The Gentleman's magazine

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PEE Fon

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THE
| Gentleman's Magazine
| VoLtumE CCXL.

NS, 18

FANUARY ro F¥UNE 1877

E Piurisus UNuM

¥ondon
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1877

1
| | Edited by SYLVANUS URBAN, Gentleman

AM rights res.reed

166400

CONTENTS OF VOL. CCXL,

Whens under King Otho, By WaLrER THoRNaURY . .

- Washi-Bazouks on the Drina Frontier of Bosnia. By Joun 8
STUART-GLENMIE, MA, '

‘Bismarck’s Literary Faculty. By Fravcws Hureree One)

Boar's Head Dinner at Oxford, The, and a Germanic Sun-God.
By Kari. Burp. : .

Caleurta in the Olden Time, fiy Jantes Herow .

‘Chevalier D'Eon, The, and Peter the Great's Will. Le 0c. ‘Dab ,

Climate of Great Britian, The, "by Lord DE Mavis

Colley Cibber 2. Shakespeare, By H. Barton BaKer

Coming Close Approach of Mars, A. By Ricwarp A. PROCTOR

Cromwell, Oliver, at Hampton Court. By JoHN B. MARsit .

‘Deep-Sea Exploration. By ANDREW WiLson, Ph.D.

Evy Utalian Novels. By JawesMew .

Bagcambes of Edgcumbe and Cothele, The. By E. Watronp, M.A.

Fatis and Fictions of Zoology, Some. By ANDREW WILSON, Ph.D.

Fresh Fields and Pastures New. By B. Mon7comexin, RANKING

Garck-Club Pictures, The. By Puncy Frrzcexarp

Sand Turk at Home, The. By Georce Avcustus SALA :
ea (are _ Dats

Tay Sepuce, The, By W. Hxpworrn Dixo
Masks. By E, LYNN Liston Fi
Manerhorn without Guides, The. By re MUR Ct
‘Miss Misanthrope. By Justix MeCaxtiy ;
Chap, 1. Miss Misanthrope
ni, The Eve of Liberty
a. The Man with a Grievance
a¥. “Oh, much-desired prize, swe
ve 3
vi. Isthis Alceste? .
vit. On the Bridge
vii. A“ Helper of Unhappy Men r
#% In Society

vi Contents,

Miss Misanthrope. By JUSTIN M*CARTHY—condimued,
Chap. x. “The Poet ina golden agewasborn®™ . -
x1, The Gay Science ina New Illustration , . .
Xu. “Love, the Messengerof Death” . 2. .
x, AManoftheTime . 4. 2) a).
xiv. A Midnight Confidence. . , 5 we
xv. AMoming Confidence , . . .
Xvi Chastelard » 1? ire
xvi. “Under Bonnybell’s wWindow-panes’” = tke
xvini, “Counsel Bewrayed” ¢
Nine Greek Lyric Poets, The. By MoReToN } WALROUSE 4
Ocean Log, My, from Newcastle to Brisbane. By REDSPINNER
Personal Adventures in War Time. By VALENTINE BAKER
Recovery of Palestine. Dy W. HerwortH Dixox :
Chap. Galilee 3s. + os ee

.

Aone uwuweww F

vu, Cana in Galilee . . .
Representative Man of Last Century, A. By 1. Baxtow BAKER |
Romeo and Juliet, The True Story of. By G, ERIC MACKAY. «

Royal Academy, The, ByJ.COMYNSCARR . « «© 4 « 6
Royal Trio of the Last Century, A. Ry H, BARTON BAKER... 4
Sailing of the Swallow, The, By Atozrnon C, SWINBURNE « 2
Schnapper Excursion, A. By RED-SPINNER. .. «4 4 1
Seneca’s (Edipus. By W.H. Mattock, « . 2 4 « 6
Siren-Song. By Josep KNIGHT... aus Wiha

Slave Hunt in Borneo, A. By FREDERICK Bove. oe ed
Sleep on: a Dirge. By JouN H. Davigs,BA; . » 5 « §
Some Savage Myths and Beliefs, By JA. FARRER . 5 4 @
Some Savage Proverbs. ByJ.A, FARRER . . «= + « @
Strange Sea-Creatures. By RICHARD A. PROCTOR . ‘ |

Table-Talk. By SyivANUS URwan, Gentleman :

‘The Arctic Expedition—Mr, Carlyle and Mr, Swinburne in the
political arena—Mr. Alfred Austin’s indictment of Russia—
The designs for the Byron monument—Dramatic vealism—
Fires in theatres—Red-Spinner’s new home in Queensland.

‘The National Gallery—Novel renson for the study of magazines
—The Famine in India—Marriage presents—Dr. Sehliemann’s
excavations at Mycen—The “ Bab Ballads " prevision—The
Sea Serpent. Late, vel ‘

‘About v, Buloe—#" Condensed Classics”"—Freedom from bigotry —
A journey round the world—Hidden treasure—Auber's monti=
ment ; examples of his humour—Sir Arthur Guinness’s epigram
—Hygeiopolis—Lady Helps here and in America ss 3

Contents. vii

Table-Talk. By SYLVANUS URBAN, Gentleman—continued.
Contemporary dramatic literature—Keen enjoyment of Art—Study
of Shakespeare at the Antipodes—Woolner’s statue of Captain
Cook—Gentlemen Helps and their dangers—Turk or Osmanli?
—The humourless North—Artistic swindling and burglary—

The Telephone—Professor Barf’s discovery—Fires in theatres 507
Old St. Pancras Cemetery—Linguistic errors—The protection
of wild birds—O’Leary and Weston—The Countess of Essex—
Dr. Schliemann and his discoveries—John Lee, the Mormon

Bishop—Synchronising clocks—Fires in America. 635
‘The Geography of the War—Etymology of “Chouse”—A loco-
motive club-house—The progress of population—Modern
modesty—Alexander Petéfi—The Tabard Inn—Election “by
the committee”—Kitty Stephens—Making one’s mark—Tor-

pedoes—A strangedream. . . . . «756
‘Teegraphy, On some Marvels in. By RICHARD A. PROCTOR . 718
Three Roses, The. ByEDWINARNOLD . . «0. «205

ILLUSTRATIONS TO “MISS MISANTHROPE?”

By Artuur Hopkins.

Mota GREY. ww wwe Frontispiece
“We DON’T CARE ABOUT NATURE—OUR SCHOOL,” to face page 156
“THAT IS WHAT COMES OF BEING POPULAR ANDASUCCESS” ,, 284.
A PERFORMANCE BEFORE THREE PEOPLE bh ” 398
“THERE, THAT 1S PERFECTLY BEAUTIFUL”... 527

THE “Opious RACE OF THE UNAPPRECIATED”. —. *- 641

THE
GENTLEMAN’S MAGAZINE.

January 1877.

MISS MISANTHROPE.

BY JUSTIN MCCARTHY.

Cuarter I.
MISS MISANTHROPE.

‘HE little town of Dukes-Keeton, in one of the more northern

of the midland counties, had in its older days two great claims
‘oconsideration. One was a park, the other a sweetmeat. The noble
fanily whose name had passed through many generations of residence
atthe place had always left their great park so freely open to every
owe that it came to be like the common property of the public; and
the town had grown into fame by the manufacture of the sweet~
teat which bore its name almost everywhere in the track of the
meteor-flag of England. But as time went on various other places
took to manufacturing the sweetmeat so much better, and selling
itso much more successfully than “‘ Keeton,” as the town was com-
wonly called, could do, that “Keeton” itself had long since
ttired from the business, and was content to import the delicacy
which still bore its own name in consignments of canisters from
Manchester or London. During many years the heir of the noble
family had deserted the park, and had never come near it or
near England even, and everything that gave the town a distinct
reason for existence seemed to be passing rapidly into tradition.
Ithad lain out of the track of the railway system for a tong time,

Vor. 3 for 1877.

and when the railway system at length enclosed it in its arms the
attention seemed to have come too late, All the heat of life
appeared to have chilled out of Dukes-Keeton in the meantime,
and it lay now between two railways almost as inanimate and
hopeless a lump as the child to whom the Erl-king’s touch is fatal
in hie father’s arms.

‘The park, with its huge palace-like, barrack-like house, not 4
castle and too great to be called merely a hall, lics almost im-
mediately outside the town. From streets and shops the visitor
passes straightway through the gates of the great enclosure.
Every stranger who has scen the house is taken at once to see
another object of interest. In the centre of the park was a
broad, clear space, made by the felling and removing of every
tree, until it spread there sharp and hard as a burnt-out
patch in a forest. Gravel and small shells made the pavement
of this space, and thus formed a new contrast with the turf, the
gmsses, and the underwood of the park all around, In the
midst of this open space there rose a large circular building: a
tower, low in height when the bulk enclosed by its circumference
was considered, and standing on a great square platform of solid
masonry with steps on each of its sides. The tower itself reminded
one of the tomb of Cecilia Metella, or some other of the tombs
that still stand near Rome. It was in fact the mausoleum which it
had pleased the father of the present owner to have erected for
himself during his lifetime. He lavished money on it, cared
nothing for the cost of materials and Jabour, planned it out
himself, watched every detail, and stood by the workmen ag they
toiled. Within he had prepared a lordly reception-room for his
dead body when he should come to die, A superb sarcophagus
of porphyry, fit to have received the remains of a Cwesar, was there.
When the work was done and all was ready the lonely owner
visited it every day, unlocked its massive gate, and went in, and
sat sometimes for hours in his own mausoleum. He was growing
insane, people thought, in these later days, and they counted on
his soon becoming an actual madman. So far, however, ho
showed no greater madness than in wasting his money on &
huge tomb, and wasting so much of his time In visiting it prema-
turely. The tomb proved a vanity in a double sense. For the
noble owner was seized with a sudden mania for travel, and
resolved to go round the world. Somewhere in mid-ocean he
was attacked by fever, or what alarmed people called the plague,

and he died, and his body had to be committed without much

4 The Gentleman's Magazine.

thrown back in disregard of passing fashions. Perhaps it was
hor attitude, as she leaned her chin upon her hand and looked up —
at the mausoleum—perhaps it was the presence of that gloomy
building itself—that made her face seem like an illustration of
melancholy. Certainly her face was pale and a little wanting in
fullness, and the lips were of the sort that one can always think of
aé tremulous with emotion of some kind. This was a beautiful
summer evening, and all the park around was green, sunny, and
glad. The little dry bare spot on which the tomb was built seemed
like a grey and withering leaf on 4 bright branch. And the
Ggure of the girl was more in keeping with the melancholy shadow
of the mausoleum than the joyousness of the sun and the trees and
the whole scene all around.

Indeed there was a good deal of melancholy in the girl’s mind
at that moment, She was taking leave of the place: she had come
to say it a farewell. ‘That park had been her playground, her studio,
her stage, her world of fancy and romance and poetry since her
infancy. She had driven her brother as a horse there, and had
played with him at hunting lions, Sho had studied landscape
drawing there from the days when a half staggery stroke with some
blotches out of it was supposed to represent a tree, and a thing
shaped like the trade mark on Mr. Bass's beer hottles stood for &
mountain. As she grew up she came there to read and to idle
and te think, There she revelled in all the boundless fancies and
extravagant ambitions of a clever, half-poetic child. There she
was in turn the heroine of every book that delighted her, and the
heroine of stories which had never been put into print. Heroes of
surpassing beauty, strength, courage, and devotion had rambled
under these trees for years with her, nor had the new comers
presence ever been made a cause of jealousy or complaint by the
one whom his coming displaced. ‘They were a strange procession
of all complexions and garbs. Achilles the golden-haired had
been with her in his day, and so had the melancholy Master of
Ravenswood: and the young Djalma, the lover of Adrienne, of the
“ Juif Errant,” forgotten of English girls to-day; and Nello, the
proud gondolier lad with the sweet voice who was loved by the
mother and the daughter of the Aldinis; and the unnamed youtl
who went mad for Maud; and Henry Esmond, and Stunning War-
rington, and Jane Eyre’s Rochester, and ever so many else. Each
and all of these in turn Joved her and was passionately loved by
her, and all had done great things for her; and for each she had
done far greater things. She had made them victorious, crowned

6 The Gentleman's Magazine.

and with whom she could not get on. It would take a very sweet
and resigned nature to make one who had had these experiences
absolutely in love with the human race, and especially with men ;
and Alceste accordingly became more dear than ever to Miss.

Now she was about to leave the place and to open of her own
accord a new chapter of life. She had to cxcape at once from
the dislike of some and the still less endurable liking of others. She
was determined to go, and yet as she looked around ypon the place,
and all its dear sweet memories filled her, it is no wonder if she
envied the calmness of the face that symbolised eternal rest, At
last she broke down and covered her face with her hands and gave
herself up to tears.

Her quick ears, however, heard sounds which she knew were
not those of the rustling woods. She started to her feet and dried
her eyes hastily. Straight before her now there lay the long broad
path through the trees which led up to the gate of the mausoleum,
The air was so exquisitely pure and still that the footfall of a person
approaching could be distinctly heard by the girl although the
new-comcr was yet far away, She could see him, however, and recog-
nise him, and she had no doubt that he had seen her. A thought
of escape at first occurred to her; but she gave it up in a moment,
for she knew that the person approaching had come to seck her,
and must have scen her before she saw him, So she sat down
again defiantly and waited. She did not look his way, although he
raised his hat to her more than once,

As he comes near we can see that he is a handsome, rather stiff
looking man, ‘with full formal dark whiskers, clearly cut face,
and white teeth. His hat is very shiny. He wears a black frock
coat buttoned across the chest, and dark trousers and dainty little
boots and grey gloves, and has a diamond pin in his neck He
is Mr. Augustus Sheppard, a very considerable person indeed in the
town. Dukes-Keeton, it should be said, has three classes or
estates. The noble owners of the park and the guests whom they
used to bring to visit them in their hospitable days made one estate,
‘The upper class of the town made another estate ; and the working
people and the poor generally made the third. These three classes
(there were at present only two of them represented in Keeton) were
divided by barriers which it never occurred to any imagination to
think of getting over. Mr. Augustus Sheppard was a leading man
among the townspeople. His father was a solicitor and land-agent

of old standing, and Mr. Augustas followed his tather's profession,

«Miss Misanthrope. ‘ 7
aud now did by far the greater part of its work. He was a mem-
ter of the Church of England of course, but he made it part of
bis duty to be on the best terms with the Dissenters, for Keeton
was growing to be very strong in Dissent of late years. Mr.
Asgustes Sheppard had done a great deal for the mental and other
tmprovement of the town. It was he who got up the Mutual

= ‘Society, and made himself responsible forthe rent of
the hall in which the winter course of lectures, organised by him,
tied to take place; and he always gave a lecture himself every
Wason, and he took the chair very often and introduced other
tecturers. He always worked most cordially with the Reverend
‘Mr, Saulsbury in trying to restrict the number of public-houxes, and
fio wns one of the few persons whom Mrs. Saulsbury cordially
admired. He had a word of formal kindness for every one, and
was never heard to sty an ill-natured thing of any one behind his or
Ber Sack. He was vaguely believed to be ambitious of worldly
eaten, but only in a proper and becoming way, and far-secing
people Esoked forward to finding him one day in the House of
Commons.

‘As he came near the mausolcum he raised his hatogain, and then
the girl acknowledged his salute and stood up.

"Avery lovely evening, Miss Grey.”

"Yes," said Miss Grey, and no more,

“T bave been at your house, Miss Grey, and saw your people ;
and I/heard that possibly you were in the park. I thought perhaps
fee would have been at home. When [ saw you last night you
‘eemed to believe that you would be at home all the day.” This
fas said in 2 gentle tone of implied reproach.

© You spoke then of walking in the park, Mr. Sheppard.”

“And I have kept my word, you sce,” Mr. Sheppard said, not

the implied reason for her change of purpose.

= Yes, 1 see it now,” she answered, as one who should say “1
did pot count upon it then,”

Of all men else, Minola Grey would have avoided him. She
Ehew only too well what he had come for. She would perhaps have
Gisliked him for that in any case, but she certainly disliked him on
Bis own account. His formal and heavy manners impressed her
Gimgrecably, and she liked to say things that puzzled and startled
im. Tt was a pleasure to her to throw some paradox or odd
Sing at him and watch hisawkward attempts to catch it, and then
While he was just on the point of getting at some idea of it to
Uewiider Bim with some new enigma. To her he seemed to be

‘<a

8 _ The Gentleman's Magazine.

what he was not, simply a sham, a heary piece of hypocrisy.
Formalism and ostentatious piety she recognised as part of the
asiness of a Nonconformist minister, in whom they were excusable,
as his grave garb would be, but they seemed insufferably out of
place when adopted by a layman and a man of the world who was
still young.

“1am glad to have found you at last," Mr. Sheppard said, with
a grave smile.

You might have found me at first,” Minola said, quoting from
Artemus Ward, ‘if you had come a little sooner, Mr. Sheppard. T
have only lately escaped here.”

“1 wish I had known, and I would have come a great deal
sooner. May I take the liberty of sitting beside you ?”

“Tam going to stand, Mr. Sheppard. But that need not prevent
you from sitting.”

‘1 should not think of sitting unless you do, Shall we walk a
fittle among the trees? This is a gloomy spot for a young
Jady.”

‘«] prefer to stand here for a little, Mr. Sheppard, but don’t let
me keep you from enjoying a walk.”

“Enjoying a walk?” he said, with a grave smile and solemn
emphasis. ‘Enjoying a walk, Miss Grey—, and without
you?”

She deliberately avoided meeting the glance with which he was
endeavouring to give additional meaning to this polite speech. She
knew that he had come to make love to her; and though she was
longing to have the whole thing done with, as it must be settled
one way or the other, she detested and dreaded the ordeal, and
would have put it off if she could. So she did not give any sign
of having understood or even heard his words, and the opportunity
for going on with his purpose, which he had hoped to extract, was.
lost for the moment. In truth, Mr. Sheppard was afraid of this
girl, and she knew it, and liked him none the more for it.

“T have been studying something with great interest, Mr, Shep=
pard,” she began, as if determined to cut him off from his chance
for the present. “I have made a discovery.”

“Indeed, Miss Grey? Yes—I saw that you were in deep con-
templation as I came along, and I wondered within myself what
could have been the subject of your thoughts,”

She coloured a little and looked suddenly at him, asking herself
whether he could have seen her tears. His face, however, gave

vo explanation, and she felt assured that he had not seen them.

10 The Gentleman's Magazine.

‘All the professions of men are not affectations, Miss Grey!
Oh no: far from it indeed. There are some feelings in our
breasts which are only too real |"

She saw that the declaration was coming now and must be
confronted.

“1 have long wished for an opportunity of revealing to you
some of my feelings, Miss Grey, and I hope the chance has now
arrived. May I speak ?”

“I can’t prevent you from speil

“You will hear me?"

He was in such fear of her and go awkward about the terms of
his declaration of love that he kept clutching at every little straw
that seemed to give him something to hold on to fora moment's
rest and respite.

“1 had better hear you, I suppose,” she said, with an air of
profound depression, “if you will go on, Mr. Sheppard, Bat if
you would please me, you would stop where you are and say no
more.”

“You know what I am going to say, Miss Grey—yon must have
known it this long time, I have asked your natural guardians and
advisers, and they encourage me to speak, Oh, Miss Grey—t love
you—may I hope that I may look forward to the happiness of one
day making you my wife ?”

It was all out now and she was glad. The rest would be easy.
He looked even then so prosaic and formal that she did not
believe in any of his professed emotions, and she was therefore
herself unmoved.

“No, Mr. Sheppard,” she said, looking calmly at him, straight
in the face. “Such a day will never come. Nothing that l have
seen in life makes me. particularly anxious to be married; and: 1
could not marry you.”

He had expected evasion, but not bluntness. He knew well
enough that the girl did not Jove him, but he had believed that he
could persuade her to marry him. Now her point-blank refusal
completely staggered him;

“Why not, Miss Grey

“Because, Mr. Sheppard, I really much prefer not to marry
you.”

“There is not any one else?” he asked, his face for the first
time showing emotion and anger.

‘The faint light of a melancholy smile crossed Minola’s face.
Ho grew more angry,

g, Mr. Sheppard.”

was all he could say at first,

42 The Gentleman's Magazine.

much afraid of a rival like that, Miss Groy—if he is my only
rival.”

“TI don't know why you talk of a rival,” the young woman
answered, with a scornful glance at him; “but J can assure you
he would be the most dangerous rival a living man could have.
When J find a man like him, Mr, Sheppard, T hope he will ask me
to marry him; indeed, when I find such a man I'll ask him to
marry mé—and if he be the man 1 take him for he'll refuse me.
I have told you all the truth now, Mr. Sheppard, and I hope you
will think I need not say any more.

“Still I'm not quite without hope that something may be done,”
Mr, Sheppard said. ‘* How if I were to study your hero's ways
and try to be like him, Miss Grey 2”

A great brown heavy velvety bee at the moment came booming
ailong, his ponderous flight almost level with the ground and not
far above it. He sailed in and out among the trees and branches,
now burying himself for a few seconds in some hollow part of a
trunk and then plodding through air again.

Do you think it would be of any use, Mr. Sheppard,” she
calmly asked, “if that honest bee were to study the ways of the
eagle?

“ You are not complimentary, Miss Grey,” he said, reddening.

“No: 1don't believe in compliments: I very much prefer truth.”

“Still there are ways of conveying the truth—and of course I
never professed to be anything very great and heroic"

He was decidedly hurt now.

“Mr. Sheppard,” she said, in a softer and more appealing tone,
“I don’t want to quarrel with you or with anybody, and please
don't drive me on to make myself out any worse than Tam. T
don’t care about you, and 1 never could. We never could get
on together, 1 don't care for any man—I don't like men atall. I
wouldn't marry you if you were an emperor. But I don't say
anything against you; at least 1 wouldn't if you would only let
me alone, I am very unhappy sometimes—almost always now;
but at least I mean to make no one unhappy but myself:

“That's what comes of books and poetry and solitary walks
and nonsense! Why can’t you listen to the advice of those who
Jove you 2”

She turned upon him angrily again.

“Well, I am not speaking of myself now, but of your—your
people, who only desire your good, Mr. Saulesbury, Mrs, Sauls-
bury" —

13
d, E shall not take their advice : and

detestable, you will not talk 10

yen if Thad beca inclined to care for you,

Mr. Sheppard, you took a wrong way when you came in their

same and talked of their authority, Next time you ask a girl to
‘marry you, Mr. Sheppard, do it in your own name.”

Reitenpicaget artis kind of nogative hope that seemed to
be belt ont to him.

Tf that’s an objection,” he began, “I assure you that I came
quite of my own motion, and Iam the last man in the world to
endeavour to bring any unfair means to bear. Of course it is not
wif they were your own parents, and I can quite understand haw
ayeung lady must feel "——

“Idon't know much of how young ladies feel," Minola said
quietly, “ but I know how I fecl, Mr. Sheppard, and you know it
top. Take my last word. I'll never marry you. You only waste
Jor time, and perhaps the time of somebody else as well—some
feed girl, Mr. Sheppard, who would be glad to marry you and
‘shim you will be quite ready to make love to the day after to-
morrow,"

Her beart was hardened against him now, for she thought him
en and craven and unmanly. Perhaps according to her

etc, of his love, and in any case no image was more
Sfious to ker than that of a man pressing a gi

Mood on the steps of that great (as tomb.
the more singular and even the n
‘ight easily have been described in

Steeped was that he was carefull
Set bare thought, at the first
| She only impressed
‘especially emotional

4 The Gentleman's Magazine.

looked at the two the deeper the contrast seemed to become.
Both, for example, had rather thin lips; but his were rigid, procise,
and seeming to part with a certain deliberation and even difficulty.
Hers appeared, cven when she was silent, to be tremulous with
expression. Aftera while it would have seemed to an observer, if
any observing eye were there, that no power on earth could have
brought these two into companionship, ’

“T won't take this as your final answer,” he said, after one or
two unsuccessful efforts to speak, “ You will consider this again,
and give it some serious reflection.”

She only shook her head, and once more seated herself on the
steps of the monument as if to suggest that now the interview was
over,

“You are not walking homeward ?” he asked,

“am staying here for awhile.”

He bade her good morning and walked slowly away. A rejected
lover looks to great disadvantage when he has to walk away. He
ought to leap on the back of a horse, and spur him fiercely and.
gallop off; or the curtain ought to fall and so finish up with him,
Otherwise, even the most hervie figure has something of the lagk
of one sneaking off like a dog told imperatively to “go home.”
‘Mr, Sheppard felt very uncomfortable at the thought that he probably
did not seem dignified in the eyes of Miss Grey. He once glanced
back uneasily, but perhaps it was hardly a relief to find that she
was not looking in his direction.

Carter I.
THE EVE OF LIBERTY,

Miss Grey remained in the park until the sun had gone down,
and the stars, with their faint light, seemed as she moved homeward
to be like bright sparkles, entangled among the higher branches
of the trees. She had a great deal to think of, and she troubled
herself little about the mental depression of her rejected lover.
All the purpose of her life was now summed up in a resolve to
get away from Keeton and to bury herself in London,

She knew that any opposition to her proposal on the part of
those who were still supposed to be her guardians would only
be founded on an objection to it as something unwomanly,
venturous, and revolutionary, and not by any means the result of
jef for her going away, Ever since her mother’s death and

any

knowing. As we all know Venice before we have seen it,
when we get there can recognise everything we want to
without need of guide to name it for us, so Minola Grey
London. It is no wonder now that her mind was in a perturbed
condition. She was going to leave the place in which so far all
her life, literally, had been passed. She was going to live in that
other place which had for years been her dream, her study, her
self-appointed destiny. She was going to pass away for ever from
uncongenial and odious companionship, and to live a life of “a |
proud, lonely independence.
‘The loneliness, however, was not to be literal and absolute. |
all romantic adventures there is companionship. The knight has
his squire, Rosalind has her Celia. Minola Grey was to have her
companion in her great enterprise, It had not occurred to her
to think about the inconvenience or oddness of a girl living
absolutely alone in London, but without any forethought am
her part the kindly destinies had provided her with a comrade.
Having lingered long in the park and turned back again and
again for another view of some favourite spot, having gathered
many a leaf and flower for remembrance, and having looked up
many times with throbbing heart at the white trembling stars that
would shine upon her soon in London, Miss Grey at last made wp
her mind and passed resolutely out at the great gate and went to
seck this companion. She was glad to leave the park now in any
case, for in the fine evenings of summer and autumn it was the
custom of Keeton people to make it their promenade. All the
engaged couples of the place would soon be seen there under the
trees, When a lad and lass were seen to walk boldly and openly
together of evenings in that park, and to pass and ~epass their
neighbours without effort at avoiding such encounters, it was as
well known that they were engaged as though the fact had been
proclaimed by the town-crier. A jury of Keeton folk would haye
assumed a promise of marriage and proceeded to award damages
for ita breach if it were proved that a young man had walked
openly for any three evenings in the park with a girl whom he
afterwards declined to make his wife. Minola did not care to
meet any of the joyous couples or their friends, and even already
the twitter of voices and the ttter of feminine laughter were
beginning to make themselves heard among the darkling paths
and across the broad green lanes of the park.

From the gates of the park one passed, as has been said already,

18 The Gentlentaen's Magazine.

passed its front entrance, then turning down a narrow strect of
which the building itself formed one side, she came to a little
r) pen door, went in, ran lightly up a flight of stone steps, and found —
‘herself'in dun and dimly lighted corridors of stone.

‘A ray or two of the evening light still flickered through the small
windows of the roof. But for this all would seemingly have been
dark. Minola’s footfall echoed through the passages. The place |
appeared ghostly and sad, and the presence of youth, grace, and
energetic womanhood was strangely out of keeping with all around.
“The whole expression and manner of Miss Grey brightened,
however, a3 she passed along these gaunt and echoing corridors.
In the sunlight of the park there seemed something melancholy in
the face of the girl which was not in accord with her years, her
figure, and her deep soft eyes. Now in this dismal old passage of
damp resounding stone she seemed so joyous that her passing
along might have been that of another Pippa. The place was not
very unlike a prison, and an observer might have been pleased to
think that, as the light step of the girl passed the door of each cell
and the flutter of her garments was faintly heard, some little gleam _
of hope, some gentle memory, some breath of forgotten woods
and fields, some softening inspiration of human love, waa borne |
in to every imprisoned heart. But this was no prison: only the |
‘Court House where prisoners were tried; and its rooms, occupied in
the day by judges, lawyers, policemen, public, suitors, and culprits, |
were now locked, empty, and silent.

Minola went on, siiging to herself as she went, her song growing
louder and bolder until at last it thrilled finely up to the stone roofs
‘of the grim hallsand corridors, For Minola was of that temperament
to which resolve of any kind soon brings the excitement of high
and she sang now out of sheer courage and purpose.
ntly she stopped at a low, dark, oaken door which looked
as If it might admit to some dingy lumber-room or eloset; and
this door opened instantly and she was in presence of a pretty
and cheerful little picture. The side of the building where the
room was set looked upon the broadest and clearest space in the
town, and through the open window could be seen distinctly the
glassy grey of the quiet river and even the trees of the park,
‘dark mass beneath the pale samme: Although the room was
lit only by the twilight, in which the latest lingering reflection of
‘the sunset still lived, it looked bright to the girl who had come
from the heavy dusk and gloom of the corridors with their roof-
windows and their rows of grim doors. “A room ought to look

20 The Gentleman's Magazine.

When Minola Grey was a little girl her mother was one of Miss —
Mary Blanchet’s chicfest patronesses. It was in great measure by
the influence of Minola’s father that Miss Blanchet obtained her —
place in the Court House, Little Minola thought her a great
poctess and a remarkably beautiful woman, and accepted some~
how the impression that she had a romantic and mysterious love-
history. It was a rare delight for her to be taken to spend an
evening with Miss Blanchet, to drink tea in her pretty and well>
kept little room, to walk with her through the stone passages of
the Court House, and hear her repeat her poems. As Minola grew
up she outgrew the poems, but the alfection survived; and after her
mother’s death she found no congenial or sympathetic friend any=
where in Keeton but Mary Blanchet. The relationship between
the two curiously changed. The tall girl of twenty became the
leader, the heroine, the queen; and Mary Blanchet, sensible little
woman enough in many ways, would have turned African explorer
or joined in a rebellion of women against men if Miss Grey had
given her the word of command.

“J know your mind is made up, dear, now that you have
come,” Miss Blanchet said when the first rapture of greeting: was
over,

Minola took off her hat and threw it on the little sofa with the
air of one who feels thoroughly at home. It may be remarked as
characteristic of this young woman that in going towards the sofa
she had to pass the chimnoy-piece with its mirror, and that she did
not even cast a glance at her own image in the glass.

“Mary,” she asked gravely, “am I a man and a brother that
you expect me to change my mind? You are not repenting,
hope 2”

“Oh no, my dear. I have all the advantages, you know. Tam
80 tired of this place and the work—dear me !”

“And I hate to see you at such work, You might almost as well
bea servant. Years ago I made up my mind to take you out of this
wretched place as soon as I should be of age and my own
mistress,”

“Well, I have sent in my resignation, and I am free. But Iam
alittle afraid about you. You have been used to every luxury—
and the carriage—and all that.”

“One of my ambitions is to drive in a hansom cab. Another
is to have alatch-key. Both will soon be gratified. I am only
sorry for one thing,”

“What is that, dear ?”

22 The Gentleman's Magazine.

‘The allusion was lost on Miss Blanchet.

“Mr. Saulsbury is a stem man indeed,” she said, “but very
goed; that we must admit.”

“All good men, it seems, are hard, and all soft men are
bad.”

“What of Mr. Augustus Sheppard?” Miss Blanchet asked gently.
+ How will he take your going away?”

“ Chave not asked him, Mary. But I can tell you if you eare to
know. He will take it with perfect composure. He has about as
much capacity for foolish affection as your hearthbroom there.”

“T think you are mistaken, Minola—I do indeed. I think that
man is really "——

“Well, Is really what?"

* You won't be angry if I say it?”

Minola seemed as if she were going to be angry, but she looked

into the little poctess's kindly wistful eyes, and broke into

laugh.

