  Kelly,  at  seventeen  or  eighteen  yean 
of  age,  married  Major  William  Campbell,  of  the  24th  Regiment  of 
Toot,  of  whose  lineage  I  know  no  more  than  this ;  that  he  was  a 
grandson  of  a  Dnke  of  Arg>-ll.  He  was  bora  in  1751,  and  Mrs. 
Campbell's  first  association  with  the  family  of  the  Earl  of  llcliester, 
which  lasted  until  her  death,  vns  through  her  husband,  vUq  ■«ii£^t 
friend  and  companhn  ia  arms  of  the  Hon.  Lieut.-Co\.  ?iVe\iVex\  ^ox 
■a/x  (brother  to  Henry  Thomas,  second  Kai\  ot  \\c^es\Et> 

1  a 


paDiic 


276  T!u  GeniUmans  Magadne. 

Berore  his  marringe  Major  Campbell  had  been  in  actire  senrice 
North  America  during  the  War  of  Independence. 

A  few  yean  after  her  marriage  Mrs.  Campbell  accompanied  bcr 
husband  to  Canada,  lieut.-Col  Campbell  b^ing  ordered  to  Fort 
Miami  of  the  Lakes  to  protect  the  fHcndly  Indians  against  the  Soitfa 
Amencan  troops.  In  the  hostilities  which  ensued  IieaL.CoL 
Campbell  acted  with  such  masterly  address  as  to  elicit  a  pablic 
expression  of  the  thanks  of  the  traders  of  London,  vhose  in 
were  much  concerned  in  that  conflict 

TTie  day  on  which  the  Lord  Mayor  and  the  Corporuioa 
City  of  London  marked  their  grateful  sense  of  Lieut.-Cot  Campl 
public  services  id  Canada  by  inviting  him  to  a  Civic  banquet,  was  the 
day  also  of  the  birth  of  the  Princess  Charlotte  of  Wales,  the  heii- 
presumptivc  to  the  throne  of  England,  with  whom  Mrs.  Campbell,  in 
the  coming  days  of  her  long  widowhood,  was  to  be  so  cJosdy 
associated.  The  banquet  was  held  on  the  7th  of  Januaiy,  1 796.  To 
this  dinner  Mrs.  Canipbelt  accompanied  her  husband.  She  sat  next 
Mr.  Huskisson  ;  and  when  during  the  dinner  the  btrth  of  a  dauf^ier 
to  the  Prince  of  Wales  (afterwards  George  IV.)  was  proclaimed,  and 
a  taist  to  the  health  of  the  new-boru  Princess  was  called,  Mr.  Hto- 
kisson  begged  leave  to  fill  Mrs.  Campbell's  glass  for  the  toast  I 
have  heard  Mrs.  Campbell  relate  that  Mr.  HuskLison  remarked  upon 
her  apparent  want  of  enthusiasm  in  drinking  the  health,  ufton  whidi 
Mis.  Campbell  replied  that  most  heanilyshe  wished  the  royal  in&ol 
every  happiness,  but  she  was  out  of  health  and  out  of  spirits,  behis 
oppressed  with  the  knowledge  that  she  was  about  to  leave  Englaad 
and  to  part  from  all  her  friends  for  many  years — perhaps  nevff  ta 
return  ;  and  the  thought  was  in  her  mind  that,  sincere  as  were  her 
wishes  foi  the  bright  future  of  the  daughter  of  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
there  was  no  one  in  the  kingdom  who  could  have  less  personal  inlereft 
in  these  rejoicings  than  herself.  It  was  natural  in  after  years,  when 
her  days  were  spent  in  the  service  and  companionship  of  the  PrixKCSl 
Charlotte,  that  Mrs.  Campbell  should  recall  with  curious  interest  the 
feeling  that  occupied  her  mind  when  the  Princess's  birth  was 
annouQccd ;  and  the  incident  at  the  cine  dinner  was  rendered  the 
more  notable  in  her  recollection  from  the  fact  that  only  once  again 
in  her  life  did  she  meet  Mr.  Huskisson,  and  then  again  she  sat  next  bim 
at  a  banquet— this  time  the  feast  being  at  Carlton  Hou.se,  and  the 
occasion  the  celebration  of  the  marriage  of  the  Princess  Charlotte  of 
Wales  to  Prince  Leopold  of  Saxe-Cobourg.  Finding  Mr.  Huskisson 
by  ber  side,  again  the  inddcnts  o(  iKc  City  banquet  flashed  vindly 
upon  hcT  oiemoiy  ;  but  swaivgc  aa  \\»A  \ittt^  '^t  tQ-K«,t  ^^  weoti 


i 


I 


The  Princess  Ckarloits  and  Mrs.  CampbHL    277 

which,  from  such  totally  different  prospects  in  life  twenty  yean  heforc, 
Iiadlcd  to  her  becoming  so  intimately  connected  with  the  PnDcess, 
she  had  not  heart  to  remind  Mr.  Husltisson  of  their  meeting  on  the 
day  of  the  Princess's  binh  and  to  call  his  attention  to  the  coincidence 
of  the  only  two  meetings  of  their  lives ;  (or  to  have  explained  to  him 
that  she  was  the  same  person  whose  glass  he  filled  for  that  royal  toast 
in  the  City  would  have  obliged  hec  to  enter  into  many  melancholy 
and  painful  details  of  her  life  since  the  day  when  tlie  Princess  was 
bom. 

It  was  indeed  a  painful  twenty  years  to  look  hack  upon.  For  when 
that  City  banquet  was  held  Licnt.-Col.  Campbell  had  been  appointed 
Governor  of  the  Bermuda  Islands.  Mrs.  Campbell  accompanied  her 
husband  to  the  scene  of  his  duties,  but  the  year  171)6  had  not  expired 
when  LJeut.-CoI.  Campbell  was  seized  with  yellow  fever  and  died, 
at  ihe  age  of  forty-five.  The  domestic  life  of  Mrs.  Campbell  and  her 
husband  bad  been  extremely  happy,  and  such  was  her  frenzy  of  gnef 
at  her  husband's  death  that  she  made  a  mad  attempt  to  catch  the 
fever  of  which  he  had  died,  and  for  a  time  she  appeared  to  bear  her 
life  almost  without  an  effort  of  resignation. 

On  her  return  to  England  she  resided  much  in  London  and 
'■elsewhere  with  Maria  Countess  of  llchester  (better  known  later  as 
Ihc  Dowager  Countess  of  llchester),  and  lived  in  great  intimacy 
with  all  Lord  Ilchester's  family.  When  in  London  she  frequently 
chaperoned  Lady  Ilchester's  step-daughters  to  the  Court  of  George 
the  Third,  whilst  Lady  llchester  was  engaged  in  her  duties  at  Court 
and  in  attendance  on  Queen  Charlotte.  Thus  Mrs.  Campbell 
became  known  to  the  King  and  Queen. 


CHAPTER   IL 


4 


I 

B  Early  in  1&05  the  question  of  forming  a  household  for  the 
Princess  Charlotte,  then  nine  years  old,  was  first  considered  j  hut 
the  arrangement  was  difficult,  owing  to  the  antagonism  of  the  Prince 
of  Wales  to  any  measure  proposed  by  the  King.  The  King  and 
Qneen  had  many  opportunities  of  forming  a  judgment  of  Mrs. 
Campbell.  The  King  ofi'crcd  her  the  post  of  sub-govcmt-ss  to  his 
grand-daughter.  The  offer  was  at  first  declined  by  Mrs.  Campbell^ 
but  in  the  end  she  was  persuaded  to  accept  it  at  the  earnest  solici- 
tations of  the  King,  whose  gratification  was  expressed  in  the  two 
letters  here  given,  the  first  of  which  is  preserved  in  the  "  Eldon  MS." 
(quoted  in  the  ^^emoirs  of  the  "Life  and  Rctg,n  ol  Gwji^t  ^Jcift. 
d,"byj.  Heneage  Jesse,  vol  ii.,  page  143.^ 


rrw«J/ 


1 


Tlu  GeniietfMK's  Magazine, 


From  tJu  Kini  to  Lard  Eldon. 

Windsor  Castle,  Kcbruary  \%  iSoJ. 
7^«  King  authorises  Lord  EHon  to  acqaauit  the  Prince  xA  VViks  lliol  ffll 
Majesty  liiu  tins  morning  rcceiTCi]  noliM  of  Mrs.  Cunpbell's  uxxptsnoe  of  k> 
iKMUiiAtion  u  ^ub-goremnii  to  hii  deulf'bdoved  gnnddaqgbler,  the  PriBCOB 
Charlotte  ;  thus  comjilcting  tba  most  pmimiy  otlcnduioe  oa  tti«  I'rinccK.  TW 
King  approves  of  tlie  Uaroneu  de  ClifTord  taking  the  charge  of  tbe  Prinoen  w1ks> 
ever  it  shall  be  mon  agneaUe  to  tfie  Prince  of  Wales.  She  will  then  tie  t  beds 
jndgc  of  tlic  requisite  necessary  in  the  lodj'  she  may  reeomtneod  u  "qtf'i'rt  tab- 
gsremess,  \^bo  must  be  of  rafTicicDt  biith  (o  appear  wiib  the  younc  PrattcM  ii 
the  absence  of  Mis.  Campbell  The  Eail  of  Dartmouth  has  my  *"™i>r?w^ 
mMllirril  to  regulale  the  expenses  of  the  fwag  Faneem'B  *-*■"**>""—« , 

GloftOBE. 
/Wm  At  Jfc-jial  Hi^huet  At  Primat  Sc/^la  A>  Afaria,  CtmtUu  ^  Ikkuier, 

FcbivuLry,  1805 — Thuisai&y  Etcfiin^ 
My  deak  L,vdv  IijCKESTEB, — I  have  recdred  the  King's  commands  lo  iabca 
you  that  it  had  been  his  intention  to  have  written  to  you  this  morning  had  he  bid 
time,  but  that  being  out  of  his  power,  he  withes  me  to  act  as  bis  secretary,  ud  b 
eiqareu  his  satisfaclioii  at  Mr^  Campbell's  having  accepted  her  present  sitDiliM 
about  Charlotte,  and  lo  thank  you  for  all  the  trouble  you  Iiave  to  kindly  takes  M 
urge  her  to  il.  Tlieie  ore,  1  hope,  exactly  tbe  King's  words,  for  be  chained  ma 
sot  lo  forget  them,  »nd  to  ndd  bow  sorry  lie  is  to  hear  you  are  so  Csr  from  wtlL— 
Ever,  dear  Lady  Ilchcttcr,  your  affectionate  frleod,  M 

To  the  Coonleis  of  Uche^ter.  Sorav.    ^| 

^Vhile  these  things  were  in  progress,  Mis.  Campbell  had  said  U 
the  King  that  she  did  nut  considci  herself  a  suitable  person  for  sucjt 
an  appointuivul,  on  account  of  her  total  want  of  the  accomplitb- 
menis  so  necessary  to  one  in  the  Princess's  station  in  life;  vhea 
His  Majesty  said,  "  Madani,  I  hope  we  can  afford  topurchaseacconi- 
plishmcnt^,  biit  xvc  eannct  buy  prinfipUs.'^  This  was  related  by  Mo. 
Campbell  to  the  late  Lady  Harriot  Fnimpton  (daughter  of  Hemy 
Thomas,  second  Earl  of  llchcster). 

After  the  establishment  of  Mrs.  Campbel]  at  Carlton  House,  her 
life  appears  to  have  passed  quietly,  with  only  such  trataiserUs  as  ti« 
inimitable  in  a  royal  Iiouschuld,  until  the  year  1S09,  when,  in  comfr 
queoce  of  the  youthful  fully  uf  Her  Royal  Higluic>s,  an  imfortunate 
event  occurred  which  occasioned  a  disturbance  out  of  all  proportiaii 
to  its  peal  importance.  This  was  the  aflair  of  the  childisli  will  mad« 
by  the  young  Princess,  of  which  will  there  are  dilTerent  accouott. 
In  an  extract  from  a  journal  written  on  May  30,  1S09,  by  the  Ute 
Lady  Susan  O'Brien  (the  once  celebrated  Lady  Susan  FoxStzaiy 
ways,  daughter  of  Stephen  first  Eoil  of  llchester)  it  is  tnentiooedtt 
foUgws : — 

While  I  ires  in  town,  I  waa  inlormcd  of  a  oirioiu  ImnactioB  Boiw  < 
Carlton  Ilni^e,  on  account  of  a  chilOiKh  will  the  PriiKets  Cboriutlshad  1 


• 


Th€  Princess  CharioUe  and  Mrs.  CmnpbelL    279 

«<>ich  she  left  half  her  jevcb  to  Lady  de  CliflbrO,  ludT  to  .Mrs.  CamiibeU,  nd 
all  her  tii/witAi'/Jeweh  lo  livi  pajiA  ami  aumma.  They  suppose  Mrs.  Campbell 
eoDoened  ia  malii^  it,  uid  told  llic  bi>h<jp  of  it,  who  smiled.  [Dr.  Fisber, 
Bihop  of  Salisbnry,  p?cceptor  to  the  Princess  Cbnrlotic]  I'hc  Prince  tru  d)s> 
pltAwd,  anil  »id  "  it  wu  high  treason,"  And  caHH  Mr.  Adam,  Chancellor  of  the 
Quchj  o<  Cornwall,  who  aniweted ;  "  Vottr  Royal  Mighncu  tuu  a  jiut  cxmceptioB 
of  the  matter."    All  this  nonsense  has  been  bcfarc  the  Privy  Council,  whose  tiae 

riiigbt  be  better  employed.    The  will  expresses  a  wish  Out  Mr.  Note,  mb-praxptOTj 

might  be  mode  a.  bi'ibnp. 

In  another  account,  given  by  the  Hon.  Amelia  Murray,  late  maid 
of  honour  (g  Queen  Victoria,  in  her  published  work,  "  Recollections 
of  the  Early  Yeats  of  the  Present  Century,"  are  the  following  par- 
ticulars : — 

Hn.  Campbell  had  been  appouiied  suV-govcmcss ;  sbc  was  fond  of  children 
and  rery  attractive  to  them ;  the  little  Princess  delighted  in  going  in  her  room. 
One  day,  on  finding  Mn.  Campbell  btisy  wrilin;^  she  inquired  what  it  wu  abonL 
■••  I  am  naldsc  my  will,"  was  the  reply.  "  Oh  I  then  1  will  make  My  win  j" 
ad,  b^cmg  >  ^<ct  of  paper,  the  child  sat  doun,  using  a  tnmk  for  ha  tabi^ 
aod,  taking  a  pencil,  in  large  hand  she  wrote  as  follows  :^ 


^m  "  I  leave  my  parcot  to  ...  .  ^H 

■  "  My  doU  lo  .  .  .  .  ■ 

^1  "  My  monkey  to  ...  .  ^^M 

^f  "  And  ail  my  'KW-ralnables  to  Mre.  Campbell."  *^^H 

fiht*    thf««    rati    f^ivntf  b'llK  lU^  ntsiit^  nt   1ir.p>1ini1   nnri   tnnV   U  In  T  Ai4tf  rT.*  ^Mt^nrf  ^ 


b 


She  tbeo  tan  away  wllb  the  paper  in.  her  hind  and  took  It  to  Lady  de  CUflbrd 
■ad  Dr.  NotU  Will  it  be  credited  that  this  bit  of  childi^  pb.y  was  mida  the 
(nxiad  (A  a  acni>us  accosatioa  ?  The  Eub-govcmcs$  was  accused  before  ths 
Privy  Conned  of  an  act  of  treason  in  allowing  the  "  heiress  presumptive "  to 
make  a  will  by  which  her  tote  advantage  was  succeeding  to  the  Princess's  Mtt- 
•alMblet. 

In  consequence  of  this  affair  Mrs.  Campbell  at  once  resigned  her 
appointment,  and  retired  into  private  life,  residing  as  before  amoogst 
her  friends  in  I^ord  Hchcstcr's  family. 


I 


CHAPTER  m. 


In  1813,  Miss  Cornelia  Knight  had  been  appointed  lady  com- 
panion to  the  Princess  Chnilotte,  and  at  the  end  of  that  year  the 
Princess  was  engaged  to  the  Prince  of  Orange.  This  engagement 
was  broken  olT  in  1814  foe  reasons  which  are  matters  of  histoiyf 
and  the  Prince  Regent  was  so  much  displeased  by  the  conduct  of 
the  Princess,  who  was  'said  "to  have  associates  posscsMng  per- 
nicious sentiment!,  alike  hostile  to  herself,  her  father,  and  the 
countr)',"  that  he  summarily  dismissed  MLss  Cornelia  Knight  and 
all  the  other  persons  who  then  siinoundcd  the  Princess,  and  im- 
aedtately  formed  a  new  household.    U  wae  at  this  lioie  the  Pdnceu         J 


4 

4 


38o 


TIk  GentUmutis  Magasine. 


Charlotte  fled  to  her  mother,  the  Princess  of  WaJes,  at  Connaaght 
House,  July  u,  1814  ;  but,  returning  on  July  13,  she  was  od  the 
X4ih  of  July,  1S14,  placed  in  the  charge  of  her  new  attendints  it 
Warwick  House.  On  this  occasion  the  Prince  R^ent  bad  pod 
Mis.  Campbell  the  compHmcDt  of  personally  soliciting  her  again  to 
accept  a  position  about  the  Princess,  his  daughter.  This  she  atfint 
positively  declined,  and,  amongst  other  reasons,  afleged  her  voy 
delicate  state  of  health.  The  Regent,  however,  would  take  no 
denial,  but  sent  his  own  carriage  to  Lord  Ilchesier's  house,  31,  Old 
Burlington  Street,  where  she  was  then  staying,  with  first  a  request, 
and  (hen  a  cammarnf,  that  she  should  attend  him  at  Carlton  Hcais*. 
Therefore,  although  extremely  unwell,  she  was  obliged  to  submit 
He  detained  her  there  all  night,  giving  up  his  own  apartment  to  her, 
with  "a  large  bed  of  satin,  on  an  estradc  or  step;  nor  would  the 
Prince  allow  her  to  leave  Carlton  House  until  she  Iiad  given  ha 
consent.  The  Dowager  Countess  of  llchester,  the  Dowager  Cobd- 
less  of  Rosslyn,  Mrs.  Campbell,  and  two  Misses  Cotes,  nieces  of 
Lady  Rosslyn,  were  the  ladies  then  appointed  as  attendants  oo  ihe 
Princess  Charlotte,  and  on  the  20th  of  July,  1814,  they  accomjunie<l 
the  Princess  to  Cranboume  Lodge,  in  Windsor  Park. 

It  was  soon  after  this  thai  the  discovery  was  made  of  Her  Royal 
Highness  having  carried  on  a  correspondence  with  one  of  her  male 
attendants,  before  alluded  to  as  "associates  possessing  pemidoai 
sentiments."  I  once  remarked  to  Mr^.  Campbell,  that  much  as  the 
Princess  Chailoite  was  lamented,  it  appcarctl  doubtful  if  her  chancter 
was  such  as  would  have  made  her  a  good  Queen  had  she  lived  to 
ascend  the  throne.  Mrs.  Campbell  replied  in  her  eager  manner, 
"  Indeed,  it  was  well  that  she  was  never  Queen  of  England,  for  she 
was  mean  in  character,  and  did  not  care  whom  she  sacrificed."  She 
then  proceeded  lo  relate  thai  there  had  been  some  corrcspoadcncx 
discovered  with  an  attendant  or  tutor.  A  letter  from  the  Princes 
to  this  man  was  found  concealed  under  the  mattress  of  a  so&,  and 
when  Mrs.  Campbell  ^^'as  questioned,  and  had  denied  all  know1e<^ 
of  it,  she  finished  with  a  wish  that  the  Regent  would  appeal  to  Hei 
Royal  Highness,  "who  would  do  her  the  ju.stice  to  sUiie  that  she 
was  quite  in  ignorance  of  it,"  upon  which  the  Princess  said : — 

"  Ko,  you  were  not ;  you  knew  about  it  all  the  time." 

"  So,"  added  Mrs,  Campbell,  "  thai  was  how  one  could  trust  oor 
future  Queen's  word,  had  she  lived." 

This  incident  did  not,  however,  injure  Mrs.  Campbell,  as  the 
Trittcc  Regent  fully  belie>-ecl  her,  and  the  matter  was  aftcrwanls 
cleared  up  for  her  in  a  9at\s(attory  mMwvct. 


i 


The  Priiuas  Charlotte  and  Mrs.  Campbell,    281 

As  the  Princess  grew  older  she  appears  to  have  %-aIued  and  apprc- 
ted  Mis.  Camopbell  thoroughly,  and  to  have  felt  very  kindly 
towards  her,  and  Mrs.  Campbell  remained  with  her  till  the  spring  of 
]8t6,  when  the  approaching  marriage  of  the  Princess  to  His  Serene 
Highness  Prince  Leopold  of  Saxc-Cobourg  necessitated  an  alteration 
in  the  arrangements. 

In  a  letter  to  the  late  Lady  Harriot  Frampton,  dated  March  C, 
iSifi,  Mrs.  Campbell  mentions  her  remaining  with  the  Princess  after 
her  marriage  in  the  following  terms  : — 

The  PHiiccss  Oi3.rEolie  has  so  litr  tnarlceil  her  itpecb]  favour  for  tne  that  I  wd 
the  only  pcisoa  &he  has  mAde  a  point  of  rcUining,  if  I  will  5tA^;  aiiH  the  Prince 
R«geiitt  M  I  hear,  }ias  been  most  gniciotu  on  ihc  subject  of  my  itayiag. 

Another  letter,  from  the  Dowager  Countess  of  Ilchcstcr  to  Lady 
Harriot  Frampton,  bearing  the  dale  of  April  38,  1816,  and  on  the 
same  subject  says : — 

It  would  bavc  done  you  gooil  to  have  heard  what  Ihe  PHnceo  Charlotte  said 
to  Colonel  Addenbrooke  about  Mrs.  Campbctt  when  he  lamented  the  dcUcacy  of 
be*  health.  She  uid,  "  I  am  not  blind  to  it,  but  I  am  ambitious  that  the  diotild 
ttoit  with  me,  and  c^vc  up  without  scruple  when  she  finds  the  duty  too  much ; 
bat  I  wUh  her  lo  feel  my  hunt  to  be  her  huine  when  It  salts  bet  to  be  mill  me, 
as  I  ahall  jUway%  W  gisd  to  tee  licr."  Nearly  thii  ^1]e  has  repeated  to  me,  uying, 
"Mind,  it  is  Tarn's  fad:  if  she  lets  me  imcrferc  with  her  comfort."  This  is  s 
eocdisl  to  me,  and  highly  cmlitslile  to  the  Princess  Charlotte. 

"  Tam  "  »-3s  Mrs.  Campbell's  pet  name,  used  by  many  of  Lord 
Dcbester's  family.  The  name  origimted  in  the  youthful  sons  of  the 
Dowager  Lady  Ilchcster  having  been  unable  to  pronounce  Mrs. 
Campbell's  name,  and  consequently  they  invented  the  abbreviation. 
The  Hon.  A.  Murray,  in  her  "Recollections"  before  referred  to, 
mtfTposed  it  to  have  originated  through  the  Princess  Charlotte,  who 
when  she  w.ts  learning  Latin  in  her  childhood  woiUd  playfully  decline 
Campbell,  making  "  Cam  "  "  Tam,"  &c  ;  but  this  is  an  error. 

The  marriage  of  Prince  Leopold  and  the  Princess  Charlotte  took 
j^ace  on  May  a,  1816,  and  the  following  letter  describes  Mrs. 
Campbell's  share  in  it : — 

.  Frtm  Mru  Cam^tS  to  Lady  Harriot  FraMp0tt, 

I  Warwick  House,  Msy  €,  1S16. 

The  DurHage  was  Toy  impres.<tire,  and  the  Trincess  Charlotic'e  mnnnci  just 
vkat  yoa  would  wish.  Wc  were  taken  to  a  room  where  the  Princess  Charlotte 
and  Ibe  Prince  were.  Site  jircsented  na  all  lo  hint ;  that  ii,  Lady  Kossljn,  me, 
and  the  Miu  Cotc«cs.  lie  bowinl  civitly,  but  said  nothing  except  when  I  was 
named,  wbm  he  said,  "  Ah,  Mri.  Campl>ell  t "  and  smiJcd.  A  moment  aflcr  he 
was  called  by  Lord  Chobnondeley  and  tnken  to  the  allar,  and  soon  attcr  the  Dolce 
of  CbuenK  came  for  Princess  ChixloV-n,  and  we  foUowed  hti.     tSiXX  ^<ira& 


y 
I 


^^«a;  jnf/rtKni«/fotfiffttiDtf  room  and  were  presented  to  the  Qjiftcn.    Ttetiwai.  J 


a82  TfiA  GenilcmoHS  Magazine. 

moniine  I  had  a  letter  btm  the  Priaeeu  ChailoUe,  to  forbid  ay  gctag  iIo«b  u 
Ottluidx,  whicli  I  sent  to  the  PriDce  Reg«Dt,  and  uked  Inva  to  reouin  ben  till 
Caaaelfonl  IIoiuc  wtn  rendy,  so  here  I  lun.  My  raorninp  are  talcen  npvM 
wTitinic  to  the  Princess  Chorlate,  paying  biHi,  &c.  Not  a  morMl  of  caltc  M 
I  get  The  Regent  sent  me  a  vety  pretty  diarapad  cnm  by  the  PriBOca  El^ 
hetb,  who  wrote  a  vrry  gtaciuiu  note  vrith  it. 

In  nnothei  letter  from  Mis.  Campbell  to  Lady  Haniot  Fn-unptoK 
dated  May  6*  1816,  she  says ; — 

I  bod  a  most  aRectioaate  oiul  kind  letter  from  the  Princess  Charlotte  to-d^ 
The  only  coninaands  slic  bad  to  give  ue  wci«  to  make  myscIT  happy  in  bet  Yaet^ 
and  to  look  cheerfuL 


CHAPTER  nr. 


tecp??^* 


Mrs.  Campbell  ha^Hng  accepted  her  new  office  as  k( 
the  privy  purse  to  her  Royal  Highness  the  Princess  Charlotte  (whid 
confidenlial  appointment  she  retained  during  the  Princess's  sbod 
nuirricd  life),  she  went  to  reside  with  the  royal  pair  at  OareouDt 
Botfiie,  which  at  the  suggesticm  of  Mr,  Uuskissoti  had  been  pi» 
chased  (or  ^^60,000,  .tnd  presented  to  the  Princess  Charlotte  and 
Prince  Leopold  on  their  marriage.  Lady  John  Thynnc  was  ai>poiDCei] 
lady  of  the  bedchamber  to  the  Princess,  and  Colonel  Addcnbrookc 
her  equerry.  Baron  Ilardenbrock  and  Sir  Robert  Gardiner,  K,C3i 
were  the  equerry  and  aide-de<amp  to  Prince  Leopold.  Dr.  Short; 
foimcrty  sub-preceptor  to  the  Princess  Charlotte,  was  appointed 
chaiiUin  to  the  Prince^  and  Baron  Stockmar  was  his  physidaK 
Baton  Stackmar  desigiuites  Mrs.  Campbell  as  "lady  in  waiting" is 
the  Princ«s,  and  the  following  is  the  sketch  of  her  which  he  giva 
in  his  "  Memoirs,"  translated  and  puhUshed  by  his  son ; — 

Mrs.  Cam^jbell,  bdy-ht-wniling  to  the  Princes^  is  a  small,  thin  womsn  of  fatqt 
0ve ;  a  widow,  sbaj-p'  aud  afigu^  in  evecy  fothuc  and  movement  ;  [iiihiirni^ 
bccAuse  she  was  anoc  yoduig  and  tiondsomc,  and  because  kIic  has  a  good  iiBdflf> 
standing  ;  and  yet  not  unbearably  pretentious,  jti^t  becaose  she  is  really  tcniUe. 
Extremely  well  tnrormed  ami  thoroughly  upright,  she  coitducts  the  corrapandoMI 
of  the  Princesi,  and  manages  her  accompli  with  the  greatest  case  and  to  h«r  mUm 
satufaciioa.  Amon^l  ns  she  opposes  cvcrytliin^  ihc  sees  and  bcara,  bimI  aoMI 
everything  that  men  cin  say  or  do  with  such  cnnjiiitciii  contradiction  that  ve  on 
tell  befordiand  with  certainty  what  wilt  be  her  answer  to  our  fiuesttobs.  She  ii 
10  thoroughly  poss^scd  by  this  spirit  of  opposition  that  it  is  impossible  foe  bv 
to  be  true  to  any  party ;  and  she  i»  now  of  the  Court,  now  of  tlw  Kfiusterial^ 
now  of  the  Opposition,  now  <if  tiic  popular  party,  accnnling  to  ber  oppoacsL 
As  a  nile,  she  is  without  mercy,  and  her  convcnation  is  therefore  sharp  aad 
Htjn^  But  she  has  occasinnnlly  her  humane  days,  in  u-hith  she  is  picaaed,  in 
&cl  disarmed :  that  is  when  her  arrows  have  hit  and  wounded.  One  galas  soiiB 
nuight  into  »uch  a  characier  when  one  knows  that  she  liai  had  bitter  cxperieaEOI 
mth  ineii,  and  that  in  ao  ULocss  danii£  &  &cvcn  months*  ka  voyage  sba  wm  h^ 


The  Priucsis  Charhtie  and  Mrs,  CampbelL    283 

«lhe  onl;  on  bnady-Anl-wkter.  ThU  lady  Is  now  our  only  Uwful  Tcnule  tocle^. 
ud  wc  dkaclbre  treat  bcr  as  the  rcproenUitivc  or  the  whole  mx,  witli  a  hnlTJrcc^ 
tadf-«Bforocd  respecL 

I  quote  this  sketch  because  It  hjs  been  published  and  has  a^jpearcd 
in  a  translation  of  Caron  Stockmar's  work,  in  England,  but  I  uticilji 
repudiate  it  as  a  most  liaish,  unjust,  and  iU-naturt-d  libel  on  Mis 
Campbell.  Mrs.  Campbell  was  never  cither  obstinate,  per\erse,  ill- 
natured,  or  inconsistent ;  but  being  a  htgh-principted,  dclicatc-minded, 
bjghljr  susceptible  person,  with  e-xci table  ncn-es  and  a.  hastf  manner 
— sometimes  certainly  amounting  to  irritability — there  must  have 
been  much  that  grated  against  her  feelings  and  opinions,  perbapa 
also  against  her  priacip1e.s  in  the  iramxscria  oX  the  royal  muk^, 
and  she  was  of  far  loo  decided  a  character,  and  also  much  toa 
qnrited,  to  conceal  what  she  felt  or  to  avoid  giving  utterance  to  her 
opinions  as  they  aiose.  Her  whole  lilc  is  an  answer  to  the  slaodei 
Uiat  she  veered  tuuud  to  every  opinion  in  turn,  merely  in  cootradio- 

|tion  and  from  ill-temper;  or  that  she  endeavoured  to  "hit  and 
id,"  and  then  enjoyed  her  success  i  or  that  she  was  "  pretenticmi," 

F&r  she  never  had  sufficient  confidence  in  hcnself.  Such  a  womai^. 
had  the  character  been  a  true  one,  could  never  have  been  selectal 
as  governess  or  confidential  attendant  in  a  royal  household ;  not 
could  she  have  won  the  esteem  and  affection  of  her  royal  employees. 
or  of  her  numerous  friends.  Probably  Baron  Stockmar  did  not 
^prove  either  of  her  views  or  of  her  plain  speaking ;  but  it  only 
redounds  to  his  own  discredit  that  he  was  unable  to  appreciate  such. 
a  character,  and  indeed  could  not  even  read  it  truly.  Mrs.  Campbell 
had  had  no  "  bitter  experience  with  men."  She  married  very  young, 
and  her  mairied  life  was  extremely  happy ;  whilst  she  was  always 
greatly  beloved  and  valued  by  all  her  male  friends  and  connections.^ 
Neither  was  she  very  angular  in  person  nor  very  small.  She  was  not 
tall,  and  was  slightly  made,  and  thin,  with  dark  hair  and  a  ve^ 
intelligent  countenance,  and  in  her  youth  must  have  been  very  pretq'. 
She  was  also  very  quick  in  her  movements — almost  fidgetty — and 
active  in  her  habits.  Mrs.  Campbell's  real  fault  was  a  tendency  to 
see  things  too  much  at  mir,  and  to  feel  depression  because  she  bad 
not  sufiicieot  confidence  io  herself  or  in  the  ways  of  Providence.  Sh& 
could  not  Irtitf.  But  this  oalygave  unhappiness  to  herself  forwhen 
with  her  firicnds  or  in  general  society  she  was  always  cJiccrful,  good- 
fatimoured,  ai^  very  agreeable;  and  perhaps  this  tendency  tu  £car 
the  worst  arose  from  the  earlier  sorrows  to  which  she  had  yielded  such: 
WJControHwi  indulgence,  besides  which  her  health  was  very  delicate 
wfcich  oatoralty  increased  the  disposition  to  despondency.     With 


284  ^-^  Gcntieman's  Magazine. 

respect  to  Baron  Stockinar's  assenion  that  she  had  been  kept  alive 
cm  brandy-and-water  during  a  seven  months'  voyage,  none  of  ha 
fiicnds  ever  heard  such  a  thjag  mentioned,  and  they  behevc  the 
statement  to  he  a  i>ure  (iclion.  24or  could  his  assettion  of  her  being 
their  "  only  lawful  female  society "  be  much  more  correct,  as  Ladf 
John  Thynne  must  hare  been  constantly  in  waiting  oo  tbe 
Princess. 

Mrs.  Campbell  did  not  return  the  baron's  animosity,  for  his  naa»e 
is  only  once  mentioned  by  her  in  the  letters  preserved  by  different 
branches  of  Lord  Ilchestei's  family,  and  this  letter  was  written  sooo 
after  the  in.irriage  of  the  Prince  and  Princess.  In  it  she  says  "  Buon 
Stockmar  is  one  of  the  party;  a  little  man,  but  by  far  the  most 
agreeable." 

Mrs.  Camjibell  once  related  on  amusing  incident  which  occurred 
during  her  residence  at  Claremont  The  fashionable  tailor  at  that 
time  was  Stulx,  who  was  a  very  grand  personage  in  his  way.  Stuli 
p?as  one  day  attending  the  Princess  Charlotte  to  try  on  a  ridiof 
habit,  when  Mrs.  Campbell  took  the  opportunity  of  expostulating 
with  him  for  not  having  sent  in  his  previous  bill,  which  she  said 
*'  caused  her  much  inconvenience,  as  she  was  in  the  habit  of  makiiig 
up  Her  Royal  Highness's  accounts  at  stated  periods;"  whereupon 
Stiilz  re|ilied — 

"  Regular  creature  I  you  shall  have  it — you  sJiall ! "  | 

On  tiie  6th  of  November,  1817,  Her  Royal  Highness  the  Princes' 
Charlotte  was  delivered  of  a  stillborn  son,  at  nine  in  the  evening, 
and  for  a  few  hours  was  supposed  to  be  progressing  favourably ;  but 
a  change  for  the  worse  took  place  later,  and  at  half-past  tvro  on  the 
morning  of  the  7th,  after  a  short  struggle,  she  passed  away.  The 
following  letters  of  this  period  which  relate  less  to  the  shock  to  the 
narion  than  to  the  private  grief  of  Prince  Leopold,  may  prove^ 
interesting : — 


Frvm  ikt  Dmvagtr  Cetmtat  «f  llihaltr  to  Lady  ffarrw4  FntmfteH, 

Noveinl>cr  la,  1817. 
1  have  li«ird  from  Mrs.  Ounpbdl  l>ut  the  and  Lady  John  Tbymie  hare  tea 
mother  and  child  put  into  the  last  receptacle,  and  that  tliey  ut  up  altenwldyt 
never  btiiig  absent  (rotn  the  room  al  the  Muiie  time 

From  Mri.  Campid!  to  Lady  Harriol  Fromptam.  I 

Nox-etnbcr  13,  1817. 

Prince  Leopold  is  calm,  ant)  exerts  himself  ail  lii  his  power ;  be  tees  us  aS, 

and  eren  (lies  lo  employ  hiimclT,  but  it  is  grief  to  IlkiW  at  him. — beseenan 

heart-broken.     Dr.  Sliott  is  a  great  comfoct  to  lum,  and  walks  oat  wttb  faiai> 

To-t/ay  Jjc  came  and  ut  an  hour  imi]L  a  WLt  m<.h.  toc,  but  it  only  seemed  to  wg> 

fflent  my  r^ret  that  the  tic  b  broVen  ti^uA  Vmnft.  ia  xn  vw3o. ».  ^ua» 


I 


The  Princess  Charlotte  and  Mrs.  Campbell.    285 


•  iHd  aH  the  luir  ;  be  •pared  me  a  very  little  bit,  which  you  shall  have  half 
Tj  ha  alio  gav«  a  bit  to  the  R^cnt  at  )ii)>  rrqnc»i. 

A  part  of  this  hair  has  been  in  my  i^ossession  fur  many  years. 

fivm  Mft.  Compel  to  Lady  f/arriot  FrampiPH. 

Xovetaber  18,  1817. 
The  Prince  ha^  a  good  night,  and  has  rcmciincd  most  of  this  day  in  the  room 
with  her.  I  shall  mi&s  toy  visits  there  as  well  as  liim.  In  the  tnoming;  I  satil 
Bjr  pnjren  by  her  and  ber  child.  The  Prince  and  the  had  appainied  me  as 
gowrees*  to  it,  aod  it  was  to  have  been  given  entirely  Into  my  catc.  This, 
lltbdogh  a  great  addition  to  my  loss  and  sonow,  has  done  mc  much  roixI,  as 
•bowing  mc  that  her  heart  was  not  ch.iagcd,  nor  her  optnion,  Ihoui^h  her  maimer 
waft.  Had  they  but  told  me,  how  much  pain  am!  woar  of  spiriu  it  wouEil  have 
saved  me  t  I  wax  fully  pemiaded  they  \rished  mc  to  rchign,  at  (he  v^ry  time 
they  had  tcttlcd  my  ranaining  for  Lfc.  They  were  to  have  gone  abrgad  in  the 
fummci,  and  left  it  with  mc.  How  I  should  have  loved  it,  and  how  happy  I 
iLould  have  been.  And  I  had  not  even  the  small  comTort  of  enjoying  it  ia 
bope. 

On  November  18,  1817,  the  remains  of  the  late  Princess 
Charlotte  were  privately  conveyed  from  Claremont  to  Windsor, 
escorted  by  a  detachment  of  the  loth  Hussars.  .'V.-s  is  customary  in 
loyal  palaci^,  Claremont  House  was  briliiamly  lighted  up  when  the 
processuHi  left  it,  but  nothing  was  heard  within,  and  only  a  few 
figtu^s  in  black  were  to  be  seen,  the  effect  of  which  Mrs.  Campbell 
described  as  sadly  striking.  The  hrst  mourning  co.^^-h,  following  the 
heane,  contained  Prince  Leopold  and  two  attendants.  The  next 
contained  Mrs.  Campbell,  Lady  John  Thynne,  and  Lady  Gardiner, 
wife  of  Sir  Robert  Gardiner.  The  hearse  proceeded  to  the  lower 
lodge,  and  ttie  body  was  placed  under  a  canopy  prepared  for  its 
reception  in  one  of  the  apartments.  The  Prince  was  conducted  to 
his  apartments  at  the  Cas^de. 

On  Wednesday  evening,  November  1 9,  soon  after  eight  o'clock, 
the  remains  of  the  late  Princess  were  again  removed  to  St.  George's 
Chapel,  Windsor.  Prince  Leopold,  who  was  the  chief  mourner,  was 
supported  and  followed  by  the  roya!  Dtikes.  The  ladies  who 
attended  were  I.ady  John  ThjTinc,  Lady  Gardiner,  Mrs.  Campbell, 
and  Misses  Cotes,  formerly  of  the  Princess's  household.  The 
Dowager  Countess  of  Ilchesier  attended  with  some  other  ladies,  on 
the  part  of  the  Queen. 

Mis.  Campbell  remained  at  Claremont  until  the  end  of  the  year, 
and  during  that  period  occuned  a  correspondence  between  the 
Prince  Regent  and  Prince  Leopold  concerning  one  of  the  Crown 
jewels.  It  appears  from  Mrs,  Campbell's  account  of  the  affair 
that  in  the  beginning  of  April,  1813,  the  Prince  "R.cg,CTiiV44  ^n^xv 

^Pfujccs5  Charlotte  the  sapphire  which  formed  0:tc  ctn\ie  ollf^m 


n 


L 


Tiif  GtMXtttKUmi  Ssogiuntt. 


,  md  ttiB9l3ttCMCDt  s  UMiubomed  tn  The 
|ii(y[*r  ^  ^C™'  Coca^i  Xm^tL'  SbactEf  after  the  death  of  1 
RiBCtg  Pdnce  Leopold  recctTWl  a  note  from  some  person  b;  onJer 
cf  te  Finice  Rccni,  nkiog  far  Ae  retttn  of  Hk  sapphire.  Piince 
Leopold  dcrlifd  lopvcit  i^  ash  bad  been  a  "pfcacnt"  to  the 
FnDccs.  Asother  app&catioa  fciBowed,  damaibiuig  the  restitutioaoB 
the  plea.  Aat  the  sipfihtrc  was  a  Grwtcnjemei,  and  that  conseqaentir 
it  hid  tgij  beea  a  loss  to  the  Mncoa  Charlotte  Upon  ihii 
AJBoe  Leopold  Hid  tint  if  &e  sapphnc  vreie  consideTed  a  Cron 
je«d  of  oonne  be.coidd  do  koger  lefitse  to  part  viih  it  Accord- 
ing^ it  waa  seat  lo  <he  Kepai,  and  tfae&UoiriQg  da>  appeared  on 
ftcjoaof  Lady  CoBjrBg^um. 
71k  fcOowing  letta-  oonriodcs  the  lutocy  of  Mrs.  Campbell  « 


JWdndaytaariacK  yutu^, dowd  te  aeooBntat  the  bddccT't,  uidflBt 
Ifcebaokaadhthnrr  trf  tW  nnaey  Id  the  Priaa^  9»  nqr  Msapatioti  sndifarfar 
bnc  ended  iQgetbtT.    Jt  «u  a  Ctfal  tot  lon^  and  .l-hMcao  great  jbofcuiv 

tbcfntutb 


4 


CHAPTER  V, 


m 


After  Mis.  Campbell  lefl  Claicmoi:*.  she  again  weot  to  reside 
with  her  old  friend  ibe  Dowager  Countess  of  Uchester,  either  in 
London  or  m  Dorsetshire ;  but  she  was  not  forgotten  hy  Vx 
Leopold,  who  in  1819  addressed  to  her  the  following  letter : — 


by  FriQO^ 


From  Bit  Serau  Higknat  Primt  LttfMtf  Som-  Cf^iug  to  Mrt, 

CoboDig,  ilie  uth  oCMatctu  \%\% 
Deae  Madam, — It  s  to  long  a  while  J  bad  not  tbe  plcanre  of  lainreiiin 
with  yon^that  I  think  it  higb  time  rECommaodiag  (n)  icfscU  to  joor  rancAr 
bnatee.  Stodd,  Cbmgh.  as  it  teems,  somevplni  in  a  tlllatoiT  wajr,  has  Eiven  yoa 
fitaa  dne  to  time  accoants  of  our  life  aad  procennngR,  which  render  ncedlca 
■rnktiiis  to  70U  our  adreDture  on  the  mad.  At  lint  I  did  not  derive  Al 
confart  of  mj  stiy  here  which  1  had  every  reason  to  expect ;  but  the  7001:^  lad 
happ7  miHa£t  at  my  brother's,  as  well  as  Ibc  sight  of  hb  fine  chiltl,  g^fc  m 
almost  more  pain  than  I  )md  atrcnglb  to  endore.  I^me,  which  soflcnt  tf 
degrees  the  most  actile  feelingly  hat  Icindly  cxorcifcd  Its  power  on  tnc  ;  man 
accusloined  lo  the  sight  oflheiic  object*,  I  mjof  now'somewhat  more  tnaqttiUilf  j 
but  stil]  I  imriil  xi  miicli  u  possible  tlic  sight  of  the  poor  little  child.  I  livt  ta 
the  quiet  anil  very  Kniig  houi>e  of  my  re»pccta>lrlc  oad  amiable  mother,  who  Ui 
extremdy  hnppy  l>y  my  being  about  bei.  I  breakfast  in  herrooiu,  then  I  rnnaiiide 
longer  port  oT  ihc  farcnoon  reading  or  talking  lo  her.  The  bttcr  part  of  ih«  dlf 
I  fKty  mjr  risin  lo  the  other  btanc^^esof  vViC  taaci,^'^,fa>.v'>tiin^  it  at  ibe  C«sll4 
li<fi«c  ray   mother  genctally  «  pitseRt    IJ*.  -wwiR,  \  \a.-«  \w»,  ■ 


cAratA^ 


i^htentd  by  Mt  atUick  she  bzd,  whidi  might  have  provnl  (Jnngcrotis  without  the 
r^ieeiljr  adoption  of  proper  remedic*.  ...  It  gave  mc  the  greitest  uneasiness, 
but,  thunlc  tlnvcn,  though  eitremcly  weak,  she  is  slowly  recovering.  I  hope  that 
fhe  tpriog  will  mentl  her  health.  She  is  always  very  much  a(Tecte<]  whea  I  epckk 
flf  my  appntochio);  Oepatture.  She  sayt  that  at  her  ticnc  of  life  ndieai  may  caully 
pTOft  the  last ;  but  I  trust  to  Tleaveii  that  if  she  takes  good  care  of  herself  such 
BB  event  may  he  far  removed.  Unfortunately  my  eldest  sifter  sdfeis  from  violent 
■paanu  ibce  her  lut  confineinenl,  which  hsve  till  now  resisted  every  attempt  of 
ent,  tfaoogh  I  have  conralted  the  most  eminent  physidims  on  the  ContineoL 
ItcT  stale  is  truly  alomung,  and  gives  me  great  pain,  So,  my  dearest  Mrs. 
Caiopben,  we  are  alwa}-a  ouailed  hy  some  new  misfcirtune  when  one  hoped  to 
have  overcome  Ihe  la*t.  Poor  Ijuly  Ilchcster's  death  [Caroline  T^eonom,  wife  of 
Henry  Stephen,  third  Carl  of  Ilchcsler]  hxi  Tciy  mnch  shocked  me.  So  unex- 
pedrd  an  cvenl  mmt  have  been  particularly  painful  to  you,  who  were  kucIi  a 
warm  Criead  of  the  family.  If  you  have  an  opponunity  pray  express  to  l/ud 
Qiiestcr  the  very  nncerc  interest  I  take  in  his  calamity,  of  the  bitterness  of  which, 
alas  t  few  can  be  better  judges  than  myself.  Strange  it  ia  that  most  of  Ihe  Indies 
that  were  Charlotte'*  friendi  are  no  more — poor  Laily  Althorp,  Lady  Grant,  &C. 
Z>oyou  think  the  bustle  of  this  life  lia.t  already  effttcei!  Charlotte'^  memory  in  the 
auods  of  the  people  ?  I  hope  not,  bnt  new  events  cxcrrisc  a  strong  influence  on 
fhefanman  mind,*  and  for  that  very  reason  it  is  my  jiKde  ll»t  I  am  a  lirir^  munu- 
ment  of  thotic  bappy  days  that  oDcrcd  to  the  couiitty  such  bright  proipectt,  and 
to  T  tnut  it  will  be  made  dillicuU  for  them  to  fongct  Charlotte  m  long  at  they 
KC  me.  I  should  tdready  sooner  have  thought  of  retaming  to  dear  old  England, 
bm  I  greatly  wanted  quiet  and  retirement,  Mien  from  a  height  of  bappisess  aud 
pB&dcnr  seldom  eqoalled,  to  aocnstom  myself  to  the  painful  task  of  is  nry 
S^rtntaltfe.  I  will  not  dwell  on  the  subject,  then  I  know  you  uodenland  me 
90  well.  Myheallh  is  rather  improii-ed,  but  still  luit  what  it  vrai  in  1817,  and 
inobehly  will  never  become  wt  again.  I  hope  yon  will  at  the  appronching  more 
propitious  wtalhcr  visit  Clarcniont  sometimes,  and  look  a  tittle  at  your  prolec* 
tioos  in  the  Bower  garden,  and  even  Oie  poiillry-ysrd.  I  think  of  leaving 
Cobootg  io  April,  if  the  state  of  health  of  my  mother  or  sitter  give  me  no 
lauudiat*  cat»e  of  alarm,  and  in  the  meantime  reconimmd  myfctf  to  the  con- 
ttaofttion  of  yoor  ftimdsbi^i,  a*£Ufing  you  that  I  shall  ever  entertain  the  most 
l^aecre  sendroents  of  rc^id  and  esteem  for  yon. — Dear  Msdam,  your  very  sincere 
fHcnd,  LicorocD. 

In  Jane  or  July,  1819,  Mrs.  Campbell  writes  as  follows  >— 

From  Mrt.  Campbttt  to  tki  Dxoa^  CounUSi  of  Ttchatrr. 

3t,  Old  Burlington  StreeL 
My  day  at  Marlborough  House  [where  Prince  Leopold  then  resided]  was  ttxj 
fgtia£tcIory.     There  were  no  ladies,  so  I  was  there  as  one  of  tlie  family.  .  .  ■ 


I 

I 

■ff»t  wl 

'  •!..   .1 I 


Prince  Leopold  died  King  of  the  Belgians,  Deranber  loth,  186$.  The 
icot  to  his  memory  in  St.  George's  Chapel,  Windsor,  erected  near  the 
where  rest  the  remains  of  the  Trincca  Charlotte,  lia*  been  removed  aA 
the  desire  of  the  Qnccn,  for  the  purpose  of  replacing  it  by  a  laemorial  to  tbe 
late  Dake  of  KenL  It  has  now  been  presented  to  the  church  at  Eshcr,  in 
which  parish  Clarcmont  House  is  sltuatctl,  wWcb,  howcTcr,  kis  tK)\oos««q 
with  ihe  hte  King,  asUhia  death  it  revnted  to  iht  £Tiig,Vulh.Cwtr^ 


288  Tfte  GentUmatis  Magazine. 

"ne  Prince  wu  w  kind  that  it  wu  varj  (^ifyiDg.  I  sat  by  him,  ud  ifUt 
dbitur  he  showed  rac  the  houitc,  and  ut  on  the  sob  by  me  all  the  creainj; ;  ad 
cxccptins  lo  the  Bishop  of  SAlbbury,  he  spolcc  to  no  one  but  me.  He  taid  ilut 
be  had  inanjr  things  Tor  me  to  tssin  bim  in,  and  that  he  should  scad  Stocky 
(Baron  S(ockmnr)  to  me  vcty  aficn  u  hu  ItUlc  spy  upon  me, — what  I  was  douf 
vitli  tu)'icir, — Riul  his  innnner  wa*  mcl)  that  I  found  it  imposuble  to  bring  in  Mf 
pUn  of  Ki^tDE  to  Irrlaod,  and  indeed  regret  more  than  ever  the  necc»ity  for  Ihrf 
^t.  He  told  me  his  plan^  and  that  he  was  going  to  ScolUnd  for  six  weeks  a 
Aneusl,  wliidi  I  wsi  nUui  to  hear,  as  then  h«  will  be  absent  pout  of  the  tinb 
He  also  told  rac  of  his  pania  fot  the  next  moDtli.  and  whom  he  was  to  ask,  and 
all  tlus  in  a  way  that  was  very  |;ratiff  in); ;  and  inqtuied  with  much  inicretl  Ix 
Hany  [Hcniy  Stephen,  ibird  Earl  of  lldieslcf],  >-oa,  and  tltc  Fnunptons.  ftc. ; 
and  nsked  me  over  and  over  if  I  thougbt  that  Charlotte  was  Btilt  thongfal  of  ud 
retn^mbered  in  Dorsetshire.  He  has  laid  out  a  great  deal  of  money  in  klitl- 
borough  HouM  in  p.-unttng  and  cleaning  ii— very  handsome— caipcU  to  Ike 
whole  langi:  of  apartaicctts,  and  silk  furniture ;  and  on  my  askirtg  if  the  ailk  ni 
foreign  on  one  suf^  he  seemed  quile  to  reproach  me,  and  said  I  abould  never  MC 
anything  that  wu  not  English  in  his  house  that  lie  caold  bdp.  llicre  were 
ma^:mfi<:cRt  class  lusCrrs  in  all  the  rooms,  &c.  lie  ha^i  also  purchased  a  Urge 
collection  of  fine  paintin]^,  which  are  cocnlng  over,  and  chough  that  is  gifias 
money  out  of  the  country  it  brings  value  bock.  He  told  me  it  was  a  iioJnful  tadt 
Utending  the  chrtUvning  at  Kensington  [that  of  the  Princeu  Victoria,  om'  preKK 
Queen],  but  that  he  thought  it  right  !  and  he  entered  with  interest  into  the  i 
tlons  at  Morelon  [ifae  seal  of  James  Frampton,  Esq.,  in  Dorsesslure]. 

The  last  public  event  with  which  Mrs.  CainpbcH  was 
was  the  Conanation  of  King  Geoi^e  the  Fourth,  July  19,  i8n._ 
that  year  she  writes  as  follows : — 

From  Mrs.  CamfJrdl  ta  Lady  Harriot  Framftom. 

July,  iSil. 
I  am  going  to  Like  leave  of  Prince  Leopold,  who  sets  out  to-momnr : 
Cobourg.  Nothing  could  be  finer  than  the  coronation,  and  Prinoc  Leopold  I 
most  beautiful  pari  of  lL  The  King  looked  Tagged  out,  and  the  canopy  and  lU 
tbose  carrying  it  and  ihe  train  look  from  the  digntty  of  bit  appearance.  Wbtt 
lie  bad  done  with  that,  ho  looked  very  dignilicd  and  gmcefiil  and  pleased.  VTe 
fire  all  well  now,  but  were  dcvl  tired  with  the  hcat^  length  of  time,  and  no  bol 
No  accommodation  was  mode  for  ladies,  01  those  going  in  on  tickets. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

It  has  been  before  raeniioned  that  Mrs.  Campbell  on  her  retii**" 
ment  from  public  life  resided  chiefly  with  the  Dowager  Countess  rf 
Ilcbestcr,  either  in  London  or  at  Abbotsbury  Castle,  T>?rset»luie; 
keeping  up  the  raost  intimate  connection  with  all  the  brinches  of 
Lord  lEchcstci's  family,  and  beloved  and  respected  by  all  its 
members.  My  personal  friendship  with  her  dated  from  childhood, 
but  as  I  grew  older  and  enjoyed  her  society  very  frc<]uently  duriiq[ 
the  last  five  yean  of  her  life  I  could  more  fully  appreciate  her  maiqr 


^■^ 


i 


The  Primess  Chariot te  and  Mrs.  Camp&eU.    289 


,      Ml 


»lc  and  dflii^Iitful  qualities,  ^trs.  C.impbcll  w.is  simple  iti  her 
and  t.Tslcs,  lu%iitg  especially  a  ]iJ.s3ion  for  flowcni ;  her  con- 
versation waj  agreeable,  with  frequent  reminiscences  of  her  past 
Uft:;  and  she  was  cquall)- kind  and  generous  to  the  young  people, 
with  whom  she  lived  in  alTeccionute  intimacy. 

In  1829,  whilst  residing  at  31,  Old  Turlington  Street,  Mrs.  Camp- 
was  attacked  by  a  severe  illness,  whitli  after  a  few  d^iys  ended 
\y  on  June  2S,  and  slic  wa'i  interred  ,n  St.  James' ^,  Westminster, 
Irhcrc  a  tabkt  was  erected  to  her  memory  hy  the  Earl  of  Ilchestcr. 
application,  hott-e%'er.  in  tSy;,  to  the  Rector  of  St   James's 
Church,  to  obtain  a  copy  of  the  inscription,  an  answer  was  received 
10  ihc  effect  that  the  Rector  and  Iiis  Ciiun--h  ward  ens  had  made  an 
\aminaiion  of  the  t-huix:h  and  plans  but  could  find  no  such  tablet 
name.     I  must  therefore  conclude  thai  it  had  been  erected  oiif- 
iJe  the  church,  and  that  in  the  course  of  forty-three  years  of  neglect 
id  oblivion  the  incmonal  had  become  obliterated  ;  but  it  a]ti>ear9 
|UaIly  strange  and  fKiiiiful  that  one  who  was  so  well  known  and 
who  had  occupied  such  an  important  post  in  (he  royal  household 
iiild  in  less  tlian  half  a  century  afterwards  be  lying  in  an  entirely 

ished  grave. 
After  the  death  of  Mrs.  C;»mpl)eU  each  of  the  younger  nvetiihers 
of  the  different  branches  of  Dird  Ilchester's  family  whom  she  held 
in  affection  (in  which  number  I  had  the  great  gratification  of  being 
inrJuded)  w.xs  presented  by  the  Dowager  Lady  Ilchestcr  wnlh  a  gold 
Jockct  containing  her  hair,  and  inscribed  with  the  one  word  "  Alicia," 
IK-n>etuatc  her  memor)-  amongst  them. 

Few  |>ersons  have  left  Iwhind  them  a  more  lender  memory'  than 
Mrs.  Campbell,  or  one  more  full  of  esteem  nnd  regret ;  but  now 
ly  a  few  remain  who  knew  and  loved  her,  and  in  3  very  short  time 
er  lume  will  have  ceased  10  he  a  memorv'  and  will  have  become 
only  a  tradition. 


[HEN  wc  hoisted  the  mainsail  ai  four  of  the  clock  on 
Uie  day  before  Good  Friday,  a  big  grey  rat  whidi 
1)5  had  discovered  a  desirable  retreat  ia  the  fold&  of  the 
canvo&s  was  shot  %-iolently  into  the  water.  By  tiiu 
token  the  friends  on  the  whaxf  above,  instead  of  bidding  us  the 
Godfi|^>ccd  they  liod  cotne  out  to  utter,  jeereil  unfeeliogly,  aoil  inqujiai 
whether  we  had  insured  our  lii'cs.  And,  verily,  to  the  CDsunui 
world,  vfc  must  have  seemed  a  pack  of  lunatics  as  we  stood  tbot 
dripping  upon  the  slippery  decks  of  the  flyhtg  IVaJ/aby,  a  driwing 
rain  sweeping  dowii  the  serpentine  reaches  of  the  Brisbane  river, 
mid  a  »tunny  wind  shrieking  di:imal  rcciuienis  into  our  cxss. 

It  rained.  In  most  quartets  of  the  world  this  would  signuy 
simply  what  the  ordiunry  construction  of  language  waiiants.  In 
Australia  it  means  a  good  deal  more.  That  singular  contineac  most 
be  the  real  original  place  where  it  always  pours,  and  not  rains.  Our 
comfort  remained,  aiid  of  this  we  sipi>ed  modestly.  Though  but  & 
mere  liquor  of  consolation,  it  was  something.  In  our  company  we 
had  a  genial  meteorologist,  and  he,  when  the  cares  of  oavigAlio^i 
pressed  least  upon  him,  assured  us  that  it  would  be  fine  to-tnorrow. 
Smilingly,  therefore,  we  bore  the  complete  drenching  of  the  preseiu 
in  hopes  of  future  sunshine,  and  slewed  round  -mih  the  tide,  wet  k 
the  grey  rat  we  had  been  watching,  but  moderately  hoi>eful  isA 
apparently  happy. 

Easter  is  Easier  all  the  world  over,  and  in  Queensland,  as  ai 
home,  people  were  thinking  of  holiday.  Drifting,  as  much  as 
sailing,  by  the  green  gardens  of  Kangaroo  Point — for  tlw  sloop  wii, 
as  yet,  in  a  windless  bend  of  the  river — and  fetching  across  to  the 
healthy  heights  of  the  northern  bank  of  the  stream,  the  thougbu  of 
one  of  those  madmen  were  far  away  with  his  old  comrades  of  tlie 
rod   and  line.      Reckoning  the  difference   in  time   between  the 


•  The  concluding  portion  of  Rkd  Srix-fr.ii's  "My Ocean  Log"  wudestnjvl 
by  the  Gn  in  TummiJl  Slr«t.  Wc  V>o^  \o  recAtt  fresh  copy  fton  the  Mtlnd 
M'Jien  (iie  "Ijog  "  will  be  cotn;)A<tt«l. 


Our  Easier  Excursion  in  Queens /and.         291 

Jrisbane  river  and  the  merry  kibbUng  Darcnt,  in  beautiful  Kont, 
liie  hol-cross  buns  had  been,  by  thai  lime,  made  rcidy  for  British 
breakfast  tables,  and  tlie  Good  Friday  iroutcrs  had  whipped  their 
way  to  the  very  end  of  the  meadows  where,  year  after  year,  on  this 
I>aTticular  festival,  an  anglers'  carnival  was  wont  to  be  hdd.  Alas, 
there  are  no  trout  in  Queensland  \  But  there  are  many  anglers,  and 
wc  had  found  it  no  hard  matter  to  gather  together  a  party  of  ten 
enthusiasts  for  a  four  days'  sail  on  the  coast  and  a  raid  ujKin  llie 
finny  denizens  of  the  Soutliem  Sens. 

The  -^vwf  Wallahy  was  not  built  for  iileasure  parties.  Under 
ordinar>'  conditions  she  was  engaged  in  conveying  the  rich  produce 
of  the  distamt  river  basins  to  the  merchant  wharixs  of  Brisbane. 
Her  hold  had  been  artisucally  floored,  however,  for  the  fe^itive 
occasion,  and  rendered  as  comfortable  a  saloon  as  campers-oui 
have  a  right  to  ex|>ecl  in  a  country  wheix;  one  soon  learns  the  art  of 
roughing  it.  Each  man  arranged  his  '"sway"  ut>on  the  planks,  and 
thought  himstflf  luxurioiw  with  a  blanket,  quart  pot.  knife,  fork, 
plate,  and  pannikin.  The  skipper  was  owner  of  the  vessel — \y\>z  of 
the  prosperity  which  must  fall  to  the  share  of  a  man  who  chooses  to 
Htc  carefully  and  work  hard  in  a  young  thriving  eolony.  At  home 
he  would  have  lived  from  hand  to  mouth  with  an  occasional  six- 
pence in  his  (Kifket,  and  short  commons  always  ;  here  he  was  his 
Bira  master,  the  proprietor  of  a  smart  little  smack,  and  occupant  of 
eoltagc  and  land  bought  by  his  earnings.  He  and  his  mate  were 
mach  amuwjd  that  a  number  of  gentlemen  of  good  social  position 
should  undergo  the  hardships  of  storm  and  bare  boards,  and  call  it 
pleasure.  .-Vs  the  hurr)nng  night  came  on,  with  never-ceasing  rain, 
and  the  holid.iy  keepers  stretched  themselves  out  in  their  soddcncd 
ganncnts,  with  an  imperfect  larpautin  over  the  hatchways,  the 
hirdy  mariners  winked  al  each  other,  and  wondered  what  we  should 
have  said  touching  our  hard  fate  had  the  expedition  been  a  task, 
and  not  a  free  choice. 


k 


Boih  few  Mill  f-hort  were  the  wonls  wc  saiJ, 
Anil  ^Tc  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow  ; 

But  nc  Ucadfuily  giuel  oa  Ihe  bomis  overhead, 
Aixl  we  Lillci-Ijr  Ihonglil  of  ihc  morrow. 


Begging  the  Rev.  Charles  Wolfe's  pardon,  thus  can  I  best  dispose 
of  the  first  night.  Our  enemies  could  not  h.ivc  wished  us  a  worse. 
The  morrow,  happily,  wa.s  clear  and  tranquil.  Three  uneasy  spirits 
who  had  \rooed  sleep  in  vain  stole  upon  deck  in  the  small  hours  of 
the  morning  and,  finding  that  the  gallant  sVippei  Vad  ^vnt^we^  ^w 

e  night,  asncdvcd  the  magTiificcnt  idea  of  cotvlmwm^  \Vt  NO-j^g,*. 


C 


i 


293 


The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 


\ 
I 


I 


without  liih  Lnowtetl^c.  Sonorous  shofch  Troni  his  little  caliil 
procUiuicd  the  s!uml)crs  of  the  captain  and  mntv,  and  ncMsel 
ihe  PJyias  IVttl/ahy  was  got  under  weigh,  and  sailed  durii^  iKe 
seniiHl:irknesT(  down  lo  the  isl.ind  ]>ass.ige  at  the  month  of  the  riitt 
through  which  her  course  lay.  It  was  a  l>oId  manoeuvre,  a  libenj-fj 
and  a  risk,  hut  it  succeede<] ;  and  the  skipper's  bewildenueni ' 
tumbling  up  nt  dawn  he  found  his  cutter  at  the  Boat  )>a-ss.ige.  and 
not  .It  ]{re:ikf:i-st  Cn-ck,  turned  llie  ttutter  into  a  good  joiiit-sl(KL 
joke. 

The  inorroiv  was  a  lovely  Good  Friday. — the  heavens  blue  as  sn 
Il;»lian  sky,  (he  water  sparkliitf;,  the  air  warm.  The  miseries  of  li>e 
previous  night  were  forgotten,  and  our  recompense  was  completed 
^y  a  day's  delightful  sailing.  Morcton  Bay,  which  rcceiyes  ibc 
Brisbane  and  other  rivers  of  Southern  Queensland,  is  studded  vv^ 
islands,  some  spacious  as  Morclon  and  Stradbrookc  ;  others  so  tinv 
as  to  be  nameless.  The  island  of  St  Helena  is  the  convict  eila 
hlishnient  of  the  colony;  other  islands  are  reserved  for  the  blocks. 
The  mountain  ranges  of  the  mainland  ai>pear  as  purple  backgrounds 
to  many  a  vista  of  wood  and  water.  Jlcadlands,  which  aa-  often 
the  finger-post-s  to  striking  viei^h-s,  save  the  coast>Iine  from  beinj 
monotonous,  and  point  to  bays  atid  creeks  very  sufrgestive  ofaiun 
ashore  Forests  dominate  over  the  landscape,  but  every  now  and 
again  you  have  green  clearings,  where  the  Queensland  settler  is 
slowly  felling  the  inevitable  gum-trees  and  clwnging  virgin  bush  into 
])roduclive  farm-land. 

The  Flying  Wallahy  was  able  lo  sail  through  jiassages  which  woiiU 
be  impossible  to  a  larger  vessel,  and  our  F-tster  excursion  was  coo- 
seijuently  a  prolonged  jxinorania  vcr)-  beautiful  lo  watch,  and  imitb 
more  beautiful  than  is  generally  supposed,  even  Uy  old  Ilrisbaniacs- 
Never  more  shall  I  wrong  the  niangrovc-lree  by  improi>cr  diaiges. 
At  home  I  remember  tlie  mangrove  was  reckoned  a  kind  of  aqiutir 
ui>as-lrce ;  it  was  always  associated  with  swamp,  miasma,  deatlt 
'Wic  tnith  is,  these  trees  arc  not  only  handsome  in  themselves,  btit 
perform  a  mn-il  useful  part  in  the  economy  of  nature  Their  wsip 
and  woof  of  roots  arc  a  fabric  that  most  serviceabty  sustains  the 
sandy  banks,  ajid  ki-rps  the  margiti-s  of  large  rivers  from  npiJ 
destruction.  Their  dark,  glos-sy  futi.ige  coivrs  the  mud  of  the  foct- 
shore  in  an  evergreen  gannenl,  and  the  lauR-Uiku  branches  of  the 
younger  trees  are  a  welcome  contrast  to  the  soberer  background  ol^ 
Euealj-pti.  They  tell  mc  that,  should  one  be  fated  to  pass  a  smmmirr:. 
ni^'hl  beneath  maiii(rovc  shudes.  one  would  hale  the  name  of  ihc 
gexxKiA  for  cvcniiorc.      l  H\*  mnv  \>t  \i;t\\'j  «>  ■,  \*&  cscr^vVw^  it 


Our  Easter  Excursion  in  Queensiand. 

;  and  the  last  purjwsc  to  wliidi  I  kIiouW  drciin  of  applying  ilic 
nungrovc  would  be  lo  sleep  uiiiIlt  it  :ii  nighi  or  pii-nU;  beneath  its 
leaves  at  noondiijr.  It  Un  plucky  shrub;  Ihcyoungsteni  advance  boldly 
down  .IS  fir  as  low-watcr  mark,  ;iiid  at  once  lake  tenacious  hold  of 
ihc  grouml,  leaving  ihcir  tldcn;  in  the  rear  ranks  lo  intertwine  their 
gnarled  Mnibs  and  give  shelter  and  rttreal  to  birds  and  shellfish. 

Cruising  in  an  ever  changing  %'ariely  of  watcnvays,  with  the  land 
views  shining  every  hour,  and  with  loinpanions  who  have  both  the 
ready  will  and  ability  to  imtnu:!  the  straiigur  by  ]ioincing  out  and 
explaining  the  novelties,  I  must  confess  I  returned  from  my  I-itster 
cxcuTvion  with  more  enhirged  views  of  Queensland  life,  and  with  a 
Very  cxcflUnt  foundation  upon  which  to  build  subtheijuvnt  experience. 
O"  niy  voyage  from  England  1  had  read  well  nigh  all  that  was  to  be 
read  of  the  colony  and,  after  making  allowances  for  no!  altogether 
nnreaioiublc  iwrtialities  and  prejudice^  had  formed  definite  expetta- 
tion*i  respecting  the  general  scenery,  ihe  people,  life  in  the  country, 
and  life  in  (he  town.  From  the  moment  we  entered  Brisbane  river 
I  iMfgan  to  suspect  that  somehow  Queensland  had  not  been  fairly 
mraicd  by  writers  who  had  recorded  their  experience  for  Knglisli 
■eadcnt.  As  the  days  and  weekii  went  on,  and  the  opi>ortunity  was 
■rovnlcd  of  forming  an  opinion  of  my  own,  that  suspicion  became 
m  eertainty.  Kv«rj-liiing  fciru»-k  me  as  l>Liier  than  had  been  described 
by  many  authorities  upon  Queensland,  and  closer  acquaintance,  in 
»hich  of  course  I  include  our  Easter  excursion,  has  strengthened, 
and  not  dimininhed,  the  impression.  Let  the  home  friends  of  Queens- 
landers  be  satisfied  that  there  is  more  to  gladden — more  in  the  outer 
world,  more  in  social  spheres— ihaii  some  recent  authors  have  felt 
at  liberty  lo  set  forth. 

To  be  stirc,  plexsant  eiix-um&t.ince£  may  have  tinged  cvei^tliing  to 
my  eyes  touleur  tie  rose,  just  as  accidental  combinations  may  have 
hoU  a  contrary  effect  ujwn  the  minds  wf  <jl?ier  observers.  Doubtless 
the  natural  imiwUe  of  a  man  « ishing  always  to  look  upon  the  brightest 
•.ide  of  the  life  Go<.l  h.-»s  given  him ;  whose  spirits  arc  high  and  blood 
-strong ;  and  who,  above  all,  having  been  wet  and  dismal  the  night 
Ixrfore,  when  there  was  not  a  speck  lo  relieve  the  leaden  glotim,  steps 
uiun  deck  in  Ihe  rooming  to  greet  the  glorious  Mjn  atid  to  be  a 
sfierlator  of  what  reviving  Nature  is,  would  be  to  clap  his  hands  and 
iliam  TV  l>eM>».  Yet.  making  all  necessar>'  allowances  on  such  a 
store,  1  must  rejHiat  my  adminitlon  of  the  islami  scenery  of  Morelon 
Vkky,  and  incidentally  of  ouch  other  i>onions  of  Quecn.slaiid  as  I  h.ivc 
vifttlcd. 

'Xliose  trho  those  lo  fish  sat  round  the  bu\warW^  a^  ■t!\\e  uka- 


I 
I 

I 


294  The  Gcnilanaiis  Magazine, 

panion-way;  those  who  felt  exercised  in  the  direction  of  unlimited 
loo  rigged  up  lantcms  in  the  hold,  sat  around  after  the  position  of 
Orientals,  and  proceeded  to  business.  A  few  smoked  the  pipe  of 
l>eace,  busily  occui)ying  themselves  in  doing  nothing.  This  was  the 
disposition  of  the  little  shij)  after  the  anchor  w-as  cast  at  erentidc 
The  poet  who  wrote  the  Elegy  could  not  have  nTitten  here  tliat 

All  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  hoUls. 

After  nightfall  millions  of  insects  and  frogs  (the  little  green-tree 
frog  especially)  created  a  jjeqjetual  twitter,  twitter,  so  shrill  and 
sustained  as  to  be  a  serious  annoyance  until  you  became  accustomed 
to  the  uproar.  The  hoarse  solo  of  a  jiassing  night  bird,  the  distant 
howl  of  the  native  vvild  dog,  and  the  far-oif  bass  of  the  ocean's  roar, 
come  in  opportunely  either  as  an  occasional  variation  or  a  constant 
undertone.  Out  of  the  Flying  Wallaby^s  hold  would  at  intervals 
issue  laughter  and  song  to  startle  the  unseen  choristers  ashore  into 
a  momentary  pause.  Sooner  or  later  the  grasshoppers,  locusts,  and 
frogs  would  remain  masters  of  the  position.  It  is  one  of  the  draw- 
backs of  Australia  that  there  are  no  long  days,  no  delicious  twilighls. 
Roughly  si>eaking,  it  is  night  at  six  o'clock,  and  night  is  the  time  to 
sleep.  Here,  verj-  literally,  I  come  to  the  fly  in  the  ointment ;  our 
Kister  excursion  was  prevented  from  being  a  season  of  unbroken 
happiness  by  mosqiiitos.  Exigencies  of  time  and  tide  compelled 
us  to  bring  uj)  pretty  close  to  the  shore,  and  this  happened  in  every 
instance  to  be  mangrove-lined.  It  was  a  fine  chance  for  the  mos- 
quitos,  and  they  embraced  it  as  if  they  had  not  tasted  blood  for  an 
age. 

The  old  stagers  affected  to  make  light  of  the  visitation,  and  pitied 
me,  the  "  new  chum,"  alleging  that  it  was  all  a  mere  bagatelle,  and 
that  in  due  course,  when  the  rich  blood  had  become  thinned  and 
the  skin  better  tanned,  I  should  be  quite  mosquito-proof.  To  be 
frank,  they  shared  fully  in  the  punishment.  I  watched  their 
agonies,  heard  their  expletives.  Without  shame  I  confess,  after 
being  stung  in  every  e:^posed  part,  through  thick  tweed  trousers  and 
socks,  and  I  believe  through  my  boots,  I  retreated  to  the  deck,  and 
occupied  myself  in  observing  the  would-be  sleepers  below.  It  was 
the  funniest  of  scenes  j  side  by  side  lay  the  half-slumbering  com- 
panions, the  attitude  of  each  more  grotesque,  if  jxissible,  than  that 
of  his  fellow.  His  Worship's  face  was  covered  l>y  a  red  woollen 
nightcap,  and  in  his  torments  he  "  let  out "  like  a  thoroughbred  at 
the  learned  counsel  nestling  under  the  wing  of  the  Post-Office 
opposite.     The  Doctor's  hands  \.«e  covexc4.'«\fe  v^Os&^V^head 


29i 


I 


with  a  fisliing  basket.  The  Professor  was  slirouiicd  from  crown  lo- 
sole  with  white  nelting.  The  dim  ligiit  of  thu  lameni  /ell  weirdly 
upon  ihesc  bingular  forms.  All  the  iiiglit  through  arms  were  rapidly 
raised  and  faces  smitten  ;  the  h.i.nds  woiked  like  the  hammers  of  a, 
jiiano,  and  ai  each  lyeir-iiiflittcd  blow  strong  imprecilioiis  were 
mutiered. 

These  ixiflcs,   however,  were  forgoltcn  in  ihc  morning  with  the 
fresh  breeze  heforc  which  the  mosquitos  disappcircd.     The  dingy 
corn-eyed  us  to  land  to  bathe,  ittroll,  fish,  or  shoot,  and  then  hack  to 
breakfast  around  the  dr^'-goods  cask  that  made  a  most  scrviccabte 
rcAxtory  labh:.     We  did  fairly  wilii  the  fishing-lines,  but  the  guns 
were  not  in  much  Fequi&ition,  although  hod  sport  been  our  primary 
object  there  w.ts  no  lack  of  game.     Everybody,  however,  knows 
tlut  t:fiecti\e  sporting  with  such  game  us  pelicans  and  black  swan:; 
'requires time  aiul  dose  attention;  and  as  il  did  not  enter  into  our 
scheme  lo  linger  long  at  one  \AM:e,  or  go  out  of  our  course  to  stalk 
'  game,  only  small  birds,  such  as  a  few  parrots,  pigeons,  »and  pipers, 
and  two  tiny  and  prettily-marked  bush  birds,  appeared  in  our  bags. 
The  Doctor  and  myself  one  morning  strolled  along  a  creek  towards 
the  open  Pa<:ific,  and  at  a  (am  of  the  hush  track  I  suddenly  seized 
him  by  the  arui  and  stopped  hiin.     In  a  walerhole.  and  within  fifty 
yards  range,  were  three  prime  black  sK'ans  quiutly  paddling  across  to 
the  other  side.     Of  course  we  had  left  our  weapons  on  board,  and 
equally,  of  course,  in  our  walk  we  tame  within  easy  shot  of  two 
varieties  of  ducks  and  a  flock  of  clumsy  quaint-looking  pelicans. 
I A  crack  rifleman  in  the  party  had  several  times,  as  the  smack  jogged 
along  under  a  light  breeze,  tried  long  shots  of  some  eight  hundred 
)'ards  with  an  old  service  carbine,  but  it  was  nut  to  be  supposed  chat 
he  could  do  more  under  die  circumstances  than  astonish  the  great 
^LBolenin4ooking  birds;  nor  did  be,  although  once  he  ploughed  up  the 
H'WUer  within  a  foot  of  the  prcy. 

H      Formidable  creatures  indeed  wc  must  have  appeared  lo  the  in- 

~  habitants  when  we  landed  on  a  fern  gatliering  exiHrdiiion,  as  we 

L  did  twice  lo  gratify  the  desires  of  a  brace  of  botanists,  who  innted 

■  the  rest  of  us  to  assist  in  the  foray.     Cabbage  tree,  or  some  similar 

Hdcscription   of  light  broad-brimmed  hat,  was  a  necessity,  with  the 

^v  sun  at  seventy-eight  in   the  shade  ;  neither  mat  nor  waistcoat  was 

worn ;  shirt  open  at  ihc  throat ;  waist  tightened  in  by  a  leather  belt, 

frotn  which  were  susfiended  a  frightful  bowie  knife,  a  pouch  for  watch 

and  lohacco,  and    an    American   axe.       These    implements  were, 

ncTatlwIcss,  for  something  more  ilian  empty  show,  sinct  Oaa  &X)k^ 

ttag-hoTj}  (ctits  aiid  other  rare  growths  were  un\y  tei  Vki  vi<:i'a\i^ 


» 


I 


felling  the  trees  upon  wliose  bark  they  grew,  the  fomiL-T  lluowii 
out  pale  green  leaves  resembling  the  antltTs  of  a  iHick.    Scnih 
usual  was  found  prefurable  to  bush  for  ferns,  as.  indeed,  for  aK 
manner  of  plants,  shrubs,  and  Irees ;  "  bush  "  being  the  land  tim- 
bered lightly  with  the  forest  trees  of  the  country,  "scrub"  the  all* 
vial  soil  along  the  hanks  of  the  rivers  densely  covered  with  stnngv 
creeping  and  climbing  jibnis  and  undei^jrowths,  through  which  it 
is  somctitnes  necessary  to  cut  a  ])ass.igc.      One  of  our  ntimhct 
relumed  to  the  culler  with  eight  distinct  v.irietie3  of  fern,  ranging 
in  Site  from  the  trembbng  little  maidenhair  to  the  ni.-tssive  stag- 
hum,  whicli,  witl)  the  tree-limb  to  which  it  was  attachct),  galled  the 
shoulders  of  two  men,  who  conveyed  it  on  board  i>er5piring 
triumphant,  and    which    trophy,  still    in  life    and    health,  at 
present  moment  adorns  a  Brisbane  verandah. 

*l"nie  to  my  roUmrs,  even  at  the  Antipo<lcs,  I  did  the  chief 
for  the  party,  uking  advantage  at  the  same  linw  of  every  e\po 
on  shore,  but  making  play  with  the  lines  nt  each  leisure  moment 

The  resuh  wns  a  very  a|>prcciab]e  addition  to  our  rommi 
although  it  would  be  ihe  basest  ingratitude  not  to  admit  ihai  tlii* 
departLcicnt,  under  the  anxious  guiierintenUence  of  a  special  com- 
mittee, had  been  conceived  and  controlled  with  imroen.se  success. 
But  wlio  can  refuse,  let  the  table  be  never  so  well  furnished,  sucii 
a  fio'iNf  l0uthe  as  a  dish  of  fresh  fish  just  caught    in  a  ma^tcrif 
manner,  and  cooked  to  a  turn    in  the  comoKin  frying-pan?   'I'hc 
lishemian  certainly  deserved  the  vote  of  thanks  which  on  the  b«      ' 
evening  of  the   cruise   wa.s    formally,  and  with    much    eloquenci*, 
pro[iosed.  .seconded,  supported  thrice  over,  and  carried,  while  itie 
J'lyiii^  \V*illal>}'  r;in  before  the  wind,  and  the  heights  beyond  Break- 
fast Creek  resounded  with  the  fnniiliar  echoes  of  '"  For  he's  a  jolly      j 
good  fellow."       His   s|>oil    had    )>rincipally  consistetl    uf   whiting 
bream,  tailor  fish,  and  Jew  fish, — all  splendid  eating,  and  all  to  be     , 
described  on  some  future  occasion,  when  they  shall  be  the  sole  heroci 
of  the  subject      The  flats  at    the   nmulh  of  the  rivers  furnished 
mussels  and  oysters  for  bail,  and  there  was  no  necessity  for  using      | 
superfine  tackle.     The  rule  was  to  fish  on  with  a  couple  of  hooks 
over  the  taffrail  until  the  bucket  was  full,  and  then  to  wind  u^d^i 

A  singular  instance  of  fish  being  attracted  by  light  happeiieo^^^ 
me  near  Nerang  Head.  The  night  was  at  that  lime  pilthy  dark^i 
ami  the  jovLil  brotherhood  were  down  below  amusing  theniselvt^^ 
at  whi.st  and  loo.  1  was  fishing  in  solitary  enjoyment  over  ih^^ 
stem,  with  a  bmcrn  on  deck.       This  lantern,  for  some  fancy  Wn 


Our  JLasUr  E.uurshn  in  Qitnushnd.         297 


other,  I  himg  Over  liic  sitic,  ami  within  five  minutes  tKe  water  w.is 
fairly  alive  with  niultct,  rusliiiig  iKitikwnnl  ami  fonvard  under  the 
light,  leaping  out  of  the  water  in  bhoals,  and  playing  tlic  niutldest 
of  pmnkB,  A  couple  of  fellows  jumped  distinctly  nt  the  laniem. 
The  game  Ustcd  for  aboui  ten  miniievs,  and  the  mullet  then  sud- 
denly disap|>carL-d.  I  need  scarcely  add,  for  the  information  of 
fishenucn.  that  although  we  were  to  our  knowledge  surrounded  by 
grey  inullet,  ihcy  never  by  any  chance  touched  the  hook.  The 
professional  fishennen  make  cxtniorclinary  hauls  Komeiimcs  in  their 
nets,  and  from  the  Urisbane  whart'es  in  certain  conditions  of  the 
river  mullet  have  been  taken  with  a  small  hook,  and  [xaste  made 
of  dough  and  the  dried  roc  of  cod  or  mullet.  Tliis,  however,  very 
rarely  hapi>cns,  the  multcl  being  as  great  a  pui/le  to  Australian  as 
to  English  anglers. 

«Kaslcr  Sunday  morning  1  spent  in  watching  a  number  of  South 
ea  Islanders  engaged  in  their  favourite  sport  of  fishing.  They 
had  tramped  across  the  bush  from  a  sugar  plantation  fifteen  miles 
distant  Jt  is  their  habit  to  make  this  journey  every  Sunday,  which 
\%  strictly  kept  in  the  colony  as  a  day  of  rest.  The  Australian  black 
lakes  natursHy  to  a  horse  and  saddle  ;  the  Polynesian  takes  natuKilly 
to  a  boat  and  fishing.  Heedless  of  the  sharks  that  arc  known  (o 
swarm  in  the  waters  along  thai  part  of  the  toast,  the  dusky  good- 
ifmpercd  fellows  were  waist  deep,  tending  their  hand-lines  with  t\\ 
the  eagerness  of  srhoolbiiy^.  hailing  the  rapture  of  a  fresh  fiah  witli 
shouts  simple  as  those  of  children,  and  happy  api^arcntty  as  the 
day  va.s  long.  Under  the  gum  trees  the  fires  were  sTnouldeting  in 
readiness  for  the  foithcuraing  feast. 


ught  the     , 
scus  h>4^ 


I 


L-IE  I'ciiipk-  is  Zion,"  saug  Uie  Hebrew  poeb 
'retiii)le  va.i  Zio»  as  Su  Feter's  is  Rome, 
Michael's  is  Moscow,  as  the  I>oin  in  Cokigne,  u 
rechcrek  is  Kicff ;  not  on!y  a  lioly  place,  the  inviobte 
asylum  and  centre  of  worship,  hiil  ihc  physical  glorj- of  the  cit)' 
visible  afar  ofl^  shining  in  the  eyes  of  men,— the  dwelling-place  of 
a  living  GdO.  Every' road  in  Syria  waa  in  Jewish  fancj-  a  road  lo 
Jerusalem,  and  to  pilgrims  on  all  these  txxhU  the  Temple  wat  i 
striking  and  imi)ressi%-c  sight.  In  truth,  there  were  but  three  gut 
roads  ;  one  road  lending  up  from  Damascus  by  way  of  Jericho  and 
Olirct ;  a  seeond  road  leading  up  from  Kgypt  by  way  of  Hebnn 
and  Betliicbeiii,  witli  a  branch  from  Jaffa  and  the  Plain  of  Shaiou ; 
njid  a  third  road  leading  up  from  Samaria  by  way  of  Scopoi-  Pilgrinw 
coming  up  to  Jerusalem  by  caeh  of  the^^c  road^  eaught  the 
'[*cmple,  as  a  pcatvant  on  the  Cami^agna  catches  sight  of  St. 
and  a  boatman  on  the  Dniejier  the  golden  cupolas  of  Pi 
Coming  up  the  valley  from  Jcrieho,  a  sheikh  from  namascus 
tlie  Tem]ilc  fmnl  in  sight;  eoaiirig  up  from  Bethlehem,  a  dailgfaia' 
of  Kg>i>t  gazed  on  the  cloisters  of  King  Solomon,  ovcno[i|jed  by  tbe 
Cuurt  of  Priests,  the  Altar,  and  the  Holy  Place.  On  dimbii^to 
the  line  of  Scopas,  a  heretic  from  Samaria  lookud  down  the  gtcal 
ravine  (called  the  Asmonean  valley)  whith  divides  Acra  froBi 
Bezetha.  on  the  solid  platform,  courts,  and  pinnacles  of  the  Tcmi'lc 
I  su|>i)ose  the  asjiect  of  Moriah  T,>as  .^t  least  as  striking  in  the  Gt»pd 
times  as  it  is  to-day,  when,  npari  from  sentiment  of  the  reli] 
kind,  ail  men  of  taste  regard  the  mass  of  building — dome, 
platforms,  mosques,  and  gates-  as  the  noblest  architectural 
uf  Syria,  and  one  of  the  most  pictorial  grou|)s  in  the  world. 

SoIomon'sTempIc  was  a  small  edifice,  not  larger  tlvin  the  ehunJi in 
Covcnt  Garden  ;  the  magnificence  of  his  |jiJe  was  owing — first,  lo  the 
height  of  his  ]>1atfomi ;  next,  to  the  beauty  of  his  courts  ood  colonnaJcti 
and  last,  to  the  we-ilth  of  his'dccomtions.  In  every  |>oint  Herod's 
Temjilc  Riirp.tssed  that  of  Solomon.  The  central  edifice  was  itf- 
paremly  the  same  tn  site  .ind  she,  but  the  ground-floor  w.is  enlarged, 
the  courts  were  increased  in  numlier,  and  the  artists  employed  vck 


eUQspci 

religiotU^ 
screCBi^l 


M 


Recovery  of  Palestine,  299 

of  a  nobler  school.  No  part  of  Herod's  pile  ^-as  more  imposing  than 
the  ground-floor  or  Temple  level,  an  enonnous  mass  of  masonry,  pre- 
senting a  wall  at  the  south-eastern  angle,  over  against  Olivet,  one 
hundred  and  sixty  feet  in  height,  and  at  the  south-western  angle,  over 
against  Zion,  one  of  a  hundred  and  forty  feet.  The  platform  of  St. 
Paul's,  in  London,  is  only  a  hundred  feet  high.  Above  this  level  rose 
the  royal  porch  and  colonnade,  nith  clusters  of  mad)le  wall  and  screen, 
rising  tier  on  tier  up  to  the  apex,  occupied  by  the  Temple  front.  First 
came  the  Gentile  Court,  in  which  stood  the  shops  and  stalls.  A  flight 
of  fourteen  steps,  making  twenty-two  feet,  led  to  the  main  level  of  the 
sanctuary,  called  the  Court  of  the  Israelites,  in  which  was  the  guard- 
room, public  oSices,  priests'  lodgings,  and  the  council-chamber. 
From  this  level  a  flight  of  five  steps,  about  eight  feet,  led  to  the 
Court  of  Priests,  to  which  the  Levites  alone  had'  free  right  of  access. 
Then  came  a  third  flight  of  steps,  twelve  in  number,  eighteen  feet  in 
height,  leading  to  the  Holy  Place,  on  which  upper  platform  stood 
the  Temple  proper  and  the  Altar  of  Sacrifice.  The  Temple  front 
sprang  up  into  the  air  one  hundred  cubits,  five  feet  higher  than  the 
portico  of  St.  Peter's  in  Rome.  From  the  rock  level,  at  the 
south-eastern  angle  of  the  wall,  a  traveller  coming  up  from  Jericho 
first  saw  the  whole  face, — a  height  not  less  than  seven  hundred 
and  sbcty  feet.  The  whole  edifice  was  Greek,  except  the  tent  of 
stone  containing  the  Holy  Place  and  Holy  of  Holies.  The  order 
was  apparently  Corinthian  ;  that  of  the  royal  colonnade  was  certainly 
so.  Three  rows  of  Corinthian  columns  supported  the  roof,  dividing 
the  porch  into  three  aisles,  like  York  Minster,  but  of  greater  length 
than  the  English  edifice.  Taken  in  mass,  the  Temple  had  no  equal. 
Two  or  three  Nilotic  buildings  covered  a  wider  space,  but  neither 
the  Temple  of  Thebes,  nor  that  of  Memphis,  could  comi>ete  in 
splendour  with  the  proud  edifice  on  Moriah.  Athens  and  Rome 
had  nothing  to  approach  the  work  of  Herod.  The  Temples  of 
Minerva  in  Athens,  and  of  Jupiter  in  Rome,  would  have  stood 
under  the  roof  of  the  royal  colonnade  on  Mount  Moriah.  All  sacred 
edifices  in  the  west  were  small.  If  Herod's  building  had  any  rival, 
out  of  ancient  Egypt,  it  was  the  temple  of  Palmyra ;  but  this  famous 
pile  had  neither  so  fine  a  situation  nor  such  glorious  art. 

"  There  shall  not  be  left  one  stone  upon  another  that  shall  not  be 
cast  down."  If  Herod's  pile  had  no  rival  in  splendour,  neither  had 
it  in  shortness  of  life.  The  outer  courts  and  gates  were  hardly 
finished  before  the  day  of  destruction  drew  nigh.  On  the  day  of 
the  Crucifixion,  masons  were  still  at  work,  and  the  artists  of  Antioch 
and  Caesarea  may  have  desisted  from  their  labouT  foi  ?l  toskbss*.  ^& 


300 


Tlu:  GatiUmaiCs  Magazine. 


"ihe  King  of  llw  Jews"  wtis  being  nailed  lo  a  cross  Iwlwitn  uo 
tomiiion  thkvus.     Forty  years  bu-r,  'J'ilus  .inil  his  iroojiK  (kuiiAtd 
ihcir  work.     Has  nny  stone  of  thai  grtal  edifice  been  Icfl?    K]l 
strange  Rootl  fortune  one  of  the  most  curious  stones  of  ihatnug-j 
nifiicnl  ciIifiLC  lias  just  been  found. 

'ihe  mam  dirrtantc  in  \At\x\  lierwccn  Solomon's  Temple 
Herod's  Temple  was  tKc  Gcniilc  Court.  Solomon  was  a  Jew 
a  King  of  Jews.  In  Kis  day  there  were  straiigert  in  Jerusalem,  loi 
ihcsc  stranjicrs  were  not  .ilkmcd  lo  ]>ass  within  the  Ivoundaiia  rf 
his  holy  mount.  His  coims  were  two — a  Coun  of  Priests,  audi 
Court  of  People  ;  but  in  ihe  reign  of  Herod,  the  strangers  Uving  in 
Jerur.alem  were  .is  minitrows  and  inde|>endent  as  the  Jews  tbeinsd<iO' 
'J'hcy  had  to  be  considered  by  the  king.  Now  trvcry  tem|>lc  hadu 
DiKu  space  about  It,  occupied  as  a  sook  or  market -place,  and  ific 
i;real  structure  on  Mount  Xfortuh  fullowcd  the  usual  rule.  Herad 
hail  a  jirohk-m  to  solve.  Creeks,  ICgyjitians,  and  other  stnuigcn^ 
foiild  not,  under  Ronwn  rule,  be  excluded  from  the  market-pb(<. 
'I'hcsc  Creeks  Egyptians,  and  other  strangers,  could  not,  unikr 
Jewish  law,  be  suffered  to  come  vtithin  the  Temple  courts.  Hcrwi 
hit  on  the  device  of  enlarging  the  Temi>le  area,  and  cMabtishtnga 
Centile  Court,  in  which  iiiyn  of  all  creetla  and  races  might  meet  and 
mix  fur  business  puqjoses  without  offence.  Here,  in  the  Gentile 
Court,  stood  the  money-changers'  stalls ;  hi-re  the  fcacrifuial  laml* 
and  doves  were  sold.  This  ticntile  Court,  lying  on  the  longest  tii:r, 
w.is  .-(domed  with  the  royal  colonnade,  and  the  upiK^r  walks  onAe 
wall  conimnndc<l  vieivs  over  ihe  wilderness,  ihc  Dead  Sea,  and  tbe 
Moab  mountains.  It  was  the  iikasaniest  ]irt>menaOc  in  Jerusalem. 
How  were  these  strangers,  once  adntittcd  lo  the  Temple  area.  pR- 
rented  from  passhiy  to  tlie  Hebrew  Court? 

A  low  balustrade  div  ided  Greek  from  Jew.  This  MTrccn  was  hardly 
breast-high,  so  that  men  could  talk  with  each  other  across  andabon 
the  wall.  Tablets,  says  Jo5e]»hus,  were  set  on  this  balustrade,  al 
equal  distances  from  each  other,  with  notices  in  Greek  and  LAtifl 
letters  that  no  stranger  .should  pa.ss  ih.il  SL'recn  cu  fahi  pf  dulk. 
Doubts  liave  liecn  cast  on  the  truth  of  this  sLitemtnt  by  the  Jcwti 
writer:  in  ihe  first  pl.ice.  because  Josephus  in  another  place,  whik- 
noting  the  prohibition,  saj-s  nothing  of  the  penalty.:  in  the  sccacid 
pLicc,  because  it  is  hard  lo  ice  how  sucli  a  loleraot  )>eop1c  as  the 
Komanx.  could  have  -fuffervd  the  high-priests  to  kill  men  for  such 
an  oOence  as  p.issin^  through  .in  o|H:n  space.  Our  commissioner  iti 
Palestine,  M.  Ganncnu.  has  found  one  of  these  inscrilntl  tabletsf 


Il>olorosa.  Several  siKililisronnccted  wilh  the  Dome  of  llic  Rotk  lie 
buried  here,  and  hence  ihe  tittle  sunken  fussc  is  looked  on  as  huly 
ground.  A  small  gateway  leads  into  (he  cemetery,  and  on  one  of 
tlie  lower  stones  of  this  gate  M.  (lanneau  s.iw  some  marks.  Scrnjtin^ 
away  the  dirt,  he  loiind  sc'vcn  lines  of  iJiscription  in  Greek  : — 


MHSENAALLOrENHEIZnO 
PEYEZeA  I  ENTOSTOVn  E 
PITOIEPONTPY*AKTOU    KAI 
HEPIBOLOY  OIA'AN   AH 

♦eHEAvrniAiTior  ez 

TAIAIATOEZAKOAOY 
e£IN   eANATON 


In  Engli.ih  ihus: — 

"No  -.trauger  U  ulloiied  l(» 
jKixSwilhiii  lliclKilu<k(niilc  rDund 
the  Temple  ami  einiil.  If 
fnunH,  the  olTcnilcr  nil)  taLc 
llic  convrijuenc*.  paying  the 
penah)'  ofhii  life." 


Here,  then,  U  not  only  a  inie  ]iicce  of  the  old  Temi>le,  but  a  \i\cvit 
which  is  of  imponance  in  many  ways.  It  gives  us  a  lest  for  jiitlging 
of  Gtcek  inscriiJlions,  and  assists  us  in  assigning  other  stones  to  ihe 
lime  of  Herod.  It  is  evidence  of  a  welcome  kind  that  tlie  texl  of 
Joscphus  may  be  tnisted.     But  the  tliicf  value  of  this  tahlet  lies  in 

tthe  light  which  it  thrown  on  that  obstiire  passage  in  the  liTe  of  oiiV 
Saviour — His  i^ourging  of  the  'I'cmple  <:ourls,  not  only  under  the 
eyes  of  iiriesis  and  Levites  but  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a  Roman 
gwcrnar  and  an  imperial  f^.irriwn.  The  sirangcrs  h:t<\  etlendeii 
their  operations  beyond  the  hahisirade,  and  any  Israelite  ivas  justified 
in  driving  them  back.     Keiug  trespassers  ilicy  had  no  appeal.    Our 

t  tablet  helps  u&.  in  like  manner,  to  understand  that  curious  and  dramatic 
pia.v<i£c  in  tlK  life  of  St.  i'aul — the  charge  of  introducing  'I'rophiniuK, 
the  Ephcsian,  into  iIm;  Temple  court,  aiid  llie  demand  th.\t  he  should 
die  for  his  offence.   If  Trophinius  were  a  Greek,  and  if  St.  Paul  carried 
him  into  the  Israelites'   Court,   the   priests  were  technie,nlly  right. 
■  His  life  WIS  forfeit  to  the  law.     Hence  the  jwrplexlt)-  of  the  Roman 
H  captain ;  hence  the  need  for  keeping  Paul  in  the  castle.     Hence. 
V  also,  St.  Paul's  ap|)cal  to  his  rights  as  a  Rom.in  ciiiiien,   which 
alone  saved  him  from  the  malice  of  his  old  cmpluj-cr,  Anariia<i,  the 
high-priest. 

80  far  as  we  yet  know,  this  bit  of  buried  stone  is  the  only  ntal 

Hfragmenl  of  Ihe  Temple  of  Herod  that  remains. 

^      Of   tl>e    next   succeeding  temple— the   l':igan   temple— in  viUkh 

Jujtitcr  replaced  Jehovah — we  h.ive  found  a  fragment,  hardly  less 

rurious  and  important  as  a  jiiccc  of  history  in  stone  tlian  Herod's 

tablet— a  marble  bu«  of  the  Emperor  Hadrian. 


302  The  GenilemtarCi  Magazme, 

Recoil  the  wonderful  and  dramatic  scene.  After  the  d 
by  Titus,  Jeniialcin  rtse  from  her  ashes,  not  swiftly  and  radian 
90  OS  to  comi>are  with  palm-girt  Jericho,  and  sca-woshcd  Desarei. 
yet  vriih  something  of  her  anctcnt  character.  Her  Temple  had  been 
burnt  down,  but  the  ploitlfh  had  not  been  driven  through  her 
and  no  curse  had  been  launched  against  l>uildit]g  en  her  hill-sii 
For  fift)'  ycnrs  the  dty  n-ns  at  peace  ;  such  peace  as  comes  after 
effort  and  assured  defeat  The  princes  had  ficd,  the  priestly  fi 
had  gone  to  Giitilee.  Cyprus,  and  £gyi)t.  Hardly  any  save  the  poor. 
and  their  officiating  priesu  rciiuuncd  in  Jerusalem.  Tiliertas  hid 
become  the  seat  of  Hebrew  learning,  Memphis  and  .fVlexandiia  lU 
scenes  of  Hebrew  enterprise.  When  thinking  of  the  Jews,  a  Rannn 
cm|>eror  Hke  Vcs|>asian  or  Domitian,  thought  Itas  of  Palestine  tkm 
of  Egypt,  Cyprus,  and  Cjrene.  A  great  revolt  took  place  in  Egjrp'' 
where  the  Jews  burnt  .\Iexandria,  and  were  carried  to  C>prus,  what 
llicy  were  crushed  by  ILidrian  ;  but  for  sixty  years  after  the  borrang 
of  their  Temple,  the  men  of  Judah  gave  no  s^  of  independent  Kfe 

Then  came  ihe  rising  of  Bar  Cochalia,  Son  of  the  Star,  last  and 
greatest  of  the  many  false  ifcrfsiahs  who  api>eared  within  a  cen 
after  Christ's  birth  and  death.  This  jKrsonage  is  still  a  roystesy. 
hundred  legends  gather  round  him,  yet  his  name  is  not  known, 
has  his  family  been  traced.  For  months  this  man  defied  the 
forcing  so  great  a  soldier  as  Severus  to  remain  in  cnmi>  and  siard 
on  his  defence  ;  j'Ct  no  one  knew  what  he  was,  or  whence  he  came. 
The  man  was  of  extraordinary  size  and  strength.  Most  people  He 
a  ruler  to  be  big  and  hardy.  Saul  was  selected  for  his  sue,  and 
SamsonTor  bis  sinew.  Like  Saul,  Cochalxt  n-as  taller  by  a  head  dBUl 
all  his  brethren ;  and,  like  Samson,  he  could  fell  an  ai.  and  Iwcak  a 
lion's  jaw.  In  youth,  he  is  supposed  to  have  spent  much  of  his 
time  with  thieves,  and  even  to  have  been  a  thief  himself.  Hewai 
an  adept  in  arts,  which  Orientals  prize  beyond  genius,  learning,  and 
virtue, — arts  invented  by  jugglers  and  magicians.  When  he  sH 
himself  to  strangers,  flames  seemed  to  leap  out  fi-om  between  his 
so  that  he  breathed  with  tongues  of  fire.  These  flames  were 
credentials,  eas)'  to  be  read  by  peasants  and  herdsmen.  The  trick 
needs  some  practice  and  a  good  deal  of  muscular  endurance.  I 
have  seen  it  done  by  mountebanks  in  Morocco.  A  piece  of  flax  is  set 
on  fire,  rolled  into  a  Kill,  and  put  into  the  mouth.  The  fire  is  pa 
smothered,  smoke  comes  out,  and  when  ilic  mountebank  brvatl 
his  teeth  and  lips  appear  to  be  wni])])ed  in  flama  Few  niai 
could  bear  the  pain,  jtt  the  Morocco  juggler  will  "eat  firf 
and  "breathe  flame"  for  a  reward  of  twenty  piastres.  Such  lo* 
Bar  f*    '  '  \,  Son  of  ihe  StaT.    nv.6  David^  whose  dcscen 


lascano 
centun^ 

wn,dB 
empiP^H 


'n 


he  assumed  lo  be,  Corhaba  Kved  .it  first  in  caves  and  tombs.  Such 
^tnesscs  abound  in  all  the  ravinca  near  Jerusalem.  Here  he 
puhcrcd  in  men  and  laid  up  store  of  aniii  Burrowing  in  the 
ground,  he  ran  galleries  right  and  lefi,  and  made  a  catacxhmb  of 
every  hill-side.  From  early  days  ihc  Jews  had  been  fond  of  secret 
pasKiges  and  undergn>und  roads.  Muriah  van  hunej'combcd  n-ith 
cistenH^  corridors,  and  chambers.  One  great  tunnel  connected  Zion 
with  the  Temple,  and  the  spacious  vaults,  now  known  as  the  quarries, 
lay  beneath  the  ]>.Tlace  of  Bezeth.i.  David  made  war  from  the  Cave 
ofAduUam;  Cochaba  made  prciiarations  Tor  war  in  fifty  caves  of 
Adullam.  Issuing  firom  hi^  lair,  be  crept  to  the  height,  of  which 
he  made  a  watchiower  and  a  block-house.  Crest  by  crcsi  he  felt  his 
way,  coming  nearer  and  nearer  to  Jerusalem,  until,  like  David,  he 
W.1S  master  of  the  open  country,  when  he  drew  in  his  clouds  of 
mounted  marauders,  and  could  treat  with  the  Sanhedrim  on  the 
footing  of  a  prince.  While  David  stood  alone  he  was  a  shepherd; 
wlica  be  had  galltcred  in  hi^i  band  he  was  a  lord.  So  it  was  with 
every  leader  of  revolt,  from  J  udas  of  Galilee  down  to  Bar  Cochaba. 

Some  of  the  most  learned  men  in  Israel  saluted  this  impostor  as 
the  Christ  that  was  to  come.  Aktba,  prince  of  the  Sanhedrim,  often 
called  the  Second  Moses,  was  the  first  rabbL  This  venerable  scholar, 
to  whose  zeal  we  owe  the  Mishna,  was  a  himdred  and  twenty  ycan> 
old.  He  had  seen  a  jackal  prowling  in  the  ruins  of  Moriah  ;  he  had 
1cx>ked  with  scorn  on  the  temple  of  Jupiter  in  Rome.  When  one 
of  his  disciples  g^ing  on  the  Capitol,  burst  into  tear?,  Akiba  had 
relnjkcd  his  want  of  faith  :  "  If  the  enemies  of  God  have  so  much, 
how  raudi  more  may  not  the  children  of  God  expect  ?  "  This  royal 
Hebrew  hailed  Cochaba  as  that  star  that  was  to  rise  in  Jacob,  and 
anncMnoed  to  Judah  that  the  day  of  her  deliverance  w-as  at  h.ind. 

{Thousands  on  thousands  flocked  to  his  banner,  streaming  in  from 
Hchron  and  Tiberias,  from  Cyprus  and  Egypt,  from  Antioch  and 
Kome.     From  one  end  of  Jewry  to  the  other  news  ran  round  that 
Chri.<;t  had  come,  and  that  the  holy  war  had  been  proclaimed.    Some 
Israelites  answered  in  person,  others  in  money,  and  all  in  prayer. 
Cochaba  left  the  caves  in  which  he  had  dwell,  and  put  himself  at  the 
liesd  of  his  bands  of  lioTsc.     Akiba  held  lus  reins,  and  look  from 
ihira  the  rank  of  standard-bearer;  while  bands,  composed  of  Creeks, 
Samaritans,  and  Bedouins,  as  well  as  Jews,  saluted  him  xs  king. 
Gathering  in  his  strength,  Ihi-i  temporal  Messiah  dashed  at  Jeru- 
^calcm,  and  set  up  his  kingdom  among  the  ruins  of  Zion,  with  the 
Hcry.  Jehovah  Echad,  God  is  One.     The  Roman  legions  had  to  retire. 
^!Fifty  strong  castles  and  nearly  a  thousand  villages  fell  into  his  hands. 
In  Ptoiemais,  Cxsarca,  and  the  great  cities,  the  Romatv^VNi'^m 


*■  *     f 
cribcd  iii^j 

fn  I  low  tl^^rl 


L 


304  Th£  GcniUtnatis  Ma^mte. 

ground  ngainst  his  wild  hprse,  but  in  the  open  cpunlry  Bar  Cochalu 
was  the  only  sheikh  and  king.  Coins  were  struck  in  \i\i  lumc  ;  «:i. 
vice*  w*ere  conduirtcd  by  his  conunond.  A  new  and  sin{,'ul.ir  nnrV 
wns  i>iit  on  his  followers,  more  striking  than  the  rite  ascribed  iii 
Moses.  To  prm'c  his  faiih  and  courage,  each  of  his  two 
thousand  horsemen  cut  off  a  linger.  Like  himself,  his  folloitW 
wore  cx|]CCted  to  be  strong.  '■  He  who  cannot  ride  fiiU  sj^xd  andi. 
jilutk  up  a  cedar  as  he  dashes  past,  may  go  his  way." 

Hadrian  felt  thnl  .1  great  war  \<t\s  cominjj  on.  Sondirvt 
Britain  for  Sevcnis,  he  placed  the  armies  of  Sma  in  his  han 
with  orders  to  destroy  the  whole  city  of  Jerusalem,  and  rcphn: 
it  by  a  Roman  colony.  Trooi>s  were  poured  from  Europe,  Asia, 
and  Afrira  into  Palestine.  Tnined  in  the  Ikitish  school  of 
anm,  Severus  knew  how  to  deal  with  an  enemy  strong  in 
t'a\alry  and  weak  in  fortresses.  He  avoided  open  fighting,  but 
seized  and  fortified  i»oint  .ifter  point,  pn«.hing  tlie  rebels  back, 
ami  weiring  oiil  the  jiatience  and  proviwons  of  their  mighty  hoA 
The  Jews  fought  splendidly,  yet  month  by  month  their  lines  fell  irt, 
and,  at  the  end  of  three  years,  the  kingdom  was  reduced  to  a  smaD 
plateau  on  the  crest  of  Judah.  Zion  wxs  too  week  for  long  defciKi:. 
her  walls  being  levern-xl  with  the  earth.  Standing  alone,  the  uiadd 
which  Titus  had  spared  for  reasons  of  hts  own,  could  not  sustain  a 
lengthened  siege. 

Moriah  wa.s  a  desert  place,  Uic  house  of  fox  and  jackal ;  but 
stand  w,%s  made  at  Iteth  Er,  a  town  on  the  ridge  of  J  udah,  not 
from  Bethlehem.  CocIi;ib;i  fuught  likc.TMacc.il«;c;but  Roman  science 
w.'is  too  strong  for  Oriental  fan.iticisni.  A  remnant  of  his  host  still 
kept  their  faith  in  the  impostor,  but  as  the  enemy  drew  nigh,  doubts 
arose  among  the  priests.  A  Deliverer  ivho  fell  back,  even  though  h« 
fell  back  fighting,  could  rot  be  the  Christ  destined  to  come.  Rabbi 
Elca/jj  preached  the  need  of  prayer,  and  as  the  fortunes  of  Cochahi 
waned,  the  Jews  gave  ear  to  any  one  w  ho  brought  new  eotmseU  lo  llwir 
cam|».  As  Moses  stood  on  llie  Mount,  watching  the  battle  and  praring 
for  success,  so  Kleaxor  knelt  on  a  high  place  and  prayed  for  siicceu. 
While  he  cried  out  to  Jehov.ih,  the  Jews  pre\-ailed,  or  fancied  the): 
prevailed,  a  fact  whicli  set  up  Elcazar  as  a  dangerous  ri\'a]  of 
CochalLT.  A  Samaritan  came  to  the  King's  assistance.  Stealing  ii(> 
to  the  rabbi,  he  pretended  to  whisper  in  his  car.  "  No  whispering,*' 
fried  Cochaba,  "  what  is  this?"  The  rabbi  could  not  sayatfirA; 
the  Samaritan  afTected  silence,  but  .-it  length  confessed  that  Klf; 
had  employed  him  lo  capitulate.  Klea^nr  was  put  to  death. 
nciv  division  now  broke  out ;  some  turning  oiwnly  against  ihcir 
Ving,  others  refusing  to  expose  their  lives.      Amidst  these  brails 


'4 


irst^i 


Rfcovtry  of  Pahstine.  305 

.was  stormed.  CorK-iha  W!  on  the  wnll,  i»«  swokI  in  hand, 
tnken  iirisoiicr,  and  ihc  whole  of  ihcir  followers  were 
either  put  to  the  swoni  or  sold  as  slaves.  Cochnlta's  ticad  was 
r.irricd  m  Ihc  Roman  camp.  Akili.n  n^s  flayed  alive,  then  put  tn 
death.  No!  less  than  five  hundred  and  eighiy  thousand  pcrsoii'i 
perished  in  th'is  final  rising  of  the  Jews, 

Hadn'aij  fixed  a  colony  on  Zion.  which  he  called  .^lia  Cnpitolina, 

after  himself  and  Jupiter!  A'X\\\%  Hadmnus  vas  his  name,  Jupiter 

Capiwh'nus  M-as  his  god.     N"o  Hebrew  was  to  settle  in  hiscolonr,  nor 

come  in  sight  ofthe Temple  hilt.  Samaritans,  Egyptian-s,Grceks,  might 

buy  land,  build  houses,  and  aspire  to  civic  rights ;  even  Christians  from 

Fella  and  Anttoch  were  allowed  ui  lodge  l)y  the  Holy  Sepukhrc  :  bul 

tJo  follower  of  Jehovah  vixs,  to  enter  this  city  of  ilie  Roman  Cai'^ar 

and  the  Roman  Jove.     Hadrian  built  a  thtatre  on  Zion,  ivhere  Greek 

cotncdies  ircre  played,  x§  in  the  tlicatres  of  Cxiarea  and  Til)crias. 

In  imitation  of  the  temple  in  Rome,  he  buill  a    Temple  in  Morlab, 

ia\;  priests  of  Jupiter  offered  sacrifice,  .tnd  wati-hcd  the  flighi  of 

Irird*.     /Wia  W.1S  dedicated  to  Jupiter;    yet  the  emperor  ckaimed 

hs  share  throughout.    Two  statues  were  placed  in  the  new  temple  ; 

ne  of  Jupiter,  a  second  of  Hadrian.  Alexander  of  Mactdon  thought 

ie  paid  the  Libyan  god  a  compliineni  hy  declaring  himself  his  son. 

^apoleon,  in  the  same  tone  of  jiatronage,  said  the  obscure  saint 

phosc  name  he  bore  ought  to  feel  much  gratified  at  Itis  partnership 

fame.    So,  loo,  with  H.-tdriaii.    Other  Cssars  had  been  worshipped 

rith  di%inc  honours,  both  while  they  lived  and  after  they  were  dead, 

»d  chiefly  in  cities  whicli  they  had  conquered,  ra^-aged,  and  restored. 

|ulius  had  a  temple  in  Rome,  and  nearly  .ill  his  successors  were 

iroUed  amongst  the  gmls.     Which  among  thesi:  rulers  had  been 

more  fortunate  than  Hadrian?   Only  two,  Augustus  and  Trajan, 

had  been  spared  lo  celebrate  the  Vincunalia.     Hadrian  had  been 

lh«  third.     It   was  already  a  >^.iy!ng,    "  May    you   be   happier  than 

Augtistus,  belter  than  Trajan."    Hadrian  wxs  happier  than  -Augustus, 

if  not  better  than  Trajan.     Why  should  he  not  aMumc  the  god  ? 

He  had  shared  with  Jupiter  the  new  name  of  Zion,  why  not  share 

with  Jupiter  the  new  worship  on  Moriah .' 

The  two  statues  of  Hadrian  and  Jupiter  remained  on  the  Temple 
l|{U  for  several  generations.  Jerome  saw  them:  the  Bordeaux  Pil- 
grim saw  them.  ^\'hen  ihcy  were  cast  down  is  uncertain.  The  zeal 
of  Constantino  spared  the  im.igc  of  his  illustrious  predecessor  on  the 
thnme.  while  Christi.in  rage  against  Jupiter  was  turned  aside  by  the 
^UcNJec  of  calling  the  image  of  the  god  a  second  statue  of  Hadrian, 
^Bliis  erojWTor  was  a  favourite  with  the  early  ChrUti.ins,  who  otvcd 
^B     Vol.  XVIL,  7I.S.  1876.  ^ 


i 


^ 


3o6 


Tfte  GeiUlema^s  Magazine. 


I 


L 


to  him  the  pri%Tlege  of  settling  near  the  Holy  Sepulchre.  SLJeroM 
recognized  the  idol,  but  the  Bordeaux  Pilgrim  heard  it  deaoibedK 
a  stntue  of  Hadrian,  rcbuildcr  of  Jerusalem,  under  the  nntnc  of /Elu. 
What  Constaiitine  Idl  on  itie  Temple  hUl  buncecdiiig  euipcrofs  were 
not  likely  lo  disturb.  The  Persians  under  Chosroes,  and  the  AxiU 
under  Omar,  were  idol-breakers.  When  they  entered  i£lia, 
were  certain  lo  east  down  ^cb  images,  whetlier  they  were  of  gods 
men;  and  thus  the  two  stattics,  once  so  proudly  dominant  io 
Holy  Place,  were  broken  to  pieces,  and  the  fragments  shot  as  nilv 
bish  from  the  city-gate. 

ThiH  bust  of 
Hadrian.broken 
and  defaced, 
lias  now  been 
f<jund  close  lo 
the  spot  where 
Ontnfg  icono- 
clasts may  have 
cast  it  fonh. 
Here,  as  the 
Bordeaux  Pil- 
grim saw  it 
standing  on  the 
Temple  hill  in 
ihe  year  of  grace 
111,,  is  the  bust 
of  thai  formid.-!- 
ble  priucc  who 
drove  the  Jews 
nut  of  Palestine, 
and  erased  the 
name  pf  Jeni- 
salem  from  the 
im[XTia]  map. 

Tht-findingof 
this  relic  is  a 
kind  of  idyl. 
Round  about 

the  Holy  Cityliegroat  hcapsof  stones— ruins  of  walls,  towers, 
cislems,  tombs — the  quarries  of  a  race  of  men  too  [loor  to  l>uy,  and  U» 
inert  to  dig,  new  building  materials.  These  heaps  of  stone  costw 
more  than  the  trouble  ot  pkVm^  v\\«vn  uij  unW\'K'i!sv^>^ta. 


R&ovcry  of  PaUstim. 


own.  Thus  many  ]ioor  bo>*s  and  men,  when  work  is  sLicIc,  go  om  with 
tlitiir  donkeys  in  scaruh  of  su»nc.  One  day  a  donkey-boy  was  picking  up 
bis  supper  of  stones  outside  the  Damascus  gale,  on  the  old  road  to 
Samaria — the  very  path  along  which  our  Lord  passed  on  His  w:iy  to 
Jacob's  well — when  he  tame  on  some  fallen  blocks,  the  ruins  of  an 
old  wall  belonging  to  a  Mo»Iem  of  the  city  called  Rabah  ECfendL 
Ont  of  these  blocks  was  r.ir\ecl,  and  when  the  lad  looked  close,  dis- 
closed the  features  of  a  man — a  man  of  strange  fonn  and  n.*pcct, 
for  his  beard  was  cut  and  curled,  his  countenance  Frank-like,  and  his 
hair  bound  by  a  fillet,  holdings  medal  on  which  was  an  imperial  eagle. 
Our  donkey-boy  had  never  seen  the  like.  No  Jew  ever  sets  uji  a 
graven  i[nage:noMosIen)makesafigurcorhiinseirin stone  Nostatue 
of  king  or  caliph,  bishop,  archimandrite,  or  iman  dccontes  Jerusa- 
lem ;  so  that  3  donkey■d^i^-cr  lias  no  means  of  seeing  such  works 
of  art.  To  liim  It  could  be  irathing  but  an  idol — an  abomination  in 
the  sight  of  Allah.  So  he  showed  the  unclean  thing  to  the  Effcndi, 
iibteid  of  selling  it  to  a  builder,  by  whom  it  might  have  been  buried 
f>iT  another  thousand  years  in  the  foundation  of  a  wall.  The 
Moslem  coald  set  no  value  on  his  find,  but  as  he  showed  it  to  his 
friends,  the  caivcd  (ace  becanu;  the  talk  of  a  city  where  any  news  is 
a  fortune.  Curious  eyes  soon  fell  on  the  "idol";  among  others, 
those  of  our  shrewd  rommissioncr,  M.  Clennont-Ganneau,  and  those 
of  a  wily  Russian  monk,  the  Archinaandrite  of  New  Jerusalem, 
freeing  that  the  an  was  Griick,  M.  Clermont  Ganneau  first  thought 
of  the  Hcrodian  princes  as  likely  to  have  hired  Greek  sculptors  ;  but 
on  lu5  sending  a  sketch  to  London,  the  iKad  was  instantly  recognized'^ 
I>y  Mr.  Vaiix,  our  eminent  collc-ague,  as  that  of  Hadrian.  It  was 
enough  10  make  one  slart.  No  bust  of  Hadrian  is  mentioned  at 
Jerusalem,  except  the  statue  on  the  Sacred  Mount. 

We  sent  M.  Clennont-Oanncau  orders  to  sectire  the  bust. 
Unluckily  for  us,  the  Russi-in  monk  was  on  the  spot.  Seeing  the 
value  of  this  broken  marl)le  as  a  piece  of  history,  he  bought  it  for 
his  com-ent  ere  our  letters  reached  Jerusalem.  .Ml  credit  fall  to 
him!  He  saw  his  clunce,  and  used  it  well.  With  the  sua\-ity 
which  becomes  his  order,  1*6  allowed  us  to  photograph  ihc  work, 
and  afterwards  to  take  a  cast.  These  reproductions  may  be 
seen  at  our  Society's  room,  in  Pall  Mall  E-ast ;  nuterial  witness  of 
events  hardly  ever  sur|asscd  In  human  interest— the  Ltst  captiWtj- 
of  the  Jew>i.  the  final  destruction  of  Jerusalem,  the  foundation  of  a 
foreign  colony  on  7.ion.  the  erection  of  a  Pagan  temple  on  Moriali, 
tnd  the  assumption  by  the  conqueror  of  partnership  wivVv  vW^tiTOMV 
god  of  gods. 


Modern 
Tactical  Organizations. 

BY  H.   B.  CROSBY, 

Jjitt  CfloHd  in  the  Unilfd  State/  S*tvur. 

[HEN  the  great  chnllzcd  powers  8li.i]l  have  finally 
ndoplecl  an  inu-rnaiional  code,  under  which  their 
disputes  may  be  settled  by  peaceful  methods  of 
!irbitration,standingarniicswtll  be  no  longer  necessary; 
liui  until  that  good  time  arrives,  nnd  while  knowledge  of  the  art  of 
war  continues  lo  l>c  regarded  as  essential  to  national  existence,  llic 
tactical  orgnni&itian  of  armies,  ujion  which  successful  wariarc  m) 
largely  depends,  ^vJU  always  command  the  earnest  consideration  of 
the  military  student.  A  very  able  and  interesting  article  u|)on  tins 
subject,  in  a  late  numl>er  of  TAt  GtntUmatCs  Afagaziue,*  by  Major 
W.  W.  Knollys,  of  tlie  93rd  Sutherland  highlanders,  l»a&  attracted 
(jreal  allenlion  in  the  United  Slates,  and  so  also  lus  an  equally  able 
but  more  elaborate  article  in  the  Efuythpttdia  JJrilannka  by  Cot  G. 
Tomeroy  Colley,  upon  the  word  "army,"  to  which  article  ^^ajo^ 
Krollys  panicularly  refers.  It  may  perhaps  add  *'arielyand  iniert-i.t 
TO  the  discussion  to  point  out  some  of  the  tactical  changes  which 
have  been  made  in  the  United  Stales,  where  the  system  of  infantry 
tactics  in  use,  ai  the  outbreak  of  the  war  in  the  south,  was  practically 
iliat  of  hrancc.  The  long  wars  of  Naix>leon  «cre  regarded  us 
having  M;ttlcd  the  best  methods  of  tactical  organization  and 
maiicBuvring.  The  union  and  rebel  armies  were  each  drilled,  dis- 
riplincd.  and  handled  according  to  (he  same  sysiein,  such  having 
been  the  military  education  of  the  officers  upon  both  $idc«. 
The  infantry,  cavair}',  and  artillery,  had  each  its  own  system  of 
tactics.  But  with  the  progress  of  Oie  war,  it  was  often  fotind 
necessary  to  dismount  the  cav'alr)'  and  employ  it  as  infantry ;  iu  !>ucli 
coses,  the  ca^-alr>-  would  otherwise  have  been  of  no  use,  on  account 
of  (he  difficult  nature  of  Ihc  ground,  or  the  heavy  forests  whetc 
infantry  alone  could  be  employed.  To  be  of  use  on  sucli  occasions, 
the  cavalry  under  some  of  our  gencmls  wu  specially  drilled  as 

*  Mr  TitK  Ce.vt L£»  It's  Macuink  for  Kovembcr,  1875,  page  574. 


Modem  Tactual  Organizations. 

fanlry,  and  thus  it  was  to  a  c«naiii  extent  prepared  lo  act  in  either 
Ijrnnch  of  Oic  scHi-ice,  and  in  panicular  cuuld  bo  made  useful  during 
siege,  or  in  defending  a  line  of  cartlnvorks,  or  serving  as  a  dis- 
ounted  resen-e  or  support  to  infantry. 

Near  the  close  of  the  war,  dismounted  cavalry  was  used  as  infanin . 

ilh  great  success  in  the  numerous  hot  cnrounlera  xvith  the  enenn 

ound  Petersburg,  and  when  finally  Richmond  and  Petersburg  were 

fO-ocuated  by  the  rebel  troops,  the  cavalry  serving  as  infantr>'  was  at 

incc  remounted,  and  led  the  pursuit  against  the  retreating  cnctny 

ith  so  much  dash  and  vigour  as  to  render  escape  impossible.     The 

valry  was  armed  with  sabres,  and  n-ith  repealing  rifles,  uf  which 

icre  are  sc%-cral  patterns,  And  whicli  cm\  be  fired  some  dozen  or 

re  times  in  (juick  succession  without  taking  tlie  piece  from  the 

louMer.     These  rifles,  on  the  march,  were  .shmg  from  the  shoulder 

y  a  lealliem  strap,  and  being  much  lighter  than  the  pieces  used  by 

fontT)-,  did  not  overlwrdcn  the  soldier  as  a  cavalryman  any  more 

his  sabre  interfered  with  his  movements  on  foot. 
When  the  war  came  to  an  end,  it  was  a  matter  of  common  remark 
nong  our  officers  who  had  survived  the  long  struggle,  tliat  there 
s  a  large  amount  of  unwritten  and  yet  exceedingly  useful  tactical 
nowlcdge,  not  to  be  found  in  any  authorized  s)-5tcm  of  tactics,  but 
nstituting  an  iniitorljnt  feature  in  numerous  battalion  u>ovciiK-nts, 
in  cises  not  otherwise  provided  for.     Such  new  movements  had  been 
originated  and  practised  by  regimL-nt.il  ofticers,  in  the  school  of  the 
company  and  the  battalion,  wiih  a  vxtrvi  to  demising  the  best  methods 
of  managing  and  directing  skinntsliers,  when  covering  the  advance 
of  ihe  main  army,  in  line  or  in  column,  through  a  hostile  countrj; 
or  in  the  immediate  presence  of  the  enemy.     It  became  evident 
also,  that  a  more  simple  and  rapid  method  uf  handling  troops  was 
^ndispen&able,    in  order  to  fully  develop  and  render  av.iilable    the 
easetl  dcstructivencss  of  the  new  weapons,  for  the  prowess  of 
,ch  man  is  perhaps  five-fold  greater,  ifanned  with  a  weapon,  which 
e  the  Si>cnccr  rific,  for  example,  can  l*c  discharged  from  twelve  to 
xtccn  limes  without  removing  the  piece  from  the  shoulder. 
The  writer,  in  May,  1864,  witnessed  the  repulse  of  a  rebel  mid- 
night attack  upon  an  advanced  salient  of  n  line  of  earthworLs  south 
01'K.ichnioiKl,  whea-  a  single  regiment  of  dismounted  ca%'alry,  armed 
th   Henrj-  rifles,  had  Inren  tenijKjrarily  posted  to  relieve  a  regi- 
of  infantry  that  had  been  on  duty  at  tliis  point  some  sixty  hours 
The  assault  was  made  by  the  enemy  with  the  most  deter- 
ined  braverj-,  and  the  head  oi  their  column,  with  \>a^t>\\c\%  ^xt<\, 
.J   neaW^'  rcnchcd  the  sa/ieTtf,  when  the  cavalrjnwiTV,  VwV  i\tf;« 


pieces  resting  upon  the  parapet,  fired  smrh  terribly  tlcstnK.ii«  aoJ 
continuous  vollt;>-s,  that  the  assaulting  tnxips  \>crc  not  onlyrcpulKii 
but  routed  and  driven  Imck  with  fearful  loss.  ITieir  brave  cwn- 
nwnder.  (leneraJ  WaJker,  who  led  the  chai^  in  person,  ttos  diO(  in 
five  different  pl-ices,  and  fell  just  outside  the  parapet  so  screiely 
wounded  that  his  recovery  seemed  for  a  long  time  douliifaL  Ha 
assault  was  sudden,  itncxpectcd,  and  so  fearlessly  nude,  that  it  nns 
inevitrvbly  have  proved  successful,  if  the  saJifttt  had  been  heWbj 
troops  armed  nHth  muzzle-loading  guns  instead  of  repcatii^  rifles. 

Another  reason  for  changing  the  s)*stcm  of  tactics  hitherto  in  UK 
was  the  invention  and  |H.Tfcction  of  the  new  and  tcmble  engine  of 
war,  the  Galling  gun,  which  is  destined  to  exercise  an  influence 
hitherto  unknomi  in  the  active  field  operations  of  armies. 

The  rapid  and  continuous  discharge  of  a  single  Galling  gun,  fifing 
500  bullets  a  minute,  and  effective  at  a  range  c»f  t.ooo  or  1,500 
yards,  *ri!]  have  a  most  dcmondiwng  effect,  if  skilfully  liondled,  upon 
solid  infantr)'  formations  in  the  open  field-  This  gun  is  pccubdy 
adapted,  also,  to  the  defence  of  intrenched  positions,  to  protecting 
mads,  defiles,  bridges,  and  x-illages  1  it  is  effective  for  silencing  field 
liatieries;  for  increanng  the  infantry  fire  at  the  critical  momtMof 
battle;  for  supporting  field  batteries,  and  protecting  them  agains 
cavalry  and  infantiy  charges ;  for  covering  the  retreat  of  a  repulsed 
column ;  and  generally  it  is  a  formidable  weapon  on  account  of  iJ* 
accuracy,  continuity,  and  intensity  of  its  fire.  For  I>oth  flank  and 
direct  fire  ils  jjowcr  is  unquestionable.  Most  of  the  nc»"  breech- 
loading  rifles  for  infantry  use  are  effective  weapons  at  long  range,  snd 
are  capable  of  being  discharged  from  six  to  eight  limes  a  minutf : 
and  thus  the  common  soldier  in  the  ranks  is  possessed  of  a  dewmc- 
tiw  power,  at  least  five  times  greater  than  was  the  fact  but  *  fc» 
years  ago. 

The  necessity,  therefore,  of  a  system  of  rapid  and  simple  wain 
adapted  to  each  branch  of  scr%ncc,  infantr)*,  cavalry,  and  artinery, « 
as  to  render  the  nen'  implements  of  warfare  available  to  their  fttKcfl 
t-xttnt,  must  be  conceded.  These  new  questions  had  become  fob- 
jccts  for  discussion  while  our  amies  n-cre  in  the  field,  but  the  con- 
clusion of  the  vi-xr  in  1865  prevented  the  i)os8ibility  of  their  practial 
solution  at  that  time,  and  yet  intelligent  officers  had  de%-ised  mcthocb 
of  handling  troops  armed  with  the  new  weapons,  and  also  had  pro- 
vided for  o%-ercoming  difficulties  in  regard  to  the  skirmish  line  whJrii 
Major  Rnollys  mentions  as  having  been  experienced  by  Pnwsiaii 
eflicers  in  the  Franco  German  war,  when  finding  their  componip 
much  mixed  up  after  a  fight,  considerable  linw  being  requinsl 


jJ/oif^rn  Tadicai  Orgatdzaimts. 

before  the  men  could  Le  got  into  their  proper  places  again,  'niesc 
difficultrcs  seem  to  be  inherent  in  the  English  system  of  skirmishinf; 
also,  for  Major  Knollys  says,  that  according  to  "our  s)'Stem  of 
tactics  two  or  three  companies  advance  to  the  attack  in  fikirmishing 
onler,  and  are  gradually  reinforced  liy  other  companies  already 
CTttcnded.  At  the  commcnremcnt,  therefore,  the  captain  of  a  front 
company  has  to  su|>crintcnd  n  line  of  about  350  yards  long.  WTien 
ihe  reinforcing  companies  become  mixed  up  with  those  first  sent  otit, 
the  sopervision  of  that  line  of  front  is  di^^dcd  between  two  or  three 
raptains,  each  of  whom  would  issue  his  orders  to  the  men  nearest 
him.  Thuii  there  would  be  a  division  of  authority  and  resfKHisibili^, 
and  an  utter  absence  of  supreme  control  and  unity  of  jmrpose.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  disentangle  the  companies  during  a  fight.  But 
suppose  the  attempt  were  nude,  and  proved  partially  successful  j 
supiKwe  Ciptiin  .V  wished  to  employ  for  a  special  purpose  those  of 
his   men  who  were  in  that  part  of  the  line  under  the  temporary 

{xn-ision  of  Captain  B.,  the  latter  night  at  a  critical  moment 

d  his  plans  upset." 

\Vhen  Major  Knollys  remarks  that  such  a  S)istcm  of  tactics  is 
*•  likely  to  lead  to  great  confusion,  and  is,  in  every  respect,  radi- 

Ically  vicious,"  he  does  not  in  the  least  exaggerate  the  faults  of  the 
^'stem.  If  Captain  A.,  tn  the  casi:  supposed,  bbould  hapjKn  to  be 
betively  engaged  on  his  skirmish  line  with  the  enemy,  he  would  find 
it  on  exceedingly  difficult  matter  to  extricate  his  men  from  thai  ]>an 
of  the  skirmish  line  under  Captain  B.,  even  if  Captain  B.  had  no 
plans  that  would  l>o  in  danger  of  being  upset  at  a  critical  momeni. 
For  Captain  .-Vs  men,  who  arc  "mixed  up"  with  the  men  of 
another  com|Kiny  on  another  ]>art  of  the  skirmish  line  would  he 
iitiltgcd  to  move  under  fire  either  to  the  right  or  left,  along  the 
skimish  line,  in  order  to  rejoin  their  onu  company,  which  would  be 
very  delicate  thing  to  do  in  the  presence  of  the  enemy,  and  a^ 
unmiliiar}  as  it  would  be  to  attempt  10  countermarch  under  lire. 
Jn  the  first  place,  Captiin  A.,  on  the  skiimbh  line,  should  com- 
and  his  onu  men,  and  Captain  B.  should,  in  like  manner,  com- 
id  his  own  men.  Men  fight  iKrtler  when  tmder  their  oUTi 
tficers.  Men  who  arc  accustomed  to  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder  in 
I  company  and  regimental  drills,  on  parade  and  at  reviews,  should 
lot  be  separated  on  the  skirmish  line  or  in  time  of  battle.  'I'he 
up  of  four  men  who  compose  two  files  in  the  double  rank 
antry  formntiom  are  comrades  in  battle.  ITiey  know  each  other, 
ley  rely  uixin  each  other.  They  will  stand  by  and  assist  each 
her  in  all  the  numerous  jjerils  of  the  baitlc-ficld,  as  well  as  in  all 


m^ 


,12 


The  Gentianans  Magazine, 


ihc  hardships  of  a  campaign.  Keep  these  four  comrades  togotlicr 
in  action  and  they  will  make  a  stout  fight.  Separate  them,  or  mix 
them  up  with  strangers  under  other  officers  than  their  own,  and  half 
their  morale  is  gone  before  the  light  begins.  This  is  true  of  each 
group  of  four  n\en  in  the  entire  company.  It  is  true,  also,  of  the 
eoniiwny,  in  its  relations  with  the  regiment,  while  the  regiment  itself 
needs  the  esprit  tie  corps  of  the  brigade  to  which  it  belongs,  and  the 
brigade  that  of  the  division,  or  the  corps  d'armie.  Each  sub-dinsion, 
if  dtruiched  suddenly  from  the  |>articular  organization  to  which  it 
belongs,  loses  for  the  moment  that  moral  stamina,  the  result  of 
association,  so  vitally  essential  to  the  success  of  a  battle  or  a 
campaign. 

I'he  diflicalties  discussed  by  Major  Knollys  are  met  in  a  general 
way  by  his  allusion  to  the  suggestions  of  Lord  Snndhunit  ui>on  this 
subject  His  Lordship's  \-iews  are  quite  to  the  point,  except  as  to 
the  necessity  of  forming  the  company  four  deep  before  the  deplov- 
nient  of  a  section  as  skirmishers. 

Skirmishers  are  either  thrown  out  to  clear  the  way  for  the  advance 
of  the  main  body  previous  to  action,  or  to  cover  the  advance,  or  to 
guard  against  surprises,  by  giving  timely  notice  of  the  approach  of 
tlie  enemy,  or  to  conceal  the  movements  of  the  main  body  from  the 
ol)ser\ations  of  the  enemy.  For  these  puqK>ses  the  skirmish  line 
may  ad\ance,  engage  the  enemy,  be  reinforced  in  order  to  hold  its 
ground,  or  fall  back  U[M)n  the  main  body  when  it  is  intended  to 
bring  on  a  general  engagement  with  the  enemy,  in  which  latter  case 
the  skirmishing  ceases  and  the  battle  begins. 

Now  the  precise  question  considered  by  Major  Knollys  is,  how 
to  establish  the  skirmish  line  so  that  it  m.iy  not  only  be  effective  as  a 
skirmish  line,  but  also  so  that  the  men  who  are  deployed  as  skir- 
mishers may  not  become  mixed  up,  and  out  of  place,  and  thereby 
rendered  comi>arativeIy  useless  both  upon  the  skirmish  line  and 
nftenvards  when  the  real  action  begins. 

.Siipi>ose  it  is  desired  to  cover  the  front  of  a  brigade,  advancing  In 
line  of  battle  to  meet  the  enemy.  The  brigade,  we  will  say,  is  com- 
posed of  four  regiments  of  ten  com|Kmies  each,  and  each  comjany 
contains  one  hundred  men  formed  in  two  ranks,  with  three  com- 
missioned officers,  a  captain,  a  first  and  second  lieuten.int,  and 
thirteen  non-commissioned  officers,  consisting  of  five  sergeants  and 
eight  corj)orals.  Tlie  field  officers  to  each  agiment  are  the  colonel. 
who  is  the  regimental  commander,  the  lieutenant -colonel,  and  llie 
Senior  and  junior  m.ijors. 

Now  .IS  the  brigade,  in  the  case  supjxised,  is  advancing  in  line  to 


i- 


^ 


Alodcrn  Taclkal  Orgamzatious,  ^x-^ 

iCcl  the  enemy,  the  presumplion  is  tlut  a  UshI  skirmish  line  only  is 

edcd.  And  under  such  circumsmncts,(heHolcol)jett  nnti  ]njqjo»c 
of  A  skirmiiili  line  is  to  gunrd  against  n  siir]>nsc,  or  an  nnihtiscndc. 
and  lo  exchange  the  &n>C  shuts  wiili  iliu  (.'iiciny,  thereby  giving 
naming  of  his  position.  When  the  op|iu!iing  furecs  arc  so  near  that 
the  battle  is  about  to  begin,  or  if  the  advanciJig  brigade  itiiend.s  to 
conunencc  the  action,  its  lino  of  skirmishers  at  once  falls  back,  eath 

an  resuming  hU  projicr  place  in  the  cotn]>any  to  ivhich  he  belongs. 
Having  thus  generally  considered  the  object  and  movements  of  t tic 
skirmish  line  before  the  commencement  of  battle,  let  us  look  ta  its 
particular  method  orfonnaiion  in  the  cose  supposed. 

The  colonel  of  each  regiment,  having  been  previously  advised  by 
the  brigadier-general  that  an  ordinary  line  of  skinnishers  only  is 
needed  to  cover  ihe  advance,  dir^gnates  tlic  right  section  of  eneh 
company  with  a  second  lieutenant  and  sergeant  for  such  puqjose. 
Ten  such  sections  form  a  regiment,  each  with  a  second  licutt-nant 
and  seigcanl ;  and  the  whole,  under  command  of  the  Junior  major  of 
the  regiment,  inanh  forward  ;it  the  uurd  of  command,  and  deploy 
31  tnter^ab  of  say  ten  [larcs  between  each  man.  Tin;  wliolc  brigade 
front  is  thus  covered,  U[>on  the  principle  that  each  comi>any  furnishes 
a  designated  number  of  men  lo  cover  its  own  coraiiany  from  ;  or,  in 
other  words,  each  regiment  co%'ers  its  own  regimental  front.  When 
if  become:i  rKJCCssnrj- forthc  skirmishers  to  retire,  they  fall  back  iijKin 
llieir  resiK-tlive  regimL-nts  and  resume  their  places  in  the  company 
^h  the  engagement  commences.  All  light  skirmishing  can  be  thus 
conducted. 

But  to  $Dp[X)se  a  dilTerent  case,  as  when  the  enemy  makes  the 
altaek,  and  it  is  desired  to  check  his  advance  for  tactical  leasons, 

ch  as  reforming  the  line  of  battle,  changing  dia-ction,  or  for 
e]>loyment,  or  to  await  the  arriral  of  reinforcements;  tlit-n  a  strong 

e  of  skirmishers,  with  a  reserve,  is  needed.  In  such  a  case,  a 
latoon  from  each  comiKiny,  in  command  of  the  captain  and  second 
icutenant,  or  of  the  first  and  second  lieutenants,  would  furnish  nt 
small  intervals,  with  suitable  rescrws  a  skirmish  line  of  five  hundred 
men  for  each  regimental  front,  the  whole  under  the  direction  of  the 
lieutt.-n;int-t:uIonel,  assisted  by  the  senior  or  junior  major.  The 
lieutenant-eolunel  receives  his  order  to  advance  or  retire  from  the 
colonel  of  the  regiment,  who,  in  his  turn,  receives  his  orders  from 
the  brigadier-general.  Such  a  line  of  skirmishers  is  capable  of 
nuking  quite  a  serious  resistance,  and  if  it  is  found  that  the  .skirnusti 
line  is  really  the  prDi«.-r  line  of  Iiatllc,  then  the  remaining  platoons. 
which  up  to  this  lime  h.-ive  not  changed  their  jiositions,  m.iy  m>vc 


314  1^^i<^  Gcniieman's  Magashu. 

forwnrd  as  if  ihey  were  the  reserve  of  the  skirmishers,  and  take  their 
places  in  line  to  continue  the  fight,  the  several  comi>anies  then  being 
reunited.  The  battle  is  then  fairly  oiiened,  and  such  troops  as  may 
be  in  reser\-e  are  subject  to  the  disi>osal  of  the  commanding  genenl, 
either  for  a  change  in  column  or  a  flank  attack,  or  other  rao\'einent, 
according  to  the  exigencies  of  the  case. 

It  not  unfrequently  happens  that  an  entire  regiment  can  be  most 
successfully  employed  on  skirmish  duty.  In  such  case  a  regiment 
is  not  expected  to  take  an  early  part  in  the  engagement  which  fdbn-s ; 
but  when  the  skirmishing  ceases,  the  regiment  reforms  in  the  rear  of 
the  line  of  battle  and  constitutes  a  part  of  the  reser\'e. 

In  Upton's  "Tactics,"  now  in  use  in  the  United  States,  the  in- 
structions for  skirmishers  are  armnged  under  the  following  heads  :— 
».  To  deploy  forward;  2.  To  deploy  by  the  flank;  3.  To  exteod 
intervals;  4.  To  close  intervals;  5.  To  relieve  skirmishers;  6.  To 
advance  in  line ;  7.  To  retreat  in  line;  8.  To  change  direction ;  9. 
To  march  by  the  flank;  id.  To  fire  at  a  halt;  11.  To  load  and 
fire  marching;  12.  To  rally  and  to  assemble.  Under  the  fore- 
going heads,  all  the  movements  of  the  company  as  skirmishers  are 
regulated. 

In  one  of  the  methods  prescribed  in  this  system  of  tactics  to 
deploy  the  battalion  as  skinnishers,  the  colonel  flrst  indicates  the 
size  of  the  company  reserves,  and  also  designates  the  companies  to 
constitute  the  battalion  reserve  ;  as  the  company  reser\-es  fill  vacant 
places,  relieve  the  fatigued,  and  supply  the  skirmishers  ivith  ammu- 
nition, they  need  not  be  larger  than  is  necessary  for  these  duties. 
The  battalion  reser%-e  consists  of  two  or  three  companies,  one  to  be 
taken  from  each  wing,  and  the  third  from  near  the  centre.  Such 
reserve  is  usually  commanded  by  the  lieut. -colonel,  and  the  com- 
panies thus  designated  are  to  step  a  few  |)aces  backwards. 

The  battalion  is  alwaj-s  deployed  as  skirmishers  from  line  of 
battlo.  The  colonel,  for  example,  to  deploy  the  battalion  forward, 
causes  the  company  on  which  the  deployment  is  made  and  the  neit 
on  the  left,  to  march  ten  paces  to  the  front,  when  he  gives  the  pre- 
scribed tactical  orders  for  the  battalion  on  (such)  company  to  take 
intervals.  The  companies  which  deploy  to  the  right  mil  be  desig- 
nated as  the  right  wing,  those  to  the  left  the  left  iiing.  The  senior 
major  superintends  the  dci)lo>Tnent  of  his  wing.  The  other  wing 
is  superintended  by  the  junior  major.  The  adjutant,  mounted, 
remains  with  the  colonel,  who  may  go  wherever  his  presence  is 
necessary  to  consummate  the  movements.  The  battalion  being 
deployed,  the  colonel  will  cause  the  line  to  advance,  retreat,  change 


Modern  Tacikai  Organizations. 


3'5 


dir<r«ion,  nio%-e  by  the  right  or  left  fl.iTik,  rally  by  fours,  or  by  com- 
pany, and  execute  the  fires  by  the  same  commnnds  as  prescribed 
for  a  company  of  skirmishers.  As  to  ihe  muveinenls  of  the  resCTve, 
as  soon  as  the  deployment  of  the  battalion  conunenccs,  the  cqitains 
of  reserve  companies  will  fonn  them  in  single  rank  ;  the  lieul.-colonel 
jjosting  them  on  strong  ground  from  three  to  four  hundred  yards  in 
rear  of  the  skirmish  line  in  the  following  onJer  :— the  right  company 
opposite  the  left  of  the  right  company  of  skirmishers,  the  left  com- 
pany opposite  the  right  of  the  left  company  of  skirmishcns,  the  centre 
company  opposite  the  centre  of  the  battalion.  If  the  other  com- 
panies are  beyond  the  reach  of  his  voice,  his  commnnds  are  ]:Kissed 
liy  file-closers  posted  for  that  piiryKJSc.  The  liatlalion  rcscn-e  con* 
fonns  to  the  movements  of  the  battilion,  ndvancing,  retreating,  or 
moN'tng  by  the  nghi  or  left  flank,  as  the  case  may  be. 

»Now  if  the  skinnish  line  should  be  ntia.cked,  or  threatened  by 
superior  numbers,  in  that  case,  if  its  position  is  stronger  than  that 
held  by  the  reserve,  the  colonel  -vfCiX  order  the  licuL -colonel  lo 
reinforce  U)e  line. 

Such  ncce^isily  brings  us  face  to  face  in  this  particular  method 
of  reinforcing  the  skirmish  line  with  the  difficulties  mentioned 
by  Major  Knollj-s.  For,  to  give  the  actual  details  of  the  advance  of 
the  reserve,  the  Iicut.-colonel  then  gives  the  command — i.  Jieserfe 
fc<w  Skirmitkfrs;  a.  On  fAfr^ffrf//cf  faieiiftTra/s;  ^.Hahch.  These 
«omman<ls  are  rei>cated  by  the  captains,  and  each  reserve  company 
at  once  deploj-s  on  its  centre  file.  The  deploj-ment  being  finitshed, 
the  lieut.-coIonel  commands — i.  Double /imc ;  2.  March;  and  thus 
conducts  his  reserve  forward  to  the  skirmish  line,  where  without 
other  command,  all  the  men  will  halt  and  join  in  the  action.  The 
battalion  ^ese^^■e  when  thus  united  to  the  skirmish  line,  conforms  lo 
its  movements. 

When  it  is  desired  to  withdraw  the  battalion  TCscr%-e,  the  lieul.- 
colonel  rommandA — t.  /tftfrre  i»  Mreal ;  2.  March.  At  the 
second  command  all  the  reserve  skirmishers  march  in  retreat. 
Having  retired  a  sufficient  distance,  the  reserve  companies  are  then 
assembled  hy  proper  commands  on  the  rtntrc  files,  and  afterwards 

»{W5ted  as  liefore  the  advance.  The  taciital  difficuhii:s  mentioned 
by  Major  Kniillys,  resulting  from  the  mixing  up  of  men  of  different 
comjianies  are  avoided,  because  tlie  reser^-e  itself  is  maneeiivred  as  a 
seiarate  body. 

The  foregoing  movements  of  the  b-ittalion  reserve  explain  the 
'  mrmner  in  which  it  reinforces  the  skirmish  line,  and  may  K*  with- 
L<Irawn  therefrom.     But  should  the  skirmish  line  itself  be  forced  luck, 


3i6  The  GeiiUemau's  Magazine. 

it  retires  lo  ihc  line  occuiHcd  by  the  batulion  reserve,  and  while  ihl* 
is  taking  place,  ihc  iKittalion  rcscn'c  w  itself  being  deployed  so  that 
when  the  skinnishcrs  nrrive  on  the  rtser^e  skirmish  line,  they  are 
lialtcd  and  faced  to  the  front  on  the  new  line,  when  all  commewe 
firing  together.  In  this  case  the  rcsen-c  is  withdrawn  in  the  saxae 
manner  ns  liefdre  indicated,  a.ad  when  the  ^kirniisliing  cea^eb,  die 
a-sKunibly  of  the  bnltalion  Likes  place  by  appropriate  co^lIn.^ad5, 
&imullaneoii»ly  with  the  battalion  reserve  and  the  skirmishii^  coin- 
panics. 

In  the  method  of  deploying  llic  regiment  .is  skirmisKeis  jtist 
considcn:d,  seven  companies  constitute  tlie  skirmish  line,  and  three 
companies  form  llie  ballalion  reserve. 

If  the  reserve  companies  are  needed  on  the  skirmish  line  llKf 
become  intcrspersc<l  throttghout  the  entire  line  with  the  men  alrc^idy 
in  that  line,  but  it  will  be  ubsened  that  ihey  arc  slilt  under  tlx: 
command  of  the  tieuucolonel  and  their  respeetivecomiianyotficen 
as  a  reserve.     As  the  men  of  the  reserve  companies  ore,  however, 
se|>.ir.ated  from  their  comrades  in  battle,  and  are  mixed  up  with  Ihe 
men  of  other  comp-inifS,  the  views  before  expressed,    in  regard  ta 
such  a  formation  tend  to  show  that  it  is  not  the  most   desirable,  and| 
yet  perhaps  it  is  not  wholly  objc-LtionaUle  for  the  reason  thai  unlfj 
three  reserve  companies  are  mixed  up,  and  as  lo  these  compani 
there  is  a  precise  way  prescribed  for  withdrawing  them  from  the 
line,  and  rapidly  absembling  the  entire   regiment  whenever  it  is 
desired  so  to  do,  all  confusion  or  mixing  up  of  the  men  bein; 
avoided. 

Hut  a  more  simple  method  of  dcjiloynicnl  in  skirmish  drUl 
where  jilatoons  of  comp.inie8  .ore  first  dc|«loycd,  and  the  remaiDJagl 
platoons  are  held  in  posicion  as  reserves.  In  such  case,  when  the 
reserves  are  needed  on  the  skirmish  line,  the  companies  become 
reunited  .is  before  the  dci>3oymcnt,  and  the  comrades  in  battle  are 
in  fact,  as  wull  as  in  name,  comrades  in  b-itlle,  and  llieir  foil  indi- 
vidual worth  as  soldiers  is  at  once  made  .nvaitable. 

The  skimiish  drill  should  be  such  that  the  skirmishers  may  b^| 
moved  in  any  direction  with  ihe  greatest  rapidity  possible.  And  10 
this  end  the  mgvcraents  uf  i>kinnislK-rs  need  nut  bo  executed  »ith 
the  same  jirecision  as  in  dosed  ranks,  prompt  execution  being  of 
greater  importance  tluH  tactical  exactness.  When  skinnishere  arc 
thrown  out  lo  clear  the  way  fw  the  advance  of  the  main  force  or  to 
cover  or  ijrotcct  such  advance,  their  movements  should  be  so 
directed  as  to  keep  the  main  bod)  constantly  covered.  It  is  i 
jjorlant  that  the  line  of  skirmishers  should  be  8up|>orted  by  a  rescn 


,13 

inda 
icj^S 


] 


lent  lacttcnt 


rgamzatfons. 


3T7 


ind  thus  vacant  ploct^  on  the  skirmish  line   may  be  filled,  cart- 

nmpljeft,  and  the  fatigued  relieved,  as  before  stated.     Sucfi 

I'tOBybe  formed  from  the  detail  of  each  coiiiixiny  assigned  to 

skirmiith  duty,  and  should  be  posted  about  150  paces  in  rear  irf"  ihe 

sktnnish  lint.     A  main  reserve  posted  400  paces  from  tlie  line  is 

iicoeswry  where    the  skirmi>hers   are    exiJcclcd    to   make   a   stout 

H  rcsi>>lanre.     The  position  of  the  main  reserve  should  be  favourable 

^to  the  formation  of  a  new  line,  in  r.i_sc  the  skirmish  line  and  reserves 

are  obliged  to  retire.    The  skirmisheri  should  be  well  praciiscd  in 

handling  their  pieces.     Each  man  should  be  a  sharpshooter,  aiid 

10  that  end  target  practice  is  all    im[iortant.     The  breech-loading 

rifles  now  in  use  render  each  nun  in  the  ikinnish  line  a  fonnidabic 

opjKjncnt.     He  can  fire,  easily  and  accurately,  ten  or  a  doaen  shots, 

^whcre  a  soldier  armed  with  a  muzzle- loader  could  fire  but  one.     He 

^Can  load  as  liandily  while  lying  down,  and  is  therefore  less  exposed. 

With  his  trowel  he  can  intrench,  and  thus  become  a  small  but  by  no 

■means  an  insignificant  fortification. 
I  An  iolTcnched  skirmish  tine  of  breech-loaders  will  be  found 
in  future  wnrj  (o  be  quite  a  serious  obstacle.  It  can  force 
an  army  advancing  in  column  10  deploy,  aitd  when  deployed, 
the  skirmish  line  can  rcttre  tmiil  the  advancing  army  hns  again 
formed  in  column  to  rosnme  the  march,  wlien  it  will  be  again 
compelled  to  deploy  in  order  to  rout  the  obstinnie  line  of 
iatitnchcd  skinnishcrs.  I'he  ad\*ancc  of  an  anny  can  thus  be 
most  seriously  obstructed,  for  its  own  skirmish  line  would  be 
ineffectual  as  against  an  intrenched  line,  aiid  to  fight  skirmislicrs 
with  skirmishers  involves  in  grand  tacties  too  much  loss  of  time.  In 
siich  cxsc  if  the  advance  of  the  army  is  through  an  oi^n  country,  its 
rmite  may  be  cleared  by  cavalry ;  if  through  a  wooded  country,  or  a 
country  otherwise  difficult  for  civnlry,  the  opposing  skirmishers  have 
still  the  advantage. 

Skirmishers  should  be  concealed,  as  far  as  practicable,  from  the 
\new  of  the  enemy,  and  thus  protected  frtun  his  fire.  This  m.iy  be 
done  by  their  laying  down,  or  by  taking  .idvantage  of  inequalities  in 
the  ground,  or  of  trees,  groves,  forests,  walls,  fences,  or  hedges. 
Skirmifihers  should  also  be  allowed  to  cirry  their  pieces  in  such 
in.inncr  as  may  be  the  most  convenient  to  them.  Their  movements 
can  be  best  regulated  by  the  bugle.  The  officers  and  non-commis- 
sioned officers  should  repeat  and  ciusc  the  comni.ind^  to  be  executed. 
'ITie  officers  should  constantly  aim  to  impress  each  man  with  the 
idea  of  his  own  individuality,  nnd  the  responsibility  resting  upon 
him.     They  should  sec  that  the  men  economize  their  strength,  pre- 


* 


BCrv-e  Uieir  presence  of  mind,  husbanO  their  ammuniticm,  and  profit 
by  all  the  advaiitaj;c<i  which  the  ground  may  offer  for  cover.  The 
men  should  likewise  be  laughi  to  feel  tluit  they  "cannot  be 
whipped,"  a  task  that  is  not  difficult  n-ith  the  good  old  Engjisb 
stock.  And  thus  when  compelled  to  give  ground,  a  new  position 
will  be  rapidly  gained  from  which  the  action  can  be  reneu'ed.  Skir- 
mishers handled  in  this  mamier  n-ill  soon  Icam  tliat  tlic  very  ardour 
with  which  an  enemy  pursues  a  tenij>orary  advantage  is  almost  alu-a>^ 
sure  to  secure  his  defeat,  if  resolutely  and  unexpectedly  confronted 
by  the  men  whom  he  had  8up[K>sed  to  be  demoralized  and  routed. 

Of  all  regimenta]  manceavrcs,  the  skirmish  drill  ii  the  most  fcmi- 
nating,  nnd  its  im^iortancc  in  modem  warfare  cannot  be  over-estimited 
'ITic  full  banalion  in  line  as  skirroishew  covers  a  front  of  ncartj 
5,000  men,  and  it  is  really  mar\-ellous  to  see  how  completely 
line  is  under  the  control  of  its  commanding  officer,  whose  ordenar 
giv-cn  and  repeated  from  one  wing  to  the  other  by  bugle  calls,  tami-^ 
Itor  to  both  officers  and  men,  and  according  to  which  skiraiishtn 
ad\'ancc.  Lie  down,  6re,  rise  up,  again  advance,  march  by  the  Sank. 
retreat,  rally  by  fours,  rally  on  the  resen'c,  and  finally  assemble  as  a , 
battalion  in  line  of  battle.    These  various  manceuvres  executed . 
the  double-quick  give  to  the  field  a  lively  appearance,  and  die  taen' 
seem  (o  vie  with  each  other  as  if  the  exercises  were  a  species  of 
field  s;K>rt  in!»tcad  of  an  important  preliminary  to  battle. 

With  breech-loaders  and  Catling  guns,  modern  warfare  is  a  ni 
art,  particuL-irly  when  aided  by  railways  and  telegraphs.  The  Franco-' 
(lerman  war  was  fought  with  all  these  new  appliances,  but  in  acconl- 
ance  with  old  tactical  principles.  Practically  it  solved  nothing.  It 
settled  notliing.  If  our  remote  ancestors  had  suddenly  found  ihcir 
iKin-s  and  a^ru^^-s  supplanted  by  flint-locks,  and  with  these  new 
\vca|>ons  had  still  persisted  in  naming  war  in  accordance  with  bow- 
aiid-arrow  tactics,  the  tactical  possibilities  of  tlieir  new  weapons 
would  have  been  as  litUe  develoi>ed  as  the  recently-adopted  breech- 
loadtnt  have  been  utilized  in  the  Franco-German  war.  A  change  in 
weapons  in\-olve8  a  change  in  tactics.  Close  columns  by  divtsioDS 
or  by  regiments  arc  not  the  most  dcMrablc  formations  in  the  present 
area  ofwartirc,  when  destructive  missiles  can  be  hurled  by  an  enemy 
with  a  rapidity  as  of  lightning  from  the  heavens.  Against  such 
fierce  assaults, — horizontal  tempests,  as  it  were— of  iron  and  lead, 
the  troops  assaulted  must  have  the  means  of  entrenching  upon  the 
very  ground  where  tlicy  are  attacked,  or  they  must  retreat  with  a 
view  (o  bettering  their  jjosition,  or  assailing  the  enemy  with  a 
stranger  fon^wbg^  he  is  weaker  or  less  prepared. 


sj-slcm  of  infantry  Liclics  in  use  in  tlic  Uniled  Stales 
prepared  by  Brevet-Major-General  Emor)-  Ui)ton,  a  galLini  and 
skilful  soldier  in  our  late  vrxt,  and  is  panicularly  remarkable  for 
"its  easy  application  to  all  arms  of  the  scrv-ict,  leaving  noiliing 
additiuaal  to  any  special  brancli,  except  the  manual  of  the  arm  wiili 
which  it  Bghts,  the  adaptatipn  of  the  words  of  command,  the  training 
of  animals,  and  the  maiirigciuent  and  care  of  the  material  with  which 
it  U  equipped.  The  principles  of  the  new  5>'8tcm,  wliicii  i*  based 
upon  a  front  of  four  men  as  a  unit,  arc  easily  learned  by  new  troops, 
which  can  be  6tted  for  active  field  service  in  a  shorter  time  than  by 
any  other  system. 

The  countcrmarrJi  and  marceuvring  by  the  rear  rank  by  inver- 
sion AK  dispensed  with,  and  changes  from  column  into  line,  ai>d 
simple  conversions  of  front  arc  subsliluted  therefor.  The  nuinlicr 
of  modes  of  |)assing  from  the  "  order  in  column  "  to  the  "  order 
in  line,"  and  facing  in  any  direction,  arc  increased.  The  time 
required  for  tlieise  movements  i%  diminislied,  and  the  front  rank  is 
always  kept  in  the  front.  The  system  is  adapted  equally  to  coiuiun 
movements  in  an  a^cn  coimtry,  or  to  movements  in  narrow  roads, 
or  in  a  thickly-wooded  countr)-.  The  single-rank  fonrutioti  now  so 
important  where  breech-load eis  are  used  is  a  noticeable  feature 
in  this  system,  and  the  skirmishing  from  double  or  single  rank  is 
most  eflectKc. 

The  great  improvements  tlut  have  been  ma^c  in  the  m-icliinery 
of  war  have  so  multiplied  the  powers  of  the  individual  soldier,  tlut 
new  problems  are  presented  for  solution,  and  new  tactical  principles 
must  be  developed  to  meet  exigencies  upon  the  bacile-rield  Mich  a^ 
human  conflicts  have  not  before  witnessed.  That  nation  whicli  first 
successfully  orgatmes  the  new  forces  vnH  be  irresistible,  until  other 
nations  learn  the  secret. 


I 


I 


John  Chinaman  in 

USTRALIA    AND    THH   WeST. 

BY   J.   A.   LANGFORD,    LL.D. 

'1'  the  bt^nning  of  the  present  jcir  I  vi«tcd  our 
Australian  Colonics,  crnssud  (he  fncific,  staying  nt  a 
kw  of  the  South  Sea  Islands  on  my  way  to  San  Fran- 
cisco, and  tlience  journeyed  through  CahfomLo.  Jn 
;iU  these  places  "John  Chinaman"  occupies  an  Imjwrtant  and 
]ter|>lexin{;  i>OBition.  He  is  Hie  subject  of  discussion  everjifthcrx.', 
and  the  continufllly-incr«uing  numbers  of  the  yellow  race  which 
now  seek  employment  in  Australia  and  the  West  raises  questions 
«»f  vltil  importance  to  the  people  of  the  countries  in  which  he  makes 
his  lemporarj'  abode,  hut  not  his  home.  He  is  deft,  skilful,  indu&< 
trious  ;  wiHing  to  undertake  any  kind  of  lahour,  and  contented  Willi 
smalt  wages ;  he  can  lhn%-c,  and  maintain  his  health  and  strength 
on  the  cheapest  and  lo«"esi  kind  of  food,  and  can  live  in  apparent 
lomfort  where  a  white  man  would  almost  stan-e.  From  the  burning 
])lains  of  Queensland  to  the  .snowy  ranges  of  the  Sierra  t^e^ada  he 
is  equally  cheerful  and  laborious.  He  disdains  no  kind  of  lodging 
:md  refuses  no  kind  of  work.  In  a  word,  he  is  nilltng  to  do  any- 
thing, to  Icam  everything,  so  that  he  may  liv^e,  earn  a  little  money 
to  take  back  to  hi'*  beloved  China,  or,  should  he  die  in  the  strange 
rouniry,  to  send  his  bones  to  l»c  buried  in  the  Flowery  Land. 

Only  a  fiev  yenrs.  comparatively  speaking,  have  p.tssed  since  it 
was  possible  for  a  Chinaman  to  le.ive  his  countrj- ;  now  they  are  to  be 
met  wiih  in  tens  of  thousands  in  various  parts  of  the  New  World, 
and  die  cry  is,  Still  they  come.  The  early  arri%Tds  \i*ere  evexywhene 
welcomed  by  the  settlers,  for  laliour  was  plentiful,  and  the  lalioiircrs 
•iverc  few.  Thure  was,  and  is  still,  a  great  scarcity  of  women  ;  and 
wen  who  were  willing  to  do  women's  work,  and  do  it  well,  were 
most  useful  to  the  Colonies.  Now,  in  the  wasliinp  and  getting-up  of 
linen,  in  the  use  of  the  sctt-ing-niachinc,  in  all  domestic  work,  John 
Chinaman  excels,  and  turns  out  his  work  more  neatly  and  more 
cx|>editioiis]y  than  is  done  even  hy  the  best  feminine  workers.  Ifc 
make*  the  best,  the  neatest,  and  most  dapper  of  waitrr^  :  is  equally 
j;cod  in  Uuhring,  in  boot  and  thucmaking,  in  gardening,  and  a.s  a 


yohn  Chinaman  in  Australia  and  the  IVest.    321 


he  has  no  rival,  except  in  strength  ;  for  his  patient  industry 
and  limited  wants  ciublc  him  to  proBt:Llily  work  claims  wliich  have 
been  left  as  "cleared  out"  by  tlic  less  easily  saitsfici]  white  com- 
petitor. With  such  qualities  it  is  no  wonder  that  at  first  John 
Clunaman  made  his  way,  not  only  without  much  opposition,  but 
with  something  like  a  recognition  of  his  uscrulness.  Itiit  now  thai 
his  numbers  have  so  enormously  incresLscd,  and  that  wilh  this  ia- 
crease  he  is  showing  his  capacity  for  the  higher  as  well  as  the  lower 
kinds  of  labour,  tl  is  equally  no  wonder  that  a  strong  and  bitter 
antagonism — an  antagonism  daily  increasing  in  its  bitterness — is 
manifested  by  the  whites  towards  this  prolific  and  industrious 
race.  The  most  fearful  pictures  are  dravro  of  their  wickedness, 
depravity,  and  vice  ;  and  the  direst  evils  are  prophesied  as  the 
coiuequeoce  of  their  presence.  In  some  places  their  expulsion  is 
vehemently  demanded,  violence  has  been  threatened,  and  the  poor 
Chinaman,  never  very  considerately  used,  is  exposed  to  every  kind 
of  contumely,  indignity,  and  abuse.  The  bitterness  which  always 
springs  from  a  difference  of  race  is  added  to  that  which  arises 
from  trade  competition;  and  John  Chinaman  is  now  the  cause  of 
fierce  discussions,  hot  disputes,  and  cruel  feuds.  His  presence 
boUi  in  Australia  and  the  West  is  producing  problems  which  per- 
plex alike  the  statesman  and  the  philanthropist,  on  the  wise  solution 
of  which  tlie  future  well-being  and  prosperity  of  many  lands  will 
materially  depend. 

I  During  my  stay  in  the  Colonics  and  California,  I  paid  great 
attt-ntinn  to  this  vcr>*  interesting  question,  and  saw  all  I  could  of 
the  Chinese  themselves.      Frequently  nsiting  their  quarters,  I  saw 

lem,  as  it  were,  "  at  home,"  at  work,  at  worship,  at  their  festivities, 
and  in  trade.  At  the  time  of  my  visit  the  discussions  about  them 
were  waxing  "  fast  and  furious,"  and  John  Chinaman  was  one  of 
the  most  absorbing  subjects  of  tlic  day.  In  Australia  opinion  is 
much  divided,  but  is.  on  the  whole,  rather  fitvourabic  to  a  limited 
and  organized  immigration.  I  will  take  the  Colonics  separately, 
and  give  the  reader  the  result  of  my  observations  and  inquiries  on 
this  most  important  question,  made  on  the  spot,  and  in  the  places 
most  immediately  concerned. 

Continental  .Australia  is  divided  into  five  distinct  and  indc]>endcnt 
colonies,  each  one  liaving  its  own  government,  its  own  customs,  its 
own  mode  of  looking  at  public  questions ;  and  very  often  the  policy 
of  one  settlement  differs  almost  in  toh  from  that  of  its  neighbouring 
colony.  Thus  Victoria,  the  smallest  but  most  energetic  of  Ihcm 
all,  is,  in  spite  of  the  influence  and  advocacy  of  the  Melbourne  Arguf, 
VoU  XVII.,  N.S.   1S76.  \ 


The  Gentleman  s  Magasim, 


strongly  in  favour  of  Protection,  and  opposed  to  further  inmrigratton, 
whether  of  white  men  or  yellow;  and  no  help  is  given  by  the  Vic- 
torian Government  for  increasing  the  population  Ihim  ovci  the  seas. 
A  people  with  a  Protection  policy  requires  a:>  few  competitors  as 
possible,  as  well  as  large  duties  for  "  Uic  cncouraguncait  of  tutive 
industr)'." 

A  stroU  through  the  Chinese  quarter  of  Melbourne  la  «  pleasant 
and  interesting  occupation.  The  part  of  the  city  occupied  by  the 
Celestials  \%  Mifficicntly  large,  and  the  people  are  auflJciently  nu- 
merous to  give  it  the  peculiar  characteristics  which  distinguish  all 
the  places  wliere  this  curious  race  have  made  a  local  habitation  and 
RKed  their  names  un  the  sliO]>rront!i.  Tbcy  stand  at  tlteir  shop-doors 
smoking  their  long  pipes,  patiently  waiting  for  customers,  on  whom 
they  rarely  seem  in  a  hurry  to  attend.  In  all  other  parts  of  the  city 
you  feci  as  if  you  were  at  home,— everything,  including  the  pcofJc,  is 
so  like  England  i  but  here  you  feel  that  you  arc  indeed  in  a  nev 
country,  among  a  strange  race,  nith  whom  you  can  talk  and  tradp, 
but  of  whose  natures  you  know  little  or  nothing.  Here,  at  least, 
they  are  nciihur  intrusiw  nor  obtrusive,  but  quietly  and  inoffensively 
pursue  ihc-ir  labours  and  attend  to  their  own  business.  They  follow 
almost  all  kinds  of  trades  and  callings,  and  ore  skilful  and  indus- 
trious in  all  Many  of  their  shops  arc  admirably  ordered  and  well 
kepi ;  and  in  his  outward  attire  John  Chinaman  himself  is  always 
neat  and  clean,  in  many  of  their  houses  tliere  is  mucli  dirt  and 
squalor,  but  not  more  than  in  that  part  of  Little  Bourkc-street  and 
the  other  ix)rt!ons  of  the  city  in  which  the  Irish  mostly  live-  Among 
them  arc  sexcr-il  rich  merchants,  who  do  a  large  trade,  live  in  good 
and  weli-furaishcd  houses,  and  arc  spoken  of  in  terras  of  the  highest 
praise  for  their  intcgrit>-  and  fair  dealing  by  the  merchants  and  uadeis 
of  Melbourne.  One  of  these  gentlemen,  rumod  Kon^  Mcng,  has 
acquired  gn^at  wealth,  and  won  the  esteem  of  a  large  number  of  the 
best  repute  in  Australia.  He  really  seems  to  have  settled  in  Mel- 
boume,  for  he  has  married  a  Tasmanian  lady,  and  is  that  rara  am 
of  his  country :  a  Chinaman  with  a  fair  wifv  and  a  large  family  of 
children  not  lx>m  in  his  own  land.  One  of  the  worst  of  the  evils 
attending  Chinese  immigration  is,  that  not  one  in  a  thousand  eitiier 
in  Anstralia  or  the  West  has  a  wife. 

The  greatest  evil  I  saw  in  my  ramblings  about  dw  quaner  vras  the 
enormous  number  of  gambling  places  and  shops  (or  tlie  sale  of 
lottery-tickets.  These  are  so  nuny  nests  of  comiptian,  robber)-,  sod 
fraud,  and  arv  producing  n  most  injurious  effect  on  the  young,  often 
leading  to  di»:i3trouii  rcstdia,     In  dosou  of  shops  the  iU-diructcd 


yohn  Chinatnan  in  Australia  and  Ute  West,    323 

skill  and  industry  of  a  Urge  number  of  Chinese  were  occuiiied  in 
wfituk^  aiid  Bulling  these  loliery-tickcts ;  and  I  rareiy  entered  one  of 
these  places  without  seeing  seventl  youilis,  and  in  many  cases  men 
old  enough  to  lave  known  better,  making  purchases.     But  this  was 
an  evil  which  could  be,  and  wa*,  speediJy  and  effectively  dealt  with. 
When  I  was  in  Melbourne,  thl"!  shameful  traffic  was  o]>enly  carried 
on.     Ahout  a  fortnight  after  my  arrivnl,  an  excellent  article  a]^ared 
in  the  Argus  exposing  the  business,  and  (loinling  out  its  cvi'}  conse- 
quences.   Public  attention  was  thus  called  to  the  subject,  and  before 
,1  left  the  Colonies  a  short  Act  was  piissed  luakii^  it  illegal.    The 
at  once  suppressed  the  iniquitous  trade,  and  if  it  is  now  fol- 
at  all  it  must  he  in  secret,  and  those  cnga^g  in  it  expose 
smselves  to  the  penalties  of  the  liw. 

The  Chinese  in  Melbourne  aie  fairly  well  treated,  and  to  me  they 

inied  a  beuer  class  than  I  afterwards  found  in  San  Francisco. 

the  exccplicm  of  those  engaged  in  gold  mining  in  other  parts  of 

Victoria,  ihey  are  rarely  molested  in  any  way.     They  follow  dieir 

'own  punuits,  their  own  customs,  their  own  i\:ligion,  and  their  own 

■nmscoients  for  tlic  mot>t  jjart  as  freely  as  any  other  secnon  of  the 

community.     I  witne^nied  the  celebration  of  their  New  Year's^y, 

rhich  is  the  36th  of  Januar)*.     It  is  kept  as  a  complete  holiday,  all 

iieir  shops,  as  far  as  business  is  concerned,  being  closed  ;  but  they 

■11  open  to  the  rites  of  hospitalit)-.     On  a  uble  in  each  house  is 

placed  a  picture  of  Buddha  or  some  other  god,  before  wiiicb  is  burnt 

saixUI-wood  and  ]iastilles.     Refreshments,  including  tobacco  and 

c^gavs,   are   provided  foi    all-comers.      Each    one   on    entering    is 

wished  *'a  happy  new  year,"  and  is  wannly  invited  to  partake  of 

the  good  things  provided.    A  more  cheerful  or  genial  celebration  of 

I      a  holiday  I  have  rarely  witnessed.     The  conduct  of  some  of  those 

!     who  (.■njo>'ed  the  hospitality  of  the  "  heathen  Chinee  "  was  in  sad 

contrast  with  the  sober  and  staid  demeanouv  of  their  entertainers. 

The  next  morning  I  re-id  in  one  of  the  papers — "  In  every  place  the 

greatest  order  and  quiet  reigned,  the  only  signs  of  disorder  in  the 

Chinese  quarter  being  furnished  by  '  larrikins ' — who  roamed  about 

in  small  mobs,  poking  into  every  comer — and  by  a  few  European 

I     loafers^  vho,  knowing  the  Chinese  customs,  called  at  every  shop, 

accepted  the  various  inviutions  to  drink,  and  at  tite  last  place  of  call 

k^Cdl  asleep,  sprawling  dnmk  on  a  form,  where  they  were  suffered  to 

^Be  by  the  Asiatics,  who  despised  them." 

^H  It  is,  however,  at  the  gold-fields  that  the  Chinese  are  most  nuiae- 
^^ous,  and  that  the  most  virulent  opixisition  to  their  presence  is  dis- 
\     played,  their  deadliest  enemies  being  tlie  Irisli.     Whenever  a  new 

■- 


I       CO) 

■    .It 


i 


324  Tf^  Centltmatts  Magazine. 

ducovcry  of  gold  is  announced,  tlicy  lUsh  in  great  numbers  10  tiaj 
place,  get  as  many  claims  as  possible;,  and  never  quii  vrtu\e  thaeit 
any  gold  to  be  obtained.  Tliey  are  oilen  driven  &om  their  holdings 
1>y  armed  bands  of  miners,  who  commit  acts  of  savage  violence  on 
their  hated  competitors.  In  many  cases  the  Chinese,  relying  on  their 
superior  numbers,  retaliate  on  their  aggressors,  and  fierce  contcsb^ 
producing  much  bloodshed,  frequently  occur.  A  Gcnntn  genlk- 
man,  whohad  passed  several  years  at  various  diggings,  turraied  tome 
many  cases  of  cruel  and  ruthless  deeds  of  which  he  liad  been  an  eye- 
witness. When  driven  from  their  own  claims  the  Chinese  will  Mt 
abandon  the  iietd,  but  take  up  the  so-«al)ed  worn-out  claims  of  tbek 
oppressors  and  dcspotlcrs,  and,  in  nearly  all  cases,  they  citnKtmfr 
cient  gold  to  repay  them  for  theiilabour,  if  not  for  their  sufiem^ 

The  Victorian  gold<ficlds  have  drawn  a  vwy  large  nuroba  of 
Chinese  to  that  colony.  According  to  the  census  of  1871,  tbt 
population  was  731,528,  of  whom  17,8(59  were  Chinese.  Of  ibii 
number,  13,374,  or  nearly  75  per  cent,  of  the  whole,  were  employed 
in  the  diggings,  leaving  only  4,535  for  the  other  116  indostries  m 
which  they  engage.  This  brief  statement  explains  the  cause  of  the 
great  and  sudden  rushes  of  this  gold-seeking  race.  The  census  ^BH 
furnishes  us  with  one  of  llie  terrible  evils  connected  with  thrir  pre- 
sence. Of  the  17,857  native  Chinese  tJien  in  Victoria,  only  31  were 
females ;  that  is,  one  woman  to  every  575  men.  Such  a  slate  of 
things  must  inevitably  be  productive  of  great  social  evils,  and  m«y 
well  alarm  a  nation  in  which  it  cjtists.  In  the  ten  years  Ijctween 
i86r  and  i87r,  their  numbers  in  Victoria  had  decreased  by  6,797: 
but  it  is  estimated  that  there  has  been  an  increase  since  the  la&i 
censijs  was  taJten.l 

As  he  is  in  Victoria,  so  is  John  Chin.iman  in  New  South  Wales. 
His  pursuits  are  the  same,  his  characteristics  the  same ;  and,  allowing 
for  the  difference  between  Sydney  and  Melbourne,  the  Chinese 
quarter  of  the  one  is  precisely  the  Chinese  quarter  of  the  other.  TTie 
relative  proportion  of  his  numbers  differs  very  materially.  At  tlic 
last  census,  in  a  population  of  nearly  600,000,  the  Chinese  num- 
bered only  7-455?  but  his  treatment  by  the  Colonists  is  alike  both  in 
the  towns  and  at  the  digjjings. 

While  I  was  in  Australia  I  was  brought  face  to  face  with  the  sJaic 
of  things  which  follows  the  discovery  of  a  new  gold-field,  which  «« 
made  in  Queensland,  in  the  P.ilmer  district,  and  was  declared  to  be 

■  very  rich  in  the  precious  metal.  There  was  at  once  a  rush  to  tlic  disuitt; 

■  the  Chinese,  as  usual,  being  the  first  to  seek  (he  new  El  Dorr'"- 
Thcy  rushed  in  such  numbers  that  in  a  short  lime  there  were  i 


k 


Doradc^ 

wrrofiv^H 


Chinese  to  one  European,  and  a  strong  feeling  was  aroused  against 
them.  It  was  stated  that,  as  soon  as  possible  after  the  teicgraiih  liad 
announced  the  discovery,  John  Chinaman  was  on  the  spot.  One 
ship  brought  419  to  Ccwktown,  and  five  more  steamers  were  to 
follow.  With  this  rush  cimc  the  news  that  2,000  more  were  at 
Hong  Kong  waiting  for  ships  to  convey  them  to  the  same  place,  and 
to  the  rich  lands  of  the  Palmer  district,  in  which  ihey  were  already 
securing  three-fourths  of  the  alluvial  gold.  Their  presence,  and  the 
increasing  numbers  declared  to  be  on  their  way,  were  producing 
much  alarm  and  a  good  deal  of  ill-feeling  among  the  Europeans. 
"The  immense  influx  of  Chinese  upon  the  northern  gold-fields"  was 
declared  10  be  a  very  serious  matter,  and  one  which  "may  possibly 
lead  to  serious  complications  before  many  months  have  passed."  It 
was  also  not  unreasonably  urged  that  the  Palmer  distria  "was  dis- 
covered, prospected,  and  opened  up  in  the  face  of  dlfliculties,  priva- 
tions, loss  of  life,  and  exjwnse  probably  greater  than  were  ever 
known  in  the  history  of  the  gold-fields,  and  in  none  of  these  works  had 
Chinese  any  share."  It  was  also  alleged  against  them,  that  they 
"  ne*-er  go  outside  to  prospect,  but  follow  close  in  the  wake  of  the 
European  pioneer,  and  reap  the  lion's  share  of  the  result  of  his  dis- 
covoies."  So  fax  as  the  Palmer  district  is  concerned  this  is  said  to 
have  been  the  case  "  from  first  to  last,"  and  that  John,  "  safe  in  his 
numerical  superiority  and  his  fire-arms,  is  in  the  position,  when  he 
wills  it,  to  dictate  to  the  European  digger,  and  say,  "  ^o  far  slialt  thou 
come  and  no  further."  This  excitement  and  feeling  of  alarm  about 
the  "  Jackals  "  who  arc  said  to  get  the  lion's  share,  were,  under  the 
circumstances,  not  unnatural,  but  they  were  premature.  A  little 
later  on  we  learned  that  all  the  old  Palmer  men  were  returning  from 
the  rush;  that  200  men  were  considered  quite  enough  for  the  new 
workings ;  and  that  the  best  reef  ever  known  had  been  taken  up  by 
the  prospectors.  The  diggers  were  rushing  about  ]>rospectirig  in  all 
directions ;  and,  as  has  had  always  previously  been  the  case,  the 
vacant  claims  in  the  old  diggings  had  immediately  been  taken  up  by 
the  Chinese.  Another  discovery  has  been  made  of  a  new  gold-field 
some  160  miles  from  Cooktown,  which  was  said  to  be  "richer  than 
any  j-et  discovered  in  the  Palmer " ;  another  rush  took  place,  in 
which  John  Chinaman  appeared  in  his  usual  force,  and  all  were  de- 
claring that  his  position  was  "becoming  too  strong  decidedly  on  our 
gold-fields  in  the  far  north  to  be  regarded  with  anything  like  com- 
placency." Evcrywliere  the  cry  is  tlie  same ;  everywhere  John 
Chinaman  is  received  with  contempt,  hatred,  and  scorn,  and  treated 
with  violence  and  injustice.     But  still  he  comes  in  ever-Increasing 


I 


326 


The  Gtntlemans  Magazine, 


I 


nornb^rst  and  the  (iroblem  is.  In  what  way  shall  his  namben  bel 
limited,  or  his  presence  got  iid  of  altogether?    U  hevould  only' 
keep  to  washing,  gelting-up  linen,  gankntng,  burden-bearing,  or  any 
kind  of  porter  work,  all  would  be  well  \  but  when  he  takei  to  gold-^J 
seeking  in  the  direct  w%)-  of  working  in  the  goId-£eIds  he  is  di^| 
croaching  too  far  on  the  white  man's  special  manor,  and  miet  \x  ^ 
put  down.     At  least,  so  the  white  miners  and  diggers  dedaie ;  and 
it  is  rather  hard  on  them,  after  they  have  borne  the  toil,  titnble, 
suffering,  and  expense  of  discovery,  to  see  the  prize  carried  away  b; 
the  "yellow  ants"  from  China.    Amid  such  conflicting  interesB, 
the  labour  questicn  in  the  New  World  is  beset  with  problems  whidi 
arc  as  diflicutt  of  isohition  as  any  to  be  met  »nth  in  the  Old. 

Sliil  labourers  arc  much  wanted  in  Australia,  and,  with  the  exce^ 
tion  of  Victoria,  the  various  Cotonies  are  making  great  efforts  to 
procure  fresh  supplies.  A  remarkable  instance  occurred  during  mj 
stay,  whirh  s]H;rialIy  bears  upon  the  subject,  and  which  has  a  pecu- 
liar interest  in  itself.  South  Australia  possesses  the  largest  temtory 
and  is  one  of  the  most  thinly  peopled  of  the  Colotues.  Including 
the  Noithem  'rerritory,  it  contains  more  than  goo,ooo  square  mik«, 
and  the  jxipuUlion  is  not  yet  300,000.  A  sum  of  ;^ioo,ooo  has 
been  voted  by  P.^^liamcnt  for  the  puqioscs  of  cmigrattoo  during 
1876,  and  there  ia  a  balance  of  ^£18,551  of  the  amount  voted  but 
year.  The  Go%-emment  has  entered  into  an  agreement  with  the 
Right  Rev.  Bishop  Bugnion,  head  of  the  unorthodox  sect  of  the 
Greek  Church  in  Russia  known  as  the  Mnenoniles.  The  BidKqi 
has  obtained  permission  from  the  Russian  Government  for  tbe 
emigmtion  of  his  flock,  and  has  selected  tlie  Northern  Tcnitoiyof 
South  Australia,  as  a  country  admirably  litted  for  a  Russun  KUic- 
ment,  and  has  entered  into  an  agreement  to  bring  over,  ss  a  first 
instaltnent,  40,000  Mncnonitcs.  These  are  to  become  settlers,  and 
n-ill  be  provided  with  land  to  the  extent  of  60,  tzo.  and  180  sots 
each,  .Tccording  to  the  class  to  which  they  are  allotted.  Tbeyvfll 
have  to  pay  for  the  land  by  instalments  in  a  fixed  timCf  and  when 
paid  for  the  money  uill  cutx-r  the  expense  of  passage  and  the  cost  of 
land  at  present  rates.  The  emigrants  are  to  come  in  batches  not 
exceeding  i  .000  a  month  for  the  firet  six  months,  and  afterwards  not 
more  than  3,000  a  month.  They  are  to  bring  their  own  took  and 
provisions,  and  those  who  arrive  flrst  arc  to  make  bouses  far  their 
successors.  The  Bishop  is  to  be  paid  ^1,000  for  his  expenses,  tad 
an  allotment  of  600  acres  of  land  \n  the  Territory.  Mr.  Boucut, 
the  Premier  of  South  Australia,  is  very  sanguine  about  the  results  oi 
this  attempt  to  people  the  North,  and  states  that  the  Bishop  codd 


John  Chinaman  in  AnstrcUia  and  the  West, 

bxing  oat  loo.ooo  as  well  as  40.000 ;  "  but  it  was  thought  better  to 
be  cautious  at  first."  The  agreement  was  signed  .11  Sydne)*,  and 
Bishop  Bunion  at  once  IcA  for  the  discharge  of  his  mission.  He 
was  oar  felktw-passcngcr  in  the  Z*alandia,  and  we  crossed  the  Pacific 
together.  He  is  a  courteous,  earnest,  and  devout  gentleman ;  a 
total  absiaioer,  and  a  vegetarian  ;  a  pleasant,  but  somewhat  eccentric 
enthusiast.  He  has  firm  tiith  tn  the  success  of  his  mission,  and 
expcesses  his  earnest  belief  that  the  Northern  Territor)*  was  directly 
TcreaJed  to  him  by  God — a  faith  in  such  revelations  being  one  of  the 
settled  convictions  of  the  worthy  Bishop.  In  the  meantime,  the 
subject  is  «-annly  discussed  in  Australia;  a  good  deal  of  ridicule  is 
thrown  upon  the  mission,  one  writer  advising  us  to  read  "  ten  "  for 
"  forty,"  and  for  "  Russians,"  "  geese  " ;  and,  n-ith  the  exception  of 
a  few  South  Australians,  a  pretty  general  scepticism,  or  to  speak 
more  accuTately,  a  total  disbelief  cxistH  as  to  its  success.  Should  it 
succeed,  it  will  not  have  any  effect  on  the  numbers  or  condition  of 
the  Chinese,  and  thus  will  not  help  in  the  soluttoa  of  that  problem. 

As  a  last  word  about  John  Chinaman  in  Australia,  1  should  men- 
tion the  rather  curious  fact  that  lie  is  not  employed,  as  a  waiter  in 
any  of  the  hotels  I  entered  in  the  Colonies. 

In  the  Islands  of  the  Pacific,  his  moon  face,  yellow  skin,  clean 
while  garments,  and  pig-tail  arc  conspicuously  present.  The 
wftiten  at  the  fine  hotel  at  Honolulu  arc  all  Chinese  ;  most  of  the 
washing  is  done  by  them  ;  and  if  you  see  a  garden  reruarfcabic  for 
its  neatness  and  the  goodness  of  its  crops  you  may  be  sure  it  is  the 
work  of  a  Chinaman.  Their  presence  in  the  islands  is  rather  wel. 
corned  than  not,  for  the  natives  arc  an  ea^-going,  listless,  Indolent 
race>  who  do  not  like  work,  and  will  do  very  little  of  it.  This  is 
mostly  done  by  the  Chinese,  who  arc  seen  al  their  best  in  the  sunny 
islands  of  the  South.  .Seven  days  after  n-c  left  the  Hawaiian  group  we 
verc  steaming  along  the  Califomian  coast,  then  passed  through  the 
gloriousGoldcnCates,  and  were  soon  inSan  Francisco,  tlieGoldenCity, 
in  which  are  gathered  all  the  races  of  the  world,  including  examples 
of  the  worst  of  every  race ;  in  which  the  Chinese  swarm  in  their 
tens  of  thousands,  and  to  which  other  tens  of  thousands  are  making 
their  way.  Truly,  I  was  now  in  the  very  heart  of  the  Chinese 
trouble,  and  could  see  how  it  was  being  dealt  with  in  the  newest  of 
all  modem  States. 

At  the  census  of  1870,  the  population  of  California  was  returned 
as  582,031,  and  of  these,  49>3io  were  Chinese.  The  present  popu- 
lation of  San  Francisco  is  estimated  at  250,000,  of  which  number 
frotn  as.ooo  10  30,000  are  Chinese,  and  they  arc  rapidly  increasing; 


i 


I 


328 


The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 


mon;  tbaa  1.500  fresh  arrivals  were  Unded  in  a  few  dajrs  after  1 
reached  the  city,  and  3,000  more  were  brotight  over  in  the  ume 
month.  As  in  Melbourne  and  Sydney,  they  are  located  in  one  pan, 
which  is  sometimes  called  the  Chinese  Qiuuter,  and  someiimes  little 
China.  Let  us  visit  Little  Chitui  and  see  what  it  is  Uke^  >nd  whii 
the  people  .ire  like  who  dwell  therein.  To  see  it  all  a  police-o&ce 
will  be  reqiiircO,  and,  provided  with  one,  we  can  go  about  in  safety, 
if  not  with  pleasure. 

The  Quarter  includes  Sacramcnlo,  Kearney,  Pacific,  Dupont, 
Jackson  Streets,  with  the  numerous  connecting  avcnucK,  the  narrov 
winding  alleys,  and  ivrctched  courts  with  which  they  abound, 
though  so  new  a  town,  the  bviitdings  in  this  part  look  old,  and 
for  the  most  part  in  a  shamefully  ruinous  and  dirty  condition  In 
these  broken  and  brcaking-<lown  tenements  the  Chinese  arc  crowded 
more  thickly  than  the  rats  of  which  they  are  the  favourite  haunts 
In  one  dingy-looking  house  in  Jackson  Street,  which  was  not  loi^ 
ago  a  good  hotel,  1,500  ore  huddled  and  crowded  toigether.  Bad  as 
is  the  accommodation  afforded  here,  it  is  much  superior  to  whatwc 
saw  in  other  lodging-houses.  Threading  our  way  down  long  and 
intricate  passages,  thronged  with  inhabitants,  and  greeted  with  moa 
horrible  stcncheSf  we  entered  some  of  these  places.  In  rootns  not 
large  enough  to  projtfrly  accommodate  one  pcnion  we  often  found 
six  or  eight,  including  men,  women,  and  children,  all  living  K^iber, 
with  no  regard  to  decency,  and,  in  fact,  in  drcumsiances  in  whic^ 
decency  was  impossible.  One  building,  once  a  chapel,  has  been 
turned  into  a  ne&t  of  lodging-houses,  which  hterally  swarms  with 
tennnts,  and  in  which  the  crowding  is  simply  abominable.  Yet  worse 
sights  than  these  awaited  us.  Winding  our  way  down  a  long,  namnr, 
tortuous  passage,  we  entered  a  court  surrounded  by  rotten  and 
tumbling-down  wooden  buildings.  Here  our  guide  lit  a  candle,  in 
order  that  we  might  see  and  avoid  the  heaps  of  6hh  and  the  pools 
of  dark,  thick,  foul,  and  recking  water,  which  almost  filled  the  plio& 
7'hese  wretched  buildings,  he  tuld  us,  were  the  pro[>crty  of  a  miniRer 
who  tried  to  convert  the  heathens  by  charging  a  high  rent  for  these 
disgusting  dwellings.  He  opened  a  door,  and  we  entered  a  sofi]) 
room  in  which  were  twenty  Chinese,  most  of  them  smoking  opiaiiL 
They  were  tying  in  their  clothes,  on  planks  pLiccd  one  above  another, 
like  the  berths  in  a  ship,  and  seemed  neither  surprised  nor  offended 
at  our  intrusion,  one  of  them  kindly  inviting  us  to  take  a  turn  at  hii 
opium  pipe,  which  we  civilly  declined.  This  was  a  saddening  sigh^ 
but  it  is  not  the  worst  to  be  found  in  the  Chinese  cjuartcr. 

Very  few  women  arc  btoughi  over,  and  of  the  few  who  are  braqgfal 


are  ^ 


yoAn  Chinaman  in  Australia  and  ihe  West.    329 


IB>e  majoriiy  arc  young  slave  girls,  some  of  them  not  more  than 
fourteen  years  of  age.    They  arc  imported  for  Ihe  worst  of  purposes, 
and  the  utter  shamelessness  and  impudent  boldness  of  these  poor 
I       young  creatures  were  most  depressing  and  sickening.     It  was  an 
onleal  most  [lainful  to  mc,  from  which  I  escaped  as  speedily  as 
possible,  and  would  not  wiUinj^ly  go  through  it  agojn.     U  is  true  that 
all  great  towns  have  their  plague-spots,  but  I  never  saw  anything  in 
I-ondon,  or  Livcr])Ooi,  or  New  York,  or  in  any  of  the  mighty  cities 
ithcr  of  the  Old  World  or  the  New  so  replete  with  unutterable 
ominations  and  dens  of  Atth  and  iniquity  as  is  this  pan  of  the 
[Chinese  quarter  of  San  Francisco. 

Having  left  the  haunts  of  rag-pickers,  thieves,  and  beggars,  with  a 
of  relief  I  proceeded  to  visit  some  of  the  workshops.  In  one 
I  room  we  found  se^-cn  tailors  all  busy  at  work,  although  it  was 
nine  o'clock  at  night.  Some  were  defdy  plying  the  needle,  and 
others  working  the  sewing-machine.  The  work  produced  in  both 
ccnploymenU  was  wonderfully  neat  and  well  done.  In  this  kind  of 
employment  the  Chinese  excel,  and,  it  is  said,  far  surpass  their  white 
competitors  The  great  charge  against  them  is  that  they  arc  satisfied 
with  less  pay,  and  thus  bring  down  the  rate  of  wages  "with  us  in 
California."    Our  next  \isii  was  to  a  gold-worker's  shop,  where  the 

tmcn  were  busily  engaged  in  chasing  and  filagree.  We  saw  rings, 
bracelets,  and  ]>cndents,  and  the  chasing  and  ornamentation  were 
exquisitely  finished.  The  patience  and  skill  which  Uiey  display  in 
Ihis  really  skilled  labour  are  beyond  all  praise.  It  may  be  imiutivc, 
bui  il  is  admirably  well  done;  and,  again — O  fault  of  faults — more 
cheaply  than  by  other  workers  in  the  precious  metals.  In  the  boot 
and  shoemaking  shops,  and  in  other  trades,  we  found  the  same  skill 
united  to  the  same  comparative  lowness  of  price.  This  in  San 
Francisco  is  a  most  material  point,  for  it  is  by  far  the  dearest  place 
in  the  worId_to  live  in. 

Our  guide  next  took  us  to  a  Chinese  i^wnbrokcr's.  The  shelves 
••ere  crammed  with  all  the  articles  used  cither  on  the  person  or  in 
the  houses  of  his  fellow-countrymen.  Fantastic  toys,  and  curious 
urnamenis,  and  pretty  little  cabinets,  were  there  mixed  with  all 
kinds  of  rubbish  and  lumber.  Our  attention  was  specially  called  to 
the  knives,  which  were  very  numerous  and  of  various  shapes.  One 
looked  like  a  harmless  fan  intended  to  cool  the  checks  of  some  fair 
Mongolian  belle  on  a  hot  day,  but  under  that  innocent  guise  was 
concealed  a  long  l>lade  of  .'iharppointM  steel — a  most  formidable 
weapon.  Others  had  two  knives  in  one  sheath,  many  of  the  sheaths 
^  being  Uned  with  silk,  which  absorbed  the  marks  of  contest,  and  left 


330 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 


the  blades  bright  and  dean.  It  is  said  that  every  Chinaman  is 
armed  with  either  a  single  or  a  double-bladcd  knifi^  in  the  use  of 
which  he  is  very  skilfuL  At  a  time  when  et-ery  European  in  San 
Francisco  cairicd  a  revolver,  it  w-as  not  to  be  expected  that  the 
Chinaman  alone  would  go  unarmed  ;  but  now  that  fire-Arms  are 
forbidden  to  be  carried  without  a  pcnnit  froin  the  proper  authorities 
the  Chinese  should  be  strictly  prohibited  from  carr^g  these  deadly 
weapons. 

Just  before  my  arrival  the  Chinese  theatres  had  been  closed,  and 
their  gambling- houses  suppressed,  so  I  could  not  wsit  either  of  these 
"peculiar  institutions."  I  went,  however,  to  a  joss-house.  To 
reach  this  temple  of  ])aganism  we  entered  a  narruw  passage  in 
Kearney  Street^  ascended  several  flights  of  rotten  and  creaking  stairs, 
groped  our  way  along  paths  made  of  trembling  and  fihhy  planks, 
and,  after  going  through  many  labyrinthine  windings  we  found  onr- 
selves  standing  before  one  of  the  many  idols  worihipped  by  the 
Chinese.  There  are  several  rooms  in  the  joss-house,  each  one 
devoted  to  a  special  god  or  goddess.  Nearly  all  the  figures  tepre- 
senting  these  unseen  powers  are  of  life  size,  and  hideously  t^y  j 
they  seem  intended  to  excite  terror  or  to  insjMre  fenr  in  the  heana 
of  their  worshippers.  Bdbre  most  of  them  one  or  two  small  pastilles 
are  always  burning,  and  great  care  is  taken  to  keep  matters  all  right 
with  the  representative  of  the  spirit  of  evil.  Our  guide,  who  boasted 
a  "  little  learning,"  gave  us  some  curious  and  original  explanations 
of  the  powers  and  functions  of  the  various  deities,  in  whirJi  he  con- 
trived to  mix  up  all  the  mythologies  of  tlie  nxirid.  He  was  par- 
ticularly impressive  and  eloquent  in  dilating  on  the  many  resem- 
blances and  c-ontrasts  which  the  foith  of  the  Chinese  offets  to  that 
of  the  Christians.  We  were  certainly  amused,  if  not  edified,  by  this 
strange  display  of  a  confused  and  unexpected  erudition. 

My  last  \-isit  was  the  pleasantest  of  aU.  I  went  to  the  well-known 
Chinese  restaurant  in  Jackson  Street,  and  found  a  large  pnrty  assem- 
bled in  celebration  of  a  wedding.  They  were  evidently  of  the  better 
dan,  and  were  clad  in  their  holiday  attire.  One  huge  room  was 
fiilcd  by  women  and  children,  all  well  dressed,  wearing  jewels, 
and  some  of  ihem  rather  profusely  adorned  witli  ornaments.  Some 
of  the  head-dresses  were  superb  in  glitter  and  coloar,  and  the  time 
spent  in  their  toilets  must  at  least  have  equalled  that  of  a  Tendon 
lady  about  lo  have  her  first  presentatioa  at  Coun.  Some  of  the 
children  were  extremely  pretty.  Their  mothers  liad  displayed  the 
utmost  care  in  preparing  them  for  the  occasion,  and  ihey  took 
ai\  a  mother's  pride  in  showing  them  to  the  strangcn.    The  party 


I 


yo/m  Chinaman  in  Australia  and  i/te  }Vesi. 


r 


a  very  merry  one,  and  the  bughing,  charting,  shoming,  eating 
drinking,  were  carried  on  with  a  hc^irtiness  which  showed  that 
Chinese  women  knew  bow  to  enjoy  themselves,  and  how  to  keep  a 
dding  festival 

The  men,  as  is  the  custom,  were  in  rooms  lo  themselves,  and 
were  as  joHy  as  the  women.  They  received  us  with  :i  hearty  cheer 
and  every  «ign  of  a  sincere  welcome.  We  were  pressed  to  take  wine, 
and  cigars  were  literally  thrust  upon  us.  The  bridegroom  was  intro- 
duced ;  but,  of  course,  the  bride  was  not  present ;  and  we  were 
informed  that  the  newly-niadc  husl>ajid  would  have  to  5can:h  for  her 
for  three  days,  during  which  the  festivities  would  be  kept  up.  We 
irished  the  ])air  all  happiness  and  prosperity,  shook  hands  with  most 
of  the  men,  once  mure  admired  the  children,  and  hade  them  :ill 
goodnight  As  we  left  another  ringing  cheer  was  given,  and  thus 
ended  our  last  visit  lo  the  Chinese  quarter  of  San  Francisco. 

By  the  publication  of  Mr.  Hepworth  Dixon's  "White  Conquest," 
the  method  of  Chinese  emigration  has  been  made  known  to  English 
readers.  The  management  is  in  the  hands  of  five  companies  in 
China,  and  a  Committee  in  San  Francisco ;  the  companies  procure 
tbe  emigrants  and  send  them  out,  and  the  committee  nsceive  Chem, 
and  look  after  them  when  they  have  landed.  They  arc  of  two 
classes,  the  one  paying  their  own  jiassage-money,  and  the  other 
being  paid  for  by  the  companie.s,  but  both  classes  arrange  that  their 
bones  or  ashes  shall  be  sent  back  to  China  in  case  of  death.  Fot 
this  object,  each  man  pays  five  dollars  to  the  dead  fimd,  and  the 
conuniltee  are  charged  with  this  very  important  imrt  of  the  business. 
The  total  debt  of  a  poor  emigrant  to  the  companies  who  send  him 
out  IS  from  ninety  to  a  hundred  dollars,  and  this  amount  he  has  to 
work  out  before  he  is  itm  to  work  fur  himself.  Before  he  can  leave 
China  be  has  to  give  his  pereonal.  as  well  as  a  family  bond,  that  he 
will  perform  his  part  of  the  contract.  Such  is  the  substance  of  Ihe 
planation  given  to  Mr.  Dixon  by  Lee  Wong,  "  a  merchant  of  high 
ding"  in  San  Francisco.  To  the  natural  question,  "  Do  many 
of  yotu"  bondsmen  run  away  ?  "  \^c  Wong  is  reported  to  have  made 
the  following  significant  reply .' — "  They  cannot  nin  away ;  they  ha\*e 
^^to  food,  no  money.  They  speak  no  English  words ;  they  know  no 
^■Melican'  magisttaites.  We  let  them  out  on  hire,  recetring  thor  wages, 
^Bnd  giving  them  so  much  a  month  to  live  on  tilt  our  debts  are  paid. 
^EWe  have  our  spies  and  henchmen  everywhere ;  by  means  of  these 
we  hear  what  is  going  on  in  every  house.  We  know  sycty  man's 
name,  and  where  he  «,  and  what  he  is  about  Our  chief  authority 
ikain  our  control  of  the  dead  fund.     A  man  who  might  not  stop  at 


L    wail 

P^tanc 


332 


The  GentUman's  Magazine. 


murder  would  shrink  From  vexing  a  tribunal  tKat  may  cause  delay  in 
sending  back  his  bones  to  Hong-Kong." 