“T couldn't be angry with you, Mary, if I had ten times my
capacity for anger—and that would be a goodly quantity! Well,
what is Mr. Sheppard really—as you were going to say?”

“Really in love with you, dear.”

“ You kind and believing little poetess—full of faith in: simple
trne-love and all the rest of it! Mr. Sheppard likes what he con-
siders a respectable connection in Keeton. Failing in one chance
he will find another, and there is an end of that.”

“IT don't think so,” Miss Blanchet said, gravely. ‘Well, we
shall see.”

“We shall not sce Aim any more. We shall live a glorious,
lonely, independent life. I shall study humanity from some lofty
garret window among the stars. London shall be my bark and my
bride, as the old songs about the Rovers used to say. All the weake
nesses of humanity shall reveal themselves to me in the people
next door to us and over the way. I'll study in the British Museum |
Tl spend hours in the National Gallery! I'll lie under the trees
in Epping Forest! I sink PU go to the gallery of a theatre!
Liberti, liberté chérie !"" And Miss Grey proceeded to chant from the
“ Marselllaise ” with splendid energy as she walked up and down
the room with clasped hands of mock-heroic passion.

* You said something about a man and a brother just now, dear,”
Miss Blanchet gently interposed. ‘*I have something to tell you
about a man anda brother. AG: brother is back again in
London,"

23
n In the tone of one who

ie ‘Miss Grey did not like
Bapatiwss cantly wt obs ould bows

ekeaitn ee and as steady a3 can be, and
‘to make a great name in London. Oh, you may trust to him
‘this time, you may indeed.
‘Miss Grey's handsome and only too expressive features showed
| dissatisfaction.

| coulda’t help telling him that we were going to live in
endon—ane's brother, yos know.”

“Yes, one's brother,” Miss Grey said, with sarcastic emphasis.
“They are an affectionate race, these brothers! Then he knows
‘ali about our expedition? Has he been here, Mary 2"

po, dear; but he wrote to me—such beautiful lotters!
om wonld Like to read them 7"
was silent, and was evidently fighting some battle with
herself. At last she said—

“Well, Mary dear, it can’t be helped, and I dare say he won't

trible to come very often to see ws. But 1 hope he will come as

‘ghten as you like, for you might be terribly lonely. I don't care to
Show anybody. 1 mean to study human nature, not to know

you have some friends in London, and you are going to

‘Oh—Lucy Money; yes. She was at school with me, and we
‘Wed to be fond of cach other. I think of calling to see her, but
be changed ever so much, and perhaps we shan’t get on
atall. Her father has become a sort of
I believe—I don’t know how. They
ome
"

‘mithout ambition, without aie 2
aura old maid had ber head al

3 to be found in London, of a distinguis!
it Greer, publishers secking for every!

24 The Gentleman's Magasine.

her name often in the papers. Devoted as she was to Miss Grey,
or perhaps because she was so devoted to her, she had already
been forming vague but delightful hopes about the reformed
brother which she would not now for all the world have ventured
to hint to her friend.,

Cuapter UI.
TNE MAN WITH A GRIEVANCE.

Lage that same night a young man stepped from a window in
one of the rooms on the third floor of the Hotel du Lonvre in
Paris, and stood in the balcony. It was a balcony in that side of
the hotel which looks on the Rue de Rivoli. The young man
smoked a cigar and leaned over the balcony.

It was a soft moonlight night. The hour was late and
the strects were nearly silent. The latest omnibus had gone
its way, and only now and then a rare and lingering soifare
clicked and clattered along, to disappear round the comer of
the place in front of the Palais Royal. The tong line of gas
lamps looking a faint yellow beneath the hotel and the Louvre
Palace across the way seemed to deepen and deepen into redder
sparks the farther the eye followed them to thé right as they
stretched on to the Place de la Concorde and the Champs Elysées.
To the left the young man leaning from the balcony could sce the
Tower of St. Jacques standing darkly out against the faint pale blue
of the moonlighted sky. The street was a line of silver or snow in
the moonlight.

‘The young man was tall, thin, dark, and handsome. He was
un: kably English, although he had an excitable and nervous
way about him which did not savour of British coolness and com-
posure. He seemed a person not to take anything easily. Even
the moonlight and the solitude and the indescribably soothing and?
philosophic influence of the contemplation of a silent city from
the serene heights of a balcony did not prevail to take him out of
himself into the upper ether of mental repose. He pulled his long:
Mmoustaches now and then until they met like a kind of strap
beneath his chin, and again he twisted their ends up as if he desired
to appear fierce as a champion duellist of the Bonapartist group.
He sometimes took his cigar from his lips and held it between his
fingers until it went out, and when he put it into his mouth again
he took several long puffs before he quite realised the fact that he
was puffing at what one might term dry stubble, Then he pulled

rf. 25
‘his cigar in an irritated way, a5 if
the Fates were bearing down upon
c and that he was entitled to complain at fast.

. Sir,” said a strong full British voice that sounded

looking round, saw that his next doorneighbour
hotel had likewise opened his window and stepped out on his
‘two had met before, or at least seen each other
before once or twice, The young man had scen the elder witl
‘somo ladies at breakfast in the hotel, and that evening he and his
had taken coffee side by side on the boulevards and
and exchanged a few words.

~The elder man's strong, rather undersized, figure showed very
dearly in the moonlight. He had thick, almost shaggy, hair, of an
fekefinable dark brownish colour—hair that was not curly, that was
‘ot simight, that did not stand up, and yet could evidently never be
‘ept down. He had a rough complesioned face, with heavy
stubbly British whiskers. His hands were large and
reddish-brown and coarse, He was dressed carclessly—that is, his
‘hotles were evidently garments that had cost money, but he did
{fo care how he wore them. Any garment must fall
“shapelessness and give up trying to fit well on that
‘aheeding figure. The Briton did not sccm exactly what one
‘World at once assume to be a gentleman. Yet he was not vulgar,
il be was evidently quite at his ease with himself. He looked
‘mobo like a man who had moncy or power of some kind, and
ho did not care whether people knew it or did not know it. Our
‘Jeinger Briton had at the first glance taken him for the ordinary
English father of a family, travelling with his womankind. But he
‘$d abt seen him for two minutes at the breakfast table before he
‘lserved that the supposed heavy father was never in a fuss, had a
Yay of having all his orders obeyed without trouble or misunder-
Sinding, and, for all his strong British accent, talked French

‘with entire ease and a sort of resolute grammatical accuracy.
Slaying in Paris?” the elder man said—he too was smoking—

When the younger had replicd to his salutation.

“No; T am going home—I mean [ am going to England—

|

Aye, aye? Dalmost wish I were too. I'm taking my wife and
thughtors for 2 holiday. 1 don't much care for holidays myself. 1

Sit time for enjoyment of such things when I could enjoy them,
andl of course when you get out of the way of enjoying yours

al

26 The Gentleman's Magazine.

you never get into it again ; it's a sort of groove, I suppose. Any—
how, we don’t ever enjoy much, our people. You are English, I
”

“Yes, Lam English.”

“Wish you weren't ? I sce,”

Indeed the tone in which the young man answered the queaiion
seemed to warrant this interpretation.

“Excuse me; I didn't say that,” the young man said, a little
sharply.

“No, no; L only thought you meant it. We are not bound, you
know, to keep rattling up the Role Britannia always among.
ourselves.”

“I can assure you I am not at all inclined to rattle the Rale
Britannia 100 loudly,” the young man said, tossing the end of his
cigar away and looking determinedly into the street with his hands
dug deeply into his pockets.

The elder man smoked for a few seconds in silence, and looked
up and down the long straight line of street.

“Qdd,” he said abruptly. “I always think of Balzac when I
look into the streets of Paris, and when I give myself time to
think. Balzac sums up Paris for me.”

“Yes,” said the younger man, talking for the first time with an
appearance of genuine interest in the conversation; “ but things
must be greatly changed since that time even in Paris, you know.”

“Changed? Not a bit of it. The outsides of course, The
Louvre over there was half a ruin the other day, and now it's
getting all right again. ‘That's change, if you like to call it so.
But the heart of things is just the same. Balzac stands for Paris,
believe you me.”

“T don't believe a word of it—not a word! 1 mean—excuse me
—that I don’t agree with you.”

“Yos, yes: I understand what you mean. I'm not offended.
Well?”

““Well—I don’t believe a bit that men and women ever were
like that. You mean to tell me that people were made without
hearts in Paris or anywhere else? Do you believe in a place
peopled by cads and sneaks and curs—and the women half again
as bad as the men?"

‘The young man grew warm and the elder drew him out, and
they discussed Balzac as they stood in the balcony and looked
down on silent moonlighted Paris. The elder man smoked and
smiled and shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly. The

re and animation as if his life

Seidiat Jast: “T like to hear you talk,
to me atill, Going to be in London some’

meemeees Tentinc'tone of sudden depression and dis-

content,
TI wish we might: mect some time. I live in London, and I
co aka ireaiaa see me when we get back fram our—

eres mseed half away and leaned on the balcony
‘as if be were looking very earnestly for something in the direction
ofthe Champs Elysées. Then he faced his companion suddenly

*Dahink you had much better not bave anything to do with
‘me; Tshoukl only prove a bore to you, or to anybody."
“How is that?”

“Well—in short I'm a man with a grievance.”
? What's your grievance? Whom has it to do

he young man looked up quickly as if he did not quite under-
ed the: brusque ways of his new acquaintance, who put his
‘qeetions so di Bat the new acquaintance seemed good-
Aitseired and quite at his case, and cvidently had not the least
‘Wa of being rude or over-inquisitive. He bad only the way of
‘Me apparently used to ordering peop! at.

My gricvance has to do with the Government,” the young man

‘Gu with a grave politeness, almost like self-assertion,

“Government here: in France ?”

“No, no: our own Government.”

“Aye, aye? What have they been doing

“No: nothing of that kind—I wish 1 had—but how
heow 2”

“How did I know what?” th

“That T hada't invented anything. 4

“Why, I knew it by looking at you ow thine I shoul
‘sow an inventor? You might as
fas een inthe army. Well, about

28 The Gentleman's Magazine.

him, ‘Then his manner suddenly changed and he spoke in a tone
of something like irritation, as if he had better have the whole
thing out at once and be done with it— My name is Heron—
Victor Heron.”

“ Heron—Heron ?" said the other, turning over the name in
his memory. “Well, I don’t know I’m sure—f may have heard
it-one hears all sorts of names, But 1 don’t remember just at
the moment.”

Mr, Heron scemed a little surprised that his revelation had
produced no effect. He had made up his mind somehow that
his new friend was mixed up with politics and public affairs.

“You'll remember Victor Heron of the St. Xavier's Settle
ments ?” he said decisively.

“ Heron of the St. Xavier's Settlements? Ah, yes, yes. To be
sure. Yes, I begin to remember now. Of course, of course.
You're the fellow who got us into the row with the Portuguese or
the Dutch, or who was it? About the slave trade, or something ?
T remember it in the House.”

“Tam the fool,” Mr. Heron went on volubly—‘ the blockhead,
the idiot, that thought England had principles, and honour, and
a policy, and all the rest of it! I haven't lived in England very
much, I'm the son of a colonist—the Herons are an old colonial
family—and you can't think, you people always in England, how
romantic and enthusiastic we get about England, we silly colonists,
with our old-fashioned ways. When I got that confounded ap-
pointment—it was given in return for some old services of my
lather's—L believe I thought I was going to be another sort of
Raleigh, or something of the kind.”

“Just so; and of course you were ready to tumble into any sort
of scrape. You were called over the coals—snubbed for your
pains?"

“Yes—I was snubbed.”

‘Of course: they'll soon work the enthusiasm out of you. But
's a couple of years ago—and you weren't recalled 7"

“No. I wasn't recallec

“Well, what's your gricvance then 2”

““Why—don’t you see?—my time is out—and they've dropped
me down. My whole career is closed—I'm quietly thrown over—
and I'm only twenty-nine!” The young man caught at his mous-
tache with nervous hands and kicked with one foot against the
rails of the balcony. He gazed into the street, and his eyes
sparkled and twinkled as if there were tears in them. Perhaps

th;

a was evidently a young man of quicker
m generally show in our days. He made

fellows never know the blessing of sleep. I can
joa whomever T want to—it's a great thing. 1 make ita rule
though to do all my sleeping at night, whenever I can, You
Jexve Paris in the morning? Now that’s 2 thing I don't like to
do, Paris should never be seen early in the morning. London
shows to the best advantage early ; but Paris—no!”

"Why not?” Mr. Heron asked, stimulated to a little curiosity.

Paris isa beauty, you know, a little on the wane, and wanting
tobe elaborately made up and curled and powdered and painted,
weiall that. She's a little of a slattern underneath the surface,
yee keow, and doesn’t bear to be taken unawares—musto’t be seen
fer atleast an hour or two aficr she has got out of bed. All the
‘trone like Balzac’s women.”

‘Fethaps the elder man had observed Mr. Heron's sensitiveness
‘ire closely and clearly than Heron fancied, and was talking on
talp to give him time to recover his compogure. Certainly he
lilked much more volubly and continuously than appeared at first
Whekis way. Aftera while he said, in his usual style of blunt

"Any of your people living in London ?"

“Nomina fact I haven't any people in England—few relations
tv Ie anywhere.”

“Like Melchisedek, ch ? Well, I don’t know that he was the
Bet to be pitied of men. You have friends h

Waall on, people who remember one’s name
fitecr, But I don’t know that I shall
miss acquaintanceships in the way of
“Why so? What are you going to Londor
“To get a hearing, of course.
Tem. ‘To show that I was in th
of England demanded.

t caring twopence about ed ae

go The Gentleman's Magazine,

Besides, who bas accused you? Who has found fault with you?
‘Your time is out, and there’s an end.”

“But they have dropped me down—they think to crash me.”

“If they do it will be by severely letting you alone: and what
can you do against that? You can't quarrel with a man merely
because he ceases to invite you to dinner: and that’s about the
way of it.”

“T'll fight this out for all that.”

“You'll soon get tired of it. It’s beating the air, you know.
Of course, if you want to annoy the Government you could easily
get some of us to take up your case—no difficulty about that—and
make you the hero of a grievance and a debate, and so on.”

“*T want nothing of the kind! I don’t want any one to trouble
himself about me, and I don’t care to be taken in hand by anyone.
If Englishmen will not listen to a plain statement of right, why
then—— But I know they will.”

The conviction itself was expressed in the tone of one who
by its very assertion protests against a rising doubt and tries to
atifle it,

“Very good,” said the other. “Tryiton. We shall soon see. L
have a sort of interest in the matter, for T had a grievance myself,
and I have still, only I went about things in a different way—
looking for redress, I mean.”

“What did you do?”

“It's a longish story, and quite a different line fram yours, and
it would bore you to hear, even if you understood it. I got into
the House and made myself a nuisance. I put money in my
purse; it came in somehow. 1 watch the department that I once
belonged to with the eye of a lynx. Well, I shall look out for
you and give you a hand if I can, always supposing it would annoy
the Gavernment—any Government—I don't care what.”

Mr, Heron looked at him with wonder and incredulity.

Terrible lack of principle, you think? Not a bit of it; 'm a
strong. politician: 1 stick to my side through thick and thin. But
in their management of departments, you know—contracts, and all
that—Governments are all the same; the natural enemies of man.
Well, L hope to see you. Iam going to have a sleep. Let me
give you my address—though in any case 1 think we are certain to
meet.”

They parted with blunt expression of friendly inclination on the
‘one side and a doubtful, half-reluctant acknowledgment on. the

other. Heron remained standing in his balcony looking at the

Segal the silent streets and thinking of his

| ‘The nearer he came to England the colder his hopes scomed to
grow. Now upon the threshold of the country he had so longed
to reach he was inclined to linger and loiter and to put off his
‘@trince. Everything that was so easy and clear a few thousand
miles off began to show itsclf perplexed and difficult. “When
ihall Dbe there?” he used to atk himself on his homeward journey.
“What bave I come for 2” he began to ask himself now.
Times trad indeed changed very suddenly with Victor Heron,
‘He had come into the active world perhaps rather prematurely.
‘When very young, under the guidance of an energetic and able
‘Ether who had been an administrator of some distinction in
le hei aia rama he had made himself
in one of the colonies; and when an
Sea occurred, afier his father's death, of offering him a
‘sonsiderable position, the Government appointed him to the
Mainistration of anew settlement. It is hardly necessary for us
to go any deeper into the story of his grievance than he has
Wecaly gone himself in a few words. Except as an illustration of
Michameter we have not much to do with the story of his career
‘an administrator. It was a very small business altogether;
‘gare! in a far-off, lately appropriated, an
Gicant scrap of England's dominions.

‘ate of what he considered justice.
‘Soy Kindly with him in consideration
father's:

tes, He could have stood up
Frichment, any manner of ex:
‘bare heart to bear it. Barto b

‘wad importance in his own sph:
Nim. He diffuses even a sort o!

‘We an ordinary passenger to I
Gee" at the Hotel du Louvre

32 The Gentleman's Magazine. ~

getting out at the Charing Cross Station and calling = hansom,
nobody caring whence he has come or capable, even after elaborate
reminder, of calling to memory his story, his grievance, or his
identity—this is something to try the soul of a patient man.
Mr. Heron was not patient.

He was a young Quixote out of time and place. He never could
Ictanything alone. He could not see a grievance without trying to
set it right. The impression that anybody was being wronged or
cheated affected and tormented him as keenly as a discordant note
or an inharmonious arrangement of colours might disturb persons
of loftier artistic soul. In the colonies queer old ideas survive long
after they have died out of England, and the traveller from the
parent country often comes on someancientabstraction there as he
might upon some old-fashioned garment. Heron started into life
with a full faith in the living reality of divers abstractions which we
in England have long since dissected, analysed, and thrown away.
He believed in and spoke of Progress and Humanity and brother+
hood and such like vaguenesses as if they were real things to work
for and love, People who regard abstractions as realities are just
the very persons to turn solid and commonplace realities into
shining and splendid abstractions. Young Heron regarded England
not as an island with a bad climate where some millions of
florid men made money or worked for it, but as a sort of divine
influence inspiring youth to noble deeds and patriotic devotion.
He was of course the very man to get into a muddle when he had
anything to do with the administration of a new settlement. If the
muddle had not lain in his way he would assuredly have
found it.

He had so much to do now on his further way home in helping
elderly ladies on that side who could not speak French, and on this
side who could not speak English: in seeing that persons whom he
had never set eyes on before were not neglected at buffets, left
behind by trains, or overcharged by waiters: in giving and asking
information about everything, that he had not much time to think
about the St. Xavier's Settlements and his personal grievance.
When the suburbs of London came in sight with their trim rows of
stucco-fronted villas and cottages and their front gardens ornamented
with the inevitable evergreens, a thrill of enthusiasm came up in
Heron's breast, and he became feverish with anxiety to be in the
heart of the great capital once again. Now he began to see
familiar spires and domes and towers, and then again huge un-
familiar roofs and buildings that were not there when he was in

Miss Misanthrope. 33

London last, and that puzzled him with their presence. Then the
train crossed the river, and he had glimpses of the Thames and
Westminster Palace and the Embankment with its bright garden-
patches and its little trees, and he wondered at the ungenial
creatures who see in London nothing but ugliness. To him every-
thing looked smiling, beautiful, alive with hope and good
omen.

Certainly a railway station, an arrival, a hurried transaction,
however slight and formal, with a Customs officer, are a damper on
enthusiasm of any kind. Heron began to feel dispirited. London
looked hard and prosaic. His grievance began to show signs of
breaking out again amid the hustling, the crowd, the luggage, and
the exertion, as an old wound might under exactly similar circum-
stances if one in his haste and eagerness were to strain its hardly
closed edges.

It was when he was ina hansom driving to his hotel that Heron,
putting his hand in his waistcoat pocket, drew out a crumpled card
which he had thrust in there hastily and forgotten. The card bore
the name of

“Mr. Crowper E. Money,
Victoria Street,
Westminster.”

Heron remembered his friend of Paris. ‘An odd name,” hc
thought; “I have heard it before somewhere. I like him! He
seems a manly sort of fellow.”

Then he found himself wondering what Mr. Money's daughters
were like, and wishing he had observed them more closely in
Paris, and asking whether it was possible that girls could be pretty
and interesting with such an odd name.

(To be continued.)

Vou. 1 for 1877. D

34

PERSONAL ADVENTURES IN
WAR TIME,

ifs was on a dull evening of the 22nd of August, 1870, when with |

an amount of luggage which looked absurdly small for a
continental trip I drew up at the Charing Cross Station and asked
for a ticket by the mail train to Paris,

How different was the scene from that remembered in other
days! There wasno difficulty about registoring luggage; it seemed
an actual relief to the porters to have luggage to register; and
when I arrived at Dover and went on board the boat there was but
one other first class passenger.

The war was at its height. The first brilliant dream of a French
advance to Berlin had met with a rude check. Worth and
Speicheren had been followed by Mars la Tour and Gravelotte.
One hundred and fifty thousand men, the flower of the French
army, lay surrounded about Metz. MacMahon's defeated force
‘was rcorganising at Chalons. Douay’s corps and the divisions
of De Failly's corps not engaged at Worth were in good order.
‘Trochu’s corps, which was about to embark for the purpose of
creating a diversion in North Germany, had been hastily recalled,
and thus a respectable force of fresh troops was rapidly concen-
trating on the plains of Attila

But the future looked black indeed. Prince Frederic Charles
and Steinmetz’s army blocked Bazaine in Metz. The Crown Prince
‘of Saxony was moving on Verdun with the Guards’ 4th and a2th
corps, whilst the Crown Prince's army, fresh from its victory at
Wérth, was marching by Nancy and Bar le Duc, and its advanced
posts had already reached Vitry. Such was the military status.

But the political horizon looked blacker still for France. The
Emperor Napoleon, no longer an emperor except in name, was
wandering about without a kingdom to govern or an army to com=
mand, whilst at Paris the st of military and political advisers
counselled the brave-hearted Empress, who still stood boldly at
her post, And there, with the enemy at the gate, when every
feeling but patriotism should have been hushed, the spirit of revo~
lution hung gloomily over the capital and paralysed all practical
and useful action,

in War Time, 35

amd French armies well, and had many
Thad fought side by side with the latter in
‘a soldier that decided my sympathies,

‘Chalons was a5 familiar to me as Aldershot, and connected
whl very pleasant memories. Often had I “‘assisted” at those
oo Sethe it was 80 fondly hoped would pare the way to

‘Yietories. Thad spent many happy days at the Quartier
Géeéral with the brave and kind-hearted Marshal who was now
res ¢ that scattered army, and only the year before had
‘ited the camp when under the command of General Bourbaki.
Both France and Prussia had refused the presence of foreign
cers, but the temptation at last became too strong. I felt sure
hat if I could but get to Marshal MacMahon he would at least let
mehave one glance at passing events, and, having got leave of
— the end of the month, 1 was now on my way to
‘How dismal everything Iooked when we landed at Calais! The
Weng, marrow, and generally trowded and bustling refreshment
fom wns utterly gloomy anil deserted as I and my one fellow
iaveller sat down alone with four waiters to attend upon us. But
fey told us it was very different with the boats going to Eng-
lind: every steamer was crowded and extra boats were running

‘Te Paris I found much tess known about the armies than was
‘stionly carrent in England: everybody seemed dazed by mis-
firtane, but utterly ignorant of passing events, 1 drove at once to
| GeSteasbourg Station and booked myself for Chalons. By mid-
diplwas rumbling through the streets of the quaint town, and
Geer more found myself at the ‘Cloche d'Or.” But even this
old inn, with its ancient balconies and old-fashioned
Biitier civil hostesses, was changed. I had expected to find the
Seal state of Hustle that attends the proximity of a large army,
Bet looked deserted.

The utter calm seemed unnatural, for although Mourmelon, the
Geay, lay sixteen miles away, Chalons was nearly always crowded,
Rete po one knew anything. Some said that MacMahon had
Sial to St. Ménéhould and was about to repeat the triumph of
Wy; some said that he was at Rheims: others that he was
tack on Paris. One thing was evident to me: the army was
$4 Mourmoton ; and after sifting evidence as much as possible I
decided on trying St. Mén¢hould.

‘There was some difficulty in setting a conveyance, but at length

Nai

D2

36 The Gentleman's Magusine.

alight covered phacton appeared with a cobby little roan horse
that did not look like rapid progress. My driver was a sharp,
intelligent man, who informed me that he belonged to the Mobiles,
that he had not yet been called up, but feared cach day the order
would come.

We got on to one of those great straight French chaussler which
led from Chulons to St, Ménéhould, aad, rather tired with my
joumey, I leaned back and was quickly in the land of dreams. I
had probably been about an hour thas peacefully engaged when
the sudden stopping of the carriage awoke me. We had drawn
up in front of a little white auberge which stood by itself on
the right of the road, and my first impression was that we had
stopped to bait the horse, but I soon saw that something unusual
had happened. Two men were talking cagerly to my driver and
pointing to the rear of the anderge.

On inquiring what was the matter my driver, in a most anxious
tone, exclaimed—

* Monsieur, nous sommes perdu; les Prussiens sont i

I laughed at his fears, but he pointed to the telegraph wire
which ran by the side of the road. It had been cut, and a
telegraph post had been pulled down. I still thought that this
might have been caused by some accident, but my driver was
positive.

“ Yes, yes, monsiour,” he said; “ they are here, just behind the
house. You shall see them if you will not believe.”

And there, sure enough, within four hundred yards of us, stood 2
party of about twenty German dragoons,

I immediately told the coachman to drive on. In afew moments
he said—

“Ils vont nous arréter, monsicur. Ils arrivent, ils arrivent.”

I told him to say we were going from Chalons to St. Ménéhould,
and to answer any questions that were asked, The hood of the
phaéton was up and I could not see what was happening, but in
another minute a voice cried

* Halte !”

An officer and two men rode up, and the following dialogue
passed with the driver :—

“ Where do you come from ?”

“Chalons."

“ Where are you going ?”

“St. Ménéhould.”

“ How far is it to Chalons 2”

; the regiments have gone.”
all asked in good French, and dircetly the

farther on we came to a village, “ Courtisols.”
all in a state of excitement, and it was evident
‘tat the Prussian party had passed. It appeared that they had
‘fees there about half an hour before and had stopped to get some
‘wine and something to eat.

| We drove on, and T immodliately saw that T was on the wrong
tick) MacMahon could not be at St. Ménéhould with German
‘Sigoons miles in his rear. 1 therefore determined to turn aff at
the read to Snipes, which branched to the left at a few miles
Sittnee, and thus to make my way to Mourmelon.

Twas well acquainted with the Suippes and Mourmelon road,
‘Wd knew that we should pass the Imperial quarters, where I had
‘eye with the Marshal for nearly a fortnight on a former visit ;
tates we drew near I was completely puzzled.

Thalldirections there were large fires burning, notcamp fires, but
‘Pidently important buildings being consumed. ‘The head-quarters
‘Were on fire from one end to the other, and the intendance stores
Ieyead the camp were burning fiercely and lighting up all the
antry round.

We pot a man was to be scen. What could it all mean ?
TMi sure no Prussians could have reached Mourmelon. Had
WeMabon fallen back upon Paris and bumt his camp? It was
hkntly the correct strategical movement under the circum-
Whe; but thon I must have seen some signs of the retreating
amy at Epernay, for he would scarcely have retreated with his
‘hte force by Soissons when two main roads and two lines of

h into the village of Mourmelon, and I drove
© Madame Marillier’s, where Thad so often stayed during short
Witothe camp. Mourmelon was not deserted; on the contary,
tas remarkably full, Madame Marillier had not a room to
4s tut would send out and try to get one if I was not parti-
Me 1 asked for information. “Where was the Marshal ?
‘was the army?’ Again no one knew, except that they
|in the direction of Rheims,

38 The Gentleman's Magazine.

“And these fires?” I said. “The head-quarters are on fire,
‘everything is burning.”

“Ab, ces misérables de trainards!" they replied; “they are
burning and pillaging everywhere.”

“Could I have a carriage at daybreak to take me to Rheims 2"
“ Yous," they thought so; and having sent ont, they at last secured
‘one. IT went down to see the driver myself, and arranged with
him to call me at four o'clock, and to be ready to start at half-
past four, Then I went to the place where I had been told I was
tosleep. No room was ready, but a woman who let me in im-
mediately proceeded to wake up two poor little children who were
to yield up their bed to me, This I would not allow, and with a
thankful and sleepy glance the little ones nestled back into their
bed and were soon asleep again. I rolled myself up in my rug in
the sitting-room, and with my saddle-bags’ as a pillow was soon as
happily unconscious as I should have been in the most comfortable
of feather beds,

I woke with a sort of idea that I had overslcpt myself, and,
striking my repeater, found it was already a quarter past four.
Then I had to arouse my driver, and it was five o'clock before we
left Mourmelon on our way to Rheims. We had to pass the stores
of the intendance. Many buildings had been burnt, but I saw by
daylight that the fires were not so general as they had appeared at
night. Along the road there was every sign of a demoralised army.
Men were lurking amongst the burning stores. Small parties of
two or three were loitering about the houses by the roadside with
their knapsacks so loaded with plundered things that they could
hardly carry them. And in this respect a French soldier differs
from almost every other. Directly the English soldier goes on a
campaign, unless strictly watched he will gradually get rid of
everything that he does not consider absolutely requisite, and
will lighten himself to the utmost. But when the bonds of
discipline are relaxed a Frenchman will load himself like a pack=
horse.

As we pushed on towards Rheims the signs of demoralisation
did not diminish. There were men of numberiess regiments,
Zouaves, Chasseurs, Linesmen, and Indigénes, wandering about
the country apparently with no fixed purpose. Many were drank
and singing by the roadside, Some were trying to drive over-
loaded carts that the poor animals could not move. In other
places upset waggons and dead horses half blocked the road.

On reaching Rheims 1 found the town full of troops, but could

in War Time. 39
‘army was not there, I went to

struck me, T got a feere and drove to the
nilvay station, and for an hour patiently watched the trains, All
tains laden with materials of war arrived from Paris and went on
towards Mézi@res. Sick men went back towards Paris. At last
Thad solved the military problem: MacMahon was advancing to
the relief of Metz.
‘ went back to the hotel, got my luggage, and
Saving by dint of a douccur enlisted in my cause one of the
nilway officials, he promised that I should get on to Mézidres in
atmin that would shortly arrive from Paris. After waiting for
marly two hours the train appeared with officers and men going
oh to Mé2idres or Rethel.
Wetad not gone more than ten miles from Rheims when we
xe upon troops on the march. Three roads ran parallel with
Gerailway, and on each road troops of all arms were moving to
Be font. It was aa pretty a military spectacle as could be
Gagined. For upwards of ten miles without interruption we passed
‘hem, and on arrival at Rethel a large camp was already formed.
Weis the main army on the march. But, alas! to a soldier's eye
| these were signs that gave rise to dire forebodings for the future:
| Sees difficult to describe, but which mark the difference between #
| fete rapidly recruited from the depéts and a highly-trained

‘Then there were bodies of Mobiles in blouses, not in large
| Sibers, but some thousands in all, ‘The train stopped at

‘The army was taking up a beautiful position with the river
*Saing in its front. Of course this was only the left wing, but
fe camp extended as far as the cye could reach in the
tiedion of Vouziers. Beyond Rethel no troops were visible, nor
®4 me come upon any advanced partics between Rethel and
the station for Méziéres: Mézidres being the fortified
tom, and Charleville lying close to it
Tove to the hotel, and immediately held a sort of council of
‘Se Twas supplied with the best maps, and, compass in Wand, i

ie

40 The Gentleman's Magazine. —

carefully marked out each day’s march for the different corps. —

Tt was self-evident that the relief of Metz was intended. Hazardous
as such a movement undoubtedly was, still with highly organised

troops it was by no means impossible, and it might have had some

such brilliant results as marked the great conceptions of the first
Napoleon.

Bat in war it is the balance between bold conceptions and the
means of execution which commands success, and a casual
glance at this army on the march had shown me that it was
undertaking a very hopeless task.

One thing became immediately evident: the momentous event
would take place under any circumstances about the 31st of August
‘or 1st of September, and my leave expired on the former day. I
therefore determined to go back to London the following morning
and get additional leave.

T started early the next day by Givet to Namur, At Namur ID
found a most civil horsedealer, a M, Frédéric, and purchased
from him a grey mare, arranging that she should besent to Méaiéres
the next day, so as to be ready for me on my return. In the after-
noon I went on to Ghent, and catching the mail train from Brussels,
arrived in London on the morning of August the 26th.

Twas astounded to find that MacMahon’s march was still qhite
unknown, and being thoroughly aware of the importance of the
secret, I mentioned it to nobody.

Having got additional leave, I left London the same evening,
and by mid-day on the 27th was again at Namur. 1 went to
M. Frédéric, and found the mare had been forwarded, but here I
learned some news which rather changed my plans. M. Frédéric
was farnishing horses for the French Government, and he told me
that from reports he had received from his agent the army was
already near Montmédy, and he also said that 1 should have the
greatest difficulty in following it up, as I should certainly be arrested
asa spy.

I therefore determined to go on through Belgium to Arlon, and
to pass the French fronticr near Longwy. But what was to become
of my mai M. Frédéric very civilly solved this difficulty by
allowing me to choose another horse in her place, which he pro=
mised to send on to Arlon by the evening train. My new purchase,
which was to carry me for many a hardtday, seemed in good working
condition, which was the main point, and looked a slow but useful
animal.

The day after my arrival at Arlon I crossed the French frontier

infantry forcibly reminded one of
‘coup de paletot, trés pou de soldat." E
rl d certainly reached Carignan, but
ce, and my poor horse was not fit todo

told me that there was a Belgian at Florenville

nan to an English regiment, and every onc
English well and would be glad to drive me
acquainted with the country and knew many

‘he was to cail for me at the hotel whon he
stot his appearance at about two in the after-

we stopped at an inn to bait the horse, and a

come from the direction of Nouart gave us a
beep acount of an aetion that he had witnessed in the distance the
‘Soon we distinctly heard guns afar off, and I
Srei my driver to push on. Those who have heard the sound of
in earnest must know the curious and feverish
it creates, and J can well understand how tired
‘Hops on the march may be nerved to fresh exertions sind fresh life

music.

“Atlength we came in sight of Carignan, and drove through the
‘Sthyay and gate which leads into the town. here were no
to be seen, although a number of bat men, a few
—— officers and men of the intendance were about

Rete aman inn, where my driver was well known, and
‘Bete we heard thar not only Marshal MacMahon but the Emperor
SW expected to sleep in Carignan that night; they also informed us
‘Sitibere wasan affair going on at that moment uz0n, four miles
of. Ummediately proposed to drive there, but we found no carriages
Naillowed to pass the bridge. We therefore put up the vehicle,
‘Wi ny diver, who had discovered a friend well acquainted with
iheteighbourhood, sugested that we should walk, piloted by his

3 convoy of a Frenchman, and also a Belgian

The Gentleman's Magazine, —

so well known, I should be free from the spy mania, I willi
agreed. Our guide took us down some by-streets and crossed |
Chidre by a ford. The battle of Mouzon was then going on to ©
front, and the firing was getting heavier and heavier. We
noticed a party of about two hundred Mobiles at Carignan guard
the bridge, and we had not got many hundred yards beyond
ford before we saw a detachment evidently bent on cutting us o
immediately halted and got my Belgian friend to explain. Unfo
tunately they were not Mobiles of the neighbourhood; the oppor-
tanity of arresting somebody was too tempting to be resisted; and
we were all ignominiously marched back and taken before the head
of the gendarmerie. 4
My Belgian was recognised and released ; but Iwas not to
off so easily. I was taken to a small house close to the bridge
over the Chiére, and handed over to a party of old gendarmerie de la
garde who were attached to head-quarters. ‘The sergeant said they”
had all recently arrived from Paris,

In the mean time the firing grew more and more pronounced, and
a long train of carriages was seen coming down to the bridge from
the direction of Mouzon, escorted by a battalion of infantry.

It was the Emperor.

‘There was a painful melancholy expression upon his face as he
drove slowly by, that told how little of hope was now left.
Meanwhile, fresh troops from the direction of Sedan came
pouring into Carignan. 1 counted sixty guns that passed the corner
of the house in which T was compelled to remain. ‘The streets
were soon completely blocked with guns, ammunition, tumbrils,
and the waggons of the Jntendance Militaire, all in uttor confusion,

Hour after hour slipped by, and the firing grew faint and gradually
ceased. About nine o'clock, from an unusual bustle amongst
the gendarmerie below, I felt sure that something was about to
happen.

“Tl parait que ga chauffe," I heard one say to the other: “nous
allons marcher de suite,”

Soon afterwards my sergeant appeared, and addressing me in the
most polite way, said—

“*Sir, you are free, and can go where you like; we are going to
leave this immediately.”

“But, my good sergeant, I would much rather go with you, Tf
Lattempt to make my way through the town, crowded as it is, I
shall infallibly be arrested again directly, and may not fall into the
hands of people who will treat meas agreeably as you have done.”

44 The Gentleman's Magazine.

and cold-blooded than these accounts a is impossible
conceive. d

Suddenly two of the men left the road and came straight towat
the bush behind which I stood. I made certain now that they h
seen me, but they stopped and sat down on a stone just at the ot}
side of the bush, One of the two had been at Wirth, and hey
coolly describing how he had come across a wounded French offi
whose watch he had attempted to take.

+ But the idiot," he said, “would not give it up, so T just ga
him a coup de batoneste, and I not only got his watch but I of
120 francs in his purse,”

“Well,” said the other, “1 and my comrade have made ret
francs since the war began, but we too have had to put a few
them out of the way.”

Thad £'60 in sovereigns in my pocket.

“Yea, my fine fellows,” I thought,
Aarvest you have within a few fect of you.”

They talked on for about ten minutes, when the man onthe ro
said it was time to be moving. To my delight they got up a
Joined him, and I was not sorry when their footsteps died away
the distan:

I now resumed my march at a rapid pace, but listening carefa
in case of there being any more of my late friends in the neig
bourhood. Soon afterwards I came to a village; there were seve
people about in the streets talking excitedly, and I walked bol
through them at a quick pace without any hesitation. ‘They stan
hard at me, but took no further notice. I knew that Ih
several villages to pass, and the peasants, excited by the acti
which had been fought so near them on that day, were all on t
ied vive,

I pushed on through two more villages in safety, and at length
came to the Bois de Bouillon, the great wood that fringes t
Belgian frontier for so many miles, Here all was quite lonely; a
a sound was to be heard. There is a fearfully helpless feeling
being unarmed amidst armed men, from whom acts of violen
may at any time be expected. I had purposely left my revolver
England, but I own on this night 1 looked back to it with lingeri)
regrets. After passing for about two miles through the wood
suddenly heard a quick, sharp challenge and found that it was ¥}
Belgian piquet watching the frontier. ‘The officer was very civ
and sent a man to pass me through the other posts,

Jt was nearly one o'clock when I got to the hotel at Florenvil]

‘ou little know the ri

46 The Gentleman's Magazine.

on them, and they were loaded with all sorts of plunder.
was more striking at this time, and nothing showed more
the demoralisation of the army, than that these disbanded plin
derers should be roving about all over the country in clo)
proximity to the troops that were in regular order, and yet a
notice appeared to be taken of them. |

‘The question was how to pass this party; for they would 1
certain to stop me, and knowingas I did that I had my pockets ft
of sovereigns they would have been sure to have immediate
declared me a spy, executed summary punishment on the spot, ar
probably fought over the spoil. I followed behind them at the san
pace, but they soon halted, 2s some of the plunder had fallen ¢
the horses. I halted also, and noticed that they looked ba
several times, apparently watching my movements. A little furth)
and to the Jeft there was a country road which crossed the Chien
and ‘between the chasse and the Chiére ran a green meado
more than a mile in length.

T thought this was a good chance of passing them, so I turn
off into the meadow, and following the bank of the river trotte
on. 1 had no sooner got level with them than the whole par
dismounted. ‘They were about a quarter of a mile from me on n
right. Presently I saw a puff of smoke and a bullet whizzed clo,
by my head, but a little high; thon another and another. ‘Thinkiz
I might just as well give them a ranning shot, I put my old hor
into a gallop, but they kept up a desultory fire until T was well
of range.

Riding on a little way I saw another country road which cross¢
the Chitre by a wooden bridge, and on it there were four mountt
men, This was the first bridge I passed which was in any wi
watched by the French cavalry, ‘They called to me, and Leames
to them.

To my surprise I found that they had not been sent there, by
were doing a little amateur outpost duty, The party was a strang
one. There was an artilleryman, a cuirassier, a chasseur, and
chasseur d'Afrique. They immediately arrested me and sitid the
must take me before the Maire of the little town of Pouin S
Rémy, which was close by.

I requested them to take me to one of their own officers, but the
would go to the Maire, and were so interested in their captui
that they left the bridge unoccupied, although they knew tk
enemy were not far off on the other side.

When we got into the broad main strect of the little town whic

48 The Gentleman's Magazine. ma

I was down the stairs and in the strect. The artilleryman was
already mounted. I ran to my horse, but as I tried to mount was”
caught by the mob and dragged back.

Do not Icave me!” I cried to the artilleryman. “TI trust fa

He put his pistol to their heads, and swore that he would fire if they
did not stand back, I sprang into the saddle, and we galloped olf
in the direction of the bridge. As we neared it 1 saw standing on
the other side a Saxon stalf-officer and two dragoons, and I turned
down a road to the left,

Tn an instant my artilleryman was after me with his pistol at my
head, wanting to know why T had turned off the road,

T told him that the enemy were on the bridge, but he langhed
at me and was cantering back to it when I called out and stopped
him,

We were within a hundred yards of the Saxon party. He now
said that I was right, and thanking me for saving him, we turned
back, made our way across country in the direction of Francheval,
and getting on to some high ground stopped to reconnoitre.

My artilleryman now told me that he had been engaged the day
before at Mouzon, but his battery had been completely cut up and
the guns taken, His captain had died in his arms, and his boots
were still covered with blood. He had been wandering about all
night, and had not tasted food since the morning before the battle,
‘He was an excellent specimen of a light-hearted French soldier,
and said he was very hungry and very thirsty, but had no money,
and so supposed he must wait.

I gave him a ten-franc piece, telling him we would get some-
thing in the next village, and we now became sworn friends,

“What can I do, Monsicurle Baron?" he said. “I have no
battery to join—I shall attach myself to you. You must not go
about alone any more. You have no arms, but I shall attend upon
you and protect you; if they see you with me they will know better
than to attempt any harm.”

We were now riding in the direction of the Wood of Francheval
or Bois Chevalier, and as we got on to the higher ground we
looked right down upon Bazcilles.

A very severe artillery fight was going on. Part of Yon der
Tann’s Bavarian corps had crossed the Chidre and had penetrated
into the outskirts of the place, but seemed to make no progress.
The French batteries near Balan were shelling them with ap-
parently a great preponderance of artillery fire, but nearly all the

sin War Time. 49

bursting high up in the air. I noticed this
there must have been something very
or their gunners must have been most
careless, for at least five oat of six shells burst too soon.

“The French division which Thad scen leaving Carignan in the
‘teaing hed mow reached the hill-sidc of Francheval, and one
teinde of infantry and a brigade of cavalry stood in line of battle
asthe south of the

village.
‘The sixty guns were still marching along the road in the
‘xection of Villers Comay.
“We had got right between the two armies, and presently T'saw a
| civtley regiment cross the bridge over the Chitre at Douzy, and
‘whence up the valley. There were two or three hundred strag-
les from the French infantry hanging about in the fields below
4; these they charged and drove them into the Bois Chevalier,
‘aniat the same time small scouting partics were detached in all
‘Ghtetions, who crept quietly and stealthily up the hills towards the
on the march. Secing them approach, I and my
@tilleryman fell back upon the French cuimssicrs drawn up on
‘the hill, and 1 thought we were now going to be present at a very
ety little affair of cavalry.
“The French brigade consisted of a cuirassicr and a lancer regi-
Ret. A fine of cuirassier skirmishers had been thrown out about
fo hundred yards in front of the brigade, but n
Mane. ‘The bridges over the Chitre were entirely unwatched,
SHalthough the German regiments had ed not much more
Sep half a mile in their immediate front and the country was
@icepen, they were perfectly aware of the fact. As we fell back
the straggicrs in the wood began firing at us.
Those chastepSts reached a long way, and th
‘Mit time would fire at anything they saw, re;
Ged or foc. My artilleryman was inte’
Voila une arméo en débandad:
Gia them and “ sacré’d" to an imm
‘Pay at us just the same, until we fe!
‘ihers.

fo lnow what we were doing.
Fexplained that when we saw the Germ:
‘falen back wpon them.
“What German regiment ?” h

50 The Gentleman's Magazine.

He langhed at me. |

“Germans!” he exclaimed; “why, they arc our own people."

“ Are they?" Lsaid. “Then they seem to have an unpleasant —
habit of charging your own infantry."

He had no field-glass, but he asked me to lend him mine, and \
just at that moment the enemy made a fresh attack ona small party
of infantry and drove them back. He was at last convinced, and |
fell back to inform the brigadier.

Tt was beautifal ground for cavalry; an infantry brigade was in
line of battle close by, and I expected to see the poor Germans
with the river in their rear utterly érusés, but no movement was:
made. The enemy's scouts crept quietly up the hill until they could
sce the whole French force, and then as quietly withdrew, utterly
undisturbed. |

It was quite provoking to sec such stupidity. No wonder that !
at Weissenburg and Beaumont the French had been caught
napping; here was a pretty example of how their cavalry duties |
were performed.

1 waited some time on the hill. It wasa magnificent spectacte, for
‘we could see large masses of French troops taking up their position
towards Daigny and Balan, But the infantry brigade close to us
soon filed off after the rest of its division, whilst the cavalry
remained halted and inactive. The firing at Bazeilles gradually
died away; the Bavarians had evidently got the worst of it.

‘The last of the cuirassiers were just filing across the valley below
the village of Francheville. ‘To join them we had to descend about
fifty yards and then turn back by another ane running parallel with
the village.

We had descended to the lower rdad, and I was leading with my
artilleryman close bebind me, when we came to an open place
where there were no houses and from whence we could see the
upper street of the village. Happening to glance upwards I saw
our six or seven “trainards” lean their rifles over a wall and deli-
berately cover us. I had just time to call to my companion—

“Stoop your head and gallop!” when a volley came right
into us.

Had we not both ducked just at that moment we must have been
hit, for they were not fifty yards off. It was a most lucky escape,
and this was the third time that day that I had been deliberately
“ potted at.” Some of the bullets went unpleasantly near to the
cuirassicrs who were below in the valley. We galloped down to
them and tried to persuade them to send a party back to capture

st

Se offenders, but they had just received orders to join their divi-
en, and we moved on with them.

On the high ground near Villers Cernay we found the whole
division of infantry formed up in line of quarter columns. The
battalions were about six to seven hundred strong, and they looked
thir order, but with a great many young soldicrs among them.
lives gotting late: there wouldjevidently be nothing more done that
4, and T had a long ride to Florenville before mo; so slipping a
torple of napoleons into his hand, I said “Good bye” to my

| Githfal artilleryman and struck into the wood with the intention of
piting over the Belgian frontier before dark.

‘The only chance for MacMahon’s force lay in an immediate

‘Méziéres, and J concluded that this would probably be
Hected during the night, as all the roads were still open, the
whole French army around Sedan, and no part of it had made a
long march that day.

Me was dark long before I reached Florenville, and I had been
84 x hours in the saddle, but my old horse had carried me very

Tmiccesded after some trouble in getting a carringe, and
Meaged that we should start at three o'clock in the morning. It
‘ned certain that the Prussians would press the French on their
Mirat, and that there must be some serious fighting.

Tiumed into bed pretty early.

Eyery one was tolerably punctual on the morning of the rst of
Siptember, and we got off in good timc. By a little before five
Smiwe reached the spot where I had struck into the road the
Meht before after passing through the wood on my way to Floren-
il. Daylight had not yet thoroughly broken when suddenly I
tend a gun far off on the plain below; then soon after-
— another, and another, gradually settling down into a steady

“What does it mean?” asked my companion (a Belgian war

*“Itmeans that the French have not retreated,” I replied, “and
fet MacMahon’s army is lost.”

Wenow stopped the carriage, and mounting our horses struck
fm throughs the wood in the direction of the firing. After going
St seme little distance we came upon an opening and a small
‘tllage, in which we met two French peasants leading the horse of
APousian dragoon. We asked them how they came by it, and
they told tas that two Ublans had appcarcd and a villager had

a2

52 The Gentleman's Magazine.

shot one froma house and that the other had galloped off. The —
‘one who was shot was only wounded, but the peasants kicked him
to death and threw him into the little stream which ran through —
the village. They were now in dread that the hore would be —
found in their posscasion and were making their way to the —
Belgian frontier. Abusing them for their barbarity, and wishing, |
to their disgust, that they might be caught, we rode on; and as
daylight completely broke the firing grew heavier and heavier. —
Something went wrong with my companion’s saddle and he pulled
up, whilst I rode on. 1 was still in the wood when I heard horses
approaching and a German word of command. As I did not wish
to change sides so rapidly I turned quictly off the path, and soon
afterwards a squadron of Guard hussars came through the wood,
and I could tell from the way in which they moved that they were
working in connection with other cavalry, and endeavouring to
find out whether the great forest which lay to the left flank of the
Prench had been occupied.

J again pushed on through the wood. There were numberless
small pathe, but 1 trusted to the firing for my direction, and at
length emerged upon an opening and a high knoll on the outskirts
of the forest, and a wonderful sight lay before me. From this
point L had a splendid view of the general operations; but the field
of battle was so extensive that one could only guess from a study
of the map and from the general lie of the ground in what the
distant movements consisted.

‘The Guard corps of the Prussians lay right below me near Villers
Cernay, On their left near the Bois Chevalier were the 2th Saxon
corps. On the left of the Saxons, and occupying the southern end.
of the Bois Chevalier and the ground reaching to the Carignan
and Sedan road, was the 4th corps. On their left, preparing for
the attack on Buazeilles, the 1st Bavarian corps, which had crossed
the Meuse bya pontoon bridge during the night. Away in the
direction of Méziéres all scemed quiet. Along the high ridge, lying
west of the Bois Chevalier, was an almost continuous line of guns.

‘Thus the French 12th corps, which occupied Bazeilles and the
ridge extending from there to Daigny, was about to be assailed by
three German corps. Whilst the 1st French held the eastern edge
‘of the Bois de la Garonne and the high ground west of the road
leading from Givonne to La Chapelle, that part lying between
Daigny and Givonne was almost unassailable, but the Guards
were pushing in on the western fiank between Givonne and La
Chapelle.

, but they already appeared quite over-
dows fire which replied to them from the

pushed on through the wood in the direction of La
-and the feft flank of the French army. I rode forward
tothe of the village, which the Prussians were just then
‘Wheking; so skirting it, I got on to the high ground to the west
i from whence a splendid view of the operations

“The village itself seemed mostly held by francs-tireurs, but the
‘ttcorps held the position between it and Givonne, Down the
Pett open slope which runs from near Villers Cernay to the
‘mali road between Givonne and La Chapelle, came a brigade of
‘the Prossian Guard in line of double columns, with deploying
imerals, and with another brigade in support. Drawn up to my
Sebi was the mass of the French artillery of the rst corps in a
‘eautiful position and within good range.

“Texpected to see a terrific loss, but very few men fell, and the
Ghimns advanced with the precision of a parade movement, Ido
‘Mithink that brigade lost twenty men during its advance down
thesope. The French shells (time fuses) were bursting absurdly
‘high, and seemed to do no damage whatever.

“Then the sharp crack of musketry rattled from the brushwood on
the ridge as the Prussian skirmishers came within range, and little
‘White puffs of smoke wreathed up as the rival lines became

BEART rece to describe all the scenes of the great battle, and
thas repeat an oft-told tale? Shall I tell how over the neglected
bkidge of Donchéry, and hidden by the mist, all the early mom
the Crown Prince’s legions were crossing silently and unobserved
‘Ty tho French cavalry? Of how, at evening—when, alas! too late—
‘thes: same cavalry dashed madly upon the bayonets of the enemy,
Wathad now cut off all hope of retreat, to fall back shattered and
tryed 2? How the two German armies thus advancing from
Opposite directions gradually encircled the doomed hosts of France,
Sid drove them into Sedan? Shall I describe how all that after-
Soinan iron hail from near Soo guns rained upon the lost and demo-
ised army huddled in the narrow streets of the old and uscless
fortress 2

“All this is now historical, and the great events which made this
the most momentous in its results that the world has ever

a

56 The Gentleman's Magazine.

ambition extends even to the field of literature. Count Arnim, in
his published despatches to the Foreign Office, evidently aims at
tersencss, wit, brilliancy, and power of expression, all qualities for
which his great onemy is renowned. But the literary failure of the
unfortunate Count {s almost as signal as his political. His similes,
such as “The clerical wine will be considerably modified by the
water of political necessity,” show signs of elaboration, and, his
historic parallels are sometimes far-fetched and little to the point.
‘The account of his first reception by President MacMahon is chatty
and amusing, but one never loses the impression of the diplomatist
affecting the literary man. This is exactly the reverse with
Bismarck. In “Pro nihilo," the pamphlet published in Count
Armim’s defence, and most likely written, or at Icast immediately
Inspired, by himself, trying to explain a certain “* psychological
process” to which some of Prince Bismarck's utterances are said
#0 Owe their origin, the author, whoever he may be, procceds:—
«* Tothe Prodigious qualities of the Imperial Chancellor belongs
gP™ of not finding the truth from objectively established facts. He
acs Not ‘find’ it—he ‘creates’ it. Intuition or inspiration
$7 °Ws the truth to this extraordinary intellect, and his intelligence,
eo “*tensively fertile in combinations, then groups the facts in suel
yPanner that they serve as a basis for the first and frequently quite
oF est impression. The consciousness which had perhaps existed
“nat the first impression rested upon his own or somebody else's
‘aspiration recedes in the further course of the conception of truthr
om the energy which subordinates the reality of external facts to
the €Téative power of the personal will.”
yhe short meaning of this terribly involved sentence seems to be
a charge against Bismarck of a strong tendency towards what is
euphemistically called romancing, But what is that grouping of
facts from a central point of vision but the birthright and primary
function of the poet? He sees into the essence of things, although
accidentals may escape him. And if this subjective vision proves trae
when applied to the realities of science or politics, what better, or
indeed what other, criterion of the man’s greatness can we
demand ? What d prior? differes indecd, is there between the
empty dreamer and schemer and the wige statesman and philoso~
pher? ‘The event alone can decide, No great man can do without
what philosophers might term the inductive faculty. ‘The dry sum-
ming up of details is the work of the intellectual journeyman ; the
master looks to the whole. The late Mr. Buckle, most eminently
a maygimmmacts, says on this subject, speaking of the various

58 The Gentleman’ s Magazine.

Democrats. The scenes in the streets of the capital were a
counterpart of the angry debates of the Assembly. Infuriated
mobs, citizen soldiers strutting along in the consciousness of their
new dignity, were sights not altogether lovely in the eyes of the
wsthetical and aristocratic observer,, The young man's nature
bristled up at tuch antagonistic eights. ‘The loyal blood of the
Bismarcks boflext fn his veins, On one occasion he inflicted per
sonal castigation on an unfortunate Democrat who had spokem
insultingly of the Royal family in a public place. In tho Chamber
he defiantly proclaimed the rights of throne and altar; any com
cession to the current of the time he denounced as cowardice
Even to the predominance of Austria in German affairs he sabe
mitted without hesitation; she seemed to him Prussia’s natural
leader and ally in their common straggle with the Revolution.
This, it must be remembered, was the “ period of strife and stress”
in his political life. When afterwards he gained wider views and
experiences, when impulse — for impulse it mainly was — gave
way to reason, he recanted his crrors, in what manner and to
what degree the history of Europe can testify. An amusing
incident belonging to the early period of Bismarck’s career may
conclude this part of the subject. It is connected with bis
maiden speech, received by his audience with similar shouts of
laughter and indignation to those which roused the fre of the
youthful member for Maidstone. Bismarck did not, like Lord
Beaconsfield, hurl a prophecy of future success at bis antagonists,
but his retort was none the less significant. Calmly he drew @
newspaper from his pocket and began perusing its contents in the
most unconcerned manner until the President had restored order.
So much as to Bismarck’s political career; too much the reader
perhaps will say, considering the professedly unpolitical character
of this paper. But it was important to show that even im the
practical concerns of statesmanship Bismarck could not wholly
suppress that poetical germ of his nature which in another @eld
was to bring forth rich fruit.

Prince Bismarck is not an author. He may/be classed amonget
Carlyle’s “ great silent ones,” as far as literary utterance is con-
cerned. A collection of his speeches, which is in the course of
publication, has been made from the notes of the shorthand writers
without his co-operation, as far as appears, But in 1868 appeared
a work somewhat pretentiously called “The Book of Count
Bismarck," by Herr Hesckicl, a Conservative novelist of some
repote, which contained, together with a mass of ill-arranged and

60 The Gentleman's Magastite.

poring over numberless volumes of misccllancous rate
Eyen Spino#a he explored to find “adversity’s eweet milk, p
sophy,” with what result may be imagined. At one timo, it is
he had made up his mind to say good-bye to his native land
seek his fortune in India.

‘There is, however, nothing of bitterness or disappointed egoti
in his letters of this period. They are written in a spirit
bonkomic mixed with gentle self-irony and an occasional indication
of impatience and discontentment. What, for instance, can
more thoroughly good-natured than the humour with wh
Bismarck describes the “faree of shooting the fox,” daily
formed by the simple-minded father and most patiently end
the son ? or what more tenderly filial than the closing pass
the same note addressed to his sister, where he reminds her to
a few more details of her daily life in her letters to the old
man? “Tell him who has called on you and on whom you
called, what you have had for dinner, bow your horses are, how
servants behave, whether the doors creak and the windows
weather-tight—in short, facts / Also he docs not like to be q
papa, having a particular objection to that term. A Dutch painter
could not have hit off more perfectly the good-natured cow
gentleman of the old school walking his preserves and sheep.
and winding up his old-fashioned, clocks than Bismarck has do
in a few touches.

“Madame,” he says, addressing his sister in 1845, evidently
imitation of one of Heine’s favourite mannerisms, can har
resist the temptation to fill an entire letter with agricultural com=—
plaints, night frosts, sick cattle, bad rape and bad roads,
lambs, hungry sheep, want of straw, fodder, money, potatoes, and |
manure; in addition, John is whistling outside a most infamous
polka-tune both falsely and pertinacionsly, and I am not crmel
enough to stop him, knowing that he is trying to soothe his
violent love trouble by means of music. The ideal of his dreams,
by the persuasion of her parents, has given him the congé, and mar= |
tied a carpenter: exactly my case but for the carpenter, who is still)
rumbling in the lap of futurity. However, 1 must get married, |
Devil take me, that’s clear. For since father’s departure I am
lonely and alone, and this mild, damp weather makes me feel
melancholy and longingly loving. It is no use contending. I must
marry Miss after all; every one says so, and nothing is more
natural, as we have both been left behind. It is true she leaves me

62 ‘The Gentieman's Magazine,
then just re-emerging from the storms of the Revolution.

Bismarck’s political views at thetime, For diplomacy and.

in the abstract he also felt a deep reverence. But soon
arrival at Frankfort the scales fell from his eyes. With indi

be recognised the humiliating position of his own countr
partly, no doubt, to this sudden reaction in his whole fe 2
due the utter contempt with which he speaks of the doings ar
intriguing of his brother diplomatists. These feelings are es

with wonderful force of utterance in a remarkable letter
wife (Frankfort, May 18, 1851), too long to quote here, but
worth the attention of the reader, particularly at the pre
moment, “Unless external cvents supervene,” he writes, “
tell you now what we are going to achieve in the next one,
five years, and, indeed, will undertake to achieve it m
twenty-four hours if only the others would be sincere and
able fora single day. I always knew that they were cooking wi
water, but I am surprised at this sober, silly, watery broth, in
there is not a speck of fat to be seen. Forward me Schulze (1
mayor), X., or Herr van ————ski from the turnpike house,
1 will turn them into first-rate diplomates.”

From the irksomeness of his office Bismarck escaped as freq
as possible into the quietude of the country, which in the
bourhood of Frankfort is fertile and beautiful. In one of his
from this period he describes a delightful swim at night in the Rbi
His description of the woody mountain tops and the battlements:
anil zuina lit up, by the moon is instinct, with..thosapiaaa
romanticism. Descriptions of beautiful scenery of the most vaned
kind abound in Bismarck’s letters. Wherever he went on his diplo-
matic wanderings—to Vienna, to the South of France, to St. Peters=
burg and Holland—the letters to his wife give a running P
of his travelling impressions. Eyen from the battlefields of
Bohemia and France he sends her hurried scraps to say what he has
seen and done and felt. As biographical records these are invalan—
ble; but even forgetting the historic import of the man and the
date onc can hardly read without interest and sympathy a passage
from a letter to his wife written on the eve of the battle of
Sadowa, which, after.a burried account of the events of the previous
days, he concludes: “Greet every one cordially. Send mela)
novel, but one at a time only. God be with you. Just received

64 The Gentleman's Magazine.

It was during this tour in the south of France that Bismarck a&
Avignon picked on the grave of Laura the olive branch which
soon afterwards he offered to the indignant Radicals of the
Prussian Chamber as a symbol of his conciliatory fecling. He
also met Napoleon, with whom on this and later occasions he
lived on the friendliest terms, Bismarck seems to have exercised
a kind of fascination over the mind of the Emperor, who half
incredulously, half admiringly, listened to his vast schemes, The
same charm of the Prussian statesman's personality has been
experienced by many different people under different conditions.
Even Jules Favre submitted to it when, daring the siege of Paris,
he met the enemy of his country, and M. Thiers supplied the clue
to the phenomenon by calling Bismarck, somewhat uncomplimens
tarily, ‘un sauvage plein de génic," using the word “sauvage” inthe
sense of an impulsive nature untamed by the fetters of convention-
ality or diplomatic usage. Who has ever heard of Metternich or
‘Talleyrand inspiring personal sympathy or even personal hatred ?
‘There is of course a reverse to the medal. The impulsiveness and
irritability of Bismarck’s nature have not unfrequently led him into
personal squabbles unworthy of his position alike as a statesman
and an individual. In such moments he drops the extreme and
cordial politeness of his ordinary bearing, and one is not astonished
at reading that even so bold a man as Dr. Russell, the Timer
correspondent in the Prussian camp, did not relish the idea of
facing Bismarck’s wrath at Versaill

It is true that in moments of excitement Bismarck becomes all
but an orator, His ordinary speaking is by no means perfect
‘There is in his delivery nothing of Mr. Gladstone's wonderful
smoothness and readiness of parlance. Bismarck’s utterance re=
sembles clock-work, He says a certain number of words, stops
for a second regardless of comma or colon, and takes ep the
sentence again where he left it. But under the influence of
personal feeling the stream of his words flows more rapidly. His
huge form seems to tremble under the storms of passion, and the
impression is powerful, although not always pleasant. His pere
sonal sallies and the way he utters them somewhat remind one
of Mr. Lowe.