When  I  arrived  at  the  Golden  City,  I  found  Uie  &m  Fxanci&cans 
in  a  swte  of  great  excitement  on  ihe  Chinese  questioa  Mas* 
meetings  were  being  held,  strong  resolutions  were  passed,  and 
stronger  speeches  delivered  against  these  modem  invaders  of 
America.  Government  was  imperatively  called  upon  to  stop  the 
inundation  which  threatened  to  overwhelm  the  country  and  to 
destroy  the  best  interests  of  the  people.  The  roughs  of  San  Fran- 
cisco arc  the  worst  specimens  of  their  cLiss  to  be  found  even  in  the 
New  World,  and  they  were  the  fiercest  in  their  denunciatioos  and 
loudest  in  the  expression  of  their  hostility.  The  working  classes  were 
united  in  their  opposition,  and  even  the  tndcsnicn  and  men-hants 
now  joined  in  the  war  of  races  which  was  going  on.  The  continued 
amva]3  of  fresh  consignments  helped  to  fan  the  flame,  and  great 
fear  was  expressed  that  acts  of  open  violence  might  precipitate 
affairs  and  add  new  complications  to  a  trouUe  already  difTiculi 
enough  to  deal  with.  A  gentleman  who  had  lived  in  San  Francisco 
for  more  than  twenty  years  told  me  thai  the  opposition  to  the  Chinese 
might  be  divided  into  three  stages  of  development.  At  fint,  they 
only  engaged  in  the  lowest  kind  of  work,  and  their  presence  was 
welcomed  and  encouraged  by  all  except  the  Irish  labourers  and  the 
idle  loafers.  As  their  numbers  increased,  they  turned  iheir  hands 
to  higher  handicrafts,  and  instead  of  only  engaging  in  such  work  as 
washing,  gardening,  taking  up  abandotted  diggings,  blacking  boots, 
and  portcring,  ihey  began  to  make  clothes,  boots,  jeweller)*,  and  build 
houses ;  then  the  artisans  and  mechanics  found  their  presence 
injurious,  and  became  loud  and  earnest  in  demanding  their  expul* 
sion  from  the  State,  or,  at  lea-st,  that  no  fresh  arrivals  should  be 
permitted.  During  this  stage  the  shopkeepers  were  rather  friendly 
than  otherwise,  for  they  found  the  Chinese  cheap  and  skilful  workers, 
nnd  their  on-n  profits  thereby  increased-  But  then  this  ubitjuitous 
and  persevering  people  began  to  trade  on  their  own  account,  and 
undersell  the  shopkeepers;  and  now  tradesmen,  mechanics,  Irish 
labourer;,  and  roughs  were  all  united  in  denouncing  John  Chiounao, 
united  in  proclaiming  the  evils  which  his  pn»ence  produced,  and 
um'ted  in  deaunding  that  he  should  no  longer  be  tolerated 

Whatever  view  may  be  taken  of  this  Chinese  tromignuion,  there  is 
one  aspect  of  it  which  mokes  it  distinct  froni  all  others.  They  do 
not  come  to  settle.  They  never  brii^  their  wives  and  families.  The 
few  women  brought  only  add  to  the  cvfts  complained  of ;  they  are 
'be  worst  of  a  bad  class ;  uid,  including  all  the  women,  they  ore 


yohn  Chinaman  in  Australia  and  the  IVest.    333 

'not  in  the  proportion  of  one  to  five  luindrcd.  They  have  no  inten- 
tion of  erecting  homesiciils,  of  rearing  Familius,  anil  becoming  citizens 
of  the  countries  to  which  they  come  in  such  vast  numbere.  Their 
^solc  object  is  to  scrape  together  a  little  hoard  of  gold,  and  then 
^vTetum  to  their  own  land.  For  this  puq>osc  they  will  work  all  hours 
and  at  all  callings ;  they  live  on  rice,  or  food  which  Europeans  would 
call  refuse  ;  they  lodge  in  places  which  to  the  other  inhabitants  must 
be  the  hot-beds  of  disea^  and  the  fniltful  sources  of  fever ;  they 
^icnd  little  on  clothes,  little  on  amiiscnienta,  rarely  drink.  Their  sole 
extravagances  arc  opium  and  gambling.  Their  religion  requires  thai 
the)-  should  be  buried  in  China,  and  to  lay  their  bones  in  any  other 
land  would  be  an  act  of  sacrilege  from  which  they  would  shrink  with 
horror.  "Your  people  all  go  back?"  Mr.  Dixon  asked  of  Lee 
Wong.  "Yes,"  he  replied,  "all  good  people.  Here  and  there 
some  Tartar  ra.<icals,  having  no  regard  for  their  ancestors,  cut  their 
pigtails,  and  put  on  '  Melican '  clothes.  Not  men,  but  curs.  Except 
these,  all  Chinese  go  back— when  they  are  dead"  Peculiar  circum- 
stances demand  peculiar  treatment,  and  Chinese  immigration  might 
be  tcgulaicd  by  such  <:onditions  a<i  would  tend  materially  to  lessen 
its  numbers,  diminish  its  evils,  and  stop  the  influx  at  least  of  the 
scum  of  the  Chinese  towns  now  being  sent  to  America. 

The  well-being  of  a  state  is  one  of  the  chief  ends  of  government ; 
utd  it  is  not  conducive  to  this  well-being  that  lens  of  thousands  of 
males,  with  only  tens  of  females,  should  be  allowed  to  invade  a 
country.  It  Is  not  for  its  well-being  that  a  lai^e  portion  of  its  in- 
habitants should  be  of  a  nomadic  class,  continually  leaving,  and  their 
places  being  filled  up  by  continually  fresh  arriv-ils.  It  is  not  for  its 
wdl-bcrng  that  a  large  and  ever-increasing  quarter  of  a  great  city 
should  be  given  up  to  a  class  who  make  it  a  region  of  iniquity  and 
a  source  of  disease  ;  a  quarter  into  which  you  dare  not  enter  wiUiout 
a  policeman,  nor  go  about  without  protection — a  quarter  where  he 
can  lead  you  into  "  crooked,  narrow  labyrinthine  passages  through 
which  you  can  just  squeeze,  and  which  you  could  never  find  nor 
enter  without  guidance  ;  into  inner  courts,  around  which,  and  in  the 
midst  of  which,  stand  old  rickety,  tumble-down,  vermin-hatmted 
hives  of  wooden  tenements,  which  rise  through  three  or  four  stories, 
all  alive  with  the  sw.irming  laz/.aroni,  packed  into  the  smallest  and 
dirtiest  of  rooms,  and  huddled  into  ever>'  dark  and  filthy  comer." 
If  this  immigration  is  to  continue,  if  John  Chinaman  is  to  be  allowed 
to  still  further  "  Inundate  the  West,"  it  should  be  under  proper  regu- 
lations—regulal  ions  made  by  the  United  States  Government,  as  well 
as  by  the  five  companies  and  their  committee  in  San  Francisco.     It 


The  GcntUmaii s  Afaga^ne* 


is  urged  tKat  by  the  Constitution  you  cannot  interfere  io  such  a  ca^ ; 
that  this  immigratiDn  con  ocithet  be  prevented  nor  regulated  ;  thai 
every  man  from  any  countr)',  criminals  excepted,  is  free  to  come  and 
to  land  in  Amcriai  withrxit  let  or  hindrance,  and  all  interference 
would  be  unconstitutional.  The  re|)]y  to  this  is,  then  make  it  con- 
stitutional A  new  evil  has  arisen— an  evil  never  comemplaled 
when  the  Constitution  was  formed.  Let  it  be  met  by  wise,  restric- 
tive, and  regubitive  measures,  ajid  Uieevil  will  dimim&li,  or  may  even 
be  tucned  into  a  blessing.  Labour  is,  and  for  many  a  year  to  come 
will  be,  in  great  demand  in  these  broad  and  qiorscly-poijulatcd 
'  countries  ;  and  surely  there  is  wisdom  enough  left  in  the  white  race 
to  solve  the  problem  :  how  best  to  use  and  utilize  that  which  offers 
itselC  John  Chinaman  in  America  is  amenable  to  the  American 
laws;  if  he  violates  them  he  is  punished;  and  as  things  are  at  pre* 
sent,  he  is  more  than  [lunished  by  the  ill-will  and  intcniic  hatnul 
which  liie  whites  display  toH-atds  all  coloured  people.  One  reform  at 
least  ought  to  be  carried  out  by  the  munici]jal  authorities.  All 
landlords,  lodging-house  keeper^  and  owners  of  tenements,  large  or 
small,  should  be  compelled  to  make  their  houses  habitable,  to  clean 
the  filthy  courts,  and  to  prevent  the  overcrowding  of  the  bouses.  1 
mentioned  this  reform  to  an  American,  but  he  declared  it  to  be  ioi' 
possible,  "  unless,"  be  added,  "  we  were  so  fortunate  as  to  have  in 
Sar  Francisco  what  they  had  at  Chicago — a  great  fire" 

1'lie  Chinese  have  not  been  silent  on  the  charges  made  against 
their  countr)-meii.  'Jliey  held  meetings,  and  adopted  a  memorial 
protesting  that  these  charges  are  not  true,  and  are  to  be  set  down  to 
the  hostility  of  the  whites.  The  committee  regulating  the  immigra^ 
tlon  in  San  Francisco  have  also  forwarded  a  memoriiU  to  President 
Grant,  in  which  they  $t.itc  thai  they  "  have  neither  attempted  nor 
desired  to  interfere  with  the  established  order  of  things,  nor  to  open 
whisky  saloons  to  deal  out  poison  to  dt^rade  their  fellow-mco ;  that 
they  liave  promptly  paid  their  duties,  rents,  and  debts;  that  they 
hara  tried  to  send  back  the  prostitutes,  but  a  lawyer  ol  this  honour- 
able nation — iaid  to  bt  the  author  and  heanr  oj  tkirse  raohtiarti  against 
thdr  ^i3^4?~procured  a  writ  of  kabms  torpm  in  the  interest  of  un- 
principled Ciiinamcn,  by  which  the  women  were  brought  on  shore, 
the  courts  deciding  they  had  tlie  right  to  stay  if  they  desired  That 
evil,"  they  assert.  "  as  well  as  the  Chinese  gambling,  can  be  icmedicd 
by  an  honest  and  unpartial  administration  of  municipal  government. 
If  the  police  would  refuse  bribes,  unprincipled  Ciiinamcn  would  no 
longer  be  able  to  parchase  immunity  from  tite  punishment  of  their 
crimes.''    Perhaps  the  following  [lossage  is  the  most  signifiouU  in 


yohn  Chinaman  in  Australia  and  the  West.    335 

this  remarkable  memorial,  and  deals  directly  with  the  demand  made 
by  the  Europeans  for  putting  out  the  Chinese.  The  memorialists 
propose  the  "  modification  of  the  existing  treaty,  if  the  best  interests 
of  America  are  conserved  thereby ;  and  if  the  presence  of  Chinamen 
is  ofiTensive  to  the  American  people,  to  prohibit  or  limit  further 
Chinese  immigration ;  if  desirable,  even  to  require  the  gradual  re- 
tirement of  the  Chinese  people  now  there — an  arrangement,  though 
not  without  embarrassment  to  both  parties,  likely  to  be  acceptable 
to  the  Chinese  Government,  while  very  acceptable  to  a  certain  class 
'  in  America."  The  Chinese  merchants  have  thus  pubHshed  their 
plan  for  the  solution  of  the  problem ;  it  now  remains  to  be  seen 
what  will  be  done  by  the  American  Government  and  the  American 
people. 

All  across  the  Sierra  Nevada  and  the  Rocky  Mountains  I  met 
with  John  Chinaman.  On  every  farm,  in  every  garden,  at  every 
canal  and  station,  he  was  at  worL  At  almost  every  hotel  at  the 
stations  on  the  Western,  the  Central,  and  the  Union  Padfic  rail- 
roads, he  was  the  waiter.  He  was  also  bnsy  platelaying  and  repairing 
the  line.  He  mustered  in  great  force  at  the  mines,  although,  as 
Mr.  Hittell  says,  "  the  white  miners  have  a  great  dislike  to  Chinamen, 
who  are  ftequently  driven  away  from  their  claims,  and  expelled  from 
districts  by  mobs.  In  such  cases  the  officers  of  the  law  do  not  ordi- 
narily interfere ;  and,  no  matter  how  much  the  unfortunate  yellow 
men  may  be  beaten  and  despoiled,  the  law  does  not  attempt  to 
restore  them  to  their  rights  or  avenge  their  wrongs."  And  so  John 
Chinaman  continues  to  come  and  go,  to  work  and  endure  ;  and  will 
continue  to  come  and  go,  to  woric  and  endure,  while  others  are  trying 
to  determine  what  sliall  be  his  future  fate. 


I 


Leaves  from  the  Journal 
OF  A  Chaplain  of  Ease. 


Edited  by  hia Literary  Execntor!  W.  McCULLAGH  TORRENS,M.P. 


IX.— THE  REFUGEE. 


4 


HAVE  often  had  a  wish  to  know  something  more  than  cm 
be  generally  told  second-hand  of  l!ic  brave  and  cultiTatoJ 
men  whom  political  misfortune  has  comixrlled  to  xA  a 
temporary  homeamonyst  us.  Without  any  morbid  sympathy 
for  the  heroes  of  cash  adventure,  and  without  any  di^xi^tioo  to 
believe  in  the  vinuc  or  value  of  conspiracy  as  a  means  of  restoring 
a  dead  community  to  the  well-ordered  life  of  nationhood.  I  hiw 
felt  it  impossible  to  disbelieve  that,  among  the  exiles  sheltering  here 
from  the  pitiless  storm  of  continental  oppression,  there  must  be  men 
of  high  (jualities  and  rare  endowments,  of  whom  their  lutive  bnds 
wore  not  worthy.  In  the  nature  of  things  it  is  perhaps  inevitable 
thai  high  tides  of  revolution  and  counter-re\"oluiion  should  throw 
up  to  the  sur^e  weeds  without  number  or  name,  which  can  only  en- 
cumber the  shore  to  which  they  float  and  where  they  are  dooma! 
slowly  and  silently  to  wither  away.  But  history  tells  us  how  nuoy 
of  our  own  truest  and  noblest  spirits  were  fugitives  in  bad  tinx* 
abroad.  And  ever  since  the  Holy  Alliance  sought  to  establish  B 
system  of  international  police,  England  has  been  the  princtpi] 
refuge  alike  for  wise  and  unwise  men  upon  whom  despotism  wootd 
by  its  heav}'  hand.  !  daresay  Holland  House  was  often  impoaed 
Tijion,  and  I  know  that  Dudley  Stuart  was  a  hundred  times  taken  io^H 
Rut  their  goodness  was  not  the  less  good  berausc,  like  the  dew,  it 
fell  on  the  evil  and  tlie  good,  the  worthy  and  the  undeserving.  Il 
served  potentially  to  keep  up  the  repute  of  England  for  lovcof  justi< 
and  hatred  of  oppression,  when  her  statesmen  and  journals  of 
profession  would  have  bartered  it  away  for  some  poor  counters  ool 
fafiit  vert  of  diplomacy.  The  right  of  a-iylum  itself  lias  moicl 
once  in  my  own  rccolleclion  seemed  to  be  in  jeopardy.  The 
and  unsuspicious  cannot  be  exjiccted  to  lie  awake,  listening  for 
stealthy  tread  of  the  chief  buUer  or  the  chief  baker  as  he  proceeds 
at  the  bidding  of  imperial  accomplices  outside  to  pick  the 


k. 


:  thelod^ 


Leaves  from  tkc  Journal  0/  a  Chapiain  of  Ease.  337 


k 


of  our  heirloom  treasures.  Wc  must  only  be  content  to  sleep,  as 
usuaJ,  the  sltxp  of  toil,  aiid  when  wc  disoovcr  some  fine  morning 
tiiat  our  sen'ants  luve  beea  at  treacherous  work,  to  dismiss  thetn, 
and  to  reclaim  promptly  our  piiwned  or  mutilated  privileges. 

Last  Sunday  evening  Gcnud  persuaded  mc,  after  my  duties  for 
the  day  were  done  and  daylight  itself  was  pre[jaring  for  its  pillow, 
to  stroll  irilh  him  into  Hyde  Park,  that  he  might  talk  to  mc  of  things 
about  ■<K\^ct\.  he  would  probably  have  felt  shy  when  tiU-ii-tite  we 
looked  at  one  another  across  my  supper-table.     The  foolish  boy  has 

len  in  love;  no.  that's  not  it,  I  mean  the  boy  has  fallen  in  foolish 

vc  :  because  the  nriinan,  (hough  pretty  to  gxce  upon,  gentle  in 
manner,  and  well  connected,  is  an  elderly  goose,  not  quite  old 
enough  to  be  his  mother.  How  he  had  coaie  to  he  bewitched  I  am 
unable  to  divine.  I  Jy  not  like  to  tell  him  that  the  world  will  say 
he  i«  marrying  for  money;  and  I  can  h.vdly  persuade  my&cif  of  the 
(act,  but  it  looks  terribly  like  it.  Still,  there  is  no  harm  in  the 
woman,  and  she  really  seems  very  fond  of  him. 

As  he  talked,  wc  wandered  on  until  it  grew  nearly  dark.  The 
evening  air  was  infinitely  refreshing,  and  as  T  determined  to  resign 
myself  to  Uie  part  of  listener,  while  my  young  friend  preached  on  the 
advantages  of  early  settlement  in  life,  I  gradually  subsided  into  a 
passive,  not  quite  satisfied,  frame  of  mind.  As  we  turned  towards 
home  the  moon  rose  above  a  mountain  of  grey  cloud,  which  had 
hitherto  hid  her  from  our  view,  and  the  atmosphere  having  been  lately 
cleared  by  a  hea^y  shower,  c\'ery  object  near  us  became  suddenly 
as  distinct  as  though  it  had  been  day.  We  had  not  proceeded  far 
when  a  little  group  atiracrcd  my  attention,  as  being  unlike  any  that 
wc  had  previously  passed.  .\  man,  apparently  of  middle  age,  occu- 
jaed  one  of  the  seats  near  the  powder-magazine.  His  left  hand 
rested  on  the  head  of  a  child  who  stood  beside  him  looking  sad 
and  tired,  as  though  she  longed  fur  tlie  time  to  come  when  she  might 
go  home.    Beside  liim  sat  a  ivoman  plainly  dressed,  and  muffled  in 

veil  of  heavy  black  lace,  as  though  she  were  an  invalid.     To  my 

rprise  Gerard  recognized  and  s|>oke  to  them.  There  did  not  seem 
any  special  welcome  in  her  greeting,  but  the  expression  of  her  hus- 
band's coimlcnance  brightened  a-i  though  his  mind  relaxed  for  a 
moment  from  the  gloom  of  sad  pre-occupation.  I  moved  on  slowly, 
fearing  lest  I  should  be  one  too  many  at  the  unexpected  meeting. 
Bui  my  companion,  when  he  overtook  mc,  was  filled  with  regret  that 
I  had  not  lingered  near  at  hand. 

'*  She  wTJuld  have  Iwen  ghd  to  make  your  acquaintance,"  he  said, 
L^for  she  has  often  been  at  the  chapel,  and  would  like  to  bring  her 
Vou  Xvn.,  N.S.  iS;6.  X 


338 


7^4;?  Genllemaiis  Magazine. 


little  girl ;  bul  he  says  slie  is  too  young.  an<l  I  suspect  tlicir  notions 
of  religion  do  not  quilc  agree." 

It  was  too  late  to  turn  back,  and  I  thought  it  might  perhaps  bej 
better  that  I  should  uikc  an  opportunity  to  pay  a  friendly,  if  not 
pastoral  %-i3it,  if  it  would  l>e  acceptable. 

"  Poor  souls  J "  he  said,  "  ihey  would  be  only  too  delighted,  If 
you  will." 

The  antecedents  of  tlic  refugee  were  but  iinpcriiectly  knovo  to 

my  young  friend,  whose  paiiiality  maintained  itself  on  plausible  if  ^ 

not  Kigicol  principles,    if  those  we  love  or  pity  or  revere  have  beea 

unhappy  in  other  days,  or  erring  or  culiuble,  do  they  not  niOEC 

cmphatic;Jly  nt-ed  symix-^tliy  and  solace,  aid  and  encouragement,  io 

their  eftbrls  to  retrieve  the  half-lost  battle  of  life?    If  yc  bring  choice 

Bon-crs  to  such  isle's  as  have  rich  gardens  of  their  own,  hoping  for 

lilies  and  roses  in  return,   what  thank  have  )-e  ?      Do  not  the 

trailickcrs  in  the  buzzing  fair  of  fashion    and  players  at  brag  in 

costly  entertaining  do  even  Oie  same  ?    Do  you  know  tliat  a  man  has 

been  betrayed  into  a  rash  deed  he  cannot  justify  or  undo  ?  or  do 

you  &u$pccl  Llat  a  ^voman  lias  unthinkingly  compromised  herself 

in  fact,  though    not    in    name  ?   and  do  you  not    belicx'e    that 

tlicsc  solitary  sins   may  be   buried  in  obliiion,  and  opportunities 

afforded  to  live  a  life  of  purity  and  doing  good  ?    Ought  not  one 

to  bear,  cordially  and  companiotubly,  the  help  that  impoverishes 

the  giver  nought,  but  makes  the  recipient  rich  indeed  ?    So  thought 

Gerard,  though  he  dared  not  say  so  at  the  time,  when  speakiDg  of  i 

his  friend,  lest  he  should  bi'tray  their  secret.    It  was  not  necessary 

thai  he  should  mdicatc  a  preference  vhich  nobody  thought  of 

questioning.     He  was  seldom  seen  by  any  one  be  knew  in  the 

society  of  the  exiles,  and  bis  visits  to  their  humble  and  remote 

dwelling  were,  as  far  as  he  knenr.  unnoticed  and  unnoticcable.    In 

this,  as  I  Bubsequentty  learned,  he  was  indeed  mistaken ;  for  ereiy 

time  his  H.tnsom  cab  pulled  up  at  the  comer  of  Car.idoc  I'lacc,  a 

jotting  of  the  fact  was  made  by  a  withered  hand  in  the  embrasure  of 

a  window  opposite,  where  sat  continually  an  elderly  woman,  said  to  be 

paralysed,  and  to  all  appearance  dragging  out  a  lingering  existence 

in  a  kind  of  torpid  state.    •  Of  Ucr  and  her  oversight  he  was  of  course 

tinconsdous.    He  had  a  dim  and  dreamy  sense,  I  think*  that  his 

peregrinations  beyoud  Maida  Vale  had  about  them  a  slight  tinge  of 

romance  whicl]  did  not  ditninish  bis  subdued  oatl  silent  feeling  of  self- 

importance,  so  natural  and  pardonable  at  his  age.    From  a  college 

friend,  whose  lineage  was  as  Itigh  as  his  pivsc  was  low,  and  who 

t/hfViiltt  liimixlf  i  mMi6  wait  for  life  becuise  his  auni,  Lady  Favoi^ 


^fi€  Yournal  of  a  Chaplain  of  Ease,  339 


had  got  biiD  a  penuaDent  place  of  seventy  jiounds  a  year  in 
the  Foreign  Office,  he  sought  in  vain  to  learn  the  outlines  of  the 
general  practice  of  that  department  in  dealing  witli  fugitives  from 
despotic  wrath.     Alltisloii  to  any  j^articular  person  or  any  specially 
eacaciing  government  was  of  course  out  of  the  question.    But  cxpres- 
Skocs  of  misgiving  would  sometimes  cscipe  Antcro  which  haunted  hira 
for  days  together,  and  drove  him  more  than  once  to  tiy  if  it  were 
possible  to  ascertain  whether  for  a  poor  and  fiiendlcss  un-notabili^ 
our  boasted  right  of  xiylum  was  really  whisper-proof.     Ex-raonarchs 
and  their  ministers,  guienl  othcers  mho  had  broken  their  parole, 
I'oli&b  or  Spanish  grandees,  French  counts  and  Piedinontese  mar- 
quises, might  dwell  here  in  absolute  security.    Men  who  notoriously 
wrote  and  spoke  against  their  persecutors  what  would  have  sent 
tbcm  to  a  fortress  for  life  had  it  been  uttered  wilhiu  their  native 
confines.     Genteel  exiles,  and  exiles  whose  notoriety  was  tall  enough 
to  have  been  discerned  across  the  Channel  ere  they  came  hither, 
were  safe  enough  \    but  wxs  it  quite   so  certain    that  men    whose 
names  had  ne\'er  appeared  in  letters  from   "  Our  own  Correspon- 
dent,"   at  Warsaw,   Berlin,  Vienna,  or    Madrid,  would  be  sure  to 
return  to  their  lodgings  tn  Leicester  S<juare  some  hours  after  dark? 
t  nnght  be  all  right,  and  he  had  heard  Lord  Dudley  Stuart  and 
icr  patriotic  M.P.'s  declare  at   public  meetings  and  upon  the 
istings  that  national  honour  had  no  respect  of  persons,     But  when 
asltcd  his  relative,  the  old  Queen's  Covmsel,    whether  there  was 
ylawwhich  afforded  a  guarantee  to  uninfluenlial  fugitives  from  the 
Implacable  malice  of  baffled  power,  or  any  remedy  in  case  of  their 
being  ilt^oianded  on  some  tnimped-up  charge  of  unpolitical  crime, 
he  could  get  00  sati^^facliuu,  nor  indeed  anybettercomfort  than,  that 
public  opinion,  if  brought  to  bear,  would  not  support  any  Secretary 
I     of  State  thai  gave  up  an  honest  man  upon  a  mere  pretence.     He 
^Bad,  it  is  true,  a  notion  that  while  Canning  or  Falnivrston  ruled 
^Kl  Downing  Street,  and  decided  each  question  that  came  before 
^Hgrn    on   hand-to-mouth  principles  of  what  he  billed  the    policy 
^nrorthy  of  England,  Hcutenants  cf  insurgent  horse,  and  editors  of 
^^evolutionary  papers,  and  secretaries  of  seditious  committees  who 
I  '  had  eluded  the  frontier  police  by  a  timely  visit  to  the  barber  or 
I      a  change  in  the  sex  of  tlieir  apparel,  might  walk  down  the  New 
Road  alone  at  any  hour  of  the  night,  with  as  Uttle  apprehension  a^ 
Britons  bom  in  the  land.     But  he  could  not  see  how  it  therefore 
followed   that  things  must   alwa)'5  remain   the  same  when  smalt- 
!      minded  and  cold-hearted  politicians  succeeded  them  at  the  Foreign 
Office.     His  young  friend  there  knew  no  more  about  the  variable 

z    % 


340 


The  Gentletnan  s  Magazine. 


nnd  vnry-ing  doctrine  said  to  be  held  on  ihe  subject  by  hU  lordly 
chief,  than  of  the  duties  likely  lo  be  endorsed  by  the  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer  in  his  ensuing  budget.  Frank  Dillingham's  duties 
were  coDfincd  to  the  chronicling  of  dispatches  not  marked  private 
or  confidential,  and  po&ting  their  noD-contents  in  a  book  which  when 
full  was  to  be  sent  to  get  a  place  if  it  coxtld  on  the  groaning  shelves 
of  the  lumber-room,  never  more  to  be  disinterred  or  brought  back 
into  daylight.  You  might  as  well  have  asked  one  of  the  ink-bottlea 
into  which  he  dipi>cd  his  apprentice  pen  what  the  grey-headed 
gentleman  in  the  easy  chair  and  the  Turkey-carpeted  room  with  the 
double  doors,  muttered  in  reply  to  the  florid  fanfaronade  about  the 
general  state  of  Europe  in  the  interest  of  a  certain  equilibrium, 
which  the  iicwly-appoinied  Ambassador  had  been  instructed  lo 
ccmvey  to  Lord  Tremble,  ttilh  assurances  of  his  Imperial  master's 
highest  consideration.  Lord  Tremble  is  a  well-bred,  well-read, 
well-connected,  well-dressed  man,  who  is  where  he  is  because  upon 
the  whole  there  is  less  jealousy  of  him  than  of  anyone  else  among 
the  ambitious  and  envious  men  of  his  party.  Small  prejudices  he 
has  some  ;  large  views,  high  aims,  or  deep  convictions,  none.  He 
would  not  willingly  offend  the  Court — not  from  any  sense  of  chivalry 
or  inherited  attachment  to  the  Sovereign  of  the  Djuasty,  or  from 
any  calculation  of  possible  favours  to  be  won  for  the  benefit  of 
relations  or  dependents.  He  does  not  care  enough  for  any  of  his 
own  kindred  to  incur  the  imputation  of  a  job  on  his  account ;  and 
as  for  friends  for  whom  the  least  sacrifice  of  personal  case,  or  what 
his  cold  f'aniiy  calls  personal  independence,  he  is  not  capable  of 
comprehending  what  such  acquaintances  are  worth.  His  coronet 
came  lo  him  with  the  entailed  estates ;  his  wife  came  to 
him  because  she  chose  to  marry  him ;  his  horses  come  to 
the  door  because  it  is  the  custom  for  a  peer  to  be  rolled 
about  uiK»n  four  wheels,  but  not  becaUM  he  has  any  pleasure 
in  them  or  could  tcU  what  age  or  colour  ihcy  arc  ;  and  the  diplo- 
matic representatives  of  all  the  Courts  of  Clmstcndom  come  to 
him  not  in  the  hope  of  hearing  anything  novel  or  striking,  en- 
couraging or  suggestive,  from  his  barren  talk,  but  to  be  enabled  to 
report  oudieniically  from  time  to  lime  that  under  existing  cirtmn- 
stanoes  England  has  no  opinion  to  offer  which  would  in  any  way 
limit  her  freedom  of  rtimination  and  reserve.  The  Eart  is  a  man 
who  lives  without  hopes  in  a  trackless  jungle  of  fcoriL  He  lias 
read  history  only  to  note  tbc  nustakca  of  politicians  and  the 
penalties  they  h,id  to  jiciy  by .'  ■  i     .  '       i    ;.I<-  ihankt 

the  bcyt  of  (iiem  pot  for  sltx'pl^         .  ;     i.     He  b 


^  L^vcs  from  titc  y ournal  of  a  Ciutplaiii  of  Ease.  341 

^Roo  sensible  to  lose  his  natural  rest  designing  schemes  of  national 
^nggrandizemcnt,  or  in  ihe  defence  of  the  freedom  of  weaker  neigh- 
bouTS.  With  him  national  philanthropy  is  fudge ;  individual 
patriotism,  affectation  ;  the  love  of  distinction  in  men  of  his  own 
onlcr,  overweening  conceit,— in  men  of  the  jwoplc,  cupidity  or 
presumption.  He  would  keep  up  the  Church  as  he  would  keep  a 
fire-brigade,  as  a  preventive  measure  against  fire.  He  would  keep 
down  the  army  tu  the  lowest  point,  as  Ijcing  a  waste  of  so  much 
muscular  power.  He  would  liold  by  the  ilirone  as  an  anchor  of 
property  and  order,  mooted  to  which  his  unearned  share  of  the 
cai|EO  is  safer  than  it  could  ever  be  adrift  on  any  tide  of  change 
or  borne  along  by  any  breeze  of  personal  success.  Like  every 
selfish  man  he  chuckles  at  whatever  savours  of  public  approval  and 
passing  popularity*.  His  private  secretary  once  thought  he  saw  him 
turning  over  the  leaves  cX  a  commonplace  book  in  which  were 
preserved  cuttings  from  newspapers  applausive  of  his  doings  and 
sayings  ;  hut  he  never  was  known  to  make  the  slightest  allusion  to 
these  straws  which  lay  thinly  spread  between  the  bricks  of  his 
reputation.  That  reputation,  piled  up  laboriously  in  the  course  of 
]reaz5>  has  in  it  neither  form  nor  comeliness,  but  is  simply  a  modcrate- 
suted  pyramid,  inertly  resisting  the  influences  of  time,  but  suggestive 
neither  of  progress  nor  improvement,  benefit  to  man  nor  love  to 
God.  Fit  emblem  of  his  prosaic  and  persevering  nature,  the  chief 
idea  it  suggests  is,  immobility ;  the  only  reflection  the  uncreatiTC 
egotism  of  its  maker,  which  recks  not  how  many  heav^-laden 
sufferers  languish  or  sink  forgotten,  so  that  he  secures  prominence 
ami  permanency.  War  may  de\-astate  the  plains  of  an  ally ;  but  why 
should  be  interfere?  A  famine  may  scourge  a  jioor  or  improvident 
pronnce ;  but  what  is  that  in  his  economic  philosophy  but  the 
natural  result  of  neglecting  the  laws  that  contribute  to  the  wealth 
of  nations?  Depletion  must  be  allowed  to  proceed  until  the  supply 
of  labour  does  not  exceed  the  remunerative  demand.  The  great- 
ness and  happiness  of  a  nation  is  but  expressed  by  the  wealth  and 
power  of  its  chief  landowners  and  merchants.  If  their  yearly 
gains  arc  great,  and  their  sleep  is  undistm-bcd  by  anxiety,  the  country 
must  be  growing  fat ;  and  fatness  is,  after  all,  the  great  good  of 
life,  if  not  the  only  good,  for  who  knows  anylhtng  about  the  future 
in  lliU  world  or  the  next?  and  on  this  latter  point  his  Lordship  is 
^loo  jirudent  to  express  an  opinion,  if  indeed  he  has  one. 

not  sur|)rising  that  die  friends  of  poor  and  perilous  refugees 

have  little  faith  in  the  official  protection  of  sutli  a  SecTCtary 

tc  for  Foreign  Afljurs.    Sooner  than  get  into  a  quartet,  or  even 


4 


The  GentlcmafCs  Magatine. 

a  mngle,  with  any  dcs|K)tic  Govcmmcnl,  he  would  let  any  number 
of  them  quietly  sliji  through  the  fingers  of  his  department  without 
cvindng  the  slightest  consciousness  of  ivhat  iras  going  on.  They 
would  be  far  on  llicir  ivay  over  sea,  or  beyond  it,  K'fnrc  "his  atten- 
tion had  been  called  to  the  drcumslances  into  wliich  inquiry  sliould 
be  made.^  A  tardy  correspondence,  fiill  of  incomplete  and  doubtfal 
Btatements  regarding  the  antecedents  of  the  accuscti,  and  "  ihc  wholly 
on-political  nature  of  the  cliar;^e!i  set  forth  in  the  atcusaliun,"  would 
1)C  wound  up  by  a  cautious  platitude  expressing  the  "  hope  of  Her 
Ktajesty's  Government  that  foreign  slates  would  bear  in  mind  that 
one  of  the  traditioii.il  principles  from  which  it  could  not  depart  was 
that  of  the  Tight  of  asylum,  and  that  public  opinion  would  nei-et 
sanction  the  abandonment  of  that  right  in  obedience  to  the  dictates 
of  a  foTvign  power."  For  Lord  Tremtilc  is  a  first-rate  platitudinarian, 
and  [)art  of  his  s>'stem  is  to  take  cure  that  his  special  jximposities  are 
made  the  theme  of  leading  arriclcs  in  certain  journals  wth  which  he 
keeps  up  scmi-cun&dcniial  relatiom,  feeding  them  with  scraps  of  unim- 
portant information  or  shreds  of  pri^-aic  letters,  on  whose  authority 
they  may  contndict  some  siortUng  paragraph  in  the  Gt^cs  or  the 
Aigemdne  Za'tiing.  Bui  long  before  the  papers  were  laid  upon  the 
table  the  unhappy  exiles  would  be  out  of  reach  and  beyond  hearing, 
sucked  duwu  into  the  vortex  uf  tyraimic  ^'eogeauce,  never  to  be  t«en 
upon  the  surface  more. 

I  tilkcd  the  matter  over  with  Gerard  after  supjicr,  and  I  could  not 
for  the  life  of  me  pretend  that  I  differed  materially  from  him  in  his 
estimate  of  our  Foreign  Office,  .nnd  of  the  deplorable  uncertainty  that 
hung  like  a  thick  mist  over  its  practice  in  matters  of  extradition.  I 
knew  something  of  Lord  Tremble  personalty,  and  in  my  own  mind 
I  8et  him  down  as  a  mere  time-server— a  man  who  wonld  give  up 
everything  and  anything  which  he  thought  it  suited  hiui  to  give  tip 
in  the  maintenance  of  his  own  ambition.*  1  grew  curious,  as  wc 
talked,  to  leom  why  Gerard  was  so  much  interested  for  the  safety  of 
Antcro  ;  and  the  outline  he  gave  me  of  lii&  stor)',  though  it  did  not 
explain  all  I  s^hould  have  liked  to  know,  had  about  it  %o  much  of 
probability  and  the  look  of  truth,  that  I  made  up  my  mind  lo  pay 
his  friend  a  visit  and  judge  for  myself,  if  1  Itad  the  opportimityt  what 
manner  of  man  he  was. 


*  Al  tbc  ttme  tu  which  ihe  niunijve  rdatn,  iher  wu  upOR  ihc  muile-hadt 
BO  Uw  tlccbmalorj  of  die  naiiooAj  will  Rgardiiic  cxltmditiaD,  or  fc(uUila{  iIm 
i"  jmciict  L^  any  unUonn  nilcs,  ki  u  la  proUci  rcAigeu  ncunil  Imiig  .i^mmwyi 
^^poa  one  act  ofcbupa  uxi  tnod  uponuiothtt  or  » lukc  ot  otlicrv 


* 


Leat^cs  from  the  yonntal  of  a  Chaplam  of  Ease.  343 

iiM  OitoUr. — I  meant  long  since  to  ha^T  called  to  sec  Gerarf*g 
friends  at  Caradoc  Place,  but  my  time  was  fuUy  ocnipied  m-ith  more 
peremptory  cares,  and  to  lea^Tng  town  for  the  holidaj-s.  And  since 
my  letum  I  vras  unablu  till  yesterday  to  find  the  address  wliich  he 
had  left  me  the  night  berore  he  set  out  on  his  tour  to  America. 
This  moning  1  was  resolved  to  defer  my  pilgrimage  no  longur,  and, 
taking  the  Kilbura  omnihiis  from  Park  I.tnc,  I  found  myself  ere 
noon  in  a  neighbourhood  of  half-made  roads  and  half-built  houses 
on  the  nethermost  verge  of  metropolitan  ci\'ilization.  It  had  rained 
all  the  night  before,  and  the  unraacadnmised  roads  were  n  dark 
slough  of  mud,  while  the  poor  attempts  at  ijathvray  on  one  side  were 
little  better  than  a  rcgidar  succession  of  pools,  with  ])atchcs  of  half- 
hardened  gravel  fringed  with  stunted  weeds.  Many  of  the  buildings 
were  still  in  the  skeleton  stage,  roofed,  but  wftidowtess ;  and  inany 
more  were  still  untenanted,  and  looked  as  if  nobody  would  ever  lake 
them.  There  was  a  sad,  lonely  look  about  the  place,  and  I  asked 
my  way  in  %"ain  from  the  few  persons  I  met,  none  of  whom  seemed 
to  care  even  to  guess  in  what  direction  I  had  better  wend  my  way. 
Not  a  postman  or  policeman  was  to  lie  seen,  as  ihougli  the  out- 
cast heathen  in  that  desolate  region  were  beyond  the  pnividcntial 
amlct  of  St.  Martin's-Ie-Grand  or  Scotland  Yard.  "Is  it  Radstock 
et,  )"0U  mean,"  said  a  vendor  of  "  fine  Yarmouths,"  who  at  length 
,ook  me,  and  splashed  mc  up  to  my  knees  In  passing  ere  I  could 
amest  his  progress  or  cause  a  suspension  of  his  appetising  cry.  "  No," 
I  re}oined,  "  not  Radstock.  but  Caradoc  Place."  After  a  brief  paose 
for  reflection,  and  a  look  as  Ef  a  bright  thought  struck  him,  my 
odoriferous  acquaintance  said  in  an  octave  lower  than  his  profes- 
sional voice.  "  Oh,  yes.  turn  to  the  left  and  forenenst  them  lot  of 
irick*,  and  keep  on  down  till  you  come  to  the  MVelsli  Kabbit' 

;blic-honse,  and  then  go  a  little  n-ay  to  your  right  over  the  field  and 

u  are  at  Caroline  Place,  and  no  mistake  I "  and  then  to  make  up 
lost  lime,  he  broke  forth  into   "  Fine  Yarmomlis."  "  Fine  Yar- 
tnouths,"  splashing  away  as  he  went  a-head,  and  lea^ng  me  to  utter 
the  desponding  soliloquy, —  "  As  you  were  1 " 

I  own  that  philanthropy,  or  political  humanity,  or  what  >-ou  will, 
was  beginning  to  grow  indolent  and  despondent  under  the  ctrcmn- 
Btances,  and  what  might  have  happened  if  it  had  not  just  then  and- 
denly  come  on  to  rain  with  pitiless  intensity  I  At^i  not  pretend  to 
tay.  But  as  I  took  shelter  for  a  moment  lieneath  the  projecting  lintel 
of  a  doorway,  until  I  could  button  up  my  coat  to  tlie  weather-proof 
point  and  prepare  lo  face  homewards  when  the  squall  abated,  the 
door  opened,  and  a  kindly  voice  bade  me  step  in,  as  tlic  shower  was 


344 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 


likely  to  l^st.  It  needed  no  persuasion  to  induce  me  to  do  so,  and 
beside  a  cheerful  little  fire  I  was  soon  in  high  talk  with  my  unknoim 
host.  He  was  too  rheumatic,  he  said,  to  oflTcr  mc  personal  guidance 
in  such  weather;  but  as  he  had  reason  lo  knnw  the  lopttgraphy  of 
the  region  well,  he  would  give  me  a  pen-and-ink  map  on  the  back  of 
a  card,  by  which  I  could  find  my  way  if  I  chose.  He  had  paid 
dearly,  he  said,  for  his  knowledge  of  the  nvigbbourbond,  having, 
along  with  two  other  friends  now  dead  and  gone,  sunk  all  his 
makings  and  savings  in  building  speculation  there.  At  fust  they 
had  been  very  successful,  and  let  their  houses  as  fast  as  they  could 
run  thein  up,  and  faster.  People  came  and  took  thein  when  ihey 
were  hardly  over  ground.  'J'hey  thought  they  could  never  do  enough ; 
money  was  cheap,  they  borrowed  on  mortgage  and  went  on  building 
till  the  panic  came,  and  everything  went  down  ;  and  the  men  with 
the  long  purse  foreclosed,  and  got  the  whole  tract  with  the  half- 
finished  houses  upon  it  for  next  to  nothing.  Tluii  is  the  way,  he 
said,  cverjthing  goes  now  in  this  country ;  monster  shops  and  raam- 
nioih  hotels,  and  amalgamated  railways.  Small  industries  are 
beaten  and  broken-hearted  ;  and  there  is  uo  help  for  it  that  I  can 
see-  "  Bui  are  you  certain,"  he  said,  "  thai  it  is  Camduc  Place  you 
want  ?  there  are  but  half  a  dozen  inhabited  houses  lliere,  two  upon 
one  side  and  four  on  the  other,  most  of  them  I  think  I  know,  and 
not  any  of  them  of  much  account.  The  Primitive  Methodist 
preacher  lives  at  number  one,  and  next  door  there  is  a  [wralytic 
party  that  never  goes  out,  but  sits  all  day  in  the  window  watching 
the  flics,^ — a  gentlewoman,  they  s.iy,  and  pays  her  way,  but  has 
nobody  coming  lo  see  her,  and  when  her  servant  goes  out  she  shuts 
the  duor,  and  lets  herself  in  with  a  latch-key,  and  can  hardly  say 
what  she  wants  in  the  shops  wltlt  her  outlandish  tongue.  Opjioeitc 
there  is  a  clerk  in  Bamaby's  \^'arehouse,  Edgware  Road,  but  he  is 
not  likely  to  be  at  home  till  late  in  the  evening ;  next  door  is 
empty  ever  since  the  widow  died  with  typhoid  fever,  but  her  poor 
little  children  are  scattered.  Cod  knonk-s  where  ;  and  next  to  that 
there  used  to  be  some  sort  of  foreigners,  Antico,  or  Angcio,  or 
some  nonsensical  name  of  that  kind,  a  suspicious-looking  charaGtcr 
that  seldom  went  out  in  daylight  But  he  had  a  handsome  itife. 
they  say ;  I  never  saw  her  myself,  but  Knowlcs,  the  surgeon,  had  a 
good  look  at  her  once  when  her  child  bod  a  fall,  and  he  told  me 
that  when  she  came  for  him  and  brought  him  into  the  room  where 
the  poor  little  creature  wa&  lying  iii3cn»iUe,  and  -ts  &hc  lancted  dead, 
she  fell  on  her  knees  apd  i>ourcd  forth  such  a  torrent  of  sobs  and 
juayen  as  he  had  pr    ^card  in  his  nvholc  life  before.    But  the 


Leaves  frovt  the  younml  of  a  Chaplain  of  Ease,  345 


little  ihing  wakened  uj).  and  she  went  pretty  near  mad  witii 
joy." 

"  And  where  was  the  gloomy  father  you  talked  about  ail  this  time  ?  " 

"  Nobody  knows,  but  he  has  sometimes  heen  missing  for  days 
together ;  at  no  good,  of  course,  while  Rway,  and  never  seen  to 
come  back  ;  given  to  vice  of  some  kind  t  suppose  that  makes  him 
neglect  his  family,  and  behave  in  this  unaccountable  way.  But  I 
never  spoke  to  the  man,  and  may  be  he  is  not  as  bad  as  he  is 
painted." 

I  recognized  but  too  clearly  the  dark  outlines  of  the  household 
uf  which  I  was  in  quest,  and  rather  disenchanted  my  infoimact 
by  confessing  tliat  thither  I  was  bound  His  communicativeness 
rose  rapidly.  He  did  what  he  could  to  efface  the  shaqjcr  tracings 
of  the  sketch  he  had  given  me  ;  and  the  rain  having  nearly  ceased, 
I  thanked  him  for  his  timely  shelter  and  departed  ;  not  without 
cxprc-ssing  a  wish  that  we  might  meet  again  ^  for,  in  spite  of  his 
disappointments  and  prejudices  I  could  not  help  liking  the  look. 
and  the  talk  of  the  man. 

At  length  I  found  myself  at  the  door  of  the  dwelling  I  had 
waded  through  so  much  mire  to  gain.  No  stir  of  life  gave  intima- 
tion that  there  was  anyone  within.  I  heard  the  bell  answer  to  my 
summons,  but  no  step  or  voice  was  audible.  Aller  a  second  appeal 
the  window  above  the  hall-door  was  half  raised,  and  a  low  gentle 
voice  seemed  timidly  to  ask, — "  Qui esi  BJ"  I  answered  that  I  was 
a  friend  of  M.  Gerard,  and  was  there  by  his  desire.  "  AA,  (fisfhn" 
the  window  wa.s  shut  doft'n  quickly,  and  I  expected  ever)-  moment 
to  be  admitted.  But  fiill  five  minutes  more  I  had  to  w;ut,  with 
such  equanimity  as  a  Chaplain  of  Ease  ought  to  feel  when  kept  at 
an  unopened  door  after  he  has  been  promised  admittance.  What  was 
the  domestic  cause  of  the  delay,  and  whether  attrihutable  to  political 
hesitation  or  a  desperate  attempt  to  fore-sharpen  the  arts  of  the 
toilet  I  shall  ne\er  know.  Enough  for  me  that  at  last  the  top 
bolt  was  drawn  and  the  chain  loosened,  and  I  was  admitted  to  the 
lair  of  the  hunted  refugee. 

In  a  scantily-funiished  room,  the  lady  whom  I  had  seen  many 
weeks  before  in  Hyde  Park  a-atched  by  the  side  of  the  little  one, 
who  was  sleeping  heavily,  and,  as  they  told  me,  had  not  quite 
recovered  from  the  accident  of  which  1  had  heard.  She  advanced  to 
meet  mc,  and  ft-ith  a  well-bred  air  and  tone,  inquired  for  Gerard. 
Antero  said  he  though  he  had  quitted  England,  and  would  come  to 
see  Ihem  not  any  more.  I-ong  ago  he  had  spoken  to  them  of  his 
fViend.  a  priest,  who  would  call  one  day  and  be  as  3^  s}in^(Ki(|>u.^& 


1 


I 


344  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 

likely  to  last.  It  needed  no  petsuasion  to  induce  me 
beside  a  cheerful  little  fire  1  vas  soon  in  high  talk  with  myunloKmn 
host  He  was  too  rheumatic,  he  said,  to  ofTer  mc  [lersonal  guidance 
in  such  weather;  but  xs  he  had  reason  to  know  che  topograpby of 
the  region  well,  he  -noutd  give  tue  a  pen-and-ink  map  on  the  back  of 
a  card,  by  which  I  could  find  my  way  if  I  chose  He  had  pud 
dearly,  he  said,  for  his  knowledge  of  the  neighbourhood,  having, 
along  with  two  other  friends  now  dead  and  gone,  sunk  aQ  hk 
makings  and  savings  in  building  speculation  there.  At  first  they 
had  been  vcr>-  successful,  and  let  their  houses  as  fast  as  ihey  codd 
nm  them  up,  and  faster.  People  came  and  took  them  when  the; 
were  Kardly  over  ground.  They  thought  they  could  never  do  enongb ; 
money  was  cheap,  they  bcrrowcd  on  mortgage  and  went  on  building 
till  ^he  panic  came,  and  everything  went  down  ;  and  the  men  with 
the  long  purse  foreclosed,  and  got  the  whole  tract  nnth  the  half- 
finished  houses  upon  it  for  next  to  nothing.  That  is  the  m-ay,  be 
said,  everything  goes  now  in  this  country  ;  monster  shops  and  mam- 
moth hotels,  and  amalgamated  railn*a)'s.  Small  industries  arc 
beaten  and  broken-hearted;  and  there  is  no  help  for  it  that  lean 
sec.  "  But  are  you  certain,"  he  said,  **  thai  it  is  Carodoc  Place  jr« 
wnnt  ?  there  are  but  half  a  dojien  inhabited  house,s  there,  two  upon 
one  side  and  four  on  the  other,  most  of  them  I  think  I  know,  and 
not  any  of  them  of  much  account.  The  Primitive  Methodist 
preacher  lives  at  number  one,  and  next  door  there  is  a  pataljtic 
party  that  never  goes  out,  bat  &lts  all  day  in  the  ^lindow  watching 
the  flies, — a  yeiulewoman,  they  say,  and  pays  her  way,  but  hM 
nobody  coming  to  sec  her,  and  when  her  servant  goes  out  she  shutJ 
the  door,  and  lets  herself  in  with  a  latch-key,  and  can  hardly  s»y 
what  sht;  tt-ants  in  the  shops  with  her  outlandish  tongue.  Opposiic 
there  is  a  clerk  in  B.imaby's  Warehouse,  Edgwarc  Road,  but  hcii 
not  likely  to  be  at  home  till  late  in  the  evening ;  next  door  ii 
empty  ever  since  the  widow  died  mth  typhoid  fever,  but  her  poor 
little  children  are  scattered,  God  knows  where ;  and  next  to  thai 
there  used  to  be  some  sort  of  foreigners,  Anticu,  or  Angclo,  or 
some  nonsensical  name  of  that  kind,  a  suspicious-looking  charantf 
that  seldom  went  out  in  daylight  But  he  had  a  handsome  wifi 
they  say  ;  I  never  saw  her  myself,  but  Knowles,  the  surgeon,  bad 
good  look  at  her  once  when  her  child  had  a  fall,  and  he  told 
that  when  she  came  for  him  and  brought  him  into  the  room  where 
the  ])oor  little  creature  was  lying  insensible,  and  as  she  fancied  dea^ 
she  fell  on  her  knees  a^pd  poured  forth  such  n  torrent  of  sobs  and 
prayers  OS  he  had  U'^       neaid  in  his  whole  life  bvfiwe.     But  the 


i 


J 


Leaves  from  ike  Journal  of  a  Chaplain  of  Ease,  345 
ItttJe  thing  wakened   up,   and   she   went   pretty  near   mad   wJih 

"And  where  was  the  gloomy  father  you  talked  about  alUhistime?" 

"  Nobody  knows,  but  he  has  sometimes  been  missing  for  days 
together ;  at  no  good,  of  course,  while  away,  and  Dci-er  seen  to 
come  back ;  given  to  vice  of  some  kind  I  suppose  that  makes  him 
neglect  his  family,  and  behave  in  this  tmaccountabic  way.  Rut  I 
never  spoke  to  tlic  man,  and  may  be  he  is  not  as  bad  as  he  is 
punted." 

I  recogniied  but  too  clearly  the  dark  outlines  of  the  household 
of  which  I  was  in  quest,  and  rather  disenchanted  my  informant 
by  confcMing  that  thither  1  was  bound.  His  communicativeness 
lose  rapidly.  He  did  what  he  could  to  efface  the  sharper  tradngs 
of  the  sketch  he  had  given  me  ;  and  the  r.\in  having  nearly  ceased, 
I  thanked  him  for  his  timely  shelter  and  departed ;  not  without 
expressjog  a  wish  that  we  might  meet  again  ;  for,  in  spite  of  his 
disappointments  and  prejudices  I  could  not  help  liking  the  look 
and  the  talk  of  the  man. 

At  length  1  found  myself  at  the  door  of  the  dwelling  I  had 
waded  through  so  much  mire  to  gain.  No  stir  of  life  gave  intima* 
tioi)  that  there  was  anyone  uithin,  I  heard  the  bell  ansH-cr  to  my 
sommons,  but  no  step  or  voice  was  audible.  After  a  second  appol 
the  window  above  the  halUdoor  was  half  raised,  and  a  low  gentle 
voice  seemed  timidly  to  ask, — "  Qui  at  l^f"  I  answered  that  I  was 
a  friend  of  M.  Gerard,  and  was  there  by  his  desire.  "  Ah,  ('atbon" 
the  window  was  shut  down  quickly,  and  I  exiKctcd  every  moment 
to  be  admitted.  But  full  five  minutes  more  I  had  to  wail,  with 
sudi  equanimity  as  a  Chaplain  of  Kase  ought  to  feel  when  kept  at 
an  unopened  door  nf^er  he  has  been  promised  ndmituince.    What  w:i.s 

tthe  domestic  cause  of  the  delay.,  and  whether  attributable:  10  political 
besitatioD  or  a  desperate  attempt  to  fore-sharpen  the  arts  of  the 
toilet  I  shall  never  know.  Enough  for  me  that  at  last  tlie  top 
bolt  was  drawn  and  the  chain  loosened,  and  I  was  admitted  to  the 
lair  of  the  hunted  refugee: 

In  a  scantily-furnished  room,  the  lady  whom  I  had  seen  many 
weeks  before  in  Hyde  Park  watched  by  the  side  of  the  little  one, 
who  was  sleeping  heavily,  and,  as  they  told  me,  had  not  quite 
recovered  from  the  accident  ot  which  I  had  heard.  She  advanced  to 
meel  me,  and  with  a  well-bred  air  and  tone,  inquired  for  Gerard. 
KAntcTQ  said  he  though  he  had  quitted  Kngland,  and  would  come  to 
^Ke  them  not  any  more.  Long  ago  he  had  spoken  to  them  of  his 
fiieod,  a  priest,  who  would  call  one  day  and  be  as  as  sympaihique  as 


* 


he  iras,  l)ut  he  did  not  come.  A  glance  from  her  dark  cyus  bid  me 
avouch  who  I  was,  as  though  she  could  not  do  so.  Thtrc  wns  s 
mournful  mi^ving  in  his  expression  as  he  listened  mufcly  to  my 
account,  not  very  intelligible,  I  fear,  of  nhy  1  had  not  rome  long 
ago,  and  why  now.  I  never  remember  to  have  felt  myself  looked 
through  and  through  in  such  a  (ashion ;  and  cvtty  word  of  his  calm 
but  stem  courtesy  fell  upon  my  heart  like  lead.  Yielding  to  an 
impulse  iHrttcr  than  reason,  I  took  a  testament  from  ray  pocket,  and 
Liying  it  gently  on  the  bosom  of  the  Utile  child,  said,  I  Kwe  brought 
you  this,  lady,  for  your  comfort  in  sorrow,  and  every  Sabbath 
evening  I  will  pray  that  you  and  yoors  may  have  peace,  and  that  I 
may  be  forgiven  for  not  coming  here  before.  The  sceptic  soul  of 
the  man  was  touched,  and,  laying  his  hard  hand  upon  mj'  shoulder, 
he  muttered  rather  than  aritculaied  thanks,  begged  me  to  be  seated, 
andenlercd  into  conversation  freely,  while  every  trace  of  the  cruel 
gloom  of  disinist  gradually  passed  an-ay.  He  had  been,  he  said,  above 
a  year  in  England,  having  fled  for  his  life  vhen  the  revolt  in  which  he 
was  engaged  to  paniciijate  was  crushed,  aud  the  names  of  all  who  were 
directly  or  indirectly  accessory  to  the  design  had  been  betraj-fd  to  the 
Government.  He  had  not  himself  borne  arms,  his  apiK>inted  province 
bemg  to  keep  up  in  cipher  correspondence  between  various  district 
committees.  In  the  hopes  that  thereby  premature  outbreaks  might  be 
prevented  and  the  organization  rendered  so  complete  as  to  be  «t 
length  irresistible,  and,  consequently,  free  compainti»"cly  from  the 
risk  of  causing  bloodshed.  But,  as  usnal,  IhcR-  were  traitors  in  their 
camp ;  partial  hmad^s  were  provoked,  and  put  down  with  every 
evidence  of  extreme  *Tgourj  exasperation  spread,  and,  prematurely, 
district  after  district  arose  only  to  be  drowned  in  a  tempest  of 
vengeance.  Not  till  it  was  certain  all  at  the  time  was  tost  did  he 
abandon  his  post  Had  he  remained  another  hour  he  would  have 
shared  the  fate  of  Blum  and  Batt/any.  His  wife,  who  was  of  noble 
family,  had  for  some  months  been  unable  to  follow  him,  and  her 
family,  who  belonged  to  the  triumphant  party,  were  much  incensed 
at  the  notion  of  her  sharing  his  exile.  There  was  no  artifice  they 
would  not  use  to  get  her  back,  and  no  violence  or  fraud  thc>'  wtmld 
disdain  to  take  him  from  his  present  place  of  refuge.  He  knew 
several  who  were  in  like  case,  living  in  terror  of  being  accused  of 
some  ci^-i!  offence  which  they  could  not  of  course  diispro>T  here,  and 
which  therefore  a  magistrate  might  send  them  to  be  tried  fur  in 
their  own  cotmtzy.  This  wuuld  be  simply  a  cheat ;  but  no  time 
or  opi»ortimiiy.  lliey  were  told,  would  be  given  theni  ■    l  tu  the 

Minister  for  foreign  Afliurs,  and  they  would  be  hui  y  bcfbre 


Leaves  from  the  yonrtml  of  a  Chaplain  of  Ease.  347 


ftB)*  English  friend  could  interpose  or  remonstrate.  They  had  ct-eti 
been  warned  that  secret  police  agents  had  hccn  sent  to  watch  ihem ; 
ta  learn  their  haunts  and  track  their  movenients,  and  that  it  was  not 
impossible  they  might  bu  beset  or  made  away  with,  gagged  or  put 
by  night  on  Kiarii  a  foreign  vessel  jii  the  river;  and  once  out  of  the 
Jutisdictjon  of  Great  Britiin  their  doom  would  be  irretrievable.  I 
tried  hard  to  alby  his  apprehensions,  :md  declired  my  belief  that  no 
instance  had  occurred  of  kidnapping  such  as  he  half  incredulously 
fOTc&hadowcd  ;  while,  as  regarded  proceedings  before  a  magistrate, 
I  Ihoughi  it  hardly  possible  that  a  Secretary  of  State  would  sign  a 
warrant  of  dep<M"tatton  without  some  inquiry  into  the  circumstances, 
and  without  such  delay  as  would  almost  Inc\-itably  lead  to  jjublidty. 
But  when  he  placed  in  my  hand  a  copy  of  the  Govemmcm  Bill  of 
185a,  brought  in  avowedly  at  the  instance  of  the  French  Govern- 
ment immediately  after  the  coup  d'etat,  to  render  more  summary  and 
indiscriminate  the  surrender  of  refugees,  iny  confidence  in  my  own 
vords  of  encouragcmciit  fainted  in  me  :  and  when  he  osketl  How 
can  other  Governments  be  refused  what  is  granted  to  one,  I  felt  it 
die  OBt  in  my  bosom.  At  length  I  rose  to  take  my  leave,  promising 
to  consult  with  one  or  two  legal  friends,  and  in  a  few  days  to  return 
to  him.  Meanwhile,  I  urged  him  to  change  his  Isolated  residence 
for  one  less  lonely,  and  consequently  more  within  help  in  case  of 
need.  Strange  to  say,  he  had  not  so  thought  of  it  before.  A  vague 
and  nnpiactical  notion  seems  to  ha^'c  possessed  him  that  in  ttm 
semi-solitude  he  might  have  a  better  chance  of  escaping  observation 
till  the  time  of  resentful  i)Tanny  should  be  overpast.  Something;  I 
know  not  what,  prompted  me  to  inquire  if  he  knew  who  lived 
opposite  in  the  character  of  an  invalid,  but,  as  I  was  informed, 
receiving  no  visitors,  never  moving  out,  and  as  was  believed  cummo- 
nkattng  with  no  one  but  a  foreign  servant  wliose  countrj*  the  people 
in  the  neighbourhood  did  not  seem  to  understand.  He  shuddered 
as  I  spoke,  looked  wistfully  at  his  wife's  anxious  face,  and  said 
dowly, — "  Blind  that  I  am  not  to  have  seen  this  before,  it  is  clear 
enough  now."  T  gave  him  my  address  and  parted,  begging  that  he 
vould  call  on  me  or  write  to  mc. 

But  I  saw  his  face  no  more.   About  a  week  after  I  went  again,  and 

d  that  he  was  gone.  I  had  the  cnriosiiy  to  inquire  about  his  oppo- 

rile  neighbour,  but  was  told  that  a  sudden  cure  had  been  effected  in 

Ihat  quarter,  and  that  tlie  sick  had  been  able  to  take  up  her  bed  and 

■alk,  leaving  no  trace  behind  of  her  altered  whereabouts.    No  doubt 

she  was  a  spy  and,  her  occupation  in  Caradoc  Place  being  gone,  her 

,-tiapping  services  were  utilized  elsewhere. 


Bkmn 


The  Gentitniatis  Magazine. 


When  Gerard  retumcd  from  his  Auiumn  tour,  he  learned  some 
particulars  of  his  friend's  ili.sapi)canuK:c.  Naiunilly  nf  a  gluomy^ 
nnd  dci^pondent  temper,  he  had,  during  his  seclusion  tn  a  London 
suburb,  gradually  btKxiine  possessed  with  the  idea  that  his  rendition 
waii  an  object  of  peculiar  and  exceptional  desire  to  the  powerfiil 
despotism  he  had  ventured  to  pluck  by  the  beard.  He  mislook  {jto- 
bably  the  object  of  its  espionage,  which  was  more  likely  to  be 
concerned  with  obsening,  noting,  and  R-jiorting  the  names  of  his 
associates,  and  their  maimer  of  life,  than  with  com|iassing  his 
individual  destruction.  ]t  was  better  work  tracing  who  trcrc  his 
companions  in  exile,  and  finding  out  whence  they  drew  their 
supplies,  and  with  whom  they  corresponded,  than  to  break  the  clue 
tu  the  half-hidden  web  of  disaffection  by  some  act  of  cxtraditional 
violence,  or  resort  to  malpractices  not  even  colourably  defensible 
Mention  of  the  latter  would  have  simply  provoked  a  smile  of  in- 
credulity .-imong  the  most  excited  politicians  amongst  us  ;  nor  would 
they  even  now  be  regarded  aj>  believable,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
timely  exposure  a  few  years  ago  of  the  circumstances  connected 
with  kidiKipping  in  Canada,  and  deponation  through  England  of 
the  furtive  L'Amirand,  who  was  demanded  on  a  charge  which 
could  not  e^'en  primA  faeU  I>e  substantiated  against  him  ;  kid- 
napped by  the  agents  of  the  French  police,  hurried  on  board  ship, 
brought  in  custody  to  Liverpool,  and  thence  transmitted  without 
opportunity  for  invoking  the  jirotcction  of  English  law  to  Calais, 
whccc  he  was  delivered  over  to  his  prosecutors.  L'Amirand  was 
subscquciiily  tried  ujion  another  charge  and  pronounced  guilty. 
Our  foreign  office  grumbled,  and,  on  one  occasion  ventured  even  lo 
growl;  but  llie  French  Government,  disavowing  the  kidnappers, 
asked  with  a  polite  sneer  if  the  clause  of  the  subsisting  treaty  had 
been  broken,  or  of  what  English  statute  it  could  be  said  to  have 
notice  forbidding  a  prisoner  to  be  tried  for  a  diflercnt  offence  from 
that  regarding  which  he  had  been  surrendered.  The  reclamation  of 
our  Foreign  Office  proved  absolutely  nboitire,  L'Amirand  was 
imdoubicdly  a  rogue ;  and  public  syminthy  for  hJiu  was  out  of  the 
question.  Yet  the  scandal  of  the  case  awakened  the  juridinal  coo* 
science  of  the  country  to  a  sense  of  the  danger  to  its  honour  which 
such  an  unguarded  position  oETorded:  and  the  Act  of  ilijo  has 
barred  that  way  of  ireachcrj'  for  evermore.  But  in  the  days  lo  which 
the  foregoing  narrative  refers,  all  «as  comparalivcly  dim  and  uncertain. 
Antcto  sou^t  in  vom  legal  assurance  for  the  safety  of  his  domicile 
here  ;  and  weary  of  the  prolonged  wi.  V  '  .^  of  daily  and  nightly 
iasecurii};  ht-  resolved  lu  bclakc  hii"  >  those  he  loved  to  the 


Leaves  from  the  journal  of  a  Chaplain  of  Ease.  349 

United  States,  where,  under  an  assumed  name,  he  hoped  that  he 
mig^t  live  in  peace  till  political  times  should  change  in  the  country 
he  had  loved,  not  wisely  but  too  well.  His  resources  being  scanty, 
he  took  passage  on  an  emigrant  ship  bound  for  New  York.  The 
vessel  foundered,  and  he  and  his  loved  ones  perished. 

In  what  diplomatic  correspondence  or  parliamentary  return  will 
cases  like  this  be  even  glanced  at  ?  They  are  part  of  materials  from 
written  history  which  pass  rapidly  out  of  sight  and  remembrance, 
and  which,  save  in  some  chance  page  of  personal  recollections,  may 
never  be  recalled. 


{Ta  be  continued. : 


Douglas  Jerrold  and  his 

Letters.' 

BY  CHARLES  AND   MARY  COWDEN   CLARKE, 


PART  I. 

)HE  leading  characteristic  of  Douglas  JcnY>ld's  namrc  was 
earnestness.  He  was  earnest  in  his  abhorrence  of  all 
things  mean  and  interested ;  earnest  in  his  noble  iod'tg- 
nation  at  wrong  and  oppression ;  earnest  in  ihe  very 
vrit  with  which  he  vented  his  sense  of  dciosuiion^  for  evil-doin^ 
He  was  deeply  earnest  in  all  serious  things  j  and  verjr  much  ia 
earnest  when  dealing  n-ith  less  apparently  important  matters,  which 
he  thought  needed  the  scourge  uf  a  iioicasm.  Any  one  who  could 
doubt  the  earnestness  of  Jerrold  should  have  seen  him  when  a  child 
was  the  topic  ;  the  fire  of  his  eye,  the  quiver  of  his  lip.  bore  witness 
to  the  truth  of  the  phrase  he  himself  uses  In  his  charming  dr»na  of 
"The  Schoolfellows,"  showing  that  to  him  indeed  ** children  are 
sacred  things."  Wc  once  received  a  loiter  from  him  expressing  in 
pungent  terms  his  bitter  disgust  at  on  existing  evi\,  and  concluding 
with  a  light  turn  serving  to  throw  off  the  laid  that  oppresses  him  : — 

Putney,  Oct  iT-Jt.  1845. 

M?  DEAR  Mrs.  Clarkb. — ^The  wisdom  of  the  law  is  al>out  to 
preach  from  the  scaffold  on  the  sacredness  of  life;  and,  10  illustrate 
Its  sanctity,  will  straightway  strangle  a  woman  as  soon  as  she  have 
strength  renewed  from  child-birth.    I  would  fain  IjcHo-c,  despite  the 

threat  of  Sir  G G to  hang  this  wretched  creature  as  soon  as 

restorations  shall  luvc  had  their  benign  effect,  that  the  Government 
only  need  pressure  from  without  to  irommule  the  sentence.  A  peti- 
tion— a  woman's  petition — is  in  course  of  signature.  \'ou  are;  I 
believe,  not  a  reader  of  that  mixture  of  good  and  evil.  3  newsp-iper ; 
hence,  may  1>e  unaware  of  the  fact  I  need  not  ask  yv»,  Will  you 
sign  it?  The  document  lies  at  Gilpin's — a  noble  fellow— the  book- 
seller, Bishop.sgat<:.  Should  her  Majesty  run  down  the  list  of  names, 
I  think  her  bettered  taste  in  Shakespeare  would  dwell  conj^tlocently 
on  the  name  of  Mary  Cowden  Cbrke. 

I  don't  know  when  they  pay  dividends  at  the  Bank,  but  if  this  be 

*  IV  remuBdcr  of  Mr-  (uid  Mn.  Cla»kk's  "  LeUecs  of  Leij{h  Hunt "  wtfc 
\cd  in  the  recatt  fire  Id  Tunumll  SimL 


^KttanuD 


Douglas  ytrrold  lutd  his  Letters.  35 1 

the  time,  you  can  in  the  same  journcjr  fill  your  pocket,  and  lighten 
jour  conscience.    Kegaxds  to  CUute.    Youis  ever  truly, 

D.  Jerrold. 

Jetrold  took  a  hearty  interest  in  an  attempted  pcfiinn,  in  a  matter 
vtiirfa  affected  him  as  a  literary  man,  a  reform  since  accomplished — 
the  Rcjical  of  all  Taxes  on  Knowledge.  He  had  been  invited  to 
take  tJie  chair  at  a  meeting  for  the  consideration  of  the  subject ;  and 
iic  sent  the  foUowing  iritt)-  letter  to  be  read  instead  of  a  speech  from 
him,  being  unable  to  attend  : — 

West  Lodge,  Putney,  Lower  Common,  Feb.  25^1,  1852. 

T>EAR  Sir, — Dis^iled  by  an  accident  from  personal  attendance  at 
your  meeting,  I  trust  T  may  herein  be  permitted  to  express  my 
heartiest  sjTnpadiy  urith  its  great  social  purpose.  That  the  fabric, 
p«j)cr,  nevrspapcrs,  and  advertisements  should  be  lajted  by  any 
Covemroeot  possessing  paternal  yearnings  for  the  education  of  a 
people,  defies  Uie  ar^muent  of  reason.  Why  not.  to  Jielp  the  lame 
and  to  aid  the  short-siijhtcd,  lay  a  tax  upon  crutches,  and  enforce  a 
duty  upon  spectacles  ? 

I  am  not  aware  of  the  number  of  professional  writers — of  men  who 
live  from  pen  to  mouth — flourishing  this  day  in  merry  England  ;  but 
it  appears  to  me,  and  the  notion,  to  a  new  Chancellor  of  ilic  Ex- 
chequer ([  am  happy  to  say  one  of  '*  my  order — of  the  goosequill, 
not  of  the  heron's  plume)  may  have  some  significance  ;  why  not 
enlbrce  a  duty  upon  the  very  source  and  origin  of  letters  ?  Why  not 
have  a  literary  poll-tax,  a  duty  upon  books  and  ^'artidch"  in  their 
rawest  materials  ?  Let  every  author  p.iy  for  his  liccnsi.*,  poetic  or 
otbcnrise.  This  would  give  a  wholeness  of  contradiction  to  a  pro- 
faned desire  for  knowletlgc,  when  existing  with  taicuion  of  its 
material  elements.  Thus,  the  exciseman,  beginning  with  authors' 
brains,  would  descend  through  rags,  and  duly  end  with  paper.  This 
tax  upon  news  i»  captious  and  arbitrary ;  arbitrary,  I  say,  for  what  is 
mft  news  ?  A  noble  lord  makes  a  speech  :  his  rays  of  intelligence 
oompnaiscd  like  Milton'.<j  fallen  angels,  are  in  a  few  black  rows  of  ttiis 
type;  and  this  Ik  ncns.  And  is  not  a  new  book  "  news  ? "  l^t 
Olid  first  tell  us  how  Midas  first  laid  himself  down,  and— private 
and  confidential^whispcrcd  to  the  reeds  "  I  have  ears ;"  and  is  not 
th«t  news  ?  Do  many  noble  lords,  even  in  rarliamcut,  teU  us  any- 
thl^  newer? 

The  tax  on  advertisement  is— it  is  patent — a  tax  even  upon  the 
industry  of  the  very  hardest  workers,  Wliy  shoidd  the  Exchequer 
waylay  the  errand-boy  and  oppress  the  maid-oAall-work  ?  Wherefore 
should  Mary  Ann  be  made  to  disburse  her  eighlccnpence  at  the 
Sump  Office  ere  she  can  sliow  her  face  in  print,  wanting  a  pla4;e, 
allhough  to  the  discomfiture  of  titosc  first-created  Chancellors  of  the 
Xichequcr — the  spiders  ? 

Lin  conclusion,  I  must  congratulate  the  meeting  on  the  advent  of 
!  new  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  The  Right  Honourable 
Benjamin  D'lsraeli  is  the  successful  man  of  letters.  He  has  ink  in 
'  is  veins.    The  goosctiutll — let  gold  and  {ailver-sticks  twinkle  as  ihey 


t 


352 


Tlte  GetitUmans  M<^asine. 


may — leads  the  House  of  Commons.  Thus,  I  feel  confident  that 
the  literary  instincts  of  the  right  honourable  gentleman  will  give 
new  animation  to  the  coldness  of  statesmanship,  apt  to  be  numbed 
by  tightness  of  red  tape.  We  are,  I  know,  early  taught  to  despair  of 
the  right  honourable  gentleman,  because  he  is  allowed  to  be  that 
smallest  of  things,  "  a  wit."  Is  arithmetic  for  ever  lo  be  the  nionojmly 
of  substantial  resjjcctable  dulness?  Must  it  be  that  a  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer,  like  Portia's  portrait,  is  only  to  be  found  m  lead  ? 

No,  sir,  I  have  a  cheerful  faith  that  our  new  fiscal  minister  will,  to 
the  confusion  of  obese  dutness,  show  his  potency  over  pounds, 
shillings,  and  pence.  The  Exchequer  L.  S.  D.  that  have  hitherto 
been  as  the  three  Witches — ^the  weird  sisters — stopping  us,  wherever 
wc  turned,  the  right  honourable  gentleman  will  at  the  least  trans- 
form into  the  three  Graces,  making  them  in  all  their  salutations,  at 
home  and  abroad,  welcome  and  .igrecable.  But  with  respect  to  the 
L.  S.  D.  upon  knowledge,  he  will,  I  fed  confident,  cause  at  once  the 
weird  sisterhood  to  melt  into  thin  air  ;  and  thus — let  the  meeting 
take  heart  with  the  assurance, — thus  will  fade  and  be  dissolved  the 
Penny  NewVtax — Uie  errand-boy  and  maid-of-all-work's  tax — and 
the  tax  on  that  innocent  white  thing,  the  tax  on  paper.  With  this 
hope  I  remain,  yours  faillifully, 

J.  Alfred  Novello,  Esq.,  DOUCLAS  Jerrold. 

Si]l>Tri:aiurcr  of  the  Auociatjun  foe  Uie  Repeal 
of  all  Taxes  upon  Knowing. 

Another  letter,  excusing  his  attendance  at  a  meeting,  serves  to  show 
his  lively  interest  in  the  Whttlington  Club,  of  which  he  was  the 
Founder  and  President ;  and  also  demonstrates  his  sincere  desire  for 
the  establlihmcnt  of  recognized  sodal  equoUtj'  for  women  with  men. 
This  is  the  letter  :— 

To  the  Sccrctai}-  of  the  Wliittington  Club. 

West  Lodge,  Putney  Lower  Common,  June  i8lh. 

Dear  Sir, — It  is  to  me  a  very  great  disappointment  that  I  am 
denied  the  pleasure  of  being  with  you  on  the  interesting  occasion  of 
to^Jay  ;  when  the  club  starts  into  vigorous  existence,  entering  upon — 
I  hope  and  believe — a  long  life  of  usefulness  to  present  and  succeed- 
ing generations.  I  have  for  some  days  been  labouring  with  a  violent 
cold,  which,  at  the  last  hour,  leaves  me  no  hope  of  being  with  you, 
This  to  me  is  especially  discomfiting  upon  the  high  occasion  the 
counci)  meet  to  celebrate  ;  for  wc  should  have  but  ver>'  little  lo  boast 
of  by  the  csublishment  of  the  club,  had  we  only  founded  a  sort  of 
monster  chop-house  j  no  great  addition  this  to  London,  where  chop- 
houses  arc  certauily  not  among  the  rarer  monumcuts  of  Brihidi 
civilisation. 

Wc  therefore  recognize  a  higher  purpose  in  the  WhiUington  (Hob; 
namely,  a  triumphant  refutation  of  a  veiy  old,  respectable,  but  no  less 
foulish  fjUlacy — for  folly  and  resi)eciability  are  somehow  Bomctittws 
found  together — that  female  society  in  such  an  in-vlitmton  is  inromjw- 
"^  wilh  femaie  domestic  dignity.    Hithcno,  Engliahmen  have  made 


Douglas  yerrold  ami  his  Letters,  353 

their  club-houses  as  Mahomet  made  his  Far^ise — a  place  where 
women  are  not  admitted  on  any  pretext  whatever.  Thus  considered, 
the  Englishman  may  be  a  very  good  Christian  sort  of  a  person  at 
home,  and  at  the  same  time  litUe  better  than  a  Turk  at  his  club. 

It  is  for  us,  however,  to  change  this.  And  as  we  axe  the  first  to 
assert  what  may  be  considered  a  great  social  principle,  so  it  is  most 
onerous  upon  us  that  it  should  be  watched  with  the  most  jealous 
suspicion  of  whatever  might  in  the  most  remote  degree  tend  to  retard 
its  veiy  fiillest  success.  Again  lamenting  the  cause  that  denies  me 
the  gratification  of  being  with  you  on  so  auspicious  a  day, 

Believe  me,  yours  faithfully, 

Douglas  Jerrold. 


{^Tobe  continued.') 


Vol  XVII.,  N.S.  1876.  %.  h. 


^N  the  autumn  of  1813,  it  was  iri!d  weather  out  in  the  great 
world  where  Emperors  and  Kings  were  wildly  stnig^iiig  n 
a  gnisi)  of  death.  On  earth,  were  the  red  shadoiR  of 
.irmiesj  in  heaven,  were  the  black  shadows  of  nun ;  and 
the  wind  blew  these  and  those  to  and  fni  on  the  faces  of  eailh  and 
heaven,  so  that  the  eye  looked  in  vain  tliis  way  and  that  for  a  spot 
of  sunshine  and  peace.  'I'he  great  Tidal  Wave  which  had  deluged 
Eurojie  witli  blood  was  at  Lost  subsiding,  and  the  strand  was  strewn 
with  the  wreck  of  empires  and  kingdoms  and  with  the  great  drifts  of 
dead. 

Through  this  general  storm,  physical  as  well  as  political,  Boot- 
parte  was  ra])idly  retreating  on  France :  Iwforc  him,  the  startled  fico 
of  his  people  ;  behind  him,  the  angry  murmur  of  his  foes ;  and  at 
every  step  he  took  the  w^y  darkened  and  the  situation  became  more 
dire.  Nevertheless,  if  chronicle  ia  la  be  trusted,  his  dec  was  calm. 
his  mien  composed.  7'he  hAy  thousand  Frenchmen  lost  at  Leifotc 
sent  no  spectres  to  trouble  him ;  or,  if  the  spectres  came,  he  wai'ed 
them  down  I  Spectres  of  the  living — mad  famished  Frenchmen, 
who  made  hideous  riot  ivlicrever  they  came — preceded  and  followai 
him  :  scarecrows  of  his  old  glory  and  his  old  ncnonn.  In  this  wise 
he  came  to  Erfurt,  where,  so  few  years  before,  he  had  presided  at 
the  metiiombk'  Congress  of  Kings. 

Things  were  indeed  cliangcd, — even  in  tlic  man's  own  soul.  He 
could  not  fail  to  foresee — for  he  was  not  destitute  of  prophetic  vision 
— that  this  was  only  the  beginning  of  the  end.  One  by  one  the 
powers  of  the  earth  had  fallen  an-ay  from  him,  and  like  Death  on  his 
white  steed  he  was  riding  he  knew  not  whither — shadow  around  and 
behind  him  and  above  him, — still  the  Shadow  of  the  Sword. 


r 

1 


The  Shadoru  of  tftt  Sw&rd. 


355 


On  the  »sUi  of  October,  says  the  chronicler,  he  left  Erfurt,  "  araid 
veaiber  as  tempestuous  as  his  fortunes." 


^  It  was  wild  weather,  too,  down  in  lonely  Brittany,  and  in  all  the 
quiet  old  hamlets,  set,  like  Kromlaix,  by  the  sea.  Black  mists 
charged  with  rain  Iwooded  night  and  day  over  the  great  marshes, 
and  over  the  desolate  plains  and  moors ;  and  the  salt  scum  and 
foam  blew  inland  for  miles,  bringing  rumours  of  the  watery  stortn. 
Kromlaix  crouched  ami  trembled,  looking  seaward  j  and  deep 
tindei  its  steep  street  a  voice  luuniiured, — the  hidden  river  moaning 
OS  it  ran. 

On  a  daric  afternoon  the  solitary  figure  or  a  man  straggled  across 
the  great  plain  which  stretches  within  the  high  sea-wall  to  the  nortli 

Ef  Kromlaix.  With  few  landmarks  to  guide  him,  and  these  looming 
Mlfuscdly  through  a  grey  vapour  of  thin  rain,  he  was  proceeding 
owly  in  the  direction  of  the  village,  which  was  stiil  several  miles 
sway.  The  wind  had  been  rising  all  day,  and  was  blowing  half  a  gale, 
irliilc  mountains  of  rain-charged  vapour  were  rising  ever  upward 
(rom  the  sex  He  was  an  old  man,  and  with  wind  and  rain  beating 
furiously  in  his  lacc  he  nude  but  little  way.  Again  and  again,  to  avoid 
the  fury  of  the  blast,  he  almost  crouched  upon  the  ground. 

He  was  thinly  clad,  in  the  peasant  costume  of  the  country;  on 
lus  back  he  carried  a  bag  resembling  a  beggar's  wallet,  and  he  leant 
for  supfiOTt  upon  an  oaken  stalT. 

At  every  step  he  took  the  storm  deepened  and  the  dulness  grew, 
until  he  veritably  seemed  walking  through  the  clouds.  E\Tr  and 
anon  wild  cattle,  rushing  for  shelter,  passed  like  ghosts  across  his 
path;  or  some  huge  pile  of  stone  shimmered  and  disappeared. 
At  last,  he  stood  confused  and  undecided,  with  a  sound  in  his  cars 
like  the  roaring  of  the  sea,  and  just  then  be  diiiccroed,  looming 
through  the  vapour,  the  outline  of  a  building  which  stood  alone  hi 
the  very  centre  of  the  waste.  Eager  to  6nd  shelter,  he  hurried 
tomrds  it,  and  soon  stood  before  the  door. 

The  building  was  a  ruin;  the  four  walls,  with  a  portion  of  the 
roof,  being  int.ict,  hut  door  and  window  had  long  since  been  swept 
tway— perhaps  by  human  hands  in  the  days  of  the  Revohuion.  The 
walls  were  black  and  stained  with  the  slime  of  centuries.  Above  the 
doorway,  but  half  obliterated,  were  these  words  written  in  antique 
chaiactere—" Notre  Dame  de  la  Haine " ;  in  English,  "Our  Lady 
of  Hate." 

For  the  moment  the  traveller  hesitated  ;  then,  with  a  peculiar  sraile» 
be  quietly  entered  in.      Just  witliin  the  doorway  was  a  stone  fonn, 

I   K  I 


L 


The  Gentlenmns  Magazine. 


on  which  he  sat  down,  well  screened  fiom  the  stonn,  and  surveyed 
the  interior  of  the  cbajwl. 

For  chapel  it  was,  though  seeniingiy  deserted  and  forsaken ;  and 
such  buildings  still  stand  in  Brittany,  as  ghastly  reminders  of  what, 
in  its  darkest  frenzy,  religion  is  capable  of  doing.  Nor  was  it  so 
forsaken  as  it  seemed.  Hither  still,  in  hours  of  p.ission  and  pain, 
came  men  and  women  to  cry  curses  on  their  enemies  :  the  maiden 
on  her  fiilsc  lo\'er,  the  lover  on  his  false  mistress,  the  husband  on 
his  false  wife ;  praying  one  and  all,  that  Our  I^dy  of  Hale  might 
hearken,  and  that  the  hated  one  might  die  "within  the  jxar."  So 
bright  and  so  deep  had  the  gentle  Christian  light  shone  within  thetr 
souls  !  Many  as  their  omi  passions  were  the  names  of  the  Mother 
of  God ;  and  this  one  of  Lady  of  Hate  was  surely  as  sweet  to  them 
as  that  other,  — Mother  of  Love. 

The  interior  of  the  chapel  was  dark  with  vapours,  and  shadows  and 
shadows — quiet  without.  At  the  further  end,  which  was  quite  roofless, 
loomed  the  solitary  window,  and  through  this  the  rain  n'as  wildly 
beating :  heating  in  pitilessly  on  a  muillated  stone  image  of  Our 
Lady,  whicli  still  stood  on  its  pedestal  within  the  space  where  the 
altar  once  had  been.  A  dreary  image,  formless  and  defonned ; 
rudely  heivn  of  coarse  stone,  aod  now  marred  almost  beyond  recogni- 
tion. Yet  that  Our  Lady's  power  had  not  altogether  fled,  or  rather  that 
firm  faith  in  that  power  stitl  remained,  was  attested  by  the  rude 
gifts  scattered  at  her  feet :  strings  of  black  beads,  common  rosaries, 
coarse  lockets  of  brass  and  tin,  even  fragments  of  riblwn  and  scraps 
of  human  attire.  One  of  these  lockets  was  quite  new.  and  held  a 
lock  of  human  hair.  Woe  lo  the  head  on  which  that  hair  grew, 
should  Our  Lady  hear  the  pmycr  of  her  who  placed  it  there  ! 

The  floor  of  the  chapel  had  been  pavcn,  but  few  of  the  slabs 
remained.  Evcrym-herc  grew  long  grass,  nettles,  and  weeds,  drip- 
ping with  the  rain  ;  at  the  ruined  altar  the  nettles  and  wcctis  grew 
breast  high,  touching  Our  Lady's  feet,  and  climbing  up  as  if  to 
cover  her  from  human  sight ;  but  at  the  front  of  the  altar  was  a 
paven  space,  where  men  and  women  might  kneel 

The  old  nun  glanced  into  the  dreary  place,  and  sighed ;  then 
taking  his  wallet  from  his  l>ack  and  opening  it,  he  drew  forth  a 
piece  of  black  bread  and  began  to  cat.  He  had  scarcely  begun, 
when  he  ivas  startled  by  a  sound  as  of  a  human  voice,  coming  from 
the  interior  of  the  chafiel ;  peering  throagh  the  darkness,  he  failed 
to  distinguish  any  human  form,  but  immediately  after,  cm  the  sound 
being  repeated,  he  rose  and  walked  toi^ards  the  altar,  and  beheld, 
stretched  on  the  ground  before  the  stone  image,  the  figure  of  a  man. 


I 


The  Shadow  of  Ihe  Sword. 


357 


Face  downward,  like  a  man  asleep  or  in  a  swoon ;  with  the  heav7 
'^rain  pouring  dow-n  upon  hira  from  the  window  above ;  moaning  and 
murmuring  as  he  lay.  An  object  more  forlom  it  was  scarcely  possible 
lo  conceive ;  for  his  rags  scarcely  covered  his  nakedness,  his  wild 
unkempt  hair  swej)!  lo  his  shoulders,  and  he  seemed  stained  from 
bead  to  foot  with  the  clammy  moistun:  of  the  storm. 
H  As  the  old  man  approached  and  bent  above  lum,  he  did  not 
Hstir;  but  vhen,  with  a  look  of  recognition,  the  old  man  stooped. 
and  touched  him,  he  sprang  to  his  feet  like  a  -v<>-ild  beast,  and  as  if 
awakened  from  stupor,  glared  all  round  with  bloodshot  eyes.  His 
face  was  so  wild  and  terrible,  covered  with  its  matted  hair  and  beard, 
and  the  light  in  his  eyes  was  so  fierce,  yet  vacant  and  woe-begone 

rit  the  old  man  shrunk  back  startled. 
"  Rohan  '."  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  Rohan  Cwenrem  !" 
The  arms  of  Rohan,  which  had  been  outstretched  to  clutch  and 
lear,  dropped  down  to  his  side,  and  his  eyes  rolled  wildly  on  the 
speaker.     Gradoally  the  feline  cxpicbSLon  faded  from  his  face,  but 
the  woe-begone  light  remained. 

•  "Master  ArfoU:" 
It  was  indeed  the  itinerant  schoolmaster,  little  changed,  though 
somewhat  gre)-er  and  sadder  than  when  we  last  saw  him.  He 
stretched  out  his  arms,  and  with  both  h.xncls  grasped  the  right  hand  of 
Rohan,  looking  tenderly  into  his  face.  Not  a  word  more  was  uttered 
for  some  minutes,  but  the  powerful  frame  of  Rohan  shook  with 
agitation. 

"You  live  I  you  live!"  at  last  exclaimed  Master  Arfoli.   "Over 

•  there  at  Travnik  ;  there  was  a  report  that  you  were  dead,  but  I  did 
not  believe  it,  and  I  hoped  on.    Thank  God,  you  live  ! " 

Such  Uie  as  lingered  in  that  tormented  frame  seemed  scarce  worth 
thanking  God  for.     Better  to  have  died,  one  would  have  thought, 
—^  than  to  have  grown  into  thist— a  ghost — 
^^  A  ihiulow, 

^H  Upon  the  slcirts  of  liuiDan  nature  dwelling. 

All  wild  and  peisccuted  things  are  pitiful  to  look  on,  but  there  is  no 
sadder  sight  on  earth  than  the  face  of  a  hunted  man. 
j         Presendy,  Master  Arfoli  spoke  again. 

^K    '*  I  was  going  through   Kromlaix,  and  I  came  hither  to  shelter 

^^firom  the  storm.      Of  all  the  places  on  the  earth  to  find  you  here  1 

Ah,  God,  it  is  an  evil  place,  and  those  who  come  here  have  evil 

hearts.     What  were  you  doing,  my  Rohan  \  praying  ?— To  Notre 

Dame  de  la  Hainel" 


K 


358 


Tiu  Gentlemafis  Magazim. 


Rohan,  whose  eyes  had  been  iixed  upon  the  groimd,  looked  up 
quickly  and  answered, 

"Yes  I" 

"  Ah,  you  have  great  wroDgs,  and  your  enemies  have  been  cnid 
indeed.     May  God  help  you,  my  poor  Rohan  !  " 

A  wild  expressioD  of  scorn  and  semi-delirium  passed  over  Rohan's 
face. 

"  It  is  not  God  I  asTc,"  he  ansm-cred  in  a  hollow  voice,  "  not  God, 
but  her  I  None  can  help  mc  now  if  she  caonot.  l^ok  you,  I  have 
prayed  here  again  and  again.  I  have  torn  my  heart  out  iu  prayer 
against  Uic  Emperor — and  curses  on  his  head,  that  she  may  hunt 
him  down."  Suddenly  turning  to  the  altar,  and  stietcbmg  out  his 
hands,  he  cried,  "  MoUier  of  God,  hear  me  1  MoUict  of  Hat^ 
listen  !     AVithin  a  year,  within  a  year  I " 

A  wild  access  of  jiassion  j>ossessed  him  ;  his  fare  flashed  white  as 
death,  and  he  seemed  about  to  cast  himself  again  on  the  stones 
before  the  altar.  But  Master  ArfoU  stretched  out  his  hands  again, 
and  touched  him  gently  on  the  shoulder. 

*'  Let  us  sit  down  and  talk  together,"  he  said  softly ;  *'  there  is  news. 
I  have  bread  in  my  wallet  and  a  little  red  wine; — let  us  eat 
and  drink  together  as  in  old  times,  and  you  shall  bear  all  I 
know." 

Something  in  tlie  manner  of  the  speaker  subdued  and  soothed 
Rohan,  who  sufTered  himself  to  be  led  across  the  chapel  to  tlic  stone 
seat  close  to  the  door.  Here  the  two  men  sat  down  side  by  side. 
By  this  time  the  cha])el  had  grown  quite  dark,  but  although  the  wind 
bleiv  more  furiously  than  ever,  the  rain  had  almost  ceased  to  fall. 
Little  by  little,  the  excitement  of  Rohan  was  subdued.  Gently 
pressed  to  cat,  he  did  so  automatically,  and  it  was  evident  that  he 
was  sadly  in  need  of  sustenance.  Then  Master  Arfoll  drew  forth  a 
leathern  bottle,  which  had  been  filled  witli  wine  that  morning  by  a 
fanner's  wife  whose  children  he  bad  been  leaching.  Rohan  drank, 
and  his  |xUc  check  kindled  ;  but  by  this  time  all  bis  pasuon  had 
departed,  and  he  was  docile  as  a  child. 

Gradually  Master  Arfoll  elicited  from  him  many  p.irticulars  of  his 
position.  After  several  days  [wuBcd  in  the  open  plains  and  among 
the  great  salt  marshes,  he  had  at  Inst  rciomed  again  to  the  Cave  of 
SL  Gildas,  whence,  in  an  arress  of  a  sort  of  dcUrium,  be  had  isued 
tlut  d.iy  to  pray,  or  rather  to  curse,  in  the  Cha|ttl  of  Hale. 

**  If  they  should  reliun  to  seek  me,*  be  said,  "  I  have  discovered 
a  way.  The  Ca%'c  has  an  outlet  which  they  will  never  find,  and 
which  I  only  icanicd  by  chance." 


The  Shadow  of  t/te  Sword. 


Uc  i>auseci  a  moment ;  then,  in  ansrer  to  Master  AifoU's  ques- 
tioning look,  he  proceeded : 

**You  know  the  great  Ca\-c?  Ah,  noj  but  it  is  vast,  like  the 
Cathedral  at  St  Emlell,  and  no  man  except  myself  has  ever  searched 
it  throu^  After  I  had  killed  Piprinc  I  returned,  for  all  otlier  places 
were  d.^ngeTOU5  ;  and  as  I  entered,  Fipriac  stood  before  me  as  if  in 
life,  with  his  (^reat  wounds  bleeding,  and  his  c>'es  looking  at  me. 
That  was  only  for  a  moment,  then  he  was  gone ;  but  he  caiue  to  mc 
again  and  again  till  I  was  sick  with  fear.  My  father,  it  is  terrible 
to  have  shed  blood,  and  old  Pipriac  was  a  good  fellow  after  all — 
be»idcs,  he  was  my  father's  friend,  xaA  that  is  worse.  Mother  of 
C«cd,  what  a  death  1  I  think  of  it  always,  and  it  gives  me  no 
peace !" 

As  he  spoke,  his  former  wild  manner  retamed,  and  he  shivered 
through  and  through  as  if  i\nt]i  violuni  rold ;  bm  the  touch  of  Master 
ArfoU's  hand  again  cahi\ed  him,  and  he  proceeded : 

"  Well,  at  last  one  night,  when  there  was  black  storm,  I  could 
bear  it  no  longer,  and  I  struck  a  light  with  flint  and  steel,  and  I  lit 
my  torch,  and  to  pass  away  the  liours  I  began  measuring  round  and 
round  tlie  walls  with  my  fe«t,  counting  the  paces.  It  was  then  I 
discovered,  in  the  far  darkness  of  the  great  Cave,  a  liole  through 
wluch  a  man  might  crawl,  a  hole  like  a  black  stain ;  one  might 
search  for  days  and  not  find  it  out  I  cran-led  through  on  hands 
aJid  knees,  and  a  little  M'ay  in  I  found  another  cave^  nearly  as  large 
as  the  first.  Then  I  thought,  '  Let  iliem  come  when  they  like,  I 
shall  be  safe,  I  can  crawl  in  here.'  That  was  not  all,  for  I  soon 
found  that  the  cli&  were  hoUoncd  out  like  a  great  hooej-conib,  iuid 
whichever  way  I  searched  there  were  stone  passages  binding  into 
the  heart  of  the  earth." 

"  It  is  ihe  same  along  there  at  La  Vilaine,"  said  Master  .-VrfoH ; 
"  the  entrances  are  known,  bul  no  men  have  searched  the  ca\*ems 
through,  for  they  believe  them  haunted.  Some  say  the  Romans 
made  them  long  ago,  but  «'ho  can  tell  ?" 

Kohan  did  not  reply,  but  seemed  to  have  fallen  again  into  a  smi 
of  waking  trance.  At  last  he  looked  up,  and  pointing  at  the  window 
of  the  chapel,  3aid  quietly : 

"See,  the  rain  is  over,  and  the  moon  is  up." 

L     The  rain  had  indeed  ceased,  and  through  the  cloudy  rock  above 

'a  stormy  moon  was  rising  and  pouring  her  vitreous  rays  on  a  raging 

surf  of  cloud.    The  wind,  so  far  from  abating,  roared  more  wildly 

tlian  ever,  and  the  face  of  lieavcn  wa.s  as  a  huuian  face  convulsed 

torturing  passion  and  illumed  by  its  own  wild  light, 


i 


360  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

Master  ArfoU  gazed  upwards  for  some  moments  in  silence ;  then 
he  said  quietly : 

"  And  now,  what  will  you  do  ?  Ah,  that  I  could  help  you,  but  I 
am  so  feeble  and  so  poor.     Have  you  no  other  friend?" 

"  Yes,  one — J^  Goron ;  but  for  him  I  should  have  died," 

"  God  rewaid  him  !" 

"  Three  times  since  Pipriac  died  JJm  has  hidden  food  under  the 
dolman  in  the  Field  of  the  Festival ;  and  my  mother  has  made 
torches  of  tallow  and  pitch,  that  I  might  not  go  mad  in  the  dark ; 
and  besides  these,  I  have  a  lantern  and  oil  J^  hides  them  and  I 
find  them,  imder  the  dolman." 

Master  ArfoU  again  took  the  outcast's  hands  between  his  own, 
and  pressed  them  affectionately. 

"God  has  given  you  great  courage,  and  where  another  man's 
heart  would  have  broken,  you  have  lived.  Have  courage  still,  my 
poor  Rohan— there  is  hope  yet.  Do  you  know  there  has  been  a 
great  battle,  and  the  Emperor  has  lost" 

That  one  word,  "  Emperor,"  seemed  enough  to  conjure  up  all  the 
madness  in  Rohan's  brain.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  reaching  out  his 
arms  to  the  altar  of  the  chapel,  while  Master  Arfoll  continued. 

"There  are  wild  sayings  afloat  Some  say  the  Emperor  is  a 
prisoner  in  Germany,  others  that  he  has  tried  to  kill  himself;  but 
all  say,  and  it  is  certain,  that  he  has  been  beaten  as  he  was  never 
beaten  before,  and  that  he  is  iti  full  retreat.  AU  the  world  has  arisen 
against  him  at  last." 

An  hour  later  the  two  men  stood  together  at  the  chapel  door. 

"  I  shall  visit  your  uncle's  house,"  said  the  itinerant,  "  and  I  shall 
see  your  cousin  Marcelle.    Shall  I  give  her  any  message?" 

Rohan  trembled,  but  answered  quietly : 

"Tell  her  to  comfort  my  mother — she  has  no  one  else  left  in  the 
world." 

Then  the  men  embraced,  and  Master  Arfoll  walked  away  into  the 
night.  For  a  space  Rohan  stood  in  the  chapel  entrance,  watching 
the  figure  until  it  disappeared ;  then,  throwing  up  his  arms,  with  a 
bitter  cry  he  too  fled  from  the  place  like  a  man  flying  from  some 
evil  thing. 


The  Shadow  of  ike  Sword. 


361 


CHAPTER  XL. 


INTRODUCES  A  SCARECROW  OF  GIjORV. 

Early  the  next  day,  as  the  Dcrv-al  household  were  assembled  at 
their  momin^  meal,  Master  Arfolt  entered  the  quaint  old  kitchen, 
and  with  the  quiet  salutation  of  the  country — "  God  sa\-e  all  here  I" 
— took  his  scat  uninvited  by  the  fire.  The  Corporal  nodded  his 
head  coldly,  Alain  and  Jannich  smiled,  and  the  women  murmured 
the  cuslomaiy  "welcome  "  ;  but  an  awkward  silence  followed,  and 
it  Ti-as  clear  that  the  entrance  of  Master  Arfoli  caused  a  certain  con- 
straint. Indeed,  the  Corporal  had  just  been  engaged,  spcttadc  on 
nose,  in  deciphering  aloud  a  bulletin  from  the  scat  of  war — one  of 
those  fanciful  documents  on  which  Bonaparte  was  accustomed  to 
expend  all  the  splendour  of  a  mendacious  imagination.  But  even 
BonafKLrte,  on  this  occasion,  was  unable  to  concoct  a  narrative  totally 
mUteading  as  to  the  true  slate  of  the  situation.  Amid  all  his  pomp 
of  sounding  words,  and  all  his  flourish  of  misleading  falsehoods, 
there  peeped  out  the  skeleton  fact  that  the  imperial  array  had  been 
tcnibly  and  almost  conclusively  beaten,  and  that  it  had  been  com- 
pelled to  give  tip  all  its  dreams  of  cont^ucst,  and  to  retreat  ("  con- 
fiisedly,"  as  old  stage  directions  have  it)  back  to  the  frontier. 

^P  Nov,  the  Corporal  was  no  fool,  and  in  reality  his  heart  was  very 
sore  for  the  sake  of  his  favourite ;  but  ht  m^s  not  the  man  to  admit 
the  fact  to  unsympathetic  outsiders.  So  when  Master  ArfoU  entered 
he  became  silent,  and,  stumping  over  to  the  fireside,  began  to  fill 
his  pipe, 

**  Vou  have  news,  I  see,"  said  the  itinerant,  after  a  long  jiause. 

K  **  Is  it  true,  then.  Corporal  Den-al  ?  " 

The  Corporal  scowled  dowTi  from   his  height   of  six  feet,  dc- 

I      manding, 

B     "  Is  what  true,  Master  Arfoli  ?  " 

^  "About  the  great  battle,  and  the  retreat.  Is  not  the  Emperor 
still  retreating  on  France,  as  they  say?" 

The  Corporal  gave  a  fierce  snort,  and  crammed  the  tobacco  down 
;cly  in  the  bowl  of  his  pipe. 

As  they  say!"  he  repeated,  contemptuously.  "As  the  geese 
say.  Master  Arfoli !  .-Vh  1  if  you  were  an  old  soldier,  and  if  you  knew 
the  Emperor  as  I  know  him,  you  would  not  talk  about  retreating. 
Sou]  of  a  crow,  does  a  spider  'retreat'  into  his  hole  when  he  is 
trying  to  coax  the  flies  ?  Does  a  hawk  '  retreat '  iiito  the  sky  when 
is  looking  out  for  the  sparrows?    I  will  tell  you  this,  Mastet 


suii  n 
H     Thi 


m. 


362  TIte  Genileman's  Magazine 

Arfoll :  when  the  Little  Coqwral  plays  at  *  retreating,'  his  enemies 
may  keep  their  eyes  open  like  the  owls ;  for  just  as  they  are  laughing 
and  running  afler  him,  as  they  think,  up  he  will  pop  in  their  midst 
and  at  their  backs,  ready  to  eat  them  up  ! " 

The  itinerant  saw  how  the  land  lay,  and  offered  no  contradiction ; 
only  he  said  after  a  little,  looking  at  the  fire : 

"  Before  Leipsic  it  was  terrible.  Is  it  not  true  that  fifty  thousand 
Frenchmen  fell?" 

The  Corporal  had  now  lighted  his  pipe,  and  was  puffing  furiously. 
Master  ArfoU's  quiet  questions  irritated  him,  and  he  glared  round  at 
his  nephews,  and  down  at  the  visitor,  with  a  face  as  red  as  the  bowl 
of  his  own  pipe. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  replied,  "  and  I  do  not  care.  You  are  a 
scholar,  Master  Arfoll,  and  you  know  a  good  deal  of  books,  but  I 
will  tell  you  fiankly,  you  do  not  understand  war.  A  great  general 
does  not  count  these  things  ;  fifty  men  killed  or  fifty  tlrausand,  it  is 
all  the  same ;  he  may  lose  twice  as  many  men  as  the  enemy,  and 
yet  he  may  have  won  the  victory  for  all  that.  Fifty  thousand  men, 
bah  !  If  it  were  twice  fifty  thousand  it  would  be  all  the  same.  Go 
to  ]  the  Emperor  knows  what  he  is  about" 

"  But  your  own  nephews,"  said  Master  Arfoll,  "  they,  at  least,  are 
safe?" 

The  Corporal  cast  an  uneasy  glance  at  the  widow,  who  had  lifted 
her  white  face  eagerly  at  Master  Arfoll's  words,  then  he  smiled  grimly. 

"  Good  lads,  good  lads  1 — yes ;  when  we  last  heard  from  them  they 
were  safe  and  well  Gildas  wrote  for  both ;  as  you  know,  he  writes 
a  brave  hand,  and  he  was  in-  high  spirits,  I  can  tell  you.  He  had  a 
little  scratch,  and  was  nursed  at  the  hospital  for  a  month,  but  he  was 
soon  all  right  again,  and  merry  as  a  cricket  Ah  i  it  is  a  brave  life, 
he  says  :  plenty  to  eat  and  drink,  and  money  to  spend ;  that  is  the 
way,  too,  one  sees  the  world." 

"  Were  your  nephews  in  the  great  battle,  Corporal  Derval  ?  " 

With  another  uneasy  glance  at  the  widow,  the  Corporal  snorted 
reply: 

"  I  do  not  know ;  powers  of  heaven,  I  cannot  tell,  for  we  have  not 
heard  since ;  but  this  I  know,  Master  Arfoll,  wherever  the  Emperor 
pointed  with  his  finger,  and  said  to  them  '  Go,'  Hoel  and  Gildas 
were  there" 

"  Then  you  are  not  sure  that  they  survive,"  said  Master  Arfoll 
sinking  his  voice. 

The  white  &ce  of  the  widow  was  uplifted  again,  and  the  Coipoial's 
race  trembled  as  he  iqdied : 


"  They  are  in  God's  hands,  and  God  tt-ill  preserve  ihcm.  They 
are  doing  their  duty  like  brave  men  in  a  glorious  somce,  and  He  will 
■  not  desert  them ;  and  of  this  I  am  sure,  wc  shall  hear  from  them  soon." 

Bui  ah,  my  Corporal,  what  of  tlic  fifty  thoii.sand  who  fell  on  T*ipsic 
field  ?  Weie  they  all  in  God's  hands  two,  and  did  He  desert  them  ? 
Each  hearth  for  its  own  ;  and  from  fifty  thousand  went  up  a  prayer, 
and  from  fifty  thousand  the  same  fond  cry,  "  Wc  shall  hear  from 
I  hem  soon  I '' 

As  the  Corporal  ceased  to  spcalc,  the  company  became  conscious 
of  the  figure  of  a  man,  which  had  entered  quietly  at  the  open  door, 
and  DOW  stood  quietly  regnrding  them,  A  pitiful  object  indeed,  and 
grim  as  pitiful  I  His  fiu:c  was  dirty  and  unshaven,  and  round  his 
head  was  twisted  a  coloured  handkerchief  instead  of  hal  or  cap.  A 
ragged  great  coat  reached  to  his  knees  ;  beneath  it  dangled  ragged 
ends  of  trousers ;  the  feet  were  bare,  and  one  was  WTapt  ujj  id  a 
bloody  handkerchief.  He  leant  upon  a  stick,  sur^-eybg  the  circle, 
and  on  hi.i  face  there  wns  an  expression  of  rakish  ivTClcUedncss,  such 
as  might  be  remarked  In  a  very  old  j.ackdaw  in  the  last  stage  of 

•moulting  and  unclcanlincss. 
[    **  God  save  all  here  !  '*  he  said  in  a  shrill  voice. 

"  Welcome,  gootl  man  ! "  said  the  Coriforal,  motioning  the  mendi- 

•cani — tor  such  he  seemed — to  a  seat  by  ilie  fire. 
The  new  comer  did  not  stir,  but,  leaning  on  his  staff,  wagged  lus 
bead  from  side  to  side  with  a  diabolical  grin  at  Marccllc,  and  then 

I  winked  frightfully  at  Jaimicli  and  Alain. 
The  widow  sprang  up  with  a  scream. 
L     "  Mother  of  God,  it  is  Gildas  ! " 
f-   An  started  in  amazement ;  the  boys  from  their  scats  al  tlic  table, 
Vartelle  from  her  spinning-wheel,  while  the  Corporal  dropped  his 
pipe  and  gazed.     In  .mother  moment  Mother  Derval  had  embraced 
the  apparition,  and  was  crying  over  him,  and  kissing  his  hands. 
H     It  was,  indeed,  Gildas  Dervn),  but  so  wum,  and  torn,  and  stained 
^with  travel,  so  begrimed  with  dust  of  the  road,  and  so  burnt  and 
blistered  with  the  sun,  that  only  his  great  height  made  him  recog- 
nisable.    His  face  was  covered  with  a  sprouting  beard,  and  over  his 
right  eye  he  had  a  hideous  scar.     A  more  disreputable  scarecrow 
ncrcr  stood  in  a  green  field,  or  darkened  a  respectable  door. 
H     Before  another  word  could  be  said,  the  mother  screamed  again. 
H    "  Mother  of  God,  he  has  lost  an  arm  !" 

H  It  lias  but  too  true ;  from  the  soldier's  left  side  dangled  an  empty 
ragged  sleeve.  There  was  anotlier  wail  from  the  mother,  but  Gildas 
only  ^laughed  and  nodded  Icnowingly  at  bis  uncle.    Then  Marcelle 


a 


I 


I 


The  Geniieinans  Magazine. 


came  up  and  embnir-cd  him ;  then  Jannich  and  Alain  ;  and,  finally, 
the  Corpora],  with  flaming  face  and  kindling  eye  slapped  Gi!da.i  on 
the  back,  vming  him  by  the  hand,  and  kissed  htm  on  both  cheeks. 

The  poor  mother,  fluttering  like  some  poor  bird  about  hex  >-ouDg, 
was  the  first  l(j  think  of  the  fledgling  who  was  far  away.  IVhen 
Gildas  was  ensconced  in  the  great  chair,  with  Mother  Dcval  kneeling 
at  his  feet,  and  resting  her  amis  on  his  knees,  while  Marcelic  wii 
lunging  over  him  and  kissing  him  again,  came  the  question, — 

"And  Hocl?  where  have  you  left  Hoc!  ?'* 

Giidas  stretched  out  his  great  hand  and  patted  his  mother  on  tl 
head.  In  cvcr>'  gesture  of  the  man  there  was  a  swaggering  patron- 
age quite  different  to  his  former  stolid  manner,  and  he  was  obvioiuly 
on  the  best  terms  with  himself  and  with  the  world. 

"Hoi31  is  .lit  right,  mother,  and  sends  his  love;  ah,  he  has  never 
had  a  scratch,  while  T,  look  you,  have  had  ray  old  luck."  Turning 
to  Master  Arfoll,  who  still  sat  in  the  ingle,  he  continued,  "  You  see 
I  am  invalided,  worse  hick,  just  as  the  fun  is  beginning.  A  bullet 
wound,  uncle,  and  they  thought  at  first  I  should  not  be  maimed; 
but  when  I  was  lying  in  the  hospital,  well  content,  in  comes  the 
surgeon-major  with  his  saw, — girr  ! "  (Here  he  ground  his  leelh  to 
imitate  the  instrument  nt  work,) — and  before  I  could  squeal  off  it 
came,  and  left  me  as  you  see  !" 

As  he  spoke,  his  mother  trembled,  half  fainting,  and  the  b^ 
looked  at  him  in  admiration.  The  Corporal  nodded  liis  head 
approvingly,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Good  1  this  is  a  small  matter,  b»tt 
the  boy  has  come  through  it  well." 

"  Where  did  you  get  your  ivoimd  ?"  asked  Master  ArfolL 

"Before  Dresden,"  replied  the  soldier,  *'on  the  second  day;  then 
I  was  carried  on  in  the  ambulance  to  Lcipsic;  and  when  I  vu 
strong,  I  received  my  discharge.  I  had  a  government  fwiss  as  fvas 
Nantes,  and  plenty  of  good  company  ;  after  that,  I  .ind  a  comnde 
tram]]cd  to  St.  Surlott,  where  we  parted,  and  I  came  home.  Well, 
here  I  an]  at  home,  and  that's  the  ivay  of  the  world — ups  and  downs, 
ups  and  downs !" 

By  this  lime  the  Corporal  had  brought  out  a  bottle,  and  was  filling 
out  little  glosses  of  com  brandy. 

"Drink,  mon gars P'  he  said. 

Gildas  tipped  off  his  glass,  and  then  held  it  out  to  be  refill 
while  the  mother,  with  many  sighs  .md  ejaculations  to  herself,  was 
furtively  taking  stock  of  his  dilapidated  attire.  When  her  eyes  fcB 
upon  his  bandaged  foot,  she  wept,  quietly  drj-ing  her  eyes  OTih  ber 
apron. 


:h(^tl 


jTA?  S/uidow  of  the  Sword. 


365 


**  It  IS  not  bad  stuff,''  satd  the  hero.     "  To  you  all  1 " 
He  tossed  off  the  ficrj-  fluid  without  winking  ;  then  looking  up  at 
[arccllc,  who  was  still  bending  over  him,  he  said  roguishly,  with  the 
lair  of  a  veteran, — 

1  will  tell  you  this,  little  one.  The  German  girls  are  like  their 
ovn  hogsheads,  and  I  have  not  seen  as  pretty  a  lace  as  yours  since 
I  left  France.  They  are  greedy,  too,  these  fal  frauleins,  and  will 
rob  a  soldier  of  his  skin." 

MarceUe  stooped  dovm  and  whisi>erc<l  a  question  in  his  ear; 
whereat  he  smiled  and  nodded,  and  quietly  opening  the  breast  of 
his  shirt,  showed  her,  still  hanging  by  a  ribbon  round  his  neck,  one 
of  the  medals  she  had  dipi>ed  before  his  departure  in  the  Pool  of 
,the  Blood  of  Christ.  MarceUe  kissed  him  again,  and  nused  her 
to  heaven,  confident  now  that  her  charm  had  wrought  his 
prcscr^-ation. 

Unwilling  to  intrude  longer  on  the  family  circle,  Master  Arfoll 
rose^  and  again  felicitating  Gildas  on  his  safe  return,  took  his 
depaiture.  Left  to  themselves,  the  excited  family  eagerly  surrounded 
the  hero,  and  plied  him  with  question  after  question,  all  of  which 
he  answered  rather  by  imagination  than  by  strict  matter  of  fact 
Scarecrow  as  he  was,  he  was  surrounded  in  their  eyes  by  a  halo  of 
militaiy  g]or>-,  and  by  his  side  even  the  Corporal,  with  his  stale 
associations,  seemed  insignificant  Indeed,  he  i>atronized  his  imcle 
like  the  rest,  in  a  st)-le  worthy  of  an  old  veteran ;  and,  brimful  of 
his  new  and  raw  experience,  quietly  pooh-pooh'd  the  other's  old- 
fashioned  opinions. 
^1  *'  And  you  have  seen  the  Emperor,  men  son  f"  said  the  Coqjoral. 
^B"  Vou  have  seen  him  with  your  own  eyes  ?  " 

H     Gildas  nodded  his  "  I  believe  you,"  and  then  said,  with  tits  head 
^■cocked  on  one  side,  in  his  uncle's  own  fashion, — 

**  I  saw  him  last  at  Dresden.  It  was  raining  cats  and  dogs,  and 
ihe  Uttlc  m-in  was  like  a  drowned  rat ;  hh  grey  coat  soaked,  and  his 
hat  drawn  over  his  eyes,  and  nmning  like  a  spout.  Di<d/U!  how  he 
galloped  about~you  would  have  said  it  was  an  old  woman  on  horsc- 
backf  riding  cross-legged  to  market  He  may  be  a  great  gcneralf  I 
admit,"  added  the  irreverent  novice,  "  but  he  does  not  know  how  Co 
ride." 

"  Not  know  how  to  ride  !  the  Emt^rror  !  "  ejaculated  the  Corporal, 
aghast     In  his  days  such  criticism  would  have  been  treated  as 
>lasphemy ;  but  now,  when  misfortunes  were  beginning,  the  rawest 
ECrait  passed  judgment  on  his  leader. 

He  sits  hunched  up  in  a  lump — like  this,"  sakl  Gildas,  suida% 


action  to  the  word,  "  and  no  rascally  recruit  froi 
more  shabby.  You  would  not  say  he  was  the  Emperor  at  all,  but  a 
beggar  who  had  stolen  a  horse  to  ride  on.  Ah,  if  you  want  some- 
thing like  a  general  to  look  at,  you  should  see  Marshal  Ney." 

"  Marshal  Ney  1 "  eclioed  the  Corporal  with  a  contemptuous  snort 
"  He  dresses  himself  for  a  Uiltle  as  if  he  were  going  to  a  bait,  and 
his  hair  is  all  oiled  and  i>erfumcd,  and  he  has  rings  cm  his  fingers, 
and  hts)  horse  is  all  silver  and  gold  and  crimson  like  hlmselC  And 
Uicn,  if  you  please,  he  can  ride  like  an  angel !  His  horse  obeys 
him  like  a  pretty  partner,  and  he  whirls  and  curvets  and  dances  tiU 
your  c)'cs  are  darzled." 

"  Bah  ! "  cried  the  Corporal.  *•  The  great  doll ! " 
It  is  )ust  possible  that  the  veteran  and  Ms  nephew  might  have 
come  to  words  on  the  subject  of  their  favourites ;  only  Just  then  the 
mother  came  with  warm  water  to  l)athc  tlic  soldier's  sore  feet,  and  with 
a  look  at  her  brother-in-law  to  deprecate  further  argument,  knelt 
don-n  and  unrolled  tlic  bandage  from  the  foot  that  was  cut  and  lame. 
With  many  loving  mumiurs  site  then  bathed  the  feet,  and  anointed 
them  with  sweet  oil,  while  Marcclle  jwcpared  clean  liuen  for  Uildas  to 
wear,  "  To-morrow,'*  thought  the  widow,  "  little  PIoucl  shall  tome 
in  to  trim  his  hair  and  shave  his  beard,  and  then  he  will  look  my  own 
handsome  boy  again.'*  I'iouct  was  an  individual  who  to  his  avoca- 
tion of  a  shoemaker  added  the  duties  of  village  barber,  and  wielded 
the  razor,''to  use  Uie  popular  expression,  "  like  an  angel.'* 

Hapjjy  is  he,  however  lowly,  to  whom  loving  hands  minister,  and 
who  has  such  a  home  to  receive  and  shelter  him  in  his  hour  of  need  ! 
Gitdas  might  complain  of  his  Ixul  luck,  but  in  liLs  heart  he  knew  that 
he  n-as  a  fortunate  fellow.  From  a  stranger's  point  of  view,  ju!>t  tlien, 
he  was  certainly  as  disreputable  a  looking  object  as  could  be  found 
ia  3  da/s  march.  \sxx%  befuwc  the  widow  had  dried  his  aching  feet, 
he  had  collapsed  in  his  chair,  and  was  snoring  lustily.  With  his  chin 
sunk  deep  into  ^his  great  coat,  his  matted  hair  escaping  from  the 
coloured  handkerchief  which  covered  his  head,  his  em|>ty  sleeve 
dangling,  and  his  two  ra^ed  legs  outstretching,  he  looked  more  and 
mcHe  a  scarecrow,  more  and  more  capable  of  (righicning  oS'  the 
small  birds  of  ^his  village  from  the  paths  of  glor>'.  But  lo  tlie  trem- 
bling mother  he  was  beautiful,  and  her  heart  yearned  out  to  htm  with 
imuttcrabte  pity  and  aJFcction.  He  had  come  back  lo  her  in  life, 
though  sadly  marred,  and  like  Gottim,  "  marvellously  tran$romied  ;* 
bat  he  had  paid  the  contribution  to  glor)*,  and  come  vhat  might,  he 
could  never  go  to  war  again. 


The  Shadow  of  Ute  Sword.  367 

CHAPTER     XLI. 
GLIMPSES  OF  A  DEAD  WORLD. 

ROHAS  GwENrHiK  needed  to  h.-n-e  little  apprehension  that  fresh 
arch  would  be  made  for  him  in  the  Cave  of  St.  Gildas.  After 
once  searching  the  caw,  and  finding  it  empty,  tho  gefutanms  were 
glad  of  any  pretext  to  keep  away  :  not  that  they  were  actually  afraid 
or  that  they  would  have  hesitated  to  raise  the  siege  anew,  but  the 
death  of  Pipriac,  occurring  xt  it  did,  had  filled  ilieiii  with  a  super- 
stitious dread. 

For  some  days  after  Pipriac's  death  \-igorous  exertions  were  made 
discover  the  whereabouts  of  his  murderer;  but  although  the 
rfttts  were  more  than  once  upon  his  track,  and  although  he  had 
cornc  inio  personal  collision  with  Mikel  Grallon,  all  the  pursuit  was 
una*-ailing.  The  authorities  at  St.  Gurieti  stormed ;  a  fresh  reward 
was  offered  in  well-pofrted  placards;  but  Rohan  still  remained  at 
large.  And  l>cforc  many  daj-s  had  ehpsed.  his  very  existence 
seemed  forgotten  in  the  excitement  of  the  news  from  the  seat  of 
war. 

Fn  vain  was  it  for  Corporal  Derval  and  others  of  his  way  of 
thinking  to  hold  forth  in  the  street  and  by  ihc  fireside,  and  to  prove 
that  the  sun  of  Bonaparte  was  not  setting  but  actually  rising.  In 
vain  was  it  for  the  scarecrow  of  glory,  trimmed  by  the  barber  and 
made  sweet  by  clean  linen,  to  hold  forth  in  the  cabaret  that  all 
wwild  l)c  well  so  long  aa  the  Emperor  had  "  Marshal  Ney"  at  his 
right  hand.  In  vain  did  the  lying  bulletins  come  in  from  Paris  to 
Sl  Gurlett,  and  from  St.  Gurleit  to  its  tributary  ^-iliages.  .\  very 
general  impression  was  abroad  that  things  were  in  a  bad  way.  The 
loyahst  party  in  Kromlaix  began  to  look  at  each  other  and  to  smile. 
From  the  little  upjwr  cliamber  in  the  Corporal's  dwelling  sliU 
went  up  a  virgin's  praj'crs  for  the  great  EmixTor,  mingled  vi-ith  more 
passionate  prayers  for  Rohan  Gwenfem.  Marcelle  could  not,  or 
would  not,  understand  that  the  Emperor  was  the  cause  of  her 
lover's  misfortunes ;  no,  he  was  too  great,  too  good,  and — ah  !  if 
one  could  only  reach  his  car !  He  loved  his  people  well ;  he  had 
^ven  her  unde  the  Cross,  and  all  men  knew  he  had  a  tender  heai-L 
How  could  he  know  what  wicked  men  <lid  in  his  name  ?  If  she 
could  only  go  to  him,  and  fall  at  his  feet,  and  ask  for  her  lover's 
I      life! 

^K    Alas,  how  rash  and  foolish  Rohan  had  been  !     It  atos  wicked  for 
^Km  to  refuse  to  help  the  Emperor;  but  then  he  liad  not  been. 


J 


368 


The  Gentictftatt's  Afagazme. 


• 


himself,  he  had  been  mad.  And  here  was  the  end  1 — here  was 
Gildas  come  Imck  covered  with  glory  and  altve  and  well,  while 
Rohan  was  still  a  hunted  man,  with  Fipriac's  blood  upon  his  head. 
If  Rohan  had  only  been  brave  like  her  brcHlicr,  God  would  have 
brought  him  back. 

While  Marcelle  was  pleading  and  i>ra)-ing,  Rohan  Gwenfem  was 
moving  like  a  sleepless  spiiit  through  the  darkness  of  the  earth.  Was 
it  broad  awake,  or  in  a  wondrous  dream,  that  he  crept  through 
sunless  caverns,  torch  in  hand,  exploring  night  and  day?  It  did 
not  seem  real,  and  he  hhnself  did  not  feel  real  Phantoms  troubled 
him,  voices  cried  in  his  cars,  cold  hands  touched  him,  and  agaia 
and  again  the  ghost  of  Pipriac  uprose  before  him  witli  rebuking 
eyes. 

It  was  all  real,  nevertheless.  The  discovery  of  the  mj*sterious 
inlet  from  the  Cave  of  St.  Gildas  led  to  a  series  of  discoveries  no 
less  remarkable-  He  had  not  exaggerated  when  he  asserted  to 
Master  Arfol!  that  the  cliffs  were  veritably  "honeycombed." 

In  sheer  despair,  to  keep  his  thoughts  from  driving  him  completely 
mad,  he  prosecuted  his  lonely  search.  From  the  great  inner  cave 
which  he  had  by  accident  discovered,  ran  numerous  narrow  passages, 
some  far  too  small  to  admit  a  human  body,  others  high  and  vaulted. 
Most  of  these  passages,  after  winding  for  greater  or  less  distances 
into  the  solid  cliff,  ended  in  cuh  de  sac,  but  after  minute  cxaminatioa 
he  discovered  one  which  did  not  so  end,  but  after  extending  for  a 
long  distance  jXiraUel  with  the  fjce  of  the  cliff,  and  gradually, 
ascending  upward,  ended  in  a  small  cave  well  lighted  by  a  narrow ' 
chink  in  the  cliff.  From  this  chink,  which  was  like  a  window  in  the 
very  centre  of  the  most  inaccessible  and  perpendicular  crag  on  the 
coast,  he  could  see  the  ocean  for  miles  around  him,  the  fishing 
vessels  coming  and  going  to  the  beach  of  the  village,  and  higher 
still,  a  glim|)sc  of  the  lower  extremity  of  the  village  itself,  quite  a 
mile  away.  Beneath  htm  ilieie  was  no  beach, — only  the  sea' 
washing  at  all  sides  on  the  base  of  the  clilf  and  creeping  here  and 
there  into  the  gloomy  watcr-cavcms  which  the  superstitious  fisher- 
men never  ventured  lo  explore. 

■With  a  strange  sense  of  freedom  and  erutuuton,  he  discovered 
this  new  hiding-place,  tlie  aperture  of  which,  to  any  one  sailing  on 
the  sea  below,  would  have  seemed  like  a  mere  dark  stain  on  the 
crag's  face.  Here  he  soon  made  his  head-quaners,  free  lo  enjoy^ 
the  light  of  sun  and  moon.  Inacceiuiblc  as  an  eagle  in  its  eyrie^ 
he  could  here  draw  the  breath  of  life  in  peace. 


y  or  so  later  he  ascertained  that  this  cave  communiraied  by 
ipitous  passage  with  tlic  sea  below.  Not  without  considerable 
danger  he  descended  through  the  darkness,  and  after  feeling  his 
way  cautiously  for  hours  he  found  himself  standing  on  a  narrow 
sh«lf  of  shppery  rock  in  the  very  heart  of  a  great  water-cave. 

Vast  oimson  colurans,  hung  with  many  coloured  weeds  and 
mosses,  supported  a  vaulted  roof  which  distilled  a  perpetual  glistening 
dew  and  shook  it  down  on  the  deep  watcis  beneath,  which  in-ere 
dear  as  crystal  and  green  as  malachite.  A  faint  phosphorescent 
light,  which  seemed  to  issue  from  the  water  itself,  hut  stole  in  im- 
perceptibly fnam  the  distant  mouth  of  the  cave,  showed  puiplc 
flowers  and  flags  stirring  gently  far  below  and  strange  living 
itures  that  moved  upon  a  bottom  of  shining  sand. 

As  Rohan  stood  looking  downward,  a  targe  female  seal,  splashing 
down  from  a  shelf  of  rock,  began  swimming  round  and  round  the 
cavern  without  any  effort  to  escape ;  and  Rohan,  listening,  could 
hear  the  bleat  of  its  tiny  lamb  coming  from  the  darkness.  After  a 
minute  it  disappeared,  and  the  faint  bleat  ceased. 

A  little  reflection  showed  Rohan  where  he  stood.  Quite  a 
hundred  yards  away  was  the  mouth  of  the  cavcm, — a  space  some 
tweK-e  feet  broad,  but  only  a  few  high,  and  so  hung  with  moss  and 
fungi  as  to  be  almost  concealed.  Around  this  mouth  the  sea  was 
many  fathoms  deep,  and  a  boiling  current  eddied  for  ever  at  atl 
slates  of  the  tide.  Rohan  remembered  well  how  often  he  had  rowed 
past,  and  how  his  fellow-fishermen  had  told  awful  legends  of  fool- 
hardy mortals  who,  in  times  remote,  had  tried  to  enter  "  Hell's 
Mouth,"  as  tliey  called  it,  and  no  boat  lliat  sailed  through  was  ever 
known  to  return.  Certain  it  was  that  at  times  there  issued  thence 
terrific  volun»es  of  raging  water,  accompanied  by  sounds  as  of  internal 
carth<iuake,  which  served  to  make  the  place  terrible  even  without 
the  aid  of  superstition.  Later  on  the  causes  of  these  phenomena 
mill  be  suflSciently  apparent 

There  is  something  awful  to  a  sensitive  mind  in  com  in 
accident  on  any  strange  secret  of  Nature,  in  penetrating  unaware 
to  some  solemn  arcanum  of  the  mother-goddess  where  never  human 
foot  before  had  trod,  and  where  the  twilight  of  primieval  mystery 
lingers  for  ever.  Even  in  those  solenm  caves  of  thi:  sea  which  are 
safely  accessible  to  man  there  is  something  still  and  terrible  beyond 
raeasure.  In  no  churches  do  we  pause  half  so  reverently,  in  no 
shrines  are  we  so  strangely  constrained  lo  pray.  To  the  \iTt?CT*. 
ter  these  natur.iJ  temples  are  familiar,  and  \ie  Via*  %ipttvVVvix«v 
\em  his  most  religious  hours. 

Vot.  XVJI.,  \.s.  1876.  1  ^ 


370 


The  Gttiikman's  Magazine. 


To  Rohan  Gwenfein,  who  had  crouched  so  long  in  daiknesi,  and 
who  hod  suffered  so  dark  3  pcrsucutioa  &om  all  die  forces  of  tiie 
world  without,  it  suddenly  seemed,  as  if  Nature,  in  a  mystery  of  new 
]ov«  and  pity,  had  taken  him  to  her  very  heart ;  had  touched  his  lids 
with  a  new  balm,  hi&  soul  with  a  new  peace,  and  folding  him  softly 
in  her  arms,  had  revealed  to  him  a  faery  vision  of  her  own  sont'g 
calm — a  divine  gUmp«e  of  that 

Ccnlnl  peace  wlrllrlillg  il  the  best 
OrokdleK  ablation, 

which  <»  few  men  duit  live  arc  permitted  to  fed  and  cnjo}'.  He 
could  not  have  expressed  his  happiness  in  aesthetic  phrases,  hut  he 
had  it  none  the  less ;  and  by  those  new  discoveries  his  soul  was 
greatly  sirt-ngthcncd.  Up  tliere  tn  the  aerial  cave  he  could  bask  ia 
the  sunlight  wiUioul  fear;  and  down  here,  in  a  silent  water-world, 
be  could  sjiend  many  wandering  houta. 


A  stranger  discovery  was  yet  to  come.  He  had  fonnd  the  key  to 
a  myster)',  and  it  opened  many  doors. 

Along  the  sides  of  the  watcr-cavcm  ran  a  narrow  ledge^  com- 
numicating  with  that  on  which  lie  had  first  descended,  and  although 
it  was  slip{K:ry  as  gla-ss,  it  afTorded  a  footing  for  Rohan's  naked  feeL 
Creeping  along  this  ledge  for  &ome  thirty  yards,  and  dinging  to  the 
crimson  columns  for  partial  support,  he  reached  the  extreme  end  of 
the  cave  and  Icai>ed  donn  upon  a  narrow  space  of  steep  ^litngte, 
.'^;ainst  which  the  still,  green  n-ater  washed.  He  had  no  sooner  done 
so  than  he  discovered,  to  his  astonishment,  a  vaulted  opening, 
gleaming  with  stalactite  and  crimson  moss,  and  leading  apparently 
iruo  the  heart  of  the  cllHs.  It  was  very  dark,  and  after  groping  his 
way  stealthily  forward  till  all  li^^t  faded,  he  retraced  his  steps. 

Uis  curiosity  was  now  thoroughly  aroused.  Returning  to  his  aerial 
hiding-place,  he  procured  a  rude  horn  lanlhom  witli  which  J^ 
tioron  had  supplied  him,  lit  ii  carefully,  and  then  again  descended. 
Finally,  lanthom  in  hand,  he  again  entered  the  dark  passive,  deter- 
mined to  explore  it  to  its  furthest  limits. 

It  was  just  so  broad  that  he  could  touch  both  walls  witli  the  tips  of 
the  fingers  of  his  outstretched  harkds ;  so  hi^  that,  standing  on  tiptoe, 
with  the  tips  of  his  fingers  be  could  touch  the  roof.  It  seemed  of 
solid  stone,  and  fashioned  as  symmetrically  as  if  liy  human  hands. 
Wherever  the  light  fell  the  n-alls  gUmmcred  smooth  and  mois^ 
without  any  trace  of  vegeution.  The  air  was  damp  and  icy  aHc^ 
like  the  air  of  a  sepulchre,  but  it  did  not  seem  otherwise  impure. 

Ic  lad  crept  forward  some  hundred  yards  tn  more,  when  be 


Tfte  S/iadow  of  the  Sword.  371 


came  to  an  ascending  flight  of  stone  steps.  Yes,  bis  eyes  did  not 
deceive  him :  red  granite  steps,  oircfully  and  Liboriously  he«-n.  nis 
heart  gare  a  great  leap,  for  now  he  knew  for  certain  what  he  had 
indeed  suspected  from  the  first,  that  the  excavations  were  not  natural, 
but  h^  been  wrought  by  human  hands. 

Simple  as  this  fact  may  appear,  it  filled  him  with  n  kind  of  terror, 

•  and  Jc  almost  tmncd  to  retrace  his  way.  Kecovcring  liiniself,  how- 
cv-cr,  he  Mccnded  the  steps,  and  catered,  at  their  top,  another 
passa^  which  bore  unniislakably  the  signs  ofhuman  workmanship. 
After  he  had  proceeded  another  hundred  yards  he  came  to  another 
ascent  of  steps,  and,  af^er  ascending,  to  another  passage.  The  air 
now  became  suffocating  and  oppressive,  and  the  light  in  the  hnthom 
grew  faint  almost  to  dying.  Crawling  forward,  however,  he  emerged 
in  a  space  so  vast  and  so  forbidding  that  he  stood  trembling  in 
constematioa 

A  mighty  vault  w  catacomb,  compared  to  which  all  the  other 

B  cavcms  he  had  explored  were  insignificant.     Vast  vralls  of  granite 

^  supported  a  roof  high  as  the  roof  of  a  cathedral,  from  which  depended 
black  fungi  bred  of  jicrpetua!  moisture  and  dripping  an.  eternal  dcw- 
The  interior  ^ras  wrc^jt  in  pitch  darkness,  and  full  of  a  murmur  as  of 
the  sea.  The  floor  laras  solid  stone,  polished  to  icy  smoothness,  but 
covered  by  a  slipiiery  sort  of  moss. 

Rohan  stood  in  awe,  half-expecting  to  sec  appalling  phantoms 

^  start  from  the  darkness  and  drive  him  forth.     Into  what  place  of 

H  mystery  had  he  penetrated?    Into  what  catacomb  of  the  dead? 

~  Into  what  ghostly  abode  of  spirits  ?  His  head  swam ;  for  a  moment 
his  customary  seizure  cime,  and  he  heard  and  saw  nothing.     Then 

K  he  crept  cautiously  forward  into  the  c-ivcm. 

As  he  moved,  the  sca-ilke  murmur  grew  deeper,  seeming  to  come 
from  the  very  ground  beneath  his  feet  He  drew  back  listening, 
and  just  in  time ;  for  he  was  standing  on  the  very  edge  of  a  block 
gulf,  at  the  foot  of  which  a  moaning  water  ran.  He  peered  over, 
fiashing  the  light  don-n.  A  black  liquid  glimmer  came  from  beneath, 
from  water  in  motion,  rapidly  rushing  past.  fl 

He  then  perceived  that  the  gulf  and  its  contents  occupied  the    ^\ 
entire  interior  of  the  great  vault,  and  that  the  floor  on  which  he  stood 
was  merely  a  narrow  sheli  arU6cially  fashioned.    The  vast  columns 
rose  on  e\eiy  side  of  him,  glittering  with  silvern  damp,  and  the  cur- 
tain of  fungi  stirred  overhead  like  a  black  \i^. 

H      Suddenly,  as  he  flashed  his  light  over  the  place,  he  started  aghast. 

^  Not  &r  away  stood  another  figure,  on  the  edge  oC  \h<:  ^ii^,  VciOtw^  ^ 
down.  ^1 

ft ^ 


I 


372 


The  Gentleman's  Magasine, 


Rohan  was  supersiitious  by  nalure,  and  his  mind  had  been  un- 
settfeii  by  his  [irirations.  He  stood  terror-stricken,  and  the  lanlhom 
aJmost  fell  from  his  hands.     Meantime  ihc  figure  did  not  stir. 


CHAPTEH    XLII. 


THE  AQUEDUCT. 


Eager  to  satisfy  himself,  Rohan  drew  nearer,  and  nt  last  recog- 
nized, in  the  shape  which  he  had  at  first  deemed  human  or  ghostly, 
a  gigantic  Statue  of  black  marble,  set  on  a  pedestal  on  the  very  edge 
of  the  chasm. 

Lifeless  as  it  was,  the  -Shape  was  terrible.  It  had  stood  there  for 
centuries,  and  the  perpetual  drops  distilling  from  the  roof  above  had 
eaten  into  its  solid  mass,  so  that  i>art  of  the  face  was  destroyed  and 
portions  of  the  body  had  melted  .iway.  lis  lower  limbs  were  com- 
pletely enwrapped  in  a  loathsome  grccii  vegetation,  crawling  up,  as 
it  seemed,  out  of  the  water  beneath.  In  size  it  was  colossal,  and 
standing  close  beside  it  Rohan  seemed  a  pigmy. 

Little  by  little  Rohan  ilisccmed  that  it  hnd  represented  an  im- 
perial figure,  clod  in  the  Roman  toga,  bareheaded,  but  axnimed  with 
bay.  Though  the  finx-  ira.s  mutilated,  the  contour  of  the  neck  and 
head  remained,  and  recalled  the  bull-like  busts  of  Roman  emperors 
and  conquerors  which  may  be  seen  on  ancient  medals,  engravings 
of  which  Rohan  had  noticed  in  the  French  translation  of  Tacitus 
given  him  by  Master  Arfoll.  In  a  moment  the  mind  of  Rohan  was 
illuminated.  He  recalled  all  the  popular  traditions  concerning  the 
Roman  towns  submerged  under  Krombixj  he  remembered  the 
strange  ])ictures  conjured  up  by  Master  Arfoll — of  the  houses  of 
marble  and  temples  of  gold,  the  great  baths  and  theatres,  the  statues 
of  the  gods.  Then,  it  was  all  true  !  Not  far  away,  perhaps,  the  City 
itself  glimmered,  and  this  was  a  first  glimpse  of  its  dead  world. 

But  lliis  n-atcr,  flowing  so  munnurously  through  the  cave,  whence 
did  it  come,  and  whither  did  it  go?  He  was  still  speculating,  wben 
he  perceived  close  to  the  Statue's  pedestal  a  broad  flight  of  steps 
leading  dowTiward.  They  were  slippery  with  green  slime,  but  with 
extreme  care  one  could  descend. 

He  CTawIed  don-n  cautiously,  feeling  his  way  foot  by  foot,  and 
stair  by  stair;  and  at  I.-wt  he  ascenained  that  the  stejM  descended 
into  the  very  waliT  itself,  which  rushed  p.ist  his  feet  with  a  cry  like 
a  falling  torrent,  hut  bUick  as  Jet.  He  reached  out  his  hand,  lifted 
some  of  the  water  lo  hi;  lips,  and  foimd  that  it  was  quite  fresh,  with 
wour  of  nc\\\\-iA\cn  rain. 


Tltc  S/iadow  of  the  Sword. 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  remembered  the  subterranean  River, 
about  which  superstition  was  so  garrulous,  and  above  the  buried  bed 
■of  which  Kromlaix  was  said  to  be  builL  All  Uie  memories  of  my%- 
tcrious  sounds  heard  in  times  of  storm  came  back  upon  his  brain  ; 
and  he  remembered  hoi\*  often,  down  in  the  village,  he  had  pressed 
his  ear  against  the  canh  and  listened  for  the  murmur  of  the  Riwr 
far  belovr.  The  dark  waters  on  whlth  he  was  now  gazing  were  doubt- 
less a  tributary  stream,  if  not  the  very  Kiver  itself;  and  were  he  to 
launch  himself  upon  them,  he  would  come  doubtless  lo  the  doomed 
ruins  of  the  City.  It  was  all  real,  then ;  yet  so  strange,  so  like  a 
wonderful  dream  1 


► 


Returning  to  his  aerial  chamber  on  the  i:\.ct  of  the  great  cliff, 
Rohan  sat  .ind  brooded  in  a  new  wonder.  He  was  like  a  man  who 
had  Wen  down  into  the  grave  and  had  interviewed  the  dead,  and 
had  brought  with  him  strange  secrets  of  the  sunless  world.  Hia 
discovery  of  the  great  Roman  Vault,  with  its  dark  passages  com- 
municating with  the  sea,  came  upon  him  with  a  stupefying  surjirisc. 
And  even  as  he  sat  he  thought  of  that  black  Sutue,  standing  like  a 
Biving  thing  in  its  place,  the  umbLcm  of  a  world  that  had  pasiicd 
away. 

He,  too,  whoever  he  was,  had  lived  and  reigned,  as  the  Emperor 
praa  then  reigning;  and  he  too,  perhaps,  robed  in  purple  and  filleted 
S-ith  bay,  had  "  bestrode  the  world  like  a  Colossus,"  and  urged  a 
bloody  generation  on.  Temples  and  coliseums,  baths  of  precious 
marble  and  .^mphitheat^e5  adorned  with  gold,  had  arisen  at  his 
bidding;  at  the  lifting  of  his  finger,  victories  had  been  won  and 
lands  been  lost ;  and  ere  his  death  mortals  had  hailed  him  as  a  god. 
That  statue  of  him  had  been  set  there  by  his  slaves  and  other 
statues  of  him  had  been  set  elsewhcn:  in  sta-cl  and  mart  that  men 
might  know  the  glory  of  his  name,  and  cry,  "  Hail,  O  Caesar,  we 
who  are  about  to  die,  salute  thee!"  And  the  Sutue  stood  there 
still  in  its  place,  buried  from  the  light  of  the  sun,  but  of  his  foot- 
prints in  the  world  there  was  no  sign. 

For  two  d.iys  the  burthen  of  his  discovery  was  so  heavy  upon 
him  that  Rohan  did  not  d.arc  to  return  to  the  mysterious  vault.  He 
sat  listening  to  the  wind,  whose  fierce  wings  flapped  with  iron  ciajig 
against  the  face  of  the  cliff,  and  gazing  out  upon  the  white  and 
troubled  sex  For  some  time  there  }iad  been  heavy  rain,  and  it  was 
still  falling,  falling. 

L   The  morning  of  the  third  day  broke  dark  and  peacttuX  ■,  txvt^  %xlJii 
KJJ,   hut  ibere  wns  no  wind,    and    ilie  sea  was   czita  ws  i^m&. 


374 


Tk^  GenllemafCs  Magasine. 


GazJDt;  from  the  window  of  his  cave,  Rohan. saw  the  still  waters, 
Btained  with  purple  shadows,  and  broken  hcrc  and  there  by  outlying 
reefs,  stretching  smooth  and  still  as  far  as  Kiomlaix;  and  the  red  fishing 
boats  crawling  this  way  and  that  among  the  reefs,  and  here  and  there 
a  great  raft  drifting  between  the  reefs  and  the  shore.  For  it  -ms 
close  upon  the  season  for  g.-ithering  the  sca-irrack,  or  go^mtm,  a 
han-cst  which  talccs  pince  twice  a  year,  and  the  produce  of  which  is 
used  fuel,  as  well  as  for  manuring  the  land.  Rafts  arc  made  of  old 
planks  and  barrels,  ruddy  lashed  together,  i>ilcd  high  with  the  wrack 
gathered  from  the  weedy  reefs,  and  suffered  to  drift  to  slwre  before 
the  mnd  or  with  the  tide. 

There  was  cora]janionship,  at  least,  in  watching  others  at  the  work 
he  knew  so  well.  How  often  had  not  Rohan  lashed  his  raft  together, 
and  piloted  himself  along  the  rocking  coast,— not  i\nthout  many  a 
sn'tm  in  the  deep  sea,  when  his  raft  wa.<;  too  much  laden  and  o\'cr- 
tumed. 

He  sat  looking  on  for  hours.  As  the  day  advanced,  however, 
gre.il  banks  of  cloud  drifted  uj>  from  the  south,  and  a  black  vapour 
crawling  in  from  the  sea  covered  the  crags,  and  entirely  obscured 
the  prospect  in  every  direction.  There  was  a  dreary  and  oppresMve 
silence,  broken  only  by  the  hca\7  falling  of  a  leaden  rain.  The  air 
seemed  full  of  a  nameless  trouble,  like  tlut  whkh  precedes  a 
thunder  storm  and  shakes  the  forest  leaves  without  a  breath. 

As  the  afternoon  advanced,  the  rain  fell  more  heavily,  but  the 
mists  did  not  rise.  Weary  and  dreary,  Rohan  prepared  his  laathom 
and  determined  again  to  visit  the  mysterious  Vault  By  this  lime, 
he  had  almost  ceased  to  rcaliie  his  own  discovery ;  it  seemed  more 
and  more  a  dream,  a  vision,  such  a.<>  those  to  which  his  troubles  had 
Blade  him  accustomed ;  and  he  was  quite  prepared  to  find  himself 
in  the  jiosltion  of  the  man  who,  having  once  found  and  forsaken  a 
fiery  treasure,  sought  in  i-ain  to  discover  it  again. 

He  descended  rapidly  to  the  basaltic  water-cave  coiumumcating 
with  the  SCI,  and  found  it  calm,  beautiful,  and  unchanged  :  then 
passing  along  the  rocky  ledge  to  its  innermost  extremity,  he  leapt 
down  upon  the  shingle,  and  stood  again  before  the  'vaulted  opetiiog, 
leading  into  the  heart  of  the  cliffs. 

As  he  entered,  there  came  from  within  a  strange  sound  which  be 
had  not  prcA'iously  remarked, — a  doll,  heav>'  mtirtnur,  as  of  water 
struggling  and  nishlng  between  trembling  barrier?.  He  hc-sitatcd,  and 
listened.  He  seemed  to  hear  strange  voices  moaning  and  cr)iog, 
and  another  sound  like  the  flapping  of  Uie  great  wind  against  tiic 
crag. 


After  a  few  mimite^  pause  he  hurried  onward,  through  the  clammy 
passages,  up  the  flights  of  marble  steps,  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
Roman  vanlt.  As  he  advanced  the  muimur  grew  to  a  roar,  and  the 
roar  to  the  thnnder,  until  it  seemed  the  solid  earth  was  (piaking  all 
vround  him ;  and  when,  trembling  and  shuddering,  he  entered  the 
great  Vault  itself,  he  seemed  surrounded  by  all  the  thnnders  and 

tululations  of  an  Inferno. 
Tbe  cause  of  the  commotiou  now  became  unmistakable.    The 
river  was  tumbling  and  shriekmg  in  llie  gulf,  and  tearing  at  the  wails 
of  stone  between  which  it  ran, 
^B    He  crept  forward  along  the  sHppei}'  floor,  which  seemed  quaking 
Hfaneath  his  feet,  and  approached  the  Statue  of  stone.    It  still  stood 
HB&e>  colossal  and  awful,  but  it  was  trembling  in  its  place  like  a 
mortal  man  quivering  with  awe  ;  indeed,  the  whole  vault  was  quaking 
as  with  the  throes  of  sudden  earthquake. 

He  gazed  down  the  flight  of  black  stairs  leading  to  the  River,  Eind 
flashed  his  light  down.  In  a  moment  he  perceived  that  tlic  water 
had  risen,  so  that  only  a  few  steps  remained  uncovered ;  and  as  it 
foamed  and  fretted,  and  whirled  nnd  eddied  past,  boiling  and 
shrieking  in  its  bed,  flakes  of  fierce  foam  were  beaten  up  into  his 
face. 

Rushing  he  knew  not  whence,  roaring  he  knew  not  whither,  the 
water  filled  the  gulf,  and  shook  its  solid  barriers  with  the  force  that 
only  water  possesses.  Another  look  convinced  him  that  it  was 
rapidly  and  tumultuously  rising. 

Already  it  was  within  a  few  feet  of  the  base  of  the  Statue,  and 
—^  still  it  was  swelling  upward  with  inconceivable  rapidity.     It  was  as 

■  if  the  tide  itself  had  rushed  into  the  gutf,  ailing  and  orekoodicg  it. 

■  The  mind  of  Rohan  was  well  skilled  in  danger,  and  perceived 
m  instantaneously  the  full  peril  of  the  situation.     To  rem.iin  where  he 

stood  would  be  to  encounter  instantaneous  death.  With  the  thunder 
of  the  waters  in  his  cars,  the  walls  of  solid  stone  quaking  around 
him,  and  the  ground  trembling  beneath  his  feet,  Rohan  turned  and 
fled. 

Nol  a  moment  too  sooil  Down  the  vaulted  passages  he  passed, 
until  he  emei^cd  upon  the  great  water<ave  far  beneath. 

»As  he  touched  the  narrow  space  of  shingle  he  heard  behind  him 
a  horrible  concussion,  a  sound  as  if  the  very  crags  were  crumbling 
down  together ;  then  a  roar  .^s  of  many  waters  escaping,  a.s  of  a  great 
River  rushing  after  him,  and  coming  ever  nearer  and  nearer. 
^      Swift  as  thought  he  climbed  up  on  the  rocky  ledge  a.ljyve.  ^.l^a. 
H  water,  and  nude  his  my  to  the  aperture  by  -wWitih.  V\c\iai  4ty:KBsifc^ 


M 


376  ~  The  GentlemafCs  Magazine. 

£rom  his  aerial  cave.  Pausing  there,  and  clinging  to  the  rocks,  he 
beheld  vast  volumes  of  smoke  and  water  belching  from  the 
passage  by  which  he  had  just  escaped ;  roaring  and  rushing  down 
tumultuously  to  mingle  with  the  sea,  till  all  the  still  green  waters  of 
the  cave,  stained  brown  and  black,  were  bubbling  like  a  great 
cauldron  at  his  feet 

(To  beeorUinued.) 


TABLE    TALK. 

BY  SYLVANUS   URBAN,   GENTLEMAN. 


The  Gentleman's  Magazine  appears  in  strange  garb  this  month, 
the  token  of  the  tribulation  through  which  it  has  passed  since  the 
publication  of  the  August  number.  Arrangements  for  September 
were  made  earlier  than  usual.  The  bulk  of  the  MSS.  was  handed 
over  to  the  printers  in  the  closing  days  of  July,  and  Sylvanus  Urban 
departed  in  peace  and  contentment  of  ralnd  to  a  distant  place  by 
the  side  of  mountain  and  sea,  for  n  brief  period  of  rest  and  recrea- 
tion. But  his  plans  and  cilculaiions  were  set  at  defiance  by  caJamity. 
The  great  fire  on  the  premises  of  Messrs.  Grant  &  Co.  on  the  night 
of  ihe  loth  of  August  destroyed  nearly  every  contribution  that  had 
been  provided  for  this  number.  The  articles  were  in  tj'pe,  proofs 
had  in  almost  every  case  been  sent  out  and  returned  v,-ith  the 
author^  corrections,  and  the  fire  that  melted  the  type  from  which 
these  pages  were  to  be  printed  consumed  at  the  same  time  tlic  ori- 
ginal MSS.  and  the  proofs,  leaving  not  a  vestige  from  which  the  work 
could  be  reproduced.  In  the  case  of  the  chapters  for  the  month  of 
Mr.  Robert  Buchanan's  "  Shadow  of  the  Sword,"  it  would  have  been 
fortunate  if  the  stage  had  been  arrived  at  when  the  author's  proofs 
are  sent  out  and  returned ;  for  it  is  Mr.  Buchanan's  custom  to  receive 
his  original  MS.  from  the  printers  vnth  his  proof,  and  so  his  work 
would  have  been  saved.  But  the  composition  of  "The  Shadow  of 
the  Sword  "  was  not  completed  on  the  night  of  the  fire  ;  the  author's 
sheets  were  distributed  among  the  printers,  and  paper  and  metal 
and  the  floor  on  which  the  compositors  had  stood  at  their  work  were 
burnt  together,  and  fell  through  and  mixed  their  a.shes  among  the 
ruins  of  the  lower  floors  and  the  broken  rcmn-onts  of  the  roof.  Under 
vay  great  diffiruiticii,  in  a  remote  part  of  the  country,  Mr.  Buchanan 
has  been  compelled  to  re-write  those  chapters  from  memory.  The 
first  half  of  Miss  Mathers's  novelette,  "  As  He  comes  up  the  Stair," 
was  totally  destroyed  ;  and  I  am  under  great  obligations  to  the 
authoress  fur  the  promptness  with  which  she  reproduced  die  lost 
almost  without  the  aid  of  notes.  I  think  it  would  take  an 
expert  penman  as  long  to  copy  out  these  chapters  of  "  As  He  comes 
up  the  Stair/'  as  elapsed  from  the  hour  when  the  a,MV\vCiTts%  «il 
"  Conun'  thro'  the  Rye  "  received  my  letter  apprising  \va  ol  i^t V«i 


KUUK 

pus., 


d 


to  the  time  when  slic  despatched  the  new  roll  of  MS.  from  which  the 
pages  of  "  As  He  comes  up  the  Stiur"  io  this  number  are  printed 
It  will  be,  I  am  sure,  a  matter  of  much  regret  to  my  readem  that  the 
concluding  part  uf  Red  Spinner'ti  ''  My  Ocean  Log  from  Newcastle 
to  Brisbane"  was  consumed,  and  cannot  for  the  present  be  recovered. 
Mr.  Senior,  however,  informed  mc  in  one  of  his  letters  that  he  had 
retained  a  duplicate  copy  of  his  "  Log,"  with  a  view  to  kubsequcnt 
rcpublicniion  in  another  form ;  and  I  have  reason  to  hope  that  the 
MS.  is  now  on  its  way  from  Queensland.  In  the  Tnc-intime  I  am 
glad  to  be  able  to  fill  the  gap  ivith  another  contribution  from  Mr. 
Senior,  quite  recently  received.  The  remainder  of  Mr.  and  Mis. 
Cowden  Clarke's  Letters  of  Leigh  Hunt  wwe  destroyed;  but  the 
MS.  of  the  very  interesLing  I^ettets  of  Douglas  Jerrold  was  saved, 
and  the  first  instalment  of  these  Letters  fill  the  place  which  would 
have  been  occupied  by  the  continuation  of  Leigh  Hunt's  E[>istlcs. 
Some  otUer  papers  have  been  destroyed  and  reproduced  j  and  for 
others,  again,  which  could  not  be  restored  in  time,  new  articles  have 
been  substituted.  The  block  of  the  Magazine  cover  is  gone,  and  I 
dfi  not  propose  to  copy  it  in  the  future,  since  the  design  docs  not 
nccumiety  indicate  the  present  character  and  aims  of  the  Magazine: 
Meanwhile  our  disaster  will,  it  is  hoped,  be  sufficient  apology  for 
the  pbin  printed  wrapper  in  which  the  Gentleman's  Magazinx 
temporarily  presents  itself. 


Among  the  papers  furnished  to  me  by  Miss  Louisa  Charlotte 
Tranipton  in  connection  with  the  memoirs  of  the  late  Mrs.  Campbell 
is  a  curious  historical  legend  copied  by  Miss  Frampton  from  a  MSL 
in  the  h.-uidwriiing  of  Mrs.  Campbell.  I  have  detached  the  story 
from  the  article  on  the  "Princess  Charlotte  and  Mre.  CampbcU," 
which  appears  in  another  part  of  this  number,  because  it  fumied  too 
great  an  interruption  to  tlie  narrative  ;  but  in  her  rcmini^ences  of 
Mrs.  Campbell  Miss  Frompton  matlced  the  period  at  which,  at  the 
express  de^rc  of  the  Princess  Charlotte,  Colonel  Addcnbrotc,  in  the 
presence  of  Mrs.  Campbell,  related  the  following  stoiy  of  the  "  Vision 
of  Charles  the  Eleventh  of  Su'eden  foretelling  the  assossinntion  of 
Guslavus  the  Third."  It  was  at  the  request  of  licr  Royal  H%hness 
the  Princess  that  Mrs.  Campbell  committed  the  legend  to  writing 
and  the  document  is  now  in  Miss  Frampton's  possession.  It  runs 
thus:— 

Ch&rics  XI.,  hihmt  %>f  die  Eiaiotu  CBjuIm  XtL,  was  hon  1656,  and  was  otm 
ofthvitK--'  inlwihem-  ■     ^>"icn.     tlorrtfrktnl 

tlw  inXoh.   .    .         .  ^  of  ibc  II  .  .  o(  ihc  Sviulc,  md 


Tabls  Talk. 


379 


adc  hit  onii  authority  the  Uw.  I  tc  was  also  an  enli);ht«ned  man,  braire,  much 
allaclicd  to  th«  Lulhcnn  religion,  and  of  a  culd,  iniluublc,  ttud  dcddct!  ctiancter, 
entirely  without  itnagioftlioa. 

At  the  cloKoTan  nutumnitl  evening,— «oon3ft«T  the  death  ofhb  wife  Eleanor, 
his  baishncM  to  whom  (it  wu  laiJ)  biii  b«en  the  caute  of  liastening  hct  cnO,  but 
vthotc  death  had  aCTcctcd  him  more  than  was  expcclctl, — he  was  sittu^  in  rvi^di 
cicM^^ and di(>pcn  before  the  fire  in  his  room  in  the  PaLicc  at  Stoclitholin.  Nev 
him  were  his  Ghamberlain,  the  Cooite  ile  BrnJu:,  whom  he  dtslinguiahed  by  his 
favDurs  ami  his  physician,  IJanmgarten,  who  nfTectcd  C esprit  ftrt.  The  King 
sat  Liter  than  osual,  and  at  la^t  got  up,  and  walked  lowaMa  the  window,  where 
he  Mopped  at  one  which  looked  into  (he  court.  The  night  wu  dark,  and  the 
noon  in  it*  fint  qtuiter.  The  TMace  which  (he  Kingi  of  Sweden  now  inhnbit 
waa  not  then  firoahcil,  and  Chnrln  XI.,  who  began  il,  then  resided  in  the  andeot 
pabuoe,  aitnated  at  that  point  of  ili«  RiUerholin  which  looks  upon  Lake  Moder. 
Il  is  n  Uise  building  in  the  thapc  of  a  horseshoe.  The  King's  room  was  at  OU 
end,  and  neaily  oppodte  was  the  great  hall,  where  Ihe  States  assembled  when 
they  "were  to  Kceive  any  communication  from  the  Crown.  The  windows  of  this 
haB  appeared  at  that  moment  to  be  lighted  np  with  a  bright  hghL  ThU  struck 
the  King  as  strange,  bat  he  at  first  suppo<,ed  it  to  be  from  the  candle  of  soma 
tcnaul.  But  what  could  they  be  doing  at  that  hour  in  a  hall  which  hud  not  been 
opened  for  lonw  time  part?  Besides,  the  liglu  was  too  brleht  to  come  from  a 
ui^te  candle  There  coold  be  no  fire,  as  theie  was  no  smoke  ;  the  glass  was  not 
hcoken ;  no  noise  was  heanl,  and  it  looked  like  an  iUuiniiintton.  Charles  stood 
looking  for  some  tine  in  silence,  bnt  the  Cumtc  de  Bntht-  vfasaboiU  toscnd  n 
page  to  enqnire  about  this  singular  light,  when  the  King  slopped  Jiim.  '*  I  will 
go  mysdf,"  said  l:ie ;  nnd  whtKt  Miying  this  it  was  ohserrcd  that  he  lurned  pale, 
arid  the  expression  of  his  countenance  was  awe-struck.  hcTcrtbeless,  he  walked 
(tmly,  the  chamherlato  and  physician  fulluwinj;  him,  each  with  a  lighted  candle. 
The  person  who  had  the  key*  was  gone  to  bcil ;  liaumgarten  went  to  call  him, 
and  ortlercid  him,  from  the  King,  to  open  Ihe  door  of  the  Hall  of  tlie  EstnteS. 
The  niTpiise  of  the  man  at  this  unexpected  order  was  great,  but  he  joined  the 
King  with  the  ke}^  and  i1rst  opened  a  long  gallery,  which  served  as  an  ante* 
chamber  to  the  halL  The  King  cnlcred,  but  what  was  his  surprise  to  find  it 
cnlirelyhung  with  black.  "  Who  has  ordered  the  hull  to  be  hung  like  this?" 
Ke  angrily  »id.  "Sire,  uo  one  tliat  1  know  of,"  said  the  man  ;  "and  the  lost 
time  I  SA  cpl  the  gallery  it  had  its  n^inscot  of  oak  as  it  always  had.  Certainly 
the":  hangings  have  been  put  up  by  no  one  )«1onging  to  youi  Maje>ty."  The 
King,  walking  rapidly,  had  already  [raversed  more  than  (wo-lhiidsoE  CheCalleiy. 
The  CoOTie  and  the  scr^■aat  followed  him  cioscly.  "Do  not  go  further,  Site,"* 
laid  ihc  man,  "there  U  sorcery  there,  At  this  hour,  since  the  dealh  of  hw 
Majcsly,  they  say  she  walks  in  this  gallery.  Cod  protect  us  1 "  '*  Stop,  Sire," 
sud  tlw  Comie,  on  his  part,  "do  you  not  hear  the  noise  in  the  halt!  Wlio 
knowi  to  what  danger  your  Majesty  may  expose  yourself?"  "Sire,"  said 
Baungartea,  whose  light  had  just  been  ealinguidied  by  a  puff  of  wind,  "  let  nie 
at  leaiJ  go  and  grt  twenty  of  your  guard*."  "  I.ct  m  go  in,"  said  the  King,  in 
a  hnn  Yoicc,  stopjMng  before  thr  rioor  of  the  great  hall,  "  anil  do  you.  Keeper  of 
the  Keys,  open  this  door  directly."  He  pusbcvl  it  with  his  fo<>(,  and  the  noL'ie, 
repeatol  by  the  echo,  touiidc^l  thiongh  the  Galltry  like  a  clap  <if  Ibiindcr.  The 
man  trembled  so  much  ibat  hh  key  stuck  in  the  keyhole  wvl\wM\.Vivi'\Mft'c«¥i'^*'*^ 
it,     "An  otdtoJdier  who  trembles  '.  "  said  Chai\cs,  ti\n\i;^i>:gVAa  ^^^^^isr^ 


K 


i 


38o 


The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 


"  Come,  Comte,  opts  this  door  Ibfne."  "Sii«,"KiiliedUwCoiUcdnuti%baidc 
a  Hep,  "  if  your  >la>e&lf  will  oomtnand  me  lo  walk  up  lo  the  cuuua's  moath.  be  it 
Danish  or  GCTman,  I  will  oliej  wiihont  hetitatiiig,  lint  it  i«  the  EWl  One  ;os  bid 
me  dc^."  The  King  took  the  key.  **  I  we."  he  s&id,  in  it  tone  of  contempt* 
"  that  this  ctMiccmk  rac  only  ;**  and  bc£o«  the  otbcn  could  prevent  hint  be  bad 
opened  the  |[rcal  oak  door,  and  had  enleied,  ujrinc  "  With  Cod**  help."  His 
three  followcn.  partly  inflwcnocd  by  curioaity,  andiwhamcd  to  abandoo  ibcirkiii(, 
cnicrvd  with  him.  Tbccreatholl  wulif^tcdupbyMibnnencciHunbef  of  Qgbts, 
and  a  black  hanging  had  replaced  the  ancient  ligured  tapcstij.  The  wboU  lenidt 
of  ibe  walk  was  amnged  in  order  a.t  nma),  with  German,  Danish,  or  ^loteovil* 
banners,  trophies  of  the  soldiers  of  CfU«iavtis  Adolphut.  Amon^  ihem  the 
Swediih  bannos  nught  be  seen  covered  with  funeral  crape.  An  iameme  u> 
tcmbUge  filled  the  bencbcv  Htc  fbor  orders  of  tbc  Estates — oobUiiy,  clei|7, 
ciliicns,  and  pca«RlA— Ml  each  in  their  rank*.  AH  were  dressed  in  black,  ud 
the  multitude  of  faces  which  appeared  light  agaiiul  the  duk  background,  so 
duzled  ibc  eyes  of  the  Tow  witnesses  of  tliis  extraordinary  scene  that  neither 
could  find  aiiiungu  the  crowd  a  fiice  they  knew.  Upon  the  derated  throne  from 
whence  the  King  usually  hAtungued  tbe  Assembly,  ibey  saw  a  bleeding  cvrpse, 
dressed  in  the  royal  n>bc&.  At  its  right,  a  child,  standing  with  a  cnnvn  on  his 
head,  held  a  Keplrc  in  his  hand ;  and  at  its  kft,  an  otd  man  leant  against  iJie 
throne;  He  was  dressed  in  the  mantle  of  ceremony  which  ms  vrom  by  ibe 
ancient  administralors  of  !>«xdcn  bclbrc  Vasa  nuHle  it  a  kingdom.  In  face  ot 
the  throne  scleral  pcnont  of  i;iave  Appearance,  clothed  in  long  black  robes,  and 
who  appeared  to  be  Jud);c)i,  were  »iuing  before  a  table,  upon  which  were  lying 
some  Lii^  book<i  nnd  parchinenis.  Between  the  throne  and  the  bcnchei  tlierv 
wEi  a  block  covered  with  black  crape,  aiid  nn  axe  lying  near  it.  None  of  this 
numerous  oMcmbly  had  Ibe  ajipeamnce  of  |)crcciviiig  llie  presence  of  Charles  and 
his  Btlcndnnts.  At  thdr  eamnce  they  hist  heard  a  confused  munnur ;  then  Ibe 
eldest  of  the  Judges  rase,  and  struck  three  limes  with  bis  bond  on  Ibe  folio 
before  him.  Then  followed  a  profonnLl  ulence.  .Some  young  men  of  axisto* 
cralic  apjicaraacc,  richly  drc«»«d,  with  their  hands  tied  beJiind  them,  entered 
the  hall  by  a  door  oi>poMic  to  that  which  Charles  XI.  bod  opened.  Tliey 
walked  with  dignity,  and  with  itielr  heads  nilicd.  Ifchind  tbem  a  rfout  man, 
drewed  in  a  close  cool  of  brows  katber,  Uld  the  cnils  of  tbc  cords  wlucb 
bomd  Ibcir  wrists.  The  one  who  tnlcnd  fir>l,  and  appeared  to  be  the  most 
fanportant  of  the  prisoners,  slopped  before  tbe  block,  which  be  regardeil  with 
hci^hiy  contempt.  At  the  same  time^  the  corpse  appeared  lo  tremble  with  a 
coavuUirc  movement,  and  some  blood,  frcth  and  red,  run  from  tlic  uoimd.  The 
JFOttDg  man  knelt  duwn  and  laid  hU  head  on  the  block  ;  the  axe  glittered  in  the 
air,  and  fell  directly  with  a  noise.  A  river  of  blood  ipoutod  on  the  steps  min- 
gling with  that  of  the  ooipKi  and  the  head,  boundJDg  several  u'mea  on  the  red- 
dened door,  rolled  to  the  feel  of  Cburlea,  which  it  KUincd  with  iu  blood.  L'ntil 
tliis  momml.  uuprise  had  kepi  the  King  tilenti  bat  at  this  hofriblc  sigbl  bis  lotigne 
w«i  loosened.  He  made  tome  steps  lau'ards  the  throne,  and  addnssinf  tbe  figure 
dressed  as  an  administialor,  he  boldly  pronounced  tlie  wcU-Lnown  foimtilu  :  "  If 
you  ate  of  Cod.  speak  ^  if  you  are  of  the  Kvd  One,  le:ive  us  in  pence."  The 
pbutom  replied  slowly,  and  m  a  solemn  tone  i  **  Charles,  King,  ihii  bloud  will 
not  flow  In  your  reign"  (here  Uie  voice  became  U»*  dikti>ici|,  "  bot  fire  reigns 
later.  Woe  f  Moel  woe  lo  the  bluod of  Vaj4 ! "  Then  tlic  funm  of  ilie  nanicroas 
I  of  this  wooddful  assembly  become  more  canriisc<l,  tuid  alivwiy  appeaild 


Table  Talk. 


\%x 


more    Ihan    shadciwx,  noon  entirely  dboppcariiig.      The  !igbt«   were   w- 

JEmgUKhcd.  And  only  those  of  Charlei  unil   hi*  suite  lighM  up  the   tapestry, 

[jltgbtly   a^taied   by  the  wiad;    but   they  still   henirl    for  m  time  a  toetudigus 

which   one   witnewi  compkivtl    to    the    murmur  of    the    wind    among&t 

lYes,   and   another   to  the    sound  of  harp  Mrinp   wlien  the  inslnimcnt  is 

'tnnine-     All  agretrd  as  to   the  time  the  apparition  h&tnl,  which  ihcy  judged 

lo  have  Ijeen  aboot  ten  minule«.     Ttic  black  drapery,  the  decapitated  h^, 

the  Uiwd  which  stained  the  floor,  had   all  disappcarcil  with  the  phantoms  s 

only  Charlc's  tlipt>^rhad  a  Tcd  sp^t,  which  alone  would  lia\-e  recalled  to  him 

scenes  of  that  night  if  they  h^d  not  alreatly  l>ecn  too  well  engraven  on  his 

Returned  lo  his  room,  the  King  cauw^'i  a  stnlemcnt  to  be  written  of 

be  had  t«cn,  and  h.id  it  signed  by  his  companions  as  he  li.td  ligncd  it  also 

imsclC     Whatever  precautions  were  taken  to  hide  it  from  t!ie  public,  it  was  soon 

known,  creo  during  the  life  uf  Charle*  XL     Thix  italcment  xlill  exists,  ^nd  up  to 

the  present  time  has  never  been  doulited,  its  autheniiciiy  having  been  known  and 

citcdsolongberorethccvents  were  accomplished.  The  conclusion  is  tuniarkable  ;— 

"And  if  what  I  have  now  stated  i»  not  tme,"  says  the  Kinj;,  "  I  renounce  every 

spe  of  a  better  life  which  I  have  deserved  by  my  good  actions,  and  above  all  by 

ny  lea]  in  labouring  for  the  happine.ssofRty  people,  and  in  sustaining  the  interests 

'the  religion  of  my  ancestors."    Charles  XT.  died  1699.     Now  if  we  recall  the 

ihof  Custavus  Itl.,  in  1792,  and  the  judgment  of  Ankerstrom,  hisoisastint  we 

ihoU  find  more  than  one  agreement  between  that  event  and  ihUvngular  prophecy. 

young  man  beheaded  in  the  presence  of  the  States  would  designate  the 

r«SBUii£t,  Ankerstrom.     The  crowneil  cori>i«  would  be  Gnstuvus  1TI-,  issaasinated 

in  1793.   The  child,  his  son  and  ^uccewor,  Oui>tavu.i  Adulphus  IV.,  deposed  1809. 

[Tlie  oKlmaR,  the  Dakc  of  Siulcrmania,  uncle  of  (.Justavun  IV.,  who  was  n^nt  of 

kingdom,  and  afterwards  Kinjf  Cliarles  XIII.  on  Che  deposition  of  his  nephew, 

'1809. 

The  romance  of  the  "visio'n"  is  incomplete  without  the  story  of 
ic  death  of  Gustavus  the  Third,  as  it  \vas  told  by  Col.  Addenbrookc 
fto  the  Princess  Charlotte  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Campbell : — 

Tlie  King,  Gutta«'ui(  Tit.  of  Sweden,  came  itown  one  evening  from  his  [irivale 
' apurtmenls,  where  he  hail  been  bn<y  wTiiiog,  to  hold  a  conference  with  some  of 
his  generab  ond  ministers  The  conference  lasted  ranch  longer  than  was  expected, 
Indeed  br  into  the  night,  and  the  generals  and  ministers  left  him  agitated  and 
uncomfortable.  Two  pages  Tctoaincd  in  attendance,  and  he  sent  one  of  them 
ttpUain,  to  fetch  something  from  the  room  where  he  had  Iwen  before  employed 
writing.  The  page  did  not  return,  and  the  King  called  for  him  impetuously,  but 
received  no  answer.  He  then  scot  up  I  he  Other  page,  arul  waited  with  impaticQCC. 
Soon  he  heard  the  latter  utter  an  cxelsmation  of  astonishment,  and  afterwards 
distinctly  hcarxl  him  enter  the  room,  and  silence  followed.  Presently  the  King, 
Us  patience  exhauited,  went  up  himself.  On  the  stair-head  he  founri  the  first 
page  insensible,  and  lying  in  a  position  as  if  he  h.id  been  returning  when  he  (ell. 
just  within  the  room  he  saw  the  other  page,  who  had  aUo  fallen,  and  could  not 
speak,  bill  who  pointed  to  the  table  where  sat  a  man  with  his  back  toward*  him. 
T^  King  approached,  and  spoke,  when  the  figure  uimcd  rouD<l,  and  he  behcU 
kimitlff  In  less  than  a  weel:  C.xnivivA  was  assassinated  by  NrtteiArom  «.  ». 
Hilr. 


382 


The  GentUniafis  Magazine. 


Mv  paragTa|)li  last  monihon  Mr.  Hampden's  battle  for  the  flatness. 
of  the  canh  has  elicited  a  long  and  vehement  letter  from  that 
gentleman,  in  which  he  avers  that  the  whole  metropolitan  and  pro- 
vincial press  is  disgraced  by  reason  of  the  continued  pre\-alence  of 
the  delusion  as  to  the  earth's  colundily.    1  am  more  concerned,  liov 
ever,  for  the  two  points  in  proof  of  the  generally-accepted  tlicor 
which  I  cisually  referred  to  in  my  note,  than  for  Mr.  I-[ampden^y^ 
hard  words  about  the  press,  the  men  of  science,  and  the  teachers 
I  pointed  to  the  ivctl-known  fact  that  the  largest  circuit  that  cin  be 
made  on  the  earth  is  tropical,  and  that  a  circuit  of  unbroken  cold  is 
a  small  circle,  as  inconsistent  with  his  hypothesis  of  a  flat  coith 
bounded  on  all  sides  by  impassable  ice.     Mr  Hampden  denies  thoj 
fact,  and  roundly  declares  that  "the  largest  possible  circuit  is  »<tf  iifi 
t]ic  heat  of  the  tropics,  and  the  largest  possible  circuit  h  the  coldest.'' 
This  is  no  doubl  tiue  of  Mr.  Hampden's  imaginary  world,  and 
seems  to  be  enough  for  htm ;  for  me,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  suffi>1 
dent  that  the  actual  experience  and  the  plain  inference  of  oU  tiavti 
is  that  the  large  circle  is  tropical  and  the  small  circle  arctic     My 
correspondent,  however,  s.iys  th.it  "no  demonstration  can  possibly 
be  made  up  of  such  votthkss  '  arguments,' "  and  in  a  rather  sigrii^- 
cant  sentence  he  adds :  "  If  I  had  yielded  to  such  a  burlesque  of 
sotind  reasoning  I  should  have  been  silenced  years  ago."     With 
T^iard  to  my  little  diffimlty  about  the  apparent  disappearance  of  the 
hull  of  the  vessel  before  the  masts  arc  lost  to  sight,  Mr.  Hampden 
saj*s,  unth  much  vigour:  *' I  cannot  undert-ike  lofumishmyojiponental 
with  brains;  I  can  but  supply  them  with  the  means  of  anixTiig 
at  tlic  truth  if  Ihcy  only  possessed  the  instinct  of  the  ox  or  the  ass*, 
or  even  the  pluck  of  an  old  hen,  to  look  this  matter  fairly  in  the  face] 
and  resolve  to  master  it"    And  then  he  vouchsafes  the  following  ex- 
ptanatioo  of  the  phenomenon  of  the  gradual  sinking  of  the  x-essel 
from  sight : — 

Tbt  vessel  ukI  ihc  imnedlate  mUtr  In  wUch  ft  ftntls  disappears  ttol  Xxoai  an 
«cttud  but  *n  artifid*!  riw  CnM  cnrvt)  of  the  water,  ir  the  Hmc  or  ibe  cnrvc^  ET 
you  ^oose  to  call  it  M,  were  real  it  would  be  cuy  (o  icadi  tli  cmt  or  apex,  and 
fnm  it  to  bx>V  dcum  ni>on  llie  wliole  ve«tcl  oitil  to  the  spot  we  tcfl  bctiintL  Nia 
'one  dftm  to  nuot  thnt  this  crest  luu  ever  beca  rcachetl,  but  It  can  only  be  iboocU  \ 
to  be  Men  nt  ai  dttuncc  Tbc  affarmt  rbe  MlitaHy  lti(I»  ibc  vessel  after  dial 
vcskI  hut  pa»iol  the  %'aiu»l:uiig  point  of  dbtsnce.  This  is  wtuit  you  thwdd  han  j 
been  tu^tatyoordenuatmiyiclwolifraubad  notafoolforyDumuter. 

In  consequence  of  Mr.  Hampden's  tnabiliiy  to  famish  me  with 
bnins,  I  am  compdled  to  coofcis  that  his  explanation  doei  not 
/cmove  my  difficulty.     Instead  of  its  being  impossible  to  reach 


I 


I 


St  or  apex  "  of  the  "  rise  "  or  "  cun'fi,"  behind  which  the  LuU 
of  the  vessel  has  disappeared,  tt  itccms  to  inc  tu  be  tiie  ca&ie&t  thiDg 
in  the  world  to  do.  Every  point  of  a  globe  b  the  "crest  or 
apex "  of  the  cun-e,  and  when  wc  have  followed  the  disappearing 
vessel  till  ive  can  see  it  again,  The  mast-Iiead  to  the  ift-atcr-linc,  wc 
shall  have  arrived  at  just  that  "crest  or  apex"  of  which  Mr. 
HamiKien  declares  tliai  no  one  dares  to  assert  that  it  has  ever  been 
readied ;  and  from  lliat  point  there  is  no  di^culty  in  looking  "  ii&wn 
upon  the  vessel,  and  to  the  spot  we  left  behind."  Mr.  Hampden 
talks  of  the  vessel  passing  the  vanishing  point ;  biit  the  vessel  never 
does  that.  It  does  not  die  away  into  a  speck,  which  speck  might, 
by  a  powerful  telescope,  be  resolved  into  a  whole  ship ;  it  drops 
avay  out  of  sight,  and  the  last  speck  is  the  masf-hcad,  which  no 
tdescope  can  resolve  into  anything  but  n  mast-head.  A  balloon,  on 
the  other  hand,  really  disappears  from  sight  at  the  vanisliing  point, 
and  so  long  as  there  is  a  speck  visible,  that  speck  represents  the 
-whole  balloon,  and  can  be  resolved  into  a  visible  whole  balloon 
ty  the  aid  of  the  telescope.  Mr.  Hampden,  I  regret  to  say,  is  of 
opinion  that,  until  the  question  of  tlic  shajjc  of  the  earth  is  settled, 
1  ought  not  to  go  on  providing  for  my  readers  such  comparatively 
unimportant  matter  as  that  which  occupies  the  pages  of  this  raagft- 
xine.     Thk  is  how  he  puts  it : — 

1  will  not  trouble  you  further  tlian  to  soy  that  till  this  Enbject  can  be  firvntl 
to  be  finally  and  incontroverLlbljr  se((le(5,  it  Is  wieitti  to  try  und  annuM!  x  set  of 
ignonnt  boobicf,  wbo  do  not  know  wlicihvr  Uiey  ilond  on  tbeir  tieads  or  their 
becUi  with  a  parcel  of  ully  tales  such  ts  our  mitg^iincs  are  fniU  of,  instttd  of 
declaring  that  every  other  saUJect  mtt^t  be  waUefl  litl  this  point  is  detemrined. 
1  woDdcr  how  men—"  educated  men  " — ore  nol  ashamed  to  walk  the  street*  or  to 
look  each  other  in  the  Taoc,  nol  knoning  at  the  entbof  fi^noo  feus  the  shape  of 
the  earth  on  which  they  live. 


■ 
I 

I 


In  a  brief  paragraph  in  tliese  pages  last  February,  FalstafTs  excla- 
mation, "  If  reasons  were  as  plenty  as  blackberries  I  would  give  no 
man  a  reason  on  compulsion,"  was  quoted  as  indirect  evidence  that, 
a  couple  of  centuries  ago,  az  was  pronounced  in  English  like  a,  as  in 
Ireland  at  the  present  lime,  seeing  that  Falstaff  probably  intended  a 
pun  canying  .as  a  second  meaning,  "  if  r,u'si/u  were  as  plenty  as 
blackberries,"  &c.  I  have  a  note  this  month  from  a  distant  reader, 
who  submits  that  even  if  a  pun  were  intended  the  case  for  the  Irish 
pronunciation  of  <-ti  in  England  two  hundred  years  a%o  «o\Ai  'ein\\it 
proved^  since  tn'thin  his  recollection  raisins  were  viiX^X-j  taC^^A 


I 


384  Tke  Gentieman's  Magazine. 

reesms,  "  ammonds  and  reesins  "  being  within  his  knowledge  a  cant 
tenn  for  "  almonds  and  raisins."  Having  relieved  his  mind  on  this 
subject,  my  correspondent  asks  me  if  "  A  Dog  and  his  Shadow," 
"Dear  Lady  Disdain,"  and  "The  Shadow  of  the  Sword  "do  not 
strike  me  as  objectionable  titles.  I  can  only  answer,  like  the  lady  in 
Mr.  Bumand's  "  Happy  Thoughts,"  with  the  monosyllable,  "  Why  ?  " 


A  GENTLEMAN  who  is  ambitious  of  contributing  poetry  to  the 
pages  of  the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  lays  down  a  new  condition, 
apart  from  which  he  will  not  even  condescend  to  let  me  see  his 
verses.  This  is  how  he  explains  his  position  :  "  I  could  occupy 
fifteen  or  sixteen  of  your  pages  with  a  poem  that  would  be  raid  if 
there  be  a  remnant  of  poetic  feeling  left  in  England,  or  in  the 
readers  of  your  Magazine ;  but  I  should  require  you  to  accept  the 
poem  on  my  own  recommendation.  I  wUl  tell  you  why  I  prefer  my 
own  recommendation.  Because  the  editorial  mind  is  so  uncertain 
in  its  decisions,  so  full  of  the  old  excuses  for  not  receiving  what  is 
offered,  that  the  production  of  an  angel  of  light  would  nm  the  risk 
of  the  waste-paper  basket.  Excuse  me  dealing  so  plainly  with  the 
question."  My  correspondent  has  placed  me  in  a  difficulty  which  I 
do  not  yet  see  my  way  out  of. 


GENTLEMAN'S  Magazine 


October,  1876. 


As  He  Comes  up  the  Stair. 

Vt  HELEN  MATHERS,  AUTHOR  OF  "COMIN*   THRO'  THE   RYE," 
"THE  TOKEN  OF  THE  SILVER  LILY."  &c. 


PART     II. 

CHAPTER  I. 

TWO     YEARS     ATTEa. 


lUSH  I  "  saiJ  Rose,  "  do  not  spoak  10  her — she  doe» 
not  even  see  us,"  and  stretchinjcf  out  her  hand,  she 
softly  drew  her  husband  back. 
^B  ^9^^^SS^  It  ^-as  Ninon's  slender  shape  that  came  fluttering  by, 
^beemingly  blown  on  its  onward  \ialii  by  itie  vagabond  evening  wind, 
^BC  listless,  so  shadowy,  so  irresponsive  did  she  appear,  a  mere 
^^lale  resemblance  to  the  fresh,  gay  young  beaut)*  that  had  passed 
this  way  in  all  the  flush  of  her  careless  youth  and  love  but  two 
short  years  ago. 

At  her  breast  and  in  her  hair  she  wore  a  knot  of  ribbons 
of  the  colour  that  Michael  had  always  loved  and  praised  yet 
deemed  not  half  so  richly  dyed  as  her  beautiful  faithful  eyes,  or 
one  half  so  soft  in  their  silken  gloss  as  the  sweet  red  lips  he  had 
so  often  kissed  .  .  .  and  she  wore  the  ribbons  still,  though  praise 
and  blame  were  surely  for  ever  over-past  from  (he  man  who  lay 
s<;piilchred  safely  in  the  treacherous  bosom  of  the  smiling,  sparkling 
sea  yonder. 

Moving  to  and  fro  in  her  daily  life  she  heeded  the  speech  of  no 
man,  nor  woman  either,  save  one. 
^L  A  harsh  word  would  have  been  no  more  lo  Viet  iVan  iV\Ti&  «wt» 
■      Vol.  X\7I.,  X.S.  s8;6.  C  C 


4 


a  blow  have  moved  her  no  more  than  a  caress;  looks  of  pity,  word*'] 
of  reproof,  were  alike  lost  upon  her,  and  naught  of  cither  good  or 
evil  could  touch  faer  in  the  isolation  of  her  sool. 

And  so  it  was  that  thejr  who  had  loved  her  not  in  bygone  days, 
having  held  her  in  but  light  esteem,  were  moved  even  to  tears  by 
the  dumb  anguish  of  her  eyes,  and  after  their  simple  fashion  would 
do  her  kindly  service,  and  evince  in  fifty  ways  their  sympathy  for  her 
sorrow ;  but  she  hccdml  Ihcm  not  one  whit,  nor  their  looks,  nur 
acts,  nor  words ;  the  world  to  her  was  full  of  shadows  that  came  and 
went,  went  and  came,  among  which  she  sought  in  vain  the 
loving,  breathing  shape  of  Michael,  her  lost  love. 

It  came  to  pass  after  a  while  that  the  Lynaway  folk  in  lookinif 
after  or  speaking  of  her  began  to  touch  the  forehead  signiticantly 
and  to  »3y  among  themselves  that  the  catastrophe  had  turned  her 
brain,  never  a  very  strong  one  at  the  best  nf  timers. 

What  else  could  he  supposed  of  a  woman  who  had  never 
been  seen  to  shed  a  single  tear  or  beard  to  utter  a  syllabic  concern- 
ing her  loss  to  any  living  creaturtf,  who  refused  to  believe  that  a 
dead  man  was  in  vcr}*  truth  dead,  but  spent  half  her  days  and  nights 
in  watching  for  his  return,  and  who  would  not  wear  a  vestige  of 
mourning  in  hononr  of  his  memory,  but  dressed  herself  always  in 
the  colours  that  he  had  preferred,  so  that  she  might  be  fair  in  bis 
eyes  at  whatever  moment  he  might  appear  P 

And  as  lime  went  by,  and  growing  weary  (as  do  all  people)  of 
bestowing  pity  where  it  is  notrctamod  in  the  small  change  of  grati- 
tude and  confidence,  they  came  to  believe  more  and  more  in  the  fact 
of  her  wits  being  astray,  and  less  and  less  in  the  intense  reality  and 
depth  of  her  suffering.  They  could  not  understand  the  existence 
of  anything,  whether  of  joy  or  sorrow,  thai  had  no  outward  form  of 
expression,  since  their  own  experiences  had  never  been  anything 
out  of  the  common  way;  they  did  not  know  that  great  suffering  is 
invariably  reticent — nay,  that  when  it  shall  have  reached  its 
extremest  limits  it  is  absolutely  silent,  and  incapable  of  words  or 
complaint. 

He  who  can  express  his  agony  with  suitable  force  and  vigour 
in  the  form  of  words  most  adapted  to  display  its  strength  retains 
too  much  the  masicry  over  his  own  emotions,  is  too  little  aban- 
doned 10  the  fury  of  them,  to  be  regarded  as  a  tnithful  and  natural 
exponent  of  humxm  pain  .  .  .  the  extremity  of  anguish  is  dumb 
since  no  mere  words  con  All  up  the  measure  of  what  it  endures  .  .  . 
while  Ihe  inarticulate  sounds  that  may  be  bcani  proceeding  from  a. 
soal  in  travail,  and  that  form  the  only  true  and  acttial  language  of 


I       Mil 


woe,  contain  in  tlicir  ancouth  strangL-nt-ss  a  meaning  that  no  actual 
.words,  however  well  chosen  and  aptly  uttered,  can  boast. 
^    "  See,"  saiJ  Rose,  and  her  voice  vra.%  still  hushed,  though  Ninon 
wa.5  Tar  out  of  hearing,  "  she  is  going  to  the  old  place  at  the  edge 
of  the  sea.  Hark  you,  Enoch,  it  lies  upon  me  sometimes  like  a  chill 

lat  some  evening  or  morning  we  shall  find  her  there — her  spirit 
looking  for  Michael  still,  but  Hlt  body  cold  and  lifaJ  f" 

She  shivered  <ind  pressed  more  closely  to  the  little  sleeping 
babe  that  lay  like  a  flower  on  her  breast,  Enoch's  child  and  hers. 
The  touch  of  those  rosy  lender  lips  had  smoothed  the  greater  part 
of  the  bitterness  out  of  her  heart ;  the  aching  void  that  she  had 
thought  no  lo\-c  save  Michael's  could  ever  fill  was  empty  no 
longer,  for  the  child  had  crept  into  and  filled  it,  drawing  father  and 
mother  together  as  the  former  ncviT  guessed,  knowing  not  how  far 
away  from  him  Rose  had  been  in  the  days  when  he  had  deemed  her 

ost  truly  and  entirely  his  own. 

Passionately  as  Rose  had  wept  for  Michael's  sudden  and  violent 
death,    her   grief   had    been  tempered    (ignobly   enough)   by  the 

ought  tliat  he  was  now  lost  for  ever  to  her  rival  Ninon. 

One  might  have  supposed  that  the  poor  girl's  miserable  fate 
would  soften  Rose's  heart  to  her.  but  with  that  curious  dislike  that 
one  woman  can  retain  for  another  long  after  the  man  who  caused 
it  is  dead  or  forgiven,  she  could  not  pardon  her  for  having  once 
possf^sed  Michael's  love.  Excusing  herself  to  her  own  heart,  she 
said  that  Ninon's  wrong-doing  did  but  bring  its  own  punish- 
ment; that  at  her  door,  and  hers  alone,  lay  Michaers  death; 
and  that  no  amount  of  after  suffering  or  shame  could  atone  for  her 
past  misconduct.  Nevertheless,  like  most  women  who  are  unpity- 
ing  in  thetr  eonclilsions,  she  could  not  bear  with  equanimity  the 
sight  of  the  working  out  of  the  doom,  and  often  with  that  half- 
hearted pity,  that  was  at  the  same  time  cntel  and  womanly,  she 
would  rise  from  her  bod  at  ntght  to  see  if  the  lone  watcher  held 
her  accustomed  vigil,  would  of^en  pause  by  day  to  speak  some  kindly 
words  that  might  have  been  the  harshest  upbraiding  for  aught  that 
Ninon  knew  or  cared. 

Enoch's  eyes,  following  his  wife's,  rested,  with  fear  and  trouble 
in  them,  upon  the  giri  concerning  whom  Michael  Winter  had 
asked  him  such  a  terrible  question  just  two  years  ago. 

"  Poor  lass  !  "  he  said,  his  breast  heaving  with  as  true  and  pitiful 
a  sigh   aa  ever  man  gave  at  sight  of  a  moving  spectacle.     "To 
see  her  as  she  looks  this  day,  an*  to  mind  what  s^c  'Kia  -^Vtw 
Michael  luv'd  her!    TwiU  ever  be  in  my  thougWte  rtvai  \  m\^S. 

c  c  I 


A 


The  Geftiietnan' s  Magazine, 

ha'  bin  more  quick  that  night,  an'  not  let  him  sec  I  had  my  douhts 
about  her,  but  at  the  very  moment  he  spoke  so  earnestly  one  oc 
two  things  corae  into  my  rainil,  an'  somehow  be  seemed  to  see 
it  an'  was  gone  in  a  moment  .  .  ." 

His  c)*cs  turned  back  from  that  lonely  figure  on  the  beach  below 
to  the  wife  and  child  beside  him.  and  the  contrast  of  his  own 
liappincss  with  the  fate  of  Michael,  whom  he  had  so  dt^rly  loved. 
smote  him  with  a  more  than  usual  sharpness  .  .  the  sweet  of  his 
own  life  as  set  against  the  bitterness  of  thai  other  ending  often 
seemed  to  him  as  a  cruel  disloralty  to  his  lost  friend  .  .  such 
faithful  ihouglits  have  true  friends  one  to  the  other  when  united  in 
the  bonds  of  an  affection  that  death  itself  cannot  break. 

"'Twas  not  yoii  that  did  the  mischief,"  said  Rose,  her  cheek 
turning  pale;  "Michael  had  speech  with  .^rartin  Strange  that 
night — one  of  the  men  swears  that  he  saw  them  standing  on  the 
plot  before  Michael's  cottage  together,  though  nobody  knows  what 
passed — nobody  ever  will  know." 

"  If  Martin  spoke  agen  the  girl  after  she  was  Michael's  wedded 
wife  'twas  a  coward's  trick,  an'  a  shameful  thing  to  do/'  said  Enoch, 
his  features  kindling  with  indignation.  "  If  he'd  got  aught  to 
say  agen  her  he  oughter  ha'  spoke  up  afore  the  ring  was  on  her 
iinger;  a  true  man  'ud  ha'  bitten  his  tongue  out  afore  he'd  spoke 
after." 

"But  supposing."  said  Rose,  looking  downward,  "that  Martin 
had  not  meant  to  speak,  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  (although 
he  loved  her  so  madly)  not  to  stand  between  her  and  Michael — 
would  he  have  been  bo  bad  and  cowardly  then,  Enoch  r  " 

"  Not  if  he  had  kept  to  't ;  hut  that  he  didn't  do,  my  dear." 

"I  have  been  thinking,"  said  Rose,  still  looking  downwards, 
"that  perhaps  be  was  not  so  bad  as  we  thought — that  having  found 
him  that  night,  Michavl  compelled  him  to  tell  tbe  whole  truth — 
and  if  so  ^^a^1in  wouldn't  have  been  80  much  to  blame." 

"  He  might  have  saved  the  lass's  credit  I'm  thinkin'  if  he'd  had  a 
mind,"  aaid  Enoch.  "  for  in  spite  o*  their  bein',  as  folks  said, 
lovers,  an'  there  bein'  scandal  about  the  girl,  I  never  will  believe 
that  there  was  real  harm  in  it,  or  more  than  a  girl's  bH  folly,  for 
she  has  an  inncrcent  face  o'  her  own,  my  dear,  an*  a  look  in  it  that 
I  ncvtrr  saw  on  a  sinfu'  one  yet." 

" Nevertheless,"  said  Rose,  "it  must  have  been  something  more 
than  folly  to  drive  Michael  away  from  her  like  that,  and  to  mokl 
bim  sav  to  her,  before  all  the  m^n — that  he  had  no  wife 

"Ay,"  said  Enoch,  "there's  no  denying  that  Michael  went 


K 


fe  Comes  up  ifu  Stair. 

fall  o*  the  belief  that  she  had  wronged  him,  but  I  shall  allcrs  think 
he  might  ha'  given  the  girl  a  chance  o'  clearin"  herself;  an'  mark 
you,  Kosc,  itierc  \\as  bct;n  known  sich  things  as  a  man  tellin*  a  lie 
to  prevent  another  man  from  getlin"  the  girl  he  loves ;  an'  who's  to 
tell  if  when  MiehacI  aslccd  Martin  for  the  truth,  that  bcin'  so 
tempted,  and  mad  wi'  love  an"  despair,  he  didn't  forget  his  honour 
an'  his  (rod,  an'  foul  his  Hps  with  a  black  lie  P" 

"But  what  made  you  ever  think  of  such  a  thing?"  cried  Rose, 
thoroughl)-  startled,  for  such  word»  as  these  had  never  before  fallen 
from  her  husband's  lips.  "What  reason  can  you  have  for  think- 
ing it,  Knoch  ?  " 

"  Do  ye  not  see  for  yerself,"  he  said,  "  the  change  that  has  come 

er  the  man  ?  Aye,  and  that  began  about  the  time  Michael  came 
home  an'  began  to  court  Ninon.  From  bein'  a  merry  outspoken 
chap,  wi*  his  heart  on  his  skcve,  so  that  all  might  see  it.  he  have 
come  by  bits  to  be  a  downcast,  miserable-looking  creature, 
avoidin'  everybody,  an'  seemin"  to  have  sich  a  bad  opinion  o"  himself 
as  other  folks  can't  choose  bat  have  the  same  o'  him  theirselvcs. 
Now,  it  lakes  summut  morc'n  common  trouble  to  bring  a  man  to  that 
state,  an*  'tis  not  in  natur*  for  him  as  is  sound  in  heart  an'  conscience 
to  become  sich  a  poor  thing — an'  for  no  visible  reason  neither. 
If  he'd  been  Ninon's  honest  lover  an'  give  her  up,  or  fought  for 
her  like  a  man  when  he  found  she  luv'd  Michael,  why  he'd 
have  had  naught  to  reproach  himself  wi'  when  Michael  died,  an'  be 
free  now  to  try  his  luck  wi'  her  again ;  'stead  o"  which  he  Jest 
follows  her  about  like  a  dog,  seemin'  not  to  expect  a  word  or  a 
look,  an'  that's  not  the  way  a  man  as  respcc's  himself  tries  to  win  a 
good  lass's  love,  my  dear." 

"Thai  is  true,"  said  Rose,  thoughtfully,  "and  if  it  .should  be 
thai 'twas  as  you  think,  then  'tis  accounted  for  that  Martin,  who 
stood  on  the  shore  when  the  boat  came  in  without  Michael,  shotild 
have  gone  on  like  a  madman,  "taj-inj;  that  'twas  impossible  Michael 
«raa  dead,  that  it  must  be  all  a  mistake;  and  then,  when  they  had 
convinced  him,  did  he  not  fling  himself  on  ihe  ground  at  Ninon's 
feet  imploring  her  forgiveness,  she  never  heeding  him  any  more 
than  if  he  had  been  a  stone  .'" 

"  If  ever,"  said  Enoch  sternly,  "  she  should  let  herself,  through 
bein"  lonely,  or  in  want  of  somebody  lo  care  for,  an*  set  store  by 
her,  she  should  give  her  promise  to  Martin,  'tis  a  worse  opinion 
than  I've  ever  had  o'  the  girl  before  that  I  should  have  that  day." 

"  Some  of  the  gossips  persist  in  it  that  she'll  marrj-  him  sooivtT  ox 
later,"  said  Rose;  "bat  I  don't  think  so  mysc\f.    "DiA  yoM%ttVQ"«, 


I 

J 


390  THU  GfnilamoH^s  I^agazimt, 

wbea  that  old  fool  Peur  said  to  her  the  other  Aaj,  '  TU  no  gocd 
crymg  ov«r  spOt  milk  for  c\'er,  Ninoo,  and  nobody  kaovs  betta 
ihan  Tovcseif  that  joa  can  take  a  new  husband  wbcncvcr  jw 
plcaec,'  bow  sbe  tamed  opon  him  with  all  the  vacant  look  gone  oat 
of  her  pale  &ce,  and  soch  a  horror  in  it  as  though  some  cnefoi 
a^j  thing'  had  come  anigh  her  r" 

**'Tis  plain  that  she's  got  som?  reason  for  tnislikiog  him."  IBJ 
Fff""^,  "thot^b  kbc's  loo  gentle  and  facart-broken  to  rail  at  him  or 
speak  her  mind,  for  there  never  was  anj*  strength  in  the  lass  save  is 
bcr  great  lo^i-e  for  Michael.  Bat  that  she  guesses  what  paatd 
between  the  men  that  night  I  bare  never  had  a  doubt." 

Martha  Nichol  came  hurrying  along  with  intelligence  of  sons 
•on  written  on  her  plain,  hard-fcatDred,  yet  not  unkindly  face. 

"  Hester  \\1nter  is  dying,"  she  said,  "  and  Tve  come  to  fetcb 
Ninon." 

At  that  moment  the  giil  turned  and  began  to  retrace  btf  tteps 
back  to  the  house. 

CHAPTER  n. 

THE    LAST  FRIESD. 

The  boshes  of  white  and  red  roses  had  blossomed  and  &M 
twice  since  the  day  of  Michael's  marriage,  and  the  time  of  Vaat 
third  flowering  was  even  now  as  N'in«i  passed  slowly  through  ibon 
to  her  home. 

She  heeded  not  their  saacy  pride  of  beauty  and  fragrance,  not 
ever  plocknl  one  fur  gladness  at  the  sight  or  scent  of  it ;  tkcjr 
were  to  her  as  iDsignilicant  portions  of  the  crael  and  heartless  whole 
that  men  and  women  and  alt  animate  and  inanimate  creation  made 
to  her  now,  that  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her  darling  as  atteriyis 
though  he  had  never  existed.  She  wondered  sometimes  in  her 
silent  helpless  fashion  if,  after  all.  she  herself  were  unnatural  nA 
strange  in  thus  rtmemberingt  when  it  was  apparently  in  the  nalmeof, 
all  things  living  to  forget. 

Even  his  mother  wept  no  longer  for  her  only  son  now  tliat  before 
eyes  the  gates  of  the  Eternal  City  were  opening  more  widely  day  by 
day,  since  in  the  looked  Tor  rapture  of  that  expected  greeting  no  teW 
of  earthly  tribulation  might  dare  intrude.  Only  upon  the  joy  md 
gladness  of  her  going  fell  the  shadow  of  poor  desolate  NioaO) 
whom  she  was  leaving  friendless  and  alone,  possessed,  motecverrir 
a  wild  and  fallacious  hope  that  couUl  not  but  be  producti^-e  of  biuci 
disappointment  in  Ihe  Tuturc  as  well  as  of  feverish  mirest  to  tbe 
present. 


{ 


Jk 


A 


I 


I 


it  was  strange  in  what  different  fashion  these  two  women,  united 
in  the  bonds  of  an  intense  love  for  Michael,  looked  forw-ard  to 
again  being  restored  to  hira.  To  one,  death  was  to  give  back  her 
treasure :  to  the  other,  the  reaper  was  as  a  frightful  enemy  who  had 
power  to  rend  from  her  the  fullihncni  of  a  desire  that  filled  her  to 
the  exclusion  of  every  other  idea,  thought,  or  wish ;  for  what  if 
Michael  returned  to  find  Iter  dead,  and  the  words  lying  for  ever 
dumb  upon  her  lips  that  she  but  lived  to  speak  ?  Would  not  (he  day 
of  intercession  go  by  for  ever,  while  to  the  end  of  all  time  he  would 
believe  that  she  had  deceived  him  ? 

Thai  he  was  not  dead  she  was  very  sure ;  he  breathed  not  one  air, 
fhc  another.  Hci  very  flesh  (she  thought)  would  have  crumbled 
to  dnst  had  Ait  gone  down  to  the  grave  or  the  deep,  and  there  was 
justice  neither  in  heaven  nor  in  earth  if  God  permitted  her  to  die 
before  he  had  returned. 

And  so  she  watched  for  iiim  always — in  dead  of  night,  at  break 
of  day,  in  heat  of  noon  and  cool  of  even — and  sooner  or  later, 
perhaps  not  for  a  long,  long  while — not  until  her  wits  had  departed 
and  she  lay  a-<lying — she  would  hear  the  sound  of  his  foot  on  the 
stair,  and  he  would  take  her  in  his  anus  once  again,  knowing  her  al 
last  for  the  innocent  faithful  Ninon  that  he  had  loved  so  long  ago. 

Her  faith  was  so  intense,  her  patience  so  absolute,  that  these  two 
past  years  of  waiting  seemed  but  a  small  matter  to  her,  and  in  no 
vay  made  her  fearful  or  doubtful  of  hi<i  ultimate  return.  And  so 
that  be  might  never  feel  that  he  was  shut  out  from  his  own  home, 
the  house  door  stood  open  night  and  day,  summer  and  winter,  and 
when  the  nights  were  dark  from  the  highest  chamber  shoac  a  lamp 
to  guide  his  footsteps  should  the  time  of  his  coming  be  after  the  snn 
bad  set.  His  hat  and  coat  still  hung  in  the  hall,  in  the  comer  where 
he  had  hec  i  wont  to  sit  of  evenings  was  set  his  favourite  chair,  and 
upon  a  little  table  hard  by  was  laid  an  open  book  with  a  sprig  of 
lavender  on  the  page,  as  though  at  any  moment  he  might  walk  in 
and  continue  his  reading  where  he  had  left  it  off. 