It remains to refer briefly to the numerous happy and unhappy
Sayings which, with Bismarck’s signature affixed, have become
traly “winged words." Some of these, like the combinations of
“blood and iron,” and the no less celebrated phrase of “ Might
goes before right,” he distinctly repudiates. Others have been

RECOVERY OF PALESTINE.
BY W. HEPWORTH DIXON. -
VI—Gauiter.

ut 1U have ridden through Galilee ? You have sailed
Jake? You have seen the city of Nazareth, and
of Magdala, Gerasa, and Capernaum? You have been
spot of the marriage feast? You have stood on the slope
which He preached the Sermon on the Mount? Is Cana
Where is Capernaum? Has the spot been identified,
kind of place is it now?" Such questions break in
every pilgrim from the Holy Land. ,
Jerusalem may have a deeper and stemer interest for a
Frank than any place in Galilee; yet Galilee is properly the cout
of Our Lord. Here earlier life was spent; here His
companions lived; here His most important words were spol
and His most important work was done, Jerusalem was the plac
of sacrifice, while the small villages in Galilee were the sc
His life and ministry. Zion and Bezetha pale in interest
Nazareth and Cana, Nain and Capernaum, Magdala and Bet
Here His disciples were chosen; here the foundations of Hi
dom were securely laid.
The whole province of Galilee was called the country of

and unconguerable remnant, occupying the stony hills and thickets,
much as the Druses cling to the hill-sides in Lebanon and the
Waldenses to the valleys of Piedmont. Joshua ravaged their
towns, Solomon tossed them as a fee to Hiram; but the leader
of Isracl and the King of Tyre were equally baflled by the
passive tenacity and endurance of these ancient tribes. In the
Tanguage of Jewish scribes, the country remained a land of
strangers and heathens—Galilee of the Gentiles. Many Hebrews

EE

67

a rer a ens lacked cai ech
a3 who were not unwilling to live among
sangers for the sake of gain. The fecling was not unlike that
Geieiesaed mh tx Vor Doma Lend oc Bory Dv
and salt in Van Dieman's Land or Botany Bay.

‘Gillie never ceased to be a term of reproach. To be called a
Galijean in the court of Annas and Caiaphas was to be called a

| Mgueand-churl. Josephus frequently speaks of the Galileans as

‘Hence the saying of a strict Jew like Nathanicl, “Can

‘come out of Nazareth ?” Hence the opprobrium

miads of strict and metropolitan Jews to such
‘Narareth and Jesus the Nazarene,

‘many texts in Scripture that the name of Galilee

to a small district, that the area so called grew in

}25 more and more strangers came into the land—so

days of Jesus one-third of Palestine was known as

Isaiah had spoken of Galilee as a district occupied by

“f heathens. It was so in the days of Judas, the
sent his brother Simon to make war on the

ne of Galilee. Strabo tells us, on independent authority,
7 of Galilee was mixed. Thus, when the Greeks
7 had built Ptolemais, Sephoris, and other strong

‘country must haye come to be called Galilee—the
‘#trangers—and the name had been carried from the
‘Gentry to the lake. This growth of the arca of Galilee meant an

‘the Gentile clement in the Holy Land.
cities had been built in Galilee by these strangers:
om the sea coast, Sephoris in the hill country, and
the lake. For a long time Ptolemais (ancient Acco,
Acre) had been the port, Sephoris the capital; but in the
‘Sy years of Our Lord, Antipas Herod, a prince of Greek culture,
Sho lad spent much of hhis life in Rome and other Italian cities,
4G for himeolf a new capital of Galileo on tho lake, and with

Wintel flattery called this new city after the reigning emperor,

‘Toriss. These cities had a foreign aspect, They were walled

‘vm, adorned with Pagan temples, governed by foreign magis-
| Site, and garrisoned by Roman troops. Like other natives of

Seicil, Our Lord avoided them. Sephoris, though the capital of

Biiprovince, and, as Josephus says, “‘the largest city in Galilee,” is

Str mentioned in the story of His life. From every ridge near

Nimstth the towers and temples of Sephoris could be sccn.

lived, and there all public business had to be

¥2

aa

68 The Gentleman's Magasine,

done; yet the Teacher is never once reported to have passed
within her gates. Apart from the pressure of ritualistic rules, this
fact would seem as strange as that an active thinker and teacher
should live for thirty years at Highgate without venturing to the
porch of Westminster and the foot of St. Paul's. Ptolemais—the
Dover of Galilee—the port of entry from Cyprus and Smyrna, from:
Antioch and Rome—is never named in the gospels. It is only
once mentioned in the Acts, as a Gentile city visited by the
Apostle of the Gentiles, Neither is the new city of Tiberias
named, except incidentally in connection with some boats on the
lake. Jesus never passed within the gates of Tiberias, nor ever
saw, except from His humble craft, the splendours of Herod's
Roman stadium and golden house, ‘The ‘Teacher passed His days
in the open country and'in the modest Hebrew thorpes. Such
modest thorpes were the hill villages of Nazareth and Cana, Nain
and Tabor; such also were the water-side villages of Magdals,
Bethsaida, and Capernaum. An old tradition makes the family of
Joseph residents in Sephoris, then a bright Greek city standing
on a hill-top six miles north of Nazarcth. This legend is not
likely to be trae. The Hebrews lived in villages of their own,
apart from strangers, on the ground that almost everything about
the private life and public worship of those strangers was for them
“unclean.” The gods and goddesses of Greece were all unclean
to Jews. A Roman bath, a Roman theatre, a Roman markete
place, were all unclean, A Jew could not eat at the same table
with a Greck, could not drink from the same pitcher as af
Egyptian, could not cross the same saddle as a Roman, could not
sleep under the same roofas a Gaul. As everything he touched in
a Gantile town defiled him—and ‘involved a ritual penanco—a Jew
who had enough religion to be anxious for his law could never
safely pass within a stranger's gate. Joseph was a carpenter;
therefore a member of one of the noble Hebrew guilds. Leaving
out the whole question of *' guidance,” it is unlikely that his family
resided ina Greek city. At a later day Sephoris was abandoned
to the Jews, who made it a seat of learning, capital of the San=
hedrin, and a burial-place for masters of the law. ‘Then Sephoris
came to be regarded as-a sacred town, and then the legend of
Joscph’s family may have sprung up.

L—SEA OF GALILKK.

The Sea of Galilee is a sheet of water known to us by many
names. First mentioned in the Pentateuch, it is there called the

7o The Gentleman's Magazine.

of Saladin to the opening of Palestine by moder travellers the —
whole region was unvisited and unknown, oot oo; om

‘The level of the Sea of Galilee had not Loe ce
trath, the diserepancies in level given by different authors
such as would be incredible in the case of an African N,
an Asiatic Tengri Nor. Symonds had marked the level as
fect below the sea at Acre, Von Wildenbusch at no less
845: a difference of more than soo fect.
Von Wildenbusch was near the trath,
American Survey, had taken a more accurate observation, but his
report had not been incorporated with Ritter’s text, and not much
attention had been paid to his note. Until Captain Anderson
pitched his tents at Medjil the fact of great variation in the levels
had scarcely been observed, though this variation seems to
greater than anything scen in cither Swiss or Russian lakes. ‘The _
level varies with the rain-fall and snow-melting from a little over —
six hondred feet to a little tess than seven hundred feet.
tenant Lynch’s measurement is a trifle below the mean Ie
Major Wilson made a brief but satisfactory survey of the «
bank. Few travellers have been able to ride round the fake.
When Ritter wrote no one had gone west of the lake except
Lutzen and Burkhardt: the first in 1806, the second in 18ra.
‘Since then we have done a little, though not much. Thomson
got round by land. Tristram had a slight peep at the shore from
a boat. Major Wilson and Captain Anderson, after vain attempts
to get an escort from the Modir of Tiberias, hired a boat and
crossed the lake, pistols and pencils in hand, giving orders for
their boat to follow them along the coast. They took many
observations, and for the first time laid down the wadics, ruins,
and hill-points.

I,—CHORAZIN AND CAPERNAUM.

‘The sites of these towns are two of the most vexatious problems
in sacred geography. I think they have now been solved. The key of
the position is the site of Capernaum, As Galilee was called the
country of Our Lord, Capernaum was called the city of Our
Lord. “He entered into a ship, and passed over, and came
into His wwn city?" Here, after His expulsion from Nazareth,
He chiefly lived. Here were the homes of His chief companions,
Peterand John. At Capernaum, according to St. Matthew, He called
His first disciples to their work. Here Matthew himself was

: chosen. If the Lord's ministry began at Bethabara, it took shape

72 The Gentleman's Magazine.

‘away at night by the doctor’s orders to Tarichma. This skirmish
took place in the marshes, where the Jordan falls into the lake.
“Near the Jordan,” says Josephus; in frontof an entrenchment only
one furlong from Bethsaida-Julias, Except a heap of rubbish at Abu
Zany, no remains occur on the lake nearer than Tell Hum; and itis”
clear that “the village of Capernaum,” to which the wounded
general was carried, stood at that point. The second mention:
Capemaum by Josephus is in the Jewish wars, where he Is
describing the lake country. “ Extending along the Lake of Gen=
nesarcth, and bearing also its name, lics a tract of country...
irrigated by a highly fertilising spring called Capernaum, thought
by some to be the Ven{ Nili, since it contains a fish like the
coracin of the lake near Alexandria.” There ds a spring near Tell
Ham, by which the Plain of Gennesareth might have been watered
in ancient times. ‘The evidence supplied by Josephus 1s therefore
all in favour of ‘Tell Hum. a

St. Matthew speaks of Capernaum as being “on the sea coast, —
on the borders of Zabulon and Nephthalim.” Unhappily the
tribal borders are vexed questions in our sacred geography, but —
the indication agrees very well with the theory of Capernaum
standing at Tell Hum. St, Matthew was a collector of customs.at
Capernaum: therefore Capernaum had a custom house. ‘The
Roman centurion lived at Capernaum : therefore Capemaum was @
station for Roman troops. The two things show that it was also a
frontier town. Now in the days of St. Matthew the River Jordan
divided the tetrarchy of Antipas Herod from the dominions of
Agrippa Herod. Two miles of swamp and jungle lie between the
Jordan and Tell Hum. Capernaum was a frontier town; and Tell
Hum is the site of a frontier town. St. Matthew speaks of much
sickness in Capernaum, Peter's mothe! law being sick of fever.
Now, the shores of lakes, at the point where rivers fall into those
lakes, are always swampy and unwholesome. Tuggen is a fewer
bed; Villeneuve and Fluellen are fever-beds. The narrative in
Josephus agrees with the narrative in St, Matthew, and the texts
describe a physical and sanitary peculiarity of Tell Hum.

The ‘other Evangelists add little to these topographical hints.
St. Mark says there was a synagogue at Capernaum, and that there
were many sick people in the place. St. Luke also says there was
a synagogue in Capernaum and much sickness in the place. He
mentions a centurion and Roman soldicrs, and tells us that the
Roman governor built a synagogue for the Jews.

These indications have not satisfied every one. Robinson took

74 The Gentleman’ s Magazine.
side the synagogue Major Wilson Sree ruins of a much

says was crected at Capernaum, em eK
‘That basilica, built in the reign of Constantine, wag sts
Capernanm in the sixth century. The mins of sy
basilica are now to be seen at Tell Hum, as they ar
accompanying plate.

‘Tristram’s difficulty about the “spur” at
off the waters of Ain Tabiga from the Plain of Gen
away in presence of our engineers. Major Wilson found
source is the largest in all Galilee; a very motabl ri
fore, and likely to be called after the biggest town da
‘That town was Capernaum. The presentAin, cs Su
formerly called the Springs of Jericho, On tapping thé
Major Wilson found that an aqueduct had been cari
times from a great reservoir, near the fountain, tothe pl
‘one place this aqueduct had been banked up, by retaining)
in another had been carried over, rills.and hecks 01

canal along its front through the solid rock, ‘This cut
seen before, had been mistaken for an ancient road. Maj
traced the watercourse from Ain Tabiga round the bluff
Minych into the Plain of Gennesareth, so that every dou
Ain Tabiga watering that plain isat an end. Tell Hum
fore, proved to be the village of Capernaum, and Ain
spring formerly known as the fountain of Capernaum, °

The spade was used at Khan Minyeh, but the place ine
scriptural secrets to give up. Some mins of a wall were found,
not older than the khan, which scems a Saracenic pile of the reign
of Saladin. The houses have becn little more than huts, No
columns, capitals, or carvings were discovered either in the walls of
the khan or those of the tombs. Khan Minych is not an ancient
place,

Chorazin has been also fixed beyond a doubt,

We know from St, Matthew that Chorazin stood near Caper
naum, and shared the curse pronounced on this unbelieving town.
Jerome tells us the distance was two miles.

Now, two miles north of Tell Hum lie some ruins whieh the
Arabs call Kerazeh; modern Arab equivalent for the old Greek

word. They had been little seen and ill-described. Robi
had treated them with scorn; without having the excuse of a
against monks and priests, These ruins are of some extent, ¢
in area to those at Tell Hum. ‘There is a synagogue at
although not so fine as the white synagogue at Tell Hum. Tt
Corinthian capitals with niche heads and other decorative
carved in the dark basaltic rock. Many houses are still standin
some of them old; and of the usual Syrian type. A fc
rises in the midst of these notable ruins, over which a large t
waves its branches; and provides a cover for two sheikhs' to
‘Traces of a paved road were found, connecting Chorazin —
the imperial road over Jordan to Damascus.
Capernaum and Chorazin being fixed, it is not hard to
Bethsaida. Major Wilson finds it-on the north, just whe
Jordan falls into the lake. The site was at or near the present.
Zany. It must have been a small and most unhealthy spot:
Bouveret of the Sea of Galilee. We need not marvel at the
of sick people there; nor at the removal of Peter to a
~ salubrious place. Capernaum lay on the edge of a marsh, but:
not hemmed, like Bethsaida, between the river and the marsh.
Using Lake Leman for the illustration, Bethsaida would
Bouyeret, Capernaum would be Villencave.

In my nest paper I shall deal with the vexed question of Can
in Galilee.

on the wrong rant Is it

Is it guilt? Or is it

bidding good-bye to ladies in the

» their hats on in the boudoir—and
2

78 The Gentleman’ s Magazine.

will be seen, has little to do with it, Romeo's kiss being given
different circumstances.

‘The story is in its details very unlike the story of Shakespeare
differs from that of Lopez da Vega ; and it is at variance—and
what violently so—with the versions of Ducis and Luigi Scevola ;
Bandello’s story, and that of Luigi da Porta, have much to do
{t, albeit chiefly in broad outline. Tt is possibly in some way
nected with the black-letter ballads of Romeo and Juliet which
known to have been in existence some three centuries ago, thos,
all traces of them are lost, even in Italy, but not, it may be pi
sumed, irretrievably so, since every year brings to light s0
discovery in the shape of old prints and manuscripts.

If it be taken for granted that the old Italian legend of
and Juliet"* is founded on fact (and there is nothing incredib
the story, however extravagant it may appear), it seems natural
believe that the Italians, in their cheap popular literature, po
the correct version. We do not go to Italy for the origin of
Lear,” or to England for that of the “Merchant of Venice”;
we do, or ought to, go to Italy for the origin of “Romeo and Jt
which is confessedly Italian ; and if this gentleman and this
did live and dié die in Verona, Verona, of all cities in Christendom
ought to have something to say about them. It is tme that
book now under consideration was not purchased in Verona;
it is obtainable there on market-days, when pedlars areabour, Tt
picked up at a village fair near the Castle of the Montecchi—c
the Castle of Romeo and Juliet—lying midway between Verona
and Vicenza: the name of the village Montecchio (the word
Montague of Shakespeare), or, in official language, Montecchio
Maggiore—supposed to have taken its name in ancient times from
the ancestors of Romeo. t

According to the Montecchio legend Romeo was not an oaly
son; he had several brothers (but -no sisters), and all of these
brothers, including Romeo, were bound over, by oath, to wage war
on the family of the Capelletti, the war to last for ever, ike the 7
vendetta wars in Corsica. It appears that Romeo's great-grand=

mother was, several years after marriage, courted, captured, and
slain by a Count Capelletti, a former suitor for her hand (and this,
we are told, was the origin of the family feud), the lady dying an
innocent victim of the Capelletti as she had lived a virtuous spouse
of the Montecchi.

The writer of the true version of “Romeoand Juliet” informsus,
at the outset of his story, that Shakespeare’s immortal lovers first

of the Capelletti, and many

or sisters) suffered alike fate
meo's father—an old man with
thrown into prison and
therefrom, he craftily devoted

The Gentleman's Magazine,

himself to the work of revenge, and using, abusing, and m
Romeo's love, aimed at the Capelletti the deadliest blow of v
‘they had yet had any experience. He began by making offers |
friendship to the father of Juliet, which were in the first instance
hanghtily declined. He dictated a second letter to Romeo
which the young man was made to say that his immediate a
with the lady who had been the first as she would be the |
of his lifetime was now possible and even
Juliet was told that she might meet Romeo when and whera
liked, though not openly; and the nurse acted as messenger
go-between as in Shakespeare's story; but no friar, no poiso
vendor was appealed to as in the tragedy, no sentence of b
ment was pronounced on Romeo by the Duke of Verona.
went disguised to Juliet's house and there received hospitality
under a feigned name. He won the friendship of the father as
had won the love of the daughter, but betrayed himself one
night by throwing aside his disguise, and was arrested as
malefactor and a “partisan of outlaws.” The elder Monts
who had been hanging about the neighbourhood for some ti
waiting for events, pushed on to Verona and th
overtures of peace to the “murderer of his son:
and somewhat to his own surprise, his voice was heard.
father, weary of strife, “ pardoned the son of his enemy for Jk
sake,” and Romeo's father, thirsting for revenge, urged the
man to consent to the marriage of Romeo and Juliet “as a pro
of his sincerity""—but not, as will presently be seen, as @ proof
the sincerity of Romeo's father. The rival chiefs shook

and the marriage was announced to take place at an early date
under the special patronage of the Duke of Verona.

Two days before the wedding the elder Montecchi—whose
Christian name, by the way, was Timoleon—took his son aside and
thus addressed him: “Who art thou, Romeo? Speak, boy! Art
thou my son”

Romeo, pale and red alternately with sappressed emotion, looked
a reply, but made no answer in spoken words. :

“Romeo,” continued Timoleon, after a moment’s hesitation,
“there are offences which no man can forgive, but there are some
men—myself among the number—who can feign forgiveness and |
put on outwardly, for secret purposes, the livery of friendship,
He who forgives a certain kind of offence is a wretch too vile to
be called a man, for he who neglects or misapplics the chances
of vengeance runs the risk of being again insulted, Vengeance

3 which made her Romeo's

as if struck by an

de her; raised her; kissed hers
Cries of treason arose in

ler. The girl's father wept;
and raising himself to his
these terms: “ Juliet, whom
} trouble her not!” Romeo
e bird flown?’ The old man
his sword to the Duke, was

oe

Y
aad

82 The Gentleman's Magazine,

arrested by the body-guard. The church was cleared; R
was led away, madly shouting “Juliet! Juliet!” and the ;
carried home on a litter, was stat out for burial.

Up this point we have incidents which have little or
to do with Shakespeare's noble story. Instead of bei
in the plot, or altogether out of the plot (as in the aimee
fathers of the lovers play prominent parts in it; such parts,
fact as tho dramatist: leads us to believe they must have p

English tragedy. Juliet was not dead in reality; she had aia
sleeping-dranght in Hen of poison, and would waken at a gi
time to consummate events connected with Romeo's death.
however, the resemblance ends. The draught was adr
in a cup of wine by Romeo's father, he believing it to be po
Paris was his accomplice; but he, having a scheme of his own
foot, knew it to be harmless. Timoleon meant to kill Juliet
avenge himself on the family of the Capelletti; but Paris m
wished to stupefy the girl and put her in a trance, that he,
the funeral, might waken her, and take her home.

But Timoleon, though he makes a full confession of bis gu
does not ineulpate Paris. He is jealous of the infamy of his
accomplice, and wishes to have the sole merit of the
Paris, with a counter-potion, hastens to the vault of the
there to claim his bride. Romeo, with 2 view to commil
suicide, repairs to the same spot. The rivals meet, as in Shakes
epeare’s tragedy, and Romeo kills Paris. Romeo takes poison, and _
dies almost in Juliet's arms. Juliet, waking, kills herself, after
surveying the scene of horror, with Romeo's sword ; and all at
anend. Love and jealousy and hatred find their climax in death,
and the feuds of the Montecchi and Capelletti perish in the extine-
tion of their families.

Who shall say that this story, thus briefly traced out, is essentially =
incorrect? Thousands of people in Italy believe it to be the==
‘‘tme story of Romeo and Juliet." People living in Veromaees
Vicenza, and elsewhere in theneighbourhood, reject Shakespear’==
account as an innovation, and accept this one as historical
Tt is possible that history may have little or nothing t do=a
with it; just as history is believed by many persons to baye=#
little or nothing to do with the legend of Romulus an
the She-Wolf, But who, with this story in his hand—a story s=—4

eagerly devoured by novel-readers in [taly—will attempt to prose"

is ER cain’ Ow ter of the two, but that is

f ‘the more anthentic. The noblest parts of the

‘are Shakespeare's handiwork: the poetry, the

into human nature. No one cares to prove

liet actually spoke and thought in accordance

‘tragedy; but here is a story which people in

‘as the correct version. It is full of interest from

end; it is anonymous, like the “Story of Bertoldo,”

‘not be an utter fiction, or(as some people assert) a

re, dating from the end of the last century. ‘The

‘stares us in the face is this: here is a story of the

Verona, which fs sold, and read, and believed in, in the

h Romeo and Juliet are reported to have lived. Look

nb, and then look at this book! ‘The tomb, as shown

bears Internal and external evidence of having been

giant or a giantess: if, indeed, it was made for any

woe at one time used as a bath. But the

‘iterary monument of Juliet—has higher claims to

‘and, authentic or not, fills a place in public estimation

Wish no one is likely to deprive it of, not even the discoverer of

on which Bandeilo and Da Porta are believed to
ed their stories.

ATHENS UNDER KING OTHO.

BY WALTER THORNOURY.

i HAD scarcely sat down to breakfast on the day of my arrival
in the city of Minerva before a sly waiter at the Hétel de
!Europe brought under my nose a little horn tray containing a
coarsely cut carnelian, the bronze figure of a Cupid, and a sham
gold coin of Alexander that a dragoman who squinted treacherously
at the door was ready to swear had been dug up at Thebes, The
godlike eye, the Apollo chin, the old Homeric helmet were there,
but “Brummagem” was stamped all over it, and T felt 4 shudder
at the first approach of the sham classic in the city of splendid
memories. So I asked how far it was to Corinth, just as a diver=
sion, and the Avcades amo, finding that nothing more profitable
than questions were to be got out of me, vanished into thin air,
and left me in peace with my stony olives, my bad coffee, and my
golden-brown honey of Hymettus—falsely so-called, for the honey
of Hymettus is so dear that no prudent landlord ever allows a
traveller to touch it.

Perhaps of all the delights of travelling there is none greater
than the calmness and freshness that one feels after along sea
journey on arriving early in the morning at port, and, after dressing,
coming down to a breakfast that yon devour with the polite ferocity
ofa gentlemanly lion. How clear the mind is, how it sorts the
threads of tangled plans, how it forgets the baflling, foggy past,
and strikes out, like a strong swimmer, straight and fair, with
good heart, into the undiscovered future! What nectar sweetens
the coffee! Surely the fruit was picked in Eden. How golden
6 that unvisited city of so many dreams with one's own standard

ace

* This sketch was given by the late Mr. Walter Thombury some years ago as
4 contribution in behalf of a scheme for the relief of the destitute poor in winter
in the East-end of London, which is only aow being carricd into effect. It relates
to aperiod quite fresh in the minds of many of us, though long enough ago to
fall outside the recollection of the younger generation of readers. Otho, the
Bavarian prince, was placed on the throne of Grecee by the Protecting Powers at
the time when that country finally shook off the detested rule of the Turks, but
ihe incompatibility between the Greek and Bavarian character bred a discord
setween King and people which at the end of thirty years culminated in the:
Hight and deposition of Otho in 1862,

86 The Gentleman's Magazine.

plain of Attica with olive groves on either hand and the Tlissus,
now in summer a mere dusty ditch, before us. Happy creature,
am realising the dreams of our delectus days! We stop a moment
to water the horses at a dirty road-side wine-shop, where faded
boughs—the bush that good wine docs not nced—rustle over the
door. A rival clond of dust meets us, Hats off, scum of the
earth, believers in divine right and human wrong! It is the Greek

King and Queen, in their barouche with fussy outriders, going off
for a yacht excursion to Megara, this being the happy day that
gave Otho toa grateful world. Rex is a lean, vacant, shortsighted:
man, in the national dress, and the Queen a stout, Amazonian
woman who likes to rule. Mchercule! another cloud of dust and
‘they are gone towards the Pineus, where an angry cloud, ominous —
for yachting, hangs. Would to Zeus it was to Jericho, and not
merely to Megara, that that besotted King was going! It would
be all the better for Greece, who has long ago had enough of —
Bavaria, whose new broom has long ceased to sweep well.

‘The olive graves of Academe sound well in Milton, and it is |
pretty to quote Plato about the plane-trees and the cicadas and the
wrestling youths and the playful metaphysics and the knock-down
“clenchus" of Socrates; but olive groves are dull, dreary places im
reality, and poor stuff compared to our own oak coverts, which in
summer are tangles of flowers and sweets and all a groen mystery
of leaves.

But the olive, with the dry, hard leaves and split trunks, with a
horse’s skull, white and staring, hung up here and there among
the branches, I must leave for the prexent—ungracions tree of the
dry blood and the silvery tremble of Icaves—for now I see the
loadstar of my travel, the rock of the Acropolis, the Castle Hill,
the fossil heart of old Athens, and there is the Parthenon rising
like a dindem upon its brow. From here it seems fresh as from
the mason’s hand, yet I know Time and Lord Elgin have bit some
terrible mouthfuls ont of it, though it bea meal that hath dasted
the great appetite of that former destroyer a pretty long time.
Now we are in the suburban strects, now we pass the staring
palace and the ground where the theatre is to be (in Athens every=
thing is to be), and Tam at the hotel where I was when my scene
opened.

As for the city of Solon and Pericles it is now almost confined
to the Acropolis and the Temples of Jupiter and ‘Theseus, for the
modern city is like a little German market town, and has a trim,
rectilinear, raw military air about it. If it were Jonesville, in the

at

apolis what sort of people do I see when I look
of Hellas? I see a race whose waists are

of Aristophanes, ¢0 small that 1 could span

‘This is one of the fopperies universal among

T never saw a woman’s waist in England

of these degenerate people. Here comes up

, One Of the old chieftains of the old Turkish war,
five a swaggering, idle life. Heis an old
moustache, and looks as if he atea Turk overy
j yet Ldeclare I could cut his waist in two
bh fmy riding-whip, though his chest is wide as a prie-

| etter’s, and his stride is sturdy as a Pawnee “brave’s.” 1 bad
‘PHacuttomed to the Levant Greek fop, with his kneo-breeches
- pillow-case, do I say?—nay, as a whole summer qailt
p bags that drop down to the ankle and ¢way about as

r im the abeurdest manner possible, especially when
‘Berecester calico bag is pendaleat over a neat dainty foot cased
stocking and in a dancing-shoe of extreme dainti-

T forget the waxed moustache, the greased hair, the
rod bag of a fez, the trim jacket and sash stiff with
and the girdle bristling with offensive weapons—as
“Your plaguey double-barreled sword and your
pistol”—can I ever forget the greasy
Waplerions of those exceeding rascals Levantines, their
Grinwte swagger, and the cock-a-doodle way they whisked
Sot their white handkerchiefe and stuck their arms in their
‘walked about in their everlasting festivals lke great
gol-boys with their arms round cach other's necks?

old friends of mine are to be seen in Athens,

The Gentleman's Magazine.

fresh from Candia or Cephalonia, from Smyma or Syra,
Asia Minor or from the Black Sea ports. They arc the
of commerce, and are to be found castward wherever men
and sell, wherever cheating is to be transacted. The

irrational, senseless, illiterate, impudent, odious creatures,
Eastern Greeks, who, to the mean timidity and rapacity
a bad Jew add a mercurial slipperiness and scurviness:
to their own race, are to be found at Pera; but Athens, as
seaport, bonsts some specimens now and then that even P
could scarcely match with all its shifty villany,

T early discovered that the modern Greek dress, with

Aatalent exaggeration, was no bad type of the national
Its breeches, ten times the reasonable size, represent a b
which is ten times that of the boasting of any other nation
fez, a red jelly-bag six times as large as the Turkish, rep
the assumption of six times as much cunning as any other p
the jacket, covered with three times too much lace, typifies
senseless extravagance of the poorest nation in Christend
while the spider-waist, 30 useless, so unhealthy, so effemi
and so unpleasant to the eye, exemplifies a conceit as unbour
as itis ill-founded. In the East the Greek is the sneaking
who bears the blow if he may be allowed to rob you. Here
Athens—Athens of the violet crown and the golden grasshopp
of Minerva and the Bavarian owl—the swagger is the swagger of |
slaves newly manumitted and over-acting their freedom. On
mountains, where the ever-armed man was never a slave but whem
the Turkish sword-point was at his eyes, the men walk like freemen,
but they do not swagger: a really brave man never swaggers, &
gentleman never swaggers; it is only your copper captains, pour
fussy, small authorities and oracles that swagger in a way which,
if it does not make the angels weep, certainly keeps them in very
low spirits.

If it was not for the maids of Athens (not the maid who married
Mr, Black), with the little red fezes stuck so daintily on the side of
their black hair, I could not say much for Greck costume. As for
Greek beauty, that is altogetheron the sideof the men, the old straight=
nosed Venuses and Dianas being extinct, as farasT could discover,
in that worn-out country which, after producing so many wonderful
human crops, now lies deplorably—as some think, hopelessly—
fallow.

The Palikars, a fine set of old warriors, with their crimson andi
gold jackets, their scarlet and black greaves, their bushy white=

y the third-rate German Courts of
the pleasantest in the world,
but the courts of the Temple, am

99 The Gentleman's Magazine.

destroy the Greck Constitation, and had to be forced by a success
fol revolation of his injured subjects to respect it and to dianieny
his German mercenarices—the Barbaroi of the indignant Greeks, |
It will take another hint or two, spoken out from hot musket)
mouths, before he will cease to intimidate Greek elections or)
prevent his Ministers from stealing the public moncy. Lt will take)
a miracle before he leams to increase the commerce and improve |
the internal resources of poor misgoverned, desolate Greece.

Bat, in all strictures against the “violet-crowned,” we must ia|
justice remember that Athens is essentially a new city, almost
rebuilt from its ashes within the last fifty years, and already show.
ing good signs of life in its young avenues and its new suburban-
looking roads, its plot of ground that is to bea theatre when job |
and intrigue (the Prime Ministers of Greece) will let it, and the |
streets that are to be laid out, and the University that is some day
to have a new wing built on to it. The old burnt rock, the Acro-
polis, the kernel of this misruled Athens, has seen a dozen such
cities—Republican, Lower Empire, Venetian, Turkisk—bud and}
rot round it.

Do you want to realise how thoroughly modern this moder
Athens is? Twill realise it to you. Look down Hermes Street,
where T am pointing, and tell me what you see.

I sce a thin, old, military-looking gentleman, in red fer, tight
surtout, and white trousers, something like a Jean Duke of
Wellington, only his face is milder and less cold; he is riding im
a tough, earcless way, on an old brown charger, followed bea
Greek servant in the national dress, also mounted.

‘That is old General Church, who knew Byron, and was come
panion in arms of Lord Cochrane, years ago, when the Turks were
in Greece. He is still the idol of the Palikars, who, some say,
would rather—if he were not so old—now have him as king than
poor owlish Otho of Bavaria. A letter from him franks you to
soldiers’ houses all over Greece; no klepht even would touch &
friend of that brave old Irish swordsman Church, who knows
everybody, and whom everybody knows. He is off now to bathe
before breakfast, miles away, and will trot back like a young
trooper, fresh and vigorous; and hour hence, at hot noom
perhaps, if I were to be going to Pentelicus, to the ambassadors,
ten to one I should see the old gencral trotting along across the
olive groves, fresh as if he had just awok

The first sensation of a week or so in Athens is that of being
DdJinded by an invisible mischief that turns out on reflection to be

alti “5 at nights you scare the owls out of
there in the shot-splintered Parthenon! Is

in it and feel as if I was up in deserted

proven earth far below? Jupiter was dead

the Ef6tel de l'Europe. Venus, old and

in the Marseilles steamor, where Cupid was

hhe has tured Zouave, and has lately been

and Neptune is stoker in a Channel packet. 1

ow to the old Grecks the world was asa vast house
—the gods above and men below. I was now above

m the deserted Olympus, sole survivor of a moonshine

r c# to point to Athens and its neighbourhood and
‘old riches of the Attic plains are gone to, and where
ind forests of the Attic mountains, The plain is now
st lined with olive-trees, the mountains are piles of
imwatered by a single rivulet; though with water
tum into an Eden, It is a touch of Neptune's
“want now, not the spear of Minerva that long ago
‘the olive-tree of the Erectheum, Plant trees on
and they would collect moisture and afford
) yerdure that would soon spring up; the verdure
< ills would grow into brooks, and be fed by the
‘now are burnt up remorselessly by the tyrant sun;
t would feed the trees that the verdure would nourish,
would then pour down into the plain to swell,

93

STREN-SONG.

BY JOSEPH KNIGHT.

BBENDERS of the mighty bow,
Hurlers of the ponderous spear,
Strong to smite and strong to row,
Strong the struggling bark to steer;
Rest awhile the weary oar,
Furl the idly-flapping sail,
Bid the keel graze on the shore,
Warriors, princes, conquerors, hail !

Weary vigil have we known
Seated on these sands of gold;
Almost hope despair had grown
Of the coming joy foretold.
Yet our song had power to quell
The torment of the hungry deep,
To bind the planets in its spell,
And hush the opposing winds to sleep.

When the drowsy eye of mom
Opened on the slumbering main,
And the breeze of daybreak born
Thrilled us with a joy, like pain ;
Gazed we longingly afar,
Where by banks of rising mist,
Morning’s last and fairest star
Swooned on a bed of amethyst.

When the sun-god’s fervent rays
Drove us lingering from the sand,
Still into the blinding haze
Gazed we ‘neath the uplifted hand.
Oft unbidden hope would spring
At the sea-bird’s voice-like wail,
Or the dipping of her wing
Gleaming like a far-off sail.

a

The Gentleman’,

When to leafenwoven bowers
Fled we from the noontide beat,
Weaving in our hair the flowers
‘That sprang ever ‘neath our fect,
Or made glad the ocean caves
With music of our song or specch,
‘Still your coming o’er the waves
Would our suppliant eyes beseech.

Dian her chaste vigil kept
Tn the star-iumined sky,

And Zephyr chid the flowers that slept,
And wandered seaward like a sigh.

- Londer, sweeter then we sung,

For somehow seemed that track of light,
Across the sea a pathway flung
From heaven to bring us our delight.

One alone with laughing eye
Mocked the passion of our fears
Joyous watched the months go by,
The circling seasons disappear.
She our darling and our flower,
Youngest, fairest some may deem,
Frowned not at the unprosperous hour,
Wept not at the illusive dream,

Watching still with anxious care
Every lingering sweet disclose ;
Scarce her bosom’s lilies wear,
Even yet their buds of rose.
Shame-faced see she stands, the blood
In her neck and cheek aglow;
Blossom if she be or bud,
We know not—ye perchance may know.

Every sweet unfading Spring

Can lavish on these laughing shores;
Every blessing life can bring,

Or fancy fathom—all are yours.
All that human soul enslaves,

All that mortal sense enchants ;
Every joy that manhood craves,

Every boon that beauty grants.

Sirven-Song.

Madmen, are ye that ye turn
Thus your heedless prow aside ?
Can ye know the joys ye spurn,
Or the longings ye deride ?
Can ye for the treacherous deep
Our divine embraces fly ?
Joyless leaving us to weep,
Loveless leaving us to die ?

Sisters, broken is the spell,
Idly falls the unheeded song ;
What the God our power doth quell,
What the unexpiated wrong,
We know not. This alone we know,
Soon upon this thirsty beach
Bones of many lovers strow,
Our unburied bones shall bleach.

Seamen now no more shall steer
Past our isle with thickening breath ;
Listening oft, ’twixt hope and fear ,
For the soft melodious death.
Yet when palls the insipid bliss,
Men perchance may mourn in vain
Rapture of the Siren’s kiss,
Magic of the Siren’s strain.

95

96

THE
BOARS HEAD DINNER AT OXFOK
AND A GERMANIC SUN-GOD.

HY KARL BLIND.

AST Christmas I had the honour, through kind invitation
taking part in the celebrated Boar’s Head Dinner at Que
College, Oxford, I was thus cnabled to complete, on the very &
the investigation of a subject of comparative mythology alway
great interest to me on account of its close connection with)
early thoughts and the poetry of the stock from which both Engl
men and Germans have sprung. The famed dinner itself, itneed
be said, has every mark of reality about it. Even if some confirt
sceptic were to doubt the pre-Columbian origin of the cocoa-
beaker that passes round on the occasion, there are plenty of ot
things present to save the table from any appearance of bein
myth. For all that, a tale of very ancient origin hangs byt
time-honoured Yule-tide meal—a tale which took its rise in alo
forgotten primmval worship of the Aryan race.

The ceremony, as performed at Oxford, is well enough kno
not to require special description. Suffice it to mention that
Christmas Day a large boar’s head, adorned with a crown, wreat!
with gilded sprays of laurel and bay, as well as with mistletoe +
rosemary, and stuck all over with little banners, is solemnly cart
into the Hall by three bearers. A flourish from a trumpet annoan:
the entry. The bearers are accompanied by a herald, who sit
the old English Song of the Boar's Head. At the end of e
verse those present join in the Latin refrain. A formal process!
of the Professors and the Provost of the College precedes |
coming in of the boar's head. ‘The people of the town
admitted to the Hall; and before the repast begins the gilt
sprays, little banners, and other ornaments of the dish are dist
buted to the crowd by the Provost.

The song, as at present sung in Queens’ College, runs thus:—

‘The boar's head in hand bear J,
Bedecked with bays and rosemary ;
And I pray you, my masters, be merry,
Quot estix in can
Caput apri defero,
Radidens taudes Domino.

Capa, Bs

Hinting been assigned the place next to the venerable Provost, I
‘willed is the procession with due respect for the hallowed custom.
Uymiad, { confess, was in the meanwhile drawn in two different
iirections. It was partly bent spon realistic observation ; partly
Med with strange glimpses of an early race of hunters and
Senlsmes in Central Asia, dimly discernible in the dawn of history,
"5s lator on migrated to the dark forests of Germany, or settled
fee the bights of the ruggod North, and among whoso sacrificial
Galoms the Sun-oar—the symbol of Fro, or Freyr, the God of
Uphi—played a great part at winter solstice. Thus musing, I
‘endo to the table.

‘MOsford, the origin of the Boar's Head Dinner is traditionally
Sol in a very fanciful and modernising form. 1 say this with a
Slight degree of Toutonic grief, Even the great pleasure experienced
Tagen! company must not induce us to stifle the “prick of cons

‘Setece" in matters mythological. So at the risk of appearing
‘Scaewhat ungrateful, I will add that the tradition in question is not
Enpod form. The well-known legend is that a scholar of Queens’
Pilege, about 400 years ago, was walking in deep meditation
Pe incghbouring forest, when he was attacked by a boar. He
pee; despatched the animal by throwing down its throat
Tk Aristotle he was just reading, with the remark: “ Gracum
*P—"Tit's Greek!” In honour of this miraculous escape the
ead Dinner was introduced at Christmas; and a bust of

Atsictic adorns to this day the large fireplace in the College Hall.

Se the legend rons, To render it even more probable, the

preserves the picture of a saint, with a boar’s head trans-
tation ¢ spear, and the mystic inscription beneath: —“COPCOT.”

AVinilar representation is found in the window of the church of

Hpeth, a village on the southern slope of Shotover, not far

fom Oxford.

Sox, vithout denying that Greek would be a most dangerous
Nek she 87. x

08 » Tike Gin tlonail's Magasin ee

and indigestible morsel for a boar, I think it will ‘be easily
that this wonderful explanation does not quite account for a st
dinner at an ancient seat of learning. A similar custom
Oxford exists, though on a very much reduced scale, at St, Je
College, Cambridge. There, a boar’s head is served at the su
‘on St. John's Day, December 27. Again, the same custom, but
the more stately manner, formerly flourished in the London Inns
Court. Dugdale, speak ii
Tnner Temple, says that at the first course is served a fair and
boar’s head upon a silver platter, “with minstralaye.” Yet we
not heard that'any London lawyer had saved himself, in the wi
of the Strand, from the tusks of a bristly qaadruped, by thro i
an Act of Parliament down its throat, which might have been a |
more deadly to an English boar than.an untranslated Aristotl

An instance of a modern re-introduction of the Boar’
Feast may find its place here. At old St. John’s Gate, Cf
well, the original home of the Gentleman's Magazine, and ¥
now the abode of the Urban Club, the festival was celebrated, i
archaic form, from the year 1855 to 1873. There, in the hall
strown with rushes, the gigantic Yule log was drawn in by the
sons of the host ; and when, with the accompanying bugle-sound, |
the boar's head was brought in, the cook, dressed all in’ white,
sang the old carol ; the guests joining in the chorus, ‘The loving |
cup was handed round, and wassail was duly brought in; the Lord
of Misrule doing his duty “passing well."* Since the change of
proprictorship of St. John's Gate, the festival has been discon
tinued there! It is rapidly dying out also in most places where it
was anciently held.

Yet inthe carol sung at Oxford, one of the vorses significantly
says —

The boat's head, as T understand,
Is the bravest dish 18 ALL TMi LAND:

Indeed, in all the English land, in ‘noblemen’s mansions and
in. yeomen’s homesteads, the old Germanic, Anglo-Saxon, Norse,
Icelandic custom of the Boar's Head Dinner was once upheld. I
was the universal Yule-tide observance, for peer and) peasant.
for the high and the hind. “Before the last civil,wars"—Aubrey
wrote in 1678: in gentlemen's houses at Christmas, the first disks
that was brought to table was a boars head, witha lemon in his

* Sce letter of Mr. John Jeremiah, the hon. See. of the Urban Club, ti
Micke and Queries of December 26, 1874.

Dinner at Oxford, Se. 99,
sos Thee teen account ofan Essex parish, called Horn-

durch,
Dy, and were with @ bull and brawn. The boar’s head
js wrestled for by the peasants on that occasion, and then
feted upon. But it would be easy to multiply instances. All
‘tis vill explain also that Boar's Head Taverns, such as we know
own Shakespeare's “Henry 1V.." should have been not uncommon.
th the Christmas carol literature, a general agreement is to be
‘Bel vith as to the Boar's high and distinguished position. There
‘told English carols in which a “' prince with owte peere” (a prince
‘vihout | “slapd “ Prince of Bliss” of the present Oxford song
=i mentioned. ‘There are other carols with no ecclesiastical
lusions whatever in them, except the Latin refrains ; in the place
i the Prince of Bliss there is simply a reference to “mustarde.”
cigs former, more clerically tinged songs the boar is,
‘enough, styled a ‘!soverayn beste.” In the carol as
hee cserelaaie the boar’s head is called the ‘chefe
‘Snyce in the lande.” In the Porkington Manuscript, a, miscel-
SS century, there is a yet earlier song, beginning
ae see pene mes tees the hops bade is army gays,
The boris head én hond I bring ;
ailthere also it is said that “the boris hede ys the furst mes,”
on—
“The boris hed, ast yow say,
He takes his leyfe, and gothe his way,
Gone after the xij tweyl flyt day,
With hay,
‘Orin another version, contained in the Balliol MSS.-at Oxford;
Miki give here in full, as it is rarely met with :—
Caput apri rifero,
Resomens | baudes damina,

ese aH ALR. P. I. 6, p. 228.

}*Reioneer"* may, at first sight, seem bad Latin, But though we need not
(iki good Latin in modieval writings, the copyist of the above song had
Pibepastcdicd the old Tanguage in Ennivs. Barbarous Latinity, or what may

such, sometimes gives rise to puzeling dificulties, When at Oxford,
q Boui's Head Song, entirely in the most distressing Latin, the second

Bras s—* Penit cum scotit mitidus ef cum marino rere.”
seemed to ie extraoriinary, and impossible even in mediseval
LN ottgenelateat have an inquiry instituted as to the origin of
“Ht came out that the lines were mock antiques, made up, not
Sy Years ago, bey two noblemen.

H2

100 The Gentleman's Magazine.

I pray yon all help me to synge.
(Qué estis iv comvivio,

‘The boris hede, 1 uaderstond,

‘Ys chiefly sirved In allthis fonde,

‘Wher s0 ever it may be fonde,
Geruitur cum sinapio.

‘The boris head, 1 dare well say,

Anon after the xvth day

He taketh his leve and goth a way.

Exinit de patria.

‘These verges clearly mark the boar’s head ceremony as a pecu
castom of a fixed period in winter solstice time. After
fifteenth day the boar is said to “take his leave and go awa
He even “ goes out of the country"! This will presently be s
to have a deeper mythic meaning, and to be referable to a far al
creed, than appears on the surface of this semi-Latin, semi-Eng
clerical version of a probably very ancient Teutonic lay.

‘There is a passage in Chaucer's Franklein's Tale where *
brawne of the tusked swine” is mentioned in connection ¥
Janus. The passage evidently refers to the same old custon
observed about the Twelve Nights. At a yet earlier date we fi
according to Holinshed, that in 1170, upon the young prim
coronation, King Henry If. “served his son at the table a
sewer, bringing up the boar’s head, with trumpets before
according to the manner” It was a well-established, ancient,
general custom, dating back to times out of mind.

So far as I am aware, thore is no further trace of itin any cat
historical record of this country. But the missing links béetw
the facts just mentioned and the epoch of Anglo-Saxon heath
dom are easily found, They are contained in one of the ol)
Germanic records of the creed of our forefathers—namely, in
Edda,—as well as in the universal prevalence of the same cus
throughout the nations of Germanic origin. In other words,
which is still celebrated now, with more or less pomp, on Christ
Day at Oxford, at the English Court, and perhaps in a few cou
houses, and in some parts of England by the common people!
have a simple sucking-pig scrved to them with no pomp at al
amere survival of what once was a regular and universal rite
sun-rite, the connection of which with the Boar also appears £
the Edda, And as is often the case with such lingering traditi

a new fable was afterwards invented to’account for the meanin)

say ih on ied arn pace bi

logger properly understood.
"Woe Sots in Sie ™Anciont Christmas,” gives a good picture
eee rare he Bees Head cate

ererset nena
roaring, op ey

age balltable’soaken fabs,
coh show, tay re,
Bare then upon its massive board
Memart to part the squire and tort.

blue-coated serving man

‘Then the grin boar's head Lown'd on high,

Crested with bays and rosemary.

“Wall ca the green-parb'd ranger tell,

‘How, when, and where the monster fell;

‘What dogs before his death he tore,

“Atel all the baiting of the boar:

‘While round the memy wassel bowl,

‘Gamish'd with ribbons, blithe did trowl.
© ‘Thea came the merry maskers ia,

Amd carpls roar'd with bilithsome din;

‘Ifanmelodious was the song,

At was a hearty note and strong.

‘Who lists may in dhe mumming see

Tracer of ancient mystery.

Asamong the Romans during the Saturnalia, so also were the
‘Giisions of rank obliterated among the Teutons during Yule, when
the great clog or log was lighted in token of sun-worship.
‘Ghistmas, J need scarcely observe, was introduced as a festival
Milas fate ac the fourth century. It replaced the various winter
WPhike celebrations among different nations addicted to sun-
Whip, both in Asia and Europe. The Fathers of the Church are
‘Gplict enough on thi subject. The ‘Dies Natalis Solis Jnvich”’
Wike pagan Romans had its-distinct echo in the later Christmas
‘rice song of the Roman Church: “So nozws oritur.” Indians,

Greeks, Romans, Teutons, performed their sun-rites at
“Riisl times of the year; and so strong was for a long time the
SGemblance between the ceremonial mode of races living far apart,
‘Titin Herodotus's days we find the (probably Germanic) Massa-
Fetes, vio dwelt in what is now Tartary, sacrificing their horses to

Whe delivered them from the sufferings of winter, even as
the Grecks sucrificed horses to Helios.

=

“The very name of Yule, moaning the sun-wl 7
etymological affinity with Helios. ‘To this day the Italian
call Christmas “ Cepfo"—that is, block of wood, Yule loge

‘wonder that sun festivals, so deeply rooted among d

should have survived after the introduction of a new cr

his “Vindication of the Solemnity of the Nativity of Chi
(1648), Thomas Warmstry answers a question a8 to whether
foast had not its rise and growth from the conformity of Christi
to the mad feasts of Saturnalia and of Yule. He replies:—“If
dothe appeare that the time of this festival doth comply with
time of Heathens’ Saturnalia, this leaves no charge of impiety:

it; for since things are best cured by their contraries, it was botl
wisdome and picty in the antient Christians (whose work it was.
convert the Heatliens from such as well as other superstitions
miscarriages) to vindicate such times from the service of
Devill, by appoynting them to the more solemne and
service of God. The Blazes” (Warmstry’ evidently means th
Yule logs) “are foolish and vaine, not countenanced by
Church,” *

We know that similar advice as to preserving heathen customs
wherever possible, in order to facilitate conversions, was formally
given by Pope Gregory the Great, in his letter to the Abbot
‘Mellitus, concerning the heathen Anglo-Saxons. The same advice.
‘was tendered by the Bishop of Winchester to Winfrith, or Boniface,
the missionary who went to preach the Gospel to the Germans
Winfrith, however, did’ not act in this sense, and was killed by the
heathen Frisians. Other missionaries were content with tolerating
the old pagan ceremonies as a sort of popular by-play to the new
creed, Without such conciliatory policy they could not have made
way at all. In this manner, numberless customs of the old Wodanic
religion have remained in popular use, and in not a few instances:
even become mixed up with the Roman Church.

German Christmas customs still show a strong trace of heathen
traditions—that is to say, in the mummeries which precede the
Christian festival. All kinds of masked oddities then appear in
our villages, and even yet in towns, under the name of Schimmel-
reiter, Pelzméirtel, Sankt Niklas; Hans Muff, Knecht’ Ruprecht,

* In 4 remonstrance to Parliament, in 1652, Christrnas was called + Anti-
Christ's masse” A journal, the Flying Lagle, of December 24 of that years
records that ‘ Parliament spent some time in consultation about the abolition of
Christmas Day, passed orders to that effect, and resolved to sit on the following:
day, which was commonly called Christmas Day.”

the Light Elves, it was sald that “nobody is against him,'* an
that he is “the first of the A®sir.” it

Bliss, His very name signifies Bliss, A.

therefore, may have been called, before the ‘Yule-festival,,
which his name had been identified, was changed into!

‘There is great probability, odd as it may sound, that. ic
ood luck, as connected with Freyr and his boar, lingers € i
in a vulgar phrase, chiefly used in German students’ slang. “
Aat Sclaocin” is with them a synonym for:—“ He has great luck
Jam inclined to believe that another unrefined phrase ("Da

ride away on the wild boar”)—which is a synonym fora
get well out of an unpleasant position—has also refere
Freyr, The saying seems to be tantamount to a wish to get
from trouble into the realm of undisturbed happiness. Many.
now vulgar, locutions of the German people are clearly trac
to ancient heathen ideas,

The same character which attaches to Freyr is also found.
sister, Freyja. She, too, is a sun-goddess, and a Goddess of |
Her symbol, also, is a golden-bristled boar; which, how
bears a martial name—namely, Hildi-swin. Perhaps the
creating character of Venus is expressed in this detail of the
Ifit should be thought extraordinary that a boar is taken as th
symbol of deities representing the Sun and Love, it would be wz
to ascribe this to any want of finer poetical feeling among, our
barbarian forefathers. Freyr and Freyja came into Asgard from
the circle of Vaenir deities, whose very name has perhaps
with ‘that of Venus; and to Venus also a similar animal
sacred.

In the heathen Scandinavian _temples it was the custom, a8 in the
households, to serve up at the Yule festival, as a part of the Holy
Supper, a boar dedicated to Freyr and Freyja. Its name was
sdnargalt; which may either mean Sun-boar or Boar of Atonement,
In the Eddic * Song of Helgi, Hidrward's Son,”} that ceremony
is mentioned in a Yule festival, when ‘vows were made, and the

* Ocgindrecka; 35. + Hyndluliod: § 3.
} “Helgakhvida HiGevardsionar,” iv.

106 The Gentleman's Magasine. 5

In Gelder-land the superstition is, that during t
Christmas Eve a spectral figure goes its rounds. It is.
Nether-German, Derk met den Beer—that is, Dietrich with
Dictrich takes here the place of Freyr. Such substit
frequent when’ mythological ideas verge upon their decay.
ease at issue, the apparent change of name is all the more «
explain, because Dietrich (signifying Ruler of Men) really o
responds to a cognomen of Freyr, who is called in the Edda
“ men-ruling God"—probably on account of his being, like Odi
Thor, and Freyja, a réceiver of those dead who attain eter
bliss.

The figure of Freyr is, together with that of Freyja, the nob
and most beautiful in the Teutonic Olympus. Both divine |
did, nodoubt, degenerate occasionally intocradely sensual imag
similar conceptionsof Greek and Roman antiquity. There were’
as well as lower kinds of Freyr and Freyja worship.* But
strong, every family that has « herd of swine kills one of the animals on the #78
of December; and thence it is called Sowsday. ‘The account adds -—'"Tiies
‘no tradition as to the origin of the practice.” In various parts of Yo
Irecently lesmt, asimilar practice still prevails. It is to be found in
Germanic countries, and also in France, to which the Frankish and other

customs at Hornchareh. ‘There, ou Christmas Day, from time immemorial, ©
bonr’s head was dressed, garnished with bay leaves, carried in procession |
‘Mill Field, and then wrestled for, It is stated that on the chancel of the chureiy
as well as on the vate, the horns of an ox were allixed. According yer
‘«the inhabitants say, by tradition, that this church, dedicated to St.

was built by a female convert to expinte for her former sins." ‘The ink

added that afterwards “by a certain king, but by whom they are uncertain, whe
rode that way, iC was called Horned-Church, who caused those’ Karas to Se pall
ont at the east end of it." (Hone, 1649; and Hone’s Table Book, &) bres |
fname at firet given to the church was slightly different from what it is now, but bik
Detter be real in the work quoted. Now, one of the significant names of Freya |
in her lower form, was Hém, In the Eddie ** Song of Hyndia” we read that |
tho dwelling built for her by her favourite, Ottar, had walls glistening with the
Blood of oxen. All this scems remarkably applicable to the alleged origin oF
Hornchurch, where Freyja's, or Hom’s, our was sacrificed at Christinas. Uhilale
there isn great deal still to be said about the affinity between Kreyja and her
Titanic counterpart or sister-companion Hyndia (Casicula, of “ Little Hoanil)
on the one band, and the Exyptian Inis, who weary horns, and sometimes the
dog-star between them, on the other, There ix similar affinity between Freyjae
Frigg, and Io-Juno; To being much of the sams character as Freyja, and having
been changed into a cow, wherefore she is represented with horns, whilst Jun
herself is 0 Freyja and Frigg were, ao doubt, originally ane; this diviam
fomale character only afterwards assumed a double form. The same may be salt

108 The Gentleman’ s Magazine, —

flowers sprouted up everywhere; that apple-trees: axel, b
to blossom, and that the San leapt twice for joy. OF the
probably put in the boar's mouth at Christmas, ere the
replaced it, 1 have spoken before, Thus everything fits is
old tale,
That which is worshipped is also eaten. Therefore it
hunted; hunted at the very time when it is worshipped.
wncient creeds we find the dietary laws, the social custon
the doings of every-day life in some way bound up with the sys
of faith, Religious tenets. were brought hame to the be!
should-be believer, in ¢very conceivable way. In an old b
the “Sports and Pastimes of the People of England"®
that “the boar may be. hunted from the Nativity to the Pi
tion of Our Lady.” This corresponds pretty well to an ;
pagan Yule-tide, during which the Boar was, especiall
shipped, Aftera stated period, itis said in, the old song, the Bo
Head ‘takes hig leave and goes away.” He even
patria” —be has left the country altogether! Here we come @
more upon the border-land between reality and myth; for
boar, which had until now appeared asa substantial dish
table, suddenly vanishes into the clonds, like Lohengrin's

* See also: Art de Venerie le quel Maistre Guillaume Toiet veneer
# Angleterre fst on son temps per oprandre Autres.

110 The Gentleman's Magasine.

traces of marine life might be said to disappear, Or, to q
own words, when speaking of the depth referred to:
descend deeper and deeper in this region, its inhabitants ba
more and more modified, and fewer and fewer; indicath
ap] towards an abyss where life is either is
exhibits but few sparks to mark its lingering presence.”
distinguished naturalist had, previously to 1843, been |
an important series of dredging operations in the Aigean
had also been investigating the general aspects of 1
around our own and other coasts. As the result of thes
gations Forbes concluded that the total life of the sea
divided into four or five great belts or zones; each zone
us farther and farther from the surfice into the sea-d

he further concluded that, generally viewed, his zones of
life would hold good for the entire world.

‘The first belt was named the Lifloral tone, and was
by the space between high and low-water marks,
and plant life of this zone is familiar enough to every
wanderer on the sea beach. Such animals—crabs, whel
many other crustaceans and molluscs—as are enabled &
stand a temporary removal from their native waters, form
of the littoral or shore-population ; whilst the seaweeds of this |
are numerous and specially adapted, like the animals, for
partly in the sea and partly exposed to the influences of
and land climate. The second was termed the Laminaria
etreumlittoral zone, Tt ranged from the farthest boundary o
preceding belt—namely, low-water mark—to a depth of
fifteen fathoms. ‘This latter is the great “tangle” zone, and
marked by being, save at the lowest ebb of spring tides, Invat
under water. Its animal inhabitants are very numerous,
being brightly coloured ; whilst the alge, or seaweeds, of this
are very distinctive ; and molluscs are especially abundant i
zone. The Coraline or median sone comes next in order,
extends between a depth of fiftcen fathoms as its upper limit,
‘one of fifty fathoms as its lower boundary. Here we meet
zoophytes, polyzoa, numerous molluscs, crustaceans, and mo
our familiar food-fishes, such as cod, haddock, turbot, &e. The
fourth zone is the Deep-sea coral or infra-median zone, ©:

from fifty fathoms to 100 fathorns; whilst to this—or regarded as
part of the deep-sea coral zone—may be added the Advseuf zone,
which latter extends from 100 fathoms to the lowest depth—=
00 fathoms—at which living forms were believed by Forbes to
exist. .

a 1,000 fathoms, by means of an
by @ Mr: Brooke, a midshipman in 1

‘TI2 The Gentleman's Magazine.

the American Navy. This mud was found to be compose
greater part of the shells of minute animals of low grade, n
Foraminifera, &c. And as sounding after sounding from
distant and varied oceanic areas was obtained, each
the same abundance of these and allied organisms, it
important question to determine whether or not these:
their natural habitat in the ocean-bed. Professor Bailey:
expressed his opinion that the Foraminifera lived im the
strata of water, their shells, after death, sinking to the bo
accumulate and form the characteristic mud-layer ; whilst no
an authority than the venerable Ehrenberg, of Berlin,
opinion to Bailey, the great German microscopist
‘his belief that the Foraminifera lived and died in the sea-l
In 1858 specimens of deep-sea mud obtained by Ca
man, of the British Navy, were examined by Professor
who seemed to incline to Ehrenberg’s view of the qi
Dr. Wallich, who accompanied the Auildog Expedition,
Captain (now Sir Leopold) McClintock, published in 286
observations, which tended to further support the opinion th
deep-sea possessed an abundant fauna of its own,
obtained “ brittle star-fishes” from depths of over 1,200
and on examining the stomachs of these: star-fishes they
found to contain specimens of those Foraminifera which
amongst the most characteristic inhabitants of the deep-sea
‘This latter fact, therefore, seemed to suggest that the mat
habitat of both star-fishes and their prey was the seabed ;
this supposition was strengthened by the knowledge of the
of these star-fishes, which are known to live at the b
shallower waters, and have besides no means of rising i
water. Dr. Wallich also records the occurrence of other ani
forms, which were brought up from depths formerly accounted
utterly unsuited for the life and development of living beings.
From the stage to which we have briefly traced the history al
deep-sea research, the revolution in opinion regarding the life |
the oceanic abysses is already apparent. The recognised im
portance of the subject, and its many and obvious bearings on
the entire range of physical science, induced the formation of
organised expeditions for the purpose of making extended obser
vations on the life and temperature of the deep seas. In due time,
therefore, we find that Drs. Carpenter, Wyville Thomson, and
Gwyn Jeffreys, in their various expeditions in, the Ligatming,
Sireupine, and Challenger, appear as the latest exponents of the

"ot December 21, 1872, and
ay 24, 1876. During the cruise of
has sailed 69,000 miles; the objects

De said. to bave been represented in the

¢ dinlagiea? department, or that which had for its
lation of the living inhabitants of the oceans

first of these sections; whilst the more
comprehended those whose special mission

the chemical composition and temperature of
rminc the distribution of currents in the oceans

th oe task of dredging in deep water was

i plfning and Porcupine expeditions to present
peotortlicary kind in its successful practice. . Bat
ough the teachings of that most practical of tutors,
dredging apparatus employed on board the Porew-
fs ‘xe to assume the form and size, and to
necessary for successfully scraping the
depths considerably over three or four miles, The
6 strong currents, which tended to sweep the dredge
ship and to prevent its descent into the abysses of
counteracted by an ingenious system of weighting the

‘And in this, a3 well as in other improvements, the
}of dredging operations from a mere rule-of-thumb pro-

to 4 truly methodical and scientific work may be clearly

‘details, token from an able article in “Naval Science" of

by Mr. Tissard, the chief navigating officer of the Challenyer
prove fateresting in making our readers acquainted with the
dredige is used. ‘The rope used in deep-sea dredging is of

a half inches, and three inches in circumference, respectively.

sin of the first-meutioned variety is one ton twelve cwt; that
foches is two tons six cwr. ; whilet the last-mentiones\

x

been fully ratified and confirmed by the many Tare, and
cases hitherto unknown, organisms with which the
Expedition has been the means of making us familiar,

of zoological species will be largely added to when the ti
arrives for the full examination of the Céadleager specimens >
few of the more noteworthy of the new organisms which have:
found may be briefly noticed in the present instance. The
ful flin:-sponge, known to every museumevisitor, and

enough named the “ Venus’ Flower Basket” or Luplecteller,
for example, had another species added to its genus. This)
“Flower Basket" has received the name of Zupleetella
and was dredged in the early part of the cruise between Gil
and Madeira. The common species of Kuplectella is b1 ¥
from the Philippine Islands, and specimens of this latter.form wert
also obtained by the expedition at Zebu, a well-known habitat of
these sponges. ‘
A very peculiar group of animals, resembling star-fishes set on
stalks, named Crinoids, and popularly known as “ Lily-stars,? hat

gives way with a strain of two tons eleven cwt. ‘The dredge consists of the trom
frame which scrapes the sea-bed, of the bag or net attach edt thereto, and of cet
tain collections of hempen tangles or ** swabs," attached to the hinder extrexaity
of the bag; the latter having been found extremely useful in collecting many |
small animals, or those which have been missed by the dredge after it has eedae
filed with mud. ‘The largest dredge used measures five feet in length along the
iron framework, one foot three inches in breadth, and weighs 157 1b, The
smallest size used in great depths is three feet Jong, one foot breay
and weighs 85 Ib, With this Intter a successful haul was made in $855 ||
fathoms. ‘The dredge is slung from the mainyard of the ship. About shies
hours are required 10 sink the dredge, duly weighted, to a depth of 3,500
fathoms; and by an ingenious arrangement of indix-rubber bands, samed |
“accumulators,” which by their stretching indicate strain on the dredgerope,
the tension on the latter can be guessed at, and any undue strain averted. Am
‘equally ingenious “stop” or link is made at one part of the attachment of the
dredge to its chain and rope, so that if the dredge should foul, this “stop!?
gives way, the dredge canting over, emptying itself of its contents, and thus
saving both dredge and rope from being lost in the abyss. Occasionally a

“ trawl" is sent down to the bottom instead of the dredge; but the formes brings
up no mad. And it may be mentioned ax an interesting fact that so great wis
the pressure of the water, that the explorers were obliged to use oak space for
spreading the mouth of the trawl, instead of fir spars; the latter wood betag
broken by the pressure of the water, and so powerfclly compressed that she
knots in the wood stood out one-cighth of an inch above its surface.

nit with living
tip to tip of the expanded feclers
m as this could only have been
nightmare vision of an ardent
shall hear all about it, as well
due time, and when the scien-
wer are overhauled by accredited

that wwe road of the probability of
to our knowledge of the conditions of
12

116 The Gentleman's Magazine.

life in the Foraminifera—those minute lower organisms,
covery of which in deep-sea deposits, as we have seen, fi
to excite speculation as to the presence of life in the depths
‘ocean. From time to time our knowledge of these organis
been considerably augmented, but the biologists of the C/
Expedition will be justly entitled to speak with ‘authority
subject, from their study of these organisms in their
habitat and under their normal conilitions of life. “Thus,
many Foraminifera live and die in the sea-bed, a large 4 n
of species appear to be surface-living forms. The
commonest and most widely diffused of all species, both in:
present and past distribution—for example, live at the surface
‘seas, save those of the Polar regions, and attain their most typ
development in these upper waters. When these and allied

sink to the bottom after death, their shells tend to form the
Jayer of calcarcous or limy “ ooze,” which is now so well

a deep-sea deposit.