At  all  of  which  foolish,  loving  tokens  of  what  she  deemed  to  be  a 
sad  and  pitiful  craze  Hester  never  murmured,  trusting  in  time  and 
the  inevitable  certainly  it  must  bring  to  convince  the  girl  of  the  irre- 
parable nature  of  her  loss. 

The  way  in  which  it  befell  that  Kinon  and  Hester  Winter  dwelt 
together  was  in  this  wise:  it  had  come  to  the  ears  of  the  mother, 
following  quickly  on  the  news  of  her  son's  death,  how  that  Mrs. 
Levesque,  cold-hearted  yet  passionate,  and  resenting  with  all  the 
weakness  of  acowardJ>*  nature  the  disgrace  ttiat'NmoT\Vfc4\itou^t 


I 


I. 


M 


upon  herself  and  home,  had  in  her  fury  spoken  bad  and  and 
words  to  the  silent  and  despairing  girl.  and.  bidding  her  Tetvra 
never  again  to  the  threshold  to  which  she  had  brought  but  shutc 
and  scandal,  had  thrust  her  from  the  door.  Whereupon  Ninoa, 
scarce  heeding  her  and  all  unmoved,  had  returned  to  the  spot  bva 
whence  Enoch  had  led  her  away  half  an  hour  agt),  and  resaud 
the  stony  tearless  gaze  at  the  water  that  held  (they  told  her)  tlit 
body  that  yesterday  was  her  joynus,  loving  bridegroom. 

Then  it  was  that  Hester,  all  stiff  and  tired  as  she  was  with  hts 
sixty-five  years  of  toil  and  trouble,  arose  and  went  to  her.  and  iskjof 
no  questions,  uttering  no  reproaches,  moved  to  a  reiy  passioo  cS 
pity  by  that  young  and  terrible  face,  received  the  girl  into  hw 
loving  trust  and  affection,  and  this  1  am  sure  she  would  not  hxn 
done  had  she  not  found  something  in  her,  invisible  ,to  all  the  rest, 
that  satisfied  her  own  spotless  mind ;  for  who  shall  deny  thai  then 
exists  a  freemasonrv-  between  the  pure  in  heart,  as  between  tbOM 
that  are  corrupt  and  \ile  ?  With  the  one  as  with  the  other,  ipecdi 
is  not  necessary  for  a  perfect  understanding.  And  so,  in  the  houe 
that  had  been  Michael's,  but  now  by  the  law  was  N'inon's,  ibtj 
lived  together  in  love  and  friendship. 

It  had  chanced  very  soon  after  Michael's  death,  that  an  old  oufl 
who  had  been  good  to  Ninon  when  she  lived  in  Bayonne,  died,  aodl' 
bequeathed  to  her  so  much  money  as  sufficed  amply  for  the  nrnjit 
wants  of  the  daughter  and  mother-in-law.  Mrs.  Levesqne; 
0|^ressed,  for  all  her  coldness,  by  the  undisguised  scorn  asd 
contempt  of  the  Ljmaway  folk,  had  long  ago  departed  to  her 
husband's  people,  so  that  Kinon  was  utterly  alone  save  for  ooe 
friend,  and  this,  the  last  and  (after  Michael)  the  best,  was  even  no* 
hurr>'ing  away  from  the  girl  with  a  willing  gladness  that  with  b<i 
slow  dull  heart  she  sought  to  undersund,  yet  could  not  .  .  already 
upon  Hester's  faded  brow  and  lips  had  come  the  light  that 
shines  on  mortal  face  unless  reflected  from  the  sun  of  the  kin 
of  Heaven,  already  the  voices  of  those  around  her  sounded 
away  and  indistinct,  as  the  finer,  spiritual  ear  openctt  and  tlie  grots 
and  bodily  one  grew  dull  .  .  already  love,  pity,  memory  even,  vtt 
lading  out  in  the  full  glory  of  that  new  and  perfect  existence  that 
some  happy  few  begins  before  the  soul  has  taken  actual  wiaf, 
enabling  it  to  pass  from  life  to  immortality  without  any  consdoof 
and  painful  pause  at  the  intermediate  stage  of  death  .  .  and  Niooe. 
entering  from  that  piteous  pilgrimage  for  which  she  stoic  one  bott 
only  from  Hester's  side  day  by  day,  turned  colder  and  paler  as  she 
SAW  that  many  faces  c\o&cd  round  vVc  W&  vi'^cm,  ^vhich  her  motlMf 


I 


Iready     . 

gdoiM 
!d  tef 

Its 

Of  V 


lav,  heard  many  voices  whispering  the  one  word  that  will  so  certainty 
be  spoken  of  us  all,  and  drawing'  nearer,  saw  with  only  an  added 
oppression  at  her  numb  htiart  that  Hester  was  already  beyond 
the  reach  of  human  voice  or  prayer. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  kneeling  down  beside  her,  "are  you  too 
going  fTom  me  away,  as  Michael  did — without  one^word  ?" 

Her  voice,  scarce  higher  than  a  whisper,  yet  seemed  to  have 
power  to  call  back  the  spirit  that  hovered  on  the  very  threshold  of 
its  departure,  a  human,  tender  look  replaced  the  unspeakable  rap- 
tare  in  Hester's  open  eyes,  a  smile  played  for  a  moment  about  her 
lips,  the  hand  that  Ninon  held  stirred  with  ever  so  faint  and 
tremulous  a  motion, 

'*  Your  love  .  .  "  she  said,  "your  faithfu'  love  to  Michael  .  .  I'll 
no  forget."  .  ,  .  Then,  it  being  about  six  of  the  clock  and  she  so 

^beady  and  willing  to  go,  the  pale  king  touched  her  gently  oo  the 

^■icart,  and  she  departed. 

^^    A  STREAM  of  light  ponrcd  through   the  narrow  casement  of 
the  modest  parlour  set  aside  by  mine  host  fur  such  of  his  customers 

Hbs  could  afford  to  pay  for  the  luxury  of  smoking  thetr  pipes  and 

^drinking  their  grog  in  more  comfort  than  that  which  was  afforded 

i      by  the  public  bar. 

On  the  particular  evening  of  which  we  write  the  room  contained 

^.two  occupants  only.  Stephen  Prentice  and  William  Marly. 

^A    £ach  being  provided  with  a  full  glass  and  a  churchwarden  pipe, 

I      the;-  presented  the  solemnly  satisfied  appearance  of  men  who,  having 
reached  the  acme  of  comfort  and   bodily  ease,  are  yet  agreeably 


CHAPTER  HI. 

AT  TKE  SIOM  OF  THE   "GOLDEN  APPLE.* 


4 

I      reacneu  tne  acme  oi  comtori  ana   ooauy  ease,  are  yci  agreeauiy  i 

Kconsclous  that  they  arc  in  the  full  possession  of  their  faculties,  and  S 

Hiquito  equal  to  discussing  the  affairs  of  this  or  any  other  nation  with  ^M 

Vvagactty,  skill,  and  considerable  credit  to  themselves.    A  different  ^M 

* 


thing  this,  and  in  no  way  to  be  confounded  with,  the  objectless 
garrulity  of  the  man  whoso  tongue  waxes  lax  in  proportion  as  the 
consciousness  of  the  toss  of  bis  self-mastery  demoralises  him.  For, 
let  the  unwise  assert  what  they  will  of  the  thoughtless  readiness 
with  which  men  will  exceed  the  bounds  of  moderation,  1  will  aver 
that  none  save  an  habitual  drunkard  ever  crosses  the  boundary  that 
dividi-'S  modnration  from  excess  without  a  passing  twinge  or  thought 
of  self-cundemnation,  and  it  is  partly  the  knowledge  of  the  loss 
bis  sclf-reqwct  thai  impels  him  still  farther  oti  Kvs  br&VWVv  niv^  . 


i 


«oC         I 


The  Gentleman*!  Magastne. 

The  fact  that  most  men  have  aa  in^'eterate  tendency  t« 
tlieir  cups  is,  in  the  teeth  of  that  false  old  proverb  "j 
vtrilas,"  a  sufficiently  established  fact.  \Mien  the  key  of  the  toogot 
is  lost,  and  the  pnrtaU  uf  the  imagination  aru  left  unguarded,  cob- 
mouplace  Truth  appears  to  the  ro&v  dreams  of  the  revelleis  as  too 
sober  and  dull  a  deity  to  compel  Iheir  allegiance,  and  abandoniBg 
themselves  to  Fancy,  they  play  all  manner  of  frolics  under  her  fickle 
guidance,  although  even  as  a  person's  disposition  and  tniecbaiadet 
will  come  out  more  clearly  under  the  influence  of  wine  than  aaf 
other  known  test,  whether  of  prosperity,  adversity,  or  moHi) 
sufTerinj^.  the  peculiar  bent  of  bis  false  speaking  wiU  frequently  be 
a  prey  to  the  idiosyncracies  of  his  mind. 

Betrayed  into  this  digression  by  the  desire  of  making  patent,  U 
all  vhom  it  may  concern,  that  though  suf&ctentty  elevated  to  be 
more  tlian  usually  talkative,  Stephen  Prentice  and  William  Hari; 
might  yet  be  trusted  to  speak  trutli  if  they  chose  and  only  falsehood 
if  they  deliberately  willed  it,  let  us  listen  to  their  conversation  ai  it 
floats  audibly  enough  through  the  open  window,  although  tbeteii 
only  the  sea,  as  they  suppose,  to  hear  it. 

"  Reckon  you  wasn't  here  last  night.  Bill,  when  Martin  Stnnge 
come  in  ?*  said  Stephen,  a  big  broad-shouldered  man,  with  a  good 
expression  of  countenance,  filling  his  pipe  slowly  as  he  spoke. 

"  No,  but  I  heerd  on't.    Queer,  an'  no  mistake." 

Stephen  nodded. 

"  There  was  a  deal  o'  noise  an*  talking  goin'  on,"  he  said,  "  wha 
in  come  Martin,  as  white  as  a  sheet,  his  cj-es  bumin*  like  coals, >n' 
down  he  dasiies  his  money;  an'  says  he:  'The  best  you've  ffH, 
master,  and  plenty  o't,  too.  for  the  prattiest  lass  in  L^nava/* 
give  her  word  to  lake  me  for  her  husband  at  lastl*  K^tty- 
body  stared  at  him  ;  some  thought  he  was  drunk,  but  be  wom'l,  Ix 
was  just  mad  wi'  joy.  He  looked  round  et  us  all  as  if  he  wai 
waitin*  for  us  to  wish  'im  good  luck,  but  nobody  scd  a  word,  as'  it 
seemed  onnatral  and  unkind,  seein'  what  a  favourite  he  used  to  be 
wi'  us  all,  an'  that  not  so  long  ago.    But  old  Peter,  whose  toogne 

L can't  help  «-agging  in  an'  out  o'  season,  called  out :  '  An'  if  she  ffa> 
mean  to  marry  you,  Martin  Strange,  I'm  thinkin'  'twould  Ink 
saved  a  dual  o'  trouble  if  she'd  made  up  her  mind  as  well  fast  ts 
larst.'  Upon  which  Martin  bade  him  hold  his  tongue  for  a  block' 
head,  an'  swaggered  out  again.  Some  believed  'un,  some  didoX 
but  all  agreed  .as  they  hadn't  thought  it  o'  Ninon,  seein'  hot 
faithful  she'd  allers  seemed  to  Michael." 
Something — it  mighl  be  V)u\.  \>ve  >»t«a!i.\v  oC  \,W  evening  wind.  <" 


4 


i 


r 

1 

i 


I 


A%  He  Coitus  up  ike  Stair.  395 

the  flight  of  some  vagrant  animal  across  the  withered  September 
leaves — stirred  without  in  the  darkness,  unnoticed  by  either  of  the 
men  who  sat  within. 

"  Old  Peter  was  aboat  right,"  »id  William  Marly,  speaking 
slowly  and  with  grave  deliberation ;  "  if  it  19  to  be,  'tis  a  pity  il 
in't  at  fust  instead  of  a/  larst." 

"There  1  don't  agree  with  ye,"  said  Stephen,  with  spirit,  "an'  I 
don't  mind  laying  anything  reasonable  upon  it,  that  Ninon  niver 
marries  Martin  Strange  fti9t  or  larst ! " 

"Then  y(s  think  he  wm  tcllin'  a  He  last  night  •■"  said  William, 
stolidly.  "  An',  If  I  might  ax  tlic  qucstiun.  what  call  should  he  have 
br  to  do  that?" 

"  P'raps  he  deceived  himself,  or  Ninon  didn't  make  the  matter 
plain  to  'im ;  for  that  she  give  him  her  word  1  nivcr  will 
btlieve." 

"  Her  makin*  up  her  mind  to  marry  him,"  said  William,  over- 
looking Stepheit's  last  remark,  "  shows  her  to  be  a  young  woman  o' 
sense ;  an"  that  I  never  have  reckoned  her  till  now.  When  a 
female  gets  her  name  mixed  up  with  a  man's  in  folks'  mouths, 
whether  she  fancies  him  or  whether  she  don't,  there's  only  one 
respectable  course  open  to  that  female:  she  ought  to  marry  him. 
And  if  not  at  fust,  why  then  do  it  at  lar«t,  an'  with  the  bciit  grace 
you  can,  says  I." 

"  People  had  no  call  to  be  allcrs  couplin*  their  names  together 
as  tfaey  did."  said  Stephen,  settling  himself  more  comfortably  in  bis 
chair  to  argue  the  matter  out.  "  acein'  huw  they  was  kind  o'  cousins, 
an'  she  with  no  brothers  nor  stHtcrs,  nothin'  but  that  cross  tlt- 
naturcd  mother  o*  hers  to  speak  to.  An'  as  to  luvin'  Martin,  why 
she  niver  luv'd  nothin'  nor  nobody  till  she  saw  Michael.  1  mind  it 
as  if  'twas  yesterday,  how  when  Michael  came  back,  jest  as  he  set 
foot  on  shore,  he  looked  up  an'  saw  Ninon  standing  up  like  a 
flower  in  Ihe-sunshine,  wj'  the  lig^it  shinin'  on  the  red  o'  hor  lips 
an'  the  gowld  o'  her  hair,  an'  how  he  jest  kcp'  on,  lookin' — lookin', 
seein'  none  o'  us,  an'  we  all  knew  how  'twould  be." 

•'  She  ought  to  i)a'  kep'  to  Martin."  said  William,  who.  when- 
ever he  found  out  a  text  for  himself,  always  stuck  to  it  like  a  man. 
"A  lot  o'  courlinff  as  don't  lead  to  nothing,  ain't  ever  no  credit  to 
ihe  man  nor  the  maid,  an'  there  was  circumstances  in  this  per- 
licler  case  as  made  it  desimbic  as  they  should  marry ;  an'  nobody's 
better  aweer  o'  that  fact  than  you,  Stephen  Prentice." 

•'As  to  tbcm  circumstances,  as  you  calls  'em,"  said  Ste^hea 
"(though  in  my  *p\nion  yoa  might  ha'  found  a  lavtVex  '%\iOi\«x 


4 


L 


396 


The  Geniieman's  Mat 


word ;  but  there,  you  was  always  sicU  a  chap  for  showin'  yer  bit 
o'  cddication).  I  ha'  b^'cn  thinkin'  lately  as  how  p'raps  vre  was  all 
too  ready  to  think  evil  o'  that  matter  as  wc  knows  on,  an*  thai 
there  mil  ha'  been  another  side  lo'l,  as  'ud  oiake  all  the  diiference. 
Many  a  gal  a  bit  fooh&h  afore  she's  married  inakc^  a  good  wife 
arterwanls." 

*  'Tu-asn'l  a  qiieslton  o'  foolishness,"  said  William,  solemnly,  "  but 

0  character.  A  gal  may  be  foolish  up  to  a  certain  pint.  Stephen, 
but  beyond  that  pint  she  can't  go  without  getting  blown  upon. 
An'  p'raps  you  won't  be  after  denying  that  for  a  young  tass  to  go 
off  wi'  a  man  from  twelve  o'  the  clock  one  day,  to  five  o*  the  sane, 
the  next,  ain't  ciac'ly  the  kind  o"  conduc'  as  one  could  wish  to  scai 
in  one's  sister  or  daughter  (if  a  person  happened  to  lia'  got  one). 
An'  if  there  was  another  side  to  the  tale,  't«-a$  mighty  strange  aa 
nobody  ever  hccrd  on  it,  neither  from  Martin,  or  the  gal,  or  her 
mother,  but  people  was  jest  let  to  think  what  they  plcased^4n' 
it's  a  failing  o'  human  naiur*  that  when  it's  axed  lo  believe  either 
good  or  bad  o'  a  matter,  having  it  left  to  its  own  conscience  so  lo 
speak,  it  gineralty — I  may  say,  always — believes  the  bad." 

"  Because  human  natur"  has  got  a  nasty  way  o'  its  own  in  a  good 
many  respccs,"  said  Stephen,  "  ain't  no  reason  why  we  should  have 
if  too,  an'  I  shall  alters  say  that  I  b'lieve  Ninon  were  good,  for  all 
that  'pearances  was  so  dead  agcn  her.  An'  sccin'  how  careful  you 
was  to  stand  by  her,  William,  an'  how  you  dared  Peter  ivcr  to  say  a 
vord,  an*  couldn't  ha'  done  more  to  save  Ninon's  credit  if  she'd  ha' 
bin  ycr  own  sister,  why  it  have  alwa}-s  surprised  me  that  ye 
should  ha'  got  sich  a  bad  opinion  o*  her;  she  wum't  worth  all  that 
trouble  if  she  was  what  you  think." 

"Stephen,"  said  William,  with  deliberalion,  "you're  a  good- 
hcartrd  chap,  but  yon  can't  argifj- — il  ain't  in  your  lino.  When  I 
did  what  1  could  for  Ninon,  'twas  'cause  I  reckoned  her  but  young 
an'  betjdie&s,  and  that  if  as  how  there  was  harm  anywhcri-,  'twas 
Martin's  fault,  not  hers,  be  being  so  much  older  and  more  know- 
ledgable.  Being  over  soft-hearted  an'  a  bit  foolish  about  the  girl 
myself,  I  couldn't  abide  as  she  should  be  the  talk  o'  the  place  and 
picked  to  pieces  by  the  women,  so,  as  yoa  mind,  wc  jest  agreed  to 
hold  our  tongues,  and  frightened  that  old  fool  Peter  into  holding 
his,  though  I'm  much  mistook  if  be  didn't  drop  a  word  here,  an'  a 
word  there,  else  how  was  it  that  folks  began  for  to  look  qocerat 
her,  an'  the  women  to  nod  and  whisper  when  she  was  passing  by  i 
'Spoaingas  how  she  was  going  to  be  Martin's  wife  sooner  or  later. 

1  say,  I  was  minded  to  shield  her ;  but  arterward».  when  1  saw  at 


As  He  Comes  up  the  Siair. 


397 


she  an'  Michael  meant  courting.  I  took  a  bad  opinion  o'  her,  and 
had  a  mind  lo  warn  him ;  but  'lis  thankless  work  coming  hctwixl  a 
man  an'  his  sweetheart,  so  1  let  the  matter  bide.  Then  they  was 
married,  and  ue  all  know  the  ugly  end  o'  it ;  for  I  can't  but 
think  it  must  ha'  been  something  mortal  bad  to  drive  him  away 
from  her  that  night,  so  deep  in  love  with  her  as  he  was  an*  atl;  but 
it  didn't  surprise  me,  an',  if  you  mind,  I  said  to  ye  as  we  was 
coming  home  from  the  feast" 

"Ay I"  said  Stephen,  eagerly;  "an*  d'ye  know,  WiUiam,  it  have 
bin  on  my  mind  iver  since  that'twas  that  same  speech  o' yours  as  made 
all  the  mischief  that  night  ?  He  must  ha'  heard  or  been  told 
summut  to  go  off  like  that,  an'  you  an'  1  was  the  only  two  as  knowcd 
anything  to  lay  real  hold  on  agen  the  girl.  Rose  Nichol  'ud  ha' 
told  him  like  a  shot  if  she'd  a  knowed  ;  she  were  aliens  that  jealous 
o'  Ninon,  an'  Enoch,  bein'  sich  frens  wi'  him,  might  ha'  spoke, 
thinkin'  it  his  duty,  but  he  didn't  know  it ;  an'  Peter,  he  wotikln't 
ba' dared,  bcin*  sich  a  coward;  so  I'm  thinkin'  it  must  ha*  bin  you 
an'  mc  as  did  the  harm,  a  pair  o'  fools  as  wc  was  J" 

William  Marly,  grown  a  little  pale,  and  with  some  of  his  high 
manner  di&appeared,  took  a  good  long  pnll  at  his  glass  before 
making  reply. 

"  What  we  said  didn't  go  for  nothing,"  he  said  at  last,  "  least- 
ways it  wouldn't  haw  if  it  hadn't  been  tnie.  An'  if  there  was  any 
explanation  to  be  give*  of  that  slip  o'  Ninon's  wi*  Martin,  why 
couldn't  she  ha'  told  Michael  the  rights  nf  it,  an'  then,  if  he  did 
hear  stories,  he  could  ha' given 'em  the  lie  ?  Facks  is  facks,  tum 
'em  inside  out  as  you  may,  and  I  can't  but  think  as  Ninon  couldn't 
g^\t  a  right  account  o*  that  business,  or  she  'ud  ha'  done  it  to 
Michael.  Lord !  it  seems  but  yesterday  I  saw  her  standing  at  her 
mother's  door,  dressed  so  pretty  and  smart,  an'  says  she  to  mc : 
'I'm  jjoing  to  Marmot  this  afternoon,  William,  to  sec  the  pccp- 
abow  an*  all  the  sights  with  Martin,  an'  we  shall  have  to  step  out 
brisk,  an'  no  mistake,  if  we  want  to  get  home  before  dark.'  Only 
she  didn't  say  it  like  that,  b\it  in  her  funny  fashion,  an'  I  said  to  her, 
Mking  to  stop  and  talk  just  for  the  plciisun:  o'  looking  at  her:  'I 
s'pose  ye  feel  very  happy,  my  dear,  as  you're  going  along  wi* 
Martin .'''  She  looked  up  at  mc  withoat  a  bit  o'  a  blush  or  even 
a  smile  to  show  as  she  understood,  an'  said :  '  I  would  rather  ha* 
gone  wi'  Rose  and  Enoch  to-morrow,  but  Kfartin  was  so  set  upon 
goin' to-day.'  An' as  I  knew  slie  was  always  a  bit  too  ready  to  give  up 
her  own  way  to  other  people,  if  by  so  doing  she  could  please  'em, 
1  Md:    'Ail'   yHi'U  get   a  better  vlW  o"  your  own  some  day,' 


I 


to  find  a  ffveetfaewt  «f  ant  a  temper  o'  bcr  own,  wbcte 
«fll  jm  ftnd,  from  one  eod  o'  tbe  iracld  to  t'other,  a.  wife  as  hasa't 
the  siae?  Jest  tbcn  Martin  came  along,  and  the^r  weal  avir 
togetfaer.** 

VBEsm  joBBcAf  and  a^o  there  was  that  faint  sound  vUhooi. 
loo  vague,  too  nocfa  Kke  the  moaning  of  the  sea,  to  aiuaa  the 
attention  of  those  who  lalkcvi. 

**  AbcQt  five  o'dock  next  morning,  ft  being  foggy  and  raw  for  all 
that  'twas  in  the  moatb  of  March,  an'  jron  an'  me  going  down  to 
the  boats,  we  was  staitlcd  at  coming  face  to  face  wi'  Ninon  a' 
Maitin,  sbc  in  all  her  bits  of  finery  as  I'd  seen  her  in  the  isj 
before,  he  in  all  his  Sunday  best,  an*  tbcy  both  coming  along 
way  as  led  from  Marmot." 

•*  The   same   path  "ud   ha'   brougfai  'em  from   the  rocks," 
Stephen   doggedly,   "an'   if  they'd  come  by  the  short  mt  fl 
Marmot  they  might  well  ha*  got  cao^t  bjr  tbe  tide,  an'  if  SO  wi' 
the  (og  an*  all  they  might  ha*  been  hoars  there  through  tK>  fairit 
o*  theirs.     It  wouldn*t  ha'  bin  the  fust  time  a  Lynaway  man  has  got 
served  that  fashion.'* 

"A  tipsy  LjTiaway  man,  ye  mean,"  said  William  Jtarly,  *'BOl 
sober  one.  An*  d'ye  think  Martin  don't  know  well  enough 
the  tides  go  ?  If  they  come  back  the  beach  way  that  night  Martin 
at  least  knowcd  what  he  was  aboot  an'  ought  to  ha'  bKO 
ashamed  to  bring  her;  besides,  couldn't  he  ha' spoken  out  like i 
man  an*  explained  it,  an'  then  nobody  would  have  gone  for  to  say 
a  word  ?  " 

"Martin  didn't  come  well  oat  o*  it,"  said  Stephen,  shaking  hii 
head ;  "  he  most  ha'  known  reports  got  about,  an'  yet  he  woaldo't 
say    anjthing  one    way    or  t'other.     When  liiat  old  Peter  weni 
ferrctin'  about  an'  got  hold  o'  a  bit  o'  the  matter,  Martin  ought  to 
ha*  spoke  out  an'  cleared  the  girl  somehow,  even  if  he  had  to  tdl  a 
big  lie  or  two  to  do  !l.    Though  I  niver  will  believe  but  that  she 
was  good  an'  honest,  an'  it  comes  often  to  my  mind  how  tliai 
momin'    when   we   came    upon   'em   she    didn't    seem   any  wm 
ashamed  or  put  out  at  meetin'  us,   but  called  out  in  her  gif 
inncrccnt  way  'Good  momin*  to  you,  Stephen  Prentice  an'  William 
Marly,  an'  is  itnot  a  bad  an'  frjghtrul  fog?'  an'  seemed  to  be  goio'  ^ 
say  soraethin'  more,  but  Martin,  who  seemed  as  mad  as  mad  loba' 
met  us,  puHed  her  away  afore  she  could  say  another  word;  p'raps  fc* 
thought  we  should  s'posc  thej-'d   bin    walkin'  out  crly  in  the 
niojiijn',  not  knowin'  ihcy' d  beea  Vo  ^laioicft.  ««w  iil^ht.    ^oir.il 


I 

wi' 
rairit 

1 


Hpitcr 

fid. 

wi'ot 
Pboth 


dufi  bin  guilty  o*  wron^-doing  .in'  her  conscience  had  bin  sore, 

abe  niver  could  ha'  looked  at  us  thai  wtty  or  spukc  as  she  did  that 

momtn*.     An'  afterwards  when  I  met  her  agin,  there  wom't  a  sig^^ 

trouble  in  her  face,  ony  after  Michael  came  she  looked  at  us  so 

>itcouS'like  once  or  twice  as  if  she  was  sayin'  '  Don't  tell  Michael 

lon't  tell  Michael' — but  that  same  trouble  alters  seemed  to  mc 

to  be  Martin's  doin',  for  jest  at  the  first  she  was  as  happy  as  a  bird 

wi'oul  a  thought  o'  a  mistake  o'  any  kind  upon  her  mind ;  'twas  ony 

it  she'd  promised  Michael  that  she  got  to  look  so  pale  an' 

Hhercd." 

L         "If  Martin   threatened  Her,"  said  William  slowly,  "having  a 

^butin  hold  upon  her,  'twas  a  bad,  cowardly  thing  to  do.  an'  not 

^K>ne  as  Ninon  or  any  other  girl  with  a  spcrrit 'ud  be  likely  to  get 

^Kivcr,  so  I  can't  b'lievc  he  ever  did.  or  she  wouldn't  have  made  up 

lier  mind  to  take  him  now.     An'  miml  you,  he's  alwaj-s  loved  her 

from  first  to  last,  so,  seeing  as  how  Michael's  dead  and  gone,  and 

anything  'ud  be  better  for  the  poor  lass  than  the  life  she's  bin 

linog,    why  let's  drink,   mate,  to  the  health   of  Martin   Strange 

and  his  wife  as  is  lo  be — Xinon  I  "     Something  or  somebody  with- 

oot  uttered  a  low  exclamation  that  made  the  two  men  torn  and 

glance  simultaneously  towards  the  window. 

"  Who  goes  there  ? "  cried  William  Marly,  starting  up,  angr^'  a.s 

I      men  usually  arc  when  disagreeably  surprised,  and  cur3iag  himself 

for  a  fool  to  have  been  talking  with  such  freedom  by  an  open 

window.     Leaning  far  out  of   the   casement  and    repeating  his 

question  still  more  impatiently,  there  passed  out  of  the  darkness 

into  the  light,  from  the  light  merged  itself  imperceptibly  into  the 

^hdariiDess,  the  face,   pale  and  angry,  and  contorted  by  a  bleak 

^look  of  menace  and  despair,  of  Ninon  Winter's  lost  bridegroom, 

Michael. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

PART  OF  THE  TRUTH. 


r  TuKOL'GH  the  September  night  the  lamp  set  high  in   Ninon's 

I      chamber  shone  like  a  beacon  b<:forc  the  eyes  of  two  men  ^'ho 
approached  the  cottage  from  totally  opposite  directions. 

The  footfall  of  the  one,  uneven,  rapid,  arnl  impatient,  suj^i^esled 
a  person  dominated  by  a  strong  though  irrcsofute  impulse:  that 
of  the  other,  in  its  steady,  almost  noiseless  on-coming,  possessed 
the  ear  of  a  close  observer  a  relentless  purpose  by  no  means 
kely  to  be  baulked  of  its  fulfilment. 
Martin  Strange^  for  to  him   belonged   thai  ea^cT,  V%%V]  W.«s^, 


400  Tht  GeniifmatC s  Magazitu. 

crossing  thp  narrow  grass  plot  of  which  mention  has  been  mad^*] 
came  to  the  open  hotise-door  at  the  very  moment  when  Ninon, 
bearing  a  light  in  her  hand,  appeared  on  the  landing  and  b< 
slowly  to  descend  the  stairs. 

Simultaneously  a  man  entered  the  garden,  and  passing  without 
sound  over  the  damp  grass,  halted  by  the  beech  tree  that  as  neait] 
as  possible  faced  the  entrance  to  the  cottage. 

Advancing  to  the  door,  and  not  perceiving  Martin,  who,  obeying 
some  inexplicable  instinct,  had  drawn  baclt  into  the  shadow,  Ninon 
lifted  the  lamp  above  her  head,  and  gazed  intently  before  her  in  the 
direction  of  the  sea. 

She  wore  a  white  gown  of  some  clinging  stuff  that  followed  the 
curves  of  her  lovely,  youthful  shape,  brightened  at  breast  and 
elbow  with  blue,  and,  the  light  being  fully  concentrated  upon  her* 
she  shone  out  from  the  darkness  like  a  living  picture  framed  in 
ebony.  All  used  as  were  the  watchcra  to  her  beauly,  it  come  upon 
them  alike  as  a  pure  fresh  surprise,  as  are  mostly  God's  fairest, 
most  delicate  gifls  that  come  to  us  now  and  again  in  the  stress  and 
turmoil  of  our  passionate,  struggling  lives. 

The  girl's  tender,  innocent  lips  parted,  and  the  words  that  she 
uttered  fioated  out  like  a  caress  on  the  evening  atr. 

"To-night,"  she  said,  "and  will  he  not  come  to-night?  my  heart's 
delight  .  .  .  my  dcarc-st"  .  .  .  The  thought  stirring  so  sweetly  at 
her  heart  shone  through  her  e)*es  until  they  were  bright  and  clear 
as  stars,  her  pale  cheeks  glowed  to  the  richness  of  a  damask  rose: 
in  one  m.igic  moment  she  compassed  again  the  freshness  of  her 
youth,  the  undimmed  splendour  of  her  girlish  beauty,  and  whereas 
a  few  moments  ago  she  had  in  her  pallor  appeared  unsurpassable, 
there  was  between  now  and  then  the  difference  of  a  flower  irra- 
diated by  vivifying  sunshine,  and  the  same  when  from  it  is  with- 
drawn colour,  and  light,  and  warmth. 

Martin  Strange,  beholding  her  face,  hearkening  to  her  words  writh 
a  dizKv,  unreal  sense  of  amazement  and  rapture,  stepped  out  of  the 
shade  and  appeared  suddenly  before  her. 

What  was  the  woid  that  broke  from  her  lips  like  a  living  thing  of 
joy,  and  that  made  him  recoil  before  her  as  though  she  had  stricken 
him  to  the  heart,  while  that  other  listener  yonder  creeps  a  step 
nearer,  asking  himself  if  his  brain  has  turned  and  bis  senses  have'^ 
in  good  sooth  left  him  at  last  ? 

"No,"  said  Alartin  Strange,  "it  is  not  Michael." 

In  the  poor  wretch's  voice  was^the  utter  negation  of  despair,  and 
the  fgnts  fatuut  of  hope,  after  whose  gleam,  now  bright,  now  pile,  he 


I         ^»* 


I. 


As  He  Comts  up  the  Stair.  401 

danced  so  long  and  ihrough  such  deep  and  miry  paths  of  dU- 
nour,  died  out  at  once  and  for  evt-r,  in  thi:  vciy  moment  that 
c  cup  so  passionately  longed  for,  so  long  and  patiently  com- 
sed,  had  at  last  seemed  to  be  within  his  very  grasp. 
"  Ninon,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  sounded  stale  and  worthless 
even  in  his  own  uars,  "  have  ye  forgotten  liow  ycKterday,  'twas  hut 
yesterday,  you  hearkened  to  my  suit  an'  didn't  give  me  nay  when  I 
said  as  how  1  should  reckon  you'd  give  me  )'Our  promise  to  be  tny 
wife?" 

"  No,"  said  Ninon,  pale  and  wan,  "yoadid  ask  me,  but  I  did  say 
nor  yes  nor  no,  for  by  this  you  shall  have  known,  O!  yes  you  shall 
have  known,  that  not  any  other  reply  could  I  give  you  ever,  and  if 
you  did  think  that  because  I  said  not  no  to  you,  I  did  mean 
yes,  you  were  then  altogether  deceiving  yourself.  And  if  I  cotdd 
not  find  words  for  to  speak,  it  was  because  I  was  in  my  heart  so 
sorry  that  yon  should  to  mc  have  been  so  bad  a  friend." 

"  So  bad  a  friend  P"  he  repeated,  faltering,  "  an' how  could  I  ivet 
that  to  you,  Ninon,  when  I've  always  loved  you  so  dcspritly." 
"  You  did  mislead  mc,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  very  calm 
and  quiet.    "  I  am  not  so  young  and  foolish  now  as  I  did  use  to  be, 
and  I  do  sec  it  all  now,  and  caimot  help  but  for  to  despise  you." 

A  bat,  whirling  with  sudden  violence  against  the  lamp  Ninon  held, 
extinguished  the  flame,  so  that  the  darkness  swallowtril  up  the  sweet 
sorrowful  beauty  of  her  face  and   the  haggard,   sbsLmed   misery 

his. 

"  And  to  me  it  docs  not  seem  ever  that  you  did  truly  love  mc," 
e  went  on.  '■  Michael,  he  did  love  me,  but  not  you,  or  you  would 
ot  to  mc  ha%*e  brought  so  great  misfortunes.  When  first  I  did  come 
Lynawar  you  was  kind  and  good  to  me  always,  but  after  we  did  go 
Marmot,  ah  1 "  she  cried,  breaking  off  suddenly,  "  that  night  so 
fatal  and  unhappy!  you  did  change  to  mc,  and  when  Michael  came 
and  loved  mc  you  did  make  my  life  a  bad  thing  to  me  day  by  day, 
■o  that  I  was  in  fear  always,  for  you  did  say  to  me  'And  if  you  will 
not  love  and  marry  me  I  will  to  all  people  tell  the  story  of  Marmot, 
and  to  you  no  one^witl  ever  speak  again  if  it  shall  be  known,  the 
least  of  all  Michael  Winter,  who  is  your  shadow  always.'  And  - 
I  did  believe  you  because  you  were  to  mc  so  old  and  wise, 
and  I  did  know  nothing  of  your  Knglish  ways  and  thoughts, 
although  it  did  seem  strange  to  me  why  Michael  or  any  one  or  other 
pereon  should  be  angry  with  mc  for  what  was  not  never  any  fault  of 
mine ;  but  oh !  I  did  love  him  so  with  all  my  heart  that  it  was  ta 
me  as  death  that  he  should  scorn  and  convey  Uviu'aeW  awi^  Itwa 
Vol.  XVU.,  N.S.  t8;6.  Tj  v» 


4 


402  Tlie  Gentkfnan*  s  Magazine. 

me,  and  as  you  did  say  to  me  always  '  If  to  his  ears  shall  reach 
one  word  he  will  go  away  and  yoa  will  see  his  face  no  more,'  my 
life  to  me  was  one  fear,  from  the  one  day  to  the  other." 

For  a  moment  she  paused,  then  the  soft  voice  went  bravely  on 
again. 

"On  the  evening  before  my  wedding  that  was  to  be  you  did  follow 
me  to  the  ruins  of  the  old  chapel  and  say  '  Ninon,  it  is  but  a  fancy 
you  have  in  your  heart  for  Michael ;  to  me  belongs  your  love  since 
you  did  love  me  before  he  came,  and  will  you  not  come  away  with 
me  this  night,  and  I  will  be  good  and  faithful  to  you  always  ?'  But 
I  did  say  '  No—it  is  not  so,  you  was  my  friend  and  kind  to  me, 
but  of  love  for  you  I  did  never  have  one  thought.'  And  then  yoa  was 
as  one  who  is  mad,  and  cried  out  that  you  would  to  Michael  tell  all 
the  story,  and  on  my  knees  I  did  beseech  yoa  to  have  mercy,  and 
then  you  did  seem  ashamed,  and  bade  me  to  have  no  fear,  for  that 
between  Michael  and  me  you  would  not  come,  and  I  did  think  you 
kind  and  good,  for  I  was  not  then  so  quick  to  see  the  evil  and  con- 
demn it  as  now  I  am  become,  since  in  these  two  years  that  are  past 
I  have  been  thinking,  thinking  always,  and  you  do  seem  to  me  a 
thing  poor  and  to  be  despised  when  I  regard  you  by  the  side  of  my 
ever-dear  husband  Michael. 

"Perhaps  I  do  wrong  you  in  thinking  that  you  did  break  your  vow 
to  me  and  speak  evil  of  me  to  Michael  on  my  wedding  night,  for  it 
shall  be  possible  that  Stephen  Prentice  and  William  Marly,  who  did 
also  know,  betrayed  me,  though  to  me  it  is  not  likely,  since  they 
were  of  hearts  so  good,  that  of  me  they  could  not  have  thought 
evil." 

Did  the  girl  know  how  pitilessly  cruel  sounded  her  words  to  the 
man  who  had  been  honourable  and  honest  until  the  one  fatal 
temptation  of  his  life  overcame  him,  turning  all  things  good  in  him 
to  vileness  ? 

For  the  harshest  judgment  that  can  be  delivered  by  one  mortal 
upon  another  can  in  no  way  approach  in  severity  the  unspoken  con- 
demnation of  self  that  permeates 'the  soul  of  a  man  who  has  once 
been  virtuous  but  is  now  absolutely  abandoned  to  evil.  No  one  but 
himself  can  realise  the  horror  of  the  successive  stages  through 
which  he  passed  ere  he  committed  moral  suicide,  nor  can  tell  how 
eveiy  noble  quality,  every  good  impulse,  every  sterling  attribute  has^ 
in  passing  through  the  alchemy  of  sin,  been  transmuted  from  purest 
gold  to  most  worthless  dross ;  no  one  but  himself  is  able  to  lay 
side  by  side  the  pictures  of  what  he  once  was  and  what  he  now  is. 

"  And  so  it  was  ever/'  said  Ninon  «adly,  "  that  while  in  my  mind 


As  He  Contes  «/  iJu  Stair.  403 

,vc  such  thoughts  of  yoa,  it  has  seemed  to  me  a  bad  thing 
that  you  should  dare  to  bring  to  me  your  words  of  love,  for  if 
Michael  bad  died  that  night  it  is  his  murderer  that  you  would  have 
been.  Bat  when  to  mc  he  shall  rclum  1  will  tell  to  him  the  story 
—all,  and  he  will  know  that  poor  Ninon  sinned  against  him  never. 
And  though  to  wait  for  him  is  long  and  weary,  yet  tho  end  of  it 
will  come. 

"It  was  but  now  that  a  feeling  strange  and  jo^-oas  did  overcome 
me,  as  though  somewhere  my  darling  was  at  hand,  and  to  myself 
I  did  say  '  'I'o-night  ...  hi:  will  surely  come  to  mc  to-night '  .  .  . 
and  for  bis  sake  I  did  put  from  me  my  dress  of  black  for  one  such 
as  he  once  did  love  .  .  .  but  you,  you  do  still  seem  to  pass  always 
between  him  and  me."  .  .  . 
I  "He  will  niver  come  back,"  said  Martin,  gently,  "but  this  thing 
I  can  do  for  ye,  sweetheart,  that  ye  shall  niver  see  my  face  n6 
more.  .  .  Tiie  luv  thai  have  bin  my  pride  an'  my  joy,  my  curse  an' 
my  min,  shall  go  wi'  mc  where  I  go  this  night,  but  it  shall  be  a 
'Weariness  to  you,  Ninon,  niver  again.  An'  I  will  not  ask  ye  to 
forgive  me,  because  if  yc  hnowed  all  ye  would  haie  me  worse  than 
Ktb'  lowest  thing  as  crawls  upon  the  earth  this  ni;^ht ;  but  if  ye  could 
^5**^  promise  me  that  in  the  fuiur",  when  all  folksspeak  ill  o*  me  an' 
cast  3tonc:S  at  my  memory,  ye  would  just  say  to  yersclf  '  He  was 
bad,  an'  weak  an'  wicked,  an'  a  coward  an'  cruel  traitor  to  me,  but 

I  he  lav'd  me,  he  luv'd  me  always,  else  he  had  niver  so  sinned  forme, 
hn'  but  foe  one  black  temptation  he  might  ha'  lived  an'  died  honest.' 
|}o  yc  think  ye  could  promise  me  that,  my  dear,  an"  then  jest  say 
b  yer  own  sweet  voice  '  Good-bye,  Martin,  an*  CJod  bless  you '  ?  " 
I  "And  for  why  should  I  say  that?"  she  said,  troubled  at  hi& 
tone,  and  timidly  putting  out  her  band  to  touch  ins,  her  gentle 
heart  already  reproaching  her  for  haWng  been  unkind  to  him. 

He  drew  himself  away  from  her  touch  as  though  she  had  stung 
him.     "  A  mtirdercr's  hand  I  "  he  muttered  to  himself;  then  aloud 
he  said  gently, 
"  Would  ye  mind  saying  Ihcm  words,  Ninoo,  Just  ibem.  no  more 
J     nor  no  less?" 

Hi  a  little  fearful,  yet  following  the  bent  of  his  fancy,  and  wishful  to 
^Ttimour  him,  she  repeated  his  words  after  him,  "  (iood-bye,  Martin, 
and  ( ^od  bless  you  I " 

For  a  moment  he  stood  quite  still,  as  though  the  echo  of  her 
voice  still  lingered  in  his  cars;  then  he  raised  a  fold  of  the  dress 
the  wore  to  bis  lips,  and  went  away  without  another  word. 

DOS. 


i 


404 


The  Genilepiaff^^i^imf, 


CHAPTKR  V. 

THE  WaOLB  TRVTB. 

Martix  Straxge,  quitting  the  path  above  the  shingle  and 
striking  across  ihe  beach,  paused  to  listen  to  footsteps  that  seemed 
to  be  folIo«in|5  close  upon  his  own. 

A  superstitious  fear  seized  him  as  they  drew  nearer,  for  in  thom 
he  thought  he  rceogniscd  just  -such  a  decisive  trcad  as  had  been 
Michael  Winter's  in  his  lifetime  I  Quickly  recovering  Iiimsetf, 
however,  and  rendered  indifferent  to  either  spiritual  or  human 
interforence  by  the  resolve  that  animated  his  breast,  he  pushed 
steadily  on,  coming  ere  long  to  the  line  of  rocks  that  lay  belwectt' 
the  village  of  Lynaway  and  the  town  of  Marmot  up  yonder.  Tbeae 
rock^  liad  one  peculiarity  that  rendered  them  remarkable.  It  was 
this:  about  halfway  across  them,  and  two  feet  above  high-water 
mark,  lo  be  reached  only  by  clambering  on  the  detached  pieces  of 
rock  at  its  base,  was  a  large  circular  cave  cut  out  of  the  face  of 
the  gigantic  and  beetUng  cliff  that  in  some  places  literally  overhung 
the  sea. 

Whether  originally  used  by  smugglers,  or  carved  out  by  the  hand 
of  man  many  hundreds  of  years  ago,  no  Lynaway  or  Marmot  man 
could  teH  ;  but  of  one  thing  they  were  very  certain,  that  every  year 
it  was  the  mrans  of  saving  more  lives  than  one  from  drowning. 

For  the  coast  was  a  treacherous  one,  with  many  sharp  curves  and 
breaks,  so  that  he  who  was  not  well  acquainted  with  it  might  pursue 
bis  walk  indilTerentty  enough,  believing  himself  to  be  in  no  danger 
from  the  advancing  tide,  until  be  suddenly  discovered  that  be  was 
hemmed  in  at  all  points,  and  that  unless  he  knew  of  the  cave  and 
could  reach  it  in  lime,  a  certain  death  awaited  him.  Such  misfor- 
tunes were,  however,  rare,  as  but  few  strangers  ventured  on  so 
rough  a  path,  and  those  who  lived  hard  by  were  well  acquainted 
with  the  locality. 

Knowing  every  step  of  the  way,  and  making  neither  falter  nor 
stumble,  though  the  night  was  black  as  pitch,  Martin  came  at  last 
to  the  cave  of  which  1  have  spoken,  and,  climbing  into  it,  stood 
still  for  a  moment  in  an  attitude  of  surprise  and  doubt,  as  tliose 
other  fool.steps  paused,  as  his  had  done,  on  the  rocks  below. 

Id  another  moment  a  tnan  had  swung  himself  up,  and  was  stand- 
ing  beside  him  in  tlic  mouth  of  the  qkvc. 

One  of  those  liglilnJng  convictions  that  now  and  again  como  to 
us  mortals  from  wo  know  not  whence,  came  to  l^Iartin  then  tu 


As  Me  Comes  up  IXe  Staitr.  405 

he  drew  hack,  giddy  with  the  surprise,  yet  absolutely  without  fear; 
for  what  was  now  to  him  the  fniy  or  revenge  of  Michael  or  any 
Other  man  on  earth  ?  It  was  all  the  same  to  him  whether  death 
came  now,  or  an  hour  later,  only  he  thought  he  would  rather  go 
lit  of  the  world  at  his. own  time  and  in  his  own  fashion  .  .  and  he 
anted  no  other  sounds  to  intrude  upon  the  echoes  of  certain 
words  that  would  be  in  his  ears  at  the  moment  of  his  departure. 

"So  you  have  come  back,  Michael  Winter?"  ho  said,  quietly, 
;,•'  an'  we  a!l  made  $0  sore  ye  niver  would— all  of  us  but  one." 

"Dog!"  cried  Michael,  an  unspoken  jirayer  rising  in  his  heart 
at  strength  might  be  given  him  to  keep  his  hands  from  murder 
is  night.  "Do  not  dare  to  take  her  name  between  your  foul  lips 
■  .  01  Heavens!"  he  cried,  turning  aside,  "and  all  the  while 
e  was  innocent  .  .  .  innocent  .  .  .  Had  ye  a  heart  in  your 
Tcast,"  he  broke  forth,  and  in  his  voice,  strong  man  as  he  was, 
ere  almost  sounded  a  sob,  for  the  pity  of  it  all  had  nishcd  over 
in  one  overwhelming  thought,  that  for  a  moment  replaced  the 
inad  longing  for  revenge  with  a  passion  of  sorrow  and  unavoiding 
jegret,  "that  ye  could  play  such  a  black  part  to  her  and  to  me? 
d  if  I  had  died  that  night,  I  should  have  died,  not  knowing  .  .  . 
r  ever  and  ever  I  should  have  believed  her  to  be  what  t  might 
ve  known  she  never  was,  nor  ever  could  be  .  .  .  Thank  God  I" 
e  cried,  his  voice  ringing  out  clear  and  bold  (the  future  being  then 
in  his  thoughts,  not  the  past)  "that  the  life  I  cursed, and  hated, and 
would  have  joyed  to  part  with,  has  stayed  with  me  to  this  hoar,  for 
though  I  should  die  the  next,  1  should  take  with  me  the  knowledge 
of  my  girl's  spotless  purity  .  .  .  Hearken  I  when  I  fell  overboard, 
with  an  ugly  pistol  shot  in  my  side,  the  men  all  thought  that  I  sank, 
hut  'twas  not  so.  For  all  that  I  was  so  sick  of  my  lifL-,  I  would 
have  scorned  to  take  it,  so  I  just  struck  out  for  the  shore,  and  in 
the  darkness  and  confusion  found  it  easy  enough  to  hide  (for  I  was 
wishful  that  they  should  reckon  mc  dead),  and  though  1  was  stiff 
and  faint  with  loss  of  blood,  I  kept  my  senses  well  enough  till  the 
early  morning,  when  I  spied  a  ship  passing  by  at  no  great  distance. 
Making  such  signals  as  I  could,  and  the  cap' en  thinking  I  was  in 
danger  of  drowning,  he  ordered  a  boat  to  be  put  off  and  they  took 
me  on  board.  The  last  thing  1  remember  is  being  taken  over  the 
ship's  side;  when  ne.\t  I  came  to  myself  I  was  in  a  hospital  at 
Ponsmouth.  There  I  stayed  for  six  months,  between  life  and 
death;  recovered  somehow,  and  went  to  the  West  Indies.  'Twas 
on  my  last  voyage  that  one  night,  when  I  was  keeping  watch  on 
deck,  with  the  stars  and  sea  for  company,  It  came  acTO%%  ra*]  iSk\\^& 


' 


J 


406 


The  Gfttiletnan'  s  Afagazn 


in  a  sudden  Rash  that  ma^  be  you'd  totd  me  a  tie  that  night,  and  I 
said  to  myself  *  I'll  go  homo,  and  if  they're  fiiatricd,  my  girl  and 
Martin  Strange,  I'll  not  come  between  thcra:  but  if  they're  still 
apart,  I'll  go  to  her  and  have  the  whole'  truth  from  her 
own  lips*  .  .  .  and  this  night  i  have  had  it,  but  not  all — from 
youi  lying  tongue  I  will  drag  the  rest  I"  He  broke  off  suddenly. 
"Oh,  my  God!"  he  cried  in  a  terrible  vdice,  "only  a  lie- 
one  lie,  to  give  to  her  and  to  rac  two  sach  years  as  they  that  arc 
gone !  One  lie— only  one — and  he  could  livc-^/irr  with  the  know* 
ledge  of  what  he  had  done  always  before  him,  and  dare  to  offer  his 
love  to  the  wife  of  the  man  who  was,  so  far  as  he  knew,  mtirdercd 
hy  that  same  lie  I  And  this  is  the  man  that  1  have  called  friend  . .  . 
whose  word  I  bclievetl  before  the  whole  s^-cct  teaching  and  the  life 
and  ways  of  my  pure  and  gentle  girl,  who  had  power  to  drive  me 
forth,  an  outcast,  from  all  I  loved  and  held  dear  on -earth  .  .  . 
Man  I "  he  cried  fiercely,  •*  what  had  I  done  to  you,  what  had  she, 
that  you  should  deal  so  vilely  with  os  ?  Oh,  my  dear  ...  my  dear,** 
he  groaned,  as  he  leaned  against  the  stones  behind  him,  shaken 
by  love,  remorse,  joy,  and  a  mad  longing  for  revenge. 

"  I  luv'd  her,"  said  Martin,  sullenly,  "an'  you  stole  her  away  frftm 
me,  an'  the  loss  o'  her  drove  me  mad  an'  made  a  coward  an' a  beast 
o'  mc — that's  all. 

"When  fust  she  come  to  Lyruway  (I'll  tell  ye  the  whole  storj- 
o'  it,  ye'll  never  have  the  chance  o'  hearing  it  agen),  she  being 
my  cousin,  she  got  to  be  home-like  wi'  me,  an'  wasn't  shy  as  wf*  the 
other  lads,  an'  when  1  come  to  the  cottage  (for  her  mother  favoured 
me  a  bit,  an'  didn't  mislike  to  see  me  there)  N'inon  'ud  tiilk  away  to 
me  in  her  pretty,  gentle  way.  an*  it  seemed  to  me  that  ivciy  Axf  she 
growed  to  like  mc  a  bit  better,  but  I  said  to  myself  '  Til  wall 
a  while  longer;  I  won't  press  her  for  an  answer  j-ct,'  she  bcin'  so 
young  an'  gay,  with  no  thoughts  of  sich  things  as  marriage  an' 
lookin'  after  a  house,  an'  I  niver  scd  a  word  till  the  day  as  wc  went 
lo  Mannot." 

In  the  darkness  Michael  drew  nearer,  nearer  still,  and  listened 
intently. 

"  Niver  having  bin  there  before,  she  was  so  pleased  wi*  the 
tights,  an'  the  gran'  shops,  that  'twas  past  siit  o'clock  afore  we 
tamed  our  faces  round  to  go  towards  L^-naway.  But  as  bad  luck 
'od  have  il,  we  come  past  a  big  show  where  Uiey  was  acting  w? 
puppet-dolls,  an'  a  crowd  o'  people  going  in  an'  out,  an'  Ninon  she 
slopped  an'  said  '  Oh,  Martin,  I  niver  sec  anjihtng  like  that  In  all 
my  life.'    An'  seeing  her  face  so  wistful,  I  was  so  foolish  as  (o  take 


As  He  Conus  up  the  Siair. 


407 


C: 


I 
I 


though  I  knowt'd  all  the  while  as  'twas  wrong,  an'  that  I 
bcin'  so  much  older  than  she,  an'  wiser  in  the  ways  o'  the  world, 
ooghtn't  to  ha'  kep  her  oui  so  late,  or  give  in  to  her  trish. 

"I  mind  to  this  day  how  kIic  laRcd  at  ihc  njdiklous  figures  as 
danced  about  the  stage  on  strings,  an'  when  we  was  come  out  she 
put  her  little  hand  in  mine,  an' aed  she  'Oh.  Martin,  it  was  all 
butiful,  an'  thank  you  ivcr  so  for  such  a  treat.'  How  it  hap- 
pened I  shall  niver  know,  hut  on  looking  at  the  clock  I  mistook 
the  time,  and  thought  the  hour  were  eight  when  it  real!}*  were  nine, 
an'  knowing  thai  the  tide  wouldn't  be  in  till  halT-pasl  nine,  I  sed  to 
her  '  Will  you  he  afcarcd  to  come  home  the  beach  way,  Ninon,  as 
'twill  save  us  a  good  mile  an'  a  half  o'  the  way,  an'  it's  gutting  very 
to  be  abroad  i ' 

^She  wa$  not  at  all  afcarcd,  an'  so  we  set  out,  an'  the  way  being 

rough,  an'  the  night  so  dark,  I  got  her  to  put  her  hand  through 
my  arm,  an'  all  at  once,  afore  I  knowed  what  I  was  doing,  I'd  told 
her  how  I  luv'd  her,  an'  beggud  her  to  give  me  a  bit  promise  that 
ihe'd  be  my  wife  some  day. 

But  she  said,  iver  so  gently,  though  I  could  tell  she  was 
frightened,  an'  for  that  I  blamed  myself,  that  she.  liked  me 
dearly,  and  rcckcnd  mc  licr  good  friend,  but  she  had  no  love  to 
fgive  me  or  any  other  man. 

*'  ITie  words  was  scarcely  out  o'  her  lips  w  hen  a  cold  sweat  broke 
out  over  my  face,  for  what  should  I  hear  but  the  sea  rushing  an' 
roaring  nbom  the  base  o'  Smuggler's  Folly,  an'  I  knew  as  I  was  out 
in  my  reckoning,  that  the  tide  was  coming  in,  an'  that  if  we  couldn't 
get  to  the  tave  in  two  minutes  our  lives  wasn't  worth  the  snuff  0'  a 
candle. 

"  1  catchcd  N'inon  up  in  my  arms  an'  ran  like  mad,  and  crying  to 
her  not  to  be  frighted,  I  went  straight  into  the  water  that  corned  up 
to  my  waist,  an'  her  gown  was  all  wet  an*  dripping  when  we  got  to 
t'other  side.  'Twos  easier  work  to  git  to  the  cave,  an  I  lifted  her 
in,  and  fell  wild  wi'  mj-sclf  at  having  made  so  foolish  a  mistake 
about  the  tides,  an'  so  brought  all  this  trouble  on  the  poor  delicate 
lass,  for  I  knowed  that  we  should  be  kep  there  for  hours,  and 
hat  would  all  Lynaway  be  saying  about  us  the  while? 

"  I  look  off  my  coat  an'  wrapped  her  in  il,  she  being  so  bitter  cold, 
an*  then,  thinking  that  the  wall  was  but  hard  for  her  pretty  head 
(she  having  at  last  failed  off  sound  asleep),  I  sat  [lown  beside  her,  so 
as  she  could  rest  her  head  agcn  my  shoulder,  an'  so  she  slep  on  an* 
on,  an'  though  I  knowed  the  tide  was  out  again  I  hadn't  got  the 
heart  to  wake  her,  an'  'twas  such  a  joy  to  mc  lo  jual  5tc\  vV^  Voada 


L 


ail 

4 


o'  her  head  a^n  mc  .  .  .  yc  needn't  gnidgc  it  to  me,  Michael, 
for  'twas  the  fust  an'  the  only  lime,  an'  she  nivcr  knowed  ii,  for  I 
jest  moved  away  when  slic  was  waking.  She  looked  abou  all 
puzzled,  for  there  was  by  now  a  streak  o'  daylight,  an'  tbra  t  told. 
her  we  must  go  our  ways  home,  an'  lined  her  down  from  the  caw. 

"'Twas  an  unlucky  chance  as  brought  Stephen  Prentice 
William  Marly  to  meet  us  that  mom,  but  1  was  ho])ing  as  they'd' 
think  Ninon  an'  I'd  got  up  early  to  do  a  bit  o'  courting  out  walkittg. 
so  when  Ninon  wantc;d  to  stop  an'  tell  'em  all  about  it  I  pulled  her 
along  wi'  me,  an"  liade  her  nivcr  say  a  word  to  any  one,  not  e«n 
her  mother,  who  had  gone  away,  but  was  coming  back  in  the  artcT' 
noon,  for  tliough  she  was  so  innercent  an"  ignorant  o'  hann,  1 
knowed  what  folks'  tongues  is,  an'  1  didn't  want  'em  all  cUcking 
together  over  her  an'  me. 

"But  somehow,  artcr  that  night,  Ninon  was  nivcr  the  same  tome 
OS  she'd  bin  afore,  an*  nivcr  give  me  a  smile  or  a  welcome  when  1 
come  lo  the  cottage  ;  but  knowing  the  queer  ways  o'  girls,  I  didn't 
fret  over  it,  for  I  guessed  she'd  bin  a.  bil  Trighlcned  ai  (uH,  an'  I 
Btil!  think  that  she'd  ha'  grown  to  love  me  in  time,  if  so  be  as  ye 
hadn't  come  back  when  ye  did. 

"Well,  ye  came,  an  'twaa  all  over  vi'  me  then — I  wom'l  so  blind 
as  I  couldn't  see  that — but  it  seemed  hard,  bard,  and  I  went  hi 
an*  mad  over  the  loss  o'  her,  an'  all  the  good  in  me  was  turned 
bad,  an'  the  bad  to  worse  agen.  so  that  'twas  no  wonder,  as  I  oft 
sed  to  myself,  as  liow  she  couldn't  larn  to  luv  me.  Seeing  ber 
slip  away  from  me,  an'  with  my  bad  an'  wivked  heart  allers  full  o" 
her,  morning,  noon,  and  night,  there  come  into  my  head  a  cmd  an' 
cowardly  Ihoirght,  an'  when  next  I  come  across  her  alone  I  fed 
'An'  pray  have  you  told  Michael  Winter  that  you  was  my  sweetheart 
before  you  was  fats,  an'  that  you  stayed  away  with  mc  from  twdre 
o'clock  o'  one  day  to  five  o'  the  clock  the  next  ?'  '  No,'  she  seJ, 
'  because  you  did  make  me  promise  niver  to  tell  any  one,  but  I  with 
that  you  would  let  me,  as  I  do  not  desire  to  have  any  secret,  how- 
soever small,  from  him.'  They  was  jest  her  words,  an'  ihv 
looked  al  me  so  inncrcently  that  I  could  see  that  she  didn'i 
undemtand,  but  the  look  o'  her  sweet  face  ony  made  me  tlie 
madder  to  think  o'  what  I  had  lost ;  so  I  scd,  with  a  bad  lan(t 
o'  a  smile,  'An*  are  )'e  pretending  not  to  know,  Mistress  NiDW. 
that  if  I  was  to  go  to  Michael  an'  tell  him  that  he'd  niver  look  at  oi 
speak  to  ye  again?' 

"  She  got  as  white  as  snow,  for  she  had  come  so  to  believe  all  I 
*o?d  her,  an'  moreover  she  waa  »o  ij^ixtle  an'  hmnblc  always,  tW 


iiad 


As  He  Comes  up  the  Slair. 


409 


tt 


l?ie  ntver  set  up  her  'pin'on  'gainst  other  folks,  an'  God  forgive  me, 
•Ibat  whvn  1  saw  how  she  took  it,  I  couldn't  but  know  as  how  the 
^evil  had  put  a  weapon  in  my  hand,  if  only  I  was  so  base  an'  dis- 

nourable  as  to  use  it  ajfcn  her. 

"  I  sed  lo  her  *  Jest  you  go  and  tell  Michael  all  about  it,  and  sec 
if  he  don't  say  gooil-b/c  lo  yc,  for  mind  yc  he's  a  verj-  perticler  man 
about  wimmin,  on'  he'd  nivcr  look  at  one  as  anybody  could  up  an' 
sAy  a  word  to  him  about.'  An'  then  she  got  all  puzzled  and  at  sua, 
for  she  couldn't  see  how  she  war  to  blame,  an'  yet  if  I  told  her  she 
war,  why  then  it  must  be  so,  for  she  nivcr  could  argue,  an'  was  a 
child  in  all  lier  ways  and  thoughts,  wi'  not  so  much  knowledge  o* 
the  world  as  a  Marmot  girl  o'  ten  years  old  might  have." 

"  Coward  !"  burst  from  Michael's  lips  ;  "  and  knowing  her  to  be 
thus,  you  could  abuse  her  trust  and  so  torture  her?" 

"  I  have  told  ye,"  said  Martin,  quite  unmoved  by  this  outburst, 

that  my  heart  war  bad  an'  black,  an'  from  sich  a  heart  only  black 
deeds  could  come. 

"■  I  niver  met  her  artcr  that  but  I  give  her  a  look  or  a  side  word 
as  made  her  wince,  anil  once  agen  I  asked  her  if  she'd  told  you,  an' 
she  cried  iver  so  bitterly,  and  said  she  luv'd  you  far  too  well  to  run 

e  leastest  risk  o'  your  luvin'  her  one  bit  the  less  1 

"Time  went  on,  an'  the  night  afore  your  wedding  day  and  hers 
round,  an'  'twas  that  same  evening  I  folhjwed  her  to  the  old 
I  nijns.  and  catching  her  there  alone,  prayed  o'  her  that  she 
should  gi*'e  you  up  and  come  away  with  me,  I  being  mad  wi'  drink 
an'  folly,  an'  the  wicked  thought  pvc  to  me  by  the  verj'  Devil  him- 
self. I  scd  '  And  if  you  will  not  come,  Ninon,  I  will  tell  Michael  bad 
things  0'  you.  an'  lie  will  believe  them,  for  he  will  say,  "  An*  why 
did  you  not  tell  me  of  it  all  yersdf,  if  there  was  no  wrong  in  it, 
Ninon  ?"  '  I  seem  to  see  her  now  as  she  went  down  on  her  knees 
to  me,  prayin'  me  that  I  would  not  come  atween  her  an'  you. 
Something  touched  me  then,  and  shamed  me  through  an'  through, 
an'  I  promised  her,  meaning  to  keep  my  wcml." 

"  For  God's  sake,"  cried  Michael,  "get  to  the  end  of  this  infernal 
storj-,  ifyou  car,  before  1  have  your  blood  upon  my  hands."  ("  Oh  1 
my  dear  ...  my  dear  .  .  . ! "  he  moaned  to  himself.) 

"  There's  but  little  more  to  tell,"  said  Martin,  in  the  even,  uncon- 
cerned voice  of  one  who  relates  what  he  has  seen,  not  what  he  has 
done.  "  Ye  married  her,  and  1  bore  Ihc  sight ;  ye  took  her  home, 
an'  I  bore  to  see  that  also ;  but  something  drove  me  lo  go  into  your 
en,  to  give  one  look  at  the  house  as  held  ye  two  together,  not 

owing  ttut  ye  was  abroad  learning  things  thioug\\  \\v«  \)\3>;>\)\t^s^ 


4IO  The  GentUmatC s  Jlfagazin€. 

tongues  of  two  tipsy  fools- — things  as  should  send  ye  to  me  yrl  a 
question  on  your  lips  as  could  be  answered  in  just  one  little  word, 
yes  or  no. 

"  My  body  an'  soul  cried  out  agen  her  being  yours ;  the  loss  o' 
her  was  pressing  on  me  then  wi'  a  bitterness  I  had  niver  knowed 
before,  an*  the  awful  temptation  as  beset  me  then  none  can  im 
tell  .  .  .  An' I  told  ye  the  damnedest,  blackest  lie  that  iver  came  out 
o'  hell,  not  once,  but  twice  over. 

"O*  what  ye  sed  to  me,  or  what  I  did  arter  that,  I  have  niwr 
knowed  to  this  day,  but  the  next  thing  I  mind  was  standing  da 
the  shore  beside  Ninon,  watching  the  boat  come  back'  in  whid 
old  Peter  said  ye  had  gone  away.  The  words  was  trembliflg 
on  my  lips  that  I  should  say  to  ye  when  ye  touched  the  shore,  an' 
that  should  make  ye  reckon  me  the  vilest  wretch  alive,  yet  send  ye 
straight  to  the  arms  o'  your  wife,  when  the  boat  came  in  witkitt 
re,  an'  I  knew  that  I  was  as  guilty  o'  yer  death  as  though  I  had 
killed  ye  with  my  own  hand  that  night." 

"And  believing  in  my  death,"  cried  Michael,  scarcely  able  to 
articulate  through  the  intensity  of  the  emotions  that  swayed  him, 
"you  could  insult  her  with  the  offer  of  your  love,  the  foulest,  most 
sinful  passion  ever  inspired  by  aught  so  sweet  and  innocent  ?" 

"Ay,"  said  Martin,  "I  could  do  even  that.  I'd  ha'  gone  on 
luvin'  an'  sinning  for  her  for  ever  and  ever  if  I'd  thought  there  wai 
iver  a  chance  o'  winning  her  luv ;  but  she  told  me  to-night  as  sbe 
despised  me,  an'  when  a  gentle  creature  like  her  says  that,  th«e'i 
no  more  to  be  said  or  done. 

"An'  now  why  don't  ye  go  to  her  ?  She  sed  ye'd  come  to-nigiit, 
an  you've  come ;  but  ye  needn't  hurry,  there's  lots  o*  time  before 
ye,  years,  an'  after  a  bit  je'll  both  forget  alt  about  this  bit  time 
that's  gone. 

"  Have  ye  any  more  questions  to  ask  me  ?  If  not,  ye  were  wd! 
away,  for  I'm  growin'  tired  and  sleepy.  I  shall  sleep  soundly  an' 
well  to-night. 

"  Are  ye  there  still  ?  If  ye're  waiting  till  I  say  I'm  sony  for  all 
I've  done,  ye'll  wait  for  iver,  an*  don't  forget  that  I  luv'd  her,  lar'd 
her  always." 

At  the  same  moment  that  a  man,  slain  by  his  own  hand,  nwr- 
murs  in  dying  "  She  said  '  Good-bye,  Martin,  and  God  him  yeu  /'" 
Ninon  hears  the  sound  of  Michael's  footstep  "As  he  comes nptbe 
stair." 


■ 


Georgk  Eliot's  First  Romance. 
by  r.  e.  francillon, 

ACTHOX   or   "olympia:    a    kouancr,"    "a    ix>o    akd  mis   sBADorr," 

"UtOA'S  FOKTCMB,"   "  PKAKL  AND  KMRXAUl,"  "  BARL'S  Dttl*," 
" SnULAlmU   WITH   UOLU,"   JEC. 


0^m 


[HEN  a  great  artist,  whose  very  name  has  become: 

a  sure  note  of  excellence,  protiuccs  a  work  that 

the  great   fame-giving  majority  refuses  to  accept 

*i^.8^  on  the  sole  ground  that  it  is  his,  or  hets,  there 
is  a  matter  for  dall  congratulation.  Such  an  event  shows  that  past 
triarophs  have  been  neither  decreed  blindly  on  the  one  hand, 
nor  on  the  other  accepted  as  a  dispensation  from  the  daty  of 
making  evcrj*  new  work  a  new  and  original  title  to  future  laurels. 
And  such  an  event  is  the  prmluction  of  **  Daniel  Dcronda." 

The  author  herself  can  have  looked  for  no  immediate  fortune 
but  that  of  battle.  The  very  merits  of  the  book  are  precisely  the 
reverse  of  those  to  which  the  wide  part  of  her  fame  is  due.  Kot 
a  few  critics  have  already  said  that  "  Daniel  Dcronda"  is  not  likely 
to  extend  (leorge  Klioi's  reputation.  That  is  unqueaiionably  true— 
the  sympathies  to  which  it  appeals  are  not,  as  in  the  case  of  "  Adam 
Bcde,"  the  common  sympathies  of  all  the  world.  But  whether 
"Daniel  Deronda"  is  not  likely  to  hfigklm  her  reputation  is  an 
entirely  different  question,  and  will,  I  firmly  believe,  meet  with  a 
very  different  answer  when  certain  natural  and  perhaps  inevitable 
feelings  of  disappointment  have  passed  away,  and  her  two  genera- 
tions of  admiren  have  reconciled  themselves  to  seeing  in  her  not 
only  the  natural  historian  of  real  life,  whom  we  know  and  have 
known  for  twenty  years,  but  also  a  great  adept  in  the  larger  and 
Fuller  truth  of  romance,  whom  as  yet  we  have  only  just  begun 
to  know. 

"Daniel  Dcronda"  Is  essentially,  both  in  conception  and  in 
form,  a  Romance :  and  George  Kllot  has  not  only  never  written 
a  romance  before,  bm  is  herself,  by  the  uncompromising  realism 
of  her  former  works,  a  main  cause  for  the  discstecm  into  which 
romantic  fiction  has  fallen  —  a  discstecm  that  has  even  tamed 
the  tca-cnp  into  a  heroine  and  the  tea-spoon  into  a  hero. 
George  Eliot  should  be  the  hist  to  complain  that  the  inimi- 
table  realism  of    "Middlemarch"    has    thrown    a    cold    sKad« 


Tke  GenilematCs  Afagaztwu^ 


orer  the  troth  ard  wisdom  Ihat  borrow  ihc  fonn  or  lew 
bible  fiction  in  "  Daniel  Dcronda."  She  is  in  the  position  oft 
great  artist  who  having  achieved  glory  in  one  field  sets  oitf  to  cm- 
qncr  another.  The  world  is  not  prone  lo  believe  in  man^-aded 
genius :  one  soprcmacr  is  cnoaE;h  for  one  ntan. 

In  diort,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  George  Eliot's  nev  dokI 
has  caused  some  passing  disappointment  because  it  is  not  anotha 
"  Adam  Bcdc  "  or  "  Middlctnarch,"  and  not  bccaase  it  is  "  Daiutt 
Deronda."  The  first  criticism  of  a  book  is  sure  to  be  rounded  on 
acomparison  with  others.  Fortunately,  "  Daniel  Deronda"  lies  so 
far  outside  Geor:ge  Eliot's  other  works  in  ever}*  important  respect  as 
to  make  direct  comparison  impossible.  It  cannot  be  classed  as  fiM. 
or  second,  or  third,  or  last — tiiat  favourite  but  feeble  make-shift  for 
ctittcism,  as  if  any  book,  or  picture,  or  song  could  be  called  ynjoc 
in  itself  because  another  is  better,  or  better  because  anolbet  il 
worse.  I  briicve  that  "  Daniel  Dcronda  "  i:;  absolutely  good — ud 
the  whole  language  of  criticism  contains  no  stronger  form  of 
titcrar>-  creed.  Not  only  so,  but  I  believe  that  it  promises  to  secsie 
for  its  author  a  mote  slowly  growing,  perhaps  less  universal,  bv 
deeper  and  higher  fame  than  the  works  with  which  it  does  notenta 
into  n\-alT)-.  In  any  case  it  marks  an  era  in  the  career  of  the 
greatest  Engli&h  novelist  of  our  time.  It  is  as  much  a  first  norel, 
from  a  fresh  hand  and  mind,  as  if  no  scene  of  clerical  life  had  ever 
been  penned.  And,  as  such,  it  calls  for  more  special  criticism  era 
than  •' Middlemarch  " — the  crown  and  climax  of  the  series  that 
b^an  with  ihe  &ad  fortunes  of  the  Reverend  Amos  Barton.  It  is 
not  even  to  be  compared  with  "  Roinola" — that  was  no  romance  in 
the  sense  that  the  term  must  be  applied  to  "  Daniel  Deronda"  u 
the  key  to  it.s  place  and  nature. 

However  much  we  may  divide  and  subdivide,  there  arc  in 
only  two  distinct  orders  of  fiction.  Unfortunately,  while  we 
distinctive  name  for  the  one,  we  have  none  for  the  other.  Pefh 
the  difference  between  the  fiction  which  deals  with  ordtnaiy  or 
actual  things  and  people  and  that  which  deals  with  cxtraoidioai; 
things  and  people  is  so  marked  and  obvious  thai  no  names  arc  wanted 
to  express  it  any  more  than  a  scientific  term  is  needed  lo  eqwca* 
the  difierencc  between  an  cagic'and  a  phoenix.  The  important  |>otDt 
is  that  "Daniel  Deronda"  is  very  broadly  distinguishable  from  ^i 
its  predecessors  by  not  dealing  with  t>'pe8 — with  the  ordimij 
people  who  make  up  the  actual  world,  and  with  the  circunutanco, 
events,  characteristics,  and  passions  that  are  common  to  at  d- 
We  have  all   been  &o  accu^vomcd  lo  see  ourselves  and  all  ov 


ida"ii 
fa»eS 


€ 

^m[ 


George  Eliot  s  First  Romance. 

Stions  and    frit-nds   mirrored  and   dissected   that   wc   naturally 
expected  to  find  the  same  familiar  looking-glass  or  microscope  in 
Daniel  Dcronda."     It  is  small  consolation  to  a  plain  man,  who 
looks   Torwaid  to  the  ever-new  pleasure  of  examining  his  own 
phytograplif  to  be  prt-scntcd  with  the  portrait  of  a  stranger,  though 
the  stranger  may  be  handsomer  and  less  common  than  he.     Never- 
theless it  may  well  be  that  he  will  prize  the  picture  most  when  he 
is  in  the  mood  to  remember  that  tliu  world  docs  not  consist  wholly 
types,  and  that  the  artist  who  ignores  the  existence  of  even 
probable  exceptions  gives  a  very  inadequate,  nay,  a  very  false 
representation  of  the  nmfdie  humaine.      If  George  Eliot  can  be 
said  to  have  shown  any  st-rious  fault  as  an  artliit,  it  is  that  she  has 
hitherto  almost  timidly  kept  to  the  safe  ground  of  probability.    Of 
coarse  the  law  on  this  subject  \%  well  understood,  and  has  been 
clearly  laid  down  a  hundred  times.    Fiction  is  bound  by  certain 
rules  of  probability:    fact   by  none.     But  this  is  only  sound  law 
'here  what  is  called  realistic  fiction — the  novel  of   types  and 
lOera — is  concerned.    Applied  Lo  the  Romance,  it  is  not  sound 
,w.     Romance  is  the  form  of  fiction  which  grappSos  with   fact 
on  its  whole  ground,  and   deals  with   the  higher  and  wider 
ths— the  more  occult  wisdom— that  is  not  to  be  picked  up  by  the 
side  of  the  highway.     "This,  too,  is  probable,  according  to  that 
I      saying  of  Agathon:  *  it  is  a  part  of  probability  that  many  impro- 
^^bable  things  will  happen,'"  says   George  Eliot    herself,    quoting 
^■from  Aristotle.     "  It  is  easier  to  know  mankind  than  to  know  a 
^nian,"  she  quotes  from  Rochefoucauld.     And,  as  she  herself  says, 
"  Many  well-proved  facta  arc  d«k  to  the  avewgc  man,  even  con- 
cerning the  action  of  his  own  heart  and  the  structure  of  his  own 
retina."    But  this  is  not  the  line  upon  which   lihc  has  hitherto 
proceeded.     Her  practice  is  best  described  in  her  own  words — 
Hi"  Perhaps  poetry  and  romance  are  as  plentiful  as  ever  in  the  world 
^■except  for  those  phlegmatic  natures  who  I  suspect  would  in  any 
age  have  regarded  them  as  a  dull  form  of  erroneous  thinking. 
They  exist  very  easily  in  the  same  room  with  the  microscope  and 
even  in  railway  carriages:  what  banishes  ihem  is  the  vacuum  in 
gentlemen  and  lady  passengers."     That  %'acuimi  she  has  hitherto 
done  her  best  to  supply,  and  has  supplied  it  so  far  as  such  a  thing 
is  possible.    We  have  learned — and  we  are  apt  to  forget  how  ill  we 
knew  the  lesson  before  "Adam  lledc"  made  it.s  mark  upon  the 
hterature  of  the  century — that  poetry  and  romance  are  among  the 
chippings  of  a  carpenter's  workshop,  are  even  hovering  about  the 
j      whist-tables  of  a  Middlemarcb  drawing- room,  and  ate  tioV  ^Vraiv^ctA 


414  The  GenilcmatC  s  Atagazhu* 

to  the  sbopb  of  Holborn  pawnbrokers.  But  are  poctiy 
romance,  any  more  than  wil  and  wisdom,  to  be  looked  for  only  i 
studies  and  raiiwar  trains  ?  Wc  shall  find  plenty  of  al)  byuluDg 
the  train  for  St.  Oggs,  or  Treby  Magna,  or  paring  a  »iM  to 
^t^s.  Poyscr  of  Daiu  Fann,  or,  for  that  matter,  by  staj-ing  at  home 
among  our  own  relations  and  friends.  But  we  may  travel  Ut 
befotc  we  inaWc  the  acquaintance  of  a  complete  GwendolcB 
Harieth  or  an  entire  Henleigh  Mallinger  Grandcourt  in  the  iesli, 
though  wu  maj'  come  here  and  there  upon  scrap.<i  and  fragmcnU  of 
them — farther  still  before  meeting  a  Hebrew  prophet  ii]  a  second- 
hand  book-stall,  or  hearing  from  a  Frankfort  banker  the  Irgwrio 
of  wisdom  bequeathed  by  a  Daniel  Charisi.  And  wbj  should  *e 
not,  for  once  in  a  way,  travel  away  from  ourselves  ?  By  riskiaj  Ae 
immediate  disappointment  of  a  large  number  of  her  most  aidcni 
admirers,  George  Eliot  has  paid  us  a  higher  compliment  than  if 
»hc  had  given  us  another  Silas  Mamcr.  She  has  practicallr  refuted 
to  believe  the  common  libel,  upon  ua  who  read  fiction,  that  wc  ooty 
care  to  look  al  uur  own  photographs  and  to  be  told  what 
already  know. 

Gwendolen  Harleih  is  as  much  a  romance  heroine  as  UndiwT 
Wht'n  wc  are  first  introduced  to  her  across  the  green  table  w 
Leubrunn  we  are  not.  like  Peronda  himself,  puzzled  by  the  qncstion 
whether  the  good  or  the  evil  genius  was  dominant  in  her  eve^  Sb« 
is  so  far  from  being  a  "  She- Tito,"  as  one  excellent  critic,  showiajt 
less  discrimination  than  usnni,  has  called  her,  as  to  be  his  «<n 
opposite — Tito  Melema  not  only  had  a  soul,  but  was  an  absoloieh 
sout-haunted  man.     In  Gwendolen  wc  see  at  once  not  a  soul,  tivt 
only  the  possibility  of  a  soul — not  an  actual,    but    only  pfWsiUi^ 
battle-field    for   the   good    genius  and   the  evil.      The   faun  ut 
broadcloth,    in    Hawthorne's    "Transformation,"   is    more    ibae 
matched    by    this   nymph    with   the    ensemhU  Ju  trrptnt    in   »o^ 
green  and  silver.      Of  course    thus    far   Gwendolen    Harieth  b 
obWously  tj-pical:  just  as  there  are  many  Maggie  Tullivere  with 
grand  ready-made  souls  all    at   sea  among  mean,   narrow,  aod 
vulgar  surroundings,    so,    by  way    of    contrast,    are   there  maay 
Rosamond  Vincys  and  Gwendolen  Harlclhs.   The  bitter  tragerfjrof 
Rosamond  and  Lydgate  telts  how  one  of  these  soulless  creatvrt 
can  act  as  the  hasil  plant  to  which  the  Middlemarcb  surgeon  likciMl 
his  wife  in  after  times — "a  flower  that  flourished  wonderfully  on  i 
murdcrc<l  man's  brains."     That  story  demands  for  its  devclopBKBt 
nothing  but  the  plainest  and  simplest  realism  and  the  dgaert  vA 
most  CJiclusive  connection  with  ever)--day  things — the  smaller  an) 


^ 


George  Eliot*  s  First  Roittance. 


415 


stnmoner  the  better.    But,  suppose  it  bad  been  part  or  George 
iliot's  plan  to  endow  Rosamond  Vincy  or  lleltv  Sorrel  with  a  soul — 
Iht-  realistic,  cver)'-da)-  machinery  of  "  Adam  Bede  "  and  "  Middle- 
march  "  must  have  ignominiouslj'  broken  down.     Ii  would  have 
been  as  adequate  to  endow  Aunt  Pullet  herself  with  one.    The 
seeming  transformation  of  which  we  may  f^urty  and  without  fear  of 
ig  misunderstood — at  least  by  any  reader  of  "  Daniel  Derunda" 
Speak  as  the  birth  of  a  human  soul  is  a  possible  thing  in  everjr 
se,  but,  in  any  given  case,  absolutely  unHkely.    It  must  depend 
}Oii  outwani  circumstances,  and  iho  circumstaitces  must  ueces- 
sarily  be  of  an  exceptional  kind — either  unlikely  in  themselves,  or 
intensified  as  to  seem  unlikely.     That  is  lo  say,  it  demands  the 
ibounJed,  open  air  of   Romance  for  its  representation,  where 
Nature  may  be  seen  at  work  in  hc-r  rarer  abpecti;:  whrrc  things  arc 
not  as  we  all  see  them  every  day,  but  as  some  few  people  may  sec 
them  once  in  a  lifetime,  and  thus  become  exceptionally  wise  them- 
selves,  and,  if  they  impan  their  rare  experience,  make  others  wiser. 
jGwendolcn  in  St.  Oggs,  (Jwendolcn  in  Treby,  Gwendolen  in  Mid- 
Uemarch,  must  have  lived  and  died  "  with  her  gunpowder  hidden," 
Sir  Hugo  Mullinger  would  say:  with  her  goodness  always  at  that 
F-.Stagc  of  hardest  when  "it  lies  all  underground,  with  an  induter- 
minate  future  .  .  .  and  may  have  the  healthy  life  choked  out  of  it 
^by  a  particular  action  of  the  foul  land  which  rears  or  neighbours 
it."     To  make  the  original  bituution  more  striking,  thi;  difficulties 
of   Iransfomiation    more   insuperable,  the   creator  of   Gwendolen 
Harleth  has  shown  remorseless  cruelty  in  depriving  the  possible, 
ivisible  har\-est  of  every  chance  of  showing  a  single  blade.    She 
lb  not  only  "the  spoiled  child,"  but  is  narrowed  and  grooved  by 
[spoiling.     "To  be  protected  and  petted,  and  to  iiave  her  suscepti- 
bilities consulted  iu  everj-  detail,  had  gone  along  with  ber  food  and 
'clothing  an  matters   of  course   in    her  life."     She  was  not  high 
enough  placed  to  dream  of  playing  a  part  in  the  great  world,  or 
low  enough  to  have  a  share  in  the  battlei^  of  the  wide  one.    She 
bad  no  exceptional  powers  or  affections  or  passions  or  ambitions. 
Her  only  talents  were  an  eccentric  sort  of  beauty  that  wag  not 
likely  to  prove  marketable,  and  a  cold  sharp  tongue,  pointed  by  a 
scornful  wit  of  the  sort  that  frightuns  men  and  repels  women.    She 
is  only  a  bright  ripple  upon  a  dead  background.    Kot  one  of  her 
surroundings  can  possibly,  exce])t  in   a  negative   way,    have  the 
smallest  influence  upon  her  for  good  or  evil.     When  by  accident 
&be  comes  ia  contact  with  great  things,  as  in  the  person  of  Herr 
Ktcsmet.  her  thin  nature  shrivels  up :  she  is  nothiag,  a.i\d  uo^Wx^. 


4i6 


The  GmtUman's  Magazine. 


The  lively  impertinences  with  which  she  amused  herself  at  the 
expense  of  Tasso  and  Mrs.  Arrowpoint,  Jennings  and  young 
Clintock,  turn  into  mere  shafts  of  ill-temper  when  let  fly  in  a 
broader  horizon.  She  is  a  real  woman :  and  her  blank  horizon  is 
more  hopelessly,  even  more  tragically,  real  than  the  indefinite 
tragedy  which  opens  in  prospect  when  she  is  made  to  fainl,  with  a 
presentiment  of  conscience,  at  a  sadden  sight  of  the  picture  behind 
the  panel  at  00'endene.  It  is  more  pathetic  even  than  the  gross  and 
vulgar  surroundings  of  Maggie  Tultiver.  She  could  not  have 
found  openings  and  revelations  in  chance  looks  and  chance  words 
like  the  miller's  daughter.  Poor  Maggie's  soul  was  above  circom- 
stance:  circumstance  stood  to  poorer  Gwendolen  in  the  place  of  a 
aoul.  George  Eliot,  who  is  never  weary  of  dwelling  upon  the  all- 
importance  of  early  associations  in  developing  character,  and  of 
showing  how  "what  we  have  been  makes  us  what  we  are,"  has 
carefully  and  cxpUcilly  denied  her  even  the  remembrance  of  a  fixed 
dwelling.  "Pity,"  she  says,  "that  Offcndcnc  was  not  the  home 
of  Miss  Harlcth's  childhood,  or  endeared  to  her  by  family  memo- 
rtea  I  A  human  life,  1  think,  should  be  well  rooted  in  some  spot  of 
a  native  land  ...  a  spot  where  the  definlteucss  of  early  memories 
may  be  inwrought  with  aifcction.  ...  At  fjvc  years  old  mortals 
are  not  prepared  to  be  citizens  of  the  world,  to  be  stimulated  by 
abstract  nouns,  to  soar  above  preference  into  impartiality.  .  .  . 
The  best  introduction  to  astronomy  is  to  think  of  the  nighity 
bcavons  as  a  little  lot  of  stars  belonging  to  one's  own  homestead." 
Gwendolen  knew  but  of  one  star :  and  that  was  Gwendolen. 

The  whole  of  the  first  book  is  devoted  to  this  portrait  of 
Gwendolen — it  is  a  masterly  picture,  and,  in  spile  of  the  carefal  and 
even  exaggerated  extraction  from  her  life  of  all  positive  circum- 
stance, in  spite  of  the  extraordinary  difficulty  of  giving  life  to 
a  character  with  no  more  tangible  consistency  than  a  moonbeam, 
we  soon  grow  to  know  her  as  well  as  her  familiar  contra.-;t,  Maggie 
Tullivcr.  1  feel  tempted  to  say  as  well  as  we  know  the  blacksmith's 
boy  who  set  Rex  Gascoigne's  shoulder,  for  the  sake  of  dwelling 
upon  ihc  mani-ellous  skill  with  which  George  Eliot  has  more  than 
once  compressed  a  whole  character,  which  suggests  a  whole  histor>- 
apart  from  events,  into  a  sentence  or  two.  He  comes  and  goes, 
and  we  feel  as  if  be  bad  set  oar  shoulder,  instead  of  Rex 
Gascoigne's.  But  even  before  wo  can  guess  at  the  nature  of  the 
ttoiy,  beyond  a  su.«!picion  that  exceptional  sin,  or  exception^ 
sorrow,  beyond  common  experience,  is  needed  to  transform  the 
young  lady  of  OiTendcne  into  a  woman,  the  shadow  of  Grandconi 


George  EUoCs  First  Romance. 


417 


appears.    The  maimer  of  his  entr>-  is  striking  and  artistic.     He, 
so,   at   first   sight,    resembles  one  of   Gwendolen's   surrounding 
•nta — the  addition  of  a  cj-pher  to  a  hne  of  cj-phers.     It  is  onl>'  by 
egrees  that  he  assumes  the  rank  of  the  integer  before  them  that 
ves  them  value.     And,  as  he  develops,  he  also  develops  the  sig- 
ificance  of  Deronda.    Passages  from  George  Eliot's  works  could 
Jly  be  multiplied   to  show  how  intensely  she  regards  our  active 
irsonal  influence  upon  one  another  from  without,  the  blows,  so  to 
icafc,  given  and   taken   in  the  battle  of  life,  rather  than  sclf- 
tisciousness  or  self-cullure,  as  the   machinery   fur  growth   arid 
ange.      She  beliwes  in   the  mesmeric    effect    qI   personality. 
early  c^■ery  one  of  her  novels  contains  an  influencing  character, 
a  greater  or  less  degree — Dinah  Morris,  Edgar  Tr)'an,  Felix 
o!t,  Dorothea  Brooke,  Savonarola  arc  only  more  strongly  marked 
stances.  Natumllr.  in  novels  of  tj'pes  and  matiners,  such  personal 
flucnce  mostly  lakes  a  large  religious  or  social  form.  But  to  bring 
wendolen  Harlcth  into  relation  with  such  men  and  women  as 
CSC — the  experiment  would  be  absurd.    That  "  utterly  frustrated 
took,   as   if  some  confusing  potion  were  creeping  through  her 
system,"  still  repeats  itself,   1  am  sure,  though  she  is  married  to 
Rex  and  corresponds  with   Deronda,  whenever  she  feels  herself 
Handing  on  the  edge  of  an  idea^though  she  has  no  doubt  given 
ap  the  childish  experiment  of  trying  to  read  learned  books  in  order 
to  make  herself  wise.     Her  experiences  were  bound  to  be  special 
I       and  peculiarly  her  own:  "Souls,"  said  Dorothea  Brooke  to  her 
sister,   "  have  complexions  too :  what  will  suit  one  will  not  suit 
L      another."    And  so  happened  to  her  what  is  utterly  unlikely,  and 
^■ilhcrcrore  utterly  inadmissible  in  representations  of  t^'pical  life  and 
^^character  such  as  all  George  Eliot's  former  works  have  been  :  per- 
fectly necessary  for  the  complete  study  of  Gwendolen's  transforma- 
tion, antl  therefore  perfectly  legitimate  in    Romance,  which  studies 
human  nature  in  its  seeming  exceptions,  and  not  in  its  rules.     The 
end  is  exceptional :  the  machinery  must  he  exceptional  also.    And 
so  the  life  of  Gwendolen  Harleth   became  bound  up  with  that  of 
Henleigh  Grandcourt  on  the  one  hand  and  with  that  of  Daniel 
Oeronda  on  the  other. 

No  doubt  the  main  interest  atlat-hing  to  Deronda  and  Grandcourt 
is  their  relation  lo  Gwendolen.  Taken  apart  from  her,  and  from 
the  romance  of  her  destiny,  their  intensity  would  savour  of 
exaggeration.  But  nobody  would  dream  of  talking  about  exag- 
geration in  connection  with  the  fiend  and  the  angel  who,  in  the 
ell-known  picture,  arc  playing  at  chess  for  a  human  s.ov\.  "W.^^^ 
ot.  XVi/.,  U.S.  tS;6 


The  Gentleman*  s  Magazine. 


I 


are  rnanr  men  more  or  leas  like  Orandcourt,  or  ratber 
pans  of  GrandcoDit :  but  he,  taken  as  a  «-ho1e,  15  a 
fling  combination  of  all  the  qualities,  positive  and  negUtvc, 
fit— to  refer  again  to  the  harvest  simile — to  choke  out  the  gtim  "bj 
damage  bronpht  from  foulness  afar,"  just  as  her  earlier  life  rqwt- 
sentcd  the  evil  action  of  the  rearing  and  nei^hbounn){  land. 
George  EHot  has  shown  the  force  of  her  genius  by  turning  tlui 
necessary  dys4a:mon  into  an  actual  man,  and  by  bringing  him  iaU 
relation  with  Gwendolen  in  a  simple  and  natural  way.  that  seiveiW 
illustrate  both  his  character — apart  from  his  intended  use— tnd 
hers.  His  original  conception  seems  to  l>clong  to  a  speech  of  Mn. 
Tiansome  in  *'  Felix  Holt,"  "  A  woman's  low  is  alwars  frcaiikg 
into  fear.  She  n-ants  ever>*thing.  slie  is  secure  of  nothing.  Tlai 
girl  has  a  fioe  spirit — plenty  of  fire  and  pride  and  wit.  Men  Gkt 
such  capti\'es,  as  they  like  horses  that  champ  the  bit  and  paw  the 
ground  :  they  feel  more  triumph  in  their  masler^-.  What  is  theme 
of  a  woman's  will  P — if  she  tries,  she  doesn't  get  it,  and  she  cesMS 
to  be  loved.  God  was  cruel  when  he  made  women."  This  our- 
sided,  poetical  outburst  ia  translated  for  Gwendolen  into  plain  and 
bitter  prose-  She  required  to  he  cnished  out  of  her  verv  small  self 
before  she  could  expand  into  a  self  that  vras  larger:  and  as  snefai 
preliminary  process  was  a  labour  of  Hercules  we  ha\-e  a  Gisndcoon 
to  fulfil  the  labour.  One  of  the  many  |iassagcs  to  which  I  ha« 
already  referred  as  illustrating  Georgu  Eliot's  stress  upon  persood 
influence  is  quite  as  applicable  to  her  relations  with  her  hosband  as 
to  her  feelings  about  Deronda :  "  It  \%  one  of  the  secrets  ia  tlat 
change  of  mental  poise  which  has  been  fitly  namc<l  conversion  llBt 
to  many  among  us  neither  heaven  nor  earth  has  any  revelation  till 
some  personality  touches  theirs  with  a  peculiar  influence,  subdota; 
them  into  rcceptivenese.  It  had  been  Gwendolen's  habit  to  tbiak 
of  the  persons  around  her  as  stale  books,  too  familiar  to  be  interest- 
ing." Had  she  been  lef^  to  Grandcourl  alone,  only  half  the  proces 
of  trans formalion  could  have  been  possible  :  she  would  have  undw- 
gone  all  the  grinding  sorrow,  all  the  heart-breaking  self-contempt, 
and  all  the  longing  to  destroy  life  so  thai  she  might  destroy  btf 
bonds ;  but  she  would  have  escaped  from  all  this  in  time— ber  wo' 
would  have  been  strangled  in  its  birth  :  she  would  have  ended  bj 
becoming  assimilated  more  and  more  to  her  tyrant,  and  would  tat* 
been  worse  than  at  first  because,  instead  nf  ha\ing  no  sonltf  aK 
she  would  have  had  the  soul  of  a  slave.  That  would  not  have  I 
transformation,  but  degradation.  It  is  at  this  point  we  see 
force  of  the  ttlie-pagc  toowo, 


George  EiioCs  First  Romance. 


419 


For  the  soulless  n)-mph  is  growing  a  soul  now,  and  it  is  a  soul  lo  be 

fuared.     When  she  saw  Mrs.^GIasher  riding  in  the  park,  unrecog- 

msed  \>y  Gtandcoiut,  "  Wliat  possible  release  could  t]iL:rc  be  for  ttcr 

from  lhi$  bated  vantage-j^round,  which  yet  she  dared  not  quit,  any 

more  than  if  fire  had  been  raining  outside  it  ?     What  release,  hut 

death  ?     N'ot  her  own  death.     Gwendolen  was  not  a  woman  who 

could  usii}-  ttiink  of  her  owu  dealli  as  a  near  reality,  or  front  fur 

hcnelf  the  dark  entrance  on  the  ontried  and  invisible.    It  seemed 

more  possible  thalGrandcourt  should  die:  and  yet  not  hkely.    The 

power  of  tyranny  in  him  seemed  a  power  of  living  in  the  presence 

of  any  wish  that  he  should  die.     The  thought  that  hii>  deatli  was 

the  only  possible  deliverance  for  her  was  one  with  the  thought  that 

deliverance  would  never  come  ;  the  double  deliierance  from  the 

injury  with  which  other  beings  might  reproach  her,  and  from  the 

3-oke  she  had  brought  on  her  own  neck.     Nol     She  foresaw  him 

aln-ays  living,  and  her  own  life  dominated  by  him;  the  'alwa^-s'  of 

her  young  experience  not  stretching  beyond  tlie  few  immediate 

I     yiiars  that  seemed  immeasurably  long  with  her  pa$sionatc  weariness. 

^H^e  thought  of  his  cljnng  would  not  subsist :  it  turned  as  with  a 

^Bdream -change  into  the  terror  that  she  should  die  wi;b  his  throttling 

^■fingers  on  her  neck  avenging  thai  thought.    Fantasies  moved  within 

her  like  ghosts,  making  no  bttak  in  her  more  aikn&wUdged  conjtiaustuss 

and  fiiuiiHg  no  Ghitruciion  in  1/ :  dark  rays  doing  thtir  work  invitibly  in 

tht  broad  Ugkt."    1  have  emphasised  these  last  words  because  they 

^kxptess  directly,  and  not  merely  suggest,  the  part  that  Grandcourt 

^■«  intended  lo  play  in  what  promises  to  be  her  soul's  tragedy. 

Of  course  Deronda's  part,  if  we  remember  the  depth  and  subtlety 
of  the  drama  that  is  being  played,  is  obvious.  It  was  necessary 
that  we  should  perceive  the  action  of  the  good  as  distinctly  and 
intensely  as  that  of  the  evil.  And  in.  incarnating  the  good  inRucnce, 
so  to  speak,  I  do  not  think  that  George  Eliot  has  altogether  suc- 
ceeded so  completely  in  enlisting  our  s>Tnp.-uhics  as  usual.  It  is 
iroc  the  difficulties  of  the  task  were  almost  insurmountable.  We 
know  what  men  in  general  arc  apt  to  call  men  in  particular  who 
talk  with  never  failing  wisdom,  and  in  whose  armour  of  virtue  there 
is  no  (law,  Wc  know  also  what  women  for  the  most  pan  think  of 
such  men,  and  therefore  we  know  what  novel  readers  in  general 
will  say  and  think  of  Gwendolen's  good  angel.  1  must  own  to  a 
feeling  of  relief  when  Deronda  was  conscious  of  a  wish  to  horac- 
^^phip  Grandcourt ;  it  was  a  touch  of  good  warm-blooded  sjin- 
^ppatbetic  humanity.  However,  the  sneer  is  a  very  cheap  and  not 
very  effective  form  of  criticism.    Nobody  dreams  oC  sTveeuti^  a.>.  ^.Vt 

f.  t  a 


The  Geniiematis  Magazine, 

Red  Cross  Knighl,  in  another  romance,  or  at  Bayard,  tarn  ftur  tt 
sans  rtpnxht,  in  romantic  bistoi^-.  Nobody  has  ever  suggested  that 
ideal  beauly  of  soul  differs  from  ideal  beaoty  of  face  in  not  being 
worth  painting.  It  w  one  of  the  highest  privileges  of  the  romance 
to  idealise :  to  show  what,  under  intensely  favouriog  circumstances 
of  nature  or  culture,  may  be  the  best  goodness  as  well  as  Lhe  worst 
wickedness  of  a  man.  If  it  is  true  that  we  needs  must  lore  the 
highest  when  we  see  it,  it  is  well  that  wc  should  have  an  opportunitf 
of  seeing  the  hif^hrst  from  time  to  time.  In  relation  to  Gwendolen. 
it  is  not  so  much  with  Deronda  himself  as  with  the  v,-isdom  and 
the  goodness  of  Deronda  that  wc  are  concerned.  But  he  justly 
gives  his  name  to  the  novel  in  so  far  as  ht,  if  not  the  principal 
actor  in  any  drama,  is  a  moving  influence  in  three  dramas  which 
are  only  very  subtly  and  indirectly  connected — the  stories  of 
Gwendolen,  of  Mirah,  and  Mordccai. 

Deronda  is  certainly  not  one  of  those  who  find  nothing  but  bar- 
renness from  Dan  to  Becrshcba.  There  are  persons  in  real  life  who 
cannot  walk  from  CharingCross  to  Temple  Bar  and  not  meet  with  an 
adventure  for  every  flag-stone:  and  he  is  one  of  these  people.  If 
Gwendolen  is  a  nineteenth  centar>'  nymph,  he  is  a  nineteenth  cea- 
tuiy  knight  errant,  and  a  fortunate  one.  He  is  not,  however,  unique 
or  even  very  exceptional  thus  far,  and  there  is  a  passage  in  Chapter 
XXXII.~too  long  for  quoting  at  length,  and  too  complete  for 
spoiling  by  mutilation— which  paints  him  in  detail,  and  which  ought 
to  place  him  at  once  and  for  all  in  sj-mpathetic  rapport  with  us,  if 
there  be  any  power  in  words  to  keep  our  attention  fixed  toanjthing 
but  incidents  and  conversations.  At  any  rate,  the  remarkable  cir> 
cumstances  of  his  birth  and  bringing  up,  his  harmonious  nature,  his 
unbounded  and  all-sided  sympathies,  and  by  no  means  least,  bis 
wonderful  talent  for  finding  adventures  at  every  turning,  from  his 
cradle  to  his  marriage,  qualify  him  to  serve  as  the  conductor  whom 
we  need  to  lead  us,  by  natural  steps,  into  the  wide  air  of  romance 
which  Gwendolen  must  breathe  if  she  is  not  to  die.  Through  his 
eyes,  which  do  not  look  upon  common  things  commonly,  we  see 
that  romance,  the  natural  histOT}-  of  exceptions  and  intensities, 
is  as  true  as  reality,  and  more  true  than  much  that  seems  real.  It 
is  very  remarkable  that,  in  dealing  with  him,  George  Etiot  has 
not  only  adopted  the  spirit  of  romance  but  its  forms — nay, 
ol^en  its  common  and  conventional  forms,  and  that  with  deli- 
berate preference  and  intention.  Many  of  her  novels  contain 
a  romantic  Incident,  and  some  introduce  many,  but  that  U  a  dif- 
ferent thing.    More  wo  have  the  romantic  framework  made  up  of 


ieorg^TwF^^rst  Romatut, 


421 


Ue  incidents  not  very  anlikely  in  themselves,  but  which  wheD 
or  rather  multiplied  together  make  up  a  verj-  unlikely  whole, 
WTiat  is  the  "plot"  of  Daniel  Deronda's  liiston-,  if  it  is  con- 
densed after  the  manner  of  hurried  reviewers?  A  foreign  Jewish 
•singer  wishes  that  her  only  child  may  be  spared  what  she  considers 
the  mijMiries  of  his  race  and  become  an  English  gentleman.  He  is 
brought  up  in  luxury  and  kindness,  but  in  ignorance  of  bis  race 
and  parentage,  by  a  baronet  who  is  his  mother's  rejected  lover.  He 
saves  from  suicide  a  beautiful  young  girl — herself  a  Jewess,  which 
is  a  rather  strong  coincidence— whom  he  aftenvards  marries.  He 
—another  strong  coincidence — meets  with  the  mosl  untypical  of  alt 
untypical  Jews,  a  poor  workman  in  London  with  the  brain  of  a 

K scholar,  the  heart  of  a  puet,  and  the  soul  of  a  prophet,  who  by 
l^cer  force  of  enthusiasm  inspires,  and  naturally  inspires,  thcyoung 
Inan  of  thought  and  CLiltiire  with  a  Quixotic  purpose  that  is  lo 
sbsorb  all  his  years  and  powers.  Meanwhile  he  has  been  recog- 
nised at  Krankfort,  a  lilllc  myBtcriously,  by  b  Jew  banker  as  ihc 
grandson  of  his  bosom  friend,  Daniel  Charisi ;  and  Deronda's 
nioiher,  from  some  motive  thai  1  will  not  call  insufficient  only 
because  I  cannot  understand  it,  sends  for  him,  tells  him  his  family 
history,  and  then  passes  out  from  his  life  again  for  ever.  Thus  set 
out  like  a  pile  of  dry  bones,  and  covering  mysteries  and  family 
puzzles  to  which  it  is  not  George  Eliot's  ordinary  habit  to  give 
more  importance  than  they  are  worth,  which  is  at  best  very  little, 
the  events  of  Deronda's  life  look  like  the  skeleton  of  a  pre-arranged 
dream.  The  effect  is  even  carefully  enhanced  by  such  a  coinci- 
dence as  that  between  ."^lordecai's  second-sighted  vision  of  the 
manner  in  which  his  com])lcter  soul  was  to  appear  lo  him,  "  dis- 
tantly approaching  or  turning  his  back  towards  him,  darkly  painted 
against  a  golden  sky  .  .  .  mentally  seen  darkened  by  the  excess  of 
light  on  the  aiiria!  background,"  and  the  way  in  which  Deronda 
actually  approached  him  along  the  river,  dark  in  face  and  dress, 
and  as  "from  the  golden  background"  of  a  glorious  sunset.  But 
let  us  at  once  put  all  these  things,  these  wonders  let  us  call  them, 
in  shar^j,  Immediate  contrast  with  the  story  of  Gwendolen.  The 
contrast  is  extreme— all  the  better.  It  is  not  more  extreme,  in 
truth,  than  the  contrast  between  life's  limits  and  conditions  as 
dimly  g:uesscd  by  Gwendolen  and  its  unconditioned  boundlessness 
through  Art  as  felt  by  Klesmer.  We  need  to  feel  strongly  all  the 
difference  between  her  original  soullessness  and  the  largeness  of 
an  idealised  world.  It  is  a  strange  sensation  to  go  straight  from 
I  Gwendolen,  who  needs  a  rcvc)aiion  to  Icam  thai  t,Vie  ^naAAX'aNax^t.t 


than  one  of  her  whims,  to  ^[orilecai,  the  prophet  lo  Jacob— nol  the 
less  a  prophet  because  Jacob  is  only  little  Jacob  Cohen,  the  pavm- 
broker's  son.  I  think  one  is  not  obli^'ed  to  lake  any  profound 
interest  ill  theHt-hrcw  i>olitics  of  the  future  to  appreciate  Mordccai, 
30  far  as  we  are  capable  of  extending'  our  sympathies  in  an  apward 
direction.  In  any  case  tie  amply  fulfils  a  sufficient  mission  by 
keeping  well  before  our  cj'cs  the  existence  of  an  ideal  world,  whenj 
all  things,  though  but  in  dreams  and  %isions,  may  seem  possible. 
while  wc  are  watching  Gwendolen's  attempts  to  see  beyond  the 
edge  of  her  gown.  The  Cohens  are  a  foil  to  him  that  he  may  ba 
the  more  forcible  contrast  to  her,  just  as  the  picture  of  a  Dutch 
kitchen  is  the  most  telling  preparation  for  the  study  of  a  picture  of 
saiitts  and  angels,  and  that,  in  its  turn,  for  sympathy  with  one  of 
human 'Jifc  or  history. 

There  i.s  no  reason  lo  fear  that  the  adoption  of  the  common 
forms  of  the  romance  shows  poverty  or  carelessness  in  invention, 
or  indeed  that  it  shows  anything  at  all  except  that  there  is  a  limH 
to  the  permissible  length  of  a  novel  which  the  most  popular  of 
writers  must  nnt  exceed.  Tn  the  novel  of  types  and  manners 
situations  are  not  more  important  than  the  way  we  arrive  at  them. 
In  the  romance — still  using  the  word  in  its  special  and  contrasted 
sense— [he  effects  and  situations  ate  all -important,  and  the  artist 
will  not  spoil  his  climax  by  elaborating  preliminar)'  details  that  are, 
except  in  their  result,  of  no  importance  at  all.  It  is  not  inartistic 
to  use  the  romance- framework  that  comes  readiest  lo  hand,  just  as 
a  musician  would  be  veiy  ill-advised  who  wasted  power  in  inventing 
a  new  form  for  (.-very  new  sonata.  He  would  set  people  thinking 
about  his  forms  too  much^  and  about  his  effects  too  little.  Tha 
direct,  uncompromising  adaptation  of  the  spirit  and  fonn  of  tho 
wmance  to  a  novel  of  our  owti  time  by  the  author  of  "  Middle- 
march  "  is  in  itself  a  striking  and  daring,  perhaps  hazardous, 
experiment  in  the  art  of  fiction,  and  certainly  the  experiment  U 
tlie  more"  complete,  and  its  effect  the  stronger,  by  using  formfi 
which  held  the  same  good  wine  of  romance  that  was  drunk  by  our 
le-^s  exigent  fathem.  if  they  are  but  a  ready  machinery  for  Having 
time  that  eon  be  used  for  ^better  purpo.<;e,  they  sor«-e  their  tam. 
The  mere  story  nf  "  Daniel  Deronda  "  may  not  be  a  particularly 
good  one  :  but  then  few  people  have  ever  read  a  novel  by  George 
Kliot,  unless  it  was  "  Silaa  iMamer."  merely,  if  at  all,  for  tho  kske 
of  the  stor)-.  It  is  more  important  to  note  whether  she  di^iLirx 
the  qualities— apart  from  Ihc  close  rvalism  she  dot*s  not  affect — for 
which  they  are  read  like  tbu  lives  of  old  friends  that  aiv  alwiiy» 


George 


453 


fe.  And  in  this  respect  one  striking  feature  of  "Daniel  Deronda" 
at  it  is  not  only  George  Eliot's  first  romance,  but  the  first  novel 
hicb  she  has  either  taken  our  own  day  for  her  date,  or  the  clasj 
wi  rfhotn  novel  readers  in  general  have  most  persona!  experience — 
^—excluding  prophets  and  pawnbrokers— for  her  dramatis pcnona:, 
^B  In  the  very  lirst  page  _of  the  ver>'  first  of  her  publiiihcil  works  the 
"  authoress  of  "  The  Sad  Fortunes  of  the  Reverend  Amos  Barton" 
a/Tccts  to  tx)mplain  that  "  Mine,  I  fear,  is  not  a  we  It -regulated  mind  : 
t  has  an  occasional  tenderness  for  old  abuses;  it  lingers  vith  a 
ertaio  fondness  over  the  days  of  nasal  (.lerks  and  top-booted 
ions,  and  has  a  sigh  for  the  departed  shades  of  vulgar  errors." 
And  these  wortls  were  written  when  a  great  many  things  were  in 
nil  force  and  vigour  that  have  since  joined  those  departed  shades. 
If  "  Adam  Ticde"  and  "The  Mill  on  the  Floss"  were  old  world 
pictures  when  they  were  published,  what  are  they  now  ?  They  have 
almost  fallen  back  into  idylls,  so  fur  as  that  indefinite  word  implies 
.y  idea  of  obsolcfe antiquity.  They  already  illustrate  history,  and — 
as  soroehody  once  suggested  in  the  case  of  Dickens — will  soon 
require  an  archaeological  museum  for  tlirir  illustration,  including,  for 
example,  a  parish  clerk,  a  parson's  top-boots,  and  blaster  Mamer's 
loom.  The  brass  bands  and  ribbons  of  the  North  Loamshirc  elec- 
tion will  stir  no  corresponding  chord  in  the  breasts  of  our  gmnd- 
childrcn,  who  never  saw  the  member  chaired,  ors|>cnt  at  least  eight 
exciting  hours  in  feeling  that  the  welfare  of  creation  depended  on 
Ihc  difference  between  orange  and  blue.  George  £liot's  works  are 
more  full  of  such  matters  than  even  of  advanced  scientific  allusions  ; 
she  has  the  air  at  times  of  looking  upon  the  present  only  us  a  link 
between  the  past  that  wc  love  and  regret  and  the  future  that  we  love 
and  hope  for.  And,  in  60  far  as  she  is  thus  hisCorica],  the  outward, 
circumstantial  aspects  of  her  novels  must  inevitably  lose  some 
amount  of  living  interest  as  time  goes  on.  Kven  so,  we  cannot  read 
*'  Waverley"  or  "Redgauntlct"  quite  in  the  same  personally  sympa- 
thetic spirit  as  men  who  still  numbered  among  tlicm  Jacobites  in 
bean  and,  like  the  father  of  British  romance  himself,  had  talked  with 
those  who  remembered  the  '45.  For  our  own  immediate  selves, 
there  is  all  the  difference  between  *•  Daniel  Deronda"  and  "The 
Mill  on  the  Floss"  that  lies  between  Now  and  Once  upon  a  Time. 
But  there  is  a  greater  diHerence  still.  Each  and  all  her  works  may 
be  very  easily  separated  into  its  accidents  of  period  and  circumstance 
and  its  essentials  of  what  is  true  and  human  always,  under  all  cir- 
cumstances, and  cvcrj-where.  I  will  say  nothing  about  Shakespeare, 
but  she  certainly  has  a  share  in  the  genius  anOi  \.Vvctv:lQXc<^'toV^Vi 


424  Th^  GetUitfHatCs  Magazine. 

in  the  fortunes  of  Chaocer,  who  is  as  great  as  be  is  obsolete  ia 
small  things,  as  enduring  as  he  is  great  in  large.  It  is  precisely  in 
the  detailed  elaboration  of  the  little,  characterislic,  everip-day  things 
which  procure  universal  acceptation  for  a  book  at  once  tlial  we  ans 
most  conscious  of  an  unusual  want  in  "Daniel  Dcronda."  In  this 
respect  also  it  is  distinctively  of  the  nature  of  the  Romance,  which 
tends  to  bring  universal  and  essential  things  into  prominence,  and 
to  leave  accidental  and  transitory  things  on  one  siile.  It  will  never 
require  a  dopartmcnt  in  the  museum,  at  least  nntil  the  peculiarities 
of  Jews  arc  merged  in  the  yet  greater  oddities  of  Gentiles,  and  lltal 
lime  looks  too  far  off  to  be  worth  considering.  Its  drawing-rooioj 
atmosphere  is  only  a  roughly  washed-in  l>ackground  :  and  then  the 
atmosphere  of  the  drawing-room  is  not  likely  to  be  changed*  any 
more  than  that  of  the  studio.  Whatever  of  truth,  wisdom,  and 
human  nature  it  contains  is  alfsohtttlj-  independent  of  circumstances 
and  backgrounds.  So  far  as  Deronda  and  Mordccai  are  unlikely 
now,  they  will  always  be  unlikely:  but  their  creation  wilt  always  be 
of  equal  vahii-,  because  they  arc  not  men  of  this  time  in  particular, 
but  bring  out  into  idealised  prominence  the  history  of  the  birth  of 
Gwendolen's  soul,  wkiieh  is  a  woman's  soul.  It  would  be  surprising 
indeed  if  •■  Daniel  Deronda"  achieved  at  once  the  public  triumph 
of  "Adam  Bede"Ht  is  a  novel  professedly  treating  of  our  own 
day,  and  of  the  novel-reatling  class,  and  yet  does  not  base  its 
interest  upon  the  afternoon  tea-table.  -But  it  is  one  of  the  ievr 
bookH  that  ran  afford  to  wait  lor  a  long  and  quiet  triumph  with 
patient  security.  That  also  is  one  of  the  privileges  of  Romance: 
and  of  all  books  that  recognise  and  reveal  the  truth  that  tics  in  the 
well  of  dreams. 

It  is  of  course  tempting  to  dwell  upon  the  various  characters, 
subordinate  as  well  as  principal,  in  detail,  and  to  indulge  in  the 
pleasure  of  marking  what  has  struck  oneself  more  pnrticuUrly  in 
the  course  of  two  careful  readings.    Mirah  Cohen,  the  ostensible 
heroine  of  the  romance  as  Gwendolen  is  of  the  reality ;  Klesmer, 
the  latest  type  of  musician  ;  Mrs.  Davitow.  the  innocent  cause  of 
Gwendolen  :  the  honest,  almost  simple-hearted,  worldly  wisdom  off! 
the  Rector  of  Pcnnicoie,  and  the  complicated  unworldly  humour  of* 
Kans  Me>Tick  the  painter,  and  some  score  of  minor  sketches,  seem 
to  call  for  more   or  less   unlimited    space  in   their  du<'     ' 
Nobody,  alas,  has  taken  up  the  mantle  of  Mrs.  Poj-ser. 
altogether  less  epigram  and  moro  serious,  sub-humoroos  reflection 
than  usual,  as  befits  an  age  when  mother-wits  have  also  gone  over 


majonly  and  joined  tne  gnosis  oi  %Tiigar  errors. 

is  no  lack  of  Ea)'ings.  though  couched  in  less  homely  language  than 

rtkCrf.    that    might    grow   into   proverbs— usefully  I   vould   say   if 

proverbs  were  c\cr  userul.    "  Those  who  trust  as,  educate  us." 

"The  dullness  of  things  is  a  dist-ase  in  ourselves."     But  I  assume 

that  my  readers  are  also  already  my  fellow- readers,  and  these  and 

many  similar  sentences  are  easily  kno»Ti  and  easily  recalled.    What 

wish  to  dwell  upon  mainly  is  that  thf*  comparative  method  of 

criticism,  unsatisfactory  atwa}'S,  is  extraordinarily  inapplicable  to 

"Daniel  Derondo,"     It  cannot  be  said  lo  differ  from  "Adam 

e,"  or  "The  Mill  on  the  Floss,"  or  "Silas  Mamcr,"  or  "Mid- 

dlemarch,"  or  "  Ffrlix  llolt,"  or  even  from  "Romola"  in  degree, 

■ccause  it  differs  from  them  all    in  kind — in  conception,   scope, 

jrcumstance,  and  form.    They  deal  with  men  and  women  in  the 

gregate,  as  they  are  or  have  ljt.'en  :  this  with  individual  men  and 

^orocQ  as  they  may  be  or  can  be.     They  treat  prominently  of 

ncrs:  this  leaves  manners  out  of  the  question.    They  have  to 

o  with  the  broad  passions  and  emotions  common  to  us  all :  this 

ith  exceptional  moods  and  passions,  brought  out  by  exceptional 

rcumstancL'S,  special  to  individuals.     They  develop  (he  study  of 

leahhy  anatomy :  this  of  pathology.    They  exclude,  this  includei, 

the  unlikely.     They  rcdcct,  this  magnifies.     They  teach  us  to  know 

ourselves,  this  helps  us  to  guess  at  others.    They  appeal  straight  to 

tlhe  ht-art,  this  Likes  the  road  of  the  mind.     They  combine  facts, 
|}iis  expands  them  into  fancies.    In  a  word,  "Daniel  Deronda" 
differs  from  them  in  being  a  Romance — and  that  of  the  highest 
kind — and  moves  upon  different  though  converging  lines  according 
to  different  laws.     Thus  considered,  it  is  practically  a  first  book  by 
&  new  author,  and   must   be  judged  accordingly.    We  are  not 
I     justified  In  saying  whether  we  prefer  this  to  any  other  novel  or  any 
^BKbcr  to  this:  we  can  go  no  farther  than  preferring  one  kind  of 
^^ovel  to  another.     So  far  as  truth  to  human  nature  is  concerned, 
both   forms  are  of  equal  virtue,  and  indeed  supply  each  other's 
dcficienctcs.     It  would  be  a  "poor  talc,"  as  George  Tlliot's  midland 
I      farmers  say,  if  any  form  or  feature  or  guess  at  truth  of  any  kind 
were  to  be  left  hidden  because  some  kind  of  machinery  for  extract- 
ing them  is  forbidden  by  critical  laws.     A  certain  kind  of  fiction, 
which    simply   reflects    faithfully,    must  of    course   be   bound    to 
accmate,  typical  fidelity  by  the  strictest  laws.     But  fiction  at  large, 
which  has  as  much  lo  do  with  unlikely  things  a.s  Nature  herself^ 
has  only  one  law,  and  that  is  the  complete  attainment  of  its  end  by 
My  means,  hy  the  sacrifice  of  anything  but  possi.bWU'j — ^Mv4.  ^XaX. 


426  The  Geniiftitaii s  Afagixsiac. 

it  not  possibtc,  when;  human  nature  Is  concerned,  is  provrtblalljr ' 
htrd  to  any.    If  the  machinery  of  the  Arabian  Nights  were  necet^l 
!Mir>'  for  extracting  an  additional  scrap  of  human  nature  woill) 
having  out  of  the  mine,  then  let  it  bu  nscd  by  all  means,  And 
gratefully.     Fortunately  wc  need  not  fear  being  drl^'CQ  to  anjmcfa 
desperate  resource  when  we  see  how  powerful  the  ordinary  for 
of  the  Romance  arc  in  the  hands  of  a  great  artist  for  depictiug'' 
what  surely  cannot  be  shown  by  painting  cviiryday  types  and  every- 
day manners :  the  invisible  transformation  of  a  gcnn  into  a  soali 
No  mere  naturalist,  who  only  knows  what  he  sees,  could  dcacril 
the  binh  of  the  moth  from  the  worm.    "Dcronda  lauglicd,  but 
defended  the  myth.    '  It  is  like  a  passionate  word/  he  said ;  '  the 
exaggeration  is  a  flash  of  fer>-our.     It  is  an  extreme  image  of  what 
is  happening  every  day."     Such  is  not  the  mere  apolog)'  for  tbc 
romance — it  is  its  more  than  sufficient  reason  for  being. 

It  is,  of  course,  idle  to  speculate  whether  "  Daniel  Deronda." 
marks  the  beginning  of  a  new  manner,  as  musical  biographers  sayg. 
on  the  part  of  its  author.  In  its  romance  aspect  it  may  be  simply^ 
a  parenthesis,  a  brilliant  display  of  strength  in  a  foreign  field.  But 
it  would  he  pleasant  to  regard  it  as  the  forenmner  of  a  line  of 
fiction  thai  will  immediately  concern  ourselves  and  our  children 
who  live  in  the  England  of  to-day.  We  cannot  help  covj-ing  ihu 
England  of  y<"«tcrday  the  painter  it  has  found.  As  she  says  of 
Deronda,  "To  glory  in  a  prophetic  \Hsion  ....  is  an  easier 
exercise  of  believing  imagination  than  to  see  its  beginning  in  news- 
paper placanU,  staring  at  you  from  a  bridge  beyond  the  com  fields : 
and  it  might  well  happen  to  most  of  us  dainty  people  that  we  were 
in  the  thick  of  the  Iwillle  of  Annagtddon  without  being  aware  of 
anything  more  than  the  annoyance  of  a  little  explosive  smoke  and 
straggling  on  the  ground  immediately  about  us."  Gcoi:ge  Kliot  has 
hitherto  too  much  neglected  the  newspaper  placards  upon  the  rail- 
way bridges  and  thought— I  dare  not  add  the  words  "too  much" — 
of  the  cornfields.  She  has  abandoned  the  houses,  not  of  St.  Oggs  or 
Middlcmarch,  but  of  London,  too  freely  to  those  who  in-  to  copy  the 
close  realism  thalsheher^clfpopulaiisedajiiong  us  without  "thcforce 
of  imagination  that  pierces  or  exalts  the  solid  fact,  instead  of  tloatinf 
among  cloud-pictures."  After  all,  there  is  something  better  ihi 
pleasure  and  I'anity  in  our  wishing  to  sec  oar  own  selves  as  we  are* 
and  we  have  a  right  to  complain  that  v/c,  have  been  nv 
until  lo-day.  Our  afternoon  tea-tables  have  been  phot  „<  ,  t 
aJnausettm:  it  is  time  for  the  cover  to  be  removed,  that  we  may 
aee  underneath  them.    Wc  \s-elcome  "  Daniel  Deronda,"  not  only 


George  RUots  First  Romance. 

a  grand  romance  of  a  woman's  soul,  in  the  highest  sense  of  the 
ord,  but  .ilso  the  first  novel  that  gives  U3  the  hope  of  studying* 
rselvcs  in  the  same  spirit  with  which  we  have  been  able  to  study 
ankind  at  large  as  typified  by  our  fathers.  There  are  incomplete 
randcourts  and  imperfect  Derondas  who  will  repay  study  as  fully 
the  more  picturesque  class  of  country-town  people  and  Loam- 
ire  fanners,  and  no  less  for  their  own  sakes  than  as  means  to 
end.  Gwendolen  Harkth  alone  is  enough  to  show  how  closely 
deeply  she  can  study  our  drawing-room  Undines,  if  such  there 
And  ■■  Daniel  Deronda"  alone  (the  book,  not  the  man)  is 
i  enough  (hat  its  author  has  the  courage  to  enter  upon  the 
load  to  the  highest  kind  of  popularity — that  which  apparently 
,ds  above  it.  There  is  not  a  sentence,  scarcely  a  character,  in 
*■  Daniel  Deronda"  that  rtads  or  looks  as  if  she  were  thinking  of 
critics  before  her  readers  at  large,  or  of  her  readers  at  large 
ore  the  best  she  could  give  them.  She  has  often  marred  a 
stronger  and  more  telling  effect  for  the  sake  of  a  truer  and  deeper 
— and  this  belongs  to  a  kind  of  coumj^e  which  most  artists  will 
be  inclined  to  envy  her.  But  her  processes  of  construction  open 
another  question,  too  long  to  speak  of  in  a  few  words.  Apart 
from  all  considerations  of  such  processes  in  detail,  "  Daniel 
Deronda"  is  a  probably  unique  example  of  the  application  of  the 
forms  of  romance  to  a  rare  and  difficult  problem  in  human  nature, 
by  first  stating  the  prnblem — (the  iranJiforraation  of  Gwendolen) — 
in  its  eictrcmest  form,  and  then,  with  something  like  scientific  pre- 
ion  as  well  as  philosophic  insight,  arranging  circumstance  so  as 
throw  opon  it  the  fullest  light  possible.  From  this  point  of  view 
the  objects  of  Mordecai's  cnthufiiasm  have  their  place  in  the 
"drama  as  suppl\'ing  the  strongest  contrast  to  common  lives  and 
thoughts  obtainable  in  these  da}*!:,  and  Deronda's  perfection  as 
affording  the  ideal  we  must  keep  in  our  minds  in  order  to  study 
whatever  falls  short  of  it.  Less  even  in  its  intrinsic  merits,  with  all 
their  greatness,  liian  in  the  promise  it  gives  of  doing  tardy  jttsHce 
to  the  profounder  poctrj*  of  our  own  immcdiale  day.  lies  the  highest 
value  of  this  true  Romance  of  Gwendolen  liarlcth  and  Daniel 
Deronda. 


ITSO"  Is  Sesulo  for  Parliament.  "Scsulo"  u  the 
vernacular  name  of  ihe  language  of  the  Basulos.  The 
Basutos  arc  South  African  natives  occupj'ing  a  territotj 
which  seven  years  ago,  at  the  request  of  the  tribe, 
became  part  of  the  British  cmpin;  and  is  now  an  irregutar  district 
of  the  Cape  colony— that  is  to  say,  a  district  almost  entirety  occu- 
pied by  natives  who  are  unrepresented  in  the  Colonial  legislature 
and  who<;c  affairs  arc  in  the  hands  of  commissioners. 

At  the  time  of  the  cession  in  1869  the  condition  of  the  Basato 
tribe  was  miserable  in  the  extreme.  A  long  war  with  the  scttleni  of 
the  Free  State,  one  of  the  two  Dutch  republics  in  South  Africa,  bad 
ended  in  the  utter  defeat  of  the  Baaatos.  Two  thousand  n-arrior* 
had  been  killed,  hundreds  of  old  men,  women,  and  childrun 
had  perished  from  hardship  and  hunger,  fifleen  thousand  souls  had 
fled  the  countT)'  and  sheltered  themselves  behind  the  sharp  ridges 
of  the  Drakenberg ;  the  cattle  which  had  been  their  pride  had  been 
swept  away  by  the  conquerors;  the  ploughs  and  waggons  which  they 
bad  learnt  tn  buy  had  been  broken  to  pieces,  their  fields  and  gar- 
dens ravaged,  and  their  houses  or  huts  burnt.  Overtaken  by  famine 
as  well  as  by  war,  and  driven  to  take  a  huddled  refuge  in  caves  anj 
crevices,  they  fell  an  easy  prey  to  fever,  and  at  one  time  half  the 
tribe  was  smitten  with  typhus.  With  all  this  they  lost  heart ;  tb^ 
could  not  trusL  their  chiefs ;  there  was  nothing  around  which  tbejr 
could  rally;  and  their  only  chance  was  to  enfold  themselves  in  the 
British  flag.  After  a  jH-'riod  of  negotiation.  Sir  Philip  Wodchowe, 
at  that  time  Governor  of  the  Cape,  as  the  rcprescnlative  of  the 
Queen  accepted  the  allegiance  of  the  trilw,  and  the  war  was  stayed. 
Peace,  however,  was  not  secured  without  further  loss.  The  Free 
State  demanded  and  obuined  nearly  half  the  land  of  the  tribe.  All 
the  rich  plains  from  the  western  bank  of  the  Calcdon  towardi  the 
sources  of  the  Modder,  the  Vrl.  apd  the  Zand— the  cornfields  and 
the  rich  grazing  ground  of  the  losthcrds— were  made  over  ,i«  a  spoil 
to  the  victorious  Boers  for  ever. 

Then  Moshesh,  the  chief  who  had  made  the  Basutos  .1  ptnplt;' — 
a  wise  man  and  not  a  *)ad  one — died,  and  left  the  tribe  to  tin.-  ri^-alry 


A  ''Piiso. 


429 


>f  many  leaders.    The  Quecn*s  sovereignly  liad  been  accepted,  but 

e  change  vrss  not  well  understood,  and  there  was  much  confusion 

the  minds  of  chiefs  who  were  not  chiefs  and  of  Basutos  who  had 

iddenly  become  British  subjects.     This  was  in  t86q. 

In  1876,  B«?vcn  years  after  this  period  of  tliick  darkncsB,  humilia- 

[tion,  and  ruin,  the  Governor's  Agent,  reporting  to  the  Cape  Sccre- 

[taiy  for  Native  AITaint,  was  able  to  say  that  the  tribe  possessed 

199  waggons.  14  carts.  1,749  ploughs.  138  harrows,  35.357  horses, 

'*7t73^  homed  cattle,  303,080  sheep,  215,485  goats,  and   15,635 

igs,  the  whole  being  valued  at/'i,2oo,ooo.     At  the  same  time  the 

juantity  of   land  under  cultivation  was  61,404  acres.      In    the 

>re\'ious  year  merchandise,  being  chiefly  articles  of  British  inanu- 

P»cture,  was  introduced  to  the  value  of  ^200,000,  and  in   187411 

reported  that  1,000  bales  of  wool  and  100,000  muids  of  gniin^ 

produce  of  the  district,  had  been  exported.    The  revenues  for 

!7S  were  close  upon  /"t  7,000.     The  eslablishment  of  trading 

tions,  the  building  of  houses,  the  opening  of  schools,  the  making 

roads,  and  the  establishment  of  postal  communication  are  the 

subjects  of  other  statements  from  the  Governor's  Agent. 

In  explanation  of  this  wonderful  recover)-,  which  probably  as  to 
,iate  beats  that  of  France  since  its  war,  it  must  be  said  that  the 
Jasutos  on  becoming  British  subjects  swarmed  to  the  South  African 
liamond  fields,  where  their  labour  was  in  lively  demand,  and  wages 
rerc  very  high.  As  their  employers  provided  them  with  rations 
jejr  were  able  to  save  iheir  earnings,  which  enabled  them  to  become 
l>nycrs  of  live  stock  and  ploughs.  Possibly  their  honest  gains  were 
ipplemcntcd  by  stray  diamonds  which  they  may  have  forgotten  to 
id  over  to  their  masters.  Assisted  by  this  source  of  wealth,  the 
SQtos  have  flourished.  But  that  which  has  most  of  all  contri- 
itcd  to  their  welfare  is  British  rule,  under  which  they  havo 
njoyed  the  advantages  of  peace,  order,  and  justice,  together  with 
ie  vise  guidance  of  able  administrators. 
This  brief  sketch  of  a  remarkable  change  in  the  fortunes  of  the 

itos  will  assist  us  to  a  better  comprehension  of  a  "  Pitso." 
In  1S74  Mr.  Grifljtb,  the  Governor's  Agent,  determined  to  revive 
old  custom  of  the  tribe,  and  hold  a  public  meeting  of  the  chiefs, 
lieadmen,  councillors,  and  common  folk  at  Maseru,  the  head- 
quarters of  the  Agency.  The  reasons  for  doing  so  were  manifold, 
■all  of  them  proving  the  wi.sc  and  kindly  spirit  in  which  the  adminis- 
tntion  is  conducted.  The  Pitso,  he  considered,  would  show  to 
the  Basutos  a  consideration  on  the  part  of  the  Government  for  their 
L^ncicni  practices  as  well  as  for  their  views  and  fccVvn^s,  axvA  v^w* 


430 


Th£  GentUmmCi  Magazim, 


\o  them  that  they  were  ruled  not  as  slaves,  but,  to  use  their  own 
expression,  as  hatha — men.  Jt  would,  lie  thought,  act  as  a  ii>aft:ty- 
valve  to  pent-up  mj&undcrstanduigs  and  grievances.  The  Badutos 
have  a  sa)-ing  that  "  a  silent  man  is  an  angry  man  "  ;  and  tbo  Pitso 
would  allow  the  anger  to  vanish  into  thin  air.  According  to  their 
traditions  the  words  uttered  in  council  arc  officio).  soleoWi  aad 
authoritative ;  hence  tbei-  give  form  and  direction  to  public  opiiUDa 
and  sentiment-  Besides  all  this,  the  Pitso,  by  bringing  the  chte(i 
and  people  together  round  the  British  flag,  presented  the  oppor- 
tunity for  a  ceremonial  and  public  acknowledgment  of  allegiance  to 
the  Sovereign  Power  on  the  part  of  the  whole  tnbe  in  all  its  lanlu. 
In  addition  to  the<ic  larger  and  general  reasons,  Mr.  Griffith  had 
one  of  a  special  character.  A  month  or  two  before  the  meeting, 
he  had  ukcn  with  him  to  Cape  Town  five  sons  of  Ba^uto  chie^ 
aad  he  hoped  that  these  travelled  Thanes  would  tell  the  Bloiyof  the 
wonders  Ihey  had  seen,  and  produce  an  effect  favourable  to  British 
infiuence.  ]n  this  he  was  somewhat  disappointed,  as  "Jonathan, 
the  son  of  Molapo,"  and  "Lcrothodi,  the  son  of  Letsiv,"  sent  their 
excuses  on  plea  of  sickness,  and  did  not  attend.  Sofoofa.  one  of 
the  5ve,  was,  however,  present,  and  told  bis  strange  experieaces  tu 
his  stay-at-home  coimtri,Tnen. 

The  place  of  mccitng.  Maseru,  stands  where  the  Little  Caledon 
joins  the  larger  river  of  tbnt  name.  Although  Maseru  is  the  scat  of 
government,  it  has  no  hall  large  cnotigh  fur  a  repruscntutivc  meet- 
ing of  the  tribe,  so  the  Pitso  wai  held  in  the  open  air.  Foi  fretted 
roof,  pictured  w-alls,  cushioned  scats,  and  carpeted  floors  there  wore 
the  greensward,  the  wiUowed  banks  of  the  river,  the  far-sl retching 
plain,  llic  distant  precipices  of  the  Tbab  Busigo  bathed  in  light, 
and  a  sky  clear  and  shining  through  its  whole  ardi.  West  of  the 
Caledon  and  in  sight  of  "honourable  members"  were  herds  of 
springbuck  and  wildebeesle,  grazing  imdisturhcd  by  eloquence  and 
its  answering  applau.se.  Amongst  the  crowd  were  some  well- 
dressed  men :  a  few  of  the  chiefs,  it  may  be.  in  paper  collars  and 
lacquered  boots;  the  majority,  however,  were  swarthy  Africans  in 
grease,  second-hand  European  clothes,  skins  of  doer,  jackal,  and 
leopard,  blankets,  old  railitary  great  coals,  and  slouched 
awrakes.  At  the  place  of  honour,  beneath  the  folds  of  the  Uolc 
jack,  sat  the  Governor's  Ageat,  Mr.  GiiflTith.  one  of  those  mea— Mr. 
Brownlce,  Sir  Thcophilua  Shcpstonc,  and  Catuaiti  Illyth  bcii 
othere — to  whose  skill  in  the  management  of  the  r.ntivc^  Rriiii 
South  Africa  is  greatly  indebted. 

And  now  we  come  to  the  oratory  of  Uie  Pitso,  lu  rcj»urt  >'  ouji 


object  of  this  paper.  The  Basutos  shall  speak  for  themselves, 
tbraugli  an  interpreter,  the  rendering  tjdng  cluse  and  rstithful  to  the 
original.  The  readers  of  the  GfiUrman's  Magaiitu  will  find  the 
debate  to  1)C  not  only  amusing  from  the  rovc-lties  in  style  and 
figure,  but  curiously  interesting  from  the  subjects  discussc<i  and  the 
manner  uf  their  treatment.  It  will  be  bi:cii  tliat  not  only  did  these 
Basutos  (men  who  but  yesterday  tvere  almost  a$  wild  as  the  antelope 
or  (he  gnu  they  chased  over  the  plain)  treat  with  shrewdness  ques- 
lions  of  ihcir  own  place  and  time,  but  that  they  had  something  10 
say  an  education,  on  the  cuniparativc  advantages  of  secular  and 
religious  teaching  iii  schools,  and  on  women's  rights.  It  will  also 
be  seen  that  the  African  tongue  can  be  taught,  within  a  wondcrfuliy 
short  space  of  time,  to  use  terms,  or  the  vernacular  equivalents  of 
terms,  vhich  a  generation  ago  were  not  much  in  the  mouths  of 
Englishmen.  As  a  matter  of  course  the  speeches  of  the  chiefs 
were  not  altogether  free  from  the  jealousy  of  the  magistrates  who 
^^■ad  superseded  them,  and  of  the  common  people  who  had  been 
^^^moted  to  freedom  and  c(]nal  rights.  On  the  whole,  however,^ 
^Bte  gctietal  result  of  the  meeting  was  a  vote  of  confidence  in 
■  British  rule  without  the  formality  of  a  division.  It  may  be  ncces- 
lo  &ay  that  the  form  of  cheering  common  amongst  Baiiutos  is 
repeat  the  last  words  of  any  sentence  which  commands  emphatic 
t. 

it  is  my  purpose  to  give  prominence  to  what  the  Basutos 
icmselvcs  said,  the  preliminary  speeches  of  the  Agent  and  his 
istants,  admirable  as  they  were,  will  be  omitted-    Some  of  the 
:ve  speakers  must  be  pas9c<l  by  without  a  note,  for  Basutos  arc 
mctimcs  as  dull  as  an  ordinary  member  of  the  British  Parliament, 
d  the  delivcrance-s  of  others  must  be  weeded.     In  no  case,  how- 
ever, will  the  reports  be  improved  on  the  originals,  which  are  given 
in  the  hrst  person,  and  must  remain  so. 

George,  son  of  Moshcsh,  was  the  first  to  speak.  He  said :  "  I 
cannot  adequately  express  my  gratitude  to  my  father  for  bringing 
the  Government  into  this  country.  The  Queen  is  our  cave  of 
refuge  and  shelter.  In  saying  that,  I  am  not  speakmg  evil  of  our 
own  chiefs;  but  the  prosperity  of  the  tribe,  which  I  see  nowa- 
days, makes  me  think  of  Moshesh  and  the  Queen;  and  she  has  put 
over  as  a  good  Governor,  a  righteous  ruler,  and  in  that  righteoup- 

tnesa  of  the  Government  is  our  present  happiness  and  prosperity. 
Mf  only  feeling  of  uneasiness  is  on  account  uf  ihe  smallness  of  our 
territory  :  and  yet  God,  to  whom  all  things  are  possible,  has  power 
Id  give  08  more  space  to  li^'e  in.     This  is  wilh  n\«:  i^q  cuai&Ki  <;il 


The  GcntUmav^s  Magazine. 

dissatjifaction.  I  am  Tull  of  praise  and  (hanks  lo[  the  Govcmor't 
Agent,  to  Lctsie,  to  I^Iolapo,  and  to  the  other  chiefs  who  support 
the  Government.  Vou,  Faku  (Mr.  Griffith's  native  designation),  we 
thank  aloud.  In  the  presence  of  all  ibe  people  wc  thank  jrou 
aloud." 

Then  al)  the  people  shouted  "We  thank  you  aloud,  O  Faku  !" 

Mapcshoanc,  son  of  a  chief,  said  :  "  My  words  arc  the  words  of 
Austen  (one  of  the  magistrates),  and  as  he  speaks  so  do  I  speak 
this  day.  Let  us  respect  ottr  elder  brothers,  and  let  us  not  de«pt»c 
even  the  younger  ones.  As  for  Mr.  Griffith,  I  wish  »c  had  an 
oZ'ftkin  in  which  he  might  be  wrapped  up  and  preserved  in  safety 
tor  ever,  so  that  we  never  may  lose  him.  The  hut>tax  is  good. 
May  tlie  hut-lax  and  power  of  the  Governor's  Agenl  grow  bigger 
and  bigger,  and  ever  increase." 

Then  the  people  shouted  "  May  the  hut-tax  and  the  Agent  grow 
bigger  and  bigger!" 

Silibalo,  chief  son  of  Moshesh,  said  :  "  I  have  but  a  little  word 
to  speak.  If  1  were  lo  speak  ever  so  much,  I  should  only  speak, 
the  words  of  RoHand  (one  of  the  magistrates),  and  add  to  them 
exactly  similar  words  out  of  my  own  heart.  I  am  glad  there  is  still 
so  little  crime  in  the  country.  Let  me  repeat  the  word  of  Rolland 
about  the  gardens.  I  say,  keep  the  gardens  close  together,  so  that 
there  may  be  open  pasturage  for  the  stock." 

Sofonia  Moshcsh,  one  of  the  young  travellers  to  Cape  Town,  said  : 
"  [  am  sorry  that  Ixroihodi  and  Jonathan  are  not  here  to-day.  It 
was  their  duty  to  be  here  and  tell  you  about  the  joamey  we  mada^ 
with  Mr.  Grifiith  to  Cape  Town,  and  how  he  took  such  good 
of  OS,  even  on  board  ship,  when  we  were  so  sick,  and  when  he  him- 
self was  not  quite  wctl  cither.  Even  then  he  took  great  care  of 
lu.  How  can  I  toll  you  all  we  saw  ?  Wc  saw  so  many  wonderful 
things !  To  begin  with,  we  travelled  wonderfully,  for  in  six  day 
we  reached  the  railway  from  the  Diamond  Fields  and  it  was  av< 
an  immen-u:  tract  of  country  that  we  passed.  About  Victoria  and 
Beaufort  West  we  saw  country  where  sheep  and  slock  Ihrire,  and 
yet  there  is  no  grass  there  ;  it  is  a  land  of  small  bushes— diry  call 
it  'ICarroo' ;  and  then,  further  on,  al^er  Beaufort  West,  we  saw  a 
countrj-  where  nothing  but  stones  grow.  Yes,  the  stones  there  are 
like  the  grass  here;  and  the  trees  grow  only  in  riverbeds,  where 
no  water  flows  ;  and  we  saw  a  great  many  towns,  and  people  innu- 
merable; and  then  Ihe  moimtains— llie  Maluti.  Why  wc  saw  towns 
in  those  Malull,  and  everywhere  tkcre  was  abundance  of  food  and 
mock.    Titen  when  we  saw  so  many  people  living  In  «ach  mlil 


sid 
I       ho 


433 

lands  of  bushes  and  stones  we  thought  to  ourselves,  how  righteous, 
fair,  and  just  is  that  Govemmenl  which  docs  not  take  away  from 
.  IIS  iBasutos  here  this  beautiful,  rich,  grass  counlry  of  ours  to  put  its 
own  people  into  it !    Yes,  the  righteousness  of  this  Government  is 
very  great ;    and  in  some  of  the  wildest  mountains  we  found 
splendid,  smooth,  safe  roads  made  to  travel  over;  and  near  Cape 
Town  wu  saw  beautiful  farms  and  villages,  and  lowns  full  of  big 
lices,  such  as  the  pear  tree,  and  Ilic  poplar,  and  the  oak  tree  ;  and 
once  vre  passed  through  a  narrow  gorge  in  the  mountains,  lined 
with  trees  on  both  sides  of  uh  :  and  wc  passed  over  many  bridges, 
too,  and  in  the  night  we  travelled  as  quickly  and  as  safely  as  in  the 
daytime.      At  one  place  wc  came  to  a  town  where  it  had  just  been 
raining  and  snowing,  and  wc  passed  the  same  river  four  times,  but 
never  touched  the  water.     Wc  went  high  over  the  water  upon  the 
top  of  four  magnificent  bridges.     In  another  place  there  was  a 
mountain  of  dark  iron-stone,  where  the  road  was  cut  through  a 
solid  mass  of  rock,    and    the   hard    wall    of  stone    was   on    both 
sides  of  us  as  we  passed  through  the   heart   of  the  roclc.    And 
how    shall    I    describe   ihe   wonders   of    the  fire-waggon— where 
opie  more  in  number  than  those    I    see   now  before  me  every 
ty  travel  backwards  and  forwards  with    case   and    such  rapidity 
that  the  lightning  is  hardly   quicker   on    its    path  ?     Everjis-here 
we  were  fed  also  with  fat,  rich  meal,  even  where  the  caillu  and  sheep 
giaaing  in  the  veld  appeared   most  meagre  and  small,  hut  they 
were  fattened  for  the  butcher.      Wc    saw,    also,  whole  forests  of 
trees  which  were  entirely  the  fruit   of  man's    industry ;    not  one 
of  those  trees   had   originally  grown   there   of  itself,  every  tree 
had  been  separately  planted  and  cared  for;   and   yet   now  there 
was  a  great  forest  of  trees  running  over  a  great  tract  of  country. 
Other  works    of   men's  hands,  loo,  we  saw,  such  as  cannon,  and 
the  most  beautiful  gans,  many   of  them  brand-new,  and  glitter- 
ing in  the  sunshine.    I  only  tell  you  of  a  few  things  out  of  the 
very  many    we  saw.      \Mien  I  look  at  this  country  of  ours  now 
1  feel  sorry  for  the  past  and  hopeful  for  the  future.      Mr.  Rolland 
reminded  you  that  yon  must  take  care  not  to  mistake  the  shadow 
for  the  substance,  not  to  l>c  wanting  the  milk  instead  of  the  cow. 
I  say.  valiie  the  peace  you  have  now,  send  your  children  to  school, 
let  them  team  to  read  that  they  may  be  able  to  understand  tho 
Queen's  laws.    If  all  were  able  to  read,  all  would  know  the  laws 
for  themselves,  and  not  break  thinn,  as  some  of  you  unwittingly  do 
ttirough  ignorance.    It  is  education  wc  want  now.    I  do  not  say 
lything   at    the    present    moment   about   Christianity.       I    am 
Vol.  XVII.,  N.S.  1876.  f  t 


434 


Thf  Gcndanai^ s  Magazitu. 


speaking  only  of  secular  tnstroction  in  the  schools.  Thw  Pitso 
is  j'onr  Parliament.  Let  me  speak  freely  to  yoo  in  your  Parlii- 
mcnt.  T  find  vc  havu  now  two  l»n's :  an  old  law  ami  a  new. 
This  is  not  right.  I  find  the  chiefe  nowadays  oppressing  the 
people  aboat  their  garden  lands,  and  the  trcspassitig  of  stock 
therein.  Under  our  own  native  law  there  was  no  charge  for  trct- 
pass,  hot  now  the  chiefs  make  some  of  us  pay  damages.  That  is  to 
us  a  new  law.  And  it  is  badly  carried  out,  for  they  do  not  under- 
stand yet  the  value  of  money,  and  iliey  impose  sometimes  most 
exorbitant  damages  for  trespass;  I  have  even  heani  of  thirteen 
shillings  for  a  vcrj*  slight  Ircspass.  It  is  foolish;  it  is  loo 
murh:  this  is  a  bad  thing.  Let  this  thing  cease  from  amongst 
you." 

Mokhameledi,  chief,  and  brother  of  the  late  Moshesh  ;  "This  U 
the  largest  Pitso  I  have  seen  for  years,  and  1  hope  that  next  year's 
Pitso  will  tbe  still  larger.  This  is  the  doing  of  Moshesh ;  he  was 
a  prophet,  for  he  prophesied  what  would  hapjien  to-day.  'ITicsc 
people  wtK  all  scattered  by  famine ;  to-day  there  ts  abundance, 
and  the  people  begin  to  return.  Our  houses  used  to  be  but  little 
huts,  and  few  were  oar  children ;  we  want  larger  dwellings,  and 
our  children  are  rapidly  increasing  i\\  number.  These  magistrales 
here,  children  of  the  Queen,  have  been  begotten  for  you  by  the 
Government.  Cherish  them;  they  are  your  safeguards.  It  is 
wonderful  to  me  when  I  look  ronnd  this  country  now  and  see  such 
a  number  of  plonghs  and  waggons ;  1  say  may  God  bloss  700, 
Mr.  Griffith,  our  father  I  I  beg  of  you  when  we  stumble  in  got 
ways  not  to  think  we  do  so  on  purpose.  It  is  not  bo.  The  onljr 
thing  I  think  is,  we  should  have  a  larger  kraal  to  live  in.  Our 
country  is  too  small.  Last  year  Makotoko  said  -we  were  lean  kinc, 
but  now  I  see  wc  are  getting  fat.  I  praise  the  wisdom  of  Moshesh; 
he  brought  peace  and  plenty  into  the  country  by  bringing  Iho 
Government.  The  Government  is  not  in  the  habit  of  calling  you 
away  from  under  your  chiefs;  but  if  ever  it  does  so  on  any 
occasion  it  is  because  they  had  in  that  particular  instance  done 
you  some  injustice.  These  chiefs  here  are  still  as  ever  the  chieEi 
of  the  Basatos:  and  the  Governor's  Agent  is  in  the  place  of 
Moshesh :  and  to  him  as  to  Moshe-^sb,  the  chiefs  come  when 
matters  are  too  difficult  for  them  to  unravel  or  to  deal  with.  As 
under  Moshesh  the  common  people  could  possess  stock  and 
property  in  safety,  so  now  it  is  under  the  Government.  No  witch- 
craft was  countenanced  by  Moshesh,  so  neither  i%  it  now  by 
Government ;  and  cvcr)-thing  that  was  jnst  and  hononrable  in  the 


435 

great  chief  Moshesh  I  now  see  repeated  in  the  rule  of  Government 
The  Government  is  to  this  land  like  the  rain  t " 

Then  the  people  all  shouted  "  Rain  !  Rain  !  Rain  ! " 
Tsfkclo  Jloshesh:  "I  salute  Ihc  Union  Jack,  which  we  sec 
Dying  here  ahove  our  heads  to-day.  This  assembly  is  truly  a  fine 
sight;  it  is  like  the  days  of  old — the  days  of  the  great  nalionat 
councils  or  Moshesh ;  and  once  again  we  hear  that  cvcrywhcrt;  the 
country  is  in  a  state  of  prosperity.  When  Moshesh  died  be  pointed 
to  this  flag  as  the  Bymbol  of  blessing  under  the  Queen's  Govern- 
ment. Oh  I  to-day  I  am  as  full  as  a  river!  If  only  I  had  time 
to  speak  all  I  have  to  say  t  1  ask  you  for  time  enough  to  speak  in ; 
but  still  1  shall  not  be  able  to  uller  all  1  have  to  say— my  heart  is 
full.  I  am  glad  to  bear  the  good  news  of  the  continued  diminution 
of  crime  in  Ihc  country;  and  even  I  hear  the  Boors  (Orange 
Free  Suite  farmers)  speaking  the  same  word.  Ah  I  now  ai  last 
tbcy  begin  to  speak  the  truth.  For  no  longer  do  they  call  us  a 
nation  of  thieves.  Let  m«  tell  you  war  alone  did  not  bring  the 
Government  in  here ;  but  I  say  that  Moshesh  would  have  done  so, 
even  without  war  at  all :  war  and  Its  disasters  only  precipitated  matters 
which  had  long  been  in  the  mind  of  Moshesh.  You  Bakweoa,  you 
don't  speak  right  out  when  yuu  speak.  Let  me  speak  the  plain 
truth  for  you.  In  assisling  and  supporting  the  Government  you 
arc  only  benefiting  yourselves.  Government  was  very  unwilling  to 
add  to  it3  responsibilities  by  coming  into  the  Scsutho,  but  vu 
begged  and  entreated,  and  implored  of  it  to  come,  and  at  last  the 
Governor  helped  us,  and  then  the  Government  came  in.  There- 
fore it  is  your  duly  to  support  and  assist  the  Government.  Sir 
Philip  Wodchousc  came  here  with  a  s«-itch  in  his  hand,  and  Mr. 
Brand  tried  to  prevent  his  entering  into  the  country ;  but  the 
Queen's  mercy  brought  her  in  amongst  us.  for  she  liad  compasiiion 
upon  us,  and  so  now  you  are  the  children  of  mercy.  Before  the 
days  of  Buchanan  Basutoland  was  very  little  kno-n-n,  and  even  then 
only  in  Downing  Street  and  not  at  all  in  Parliament.  Now  wo 
hear  that  there  is  not  only  a  Parliament  at  the  Cape,  where  we  are 
known,  but  that  there  is  a  responsible  Government  there.  Now 
what  I  want  to  ask  is  this— are  we  now  under  the  Queen  or  under 
a  responsible  Government  at  the  Cape .'  We  ask  this  of  Mr. 
Griffith  because  we  have  full  confidence  in  him.  That  is  one 
question  we  want  to  ask  him.  \Vhat  is  our  position  in  this 
respect  ?  Not  knowing  the  answer  to  this  question,  and  how  the 
matter  stands.  I  am  nnable  to  say  many  things  which  otherwise  [ 
would  wish  to  say  to-day.     If  we  are  under  the  Colonial  Govem- 

»  F   I 


436 


Tlu  GenileniaiCs  Maffizhu, 


ment  I  am  aware  that  wc  shall  cnjoj*  manr  privileges.  For 
instanco,  ninler  the  Colony  wc  shall  be  saved  from  fire,  by  the  fire 
engines  of  the  Government,  if  it  should  happen  ihat  fire  threatens 
to  con&ume  us.  But  then  again  I  perceive  thai  we  have  maay 
heathen  customs  left.  How  then  can  we  belong  to  the  Cape. 
when  onr  habits  and  customs  am  in  many  respects  bo  vcr)-  dtffprent 
from  those  of  the  colonists  ?  Wc  have  lately  seen  an  inspector  of 
schools  who  came  here,  and  he  wanted  to  conduct  the  schools  on 
exclusively  reliftious  principles.  That  is,  he  intended  making^ 
religion  the  chief  object  of  altainmenl  in  the  schools.  Now,  this 
is  most  certainly  not  in  accordance  with  the  wishes  and  expecta- 
tions of  the  great  nuajority  of  the  Basuto  people.  I  am  not.  ,t-oa 
will  understand,  opposing  Christianity  by  what  I  say ;  I  only  say 
there  are  a  great  many  of  U-s  who  hope  to  see  undenominational 
aehunls  in  the  countr}',  where  secular  education  may  he  actjuired 
without  the  profession  of  the  Christian  religion  being  made  an 
indispensable  qualification  for  the  pupils.  One  thing  more  I  wish 
to  say,  and  I  have  done,  tt  is  this,  let  us  ask  Government  for  a 
council  of  chiefs  and  headmen  who  may  sit  with  Mr.  Griffith, 
consult  with  him,  and  make  known  to  him  the  wishes  of  the 
people.  This  wilt  at  once  be  a  help  to  Mr.  Griiruh.  and  a  repre- 
sentation of  the  people  in  the  administration  of  the  affairs  of  the 
tribe.  1  praise  iMr.  Griffith  and  thank  htm ;  we  all  praise  him  and 
thank  him  for  his  wisdom  and  prudence  and  jasticc;  and  we  say 
let  his  position  be  exalted." 

Then  all  the  people  shooted  "Let  his  position  be  exalted — 
exalted  t" 

Motha.  chief,  and  son  of  Moshcsh :  "  Chiefs  I  heirs  of 
Moshesh  I  tan  you  bear  the  weight  of  your  inheritance.*'  I  recom- 
mend you  to  the  care  and  protection  of  Mr.  Griffith,  the  arm  of  the 
Government.  I  still  sec  many  people  coming  here  dressed  in 
skins,  yet  they  are  the  Queen's  sheep.  I  hear  of  no  dissatisraction 
amongFt  them— they  are  the  sheep  of  the  Government ;  and  lliey 
arc  having  many  lambs  now.  I  say  wc  are  all  under  the  Govern- 
ment with  our  whole  heart ;  and  as  we  are  your  sheep,  so  wc  ftay  to 
yoa  '  Shear  us ' ;  but  remember  that,  after  all,  we  are  childrrn 
very  young.  Oh  I  be  patient  with  us  until  we  are  able  to 
walk  I" 

Sinukwane.  hi^dman :  "  Wc  heard  the  laws  just  now ;  are  we 
going  to  obey  Ihcm  ?  Most  certainly  wc  are.  Wo  submit  to  them 
with  our  whole  heart ;  and  yel  many  of  these  laws  1  fear  we  shall 
some  of  as  transgress  through  ignorance,  but  not  purposely.  Thorv 


T/so. 


437 


is  in  this  country  a  great  mixture  of  diHlTcnt  nationalities,  with  all 
sorts  of  dtfTerent  customs.     There  are,  for  instanct;,  Basatos  and 
Bushmen,    and    Tambookics,    and    Fingoes,   and    Zulus.       Now 
Aloshcsh  gave  laws  to  all  tliesu,  and  yet  even   he,  who  knew  them 
well,  was  sometimes  disobeyed  by  them.    Believe  rae,  our  heait  is 
set  to  obey  the  laws  of  the  Government,  but  our  various  heathen 
customs  may  possibly  lead  us  into  an  infringement   of  them  un- 
wittingly.    Uti  patient  then  and  lonjj^-sulfcring  with  us.     Griflilh  I 
You  are  in  the  room  of  Moshesh  I     Rule  us,  but  be  patient  with 
US  ;  wc  are  looking  to  you  and  to  the  magistrates.     Let  Lctsic  and 
Molapo  explain  all  things  to  us,  so  that  wc  may  not  transgress." 
Then  all  the  people  shouted  "  That  we  may  not  transgress  I  " 
Nena,  chief,  son  of  Moshesh  :  "  We  have  heard  the  laws  read  ; 
4)0  we  understand  them  ?     We  have  heard  the  laws  read  !     Do  we 
know  them  ?    Does  Mr.  GrifTith  know  all  the  people  here  ?    How 
can  bc.^  But  Letsie  could  show  them  to  him  and  point  them  all  out, 
for  he  knows  them.    I^t  the  chiefs,  therefore,  summon  the  people, 
and  invite  them  to  Pitsos,  &C'     You  are  sowing  dissension  by  your 
letters  addressed  to  the  petty  chiefs  and  headmen.    Let  the  chiefs 
be  the  medium  of  your  communications ;  through  ihem  speak  and 
summon  the  people,  and  invite  people,  but  not  in  your  letters." 

Khoso,  chief :  "Our  ears  are  dull  to-day.  Wc  do  not  quite 
tinderstand.  How  is  this  ?  Wc  thought  to  hear  all  about  the  chiefs 
that  went  to  Cape  Town  !  We  Bechuana  people  are  too  fond  of 
exercising  power  and  authority.  Everybody  tries  to  make  himself  a 
chief.  This  is  what  ruins  the  Rasutos.  But  nc^w  let  it  be  known 
that  there  is  only  one  chief  in  the  land,  the  Government.  I  am 
rejoiced  on  account  of  you  Bakwena,  and  I  say  you  ought  to  sup- 
port the  Government.  You  will  all  go  home  to-day,  and  none  of 
you  will  hold  an  evening  meeting  ('lekiiobla')  at  your  villages,  to 
consider  and  Icam  the  words  of  the  Govemraent ;  and  yet  you 
ought  to  do  so,  and  you  ought  to  hold  such  meetings  many  evenings 
Id  your  own  villages." 

Tsuloane,  a  young  lad  :  "  I  am  only  a  lad,  in  fact  quite  a  little 
boy.  Yet  you  must  not  think  that  I  am  mad  because  1  rise  to  speak. 
I  would  only  ask  one  question :  supposing  your  wives  don't  obey 
)-ou,  or  your  children  don't  obey  you.  what  are  we  to  do  under  these 
laws  wc  have  heard  read  ?  Will  they,  your  wives  and  children, 
oot  complain  to  the  magistrates  against  you  if  yon  beat  them  ? 
What  will  wc  do  then,  1  ask  f" 

Maphathe,  headman  :  "  I  thank  you  for  the  laws  you  have  wad 
to  ua :  they  are  good,  tbey  are  a  cave,  a  true  ca.ve  ol  idui^*^  a^xA 


L 


protection.  Tliis  cave,  this  safety,  this  protection,  was  provided  you 
by  Moshcsh.  Some  of  the  vrorda  which  have  been  spoken  lo-< 
may  have  ofTencIcd  you,  sons  of  >[o5he3h,  but  look  at  the  cave  < 
behold  its  bcauly,  its  place,  and  its  safety.  This  Government  makes 
people  of  UD,  not  beasts,  as  wc  were  once.  See  how  many  men 
that  were  naked  are  cLad  to-day,  and  we  have  not  only  clothes  bat 
hoofs  (hoots),  Willi  which  wc  tread  unhurt  now,  even  on  the 
sharpest  thorns  and  splinters.  I  am  only  sorry  for  one  thing,' that 
the  Govcmmciil  didn't  come  in  when  I  was  n  little  boy ;  I'd  have 
been  rich  lo-day !  As  to  the  narrowness  of  the  countr}',  many  who 
come  home  to  us  from  the  colony  will  be  obliged  to  go  bark  again. 
I  think  even  now  there  must  be  more  Basutos  in  the  Orange  Free 
Slate  tlian  there  aru  in  the  Scsutho.  There  is  no  room  for  them 
here.  That's  really  a  matter  for  serious  consideration.  As  for  the' 
Govemmeni,  let  the  chiefs  support  it  to  Iheir  utmost :  il  is  iheJr 
inheritance  from  Moshesh." 

Matlelebe,  headman:  "  Vnit  have  been  talking  about  the  small 
size  of  the  country.  Be  obedient  and  faithful  to  the  Govemmenti 
and  it  may  then  provide  room  for  j-ou.  It  has  been  asked,  '  Do  wc 
understand  the  laws?*  I  say,  give  us  education,  and  we  shall  then 
b<:  able  to  read  the  laws  for  ourseU'es  and  understand  Uiem  all.  All 
I  can  say  is,  you  will  liiitl  that  these  laws  are  very  righteous  and 
fair  and  just.  What  Mr.  Rolland  said  was,  not  that  you  must  make 
your  country  larger,  .but  that  yon  should  arrange  your  gardens 
better.  Vou  are  inconsistent  in  some  things  you  have  spoken 
to-day.  You  say  Mr,  Griffith  is  your  chief,  and  yet  at  the  same 
time  he  must  only  call  people  together  through  their  own  chiefs. 
These  words  are  not  consistent ;  they  cannot  be  reconciled  together. 
That  is  what  I  say." 

Lejaha,  petty  chief:  "We  love  people  who  give  sentences  in 
our  favour:  il  is  but  natural  to  do  so.  It  seems  as  though  in  the 
great  question  of  our  life  or  death  the  Queen's  Go\-cTnment  liad 
said  '  Live,'  and  had  saved  us  from  death.  Inourown  ohl  lawsand 
ways  of  gmxmmcnt  what  stability  was  there  ?  The  word  of  the 
chief  was  the  law.  and  it  might  change,  and  shift,  and  swallow  yo« 
□p;  still  it  was  law.  We  are  not  afraid  ofananl-h^p,  which  is  fixcth 
and  steady,  and  stable  ;  but  we  arc  afraid  of  a  river,  which  is  un- 
stable, full  of  quicksands,  and  carries  us  away.  As  for  the  hnt-taz, 
it  is  goo<1  and  cxcellenL  If  any  man  refuses  to  pay  his  hm-tax, 
why  he  ought  just  to  be  killed  I     Tint's  what  I  say." 

And  all  the  people  said  "  t^t  him  be  killed." 

M/ihanya,  headman:  "These  white  men  are  like  files.     Tbey 


come  Bjid  polish  us  ap  !  They  are  like  brushes  too :  tliey  come 
and  brush  us  clean  1  But  for  them  wc  should  all  have  come  to 
grief  loDg  ago,  quarrelling:  and  eating  each  other  up.  The  Govern- 
ment is  like  a  jilough,  pluughing  through  the  whole  countrj',  and 
evcr>"T*hi;re  in  its  path  foUoiv  productiveness  and  fertilitj',  where 
formerly  there  was  only  a  desert  and  sterility." 

I.efuyane,  petty  chief:  "You,  Lctsie,  Molapo,  and  Masupha, 
don't  quite  understand  the  position  of  aiTairii.  A  chief  is  a  chief - 
by  righteousness.  Moshesh  becanie  a  great  chief  by  reason  of  his 
jtisiicc  and  equity.  He  that  humbleth  himself  shall  be  exalted. 
AU  the  greatness  that  Moshesh  achieved  was  by  humbling  himself; 
and  thus  be  became  a  great  nation.  Pride,  self-will,  and  rebellion 
destroy  chieftainship.  I  observe  that  you  still  send  ambassadors  of 
jrow  own  to  Faku's  country,  the  country  of  the  Bapcdi,  and  other 
places,  although  you  are  now  stibjects  of  the  Queen  1  Is  that  as  it 
ought  to  be  .-'  Does  anybody  taunt  me  with  my  loyally  to  Govern- 
ment ?  I  did  not  engage  in  the  Government  service  because  I  was 
hungry-  Notat.all.  Icwas  Letsie,  by  bringing  theGovernment  into  the 
coontry,  that  made  me  enter  the  Government  service.  Government 
vUl  provide  for  us;  it  will  provide  for  ua  in  ever>'  possible  way. 
Yon  now  hear  that  it  has  not  many  words ;  but  you  must  Icani  lliem 
aU." 

Makotoko:  "I  *-ant  to  speak  a  word  that  is  in  my  heart.  But 
first  I  will  ask  a  question :  When  these  laws  were  read,  were  they 
|Berety  read  as  being  recommended  for  adoption,  or  were  Ihey  read 
as  being  the  ejiisting  laws  of  the  country  ?  Doubtless,  as  the 
existing  laws;  and  yet  some  of  these  laws  I  hear  to-day  for  the 
first  time,  though  the  others  wi;  are  all  obeying  and  observing." 
[He  means  to  point  out  that  the  chiefs  do  not  let  the  English  laws 
become  knuwn  to  the  people  more  tliaii  Lhey  can  possibly  help,  just 
telling  them  a  few  and  keeping  back,  the  rest.]  "The  true  chief 
here  is  the  law.  What  constitutes  chieftainship  but  the  fact  of  the 
chief  being  implicitly  obe}'ec!  ?  Well,  this  law  is  being  obeyed, 
and  that  constitutes  it  a  chief.  Do  you  understand  this  law?  If 
K>,  well ;  if  not,  all  the  worse  for  you  t  1  exhort  you,  chiefs  of  the 
Bakwcna,  not  to  be  pulling  the  people  back,  but  to  be  pushing  them 
forward.  Every  nation  was  once  backward  like  we  are.  You  chiefs 
shoalU  help  to  establish  schools.  I  find  grave  and  important 
matters  in  these  laws  about  the)allotmcnt  of  land  and  the  regula- 
tion of  trade.  1  ask  Government  to  work  gently  with  these  people, 
these  Basutos,  for  they  arc  very  ignorant;  they  will  not  disobey 
Bcly,  bat  in  the    grossness  of   their    vgnoiancc   \.\v?'^   \iq».'3 


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I 


The  Gttttlanans  Magazine, 

transgress  the  law  witliout  knowing  it.  Education  U  the  tbtnK  wei{ 
want  now.  I  say  It-t  nobody  ktice-halter  the  children;  lot  them' 
a.)l  go  and  team  at  the  schools." 

Ramatsietsane :  '*  All  who  govern  arc  appointed  by  God,  and  to 
them  a  sword  is  given  which  is  not  borne  in  vain ;  with  it  they 
diastiite  the  cvil-docr.  With  n-spcct  to  the  Queen  and  Govera- 
ment,  1  say,  act  towards  them  as  the  servants  of  Christ  act  towanla 
Him  whom,  not  liaving  seen,  they  obey.  In  this  Government  the 
book  is  kissed,  showing  a  superior  'brightness'  (sicj  and  inith- 
i'ulness  to  any  such  old  rurnis  of  Government  as  we  had  amongst 
ourselves  before,  when  no  book  was  kissed  at  all.  Yon,  sons  of 
Moshesh,  would  certainly  have  fought  amongst  yourselves  long  agO^^^H 
but  for  the  Government.  Kkwashu  speaks  the  troth.  Which  o(^^| 
you  chiefs  invited  me  to  come  to  this  meeting  to-day  i  Not  one  1 
Doesn't  it  show  that  you  would  have  killed  me  had  it  not  been  for  the 
Government  being  here  ?  1  agree  with  Tsckclo  that  the  Guvemment 
was  procured  by  Moshesh.  \*ou,  Tsekelo,  pointed  to  this  flag,  and 
asked  *  What  is  the  poMtion  of  the  people  under  responsible 
Government  r"  Is  there  really  then  a  defect  in  the  GoveroiDent  ? 
Yes,  doubtless;  for  a  double,  a  divided  chieftainship  exists.  Herod 
tt'as  conscious  of  the  same  sort  of  defect  in  his  own  kingdom  in 
the  case  of  Herodias,  when  his  heart  was  divided  in  itself  between 
his  love  for  St.  John  the  Daptist  and  his  love  for  Herodias,  bis 
brother  Philip's  wife  !  Ilul  such  division  of  heart  is  not  good  ;  for 
no  house  divided  against  itself  can  stand.  I  pray  you,  therefore,  be 
united,  and  give  your  hearts  to  Government." 

Moketsi,  representative  of  the  chief  Aluletsane  :  "  Nena  spoke  a 
sensible  word  ;  nevertheless,  [  find  fault  with  bis  idea  of  '  dissension," 
and  of  the  chiefs  sending  messages  to  the  people  to  let  them  know 
things.  Letsie  never  lets  me  know  anything.  I  hope  the  Govcra- 
ment  will  always  inform  us,  and  call  us  together  by  direct  worvl  of 
its  own,  .ind  nut  through  the  chiefs  at  all  I  What  peace  and  what 
plenty  exist  in  this  country  now  I  Look  at  all  the  different  kind* 
and  Rhapes  and  sizes  of  hats  you  have  on  your  heads  to-day  I 
What  a  sign  of  development  of  trade  in  the  country !  What  a> 
token  of  plenty  I  1  agree  with  Holland  and  those  who  say  that 
the  \illagcs  arc  too  small  and  loo  much  scattered  about  the  couatr)*; 
they  should  be  larger,  so  as  to  have  fewer  of  them,  and  tbtu  bring 
the  arable  lands  mure  within  compass,  and  make  the  [Msturc  Ian 
more  open  and  a\'aiUbIe.  Moshesh  was  not  tlie  first  chief  who  bas1 
died  leaving  to  hit  people  the  legacy  of  this  Government,  wbkb 
protects  and  clothes  its  subjects  as  i\*e  are  this  day.    Qefon 


A  ''Piiso. 


441 


find  fault  with  this  Govcromcnt  you  should  make  quite  sure  that 
what  you  complain  of  is  perfectly  true.  The  country  is  progressing. 
The  only  thing  is  it  is  too  small.  The  hut-lax  is  easy  now  to  pay, 
though  at  first  it  appeared  to  you  to  be  quite  a  heavy  burden." 

Ramohapi,  chief:  "  I  praise  God  for  aa  many  heads  here  to-day  I 
What  a  number  I  Never  did  1  think  that  I  should  see  so  many 
again.  I  thank  and  blesK  thai  head,  the  Queen,  who  brought  to  us 
and  settled  upon  us  this  great  peace.  As  for  me.  1  never  thought 
at  all  before,  in  the  days  of  old,  about  the  benefits  which  this 
Government  would  confer  upon  us.  My  eyes  wore  dim  in  those 
days ;  and  I  &ay  Lo  you,  who  are  the  '  children  of  peace*  if  yuu  arc 
to  enter  in  and  possess  the  land,  you  must  hrst  say  'Peace  be  to 
this  house'  I'his  was  the  contrivance  of  Moshesh,  your  father. 
You,  Griffith,  are  the  eye  of  the  Queen  for  our  safety  and  defence, 
and  I  believe  you  were  chosen  by  Clod  for  this  appointment  amongst 
us.  I  don't  quite  agrec^wiih  you  about  Molapo;  he  was  not  with 
U  in  body  perhaps  (at  these  Pitsos  in  former  years),  but  he  was 
whh  QS  in  spirit  and  in  heart.  Masupha  was  not  with  us  at  one  or 
iwo  former  meetings,  I  know,  because  he  was  opposed  to  the 
Government  on  a  certain  question  at  that  time  ;  but  now  his  heart 
is  healed.  Mis  sore  heart  has  been  taken  away,  and  a  new  heart  has 
been  given  him.  I  am  glad  that  it  is  so  ;  very  glad.  You  who  say 
that  Mr.  Griffith  ought  not  to  have  invited  you  by  his  own  direct 
word  to  this  meeting,  but  only  through  the  chiefs,  do  you  really 
mean  what  yon  say,  in  your  hearts  ?  Why,  1  know  that  you  are 
often  found  appealing  from  Letsie's  decision  and  word  to  Mr. 
Griffith ;  and  so  I  frnd  it  impossible  to  believe  that  in  this  matter 
you  are  sincere  in  what  you  say ;  but  if  you  are,  then  let  me  tell 
you.  you  are  only  digging  a  pitfall  for  Lctsic.  Last  year  I  should 
have  liked  Lctsie  to  have  informed  us  about  the  Fitso  that  was  held 
then;  but  he  didn't-  What  I  wish  is  that  Lctsie  and  the  chiefs 
should  inform  us  about  things  as  well  as  Mr.  Griffith.  If  Mr.  GriiTith 
infonns  us,  let  the  cliiefs  inform  us  too;  if  Mr.  Gdihlfa  protects  us, 
let  the  chiefs  protect  us  too;  if  Mr.  Griffith  finds  fault  with  us, 
let  the  chiefs  do  the  same.  Thus,  I  say,  let  the  chiefs  and  the 
Government  co-operate  and  work  hand-in-hand  together." 
And  all  the  people  said  "Let  them  work  hand-in-hand  together." 
Masupha,  one  of  the  principal  chiefs:  "I  greet  the  represen 
tativc  of  the  Queen,  and  Letsie,  and  Molapo,  and  you,  O 
Bakwena !  I  speak  in  great  gladness  of  heart.  I  speak  first  of 
the  journey  of  the  young  chiefs  to  Cape  Town.  1  atik  the  father 
of  one  of  those  who  went  there.     They  vfenX  m*.\i  ^wa,  ^i;\^^. 


I 


and  }-ou  have  brought  them  back  in  health  and  safety,  and  one  of 
them  has  sta)'ed  at  school  in  Cape  Town,  which  is  quitt  nghL 
It  is  my  son  that  sta^xd,  and  what  1  want  to  see  introduced  i 
knowledge  and  ctlucation.  I  have  now  a  portrait  of  my  30B 
pbotogiapb)  which  is  so  like  him  that  when  I  look  at  it  1  TmI 
inclined  to  talk  to  tl.  This  shows  me  the  cleverness  and  povtt 
of  the  civilised  people.  Leroihodi  and  Jonathan  I  do  not  we 
here  to-day,  but  they  are  with  you  neverthL-lcss.  and  will  be  so 
certainly  in  their  day.  With  regard  to  laws  and  taxes,  I  ha*e 
neither  time  nor  any  necessity  for  speaking  to-day.  1  only  wuk 
to  endorse  the  words  of  Tsekelo.  that  a  council  of  assessors  (fai^ 
as  Letsie,  Molapo,  and  other  chiefs)  should  sit  together  in  de!i> 
beration  with  Mr.  Griffith,  and  assist  him  in  governing  the  peopk. 
Another  word  or  two  I  want  to  say  because  my  name  has  beet 
mentioned  hy  you,  Sofonia,  and  by  my  magistrate,  Mr.  SonuoB. 
Why  should  I  be  mentioned  to-day  9s  the  only  chief  whose  people 
move  out  of  or  into  a  district  -without  *penaits*  from  the  nui)p^ 
trate?  I  have  given  orders  to  my  people  not  to  do  so.  UOtef 
havt;  done  so  it  is  because  of  their  own  stupidity,  and  it  was  done 
without  my  knowledge.  I  have  in  all  things  tried  to  support  the 
Government.  It  is  hard  that  Mr.  Surmun  should  speak  agaioal 
me  in  public  before  speaking  with  mc  in  private  about  this  matttt, 
and  letting  me  know  his  grievance  against  me." 

Tlalelc,  chief,  son  of  Moshesh  :  "It  isafinc  thing^  to  be  allowed  to 
speak  your  mind  oul,  and  to  know  that  no  trap  is  laid  foryoaif  yoodo 
speak.  It  is  a  great  privilege  to  speak  as  you  think.  The  Baatloi 
are  not  capable  of  thinking  about  many  matters  which  wc  oo^ 
just  to  leave  to  Mr.  Griffith  and  the  chiefs.  This  Govemment 
rules  tts  and  controls  us,  and  yet  it  gives  us  no  *  bcUy-achc.'  I 
slevp  well  in  my  own  house  now,  and  rise  when  I  please  in  the 
mornings.  If  Government  says  I  must  ri^  early,  why,  all  hghl, 
I  will  rise  up  very  early ;  but  if  Go%'emment  is  silent  on  the 
tmbject,  why,  1  can  just  rise  when  I  like.  I  praise  and  land 
Moshesh  for  the  cave  he  has  provided  for  us:  I  feel  thankful  no* 
at  last  we  can  sleop  in  peace.  How  hnc  it  is  to  sec  such  a  large 
assembly  t  We  like  the  Govemment  verj-  much  indeed.  I  a» 
glad  to  see  you,  liakwcna,  following  your  chiefs  to  this  FiW 
(meeting).  True,  the  land  is  very  small;  still  after  all  Ibereb* 
good  deal  of  land  left,  bui  you  are  spoiling  and  wasting  ii  bj 
nt^king  so  many  .^iinall  separate  Ullages.  I  say,  have  large  viliafid. 
and  when  you  move  the  pri^sent  widely-scattervtl  huts  plant  pBinp- 
kins  in  the  place  whetc  Siavj  «\oo^.    Kx  v^^aawt  ^ot  arefooU»l>; 


I 


j-ou  are  making  villages  in  places  where  your  gardens  and  pasture 
lands  ought  to  be.  Every  man  that  asks  the  chiefs  for  leave  to 
form  a  village  gets  it  at  once,  and  places  it  in  the  middle  of  what 
ought  to  have  been  reserved  for  pasturage" 

Kalie,  chief:  "  1  have  nothing  much  to  say  to-day ;  our  words, 
the  words  of  the  grey-headed  men,  do  not  agree  wilh  those  of  the 
young  people  Lo-day.  I  have  listened  very  attentively  lo  the  laws 
we  have  just  heard  read  in  our  eani.  I  say  that  Lctiiic  and  Mulapo 
ought  lo  place  confidence  in  and  speak  with  you,  Mr.  Grifiitb, 
about  everjlhing  that  concerns  their  ^^x'lfa^e  and  that  of  the 
people.  You  an>  a  lazy  people,  and  donH  take  enough  trouble 
to  learn  and  make  yourselves  acquainted  with  the  laws  and  require- 
ments of  the  countrj." 

Maiala,  petty  chief:  "The  country  truly  is  sniall,  its  limit*  are 
narrow  ;  but  that  evil  is  greatly  increased  by  the  carr-'lc'ss  manner  in 
which  you  occupy  it,  for  you  take  no  precautions  for  the  husbandry 
of  your  resources:  and  though  the  counir)'  is  small  you  don't  make 
the  most  of  the  little  you  have." 

Letuana,  councillor  of  Molapo:  "I  have  heard  what  has  been 
said,  but  you  speak  like  people  who  are  holding  guns  in  their 
hands.  We  are  already  entirely  in  the  hands  of  the  Government.  ■ 
What  are  you  all  ulking  about,  as  if  you  were  in  a  sort  of  bondage  ? 
We  are  told  lo  speak  freely  and  without  fear  to-day.  Well,  I  for 
one  will  do  so,  though  I  have  not  much  to  say.  I  want  to  know 
what  constitutes  a  man's  property,  because  as  regards  the  laws 
about  marriage  1  remark  that  the  case  of  the  pirl  only  is  mentioned, 
as  if  men  had  no  rights  or  property  that  might  be  endangered  in 
case  of  marriage.  How  about  the  male,  as  well  as  the  female,  in 
these  marriage  laws?  Am  I,  for  instance,  obliged  by  these  mar- 
riage laws  to  allow  my  daughter  to  niarr)'  a  man  I  don't  like  ?  Can 
Government  not  lake  a  man's  property  and  yet  take  from  him  his 
daughter?  That  i«  what  I  ask  about  the  marriage  laws.  I  fully 
agree  with  Mr.  Rolland  about  all  he  has  .laid  with  regard  to  lands 
and  villages  and  trees;  but,  in  connection  with  the  land  (question,  1 
say  the  Go^xmment  allows  traders  to  place  themselves  in  the  way 
of  the  'mabocUas*  (garden  reserves).  Yes,  and  the  missionaries 
do  the  same,  and  all  the  white  men  do  the  same,  for  they  do  not 
understand  the  custom  of  the  'maboella,'  or  else  they  don't 
respect  it.  Again  I  shall  ask  about  the  marriage  law,  for  I  think 
the  female  has  protection,  but  not  the  male  portion  of  the  com- 
munity." 

Simone.  headman :  "  I  have  a  fault  to  find  with  the  rcgiaiccitv^;. 


of  marriages.  I  only  sec  the  Christian  people  bringing  their  half- 
cro«-ns  to  register  their  marriages,  but  not  the  heathen  people. 
Why  is  that  ?  Is  not  the  registration  good  for  the  heathen  people  as 
well  as  the  Christian  ?  I  only  ask.  Another  thing,  loo,  I  have  in  my 
mind,  and  that  is,  the  Government  ordered  us  to  catch  Langahbalele, 
and  yet  the  animals  that  were  captured  by  us  were  taken  away  from 
their  captors.  We  were  the  real  captors  of  Langalibalelu,  and  wo 
have  been  poorly  treated.  The  Natal  people  only  pursued  him. 
they  did  not  catch  him,  and  yet  they  took  away  cvcr>-thing. 
Government  did  not  allow  the  Basutos  to  keep  what  they  had  taken 
from  Langalibalcle-,  and  that's  why  I  can't  sleep  well  at  night,  for 
this  mailer  troubles  me,  and  I  am  dissatisfied  on  this  subject." 

Molapo,  son  of  Moshesh:  "Mr.  Griffith!     Come  to  onr  assist- 
ance.   These  people  who  are  giving  their  opinions,  like  Ramatsiet- 
sanc,  arc  those  who  have  been  with  the  missionaries.    1  say,  go  on 
in  your  own  way,  make  your  own  arrangements,  and  educate  and 
govern   this   people.      I    see   Dr.  Casalis,   and    others   bora    here 
amongst  us,  but  the  Sesuto  of  the  white  man  is  not  nnderstood. 
In  former  days  I  once  asked  some  of  the  most  ignorant  of  the 
people,  who  had  been  a  little  into  the  chapels,  whether  they  under* 
stood  about  God  and  about  Satan,  and  which  they  liked  best,  and 
some  of  them  totd  me  they  liked  Satan  best.    Let  education  como 
into  the  country — that  is  what  the  people  require,  and  that  will 
make  them  cling  to  and    respect  the  laws.     I  speak  to  you.  the 
representative    of    Government,    and    I    speak    lo    the    mission- 
aries  too  now.    The  intelligent  people  here,   like  Sofonta  and 
George,    and  others,    are    your  work;    they  are   the  children  of 
education  and    religion.    Well,  one   dog  cannot  perhaps  kill  the 
wotf,  but  two  are  suxv  to  do  it.    Education  is  the  second  dog,  as 
religion  was  the  first  to  make  the  people  wise,  and  kill  ignorance, 
and  folly,  and  stupidity.     Makotoko  said  th'at  at  one  time  the  white 
people  too  were  ignorant  and  fooli.sh  ;  but  the  foundation  of  all 
material  improvement  is  the  Word  of  God.    I  say,  thenrforr.  teach, 
cducato  the  people.     I  know  what  would  make  these  people  con- 
tented and  pleased,  and  that  is  *  schools.'     The  new  schools  will 
not  inlrrfore  with  mission  schools.    I  desire  most  heartily,  mos 
emphatically,  lo  see  schools  in  the  country.     A  very  few  may 
rich  enough  to  send  their  children  a  long  way  into  the  colony  to 
schools  at  a  far  distance,  but  the  greatest  benefit  to  the  tribe  wonli 
Kciue  from  schools  in  this  country  itself.     Another  thing  I  hxH 
to  speak  obou— Moshesh  was  wise,  but  he  was  wise  only  up  to  *. 
CUtaia  point.    Thera  are  matters  which  most  be  discttssed  and 


settled  by  more  heads  than  one,  however  wise.  Now,  of  the  cattle 
Moshcsh  took  at  Sebeloane,  he  did  not  keep  one,  but  he  distributed 
them  alt  amnnf^l  the  ]>copIe;  and  when  I  saw  Mr.  Griffilh 
do  the  same,  1  asked  myself  'Did  he  learn  this  from  Moshcsh?' 
£ven  those  who  did  not  fight  got  something.  This  was  true 
wisdom  on  the  part  or  Mr.  Griffith.  His  activity,  too,  is  wonderful. 
How  he  worked  all  day  and  travelled  about  all  night  I  saw  at  the 
capture  of  Langalibalele;  and  this  is  just  what  Moshesh  also  used  to 
do.  You  are  invitcil  to  spfak  out  openly  in  the  ears  of  llie  Govern- 
ment to-day,  and  tell  all  your  grievances.  That  is  good.  If  there  arc 
divisions  amongst  us,  I  am  sorry  for  it;  it  is  heathenism  that  causes 
divisions  amongst  us.  Let  Mr.  Griflith  bring  his  schools  here,  and 
the  people  will  be  his  scholars.  Wc  wish  our  children  to  learn 
'  God  save  the  Queen  1'  and  let  the  schools  be  multiplied." 

The  people  shouted  "  God  gave  the  Queen,  and  let  schools  be 
multiplied." 

Letsie,  paramount  chief :  "  Mr.  Griffith,  live  !  Representative  of 
[he  Queen,  officers  of  Government,  missionaries,  and  you  sons  of 
Moshesh  !  I  say  let  us  cany  the  btonc  our  father  Moshesh  said  we 
must  carr>".  This  is  what  Mosht-sh  provided  for  us  as  a  duty.  T 
called  Moeketsie  to  come  here  to-day,  and  1  did  so  because  he  was 
one  of  Moshcsh's  councillors.  I  have  heard  what  has  been  said, 
and  I  know  we  are  weak  and  divided,  and  it  is  because  our  heads 
arc  washed  with  fat  and  not  with  soap.  I  say  to  you,  chief  (Mr. 
Griffith),  teach  us  and  train  us,  and  put  your  spurs  into  us.  Some 
of  the  things  mentioned  in  the  laws  frighten  me.  We,  Letsie, 
Molapo,  and  Masupha,  the  sons  of  Moshesh,  are  the  ones  first 
likely  to  break  these  laws  through  our  ignorance.  But  I  observe 
that  each  one  of  Moshesh's  sens,  when  he  quarrels,  sets  up  for  him- 
self a  new  boundary.  We  have  an  excellent  magistrate  in  Mr. 
Griffith,  and  I  find  no  fault  in  him.  I  also,  like  yon,  Simone,  am 
dissatisfied  about  the  horses  of  I.angalibalele:  I  said  to  Molapo's 
people,  why  should  yon  have  all  that  stock  taken  from  Langalibalele. 
I  hear  the  people  asking :  '  When  shall  we  ever  be  a  wise  people  ?* 
I  told  you,  Mr.  Griffith,  at  Korokoro,  that  my  beard  had  grown  grey 
and  yours  too,  mine  with  the  instruction  of  folly  and  yours  with  the 
instruction  of  wisdom.  Wc  shall  alu'ay^  be  faithful  to  the  Govern- 
ment, and  I  hope  we  shall  always  be  protected."  [All  the  people 
shouted  "May  we  all  ever  be  protected!"]  "  I  remember  being 
beaten  once  by  my  father  because  I  had  asked  for  meat  at 
Masikhonyana's  house;  and  you  too,  Molapo,  were  beaten  becaus« 
you  bad  gone  to  a  dance  without  leave.    Thus  wc  sec  that  folly 


446  The  GentlmtarC s  Magt^ne. 

brings  punishment  upon  men.  Now  you  make  a  bugbear  of  these 
laws ;  but  be  educated,  receive  instruction,  and  there  will  be  no 
more  bugbears.  At  the  same  time  I  implore  of  you,  Mr.  Griffith, 
not  to  ask  us  to  walk  while  it  is  yet  too  early  and  we  are  still  too 
young  to  see." 
And  all  the  people  cried  "  We  are  still  too  young  to  see ! " 
By  the  time  Letsie  had  finished,  the  sun  was  well  down  upon  the 
rim  of  the  western  plain,  and  after  a  speech  from  Mr.  Griffith 
three  hearty  cheers  were  given  for  the  Queen,  and  the  Pitso  was 
dismissed. 

I  may  add  by  way  of  explanation  that  the  Basuto  tribe  is  mnch 
indebted  to  missionary  teaching,  especially  to  the  French  Pititestaiit 
Missionary  Society.  This  will  account  for  certain  flgures,  modes  of 
expression,  and  Biblical  illustrations  which  appear  in  some  of  die 
speeches. 


Leaves  from  the  Journal  of  a 
Chaplain  of  Ease. 

XdiMd  bj  hli  UMraiT  ExMftWr:  W.  WoCULLAGH  TORREKS,  M.P. 
X.— THE  PASHA  OF  THE  PEN. 

February  j6. 
ERARD'S  travelling-  companion,  it  appears,  spent  half 
his  time  aljroatl  in  noting  clown  for  the  benefit  of  the 
public  what  he  had  seen  and  heard  during  ihc  other 
half;  as  if  the  public  in  England  wanted  to  know  how 
things  in  America  struck  him.  Some  of  the  keenest  and  wittiest 
men  arnongst  us  have  tried  and  failed  to  make  an  arousing  book  of 
travels  in  Yanltce-Iand,  and  a  similar  fate  has  befallen  every  rousin 
who  has  undertaken  to  tell  Boston  or  Baltimore  what  struck  him  as 
par-tic'lar  when  he  "came  out"  hither.  I  think  the  difficulty  that 
in  both  cases  has  proved  insuperable  arises  from  the  undeniable  and 
nndisgaisnble  fact  that,  in  the  main,  the  two  communitit-a  arc  so  much 
akin  in  language,  literature,  and  laws,  in  dress  and  dramatics, 
religions  and  recreations,  tendency  to  overwork,  and  belief  in  the 
stipcriority  of  their  race,  that  no  skill  of  the  pencil  or  trick  of  the 
pen  can  make  Brown  junior  or  Taylor  the  yoonger  look  interest- 
ingly strange  or  essentially  different  from  old  Mr.  Brown  or  Grand- 
father Taylor.  The  divergences,  whims,  and  kickings-over  the 
traces  are,  of  course,  innumemble  on  the  newer  and  wider  road  to 
fortune ;  but  in  ninety-nine  instances  out  of  a  hundred  they  seem 
little  or  anything  more  than  the  cffcr\'eHccnce  of  our  old  ideas  and 
humours.  It  is  the  unlocking  of  the  old  family  box ;  the  emanci- 
pation of  the  spirit  pent  up  and  overcrowded,  loo  heavily  rated  and 
too  heavily  weighted  in  its  island  home.  The  nice  distinctions  and 
characteristic  traits  of  life  here  and  existence  there  may  he  painted 
charmingly  with  a  light  hand  like  Hawthorne's ;  but  nothing,  after 
all,  can  be  less  suggestive  of  novel  impressions  or  historical  scenes 
such  as  you  expect  for  your  money  in  a  book  of  travels.  There  are 
not  two  distinct  metals,  and,  therefore,  no  amount  of  sulphuric  or 
other  acid  can  make  their  contact  give  forth  the  startling  or  nipping 
spark.  But  these  are  a  reader's  notions  utterly  at  right  angles  with 
■a. bookmaker's;  they  are  an  old  fellow's  philosop\\Y,\'n.citA.\V»\t\o^ 


I 


4 


448 


The  GmtUmatCs  Magazine. 


}''o\ing  fellow's  anibition  to  see  himself  announced  in  newspapen 
and  periodicals  as  the  father  of  twins  in  foolscap. 

Clinton  is  a  well-conditioned  boy  of  three-and -twenty,  a 
scholar,  and,  what  is  better,  a  good  son.    His  widowed  mother  has^'^ 
I  believe,  anticipated  part  of  her  slender  jointure  to  carT>-  him 
through  Oxford,  enter  him  at  TJncoln's  Inn,  and  let  him  sec  some«i 
thing  of  the  world  before  he  settles  down  to  the  Bar.     I  hear  tl 
he  requites  her  self-devotion  with  affection  and  deference,  all  the 
more  commcndably  feminine  in  their  gentlenciis    because   he  iai 
thoroughly  manful  and  plucky  when  occasion  requires,  and  read] 
to  rough  it,  1  am  told,  with  comrades  of  his  own  standing  whenever 
called  on  to  do  so.     He  ought  to  do  very  well  in  life,  and  I  hope 
sincerely  he  and  Gerard  may  continue  to  be  close  friends.     Bui 
how  am  I  to  help  him  in  his  present  need  of  a  publisher  >     I  once, 
I  think,  met  Mr.  Orme  at  dinner,  and  sat  opposite  Mr.  Hatchard 
in  a  black -panelled  coach  at  a  funeral ;  but  neither  of  them  would 
give  sixpence   for  so  many  pounds  weight  of  manuscript  by 
unknown  hand,  on  ray  recommeniJation.     Investment  in  copyrighl 
and  printer's  ink  is  a  transaction  governed  ordiimrily  by  considera- 
tions wholly  beyond  the  ken  of  the  unbusinesslike  author.     For- 
merly the  duties  of  the  critic  retained  by  each  publishing  house 
were  divided  between  running  down  the  works  produced  by  soe 
rival,  or  running  up  those  produced  by  themselves.    But  another^ 
function  is  now  discharged  by  him ;  he  has  to  buy  the  raw  material 
for  his  employer  as  cheap  as  he  (an,  and  help  to  sell  the  SnlshedJ 
article  done  up  in  suitable  packages  for  the  market  at  as  high  apricei 
as  possible.     The  works  of  well-known  authors  have  a  market 
value  which  efforts  of  this  kind  cannot  perceptibly  alter  or  change. 
They  are  like  Consols,  which  cvcr)-body  must  have,  or  pretend  lo^ 
have,  and  over  whose  selling  price  the  brain-brokers  exercise  little 
or  no  influence.     But  the  wider  and  more  speoilatife  stock  of 
6ction,  biography,  history*,  and    travels  is  subject  to  their    inter- 
ference and  amenable  to  their  sway.     I  happen  to  know  one  of 
them  who,  besides  being  an  anon>-maus  contributor  to  various  perio- 
dicals of  repute,  is  known  to  be  the  editor  of  a  popular  weekly 
journal  a  two-column  critique  in  which,  favourable  to  a  new  book,  is 
said  to  be  worth  the  knave  of  tramps  at  whist,  counting  both  in 
tricks  and  honours.    The  best  thing  I  can  do  for  Clinton  is  to  takaj 
him  to  the  Albany  and  introduce  bim  to  this  great  man  of  letters, 
who,  though  he  will  ne^-cr  waste  half  an  hour  over  the  rnanuscript. 
may  put  him  in  the  way  of  having  it  published  on  the  usual  terms 
of  no  cost  and  half  profits.    Profits,  of  course,  there  will  never  be, 


Lfovis/rom  the  Journal  of  a  Chaplain  of  Ease.     449 

!)ut  at  the  end  of  six  months  a  balance  of  charges  against  him  of 
£\^  7s.  8d.  This  win  have  the  effect  of  curing  a  worthy  fellow  of 
the  painful  digital  disease  under  which  he  is  now  suffering,  and 
thenceforth  he  will  devote  himself  all  the  more  surely  to  the  culture 
of  the  venal  arts  of  bis  profession,  whereby  he  may  live  and  die  a 

rcalthy  man. 
March  5. 
True  to  time,  xny  j-outhful   friend  came  to  me  this  moming 
at    ten    minutes    after    one,    and,    punctual    to   our    appointment, 
we   rang  at  the  awful  critic's  door  as  St.  James's  clock  chimed 
half-past  one.     On  oar  way  I  endeavoured  to  prepare  Clinton  for 
the  literarv'  grandeur  of  the  personage  whom  he  was  to  see.    I'omp 
of  manner  and  ineffability  of  tone  but  vtty  inadequately  expressed 
the  distinctive  traits  of  his  method  of  communicating  his  ideas  and 
signifying  his  will.    With   great  natural   energy,  great  store  of 
acquired    knowledge,   great    facility    of   pen,   great  vohtbilily    of 
speech,  great  success  In  most  things  he  has  hitherto  attempted,  and 
nnfaltering  confidence  in  his  ability  to  succeed  in  whatever  lie  may 
choose  to  attempt,  he  is  a  man  to  be  listened  to,  and,  if  you  like, 
to  bt;  laughed  at  when  he  is  gone ;  hut  not  to  br  .irgned  with  or 
opposed  at  the  moment  in  aivy  dogma  he  may  lay  down  regarding  a 
doubtful  reading  in  Shakespeare,  the  age  of  a  friend's  second  son, 
I      the  best  mode  of  dressing  oysters,  the  numbers  killnd  at  Marston 
^Itf  oor,  the  aspect  of  the  room  where  Hood  wrote  the  "  Song  nf  the 
^■Bfalrt."  or  the  colour  of  the  robe  he  ought  to  wear  when  he  plays 
^^nlius  Caesar  as  one  of  the  amateur  company  of  noble  and  dis- 
tinguished authors.     The  lave  of  celebrity  is  the  master  passion   of 
his  life;  and  where  celebrity  is  not  to  be  had  he  goes  in  for  noto- 
riety as  better  than  nothing.     Some  of  his  earlier  books,  in  which 
he  took  pains  and  did  not  venture  to  take  liberties  with  the  acnho- 
rised  vulgar  tongue,  are  excellent  in  their  way ;  but  their  way  is 
that  of  securing  a  place  in  a  comprehensive  librar)- — not  in  the 
advertising  column  of  third  cdition.s.     Sober  historical  writing  may 
be  all  verj'  well  as  a  foundation  to  build  upon,  but,  like,  other  hewn 
comer  stones,  it  is  soon  almost  forgotten  in  the  subsequent  growth 
around  it  of  herbage  and  brushwood  that  bide  it  from  the  view.  The 
ambition  of  Buraton  is  to  be  heard  and  seen  of  men ;  the  facility 
of  his  penmanship  gratifies  the  one  longing,  and  his  readiness  to 
play  in  private  theatricals  allays  the  other  hunger.     He  is  generally 
I       engaged  indeed  in  this,  if  not  in  that.     Talking  one  day  to  Leigh 
Hunt  of  the  bent  of  every  man's  genius,  Burston  avowed  his  belief 

bthat  Nature  intended  him  by  versatility  of  voice  and  the  gift  of 
Vol.  xvn.,  N.s.  ie;6.  o  i 


kd 


450 


The  GcfitifviaiC  s  Magazme, 


divining  character  to  do  for  our  liille  what  Gairiclc  AlA  for  Msiliwt 
and,  noiicing  a  look  of  incrtdulity  in  his  companion's  facr,  he  cx» 
claimed,  with  a  look  of  mpturc,  *'Ahl  if  )'OU  only  saw  roe  actt' 
I^igh  Hunt  rejoined  "Why,  I  nex-er  saw  j-ou  do  anything- else." 
short,  [  said,  as  we  ascended  the  Albany  stairs,  "  He  is  what 
to  be  called  in  Sheridan's  time  a  bit  of  a  Bashaw :  but  never  mine 
if  he  does  you  a  (food  lum.    I  have  no  doubt  if  you  hit  his 
that  he  can  and  will." 

When  we  were  shown  into  his  study  the  great  man  was  not  tiler 
His  writing  table,  of  gigantic  size,  was  piled  urith  books  and  pa|: 
of  all  descriptions.  On  the  floor  around  his  ch»ir  lay  open  folios 
of  polemics,  Parliamentary  reports  on  cdwcalion.  rolls  of  plaj 
bills  of  the  time  of  Foole,  a  heap  of  correcled  proofs,  two  ominot 
piles  of  discarded  MSS..  a  half-open  parcel  containing  several  paii 
of  gold  embroidered  velvet  breeches,  and  ranged  against  the  lowfrf^ 
shelves  behind  several  threc-comcrcd  hats  with  green,  pink,  and  lilac 
feathers.  A  mirror  from  floor  to  ceiling  filled  the  spare  hctwc 
the  two  windows,  suggesting  endless  and  wnr-varying  pleasures 
contemplation.  In  one  recess  was  a  painfully  accurate  likeness 
the  late  Mr.  Macready;  in  the  opposite  comer  an  antique  bust,  the 
worse  for  the  ill  usage  of  time — the  modem  pedestal  bore  in  Greek 
letters  the  name  of  Proteus.  A  small  effigy  in  brona:  of  Aiisto- 
phanes  occupied  one  corner  of  the  mantelpiece,  that  of  MoIiArt 
other.  But  the  glory  of  the  room  ^-^i  the  array  of  invitations 
men  of  genius  and  men  of  quality,  actresses  and  countesses,  singers 
and  statesmen ;  it  was  a  wonderful  collection,  suggestive  by 
breadth  of  the  universal  homage  paijj  to  genius ;  by  its  altittii! 
the  eminence  he  had  climbed.  On  the  couch  where  I  rcpoa 
white  wailing  bis  advent,  lay  an  uncut  copy  of  his  own  last  wc 
with  a  (ly-leaf  open  on  which  I  could  not  help  reading  some  words 
newly  written  of  presentation  to  Lord  Palmerston,  "  from  one  of 
his  steadiest  friends  through  good  and  evil  report."  The  book  was 
nominally  the  life  of  a  well-known  conlemporar)-  wit^i  whom  he  bftd 
been  intimate,  and  Mho  had  quietly  submitted  all  his  life  lo  t 
patronised  by  the  Pasha  of  the  Pen.  \\Ticn  his  Highness  dtnod 
the  house  of  his  friend,  if  he  liked  any  dish  particularly  he  would 
commend  it  to  the  host's  ntteniion  with  gasironomic  emphasis:  "  1 
dare  say,  my  dear  fellow,  you  ore  not  acquainted  "ith  it*  mcriu,  Jmi 
allow  me  to  assure  you  that  it  is  exceptionally  <  ii 

of  the  combination,  if  I  recollect  right,  is  aacr:. i.  i-.-,-iJ* 

the  most  enlightened  geurmtt,  aa  I.onl  Scfton  used  to  saef,  wbc 
had  over  known;  and  ibo  thrf  has  realised  it  perfectly;  I  dt 


mo 

yo 
an 


Lmv€sfrom  thi  Journal  of  a  Chaptain  0/ East. 

think  I  ever  had  it  Jonc  beiicr:"  as  ir  the  hoosc,  and  the  dinner, 
and  the  cook,  and  all  belonged  to  himself.  On  anolher  occasion  I 
recollect  he  said  he  spent  a  day  in  the  country  with  the  same 
lamented  friend,  whose  children  had  a  hohday  and  shared  all  the 
unccrcniontous  pleasures  going  on.  One  of  them,  less  frolic- 
some than  the  rest,  sat  nnder  a  tree  engrossed  in  some  mar%-t;Uous 
tale.  Burttoii  marched  slowly  towards  him  and  ijtood  for  a  moment 
in  a  philosophic  pose,  "contemplating  youthful  curiosity  enjoying 
its  appropriate  food,"  as  he  magnificently  phrased  it;  and  then  he 
proceeded  to  interrogate  the  child,  and,  a.s  \ik  said,  to  analyse  the 
emotions  caused  by  the  story  in  the  little  intellect.  Some  sharp  or 
quaint  answer  to  his  interruption  tickled  his  fancy;  and  rejoining 
the  father  he  said,  in  what  u-as  evidently  meant  to  be  a  touching 

nc  of  mingled  admonition  and  reproof,  *' I  wish  to  call  your 
'dbservaiion  to  that  boy — clever,  very — ^you  don't  know  what  he  is; 
you  have  not  studied  liis  cbmacter  and  capacity ;  '  he  hath  a  clear 
and  commrndablc  wit  rarely  noticeable  in  one  so  young,'  as  our  too 

lUch  forgotten  dramatist  has  it ;  but  the  boy  has  talent,  talent  I  do 
inre  you ;  talce  it  from  me,  he  has  something  in  him ;  and  you 
ought  at  once  to  take  him  in  hand,  settle  beforehand  what  books  hu 
should  read,  and  in  what  order,  occupying  everj-  inch  of  the  proUtic 
soil  with  wholesome  but  varied— mind,  I  say  varied — ^eed  ;  and  not 
allow  a  day  or  hour  to  be  lost  in  the  artistic  process  of  his  intel- 
lectual development."  Happily  the  father  simply  laughed  and 
replied.  "  >[y  dear  Doctor  Johnson  Secundus,  try  one  of  those 
hes  ju6t  brought  in,  I  think  yon  will  find  the  flavour  refreshing 

is  hot  day."  Clinton  asked  what  was  thought  of  the  work.  I 
told  him  I  had  not  read  it,  Viut  that  I  had  .seen  it  described  in  last 
Saturday's  Thutuhstrnv  as  a,  Life  of  Mr.  Burston,  with  occasional 
notices  of  the  late  distinguished  writer,  whose  name  figured  in  gold 
letters  on  the  back. 