‘The curious fact has, however, been recorded, that whilst aa
depth of 2,200 fathoms in the Atlantic sea-bed and elsewhere, £3
grey limy ooze consisting of these Foraminiferous shells wat foum)
to be everywhere abundant, below this depth the ooze
darker tint, and gave on chemical analysis a decreased qi
limy matter. As still deeper soundings were made, thé ooze |
replaced by a red clay with hardly any traces of organic matt)
and which covers an area apparently destitute of animal life.
a state of matters Lat thus found by the Chadlenger Expedition —
lat. 23 deg. 23 min. N., long. 32 deg. 56 min. W., at a depthe™
350 fathoms. Tt rae therefore, a iqeeition’ fraught we
much interest to discuss the origin of this red deposit, =?
to determine its relations to the better-known grey or Forami®
ferous ooze of lesser depths. The explanation of this questat
appears to rest on the fact that the red clay simply consists of €)
remains or residue of the shells of the Foraminifera which fot
the grey ooze; this fact being proved by the experimental conve
sion of the grey into the red deposit by a simple chemical proce?
And hence it is suggested that a chemical action, resulting pr
bably from the decay and decomposition of the animal tissues |
Foraminifera, &c., is the cause of the change in the natare of t
sea-bed; this action taking place only at a depth below 2,3
fathoms.

No better example of the influence of any discovery up

}; and it isa rather remarkable cir-
organisms, which were among the
Roti itintden sea, should still, and in this
‘subject matter for much discussion

of this notable expedition may not be laid
c world, or be fully appreciated by sevants,
‘But this much may be safely assumed, that,
to our stores of knowledge, and without
their effects on physical science at large, the
e Challenger's voyage will more than fulfil the high
n st wishes of those who were instrumental in

sain her noble mission of scientific discovery.
t instance, and by way of an appropriate con-
ir subject, direct attention to an equally interesting,
pects essential, study to that comprised in the
cs, and to the full elucidation of which these later
Knowledge will undoubtedly tend and assis!
ms were found to exist at great depths in the ocean,
| physicists naturally bethought themselves of the
sumed by certain grave and potent conditions which
) entertained as valid reasons against the occurrence
» These conditions are well set forth in
“How can animal life be conceived to exist under
of light, temperature, pressure, and aération, as
t these vast depths?” Andasthe replies which must
i € queries necessarily form an intimate part of the
5 research, it may bo well to indicate the data we

‘Pies for satisfactorily construing our answers.

The infaence of ee an upon deep-sea organisms, as can
fall be understood, was formerly regarded as a condition pre-

Stieily unfavourable to their cxistence in the lowest depths

6

The Gentleman's 4
‘The immense pressure exerted upon whatever
immersed at considerable depths in the sea was
‘an impassable barrier to the mere presence of life in
‘Thus, at a depth of 2,400 fathoms, the pressure am
three tons on each square inch of surface. How

tions? But, as was duly pointed out, those who arg
neglected to take into account the obvious law,
schoolboy, of the equal pressure of fluids in all directions.
if the enormous pressure alluded to were to be exerted
outer surface only of an organism, the latter would
crushed out of existence; but the pressure from without |
to be exactly counterbalanced by the pressure from
other words, the organism remains in a state of cquilil
ig able to move about in its native depths as freely and as un
scious of the surrounding pressure as its terrestrial neighb
who exists unconcernedly under an atmospheric pressure of ¢
fifteen pounds on each square inch of its surface. The gen
absence of air cavities in deep-sea organisms forms a p
worthy of consideration as showing the further applicability
the law of fluid pressure in adapting animals to liye in any di
of sea, be

The conditions of semperature in the deep sea cannot be
cussed at present with satisfactory results, inasmuch as
observations of the Challenger Expedition may tend to modify
diverse opinions held regarding the distribution of heat and)
in the ocean. There can be little doubt, however, that the dit
bution of animal life in the ocean is, in greater part if not whi
regulated and determined by temperature. ‘The circulation of)
and warm currents amply provides for the wants of animal lif
this respect ; and the difficulties which beset the question of t
perature in the deep sea are not so much those of determining
distribution of currents as of deciding the exact causes which
these currents in operation.

Some remarkably curious points have been raised in connee
with the absence of /ighf in the abysses of ocean. ‘That ligh
usually necessary, not only for the development of colow
animals and plants but for their perfect life and growth, i ay
known fact. Plants and animals existing in dark habitats g)
rally exhibit a want of colour and otherwise appear pale and sic
The presence of light, indeed, is regarded as a very néces

Scorthardh Pee dea t from
5 Fno use to them in ‘so far, at any

“was offered ax a knotty point in
Is relates to the source of their
depend for their sustenance
esented directly or indirectly by
the light. As light is absent in the
in that situation; and therefore,

The Gentleman's Magazine.
was argued, the deep-sea animals must fall back r
supply upon some materials foreign to our experience of a
food in the upper world. To explain this anomaly, one
waintained that the deop-sea animals resembled plants |
nature of their food, and that they accordingly found |

in the inorganic matter by which they were surrounded.
some few animal forms theoretically believed to be «
of existing upon inorganic matters, the vast body of
naturally hesitated before giving their approval to a theory ¥
in so startling a manner revolutionised our ideas of the
whereby animal life at large was sustained, And a second
was in due time propounded, which evaded the difficulty by
ing the suggestion that a large quantity of organic matter,
from the decomposition and disintegration of the surlace-tife
the ocean, from marine vegetation—and in fact from the enti
range of oceanic, life—was widely diffused through the abyss
of the sea. A kind of dilute “soup” was believed to be th
formed, and upon this solution of once living matter the dee
sea animals were believed to subsist; whilst the crude necesst
for believing that they fed upon inorganic matters was th
abolished. The question of our need to debate regarding t
food of deep-sea organisms is open to remark. Very many high
animals living in perfectly clear water subsist on the invisil
animalcules and minute organisms therein combined; and itm
reasonably enough be argued that deep-sea life may support its
in a similar manner by the absorption of such food-particles
may be naturally contained in the water, and altogether apt
from the matter afforded by the breaking down of other org
nisms.

Deep-sea animals requiring oxygen—as does animal life
shallow waters, or life on land—were believed, theoretically,
have a difficulty in obtaining that all-important requirement {
breathing or a¢ration. But the examination of the gases whi
preponderate in bottom and surface-waters respectively set {
doubts and difficulties of biologists at rest on this last point, T)
former waters are found to contain a large percentage of carbon
acid gas, the invariable result of the presence of animal life
land or water. Surface-waters, on the contrary, were found
contain oxygen in preponderance. A double interchange of gas
therefore takes place, in obedience to plain chemical and physic
laws. For, whilst the noxious carbonic acid from the botte

Deep-Sea Exploration. 121

waters is diffased upwards to be added to the atmosphere, the
suface-oxygen passes downwards to provide for the maintenance
of deep-sea life. The interchange above and the renewal of the
oxygen from the atmosphere are effected by the ceaseless action of
the currents of air and ocean; whilst the interchange below is
exemplified by the carbonic acid given off by the animals being

exchanged for the vivifying and necessary oxygen.
Thus the many difficulties and problems which beset this subject

inthe past are gradually being dissipated and modified ; and it is
quite within reasonable expectation to hope and believe that ere
long beams of growing scientific light will illumine those spots
thitare still dark and unexplained in the history and life of the

great deep.

TABLE-TALK.

BY SYLVANUS URMAN.

“ [QNGLISHMEN will not grudge the Arctic Expedition
commander the honours that have been showered
them. After an experience of the privations to which those
resident in Arctic regions are subject the voyagers must have:
in the civic banquet accorded them an appropriate as well
delicate compliment. My only regret is that no special
appears to have been taken to provide a menu worthy of thi
sion. An opportunity not likely again to occur was afforded :
of displaying the resources of his art in the invention of a
which should commemorate the feats of the adventurers and inte
duce to southern palates some specimens of hyperborean dainties -
the limits reached by the ships animal and vegetable life had eeas
It would, perhaps, have been taxing invention too far to
asked fora gastronomic souvenir of palocrystic icc. An Esquimasad
salad would, however, be suggestive of pleasant recollect#om
to the voyagers even if it provoked unsavoury associations

the other guests. Bouchées de salé @ ta jus de citron might bei
back some uncomfortable memories, and might even seem to til
at censure of the authorities. Passing from the convivial to the
scientific aspects of the reception accorded Sir G. Nares, she
honours awarded him by his Sovereign and by different societiet
are well etrned. Upon a display of heroism and endurance on
part of English sailors we are accustomed to count, ThES
qualities have not been wanting in the present instance, th
the call upon them may not have been especially urgent. Tt
however, unjust to expect from men more than the occasi®
warrants. A certain measure of intelligence appears algo to Ba®?
been displayed. The omission of the lime-juice rations was
crucial difficulty in the wayOf the sledge parties, ‘This strat?
neglect is the more deplorable as it leaves us in the &2&
as to what these parties could have effected under more #
vourable conditions. It is impossible to avoid a feeling:
regret that an expedition so costly and so well furnished
all respects should, under the most favourable conditi@
obtainable, have done so little. An experiment so condac®
cannot possibly be regarded as conclusive. I am not, thereof?
astonished to hear that a new Arctic Expedition, or, as it is ©

123

for next yeat. It is quite

reached without great dif-

esources, some of them

nt to afford a possible

each the North Pole. It muat be

would be a grim irony about

if thase who first reached it by

unable to return, and should dic

jon of the solved mystery. It

|. On us, as self-styled rulers

‘of answering the questions con-

It is fitting we should execute

we claim as our own. As yet we do not even

parties can effect, secing that owing to the

other causes each mile of the journey

At the time when the use of time

and the men began to sicken the chances,

pant Aldred, “were all in our favour.” There

wer, to have been a want of faith on the part of those

the expedition in its success, and the work that was

45 as hopeless as it was persevering and heroic. ‘There is,

& to encourage us to new effort. With trained

‘seasoned, with due precantions as to health,

: favourable conditions, a great reduction of the

‘district may be anticipated, Nor is a complete solution

raphical problem so diligently pursued a matter wholly
and expectation.

of Mr. Carlyle in the field of foreign pol

oved the signal for the descent into the arena of a large
those who dwell ordinarily remote from the strife of
_ A familiar occurrence in the Homeric contests is

|. While Celestial minds can restrain their
| in this great encounter is waged with changing
f mortal combatants. So scon, however, as Venus, unable
fo control her indignation, interferes on behalf of the
ynO exercises a corresponding protection over the
, according to Pope's well-known rendering,

‘Thunders from the Grecian walls,
hovering Ofer his Troy, his terror shrouds
Te gloomy tempests, and a night of clouds. a

124, The Gentleman's Magasine.

No bad representative of Minerva is the “sage of Ch
Mr. Swinburne, though Apollo is his more obviows
has at Ieast the tempestuous vchemence of the God of
‘His newly-published pamphlet, “ Note of an English R
‘on the Mascovite Crusade,” brings a breath of whirlwind to b
‘upon the controversy concerning Turkey and Russia. While,
the tidings brought by Ross to Malcolm, the most vehement p
of the diatribe

Tea fee grief

‘Duc to some single breast,

that of Mr. Carlyle, the general interest is such, that the qu
may be continued—

‘No mind that’s honest
‘Bur in it shares some woe.

Mr. Swinburne, indeed, hits the nail upon the head. It is not
for Turkey, or desire to maintain a tyrannous supremacy-of Mosler
yer Christian, that animates those who refuse to take part im the
agitation Mr. Gladstone has commenced; it is mistrust of R
policy. “Anarchy on the verge of dissolution—and
an anarchy, we are assured on all hands, is the
empire of the Turk—however horrible may be the evils wro!
and the agonies inflicted by the death struggle and fierce
vulsions of its own, is impotent or beneficent by comparison wi
‘an organised and militant anarchy like that of Russia.” So
Mr. Swinburne. And it is interesting to watch the youngest ey
most fervent of our great poets casting his sword into the scale
opposite to that which is weighted by Mr. Bume Jones, Mire
Morris, Mr, Browning, Mr. Trollope, and Mr. Carlyle.

INDRED in tone with Mr. Swinburne’s pamphlet is the second _

utterance of Mr. Alfred Austin. A complete indictment of —
Russia has been framed by the author of *' The Tower of Babel.”
‘With the fidelity ofa herald Mr. Austin traces the course of Muscovite
intrigue and action, showing how fair promise has formed the con-
stant prelude to foul deed, and how incessantly renewed has been
the attempt to take advantage of Turkish difficulty to diminish the
distance between Russia and the Bosphorus. A reformation so
sudden as that with which Russia is popularly credited is, at least,
uncommon among nations, and those are pardonable who hesitate
to belicve that the tiger is tamed because its claws are temporarily
sheathed.

2 125

[Pier for Bats writers when they can say with Hornce—

_—
= ‘Exeg! monumentum sere perennius,
| sittce the difficulties in the way of providing them with the more
s rn il of bronze or marble seem insuperable. In
‘spite o efforts of tercentenary committees, Shakespeare has
et fo trust to that “livelong monument" he has built “in our
‘wonder and astonishment,” and Byron, it appears, is not likely
| fo Gare better. OF the designs for a monument sent in to the
Byron Memorial Committee none commends itself as being
| worthy of the occasion. The committee has accordingly decided
‘1% reopen the compctition and allow six months longer for the pre-
‘Prritiva of designs. That a failure like this reflects great discredit
‘apon English art will be pretty generally conceded. Few, however,
| will be likely to challenge the wisdom of the decision. I have not
“fren the designs, and am consequently in no position to speak as
f6 their merits It ix satisfactory, however, to think that we treat
| “oer tathors with more respect than our monarchs. It is doubtful
‘whether Charles the First is the most unfortunate or ill-treated of
‘English kings. If some of our past Sovercigns have escaped the
fate Qeeredo before their days assigned to all monarchs that had
‘thes lired, and if they are able to take cognisance of what passes
5 the world they have quitted, they must feel at times as if exemp-
‘toa from the kind of pillory in which we now exhibit our rulers in
O Greets and squares would have been cheaply purchased at the
peice of decapitation.

his *Paradoxe sur le Comédien” Diderot says what, for the

Test, is sufficiently obvious, that ‘Rien ne se passe exactement

Se icine comme en nature.” This commonplace of art is, how-
Sct, lost sight of by not a few managers and actors, The realism
| Betnery which is now carried so far does little or nothing to add
tht trartemblawce of the dramatic action, and is as often a dis-
febiice to the faith of the spectator as an ald. Somewhere
© wher realism must end and conventional treatment begin,
Ale all, actors do but “poison in jest,” to use the phrase of
Tf, however, a check is not put upon the impetuosity

Of ane of our artists, and if conventional treatment is not substi-
Nit foe the realistic, it scems possible that the sensation of a real
Sisifation upon the stage may be provided the playgoer.
Dithg a recent performance of “Richard ILL.” Mr. Barry Sullivan
fGljon the stage with his face ripped up by the sword of

126 The Gentleman's Magazine.

Richmond. Rumour says, with how much troth T know
this was a return compliment, a like accident having p
befallen Richmond at the hand of Richard. If I am igi
informed, moreover, @ similar misfortune once befell Mr,’
during the fencing scene in “Hamlet.” Now, a good acto
ordinarily a good fencer. When a country Lacrtes asked
where he should pink him— Where you can, sir,
slightly arrogant reply. Still, if stage fighting is co
with the violence now customary, an accident more
than any that has yet occurred may be expected. Badly as
actors one and all play Shakespeare, it would be a pity to de
their lives as the penalty of their incompetency. Will none
them, then, see that stage fighting should be as conventional
stage drubbing? When Mascarille is beaten by Lelio, or when
returns the compliment, the spactator is never under the appre
hension of any bones being broken. Why, then, should
crossing of swords be more realistic than the application of ex
tree to the back? When the heroine screams at the appro
danger, she does not employ the strident notes of absolute 9
and when she weeps, even, she does so with due regard to
requirements of pearl-powder. No reason whatever can be a
vanced for placing fighting in a different category from these an
other similar things. The actor may not even plead that the
gallery is delighted with a good fight. As much enthusiasm as was:
ever provoked by the finest fencing in the world or the most
vigorous onslaught has been again and again accorded to the old
fashioned broadsword fight, where the banging of weapons up and
down might take place to the tune of a hornpipe. I

by those who see with regret buildings licensed in which
the conditions of exit violate all rules of caution and common sense
it has been answered by the managers that fires seldom take place
while the performance is in progress, and that loss of life isan
improbable contingency, These comfortable delusions in which the
proprietors of theatres in cellars bury themselves are dispallod by
the accident at the Brooklyn Theatre and the fearfal loss of life
with which it is attended. While this calamity is still fresh im the
memory of the public, it is well to urge upon the Lord Chamber~
lain, as the licenser of theatres, the expediency of exercising a
more jealous supervision over those houses which are built im
defiance of all rales of ordinary caution. The risk of those who

AAPBEN the frequency of fires in theatres has been pointed a

ad 4875. In this melancholy catalogue England
rthan twenty-one theatres having been destroyed

B ri The list is, moreover, far from complete.
eee mopman States ol which may record is pre~

Rectan the performance of a play called “All
on the story of Henry VIII. According to a
Jin the Gentleman's Magasine, Vol. LXXXVI,, p. 124,
“progress was not unlike that at the Brooklyn

‘This fearofull fire beganne above.
‘A wonder strange and true,
And to the stage-howse did remove
‘As round as Taylor's clewe
And burt downe both beam and snagge,
And did not spare the silken flagge.
‘Oh sorrow, pitiful sorrow, and yet all this is true.
A Geastrophe almost as serious as that which now moves the
America and England took place at the Richmond
Wetied States) Theatre in 1812, and is described at length in
| Web's “History of the American Theatres." So great a
SStion did this create that a law was passed prohibiting amuse-
tts for four months. A striking proof of public horror and
x ‘this. Tt must, however, have seemed not a little
€ as well as illogical to actors and all connected with
it deprived of a livelihood.

ADmtRERS or “Red Spinner's" sketches of English riverside
‘Senery will read, I think, with some pleasure two or three

So Senior ates eo from his new home in Queens-
Sad Here is a little bit of local colour:—""To-day in mid-winter
OR find myself writing, bare-headed and in ordinary

128 The Gentleman's Magazine.

summer costume, in a broad open verandah, pausing «

ook down upon my little lawn sloping to the river's edge;
the bananas whose long graceful leaves have been split to
by recent gales; upon the peach tree, just now in gl
blossom; upon the orange trees with their golden frit pe
through dark green branches; upon the guava trees,
all at one time with blossom, bud, and fruit; upon
English flowers—to wit, violets, geraniums, verbenas, and zinnii
which are in welcome bloom; upon mulberry, vine, passion fre
loquat, and citron trees, which are waiting for the advent o
Australian spring; upon the mangroves which mark the
boundary; upon the Catholic Cathedral on the oppasite side,
from which comes, refined by passage across the broad stream,
rising and falling of Mozart's mass music." Speaking of the firs
impressions which the immigrant from the old country gets af
new land, he says :—“' He perceives that rough and strong postsam
rails replace the sweet-scented hedgerows of the old country;
here there are vastness of space and freedom to roam at will; tha
many a settler lives in a tiny slab hut, with roof of bark or shi
and looks jolly and contented, with his children playing about,
with the consciousness that though his estate be unculti

wild and even poor it is his own to make or mar. Nearer town!
scene becomes less primitive. Groves of bananas, ficlds of
maize, patches of sugar, clumps of bamboo around the large

of well-to-do farmers and manufacturers, and numerous
industrial pursuits appear. Then come the suburbs of Bris

river, and finally, having rounded a sharp tongue of land, the bill
wharves, warchouses, churches, and shipping of the town! dl
burst into view. Upon hills right and left the city of Bi
stands revealed, charmingly situated, but as yet in its i

infancy which any one may see at a glance is lusty, and rapid ns

progression to maturity. Government House, standing in
grounds; the Botanical gardens, full of strange tropical trees
plants; and the imposing Parliament buildings, with their centt
dome, appear in succession as the steamboat sweeps round andtht
sharp curve and makes for the emigration depot, where under seu
supervision the immigrants must remain until they have fout
employment.”

landlady of the hotel—who had herself been born in Koa
married to a Glasgow man—a choice of Keeton folk willing |
respectable and well-recommended lodgers—“ real ladies ”
Miss Grey, being cordially vouched for by the landlady as a re
found out a Keeton woman in the West Centre who had a.
room and two bedrooms to let.

Had Miss Grey invented the place, it could not have
better. Itwas an old-fashioned street, running outofa h
fashioned square. The street was no thoroughfare. Ths othe
was closed by a solemn, sombre structure with a portico, and
portico a plaster bust of Pallas. This was an institution or foun
of some kind which had long outlived the uses whereto it h
devoted by its pious founder. It now had nothing but a
Jecture-hall, an enclosed garden (into which, happily for her, #
dows of Miss Grey's bedroom looked), an old fountain in the
considerable funds, a board of trustees, and an annual dinner.
place lent an. air of severe dignity to the street, and f r
the street secluded and quiet by blocking up one of its
inviting no traffic. ‘The house in which our pair of wanden
lodging was itsclf old-fashioned, and in a manner picturesque,
broad old staircases of stone, and a large hall and fine rooms.
once been a noble mansion, and the legend was that its owner |
entertained Dr. Johnson there, and Sir Joshua Reynolds,
Mrs. Thrale had often been handed up and down that

pose whatever than the pleasure of fancying herself following im)
footsteps of bright Mrs. Thralc, with whose wrongs Miss Grey,

misanthrope, was especially bound to sympathise.
‘The drawing-room happily looked at least aslant over the ge
and the trees of the square. Minola's bedroom, as has been
looked into the garden of the institution, with its well-kept walks!
shrubs, and its old-fashioned fountain, whose quiet plash was
heard in the seclusion of the back of the house. Had the trunk#
the trees been just a little less blackened by smoke, our hen

pra) dalight fnithe story of the lower, clases, © wenlageal
Feges lon dova, eat oad pot done’ uh cha dea
“Very well ; now listen. ‘The lowest of all is the butcher.
a wealthy man, I am sure, and his daughter, who sits in the
in the shop, is a good-looking girl, Tthink. But in private ti
in Gainsborough Place mixes with them on really cordial terms.
friends come from other places ; from butchers’ shops in o
‘They do occasionally interchange a few courtesies with
the baker; but the baker's wife, though not nearly so ba, a
patronises and looks dawn upon Mrs. Butcher.”
“what odd people I”
“ Well, the pastry-cook's family will have nothing to do, excep
the way of business, with the butcher or the baker ; but they an
friendly with the grocer, and they have evenings together. Ni
‘two little old maids, who keep the stationer's shop where the
is, are very genteel, and have explained to me more than once
don't feel at home in this quarter, and that their friends an
West End. But they are not well off, poor things, 1 fear, and t
like to spend an evening now and then with the family of the gr
and the pastry-cook, who are rather proud to receive them, and ean g
them the best tea and Madeira cake ; and both the little lad
assure me that nothing can be more respectable than the
of the pastry-cook and the grocer—for their station of |
add."

Oh, of course |" Miss Blanchet said, who was listening: we
interest as to a story, having that order of mind to which anyth)
is welcome that offers itself in ive form, but not having @
perception of a satirical purpose in the whole explanation. Min
appreciated the “ of course,” and somehow became discouraged.
* Well,” she said, “that's nearly all, except for the family of}
chemist, who live next to the little ladies of the post office, and #
only know even them by sufferance, and would not for all |
world have any social intercourse with any of the others. Its 4
lightful, I think, to find that London is not one place at all, but 0)
a cluster of little Keetons. This one street is Keeton to the t
Mary, I want to pursue my studies deeper, though ; I want to §
out how the gradations of society go between the mothers of the
who drives the butcher's cart, the baker's boy, and the pustyoo9
boy." ]

‘a much better-educated girl than I am.
Mary. She has been taught in
iso well hat T found it very hard to under-
the harp, and knows all about Wagner; T

ch, and she is coming here to take tea with us.”

‘everyone, I do really believe,” she said. “T
‘get on with people—with some people.”
Rae anaies cer neve T can say all the cynical

me—you don't mind—and I can like and dislike

| you dislike more than you like, Minola.”

E I could like anyone who had some strong purpose in

‘of money, or making a way in society. There

3 I don’t know.”

Sie ay brothier, Tam sure you will acknowledge
in life which is not the getting of money," said

‘But you don’t like men.”
no reply. Poor little Miss Blanchet felt so kindly to
‘men, that she did not understand how any woman
them.

ig to do something that will please you to-morrow,”
F ‘that she owed her companion some atone-
ing to the mention of her brother. “I am posi-
‘out Lucy Money. They must have returned by

1534 The Gentleman's Magasine.

‘This was really very pleasant nows for Miss Blanchet. She had |
heen longing for her friend to renew her acquaintance with Mi:
Money, about whom she had many dreams. Jt did) not
Mary Blanchet to question directly even in her own mind the de
of Miss Grey, o to say to herself that the course of life which ;
were leading was not the most delightful that could be devised. But,
if the little poetess could have ventured to translate vague yearnings
into definite thoughts, she would, perhaps, have acknowl
herself a faint desire that the brilliant passages of the London
she had marked out for herself in anticipation should come rather
more quickly than they just now seemed likely to do, At present
there was not much difference perceptible to her between London”
and Dukes-Keeton. Nobody came to see them—even her brother”
had not yet presented himself, Her poem did not make much pro~
gress ; there was no great incentive to poctic work. Minola and she
did not know any poets, or artists, or publishers. Mary Blan
poctic tastes were of a somewhat old-fashioned school, and did |
include any particular care for looking attrees,and fields, and water, and
skies, although these objects of natural beauty were made to figurein the |
poems a good deal in connection with, and illustrative of, the emer
tions of the poctess. Therefore the rambles in the park were not 40°
delightful to her as to her leader; and when the evening set in, and
Minola and she tead to each other, Mary, Blanchet was always rather
pleased ifan opportunity occurred for interrupting the reading bya
talk, She was particularly anxious that Minola should renew her ac
quaintance with her old schooifellow, Miss Lucy Money, whose father
she understood to be somehow a great sort of person, and through
whom she saw dimly opening up a vista, perhaps the only one for
her, into society and literature. But the Money family were out of
town when our friends came to. London, and Miss Blanchet had te
wait; and, even when it was probable that they had returned, Miss
Grey did not seem very eager to. renew the acquaintance, Indeed,
her resolve to visit Miss Money now. was entirely a good-natured
concession to the evident desire of Mary Blanchet. Minola saw her
friend's little ways and weaknesses clearly, and smiled now and them:
as she thought of them, and liked her none the Jess for them—rather»
indeed, felt her breast swell with kindliness and pity. It pleased hee
generous heart to gratify her companion in every way, to find owe
things that she liked and bring them to her, to study her little innocens=—=
vanities, that she might gratify them, What little dainties Marge"
Blanchet liked to have with her tea, what pretty ribbons she thonge™=

it became her to wear, these Miss Grey was always perplexing herselitt

136 The Gentleman's Magazine.

Once Minola was positively on the point of turing back,
renouncing all claim on the acquaintanceship of her
companion. She suddenly remembered, however, that in
her own fancied weakness she had forgotten that her visit was
taken to oblige Mary Blanchet. ‘ Poor Mary! 1 have only
acquaintanceship that has anything to do with society, and am
deny her that chance if she likes it?” She went on rapidly and
Iutely. Sometimes she felt inclined to blame herself for
Mary Blanchet away from Keeton, although Mary had for ye
been complaining of her life and her work there, and
Miss Grey not to leave her behind when she went to live
London. |

Tt was a beautiful autumn day. London looks to great advanta
on one of these rare days, and Miss’ Grey felt her heart swell w|
mere delight as she looked from the streets to the sky and from
sky to the streets. She passed through one or two squares”
stopped to see the sun, already going down, send its light throg
the bare branches of the trees. The western sky was coveted #

grey, silver-edged clouds, which brightened into blot of ‘na

as they came closer in the track of the sun. ‘The air was mild:
and almost warm. All poets and painters are full of the
charms of the country ; but to certain oddly constituted minds 0
street views in London on a fine autumn day have an. unspeaka
witchery, Miss Grey walked round and round one of the squat
and had to remind herself of her purpose on Mary Blanchet's bel
in order to impel herself on.

‘The best of the day had gone, and the early evening was look
somewhat chill and gloomy between the huge ramparts of the Viet
Street houses by the time that Miss Grey stood im that sole
thoroughfare, and her heart sank a little as she reached the ho
where her old school friend lived.

“ Perhaps Lucy Money is altogether changed,” Miss Grey said
herself as she came up to the door. Perhaps'she won't care ab
me; perhaps I shan't like her any more ; and perhaps her mam
will think me a dreadful person for not honouring my stepfather
stepmother. Perhaps there are brothers—odious, slangy young m
who think girls fall in love with them. Oh, yes, here is one of the:

For just as she had rung the bell a hansom eab drove up £0}
door, and a tall, dark-complexioned young man leaped out |

raised his hat with what seemed to Miss Grey something the man}
of a foreigner when he saw her standing at the door, and she felt
momentary thrill of relief because, if he was @ foreigner, he oo

answered, with the manner of one
on. ‘The young man did notseem

d say more distinctly than the young man’s ¢xpres-
sory to hear it” Indeed, no young man in the

‘Money could have avoided wishing that the
“standing at the door might prove to be Miss

ned, and the young man drew politely back to give
‘chance. She asked for Miss Lucy Money, and
for one of Mr. Money's servants. Miss Grey
ard with her, on which she had written over her
me, | ‘Lucy Money,” and beneath it, “ Nola,” the
of “ Minola” which they used to adopt at school.
orter looked enquiringly at the other visitor.
2 ‘is at home," said the latter, “I should be glad to
T find. ‘T have forgotten my card-case, but my name is
Victor Heron ; and do, please, try to remember it, and

‘Cuarrer V.
MISS OREY'S FIRST CALL.

Ps home, like Mr. Moncy himself, conveyed to the
“an idea of quiet, self-satisied strength. Mr.
the finest and most expensive suites of rooms
‘great Victoria Street buildings, and his rooms
nely and richly. He had servants

138 The Gentleman's Magazine.

sober livery, and a carriage for his wife

Tittle brougham for- himself, He made no pret
fashionable—rather, indeed, seemed to say delib

plain man and don't care twopence about fashion,

making a show of being rich; but I am rich enough for all
whatever money can buy for me I can buy.” He would no

wife and daughters to aim at being persons of fashion had
inclined, but they might spend as much money as ever:

He never made a boast of his original poverty, or the I
his bringing up, nor put on any vulgar show of rugged ind le
‘The impression he made upon everybody was, that of a com
self-sufficing—we do not say self-sufficient—man, It

clear how he had made his money. He had been at the he

of the working departments under the Government, had
fancied himself ill-treated, resigned his place, an

had entered into various contracts to do work for

foreign States. It was certain that Mr. Money was not a

His name never appeared in the directors’ list of any new

He could not be called a City man, But it was certain that’ ew
ich,

‘Mr, Money was in Parliament. He wasa strong Radical in
and was believed to have much stronger opinions than he
himself to express. ‘There was a rough, scornful way about him):
one who considered all our existing arrangements m
visional, and who in the mean time did not care 10 occupy.
overmuch with the small differences between this legislative p
sition and that. It was not on political subjects that he usually
He was a very good speaker, clear, direct, and expressive in hi
guage, always using plain, effective words, and always showing
fect case in the finishing of his sentences. There was a save
literature about him, and it was evident in many indirect waps th
he knew Greek and Latin much better than most of the Uni
men. ‘The impression he produced was that of a man who on
subjects knew more than he troubled himself to display. Tt set
as if it would take a very ready speaker indeed to enter into per
contest with Mr. Money, and not get the worst of it

He was believed to be very shrewd and clever, and was known i!
liberal of his money. People consulted him about many things;
some extent admired him; some were a littleafraid of himand, in
phrase,fought shy of him, Perhaps he was thought to be
pethaps his blunt way of going at the very heart of a scruple in

made them fancy that he rather despised all moral conyenti

140 The Gentleman's Magazine,

“To go where you know people don't want to see you? Yes, it
tries young and sensitive people a good deal. They've put you off 27

“As Ttold you, I have seen nobody yet. But I mean to perse-
vere, ‘They shall find I am not a man to be got rid of in that way." |

‘Mr. Money made no observation on this, but went to a drawer in
his desk, and took out a little book with pages alphabetically arranged.

“Thave been making enquiries about you,” he said, “ of various
people who know all about the colonies, Would you like to.heara
summary description of your personal character? Don’t be offended |
—this i¢ a way T have; the moment a person interests me and seems ||
worth thinking about, [ enter him in my little book here, and sum up)
his character from my own obscrvation and from what people tell
me. Shall Iread it for you? I wouldn't, you may be sure, if I thought
you were anything of a fool.”

‘This compliment, of course, conquered Heron, who was otherwise
a good deal puzzled. But there was something in Mr, Money's
manner with those in whom he took any interest that prevented thelr
feeling hurt by his oceasional bluntness.

“T don’t know myself," Heron said.

“Of course you don’t. What basy man, who has to know other
people, could have time to study himself? ‘That work might do for
philosophers. I may teach you something now, and save you the
trouble.”

“I suppose I ought to make my own acquaintance,” said Heron
resignedly, while much preferring to talk of his grievance,

“Very good. Now listen. |

“ Heron, Victor—Formerly in administration of St. Xavier's Set=
tlements. Got into difficulty; dropped down. Education good, but
literary rather than business-like. Plenty of pluck, but wants cool=
ness. Egotistic, but unselfish, Good deal of talentand go Very
honest, but impracticable. A good weapon in good hands, but must
take care not to be made a plaything.”

Heron laughed. “It's a little like the sort of thing phreno-
logists give people,” he said, “ but I think it’s very flattering. I cam
assure you, however, no one shall make a plaything of me," he added
with emphasis.

“So we all think, so we all think," Mr, Money said, putting away
his book. “Well, you are going on with this, then?”

“Tam going to vindicate my conduct, and compel them to grax
me an enquiry, if you mean that, Nothing on earth shall keep rt
from that.”

So, 0! Very well, we'll talk about that another time—max™>

advice, which you needn’t
offended, Now, I want to

it Taust have a cup of
“drinking tea at five o'clock in the

re some great person, Mr. Heron—Burke, was it?—
to say that whatever troubles he had outside, all ceased as
his own door? Well, I always feel like that when I lift

@ pretty sight, as he again raised the curtain, and led
The drawing-room was very large, and was richly,
cemed to Heron somewhat oddly, furnished. ‘The light
wer part was faint and dim, a sort of ycllowish twilight,
| by softencd lamps. The upper extremity was steeped
‘brighter light, and displayed to Heron, almost as on a
tle group of women, among whom his quick eye at once
it who had come up to the door at the same time with him.
indeed, a very conspicuous figure, for she was seated
done gitl sat at her fect, while another stood at the arm
and bent over her. An elderly lady, with voluminous
‘that floated over the floor, was reclining on a low arm-chair,
4 tumed to Heron. Ona fancy table near, a silver
‘A daintily dressed waiting-maid was serving tea.
care of the floor as you come along,” said Money. “ We
at rags, and rolls of carpet, and stools now I sorts of
g places to trip people up. That shows how artistic we are !
this is my friend, Mr. Heron,”
to sce you, Mr. Heron,” said a full, deep, melancholy

lied out to Heron a thin hand covered with rings, and having
d dependent chainlets, thar, when Heron gave \

142 The Gentleman's Magazine.
even the gentlest pressure, they rattled like the manacles of a
x oa

“ Wesaw you in Paris, Mr. Heron," the lady graciously said, “bet |
T think you hardly saw us.” .

“These are my daughters, Mr. Heron, ‘Theresa and Lucy, 1)
think them good girls, though full of nonsense,” said Mn Money,

Lucy, who had been on a footstool at Miks Grey's feet, gathered
herself up, blushing. She was a pretty girl, with brown, frizey hair,
and wore a dress which fitted Ker so closely from neck to hip, dt
she might really have been, to all seeming, melted or moulded imto |
it. ‘The other young lady, Theresa, slightly and gravely inclined her
head to Mr. Heron, who at once thought the whole group:
delightful and beautiful, and found his breast filled with a new
in the loved old England that produced such homes and:
them with such women.

“Dear, darling papa,” exclaimed the enthusiastic lithe Lucy
swoopirg at her father, and throwing both arms round his neck, “we
have had such a joy to-day, such a surprise! Don’t you see
anybody here? Oh, come now, do use your eyes.”

“J see a young lady whom I have not yet the pleasure o&
knowing, but whom I hope you will help me to know, Lucelet™

Mr, Money tumed to Miss Grey with his genial smile She
rose from the sofa and bowed, and waited. She did not as yet quae
understand the Money family, and was not sure whether she onglem
to like them or not. They impressed her at first as being far (=
rich for her taste, and odd and affected, and she hated affeeration:

“But this is Nola Grey, papa—my dearest old schoolfcllow whexe
I was at Keeton; you must have head me talk of Nola Grey ==
thousand times,”

So she dragged her papa up to Nola Grey, whose colour grew =
little at this tempestuous kind of welcome,

“ Dare say I did} Lucelet, but Miss Grey, Tam sure, will exeuseneue
if I have forgotten ; { am very glad to see you, Miss Grey—ghid #0
see any friend of Lucelet’s. So you come from Keeton? That®™
another reason why I should be glad to see you, for I just now waerle
to ask a question or two about Keeton, Sit down.”
lowed herself to be led to 2 soft a Title distance
from where she had been sitting. Mr, Money sat beside her.

“Now, Lucelet, I want to ask Miss Grey a sensible question ©
two, which I don’t think you would care twopence about, Jem
you go and help our two Theresas to talk to Me. Heron.”

“But, papa darling, Miss Grey won't. care aout what you ee

144 The Gentleman's Magazine.

“England,” Theresa Money said, smiling sweetly, but with a sui
fusion of melancholy, “can hardly be regenerated until she is
more dipped in the holy well.” ‘

“You see, we all think differently, Mr. Heron," said the
Lucy. “ Mamma thinks we want a republic, ‘Tessy is a saint,
would like to see roadside shrines,” «

“And you?” Heron asked, pleased with the girl's bri
winning ways.

“Oh, I—I only believe in the regeneration of England
the renascence of art. So we all have our different theories, you
but we all agree to differ, and we don’t quarrel much, Papa laughs.
us all, when he has time. But just now I am taken up with
Grey. If T were a man, I should make an idol of her, That
statuesque face, that figure—like the Diana of the Louvre!"

Mr. Heron looked and admired, but one person’s raptures
man or woman seldom awaken corresponding raptures in ii
breasts. He saw, however, a handsome, lady-like girl, who
to him a sort of chilling impression,

“She was my schoolfellow at Keeton," Lucy went on, “and
was 50 good and clever that I adored her then, and Ido now
She has come to London to live alone, and I am sure she must
some strange and romantic story.”

Meanwhile Mr. Money, who prefaced his enquiries by telling
Grey that he was always asking information about something,
to put several questions to her concerning the local magnates,
and parties of Keeton, Minola was rather pleased to be talked toy
aman as if she were a rational creature. Like most girls brought),
in a Nonconformist household in a country town, she had been Si
rounded by political talk from her infancy, but, unlike most girls, se)
had sometimes listened to it and learned to know what it was alli
So she gave Mr, Money a good deal of information, which he
with an approbatory “Yes, yes," or an enquiring “So, 50,” every
and then.

“You know that there's likely to be a yacancy soon in the repee
sentation—member of Parliament,” he added by way of explanation. |

“I know what a vacancy in the representation means,” Miss Gry)
answered demurely, “but I didn’t know there was likely to be on
iust now. I don't keep up inuch correspondence with Keeton ©
don't love it.”

“Why not?"

“Qh, I don’t know.”

He smiled.

: emphatically,
pasecediwreng doing of thinking him ridiculous and

‘Mr. Heron rose to take his leave, and Mr.
toom with him, <o that the conversation with Miss
‘Then Lucy came to Nola again, and Nola was
ythe three women, who began to lay out various schemes
n and making London pleasant to her. Much as
loved her loneliness, she was greatly touched by
5 kindness, but she was alarmed by it too,
brought to Mra. Money, who passed it on to Lucy.
1" Lucy exclaimed. “ So glad he has come,
, dear, a poet, a real poet |”
‘not prolong her visit that day even for a poet. A
tall, dark-haired man, who at a distance seemed
and when near looked worn and not very young, was
the moment or two that she could sce him, Minola
‘had never seen so self-conceited and affected a creature.
‘hear his name nora word he said, but his splendid
sct in hollows, took in avery outline of her face
thought him the poet of a school-gir!’s romance made

herself from the clinging cmbraces of Lucy, with less
because of the poct’s arrival, to whose society
anxious to hasten back. Itso happened that Mr.
pt Mr. Heron for a few minutes in talk, and the result
‘Miss Grey reached the door, Mr, Heron arrived

L

146 The Gentleman's Magazine,

there too. They both came out together, and in a
were in the grey atmosphere, dun lines of houses, and

Victor Heron, however, was full of the antique ideas of n
chivalrous duty and woman's sweet dependence, which still
in the out-of-the-way colony where he had spent so much of h
Also, it must be owned that he had not yet quite got rid of the:
of responsibility and universal dictatorship belonging to the
man ina petty commonwealth. For some time after his retun
London he could hardly see an omnibus-horse fall in the street
out thinking it was an occasion which called for some inter
on his part. ‘Therefore, when Miss Grey and he stood in the
together, Mr. Heron at once assumed that the young woman mu
a matter of course, require his escort and protection.

He calmly took his place at her side, Miss Grey was a little
prised, but said nothing, and they went on.

“ Do you live far from this, Miss Money?” he began,

“Tam not Miss Money—my name is Grey.”

“Of course, yes—I beg your pardon for the mistake. It ea
only a mistake of the tongue, for I knew very well that you were 1
Miss Money.”

“Thank you.”

not have easily forgotten it.”

“Tam greatly obliged to my godfathers and godmothers.”

“ Did you say that you lived in this quarter, Miss Grey?"

“No—I did not make any answer; f had not time.”

“ T hope you do not live very near,” the gallant Heron ob:

“Why do you hope that?” Miss Grey said, turning her eves
him with an air of cold resolution, which would probably
proved very trying to a less sincere maker of compliments,
though a far more dexterous person than Mr. Heron.

“Of course, because T should have the less of your company,

« But there is no need of your coming out of your way forme
don't require any-escort, Mr, Heron.”

«1 couldn't think of letting a lady walk home by herself “Thit
would seem very strange to me. Perhaps you think me oll)
fashioned or colonial ?"

“I have heard that you are from the colonies. In London
have not time to keep up all these pretty forms and ceremonies.
don’t any longer pretend to think that a girl! needs to be defended

148 The Gentleman's Magasine,

tution ! the National Gallery, how hidcous the building:
earth didn't anybody do something?—the glorious destiny of |
—the utter imbecility of the English Government.

It was not always quite casy to keep up with his talk, for
strects were crowded and noisy, and Mr. Heron talked right 0
through every interruption. When they came to crossings

have made a nervous person shudder, Mr. Heron coolly too

hand and conducted her in and out, talking all the
as if they were crossing a ball-room floor, Minola made ita po
of honour not to hesitate, or start, or show that she had ner
But when he began to run into politics he always pulled him
for he politely remembered that young ladies did not care
politics, and so he tried to find some prettier subject to talk als
Miss Grey understood this perfectly well, and was amused 3
contemptuous.

“T suppose this man must be a person of some brains and seme”
she thought. “He was in command of something somewhere, and
suppose even the Government he calls 30 imbecile would not.
put him there if he were a downright fool. But, because he talks 0m
woman, he feels bound only to talk of trivial things.” +

‘At last the walk came to an end. “Ab, I beg pardon, you lie
here,” Mr. Heron said. “May I have the honour of calling on 30
family? I sometimes come to the Museum, and, if I might calli)
should be delighted o make their acquaintance.”

“Thank you,” Miss Grey said coldly, I have no family ay
father and mother are dead.’

“Oh, I am so sorry! I wish I had not asked such a question.”
looked really distressed, and the expression of his eye had fer!
first time a pleasing, softening effect upon Miss Grey. |

“We lodge here, all alone. A lady—an old friend of mine—and +
We have no acquaintances, unless Lucy Money's family may be
so. We read and study a great deal, and don’t go out, and dont
anyone.”

“T can quite understand,” Mr, Heron answered with grim
sympathy, “Of course you don't cire to be intruded on by visita
I thank you for having allowed me the pleasure of accompanying ]™™
#0 far.”

He spoke in tones much more deferential than before, for B=
assumed that the young Iady was lonely. and poor. ‘There was so
thing in his manner, in his eyes, in his grave, respectful voice,

conveyed to Mjnola the idea of genuine eympathy, and brought ©

pfObte. ee
| “Yes; and he is longing to see you."
© Minola sincerely wished that she could
tosee him, But she could not say it, even to
comrade. ¢

“You don’t want to see him,” said Mary B

“But you do, dear," Miss Grey said, and I shall i
‘one, be sure, who brightens your life,”

‘This was said with full sincerity, although at the very moment
whimsical thought passed through ber, We only want Mr,
Sheppard now to complete our social happiness,” ~

Cuarrer VI,
18 THIS ALCESTE?

Mro1a's mind was a good deal disturbed by the various
events of the day, the incidents and consequences of her
in London, She began to see with much perplexity and
ment that her life of lonely independence was likely to be
promised, She was not sure that she could much like the
and yet she felt that they were disposed and determined to!
kind to her. ‘There was something ridiculous and painful in
that Mr, Augustus Sheppard's name was thrust upon her,
the first moment of her crossing for the first time a strange thre
in London; then there was Mary Blanchet's brother tuming up; aud
Mary Blanchet herself was evidently falling off from the high
of lonely independence, Again, there was Mr, Heron, who
knew where she lived, and who often went to the British
and who might cross her path at any hour, Sweet, lonely
happy carelessness of action, farewell!

‘Mr. Heron was especiallya trouble to Minola. ‘The kindly,
expression on his face when he heard of her living alone
as nearly as any words could do, that he considered her an object
pity. Was she an object of pity? Was that the light in which
‘one could look at her superb project of playing at a lifelong holiday?
And if people chose to look at it so, what did that matter to her?
Are women, then, the slaves of the opinion of people all around
them? They are,” Minola said to herself in scom and melancholy,
“They are; we are, Iam shaken to my very-soul, because m young

Ls" =|

152 The Gentleman's Magazine.

planned for dunng years! Not often, perhaps, has «
fanciful, and spirited girl been pressed down by such |
relationships as hers at Keeton lately ; a twice
and stepmother, absolutely uncongenial with her,
and her youth to congeal amid dull repression, What

‘to her all happiness seemed to consist in mere freedom i
stricted self-development? And now—so soon—why does she
to doubt the reality, the fulfilment of her happiness? Only bec
an impulsive and kindly young man, whom she saw for the
looked pityingly at her. This, she said to herself, is what
reliance and our emancipation come to after all.

Tt was a positive relief to her, after a futile hour or 30 of!
questioning, when Mary Blanchet ran upstairs, and with Bean
eyes begged that Minola would come and see her brother. “8
longing to sce you—and you will like him—oh, you will like)
Minola dearest 1” she said beseechingly.

Miss Grey went downstairs straightway, without stoppitig
‘one touch to her hair, or ane glance at the glass. The little
was waiting a moment, with an involuntary look towards the:
table, as if Miss Grey must needs have some business there
she descended; but Miss Grey thought of nothing of the Kind,
they went downstairs together.

Minola expected, she could not tell why, to see a small)
rather withered man in Mary Blanchet’s brother. When they)
entering the drawing-room he was looking out of the window, and
his back turned, and she was surprised to see that he was decid
tall. When he tumed round, she saw that not only was he
but that she had recognised the fact of his being handsome be
For he was unmistakably the ideal poet of school-girls whom She
met at Mr. Money's house the day before.

‘The knowledge produced a sort of embarrassment to begin)
Minola was about to throw her soul into the sacrifice, and gree!
friend’s brother with the utmost cordiality. But she had pietury
herself a sort of Mary Blanchet in trousers, a gentle, oldsfashi¢
timid person, whom, perhaps, the outer world was apt to mispd
not even to snub, and whom therefore it became her, Minola Gre
an enemy and outlaw of the common world, to receive with dé
consideration. But this brilliant, self-conceited, affected, oppress
handsome young man, on whom she had seen Lucy Money and
mother hanging devotedly, was quite another sort of person.
presence seemed to overcharge the room; the scene became allt
pound of tall bending form and dark eyes.

154 The Gentleman's Magasine,

“Ifyou call it travelling. I have drifted about the world
deal, and seen the wrong sides of everything. I make it
sort of way. When any place that I know is brought

larly well with Italy, showing that Naples is the ugliest place ’
world ; that the Roman women have shockingly bad figures,
the limite di is wretched from the Alps to the Straits of Messina!”

“ But you don’t think that?" Mary Blanchet said wonderingly, —

“Don't 1? Well, I don’t know. 1 almost think I do for th
moment, One can get into that frame of mind. Besides, I re
don’t cure about scenery. I don’t observe it as T pass alang.
like to say what other people don't say, and tosee what they don'tse
Of course I don’t put my name to any of these things ; they ere |
done to make a living, I live om such stuff as that, T live fir Art

“Tt is glorious to live for art,” his sister exclaimed, pressing ia
thin, tiny hands together.

Mr. Blanchet did not seem to care much about his cd
approval.

“ Myart isn'tyours, Mary," he said, with a pitying smile, “Tico
of flowers and of little children saying their prayers, andinice poem
about good young men and women, are your ideas of painting ana
poetry, Iam sure. You are a lover of the human race, I know."

“T hope I love my neighbours,” Mary said eartestly. |

“T hope you do, dear, All good little women like you ought t
do that. Do you love your neighbour, Miss Grey?”

“T don’t care much for anyone,” Miss Grey answered. decisively!
“except Mary Blanchet. But I have no particular principle o
theory about it, only that I don’t care for people.”

Although Miss Grey had Alceste for her hero, she did not like
sham misanthropy, which she now fancied her visitor was trying t¢
display, Perhaps, too, she began to think that this misanthropy
rather caricatured her own.

Miss Blanchet, on the contrary, was inclined to argue the question,
and to pelt her brother with touching commonplaces,

“The more we know people," she emphatically declared, the
more good we see in them. In every heart there is a deep spring a
goodness. Oh, yes!”

“There isn't in mine, I know,” he said. “I speak for myself"

“For shame, Herbert! How else could you ever feel impelled
to ty and do some good for your fellow-creatures ?”

156 The Gentleman's Magasene.

seemed congenial with the talk of glooms and decay. Still, true
her first feeling towards all men, Minola was disposed to distike h
the more especially as he spoke with an air of easy superiority, as ¢
who would imply that he knew how to maintain his place abj
woman in creation,

“T thought all you poets affected to be in lowe with Nature,")
said; “I mean, you younger poets;” and she emphasised the wi
“younger” with a certain contemptuous tone, which made it }
what she meant it to be—* smaller poets.”

“Why, younger poets 2”

“Well, because the elder ones I think really were in Jove #
Nature, and didn’t affect anything.”

He smiled pityingly. ]
we don't care about Nature—<

“No,” he said decisivel
school,” s

“Tam from the country: T don't think I kpow
school is.”

“We don't want to be known in the country; we couldn't
to be known in the country.” 1

“But Fame?” Min sked; “does Fame not go outside |
twelve-mile radius?”

“Oh, Miss Grey, do pray excuse me, but you really dow understa
us; we don’t want fame. Whatis fame? Vulgarity made immorti

“Then, what do you publish for?”

He rose from his seat, and seized his hair with both hands, 0
constrained himself to endurance, and sat down again.

“ My dear young lady, we don’t publish, we don’t intend to publi
No man in his senses would publish for us if we Were never so
inclined. No one could sell six copies, The great, thick-head
public couldn't understand us. We are satisfied that the true art
never does have a public, or look for it. The public ean ha
their Tennysons, and Brownings, and Swinburnes, and Tuppers,a
all that lot—”

“That lot!" broke in Miss Blanchet, mildly horrified;
lot! Browning and Tupper put together 1"

“ My dear Mary, I don’t know one of these people from anoth)
I never read any of them now. ‘They are all the same sort of thi
to me. ‘These persons are not artists ; they are only men trying
atnuse the public, Some of them, I am told, are positively fond
politics.”

“Don’t your school care for politics?” Miss Grey asked, a
growing rather amused.

Rusia sed sun went down behind the
‘uptmed carth, and the clumps of trees;

In any troubled mood Miss Grey had

158 The Gentleman's Magazine.

Jong been accustomed to clear her spirits by singing to
and on many a long, dal! Sunday at home—in the place that
called her home—she had committed the fraud of singing
favourite ballads to stow, slow time, that they might be mistaken i=
hymns and pass unreproved. Her voice and way of singing |
the song seem like a sweet, plaintive recitative; just the singing
hear in the “gloaming,” to draw a few people hushed around it, are
hold them in suspense, fearful to lose a single note and mist th
charm of expression. In truth, the charm of it sprang from the fixe
that the singer sang to express her own emotions, and thus every!
had its reality and its meaning. When women sing for a
company, they sing conventionally, and in the way that some
has taught, or in what they believe to be the manner of some greal)
artist ; or they sing to somebody or at somebody, and in any:
they are away from that-truthfulness which in art is simply the faithfal
expression of real emotion. With Minola Grey singing was an ead
rather than a means ; arelief in itself, a new mood in itself; a pasty
away from poor and personal emotions into ideal regions, when
melancholy, if it must be, was always divine ; and pain, if it would
intrude, was purifying and ennobling. So, while the little poets
talked with her brother in the dusk, at the doorway, with the ga
lamps just beginning to light the monotonous street, Minola wis
singing herself into the pure blue ether, above the fogs, and clouds,
and discordant selfish voices.

She came back to earth with something like a heavy fall,
Mary Blanchet ran in upon her in the dark and exclaimed: © al

“ Now, do tell me—how do you like my brother?”

To say the truth, Miss Grey did not well know. "I wonder
an Alceste ?” she asked herself. On the whole, his coming had
an uncomfortable, anxious, uncanny impression upon her, and oe
looked back with a kind of hopeless regret on the days when she
had London ail to herself, and knew nobody.

(Zo be continued.)

of almost ceaseless intrigue and wars waged by Russia,
results of a much more substantial nature than “an idea)
retort from the Prime Minister of England would

Sea, the Crimea, and Little Servis, the Kuban, and the
‘Taman ; of how “in 1770 the agents of Catherine If,
Tevolt in the Peloponnesus and in Crete, with the avowed inte
wing them under the crown of the Empress 5"! of ho
1782, Catherine notified to her ally, the Emperor Joseph }
Austria, her views on the subject of the Porte in the follow
“If our successes in this war enable us to deliver Europe
enemy to the Christian name, by driving him from
your Imperial Majesty will not refuse me your assistance in
lishing the old Greck monarchy, . . . placing the youngest of1
Srandchildren, the Grand Duke Constantine, on the throne ; "of
VC years later she made that brilliant journey to Cherson,
forced the Sultan to declare war, accompanied at once by a cour
an army, with foreign ambassadors, an emperor and @ king in Mr
train, with the intention of herself assuming the high-sounding tile
of * Erppress of the Kast and Liberator of the Greeks ;" and of lo
also on that occasion she was received under triumphal arches a
Kiow, and, after extending the walls of that city, inscribed in Greek
characters on the gate next to Constantinople the words, “Through
this gate lies the road to Byzantium." He might possibly have found)
also, the treaty prepared in 1808 by Alexander I., which Napoleon t:
Teflised to sign, the object of which was to secure Constantinople fot
Russia in exchange for Syria and Egypt (which did not belong teil) |
and the independence of Poland.*
' The Hellenic Factor in the Eastern Problem, by the Right Hon, We
Gladstone, Consengorary Review, December 1876.

* Voicl les paroles de Napoléu I. derites & Ste. Méline + A Tilsit let
andre voulait Constantinople, j¢ ne devais pas l'accorders cfest une clef th
précieuse; elle yaut & elle seule un empire: celui qui la powsédera peut gouvert
Je monde.” , , ‘A Erfarth, 28 septembre 1808, {1 fut question entre PER
petente Napoléon et I'Eimpercur Aleaandre du partage de Orient. La Frat
gngoait TEgypte et In Syrie; 1a Pologne renaissait de ses condres; Napoee
jpotivalt. pacer ur sa téte la couronne d’Oecident, +e trait fae wiaigd’ ded,
‘mais an moment de signer, je me pus m’y décider, Qui me répendait gt
TEinpereur Alesandre, une fois sais de Constantinople, ne reviendesit rou

162 The Gentleman's Magazine,

‘on his return from Russia in the year 1757, he ha
of a plan of Peter the Great's in the hands of
Foreign Affairs to Louis XV., the Abbé Bemis ; and
an authentic letter from the Comte de Choiseul to d’R
November 26, 1779, in which the receipt of a paper
Peter the Great is acknowledged, which, according to Mons. |
could have been none other than what he calls the Will.

‘terms the small importance which had been attributed to som
paper by thé French Government. By that time many
provisions had been already amply fulfilled. ‘The first par
Poland had occurred in 1773 ; a most destructive war, from 1769
1774, had been waged by Catherine IL. against Turkey, w
resulted in Russia obtaining possession of the tract known as 0
Servia, of which Odessa is now the capital, on the north shore of
Black Sea, and of the forts of Yenikalch and Kertch in the

and in Russian merchant vessels being for the first time admitted —
the free navigation of the Bosphorus, In 1787 war had ages
broken out, and Turkey lost the Crimea, the Isle of Taman
part of Kouban, in the Caucasus, “The projects of Peter
Great,” writes the Chevalier d'Eon in 1778, “were considered
1757 to be so impossible of attainment as to be simply 2 chimeras,
no attention was paid to my representations by the ministers —
Versailles, From my bed of sickness (he had’broken his legoat
journey from Russia) I wrote urgently to the king, to the Abbé
Bernis, to the Marquis d’H6pital, ambassador at St, Petershoa
and to Count de Broglic, ambassador in Poland, to impress ups
them that the secret intentions of the Court of St Petersburg w=!
first to carry out Peter the Great’s plan, as soon as the King
Poland, who was then on his death-bed, should decease, by massed
troops all over the country, and securing the election of a king w="
should be the nominee of Russia, and then to seize and approprs4
a part of the country ; but on account of my youth noattention 3
paid to me, and now (in 1778) we see how fatal this negligence
been to the interests of France." “In the face of these auther®!
documents, which have been in print since 1760 and 1779,” exclaSA
Mons, Gaillardet, “what becomes of the assertions of the
Mons. Ivan Golovine, and of the story of a fraud committed 4)
Napoleon in 1811? The Chevalier d’Eon died in 1810, and #
probable explanation of the Will having seen the light in 1$rx is, that
acopy of it had been found amongst his papers at the time of Ait
death.”

‘by no means averse to the

with his special predifetion,

telat The Chey

164 The Gentleman's Magazine.

@Eon de Beaumont was accordingly charged with a mission
was to be both political and hymeneal, and, par ordre du Ret,
was desired to put on feminine attire and be

Mademoiselle Lia de Beaumont. To avoid any suspicion Fr
Purpose of his mission, it was not considered prudent that he shot
travel under the escort of a Frenchman, and a Scotch

the name of Douglas, an exile from this country for Political

was selected to accompany him. The journey was called a
excursion, but both were supplied with elaborate instructions (¢
originals of which are preserved in the archives of the French Mins
for Foreign Affairs), and ordered to report with the most scrupulo

care on the state of the Court, and of the several political BEI
well as on the military, naval, and mercantile position of Russia. ‘The
despatches were to be in allegorical language, so a8 to be incom
prehensible if intercepted ; and, whilst those of Douglas were to
addressed to the Minister for Foreign Affairs, the more co
information required from the Chevalier d’Eon was to be sent totht
king himself and to the Prince de Conti.

When they arrived at St. Petersburg they learnt that the projec
of Lovis had been forestalled by the English Government, and that
in return for an annual subsidy of £100,000, Elizabeth had entertd
into an offensive and defensive alliance with England, and had pledged
herself to supply an army of 55,000 men, which was to be sent
Hanover or to any other point in North Germany, to co-operate
the army of Frederick the Great. Thwarted by the English arsilaie
sador, Sir William Hanbury, who was at that tine all-powerfil wilt
the Russian Government, Douglas was unable to gain access tote
Court, and was forced to return almost immediately to France; bat
Mademoiselle de Beaumont was presented by the Vice-Chancellor
the empire, Count Woronzoff, to the empress, who laughed meni
at the ruse when it was explained to her, and gave d’Eon an appoitl
ment about her person as reader. He appears in the course of Hime
to have gained great influence over her, and was enabled at length ®t
return to France with a favourable answer to King Louis" proposile

Meanwhile the war had broken out, At the close of the yet
1755 England had entered into an alliance with Prussia, and, on tit
other hand, by an act of condescension on the part of the empress
queen, which led to an interchange of courtesies between Mart
‘"Vheresa and Madame de Pompadour, Austria and France had bee?
reconciled, and signed a treaty of offensive and defensive alliance =
Versailles on May 1, 1756.

The Chevalier d’Eon was consequently sent back to St. Peter=

166 The Gentleman's Magasine

bearer of the news of an important success of the
defeated the Prussians at oli sod str oro
He was thrown from his horse on this journey and br
neverthcless succeeded in arriving thirty six hours
courier. Atthe same time he brought the Prince de Conti an o! off

See ee aes aa ppt ¢
per annum, and gave him his portrait in a jewelled smuff-box and
commission as lieutenant of dragoons. The Marshal hae i
Broglie soon afterwards appointed him his aide-de-camp; he

with distinguished bravery and was several times wounded at Hi

at Ultropp, and at Osterwick, and before the conclusion of bi
was promoted to the rank of captain of dragoons.

During the continuance of the war he successfully fulfilled wo.
missions to St, Petersburg, and on the appointment in 1762 of
Duke de Nivernois as French ambassador in London, to
the terms of peace between England and France, the Chevalier
was selected to accompany him as secretary to the embassy. |
letters relating to these negotiations incidentally throw a new
‘on an interesting point in the history of that period.