Wc  waited  on,  and  still  the  Pasha  did  not  appear.     His  servant, 

n  showing  us  in,  had  murmured  in  a  hesitating  tone  of  apology 

his  m;ister  was  just  then  undressing.     What  he  i:ou!il  mean  by 

iwi-dressing  at  that  hour  of  the  day  I  could  not  at  the  moment  con- 

ive  ;  but  Ihc  gloves  and  foils  th.1l  occupied  one  of  the  vast  carved 
irs  of  the  apartment  suggested  the  probable  explanation  that 
there  had  been  a  rehearsal  that  morning,  or  that  he  had  been  going 
ihmugh  a  duelling  scene  in  his  yaji  before  the  glass  already  men- 
tioned.    The  latter  conjecture  I  subsetiUL-ntly  found  was  a  true  one. 
e  crash  of  deadly  annas  had  just  subsided  as  wc  rang  the  editor's 

II.     Ejtit  Sir  Fillibert  into  the  dressing-room,  lUc  4oqi  o^  -RVxti^x 

G  t^  z 


I     repUi 
^_peac 

^told 

notj 

lettt 

^^ 
^feat 

.     ma-i 

P^ 

the 

Ihr 

^tioi 


* 


452 


The  GcntlemarCs  MiagaziNC. 


closed  as  we  entered  ;  and  daring  the  twentr-five  minDles  we 
to  wait  "sounds  trithin"  indicated  that  to  save  time  tbc  peat 
vas  stripping  and  rating  lunch,  rehabiting  bis  person  2nd  if- 
Trcshing  it  with  hock  and  seltzer-watcr.  At  last  the  folding  doon 
opened,  and  Proteus  Redivi\-MS  entered  the  chamber.  "  Hah !  ho» 
d'»e  do  ?  Young  friend's  name  ?  Clinton  ;  hah !  memoralik 
name  ;  not  atva^  associated  with  triumph  in  the  field,  bat  (u  I 
■was  writing  only  ^-esterday  in  a  review  where  I  had  to  give  a  rapid 
sketch  of  the  American  War.  condensed  you  know,  but  as  I  hope 
clear  lo  the  least  informed  understanding)  always  associated 
honour."  Af^er  this  preliminary-  flourish  he  went  direct  to 
and  forgot  himself,  his  airs,  and  antics  in  bland  and  beni 
inqairies  about  the  young  author's  sojourn  beyond  the  sea,  and  s 
to  his  purpose  in  offering  his  notes  and  jottings  on  Younger 
England  to  the  reading  public  of  the  Elder  Land.  Clinton  avowed 
with  Hiihvif  hi»  assumption  all  through  that  what  he  hod  found 
amusingly  novel  would  he  new  and  entertaining  to  many  at  booK 
who  had  leisure  to  read  and  money  to  buy  a  couple  of  well-writtea 
volumes.  An  encouraging  nod  of  the  head,  and  a  scarce  per- 
ceptible expiration  nf  smoke  inhaled  from  a  corpulent  rocerwdiaon. 
intimated  that  the  aagust  critic,  who  held  the  literary  lives  of  sath< 
in  his  hands,  was  listening.  The  sound  of  his  own  voice 
Clinton  courage,  and  he  began  gently  but  unmti>lakably  to  flap 
pen-feather  wings.  I  fain  would  have  stopped  him  ;  but  his  n 
boot  was  not  within  the  reach  of  my  cane,  and  my  most  ezpressiK 
look  came  not  within  range  of  his  eye.  I  grew  anxious  and  aQfi7> 
fearing  that  this  deviation  from  the  narrow  way  of  modesty  isd 
matter-of-fact  into  the  green  fields  wherein  all  donkeys  delight  to 
gambol  might  destroy  the  fa%-ourabIe  prepossession  which  I  thcwght 
at  first  he  had  made.  1  fixed  my  ej*c  on  the  bust  of  Proteos,  >ad 
then  let  it  steal  round  to  the  living  archetype  with  the  pipe  in  iB 
mouth.  The  eyes  were  half  closed,  as  if  in  meditation,  and  I  drr« 
a  freer  breath  when  I  obser^'cd  the  inclination  of  the  head  slowljf 
change.  The  lower  half  of  the  right  leg  had  stolen  gently  001 
from  under  the  heavy  folds  of  the  quilled  dressing-gown,  tPl  W 
profile  was  distinctly  visible :  the  massive  foot,  half  hid  in  a  yello* 
papouche  such  as  Pashas  wear,  and  the  splendid  calf  rising  in  ihe 
proportion,  clothed  in  a  beautiful  pace-coloured  stocking  wli 
dazzling  clocks  of  gold.  Blessed  spectacle,  which  I  doubt  wbeilier 
its  owner  or  I  took  most  delight  in  gazing  on,  for  it  alTorde' 
proof  positive  that  not  a  word  of  the  sanguine  rodomontade  of 
my  rash  protigl  Viad  founA  Vis  -wwy  \.o  vVvt  cerebellum  of  the  repo«iaj 


critic,  still  wrap]>cd  in  contemplation  or  hh  costume  and  his  part. 

^_At  the  first  pause  I  ventured  to  intcrpmc  with  a  hope  that  we  were 

^Bot  cncroocbiug  too  much  uti  lime  that  I  knew  was  so  fully  occupied. 

^■"No,  no;  don't  mention  it ;  mosl^happy;  is  the  MS.  quite  com- 

Hplctc  ?     Yes.  just  so  ;  well,  let  me  have  a  look,  al  it ;  I  seldom  take 

long  to  form  an  opinion ;  instinct  or  habit — what  you  will— tells  one 

where  to  look  in  order  to  form  a  judgment.     I   don't  know  that  I 

shall   have  ten  minutes  to  spare  till  Friday ;  but  I  generally  keep 

that    for  a  leisure  day  on  which  I  do  nothing  but  a  few  leading 

articles  and    a    critique    or   so    for  the    Scnttinar.      But  in  the 

intervals  between  parochial  and  foreij^  politico  I  have  no  doubt  I 

shall  find  time  to  look  into  '  Childe  Harolil'  iti  prose,  eh?  some- 

thinf,'  of  that  kind  1  sec  you  have  been  about — yes,  jusl  so ;    and 

if  you  will  do  nie  the  favour  to  look  me  up  after  dinner,  day  about 

nine  or  ten   o'clock  on  Friday  night,  at  ray  office  in  Porcupine 

Coun,  I  can  ulk  to  you  about  the  book.    By  the  ivay,  have  you 

ever  tried  your  hand  in  journalism  t    No  ?    Well,  might  do  worae ; 

kms  in  money  quicker  than  philanthropic  ilinerary.  Look  here, 
ere  is  the  last  Dill  laid  upon  ihc  tabic  for  University  Reform. 
Great  subject — I  say  a  great  subject.  Let's  sec  what  you  have_  to 
fiay  about  it.  You  can  look  up  Hannard  for  the  last  three  sessions 
and  see  how  much  has  been  said  and  how  little  has  been  done  on 
Hifae  subject.  We  go  in  for  a  ckitn  sweep ;  not  one  slone  that 
^<Wight  to  be  pulled  down  should  be  left  upon  another.  I  made  the 
observation  in  a  speech  delivered  by  me  at  the  Lilerar)-  Fund 
dinner  last  year ;  you  can  quote  it  from  the  report  of  my  speech  if 
you  like.  JJut  hit  hard — don't  be  afraid ;  only  in  good  classic 
«tylc;  you'll  see  how  the  Scruliuuris  written;  we  admit  nothing 
second-rate.  Xow  I  am  afriiid  I  must  say  good  morning,  for  1  am 
due  in  ten  minutes  at  Lady  Fantasy's,  in  Portland  Plai;e.  where  I 
promised  lo  read  Shelley's  '  Epipsychideon';  and  I  have  still  lo 
change  my  dress.    Good  morning."    £.veuHf  omiifs. 

Matxh  10. 
Clinton  gave  an  amusing  account  to  Gerard  of  his  inter 
view  on  Friday  night  at  the  publishing  office.  Ht;  found  the 
inexorable  censor  grave  imd  moody.  "  for  his  heart  was  oppressed 
with  care."  He  had  had  no  dinner — nothing — that  is,  nothing 
worthy  of  the  name  of  dinner.  His  sub-cdttor  had  fallen  sick 
without  notice,  as  he  said  complainingly.  The  whole  lig  of  the 
ship  was  consK(|uently  out  of  gear;  all  the  work  was  thrown  8 ud  ■ 
denly  upon  him,  and  in  order  to  bring  out  Ihc  vta^et  vtv  ij^to-vw 
time  he  had  had  io  sit  tbvrc  since  luncheon.    FotViiTva\e\?j  ^otV«& 


I 


a 

I' 


454  Tfu  GaiilemarCs  Magazine. 


.there  vras  no  quantity  be  could  not  write,  and  do  subject  oo  vhidi 
be  did  not  feel  himself  at  home:  but  still  it  was  fagging  andi 
-terrible  bore.  Clinton  had  gone  charged  to  the  muile  witb 
Oxford  Reform  ;  but  it  seemed  as  if  be  was  not  Hkely  to  have  (he 
chance  "f  pnlHnfj  a  trigger.  Thf  editor  when,  he  arrived  iw 
evidently  out  of  temper  with — well,  with — ihe  printer,  who  *w 
lace ;  and  the  state  of  foreign  aBairs,  which  was  fogg; ;  and  i 
correspondent  from  Aldershol,  who  bad  given  him  the  be  abc« 
an  alleged  job  in  promotion ;  and  the  condoct  of  the  Home 
Secretary  about  an  inquest,  which  was  abominable ;  and  tbe  pH- 
^inacity  of  n  Wallachian  Princess  who  woulil  furce  ber  way  into kli 
presence,  to  tell  bim  he  must  expose  the  wrongs  of  her  comliy 
"  in  next  paper  or  liberty  would  die  "  :  and  with  the  pens  be  foi»l 
on  tlic  wretched  desk  at  which  he  sat  (never  were  »uch  rnstni* 
mcnti  of  torture) :  and,  above  all,  with  an  unfortunate  little  boy 
who  had  walked  lo  the  Temple  in  the  rain  for  an  article  viriseding 
the  coroner,  and  vfas  waiting  to  lake  back  the  proofs  lo  the  Q-C 
who  wrote  it,  when  Mr.  Burston  tuid  inserted  in  the  vo»p^ 
certain  suggcrstions  and  alterations  of  his  own.  There  was  sUoiee 
in.  the  laboratof)-  of  wit  while  the  bad  i>cn  of  the  Pasha  lariDjr 
impressed  on  the  ilimsy  Ills  finest  distinctions.  A  feeble  iDal 
came  from  the  comer  where  Ihe  poor  hapless  messenger  had  diupptl 
to  sleep  weary  and  wet  to  the  skin.  Gcadudly  that  soond  fie> 
slightly  louder,  and  at  length  swdled  to  the  volume  of  a  v«ry  uadl 
snore.  "  Boy  I"  growled  the  Pasha  in  a  deep  voice,  and  ihinkiij 
that  hint  would  be  enough,  was  proceeding  with  his  commeDtuin 
on  the  doubtful  point  of  the  law  of  evidence  when  the  untoiwciow 
urchin  emitted  another  snort  mote  intolerably  distinct.  "BoyT 
roared  the  Pasha  in  a  rage.  The  miserable  little  Mercury  openrf 
his  eyes  and  stood  with  cap  in  both  hands  waiting-,  and  ready  to  be 
ofT  once  more ;  but  no  orders  were  ready,  and  he  relapsed  ifito  i 
do£c  again,  speedily  committing  the  same  outrage  as  before- 
Another  indignant  ejaculation  roused  him,  and  after  sliuBliaj 
hiB  heavy  shoes  on  the  fioor  for  a  moment  or  two  in  token  of 
readiness  to  run,  there  was  another  interval  of  silence,  and  tinsd 
nature  once  again  sought  refuge  in  batmy  sleep.  IVemooitoT 
symptoms  once  more  grew  faintly  audible,  and  Clinton,  who  bid 
been  watching  the  whole  affair,  saw  what  was  coming,  mJ 
ventured  to  interpose  with  a  suggestion  thai  the  poor  little  MI0" 
seemed  Ihurouglily  done,  and  could  not  help  going  to  sleep:  wd 
possibly,  he  added,  if  he  got  a  nap  he  might  be  able  to  Irot  ^ 
fa&ler  on  his  laic  cnunA.    "HMinv'^iV'  »S*  ^V.^iKntaa,  "lli(»'» 


* 


.eaves  frotn  the  journal  of  a  Chaplain  of  Ease.     455 


something  in  that " ;  then  fixing  his  awful  eyes  upon  the  culprit, 
whom  Clinton  had  wakenud  this  time,  he  said  in  a  magisterial  tone 
"Hoy  t  you  may  sleep,  but  you  mustn't  snore." 
I     By  the  time  the  legal  article  was  Ijiiii^hed,  and  sundr)'  improvements 
were  made,  apt  quotations  inserted,  and  shortcomings  in  the  style 
of  fallible  contributors  made  good  by  the  happy  ingrafting  of  choice 
idiomatic  terms  orexprussioti.  it  waxed  late,  and  ,Prutvui)  declared 
tbat  he  was  worn  oat,  and  that  he  must  go  to  the  Garrick  to  stip> 
c  took  it  for  granted  that  Clinton  would  like  to  conic  with  him, 
and  so  without  formal  invitation  he  brought  him  away.    Not  a  word 
was  said  about  Univ-crsity  Reform  until  after  the  midnight  repast 
over  and  a  compensating  hour  of  pleasant  and  pungent  gossip 
'liad    been   spent  in  the  smoking-room,  '^vhen  men  from  the  play, 
the  House,  or  a  late  dinner  dropped  in,   pach  witli  his  contribution 
of  scandal,  fun,  or  catastrophe.    Clinton  thought  it  the  pleasantest 
place  he  had  ever  I>een  in  in  his  life.    Burslon  was  not  brilliant,  but 
highly  dui^malic  whenever  he  spoke,  and  his  authority  seemed  to 
be  recognised  by  many,  if  not  by  all,  as  somelhiny  it  was  no  good 
disputing..    Ere  Ihey  parted,  however,  for  the  night,  he  asked  for 
article,  and  promised  to  let  him  know  when  he  wished  to  see 
his  young  acquaintance  again. 

So  Clinton  must  wait ;  but  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  something 
came  of  it  after  all ;  and  in  any  case  I  am  glad  I  thought  oS  the 
introduction. 


^■4. I 


disi 
Mho 


R.  ROBINSOK  caUed  her  ibe  "  Princess  Lalla 
Rookh,"  but  her  iiatWe  name  was  Tntjjanini,  and 
she  was  the  l^st  of  the  Tasmanians.  It  was  on 
the  3Td  of  March  in  the  present  year  that  I  was. 
TiviHircd  with  aii  iiileiview  with  this  last  survivor  of  the  aboriginal 
people  whom  Captain  Cook  found  in  Van  Dieman's  Land  a 
liundred  years  ago:  and  before  my  return  to  England  the  news 
reached  me  that  she  was  dead.  It  is  a  notable  fact  thai  tliis 
woman's  life  compassed  the  whole  period  in  which  the  extinction 
of  her  race  was  accomplished ;  for,  being  seventy- three  year%  old 
when  she  died,  she  must  have  been  born  in  iSoj,  the  year  in 
which  the  island  was  taken  possession  of  as  a  place  of  settlement 
by  Lieutenant  Buwen.  The  estimated  native  popnlaiion  at  that 
lirae  vas  from  three  to  four  thousand,  and  within  the  span  of  this 
one  poor  woman's  life  the  work  of  extermination  van  begun  and 
completed.  She  lived  to  see  her  people  first  hunted  to  death 
by  Knglish  convicts,  and  afterwards  civilised  off  the  face  of  the 
earth :  hut  there  is  some  slight  satisfaction  in  knowing  that  her 
last  years  were  made  happy  by  the  care  and  kindness  of  the  rcprc- 
senuiivcs  to-day  of  the  ruthless  Anglo-Saxon  destroj'erv  of  her 
kindred. 

liy  the  extinction  of  Trugantni's  race  wc  lose  a  link  in  the 
family  of  man.  They  were  a  savage  nice  in  the  nineteenth 
century,  but  it  is  not  very  long  since  we  also  were  savages,  using 
clubs  and  delighting  in  war-paint.  The  Maori  of  this  generation 
is,  I  fancy,  very  like  the  Briton  of  the  time  of  Cxsar ;  and  I  felt 
while  talking  with  the  last  of  the  Tasmanians  that  a  few  hundred 
years  before  the  yeni,  vtdi,  via  was  written  tlierc  must  have 
been  a  strong  resemblance  between  the  inbabitantu  of  the  Britiiih 
Isles  and  those  of  Van  Dieman's  Land  when  it  became  a  paii 
of  the  British  Empire.  I  hope  our  ancient  predecessors  merited 
as  much  as  any  other  uncultured  tribe  the  appellation  of  "noble 
savages";  and  there  were  many  elements  of  native  nobility  in 
the  lost  race  of  the  Tasmanians.  The  Britons  ran  wild  in  the 
woods,  hunting  their  own  game,  as  the  islandeis  of  Tasmania 


"ex 


Trugamni. 

.ntil  only  ft  few  yean  ago  hunted  the  opossum,  the  kangAroo,  and 
e  wombol.  They  will  hunt  no  more.  The  work  they  had  to  do 
in  the  world  is  done.  Whatever  part  they  had  to  bear  in  the 
curious  history  of  man's  development  has  been  added  finally  to  the 
grand  total. 

Tniganini's  end  was  in  strange  contrast  with  that  of  mo$t  jfher 
|)Cojile,  and  in  equally  strange  contrast  wiih  the  greater  part  of  her 
own  extraordinary,  and  imieed  rumatitic,  life.  Let  me  glance 
brielly  at  her  career  antecedent  to  these  last  day*  of  her  old  age, 
before  I  recall  the  impressions  of  the  visit  I  paid  her  at  Hobart 
Town  a  few  weeks  before  her  death. 

William  Lannt^,  ur  King  Billy  a&  lie  was  calletl  by  the  whites,  was 

K  last  male  representative  of  the  aboriginal  Tasnianians.      He 

ied  in  March,    1871.  leaving  only  Tniganini  to  lengthen  out  the 

existence  of  this  family  uf  tlic  Maoris  for  five  ytars  longer.     With 

the  later  history  of  that  race  her  name  is  closely  and  not  unworthily 

unected  ;  for  she  was  a  woman  of  great  activity,  and  exercised 

considerable  influence  uvcr  the  remnant  of  her  people.     In  some 

respects  our  Princess  may  be  accepted  as  the  heroine  of  the  sior)* 

of  the  last  days  of  the  Tasmanians. 

The  Black  War,  wnth  its  cmcltics,  massacres,  and  outrages  on 
both  sides,  was  over;  the  curious  attempt  to  catch  the  nhule 
nativu  population — known  as  "The  Line" — had  been  tried  and  ^ 
found  to  be  ineffective.  The  Bruni  Island  Dep6t  had  been  formed, 
and  Mr.  G.  A.  Robinson,  called  the  Conciliator,  had  proposed  his 
plan  for  ending  the  cruel  persecution  of  (he  poor  blacks  and 
succouring,  civilising,  and  Christianising  the  few  which  yet  remained. 
In  iSjo  this  remarkable  man,  finding  that  the  Bruni  effort  was  a 
sad  and  lamentable  failure,  *'  proposed  nothing  less  than  proceed- 
ing into  the  wilderness  with  a  few  companions,  all  unarmed,  and  en- 
deavouring to  fall  in  with  the  aboriginal  tribes  if  possible,  to  bring 
about  conciliation  and  jierjuade  them  to  surrender  themselves 
peaceably."  Of  course  "  practical  "  people  looked  upon  the  pro- 
posal as  that  of  "either  a  madman  or  an  impostor."  At  this  time 
Mr.  Robinson,  who  had  at  one  period  of  his  life  been  a  bricklayer, 
was  the  superintendent  of  the  establishment  fur  the  civilisation  of 
the  aborigines  at  Bruni  Island.  He  thoroughly  understood  the 
people  whom  he  hoped  to  rescue  from  the  wilderness  and  save 
from  the  violence  of  his  own  counlr}'mcn  and  the  not  less  cruel 
violence  of  each  other.  His  own  statement  on  the  subject  is  cleat 
and  explicit :  "  I  considered  that  the  uatives  of  Van  Diemaa« 
Land  were  tationaJ ;  and  although  ihey  m'ig\iV.  m  V\\<rK  %aNas^tt 


I 


The  GentUmaii's  Magazitu. 

notiuns,  op]K>se  violent  tneasurcii  for  ihuireubjn^tion.  yet.  if  I  coul< 
but  get  them  to  listen  to  reason,  and  pensuadc  them  tliat  the  Europeans^ 
wislieU  only  to  better  theJi  condition,  they  might  become  civilised 
and  rendered  uscrul  members  of  iociety,  instead  of  the  bloodthirsty, 
ferocious  beJngi  they  were  represented  to  he.  This  was  the  prin- 
c\\i\*^  \ipon  which  I  fonned  my  plan."  li  is  at  this  period  in  the 
history  of  her  people  Oiat  our  heroine  comes  prominently  on  the 
page  of  Toamaaion  hibtoty. 

Among  the  natives  gathered  together  on  Bruni  Island  was  the 
yomg  woman  known  to  her  people  by  the  name  of  Truganitii,  and 
called  the  beautiful  Tasmanian.  Mr.  Robinson  had  conforred  npOQ] 
her  the  title  of  Princess,  and  the  name  of  Lalla  Rookh.  She  w< 
twenty-seven  years  of  age,  and  devoted  the  whole  energy  of  a1 
very  enetgetic  nature  to  helping  the  Conciliator  to  cany  out  his 
plan.  She  was,  writes  Mr.  Jamt:s  Bonwick,  in  his  most  interesatin^j 
volume,  "  The  Last  of  the  Tasmanians,"  "  the  one  on  whom  h( 
most  relied,  and  who  proved  a  faithful  and  efficient  ally  through- 
out his  subsequent  bush  career."  "  This  was  the  beauty  of  Bruni. 
and  one  of  the  heroines  of  Tasmanian  story.''  We  have  no  picture 
of  her  as  she  appeared  at  this  lime,  the  first  being  that  given  by 
Mr.  Bonwick,  thirty  years  after  her  "  wonderful  career  .with  Mr. 
Robinson."  But  even  then  he  understood  the  "  stories  told  of  her 
vivacity  and  intelligence.  Her  eye*  were  still  beautiful,  and  full  of 
mischievous  fun.  Thirty  years  before  she  would  have  been  caplij 
vating  to  men  of  her  colour,  ami  not  by  any  means  an  unintorcsting 
object  to  thftse  of  whiter  skins.  Her  mind  was  of  no  ordinary  kind. 
Fertile  in  expedient,  ing«niaus  in  council,  courageous  in  ddfitulty.l 
she  had  the  wisdom  and  fascination  of  the  serpent,  the  intrepidity 
and  nobility  of  the  royal  mler  of  the  desert."  Her  virtue  wa$  not 
quite  so  conspicuous  as  her  beauty.  I^  Belle  Sauvage  was  fond  of 
intrigues  on  her  own  account,  and  rather  gloried  in  the  captives  she 
made  to'  her  sable  charms  and  vivacious  fascinations.  She  played 
her  giax-c  and  serious  husband,  Worrcddy,  alias  the  Doctor,  many 
tantalising  trick<i,  which  often  ciused  the  irritated  lord  and  master  to 
administer  corporal  chastisement  to  his  roguish  spouse. 

Traganini  was  faithful  to  her  leader.  She  attended  Mr.  Robin- 
son through  all  bis  arduous  and  dangerous  labours,  and  on 
one  occasion  at  least  she  «aved  ins  life  by  her  courage  and 
presence  of  mind  joined  to  her  ability  in  swimming.  This  was  in 
September.  iZyz,  on  the  Arthur  Kivcr.  A  conference  had  been 
held  with  a  forest  tribe ;  but  the  eloquence  of  the  Conciliator 
was  not  powerful  enough  to  win  their  confidence  or  to  persuiutc 


Truganini. 


459 


them  to  come  in.    They  sharpened  their  apcars,  prepared  their 

^ weapons  of  war,  and  began  to  enclose  round  iheir  Triend,  who,  for  the 
first  lime  since  be  bad  begun  his  mission,  was  cum|iL-Ilt:(l  lo  seek  for 
safety  in  Sight.  He  fled,  and  but  for  Truganini  would  doubtless 
bavc  been  kiitcd.  In  rushing  towards  the  Arthur  River  he  over- 
took bis  faithful  friend.  He  could  not  swim,  and  did  not  know 
what  to  do.  Shu  advisc<l  him  at  first  to  hidi;  in  the  bunhes,  Init  his 
knowledge  of  his  enemies'  skill  in  hunting  told  him  this  would  be 
■•Bfteles*.  "  I  knew  loo  well,"  he  says,  narrating  this  adventure 
^thirty  years  after  it  occurred,  "  the  keenness  with  which  the  blacks 
tracked  the  smallest  object  to  trust  to  that ;  therefore,  as  my  only 
hope.  I  launched  a  log  of  wood  into  the  river,  on  which  1  leant, 
and  the  kind-hearted  woman  immwliately  jumped  into  the  riwr  and 
Swam  across,  flragging  the  log  .ifter  her."  Truganini  never  forgot  this 
deed  of  daring.  Mr.  Bonwick  says  he  mentioned  it  to  her  many  years 
after  its  occurrence,  and  the  "  little  old  woman  clapped  her  hands, 
danced  about,  and  laughed  most  merrily.  She  then  gave  me  her 
version  of  the  aifair,  adding  most  espressive  and  pantomimic  per- 
formances to  aid  her  in  her  narrative." 
^m  In  spite  of  all  di(Ticultic!>  Mr.  Robinson  in  a  few  years  accom- 
plished his  mission.  His  sufferings  and  those  of  his  little  party 
were  very  great.  They  had  to  endure  the  extremes  of  heat  and 
cold  ;  to  traverse  regions  never  before  visited  by  the  wliite  man  ;  to 
pierce  wild  and  unknown  forests,  to  cross  snow-covered  mountains, 
to  pcnctntc  through  diflitriiU  passes  and  gorges;  but  the  faith  that 
was  in  him  bore  him  on  until  he  had  won  o>'er  the  last  tribe  and 

ȣ;aioed  the  confidence  of  the  last  native.  Tasmania  is  a  small 
country,  and  the  remnant  of  the  race  sought  to  be  saved  consisted 
of  only  a  few  of  its  original  possessors;  but  in  this  work  of  mercy 
as  much  courage  in  danger,  fortitude  in  suffering,  patience  in 
endurance,  and  enthusiasm  of  faith  were  displayed  as  in  deeds 
which  have  been  immortalised  by  the  song  of  the  poet  and  made 
for  ever  memorable  tn  the  page  of  the  historian.  One  example  of 
this  must  suffice.  In  the  latter  part  of  183+  the  heroic  leader 
and  his  heroic  little  band  of  blacks  in  journeying  by  "  Cradle 
Mountain  and  over  the  lofty  plateau  of  Middlesex  Plains, 
experienced  unwonted  misery."  For  "  seven  successive  days  we 
continued  travelling  over  one  solid  body  of  snow  ;  the  natives  were 
ftequently  op  to  their  middle  in  snow."  These  are  Mr.  Robinson's 
own  words;  and  Mr.  Himwlek  adds:  "But  still  the  ill-clad,  ill-fed, 
diseased,  and  wayworn  men  and  women,  including  the  mctt^  Utt3i,t 
Truganini.  were  sasUined  bj  the  cheerful  voKC  ol  \VOki  ■>aTi««v- 


k 


Tike  Gent/entari's  Magazti 

qucrable  frientl,  and  responded  most  nobly  to  his  call ;  while  their 
legs,  as  we  are  told,  were  cruelly  lactratcd  in  thrtading  the  thorny 
scrub  and  clambering  tlic  sharp  rocks."  Surety  there  was  sometliing 
nobU\  something  worth  savint;,  in  a  race  which  could  display  such 
fidelity,  strength,  and  courage. 

For  five  years  this  work  was  carried  on,  and  durin;;  the  whole  of 
that  period  our  heroine  was  true  to  lier  task  and  Taithful  to  her 
leader.  The  result  of  tlie  efforts  thus  made  to  save  the  few  sur- 
vivors of  a  dying  race  is  thus  summarised  by  its  latest  and  best 
historian,  ^f^.  Bonwick:  "On  the  »ind  of  January,  i8jj,  the  last 
party  of  eight  aborigines  came  into  Ilobart  Town.  The  mission 
was  accom]ilishe<l.  Mr.  Rubinsnn  had  finished  liis  work.  Id  1830 
and  1831  he  had  brought  in  Jifty-four:  in  1831,  sixty-three;  in 
|6J3,  forty-two.  The  last  two  years  1834  and  1835  saw  the 
Island  swept  of  its  original  inhabitants."  The  people  of  Hobart 
Town  rejoirevl  greatly  at  the  success  and  completion  of  the  work, 
and,  1  am  glad  to  say,  duly  honoured  and  well  rewarded  the  man  of 
peace  and  conciliation  who  had  succeeded  where  armies  had 
failed. 

The  aborigines  hatl  been  rescued,  but  now  what  was  lo  tie  done 
with  and  for  them  'i  At  fir>it  they  were  sent  to  Swan  Island,  but  this 
would  not  do.  Neit  Gun  Carriage  Island  was  tried  with  a  like 
result,  and  then  they  were  removed  to  I'lindcrs'  Islan>l.  In  all 
these  pilgrimages  Truganini  wa^  with  her  people,  and  bore  her 
share  in  ihcir  troubles  and  sufferings.  Schools  and  religious  scf* 
vices  were  ciitablished,  and  attempts  were  made  to  teach  Iho 
Toamanians  learning  and  religion.  At  the  age  of  tliirty-three  oar 
lieroine  became  a  pupil,  but  notwithstanding  her  quickness,  b«r 
ready  wit  and  viracit)-,  her  progress  was  not  \cTy  satisfactaiy.  At 
an  examination  held  in  1838  .Mr.  Honwick  records  "My  particular 
friend.  Lalla  Rookh,  or  Truganini.  was  not  cxamiucd  in  literature." 
But  chapels,  schools,  and  civilisation  could  not  save  the  race.  The 
mortality  at  Flinders'  Island  was  terrible,  and  this  settlement  had  10 
be  given  up.  In  1847  only  twelve  men.  twenty- two  women,  and 
ten  children  remainiKl.  and  these  were  removed  to  Oyster  Cove.  In 
i8s9  Mr.  ilunwick  visited  the  place,  and  gives  us  the  following 
picture  of  our  heroine  at  the  age  of  fifly-six : — "  Laughing  little 
Lalla  Rookh.  or  Truganini.  was  my  especial  favourite  of  the  party. 
She  acted  among  the  rust  as  if  she  were  indeed  the  sulloua.  She 
was  thou  much  over  SHy  years  of  ogu,  and  preserved  some  of  those 
graces  whith  irude  her  beauty  a  snare  in  olden  days  and  sadly  tried 
the  patience  of  her  respective  husbands.      Her  coquclr)*  i  t 

the  faded  loveliness  of  Frctic^  Coutts^ 


Truganini. 


461 


irkinf;  and  smiling  beside  me.  I  thought  of  the  septuagenarian 
admirer  of  Voltaire.  Her  ft-atures,  in  spite  of  her  bridgekss  nose, 
were  decidedly  pleasing,  when  lighted  up  by  her  sparkling  black  eyes 
in  animated  conversation.  Her  nose  was  of  the  genuine  saucy 
fT/rPMjj/ order.  She  was  further  adorned  with  a  fair  raouEtache, 
and  well  developed  curly  whiskers,  that  were  just  beginning  to 
tnm  with  advancing  years  .  .  .  Sht  is  ihe  lasi  of  the  raa^ 

TTie  little  flock  at  Oyster  Cove  became  quickly  fewer  and  fewer  tn 
rumber,  and  rapidly  full  before  the  effects  of  drink  and  other 
civilising  influences.  In  seventeen  years  all  were  dead  but  four. 
In  1864  the  only  aborigines  alive  were  William  Lannf,  otherwise 
King  Billy,  Truganini,  and  two  other  females.  In  October  of  that 
year  th(!  Hohart  Tmim  Mcnury  rcporti'd  thrir  prest-nce  at  a  recent 
Government  ball.  The  two  women  mentioned  above  never  visited 
Government  House  again  ;  King  Billy  died  on  the  5th  of  March, 
1871,  and  the  septuagenarian  Truganini  alone  remained.  The 
Government  allowed  /"80  a  year  for  her  support,  and  placed  her 
under  the  care  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Oandridge,  both  of  whom  had 
been  long  engaged  in  the  work  of  protecting  the  natives.  At  the 
lime  of  my  \nsit  Mrs.  Dandridge  was  a  widow,  and  the  Princess 
!la  Rookh  was  still  under  her  care. 

Being  at  Hobart  Ton^i,  I  was  naturally  very  anxious  to  sec  this 
raordinar)'  woman,  of  whose  singular  career  I   had  heard  and 
read  so  much.     There  was  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  an  intcri-icw, 
for  "the  last  of  her  race"  was  more  surprised  at  the  small  number  of 
persons  from  the  outside  world  who  came  lo  sec  her  than  annoyed 
at  the  curiosity  of  those  who  did.    Vanity,  the  foible  of  her  youth, 
was   a  characteristic  through  her  long  and  eventful  life,  and  re- 
mained the  predominant  feeling  of  her  old  age.    She  was  pleased 
to  be  visited  and  talked  to  by  white  people,  for  whom  she  had  done 
and  suffered  so  much.     All  she  required  was  to  know  the  time  when 
visitors  would  come,  so  that  she  might  be  prepared  to  receive  them; 
for  this  daughter  of  the  bush  was  as  fastidious  about  her  dress  as 
the   belle  of  a  London  season,  and  very  properly  declined  being 
taken  by  surprise.     All  this  I  learned  from  the  Attorney- General  of 
the  colony,  the  Hon.  W.  R.  Giblin,  whose  friendly  courtesy  and 
genial  hospitality  to  all  strangers  are  well  known  and  duly  appre- 
'ciatcd.     He  made  our  stay  at  Hobart  Town  very  pleasant  indeed, 
and  supplied  us  with  a  large  amount  of  information  on  the  state  of 
Tasmania.     He  also  arranged  the  visit  to  Truganini.  which  was 
6ied  for  mid-day,  March  3,  1S7C,  at  which  time  he,  my  friend, 
one  of  my  fellow-travellers,  Mr.  John  WiUit,  aai  xa'^wtV  VaA.  m\. 
iotemeir  with  the  sable  princess. 


L4  4I' 


4 

4 


i 


Tlu  Gentl&narCs  Mageuine, 


A  few  minutes  after  we  had  taken  our  seats  In  the  neat  lit 
parlour  Mrs.  Dandriclgv  cnicnrd  with  I^lla  RooJth  on  her  nnn,  anc 
thv  pcesuntatif^n  took  place  U  was  quite  a  little  ceremony,  and 
seemed  to  be  tliorotJKliI}'  enjoyed  by  iho  principal  performer, 
Having  shaken  us  all  by  the  hand,  she  Look  her  s<;aL  with  somo 
dignity  and  grace,  as  one  rather  accustomed  lo  deference,  and 
liking  it.  In  personal  appearance  she  uaa  short,  mtber  stool,  with 
a  ytrongly-markcd  face,  noso  flat,  hair  short,  curly,  and  grc}*,  a 
decided  moustache  and  whiskers,  and  a  pair  of  bright  sparkHiig 
black  ryes.  Altogether  a  remarkable-looking  woman,  not  black, 
but  of  a  dark-brown  colour  inclining  to  black.  Her  handi  were 
short,  but  not  at  all  ctumsy<looking ;  and  in  spite  of  her  more  than 
seventy  years  she  seemed  as  merry  as  a  cricket.  As  vros  said  of  her 
more  than  forty  years  before,  she  was  the  very  picture  of  good- 
humour.  The  Misses  Hill  relate  an  anecdote  illustrative  of  her 
manner.  She  had  been  introduced  to  the  Govenior,  when  she 
polti-d  that  high  and  important  runction3r>-  in  the  chest,  exclaiming 
"  Too  much  jacket,  too  much  jacket,"  which  f!^  her  way  of  telling 
the  Governor  thai  his  Kxcellency  was  getting  too  fat. 

Great  care  had  been  paid  to  her  toilet  on  the  day  of  our  visit. 
She  wore  a  dress  of  bright  and  varied  colours,  a  bright  Utile  shavl 
over  her  ijhoulders,  fastened  by  a  large  brooch  in  front,  ami  a 
necklace  of  those  many-tinled.  rich-hued,  brilliantly  polished, 
and  sparkling  E-'ijian  shells,  as  much  prized  by  the  fair  ones  of  the 
civilised  world  as  by  their  dark  sisters  of  barbarous  tribes.  Her 
short  frizEy  grey  hair  was  ahnost  hidden  by  a  gorgeous  turhan- 
shaped  article  of  apparel  for  which  I  liave  no  name.  Her  whole 
get-up  was  very  striking  and  jiicturcsciuo. 

She  spoke  &ir  but  broken  English,  and  was  very  fond  of 
talking.  Her  memory  U'as  still  retentive  of  past  events,  to 
which  she  referred  with  evident  pleasure.  She  remembered  Mr. 
Robinson  ami  hur  adventures  wttli  him  in  his  long  and  dangcixnis 
missioiL  At  the  roention  of  his  name  her  bright  eyes  beamed 
more  brighlly,  and  she  was  unmist.ikably  pleasrd  with  any  reference 
lo  the  aubJGcl  of  her  connection  with  that  true  friend  of  herself  and 
her  people.  Bush  life,  she  said,  was  very  bad,  and  she  should  not 
like  to  go  back  to  it  again.  She  had  seen  many  peoplu  kilh^d  \n 
her  tina-.  both  white  folk  and  black,  but  that  was  all  over  now.  She  * 
had  not  forgotlen  Flinders*  Island,  nor  Oj-stcr  Cove,  but  was  more 
comfortable  and  happy  where  she  was  living  now.  Mr».  Dandndgc 
said  she  sometimes  spoke  a  great  deal  of  her  p;mt  life,  rthiting  Hi 
her  own  quaint  and  simple  manner  many  of  ' 
ttcnis  in  licr  strange  career.     Not  a  (<•-^v  oi 


Truganini. 


463 


r    bi 


we 
F     duri 


violence  and  munlcr.  Night  attacks  of  tho  blacks  on  remote 
tettl(;ments,  cruel  slaughter  of  the  inmalcs — mdn,  women,  and 
chiklren — and  equally  cruel  retaliations  of  the  whites;  wanderings 
through  the  hush,  and  sufferings  from  want  of  food,  cold,  and 
fatigue.  No  record  has  been  made  of  these  stories  of  her  life, 
which  wc  then  thought,  and  I  still  think,  is  a  great  pity,  for  ihcy 
might  hav-c  thrown  much  light  on  the  life,  customs,  and  habits  of 
this  now  extinct  race. 

Truganini  was  clearly  pleased  with  our  visit  and  our  talk.     Once 

ben  .Mr.  Gihliu  had  turned  his  back  she  exclaimed  "  Big  man, 

big  man,  him:  got  any  piccaninnies  .''"    Ucfore  leaving  we  asked 

what  she  would  tike  u»  to  send  her.     At  (his  her  eyes  grew  brighter 

than  ever,  and  her  face  assumed  a  look  of  eager  expectancy.     Her 

acquisiti^'enes3  had  certainly  not  grown  weaker  in  her  old  age.    We 

asked,  "should  it  be  tobacco.'"     "  Nn,  no,"  she  quickly  replied, 

"get  plenty  tobacco."     "Shall  it  be  money?"     "  Yes,  yes,"  was 

the  eager  response.    So  we  gave  her  money.    She  (00k  it  with 

larkable  avidity,  wrapped  it  up  carefully  in  her  handkerchief, 

lasped  it  closely  and  tightly  in  her  right  hand  and  held  it  fast 

during  the  remainder  of  our  visit.     She  clearly  understood  all  we 

paid,  except  when  we  told  her  that  we  had  come  many  thotisanda 

miles,  over  great  seas   from   far  distant  lands.     The  words 

ipean^  10  convey  no  distinct  idea  to  her  mind,  and  hur  face  was 

perfect   blank.     Rut  when   I  tolil    her  that   1   had  a  wife  and 

ildren  to  whom  I  should    often    talk    about    her,   she  again 

ightcned  up,  and  it  was  quite   manifcRt  that  she  had  a  deep 

ileasure  in  hearing  that  she  would  be  talked  about. 

We  DOW  rose  to  wish  her  gootl-hye.     She  also  rose  and  gave  U3 

left  band  to  shake,  her  right  was  still  keeping  fast  hold  of  the 

lOney.    "Was  she  glad  we  had  been?"    "  Ves."    "Would  she 

e   to  sec  us  again?"     "Yes."     "Was  she  happy  .•""     "Yes." 

;'Did  she  like  white  people?"    "Yes."     " Well,.good-b}-e.  and 

ly  you  live  long  and  always  be  happy."     "Good-bye."    And  so 

e  left  hec.    K&  we  passed  the  wiiidow  she  stood  in  front  of  it  and 

'2ved  us  a  last  farewell ;  this  time  with  her  riglit  hand  clenched 

vcr  the  handkerchief  containing  the  money. 

Mrs.  Dandridge  told  ns  that  the  old  L-uIy  was  nearly  always  quiet, 

ocrful,  contenteil,  and  happy;  childlike  and  simple  in  many  of 

,ei  ways  ;  at  times  chatty  and  fond  of  chatting,  but  at  other  limes 

itum  and  a  litilc  morose.    She  was  vJry  fond  of  being  taken 

ice  of,  glad  when  any  one  went  to  see  her,  and  often  fcuriirised 

d  not  a  little  displeased  that  so  few  visitots  came.    Omi  ■sw'i. 

,d  be  J  source  of  great  p/easurc  to  her,  atid  tViiil  Oia^-  'wwiiXft  ^ 


464 


Tlu  GentUmatCs  Magazine. 


red-Iettor  one  in  her  now  somewhat  solitary  life.  We  were  also 
told  that  what  the  poor  thing  knew  of  religion  was  a  great  comron 
and  consolation  to  her,  although  her  notions  were  ralher  haxy,  and 
her  belief  of  the  simplest  kind.  "There  is  a  great  comfort  after 
all,"  said  her  kind-hcaited  attendant,  "in  knowing  that  she  will 
die  a  Christian." 

Before  I  returned  to  England  Trugauini  was  dead,  and  tba 
Tasmanians  had  disappeared  from  the  face  of  the  earth.  1  do  not 
think  that  Iheir  fate  could  have  been  averted — delayed  il  might  havt- 
been.  UTierever  the  white  man  settles,  the  races  who  live  by 
hunting,  and  the  tribes  who  arc  continually  at  war  with  each  other, 
seem  doomed,  and  their  extinction  is  only  a  question  of  time 
The  native  Australians  are  becoming  fewer  and  fewer;  the  races 
of  the  Pacific  arc  decreasing  year  by  j-car;  the  Red  Indians  are 
slowly  disappearing.  It  is  our  duly  to  see  that  this  work  is  not 
hastened  by  any  injustice  and  cruelty  tou-ards  the  original  pos- 
sessors of  the  soil ;  but  this  duty  is  one  which  is  in  almost  alt  sac 
cases  entirely  neglected.  Our  responsibility  is  great,  but  we  rarely' 
show  by  our  acts  that  we  are  conseions  of  that  responsibility.  The 
histcr)-  of  our  treatment  of  the  Tasmaiiian-s  is  the  hiiitnr^'  of  thi 
treatment  of  all  native  races  by  European  settlers  in  their  lands.' 
If  there  is  a  natural  law  which  delennines  that  the  inferior  most 
give  place  to  the  superior,  we  hasten  its  operations  by  our  own 
acts  of  cruelty  and  injustice,  and  our  progress  is  marked  by  the 
bones  of  the  peoples  whom  we  have  destroyed. 

Kone  of  the  portraits  and  photographs  of  Truganini  which  t  bavoj 
seen  give  anything  like  a  true  picture  of  the  woman.  They  pi 
in  an  exaggerated  way  the  large,  prominent,  and  heavj-  mouth ; 
the  broad,  flat,  bridgeless  nose ;  the  high  cheek  bono,  the  over- 
hanging eyebrows,  the  beard  and  whiskers,  and  give  yoD  the  idea 
of  a  ralher  strongly-pronounced  savage.  But  the  bright  sparkling 
eye,  the  mischievous  glance,  the  touches  of  good  hnmour,  the 
merry  smile,  and  the  arch  took  indicative  of  a  love  of  mirth  and 
fun  which  characterised  her,  are  all  lacking.  No  one  could  formj 
a  correct  opinion  of  her  nature  from  her  portraits.  1  am  glad  tha 
1  saw  her  with  all  these  traits  clearly  displayed,  and  that  my  im- 
pression of  "the  last  ofher  race"  is  as  pleasing  as  my  interview  with 
her  was  full  of  interest.  Among  the  memorable  eveoti  which 
occurred  during  my  rambles  in  the  lovely  island  of  Tasmania  thl 
visit  will  always  hold  a  most  prominent  place.  It  is  somcthtog  tol 
have  seen  and  talked  with  the  last  of  a  now  exUocl  branch  of  llio 
family  of  man. 


• 


CHAPTER  XLIH. 

"  THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  DEAD." 

T  was  All  Saints'  Eve,  iSij. 

WIiilL-  Rohan  Gwcnrcm  was  penetrating,  torch  in  hand, 
into  the  ghostly  Roman  vault,  or  aqueduct,  deep-buried  in 
the  heart  of  the  cliffs,  the  chapul  bells  of  Kromtaix  were 
ringing,  and  crowds  vfcrc  flocking  through  the  darkness  to  hear  the 
priest  say  mass,  a  task  in  which  he  and  his  "vicaire"  would  be  en- 
gaged unceasingly  till  the  coining  of  dawn.  The  night  was  dark  and 
still,  but  the  rain  was  falling  heavily,  and  a  black  curtain  covered 
liie  sea.  Everywhere  in  the  narrow  streets  of  Kromlaix  were  glisten- 
ing pools  formed  by  the  newly  fallen  rain,  and  into  these  the  heavy 
drops  plashed  incessantly,  making  a  dreary  murmur.  But  fainter 
and  deeper  than  the  sound  of  the  rain  came  another  sound,  like  a 
cry  from  the  earth  beneath :  a  strange  far-off  murmur,  like  the  distant 
moaning  of  the  sea. 

The  doors  stood  open  wide,  and  in  every  house  the  suppcr-table 
stood  spread,  with  a  clean  linen  cloth,  lights,  and  the  evening  meal; 
and  around  the  table  stood  vacant  chairs ;  and  on  the  hearth  there 
burnt  a  fire,  carefully  arranged  to  last  till  dawn.  For  it  wan  the 
Night  of  the  Dead  ;  and  after  the  death-bell  had  been  tolled,  the 
dead  mass  said,  the  supper  eaten,  and  the  household  retired  to  rest, 
the  Souls  of  the  dead  would  enter  in  and  partake  of  the  solemn 
feast  ia  the  dwellings  whore  they  had  died,  or  where  their  kin 
ftbodc.  Then  the  household  would  listen,  and  hear  strange  wailing^ 
in  the  rooms  and  at  the  doors ;  and  then  they  would  rise  from  their 
beds,  fall  ujion  their  knees,  and  ptay  that,  but  for  this  one  waking 
night  of  the  year,  those  they  loved  might  sleep  in  peace. 

Not  only  from  the  little  churchyard  on  the  hill-side,  where  the 
light  was  gleaming  through  the  open  chapel  door,  would  the  Souls 
of  the  dead  come;  but  over  the  wild  wastes  inland,  and  down  the 
lonrly  roads  from  the  far-off  towns,  and  most  of  all,  in  from  the 
washing  water*  of  the  sea.  Strange  phosphorescent  lights  were 
Vol.  XVII.,  N.S.  i8;6.  B.  \i 


a 


464  ^^'  GfiiiftmafCs  Magasiw 

red-!citcr  one  in  her  now  somewhat  soli''  gh  inlbtauiUm?^ 
told  that  what  the  poor  thing  knew  of  tr'  ^^  f^,^  sHihtpiKM 
and  consolation  lo  her,  although  her  •  Q^ck  10  the  ^obk*  ^.) 
her  belief  ot  the  simplest  hind.     ' 

all,"  said  her  kind-hearted  alter     .^,  mgon  wjuU  be  fulLani-i 
die  a  Christian."  '   _..    There  was  no  moontighi,  nd 

Before  1  returned  to  Ev  the  rain;  but  light?  flishcd  in  all ik 
Tasmanians  had  disappearr^  came    from  the  little  chapel,  «k«ts 
think  thai  their  falc  conV   ,^airc  "  were  pcrrurming  the  mass.  Tkt 
been.     \\*hcrcver  the     j  ghosts  were  hovering  in  the  blad  »r, 
hunting,  and  the  trib'  ^,,.jving  her  mother  behind  her  in  the  chapd, 
seem   doomed,  an** ,  .3^.  jiarkness  with  some  crompanions  of  h«o«li 
The  native  Anstr^'^^a  with  ihcm  at  her  uncle's  door, 
of  the  Pacific  *  y^.  found  ihc  kitchen  bright  ^rnl  cleanly  s«|il, 
slowly  dlsapp  '..  a  great  fire  on  the  hearth,  and^tfac  hereot 

hastened  by  ^  „^.  in  the  chimne>-  corner, 
ses&orsoft  , '^,  Marcelle  .* "  he  cried  with  a  nod,  withdnwiaj 
cases  ent)  >^  »  great  wooden  pipe  which  he  had  broogbi  bad 
show  by  ^ir^Gtrminy.  "The  old  one  was  anxious  aboufW 
history  ^'^p^e  up  the  street  to  look  after  you.  Where  is  mtidm 
treatn    ^r^^r 

If  th     ^'^  still  at  chapel,  and  will    not    return   till    il   ttnk« 
giw       '^ 
actf     >^j^u?" 
tK>  ;  urcd,  and  [  shall  go  to  bed." 

..  r  is  ready,"  said  Gildas  ;  "  sit  down  and  cat." 

»*        ilKV'"'^  shook  her  head.    She  looked  very  pale,  and  her  whole 

i'        ^r b^^'^'''^'*^  bodily  or  mental  fatigue. 

^        *09^  night."  she  said,  kissing  Gildas:  then  she  lit  berlin: 

itcat  wearily  up  the  stairs.    All  tliat  day  her  heart  bad  bA« 

^if  Roh&n,  and  now,  when  night  came,  she  was  thinking  of  fain 

*jjuange  pain.    It  wa-s  the  Night  of  the  Dead,  bat  »be  wu  too 

i^^to  have  much  to  mourn  for,  and  beyond  her  two  brotheitt 

^r^ad  diud  in  battle,  had  known  no  losses.     NcvenheJess,  iIk 

_l^ii  of  the  time  lay  heavily  upon  her,  and  she  trembled  bcfon 

^dow  of  something  that  did  not  live.     Rohan  Gwenfein  i» 

l^iJead.  lo^t  to  hur  and  the  world,  buried  out  yonder  in  the  UkJ: 

^i,as  surely  as  if  he  no  longer  breathed  at  all.    While  othcnba>l 

j^  praying  for  their  lost,  whom  the  good  God  bad  strickeo,  (l> 

^been  praying  for  hers,  whom  God  had  no  less  surriyofc* 

^Y,   With  the  dead  there  was  peace  ;  for  the  dead-living  tfc« 

^  only  pain.    So  \iei  wttq"*!  T»as  v\\^  -wwRt  to  bear. 


rbole    I 


of  the  Svjord. 


467 


•n  her  heart  slic  had  j-camed  to  be  alone 
'o  pray;  and  so  she  bad  come  home. 
"Sid  after  midnight  struck,  the  room 
je,  that  the  poor  ghosts  might  come 
the  board.     Ah  God,  if  hi  loo  might 
^^  ght  at  least  ilie  blessed  bread  of  peace  I 

^5?  Ihc  great  kitchen,  Gddas  Derval  smoked  away 

and  anon  giving  vent  to  an  expression  of  im- 
.ain  still  fcU  without  with  weary  and  ceaseless  sound, 
.^  a  murmuring  from  the  black  streams  pouring  down 
.»■  street.    Once  or  twite  Gildas  arose,  and  gazed  out  into 
,h-black  night^a  Night  of  Death  indeed  1 
.  the  minutes  crept  on,  and  the  hands  of  the  Dutch  clock  in  the 
.^mer  pointed  to  half-past  eleven,  Gildas  grew  more  uneasy.    The 
witching  hour  was  cloae  at  hand,  and  the  silence  wa?  growing 
positively  sepulchral.    At  every  sound  he  started,  listening  intently. 
Hero  as  he  was,  he  felt  positively  afraid,  and  bitterly  regretted  that 
■Ae  had  itufTercd  Marcelle  to  go  to  bed. 

^B  "  What  the  devil  can  detain  my  uncle ! "  he  muttered  again  and 
^kain. 

^^  At  last  the  door  opened  and  the  Corporal  staggered  in,  wrapped 
'      in  his  old  military  coat,  and  dripping  from  head  to  foot;  his  cocked 
,1,  which  he  wore  it  VEmpertur,  formed  a  miniature  waterspout 
pen  his  head. 
"  Soul  of  a  crow,"  he  cried,  "  was  there  ever  such  a  night  ?    Are 
ey  not  returned  ?" 

•'  Only  Marcelle,"  growled  Gildas  ;  '*  the  rest   arc   still   at   the 
apel,  thongh  it  is  time  all  good  Christians  were  abed." 
The  Corporal  .slumped  across  the  room,  and  remained  with  his 

k  to  the  fire,  his  wet  clothes  steaming  as  he  stood. 
**I  went  up  the  street  to  look  for  them,  but  seeing  they  did  not 
iC,  I  went  to  the  shore.    The  tide  is  up  to  the  foot  of  the  street, 
,d   it  has  still  some  lime  to  flow.     They  arc  friglilencd  down 
there,  and  will  not  steep  to-night :  but  the  sea  is  calm  as  glass," 

As  the  Corporal  ceased  to  epcak  Gildas  sprang  to  his  feet,  and 
limultaneously  the  house  shook  to  its  very  foundations  as  if  smitten 
by  a  sudden  &quall  of  wind. 

"What's  that  .=* "  cried  Gildas,  now  quite  pale,  cro-wtng  himself  in 
his  terror. 

**  It  must  be  the  wind  rising,"  said  the  Corporal  ;  but  when  he 
walked  to  the  door,  and  threw  it  open  to  listen,  there  was  T^ot.  a. 
breath. 

a  w  1 


468  The  Genileman'  s  Magazine. 

"  [t  is  strange,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  coming  back  to  th«*^. 
"  I  have  heard  il  twice  before  to-night,  and  one  would  say  the  eanti 
was  quaking  under  foot." 

"  Uncle  !  "  murmured  Gildas. 

'•Well,  mongan?" 

"  If  il  is  the  Souls  of  the  dead  !  " 

The  old  Corporal  made  a  gesture  of  reverence,  and  turning  his  fact 
round  looked  at  the  (Ire.  Several  minutes  passed  in  uneasy  silencx. 
Then  suddenly,  without  wanting  of  any  kind,  the  house  shook 
again  t  This  time  it  did  not  seem  as  if  stricken  by  wind  ;  but  there 
came  to  both  Gildas  and  the  Corporal  that  strange  unconsdoBS 
sickening  dreail  which  is  the  invariable  accompaniment  of  eartii- 
quitke.  The  sound,  like  the  sensation,  wa^  only  momentary,  bot  ai 
it  ceased,  the  men  looked  aghast  at  one  another. 

'*  It  is  dreadful,"  said  the  Corporal.  "  Soul  of  a  crow,  why  doei 
the  woman  linger?" 

With  a  suddenness  which  startled  Gildas  and  made  bJm  gravl 
in  nervous  irritation,  the  little  trap-door  of  the  Dutch  clock  sprang 
open,  and  the  wooden  cuckoo  sprang  out,  uttering  his  name  iwehe 
times,  and  jiroclaiming  the  hour !  .  .  .  Midnight! 

The  Corporal,  full  of  a  nameless  uneasiness,  could  no  longtr 
restrain  himself. 

"It  is  unaccountable,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  will  go  again  ud 
see." 

Before  Gildas  could  interpose  he  had  uTappcd  his  coat  once  wan 
about  him  and  sallied  forth  into  the  night.  Through  the  be«*y 
murmuring  of  the  rain  and  the  rushing  of  the  watersponts  and 
streams  Gildas  could  hear  the  "clop  clop"  of  the  wooden  kg 
dying  up  the  street ;  then  all  was  silence. 

Of  all  situations  this  was  the  one  Gildas  was  least  fitted  toGn 
with  advantage,  lie  was  not  deficient  in  brute  courage,  and  tn  gDod 
company  he  might  have  faced  even  a  visitor  from  another  wotM; 
but  his  little  "campaign"  had  disturbed  his  nervous  srstcni,  anJ 
that  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year  he  did  not  care  to  be  left  alone. 
And,  indeed,  a  far  more  enlightened  being  would,  under  the  or- 
cumstances,  have  shared  his  trepidation.  The  air  n-as  full  of  < 
sick  uncomfortable  silence,  broken  only  by  the  "plopping"  lad 
"pinging"  of  the  heavy  metallic  rain;  and  ever  and  anon,  »*« 
the  house  trembled  with  those  mysterious  blasts,  the  eBcct  «>* 
simply  paraljlic. 

Gildas  stood  at  the  door  looking  out  into  the  rain.    The  dul- 
nc3S  was  comp\c\e,  btil  ftw.  V\^V\.  Vtw^  ^!njt  chamber  glistaeJ 


c 

I 


on  a  perfect  Btrcam  of  bkclt  rain  ninning  down  the  street.  As  he 
stood  there  listening  mysterious  hands  seemed  outstretched  to 
tOQch  him.  cold  breaths  blew  upon  his  cheek,  and  there  was  a 
SOtind  all  round  him  as  of  the  wailing  dead.  Lights  burned  in  the 
■windows  down  the  street,  and  many  doors  stood  open  like  his 
own.  but  there  was  no  sign  of  any  human  being. 

Re-entering  the  kitchen,  he  approached  the  wooden  stairs,  and 
called  gruffly — 

"Marcclle!  Marccllcr 
There  was  no  answer. 
*'  Marcelle  I  are  you  asleep  f" 

TUe  door  of   the  room  above  opened,  and   Marcelle's  voice 
I     replied — 
K    "Is  it  my  uncle?" 
^m    '*  No,  il  is  I — Gildas.    Are  you  abed .'" 
^P     "  I  am  undressed,  and  was  half  asleep.     What  is  it  .^' 

Gildas  did  »ot  care  to  confess  that  he  was  afraid,  and  wanted 
^company  ;  so  he  growled — 

H  "  Oh,  it  is  nothing  I  Mother  has  not  come  home  yet^  that  is  all ; 
~  but  my  uncle  has  gone  to  look  after  her.  It  is  raining  cats  and 
U  dogs  1" 

^p  "She  told  me  she  would  not  return  till  midnight,  and  she  has 
I     the  boys.    Good  night  again,  Gildas!" 

"  Good  uight !"  muttered  the  hero  of  Dresden ;  then  just  as  the 
1      door  above  was  closing  he  called,  "  Marcclle  1" 
^    "Yes." 

^f  "You — you  need  not  close  your  door — I  may  want  to  spcalc  to 
'     you  again." 

"Very  well." 

"Hiere  was  silence  again,  |and  Gildas  returned  to  the  fireside. 
As  he  did  so  the  cottage  again  trembled  as  before.    He  drew  back 
,ta  the  foot  of  the  staircase. 
"Marccllcr  he  cried. 

"Ves,"  answered  the  voice,  this  time  obviously  from  between 
le  sheets. 

"  Did  you  hear  that  ?" 

"The  noise?  Ah,  yes  ;  it  is  only  the  wind." 
"It  is  only  the  Devil,"  muttered  Gildas  to  himself,  and  inwardly 
cursing  Marcelle's  coolness,  he  stepped  again  to  the  street  door 
and  looked  out.  A  black  wall  of  rain  and  darkness  still  stared  him 
in  the  face.  He  stood  for  some  minutes  in  agitation,  wvt.h  ^Vvci 
cold  drops  splashing  into  his  face.     There  waa  ivo^.  ?.  \it^%^  o\. 


470 


The  GejitlemarCs  Magazim. 


wind,  anti  by  listening  closely  he  could  distinctly  hear  the  mnrmor 
of  the  sea. 

Sutl<1cnly  his  cars  were  5tanlc<l  l>y  a  sound  which  made  his  heart 
leap  inLo  his  mouth  and  his  blood  nm  cold.  From  inland,  rcom 
the  direction  of  the  chapel,  there  came  a  murmur,  a,  roar,  as  if 
the  8ca  lay  that  way,  and  was  rising  in  storm.  Before  he  could 
gather  his  wiig  together  there  rose  far  away  a  sound  like  a  human 
shriek,  and  all  at  once,  through  the  dreary  moaning  of  Uie  raia, 
came  the  rapid  tolling  of  a  bell.  Simultaneously  be  saw  darit^ 
figures  rushing  rapidly  up  the  street  from  the  direction  of  the  »fl 
shore.    Though  he  called  to  them  they  did  not  reply. 

Yes,  there  could  be  no  mistake.  A  bell  was  lolling  faintljr  in 
the  distance;  douhlless  the  chapel  bell  itself.  Somethiog  unusual 
was  happening — what,  it  was  impossible  to  guess. 

Two  or  three  more  figures  passed  rapidly,  and  he  again  demanded 
what  was  the  matter.  This  time  a  voice  answered,  but  only  with 
a  frightened  cry — "  This  way,  for  your  life  I" 

Aiiytbing  was  better  than  to  stand  there  in  suspense ;  so  without 
a  moment's  reflection  Giidas  ran  after  the  others  up  the  street- 
There  had  been  rain  for  weeks,  and  the  vallcj'S  inland  weift 
already  half  flooded :  but  to-night  it  poured  still  as  if  all  the  vials 
of  (he  aqueous  heavens  had  been  opened.  Well  might  the  ground 
tremble  and  the  hidden  River  roar  I  At  last,  as  if  at  a  preconcerted 
signal,  the  elements  awoke  in  concert,  and  sounded  the  signal  of 
storm.  The  sea  rose  high  on  the  shon.',  the  wind  began  to  blow, 
the  River  (osc  blackly  in  its  bed,  and,  most  terrible  of  all.  tbe 
pcnl-up  floods  burst  their  barriers  among  the  hills. 

With  the  n.ilural  position  of  Kromlaix  our  readers  are  air 
familiar.  Situated  in  the  gap  of  the  great  sea-wall,  and  lying  at 
the  mouth  of  a  narrow  valley,  it  was  equally  at  the  mercy  of  it 
dations  from  inland,  and  of  inundations  from  the  ocean.  Rockt 
as  it  were,  upon  the  in-avfs  of  the  sea  which  crawled  in  beneath  it  to 
meet  the  subterranean  river,  it  nevertheless  endured  from  genera- 
tion to  genenilion. 

Only  once  in  the  memor)'  of  the  oldest  inliabitanl  had  destruc- 
tion come.  That  was  many  years  ago,  so  far  back  in  time  that  it 
seemed  an  old  man's  talc  to  be  heard  and  forgotten.  Yet  there  liiid 
been  warnings  enough  of  danger  during  this  same  autumn  of^rSi; 
Never  for  many  a  long  year  had  there  been  such  ;i  rainfall ;  new 
had  there  been  such  storms  to  mark  the  period  of  the  autumnal 
cqninox.    Night  after  night  the  hidden  river  had  given  its  warning, 


The  Shadow  of  the  Sword. 


'80    that   somettmes    the   very  earth  seemed    shaken    by   its  cry 
The  spring-tides,  too.  were  higher  than  they  had  been  for  many 
seasons  pa^t. 

And  now.  on  this  Night  oX  the  Dead,  when  earth,  air,  and  sea 
were  covered  with  ghastly  processions  trooping  to  their  homes, 
when  the  little  churches  all  along  the  coast  were  lighted  up,  and 
death-Ughls  were    placed   in  every   house,   the  waters  rose  and 

Hnuhed  down  upon  their  prey.  Down  through  the  narrow  valleys 
above  the  iinllagc  came,  with  the  fury  of  a  torrent,  the  raging 
Flood,  filling  the  narrow  chasm  of  the  valley,  and  bearing  every- 
thing before  it  towards  the  &ca.  It  cainc  in  darkness,  so  that  only 
its  voice  could  be  heard  ;  but  could  the  eye  of  man  have  beheld  it 
as  it  came,  it  would  have  been  seen  covered  with  floating  prey  of 
all  kinds — with  trees  uprooted  from  the  ground,  fences  and  palings 

^^Om  away,   thalcheil  roofs  of  houses,  and  c:ven  enormous  stones. 

^BtTell  might  those  shriek  who  heard  it  come  I  Faster  than  a  man 
might  gallop  on  thi'  fleetest  horse,  swifter  than  a  man  might  sail  in 
the  swiftest  ship,  it  rolled  npon  its  way,  fed  by  innumerable 
|tributary  torrents  rushing  down  from  the  hills  on  cither  side,  and 
lering  power  and  vutuine  as  it  approached.  However,  when  it 
cbed  the  drcarj'  tarns  of  Kcr  Lion,  some  miles  above  the 
village,  it  hesitated  an  hour,  as  if  prepared  to  sink  into  the  earth 
like  the  River,  which  there  ends  his  course ;  then,  recruited  by 
new  floods  from  the  hiU-sidcs,  and  from  the  ovirrflowing  tarns 
themselves,  it  rushed  onward,  and  the  fate  of  KromUix  was  seated. 

^^     Bm  during  thai  brief  space  of  indecision  up  among  tlic  tarns, 

^Kthc  farmer  of  Ker  L^on,  a  brave  man,  had  leajit  upon  his  horse 
without  stopping  to  use  saddle  or  bridle,  and  galoped  down  to 
Kromlaix,  shrieking  warning  as  he  went.  At  midnight  he  reached 
the  chapel  on  the  hill-Nide,  and  without  ceremony,  wet,  dripping, 
and  as  white  as  a  ghost  from  the  dead,  delivered  his  awful  news* 
Fortunately  the  large  portion  of  the  population  was  still  in  the 

» chapel.     Shrieks  and  wails  arose. 
•'  Sound  the  alarm  I  "  cried  Father  Rollaml ;  and  the  chapel  bell 
began  to  toll. 

Pit  was  at  this  moment  that  the  old  Corpond,  soaking  and  out  of 
temper,  arrived  at  the  chapel  door,  and  found  tlie  widow  and  his 
two  nephews  just  ready  to  return  home.  He  passed  through  the 
wailing  groups  of  men  and  women,  and  accosted  the  farmer 
himself. 

Perhaps  after  all  it  will  not  come  so  far,"  he  cried  ;  "  the  pools 
}£  Ker  L€on  are  deep." 


the  ! 
Htribul 
Ksathc 
K«ach 


< 


472 


Thi  GentitmatCs  Ma^zitH. 


The  answer  came,  but  not  from  the  fanner.  The  roar  of  ihe 
waters  themselves  coming  wildly  down  the  valley  ! 

"To  the  hill-sides!"  cried  Father  Rolland.  "For  your 
lives !" 

Through  the  pitch  darkness,  strnggling,  screaming,  stumbling, 
fled  the  crowd,  leaving  ihe  chapel  behind  ihem  illumined  but 
deaerted,  The  rain  siill  fell  in  torrents.  Guided  by  a  few  spirits 
more  cool  and  courageous  than  the  rest,  the  miserable  crowd 
nished  towards  the  ascents  which  closed  the  valley  on  cither  side, 
and  which  fortunately  were  not  far  distant.  The  old  Corporal 
caught  the  general  panic,  and  with  eager  hands  helped  on  his 
affrighted  sister-in-law.  They  had  not  gone  far  when  a  voice  cried 
in  the  darkness  close  by — 

*'  Mother  I  uncle  1 " 

"It  is  GildaK,  and  alone,"  cried  Mother  Derval.  "Almighty 
God  !  where  is  Marcelle  ?" 

The  voice  of  Gildas  replied — 

"  I  left  her  in  the  house  below.  But  what  is  the  matter  ?  Are 
you  all  mad  ?" 

A  wild  shriek  from  the  panic-stricken  creatures  around  was  the 
only  answer.  "  The  Flood  t  the  Flood  I  "  they  cried,  Qiing  for  their 
lives  ;  and  indeed  the  imminent  hour  had  come,  for  the  lights  of 
the  chapel  behind  tlu-m  were  already  extinguished  in  the  raging- 
waters,  and  the  flood  was  rushing  down  on  Kromtaix  with  a  fatal 
roar,  answered  by  a  fainter  munncr  from  the  rising  sea. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 


DELUGE. 

After  emerging  into  the  great  water^cave  and  clinging  to  its 
walls  as  the  furiuu.s  tom^nts  came  boiling  down  to  mingle  with  the 
sea,  Rohan  Gwenfern  paused  for  some  minutes,  awe-stricken  and 
amazed  ;  for  it  seemed  as  if  the  very  bosom  of  the  earth  had  burst 
and  all  the  dark  streams  of  its  heart  were  pouring  forth.  The 
tumult  was  deafening,  the  concossion  terrific,  and  it  was  with  diffi- 
culty that  Rohan  kept  his  place  on  the  slipper}'  ledge  above  the 
water.  When  his  first  surprise  hail  abated  he  lert  the  czxe  and 
ascended  to  his  aerial  home  on  the  face  of  the  cliff. 

Alt  there  was  dark,  for  night  had  now  fallen.  Leaning  forth 
through  the  cranny  which  served  him  as  a  window,  he  saw  odI/  a 
Ifrcat  wall  of  blacluie«,  beard  only  the  heavy  murmur  of  totreots 


Tfu  Shadow  of  the  Sword. 

of  rain.  There  was  no  wind,  ami  the  heavy  leaden  drops  were 
pattering  like  bullets  into  the  sea,  in  straiglit  perpendicular  Jines. 

He  sat  for  a  time  in  the  darkness,  pondering  on  the  discoveries  that 
he  had  made.  Although  his  brain  was  to  a  certain  extent  deranged 
by  the  agonies  hi;  h;ui  undergone,  and  although  he  was  subject  to 
alarming  cerebral  seizures  during  which  he  was  scarcely  accountable 
for  what  he  thought  or  did.  the  general  current  of  his  ideas  waa 
still  clear,  and  his  powers  of  obser^■ation  and  reflection  remained 
intact.  He  was  perfectly  able,  therefore,  to  perceive  the  obvious 
explanation  of  what  he  had  seen  and  discovered.  The  subterranean 
cave  and  its  passage  communicating  with  the  sea  formed  an  enor- 
mous aqueduct,  fashioned,  doubtless,  for  the  purpose  of  letting  the 
overflowing  waters  escape  in  times  of  flood.  He  had  read  of  similar 
contrivances,  and  he  knew  that  an  aqueduct  had  been  excavated 
not  many  leagues  away,  beyond  La  Vilaine.  in  fashioning  the 
extraordinary  place  advantage  had  doubtless  bee-n  taken  of  natural 
passages  which  had  existed  there  from  time  immemorial ;  but  how 
the  work  was  effected  was  a  question  impossible  to  answer,  unless 
on  the  supposition  that  the  Roman  colonists  had  poiisessed  an 
engineering  skill  little  short  of  miraculous. 

He  remembered  now  all  the  old  stories  he  had  heard  concerning 
former  submersions  of  his  native  village,  as  well  as  the  popular 
tradition  that  the  buried  Roman  city  had  been  itself  destroyed  by 
inundations.  Was  it  possible,  then,  that  the  river  which  he  had 
discovered  crawling  through  the  heart  of  tht;  cliffs  was  the  same 
river  which  p[ungu<l  into  the  earth  among  the  tarns  of  Ker  L^on, 
and  after  winding  for  miles  eventually  crept  under  Kromlaix  and 
poured  itself  into  the  sea  P  If  this  was  the  cause  all  the  pheno- 
mena were  intelligible.  The  Roman  colonists,  fearful  of  floods 
and  of  the  rising  of  the  river,  had  constructed  the  aqueduct  for 
purposes  of  overflow,  so  that  when  the  hour  came  the  angry  waters, 
before  reaching  the  cityj  might  be  partially  diverted  out  into  the 
great  water-cave,  and  thence  through  *'  Hell's  Mouth  "  to  the  open 
ocean.  How  carefully  the  hands  of  man  had  worked!  How  grandly, 
nnder  the  inspiration  of  that  dead  Carsar  whose  marble  shadow  still 
Btood  below,  the  min<l  of  man  had  planned  and  wrought  the  aque- 
duct t  Vet  all  had  been  of  no  avail.  At  last  the  linger  of  God  had 
been  lifted,  and  the  shining  city  by  the  sea  was  seen  no  more. 

Real  and  simple  as  seemed  the  explanation,  the  fact  of  the  dis- 
covery was  nevertheless  awful  and  i^tupefjing.  It  seemed  no  less  a 
dream  than  Rohan's  other  dreams.  He  saw  the  ghost  of  a  buried 
vorld,  and  his  heart  went  sick  with  awe. 


474 


The  GmtUman^s  Magaziru. 


As  he  sat  thinking  he  suttdenl]'  remembered  that  that  night  was 
the  Night  of  llic  Deail. 

No  sooner  haJ  Iht-  rumetnbnince  cumo  than  a  aameless  uneasi- 
ness took  possession  of  him,  and  approaching  the  loophole  he 
gazed  forth  again ;  and  now  to  his  irritated  vision  there  seemed 
faint  tights  here  and  there  upon  the  black  waste  of  watcnt.  He 
listened  intently.  Again  and  again  amid  the  heavy  murmur  of  the 
lain  there  came  a  sound  tike  far-off  voices.  And  yonder  in  Krom> 
]aix  the  mass  was  being  Sjioken  and  thu  white  boards  were  being 
spread,  for  the  Souls  which  were  flocking  from  all  quarters  of  tht- 
earth  that  night. 

He  lit  his  lantern,  and  sal  for  some  time  in  its  beam  ;  bot 
dull  dim  light  only  made  his  situation  more  desolately  sad.  Pacing 
up  and  down  the  cave  in  agitation,  and  pausing  again  and  sg; 
to  listen  to  the  sounds  without,  he  waited  on.  The  darkness  greir 
more  intense,  the  sound  of  the  rain  more  oppressively  sad.  Re- 
peatedly,  from  faj  beneath  him,  hu  heard  a  thunderous  roar,  vrhtcb 
he  knew  came  from  the  waters  rushing  into  the  great  occan-cavc. 

As  the  hours  crept  on  there  came  upon  hia  soul  a  great  hunger 
to  be  near  his  fellow-beings,  to  escape  from  the  frightful  solitude 
which  seemed  driving  him  lo  despair.  In  the  dettbc  darknes:>  of 
that  night  he  wou)d  be  safe  anywhere.  As  for  the  rain,  he  heeded 
it  not.  There  was  a  fire  in  his  heart  which  seemed  to  destroy  all 
sense  of  wet  or  cold. 

At  last,  yielding  to^his  uncontrollable  impulse,  he  groped  hia  way 
slowly  downward  through  the  natural  passages  and  caves,  until  be 
emerged  at  the  great  Trou  of  St.  Gitdas.  Here  he  paused  until 
his  eyes  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  darkness,  and  at  last  he  was 
able  dimly  to  discern  the  outline  of  the  vast  natural  cathedral.  It 
was  nine  o'clock,  and  the  tide  had  scarcely  three  parts  flowed.  s« 
that  not  a  drop  had  yet  touched  the  Cathedral  Qoor,  and  e 
through  the  Gate  was  still  possible. 

Descending  rapidly  in  his  customary  fashion,  he  reached  the 
shingle  below.  Familiar  even  in  darkness  with  every  fool:step  of 
the  way,  he  passed  out  through  the  Gate  and  waded  round  the 
promontory,  where  the  water  was  only  knee  deep,  until  he  reach 
the  shore  beyond.  The  rain  was  still  falling  in  torrents,  and 
was  soaking  to  the  skin ;  but  totally  indilTerenl  to  the  elements,  be 
proceeded  on  his  way.     Yet  he  was  bareh'  -.J  the  ragged 

clothes  he  wore  were  only  enough  lo  cover  i  .  on  ess.    Accus- 

tomed to  exposure  and  to  hardships  of  all  kinds,  he  did  not  fe«l 
cold  ;  it  would  be  lime  enough  for  that  when  winter  came. 


tht: 

the^^ 

'Dg  1 


Crossing  the  desolate  shingle,  he  ascended  Ihe  Ladder  of  St. 
Triffine. 


'  At  midnight  Rohan  Gwenfem  stood  leaning  against  the  Menhir, 
and  gazing  down  into  the  blackness  where  Kromtaix  lay.  The 
rain  still  continued,  and  the  air  was  pitch-dark;  but  he  could 
sec  the  blood-red  gleam  of  the  window  lights,  and  the  faint 
flickerings  of  lanterns  carried  to  and  fro.  Inland,  in  the  direction 
of  St.  Ourlolt,  streamed  glittering  raj-s  from  the  windows  of 
Father  Rolland's  chapel.  Listening  intently,  he  could  hear  at  times 
le  cry  of  a  human  voice. 

It  was  the  Night  of  the  Dead,  and  he  knew  that  in  every  house 
that  night  the  board  wouJd  be  left  spread  with  remnants,  that  Ihe 
dead  might  enter  and  cat.  Less  houseless  and  less  outcast  than 
himself,  ihey  were  welcome,  that  night  at  least,  wherever  they  chose 
to  knock;  while  he,  condemned  to  a  daily  living  death,  only 
creeping  forth  from  his  tomb  in  the  clip's  like  any  other  wandering 
and  restless  ghost,  dared  not  even  at  such  a  time  approach  close  to 
any  human  hearth.  He  had  resisted  '■  even  unto  blood,"  and  Cain's 
mark  was  upon  him.  For  him  there  was  no  welcome;  he  was  outcast 
for  evermore. 

As  he  stood  thus,  watching  and  thinking,  the  bell  of  the  chape 
began  to  peal  violently.  The  sound,  coming  thus  unexpectedly 
from  the  darkness,  was  as  the  sudden  leaping  of  a  pulse  in  the  wrist 
of  a  dead  man.  Almost  simultaneously  Rohan  heard  a  faint  far-off 
human  scream.  At  first,  with  the  superstitious  instinct  thai  had 
been  bred  in  him  and  had  not  yet  altogether  forsaken  him,  he 
thought  of  the  poor  outcast  ghosts  peopling  the  rainy  night,  and 
wondered  if  the  sounds  he  heard  wltl!  not  wholly  supernatural— 
whether  dead  hands  were  not  touching  the  ropes  of  the  chapel  bell, 
while  corpses  gathered  round  the  belfry  and  wailed  a  weary  echo  to 
the  sound.  But  the  bell  pealed  on,  and  more  human  cries  followed. 
Something  terrible  was  happening,  and  the  alarm  was  being  given. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait  for  an  explanation.  Soon,  from  inland,  came 
a  roaring  like  the  sea,  as  the  mighty  torrents  approached ;  shrieks 
arose  from  the  gulf,  on  which  the  black  rain  still  poured;  and  lights 
flitted  this  w.iy  and  that,  moving  rapidly  along  the  ground.  He 
beard  voices  sounding  clearer,  as  the  flitting  lights  came  nearer, 
and  on  the  hill-side  oppu.site  lights  were  moving  too.  Rohan 
understood  all  in  a  moment.  The  inundation  was  coming,  and 
tbose  who  had  been  warned  were  taking  to  the  heights. 

It  was  now  past  midnight,  and  with  ihc  rising  o?  l!tte  V\^  >X^ 


The  Geniiefftan^s  Afa^izine. 

there  had  risen  a  faint  wind,  which,  as  if  lo  deepen  the  horror  of' 
the  catastrophe,  now  blew  baclc  the  clouds  covering  the  tnoon,  then 
at  the  full.  Although  the  rain  continued  to  fall  in  torrents,  the  atr 
was  suddenly  flooded  with  a  watery  gleam,  and  the  village  stood 
revealed  in  silhouette,  with  the  black  tide  glistening  coldly  at  its 
feet;  and  above  it,  upprojiching  with  terrific  rapidity  from  the 
inland  valley^  and  towering  up  like  a  great  wait,  rolled  the  Flood. 
Simullaneously.  from  a  hundred  throats,  rose  horror-stricken 
ficrcaros ;  and  Rohan  distinctly  beheld,  on  the-  slope  beneath  him, 
the  human  figures  clustering  and  looking  down.  Meantime,  all 
seemed  quiet  down  in  the  village  itself:  the  lights  gleamed  faintly 
in  the  windows,  and  the  moonlight  lay  on  the  dark  roofs,  on  the 
empty  streets,  on  the  cahgts  close  to  the  water's  edge,  and  on  the 
black  line  of  smacks  and  skiffs  which  now  floated,  as  if  at  anchor, 
on  the  high  tide. 

Again  Ihc  clouds  covered  the  moon,  and  the  picture  of  Kromlaii 
was  hidden.  Amidst  the  darkness,  with  a  roaring  like  that  of  a 
strong  fica,  the  Flood  entered  the  village  and  began  its  dreadful 
work  of  destruction  and  of  death.  It  was  dreadful  to  stand  up 
there  on  the  hill-side,  and  to  hear  the  unseen  waters  struggling  in 
the  black  gulf,  like  a  snake  strangling  its  victim  and  stifling  its 
dying  cries.  The  tumult  continued,  deadened  to  a  heavy  roar, 
throagh  the  heart  of  which  pierced  sharp  shrieks  and  piteous  callsj 
for  help.  One  hy  one  the  lights  were  extlngoishcd.  Like  a  Thug! 
strangler  crawling  and  killing  in  the  night,  the  waters  ran  fnHn 
place  to  place,  looking  for  their  prey. 

WTitn  the  clouds  again  drifted  off  the  face  of  the  moon,  and 
things  were  again  dimly  visible,  the  Flood  had  met  the  tide,  and 
wherever  the  eye  fell  a  black  waste  of  water  surrounded  the  houses, 
many  of  which  were  flooded  to  the  roofs;  the  main  street  was  a 
brawling  river,  and  tlie  lanes  on  all  sides  were  its  tributary  streams; 
many  of  the  boats  had  driven  from  shore  and  were  rocking  up  and 
down  as  if  on  a  stormy  sea :  and  there  was  a  sound  in  the  air  as  of 
an  earthquake,  broken  only  by  frantic  human  cries.  The  desolation 
was  complete,  but  the  destraclion  had  only  just  begun.  From  Ihc 
inland  valley  fresh  tonenU  were  tumaltuously  flowing  to  recruit  the 
floods ;  so  that  the  waters  were  every  moment  rising ;  and  the  tide, 
flowing  into  the  streets,  mingled  with  the  rivers  of  rain.  Under 
the  futy  of  the  first  attack  many  buildings  had  fallen,  and  the  fierce 
wasbing  of  the  waters  was  rapidly  undermining  others.  And  still 
there  was  noisign  of  the  cessation  of  the  rain.  Deluge  was  pouring 
upon  deluge;  it  seemed  as  if  the  wrath  of  Heaven  had  only  just  be 


5CVC 

1      terr< 

HfeTOU 

R^  Li 


MID  WAT£RS  WILD. 

Situated  apart,  some  tlistance  from  the  main  village,  and  built 

close  upon  tbe  sea-sbore  under  the  shelter  of  the  eastern  crag,  the 

hous«  of  Mother  Gwcnfem   stood,    with    several    other  scattered 

abodes,  far  out  of  danger.  The  only  peril  which  seemed  to  threaten 

it  came  from  the  high  tide,  which  that  night  rose  nearly  to  the 

threshold,  and,   augmented   by  the    rains    of   the  Hood,  surged 

thrcateningty  on  cveiy  side.      Leading   from   the   cottage  to  the 

heights  above  was  a  rocky  path,  and  on  this,  gazing  awe-stricken 

jin  the  direction  of  the  village,  stood  Mother  Gwcnfem,  gaunt  as  a 

:tre  in  the  fiying  gleams  of  moonlight.    Around  her  gathered 

several  neighbours,  chiefly  women  and  children,  the  latter  crying  io 

_^terror,  the  former  crouching  on  the  ground ;  but  hard  by  was  a 

>up  of  men,  including  Mikel  Grallon. 

Little  had  been  said;  the  situation  was  too  appalling  for  w*ords. 

While  the  flood  played  tiger-like  with  its  victim,  the  women  prayed 

I      wildly  and  the  men  crossed  themselves  again  and  again.    From  time 

to  time  an  exclamation  arose  when  the  moon  looked  out  and  showed 

SI      how  the  work  of  destruction  was  progressing. 
I    "  Holy  Virgin,  old  Plouet's  house  is  down  1" 
I    "  Look — there  yiiis  a  light  in   the  cabaret,   but  now  it  is  aU 
black  1" 
.    **They  arc  screaming  out  yonder!" 
I    **  Hoik,  there  ! — il  is  another  roof  falling  t" 
\    "Merciful  God,  how  black  it  is  I     One  would  say  il  wai  the  Last 
Judgment!" 
I         The  heights  on  each  side  of  the  village  were  now  dotted  with 
^bdack  figures,  many  carrying  lights.     It  was  clear  that,  owing  to  the 
^"niperstitious  customs  of  the  night,  many  of  the  population  had 
nude  good  their  escape.      Zt  was  no  less  certain,  however,  that 
many  others  must  have  perished,  or  be  perishing,  amid  the  raging 
i      waters  or  in  the  submerged  dwellings.     Hope  of  escape  or  rescue 
there  seemed    none.      Until  the  flood  abated  nothing  could  be 
saved. 

The  group  of  men  on  the  face  of  the  cliff  continued  to  gate  on 
and  mutter  among  themselves. 

"The  tide  is  still  rising,"  said  Mike)  Grallon,  in  a  low  %-oicc. 
!e  was  comparatively  calm,  for  his  house,  being  situated  apart  from 
Ihe  main  village,  liad  so  far  escaped  the  fur>'  ot  the  vwinA^xoxv. 


"  It  has  nearly  an  hoar  yet  to  flow ! "  said  another  of  ihc  men. 

"And  ihtn!"  cried  Gral Ion,  significantly.  All  tlie  men  crossed 
thcmstrlvcb.  Another  hour  of  destruction,  and  what  would  then  be 
left  of  Kromlaix  and  of  those  poor  souIk  who  still  lingered 
within  it  ? 

As  they  stood  whisiicring  a  figure  rapidly  descended  the  path 
front  the  heij^hts  above  them,  and  joining  the  group,  called  oat  the 
name  of  Mikel  Grallon.  The  moon  was  ooce  more  hidden,  and 
it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  faces. 

"  Who  wants  Mikcl  Grallon  ?    I  am  here." 

The  new  comer  replied  in  a  voice  full  of  excitement  and  terror. 

"It  is  I,  Gildas  Dervall  Mikcl,  we  are  in  despair.  The  old 
one  and  all  the  rest  are  safe  up  there :  all  of  our  family  arc  safe  but 
my  sister  Marcelle.  Holy  Viigin  protect  her,  but  she  is  in  tbe 
house,  out  yonder  amid  the  flood.  My  uncle  is  mad,  and  wc  are 
heartbrulccn.     Can  she  not  be  saved  ?" 

"  She  is  in  God's  hands,"  cried  an  old  man.  "  No  roan  can  help 
her  now." 

Gildas  uttered  a  moan  of  misery,  for  he  was  really  fond  of  his 
sister.  Mother  Gwcnfem,  who  stood  close  by  and  had  heard  the 
conversation,  now  approached,  and  demanded  in  her  cold,  clciir 
voice — 

"Can  nothing  be  done  ^    Are  there  no  boats  ?" 

" Boats r'  echoed  Mikcl  Grallon.  "One  might  as  well  go  to 
sea  in  a  shell  as  face  the  flood  in  any  boat  this  night ;  but  for  all 
that,  boats  there  are  none.  They  arc  all  out  yonder,  where  the 
dood  meets  the  tide,  save  those  that  are  already  carried  out  to 
sea." 

TTie  widow  raised  her  wild  arms  to  hcivcn,  murmuring  Marcellc's 
name  aloud.  Gildas  Oun'al  almost  began  to  blubber  in  the  fur;  of 
his  grief. 

"Ah  God  that  I  should  come  back  from  the  great  wars  10  Se»' 
such  a  night  as  this !    I  have  alwaj-s  had  bad  lock,  but  this  is  the 
worst.     My  poor  Marcclle  I    Look  you,  before  I  went  away  she 
tied  a  holy  medal  around  my  neck,  and  it  kept  me  from  barm.    Ah, 
she  -was  a  good  tittle  thing  I  and  must  she  die } " 

"The  blessed  Virgin  keep  her,"  Cried  Mike!  Grallon;    "what' 
can  wc  <io  ?" 

"  It  is  not  only  Marcellc  Derval,"  said  the  old  man  who  h^ 
already  spoken :  "  it  is  not  only  one,  but  many,  that  shall  be  taken 
this  night.  God  be  praised,  I  have  neither  wife  nor  child  to  die  so 
sad  a  death." 


si; 


Tlu  Sfuxdcw  of  ihe  Simrd. 

As.  the  spealter  finished  and  reverently  crossed  his  breast,  another 
voice  broke  the  silence. 

"Who  says  there  are  no  boats?"  it  demanded  in  strange  sharp 
tones. 

"  I,"  answered  Mikel  Grailon  :  "  but  who  Sjicaks?" 

There  was  no  reply,  bui  a  dark  figure,  pushing  through  the  group 
of  men,  rapidly  descended  the  crag  in  the  direction  of  the  sea. 

"Mother  of  God,"  whispered  Grailon,  as  struck  hy  a  sudden 
thoaght.  "  it  is  Gwenfern." 

Immediately  several  voices  crit-d  aloud,  "Is  it  thou.  Rohan 
Gwcnfcm?"  and  Rohan— for  it  was  he— answered  from  the  dark- 
ness: "Yes;  come  this  way  !" 

In  the  great  terror  and  solemnity  of  the  tnament  no  one  seemed 
astonished  at  Rohan's  appearance,  and  strange  to  say,  no  one,  with 
the  exception  perhaps  of  Mikcl  Grailon,  dreamed  of  laying  hands 
on  the  deserter.  The  apparition  of  ihc  hunted  and  desperate  man 
seemed  perfectly  in  keeping  with  all  the  horrors  of  that  night. 
Silently  the  men  followed  him  down  to  the  shore.  The  tide  was 
low  lapping  at  the  very  door  of  his  mother's  cottage.  He  paused, 
looking  do«-n  at  the  water,  and  surrounded  by  the  men. 

"  Where  are  all  the  rafts  r"  he  asked. 

"The  laf ts  I    What  raft  could  live  out  yonder  r"  cried  Gitdas 

erval;  and  he  added  in  a  whisper  to  Mikel  Grailon,  "My  cousin 

mad." 

At  that  moment  the  foot  of  Rohan  struck  against  a  black  mass 

ing  on  the    very   edge    of    the    sea.      Stooping  down   he 

ered.  by  touch  rather  than  by  eyesight,  that  it  was  one  of 

Ihose  smaller  rafts  which  were  rudely  constructed  at  that  season  of 

the  year  for  the  purpose   of  gathering  the  go*sacn  or  sea-wrack 

from  the  reefs.     It  consisted  of  several  trunks  of  trees  and   tree 

ranches,   crossed   with    fragments  of   old    barrels,    and    lashed 

gcther  with  tliick  slippery  ropes  twisted  out  of  ocean-tangle.    A 

an  might  safely  in  dead  calm  weather  pilot  such  a  raft  when 
d,  letting  it  drift  with  the  tide  or  pushing  it  with  a  pole  along 

e  shallows  ;  and  that  it  had  quite  recently  been  in  use  was  clear 
from  the  fact  Uiat  it  was  still  partially  loaded  and  kept  under  water 
by  clinging  masses  of  slippery  weed. 

As  Rohan  bent  over  the  raft  the  moon  shone  out  in  full  hrilliance, 

!      and  the  village  was  again  illumined.     The  flood  roared  loudly  as 

ever,  and  the  black  waters  of  the  sea  seemed  nearly  level  <>vith  the 

k roofs  of  the  most  low-ljHng  dwellings.    Upon  (he  edge  where  Hood 
•nd  sea  met  the  waters  boiled  like  a  cauldron,  a.nA  dJbrii  (A  ?^ 


48o 


The  Gentleman^  s  Magazint. 


I 


descriptions  came  rushing  dowa  in  the  anas  of  the  rivers  of  rai 
There  vras  another  heavy  crash,  as  of  houses  talliag  in.    As  if  U 
terror  had  reached  its  completion,  the  rain  now  cease4,  and  the 
moon  continued  visible  for  many  minutes  together. 

"  Quick !  bring  me  a  pole,  or  an  oar !"  cried  Rohan,  turning  t 
his  L-onipatiions. 

Suvenil  men  ran  rapidly  along  the  beach  in  qncst  of  what  he 
sought:  for  though  they  did  not  quite  understand  how  he  intended 
to  act,  and  although,  moreover,  they  believed  that  to  launch  fo 
on  the  raft  was  to  put  his  life  in  jeopardy,  they  were  under  the  sp 
of  his  stronger  nature  and  offered  neither  suggestion  nor  opposition. 

"  Rohau  !  my  sonl"  cried  Mother  Gwenfern,  creeping  down  and 
holding  liim  by  the  hand.     "  Uliat  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"  I  am  going  to  Marcelle  Der^'al  l" 

"  But  you  will  die  1  you  will  perish  in  the  waters  l" 

In  the  excitement  of  the  momimt  Mother  Owenfem,  like  all  the 
rest,  forgot  the  man's  actual  relation  to  society,  forgot  that  his  life 
was  forfeit,  and  that  all  hands  would  have  been  ready,  under  other 
circumstances,  to  drag  him  lo  the  guillotine.  All  she  remembered 
was  his  present  danger :  that  he  was  going  to  certain  death. 

In  answer,  Rohan  only  laughed  strangely.  Seizing  a  large  oar 
from  Gildas  Derval,  who  ran  up  with  it  st  that  moment,  he  sprang 
on  the  raft  and  pushed  from  shore.  Under  his  weight,  the  nft 
swayed  violently  and  sank  almost  under  water. 

"Comeback!  comeback!"  cried  Mother  Gwenfern;  but  with 
vigorous  pushes  of  the  oar,  which  he  thrust  to  the  bottom  and  used 
as  a  pole,  Rohan  moved  rapidly  away.  For  better  security,  since 
the  raft  seemed  in  danger  of  capsizing,  he  sank  on  his  knees,  an4 
thus,  partially  immersed  in  the  cold  waters  that  flowed   over  th& 

t slippery  planks,  he  disappeared  into  the  darkness. 
The  men  looked  at  one  another  shuddering. 
" As    well    die    that    way,"    muttered     Mikcl     Grallon,    "as 
anQfkir  F' 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 


UAKCELLB. 


Tub  wind  had  risen,  and  was  blowing  gently  00*  the  land:  and 
the  sea.  at  the  cooSuence  of  flood  and  tide,  was  broken  into  while 
waves.  As  Rohan  approached  the  vicinity  of  Ihc  subnit^rged  villain 
his  situation  became  perilous,  for  it  was  quite  clear  thai  the  raft  c< 
not  livelong  in  those  angr)*  waters.  Nevertheless,  fearlessly,  and  with 


^ 


The  Shadam  of  the  Sword. 

a  certain  fury,  he  forced  the  raft  on  by  rowing,  now  at  one  side,  now 
at  another.  Though  the  work  was  tedious,  it  was  work  in  which  he 
was  wett  skilled,  and  he  was  soon  tossing  in  the  broken  water 
bcluw  the  village.  The  tide  all  round  him  was  strewn  with  dfbris 
of  all  kinds — Crunks  of  trees,  fragments  of  wooden  furniture, 
bundlesof  straw,  thatch  from  sunken  roofs — and  it  required  no  little 
care  to  avoid  perilous  collisions. 

The  moon  was  shining  clearly,  so  that  he  had  now  an  opportunity 
of  perceiving  the  extent  of  the  disaster.  The  houses  and  caloges 
lying  just  above  high  water  mark  were  covered  to  the  very  roofs, 
and  all  around  them  the  sea  itself  was  surging  and  boiling;  while 
abovi;  them  the  buildings  of  the  main  village  loomed  disastrously 
amid  a  gleaming  waste  of  boiling  pools,  muddy  rivers  and  streams, 
and  stagnant  canals.  Many  dwellings,  undermined  by  the  washing 
■of  the  torrents,  had  fatten  in,  and  others  were  tottering. 

A  heavy  loar  still  came  from  the  direction  whence  the  flood  had 
issued,  but  it  was  clear  that  the  full  fur^-  of  the  inundation  had 
ceased.  Nevertheless,  it  being  scarcely  high  tide,  it  was  impossible 
to  tell  what  horrors  were  yet  in  store ;  for  though  the  rivers  of  rain 
I  in  the  main  streets  were  growing  still,  the  water  was  working 
^-subtly  and  terribly  at  the  foundations  of  the  houses. 
^B  How  many  living  souls  had  perished  could  not  yet  be  told. 
^^3ome,  doubtless,  dwelling  in  one-storied  buildings,  had  been  found 
I  io  their  beds  and  quietly  smothered,  almost  before  they  could  utter 
^k  cry.  Fortunately,  however,  the  greater  portion  of  the  population 
^nad  been  astir,  and  had  been  able  to  escape  a  calamity  which 
Vwould  otherwise  have  been  universal. 

Eighty  or  a  hundred   yards  from  shore  a  crowd   of  unwieldy 
_»e«8els,  with  masts  lowered,  tossed  at  anchor;  others   had   floated 
the  land  and  were  being  blown  farther  and  farther  out  tp  ^ca ; 
d  here  and  there  in  the  waters  around  were  drifting  nets  which 
lad  been  swept  away  from  the  stakes  where  they  had  been  left  to 
liy.     More  than  once  the  raft  strack  against  dead  sheep  and 
CCttle,  floating  partially  submerged,  and  as  it  drifted  past  the  nets 
Soli&n  saw,  deep  down  in  the  tangled  folds,  something  which 
glimmered  like  a  human  face. 

Once  among  the  troubled  waters,  he  found  it  qnile  impossible  to 
navigate  the  raft.  The  waters  pouring  downward  drove  it  back 
towards  the  floating  craft  ami  threatened  to  carry  it  out  to  sua.  At 
last,  to  crown  all,  the  rotten  ropes  of  tangle  gave  way,  the  trunks 

tand  staves  fell  apart,  and  Hohan  found  himself  struggling  amon% 
the  troubled  waves  of  the  tide. 
Vol.  XVn.,  S.S.  iSjb.  \  \ 


J 


482 


The  GentiematCs  Magazim. 


He  was  a  strong  swimmer,  but  his  strength  had  been  lembljr' 
reduced  by  irouhle  and  privation.  Grasping  the  oar  with  one 
hand  and  partially  supporting  himself  by  its  aid,  he  strnck  out  to 
the  nearest  of  the  deserted  fishing  craft ;  reaching  which,  he  dung 
on  to  the  bowsprit  chain  and  drew  bis  body  partially  out  of  the 
-vi-ater.  As  he  diti  so,  be  espied  floating  a  few  yards  distant,  at  the 
stem  of  a  smack,  a  small  boat  like  a  ship's  "dingy." 

To  swim  to  the  boat,  and  to  drag  himself  into  it  by  main  force, 
was  the  work  of  only  a  few  minutes.     He  then  discovered  to  hii 
joy  that  it  contained  a  pair  of  paddles.     Unfortunately,  bowever^i 
it  Has  so  leaky  and  so  full  of  water  that  his  weight  brought  it 
down  almost  to  the  gunwale,  and  threatened  to  sink  it  altogether. 

Even.-  moment  was  precious.  Seizing  the  rope  by  which  the 
boat  wa.s  attached  to  the  smack,  he  climbed  up  over  the  stem  of 
the  latter,  and  searching  in  its  hold  found  a  mst}-  iron  pot.  With 
this  he  in  a  few  minutes  baled  out  the  punt ;  then  seizing  the 
paddles,  he  pulled  wildly  towards  the  shore. 

The  work  was  ca.sy  until  ho  again  reached  the  confluence  of 
Hood  and  tide.  Here  the  waters  were  pouring  down  so  rapidly, 
and  were  moreover  so  strewn  with  dangerous  dfbn's,  that  he  was 
again  and  again  in  imminent  danger. 

Exerting  all  his  extraordinary  strength,  he  forced  the  boai 
between  the  roofs  of  the  taloga,  and  launched  out  into  the  streaa] 
of  the  main  river  pouring  from  the  village;  Ewcpt  back  against  < 
nearly  covered  taloge,  he  was  almost  capsized  ;  but  leaping  out  fm 
the  roof  he  rapidly  baled  his  boat,  which  was  already  filling  with 
water.  Fortunately  the  flood  was  decreasing  in  violence  ami  the 
tide  had  turned  :  but  it  nc%'ertbelc.ss  seemed  a  mad  and  hopeless 
task  to  force  the  frail  boat  further  in  the  face  of  such  obstacles. 
The  main  street  was  a  rapid  river,  fdletl  with  great  boulders  washc 
down  from  the  valley,  and  with  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  all  kinds. 
To  row  against  it  wa-t  utterly  impossible ;  the  moment  be 
endeavoured  to  do  so  he  was  swept  back  and  almost  swamped. 

Another  man,  even  if  be  had  possessed  the  foolhardincsa  to  ven- 
ture so  far,  would  now  have  turned  and  lied.  But  perhaps  bocausi 
his  forfeited  life  wa.<t  no  longer  a  precious  thing  to  him,  perhaps 
becanse  his  strength  and  courage  always  increased  nith  opposition, 
perbaps  because  he  had  determined  once  and  for  ever  to  show  he 
a  "cowanl"  could  act  when  brave  men  were  quaking  in  their 
shoes,  Rohan  Gwcofem  gathered  all  his  strength  together  for  • 
mighty  effort.  Rowing  to  the  side  of  the  river,  be  threw  down  his 
oars  and  clutched  hold  of  the  solid  roasoaiy  of  n  bouae ;  and.  tfaca 


■gging  the  boat  along  by  main  force  from  wall  to  wall  mpidljr 

he  accomplished  a  distance  of  fiftetn  or  twenty  yards.    Pausing 

then,  and  keeping   firm  hold    of  the  projecting  angle  of  a  roof, 

while  the  flood  was  boiling  pasi,  he  bohcUl.   floating  among  the 

other  ilidn'j,  what  seemed  the  body  of  a  child. 

^b     Repeating  the  same  monoiuvre,  he  again  dragged  the  boat  on  ; 

agnio  rested  ;  again  renewed  his  toil ;  until  he  had  reached  the  very 

heart  of  the  vilKigc.     Here  fortunately  the  waters  were  less  rapid, 

and  he  could  force  his  way  along'with  greater  case.    But  at  c^'ery 

_yard  of  the  way  the   picture  grew  more  pitiful,    the   Feeling  of 

^Hevastation  more  complete.    The  lower  houses  were  submerged, 

and  some  of  the  larger  ones  had   fallen-     On  many  of  the  rooft 

-Verc  gathered  groups  of  human  beings,  kneeling  and  stretching  out 

eir  hands  to  heaven. 

"Help!  help!"  they  shrieked,  as  Rohan  Gwcnfern  appeared; 
bnt  he  only  waved  his  hand  and  passed  on. 

At  last,  reaching  the  narrow  street  in  which  stood  the  Corporal's 

[welling,  he  discovered  to  his  joy  that  the  house  was  still  intact. 

e  flood  here  was  very  swift  and  terrible,  so  that  at  first  it  almost 

ept  him  away.     He  now  to  his  horror  perceived,  floating  sea- 

,  scvera.1  almost   naked  corpses.     Opposite  to  the  Corporal's 

house  a  large  barn  had   fallen  in,  and  within  the  walls  numbers  of 

cattle  were  floating  dead. 

The  Corporal's  house  consisted,  as  the  reader  is  aware,  of  two 
stories,  the  upper  forming  a  sort  of  attic  in  the  gable  of  the  toof. 
The  waters  had  risen  so  high  that  the  door  and  windows  of  the 
lower  story  were  entirely  hidden,  and  a  powerful  current  was  sweep- 
ing along  right  under  the  window  of  the  little  apper  room  where 
Marcelle  slept. 
I         Ah  God,  if  she  did  not  live !    If  the  cruel  flood  had  found  her 
K'below,  and  before  she  could  escape  had  seized  her  and  destroyed 
^  her  like  so  many  of  the  rest ! 

I         The  house  was  still  some  twenty  yards  away  and  very  difficult  to 
I      reach.     Clinging  with  one  hand  to  th<;  window  frame  of  one  of  the 
houses  below,  Rohan" gathered  all  his  strength,  baled  out  his  boat, 
and  then  prepared  to  drag  it  on.    To  add  to  the  danger  of  his 
Hx>o8ition  the  wind  had  now  grown  quite  violent,  blowing  with  the 
P^nrrcnt   and    in  the  direction  of  the  sea.     If  once  hia  strength 
failed,  and  he  was  swept  into  the  full  fury  of  the  mid-current,  the 
result  must  be  almost  certain  death- 
With  the  utmost  difficulty  he  managed  to  row  the  boaV  So  ftit 
I      «-indow  of  a  coita^  tvo  doors  from  that  of  the  CoT\iota.\ ',  >\w^. 


flu  GentUman*  s  Magazine. 

finding  further  progress  by  water  impracticable,  for  the  current 
was  quite  irresistible,  he  managed  to  clamber  up  to  the  roof,  and 
clutching  in  his  hand  the  rope  of  the  boat,  which  was  fortunately 
long,  ta  scramble  desper-Ucly  on.  At  this  point  his  skill  as  a 
cragsman  stood  him  in  good  stead.  At  last,  after  extraordinary 
exertions,  ho  reached  the  very  gable  of  the  liouse  he  sought,  and 
standing  erect  in  the  boat  clutched  at  the  window  sill.  In  a 
moment  the  boat  was  swept  from  beneath  his  feci,  and  he  found 
himself  dangling  by  his  hands,  while  his  feet  trailed  in  the  water 
under  hiro. 

Still  retaining,  wound  round  one  wrist,  the  end  of  the  rope 
which  secured  the  boat,  he  hung  for  a  few  seconds  suspended; 
then  putting  out  his  strength  and  performing  a  trick  in  which  he 
was  expert,  he  drew  himself  bodily  up  until  one  knee  rested  oa  the 
sill,     In  another  moment  he  was  safe. 

Oa  cither  side  of  the  winduw  were  clumsy  iron  hooks,  used  for 
keeping  the  casement  open  when  it  was  thrown  back.  Secoring 
the  rope  to  one  of  these  by  a  few  rapid  turns,  he  dashed  ihc  case- 
ment open  and  sprang  into  the  room. 

"  Marcelle  1  Marcelle  !  " 

He  was  answered  instantly  by  an  eager  cry.  Marcelle,  who  had 
been  on  her  knees  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  rose  almost  in  terror. 
Suq)rise<t  in  her  sleep,  she  had  given  ht^rself  up  for  lost,  but  with 
her  characteristic  presence  of  mind  she  had  hurriedly  donned  a  por- 
tion of  her  attire.  Her  feet,  arms,  and  neck  were  bare,  and  her  hair 
fell  loose  upon  her  shoulders, 

"  It  is  I — Rohan  I  I  have  come  to  save  yon,  and  there  is  no 
time  to  lose.     Come  away  ! " 

While  he  spoke  the  house  trembled  violently,  as  if  shaken  to  its 
foundations.  Marcelle  gazed  oa  her  lover  aa  if  stupefied  ;  his 
appearance  seemed  unaccountable  and  prctcmatura].  Stepping 
across  the  room,  the  floor  of  which  seemed  to  quake  beneath  bis 
feel,  he  threw  his  arms  around  her  and  drew  her  ton'ards  the 
window. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid  I "  he  said,  in  a  hollow  voice.  "  You  will  Ite 
saved  yet,  Marcelle.    Come  I " 

He  did  not  attempt  any  fonder  greeting  :  his  whole  manner  n.ii 
that  of  a  man  burthened  by  the  danger  uf  the  hour.  But  Marcelle, 
whom  recent  e\'cnts  had  made  somewhat  hysterical,  clung  to  him 
wildly  and  lifted  up  her  white  face  to  his. 

"  Is  it  thou  indeed  ?  When  the  flood  came  I  was  dreaming  of 
nd  when  I  went  to  the  window  and  saw  the  great  waten 


The  Shadow  0/  the  Stvord, 

ana  heard  the  screaming  of  the  folk  I  knelt  anrf  prayed  to  the  good 
(rtxi.     Rohan!  Rohan!" 

"  Come  away  I  there  is  no  time  to  lose." 

"How  didst  thou  come?  One  would  say  thou  hadst  fallen 
from  heaven.    Ah,  thou  hast  courage,  and  the  people  He  I " 

He  drew  her  to  the  window,  and  pointed  down  to  the  boat  which 

»  still  swung  below  the  sill.  Then  in  hurried  whispers  he  besought 
her  to  gather  all  her  strength  and  to  act  implicitly  as  he  bade  her, 
that  her  life  might  be  saved. 

Seizing  the  rope  with  his  left  hand,  he  drew  the  boat  towards 
him  until  it  swung  close  under  Che  window.  He  then  assisted  her 
through  the  window,  and  bade  her  cling  to  his  right  arm  with  both 
hands  while  he  let  her  down  into  the  boat,  fearful  but  firm,  she 
obeyed,  and  in  another  minute  had  dropped  safely  down.  Loosen- 
ing the  rope  and  still  keeping  it  in  his  hand,  he  followed.  In 
another  instant  they  were  drifting  seaward  on  the  flood. 

^  It  was  like  a  ghastly  dream.  Swept  along  on  the  turbid  stream, 
amid  floating  trees,  dead  cattle  and  sheep,  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  all 
kinds,  Marcelle  saw  the  houses  {lit  by  her  in  the  moonlight,  and 

•  heard  troubled  voices  crying  for  help.  Seated  before  her,  Koban 
managed  the  paddles,  restraining  as  far  as  possible  the  impetuous 
progress  of  the  boat.  Again  and  again  they  were  in  imminent 
peril  from  collision,  and  as  tlicy  proceeileil  iht:  boat  rapidly  filled. 
Under  Rohan's  directions,  however,  Marcclle  baled  out  the  water, 
while  he  piloted  the  miserable  craft  with  the  oars. 

At  last  they  swept  out  into  the  open  sea,  where  the  tide,  beaten 
by  the  wind  and  meeting  with  the  flood,  was  "  chopping  '*  and 
boiling  in  short  sharp  waves.  The  danger  was  now  almost  over. 
With  rapid  strokes  Kulian  rowed  in  the  direction  of  the  shore 
whence  he  had  started  on  the  raft.  Gathered  there  to  receive  him, 
with  flashing  torches  and  gleaming  lanterns,  was  a  crowd  of  women 
and  men. 

After  a  moment's  hcrsitaiton  he  ran  the  boat  in  upon  the  shore. 

"  Leap  out  t  "  he  cried  to  his  companion. 

Springing  on  the  shore,  Marccllc  was  almost  immediately  clasped 
in  the  arms  of  her  mother,  who  was  eagerly  giving  thanks  to  God. 
Amazed  and  aghast,  the  Corjioral  stood  by  with  his  nephews,  gazing 
out  at  the  dark  figure  of  Rohan. 

Before  a  word  could  be  said  Rohan  had  pushed  off  again. 

"  Stay,  Rohan  Gwcnfem  I  "  said  a  voice. 

Rohan  stood  up  erect  in  the  boat. 


L 


486 


Tiu  Gentlenta^s  Marine. 


"Are  there  no  men  among  you,"  he  cried,  "that  you  stand  there 
usclcs!)  and  afraid  ?  Thrrc  are  more  perishing  oul  thcrir,  vromcn 
and  children.    Jin  Goron  !  " 

"  Here,"  answered  a  voice. 

"  The  flood  is  going  down,  but  the  houses  arc  stilt  falling  in,  &od 
lives  are  being  lost.    Come  with  me,  and  we  will  find  boats." 

"  I  will  come,"  said  Jin  Goron;  and  wading  up  to  the  waist,  he 
climbed  into  the  boat  with  Rohan.  MarccUu  uttered  a  low  cry  as 
the  (wo  pushed  off  in  the  direction  of  the  village. 

"God  forgive  me  I"  murmured  the  Corporal.  "He  is  a  hjavc 
man!" 


The  tide  was  now  ebbing  rapidly,  and  though  the  village  was  still 
submci^cd,  the  floods  were  no  longer  rising.  Nevertheless,  the 
devastation  to  a  certain  extent  continued,  and  cvcr>'  moment  added 
lo  the  peril  of  those  survivors  who  remained  in  the  village. 

Aided  by  JAn  Goron.  Rohan  soon  discovered,  among  the  cluster 
of  boats  at  anchor,  several  large  Rshing  skilfs.  Springing  into  one, 
and  abandoning  the  small  boat,  the  two  men  managed  with  the  aid 
of  the  paddles  to  row  to  the  shore,  towing  astern  another  skiff 
simitar  to  the  one  in  which  they  sat.  A  loud  shout  greeted  them 
as  they  ran  into  land. 

Totally  forgetful  of  his  personal  poiiition,  Rohan  now  rapidly 
addressed  the  men  in  tones  of  command.  Oars  were  found  and 
brought,  and  soon  both  skiffs  were  manned  by  powerful  cren*3  and 
pulling  fn  the  direction  of  the  village.  In  the  stem  of  one  stood 
Rohan,  guiding  and  inspiring  his  companions. 

What  followtti  was  only  a  repetition  of  Rohan's  former  adventure, 
shorn  of  much  of  its  danger  and  excitement.  The  inundation  was 
now  comparatively  subdued,  and  the  men  found  little  dtfl6cnlty  in 
rowing  their  boats  through  the  streets.  Soon  the  skiffs  were  full  of 
women  and  children,  half  fainting  and  still  moaning  with  fear. 
Afler  depositing  these  in  safety,  the  rescuing  party  returned  to  tiie 
Village  and  continued  their  work  of  mercy. 

It  was  wcar>-  work,  and  it  lasted  for  hours.  As  the  niglit 
advanced  otticr  boats  appeared,  some  from  neighbouring  villages, 
and  moved  with  (lashing  lights  about  tlic  dreary  v-nsSx  of  waters. 
It  was  found  nccessoty  again  and  again  to  onler  tlic  houses  and  to 
search  the  upper  portions  for  paralysed  women  and  helpless 
children ;  and  at  great  peril  many  crearares  were  rescaed  thus. 
Where  the  peril  was  greatest,  Rohan  Gvrenfem  led:  bo  secaied,j 
indeed,  to  know  no  fear. 


The  Shadow  of  ih 

hi  last,  when  the  first  peep  of  dawn  came,  a]l  the  good  work  was 

done,  and  not  a  living  soul  remained  to  be  saved.    .'Vs  the  dim  chill 

light  rose  on  the  scene  of  desolation,  showing  more  clearly  the 

flooded  village  with  its  broken  gables  and  ruined  walls.  Rohan 

stepped  on  the  shore  close  to  lii-i  mothct's  cottage,  and  found  him* 

self  almost  immediately  surroimdcd  by  an  excited  crowd.     Now 

for  the  lirst  time  the  full  sense  of  iiis  extraordinary  position  came 

upon  htm,  and  he  drew  back  like  a  man  expecting   violence. 

^L  Ragged,    half   naked,    haggard,    ghastly,    and    dripping    wet,    he 

^booked  a  strange  spectacle.     Munnurs  of  wonder  and  pity  arose  as 

^fthe  gazed  on  the  people.  A  woman  whose  two  children  be  had  saved 

^^that  uigtil  rushed  forward,  ;iiul  with  many  appeals  to  the  Virgin 

kisMMi  bis   hands.     He  saw  the  Corporal  standing  by,  pale  and 

troubled,  looking  on  the  ground  ;  and  n'Sax  to  htm  Marccllc,  witb 

I  her  passionate  white  face  shining  towards  him. 
Ha]f  stupefied,  he  moved  up  the  strand.    The  crowd  parted  to 
let  him  pass. 
I    "in  the  name  of  the  Emperor  1 "  cried  a  voice.    A  liand  was 
placed  upon  his  arm,  and  turning  quietly    he    encountered    the 
eyes  of  Mikcl  Grallon. 

Gnillon's  interference  was  greeted  with  angry  murmura,  for  tbo 
popular  sympathy  was  all  with  the  hero  of  the  night. 
"  Stand  back,  Mikcl  Grallon  I  "  cried  many  voices. 
"  It  is  the  deserter  I  "  said  tirallon,  stubbornly,  and  he  repeated 
In  the  name  nf  the  Kmperor  I  " 

Before  he  could  utter  another  word  he  found  himself  seized  in  a 
pair  of  powerful  anus  and  hurled  to  the  ground.  Kohan  Gwcnfcm 
himself  had  not  lifted  a  hngcr.  The  atta<.:k  came  from  quite  another 
qoaner.  The  old  Corporal,  red  witb  rage,  had  sprung  upon  Grallon, 
and  vas  fiercely  holding  him  down. 

Scarcely  paying  any  allunlion,  Rohan  passed  quietly  througb  the 
CTOM'd  and  rapidly  ascended  the  cliff.  Faulting  on  the  summit,  he 
looked  down  quietly  for  some  seconds;  then  he  disappeared. 

But  the  Corporal  still  held  Mikel  Grallon  down,  shaking  him  as 
a  furious  old  hound  shakes  a  rat. 

"In  the  juuuc  of  the  £mperoi  I  "  he  cried,  angrily  echoing  the 
>rostratu  man's  own  words.     "  Beast,  lie  still 


1 


« 


are  making  out  a  new  plan  of  Jerusalem :  of 
that  Jcnjsalem  wliicli  was  seen  and  trodden  by  our 
Lord.  We  are  far  from  Jiaving  done  our  work  as  yet, 
but  wf  arc  Sluadily  recoverinya  true  and  vivid  picture 
of  the  Holy  City  as  it  stood  when  He  looked  down  into  its  stnects 
and  courts  from  Olivet.  We  now  know,  as  He  knew,  the  great  wait 
along  the  Cedron  valley,  the  holy  of  holies  on  the  Temple  mount, 
the  wide  dip  of  the  Tyropaion.  with  the  bridge,  the  palace,  the 
prjetorium,  the  three  towers,  and  the  mighty  walls  ascending  from 
the  Hebron  gate  towards  the  Assyrian  camp. 

In  every  place  wc  seek  the  live  rock.  Here  we  are  sore,  and 
here  only  we  are  sure.  Take  one  example  of  our  work.  I-ong  ago 
men  suspected  that  the  Cedruri  valley  (spoken  of  by  the  prophets 
as  the  valley  of  Jchoshaphat)  used  to  be  deeper  than  it  is  now,  to  be 
more  rugged  and  desolate  than  it  is  now,  and  c*'cn  to  have  another 
course  than  it  has  now.  The  texts  of  Scripture  hardly  tally  wiih  the 
apparent  bed.  The  fall  should  be  mure  abrupt,  the  chasms  darker 
ihan  they  look.  In  these  soft  slopes,  here  dotted  with  trees  and 
there  with  graves,  we  fail  to  catch  the  awful  features  of  that  ravine 
in  which  the  enemies  of  Israel  are  to  be  gathered  and  jadged.  If 
the  prophet  Joel  meant  the  %'alley  parting  Moriah  from  Olivet  as 
his  place  of  judgment,  the  natural  aspects  of  the  ravine  must  have 
been  greatly  changed.  Have  they  ?  Yes ;  our  spades  say— yes. 
By  sinking  shafts  in  the  soil— the  waste  of  many  buildings  during 
many  ages — we  have  found  the  original  Cedron  bed.  In  ancient 
times  this  bed  lay  more  than  eighty  feel  nearer  to  the  Temple  wall 
than  the  present  hollow.  The  bed  sank  more  than  thirty  feet 
deeper  than  it  docs  now.  The  lower  courses  of  the  wall  were  then 
exposed,  and  the  coping-siones  overhung  a  dark  precipitate  gorge. 
By  drilling  to  the  rock  and  clearing  off  the  waste  of  centuries  wo 
are  able  to  sec  the  ravine  over  which  the  Temple  rose,  as  it  was  seen 
by  Joel  and  Kxekiel.  Then  ihc  New  Testament  speaks  of  the 
Cedron  as  a  brook :  "  Jesus  went  forth  with  His  disciples  avat  the 


Rttcwry  of  Palistine.  489 

)k  Cedron."  TTiere  is  no  brook  in  that  hollow  now,  and  critics 
been  exercised  in  finding'  an  fxtuse  for  such  a  name  as  brook 
^being  given.  Our  spades  found  out  the  truth.  When  we  arrived 
the  natural  bed  we  saw  water  flowing  as  of  old.  Water  will  find 
.level,  and  will  alwavs  run  along  the  lowest  courRe.  Remove  the 
[rubbish  which  conceals  the  Cedron  of  St.  John,  and  you  will  find 
Lthc  brook  Cedron  which  our  Lord  and  His  dtsciplescrossed. 

In  seeking  for  the  rock  surface,  as  the  Tyrian  builders  had  to 
seek  in  order  to  setrurc  a  solid  jilatform  for  their  structures,  we  have 
^comc  in  many  parts  of  Jerusalem  on  extremely  ancient  works 
[ere  it  is  a  length  of  scarped  rock,  there  an  unsuspected  wall,  anon 
primitive  canal.  In  one  place  we  find  original  quarry-  marks  on 
stone  ;  in  a  second  place,  under  old  and  broken  arches,  we  find 
till  older  and  more  broken  arches.  Now  we  strike  on  secret 
innels ;  now  we  drop  into  buried  tanks.  Again,  we  enter  unknown 
rhambcrs,  grope  through  noisome  pagsa)fes,  aJid  crawl  through  the 
slits  of  ruined  towers,  all  trace  ai  which  had  passed  beyond  the 
lemorj-  of  man.  This  underground  Jerusalem  is  at  once  both 
)ld  and  new.  At  intervals  we  pick  up  pot  shards,  bits  of  jugs,  and 
I'broken  glass.  Here  is  a  cheap  dumcstic  jar,  and  here  again  some 
3o[lery  with  the  monogram  of  an  unknown  king.  Fragments  of  vase 
landlcs  were  found  at  a  great  depth,  among  heaps  of  broken  potterj-, 
'^not  far  from  the  Tempk;  wall.  They  are  Phcenicion  works.  One 
fragment  is  stamped  with  the  Phcenician  letters : 

Le  >If.lek  Zepha. 

[n  English,  King  Zepha's,  or  King  Zepha's  vase.  The  stamp  is 
like  ttur  royal  arms ;  more  strictly  perhaps  like  o«r  book-plates. 
FThc  bird  with  outspread  wings  is  a  dove,  a  bird  held  sacred  by  the 
Phoenicians  of  Tyre.  With  them  the  dove  was  regal  and  divine* 
No  man  was  allowed  to  kill  a  dove,  and  to  eat  the  flesh  was  sacri- 
lege. A  dove,  with  wings  like  Helios,  perched  on  a  golden  buii  or 
globe,  was  the  Tyrian  ."^j-mbol  of  empire.  Hence  it  was  the  stamp 
and  Eignei  of  a  king.  Who  was  this  Zcpha  ?  Of  what  dynasty  was 
he  member,  of  what  country  was  he  king.'  There  was  a  Zephi 
or  Zepho,  Duke  of  Edom ;  but  he  was  a  grandson  of  Esau,  and 
died  seven  hundred  years  before  Solomon  was  bom.  Zepha  must 
have  bern  a  king  of  Tyre.  Strange  that  his  glory  should  have 
passed  away  ;  he  and  his  country  and  his  gods  :  and  that  after  the 
earth  had  swallowed  him  up,  this  bit  of  broken  pottery,  cast  as 
waste  under  the  Temple  wall,  should  bring  to  light,  and  restore 
to  histoiy,  his  name,  his  regal  mark,  and  his  socted  d(^'V4i\ 


& 


490 


The  GentlematCs  Magi^im. 


In  carrying  on  our  work  wc  squeeze  into  drains,  we  figlit  tbroagb 
choked  up  cisterns,  and  we  creep  into  hollow  walls.  Here  we  have 
to  break  through  roofs,  there  we  have  to  drop  down  sinks,  and 
crawl  up  sewers.  The  mining  in  Vinegar  Yard  was  child's  play 
compared  against  our  boring  through  the  bowels  oT  Jerusalem. 
Some  of  our  discoveries  are  enigmas.  A  chamber,  hitherto 
unknown,  is  found  in  the  Haram  wall.  Captain  Warren. 
moling  under  the  earth,  noticed  a  slit  in  the  Hatam  wall, 
made  by  cutting  out  parts  of  the  lower  and  upper  beds  of  two 
courses.  The  slit  was  four  inches  wide  and  eighteen  inches 
long.  What  could  it  be  and  whither  could  it  lead  i  Warren  was 
forty  feet  below  the  ground  ;  a  stone  was  dropped  ;  a  sound  came 
back.  There  was  a  chamber  in  the  wall.  Uy  coaxing  the  slit  with 
an  iron  tool  he  opened  it  three  inches  more,  and  then  with  ranch 
squeezing  got  through  into  the  secret  chamber  in  the  wall.  More 
my^itery  awaited  him.  The  |>assagc  was  forty-six  feel  long,  and 
seemed  to  end  in  a  wall  on  the  fiirkct  Israel,  the  ancient  pool  of 
Bethesda.  Some  of  the  stones  are  sixteen  to  eighteen  feet  long. 
Three  holes  are  drilled  through  the  great  stone  at  the  end.  Some  of 
the  work  is  comparatively  recent,  and  a  rude  carving  of  a.ByzanLtne 
cross  suggests  that  Syrian  Christians  were  employed  on  the  repairs. 
These  modem  craftsmen  may  have  been  employed  by  Constantine 
the  Great  1 

But  while  wc  meet  with  some  puzzles,  we  also  meet  with 
many  facts  which  come  on  us  like  flashes  of  morning  lighL 
One  of  our  capital  discoveries  in  underground  Jerusalem  is  thai 
of  the  Phccnician  letters.  Wc  have  found  ihcm  in  two  ox  three 
different  places,  always  at  a  great  depth,  and  in  every  case  on  stones 
which  have  the  Tyrian  level.  All  these  marks  are  in  red  paint; 
the  stones  in  their  original  sites.  When  we  have  foimd  these 
marks,  it  is  hard  to  doubt,  from  the  surroundings,  that  wc  stand 
in  presence  of  Solomonic  work. 

Sinking  a  shaf^  in  front  of  .the  north-eastern  angle.  Captain 
Warren  struck  the  Temple  wall  within  six  feet  of  the  comer  stone. 
Marks  in  red  paint  were  seen :  they  were  evidently  mason's  marfci, 
and  seemed  to  be  Phcenician  numerals.  Some  of  the  tetters  were 
five  inches  high;  drops  and  streaks  of  paint  are  splashed  about, 
as  the  Tyrian  craftsmen  dabbed  and  dried  their  brushes.  The 
regular  marks  seemed  to  have  been  made  before  the  stones  were 
built  in  ;  no  doubt  in  the  quarries  where  the  stones  were  cut  and 
dressed.    When  touched  by  a  wet  finger  the  paint  came  off. 

Of  these  great  stones  the  world  had  no  other  history  when  wa 


Recovery  of  Palestine.  491 

g^n  oar  labours  th&n  Ihat  of  the  original  builder.     "  The  foandit- 
ons  were  of  costly  stones,  even  great  stones,  stones  often  cubits, 
d  stones  of  eight  cubits."     Captain  Warren   has  found  these 
:one5.  and    verified    this    rather    startling    text.      He   stood    in 
esence  of  these  great   stones,    eight  cubits  and   ten  cubits  in 
njjth.     "The  King  commanded,  and  liiey  brought  great  stones, 
tly  stones,  and  hewed  stones  to  laj-  the  foundations  of  the  house, 
d  Solomon's  builders  and  Hiram's  builders  did  hew  them."     Our 
lorer  stood  in  front  of  these  stones  as  Hiram's  engineers  stood 
hen  they  were  first  laid  in  the  rock. 

EmanncI  Dcutsch  arrived  in  Jerusalem  while  the  shaft  was  open, 
d  he  went  down  it  to  inspect  this  record  of  his  race.    In  the  port 
Sidon  he  aflenn-ards  fuund  marks  of  the  same  kind,  and  after 
al  weighing  of  the  evidence  he  came  to  these  three  conclu- 
s  ; — I.  Tlie  marks  on  the  Temple  stones  are  Phceniciai»,    *,  They 
re  painted  before  the  stones  were  built  in.     j.  They  are  quarry- 
gns,  not  writing  or  inscriptions.      In  another  part  of  the  same 
I,  at  a  great  depth  below  the  ground,  Captain  Warren  found 
her  marks,  also  nicjenician,  painted  in  red  coluurs  by  the  Tyrian 
qnanymcH. 

I  call  the  finding  of  these  mason's  marks  one  of  our  capital 

liscoveries,  for  two  reasons : — in  the  first  place,  because  they  settle 

;he  question  of  whether  this  work  was   Solomonic  or  ilerodian ; 

the  second  place,  because  they  prove  the  literary  accuracj-  of 

text  in  Kings,  that  workmen   from  Tyre  were  employed   in 

rrjHng  these  atones  for  the  Temple  wall.     Theorists  who  cut 

he  Temple  mount  into  pieces  want  us  to  believe  ,that  the  work 

Herodian,  built  with  a  view  to  an  enlargement  of  the  Temple 

This  contention  falls  to  the  gromid  in  presence  of  these 

in's  marks.      Herod    employed  Greek    artisans,   who    knew 

nothing  of  Phoenician  letters  and  numerals.     Their  marks  would 

have  been  in  Greek.     No  less  striking  is  the  evidence  in  favour 

of  tide  sacred  text.    This  narrative  has  been  the  subject  of  much 

debate.     Joscphus  gives  two  accounts  of  Solomon's  buildings  on 

the  Temple  hill,  and  these  accounts  unhappily  disagree.      Lcwin 

supposes  that  Josephus  made  his   first  statement   before  he  had 

studied    bis   subject   with    much    care.      A  difftculty  is  admitted. 

But    our    discovery    removes     suspicion    from    the    sacred    text. 

"  Solomon's  builders  and  Hiram's  builders  did  hew  them."     In  the 

presence  of  our  Phoenician  marks,  it  is  impossible  to  doubt  that 

Hiram's  builders  did  also  help  to  hew  these  stones. 

Captain  Warren  pushed  his  gallei>-  along  the  vi%\\  (tQm'Oa.&  %\»^ul 


L 


I 

J 


492 


The  GentUmatC s  Afagazhu. 


marked  by  the  Phoenician  letters,  to  the  soulh-easlem  angle.  He 
worked  round  the  comer  stone.  Comer  stones  were  considered  bjr 
the  Jews  as  havinj^  a  spiritual  character.  They  held  thingfs 
together.  Any  stones  in  the  first  course  served  for  the  upper  wall 
to  rest  on ;  but  the  comer  stones  faced  two  ways,  and  had  two 
functions  to  sustain.  They  served  as  rests  and  clamps.  Hence  th^ 
had  a  moral  significance.  Hence  the  poetry  of  Israel  overflows 
with  refencncc  to  them.  Isaiah  sings  of  "a  stone,  a  tried  stone,  a 
precious  comer  stone,  a  sure  foundation."  Jeremiah,  in  denouncing 
Zion,  cries  in  his  prophetic  fur)-,  "They  shall  not  take  of  thee  a 
stone  for  a  comer,  nor  a  stone  for  foundation."  The  chief  glory  is 
the  comer  stftnc.  Our  Lord  is  called  the  comer  stone,  and  chief 
comer  Btone,  by  His  disciples ;  and  on  one  occasion,  quoting  from 
the  Psalmit,  He  usmI  the  corner  stone  rejected  by  the  builders  in 
happy  illastralion  of  His  own  place  in  Israel.  Of  all  comer  stones, 
those  of  the  Temple  were  the  most  important  and  the  most  sacred 
in  Jewish  eyc%. 

Here  wan  Captain  Warren  not  only  touching  this  sacred  block, 
the  chief  comer  stone,  which  in  the  minds  of  both  St.  Peter  and 
St.  Paid  symbolised  our  Lord,  but  prodding  it  with  his  pick 
and  scraping  it  with  his  iron  tools.  Never  since  that  stone  left 
the  quarrj-  had  an  iron  instrument  grazed  lis  side.  No  iron  tool 
ever  came  near  the  Temple  hill.  '*  The  house  was  built  of  stone 
made  ready  before  it  was  brought  thither,"  says  the  Book  of  Kings: 
•'  so  that  there  was  neither  hammer,  nor  axe,  nor  any  tool  of  iron 
heard  in  the  house."  Iron  was  a  suspected  metal.  In  the  Rabbi- 
nical traditions  iron  is  dcicribcd  as  "  the  shortencr  of  man's  da)*s." 
As  the  altar  was  given  to  man  as  a  blessing,  it  was  called  "  the 
Icngthener  of  days."  Hence  it  was  unlawful  for  that  which 
cuts  life  short  to  come  near  that  which  gives  length  of  days. 
The  comer  stone  is  a  huge  block,  finely  dres-wd,  lying  ninety  feel 
below  the  present  ground.  Nowhere  on  earth,  not  even  ia  the 
classical  remains  of  Italy,  can  any  wall  be  seen  so  striking  as  the 
ramparts  resting  in  the  days  of  Solomon  on  this  comer 
stone. 

To  make  a  sure  bed  for  this  block,  the  rock  had  been  cut  away 
and  levelled  to  a  depth  of  two  feci.  The  upper  surface  of  the 
rock  was  soft,  and  the  original  architects  had  cut  down  to  a  harder 
surface.  On  that  harder  bed  the  stone  wag  laid.  And  here  a 
curious  thing  was  seen.  Scraping  round  the  great  stone,  Captain 
Warren  found  that  a  niche  had  been  scooped  under  Ihc  big  blodc ; 
a  niche  some  twelve  inches  wide  by  twelve  inches  deep.     Mould 


Recovery  of  Palestine.  493 

fill  it  up:  but  on  the  removal  of  this  mould  a  small 
..w.— »  jar  was  found  in  the  hole.  g 

Who  placed  this  jar  under  the  corner  stone  ?  The  bit  of  pottery 
ias  neither  beauty  of  form  nor  value  of  material  to  make  it 
)recious  in  our  sight.  A  common  jar,  baked  of  ordinary  clay, 
rhy  was  it  placed  so  carefully  beneatti  the  chief  foutidatlon  of  the 
remple  wall  ?  That  stone  was  fixed  in  the  cut  rock,  where  it  now 
lies,  three  thousand  years  ago,  in  the  presence  of  King  Solomon 
id  all  his  court.  Hundreds  of  princes,  millions  of  pilgrims,  have 
[one  this  way,  and  all  these  years  that  little  earthenware  jar  has 
>een  keeping  its  secret  under  the  comer  stone  of  the  Temple 
111 

front  of  the  Golden  Gate,  lying  out  in  the  Ccdron  villey,  we 

ivc  found  a  wall  of  ancient  and  massive  stones.     Unable  to  sink 

shaft  near  the  gate.  Captain  Warren  began  at  the  distance  of  a 

lundrcd  and  forty  feet,  sunk  his  shaft  to  the  rock  surface,  and  then 

>ve  a  gallery  towards  the  wall.     He  crossed  a  tank  or  sepulchre, 

ancient  form,  and  near  this  work  he  found  a  scarp,  three  feet 

[nine  inches  high,  with  an  inclination  west  and  north.     A  wall  of 

igh  masonr)-  topped  this  buried  scarp.    Warren  was  now  fifty  feet 

>w  the  ground.  Breaking  through  the  rough  masonry,  he  pu&hed 

>wards  the  gate,  hoping  to  get  at  the  first  course  of  stones,  as  he 

done  near  the  comer  stone.     A  few  yards  onward  he  found  a 

rise  in  the  rock  surface— not,  however,  a  scarp— and  two  yards 

ler  on  a  second  rough  mass  of  wall.    The  picks  soon  drilled  a 

[iray   through  this  obstacle,  and  the  gallery  crept  forward  till  the 

[miners  came  to  an  inverted  pillar— the  most  singular  object  they 

lad  found  in  their  strange  adventures.    This  pillar  was  suspended 

the  earth.     How  it  hung  there  was  a  mysler)-.     On  the  lower 

It   were  seen  some   marks,  apparently  engraved,   and  probably 

lose  of  a  dial.     Whether  this  column  has  any  fellows  could  not  be 

^ascertained. 

Passing  this  mysterious  shaft,  our  miners  came  on  a  wall  of  huge 
stones,  running  north  and  south.  Undaunted  by  this  obstacle,  they 
raised  their  picks,  and  tore  a  hole  into  it  more  than  five  feet  deep  ; 
but  no  mining  tools  in  their  possession  were  strong  enough  to  drill 
through  such  a  wall.  They  -were  now  about  forty-siit  feet  from  the 
Golden  Gate.  Unable  to  cut  a  way  through,  they  tried  to  get  over 
the  top,  but  without  success.  The  only  way  was  to  get  round,  so 
they  drove  a  gallery  to  the  south  for  fourteen  feet,  but  in  that 
direction  the  work  had  no  break.  On  turning  to  the  north  they 
drove  much  farther,  finding  no  break,  but  noling  l\\a,V  \\\t  \>wvA 


wall  ran  oif  in  the  direction  of  noith-west,  apparently  tovuds 
Ccdron  ravine. 

What  was  the  fuiiciion  of  this  buried  wall,  Ijing  forty-six  &ct 
forward  in  the  Ccdron  valley  ?  No  reply  has  yet  been  given. 
Hcrr  Schick,  indeed,  using  Captain  Warren's  discroreria  m 
concocting  his  new  plan  of  Jenisalem,  has  thrown  an  ontcr  mU 
round  the  Tuinplc  platrorin,  which  outer  wall  he  has  carried  op  the 
Cedron  ravine  from  Siloam.  Since  the  Temple  wall  was.  absokUJy 
impregnable  on  the  eastern  face,  another  explanation  must  be 
sought.    I  offer  mine. 

The  Golden  Gate  has  always  been  a  mj'slery.  It  is  an  andat 
and  a  beautiful  pile.  The  date  is  in  dispute.  Viollet  le  Doc  sm 
it  may  be  the  work  of  Herod,  Hadrian,  orXonatanttne.  FetgnSMO 
ascribes  it  to  the  reign  of  Constantine.  The  passage  has  long  been 
closed.  ,;\n  Arab  legend  says  it  was  blocked  up  in  consequence  of 
a  prophecy  that  when  the  city  falls  a  Christian  army  will  enter  I7 
this  gatcr.  Hcmclius  was  said  to  have  entered  by  this  c^ieatDi 
when  he  brought  back  the  Holy  Cross  to  Jerusalem  on  his  reton 
from  the  Persian  war.  Fear  of  a  second  Christian  nctor  greaser 
than  Heraciius  may  have  led  to  the  closing  of  this  famous  giee. 
What  the  Colosseum  was  to  mediteval  Rome  the  Golden  Gate  nt 
to  medieval  Palestine.  The  Crusaders  kept  it  closed  ;  the  SanceM 
built  it  up.  Among  the  Christians  it  was  honoured  as  the  gate  of 
Christ :  the  gate  by  which  He  came  into  the  Temple  courts.  Owat 
a  jvar  the  portals  were  thrown  back,  and  a  procession  entered  hea 
the  rood  by  Olivet,  bcanng  palms  ^and  singing  hosannas  U>  the 
!x)rd. 

The  name  of  this  gate  has  frequently  been  changed.  In  andetf 
(lays  it  was  called  Shusaii  Gate  (Gate  of  Susa)  from  the  cirrBB- 
stance  that  a  plan  of  that  famous  city  was  engraved  on  the  door  io 
t'olden  lines.  About  the  time  of  our  Lord  it  was  known  utbe 
Oylden  Gate  or  Beautiful  Gate.  The  Greek  word  means  heu/tf> 
the  Latin  word  means  golden,  and  oor  ovn  irar^slators  use  tke 
name  Beautiful.  Other  Christians  call  it  Golden.  By  the  Satacew 
it  was  called  Bab  ed  Daberia — Gale  of  ELemity:  and  by  th 
modem  Arab  it  is  called  Bab  er  Ramib — Gate  of  Hercy.  It 
has  not  been  noticed,  in  connection  with  this  mystery,  that  tkr 
name  of  Golden  Gate  was  familiar  to  the  Syrian  converts  andm 
represented  by  llicmas  having  been  familiar  to  the  Jews.  JOHMW 
mentions  the  name  twice,  and  gives  the  reason  why  it  ww  calM 
Golden  Gate.  "  When  you  come  to  the  Golden  Gate  of  JcnwW 
he  makes  the  angel  %a^  to  'M^tf  1.  ^tiiCivu.   "Ckck  >siq  to  |enu>l(A 


Recovery  of  PaUsthu.  495 

when  yt>it  shall  come  to  that  which  is  called  the  Golden  Gate, 

lasc  it  is  gilt  with  gold  "...  he  makes  the  same  angel  say  to 

e.    The  doctrinal  value  of  St.  Jerome's  gosjrel  may  be  dis- 

,  but  the  topographical  vatue  of  a  writer  who  lived  and  wrote 

the  vicinity  of  Moriah  cannot  be  denied. 

These  passages  prove  that  the  Golden  Gate  was  an  entrance  to  the 
^Temple,  open  to  all  Hebrews,  in  the  time  of  our  Lord.  Il  was  the 
t  and  easiest  entrance  for  a  worshipper  coming  in  from  Bethany, 
very  old  tradition  makes  il  the  scene  of  Peter's  miracle.  A  word 
hjch  the  Greeks  rendered  "Bcaniifiil"  and  the  Latins  rendered 
Golden"  was  the  same ;  so  that  the  entrance  mentioned  by  St. 
leromc  and  St.  Luku  must  have  been  the  same.  If  tio,  the  Golden 
tte  was  the  usual  entra.nce  to  the  Temple  on  the  eastern  face. 
How  was  this  sharp  crest  ascended  from  the  Cedron  gorge? 
a  now,  where  the  valley  is  partly  filled  up  and  the  river  bed  is 
hed  some  distance  from  the  wall,  the  slope  is  hard  to  climb, 
former  days  it  dropped  down  suddenly  some  hundred  feet.  Was 
tbere  a  bridge  across  the  brook  Cedron,  and  a  flight  of  steps  lead- 
^^ing  from  that  bridge  across  the  Cedron  to  this  Golden  Gate  ?  Was 
^^pe  ground  terraced  to  sirpport  these  steps,  and  the  outward  wall 
^Rwilt  to  support  such  termcc  ?  "  The  temple  being  built  in  a 
^Pnountain,"  sa^-s  St.  Jerome,  "the  altar  .  .  could  not  be  come  near 
but  by  steps."  If  the  great  outer  wall  sustained  a  terrace,  the  two 
I  walls  of  rough  masonr)-  which  Captain  Warren  cnt  through  may  have 
I  supported  the  lower  steps.  A  bridge  across  the  Cedron  and  a 
flight  of  steps  into  the  Temple  are  so  nccessarj-  to  the  position  that 
many  travellers,  looking  on  Moriah  from  Mount  Olivet,  have 
fancied  such  a  work.  If  such  a  work  existed,  it  must  have  started 
from  the  Golden  Gate.  If  so,  the  old  legends  were  true,  and  this 
opening  in  the  Temple  was  the  passage  not  only  of  St.  Peter  but  of 
ottr  Lord. 

On  the  ridge  of  Ophel,  and  along  the  water-courses  leading  from 
e  Virgin's  Fountain  to  Siloam,  onr  discoveries  have  been  no  less 
igc  than  serious,  since  they  modify  all  previous  theories  on  the 
subject  of  that  royal  suburb.  Lewin,  whose  plan  of  ancient  jeru- 
solem  cakes  in  a  larger  part  of  Ophel  than  is  commonly  embraced 
withiD  the  walls,  starts  liis  walls  from  the  w^sitm  comer  of  the  vaults 
called  King  Solomon's  stables,  and  passing  near  the  Virgin's  Pool, 
includes  the  tower  of  Siloam,  but  crcludes  the  pool  of  that  name. 
Captain  Warren's  excavation  shows  that  this  plan  is  wrong  in  its 
main  features.  The  wall,  of  which  the  date  is  very  ancient,  started 
from  a  point  lying  outside  the  easttm  comer  o(  K\n\^  ^dViTO.Qni» 


The  Genileman^s  Magazint. 

stables,  dropped  by  the  Virgia's  Pool,  and  apparently  passed  near 
the  pool  of  ^iloam,  over  which  stood  the  famous  lower,  to  the  fall 
ol*  which  our  Lord  refers.  That  tower  of  Siloam  was  one  of  ihc 
defiances  of  the  Ophel  wall. 

The  tower  of  Siloam  is  mentioned  only  once  in  history,  bat  that 
one  mention  gives  it  aii  immortal  name.  "  jesus,  answering,  said  .  . 
these  eighteen  upon  whom  the  tower  in  Siloam  fell,  and  slew  them, 
think  yc  they  were  sinners  above  all  men  that  dwelt  in  Jcnisalem  ? 
I  teii  you— nay."  That  this  tower,  which  fell  during  our  Lord's 
minisuy  in  Jerusalem,  stood  nirar  the  spring  of  Siloam,  has  been 
assumed  by  every  one.  No  spring  in  Israel  had  so  wide  a  fame 
as  that  of  Siloam.  The  waters  were  sweet,  and  in  a  Jew's  opinion 
cleansing.  Natives  of  every  race  and  creed  regarded  them  as 
holy.  High  priests  used  tlicm  in  the  sacrifices.  Jirsus  sent  tbe 
blind  man  to  wash  in  tbe  pool  of  Siloam,  where  be  received  bis 
sight.  Mohammed,  say  the  Arabs,  called  the  fountains  of 
Zemzcm  and  Siloam  "  waters  of  Paradise."  Zemzem  is  the 
famous  well  in  the  temple  at  Mecca,  the  healing  virtues  of 
which  are  known  throughout  Islam.  But  the  tower  of  Siloam 
had  no  repute  until  it  fell,  and  by  its  fall  suggested  an  illustration  to 
the  unknown  Messiah.  Josephus  speaks  of  the  fountain,  not 
of  the  tower;  and  the  name  has  found  no  place  on  the  page  of 
either  Jew  or  Greek.  We  know  it  from  St.  John,  and  only  from  St. 
John.  Where  it  once  stood  has  been  a  puzzle,  for  the  position  of 
the  Ophel  wall  was  unknown,  and  the  relation  of  the  tower  to  that 
defending  rampart  equally  unknown. 

Captain  Warren's  discovery  throws  a  new  light  on  all  this  royal 
slope,  and  on  tbe  King's  garden  which  spread  beyond  the  pool. 
He  came  on  it  by  chance.  Refused  permission  to  dig  in  the 
Haram,  he  sunk  a  shaft  outside  tbe  south-eastern  comer,  witb  a 
view  of  working  towards  the  wall  at  a  second  point ;  urged  by  the 
hope  of  finding  more  Phmnician  letters  on  the  great  blocks.  He 
started  twelve  yards  from  the  angle,  and  by  accident  struck  an 
ancient  wall.  At  once  he  turned  to  this  new  face  and  ran  along 
it  eastward  till  he  touched  the  rock :  then,  turning  round,  he  worked 
up  norih,  striking  a  cross  wall  four  feet  thick,  which  he  cut  through, 
and  drilled  on  steadily  to  the  Temple  wall.  Looking  for  a  good 
thing.  Captain  Warren  found  a  better.  Here,  for  tbe  first  timn 
wen  by  modem  critics,  was  the  Ophel.  so  often  mentioned  in  tbe 
great  siege,  and  so  necessary  in  tbe  search  for  the  tower  of 
Siloam.  The  fragments  told  their  story,  to  that  he  who  ran 
might  read.    Ko  part  of  these  works  are  Solomonic,  nor  in  any 


Recovery  of  Palestine.  497 

way  resemble  the  mighty  masses  on  which  they  lean.  The  stones 
are  small.  Only  the  upper  course  is  drafted.  There  is  no  batter,  as 
in  the  Temple  work.  The  foundations  are  not  sunk  into  the  solid 
rock.  A  layer  of  hard  clay  lies  on  the  rock  surface,  and  on  this 
hard  clay  the  original  builders  were  content  to  rest.  All  these  con- 
ditions prove  that  Ophel  was  surrounded  by  defences  at  a  later 
date.  Compared  with  older  work,  lying  near  about,  the  Ophel 
wall  is  poor  in  material,  and  was  probably  thrown  up  in  haste. 
Hence  we  may  see  a  reason  why  the  tower  of  Siloam  fell. 


Vol.  Xm.,  N.S.  1876.  Tt  ^ 


Douglas  Jerrold  ant*   his  Letters. 
by  charles  and  mary  cowden  clarke. 


PART  II. 

[IIAT  Jerrold  felt  the  misinterpretation  with  which  his 
satirical  liits  at  women's  foibles  had  been  sometimes 
received  is  endcnt  in  the  following  letter,  which  he 
m-iole  to  thank  our  sister,  Sabilla  Kovcllo,  who  bad 
knitted  him  a  purse: — 

Putney  Green,  June  9th. 
Dear    Miss  Novki.lo, — I    thank  you  vci>'  sincerdy    for  your 

firesent,  though  I  cannot  but  fear  its  fatal  eifect  upon  my  limited 
ortuncs,  for  it  is  so  very  handsome  that  whenever  I  produce  it  [ 
feel  that  I  have  thousands  a  year,  and,  as  in  duty  bound,  am  inclined 
to  pay  accordinKly.  1  shall  go  about,  to  the  astonishment  of  all 
omni»>'  men,  iusiatitig  upon  paying  sovereigns  for  sixpences. 
Happily,  however,  this  amiable  insanity  will  cure  itself  (or  I  tahf 
always  bear  my  wife  with  mc  as  a  keeper). 

About  this  comcdv.  I  am  writing  it  under  the  most  significant 
warnings.  As  the  f^astem  king — name  unknown,  to  me  at  least- 
kept  a  crier  to  warn  him  that  he  was  but  monal  and  must  die,  and 
so  to  behave  himself  as  decently  as  it  is  possible  for  any  poor  king  to 
do,  so  do  I  keep  a  flock  of  eloquent  geese  tliat  continually,  within 
ear-shot,  cackle  of  the  British  public.  Hence,  I  trust  to  defeat  the 
birds  of  the  Haymarket  by  the  birds  of  Putney. 

But  in  this  comedy  I  do  contemplate  ttuA  a  heroine,  as  a  set-off  to 
the  many  sins  imputed  to  mc  as  committed  against  woman,  whom  I 
have  alwaj-s  considered  to  be  an  admirable  idea  imiwrfcctly  worked 
out.  Poor  soul  I  she  can't  help  that.  Well,  this  heroine  shall  be 
woven  of  moon-beams — a  perfect  angel,  with  one  wing  cut  to  keep 
her  among  us.  She  shall  be  all  devotion.  She  shall  hand  over  her 
lover  (never  mind  Ais  heart,  poor  wretch  I)  to  her  grandmother,  who 
she  suspects  is  very  fond  of  him,  and  then,  disguLsing  herself  as  a 
youth,  she  shall  enter  the  British  na\%  and  rclum  in  six  years,  say. 
with  epaulets  on  her  shoulders,  and  hcrname  in  ihc  Nav)-list,  rated 
Post-Captain.  You  will  perceive  that  I  have  Madame  Celeste  in  my 
eye— am  measuring  her  for  the  uniform.  And  young  ladies  will  sit 
in  the  boxes,  and  with  tearful  eyes,  and  noses  like  rose-buds,  s.->y, 
"What  magnanimity!"  And  when  this  great  wijrk  U  dooL — this 
monument  of  the  vcrj-  best  gilt  gingerbread  to  woman  >el  up  00  the 
Haymarket  stage — you  shall,  if  you  will,  go  and  sec  it,  and  make 
one  to  cry  for  the  "Author."  rewarding  him  with  a  crown  of  tin-foiU 
and  a  shower  of  sugar-plums. 

In  lively  hope  of  that  ecstatic  moment,  I  remain,  yours  truly, 

Douglas  JximoLii. 


le  following  is  one  of  Ms  playful  uotes,  also  addrcased  to  Sabilla 

^m  I'utney  Common,  June  rSth. 

^r  Mv  UBAR  Miss  Novei.lo, — I  ought  cre  this  tn  have  thanked  you 
for  the  prospectus,  I  shall  certainly  avail  myself  of  its  proffered 
advantages,  and,  on  the  close  of  the  vacation,  send  my  girl. 

I  presume,  ere  that  time,  you  will  have  returned  to  ihe  purer 
shades  of  Baj'swatcr  from  all  the  pleasant  iniquities  of  Paris.  I  am 
nnezpcctcdly  deprived  of  evcr>'  chance  of  leaving  home,  at  least  for 
some  time,  if  at  all  this  season,  by  a  literary  projection  that  I  thought 
would  have  been  deferred  until  late  in  ilie  autumn;  otherwise,  how 
willingly  would  I  black  the  seams  and  elbows  of  my  coat  with 
my  ink,  and  cicvaliny  my  quill  into  a  curt-t/en/,  hie  me  to  the 
"  Trvis-Frirfj"  f  But  ibid  must  not  be  for  God  knows  when — or  the 
Devil  (my  devil,  mind)  better.  I  am  indeed  "  nailed  to  the  dead 
wood,"  as  I^mb  says;  or  rather,  in  this  glorious  weather,  1  feel  as 
somehow  a  butterfly,  or,  since  I  am  getting  fat,  a  June  fly,  impaled 
on  iron  pin,  or  pen,  must  feel  fixed  to  one  place,  with  cveiy  virtuous 
wish  to  go  anj-Tivhere  and  everywhere,  with  anybody  and  almost  evfry 
'fbody.  1  am  not  an  independent  spinster^  but — "  I  won't  weep." 
lot  one  unmanly  tear  hhall  stain  this  sheet. 
With  desperate  calmness  I  subscribe  myself,  yours  faithfully, 

Douglas  Jerrold. 

The  next  cnclo-scd  ticlccLs  of  admission  to  the  performance  of 
Jonson's  comedy  of  "Ever>-  Man  in  his  Htimour,"  at  Miss 
yi^s  little  theatre  in  Dean  Street,  Soho,  when  Jerrold  played 
aster  Stephen ;  Charles  Dickens,  Bol>adil ;  Mark  Lemcii,  Brain- 
orm;  John  Forstcr,  Kitely ;  and  John  Leech,  Master  Mathew. 
!l  was  the  lirst  attempt  of  that  subsequently  famous  amateur  com- 
y,  and  a  glorious  beginning  it  was.  Douglas  Jerrold's  Master 
Stephen,  that  strong  mongrel  likeness  of  Abraham  Slender  and 
Andrew  Aguecheek,  was  excellently  facetious  in  the  conceited 
coxcombry  of  the  part,  and  in  its  occasional  smart  retorts  was 
only  /oo  good — that  is  to  say,  he  showed  just  too  keen  a  conscious- 
ness of  the  a]]lness  and  point  in  reply  for  the  blunt  perceptions 
of  such  an  oaf  as  Master  Stephen.  For  instance,  when  Bobadil, 
disarmed  and  beaten  by  Downright,  exclaim.<t  "Sure  I  vtas  struck 
with  a  planet  thence,"  and  Stephen  rejoins  "  No.  you  were 
tiruek  tvUh  a  slick"  the  words  were  uttered  with  that  peculiar 
Jerroldian  twinkle  of  the  eye  and  humorously  diy  inflection  of  the 
voice  that  accotnpanied  the  speaker's  own  repartees,  and  made 
I  one  behold  Douglas  Jerrold  himself  beneath  the  garb  of  Master 
^^  Stephen. 

^^  Thursday,  Sept.,  1S45. 

^H     Mt  dear  Mrs.  Clakke, — In  haste  I  send  yoM  a.ccom^^ivYi.uv 
^■"Call  no  man  happy  liti  he  \%  dead,"  says  the  &age.    '^wex  ^xti 


A 


500 


The  GaitlemaiCs  Magazint* 


ihanks  for  tickets  for  an  amateur  play  till  the  show  is  ocer.     Yod 
don't  know  what  may  be  in  store  for  you — and  for  «*/ 

Alas,  Kgtnllcss  of  their  doom, 

Tlic  little  vidlnis  pby — (or  It)'  to  play). 

Yours  faithfully, 

D.  Jerrolo. 

Jerrold  would  perceive  the  Rcrni  of  a  retort  before  you  had  wclL, 
begun  to  form  your  sentence,  and  would  bring  it  forth  in  full  blossoi 
thi:  instant  you  had  doire  speaking.  He  had  a  way  of  looking  straight 
in  the  face  of  one  to  whom  he  dealt  a  repartee,  and  with  an 
expression  of  eye  that  seemed  to  ask  appreciation  of  th'e  point  of 
the  thing  he  was  going  to  say,  thus  depriving  it  of  personality  or 
ill-nature.  It  was  as  if  he  called  upon  its  object  to  enjoy  it  with 
him,  rather  than  to  resent  its  sharpness.  There  was  a  pccoliar 
compression  with  a  sudden  curve  or  lift  up  of  the  tip  that  showcdj 
his  own  sense  of  the  fun  of  the  thing  he  was  ottering,  while  bl 
glance  miit  his  interlocutor's  with  a  firm  unflinching  roguery  and  atti 
unfaltering  drollery  of  tone  that  had  none  of  the  sidelong  furtive' 
look  and  irritating  tone  of  usual  utterers  of  mere  rough  retorts. 
When  an  acquaintance  came  up  to  him  and  said  "\^ni}',  Jerrold»J 
I  hear  you  said  my  nose  was  like  the  ace  of  cluhs  I  "  Jerrolt 
returned  "  No,  I  didn't ;  but  now  I  look  at  it,  I  sec  it  is  very  like." 
The  question  of  the  actual  resemblance  was  far  less  present  to  his 
mind  than  the  neatness  of  his  own  turn  upon  the  complainant.  So 
with  a  repartee,  which  he  repeated  to  us  himself  as  having  made  on 
a  particular  occasion,  evidently  relishing  the  comic  audacity,  and 
without  intending  a  spark  of  insolence.  When  the  publisher  of 
SenlUys  Miscellany  said  to  JcrroId  "  1  had  some  doubts  abot 
the  name  I  should  give  the  magazine  ;  I  thought  at  one  time 
calling  it  'The  Wits'  Miscellany,'"*  "Well,"  was  the  rejoinder, 
"  but  yon  neeiln't  have  gone  to  the  other  extremity."  Knowinf 
Jerrold,  we  feel  that  had  the  speaker  been  the  most  brilliant  gentt 
that  ever  lived  the  retort  would  have  been  the  same,  the  pamess 
having  once  entered  his  brain.  I>uring  one  of  those  delightful 
walks  home  at  night  to  which  we  have  alluded  in  our  "  Recollections." 
after  a  brilliant  evening  at  Serle's  house.  Jerrold,  in  high  spirits, 
chatted  on  with  us,  giving  utterance  at  last  to  a  jest  that  had  more 
latitude  of  expression  than  is  generally  used  excepting  among  men; 
then  turned  to  M.  C.  C  baying  "  I'm  afraid  I  ought  to  apolof 
to  you,  oughln't  I  ?"  He  received  for  answer,  "  If  ever  you  refnUnS 
ftom  saying  anything  that  comes  into  your  hc«d  because  I  am 
present.  I  ^all  take  it  as  an  affront — nay,  an  injnry."     He  woolfi 


Douglas  yert-old  and  his  LeiUrs. 

>p  his  witticisms  like  strewed  flowers,  as  he  weni  on  talking. 
laWshty,  as  one  who  possessed  countless  store;  yet  always  with  that 
glance  of  enjoyment  in  them  himself,  and  of  challenging  your  sym- 
pathetic relish  for  them  in  return,  which  acknowledges  the  truth  of 
the  Shakespearian  axiom  "A  jest's  prosperity  lies  in  tha  ear  of 
him  that  hears  it.'*  He  illustrated  his  conversation,  aa  it  were,  by 
these  wit-blossoms  cast  in  by  the  way.  Speaking  of  a  savage  biting 
critic,  Jcrrold  said  "Oh  yes,  he'll  review  the  book,  as  an  east 
wind  reviews  an  apple-tree."  Of  an  actress  who  thought  inordinately 
well  of  herself,  he  said  "She's  a  perfect  whitlow  uf  vanity."  And 
of  a  young  writer  who  brought  out  his  first  raw  specimen  of  author- 
ship, Jcrrold  said  "  He  is  like  a  man  taking  clown  his  shop- 
shutters  before  he  has  any  goods  to  &ell." 

Jenold  had  a  keen  appreciation  of  smart  retort  in  others  as  well 
as  of  his  own.  A  dear  little  godchild  of  ours,  who  had  been  staying 
at  Greenwich  one  summer  with  her  parents,  and  uset.1  to  prattle  with 
some  of  the  old  college  pensioners  while  she  played  In  the  park,lhcrc, 
on  her  return  to  town  spoke  of  them  to  JerrolJ,  who  was  an  intimate 
visitor  at  the  house.  He  said  '*  Ah,  you  have  left  all  the  dear 
old  fellows  behind  you  at  Greenwich ;  you've  no  wooden  legs 
here!"  "Oh  yes,  we  have!"  she  answered.  "Why,  where .^" 
asked  he.  She  crept  under  the  Ubie,  and  tapping  one  of  its  maho- 
gany legs,  said,  looking  triumphantly  up  at  him,  "Why.  here." 
Jcrrold  laughed  one  of  his  heartiest  laughs  at  the  reply,  and  often 
after«'ards  reverted  to  it  as  the  child's  "  capital  answer." 

One  of  the  pleasant  occasions  on  which  we  met  Douglas  Jcrrold 
was  at  a  house  where  a  dance  was  going  on  as  we  entered  the  room ; 
and  in  a  comer,  near  to  the  dancers,  we  saw  him  silting,  and  made 
our  way  to  his  side.  With  her  back  towards  where  he  and  we  sat 
was  a  pretty  little  shapely  figure  in  pink  silk,  standing  ready  to  begin 
the  next  portion  of  the  quadrille;  and  he  pointed  towards  it, 
paying— 
^h  '*  Mrs.  Jerrold  is  here  to-night ;  there  she  is." 

"Not  like  the  figure  of  a  grandmamma,"  was  the  laughing  reply, 
for  we  had  heard  that  a  grandchild  had  just  been  bom  to  them, 
and  we  thought  of  what  wc  had  once  heard  recounted  of  the  first 
time  he  had  seen  her, — he,  an  impetuous  lad  of  eighteen,  just 
rctamed  from  sea. — and  she.  a  girl  with  so  neat  and  graceful  a 
figure  that  as  he  beheld  it  he  exclaimed  "That  girl  shall  be  my 
wife  f"  So  mere  a  stripling  was  he  when  he  married  that  he  told  us 
the  clergyman  who  joined  their  hands,  seeing  the  almost  boyishly 
youthful  look  of  the  bridegroom,  addressed  a  (cw  Vmd  sai^  ^ii^<4xVi 


The  Gentitman^s  Magazine, 

woids  to  liim  after  tbc  ceremony,  biddjng  lum  remember  the  aerioos 
duty  he  had  undcriaken  of  providing  for  a  young  girl's  welfare,  and 
that  he  must  remember  her  future  happiness  in  life  depended 
henceforth  mainly  upon  him  "as  her  husband. 

It  v3»  on  ihat  same  evening  that  wc  arc  speaking  o\  that  Jerrold 
uid  "  1  want  to  introduce  you  to  a  young  pocteu  only  niactcoi 
years  of  a|?c  "  ;  and  look  us  into  the  next  room,  where  was  a  young 
lady  robed  in  simple  white  muslin,  mth  light  brown  hair  smoothly 
coiled  round  a  well-formed  head,  and  an  air  of  j;rare  and  qoeeuly 
quiet  dignity.'  She  sal  down  to  the  piano  at  request,  and  accom- 
panied herself  in  Tennj-son's  song  of  "Mariana  in  the  Moated 
Grange,"  singing  'n'ith  much  expression  and  with  a  deep  contralto 
voice.  It  was  before  she  was  known  to  the  world  as  a  prosa  wtitCTi 
before  she  had  put  fonh  to  the  world  her  first  novel  of  "The 
Ogilvics." 

Another  introduction  to  a  distinguished  writer  we  owe  to  Dotigloi 
Jerrokl.  Wo  had  been  to  call  upon  him  al  his  pretty  rcsidesce, 
West  Lodge,  Putney  Common,  when  we  found  him  just  going  to 
drive  himself  into  town  in  a  little  pony  carriage  he  at  that  time 
kept.  He  made  us  accompany  him ;  and  as  we  passed  through  a 
turnpike  on  the  road  back  to  London  wc  saw  a  gentleman  ap- 
proaching on  horseback.  Jerruld  and  he  saluted  each  other,  and 
then  wc  were  presented  to  him,  and  heard  hiii  name, — Willtam 
Makepeace  Thackeray.  Many  years  after  that  his  daughter,  pay- 
ing her  first  visit  to  Italy,  was  brought  by  a  friend  to  see  us  in 
Genoa,  and  charmed  us  by  the  sweetness  and  unaffected  simplicity 
of  her  manners. 

That  cottage  at  Putney, — its  garden,  its  mulberr)-tree,  its  gnsi 
plot,  its  checiy  library,  with  Douglas  Jerrold  as  the  chief  figure  in 
the  scene, — remains  as  a  bright  and  most  pleasant  picture  in  our 
memory.  He  bad  an  almost  reverential  fondness  fur  books — books 
themselves — and  said  he  could  not  bear  to  treat  them,  or  to  see 
them  treated,  with  disrespect.  He  told  us  it  gave  him  pain  to  see 
them  turned  on  their  faces,  stretched  open,  or  dog's-eared,  or 
carelessly  flung  down,  or  in  any  way  misused.  He  told  us  this 
holding  a  volume  in  his  hand  with  a  caressing  gesture,  as  though 
he  tendered  it  affectionately  and  gratefully  for  the  pleasure  it  Iiad 
given  him.  He  spoke  like  one  who  had  known  what  it  was  lo 
former  years  lo  buy  a  book  when  its  purchase  involved  a  sacrifice 
of  some  other  object,  from  a  not  over-stored  pane.  We  have 
often  noticed  this  in  book-lovers  who,  like  ourselves,  have  fud 
volumes  come  into  cherished  posse«8ion  at  times  when  their  glut 


Douglas  yerrold  and  Ais  LdUrs. 


503 


I 


I 


owners  were  not  rich  enongh  to  easily  afford  book-purchases. 
Cbarles  Lamb  hail  this  tcndemeBs  for  books ;  airing  notliing  for 
tbeir  gaudj  clotbins,  but  hugging  a  rare  folio  all  the  nearer  to  his 
heart  for  its  wom  edges  and  shabby  binding.  Another  peculiarity 
with  regard  to  Ms  books  Jcrrald  had.  u-hich  was,  that  he  Ukcd  to 
have  them  thoroughly  within  mack  ;  so  that,  as  he  pointed  ont  to 
us,  he  had  the  book-shelves  whicii  ran  round  hit>  Hbrar}'  walls  at 
jftttney  carried  no  higher  than  would  permit  of  easy  access  to  the 
top  shelf.  Above  this  there  was  sufficient  space  for  pictures, 
engravings,  &c.,  and  wc  had  the  pleasure  of  contributing  two 
ornaments  to  this  space,  in  the  form  of  a  bust  of  Shakespeare  and 
one  of  Milton,  on  brackets  after  a  design  by  Michael  Angelo, 
which  brought  from  dear  Douglas  Jerrold  Ihe  following  pleasant 
let»er:— 

Putney,  August  8th. 

Mr  DEAR  Mrs.  Clakke, — 1  know  not  how  best  to  thank  you 
for  the  surprise  you  and  Clarke  put  upon  me  this  morning.  These 
casta,  while  demanding  reverence  for  what  they  represent  and 
tj-pify,  will  always  associate  with  the  feeling  that  of  sincerest 
regard  and  friendship  for  the  donors.  These  things  will  be  very 
precious  to  me,  and,  I  hope,  for  many  a  long  winter's  night 
awaken  frequent  recollections  of  the  thoughtful  kindness  that  has 
made  them  my  houscholJ  gods.  I  well  remembered  the  brackets, 
bat  had  forgotten  the  master.  But  this  is  the  gratitude  of  the 
world. 

I  hope  that  my  girl  will  be  able  to  be  got  ready  for  this  quarter ; 
|bat  in  a  matter  that  involves  the  making,  trinuning,  and  fitting  of 
^owos  or  frocksj  it  is  not  for  one  of  my  benighted  sex  to  offer  a 
decided  opinion.  I  can  only  timidly  venture  to  believe  that  the 
jroong  lady's  trunk  will  be  ready  in  a  few  days. 

Pandora's  box  was  only  a  box  of  woman's  clothes — with  a 
Sunday  gown  at  tb«  bottom.— Voors  truly, 

f>  -»-.^,.^  .  OOUOLAS  JKRS.OLD. 


It  was  while  Jerrold  was  living  at  West  Lodge  that  he  not 
only  founded  the  Whittingtun  Club,  but  also  tlic  Museum  Club, 
which,  when  he  asked  us  to  belong  to  it,  he  said  he  wanted  to 
make  a  mart  where  literary  men  could  congregate,  become 
acquainted,  form  friendships,  discuss  their  rights  and  privileges, 
be  known  to  asscmbk,  and  therefore  could  be  readily  found  when 
required.  "  I  want  to  make  it,"  he  said,  "  a  house  of  caUfor  xvriien." 
It  was  at  Putney  that  Jerrold  told  us  the  amusing  (and  very 
characteristic]  story  of  himself  when  he  was  at  sea  as  a  youngster. 
He  and  some  officers  on  board  had  sent  ashore  a  few  men  to  fetch 
a  Rtpply  of  besh  fruit  and  vegetables,  at  some  port  mi-o  ■^VivOa  Wt 


L 


504 


Tfti  Gintlemai^  s  Magazine. 


ship  bad  put  when  she  was  on  one  of  ber  voyages,  and,  on  the 
boat'3  return  alongside,  it  wai  found  that  one  of  the  men  bad 
decamped.  The  ship  sailed  without  the  runaw-ay,  and  on  her  ret 
to  England  Jerrold  quilled  the  senlce.  Some  yean  after  he  was" 
walking  in  the  Strand,  and  saw  a  man  with  a  baker's  basket  on  his 
shoulder  staring  in  at  a  shop  window,  whom  Jerrold  immediatclfJ 
recognised  as  the  deserter  from  ihc  ship.  He  went  up  to  the  raaiii 
slapped  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  exclaimed  "  I  say  I  «-hat  a  long 
time  you've  been  gone  for  those  cherries !"  The  dramatic  surprise 
of  the  exclamation  was  quite  in  Jcrrold's  way. 

TTicrc  was  a  delightful  irony — an  implied  compliment  bcncatb{ 
his  sharp  things — that  made  ihem  exquisitely  agreeable.  They 
were  said  with  a  spice  of  slyness.  )-et  with  a  fully-evident  confidence 
tliat  they  would  not  be  misunderstood  by  the  person  who  was  their 
object.  When  wc  went  over  to  West  Lodge  after  the  opening  of  the 
\Srhittington  Club,  to  take  him  a  cushion  for  his  tibrar}-  arm-chair, 
with  the  head  of  a  cat  that  miglu  have  been  Dick  Whittington's  own 
embroidered  upon  it,  Jerrold  turned  to  his  wife,  saying  "  My  dear, 
they  have  brought  mc  your  portrait."  And  the  smile  that  met  his 
showed  how  well  the  wonian  who  had  been  his  devoted  partner  from 
youth  comprehended  the  delicate  force  of  the  ironical  jest  which  he 
could  a^&rd  to  address  to  her.  In  a  similar  spirit  of  pleasantry  he 
wrote  in  the  presentation  copy  of  "  Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain  lectures  " 
which  he  gave  to  M.  C.  C. :  "  Presented  with  great  timidity,  but 
equal  regard,  to  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke." 

In  1848  was  brought  out  a  small  pocket  volume  entitled  "  Shake- 
speare Proverbs :  or,  the  Wise  Saws  of  oor  Wisest  Pout  collected 
into  a  Modem  Instance";  and  its  dedication  ran  thus:  "To 
Douglas  Jerrold,  the  first  wit  of  the  present  age,  these  Proverbs  of 
Shakespeare,  the  first  wit  of  any  age,  arc  inscribed  by  Mary  Cowden 
Clarke,  of  a  certain  age,  and  no  wit  at  alt."  This  brought  the  follow- 
ing playful  letter  of  acknowledgment ; — 

West  I^odgc,  Patney,  December  jisl- 

My  dear  Mrs.  Clarke, — You  must  imagine  that  all  this  time 
I  have  been  endeavouring  to  reg^ain  my  breath,  taken  away  by  your 
too  partial  dedication.     To  find  my  name  on  such  a  page,  and  in 
6Uch  company,  I  feel  like  a  sacrUegiotui  luiave  who  has  broken  into 
a  church  and  is  making    off  with  the  Communion  plate.      Ona^ 
thing  is  plain,  Shakespeare  Had  great  obligations  to  you,  but  thil 
last  inconsiderate  act  has  certainly  cancelled  them  all.     I  feel  thAtJ 
I  ought  never  to  speak  or  write  again,  but  go  down  to  the  gravtlj 
with  my  thumb  in  my  mouth.    It  is  the  onJy  chance  I  have  uf  not] 
betraying  my  panpcr-likc  nnworthiness  to  the  assodation   with 


which   j-ou   have  —  to   the    utter    wTCck  of   your    discretion^ 

astounded  me. 

The  old  j-ear  is  dying  with  the  dying  fire  whereat  this  is  penned. 
That,  however,  you  may  have  many,  many  happy  years  (though  they 
can  only  add  to  the  remorse  for  wiiat  you  have  done)  is  the  sincere 

I      wish  of  yours  truly  (if  you  will  not  show  the  word  to  Clarke,  I  will 

^^Bay  aJTectioootely,) 

^B.  Douglas  Jerrolo. 

^^.    When  the  "Concordance  to  Shakespeare"  made  its  complete 
^Bippearaocc  it  was  thus  greeted : — 

^V  December  5th,  West  Lodge,  Putney  Common. 

^^    My  dear  Mrs.  Clarke, — I  congratulate  you  and  the  world  on 
^^Ihe  completion  of  your  monumental  work.     May  it  make  for  you  a 

huge  bed  of  mixed  laurels  and  bank-notes. 

On    your   first  arrival  in  Paradise  you  must  expect  a  kiss  from 

Shakespeare,  —  even  though   your   husband   should  kapptn  to  be 

there. 

I    That  you  and  he,  however,  may  long  make  for  yoarsclves  a 
paradise  here,  is  the  sincere  wish  of^Yours  truly, 
I  DOOGLA-S    TbRROLD. 

P.S.  I   will    certainly  hiich  in    a    notice  of  ihe  work  in  Punch, 
k&aking  it  a  special  case  ;  as  we  eschew  Reviews, 
i    The  kind  promise  contained  in  the  postscript  to  the  above  letter 
was  fulfilled  in  the  most  graceful    and   ingenious  manner  by  its 
writer,  in  a  brilliant  article   he    wrote  some  time  after  on  "The 
Shakespeare  Night "  at  Covcnt  Garden  Theatre,  that  took  place  the 
h  December.  1847.    After  describing  in  glowing  terms  the  festive 
k  of  the  overflowing  house,   Jerrold  proceeded; —  "  At  a  few 
iaules  to  seven,  and    quite  uncxpectcdiy,  William  Shakespeare, 
with  his  wife,  the  late  Anne  Hathaway,  drove  up  to  the    private- 
box  door,  drawn  by  Pegasus,   for   that   night   only  appearing  in 

harness Shakespeare  was  received — and  afterwards  lighted 

to  bis  box — by  his  editors,  Charles  Knight  and  Payne  Collier,  upon 
both  of  whom  the  poel  smiled  benignly  ;  and  saying  some  pleasant, 
commendable  words  to  each,  received  from  their  hands  their  two 
editions  of  his  immorulily.  And  then  from  a  comer  Mrs.  Cowden 
Clarke,  timidly,  and  all  one  big  bluah,  presented  a  play-bill,  with 
some  Hesperian  fruit  (of  her  own  gathering).  Shakespeare  knew 
the  lady  at  once  ;  and,  taking  ht-r  two  hands,  and  looking  a  Shake- 
spearian look  in  her  now  pale  face,  said,  in  tones  of  unimaginable 
depth  and  sweetness,  '  But  where  is  your  book.  Mistress  Mary 
Clarki:?  Where  is  your  Comordamtt^  And,  again,  pressing  her 
liands,  with  a  smile  of  sun-Ughted  Apollo,  said  '  I  pray  you  let  me 
take  it  home  with  me.'  And  Mrs.  Clarke,  having  no  wonVft,  ^ity^yjA 


P 


5o6 


Tlu  GeniUma^&  Ma^zitm. 


the  profoundcst  '  Yl-s,'  with  knocking  knee«.  'A  very  faUHt4 
coHial  gentlewoman,  Anne,'  said  Shalccspcarc,  aside  to  his  wife; 
bnt  Anne  merely  nbscr\-ed  that  '  It  was  juEt  like  him  ;  he  vae 
always  seeing  something  fair  where  nobody  else  saw  anj^hiog.  The 
woman — odds  her  life! — was  well  enough.'  And  Shakeapcare 
smiled  again ! " 

That  sentence  of  Shakespeare's  "always  seeing  something  fair 
where  nobody  else  kuw  anything,"  is  a  profound  piece  of  truth  as 
well  as  wit :  while  the  smile  with  which  the  poet  is  made  to  listen 
to  his  \^ifo's  intolerance  of  heariug  her  husband  praise  another 
woman  is  perfectly  Jcrroldian  in  its  sly  hit  at  a  supposed  prevalent 
feminine  foible. 

Jerrold  had  a  keen  sense  of  personal  beauty  in  women.  In  the 
very  articlc^above  quoted  he  uses  expressions  in  speaking  ofShak' 
spcarc's  admiration  for  Mrs.  Ncsbilt'!;  charms  that  .<rtriking1y  evidence 
this  point : — "  Then  taking  a  dftp  loak — a  vtry  dmugfii  of  a  hok — at 
Mrs.  Nesbitt  as  Katherine,  the  poet  turned  to  his  wife,  and  said, 
drtncing  hit  biraih — '  Whal  a  ptach  of  a  woman  F  Anne  liaid 
nothing."  Here,  too,  again,  he  concludes  with  the  Jciroldian 
sarcastic  touch.  In  confirmation  of  the  powerful  impression  that 
loveliness  in  women  had  upon  his  imagination,  we  remember  his 
telling  us  with  enthusiasm  of  the  merits  in  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton's 
poem  "The  Child  of  the  Islands."  Dilating  on  some  of  its  best 
passages,  and  adding  that  he  had  lately  met  her  and  spoken  to 
her  face  to  face,  he  concluded  with  the  words  "She  hevself  il 
beautiful — even  dangiroutty  beautiful  I"  uttering  them  in  a  lone 
and  with  a  look  that  were  wonderfully  eloquent. 

Four  letters  we  received  from  him  were  in  consequence  of  aa 
application  that  is  stated  in  the  first  of  them.  The  second  mentions 
the  wish  of  "thu  correspondent";  and  this  was  that  the  letter  in 
which  the  desired  "  two  lines  "  were  written  should  be  sent  wlth< 
envelope,  and  on  a  sheet  of  paper  that  would  bear  i\ie  potl-mari, 
an  evidence  of  genuineness.  The  third  accepts  the  offer  to  i. 
the  promised  "two  ounces  of  Califomian  gold."  And  the  fonrth 
was  written  with  one  of  the  two  gold  pens,  which  were  the  shape  in 
which  the  promised  "two  ounces"  were  sent  lo  England  t^  Ibe 
"  Enthusiasts :" — 

West  Lodge,  Putney,  October  totfa.  1849. 

Mr  DEAR  Mrs.  Clakkr, — I  know  a  man  who  knows  a  man  (ta 
America)   who    saj-s   "  I   would    give  two  ounces  of  CoJiforais 
gold  for  two  lines  written  by  Mrs.  Cowden  Chtrkcl"     Will 
write  rae  two  lines  for  the  wise  enthusiast?  and,  tp  I  ^  the  gbiri 


Douglas  yerrold  and  kis  Letters.  507 

that  will  doabtless  be  paid  with  the  Pennsylvanian  Bonds,  I  will 
straggle  with  the  angel  Conscience  that  you  may  have  it — that  is, 
if  the  angel  get  the  best  of  it.  But  against  angels  there  are 
heavy  odds. 

I  hope  yaw  left  father  and  mother  well,  happy,  and  complacent, 
in  the  hope  of  a  century  at  least.  I  am  glad  you  stopped  at  Nice, 
and  did  not  snuff  the  shambles  of  Rome.  Mazzini,  I  hear,  will 
be  with  us  in  a  fortnight.  Enropean  liberty  is,  I  fear,  manacled 
and  gagged  for  many  years.  Nevertheless,  in  England)  let  us 
rejoice  that  beef  is  under  a  shilling  a  pound,  and  that  next 
Christmas  ginger  will  be  hot  i'the  mouth. 

Remember  me  to  Clarke.  I  intend  to  go  one  of  these  nights 
and  sit  beneath  him. — ^Yours  faithfully, 

Douglas  Jerrold. 

October  19th,  1849,  Putney. 
Mt  deak  Mrs.  Clarke, — ^Will  you  comply  with  the  wish  of 
'  my  correspondent  ?    The  Yankees,  it  appears,  are  sospicious  folks. 
I  thought  them  Arcadians. — ^Truly  yours, 

D.  Jerrold. 

(To  be  cmtinued.J 


'    ■  ^^^^^^M*^^^  *mHJ^,^^^^^^ 


Mr.  J.  S.  Talbot  sends  mc  a  story  of  the  last  New  Zealand 
war  with  all  the  elemenis  in  it  of  plot,  development,  and  dramaiic 
situacion,  yut  brief  enough  fur  Tabic  Talk,  and  withal  not  merely' 
"  founded  on  fact"  but  authentic  in  all  its  details.  'I'hia  i»  how  it 
runs: — "At  the  beginning  of  the  Watltato  war  in  1863  Sir  Duncan 
Cameron  established  his  head-quarters  at  the  Queen's  Redoubt. 
Strong  convoys  passed  almost  daily  between  the  redoubt  and  the 
village  of  Drary,  a  distance  of  twelve  miles,  protecting  trains  of 
carts  bringing  commissariat  supplies  and  warlike  material.  Bot 
allhoogh  we  had  stockades  at  well-chosen  positions  on  the  road, 
and  great  vigilance  was  observed,  surprises  were  freqaently  al- 
teinpled  by  the  enemy,  and  more  than  once  we  suffered  severe 
losses.  The  nature  of  the  ground  on  both  sides  of  the  line  of 
march  was  favourable  to  the  native  style  of  fighting,  composed  as  it 
was  of  dense  bush,  with  numerous  ravines  and  gullies.  One 
evening  about  dusk  the  camp  redoubt  was  alarmed  by  shola 
sounding  as  if  fired  about  a  mUe  away,  .\fler  a  short  pause  came 
a  ri6e  report,  and  then  several  dropping  shots  were  heard  approach- 
ing the  camp.  The  picqnct  on  the  first  alarm  were  quickly  on  the 
move.  They  had  not  proceeded  far  when  they  met  a  private  of  the 
65th  Regiment,  named  Conway,  who  stated,  in  a  very  excited 
manner,  th.-it  he  was  returning  'off  pass'  from  Drury  in  company 
with  Colour- sergeant  Johnstone  of  the  40th  Regiment,  and  while 
passing  some  old  stables  of  the  Transport  Corps  they  were  fired 
upon  by  an  ambuscade,  when  the  sergeant  fell  dead,  shot  through 
the  body.  The  officer  in  charge  of  the  picquct  marched  on  with 
his  men  and  found  the  body  in  the  place  described ;  hut  althaug:h 
the  groimd  in  the  vicinity  was  carefully  examined  not  the  slightest 
sign  of  natives  could  be  seen,  and  the  body  teas  unlomhd :  a  very 
strange  circumstance  seeing  that  the  Maories  invariably  plunder 
and  frequently  mutilate  the  dead  or  wounded  enemy.  In  this  case 
arms,  ammunition,  and  accoutrements  lay  with  the  sergeant  where 
he  fell,  and  a  haversack  containing  some  documents  connected 
with  the  company  had  not  been  disturbed.  The  scttah  was 
renewed  next  morning,  but  all  endeavours  lo  obtain  any  mdtcatiou 


Table  Talk. 


509 


of  ah  amboscade  were  in  vain,  and  the  resalt  was  that  strong 
suspicion  of  foul  ]jlay  fell  upon  Conway.  It  was  thought  that  a 
quairel  might  have  arisen  between  the  two  men  and  that 
Sergeant  Johnstone  was  shot  by  his  comrade.  A  court  of  inquiry 
was  held,  the  native  interpreters  did  all  in  their  power  to 
ascertain  through  the  professedly  friendly  natives  if  an  am- 
buscade was  formed  on  the  night  of  the  murder,  and  no 
elTort  was  spared  to  unravel  the  mystery.  But  not  a  clue 
could  be  discovered,  and  as  there  was  no  evidence  against  Conway 
no  further  steps  could  be  taken.  The  suspicion  against  him, 
however,  daily  increased  jn  the  camp;  he  was  shunned  and 
a\-oided  by  all,  became  dejected  and  sullen  in  appearance,  and 
was  seldom  seen  to  speak  to  his  comrades.  Presently,  however, 
a  general  move  against  a  strong  position  of  the  enemy  was 
ordered,  and  the  excitement  caused  by  the  murder  of  Johnstone 
died  out.  Five  years  later,  when  the  gold  mania  was  at  fever 
heat  in  Auckland,  I  was  engaged  with  some  friends  '  prospect- 
ing' on  the  cast  coast  of  the  North  Island  of  New  Zealand. 
We  stopped  one  night,  and  pitched  our  camp  in  a  native  settle- 
ment or  pah,  and  as  darkness  fell  many  of  the  inhabitants  came 
to  oor  tent.  One  of  our  party  (Captain  G ,  afterwards  a  dis- 
tinguished ofRcer  of  the  colonial  forces)  happened  to  have  been 
an  interpreter  on  General  Cameron's  staff  at  the  time  of  John- 
stone's murder,  and  he  soon  discovered  that  one  of  our  Maori 
visitors  had  been  6ghting  against  us  in  '63,  and  commenced  to 
'  draw  him  out.'  I  very  much  regretted  that  my  limited  know- 
ledge of  the  Maori  langu^e  prevented  my  understanding  the 
conversation,  but  I  could  make  out  enough  to  know  that  G 
was  successfully  pumping  our  dusky  friend  with  reference  to 
the  murder  near  the  Queen's  Redoubt,  and  when  the  New  Zea- 

landcr    rose   and    left    our    tent    G said    'Well,    at    last   the 

mystery  of  John.stone's  death  is  solved,  and  Conway  was  w/  the 
murderer.'  He  told  me  what  he  had  elicited.  The  native  had 
acknowledged  that  he  was  one  of  a  small  party  that  left  the 
enemy's  camping  place  with  the  intention  of  '  killing  the  Pakeha' 
(stranger)  on  the  night  of  Johnstone's  death.  They  concealed 
themselves  in  the  bush,  about  sixty  yards  from  the  road  and  a 
short  distance  from  the  edge  of  the  clearing,  where  they  re- 
mained until  they  thought  it  was  almost  too  late  for  any  white 
men  to  pass  thai  night.  They  were  about  returning  to  their 
camp  when  they  heard  the  voices  of  men  coming  up  the  road, 
won    saw,    indistinctly,    two    soldiers    a\iptoat\\\Tv^.     "C\wvj 


L 


5"> 


The  GatllemarCs  Magazine. 


waited  nntil   the   unsaspcctingr  men   were  opposite  them,  tbea 
raised  their  guns,  fired  a  volley,  and.  before  the  smoke  had  soffi*' 
ciently  cleared   away  to    enable   them  to  sec   the    result   of  their 
fire,  turned  and  fled  from  the  spot  as  the  bullet  from  Con«a/« 
liflc  passed  close  to  them  and  hastened  their  flight.     'Why  did 

you  rati,'  asked  G .    'when  there  was  only  one  soldier  left, 

and  you  might  have  killed  bim  before  be  had  time  to  reload  his 
rifle?'  'Trae,'  said  the  native,  'bat  I  did  not  know  nntil  you  told 
me  that  wc  had  killed  one  of  the  men.  Our  fear  was  very  grea^ 
for  we  kliew  that  there  was  a  short  path  from  the  (jcncral's 
camp  by  which  the  soldiers  might  come  to  cut  off  our  retreat 
when  they  heard  the  shots  fired,  so  we  did  not  atop  running 
until  we  knew  we  were  safe.  Bat.'  he  added,  '  had  I  been  sure 
that  we  shot  the  soldier  I  would  have  risked  my  life  to  toma- 
hawk him  and  carry  off  his  gunpowder  and  bullets.  I  do  not 
wonder  that  your  men  could  not  see  any  traces  of  us,  beci 
we  did  not  leave  the  bush  at  all,  and  the  place  all  about  where 
we  were  concealed  had  been  tramjilud  down  by  men  engaged  in 
cutting  timber,  so  that  no  tracks  of  oar  naked  feet  conid  be 
seen.' "  This  true  anecdote  may  perhaps  be  read  by  some  who 
remember  the  circumstances  and  the  suspicion  under  wbichj 
Conway  suffered  so  painfully;  and  I  am  sare  they  will  be  gUd 
to  learn,  although  so  late,  that  poor  Johnstone  met  a  soldtcr'B 
death,  and  was  not  treacherously  slain  by  the  hand  of  a  comrade. 


Remarkable  in  its  similarit)*  to  the  legends  of  the  Azores  which 
I  quoted  from  Mr.  Muddock's  MS.  in  these  pages  in  the  Joly  an* 
August  numbers,  is  a  tradition  to  which  Miss  Louisa  Fnunpton  calif' 
my  attcaltoti.    It  is  a  superstition  connected  with  the  beetle,  and 
signs  of  its  existence  are  found  not  merely  in  countries  where  the 
mediaeval  spirit  has  been  preserved,  but  in  many  districts  throughout 
Kngland,  Ireland,  and  Scotland  to  this  day.  I'his  is  how  the  legent 
runs  ; — "  WTien  the  Holy  Family  were  departing  from  Betbleheai^ 
they  passed  certain  husbandmen  occupied  in  a  field,  and  the  Vii^ 
begged  them  to  answer,  in  reply  to  any  one  who  might  inqoiiQJ 
when  the  Son  of  Alan  passed  by,  that  He  did  so  when  they  wer«1 
sowing  the  corn,  which  they  wure  doing  at  that  moraimt:  and  the 
com    miracalously  sprang    into  the  ear    in  one  night,  and    the 
husbandmen  wurc  engaged  In  reaping  it  on  the  following  day  when 
the  soldiers  of  Herod  came  up  and  inquired  af^er  the  fugitii 
The  reapers  replied  as  the  Virgin  bad  desired  them,  and  the  pn 


was  Maj-ed.  This  legend  is  frequently  represented  in  early  German 
and  Flemish  pictures,  and  Lord  Lindsay,  in  his  '  Letters  on 
Christian  Art,'  mentions  that  it  was  related  to  him  many  yean 
before  as  current  in  the  north  of  Scotland,  irberc  it  is  added  that 
a  little  black  hectic  lifted  up  its  head  and  an$wcri;d  '  The  Son  of 
Man  passed  here  last  night ' ;  in  consequence  of  which  the  High* 
landers  kill  the  black  beetle  whenever  they  meet  with  it,  repeating, 
ia  execration,  '  Beetle,  beetle,  Jasl  nig:bt  1'  Lord  Lindsay  had  heard 
that  a  similar  superstition  U5cd  to  exist  in  Wales.  That  it  exists 
.also  in  England  is  curionsiy  corroborated  by  an  anecdote  which 
ippeared  in  Chambtrs's  Journal  for  1856.  The  late  Mr.  Geor^ 
Samonelle,  of  the  British  Museum,  used  to  relate  ihat  during  biii 
excursions  in  the  New  Forest  he  saw  a  number  o{  countrjinen 
^Bosembled  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  stoning  something  to  death.  On 
approaching,  he  found  that  a  poor  stag  beetle  was  the  object  of 
attack.  Causing  ihem  to  desist,  he  took  up  the  poor  insect  and  put 
it  in  a  box,  asking  them  why  it  was  to  be  stoned  to  death.  He 
was  told  that  it  was  the  Devil's  Imp.  and  would  do  some  injury  to 
the  com.  What  injur)*,  unfortunately,  the  narrator  of  the  anecdote 
did  not  inquire,  or  had  forgotten."  Evidently  the  beetle  in  con- 
nection With  this  Iradition  was  considered  to  represent  the  Devil, 
d  here,  as  in  the  original  legend,  the  creature  is  connected  with 
e  growing  com.  Mr.  Samonelle  had  apparently  never  heard  of 
the  legend  and  the  superstition  which  thus  were  proved  to  have 
ibeen  transmitted  from  distant  countries  and  handed  down  from 
mote  times. 


I  AM  not  sure  whL-thi;r  I  owe  an  apology  to  the  genlleinan  to 
rhom  I  referred  last  month  as  having  a  poem  in  his  possession 
(which  he  wished  to  see  published  in  the  GtnUiman's  Magazine  but 
only  on  condition  that  I  would  accept  it  absolutely  on  his  own 
recommendation.  He  has  favoured  mc  since  then  with  an  explana- 
tion and  expansion  of  his  Stipulations,  and  it  may  be  only  justice  to 
him  tliat  I  should  lay  the  chief  points  of  this  explanation  and 
expansion  before  the  reader*  of  my  former  note.  He  admits  that 
expect  me  to  accept  a  poem  before  seeing  it  "  does  seem 
'arbitrar)-,"  but  he  meant  his  stipulation  only  as  an  expression  of 
his  conviction  of  the  almost  insuperable  difTicuEty  that  stands  in  the 
way  of  the  publication  of  "even  a  superior  poem"  in  a  magazine; 
and  he  had  another  reason  for  not  submitting  the  MS.,  namely, 

I  thai  it  would  occupy  fifteen  or  sixteen  pages,  which  Diighl  possibly 
be    regarded    alone   as   a  sufficient   obstacle  ttj  a*  MHi«:\|XM»cfc. 


^art 


512  The  GentiemarCs  Magtaine, 

Notwithstanding  its  length,  however,  he  is  convinced  that  any 
magazine  would  be  the  better  for  his  poem,  seeing  that,  thongh 
still  comparatively  a  young  man,  he  produced,  five  years  ago,  a 
poem  of  8,000  lines,  "  and  that  poem  was  equal,  and  in  some  parts 
superior,  to  any  poem  of  the  present  day ;  it  was  in  otticoa  rima, 
and  in  its  sublimer  portions  it  surpassed  Milton's  finest  passages  in 
*  Pamdiae  Lost ' " ;  while  the  verses  which  he  desires  me  to  accept 
"  have  a  music  of  their  own  that  would  be  considered  fresh  in  these 
days  of  iesthetic  inflation  and  paganistic  bombast."  "  Excuse  me," 
he  adds,  "  passing  judgment  on  my  own  production ;  I  endeavour 
to  do  so  with  philosophic  impartiality." 


THE 


GENTLEMAN'S  MAGAZINE 


* 


November,  1876. 

Calbot's     Rivai,.  j^ 

by  juliaw  hawthorne. 

L     W^ll^gHF,  bitter  cold  weather  out  of  doors  made  the  cosey 
H    ^Wg        (?'"■"  '^^   "^y  ''itl'-    literary   even    more   than    usually 
^^      afifS         graterul.     I  had  carried  the  warm  and  bright  aniicipa- 
«itL«        tion  of  it  dost:- buttoned  under  my  top-coat  through- 
out my  cold  drive  in  the  hansom  from  tht-  South  Western  Railw'ay 
Station  to  my  rooms  on  the  Thames  Embajikmctit.    But  now,  a:^  1 
acpped  in  and  shut  the  door   behind  me,  I  found  I  had  done 
it  less  than  justice. 
^     The  four  comfortable  walls  gave  a  broad  smile  of  welcome,  which 
Hwas  multitudinous ly  repeated  from  the  well-known  back  of  every 
■beloved  book.     Softly  gleamed  the  Argand  burner  from  the  grecn- 
^Ktopped  study  tabic  ;  hospitabfy  flickered  the  blazing  WatUcnd  from 
the  wide-mouthed  grate  ;  seductive  was  the  invitation  extended  mc 
by   padded   easy-chair,  fox-skin  hearthrug,  and  toasted  slippers ; 
crisp  was  the  greeting  of  the  evening's  Pu/i  Mall  lying  on  the 
tabic;  and  solid  the  promise  of  the  latest  Conlempomry;  containing, 
as  I  knew,  my  article  on  "  Unrecognisable  Truths  in  their  Relation 
to  Non-existent  Phenomena."      Bethinking  myself,  moreover,  of 
the  decanter  ofmalclilcssold  port  wine  in  the  right  hand  cupboard 
of  the  table,  and  of  the  box  of  prime  Cabanas,  made  to  my  own 
order  in  Habana,  in  the  drawer  oa  the  left, — I  was  not  so  much 
disposed  to  cnv)-  Calbot  his  late  betrothal  to  the  beautiful  Miss 
Burleigh,  the  news  whereof  he  had  triumphantly  poured  into  my 
bachelor  ears  a  week  or  two  before. 
^    "Never  mind.  Drayton,  oJd  fcUow,"  I  muUeie4Voia"sw;\^,^a  \ 
■       Vat.  JrVK,  A'.S.  i«76.  '  V  \. 


ri 


514 


GcfitletnarC  s  Magazine* 


pushed  off  m/  lK>ots  and  slid  my  feet  into  ihe  toasled  slippers; 
"  what,  matter  though  love,  courtship,  nnd  marriage  be  not  for 
thee?  Thou  hast  ycl  thy  luxuries." — here  I  sank  slowly  into  my 
easy  chair,  "thy  creature  comforts," — here  I  got  out  Ihe  wine  and 
the  cigars,  "  and  thy  beloved  offspring  1  " — lierc  I  glanced  at 
"  Unrecognisable  Truths,  Jcc,"  printed  on  the  cover  of  the 
Contemporary. 

While  I  am  selecting;  and  lighting  a  cigar,  and  pouring  out  a 
mellow  glass  of  port,  let  mc  briefly  recall  wliat  and  whence  I  am. 

Snugness,  comfort,  and  privacy  are  my  daidttota.     My  visible 
possessions  must  bet  fcrr,  intrinsically  valuable,  and  so  disposed  as 
to  tic  within  the  scope  of  two  or  three  paces,  and  an  outstretched, 
arm.     My  being  a  bachelor  (and  at  the  age  of  forty,  I  think  I  maj ' 
add  a  confirmed  one)  enables  me  to  indulge  these  and  other  whims 
conveniently  and  without  embarrassment. 

My  forcfathci-s  kept  large  establishments  and  had  big  families— 
and  plenty  of  bother  and  discomfort  into  the  bargain.  Bm  when 
my  turn  came.  sold  out  cvcr}-thing  (except  a  few  old  heirlooms. 
and  part  of  the  rbrar}',  and  an  ancestral  portrait  or  two),  put  the 
cash  proceeds  ;n  the  Funds,  and  myself,  with  ray  liteian'  tastes  and 
aesthetic  culture,  into  the  rooms  which  I  now  occupy.  I  might  live 
in  a  much  more  grandiose  style  if  I  pleased,  but  in  my  opinion  I 
am  very  well  off  as  I  am.  I  can  find  my  way  to  Freemason^ 
Tavern  on  occasion  ;  my  essays  are  a  power  in  the  philosophic  and 
theologic  worids;  and  1  can  count  on  a  friend  or  two  worth  their 
weight  in  gold,  morally,  mentally,  and  materially.  Poor  Calbot,  to 
be  sure — but  more  of  him  nnon. 

That  is  old  Dean  Drayton'sportrait,  over  the  mantelpiece — taken:; 
one  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago;  an  ancestor  and  namesake  of 
mine.  He  wrote  a  pamphlet  on  witchcraft,  or  something  of  that 
sort,  which  made  a  stir  jii  its  day.  I  hatl  thoughts  of  entering  the 
ministr)-  m)-sclf  a  long  while  ago,  I  think  it  was  about  the  time  of 
my  engagement  to  Miss  Seraphine  Angell— the  Bishop  of  Marct- 

nest's  daughter.     But  when  she  jil when  the  affair  was  discon-, 

tinued  I  had  !>econd  thoughts,  ending  in  the  resolve  lo  let  both 
women  and  the  ministry  severely  alone  for  the  future.  So  the  name 
of  Drarton  dies  with  me. 

There  \s,  I  fancy,  at  once  a  curious  similarity  and  diseimilaritf 
between  the  Dean  and  his  descendant.  For  one  thing,  ve  are 
both  of  ua  singularly  liable  lo  be  made  confidants  of  dclfcals 
subjects  i  with  this  difference,  however,  that  whereas  the  Dean  is— 
or  was — an  old  busybody  (t  am  quoting  history,  no*  my  private 


k 


gment),  my  natural  tendency  is  not  only  to  mind  my  own  busi- 
ness, but  to  tell  other  people  to  mind  tlieirs.  It's  no  use,  though — 
they  only  babble  the  more  ;  and  were  I  to  lose  all  my  fortune,  I 
could,  by  turning  black-mailer,  ensure  a.  permanent  income  twice  as 
large  as  the  one  I  have  now. 

Another  Ihing.     The  Dean  was  an  alchemist — so  tradition  says ; 

and  his  descendant  has  a  marked  taste   for  scientific  subjects, 

though  not  of  the  occult  kind.    One  of  the  family  heirlooms,  by 

the  way,  was  a  manument  of  the  Dean's  alchemic  skill ;  it  was  a 

large  scaled  vase   or   phial,  ornamented   with    cabajistic    ligures 

and    inscriptions,  and   affirmed    lo   contain    the    veritable    Elixir 

Vitac,  manufactured  after  years  of  labour  by  the  old  gentleman, 

id    corked    up    and    put    away    for    future    use.      It    unfor- 

:nately  happened,  however,  that  he  was  kilEcd  by  an  upset  of  his 

,  away  from  home  ;  and  the  vase  remained  sealed  ever  after- 

I  have  often  thought  of  taking  a  little  out  and  analysing 

it ;  Tor  even  should  it  turn  out  not  to  be  the  water  of  life,  I  thought 

it  miRht  possibly  resolve  itself  into  a  bottle  of  excellent  brandy. 

But    1    delayed   too   long;  and  at  last  the  mysterious  phial  very 

uncxpeciedly  analysed    itself,  and  dissipated   itself  at  the  same 

moment : — but,  again,  let  rae  not  anticipate. 

^V   I  lit  my  Cabana,  quaffed  half  a  glass  of  wine,  and  taking  up  tho 
^fConiemfiorar}'  turned  to  the  masterly  discussion  of  "  Unrecognisable 
Truths,  lie."    Before  1  had  reached  the  close  of  the  opening  period, 
^Jiowever,  1  heard  the  poslmati's  knock. 

Hfe  I  oqghtto  have  mentioned  that  I  had  been  down  to  Kichmond 
^^at  afiemoon — an  unusual  thing  for  me  to  do  at  that  time  of  year. 
But  the  fact  was  that  a  distant  connection  of  mine  had  died  a  short 
time  before,  and  his  effects  were  announced  to  be  sold  at  auction. 
I  had  reason  to  believe  that  among  these  effects  were  some  old 
relics  of  my  family — documents  and  so  forth — which  I  was  interested 
to  recover;  indeed,  but  that  some  foolish  quarrel  or  other  had 
parted  ray  relative  and  me  years  ago,  1  might  doubtless  have  hati 
them  at  any  time  for  the  asking.  Of  the  precise  nature  of  the  docu- 
ments in  question  I  was  not  precisely  informed  ;  Armstrong — such 
was  my  relative's  name — had  taken  care  not  to  enlighten  mo  on  the 
subject.  When  I  read  the  announcement  of  his  death  in  the  Ti'mtt 
I  had  half  expected  that  he  might  have  bequeathed  me  the  old 

Ci;s:  but  it  turned  out  that  he  had  made  no  wiUaA  a.W,W\\u%« 
appeared,  no  very  great  property  to  dVsporo  o^.    H*  ■«*»  *. 
\.  \.  I 


J 


queer  fellow,  and  came  of  a  queer  family:  half  insane  T  alvmys 
considered  them ;  and  I  know  thcj  were  suspected  of  witchcraft  as 
long  ago  m  the  time  of  our  ^old  Dean.  Nay,  the  Dean  himscir 
was  whispcrud  to  have  been  the  least  bit  overshadou-ed  at  that 
epoch,  owing,  I  undcrslanti,  to  one  fussy  habit  he  had  of  encou- 
raging confidences.  One  of  these  Armstrong  witches  had  com- 
municated some  devilish  secret  or  other  to  the  reverend  gentleman, 
I  suppose,  and  thus  brought  ill-repute  upon  him.  Howc\'cr,  the 
Pcan  was  no  fool,  and  got  out  of  the  scrape  by  writing  that 
pamphlet  on  witchcraft. 

Well,  I  was  about  to  say  that  when  1  heard  of  the  sale  I  resolved 
to  run  over  to  Richmond  and  see  what  I  could  pick  up.  I  got 
there  just  in  time  to  see  the  last  lot  knockcit  down.  It  was 
shockingly  stupid  of  me  to  have  mistaken  the  hour — such  a  cold 
day,  too,  and  1  so  unaccuslomcd  to  running  about  the  country  at  that 
time  of  year.  But  there  was  no  help  for  it ;  I  had  to  return  as  wise 
as  I  started,  and  the  poorer  by  the  loss  of  my  temper  and  eatpecta- 
tions.  I  was  beginning  to  get  in  a  good  humour  again,  however. 
what  with  my  fire,  and  my  cigar,  and  my  article  on  "  Truths,  &c.." 
and  partly,  no  doubt,  by  reason  of  the  genial  effect  of  that  old  port 
wine:  besides,  I  am  by  no  means  of  a  sour  disposition,  naturally: 
— when  all  of  a  sudden  came  the  postman's  knock,  making  me 
start  so  that  the  ash  of  my  cigar  felt  on  the  open  page  of  the  Con- 
itmporar}'  and  scorched  a  hole  in  it.  Postmen  have  always  been  a 
honor  to  me ;  I  have  never  enjoyed  receiving  letters  since  the  date 
of  a  certain  missive  from — from  some  one  who  is  now  the  wife  of 
another  man;  and  on  this  particular  evening  I  was  more  than  com- 
monly averse  to  any  such  interruption.  I  laid  my  book  on  my 
knees,  leaned  back  in  my  chair,  and  blew  an  irritiled  cload  of 
smoke  towards  the  painted  countenance  of  my  ecclesiastical  ancestor 
over  the  fire-place.  It  curled  and  twisted  about  his  respectable 
visage,  until  1  conld  almost  have  believed  that  he  winked  one  eye 
and  moved  his  ancient  lips  as  if  to  speak. 

The  servant  brought  in  a  square  packet  done  up  in  brown  wrap- 
ping-paper, and  sealed  in  halfadoten  places.  It  was  about  tho 
size  and  sliapc  of  the  magazine  1  had  been  rtading — a  little  thicker, 
perhaps,  and  heavier.  I  put  my  name  to  the  receipt  accompanying 
the  parcel,  and  the  sen-ant  went  out. 

At  first  1  was  disposed  to  let  the  thing  lie  unopened  till  the  next 
day,  being  well  assurvil  that  it  woidd  not  repay  cxaminaiion  :  and  Z 
aclu.'Uly  did  put  it  .-Ditdt:  and  attempt  to  resume  my  reading  M 
though  no  interruption  had  occurred.    But  1  found  if  impo&iibk  to 


I        fin 


^■et  on,  or  to  fix  my  thoughts  upon  anj-thing  except  just  that  parcel. 
,  What  could  be  in  it  ?  Who  could  have  sent  it  ?  I  looked  at  the 
itcclioD,  but  could  make  aotliin{;  out  of  thai ;  it  was  written  in  an 
ordinan-  business  hand,  quite  characterless  and  non-committal.  I 
felt  it  carefully  all  over :  it  was  stiffer  than  ordinary  paper,  but  not 
hard  like  wood.  Meanwhile  I  glanced  ap  at  my  pictured  ancestor, 
And  was  struck  with  the  L-xpression  of  anxious  interest  which 
appeared  to  have  come  over  his  features.  Perliaps  he  knew  what 
le  packet  contained;  or  mOre  probably  his  ruling  passion  of 
iriosity,  strong  in  death,  was  making  his  old  painted  fingers  itch 
break  the  seals  and  lake  a.  peep  at  the  mystery.  The  idea  pro- 
)ked  me,  and  with  a  sudden  impulse  I  held  the  packet  out  over  the 
Mazing  Wallscnd,  two-thirds  minded  to  drop  it  in.  But  the  next 
loment  I  was  more  provoked  at  my  own  cliildish  folly ;  I  drew  the 
ling  back,  took  my  penknife  from  my  pocket,  and  cm  the  strings 
sat  tied  it.  Unwrapping  the  paper,  there  was  disclosed  to  view  a 
siy  antique-looking  leather  case  or  cover— a  pocket  book  or  port- 
>lio  to  all  appearance.  1  undid  the  worn  strap  that  fastened  it, 
id  it  fell  open,  showing  a  number  of  leaves  of  musty  parchment, 
written  over  with  a  quaint  and  crabbed  chirogfraphy,  such  as  could 
not  have  been  in  vogue  for  a  good  deal  more  than  a  century,  to  say 
the  least. 

It 
wc 
1 


I      ac 


I  am    something  of  an  antiquary,   and    not   entirely  witliout 

pcrience  of  MS.  older  even  than  tliis  appeared  to  be.     Having 

onvinccd   myself  by  a  cursory   inspection   that    the   matter   was 

worth  looking  into,  I  lost  no  time  in   composing  myself  to  its 

Tusal. 

It  was  written  in  Latin — a  fortunate  circumstance,  slnco  there 
vas  none  of  the  difliculty  attendant  upon  old-fashioned  bad 
spelling  to  contend  .with.  The  substance  of  the  writing  consisted, 
80  far  as  I  was  able  to  make  out,  of  extracts  from  a  number  of 
private  letters,  supplemented  by  passages  from  the  pages  of  a 
Joamal  and  by  occasional  observations  made  apparently  in  the 
iscriber's  own  person.  The  combination  formed  a  tolerably 
consecutive  and  logical  history  of  three  individuals — a  woman  and 
two  men — who  lived  and  loved  and  hated  with  the  antiquated 
vehemence  of  a  centujy  and  a  half  ago. 

An  odd  circumirtancc  which  was  immediately  noticeable  in  the 
€X)mpilation  was  a  systematic  omission  of  the  names  of  all  the 
actors  in  the  e\-ents  narrated.    A  blank  space  o^  sohw:  \e^^^i-«^3i 


I      con! 


5i8 


Tlu  Genlie»iaH*s  Magazine. 


■ 


\ih  for  each  one,  as  though  the  writer  ha<l  intended  filling  th« 
in  afti-rwaniii,  hul,  for  whaievur  cause,  had  I'ailud  to  do  so.  Em 
the  scribe  himself  (he  was  a  friend  or  confidential  adviser,  as  it 
seemed,  of  the  princijial  fijpire  in  llic  narralive)  bad  Buffered 
himself  to  remain  as  nameless  as  the  rest. 

This  omission  nffucted  mo  strangely.  So  far  from  alicnatiof 
my  interest,  it  greatly  augmt-nted  it ;  and  although  Uic  body  of  Ihe 
irriting  was  couched  in  terms  suQicicntlj-  Aty  and  maUer-of-fact, 
the  blank  spaces  gave  rein  to  the  imagination,  and  lent  the  stoij 
prt-sent  and  almost  a  personal  vitality  and  significance.  It  almost" 
seemed  to  me  that  the  matter  was,  in  some  way  or  otberi  my  indi- 
vidual concern :  that  I  was,  or  had  been,  involved  in  the  incidents 
here  set  forth,  atul  had  still  to  look.  for\\-ard  to  the  catastrophe. 
The  potent  port,  I  fancy,  must  have  a  little  o'ctcrowed  my 
spirit;  but  I  believe  I  ascribed  it,  at  the  time,  to  the  pecalia 
influence  exerted  over  me  by  ihc  portrait  of  my  reverend  ancestors 
He  seemed  positively  to  bo  alive  and  preparing  to  come  down 
from  his  frame  and  take  the  MS.  into  his  onii  possession. 

I  spent  a  long  time  iu  trying  to  iitid  out  whence  the  I^IS. 
and  why  it  had  been  sent  to  mc.  But  to  this  problem  there 
no  apparent  clue — no  tangible  evidence,  external  or  internal. 
course  1  was  sure  that  the  secret  lay  in  the  blank  spaces ;  and  was  half 
inclined  to  cut  the  knot  by  filling  them  up  with  my  own  name  an( 
with  those  of  Ihc  first  three  friend-i  of  mine  that  happened  to  cor 
into  my  head.  IIowe\-er,  after  quite  working  myself  into  a  fever, 
and  ruining  t!ie  flat-oiir  of  my  Cabana  by  letting  it  go  out  and  the^jj 
relighting  it,  I  finally  contented  my-sclf  by  stopping  the  preg 
gaps  with  the  first  four  letters  of  the  alphabet;  and  thus  furnished 
forth,  I  buckled  earnestly  and  steadily  to  my  work;  progressing  so 
rapidly  that  in  less  than  three  hours*  time  I  had  mastered  the  whole 
narrative. 

It  was  an  unpleasant  stor)-,  certainly,  but  there  was  nothing 
particularly  weird  or  remarkable,  after  all,  in  the  incidents  related. 
From  a  literary  point  of  view,  it  was  greatly  lacking  in  point  and 
completeness ;  for  though  it  ended  with  the  death  of  the  chief 
character  and  the  marriage  of  the  other  two,  yet  the  intervst  of 
the  reader  advanced  beyond  the  written  limits  and  dem.TJided  a 
more  definite  concIu.sion.  Things  were  left  at  snch  loose  ends,  in 
Bpite  of  death  and  moniage,  that  it  was  liard  not  to  believe  thai 
more  rcmatnc<l  behind.     In  llie  heated  and  excited  con'  f 

my  imagination  I  felt  strongly  tempted  to  unatcli  up  m\  li 

'ni/jrovisc  an  ending  on  my  own  responsibi Uty. 


Ca/Soi's  Rival. 


Tlic  longer  I  mused  over  the  matter  the  more  convinced  did  I 
become  thai  all  had  not  bucn  told.  Moreover,  I  could  almost 
fancy  that  I  bad  some  occult  perception  of  what  ihc  true  and 
ultimate  conclusion  really  was:  nay,  even  that  the  authorship  of 
this  ver)-  MS.,  which  had  been  penned  considerably  more  than  a 
bunilrcd  years  before  I  was  bom,  was  nevertheless  mystically  my 

iown.  I  repeat,  llicre  seemed  lo  be  something  of  mysulf  in  it; 
ftnd  the  events  had  an  inexplicable  sort  of  familiarity  to  my  mind, 
RS  though  ihcy  were  lung  forgotten,  rather  than  now  known  for 
the  first  time.  And  all  the  while  that  alchemic  progenitor  of  mine 
kept  up  his  mysterious  winking  and  nodding. 
It  would  be  too  long  and  tedious  to  transcribe  the  tale  as  I  read 
I  it :  I  will  therefore  give,  as  briefly  as  possible,  an  abstract  of  the 
leading  points  round  which  it  was  woven. 


» 


IV. 


Shortly  before  the  beginning  of  tlie  last  century  a  wealthy 
gentleman — let  us  call  him  A. — made  a  proposal  for  the  hand 
of  a  young  lady  living  in  the  neighbourhood  of  London,  the 
daughter  uf  an  excellent  family,  though  at  that  time  somewhat 
reduced  in  circumstances,  probably  in  consetiucncc  of  political 
jealousies,     judging  from  what  is  said  of  her,  this  young  .lady 

Miss  B. — must  have  been  a  famous  beauty ;  and  it  would  not 
'therefore  be  surprising  if  A.  had  met  with  some  rivalry  in  his 
fuit.  To  all  appearances,  however,  the  course  of  true  love  flowed 
«8  smooth  as  oil.  The  U.  family,  in  spite  of  their  political  dis- 
affection,  did  not  oppose  the  marriage  of  their  daughter  to  so 
wealthy  and  respectable  a  suitor;  and  if  she  herflclf  had  any 
disinclination  to  him,  she  ver>-  properly  and  prudently  said  nothing 
about  it,  but  treated  Mr.  A.  very  graciously. 

A.*s  property,  and  the  general  management  of  his  business 
affairs,  were  entrusted  by  him  to  the  care  of  a  talented  young 
barrister,  C.  by  name;  who,  indeed,  largely  owed  his  prosperity 
and  brilliant  prospects  to  A.'s  kitidness.  the  latter  having  aided 
bim  in  his  preparation  for  the  bar,  and  aften*ards  put  a  great 
deal  of  business  in  his  way,  wliich  otherwise  he  would  have 
obtained  but  slowly.  In  fact,  A.'s  attitude  towards  this  young 
man  was  almost  parental ;  and  no  wonder  if  he  felt  himself 
secnre  in  trusting  his  most  private  concerns  to  one  who  owed 
him  so  deep  a  debt  of  gratitude. 

Nevertheless,  it  would  doubtless  have  been  wisfe^  \o  Vv\vtt»  ^.toot* 
iomewhat  adt'Siiced  m  life,  not  to  have  made  C  \\itVca.i«t  ^sxA 


520 


Tfu  GailUmati  i  Magazine. 


• 


utterer  of  his  loving  messages  to  the  lady  of  bis  heart,  quits  lOi 
often  or  so  unrcseircdly  as  \\v.  apptsirs  10  have  done-  C,  who  ■ 
probably  a  well-favoured  and  fascinating  fellow  enough,  intist  bav« 
seen  more  of  Miss  B.  than  did  her  lover;  and,  in  his  capacity  of 
the  latlcr's  recognised  confidant,  he  could  easily  have  obtained 
access  to  her  at  any  moment.  Perhaps  the  young  bcanty  was  tu>t 
averse  to  a  little  flirtation  with  the  handsome  and  clever  barrister ; 
perhaps  she  encouraged  him, — ihc  evidence,  such  as  it  is,  would 
seem  to  point  that  way.  Be  that  as  it  may,  we  must  admit  that  C. 
was  exposed  to  pretty  strong  temptation.  His  virtue,  be  he  who  he 
might,  must  have  had  a  straggle  for  it;  and  if  wc  imagine  him 
rather  warm-blooded  and  tolerably  weak -principled,  we  may  be 
jtistiy  anxious  as  to  virtue's  victory. 

Having  made  what  allowances  wc  will,  there  is  no  denying  that 
C.  turned  out  a  great  scoundrel.  A.  one  morning  look  his  carriage 
and  went  up  to  London  :  and  the  coachman  stopped  at  the  door  of 
the  Court  jeweller.  Out  steps  Mr.  A.,  with  his  velvet  ctoak,  his  silk 
stockings,  his  plumed  hat,  and  his  pt-akcd  beard :  and,  with  lus  long 
rapier  dangling  at  his  side,  and  his  lace  ruffles  half  concealing  his 
white  hands,  he  makes  his  stately  entr}-  into  tlie  bowing  tradesman's 
shop.  There  he  spends  a  long  time  examining,  with  all  the  whim- 
sical particularity  of  an  elderly  lover,  the  traj-s  upon  trays  of  rare 
rich  and  costly  nick-nacks  which  arc  set  before  him.  It  seems  as 
though  he  would  never  be  suited!  The  pompous  horses,  standing 
outside,  shake  their  rattUng  bead-gear,  and  stamp  their  proud  hoofs 
impatiently;  the  obsequious  jeweller  racks  his  brain  and  exhausts  his 
eloquence  imavailingly ;  never  was  there  so  diflicult  a  customer. 
At  length  the  man  of  jewels  picks  up  a  quaint  looking  little  locket, 
and  iii  just  on  the  point  of  putting  it  down  :igain,  as  not  even  worth 
the  trouble  of  olTcriug,  when  Mr.  A.  exclaims — 

"  Hold,  Mr.  Jeweller,  that  is  what  we  are  looking  for.     What  ts 
the  price  of  that  locket  ^ 

"  Oh,  sir,"  replies  the  shrewd  man  of  business,  quickly  recovering 
from  his  first  surprise,  "  I  sec  }*ou  need  not  to  be  informed  of  what  ti 
truly  valuable.  This  little  locket,  which  most  persons  would  look 
«pon  as  common-place,  is  in  fact,  in  more  senses  tlian  one,  the 
jewel  of  my  stock.  It  is  made,  you  perceive,  out  of  a  simple  broi 
inurmalinc,  exquisitely. cut  in  relief.  The  woikmanship  is  rcalljr' 
matchless,  and  the  tourmaline  itseir— as  perhaps  you  are  aware — is 

icved  to  be  endowed  with  certain  mystic  propcrUcs" 

"  Yc».  yes  Mr.  Jeweller,"  interriipts  the  dark-visaged  cnslomcr, 
in  a  soiDcwliM  leuy  tone,   "  I  know  the  nature  and  prt^>cnics 


of  the  trinket  quite  as  well  as  you  do. 
.to  iiaiiie  joiir  price." 

The  tradesman  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  Iheo,  summoning  all 

his  audacity  to  his  aid,  mentioned  a  sum  which  made  his  own  heart 

beat  and  his  cyea  water.      Hut  the  composure  of  Mr.  A.  was  not 

dashed  a  wbit.     Me  even  appeared  to  smile,  a  little  satirically,  as 

though  to  intimate  that  he  considered  himself  a$  having  altogether 

the  best  of  the  bargain.     He  paid  the  money  without  a  moment's 

emur,  and  taking  up  the  locket  before  the  excited  jeweller  had 

to  put  it  in  a  box  Tor  him,  Mr.  A.  saluted  him  gravely  and 

out  of  the  shop. 

"Well,"  thought  the  tradeaman,  as  he  watched  the  heavy  coach 
■roll  au-ay,  "  if  he's  satisfied,  I'm  sure  I  ought  to  be.  And  yet — I 
wonder  what  that  locket  was  after  all !  I  don't  remember  having 
ever  noticed  it  amongst  the  stock  before  to-day.      It  rciilly  was 

I  finely  enchased,  and  may  have  been  more  valuable  than  I  supposed. 
But  pshaw  I  two  hundred  guineas  I  Such  a  stroke  of  business 
was  never  heard  of  before.  If  the  locket  had  been  a  witch's  amulet, 
with  power  to  drvc  men  mad  or  raise  the  Devil,  I  should  still  have 
madeagood  proGtl'* 

Meanwhile  Mr.  A.  was  speeding  on  his  way  to  his  betrothed. 

The  fact  is,  they  were  to  be  married  on  the  morrow,  and  the  honest 

gentleman  had  bought  the  locket  as  a  prc-nuptial  gift.    Probably 

the  horses,  fleet  and  well-conditioned  as  they  were,  were  somewhat 

put  to  it  to  keep  pace  with  their  owner's  eagerness  to  be  at  ihe  end 

of  his  journey.    In  due  time,  however,  behold  them  reined  snorting 

up  at  the  gateway  uf  the  B.  mansion,  and  Mr.  A.,  locket  in  hand, 

preparing  to  alight. 

Bui,  alas  I  it  is  too  evident  that  some  disaster  has  occurred.  The 

^  servant  who  opens  the  door  is  pale  and  scared;  the  household  is  in 

Kdisordcr.     Twice  does  the  visitor  demand  news  uf  ihe  master  and 

"      mistress  before  he  can  elicit  a  reply. 

"Present  them  my  compliments,  if  they  be  at  leisure,"  continues 
Mr.  A.,  "  and  ask  whether  I  may  request  the  honour  of  an  interview 
with  their  daughter." 

•■Lord  bless  me,  sir  I"  falters  the  trembling  servant,  "  haven't 

lu  beard  " 

"Heard  what.'"  says  A.,  turning  pate;  "what  is  the  matter, 
fellow  ?    Is  the  young  lady  ill .-'" 

"  in,  sir  >     Lord  bless  me,  sir,  she — she's  gone  !" 

Mr.  A.  recoiled,  and  seemed  to  gasp  for  breath  foe  a  kwcOl^'cA™ 

is  face,  from  psie,  became  suddenly  oveispiedd  Vi\VU  %  ^<e^'i^ 


K|Ii: 


522 


The  GititUniarCi  Magazine. 


crimson  flush,  and  the  veins  on  his  forehead  swelled.    Al  length 
he  burst  out  in  a  terrible  voice — 

"Gone?    Where?    With  whom?" 

But  at  this  point  the  appearance  of  the  muter  and  mistrcfl*- 
relieved  the  wretched  footman  from  his  unenviable  position.  Tl 
miserable  slon-  w-as  soon  lold.  The  young  lady  !o  whom  Mr.  A. 
had  entrasied  his  heart  and  honour,  to  whom  be  was  to  have 
been  united  the  next  day.  whose  wedding  gift  he  even  then  held  in 
his  hand,  had  eloped  the  night  before  in  the  good  olLl<ra<ihione4iJ 
manner,  and  was  by  this  time  far  beyond  the  reach  of  punuit,  could 
pursuit  have  availed.  The  flight  had  been  six  hours  old  before  it 
was  discovered  by  the  young  lady's  mother. 

"  But  with  whom  r  with  whom  r  Who  was  the  villain  who  dared' 
to  rob  me  ?"  cried  Mr.  A.,  storming  up  and  down  the  hall  in  un- 
governable fury.  "  \V*ho  was  it,  madam.  I  say  ?  Stop  your  wretched 
whimpering  and  speak!" 

"  Dear  me,  Mr.  A.,"  quavered  the  poor  la^y,  straggling  with  her 
sobs,  "  can't  you  think  ?  Why,  it's  that  ^iiung  Mr.  C.  of  yours,  of 
course.    Wlio  else  could  it  be?" 

At  this  reply,  which  he  seems  not  in  the  least  to  have  expected, 
Mr.  A.  became  suddenly  and  appallingly  calm.  During  a  short 
space  he  made  neither  sound  nor  movement.  At  length  he  slowly 
uplifted  one  cleiiclicd  hand  above  his  head,  and  shook  it  there  wit 
a  kind  of  sluggish  deliberation-  To  the  frightened  and  huslu 
spectators  it  seemed  as  if  the  air  grew  dark  around  htm  a.s  he  did 
it.  Still  without  uttering  a  word  he  now  partly  unclosed  his  hand 
and  there  was  seen  to  proceed  from  it  a  dusky  glow  or  gleam,  aa 
phosphorescence.  Drawing  in  a  deep  breath,  he  exhaled  it  slowly 
over  this  phosphorescent  appearance,  as  if  desirous  of  inspiring  it 
with  the  very  essence  of  his  being.  If  the  account  is  to  be  believed, 
the  glow  became  more  Imid,  and  the  tail  figure  of  Mr.  A.  sax. 
sombre,  with  the  action. 

Whatever  this  odd  ceremony  might  mean<  it  had  the  good  effect 
of  restoring  the  betrayed  suitor  to  his  wonted  courttrous  And  grave 
sclf-po»sc!.sion.  Ill  a  manner  at  once  earnest  ami  ilignificd  he 
besought  Mr.  and  Mrs.  B.  to  pardon  and  overlook  his  late  riolcnt 
and  passionate  demeanour. 

"  I  have  erreil  deeply,"  added   he.   "  in  permitting,  oven  for  a 

short  time,  that  evil  siiirit  which  is  ever  at  hand  to  ciunnrc  the  nah 

and  luiwary  to  gain  dominion  over  me.    For,  alas  I  what  right  have 

'   to  be  angry  ?    Your  dnughicr,  mcthinks,  has  bclirr  reason  to 

raid  nic  tlian  I  her.  Wluu  cbami  could  sach  a  one  as  she  1*  find 


CalboCs  Rival. 


523 


in  a  ffTcybcard  like  myself  ?  Tnity,  I  blame  her  not.  and  sorrow 
only  that  she  did  not  frankly  make  known  to  me  her  disfavour, 
lathcr  than  thus  violently  and  suddenly  canl  nic  olT.  And  as  for  the 
partner  of  her  flight,  how  can  I  do  otheniise  than  pardon  him? 
Have  I  not  tnisted  himand  loved  him  as  a  son  ?  Nay,  nay,  1  have 
been  an  old  fool — an  old  fool ;  but  I  will  not  be  an  unforgiving 
one.  Sec,"  he  went  on,  in  the  same  quiet  and  colourless  tone  in 
which  he  had  spoken  throughout,  "here  is  a  trifle  which  1  had 
purjjosed  presenting  to  your  daughter  as  a  symbol  of  my  affection. 
It  is  a  Jewel,  curiously  carvcn  a-i  you  sec,  and  fahled  to  exert  a 
benign  and  wholesome  influence  over  the  wearer.  How  that  may 
be.  I  know  not;  but  sure  am  I  (hat  aught  freighted,  like  this,  with 
the  deepest  prayers  and  most  earnest  hopes  of  him  who  had  thought 
(a  foolish  thought — I  see  it  now  !)  10  win  the  highest  place  in  her 
regard,  will  not  be  refused  by  her  when,  acknowledging  my  error, 
1  beg  her  to  accept  it  as  the  gift  of  elder  friend  to  friend.  Permit 
me,  madam  "—he  laid  the  locket  in  Mrs.  B.'a  hand,  she  half- 
shrinkingly  receiving  it;  "you  will  soon  hear  from  your  daughter 
and  her  husband  " — this  word  he  pronounced  with  a  ccruin  grave 
emphasis — "and  your  reply,  let  me  venture  to  hope,  will  tend  to  a 
speedy  reconciliation.  Present  her,  in  my  name  and  with  my  bless- 
ing, with  this  gem*:  bid  her  transmit  it  as  an  heirloom  to  h^ 
descendants ;  and  believe  that,  %o  long  as  it  retains  its  form  and 
jirirtuc,  my  spirit  will  not  forget  this  solemn  hour." 
I  Having  delivered  himself  of  this  long-winded  and  not  altogether 
nnambiguous  speech,  good  Mr.  A.  bowed  himself  out,  and  rumbled 
away  in  bis  stately  coach.  The  next  day  the  abdication  of 
James  II.  was  known  throughout  England.  The  B.'s  rose  at  once 
from  their  position  of  political  obscurity  to  an  honoured  and 
powerful  place  under  the  new  rigime.  C,  who  now  tiirnrd  out  to 
have  been  for  a  long  time  a  plotter  for  the  successful  cause,  was 
not  long  afterwards  instalk-d  as  a  Court  favourite,  and  his  beautiful 
wife  became  the  idol  of  society.  Poor  Mr.  A.,  on  the  other  hand, 
bad  a  sour  lime  of  it.  He  had  been  bitterly  nppo.scd  to  the  Prince 
of  Orange,  and  naturally  found  his  present  predicament  an  em- 
barrassing one.  He  appears  to  have  met  with  quite  an  Iliad  of 
misfortunes  and  reverses  ;  and  a  few  years  after  William's  acces- 
lioD  be  died. 

The  general  opinion  ivas  that  he  had  devoted  his  latter  days  to 
religious  exercises.    Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  on  terms  of  intimacy 
an  eminent  divine  of  the  day ;  indeed,  a  careful  analysis  o( 
ences  satisfied  me  that  the  compiler  of  ttift  m^%x.ex\oM&  ^'^- 


Tlit  GenilafiafCs  Mhgazhu. 

and  this  divine  could  be  no  other  than  one  and  the  same  pencil. 
And  the  inference  thence  that  he  had  died  in  the  odour  of  sanctity 
vould  have  been  easy  enough,  save  for  one  discordant  and  sinister 
cite  urn  stance. 

This  was  reserved  for  the  very  last  paragraph  of  the  narrative, 
and  shed  a  peculiar  and  ill-omened  light  over  all  that  had  gone 
before.  It  was  related  in  the  transcriber's  oim  person ;  and  after 
describing  with  some  minuteness  the  last  hours  uf  Afr.  A.,  it  con- 
cluded as  follows.    1  translate  from  the  original  Latin: — 

"  Mr.  A.  having  long  lain  without  motion,  breathing  hoarsely, 
and  with  his  eyes  half  open,  and  of  a  rigid  and  glazed  appearance, 
as  of  a  man  already  dead — all  at  once  raised  himself  up  in  bed, 
witli  a  strength  and  deliberation  altogether  unexpected:  and 
having  once  or  twice  passed  his  hand  over  bis  brow,  and  coughed 
*liglitly  in  bis  ihroat,  he  said  to  me — 

"  '  Take  your  pen,  friend,  and  write.  I  will  now  dictate  my  lost 
will  and  testament.' 

"  It  appeared  to  me  that  he  must  be  delirious,  both  because  be 
had,  several  hours  previous,  caused  his  will  to  be  brought  to  him 
and  read  in  his  ear  (this  will  bore  date  before  the  day  of  hit 
intended  marriage  uith  Miss  B.),  and  also  because  his  aspect,  not- 
withstanding the  strength  of  his  movements  and  voice,  was  more 
that  of  a  corpse  than  of  a  living  man ;  and  he  might  have  been 
believed,  by  those  who  put  faith  in  such  superstitions,  to  bo 
animated  by  some  unhallowed  spirit  not  his  own. 

'*  But  when  I  showed  him  that  former  will,  supposing  him  to 
have  forgotten  it,  he  bade  me  put  it  in  the  lire;  and  when  this  had 
been  done,  and  the  will  consumed,  he  bade  me  vrite  thus  — 

"  '  I, A.,  being  nowe  about  to  die,  yet  knowynge  well  the 

nature  of  this  my  act,  doe  herebye  bequeathe  my  ondjinge  Hatred 
to  C,  and  to  his  wife  (formerly  Miss  B.),  to  them  and  tn  their 
Posterilie.  And  I  doe  herebye  [imy  Almighty  God  that  the 
Revenge  which  my  Soule  hath  desired  and  conceived,  be  fullillud 
to  the  uttennosle,  whether  soon  or  hereafter :  }'ea,  at  the  perill  oi 
my  Salvation.    Amen  I ' " 

This  Satanic  composition  was  duly  signed,  sealed,  and  witnessed 
as  A.'s  last  will  and  testament ;  and  the  latest  earthly  act  of  the 
wretched  man  was  the  affixing  his  signature  to  an  instrument 
which,  whatever  other  end  it  might  accomplish,  could  hardly  fail 
of  exercising  its  deadliest  venom  against  himself. 


CalboVs  RivaL 


I 


V. 

I  lit  a  fresh  cigar,  poured  out  another  glass  of  wine,  and  gave 
myself  up  to  meditation.  Those  blank  spaces  completely  mystified 
me.  For  what  other  object  had  this  Icnf^tby  transcription  been 
made  than  to  record  A.'s  "  last  will,"  and  the  causes  leading  up  to 
and  (so  f:ir  as  that  \Ya3  possible)  jiistifying  it  ?  Yet.  on  the  other 
hand,  the  careful  omission  of  ever>'  clue  whereby  the  persons  con- 
cerned might  have  been  identified  seemed  to  annul  and  staUJfy  tha 
laborious  record  of  their  actions.  Or  if  the  composition  were  a 
mere  fiction,  why  not  have  invented  names  as  well  as  incidents  ? 

But  fiction,  I  was  satisfied,  it  could  not  be.  It  was  not  the 
fashion  to  compose  such  fictions  a  hundred  and  fifty  or  more  yeiirs 
ago.  And  it  w.is  not  within  the  scope  of  such  an  arid  old  specimen 
of  the  antique  clergy  as  he  whose  etilted  Latin  and  angnlar  chiro- 
graphy  I  had  just  examined  to  follow  such  a  fashion  even  had  it 
existed.  No,  no.  Account  for  it  how  I  might,  the  things  here  set 
down  were  facts,  not  fancies. 

The  will  W.1S  the  only  part  of  the  compilation  written  in  English, 
as  though  it  were  especially  commended  to  the  knowledge  of  alt 
men  :  and  it  was  certainly  not  the  sort  of  thing  a  dying  man  would 
be  apt  to  compose  and  have  attested  purely  for  his  own  amusement. 
Yet,  as  it  stood,  it  was  no  more  than  a  lifL-k-ss  formula.  But, 
indeed,  so  far  as  this  feature  of  Ihc  narrative  was  concerned,  the 
subtlest  casuistry  failed  to  enlighten  me  as  to  what  Mr.  A.'s  pro- 
posed revenge  had  been,  anrl  how  hi;  expected  it  to  be  accom- 
plished. An  attempt  to  make  the  tourmaline  locket  scr\'e  as  a  key 
to  the  enigma  promised  well  at  first,  but  could  not  quite  be  induced 
to  fit  the  lock  after  all.  Either  the  problem  was  too  abstruse,  or  my 
head  was  not  in  the  best  condition  for  solving  it.  The  longer  I 
pQzzlcd  over  it,  the  more  plainly  did  my  inefficiency  appear ;  and 
at  last  I  came  to  the  very  sensible  determination  to  go  to  bed,  and 
hope  for  cleartT  faculties  on  the  morrow. 

b     I  hod  just  finished  winding  up  my  watch,  which  marked  half-past 
'ten,  when  there  was  a  violent  ring  at  my  door  bell,  followed  by  a 
rattling  appeal  to  the  knocker. 

"A  telegram!"  I  exclaimed,  falling  back  in  my  chair.     "The 

nly  thing  I  detest  more  than  a  postman.  Well,  the  postman 
brought  an  enigma ;  perhaps  the  telegram  may  contain  the 
solution." 

It  was  not  a  telegram,  but  Calbot,  to  whom  I  have  already  noAla, 
incidental  allusion.    He  opened  the  library  door  '«\\.\vo>A\.tioO*A'wi, 


The  GeniUman*  %  Magazim. 


tame  swiflly  in,  and  walked  up  to  ihe  fire.  ThU  abroptncss  of 
manner,  winch  was  by  no  means  proptT  to  him,  added  to  something 
very  peculiar  to  his  general  aspect  and  expression,  gave  me  quite  a 
start. 

He  was  dressed  in  light  in-door  costume,  and,  in  spile  of  the 
cold,  had  neither  top-coat  nor  gloves.  His  face  wore  a  |»allor 
which  would  have  heon  cxtranrdinaiy  In  any  odc,  hut  in  a  man 
whose  check  was  ordinarily  so  ruddy  and  robust  d&  Catbot's,  it  was 
almost  ghastly.  He  said  nothing  for  some  moments,  bat  Ecemed 
to  be  struggling  with  an  irrepressible  and  exaggerated  physical 
tremor,  resembling  St.  Vitus's  dance.  I  must  say  that  my  nerves! 
have  never  been  more  severely  tried  than  by  this  unexpected  appa:-] 
rition,  in  so  strange  a  guise,  of  a  friend  whom  I  had  always  looked 
upon  as  about  the  most  imperturbable  and  common-sensible  one  I 
had.  He  was  a  young  man,  but  older  than  his  years,  clear-headed, 
practical,  clever,  an  excellent  lawyer,  and  a  fine  fellow.  Eccen- 
tricity of  any  kind  was  akogcthcr  foreign  to  his  character.  Some- 
thing ver>-  unpieasaiil,  I  apprehended,  must  be  at  the  bottom  of  hi*; 
present  profound  and  uncontrollable  agitation. 

Of  course  I  jumped  up  after  the  Rrst  shock,  and  shook  lits  hand 
— which,  notwithstanding  the  cold  weather  and  his  own  paleness, 
was  dr)'  and  hot.  \  fancied  Calbot  hardly  knew  where  he  was* 
or  what  he  was  doing ;  not  that  he  seemed  delirious,  but  rather 
overwhelmingly  preoccupied  about  something  altogether  batcfol 
and  ugly. 

"What's  the  matter,  John  ?"  I  said,  instinctively  using  a  sharp 
lone,  and  laying  my  hand  heavily  on  his  shoulder.  "  Arc  you  ill  ?" 
Then  a  thought  struck  me,  and  I  added  "  Nothing  wrong  about 
Miss  Burleigh,  I  hope?" 

"  Drayton,"  said  my  friend — his  utterance  was  interrupted  some- 
what by  the  nervous  starts  and  twitches  which  still  mastered  his 
efforts  to  control  them — "something  terrible  has  happened.  1  wanted 
to  tell  you.  I  can*t  fathom  it.  Drayton,  Tve  seen — —  may  I  take 
a  glass  of  wine  ?" 

He  drank  two  glasses  in  quick  succession.  As  he  hardly  ever 
touched  wine,  there  was  no  little  significance  in  the  act.  The  rich 
old  liquor  evidently  did  him  good.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  would 
rather  have  givcu  him  some  brandy.  He  was  not  in  a  ^tate  to 
appreciate  a  line  flavour,  and  my  port  was  as  rare  as  it  was  good. 
However,  I  was  really  concerned  about  him.  and  would  gladly  have 
given  the  whole  deciinler-full  to  set  him  right  again. 

He  n-ould  not  lake  a  chair,  but  stood  on  tlie  rug  with  his  back  to 


nil 


It  fire.     A*  I  sat  looking  up  at  his  tall  figure,  I  cauglit  the  painted 
eye  of  my  priestly  ancestor  over  his  shouUlcr,  and  It  seemed  to  me  to 
twinkle  mth  saturnine  humour. 
"  Wei),  what  have  you  seen,  Calbot  ?" 

"  Some  exil  thing  has  come  between  I^liss  Burleigh  and  me,  and 
has  parted  us.     I  have  seen  it — two  or  three  times.    She  has  fell  it. 
It's  Itilling  her,  Dra>ton.   As  for  me  .  .  .  You  Jcnow  me  pretty  well, 
and  you  know  what  my  life  has  been  thus  far.    I've  not  been  a  good 
man,  of  course;  quite  the  contrary:  I've  done  any  quantity  of  bad 
tliinys;  but  I  don't  know  that  I've  committed  any  such  hideous  sin 
ought  to  bring  a  punishment  like  this  upon  mc — not  to  speak  of 
'her!    I'm  not  a  parricide,  nor  an  adulterer;  I  never  sold  my  salva- 
tion to  the  Devil — did  I,  Drayton  ?" 
^b  "  Ko,  no,  of  course  not,  my  dear  Calbot.   Vou  have  a  fever,  that's 
^■tiII.    Don't  get  excited.    Just  lie  down  on  the  sofa  for  half  an  hour, 
and  quiet  yourself  a  little." 

"  I  sec  you  think  I'm  out  of  my  head,  and  no  wonder.     I  behave 

^_ljke  a  madman.    But  I'm  not  mad  at  all;  1  wish  I  could  think  I 

^Hrere !    This  shuddering — it  won't  last — but  1  toll  you,  Drayton, 

when  j'OU  sec  a  man  of  my  health  and  strength  stricken  this  way  in 

two  days,  you  may  believe  it  would  have  driven  many  a  man  to 

madness,  or  to  suicide" 

^L     "  Let  me  pour  it  out  for  you  ;  your  hand  shakes  so.    I  can  give 
^■you  some  splendid  French  cognac,  if  you'd  prefer  it.^  Well.  Hadn't 
>'Ou  better  lie  down  .^" 

"  Come,  I  can  control  myself,  now — 1  will  \ "  said  Calbot,  through 

khis  teeth,  and  putting  a  strong  constraint  upon  himself.     For  about 
B  minute  he  kept  silenl,  the  blood  gradually  coming  into  his  cheeks 
Kutd  the  nervous  twilcbings  growing  less  frequent. 
t   "  That's  belter,"  said  I,  encouragingly.    "  Vou  don't  look  so  much 
as  though  you'd  seen  a  ghost,  now.     How  is  that  Chancery  case  of 

■jrours  getting  on  ?" 
X  "A  ghost  ?  You  speak  lightly  enough,  and  I  suppose  your  idea 
of  a  ghost  is  some  conventional  bogey  such  as  children  are  scared 
with.  We  laugh  at  such  things — heaven  knows  why  I  An  evil,  sin- 
brcathing  spirit,  coming  from  hell  to  take  vengeance,  for  some  dead 
and  buried  wrong,  upon  living  men  and  women — what  is  there 
laughable  in  that  ?" 

•f  "  Really,  Calbot,"  I  said,  with  a  smile— a  rather  uneasy  smile,  be 
h  admitted — "  I  never  laughed  at  a  ghost,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
I  never  saw  one  to  laugh  at." 

'*  Vou  never  saw  one,  and  ynw  mean  to  hint,  1  wippow;,  \'iatiX.\!ws» 
re  none  to  sec?" 


528 


The  GentlemarC  5  Magazine. 


"  Well,"  relumed  I,  still  maintaining  a  precarious  grimace,  "  I'm 
not  a  spiritualist,  you  know" 

"  Kor  T,"  interrupted  Calbot,  in  a  lower  and  quieter  tone  than  he 
had  yet  used.  He  took  a  chair,  and,  sitting  down  clo&e  in  front  of 
me,  bent  forward  and  whispered  in  my  car  "  But  I  saw  the  soul  of 
a  dead  man  yesterday ;  and  this  afternoon  I  saw  it  again,  uid 
chased  it  from  the  BurEcighs'  house  in   MayfaJr,  along  the  Strand, 

ajid  througli   the  heart  of  London,  to  its  grave  in  St.  G ^"s 

churchyard.    I  copied  the  inscription  oo  the  stone  :  it  is  a  very  old 
one,  as  y(ju  will  si:c  by  the  dale." 

A  far  bolder  man  than  I  have  ever  claimed  to  be  might  have  felt 
his  lieart  stand  still  at  this  speech ;  and  its  effect  on  me  was  greatly 
heightened  by  Calhot's  tone  and  manner,  and  by  the  way  he 
fastened  his  eyes  upon  me.  Nor  were  the  circumstances  in  other 
respects  reassuring — alone  at  night,  wittia  man  three  or  four  times 
my  physical  equal,  who  was  wholly  emancipated  from  rational  con- 
trol. I  sat  quite  still  for  a  few  moments — ver)-  long  moments  they 
seemed  to  me — staring  helplessly  at  Calbot,  who  took  a  small  note- 
book out  of  his  pocket,  lore  out  a  leaf  with  something  scrawled  on 
it,  and  handed  it  to  me.  I  read  it  mechanically — "  Archibald 
Arnistrong.  Died  February  6th,  1698."  Meanwhile  Calbot  helped 
himself  to  another  glass  of  wine :  but  I  was  too  much  unnerved  to 
restrain  him,  and,  indeed,  too  much  bewildered. 

"Archibald  Armstrong,"  muttered  I,  repeating  the  name  aloud: 
"died  February  6th — yes;  but  it  was  this  present  yeanSjs — not 
1C98.  Why,  1  went  to  the  auction-sale  of  his  effects  this  very 
afternoon ! " 

"  Keep  the  paper,"  said  Calbot,  not  noticing  my  observation,  "  it 
may  possibly  lead  to  something.  And  now  I  wish  you  to  listen  to 
my  statement.  I  am  neither  crazy,  Drajton,  nor  intoxicated.  But 
I  am  not  the  same  man  you  have  known  heretofore;  my  life  has 
been  scared — blasted.  PcHiaps  you  think  my  language  extrava- 
gant ;  but  after  what  1  have  experienced  there  can  be  no  such  thing 
as  extravagance  for  me.  It  is  an  awful  thing,"  he  added,  ^\iih  a 
long  involuntary'  sigh,  "  to  have  been  face  to  face  with  an  evil 
spirit  1 " 

•■  In  heaven's  name,  Calbot,"  cried  I.  starting  up  from  my  chair, 
and  trembling  all  over,  I  believe,  from  nervous  excitement,  "  don't 
go  on  talking  and  looking  like  thai.     If  you  can  icll  mc  a  slni '!,: 
forward,  consistent  siory,  I'M  listen  to  if :  but  these  hints  and  ir::i  r 
jections  of  yours  will  drive  me  iDad 

"I'm  going  to  tell  yon,  Drayton,  I 


* 


Caiboi^s  Rival.  529 

thing  to  meelhig  that Thing itself,  to  tell  about  ii.    But  the 

matter  is  too  grim  earnest  lo  allow  of  trifling.     You  have  a  great 
deal  of  knowledge  on  queer  and  out-of-the-way  subjects.  Drayton, 
and  I  thought  it  not  impossible  that  j-oa  might  make  some  sugges- 
tions, for  there  mu&t  Lie  some  reason  for  this  hideous  visitation — 
some  cause  for  it ;  and  though  all  is  over  for  me  now,  there  would 
fee  a  kind  of  satisfaction  in  knowing  what  that  reasoit  was.  Besides, 
must  speak  to  some  one,  and  you  are  a  dear  friend,  and  an  old  one." 
I  was  a  good  deal  relieved  to  hear  Calbot  speak  thus  affectionately 
'of  OUT  relations  wi;h  each  other ;  and  indeed  he  appeared  no  w.iy 
'inclined  to  violence.     Accordingly,  having  offered  him  d  Cabana 
(which  he  refused)  I  put  the  box  and  the  decanter  back  in  the  cap- 
board,  and  locked  the  door.    Then,  relighting  my  own  cigar,  and 
putting  a  lump  or  two  of  coal  on  the  fire,  I  resumed  my  chair,  and 
bade  my  friend  begin  his  stor^. 

1} 
"There  was  an  intermarriage  between  the  Durlcighs  and  the 
Calbots  four  or  five  generations  ago,"  said  he  ;  "I  found  the  record 
of  it  in  our  family  papers,  shortly  before  Miss  Burleigh  and  I  were 
engaged  ;  but  it  ajipear!)  not  to  have  turned  out  well.  I  don't  know 
whether  the  husband  and  wife  quarrelled,  or  whether  their  troubles 
came  from  some  outside  interference  ;  bat  they  had  not  been  long 
married  before  a  separation  took  place — not  a  regular  divorce,  but 
the  wife  went  quietly  back  to  her  father's  house,  and  my  ancestor  is 
■opposed  to  have  gone  abroad.  But  this  was  not  the  end  of  it, 
)rayton  ;  for  some  years  later,  the  huaband  returned,  and  he  and 
lis  wife  lived  together  again." 
"  Was  there  any  further  estrangement    between  them,  after- 

?" 
"  It  is  an  ugly  story,"  said  Calbot,  gloomily,  getting  up  from  hia 
"chair,  and  taking  liis  old  place  before  the  fire.  "  No  ;  they  lived 
together — as  long  as  ihcy  did  live !  But  it  was  about  the  era  of  the 
^pritchcraft  mania — or  delusion,  if  you  choose  to  call  tt  so — and  it  is 
'  strongly  hinted  in  some  of  the  documents  in  my  possession  that  the 
Calbots  wcri- — not  witches — but  victims  of  witchcraH.  They 
accused  no  one,  but  they  seemed  to  have  been  shunni:d  by  every- 
body like  persons  under  the  shadow  of  a  curse.  Well— it  wasn't  a 
great  while  before  Mrs.  Calbot  died,  and  her  husband  went  mad 
soon  afterwards.  There  were  two  children.  One  of  them,  the  son, 
was  bom  before  the  firet  separation.  The  other,  a  daughter,  ca.m«a 
into  the  world  after  the  reunion,  and  she  ^yas  an  'td\o\,\" 

Vot.XVtI..  N.S.  1876.  -tt  VL 


J 


530 


The  GenllcnmiCs  Afagazim. 


"An  ugly  stoi>-,  sure  enough,"  gaid  I,  shroggtng  my  should! 
with  a  chilly  sensation ;  "  but  what  has  it  to  do  with  your  bDsinessI 

"Perhaps nothing;  but  there  is  one  thing  which  would  go  for 
nothinj^  in  the  way  of  legal  evidence,  but  wliich  has  impressed  roe, 
neverilieless.  The  date  of  the  second  coming-together  of  my 
ancestor  and  his  wife  was  1698.'' 

••  Well  ?" 

"If  )-ou  look  at  that  paper  I  gave  yon  you'll  see  the  dale  of 
Armstrong's  death  is  also  1698." 

"  Still  I  don't  sec  tlie  point." 

"It's  simply  this :  the — ^Thing  I  saw  was  the  condemned  sool 
of  thai  Archibald  Armstrong.  Who  he  may  have  been  I  don't 
know ;  but  I  can't  help  believing  that  my  ancestor  knew  him  when 
be  was  still  in  the  flesh.  They  had  a  feud,  perhaps — may  be^ 
about  Uiis  very  marriage—of  course  you  understand  I'm  only 
supposing  a  case.  Well,  Calbot  gets  the  better  of  his  rival,  and 
is  married.  Then  Armstrong  exerts  his  malignant  ingenuity  10 
set  them  at  odds  with  each  other.  He  may  have  pta>-ed  on  the 
superstitious  fancies  which  thiy  probably  shared  with  others  of 
tliat  age,  and  at  last  we  may  suppose  be  accomplished  their 
separation." 

"  An  ingenious  idea,"  I  admitted,  "  but  what  about  your  dale  T 

"Why,  on  hearing  of  his  death,  they  would  naturally  suppose 
all  danger  over,  and  that  ihey  might  live  together  unmolested. 
And  from  this  jinint  you  may  differ  with  me  or  not,  as  you  choose. 
I  believe  th.it  it  was  only  after  Armstrong  was  dead  that  his  power 
for  c\-i)  became  commensDiale  with  his  will.  I  believe,  Draytou," 
said  Calbot,  drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  and  emphasising 
his  words  with  the  slow  gesture  of  his  right  arm,  "  that  the  soul  of 
that  dead  man  haunted  that  wretched  couple  from  the  day  of  bU 
death  until  the  whole  tragedy  was  consummated — tmtil  the  woman 
died  and  the  man  went  mad.  And  1  belie\'e  that  his  devilish 
malignity  has  lived  on  to  this  day,  and  ivreakcd  itself,  a  second 
time,  on  Miss  Ilurlcigh  and  myself." 

There  was  a  short  pause,  during  which  my  poor  friend  stood 
tapping  one  foot  on  the  hearth-rug,  his  eyes  bent  downward*  In 
sombre  abstraction. 

"  Look  here,  my  dear  John."  I  said  at  length,  speaking  with  an 
effort,  for  there  was  a  sensation  of  heavy  oppression  on  my  ch«t ; 
*' listen  to  me,  old  fellow.  You've  bad  time  lo  coot  down  aad 
bethink  yourself:  so  far  as  I  can  judge  yon  appear,  as  you  sqr. 
neither  craEy  nor  intoxicated.    Now  I  wish  you,  remembering  that 


'we  are  sensible,  enlightened  men,  living  in  London  in  this  year 

r875,   10   tell  me   honestly  whether   I   am  to  understand    you  as 

dclibcratdy  asserting  a  belief  in  visitations  from  the  other  world. 

Because,  realty,  you  know,  that  is  what  any  one  would  infer  from 

the  way  you  have  been  talking  this  evening." 

H       "1  sec  there  would  be  little  use,  Dra)'ton,  in  my  answering  your 

^■question  directly ;  but  I  wil!  give  you  a  deliberate  and  honest  account 

^Hofmy  personal  experiences  daring  these  last  two  days:  there  wil) 

"be  no  danger  of  your  mistaking  my  meaning  then.     You  won't 

mind  my  walking  tip  and  down  the  room  whik-  I'm  speaking,  will 

^■jOQ?    The  subject  is  a  painful  one.  and  motion  seems  to  make 

^Et  easier,  somehow." 

^P'   I  did  mind  it  very  much,  it  made  mc  as  nervous  as  a  water- 
beetle;  but,  of  course,  I  forbore  to  say  so.  and  Calbot  went  on. 
j^«      "  I  said  I  found  out  all  this  ancestral  troubk-  some  lime  before 
^pl  was  engaged ;  and,  as  you  may  imagine,  I  kept  silence  about  it 
to  Miss  Burleigh.     I  think  now  it  win  a  mistake  to  do  so;  but  my 
ideas  on  many  subjects  have  undergone  modification  of  late.     I 
believe  I  had  forgotten  all  about  the  discovery  by  the  lime  I  had 
made  op  my  mind  to  risk  an  avowal :  at  any  rate,  1  had  no  mis- 
givings about  it ;  and  when  1  came  out  from  my  interview  with 
her — the  happiest  man  in  England  I — ah,  Drayton,  it  seemed  to  me 
Ihcn  that  there  could  be  no  more  pains  nor  shadows  in  life  for  mc 
L      thenceforward  for  ever!" 

^K*  i  devoutly  wished,  not  for  the  lirst  time  that  evening,  that  Calbot 
^^eould  not  be  so  painfully  in  earnest.  In  his  normal  state  it  was 
difficult  to  gel  a  serious  word  out  of  him  :  he  was  brimming  over 
with  quaint  humonr  and  fun  ;  but,  as  he  himself  had  remarked,  he 
was  another  man  to-day.  After  walking  backwards  and  forwards 
once  or  twice  in  silence,  he  continued  : — 
^L  "  You  know  how  happy  I  was  those  first  few  days  ?  I  dare  say 
^^rou  _wi5hed  me  and  my  happiness  in  Jericho,  when  I  insisted  on 
deluging  j-ou  with  an  account  of  it.  Think  1  Drayton,  that  was 
hardly  a  week  ago.  Well,  as  soon  as  1  had  got  a  little  bit  used  to 
the  feeling  of  being  engaged,  1  began  to  think  what  I  should  give 
her — Edna,  you  know — for  a  betrothal  gift.  A  ring,  of  course,  is 
the  usual  thing;  but  I  couldn't  be  satisfied  with  a  ring  :  1  wanted 
my  gift  to  be  somclliing  rare — nnrque  ;  in  short,  something  differ- 
ent from  what  any  other  fellow  could  give  his  mistress  ;  for  I  loved 
her  more  than  any  woman  was  ever  loved  before.  After  a  good 
deal  of  fruitless  bother,  I  suddenly  bethought  myself  of  a  jcwcl-hox 
which  had  belonged, to  my  mother — God  b\esa  \\eT\ — wii  ■«\v\Oh 


52,2 


The  GmtkntaiCs  Magazine. 


sliu  had  bequtathed  to  me,  intending,  very-  Ukcly,  Ibal  I  should  use 
it  for  the  vcrj"  purpose  1  was  now  thinking  of.  I  got  out  the  box, 
and  over-hauled  it.  There  was  a  lot  of  curious  old  trinkct3  in  it ; 
but  the  thing  which  at  once  took  my  eye  was  a  delicately  wrought 
gold  necklace,  that  looked  as  though  it  had  been  made  expressly 
for  Edna's  throat.  There  was  a  locket  attached  to  it,  which  1  at  &i 
meant  to  take  Ki^;  but  on  examining  it  closely,  I  found  it  was  quit 
worthy  of  the  chain — was  an  exquisite  work  of  art,  indeed.  It  was 
made  of  a  dark  yellow  or  brownish  sort  of  stone,  semi-transparent, 
and  was  engraven  with  a  ver)-  finely  wrought  bas-relief." 

"  Calbot  1 "  exclaimed  I,  starting  upright  in  my  chair,  "  what  sort 
of  a  stone  did  you  say  that  locket  was  made  of  ?  " 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  returned  he,  stopping  short  in  hts  walk 
and  facing  mc  with  a  glance  partly  apprehensive,  partly  oipcctant. 
"  I  never  saw  exactly  such  a  stone  before — but  why  ?  " 

"Oh,  nothing,"  said  I,  after  a  moment's  excited  thotighl;  "it 
certainly  is  ver)'  strange!  But,  never  mind,  go  on,"  I  added, 
throwing  a  glance  at  the  old  manuscript  which  lay  open  on 
the  table ;  "  go  on.  1*11  tell  you  afterwards  ;  I  must  turn  it  over 
in  my  minti  a  bit." 

"  Tlie  reason  I  described  it  so  minutely,"  remarked  Calbot, "  was 
that  I  got  a  notion  into  my  head  that  it  bad  something  to  do  with 
what  happened  aftenvardij,  and  the  reason  of  that  notion  is, 
that  almost  from  the  very  moment  that  F.dna  took  the  necklace — 
I  clasped  ii  round  her  neck  myself— the  strange,  awful  influence, 
visitation — call  it  wliat  you  like — began  to  be  apparent. 

"Oh,  Drayton,  y-ou  can  never  know  how  lovely,  how  divine 
he  looked  that  evenijig.  She  had  on  what  they  call,  I  believe, 
a  dcmi-toilettc ;  open  at  the  throat,  you  know,  and  half  the  arm 
showing.  N'o  woman  could  have  looked  more  beautiful  than  she, 
iefore  I  put  on  the  chain  and  locket ;  yet  when  they  were  on,  she 
looked  as  handsome  again.  Iiwas  really  wonderful — the  effect  they 
bad.  Ilcr  eyes  deepened,  and  an  indescribable  change  or  modula- 
tion— imperceptible,  ver)'  likely,  to  anyone  beside  myself,  her  lover 
— came  over  her  face.  1  think  it  was  a  shade  of  sadness — 
of  mystery — no.  I  can  only  repeat  that  it  was  indescribable;  but 
it  ga\-e  tier  "beauty  just  the  touch  that  made  it,  humanly  speaking, 
perfect.  I  dare  say  this  is  all  s^  tiresome  to  you,  Drayton,  hat  I 
~    1*1  help  it!" 

'Oh,  go  on,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  I,  warmly;  for,  indeed,  [ 
was  moved  as  well  as  excited.    "  Won't  you  sit  down  ?    Here,  take 


CaiboVs  Rival. 


533 


Bot  he  woatd  not. 

"  As  I  fastened  the  clasp,  I  said  'You  an?  fettered  for  ever  now, 
Edna ! '  and  she  said,  with  hur  eyes  sparkling^  *  Yes,  I  am  the  thrall 
of  the  locket ;  the  giver  may  lead  me  iu  triumph  where  he  will ! ' 
Just  M  the  words  passed  her  lips,  Drayton,  I  felt  a  sensation  of 
coldness  and  depression :  1  gave  an  invohmtary  shudder,  and  looking; 
quickly  in  Edna's  eyes,  I  saw  there  the  vcr)"  reflection  of  my  own 
feeling !  We  were  alone,  and  yet  there  seemed  to  be  a  Ihlnl  person 
■Hprcsent — cold,  hateful,  malevolent.  He  seemed  to  be  between  us 
^ — to  be  pressing  us  irresistibly  apart;  and  I  felt  powerless  to  con- 
tend against  the  insidious  influence  ;  and  so  was  she.  For  an 
instant  or  two  we  gazed  fearfully  and  strangely  at  each  other  ;  then 
she  said,  faintly  '  Come  to  rae — lake  me  I'  and  half  held  out  her 
arms,  her  face  and  lips  all  pale.  Drayton,  I  cannot  tell  you  what  a 
desperate  struggle  I  had  with  myself  thcnf  Mywhotc  soid  leapt  out 

»lovanls  her  with  a  passion  such  as  I  had  never  known  before; 
uid  yet  my  body  s(^cmed  paralysed.  I  had  felt  something  similar 
to  it  in  dreams  before  then  ;  hut  the  dream  pain  was  nothing  to  the 
real  pain.  A  cold  dead  hand  was  on  my  heart,  dragging  it  back- 
u-ard,  deadening  it ;  and  another  at  my  throat,  stifling  me.  But  I 
fought  against  it — it  seemed  to  me  I  sweated  drops  ofhlood — but 
I  overcame.  1  put  my  arm  round  lu;r  waist— I  kissed  her ;  and  yet. 
[though  I  seemed  to  hold  her— though  our  lijn;  seemed  to  meet— 
W  that  Thing  was  between  us— we  did  not  really  touch  each 
»er!  With  all  our  love,  we  were  like  lifeEcssclay  to  oncanother*3 
caress.    It  was  a  mockcr>-,— our  souls  could  meet  no  more."    Here 

»Calbot  covered  his  eyus  with  his  hand  for  a  short  time.    *'  It  was 
the  last  time  I  ever  kissed  her,"  said  he. 

1  said  nothing  ;  ray  sympathy  with  my  hapless  friend  was  keen. 
Yet  I  must  confess  to  a  secret  sensation  of  relief  that  there  was  to 
Hbc  no  more  kissing.  It  was  natural,  under  the  circumstances,  that 
Calbol — poor  fellow — should  speak  recklessly;  but  1  am  a  bachelor, 
a  confirmed  bachelor,  and  such  descriptions  distress  me  ;  they  make 
me  restless,  wakeful,  and  unhappy.  Yes,  I  was  glad  we  had  had  the 
^■last  of  them. 

y  "  It  all  passed  very  quickly,  and  a  third  person  would  perhaps 
have  seen  no  change  in  us ;  probably  the  change  was  more  inward 
than  outwanl,  afler  all. '  It  was  peculiar  that  we,  both  of  us,  by  a 
tacit  understanding,  forbore  to  speak  to  each  other  of  this  dismal 
mystery  that  had  so  suddenly  grown  up  between  us.  It  was  too 
real,  and  at  the  same  time  too  hopeless ;  but  lo  have  acknowled^p.^ 
would  have  been  to  pronounce  It  hopeless mAccA.  V^tt>«aA^tsoX 


lov 

Kthoi 

mam 


Tlu  GitiUetnatCs  Magasitu. 

do  that  yet.  \\V  sal  ajiart,  (jaietljr  and  conventionally  making 
ob&cr\'3cions  on  ordinary  topics,  as  though  wc  had  been  ttcwiy 
introduced.  And  yet  my  betrothaJ  gift  was  round  her  neck,  moving 
as  she  brcathcti ;  and  wc  loved  cacb  other,  and  our  hearts  were 
breaking.    Oh,  it  is  cruel !" 

In  exclaiming  thus,  my  friend  (being  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
room  at  the  time)  Ktnick  his  foot  sliar]}  against  the  kg  uf  a  stoaJI 
antiquL'  table,  which  stood  against  the  wall.  Liicc  many  other 
valuable  things,  the  table  was  fragitc,  and  the  leg  broke.  The  tabic 
tipped  over,  and  a  vase  (the  ancestral  vase,  containing  the  elixir  of 
life)  fell  off  to  the  floor. 

Calbot — I  think  it  was  much  to  his  credit — found  room  amidst 
his  proper  anguish  to  be  sincerely  distressed  at  this  accident.  On 
picking  up  the  vn.&<:,  however,  he  immediately  exclaimed  that  it  was 
unbroken.  This  was  fnrtunatc :  the  tnbic  could  be  mended,  but 
the  vase,  not  to  speak  of  its  contents,  would  have  been  irre- 
placeable. Calbot  put  it  carefully  on  the  study  table,  beside  the 
MS. ;  set  the  invalid  table  in  a  corner :  and  then,  to  my  grvat  !>atis- 
faction,  drew  np  a  chair  to  the  fire,  and  continutd  his  sad  6tory  iq 
a  civilised  posture. 

VII. 

**  I  did  not  stay  long  after  this ;  and  ours  u-as  a  strange  parting 
that  evening,  if  our  hearts  could  have  been  seen.  We  felt  it  a 
relief  to  separate,  and  yet  the  very  relief  was  a  finer  kind  of 
pain.  \Vc  knew  not  what  had  befallen  us ;  but,  perhaps,  wc 
both  had  a  hope,  then,  lliat  another  day  would  somehow  set  things 
right. 

"1  only  look  her  hand  in  saying  good-hye:  bal  again  it  seemed 
as  if  her  soft  fingers  were  not  actually  in  contact  with  mine — as 
some  rival  hand  were  interijosed.  And  I  noticed  (as  I  had  dot 
once  or  twice  before  during  our  latter  conversation)  that,  even  white 
the  farewell  words  uxre  being  spoken,  she  turned  her  head  abinpUj 
with  a  startled,  listening  expression,  as  though  another  voice  hs 
spoken  close  at  her  ear.  I  could  hear  nothing,  nor  understand  the 
dimly  lerriticd  look  in  her  eyes— a  look  appealing  and  yet  shrinking. 
But  afterwards  I  understood  it  all.  When  I  reached  the  street,  1 
turned  back,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  Edna  at  the  window.  Besi( 
her  I  fancied  I  distinguished  the  half-defined  outlines  of  a  strangv* 
figure — that  of  a  man  who  appeared  to  be  gesticulating  in  an  extra- 
vagant manner.  Hut  before  J  could  decide  whcllicr  it  were 
Bhadow  or  .n  reality,  lidna  had  turned  awav.  and  iIil'  ap[k-inli( 
vanished  «iih  her." 


"  Her  father,  of  course,"  I  threw  in,  with  a  glance  over  my 
shoulder,  "or,  perhaps,  it  was  the  footman."  Calbot  made  no 
reply. 

"  I  goL  Up  yesterday  morning,"  said  he,  "  convinced  that  the 
whole  thing  was  a  delusion.  I  took  a  brisk  vvallt  round  Hyde  Park, 
ate  a  good  breakfast,  and  by  eleven  o'clock  was  on  my  way  to  her 
bouse,  sore  that  I  should  find  her  as  cheerfully  disposed  to  laugh  at 
our  doloroas  behaviour  the  night  before  as  1  m>-self  was.  1  went 
dovm  Piccadilly  in  llie  best  of  spirits;  but  on  turning  the  comer  of 
Park  Lane,  I  very  plainly  saw  three  persons  coming  down  towards 
me." 

Here  Calbot  paused  so  long  that  I  could  hardly  refrain  from 
springing  out  of  my  chair.  1  had  never  heard  him  argue  a  case 
before  a  jury ;  but  had  I    been  the  presiding  judge  himself,  I  was 

» convinced  that  Calbot  could  have  moulded  my  opinions  to  whatso- 
ever issue  he  had  pleased.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  I  doubt  whether 
he  was  aware  of  his  own  best  powers.  The  cffeL-l  he  was  now 
producing  on  me  was  certainly  not  the  result  of  any  premeditated 
artiScc. 
^  "I  saw  Edna,"  he  finally  went  on,  speaking  in  a  husky,  labouring 
Hlonc,  and  gazing  intently  over  my  shoulder,  as  if  he  saw  her  there, 
^k*  She  was  walking  in  llic  centre,  with  a  weary,  lifeless  step,  her 
head  bent  downwards :  on  her  right  was  her  father,  as  jolly  and 
portly  as  cwr :  and  on  her  left,  Drayton,  was  the  same  strange 
figure  of  which  I  fancied  I  had  caught  a  glimpse  the  night  before. 
It  was  no  shadow  now,  however,  but  looked  as  real  and  palpable  as 
Gcneial  Burleigh  himself.  It  appeared  to  be  diligently  addressing 
itself  to  Kdna,  occasionally  even  stooping  to  speak  in  her  ear  ;  and 
once  I  saw  it  put  its  arm  round  her  waist,  and  apparently  press  its 
bearded  cheek  to  her  own." 

^U    "Why,  in  Heaven's  name,  Calbot,  didn't  you'* But  there 

^Kwas  something  in  my  friend's  eyes,  as  he  turned  them  uii  me,  which 
made  me  break  olf  just  there. 

"  When  I  first  turned  the  corner  the  three  were  sisty  or  seventy 
yards  distant.  It  struck  me  at  once  that  Edna  seemed  lo  have  no 
direct  consciousness  of  the  stranger's  presence.  That  is,  sho  did 
not  act  as  if  he  were  visible  to  her;  though,  at  the  same  time,  I 
could  hardly  doubt  that  the  idea  of  him  'kzs  present  to  her  mind; 
and  from  her  manner  of  involimtary  shrinking  and  starting  when 

*  the  Thing  became  particularly  demonstrative  in  its  manner,  I  fancied 
Khat  the  words  which  it  appeared  to  address  to  her  insinuated  them* 
selves  into  her  brain  under  the  form    of    d^^maX    ;Ltv^  W\x^:^ 


i 

i 


5Z(> 


The  GmtiimaiCs  Magazine. 


thoagtits.  Perhaps,  Crajlon,  Ihc  base  or  inicked  notions  ihal 
sometimes  creep  into  our  minds  unawares,  asserting  tbtmscU'es 
our  own,  are  whispered  to  us  by  some  evil  spirit,  invisible  to  otu 
sight,  hut  capable  of  impressing  the  immatcriai  part  of  us  all  the 
more  effectively. 

"  As  thty  drt-w  near,  1  could  no  longer  doubt  thai  the  Thing  watj 
viewless,  not  only  to  Edna,  but  to  every  one  else  besides  myscK 
alone.  Had  it  been  otherwise,  the  figure's  remarkable  costume,  no 
less  than  its  many  eccentricities,  would  have  drawn  a  great  crowd 
in  a  few  momcnLs.  It  was  a  tall,  fantastic  apparition,  cl.id  in  a 
black  velvet  cIo:ik  and  doublet,  silk  hose,  and  liigh-heeled  shoes. 
On  its  head  was  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  with  heavy  plumes  ;  there 
were  lace  rufTlcs  at  its  wrists  and  round  its  throat.  A  long  rapier 
dangled  by  its  side ;  its  beard  was  grey  and  peaked,  but  a 
copious  brown  wig  flowed  out  beneath  the  bat  and  rcstcil  on  the 
shoulders. 

"  Its  gait,  as  it  stalked  along  the  pavement,  was  mincing  anc 
affected,  and  under  oDicr  circumstances  I  might  have  laught 
at  it.  Its  manner  and  gestures  were  absurdly  exaggerated  and 
fantastic.  It  was  continually  bowing  and  scrnping  to  Ktlna,  andj 
seemingly  making  hot  love  to  her;  but  as  often  as  she  wtnccd  or* 
shrank  from  it,  it  appeared  hugely  delighted,  throwing  up  its  anns, 
wagging  its  head,  and  contorting  its  body,  as  if  carried  away  by  an 
immoderate  fit  of  laughter. 

"  The  sun  was  shining  broadly,  but  none  of  its  rays  seemed  to  fall 
on  the  sable  garments  of  this  singular  personage.  In  fact,  though^, 
I  saw  him  as  plainly  as  I  now  see  you,  Drayton,  1  was,  ncvcrthelt 
well  aware  that  here  was  something  more  or  less  than  flesh  and 
blood.  It  was  a  being  of  another  state  than  this  mortal  one  of 
ours.  I  say  I  saw  him ;  and  yet  I  do  not  believe  that  it  was 
with  my  natural  eyesight.  A  deeper  sense  of  vision  had  been 
temporarily  opened  within  me,  and  this  spectre  came  wttliin  its 
scope. 

•'  For  a  spectre  it  was.  General  Burleigh,  striding  bluffly  alonj 
by  the  other  side  of  his  daughter,  swinging  his  cane,  twisting  hui 
mouslachios,  and  ever  and  anon  smiling  and  bowing  to  a  passinj 
friend,  was  ludicrously  unconscious  of  there  being  an>1hing  super- 
natural in  bis  vicinity.  Moreover,  I  saw  at  least  twenty  persons  pass 
the  apparition  shoulder  to  shoulder,  evidently  without  seeing  it; 
though  tbey  would  often  shiver,  and  wrap  their  lop-couts  or  shawh 
more  closely  round  them,  as  if  a  sudden  blast  of  icy  alt  had 
penetrated  them.     All  this  ttote  the    three   were   approaching 


CalboVs  Rival. 


537 


slowly,  and  were  now  but  little  more  than  twenty  paces  distant.    I 
liad  not  moved  a  step  since  first  coming  in  view  of  them,  and  had 

Pkcpt  my  eyes  fixed  point-blank  upon  the  apparition. 
*'  At  this  momem    I  was  puzzled  to  observe  thai  the  black- 
garmcntcd  fi;jufe  was  a  good  deal  less  distinctly  discernible  than 
when  it  had  been  farther  off.    The  sun  was  still  as  bright  a^  ever, 
the  air  as  clear,  but  the  outline  of  the  shape  was  blurred  and 
nndcfincd,  as  though    seen  out  of   focus    through  a  telescope. 
General  Burleigh  now  caught  sight  of  mc  for  the  first  lime,  and 
this  cordial  gesture  of  salute  caused  Edna  quickly  to  raise  her  eyes. 
[We  saw  despair  in  each  other's  looks,  and  then  she  dropped  ha 
again,  and  moved  wearily  onward.     Simultanvously  with  her 
the  spectre  (which  appeared  to  be  as  unconscious  of  every- 
thing save  Edna  and  myself,  as  every  one  except  us  was  of  it)— the 
spectre  also  directed  its  gaze  at  me.     I  can  never  forget  that  face» 
|.      Drayton.     I  seemed  to  grow  older  and  more  [niserable  as  I  con- 
Hironted  it.     And  all  the  white  it  was  getting  less  and  less  pcr- 
^CCptible:  now  it  was  magniGed,  clouded,  and  distorted;  but  the 
devilish  expression  of  it  was  .tlill  recognisable.     Now  it  faded  or 
expanded  into  vagueness  :  only  a  foggy  shadow  seemed  gliding  by 
Edna's  side;  and  when  she  was  within  ten  paces,  and  her  father's 
voice  was  speaking  out  its  hearty  welcome  to  me,  every  trace  even 
of  the  sliadow  had  disappeared  ;  nothing  was  left  but  thai  chil- 
I      lincss  and  horror  of  the  heart  which  1  had  fcU  the  night  previous, 
■  bat  now  vastly  intensified,  because  I  wtis  no  longer  ignorant  of  the 
N      cause  of  it.     Edna  and  I  would  never  again  be  alone  together. 
This  devil  was  to  haunt  us  henceforth,  mocking  our  love  by  its 
hideous  mimicry  and  derision,  marring  and  jiolluting  our  most  sacred 
secrets,  sickening  our  hearts  and  paralysing  our  hope  and  reliance 
in  each  other.     We  could  neither  escape  it  nor  resist  it ;  and  its 
invisibility  when  wc  were  together  was  not  the  least  fearful  thing 
about  it.     To  see  it,  awful  as  it  was,  must  be  less  unendurable  than 
to  imagine  it,  un.scen  ;  and  the  certainty  that,  so  often  as  I  left 
Edna,  I  should  leave  this  devil  in  her  company,  Wsibk-  once  more 
the  moment  he  was  out  of  my  reach,  but  never  to  be  met  and 
grappled  with  hand  to  hand — this  was  hard  to  bear  I     Had  ever 
mortal  man  before  such  a  rival  ? 
"All  this,  of  course,  was  but  dimly  apprehended  by  my  mind  at 
^kbe  time ;  but  I  had  suQlcicnt  opportunity  to  muse  upon  it  after- 
wards.    General  Burleigh  seized  my  hand,  and  shook  the  head  of 
his  cane  at  mc. 

"•Shall  be  obli^-cd  (o  court-martial  you,  young  TKati\    "WaaX 


have  yon  been  doing  to  my  daaghter,  sir  P  Why,  no  one  can  get  a 
word  or  a  smile  out  of  her,  since  you  came  with  your  tomfooleries  I 
She  keeps  all  her  good  humour  for  you,  confound  you !  It's  witch- 
craft— you've  bewitched  my  Jittle  girl,  with  your  lockets  and  your 
necklaces  and  your  tomfooleries!  You've  bewitched  her — and  I'll 
have  you  court-martialed,  and  executed  for  wilchcrafl.  by  Jove  I 
Ha.  ha,  ha !  Ha,  ha,  ha  t '  And  with  Ihat  he  gripped  my  hand 
again,  and  vowing  thai  the  club  was  the  only  place  for  him  ^ince  I 
had  appeared  with  my  tomfooleries  and  witchcraft,  he  swung  roimd 
on  his  heel  and  strode  away,  his  broad  military  shoulders  shaking 
with  jollity ;  and  left  Kdna  alone  with  me— and  my  rival ! 

"We  strolled  off  along  Piccadilly,  and  I  dare  say  ever)-  man  wo 
met  was  envying  me  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  But  though  her 
arm  wa$  in  mine,  I  knew  I  might  as  well  have  been  miles  away 
from  her.  And  we  both  were  reticent  of  our  words  on  all  motors 
lying  near  our  hearts,  as  if  thai  third  presence  had  been  as  palpable 
and  visible  a*>  it  was  otherwise  real.  Wc  spoke  constrainedly  and 
coldly;  nay,  wc  even  tried  not  to  fAini  of  our  love  or  of  our  misery, 
lest  it  might  possess  power  to  sec  our  thoughts  as  well  as  hear  otu 
voices.  We  walked  on,  seldom  looking  at  one  another,  for  fear  of 
catching  a  glimpse  of  it  in  each  olhei's  eyes.  1  saw,  however,  that 
Edna  still  wore  her  locket — indeed,  she  had  told  mc,  the  nighty 
before,  that  she  would  never  lake  it  off,  until  I  bade  her  do  so. 

"  '  So,  your  father  thinks  you  bewitched,  Edna,*  I  said  at  length, 
!T>nng  to  throw  off  the  incubus  a  little. 

"  '  I  am  not  very  well,  I  think.' 

" '  He  seemed  to  fancy  the  spell  was  connected  with  that  old 
locket,'  ]  continued  ;  my  very  disinclination  to  the  subject  driving 
mc  to  tamper  with  it. 

"  '  Perhajs  it  is,'  retumal  Edna,  listlessly,  lifting  her  hand  for  s 
moment  to  her  throat.    '  1  am  not  quite  used  to  it  yet.' 

"  *  To  witchcraft,  do  you  mean  P    You  have  seen  no  pi 
have  you  ? ' 

"  1  fult  her  little  hand  clutch  my  arra  with  an  tnvoluntaiy  start. 
I  lookc'd  down,  and  she  met  my  eye  with  a  blnsh,  and  at  tho  same 
time  with  icrriGod,  shrinking  expression  that  was  lutter  to  behold. 

'* '  I  sec  nvthing  with  my  open  eyes,'  she  said,  scarcdy  above  a 
whisper ;  '  but  at  night— I  cannot  help  my  drcoms :  and  Ihcy  follow 
me  into  the  day.' 

"  It  was  as  1  had  thought,  therefore :  the  spectre  was  not  objec- 
tively visible  to  her.    She  could  not  get  away  from  her 
aii<i  hence  could  gain  no  point  o£ 


could  be  seen.  There  was  little  doubt,  nevertheless,  that  her 
lueiitat  picture  of  htm  agreed  vitti  my  ocular  experience.  It 
seemed  to  mc,  on  the  whole,  that  her  burden  must  be  far  harder  to 
bear  than  mine.  There  is  a  kind  of  relief  in  being  able  to  face  a 
horror;  and  my  own  fecHngs,  since  seeing  this  evil  spirit  which 
■.was  haunting  us,  had  been  in  a  certain  sense  more  tolerable,  if  more 
bopeless,  than  tlic  night  before.  liut  how  did  I  kno^>'  what  agony 
she  might  saffcrl  Even  her  innocent  sleep  was  not  sacred  from  this 
evil  thing;  all  her  maiden  re3er\'c  and  dclicncy  were  ouiragcd ;  she 
could  be  safe  nowhere — no  one  could  protect  her;  and  with  rae, 
who  would  have  g'ivL-n  my  life  to  please  a  whim  of  hcrii,  her  suffer- 
ing and  exposure  must  be  less  endurable  than  anywhere  else.  I 
.could  well  understand  her  blush — poor  girl — poor  girl !  " 

Not  for  many  years — not  since,  in  Tact,  certain  sati  experiences 
my  own  early  days — had  I  been  so  deeply  stirred  as  by  this 
ital  of  Calbot's.  His  voice  had  ^Tuat  compass  and  expression, 
id  the  needs  of  his  profession  had  given  its  natural  powers  every 
Itivation.  He  had  a  way  of  dwelling  on  certain  words,  and  oi 
:ca3ionally  pausing,  or  appearing  to  hesitate,  which  greatly  added 
to  the  effect  of  his  narrative.  All  this  might  be  actiuin:d  by  art, 
bat  not  so  the  ever  and  anon  recurring  falterings  and  breaks,  into 
which  (as  now)  he  was  unexpectedly  betrayed.  I  felt  that  il  was 
unwise  in  me  to  listen  to  him — to  sympathise  with  him — as  I  was 
doing  ;  )-ct  could  I  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  stop  him.  .Ml  fears 
of  violence  on  his  part  had  been  for  some  time  past  aHayed.  I 
was  well  aware  that  my  encouragement  of  his  conhdences  could 
only  result  in  my  pasE^ing  a  feverish,  uncomfortable  night,  and  a 
listless,  dismal  morrnw,  and  yet  I  forbore  to  interrupt  him.     Ah  t 

»i«  wc  old  bachelors  who  have  hearts  after  all. 
I  blew  my  nose,  Calbot  cleared  bis  throat,  and  continued. 


VIU. 


"Well,  Draj-ton,  I  shan't  keep  you  much  longer.  From  Pic- 
cadilly we  turned  into  Bond  Street,  and  were  walking  up  the 
sidewalk  on  the  left-hand  side,  when  suddenly  Edna  stopped,  and 
clapped  both  her  hands  ronnd  my  arm.  She  uttered  a  low  excla- 
mation, and  trembled  perceptibly.  Her  face,  as  I  looked  at  it, 
was  quite  rigid  and  ctilourless.  I  did  nut  know  what  was  the 
matter,  but  fearing  she  was  about  to  swoon,  1  looked  round  for 
a  cab.  In  so  doing  my  eye  caught  my  own  rcllection  in  a  mirror, 
fixed  at  a  shop  entrance  on  the  other  side  of  the  stcecv.  VV'wafiiVTk. 
this  direction  that  Edna  aJso  was  gazmg,  and  t!h&  tvex,\.  Ttvwat'K^.'V 


540 


The  GcniifmarCs  Ma^ziiu. 


\ 


no  longer  wondered  at  her  ghastly  aspect.  Close  b]r  her  shoulder 
appeared  the  fnntastic,  black -gnrmcQted  figure  which  I  had  seen  a 
•while  before  in  I*ark  Lane.  He  w;i3  making  the  wildest  ami  most, 
absurd  gestures— grinning,  throwing  about  his  anns,  making  pro-^ 
found  mock  obcJi^anccs,  and  eviduntly  in  an  ecstasy  of  enJoyxDent. 
I  looked  suddenlj-  round,  but  the  place  which  should  have  been 
occupied  by  the  original  of  the  reflection  appeared  entirely  empty. 
Looking  back  to  the  inirror,  however,  there  was  the  spectre  again, 
actually  capering  with  ugly  glee. 

"Meantime  people  were  beginning  to  notice  the  strange  be- 
haviour  of  Edna  and  myself,  and  I  was  thankful  when  a  passin^j 
cab  enabled  me  to  shield  her  from  their  scmtiny.  N'o  soonci 
were  we  seated  than  she  fainted  away,  and  only  recovered  a  few 
moments  before  we  stopped  at  her  door.  As  I  helped  her  out  she 
looked  me  sadly  in  the  face,  and  said — 

"  '  Come  to  rac  to-morrow  afternoon — for  the  last  time." 

"I  could  say  nothing  against  her  decision,  IJraj-ton;  I  felt  we 
should  l>c  really  more  united,  living  apart,  than  were  we  to  force 
ourselves  to  f»itw;ird  association.  Our  calamity  was  too  strong  forJ 
us ;  separation  might  appea<ic  the  mj-stcrious  malice  of  the  phan-i 
tom,  and  cause  him  to  return  whither  be  belonged.  The  per- 
secution of  onr  long-dead  ancestors  now  recurred  to  me,  as  I 
read  it  a  week  or  two  before  in  those  dusty  old  documents,  and 
could  not  help  seeing  a  strange  similarity  between  ihcir  fate  and 
ours.  Yet  we  had  an  advantage  in  not  being  married,  and  In 
having  the  warning  of  tlirir  histor>-  before  us.  You  see,"  observed 
Calboi,  somcM'hat  bitterly,  "even  I  can  talk  of  advantages !" 

"  I  went  to  her  house  to-day  and  had  a  short  interview.  I 
cannot  tell  you  in  detail  what  we  said,  bnt  it  seems  to  me  as 
though  the  mcraorj'  of  it  would  gradually  oust  all  other  mcmorit 
from  my  mind.  I  told  her  that  passage  of  histor)- :  we  agreed 
part— for  ever  in  this  world.  I  took  back  the  chain  and  lockcl 
which  1  had  given  her  but  so  short  a  time  before.  Wc  said  good- 
bye, in  cold  and  distant  words.  Wc  could  not  gratify  the  evil 
spirit,  which  we  knew  «*as  «7itching  us,  by  any  embrace  or  shi 
of  grief  and  passion.    We  could  be  proud  in  oar  despnir." 

"One  moment,  Calbot,"  said  I.  interrupting  him  at  this  point; 
"  you  say  she  gave  ^\x  back  the  locket  ?"* 

•'  Yea." 

"  Is  it  in  your  possession  now  ?" 

"  It  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  Thames." 

"C(V.,J.*     Ane 


_  "  You  forget  that  we  parted  only  this  afternoon.  But  I  undcr- 
mnd  your  question.  No,  Dmyton,  it  is  there  that  the  fate  of 
our  zmccstors  gives  us  limety  warning.      Wc  must  never  meet 

P  again." 
"  I  don't  consider  the  cases  parallel ;  and  besides,"  I  added,  with 
a  glance  at  my  T^rS.,  "  there  is  perhaps  another  point  to  be  con- 
sidered.   However,   finish  your  storj-,   if  there  be  any  more  to 
teU." 

"A  little  more,  and  then  my  story  will  1)6  finished  indeed  I  I 
am  going  with  the  new  expedition  to  the  North  I'ole,  and  it  will  be 
my  own  fault  if  I  return.  Well,  after  leaving  her,  I  come  straight 
down  stairs  and  hurried  out.  I  felt  as  though  I  must  go  mad,  or 
kill  some  one — myself  perhaps.  As  I  stood  on  the  door-step, 
mechanically  buttoning  up  my  Ulster,  1  felt  that  creeping,  sicken- 
ing chill  once  more,  and  knew  that  the  unholy  Thing  had  passed 
me.  I  looked  sharply  about,  and  in  a  moment  or  two  I  saw  it,  as 
plainly  as  ever.     It  stood  on  the  sunlit  privement,  about  fifty  yards 

■away,  and  appeared  to  be  beckoning  me  to  approach. 
I  "  I  watched  it  fur  perhaps  a  minute,  and  then  a  sudden  fury  look 
possession  of  mc.  My  hatred  against  this  devil  which  had  blighted 
my  life  and  Edna's  must  have  leapt  up  in  my  eyes,  for  1  fancied, 
from  the  way  the  phantom  leered  at  me,  that  he  meant  to  claim  a 
sort  of  relaiionshij)  with  me — as  though  1  were  become  a  devil  too. 
Well,  if  I  were  a  devil,  perhaps  I  might  be  able  to  inflict  some 
torture  on  this  my  fellow.  I  sprang  down  the  steps,  and  set  off 
towards  it.  It  waited  until  I  had  passed  over  more  than  half  tho 
intcr\-ening  distance,  and  then  it  suddenly  turned  and  walked  onward 
before  me.    So  a  chase  began." 

"  Good  gracious,  Calbot,"  remonstrated  I  ;  "  you  don't  mean  to 
tell  mc  you  ran  after  it — ^in  the  face  of  all  London,  too  !" 

^"  I  would  have  followed  it  to  its  own  hcU  if  it  had  led  mc  there," 
c  returned.     "At  first  it  stalked  along  swiftly  but  easily,  only 

occasionally  cutting  a  grotesque  caper  in  the  air,  with  a  flourish  of 
JKlts  arms  and  legs.  It  kept  always  the  same  distance  in  front  of  me 
Hj-with  no  effort  could  I  lessen  the  interval.  NcvcrlheIc5S,  I 
^Bjndually  increased  my  speed  almost  to  a  run,  much  to  tho  apparent 
^^elight  of  the  hobgoblin,  who  skipped  with  frantic  glee  over  the 
u  cold  pavements,  occasionally  half  facing  about  to  wave  me  on.  It 
B  turned  the  comer  of  Piccadilly,  and  I  lost  sight  of  it  for  a  moment; 
H  but,  hurr>*ing  up,  there  it  was  again,  a  short  distance  up  the  street. 
B-It  made  me  a  profound  mock  obeisance,  and  immediately  set  off 

anew. 


L 


542 


Tht  Gtntleniai^s  Magazhu. 


"  As  I  need  not  tell  you,  ihe  figure  wbicli  I  was  pursuing  was 
visible  only  to  myseir.  The  street  was  full  of  people,  iherc  were  all 
the  usual  noise,  bustle,  and  gaiety  of  the  city  at  that  hour;  bot 
though  it  passed  through  the  midst  of  the  crowd,  in  all  the  fantas- 
tic singularity  of  its  costume  and  manner,  no  one  stepped  out  of 
Us  way,  or  turned  to  gaze  at  it.  That  it  should  be  so  terrible  a 
reality  to  mc,  and  at  the  same  time  so  completely  non-cxistcni  lo-  ^ 
the  rest  of  the  worhl,  affected  mc  strangely.  Here  was  a  new  bou 
of  relationship  between  me  and  it.  My  misery  and  I  were  one  ; 
but  the  link  which  united  us  was  a  cap  of  invisibility  for  the 
demon. 

"/was  not  inWsible,  however,  nor  unnoticed.  I  was  consd 
that  every  one  was  staring  at  mc — and  no  wonder !  I  most  ha' 
presented  an  odd  spectacle,  bunding  onward  with  no  apparent 
object,  and  with  an  expression  of  face  which  may  n-cl!  have  been 
startling  to  behold.  But  ."io  long  as  no  attempt  was  made  to  stop 
me,  I  was  indifferent  to  remark.  I  had  determined  to  follow  my 
black  friend  in  the  plumed  liat,  no  matter  where  the  chase  might 
lead  mc. 

"The  pace  grew  quicker  and  quicker.    We  went  down  the  Hay- 
market,  and  were  now  in  the  tJirong  of  the  Strand.    All  the  places 
which  I  know  so  well  passed  by  like  remembered  dreams.    They 
seemed  illusions,  and  the  only  real  snbsfmce  in  the  world  was  this 
Thing  that  I  pursued.    T^e  dark  shape  continued  to  glide  forward 
with  easy  speed,  ever  and  anon  giving  mc  a  glimpse  of  the  pallid 
malignance  of  its  evil  visage :  but  my  own  breath  was  beginning  t 
come  hard,  and  the  difficulty  of  forcing  a  path  thrtnigb  the  pr 
became  greater  as  we  neared  the  heart  of  the  city.  Passing  beneath 
Temple  Bar,  the  spectre  stopped  a  moment  and  stamped  its  foolj 
imperiously,  at  the  same  time  beckoning  to  me  with  an  impaticn 
gesture.    I  sprang  forward,  yearning  to  grapple  with  it ;  but  it  was 
gone  again,  and  seemed  to  Hit  like  a  shadow  along  the  sidewalk. 
Its  merriment,  however,  now  forsook  alt  bounds — it  appeared  to  lie 
in  a  ceaseless  con^'ulsion  of  chuckling  laughter.    We  flew  onward. 
but  so  absorbed  in  my  pursuit  had  I  now  become,  that  1  recollect 

nothing  distinctly  until  the  tower  of  St.  G 's  came  into  view.    1 

think  a  premonition  of  what  was  to  occur  entered  my  mind  then, 
The  hobgoblin  disappeared — seemingly  through  th«  iron  railing  of 
the  contracted  graveyard  which  bounds  the  northern  side  of  the 
chorch.   I  came  up  to  the  railing  and  Uiokcd  within.   It  v  < 
on  an  ancient  headstone  blackened  by  London  smoke  an<{ 
time;  it  sat  with  its  elbows  on  its  knees,  and  its  bead  in  its  hands. 


CalboV s  Rival. 


t 

I 


"A^sornbre  shadow  fell  about  it,  which  the  cheerful  snnshinc  coald 
not  penetrate  ;  but  its  awful  eyes  emitted  a  dusky  phosphorescent 
glare,  dimly  illuminating  the  leering  features.  -\s  I  looked,  a  change 
came  over  them — thc-y  were  now  those  of  a  corpse  already  moulder' 
ing  in  decays— crumbling  into  nothingness  before  my  eyes,  The 
whole  figure  gradually  faded  or  darkened  ai"i*ay:  I  cannot  tell  how 
or  when  it  vanished.  I'rusunlly  I  was  staring  fixedly  at  an  old 
tombstone,  with  a  name  and  a  date  upon  it ;  but  the  churchyard 
vas  empty." 

IX. 

or  my  own  accord  I  now  reproduced  my  decanter  of  port  wine, 
and  Calbot  and  I  fiaished  it  before  cither  of  u£  spoke  another 
word. 

What  he  ^-as  thinking  of  meanwhile  I  know  not ;  for  my  part, 
I  was  endeavouring  to  put  in  order  a  number  of  disjointed  ideas, 
imbibrd  at  various  epochs  during  this  evening,  whose  logical 
gemeiit,  I  M-as  convinced,  would  go  far  towards  elucidating 
lUQch  of  the  mystery.  As  to  the  positively  supernatural  part  of 
Calbot's  experience,  of  course  1  had  no  way  of  accounting  for  that; 
but  I  fancied  there  were  materials  at  hand  tolerably  competent  to 
xaise  a  ghost,  allowing  such  a  thing  as  a  ghost  to  he  possible. 

"  I  am  glad,  Calbot,"  I  began,  "  thai  you  camo  to  me.  Vour  good 
sense— or  instinct,  perhaps,  directed  you  aright.  Do  not  duspairi 
I  should  not  be  surprised  were  we  to  manage  between  us  to 
discover  that  your  happiness,  so  far  from  being  at  an  end,  was  just 
on  the  point  of  establishing  itself  upon  a  trustworthy  foundation." 
Calbot  shook  his  head  gloomily.  "  Well,  well,"  resumed  I,  *'  let  us 
see.  In  the  first  place — as  regards  that  locket.  It  will  perhaps 
surprise  you  to  learn  that  1  had  heard  of  it  before  jou  came  this 
e\'eQing — had  read  quite  a  minute  description  of  it,  in  fact." 
^   *'  Where  ?  "  demanded  my  friend,  raising  his  eyes. 

"That  will  appear  later.  I  must  first  ask  you  whether,  in  the  old 
family  documents  yon  spoke  of,  the  personal  appearance  of  thit 

chibaid  Armstrong  was  particularly  delineated  't " 

"  I  hardly  know;  I  have  no  recollection  of  any  especial  passage 
—and  yet  1  fancy  it  must  have  been  given  with  some  hilncss; 
because  when  I  saw  the  hobgoblin,  its  costume  and  aspect  seemed 
curiously  familiar." 

And  had  I  seen  it,  there  is  little  doubt  in  my  mind  that  I  should 
Tiave  recognised  it  also." 

"  Indeed  I "  exclaimed  Calbol,  sitting  nprighl  in  his  chaw» "  Vvsw 
appens  that  ?" 


544 


The  Gmticmaits  Magazine. 


• 


"  Wait  a  moment,  —  1  ara  merely  collecting  evidence.  Now, 
have  you  any  reason  to  suppose  thai  a  connection  of  any  sort, 
friendly,  business,  or  other,  subsisted  between  your  unhappy  ances- 
tor and  this  Armstrong  prcvioas  to  the  former's  marriage  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean   whether    he    was    under  any  obligations  to 
Annsirong  ?  " 
'■  Yea." 

••  He  may  have  been— but  the  idea  is  new  to  me.    How  " 

"  I  am  not  done  yet.  Now,  did  it  never  occur  to  you— or, 
I  should  say,  docs  it  not  seem  probable —that  the  locket 
vhich  you  had  found  hidden  away  In  your  mother's  jewel-box 
was  in  some  way  connected  with  the  family  tragedy  you  told  mc  of?" 
"I  have  thought  of  it,  Drayton;  there  is  no  difficulty  in 
imagining  such  a  thing;  the  trouble  is,  wc  haven't  the  slightest 
evidence  of  it." 

"  I  was  .ibout  to  say,"  I  rejoined,  "  that  there  is  direct  evidence 
of  precisely  such  a  locket  having  been  bought,  in  the  latter  pan  of 
the  seventeenth  centur)',  by  precisely  such  a  looking  man  as  the  hob- 
goblin you  saw  Co-day.  it  was  to  be  a  wedding  gift  to  the  wonua 
he  was  to  marry  the  next  day." 
Drayton ! " 

"  That  woman  deceived  him,  and  eloped  on  the  eve  of  her  mar- 
riage %vtth  a  firo/^i'^  of  his.    He  professed  forgiveness,  and  sent  the 
locket  as  a  pledge  of  it" 
"Oddl" 

"He  died  in  1698,  and  his  last  recorded  words  were  a  ctuse 
invoked  upon  thost;  whom  he  had  before  professed  to  pardon — 
upon  them  and  their  posterity." 

"But,  Drayton— what" 

"  It  is  my  opinion  that  his  forgiveness  was  merely  a  cloak  to  his 
deadly  and  unrelenting  hatred.  It  is  tny  opinion,  Calbot,  that  the 
pledge  he  gave  was  poisonous  with  evil  and  malicious  influences. 
The  locket  was  made  of  tourmaline,  which  lias  ro)*sterious  pro- 
perties. No  doubt  he  believed  it  a  veritable  witch's  talisman :  and 
from  the  suficritigs  which  afterwards  befell  his  enemies  (not  to 
speak  of  your  own  experience)  one  might  almost  fancy  witchcraft 
to  be  not  entirely  a  delusion  aAer  all." 

"  One  miglit,  indeed  I  Dut  if,  as  you  seem  to  imply,  this  locket 
enabled  Armstrong  to  persecute  Calbot  and  his  wife,  why  did  not 
they  send  it  back  or  destroy  it .'" 

"  Simply  because  they  were  not  aware  of  its  evil  nature,  andi 
fancied  liut  Annstrong's  (if  it  were  his)  profession  of  forgivDncfs 


Calbots  Rival. 

had  been  genuine.  Very  likely  Mrs.  Calbol  habitually  wore  it  on 
her  bosom,  as  Miss  Burleigh  did  ajfain  yesterday,  more  Ihan  a 
centary  later.  Tho  persecutor  must  have  been  a  devil  incarnate, 
from  the  time  he  learnt  hts  lady's  faithlessness  until  his  death ;  and 

after  that " 

"  A  plain  duvil.     Hut  to  come  to  the   point,  you  think  that  the 

^  locket  was  the  .sole  medium  of  his  power  over  them  f*" 

^^    "Undoubtedly.     Then,  after  their  death,   it  remained  in  the 

^■fomily,  but  never  happened  to  bi;  used  again  :  it  is  not  a  jewel 

^Kto  catch  the  eye  by  any  means.     It  remained  perdu  until  you  fished 

it  out  for  Miss  Burleif^h,  and  thereby  stirred  up  the  old  hobgoblin 

to  play  his  devilish  tricks  once  more.     But  by  a  lucky  combination 

of  accidents  you  parted  with  her  in  time ;  she  returned  you  the 

locket,  thus  freeing  ^rr^y  from  the  spectre  ;  and  you,  by  throwing 

it  in  the  Thames,  have  secured  him  against  ever  being  able  to 

.      make  his  appearance  agaiti." 

^^      "It  may   bi;  so,    Drayton,"  cried  Calbot  in  great  excitement. 

"'•I  remember,  too,  that  when  I  gave  her  the  locket  she  promised 

fealty  ta /it  giver  /    Now,  in  fact,  not  I  but  this  cursed  Armstrong 

wa.>i  the  real  giver ;  and  so  Edna  was  actually  surrendering  herself 

Pto  his  power.    Bui,  supposing  your  explanation  conect.  why  may 
lOot  Kdna  and  I  come  together  again  ?" 
"Well,  my  dear  fellow,"  replied  I,  as  I  tit  another  Cabana, 
•*  unless  j-ou  have  acquired  a  ver>'  decided  aversion  to  each  other 
daring  the  last  few  hours,  I  really  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't." 

"  Dra>'ton,  I'm  afraid  to  believe  this  true  !    Tell  me  how  you 
came  upon  your  evidence,  and  what  degree  of  reliance  mar  be 
H  placed  upon  it.", 

™  I  told  him  briefly  about  the  MS.,  and  added  the  conviction 
(at  which  I  had  arrived  during  his  narrative)  that  it  must  have  been 
sent  to  me  by  my  former  friend.  Annstroug's.  executors  ;  and  pro- 
bably comprised  the  very  papers  which  I  had  made  an  ineffectual 
attempt  to  secure  at  the  auction  sale.  "The  only  lame  point  about 
the  matter,"  I  added,  "is,  that  the  MS.  is  wholly  anonj-mous. 
All  the  names  arc  blanks ;  and  though  I  have  no  doubt,  now, 
that  Ihey  are  Armstrong,  Bujleigh,  and  Calbot,  there  is  no  direct 
proof  of  it." 

My  friend's  face  fell.    "  There,  it  may  be  only  a  coincidence 
after  all!" 

"Nonsense!    a  coincidence  indeed  I      If  you  have   credulity 
enough  to  believe  in  such  a  '  coincidence '  as  that,  ycu  U%v%  ^%v 

tainly  mistaken  yourprofcssioa'' 

Vot.  XVU..  N.S.  1876.  B  T 


%. 


546 


The  GeniUman  s  Magazine. 


"ITvoa  wore  ala«7cr,"  tclumedhe,  "yon  would  know  tliat  thtte 
is  Qo  limit  to  the  strangeness  of  coincidences.  But  let  nc  see 
the  JtS." 

"  It  is  there  on  the  table,  at  yoor  elbow.' 

Calbot  turned  and  took  it  up, 

*'  How's  this — it's  wet,  soaking  wnt  I "  he  exclaimed.   *'  Drayton, 
m  aTraid  1  must  ha*c  cracked  that  old  vase-  of  yours.     It  has  been 
leaking,  and  the  t-ible  t3  flooded.*' 

It  was  too  true.  The  precious  wjter  of  life  had  been  preserved' 
through  so  many  generations  merely  for  the  sake  of  spoiling  tlie 
morocco  of  my  study  table  at  last.  Vanished  were  my  hopes  of 
earthly  immortality.  Cautiously  lifting  the  vase,  in  the  hope  that 
somewhat  of  the  precious  "ichor  might  yet  be  saved,  the  whole 
bottom  fell  out.  Calbot  was  sony,  of  course,  but  he  had  no 
conception  of  the  extent  of  the  misfortune.  He  observed  that 
the  vase  could  easily  be  mended  I  as  if  the  vase  were  tho  dtief 
treasure. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  I,  rather  soberly,  after  we  had  sopped  up  the 
inestimable  elixir,  as  well  as  we  could,  with  our  handkerchiefs.  **  I 
shall  die  an  eternity  or  two  the  sooner,  anil  shall  have  to  get  my' 
table  new  covered— that's  all.  I  hope.  Calbot,  that  the  good  which 
your  visit  here  has  done  you,  will  be  a  small  fraction  as  great  as  the 
loss  it  has  inflicted  upon  me.  Welt,  and  how  has  the  MS.  come  out 
of  the  scrape  i>    All  washed  out,  I  suppose.!' 

Wth  a  penitent  eye  Calbot  took  h  up  once  more,  and  ran  \Aa 
eye  over  tiic  last  page.  1  saw  his  expn-isiun  change.  He  knit  his 
brows — looked  up  at  me  with  a  quick,  questioning  glance — ^looktd 
back  to  the  page  ;  and  finally  said  "  Oh  I  " 

"What?" 

"  It  seems  you  had  filled  in  the  blanks  before  I  came? ' 

"With  the  first  four  letters  of  the  alphabet.    Yes  1 " 

"With  the  names  in  full!" 

"  What  namcii  ?  " 

"Why,  Dra>ton,  the  firat  thing  I  looked  at  was  this  record  of 
'  ondyinge  Hatred,'  Sic.  It  contains  all  the  four  names — yours  as 
one  of  the  witnesses  of  Armstrong's  signature.  They  are  written 
out  ID  pale  red  ink,  as  plain  as  can  be  " 

I  had  jumpctl  from  ray  chair,  and  taken  the  MS.  from  Catbot'x 
hand.  It  was  impossible — it  vns  inconceivable  I  but  it  was  true. 
The  page  was  thoroughly  wetted  through,  but  there  were  the  ihnrc 
names — the/f>«r  namcA,  for  my  own  was  addcii,  in  tbc  charsrter  of 
compiler  of  the  wfld^^lainly  tract 


'-  have  done  it  in  a  fit  of  abstraction  ?  No,  for  the  chirograplij-  was 
not  mine — it  was  identical  with  all  thd  rcsl  of  the  writing.  In  my 
utter  bewildennenl,  I  raised  my  eyes  to  llic  wall,  where  Imng  ths 
picture  of  my  ecclesiastical  ancestor — he,  the  alchemist,  the  busy- 
body, the  dcaih-bcd  confidant,  the  suspected  wizard— and  my 
own  namesake — we  were  the  only  two  Toxo;>hiIuscs  in  all  the 
line  of  Draytons.  Once  more,  for  the  third  or  fourth  time 
that  evening,  it  struck  me  that  be  looked  excessively  khowlngf 

rd  sly. 
Who  can  analyse  the  lightning  evolutions  of  human  thonght  ?  ■  I 
knew  the  trutli  before  I  could  explain  it.    It  crj'Stallised  in  my -brain 
all  in  a  moment.    A  glance  at  the  front  of  the  MS.,  which  had  nut 
been  welted,  confirmed  me. 

H^  I  ihrnv  down  the  MS.,  clapped  Calbot  on  the  shoulder,  andburst 

"feto  an  immoderate  fit  of  laughter,  vhich  his  astonished  and  con- 
cerned aspect' served  only  to  aggravate.  Itwassomeminuiea  before 
I  cooM  speak.  '-'ft; 

^^    "  It  is  a  simple  matter  after  all,"  1  said.     "  My  old  progcmtor* 

^Uiere  on  the  wall,  was  a  friend— confidential  friend — of  Armstrong's. 

^It  was  he  who  wrote  that  MS,,  and  lefttho  blanks,  wbirh  are  not 
blanks,  but  names  wtitten  in  Fnvisjble  ink.  He  prepared,  then,  the 
chemical  reagent  for  the  purpose  of  making  the  im-isiblo  writing 
visible  whcne\"er  the  time  should  come.  Perhaps  he  meant  to 
apply  it  himyclf  some  day ;  but,  unluckily,  death  snatched  him  all 

^binawares  from  the  scene  of  his  pious  intrigues.    The  MS.  got  into 

^■thc  hands  of  Armstrong's  heirs  (from  whom  1  this  day  received  it). 
The  reagent  stayed  with  the  Draytons.  This  evening  you  came 
and  brought  the  two  together  in  your  own  inimitable  style.  Vou  see, 
wherever  the  paper  is  wet,  the  blanks  are  filled  in  :  the  untouched 
parts  arc  blanks  still.  Oh,  John,  John  1  I  wish  this  had  hap- 
pened before  I  printed  my  article  on  'Unrecognisable  Truths:'  it 

^is  a  peculiarly  apt  illustration." 

Wk  "Didn't  1  tel!  you,"  said  Calbot,  after  a  pause,  "that  there  ■was 

^nothing  in  the  world  so  strange  as  coincidences?" 

"There  is  the  hobgoblin  still  unaccounted  for,"  answeredl;  "but 

ihave  done  my  part;  I  leave  the  rest  to  yon." 
«  •  «  «  » 

The  next  day  but  one  came  a  note  from  my  friend.     Ii  ran  :— 
"  ^Vhat  did  I  do  at  your  rooms  last  night  ?     Was  1  queer  at  all  ? 
I  had  intended  calling  on  you  that  day,  to  tell  you  that  Edna  and  t 

Kcrc  going  to  bt  married  April  1st,  and  to  g^V  ■^QU  Iot  m'j  \««»- 
«  ■»  * 


548  The  GmtUmatCs  Magaziiu. 

man.  Did  I  tell  you  ?  Because,  if  not,  I  do  now.  The  fact  is, 
you  see,  I  had  been  reading  over  some  curious  old  family  docu- 
ments (I  think  I  spoke  to  you  about  them  ?)  and  then  I  went  up 
to  Edna's  and  frightened  her  half  to  death  with  telling  her  ghost 
stories  about  the  locket  I'd  given  her  as  a  betrothal  gift  (a  queer 
little  thing  it  is.  Did  I  ever  mention  it  to  you  ?)  Well,  going  home 
I  met  young  De  Quincey,  and  be  proposed — he's  always  up  to 
some  devilry  or  other — he  proposed  doing  something  which  I  shall 
never  do  again ;  I  was  a  fool  to  try  it  at  all,  but  I  had  no  notion 
how  it  would  act.  I'm  afraid  I  may  have  annoyed  you.  I  have  an 
idea  I  upset  your  ink-bottle,  and  that  I  got  it  into  my  head  that  the 
ghost  stoiy  I  had  been  telling  Edna  was  true.  How  was  it  ?  I 
know  I  felt  deathly  sick  the  next  morning  ;  I'm  not  certain 
whether  it  was  the  port  wine  I  drank,  or  that  confounded  hasheesh 
that  I  took  with  young  De  Quincey.  I  promised  Edna  I'd  never 
take  any  more.  Well,  you  won't  object  to  being  my  best  man,  will 
yon? 

"J.  G." 

So  far  from  explaining  the  essential  mystery — the  Ghostly  Rival — 
this  letter  of  John's  only  makes  it,  to  my  mind,  more  inscrutable 
than  ever.  Talk  about  coincidences  1  For  my  part,  I  prefer  to 
believe  in  ghosts. 


It  was  hia  thought  he  saw :  the  presence  fair 

Of  unjicbic^'cd  achievement,  uf  bigi  tssk. — Jtihal. 


IR.  WHYiMPER  says  of  the  vicl{ms  of  tlie  first 
glorious  but  fata]  ascent  of  the  Mattcrhom  that 
they  weru  left,  wiicn  first  ihu  bodies  wore  found, 
"  buried  in  snow  at  the  base  of  Lhi:  grandest  clifT 
of  (Itu  mosl  majestic  mountain  of  the  Alps."  Not  unly  is  tlm 
Mattcrhom  the  most  majestic  mountain  in  the  Alps,  but  it  is,  for 
aujfht  that  I  could  ever  learn  by  talc  or  history,  the  most  unique 
and  splendid  mounlain  in  the  world.  It  is  aa  distinctive  amongst 
mountains  as  Shakespeare  is  amongst  poets.  It  is  not,  of  course, 
the  highest  or  the  largest ;  but  no  drawing  or  description  of  those 
that  arc  higher  or  larger  conveys  the  same  idea  of  such  a  splendid, 
heaven-soaring  cone,  rising  up  loftily,  abruptly,  and  alone,  from  out 
such  a  wide,  waste  basis  of  all-surroundiiig  snow-fields.  Other 
mountains  arc  near  enough  to  contrast,  but  not  to  compare  with 
this  grand  aad  solitary  peak  ;  upon  whose  wizard  heights  there  arc 
no  slopes,  but  only  precipices.  Though  streaked  with  stiow  or  ice, 
he  is  yet  wholly  rock ;  iron,  adamantine,  inexorable.  Snow  rests 
permanently  on  but  few  places  of  his  grim  and  savage  steepness , 

Band  the  magic  form  and  stiaj)e  express  subtly,  but  admirably,  the 
characteristics,  and  even  the  character,  of  the  stem  and  deadly 
mounlain.  Like  ftrary  Queen  of  Scots,  the  Mattcrhom,  though 
irresistible  in  attraction,  may  yet  be  fatal  to  fascinated  lovers.  In 
his  art  expression,  he  is  tragic  as  Mrs.  Siddons  was.  He  is  the  lago 
of  mountains  ;  seeming  honest,  but  capable  of  ruliiless  villainy. 
Nay,  it  may  even  be  whispered  here  that  the  Mattcrhom  is  not 

^incapable  of  murder. 

^B    It  is  hard  to  divest  the  mountain  of  a  distinct  personality  and  a 

Hmalignant  character.     He  has  a'  temper  and  a  demoniac  will. 

^Consider  only  what  he  did  when  he  found  himself  no  longer  able 
lo  preserve  his  haunted  summit  from  the  foot  of  man.  Hia 
resentment  led  him  then  to  terrible,  to  moat  ita%\c\cu£>-\va\  -asA, 


i 


Kre: 


550 


The  Gentkfttan* s  Maffxzine. 


L 


he  will  yd  again,  unless  I  misread  his  <]i8po$ition,  seek,  revenge  for 
the  indignity  of  repeated  ascents  by  bringing  about  some  other 
catastrophe  which  shall  revive  in  the  minds  of  men  his  sinister  and 
demoniac  reputation. 

Imagination  ofl-timcs  delights  to  disport  itself  in  airy  realms  lying 
outside  of  and  above  the  closely  fenced  preserves  gf  'hsason  and  of 
logic.     In  that  fantastic  kingdom 

\VfacK  nothing  n,  bat  all  things  «ecRi, 

It  is  impossible  to  dissever  the  conception  of  Mattcrhom  from  the 
idea  oF  an  infra-human  and  most  mysterious  bcinfi.  It  will  not 
present  itself  to  the  excited  fancy  as  a  merely  dead  thing,  as  ablock 
of  rock  without  volition  or  ferling.  The  life  th.il  imagination 
attributes  to  its  awful  mass  is  inscrutable  and  occult.  That  life 
touches  our  life  at  tbir  mystic  point  at  which  the  human  touches  the 
demoniac.  Old  local  superstition  made  its  haunted  cliffs  the  homtti 
of  demons.  The  Wandering  Jew  and  the  spirits  of  the  damned 
were  supposed  to  reside,  amid  its  invincible  and  inaccessible  preci- 
pices. A  ruined  city,  the  residence  of  demons  and  of  fallen  apiritSa- 
was  popularly  believed  to  exist  upon  the  ghastly  summit ;  and  th6 
weird  impression  which  its  terrible  fonn  made  upon  the  human 
mind  engendered  legend,  dread,  and  horror.  Tho  Mattcrhom  owe«^^ 
solely  to  himself  tlie  dark  beliefs  which  be  himself  has  created. 

I  saw  thiR  year  tliu  magic  mount  under  two  very  remarkable  and 
strongly  contrasted  aspects.  On  one  most  splendid  day,  the  per- 
fection of  summer  glory,  I  -kza  descending  from  the  RifTel  to 
Zcrmalt.  The  lime  was  afternoon.  There  is  one  point  in  the 
descent  from  which  thero  is  a  singulariy  fme  view  of  the  Matter- 
bom,  and  at  this  point  we  stt^ped  to  gaze  at  the  imperial  gtonL 


The  sky  was  blue  is  the  summer  sea. 
The  (lq>tlis  w«»  duixUen  orcfhcail. 
The  ail  wai  calm  u  it  could  be. 


TTic  skies  quivcreil  with  excess  of  light ;  were  tremulous  with 
intensity  of  heal.  The  still  and  shining  air  was  flooded  with  the 
fervid  brilliancy  of  cloudless  sun-radiance;  and  Iho  ver>'  blue  of 
the  hea\*ens  was  suffused  with  goldon  splendour.  The  huge,,) 
soaring  cone  was  softcnetl  into  a  faini,  hazy,  violet  shape  and  foim. 
Its  substance  was  not  then  bani  or  well  dcflncd.  lu  pale  delicate 
tone  .ind  outline  sank  into  the  luminous  ainirc  air-ocean  whict 
wholly  surrounded  and  half  absorbed  it.  A  little  darker  only  tha 
the  boming,  sim-sicepcd  sky  behind  It,  the  Maltcrhora  seemcrl  to 
be  almost  irr  r':  -'^<-^.     No  U 


i 


i 


a  shimmering  vision. of  softest  bulk  and  of  tendL-rcst  colour,  lovely 
b«>'onil  expression.  Its  usual  a!^pi;ct  was  chani^cU  almust  past 
recognition:  and  tht-  contrast  was  most  striking.  It  seemed  gentle 
and  almost  loving.  It  did  not  stand  clearly  out  from  the  gleaming 
light  and  hue  which  spread  about  its  ever  noble  mass.  No  marks, 
or  UiitiS,  or  scars  weru  visiblu,  ;iii  ihcy  usually  arc,  upon  the  di-'^ply 
worn  face.  All  detail  had  melted  into  the  soft  Hush  of  faintest, 
aerial  purple  hues ;  and  the  mountain  had  mixed  and  blended  with 
the  gorgeous  heavens.  It  had  merged  itscif  into  the  subtly 
subduing  ulvmctits  of  air.  It  was  an  atmospheric  wonder  and  a 
chann.  The  shade  upon  the  nortUern  face  was  only  a  toae  deeper 
in  hue ;  and  the  changed  mountain  had  become  sublimated, 
glorified,  by  a  divine  and  lovc-warm  witchery  of  colour  and  of  light. 
This  rare  sight  I  saw  ihree  daj-s  before  I  made  the  ascent ;  and 
1  saw  the  mountain  uudi^r  another  but  a  vcr^'  different  aspect  three 
days  aftec  X  had  dcsct:nded  from  his  proud  crest. 

It  was  night — still,  dark  night — at  Zermatl.  A  fuw  stare  shone 
dimly  in  the  great  dusk  void;  and  from  behind  the  Mischabel 
rHdrner  broad  vivid  flashes  of  sheet  lightning,  intense  but 
instantaneous,  streamed  swiftly  vanishing  flames  of  pate  light 
upon  the  valley.  I  strolled  a  Utile  way  above  Seller's  Hotel,  to  that 
point  from  which  the  .Mattcrliorn  is  first  and  is  clearly  scon.  The 
.jnoimtain  itself  was  dimly  visible — its  weird  form  a  deeper  gloom 
pon  the  deep  gloom  of  night.  Suddenly  came  a  brilliant  flash 
f  light,  and  the  spectral  shape  gleamed  for  a  brief  instant  dis- 
tiactly  in  intense  and  gha:>Lly  whiteness.  Thcri:  was  at  the  time 
a  great  deal  of  snow  on  the  mountain  ;  and  it  was  wonderful  to  see 
how  clearly  its  blue  blanched  cone  stood  out,  for  a  magic  second, 
from  the  ebon  obscurity  and  the  m}*stery  of  heavy  night.  It 
seemed,  indeed,  not  as  if  the  Mattcrhom  were  shone  upon  by 
lightning  from  outside,  but  as  if  hs  were  irradiated,  lit  up,  by  light 
proceeding  from  within,  lie  vanished  wholly  into  darkness,  and 
IhcD  burst  out  again  suddenly  into  the  strange  life  of  wondrous 
light.  Nothing  else,  no  other  object,  made  such  use  of  the  electric 
gleaming ;  and  the  huge  mountain  Jlashed  out  of  sight,  and  then 
reappeared  as  by  magic,  flaming  whiteiy,  revealed  to  wondering 
sight  like  sympathetic 'ink  made  visible  by  lightning.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  mountain  itself  gave  out  electric  fire.  In  nothing  that  he 
does  is  the  Mattcrhom  allogelher  like  other  mountains.  The 
Mattcrhom  is.  indeed. 

As  the  greatest  only  arc, 
III  his  liiinpllciLy  sublime. 


And  yet  the  term  "  sublime,"  so  welt  merited  in  so  many  respects, 
is  so  Tar  iiiappli cable  ikat  the  crime-stained  mountain  suggests  Lbe 
demoniac  as  well  as  the  divini: ;  has  a  touch  of  Milton's  Satan  as 
well  as  a  suggestion  of  his  archangel.  Had  B)Ton  known  the 
Malttrhom,  it  would  have  been  tht  mountain  for  Manfred,  instead 
of  those  pale  cliffs  of  the  snowy  Jun^rau,  on  which,  as  we  learn 
from  the  chamois-hunter,  there  grew  a  shrub,  while  a  chAlct  was 
attainable  "within  an  hour."  No  shniLis  or  ch^lels  on  our  wild, 
bare  Marterhom  !  What  home  could  pool  find,  or  feign,  so  fit  for 
the  three  Destinies,  or  for  Nemesis,  as  is  that  marvellous  and 
romantic  peak  ? 

In  tilt;  first  half  of  the  August  of  187&  we  bad  singularly  fine 
weather ;  in  the  latter  half  the  worst  weather  that  I  ever  remember 
in  tlie  Alps. 


^^? 


My  old  love  returned ; — 


Oni  hope*  Like  toweriDg  falcoiu  aim 
At  objects  in  an  tiiy  height ; 


d  I  resolved  once  more  to  attempt  the  Matterhom.  I  fixed 
upo[i  t)ic  15th  of  August  for  the  ascent.  1  could  not  get  Melchior 
Anderegg,  because  his  lirst  master,  G.  C.  P.  Lyvet6tc,  the  best 
mountaineer  of  the  day,  wanted  Atekliior  for  another  expedition  ; 
but  I  engaged  Moser  and  Joseph  Taugwalder,  both  of  Zcrmatt. 
Ail  other  guides  are  at  a  gn-at  disadvantage  when  brought  into 
comparison  with  the  peerless  Mclchior,  but  I  had  evciy  reason  to 
be  satisfied  with  my  two  men.  Moscr  is  very  steady,  strong,  care- 
ful :  while  young  Joseph  (the  nephew  of  old  Peter  Taugwaldcr) 
will  ripen  into  an  excellent  guide. 

About  ten  a.m.  wc  set  off  from  the  Monte  Rosa  Hotel.  A  porter 
was  to  go  with  us  as  far  as  the  hut.  The  morning  was  brilliant, 
but  n'as  burningly  hot  with  that  stinging  heat  which  forebodes  bad 
weather.  Wc  slrollcd  gently  up  the  zig-xags  till  wc  came  to  the 
end  of  the  trees,  where  the  guides  and  porter  slopped  to  cut  wood. 
I  went  on  alone,  winding  up  the  paths,  crossing  the  rough 
meadows  where  the  bright  waters  rush  down  babbling  to  the  ran 
through  vivid  green  of  grass,  until  I  reached  the  little  lonely 
Schwarssee  chapel,  just  below  the  Horoli,  where  I  nuited  for  the 
others. 

Guidi'S  on  the  Matterhom  arc  far  more  grave  and  earnest  than 
ihey  are  on  any  other  mountain.  They  feci  that  they  ttie  niuler- 
laking  a  serioufi  and  a  dangerous  task,  and  a:     1.  '  [>t  than 

lie  guides  crott  thwn»ci 


j4»  Asceni  of  the  Afaiter/wrn. 

'liltle  chapel.    At  that  point  a  cerlain  gravity  of  manner  and  of 
spuech,  which  is  contagious,  begins  to  spread  through  a  Matter- 
[hom  part}-. 

Leaving  the  black  lake,  you  cross  a  wide  stony  waste,  and  traverse 
F«  dull  dust  and  slatc-colotircd  moraine.     Just  here  a  hush  came 
over  the  sunny  light,  and  a  gentle  sigh  breathed  through  the  quiet 
air.     We  had  Lad  &nu  weather  for  so  Eong,  that  weather  wisdom 
was  something  oS  its  guard.  Some  people,  when  the  sun  is  shining, 
I  never  conceive  the  possibility  of  bad  weather,    Wc  wcru  not  so  un- 
Lvtse,  but  wc  wholly  failed  to  realise  the  storm  that  was  in  store. 
tWo  dill  not  foresee  that  the  weather  would  change  from  fine  to 
worst  while  we  were  on  our  mountain,     .\fter  the  moraine  comes  a 
I      niggcJ  rock  ridge  of  abuut  a  mile  and  a  half  in  length,  which 
^■extends  between  the  Ubmli  and  the  mountain  itself.    As  you  pass 
along  this  natural  bridge  the  great  peak  is  always  full   in  view.     It 
was  in  shadow  as  wc  a])pruai;hed  it.   The  sombre  cone,  huge,  mas- 
sive, threatening,  upreared  its  awful  crags  and  precipices  before 
our  earnest  gaze.    A  level  stretch  of  snow  is  next  passed :  you  meet 
lough  rock  directly  you  have  crossed  the  snow,  and  you  arc  then 
B  fairly  apon  the  great  mountain.    On  its  precipitous  crags  you  Itnd 
"  scanty,  narrow  ledges  of  a  few  inches  only  in  width,  and  these 
ledges  run  steeply  up  the  face,  or  the  edge,  of  the  main  wall  of 
rock.     Soon  you  reach  a  deep  snow  gully,  or  what  is  ordinarily  a 
snow  gully,  running  up  and  into  the  side  of  the  mountain  ;  but  this 
gully,  when  we  passed  up  it,  w.i3,  owing  to  the  long  dry  weather, 
no  longer  a  snow  slope,  but  a  kind  of  hanging  glacier  of  sheer  ice. 
It  cost  U3  time  and  trouble  lo  cut  steps  up  its  smooth,  hard  steep- 
ness.    You  pass  again  to  the  haunted  cliflTs  ;  and  at  this  point  we 
saw  thin  greyish  white  filmy  wreaths  of  mist  steal  up  from  the  Purge 
glacier  and  from  the  enormous  snowJields  beyond  it.     It  appeared 
as  if  the  cold  glacier  surface  steamed  with  heat.    Soon  camo  sharp 
hail  ;  then  snowy  rain  and  comparative  chilliness.    We  toiled  oa 
over  the  laborious  ascent  with  quickened  speed  ;  but  we  were  very 
wet  when  wo  reached  the  hut  at  live.     The  bad  passage  just  below 
the  hut  was  worse  than  usual.     Large  stones  had  fallen  away;  the 
chain  had  been  removed,  and  an  untrustworthy  little  rape  substi- 
tuted.   Out  of  the  narrow  rough  ledge  which  runs  along  the  Furge 
side  of  the  hut  a  large  block  of  rock  had  fallen,  leaving  a  rather 
ugly  chasm  to  jump  over.     Wind  and  cloud  can  co-esist  upon  the 
Matterhom.    The  first  animals  in  a  rushing  herd  of  wild  buffaloes 
move  fast,  but  tlierc  are  plenty  to  succeed  them,  and  the  great  mass 

Keeps  steadily  on.    So  with  clouds  here:  the^  Axvjfe  %'«A\\'j ^\mS. 


J 


554 


Tiu  Gentktfuttt^  s  Magazine. 


manjr  follow  the  first  ones^  and  the  supply  seems  inexbau<;iible. 
They  whirl,  and  eddy,  and  trtwcr  roand  you,  and  then  cease  all  at 
once,  as  they  did  when  wc  reached  the  hnt.  It  became  company-, 
tivcly  fine  again  as  wc  began  to  cook. 

The  hut  itself  is  a  misenibic  ri-fiige ;  but  it  is  difficult  to 
any  place  for  a  cabant  on  the  MaUeiborn,  and  the  present  pitch  is 
supposed  to  l)ti  sbcltCFed  Air^iost  falling  »tones.  One  sida  of  the 
hut  is  the  bare  high  rock  itself;  the  other  side  is  constructed  of 
mde  boards.  The  roof  is  open  to  wind  and  to  water.  The  floor  is 
of  ice,  liidden  by  a  little  dirty  hay.  Tbcie  is  no  space  outside. 
After  tiark  yon  can  scarcely  issue  forth  without  a  guide ;  and  the 
small  patch  before  the  hut  falls  away  very  steeply  to  the  Furge 
glacier  lying  deep  below.  All  round  is  the  hardness  of  rock  ;iiid 
the  coldness  of  snow.  The  view  from  it  is  grand,  but  the  place 
itself  seems  always  insecure,  and  is  vrretchedly  uncomfortable.  It  is 
a  wild  and  savat^e  pitch,  and  is  one  of  those  shelters  which  ate  onl/ 
rendered  tolerable  by  strong  necessity. 

J..  Wc  had  a  night  of  darkness,  cold,  and  snow.    Wc  had  intended 
to  start  at  four,  but  Moser,  rising  at  three,  found  snow  and  froa 
and  said  that  we  must  wait.     Ultimately,  the  weather  having  .the 
improved,  we  did  start  at  7.30. 

The  shoulder  is  a  wild  crag  to  scale.  That  passed,  yoo  stand  at 
the  foot  of  the  long  high  passage  which  rises  up  straight  abc^e  you 
on  the  north-east  edge.  Down  the  smooth  dark  rocks  ihrce  chains 
descend.  The  surrace  of  the  towering  rucks  was  coaLcd  with  frozen 
snow,  and  every  crack  and  ledge  was  full  of  ice.  Availing  our- 
selves of  the  useful  chains,  vre  climbed  carefully  and  adhesive^ 
up— 

Uno  innan/i  altro,  ptendendo  In  >cala 

Che  per  aiuua  I  Mliiut  dupaja. 

Ora  ora,  onde  '1  sallr  noo  voica  ctorpio. 

The  height  of  this  dark  passage  is,  purhajis,  two  hundred  feet ;  and 
it  looks  from  below  vcr}-  cruel  and  dangerous.  The  day  was  sullen 
aiid  gloomy,  threatening  and  chilly.  Hail  and  snow  were  in  con- 
stant readiness,  and  the  wind  blew  fiercely,  though  now  and  then 
it  died  away,  in  low  sighs,  for  a  brief  space.  There  is  not  one 
comfortable  resting  place  between  the  (oham  and  the  top.  On  tli« 
shoulder  the  guides  objected  to  carry  anything — even  a  bottle  of 
champagne — to  the  summit ;  and  wc  I(.-n.  that,  and  a  few  sketchy 
eatables,  on  a  jiatch  of  uneasy  roi  k  upon  the  shoulder  itself.  While 
climbing  the  chain  cliff,  I  had  a  private  idea  that  Mclchior  would 
.Jjiive  hesititted  to  go  beyond  the  hut  ia^o^v^ 
crpii  Jooked  often  and  ^^\ 


An  AscenI  of  the  AftUlerhont. 

mattered  evil  prophecies  and  urged  haste — with  care.  All  the  way 
up  MoBer  lud ;  coming  duwn,  Joseph  took  the  luad.  Just  above 
the  chains  steep  I  had  a  fine  glimpse  of  view  over  the  peak  ocean 
to  the  north ;  but  I  could  not  stop  to  enjoy  it.     The  Finsteraar- 

»honi  and  the  Oberland  group  were  then  temporarily  distinct. 
After  quitting  the  chain  scramble  yoa  come  to  a  very  steep  slope  ^| 
of  snow.  In  our  case  the  freshly  fallen  snow  was  not  deep,  but  it  ^| 
-wu  all  but  ice;  and  a  heavy  hailstorm  came  sharply  down  as  we  ^H 
commenced  the  slope.      MoscKs   axe  cut  the  steps,  but  the  fast  ] 

fallinir  hail  filled  ud  everv  steo  as  it  was  cut.  Tauirwalder  and  mvself 


K 


falling  hail  filled  up  every  step  as  it  was  cut.  Taugwalder  and  myself 
had  no  axes,  but  we  managetl  to  pass  safuly  and  swiftly  up  this  icy 
•now-piece.  Then  more  rock,  just  ihinly  covered  with  frozen  snow 
and  hail ;  then  more  hard  snow ;  and,  as  wc  tread  carefully  up  this, 
we  see  that  we  are  close  upon  the  top.  It  comes — at  last! — and 
we  find  ourselves  at  to.30,  or  10,35,  on  one  side  of  a  long  thin 
ridge  of  hard  snow,  edged  towards  the  Italian  side  by  an  upright 
little  snow  wall  of  about  two  feet  high.  The  guides  caution  me 
emphaticaliy  against  trusting  to  this  wall,  as  it  is  only  cornice. 
Borrowing  the  axe  from  Moser,  I  drive  the  stick  through  it,  and 
the  downward  .ilanling  hale  shows  me  Italy,  We  pass  carefully 
along  this  narrow  snow  ariu  of  a  top,  and  soon  reach  the  very 
highest  point,  the  real  summit  of  the  Matterhom.  Here  we  Gnd  a 
ttaff  and  a  flag  of  a  dull  red  colour  blowing  wildly  about.  It  SL-cms 
that  young  Ulr.  Sciler  had  been  up  here  a  short  time  before,  and 
had  erected  this  memento  of  his  visit.  Moser  tears  off  a  small 
piece  of  this  flag,  and  I  put  it  carefully  away,  intending  (an  inten- 
tion which  I  carried  out)  to  give  the  strip  to  my  kind  friend  Madame 
Seller,  at  Zcrmatt.  1  knew  that  it  would  please  her  to  have  it.  We 
also  saw  a  little  wooden  tablet,  bearing  the  names  of  the  three 
lucky,  If  unwise,  gentlemen  who — in  finest  weather — ascended 
without  guides,  and  left  this  perishable  record  of  their  fortunate  feat. 
I  must. here  pause  to  place  on  record  one  singular  fact.  Mr. 
Whyrapcr,  in  his  illustrations,  and  in  his  printed  and  oral  descrip- 
tions, depicts  the  top  of  the  Maltcrhom  as  a  rather  easy  snow  slope 
Dp  which  men  could  run.  Of  course  it  was  30  when  he  first 
ascended  in  1865  ;  but  now  the  whole  thing  is  changed — there  is 
no  slope  and  no  breadth.  A  sharp  areit,  thin  and  nanow,  extends 
between  the  north-east  and  the  north-west  points  of  the  ridgy 
stimmit.  Disintegration,  which  is  going  on  fast  on  the  great 
peak,  has  been  singularly  active  on  the  summit,  and  wc  did  not 
even  find  a  place  on  which  wc  could  sit  down.  We  stood  during 
the  whole  of  the  short  time  that  we  remaiucA  -a^xv  ^Xvt  «ii\xcw»fc 
highest  point. 


■ 


^ 


Tiic  GmiUtnatCi  Magaziiu. 

For  it  was  very  cold  there.  It  was  freezing  sharply,  and  the 
wind  was  piercingly  keen.  The  guides  urged  "haste,"  and  s;ud 
thai  the  weather  was  going  to  be  so  very  ba4  that  we  must  hurry 
away. 

I  had,  however,  not  attained  ihat  lonely  altiludc  to  turn  IkicIc 
without  a  good  look  round.  I  wanted  lo  photograjih  the  scune 
niion  memory,  and  would  not  move  until  I  liad  done  so.  Wb 
remained  there  only  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour ;  but  tlmt  time, 
inlL-nsely  ust-d,  was  buQiL'icat  for  ray  [jurjiosc. 

What  a  height  it  is  !  You  arc  nearly  1 5,000  Tcet  high  ;  there  is 
awful  s|>ace  around,  and  low,  closely  impending  heavens  abuvc  you. 
The  wind  that  blows  there — and  it  did  blow  on  that  day — ia  virile, 
and  bracing,  and  tonic.  You  soon  feet  that  you  are  not  in  the 
valley.  A  very  thin  hard  ridge  is  underneath  your  feet,  and  on  that 
terrible  north  side  there  are  steep  and  ghastly  depths  below.  There 
is  a  [iroud  feeling  tn  standing  on  the  very  top  of  the  conquered 
Matterhom,  and  I  stamped  my  foot  upon  his  head  in  a  triumph 
which  was  a  defiance  and  an  outrage.  Poetry  has  the  advantage 
over  prose  that  it  can  in  its  pictures  select  the  highest  mutnenM 
of  life,  and  one  such  moment  is  certainly  that  in  which,  when  high  in 
air.ali  that  defeated  peak  lies  down  below  yoa.  Ooeimpression  made 
upon  you  is  that  of  the  blind,  cold,  ruthless  cruelty  .of  the  insensato 
hut  yet  terribly  vicious  mountain.  There  is  a  chill  of  terror  as 
one  thinks  of  that  which  ho  has  done— of  that  which  he  yeC 
could  do. 

Tlie  first  glance  is  naturally  directed  downwards  towards  luly. 
What  do  I  see  there  .-'  A  lini;,  or  rather  broad  streaks,  of  gloom/ 
dun  colour  lilent  with  dusky  indigo,  darker  than  purple,  and  inter- 
woven with  a  suggestion  of  dull  gold.  No  forms  of  mountains  ate 
distinctly  visible  ;  and  lo!— even  while  I  garc — dense,  dark  clouds 
boil  and  surge  up  swiftly  from  Italy:  the  view  is  all  blolled  out, 
and  thick  sulphurous  cloud  darkness  rises,  with  almost,  tncrcdiblo 
rapidity,  until  my  view  is  limited  to  the  southern  shoulder,  and  I 
am  only  intent  upon  seeing  the  southern  route  lo  the  top.  To  tbo 
north  all  is  comparatively  clear — clear  for  a  few  moments — and  1 
see  well  Dent  Blanche,  Gabtlhoni,  Rothhom.  A  splash  of  waa 
sunlight  rests  upon  the  Wcisshom.  The  whole  Obcrland  mof 
soars  up  behind,  and  is  momentarily  clear.  The  wind  wails  loudot' 
with  a  wild  music  melancholy  a?  a  dirge.  The  Monte  Jtojui  chaia' 
is  dim.  The  RilTel,  and  ils  green  slopes,  arc  barely  to  be  recog- 
nised. The  Maltcrhum  and  llie  Zmult  glaciers,  for  and  dlrectljrj 
dotni  below,  arc  pLtinly  to_be  iiun.  'r"' 


An  Ascent  of  ih£  Mailerhorn.  557 

So  I  did  not  have  a  "good  view"  from  the  Matterhom.  But  that 
matters  little.  I  have  seen  fine  unclouded  views  from  many  a  peak, 
bat  to  this  peak  belongs  fitly  storm  and  war  of  elements.  Clouds 
here  do  not  "pause  to  rejiosc  themselves  in  passing  by."  There  is 
no  repose  possible  on  this  'nild  peak,  that  loves  best  an  active 
stniggic  with  !hf- storm-fiends.  "And  a  mighty  tempest  shall  be 
stirred  up  round  about  him."  Tempest  has  its  ovm  deep  beauty  in 
its  fitting  homo.  The  mysterj*  of  dread  latent  force  is  better  fell 
in  such  weather.  The  mountain  is  grander  in  the  flying  gleams  of 
strange  liifhts,  and  fantastic  cloud-forms,  and  hovering  glooms. 
Silent  silver  lights  rest  for  a  brief  instant  on  the  chill  of  snow  and 
on  the  dark  of  rock.  Stonn  lends  a  noble  mystery  undreamed  of 
in  calm  or  sunny  hours.  1  rejoice  that  my  short  experience  of  the 
summit  of  the  Matterhom  was  one  of  grandest  tempest  and  of 
lowering  heavens. 

But  the  guides  urge  departure.  I  turned  unwillingly — except  for 
sense  of  bitter  cold — and  the  descent  began. 

Where  there  is  clear  knowledge  of  great  danger  steps  are  not 
likely  to  slip,  and  we  all  knew  the  work  before  us.  Snow  began  to 
drive  and  frost  to  harden.  Having  only  one  axo,  and  every  step  in 
the  frozen  snow  being  perilous,  we  turned  our  faces  to  the  cold 
slopes,  and  went  down  safer  so.  Between  yoar  legs  you  can  see 
where  thty  fell.  We  reached  the  site  of  Ihe  accident,  and  left  it  a 
little  to  our  right :  but  I  knew  well  all  thai  had  happened  there. 
The  rocks  were  glazed  witii  ice.  The  first  route  was,  by  the  way, 
as  I  am  told,  rather  shorter  and  somewhat  less  difficult  than  the 
present  way;  but  the  latter  is  kept  close  to  the  ca.stem  ridge  In 
order  to  avoid  falling  stones. 

All  this  part  of  the  niouiitain  requires  the  greatest  care,  espe- 
cially when  it  is  as  slippery  as  we  found  it.  A  slip  would  be  fatal, 
and  you  sec  beneath  you  clearly  enough  to  wh.it  a  fail  would  lead. 
Hocks,  snow-powdorcd,  stick  up  every  now  and  then  througli  snow. 
The  question  is  frequently  asked  " Sindtie  fistt"  and  the  answer 
often  comes  "■  Zitmluh"  and  then  again  "  Langsam  zvnvdris /" 
I  know  that  1  was  often  on  places  on  which  I  could  not  have  held 
any  one  if  a  slip  had  happened.  I  was  without  an  axe,  and  the 
holding  on  smooth,  frozen,  downward-tending  rocks  was  an)thing 
btrt  secure.  However,  witli  our  party,  not  the  slightest  hUp  even 
once  occurred.  We  descended  slowly  but  safely.  Wc  took  heed 
to  every  step  and  kept  the  rope  always  taut.  Joseph  led  well 
and  licedfiilly.  Up  and  down  I  never  once  wanted  a  hand 
between  the  shoulder  and  the  top.  The  oW  lW\t\  ib\.ta.wi.  «A  \(»V- 
which  Mr.  Wh^-mpcr  left,  and  which  sliU  \ra\c3tn,ottTnMi\^  Q'*tT  'Owt 


Tft£  GatiicTfiati  s  Magazine. 


sheer  rock,  vas  hidden  from  us  by  fresh  snow,  but  we  knew  where 
it  was.  Snow  fell  and  drove,  and  ihe  wnd  blew  in  fierce  gnats  aa 
we  passed  this  portion  of  the  dangerous  jieak.  The  view  looking 
down  on  alt  sides  to  such  sheer  depths  is  impressive,  and  makes, 
you  careful.  We  attained  to  the  smooth,  straight-down  rocks  on. 
the  eastern  edge,  over  which  the  ihree  chains  depend.  Without 
help  from  those  chains  we  could  not  have  got  down,  because  the 
rock  was  then  all  thinly  covered  with  fresh  ice;  but  we  did 
descend,  wc  reached  the  shoulder,  and  paused,  in  a  lull  of  wind, 
for  a  short  rest  on  that  insecure  spot  at  which  we  had  left  oar 
provisions  and  champagne.  liow  good  /hat  was  I  It  needed  no 
icing. 

The  guides  again  urged  haste,  and  \rc  did  not  rest  more  than  ten 
miDuies.  From  the  shoulder  to  the  hut  the  way  is  difhculi,  and  the 
weather  got  worse  and  worse  as  we  went  on.  You  do  not  see  the 
hut  until  you  are  close  upon  it :  but  we  cnmch  down  a  snow  slope, 
and  there  it  is.  The  two  axes  which  wc  had  left  behind  stood 
patiently  waiting,  and  the  snow  surrounded  aperture,  or  doorway, 
stood  open  wide  in  welcome.  Wc  found  that  it  was  just  past  two 
o'clock. 

We  meant  to  rest  there  for  a  short  hour,  to  take  a  good  meal. 
and  then  to  descend  to  Zcrmatt ;  calculating  upon  reaching  the 
hotel  about  eight  p.m. 

We  entered,  and  cooked  our  simple  food.  Then  followed  a 
beatific  pi]>c,  and  wc  began  to  collect  the  things  to  be  carried 
down.  It  had  become  very  dark  in  the  hut,  and  the  "much  worse 
weather"  which  the  guides  had  prophesied  was  raging  Ottlside* 
Wc  went  out  to  look.     There  we  saw 

Tbe  mfets  boQ  np  arouiM)  (he  x'*^':'* :  dotub 
Rose  curling  £ut  bcncaJJi  me,  while  uid  salplauy, 
LOcc  foam  from  Ibe  itiiu4.-fl  ocean  of  deep  hcU. 

We  might  have  asked  with  Dante — 

Riconliti,  Lcttur,  se  nuii  n«U'  ft1)>e 
Tl  coIdc  ncbbto,  per  U  qual'  vedani 
Xoa  ikltriincnii  chc  per  |k:U«  talpe ; 

Now,  I  do  recollect  mists  in  the  Alps,  but  1  never  saw  such  dark- 
ness. The  iinow  was  whirling  in  thick  (takes,  and  in  spite  of  thai 
a  roaring  wind  was  raging  furiumJy.  Moser  shook  his  head.  "  Wo 
must  waiL  We  can't  go  down,  especially  over  that  glacier,  in  tnch 
ilarkncss.  I  won't  take  the  responsibility.  JJtrr,  wc  must  waiu" 
And  Taugwalder  confirmed  hi'^  '  -Mtemcni. 

Good;  if  we  must  wait,  we  n  '  .  bul  it  i«  annoying 

r/jJ  iivi/t   fnr  .innlhf*?  hmir.     1 1  ^va  ^^w*  -n^tk  tw^  Imrf  4K»  i 


^iu 


An  Asceui  0/ the  MaiUrhom.  559 

growing  worse.  It  was  nearly  the  l4tcst  hour  at  which  we 
could  start ;  and  a  start  then,  if  it  had  hcon  practicable,  would  not 
have  broDgbt  us  down  to  Zermatt  before  ten  p.m.  You  cannot 
ilescend  any  part  of  the  Matterhotn  in  the  dark.  Presently  Moser 
said,  vcrj- decidedly,  that  he  could  not  and  would  not  go  down,  and 
that  we  must  pass  another  night  in  the  hut.  .\n  unpleasant 
necessity  !  It  was  very  cold  ;  wc  had  two  inches  of  candle,  ralhet 
scanty  provisions,  and  very  little  wood.  However,  one  must 
accL'pt  the  inevitahle. 

I  had  luckily  plenty  of  good  tobacco,  and  with  that  wc  solaced 
oaT9eK-«s  during  the  cold,  dark  hours.  Wc  lay  down  to  sleep  early. 
Guides  sleep  soundly,  but  not  soundlessly;  .ind  I  soon  knew  when 
mine  were  asleep.  I  lay  long  awake,  listening  to  the  win.l  h<tffl- 
ing  and  shrieking  against  the  peak ;  and  to  the  occasional  roar  of 
masses  of  great  stones  pouring,  streaming,  bounding  down  the  steep 
and  smooth  cast  face:  but  at  length,  soothed  perhaps  by  that 
roaring  lullaby,  I  too  slept.  Awakened  by  the  guides  stirring,  I 
found  that  snow  was  coming  into  the  hut.  and  that  they  were  getting 
wet.  It  was  very  cold.  Time  and  the  liour  ride  out  the  roughest 
night,  and  dim,  chill  morning  came  at  last.  Wc  breakfasted  on 
scrappy  remnants,  ani]  at  eight  began  to  descend.  The  weather 
was  better :'  cloudy  stiU,  but  comparatively  windless,  and  without 
any  snow  falling. 

We  found  the  glacier  very  bad.  It  was  all  hard,  dark  ice,  here 
and  there  powdered  with  fresh  snow  ;  and  it  goes  very  strai  ;il3y 
down.  The  iron  spike  of  the  ice-axe  slid  over  the  iron  ice.  1  j  ig- 
walder  led  down,  and  cut  steps  from  below.  Those  we  had  m3.de 
in  ascending  were  quite  lost.  It  was  my  eighth  time  on  this  por- 
tion  of  the  mountain,  bnt  I  had  never  seen  it  in  ao  bad  a  state.  I 
was  glad  when  we  again  got  on  the  rocks — bad  as  they  were.  We 
passed  the  snow,  the  long  ridge,  antl  the  morain;;,  and  found  our- 
selves on  the  "  level  waste,  the  nmntling  grey."  We  had  emerged 
from  cloud-land,  and  from  shadow-realm,  and  wece  in  a  calmer 
atmosphere.  Near  the  HGriiH  and  the  Schwarzsec  we  met  with 
one  or  two  panics  making  short  excursions  from  Zermatt.  They 
d  Qt  the  battered,  weather-stained  men  coming  off  the  Matter^ 
llom,  and  some  slopped  usto  a.skquestions  about  the  wizard  mount. 
Running  down  the  grass  slopes  neur  Zcnnatt,  we  met  a  little  pro- 
cession, composed  chiefly  of  women.  These  accosted  my  guides 
with  great  emotion,  with  kisses  and  warm  hand -shakings.  A>  they 
spoke  very  fast,  and  in  pahis,  I  did  not  at  first  nndersUind  their 
meaning:  but  Moser  soon  explained.  Bel'Mccw  (Aou-i. 'a\^t\\\U'^'ii'«ft 
iad  been  seen  on  tbs  most  dangerous  part  ot  tlie  inQu\i.VMSv,  ■■s-'o-^ 


Kytarc 


A 


The  GittiUmatC  &  Magazine. 


at  that  moment  a  small  snow  avalanche  fell  down  Ihe  uorthcrn 
face.  Wc  were  Hwallon-cd  up  in  an  instant  in  mist  and  lost  to  sight. 
They  thonght  th&t  we  had  fallen,  and  were  rejoiced  to  see  the  two 
guides  mtuni  safely.  Soon  comes  the  door  of  the  dear  old  Moate 
Rosa  Hotel.  Sending  JMoscr  on  to  orUi-r  a  bath.  1  changed  my 
garments,  and  then  turned  to  look  upon  the  Mattciliorn  vimlus. 
He  W35  sbroadcd  in  cloud  and  tttorin  ;  but  I  knew  where  he  was,  and 
every  slop  upon  him  was  photographed  in  memory.  It  was  a  Httic 
aAer  one  when  we  reached  Zermatt.  Madame  Seller  was  pleased 
to  receive  the  strip  of  her  son's  Uag;  the  hotel  sood  made  up  fur 
scant  sustenance  by  a  capital  tanch ;  and  the  society  of  pleasant 
friends  relieved  the  mind  from  thai  feeling  of  loneliness  and  awe 
which  the  grim  and  ghastly  giant  evokes.  The  Malterhom  lay 
behind  mc — vanquished  I 

Often  after  my  ascent  I  gazed  with  all  the  old  wonder,  awe,  and 
delight  at  Ihe  great  myslic  peak;  and  my  own  ascent  itself  sccm«d 
to  me  half  unreal.  I  looked  back  upon  it,  and  it  was  almost  like  a 
dream.  So  inaccessible  docs  the  mountain  look  that  I  felt  a  sort 
of  half  doubt  of  having  actually  stood  upon  that  haughty  cresL  The 
fact  of  an  ascent  does  not  destroy  the  weird  impression  made  by 
the  sinister  bill.  You  regard  your  climb,  through  the  mifil  of 
memoiy,  as  you  remember  a  first  dreamy  visit  to  Venice.  And  yet 
a  climb  upon  the  Matlertiom  yields  a  profound  emotional  experi- 
ence, which  will  last  out  a  life,  of  contact  with  a  grandly  lerrible,  a 
frightfully  ruthless  force  of  mj^tic  nature — "  a  force  that  is  not  aw.** 
The  inner  essence  and  meaning  of  the  grim,  stem,  heartless  peak, 
with  its  deadly  antagonism  to  man,  is  expressed  through  a  form  of 
most  singular  8igni6cance.  An  intimate  acquaintance  wjtb  that 
fierce  and  lonely  height  exalts  and  develops  the  sense  of  sympathy. 
the  power  of  will,  within  us.  We  have  touched  and  conquered 
Nature  where  she  seems  to  be  impregnable.  It  is  curious  to  notice 
the  vastly  different  impression  made  by  the  Maticrhom  upon  un- 
imaginative and  imaginative  natures.  To  the  boor  it  is  barren  ;  to 
the  poet  it  is  fertile.  To  a  climber  of  the  Ilawtey  Scrowger  school, 
a  climber  who  works  with  the  legs  only,  and  ascends  wiUlout  hcait 
or  brain,  without  intellect  or  fancy,  the  Matterhorn  is  simply  a  more 
or  less  difficult  piece  of  rock-work :  to  the  mountaineer  of  the 
Norman  Franklin  type,  the  mountaineer  who  adds  the  soul  of  the 
poet  to  the  power  of  the  athlete,  the  Muttcrbom  ik  a  sublime  if 
awful  revelation  of  that  which  is  mysterious  and  terrible  in  Nature. 
To  such  a  man  it  is  a  loadstone  mountain,  irresistibly  attraclivc.  It 
is  a  fascinating  6cnd — it  is,  in  a  word— thb  MATTSRitoRKl 


I 


Recovery   of    Palestine, 
by  w.  hepworth  dixon. 

iv.— foundations   of  zion. 

[ANY  of  Lhc  things  which  our  cytplorers  have  braujfht 
to  light  may  have  been  covered  by  the  soil  for  fifty 
or  sixty  generations.  The  s:nall  Phcenician  jar 
and  the  red  marks  found  by  Captain  Warren  near 
the  sotiih-eastem  angle  of  the  Temple  wall  have  been  hidden  since 
Solomon's  day.  The  arched  passage  first  seen  by  Major  Wilson, 
and  at  greater  length  by  Captain  Waircn, 
has  apparently  been  lost  since  the  time 
of  Titus.  The  cave  sepulchres  ex- 
plored by  M.  Ganncau  have  probably 
not  been  opened  since  the  courts  M'cro 
buried — only  a  few  years  after  the  death 
of  Christ.  Still  more:  ancient  maj  be 
the  scarped  nvall  of  Zion,  partly  laid 
open  by  our  member  Mr.  Mawdsley, 
and  more  recently  examined  by  Lieut. 
Conder.  Much  remains  as  yet  undone, 
for  leave  to  explore  is  hard  to  get ;  and 
at  the  more  important  points  wc  cannot 
get  such  leave  at  all.  Yet  Captain 
Warren  lias  discovered  so  many  new 
facts  that  he  is  able  to  draw  a  plan  of 
ancient  Jerusalem  unlike  anything  that 
has  come  before. 

In  my  first  article  mention  vr.is  made  of  sixteen  plans  of  Jeru- 
salem, each  differing  from  the  rest.  These  ]}[an8  arc  published 
by  Karl  Zimmermann,  and  date  from  Robinson's  plan  in  1841 
down  to  Schicli's  plan  in  1876.  Many  plans  had  been  made 
before  the  time  of  Robinson.  The  first  known  plan  is  by  Arculf  in 
the  seventh  century,  giving  an  idea  of  the  old  gates.  Another 
plan  goes  back  to  the  twelfth  century.  Marino  Sanudo  made  a 
plan  in  the  fourteenth  centurj-,  based  on  some  actual  observation. 
and  Lightfoot  published  a  view  which  is  not  ^Vlo^c^Xv^i  ^ke^cAv^., 
Vol.  XVI7.,  N.S.  i8;6.  O  u 


JAE  POUrcn   VNUT.Si  QKEAT 
CO&ME&  STUNE. 


Tite  GentiettiafCs  Magazine, 

Yet  little  of  value  was  produced  until  the  present  ccnttuy.  Sieber, ' 
who  was  at  Jerasalcm  in  i8t8,  drew  a  rough  chart  of  the  city,  bat 
the  real  work  began  with  Catherwood  in  1833.  Robinson  used  ibc 
materials  supplied  by  Sicbcr  and  Catherwood.  but  the  progress  of 
discover)'  vfas  slow,  the  edge  of  controversy  sharp.  Of  twelve  out 
of  the  sixteen  plans  published  by  Zimmemiann  little  need  be  said. 
They  came  before  Captain  Warren,  and  belong  to  the  prc-scicniific 
era.  Robinson  included  the  Holy  Sepulchre  wfVAm  hts  second  wall ; 
but  had  the  merit  of  suggesting  the  true  bend  of  the  Tyropx'on  vzllcy 


StAltCHTNO  THE  rOC^DATIOKS. 

towards  the  Jaffa  gate.  Williams,  in  a  plan  having  many  meriWj 
ran  his  Tyropa.-on  up  to  the  Damascus  gate,  aod  set  his  Acra  nor 
of  Moriah  instead  of  west.  Schultz  also  carried  his  Tyropa-on  valley 
to  the  north,  and  swept  his  third  wall  round  the  so-called  Tombs  of 
the  Kings.  Kraft  contracted  Lis  Holy  City,  so  as  to  include  within 
his  thin!  wall  less  space  than  Schultz  and  Williams  include  in  their 
second  wall.  Fergusson  divided  the  Temple  hill,  put  his  Zion  to 
Utcnoiiii  of  Moriah,  planted  bis  Acraoa  the  ridge  now  occupied  by 


Rtcovery  0/ Paiaiine. 

the  tower  of  David  and  the  Jaffa  gate,  and  dropped  his  city  of  David 
into  the  deep  depression  lying  between  Zion  and  Moriah.  Thrnpp 
gave  us  two  third  walis,  carrying-  tlie  outer  wail  close  to  Ihe^tomb 
of  Helena,  and  fixed  his  citadel  of  Zion  due  north,  on  the  ridge 
rising  vrestward  of  St.  Anne's  Church.  Lewin  set  one  part  of 
Acra  on  the  slopes  of  Ophel.  and  a  second  part  in  the  Asmonian 
valley,  and  set  "a  middle  low  town"  and  the  "so-called 
Cedron  ravine"  on  the  Temple  hill.  Scpp  built  his  "citadel  and 
his  city  of  David  on  the  northern  plateau,  beyond  the  present  wall, 
and  ran  his  TjTOpxon  valley  up  to  the  Damascus  gate.     De  Vogue 


VflfifrCA 

I 

^^^^^^^r  ""^^  ^^"^^  "^  JEK0SAI.su. 

I  Icfb  the  greater  part  of  Ophel  outside  his  wall.  Dc  Saulcy  threw 
that  ridge  out  altogether,  and  built  his  citadel  of  David  in  the 
hollow  of  the  TjTOpceon  valley,  over  against  the  Temple  wall. 
Afenke  started  his  lyropaion  valley  at  the  Damascus  gate  and  ran  it 
under  the  «outh-wcstcm  comer  of  the  Temple  down  to  the  pool  of 
Siloam.  He  fixed  Acra  on  the  lower  part  of  Ophel.  Caspari  built 
his  fortress  of  Zion  on  the  spur  below  the  south-western  angle  of 
the  Temple  wall,  set  up  his  Acra-Zion  on  OpUe'i,  aswi  W!?.  V\% 
[lower  TjTopseoD  outside  the  walls. 

O  O  I 


564 


The  GmiieffMn' s  Magazifie. 


In  1871  came  the  era  of  science.  All  the  chier  features  of  a  city 
like  Jerusalem — a  city  built  on  the  rock — arc  dvtcrmiucd  by  the 
rock  surfaces,  jusl  as  the  chief  outlines  of  adman's  body  arc  detcr- 
mined  by  the  underlying  bone  slraetures.  In  1871  Captain 
Warren  drew  his  plan  from  the  rock  levels — which  plan  I  annex 
as  the  most  trustworthy  restoration  of  ancient  Jemsalcm  yet 
achieved.    (A^  preceding  page.) 

This  plan  is  not  put  forth  as  hnaK  Many  things  have  yet  to  bo 
explained.  Yet  in  all  the  main  features  I  can  heartily  accept  thift 
chart.  In  all  that  relates  to  the  Temple  hill  Captain  Warren'* 
positions  seem  to  mc  impregnable.  No  doubt  hv  is  right  alraut  bis 
'lyropxon  and  Asmonian  valleys.  His  first  and  second  walls  are 
satisractoiy.  The  sweep  of  wall  round  Ophcl,  and  along  the  ridges 
to  Siloam,  is  pro%-cd  by  the  remains.  I  believe  his  site  for  Acia.  is 
correct.  But  I  cannot  sec  my  ttzy,  as  he  does,  to  fixing  Zion  on 
the  same  site  as  Acra — the  position  marked  No.  9  on  the  plan. 

Three  pliins  liave  been  published  in  the  present  year,  all  based 
on  Captain  Warren's  labours.  Toblcr  has  greatly  changed  bis 
former  work,  on  which  Lcwin  had^bascd  his  theories.  Fmrer  has 
adopted  \^'ar^en's  discoveries,  but  maintains  that  the  Temple  hill 
is  Zion,  while  Zion  is  the  city  of  Herod.  Schick  alone  has  helped 
by  fresh  researches  to  increase  our  knowledge  of  the  Holy  City,  and 
his  plan  has  some  independent  value.  Of  the  sixteen  ptan^,  three 
follow  that  of  Robinson,  in  placing  the  Holy  Sepulchre  inside  the, 
second  wall.  Fergusson  was  the  first  of  these  followers:  and  onl/j 
two  other  writ'ers  agree  with  Robinson  in  his  want  of  faith. 

SCAKP  OF  Zios. 

Opening  ground  near  the  /affa  gate,  formerly  called  the  Hebron 
gate,  wc  find  a  long  line  of  scarped  rock  surface,  which  is 
evidently  a  part  of  the  original  defence  of  Zion  towards  the  north- 
west. Zion  was  alwaj-s  strong:  a  natural  fortress  swept  by  deep 
and  rocky  ravines.  But  the  city  had  a  weak  side  towards  the 
ground,  aftenvarda  known  as  the  .Assyrian  Camp,  now  occupied  by 
the  Russian  monastery.  Towards  that  front  stands  the  ancient 
scarp,  recently  laid  bare  by  Major  Wilson,  Mr.  Mawdstey  (one  of 
our  members),  and  Lieutenant  Condc-r,  the  young  and  energetic 
engineer,  who  represents  our  society  in  the  Holy  I-Jind. 

This  scarp,  which  seems  older  than  the  reign  of  Solomon,  may 
have  fonaed  part  of  ilic  defensive  rantpart  in  that  of  .Saul,  before 
Jerusalem  had  yet  become  the  capital  of  Judah. 

Soiem,  the  old  name  of  Zion,  had  a  curious  history.    Tlie  ridge 


■was  bccupitsl  by  the  Amorilcs,  descendants  of  Mclchizadec.  Saul 
lived  at  Hebron,  the  Jewish  capital,  and  the  whole  country  owned 
his  sway,  from  Simeon  to  Dan,  with  the  exception  of  the  rocky 
height  of  Zion.  We  have  a  parallel  case  in  our  awn  day.  San 
Marino,  in  Italy,  lias  many  points  in  common  with  /.ion.  It  is  a 
city  on  a  hill-top,  defended  on  three  sides  by  nature.  Only  one 
road  practicable  for  an  army  leads  up  to  it.  The  inhabitants  are 
proud  and  brave,  men  who  have  their  ovm  customs  and  have 
never  bent  bcneatli  thu  yoke.  Surrounded  by  Italian  provinces, 
the  commonwealth  of  San  Marino  still  survives.  For  the  long 
period  of  four  hundred  years  Salcm  outlived  the  conquest  of 
Canaan  by  Joshua.  Even  David,  though  desirous  of  making 
Salem  his  residence,  only  mastered  it  in  the  se\'enth  year  of  his 
reign.  The  rock  had  been  scarped  outside,  levelled  on  the  top, 
and  cut  away  behind>  so  as  to  form  a  covered  line  for  the  defend- 
ing troops.  Near  by  rose  the  citadel,  where  the  tower  of  David 
stands  now,  giving  to  the  rampart  that  look  of  solid  strength  which 
prompted  the  sneering  answer  to  David:  "Thou  shalt  not  come 
in  hither ;  the  blind  and  the  lame  shall  keep  thee  out."  So,  in  like 
manner,  spake  the  men  of  San  Marino  to  Malatesta.  Yet  the 
Jebusiles  were  worsted  by  David,  and  the  independence  of  their 
city  passed  away. 

The  great  scarp,  or  rock  wall,  has  been  traced  for  a  length  of 
three  hundred  yards.  In  some  parts  it  is  twenty  feet  high.  The 
head  is  towards  the  present  Mosque  of  David  in  the  south,  along 
the  line  where  every  one  has  placed  the  original  wall.  Inside  the 
cutting  are  several  tanks  and  cisterns,  always  the  first  provision  in 
defence  of  Jenisalem.  Steps  cut  in  the  rock  descend  into  these 
reservoirs.  An  ancient  oil  press  has  been  found,  and  a  narrow 
opening  in  the  rampart  seems  to  have  been  a  sally  port. 

By  uncovering  this  scarp  of  Zion  we  have  brought  to  light  a  very 
curious  part  of  ancient  Jerusalem. 

»ZlON  BRrocE, 
One  of  the  most  striking  features  in  the  Jerusalem  known  to  our 
Lord  was  the  great  bridge  at  Zion  :  a  mighty  viaduct,  like  one  of 
our  London  bridges  in  size,  and  the  viaduct  of  Newcastle  in 
appearance,  Down  by  the  Temple  wall,  along  the  dip  between 
Zion  and  Moriah.  ran  a  great  business  avenue  called  the  Stn-ct  of 
the  Cheesemongers.  On  one  side  of  this  avenue  rose  the  great 
wall ;  on  the  other  side,  tier  on  tier,  sprang  the  palaces  and  terraces 
of  Zion.    A  line  of  arches  carried  a  roadw-ay  fiQtci  Vkxt  ^iiBi.'ic.e.  o\ 


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the  Maccabees  to  ilic  Temple  courts,  bestriding  thU  business 
street  below,  just  as  London  Oridge  bestrides  Thames  Street,  and 
Colonel  Haywood's  viaduct  bestrides  Farringdon  Street.  Unlike 
the  gallery  which  connects  the  Pitti  Palace  with  the  Uffizri,  this 
road  appears  from  Josephus  to  have  been  Di>cn.  It  had  been 
desig:ned  Tor  the  convenience  of  princes  and  high  priests  who 
wished  to  pass  from  the  Temple  courts  to  the  palaces  on  Zion 
without  vexing  their  robes  with  the  rusti  of  tradesmen  and  thoir 
nostrils  with  the  scent  of  cheese;  but  the  roadway  was  an  open 
bridge  like  that  across  the  Fleet,  not  a  closed  gallery  tike  that 
across  the  Amo. 

The  fact  has  not  yet  been  noticed  in  this  connection  that  there 
were  two  bridges — an  older  bridge  and  a  newer  bridge.  Vtt  a  careful 
reading  of  Josephus  brings  this  fact  to  light.  Sixiy-thnce  yeats 
before  the  birth  of  Christ  there  was  a  faction  fight  on  the  slopes 
and  in  the  Rtrcels  of  Zion,  when,  as  the  Jewish  historian  telU  uk, 
"  the  adherents  of  Aristobulos,  being  beaten,  retreated  on  the 
Temple,  hnaking  down  tht  bridgt  which  connected  it  with  the 
city."  There  had  been  a  bridge,  then,  long  before  the  days  of 
Herod;  and  this  old  bridge  had  been  destroyed  forty-flvc  years 
before  the  rebuilding  of  the  Temple  u-as  commenced.  That  Herod 
built  a  new  bridge  is  certain.  Two  of  the  most  striking  pictures 
in  the  Jewish  wars  are  connected  with  this  Herodian  work.  Agrippa 
made  his  great  speech  to  the  Jews  at  this  point :  "  Convening  the 
people  in  the  Xystus,  and  placing  hts  sister  Berenice  on  tlic  Palace 
of  the  Maccabees,  which  rose  above  the  valley  .  .  .  whtrt  u  bridgt 
tonntcttd  tht  TemfilewHh  the  Xjtlut—hfiS\^Q  .  .  ."  Still  later,  Titus 
addressed  the  Jewish  rebels  frota  the  Temple  wall.  "Titus  took 
his  stand  on  the  western  face  of  the  outer  court  of  the  Temple, 
there  being  a  gate  in  that  quarter  beyond  the  Xystus,  and  a  bridge 
which  connected  the  upper  tower."  The  later  bridge,  built  by 
King  Herod,  was  the  structure  known  to  our  I.ord.  It  is  nut  men- 
tioned in  the  Gospel.  Jesus  and  His  disciples  may  have  gazed  on 
thp  proud  Roman  arches  from  the  Cheesemonger  Street  below,  or 
from  the  waste  ground  near  the  pool  of  Siloam,  without  caring  lo 
tread  in  the  pathways  of  princes  going  over  to  the  Sanhedrin,  of 
iiigh  priests  coming  back  from  sacrifice  and  of  Roman  governors 
surrounded  by  their  foreign  guards.  Yet  there  it  stood,  a  sfaiuing 
roadway  in  the  air;  more  massive  than  the  gallery  leading  from 
St.  Angcio  to  the  Vatican :  in  every  sense  a  striking  and  original 
feature  of  Jerusalem. 

For  tighlecn  hundred  years  nearly  all  trace  of  this  great  structure 


* 


/Recovery  of  PdUsiinc.  567 

has  been  lost.  About  the  same  period  of  lime  three  different 
observers  noticed  a  curious  bulge  of  stone  in  the  Temple  wall  near 
the  Bouth-west  angle.  Cathcrvrood  and  Bonomi  drew  the  bulging 
stones  without  perceiving  that  they  meant  anything  in  particular. 
Robinson  nolicL-d  them  without  perceiving  that  they  meant  any- 
thing in  particular.  Robinson  named  the  matter  to  a  friend  tD 
Jerusalem,  who  said  he  bad  also  seen  them,  and  believed  they  were 
tlic  spring  of  an  ancient  and  now  bruken  arch.  Robinson  vxrilied 
fats  friend'3  discovery,  but  concealed  his  friend's  name :  so  that 
(he  credit  earned  by  that  gentleman's  ingenuity  has  been  lost  to 
him  and  given  to  Robinson.  It  is  but  another  case  of  historical 
injustice.  Amcriai  is  called  after  a  socondarj'  discoverer:  this 
anh  of  Zion  is  called  Robinson's  arch. 

Robinson  inferred  that  bis  arch  vas  the  commencement  of  that 
great  bridge  from  Zion  to  the  Temple  which  Josrphus  names  so 
frequently;  and  every  writer  on  Jerusalem  since  Robinson's  day  has 
taken  this  bridge  for  granted,  not  only  aa  that  old  work  which  the 
adherents  of  Aristobulas  bruke  down,  but  as  that  new  work  which 
Herod  built.  Tipping  has  drawn  the  viaduct  so  as  to  resemble 
oor  own  railway  viaduct  near  Folkestone.  Fcrgusson,  starting 
from  the  presumed  level  of  the  GenLile  court,  has  Hung  a  broad 
and  massive  road  across  the  Cheesemonger  Street;  which  city 
thoroughfare  he  h<ts  painted,  not  as  ^  smooth  and  busy  mart  of 
commerce,  like  uur  own  Thames  Street,  but  as  a  rugged  ravine. 
Out  of  fifteen  authors  who  since  the  dnya  of  Robinson  have  made 
plans  of  Jerusalem,  only  five  or  six  have  ventured  to  reject  his 
theory  of  the  Ziun  bridge. 

Our  spades  t-'W  I  interpret  them)  have  put  an  end  to  theories 
on  this  capital  point.  The  bulging  stones  appear  to  be  in  site,  and 
must  have  been  the  springs  of  an  ancient  arch.  But  a  single  arch 
does  not  imply  a  bridge.  One  arch  may  have  biien  built  against 
the  wall  for  oilier  purposes  than  as  a  bridge.  I'or  instance,  as  the 
covering  of  a  reservoir.  On  sinking  shafts  in  front  of  these 
bulging  stones,  at  distances  calculated  for  the  piers  of  other  arches, 
Captain  Warren  finds  no  traces  of  such  piers.     Had  any  such  been 

ere,  he  could  hardly  have  missed  striking  on  them.  Masses  of 
masonry  were  touched — tanks,  pediments,  colonnades — but  not  a 
single  pier,  or  other  pile  of  masonry  corresponding  to  Robinson's 
juch.  Remains  of  an  ancient  road  he  fotind,  but  nothing  on  the 
same  level,  or  having  the  character  of  a  bridge.  Wben  he  anived 
at  the  arch  itself  he  struck  the  outer  pier,  aud  sank  a  shaft  to  the 
basement.    Here  he  found  the  vouS50in  ot  vVt  ta&»ai  axo^,  ^S»*i 


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on  an  andtnt  pavfmtnt.  Near  these  voussoirs  was  a  great  tank, 
older  than  the  arch  itself. 

On  breaking  through  this  paved  road,  which  seemed  to  be 
the  floor  of  an  ancient  street  (apparently  the  old  Cheesemongwi^ 
Street),  he  tappe<l  the  live  rock  at  a  depth  of  twcnijr-thrcc  feet. 
Here  he  come  on  a  rock-cut  winding  canal.  The  Temple  wall 
stood  o\*er  part  of  this  water-course,  so  that  the  canal  now  opened 
to  the  light  of  day  existed  before  the  first  courses  of  this 
|>arl  of  the  Tcmpic  wall  were  laid  (  This  canal  is  older  than 
Herod,  and  may  be  older  than  Solomon.  Yet  some  parts  of  this 
winding  canal,  and  of  the  reservoirs  into  the  water  run,  were 
covered  by  arckts,  and  even  by  iketvtd  arches.  Such  unearthings 
of  the  long  buried  secrets  of  art  are  surtling  to  men  who  (ignorant 
of  'Egyptian  arrtiquitics)  bchcve  the  arch  to  be  a  Roman  invention ; 
stilt  more  to  men  who  (ignorant  of  Saracenic  art)  suppose  the  skew 
was  first  used  by  Brindloy  on  the  Bridgewaler  Canal. 

These  facts  were  evident  to  the  miners:  First,  that  the  canal 
and  reservoirs  were  older  than  the  wall ;  second,  that  the  wall  at 
this  point  was  built  by  Herod ;  third,  that  when  Herod  built  this  pan 
of  the  wall  the  level  of  the  valley  was  the  level  of  the  paved  road. 
The  first  fact  was  proved  by  the  wall  being  built  over  the  canal ; 
the  second,  by  the  fact  of  the  lower  cour&es,  down  out  of  sight, 
being  nidc  in  linish,  while  the  courses  exposed  to  view  closely 
imitated  the  true  Solomonic  style ;  the  third,  by  the  fact  that  the 
rough  faced  work  ended  on  the  old  level,  where  the  regular  drafted 
course  began.  If  these  three  facts  arc  taken  as  proved,  the  old 
bridge,  destroyed  by  the  followers  of  Arislobulas,  could  not  have 
Btartcd  from  Robinson's  arch,  as  the  wall  from  which  it  springs 
was  not  built  until  long  after  that  time.  It  is  not  likely  that  Herod 
would  throw  his  bridge  across  the  valley  in  a  new  place.  We  see 
in  London  and  Paris  how  the  great  thoroughfares  determine  the 
lines  on  which  bridges  arc  laid:  where  the  old  bridge  had  stood 
the  new  one  would  be  raised ;  and  the  absence  of  piers  where 
tlicy  ought  t(>  have  been  found  compels  ns  to  seek  for  the  remains 
of  Zion  bridge  elsewhere. 

Gate  Gehnatk. 

No  problem  in  the  Holy  City  is  so  ptiKtling  as  the  tnie  position 
of  the  Gale  Gcnnath :  a  point  which  governs  that  of  Golgoitio.  and 
therefore  that  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre.  We  know  that  Golgotha  laj 
outside  the  city  wall,  yet  near  enough  for  every  word  to  be  heaid 
and  every  sight  to  be  seen  from  that  wall.    Close  by  were  gardena^ 


and  the  opening  towards  it  was  throngh  Gennath,  or  Garden  Gate. 

»ir  wt-  cDuId  find  ihis  gate,  all  controversy  abouL  the  Holy  Sepulchre 
ivoukl  be  at  an  end.     Where  stood  the  Gate  Gennath  ? 

Josephus  answers — in  the  (irtt  wall,  at  the  |>oinl  wht^ncu  the 
second  wall  started  from  the  first.  Hut  we  arc  still  uncertain  where 
the  second  \va)l  started  from  the  lirst ;  and  theorists  arc  free  to  fix 
the  gate  in  any  part  of  Jerusalem.  Robinson  puts  it  near  Hippias; 
Williams  in  the  Tyropseon  valley ;  Fergusson  on  the  northern  wall. 
German  critics  agree  mainly  with  Williams;  SchuUi!,  Kraft,  Sepp, 
Menke,  and  Furrer  being  of  his  opinion;  against  him  onlyTobler 
and  Schick.  De  Vogiie,  Uc  Sauley,  and  Caspar!  take  the  same 
view.  English  critics,  with  the  exception  of  Fergusson,  who  stands 
alone,  adopt  the  theory  of  Hippias.  This  view  is  put  forward 
in  the  published  works  of  Lcwin,  Warren,  and  many  more, 
including  my  own,  (late<l  so  far  back  as  1864.  The  question  is  not 
set  at  rest;  but  something  has  been  done  towards  finding  an 
ancient  gate  exactly  where  the  old  Christian  theory  requires  it  to 
have  stood. 

Here  again  we  argue  with  the  spade.  Near  the  bazaar  in  Jeru- 
salem stands  an  old  arch,  which  the  natives  call  Gennath.  This 
name  cannot  be 'modem,  since  there  are  no  gardens  near,  and  the 
quarter  has  been  enclosed  since  the  days  of  Ring  Agrippa.  Major 
Wilson  thought  this  arch  was  "a  comparatively  recent  buililing." 
In  a  city  like  Jerusalem  "comparatively  recent"  may  cover  any 
period  from  the  days  of  Saladin  to  those  of  Herod.  Readers  suppose 
that  Major  Wilson  means  a  time  not  later  than  the  Crusades. 

»  Captain  Warren  sank  a  shaft,  and  by  a  piece  of  luck  hit  on  the 
exact  spot  for  a  discovery.  Hclow 
the  soil,  beyond  reach  of  rain 
and  stone-slealers,  he  found  the 
gate  in  pretty  good  condition. 
It  was  a  Roman  work,  and  may 
have  been  built  by  Herod's 
workmen.     The  arch  was  seml- 

Lcircularr  and  the  span  nearly 
rtcven  feet.  Judging  by  the  ma- 
sonry about,  this  Gate,  whatever 
may  have  been  its  ancient  name, 
appears  to  have  been  buried 
for  centuries;    yet,   on   getting 

down  to  the  sill,  Captain  Warren  found  that  a  smaller  doorway  had 
been  built  into  the  original  gate.     This  second  iwivs^K^  >aaa 


SUPPOSEIJ  OATK,  OENXAtU. 


pointed  arcb.  Major  Wilson  had  struck  this  pointed  arcli,  and  sol 
concluded  that  the  gate  »*as  a  recent  struciuri;.  "  It  is  not  the  onljr" 
instance,"  says  Warren,  "  where  I  found  old  work  sntothcrud  in  on 
all  sides  by  more  luodern  masonry."  The  old  roadway  is  still  visible, 
but  the  surface  Li  not  paved  like  the  ancient  street  under  the  vous- 
soirs  of  Robinson's  arch.  Neither  do  the  jambs  rest  on  the  rock, 
like  the  Temple  wall,  but  on  a  foundation  of  earth  mixed  with  jwttciy, 
of  the  sort  found  under  the  Ophel  wall  and  towers.  Yet  this  road- 
way has  the  same  level  as  the  towers  on  the  top  of  Zion  near  the 
Jaffa  gate,  discovered  by  Schick.  This  ancient  gate,  the  character 
of  which  is  now  lirst  described  and  figured,  may  be  somelhuig* 
other  than  Gennath,  but  no  one  will  deny  that  it  occupies  a  place 
amon^  the  Features  of  old  Jenisalem. 

Secret  W^,vy  from  Zion. 

Of  greater  moment  for  sacred  topography  than  the  finding  of 
Robinson's  arch,  was  the  finding  of  Uie  ancient  causeway  and 
secret  passage  from  Zion  to  the  Temple,  which  starts  from  ibe 
Temple  wall  at  Wilson's  arch. 

We  know  from  Josephus  that  in  the  lime  of  our  Lord  Jentsal« 
was  honeycombed  with  secret  galleries  and  canals:  not  like  the^ 
sowers  ofinodem  Paris,  for  drainage;  not  like  thecatacombsof  ancient 
Rome,  for  refuge  and  interment ;  but  for  purposes  of  war.  Every 
fortress  had  a  secret  passage  for  escape.  Not  once,  but  many 
times,  the  Romans  were  astonished  by  the  ghosts  which  seemed  to 
rise  from  tlic  ground,  as  John  of  Gischula  rose,  wan  in  aspccl. 
the  startled  Roman  sentinel.  After  Titus  had  fought  bis  way  froi 
Moriah  to  Zion,  killing  and  capturing  his  foes  in  the  open,  he  had 
to  mm  up  the  city  (so  to  speak)  in  search  of  the  fugitives.  His 
soldiers  laid  down  sword  and  spear,  and  seising  pick  and  spade, 
began  to  burrow  in  the  ground.  A  hundred  fights  took  place  in 
the  very  bowels  of  the  earth.  Two  thousand  dead  bodies  were 
found  by  the  legionaries  in  these  tunnels,  sewers,  and  secjct 
chamb;:rs,  all  of  whom  had  fallen  either  by  their  own  hands,  the 
poniards  of  their  companions,  or  from  want  of  fuoil.  A  poisonous 
stench  came  up  from  every  trap  and  vent,  so  that  the  air  above  the 
city  was  unfit  to  breathe.  TIi.-  open  streets  were  bad  enough,  but 
underground  Jerusalem  was  a  perfect  charnel-house. 

To  stay  tlie  progress  of  disease  the  traps  and  vunts  were  stopped. 
Shafts  leading  into  tanks  were  closed,  and  openings  into  scci 
passages  walled  up.  Old  cisterns  were  in  lime  forgotten,  and  tbi 
grmt  gallery  leadmg  underground  from  the  citadel  on  i!ion  to  Uk 


Recovery  of  Palest  im. 

IS  partly  lost.    I  say  partly  lost,  because  a 

among  the  natives  that  David  Street,  above 

_         ^.^v.  from  the  fact  that  it  ran  over  and  along  a 

.  ^^       "  isage  which  David  had  caused  to  be  made  rrom  his 

^I^^V  I  Zioii  to  that  pan  of  the  rcrnjili:  which  is  now  untcrcd 

^  "J"  the  Chains.    This  legend  is  preserved  by  the  Arab 

^K  jjir  uJ  Din. 

^^^  picks  and  spades  have  happily  revealed  this  secret  thoroug-h- 

^H^  main  point,  perhaps  the  maiin  point,  fur  n  scientific  recon- 

HEction  of  Jerusalem  in  the  days  of  our  Lord.     Major  Wilson 

Bfc  on  the  first  important  facts.     Tobler  had  seen  a  large  pool. 

Called  by  the  Arabs  E!  Burak,  from  the  neighbouring  mosque.     It 

lies  near  the  Gate  of  the  Moors,  a  little  north  of  the  Jews'  Wailing 

Place.     Going  down  into  this  pool,  and  lighting  a  magnesium  wire, 

Wilson  found  himself  standing  under  an  arched  roof,  formed  by 

stones  of  great  size,  fixed  in  Clieir  places  without  mortar,  like  the 

blocks  of  David's  lower.    The  span  was  more  than  forty  feet 

Little  more  was  done,  except  to  give  this  arched  roof  or  chamber 
the  name  of  Wilson's  arch,  just  as  ibo  lower  arch  (now  gone,  as 
we  have  seen)  was  called  Rubinson's  arch.     When  Captain  Warren 
afterwards  sank  a  shaft  outside  the  piers  he  found  that  the  whole 
structure  was  of  the  same  age  as  the  Temple  wall.     On  getting 
down  to  the  lower  courses  of  that  wall,  he  found  water  flowing  from 
north  to  south,  much  as  he  had  found  water  flowing  down  the  cor-        ^ 
responding  valley.      In  ancient  times,  as  we  kttow  from  the  Bible,         H 
the  sides  of  Moriah  were  washed    by    two  living   brooks:    these 
waters  have  long  been  lost  to  sight ;  but  under  the  accumulated 
heaps  of  centuries  we  have  now  happily  founil  thcsu  living  brooks. 
It  soon  became  apparent  that  the  great  arch  had  been  built  as  a 
covering  for  the  pool,  now  called  £1  Burak,  from  the  mosque  l1o:>c 
by — a  fact  which  suggests  that  Robinson's  arch  may  have  had  a  similar         fl 
use,  instead  of  being,  as  Robinson  erroneously  inferred,  the  first  arch  ™ 

of  a  high  level  viaduct  to  Zion.  Further  excavation  prrn-ed  that 
Wilson's  arch  had  been  connected  with  a  roadway  from  Zion  to  the 
Temple.  Piers  and  voussoirs  showed  the  direction  of  this  ancient 
road.  The  great  span  was  not  repeated,  but  a  series  of  shorter 
spans  carry  the  road  to  a  point  on  the  opposite  hill.  Close  observa- 
tion showed  that  the  roadway  was  double  ;  that  is  to  say,  that  the 
ancient  causeway  had  been  treated  as  vre  have  seen  the  Font  Neuf  in 
Paris  treated  in  our  own  day — widened  by  the  addition  of  new  work. 
The  southern  part  of  the  causeway  is  much  older  than  the  northern 
part.     If  the  old  bridge,  broken  by  the  adhereiiti  o^  NrvaVoVvi^i.'i 


I 


t 


I 


572  T%g  Gentleman^ 5  Mtt^zine. 

spanned  the  valley  at  this  point,  it  seems  likely  that  Herod  Dse<I  so 
much  of  the  old  materials  as  he  found  standing,  and  widened  hii 
road  by  adding  new  works  on  the  northern  side. 

Along  the  whole  line  of  this  causeway  Warren  fonnd  *  remains 
of  tanks  and  conduits:  here  dug  in  the  live  rock;  there  built  of 
solid  masonr}'.  In  many  places  he  found  halls  and  chambers. 
some  of  which  had  clearly  been  usetl  as  reserv'oirs.  Leaning  to 
the  south  under  the  fifth  arch  of  the  great  viaduct,  Warren  passed 
under  a  small  gate  with  a  lintel,  to  find  himself  in  a  passage 
lying  under  David  Street.  Here,  then,  we  had  found  Ihc  secret 
passage  from  Zion  to  Moriah,  which  Mohammedan  legends 
ascribe  to  David. 

Tlie  tunnel  was  twelve  feet  wide,  the  arch  a  semicircle,  aboat 
the  size  and  with  something  of  the  shape  of  our  military  galleries 
at  Dover  and  Gibraltar.  Much  filth  and  dust  had  gatbernl  in  the 
bed,  but  the  vault  above  was  clean  and  white.  Here  and  there 
Warren  found  entrances  into  the  chambers  under  the  great  viaduct. 
Twenty  yards  from  the  Temple  wall  the  passage  wag  built  up, 
and  on  breaking  through  the  wall  he  found  the  level  drop  about  six 
feet  and  then  go  west  again  towards  Zion.  Soon  he  came  to  a 
second  block,  but  near  the  wall  he  saw  a  door  opening  to  the 
south.  Creeping  through  this  door  he  caught  a  ray  of  light  and 
knen*  that  he  was  near  the  surface.  Creeping  into  a  chamber,  ho 
found  more  light,  and,  following  the  ray,  crept  through  a  hole 
into  another  chamber  which  he  found  in  use  as  a  stable  for 
donkcj-s.  Sfcing  the  mint-rs  come  out  from  the  very  bowels  of  the 
earth,  the  donkey-man  fled  for  his  life,  yelling  out  that  he  was 
pursued  by  gins  I 

The  secret  gallerj' was  afterwards  found  again  at  a  distance  ofj 
eighty-four  yards  from  Ihe  Temple  wall,  and  Captain  Worrun  has' 
no  doubt  ihat  it  extended  as  far  as  the  citadel— at  the  present 
Jaffa  gate.  A  vaulted  chamber,  under  Joseph  Effcndi's  house,  is 
the  furthest  point  at  which  the  secret  passage  has  yet  been  traced. 
'Iliis  chamber  may  have  been  the  vestibule  to  a  postern  leading 
from  Zion  into  the  Cheesemongers'  Valley.  The  gateway  at  the 
end  suggests  this  inference  to  a  military  engineer. 


Political  Crisis. 


J.   A.   UNGFORD.   LLD. 

I  arrived  at  Melbourne  in  January  of  this  year 
colony  was  in  the  throes  of  a  great  political 
crisis.  I  felt,  in  fact,  as  if  I  were  at  home  again, 
so  familiar  were  the  party  phrases  which  every- 
ited  mc.  It  was  bcitig  conticualiy  reiterated  that 
iitattve  institutions  were  on  their  tria3,"  that  "  the  Consti- 
^was  being  exposed  to  a  strain  which  might  prove  periloas  to 
stence,"  that  "  the  crisis  was  one  which  would  shake  tUu  very 
idatioos  of  the  State,"  and  so  on,  through  all  the  frequently- rang 
langcs  of  political  phraseology.  The  tncclings  of  the  Assembly 
often  prolonged  through  the  night;  the  debates  were  loud, 
long,  and  lively;  the  language  of  the  members  was,  to  say  the 
least,  far  from  Parliamentary  ;  the  Speaker  was  often  ignored,  and 
his  authority  set  at  defiance  ;  fista  were  sometimes  shaken  at  anta- 
gonists ;  members  of  the  Government  wore  accused  of  treason 
and  denounced  as  traitors;  and  it  really  seemed  as  if  war  to  the 
knife  had  been  declared  between  the  Ministerialists  and  the  Oppo- 
sition. 

Out-of-doors  it  was  the  same.  Almost  everybody  wag  afflicted 
by  the  crisis.  Groups  gathered  at  the  comers  of  the  streets  dis- 
cussing the  crisis.  People  at  luncheon  talked  about  it ;  at  the  dinner 
table  it  was  always  present ;  in  the  theatres,  between  the  acts,  you 
beard,  not  criticisms  on  the  play  and  the  players,  but  opinions  about 
the  crisis.  It  seemed  in  the  air,  and  met  you  everywhere.  Public 
meetings  were  held  in  all  parts  of  the  colony,  especially  in  Mel- 
bourne, to  discuss  and  pass  resolutions  ;  and  these  were  exag- 
gerated copies  of  the  gatherings  of  the  Legislative  Assembly,  if  it 
were  possible  that  those  demonstrations  of  party  feeling  could  be 
exaggerated.  Of  course  the  newspapers  were  full  of  the  crisis,  and 
even  a  stranger  might  be  pardoned  if  he  were  caught  in  the  vortex 
and  gave  himself  up  for  a  time  to  follow  the  course  of  the  all- 
absorbing  controversy. 

But  what  was  the  crisis.'  Some  time  before  I  arrived  at  Mel- 
bourne a  Ministrj',  with  Mr.  Graham  Berry,  one  of  the  members  for 
West  Geclong,  as  its  Premier,  after  enjoying  the  sweets  of  office 
for  only  two  months,  had  been  defeated  and  compelled  to  y^\.  S-Vrfi 


The  GeiiUmiaiCs  Magazine. 


Treasury  benches.    The  Berry  Government  was  succcciled  by  one 

with  Sir  James  McCulloch,  the  member  for  Warrnambool,  at  Us 

head.     The  defeated  Mr.  Berr>'  led  the  Opposition,  anci  so  bitterly 

did  they  wag«  the  war  that  all  the  forms  of  the  Hoase  were  used 

not  only  "  for  the  purpose  of  preventing  the  Government  financial 

scheme  from  becoming  law,  but  even  for  preventing  the  passing  of 

snippllcs."     In  doing  this  they  declared  tliat  ihcy  would  stand  as 

finn  as  a  "  stone  wall "  :  hence  the  Opposition  canted  the  name  of 

"  Stonewallers."    The  Cen^-iles  were  Jn  a  decided  minority  in  the 

Homo,  but    ihey  demanded  that  it  should  be  dissolved  and  an 

appeal  mads  to  the  country'.  This  demand  the  Government  resisted. 

and  so  no  supplies  were  granted.    For  some  weeks  things  were  at 

a  dead-lock;  noneof  the  Government  officials  could  be  paid;  some 

of  the  public  works  were  suspended  ;  and  every  day  confusion  was 

becoming  worse  confounded. 

This  Slate  of  things  had  existed  for  several  weeks  when  Sir  jameai 

McCulloch  resolved  to  display  the  "iron  hand  "  and  break  do 

the  "stone  wall."    This  assault  on  the  Opposition  was  to  be  made 

On  January  27,  and  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  be  present  on  the 

occasion  and  to  witness  the  beginning  of  the  end  of  this  notable 

struggle.     It  was  a  scene  which  will  be  memorable  in  Victorian 

history. 

'•On  the  t6th  the  Opposition  had  succeeded  in  a  *'coant<out" 

by  remaining  in  the  lobby  and  declining  lu  form  a  House.     After 

a  little    sparring  on    this    subject    the    Premier  moved — "  That 

during  the  remainder  of   the   present  session  the  Government 

bnsiness  be  called  on  not  later  than  five  o'clock."    This  proposal 

was  productive  of  a  long  and  lively  discussion.     The  Opposition 

spoke  against  time,  and  many  of  them  proved  their  capacity  for 

making  long    speeches.     The  interruptions  were    frequent   and 

nertsy;  the  conduct  of  many  members  was  anything  but  orderly; 

serious    charges    were  made,  and    bad    motives   imputed.     The 

Government  was  accused    of  wanting    to   gag  the  Opposition. 

Mr.  Patterson,  a  "  Stonewaller."  and    one  of  the  membets  for 

Castlcmaine,  concluded  a  long  speech  by  declaring  that  "  there 

was  a  great  deal  of  snobbcr)-  in  this  countn-,  more  than  there  was 

even  In  the  old  countiy.    Idols  were  set  up  here  to  be  worshipped 

that  would  not  be  tolerated  at  home.     But  of  them  all,  and  of  Sir 

James  McCulloch  in  particular,  he  would  say — 

<'  SbatI  I  uKovered  sund,  vaA  bcoil  tlic  Vncc 
\  (luulov  of  nolrilhy. 
.  remnoni  >    He  misht  rot  uBknowa 


i 


A  Colonial  Pol Uical  Crisis.  575 

In  this  lively  manner  the  debate  was  conlinaed  for  more  than 
eight  hours,  when,  at  twenty-five  minutes  after  twelve  o'clock, 
some  honourable  membLT  called  attention  to  the  Tart  that  there 
weru  strangers  in  the  House.  The  galleries  were  immediately 
cleared,  and  the  debate  was  resumed  with  closed  doors.  Mr. 
David  Gaunson,  the  member  for  Ararat,  "continued  to  talk 
against  time  until  six  o'clock,  and  only  left  off  at  that  hour  in 
order  to  catch  the  first  train  "  for  the  town  for  which  he  sat.  At 
a  quarter  to  eleven  o'clock  on  the  28th  the  motion  was  carried 
without  a  division,  "there  being  present  thirty-four  members  on 
the  Government  side  of  the  House,  and  only  seven  of  the  Oppo- 
sition." On  this  trial  of  strengtii  the  House  sat  for  nearly  nine- 
teen hours,  and  the  first  blow  was  given  for  the  destruction  of  the 
crisis. 

The  second  blow  was  struck  on  February  the  ist,  when  the 
Premier  moved  that  the  ■'  House  during  th«  remainder  of  the 
present  session  should  sit  on  Fridays,  and  the  transaction  of 
Government  bosiocss  take  precedence  of  all  other  business  on 
such  days."  This  was  ultimately  carried  ;  but  the  third,  the  lasV 
and  the  bitterest  battle  of  this  Parliamentary  campaign  had  yet 
to  be  fought  before  ihc  "iron  hand"  could  be  proclaimed' 
fcvictorious  and  the  "  Stonewaliers"  completely  subdued.  Thi« 
^exciting  stniffgle  began  on  the  md  of  the  month,  when  Sir 
James  McCalloch  gave  notice  that  on  the  3rd  he  should  move 
a  new  standing  order  the  effect  of  which  would  bo  to  "enable 
^any  one  to  propose  in  the  course  of  a  discussion  that  the  question 
Bbe  now  put,  such  proposal  to  be  at  once  put  to  the  vote,  and,  if 
resolvctl  in  the  aifinnative,  the  original  question  to  be  then  put 
without  discussion  or  dt-batc."  The  "iron  hand"  was  now  dis- 
closed :  a  weapon  was  to  be  placed  in  the  hands  of  members  by 
which  the  long,  tedious,  irrelevant  debates  might  at  onco  be 
closed  or  prevented.  The  mere  notice  of  such  a  motion  was 
received  with  much  excitement  by  the  Opposition.  One  honour- 
able gentleman,  Mr.  James  Muoro,  one  of  the  members  for  North 
Mciboume.  declared  that  he  and  his  friends  were  Hkc  the  "  heroes 
of  Thermopylae,  who  died  for  their  country-."  He  protested 
against  the  motion  in  the  strongest  manner,  and  offered  to  endure 
any  tortures  rather  than  it  should  be  passed.  He  was  ready  to  be 
"  cut  to  pieces."  or  "  to  be  bound  hand  and  foot,"  or  to  "  have 
his  tongue  pulled  out  with  pincers,"  or  "  to  be  put  into  the  cellar," 

t either  of  which  sacri&ces  u-as  he  ever  called  upon  to  endure. 
This  was  only  a  small  affair,  a  mere  cn^agemenV  t>^  Q<GA.^V!X!b. 


576 


Tke  Gentleman*  s  Magazine, 


* 


The  great  battle  be^n  on  Tuesday,  Febraaiy  the  8th,  on  which 
night  the  motion  which  was  lo  "destroy'  the  Constitution  and 
attcrlj*  suppress  the  liberties  of  the  people"  was  realljr  before  the 
House.  An  arrangement  had  been  made  to  sit  until  the  motion  was 
carried.  On  the  first  night  of  the  debate  the  House  «>-as  cleared 
of  strangers  at  ten  o'clock  so — it  was  said,  that  the  members  migbt 
have  alt  the  fun  to  themselves.  For  two  nights  and  two  days  the 
battle  was  continued  with  high  hope  on  the  Government  side  and 
the  fury  of  de^iair  oo  that  of  the  Opposition.  On  the  ictii* 
almost  as  soon  as  the  Speaker  had  taken  the  chair,  one  honounbte, 
member  again  called  attention  to  the  fact  that  stiangets 
present.  Another  honourable  member  said  that  unless  the 
members  opposite  moderated  their  rancour  It  would  be  necessary, 
for  the  sake  of  decency,  to  clear  the  galleries ;  and  amidst  great 
uproar  and  disturbance  the  galleries  were  cleared,  and  the  bel- 
ligerents once  more  fought  their  battle  with  closed  doors.  Tlie 
fight  was  long  and  fierce :  words  were  hurled  at  each  other  not 
often  to  be  heard  in  legislative  assemblies :  at  times  disorder 
reigned  supreme,  and  the  voice  of  the  Speaker  could  scarcely  be 
heard  amid  the  din  of  the  engaging  combatants.  The  contest 
continued  imtil  half-past  two  o'clock  on  Friday  afternoon,  at  which., 
hour  the  figliting  ceased  and  the  voting  took  place.  The  result' 
was  a  triumph  for  the  Government :  the  numben  being  forty-one 
votes  for  Sir  James  McCullocb's  motion  and  twenty  against— 
majority,  twenty-one. 

Thus  ended  the  Colonial  Political  Crisis.  The  "stonewall" 
was  broken  down,  and  the  regular  business  of  the  Mouse  was 
allowed  to  go  on.  On  the  Tuesday  fullov.-ing  this  eventful  Friday 
supplies  were  granted,  and  tlic  wheels  of  the  Admimstration  were 
once  more  set  in  healthy  motion.  It  was  a  severe  trial  of  repi«- 
sentadve  institutions ;  but  they  have  borne  severer  in  the  past,  and 
will  most  certainly  have  to  bear  them  in  the  future. 

There  is  no  fear  at  present  that  the  Australian  colonies,  uul 
especially  Victoria,  will  suff^er  much  from  the  sqttabbles  of  partjr 
politicians.  She  is  more  Ukely  to  sufTL-r  from  the  mistaken  news 
which  the  people,  the  electors  of  her  law-makers,  have  on  tho 
subject  of  Protection. 

While  they  last,  however,  such  crises  have  politically  a  demoral- 
ising effect.  Tliey  tend  to  create  a  low  public  opinion  and  to 
moka  politics  look  somewhat  rcpuUJw.  The  scents  which  1 
witnessed  in  the  Legislative  Assembly,  and  which  were  una«<jd 
before  crowded  galleries,  were  not  fleasant,  and  most  have. 


A  Colonial  PolUical  Crisis.  577 

feriorating  influence  on  the  audiences,  which  would  read  on 
^tlicir  own  political  meeting'.';  and  their  ohti  views  of  public  life, 
jroducing-  for  a  time  evil  results.  The  effects  of  this  bitterness  of 
■party  strife  were  manifest  in  the  conduct  of  the  press.  The  news- 
papers of  Melbourne  arc  exceedingly  well  conducted,  and  arc  on 
thu  whole  a  credit  to  the  "  I'ourth  Estate."  They  have  won  for 
themselves  a  world-wide  repulalion,  and  compare  advantageously 
with  the  best  nowsiMpers  of  Kn^fland.  The  most  important 
questions  arc  ably  and  temperately  discussed,  the  reporting  is 
admirdblc,  the  "leaders"  are  written  with  ability  and  power,  and 
they  exercise  a  generally  good  influence  on  public  opinion.  The 
evil  produced  by  the  virulent  way  in  which  the  crisis  was  conducted 
had  a  pernicious  effect  even  on  the  best  of  these.  K  thort 
extract  from  one  which  holds  the  highest  place  in  the  colony  will 
sufHcc  for  illustration.  In  describing  the  House  on  the  famous 
9th  of  Ffbruarj',  the  writer  thus  sketches  the  leaders  of  the 
^Opposition : — 

H  "^\'hen  the  Speaker  took  the  chair' on  Tuesday  ihcrc  was  a  full 
H'jBUStcr  of  members.  The  front  Opposition  bench  was  crowded 
with  disinterested  patriots,  Mr.  Berr\'  looking  somewhat  despondent; 
Mr.  Woods  wearing  a  look  uf  angelic  meekness  and  modesty  ;  Mr. 
Lalor  appeariuR  as  if  full  to  the  bung — uncomfortably  'crowded' 
in  fact — with  Parliamentary-  lore  and  usage,  ready  to  contest  Mr. 
Spwiker's  nilings,  whichever  way  they  might  be  given  ;  Mr.  Long- 
nore  smiling  that  fatuous  smile  with  which  he  covers  what  Mr. 
Eiginbotham  would  probably  call  his  'hellish  emotions';  Mr. 
trson  labouring  in  vain  to  appear  careless  about  the  growing 
liscontcnt  of  his  constituents,  and  Mr.  Munro  scowling  defiance, 
id  tacitly  challenging  the  Premier  to  produce  his  pincers."  The 
^jncmbcr  for  Ararat  is,  afler  the  Melbourne  Punch,  called  "Miss 
Caunson." 

»It  would  be  an  injustice  to.Victoria  to  speak  only  of  her  political 
crises,  which  after  all  arc  but  occasional  disturbances  of  her  general 
political  action.    The  colony  is  young,  very  young,  and  often  dis- 
plays the  rashness  and  violence  characteristic  of  extreme  youth ; 
^bbut  she  also  displays  its  courage,  energy,  and  pluck.     The  good 
^^tForfc  done  by  her  Legislature  in  the  short  space  of  five-and-twcnty 
years  is  perfectly  astonishing.  The  free  library  with  35,000  volumes 
^on  its  shelves,  the  free  museum  with  its  splendid  collection,  are 
Hinstitutions  not  yet  possessed  by  older  States.    A  fine  botanical 
^bardcn  for  instruction  and  recreation,  a  still  finer  Fitzroy  gardea, 
^Kor    recreation    chiefly,   and    othCT    pubWc    grtiMTiSs  Vi^t  Xi^w*. 
^1       Vol.  XVJJ..  .V.S.  is't^.  *  » 


* 


Thi  Gcftileman's  Magazine. 

established,  and  arc  all  free  to  the  {leople.  A  uDiversily  of  good 
repute,  and  rich  in  promise  for  Ihc  future,  is  an  institution  reflecting 
great  credit  on  its  founders.  Her  apprijciation  of  the  importance  of 
popular  education  has  been  pmved  by  the  introdaction  of  a 
national  sj-sicm,  which  has  already  placed  Victoria  at  thf  head  of 
all  the  Auslruliaa  colonies  on  thta  vital  question.  Other  work  might 
be  named  eqoally  honourable  to  the  public  spirit  both  of  tiie 
Government  and  the  people. 

Kor  has  the  growth  of  her  material  prosperity  been  less  marked. 
A  short  paragraph  of  figures  sujipUed  by  Mr.  Hayter,  the  Govern'- 
ment  statist,  aflbrds  ample  evidence  of  the  almost  unparalleled 
rapidity  with  which  her  resources  have  been  developed : — "  When 
the  Constitation  was  proclaimed  [1855]  the  populaiion  of  the 
colony  nnmbcred  364,000,  it  now  [187+j  nuuibers  814,000;  the 
land  in  cultivation  amounted  to  115,000  acres,  it  now  amounLs  lo 
over  1,000,000  acres ;  the  bushels  of  whe;il  grown  in  a  year  num- 
bered 1,150,000,  they  now  numhcr  4,850,000;  the  sheep  numbered 
4,600,000,  tlicy  now  number  11,250,000;  the  cattle  numbered 
530,000,  they  now  number  1,000,000;  the  horses  numbered  33,000, 
they  now  number  not  less  than  aoo,ooo  ;  the  public  re\'eniie 
amounted  io  £^,^^Zfiw>,  it  now  amounts  to  over /'4,ooo,ooo ;  the 
value  of  imports  was/*  11,000,000,  it  now  amounts  to /*! 7,000,000; 
the  value  of  exporu  was  ^13,500,000,  it  now  amounts  to 
/"'jtSOOiWJOtflnil  *Iiis  although  the  export  of  gold  has  fallen  ofiT 
from^i  (,000,000  in  the  former  to  a  little  over /'4,ooo,ooo  in  the 
pa»t  year." 

Melbourne,  the  capital  of  Victoria,  is  only  about  forty  year*  old, 
but  the  value  of  land  in  \xs  principal  streets  equals  iu  value  in  the 
heart  of  some  of  our  most  pro!>|M:rous  towns*  When  I  was 
there  in  March  last  half  a  block  in  the  best  part  of  Collins  Street 
was  sold  for  /'39,6oo,  or  £(iOO  per  foot ;  and  a  similar  area  ui 
Bourke  Street  West  realised  /'9,50c,  or  /"i+s  per  foot.  These 
fads  show  that  in  this  coluny  property  and  public  spirit  have  beea 
developed  pretty  cquilly  logL-lher,  and  that  neither  is  much 
injured  by  the  occuircnue  of  political  crises,  or  the  curious  mani- 
festations of  politicil  iXtxir,  which  to  a  stranger  appear  at  first  ta 
be  fraught  with  so  nmch  [»cril  to  the  progns*  and  well-being  of  the 
coontiy. 


Leaves  from  the  Journal  of  a 
Chaplain  of  Ease. 

Bditad  by  til   LiUr«j-  Exeontar;   W.   M«CULLAGH  TORRENS,  M,P. 


XL— COMPETITIVE  EXAMINATION. 

H      ^^  Aprii  3. 

^K    ^^^tk.    ^  descending  the  pulpit  stairs  this  evening,  my  ej-e 
^BtjwShpB^.-     rcsteiL  for  a  momrnt,  I  don't  know  why,  on  the  further 
^K  ^^PJmm       P^^'  where    Mrs.  Landelis  usuiJIy  sits.     All  those 
^K     ^ggj^        jjggf  ^  were  vevj  vmpty;    the  hor&h  veather  had 
^^  prevented  some  of  my  accustomed  hearers  from  attending ;  and  at 
best  they  do  not  muster  very  strong  upon  a  week-dty  evening. 
^L  Sometimes  1  have  but  two  or  three  score,  womc:n  for  ihu  most  part, and 
^  I  believe  ehicfl)'  those  who  are  glad  u(  refuge  from  a  cheerless  home 
or  an  hour  of  sympathetic  solace  from  the  sadness  of  an  unslinred 
fireside.  I  think  the  men  who  come,  as  far  as  I  can  tell,  arc  somewhat 
^^  in  a  simitar  case,  three  or  four  invalids  and  as  many  hj-pochondriacs 
^kliavinf;  no  one  to   look  after  them,  excepting  servants ;  and  ia 
whom  I  cannot  say  that   I    have    observt-d  any  manifirs  lotion  of 
wlial  is  called  vital  religion.      Hardly  one    of    them    .ippears  on 
Sunday  evening,  which  I  ascribe  to   their  partaking  of  the  hos- 
pitality of  relatives  or  friends.     One  old  gentleman,  whose  prime 
was  spent  in  an  ofhcc  at  the  India  House  in  Leadenhall  Street, 
Bcax  that  occu])ied  so  long  by  John  Stuart  Mill,  devotes,  I  know, 
every  Sunday  afternoon    to  his  maiden    sister  at    Hammersmith, 
with  whom,  after  a  five    o'clock    dinner    is  over,  and  the  subse- 
quent refection  of  green  tea    and    seed    cake,  he    plaj*s  a:  chess 
ttill  ten.  when,  hail,  rain,  or  snow,  he  returns  to  Green  Street.    But 
punctually  as  the  clouk  points  to  seven  on  Wednesdays  he  is  to  be 
■een  at  tlic  other  end  of  the  pew  occupied  by  Mrs.  Landells.     I 
bare  never  noticed  that  he    knelt  daring  the  prayers,  or  made  an 
eflfort  to  hum  in  the  Psalmody;  but  when  an>tliing  seems  to  strike 
him,  even    in  discoiirt<e,  he  sounds   a    note    of  approval  [just  aa 
old  Lord  Fiuwilliam  used  to  do  at  Belgrave) ;  and  ^^hcn  I  am  par- 
ticularly happy  his  piuus  ubbligato  accompanies  me  to  the  end  oC 
kthe  Lessons.    Between  the  last  and  his  8eU\vt\g  VKmy^V  \o\\%V'fitt. 
V  V  -i. 


The  GcnilenmiCs  Magazine. 

coniforlably  to  the  exposition  (for  I  never  preach  on  llie&e  occa- 
sions) I  am  credibi)'  informed  that  out  of  his  waistcoat  pocket 
there  is  unobtriisivcly  drawn  a  snuff-box  of  Benares  workmanship, 
wondcrfal  in  its  way,  and  that  bc-nding  over  it  he  gives  his  nose  the 
allowable  indulgence  of  a  fragrant  snifif,  deeming  an  actual  pinch  in 
such  a  place  to  be  irreverent :  after  which  the  heavy  laden  man'ci 
of  graving  in  gold  is  stealthily  deposited  in  its  roomy  nest,  not  to 
emerge  again  until  he  arrives  at  home.  )  do  my  best  to  encourage 
this  form  of  confidence  between  pastor  and  people,  selecting  for 
the  subject  some  incident  of  sacred  story  round  which,  by  bclp  of 
reading  aud  reflection,  it  is  not  difficult  to  weave  a  fringe  of  illus- 
tration, appropriate  and  ample  of  colouring,  diversified  to  suit  the 
varied  conditions  of  ^mind  for  whom,  even  in  their  heterogeneity, 
one  must  care.  I  do  not  go  iti  for  the  histrionic  form  of  service,  or 
for  the  Hibernian  style  of  pulpit  rhetoric.  But  I  believe  profoundly 
in  the  mysterious  usefulness  of  scenic  and  dramatic  word-painting: 
and  I  know  that  ht-arts  loi.kvd  fastappaientlyin  conventional  indif- 
ference have  been  and  therefore  may  be  touched  to  the  quick  by  a 
phrase  or  "an  image  in  this  method  of  appeal.  My  Wednesday 
evening's  gathering  together  of  respectable  odds  and  ends  needs  no 
adjurations  not  to  break  the  sixth  and  seventh  commandmenls.  For 
the  most  part  what  thty  stand  in  need  of  is  words  of  good  cbeet 
under  trial,  bodily  or  mental,  that  in  their  patience  they  may  con- 
tinue to  possess  their  soul.  Alas  !  I  have  seen  too  many  Inalances 
in  which  the  proud  philosophy  of  complaint  isbuttheforcranncrof 
despair. 

When  I  came  out  from  the  vestry  and  llie  lights  were  extin- 
guishing I  noticed  that  Mrs.  Landells  had  not  left,  and  concluding 
that  there  was  something  she  wished  lo  say  to  me  I  advanced  to 
inquireforherson.wbogenerallyaccompaniedher.  Thcpurporiofhcr 
answer  was  not  quite  audible,  and  as  wo  walked  together  towards  the 
door,  I  began  to  surmise  what  might  be  the  cause  which  pal|>ably 
overcast  her  countenance  with  gloom.  No  fanciful  woman  this, 
troubled  with  iraaginaiy  ailments  or  presentiments  of  misfortune, 
or  ghostly  doubts  regarding  her  spiritual  condition  :  a  thoroughly 
sensible,  charitable,  matter-of-fact  per»3n,  faithful  in  the  discharge 
of  all  domestic  duties,  wrapped  up  in  the  welfare  of  her  children 
and  ready  to  make  any  sacrifice  of  ease  or  comfort  for  their  good ; 
but  witlial  an  unimaginative,  and,  therefore.  uns}Tnpttthctic  being, 
whom  one  can  easily  conceive  honestly  but  unhappily  troubled  nbout 
many  things.  As  it  rained  heavily  1  offered  to  see  her  hotne,  her 
house  being  very  near;  and  though  I  would  fain  have  been  excused. 


she  pressed  so  tnucli  Lhat  I  would  slay  for  a  Tew  minutes,  as  there 
was  a  matter  about  which  she  wanted  to  consult  mc.  With  an 
nnsuccessful  effort  at  a  smile  she  pointed  to  the  easiest  chair ; 
and  laying  aside  her  shawl,  stirred  the  fire  hastily  and  began: — ■ 
"  My  son  has  caused  me  lately  much  anxiet)'.  While  his  father 
lived,  and,  indeed,  until  be  quitted  school,  he  was  cvcT/thing  I 
could  wish,  docile,  diligent,  uncomplaining,  and,  as  far  as  looks 
went,  happy.  Doctor  Dactyl  gave  mc  excellent  accounts  of  his 
progress,  especially  in  Greek  and  Latin.  He  said  he  could  repeat 
correctly  a  greater  number  of  lines  than  any  other  boy  at  Crain- 
cbester.  My  dear  husband  used  to  say  to  me  that  he  was  afraid 
they  over-did  that  Sort  of  thing  there  ;  that  he  did  not  believe  pro- 
ficiency in  what  he  called  spinning- — I  never  understood  exactly 
what  he  meant  by  spinning,  but  it  was  a  fayourite  word  with  him — 
Lalin  verses,  or  letting  them  reel  off  smoothly  to  win  a  prize  or 
escape  a  flogging,  was  of  any  real  use,  or  worth  the  time  and  pain 
it  cost.  But,  as  I  said,  the  boy  did  not  complain  of  the  discipline 
being  too  severe ;  and  it  would  never  do  to  set  his  mind  in  mutiny 
against  his  master.  I  is-anted  him  to  go  to  Trinity  College,  DubJin, 
where  they  said  he  would  be  certain  to  do  well.  Just  before  the 
time  for  entrance  my  great  sorrow  came,  and  all  that  had  to  be 
given  up.  Lord  Shitkem  had  promised  to  do  everything  for  him 
when  his  education  was  complete.  My  dear  husband  often  worked 
al  his  elections  weeks  at  a  time,  and  took  no  end  of  pains  gelting 
op  his  speeches  in  Parliament.  Well,  I  wrote  to  him  asking  what 
he  would  recommend  me  to  do,  tcUing  him  how  important  it 
was  that  Frederick  should  lose  no  time  in  settling  to  some  pursuit, 
fand  asking  if  he  could  get  him  a  nomination  for  the  Indian  service 
or  at  home.  I  had  a  long  letter  in  reply,  dated  from  Nice,  lull  of 
the  usual  thing  about  his  regret  at  my  loss,  and  hoping  lhat  the 
young  man,  as  he  called  him,  would  be  steady  and  avoid  Habits  of 
expense,  especially  in  horses,  which  he  himself  found  ruinous — as 
if  poor  Fred  ever  thought  of  such  a  thing — without  saying  a  word 
about  the  appointment  or  showing  the  least  care  about  trj'ing  to 
.serve  him.  I  showed  the  letter  to  my  brother,  who  always  said 
■what  the  fine  promises  would  come  to  and  warned  the  poor  dear 
man  who  is  gone  that  his  friendship  would  never  be  requited  ;  and 
he  bid  me  think  no  more  of  the  matter  but,  having  entered  my 
aon  at  Trinity,  let  him  cram  for  a  fellowship,  which  is  a  good  pro- 
vision  for  life.  I  sold  some  pictures  and  other  things  I  was  fond 
of  in  order  to  get  money  to  do  so  last  October.  Kc  has  btssoi. 
there  ever  since.    Dr.  Grinder  writes  me  woid  iVas.  Vie  \va2.  wi  Sasi*- 


fc 


582 


Th€  GenUcniatii  Afagazine. 


to  find,  and  lliat  lie  hopes  he  may  pass  if  he  works  hard  next 
jrear.  But  Fred  tcUs  me  it  is  no  use ;  that  do  what  he  will  be 
cannot  make  any  vray  with  mathematics,  and  that  be  knows  that  1 
he  will  never  pass.  He  is  very  down  about  it  since  hi!  has  been 
home  Tor  the  holidays,  and  last  night  be  lold  his  sister  that  he 
Could  not  bear  to  think  of  ray  wasting  money  on  what  u'oald  only 
end  in  disappointment,  and  leave  him  as  far  as  ever  from  being' 
able  to  earn  his  bread.  Sooner  Uian  this,  he  was  ready  to  turn  to 
anything  that  he  thought  he  could  do,  and  he  wants  to  go  oat  to 
New  Zealand  to  farm.  It  is  a  great  heart-break  to  mc  to  think  that 
be  should  throw  ax^ay  all  that  has  been  done  for  bis  education  and 
go  10  the  other  side  of  the  world  to  turn  shcphtrrd,  like  any  ignorant 
farmer's  son,  and  leave  his  family,  who  idolise  him.  Perhaps,"  she 
added,  after  a  pause,  "you  could  find  out  from  him  why  it  »  that 
be  cannot  do  like  others  of  hts  age  in  geometry*,  or  whatever  it  ia 
they  have  to  do.  I  saw  his  class  book  the  other  day  l>ing  on  the 
table,  and  it  did  not  soem  \-eiy  thick.  With  his  memory  I  cannot 
see  why  he  could  not  get  it  all  by  heart." 

Taking  up  the  difficulty  where  her  narrative  had  dropped  it,  1 
attempted  to  clear  away  her  simple-minded  illustoa  Uiat  it  wu 
possible  to  become  a  mathematician  by  the  mechanical  process  of 
imprinting  the  "  Elements  of  tucliU"  on  the  memory,  so  as  to  ba 
able  to  give  out  faithful  transcripts  when  called  npon.  One  might 
as  well  hope  to  make  a  general  by  filling  a  drummer's  head  with 
the  last  complete  set  of  general  orders  issued  by  the  War  Depart- 
ment, or  to  manufacture  a  staU-sman  fit  tu  hold  the  helm  in  the 
next  political  storm  by  getting  by  bean  Hallom's  "Coustitntioaal 
History."  She  looked  wistfully  at  me,  as  if  she  did  her  best  to 
comprehend  what  I  meant,  and  then  rejoined  unbelievingly  that  it 
seemed  to  her  very  extraordinary'  th.it  Mark  ftlurton,  her  own 
nephew,  bad  got  the  IJfth  place  at  the  Woolwich  exaniioation  last 
time,  who  had  ali^'ays  been  incorrigibly  idle  and  unmanageable 
from  the  time  lie  was  a  child,  wrote  a  bad  band,  and  could  not 
speak  a  word  of  French.  To  be  sure,  he  was  quick  and  impudent 
i*nougb,  and  he  told  Frc<l  that  hi-  had  not  gone  to  U-d  fur  thrco 
weeks  before  he  went  in.  and  then  bad  what  he  called  ran;  lock  in 
being  given  the  only  passage  in  some  book  tboy  had  to  innslatv 
whii'h  he  conld  do.  But  his  answers  in  mathematics  were  fintt 
rate,  and  his  drawing  was  ncellcnt.  Why  could  not  Fird  do  as 
Well  if  he  would  only  persevere  and  resolve  i  i  ? 

The  absolute  hopelessness  of  making  Intel  i  id  few  words 

forfortliat  matter  byanynumbcrof  words),  toon  aoxjous  and  ambi* 


'  lious  mother  like  my  Prtimable  fricnfi,  the  inherent  and  inscmtablc 
diversity  of  mental  slniciurcs  and  the  consequent  futility  of  afTL-ct- 
ing  to  treat  them  alike  or  to  demand  like  results  from  them  rcnilcred 
mc  mute,  i  did  not  know  cnotigh  of  her  son  to  fomi.  far  less  to 
express,  any  opinion  regarding  his  intellectual  powers.  Every 
day's  experience  teache.s  one  to  accept  with  reser\-e  indications  at 
nineteen  of  incapacity  to  follow  somL-  laborious  profession  not 
originally  self-selected  and  not  particularly  congCDia)  to  the  habits 
and  ta.<5tcs  of  him  who  is  expected  to  follow  it.  I  offered  the  only 
suggestion  which  occurred  as  soothing,  and  the  same  time  safe, 
namely,  tttat  if  the  youthful  academician  would  pay  mc  a  friendlj 
visit  I  would  do  my  best  to  fathom  the  difficulty.  This  was  exactly 
ivhal  she  wished  for,  and  accordingly  having^  left  with  her  a  message 
that  I  would  like  to  see  him  at  breakfast  some  morning  if  he  would 
look  in,  I  took  my  leave  with  some  consolatory  words  T  need  not 
here  record. 

^m  April  i(j. 

^  When  ten  days  passed  and  young  Landclla  did  not  present 
himself,  I  took  for  grnnted  that  he  would  n»t  come  unless 
I  wrote  to  him.  I  don't  think  the  worse  of  a  young  fellow  for 
being  slow  to  accept  an  invitation  like  mine,  and  if  he  appre- 
hended  being  subjected  to  interrogatories  hy  one  who  had  no 
assignable  claim  to  his  confidence  it  was  but  natural  that  he  should 
defer  indefinitely  the  pro(;i^e<liny.     His  non-a[>|»earamx  meanwhile 

^hnade  it  clear  that  tlie  maternal  ascendency  once  fondly  believed  in 
Was  on  the  wane,  and  I  had  no  fancy  to  be  the  occasion  of  rending 
its  attenuated  thread.  I-est  it  sliould  be  so  I  made  up  my  mind  not 
to  notice  the  matter  if  T  mrt  him,  and  to  trust  to  accidental  meeting- 
rather  than  renew  the  neglected  invitation.  This  morning  I  called 
■early  upon  lies,  who.  1  was  not  aware,  was  a  mutual  acquainlancrc, 
and  there  found  the  intending  emigrant  deeply  engaged  in  a  game 
of  chess,  t  insisted  on  their  not  adjouniing  the  contest  on  my 
account ;  if  they  did,  I  would  go  away.  But  if  they  would  have  me 
I  would  look  on  and  search  otit  .t  book  I  wanted,  while  wailing  for 
a  critical  move:  and  this  was  agrcud  to  on  condition  that  I  should 
take  up  the  winner.  lies  lost,  and  Frederick  and  I  sat  down  to 
play.  Though  nothing  of  a  proficient,  I  soon  came  to  the  concltt- 
sion  that  he  played  by  book.  1  did  not,  for  I  have  never  found 
time  to  study  tlit;  opetiingii  or  gambits  ;  and  caring  nothing  whether 
I  lost  or  won  I  moved  quickly  and  often  badly.  He  said  nothing, 
but  I  saw  his  look  of  surpri-ie  at  my  not  making  the  proper  answer 

this  advance,  mj  hanMn-scanim  play  sccmcA  lo  vcr^Xes.  Vwa,  ■»»&. 


nrbcn  lies  laughed  as  lie  looked  on  at  his  hesitation  to  take  adran- ' 
lage  of  an  uttcrlj-  unrctlccmcd  blunder  of  mine,  he  exclaimed,  "  I 
suppose  there  is  sometliing  in  it  that  I  don't  understand,  but  I  see 
nothing  else  for  it ;  so  here  govs."  There  was  in  fact  nothing  else 
to  be  done ;  I  had  no  subtle  ambush  bo  reveal,  and  it  ended  in  my 
being  thoroughly  beaten.  "Now,"  I  said,  "1  must  say  good-bye,  bnt 
I  won't  be  content  until  I  have  had  my  revenge.  If  you  can  dine  on 
a  single  dish  and  will  come  to  mc  to-morrow.  I  would  let  you  see 
how  much  better  I  can  play  with  my  own  men.  Cartier  is  coming, 
whom  I  tlitnk  you  know,  and  if  he  is  like  minded  we  can  set  up  4 
second  tabic."  This  indeed  would  be  only  prudent,  for  Cartier  is  an 
irrepressible  man  ;  and  I  remember  once  when  I  was  playing  with 
Anthony  Fonblanque  he  would  interrupt  with  his  suggestions  and 
exclamations  till  the  wit  was  in  a  fever  of  suppressed  irritation  ;  at 
length  he  so  far  forgot  himself  as  to  lean  heavily  on  Fonblanquc's 
shoulder  while  stretching  across  the  board  to  point  out  some 
opportunity  he  had  missed.  "Why,  sir,"  groaned  the  sufferer, 
"  you  not  only  hold  au  inquest  on  my  game,  but  you  sit  upon  my 
body  I " 

A  fin'/  J5. 
Oar  little  party  for  chess  was  pleasant  enough.  I  was  a  little 
better  than  roy  word  as  to  fare,  and  lies,  who  sets,  up  for  a 
connoisseur,  vowed  that  the  wine  (some  my  old  friend  Vavascur 
sent  me)  was  perfection.  Landclls  was  by  far  the  gravest  of  the 
party.  He  laughs  a  genuine  laugh  of  appreciation  when  anyihin;^ 
wiltyissaid;  but  generally  he  seems  lo  listen  with  open  eye  and 
slightly  parted  lips,  as  if  willing  to  be  gay  with  those  about  him 
but  unable  to  keep  pace  with  Ihcra  in  their  cross-country  scamper- 
ing talk.  When  drawn  into  the  expression  of  any  opinion  lii» 
diffidence  gradually  thaws  into  an  earnest  flow,  genial  and  even 
eloquent;  but  if  not  checked  by  some  interruption  the  currunt 
Speedily  congeals,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  is  frozen  over  as 
before.  He  and  I  have  had  a  ramble  together,  nominally  to  took 
at  pictnres  in  an  old  house  near  Ealing,  which  arc  about  to  bo 
sold  ;  and  without  worrying  him  with  a  question  about  himself  or 
his  family  affairs  I  imagine  that  I  have  seen  already  enough  of  his 
nature  to  comprehend  where  the  feal  obstacle  lies  to  his  success 
in  competitive  examination.  Full  of  talent  and  full  of  Informa.- 
lion,  tlirashcd  as  a  boy  into  classic  scholarship,  anil  led  by  his 
Own  instincts  to  desire  to  tw  what  he  is  only  yet  io  part — a  good 
Engtisb  scholar — gentle  and  naltual  in  rxpression.  noblo  and 
cUcunispective  in  thought,  bis  ioteUect  does  not  appear  to  mo  ta 


Leav€i/rom  the  Journal  of  a  Chaplain  of  Ease. 


agility  requisite  for  doing  itself  justice,  either  when 

Ited  or  wticD  left  to  itstlf.     With  excellctit  und ors landing- 

he  is  ttithout  ambition,  capable  of  reflecting  clearly  the  highest 

Pand  most  varied  things  with  delicate  precision  while  in  repose,  but 
over-sensitive,  and  tgo  eajsily  ruflkd;  and  the  fme  surface  loses  all 
its  receptivity  and  alt  its  power  of  giving  back  the  images  one 
^  believed    to   have   been    ddcply    and    clearly    mirrored    but   a 
H  moment  before.     His  mitid  is  a  lake  not  easily  gct^at-able  among 
11      the  rocks,    beautiful    when    undisturbtd,    and    striking:    but   its 
pr^tical  fitness  to  contribute  to  the  uses  of  the  world  is  not  so 
plain.     The  gurgling,   splashing,  lurf>8prung,  often  bright,  but 
often  muddy  rivulet  will  make  a  hundred  times  more  figure  and 
earn  a  thousand-fold  more  gratitude  in  the  plain  below.    In  a  word, 
his  mind  wants  inherent  motive  power;  and  the  puzzle  is  where 
to   find  that    which   may   supply  the  want  without    breaking   the 
delicately  balanced  mechanism  to  pieces.     Without  his  trying  to 
convince  mc  I  am  thoroughly  convinced  that  were  he  to  tr)-  for 
twenty  years   he    would   never    beat   for   fellowshij)   one   of    the 
commonplace,    sharp,  cram-able    glib    competitors,    whose   capa- 
bilities  for    gorging    ready-made    knowledge    arc   stimulated    and 
heightened  ever)*  day.    Mental  athletics  are  the  fashion,  and  the 
^■prizes  arc  more  and  more  given  to  boy  or  man  who  can  at  short 
notice  hoist  on  shoulder  and  carry  without  dropping  for  a  few  feet 
the  biggest  bulk  of  heterogeneous  knowledge. 
^k    As  we  relumed  from  our  pleasant  excursion  I  asked  my  com- 
^^panion,  in  whom  I  began  to  take  no  little  interest,  what  he  thought 
best  worth  doing  in  life.     He  did  not  at  first  reply,  and  to  rally 
him  out  of  his  disposition  to  dream — the  intellectual  sin  that  doth 
most  easily  beset  him — I  added  by  way  of  illustration,  "  Which 
would  you  rather:  make  a  great  speech,  make  a  great  fortune,  or 
away  with  the  most  beautiful  heiress  in  England  ?" 
"  I  am  not  capable,"  he  said,  "of  doing  any  feats;  and  I  don't 
iuppQse  I  should  be  much  happier  if  I  were." 

"Well,  what  do  you  say  to  making  war  and  killing  more  people 
than  anybody  has  done  before  ?  Or  going  to  the  church  and 
making  greater  noise, — 

On  pnlpit'dmnf  eccle&iasltc 

Beat  with  a  Tint  liutoid  of  a  rtick." 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  I  have  no  sou!  for  fighting,  and  as  little  for 
fanaticism :  and  I  should  sicken  as  much  at  the  horrors  of  the  one 
as  at  the  humbug  of  the  other." 

1  dared  not  trust  myself  to  utter  what  I  fcVt,  W\.\"Cawi.^^»*A"^ 


IP 


The  GettiUmati' s  Magasiru. 


f 


looked  into  tis  clear  grey  ej^rs,  what  a  Digfatful  proranation  it 
woulii  be  to  hand  over  $uch  a  mind  as  this  to  the  hacklers  and 
carders  of  mental  wool  for  competitive  manufacture  of  mental 
pinchbeck  or  shoddy. 

"WcU.  then,"  1  said,  aAcr  we  had  walked  on  a  little  wajr  in 
silence.  "  what  is  best  worth  doing  ?  " 

••  In  a  new  countr)',"  he  replied,  "I  suppose  the  ^atcst  bene> 
factor  is  the  roan  who  safely  leads  out  waste  labour  on  to  the  waste 
land,  and  leads  back  the  superfluity  of  their  iucccssful  reclamation 
to  feed  the  weak  ones  left  at  home.  This  is  my  notion  of  llie 
ful&lment  of  prophecy:  making  the  rough  ways  smooth  and  the 
wilderness  to  blossom  like  the  rose.  Adam  Smith  seems  to  me  to 
have  made  a  better  guess  of  the  meaning  of  the  Gospel  than  any 
of  the  preachers  I  have  ever  heard  in  chapel  or  in  church.  But  in 
an  old  country  I  think  the  best  man  is  the  man  who  is  able  to 
work  out  in  his  head  a  good  law  for  curing  or  checking  some 
pre\'alcnt  evil,  and  who  has  the  courage  and  perseverance  to  get  it 
enacted." 

"  All  right,"  I  said,  "  but  do  you  snppose  that  a  man  is  ever  in 
bis  life  time  valued  as  he  ought  to  be  for  such  works,  implying,  as 
it  almost  necessarily  docs,  the  renunciation  of  all  the  pleasures  and 
rewards  that  he  a  little  way  off  the  road  on  cither  side  ?  " 

"Well,"  he  said,  "probably  not.  Whatever  is  really  wortli  doing 
is  dLQicult  to  do;  if  it  was  not  ilinimit  it  would  not  be  so  welt 
worth  doing,  because  there  would  not  be  so  much  need  of  its  being 
done,  and  so  few  likely  to  undertake  the  doing  of  it." 

"  You  mean,  I  suppose,  that  real  improvements  or  ameliorations 
of  the  plight  of  the  many,  in  otir  over-crowded  time,  do  not  cor 
in  the  form  of  short  answers  to  written  questions  set  by  a  bos 
of  examiners .'" 

"  I  hnvc  itomctimes  thought,"  he  replied,  "  I  sbould  like  that  njj 
legs  were  as  long,  and  my  amis  as  powt^rful  as  those  of  the  yoan| 
fellows  that  pass  mc  on  the  road  every  day.  Every  now  and  then 
when  they  come  lo  a  high  gnie  they  stop  short,  and  for  a  wagotj 
try  which  of  them  can  vault  over  it  cJearesl.  It  is  wonderful  to 
them  jump,  and  the  wiuncr  looks  so  proud  and  happy.  But  of 
course  he  is  not  much  nearer  the  find  of  his  journey — ihe  dance  he 
is  bent  on,  or  the  birds'  nest  he  is  going  to  rob — for  all  this  work 
of  supererogation." 

Af«ji  t. 

As  there  was  no  need  of  haste,  1  deferred  for  some  d«y» 
my  second  visit  to  lUanchester  Street.    I  found  Mrs.  Landdls  not 


Leaves  from  the  "Journal  of  a  Chaplain  of  East.     587 

I'Snore  resigni^d,  biH  less  resistent  than  slie  had  been  re^ixling  the 
labandonmem  by  lier  son  of  competition  for  scientific  honours.  She 
I  knew  already  that  he  had  been  several  times  with  me.  and  probably 
inrerreJ  i'rom  my  silence,  rather  llimi  Trorn  any  account  given  by 
Fixdcrick  of  our  conversation,  that  she  had  not  much  to  expect 
from  my  interference.  When  I  told  her  thai  from  all  1  couJd  gather 
of  his  educational  history  and  the  constitution  of  his  mind  I  did 
not  sec  any  reason  for  anticijiating  great  or  l)niliant  success  in  the 
particular  track  that  hod  been  suggested  to  bin:,  she  only  sighed, 
and  obser\'ed  in  a  tone  of  evident  mortification  that  others  had 
expressed  a  high  opinion  of  his  capabiEilies ;  but  that  of  course  she 
could  not  judge.  If  her  eldest  boy  liad  lived  she  was  sure  he 
would  not  have  deserted  her.  But  she  supposed  that,  like  others, 
site  would  find  it  to  be  true,  as  her  husband  had  oflen  warned 
her,  that  there  was  no  ingratitude  so  conunoii  or  so  great  as  the 
ingralilude  of  children.  1  was  truly  grieved,  and  felt  it  to  he  more 
than  ever  a  duty  to  endeavour  to  heed  what  1  felt  was  likely  to  prove 
a  deep  and  cankerous  wound,  I  saw  it  would  not  do  lo  tell  her  of 
my  own  metaphysical  analysis  and  dcduclionij :  she  would  simply 
think  I  was  trying  to  perplex  her  with  words  and  phrases  that  she 

•  could  not  understand.  Evidently  her  maternal  pride  was  offended 
at  my  setrming  di>ipRragement  of  Frederick'^;  abilities.  1  might  set 
that  right,  at  all  events.  "  Let  me  assure  you,"  I  observed,  "  that  no 
young  man  I  have  lately  met  with  has  given  me  so  high  a  notion  of 
his  ability  and  dispoi^ition.  I  only  fccL  anxiety  about  the  sphere  in 
which  he  is  to  move,  and  the  occupation  he  may  choose  to  follow, 
but  do  not  call  it  deprociatory^for  nothing  is  further  from  my 
meaning — if  1  say  that  there  are  a  great  many  useful  and  honourable 
callings  in  which  I  think  he  would  be  thrown  away,  and  in  which  I 
think  he  would  make  no  figure,  .\t  the  bar  he  would  do  well  as  an 
advocate,  and  still  better  as  a  judge,  if  ho  had  the  chance  of  cither; 
but  I  have  seen  scores  of  nimbler  and  suppler  fellows  withta-  slowly 
at  the  legal  j)rofcssion  without  ever  getting  one  opportunity  to 
show  what  was  in  them.  As  matters  now  stand,  a  young  man  is 
unwise  to  risk  the  jtrimo  uf  hi^  life  at  the  bar,  unless  he  has  inde- 
pendent means  to  enable  him  to  hve,  or  connections  among  the 
solicitors  to  give  him  business  before  he  knows  how  to  da  it.  As 
for  my  own  profession,  I  should  be  only  loo  glud  to  see  its  ranks 
enriched  by  a  recruit  so  rare ;  but,  unless  I  am  mistaken,  your  son 
is  too  scrupulous  li>  affect  conformity  in  opinions  50  important  as 
those  we  arc  required  to  profess,  and  not  merely  to  profess,  but  to 

th,  as  ali-iraportant  to  the  weal  of  man  l\ete  axvi  W^t4a!i\.«t.   '^- 


have  not  discussed  this  allcmativi;  vnth  litm,  for  I  would  tither  ili« 
subject  were  first  broached  by  him."  Poor  Mrs.  Landclls,  wholly 
nnsu5picious  of  the  douhts  really  passing  in  my  mind  as  to 
Frederick's  tendency  to  philosophical  speculation,  contented  her- 
self with  the  remark  that  all  her  children  had  been  brnaghl  up 
strictly  in  religious  principles,  had  all  been  confirmed  at  the 
proper  age,  and  were  never  allowed  to  miss  church  twice  on 
Sunday  ;  or  to  be  absent  from  family  prayers.  There  was  no  use 
answering  this  sort  of  logic,  but  I  thought  within  myself  what  a 
conceited  young  sceptic  I  was  at  seventeen  under  similar  training; 
and  how  slowly  faith  took  root  in  my  heart  again  af\cr  1  had  long 
wandered  to  and  fro  in  waste  places  seeking  rest  and  finding  none, 
But  to  debate  such  questions  here  and  now  would  have  been  worse? 
than  idle.  Fortunately  at  this  tarn  of  my  perplexity  the  door  opened, 
and  Lady  Shirkem  appeared,  annonncing  she  had  come  herself 
with  a  message  from  her  lord  to  say  that  he  had  been  appointed 
chairman  of  a  Commission  of  Inquiry :  something  about  agriculture 
^she  did  not  understand  exactly  what;  and  as  the  nomination  of 
a  secretar)'  was  left  to  him  he  thought  it  might  do  for  Frederick 
for  a  year  or  so,  to  show  him  a  little  how  pnblic  business  was  done, 
and  possibly  it  might  lead  to  something  else.  Here  was  a  deliver- 
ance unexpected  and  delightful.  Frederick  was  sent  for  to  make 
his  acknowledgments  for  the  proffered  kindness.  And  unluckily 
as  his  mother  said,  very  luckily  as  I  thought,  he  was  not  at  home. 
If  lie  had  been,  acting  on  first  impulse  he  would  I  am  sure  have 
declared  himself  wholly  unqualified  to  undertake  the  task. 
must  get  hold  of  him  for  a  good  half  hour  before  Ue  can  thro 
away  the  chajtce. 

J/cy  J. 

All    right,    Frederick    Is    appointed,    and    though    bis    con- 
science is  as  sore  as  that  of  a  wounded  bear,  and  be  is  full 
all   sorts   of  qualms  about  what   he   has   to  do,   I  think  I  bav*1 
given  him  such  a  revelation  of  his  mother's  slate  of   mind  that 
he  will  not  on  her  account  ^do  anj-lhing  quixoric;  and  in  poin 
of  fact  1  have  not  a  doubt  that  he  will  do  his  work  remarkabl; 
■well.     I  have  undertaken   meanwhile  to  find  him  all  the  books 
and  pamphlets  that  have    been   written   on    the   subject,  and  lo 
give  any  amount  of  time  he  wishes  lo  discussing  them  wilh  him. 
Not  another  game  of  chess  for  the  next  month. 


: 


Douglas  Jerrold   and   his  Letters. 
by  charles  and  mary  cowden  clarke. 


^kri 


PART  III. 

West  Lodge,  Putney  Common,  February  *ind,  1850. 

V  DEAR  Mrs.  Clarke, — I  will  share  anjihing  with 

jnu.aiid  can  only  wish— at  least  for  myself — that  the 

matter  to  be  shared  came  not  in  so  pleasant  a  shape 

as  thai  dirt  in  yellow  gold.     I  have  heard  naught  of 

the  American,  and  would  rather  tliat  his   gift  came 

brJKhtt-iiod  through  you  than  from  bis  own  hand.     The  savage, 

ilh  glimpses  of  civilisation,  is  male. 

Do  ycia  read  tht-  Mominj'  Chrvnk/r?  Do  you  devour  those  mar- 
vellous revelations  of  the  inferno  of  misery,  of  wretchedness  that  is 
smouldering  under  our  feet  ?  We  live  in  a  mot;kfry  of  Christianity 
that,  with  the  thought  of  ils  hypocrisy,  makes  me  sick.  We  know  • 
nothing  of  this  terrible  life  that  is  about  us — us,  in  our  smug  respect- 
ability. To  read  of  the  sufferings  of  one  class,  and  of  the  avarice 
the  tyranny,  the  pocket  cannibalism  of  the  other,  makes  one  almost 
wonder  that  the  world  should  go  on,  that  the  misery  and  wretched- 
ness of  the  earth  are  not,  by  an  Almighty  fiat,  ended.  And  when 
we  see  the  spires  of  pleasant  churches  pointing  to  Heaven,  and  are 
told — paying  thousands  to  bishops  for  the  glad  intelligence — that 
we  are  Christiana  I  the  cant  of  this  country  is  enough  to  poison  the 
atmosphere.  I  send  you  the  Chrvnittc  of  yesterday.  Yon  will 
therein  read  what  1  ihink  you  will  agree  to  he  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  records  of  the  nobility  of  the  poor.  Of  dioac  of  whom 
our  jaunty  legislators  know  nothing ;  of  the  things  made  in  ihc 
statesman's  mind,  to  be  taxed — not  venerated.  I  am  very  proud  to 
say  that  these  papers  of  "  Labour  and  the  Poor"  were  projected  by 
Henry  Mayhew,  who  married  my  girl.     For  coinprchensivuness  of 

Eurpose  and  minuteness  of  detail  they  have  never  been  approached. 
Ic  will  cut  his  name  deep.  From  these  things  I  have  still  great 
hopes.  A  revival  movement  is  at  hand,  and — ^you  will  see  wliat 
jxiu'll  see.  Remembur  mc  with  best  thoughts  to  Clarke,  and 
believe  me  yours  sincerely,  DorGLj\s  jERkOLD. 

^_  Putney,  Februar)-  isth,  1850. 

^P    My  DEAR  Mrs.  Clarke. — Herewith  I  send  you  my  "first copy," 
^^donc  in,  1  pres-ume,  American  gold.    Considering  what  American 
booksellers  extract  from  English  brains,  even  tlic  smallest  piece  of 
the  precious  metal  is,  to  literary  eyes,  refreshing.    I  doubt,  how- 
ever, whether  these  gold  pens  really  work;  they  are  pretty  liQl\4^>i 
Iings,  but  to  earn  daily  bread  with,  I  have  aVteai>f  nv^  Tcii^viw*^ 


59<> 


The  Geniicttian' s  Afagazine. 


■ 


that  1  mu^t  go  back  to  iron.     To  be  £ure,  I  «hu  liail  iJ  v 

that  sccmirtl  to  write  of  ilsflt.  but  this  was  stolen  by  a  K 

who,  of  course,  could  tiot  write  even  with  that  gold  pon.     I'cih^ps, 

howtver.  iht  PoUceniHii  tciu{4. 

'J'hal  the  Chmnick  did  not  come  fta*  my  blunder.     I  hope  'l 
reach  you  with  this,  and  with  it  my  best  wishes  and  alTcctions 
regards  to  yoa  and  flesh  and  bone  of  you.    Truly  ever, 

Douglas  Jekhold. 

The  next  note  evinces  how  acutely  Jrrrold  felt  the  death  of 
excellent  Lord  George  Nugent :  the  \\'ording  is  solemn  and  earnest 
as  a  low-toned  passing-bell : — 

Putney,  December  znd,  1850. 

My  dbak  Clarke, — I  have  received  book,  for  which  thanki, 
and  best  wishes  for  that  and  all  followers.  Over  a  sea-coal  fire, 
this  wcL-k — all  dark  and  quiet  outside — I  shall  enjoy  its  Havour. 
Best  regards,  I  mean  love,  to  the  authoress.  Poor  tk-ar  Nugent  I 
He  and  I  became  great  friends :  I've  had  many  happy  days  with 
him  at  Lilies.  A  noble,  cordial  man;  and — the  worst  of  it — his 
foolish  carclL-ssness  of  health  has  flung  away  some  ten  or  fifteen 
years  of  genial  winter — frosty,  bnt  kindly.  God  be  with  him,  aiul 
all  yours. — Truly  yours,  D.  Jbrrold. 

There  was  a  talk  al  one  time  of  lus  going  into  rattiamcnt ;  and 
at  a  dinner-table  where  he  was  the  subject  was  discussed,  the 
chancing  to  be  present  several  members  of  the  Honse.  Some 
them  spoke  of  the  very  different  thing  it  was  to  address  a  company 
under  usual  circumstances  and  to  "address  the  House";  obM:r\-ing 
what  a  peculiarly  nervous  thing  it  was  to  face  ibal  oaMembij,  and 
that  few  mun  could  picture  to  themselves  the  difficulty  till  they  had 
actually  encountered  it.  Jcrrold  averred  thai  he  did  not  think  he 
should  feel  thi^  particular  terror;  then  turning  to  the  ParliamL-niary 
men  present  coiud  the  dinner- table,  ho  cotmied  them  all,  uml 
said  : — '"  There  are  ten  of  yoa,  members  of  Parliament,  befuif  me : 
I  suppose  you  don't  consider  yourselves  the  greatest  fouls  m  the 
House,  and  yet  I  can't  say  that  I  feel  particularly  afraid  of 
addressing  you." 

We  hate  a  portrait  of  Douglas  Jerrold,  which  be  bimself  sent  to 
us;  and  which  we  told  him  we  knew  must  be  an  excellent  111 
ness,  for  wc  always  found  ourselves  smiling  whenever  wc  lool 
at  it.    A  really  good  likeness  of  a  friend   wc   think   mvaritb^ 
pruduces  tliis  eflect.     The  smile  may  be  glad,  fond,  tender— naj 
even  mournful:   but  a  smile  always  comes  10  the  lip  in  ti'okit 
upon  a  truly  close  resemblance  of  a  bcloTuU  face. 

Jerrold  was  occasionally  a  great  sufferer  from  thcumaiic  pains,' 


Hpon 


Douglas  Jcrrold  and  his  LetUrs. 

■which  attacked  him  at  intervals  under  vaxious  foncs.  The  fol- 
lowing IctttT  adverts  to  one  of  these  severe  inflictions ;  at  the 
same  time  that  it  is  written  in  his  best  vein  or  atiiinatlon  and 
vigour  of  feeling : — 

Friday,  Putney. 

Mv  DEAR  Cl-Uikr, — 1  have  but  a  blind  excuse  to  offer  for  my 
lone  silence  to  your  last ;  but  the  miserable  truth  is,  I  have  been 
in  darkness  with  acutu  inflammittion  of  the  eye;  something  like 
toothache  in  the  t:ye — arid  ver)-  fit  to  test  a  man's  philoaophy; 
when  he  can  neititer  ruad  nor  write,  and  tiaa  no  ulhcr  consolation 
save  first  to  discover  his  own  virtues,  and  when  caught  to  con- 
template them.  I  assure  you  it's  devilish  diflicuU  to  put  one's 
hand  upon  one's  virtue  in  a  dark  room.  As  well  try  to  catch  fleas 
in  "the  blanket  o'  the  dark."  By  this,  however,  you  will  perceive 
that  1  have  returned  to  paper  and  ink.  The  doctor  tells  me  that 
the  inllammation  fell  upon  me  from  an  atmospheric  blight,  rife  in 
the»e  pans  three  weeks  ago.  /  tliink  I  caught  it  at  Hyde  Park 
Corner,  where  for  tliree  minutes  I  paused  to  see  the  Queen  pass 
after  being  fired  at.  She  lookfd  very  well,  and — as  is  not  always 
llie  case  with  women — iionc  the  worse  for  powder.  To  be  sure, 
sidtring  they  give  princc-iscs  a  salvo  of  artillery  with  tlicir  first 

,p — they  ought  to  sland  saltpetre  better  than  folks  who  come 
into  the  world  without  any  charge  to  the  State— without  even 
blank  charge. 

■     Yonr  friend  of  the  beard  is.  I  think,  quite  right.    When  God 
made  Adam  he  did  not  present  liim  with  a  nizor,  but  a  wife.     'Tis 
'       the  d — d  old  cltilhcsmen  who  have  brought  discredit  upon  a  noble 
a|tpendagt:  of  man.     Thank  God  we've  revenge  for  this.     They'll 
^L.inakc  some  of  \\\  members  of  Parliament. 

^m  I  purpose  to  break  in  upon  you  some  early  Sunday  to  kiss  the 
hands  of  your  wife  and  to  tell  you  delightful  stories  of  the  deaths 
of  kings,  llow  nobly  Mazzini  is  behaving  1  And  what  a  cold, 
calico  cur  is  John  Bull  as — I  fear — too  truly  rendered  by  the 
3'ima.  The  trench  are  in  a  nice  mess.  Heaven  in  its  infinite 
mercy  confound  them ! — Truly  yours, 

DouuLAS  Jerrouj. 

And  now  we  give  the  last  letter,  alas  1  that  wc  ever  received  from 
1.  It  is  comforting  in  its  hearty  valedictory  words:  yet  how  often 
did  we — how  often  do  we  still — regret  that  his  own  yearning  to  visit 
the  south  could  never  be  fulfilled  I     He  is  among  those  who  we 
[most  frequently  find  ourselves  wishing  could  behold  this  Italian 
matchless  view  that  lies  now  daily  before  our  eyes.     That  his  do 
behold  it  with  some  higher  and  diviner  power  of  sight  than  belongs 
^hto  earthly  eyes  is  our  constant,  confident  hope  : — 

Bile 


ifi,  Circus  Road,  St.  John's  Wood,  October  20th,  1856. 
Mv  DEAR    Friends, — 1  have  delayed  an  answer  to  your  kind. 
letter  (for  I  cannot  but  see  in  it  the  hands  atxA  \vtai\&  "iS,  VilK^  \^ 


592  yjfttf  GentUniarCs  Magazim. 

the  hope  of  being  able  to  make  my  way  to  Bayswater.  Yesterday 
I  had  detennined,  and  was  barred,  and  barred,  and  barred  by 
droppers-in,  the  Sabbath-breakers  1  Lo,  I  delay  no  longer.  But  I 
only  shake  hands  with  you  for  a  time,  as  it  is  my  resolute  deter- 
mination to  spend  nine  weeks  at  Nice  next  autumn  with  my  wife 
and  daughter.  I  shall  give  you  due  notice  of  the  descent,  that  we 
may  avail  ourselves  of  your  experience  as  to  "  location*'  as  those 
savages,  the  Americans,  yell  in  their  native  war-whoop  tongue. 

Therefore,  God  speed  ye  safely  to  your  abiding  place,  where  I 
hope  long  days  of  serenest  peace  may  attend  ye. 

Believe  me  ever  truly  yours,  Douglas  Jerkold. 

Charles  Cowden  \  p,    , 
Mary  Victoria     j  ^'^^'t^- 


End  of  "  Douglas  Js&ROLn  and  his  Lettess.*' 


BY  JAMES  PICCIOTTO.  AUTHOR  OF  "SKETCHES  OF  ANGLO- 
JEWISH  HISTORY." 

■•ORMERLY  the  Israelite  in  novels  was  as  accurate  a 
representative  of  his  race,  as  was  the  frog-eating' 
French  dancing  master  or  the  howling  wild  Irishman 
of  ancient  farces.  He  was  a  coiner,  a  buyer  of  stolen 
goods,  a  traincrof  young  thieves.apettifogging attorney,  a  sheriff's 
officer,  a  money-lender,  a  swindling  financier.  He  was  a  Jew,  a 
man  with  no  other  thought  than  greed  for  money,  no  other  sense 
of  honour  than  that  which  is  said  to  exist  among  the  class  to  which 
he  was  compared,  and  with  scarcely  a  soul  to  save.  If  old,  he  was 
hawk-eyed,  hook-nosed,  or  with  ferrety  eyes.  If  young,  he  was  rcd- 
lipped,  with  greasy  ringlets,  and  wore  showy  jcwcllerj-.  But  young 
or  old  he  was  coarse,  vulgar,  the  embodiment  of  covetousness  and 
rapacity,  «ith  seldom  one  ennobling  trait  to  redeem  the  repulsive 
picture.  The  delineation  was  as  truthful  as  if  a  Whiteijhapel 
costcnnonger  had  been  held  out  as  the  t)-pe  of  British  merchants. 
To  make  a  Jew  the  hero  of  a  stor^*,  or  even  to  endeavour  to  enlist 
the  sympathies  of  the  reader  in  his  favour,  was  contrary  to  the 
canons  of  fiction. 

The  noble  example  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  been  forgotten  by 
more  recent  novelists.  Thackeray  seldom  had  a  kindly  word  for 
the  Hebrew,  though  I  believe  that  private  representations  made  to 
him  induced  him  to  refrain  from  continuing  to  caricature  the  Jews 
in  a  story  which  he  was  publishing  at  the  time  in  the  pages  of 
Erasers  Afagaz:'nf.  Charles  Dickens,  it  is  true,  made  amtnde  hmiorahle 
before  the  world  for  the  villanies  of  Fagin,  in  the  virtues  of  Riah  ; 
but  the  wrong  he  had  committed  w*as  serious,  and  the  effects  of 
twenty  years  of  misruprescntalion  by  the  most  popular  novelist  of 
the  day  could  be  wiped  out  by  no  retractation. 

The  race  is  accustomed  to  hard  knocks.  It  is  dililicult  to  know 
whether  to  admire  most  the  tender  feeling  and  good  taste  which 

Lindnce  Miss  Rhoda  Erotighton  lo  rega-t  that  "those  oily,  greasy 
Jews"  can  no  longer  be  beaten  to  death  with  impunity,  or  the  mental 
constitution  of  "  Ouida,"  according  to  whom  a  Jew  who  claimed  pay- 
ment for  a  bill  he  had  discounted,  was  only  spared  from  instant 
death  for  his  presumption,  by  the  rare  magnanimity  of  llit  Vv^sxo. 
Vol.  XVU.,  N.S-  1876.  ^  Q. 


594 


The  GentlanmCs  Magazine. 


At  the  same  time,  in  some  few  insiances,  the  Jew  in  ftction  fras  i 
bolng  endowed  with  almost  supernatural  gifts,  an  intellectual  hero, 
a  transcendent  genius.  Mr.  Disraeli  in  his  earlier  worlw  glorified 
beyond  all  things  liie  Semitic  race.  A  love  for  his  lineage  and  a 
romantic  disposition  betrayed  him  occasionally  into  extravagance 
and  exaggeration.  The  supremacy  of  the  worid  belonged  to  the 
Jews,  who  reigned  paramount  everywhere  by  their  wealth  and 
intellect.  The  author  of  "  Loibair,"  howetcr,  seems  to  hove 
modified  his  opinions,  since  in  that  work  it  is  tbc  Aiyan  race  which 
contains  the  salt  of  the  earth. 

"Alroy"  and  "Tancred"  were  followed  by  some  imitators,  whO| 
ended  bythrowingridiculeuponthecausc  they  intended  to  advance^ 
No  Erckmann-Chatrian  arose  in  England,  like  the  Alsatian  pair, 
to  draw  the  foibles  of  the  Jewish  character,  to  delineate  its  virtues 
and    faults  with    delicate  humour  and  with   deep  pathos,  with    k ' 
keen  and  masterly  pen  freely  wielded  by  a  friendly  hand.     Never- 
theless much  has  been  written  of  late  concerning  the  Jews,  and  a 
troez  estimate  is  being  formed  of  the  Hebrew  raiml.     The  Jew  is 
perceived  to  be  neither  a  Sidonia  nor  a  Kagin  ;  neither  a  Shjlock 
nor  a  Riah.     The  mission  of  the  Israelite  is  neither  to  govern  the 
universe  nor  to  discount  stispicious  little  bills  at  60  percenU    AU 
the  cclebratc-d  personajies  in  the  world  are  not  Jews,  nor  all  Uia^ 
millionaires;  neither  does  the  race  absorb  every  old  clotbcsmaa' 
or  money-lender  or  rogue. 

A  great  novelist  of  non-Jewish  extraction  haa  now  tnme4 
towards  the  comparatively  uncultivated  field.  The  first  living 
artist  in  fiction  in  the  English  tangaage  has  thought  the  modem 
Jews  worthy  of  special  study,  the  results  of  which  have  been  givca, 
to  the  world  in  a  highly  interesting  form.  Here  we  have  wfaat^l 
gops  a  considerable  way  towards  filling  an  intcllectnal  void — 
faithful  pictures  of  modem  Anglo-Jewish  domestic  life.  Bm  Ihft 
author  in  some  respects  proceeds  further,  and  evidently  possesses 
loftier  and  wider  aims  than  the  mere  exercise  of  the  romance- 
writer's  xkill  among  new  scenes.  George  Eliot  has  thrown  no 
hasty  or  soperJicial  glance  over  the  externals  of  Judaism.  She 
has  acquin:d  an  extended  and  profound  knowledge  of  the  rites, 
aspinttions,  hopes,  feani,  and  desires  of  the  Israelites  of  the  day. 
She  has  read  their  books,  inquired  into  their  modes  of  thongbt, 
searched  their  traditions,  accompanied  them  to  the  synagogue ; 
nay,  she  haa  taken  their  very  words  from  their  lips,  -ind,  like 
Asmt'deus,  bus  unrtKifed  their  houses.  To  say  th:it  some  slight 
enure  have  crept  into  "  Daniel  Deronda"  is  to  say  that  no  human 


Der&nda  tht  Jaa.  595 

■work  19 'perfect;  and  these  inaccnracics  are  singularly  few  and 
unimportant.  To  Christians  it  is  really  of  no  consequence  to 
know  that  the  kaddish  or  prayer  for  the  dead  is  recited  by  children 
cnly  for  their  parents,  and  for  the  period  of  clevun  months,  and  not 
eleven  years,  as  Daniel  Deronda's  mother  believes.  Nor  does  it 
signify  much  that  men  repeat  daily  their  thanks  to  God  for  not 
having  been  created  females,  instead  of  on  the  Sabbath  only,  a9  it 
is  stated  in  the  book.  The  author  muiit  have  devoted  much  timo 
and  labour  to  the  acquisition  of  the  particular  knowledge  shi^  has 
mastered ;  and  these  Iriflinjf  blemishes  do  not  detract  from  tha 
general  marvellous  accuracy  and  viiridness  of  the  scenes  depicted. 

Curiously  enough  the  Juwish  episodes  in  "Daniel  Dcronda" 
have  been  barely  adverted  to  by  thts  reviewers.  Most  of  these 
gentleltiea  have  slurred  over  some  of  the  finest  and  most 
characteristic  passages  in  the  book,  with  the  remark  that  thoy 
possessed  no  general  interest.  Possibly  the  critics  were  unable  to 
appreciate  the  beauty  of  the  scenes  they  deemed  unworthy  of 
attention,  or  perhaps  they  considered  the  Jewish  body  too  insig- 
nificant to  be  worth  much  discussion.  However,  it  appears  that 
kthe  general  public  is  not  so  inditferent  to  Jewish  affairs  as  it  is 
represented ;  and  the  periodical  press  of  late  has  entered  keenly 
enough  into  many  dc'taih  of  Hebrew  life  and  casioms.  Jewish 
thought  is  not  entirely  without  influence  in  Gentile  circles;  and 
though  the  Hebrew  personages  in  "Daniel  Deronda"  more  im- 
mediately concern  Israelites,  yet  there  arc  several  points  and 
issacs  raised  which  more  or  less  directly  affect  Christians  and 
Christianity.  1 

I  The  aspirations  of  the  hero  of  the  book,  it  must  be  admitted, 
can  scarcely  enlist  the  warm  sympathy  of  the  general  reader.  Few 
of  the  novel-reading  public  arc  likely  to  have  thought  much  about 
the  restoration  of  Israel  or  to  be  aroused  to  any  especial  en- 
thusiasm, in  its  favour.  Nevertheless  many  persons  in  all  pro- 
bability will  peruse  with  curiosity  descriptions  of  the  habits  and 
mode  of  life  of  the  Jews.  George  Eliot's  works  are  intended  for 
people  who  poss<:!(s  intellectual  faculties  and  know  how  to  exercise 
them,  and  this  class  will  find  food  for  reflection  in  following  the 
career  of  Daniel  Deronda.  The  hero  is  seen  under  Uifferenl  lights, 
as  various  phases  of  bis  character  are  rendered  apparent.  At  first 
we  meet  Deronda  as  one  of  those  ideal  men,  drawn  by  feminine 
hands,  who  are  happily  impossible  in  real  life,  and  whose  very 
perfections  would  render  them  almost  intolerable  bores.     In  the 

hands  of  a  less  consummate  artist  he  would  have  been  one  of  those 

QQ  s 


596 


The  Gmtkniai^s  Magaztm, 


impeccable  j-ouths  whose  mission  is  to  set  himself  up  above  the 
rest  of  mankind,  and  to  preach  morals  by  ihu  yard,  until  his  best 
friends  must  secretly  dread  his  advent.  In  French  novels  this 
type  of  hero  ordinarily  becomes  a  mentor  to  beautiful  young 
married  women,  whose  edui:ation  he  com])lete8  by  leading  them 
into  an  infraction  of  the  Seventh  Commandment. 

Fortunately,  Daniel  Deroada  soon  emerges  from  his  shadowy  supe- 
riority to  show  himself  not  absolutelyabovc  human  weaknesses.  lie  is 
fond  of  boating  and  cricketing,  and  his  temper  is  not  always  angelic. 
He  is  a  ^Tarm-hcart&d,  romantic  young  man,  with  a  feeling  of 
intense  sj-mpathy  for  all  kinds  of  suffering.  His  mental  disposition 
inclines  him  to  take  up  passionately  the  cause  of  wronged  indi- 
viduals a£  of  oppressed  races.  Many  of  his  actions  arc  the  result  of 
pure  impulse.  He  interferes  to  save  from  a  dangerous  indtitgcncp 
in  gambling  propensities  a  young  woman  he  bad  never  seen  before, 
and  for  whom  he  c^^inly  felt  no  admiration ;  and  he  rcscuas 
another  from  drowning — a  complete  stranger — of  whom  he  consti- 
tutes himself  the  giiardian.  In  early  youth  all  his  associations  were 
Christian,  and  his  knowledge  of  Jews  and  Judaism  must  have  been 
derived  from  books  or  hearsay.  Nevertheless  he  enthusiastically 
accepts  the  mission  bequeathed  to  him  by  i^Iordecai,  however  in- 
congruous it  may  appear  to  an  individual  brought  up  in  fashionable 
circles.  How  singular  arc,  or  at  least  were,  popular  notions  on 
these  subjects  the  reader  can  judge  fitr  himself.  Mirah's  qncstion 
to  Daniel,  when  she  announces  her  faith — "  Do  you  despise  roc 
for  it  ? " — is  a  good  test  of  the  estimation  in  which  her  people  were 
held. 

How  far  a  j-oung  man  of  good  social  position  is  likely  to  break 
with  his  former  tics  to  embrace  ancient  religious  forms  which. 
must,  to  say  the  least,  expose  him  to  the  ridicule  of  his  late  com- 
panions, and  cause  him  considerable  embarrassment,  must  be 
determined  by  the  amount  of  sacrifice  each  person  is  disposed  to, 
make  on  behalf  of  his  convictions. 

There  is  nothing  Inherently  improbable  in  the  fact  of  any  given' 
individual  returning  to  the  creed  of  bis  ancestors,  especially  in  the 
case  of  descendants  of  a  race  who  cling  obstinately  to  their  tradi- 
tions. Moreover,  with  regard  to  Daniel  Dcronda,  the  impulses  of 
his  conscience  arc  quickened  by  the  contagious  enthusiasm  of  a 
Jjoptical  dreamer,  and  by  the  love  of  a  tender,  bright  pure  fac< 
Id  recent  years,  the  wcU-known  case  has  occurred  in  the  Jewii 
community  of  an  officer  in  the  army,  the  grandson  of  an  Isiseliii 

leit  himself  bom  a  Christian,  who  returned  spontaneously  to  tha' 


Derottda  the  ^av. 

religion  of  his  ancestors.  In  this  instance  no  worldly  circumstances 
to  influence  his  conduct  were  %'isib!c,  and  certainly  the  chang-e  of 
&ith  of  the  convert  could  not  have  rendered  His  regimental  position 
more  agreeable. 

The  transformalion  of  the_^/  Dcronda,  as  Grandcourt  calls  him, 
into  Dcronda  the  Jew,  is  not  then  an  astonisliing  event.  The 
readiness  of  the  supposed  son  of  Sir  Hu^o  Jlallinger  Lo  undertake 
a  national  mission  of  the  most  improbable  realisation,  only  proves 
an  amount  of  belief  in  possibilities  which  all  great  men  who  have 
achieved  difficult  enterprises  must  have  shared.  The  anjty  of  Italy 
half  a  century  since  appeared  as  idle  a  dream  as  may  now  scetn  the 
reassembling  of  Israel  in  its  own  kingdom.  Garibaldi  and  Mazzini 
Tpere  regarded  as  fanatics  and  visionaries,  yet  the  leader  of  the 
thousand  of  Marsala  has  sat  in  the  Fartiamentof  United  Italy  which 
holds  its  mcelings  in  the  Etenial  City.  Daniel  Deronda  has  never 
breathed,  and  may  never  live,  but  Jews  have  arisen  and  will  again 
rise,  who,  if  not  resembling  him  in  his  perfections,  will  at  least 
equal  him  in  love  of  race  and  in  ardour  for  the  national  cause. 

The  book  is  a  romance.  Artistic  truth  in  litcrature.as  in  painting,  is 
always  sought  for  by  great  ^vorkmcn-  in  preference  to  mere  realistic 
truth.  In  Daniel  Dcronda,  George  Eliot  has  created  a  type  which, 
though  scarcely  likely  to  appeal  to  the  masses,  ought  to  teach  more 
than  one  lesson  to  serious  thinkers.  Here  is  a  man  who  lays  aside 
entirely  all  purely  personal  considerations,  all  feeling!)  of  ambition 
or  aggrandisement,  to  devote  the  best  years  of  his  existence  to  the 
loftiest  national  aims.  True  the  Jews  of  England  now  possess  a 
splendid  example  of  high  philanthropisni  in  the  person  of  a  well- 
known  benefactor  of  his  race,  who  has  repeatedly  undertaken  dis- 
tant and  perilous  expeditions  merely  lo  help  distressed  mankind. 
Unfortunately  illustrations  derived  from  actual  life  frequently  exer- 
cise little  influence.  It  is  possible  that  parallels  drawn  from  fiction 
may  prove  more  impressive. 

The  Princess  Halm-Ebersteln  forms  a  complete  contrast  to  her 
son  Daniel.  He  i.s  emotional,  sympathetic,  afTectionate,  and 
tender-hearted.  She  is  cold,  calculating,  ambitious,  and  of  an 
unloving  disposition.  A  mother  who  entrusts  her  only  child  to 
strangers  for  qnestionable  reasons,  is  .scarcely  likely  to  inspire 
much  sympathy  or  attachment.  After  remaining  for  nearly  a 
quarter  of  a  century  without  seeing  her  offspring,  she  might  very 
all  have  gone  to  the  end  of  her  days  without  embracing  a  son  for 
lorn  she  did  not  pretend  to  feel  any  great  solicitude.  Why, 
indeed,  she  met  him  at  that  particular  jutvctwe  ia  tvM,  (fV^Viw 


The  GentUmaiis  Ma^tm* 


The  secret  of  his  birth  might  have  been  comniDnicalcd  by  Sir 
Hugo  MalUn^r,  and  any  one  year  would  have  sen-ed  the  purpose 
as  well  as  another.  In  religious  matters,  too,  the  contrast  beiween 
mother  and  son  is  very  marked.  While  he  is  imbued  with  sincere 
belief  in  the  principles  of  Jodaisni,  she  denounces  that  faith  as  too 
narrow,  fonnal,  and  rigid  ;  as  a  creed  which  places  woman  in  an 
inferior  position  and  limits  her  sphere  to  her  domesdc  duties. 
The  truth  is  the  Princess  is  a  bold  ambitious  woman  wbo  decline* 
to  he  bound  by  the  trammels  of  religion,  just  as  she  despises 
family  ties.  Howevei,  when  she  deserted  her  son  she  did  not  rob 
him  of  bis  due.  She  carefully  placed  his  father's  fortune  under  the 
guardianship  of  Sir  Hugo  I^Iallinger,  who  had  formerly  been  an 
admirer  of  the  lady,  and  who  fulfils  his  trust  with  coDsidenblo ' 
kindness.  Having  once  parted  from  her  son  and  deprived  him  of 
maternal  love,  the  Princess  doubtless  thought  sircerely  thai  she 
acted  for  his  interest  when  she  caused  him  to  be  brought  up  in 
ignorance  of  his  origin,  as  a  Christian  gentleman.  If  in  a  par- 
ticular country  red-haired  men  labonred  under  any  especial  dis- 
qualification, a  mother  might  be  justitied  in  having  the  hair  of  her 
child  dyed  of  the  hue  aiTccted  by  the  inhabitants.  Many  others 
besides  Princess  Ha!m*Eberstcin  have  preferred  expediency  to 
principle;  and  the  fonns  of  a  religion  which  hangs  tathcr  looseljr 
round  the  wearer  may  be  ca-sily  thrown  aside  altogether  in 
obedience  to  worldly  considerations. 

[The  sneers  of  the  Princess  with  reference  to  the  facility  with 
which  some  Jews  change  their  family  names  as  they  would  an  old 
garment,  are  not  entirely  undeserved.  There  is  a  growing  ten- 
dency in  this  country  among  a  certain  class  of  the  Jewish  com- 
munity to  adopt  strange  patronymics  as  if  they  were  desirous  of 
concealing  their  Semitic  origin.  It  must  be  slated  at  the 
time  that  the  Israelites  of  Spanish  and  Portuguese  descent  aro 
above  this  weakness ;  they  have  carefully  preserved  through 
generations  and  ages  their  ancient  family  names,  and  are  proud  of 
them. 

I'hc  Princess  feels  evident  twinges  of  conscience  concerning  her 
conduct  towards  Daniel  Deronda,  and  her  misgivings  and  doubts 
arc  finely  expressed.  The  Alcharisi,  the  greatest  singer  of  the 
day,  is  no  common  personage.  She  is  endowed  with  a  strong 
masculine  mind  and  with  the  musical  genius  undoubtedly  pos- 
sessed by  the  Hebrew  rate  ;  and  she  displays  acntuness  of  percep- 
tion in  resigning  her  stage  royalty  when  she  foresees  the  impend* 
ing  toss  of  her  supremacy.   It  is  to  be  regretted  that  ahc  disappears 


Deroftda  th&  ^ew. 

as  fitfnlly  as  she  appears,  and  that  a  charactor  which  might  have 
senoJ  as  an  interesting  study,  slips  away  from  the  reader  and 
melts  into  thin  air. 

Had  not  Daniel  Deronda  formed  casually  an  acquaintance  with 
Mirah  find  Mordecai,  it  i?  very  qacstionable  -whether  his  Jewish 
aspirations  would  ever  ha%'c  been  developed.  Of  coarse  chance  is 
a  most  important  element  in  human  combinations,  nspccially  in 
fiction.  His  mother's  revelations,  but  for  his  preceding-  adventures, 
mig-ht  not  altogether  have  delighted  him.  At  ttic  same  time  it  is 
sinfftilar  tliat  he  should  never  have  suspected  his  origin,  which 
oaght  to  have  left  Wsiblc  traces. 

The  influence  exercised  by  Mirah  seems  to  steal  gradually  and 
gentJy  upon  him,  and,  ai  usually  happens  in  the  case  of  women 
of  her  type,  the  power  she  acquires  proves  irresistible.  Mirah  ia 
not  a  favourite  character  with  the  reviewers^  who,  whilst  busy  in 
following  the  fortunes  of  the  grand  Gwendolen  and  in  attciili%'cly 
■patching  the  evolution  of  her  soul,  lose  sight  of  the  unpretending 
little  Jewess.  Mirah  is  a  typical  daughter  of  Israel,  simple  and 
childlike,  unambitious  and  unpretending,  undervaluing  her  own 
talents,  warm  in  affections,  and  above  all  profoundly  attached  to 
her  family  and  race.  It  is  astonishing  of  what  deep  heroism  those 
quiet  little  vromcn  arc  capable.  The  scq)ent-like  beauty  of  Gwen- 
dolen, her  grand  airs,  her  sharp  tongue,  would  probably  cause  men 
to  flock  to  her  side  in  a  dniwing-room,  leaving  Mirah  scarcely 
noticed  until  she  began  to  discourse  divine  music.  Nevertheless 
Mirah  Cohen,  with  a  San  Benito  over  her  io%'ely  head,  standing  in 
the  midst  of  roaring  flames  lighted  by  fierce  fanaticism,  would  sing 
a  hymn  to  the  Lord  of  Israel;  whilst  in  all  human  probability 
Gwendolen  Harleth  would  readily  embrace  any  faith  that  offered 

■  her  wealth  and  a  well-appointed  establishment.  Some  critics  cannot 
forgive  the  author  for  having  made  Daniel  Deronda  prefer  the 
"  insignificant "  Mirah  to  the  stately  and  chastened  Gwendolen,  tt 
may  be  suspected  that  some  of  the  dissatisfaction  expressed  by 
tbose  gentlemen  arises  from  the  fact  that  Daniel  Deronda  has 
become  Deronda  the  Jew.  Gwendolen  Harleth,  thoroughly  selfish 
and  detestable  as  she  appears  in  the  bi^ginning  of  the  book,  suc- 
ceeds by  her  misfortunes  and  by  the  better  feelings  which  are 
evidently  aroused  in  her,  in  enlisting  the  full  sympathy  of  the 
reader.      But  a  man  in  F.ngland  is  not  yet  permitted  to  marry  two 

I  wives  at  the  same  time,  and  had  Daniel  Deronda  selected  Gwen- 
dolen, the  author  would  have  assuredly  committed  an  artistic  ecrat. 
We  must  lament  Gwendolen  GTandcoQrt's  ^Iia\a,^avS.■^e^<*.^'i^KaN<El. 


The  Gentlefftan* s  Magazine. 

her  a  disconsolate  widow.  She  is  still  young,  and  it,  is  reasonable 
to  suppose  that  she  will  find  some  bearl-frec  individual  who  can 
make  her  drink  the  waters  of  Lethe. 

Lapidoth  forms  a  foil  to  the  virtues  of  his  daughter,  and  the 
author  skilfully  introduces  the  gambler  and  reprobate  by  the  side  of 
the  pure-minded  child.  Lapidoth  is  a  thief,  Mirah  is  the  soul  of 
honour.  George  Eliot  has  studied  nature  loo  well  not  to  divide  her 
lights  and  shadows.  No  race  monopolises  moral  excellence  or 
villany,  and  unprincipled  scoundrels  unfortunately  flourish  among 
all  nations  and  religions. 

In  addition  to  a  wide  range  of  reading  in  Jewish  books,  tbc  author 
of  "  Danii:!  Di-ronda"  must  have  had  esjiecial  opportunities  of 
penonally  observing  Hebrew  customs  and  manners  and  of  speaking 
ytiih  intelligent  Israelite*.  The  portrait  of  the  Cohen  family  is  a 
photographic  likeness  which  has  probably  been  taken  from  life. 
Ezra  Cohen  is  a  pawnbroker  in  Holbom,  a  real  embodiment  of  the 
qualities,  good  and  tndiderent,  that  make  up  the  Jewi.<ih  tradesman. 
The  businesti  of  a  pawnbroker  is  certainly  not  ennobling,  but  it  may 
be  carried  on  as  honestly  as  any  other.  The  small  Jewish  trades- 
man, keen  as  he  usually  is  in  the  pursuit  of  gain,  hard  as  he  majr 
seem  in  driving  a  bargain,  is  ordinarily  an  excellent  father  and  hus- 
band and  a  strict  follower  of  the  practices  of  his  faith.  It  is  only 
some  of  the  great  families  that  find  it  convenient  to  drop  trouble- 
some ceremonies.  Daniel  Deronda's  visit  to  the  paunbrokcr  oa 
imaginar}-  business  naturally  affords  an  occasion  for  an  insight  into 
the  ways  of  the  family.  Here  we  may  admire  the  business 
aptitude  of  the  youthful  Jacob  and  the  mixture  of  childish 
vanity  and  adult  carcfahiess  of  his  youngest  sister  when  she 
asks  whether  she  should  wear  her  "  Shabbesfyock "  before 
the  strange  gentleman.  The  shrewdness,  vulgarity,  and  kind- 
ness of  heart  which  combine  to  constitute  the  m.in  Exra  Cohen  arc 
amusingly  illustrated  in  his  parting  speech  to  Mordecai,  which  is 
an  odd  compound  of  calculation  and  sentiment.  It  seems  sin- 
gular, however,  that  the  cautious  pawnbroker  should  at  first  sight 
ask  a  complete  stranger  to  share  the  Sahbalh  evening  meal  with  his 
Own  family ;  and  it  is  even  more  astonishing  Uiat  Ezra  Cohen,  who 
Is  intended  to  bo  a  strict  Jew,  should  be  described  as  transacUi 
business  on  Friday  evening,  a  proceeding  which  according 
Jewish  ideas  would  be  deemed  a  desecration  of  the  Sabbath. 

The  dreams  and  inspirations  of  Mordecai  naturally  chiefly  con- 
cern Israelites.  He  is  a  prophet,  a  seer,  but  far  from  being  the 
absolutely  impossible  character  he  has  been  considered  by  some 


1^  na 


critics.  Anciently  the  most  eloquent  and  learned  rabbis  among 
the  Jews  practised  trades  or  handicrafts.  Who  sliall  say  that 
among  the  immigrants  from  distant  climes  or  among  the  Jews  of 
Great  Britain  there  is  no  workman  whose  whole  heart  is  wrapped 
up  in  visions  of  the  fulurc  greatness  of  his  race  ?  Indeed,  it 
appears  that  Mr.  G.  H.  Lewes,  in  an  article  on  Spinoza,  published 
in  ihe  FortHighlly  Ri:7)inc  of  the  rsl  A])ril,  1866,  described  a  club 
which  was  wont  to  meet  at  a  tavern  in  Red  Lion  Square  about  a 
generation  since,  and  wherein  the  discussion  of  philosophical 
topics  was  carried  on.  The  president  of  this  club  was  a  highly 
intelligent  German  named  Kohn,  Cohn,  or  Cohen,  and  probably 
he  was  the  prototype  of  Mordecai. 

The  Jews,  notwithstanding  their  ardour  in  mercantile  pursuits, 
have  always  produced  thinkers  and  philosophers, 

Mordecai  had  long  been  seeking  a  co -religionist  to  whom  he 
could  conlide  the  mission  which  fate  would  not  permit  him  even 
to  attempt  to  accomplish  himself.  He  introduces  Daniel  Deronda 
to  the  philosopher's  cinb,  and  the  arguments  therein  brought  to 
light,  though  possibly  uninteresting  to  general  readers,  are 
deserving  of  close  attention  by  Israelites.  On  the  one  hand,  wc 
have  Gideon  and  Pash,  who  dctiire  that  th<?  Jews  should  merge  into 
the  Christian  population  in  thi:  mid^t  of  which  they  dwell ;  and 
their  opinion  will  be  echoed  by  not  a  few  of  their  co-religionists 
who  care  for  naught  but  case  and  self-induigcnce. 

On  the  other  hand,  Mordecai,  with  a  loftier  vision,  expounds  the 
mission  of  Israel.  The  poetry  of  Mordecai  will  prove  caviare  to 
the  multitude.  He  is  one  of  ihosc  pure  abstractions  such  as  all 
nations  have  produced — a  man  of  dreams  rather  than  a  man  of 
actions — and  yet  what  could  a  poor  Jew  have  accomplished  ?  Even 
had  the  "  Kuach  Hakodcsh,"  the  breath  of  divine  thought,  entered 
that  poor  diseased  bgdy  of  his,  not  even  his  own  co-religionists 
would  have  listened  to  its  manifestations.  George  Eliot  has  studied 
Hebrew  poetry,  and  the  touching  verses  which  she  places  in 
Mordecai's  lips  are  not  unlike  those  Hebrew  poems  rccitctl  by  the 
Ashkcnazim,  and  called  "Pcyulim."  When  Mordecai  goes  to  his  long 
sleep  he  is  at  all  events  happy,  for  he  has  bequeathed  his  mission 
to  a  trusty  successor,  and  ere  his  breath  leaves  him  the  start  is 
already  made  towards  the  East. 

The  author  docs  not  enter  into  the  nice  distinctions  between 
the  Sephardim  or  Spanish  and  Portuguese  Jews,  and  the  Ashke- 
nazim  or  German  and  Polish  Jews.  Daniel  Deronda  appertains  to 
the   former  class,  which   once  contained  \\\c   sangre    ai-ul  oR.  "^"b. 


• 


6o2  The  GenileniaiC 5  ASagazine. 

nation;  whilst  MirAh  Cohen  or  Lapiclotb.  as  coming  Trom  Pol&ntl, 
would  natuially  birlong  to  the  latter.  To  Ihc  present  day  these 
Mctiotis  of  the  Hebrew  race  form  in  England  and  in  roost  otht^r 
countries  distinct  commniiitic!; :  but  jtnctically  all  difference 
between  them  has  cea.scd  to  exist. 

It  is  not  necessary  here  to  cxprcsts  any  opinion  on  Ihc  merits  of 
"Daniel  Deronda"  in  its  entirety  as  a  work  of  fiction.  George 
Eliot  has  passed  from  the  realism  of  "Middlemarch"  to  tbe 
idealism  of  her  present  work.  \Vc  cannot  judge  of  Daniel  Deronda 
and  of  Mordecai  from  the  matter-of-fact  surroundings  of  prosuic 
cvery-day  life — albeit  neither  of  these  two  characters  is  lo  totally 
imaginary  and  so  far  removed  from  actual  truth  as  has  bcca 
asserted.  "Daniel  Deronda"  is  no  light  novel  to  while  away  idle 
hoars.  It  is  a  book  full  of  deep  thonghts,  seeking  to  convey  high 
lessons.  It  is  scarcely  a  stor)*  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word  ; 
the  thread  of  the  narrative  is  frequently  disconnected  and  inter- 
luptcd  by  reflections  and  disquisitions  rc\*caling  a  thinker  and 
student  of  psychology  of  unusual  faculties.  Tbc  analysis  of  a 
difficalt  problem  in  human  nature,  the  trans  formation  of  Gwen- 
dolen, is  undoubtedly  one  of  the  aims  of  the  book.  But  there  is  a 
[ar  greater  purpose  in  "  Daniel  Deronda"  than  the  tale  of  a 
woman's  life  and  the  development  of  her  soul.  It  is  the  vindica- 
tion of  a  long  maUgned  race  a^inst  ii^oranl  misreprcsentalton  or 
wilful  aspersion,  the  defence  of  Jcw>i  and  Judaism  against  fanaticism 
and  prejudice.  George  Eliot  has  laid  open  before  a  larger  audience 
than  had  ever  before  been  summoned  for  a  similar  purpooo,  the 
aims  and  scope  and  innermost  thoughts  of  Judaism,  and  she  has 
accomplished  more  for  the  cause  of  toleration  and  enlightenment 
than  could  have  been  achici.'ed  by  any  amount  of  legislation. 

Two  questions  are  raised  in  "Daniel  Deronda"  which  concern 
principally,  but  not  exclusively,  the  Jewish  race.  The  object  of 
Deronda,  expressed  in  his  own  n-ords,  "To  bind  our  race  together 
in  spite  of  heresy,"  is  one  of  the  aspirations  that  most  bo  felt  by 
every  Israelite  whilst  admitltng  the  dilliculty  of  the  solution.  To 
bring  the  Judaism  that  m-as  regarded  "as  a  sort  of  eccentric 
fossilised  form  which  an  accomplished  man  might  dispense  with 
studying  and  leave  to  specialists,"  into  consonance  with  modem 
ideas,  IS  a  task  nhich  oidy  Daniel  Deronda  can  effect.  To  main- 
tain intact  the  spirit  of  Judaism,  to  presen'C  in  pristine  purity  the 
faitb  and  traditions  of  Israel,  without  keeping  op  the  inflexible 
rigidity  which  opposes  every  improvement,  and  which  drove  oul 
of  the  community  an  Isaac  Disraeli,  forms  ane  of  those  proUlonts 
vrhlch  are  still  awaiting  a  »a,t\sEacVory  wi\>i\\ou. 


I 


Deronda  ihc  ynv. 


The  political  future  of  the  Hebrew  race  may  become  more 
important  to  the  work!  at  large  than  its  religious  future.  The 
reasscmbfing  o{  the  Jews  into  a  separate  Stale,  if  such  an  event 
ever  happen,  must  obviously  aiTccL  more  or  less  a.tl  Europe  in 
addition  to  the  provinces  occupied.  The  influence  possessed  by 
the  Jews  in  the  financt<ii  world  would  certainly  make  itself  felt  on 
their  withdrawal  to  distant  lands.  However,  the  dreams  of  Mor- 
decai  and  Daniel  Deronda  are  likely  to  remain  dreams  for  the 
present.  N'ot  only  are  there  no  signs  of  their  speedy  realisation, 
but  it  is  not  at  all  sure  tliat  such  a  consummation  is  desired  by  the 
butk  of  the  Hebrew  nation.  The  Israelites  have  become  too 
firmly  attached  to  the  countries  of  western  Europe,  which  have 
given  them  shelter,  to  be  easily  intliired  to  abandon  ihem  tn  masse, 
and  their  magnates  are  scarcely  likely  to  exchange  the  splendour 
and  luxury  they  enjoy  in  the  European  capitals,  for  a  rCMdencc  in 
an  arid  and  semi-civilised  land.  It  is  to  be  feared  that  oolwith- 
Blanding  all  the  ^fforis  of  Daniel  Deronda  and  of  real  living 
philanthropists,  it  will  he  long  before  Palestine  will  cease  to  be,  in 
the  passionate  langiiag'e  of  Mordecai,  "a  place  for  saintly  beggary 
to  await  death  in  loathsome  idleness." 

To  have  broached  these  questions  before  the  popular  mind  is 
already  to  hare  obtained  a  great  gain,  and  George  Eliot  has  thus 
earned  the  gratitude,  not  only  of  her  countrymen  of  the  Jewish 
race,  but  of  all  thinkers  and  friends  of  progress. 


The  Shadow  of  the  Sword. 

a  romance. 

by  robert  buchanan. 


iit) 


CHAPTER  XL\ai. 

THE  GROWING  OF  THE  CLOUD. 

ND  now  the  darkncssof  winter  fell,  and  days  and  weeks 
and  months  passed  anxiousl)*  away. 

Down  at  lonely  Kromtaix  by  tlic  sea,  things  were 
sadder  than  they  had  been  for  many  winters  pasUj 
When  the  flood  subsided,  and  the  Tull  extent  of  the  desolation  coul< 
be  apprehended,  it  was  found  that  more  lives  had  been  lost  tha 
had  at  first  been  calcuUled.    Many  poor  souls  had  perished  quietlj 
in  their  beds;   others,  while  endeavouring  to  escape,  had  been) 
crushed  under  the  ruins  of  their  crumbling  homes.    The  mortality 
was  chiefly  among  women  and  little  children.   Altbougli  the  greater 
part  of  the  corpses  were  recovered  and  buried  w  ilh  holy  riles  in  the 
little  churchj-ard,  some  had  been  carried  out  to  the  bottom  of  the 
deep  ocean  and  were  never  seen  again.    Among  those  who  were 
recovered    and   buried   was  GuitievSve  Goron.      They  found    her 
gently  sleeping,  as  the  water  had  found  her, — with  no  sign  of 
or  terror  on  her  peaceful  face.    Her  old  foster-mother,  having  beerT 
among  the  worshippers  in  the  chapel  when  the  alarm  came,  had 
narrowly  escaped  with  life. 

When  the  Corporal  went  down  to  talte  stock  of  his  dwelling,  he 
found  that  a  portion  of  the  walls  bad  yielded,  and  that  part  of  the 
roof  had  fallen  in ;  so  th.it  Marcellc.  had  shu  remained  a  littk 
longer  in  the  house  on  that  fatal  night,  would  most  certainly  hai 
encountered  a  terrible  and  cruel  death.  It  took  many  a  long  day 
to  rebuild  the  ruined  portion  of  the  dwelling  .and  to  make  good  the 
grievous  loss  in  damaged  household  goods;  and  not  until  the  new 
year  had  come  boisterously  in  was  the  place  decently  habitable 
Again. 

Meantime,  Famine  had  been  crawling  about  the  ^nllagc,  hand  in 
band  with  Death :  for  much  grain  had  been  destroyed,  and  whet 
gnin  fails  the  poor  must  starve  and  die.  And  then,  following  r1 


The  Shadom  of  the  Sw&ra, 


605 


upon  Ihe  flood,  had  come  ihe  news  of  the  new  conscription  of 
300,000  mtn,  of  M-hich  little  Kroralaix  had  again  to  aujiply  its  share. 
Well  might  the  poor  souls  think  that  God  was  against  them, 
and  that  there  was  neither  hope  nor  comfort  anywhere  undcc 
Heaven. 

Over  all  these  troubles  we  let  the  curtain  fall.  Our  purpose  in 
tbese  pages  is  not  to  harrow  up  the  heart  with  pictures  of  human 
torture,  whether  caused  by  the  craclty  of  Nature  or  the  tyranny  of 
man ;  nor  to  light  up  with  a  luriil  pen  the  darkness  of  unrecorded 
sorrows ;  It  is  rather  our  wish,  while  telling  a  talc  of  human  patience 
and  encluraoce,  to  reveal  fruin  time  to  time  those  higher  spiritual 
issues  which  fortify  the  thoughts  of  those  who  love  their  kind, 
and  which  make  poetr>'  possible  in  a  world  whose  simple  prose  is 
misery  and  despair.  Let  us  therefore  for  a  time  darken  the  stage 
on  which  our  actors  come  and  go.  When  the  curtain  rises  again 
it  is  to  the  sullen  music  of  the  great  Invasion  of  1814. 

Like  hungry  woU'es  the  Grand  Army  was  being  driven  back 
before  the  scourges  of  avenging  nations.  Por  many  a  long  year 
France  had  sent  forth  her  legions  to  feed  apon  and  destroy  other 
lands ;  now  it  was  her  turn  to  t.nste  the  cup  she  had  so  freely  given. 
Across  her  troubled  plains,  moving  this  way  and  that,  and  shriL'king 
to  that  Daimon  who  seemed  at  last  to  have  deserted  him,  flew 
Bonaparte.  Already,  in  outlying  districts,  aVose  the  old  spectre  of 
the  White,  causing  foolish  enthusiasts  to  trample  on  the  tricolor. 
Mysterious  voices  were  heard  again  in  old  chateaux,  down  in 
lonely  Brittany.  Loyalists  anil  Republicans  alike  were  beginning  to 
cr)'  oat  aloud  even  in  the  public  ways,  despite  the  decree  of  death 
on  all  those  who  should  express  Bourbon  sympathies  or  give 
assistance  to  the  Allies.  Duras  had  armed  Tourainc  and  the  AbbiS 
Jacquilt  was  busy  in  La  Vend(5c. 

Meantime,  to  those  honest  people  who  hated  strife,  the  terror 
deepened.  While  the  log  blazed  upon  the  heanh  and  the  told 
winds  blew  without,  those  who  sat  within  listened  anxiously  and 
started  at  everj'  sound,  for  there  was  no  saj'ing  in  what  district  the 
ubiquitous  and  child-eating  Cossack  (savage  forerunner  of  the  irre- 
pressible Uhlan  of  a  later  and  wickeder  invasion)  might  appear 
next,  pricking  on  his  pigmy  steed.  The  name  of  Blucher  became 
a  household  word,  and  men  were  learjiing  another  name,  that  of 
Wellington. 

The  hoiur  came  when  Bonaparte,  surrounded  and  in  tribulation, 
might  have  saved  his  Imperial  Crown  by  assenting  to  the  treaty  of 
Chatillon;  but  ovcr-mastcrcd  by  faith  in  his  destiny,  abd  a.  ^^w.'j. 


6o6 


The  GiiUtanafCs  MagMnm, 


jnoreover,  to  the  most  violent  passions,  be  let  the  saving  hoar  glide 
by,  and  manoeuvrtsl  until  it  was  too  lute.  By  the  Vrtaly  of  March, 
1814,  Austria,  Russia,  Prussia,  and  England  bound  thumsc-lvcs  in- 
dividually to  keep  up  an  anny  of  150,000  men  until  France  wai 
reduced  within  her  ancient  limits ;  and  by  Ihc  same  treaty,  and  for 
the  same  purpose,  that  of  curving  on  the  war,  four  milli' 
advanced  by  the  "shopkeepers"  of  England.  Nevcrtln  |. 
Emperor,  still  irosting  in  his  hirid  star,  continued  to  insist  on  the 
imperial  boundaries,  and,  'so  insisting-,  marched  apon  Blucher  at 
Soissons,  and  l)cgan  the  last  act  of  the  war. 

Thus  the  terrible  winter  passed  away.  Spring  came  and  brought 
the  violet,  but  lUe  fields  and  lanca  were  sUII  darkened  with  strife, 
and  all  over  France  still  lay  the  Shadow  of  the  Sword. 

Meantime,  what  had  become  of  Rohan  Gwcnfem  ?  After  that 
night  of  the  great  Auod  he  made  no  sign,  and  all  search  for  him 
virtually  cea&ed.  It  was  clearly  impossible  that  he  could  be  still 
in  hiding  out  among  the  cliifs,  for  the  seveiv  weather  had  set  in : 
no  man  could  have  lived  through  it  under  such  conditions.  That 
Rohan  was  not  dead  Murccllc  knew  from  various  sources,  although 
she  had  no  idea  where  he  was  to  be  found ;  and  she  blessed  the  good 
God  who  had  preserved  him  so  far,  and  who  would  perhaps  forgive 
ail  his  wild  revolt  for  the  sake  of  the  good  deeds  that  he  Uad  duiu; 
on  the  terrible  Night  of  the  Dead.  Doubtless  some  dark  roof  wat 
sheltering  him  now,  and,  fortunately,  men  were  too  full  of  affairs  to 
think  much  about  a  solitary  ruvolier.  Ah,  if  he  had  not  killed 
Pipriac  I  If  the  guilt  of  blood  were  off  his  hands  I  Then  the  good  '| 
Emperor  might  have  forgiven  Iiim  and  taken  him  back,  like  the 
prodigal  son. 

In  one  respect,  at  least,  Marcclle  was  happy.  She  no  longer  lay 
under  the  reproach  of  having  loved  a  coward;  her  lover  had 
justified  himself  ajid  htr;  and  he  had  vindicated  his  courage  in  a 
way  which  it  was  impossible  to  mistake.  Ah,  yes,  he  was  brave  I 
and  gf  Master  ArfoU  and  other  wicked  counsellors  had  not  put  a 
Bpe]l  upon  him  he  would  have  shown  his  bravery  on  the  battle- 
field I  11  was  still  utterly  inscrutable  to  her  that  Rohan  should  have 
acted  as  he  did.  General  ]>riQi-ij)lcs  she  could  not  imderstand,  and 
any  abstract  pioposiitiun  concemiog  the  wickedness  and  cowardice 
of  War  itself  would  have  been  as  incomprcbcnsible  to  her  as  a 
problem  in  trigonometrj'  or  a  page  of  Spinosa.  War  wa«  ooc  of 
the  institutions  of  the  world, — 

II  htid  hem  (iiicr  (Itc  world  bcgSD, 
Ami  wouU  be  tin  it»  close. 


I 


The  Shadow  of  iht  Sword. 


i 


^po 


It  was  as  much  a  thing  of  course  as  getting  married  or  going  to 
confession  :  and  it  was,  moreover,  one  of  the  noble  professions  in 
which  brave  men,  like  her  uncle,  might  serve  their  ruler  and  the 
Slate. 

Althongh  it  was  now  subtly  qualified  by  anxiety  for  her  lover's 
fate,  her  cnthostasin  in.  thu  Imperial  cause  did  not  ia  any  degree 
abate.  Marcelle  was  one  of  those  women  who  cling  the  more 
tenaciously  to  a  belief  the  more  it  is  questioned  and  decried  and 
the  more  it  approaches  the  state  of  a  i"orlom  faith ;  so  that  as  the 
Emperor's  star  declined,  and  people  began  to  look  forward  eagerly 
for  its  setting,  her  adoration  rose,  approaching  fanaticism  in  its 
intensity.  It  was  just  the  same  with  Corporal  Dvrval.  All  through 
that  winter  the  Corporal  suffered  untotd  agonies,  but  his  confidence 
and  his  faith  rose  with  the  darkening  of  the  Imperial  sphere.  Night 
after  night  he  perused  the  bulletins,  eagerly  construing  them  to 
his  master's  triumph  and  glory.  His  voice  was  toad  in  its  fulmi- 
nations  against  the  Allies,  especially  against  the  English.  lie 
kt;pt  the  Napoleonic  pose  more  habitually  than  ever,— and  he 
prophesied ;  but  alas !  his  voice  now  was  as  the  voice  of  one 
crying  in  llie  wihlcmcss,  and  there  were  none  to  hearken. 

For,  as  we  have  already  more  than  once  hinted,  Kromlaix  was 
too  near  to  the  chiLteaux  not  to  keep  withiu  it  many  sparks  of 
Legitimist  flame,  ready  to  burn  forth  brilliantly  at  any  moment ;  and 
although  Corporal  Dcrval  had  been  a  local  powc;,  he  had  ruled 
more  by  fear  than  by  love,  receiving  little  opposition  because 
opposition  was  sciirccly  safe.  When,  however,  the  tide  began  to 
turn,  he  found,  like  his  master,  that  he  had  been  miscalculating  the 
tme  feelings  of  his  neighbours.  Again  and  again  he  was  openly 
contradicted  and  talked  down.  When  he  spoke  of  "the  Emperor," 
others  began  to  speak  boldly  of  "  the  King."  He  heard  daily,  in 
his  walks  and  calls,  enough  "blasphemy"  to  moke  his  hair  stand 
en  end,  and  to  make  him  think  with  horror  of  another  Deluge. 
One  evening,  walking  by  the  sea,  he  saw  several  bonfires  burning 
np  on  the  hillsides.  The  same  night  he  heard  that  the  Due  dc 
Bern  had  landed  in  Jersey. 

Among  those  who  seemed  quietly  turning  their  coats  from  parli- 
red  to  white  was  Mikcl  Grallon,  and  iadeed  we  doubt  not  that 
honest  Mikel  would  have  turned  his  skin  al.io,  if  that  were  possible, 
and  if  it  could  be  shown  to  be  profitable.  He  seemed  now  to 
have  abandoned  the  idea  of  marrying  Marceile,  but  he  none  the  less 
bitterly  resented  her  fidelity  to  his  rival.  As  soon  as  the  tide  of 
popular  feeling  was  fairly  turned  against  Napoleon,  Grallon  quieUf 


*  J 


The  Gcntiana/t' s  Magazim. 


ranged  himself  on  the  winning  side,  secretly  iK>Isonfng  the  public 
miiicl  agatiisi  the  Corporal,  in  whom,  ere  long,  people  began  Co 
see  the  incarnation  of  all  tbcy  raoiit  dcteslvd  and  feared.  Tilings 
grew,  until  Corporal  Dcnal.  so  far  from  possessing  any  of  his  old 
influence,  became  the  most  unpopular  man  in  Kromlaix.  He 
teprescnled  the  fading  superstition,  which  was  already  beginning 
to  be  regarded  with  abhorrence. 

The  Corporal's  health  bad  failed  a  Uulc  that  winter,  and  these 
changes  preyed  painfully  on  his  mind.  He  began  to  show  unmis- 
takable signs  of  advancing  age :  his  voice  lo^it  much  of  its  old 
ring  and  volume,  his  eyes  grew  dimmer,  his  step  less  firm.  It 
required  vast  quantities  of  tobacco  to  soothe  the  Irotiblo  of  his 
heart,  and  he  would  sit  whole  evenings  silent  in  the  kitchen, 
smoking  and  looking  at  the  iire.  When  he  mentioned  Rohan's 
name,  which  was  hut  seldom,  it  was  with  a  certain  gentleness  very 
unusual  to  him ;  and  it  seemed  to  Marccllc,  watching  him,  that  he 
quietly  reproached  himself  with  having  been  unjust  to  his  unfortu- 
nate nephew. 

"  I  am  sure  ancle  is  not  well,"  Marcelle  said  in  a  low  voice. 
glancing  across  at  the  Corporal  sitting  by  the  fire. 

"There  is  only  one  thing  that  can  cure  him,"  said  Gildas,  whom 
she  addressed  ;  "and  that  is,  a  great  riaor)-." 

CHAPTKR  XLVIII. 

"VIVE   LE   ROI  !" 

While  the  great  campaign  was  proceeding  in  the  interior,  and 

the  leaders  of  the  allied  armies  were  hesitating  and  deliberating,  a 
hand  was  waving  signals  from  Paris  and  beckoning  the  invaders 
on.  So  little  confidence  had  they  in  their  own  puissance,  and  so 
great,  despite  thuir  successes,  continued  their  dread  of  falling  into 
one  of  those  traps  which  Bonaparte  was  so  cunning  in  preparing. 
that  they  would  doubtless  have  committed  fatal  delay's  bat  for 
encouragement  from  within  the  cily. 

"  Vou  vcniurc  nought,  when  you  migltt  roatnic  all  I 
Venture  again  1 " 

wrote  this  band  to  the  Emperor  Alexander.  The  hand  was  that  of 
Talleyrand. 

So  it  came  to  pass,  Utc  in  the  month  of  Man:b,  that  crowds  of 

affrighted  peasants,  driving  before  them  their  caru  and  li  \i 

Uifir  flocks  and   herds,  and   leading  Ihcir  wives  and    i a.  i 

Hocked  into  Taris^  crying  that  the  invaders  w^  ofiprMchiojr  uQ 


Tki  Shadow  of  tlu  Svjoni. 


Paris  in  countless  hosls.  The  alarum  sciundL'il,  the  great  city  pourwJ 
out  ils  gwarms  into  the  streets,  and  all  eyes  were  gazing  in  the 
direction  of  Montmartrc.  Vigorous  preparations  were  made  to 
withstand  a  siog-e, — Joseph  Bonaparte  encouraging  the  people  by- 
assurances  that  the  Erapi^rur  would  soon  be  at  hand. 

"  It  is  a  bad  look  out  for  the  enemy,"  said  Coqwral  Derval 
nervously,  when  this  news  ri.-achfd  him.  "Every  step  towards 
Paris  is  a  step  further  away  from  their  iupph'tt.  Do  you  think  the 
Emperor  does  not  know  what  he  is  about  ?  It  is  a  trap,  and  Paris 
will  swallow  them  like  a  great  mouth — snap  !  one  bite,  and  they 
are  gone.    Wail!"  * 

A  few  days  later  came  the  news  of  the  flight  of  the  Empress. 
The  Corporal  turned  livid,  but  forced  a  laugh. 

"Women  arc  in  the  way  when  there  is  to  be  fighting.  -Besides, 
she  docs  not  want  to  see  her  relations,  the  Austrians,  eaten  up 
aJive." 

The  next  day  came  the  terrible  announcement  that  Paris  was 
taken.  The  Corporal  started  up  as  if  a  bullet  had  entered  his 
heart. 

"  The  enemy  in  Paris !"  he  gasped.  "  Where  is  the  Emperor  ?" 
Ah,  where  indeed  ?  For  once  in  his  life  Bonaparte  had  fallea 
into  a  trap  himself  and,  while  Paris  was  being  taken,  had  been 
lured  towards  the  frontier  out  of  the  way.  It  was  useless  now  to 
rush,  almost  .solitar)*,  to  the  rescue,  yet  the  Emperor,  seated  in  his 
carriage,  rolled  towards  the  metropolis,  far  in  advance  of  his  army. 
His  generals  met  him  in  the  environs  and  warned  bim  back.  He 
shrieked,  threatened,  implored;  but  it  was  loo  late.  He  then  hcartl 
with  horror  that  the  authorities  had  welcomed  the  invaders,  and 
that  the  Imperial  government  wa.s  virtually  overthrown.  Heart  sick 
and  mad,  he  rushed  to  Fontainebleau. 

To  the  old  Corporal,  silling  by  Ins  fireside,  this  news  came  also 
in   due  time.     Father  Rolland  was  there  when  it  came,  and  he 
shook  his  head  solemnly. 
^K       "The  Allied  Sovereigns  refuse  to  t^cat  with  the  Emperor,"  he 
H  read  aloud.    "  Well,  welt !" 

^B     This  "well,  well"  might  mean  either  wonder,  or  sym[>athy,  or 
^K  approval,  just  as  the  hearer  felt  inclined  to  construe  it:  for  Father  ■■ 

^P  Rolland  was  a  philosopher,  and  took  things  calmly  as  lliey  came.  | 

Even  a  miracle  done  in  broad  day  would  not  have  astonished  him 
j^  much  ;  to  his  simple  mind  alt  human  affairs  were  miraculous,  and 
^^  miractilously  commonplace.     But  the  veteran  whom  he  addressed 
^R  iras  not  so  calm.     He  trembled,  and  tried  to  stonu. 
^^        Vol.  XYII.,  X.S.  i8;6.  k  r 


V 
» 


6ro 


Tlu  GeniieniatC  s  Afagazine. 


I 


"The)*  reftisc!"  he  crird,  with  a  fucblc  aiicmpt  at  his  oM 
manner.  "You  will  say  next  that  ibe  mice  refuse  to  treat  with  ihe 
Hon.  Soul  of  a  crow  t  vthat  are  these  emperors  and  Lings  ?  Go  to  f 
The  little  Corporal  has  made  kings  by  the  dozen,  and  he  has  eaten 
an  empire  for  breakfast.  I  tell  )'on,  in  a  little  while  the  Emperor 
Alexander  wilt  bi;  glad  enough  to  kiss  his  feet.  As  fotlheEmi 
of  Austria,  his  conduct  is  shameful^  for  ia  he  not  our  Eroperor'E 
kith  and  kin?" 

"Do  you  think  there  will   be  more  fighting,  My  Corporal?" 
demanded  the  liule  priest. 

The  Corporal  set  his  fips  tight  tog^ethcr,  and  nodded  his 
automatically. 

"  U  is  easier  to  put  your  hand  in  the  lion's  mouth  than  to  pull  it 
out  again.  When  the  Emperor  is  desperate,  he  is  terribli>— all  the 
world  knows  that ;  and  now  that  he  has  been  trampled  upon  and 
insulted  he  is  not  likely  to  r/sst  till  he  has  obliterated  these  eatuiilU 
from  the  face  of  the  earth." 

"I  heard  news  tO-day,"  obscr\'ed  Gildas,  looking  up  from  bis 
place  in  the  ingle,  and  joining  in  the  conversation  for  the  first 
time.   "  Tliey  say  the  Due  de  Bern  has  landed  again  in  Jersey,  and 

that  the  King" 

(.Before  he  could  complete  the  sentence,  his  uncle  uttered  a  cryoC 
rage  and  protestation. 

"The  King !    Malediction  I    What  king  ?" 

Gildas  grinned  awkwardly. 

*'  King  Louis,  of  course !" 

"  A  &ai  It  Baurhen  !"  thundered  the  Corporal,  pale  as  death,  and, 
trembling  with  rage  from  head  to  foot.    "  Never  name  him,  Gilt 
Dervall    Kingl-ouisI    King  Capet  I" 

The  little  curi  rose  quietly  and  put  on  his  hat. 

"  1  must  go,"  he  said  ;  "  but  let  me  tell  you,  my  Corporal,  thai 
your  language  is  too  violent.  The  Bourbons  were  our  kings  by 
divine  right,  and  they  were  good  friends  to  tlie  Church,  and  if 
the}-  should  return  (o  prosperity  I,  for  one,  will  give  them  my 
allegiance." 

So  saj-ing,  Father  Rolland  saluted  the  household  and  quietly  took 
his  deparlun;.    The  CoiT>oral  sank  trembling  into  a  chair. 

■*If  Ihey  should  return  I"  he  muttered.  "Ah,  well,  there  is  no 
danger  of  ib«l  so  long  as  the  Uttle  Corporal  is  alive  1 " 


Corporal  Derval  was  wnng.  A  fanatic  to  the  heart's  core,  he  did 
not  at  all  comprehend  the  true  fatality  of  the  slttiation,  and  althoQgh 


I 


The  Sha<&ni'  of  ilu  Sward.  6 1 1 

liis  thoughts  were  full  of  Secret  alarm,  he  hoped,  believed,  and 
Trusted  still.  The  idea  of  the  loUl  ovcrtlirow  of  the  god  of  his 
faitb  never  occurred  to  him  at  all ;  as  easily  might  the  conception 
of  thu  fall  of  Maliomct  enter  tlic  brain  of  a  true  Mussulman.  As  for 
the  return  of  the  exiled  family — ^wby  that,  on  the  very  face  of  it, 
'was  too  ridiculous  1 

He  was,  r>f  course,  well  acqnaintcd  with  the  state  of  popular  sen- 
timent*  and  he  knew  how  strong  the  Legitimist  party  was  even  in 
his  own  village.  Here,  too,  was  little  Father  Rulland,  wh  ;  had  no 
political  feelings  to  speak  of,  and  who  had  served  the  Emperor  so 
long,  beginning  to  side  with  the  enemies  of  truth  and  justice  1 
The  priest  was  a  good  fellow,  but  to  hear  him  talk  about  *'  divine 
right"  was  irritating.  As  if  there  was  any  right  more  divine  than 
the  sovereignly  of  the  Emperor! 

A  few  mornings  afterwards,  as  the  Corporal  was  preparing  to  sally 
forth,  he  was  stopped  by  Marcelle. 

"  Where  are  you  going  f"  she  said,  placing  herself  in  his  way. 

She  tt-as  very  pale,  and  there  was  a  red  mark  around  her  eyes  as 
if  she  had  been  crying. 

'*  I  am  going  down  to  old  PloucL  to  get  shaved,"  said  the  Cor- 
poral ;  '*  and  I  shall  hear  the  news.  Soul  of  a  crow !  what  is  the 
matter  with  the  girl  ?    Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that }" 

Marcellc,  without  replying,  gazed  imploringly  at  her  mother  and 
at  Gildas,  who  were  standing  on  the  heajth — the  former  agitated 
like  her  daughter,  the  latter  plilegmatically  chewing  a  straw. 
Wheeling  round  lo  them,  the  Corporal  continued — 

"  Is  there  an)lhing  wrong  ?    Speak,  if  that  is  so  t " 

"  There  is  bad  news,"  answered  the  widow,  in  a  low  voice. 

"AboulHoiitl" 

The  widow  shook  her  head. 

"  Do  not  go  out  this  morning,"  said  Marcclle,  crossing  the 
kitchen  and  quietly  closing  the  door.  As  she  did  so,  there  came 
from  without  a  loud  sound  of  voices  cheering,  and  simultaneously 
there  was  a  clatter  aa  of  feet  running  down  the  road. 

"  What  is  that  i"  cried  ttieCorporal.  "Something  bas  happened 
— speak ;  do  not  ke«p  me  in  suspense." 

He  stood  pale  and  trembling ;  and  as  he  stood  the  finger  of  age 
was  he^vy  upon  him,  marking  every  line  and  wrinkle  in  his  powerful 
face,  making  his  cheeks  more  sunken,  his  eyes  more  darkly  dim. 
A  proud  man,  he  had  suffered  torraenting  humiliations  of  late,  and 
had  missed  much  of  the  respect  and  sense,  of  power  which  had 
formerly  made  bis  life  worth  having.    Add  to  this  the  fact  already 


H  K  2 


6t2 


The  GeniletnaiC  s  Magazau. 


alluded  to,  tliat  his  ]>ii)5iail  licalth  had  been  quietly  breakin^^  and 
il  is  ea&y  to  uriderstand  why  he  looked  the  ghost  of  his  olij  self. 

But  the  vetcitin'3  nature  was  aquiline ;  and  au  eagle,  even  in 
sickness  and  amid  c\-il  rortimc,  is  an  eagle  still. 

"  Speat,  Gildas  1"  he  said.  "  You  arc  a  man,  and  ihcsc  are  only 
women — wliat  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?  Why  do  they  seek  to 
detain  me  in  the  house  ?" 

Gildas  mumbled  something  inarticulate,  and  nudged  his  mother 
with  his  elbow.  At  that  moment  the  cheering  was  repeated. 
Some  gleam  of  the  truth  must  have  flashed  upon  the  Corporal, 
for  he  grew  still  paler  and  increased  his  expression  of  nervous 
drcnd. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  uncle,"  cried  Marcelle,  "if  you  will  not  go  out. 
Thi-yare  proclaiming  the  Kingl" 

Troclaiming  llie  King!  So  far  as  the  Corporal  is  concerned  tbcy 
might  almost  as  well  proclaim  a  new  God.  Have  the  heavens 
fallen  .'  Sits  the  sun  still  in  his  sphere  ?  The  Corporal  stares  and 
totters  like  a  man  stupefied.  Then,  setting  his  lips  tight  logcLher,  be 
strode  towards  the  door. 

"  Uncle  !"  cried  Marcelle,  interposing. 

"  Stand  aside  I"  he  cried  in  a  husky  voice.    "  Don't  make 
angry,  you  women.      I  am  not  a  child,  and  I  must  see  for  myself. 
GotI  in  Heaven!  I  think  the  world  is  coming  to  an  end." 

Throwing  tlio  door  wide  open,  he  walked  into  the  street. 

It  was  a  bright  spring  morning,  much  such  a  auming  as  when. 
about  a  year  before,  he  had  cheerily  sallied  forth  at  the  bead  of  the 
conscripts  I  The  village,  long  since  recovered  from  the  effects  of 
the  inundation,  sparkled  in  the  sunshine.  The  street  was  quite 
empty,  and  there  ^^-as  no  sign  of  any  neighbour  hustling  about,  but 
as  htj  paused  at  the  door  he  again  heard  the  sound  of  shouting  far 
up  the  village. 

Determined  to  make  a'  personal  survey  of  the  stale  of  affairs. 
Derval  stomped  up  the  street,  fottowcd  closely  by  Gildas,  whom  the 
women  had  bi^sought  to  sec  that  his  uncle  did  not  grt  into  trouble. 
In  a  few  minutes  they  came  in  sight  of  a  crowd  of  people  of  both 
sexes,  who  were  moving  hither  and  tliithcr  as  if  under  the  influence 
of  violent  excitement.  In  their  midst  stood  .several  men,  strangers 
to  the  Corporal,  who  were  busily  distributing  white  cockades  to  tha 
men  and  white  rosettes  to  the  girls.  1'hesc  men  were  ucU  dreasfid, 
and  one  had  the  air  of  a  gentleman ;  and  indeed  ho  was  Lc 
Sieur  Marmont,  proprietor  of  b  neighbouring  cliAtcau,  but  long  bo 
absentee  from  his  posscssiotis. 


cJf.     1 


The  Shadow  of  the  Sward, 


613 


1^^      eunc 


Then  Derval  distinctly  heard  the  odious  cry,  again  and  again 
repeated — ■'  Viv€  k  Roi!  Vwe  it  Rot !" 

The  nobleman,  who  was  elegantly  clad  in  a  rich  suit  of  white 
and  blue,  had  biti  sword  drawn ;  his  wrinkled  face  lA'as  fall  of 
enthusiasm. 

"VhvURoif   Vivf /e  SifHr  Jifarmonf /"  cried  the  voices. 

Among  the  crowd  were  many  who  merely  looked  on  smiling, 
and  a  few  who  frowned  darkly;  but  it  was  clear  that  the  Bonapartists 
were  in  a  terrible  minority.  However,  the  business  that  was  going 
forward  was  quite  informal — a  mere  piece  of  preparatory  incen- 
diarism on  the  part  of  Mannont  and  his  friends.  News  had  just 
come  of  the  Royalist  rising  in  Paris,  and  the  white  rose  had 
already  bcgim  to  blossom  in  every  town. 

"What  is  all  this?"  growled  the  Corporal,  elbowing  his  way 
into  the  crowd,     "  Soul  of  a  crow  !  what  does  it  mean  ?" 

*'  Have  you  not  heard  the  news  f"  shrieked  a  woman.  "  The 
Emperor  is  dead,  and  the  King  is  risen.*' 

The  nobleman,  whose  keen  eye  observed  DcrvaJ  in  a  moment, 
stuck  a  cockade  of  white  cotton  on  the  point  of  bis  sword,  and 
pushed  it  over  politely,  across  the  intervening  heads. 

"  Our  friend  has  not  heard,"  he  said  with  a  wicked  grin.  "Sec, 
old  fellow,  here  is  a  little  present.  It  is  not  tnie  that  the  usurper 
is  dead,  bat  he  is  dethroned — so  we  are  crying  Vh-t  U  Roi." 

Many  voices  shouted  again ;  and  now  the  Corporal  recognised, 
talking  to  a  tall  priest-like  man  in  black  who  kept  close  to 
Marmont,  his  little  friend  the  c«// 

"  It  is  a  UE  I  "  he  cried,  fixing  his  eye  upon  Marmont,  '*  A  iat 
hs  liourhons  !  a  hai  la  Emigres  P' 

The  nobleman's  face  flushed,  and  his  eye  gleamed  fiercely. 

"  What  man  is  this  '("  he  asked  between  his  set  teeth. 

"Corporal  Derval  1"  cried  several  voices  simultaneously.  The 
tall  priest,  after  a  word  from  Father  RoHand,  whispered  to  Mar- 
mont, who  curled  his  lips  and  smiled  contemptuously. 

"  If  the  old  fool  were  not  in  his  dotage."  be  said,  "he  would 
deserve  to  be  whipped :  but  we  waste  our  lime  with  such  canaille ! 
Come,  my  friends,  to  the  chapel — let  us  offer  a  prayer  to  Our 
Blessed  T.ady,  whn  is  bringing  the  good  King  back." 

The  Corporal,  who  would  have  joined  issue  with  the  very  fiend 
when  his  blood  was  up,  uttered  a  great  oath,  and,  flourishing  his 
stick,  approached  the  nobleman.  The  villagers  fell  back  on 
cither  side,  and  in  a  moment  the  two  were  face  to  face. 

"AhasURoiP'  thundered  the  Corporal.     "A  bas  la  mtgrh  t' 


A 


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The  GentUinaii' s  Magazine, 


Marmont  was  quite  pale  now,  wlih  anger,  not  fear.  Drawing 
himself  up  indignantly,  he  pointed  his  sword  at  the  Corporal's  heart. 

"  Keep  back,  old  man,  or  I  shall  hurt  you  I" 

But  before  another  syllable  could  be  uLtercd  the  Corporal,  »-ith 
a  sabre-cut  of  his  heavy  stick,  bad  struck  the  blade  with  such  force 
that  it  was  broken. 

"  A  ias  /t  Hot'/"  he  cried,  purple  with  passion.    "  Kw  f 
perrurt' 

This  was  the  signal  for  general  confusion.  The  Royalist, 
furious  at  the  insult,  endeavoured  to  precipitate  himself  on  his 
assailant,  but  was  wHthheld  by  his  companions,  who  eagerly 
besought  him  to  be  calm;  while  the  Corporal,  on  his  side,  found 
himself  the  centre  of  a  shrieking  throng  of  villagers,  some  of  whom 
aimed  savage  blows  at  his  unlucky  pate.  It  would  doubtless  have 
gone  ill  wilh  him  had  not  Gildas  and  several  other  strong  fcUom 
fought  their  way  to  his  side  and  diligently  taken  his  part.  A 
n^/(V  ensued.  Other  IIonapartiSLs  sided  wilh  the  minority;  blowa 
were  freely  given  and  taken;  cockades  were  torn  off  and  trampled 
on  the  ground.  Fortunately  the  combatants  were  not  armed  with 
any  dangerous  weapons,  and  few  suffered  any  serious  injuricR.  At 
the  end  of  some  minutes  the  Corporal  found  himself  standing  half 
stunned,  surrounded  by  his  little  party,  while  the  crowd  ot. 
Royalist  sympathisers,  headed  by  Marmont,  were  proceeding  n 
the  road  in  the  direction  of  the  chapul. 

When  the  Corporal  recovered  from  the  foil  violence  of  hit 
indignation  his  heart  was  very  sad.  The  sight  of  the  noblcmaa 
and  his  friends  was  ominous,  for  he  knew  that  these  gay'plnmage<i 
birds  only  came  out  when  the  air  was  very  loyal  indeed.  He  knew, 
too,  that  Marmont,  altliough  part  of  bis  estates  had  been  restored 
to  the  family  by  the  Emperor,  had  long  been  a  suspected  tvsident 
abroad ;  and  it  was  quite  certain  that  his  presence  there  meant 
that  the  Bonapartist  cause  had  reached  its  lowest  ebb. 

Hastening  down  into  the  village,  and  into  the  house  of  FlooSt 
the  barber,  the  veteran  eagerly  seized  the  journals,  and  found  there 
such  confirmation  of  bis  fears  as  turned  bis  heart  sick  and  made  his 
poor  head  whirl  wildly  round.  Tears  stood  in  his  old  eyca  u 
he  read,  so  that  the  old  hom-spectaclus  were  again  and  again 
misted  over. 

"  My  Empcrorl  my  Master  1"  he  murmured  ;  adding  to  binuclT, 
in  much  the  same  words  that  ilie  great  heart-broken   King  of 

rael  used  of  old, ''  Woi 


p 


I 


THE  corporal's  CUP  IS  FULL. 

Afioirr  the  bcjfinnin^  of  tlie  month  of  April  a  strange  rumour 
spread  over  France,  causing]  simple  folk  to  gate  at  each  other 
aghast,  as  if  the  sun  were  falling'  out  of  heaven.  It  was  reported, 
on  good  authority,  that  tlic  Kniperor  had  attempted  suicide. 

The  rumour  was  immediately  contradicted,  but  not  before  it  bad 
caused  grievous  heartache  to  many  a  hero- worshipper,  and,  among 
others,  to  our  Corporal.  It  seemed  so  terrible  that  lie  who  had 
but  lately  ruled  the  destinies  of  Europe  should  nov  be  a  miserable 
bein^  anxious  to  quit  a  world  of  whieli  he  was  wL:ary,  that  to  some 
minds  it  was  simply  iticoncei\'ahlc.  If  this  thing  was  true,  if  indeed 
Bonaparte  was  at  last  impotent,  and  upon  his  knees,  then  nothing 
was  safe — ncitlier  the  stars  in  their  splicres,  nor  the  solid  t:artli 
revolving  in  tts  place — for  Chnos  was  come. 

How  strange,  and  yet  how  briof  had  been  the  glory  of  the  man ! 
It  seemed  but  the  other  day  that  he  was  a  young  general,  with  all 
his  laurels  to  win.  What  a  Drama  had  been  enacted  in  the  few 
^ort  hours  since  then !     And  already  the  last  scene  was  being 

lycd — or  nearly  the  last. 
'  It  seemed,  however,  as  if  the  Earth,  released  from  an  intoleraUIc 
burthen,  had  begun  to  smile  and  rejoice  ;  for  the  primrose  had  arisen, 
and  thi-  \*ild  roses  were  lighting  their  red  lamps  at  the  sun,  and  the 
birds  were  come  back  again  to  build  along  the  great  sea-wall. 
Clear  were  the  ilays  and  bright,  with  cool  winds  and  sweet  rains  ; 
so  that  Leipsic  and  many  a  smaller  batUc-lield,  well  manured  by  the 
dead,  were  growing  rich  and  green  with  Ihu  promise  of  abundant 
bar^-cst. 

On  such  a  day  of  spring  Corporal  Derval  sat  on  the  cli^Ci  over- 
looking the  sea,  with  a  distant  view  of  Kromlaix  basking  in  the 
light  By  his  side,  distaff  in  hand,  sat  Marcelle,  a  clean  white 
coif  upon  her  head  and  shoes  on  her  shapely  feet.  She  had  coaxed 
her  uncle  out  that  day  to  smell  the  fresh  air  and  to  sit  in  the  sun, 
for  he  had  been  verj*  frail  and  irritable  of  late,  and  had  become  a 
iprey  to  the  most  violent  despondency.  He  was  not  one  of  thgose 
men  who  love  Nature,  even  in  a  dumb  unconscious  animal  way, 
and,  although  the  scene  around  him  was  very  fair,  he  did  not 
gladden.  Sweeter  to  him  the  sound  of  fifes  and  drums  than  the 
soft  ringing  of  the  thrush  I  As  for  prospeets,  if  he  could  only  havo 
seen,  coming  down  the  rallcy,  the  gleam  of  bayonets  and  darkncsa 
f  artillery,  Ma/  would  haw  been  a  prospect  indeed  I 


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The  GcniuniaTs's  Magazine* 


He  was  ver)-  silent,  gazing  myodily  down  at  the  village  anil 
over  the  sea,  while  Marcelle  watched  him  gently,  only  now  and 
then  saying  a  few  common-place  words.     They  had  sat  thus  fa 
hours,  when  suddenly  the  Corporal  started  as  if  be  bad  been  ahot 
and  pointed  up  the  valley. 

"  Look  !  what's  that  r  " 

Marcelle  gazed  in  the  direction  so  indicated,  but  saw  nothing ^ 
uniistuU.    She  turned  questioningly  to  her  uncle. 

"There !  at  the  chapel,"  he  cried,  with  peevish  irritaiEon.  "Do 
you  not  sec  something  white  ?  " 

She  gaxed  again,  and  her  keen  eyes  at  once  detected — what  his 
feebler  vision  had  only  dimly  guessed — that  a  flag  was  flying  from  a 
pole  planted  abf»ve  Ihc  belfry  of  the  little  building.    A  Flag,  and 
what!    She  knew  in  a  moment  what  it  betokened,  and  though 
sharp  pain  ran  through  Iter  heart,  her  first  fear  was  for  her  uncle.1 
She  trembled,  but  did  not  answer. 

The  old  man,  violently  agitated,  rose  to  his  feet,  gazing  wildly  at 
the  chapel  as  at  some  frightful  vision. 

"Look  again!"  he  cried.  "Can  yoo  not  «se?  What  is  it, 
Marcelle  ?" 

Marcelle  rose,  aud  still  trembling,  gazed  piteously  into  his  face. 
Her  eyes  were  drj-,  her  lips  set  firm,  her  checlcs  pale  as  death, 
touched  her  uncle  on  the  arm,  and  said  in  a  low  voice — 

"  Come,  uncle ;  let  us  go  home." 

He  did  not  stir,  but  drawing  himself  to  his  height  and  shadings 
his  tyts  from  the  sun,  he  looked  again,  with  a  face  as  grimly  set  as 
if  he  were  performing  some  terrible  military  duty. 

"  It  is  white,  and  it  looks  like  a  flag,"  he  muttered,  as  if  uU 
to  himself.    "  Yes,  it  is  a  flag,  and  it  stirs  in  the  wind."    He  addi 
after  3  minute.  "It  is  the  White  Flagl — some  villain  has  set  it 
there  I" 

Just  tlicn  there  rose  upon  the  air  the  sound  of  votce.<t  cfaecriDg, 
followed  by  a  sharp  report  as  of  guns  firing.    Then  he  distin- 
guished, flocking  on  the  road  near  the  chapel,  a  dark  crowd  of 
people  moving  rapidly  hither  and  tbitber.    It  was  clear  that  some- 
t).{  ig  extraordinary   had   occurred  ;  and,  Indeed,  Marrelle   lui< 
perfectly  the  true  stale  of  affairs,  and  had  for  thai  reason  amoi 
others  coaxed  the  veteran  out  of  harm's  way.    That  »-cit  mornin| 
orders  had  arrived  from  St.  Ciurlott  to  hoist  the  Bourbon ^^»r  rfr  If 
on  the  chapels  of  KromiaJx.     Bonaparte's  last  stake  was  lost,  at 
the  heir  of  legitimate  kings  was  hourly  expected  in  Paris. 

Corporal  I>cr>-al  had  known  that  it  was  coming — the  last  Kene« ' 


The  Sfiad<m  of  the  Sword, 


617 


the  wreck  of  all  hw  hope  :  but  his  faith  h.id  kept  firm  to  the  last, 
and  he  had  listened  uagerly  for  the  sign  that  the  lion  had  bttrst  the 
net  and  that  the  enemies  of  France — for  sucli  he  hcU]  all  the 
enemies  of  the  Ktnperor — were  overthrown.  He  was  not  a  praying 
man,  bol  he  had  prayed  a  good  deal  of  late;  prayed  indeed  that 
God  might  perfect  a  miracle  and  "resurrect"  the  Empire.  So  the 
sight  of  \\-x.  emblem  of  despair,  which  it  certainly  was  to  him, 
caused  a  great  shock  to  his  troubled  heart.  He  stood  gazing  and 
panting  and  listening,  while  MarccUc  again  sought  to  lead  him 
avay. 

"  Abas  te  Sourbrtni"  he  growled  mechanically ;  then  shaking  his 
hand  menacingly  at  tlio  flag,  he  said,  "  If  there  ii=i  no  uther  man  to 
tear  thee  down,  /  will  do  it,  for  the  Emperor's  sake.  1  will  trample 
on  thee  as  the  Emperor  will  trample  on  the  King,  thy  master  1" 

Marcelle  did  not  often  cry,  but  her  eyes  were  wet  now  ;  even 
wnilh  was  forgotten  in  pity  for  the  idol  of  her  faith.  Despite  her 
uncle's  fierce  words,  she  saw  that  his  spirit  was  utterly  crushed, 
that  his  breast  was  heaving  convulHivcly,  and  that  his  voice  was 
broken.  She  bade  liim  lean  upon  her  arm  to  descend  the  hill ;  but, 
trembling  and  in  silence,  he  sat  down  again  on  the  green  grass. 
Jnst  then,  however,  they  heard  footsteps  behind  them,  and  Mar- 
celle, looking  over  her  shoulder,  recognised  no  other  than  Master 
ArfoH. 

Now,  if  at  that  moment  she  would  rather  have  avoided  one  man 
more  than  another,  that  man  was  the  itinerant  schoolmaster.  His 
opinions  were  notorious,  and  he  was  associated  in  her  mind  with 
revolt  and  irreverence  of  the  most  otTensivckind.  His  appearance 
at  that  particular  time  was  specially  startling  and  painful.  He 
seemed  come  for  the  purpose  of  saying.  "  i  prophesied  these  things, 
and  you  see  they  have  come  true." 

MarccUc  wonld  gladly  have  escaped,  but  Master  Arfoll  was 
close  upon  them.  Just  as  the  Corporal,  noticing  her  manner, 
turned  and  saw  who  was  following,  Master  ArfoU  came  up 
quietly  with  the  usual  salutation.  ?Ie  seemed  paler  and  more 
spectre-like  than  ever,  and  his  face  scarcely  lighted  up  into  its 
usual  smile. 

As  he  recognised  him,  the  veteran  frowned.  He  too  felt  con- 
strained and  vexed  at  the  schoolmaster's  presence. 

Just  then  the  sound  of  shoutin,i[  and  firing  again  rose  upon  hrs 
cars.  A  constrained  silence  ensued,  which  was  at  last  broken  again 
by  Master  ArfoH's  voice. 

"  Great  changes  arc  taking  place,  my  Corpotal.    ttw^  ^jtiXL^w^ 


so  far  out  of  the  world  that  much  escapes  you,  and  the  jouraalsare 
full  uf  lies.  It  is  curtain,  Ijowever,  tliat  tlie  Emjurror  has  abdicated." 

Marcelle  turned  an  appealing  look  on  the  speaker,  as  if  beseech- 
ing him  to  be  silent,  fof  she  feared  some  oulburet  on  the  part  of 
the  Coqjoral.  Dcrval,  however,  was  very  quiet;  he  sal  still,  with 
lips  set  tight  together,  and  vycs  fixed  on  the  ground.  At  last  be 
said  grimly,  lilting  his  hawk-like  eye  on  ArfoU— 

*'  Yes,  there  are  great  changes  ;  and  _yau  .  .  do  jvu  loo  wear  the 
while  cockade?" 

Master  ArfoU  shook  his  head. 

"  X  am  no  Royalist,"  he  replied ;  "  I  have  seen  too  much  of  Kings 
for  that.  The  return  of  the  Bourbon  will  he  the  return  of  all  the 
reptiles  whom  the  goddess  of  Liberty  drove  out  of  France:  we 
shall  be  the  sport  of  parvenus  and  the  prey  of  priests ;  there  will 
be  peace,  but  it  will  be  ignumiuioua,  and  we  shall  still  ask  in  \'aia 
for  the  Rights  of  Man." 

The  Corporal's  eye  kindled,  his  whole  look  expressed  astoniih- 
mcnt.  After  all,  then.  Master  ArfoU  was  not  such  a  fool  as  had 
been  supposed ;  jf  he  could  not  appreciate  the  Kmpemr,  he  could  at 
least  despise  King  Louis.  Without  expressing  surprise  in  any  direct 
way,  Dcn-al  said,  as  Lf  wishing  to  change  the  subject — 

"  Yuu  have  been  a  great  stranger.  Master  ArfoU.  It  ia  many 
months  since  you  dropped  in." 

"I  have  been  faraway,"  returned  the  itinerant,  seating  hitnself 
by  the  Corporal's  side.  '*  You  will  wonder  when  1  tell  you  that  I 
have  been  to  the  great  City  itself." 

"To  Faris!"  ejaculated  the  Corporal,  while  MorceUc  looludai 
astonished  as  if  Master  Arfoll  had  said  that  he  bad  visited  the  nod 
world. 

"I  have  a  kinsman  at  Meanx,  and  I  was  sent  for  to  close  his 
eyes;  he  had  no  other  friend  on  eartli.  While  I  was  there,  the* 
Allies  marched  on  Paris,  and  I  beheld  all  the  horrors  of  the  war. 
My  Corporal,  it  was  a  war  of  devils  ;  both  sides  fought  like  fiends, 
and  between  them  both  the  country  was  laid  waste.  The  poor 
peasants  fled  to  the  woods,  and  hid  themselves  in  caves,  and  the 
churches  were  full  of  women  and  children.  Vou  could  see  the  Ares 
of  towns  and  villages  burning  day  and  night.  No  tnao  had  any 
pity  for  his  neighbour,  and  the  French  conscripts  were  as  cruel  10 
their  own  countrj-men  as  if  they  themselves  were  Cossacks  or  Ctoais. 
fields  and  fanns,  the  abodes  of  man  and  beast,  all  were  laid  waitew 
and  in  tlie  night  great  troops  of  hunj^ry  wolves  came  out  and  fcti 
on  the  dead." 


I 


"Th»t  19  war,"  sai J  tlie  Cori>oral,  nodding  his  head  jihlcgmati- 
cally,  for  he  was  well  used  to  sHch  little  incidents. 

"Ai  last,  with  many  thousands  more,  I  found  my  \f&y  into  the 
great  city,  and  iherc  I  rcmainuii  throughout  the. siege.  Those  were 
days  of  horror  1  While  the  defenders  wece  busy  fighting,  the  out- 
casts of  the  earth  came  out  of  their  dark  dens  and  filled  the  streets, 
shrieking  for  bread ;  they  were  as  thick  and  loathsome  as  vermin 
crawling  on  a  corpse;  and  when  they  were  denied,  murder  was 
often  done.  Ab,  God.  tbey  were  mad  t  I  have  seen  a  mother, 
maniacal  with  starvation,  dash  out  her  babe's  brains  on  the  pave- 
ment of  the  street!  Well,  it  was  soon  over,  and  I  saw  the  great 
allied  armies  march  in.  Our  people  cheered  and  embraced  them  as 
they  entered — many  fell  upon  their  knees  and  blessed  them — and 
some  strewed  ilowers." 

"  Canai'/U  /"  hissed  the  Corpoial  between  his  teeth*  which  he 
ground  together  viciously. 

"  Poor  wretches,  they  knew  no  better,  and  if  they  were  wrong, 
God  will  not  blame  Ihcm.  Out  all  this  is  not  what  I  wished  to 
tell  you ;  it  is  something  which  wilt  interest  yuu  mure.  I  saw  the 
Emperor, — at  Kontainebleau." 

"The  Emperor!"  repeated  Dcrval  in  a  low  voice,  not  lifting  his 
eyes.  His  face  was  very  pale,  and  during  the  description  of  the 
siege  he  had  with  difficulty  suppressed  his  agitation.  For  all  this 
sorrow  and  desolation  meant  only  one  thing  to  him — his  Idol  was 
overthrown.  The  entry  of  the  Allies  into  Paris,  and  their  welcome 
by  the  excited  populace,  was  only  a  final  proof  of  human  perfidy — 
of  national  treacherj'  to  the  greatest  and  noblest  of  beings.  All 
bad  fallen  away  from  the  "little  Coq>orat;"  all  but  those  who, 
like  Der\'al,  were  Impotent  to  help  him.  Yet  the  sun  sliU  shone. 
Yet  the  heavens  were  still  blue,  the  earth  slill  green  I  .\nd  there — 
*  ab,  God  jof  Battles ! — they  were  upraising  the  White  Lily,  the 
abominable  F/eur  lU  Lys  I 

By  this  time  Marcelle  too  was  scaled  on  the  sward  close  to  her 
uncle's  feet,  and  her  eyes  were  raised  half  eagerly,  half  imploringly, 
lo  Master  ArfoU's  face.  Very  beautiful  indeed  she  loiAcd  that  day, 
though  paler  and  somewhat  thinner  than  on  the  day,  about  a  year 
before,  whon  she  had  first  heard  Rohan  Gwenfcm's  confession  of 
love.  She  too  was  eager  to  hear  what  an  eye-witness  had  to  say  of 
bim  whom  she  still  passionately  adored. 

"  It  was  a  memorable  day,"  said  Master  Arfdll ; — ^"  the  day  of  his 
adieu  to  the  Old  Guard." 

He  paused  a  moment,  g.wing  sadly  and  thou^ViV^iAVs  wi\,  waw%x^. 


* 


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The  Gentltma^s  Magazine. 


while  the  CorpoTTil's  heart  began  to  beat  violently  as  at  the  roll-call 
of  drums.  The  very  name  of  llie  Imperial  Guard  touchcil  the 
Tountain  of  tcan  dueji  hidden  in  his  breast.  His  bronE^l  cheek 
flushed,  his  lips  trembled.  Quietly,  almost  unconsciously,  Marcclle 
slipped  her  hand  into  his,  and  he  hehl  it  softly  as  he  listened  on. 

*'  I  will  tell  you  the  truth,  my  Corporal.  When  I  saw  the  Guardj 
called  out,  I  was  grieved,  for  Ihuy  were  a  boit)*  show ;  many  wer*' 
quite  ragged,  and  others  were  sick  and  ill.  They  were  drawn  op 
in  a  line  close  to  the  Palace,  and  they  waited  a  long  time  before  he 
appeared.  At  last  he  came,  on  honcback,  with  the  brave  Mac- 
donald  by  his  side,  and  other  generals  following;  and  at  hU 
appearance  there  was  so  great  a  shout  it  seemed  bringing  down  the 
shies.  He  came  up  slowly  and  dismounted  ;  then  he  held  np  his 
hand ;  and  there  was  dead  silence.  Yoo  could  have  heard  a  pin 
drop.  He  wore  his  old  overcoat  and  cocked  hat:  I  should  have 
known  hira  anywhere,  froin  the  pictures." 

"  How  did  he  look  ? "  asked  the  Corporal.    *'  III  ?    Pale  i^but 
there,  he  was  always  that." 

'*  I  was  quite  close,  and  I  could  sec  his  face ;  it  was  quite  >'clloir, 
and  the  checks  hung  heaWly.  and  the  eyes  were  Icaden-colour 
and  sad.  But  when  he  approached  the  ranks  he  smiled,  and 
would  have  thought  his  face  made  of  sunshine!  I  never  saw  sucb 
a  smile  before — it  was  godlike ;  I  say  this,  though  he  was  ncv( 
god  of  mine.  Then  he  began  to  speak,  and  his  voice  was  hrokei 
and  the  tears  rolled  down  his  checks." 

"And  he  said?— he  said?"  gasped  the  Corpora],  hts  voice  chokt 
with  emotion. 

"  Wh.'il  he  said  you  ha*'c  perhaps  read  in  the  journals,  but  woni* 
cannot  convey  the  look,  the  tone.  He  said  that  France  had  chosen 
another  niler,  and  he  was  content,  since  his  only  prayer  was  for 
France;  Uiat  some  day,  perhaps,  be  would  write  down  the  story 
of  his  battles  for  the  world  to  read.  Then  he  embraced  Mac- 
donatd.  and  called  aloud  for  the  Imperial  eagle;  and  when  the 
standard  was  brought  he  kis^d  it  a  hundred  times.  .  .  .  Corporal, 
my  heart  was  changed  at  that  moment,  and  I  felt  that  I  could  hav9 
died  to  serve  him.  He  is  a  great  man.  ...  A  wail  rose  from  tbo 
throats  of  the  Guard,  and  every  face  was  drowned  in  tear* ;  oU 
men  wept  like  httle  children;  many  ca«l  themselves  upon  thcii 
knees,  imploring  him  not  to  forsake  them.  The  ranks  broke  like 
waves  of  the  sea.  Marshal  Mncdon.iM  hid  his  face  in  hix  hant 
and  almost  sobbed  aloud,  and  several  generals  drew  their  swc 
and  shouted  like  men  possessed,  '  Vhn  F Kmprmir V    'Jliis  la-^tM 


The  Shoiiinv  of  the  Sword. 

only  for  a  little ;  then  it  was  alt  over,    lie  mounted  liis  horse,  and 
rode  slowly  and  siiirnlly  away." 

Master  Arfoll  added  in  a  solemn  voice — 
"That  night  he  left  his  Palace,  never  to  return." 
Silence  ensui^d  :  then  suiklonly  Marcellu,  who  had  been  sitting 
spellbound  listening,  uttered  a  wild  cr^' ;  with  her  eyes  fixed  in 
terror  on  her  nncle.  As  she  did  so,  the  Corporal,  without  a  word 
or  a  sign,  dropped  his  chin  upon  his  breast  and  fell  forward  upon  his 
face. 

"He  is  dead  I  he  is  dead!"  cried  Marcellcj  as  Master  Arfoll 
the  insensible  form  in  his  arms.  And  indeed  the  hue  of 
was  on  the  Corporal's  cheeks,  and  his  features  were  drawn 
and  fixed  as  if  after  the-  last  agony.  Casting  herself  on  her  kneeSj 
and  chafing  his  hands  in  hers,  Marcelle  called  upon  him  pas- 
sionately and  in  despair.  Many  minutes  elapsed,  however,  before 
there  came  any  change.  At  last  he  stirred,  moaned  feebly,  and 
opened  his  eyes.  When  he  did  so  his  look  was  \*acant,  and  he 
seemed  like  one  who  talks  in  sleep. 

"  It  is  an  epilepsy,"  said  Master  Arfoll,  gently  \  "  we  must  try  to 
get  him  home." 

"Who's  there?"  murmured  the  old  man,  speaking  articulately 
for  the  first  time.  ''  Is  it  thou,  Jactjues  .'"  Then  he  muttered  as 
if  to  himself,  "  It  is  the  Emperor's  orders — to-morrow  we 
march." 

Gradually,  however,  recognition  came  back,  and  he  attempted  in 
vain  to  struggle  up  to  his  feet.  Looking  round  him  wildly,  he  saw 
MarccUe's  face  full  of  tender  solicitude. 

•■  Is  it  thou,  Marcellc  f "  he  asked.     "  What  is  wrong  ?" 

"  Nothing  is  wrong,"  she  answered,  "  but  you  have  not  been  well. 
Ah  God,  but  you  are  better  now.     Master  Arfoll,  help  hira  to  rise." 

With  some  difficulty  the  Corporal  was  assisted  to  his  feet ;  even 
then  he  would  have  staggered,  and  fallen  but  for  Master  ArfoU's 
help.  Dazed  and  confuf^cd,  he  was  led  slowlydown  the  hill  towards 
his  own  house,  which  was  fortunately  not  far  away.  As  he  went, 
the  sound  of  firing  and  cheering  again  rose  in  his  ear.  He  drew 
himself  up  suddenly  and  listened. 

"  What's  that  ?"  he  said  sharply. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  answered  Arfoll. 

"  It  is  the  enemy  beginning  the  attack,"  said  tho  Corpora]  in  a 
low  voice.    "  Hark  again  1" 

"  Uncle  I  uncle  I"  cried  Marcellc. 


623 


The  GtntUmans  Magaain^ 


"  His  thoughts  are  far  a\«-a)',"  observed  Master  Arfoll,  "  and  per- 
haps it  is  better  so." 

They  walked  on  without  interruption  till  they  reached  the  cot- 
tage ;  entering  which,  thoy  placed  the  Corjioral  in  the  great  wootlen 
afm-chair.  where  he  sat  like  oue  in  a  dream.  While  the  widow 
brought  vinegar  to  wet  his  haods  and  forehead,  Marcclle  lum< 
eagerly  to  Arfoll,  and  sought  bis  advice  as  to  the  course  next  to 
taken. 

"  If  something  is  not  done  soon,  he  will  surely  die." 

"There  is  but  one  way,"  said  the  schoolmaster;  "be  must 
bled  at  once." 

Ten  minutes  later  Plouijt,  the  village  barber,  who  added  to  his 
other  avocations  that  of  village  surgeon  and  leech,  came  briskly  up 
the  street  with  lance  and  basin,  and  having  procured  clean  linen 
from  the  widow,  proceeded  dexterously  to  open  a  vein.  Plouct,  a 
little  weazel-like  man  of  fifty,  was  an  old  crony  of  the  Corporal, 
ami  attended  lo  the  case  nn  amort. 

"  \  have  said  alwaj-s,"  he  explained,  as  the  blood  wai  llowing 
gently  into  his  basin,  "that  the  Corporal  was  too  fult-bloodedj 
.besides,  he  is  a  man  of  passion,  look  you.  and  passion  is  dangerous 
for  it  mounts  to  the  brain.  But  sec,  he  stirs  already!"  Anc 
indeed,  before  an  ounce  of  the  vital  stream  had  been  taken  away, 
the  Corporal  ilrew  a  great  breath,  and  looked  around  him  with  quit 
a  different  expression,  recognising  everj-body  and  understandinj 
the  situation.  With  the  assistance  of  Plouct,  hi:  was  got  to  bed ; 
and  when  there  he  soon  sank  into  a  heav}*  slumber. 

"  Let  him  not  be  disturbed  1 "  said  the  phlebotomist,  as  he  washed 
his  hands.  "The  sounder  he  sleeps  the  better,  and  I  mil  look 
round  and  see  him  In  the  morning." 

"  His  heart  is  broken  1**  cried  Marcellc,  weeping  on  her  mother's 
bosom.     "  He  will  die ! " 

"  He  thinks  too  mtich  of  the  Emperor,"  said  Gildas,  "  but  the 
Emperor  would  not  fret  for  him,  let  me  tell  you.     Emperor 
King,  it  is  one  to  mo;    but  I  knew  it  n-as  all  up  when  he  It 
Marshal  Ney." 

They  were  alone  in  the  kitchen,  talking  Jn  wbiapcr^  Night  had 
come,  and  beyond  the  village  were  baraing  large  bonfirt-*,  the 
signals  for  gcnernl  rejoicing.    They  had  no  lamp,  for  the  ■  : 

lay  in  the  ///  dfs  In  the  comer,  and  (hey  were  afraid  of  diu-,..  .,  ... 
eyes  and  disturbing  his  rest.  E\-cr  and  anon  they  beard  the  muo^ 
of  foolMcps  hastening  up  or  down  the  street,  sonctimui  acoom- 


fliMi 


I 


I  IB 

I 


panied  tvitli  slimiting  and  singing ;  and  it  v.'as  clear  that  the  village 
was  full  of  excitement. 

"Tbisy  are  keeping  it  up,"  said  Gildas;  and  after  fidgeting 
uneasily  for  some;  time,  be  took  his  hat  and  saun(crc<t  forth.  He 
knew  one  or  two  choice  spirits  who  mi^ht  be  disposed  to  be  con- 
vivial, and  be  had  no  objection  to  join  tlic-ni. 

An  hour  passed  on.  The  sounds  continued,  but  still  the  Corporal 
slept  peacefully.     At  last  Marcelle  rose  with  a  weary  sigh. 

"  I  cannot  rest,"  she  said.  "  You  inti  not  want  me,  mother,  and 
I  will  go  and  see  what  they  are  doing," 

So  saying,  after  one  last  loving  look  at  her  uncle,  to  sec  tliat  hft 
was  quite  at  rest,  she  drew  her  cloak  round  her,  and  softly  opening 
the  door,  slipped  oat  into  the  night. 

CHAPTER   L.  ' 

THE  HERO  OP  TITE  HOUR.. 

The  chapel  was  illuminated  ;  all  along  the  hillsides  bonfires  were 
burning,  and  at  thi;  mastlieads  of  many  of  the  fishing  boats  in  the 
bay  s-wung  coloured  lamps.  The  cabaret  was  crammed  full  of  those 
thirsty  souls  who  find  in  any  public  event,  glad  or  sad,  an  excuse  for 
moistening  their  throats  and  muddling  their  brains.  The  wbtta 
flag  still  waved  on  the  chapel,  and  the  crimson  rays  issuing  from 
the  windows  lit  up  its  golden  Jlfur  de  lys. 

The  street  was  quite  deserted  as  Marcelle  stepped  forth.  The 
night  wind  blew  coldly,  and  a  fresh  scent  swept  in  from  the  sea. 
For  some  minutes  she  stood  outside  the  door,  gazing  out  towards 
the  dark  ocean  ;  then,  with  a  soft  sigh,  she  walked  up  the  street. 
Her  heart  was  very  heavy  that  night,  for  all  things  sijemed 
against  her.  The  great  good  Emperor  had  fallen  from  his  throne, 
and  fickle  men,  forgetful  of  at)  bis  greatness,  were  already  pro- 
claiming a  new  King  ;  while  here  at  Kromlaix,  on  her  own  hearth, 
the  shadow  of  doom  had  also  fallen,  and  her  uncle  had  been 
stricken  down.  God  seemed  against  her  and  her  house  !  It  was 
like  the  Day  of  judgment ;  only  the  wicked  were  not  being  judged, 
and  the  good  were  being  pimishcd  instead  of  the  bad. 

Curiosity  drew  her  towards  the  chapel,  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
which  there  seemed  most  noise  and  bustle.  As  she  approached  she 
found  straggling  groups  of  men  and  women  npoa  the  road,  but  it 
was  too  dark  for  any  one  to  recognise  her.  Most  were  talking  and 
laughing  merrily,  and  from  time  to  time  she  heard  cries  of  "  Vive  fe 
Rot  f  "    Each  cry  went  through  her  hear*  "*     "'  -  «.\2te  cA  %.  Vsw\Va. 


624 


Tfu  GmiUmanU  Magazine. 


She  hail  never  felt  so  dcaertetl  and  forlorn.  Ever  since  sfic  cooM 
remember  well  the  Emiwror  hail  been  as  the  sun  in  heaven, 
grddually  arising  higher  and  higher  until  he  reached  the  Imperial 
zcniili ;  and  though  his  glory  had  hccn  far  away,  somu  of  it  bad 
alwa)-?  reached  her  uncle's  house,  with  a  sort  of  reflected  splendour 
which  grt:w  with  years.  Ever  since  she  could  remi^mbcr  her  unwle 
had  been  an  auUiorily  in  the  place,  honouied  as  well  as  feared; 
though  a  poor  man,  he  had  seemed  "  clothed  as"  with  a  glory  sur- 
passing riches.  And  now  all  was  changed.  The  sun  had  set  In 
blood,  and  nighl  had  come  indeed;  and  the  old  Yeleran,  forlornly 
clinging  to  an  old  faith,  was  ignominJousty  and  miserably 
down. 

ir  she  had  only  been  bora  a  man-child,  as  Uncle  Ewcn  often  said 
she  should  have  been  !  If,  as  it  was,  she  could  only  do  somethinf 
however  little,  to  help  ihe  good  Emperor,  and  to  heal  her  uncle* 
heart  I  Ah,  God,  that  she  had  a  ,man's  hand  to  tear  that  white 
abomination  |down  !  .  .  .  .  She  could  dimly  see  the  flag  lying 
against  the  dark,  blue  heaven,  and  her  heart  heaved  with  a  riet<.c 
passion  inherited  from  her  father. 

Creeping  along  from  group  to  group  she  came  to  the  gravej-ar 
of  the  chapel,  and  to  her  astonishment  found  ic  filled  with 
excited  crond.  Great  streams  of  light  flowed  from  the  cbapcl 
windows,  but  many  men  held  torches,  which  threw  a  lurid  glare  ou 
the  upturned  faces.  Something  particular  was  taking  place,  and 
some  one  was  addressing  the  people  in  a  loud  voice.  As  she  stood 
at  the  gate  Marcclle  beheld,  standing  on  a  high  green  mound  in 
the  centre  of  the  crowd,  a  group  of  meUf  chief  of  whom  was  the 
Steur  Mannont. 

Marmontwas  the  speaker,  and  his  face  flashed  wildly  in  the  light 
of  the  torches.  Some  gentlemen  surrounding  him,  who  looked  like 
officers,  had  drawn  their  swords,  and  were  waving  them  in  the  air, 
applauding  bis  words  ;  and  among  them  were  several  priests. 

In  the  eyes  of  Marcclle  this  Marmont  seemed  a  wretch  unlit  to 
live  ;  for  she  rcmcmhcrcd  his  terrible  renconlrt  with  her  uncle,  ani 
his  wicked  seditious  words.  As  for  the  priests,  surely  God  had  caa 
them  out,  and  filled  them  with  a  devilish  ingmtiiude,  otherwise 
they  would  remember  how  good  the  Emperor  had  been  tathcnif< 
and  how  he  had  called  them  back  to  France,  like  the  holy  wan  h( 
was.  when  the  atheists  would  have  banished  them  for  ever. 

Entering  the  graviTard,  and  advancing  nc&rer,  she  saw  standinf  j 
near  to  Marmont.  but  gn  the  lower  ground,  so  that  hia  head  onl 
reached  to  the  other's  outstretched  bands,  the  5gutc  of  o  man.' 


mm 


Tiu  S/taJow  of  the  Sword. 

His  back  -was  turned  to  Marccllc,  and  he  was  looking  up  at  the 
speaker. 

"'  Listen  then  I  "  she  heard  Marmont  saying  in  a  ringing'  voice. 
"Listen,  a!l  you  who  frarOod  and  love  the  King;  and  if  there  be 
one  among  you  who  blames  ihe  man,  let  him  stand  forward  and 
give  mc  tlic  lie.  1  say  the  man  was  justifiud.  He  refused  to  draw 
sword  for  the  usurper:  for  this  atone  he  was  hunted  dorni,  even  as 
the  wol\*es  of  llie  woods  arc  hunted  ;  and  if  in  the  'despair  of  his 
heart  he  shed  blood,  I  say  he  was  again  justified.  Look  at  the  man  ! 
God  above,  who  sees  all  things,  could  tell  you  what  he  has  suffered, 
since  (Jod  only  has  preserved  him  as  a  testimony  and  a  sign 
against  the  dynasty  which  has  fallen  for  ever.  Look  at  him — his 
famished  cheeks,  his  wasted  form,  his  eyes  still  wild  with  hunger 
and  despair.  You  tell  me  he  has  slain  a  man ;  1  tcU  you  the 
Emperor  who  made  him  what  he  is  has  slain  thousands  upon  thou- 
sands. You  tell  rae  he  is  a  deserter  and  a  rcvolter  ;  I  tell  you  that 
he  is  a  hero  and  a  martyr."  He  added  with  an  eager  cry :  "  Em- 
brace him,  my  brothers  !  " 

The  figure  so  addressed  did  not  stir;  and  could  Marcelle 
have  seen  the  expression  of  his  face,  she  would  have  noticed 
only  a  strange  and  vacant  indifference.  But  suddenly,  with 
a  common  impulse,  the  crowd  began  to  cheer,  hysterical  women 
began  to  sob,  and  the  man  was  surrounded  by  a  surging  mass  of 
living  beings,  all  stretching  out  arms  to  reach  him.  As  if  to  avoid 
their  touch,  he  stepped  up  on  the  mound  be.side  Marmont,  and 
turned  his  face  towards  Marcelle.  ■ 

*'  Rohan  Gwenfem  !  Rohan  Gwenfem !  *'  they  cried. 
It  was  Rohan,  little  less  wretched  and  ragged  than  when  Mar- 
celle last  beheld  him  on  the  night  of  the  flood.     He  gazed  out  on 
the  crowd  like  one  in  a  dream  ;  and  when  the  Sicur  Marmont  and 
the  priests  (locked  around  him  and  grasped  his  hands,  he  did  not 
seem  to  respond  to  their  enthusia.sin.    Perhaps  he  estimated  that 
enthusiasm  at  its  worth,  and  knew  that  Marmont  and  his  friends 
were  only  too  glad  to  avail  themselves  of  any  circumstance  which 
would  cast  discredit  on  the  fallen  Empire.     Perhaps  he  knew  also 
that  the  crowd  was  merely  yielding  to   an  excited  impulse,  and 
would  have  been  as  ready  to    tear   him    to    pieces  if  Marmont's 
speech  had  pointed  in  that  direction- 
He  did  not  utter  a  word,  but  after  gazing  down  in  silence,  he 
descended  the   mound,    and    made  hiS  way  stmight  to   the  spot 
where  Marcelle  stood-    The  crowd  parted  to  make  way  for  Ktw*. 
but  continued  to  cheer  and  call  his  name.    KWosX.  KTOmtKv'a.v*^^ 
be  was  face  to  face  with  Srarcelle,  and  his  cye&  vieie  ^xeA.  oxwVv" 
vot.  XVII..  :i.s.  isji.  %  %- 


656 


The  GtntktnanCs  Mapazini. 


.  "Come,  MarccIIe!"  he  said  quieUy,  with  no  other  word  rf 
greeting,  am!  exhibiting  no  surprise  at  her  presence.  Stretching 
out  his  hand  he  look  hers. 

Seeinjr  this,  iinil  Tccngnising  Manxlle,  SMX-ral  began  lo  groan. 

**  It  is  the  Corporal's  niece.     A  bas  It  Caporat!" 

"  Silence  I "  criuil  tho  voice  of  the  Siear  Marmoot.  **Lct  tbt 
man  dejiart  in  peace." 

Trembling  and  stupefied  Marcclle  suffered  her^iclfto  be  Ie<]  ool 
of  the  chorch}-ard.  The  apparition  of  Rohan,  under  those  circos* 
Staoces,  had  been  painrtil  beyond  measure;  for  although  ber  fini 
impulse  had  been  one  of  \oj  at  seeing  him  alive  and  stroug,  she  had 
almost  immediatclr  shruolc  shuddering  away.  In  the  lurid  light  of 
that  scene  she  beheld,  not  the  playmate  of  her  childhood  and  the 
lover  of  her  youth,  but  the  murdcFcr  of  Pipriac  and  the  cncmjr  of 
the  Kmpemr.  Honourc<l  by  those  who  hated  her  idol,  vreloomed 
and  applauded  by  those  who  had  broken  her  uncle's  heart,  he  could 
not  have  come  back  under  circumstances  less '  auspicioos  and 
Sjinpaihetic.  Despite  all  that  he  had  suffered,  her  heart  hardened 
against  him.  She  almost  forgot  for  the  moment  that  she  had  loved 
him,  and  that  she  owed  bim  her  life,  in  the  horror  of  seeing  biin 
again,  in  the  ranks  of  the  abominable. 

NevcrLbcless,  in  a  sort  a(  stupor,  she  walked  on  by  his  side  down 
the  dark  road,  until  they  were  quite  alone.  He  did  not  say  a  word, 
and  the  silence  at  last  became  so  painful  to  her  that  she  trembled 
through  and  through.  Then  she  drew  ai\*ay  her  hand,  and  he  did 
not  attempt  to  detain  it.  It  was  not  often  that  Marrellc  felt 
hysterical— slie  was  woven  of  too  soldier-like  a  stuff,  but  she 
certainly  did  so  now.  Her  feelings  had  been  slmn;  up  so 
terribly  before  the  meeting  that  they  threatened  now  to  overcome 
her. 

It  was  a  dim.  starlight  night,  and  she  conld  just  see  the  glimmer 

of  her  companion's  face.    At  last,  when  the  silence  had  bcxomo 

unbcaniblv,  he  broke  it  suddenly  with  a  laugh,  so  wild  and  uuearthly 

that  it  made  her  frightened  heart  leap  within  her  :  a  laugfa  wdlb  a 

B/  in  ii.but  full  of  an  unnatural  excitement.  Then,  turning  his  eyei 

30U  her,  and  putting  his  hand  upon  her  arm,  he  said  In  a  hoane  * 
voice 

"  Well,  ii  is  all  over,  and  I  have  come  home.    But  where  It, 
welcome,  MarcelJc  ?  " 

Hi?  voice  souniJcd  so  strangely  that  she  t     ' 
tlieii.  clinging  to  liiii  arm  and  yi<ildiiig  to  tl 
she  cried  wildly— 

'  O.  Rohan,  Kohau,  (\o  noX  \\ub1l  \  %m  "^^v  *^^.   VVu  scare 


TIu  Shadow  of  the  Sword. 


thought  to  see  you  alive  again,  and  I  have  prayed  for  you  every 
nighi  as  if  yuur  suul  was  with  Gud,  and  I  have  sat  with  your  mother 
and  talked  about  you  when  all  the  others  thought  X  was  asleep.  But 
ail  is  changed,  and  the  Emperor  is  taken  prisoner,  and  Uncle 
Even's  heart  is  hrokcn,  and  wo  arc  all  miserable,  miserable,  and 
all  this  night  I  have  prayed  to  die,  to  die  I" 

Knticely  losing  her  sdf-comniand,  tin:  hi[l  her  face  upon  his  arm 
and  sobbed  aloud.  Strange  to  say,  Rohan  showed  no  agitation 
whatever,  but  watched  her  quietly  till  tlie  storm  of  hcrpaiifwas 
pvcr,  when  he  said  in  the  same  peculiar  tones — 

"Why  do  you  weep,  Marcelle  ?  Because  the  Emperor  ia  hunted 
down?" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  sobbed  on.  With  the  sharp,  lierce  laugh 
that  had  startled  her  befi>re,  Rohan  continued — 

"  When  I  found  Christ  would  not  help  mo  I  went  to  N'otrc  Dame 
de  la  Hainc.  and  for  a  long  time  I  thought  she  wa3  deaf  too.  But 
I  prayed,  and  my  prayers  have  come  to  pass — she  beard  mc  I — 
within  a  year,  within  a  year  t" 
•  Recalled  to  herself  cuher  by  the  violence  of  his  tones  or  the 
strangeness  of  his  words,  Marcelle  drew  back  and  looked  aghast 
in  the  speaker's  face,  which  socmed  wikl  and  cxcitcti  in  the  dim 
light. 

"Almighty  God  1 "  she  murmured,  "what  are  ;ou  saying, 
Rohan?" 

Rohan  continued  in  a  lower  voice,  as  if  talking  to  himself — 

"  I  did  not  expect  it  so  soon,  but  I  knew  it  must  come  at  last ; 
old  Pipriac  told  mc  that  in  a  dream.  It  has  been  a  long  chase,  but 
at  last  we  have  huiited  him  down,  and  now  Our  Lady  of  Hate  will 
gnaw  his  heart,  and  I  .  .  I  shall  go  home  and  rest,  for  I  am  tired." 

"  Rohan  1 " 

"  Yes,  Rfartrellc." 

"  Why  do  you  talk  like  that  ?     Why  arc  you  so  slnmge  ?  " 

He  bent  down  his  head  and  looked  at  her  quietly. 

"Am  I  strange?"  he  said. 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  am  afraid  of  you  when  you  wander  so." 

Rohan  drew  his  hand  across  his  forehead,  and  knitted  his  brows. 

"  [  believe  you  are  right,  Marcelle."  he  said,  slowly,  and  with  a 
very  diiferent  manner.  "  Sometimes  1  think  I  am  not  in  my  right 
mind.  I  have  had  great  troubles  to  bear,  and  I  have  had  so  long 
to  wait  that  no  wonder  I  am  wearied  out.  Do  not  be  angry  with 
me;  I  shall  be  well  soon." 

Something  in  bis  tone  awoke  the  teats  vfvl\uft\iex  a.:^4Ya,Ni\j.v.  ^t 

cozj^ucred  herself,  and  took  his  ha\nl.      fiy  VVva  >;vch^  ^«1  '^ 

<i  "f.  ■». 


628 


The  Gentleman* s  Ma^izmt. 


reached  the  main  street  of  the  village  and  were  not  far  from  hci 
uncJe's  dor>r.  Roh<in.  however,  sccmccl  almost  unconscious  wberu 
he  was,  so  wearily  was  he  following  his  own  thoughts. 

"There  is  sickness  in  the  house,  or  I  would  ask  j'ou  in.  O, 
Rohan,  Uncle  Ewen  is  very  ill,  and  I  fear  that  he  will  die.  He  is 
heartbroken  because  the  Kmpcror  is  cast  down." 

Rohan  echoed,  in  a  hollow  voice — 

"  Because  the  Emjicmr  is  cast  down  ?" 

"  I  know  you  do  not  love  the  Emperor,  because  you  tliink  he  bas 
made  you  siifTt-r;  but  you  are  wrong — he  could  not  know  erciy- 
thing,  and  he  would  pity  you  if  he  really  knew  .  .  Rohan,  once 
more,  do  not  think  I  am  not  ts'Iad  (  .  .  You  are  safe  now  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  they  say  so,"  answered  Rohan. 

"  Your  mother  will  be  full  of  joy — it  is  a  happy  night  for  htr. 
Good-byc-,  good-bye  V 

She  stretched  out  both  her  hands,  and  he  took  them  in  his ;  then 
he  quietly  drew  her  to  his  breast,  and  kissed  her  gently  on  the  brow. 

"  You  arc  prettier  than  ever,  Marcellel" 

He  could  feel  Ibe  heaving  of  her  gentle  bosom,  the  trembling  of 
her  warm  form ;  he  drew-  her  closer,  and  she  looked  up  into  bis  face. 

"  Rohan,  do  you  ever  pray  ?" 

He  smiled  strangely. 

"  Sometimes.     Why  do  you  ask  .'" 

Her  voice  trembled  as  she  replied,  softly  releasing  herself  from 
his  embrace — 

"  Pray  for  Cncle  P,wcn — that  the  good  God  may  make  liim  well  I*] 
Then  they  parted,  Marccllc  enicring  the  cottage,  and  RohaaJ 
moving  slowly  away  in  the  direction  of  his  own  home. 


CHAFIER  LI. 

BREATHING-SPACE- 

RoTL^K  GwENFERx  was  tight — be  was  quite  safe  at  tost,  and  hod 
no  cause  for  fear;  on  the  conlran.-.  his  wild  ston-,  -ipreading  over 
the  province,  raised  him  up  many  friends  and  siTnpatliisert.  Kvon 
those  who  hod  been  bitterest  against  him  dared  not  say  a  wonl. 
The  Mayor  of  St.  Gurlott,  who  liad  been  among  thr^  fi.  .  '  . 
persecutors,  openly  proclaimed  that  he  was  a  martyr  ;ii  . 
thing  ought  to  be  done  for  him  by  his  countrymen:  •  cbaojic  of 
opinion  which  becomes  intelligible  when  we  ohsrr  •'  •  iJm 
AfayoT,  like  so  many  others  of  his  chameleon 
changed  fmm  trlcolourud  to  daziiltng  white  directly  booapane'l 
cause  became  utterly  hu;>ie\e».    K%  iw.  V\vnw^«  Uu3iVh,  i 


The  Shadmu  of  the  Sword. 

simply   "justifiablr   hotniciJe";   ihe  savage  old   "bum powder" 
had  only  met  with  his  deserts. 

So  Rohan  sat  again  by  his  own  hearths  a  free  man,  and  his 
mothci's  eyes  brightened  with  joy  because  Gt>d  had  rustorcd  to  her 
the  child  of  her  womb.  Her  happiness,  however,  was  dcslined  to 
be  of  brief  duration.  She  soon  perceived  that  Rohan  was  fearfully 
and  wonderrully  changed.  His  frame  was  bent  and  weakened,  his 
face  had  lost  its  old  look  of  brightness  and  health,  his  eyes  were 
dim,  and,  alas  !  his  hair  had  in  parts  grown  qniie  ^Tty.  But  this 
was  not  all.  The  physical  chang-e  was  nothing  compared  to  the 
moral  and  mental  transformation.  Ii  was  <iuitc  ohviuus  that  hi.*t 
intellect  was  to  a  certain  deg^ree  affected  by  what  he  had  under- 
gone. He  was  subject  to  strange  trances,  when  reason  absolutely 
fled  and  his  speech  became  positively  maniacal ;  and  on  coming 
out  of  theSL — they  were  fortunately  very  brief,  often  merely  momen- 
tary— he  was  like  a  man  who  comes  from  the  shadow  of  the  grave. 
At  night  his  sleep  was  troubled  with  frightful  dreams,  and  bis  soul 
was  constantly  travelling  back  to  the  lime  of  the  siege  in  the  cave 
and  of  Pipriac's  death.  No  smile  lit  his  once  happy  face.  He 
drooped  and  sickened,  and  would  sit  whole  days  looking  into  the  fire. 

During  the  long  winter  he  had  remained  in  hiding  among  the 
lonely  huts  of  St.  Lok,  the  inhabitants  of  which  were  systematic 
wreckers,  but  he  was  not  betrayed.  His  brain,  however,  was  kept 
in  a  constant  slate  of  tension,  as  he  was  liable  to  capture  at  any 
momenl,  and  he  bad  undergone  great  privations.  But  the  circum- 
stance which  had  teft  most  mark  upon  him  was  Pipriac's  death ; 
the  rest  he  might  have  forgotten,  but  this  he  could  not  shake  away ; 
— forhe  was  conscience-stricken.  The  world  might  justify  him,  but 
he  could  not  justify  himself.  To  have  blood  upnn  his  hands  was 
terrible,  and  the  blood  of  his  father's  friend.    Better  to  have  died  ! 

The  whole  burthen  of  events  was  loo  much  for  his  delicate 
organisation.  He  was  overshadowed  with  darkness  as  of  a  dead 
and  a  living  world,  and  the  peace  of  his  life  was  poisoned  for  ever. 
Mental  horror  and  physical  pain  combined  had  stupefied  him.  He 
seemed  siill  paralysed  with  the  terror  and  the  despair  of  those 
ghastly  nights  in  Ihe  cave. 

He  saw  too,  but  dimly  as  in  a  dream,  that  a  mora!  shadow  had 
arisen  between  his  soul  and  that  of  Marcelle.  His  salvation  had 
been  her  sorrow.  His  hope  was  her  despair.  What  had  lifted  him 
up  again  into  the  light  of  day  had  stricken  down  her  uncle  as  into 
the  darkness  of  the  grave.  She  was  still  the  same  to  him  whca 
they  met— gentle,  honest,  truthful,  and  Un4\  \>vx^  V«  Xwi^a^-sx** 
vriihout  passion,  her  manners  shiinVing  zxiA  sofe&vitA..   '5>\w  vef^ 


630  The  Gcnfieman*  s  A^fagasiife. 


or  another  religion,  of  a  sadder,  inlcnscr  faiih.  He  had  atiU  a 
portion  or  her  heart,  bol  the  shadow  of  Bonaparte  bad  estranged 
her  soul. 

Durinjf  these  daj^.  indeed,  Slarcellc  seemed  wholly  Tfrapjipd  up 
in  her  uncle.  Uncle  Ewen  come  out  oF  his  illness  bnivel}'.  only 
keeping  his  tied  a'  few-  days,  for  he  could  not  bear  to  lie  there  like 
a  useless  log  ;  but  ever  after.that  he  was  only  the  ghost  of  his  old 
self — a  shattered  man.  liable  to  freqitrnt  attacks  of  the  same  com- 
plaint, sometimes  violent,  but  generally  having  merely  the  character 
of  vhat  French  physicians  term  the /c/i'/ mo/.  Excitement  of  any 
kind  now  shook  him  to  pieces,  and  the  household  carefully 
endeavoured  to  conceal  from  him  any  news  which  >ras  likely  to 
cause  agitation.  They  could  not,  however,  keep  hini  from 
examining  the  journals ;  'from  foUom-ing  in  his  mind's  eye  the 
journey  of  Bonaparte  from  Fran<-'c  and  his  arri%*at  on  the  island  of 
Elba,  the  pageant  of  the  King's  entry  into  the  capital  of  Fnnce, 
the  changes  vhicb  were  everywhere  announcing  the  arrival  of  the 
old  rfgime.  Indeed  the  Corpora!  had  only  to  stand  at  his  own  door 
looking  forth,  in  order  to  sec  that  the  spirit  of  things  was  marvel- 
lously tmnsformed.  The  chapel  bells  were  cvet  ringing,  religioDS 
processions  were  e^-er  passing,  solemn  ceremonies  were  ever  being 
performed  ;  for  the  King  was  a  holy  king,  and  his  family  were  b 
holy  family,  and  Heaven  could  not  be  sufficiently  propitiated  for 
having  overthrown  the  Usurper. 

**Thc  locusts  arc  overrunning  the  land  I"  said  Master  Arfoll  ; 
and  the  Corporal — who  was  beginning  to  think  Master  Arfoll  a 
good  fellow — nodded  approval  of  the  metaphor. 

By  the  "  locust*,"  Master  Arfoll  meant  the  priests.  Where 
during  the  Emperor's  time  the  eye  had  hUcn  upon  a  miltiary  coat, 
it  now  fell  upon  a  sou/am.  All  the  swarms  who  had  Wft  France 
with  the  ftni^r^  came  buzzing  back,  and  it  became  a  question  bow 
to  611  their  mouths.  The  air  rang  with  the  names  ofathoDSud 
Saint<; — there  was  one  for  every  day  in  the  week,  and  several  for 
Sunday.  "Tc  Deums"  were  said  from  morning  to  nigiii.  Brittany 
recovered  its  old  sacrwl  glory — chapels  were  repaired,  forgotten 
shrines  remembered  and  redecorated,  Calvaries  rebuilt,  graven' 
images  of  thf  Virgin  and  the  Saints  erected  at  every  comer.  F.vmy 
old  religious  ceremonial  that  had  fallen  intodisose  since  the  Kevo- 
Itttion  came  once  more  Into  observance.  It  ms  astomthing  hov 
rapidly  the  de.id  idcis  and  customs  sprang  op  again  :  like  floirem 
— or  funpi- — rising  up  in  a  night. 

All  these  things  brought  no  joy  to  (be  Coqioral'*  honsefaold, 
■^•e  xridoir.  who  wtui  nolbibB  i?  tkjv  teUipwo*.  tA  cowcsi:  tobt  v«f 


vith 
Kkncn 
Bcerta 


The  Shadow  of  the  Sword. 

in  most  of  tlie  ceremonials,  but  her  conduct  had  no  political  mean- 
ing. She  had  adored  God  and  the  Saints  under  Napoleon,  and 
she  adored  them  under  King-  Louis.  She  liail  a  ni:w  source  of 
uneasiness  in  the  continued  absence  of  her  son  Iloirl,  who  had 
made  few  signs  for  several  months,  and  who  ought  long  ago  to 
have  rctumeil  home. 

Since  the  changes  that  had  taken  place  Marccltc  disliked  the 

chapel  where  Father  RoIIand  officiated,  and  went  thither  as  seldom 

as  possible.     She  could  not  forgive  the  little  curr  for  being  friendly 

vith  the  Sieur  Marmont  and  the  other  Roj-alists,  for  although  she 

ikncw  tie  had  no  strong  ojiinions  of  his  own,  she  felt  that  he  was 

^certainl)'  no  friend  to  the  Emperor.     Instead  of  hearing  public 

s»,  she  ftot  into  the  habit  of  paying  quiet  s\%\\%  to  Notre  Dame 

de  la  Garde,  the  little  lonely  chapel  on.  the  summit  of  the  clifTa. 

Here  she  could  pray  in  peace,  for  the  place  was  seldom  visited  by 

any  other  living  creature. 

Summer  came,  and  the  White  I.ily  was  golden  indeed,  shaking 
Us  glory  over  France,  and  lilling  all  hearts  with  Itie  hope  of 
ijfosperity  and  peace.  The  great  sea-wall  of  Brittany  was  white 
■with  happy  birds,  and  in  the  green  slopes  abovi;  the  grass  grew 
and    the    furze  shone   with   yellow   stars;    while    inland    across 

Htbe  valleys  the  wheat  waved,  and  among  the  wheat  burnt  the' 
poppies  like  "clear  bright  bubble?  of  blood";  and  on  the  great 
marshes  the  salt  crj-stals  lay  and  sparkled  in  the  snn,  and  the  rivers 
sank  low  among  the  rccds,  dwindling  often  to  silvern  threads.  It 
was  a  glorious  summer,  and  the  world  was  turned  into  a  garden. 
Tcuple  forgot  all  their  troubles  in  the  rupture  of  living  and  the 

^^ccrtainty  of  a  good  harvest;  only  the  soldiers  gnimbted,  for  their 

Btrade  seemed  done. 

One  bright  day  Marcellc,  as  she  issued  from  the  Httle  chapef,' 

I  saw  Rohan  standing  close  by  as  If  wailing  for  her  to  ajippar.  She 
approached  liim  with  her  old  bright  smile,  and  lifted  up  lier  face 
for  his  salute.  He  looked  very  pale  and  sad,  but  Ins  face  was  quite 
calm  and  his  manner  gentle  in  the  extreme. 
After  a  few  words  of  greeting,  they  walked  along  side  by  side 
close  to  the  edge  of  the  cliffs — following  the  very  path  which  they 
trod  together  little  more  than  a  year  before.  Far  below  them  they 
«aw  the  waters  crawling,  with  a  cream-white  edge  of  foam ;  and  the 
colours  of  the  bottom,  golden  with  sand  or  red  with  rock  and  weed 
or  black  with  mud,  were  clearly  visible  through  the  inui.si)arcnt 
shallows  or  the  crystal  sea.  At  last  Alarcclle  paused,  for  they  w<£re 
K  walking  away  from  the  village. 
^^*   "J  miat  go  home,"  she  said ;  "  i  pronase^  ^ov  ^o  tta;^^ 


* 


i632 


Thi  Gcntloftan" s  Magazine, 


Rohan  turned  too,  anil  they  walked  slowly  back  towards  tbe 
!  chapel.  N'o  word  of  love  was  spoken  between  tbcm,  but  presently 
Rohan  said,  pointing  out  seaward — 

"  I  often  wonder  what  he  is  doing  and  thinkm|^— ont  there.** 

She  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  He  ?  of  whom  do  j'ou  speak  ?  " 

"  Of  the  Emperor.  They  have  put  htm  on  a  lonely  island  oot  '\n 
the  ocean,  and  he  is  far  away  from  all  help  or  hope.  Tfaer  caJl 
him  King  of  Elba,  but  that  is  only  in  lest,  I  suppose, — for  all  his 
power  is  |{one  for  ever.  When  I  am  asleep  I  oRen  see  him,  sitting 
in  a  dream  on  tbe  watefs  edge,  and  looking  this  way,  till  his  eyes 
meet  mine." 

As  Rohan  spoke,  his  eyes  were  fixed  as  if  in  a  trance,  and  his 
face  grew  strangely  agitated.  Marcelle,  alarmed,  walked  on  more 
rapidly,  while  he  continued — 

"After  all,  Master  Arfoll  was  right  when  he  said  that  iha 
Emperor  was  only  flesh  and  blood  like  ourselves.  Sometimes  I 
havu  thought  he  was  a  spirit,  a  shadow  like  the  shadow  of  God; 
for  it  is  hard  to  think  of  a  man  having  all  that  upon  his  soul  I 
Thousands  upon  thousands  of  dead  gathering  round  his  pillov 
every  night,  and  crj-ing  out  his  name.  No  man's  heart  would  bear 
it  without  brnakiiig." 

Marcelle  did  not  quite  catch  the  drift  of  the  words,  but  she 
knew  that  tliey  referred  to  him  she  deemed  immaculate,  and  her 
heart  heaved  in  anger  ;  but  when  she  looked  into  her  companion's 
face,  which  w,i5  blanched  and  wild  as  if  the  light  of  reason  had 
flown,  her  thoughts  were  all  pity  and  pain.  So  she  said  gently,  to 
change  the  subject — 

"  Uncle  Ewcn  often  asks  for  you — he  thinks  it  unkind  that  you 
do  not  come  to  the  house." 

Without  repl>-ing,  Rohan  gave  that  strange  low  laugh  which  she 
had  Brsl  noticed,  and  feared,  on  the  night  when  they  had  met  in 
the  churchyard.  As  she  heard  it.  she  remembered  with  a  thrill  a 
cruel  whisper  that  Mas  already  going  about  the  village,  to  the  effect 
that  Rohan  Gwcnfcrn  was  no  longer  in  his  right  senses,  and  that 
at  certain  times  he  was  dangerously  violent. 

Passing  the  chapel,  and  descending  the  grassy  slopes,  they  soon 
I  reached  tbe  village.  To  Marcclte's  astonishment  Kohan  remained 
with  her  until  they  were  c1o<<c  to  her  uncle's  cottage,  and  when  thb 
paused  and  put  out  her  hand  to  say  good-bye,  he  quietly  said — 

"  1  shall  go  in  with  you  to  see  Uncle  Ewen." 

She  started,  for  she  had  not  cxotitly  expected  this,  and  when  she 
bad  introduced  her  uni:W&  name,  it.  was  tnerety  with  a  view  to 


Tli€  Skadow  oj  the  Sword. 

distract  Rohan's  wandering  attention.  In  her  secret  heart  she  had 
a  dread  of  a  meeting  between  the  two  men,  lest  by  a  stray  word,  an 
opinion,  they  might  come  again  into  open  opposilLon.  Thus 
pressed,  however,  she  could  hardly  make  an  objection;  so  she 
merely-  said,  with  a  pleading  look — 

"Promise  me,  first,  not  to  speak  of  the  'Emperor." 

Rohan,  who  now  seemed  quite  calm  and  collected,  promised 

vithout    hesitation,    and    in    another   minute    they  crossed    the 

threshold  of  the  cottage.    They  found  the  Corporal  sitting  in  his 

arm-chair  alone    by   the  fireside,  busily  reading,  with  aid  of  his 

.Bpcctacles,  an  old  newspaper. 

Marcelle  tripped  first  into  the  chamber,  and  leaning  over  her 
ancle's  chair  said  smiling — 

"  I  have  brought  you  a  visitor,  Uncle  Ewcn  I     See  I  " 

The  Corporal  looked  and  saw  Rohan  standing  before  him,  so 
.,  so  grey,  so  strange,  and  old,  that  he  scarcely  knew  him.  He 
rubbed  his  eyes,  then  blinked  them  in  amaze.  When  recognition 
came  he  exclaimed,  rising  from  hia  chair — 

"Is  it  thou,  moti  garz'i  Soul- of  a  crow,  how  thou  art  changed! 
I  did  not  know  thee  !  " 

"Yes,  Uncle  Ewen,  it  is  11"  said  Rohan  calmly;  and  the 
two  men  shook  hands,  with  considerable  emotion  on  the  part  of 
the  Corporal. 


I 

ft 

nncu 


"  I  will  leli  thee  this,  Marcelle — he  is  brave — he  has  the  heart 
^of  a  lion,  but  there  is  something  wrong  Acre/" 

The  Corporal,  as  ho  spoke,  tapped  his  forehead  significantly. 
It  was  some  weeks  after  thai  little  reconciliation,  and  Rohan  had 
since  been  a  frequent  visitor  to  his  uncle's  house.  Strange  to  say, 
I  he  and  his  tmcle  got  on  singularly  well  together,  and  even  when 
the  name  of  Bonaparte  came  up  they  had  no  disputes.  The 
Corporal  was  not  so  dogmatic  as  he  used  to  be,  while  Rohan  on 
his  part  was  very  reticent;  so  they  promised  to  be  excellent  friends. 
The  Corporal  proceeded — 

"  We  might  have  guessed  it  when  he  first  refused  to  take  up  arms. 

[Master  Arfoll  is  cracked,  look  you,  and  Rohan  has  caught  it  of  him 

[■^it  is  as  bad  as  fever.    Well,  I  freely  forgive  him  all,  for  he  is  not 

[at  present  in  his  right  mind." 

r^f  course  the  Corporal,  an  undoubluJ  monomaniac  himself, 

the  most  implicit  belief  possible  in  his  own  personal  canity. 

So  the  summer  passed,  and  once  again  the  sum  tuti'^ti  otv  Va  "^ijc. 
l*gujnoJt.    f  ranee  was  at  rest,  lulled  vnVQ  a.  itONis-j  ^laift.  \(^  '^'^ 


&34 


Tin  GinHifttaiCi  Magazine. 


soQods  oE  hjmna  ami  prayers.  Sceptics  shook  Uteie  beacis;  ravo- 
IiitionUts  burrowed  tike  moles,  and  threw  up  liutc  moand»  of  coa-t 
spiracy;  the  Imperial  GuarU  frowned  willi  "red  brows  of  slorra"; 
but  the  new  dynasty  Uy  comrotiably  on  its  padded  pillow  amid  a 
little  rosy  cloud  of  incense,  counting  its  beads.  As  for  the  prisoned 
Lion,  he  made  no  sign.  Restlessly  and  rrctfully  be  was  pacing  np 
and  down  his  narrow  cage.  One  heard  from  time  to  time  of  bix 
doings — his  mimicry  in  miniature  of  his  old  glory,  bis  old 
ambition:  but  the  Kings  of  Kurope  only  nodded  mc-rrily  at  one 
another— he  -kza  safely  caught,  and  there,  on  his  Uland,  might  roar 
himself  hoarse. 

As  the  months  rolled  on,  Cor|)oral  Derval  resigned  himself  to  the 
»tuation,  and  began  to  speak  of  the  Kmperor  with  a  solemn  sorrow, 
as  of  some  dead  Saint  who  could  never  rise  again.  K.illing  into 
this  humour,  instead  of  croising  it,  Rohan  Gwcnfcrn  greatly  rose 
in-the estimation  of  the  Corporal.  "Me  is  a  brave  man/*  Uncle 
Ewcn  would  say,  "and  the  more  brave  becaase  he_  knows  how  to 
respect  a  losing  cause  !  I  did  bitn  wrong  1" 
'  And ftradually.underthesofiening influences whicbnow surrounded 
him,  Kolian  brightened  into  something  dimly  resembling  his  old 
self.  His  cheeks  were  still  sunken,  bis  hair  still  sown  with  gr^i 
but  his  frame  recovered  much  of  its  old  vigour.  He  began  again 
to  w;mdcr  about  the'  crags  and  upon  the  shore,  and  in  these  rambles 
Marcelle  often  accompanied  him — aj  when  they  were  younger  and 
happier.  The  Corporal  approvL-<l,  saying  to  the  widow:  "He  saved 
her  life,  and  it  is  his,  little  woman.  Why  should  they  not  wed  ?" 
And  Mother  Oerval,  whose  heart  was  btuthcncd  with  the  new  Joss 
of  her  son  Huul,  who  never  retumeil  from  the  war,  saw  no  reason' 
to  dissent.  If  the  truth  were  told,  the  poor  woman  was  going* 
more  and  more  over  to  the  enemy.  In  her  secret  heart  she 
believed  not  only  in  the  Pope,  and  the  Saints,  and  the  Bishops,- 
but  in  the  King.  Bonaparte  had  taken  her  childr,m«  and  ibft' 
priest  told  her  he  was  a  monster;  so  she  prayed  God  thai  he  would 
never  rule  France  more. 

Only  Marcelle  Den-al,  perhaps,  besides  the  mother  who  bote 
him,  knew  how  it  really  stotxl  witli  Rohan  Gwenfcm.  The 
of  those  lenible  days  had  struck  at  the  very  roots  of  his  life, 
the  bloom  of  his  spiritual  nature  was  token  off  for  ercr.-  Time 
might  heal  liim  more  and  more,  but  the  ptP' 
and  slow.  His  nervoua  sysu-rn  wa*  deeply  - 
still  trembled  and  tottered  at  times. 

Although  he  showed  by  countless  signs  th.li  he  lo>    '  I. 
lender!/  and  deeply,  his  aKcct\oa  for  hor  seldom  u 


The  Shadow  of  the  Sword. 

actual  passion,  such  as  had  carried  hini  away  when  he  made  his 
first  half  involuntary  confession.  There  was  something  almost 
brotherly  sometimes  in  his  manner  and  in  his  tone.  Yet  once  or 
twice  he  caught  to  his  breast  and  wildly  kissed  her,  in  a  rush  of 
feeling  that  changed  him  for  the  moment  into  a  happy  man. 

»"  She  will  never  marry  Gwenfcm,"  said  gossips  at  the  Fountain  ; 
"for  he  is  mad." 
■  They  little  knew  the  nature  of  Marcelle.  Tba  very  shadow 
which  lay  at  times  upon  Rohan's  mind  made  her  more  eager  lo 
fulfil  her  plight.  Moreover,  she  had  stronf?  passions,  though  these 
had  been  lulled  to  sleep  by  solemn  thoughts  and  fears ;  and  the 
strongest  passion  in  her  soul  was  lit;r  lovt-  for  licr  cousin. 

Mikel  Grallon  now  seldom  crossed  her  path ;  he  knew  better 
than  to  provoke  the  wrath  of  the  man  he  had  persecuted.     A 
zealous  adherent  of  the  new  rigimt,  he  carefully  avoided  the  Cor- 
poral's house,  and  cast  his  eyes  elsewhere  in  search  of  a  fitting 
helpmate. 
_        When  winter  came  in  good  earnest  there   was  many  a  quiet 
fc^thcring  by  the  Corporal's  fireside.    Uncle  Hwen,  whom  ill-health 
confined  a  good  deal  within  doors,  presided,  and  now  and  then 
told  his  memoniblc  story  of  Cismonc,  while  Gildas  was  eloquent 
about  the  exploits  of  Marshal  Ney.    Rohan,  who  was  constantly 
present,  wisely  held  his  tongue  when  the  name  of  Bonaparte  carao 
up,  but  the  widow  would  quietly  cross  herself  in  the  comer.     After 
all,  Uncle  Ewtn  seemed  only  talking  of  a  dead  man ;  of  one  whose 
very  existence  had  faded   into  a  dream;  who  was  calendared,  for 
the  Corporal  and  for  Marcelle,  among  the  other  departed  Saints. 
^L  r  One  day,  when  the  snow  was  on  the  ground,  and  all  was  peace-. 
^Utl  and  white  and  still,  Kohan  said  to  MarccUc — 
|H    "  I*o  yo"  remember  what  you  told  me,  long  ago,  that  morning 
"  when  I  carried  you  out  of  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Gildas  "*    That  you 

I  loved  me,  and  that  you  would  marry  me." 
I   "  I  remember." 
'    "And  will  you  keep  your  word  ?  " 
:  She  hesitated   for  a  moment;  then   looking  at  him  quietly  with 
her  grey  truthful  eyes,  she  answered — 

»*'  Ves,  Rohan, — if  Uncle  Ewen  is  viilling." 
■  They  were  standing  down  by  the  Fountain,  looking  at  the  sea. 
As  Marcelle  replied,  her  heart  was  touched  with  pity  more  than 
love;  for  her  lo%-cr's  face  wore  a  sad  faraway  look  full  of  strange 
suggestions  of  past  suffering.    After  a  space  he  said  again — 

"  I  am  changed,  Mart-clle,  and  1  think  I  sliall  never  be  quite  myself. 
Think  a^rain  /    IhsTQ  are  many  others  "who  v^wiV<i\v»t  >jCi>i"««JS^'* 


636 


The  Gentleman's  Magazine, 


She  put  her  haad  gently  in  his. 

"  Bui  I  love  yon,  Rohan,''  she  replied. 

That  very  day  they  told  the  Corporal,  and  be  cheerfully  jjame 
them  his  blessing.  Father  Rolland  was  spoken  to  by  liii:  widov, 
and  readily  undertook  to  procure  the  assent  of  the  Bishop,  wbicb 
was  necessaT)*  to  complete  a  marriage  between  cousins.  When  U'lc 
affair  was  bruited  about  the  village  many  shook  their  heads — Mikel 
Grallon  particularly.  "The  Bishop  should  inlerfere,"  said  honest 
Mikel :   "  for  look  you,  the  man  is  dangerous." 

The  Bishop,  hou-ever,  made  no  obstacle,  and  it  was  arrangcii 
that  the  marriage  should  take  place  early  in  the  spring. 


Early  in  March,  1813,  Rohan  Gwenfcm  entered  the  cottage  and 
found  Marcelle  alone  in  the  kitchen.  She  was  dressed  in  a  white 
gown,  and  was  busy  at  some  household  work.  As  he  entered,  she 
walked  up  to  him  confidently  and  held  up  her  lips  to  receive  bit 
kiss. 

"  Spring  is  come  indeed,"  he  said,  looking  (luite  radiant.  "  Look, 
Maicelle,  I  have  brought  this  for  a  sign." 

In  Brittany  they  measure  the  seasons  by  flowers  and  birds  and 
Other  natural  signs,  as  much  as  by  Saints'  days  and  holidays  ;  and 
it  had  been,  arranged  that  these  two  should  be  married  in  spring, 
when  the  violet  came.  Marccllo  blushed  deep  crimson,  Init  took 
the  flower  gently  and  put  it  in  her  breast.  Then,  as  Rohan  folded 
his  arms  around  her,  she  leant  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  and 
looked  up,  radiant,  into  his  face. 

Suddenly,  as  they  stood  there  full  of  happiness,  the  door  wat 
dashed  open,  and  Uncle  Ewcn  tottered  in,  reeling  like  a  dr 
man.     He  held  a  newspaper  in  his  hand  and  his  face  was  white  i 
death. 

"  Marcelle !    Rohan  ( "  he  gasped.    "  Here  is  news  I " 

"What  is  the  matter?"  cried  Marcelle,  releasing  herself  from 
Rohan's  arm. 

Uncle  Kwen  waved  the  newspaper  ecstatically  round  liis  head. 

"A  &at  fes  Bourbons  I"  he  cried,  with  something  of  his  old 
vigour.  "On  the  isl  of  March  the  Emperor  landed  at  CanoeSt 
and  he  is  now  marching  on  Paris.    VrvK  l'Empereur  !" 

As  the  Corporal  spoke  the  words,  Rohan  threw  his  arms  up  into 
the  air,  and  shrieked  like  a  man  shot  through  the  heart  I 


oor  was 
white  ^H 


TABLE   TALK. 

BY  SYLVANUS  URBAN,  GENTLEMAN. 


Pope's  Villa,  at  Twickenham,  is  in  the  market.  The  house 
must  be  getting  pretty  old  now,  Tor  it  is  158  years  since  Pope 
moved  from  Chiswick  to  Twickenham,  having  purchased  the  lease 
of  an  eligible  house  .ind  five  acres  of  land.  The  poet  made  the 
bouse  comfortable  enougli.  but  it  w'as  upon  tlic  yarden  that  he  laid 
■out  most  of  his  care,  striving  to  realise  the  dream  of  his  youth 
for  "  woods,  gardens,  rockeries,  fish-ponds,  and  arbours."  An 
area  of  five  acres  was  not  much  ground  u])On  which  to  work,  lint 
Pope  economised  space,  and  as  Camithers  tell  us  in  his  biography, 
be  in  course  of  time  became  the  proud  and  happy  possessor  of  "a 
shell-temple,  a  large  mount,  a  vineyard,  two  small  mounts,  a 
bowling  green,  a  wilderness,  a  grove,  an  orangery,  a  garden-house, 
and  a  kitchen  garden."  and  he  might  have  added  "a  grotto."  It 
vas  upon  this  grotto  that  Pope  lavished  his  highest  art,  and  it 
remains  to  this  day  to  add  a  feature  to  the  auctioneer's  list  of 
attractions.  The  grotto  is  a  tunnel  beneath  the  turnpike  road 
which  di^Hded  the  two  parts  of  the  garden.  In  Pope's  time  this 
subterraneous  passage  was  adorned  with  shells,  pieces  of  spar,  and 
fossils.  Charles  Dicken»,  it  is  well  known,  made  a  similar  passage 
between  tlie  two  portions  of  his  gardens  at  Gadshill,  though  he 
vas  content  to  forego  the  adornment  of  those  "  fossil  bodies" 
which  Dr.  Johnson  magniloquently  refers  to  in  his  description  of 
Pope's  foible. 

ToPCHi.NT.  my  gossip  of  the  last  (wo  or  three  months  on  Mr. 
Hampden's  adherence  to  the  flat  earth  theory,  1  have  pleasure  in 
printing  the  following  letter : — 

Orwdl  DcDC,  Nacton,  Ipswifit,  Seplembci  29,  i8;6. 
TO  THR  EDITOK  OP   THE  "  OENTLEUAN's  BtAGAZINE." 
Sir, — There  U  peThajyt  nnt  mui:]i  «>i«iIom  in  Klayinj; those  vhoue  dead  already, 
[JbBt  your  eorrctipondcm  Mr.  John  llampdcn  calln  out  10  loudly  for  "  facts,  palpa- 
Me.  ptoveablc  facts,"  and  for  "simple  mc-nsniements "  in  the  place  of  "u^- 
menu,"  that  I  am  induced  to  give  Juin  the  following : — 

A  f^Dllcinui  residinj;  wilbiii  ten  miles  of  the  place  from  which  this  letter  it 
dated  obtained  a  conlrai-'t  for  ntakiiif;  ^  canuJ  about  twu  miles  in  tcnglh  and  which 


638 


The  GmtUmatC  s  Magazhu. 


course  vcrjr  much  to  his  mterat  to  malte  il  no  deeper  Uun  wu  required  b^  hii 
coDtiact,  at  (he  excavation  of  cvl-t}*  inch  of  depth  iinphed  the  removal  vX  ousf 
ions  of  earth  aod  much  cspentc.  Ucing  eilber  a  believer  in  Mr.  Ilimpden'i 
theory  of  the  flatDC«i>  of  the  rarih,  or  ntoie  probably  beiti);  ignoraat  Uut  the 
curvature  {if  llic  c^rlh  would  be  so  setisiblo  on  so  short  i  dkiancc,  he  procended 
to  mikc  the  bottoni  of  bis  escaviiiAii  rignrowily  level,  md  not  one  bamrwload  of 
earth  <lid  he  allow  to  be  removed  more  than  was  neccauiy  to  ciTect  this  end.  Ob 
its  bcin^  completed  lo  hii  satisfnclioti  he  allowed  the  water  to  eater  the  caiul  ud 
preceded  to  teal  the  result,  when  lo  his  mrpruc  and  annoyance  he  fatud  thai 
althongh  the  water  bad  ihc  required  t[L-)>th  at  either  end,  it  uras  everywhere  el»e 
dce|)cr  (bail  nccesiiuy,  and  in  the  middle  was  at  much  ■>  ei;;h(  inchen  in  cxocmhI 
the  drpth  contracted  for.  Instead  of  rbc  xurface  of  tbc  water  bciiig  a*  level  u 
Uic  bottom,  it  had  heaped  itself  up  and  formed  n  "  crcat  "  in  ibe  tniddJe.  In  Ui 
perplciiity  he  refsircd  lo  me  is  the  only  profc»MonaI  astronomer  in  Llie  dittnct  v 
lo  the  C3UW,  and  lusured  him  that  the  earth  beins  a  Globe  ofabbut  S.ooo 
in  diameter  it  has  a  cur\-atttre  of  abno^t  exactly  etgbl  lncbe>  in  the  taile,  and 
he  should  not  have  executed  his  nurey  upon  the  a(.<iumptiDn  of  a  dead  tenL 

Now  1  do  not  want  Mr.  Hampden  to  qnarrcl  with  my  aplaaation,  nor  is  1 
care  much  to  hear  what  explanation  of  the  facts  he  himself  b«s  to  oSer,  but  1 
should  be  glad  to  Itnow  whether,  since  the  poor  man  has  accurately  fallowed  thM 
gentleman's  theory  and  is  cousiderably  out  of  pocket  by  m  doing,  Mr.  IIun|Mlea 
li>  prepared  lo  subscribe  libcmlty  to  reimbtinte  the  contractor  foi  liis  unseccimy 
outlay.  At  least  here  are  "  facts  "  that  be  would  do  Well  to  study. — I  «m,  rfi, 
yours  truly,  JoHx  J.  I*LitMiciiJ[. 

To  .Sylvanui  Urban,  Gentleman. 

I  have  QO  doubt  that  Mr.  Plummcr's  letter  will  attract  Mr.  Ilanip* 
den's  attentiou.  Meanwhile,  my  ignorance  of  llie  art  of  excavation 
tempts  me  to  a^lc  Mr.  nmnincr  if  he  will  favour  njc  with  sn 
explanation  of  the  method  by  which  the  contractor  cot  a  cmal  two 
miles  in  length  with  a  straif^ht  bed.  I  should  have  Imagined  that 
if  he  thoughtlessly  assumed  the  earth  to  be  a  plane,  and  so  pro- 
ceeded lo  make  his  canal,  the  inslrumcnts  he  used  would  hsTc 
led  him  insensibly  to  follow  the  cur\-ainrc  of  the  earth.  No  tloubt 
I  am  wrong,  and  I  am  certainly  a  believer  in  the  rotundity  of  ow 
planet ;  but  I  am  under  the  impression  that  many  readers,  anveised 
like  myself  in  engineering,  vould  be  interested  in  a  descriiition  of 
the  mode  of  measurement  and  the  method  of  regulating  the  t^en- 
tions  of  the.  excavators  by  which,  in  defiance  of  llie  inHoenco  of 
the  centre  of  gravity,  and  without  considering  whether  the  world  is 
round  or  flat,  the  contractor  made  a  canal  two  miles  long  whose 
bed  would  form  one  side  of  a  rectilineal  figure. 


"On  the  day  on  which  my(>apcron  'Tniganiiu'  3ij)pcared  laths 

last  number  of  the  Gtntltmatii  Mdgazin*!'  writes  Di.  La:     '     '    "\ 
fcccivtal  a  yeq  imcxc^tiBg  liulu^^^  from  my  frieaU  4Lv 


* 


TabU  Taik.  639 

H.  Giblin,  Attorney-General  of  Ta^raatiia.  It  is  entitle*!  'Some 
Account  of  tiie  Wars,  Extirpation,  Habits,  lic,  of  the  Native  Tribus 
of  Tasmania:'  by  J.  E.  Calder.  It  coiiUins  a  passajjc  rffLTring  to 
the  oarly  life  of  Tniganini,  which  may  be  welcome  to  the  readers  of 
my  foniiur  paper.  TUc  slatC'mi3nlB  were  ruriiishcd  to  Mr.  Calder  by 
Mt.  Alexander  M'Kay,  and  show  through  what  fearful  Kccncs  and 
terrible  adventures  much  of  the  life  of  'the  last  of  her  race'  was 
passed.     Mr.  M'Kay  sa)-s  : — 

'  On  the  ililh,  or  thereabouts,  urjanulry,  I Sjo,  I  firxt  sawTnigatiini.  We  took 
|Mtf«  ahtt  her  huitiand  and  Iwo  uf  hn  \x>ys  hy  x  former  wife,  snd  two  other  women, 
^--^Itmuuns  of  die  tribe  of  Bruny  Iilanil,  when  I  went  with  Mr.  Kobin^on  touivl 
die  U&nd.  I  think  she  was  about  eighteen  yean  of  jjjjc.  Her  fatlier  y/ii&  Clilef 
of  Bntoy  ItUnd,  uame  Manciiu.  She  bad  .-lu  uitck;  Iduu'tkiiuw  his  luiive 
nuDe:  the  white  |ico|ili;  called  hira  Buduct  ;  hu  wax  »hot  by  a  Mtdia.  I  will 
sow  fire  )'ou  ionx  o(  hei  own  account  of  what  she  Lnk-w  ; — '  Wc  were  camped 
eloM  to  Partridj^  Isbnd  when  I  -vna  j  little  |;irl.  when  a  Tcssel  camo  to  anchor 
without  our  knowledge  oi  it.  a  boat  came  on  shore,  .ind  some  of  the  luen  allacked 
our  camp,  Wc  at!  ran  away,  but  one  of  thcin  c.-iuglil  my  mother,  and  »tahhcd 
her  with  a  knife,  and  hittcil  her.  My  father  gricrcd  much  nbout  her  death,  and 
(uefl  lo  m.ikr  »  fire  at  ni^ht  hy  himself,  when  my  mother  would  come  to  hiin. 
[This  wa^i  the  faith  of  the  aboriginal  Ta!>niiinitn«.]  I  hid  aaiiitct  naraciJ  Moorina  : 
»he  was  taken  away  t»y  a  sealinR  hoat.  I  used  (o  go  to  Birdi'-t  Bay:  there  wa» 
a  party  of  men  coltiDg  timber  Cor  ih'C  Government  there.  The  overeeer  was  Mr. 
Matiro,  While  I  was  ib«re  (wo  young  in«i  of  ray  tribe  came  for  in« :  one  of  ihena 
was  lo  hav«  been  my  husband:  his  uame  was  Parawecan.  Well,  two  of  the 
Mw>'cn  laid  they  woulJ  take  ux  in  a  boat  to  Bmny  Islaud.  which  we  aijrecd  to. 
When  wc  got  ahniil  half-wfiy.icroas  the  channel  ihcy  muiJcrcd  the  two  natives, 
and  threw  them  overlMard,  but  one  of  them  held  mc.  Their  tiamcs  were  Watktn 
Lowe  and  Faddy  Xewctl.*    This  was  the  account  she  gave  me  many  times  I 

Mr.  M'lCay  was  for  some  time  engaged  with  ^fr.  Robinson  in  his 
Mission  of  Conciliation,  and  was  a  zealous  and  tisefiil  co-operator 
in  this  good  work.  He  was  afterwards  employed  in  an  independent 
position,  and  proved  most  effective  in  bringing-  in  the  natives.  Ho 
is  still  living,  a  hale,  hearty  man,  of  some  si.tty-eight  years  of  age, 
settled  at  Peppermint  Bay,  D'Entrecasteux  Channel,  where  he  has 
resided  more  than  thirty  years.  He  has  the  reputation  of  being  one 
of  the  best  and  most  experienced  bnshmcn,  and  although  not  a 
pcT\man,  he  is  a  living  chronicle  of  everything  relating  to  the  later 
history  of  the  now  extinct  Tasmanians." 


I  AM  indebted  to  a  Birmingham  correspondent  for  an  amusing 
anecdote  of  the  war  between  Prussia  and  Austria  in  1866,  which 
may  stand  as  a  fair  example  of  German  wit.  The  Prussians  took 
possession  of  FrankXort,  and,  becaaseoEt-Ue  TOMV.e'iVi'&\;'K\vj.':i\'vs«, 


i 


Tht  Gaiiltman^s  Magazine, 

mhabitanU  of  the  free  citj  towards  the  conqnerinff  power  Frank- 
fort was  treated  as  an  enemy's  city,  troops  were  quartered  on  tbe 
people,  and  one  of  the  exactions  made  upon  the  householders  Dpcn 
whom  soldiers  were  billetod  was  that  each  Prussian  warrioc  should 
receive  twelve  cigars  per  day.  Tbe  supply  of  these  twelve  cigari 
became  a  very  sore  point  in  Frankfort,  and  one  evening  during  the 
performance  of  the  "  Merchant  of  Venice,"  the  theatre  bcioy 
Crowded  with  the  Fnmkforters  and  the  bated  Prussians,  our  old 
friend  Shylock  was  as  usual  insisting  on  his  ponnd  of  flcsii,  when  a 
stentorian  -voice  in  the  gallery  added  '*  and  twelve  cigars.'*  Tbe 
Trial  scene,  I  am  afraid,  was  spoiled,  but  the  joke  drew  taogbter 
alike  from  citizens  and  invaders. 


• 


Mr.  H.  B.  Crosby,  of  New  York,  author  of  the  article  in  oat 
September  number  on  "  Modem  'I'actical  Organisations."  writes 
from  the  Union  League  Club,  Twenty  Sixth  Street,  saying  : — 

I  notice  ID  llic  article  two  cirore,  of  a  Hagjie  leUer  in  eacli  case,  bat  jnot  w 
BeHoos  u  to  change  the  mciuUDit  or  the  sentences  in  soch  n  tnuincr  as  to  itodav 
tbe  mick-  mbjeci  lo  criiicixm.  Ttic  finl  error  b  txi  page  jij,  ia  tbe  "hUflb 
line  from  the  top.  viz : — "  Ten  such  MCtions  form  a  tTgiiitait."  &c.  The  morA 
"frinn"  iiknatd  be  "  frstn,"  and  the  seni-colon  after  the  word  "tergcant"  m 
Ihc  nexl  line  should  l>r  a  comma,  and  then  thr  sentence,  as  correcled.  will  end 
aa  foUowt : — "  Ten  inch  icctJoAs  from  a  tcginicnl,  each  villi  a  •ecocd  llntlrauil 
and  lergeanl,  and  liic  wbolc,  under  command  of  the  junior  nujur  of  the  reft* 
mcni.  inarch  fbrwaid  at  the  woid  of  conunand,"  &£.  To  uy  thai  "ten  avdl 
srctMBs  form  a  regiincnt  "  wouhl  he  absurd,  far  |iefhaps  c^h  »etti<m  raij^  not 
contain  more  than  aiz  men — thm  tbe  ten  aecttoDs  would  contain  sixljr  men— .and 
the  sixty  men  would  "  form  a  regiment."  The  second  error  is  on  page  314,  bllh 
line  from  tbe  lop,  vix.  : — The  word  "change  "  should  be  ••  char^,"  and  »  1 
corrected  the  Moiencv  reads  "other  Tor  a  charge  in  column  or  a  flank  Bttacfc,V 
&c.  A  "charge  in  column"  is  a T«ry  tcriont  huanef^'i  in  militaxy  mancnmiaii^ 
and  often  decides  a  battle,  while  tbe  expression  '•  dunce  in  rolutnn  "  is  abat^ 
lutcly  mcantngle^t,  fora  commanding  grnctal  never  need*  a  reserve  (tx  a  "donga 
in  column."  while  he  alwaj's  finds  1  reacrre  fnr  the  pnrpote*  of  •  ''darp 
in  colunii "  of  llie  roiMt  viial  tm|M>rtaiKc.  On  pigc  ji8  ihc  first  Ward 
Hventh  line  from  the  bottom  cbonld  be  "era**  and  not  "area."  Tbawritwl 
•ipcakiu;;  (>r  the  pmeni  "era  of  warfsrr."  The  Grtlltmti't  Mfffttimt  la 
l^etidl}-  (»a  typographically  accurate  and  evocl  that  I  have  ncnr  noticed  a  cotiwr 
■eC  apart  fur  ••Ertatu":  Init  if  tile  gentlemanly  editor  will  kindly  pennil  (he 
BTTom  before  ro(nT«d  lo  to  be  eonwied  fai  the  nexl  number  1  shall  ■  ^  • 

ingly  obliged,  and  shall  not  feci  that  my  promotion  in  the  funu-c  l> 
ddaj'ed  for  eiron  thai  wer«  i>pot;ntphkal  and  Dot  milllaiy,— 1  am.  d> 
sinceidy,  H.  b.  > 


GENTLEMAN'S  Magazine 


December,  1876. 


The  Shadow  of  the  Sword. 

a  romance. 
by  robert  buchanan. 

chapter  lii. 

"IB!  OMlflS  EPPUSUS  LABOR  I '* 

JHE  news  of  Ihc  Emiicror's  pscapc  was,  as  all  the  world 
nowknows.onlytoolme.  After  months  of  cunning  prc- 
panition,  during  which  he  had  affected  all  the  virtues  of 
a  Cincinnatu*  harmlessly  cotitcniplating  his  own  acres, 
Bona[>arte  had  at  last  slipped  out  of  his  cage  (the  captors  had 
taken  care  to  leave  the  door  very  wide  open  I ),  and  was  again  on 
French  soil  at  the  iicad  of  a  thousand  intn.  To  use  tlie  exprtrssive 
^  language  of  the  French  pulpit,  "  the  Devil  bad  again  broken  loose." 
^P  'White-stoled  priests  might  thunder  from  a  thousand  shrines — but 

vhat  did  Satanus  care  ? 

^^       On    Rohan  Gwenfem  the  news  came   like  a  thundcrboll,  and 

^V  Mterally  smote  him  down.    As  a  man  scorched  by  lightning,  but 

still  surviving,  gazes  panting  at  the  blaek  wrack  wluMice  the  fiery 

bolt  has  fallen,  he  lay  in  horror  looking  upward.      To  him  this 

i'xesurrection  of  the  Execrable  tneaiil  outlawry,  misery,  despair,  and 
death.  What  was  God  doing,  that  lie  suffered  such  a  thing  to  be  ? 
Wilhlhe  passing  away  of  the  Imperial  pest,  quiet  and  rest  had  come 
■toFnmce — bringing  aspace  of  holy  calm,  when  men  might  breathe 
in  peace ;  and  to  Rohan,  among  others,  the  calm  had  looked  a-s  if 
it  might  last  for  ever.  Slowly  and  quietly  the  man's  tortured  mind 
had  composed  it<iclf,  tintjl  the  dark  marks  of  suffc-ring  were  obscured 
^^  it  not  obliterated  ;  every  happy  day  seemed  furilietvu^  \\vft.  •cOTt  ^^ 
^ft         VOL.  2  Jor  1876.  -X  -t 


642  The  GcnthmaiC s  Magazine. 

that  spiritual  disease  to  which  the  man  was  a  martyr  ;  and  at  last  he 
had  had  courage  enough  to  reach  out  his  hands  to  touch  once  more 
the  sacramental  cup  of  love.  At  that  very  moment,  when  God 
seemed  to  be  making  atonement  to  him  for  his  long  and  weary 
pains,  heaven  was  obscured  again  and  the  cruel  bolt  struck  him 
down. 

While  Europe  was  shaken  as  by  earthquake,  while  Thrones 
tottered  again  and  Kings  looked  aghast  at  one  another,  Rohan 
trembled  like  a  dead  leaf  ready  to  fail.  He  was  instantly  trans- 
formed. Before  the  sun  could  set  again  upon  his  horror  he  seemed 
to  have  grown  very  old. 

Our  Lady  of  Hate  had  answered  his  praj-er  indeed,  but  in  how 
mocking  a  measure  !  She  had  struck  the  Avatar  down,  only  to  uplift 
him  again  to  his  old  seat.  "  Within  a  year  1"  It  seemed  as  if  she 
had  given  the  world  a  brief  glimpse  of  rest,  only  that  its  torture 
might  be  more  terrible  when  the  clouds  closed  again. 

At  first,  indeed,  there  was  a  little  hope.  The  priests  thundered 
and  prayed,  the  Royalists  swaggered  and  shrugged  their  shoulders, 
as  much  as  to  say  "  This  little  business  will  soon  be  settled  !"  But 
every  bulletin  brought  fresh  confirmation  of  the  critical  state  of 
afiiairs.  Bonaparte  had  not  only  risen  again,  but  the  waves  of  the 
old  storm  were  rising  with  him. 

On  one  figure  Rohan  gazed  with  horror  almost  as  great  as  filled 
him  when  he  thought  of  the  Emperor.  This  was  the  figure  of 
Corporal  Derval.  It  seemed  as  if  the  news  of  the  uprising  had 
filled  the  Corporal  with  new  life.  Colossus-like,  he  again  bestrode 
his  own  hearth;  assumed  the  Imperial  pose;  cocked  his  hat 
jauntily  ;  looked  the  world  in  the  face.  His  cheeks  were  a  little 
sunken  and  yellow,  his  eyos  dim ;  but  tliis  only  made  more  pro- 
minent the  fiery  and  martial  redness  of  nose  and  brows.  He  was 
weak  upon  his  legs,  but  his  right  arm  performed  the  old  sweep  when 
he  took  snuff  a  r Empacur.  No  looking  down  now,  as  he  hur- 
ried to  little  Plouiit's  to  read  the  journals !  His  master  had 
arisen,  and  he  himself  had  arisen.  Oh  to  march  at  the  double,  and 
to  join  the  Little  Corporal  on  the  open  field! 

As  the  smallest  village  pond  becomes  during  the  storms  and  rains 
of  the  equino.\  a  miniature  of  the  ocean,  overflows  its  banks, 
breaks  into  stormy  waves,  darkeiis,  lightens,  trembles  to  its  depths ; 
even  so  did  the  Corporal's  breast  reflect  in  miniature  the  storm  which 
was  just  then  sweeping  over  France.  A  very  petty  affair,  indeed, 
might  hit  commotion  seem  in  the  eyes  of  the  great  political  leaders 
of  the  hour,  just  as  their  commotion,  in  their  eyes  oceanic,  might 


Hth< 


seem  a  mere  pond-business  from  the  point  of  view  of  a  philo- 
sopher. TIic  microcosm,  however,  poteniialiy  includes  the 
macrocosm ;  and  the  spirit  of  BonajKirte  was  onlv  Itii;  spirit  of 
Corporal  Dt-nal  indt-finiti-Iy  magnified  I 

Kromlaix  was  Royalist  stili,  as,  indeed,  it  liad  been  from  time 
immemorial :  and  the  movements  of  the  Coiporal  were  regarded 
with  no  sympathy  and  littli;  favour.  There  was  a  general  disposi- 
tion to  knock  the  old  fellow  on  the  head — a  deed  which  ftould  have 
been  done  if  he  had  not  reserved  his  more  violent  ebullitions  of 
enthusiasm  for  his  own  fireside.  Hcrc^  legs  astride,  snuff-box  in 
hand,  iic  thundt'red  at  Gildas.  who  wanted  the  Emperor  to  win 
but  thought  his  case  hopek-ss  owing  to  the  fact  that  Marshal  Ncy 
was  for  the  King.  But  when  the  ^eat  news  came  that  Ney 
liad  gone  over  with  his  whole  army  and  had  flung  himself  into  the 
arms  of  his  old  master,  uncle  and  nephew  embraced  with  tears, 
^avowing  that  the  Imperial  cause  was  as  good  as  won. 

Coming  and  going  like  a  shadow.  Kolian  listened  for  a  word,  a 
whisper,  to  show  him  that  there  was  still  a  chance.  Hut  cvcrj*  day 
darkened  his  hopes.  Wherever  the  foot  of  Bonaparte  fell,  armies 
seemed  to  spring  up  from  the  solid  earth;  and  from  vale  to  vale 
came  the  wHnd  of  his  voice,  snmmoning  up  a  sudden  harvest  of 
swords. 

In  this  time  of  terrible  epidemic  the  contagion  spread  even  to 
Marcelle ;  and  this  was  Ihc  hardest  of  all  to  bear.  A  new  fire  burnt 
in  her  eyes,  a  new  flush  dwelt  upon  her  cheeks.  When  the  old  man 
delivered  his  joyful  hamngnei  she  listened  ragrrly  to  every  word,  and 
her  whole  nature  seemed  transformed.  Rohan  watched  her  in  terror, 
dreading  to  meet  her  eyes.  Had  she,  then,  forgotten  all  Che  horror 
and  suffering  through  which  he  had  passed,  and  did  she  forget  that 
the  thing  which  caused  her  such  joy  was  his  own  si^al  of 
doom  ? 

Out  there  among  the  silent  crags  Rohan  Gweniem  waits  and 
listens.  He  does  not  wholly  despair  yet,  though  day  by  day  the 
woful  news  has  been  carried  to  his  car.  He  cannot  rest  at  home, 
nor  by  the  fireside  where  the  Corporal  declaims  ;  his  only  plat^c  of 
peace  is  in  the  heart  of  the  Earth  which  shellereil  him  before  in 
the  period  of  his  peril.  Since  the  tidings  of  the  collusion  between 
Nc)'  and  Bonaparte  he  has  scarcely  spoken  to  Marcelle,  bat  has 
avoided  her  in  a  wean*  dread.  As  yet  no  attempt  has  been  made 
to  lay  a  finger  upon  him,  or  to  remind  him  of  his  old  revolt  a%;ui\s!.\ 
the  Emperor;  men,  indeed,  are  as  ?ei  \fio  >aa»j  '«ia.\x:V;vtv?,  '^t 


J 


progress  of  the  f^cat  game  in  which  Bonaparte  is  again  trying  to 
meet  his  adversaries.  Bat  Che  ca]l  nuy  come  at  any  moment,  as 
he  knows.  So  he  wondcrts  on  tlic  shore,  ^sljivcriog,  expcclani, 
and  afraid. 

One  day  a  wild  impulse  seizes  him  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  bis 
old  struggle.  It  is  calm  and  sunny  weather,  and  entering  the  grral 
Cathedral  he  finds  it  alive  with  legions  of  birds,  who  have  (locked 
back  from  the  Houth  to  build  their  nests  and  rear  their  young.  He 
climbs  up  to  the  TroN,  still  full  of  the  traces  of  bis  old  struggle ;  and 
thence,  through  the  dark  winding  [vissngcs,  to  Ihe  aerial  cliamber 
in  the  face  of  the  crag.  Gazing  out  through  the  window  of  the 
Cave,  he  sees  again  the  calm'occan  crawling  far  beneath  htm.  soilly 
stained  wiih  red  reefs  and  sballo^v^  of  yellow  sands,  and  ibe  fi&hing 
boats  arc  becalmed  far  out  in  the  glassy  mirror,  and  the  sun  is 
shining  In  the  heavens,  like  the  smile  of  God-  He  sees  the  gentle 
scene,  and  rhinks  of  htm — of  that  red  shadow  who  is  again  rising 
in  the  peaceful  world  ;  and  be  wonders  if  God  will  suflfcr  him  still 
to  be.  As  he  stands,  a  frightful  thought  passes  through  bis  brain, 
and  his  face  is  convulsed.  He  thinks  of  Pipriac,  and  liow  he  sliuck 
him  mercilessly  and  cruelly  down.  .Oh  to  strike  tliat  Other  down, 
lo  crush  and  kill  Am  underneath  the  rock  of  a  mortal  hate  I 

Later  (in  in  the  day  he  crawls  down  the  dark  passages  which 
lead  to  the  gigantic  water-cave,  and  ere  long  he  is  hanging  over  its 
deep  green  pools,  which  show  no  traces  now  of  that  terrible  flood 
which  transformed  the  cave  into  a  boiling  cauldron.  Ait  is  stiil 
and  peaceful,  full  of  the  pulsations  of  the  ncighlK>uring  sea,  and  a 
great  grey  seal  swims  slowly  out  towards  the  narrow  passage  of  exit 
known  as  "  Hell's  Mouth."  He  passes  along  the  narrow  shelf 
comraani eating  with  the  toi>  of  the  Cave,  and  leaping  down  upoa 
the  shingle  faces  Ihc  black  mouth  of  (be  at^uciluct.  Here  Uk 
storm  has  left  its  ravages  indeed ;  for  the  shingle  is  strewn  with 
grcnt  fragments  of  earth  and  stone,  and  the  rock  all  round  is 
blackened  and  torn,  as  by  tooth  and  claw,  witli  the  Tory  of  ibc 
flood. 

He  advances  a  little  distance  into  the  passage,  but  he  soon  finds 
further  progress  impossible,  for  the  passage  is  choked  now  with  all 
sorts  oiMhris,  which  it  will  take  many  years  to  wash  away.  Retracing 
his  steps  he  stumbles  over  a  dork  slipj)ery  mass  lying  upon  the 
slippery  floor ;— it  is  the  statue  of  black  marble  which  be  dis- 
covered formeriy  in  the  inner  chamber  of  the  uijuedutt. 

Washed  from  its  pedcsul  by  the  unexampled  fury  of  the  watcrt, 
and  driven  Like  a  straw  downward  with  the  force  of  the  lorreni*,  it 


The  Shadow  of  the  Sword.  645 

had  at  last  paused  here,  wudged  in  between  the  narrow  walls. 
Black  and  silent  it  lies,  still  green  and  slimy  with  the  moisture  of 
centuries,  still  hideous  and  deformed.  Ave  Caiar  Imperalor!  As 
he  foil  in  whose  likeness  thou  wa^t  fashioned,  so  tliou  too  hast 
faJicn  at  last!  Sooner  or  later  the  great  waters  would  have  thee, 
would  tetr  thee  from  thv  place,  and  wash  thee  away  towards  the 
g^rcat  sea.  Even  so  they  destroyed  man  and  all  his  works-  Sooner 
or  later  all  shall  vanish,  like  footprints  in  that  Ocean  of  Etcniitjr 
where  •wander  for  ever  shadows  that  seem  to  live  ! 

As  Rohan  bends  over  the  east-down  image,  docs  he  think  for  a 
moment  of  that  oiher  imag;e  whom  men  are  now  endeavouring  to 
uplift  to  its  old  Imperial  pedestal  ?  Doei  he  ace  in  the  black  bull- 
like  head  of  the  fallen  statue  any  far-off  likeness  of  one  who  is 
rising  out  yonder  in  the  world,  crowned  with  horrible  laurel  and 
shod  with  sandles  of  blood  .'  One  might  think  ho;  for  he  bends 
over  it  in  fascination,  dimly  tracing  its  lineaments  in  the  feeble 
green  li|^ht  that  trembles  from  the  water-cave.  It  is  sliapen  like  a 
colossal  human  thing,  and  one  might  almost  regard  it  as  the  corpse 
of  what  was  once  3  man — nay,  an  Emperor  E  But  thank  God  the 
breath  of  life  can  never  fill  those  marble  veins,  the  light  of  power 
can  never  gleam  upon  that  pitiless  carven  fate  I 

When  he  comes  out  into  the  open  air  it  is  sunset,  and  the  light 
dazzles  and  blinds  him.  The  cold  and  mildew  and  darkness  of 
that  dead  world  still  Ete  upon  him,  and  he  shivers  from  head  to 
foot.  Passing  out  by  the  Cathedral  and  ascending  the  Stairs  of 
St.  Triffine,  he  makes  his  way  slowly  along  the  summit  of  the 
crags.  The  western  sky  is  purple  red  and  dashed  with  ahatlows  of 
the  bluff  March  wind  that  will  blow  to-morrOw ;  but  now  all  is  still 
as  a  summer  eve.  A  thick  carpet  of  gold  and  green  is  spread 
beneath  his  feet :  the  broom  is  blowing  golden  on  every  side ;  and 
one  early  star,  like  a  primrose,  is  already  blossoming  in  the  cool 
still  pastures  of  heaven.  lie  seems  to  have  arisen  from  the  tomb 
and  to  be  floating  in  divine  air.  That  dead  world  is,  he  knows  ; 
no  less  surely  does  he  know  that  this  living  world  is  too — 
A  calm,  a  happy,  and  a  holy  world  ! 

Yet  who  made  the  tiger  makes  the  lamb,  and  the  strange  Hand 
that  set  that  star  up  yiinder,  and  wrote  on  the  human  heart  "  Love 
one  another,"  moulded  the  iron  hearts  of  a  hundred  Cxsars,  and 
has  once  more  liberated  lionaparle. 


646  The  Gcniiftnaii' s  Magazittc 

CHAl'^rER  Mil. 

THE    LAST  CHANCR. 

As  Rohan  passes  the  door  of  the  Chapel  of  Noire  Uamc  dc  U 
Ga-rdc  a  figure  passes  out,  and  turns  upon  him  a  face  full  of  horror 
and  despair.  It  is  his  mother ;  gamit,  •whit*,',  lerror-strickcn,  she 
looks  fearfully  around  her,  and  clutches  him  by  the  ano.  He  aces 
her  message  in  her  face  before  she  speaks. 

"  Fly,  Rohan,"  she  cries ;  "  they  arc  out  oAcr  thcc  agaiD.  and 
they  arc  searching  from  house  to  houw.  There  js  terrible  new*. 
Tbc  Emperor  is  in  Paris,  and  var  is  proclaimed." 

The  world  dariens^he  staggers  and  holds  his  hand  npon  his 
heart.  He  has  expected  this,  but  it  ncvcrllicless  iiomcs  upoa  him 
as  the  lighloing  from  heaven. 

"Come  into  the  chapell"  he  replies,  suiting  tJic  action  to  the 
word. 

Crossing  the  threshold,  they  find  the  little  building  already  full 
of  the  evening  shadows.  All  is  as  it  was  not  long  ago,  when  the 
lovers,  after  pligbtiDg  their  happy  troth,  knelt  before  the  altar. 
The  figure  of  the  Virgin  stands  at  the  altar,  and  the  ^     '  'Tu 

slil]  lie  andisturbed  at  her  feel,  and  the  sailors  in  the  \ all 

drift  upon  their  raft,  kneeling  and  luting  eyes  on  the  luminous 
apparilinn  that  rises  from  the  waters. 

In  a  few  rapid  sentences' Mother  Gwcnfem  gives  further  par- 
ticulars of  the  ffiluation.    The  village  is  in  a  state  of  distorbanoe, 

e  ocvs  of  the  Emperor's  complete   triumph   not  being   jrel 

cepted  by  the  Ro^'alists  in  the  village :  but  a  file  of  gemi-trimer 

from  St.  Gurlott  has  already  apjieared  hunting  up  deserters  "  in 

name  of  the  Emperor."     Yes,  that  is  certain,  for  they  have 

bed  her  own  house.     The  death  of  Pipriac  is  rcmembcicU. 

and  is  to  be  avenged. 

In  a  few  brief  moments  is  undone  the  gentle  work  of  montbt. 
The  saine  tight  which  Marcellc  sow  and  feared  in  Rohan's  face, 
tli.it  night  when  he  returned  bomi: — the  some  light  which  she  has 
dri--.idL'd  often  since,  when  her  lover  has  been  under  the  influence 
of  sXTong  excitement— now  appears  there  and  bums  with  a  Inrid 
flame.     The  man's  brain  is  burning,  liis  hcarl  seems  bur-'  !lu 

does  not  speak,  but  laughs  strangely  to  himself — I  .  V.y, 

indi--cd,  if  we  may  use  the  tenn  in  speaking  of  onr  of  tin-  ■;:  .1.  --w 
but  in  his  laugh  there  is  something  more  than  hysteria,  buiaciliing 
more  than  mere  nervous  tension — there  is  the  sign  of  an  Incipient 
madness,  which  threatens  to  overthrow  reason  and  wreck  the  sou).   ' 


"Rohan!  Rohan  !"  cries  the  lotrificfl  woman,  clingiiif-  to  him. 
"Speak — do  not  look  liko  lUal!  They  shall  not  take  you,  my 
Kotmn !" 

He  looks  at  her  wilhoul  replyin  g'.  and  laaghs  again.  Horrified 
al  the  expression  of  his  face,  she  bursts  into  sobs  and  moans. 

Latp  that  niij^ht  Corporal  Derva!  sat  at  hi«  own  hearth  and  read 
ihc  Journal  tu  the  widow  an<i  Marccllr.     Ht:  was  exclttrd  with  the 

I  great  news  that  had  just  come  from  I'aris — that  Karope  refused  to 
treat  on  amicable  terms  with  the  uturper.  and  thai  the  migiily  hosts 
of  the  (Ircat  Powers  wfre  again  rising  like  clouds  nn  the  frontier. 
The  Allied  Conf^rcss  sits  a*.  Frankfort,  directing  as  from  the  centre 
of  a  web  the  movements  of  a  million  men.  The  two  Kmperors  of 
Russia  and  Aostriii,  with  the  King  of  Prussia,  have  again  taken  the 
field.    England  had  given  her  most  characteristic  help  in  the  shape 

•  of  thirty-six  millions  of  moM/y — to  saynothingof  a  small  contingent 
of  eighty  thousand  men  under  the  Duke  of  Wellington. 

"The  cow.irds!"  Iiisscil  thcCori)oniI  beiwcen  his  clenched  teeth. 
"A  million  of  men  against  France  and  the  Little  Corporal ;  but  )'ou 
H  shall  sec — he  will  make  them  skip.  1  liavc  seen  a  little  fellow  of  a 
drummer  thrash  a  great  grenadier,  and  it  will  be  like  that." 

"  There  will  be  more  ■war  .•'"  murmured  the  widow  (jtiestioningly  ; 
H  and  her  poor  heart  was  beating  to  the  tune  of  one  smX  sound,  her 
'  son's  name— -Hoel !  Hoel  1" 

"  It  is  a  fight  for  Hfe.  little  woman,"  said  Uncle  Kwen  with 
solemnity.  "The  Kmperor  must  either  kill  the.«  rascals  or  himself 
be  killed.  Soul  of  a  cmw.  there  will  be  no  quarter  I  They  are 
fortifj-ing  Paris,  so  that  the  en«ny  may  ne\*er  take  it  again  by  any 
stratagem.  In  a  Few  days  the  Kmperor  will  take  the  field."  He 
added  with  a  smack  of  his  lips,  "  h  sounds  tike  old  times ! " 

Knter  Gildas  the  one-armed,  with  his  habitual  military  swagger. 
He  had  been  quenching  his  thirst  do«-n  at  tlic  cabaret  (it  is  won- 
derftil  how  thirsty  a  mortal  he  has  become  since  his  brief  military 
expcncncc).  and  his  ejtrs  were  rather  bloodshot. 

"  Has  any  one  seen  Rohan  ?"  he  asked,  standing  before  the  fire- 
[riace.     "  Thej-  aR-  after  him  out  there ! " 

lie  jerked  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder  towards  the  door,  which 
he  had  left  open. 

With  an  uneasy  {glance  at  Marcelle,  who  sat  pale  and  trembling* 
the  Coqjoral  replied — 

"  They  called  here,  and  I  told  them  it  would  be  all  right.  Kohaa 
can  redeem  his  credit  now  and  for  ever,  M\4  sMt  Yiw.  *MWk  "a.^  '^'^ 


>48 


The  Gmlkmmd  Magazine. 


» 
» 


'ftame  time.     There  is  but  one  plan,  and  he  had   better  take  it 
Jvithout  delay." 

Marcellc  looked  up  eagerly. 
"And  what  is  thai,  Uncle  Ewcn  ?" 

"  Soul  of  a  crow,  it  is  simple.  The  Emperor  is  in  need  of  men 
— all  the  wolves  of  the  world  are  against  him— and  he  who  help* 
him  now  in  his  time  of  need  will  make  amends  for  all  the  paK. 
Let  Rohan  go  to  him,  or,  what  is  the  same  thing,  to  the  nearest 
station  of  the  Grand  Army,  saying  'I  am  ready  now  to  fight  again**. 
the  enemies  of  Fmnce.'  Let  him  take  his  place  in  the  ranks  like  ^ 
I  brave  man,  and  all  will  be  foTgi%'cn." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure,"  observed  Gitdas.  "  I  liavc  been  having  a 
glans  with  the  gtndanue  Fenvern,  old  Pipriac's  friend,  and  be  Kay.> 
that  Rohan  will  be  shot  in  spite  of  his  teeth ;— if  60»  it  is  a 
«hamc." 

Uncle  Ewen  shifted  nervously  in  his  chair,  and  scowled  at  hisj 
nephew. 

"  Pen  Venn  i.s  an  ass  for  his  pains;  do  you  think  I  have  no 
influence  ^vith  the  Emperor  ?  1  tdl  you  he  will  be  pardoned  if  be 
will  fighl.  What  saysl  lliou,  Htlle  one  .■*"  lie  continued,  turning  n 
Marcelle,  who  seemed  plunged  in  deep  thought.  "  Or  is  thy  lover 
still  im  IJfhcV 

"Uncle!"  she  crit-d,  with  trembling  lip. 

"  You  are  right.  Marcelle,  and  I  did  him  MTong;  I  forgot  m,vsclf  :| 
he  is  a  brave  man.    But  if  he  should  fail  us  now  1— now,  wfaenj 
Providence  itself  offers  him  a  way  to  save  himself,  and  to  wipe  the 
t  stain  oflfihc  name  he  ho-ars !    Now,  when  the  Little  Corpond  need* 
his  help,  and  would  welcome  him  like  the  prodigal  son  into  the] 
ranks  of  Uie  brave!" 

I     As  Uncle  Ewen  ceased,  Mareetlesprang  to  her  feet  with  an  exclama- 
tion; for  there,  standing  in  the  chamber,  and  listening  to  the  speech. 
was  Rohan  himself — so  changed  already,  and  so  woc-begonc,  that  he 
f^looked  like  an  old  nan.    It  seemed  as  if  the  sudden  shock  ha4< 
had  the  power  to  transform  him  again  to  his  former  likeness  of  a 
famishcii,  hunted  animal ;  to  make  bis  physical  appearance  a  direct 
binagc  of  his  lorturt'd  mora)  being.     Gaunt  and  wild,  with  great 
jhungrj'-Iooking  eyes  gazing  from  one  to  another  of  the  auttlctl 
pgroup,  he  stood  in  perfect  silence. 

"  It  is  himself,"  cried  the  Corporal,  gasping  for  breath.    **GUtlu, 
^_close  the  door." 

^f    It  was  done,  and  to  make  all  secure,  Gildas  drew  the  Ml.    The 
^^two  women  m*erc  soon  by  the  side  of  Rohan,  the  widow  weeping. 


^ 


iii 


Marcclk-  white  ami  IcarlfB*.  Uncle  Ewen  rose  to  his  feet,  ami 
somewhat  tremulously  approachrd  his  nephew. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,  mon  gars,"  he  exclaimed ;  **  they  arc  after 
you,  but  I  will  make  it  all  right,  never  fear.  You  have  been  refrac- 
tor)', but  they  will  forgive  you  all  that  when  you  step  forward  like 
a  tnan.  There  is  no  time  lo  lose.  Cross  the  great  marsh  and  you 
»-ill  be  at  St.  Ourlott  before  them.    Go  straight  to  the  Rue  Rose,  and 

ask  for  the  Capitatnc  Fi^iiier,  and  tell  him  from  me Mother 

of  God  I"  cried  the  old  man.  pausing  in  his  hurried  instructions, 
"is  til c  man  mad  r" 

Indeed,  Ilie  question  seemed  a  very  pertinent  one,  for  Rohan, 
without  seeming  to  hear  a  vcari]  of  what  was  bein^  said,  was  g-azing 
wildly  at  the  air  and  uttering;  that  strange  unearthly  langh  which 
had  more  than  once  before  appalled  Marcelle.    Trembling  with 

•  terror,  the  girl  now  clung-  to  his  arm  and  looked  into  his  face. 
"  Rohan  !  do  j-ou  not  understand  ?  they  are  looking  for  you,  and 
if  you  do  not  go  in  first,  you  will  be  killed." 

Tuming  his  eyes  upon  her,  he  asked,  calmly  enough,  hut  in  a 
strange  hard  voice — 

"If  I  sura-iider,  what  then  .'"" 

"  Why  then,"  broke  in  the  Corporal,  "it  will  bo  all  forgotten. 
They  wd!  give  you  your  gun  and  knapsack,  and  you  will  join  the 
Grand  Army  and  cover  yourself  with  glory:  and  iheit,  when  the 
war  is  over — -wliieli  will  be  very  soon — back  you  will  come  like  a 
brave  man.  and  find  my  little  Marcellu  waiting  for  you,  ready  and 
willing  to  keep  lier  troth," 

The  old  man  spoke  eagerly,  and  with  a  cheerfulness  that  he  was 
far  from  feeling,  for  the  look  upon  (he  other's  face  positively 
appalled  him.    Still  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Marcelle^  Rohan  asked 

•Bgain— 
"But  if  I  do  not  surrender,  what  then  ?" 
"  You  will  be  shot,"  answered  the  Corporal,  "  shot  like  a  dog ; — 
but  there,  God  knows  you  will  not  be  so  insane.     You  will  give 
yourself  up  like  a  wise  man  and  a  brave." 

"  Is  there  no  other  way?"  asked  Rohan,  still  watching  Marcetlc. 
"  None,  none  1     You  waste  time.  moH  gars  !" 
"  Yes,  there  is  another  1"  said  Rohan  in  the  same  hard  voice,  with 
the  same  wild  look. 

Then,  when  all  eyes  were  qucstioningly  tamed  towards  him,  be 
continued — 

"If  the  F.mpcror  should  himself  diet  If  be  should  be 
killed!" 


I 


« 


Tkc  Gentlefnat^ s  Magazhu. 


I 
I 


Unde  Ewen  started  back  in  horror. 
'•  Saints  of  Heaven  Torbirl  I    The  vciy  thonght  is  blasphemy,"  he 
cried,  trembling  and  frow-ntng. 

Without  heedinfc  his  uncU',  Rohan,  who  had  never  withdrawn  hitj 
eyes  t>nr  moment  from  Marcelle's,  said  in  a  whisper,  as  if  addrcssinj 
her  solely,  and  yet  communicating  mj-gtcrioosly  with  himself,  in  i 
sort  ofilrcam- — 

"  If  one  were  to  find  him  sleeping,  or  in  the  darkness  alorK. 
would  Ik;  a  good  deed.     It  was  that  'way  Charlotte  Corday  killed 
Marat,  and  it  was  well  done.  ...    It  Mill  be  one  life  instead  o( 
tlionsand:«;  and  then,  look  you,  the  world  will  be  at  peace" 

"  Rohan  !''  cri<^d  Marecllc.     "  For  the  low  of  God !" 

Well  mijrht  she  shrink  from  him  in  horror  and  agony,  for  tl 
light  of  murder  was  in  his  eyes.     His  face  was  distoncd,  and 
liands  clntched  as  at  an  invisible  knife.     The  Corj>oral  gazed 
stupefied.    He  lieard.  and  diiuly  understood,  yinh-m's  words.    Th( 
rented  too  treasonable  and  awful  to  be  the  vords  of  any  one  btit  i 
raving  madman. 

"  Bones  of  St.  Triffinc  !"  inunnurud  Gildas.    "  He  is  speaking  of 
the  Emperor  1" 

"Come  from  his  side."  cried  the  Corporal  to  Marcelle;  "  he 
dangerous." 

Rohan  tiimcd  his  white  face  on  the  speaker. 

"'I'hat  is  trtie,  hut  I  shall  not  harm  her,  or  any  here.    Good  nif 
Uncle  Kwen — 1  am  going." 

And  he  moved  slowly  towards  the  dour. 

"Slay,  Rohan  1"  cried  Marcelle,  clutching  his  arm.     "  Whith* 
arc  you  going  ?" 

Without  replying  he  shook  off  her  hold  and  movctl  to  the  dc 
and  in  another  moment  he  wa-t  gone.  Thi;  Corjforal  uttered  St, 
despairing  exclamation,  and  sank  into  his  chair;  Gildas  gave  vent 
to  a  prolonged  whistle  expressive  of  deep  surprise;  the  widow 
threw  her  apron  over  her  heart  and  sobbed ;  and  Marcelle  stood 
panting  with  her  Hps  asunder,  and  her  hand  pressed  hard  upon  her 
heart.  So  he  left  them,  piissing  like  a  ghost  into  the  night ;  and 
when  dawn  came,  and  the  emissaries  of  Bonaparte  were  searching 
high  and  low,  no  Imcc  of  him  was  to  be  found. 


CHAPTER  l.W. 

THE  BEGINNING  OP  THE  END. 

The  scene  changes  for  a  moment.  Instead  of  ihe  red  cliffs  ami 
green  pastures  of  Kromlaiii,  ticented  with  spring  tide  and  sliining 
calmly  by  the  side  of  the  summer  sea,  we  behold  a  dim  prospect 
far  inlaml.  darkened  with  the  drifting  rlmids  of  th<*  rain.  Through 
these  clouds  ghde  moving  lights  and  shadows,  passing  slowly  along 
the  great  highways:  the  long  profession  that  scfims  endless — columns 
of  men  that  tramp  wearily  afoot,  bodies  of  cavalry  that  move  more 
lightly  alung,  heavy  masses  of  artillery,  baggage- waggons,  flotsam 
and  jetsam  of  a  great  host.  The  air  is  full  of  a  deep  sca-likc  sound, 
broken  at  times  by  a  rapid  word  of  command  or  a  heavy  roll  of 
drums.  All  (lay  the  processions  pass  on,  and  when  night  comes 
they  are  still  passing.  Somewhere  in  the  midst  of  them  moves  the 
Spirit  of  all,  silent  and  unseen  as  Death  on  his  wliilc  steed. 

The  Grand  Army  is  moving  towards  the  frontier,  and  wherever  it 
goes  the  fields  of  growing  grain  arc  darkened,  ami  no  song  of  the 
birdsof  spring  is  heard.  The  road  is  worn  into  deep  ruts  by  the 
heavy  wheels  of  cannon.  In  the  village  streets  halt  the  cavalry, 
picketing  their  horses  in  the  opeii  square.  The  land  is  full  of  thai 
ticep  murmur  which  announces  and  accompanies  war.  Slowly, 
Iragne  by  league,  the  gleaming  coUimns  advance,  obedient  to  the 
lifted  finger  tljat  is  pointing  them  on.  And  in  /A>*/r  rear,  when  the 
main  body  has  passed  by.  ilock  swamis  of  human  kites  and  cro*-s — 
all  those  wretches  who  hover  in  the  track  of  armies,  seeking  what 
refuse  they  may  find  to  devour. 

Among  those  who  Iiovlt  here  and  there  in  the  neigh botirhood  of 
the  advancing  columns  is  a  man  who,  to  judge  from  his  appear- 
ance, seems  to  have  cmci^cd  from  the  very  dregs  of  human 
wretchedness ;  a  gaunt,  wild,  savage,  neglccted-looking  wretch, 
who  seems  to  have  neither  home  nor  kindred,  and  who,  as  a  hawk 
follows  huntsmen  from  hill  to  hill,  watching  for  any  prey  they  may 
overlook  or  cast  aside,  follows  the  dark  processions  moving  forward 
to  the  scat  of  war.  His  hair  hangs  wildly  over  his  shoulders,  his 
beard  is  long  and  malted,  his  feet  and  arms  are  bare,  and  the 
remainder  of  his  body  is  wretchedly  covered.  Night  aflor  night  he 
sleeps  out  in  the  open  air,  or  in  the  shelter  of  bams  and  farm 
ombuildings,  whence  he  is  often  driven  by  savage  dogs  and  more 
savage  men.     He  speaks  French  at  times,  but  for  the  most  ijatt  Uc 


652  The  Gcniicman^s  Magazim- 


^ 


mutters  to  lumselT  in  a  sort  o^ palm's  which  no  inhabitants  of  theie 
districts  undcrsland.  And  ever,  for  ihose  whom  he  aceosu,  he 
has  but  OTIC-  kind  of  qaestion — "Where  Is  the  Emperor?  will  be 
pass  this  wny}" 

All  v,-hu  sec  him  treat  him  as  a  maniac,  and  mad  indeed  be  is, 
or  seems.  Dazed  by  the  vast  swarms  that  surround  him  and  ever 
j).iS9  him  by^wept  this  way  and  that  by  their  \iolcnce  as  ther 
roll  like  great  rivers  through  the  heart  of  the  land — ever  pcrasing 
with  wild  anxious  eyu9  ihe  livinjj  toirents  of  faces  that  rush  by 
hiii;  in  their  headlong:  course — he  wanders  stupefied  from  day  to  day. 
That  he  has  some  distinct  object  is  clear  from  the  firm-set  face 
imd  fixed  determined  eyes,  but  wafted  backwards  and  forwards  by 
the  stream  of  life,  be  appcai<t  helpless  and  irresponsible.  How  he 
livca  it  is  difiiciiU  to  tell.  He  never  In'gs,  but  many  out  of  piiy 
give  him  bread,  and  sometimes  the  ofliccrs  throw  him  small  coios 
as  they  ride  by.  radiant  and  full  of  hope.  He  reaches  out  bi» 
hand  in  the  fields  and  takes  freely  what  he  desires.  He  look* 
famished,  but  it  is  spiritual  famine,  not  physical,  that  Is  wearing 
him  down. 

More  than  once  he  is  seized  for  ihcfl,  and  then  driven  awaywitb 
blows ;  and  on  one  occasion  he  is  taken  as  a  spy,  bis  hand!>  arc  bound 
behind  him,  and  Ul-  is  driven  into  the  presence  of  a  grizzly  com- 
mander, who  stands  smoking  by  a  bivouac  fire.  Hastily  condemned 
to  bo  shot,  he  gives  so  strange  a  laugh  that  the  closer  attention  of 
his  captors  is  attracted  to  his  condition,  and  finally,  with  scomfal 
pity,  he  is  set  at  liberty  to  roam  where  he  will. 

As  the  armies  advanct:  he  advances,  but  lagging  ever  in  the  rear. 
Kvrr  his  face  looks  backward,  and  he  whispers — "The  Emperor- 
when  will  he  come  .-■" 

How  golden  waves  the  com  in  these  peacefal  Belgian  fields ! 
How  sweet  smells  the  )i3y  down  there  in  the  flat  meads,  througli 
which  the  silvern  rivers  run,  Uncdon  each  side  bybright  green  pollard 
trees !  How  deep  and  cool  lie  the  woods  on  the  hilUsidcs,  overhung 
with  lilac  and  the  wild  ro^e,  and  carpeted  with  lij'acintbs  and 
violets  blue  as  huavcn !  Huw  quietly  the  windmills  luni,  with  their 
long  arms  against  the  blue  sky  1 

But  what  is  that  gleaming  in  the  distance — there,  under  the  viliagtr 
spire?  It  scents  like  a  poot  shining  in  the  sun,  but  it  is  the 
clustered  helmets  of  Prussian  cuirassiers!  And  what  is  that  dark 
mass  moving  like  a  shadow  between  the  fields  of  wheat?  It  is  a. 
body  of  Prussian  intanir^-,  ati\a.MCVcv%  ^^o'«\')  tCiOT\%'i^t  ^oafc^  ^a*(. 


J 


The  Siiadoio  of  the  Sword. 

And  hark  now  \  from  the  distance  comes  a  murmur  like  the  sound 
of  an  advancing  sea,  and  from  the  direction  whence  it  comes  lig'ht 
cavalry  advance  confitanily,  and  solitary  messengers  gallop  at  full 
speed.  The  allied  forces  have  already  quietly  occupied  Belgium, 
and  the  French  host  at  last  is  coming  up. 

It  approaches  and  spreads  out  upon  the  fertile  valleys,  with  some 

portion   of  its  oKl  strength.     Siiaq)  sounds  of  firing,  and  white 

wreaths  of  smoke  rising  here  and  there  in  the  hollows,  show  that 

skinnishing  is  begun.     The  contending  armies  survey  each  other, 

like  wild  beasts  preparing;  to  spring  and  grapple. 

^P    All  roond  them  hover  the  human  birds  of  prey,  watchful  and 

expectant:  but  the  villages  arc  deserted,  the  windmill  ceases  to  turn. 

and  the  happy  sounds  of  pasturai  industry  are  heard  no  mori;.   The 

B  crops  grow  unwatched,  and  the  cattle  wander  unfunded  ;  only  the 

^^  chapel  bell  is  sometimes  heard,  sounding-  the  cingciun  over  deserted 

valleys. 

Hark!  Far  away,  in  the  direction  of  Qwatre  Uras,  sounds  the 
heavy  boom  of  cannon — thunder  follows  thunder,  deep  as  the  roar 
of  the  sea.  Part  of  the  armies  have  met,  and  a  terrible  struggle  is 
beginning.  Couriers  gallop  hither  and  thilher  along  the  roads. 
Groups  of  peasants  gather  here  and  there,  preparing  for  flight,  and 
listening  to  the  terrific  sounds. 

At  the  top  of  a  woody  hill  stands  the  same  wofut  figure  that  wc 
have  seen  before  in  the  track  of  the  Grand  Army.  Wild  and  haggard 
he  seems  stili,  like  some  poor  wretch  whom  the  fatal  fires  havo 
burned  out  of  house  and  home.  He  stands  listening,  and  gazing  at 
the  road  which  winds  through  the  valley  beneath  him.  The  rain 
is  falling  heavily,  but  he  docs  not  heed. 

Suddenly,  through  the  vaporous  mist,  appears  the  gleam  of  lielm.s 
and  lances  rapidly  advancing  ;^thcn  the  man  discerns  a  solitary 
figure  on  horseback  coming  at  full  gallop,  fr>Ilowed  by  a  group  of 
mounted  officers ;  behind  these  rolls  a  travelling  carriage,  drawn 
by  four  horses. 

After  pausing  for  a  moment  at  the  foot  of  ihc  hill,  the  figure 
gallops  upward,  followed  by  the  others. 

Quietly  and  silently,  the  man  creeps  back  into  the  shadow  of  the 
vood. 

CHAPTER  LV. 

UNCLE  KWEN  GETS   HIS  FURLOtJGH. 

"Uncle I  Uncle!  lookup — listen — there  is  brave  news — there 
has  been  a  batUe,  and  the  Empt.-ror  is  victorious. — Look  up  I  It  is  I 
— AlarcelJeJ" 


J 


654  ^<^  GcntkmaiC s  Magazine. 

The  Corporal  lay  in  his  ann-chair  as  if  asleep,  but  his  eyes  were 
wide  open,  and  he  was  breathing  heavily.  Coming  hastily  in  one 
a^emoon  with  the  journal  in  her  hand,  Marcelle  found  him  so,  and 
thinking  at  first  that  he  slept,  shook  him  gently.  TTien  she  screamed, 
perceiving  that  he  was  senseless  and  ill,  and  the  widow,  hastily 
descending  from  upstairs  where  she  had  been  busy,  came  trembling 
to  her  assistance.  They  chafed  his  hands,  threw  cold  water  on  his 
face,  moistened  his  lips  with  brandy,  but  it  was  of  no  avail. 

"  He  will  die !  "  cried  Marcelle,  wringing  her  hands.  "  It  is  one 
of  the  old  attacks,  but  worse  than  ever.  Mother,  hasten  down  at 
once,  and  bring  Plouct — he  must  be  bled  at  once — Master  Arfoll 
said  that  was  the  only  way." 

The  widow  hesitated ;  then  she  cried — 

"  Had  I  not  better  run  for  the  priest  ?  " 

Poor  soul,  her  first  fear  was  that  her  brother-in-law  might  be 
hurried  into  the  presence  of  his  Maker  before  he  could  be  properly 
blessed  and  "anointed."  But  Marcelle,  more  worldly  and  prac.i- 
cal,  insisted  that  Plouet  should  be  first  sent  for;  it  would  be  time 
enough  to  prepare  for  the  next  world  when  all  hopes  of  presen-ing 
him  for  this  one  were  fled. 

In  a  ver)'  short  time  the  little  barber  appeared,  armed  with  all 
the  implements  of  office,  and  performed  the  solemn  mystery  of  bleed- 
ing with  his  usual  skill.  The  operation  over,  he  shook  his  head. 
"  The  blood  flows  feebly,"  he  said;  "he  is  very  weak,  and  it  is 
doubtful  if  he  will  recover."  Not  until  he  was  undressed  and 
placed  in  bed,  did  the  Corporal  open  his  eyes  and  look  around 
him.  He  nodded  at  Plouct,  and  tried  to  force  a  smile,  but  it  was 
sad  work.  When  I\larcclle  knelt  weeping  by  his  bedside  he  put 
his  hand  gently  on  her  head,  while  the  tears  rose  in  his  eyes  and 
made  them  dim. 

"Cheer  up,  neighbour,"  said  PlouL't !  "How  are  we  now? 
Better,  eh  i  Well,  I  will  tell  you  something  that  will  do  you  gooil. 
Our  advanced  guard  has  met  the  Prussians  at  Charleroi,  and  has 
thrashed  them  within  an  inch  of  their  lives." 

Uncle  Ewen's  eye  kindled,  and  his  lips  uttered  an  inarticulate 
sound. 

"It  is  true.  Uncle  Ewen ! ''  cobbed  Marcelle,  looking  fondly  at 
him. 

" That  is  good  news,"  he  murmured  presently  in  a  faint  voice; 
then  he  sank  back  upon  his  pillow,  and  closed  his  eyes,  with  a 
heavy  sigh. 

The  excitement  of  the  last  few  weeks  had  been  too  much  for 


him.  Day  alter  day  he  had  overstrained  his  strength,  stumping  »;> 
and  doMm  the-  village,  and  assuming,  to  a  certain  extent,  his  old 
sway.  Do  what  he  mi^ht,  he  could  not  remain  cnlm.  His  pulsfs 
kept  throbbing  like  a  roll  of  drums,  and  his  ears  wore  jiricked  up 
as  if  to  listen  for  crumpet- sounds  in  the  distance.  All  the  worlvl 
was  ajjainst  llic  "  Litile  Corporal,"  and  the  "  Lililc  Corporal,"  God 
willing,  was  about  to  beat  all  the  world.  His  own  pride  and  rcpa- 
tation  were  at  stako  in  the  matter,  for  with  the  fortunes  of  the 
Kni|ieror  his  own  furlunes  ro:ie  and  fell.  When  his  niaslLT  was  a 
despised  prisoner,  he  too  was  despised :  bis  occupation  gone,  his 
life  a  bnrtliori  to  him,  since  lie  coveted  respect  in  liis  sphere, 
and  could  not  endure  contradiction.  It  had  almost  broken  his 
heart.  But  when  the  Emperor  re-emerged  like  ihe  sun  from  a  cloud. 
Uncle  Ewcn  partook  his  ^lory,  and  rt'covereil  casle  and  postion ;  men 
were  aTniid  then  to  give  him  the  lie,  and  to  decry  those  things  which 
he  deemed  lioly.  Proud  and  happy,  he  resumed  his  sceptre,  though 
with  a  fecbU-r  hand,  ami  waved  down  all  opposition  both  at  homti 
and  at  the  cabaret.  Joy.  however,  is  "  dangerous"  in  more  sensts 
than  one,  and  the  excess  of  his  exultation  had  only  heightened 
that  constitutional  malady  to  which  he  was  a  martyr. 

In  ihe  agony  of  this  new  sorrow  Marcelle  almost  forgot  the 
anxiety  which .  had  heen  weighing  on  her  heart  for  many  days. 
Nothing  had  been  heard  of  Rohan  since  his  departure,  and  no  man 
could  tell  whether  he  was  living  or  dead ;  so  her  mind  was  tortured 
on  his  account,  and  her  nights  were  broken  ;  and  her  days  were  full 
of  pain.  All  ihe  could  do  was  to  pray  tbat  the  good  God  would 
guard  her  lover's  person,  and  bring  him  back  to  his  right  raind. 

From  this  last  attack  Uncle  Ewen  did  not  emerge  as  freely  as 
on  former  occasions.  He  kept  his  bed  for  many  days,  and  seemed 
hovering  on  the  brink  of  death.  He  would  not  hear,  however,  of 
sending  for  Father  Rolland,  whose  Royalist  proclivities  had  aroused 
hia  strongest  Indignation.  However  much  he  had  liked  the  little 
(uri  personally,  he  felt  that  he  was  unfaithful  to  a  great  cause,  and 
that  in  his  heart  he  hated  the  'Emperor. 

Even  while  in  bed  he  persisted  in  having  the  journals  read  to 
him,  and  fortuniately  for  him  they  contained  only  "good  news." 
When,  about  a  week,  after  his  first  attack,  he  was  able  to  be  dressed 
and  to  sit  up  by  the  fireside,  he  still  sent  diligently  to  inquire  after 
the  latest  bulletins  from  the  -scat  of  war. 

To  him,  as  he  sat  thus,  entered  one  day  Master  ArfoU.  At  first 
Marcclle,  who  sat  by,  trembled  to  sec  him,  but  Uncle  Ewcn  seemed 
so  pleased  at  his  apiiearance  that  her  fears  were  speedily  dispelled. 


656  The  GcntlanaiC s  Magazine. 

> 
She  watched  him  anxiously,  however,  ready  to  warn  him  should  he 

touch  on  forbidden  topics.    But  Master  Arfoll  was  not  the  man  to 
cause  any  fellow  creature  unnecessary  pain,  and  he  knew  well  how 
to  humour  the  fancies  of  the  Corporal.  When  he  went  away  that  day 
Uncle  Ewen  said  quietly,  as  if  speaking  to  himself — 
"  I  was  unjust.     He  is  a  sensible  fellow." 

Next  day  Master  Arfoll  came  again,  and  sat  for  a  long  time  chat- 
ting. Presently  the  conversation  turned  on  politics,  and  Uncle 
Ewen,  feeble  as  he  was,  began  to  mount  his  hobby.  So  far  from 
contradicting  him,  Master  Arfoll  assented  to  all  his  propositions. 
Only  a  great  man,  he  admitted,  could  win  so  much  love  and 
kindle  so  much  enthusiasm.  He  himself  had  seen  the  Emperor, 
and  no  longer  wondered  at  the  affection  men  felt  for  him.  Ah  yes, 
he  was  a  great  man. 

Marcelle  scarcely  knew  how  it  came  to  pass,  but  that  very  day 
Master  Arfoll  was  readingaloud  to  Uncle  Ewen  out  of  the  Bible  which 
he  used  for  teaching  purposes ;  and  reading  out  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment, not  the  Old.  Uncle  Zwen  would  doubtless  have  relished  to 
hear  the  the  recital  of  some  of  those  martial  episodes  which  fill 
the  old  books,  but  nevertheless,  the  quiet,  peaceful  parables  of 
Jesus  pleased  him  well. 

"  After  all,"  said  Master  Arfoll,  as  he  closed  the  book,  "  war  is  a 
terrible  thing  ;  and  peace  is  best." 

"  That  is  quite  true,"  replied  the  Corporal ;  "  but  war,  look  you, 
is  a  necessity." 

"  Not  if  men  would  love  one  another." 

Uncle  Ewen  smiled  grimly — the  very  ghost  of  his  old  smile. 

"  Soul  of  a  crow,  how  can  one  love  one's  enemies .'  ,  .  Those 
Prussians  !  those  English  I" 

And  he  ground  his  teeth  angrily,  as  if  he  would  like  to  worry  and 
tear  them.     Master  Arfoll  sighed,  and  quietly  closed  the  book. 

When  he  had  paid  "au  rcmir"  and  passed  across  the  threshold, 
he  heard  Marcelle's  voice  close  to  his  back. 

"blaster  Arfoll,"  said  the  girl,  in  a  quick,  low  voice,  "do  yon 
tliink  he  will  die?" 

*'  I  cannot  tell  you  .  .  He  is  very  ill !" 

"  But  will  he  recover  }" 

The  schoolmaster  paused  in  thought  before  he  replied. 

"  He  is  not  a  young  man,  and  such  shocks  are  cruel.     I  do  no 
think  he  will  live  long."     He  added  gently,  "There  is  no  word  of 
your  cousin  ?" 

She  answered  in  the  negative,  and  sadly  returned  into  the  house. 


% 


The  Shadrnv  of  tlu  Sword. 

That  very  night  there  was  consicicnblc  uxdtcmcnt  in  the  village  ; 
groups  of  Bonapartist  enthusiasts  paced  up  aiid  down  llicsltccts, 
singing  and  shouting.  News  had  come  of  the  battle  of  Ligny,  and 
the  triunipli  of  the  Freucli  arms  now  seeinoi  certain. 

"  It  is  true,  uncle,"  said  Gildas,  entering  tipsily  into  llie  liitchen 
"The  little  one  lias  thm^hed  those  brutes  of  Prussians  at  last,  and 
he  will  next  devour  those  accursed  Knglish." 
I     ■'  Where  is  Ihe  journal  ?"  asked  Uncle  Ewen,  tremWing  from 
head  to  foot  and  reaching  out  his  hands. 

Oildas  handed  it  over,  and  the  Corporal,  putting'  on  his  horn 
spectacles,  began  to  read  it  through.  But  the  letters  »wain  before 
his  eyes,  and  he  was  compelled  to  cntrasl  the  task  to  Marcctlc,  who 
in  a  dear  voice  read  the  news  aloud.  When  she  had  done,  his  eyes 
were  dim  with  joy  and  pride. 

That  night  he  could  not  sleep,  and  befurc  dawn  he  began  to 
wander. 

It  was  clear  that  some  great  change  for  the  worse  had  taken 
place.  He  tossed  upon  his  pillow,  talked  to  himself,  mentioned 
the  names  of  old  comrades,  and  spoke  frequently  of  the  Emperor. 
Suddenly  he  sprang  up,  and  begun  scrambling  out  of  beJ. 

"It  is  the  rhtttU  r  he  cried,  gazing  vacantly  around  him. 

The  voice  of  MarccUe,  who  was  up  and  watching,  seemed  to 
recall  him  partially  to  himself,  and  he  sank  bark  quietly  upon  his 
jiillow.  Ever  and  anon,  after  that,  he  would  start  up  nervously,  as 
if  at  a  sudden  call. 

Early  in  the  morning  Stastor  Arfoll  came  and  sat  by  his  side,  bat 
he  did  not  recognise  him.  The  schoolmaster,  who  had  no  little 
skill  in  such  cases,  pronounced  his  condition  to  be  i  ritical,  and 
upon  hearing  this,  Mother  Owenfern  persisted  in  sending  for  the 
priest.  When  Father  Rulland  arrived  hu  found  Uncle  Ewen  quitu 
incapable  of  profiting  by  any  holy  offices. 

"  I  fear  he  is  dying,"  said  Master  Arfoll. 

"  And  without  the  last  sacrament,"  moaned  the  widow. 

"  He  shall  have  it,"  said  Father  Rolland,  "  if  he  will  only  nnder- 
stand.    Lodk  up,  my  Corporal.    It  is  1,  Palticr  Rolland  I" 

But  Uncle  Ewen'ssoul  was  far  away.  Out  on  a  great  battlefield, 
in  sight  of  smoking  villages  and  fiery  towns,  watching  the  great 
columns  of  armies  moving  to  and  fro,  while  a  familiar  figure  in 
cocked  hat  and  grey  overcoat  sat  silent  as  stone  on  horseback, 
watching  from  an  eminence.  Over  and  over  again  he  weut  over  in 
his  mind  that  wonderful  episode  of  Cismone.  He  talked  of  Jacques 
J^Ionier,  and  stretching  out  bis  open  hands  over  the  covcrUt,  fancied 
Vol.  2/bf  |S;0.  m 'a 


A 


The  GintUmaiC  s  Magazim, 

he  was  wanning  Uieni  over  tlic  bivouac  fire  Sometimes  his  face 
flushed  as  be  Tancicd  himself  in  the  gnmil  mUtt  of  baUlc,  and  he 
cried  out  in  a  loud  voice  "  No  <iBartcr.'*  The  summer  son  shone 
brifflitlj'  in  upon  him  as  he  lay  thus,  full  of  his  ruling  passion. 

Marcclle,  qnite  heartbroken,  sobbed  at  bis  bedside,  while  the 
widow  spent  all  the  minutes  in  fenent  prayer.  Gildas  stood  on"  thr 
h:*arth,  tjuite  subdued  and  ready  to  blubbc-r  like  a  great  bor*  On 
one  side  of  the  bed  sat  Master  Arfoll ;  on  ttie  other,  tbc  litUc 
prii-'Bt. 

"He  has  been  a  brave  man,"  said  Father  Rolland,  "bat  an 
enthusiast,  look  yon,  and  this  affair  of  Ligny  has  got  into  his  head. 
Hi'  has  been  a  ffood  ser%'ant  to  the  Kmpcror,  and  to  France." 

It  seemed  as  if  Uie  very  name  of  the  Emperor  had  a  spell  \*> 
draw  the  Corjioral  from  his  swoon  ;  for  all  at  once  he  opened  hi* 
cyc5  and  loolccd  straight  at  the  priest.  He  did  not  seem  qvite  to 
rccojiiTiisc  him,  but  turning  his  face  towards  Master  Arfoll,  he 
stniled^so  faintly,  so  sadly,  that  it  tore  Marcelle's  heart  to  see 
hun. 

"  Uncle  Even  I  Unde  Evrenl"  she  sobbed,  holding- his  bwid. 

"  Is  it  thou,  little  one  ?"  he  murroarcd  faintly.  *'  What  was  it 
that  thoo  wast  reading,  about  a  great  battle  ?' 

She  conld  not  answer  for  sobs,  and  Father  Rolland  interposed, 
speaking  rapidly — 

"  It  is  no  time  to  think  of  battles  novr.  my  Corporal,  for  yoo  arc 
very  ill  and  will  s<x)n  be  in  the  presence  of  your  God.  I  have  come 
to  give  you  the  last' sacrament,  to  prepare  >-our  soul  for  the  change 
that  is  abont  to  come  upon  it.  There  is  no  lime  to  lose.  Make 
your  peace  with  Heaven  !" 

Quietly  all  withdrew  from  the  kitchen,  leaving  tbc  little  ta/^r  alone 
witii  bis  sick  charge.  There  was  a  long  intcr^-al,  during  which  the 
htartsofthc  two  women  were  sick  with  anxiety:  then  Father  Rollsmd 
called  them  all  back  into  the  chamber.  Uncle  Ewen  was  lying 
quietly  on  his  pillow  with  his  eyes  lialf  closed,  and  on  the  bed 
beside  him  lay  the  crucifix  and  the  priest's  breviary. 

"  It  is  finished,"  said  the  litllc  curi ;  "  he  \%  not  quite  clear  in  hi> 
head  and  be  did  not  recognise  me,  but  God  i.s  good,  and  it  wUI 
sufTire.  His  mind  )&  now  calm,  and  he  is  prepared  to  approach  in 
a  humble  and  peaceful  spirit  the  presence  of  bis  Maker." 

"Amen  I "  cried  the  widow,  with  a  great  load  off  bur  mind. 

At  that  moment,  while  they  were  gathering  round  the  bcdsido, 
the  Corporal  opened  his  eyes  and  gaxcd  around  lum.  His  look  was 
no  longer  vacant,  but  quite  collected.    Suddenly  his  eyes  fell  upon 


the  face  of  Father  Rolland,  and  now  for  the  first  time  he  recog- 
nised bim,  and  a  faint  flush  came  into  his  dying  face. 
"  A  bas  U  Bourbon!"  he  cried.     "  Vivt  V Emptrtttr I" 
And  with  that  M-ar-cry  upon  his  iips,  be  drifted  out  to  join  tlie 
great  bivouac  of  the  armies  of  the  de^. 


CHAPTER  LVI. 


BONAPARTE. 

Comb  back  now  to  the  golden  valleys  where  the  bloody  straggle 
of  Armies  is  beginning — to  the  verge  of  Ihu  darli  wood  into  which 
crept  that  ijitiablc  outcast  man.  As  the  man  retreats  into  hiding 
the  5gure  on  horseback  reaches  the  hill-summit.  dt^mDuots,  and 
stands  looking  in  the  direction  of  Ligny.  The  rain  pours  down 
upon  him,  but  hi*  too  is  heedless  of  the  rain.  Spurred  and  booted, 
wrapped  in  an  old  grey  overcoat,  and  wearing  a  cueljed  hat,  from, 
wliicb  the  rain  drips  heavily,  he  iitands  wrapt  in  tiiought,  posed, 
w  ith  his  hands  cEaspcd  behind  his  back,  his  head  sunk  deep  between 
his  shoulders.  His  staff  follow,  and  stand  in  groups  behind  him, 
and  close  to  him. 

The  heavy  sound  of  cannon  continues,  rolling  in  the  far  distance. 
IVcsently  it  ct:ases,  and  the  figure  is  still  there,  looking  in  the 
direction  whence  it  comes.  He  paces  up  and  down  impatiently, 
but  his  eyes  arc  fixed  now  on  the  rainy  road.  Suddenly  on  the 
road  appears  the  figurp  of  a  mounted  officer,  galIo]>ing  bareheaded 
as  if  for  dear  life.  He  sees  the  group  on  the  height  above  bim,  and 
gallops  up.  In  a  few  minutes  he  is  in  the  presence  of  the 
Emperor. 

Bonaparte  sees  good  tidings  in  the  officer's  face,  but  he  opens 
and  rr.id?  the  despatch  which  he  brings ;  then  he  smiles,  and 
speaks  rapidly  to  tliose  surrounding  him ; — in  another  moment  he 
Is  encircled  by  a  llabh  of  swords,  and  there  is  a  loud  cry  of  "  Vive 
t' Emfiiriur '."  The  Prussians  are  in  retreat  from  Ligny,  and  the 
first  blow  of  the  war  is  a  victor)'. 

Without  attempting  to  mount  again  the  Emperor  walks  quietly 
down  the  hill. 

And  now.  when  all  again  is  still,  the  man  creeps  out  of  the 
wood ;  he  is  trembling  now  and  shivering,  and  his  eyes  are  more 
wild  and  hungr)-  than  ever.  He  hastens  along,  like  an  animal  that 
keep*  close  to  the  ground.  He  sees  the  bright  group  moving  along 
ibe  foot  of  the  hill,  but  he  creeps  aiouft  l\ve  wamutt'^   'V\ia  ■wi.'w. 

^  "tt  % 


The  GentUmaiCs  Magastne. 

Tolls  now  in  torrents,  and  the  prospect  is  darkening  towards  (<ilt 

of  night. 

Still  fallowing  the  line  of  the  wooded  hill-tops.  Ibe  man  run» 
now  Heet  as  a  deer  through  the  shadows  of  the  deepening  darkness, 
lie  meets  do  human  being.  At  last  be  pauses,  riose  to  a  large 
building  erected  on  ihc  hill  side  and  looking  down  on  long 
reaches  of  fertile  pasture  and  yellow  com.  It  is  one  of  those 
antique  farms  so  common  in  Belgium — a  (]uainll>'  gabled  dwelling 
surrounded  by  bams,  byres,  and  fruit  gardens.  But  no  light  bums 
in  .nny  of  the  windows,  and  it  seems  temporarily  deserted,  save  for 
a  great  starved  dog  that  prowls  around  it  and  fijes  moaning  at  the 
inaTi*s  approach. 

The  Bian  pauses  at  the  open  door  and  looIiLS  down  the  hill.  Sud- 
denly he  is  startled  by  the  sound  of  horses'  feet  rapidlyapproaching ; 
there  iii  a  flash,  a  gleam  in  the  darkness,  and  a  body  of  cavalry 
g.i11op  Dp.  Before  they  reach  the  door  he  has  plunged  across  the 
threshold. 

Within  all  is  dark,  but  he  gropes  his  way  across  a  groat' 
kitchen  and  into  a  large  inner  chamber  dimly  lighted  by  two  great 
window-casements.  In  the  centre  stands  a  ladder  leading  to  a 
small  dark  loft;  but  the  room  is  comfortably  furnished  with  rade^ 
old-faidiicned  chairs  and  table,  and  has  in  one  corner  a  great  fire- 
place of  quaintly  carvcn  oak.  It  is  obvious  that  the  place  has  been 
lately  occupied,  for  on  tlic  table  is  a  portion  of  a  loaf  with  some 
coarse  cheese.  Great  black  rafters  stretch  overhead,  and  above 
them  is  tlie  oi>ening  of  Ihc  loft. 

There  is  a  tramp  of  feet  and  a  sound  of  voices ;  the  soldier*  sjk 
entering  the  house  and  approaching  the  room.  Swift  as  thought 
the  man  runs  up  the  ladder,  and  disappears  in  the  darkness  of  the 
lofl  above. 

An  officer  rnters,  followed  by  attendants  hearing  a  Tamp.  He 
looks  roond  the  empty  room,  takes  up  the  fragment  of  bread,  and 
laughs:  tlien  he  gives  some  orders  rapidly,  and  in  a  few  mumcnts 
they  bring  in  an  armful  of  wood  and  kindle  a  fire  on  the  hvarth. 
As  they  do  so  their  soaking  clothes  steam. 

Suddenly  there  comes  from  without  the  sound  of  more  horses 
galloping,  of  voices  rapidly  giving  the  wonl  of  rommnnd.  The 
farm  is  surrounded  on  every  side  by  troops,  and  the  rooms  of  the 
farm  begin  to  fdl.  'I"he  fire  bums  up  on  the  hearth  of  this  inner 
chamher,  and  the  air  becomes  full  of  a  comfortable  glow.  Mean- 
time the  rain  falls  in  torronts,  with  occasional  gleams  of  uimner 
lightning. 


Entering  bareiitaded,  attendanls  now  place  on  the  table  a  amall 
silver  lamp,  and  draw  the  great  moth-eaten  curtains  which  cover 
tilt;  two  antique  casements.  They  speak  low,  as  if  in  awe  of  some 
superior  presence.  All  at  once  through  the  open  door  conies  a 
fajiiiliar  figure,  who  wears  his  cocked  hat  on  his  head,  and  has 
his  grey  overcoat  still  wrapped  around  him.  It  13  the  Emperor  of 
France. 

He  casts  otTliis  dripping  overcoat  ami  stands  in  plain  general's 
uniform  warming  liis  hands  at  the  fire.  The;  bring  in  plain  bread 
and  wine,  which  Ihey  set  before  him  on  the  table.  lie  broaks  a 
little  of  the  bread  and  drinks  some  of  the  wine,  then  he  speaks 
rapidly  in  a  clear  loud  voice,  and,  glancing  round  the  chamber, 
motions  his  attendants  to  withdraw.  Tiiey  du  so  deferentially, 
closing  the  door  softly  behind  them,  and  he  is  left  entirely  alone. 

Alone  in  the  great  chamber,  with  the  black  rafters  stretching 
over  his  head,  dimly  illumed  by  the  red  glare  of  the  fire  and  the 
clearer  gleam  of  the  lamp.  All  is  so  silent  that  he  can  hear  the 
pattering  of  the  raindrops  on  the  great  casements  and  on  the  roof 
above.  Although  the  place  is  surrounded  by  troops  their  move- 
ments arc  very  hushed  and  still,  and  save  for  a  low  cnurmLir  of 
voices  from  the  outer  rooms  there  is  no  human  sound.  But  over- 
head, buried  in  the  blackness,  a  wild  face  watches  and  looks 
down. 

Slowly,  with  chin  drooping  forward  on  his  breast,  and  hands 
clasped  upon  his  back,  he  paces  up  and  down.  The  sentinel  pacing 
lo  and  fro  beyond  the  window  is  not  more  methodical  in  his  march 
than  be.  The  luln  pours  without  and  the  wind  moans,  but  he  hears 
nothing:  he  is  too  attentively  listening  to  the  sound  of  his  own 
thoughts.  What  sees  he,  what  hears  he?  Before  his  soul's  vision 
great  armies  pass  in  black  procession,  moving  like  storm-clouds  on 
lo  some  bourne  of  the  inexorable  will ;  burning  cities  rise  in  the 
distance,  like  the  ever-burning  towers  of  Hell;  and  the  roar  of 
far-off  cannon  mingles  with  the  sound  of  the  breakers  of  Eternity 
thundering  on  a  starry  shore.  For  this  night,  look  you,  of  nil 
nights,  the  voice  of  God  is  with  the  Man,  bringing  dark  prescience 
of  some  dark  approaching  doom.  Mark  how  the  firelight  plays 
upon  his  cheeks,  which  are  livid  as  those  of  a  corpse !  See  how 
the  eaglc-cye  sheathes  itself  softly,  as  if  to  close  upon  the  sorrow 
pent  within  !  It  is  night,  and  he  is  alone;  alone  with  the  shadows 
of  Sleep  and  Death.  Though  he  knows  his  creatures  arc  waking 
in  the  chambers  beyond,  and  that  his  armies  are  stretching  all 


« 


662  The  GctitkntarC s  Magazine. 

round  him  on  the  rainy  plain,  he  is  not  the  less  supremely  solitary. 
The  darkness  seems  a  cage,  from  which  his  fretful  mind  would 
-willingly  escape ;  he  paces  up  and  down,  eager  for  the  darkness  to 
uplift  and  diBcIose  the  stormy  dawn. 

All  his  plans  are  matured,  all  his  orders  are  given ;  he  is  but 
resting  for  a  few  brief  hours,  before  he  takes  the  victoiy  for  which 
his  soul  so  long  has  waited.  Victory  ? — ah,  yes,  that  is  certain !  His 
lurid  star  will  not  fail  at  last  to  dart  blinding  beams  into  the  eyes 
of  his  enemies ;  like  a  destroying  angel  he  will  arise,  more  mighty 
and  terrible  than  he  ever  yet  has  been.  They  think  they  have  him 
in  a  net,  but  they  shall  see  1 

He  walks  to  the  window,  and  peers  out  into  the  night.  Although 
it  is  summer,  all  is  dark  and  cold  and  chill.  As  he  stands  for  a 
moment  gazing  forth,  he  hears  low  sounds  from  the  darkness 
around  him,  sounds  as  of  things  stirring  in  sleep.  The  measured 
footfalls  of  the  sentries,  the  tramp  of  horses'  feet,  the  cry  of  voices 
giving  and  receiving  the  password  of  the  night — all  come  upon  his 
ear  like  murmurs  in  a  dream.  He  draws  the  curtain,  and  comes 
forward  again  into  the  Jirelight,  which  wraps  him  head  to  foot  like 
a  robe  of  blood.  The  great  black  rafters  of  the  roof  stretch 
overhead,  and  as  something  stirs  among  them  his  dead-white  face 
looks  up.  A  rat  crawling  from  its  hole  and  running  along  the  beam 
— that  is  all. 

Again  he  begins  his  monotonous  march  up  and  down. 

There  is  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"Enter!"  he  says  in  a  low  clear  voice;  and  an  aide-de-camp 
enters  bareheaded  with  a  despatch.  He  tears  it  open,  runs  his  eye 
over  it,  and  casts  it  aside  without  a  word.  As  the  aide-de-camp  is 
retiring,  he  calls  him  back.  Unless  important  despatches  arrive, 
let  no  one  disturb  him  for  the  next  two  hours  ;  for  he  will 
sleep. 

The  door  is  gently  closed,  and  he  is  again  alone  in  the  chamber. 
He  stands  upon  the  hearth,  and  for  a  long  time  seems  plunged  in 
deep  reflection — his  lips  firmly  set,  his  brow  knitted.  Presently  he 
approaches  the  table,  again  takes  up  the  despatch,  looks  it  through 
— then  once  more  places  it  aside. 

Loosening  his  neckerchief  from  his  throat,  he  approaches  the 
old  arm-chair  of  oak,  which  is  set  before  the  fire,  and  now — 
merciful  God  I    What  is  this  ?    He  has  sunk  upon  his  knees  I 

To  pray  ?    He  ? 

Yes,  here,  in  the  loneliness  of  the  night,  unconscious  that  he  is 
watched  by  any  human  eyes,  he  secretly  kneels,  covers  his  eyes. 


f*nd  prays.  Nol  for  long.  After  a  minute  he  rises,  and  his  face  is 
wonderfully  changed — softened  and  sweetened  by  the  religious 
li^ht  that  has  shone  upon  it  for  a  little  space.  No  little  child, 
risen  from  saying  "Our  Father"  by  an  innoceiii  bi-dside,  could 
look  more  calm ;  yet  doubtless  he  prayed  for  viaoiy,  that  his 
enemies  might  be  blotted  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  that  God 
might  once  more  cement  his  throne  with  blood  artl  forge  hta 
sceptre  or  fire.  "The  pity  of  it,  lago,  oh  !  the  pitj- of  it!"  Wise 
was  he  who  said  that  the  wicked  arc  only  poor  blind  cliildruni  who 
}  know  not  what  they  do. 

At  Inst,  throwing  himself  into  the  arm-chair,  he  lies  back,  and 
quietly  closes  his  eyes. 

To  sleep  ?  Can  he  on  whose  breath  rests  the  fate  of  empires 
sleep  this  night  ?  .\s  easily  and  as  soundly  as  a  little  child  I  The 
constant  habit  of  seeking  slumber  under  ull  sorts  of  conditions — 
out  in  the  dark  rain,  on  the  bare  ground,  in  the  saddle,  in  the 
travelling  carriage — has  made  Sleep  his  slave.  Scarcely  has  he 
closed  his  eyes,  when  Ihe  blessed  dew  falls  upon  them.  And  yet, 
O  God.  at  this  verj'  hour,  how  many  good  men  are  praying  for  the 
rest  that  will  not  come  1 

As  he  sits  there,  with  his  chin  drooping  upon  his  breast,  bis  jaw 
falling  heavily,  and  his  e)-es  half  open  but  glared  and  sightless,  one 
might  fancy  him  a  corpse — so  livid  is  his  cheek,  so  worn  and  wild 
his  look.  All  the  dark  passions  of  the  man,  his  buried  cares  and 
sorrows,  which  the  waking  will  crushed  down,  now  flow  up  to  the 
surface  and  tremble  there  in  ghastly  lights  and  shades.  He  seems 
to  have  cast  off  his  strength,  like  a  raiment  only  worn  by  day. 
■CIrcat  God,  how  old  he  looks  1  how  pitiably  old  and  htiman  1  One 
sees  now — or  one  might  sec — that  his  hair  is  tinged  with  grey;  it 
falls  in  thin  straggling  lines  upon  his  forehead,  which  is  marked 
deep  with  weary  lines.  This  is  he  who  to  half  a  weeping  world 
has  seemed  as  God ;  who  has  let  loose  the  angels  of  his  wrath, 
swift  ai  the  four  winds,  to  devastate  the  earth ;  who  has  seemed  as 
St  shadow  between  ?fT;m*s  Soul  and  the  Sun  wliich  God  set  u[>  in 
heaven  in  the  beginning,  and  who  has  swept  as  a  lightning  to 
scorch  up  the  realms  of  Emperors  and  Kings.  "God  givcth  his 
beloved — sleep!"  And  to  those  he  loves  aotf  Sleep  loo.  This 
is  Napoleon— a  weary  man,  grey-haired  and  very  pale:  he  shimbere 
sound,  and  scarcely  seems  to  dream.  All  over  the  earth  lie  poor 
guilty  wretches,  wailing  miserably,  conscience  stricken  because 
they  have  taken  life — in  passion,  in  cruelty,  in  wrath  ;  the  T^ye  is 
looking  at  Ihcm  as  it  looked  at  Cain,  and  they  cannot  sleep.     Yet 


I 


I 


664  "^^'^  GcntUmari'  i  Magazine, 

this  man  has  waded  in  blood  up  to  the  .innpits :  the  blood  he  ha. 
shed  is  as  a  river  rushing  up  to  slain  the  foolstool  of  the  llironc  oi' 
God.     Yet  he  shnnbers  like  a  child. 

The  lire  boms  low,  but  it  still  fills  the  room  with  a  dim  liRht. 
which  mingles  with  the  faint  rays  of  the  lamp  upon  the  table.  Up 
among  the  black  rafters  ait  is  dark ;  but  what  is  that  stirring  Ihcri.' 
and  gazing  down?  The  black  loft  looms  above,  and  the  ladder 
rests  against  the  topmost  beam.  Something  moves  up  there — a 
shadow  among  the  shadows.  Swift  as  lightning,  and  as  silent, 
something  descends ; — it  is  the  figure  of  a  man. 

CHAPTER   I.VII. 
"SIC  SEMPER  ■nRASxtrsI" 

The  Emperor  moans  in  his  sleep,  which  is  not  easily  broken,  but 
he  does  not  quite  walien.  The  figure  crouches  for  a  moment  in 
the  centre  of  the  floor ;  then  crawling  forward  iuid  turning  towards 
the  sleeper,  it  approaches  him  without  a  sound,  for  its  foct  arc 
naked.  It  rises  erect,  revealing  a  face  so  wild  and  sttfinge  as  to 
seem  scarcely  human,  but  rather  to  resemble  the  lineaments  of  an 
apparition.  The  hair,  thickly  sown  with  white,  streams  down  over 
half  naked  shoulders :  the  cheeks  are  sunken  as  with  famine  or 
disease,  the  li[)S  lie  apart  like  the  mouth  of  some  panting  vtild 
animal.  The  form,  too,  seems  gigantic,  looming  in  the  dim  light 
of  the  lamp,  and  it  i<>  wrapped  from  head  to  foot  in  hideous  rags. 

As  the  creature  crawls  towards  the  slccpin;^*  Kmperor,  aomethtn, 
gleams  in  his  hands ;  it  is  a  long  bayont-t-like  knife,  such  as  hunters 
use  in  the  forests  of  Ardennes.  His  eyes  bum  with  strange  light, 
fixing  themselves  upon  the  steeper.  If  this  is  an  assa&sin,  then 
surely  that  sleeper's  lime  is  come. 

And  now,  knife  in  hand,  he  stands  close  to  the  Emperor,  looking 
upon  his  face,  and  reading  it  line  by  line.  As  he  docs  so,  his  own 
gleams  spectre-like  and  wild  and  mad.  His  gaze  Is  full  of  spiritual 
famine;  he  seems  as  be  looks  to  satisfy  some  pas.i>ioiiatc  Lunger. 
His  ryes  come  closer  and  closer,  charmed  tn»-ardfl  ihc  object  on 
which  they  gaze — until  his  breath  could  almost  be  felt  upon  the 
cold  white  check.  Simultaneously  the  knife  is  raised,  as  if  to  strike 
home  to  the  sleeper's  heart. 

At  this  moment  the  sleeper  stirs,  but  does  not  waken,  for  be  b 
thoroughly  exhausted  with  many  bonr^  of  vigil  and  bis  sleep  is 
nnusnally  hca\-y.    If  hn  but  knew  how  near  his  '•'•  d>-aih  ! 

Hu  has  climbed  to  the  summit  of  earthly  glor}-—  i  i.tined  to. 


(footstool  r>r  hiH  throne  iLic  kings  of  tlic  earth;  ant]  is  this  to 
ic  end  ?  To  be  slaughtered  miserably  at  midnight,  by  aa 
assassin's  steel  ? 

There  is  a  movement  as  of  feel  stirring  in  the  oalcr  chamber ; 
then  the  voice  of  the  sentry  is  heard  cr)'ing  "  Qut'vive?"  and  all  ia 
still  again.  The  wild  Hg-ure  pauses,  listening  still  with  large  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  sleeper's  face. 

Still  stars  nf  rtemity,  gleaming  overhead  in  the  aiiirc  arch  of 
heaven,  look  down  this  nighl  through  the  mundane  mist  and  rain, 
and  behold,  face  to  face,  these  two  creatures  whom  God  made. 
Spirit  of  Life,  that  movcst  upon  the  air  and  upon  the  deep,  enwrap 
them  with  the  mystery  of  thy  breath  ;  for  out  of  Ihce  each  came, 
and  unto  thee  each  shall  return.  Which  is  imperial  now  ?  The 
wild  gigantic  creature  standing  there  with  wild  face  in  all  the 
power  of  maniac  strength,  or  the  feeble  form  that  lies  open 
to  the  fata!  blow  that  is  about  to  come  ?  Heboid  these  two 
children  of  the  prima;val  Adam,  each  with  the  flesh,  blood,  heart, 
and  soul  of  a  man  ;  each  miracnloiisly  made,  breathing  the  same 
air,  feeding  on  the  same  earthly  food;  and  say,  which  is  Abel, 
which  is  Cain  ?  The  look  of  Cain  is  on  the  face  of"  him  who 
stands  erect  and  grips  the  knift — the  look  of  Cain  when  he  over- 
threw the  altar  and  prepared  to  strike  down  his  lanib-hkt?  brother 
in  God's  sight.  .  .  .  Yet  so  surely  as  these  stars  shine  in  heaven, 
it  15  the  wretched  Abel  who  haa  arisen,  snatching,  mad  with 
despair,  the  fratricidal  knife  t 

Feature  by  feature,  line  by  line,  he  reads  the  Emperor^s  face. 
His  gaie  is  fixed  and  awful,  his  face  still  preserves  its  ashen  pallor. 
His  maniacal  abstraction  is  no  less  startling  than  his  frightful 
physical  strength.  He  hears  a  sentry  approach  the  window  and 
pause  for  a  moment,  and  the  knife  is  lifted  mechanically  as  if  to 
strike  ;  but  the  sentry'  passes  by,  and  the  knife  is  dro])pcd.  Then 
he  again  catches  a  movement  from  the  antechamber.  Perhaps 
they  have  heard  sounds,  and  are  approaching — No;  all  again  is 
Still. 

How  soundly  the  Fmperor  sleeps  I  The  lamplight  illumes  his 
face  and  marks  its  weary  lines,  while  the  firelight  casts  a  reel  glow 
around  his  reclining  form.  There  is  no  Imperial  grandeur  here — 
only  a  weary  wight,  tired  out  like  aijy  peasant,  doaing  by  the 
hearth ;  only  a  weak,  sallow,  sickly  creature,  whom  a  strong  man 
could  crush  down  with  a  blow  of  the  hand.  One  hand  lies  on  the 
arm  of  the  chair;  it  is  white  and  smaW,  Ukea.>Noni:u>i%<:i\^Ow\'^t.\ 


666  The  GcntlcmmC  s  Magazine, 

yet  is  it  not  the  hand  that  has  struck  down  Christ  and  the  Saints. 
and  cast  blood  upon  the  shrines  of  God  ?  Is  it  not  the  hand  of 
Cain  who  slew  his  brother  ? 

And  now,  O  assassin,  since  sach  thou  art,  strike  home  !  It  is 
thy  turn  now.  Thou  hast  waited  and  watched  on  wearily  for  this 
— thou  hast  prayed  madly  to  God  and  to  Our  Lady  of  Hate  that 
this  moment  might  come — and  lo  !  the  Lord  has  put  thine  enemy, 
the  enemy  of  thee  and  of  thy  kind,  into  thine  hand.  Kill,  kill, 
kill !  This  is  Napoleon,  whose  spirit  has  gone  forth  like  Cain's  to 
blight  and  make  bloody  the  happy  homes  of  earth  ;  who  has 
wandered  from  east  to  west  knee-deep  in  blood ;  who  has  set  on 
every  land  his  seal  of  flame ;  who  has  cast  in  every  field,  where  once 
the  white  wheat  grew,  the  bones  of  famine  and  the  ashes  of  fire. 
Remember  D'Enghien,  Pichegru,  Palm :  and  kill.  Remember 
Jena,  Eylau ;  and  kill.  Dost  thou  hesitate  ?  Then  remember 
-Moscow !  Remember  the  Beresina,  choked  up  with  its  forty 
thousand  dead  !  Remember  the  thousands  upon  thousands  sleep* 
ing  in  the  great  snows  ! — and  kill,  kill,  kill  I 

Dost  thou  doubt  that  this  is  he,  that  thou  hesitatest  so  long? 
Thy  face  is  tortured,  and  thy  hand  trembles,  and  thy  soul  is  faint. 
Thou  earnest  hither  to  behold  a  Shadow,  an  Image,  a  thing  like  that 
form  of  black  marble  set  up  as  a  symbol  in  the  dark  earth.  Far 
away  the  thing  seemed  colossal,  unreal,  inhuman :  a  portent  with 
the  likeness  of  a  fiend.  So  that  thou  didst  weep,  thinking 
to  grapple  with  the  Execrable.  And  now  thou  art  disarmed,  because 
tUou  seest  only  a  poor  pale  weary  Man  ! 

Think  of  thy  weary  nights  and  famished  days  ;  and  kill.  Think 
of  the  darkness  that  has  come  upon  thy  life,  of  the  sorrow  that  has 
separated  thee  from  all  thou  lovest  best — think  too  of  the  millions 
who  have  cried  even  as  sheep  driven  to  the  slaughter ;  and  kill.  He 
had  no  pity ;  do  thou  have  none.  Remember,  it  is  this  one  life 
against  the  peace  and  happiness  of  earth.  Obliterate  this  creatore, 
and  Man  perhaps  is  saved.  If  he  awakens  again,  War  will  waken  ; 
Fire,  Famine,  and  Slaughter  will  waken  too.     Kill,  kill. 

The  sleeper  stirs  once  more,  his  glazed  eyes  half  open,  and  his 
head  rolls  to  one  side.  His  face  preserves  a  marble  pallor,  but  is  lit 
by  a  strange  sad  smile.  He  murmurs  to  himself,  and  his  small 
hand  opiens  and  shuts — like  a  child's  little  hand  that  clutches  at  the 
butterfly  in  sleep,  when 

One  little  wandering  arm  is  thrown 

At  random  on  the  counteipane. 

And  ofl  the  fingers  close  in  baste 

As  if  their  childish  owner  chased 

The  butterfly  again. 


The  S&adcew  of  the  Sword.  667 

A  crown  or  a  butterfly ! — is  il  not  all  one  ? — and  in  God's  eyes, 
perchance,  lie  wlio  sleeps  here  is  only  a  poor  foolish  child  ! 

Be  that  as  it  may,  God  has  drawn  round  the  sleeper's  form  a 
circle  which  thou  canst  not  pass.  Thine,  indeed,  is  not  the  stuCT  of 
which  savage  assassins  are  mzde,  and  though  there  is  madness  in  thy 
brain,  there  is  stilt  love  in  lliine  heart.  Ki[l  ihou  canst  not  now — 
though  thou  earnest  to  kill.  Lost  as  thou  art,  thou  fcctcst  no  hate 
even  for  thine  enemy,  now  Ihou  knowest  indeed  how  poor  and 
frail  a  cn^atun:  thou  hast  been  fearing^  and  hatin^^  so  long  I  God 
made  him  and  God  sent  him.  Bloody  as  he  is,  he  is  God's 
child. 

Perhaps  if  hn  had  not  prayed  before  he  «!ept,  it  might  have  been 
easier;  but  he  did  pray,  and  his  face  became  beatiSed  for  the 
moment,  and  fcarlc'isty  as  a  child  he  sank  to  rest  Wilt  thou  kill 
what  God  has  sanctified  with  His  sleep  .''  Because  this  sleeper  has 
broken  the  sacraments  of  nature,  wilt  thou  become  as  he  .^  Ko. 
Thou  hast  seen  him  and  tliou  knowcst  him — that  is  enough — thou 

■  wilt  leave  him  in  the  hands  of  God  .  . 
.  .  .  Amen  I    Safely  and  justly  mayst  thou  80  leave  him,  for  the 
vengeance  of  God  is  sure,  as  the  mercy  of  God  is  deep.      One 

•  Spectre  of  a  slain  mau  comes  to  thee  nightly  in  dream ;  how  many 
come  to  him  f     Perhaps  not  one,  though  at  his  bidding  thousands 
upon  thousands  have  been  miserably  slain.     Yet  be  thou  assared 
though  no  ghosts  rise,  the  Spirit  of  Life  will  demand  an  account. 
Look  again  at  the  closed  Imperial  eyes  (  Sec  the  cald  light  sleeping 

■  deep  and  pitiless  on  that  face  that  ruled  a  world  1  To  those  dead 
eyes,  cold  as  a  statm-'s  stony  orbs,  thou,  poor  wretch,  hast  been 
offered  up  by  a  world  grown  mad  like  thcc.  As  an  idol  on  a 
pedestal,  as  an  idol  of  stone  with  dull  dumb  stare  surveying  its  wor- 
shippers, this  man  has  stood  aloft  suprcracly  crowned.  Not  while 
he  stood  up  there  could  llie  Spirit  of  Life  jind  him;  not  till  the 
hands  of  man  have  cast  him  down  shall  the  Spirit  of  (Jod  chasten 
him  and  turn  him  back  to  flesh.  .  .  When  men  go  by  the  place  where 
the  idol  is  Ijing  low,  and  murmur,  beholding  it  broken  upon  the 
ground,  "  This  was  Napoleon  1  the  thing  we  wondered  at  and  wor- 
shipped for  a  lime  I "  and  smiling  turn  away,  M«,  perhaps,  in  the 
cold  breast  the  human  heart  shall  beat  more  pitifully,  humbled  and 
awe-stricken  before  its  Maker.  .  .  .  Turn,  poor  wretch,  ere  thou 
goest,  and  look  again.  There  sleeps  in  that  Imperial  face  no  loving 
living  light,  but  an  inward-eating  fire — a  fire  consuming  and 
destroying,  and  redeeniing  in  its  ovm  despite,  the  soul  on  which  it 
feeds.     He  who  hath  had  no  -mercy  fot  TOaTitmd  >.\^^S\  Vea.'ro.'Cwci 


I 


668 


The  GeniUmafCi  Magazioi, 


bitter  Ip$50n  of  self-nicrcy,  and  realising  his  awn  utter  loneliness 
yearn  outward  to  the  woes  of  all  the  world.  And  in  that  hour  tbit 
cold  light  Ihou  bcholdcst  &hall  spread  throuKh  aU  his  spirit,  and 
become  as  that  mad  sorrow  and  despair  which  lights  now  those 
wretched  eyes  of  thine.  Leave  him  then  to  God,  and  go  tby 
ways. 

.  .  .  The  man  no  longer  holds  the  knife;  on  silent  naked  fret 
he  has  withdrawn  back  towards  the  great  inner  window  of  the 
chamber.  For  a  moment  he  pauses  with  one  last  look — trembling- 
like one  who  having  piimgcd  into  a  raging  sea  is  suddenly  up- 
lifted by  the  hair,  and  gazing  with  wild  e>*es  and  quivering^  lips 
on  the  pale  Imperial  face.  Then  he  draws  back  the  heavy  curtain. 
and  dashing  open  the  casement,  leaps  out  into  the  darkness. 

There  is  a  loud  crj  in  the  distance — then  the  sound  of  shot»^ 
then  a  tramp  of  feet;  and  silence.  The  man  has  disappeared  as 
he  came,  like  a  ghost  of  the  night. 

Meanwhile,  the  sleeper,  startled  by  the  sounds,  has  sprung  up  in 
his  chair.  As  hu  stands  trembling  and  looking  round  him,  there 
lies  glittering  at  his  feel  a  huge  naked  knife,  such  as  hunters  u»e; 
but  ho  sees  it  nol,  and  he  little  dreams  that  such  a  weapon  only  a 
few  minutes  since  was  pointed  at  his  own  heart.  His  attendants 
enter  anxiously,  and  fmd  the  open  window,  but  no  clue  as  to  what 
hand  threw  it  wide  open.  The  hero  of  a  hundred  battles  shivers. 
for  he  is  superstitious,  but  he  cannot  help  them  to  an  expla- 
nation. 

Gut  now,  to  horse.  He  has  rested  too  long,  and  it  will  soon  be 
dawn.  Drums  beat,  and  trumpets  sound  j  so  he  rides  on  through 
the  (lark  night,  his  heavy  travelling  carriage,  surrounded  by  lancers, 
tiavelling  behind.  Leave  him  still  to  God  .  .  .  Close  before  him. 
clouding  the  lurid  star  of  his  destiny,  rises  the  blood-red  shadow, 
Waterloo. 

Kpilogcb. 

A  YHAK  has  passed  away,  llie  yellow  lamps  of  the  broom  aie 
again  burning  on  the  crags;  the  great  cloudsof  sea-birds  r  jc 

from  ihu  south,  to  whiten  the  great  sea-wall;  iIk' com  i  i;^ 

golden  inland,  and  the  lark,  poised  over  the  murmuring  farms,  i* 
singing  loud  ;  while  the  silvern  harvest  of  the  deep  is  growing  too, 
and  the  fishermen  creep  from  calm  to  calm,  galhcring  it  up  in  Ihcir 
brown  nets.  'I'he  sea  is  calm  as  glass,  aiul  every  cng  is  mirrorol 
in  it  from  h.isc  to  brow.  It  is  llic  annivertary  of  the  great  battle 
which  decided  fatally  the  destinies  of  Bonajiarte. 

On  the  suiymil  of  Ihc  cliff,  immediately  overlooking  the  Caibe- 


(Iral  of  Kl.  Gildas,  sit  two  figures,  gazing  downward.  Far  below 
tlieni,  over  the  roofless  cathedral  wall,  hover  florks  of  gulls;  and 
the  still  greon  sua,  faintly  edged  with  foam  that  docs  not  seem  to 
stir,  is  approaching  the  red  granite  Gate  of  St.  Gildas.  Away 
beyond,  farther  lliaii  cyo5  can   sec,  stretches   the   ocean,    faintly 

Iifihnilcd  by  the  soft  grey  mists  of  heaven. 
One  figure,  very  gaunt  and  tall^  sits  like  a  statue,  with  large  grey 
eyes  turned  seaward;  his  hair  is  quite  grey,  and  flows  on  to  his 
bhoulders  ;  his  face  is  marked  with  strange  furrows,  left  by  some 
tCTTihlc  sorrow  or  terror  that  has  passed  away.  The  other  figure, 
that  of  a  beautifid  young  girl,  sits  Just  below  him,  holding  his  hand 
and  looking  up  into  his  face.  She  wears  a  dark  dress  and  saffron 
coif,  both  signs  of  mourning,  and  her  face  is  very  pale. 

Day  after  day,  in  the  golden  summer  weather,  the  two  come  here, 
and  sit  for  hours  in  silence  and  in  peace.  Day  by  day  the  girl 
watches  for  the  passing  away  of  the  cloud  which  obscures  the 
-fioul  of  her  companion.  He  seems — why,  she  knows  not — to  derive 
a  strange  solace  from  merely  sitting  here,  holding  her  hand,  and 
contemplating  the  waters.  His  eyes  scL-m  vactiil,  but  strange 
spiritual  light  stilC  survives  in  their  depths. 

To-day  he  speaks,  not  turning  his  gaze  from  the  sea, 

"Marccllc!" 

"  Yes,  Rohan  ! " 

"  If  one  could  sail,  and  sail,  and  sail,  out  there,  one  would  come 
to  the  rock  where  he  is  sitting,  with  the  waves  all  round  him. 
Sometimes  I  seem  to  see  him  out  yonder,  looking  over  the  black 
waters.  He  is  by  himiself,  and  his  face  looks  white  as  it  did  when 
I  saw  it,  before  the  great  battle  was  fought." 

She  gazes  at  hini  in  troubled  tenderness,  her  eyes  dim  with 
tears. 

"  Rohan,  dear,  of  whom  do  you  speak  •*" 

He  smiles,  but  does  not  answer.  His  words  are  a  mystery  to 
her.  Since  the  day  when,  after  long  montlis  uf  absence,  he 
returned  home  a  broken  man,  he  has  often  s^poken  of  wondrous 
things — of  battles,  of  the  Kmperor,  of  strange  meetings — but  it  has 
all  seemed  like  witless  wandering.  She  has  been  waiting  wearily 
till  the  cloud  should  lift  and  all  grow  clear :  and  there  seems  hope 
- — for  day  by  day  he  ha.s  grown  more  peaceful  and  gentle,  and  now 
he  can  be  guided  like  a  child. 

He  is  silent,  still  gazing  seaward.     Behind  him  rises  the  great 
Menhir,  with    the  village   lying  far  beneath,     'i'he  sunlight  falls 
-above  him  and  around  him,  clolhmg  a& 'nxVV  ;v 'itW  V\^  %.^^i,'»  ■«&&. 


I 


% 


670  The  GentlematCs  Magazine. 

that  of  the  gentle  girl.  All  is  not  lost,  ios  with  his  tribulation  her 
love  has  grown,  and  she  herself  remains  to  him,  chastened,  sub- 
dned,  faithful  unto  death. 

.  .  .  But  he  does  not  rave  when  be  speaks  of  one  who  lingers  in 
the  waste  out  yonder.  Far  away,  under  a  solitary  palm-tree,  sits 
another  Form,  waiting,  watching,  and  dreaming,  while  the  waters 
of  the  deep,  sad  and  strange  as  the  waters  of  Eternity,  stretch 
measureless  around  and  break  with  weaty  murmnrs  at  his  feet. 

So  sit  those  twain,  thousands  of  mUes  apart. 
Each,  cheek  in  hand,  gazing  upon  the  Sea  ! 


THE   END. 


Recovery    of    Palestine. 

BY  W.  HEPWORTH  DIXON. 


v.— SCENERIES  OF  THE   BAPTISM. 

(wo  hours'  amble  on  a  strong-  horsL-  bring-  you  from  thc- 
iiorth  end  of  tlie  D<;a[I  Sea  to  a  ford  on  the  River 
Jordan.  This  ride  is  one  that  no  man  wilh  an  cj-e 
Tor  nature  and  a  soul  for  legend  will  forget  as  lon,?^ 
as  memory  lasts.  If  there  were  not  one  legend  to  light  the  scene, 
the  strange  aspects  of  land  and  water  would  suffice  to  touch  the 
least  romantic  spirit.  Man  and  horsft  are  more  than  fifteen 
hundred  feet  bciow  the  level  of  the  sea  at  Jaffa — twice  that  depth 
below  the  tablc-tand  of  Judah.  Great  limestone  ridges  shut  you 
in ;  bare,  blistering  fronts  of  crc-amy  rock.  Your  road  is  ovt-r 
burning  mart  and  sinking  bitumen.  Behind  you  stretches  the 
lake  of  brine,  in  which  no  living  creature  con  e.^ist.  and  over 
which  the  vulture  sails  wilh  evident  strain  and  stress.  About 
your  feet  lie  broken  bole  and  br-mrh,  relics  of  forests  in  the  iipppr 
lands,  which  have  been  washed  by  floods  or  snapped  by  winds ;  swept 
down  the  river  to  the  lake  ;  stripped  of  their  baik  by  the  sail  waves ; 
and  cast  up  white  and  ghastly  by  the  winter  storms.  Left  of  you,  as 
yuu  prick  through  the  cane  brakes,  spreads  a  narrow,  singular 
plain,  wilh  cones  and  beach  marbi,  showing  the  subsidence,  in 
n>mote  antiquity,  of  a  vast  inland  sea,  of  which  the  present  lake 
is  a  remaining  drop.  A  spring  is  hidden  here  and  there  ;  and  om- 
great  founlain  screes  as  the  head-water  of  a  little  ri^^^lct.  Ruins 
of  many  kinds  are  seen:  here  a  Greek  convent,  there  a  Saracenic 
mill,  anon  a  Turkish  watch-tower.  Heaps  of  sand  fill  up  the 
yards  of  Gilgal;  apples  of  the  Dead  .Sea  thrive  in  the  courts  of 
Jericho.  In  one  spot  you  find  palms.  There  is  not  ranch  greener)' ; 
what  grows  is  sage  bush,  and  near  the  river  margin  salsolas 
and  fugonias— common ty  cJa&sed  as  reeds.  Nat  a  sound  is  heard, 
siive  now  and  then  the  cry  of  an  eagle  and  the  Imrk  of  a  jackal. 
Bej'ond  the  ruins  spring  the  heights  o{  Benjamin  and  Kphraim; 
the  nearer  crest  being  that  mountain  of  the  Temptation  which  is 
called  aftpr  the  Forty  Days.  Here  flows  the  sacred  river — lonely  and 
silent  as  a  uameJess  river  in  the  Kock^  IMQUnUin&t  ^«Unw  ^'o.'i 


Recovery  of  J^alcsiinc. 


m 


r 


slone  faces,  as  they  glare  into  this  great  ravine.  Vet  an  ex- 
perienced eye  finds  hints,  in  little  dark  patches  here  and  there, 
of  shady  ^ove  and  vernal  grass.  Hurt-,  by  the  mound  tif  jmlverisod 
lime,  and  through  yon  thicket  of  trees,  we  drop,  not  far  below 
Kasird  Yahud,  down  the  sleep  bank,  and  find  ourselves  at  the 
ford.  .  Above  this  point,  within  a  pistol-shot,  the  river  makes  a 
bL-nd  or  curve,  and  just  above  this  cun-e  some  ancient  ruins  stand 
in  £ight.  . 

The  spot  is  called  iJethabara  ;  house  of  the  crossing  overj  as  we 
should  say — House  of  the  Ford.  The  ruins  seen  a  little  way  np 
the  stream  are  all  that  remains  of  a  famous  Greek  monastery,  called 
after  SL  John  the  Baptiiit.  "  Mistaken  piety."  says  Robinson,  "seems 
tarly  to  have  fixed  upon  the  spot."  This  hint  about  mistaken  piety 
has  sent  Lieutenant  Conder  in  search  of  another  site  for  his  scene 
of  the  baptism — a  journey  which  our  yonng-  and  energetic  officer 
has  made  in  vain. 

The  evidence  in  favour  of  this  spot  as  the  truc_sccnc  of  John's 
ministry  and  Christ's  baptism  is  overwhelming.    The  chief  points 
lay  be  indicated  in  a  few  words. 

In  the  courts  of  law,  long  and  undisputed  occupancy  is  regarded  as 
the  strongest  proof  of  agood  title.  In  the  courts  of  criticism,  long 
occupancy  and  unchalicngcd  succession  arc  proofs  of  a  sound  claim. 
It  would  not  be  easy  lo  dispute  the  Howard  title  to  Arundel  Castle,  or 
ihectaimof  Millon  to  Ihcauiborshipof  "Paradise  Ix>6t."  Assent  im- 
plies the  original  fact.  Now,  in  case  of  this  Jordan  ford,  the  native 
■converts  in  the  district  claimed  it  very  early  in  ihcir  history  as  a 
jeered  place,  and  they  have  held  this  theory  from  that  early  lime. 
.\ccording  to  the  habit  of  their  countrj-,  they  marktrd  the  spot 
with  boundary  marks — a  tank,  a  convent,  and  a  church.  To  mark 
t!vcnts  by  buildings,  cither  rude  or  splendid,  is  a  fashion  in  the 
East  which  knows  no  change.  Jacob  raised  a  column  in  memory 
of  the  Promise ;  Moses  set  up  twelve  stones  on  Sinai ;  Joshua 
commemorated  the  passage  of  Jordan  by  the  pillar  at  Gilgal ; 
Rachel's  tomb  was  built  lo  keep  her  memory  alive,  and  Solomon's 
Temple  to  inaugurate  the  reign  of  kings.  The  caliphs  of  Cordova 
and  Bagdad  erected  mosques  in  celebration  of  great  events,  and 
their  Oriental  brethren,  the  Tsars  of  Muscovy,  still  erect  churches 
and  convents  in  celebration  of  great  events.  These  buildings 
are  as  much  historical  records  as  the  tables  of  brass  and 
the  Hoabite  stone.  If  those  who  lived  on  the  spot  must  be  held 
-lo  have  known  where  John  baptised  his  followers ;  if  they  marked 
the  site  bja  lanf;,  a  convent,  and  a  church ;  ■and\?\^^^.T».'M.<^<vW- 
K       Vol.  3  Car  iS;0. 


The  GcniUman  s  Magazine. 


m^ 

^^^^e 


lank,  that  convent,  and  that  church  are  still  there — the  evidcncr 
oT  situ  is  (horOHghly  complele.  That  church  bore  the  name  of  John 
the  Baptist,  and  the  ruins  bear  his  name  to  this  ven*  day.  Lieu- 
tcnnnt  Condcr  iDiEht  as  well  seek  to  impnj^  the  site  of  oar  Lad^of 
Walsingham.  the  altar  of  Si.  Tlionuis.  or  the  shrine  of  Edward  the 
Confessor,  as  dispute  the  identity  of  St.  John  the  Baptist's  churrb 
on  the  Jordan  brink. 

Apart  from  the  evidence  to  be  drawn  from  the»c  existing  min«  of 
n  nntivi^  lank  and  an  early  church,  crtlicism  is  compelled  to  mark 
this  spot  as  the  scene  of  John's  ministry  on  g:roandB  purely  topo- 
phical  and  hifitorical.  Jolinhad  lived  tnthe  Witdemessof  Jisdata. 

e  began  to  preach  in  the  Wilderness,  and  when  the  people  came  to 
be  bnpliso<l,  he  went  down  with  [hi-m  to  thv  Jordan,  by  the  one  public 
road  throagh  Jericho ;  Jenualem  and  all  judxa  went  out  to  hhn; 
80  that  the  part  of  Jordan  in  which  John  tmmenicd  his  followen 
lay  close  to  the  Wilderness,    and    convenient   for  the  people  of 
Jerusalem  to  reach.     In  other  respects,  of  a  purely  scienlttic  kind, 
this  ford  on  the  Jordan  was  the  natural,  perhaps  the  necessary  place 
of  John's  ministr}'.    It  is  the  lowest  ford  on  the  river.    Many  fottb 
fT«s*.  the  river ;  some  nf  them  hardly  known:    hut  this  ford  lies 
nearer  to  the  Dead  Sea  than  any  other.     It  is  the  nearest  part  of 
the  river  to  Jericho;  also,  of  conrse,  tojerusaletn.  Hence  it  had  long 
been  the  line  of  Iraftic  from  Macherus  and  the  touns  of  Moab,  as 
well  as  the  caravan  roulo  from  the  north.     A  great  road  ran  wi.^i  of 
Jordan,  by  the  river  bank;  along  which  road  the  men  of  Galilee 
came   to  Jerasalem  for  the  great  feasts;   avoiding  the   hereticsl 
towns  and  dangerous  roatis  of  Samaria.    By  this  river-road,  and 
by  way  of  this  passage,  the   Holy   Family  travelled    every  year 
from   NaKircth   to  Jcmsalcm.     At    the  age  of  thirty  Jesm  mast 
have  been  familiar  with    both  road  and    ford.    Once   rvcr>-  yrax 
He-  crossed  this  ford.    The  bistoriciil  evidence  19  no  leas  cogent 
than  the  topographical.    Oethaharu  had  already  gained  renown  and 
unctit}-,  as  the  point  of  the  great  "  ero^ising  over"  under  loshoa. 
That  passage,    beyond  all  cavil,  here    took  place:    "  i' 
paxacd  over  right  against  Jericho."     Here  the  two  spies  .  ^r 

to  tbo  house  of  Rahab,  here  the  hosts  of  Israel  stood  in  amn-,  and 
tJjL-  .irk,  of  the  covenant  wiiji  plant<;d  in  the  stream,  «"   '  '  ■  i 

p.L.>.-d  over,  the  main  anny  by  llie   ford,   "  nght  a.i: 
There  the  twrlve  men,  chosen  from  tha  twelve  Iribei,  took  gp  the 
twelve  Ktones  from  tin-,  river  bird.     H once  the  people  rrr-'       ■  , 
Gilxa]  (on  their  way  toward)!  Jericho),  where  they  ^'i  up  :.  .n 

stones,  and  placed  the  ark  of  the  covcsaut.    QA^-aX  becane  a  boljr 


Recmtry  of  PaUstittf. 

place,  Uie  crossing  over  a  tj-pical  event.    The  jioinl  of  that  cross- 
ing was  liencrforward  marked  and  sacred. 

The  Gospel  narratives  seem  to  leave  no  duiibl  as  to  the  scene  of 
Joha's  minisln-.  anil  from  the  times  of  the  evangelists  wc  have  a 
chain  of  vritncsscii  to  this  accunicy  of  the  sacred  text. 

IOngen  in  the  second  century,  Eusebiui  in  the  fourth  century, 
refer  to  ihc  ford  at  this  point  as  the  scene  of  John  the  Baptist's 
■linistry.  It  was  near  to  Gilgal,  on  the  high  road  facing  Jericho. 
At  a  dati!  unknown — but  fery  early — a  Greek  church  and  convent 
were  built  on  the  river  bank,  to  mark  the  scene  of  John  the 
Baptist's  tabonr;:.  C<^nvent  and  church  were  dedicated  to  St.  John. 

^Ixi  the  sixth  century  Justinian  dug  a  well  and  fomicd  a  tank 
In  this  convent.  That  tank  is  still  there.  In  the  same  century 
Procopius  me-ntions  these  facts,  adding  that  the  same  emperor 
buill  a  new  ccnivent  in  the  neig^hbourhood.  In  the  seventh 
century  wc  have  a  French  witness.  Bishop  Arculf,  whose  reports  were 
tabt^n  down  by  an  Englisli  writer,  Ahbol  Adainnan.  Bisliop  Arculf 
foand  not  only  the  CJn^k  church  and  convent  of  St.  John  the 
Baptist,  very  much  as  a  traveller  now  finds  the  Greek  convent  of 
Mar  Saba,  but  saw  a  large  wooden  cros^  planted  in  the  stream,  as 
an  indicator  of  the  exact  spot  of  our  Lord's  immersion.  The 
French  bishop  described  the  site  with  care  and  precision.  It  lay  in 
that  |>art  of  the  Jordan  which  Howcd  near  Gilgal  and  opposite 
Jericho.  He  gives  the  breadth,  depth,  and  colour  of  the  water, 
jnstas  T  havr  found  them.  A  little  church  stood  near  the  »pat, 
where  our  Lord  was  thought  to  have  laid  His  clothes.  On  high^ 
ground,  a  little  way  olT,  stood  the  convent  of  St.  John  the  Baptist: 
a  large  and  vrnerablc  pile.  The  date  of  Arculf 's  testimony  is  700. 
Early  in  the  eighth  ccntnry  St.  Willibald,  an  English  saint,  visited 
Palestine,  and  after  passing  some  time  in  Jerusalem  dropped  into 
the  Jordan  valley.  Willibald  found  the  wooden  cross  in  the  river, 
and  the  little  church  on  the  land,  exactly  as  Arculf  had  seen  tJiem 
years  before.  The  spot  was  fixed  with  great  c-xactness — ^five  miles 
from  Gilgal,  one  mik-  belrtw  the  rhurch  .ind  convent  of  St.  John 
the  Baptist.  In  tht  ninth  century  the  place  was  visited  and  de- 
scribed by  Bernard,  who  found  the  Greek  church  still  intact.  In  the 
twelfth  century  Fhocas  says  the  convent  had  been  destroyed  by  an 
earthquake,  and  rebuilt  by  the  Greek  emperor.  It  was  then  sur- 
rounded by  chapels  and  hermitages,  all  of  which  have  disappeared. 
Early  in  the  fourteenth  century  our  countryman.  Sir  John  Mande- 
ville.  described  the  Greek  edifice:  "a  (iiie  church  of  Si,  John  the 
Baptist,  where  he  baptised  our  Lord."  A  hundred  and  fifty  veatsaJX*;? 


676  The  Gcntiauan  s  Magazim. 


Breydenback  found  ihe  edifice  in  rains,  and  the  monks  ■'  t- 

In  till.'  BcventcL-ntli  centurj' the  situation  of  ihosc  ruins  wait  !■  J 

by  oar  countryman  Maundrel :  "  Within  a  fnrlong  of  llie  river,  at 
that  place  where  wc  visited  it,  there  was  an  old  ruined  church  and 
convent  dedicated  lo  St.  John,  in  memory  of  the  baptiHiDK  of  our 
blessed  Lord."  These  rains  are  stiil  visible  ;  1  have  seen  Uicm 
wiih  my  own  eyes. 

The  piety  may  be  mistaken,  but  the  evidence  as  to  Tact  is 
sound. 

With  all  tliis  mass  of  evidence  before  him,  Licmcnant  Conder 
ran  away  in  search  of  a  new  site,  and  fancied  he  foood  ime 
in  the  north,  by  which  the  road  descending  from  W.nly  JahiJ 
crosses  the  Jo«Ian.  "  Nenmc&s  to  daiilec  and  NajEawth" 
is  the  sole  argument  put  forward  by  Lieutenant  Conder  in  sappcvt 
of  this  new  theorj*. 

Lieutenant  Conder  explains  that  his  difficulty  arises  from  a  text, 
which  he  says  liad  not  b«en  prL-viouisly  noted  as  bearing  on  litis 
point.  It  is  a  question  with  him  of  "  time  "  and  "  distance."  He 
supposes  that  the  text  of  St.  John's  gospel  requires  him  lo  find  ttio 
scene  of  the  Baptist  ministry  "  within  thirty  miles  of  Cana  of 
Galilee." 

First,  he  marks  the  "days"  named,  and  then  tuipposcs  their 
sequence.  "The  day  follotting  Jesus  would  go  forth  into  (Jjlili-i-.'* 
Again,  "  On  the  third  day  there  was  a  marriage  in  Cana  of  GalUet!/' 
Jesus,  he  infers,  could  not  have  been  more  than  two  days*  journey 
from  Cana — that  is  to  say,  within  twenty-five  miles  of  that  place. 
The  ford  in  Judx'a  over  the  Jordan  was  Ki.vty  miles  by  the  nearest 
road ;  therefore,  the  baptism  must  have  taken  place  in  llio  laoic 
immediate  neighbourhood  of  Galilee.  Several  fords  cross  this  <-:■  rr 
near  enough  to  Cana  for  Lieutenant  Conder's  purpose,  and  he  i 
on  one  of  the.sc  fords,  lying  at  the  foot  of  Wady  Jelud. 

Like  so  many  difficulties  found  by  Clarke,  Robinson,  and  otbrrs. 
this  difficulty  is  of  the  seeker's  own  making.  Lieutenant  Condct 
asRume.9  that  the  various  "  days  "  mentioned  by  the  r 

consecutive  days,  and  that  the  "third  day"  means  th-  ^■:  t  ui 

one  following  our  I..ord's  baptism.    Nothing  in  tlie  text  sngg 
this  reading  ;  on  the  contrary,  the  facts  related  prove  th;u 
assumption  must  be  incorrect.     Look  at   the  text,  as  it   ■ 
the  authorised  version,  which  in  malicn  of  chronology  n  10  Tair 
agreement  with  all  the  ancient  codices. 

"  The  next  day  "— fir&t  mention  of  time.    (St.  John,  L  ti}.) 

"  Again  the  next  day,"  i.  35. 


i 


"Thpy  abode  with  Him  that  day."  Day  rot  specified,  but  the 
time  h  aftct  the  bapttsin;  appareally  ihc  day  ro]lo\fing  that 
ritt.     i.  3g. 

"They  abode  with  Him  that  day,  for  il  xvas  nboul  liic  tenth 
hour"  i.  39.  The  Alexiindritie  Codex  reads  "  the  sixth  hour,"  which 
would  give  noon,  instt-aci  of  two  hours  before  nightfall.  The  codices 
followed  by  the  authorised  version  are  clearly  right ;  since  the 
reason  assigned  for  Simon  ami  his  fellows  staying  witli  Jesus  that 
night  is  this  lateness  of  the  hour. 

"And  the  third  tiay  there  was  a  marriage  in  Cana  of  Gali* 
lee."    ii.  I. 

If  these  texts  stood  alone,  with  no  illustration  from  other 
writings,  no  one  could  infer  from  ihem  that  the  marriage  in  Cans 
of  Galilee  took  place  on  the  "third"  day — next  day  bat  one 
of  the  bapiism.  It  is  certain  that  John  saluted,  Jesus  on 
the  "second"  day  ("again,  the  next  day"),  wilh  the  annun* 
ciation  "Behold  the  Lamb  of  God!"  It  is  certain  that 
on  that  '-'second  day"  Simon  and  his  fellow  disciples  stayed  in 
the  lodgings  with  Jesus.  On  the  "third  day"  Jcsas  and  these 
chosen  followers  must  have  ri^en  from  sleep,  on  the  spot  of  the 
baptism — not  in  the  hill  country  of  Cana.  It  is,  therefore,  certain 
that  llie  "  third  day  "  of  Si.  John  does  not  mean  the  next  day  but 
one  after  llie  baptismal  rite. 

On  turning  to  the  other  gospels.  Lieutenant  Condcr  will  find 
that  several  days  elapsed  between  the  baptism  and  .the  marriage 
feast.  St.  Matthew  says:  ■'  In  those  ilays  came  John  the  Baptist, 
preaching  in  the  wilderness  of  Judica."  (Matthew  iii.  1.)  "Then 
went  out  to  him  Jerusalem,  and  all  Judaea,  and  all  the  region 
round  about  Jordan."  (Matthew  iii.  5.)  "Then  comelh  Jesus 
from  Galilee  to  Jordan."  (Mallhew  iii.  t^.)  "Then  was  Jesus  led 
up.  .  .  into  the  wilderness  of  Judxa,  and  when  He  had  fasted  forty 
days."  .  .  .  (Matthew  iv.  1,  2.)  "Now,  when  Jesus  heard  that  John 
was  cast  into  prison,  ile  departed  into  Galilee."  (Mark  iv.  la.) 
Mark's  testimony  is  no  less  dear  as  to  time  and  place  than 
Matthew's.  "John  did  baptise  in  the  wilderness."  (t.  5.)  "Jesus 
came  from  Nazareth."  (i.  9.)  "And  He  was  there  in  the  wilder- 
ness forty  days,"  (i.  13.)  "After  that  John  was  put  in  prison, 
Jesus  came  into  Galilee."  (i.  14.}  Luke  confirms  the  slorj-  told 
by  Matthew  and  Mark.  John  was  in  the  wilderness,  (iii.  i.) 
"  He  came  into  the  countrj*  all  about  Jordan."  (iii.  2.)  Jesus  was 
first  baptised  ami  tht;n  carried  up  into  the  wilderness,  (iv.  7.) 
After  ihcsc  cvcnis,  Jesus  returns  to  Galilee.    (\\'.  1  v^ 


i 


• 


678 


Tlic  GtHtltman  $  Magazim. 


All  roar  evangelists  agree  then  in  these  central  facts: — i.  Thit 
the  mimstTj-  of  John  the  Baptist  was  conducted  in  JiiUse^  ;  2.  Th«t 
some  time  elapsed  between  the  baptism  of  ]tsas  and  his  rrturn 
from  Judaia  into  Galilee.  There  was  more  than  one  day,  01  two 
days.  Three  of  the  four  evangelists  %zy  cxpreasly  that  tliis  interval 
included  the  forty  days  of  fasting  and  temptiUton. 

Ltcutcnanl  Conder  cites  no  (p^und  tor  rejecting  tlic  true  Bvllia- 
bant  beyond  his  difficulty  of  seeing  how  3  man  could  br  at  tho 
ford  near  Gilgal  one  day,  and  at  Cana  of  Galilee  on  the  ihirfl  Jajr.. 
As  the  ground  fails  him,  his  argument  drops.  Meaniitnc,  the 
belief  and  practice  of  the  native  church  remain.  To  penona  who 
suspect  monks  of  idle  credulity  and  fruitless  imposture.  '  •• 

the  ruins  of  St.  John  the  Baptist's  tank,  St.  John   Xhv  :'i 

convent,  and  St.  John  the  Baptist's  church- 

vEsox. 

A  second  site  is  named  a$  one  of  the  scenes  of  John's  ministry — 
^non  Dear  to  Salem.  Here  again  there  is  debate,  and  here 
Lieutenant  Conder  has  in  my  opinion  lo«t  bis  way.  iCtiun  iv 
intensitivc  form  of  Atn.  Ain  means  spring  or  fountain  ;  ^non  a 
place  where  there  is  much  water.  In  Palestine  names  arc  not 
accidental,  but  descriptive,  and  for  the  most  part  descriptive  of 
natural  features.  John  the  Baptist  "was  baptising  in  /h'oon  nev 
to  Salem,  because  there  was  much  water  there."  This  pa»Mgc  i» 
of  highest  interest,  both  in  a  personal  and  a  dogmatic  aen«e. 
Here,  and  here  only,  we  have  a  second  meeting  of  Jostw  a- 
a  second  testimony  of  the  Forerunner  to  tJic  Messianic  cL.  'f  1 

his  cousin.  Here  we  learn  the  striking  fact  that  Jesus  ncvnr  bap- 
tised, though  He  sulTered  His  disciples  to  baptise  in  His  pr 
and  His  name.  Where  was  this  .Knon  near  to  Salcm  ?  Here, 
if  wc  can  fix  the  .site,  we  get  at  one  of  the  cardinal  fact*  for  a  true 
itinerary  of  our  Lord. 

Lieutenant  Conder  ventures  on  a  strong  opinion  on  thbt  pouii, 
which  seems  to  me  a  serious  error;  and  as  Lieutenant  L'ondcr'j 
opinion  has  been  published  without  a  word  of  winiiog  ro  tl 
Qoaitertjr  Stalement  of  the  Palestine  Exploration  Faod.  Kts 
opinion  may  be  taken  by  careless  readers  as  fhr  (lelibcraic  vui 
of  the  many  eoiInenL  scholars  who  compose  iJiai  society.  Of ' 
such  taking  would  be  wrong.  Ueutenam  Conder  »pcakt  fm  on 
one  but  himself.  His  laboun  in  his  own  field  are  cicuUciK; 
kc  Is  an  engineer,  not  a  critic  of  phrasei :  and  hii  RWbm 
identification,  as  wc  see,  are  aometimes  very  wide  of  the  maik. 


Kccove-ry  vf  Palestine, 


679 


"The  theories  proposed  for  ilic  itientification  of  yKuon,"  says 
Lieulenaut  Conder,  "arc  ihrcu;"  but  tliuru  arc  iiiarc  ihcorie-i  than 
LifUtcnaat  Ccmder  know^.  In  fact,  he  overlooks  the  only  site. 
that  ill  southern  Juda;a,  which  can  bv  firmly  hc-kl  to  disputi-  the 
palm  \iith  the  true  site  In  W'ady  Salem,  near  Mount  Otivel. 

.      Whcru  was  the  real  ^non  near  to  Sulcm  ? 

'  Only  once  named  in  Scripiuri;.  /Kiion  receives  no  iliuiitratioii 
from  the  SacrL-d  Text.  Salem,  or  Saliiu,  on  tlie  other  side,  i8  a 
common  name.  Salem  was  the  ori{final  name  of  Zion,  and  in 
poetry  eonlinued  to  be  so  until  later  limcsi.  There  was  a  Saiim  in 
the  soutliern  pari  of  Jud.ih  ;  ;i  Salem  in  the^wildcmess  on  the  road 
to  Jericho  ;  a  SaLem  in  ilie  neighbuurbood  ol'  Mount  £bal ;  aiid  a 
Salem  not  far  from  Bethbhan.  Saleui  was  sometimes  U!>ed  in  place 
of  Shcehcm,  a*  it  was  in  place  of  Jerusakm.  Tin-  dilliculty  is  to 
find  a  Salem  in  llic  vicinity  of  Abundant  Water,  which  will,  ia 
oilier  n.'spect».  meet  the  condition  of  the  Gospel  narrativo.  Foar 
theories  are  strongly  i^upported. 

1.  yVw  oliifsi  thtQiy  is  llial  v/ JCustifius. — The  Syrian JBishop  places 
j^non  near  to  SaCcm,  in  the  Jordan  valley,  eight  miles  north  of  the 
city,  which  in  his  day  bore  the  name  of  Scythopoh's.  This  city 
stood  in  the  country  of  Is^acliar.  in  the  province  of  Galilee,  not 
far  from  the  borders  of  Stunaria.  It  was  built  on  the  she  of 
Sethshau. — {O/iomasurcn,  sub  I'ott,  ^naa.) 

Kuscbius  lived  in  the  third  century  and  was  a  nativ'c  of  the  soiL 
A  bishop  of  Caesarca,  he  had  every  means  of  collecting  what  was 
known  about  the  holy  places,  and  he  wrote  a  special  work  on  the 
subject  It  is  hard  to  stand  out  ag^ainst  the  authority  of  Mich  a 
man.  Van  de  Veldu  and  Grove  folluwed  liiui.  Van  de  Velde 
found  a  place  called  Salem  in  liu-  district  indicated  by  Ilustbiua 
He  also  found  spriiijps,  and  "abundance  of  water." 

2.  77ie  uco^ttd  theory  is  thai  0/  Wiestier. — Finding  Eusebius  in  con- 
tradiction with  the  Sacred  Text,  this  critic  sought  for  the  site  in 
Judaja.  Now  an  Ain  is  mentioned  in  Joshua  xv.  32,  in  close 
connection  with  a  Salim  and  a  Rimroon.  These  places  lay  in  the 
southern  part  of  the  country  of  Judah,  afterwards  of  Simeon. 
Now  there  is  an  F.non,  in  the  south  countrj'.  near  to  Rimmon  of 
Simeon,  which  Wieseler  contends  is  but  a  conLraction  of  £x- 
Kunmoi).  The  name  of  Salem  has  disappeared;  but  here  lies  a 
great  pool  or  reservoir,  which  forms  a  centre  of  attraction  10  all 
the  wanderini?  tribes.  KwaUl,  .\lford,  and  Pressenst?  adopt  this 
theory,  of  which  Lieutenant  Conder  has  not  yet  heard. 

3.  7'A£  third  theory  is  thai  of  Robinson. — Rejeciir.i:  Kusebius  and 


The  GenilemmC  $  Alagasine. 

Wicseler.  Ihc  American  critic  suggested  a  site  for  Jobn's  miDistrr 
abuut  three  miles  eastward  of  Nataltts.  Hcru-  stands  a  modem 
village  called  Kefr  Salem  or  Shalcm.  There  is  a  village  called 
Ain-im.  There  arc  no  '*  abundant "  waiters  at  cither  Salem  or 
Ain-Lm;  but  some  four  miles  to  the  south  of  Ain-im.  in  the  Wadr 
Farih,  tliere  are  copious  springs.  This  site  is  adopted  bj-  Stanlrr 
and  Conder. 

4.  Tht  fourth  Ihtery  it  thai  of  Barclay, — Unable  10  adopt  any  of 
these  theories,  Barclay  sought  through  the  region  pointed  out  by 
the  Gospel  narratives,  and  vras  fortunate  cnougli  to  I'lnd  a  Salem  in 
the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  /Eiton,  a  great  spring,  called  by 
the  natives  Ain  Farah.  Here  were  abundant  waters.  This  Salem,  or 
Sclcim,  lies  on  the  cast  of  Scopus,  in  a  rugged  ravine,  lonely  an-J 
savage  as  the  stony  parts  of  judali,  which  drops  into  the  Wady 
Kelt — tlie  ancient  River  Cherilh — a  |>lace  of  singular  interest  to  a 
Nazaritc  like  John.  Two  natural  gorges  lead  from  Jerusalem  to 
Jericho:  one  round  the  northern  slope  of  Olivet,  and  by  way  of 
Bethany,  down  the  Wady  el  Hanx" ;  a  second  by  the  northern 
Blopc  of  Olivctf  and  by  way  of  Ain  Farah,  down  the  Wady  Salem. 
Both  fill!  into  the  Wady  Kelt.  The  first  was  an  easier,  the  second 
a  shorter  line.  Koman  science  .had  been  used  to  make  the  im|}cnal 
read  through  Betliany  safe  for  chariot  and  borsemcHt  while  the 
second  road  remained  a  shepherd's  track,  onlyto  be  passed  by  m' 
on  foot.  The  springs  rose  on  this  peasant's  track,  three  miles  froi 
the  brow  of  Olivet.  Such  is  the  situation  of  liarvlay^s  .-Knoo. 
This  theorj-  is  adopted  by  Porter  and  many  other  writers.  Study 
on  the  spot  convinced  mc  that  this  site — and  no  other — mectsall  the 
re<|Uircments  of  thr  Gospol  histories.     {Hoiy  Land,  Vi.  b-j.) 

Let  me  sc;m  the  evidence.  /Enon  being  mentioned  only  once 
in  the  Gospel,  no  side  light  can  be  thrown  on  the  site  by  other 
texts  than  those  contained  in  the  third  chapter  of  St.  John.  To 
this  text  cvi-ry  point  roust  ht*  referred. 

I.  Fortunately,  the  Sacred  Text  supplies  a  limit  line  within  which 
we  must  seek  the  site.  This  limit  is  the  boundar)'  of  jndata.  If 
any  similar  fact  is  staled  by  John  with  literal  precision,  it  is  this 
fait — that  John  the  itaptitit  was  labouring  in  Judxa. 

"After  these  things  rame  Jesus  and  His  disciples  into  the  land  of 
Judu^a,  and  there  He  t-irried  wiih  them  and  baptised,  and  John  ol 
was  b.iptising  in  .£non,  near  to  Salim.  because  ihcrc  wu  much 
ivater  tbfrc." 

The  sajne  local  accuaQ-  of  louch  Jc8cnbe«  our  Lord's  going 
away. 


-lit; 


Rccovay  of  PaUstitii. 


681 


■So  \ 


•'  Wlion  the  Lord  knew  how  Ihc  Tharisecs  had  heard  that  Jcsas 
made  and  baptised  more  disciples  than  John  (tlioiigh  Jesus  himself 
baptised  not,  but  only  His  disciples),  He  left  Judaa  and  departed 
again  into  Galikc." 

Two  facts  are  placed  by  these  texts  beyond  dispute,  i.  John 
in  Juda-'a.  1.  John  was  at  j'Enoti.  near  to  Salim.  /Knon,  near 
Sak-m,  ivas  therefore  in  Judxa ;  tlic  words  of  our  Evangelist 
exclude  all  Ains  and  Salems  which  lie  beyond  the  frontiers  of 
Judaea;  then,  the  theories  of  Kuscl>iu3  and  Robinson,  failing  to 
harmonise  with  the  Sacred  Te.tt,  must  be  dismissed.  Wieseler's 
theory  is  not  in  direct  opposition  to  St.  John.  His  Aiii  Schilhim, 
and  Rimmon  were  in  Judaia.  There  was  water  there.  The  pool  or 
reservoir  is  not  many  miles  south  of  Hebron,  which  an  early 
Church  tradition  connects  with  John  the  Baptist;  yet  the  spot  lies 
sooth  of  the  farthest  limit  ever  given  in  ancient  Church  hisiorj'  to 
the  Riplisl"s  work.  Il  is  a  Tronlier  place,  never  Ukcly  to  have  been 
occupied  by  many  Jcm's.  It  is  too  far  away  from  Jerusalem.  Bar- 
clay's iilcntificiJtion  answers  to  cveri-word  in  the  Sacrod  Text.  It  is 
in  Juda^8.  It  is  in  the  district  where  John  passed  ht^  youth.  It  is 
near  Jerusalem,  and  the  great  Roman  road  to  Jericho.  Vet.  while 
near  to  Olivet  and  Bethany,  it  is  a  lonely  place,  not  frequented  by 
princes  and  hiorh-priirsts.  It  is  on  a  short  line  from  Zion 
lo  Jericho ;  the  road  of  shepherds,  peasants,  and  poor  pilgrims. 
There  was  plenty  nf  water  then,  as  there  is  plenty  of  water  now. 

These  springs  near  Olivet  being  found,  there  need  be  no  further 
dispute  about  the  site  indicated  in  the  narrative  of  St.  John. 

If  this  identification  were  allowed,  we  should  recover  a  sug- 
gestive fact  in  the  itinemrics  of  our  Lord — a  subject  full  of 
difficulty,  and  to  wliich  hardly  any  serious  attention  has  yet  been 
paid.  The  yearly  caravans  of  pilgrims  for  the  Passover  travelled 
from  the  gaten  of  Jericho  by  way  of  the  great  Roman  road  to 
Bethany  and  Jerusalem,  and  it  is  assumed  that  our  Lord  and  His 
disciples  always  took  that  imperial  road.  The  text  of  St.  John 
implies  that  He  passed  near  the  scene  of  John's  ministry — that  is  to 
say,  taking  the  peasant's  track,  not  along  the  Roman  road.  Such 
a  tlicoT}' would  unite  with  all  the  facts  of  His  career.  We  know 
that  He  avoided  imperial  roads  and  cities.  He  nevt-r  entered 
Sephoris,  capital  of  irppcr  Calilcc.  He  never  entered  TibL-rias, 
capital  of  Lower  Galilee.  He  passed  the  whole  of  His  life  in  the 
vicinity  of  these  prrat  cities.  Sephoris  was  only  an  hour's  wait 
from  Nazareth.  Tiberias  was  visible  not  only  from  the  lake,  but 
ixom  aJinosJ  ever?'  I'illagc  on  the  banks.    U  was  a  mete  &tc^  Ccam. 


L 


C82  The  GcntkniarC s  Maoazinc. 


A 


1.  ; 


^lajftlala,  and  hardly  an  hour's  walk  from  Capernaum.     Yet  H 
i!  never  set  His  foot  within  their  gates.     Shechem  and  Jemsalei 

\  were  treated  in  much  the  sanm  style.     He  sat  outside  the  gates  o 

■'  Shechem  while  His  disciples  went  in  on  duty;  but  the  duty  dom 

];  He  went  away.   It  Is  not  known  that  He  ever  slept  one  night  witbi 

the  city  walls.  Many  things,  therefore,  suggest  that,  at  a  momci] 
when  the  Lord  was  being  closely  watched  by  emissaries  of  th 
Sanhedrin,  He  -might  avoid  the  imperial  road  from  Jericho,  ani 
take  the  more  rugged  track  used  by  shepherds  and  peasants.  Thi 
mountain  road  would  bring  him  up  Wady  Salera,  near  to  that  jEnoi 
where  John  was  baptising.  Fix  St.  John's  vEnon  at  the  prescn 
Ain  Farah,  as  the  text  suggests,  and  the  itinerary  becomes  cteai 
Jesus  and  His  disciples  would  ascend  into  the  hill  country,  by  thi 
valley  lying  to  the  south  of  the  mountain  of  the  Temptation 
This  valley  forks  a  little  way  below  Salem:  one  prong  climbing  uf 
y  towards  Olivet,  the  other  towards  Geba  and  Bethel.     Jesus  anc 

His  disciples  came  from  Galilee,  by  the  Jordan  road,  "  into  the  lane 
of  Judaea"  ;  the  land  meaning  the  country  parts,  as  distinct  fron 
the  imperial  town.  He  did  not  reach  Jerusalem.  The  wholt 
narrative  implies  that  He  was  forced  by  the  Pharisees  to  escape 
"  When,  therefore,  the  Lord  knew  how  the  Pharisees  had  hean 
that  Jesus  made  and  baptised  more  disciples  than  John  .  .  .  Ht 
left  Judaea,  and  departed  again  into  Galilee."  Nor  could  He  safel} 
turn  back,  and  take  the  usual  road  by  the  Jordan  bank.  "  H( 
must  needs  go  through  Samaria."  If  our  Lord  turned  His  joumc] 
at  Salem,  He  would  pass  up  to  Bethel,  and  thence  to  Jacob's  hill  ii 
the  neighbourhood  of  Shechem. 


The  Polynesian  in  Queensland, 
by  william  senior  (red  spinner). 

NK  of  the  burning  questions  in  Queensland  politics 
is  that  uf  ihe  employment  of  Tolynesian 
labourers  or  Kanakas  in  the  colony,  and  should 
ibe  present  iMinistry  go  to  the  countrj",  as  it  is 
very  litcly  to  do  bcfnn^  many  months,  very  few  candidates  will 
have  the  ghost  of  a  chance  unli-<!«  opposition  to  the  South  Sea 
Islander  stand  parlof  their  pro^Tainiue.  It  is  a  question  in  Australia 
pecaltarto  Queensland.  Queensland  has  the  gold,  the  copper,  the 
liD,  the  wool,  the  hides  in  common  with  other  colonics;  but  it 
boasts  as  a  very  exclusive  advantage  the  ability  to  grow  sugar  and 
many  other  tropical  and  semi-tropical  products.  When  cotton 
failed— not  because  cotton,  and  good  cotton  fjo.  could  not  be 
grown  in  Queensland,  but  because  the  scarcity  of  labour  rendered 
it  impossible  for  tlic  producer  to  compete  with  the  Southeni  Slates 
of  America — the  age  of  sugar  set  in.  An  Act  was  |>asscd  legalising 
and  protecting  the  introduction  of  South  Sea  Islanders,  and  the 
Kanaka  boys  were  soon  to  be  .seen  upon  the  Kugar  plantations, 
apparently  happily  and  certainly  diligendy  cultivating  the  cane  and 
converting  it  into  sugar.  The  boys  were  to  be  hail  cheap,  and 
soon  they  were  hireil  for  other  spheres  than  !>iigar  plantations. 
Kmployers  of  various  kinds  were  found  to  like  these  dusky 
strangers,  and  they  were  encouraged.  Then  the  white  working 
man  uprose  and  protested  against  the  Government  supporting  such 
a  system  uf  eiuigraliun,  and  jutit  now  a  very  popular  cr}'  is 
"Kuropean  labour  is  being  ruined  and  the  white  labourer  starved 
by  the  employment  of  Polynesians  off  the  sugar  plantations."  The 
Government  have  been  forced  in  conscf|ucncc  to  introduce  a  Bill 
to  amend  their  former  Act. 

The  humanitarians,  as  we  are  in  the  habit  at  home  of  icrraing 
them,  making  common  cause  with  the  working  men,  have  de- 
nounced the  sysirm  as  one  of  slavery,  and  have  declared  that  the 
Polj-ncsians  are  badly  treated.  A  member  of  Parliament  during 
the  present  session  stated  In  the  House  that  if  the  Polynesian 
labour  system  were  known,  with  all  its  inii|uitics,  in  Kngland. 
Exeter  HaiJ  would  rise  in  its  ttught,  and  tUe  Colonial  Sccttitacv'a 


I 


oHlcc  in  Downing  Street  would  be  bcsiegtid  ^ritli  indignant  tlcpu- 
tationibts. 

Having   no   prejudices   one   way   or  Ihe   other,     it    is    diOicult 
for   a    man    like    tnyscif  to    decide    what    all    the  disturbanci* 
means.     On  the  face  of  it,  it  is  a  little  anexplainable.    The  oppo- 
nents of  the  system  say  that  the  Kanakas  are  allowed  to  die  off 
like  rotten  sheep,  and  liken  their  cmploj-crs  to  Simon    Lcgrec. 
But  there  is  scarcely  a  tittle  of  evidence  to  support  this  view. 
Isolated  cases  of  ill-trcatmcnt  there  may  be  even  now,  but  the  lai| 
is  strict  and  ample,  and  the  Polynesians,  from  the  momerit  of 
arrival  to  the  expiration  of  their  term  of  labour,  are  under  the  eye 
of  the  Oovcmmcnt.    Away  in  the  Interior,  wliere  an    cmpU 
would  have  to  ride  fifty  miles  before  he  could  find  his  m 
neighbour*!)  house,  high-handed  dcc<ls  may  be  possible,  just  as  in 
certain  industries  at  home  abuses  may  creep  in  ;  but  the  advocate* 
of  the  system,  when  on  their  defence,  defy  their  accusers  to  prove 
that  the  ill-treatment  of  Kanakas  is  anything   but  an  extrernfly 
cxccptional  occurrence.     The  opponents  of  Polynesian  labour  say 
the    men    arc    kidnapped,    ilUreateJ  irfaen    in  the   colony,   and 
dangerous    rivals  to  while   labour.     The   employers  of    Kana 
demand  proof  instead  of  declamation,  and  point  to  the  laws  whicl 
hedge  the  sj-stcm  about,  and  they  go  further  and  ask  "  Is  not  this 
a  free  country  r     Have  I  not  the  right  of  employing  an  obedit-ni 
servant  who  answers  my  purpoiie,  and  who,  instead  nf  being  my 
master  and  pulling  his  hands  in  bis  pockets  and  walking  off  at  a 
critical  lime  should  I  ever  dare  lo  control  him,  works  cheerfully 
and  submi5si%-ely,  giving   me  no   insolence,   and  a  minimum    of 
trouble?"     It  is  agreed   amongst  both    parties   that    without   the 
Polynesians  there  can  be  no  sugar.    While  men  cannot,  will  not, 
and  do  not  work  in  the  plantations  under  a  terrible  sun,  and  tbey 
are  quite  content  to  nse  the  darkey  in  the  fit-Id :  some  pcrstm*.  I 
suppose,  would  be  ill-natured  enough  to  say — use  him  for  their 
ovm  ends.    It  is  when  the  Kanaka  gels  into  s  storu  at  porter  or 
waggoner,  or  into  agricultural  or  pastoral  pursuits,  thai  he  is  to  b«  j 
suppressed,  lest  he  should  jnterfea- with  the  white  man  and    bif^ 
high  wages. 

Let  us  sec  about  the  kidnanpmg.  I  am,  let  as  say,  a  mik^^j 
planter  on  the  Mary  River,  and  ri-qnire  twenty,  thirty,  or  fort) 
Kanakas.  I  make  my  wants  known  to  the  proper  agents  ai  Mary- 
borough or  Brisbane.  Other  employer?  having  done  the  same,  ibe 
agents  go  lo  the  Colonial  Sccrctarj*  and  dec  lare  that  ihcy  rcqniri-  for 
bonJ  0de  purposes,  as  defined  by  the  Act.  a  certain  number  of  Sontli 


The  Polynesian  in  Queertsland. 

Sea  Islanders.  The  Minister  being  satisfied  gives  govrmmcntal 
permission  to  bring  the  PoljTiesians  into  the  colony,  and  the  appli- 
cant enters  into  a  bond  to  bring  them  proijcrly.  The  agents  forth- 
with despatch  a  recruiting  vessel,  generally  a  small  topsail  schooner, 
lo  the  Soulh  Seas,  their  remuneration  being  such  a  sum  per  head 
as  may  have  been  agreed  upon  between  themselves  and  the 
employers  up  countrj".  What  now  is  to  hinder  the  captain  of  the 
recruiting  vessel  from  obtaining  his  Polynesians  by  huuk  or  crook  ? 
Simply  this :  every  recruiting  vessel  carries  on  board  a  Governmenl 
officer,  whose  spcciai  business  it  is  to  see  that  no  native  is  taken  on 
boardagainst  his  will. and  (presuming  foramomcntthat  the  cruise  has 
been  successful)  the  inlander  is  furthirr  protected  on  his  arrival  by  the 
Government  emigration  agent,  who  boards  the  vessel,  satijifies  him- 
self that  the  passengers  have  come  of  their  owti  free  will,  that  their 
relations  with  their  future  employers  are  explained  and  ratified  by 
a  legal  document  ioterpreted  to  ihcm,  and  signed,  sealed,  and 
delivered  by  the  contracting  parties.  With  these  precautions  it  is 
diflicult  to  see  where  the  "kidnapping"  comes  in;  because, 
granted  the  possibility  of  a  number  of  natives  being  forced  on 
board  by  their  chief  "  for  a  considt;ration,"  thert'  is  Ihc  lynx-eyed 
emigration  agent  in  the  Queensland  ports  to  see  that  the  men  are 
immigrants  of  their  own  free  will. 

Tit  return  to  tlie  recruiting  ship-  I  envy  that  Government  officer 
bis  cruise  amongst  the  lovely  islands  of  the  Suutb  Pacific.  Some- 
times the  recruiting  parlies  gel  spears  and  arrows  instead  of 
labourers  ;  they  pay  for  the  misdeeds  of  others  with  their  lives,  as 
Hishop  Patteson  and  Commodore  Goodcnough  did.  Happily  the 
niiJiW  (/VVf?  of  these  "massacres"  is  justly  recognised  now  as  an 
evil  that  time  will  cure^  and  the  Queensland  recruiter  is  fully  aware 
that  his  business  requires  that  he  should  carry  his  life  in  his  hands, 
and  that  at  any  moment  he  may  have  lo  suffer  for  the  bnitaiitics  of 
other  white  men  from  other  countries.  Three  limes  duiing  the  past 
six  months  reports  of  murderous  attacks  by  the  islanders  have  reached 
Queensland,  nnd  two  of  them  were  unfortunatelybut  too  well  founded. 
One  of  iheni  1  will  quote  as  a  typical  case,  resulting  in  the  murder 
of  Captain  Anderson.  It  is  unfortunately  evident  that  the  poor 
fellow  met  with  Ins  death  entirely  from  his  own  conduct.  During 
the  night,  off  one  of  the  islands,  a  couple  of  natives  who  had 
been  brought  on  board  as  rccniits  swam  ashore  (as  they  are  ciiiite 
at  liberty  to  do  if  they  have  been  forced  on  board  against  their  will), 
and  Anderson  and  the  Government  agent  went  ashore  to  recover 
them.     The  chief  of  the  tribe  met  them  saying  that  his  mca  did 


k 


686 


71u  GaUlcman^s  Magazine.. 


not  wish  to  j;o  to  Qaecnslanil  Tor  three  yean — the  ntnal  term 
srn-itude.     Some  dispute  occorred  about  a  couple  of  shins  whidl 
had  been  supplied  Ut  the  men,  and  the  oiptain  pushtxl  bis  nj- 
from  the  beach  to  the    village — itnpradcnce    number    c>ntf.       Hr 
insTTited,  in  temper,  upon  havinp:  a  pig  id  lien  of  a  IcQiTc  supplied 
to  one  of  the  runaways — loss  of  temper  heinp  impnidrncc  nomticr 
two,     A  pig-  was  being  led  by  at  the  time,  and  the  captain  ordcfcd 
a  conptc  of  his  nalice  crew  to  seize  it— imprudence  number  (btre. 
One  of  the  tribe  claimed  the  pig,  and  another  cut  the  thoag  and 
set  it  at  liberty.     The  cnplniii  then  orders  the  boatman  to  catcb  iL 
and  boatman  draws  his  revolver  and  pursues  the  native  who  faaseia 
the  strinp; — imprudence  number  four,  and  worst  of  all.  GovemmeM 
officer  takes  away  revolver,  while  chief  rushes  frantic   with  ragt 
towards  the  recruiting  party.     The  mischief  i;,  however,  done. 
Anderson  draws  his  revolver  (improdence  number  five)  and  a  tmUe 
ensues,  during  which  he  receives  eight  tomahawk  wounds,  any  on*- 
of  which  i*t  snfllinent  to  ctluw.  tir.'ath.  and  the  Government  agent  fUe* 
for  his  life,  and  escapes  in  a  marvellous  manner  to  tell  the  sad 
tale. 

Not  loni;  after  the  news  arrive-s,  on  the  authority  of  a  missionaiy 

ship,  that  another  schooner,  the  Afay  Quern,  has  been  aiL-M-ljii^ 

and  burnt  on  the  island  of  Tanna,  and  all  hands  killed  and  cttaa. 

We  had  a  few  weeks  before  seen  the  little  schooner  sail  fron  Tlrn- 

bane,  and  the  captain  and  Government  agent  were  well  known  in 

the  city.    There  was  naturally  great  excitement,  and  in  Ihc  shop 

windows  of  one  of  the  leading  opponents  of  the  sj-slem  specdilr 

appeared  the  photograph  of  the  murdered  captain,  with  the  te»- 

Bational  inscription — "Another  vittjm.    Killed  and  eaten."    Thnc 

weeks  later  the  May  Qu^en  arrived  in  the  Brisbane  river,  all  nfe 

and  sound,  and  as  I  write  these  words   the  Tanna  islandere  ar« 

sineing  joyously  in  the  moonlight,  as  merr)- and  happy  aii  pcop 

can  be.  while  in  this  evening's  paper   I  read  that  the  murde 

captain   proceeded  against  the    anti -Polynesian  shoi>keeper  iot 

libel   A  prvpot  of    the   exhibited    photograph    aitd    aensati 

inscription.     It  cannot  be  denied  that  recruiting  is  a  risky  bui 

nesa,  and  nobody  attempts  to  deny  it :  bat  exttavoganl  exeitcmcnt 

one  way  or  another  defeats  a  good  object. 

A  week's  sojourn  upon  three  sugar  plantations  ha*  aflbrdcd 
the  opportunity  of  seeing  these',  blandcrs'  at  M'ork  in  a  Mtsd, 
land.     Certain    it    i»    that    whoever    regards    thetn   as    f" 
napped  wretches,  ihe>-  Ihcmsclvps  do  not  think  Ihey  art  .  _: 

of  the  kind.    They  are  Uko  big  chUdrcD.  vciy  poMtDQate  sotne- 


1 


The  Polynesian  in  Qiuenshnd.  687 ' 

times,  and  very  ilocilc  as  a  rale.  I  saw  [hem  amongst  the  graceful 
foliage  of  ihe  cane,  in  the  cni^ihing  mills,  and  at  the  wharves, 
latKHiring  with  laughter  and  hou;^,  well  clothed,  well  fed.  and  with- 
out any  apparent  care.  Wc  had  a  couple  of  them  for  a  tlar  or 
two  pullint?  *"^'"  ^^^^^  on  the  Albert  River  while  we  shot  duck, 
ndbill,  and  an  odd  native  bear  or  so,  and  their  enthusiasm 
iihenevcr  a  particularly  good  shot  was  made  was  fresh  and  _ 
jofotts  35  that  of  a  uhild.  Nothing  pleases  them  better  than  when  I 
niassa  ^ives  them  a  charge  or  two  of  shot,  or  a  fishing  hooli. 
for  Sunday  use.  (Jne  day  down  by  the  Seaside  I  suddenly,  at 
the  lum  of  a  cliff,  came  upon  fivc-and-twcnty  standing  waist  deep 
in  the  surf,  fishing  for  whiting,  and  when  they  left  off  to  cat  their 
midday  mea!  of  ricf  :iiid  fish  I  smoked  a  pipe  at  their  camp  firi,-, 
and  was  made  heartily  welcome  by  my  hosts,  whose  clothing  went 
no  further  than  a  small  strip  of  calico  round  the  loins.  1  have  seen 
the  Kanakas  in  Brisbane  when  they  h.-tdconiplcled  their  three  years 
of  ser^-ice.  dressed  in  broadcloth  and  always  radiant  in  gaily 
coloured  necktie,  smoking  their  cigarn,  and  spending  their  wages 
(^'iS  for  the  three  years)  in  single-barrel  guns,  ammunition,  headH, 
or  some  article  that  will  serve  them  better  than  coin  when  they 
reach  their  island  home.  To  my  knowledge  many  do  not  rettim, 
preferring  to  remain  in  the  colony  :  others  come  back  again  bring- 
ing their  friends  with  thrm.  Some:  of  my  Friends  have  a  Kanaka 
boj-  about  their  houses  io  groom  the  horse,  or  nurse  the  childrrn, 
and  they  have  perfect  confidence  in  them.  Two  or  three  ladies  of 
my  acquaintance,  moved  to  the  (rxi>crimcnt  by  the  success  of  others 
in  the  same  direction,  have  sent  for  South  .Sea  girls  for  domestic 
servants.  I  grant  1  may  have  seen  the  system  at  its  best ;  bnt  the 
general  opinion  of  persons  who  have  been  intimately  acquainted 
with  ir.  for  years  tallies  with  mine. 

It  is  admitted,  no  doubt,  that  when  the  islanders  are  taken  into 
the  interior  they  ought  to  be  looked  well  after,  for  the  very  nature 
of  the  system  gives  the  employer  notions  of  proprietorship.    1  have 
myself  heard    men   speak  of  themselves  as    "owners"   of  iheir 
Kanaka  hands.    The  Legislature  are  fully  olive  to  this,  and  have 
placed  a  Bill  upon  the  table  "  to  make   further  provisions  for^ 
securing  to  Polynesian  labourers  proper  treatment  and  protection, 
and  the  due  payment  of  their  wages."     They  wish,  in  short,  to 
make  a-ssurance  doubly  sure,  and  one  of  the  most  important  clauses  ■ 
restricts  the  employment  of  the  Polynesian  to  within  thirty  miles  of  " 
the  sea  coast  without  a  special   permit  from  the  Home  Secretary. 
The  captain  of  the  recruiting  ship  will  also  have  to  pay  jTq  to  tbtft  J 


I 


688  The  Gaii/cman' s  Magazine. 

emigration  agent  on  behalf  of  each  labourer  on  arrival,  to  secure 
his  return  passage  money.  In  some  cases,  such  as  where  estates 
fell  into  the '.hands  of  mortgagees — a  not  uncommon  occurrence 
during  colonial  ups  and  downs — the  Polj-nesians  were  cheated  oat 
of  their  wages ;  the  new  Act  will  decree  the  payment  of  the  wages 
into  the  Government  savings  bank  every  quarter.  The  squatters 
will  no  doubt  fight  for  the  omission  of  the  thirty  mile  clause,  for  it 
is  evidently  intended  to  prevent  them  from  employing  Polynesian 
labour. 

A  squatter  poured  out  his  troubles  to  me  thus  only  yesterday  : — 
"  Mark  you  there  is  plenty  of  room  for  a  sweeping  amendment  of 
the  present  Act,  but  I  can  tell  you  that  in  my  district  sheep-farming 
would  be  impossible  without  Kanakas.  The  white  men  all  rush  off 
to  the  gold-fields,  and  are  not  to  be  depended  upon  for  a  month  at  a 
time.  In  shearing  and  lambing  time  for  two  years  running  I  have 
been  nearly  ruined  by  the  white  men  in  the  most  insolent  manner 
deserting  me  at  critical  times,  and,  as  you  know,  my  station  carries 
16,000  sheep.  Kanakas  cheap  labour  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  It  takes 
two  islanders  to  do  one  white  man's  work,  and  it  costs  us_^io  a 
head  to  get  them  here.  As  for  ill-treating  the  '  boys,'  don't  believe 
such  a  foolish  thing.  A  sick  or  dead  Kanaka  is  a  dead  loss ;  there- 
fore from  the  lowest  grounds  it  is  to  our  interest  to  care  for 
them." 

On  the  whole,  it  seems  to  me  that  however  badly  the  Polynesian 
may  be  treated  elsewhere,  he  is  well  treated  in  Queensland  ;  he  is 
a  capital  fellow,  harmless,  industrious,  and  bright,  and  I  believe 
that  while  his  presence  is  beneficial  to  the  colony,  his  sojourn  here 
is  useful  to  him,  and  helps  towards  the  civilisation  of  his  fellows  at 
home.  He  is  far  above  the  Australian  aboriginal.  During-  my 
visit  to  the  sugar  plantations  on  the  Albert  and  Logan  rivers,  while 
I  was  talking  to  the  police  magistrate,  a  message  was  delivered  to 
him  announcing  the  murder  by  blacks  of  a  white  settler  thirty  miles 
off.  True,  we  do  not  often  hear  of  murders  by  the  blacks,  but  they 
give  immense  trouble  in  the  unsettled  districts.  The  Kanakas  give 
no  trouble  at  all. 


VivTAx  Grey,  Lord  Beaconsfield, 

BY  THE  MEMBER  FOR  THE  CHILTERN  HUNDREDS. 

Vivian  GRF.Y  we  have  had  with  us  any  lime  these 
^  fifty  years,  notwithstanding'  the  efforts  made  by  a 
distinguished  jicisotiagc  tu  supprcNs  him.  Lord 
Beaconstield  is  acharacCcrfar  less  familiar  to  the  public 
Riind,  and  a  name  much  less  accustomed  on  the  public  tongue. 
Indeed  I  much  doubt  whether  when,  at  the  close  of  last  session, 
an  astonished -world  heard  th;tt  thcnircforward  Mr.  Disraeli  was 
to  be  known  as  "  Lord  Beaconsfield,"  there  were  a  score  of  ptMplo 
■  who  called  to  mind  the  fact  that  the  title  was  not  a  new  one. 
There  was  of  course  Lady  Beaconsfield,  but  she  was  a  peeress  in 
her  own  right  and  by  the  grace  of  her  husband,  who  with  a  chivalry 
all  admired,  and  a  courtliness  that  added  a  new  charm  to  an 
interL'Sting  career,  passed  on  to  the  brow  of  his  wife  a  coronet 
pressed  upon  himself,  but  which  he  might  have  felt  would  be 
ongracious  to  refuse  and  ridiculous  to  accept.  That  citation  of 
Mrs.  Disraeli  "  Lady  Beaconsfield  "  was  an  act  which  Vivian  Grey 
himself,  had  he  survived  lo  witness  it,  would  have  highly  approved. 
It  was  just  such  an  episode  as  might  appropriately  have  crowned  his 
wondrous  career,  and  would  have  made  a  much  better  ending  of 
the  novel  than  that  tremendous  thunderstorm  in  which  Kssper 
George  disappears,  and  Vivian  Grey  is  left  alone  by  the  corpse  of  a 
horse  given  to  him  by  the  son  of  a  German  prince,  the  while  the 

Kthunder  rolls  and  the  blue  and  blinding  lightning  flashes.  One 
night  last  session,  when  in  an  important  debate  the  Premier 
suddenly  changed  front  in  the  face  of  a  growing  opposition  and 
added  a  statement  which  greatly  altered  an  expressed  Ministerial 
intention,  he  was  sarcastically  asked  why  he  had  not  mi*ntioned 
that  before.  "The  honourable  gentleman,"  he  replied,  with  that 
delibemtcly  solemn  manner  with  which  he  was  wont  to  pri:;face  a 
verbal  audacity,  "asks  nnewhy  I  did  not  say  that  before.  I  did  not 
say  it  before  because  it  did  not  occur  to  me."  This,  I  fancy,  must 
be  the  reason  why  Vivian  Grey  did  not  escape  the  sudden  and  never- 
bcforc-heard-of  thunderstorm,  and,  living  to  have  a  coronet 
pressed  upon  his  acceptance,  did  not  confer  the  title  od  his  wife; 
remaining  plain  but  singularly  omnipotent  Vivian  Grey  to  the  end 
of  the  chapter.     Tt  did  not  occur  to  Mr.  Disraeli. 

^b       Vol.  2  for  1876.  -^  ^ 


ego 


GeniitTHan  i  Ma 


Bat  when  in  ibe  month  of  Aogost  list 

fidd  "  fint  saw  thr  lij^ht,  affixed  to  the  boi 

electors  of  Buckinghamshire,  the  name 

Nor — and  this  is  the  stiange  coincide: 

was  writteo  by  the  same  hand.    Fifty  y 

conceived  the  character  of  Lord  Beacoo86< 

interest  to  stmlj  it  nndcr  these  exccptii 

ttances.     The  first  Lord  Bc.aconafidd, 

bf  the  same  ndnd  that  has  nude  the  presenj 

magnate  io  the  county  in  which  was  sitq 

inflncace  of  the  Marqais  of  Carabas,  the  eldd 

statesman  whom  Vivian  Grey,  fre^  from 

tatorship  and  shuwcd  how  be  might  gain 

State.     Mr.  Disraeli  does  not  devote  moch 

character    of   Lord    Beaconsfield,    for  it   ' 

earlier  life  the  Premier  was  not  particnla^ 

dignity  be   has  himself  now  assumed.      S| 

of  Carabas,  ho  obsun-es  biographtcally  "  1!l 

the  woodman  in  the  fairy  tale,  was  blest  wit 

was  an  idiot,  and  was  destined  fur  the  cot< 

man  of  biisiocss,  and  was  educated  for  lilii 

was  a  roue,  and  was  shipped  for  the  colonie| 

matic  enmnenition  of  the  qual ifications  dem^ 

in   (ifc  it  will  be  noted  that  whilst  Vivta 

Minister,  has  changed  in  one  respect  he  isl 

another.     That  tiie  Hoase  of  Lords  is  A 

idiot  sons  arc  naturally  destined  is  of  comai 

would  scout  more  indignantly  than  the  presJ 

But  that  when  a  man  has  proved  worthlci 

"shipped"  for  one  of  Her  Majesty's  dcpo^ 

anything  will  do  for  the  colonics — appears  I 

mind  of  Mr.  Disraeli  which  age  cannot  wifl 

will  not  be  forgotten  that  during  the  debate' 

last  session  nothing  so  profoundly  ruffle! 

temper  of  Mr.  Lowe,  or  so  absolutely  sa 

sluggish  wrath,  than  Mr.  Disrach''5  profoontf 

of  the  colonisu  in  the  matter  of  the  addii 

gracious  Sovereign.  Mr.  Xxiwe,  whose  consi 

of  others  is  well  known,  was  much  exercil 

the  Queen  was  to  be  named  Empress  of  || 

Cape  of  Good  Hope,  and  particularly  Aoj| 

the  omission  of  IheVr  Txune%  Uom  vVe 


;  brouglil  uut  in  the  Ucsh,  and  amongst 
luch  that  has  "  changcJ  sinte  then,"  Mr.  Disraeli's  youUiiul  con- 
ipt  for  the  colonies  remained,  and  Mr.  Lowe's  caustic  criticism, 
'subseqoently  backed  up  byMr.Foratcr's  more  ponderous  denuncia- 
tion, was  unavailing. 
K    But  to  return  to  Beaconsfield  the  First,  the  coniemporary  of  Vivian 
Grey.  What  the  nobk-  lord  and  his  faniiiy  wore  like  we  gather  from 
the  foilovring  interesting  conversation  between  two  ladies  at  the 
Marquis  of  Carabas's   dinner  table,  a  dinner  table  at  which  sat 
^''  {gartered  peers  and  sitarred  ambassadors,  and  baronets  wiLti  blood 
Jtelder  than  th?  Creation,  and  squires  to  ibe  antiquity  of  whose  veins 
chaos  w.rs  a  novelty." 

r"  So  you  have  got  the  Ueaconsliclds  here,  Misa  Graves;  nice,  uc- 
beted,  quiet  people." 
"Yes,  very  quiet." 
"  As  you  say,  Miss  Graves,  very  quiet,  but  a  little  heavy." 
"  Ves,  heavy  enough." 
A  Utile  later,  when  Vivian  Grey,  who  next  to  Mr.  Disraeli  him- 
self ran  the  most  wonderful  career  ever  trod  by  man,  is  arranging 
the  pen»ntul  of  an  Opposition  that  is  to  upset  the  Govcmnient,  Lord 
Beaconsiield  is  again  mentioned;  aiid  thus:  Mr.  Cleveland,  a  com- 
moner to  whom  Vivian  Grey  gcH:s  to  offer  the  leadership  of  a  party 
which  is  composed  chiefly  of  peers  of  the  realm,  asks  "Who  is 

» mover  of  the  party  ?" 
"  My  Lord  Counown,"  Vivian  Grey  answered,  "  is  a  distinguished 
member  of  it." 

"Courtown,"  says  Cleveland.  "  Courtown  ;  powerful  enough,  but 
surely  the  good  Viscount's  skult  is  not  exactly  the  head  for  the 
chief  of  a  cabal." 

The  good  Viscount's  skull,  forsootfi  I  But  there  is  wonw  to 
Colknr. 

I  "There  is  my  Lord  Bcacomfield." 
"Powerful  \ao—^uia4oii:' 
Once  more  the  6rst  Lord  Beaconsfield  is  lightly  sketched  by  the 
■successor  of  the  title.  When  cataloguing  the  various  oflices  of  Mrs. 
FcJix  Lorraine,  the  author  of  "  Vivian  Grey  "  writes  :  "  She  copied 
letters  for  Sir  Cerdmore,  composed  letters  for  Lord  Courtown,  and 
construed  letters  to  Lord  Beaconsfield."  Here  again  wc  have  set 
forth  in  Mr.  Disraeli's  familiar  epignmunalic  style  the  various  stages 
of  intellectual  ('onlctnpL  for  hereditary  dullness.  Sir  Bcrdmore, 
being  a  baronet  and  standing  but  two  removes  from  the  untitled 
ihroDg.  vras  qasli&zd  to  write  his  ovrn  kUtw.aM-wiA  tst^wSfc.- 


* 


692 


IcnfiemmCs  Magazine. 


ctentty  attractive  to  indacc  a  lady  to  copy  tfacm  for  him.  Lot 
Courtown,  t>eing  a  peer  of  comparatively  modem  creation  and 
popular  views,  ■was  so  far  gificd  with  intelligence  thai  whilst  t 
possessing  litcran*  art,  and  tht.Tcfore  dcficicnl  in  powirr  of  cxpre* 
sioti,  lie  had  a  pretty  clear  conception  of  what  he  wanted  to  125 
and  only  needed  an  amanuensis  to  cast  his  thoughts  in  d 
epistolar)'  form.  But  for  1-Xird  Deaconsfield,  whose  ancestors  ex 
over  with  the  Conqueror,  who  owned  half  a  county,  and  w 
inherited  with  his  family  park  and  father's  title  the  dtsposition 
the  votes  of  half  a  dozen  boroughs,  he  is  presented  to  the  indalgn 
reader  as  a  man  who  could  not  understand  the  meaning  of  th 
letters  he  was  in  the  habit  of  rcceinng,  and  was  fain  to  subtni 
them  to  a  woman  in  order  to  havcthcirmcaningconstmed  I 

Those  were  terrible  da)-s  for  the  English  peerage  when  ihli  fiem 

Disraeli  the  Younger  wa»  going  about  smiting  them  hip  and  thi^h 

Amongst  the  many  things  which  the  I^rd  Bcaconsficld  whom 

know  in  the  flesh  has  reason  to  be  thankful  for  is  the  good  fortuae 

which  cast  his  lot  in  other  daj-s  than  those  contemporaneons  wit^ 

the  hot  youth  of  Mr.  Disraeli.    He  would  have  sulTered  sondy 

the  hands  of   that  young  gentleman,  and    I    fear    onr  critical 

biographical  liicratnre  must  remain  for  ever  incomplete  inasmocl 

as  we  cannot  have  the  character  of  the  second  Lord  Beacon^dfl 

done  by  Disraeli  the  Yonnger.  ^^| 

As  for  Vivian  Grey  himself,  as  drawn  by  Disraeli  iht  Voim^^^ 

he  offers  from  every  point  of  view  an  exact  and  strong  ly-marttrJ 

contrast  to  thr  Lord  Beaconsfield  of  fiction.     He  Is   a   man 

the  people ;    Lord  Deacousficld  is  an  hereditary  noble.     Vivias 

Grey  is  bright ;    I^rd   Beaconsfield  is  dull.     To  Vivian  Grey,  It 

to  Ancient  Pistol,  the  world  was  an  oyster  which  he  with  sworf 

voQid  open.    Lord  Beaconslield  had  his  o)-ster5  opened  for  htn 

by  men  wearing  his  own  livci)-,  and  if  his  lordship  had  chanced 

to    have  been  placed  in  such  circtimKlances    that  he    coald    oM 

get  al  the  mollusc  without  opening  the  shell  himself,    he  wonld 

have  been  fain  to  go  oysterlcss  all  bis  life.    For  Lord  Bcacoo*- 

llcld  everything  had  been  done  since  the  moment  he  happentr^ 

to  be  bora ;    Vivian  Ga-y  had    to    do  cverj'thlng    for    tUmseK 

and  gloried    in    the   exceeding  ability    with  which    he    did    k.' 

But  if  with  the  first  I^rd   Bcaconsficld  Vivian  Grey  had  - 

in  common,  with  the  second  he  might  well  have  shared  th 

which  the  newly-made  peer  made  his  own  when  he  "  itir 

coronet.    Vivian  Grey  dared  to  ondertakc  all  sort:;  oi  ,.,.pv> 

tbingiS,  and  he  ovcTC%m<;  \n  a  nuioncr  that  we  ehould  be  in 


Vivian  Gny^  Lord  Beacoiis^ld. 

regard  as  impossible  if  we  were  not  familiar  with  the  career  of 
Mr.  Disraeli.  Young  in  years  anj,  ;is  wc  ^iher  from  a  chance 
remark,  radiant  as  to  his  eyes,  luxurianl  in  locks,  and  all  pLTfcct  in 
form,  Vivian  Grey  possesstid  in  a  sujicrhutnan  degrci;  the  art  of 
inspiring  the  people  whom  he  met  with  an  unquestioning  con- 
lidtrncc  in  lijm.  He  fell  eqtial  lo  an>'thing-,  which  Is  a  charac- 
teristic not  uncominoti  among  young  men.  But  he  also  by  some 
subtle  essence  compelled  people  with  whom  he  came  in  contact  to 
share  his  belief  in  himself — and  that,  as  many  neglected  geniuses 
know,  is  a  much  more 'difficult  mattcr. 

IHe  Wis  omnipotent  equally  with  men  and  women.  Tcrhaps  if 
iihe  balance  incline  on  cither  .side  It  wouliE  be  just  to  say  that  his 
tremendous  attraction  for  women — always  young,  beaiiliful,  rich, 
Snd  clever  women — was  rather  more  marked  than  Uiat  he  wielded 
over  his  fclIow-mcn.     Bums  wrote  of  a  charming  Ayrshire  lass  : — 

I  To  see  her  Is  lo  ]c*vc  Iicr, 
^^b  And  love  but  licr  for  cv-er  ; 

^^^^^^  For  Nnturu  inni!«  her  what  «he  !«» 
^^^^H  And  n^ver  nud«  aniUicr. 

The  verse  is  equally  applicable  to  Vivian  Grey,  except  inasmuch 
OS  il  does  not  go  far  enough.  Nature  made  him  incompantble ; 
but  he  did  not  disdain  liie  auxiliary  aid  of  art,  and  his  clothes 
were  as  perfect  a-s  his  figure.  The  combination  was  fatal  to 
hapless  woman,  and  she  felt  at  the  glance  of  Vivian  Grey  as  the 
■doves  at  Hurlingbam  feci  under  the  fire  of  the  breech-loader. 
Perhaps  the  most  remark.ible  part  of  this  business  was  that  Vivian 
Grey  never  delibemtely  approached  a  wonuii  with  those  arts  which 
come  under  the  name  of  "making  love."  There  ■^vas  the  lady  and 
there  was  Vivian  Grey,  and  before  the  most  pmrtiscd  novel-reader 
would  suspect  such  a  thing  the  lady  was  hanging  on  Vivian  Grey's 
neck,  and  he — to  do  him  justice,  always  equal  to  the  occasion — 
was  breathing  passionate  protestations  in  Uer  ear.  In  the  ninth 
chapter  of  the  first  book  Vivian,  finding  himself  alone  with  Miss 
Manvers,  niece  of  the  Marquis  of  Carnbas,  is  just  on  the  verge  of 
receiving  a  pledge  of  her  suddenly  developed  affection  when  her 
mamma  turns  upon  the  verandah  and  calls  her  to  go  out  for  a  n*alk. 
In  the  fourth  chapter  of  the  second  book  Mrs.  Felix  Lorraine  tries 
to  poison  Vivian,  a  design  wbitli  he  detects  and  frustrates.  In 
Uic  sixth  chapter  of  the  same  book  we  find  this  same  Mrs.  Lorraine 
"grasping  Vivian  with  a  feverish  hand  "  and  observing  to  him,  "'You 
worship  an  omnipotent  and  inefTable  essence.  Shrined  in  the 
Ksecret  chamber  of  _your  soul  tliere  is  an  image  bcC<iK.v(lw,tl\>iQa 


h 


6g4  The  Gentleman^  s  Magazine. 

bow  down  in  adoration,  and  that  image  is  yourself.  And  troly. 
when  1  do  gaze  upon  your  radiant  eyes,'  and  here  the  lady's  tone 
became  terrestrial ;  'and  truly  when  I  do  look  upon  your  luiuriant 
curls,'  and  here  the  lady's  small  white  hand  played  like  lightning 
through  Vivian's  dark  hair ;  *  and  truly  when  I  do  remember  the 
beauty  of  your  all-perfect  form,  I  cannot  deem  your  self- worship  a 
false  idolatry,'  and  here  the  lady's  arms  were  locked  round  Vivian's 
neck,  and  her  head  rested  on  his  bosom." 

And  all  this  in  despite  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Felix  Lorraine  was 
yet  alive ! 

Shortly  after  this,  Vivian,  being  on  the  Continent,  merts 
a  lovely  creature,  whose  "small  aquiline  nose,  bright  hazel  ej-es, 
delicate  mouth,  and  the  deep  colourofher  lips  were  as  remarkableas 
the  transparency  of  her  complexion."  "The  blue  veins  played 
beneath  her  arched  forehead  like  lightning  beneath  a  rainbow." 
Her  name  was  \'"iolet  Fane,  and  she  was  engaged  to  Mr.  St.  George. 
Nothing  particular  happens  for  some  time^  till  one  day  at  a  pic>nic 
Vivian  and  Miss  Fane  become  separated  from  the  party,  amongst 
whom  was  the  young  lady's  alhanced  husband.  It  was  evening  and 
rather  late.  "Unseen  were  the  circling  wings  of  the  fell  bat: 
unheard  the  screech  of  the  waking  owl ;  silent  the  drowsy  hum  of 
the  shade-bom  beetle  .  .  .  Was  it  Hesperus  Vivian  gazed  upon  or 
something  else  that  gleamed  brighter  than  an  evening  star?  £ven 
as  he  thought  that  his  gaze  was  fixed  on  the  countenance  of  Nature 
he  found  that  his  eyes  rested  on  the  face  of  Nature's  lovehest 
daughter. 

'"Violet!  dearest  Violet!'" 

That  is  all.  In  another  minute  "  her  hand  was  in  his,  her  head 
sank  upon  his  breast,"  and  all  seemed  well.  But  the  suddenness  of 
the  whole  thing,  though  natural  enough  to  Vivian,  was  too  much 
for  Miss  Fane,  and  sinking  down  on  the  road,  she  died  straight  off. 
As  for  Vivian,  he  "  gave  a  loud  shriek  and  fell  on  the  lifeless  body 
of  Violet  Fane  I" — where  the  chapter  leaves  him.  And  thus  all 
awkward  explanations  are  rendered  unnecessary. 

Once  more  Vivian,  without  the  slightest  effort  on  his  own  part, 
enchains  the  heart  of  lovely  woman.  This  time  the  unfortunate  is 
no  one  less  than  the  daughter  of  the  Emperor  of  Austria,  who  has 
been  given  in  marriage  to  the  Crown  Prince  of  a  neighbouring 
State.  But,  alas  I  the  Archduchess  sees  Vivian,  and  the  usual  results 
follow. 

"  She  turned.    She  exclaimed  in  an  agitated  voice :  '  Oh  fricDd* 
too  lately  foundr  why  have  we  met  to  part  ?' 


"  'To  part,  dearest  I'  said  Vivian,  who  by  this  time  vas  getting 
accustomcil  to  Ihcsc  little  emergencies.  '  To  part ! '  and  he  gently 
look  her  hand.     'Why  should  wo  part  ?' 

"  His  arm  is  round  her  waist — gcntlj-  he  bends  his  head — their 
speaking  cyvs  mixt,  and  their  trembling  lips  cling  into  a  kiss." 

The  newly  made  lovers  meet  again,  and  the  Archduchess  is 
"sobbing  convulsively  on  Vivian's  shotilder."  wben  the  Prime 
Minister,  who  has  charge  of  the  matrimonial  negotiations,  turns 
np  *'  with  a  face  deadly  whito,  his  fu]  i  eyes  darling  from  their  sockets 
like  a  liungry  snake's,  and  the  ramous  Italian  dagger  in  his  right 
hand."  Half  an  hour  later  Vivian  is  peacefully  leaving  the  country, 
and  just  as  we  hear  no  more  of  the  juvenile  Julia  Manvers,  of  the 
fell- purposed  Mrs.  Felix  Lorraine,  of  the  suddenly-deceased  Violet 
Fane,    so   we    hear    no    roort    of   the  unfortunate   Archduchess. 

» There  is  nothing  to  cqaal  the  suddenness  of  the  ignition  of  the 
fire  of  lo%'e  in  the  heart  of  Vivian  Grey  unless  it  bi:  the  abruptness 
of  its  extinction.  There  was  no  twiligUt  in  the  land  of  his  affec- 
tions. Darkness  broke  at  .1  i>ound  into  day,  and  from  the  blinding 
sunlight  he  lapsed  into  Cimmerian  darkness. 

These  are,  however,  but  epistides  in  the  life  of  Vivian  Clrcy,  and 
are  cited  bete  merely  to  show  the  invincible  power  of  his  presence, 
^■irhich  OTcTcamc  even  where  he  put  forth  no  effort.     Very  early  ia 
life  he  seriously  devoted  himself  to  great  ends.     At  nineteen  he 
"  had  all  the  desires  of  a  matured  mind,  was  a  cunning  reader  of 
human  hearts,  and  felt  consciou.s  that  his  was  a  tongue  which  was 
bom  to  guide  human  beings."     Mow  should  he  obtain  his  oppor- 
tunity -•'     *'  The  Bar.  pooh  I  law  and  bad  jokes  till  we  are  forty,  and 
then,  with  the  nno:it  brilliant  succctis,  the  pro.spc:et  of  gout  and  a 
coronet.      Besides,  to  succeed  as  an  advocate  I  must  be  a  great 
lawyer,  and  to  be  a  great  lawyer  I  must  give  up  my  chance  of  being 
a  great  man.    The  Ser^-ices  in  war  lime  nre  lit  only  for  dcspenidnes 
(and  lltat  truly  am   I),  but  in  peace  are  fit  only  for  fools.     The 
^KChurch  is  more  rational.    Let  me  sec:  I  should  certainly  like  to 
i^actWolsey — but  the  thousand  and  one  chances  arc  against  mc! 
Aiid  truly  I  feel  my  destiny  should  not  be  on  a  chance.     Were  I 
^B  the  son  of  a  millionaire  or  a  noble,  1  might  have  all.     Curse  on  my 
^  lot !  that  the  want  of  a  few  rascal  counters,  and  the  possession  of  a 
little  rascal  blood,  should  mar  my  fortune  1" 

I  Still  musing  on  his  future  lot,  Vivian  makes  what  he  believes  to 
be  "  the  Grand  Discovery."  "  '  Riches  are  power,'  s;i)-s  the  econo- 
mist, 'And  is  not  Intellect  f*  asks  the  philosopher,"  There  is  a 
strange  familiarity  about  this  train  of  thought.    It  brings  to  mind 


the  ramoQs  tnemorandnm  made  by  a  distinguished  man  ia  a,  far  oS 
country  wtiicti  ran  sotnt^what  in  this  form  (I  quote  from  tacmotj, 
and  do  not  attempt  the  peculiar  orthography): — "'Some  people 
has  plenty  of  brains  and  no  money,  and  some  people  has  plenty  of 
money  and  no  brains.    Them  as  has  brains  and  no  money  most 
get  money  from  tbctn  as  has  money  and  no  brains."     But  Vivian 
Grey  continues  his  self-communing  in  a  higher  strain    tlian  the 
nnfortanate  nobleman  who  now  languishes  in  prison  was  accustomed 
to.  *■  Why,"  he  goes  on  to  ask,  "have  there  been  statesmen  who  hare 
never  ruled,  and  heroes  who  ha%'C  never  conquered  ?     Why  have 
glorious  philosophers  died  in  a  garret  ?  and  why  have  there  been 
poets  whose  only  admirer  has  been  Nature  in  her  echoes  ?    It  must 
be  thai  these  beings  have  thought  only  of  themselves,  and.  constant 
and  elaborate  stodents  of  their  own  glorious  natures,  havo  forgotten 
or  disdained  the  study  of  all  others.     Yes  I  wc  must  mix  with  the 
herd;  wc  must  enter  into  their  feelings;  vc  must  humour  ihcir 
weaknesses  ;  wc  must  sympathise  with  the  sorrows  that  wc  do  not 
feci,  and  share  the  merriment  of  fools.     Oh,  yes  I  to  rule  mco  we 
must  be  men ;  to  prove  that  we  are  strong,  wc  must  be  weak ;  to 
prove  that  wc  arc  giants,  we  must  be  dwarfs,  even  as  the  Eastern 
Geni  was  hid  in  the  charmed  bottle.    Our  wisdom  must  be  con- 
ccaled  under  folly,  and  our  constancy  under  caprice." 

The  Vivian  Grey  of  fiction  finally  withdraws,  as  I  have  said,  in  a 
thunderstorm,  and  we  do  not  know  how  tar  in  later  life  he  carried 
out  the  principles  here  enunciated.  But  if  Mr.  Disraeli  had  wriitm 
this  passage  in  the  secret  pages  of  his  diary,  and  it  were  now  come 
to  light,  how  men  would  clap  their  hands  and  marvel  at  the  con- 
stancy with  which  he  had  preserved  the  character  laid  down  for 
himself  when  selling  out  on  his  career!  There  have  been  limes 
when — as,  for  example,  during  his  management  of  the  Royal  Titles 
Bill — the  cimccalment  of  wisdom  under  folly  and  of  conslanc 
under  caprice  has  been  so  successful  as  to  decisive  the  keent 
observer. 

It  would  be  interesting  W  follow  Viviaa  Grey  step  by  step  through" 
a  career  which  has  no  parallel  in  romance,  and  only  one  in  resl 
life.    But  the  task  would  be  too  long.     We  find  wiiilen  in  tbo 
pages  which  it  most  always  be  remembered  are  not  a  diary  tl 
"  it  was  one  of  the  first  principles  of  Mr.  Vivian  Grey  ihal  ere 
thing  was  possible.    Men  did  fail  in  life,  to  be  <>ure,  .ind.  after 
very  little  was  done  by  the  generality;  bat  stilt  all  ihtu  I 
and  all  this  inefficiency  might  be  traccfl  to  a  want  of  pi 
tal  courage.    Some  men  were  bold  in  their  con 


I 


M  ^£ 


Vivititi  Grty\  Lord  Bcacomfidd.  O97 

splendid  heads  or  a  grand  syslcm,  but  when  the  d.ty  or  battle  came 
(hey  tamed  out  very  cowards,  while  others,  who  had  ncne  enough 
lo  stand  the  brunt  of  the  hottest  fire,  were  utterly  ignorant  of 
mlLilary  tactics,  and  fell  before  the  destroyer,  like  the  bi^ive  untu- 
tored Indian  beforu  tbc  civilised  Europcaji.  Now  Vivian  Grey  was 
conscious  that  there  was  at  least  one  person  in  the  world  who  was 
no  craven  either  in  body  or  mind,  and  so  had  long  come  to  the 
'Comfortable  conclusion  that  it  was  impossible  that  his  career  could 
be  anything  but  the  most  brilliant."  .-Viid  brilliant  it  proved  beyond 
measure.  On  the  Continent  not  less  than  at  home  did  statesmen 
turn  to  Vivian,  and  not  only  ask  his  advice,  but  blindly  follow  it. 
English  peers  and  (lerman  prinL-esalike  seek  his  counsel,  and  well  may 
he,  at  the  beginning  of  the  sevL-nth  book,  "when  he  called  to  mind 
the  adventures  of  the  last  six  days,  wonder  at  his  singular  fate."  In 
that  short  time  he  had  saved  the  life  of  a  puwerful  prince,  and  was 
immediately  singled  out,  without  any  exertion  on  his  pari,  as  the 
object  oi  this  prince's  frii-'ndship.  The  moment  he  arrives  at  his 
castle,  by  a  wonderful  contingency  he  becomes  the  depositary  of 
important  State  secrets,  and  assists  in  a  consultation  of  ihe  utmost 
importance  with  one  of  the  most  powerful  Ministers  in  Europe." 

"  Wonderful  '*  indeed  ;  and  rare  good  fortune  for  the  student  of 
character  that  "Vivian  Grey"  should  have  been  written  whilst  the 
hot  blood  of  youth  coursed  through  the  veins  of  Mr.  liisrieli,  and 
he  wrote  with  the  recklessness  of  a  boy  who  takes  no  account  of 
thu  legacy  he  may  be  leaving  to  the  man.  This  "Vivian  Grey" 
has  been  a  terrible  thorn  in  the  side  of  Mr.  Disraeli,  and  with 
what  feelings  it  will  be  regarded  by  the  Earl  of  Beaconslield  maybe 
gathered  from  some  of  the  extracts  given  above,  pertaining 
more  particularly  to  what  in  the  House  of  Commons  is  called 
"another place."  Mr.  Disraeli  has  himself  done  a]l  he  couEd  to 
suppress  the  inconveniently  ingenuous  book.  "For  more  than  a 
quarter  of  a  century,"  as  he  states  in  a  preface  written  in  185;;,  he 
refused  to  reprint  it,  and  it  was  not  to  be  had  in  England  save  in 
contraband  form.  Hut  niiturally  these  cfTorts  only  served  to  defeat 
their  own  purpose.  'i'Jie  American  and  continental  presses  kept 
the  book  alive,  and  when,  twenty-three  years  ago,  Mr.  Disraeli 
supervised  a  general  edition  of  his  works  he  reluctantly  consented  to 
include  in  it  this  prodigal  son  of  his  literary  family,  at  the  same  time 
stigmatising  it  as  "a  kiml  of  literary  lusus,"  and  snubbing  it  with 
the  lofty  remark  that  "  books  written  by  boys,  which  pretend  to 
give  a  picture  of  manners  and  to  deal  in  knowledge  of  human 
mature,  must  necessarily  be  founded  on  affectation," 


« 


698 


Thi  GottUntatCs  Magazine. 


* 


'•Vivian  Grey"  is  an  inlensel)' interesting  book,  not   because  of 
its  intrinsic  merit — though  that  is  very  marked — but  by  reason  of  the 
insight  it  aJTords  into  the  mind  and  u-ars  of  tliougbl  of  a  man  then 
comparaiivcty  unknown,   or   at    best    notorious,  vrho   has    since 
written  his  name  in  large  letters  over  a  long  succession  of  pages  of 
English  history.    To  parody  a  wcll-known  axioni,  I  should  say  that 
a  man  who  would  know  Lord  Beaconsl'ield  should  spend  his  nights 
and  days  with  "Vivian  Grey."     In  a  passage  in  the  real  life  of 
J^.  Disraeli,  presently  to  be  referred  to,  there  is  an   animated 
controversy  on  the  question  of  the  then  youthful  politician's  con- 
sistency.    The  evidence  was  rather  again&l    Mr.  Disraeli   on  the 
particular  point  at  ia^ue.    But  one  cannot  read  the  novel  without 
being  struck   by  the  singular  consistcucy,  not  only  of  character 
hut  of  mannerism,    as    between    the    living    Vivian    Grejr   and 
the    flesh    and    blood     Lord    Bcaconsficld.     I    will    cite    two 
iiurlancea :   one    showing   how   the  use  of  a  word  clings   lo  a 
man  through  half  a  cuntur>',  and  the  second  showing  how  tbc 
principle  evolved  from  the  inner  consciouiscss  of  a  boy  ju.'il  out  of 
his  teens  can  move  the  veteran  statesman.    In  "Vidian   Grey"  a 
tvord  which  occurs  several  times^  and  ofu^  in  strange  company^  u 
tbc  adjective  "eminent."     for  an  example  of  its  strange  use 
the  descripcioD  of  Chateau  OiJsir.     We  arc-  told  that  it  was  sit 
"  in  the  midst  of  a  park  of  great  extent  and  eminent  for  icetiery.** 
That  is  surely  an  unaccustomed  use  of  a  welt-sounding  adjcctire. 
Bat  it  \%  not  less  peculiar  than  the  Prime  Minister's  use  of  it  one 
night  last  session  when  he  had  occasion  to  refer  to  Honiy  VIII. 
There  arc  historical  reasons  that  make  it  diOicult  to  hit  upon  a  good 
round  epithet  with  which  to  complimeat  this  Sovereign.     For  the 
purpose  of  his  argument  it  was  ucccssary  that  Mf.  Disntr' 
raise  the  adoption  of  a  new  title  In  the  estimation  of  bis  ai. 
and  the  diilicully  of  praising  this   particular  adoptioa  evidently 
had  not  occurred  to  him  till  as  he  spoke  he  ment-<"  I 

for    a    safe    and    yet    resonant    adjective.        iic    l-i  I 

ha'ed,   shrugged   his   shoulder*,  put   bis  hands  bi   hi£  coat-tail 
pockets,   drew  them    out   again,   placed  them  on  the  • 
hot    on    the    table    Iwforc    him.    and    then,    all    ela> 
his  familiar  friend  came  to  hi;i  aid,  and  the  House  of  Comma 
witli   ill -suppressed    laughter,    heard   the   Defender  of  Ih-    '• 
referred  to  "as  tliat  euixest  monarch  Heor)'  VIII."    "1 
u  those  accustomed  to  hear  the   Prime    .Mini;'.er  will    ufKfu 
flection  call  to  mind)  is  to  this  day  a  favouiite  voi\l  of  I 
Bcaconsfield'fi,  is  always  much  mouthed  tn  the  utlviancv. 


always 


ie«. 


Vivian  Grey,  Lord  Bcaconsfield. 

As  to  thff  principle,  Vivian  Grey  always  made  a  point  of  ingia- 
dating  himself  with  persons  with  vhom  he  came  in  contact  by 
conRdentiallyutlerinB  dicta  on  subjects  in  which  they  were  specially 
iiiturL-stud,  and  in  wbicb  be  himself  was  absolutely  ignorant.  Thus, 
when  he  desired  to  win  the  favour  of  Lady  Courtown,  who  was  a 
good  aliip,  "  he  <-ntnistod  her  in  confidence  with  some  ideas  of  his 
own  about  martingales,  asubjcct  which  he  assured  her  ladyship  had 
been  the  object  of  his  mamrc  consideration."  When  a  little  later 
Vivian  meets  Mrs.  Felix  Lorraine,  he  remarked  "  How  pleasant 
Lady  Courtown  and  I  used  to  discourse  about  martingales.  I  think 
I  invented  one,  did  not  I  i  Pray.  "SUi.  l-'cHx  Lorraine,  can  you  tell 
i&e  what  a  maningale  is,  for  upon  my  honour  I  have  forgotten  or 
never  knew."  In  later  life,  when  Vivian  Grey  became  one  of  Her 
Maji-'sty's  Miniaicrs,  wc  know  he  was  worn  to  discourse  witii  the 
pleasant  electors  of  Bucks  upon  shorthorns  and  thu  mysteries  of 
cross'brceding.  What  remark  he  made  to  confidential  friends  after 
the  discourse  was  over  wc  perhaps  shall  never  know. 

La}-ing  down  the  novel,  and  regarding  Vivian  Grey  as  he  appeared 
in  actual  life  more  than  fifty  years  ago,  wc  shall  find  fact  scarcely 
less  moving  than  fiction.  The  son  of  a  man  whose  %-iew  of  the 
uiiivL-i':)t;  was  bounded  by  the  walls  of  bis  library,  and  who  asked 
for  nothing  better  thaji  that  he  should  be  lef^  alone  with  his  books, 
Benjamin  Disraeli  was  originally  destined  for  the  law.  He  was 
placed  in  the  office  of  a  firm  of  attorneys  in  Old  Jfwry,  but  does 
not  appear  to  have  stayed  there  long,  and  was  soon  heard  of  in  the 
literary  world.  Li  i8z&,  the  author  being  then  in  his  twenty-first 
year,  the  first  volume  of  "Vivian  Grey"  appeared  and  created  a 
great  sensation.  The  subjective  character  of  the  work  was  at 
once  recognised,  and  the  future  Prcmiur  u'as  as  well  known  fifty 
years  ago  by  the  alias  of  Vivian  Grey  as  he  was  by  the  name  he  at 
that  time  desired  to  be  spoken  of — to  wit,  Disraeli  the  Younger.  He 
was  well  received  in  good  society,  and  was  a  favourite  visitor  at  the 
Countess  of  Blessington's.  Here  is  a  picture  of  him,  drawn  by 
a  chance  visitor  at  the  Countess  of  Blcssington's.  "  DTsracli,"  as 
the  name  was  spelt  in  those  days,  '•  had  arrived  before  me,  and  sat 
in  the  deep  window  looking  out  upon  Hyde  Fark,  witli  the  last  rays 
of  daylight  reflected  from  the  gorgeous  gilt  of  a  splendidly 
embroidered  waistcoat.  Patent  leather  pumps,  a  white  stick, with 
a  black  cord  and  ta.'^scl,  and  a  quantity  of  chains  about  bis  neck  and 
pockets,  served  to  make  him,  even  in  the  dim  light,  a  conspicuous 
object.  D'Isracli  lias  one  of  the  most  remarkable  faces  I  ever  saw. 
Ho  is  livjdly  pale,  and.  but  for  tiie  energy  of  his  action  and  the 


70O 


The  GotiUmaiCs  Magazine. 


strength  or  his  lungs,  would  seem  to  be  a  victim  to  consumption. 
Ilis  eve  is  black  as  Krcbus,  and  has  the  moat  mocliinj;,  lying-in- 
wait  sort  of  cxprussioti  conccivahlc.  His  moulh  \&  alive  with 
kind  of  working  and  impatient  nervousness,  and  wbun  he  has  bnrsl 
forth.  ^  hi;  dues  constantly,  with  a  {tt^rfcclly  succtrssful  cataract  oC 
expression,  it  assumes  a  curl  of  triumphant  scorn  that  would  ba 
worthy  a  Mepliisiopheles.  His  hair  ift  as  extraordinary  as  his  LastC 
in  waisiroats.  A  thick  heavy  mass  of  jet-black  ringlets  falls  over  hi 
lefi  check  almost  to  a  cntlarless  stock,  while  on  Ihc  right  temple  i 
is  parted  and  put  away  witli  the  smooth  carefulness  of  a  girl's,  and 
shines  most  unctuously  'with  ihy  incomparable  oil,  Macassar  I' 

It  was  not  only  in  dress  that  the  young  Disraeli  sparkled.  •'  He 
talked  like  a  racehorse  approaching  the  winning-post,  every  muscle 
in  action,  and  the  utmost  energy  of  cxpre-ssion  flung  out  into  Ktcrf 
burst.  Vi'to  Hugo  and  his  extraordinary  novels  came  nndec 
discussion,  and  D'Isracii.  who  was  fired  by  his  own  eloquence, 
started  off,  a  (tropos  da  haltes,  with  a  long  story  of  impalement  he  hatl 
scun  in  U|>per  Egypt" — a  subject  which  of  itself  fixes  the  date  of 
this  conversation  many  years  back,  for,  as  wc  have  heard  from  Mr. 
Disraeli  in  i>ne  of  the  last  speeches  delivered  by  liim  in  the  House 
of  Commons,  In  the  Kast  people  "generally  terminate  Ihcir 
connection  with  culprits  in  a  more  expeditious  manner." 

Mr.  Disraeli  made  his  first  attempt  to  enter  Parhament  throug^h 
the  borough  of  High  Wycombe.  It  was  the  memorable  year 
1831,  and  the  Tory  Leader  of  the  days-to-be  presented  himself 
before  the  electors  as  a  good  Radical,  carrying  the  recommenda- 
tions of  Mr.  E.  Lytton  Bulwcr,  whose  "  Eugene  Aram  "  had  been 
a  year  published,  and  who  was  then  the  untitled  member  for  St. 
Jves.  He  also  bore  the  stamp  of  (he  approval  of  Daniel  O'ConQcIf, 
Sir  Francis  Burdctl.  and  Joseph  Himie.  A  book  is  now  issuing 
from  the  press  in  the  modest  form  of  sixpenny  numbers*  which 
affords  &  vivid  picture,  drawn  from  contemporaneous  records,  of 
the  scenes  attendant  upon  this  election,  and  is  in  other  respects  a 
most  valuable  contribution  to  a  biography  of  the  Prime  Mi&iBter. 
The  author,  Mr.  "i.  V.  O'Connor,  quotes  from  the  Buiks  Htratd  of 
the  day  an  account  describing  Mr.  Disraeli's  pubhc  entry  into  the 
town,  an  entry  accomplished  in  an  open  carriage  drawn  by  four 
horses,  "The  candidate,"  writes  the  observant  reporter,  "  kissed 
his  hand,  or  blew  kisses — we  cannot  say  which — lo  all  the  females 
that  were  at  the  windows,  bowing  profoundly  at  times  lo  his 

\  INsncli,  £bc]  of  . 


Viviaii  Grry^  Lord  Bcmotufield. 


I 


rriends."  He  lost  no  time  in  proceeding  to  business,  andH 
climbing  upon  the  porch  before  the  door  of  the  Red  Lion,  hv^ 
addressed  the  crowd  in  a  speech  which  even  the  Bucks  Herald. 
shocked  by  the  frivolities  rctorded  and.  distressed  by  its  o^vn 
inability  to  decide  whether  Mr.  DisraeEi  kissed  his  hand  or  blew 
kisses,  admits  was  "  of  some  ability."  Strange  to  say,  whilst  the 
Tory  journal  is  thus  unfriendly  towards  the  candidate,  the  organ  of 
the  Liberal  party,  the  Bucks  Gaztltt,  is  positively  withering.  It 
stigmatises  the  young  candidate  as  an  "Adonis  of  the  sable 
check,"  though  why  sable  is  not  clear,  seeing  that  according  to 
another  contemporary  authority  the  hue  of  Mr.  Disraeli's  coante-H 
nance  woi;  "  iividly  while."  It  contemn!;  the  cambric  on  his  wrists, 
the  lace  on  his  bosom,  the  blue  band  round  his  hat,  the  black  cane 
with  the  gold  head,  the  coat  lined  with  pink  silk,  and  the  glossy 
ringlets, — "the  luxuriant  curls"  with  which  Mrs.  Felix  Lorraine's 
"  small  white  hand  played  like  lightning."  *'  Such  a.  man,  we  had 
almost  said  such  a  popinjay,"  tlie  Bucks  Gazeiit  obscr\'CS  in  its  uncon- 
trollable scorn,  "appears  to  say,  '  Look  on  my  antagonist  and  look 
on  me.  See  him,  plain  in  his  attire,  plain  in  his  speech.  Behold 
me  i  will  you  not  vote  for  a  person  of  my  blandishments?  and  the 
author  of  the  novel  ?  "* 

But  the  blandiKhmnnts  failed,  and  the  cilectorsof  High  Wycombofl 
were  proof  against  the  pink  silk  lining,  the  blue  band  on  the  hat^ 
the  gold-knobbed  stick,  and  the  locks  elsewhere  found  irresis- 
tible. At  this  epoch,  the  Reform  Dili  being  yet  before  the  House, 
it  appeared  that  after  an  exhaustive  polling  a  total  of  thirty-five 
electors  were  brought  up  to  decide  the  part  that  High  Wycombe 
should  take  in  controlling  the  destinies  of  the  British  Empire. 
"At  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Mr.  D' Israeli  retired,  when  the  num- 
bers were,  for  Grey  twenty-three,  D'israeli  twelve."  It  is  interesting 
to  know,  on  the  aulliorily  of  tht;  Bach  Gavilf,  that  even  at 
this  laic  stage  of  the  day,  and  after  the  determined  efforts  of  the 
canvassers,  "there  were  two  more  to  poll  in  the  Orcy  interest."  I 
suppose  they  had  been  holding  oat  for  an  additional  five-pound 
note,  and  even  at  this  long  distance  of  lime,  and  whilst  engaged 
upon  the  consideration  of  so  momentous  a  career  as  that  of  Mrlfl 
Disraeli,  one  cannot  look  hack  without  satisfaction  upon  the  fate 
which  befell  that  grasping  couple  of  free  and  independent  electors 
of  High  Wycombe.  The  far-reaching  stretch  of  forty-four  years 
placed  between  us  and  them  may  not  dim  the  lines  and  colours  of 
the  picture  mcnUlIy  conjured  of  their  despair  when  "at  five  o'clock 
JVfr,  D7srae/i  retired,"  and  instead  of  ihd  extra,  five  \iounda  they 
got  nothing  at  all.  ^_ 


In  August  of  the  same  year  Parliament  was  dissolved,  and 
Wycombe  was  ooce  more  appealed  to  by  Mr.  Disraeli  in  an 
address  wlitch.  if  it  were  not  too  long  to  qnotc,  I  should  Ukc  to 
give  in  support  of  the  ;isscrtion  already  hazarded  of  the  ningnlar 
manner  in  which  the  Right  Honourable  Benjamin  Dismcll,  Her 
Majesty's  Minister  of  State,  preserves  the  monnerisnis.  even  of 
phrase,  wbich  marked  Disraeli  the  Younger.  "  And  now.**  he 
says  in  this  address,  which  bears  date  the  ist  of  October,  1832 — 
"And  now  1  call  upon  every  man  who  values  the  independence  of 
onr  borough,  upon  every  man  who  desires  the  good  govcmiiMnu 
of  this  once  great  and  happy  ronntry,  to  sapport  me  in  this  stntg;;tc 
against  that  rapacious,  tyraunical,  and  incapable  faction  who. 
hai'ing  knavishly  obtained  power  by  false  pivtenccs,  sillily  sop- 
po&e  thai  ihey  will  be  permitted  to  retain  it  by  half  meacarcs, 
and  who,  in  the  course  of  their  brief  but  disastrous  career,  have 
contrived  to  shake  every  great  interest  of  the  empire  lo  its  centre.** 
A  more  famous  address  of  modem  dale,  in  wbich  people  who 
ditfcr  from  Mr.  Disraeli  were  described  as  having  harassed  every 
trade  and  worried  evei^-  interest,  is  ob\-ioas]y  but  an  echo  of  Ibis 
burst  of  youthful  thunder. 

It  was  not  till  the  year  1837  that  Mr.  Dinacli  tvached  the 
goal  of  hia  ambition  and  took  his  scat  in  the  House  of  Cammons. 
It  is  the  borough  of  Maidstone  that  has  the  honour  of  having  firtt 
returned  him.  But  between  1852  and  1S37  he  was  by  no  mcana 
idle,  having  fiovr  paster  It  letups  twice  contested  High  Wycombe, 
offered  himsflf  as  candidate  for  the  representation  of  the  county, 
issued  an  address  to  the  electors  of  Mai^-Iebonc,  and  fongfat  a 
pitched  battle  with  Mr.  Henry  Laboucherc  for  the  representation 
of  Taunton.  It  was  during  his  canvass  at  Taunton,  in  the  year 
1R35,  that  he  came  in  contact  with  Daniel  Q'Conncll,  and  gave 
rise  to  a  passage  of  arms  between  himself  and  the  Liberator 
which,  apart  from  its  personal  bearing,  is  interesting  as  afTording 
a  glimpse  of  the  political  maimers  of  forty  years  ago.  At  Totmton 
Mr.  Disraeli  had,  according  to  the  newspaper  reports,  branded 
O'ConncIl  as  "a  traitor  and  an  incendiary."  Mr.  O'ConnelU 
speaking  a  few  days  later  in  Dublin,  referred  to  this  attack,  and 
after  giving  a  tapid  sketch  of  Mr.  Disraeli'*  political  career  tlncc 
the  time  when,  armed  with  a  Icucr  from  iho  man  be  nov 
assailed,  he  first  offered  himself  as  a  candidate  for  Higb  Wy 
combe,  the  Liberator  proceeds: — 

Tlvn  he  call*  inc  a  (lailoe.     My  answer  to  tbai  it-hc  if  a  lur.     lie  U  a  Iter 
uiioa  ami  in 


Vivian  Grey,  Lord  Bauottsfield. 


703 


afMClttf  irintl  that  be  that  rauld  lolerate  rach  a  creatine— havhtj? 

FtO'-eOaK  forward  wvtili  oac  set  of  principles  at  one  time,  and  obtain 
poHHcal  amstancc  by  touoii  of  tliosc  principle*,  and  at  anolhci  to  profrts 
diain<;tric»lly  the  rcvcwc?  Hi*  life,  I  wy  >k^''^>  i*  *  l"»itig  lie.  He  is  the  most 
<lrgradrcl  of  hui  specien  ancl  kinJ;  and  KnKland  in  de^aclcil  iii  talcra1ui]{  or 
h.i<ring  upcin  Ibc  face  of  her  society  a  iniM:re.int  of  his  abcimitialite,  foul,  and 
4|rocicnis  nature.  NTy  Ungu^ge  h  himb,  and  1  owe  .in  ^p^logy  fi^r  it,  Inil  I  will 
leU  you  wby  I  owe  thai  apolotfj-.  It  is  for  this  rea*o»,  that  if  there  t>e  hanher 
Xcrxm  m  the  Britii^h  laogiuiKC  ■  should  lue  iliem,  iMcaute  it  a  the  banhcst  of  all 
ICTTOK  that  would  be  dcscriptivi?  of  a  wretch  of  hi*  »peciw.  He  is  jutt  the  fellow 
for  ihe  ConBcrrstive  Club.  I  suppose  if  Sir  Robert  Peel  had  been  uul  of  the 
■way  when  tc  wm  called  upon  lo  take  office,  this  Tcllow  would  have  aodcrtalien 
to  supply  his  place.  He  han  falsehood  enouch,  depravity  enough,  and  Klfish- 
IWM  eaoufh,  lo  become  the  Atiin);  leadct  of  the  Conservatives.  He  M  Con- 
serv»ti»n  penAoitieil.  Mis  name  ihnws  he  is  by  d»ce»t  a  Jck-.  His  fftlher 
heumc  a  convert.  He  is  the  belter  for  (hat  in  this  world,  and  1  hope,  of  coiine, 
be  will  be  ihe  better  for  it  in  ibe  ncxl.  There  i«  a  habit  uf  undcmting  thai 
jjieat  nation— the  Jews,  TUey  arc  cruelly  perxecuted  by  pcrwras  calUnj;  tliem- 
■elres  ChrUFti^ins — but  no  pcnujn  ever  yet  wax  a  Chnttun  who  persecuted.  The 
cruellest  perMnnitioti  ihcy  xuflcr  i<i  upim  their  eharactcr,  by  tbe  foul  tuimes  which 
their  calumniatore  bestowed  upon  them  bcrpre  ihcj'  cariieil  their  auodtics  into 
effect.  They  feci  the  persecution  of  calumny  iewrer  upon  tlieui  than  the 
persecution  of  actual  force  and  the  t>'raiuiy  oT  actual  lortuie.  I  have  thv 
luppisess  of  being  aujuainted  with  KOine  Jewuih  families  in  London,  and  aniung 
them,  more  accomplished  ladies,  or  more  humane,  cordial,  hich-mindcd.  or 
belter  educated  gentlemen  I  have  never  met.  It  will  not  be  supposed,  therefore, 
thai  when  1  «peak  of  U'litaeU  lut  the  deicendani  ol  a  Jew  thai  I  mean  to  taniish 
him  on  ihat  account.  'ITicy  were  once  the  chosen  people  of  (iod.  There  were 
miscreants  ^tnnn^^t  Ihein.  however,  also,  and  il  must  bate  ecitainly  been  from 
one  of  those  that  D'lsrncli  descended.  He  posiicsscs  ju«t  Lbc  qualilJcs  of  the 
impenitent  lliicf  wlio  Jieil  upon  the  Cross,  whote  name,  I  veriJy  believe,  must 

I  have  been  D'l.iracli.  For  au^ht  1  know  tbe  present  D'Isracli  is  <te$ccnded  from 
%iin,  .ind  wilh  the  impression  thji  he  is,  I  now  forgi%'e  the  hcir-.il-law  of  the 
Uasphcmous  ihief  who  died  upon  the  Cross. 
On  the  report  of  this  speech  reaching  London,  ^^r.  Disraeli 
challenged  Mr.  O'Conncll's  son  to  fight  a  duel,  O'Connell  himself 
having,  since  he  shot  D'Ksterre,  publicly  vowed  thai  he  would 
nevermore  accept  a  challtinge.  The  duel  was  not  arrantfcd,  but  Mr. 
H  Disraeli  fired  off  a  letter  addressed  to  O'Connell,  which  he  com- 
menced thus  : — "  Mr.  O'Cunnell, — Allhoug-h  you  have  long-  placed 
yourself  out  of  the  pale  of  CLvili.<ialiQii,  still  I  am  one  who  will  not 
be  insulted  even  by  a  yahoo  without  chastising  it."  The  concluding 
passage  is  worth  giving  as  bcingascffectiveand  more  intelligible  than 
the  cjaculatory  rejoinder  Mr.  O'Connell  drew  from  the  old  Dublin 
apple  woman  wilh  whom  he  in  a  manner  similarly  heartily  engaged 
in  a  scolding  luatcli  : — 
"Z  admire  your  *nini!ous  allodon  to  10.7  ot\oii,"  ■Wt.'QftatwVwtWcwfMa..    "^-'i.- 


I 


I. 


704  The  GentlemarCs  Magazine. 

is  clear  that  the  'hereditary  bondsmui'  has  already  forgotten  the  clank  of  bb 
fetters.  I  know  the  tactics  of  your  Church — it  chunoars  for  toleration,  and  it 
labours  for  supremacy.  I  see  that  you  are  quite  prepared  to  peraecutc.  With 
regard  to  your  taunts  as  to  my  want  of  success  in  my  election  contests,  permit  me 
to  remind  you  that  I  had  nothing  to  appeal  to  but  the  good  sense  of  the  people. 
No  threatening  skeletons  canvassed  for  me.  A  death's-head  and  cross-bones 
were  not  blazoned  on  my  banners.  My  pecuniaiy  resources,  tcxi,  were  UmitM 
I  am  not  one  of  those  public  beggars  that  we  see  swarming  with  their  obtnisrre 
boxes  in  the  chapels  of  your  creed ;  nor  am  I  in  possession  of  a  princely  rercinie 
arising  from  a  starving  race  of  fanatical  slaves." 

This  is  a  hit  at  the  national  subscription  which  the  Irish  people 
laid  at  the  feet  of  the  Liberator. 

Nevertheless,  I  have  a  deep  conviction  that  the  hour  is  at  hand  when 
I  shall  be  more  successful,  and  take  my  place  in  that  [»ond  assembl)' 
of  which  Mr.  O'Connell  avows  his  wish  to  be  no  longer  a  member. 
I  expect  to  be  a  representative  of  the  people  before  the  repeal  of  the 
Union.  We  shall  meet  at  Philippi;  and  rest  assured  that,  confident  in  a* 
good  cause  and  in  some  energies  which  have  been  not  altogether  unimprored,  I 
wiU  seize  the  fiist  opportunity  of  inflicting  upon  you  a  castigation  which  wiD 
make  you  at  the  same  time  remember  and  repent  the  insults  that  yon  have  lavished 
upon — Benjahik  Diskaeli." 

This,  in  respect  alike  of  attack  and  rejoinder,  is  very  vigorous, 
and  Mr.  Disiaeii's  share  in  it  suggests  one  reason  why  Mr.  Kenealy 
should  have  dedicated  to  him  that  charming  production  entitled 
"A  New  Pantomime."  A  stanza  from  the  poetical  work  of  the 
Member  for  Stoke  will  show  how  that  great  master  of  abuse  dis- 
ports himself  upon  occasion.  It  is  one  of  the  leading  characters  in 
the  Pantomime  who  speaks  : — 

Shatter-pate,  swing-buckler,  boggier, 

Cfaatterpil,  bamboozler,  dodger ; 
Meacock,  buzzer,  poor  fop-doodle. 
You're  a  pretty  first  floor  lodger ! 
SnufHer,  loggerhead,  and  spluttcrer, 

Beetlebrow,  gull-catcher,  viper, 

Hiccius'doccius,  bull -eyed  stutterer, 

I  will  make  you  pay  the  piper. 

One  can  imagine  how  deeply  Mr.  Disraeli,  when  he  read  the  '*  New 
Pantomime,"  may  have  repented  that  it  had  not  appeared  thirty 
years  earlier.  Even  O'Connell,  with  his  rich  and  carefully  cuUivated 
vocabulary  of  vituperation,  must  have  succumbed  had  his  antagonist 
been  in  a  position  to  quote  in  reply  to  him  the  full  roll  of  the 
thirty-two  lines  from  Mr.  Kenealy's  poem  of  which  I  give  the  con- 
cluding eight. 

That  this  correspondence  with  O'Connell  was  not  a  spasmodic 


b 


'and  excepiioiial  effort  will  appear  from  the  following  extract  pub- 
lislied  in  the  Tima  of  the  qth  of  January,  1836.  It  should  be 
premispd  that  the  criitcir  of  the  Oahi  had  been  "  saying  things" 
about  the  circumstances  under  which  Mr.  Disraeli,  at  this  ej)och  a 
Tor)',  had  sought  the  suffrages  of  Wycombe  as  a  Radical.  Mr. 
Disraeli  writes  to  the  Tima: — 

Like  tlie  man  who  left  n(F  fighting  liecjuitc  he  covlil  not  keep  hU  wire  from 
sopprr,  the  editor  of  the  (ilabe  has  been  plewcd  to  say  thsC  he  is  disinclined  to 
continue  this  controvcT»y  Itcc^un;  it  gratiltcs  my  "  passion  for  noloriely."  Tbc 
Milor  or  Itic  GiuUe  must  have  a  more  contnctd  mind,  and  a  paltrier  spirit,  Ihut 
treca  I  imagined,  if  he  can  supjMM:  for  a  iiiornirnt  that  an  i][Hol>li:  coiilrovemy 
with  an  ubst-urc  animal  like  himself  cnn  gratify  the  |)a»iuii  fur  n»tDhcty  of  one 
vhcMC  work.1,  at  ka«t,  have  been  tianslateil  into  the  language*  af  pnliNhcd 
Europe,  am!  circulate  hy  thoownd*  in  the  New  World.  It  is  not.  then,  my 
pasaoQ  for  notoriety  thst  has  induced  me  to  tweak  the  editor  of  the  iHatf  by  thp 
no»c,  and  to  inflict  siinilry  lucks  upon  the  baser  part  of  his  base  body ;  lo  make 
him  eat  dirt,  uid  \a»  own  words,  fouller  than  any  filih  ;  but  bucauic  [  wished  lt> 
show  10  the  world  whai  a  mijicrable  iiullrooii.  what  n  craven  doJIiirJ,  what  .1 
Utcraiy  icarccrow,  what  a  mere  thing,  stufTed  with  str.iw  and  rubbiah,  is  the 
Mi-disant  dircflor  of  public  opinion  and  ofliicial  organ  of  Whig  politics. 

It  is  thirty-nine  years  ago,  this  very  month  of  December,  that 
Mr.  Disraeli  made  his  first  speech  in  the  House  of  Commons.  He 
had  scarcely  become  familiar  with  the  look  of  the  place; 
but  it  was  part  of  his  creed  that  he  was  at  home  an)-where 
and  that  circumstances  were  to  be  controlled  by  him,  and 
not  he  by  circumstances.  His  Mbi'il  wag  a  matter  of  mark. 
even  in  the  House  of  Commons.  A  young  man,  he  had 
succeeded  in  getting  himself  talked  about  from  the  highest 
circle  lo  ihe  lowest.  He  had  written  the  most  popul.ir  novel  of 
the  day.  He  had,  single-handed,  fought  half  a  duaen  ejections. 
He  had  entered  worthily  into  the  lists  of  vituperation  with  tlie 
illustrious  O'CormeEI.  He  had  challenged  lo  a  duel  the 
Liberator' .-i  son.  He  had  dared  everybody,  had  delighted  in 
defiance,  and  had  revelled  in  revilings.  Nor  in  personal  appear- 
ance was  he  a  man  who  might  rise  in  a  popuKar  assembly 
without  attracting  attention.  The  "  popinjay"  of  High  Wycombe, 
with  his  pink  tails,  his  ruffled  !acc,  and  hi.s  dash  of  blue 
on  the  crest,  had  toned  down  to  the  quieter  colours  of  •'  a 
bottle-green  frock  coat"  and  a  "wlitte  waistcoat."  But  what 
he  lacked  in  varied  hues  as  compared  with  his  High  Wycombe 
garb  he  made  up  by  the  display  of  a  collection  of  gold 
chains  hung  like  tretlis-work  abotit  his  waistcoat,  whilst 
"large  fancy  pattern  pantaloons  and  a  black  tie.  above  which  no 

Vol.  ifor  $8'6,  T-t 


I 


7o6  The  GciUlauan  s  Magazine. 

shirt-collar  was  visible,"  completed  his  attire.  "  A  countt-nan 
lividly  pale,  set  out  by  a  pair  of  intensely  black  eyes,  and  a  bn 
but  not  very  high  forehead,  overhung  by  clustered  ringlets  of  cc 
black  hair,  which,  combed  away  from  the  right  temples,  foil 
bunches  of  well-oiled  small  ringlets  over  his  left  cheek." 

"  Mr.  Disraeli's  appearance  and  manneV,"  writes  Mr.  Ja:i 
Grant,  an  eye-witness  of  the  scene,  "were  very  sinjjular.  1 
dress  also  had  much  of  a  theatrical  aspect.  His  black  hair  i 
Ions  and  flowing,  and  he  had  a  most  ample  crop  of  it.  I 
gestures  were  abundant — he  even  appeared  as  if  trying  with  wl 
celerity  he  could  move  his  body  from  one  side  to  another.  :! 
throw  his  hands  out  and  draw  them  in  again.  At  other  limi-s 
flourished  one  hand  before  his  face  and  then  the  other.  I 
voice,  too.  is  of  a  ver>'  unusual  kind.  It  is  powerful,  should  it  f 
have  justice  done  to  it  by  practice ;  but  there  is  somcthin.y:  pe-cul 
in  it  which  I  am  at  a  loss  to  characterise.  His  utterance  is  rap 
and  he  ucvlt  seemed  at  a  loss  for  words."  Throu-jh  fortv  wi 
Mr.  Disraeli  has  preserved  the  gestures  here  described,  and  whi 
he  finds  occasion  to  be  righteously  indignant  with  honourable 
right  honourable  gentlemen  opposite,  you  may  see  this  vc 
action  of  the  opened  hands  thrown  outward  and  drawn  back,  an 
though  less  frequently,  the  other  gesture  noted,  of  the  ham 
alternately  flourished  before  his  face. 

The  occasion  of  his  maiden  speech,  made  on  the  7th  of  Dccembt 
1837,  was  a  motion  relating  to  Sir  Francis  Bardett's  share  in  fu 
thering  the  famous  Spottiswoode  Subscription,  the  object  of  whit 
was  to  supply  the  sinews  of  war  to  Protestant  candidates  for  Iri? 
seats.  "SU.  O'Connell  had  been  drawn  into  the  debate,  and  as  tl: 
Liberator  sat  down  Mr.  Disraeli  rose  from  the  Conservative  sidi 
where  he  had  taken  his  seat  on  entering  the  House.  It  w; 
reasonably  expected  that  the  House  was  about  to  enjoy  a  treat  froi 
this  audacious  young  member,  who  had  already  taken  a  master 
degree  in  the  art  of  vituperation.  But  inasmuch  as  it  was  an  attac 
upon  O'Connell,  the  speech  was  weak  and  vague,  and  the  Hoos 
speedily  began  to  manifest  its  impatience.  Mr.  Disraeli,  as  is  clea 
from  a  careful  study  of  the  address,  had  come  down  primed  with 
few  keen  sayings,  and  till  these  were  reeled  off  he  had  no  intentio 
of  resuming  his  seal.  The  House  laughed,  cried  "  Oh  I "  an 
"Question!"  but  Mr.  Disraeli,  though  evidently  floundering,  wa 
plucky  to  the  last.  "  I  wish  I  really  could  induce  the  House  t 
give  me  five  minutes  more,"  he  plaintively  said,  after  battling  fo 
some  moments  with  the  storm    of   interruption.      The   Hous 


Vivian  Gny,  JLord  Bauonsjield. 


707 


answered  with  a  roar  of  laughter,  and  finding  it  thus  in  good 
humour  Mr.  Disraeli  started  off  once  more.  But  it  was  no  use.  ARer 
various  efforts  to  gain  a  hearing',  and  aftor  makin*  some  points, 
the  brilliant  iftit  of  which  would  not  disgrace  his  later  fame,  the 
ambitious  young  member  was  obliged  to  confess  himself  beaten. 
Let  us  take  the  conclufling  sentences  of  the  speech  as  they  appear 
in  \\ii  Morning  Ckraniiii:  of  the  8th  of  December,  1837,  with  their 
graphic  marks  of  interruption.  "I  think,  sir — ('  Hear!  hearl"  and 
repeated  cries  of  '  Question  1  question  t")  I  am  not  at  all  su^]l^i^<Lld. 
sir,  at  the  reception.  1  have  received.  (Continued  laughter.)  1 
have  begun  several  times  many  things — O^'^Khter)— and  I  have 
often  succeeded  at  last.  (Fresh  cries  of  •Question!')  Ay,  sir, 
and  though  I  sit  down  now,  the  time  will  come  when  you  will 
hear  me." 

The  time  came,  as  we  ail  know,  and  it  was  improved  till  the 
youth  in  the  bottle-green  coat  has  lived  to  he  Lord  Bcaconslield, 
Prime  Minister  of  England,  and  leader  of  a  party  which  can  never 
fully  acknowledge,  even  were  it  grnrrously  inclined,  the  deht  it  owes 
to  bim  who  forty  years  ago  ambled  dpwn  the  floor  of  the  House  of 
Commons  to  bend  lii»  scented  locks  over  the  roll  of  Parliament,  the 
while  be  wrote  with  many  flouriihes  the  signature  "B.D'Israeli."  An 
American  writer,  moralising  on  the  imexpectcd  and  profoundly-to- 
hc-rcgretlcd  stooping  of  this  great  man  to  ihe  height  marked  by  a 
coronet,  observes: — "All  that  can  now  be  said  of  the  Earl  of 
Bcaconslield  in  the  spk-ndid  exile  of  the  Upper  Chamber  is  that 
the  old  man  under  the  Beaconsficid  coronet,  the  peer  without 
ancestry  and  without  descendants,  was  once  Benjamin  Disraeli." 
A  great  deal  more,  nevertheless,  will  be  said  when  the  history  of 
the  last  quarter  of  a  century  comes  to  be  i\-riltcn.  But  to  my  mind, 
taking  up  the  iirst  novel  written  by  Mr.  Disraeli,  and  looking 
throujjh  the  thin  disguise  of  the  fiction  upon  the  vain,  restless,  clever, 
self-reliant,  unbcfHcnded  adventurer  who  wrote  it,  language  has  no 
power  to  tell  in  briefer  form,  nor  may  thought  cast  in  sharper  outline, 
the  wonderful  history,  the  proud  achievements  of  Benjamin 
Disraeli,  than  will  result  from  the  mere  combination  of  bis  earliest 
and  his  latest  namc»— Vivian  Grey,  Lord  Beacons&eld  t 


XT.\ 


:i 


■    'I 
I 


ii 


Charles  Dickens  and  his  Letters 

BY  MARY  COWDEN  CURKE. 


PART  I. 

,£AMING  in  look,  alert  in  manner,  radiant  with  goo 
humour,  genial-voiced,  gay,  the  very  soul  of  enjoi 
ment,  fun,  good  taste,  and  good  spirits,  admirable  i 
organising  details  and  suggesting  novelty  of  entei 
lainment,  Charles  Dickens  was  of  all  beings  the  very  man  for 
holiday  season,  and  in  singularly  exceptional  holiday  fashion  wa 
it  my  good  hap  to  pass  almost  every  hour  that  I  spent  in  hi 
society;  for  I  was  with  him  during  one  of  the  most  festive  period 
of  the  famous  series  of  amateur  theatrical  performances ;  I  fonnet 
one  of  the  party  in  the  delightful  journeys  to  the  various  place 
where  we  were  lo  act;  I  had  the  privilege  to  be  present  at  th( 
hilarious  suppers  after  the  acting  ;  I  was  among  the  guests  at  twc 
or  three  choice  little  dinner  parties  at  his  house,  and  attended 
some  brilliant  assemblies  at  which  art,  music,  and  literature  were 
nobly  represented  ;  I  took  part  in  a  dress  rehearsal  at  Devonshire 
House  when  Bulwer's  drama  "  Not  so  Bad  as  We  Seem "  was 
played  by  Dickens  and  some  of  his  friends ;  and  I  had  a  character 
to  sustain  in  a  performance  at  Tavistock  House  of  a  piece  called 
"The  Lighthouse,"  expressly  written  to  display  the  fine  points  of 
Dickens's  and  Mark  Lemon's  supremely  good  powers  of  acting. 

It  has  been  before  mentioned*  that  when  I  first  offered  Charles 
Dickens  to  join  his  company  in  1848  to  enact  Dame  Quickly  in 
"The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,"  which  he  was  then  proposing,  he 
did  not  at  first  comprehend  that  my  offer  was  made  in  earnest : 
but  on  my  writing  to  assure  him  that  I  was  serious  he  sent  me  the 
following  letter,  which  I  must  confess  threw  me  into  strange 
raptures ;  for,  apart  from  the  proud  gratification  it  afforded  me  to 
be  associated  with  Charles  Dickens  in  so  notable  an  enterprise,  I 
was  possessed  with  a  strong  taste  for  acting,  a  taste  which  I  never 
dared  hope  to  gratify,  and  this  was  a  mode  of  gratifying  it  beyond 
anything  I  could  have  dreamed  of.    I  ran  with  the  letter  to  mv 


•  See  p-nge  217  Gentleman's  Slagnzint  for  Febnuuy,  1876. 


I 


I 
I 


Charlis  Dkkcm  and  his  Letkr^ 

another,  who  never  failed  to  sympathise  wilh  me  in  my  wildest  iits 
of  gladness,  and  read  and  rc-rcad  the  letter  to  her:— 

Devonshire  Terrace,  r4th  April,  1848. 

Dkar  Mrs.  Cowdf.n  Clarke. — I  did  not  imden*taiid,  when  I 
had  the  jilpasurc  of  conversiiiR  with  you  tlie  other  evening,  that 
jou  h;ul  really  considered  ihc  siilijcct  and  desired  to  play.  But  I 
am  ver)'  glad  to  nnder-itaiid  it  now  ;  and  I  am  sure  there  will  be  a 
universal  sense  among  iis  o{  the  grace  and  appropriateness  of  such 
-1  procpeding.  Falstaff  {who  depends  very  much  on  Mrs.  Quickly) 
may  have,  in  his  modesty,  some  timidity  about  acting  with  an 
amateur  actress.  Hut  1  have  no  question,  as  you  have  studied  the 
]iarLand  long  wished  to  ]ilay  it,  that  you  will  put  him  rompletc-ly 
at  his  ease  on  tlic  first  night  of  your  rehearsal.  Will  you,  towards 
that  end.  receive  tins  as  a  stdcmn  "call"  to  rehearsal  of  "The 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor"  at  Miss  KcU/s  theatre,  to-morrow, 
isiturday,  tvak,  at  7  in  the  evening? 

And  will  you  let  me  .-iuggcsc  another  point  for  your  consideration: 
on  the  night  wlien  tlic  "Merry  Wives"  will  mi  bcpiayed.and  when 
"  Kvery  Man  in  his  Humour"  icv//  be,  Kenny's  farce  of  '^Love, 
Law,  and  I'liysic "  will  lie  acted.  In  that  farce  there  is  a  very 
.good  character  (one  ."^trs.  Hilary-,  wijicli  I  have  seen  Mrs.  Orger, 
1  think,  act  to  admiration)  that  would  h.ivc  been  plrtyed  by  Mrs, 
C  Jones  if  .sht-  h.id  acted  Dame  (Quickly,  as  we  at  lirst  intended. 
K  you  find  yourself  quite  comfortable  and  at  ease  among  us,  in 
Mrs.  Quickly,  would  you  like  to  take  this  other  part  too  ?  !t  is 
an  excellent  farce,  and  is  safe,  I  hope,  to  be  very  well  done. 

We  do  not  play  to  purchase  the  house*  (which  may  be  positively 
considered  as  paid  for;,  hut  towards  endowing  a  perpettial  curator- 
sliip  of  it,  for  some  eminent  literary  veteran.  And  I  think  yon 
will  recognise  In  this  even  a  higher  and  more  gracious  object  than 
the  securing  even  <ir  the  debt  incurred  for  ilu;  house  itself. — 
lielieve  mc  very  faithfully  yours,  Charles  Dickens. 

Amid  my  transport  of  excitement  thcrj  mingled  some  natural 
trcpidaliun  when  the  evening  of  the  "  first  rch;;ars-ir'  ariiveJ  and 
I  repaired  with  xa,^  sister  ]l£mma,  who  accompanied  mc  throughout 
my  "Splendid  Slrulling,"  to  the  appointed  spot,  and  founil  myself 
among  the  brilliant  group  assembled  on  the  stage  of  the  miniature 
llieatrc  in  Dean  Street,  Soho ;  men  whom  I  had  long  known  by 
reputation  as  distinguished  artists  and  jouruaEists.  John  Forster, 
editor  of  the  ll.xamimr;  two  of  the  mainslajs  of  Punch — Mark 
Lemon,  its  editor,  and  John  Leech,  its  inimitnble  illustrator; 
Augustus  Egg  and  Frank  Stone — whos?  charming  pictures  floated 
■before  my  vision  while  1  looked  at  the  artists  for  the  first  time :  all 
turned  their  eyes  upon  the  "amateur  actress"  as  she  entered  the 
foot-lighted  circle  ami   joined   their  company.      But  the  friend- 


': 


i 


1 
I 

710  •    The  Gcntkmaii s  Magazine. 

lincss  of  their  reception,  as  Charles  Dickens,  with  his  own  read 
grace  and  alacrity,  successively  presented  me  to  them,  soo 
relieved  timidity  on  my  part.  Forster's  somewhat  stately  bo' 
was  accompanied  by  an  affable  smile  and  a  marked  courtesy  th: 
.were  very  winning,  while  Mark  Lemon's  fine  open  countcnanct 
sweet-tempered  look,  and  frank  shake  of  the  hand  at  once  place 
Falstaff  and  Mistress  Quickly  "at  ease"  with  each  other. 

There  was  one  thing  that  helped  me  well  throughout  tha 
evening.  I  had  previously  resolved  that  I  would  "  speak  out,"  am 
not  rehearse  in  half  voice,  as  many  amateur  perfonners  invariabi 
do  who  are  suffering  from  shyness.  Though  I  did  not  feci  shy  ii 
acting,  I  felt  a  good  deal  of  awe  at  my  brother  actors'  presence 
but  I  took  refuge  in  my  predetermination  to  maintain  as  steady  am 
duly  raised  atone  of  voice  as  I  could  possibly  muster.  This  stoo( 
me  in  doubly  good  stead :  it  proved  to  them  that  I  was  not  liabli 
to  "stage  fright;"  for  the  amateur  performer  who  can  face  thi 
small  select  audience  of  a  few  whom  he  knows  (which  is  so  infi 
ii  nitely  more  really  trying  to  courage  than  the  assembled  sea  o 

.1  unknown  faces  in  a  theatre)  runs    little   risk  of  failure    in    per 

formance  after  success  in  rehearsal ;  and  it  tested  to  myself  mi 
own  powers  of  self-possession  and  capability  of  making  myseli 
heard  in  a  public  and  larger  assemblage.  I  was  rewarded  by  bein: 
told  that  in  next  Monday  morning's  Tinus,  which  gave  an  amiable 
paragraph  about  the  rehearsal  at  Miss  Kell/s,  there  were  a  few 
words  to  the  effect  that  the  Dame  Quickly,  who  was  the  only  ladi 
amateur  among  the  troupe,  promised  to  be  an  acquisition  to  tht 
company.  Other  rphcarsals  followed,  delightful  in  the  extreme 
Charles  Dickens  was  ever  present,  superintending,  directing,  sug' 
gesting,  with  sleepless  activity  and  vigilance  :  the  essence  0 
punctuality  and  methodical  precision  himself,  he  kept  incessan 
watch  that  others  should  be  unfailingly  attentive  and  carefu 
throughout.  Unlike  most  professional  rehearsals — where  waiting 
about,  dawdling,  and  losing  time  seem  to  be  the  order  of  the  day— 
the  rehearsals  underCharlesDickens'sstage-managership  were  strictlj 
devoted  to  work — serious,  earnest  work.  The  consequence  was  iha 
when  the  evening  of  performance  came  the  pieces  went  off  with  ; 
smoothness  and  polish  that  belong  onlyto  finished  stage- business  ant 
practised  performers.  He  was  always  there  among  the  first  arriver 
at  rehearsal,  and  remained  in  a  conspicuous  position  daring  thei: 
progress  till  the  very  last  moment.  He  had  a  small  table  placet 
rather  to  one  side  of  the  stage,  at  which  he  generally  sat  as  tht 
scenes  vent  on  in  which  he  himself  took  no  part.    On  this  tabb 


Charles  Diekens  ami  his  JLdters.  7 1  r 

'nMCtAa^aOdenitely-sized  box,  its  interior  divided  into  convenient 
4ioni|)ttrttBMIt9  for  holding  papers,  Iclters,  &c. ;  and  this  interior 
was  alwa}-s  Ihe  very  pinl:  of  neatness  and  orderly  arrange- 
mem.  Occasionally  he  would  leave  his  scat  at  the  mana- 
gerial table,  stand  with  iiis  back  to  the  Tootlights,  in  the  veiy 
centre  of  the  front  of  the  stage,  and  view  the  whole  effect  of  the 
rehtarscd  performance  a?  it  proceeded,  observinj?  the  attiludca 
and  positions  of  those  engaged  in  the  dialogue,  their  mode  of 
entiance,  exit,  &c.  He  never  seemed  to  ovcrlnok  anything,  but 
noted  the  ver>- slightest  point  that  conduced  to  the  "going  well" 
of  the  whole  performance.  With  all  this  supervision,  however,  it 
•was  pleasant  to  remark  the  inter  absence  of  dtctatorialnrss  or  arro- 
gation  of  saperiority  that  distingnishcd  his  mode  of  ruling  his 
troupe.  He  exerted  his  auihority  firmly  and  perpetually,  but  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  make  it  universally  felt  to  bo  for  no  purpose 
of  self-assertion  or  self-importance,  but,  on  the  contrarj-,  to  be 
for  the  sole  purpose  of  ensuring  general  success  to  their  united 
efTorts. 

Some  of  these  rehearsJs  were  productive  of  incidents  that  gave 
additional  zest  to  their  intrinsic  interest.  One  evening  Miss 
Kelly — Charles  Lamb's  admired  Fanny  Kelly — was  standing  at 
"the  M-ing"  while  1  went  through  my  first  scene  with  Falstaff, 
u-atching  it  keenly:  and  afterwards,  coming  up  to  me,  she  uttered 
many  kind  words  of  encoiu'agement,  approval,  and  suggestion, 
ending  with : — *'  Mind  you  stand  well  forward  on  the  stage  while 
you  speak  to  Sir  John,  and  don't  let  that  great  big  burly  man  hide 
you  from  the  audience  ;  you  generally  place  yourself  too  near  him, 
and  rather  in  the  rear  of  his  elbow."  I  explained  that  my  motive 
had  been  to  denote  the  deference  paid  by  the  messenger  of  the 
"Meny  Wives"  to  the  fat  knight.  She  lauglju-d,  and  gave  me 
another  good  stage  hint,  saying  : — "  Aiwa}-*  keep  your  eyes  looking 
ucH  up,  and  try  to  fix  them  on  the  higher  range  of  boxes,  other- 
wise they  are  lost  to  the  audience:  and  much  depends  on  the 
audience  getting  a  good  sight  of  the  eyes  and  their  expression." 
I  told  her  that  I  dreaded  the  glare  of  the  chandelier  and  lights,  as 
my  c)-es  were  not  strong.  She  replied,  "  Look  well  up,  and  you'll 
find  that  the  under  eyelids  will  quite  protect  you  from  the  glare  of 
ihc  footlights,  the  dazzle  of  which  is  the  chief  thing  that  perplexes 
Uic  sight." 

On  the  night  of  the  dress  rehearsal  at  Miss  Kelly's  theatre  of 
the  "  Merry  Wives  "  William  Macrcady  came  to  see  us  play,  and 
daring  oac  of  the  intcr\'al3  bcfwoai  vV\t  at^s  CVaL^AsA  ^^Vssa 


4 

i 


K 


M 


I 


7 1 2  The  Gcntknusn  s  Magazim, 

tirought  him  on  to  the  stage  onci  iiitroiluceil  bim  to  mc.  The 
rcadur  may  imagine  what  a  Rutter  of  pluabunr  stirrctl  my  heart  as 
I  stood  with  apparent  calmness  talking  to  the  great  tragedian;  at 
length  plucking  up  sufficient  bravcij-  to  tell  him  how  much  I 
admired  his  latt'  i.>nacling  of  Uunudick,  and  the  artistic  mudu  in 
whii;h  he  hu-ld  up  the  muscles  of  his  face,  so  as  to  give  a  hght- 
comedy  look  to  the  visage  accustomed  to  wear  a  stern  aspect  in 
Coriolaniift,  a  luid  one  in  Ilamlct,  a  serious  one  in  Macbeth,  a 
worn  one  in  Lear,  itc.  As  [  spoke  the  "muscles  of  his  fact " 
relaxed  into  tlic  smile  that  £0  well  became  his  countenance  of  tugged 
strength  and  firmness  ;  and  he  looked  thoroughly  amused,  and  nut 
ungralified  by  my  boldness. 

Then  there  were  rehearsals  on  the  Haymarkel  itage  itself,  that 
wc  might  become  acquainted  with  the  exact  locality  on  which  wt 
were  to  give  the  two  nights  of  London  public  performance.  ITie 
time  fixed  for  one  of  these  rehearsals  was  early  in  the  afternoon  of 
a  day  when  there  had  been  a  moining  rehearsal  of  the  lla^'markct 
company  themselves,  arid  I  was  diverted  to  notice  that  scvcia!  of 
its  members  remained  lingering  about  the  side-scenes,  tlic  pro- 
fessionals interested  to  see  how  the  amateurs  would  act.  Among 
tliem  was  William  Farreii,  who,  when  a  young  uiaji  of  little  xarnt 
than  twenty,  was  so  excellent  an  impersonator  of  old  men,  and 
whose  Lord  Ogk-by,  Sir  Peter  Teazle,  and  other  old  gentlemanly 
characters  will  not  readily  be  forgotten  by  ihos*';  who  saw  him  play 
them.  There,  too,  that  afternoon,  with  the  daylighi  streaming 
through  an  upper  window  upon  her  surpassingly  beautiful  face, 
was  Mrs.  Nisbt-tt,  and — to  the  dismay  of  one  who  knew  herself  tO 
be  well-nigh  as  plain  and  quiet- looking  as  Jfrs.  Nisbett  was  hand- 
some  and  brilliant — we  both  chanced  to  wear  on  that  occasion 
precisely  the  same  kind  of  grey-chip  bonnet,  with  pale  pink  talie 
veil  and  trimmings,  which  was  at  that  time  "  Mr  fashion."  This 
was  a  bit  of  secret  feminine  consciousness  which  it  seems  strange 
to  be  now  revealing ;  but  it  occurred  in  that  bright  keenly-fcit 
time  when  everything  seemed  especially  vivid  to  its  enjoyer.  and 
is  therefore  worth  while  recording  as  lending  vividness  and  reality 
to  the  impressions  sought  to  be  conveyed  by  the  present  writer  is 
her  fast  advancing  old  age. 

Besides  a  list  of  rehearsals  and  a  copy  of  ihc  "  RuIm  for 
Kchearsals"  (extracts  from  which  arc  given  in  a  note  at  pp.  363-4 
Vol.  IL  of  Forstcr's  "Life  of  Charles  Dickens'*),  signed  by  his 
own  hand,  I  had  received  the  following  nolelet  in  reply  (0  my 
inquiry  of  vihat  ediVion  o^  SV\!i5tc4v«ax«:  k  "■^ittj  ■^VtieV*  'victfiSA 


Charies  Dickens  and  his  Letters.  7 1 3 

be  used ;  all  giving  token  of  his  promptitude  and  business-like 
attention  to  the  enterprise  in  hand.  The  *'  family  usage"  alluded 
to  was  that  of  always  calling  him  at  home  by  the  familiar  loving 
appellation  of  "  Dear  Dickens "  or  "  Darling  Dickens."  So 
scrupulously  has  been  treasured  every  scrap  of  his  writing  addressed 
or  penned  for  me  that  the  very  brown  paper  cover  in  which  the 
copy  of  " Love,  Law,  and  Physic "  was  sent  is  still  in  existence; 
jis  is  the  card  bearing  the  words  "  Pass  to  the  stage — Charles 
Dickens,"  with  the  emphatic  scribble  beneath  the  name — which 
formed  the  magic  order  for  entrance  through  the  stage  door  of  the 
Ilaymarket  Theatre : — 

Devonshire  Terrace,  Sunday  morning,  i6th  April,  18+8. 

Dear  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke, — As  I  am  the  stage  manager  you 
tould  not  have  addressed  your  inquiry  to  a  more  fit  and  proper 
person.  The  mode  of  address  would  be  unobjectionable  but  for 
ihe  knowledge  you  give  me  of  that  family  usage,  which  I  think 
jjreferable  and  indeed  quite  perfect. 

Enclosed  is  Knight's  cabinet  edition  of  the  "  Merry  Wives," 
/rom  which  the  company  study.  I  also  send  you  a  copy  of  "  Love, 
Law,  and  Phj^ic." — Believe  me  always  very  faithfully  yours, 

Charles  Dickens. 


A  Bunch  of  Wild  Flowers. 

BY  D.  CHRISTIE  MURRAY. 


God  dwells  ahou/  us  like  Ike  vety  air 
Arid  finds  swed  inlets  on  tiS  everywhere. 

I. 

S  by  apparent  chance,  with  easy  pace 
You  saunter  down  the  street,  yoij  meet  a  face 
Which  comes  upon  you  with  a  silent  sense 
Of  Sabbath  music  ;  or  your  soul  at  large 
Breaks  at  a  bound  beyond  the  fleshly  fence, 
And  stands  agaze  on  Fancy's  ocean  marge 
Because  with  lifted  eyes  a  sudden  look 
Has  touched  the  heaven  with  all  its  wealth  of  cloud. 
And  thought  runs  freer  than  a  happy  brook 
And  bears  you  leagues  away  from  all  the  crowd 
And  all  the  crowd's  sad  cares.     Perhaps  a  scent 
From  some  hay-waggon  jolted  down  the  ways 
Has  for  a  moment  changed  the  heart's  whole  bent 
And  turned  you  back  to  homely  countrj-  days. 
Perhaps  the  noise  of  some  street-minstrel,  blown 
Through  London's  strident  murmur,  till  the  tone, 
At  first  so  harsh,  is  mellow,  takes  the  ear 
As  with  the  music  of  another  sphere, 
And  on  a  sudden,  past  the  dusky  walls 
Of  London's  streets,  a  tranquil  glory  falls 
On  that  dear  space  where  many  a  grass-grown  mound 
Proclaims  the  village  church's  holy  ground. 
And  the  sweet  voices  of  the  village  choir 
.Through  summer's  open  windows  sweetly  rise. 
Till  the  quaint  music  breeds  a  new  desire 
Deep  as  the  sea,  untroubled  as  the  skies. 

These  powers  are  mulliplied  on  him  who  loves. 
And  in  them  all  God's  spirit  lives  and  moves. 


u  one  anclouded  blue ; 
When  spring's  first  fragrance  dwelt  within  the  air. 
And  spring's  keen  longing  pricked  all  nature;  through, 
Giving  the  fruit  trees  promise  of  their  fruity 
And  stirring  little  grasses  at  tlie  root, 
And  setting  birds  a-singing  on  the  trees. 
Camp  one  poor  pair  of  mortals  froin  the  town 
Into  the  countr)*,  vhcre  they  roamed  a:  ease 
And  sat  them  in  a  pleasant  Icasomc  down, 
And  gave  their  souU  lull  breath  and  soothed  their  eye* 
With  country  sights,  and  fed  their  eouLs  with  fantasies. 

m. 

How  poor  in  purse  they  were  'twere  hard  to  tcll, 
How  rich  they  were  in  love  as  hard  lo  say ; 
Yet  she  denied  him,  though  she  loved  him  well. 
Nor  ever  spoke  till  that  delicious  day 
The  little  words  "  I  love  you."     He  had  strolled 
Alone,  a  stonc's-throw  off,  to  where  the  heath 
In  one  hroad  glory  to  the  heaven  uproUed, 
And,  barred  there  by  a  hedgerow,  saw  beneath 
A  modest  primrose  with  a  crest  of  gold, 
And,  stooping  down  to  pluck  it,  caught  the  face 
Of  one  sweet  violet  in  its  hiding  place. 
There,  with  a  son  of  tender  rapture  filled. 
He  knelt  above  them,  though  so  little  skilled 
In  rural  lore  he  did  not  know  their  names, 
Yet,  at  the  thought  of  so  much  beauty,  passed 
Through  all  his  blood  a  thousand  cjuirkcnlng^flamcs. 
And  both  his  eyes  with  tears  were  overcast ; 
And  somehow — as  I  think — as  lie  knelt  there 
So  joyed  to  find  a  work  of  God's  so  fair. 
The  bliss  of  that  poor  heart  might  reach  God  like  a  prayer! 

IV. 

Gathering  the  flowers  he  tamed,  and  as  he  went, 
Gazing  about  him  with  a  still  content 
Which  grew  of  very  wonder,  added  more 
Of  Nature's  trcasnrcs  to  his  tiny  store, 
Until  he  reached  her  pic^cnce  ihu  he.  loved 


f'il 


I 


. 


V 

i 


716  T/ie  GcntlcmaiC  s  Magazine. 

And  gave  the  flowers,  and  she,  a  little  moved 
By  something  in  his  face  or  in  his  voice. 
Gave  such  a  look  in  answer  that  his  heart 
Leapt  suddenly  as  though  it  cried  "  Rejoice  I  " 
.  And  all  the  coquetry  of  soul  and  art 
Slipped  from  her  like  a  garment,  and  be  threw 
His  arms  about  her. 

Oh  I  the  fields  were  green. 
The  skies  were  fair,  the  woods  with  song  were  ringing', 
And  such  a  world  of  music  passed  between 
Those  beating  hearts  as  outdid  Nature's  singing. 

V. 

There  before  heaven  in  some  rude  fashion  paid 

Tl.is  pair  of  lovers  their  true  lovers'  vows. 

•  «  «  •  • 

VI. 

Could  you  know  how  they  lived,  perchance  'twould  melt 
Ycur  heart  to  think  that  one  whose  claim  on  men 
Might  have  been  equal  with  your  own  should  be 
Wrapt  in  such  miseries  of  poverty. 

VII. 

The  man's  heart  failed  him,  for  the  times  were  hard  ; 

And  spite  of  Love's  protecting  influence 

He  strayed  beyond  his  consort's  tender  guard 

Until  at  last  to  his  besotted  sense 

His  love  itself  lost  all  its  sacredness, 

And  being  from  all  just  employment  barred. 

And  all  the  hopes  that  once  had  seemed  to  bless, 

Though  used  to  misery  from  his  early  years, 

His  soul  was  quelled  by  countless  gathering  fears. 

VIII. 

When  Love  no  longer  loves — when  Youth's  keen  heart 

Is  nipped  before  its  time  with  Age's  frost — 

WheH  man  in  men's  concerns  can  find  no  part — 

When  every  promise  of  the  soul  is  crossed — 

When  every  hope  has  dropped  awar  ^ 

When  bitter  Fortune,  never  ovf 

Holds  back  the  striver  from  tb 


A  JSunch  of  Wiid  Flowers. 


717 


I 


\ 


And  heaps  liim  willi  disaster  hug^e  and  lilind  , 
When  God  Ilimscir  seems  blotted  out  by  cares. 
And  Hunger  with  a  visage  chill  and  thin 
Upon  Ihc  soul's  dismantled  rain  stares, 
A  hcnd  may  lift  the  latch  and  enter  in. 

IX. 

The  low  wind  had  a  thousand  wailing  cries, 
The  low  clouds  sent  a  drear)-  drizzle  down  ; 
The  waving  Hphts,  bleared  like  a  drunkard's  eyes, 
Scarce  lit  the  squalid  horrors  of  the  town. 
But  gay  with  gold  and  brazen  glitter  flared 
A  palace  on  the  street — dry  warmth  within, 
And  from  its  chambers  came  a  jovial  din, 
And  in  its  windows  many  a  gas  lamp  glared 
— A  deeper  darkness  in  the  depth  of  niglit. 
Tricked,  by  Hell's  magic,  in  t!ie  mask  of  light. 

X. 

A  meagre  ssmile  agtcam  on  his  thin  face, 
He  stood  before  tlic  door  of  this  sad  place — 
When  close  beneath  his  feet  a  something  dropped 
By  j:arc!cfis  hands  met  just  as  loose  a  gaze. 
He  stood  a  moment,  for  a  moment  stopped, 
And  lifted  from  its  place  in  those  foul  ways 
A  little  bunch  of  wild  flowers,  all  besoiled 
With  mud  and  rain,  as  like  his  rootless  heart. 
Could  ht  have  known  it,  a?  a  thing  might  be. 
There  they  lay  drooping,  with  their  heads  apart 
From  beauty,  and  their  native  sweets  despoiled 
And  alien  from  their  ancient  woodland  glee. 

XI. 

Yet  a  frail  scent  about  the  blossoms  clung, 
As  something  in  a  fallen  creature's  face 
Whicli  dimly  hints  a  time  when  life  was  young. 
And  leaves  her  yet  one  poor  pathetic  grace. 
And  at  the  scent  the  garish  gaslight  died, 
The  foal  street  vanished,  and  the  murky  air! 
Before  him  lay  a  landscape  swcel  and  wide. 
And  once  again  Ihc  rolling  heath  was  fair. 
The  birds  were  singing  and  the  red  gorse  bowed 


7i8  T}u  Gentleman'' s  MagaziTte, 

Before  the  breezes,  and  the  skies  were  blue  ; 
A  little  runnel  near  him  laughed  aloud, 
Threading  its  way  the  nodding  sedges  through  ; 
And  in  one  pair  of  lucent  earnest  eyes 
He  saw  a  sudden  look  of  love  £irise. 
And  in  another  hand  than  his  was  held 
A  little  bunch  of  wild  flowers  newly  blown, 
And  then,  as  by  a  flash,  the  dream  dispelled. 
Left  him  once  more  in  London's  streets  alone. 

XIL 

Yet  by  that  scent  Love  wrought  a  miracle, 
And  from  his  arid  heart  a  stream  of  tears 
Rose  to  his  eyes,  and  as  they  trickling  fell 
Unheeded  down  his  face,  the  bygone  years 
Were  heavy  on  him,  and  Love  rose  anew. 
And  all  the  man  was  purified  with  love. 
And  ever  after  strove  to  keep  Love  true, 
And  justified  the  hope  for  which  he  strove. 

God's  spirit  dwells  about  us  like  the  air, 
.And  finds  sweet  inlets  on  us  everywhere; 
His  powers  are  multiplied  on  him  who  loves. 
And  in  them  all  I/is  spirit  lives  and  moves  t 


Le.wes  from  the  Journal  of  a 
Chaplain  of  Ease. 

E4iMd  by  hi«  Li«r»r7  Exacotw:  W.  M«CULLAGH  TORRENS,  M.P. 


XIL— HAFET  MERAM. 

15/A  March,  1856, 
MET  ihe  other  day,  at  the  hoase  of  my  excellent  friend 
General  Brig:gs,  a  >'ouDg  man  of  prep&ssessing:  cnuntcnancc 
and  muant*T  who  is,  I  beHeve,  one  of  the  first  of  his  race 
that  have  been  induced  to  come  to  England  for  the  sixke  of 
studying  the  law.  He  is  by  birth  an  East  Indian  and  by  faith  a 
Mussulman.  In  former  years  his  family  occupied  a  position  of 
considerable  influence  and  lived  in  the  Jusury  which  moderate 
wealth  is  now  no  longer  able  to  secure  in  the  Deccan.  His 
gnmdsire  hail  fought  on  the  Company's  side  in  the  war  with 
Tippoo,  whom  he.  in  common  with  many  of  his  creed,  regarded 
somewhat  as  French  or  Belgian  nobles  regarded  Bonaparte,  simply 
as  a  daring  usurper  who  might  honourably  be  opposed  in  amis  in 
concert  with  heretical  and  anti-GalU<.'an  allies.  It  did  not  enter 
their  heads  that  a  little  gentleman  from  the  other  side  of  the  globe, 
not  himself  a  soldier,  or  having  as  yet  an)^hing  of  a  name  in  the 
world,  presiding  over  the  foreign  merchants  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Hoogley,  could  entertain  designs  for  the  subjugaiion  of  the  vast 
provinces  and  numerous  principalities  that  acknowledged  the 
Moslem  sovereignty  of  Delhi. 

The  father  of  the  youni;  man  whom  my  friend  the  general  intro- 
duced to  mc  had  been  personally  known  to  him  during  his  sojourn 
in  the  East.  He  was  a  person  of  more  than  ordinary  intelligence  and 
attainments,  unconlenlious  in  his  disposition,  and  rather  given  to 
despond  than  to  dispute.  He  had  in  youth  made  a  pilgrimage  to 
Mecca,  and  in  later  years  had  visited  Cairo  and  Stamboul.  Sensible 
of  the  faults  and  ready  to  own  the  ignorance  and  semi- barbarism 
of  many  of  the  rulers  of  the  Kasl,  liis  studies  in  the  comparative 
anatomy  of  creeds  served  but  to  confirm  his  preference  for  his 
own.  He  talked  like  a  philosopher  of  the  paganism  of  the 
Hindoos  and  what  he  called  the  polj-thcism  of  the  Greeks.    The 


J 


720  Tli£  GeulkmafC  &  Magazine. 


degradation  of  the  tnilk  of  a  communit)*  disfranchised  ho|it:lc«i(r 
by  the  roles  of  ca^te.  and  the  demorallsaiinn  of  a  p<;ople  given  up 
wholly  to  th(r  pursuit  of  worldly  gain  liy  all  vxpiidients,  whrlbrf 
false  or  true,  fillet!  him  allernalely  with  pity  and  disclfu'ti.  Hr  «»-. 
not  unacquainted  with  the  history  of  the  original  dissemimttinti  or 
Islam,  and  he  knew  how  its  votaries  ofrarjous  mccs  and  in  ^uriooi 
cHmcs  had  attained  to  a  high  degree  of  civiltaation.  rultivatin^  the 
arts  of  pcjice  and  turning  the  waste  into  a  garclim.  Alxiul  Mcraa 
lived,  in  the  hill  country,  some  two  ot  three  days'  ride  from  Otio- 
comund,  the  easy  and  unambitious  life  t^  a  country  noble:  bof- 
pitable  to  the  stranger  who  sought  his  roof,  fmgal  in  his  [k.tso[oI 
expcndilurt!  hut  Rcnerous  to  the  poor:  content  with  one  wife, 
though  ready  to  defvnd  the  conjugal  economy  sanctioned  by  Mastt 
and  the  Propliet;  contemptuous  of  jewels,  but  very  pnind  of  h« 
Arab  stud  ;  careful  to  keep  the  old  tanks  on  his  possessions  in  rq»ir, 
and  ready  to  help  the  indigent  ryot  with  seed  ^rain  for  his  Gdd, 
or  succour  in  time  of  sickness,  and  to  lend  without  usory  eooo^ 
to  enable  the  small  dealer  of  the  village  to  replenish  his  stock  when 
low. 

Sometimes  a  Porsec  from  Bombay,  or  a  Ulema  from  Hyderikhaif, 
or  a  shooting  party  of  Knglish  officers  from  Madras  would  pay  him 
a  visit :  each  and  alt  were  sure  of  welcome,  and  certain  lo  depart 
with  pleajtant  impressions  of  the  urbanity  and  good  sense  of  tlw»r 
host.     His  chief  disappointment  in  life  was  that  he  had  no  son, 
and  though  a  good  father  to  his   daughters  he  fe-iircd    for  ihp*r 
sakes  to  die  without  leaving  a  protector  and  represent  at  ivc  wtio 
should  bear  his  name.     Accordingly,  when  his  bcar^l  grew  ^rqr, 
lie  eho-se  the  youthful  son  of  a  deceased  kinsman,  and  In  confortnllr 
with   establishefl  usage    formally  adopted  hira  as  his   heir.     The 
fact  was  duly  recorded  and  publicly  announced  at  the  time ;  anil 
though  unwilling  to  acknowledge  any  obliji^alion  on  lii^  pa/t  m 
apprise  the  Onx'cmment  of  the  Presidency  that  he  had  thougbt  fit 
to  exercise  his -undoubted  right  in  the  matter,  he  found   mran'«  l(k 
have  the  circumblancc  brought  lo  the  knowledge  of  tlie  Supreme 
Court  at  A[a<lrai  incidentally  and  in  a  waj^  capable  of  proof  in  caet» 
of  need. 

His  foresight  waanot  unncccssar)-.  Some  ttmeaftertbe  collector oT 
the  adjacent  district,  an  nprighi  man.  whom  T.ord  William  Beniiorlc 
had  first  brought  into  official  life  before  the  days  of  the  *  f  ■  ,.t 
Valotc,  tame,  as  was  osual,  lo  sjvnd  a  few  dav»  v,  t 

Chiravelly.      They  talked  with   more  Ihan  usual  fn-rtlom  • 
modifications  recently  introduced  by  Ixird  Dalhoiisie  in  <lt:.>..,iv; 


I 


wiih  native  chiefs  and  nobles.  Trevor,  the  collector,  who  was 
•m  amiabk-  and  a  just  man,  avoided  as  marh  as  possible  the  topic 
tin  which  evidently  his  friend  entertained  s|>ecial  misgivings. 
Threats  of  annexation,  founded  on  the  ncw-fanjjlcd  excuse  of 
failure  in  the  direct  line  of  heirship,  already  darkened  many  a  native 
palace  and  embittered  the  closing  daj*s  of  many  a  brave  man  who 
had  in  doublfu]  days  been  failhful  to  the  Knglish  interest.  All  the 
collector  could  do  was  honestly  to  hold  out  a  hope  that  Chiravcliy 
might  escape  the  covetous  eye  of  centralising  mjiinp  when  so 
many  prizes  more  glittering  were  in  sight.  There  vras  not,  indeed, 
mut-h  comfort  here ;  and  when  lakini^  his  leave  for  what  hu  knew 
to  be  the  last  time,  as  he  was  soon  to  return  to  England,  lie  bade 
the  young  roan,  should  he  ever  think  of  visiting  Europe,  to  be 
sure  to  sock  him  out  that  he  might  repay  in  some  degree  to  him  the 
hospitalities  received  from  his  adoptive  father. 

7*hc  words  sounded  ominously  in  the  Mussulman's  car;  anil  lest 
unhappily  the  day  should  ever  come  when  his  heritage  should  be 
taken  away  from  those  he  loved  he  resolved  to  induce  his  son 
Hafct  to  qualify  himself  by  stady  for  the  practice  of  some  profes- 
sion. Without  imparting  to  him  the  cause  and  nature  of  his  fears 
this  would  have  been  difficult.  The  youth,  tlioug^h  not  wholly 
destitute  of  education,  had  grD1^-n  up  in  the  expectation  of  more 
than  aflluence  ;  and  amid  the  enervating  inlluenccs  tliat  encompass 
persons  in  his  position  in  Asiatic  life  he  was  in  danger  of  becoming 
<laiiy  less  capable  of  fighting  his  own  w.iy  in  the  world  should  the 
necessity  for  doing  so  befall  him  unawares,  At3jul  Jleram  wisely 
determined  to  take  him  into  unreserved  confidence,  and  betimes  to 
warn  him  of  the  danger  lowering  over  him  in  common  with  every 
indirect  heir  in  India:  and  whib  adjuring  him  on  no  account  to 
divulge  his  fears  to  those  aronnd  him,  he  advised  him  to  prepare 
■while  he  had  lime  and  opportunity  for  the  worst  that  could  happen. 

It  was  a  sad  trial  for  the  nerves  and  spirits  of  a  lad  of  nineteen. 
He  did  not  doubt  the  reality  of  the  possible  peril  thus  revealed  to 
him;  but  its  imminency  seemed  indefinitely  remote.  Why  should 
his  good  father  die  ?  He  was  strong  and  hale,  and  might  outlive 
him.  And  wherefore,  then,  should  he  give  up  all  the  enjoj-ments 
toT  which  at  his  age  zest  is  so  keen,  and  devote  himself  to  the 
drudgery  and  imprisonment  of  study  in  order  to  acquire  the  means 
of  making  another  fortune  which  he  might  never  want  ?  In 
answer  to  his  inquiries  about  Government  and  Governors  ho  was 
able  to  learn  little  that  to  him  was  clear  or  comprehensible ;  bnt 
he  did  make  out  in  some  son  of  way  that  there  had  been  just  and 
Vol.  2  for  iS;(>.  -^  k 


722 


The  GenlKman  s  Magazine. 


mercifal  despots  at  Calcutu  who  let  all  quietly  disposed  pcraoo* 
live  in  peace  and  security.  Others,  indeed,  were  ovcrbearini;  and 
pitiless ;  but  none  of  thctn  »'erc  allowed  to  remain  in    -  '    ~i' 

tong  ;    and  who  could    tell  wttetticr   the   next   Govenii.^  mI 

might  not  be  one  of  the  good  kind,  sacb  as  he  bad  heard  his 
father  say  were  Minto  Fahib  and  Bcntinck  Sahib  ? 

AftLT  awhile  he  began  to  think  anxiously  about  the  matter,  and 
it  u-as  at  this  time  that  occurred  one  or  the  contingencies  in  which 
be  bad  so  fondly  disbelieved.  Abdul  Mcram  died  after  a  few 
hours'  illness,  and  oflicial  notice  was  in  due  lime  givcti  that  tbo 
young  man's  claim  of  succession  was  disallowed. 

In  vam  he  appealed  through  some  Knglish  friends  at  Madras 
against  the  riummark'  decree*,  six  months  only  were  allowed  to  the 
widow  and  her  daughtt-rs  to  tarr;-  in  their  old  home.  Small 
pensions  were  assigned  them  dnring  their  \\\i:& ;  and  he  was  lold 
that  if  he  proved  himself  desening  and  loyal  some  useful  employ- 
ment might  possibly  be  found  for  bim  in  another  part  of  the 
Company's  dominions. 

How  much  or  bow  little  this  meant  he  knew  not  and  bad  no 
means  of  ascertaining.  In  the  first  flu^  of  desperation  he 
inclined  to  take  rash  counsel  from  those  dependants  who  wci 
driven  mad  with  rage  at  finding  themselves  unczj>ccteilly  cot 
adrift  from  the  only  occupations  and  employments  tbcy  bod 
known.  Happily  for  him,  some  alleviation  of  his  misfortune  bad ' 
thoughtfully  provided  by  the  kindly  and  frugal  kinsman  who  was 
gone.  A  vcni-Riblc  L'lema  whom  he  had  seen  but  once  as  a  visitoi 
at  Chiravetly  and  almost  forgotten  sent  to  bid  him  come  quid 
thai  he  might  sec  him  before  he  died,  for  he  had  a  message  wonlir 
much  fmc  gold  to  give  him.  Taking  a  fleet  horse,  the  lad  battened 
to  the  bedside  of  the  djing  man,  who  had  barely  strength  cnongb  to 
give  him  a  casket,  in  which  were  securities  of  value  suflicirni  to 
afford  him  a  small  income—on  which  ho  had  since  conth^-cd  to 
live. 

I  listened  to  bis  narrative  without  interrupting  him,  and  at 
conclusion  felt  only  ono  sense  of  cariosity  unsatisticd — namely,  wl 
must  be  thi-  feeling  wherewith  a  power  calling  itself  Chri'  l| 

professing  to  diffuse  the  benefits  of  civilisation  and  etiligl 
is  regarded  by  the  J^Iussutman  commnnit)*  whom  it  bos  d 
No  wonder.  1  Ihoughl,  thai  after    ■ 
evangelisation  of  the  Knsi,  Christi,. 
the  banks  of  tbo  Indus  to  those  of  the  lrrc«iuldy. 

I  did  not  utter  such  thoughts  as  these  when  talking  to  my  youn^' 


acquaintance.  If  bis  wounds  wert;  gradually  closing  I  was  not  at 
libcrly  to  bid  ihem  Meed  afresh.  I  souglit,  however,  in  an  oppor- 
tonity  thus  rarely  horded,  to  gain  some  insight  into  a  state  of 
thin^  about  w}iicli  1  bad  often  dreamed  conj'ecturally.  Bat  what 
I  had  frequently  longed  to  Icam  was  why,  notwithstanding  the 
unparalleled  inducements  to  conversion,  so  few  com |>u rati vcly  were 
to  be  found  in  the  vast  regions  subject  to  our  sway.  I  asked 
Hafet  ti?  explain  to  ine  what  persons  of  his  own  condition  in  life 
thought  of  the  two  religions,  ami  if  he  had  ever  heard  his  adopted 
father  say  why  be  ha.d  never  known  a  Mussulman  torn  Christian. 

He  said  the  question  recalled  tu  hiii  mind  conversations  witii 
Trevor,  in  which  Abdul  Meram  pointed  to  the  many  instances 
within  the  knowledf^e  of  both  in  which  grievous  wrong  had  been 
inflicted  with  impunity  on  natives  who  possessed  no  practical 
means  of  redress;  and  how  utterly  indifferent  persons  of  the 
dominant  creed  engaged  in  the  civil  administration  generally 
were  to  the  hardship  aaii  misery  caused  by  their  acts.  The 
pcasanlr)-,  chiefly  Hindoos,  being  ignorant  and  supenstitious, 
would  under  any  circumstances  be  difficult  to  free  from  the 
thraldom  of  terror  in  which  they  Iiatl  been  brought  np.  When 
Alahomedanism  was  supreme  they  had  not  turned  Mahomedans, 

d  he  did  not  believe  the  primary  schools,  where  they  only 
acquired  secular  knowledge,  would  make  them  Christians,  though 
he  thought  it  \cry  likely  to  make-   them    more  restless  sabjccts. 

mong  the  wealthy  and  enlightened  Hindoos  and  I^rsees  a 
greater  number  every  year  were,  he  understood,  becoming  tin- 
believers  in  any  of  thi;  established  creeds ;  and  bib  oM*n  convic* 
tion  was  that  the  ^ame  must  be  trtie  of  many  of  the  ruling  race. 
"  Indeed,"  he  added  in  a  lower  tonc.as  if  deprecating  any  idea  that 
he  wished  to  offend,  "  as  far  as  I  am  able  to  understand  the  meaning 
of  your  sacred  book,  I  think  it  less  diHparaging  to  believe  that  men 
like  Clive  and  Hastings  and  Dalhou&ie  did  not  feel  bound  by  the 

les  of  the  Gospel,  than  that,  believing  it  to  be  true,  they  acted 
as  they  did." 

The  subject  seemed  to  interest  him  more  deeply  than  I  had 

ticipatcd.  He  uflfercd  to  bring  with  him  one  day  a  fellow  student 
of  law  who  had  come  from  Lahore,  and  with  whom  he  had  been 
comparing  notes  and  impressions  of  what  they  saw  and  heard  in 
England.  I  invited  them  to  pipes  and  coffee  several  times ;  and 
wshing  them  to  understand  the  meaning  and  worth  of  our  univer- 
ity  sjiitem,  1  iiiduced  tiieui  to  spend  with  mc  a  couple  of  days 
at  Oxford,  with  which  they  were  much  pltased. 


as 


724 


The  GatUemcms 


Of  the  two  the  Sheikh  seemed  to  mc  the  quicker  of  apprehen- 
sion, more  clastic  in  spirit,  and  Ic^s  gloomily  disposed  with  rrgard ' 
10  the  political  fntttre.  He,  too,  looked  down  upon  Brahmioical 
saperstitions  with  monotheistic  contempt,  and  evidently  n^atdtil 
Islam  a£  the  next  best  religion  to  his  own.  Bat  to  et-eiy  suggestjoai 
that  Christianitr  would  sooner  or  later  take  the  place  of  both  bi; 
replied,  with  a  smile  not  meant  to  be  discourtcoas  but  which  had 
in  it  an  unmistakable  dash  of  sarcasm,  **\Vl-!I.  wh<-n  you  ilo  ia. 
the  Punjaub  to  us  as  you  would  like  us  to  do  in  England  by  you,  wo 
shall  begin  to  think  )-oa  believe  in  the  English  religion." 

In  answer  to  an  inquiry  whether  the  same  species  of  confiscation 
as  his  friend  Hafct  had  suffered  from  took  place  in  the  country  of 
the  Five  Rivers,  he  said  "  No:  so  long  as  we  cultivate  the  lanils 
and  pay  our  rent  ta.\  to  the  Government  you  let  as  alone ;  but  to 
keep  alive  the  sense  of  fear  whereby  alone  the  country  is  held,  yoor 
generals,  who  say  they  are  Chrisiiaos,  do  not  hesitate  about  taking 
any  number  of  lives  wttliout  trial  upon  mere  suspicion.  We  do 
not  know  much  in  detail  of  the  manner  id  which  the  other  States 
that  have  been  longer  reduced  to  subjuKalion  are  treated  ;  and  wc 
arc  often  told  that  the  people  of  the  Punjaub  havu  least  cause  t* 
complain.  We  do  not  complain:  we  think  it  would  bcnsolcss; 
but  we  would  not  be  men  if  we  did  not  remember  we  were  once  a 
nation  ruled  by  our  own  chiefs,  and  that  we  are  now  iributaiict 
ruled  by  strangers  who  come  to  make  their  fortunes  oat  of  our 
subjection.  Some  of  those  you  send  us  are  fine  men — very  bavc^' 
and  don't  lake  bribes — but  they  never  let  us  forget  that  they  aie 
our  masters  and  can  do  as  they  please.  We  hate  the  Aifghans, 
with  whom  Me  have  always  been  fighting,  and  they  hate  us.  lliey 
and  we  can  never  be  one:  and  we  know  that  England  tntsts  to 
mutual  hatreds  of  this  kind  to  keep  the  upper  hand.  Very  well; 
but  then,  if  yon  wonld  make  ns  begin  to  be  content,  you  must  let, 
us  have  promotion,  judge  quarrels  as  we  used  to  do,  and  comnuaJ 
troops  of  horse.  You  leave  us  no  career.  In  the  worst  ^romed 
native  State  a  clever  man  may  rise  to  power  and  wealth  and 
honour;  under  your  government  a  native  of  birth  and  education 
can  do  nothing  worth  doing.  How  would  you  feet  if  the  Emperor 
Najwleon  or  the  Emperor  Nicholas  gowmed  you  in  this  way  >*' 

i  tried  to  plead  tlie  advantages  of  having  a  supreme  Government 
strong  enough  to  interdict  local  wars  such  as  formerly  picvailrdr 
and  asked  whether  it  was  not  belter  for  the  cultivators  and  tht 
townspeople  in  Scinde,  Cashmere,  and  BcloochisUn  that  Sikh  and. 
AffghaD  armies  no  \on^«  vV\n:3X4nv«^  \o  tn%iT<»x  "^^  v.«u«s!\.    Ha 


JLmtk's/rom  the  Journa!  of  a  Chaphin  of  Ease.     725 


!plied  that  lie  had  read  the  other  day  in  one  of  our  leading 
journals  a  saying  of  some  great  writer — he  forgot  the  nanit- — that 
"  Nobody  cares  for  the  opiniong  of  a  man's  feel ;"  and  that  "  Wars 
are  never  made  by  the  poor  and  hard-working:  people."  Still  he 
thought  many  persons  would  be  more  IncHnud  to  value  permanent 
peace  if  the  price  were  not  made  so  huEniiiatLng.  If  Sikh  olTicers 
were  trusted  by  En^fiisdi  generals,  and  rewarded  when  they  deserved 
it,  they  might  he  trusted  to  fight  the  AlTghans  or  the  Russians, 
whom  they  did  not  want  to  3ec  in  their  country.  But  now.  well, 
lie  must  not  say;  it  would  be  wrong  and  no  use;  aud  1  did  not 
press  him  further. 

When  Vacooh  Khan  ceased  talking,  I  turned  lo  ffafet  and 
inquired  if  he  agreed  in  the  views  of  his  friend.  lie  said  every 
Mussulman  in  India  thought  and  felt  the  same.  They  knew  that 
by  degrees  uli  the  Stattis  where  they  once  had  power  had  been 
absorbed;  tiie  latest  anne.\atiou  was  that  of  Onde;  and  the  only 
Mussulman  State  of  consequence  remaining  which  had  a  lri*asury 
and  army  of  it?  own  w^  that  of  the  Nirani.  No  young  Maho- 
medan  of  spirit  liail  anything  tn  look  to  or  an)-thing  to  hope  for ; 
the  whole  race  was  distrusted  by  the  Knglish  Government,  and 
shut  out  of  power.  They  miyht  btr  employed  in  the  police,  or  a& 
tax-gatherer$,  or  in  native  schools,  and  in  the  army  they  might 
scn'e  as  common  soldiers  or  rise  to  be  habildars  (non-commissioned 
officers) — nothing  higher.  "Suppose  there  was  a  great  war  or  a 
great  mutiny,  what  could  you  expect .-'  Voit  pluck  latam  by  the 
beard  every  day,  and  every  hour  of  cverj"  day.  Do  you  think  we 
will  get  fond  of  it?  Is  this  to  do  iinto  others  as  you  would  have 
them  do  unto  you  }" 

When  they  were  gone  I  felt  very  sad  as  I  ruminated  all  they  told 
me,  and  I  was  not  comforted  by  subsequent  conversations  with  the 
general,  who  eonHrmcd  as  to  matters  of  fact  al!  they  had  stated, 
and  added  many  illustrations  of  the  hardships  and  affronts  put 
upon  the  subjugated  by  the  dominant  races.  So  long  as  the  spell 
of  our  irrcMHtibility  lasts,  no  logic  of  abstract  justice,  no  argument 
of  policy,  and  no  invot:ations  of  the  principles  of  the  Gospel  will  be 
needed.  I'he  monopoly  of  the  business  ol  governing  a  continent 
without  the  semblance  of  responsibility  to  its  inhabitants  is  too 
groat  a  temptation  lo  be  withstood.  Crown.  Parliament,  and  Church 
in  England  care  for  none  of  these  things. 
^m  The  taking  in  and  doing  for  150,000,000  of  people  who  are  as 
^feroiceless  in  rcmonstrance  35   if  they  were  dumb  is  a  joint-stock 


I 


726  The    Gentleman^ s  Magazine. 

enterprise  carried  on  with  great  pecuniary  advantage  to  thonsands 
of  families  in  this  country  who  have  long  regarded  it  as  a  safe 
and  respectable  provision  for  younger  sons  or  penniless  dependants, 
and  tt  is  besides  a  rich  mine  of  patronage  in  the  hands'of  the 
Administration  of  the  day.  The  political,  social,  ^d  moral 
anomaly  will  probably  last  until  some  international  earthquake 
comes  and  wakens  Governors  and  Government  from  the  trance  of 
apathy  in  which  they  lie. 


I 


I 


I 


I 


I. 

R.  BRI.MMINGTON  SLACK  was  a  bachelorwho.  in 
the  enjoyment  of  good  means  and  an  assured 
position,  would  have  lived  very  mucli  ai  his  case 
in  the  cumforUible  chambers  he  inhabited,  had  it 
not  been  Tor  the  constant  insinuations  of  all  his  friends  that  it 
was  high  lime  he  got  married. 

Now  had  Mr.  Slack's  friends  merely  introduced  to  him  some 
suitable  aspirant^  and  then  (the  opportunity  given  for  further 
meetings)  taken  no  more  conceni,  but  allowed  matters  to  pursue 
an  ordinary  course,  long  befr>rc  this  the  bachelor's  habits  would 
have  been  akinjoncd,  the  chambers  cjtchansed  for  a  suitable 
villa- resideace.  and  a  notice  sent  forth  that  on  a  certain  day 
yit.  and  Mre.  Slack  would  be  at  home  to  receive  tht^ir  friends. 
But  Mr.  Slack's  friends  laid  schemes,  spread  nets,  iirid  wrote 
letters — one  of  which  was  at  this  moment  in  his  hand — until  he 
felt  himself  a  hawkcd-about  article  which  nobody  would  buy,  and 
a  puffed  up  commodity  against  which  before  seeing  it  a  prejudice 
was  taken. 

RcjJIy  Mr.  Slack  had  thought  he  !i;new  his  Triend  Price  belter 
than  to  suppose  he  would  turn  upon  him,  so  as  to  spoil  his  visit 
just  when  he  had  meant  to  enjoy  a  little  fresh  country  air;  for  he 
had  promised  to  spcn<l  a  week  at  Ongar  with  the  Prices.  Mr. 
Price  vfds  an  old  Kchool  chttm  of  his,  and  thougJi  he  had  not  seL-n 
much  of  Mrs.  Price,  what  he  liad  seen  had  impressed  him  favour-  fl 
ably  ;  therefore  it  was  too  bad  to  be  disappointed  in  people,  and 
lo  have  his  plan.s  upset  by  thrir  falling  into  the  common  idea  that 
he  was  dying  lo  marry  but  could  not  find  a  wife  for  himself. 

"  Maria  and  I  have  hit  upon  the  very  girl  to  suit  you,"  read 
3Ir.  Slack,  quoting  from  the  letter,  which  he  folded  and  unfolded 
with  nervous  irritability.  "  Very  kind  of  ihcm,  I'm  sure,"  he  said, 
snappishly;  "I  wonder  how  the  deuce  it  is  my  friends  can't  let 
me  choose  for  myself.  /  never  interfered  with  their  choice,  and 
if  I  wanted  a  wife^which  I'm  quite  sure  I  JQ/i'i — I  certainly  could 
i)j)d  one  iv'iJhout  their  attsiistance.     I've  not  reached  the  age  .of 


I 


728  The  Geiitlemati  s  Magazine. 

Methuselah  yet,  and  there's  nothing  very  peculiar  in  my  af 
pearance." 

Mr.  Slack  leaned  on  one  side  to  assure  himself  that  there  we 
nothing  in  his  face  and  figure  of  which  with  reason  he  need  b 
ashamed. 

Without  laying  any  claim  to  good  looks,  Mr.  Slack's  face  was  b 
no  means  an  unpleasing  one,  and  though  on  the  wrong  side  of  fort; 
his  hair  was  still  thick  and  his  whiskers  were  but  slightly  grey 
therefore  with  a  reassured  feeling  as  to  looks  his  eyes  returned  t 
the  letter,  and  this  time  dropped  upon  a  more  aggravatin 
passage. 

"  Maria  has  told  the  lady  in  question  to  come  prepared  wit 
all  the  charms  at  her  command,  as  you  are  a  most  desirable  matcl 
a  most  agreeable  man,  and  on  the  look  out  for  a  wife." 

A  nice  flourish  of  trumpets  that,  to  have  one's  advent  annonncei 
by,  dangled  like  bait  before  the  eyes  of  any  designing  woma 
determined  to  marry  the  first  man  she  comes  in  contact  with.  Nc 
after  this  should  any  inducement  on  earth  get  him  within  twent 
miles  of  Ongar.  No,  no ;  ^the  Prices  had  shown  their  hand  tot 
plainly.  "  In  vain  is  the  net  spread  in  the  sight  of  any  bird,"  sail 
Mr.  Brimmington  Slack,  pluming  himself  on  being  a  trifie  too  far 
sighted  to  walk  into  the  enemy's  quarters  with  his  eyes  open  ;  am 
as  the  conviction  of  his  ill-treatment  came  more  strongly  before  hie 
he  crumpled  up  the  unfortunate  letter,  thrust  it  into  his  pocke! 
and  set  himself  to  butter  his  toast  and  decapitate  his  egg  with  i 
vigour  which  showed  he  waS  a  man  not  to  be  trifled  with. 

But  in  the  very  midst  of  this  determination  a  feeling  of  insccurit 
seemed  again  to  rush  over  him,  in  the  hope  of  dispelling  which  hi 
seized  the  morning  paper,  trusting  that  the  briskness  of  the  mone; 
jnarkct,  or  some  utterly  wrong  view  taken  in  the  leading  articles 
might  help  to  calm  this  fit  of  annoyance,  which  was  quite  upsettini 
his  usual  tranquillity.  But,  bless  my  heart,  how  insufferably  dul 
are  certain  newspapers  on  certain  mornings !  And  on  this  par 
ticular  Monday  in  July  there  was  positively  nothing  to  read— 
"Science  at  South  Kensington" — "Model-house  Association"— 
"  American  Politics."  Mr.  Slack  turned  the  paper  inside  out  an( 
outside  in,  but  not  a  word  of  interest  could  he  find,  until  with  i 
gesture  of  disgust  he  threw  it  aside,  caught  up  the  teapot 
and  poured  out  for  himself  another  cup  of  tea,  which,  being,  ii 
accordance  with  his  mood  and  the  temperature,  very  hot,  he  waj 
reduced  to  the  necessity  of  sipping. 

But  white  he  sipped  ,his  eyes  looked  over  his  cup  and  fell  oi 


I 


joi 


I 
I 


the  despised  newspaper  and  on  the  words — "  Koitcrdnm  and  Ihc 
Rhin<;."  "  St.  Ma!o,  77.1  Southampton."  *'  Brussels  Eshibilion — 
Antwerp,  Brassels."     "Cologne." 

Mr.  Slack's  face  brightened.  Wh/  tioi  go  off  to  the  Continent 
at  once  ?'  He  wanted  a  change,  had  arranged  his  plans  for  one, 
and  what  better  opportunilj-  could  he  have  for  putting  off  his  visit 
than  the  plea  of  a  friend  going  abroad  whom  he  had  promised  to 
in  ?  He  had  already  decided  tliat  no  enlrcaly  should  get  Iiira  la 
Ongar,  but  still  lie  did  not  waut  to  hurt  or  offend  his  friend 
Price,  who  was  really  a  good  fellow  at  heart — if  it  was  not  for  his 
confounded  love  or  meddling  and  match  making. 

Mr.  Slack  turned  the  idea  over  in  his  mind,  and  as  it  look  a 
more  decidcil  shape  his  heart  seemed  to  grow  lighter,  hiK  com- 
posure began  to  return,  until  he  grew  positively  cheerful  and  gave 
vent  to  an  audible  chuckle  as  he  contemplated  the  dismay  caused 
to  this  candidate  for  favour  and  her  backers  when  the  news  of  his 
flight  should  fall  like  a  thunderbolt  among  them. 

But  when.;  shnuld  he  go  ?  He  did  not  care.  Wherr%'er  the 
steamer  started  for  first.  Again  he  turned  to  consult  the  paper. 
"Tuesday — Rotterdam."  Then  Rotterdam  it  should  be,  and  as  he 
jumped  up  to  ring  the  bell  he  hummed  gaily — 

And  oh  thai  «  Dulthnian's  diaught  shotild  be 
As  deep  as  the  luUJii;;  Zuydci  Zve. 

"  Mr*.  Jones,"  lie  hirgan.  as  his  landlady,  in  answer  lo  the 
summons,  made  her  appearance,  "  I  fmd  that  I  am  obliged  to  make 
some  alteration  in  my  plans,  and  instead  of  going  into  Ksseic  I 
have  to  go  abroad,  so  th.it  instead  of  leaving  on  Thursday  I  shall 
Start  to-morrow." 

"Then  I'm  afraid,  Mr.  Slack,  you'll  have  to  go  without  shirts, 
sir,"  said  Mrs,  Jones,  "  for  knowing  yon  was  going  from  home  on 
Thursday  and  wouUl  want  your  things  then,  Mry.  WilHamson  says 
on  Saturday  'I  haven't  brought  no  body-linen,'  she  saj^s,  "but 
yon  shall  have  ail  the  last  week's  with  what  I'm  taking  now  on 
Wednesday  evening." " 

"Dear,  dear,"  said  Mr.  Slack,  "that's  very  tiresome.  Bui  of 
course  you  know  whcrt:  she  lives  ?  Can't  you  send  to  her  and  say 
I  want  it  to-night  ?" 

"  Send  to  her  ! "  repeated  Mrs.  Jones,  with  a  smile  of  respectful 
pity  at  the  innocence  of  single  f^enllemen.  "Why,  yes,  sir,  of 
course  I  could,  but  whatever  would  be  the  good  of  it  f  'tts  only 
Monday,  and  I'll  lay  my  life  there  ain't  a  bit  of  it  out  o'  .souk  yet, 
and  if  there  is,  whatever  vroidd  be  the  use  of  such  a  particular 


730  The  Geni/cman'' s  Magazine. 

gentleman  as  you  carrying  about  a  portmanteau  full  of  rough  dr 
shirts — to  say  nothing  of  other  articles  o'  wear,  which  though  nc 
of  the  same  value  as  regards  starch  don't  look  at  all  the  thin 
when  dabbed  up  anyhow  ?  " 

'*  It's  really  very  annoying,"  said  Mr.  Slack. 

Mrs.  Jones,  who  regarded  Mr.  Slack  in  the  light  of  a  perfet 

gentleman  in  nu  manner  tied  to  time,  condescended  to  agree  t 

this  statement,  adding — "  Still  if  I  was  you,  sir,  I'd  certainly  put 

\  off — a  day  sooner  or  later  can't  make  no  difference  where  a  month 

comfort  is  concerned." 

Mr.  Slack,  notwithstanding  his  impatience  to  be  gone,  felt  tl 

force  of  this  argument  and  succumbed  to  Mrs.  Jones's  reasonin) 

and  said  in  a  tone  of  forced  resignation — 

''  "  Well,  I  suppose   one   cannot  do   impossibilities,    Mrs.    Jon< 

I  — only   I   really  do   hope   the   things   will    be   here    in    time    f( 

■    I  Thursday." 

1  '*  Wednesday  evening,  sir,  I'd  answer  for  it  with  my  life,"  replie 

:    '  Mrs.  Jones  solemnly. 

"Let  me  sec,"  said  Mr.  Slack,  "  what  goes  on  Thursday  .^    Ne- 
Zealand — Norway — Hamburg — the  Elbe — Antwerp — Baron  Osy- 
Thxirsday — Earl  0/ Aberdeen.   Oh,  that  will  do — yes.    Very  well,  Mn 
•'.  Jones,  it's  fixed  I  start  on  Thursday  then,  about  eleven  o'clock." 

And  so  it  happened  that  on  Thursday  morning,  instead  of  thi 
letter  previously  arranged  upon  which  was  to  announce  to  Mr.  ant 
Mrs.  Price  the  train  their  friend  intended  coming  by,  the  missivt 
received  by  them  contained  the  most  elaborate  apology  for  thi 
abrupt  postponement  of  his  visit,  as  circumstances  over  which  hi 
had  no  control  necessitated  I\Ir.  Slack's  keeping  the  promise  he  wai 
under  to  join  a  friend  who  had  already  started  for  the  Continent. 

"Bother  the  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Price;  "why  couldn't  he  have 
remembered  that  before  ?" 

"  Yes,  he  might  just  as  well,"  put  in  his  wife ;  "  but  there,"  she 
added,  "  I'm  not  so  very  sorry  after  all,  for  as  Anne  Crampton  i! 
not  able  to  come  either,  they  may  now  perhaps  meet  anothei 
time." 

n. 

Thursday  morning  promised  a  lovely  day,  a  fair  wind,  and  i 

smooth  passage,  and  other  hearts  besides  the  one  which  beat  undei 

f  Mr.  Slack's  grey  coat  rejoiced  in  the  cheering  anticipation  of  i 

-|?  favourable  voyage.    A  lady,   one  of  three  passengers  who  hac 

lA  j  arrived  on  board  just  before  Mr.  Slack,  stood  watching  the  rivei 

1  bank  as  the  steamer  slowly  began  to  move  away,  and  as  she  felt  thi 


movement  and  knew  they  were  really  off,  a  little  sigh  arose,  which 
she  smothered  down  by  the  determination  to  make  the  best  of 
matters,  although  it  was  very  tiresome  of  her  cousin  Matilda  to  fix 
upon  this  time  for  going  abroad,  just  when  Maria  Price  had  asked 
her  on  a  visit  for  the  first  time.  She  had  no  doubt  that  Maria 
would  be  vexed  at  her  not  coming-,  because  of  Mr.  Price's  friend, 

»who  was  goinf^  there  to  st:iy ;  and  though  she  wondered  what  he  was 
like  and  whether  he  was  at  all  what  they  said,  she  wished  that 
people  would  not  always  speak  a3  if  she  was  ready  to  say  "yes"  to 
any  man  who  asked  her.  Of  course  she  knew  she  was  not  as  younp 
as  ehc  was  ten  years  ago,  and  a  sigh  of  regret  sounded  the  dirge 

tof  departed  youth :  still  il  was  not  so  very  impossible  but  that  she 
might  meet  some  one  who  might  care  for  her  and  for  whom  she 
could  care.  The  one  idea  which  seemed  impressed  upon  all  her 
married  friends  was  that  to  prevent  being  kept  single  she  would 
gladly  accept  the  first  man  who  offerei!  himself. 

"  Pray  allow  rae,"  said  a  voice  at  ber  elbow,  and  the  next 
moment  Mr.  Brimminglon  Slack  and  Miss  Anne  Crampton  stood 
face  Eo  face. 

Lost  in  her  reverie,  ^liss  Crainpion  had  allowed  the  rloak  she 
had  liung  over  her  arm  to  slip  down  and  sweep  olT  the  newspapcf 
and  a  couple  of  books  she  bad  placed  on  a  coil  of  ropes  near. 

"  Oh,  thank  you.  Pray  don't  trouble  ;  you  are  very  kind,"  she 
etammercd,  thrown  off  her  usual  compo-iun:  by  this  slight  accident, 
which  had  put  to  sudden  tiiphl  all  her  meditations. 

"Don't  mention  it,"  «aid  Mr.  Slack,  who  was  a]wa>-s  delighted  to 
be  of  service  to  any  lady  not  thrust  by  his  officious  friends  down  his 
throat:  "  but  wouldn't  you  like  to  sit  rather  than  standi"  And 
before  there  was  time  to  receive  his  answer  he  had  darted  off  to 
where  a  heap  of  stools  lay,  had  broui^bt  a  couple  over,  and  arranged 
Iliem  with  the  solicitude  of  a  devoted  cavalier. 

"Oh,  you   really  must  not  give  yourself    so  much   trouble," 

ited  Miss  Crampton.  as  taking  her  cloak  Mr.  Slack  folded 

''It  op  to  form  a  cushion.     Seeing  the  other  stool  remaining  unused 

he   put   it   to    the    ptirpos^c    for    whirh    he  must  have  seemingly 

brought  it,  and  remarking  that  he  did  not  think  he  could  find  a 

better  situation,  sat  down  upon  it  himself. 

The  little  feelingof  excitement  which  usually  attends  the  holiday 
departure  from  home  was  kept  at  a  pleasurable  height  by  Ihe 
cheerful  aspect  which  ihc  sun's  bright  rays  gave  all  around.  The 
fresh  breeze  toned  the  heat  down  to  proper  subjection,  and  Mr. 
£lack,  Ending  himself  next  to  a  pleasant  companioo,  who  seemed 


I 
I 

I 

I 


't  732  Tlie  GcntlcviaiC s  Magazine. 

ready  to  listen  and  to  enter  upon  the  ordinary  chit-chat  with  which 
newly  met  people  generally  indulge,  could  only  congratulate  himself 
on  the  wisdom  which  had  led  to  such  a  happy  resolution.  This 
prompted  him  to  venture  on  a  more  decided  look  at  his  com- 
panion's face,  for  hitherto  Mr.  Slack's  attentions  had  been  more  a 
tribute  to  the  sex  than  to  the  individual.  His  glance  showed  him 
that  he  had  no  reason  to  repent  of  his  chivalry.  Without  being 
pretty,  the  lady  was  decidedly  pleasant- loo  king,  and  though  her 
years  had  outstepped  the  boundary  of  girlhood,  her  face  was  fresh 
and  its  expression  varied  and  youthful. 

*'  I  wonder  whether  she  can  be  travelling  alone,"  thought  Mr. 
Slack ;  and  at  that  moment,  as  tf  she  read  the  inquiry*.  Miss 
Crampton  said — 

"  I  have  my  mother  and  my  cousin  with  me,  but  they  have  gone 
below  to  try  and  secure  a  cabin  to  ourselves.  They  told  me  to 
remain  here  and  keep  this  place,  but  really  they  have  stayed  so 
long,  I  think  I  had  better  go  and  see  what  has  become  of 
them." 
\  "  If  so,  I'll  remain  here  until  you  return,"  said  Mr.  Slack,  occupy- 

ing himself  by  spreading  her  small  stock  of  impedimenta  over 
the  two  vacant  stools  ;  "so  make  your  mind  perfectly  easy.  You 
shall  find  your  seat  all  right  when  you  come  back." 
Thus  assured.  Miss  Crampton  turned  smilingly  away. 
We  will  not  censure  Mr.  Slack's  curiosity  too  severely  if  he- 
indulged  it  so  far  as  to  turn  back  the  cover  of  the  book  s  he  had  left 
behind,  with  the  possible  hope  of  discovering  a  name.  But  no, 
nothing  was  to  be  found,  and  thinking  it  high  time  he  pitched  upon 
some  more  settled  plan  of  route,  he  took  from  out  of  one  pocket  a 
"  Bradshaw,"  and  out  of  another  a  "  Baedeker,"  and  commenced 
consulting  them  as  to  the  merits  and  mode  of  getting  to  various 
places  he  had  in  his  mind. 

He  was  still  deep  in  this  studywhen  his  newly  made  acquaintance 
returned,  this  time  accompanied  by  her  companions,  for  whom  she 
had  gone  in  search.  She  was  murmuring  something  about  this 
being  the  gentleman  who  had  been  kind  enough  to  assist  her,  when 
the  lady  to  whom  she  seemed  more  especially  to  recommend  him 
stepped  forward  and  in  a  firm,  decided  tone  interrupted  her  by 
saying— 
■y  "  I  am  exceedingly  obliged  to  you,  sir,  for  the  trouble  you  have 

been  kind  enough  to  take,  not  so  much  on  my  own  account — for  I 
am  accustomed  to  look  after  myself,  and  am  impervious  to  such 
trifies  as  the  loss  of  a  seat  may  seem — but  my  cousin,"  and  she 


\ 


Fieang  from  Fak. 

lumed  tc  a  lachrj-mosc  looking  lady  near,  *'  is  less  forlunalely  con- 
siiiuteU,  and  things  which  seem  insignificant  to  us  arc  inaUets  oj 
necessarily  grave  import  to  her." 

Mr.  Slack  bowcJ  with  the  most  profound  respect,  and  sc^cing  that 
ihc  less  fortunate  individual  had  sunk  down  on  one  stool,  and  the 
oralur  had  taken  possession  of  the  other,  he,  like  a  ),'allant  man  as 
he  was.  rushed  oiT  in  search  of  a  thiril  for  the  benefit  of  her  who 
had  been  Ihc  primary  object  of  his  attentions. 

"Oh!"  he  said,  as  he  returned  with  a  scat  in  each  hand,  "I 
brought  this  for  the  yuung  lady.  I  thought  she  would  like  perhaps 
to  )»il  near  you." 

"  I  am  sure  she  will  be  much  indL-btcd  to  you  for  such  thoughtfu] 
consideration  of  her  creature  comforts,"  said  the  elderly  lady,  witli 
a  pomposity  of  speech  which  never  permitted  her  to  descend  from 
ihc  platfcmn  of  oratory. 

Folloiving  the  direction  of  her  eyes,  Mr.  Slack  caught  sight  ol 
his  uriKinal  friend  sta^gerinj;  along  under  the  weight  of  a  black 
bag,  a  roll  of  shawls,  and  a  parcel  ftf  umbrellas.  Of  course  he  wai 
at  her  side  in  an  instant,  and  had  made  a  clutch  at  her  burden, 
allowing  each  one  to  slip  as  he  impatiently  caught  sight  and  caught 
hold  of  the  other,  e>o  that  before  ^Eiss  Cramplon  had  time  to  realise 
her  position  cvcr)'thing  was  seemingly  entangled  in  the  most  dirt 
confusion. 

"  Oh,  but  I  have  half  a  dozen  more  than  these,"  she  sai^ 
in  smiling  contradiction  of  his  assurance  that  she  really  must  permit 
him  to  relieve  her  of  such  a  heavy  weight.  "  Vou  must  remembe] 
that  three  ladies  cannot  travel  without  a  great  deal  of  luggage." 

■•  But  where  do  you  wish  them  taken  T*  said  Mr.  .Slack. 

"  My  cousin  likes  them  to  be  close  by  where  she  is  sitting,"  sail] 
Miss  Crampton  ;  "  she  is  always  rather  afraid  of  trusting  any  one 
but  herself  to  take  care  of  the  luggage." 

In  a  moment  Mr.  Slack  had  deposited  the  bag.  the  shawls,  ami 
(he  umbrellas  at,  as  he  conjectured,  the  all  important  cousin's  side, 
hod  listened  to  her  instructions,  and  carried  out  her  wishes  as  tC 
their  |)osilion  with  an  alacrity  which  would  have  done  credit  to  \ 
youth  of  twenty;  then  he  (lew  back  to  where  Miss  Crampton  stoofi 
and  relieved  her  of  a  second  heap  of  packages. 

"Thank  you  bo  very  much,**  she  said;  "now  I  have  only  whai 
belongs  to  myself  remaining,  and  1  can  certainly  manage  to  can] 
them." 

But  Mr.  Slack  was  firm  in  his  resolution  not  to  listen  to  sucl 
a  proposition.    ITc   insisted  that  she  should  follow  him  to  Ihi 


734  The  GentkmaiC s  Magazine, 

1!  place  where  he  had  provided  a  seat  for  her,  and  then  he  wciii 

V  return  and  take  back  anything  that  remained.     And  if  Mr.  Slack 

/  as  with  a  mild  pretence  of  force  he  drove  the  lady  before  him 

allowed  the  suggestion  to  arise  that  by  such  means    he  couK 

I,]  obtain  the  opportunity  of  seeing  her  name,  is  he  to  be  blamed; 

;,  Most  decidedly  not ;  nothing  is  more  natural  than  the  desire  it 

know  the  name  of  a  pleasant  individual.     Were   it  otherwise  Misi 

|-  Crampton  would  not  at  the  very  same  moment  be  hastily  tumini: 

!,  the  cover  of  the  "  Baedeker"  to  see  written  within   "  B.  J.  Slack 

July,  1876." 

"Evidently  a  most  superior,  gentlemanly  man,"  tnurmnrcd  Mrs, 
I  Crampton,  the  lachrj-mose  lady,  who  was  Anne's  mother,  casting 

'1  an  appealing  look  towards  her  cousin.  Miss  Matilda  Nettleton,  aj 

,  if  without  the  sanction  of  her  approval  she  dare  not  put  much  con- 

fidence in  her  own  opinion. 

"  Far  above  the  ordinary  standard  of  this  degenerate  age. 
Augusta,"  replied  Miss  Matilda  with  emphasis.  "Anne,"  sht- 
added,  turning,  "  move  your  scat  a  little  more  on  this  side."  And 
thus  saying  she  pushed  the  stool  she  was  seated  upon  round,  so 
that  when  Mr.  Slack  arrived  her  conversation  should  engage  his 
attention. 

Miss  Anne  Crampton  had  complied  with  this  request,  and  Mr. 
Slack,  apparently  quite  indifferent  to  the  change,  had  just  seated 
himself,  when  the  clanging  of  a  bell  announced  that  dinner  was  on 
the  tabic  in  the  cabin. 

Up  jumped  Mr.  Slack.  Already  he  had  made  a  lieap  of  thv 
books,  which  he  laid  on  the  top  of  their  united  newspapers,  and 
now  under  the  super\'ision  of  Cousin  Matilda  he  was  preparing  to 
guide  the  steps  of  Mrs.  Crampton. 

A  prey  to  ncr\'OUS  fancies,  poor  Mrs.  Crampton  felt  somewhat 
helpless,  and  was  only  loo  thankful  to  accept  Mr.  Slack's  proffered 
arm. 

*'  I'm  sure,  ray  dear  sir,"  she  said,  as  Miss  Matilda  trotted 
oiTto  see  there  M-as  no  mistake  about  the  places,  "  I  look  upon  it 
as  quite  overruling  Providence  that  we  should  have  been  thrown  in 
the  path  of  one  so  evidently  acquainted  with  the  needs  of  our  frail 
sex  as  yourself." 

It  certainly  was  very  strange  how  much  more  at  his  case  Mr. 

Slack  felt  when  no  officious  friend  was  egging  him  on  with  such 

promptings  as  "Just  the  veT}'girl  for  you."     The  only  fear  was  thai 

't  this  feeling  of  security  might  lead  Mr.  Slack  to  pay  attentions 

{  overstepping  the  boundaries  of  recent  acquaintanceship  and  casual 


F/ci'ing  from  Faic. 


735 


I 


politeness,  for  it  certainly  did  seem  strange  to  hear  him  calling  npon 
tfac  steward  lu  change  the  place  he  had  i^iveu  him  at  the  other  end 
of  the  table  to  the  side  of  these  ladies,  whose  comfort  he  vas 
anxious  to  sec  after,  and  to  hear  Miss  Nettlcton  aiding  ]iim  by 
pointing  out  that  the  change  could  make  no  possible  difference 
to  the  person  who  did  not  know  v-bom  be  was  sitting  ncx%  while  to 
them  it  would  be  really  a  subject  of  very  threat  annoyance  to  be 
separated  one  from  the  yther. 

So  the  alteration  was  effected.  Mr.  Slark  took  his  scat  next  to 
Anne  Crampton,  and  as  the  dinner  progressed,  so  evident  did  his 
attentions  become  that  two  young  girls  opposite  to  them,  who 
looked  upon  Mr.  Slack  as  a  soit  of  gnuidfather  and  Anne  as  on  old 
maid,  were  kept  continually  amused  at  the  flirtation  going  on 
between  tbcm.  Covertly  they  ntidgcd  each  other  every  now  and 
again  to  draw  notice  to  attentions  which  might  otherwise  have 
escaped  notice ;  but  fortunately  their  observations  and  their  criti- 
cisms were  alike  lost  upon  Anne,  who,  now  tliat  no  one  had 
damped  her  natural  i^aiely  or  cmbarrajiised  her  conversation  by 
telling  her  to  make  the  most  of  hrr  opportunity  to  secure  this  chance, 
talked  and  Irmghcd  with  a  light>hcartcdness  that  her  prcity  neigh- 
bours might  have  rejoiced  in  could  tbcy  have  realised  the  fact  that 
thirty-five  has  its  pleasures,  and  the  power  of  enjoyment  does  not 
entirely  depend  oa  the  bloom  of  youth  and  the  possession  of  a 
prettj-  face. 

Bat  while  Mr.  Slack  was  enjoying  the  society  of  Anne  he  was 
by  no  means  forgetful  of  the  wants  of  his  otlier  conijianions.  Hu 
called  for  the  vegetables,  asked  for  the  sauce,  insisted  on  a  more 
tempting  slice  of  mutton  being  carved,  with  a  temerity  which  filled 
him  with  positive  astonishment,  and  Mrs.  Crampton,  for  whom 
these  efforts  were  made,  with  a  gratitude  entirely  beyond  expression. 

Kow,  thanks  to  one  of  those  happy  circumstances  which  some- 
times acr^'c  to  colour  all  our  after  life.  Miss  Matilda  Neltlclon  was 
not  a  particularly  good  sailor.  Strong-minded  woman  that  she 
was,  she  would  have  rather  died  than  admitted  thai  she  felt  sea- 
sick, still  her  amis  de  voyage  could  not  but  perceive  that  as  the  day 
wore  on  and  the  land  grew  more  distant,  so  did  Miss  Matilda's 
activity  of  motion  and  energy  of  speech  decline.  Sho  sat  com- 
posed, she  became  contemplative,  admitting  as  the  cause  a  certain 
influence  which,  when  on  tlic  mighty  ocean,  prompted  her  to  retire, 
as  it  were,  more  entirely  within  herself.  Mrs.  Crampton,  who 
seldom  moved  when  she  could  sit  still,  and  never  if  Miss  Matild?. 
considered  repose  the  wiser  alternative,  comfortably  wrapped  up  by 


I 


736  The  GcnflcmaJis  Magazine. 

Anne  and  placed  in  a  sheltered  spot  by  Mr.  Slack's  care,  felt  more 
than  usually  happy;  and  if  a  little  sigh  now  and  then  escaped  her 
it  was  not  at  this  time  for  herself,  but  rather  that  no  man  yet  had 
seemed  to  see  Anne's  value.  And  yet  how  pleasantly  she  talked 
and  how  young  she  looked — "really  for  Anne  quite  pretty" — 
thought  Mrs.  Crampton,  as  every  now  and  again  she  caught  sight 
of  her  daughter's  face. 

Anne  was  walking  up  and  down  the  deck,  and  by  her  side 
walked  Mr.  Slack.  They  were  talking  sensibly  and  unrestrainedly 
whatever  came  uppermost,  and  without  at  the  time  realising  the 
fact,  were  enjoying  to  the  full  the  properly  adjusted  balance  of 
companionship.  Sometimes  Mr.  Slack  questioned,  and  Anne 
replied.  Sometimes  she  asked,  and  he  gave  the  information.  Mrs. 
Crampton  had  to  call  "  Anne  !  Anne  !"  several  times  before  Anne 
heard  her ;  and  then  when  she  came  and  was  told  that  Cousin 
Matilda  had  already  gone  down  to  her  cabin,  and  that  Mrs. 
Crampton  really  thought  they  must  go  now,  although  she  seemed 
to  readily  acquiesce,  she  inwardly  sighed  to  think  that  the  pleasant 
evening  had  come  to  an  end.  To-morrow  they  would  part,  veiy 
likely  never  to  see  each  other  again ;  for  though  Anne — after  the 
fashion  of  women — had  said  that  they  lived  at  Twickenham,  she 
and  her  mother  lived  together,  and  Cousin  Matilda  at  a  little  dis- 
tance away  from  them,  Mr.  Slack  had  not  even  dropped  a  hint  of 
his  whereabouts,  who  he  was,  or  what  he  did.  He  had  casually 
mentioned  that  he  lived  alone,  but  that  was  all  the  information  she 
had  gained  of  him. 

"Good  night,"  said  Mr.  Slack,  as,  having  guided  Mrs.  Crampton 
down  the  ladder,  he  stood  in  the  saloon  and  watched  them  disap*- 
pear  into  the  cabin  they  had  secured.  "Good  night  I"  Then  he 
thought  he  would  have  another  turn  on  deck.  But  somehow  the 
deck  was  not  as  cheerful  as  he  had  found  it  before,  so  he  very 
quickly  decided  upon  going  below  and  getting  into  his  berth.  He 
was  soon  fast  asleep,  dreaming  that  he  had  started  upon  a  tour 
with  his  newly  found  friends,  but  owing  to  his  landlady  not  having 
obtained  his  clothes  from  the  laundress  he  was  undergoing  a  series 
of  the  most  embarrassing  situations. 

III. 

By  six  o'clock  the  next  morning  the  Earl  of  Aberdten  had  made 
her  voyage  and  lay  alongside  Antwerp  Quay.  Singly  and  in 
groups  the  passengers  had  struggled  up  on  deck,  and  now  stood 
together,  either  keeping  guard  over  snob  boxes   as    bore    tbe 


1^ 


ril 


Fieting  frotn  Fale. 

fStic  chalk>mark,  or  presenting  those  whicb  had  not  been 
searched  to  the  amiable  scrutiny  of  the  polite  little  Custom  House 
otTiccrs.  Mr.  Slack's  three  friends  were  among  the  crowd,  and 
Mr.  Slack  himself  stood  by  their  side:  at  their  feet  lay  the 
uiiibrcMas,  the  shaw];,  and  three  black  bags,  each  adorned  with 
a  tied  knot  composed  of  red  and  bloe  ribbon.  Conversation  waa 
impossible,  for  between  the  hubbub  of  voices  on  board,  the 
Isbouting  on  shore,  and  the  heavy  thuds  of  the  hammers  with 
whith  tile  stolid  Flemings  knocked  together  their  time-honoured 
]anding-»t3ge,  not  a  word  could  be  heard. 

f  Stilt  Mr.  Slack  found  it  impossible  to  stand  and  say  nothing. 
'All  the  morning  he  had  been  filled  by  a  spirit  of  nervous  excite- 
ment which  made  him  fidgety  and  restless.  He  had  been  up  and 
ou  deck  ^ince  four  o'clock,  and  now  to  have  looked  at  him  you 
would  have  said    lie   was   longing   and  impatient  to   be  gone — 

ch  was  Miss  Anne  Crampton's  opinion — and  so  resolved  was 
she  to  keep  down  a  slight  feeling  of  disappointment  which  this 
observation  somehow  brought  to  her  that  she  assumed  an  air  of 
unwonted  alacrity,  and  seemed  to  have  eyes  for  nuthing  else  but 
the  anticipation  of  setting  her  feet  on  foreign  soil.  Somewhat 
in  advance  of  the  little  party  stood  Miss  Matilda  Ncttleion. 
ihc  was  nearest  to  Mr  Slack,  who,  for  want  of  doing  anything 
rather  than  stand  silent  and  still,  made  a  pantomimic  movement  to 
direct  her  attention  to  the  resemblance  between  lier  bags  and  the 
one  he  held  in  his  hand.  Miss  Matilda  smiled  her  approval,  and 
then  pointed  with  an  inquiring  look  to  the  knot  of  ribbon  which 
distinguished  each  of  tlu^  artiiles  uniler  her  charge.  No,  Mr. 
Slack's  bag  had  no  ribbon,  and  he  tried  to  convey  to  Miss 
.Matilda's  mind  hts  sense  of  this  want  of  forethought. 

A  look  of  pity  which  melted  into  triumph  was  his  answer,  as. 

ming  hastily  round  and  depositing  the  things  she  had  on  her 
on  one  of  the  boxes  near,  Miss  Matilda  dived  through  her 
Outer  garment  into  some  mysterious  inner  pocket.  From  which 
after  a  few  moments'  search  she  produced  a  similar  knot  of 
ribbon,  which  she  displayed  with  such  satisfaction  that,  unwilling 
'p^  Mr.  Slack  was  to  accept  the  distinction,  he  had  not  the  courage 
deny  her  the  gratification  of  tj-ing  it  on  his  hag. 

He  had  only  time  to  assume  the  expression  of  gratitude  which 
seemed  to  befit  the  occasion  when  there  came  a  surge  backwards 
and  forwards;  a  scrambling  of  porters  jumping  in  and  travellers 
forcing  their  way  out:  e%"crybody  was  in  motion.  The  barrier  was 
down,  the  moment  of  landing  had  arrived,  and  Mr.  Slack,  having 

Vol.  ifat  f8;6,  %* 


738 


The  GcnticmaiCs  Magazine. 


laid  hands  on  a  sturdy  porter  to  convey  the  trunks,  true  to 
allegiance,  himself  seized  the  bags  and  bore  them  to  the  carri; 
which,  as  the  three  ladies  were  going  on  to   CologTie,  was 
convey  them  at  once  to  the  station. 

"  And  you  still  don't  know  where  you  are  going  ?"  said  >: 
Anne,  as,  her  mother  already  seated  and  Miss  Matilda  bu 
saperin tending  the  arrangement  of  the  luggage,  she,  with  '. 
Slack,  stood  at  a  little  distance  aside.  "  You  have  not  yet  m; 
up  your  mind  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  said  Mr.  Slack ;  "but  I  don't    much    car 
he  added,  "  I  shall  be  sure  to  turn  up  somewhere,  you  know ; 
certain  to  be  all  right  somehow." 

Mr.  Slack  had  not  the  slightest  idea  of  what  he  was  saying.  . 
the  time,  unknown  to  himself,  he  was  possessed  by  the  wish  tl 
Miss  Anne  would  ask  him  to  go  on  with  them,  and  his  fear  v 
that  he  might  betray  this  desire,  and  so  appear  to  be  forci 
himself  where  he  was  not  wanted. 

Anne  on  her  part  fancied  she  saw  the  least  possible  dread  tt 
they  would  press  him  to  join  their  party.  Therefore,  just  at  t 
moment  of  saying  good-bye,  the  manner  of  each  was  more  si 
and  reserved  than  it  had  been  during  the  whole  journey.  Eai 
thought  the  other  might  have  expressed  a  regret  at  parting  and 
hope  of  meeting  again — yet  neither  found  courage  to  put  th( 
own  feelings  into  words.  Mrs.  Crarapton  murmured  a  great  de 
of  unintelligible  gratitude.  Miss  Matilda  delivered  herself  of 
farewell  oration.     Anne  simply  said  "  Good-bye," 

"Good-bye,"  said  Mr.  Slack,  and  then  slam  went  the  carriagi 
door,  plunge  went  the  horses — bumping  the  ladies  forward  ini 
what  seemed  a  farewell  bow.  Involuntarily  Mr.  Slack  raised  h 
hand  to  lift  his  hat,  and  the  movement  brought  to  him  tli 
knowledge  that  his  hands  were  empty — his  bag  was — why,  on  th 
carriage,  snugly  reposing  with  the  other  bags  ! 

"  Hi,  hi ! "  shouted  Mr.  Slack. 

"  Hi,  hi ! "  echoed  the  driver,  flourishing  his  whip  with  a  tr< 
mendous  crack. 

Bat  Mr.  Slack's  "hi's"  were  repeated  until  they  arrested  th 
attention  of  the  ladies,  who  saw,  to  their  dismay,  Mr.  Slac 
running  at  full  speed,  gesticulating  violently,  and  pointing  to  th 
luggage  on  top. 

"  Why,  it's  his  bag,"  cried  Anne,  comprehending  the  loss  by  tfa 
pantomimic  movement  of  Mr.  Slack's  hands,  and  she  tried  to  i 
the  coachman,  while  Miss  Matilda,  declaring  that  if 


fee, 
Btbc 


bag  he  must  have  put  it  in  himselF,  saTf  to  her  astonishment  that 
they  actually  had  four  bags  with  them. 

■'  It  is  that  you  have  the  higgagi^  of  the  gentleman,"  said  a  com- 
patriot of  the  coachman's,  who,  coinprehcntling  what  had  uccurred 
and  that  Mr.  Slack's  breath  did  not  equal;  his  energy,  bad  volun- 
teered to  overtake  the  carriag-e. 

^"TcII  him  wc  are  at  a  loss  to  understand  how  such  a  mistake 
uld  have  happened,"  snid  Miss  Matilda,  handing  out  the  hag. 
Mrs.  Cramjnon,  at;  the;'  drove  on.  directed  Miss  Matilda' <i  atten- 
tion to  some  of  the  old  houses  they  were  passing,  while  Anne, 
•■with  her  neck  craned  out  of  Ihc  window,  continued  to  try  and  catch 
^impses  of  Mr.  Slack  until  a  sudden  bend  in  the  street  brought 
them  to  a  comer,  which  when  turned  shut  all  further  view  of  him 
from  her  sight. 
^k  Up  to  this  momt-Mit  Mr.  Slack  had  been  standing  watching  the 
departing  carriage.  Now  when  jt  was  no  longer  in  view  a  stidden 
feeling  of  regret  came  over  him.  Tie  felt  solitarj-,  deserted,  lonely 
without  a  fellow — one  too  many  in  the  world.  As  he  ciuight  up 
c  bag  at  his  feet  and  turned  away,  he  nearly  snapped  off  the 
ead  of  a  friendly  touter  who  had  been  meekly  waiting  for  the 
opportunity  la  recommend  the  merits  of  the  hotel  in  which  he  was 
interested  :  and  when  a  bland  looking  va/ef  de  place  suggested  the 
Cathedral — would  he  not  like  to  look  over  it?  the  "Nong"  he 
hurled  at  him  was  worthy  of  John  Bull  himself  out  for  the  enjoy- 
ment of  a  continental  holiday. 
W0  Grimly  Mr.  Slack  went  through  the  market-place,  and  on  until 
he  marched  into  the  Hotel  Gnird  Laboureur,  with  such  an  angty 
scowl  and  defiant  air  that  every  one  about  decided  him  to  be  an 
American  millionaire  or  an  Rngllsh  milord  at  the  le;Lst.  and 
consequently  treated  him  wiih  such  obsequious  respect  that  Mr. 
Slack  was  fain  to  order  an  unusually  good  breakfast,  which,  with 
the  appetite  of  a  son  of  Britain  just  come  off  the  sea,  he  enjoyed 
so  thoroughly  that  gradually  his  vexation  gavy  way,  his  dis- 
appointment toned  down,  and  he  began  to  regain  the  u£ual 
tranquillity  of  his  wcll-balanced  mind. 

And  now,  breakfast  over  and  his  last  cup  of  coffee  sipped  to  its 
end,  Mr.  Slack  felt  it  was  time  to  come  to  a^dccision  as  to  what  he 
was  to  do  and  where  he  was  to  go.  Holland  ?  too  flai.  IJnisscls  ? 
too  hot.  Cologne?  No,  that  would  seem  like  following  his  late 
companions.  They  had  gone  there  to  do  Switzerland  and  Ihe  Rhine. 
Mr.  Slack  came  to  a  perplexed  pause — and  as  he  made  it,  a 
>ice  within  seemed  to  set  up  a  dci'vsWt  "  'V\.D,Vti\    "aft  Niisaa** 


a 


1  740  The  GciitkmaiC  s  Magazine. 

one  meets  people  who  are  going  to  the  place  we  meant  to  f 

we  must  straightway  change  our  plans  and  alter    our  dircci 

i  Now  for  certain  Mr.  Slack  had  no  more  decided  upon  Switze 

I  and  the  Rhine  than  he  had  upon  Vienna  and  the  Danube,  but 

this  moment  he  seemed  utterly  to  ignore  that  fact  and  to  take  i 
i  his  head  that,  Trom  the  first  minute  of  starting,    to  go  dow: 

'  Rhine  had  been  ihe  primary  object  of  his  journey.      If  it  wei 

'  so,  why  should  he  tilt  liimsclf  back  in  his  chair,  and  with  his 

thrown  up  soliloquise  that  positively  the  thing  was    too  absi 
;  that  the  ludicrous  side  of  his   objections  had    not     struck 

f  before;  but  now,  when  ho  thought  that  because  some  ont 

happened  to  be  going  to  the  same  place  he  wished  to  go  t 
'  mubt   fancy   it   necessar)'  to  go   somewhere  else  ?     Well,   it 

certainly  good  to  laugh,  for  if  such  ridiculous  scruples  came 
force  there  would  be  an  end  put  to  travelling  altogether. 

Strong  in  his  conclusions  and  [)rompt  in  his  actions,  Air.  I 
pulled  the  bell.  When  did  the  nc.\t  train  start  for  Cologne  : 
twelve  o'clock.  Mr.  Slack  determined  to  go.  But  the  Cathc 
Oh  !  never  mind  the  Cathedral.  He  could  sec  that  another  t 
and  as  for  the  pictures,  it  was  far  too  hot  for  galleries.  Besidt 
could  stop  at  .\ntwerp  on  his  return  home,  and  this  thougi 
cfTectualiy  silenced  his  remaining  scruples  that  in  his  an.\iety  I 
off  he  reached  the  railway  station  a  good  half-hour  before  his  t 
and,  not  being  able  to  get  his  ticket  or  secure  his  place,  ha 
saunter  up  and  down  before  the  neighbouring  houses,  reading 
announcements  of  the  fresh  boiled  mussels,  which  at  a  certain 
would  be  ready  for  ail  who  came  to  eat  them. 

But  long  before  the  mussel-eating  hour  arrived  Mr.  Slack 
whirling  on  towards  Cologne  in  possession  of  a  carriage  to  hin 
and  the  enjoyment  of  the  mikU'st  of  havanas,  while  a  s; 
played  round  his  mouth  as  every  now  and  then,  catching  sigl 
the  only  luggage  he  troubled  himself  with,  his  one  black  bag 
eye  fell  on  the  knot  of  parti -co  loured  ribbon  which  Miss  Mat 
Nottleton  had  tied  round  it.  Watching  the  wreaths  of  smok 
they  came  slowly  puffing  out  and  in  liny  curls  were  blown  a' 
Mr.  Slack  was  losing  himself  in  several  ]>leasant  dreams — drc 
in  which,  strangely  enough,  the  late  companion  of  his  wal 
moments  was  coiitinuiliy  reappearing.  Already  he  had  dec: 
that  she  was  one  of  the  most  agreeable  women  he  had  met  f 
very  long  time,  a  pleasant  companion,  and  had,  as  he  had  scei 
her  devotion  to  her  mother,  a  most  .affectionate  disposition.  . 
here  Mr.  Slack's  reverie  seemed  cither  to  come  to  a  standstill  0 


» 


FUeing  frotn  Fate.  741 

.  lost  among-  ils  mazes,  for  when  the  guard's  head  appeared,  and 
he  announced  "Aix  la  Chapclle,"  he  slartctl  ap  like  a  person 
Touscd  from  a  heavy  sluep,  and  it  was  some  few  moments  before  he 
•was  sudicicntly  wide  awake  to  grasp  the  fact  that  at  Aix  every  one 
must  leave  his  carriajje  and  have  his  luggage  examined.  If 
that  was  all.  his  lugg-ajje  was  a  very  easy  matter,  and  though  not  an 
over  fiitent  German  scholar  he  pointed  to  his  bag  and  miuiaged  to 
say  with  confideni  assurance  "/!//«  hicr'' 

"So,"  said  the  guard,  stepping  on  to  the  next  carriage  and 
leaving  Jlr.  Slack  to  senrch  for  his  key,  which  he  placed  ready  in 
his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  then  by  ditit  of  great  trouble  got  off  the 
knot  of  ribbon,  which  hi;  feigned  to  cast  nut  of  thi;  window  ;  but  for 
some  reason  he  changed  his  mind  and  put  it  into  his  pocket  by  the 
side  of  the  key;  and  then,  as  if  to  avoid  si-lf'Observation,  he  thrust 
out  his  head  and  stood  Matching  as  the  train  slowly  approached  and 
enlrred  the  station. 

And  now  behold  our  friend — who,  in  cnmpany  with  che  rest  of  the 
travellurs,  has  entered  the  room  and  placed  his  bag  on  the  tab!^— 
vainly  endeavouring,  under  tiie  nitrcilcss  gaxe  of  a  Prussian 
otticial,  to  unlock  it.  SN'hat  can  it  be  that  ails  the  lock  ?  Mr.  Slack 
shakes  it,  bumours  it,  thnnip:^  it — of  no  avail.  Perhaps  he  has  the 
wrong  key  r  Out  of  Ui&  pockets  everything  is  bundled,  but 
with  no  satisfactory  result,  and  baffled  and  worn  out  Mr. 
i«tack,  who  by  this  time  could  not  to  save  a  kingdom 
remember  a  word  of  what  he  wants  to  say  in  German, 
endeavonrs  by  a  scrirs  of  pantomimic  gL-sticuIaiions  to  convey  to 
the  military  Prussian  his  utter  inability  to  fulfil  the  conditions 
required  of  him.  He  tries  not  to  quail  under  the  eyes  of  suspicion 
cast  down  upon  him  from  the  height**  of  military  discipline;  then 
away  walk^  the  otlicial,  aud  ^^^.  Slack  is  left  to  calmly  consider  what 
evil  spirit  has  takt-n  possession  of  his  bag.  Ho  turns  it  up,  he  tlops 
it  down,  and  then  stands  back  a  jtace,  trj'Eng  witli  crilical  eyes  to 
master  its  peculiarities.  Surely  it  never  looked  so  small  before— 
bis  bag  was  long,  and  this  seems  to  have  grown  square. 

With  a  hasty  push  he  sets  it  first  this  side  and  then  that,  but  all 
to  no  purpose:  the  bajj,  as  if  bewitched,  had  suddenly  dropped  its 
heretofore  familiar  gui<>e.  and  stands  confessed  a  strange  one.  A 
bol  flusli  spreads  over  Mr.  Slack's  face  as  the  terrible  troth  began 
to  dawn  before  bim. 

In  desperation  again  he  seized  the  key,  and  this  time  with  such 
strenuous  eflTect  that  \\\v.  lock  turned,  it  gave  way,  and  a  yawning 
gulf  of  while  lay  open  to  his  eyes. 


^ 


742 


The  GentktnaiC  s  Mamzine. 


Well  might  Mr.  Slack  wipe  his  brow — a  stranger  in  a  foreig" 
land,  with  no  more  clothes  than  .those  he  had  on  his  bacl; 
and  a  lady's  bag  in  his  possession,  the  mysterioas  contents  c 
vbich  he  must  be  answerable  for. 

Merciful  heaven  I  what  was  to  become  of  him  ?  A  step  drawin, 
near  arouses  him  to  renewed  action,  but  only  to  bring  with  it  fres! 
misery ;  for  what  can  he  say,  how  explain  to  this  person  th 
unlucky  catastrophe  which  has  befallen  him. 

"Die  danun"  he  exclaimed,  emphasising  his  words  with  ai 
energy  to  be  envied  by  an  orator. 

"So,"  and  in  plunged  the  official  hand,  laying  before  Mr.  Slack'; 
bewildered  gaze  a  heap  of  etceteras  which  it  seemed  perfectl; 
sacrilegious  for  the  eyes  of  man  to  dwell  upon. 

"  Nicht  mcin"  vociferated  Mr.  Slack,  shrugging  his  shoulders  ant 
shaking  his  head  ;  '^die  damen,  die  damen,  Cologne,  Cologne."  An( 
he  waved  his  hand  in  the  direction  he  supposed  Cologne  to  be 
with  a  conviction  that  nothing  but  downright  German  pigheaded 
ness  could  help  understanding  what  he  was  making  so  evident  anc 
so  intelligible. 

"Ah,  so,  gui"  said  the  ofiicial,  unwilling  to  commit  himsci: 
further  than  these  monosyllables  might  pledge  him  to.  And  then, 
having  no  further  interest  in  Mr.  Slack,  he  left  to  him  the  pleasure 
of  rearranging  the  tumbled  out  odds  and  ends,  and  made  a  sign  to  a 
subordinate  near  by,  who  forthwith  unlocked  the  door  and  began 
howling  out  an  announcement  of  which  Mr.  Slack  did  not  under- 
stand a  syllable.  But  inasmuch  as  at  its  sound  everybody  began 
fastening  his  trunk  and  hurrj-ing  out  of  the  building,  he  could 
do  nothing  but  stuff  in  the  things,  close  the  unfortunate  bag,  and 
hurry  off. 

Seated  once  more  in  the  train,  sole  occupant  of  the  carriage, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  that  abominable  bag,  Mr.  Slack  wished  the 
whole  party  of  ladies  at  Jericho,  and  Miss  Matilda  and  her  con- 
founded bit  of  ribbon  still  further,  before  he  had  been  made  such  a 
spectacle  of.  He  was  eminently  alive  to  awkward  situations,  and 
here  was  a  nice  one  to  be  placed  in :  his  bag,  containing  all  his 
store  of  clothing,  exchanged  away  and  left  among  a  parcel  of  women 
who  no  doubt  would  sit  and  make  merry  over  its  contents.  In  the 
bitterness  of  his  heart  Mr.  Slack  was  ready  to  give  credit  to  anv- 
thing  against  the  sex,  and  the  recollection  of  their  confounded 
curiosity  aggravated  him  beyond  endurance. 

However,  fret  and  fume  as  he  might,  nothing  was  to  be  done, 
and  Mr.  Slack  had  to  allow  himself  by  degrees  to  take  common 


FUeing  from  FaU. 


743 


sense  into  his  coanscls.  by  vrh(»c  advice  he  determined  to  seek 
the  hotel  tie  had  iixed  upon,  rest  that  night  at  Cologne,  as  his 
former  companions  were  in  all  probability  doing,  and  endeavour. 
by  going  on  board  the  Rhine  boat  the  next  momiag,  to  intercept 
the  ladies  and  reclaim  his  lost  luggage. 

"Things  alM-ays  look  better  after  being  slept  on,"  stghcd  Mr. 
_Slack,  preparing  to  l.iy  his  head  ni;  his  pillow.  "But  not  after 
being  slept  in."  whispered  a  spiteful  demon  in  his  ear.  Influenced 
by  this  new'  sense  of  his  misfortune,  Mr.  Slack's  dreams  were 
haunted  by  a  disreputable  spectre  in  a  crumpled  shirt,  who,  with 
no  collar  and  a  week-old  beard,  vainly  protested  to  his  recent 
friends  that  he  was  the  lierctofore  clean-shaven  and  spotless  Mr. 
ISrimmington  Slack. 

IV. 

But  while  following  the  moii-ements  of  Mr.  Slack,  wc,  like  him, 
have  lost  sight  of  the  ladies,  who,  notwithstanding  the  examination 
at  Aix.  arrived  in  due  time  at  Cologne,  reached  their  hotel,  and 
retired  to  their  respective  rooms  without  being  in  any  way  cogni- 
sant of  the  fact  that  of  llie  three  bags  which  tliey  carried  with 
them,  one  was  an  interloper  and  an  innocent  intruder.  The  bag 
in  question  had  been  claimed  and  carried  off  by  Miss  Matilda 
Nrttleion  licrsfir,  and  now  stood  propped  up  between  a  bundle  of 
shawls  and  a  roll  of  umbrellas  in  a  far-off  comer  of  the  very  room 
in  which  that  strong-minded  lady,  having  gone  through  the 
business  of  disrobing,  was  engaged  in  the  mysteries  of  taking 
down  her  hack  hair,  in  the  midst  of  which  she  was  startled  by  a 
tapping  at  her  door. 

She  listened.  The  sound  was  repeated,  accouipaniud  this  time 
by  a  voice  which  said,  "  It's  only  I,  Cousin  Matilda — Aanc." 

"You  must  wait  for  a  moment,"  replied  Miss  Ncttleton  ;  and 
after  a  litllc  pause  the  door  was  cautiously  opcm^d,  so  as  to  admit 
Anne  without  discovL>ring  the  hgure  of  Miss  Matilda,  whose  height, 
rconsiderahly  increased  by  her  long  white  garment  and  now  be- 
ttightcapped  head,  stood,  until  all  watt  made  safe  from  outside, 
screened  behind  the  door,  with  her  back  placed  flat  against 
the  wall. 

"  I  am  so  sorrj'  to  have  to  disturb  you,  Cousin  Matilda" — Anne 
began  trying  to  overcome  her  senseofthe  ridiculous  by  the  earnest- 
ness of  her  apology,  an  apology  which  Miss  Matilda,  by  a  wave 
of  the  hand,  graciously  deigned  to  accept — "but  wc  have  made  a 
mistake  in  the  bags ;  this  is  yotir  bag,  I  think ;  so  the  one  you  took 
roust  be  mine." 


1 


I 


ii 


744  Tlie  GentiematC  s  Magazine. 

"I  take^j-OKr  bag!"  exclaimed  Miss  Matilda.  "Oh  dear,  no! 
not  at  all  probable  ;  if  there  is  any  mistake,  depend  upon  it  it  does 
not  lay  with  me."  And  not  deigning  to  cast  a  second  look  at  the 
black  burden  which  Anne  had  deposited  by  her  side,  she  took  up 
a  key  and,  walking  across  to  where  the  unlucky  impostor  had  been 
set  down,  applied  it  to  the  lock,  which  at  once  gave  way  and 
opened. 

"There,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Matilda,  taming  towards  Anne 
with  a  look  which  combined  in  it  pity  and  regret  for  any  young 
person  who  should  have  the  assurance  to  doubt  the  invariable  rec- 
titude of  such  a  relative  as  herself. 

Anne  felt  staggered. 

"Although  I  wished  to  convince  you  for  yourself,"  continued 
Miss  Matilda,  "  I  was  perfectly  sure  that  I  had  made  no 
mistake." 

And  raising  herself  from  her  stooping  posture,  she  moved  away 
from  the  dimly  lighted  corner  without  having  perceived  any  incon- 
gruity in  the  interior  arrangements  of  the  disputed  bag. 

"Would  you  mind  seeing  if  your  key  will  fit  this  one,  then. 
Cousin  Matilda?"  said  Anne,  fairly  perplexed  ;  at  the  same  time 
lifting  the  bag  she  had  brought  in  on  her  knee  for.  Miss  Matilda's 
greater  convenience. 

Miss  Matilda  never  objected  to  anything  which  acknowledged 
her  superiority.  So  into  the  keyhole  she  placed  her  key ;  it  turned, 
and  open  flew  the  lock. 

"  But,  Cousin  Matilda,  this  is  yours,"  cried  Anne,  as  the  slowly 
extending  jaws  displayed  some  familiar  articles  of  wear. 

Miss  Matilda's  usually  sallow  face  turned  purple.  With  the 
swiftness  of  an  arrow  she  darted  across  to  where  the  fellow  bag 
lay,  and  plunging  in  her  hand  she  drew  out  at  hap-hazard  the  first 
thing  which  came  under  her  clutch,  which  was — oh,  horror! — 
nothing  less  than  Mr.  Brimmington  Slack's  best  pair  of  striped  grey 
inexpressibles. 

Had  they  been  a  ton  in  weight  Miss  Matilda  could  not  have 
staggered  more  helplessly  under  the  load,  nor  have  finally  sunk 
back  more  exhausted  against  the  wall,  than  when,  speechless  and 
aghast,  she  stood  holding  at  arm's  length  away  from  her  averted 
eyes  the  forbidden  and  obnoxious  garment. 

"Oh,  Cousin  Matilda!"  slowly  ejaculated  Anne,  fright  and 
amazement  swallowing  for  a  moment  all  her  other  senses. 
"Oh!" 

But  before  the  second  prolonged  "  Oh — h  1"  had  well  come  to  an  end 


FUeing  from  FaU\ 

[the  ludicrousaspect  of  .Miss  Matilda's  appearance  cntirclyovcraimc 
her.  and  catching  another  glance  at  the  figure  before  her,  Anne's 
Mi-avity  gave  way  anil  she  bursl  into  a  lit  of  laughter. 

"Oh,  Anne,  Jon't — pray  don't  laugh,"  groaned  Miss  Matilda, 
with  harrowing  entreaty.  "  What  shall  we  do  ?  Can  it  be — do 
you  think — is  it  possible  thai  these  belong  to  the  gentleman  wc 
parted  with  tins  morning  .'" 

■■Why,  of  course  they  do.  Matilda,"  said  Anne,  her  own  face 
growing  serious  at  the  recollection  of  the  gentleman  into  whose 
poisession  her  own  particular  etceteras  had  fallen.  "  Whose  else 
x.ould  iliey  be?  Whi^n  be  ran  after  us  for  his  bag  we  must  have 
given  hjm  the  wrong  one." 

"Don't  say  wt !"  ejaculated  Miss  Matilda,  in  a  voice  of  the  most 
abject  self-reproach.  "  ll  was  /  ga.-v(t  that  bag:  /am  the  sole  cause 
of  thi^  catastrophe." 

"  It  really  is  divadfully  awkward,"  said  Anne,  toasting  over  in  her 
mind  the  various  items  her  bag  contained.  "  I  wonder  what  he'll 
</c  without  ills  bag — and  I  wonder  «-hat  he'll  do  with  mine." 

"  Oh,  ne%'cr  mind  that,"  said  Miss  Matilda,  "all  you  h.-^d  can  be 

*asiiy  replaced,  Anne.     But  such  things  as  these" (And  the 

movement  she  gave  si-cmod  to  send  a  shivLT  through  xhc.  unlucky 
panuloons) — "are  not  the  work  of  a  moment.  What  is  the  roan 
to  do  without  them — and  what  arc  we  to  do  with  ihera  r" 

And  the  look  of  apjiealiiig  enlrcaly  she  turned  towards  Anne  was 
>o  unlike  that  of  the  self-reliant  Cousin  Matilda  that  Anne's  sym- 
pathy was  aroused,  and  she  immediately  began  to  consider  liow 
best  she  could  hit  upon  some  scheme  which  would  open  a  way  to 
free  them  fnim  their  dilficulties. 

"If  we  only  knew  how  long  he  intended  staying  at  Antwerp, 
what  hotel  he  was  going  to  put  up  at,  and  where  he  was  going 
afterwards,"  said  Miss  Matilda  ;  while  Anne  tried  to  consider  what 
-was  the  most  likely  thing  for  a  man  to  do  tn  such  a  dilemma. 
.Men  were  always  so  sensible,  so  full  of  resources,  so  certain  tu  do 
the  right  thing. 

Anne  had  all  the  veneration  for  the  opposite  sex  a  woman 
brought  up  among  women  is  safe  to  possess. 

"  He  would  be  certain  to  find  out  the  mistake  before  he  left 
Antwerp." 

"  Matildi."'  she  said  at  length,  "don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  It  is  most  probable — that  is  if  he  decides  to  remain  the  night," 
replied  Miss  Matilda.  '*  I  only  wonder,"  she  added,  "  that  he  did 
not  notice  it  the  moment  the  man  gave  the  bog  to  hini." 


74^  The  GentkfuarC s  Magazine. 

"  I  don't  think  he  looked  at  it  until  we  were  out  of  sight,"  said 
Anne,  a  faint  blush  mounting  to  her  cheek  at  the  recollection  of 
that  farewell  moment ;  for  as  her  head  alone  was  out  of  the  window, 
there  was  no  doubt  that  it  was  she  who  had  absorbed  their  com- 
panion's interest  and  led  to  the  further  complication  of  this  mis* 
fortune. 

*'  If  he  had  but  followed  us  straight  to  the  railway  station,"  said 
Miss  Matilda. 

"Well,  perhaps  he  did,"  said  Anne,  "  though  he  could  not  pos- 
sibly have  been  in  time ;  for  don't  you  remember,  Matilda,  that  we 
had  not  a  moment  to  spare  ?  Still,  I  don't  think  he  found  it  out 
so  soon  as  that ;  because,  if  so,  he  could  have  sent  a  telegram,  you 
know." 

"  Who  knows,"  exclaimed  Miss  Matilda,  catching  at  the  slightest 
straw  of  comfort,  "but  there  may  be  a  telegram  yet  waiting  for  us; 
and  though  he  does  not  know  our  names,  what  is  easier  than  to 
describe  us  as  'three  ladies  who  have  taken  a  bag  by  mistake." 
Anne,  my  dear,  you  have  removed  a  weight  from  my  mind ;  I  feel 
confident  that  to-morrow  all  will  be  put  straight.  So  go  to  bed  now. 
for  in  the  morning,  as  soon  as  wc  think  any  one  is  stirring,  we  must 
be  up  and  off  to  the  station." 

But,  alas  for  the  uncertainty  of  human  wishes  when  hope  alone 
gives  them  strength!  Notwithstanding  that  Miss  Matilda  Nettle- 
ton  and  her  Cousin  Anne  arose  betimes  and  proceeded  with  all 
despatch  to  the  railway  station,  not  a  syllable  could  they  learn  of 
their  missing  friend  nor  of  their  missing  bag.  No  message  had 
been  received,  no  telegram  sent,  no  inquiries  made;  and,  baftled 
and  disheartened,  the  two  ladies  had  to  return  to  their  hotel  to 
concoct  fresh  plans  for  getting  rid  of  this  unfortunate  encumbrance 
and  placing  it  once  more  in  the  possession  of  its  lawful  owner, 

A  second  suggestion  was  made  by  Anne,  and  this  was  that  their 
recent  companion  would  perhaps  go ,  to  the  office  of  the  steamer 
and  there  lodge  his  inquiries,  together  with  a  message  indicating 
his  whereabouts  and  how  he  might  best  be  found.  What  did 
Cousin  Matilda  think  of  this,  and  of  sending  the  bag  at  once  back 
to  Antwerp  by  the  guard  of  the  train  ?  But  impressed  by  the  sense 
of  responsibility  her  mistake  had  imposed  upon  her.  Miss 
Matilda,  although  approving  the  plan,  would  listen  to  no  counsel 
which  involved  parting  with  the  bag.  Honourable  lady  as  she  was, 
she  could  give  credit  to  no  compromise  on  this  point,  and  she 
remained  firm  to  her  resolution  that  if  the  bag  had  to  be  lodged  in 
other  hands,  into  that  safe  custody  it  should  be  transmitted  by  her 
ovni,  without  tncvunn^  v^ie  n^V  ot  v^^  medium,  or  go-between. 


PUdttg  from  Fate. 


r47 


I 


In  vain  Anne  bcfged  to  be  allowed  to  undtrtal;e  the  journey, 
^liss  Maiiltia  wati  unflinching:  she  seemed  bent  on  punishitig  her- 
self to  the  utmost,  and  leaving  Anne  and  Mrs.  Cramplon  to  spend 
tlic  day  at  Cologne.  So  Miss  Matilda,  tog«tliL-r  with  lier  walerjiroof 
cloak,  her  umbrella,  and  Mr.  Slack's  bag,  set  off  for  Antwerp,  where, 
after  a  %'ain  search,  unable  to  discover  so  much  as  a  trace  of  their 
Teceni  companion,  shi.*  unwillingly  entrusted  Lhu  bag  to  the  agent's 
care,  and,  reassured  by  his  confident  assertion  that  the  owner  was 
certain  lo  apply  for  it,  retraced  her  wny  back  to  Cologne,  and,  in 
company  with  Annt-  and  Mr*.  Crampton,  started  the  next  rooming 
for  Bonn,  from  which  place,  after  a  short  stiiy,  during  whinh  not  a 
uord  had  been  heard  of  Mr.  ^lack,  nor  any  tidings  of  the  missing 
bag,  ihey  set  off  on  their  already  arranged  journey.  Time  and 
change  work  wonders,  and  busy  with  what  she  vv.hs  doing,  ■lud 
pleased  with  all  she  was  seeing,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  if  the 
keenness  of  Miss  Matilda's  self-reproach  gradually  wore  away  until 
the  circumstances  of  the  unlucky  exchange,  swallowed  up  in  passing 
c^-ents,  was  all  but  forgotten,  save  by  Anne,  who  filled  many  an  idle 
half-hour  with  conjectures  as  to  what  had  become  of  the  two  black 
bags,  and  whether  there  was  any  probabtlityoftlK-ir  respective  owners 
ever  meeting  again.  Very  likelv,  lon;^  be  fore  this,  a  man  socvidently 
nsed  to  ladies'  society  had  forgoiten  all  about  her;  or  if  she  still 
chanced  to  abide  in  his  remembrance  it  Wiis  only  to  be  connected 
with  a  circumstance  which  had  duubtlcss  been  attended  by  somc 
annoyance  and  much  irjconvenience.  .^nnc  si^ldom  recalled  thc 
many  inconveniences  she  had  been  and  still  would  be  subjected  to 
through  the  absence  of  all  those  numerous  cuffs,  collars,  frills,  and 
habit-shirts  which.  Mith  bewildered  curiosity,  Mr.  Slack  had  gazed 
a^on  and  aivnlaliy  wondered  over. 

PoorMr.  Slack!  A  whole  week  had  elapsed  since,  brisk  and  gay. 
he  set  his  foot  on  foreign  shores,  every  minute  of  which  served  but 
to  increase  his  perplexities  and  add  to  bis  annoyances.  Was  ever 
inan,  as  represented  hy  a  scrupulously  neat  and  particularly  sensitive 
bachelor  of  forty-seven,  placed  in  a  morL-  awkwanl  predicament 
than  that  in  which  Mr.  Slack  found  hiinself — a  stranger  in  a  far-off 
land,  condemned  lo  encase  his  well  cared  for  body  in  linen  the 
fashion  and  pattern  of  which  his  eyes  loathed  and  his  tlcsli 
abominated  ?  Mr.'  Slack  was  a  Briton  to  his  backbone,  a  biurkbone 
co^'ered  at  this  particular  moment  by  a  shirt  the  stripes  of  which  were 
lively,  the  collar  limp,  the  front  ample,  and  Uie  sleeves  short.  Fifty 
times  a  day  did  Mr.  Slack  sec  this  disreputable  caricature  of  hjs 
once  respectable  self  reflected — before,  behind,  sideways,  and  full- 


■ 

I 
I 


The  Gcntknian  s  Magazine. 

raced,  yd  wjih  no  better  rcsaU  tban  disgust  al  the  spccuctc  he 
prescntci!— his  shirl  ill-raiing,  his  necktie  shabby,  his  hair  rough, 
^Uiil  his  clothes  dusty. 

No  wonder  pcoplf  eyed  him  with  saspiciun,  as  lliey  certainly  did 
each  lime  lie  began  his  confused  inquiries  about  the  ladies  whom 
he  described  as  "  Dames  Anglaists,"  z\vi\  whose  distinctive  mark  be 
gave  as  carrj-ing  with  Ihetn  three  black  hags  "  Commr  fa." 

Seen  them !  Who  hathi't  seen  them  ?  Not  an  hotel  d(d  he  pat 
up  at,  not  a  person  did  he  meet,  but  they  had  just  parted  with  the 
three  veritable  ladles,  each  holding  in  her  hatul  a  bag  %«hii:li  the-, 
one  Mr.  Slack  was  possessed  of  might  have  claimed  for  its  li«nn 
brother.  They  had  been  met  at  Bingcn.at  Coblcntz,  at  Frankfort, 
.It  Manheim,  had  started  for  Swit/.crlanrt — the  Tyrol,  for  Mil^,  for 
\'ienna;  until  Mr.  Slack,  fairly  worn  out  and  distracted,  came  tu  the 
conclusion  il'.at  ihc  Continent  must  Ih:  overrun  with  ladies  each  one 
of  whom  hud  registered  a  vow  to  carr)'  about  with  her  a  similar 
black,  bag.  Never  again  would  he  run  the  risk  of  t>cing  placed  io 
the  predicament  to  which  this  spirit  of  female  unanimity  had 
jected  him.  For,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  every  one  scemei' 
attracted  by  the  bag.  Men  eyed  it,  women  claimed  it,  porters  looked. 
suspiciously  at  it ;  he  never  carried  it  without  feeling  tonstious  of 
being  stared  at,  and  never  left  it  behind  without  feeling  certain  iu 
contents  would  be  stared  into.  The  agony  he  underwent  through 
detecting  a  smile  on  n  chambermaid's  face  or  a  snigger  in  a 
waiter's  manner  was  only  known  to  Mr.  Slack  himself,  the  climax 
being  reached  by  the  lock  giving  way  and  the  contents  being  scut 
fiuLtering  down  and  about  the  staifs, 

lie  no  longer  hesitated,  but  the  next  day  set  off  for  Roltcrdam, 
and  before  another  week  had  elapsed  was  once  more  back  in  his 
native  land,  buoyed  up  with  the  certainty  that  by  the  aid  of  an 
advertisement  in  the  'Jims  and  inquiries  at  Twickenham  he  should 
he  able  to  restore  the  unfortunate  bag  unce  more  into  the  custod)' 
of  its  lawful  owner. 

An  unexpected  return  is  seldom  successful,  and  poor  Mr.  Slack 
bad  to  ilrain  to  its  dregs  the  cup  of  disromfort  attendant  > 
bold  venture.    The  rooms  were  dismantlcJ,  the  t;irpets  uj, 
wan  taken  down,  and  the  moid  was  away.     Imjirci&ed  by  a  Aensc  of 
her  injuries,  Mrs.  Jones  could  find  no  bei:t-r outlet  for  her  Indiirr--.- 
tion  than  the  ronstanlly  repealed  '*<K*od  gracious  on  me.    '>'- 
Slack,  whatever  has  happened  to  you,  »ir,  that  yua  »houId   ' 
back  in  this  wise,  looking  no  more  like  the  genlloman  that  «'. 


I 


FUein^  from  Fate. 

"  Happened,  Mrs.  Jones  r  "  laughed  ^Ir.  Slack.  "  Why,  nothing. 
I'm  dirty.  aiiJ  perhaps  a  trifle  tired,  but  a  good  wasli  and  wimc 
breakfast  «ill  put  alt  that  slraiglit." 

"I'm  sure  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  sighed  Mrs.  Jones.  Tlicn 
her  quick  t-vc  catching  sight  of  the  strange  bag,  she  added, 
•*  Hm  lor.  Mr.  Slack,  that  ain't  your  bag,  sir  ?  Why,  you've  never 
gone  and  lost  your  luggage,  to  be  sure  ?" 

"  Lost  my  luggagf,  Mrs.  Jones  ?  Oh,  dear,  no,"  said  Mr.  Slack. 
Then  seeing  it  was  of  no  use  trying  to  pass  off  the  impostor  on 
Mrs.  Jones,  he  added — 

"The  reason  of  my  having  this  is  that  some  friends  are  bringing 
my  bag  with  them,  and  this  bag  belongs  to  them,  only  1  brought  It 
on  because  it  was  more  convenient,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  indeed,  sir,"  snorted  Mrs.  Jones,  ever  alive  ta  the  terrible 
fear  that  some  demon  in  female  form  might  he  going  to  snatch 
from  her  the  lodger  who,  of  all  others,  suited  her  most  completely. 

At  the  tone  of  Mrs.  Jones's  voice  and  the  accompanying  look  in 
Mrs.  Jones's  eye.  Mr.  Slack's  heart  sank  within  him.  Wtiy  had  he 
made  this  wretched  evasion,  spoken  by  him  without  thought  and  in 
order  to  overcome  the  momentary  embarrassment  occasinned  by 
the  fear  of  his  landlady's  inquiries.^  For  him  lo  tell  the  truth 
now  would  but  confirm  the  suupicions  he  saw  his  statement  had 
awakened.  So,  assuming  the  most  dcvil-me-carc  air  at  his  com- 
mand, he  begged  Mrs.  Jones  to  get  breakfast  ready  as  soon  as  she 
could  manage  it;  and  humming  a.s  he  went  "La  donna  e  mobUe,"  he 
ran  upstairs  and  disappeared  inside  the  bedroom. 

Slam  went  the  door,  and  off  fell  the  mask  of  unconcern  under 
which  Mr.  Slack  had  concealed  his  real  trepidation  while,  bag  in 
hand,  he  had  stood  confessed  the  greatest  coward  over  whom  a  land- 
lady had  ever  played  the  tyrant.  Long  years  of  experience  had 
taught  him  that  in  vain  might  he  try  to  keep  any  possession  of  his 
secret  from  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Jones,  whose  penetration  could  pick 
locks,  empty  drawers,  and  turn  cupboards  inside  out.  Cjivcn,  by 
IMr.  Slack's  absence,  five  minutes  of  opportunity,  and  when  he 
reltimed  he  knew  that  imprinted  on  Mrs.  Jones's  vinegar  visage  he 
shouid  sec  the  whole  list  of  fine  clothes  contained  within  that 
disastrous  counterfeit.  No,  he  could  never  leave  it  and  the  house 
together.  Wliither  he  went  the  bag  must  go  :  when  he  sat  it  must 
stand  within  his  sight — when  he  slept  it  must  repose  under  his 
bed.  Until  he  got  it  to  Twickenham  he  and  it  must  never  be 
parted :  and  the  question  now  to  be  answered  was.  how  soon  could 
J?e  arrive  witiii/i  the  precincte  of  that  suburban  localitv  and  enter 


750  The  Gcnticmaii! s  Magazine. 

upon  a  series  of  fresh  inquiries   concerning  three  ladies  whose 
description  he  m^ust  furnish. 

While  Mr.  Slack's  mind  had  been  arriving  at  these  conclusions, 
his  bodily  activity  had  been  directed  towards  changing  his  travel- 
stained  garments,  putting  on  one  of  his  own  peculiar  shirts, 
indulging  in  the  luxury  of  a  good  brush  at  his  hair,  and  effuctinfj 
the  hundred  and  one  niceties  of  the  toilet  which  loss  of  apparatus 
had  hitherto  condemned  him  to  neglect. 

The  ceremony  finished,  once  more  he  stood  Mr.  Brimmington 
Slack,  with  an  appearance  so  irreproachable  that  had  he  carried 
about  the  black  bags  of  a  whole  harem  of  spinsters  not  a  ruffle 
■would  have  stirred  the  ocean  of  either  public  or  private  confidence. 
Catching  sight  of  him  as  he  took  his  seat  at  the  breakfast  table  on 
which,  in  spite  of  her  indignation,  Mrs.  Jones  had  just  set  a 
perfectly  cooked  chop,  the  arrows  of  sarcasm  with  which  that 
wrathful  landlady  had  filled  her  quiver  became  suddenly  blunted, 
and  in  place  of  the  nettle  she  had  ready  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue, 
she  merely  said,  in  a  tone  of  lachrymose  satisfaction — 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you  looking  a  little  more  like  your  usual  self 
again,  sir." 

"  Oh,  I'm  perfectly  right  now,  Mrs.  Jones,  and  shall  be  equal  to 
anything  by  the  time  I've  done  justice  to  your  good  cooking." 

"  I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Jones,  descending  to  a  sniff,  "  if  I  don't 
do  my  best  'tain't  for  want  o'  trying,  Mr.  Slack," 

"  But  you  always  do  do  your  best,  Mrs.  Jones.  Why,  1  haven't 
seen  a  chop  cooked  like  tJiat  since  I  left  home.  Talk  about  going 
abroad  and  foreign  dishes,"  continued  Mr.  Slack,  tickling  his  nose 
with  the  goodly  scent  of  the  full-flavoured  mutton.  "  Give  me  old 
England,  say  I,  Take  my  word  for  it,  Mrs.  Jones,  one  good  chop 
is  worth  a  whole  sheej)  of  their  fricaseed  colchtic  dc  moiiton" 

Mrs.  Jones's  spirits  began  to  rise.  If  this  was  not  the  most 
decided  "put  on"  she  had  ever  seen,  there  was  no  cause  for 
further  fear.  "Only  do  their  cooking  well,"  she  mused,  i)luming 
herself  on  the  art  in  which  she  e.tcelled,  "and  it's  little  chance  the 
most  designing  female  of  all  the  upper  classes  has  got  against  one 
who  knows  her  business." 

"  Can  you  get  me  the  Tinus,  Mrs.  Jones  ?"  said  the  voice  of  Mr. 
Slack,  breaking  in  on  his  landlady's  reverie.  "  I  have  hardly  seen 
a  paper  since  I  left.  What  has  happened  while  I've  been  away  ? 
Any  news,  eh  }" 

"Not  nothing  that  will  interest  you,  sir,"  replied  Mrs.  Jones, 
trj-ing  to  recall  some  of  the  contents  of  the  weekly  paper  from  which 


Fleeing  from  Fate.  751 

her  stock  of  news  was  derived.  *'  There's  been  two  or  three  most 
awful  fires  in  the  City,  and  a  woman  died  through  being  starved  to 
a  skeleton  at  Bermondsey,  and  nine  men  was  thrown  down  off  a 
scaffold  in  Islington,  and  a  boat  upset  and  all  hands  lost  on  the 
river ;  but  I  can't  call  to  mind  nothing  more  much,  excepting  'tis 
that  the  bloodthirsty  villain  who  did  that  cold-blooded  murder  in 
Spitalfields  hasn't  been  taken,  though  he's  known  to  be  about  some- 
wheres  in  London,  for  after  changing  his  clothes  he  stopped  in 
King  William  Street  and  bought  a  black  bag  and  in  it  put  all  the 
things  he'd  worn  before." 

'*  A  black  bag ! "  repeated  Mr.  Slack. 

Mrs.  Jones  gave  a  nod  of  assent. 

"Just  such  a  one,"  she  said,  "as  that  you've  got  with  you 
upstairs,  may  be,  sir." 

"The  bag  I've  got  upstairs!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Slack,  sharply. 
"Pack  of  stuff  and  nonsense  1  That  bag  is — a — foreign  bag — a 
very  uncommon  bag ;  not  at  all  like  anything  any  one  would  buy 
here,  Mrs.  Jones." 

Mr.  Slack  imparted  this  imaginary  information  with  a  decision 
intended  to  quash  at  once  any  pretence  of  curiosity  on  the  score  of 
similarity  that  Mrs.  Jones  might  indulge  in. 

"  Oh,  indeed,  is  it,  sir.'"  said  Mrs.  Jones,  huffed  at  Mr.  Slack's 
sharp  speech.  "  I've  hardly  cast  my  eye  towards  it  myself;  but  if 
it's  what  you  say,  I  daresay  many  *ull  be  for  wishing  their  bags  was 
of  the  same  fanciful  pattern ;  for  it  is  reported,  though  I  won't  be 
the  one  to  vouch  for  it,  that  the  police  has  their  strict  orders  to 
stop  and  open  any  bag  they  feel  disposed  to,  which — as  this  has 
been  always  looked  on  as  a  free  country — ain't  at  all  a  pleasant 
look  out  for  some  folks." 

Now,  monstrous,  absurd,  and  impossible  as  he  knew  the  silly 
tittle-tattle  of  this  woman's  foolish  talk  to  be,  in  an  instant  Mr. 
Slack's  nervous  impatience  to  be  rid  of  the  bag  returned  upon 
him  with  redoubled  force.  Bolting  the  remains  of  his  chop,  and 
gulping  down  his  tea,  to  Mrs.  Jones's  unbounded  surprise,  he 
jumped  up  from  the  table,  and  muttering  something  about  an 
important  engagement  which  would  take  him  away  for  the  best  part 
of  the  day,  vanished  upstairs,  was  gone  for  a  moment,  when  down 
he  ran  again;  so  that  before  Mrs.  Jones  could  get  to  the  landing, 
she  heard  the  street  door  slam  behind  him,  and  by  the  time  she 
reached  the  window  a  cab  had  been  hailed,  into  which  Mr,  Slack 
jumped,  and  holding  tight  hold  of  the  black  bag,  in  another 
moment  was  driven  from  her  sight. 


752  The  Gentleman^ s  Magazine. 

T. 

To  follow  the  complication  of  circumstances,  the  entanglement 
of  situations,  the  unhappy  events,  the  untoward  mistakes  by  which 
Mr.  Slack  was  harassed  and  worried  for  the  next  few  weeks  would 
tax  the  powers  of  the  biographer  and  weary  the  patience  of 
the  reader.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  though  the  year  was  now  fast 
coming  to  a  close,  not  a  word  had  been  heard  nor  a  line  inter- 
changed between  Mr.  Brimmington  Slack  and  the  three  ladies 
with  whom  in  July  last  he  made  his  short  and  ill-starred  journey. 
Of  the  two  unlucky  bags,  the  one,  unclaimed  and  forgotten,  lies 
still  in  the  office  on  the  Antwerp  Quay ;  the  other,  miserable  to 
relate,  hangs  an  incubus  still,  and  is  still  in  the  possession  of  Mr. 
Slack,  who,  after  searching  Twickenham  in  vain,  being  sent  from 
pillar  to  post  on  fool's  errands  without  number — after  advertising 
in  the  Times,  Morning  Post,  and — happy  thought ! — the  Queen,  "  the 
ladies'  newspaper,"  has  been  forced  to  succumb  to  Fate's  iron 
sway.  Seizing  the  occasion  of  a  day  at  Margate,  suggested  by  him- 
self and  accepted  by  Mrs.  Jones,  he  has  at  last  managed  to  bring 
away  the  unfortunate  bag  from  the  Waterloo  waiting-room,  where 
in  safety  it  had  for  weeks  lain  deposited,  and  unobserved  and 
unsuspected,  smuggle  it  into  the  house,  and  with  the  utmost  care 
and  caution  secrete  it  in  a  trunk,  the  former  contents  of  which  lie 
had  covertly  abstracted  to  make  room  for  its  reception. 

In  his  own  mind  Mr.  Slack  had  no  doubt  that  the  ladies  were 
still  abroad,  carrying  out  a  wish  Anne  had  expressed  to  him  that 
their  stay  might  be  prolonged  beyond  the  originally  intended 
month.  So  long  as  they  returned  before  Christmas  Miss  Matilda 
had  said  she  did  not  see  any  great  obstacle  to  their  remaining ; 
and  acting  on  this  supposition,  cis  Christmas  drew  near,  Mr.  Slack 
began  again  to  occupy  himself  with  the  composition  of  advertise- 
ments so  mysterious,  and  descriptions  so  complicated,  that  cer- 
tainly, had  they  "met*the  eye"  of  cither  of  our  three  friends,  they 
would  have  been  passed  over  without  the  slightest  idea  that  thev 
in  any  way  concerned  them. 

Arrived  at  Antwerp  on  their  journey  back  Miss  Nettleton  and 
Anne  made  it  their  first  care  to  call  at  the  office  and  make 
anxious  inquiries  about  the  fate  of  the  bag  they  had  left,  when 
great  was  their  concern  to  hear  that  it  still  remained  there,  un- 
owned and  unclaimed.  Yet  the  clerk  was  as  confident  as  ever  that 
it  would  be  all  right.  "The  gentleman,"  he  said,  "would  be  certain 
to  ask  for  it  whenever  he  came  back,  which  they  might  rest 


FUeing  from  Fate. 

assured  he  had  not  yet  done,  as  the  circumstance  had  been. 
mentioned  to  the  variau<i  stewards  on  the   line,  and  np  to  that 

■4imc  not  an  inquirj*  had  been  made  of  one  of  them." 
Witii  their  minds  made  thits  far  easy  itie  ladies  liad  returned  to 
England ;  but,  it  being  now  the  end  of  August,  in  place  of  going  to 
their  ro?ipcctivc  homes  Anne  and  M  th.  Crampton  had  set  olT  to  visit 
aome  friends  in  Bedfordshire,  while  Miss  Nettleton  had  gone  to 

IBroadstoirs,  wilh  wliich  place  she  continued  to  be  so  charmed  that 
A  proposition  had  now  come  from  her  saying  that  if  her  cousins 
would  join  her  she  should  lieiidt;  to  remain  imlil  the  wrinlor  had 
passed  and  the  fogs  were  over. 

Mrs.  Crampton  was  delighted.  She  enjoyed  being  with  Matilda, 
felt  certain  the  sea  air  was  the  very  thing  to  restore  her,  and, 
moreover,  if  Anne  was  released  from  the  task  of  attending  on  her 

»sbe  would  be  abJc-  to  pay  that  long-deferred  visit  to  her  friend  and 
schoolfellow,  Maria  Price,  who,  tired  of  being  refused,  had  at 
length  said  she  should  leave  Anne  to  fix  her  own  time  and  come 
wlien  she  could. 
H  Anne  hesitated.  Most  people,  she  argued,  had  made  engage- 
"^ments  for  Christmas,  so  that  she  hardly  liked  to  volunteer  such  a 
preposition ;  siill  if  M;iria  had  other  people  coming,  or  should  be 
going  away  herself,  she  could  but  say  no;  and  they  had  hitherto 

»  always  been  such  good  friends  that  to  allow  the  shadow  of 
ceremony  to  rest  between  them  now  seemed  absurd.  So  with  many 
a  doubting  //"and  trembling  lui  Anne  plucked  up  her  courage, 
sent  off  the  letter,  and  before  two  days  had  elapsed  received  her 
iswer,  which  said  :— 

•*  Dear  Anke, — Yon  arc  the  very  person  of  all  others  wc  wanted 
[most,  but,  fearing  you  could  not  be  spared,  I  did  not  like  to  put 
ijou  to  the  pain  of  sending  another  refusal.  We  are  going  to  have 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Foster,  whom  you  know,  and  a  friend  of  John's 
[whom  we  want  you  to  like,  so  come  as  soon  as  you  can.  You  will 
[And  us  both  ready  to  welcome  you." 

And  now  the  clear-sighted  reader  requires  to  be  told  no  more: 
the  thing  is  plain  before  him.  Of  course  the  friend  is  Mr. 
Brimmington  Slack,  who,  under  Mr,  Price's  hospitable  roof— ► 
whether  he  will  or  no — is  at  length  to  meet  the  cause  of  his  foreign 
journey,  the  cause  of  his  return,  and  the  owner  of  that  distracting 
jncubos — the  black  bag. 

So,  passing  over  the  invitation  which  he  received,  and  after  many 
Vol.  a  for  i^:^. 


^ 


754  I'l^'-'  Gentleman^ s  Magazine. 

a  groan  and  grumble  accepted,  wc  will  suppose  the  decision  made^ 
the  letter  written,  the  matter  settled ;  and  Mr.  Slack,  this  time 
accompanied  by  a  brand-new  leather  portmanteau,  set  down  at  the 
Liverpool  Street  station  just  in  time  to  rush  to  the  ofSce,  get  bis 
ticket,  fly  along  the  platform,  and  be  shot  into  a  carriage,  when 
off  goes  the  train.  What  a  close  shave !  How  did  he  come  to 
be  so  late  ?  Mr.  Slack's  first  effort  with  returning  breath  was  to 
give  a  sigh  of  relief  that  he  had  not  been  left  behind ;  his  second, 
to  stop  and  see  was  his  luggage  all  right. 

He  bends,  when  suddenly  his  eyes  fall  upon  a  form — a  female 
form — a  fonn  which  has  grown  familiar  to  his  thoughts  by  day  and 
to  his  dreams  by  night. 

"  It  is — //  ;>,"  he  cries.  "'  It  is — it  is,"  comes  echoing  back,  and 
in  another  instant  Mr.  Slack  has  seized  in  his  excited  grasp  the  out- 
stretched hands  of  Miss  Anne  Crampton. 

"To  think  that  we  sliould  have  met  at  last,"  exclaims  Mr. 
Slack,  who,  overcome  by  the  suddenness  of  this  unexpected  joy, 
can  scarce  keep  his  rapture  within  decent  bounds. 

"Yes,  what  a  pleasure,"  murmured  Anne;  "but  oh!  Mr. "' 

and  here  Anne,  hesitating,  grew  confused. 

"Slack!"  cried  the  gentleman.  "Mr.  Briramington  Slack; 
^Iiss " 

"  Anne  Crampton,"  supplied  the  lady,  after  which  they  both 
shook  hands  again,  seeming  well  pleased  with  their  self-introduc- 
tion. 

"  And  have  you  had  your  bag  yet,  Mr.  Slack  -•* "  said  Miss 
Anne. 

"No,  but  I  have" 

"  Mine  }  "  broke  in  Miss  Anne. 

"  Yours,"  cried  Jlr.  Slack,  laughing  uproariously.  "  Yours — 
yes,  of  course  it's  yours.  The  moment  I  knew  that  bag  did  not 
belong  to  tiw,  that  instant  I  felt  convinced  it  must  belong 
to  j-ou." 

"  Oh,  how  kind  it  is  of  you  to  laugh  like  that,"  said  Anne, 
relieved.  "  I  can  sec  now  that  you  have  been  good  enough  to  make 
nothing  more  than  a  joke  of  it." 

"  Ajo/:e/"  echoed  Mr.  Slack,  struck  by  the  novelty  of  the  idea. 
"Of  course  I  did — the  best  joke  I  ever  knew  in  all  my  life."     And 
he  cast  at  Amic  a  look  which  seemed  to  individually  sum  up  tho  . 
whole  contents  of  the  bag  at  a  glance,  and  was  so  irresistibly 
comical  that  it  set  her  laughing  too. 

"  And  yon  have  kept  it  all  this  time  .'"  she  said. 


FUeing  from  Fate. 


755 


Kept  it,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Slack,  emphatically.  "  Kept  it.  I 
woold  not  have  paned  with  it  for  worlds.  I  carried  it  :iboiit  with 
IBC  cveiywhere,  gnarded  It  as  a  sacred  tnist,  which  had  I  died 
should  havu  been  buried  with  mc." 

Really  this  was  getting  more  than  serious.  At  the  eamest- 
nc*«  of  Mr.  Slack's  lone  and  the  fixedness  of  his  look  Anne  felt 
her  bean  tremble.  Surely  no  ordinat)-  interest  could  inspire  such 
feelings  as  these  .'  What  should  she  do  t  How  should  she  net  ? 
In  her  perplexity  she  ventured  suvh  a  tender  look  towards  Mr. 
Slack  that  positively  his  own  heart,  whit:h  for  years  he  had 
declared  to  himself  was  nothing  but  a  disordered  liver,  began  lo 
palpitate  with  an raista liable  emotion. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  used  to  paying  a  grt^t  many  complimcDls/' 
said  Anne. 

"/?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Slack.  "No,  believe  mc  no."  flappcn 
what  nugtt.  Mr.  Slack  could  not  allow  a  trusting  being  like  this  to 
regard  him  as  a  mcrt^  heartless,  unfeelin,!*  profligate. 

'■  Indeed    I    may  sa}-,    my  dear    Miss    Crampton,    that   so    far 

from  pleading  guilty  to  any sort  impeachracot  of  this  kind— 

ontil  it  was  my  happiness  to  meet  you  I  never" What  the 

deacc  n-as  he  going  to  say  ?  Lost  in  this  labj-rinth  of  words, 
Mr.  Slack  had  not  an  iilea,  so  he  repeated  "Never"  with  great 
emphasis,  adding  as  a  sc<]uencc  "  And  not  until  after  that  little 
emttrettptpt,  when  we  were  so  unfortunately  separated,  did  I  ever 
realise  how  sad  it  is  to  seek  for  one — and  seek  in  vain — for  j*ou 
have  no  idea  how  persistently  I  sought  yon  from  one  town  to  the 
other.  Here  1  was  on  your  irack  ;  there  I  had  lost  all  clue.  Oh," 
sighed  Mr.  Slack,  "what  a  wcarj-  time  that  was,  till,  sick  with  hope 
deferred,  worn  oat.  and  spiritless.  I  returned  within  a  fortnight  lo 
my  home,  a  thoroughly  disappointed  man." 
K  •'  Oh,  Mr.  Slack  1"  said  .\nne.  for  the  pathos  of  ^fr.  Slack's 
"words  had  all  but  melted  her  to  tears.  *'0h,  Mr.  Slack,  wliat  can 
1  say  ?  1  really  feel  I  am  not  worthy  of  so  much  devotion, 
although,"  she  added,  faintly  blushing,  "I  must  confess  I  never 
before  felt  so  drawn  towards  one  1  knew  so  litllc  of,  and  after  you 
had  left  I  often  had  to  take  myself  to  task,  little  dreaming  I  had 
awakened  a  feeling  similar  in  you." 

For  a  moment  such  a  nish  of  conflicting  emotion  overpowered 

Mr.  Slack  that  Miss  Anne,  the  carriage,  and  all  that  it  contained 

ed  to  swim  round  and  whirl  before  him ;    to  hide  his  cm> 

ssment  he  was  forced  to   bend  down   and    make  a  feint  of 

seeking-  lo  salute  the  lady's  hand.    Here  was  a  predicament  to 


75^ 


The  GeyitleniatCs  Maga 


find  himself  in :  alone  in  a  railway  carriage 
who,  influenced  by  something  he  seemed  to 
led  to  expose  the  too  greit  susceptibility  of  Jie 
What  could  he  do  ?  How  should  he  act  ? 
admired,  and  did  admire,  the  lady  before  him 
s.  serious  subject  like  matrimony  needed  y( 
hesitation,  and  here  was  he  suddenly  brougl 
the.  dangerous  plunge,  and  already  growing 
aflffiction  he  saw  he  had  stirred  within  that  tei 

Terrible  as  the  alternative  seemed,  unless 
forth  to  brand  himself  as  a  villain  and  a  brute 
destiny  which  was  opened  thus  before  him, 
thoughts  of  self,  offer  at  once  his  hand  and 
Anne  to  be  his  wife. 

The  moment's  pause  seemed  half  a  year. 
She  does  not  speak,  but,  evidently  waiting  : 
which  linger  yet  in  Mr.  Slack's  husky  throa 
■rt'ith  blushing  cheeks  and  downcast  eyes. 

■'  Miss  Crampton,"  he  managed  to  get  c 
Crampton,  words  fail  me  to  frame  the  reque 
make — your  too  feeling  heart  will  suggest 
wiOiin  mine.  Could  you  forego  the  sweet  cc 
beloved  mother  and  your  very  superior  co 
guidance  of  your  future  life  to  one  who  feels 
unworthy  substitute  ?  In  short,  my  dear  M 
would  consider  my  hand  and  heart  and  a 
worthy  of  your  acceptance,  allow  me  to  lay  the 
tion  at  your  feet." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Slack!"  cried  Anne — and  now  1 
fast — "You  are  too  kind,  too  good;  the  con: 
in  making  such  an  offer  overpowers  me — it  d 
anything  but  rich,  sir;  my  mother  is  a  wid 
dependent  on  my  cousin — then  I  am  no  longei 
that  you  care  for  me  alone.  Oh,  you  are  too  g 
but  the  whole  of  my  grateful  heart  to  give  you 

"And  is  not  that  an  exchange  worth  a  k 
Mr.  Slack,  all  his  former  hesitation  and  e 
for  Anne's  tearful  face  and  trembling  words 
away  regret  and  fear  from  his  mind,  and 
moment  before  had  felt  so  heavy,  now  sat  wit 
Jight  as  thistle-down. 

"  Too  good  ?"  said  Mr.  Slack,  quoting  Ann* 


Fleeing  from  Fate.  *i^*i 


\ 


*'Why,  Miss  Anne,  how  do  you  know  btit  I  am  the  veriest 
impostor  Lhat  ever  trod  the  earth  ?" 

"  No,  j-ou  are  not  that,"  laughed  Anne.  "  I  Uiiow  all  about  you 
and  wlio  you  arc."  And  answering  Mr.  Slack's  inquiring  gaze,  she 
added,  "Mr.  Briramin^ton  Slack,  Mr.  John  Price  of  Ongar's  great 
friirnd." 

"  Why,  who  told  you  ?  however  did  you  know  that  ?  " 

Stooping  down,  Anno  made  a  pull  at  the  portmanteau  s.nd 
pointed  to  the  direction  on  it.  "When  the  guard,"  she  said^ 
"whom  I  know,  put  it  into  the  carriage,  he  told  mc  that  the  gentle- 
man who  was  going  to  iMr.  Trice's  was  coming,  so  as  I  was  rather 
curious  about  John's  friend,  I  sat  expecting  him,  and  when  he 
came  it  turned  out  to  be  you." 

"And  you  know  the  Prices  ?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Slack. 

"  Yrs.     I'm  going  down  now  to  stay  with  them." 

"Never,"  cried  Mr.  Slack;  "it  can't  be — the  thing's  not 
possible." 

"Oh  yes,  but  it  is.  !  was  asked  to  meet  you  before,  only  as 
Cousin  IVratilda  wished  to  go  abroad  I  could  not  go." 

Mr.  Slack's  astonishment  became  so  overpowering  that  he  was 
obliged  to  take  off  his  hat  and  relieve  his  feelings  by  a  long- 
drawn  sigh. 

"  What  I  "  he  exclaimed  ;  '*  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  arc 
the  lady  asked  by  the  Prices  last  July?" 

"  Yes  ;  the  very  same." 

"  Why,  bless  my  soul,  1  ran  away  from  you,  I  went  abroad  for 
no  other  reason  than  lhat  I  would  not  meet,^^!*  and  be  made  to 
marry  a  woman  I  felt  I  should  detest." 

"Ah,  th(.'n  I  see  lliey  talked  of  me.  as  they  did  of  you,"  said 
Anne  slyly.  "Oh,  I  fancied  you  must  be  such  n  diCTerent  man 
from  wliat  you  are." 

Not  at  all  clever,  nor  a  bit  good  looking.  What  a  charming 
companion  she  was  to  he  sure!  So  unaffected,  and  frank  and 
sensible.  Mr.  Slack's  spirits  rose  every  moment.  His  only  regret 
was  that  they  could  not  be  married  at  once  and  start  off  on  their 
honeymoon. 

"  You  may  be  sure,"  he  s.iid  laughing,  "  T  never  knew  from 
whom  1  was  running  away,  but  I  did  know  whom  I  was  running 
after"  For  by  this  time,  having  ignored  the  bag,  Mr.  Slack  felt 
fully  convinced  that  the  aim  and  object  of  his  search  had  all  along 
been  Anne,  and  Anne  alone.  "And  when  Price  asked  mc  down," 
he  added,  "I  only  hesitated  because — of  what  I  was  kaving 
bchmd." 


758 


The  GcntleniaiC  s  Magazine* 


"What  will  the  Prices  say?"  said  Anne.  "How  shall  we  ti 
them  ?  "■ 

"Leave  that  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Slack,  growing  bold  as  a  lion,  "I 
give  them  a  surprise." 

"Why,  how?"  But  before  Mr.  Slack  could  tell  the  static 
came  in  sight — in  went  the  train,  and  up  to  the  door  of  the  carria; 
ran  a  lady  followed  by  a  gentleman,  who  cried  "There's  Slack- 
all  right !  How  d'ye  do,  old  fellow  ?  Why,  Anne,  is  that  yoi 
Maria — there's  Anne  and  Slack  come  in  the  same  carria; 
together." 

"I  hope  you've  been  talking,"  said  Mrs.  Price,  when  Anne,  wi 
had  by  this  time  been  helped  oat  and  duly  welcomed,  stood  1 
her  side.  "  I  want  you  to  be  great  friends,  you  know,  so  let  n 
introduce  you." 

*'  Stay,"  said  Mr.  Slack,  seizing  the  opportunity.  "  First  let  r 
introduce  you.  Your  old  friend  Miss  Anne  Crampton — the  fatu 
Mrs.  Brimmington  Slack." 


t'i;i 


i 


^ 


TABLE  TALK. 

BY  SYLVANOS  URBAN,  GENTLEMAN. 


"What  can  be  a  more  fitting  topic  of  literary  Tabic  Talk  than  the 
'following  communication  |\vhich  has  within  thc-sc  fyw  days  leaclied 
mc  from  my  coniribiilor  "Fin  Ucc"  .' — "  From  across  the  Atlantic 
that  (i:tinty /ourtAit/ir~onc  of  the  most  erudite  and  pjcnial  of  our 
American  Cousins,  to  whom  all  Shakespeare's  lines  aru  '  hotisc- 
hold  words/ — Horatv  Howanl  FurriMS;  sends  mc  tliis  year's  bill 
of  fare  of  Uic  Shakspere  Society  of  Philadelphia — valiant  trcnclier- 
mcn  who  never  fail  to  forcgatlicr  reverently  on  pleasant  Will's 
birthday — having  garnered  from  his  immortal  pages  raoliocs  and 
quips  and  conceits  as  proper  sauce  to  their  meats  and  pasties. 
And  to  whom,  save  to  S\T.VAS*L*s  Urbas,  should  ■  Fin  liec '  send 
•the  latest  of  these  quaint  iiuaus  ?*' 

MDtCCLXXVI, 

1564  ApaiL  a6  Gf  uelml's  Fitits  Johakitks  Shaksperb: 

i6[6  ApX[n  »5  Will  Siiaksprrk  Gkmt. 

Pivbguf.        To  hu  Iionc«  sweet  vipcp  ! 

PnlaiMon,        Ev'n  ho  that  1^  you  to  thiv  banquet. — V.  ir.  aa. 

TWENTY.FOURTH  ANXL'AL  mNXER  OF  TilE  SHAKSPERE 


( 


Thia<vs. 


l»  Qn<m. 


SOCIETY  or  PHIL^VDELI'IIIA. 
Keep  the  feast  full ;  bate  nul  an  hour  on't  I — I.  i.  319. 
The]*  bavc  a  noble  work  in  h.iml,  will  hongiu 
The  very  powers  tbiit  love  Vni. — V.  i.  6. 
Come,  sweet,  we'll  go  to  diiittcr.— V.  ii.  89. 

At  the  Meech-ists'  Club, 
Sathruav,  Ai-ril  22.  At  ;  o'ci-ocic. 

goixl  cheer, 
jS'ow  turn  we  towatxu  your  comforts. — I.  i,  33J. 
Thou  shall  rtmcmber  uuihing  more  than  whnc 
That  batitinct  bi<ls  thee  to  !— 1.  i.  185. 


Mkmhsks  Press-^it. 
Samuel  Dickson 
Asa  I.  Fi  Ji 

Hnr.ice  Mowaril  Funicss 
Viclur  GuilloB 


Richard  L.Acbtirat 
A.  Sydney  Biddlc 
Henry  Armilt  IJrown 
J.  Si.  DaCosla 

Thaeuj.        The  prim'si  foi  ihi*  proc«c<IlrE,  and  the  number 
To  cany  «jch  .1  business,  foith  and  kvy 
Our  wort)uc»t  inslnuiicnis. — I.  i.  161. 


Francis  MacanJey 
Julia  G.  R.  McEIroy 
Alfred  XcaTt 
iicnty  Giibtaitli  WanI 


76o 


The  Genthmaii!  s  Magazine. 


I 

'  I; 


1 
p 


Ardte. 

Gerrold. 

TJieseus. 

Piritkous, 

Tkeims, 

Palamon. 
Palamon. 

Gerrold. 


Theseus. 
Daughter, 

Gerrold. 

Arcite. 
Palamon. 

Arcite. 


Emilia. 


Palamon. 
DaiU'htir. 


Scii-ant. 
Emilia, 


Gaoler, 
m^lyta. 


Daughter. 
1st  Queen. 


Hark,  sir !  they  call 
The  scatteHd  to  the  banquet.— III.  i.  io8. 
We  are  a  merry  rout,  or  else  a  rabble. 
Of  company. — III.  v.  io6. 
Are  they  all  thus  ? 
They  are  all  the  sons  of  honour. 
Now,  as  I  have  a  soul,  I  long  to  see  'em  !— IV.  ii,  139. 

Menu. 
You  talk  of  feeding  me  to  give  me  strength. — III.  i.  119^ 
Our  stars  must  glister  with  new  fire,  or  be 
To-day  extinct.— V.  i.  69. 
Fie,  fie ! 

What  tediosity  and  disensanity 
Is  here  among  ye ! — III.  v.  i. 

Little  Neck  Clams. 
This  is  a  cold  beginning. — III.  v.  lOt. 

I  make 
A  carrack  of  a  cockle  shell. — III.  iv.  13. 
I  first  appear,  though  rude,  and  raw. — III.  v.  122. 

LlEBFRAUENMILCH     l86S' 

Do  you  not  feel  it  thaw  you  ? 

Stay ;  I'll  tell  you 

After  a  draught  or  two  more. 

Sparc  it  not. 

The  Duke  has  more,  CM. — III.  iii.  17. 

POTAGE. 

Aux  Asperges  i  la  Royale. 
Constant  queen, 
Sweet,  white  as  chaste,  and  pure, — V.  i.  zG. 

Amontillado  1857. 
Give  me  more  wine. — III.  iii.  27. 
Some  two  hundred  bottles, — V,  ii.  45. 

PRIMEURS  VARI£eS. 

Merry  spring  time's  harbinger. — I.  i.  8.     Song. 
All  dear  Nature's  children  sweet. — I.  i.  13.    Song. 

BoUCHfiES   A  LA  ReINE. 

Dainty,  madam. — II.  i.  183. 

She  loiks  her  beauties  in  her  bud. — II.  i.  195. 

POISSON. 

Saumon  Frais  de  Califomie  4  la  Hollandaise. 
one  salmon. — II.  i.  4, 
they  have  skipped 
Torrents, — I.  iii.  37. 

Steinberoes  Cabinet  1&65. 
I  loved  my  lipa  the  better  ten  days  after: — ^11.  iii.  26. 
Thus  dost  thou  still  make  good  the  tongue  o'  the  world.- 

I.  i.  226. 


Table  Talk. 


761 


Gaoler, 
Gaoler. 


Palamon. 

ArciU, 

Palamon. 

Emilia. 
Emilia, 


Emilia. 


yd  Queen, 


1st  Queen. 


Arcite. 


Emilia. 


Palamon. 
Palamon, 


^/ipfio/yta. 


CONCOMBKES. 
Yoa  are  dangerous, — II.  ii.  318. 
There  is  no  remedy. — II.  i.  322. 
RelevS. 
Selle  de  Mouton  \  I'Anglaisc. 
What  is  this  ? 
'Tis  a  lusty  meat. — III.  iii.  27. 

I  am  glad 
You  have  so  good  a  stomach. 

I  am  gladder 
I  have  so  good  meat  to  't. — III.  iii.  30. 
FoMMERY  Sec. 
Ckeuant  d'Ay  Blanc. 
out  of  two  I  should 
Choose  one, — ^V.  i.  141. 
What  a  mere  child  in  fancy 
That  having  two  fair  gowds  of  equal  sweetness, 
Cannot  distingoish,  but  must  cry  for  both ! — IV.  ii.  52. 

LEGUMES. 

Petits  Pois  au  Natnrcl. 
(then  but  beginning 
To  swell  about  the  blossom), — I.  iii.  67. 
Pommes  dc  Terre  des  Bermudes. 
Like  wrinkled  pebbles  in  a  glassy  stream. 
You  may  behold  'em! — I.  i.  112. 
Entries. 
Quenelles  Bigarrfes  au  Salpicon. 
Artichauts  d  la  Barigoule. 
shall  their  sweetness  fall  « 

Upon  thy  tasteful  lips, — I.  i.  178. 

their  sharp  spines  being  gone — I.  i.  i.  Song. 
Fresher  than  May,  sweeter 
Than  her  gold  buttons  on  the  boughs,  or  all 
Th'  enamcll'd  knacks  o'  the  mead  or  garden  ! — III.  i. 
Persjer  Jouet  1873. 
What  a  fieiy  sparkle  and  quick  sweetness 
Has  this  young  prince ! — IV,  ii.  13. 
Asperges  en  branches, 
firat  bora  child  of  Ver, — I.  i.  7.  Song. 
Sorbet. 
Grog  Araericain. 
with  ice  to  cool  'em. — I.  U.  34. 
I  feel  myself. 
With  this  refreshing,  able  once  again 
To  out-durc  danger. — III.  vi.  8, 

ROTI. 

Bdcassines  sous  Canapd. 
babes  broach'  i  on  tbc  \ance,— 1,  m.  lO. 


762 


Tlu  GcntlemaiCs  Magazifu. 


1st  Queen.  for  ourcnnrned  heads  we  have  no  roof 

Save  this,— I.  i.  52. 

Pommes  de  Tern  il  la  Farisaenoe. 

Chatkau  Lafite  1868. 
Clos-Vol'geot  186S. 
TTieseus.       The  veiy  lees  of  sacb,  millioos  of  ntes 
Exceed  the  wine  of  others ; — I.  ir.  29. 
Palamon.       Well,  sir,  I'll  pledge  you.     \X3iinks. 
Arciu.  Drink  3  good  hearty  draught ! 

it  breeds  good  blood,  man — ^III.  iii.  16. 
Salade  de  Laitue  et  Fromages  Divers. 
Wooer.         You  must  lose  your  bead, — IV.  L  77. 
Tkeseui.       A  love  grows  as  you  decay ! — ^V.  ill.  ill. 
Palamon.      Jtlany  and  stale ; — ^V.  iv.  ii. 

MadK&e  1S29. 
Miss.  His  age  s<»ne  six-and-thirty. — IV.  ii.  137. 

Emtreuets. 
Omelette  Soufflfe  au  Kinch. 
Ail,  'tis  up,— IV.  i.  136. 

Palamon.  'Tis  but  a  gaudy  shadow, 

That  old  Time,  as  he  passes  by,  takes  with  him. — II.  i,  15(1, 

MadSke  1818. 
Doctor.  How  old  is  she  ? 

Wooer.  She  is  eighteen. — V.  ii,  137. 

Dessext. 
Glace  "  Centennial." 
t  Fruits  Assortis. 

Pirithous.      Pure  red  and  white, — IV.  ii.  107. 

Lac&yua  Cukisti. 
Sacred  vials,  &U'd  with  tears, — I.  v.  5.  Song. 

CArfi  Xom, 
Messenger.  his  complexion 

Xearer  a  broi^Ti  than  black  ; — IV.  ii,  78. 
Pirithous.  ns  a  man  would  wish  'cm,  strong  and  clean  ; — PV.  ii. 

Liqueurs  Fines. 
Cognac,  Chartreuse,  Aya  Pana. 
Daetor.  What  stuff's  here !— IV.  iii.  15. 

Palamon.  give  us  nectar  with  'em. 

For  wc  are  more  clear  spirits. — V.  iv,  13, 
Gaoler.  altogether  without  appetite, 

Save  often  drinking ; — 1\'.  iii.  4. 

CiCAJiES. 
Daughter.  'Tis  a  sweet  <Kte, 

And  wis  poftme  me  findj — ^V.  ii.  68. 


SfUfgw. 


Taiit  Talk, 

ttliMe  breath  Uou^  down 
The  tectaing  Ccti=i'  foi*on  ;  wliu  duil  pluck 
Wnh  liatid  annipotcat  from  ibtth  blue  cluuds 
The  oiason'd  tuircts; — V.  i.  55. 
Ar>joi;Ki(MB.<rr. 

*Tu  ia  vain,  £  sec,  lo  ittay  ?<  '■ 
Have  at  the  wo«l  can  ctwne.  thpn ! 
(For  'lis  no  other)  any  -wuy  cunleni  ye, 
(For  to  that  honest  purpose  it  wu  iiicttnC  >"*) 
Wc  have  our  cml ; 
Once  more,  fsu'cvcD  all  1     [E^uunt. — ^L  t.  S35. 

acfty.  fall  of  stnylB^strack:— I.  ▼.  15. 


763 


The  citationi  this  yeat  arc  from  '•  Tl»c  Two  Nublc  Kinsmen,"  attrihutcit  to 
Shakj^pcre  and  Fletcher.  The  cililiona  lUcd  arc  the  ■-  Wuilu  of  Hcauinunt 
and  Fleicher,"  by  the  Rtv,  Alexander  Dye*.  London,  1846;  "DyceS  Sb-ik- 
sperc."  2ad  ELliiJun.  London,  1^;  Skcat'ii  "Two  Noble  Kinsmen." 
Cimbiictge,  J  875. 

PHILADELPHIA. 
MDCCCLXXVL 


A.S  I  expected,  some  coramuni cations  have  reached  me-toucbing; 
that  letter  from  Mr.  Plummer  which  I  printed  last  month  on  the 
subject  of  the  cun'ature  of  the  globe.  Mr.  Piinnmer,  it  will  be 
rejncmberiid,  stated  that  a  conlracloi,  having  cut  a  canal  twcs  miles 
long:  uitb  a  straight  bed,  foutiJ  the  water,  when  it  was  let  in, 
nmning  eight  inches  deeper  in  the  middle  lh;ui  iit  the  ends,  which 
Mr.  FiumniLT  submitted  for  Mr.  Hampden's  consideration  as  a 
fair  demonstration  of  the  curvature  of  tlic  caitii,  tiie  right  inches 
being  a  correct  proportion  in  the-  di^^tancc.  Here  is  Mr.  Hampden's 
reply,  which  is  characteristically  forcible  : — 

10  THS   EDIToa  Qt  THE   "liEMTXEMAft'S  MAOAZl^tK." 

11,  Pateniortei  Row,  Nor.  i,  1876. 
I  hcreljy  promise  aad  plct3ge  myself  (o  pay  ^^r.  J.  J.  PIuiuiuct  the  suiu  of 
fi/iy  fiiufuij  IT  he  will  prove  that  there  is  «nr  truihful  ■tnlcment  ia  hit  letter  to 
you  touching  the  cur\'alurc  of  the  bed  of  the  canal. 

The  form  of  the  challenge  strikes  inc  as  somewhat  strange,  seeing 
that  Mr.  Plummer  said  nothing  ^bonl  the  "curv-iture  of  the  bed  of 
the  canal,"  but  declared  the  bed  to  be  straight  and  the  surface  of 
the  water  curved,  I,  however,  forwarded  a  copy  of  Mr-  Hampden's 
note  to  Mr.  Plummer,  who,  in  the  following  letter,  replies  al  once 
to  that  and  to  my  observations  of  last  month  : — 

Orwell  Dene,  Nactun,  Ijxwich,  Norembcr  5tli,  187G. 
Dear  Sir, — In  leply  to  yixiT  queries  in  the  (ientitman's  ifagoziitf,  I  mav  remark 
that  a  practical  ninrryor  u-ould  loon:  rcEvdily  anul  auttunita.Uvcl'j  T<Mit««  ^cmic 
*k>ul>ta  regarding  the  metliyd*  whereby  &  pctitKVt^  %Ui\\tJiV\»eA  nswAft-Nntx 


a  mul  than  I.    Xcccs«aiil>-.  ir  th<-  plan  adopted  had  bKtt  lo  level  froni  poifti  (» 
potet  along  it»  txnme,  l»c  nrnsl  tnvciuibly  h«vc  "  followed  ihc  earth's  mrstsic," 
bat  my  cnfTCspondcnl  imfUicil  that  there  is  a  siotplci  if  Icm  accuiUc  BKtbod  oT 
furvrying  in  lur,  which  aerm  vcif  vrdl  ia  onhnar}'  Citkcs.  where  only  short  &»- 
lancet  are  passed  orcr,  nor  couM  I  be  at  a  lox>  lo  know  what  ihu  raethod  M<iM 
be.     Let  u*  assume  that  two  staws  are  erected  at  either  cikI  of  the  canal,  thai 
upper  cxliemilies  beinj;  at  a  conveniently  assumed  height  aboTc  the  level  of  ihc 
watet  w  the  canal  bottom.    Then  placing  3  level  at  one  end  of  the  proptwd 
canal  and  adjusting  it  vpon  the  other  siafT.  any  iiiunbet  of  pobiit  may  be  tct  off 
on  pcrpcndkulot  ndk  erected  at  stuublc  diilanc«t  between  the  endi,  aUof  whuU 
will  (ditresartUac  the  slight  effect  of  atmospheric  tcfmction)  be  uimu  the  ume 
plane.    It  would  be  iaraaicrial  how  tortuous  the  couxvc  uf  the  cuuil.   If  he  Uicn 
shiAcd  the  level  lo  the  other  end  and,  repeating  the  operation,  arrived  at  the 
&ame  ityuem  of  points,  he  would  be  satisfied  of  the  correctness  of  his  wok.  Tlie 
eicavaiion.i  wouhl  then  be  c^trticd  on  to  a  depth  bel^'W  the  fidadal  potou  equal 
to  the  assumed  dislances  at  the  cnd.v 

I  have  further  received  your  note  of  Ihc  ^Ih  ia%t.  containing  cxjpy  of  Mr. 
Hampden'^  chal1enj[c,  of  which  I  hftd  already  faeonl,  diiectly  from  himwIL  He 
mako  me  the  further  offer  of  a  wnger  for  ^f  too  that  I  cannot  show  a  ct>rw«  of  fa«r 
tncho  in  twenty  milc^  u]M)a  the  Bcdfanl  Canal  in  NorfoUc  I  n)u«t  coofevtheK 
uffeni  are  exceedingly  tempting;  it  U  seldom  one  has  the  chaitce  of  to  eas^ 
pocketing  «)conEidcniMe  a  sum.  Unfortunately  there  i»  oiw  point  thai  malKs 
iTie  hesitate.  I  have  hitDpIy  expressed  a  contrary  belief  lo  lh.it  to  well  known  as 
bciuc  cDtcrlataetl  by  Mr.  Hampden,  and  he  at  once  puUlely  charges  me  with 
presumption,  insanity,  and  falsehood,  as  well  as  «itK  a  ddibetate  attenpt  to 
impose  upon  the  credulity  of  the  public  and  of  "  Cockney  Edicon."  CovM  I 
nithfltand  the  brunt  of  his  terrible  wrath  if  I  were  to  become  the  rnrtanate  po*' 
sessoi  of  hiSjf  tgo  ?  You  are  at  liberty  to  make  whatex-cr  use  yon  please  of  this 
commuoicMxHi.— I  am,  dear  sir,  yonrs  very  truly,  JoHK  J.  Pll'uhek. 

I  wish  Mr.  Plummcr's  explanation  of  the  method  by  which  the  beJ 
of  the  cannl  in  question  was  cut  level  from  end  to  end  throngh  a 
distance  of  two  miles  had  given  the  actual  plan  adopted  instead  of 
an  Ibyputhetical  ont^  I  cannot  doubt,  however,  that  it  is  quite 
practicable  to  make  a  straight  canal  bed  two  miles  in  length  near 
the  surrace  of  the  earth,  in  spite  of  the  globtilar  formation  of  our 
planet.  I  confess  I  am  not  surprised  that  Mr.  Plummcr  should 
hesitate  to  accept  the  challenge  thrown  down,  since  Mr.  Hampden 
does  not  conduct  this  controversy  with  the  courtesy  or  tolerance 
necessary  to  the  pleasant  piusuit  of  the  investigation.  I  have  a 
second  letter  from  him,  in  which  he  tells  me  he  cannot  imagine 
how  t  failed  to  perceive  the  "  outrageous  absurdit)*  and  palpable 
faisehood  of  every  statement"  in  Mr.  I'lummer^s  first  tetter:  and  he 
calls  upon  me  lo  expose  the  "insult  u|>on  the  credulity"  of  my 
readers.  "  Have  vov\  tv»\\^  ^et  to  leam,"  he  asks,  "that  these 
so-called  a5iTonomci»attv^fcVv^^c&\.Ssa^»3A«w*»Mk,**«.^aMi«S  \fcft 


TaUe  Taik,  765 


carlb  r"     Id  the  end  he  pats  bis  name  to  the  following  general 
•challenge  :— 

I  axa  prcpareU  lo  pay  Uk  «nin  of  tea  cvJoeat  per  nule  ob  xof  tea  nula  of  land 
or  water  where  the  ptnnibei]  cittTatBte  can  le  practicilly  cxhibilcd.  la  the 
jmscncc  of  honest  and  LaieQiKait  i 


I 


I 

I 


V 


Another  correspondent  criticises  Mr.  Plnmiocr's  canal  theorem 
from  a  totally  different  point  of  view : — 

10  SVLTAXUS  DIKUI.  GEXTLCUA?!. 

;}.  I^tadwibaU  Street,  London.  Nov.  ijtK  l8;6. 
Sir, — Apropos  of  *■  TaMc  Talk  "  t  a  yota^  issoe  of  ihia  mooth  on  the  subject  of 
Mr.  John  Hampden's  theoiy  of  iIk  earth'*  (orta,  1  with  liambljr  to  atpiess  my 
^nrprisc  that  Wi.  Plonuner,  in  his  Iclter  to  jvn,  ^oold  designate  the  bed  or 
boltam  of  the  excavation  of  which  he  ipcaks  as  being  '■  rigoroiMK  lerel." 

If  the  cnntractoT,  aAcr  Ualdng  otit  his  two  miles  of  gtoond,  had  iwt  in  Um 
middle  xa  upright  pole,  and  from  that  point  had  made  the  bed  of  his  canal  to 
proceed  lowank  each  end  in  a  line  that  kbould  be  at  a  right  angle  to  the  per* 
pendicolar  pole,  he  would  then  h^ve  juit  mch  a  c^ial  as  Mr.  Plummet  •le>arjb«^ 
and  ntflicient  water  being  let  in,  the  depth  of  water  at  each  end  woold  ofcovM 
1w  about  etKhi  inches  sballonvi  than  at  tbe  nuddle,  as  marked  by  the  pole. 

But  bow  can  iiiich  a  line  li  that  of  the  suiaccor  this  bed  be  termed  "  level"? 
A  buildcT'i  iiptrit-lcvcl  qiplied  as  a  test  would  indicate  me  level  at  no  one  point 
of  the  cutting  except  that  where  the  pole  stood.  It  woald,  in  (act,  be  from  the 
centre  up  to  each  end  an  incline  at  a  gradicDi  of  eight  inches  per  mile. 

Mr.  I'lummcf  told  the  contnKtor  he  should  not  have  executed  hi«  survey  upoa 
the  amiiiptLon  of  a  dead  level — I  thhtk  it  was  the  cootnurtor's  mufbrlunc  that 
that  was  just  what  he  fulcd  to  do. 

The  commonly  accepted  theoiy — ^hdd  even,  as  [  gather  from  &[r.  Plonuner'* 
letter,  by  so  learned  a  mathematician  as  that  gcnllcmaa  muil  be,  he  being  a 
Prolcaaor  of  Axtrunomy— that  a  ktraighi  line  drawn  at  a  right  angle  to  a  pct< 
pendicnlar  line  t>  leetl  must  Mucly  be  cnoncous ;  al  leant,  and  1  itAte  it  with 
some  tliffidrnce,  «iich  is  tny  clear  convicliun. 

I  c&nnot  help  ihinldng  that  throughout  the  whole  of  the  "  gossip  *■  on  this 
•mbjccl  thc^e  has  ran  one  cardinal  error— that  b.  the  ignoring  the  fact  that  the 
line  of  the  earth's  rotundity  is  the  only  line  on  earth  that  ttjlat,  assuming  it  to 
be  conceded  that  the  lenn  fiat  aignifie:t,  as  dctincd  by  mo4t  lexicographer^  a 
stole  of  levclncss. 

In  all  mundane  things  the  terms  ^d/  and  round  have  a  widely  diflcrcnt  mean- 
ing, but  u  applied  lo  a  Imc  representing  a  segment  of  a  circle  the  diameter  of 
which  Lh  8,000  miles  the  terms  should  be  hdd  as  hcing  synonymous,  in.-i:anach 
as  that  line  (such  as  exints  on  the  surface  of  the  ocean]  tndicalcs  nol  only  the 
corvature  of  tbe  earth's  rotundity,  but  alio  Ihe  only  tine  that  is  truly  flat  and 
Iml.  Conscqi)eniIy  1  ihink  we  may  safely  say  (l  bclic^-c  it  to  be  tncouirtnci- 
tible)  that  the  earth  iiwy  a*  properly  be  termed  yfn/  as  rouml. 

\i  Mr.  Hampden  would  only  admit  that  the  earth  is  round,  I,  fur  one.  would 
not  be  at   issue  with  him,   at   least   not  on  the  score  of  its  flatness.— Vrry 
tfbDy, 

SJutuKL  T.  KonmsoK. 


A 


ng5  The  Genilemat^s  Afa^zinc. 

Mt.  Robinson  u  cnAraCcy  a  huDOvisl  in  i^ilologr.  I  da  bm 
nniigiDe  tbit  be  is  scnoos  wben  be  professes  to  have  detected  the 
canfiDit  tnor  wUch  has  mn  tbroogh  this  gossip  on  the  shape  oT 
oar  ntawL  It  Bar  be  a  conv«mcnl  habit  of  e^gincm  to  me  the 
f^T^pg  **flat**  and  *'lcv«l"  to  sig:nifr  surfaces  and  lines  vhJch  aie 
as  cmj  point  equidistant  from  the  centre  of  gravitf;  but  in 
nrdtnarv  tangnage  a  Urrd  Knc  b  understood  to  be  the  same  thins 
as  a  stnugiit  line  in  geocaetij,  and  Sat  is  sjmonymoas  vith  a  plane 
sarface  according  to*£iicItd's  delinitions.  Now  a  straight  line  in 
gecinettT  does  not  corrwpond  with  the  line  of  the  cunraiurcof 
the  globe ;  neither  does  ^adid's  plane  sarface  lie  parall&l  vtth  the 
oral  bee  of  the  ocean.  Here,  however,  arises  the  cnrioos  qnestiai 
whether  we  fc4knr  EacUd  or  the  eanh's  airvatorc  in  our  ordloanr 
mechanka)  opeiatioBS.  Is  a  biifiard-Uble  a  plane  as  defined  hj 
Endtd.  or  \s  it  what  Mr.  Robinson  calls  "kvel,"  corresponAag 
with  the  globntor  face  of  the  phmet  ?  If  the  hilliard-table  worca 
ban]  and  highlf-polishcd  face,  and  were  made  an  alisolute  maihc- 
raatical  plane  sarface,  I  suppose  the  btlliard-bali  wotdd  le^i 
nowberr  except  in  the  centre  of  the  table,  that  point  being  nearer 
than  anr  other  to  the  centre  of  gravitj'. 

A  PHiLOsornKK,  sitting  apart  and  watching  the  doings  of  hi* 
fellow  man,  complains  that  the  world  continoes  to  be  raledand  in 
a  manntr  swared  to  and  fro  by  the  most  absolute  folly.  The 
grealest  erents  arise,  he  avers,  oat  of  the  most  utter  nonsense. 
"  What  is  it,"  he  asks,  "  that  is  giving  so  much  trouble  to  half  a 
dozen  of  the  principal  nations  of  the  earth  at  the  present  momeu^ 
It  is  a  qnestion  of  the  60\Tn;igntjr  of  a  race  of  people  whom  vr 
call  Turks.  Now  Turkish  rule  in  Europe,  if  it  has  a  meaning. 
signi5cs  that  a  person  named  Mahomet,  who  lived  about  thirteen 
hundred  years  ago,  was  commissioned  by  Heaven  to  make  known  a 
system  of  theology,  and  to  establish  a  rule  of  life  formankiiMl  based 
upon  that  theologi'.  But  Mahomet  ne\-er  bad  any  st>ch  commit* 
sion.  His  Khoran  wa?;  not  dictated  by  the  angel  Gabriel.  He  had 
no  more  actual  knowledge  about  Faiadise,  or  imtnortalitr,  or  of  the 
will  of  God  as  to  the  condoct  of  men,  than  the  meanest  of  the 
milltOBS  of  people  who  have  accepted  his  doctrine  or  the  most 
unintelligent  of  the  myria/ls  who  by  the  accident  of  birth  or  place 
has  not  been  one  of  his  followers.  This  statemeiit  of  fact  scmads 
very  trite,  auU  because  it  is  trite  we  forget  bow  miKh  it  has  to  do 
with  the  great  nuiUtn  wUicb  occupy  so  much  of  the  workTs 
attcntioik.    Wlicai  we  come  to  itftwA.  M,v«aw  ^^  ^«&:^iio.  ■*. 


■WOCBQCkV         i 


I 


I 


remarkable  tlunj;;  that  miiUons  fif  sensible  people  of  various  nations 
in  these  days  shoalJ  be  on  the  point  of  actual  warfare  simply 
because  the  fact  has  no:  yut  hcea  recognised  that  the  man 
Mahomet  said  and  wrolo  a  good  many  things  without  having  any 
warrant  whatever  for  his  words,  if  anybody  disputes  my  position, 
and  attempts  to  tr2cc  the  present  troubles  in  Europe  to  tnarc 
rational  causes,  I  ask  What  would  become  of  the  Eastern  question 
if  every  man  and  woman  now  living'  in  Euru})e  were  Lo-day  to 
open  their  eyes  to  the  fact  that  Mahomet  knew  none  of  the  things 
that  be  professed  to  know,  and  lliat  tiiere  nvver  wm  any  decent 
show  of  reason  for  putting  faith  in  Mahomet's  professions  y  I  will 
not  attempt  to  measure  logic  with  ray  friend  the  philosopher.  If 
hia  view  of  Lhc  situation  docs  not  embrace  all  that  is  to  be  said 
on  this  carious  topic,  there  is  somctliing  in  what  be  sa}'S  that  is 
calculated  to  lake  some  of  the  pride  out  of  us  as  a  portion  of  the 
brotherhood  of  so-called  intelligcDt  beings. 


I 


I 


We  onght  not  to  have  been  told,  as  the  result  of  the  latest  Arctic 
expedition,  that  to  reach  the  North  Pole  is  "impracticable."  That 
word,  unfortunately,  appeared  in  the  first  telegrams  which  an- 
nounced the  return  of  the  vessels  and  summarised  into  a  sentence 
or  two  the  results  of  the  voyage.  The  explorers  did  all  that  it 
■n-as  possible  for  them  :o  do,  and  could  noL  penetrate  beyond  ;i 
certain  point.  It  was  a  raost  interesting  and  important  explora- 
tion, and  the  men  deserve  nnbriundccl  credit.  But  it  does  not 
follo-w  that  we  shall  never  reach  the  Pole.  It  is  purely  a  question 
of  means  and  contrivanc-cs.  The  great  service  of  the  expedition 
is  the  knowledge  it  has  given  us  of  the  fact  that,  until  some  new 
expedient  ha-S  been  thought  of  and  perfected,  any  further  attempt 
would  be  a  waste  of  noble  energj-  and  endurance.  We  shall, 
however,  know  all  about  the  Pole  some  day;  and  perhaps  there  Is 
a  proccHS  of  arithmetic,  conceivable  though  not  practicable,  whicli 
would  tell  us  the  date  on  which  tlic  flag  of  civilised  adventure 
viU  be  planted  there.  For  if  Mr.  fiucklc  is  right,  and  tho 
human  mind  works  by  forces  and  processes  potentially  though 
not  actually,  in  the  present  state  of  things,  mea-surablc,  there 
must  be  figures  somewhere  which  would  show  how,  when,  and 
by  whom  the  [yoinl  of  earth  farthest  distant  from  the  equator  will 
be  reached. 

Tujf  old  question  of  the  abstract  merits  and  demerits  of  war  as  an 
agency  in  human  affairs  lias  been  rvaturally  revived  by  Mr.  Bright  at 


yV^S 


The  GmthmaiC  s  Magazine. 


^ 


Uiis  crisiE,  and  the  eloquent  Radical  statesman  has  been  called  once 
more  to  account  in  many  quarters  for  the  heterodoxy  ofhis  point  of 
view.  I  -will  let  that  question  rest  where  it  i$.  It  is  a  good 
subject  to  speculate  upon  if  the  speculation  could  be  carried  on 
upon  its  merits,  apart  from  party  predilections ;  and  there  is  this 
advantage  in  '*  table  talk,"  that  It  often  offers  a  better  op]>ortunily 
for  considering  a  point  of  controversy  apart  from  allegiance  to  any 
section  of  thinkers  than  any  other  field  of  discussion.  I  will  not 
attempt  to  lead  the  conversation,  but  I  will  ofTcr  a  little  item  or 
two  of  material.  Some  considerable  time  agf)  an  arithmetic laa 
made  a  careful  estimate  of  the  number  of  persons  who  hare 
probably  been  killed  in  battle  since  the  beginning  of  history,  and 
his  sum  total  ran  up  to  6,860,000,000.  If  he  was  anywhere  near 
the  m.irk  the  figure  has  probably  by  this  lime  run  up  to  seven 
thousand  millions.  That  is  equal  to  full  seven  times  the  present 
population  of  the  f-artli.  The  in-riod  which  this  estimate  covers  is 
not  much  more  than  four  thousand  years,  which  gives  a  slaughter 
of  more  than  tiftcen  hundred  millions  to  each  thousand  years. 
Now,  as  the  present  population  of  our  planet  is  put  down  at  one 
thousand  millions  it  would  follow  that,  speaking  roughly,  it 
takes  about  six  hundred  years  to  sweep  ofT  the  face  of  the  earth  by 
battle  a  number  of  persons  equal  to  the  entire  population  at  any 
g-ivcn  time;  and  in  every  lumdred  years  one-sixth  of  the  liuinan 
race  is  destroyed  in  fight.  These  facts  form  points  of  interest  in 
the  problem  which  Mr.  Bright  attempts  to  solve  by  contending 
that  as  a  general  rule  these  many  battles  have  not  conferred 
any  material  and  lasting  advantages  cither  on  the  sur\'ivors  or 
their  posterity. 


052      ^ 
C35Z 

n 


DATE  DUE 


STANFORD  UNIVERSITY   LIBRARIE 
STANFORD.  CAUFORNIA 


94505