It will be remembered that, although the beginning of the Seat
Years’ War was disastrous to our arms, England emerged from
gigantic struggle triumphant in all quarters of the globe. ‘The war i=
been preceded by « period of complete political inaction, and in ti
there were only three regiments fit for service in England; but >
pusillanimity of the Duke of Cumberland and of Admiral Byng, wha!
led, in 1757, to the disgraceful surrender of 50,000 men at Closter-SE™"
and to the loss of Port Mahon, roused the anger of the people, ==!
Drought to the front the great war-minister Pitt, which was soon 4
lowed by a complete change in the state of affairs. “I want to call Et
land,” he said, on taking office, “out of that enervate state in Wiest
20,000 men from France can shake her," and he thoroughly succece#4
In 1759 Admiral Hawke destroyed the French flect in Quiberon EB
Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick, in command of an Anglo-Hanovera
force, annihilated their army at Minden, on the Weser; and Genes
Wolfe won from them Canada and their other possessions in North
America, Clive's victories obliged the French to abandon all night {
any military settlement in India, and Spain lost Minorea, Cuba, and
the Philippine Islands.

By 1762 England's supremacy at sea was indisputably eI
and, with the aid of English troops and enormous subsidies,

and made a literal copy of it,
special messenger to Versailles, where
before the original, When therefore

168 The Gentleman's Magazine.

inducing the British ambassador to relinquish every debateable
point, and the preliminaries of a satisfactory peace were acco
signed on the following day (October 1762). England +
‘Canada, but gave up to France the Islands of Guadaloupe, St.’
‘St. Vincent, Grenada, St. Domingo, and others in the West
well as the Senegal territory on the coast of Africa, and the
portion of the continent of America as far as the Mii

ceded Florida ; but, an the other hand, England restored to
Islands of Minorca, Havana, and the Philippines.”

‘The Chevalier d’Eon was embraced by Louis XV, and decorated
with the order of St. Louis for his services, and a few months lst
he succeeded the Duke de Nivernois with the rank of Minister)
Plenipotentiary to the Court of St, James's." |

‘This was, however, the culminating point of his career; and
England, where he continued to reside, almost uninterruptedly, until
his déath in 1810, the Chevalier d’Eon was chiefly known in comet
tion with one very extraordinary consequence of his first Journey 10)
St. Petersburg. A violent quarrel with the Count de Guerchy, his si |
cessor in the embassy, who was a creature of Madame de Pompadout |
and had behaved on the occasion in such a very faint-hearted Wy |
that he was generally considered to have brought disgrace on
nation he represented, led the capricious French monarch to coum)
tenance and encourage the report, which was industriously spread WY |
the ambassador, as the only excuse for his cowardice, that the
captain of dragoons was a woman in disguise, with whom therefore He
could not fight a duel, The malicious rumour was so
circulated by the supporters of de Guerchy, that at length it was Oy
generally credited, and enormous sums of money were staked in the
city of London, in bets or policies, respecting his sex. Al
d'Eon afterwards determined to countenance this report, and sect

1 ‘This anecdote is a curious commentary on one of Juniue’s withering Jee
addressed to the Duke of Bedford in 1769; * You are indeed a very ental
man, ‘The highestrank—a splendid fortune, and a naineglorious till it was re)
were sufficient to have supported you with meaner abilities than f dhink 5°
power, ,... = Your history begins to be important at that anspicious
at which you were deputed to represent the Earl of — [Egremont] at the Git

of Versailles, It was an honourable office and executed with the same sit

with which it was accepted. Your patrons wanted an ambassador who wil®
sabmit to make concessions without daring to insist upon any honourable oi
dition for his sovereign. Their business required a man who had as little feeling
for his own dignity as for the welfare of his country, and they found him in (i
first rank of the nobility, Belleisle, Goree, Guadaloupe, St. Lucia,

the Fishery, and the Havana are glorions monuments of your Gmnce's talenis

negotiation. My Lotd, we are too well accioainted. with your pecuniary ebarndit®

&

170

the king's order, and repeatedly protested Pct
allowed to return to the army, and was even f
in, the Castle of Dijon for having ventured to equip :
vice in the French my econ th a) is d
to assert that he was, and was generally believed in Englan tot

Sir Sidney ‘Smith, the Hon. W,S, Lyttleton, Mr. Douglas, and a1
ber of others, who required that proof to convince them.
There can be no doubt that this amazing hoax owed
manent acceptation in a great measure to the readiness with
Beaumarchais allowed himself to be deceived. The clev
witty author of the “Barber of Seville’ and the “Mari
Figaro” was the secret agent nominated by the Frenchy
carry out his metamorphosis, and d'Eon scems to have
suddenly seized with the idea that he would genuinely m
When binding him to dress as.a woman, Beaumarchais had
same time succeeded in obtaining his. signature to a contract,
as d'Eon understood it, was to secure not only the payment o
debts, but also a large sum of money in exchange for docume
importance touching his former diplomatic missions, upon the
of which his friend Earl Ferrers had advanced £5,000; but the:
ments were no sooner handed over than d’Eon found he had
outwitted, and that the vagueness of the contract gave him no legal
right to claim full payment ; whereupon they quarrelled.

D’Eon avenged himself by redoubling his exertions to outwit tl
king's agent in regard to the other object of the megotiation,
plainly appears from his letters to Beaumarchais, which, altho
filled with occasional outbursts of indignation against his corre
ent, are models of satirical writing and full of sly humour
is true,” he wrote, “that 1 disclosed to you the mystery of my Te
sex, giving you that supreme proof of my confidence in your i

mises and in your discretion; that I gave you my portrait a5 &
of my gratitude, and that you promised me yours in exchange a
pledge of your esteem, but that is all that passed between us; and
to announce our approaching marriage, as I learn from Paris
you have been doing, is an abuse of my confidence, and eam
have been done to raise a laugh against me. Ah! men were ee!
deceivers; they never fail to take advantage of credulous girls an€
women, I will confess that my admiration for your talents migh!
have led me to love you, but the feeling was so new to me tat
I was far from comprehending it, and, as I am a girl of very high

172 The Gentleman's Magazine.

‘The (late) Chevalier dEon, formerly aide-decamp to Masubal
fe Ieclar Pala ects fut tote Eon gis as eee
‘mous lit
bravery, and wielded the pen ax ablyas the sword, was born at Clermont-1
in Burgundy, in the year 1728. It is pretended that her disguise, and

ardently desirous of having a boy ; and though his wife afterwards gave
gitl, the father, still attached to his object, cried, No matter for thay 1
her up asa boy.” Her desire to return to France induced her, it is said,
Ther sex, She has now appeared, it is well known, at Pacis in all co
dressed like a woman, for the first time is her life, at the age of fi

DD'Fon owns that this gurls seems very strange to her, and that it will
Before she is used to it; she would gladly have continued to dros Tike
if-she could, She used at first to laugh at her petticoats, her cay, Sie
occasion she said, ‘It is very hard, after having been a captain, to bed
m cornet." With her new dress she still, however, retains the cross of St. &

‘The following incident will show that her manners are far from being’

Tn company with several foreigners who were strangers to her,

a lady, **to the best of my remembrance, when you were dressed like a
had a very handsome Tog.” *‘ Parbleu 1” replied d'Ron with. Pi
hher petticoats, “if you are curious to see it, here it i” “IF you wanted:
tion,” said one, * should you not regret your former situation and your arms?"
have already considered that matter,” answered d’Eon, *' and when I quitted
and sword, Iown it gave me some concern ; but 1 sid to myself, What
it? Imay doas mach perhaps with my slipper!" D'Eon is so little

to her new metamorphosis that whenever she is in company with any Kank
St. Louis, and one of them is ealled ‘*Mrr, Chevalier,” d'Eon tums about
that she is meant, She is not yet accustomed to the usual ceremonlals
between the sexes ; or sather it is obvious that having always, in her

of life, shown great attention to the Jadies, she findsit difficult to rextrai

when she sits near them she is always vendy to fill their glasses ; at 6
sooner has a lady emptied her cup, than d'Eon springs from her chair to
to the table, i

As to the person and stature of our female hero, Mademoiselle d'Eon (ae)
she must be styled) has a handsome neck and bosom, and appears to ads
woman, Indeed, as she formerly made herself a beard, her chin poe
with some hairs, which she employs herself with nipping ; her complexion if
her stature about 5 feet 4 inches, so she could not be very tall in uniform. |

‘Those who have not seen her in a man's dress cannot conceive hows
could appear genteel in her former clothes ; she wears her heels very low ands)
what large; she has a particular accent, which is not unbecoming, as her velee
ugrecable ; she makes her curtsy in a rustic fashion without moving lee
but bending her knees forward with great quickness.

‘On being advised to pat on some rouge, her answer was that she had tried!
Dut that it would not stick upon her face, Considering her body only as a eit
‘or as the shell of her soul, she despises it, and even pretends sometianes that}
neck is troublesome; everything seems strange to her in her new accoptrema
but she is convinced that use will reconcile it.

) “The spirit of this pun evaporates in English, Cornet, in French, signit
‘8 woman’s headdress, as well asa subaltern of horse.” —AVate by tite Aatitor 94
+ Gentleman's Magazine” (A.D. VT).

ng has been preserved, in the presence
5 Saetibaicrowdi oe aristocratic patrons, both
D, he bore himself so well that, notwithstanding

° tadvanced age, he carried off the palm

afforded him of transcribing documents in
off, and it was there that, according to his state-
u her father’s plan for compassing the supremacy of
S Mons. Gaillardet, regards it as a document
i ‘upon which the whole of the subsequent
| has been founded, and no one can read it at this
2 certain amount of interest. We can well afford to
‘contained in the concluding articles, but
one reads the remainder, not to be reminded of the
thany of the conquests and the territorial acquisitions
from Sweden, Poland, Persia, Turkey, and in Central
Drought about; some of them a good deal more recent
of Napoleon I. ; and, indeed, whether written by
‘or by Napoleon, it would be almost equally instruc-
Si non é vero, ber trovate.
| # Mémoires sur la Chevalitre d’Eon,” it is reproduced as
i

Pepe European supremacy, left ly Piter the Great for hit
jon the Threne of Rusris, and deposited in the Archives of the Places

he, er St. Petersburg.
sn ‘the most holy and indivisible Trinity, Wo, Peter, Emperor
ail he Russias, &c., to all our descendants and successors on the

Government of the Russian nation :

‘Here the emperor enters upon a long and rather di
showing why, in his opinion—which be believes to

direct her, she will grow to the dimensions of avast ocean, o
all the bordering lands, fertilising and improving the worn-out:
of Europe. With this object in view he leaves these u
his descendants, and desires that they shall be constantly and
religiously observed in the manner in which the tablets left}
onwhich the Ten Commandments were inscribed, have been
followed by the Jewish people.

After this preamble the fourteen commands are set forth.
lows:

1. Let the Russian nation be leept in a continual state of war, 30
soldiers may be hardy and always ready for fighting ; let there be m0 259s
cepting when it is necessary for the repair of the finances of the Emplte, oF t
reorganisation of our armies, or for the purpose of waiting for the most
moments of attack. Let times of peace be thus made ‘sefal for the
‘war, and war be conducted so as to give advantages in peace ; always
view the aggrandisement and the increase of prosperity of Russia.

If, Attract by every possible means, from the most cultivated Sntiog
Europe, able captains in times of war and the best scholars in times of
that the Russian nation may profit by such advantages as may be obtainable ia:
countries, without any risk of losing those of which she is herself postessed.

Til. Take a parton all occasions in the troubles and disputes in Ew
ticularly in those of Germany, which being the nearest to Russia haye
interest for her.

IV. Keep up divisions in Poland and encourage continual jealouticr a
agitations ; purchase with gold the support of the Nobles, cormupt the D
to have the power of influencing the elections of her Kings ; gain partisans
‘own; give them protection by moving Russian troops into the country and
keep them there until the proper time shall arrive to take possession. If the peigh
Louring Powers object, they should be momentarily appeased by sharing ti
country with them until it is possible to retake what has been sn eeded

V. Take from Sweden as much as possible, and manage so (het she may
attack’ us, which will give a pretext for her subjugation, With thie view flat
hor fromm Denmark by carefully encouraging rivalries between thase two

VIL Always choose wives for the Russian princes in the German States, sea
by such alliances unite their interests with ours, and obtain thelr support for ea
views.

VIL. Encourage a commercial alliance with England, she being the Powe?
which has most need of us for the maintenance of her navy, and which ean be moa®

useful to ns for the development of our own. Exchange oir timber and otlier pre?

176 The Gentleman's Magazine, |

A SCHNAPPER EXCURSION.

OWN in Moreton Bay, on the ocean side of the island,
Tic at high water, just visible above the breakers, a
of rocks which are at once the dread of mariners and the d
of deep-sea fishermen. Brishane has not many excit
offer to the sojourner within its gates. The inhabitants
rently cxhaust all their enterprise in money-making. It is
ineredible that the metropolis of a thriving and wealthy «
has no theatre better than a small music-hall, and that |
are no other regular amusements than the performanc
an Amateur Musical Union whose concerts, excellent th
they be, are few and far between. But let it not be suppox
that the Brisbunians make the fatal error of adopting the po
“ All work and no play.” Recreation, however, runs a good
the direction of out-of-door pursuits, in which the ladies, it is
reflect, can have little if any share. One such favourite a1
is a Schnapper party at the Flat Rock, which rock is the clit

the restless sea.

We start for the Flat Rock early in the afternoon of a gla
Queensland winter day. It is the kind of day when a man
indeed be bad in mind and body not to feel that, spite of hard tim
it is something after all to be alive ; something to possess lunge iil)
will drink deep draughts of an exhilarating atmosphere, ‘The til
type of a Queensland winter day is a keen morning, that smells él
frost but bites not; a cloudless eight hours of warm stit, a radial
and rapid sunset over purple-tinted mountains and woods, and, will
eventide, a return of the scent and feeling of incipient frost. Tal
particular in calling attention to the loveliness of the day upon whi)
we start, because by-and-by T'shall have the opportunity of reading mm
home friends—ftiends who berate the changeable English dlimates
somewhat of a sermon.

We start, therefore, in the loveliest of weather. "The white pai
of the houses—and in Queensland the hot summer is &vourable
an immense consumption of white paint—is bright as. the light, al

but nothing like so lange as one of the

he Thames. Herchief employmentis the

i m the Bay to the Government wharf in
main @ maid-of-all-work for the Ministry.

t into lending her for

Re b of steer of the Legislature, wishing to
“fatiguing cares of Parliament, coax the Colonial

n Sol desma at Flat Rock or a

y rplaces around the main-

on Bay. To their credit, the Government do
complaisance to the representatives of the people,
lly more or less a direct influence over them. ‘Ihe
‘now and then humbly petition for the loan of the
ully work the oracle that the precious boon is

uly no fishing the first night. Flat Rock is sixty
from Brisbane, and, with darkness setting in by
itis as much as we can do to reach Amity Point in time
for the night. The excursionists in the comfortable
show to Spend a pleasant evening ; cards, conversa~

—buit chiefly cards—help to pass away the time. ‘This
‘must needs be mentioned, for it is to many
element in the proceedings of a schnapper

| fishing. The schnapper is, in fact, by some made
water picnic, Quite legitimate, too. Hence, after
f the fishermen is asked whether it has been a

"he replies, thinking only of the sport.
N

178 The Geiitloman's Magasine.

“Ha! hat” the other rejoins, “only moderately ao? Tt
‘were the catering committce?” f tne Ws pcb

I dare say my readers will, with a smile, call to, 1
‘expeditions on the Thames, where the most’ serious co
tho day was the amount of bottled beer and sandwis
in the punt. rf

of applause and laughter from the shore, Amity Point isinI

by @ Brisbane firm; and our pyrotechnic display appears to ta
brought them out of their bark huts, and down to the beach: Hal
dozen of us accordingly go ashore in the captain's gig to:
what is very practically the sinews of war for the coming ¢
to wit—baits ; to see the blacks around their own eamp-
to enjoy a quict stroll upon the white sand under the $
(a miserable fraud ag a show constellation, and mot to ben
in the same breath with our clearly defined and. chaste G
and the wonderful stars of the antipodean hemisphere.
‘The aborigines who live upon the island are better th

vagabond specimens of their race who, in search of rum, pro
the streets of Brisbane day after day, but even they do not gh
4 fair notion of the Australian aboriginal as he is seen far
interior. As with the Red Indians of North America, 49
blacks of Australia, a little civilisation too.often is a dangera
However, we are carried through the surf at ‘Amity Poiot
shoulders of good-humoured natives whose white teeth literally,
through the darkness when no other part of their faces cam
One or two of them T noticed gibbering rather than talking. “A
undressed gentleman, in’a well-intended effort to light us through
tall rank grass covering the low sand-hills, throws the burning’
about in a decidedly reckless fashion, and. sets fire to
patches in several places, Around a camp-fire that blazes:

casts farand near weird shadows that would assuredly have set. Salvadl
Rosa's rapid pencil in motion, crouch a couple of men motionless)
statuesand perfectly nude. They sit on the ground, with: their,
brought sharply up to support the elbows, which in their tum)

the hands on which the head rests, and the position, strange as thes
‘ment may appenr, is not without its graceful picturesquencss,
ordinary skin must have been scorched in such close proximity
muddy logs of iron-bark, and ordinary eyes would have been

by the smoke, But the hides! of our ‘sable friends ane:

180 Dhe Gentleman's Magazine

again to his tribe, and here in his ter |
pensive garb of nature. More singular than this is the
amongst these aborigines, and living as one of them, of an Englis|
man, a gentleman born and bred, a member of a noble family, oa
a student at Oxford. He has his own hut, and comes
receive visitors who Jand at the place with all the ease of a
‘used to good society, but in the simple and sole costume of a
hat, short Garibaldi shirt fastened round the waist with a
strap, and—oh ! hear it not in Pall Mall—an cye-glass | ot
educated English gentleman, also of high position, has lived |
Amity Point for ten years, in the same way adopting the habits (
the blacks without reserve, |
‘The manager of the fishery comes on board later in the
to tell us that a young dugong has just been captured, and
way an enthusiastic few scramble over the Kafe's side, and
second time on shore to sce the singular creature, out of
Kindred, some of these days, goodly fortunes will be
‘There it lies upon the beach, a young ferale ealf, weighing
hundredweight, and the colour, so far as I can observe it in
glare of half a dozen fire-sticks, dark brown. The dugong j
becoming better known every year, but hitherto the attempts to fm
it into a remunerative commercial channel have not been so successi
as they must be when adequate capital is put into a thoroughl|
equipped fishery, I seize the opportunity to examine the proced
(conducted, however, on a limited scale) by which the dugsal
captured in this part of Moreton Bay are turned to account,
First comes the conversion of the fat into oil. Iam grateful)
say that cod-liver oil has never been a prescribed portion of my mg]
men, but there can be no doubt in the world that fine dugong o
possesses all the therapeutic qualities of that flesh-restorer without ti}
unpleasant smell and taste dreaded by so many invalids, The flesh)
can vouch for as being excellent, 1 have tasted the bacon, and itd
white, succulent, and clean-flavoured—as good, in fact, a one cot
wish tohaveit. Another description of the meatyeaten cold, might pas
for across between pressed beefandoxtongue...On board the Kefethl
day after our visit to the recently captured calf, we partook of adish @
dugong cutlets which would have satisfied an epicure, and were actaall
declared by some to be very tender and nicely cooked let ale baal]
‘The hides appear to be invaluable; the leather is of excellent quality
and more than an inch thick. What will machinists say to thas)
Dugong are now principally taken in a net with immensely wid
meshes, The nets are laid in subterrancous thoroughfares:

182 The Gentleman's Magasthe,

must make the most of our time, Andthis is how we do it
man takes up his position, and clings to it. At his feet, and, i

freely through it. The hook is a trifle, but not much, smaller |
young meat-hook, and cena ierrcrs |
overgrown gimp, or three pieces of ordinary gimp twisted.

isa Goon of fish or meat the size of a walnut. oneal
advances to the charge until you can hean the green water étrea
off the rocks. , Look well to the thick Jeathen gloves on your |
else presently your fingers will pay the penalty, It is.
twenty gentlemen, cabinet ministers and what not, waiting §
bulwarks line in hand, in all kinds: of expectant attitudes,
heave ‘the tackle overboard the moment the way of the
steamer slackens.

With splash and shout at length twenty heavilyaweighted |
speeding through the beautifully \clear. depths—twenty lines
through finger and thumb at a rate that renders either a glove|
canvas sheath an absolute necessity. Do your best ih ten
for no longer can we remain in such dangerous nei
‘What is that? Forward there is.a loud and long-sistained
on the deck. Is it a heayy-footed man dancing a breakdown?
itis the first schnapper announcing his release from the
salt sea, and heralding his kith and kin, so that within a
of minutes the entire deck echoes with’ the rub-a-dub: af |
arrivals. |

It is scarcely sport; itis next door to slaughtér, Alas!
one come to this? On this day twélvemonth I scored the best!
ing afternoon in my life, all fish artistically ‘caught with: deli
plements in a clear running stream; and here I am hauling up|
the bottom, 80 feet down, a burden which taxes all my
makes the perspiration ooze from every pore. Yet itis
for a while, The fish: bite fast ‘and furious. Bang, bang,
‘There is no mistake above about the bite, and no mistake
about the strike. Haul, haul, haul! the line throwing out
tions of silver in its rapid ascent. -Soan your eye discerns,
deep, an almost impalpable flashing to aid fro, as if a lange
gyrating in an eddy ; it assumes a lovely pink hue as you |
nearer the service, and then, in atwinkling, x burly schnapperoé|
or eight pounds is dancing vigorously and noisily-on deck.

184 The Gentlanan's Magasine.

nalts we catch a very strange collection of fish indeed.
are three varieties of the parrot-fish, shaped somewhat like
coloured a brilliant scarlet, and armed with four ivory tee
truding like a rabbit's. A small fish, the exact image of a th
trout in bodily form, and about half a pound in weight, falls
share, How it could have taken the schnapper hook is tery tt
this day; but there it is in the Brisbane Museum, ailmirably se
and preserved, and taking its place amongst the Natural H
curiosities, with its scientific name, and my own name as.
tinguished donor, duly set forth in intelligible characters The
is designated “Diacope octolincata, family Peresidei.” Theo
fade somewhat after death, but I make a memorandum with
fingers, before it gives up the ghost, and thus it runs : “In shape:
unlike a Wandle trout ; fins and tail bright gamboge ; belly ditto:
vermilion spots; sides bright yellow, with four lateral
bright blue—rows of turquoise on cloth of gold." A king-fish
taken, a blue and white gentleman, apparently of the bonito;
A perch, own brother in shape to our English friend of that ilk,
a magnificent vermilion with black spots, is another celebrity.
or three metallic-coloured fellows have no name,sofar as I can find)

During the last half-hour we have a succession of surprises. |
member of Parliament calls lustily for help, and we rush to his
He has hooked a shark, and after a tremendous tussle the beast |
landed by means of a couple of boat-hooks thrust into its caress’)
It is about five feet long, and as it betrays an uneasy conscience, ad
is far too lively to be safe, it is conciliated with a well-sharpened ax#
Another member of the Legislative Assembly, not to be outdone’
sets up a wild hullabaloo ; he too, so he avers, has ashark. Tt is nd
for me, of course, to contradict an old colonist, and a gentlemal
moreover who writes M.L.A. after his name, but I know that
is not a shark. You can see it isa big fish, nevertheless ; thet
are three strong men (all senators) engaged in bringing it in, bt
instead of darting swiftly hither and thither, it comes up a dea
weight, no more like the shark than the chub is like the pike. E
sheer weight unfortunately severs the line, and there are three bine
lamenting faces near the sponson, and general laughter from t
rest of the company.

‘The lion of the collection, however, is taken by not only a Mil.
but an honourable cabinet minister, now in England ; to his lot fa!
a groper of sixty pounds weight! It is a kind of rock cod, wi

+ Two years since a groper of three hundredweight was taken in the Brivis
alver.

mr pipes and sprawl luxuriously about,
and pondering dreamily about nothing in
ter beacon is passed and the familiar land-
ce from home. The great, awkward pelicans
und sail through the air shorewards ; they
d they, like ourselves, have done their day's

186. The Gentleman's Magasine,

MASKS. ‘
owe hr
BY LN LINTON) Sic oly Te 1h
” ecm

ITHOUT question truth is the most difficult of all the ¥

whether we place it in sincerity of speech or
life. Either way it is impossible as an absolute and, as |
would cease to be a virtue at all if carried to its ultimate, ~
wear masks and speak through mufflers if society is to hold
We cannot ery aloud in the market-place all that we think
fellow-men, scarcely all thar we think in matters of pare
opinion; nor yet proclaim on the house-top all that we do. TD
that we can is only to wear that kind of mask which pretends 1
none at all, and to speak with a more subtly-made voice-cend
than the rest. Even the advocates for nothing but the trad
themselves obliged to leave out the “ whole ;" thus concedin)
lawfulness of reticence—which is conceding the Inwfulness of |
hood by default and that a ‘wrong impression may be a
negation if one by affirmation is forbidden.

Notwithstanding this right of keeping one’s own counsel, an
necessity of concealment by silence, which every rational’ man
woman must confess and allow for, there are falsehoods and)
hoods, masks and masks; that is, there is the evil'of excess? wit
the true name of that Satan to whom theologians have givel
lieutenancy of the world ever since Christianity came into it,
cannot live in the Palace of Truth without the talisman, we
not carry about with us a portable shed of falsehood ; and th
‘we must fence ourselves off from prying inquisitors, there is non
sity to put up lying finger-posts and mislead the questioning wor
false land-marks. We may map out our lives according to our
ideas ; do what we think right in our own cyes ; and, so long i
keep inside the lines of the law, we have only our own sou
which we stand accountable. We have too the most absolute
to deny our fellow-men any share in our confidence, and to
close every door that leads to the hidden shrine where We carr)
secret devotions ; but we have no right to pretend to be what w
not, nor to tell falsehoods to conceal what we are. Silence i
falsehood, ‘The mask which is a blank is free to all mankind,

present time this mask of piety is in supreme request. The wo
rapidly dividing into the two camps of those who love knowled
those who are afraid of it; those who venerate science and those:
blaspheme it ; and the wearers of this mask take the latter side.
set themselves forth as faithful witnesses of the divine life, wi
those who believe that effects must have corresponding c
materialist, atheists—from whom the Lord has hidden His,
Venerable in its aspect, it is formidable in its results; and bees
venerable, all the more formidable ; for few dare judge
assumes to speak as God dictates, and who is therefore the mo
piece of the divine. He threatens with mysterious penalties th
questioner who wishes to look behind the altar when the glory of!
declares itself and the thunder and lightning are her witne: i
strews with sawdust the floor of the temple where the god ih
descends to accept the offerings of his devotees. Tt is not meet x
the uncovenanted to understand the secrets of the Holy of Holi
they who wear this mask professionally; and to reveal the
method of religion is as impious in their eyes as to discover the mit
working of nature. ‘Ever since one man trembled at a thunderssiom
and his bolder brother told him that this was how the gods spoke
when they were angry, and that they were only to be appeased bf
presents—which he would undertake to deliver—this mask of pietyia)
frighten away knowledge has ruled the human race. And there seem
small chance of its being Iaid aside just yet, while pilgrimages @
Lourdes are in fashion abroad, and science is the Baal to which pious
knees must not bow down at home. ‘There are appointed times hot
ever for all things ; and even this mask, stout as it is, has to dro)
piecemeal from the human face and leaye the eyes free for the rece
nition of the truth.

Connate with this mask of piety are those of respectability and
propriety. ‘Vhe man whose fortune is based on frauds that would
split the whole edifice from foundation to roof were they diseovertly
is sure to be the most respectable man in hig parish. He goo
punctually to chureh, and his gold at the offertory shines conspicuol®
among the silver and copper which make up the rest of the donation®
He is one of the bench of magistrates and chairman of the board Of
guardians ; and he is severe on the ragged stealer of a turnip {ot
adinner, and on the lazy rascal who will not eam enough to suppolt
his wife and family but who comes to the board for out-door lide
To be sure the ragged thief was hungry, and the lazy rascal is eripplel

Fase enlispioy when the world lifts its
+ “Who would have thought it?” All that
im {—all that handsome broadcloth so much
masquerade! Much bewailing breaks
es happen; as they will at times, in spite of
é salvation it is to conceal, and whose freulty
}a3 asecond sense, Society suffers under a kind

which affects it painfully, and induc
that makes men wonder, Who next? But the
dj to anew face, does its prescribed duty of disguise
and the world goes on its old way, comfortably worship-
‘of copper bumished to look like gold,and satisfied with
addy, sleek and shining like velvet and brondcloth.
n mask—that ferocious propriety of some men and.
|to take as moral diachylon for the sore places of their
‘When women are rampantly severe on the failings ot
justice ; as for poor, shivering Charity, we
Y Shei only fair to suspectamask. Even chi dren
of 4 false scent to draw away attention from the
what they know ; and men and women are but
pwn into maturity. Elderly women, who find youth a crime
adge it all its enjoyment, are for the most part those
ould show some queer shady spots if clearly made
who are so passionately indignant at the flirta-
‘at the manner in which Miss B. uses her eyes, and
pe sure to have comfortable little afternoon teas in

husband is safe at his club or inthe city. Wis j

my

tg90 The Gentleman's Magazine,

their disguise; the mask which they think most useful for theoceasinn
and most profitable for concealment. But the woman who hy
more than she has fclt, and has conquered more then
fessed, has only pity for the suffering so sure to follow on the heel
(ills setae who has not yielded to temptation on her awn aces

her who has. The frail fair sinner how
Sa hide her real self if she would keep her footing in: oci¢
the mask of ferocious propriety the best disguise there is,
no opportunity of wearing it. .

How many “ spotted peaches" have that outside bloom
which bas been rubbed bare to the flesh long. ago, | |
simulated !—how many faces, which it would be destrnetion ta:
as they are, hide behind the mask of untouched purity and ind
virtue! Tt is pretty and edifying to hear that blonde pin
beauty, whose hair last year was a strong brown with: Pp
match, inveigh against the antimony and the rouge, the blame d
perle and the aqua amarilla of her friends ;—just as. prettily
fying as to hear her denunciations on that lightness of behawi
Miss ——, which has been a lite more candid than with most
so has got the girl who loved more warmly than wisely into |
disgrace ;—she, that blonde of to-day made out of yested
brunette, meeting her husband and the world behind the calm:
impenetrable mask, but of whom, if Truth were Fame, such
would be said as would finish her claims to virtuous ministration d
and for all time. Ah! if Asmodeus could strip off visors as
roofs, what would be revealed would shut the mouths of
the indignantly virtuous among others ; and of those se
mask is that false optimism which maintains that all things ane j¥
what they seem to be, that the undercurrent of English life is a8
surface, and that societyis sound to the core and pure all thronghs)

For this is a favourite mask, and one very generally adopit
People who know the traths of human life, and how the realities #4
the lie to the appearances, smirk and smile through the infant
mask of belief in universal goodness. They deny that the satwresth
a legitimate target for his shafts, and maintain that all the men
their acquaintance are honest and all the women wyirtaous, 7
moralist who deplores the current corruptions of the time is onl}
man with a diseased liver and a defective digestion ; and to say, /
know,” proves nothing but an exceptionally. unlucky experienc
with, may be, a practical illustration of how birds of the same feat
are sure to flock together. It is very odd, they say, bup Blank, wit
dife is above suspicion and whose area of experience has) been)

192 The Gentleman's Magazine. |

influential promoters, or to city editors wielding powerful
fact, we are an incorrupt and incorruptible people ;
bold gainsayer who dares to question this universal
test the bloom of Ninon with a damp handkerchief to
strings of the mask with a rude hand, be anathema maranatha.
‘This is the authoritative demand of society and the
which you live, and the only terms on which you can gain’
approval, or success. Accept masks for faces; ascribe to
above all, to women, the virtues which they do not possess:
they know that they do not possess, while suppressing all that
side which is not the side of virtue ; call the dull bright and
strong, and dispense cakes and comfits all round ; and
world will love you, listen to you, smile on you, respect you,
not only your good héart but your accurate knowledge of human]
and finally carry you shoulder-high to the Pantheon where |
favourite demi-gods, writing on social statics with doves’-quills,
painting pictures of human life all in rose colour and azure blue |
is your mask; the mask of optimism in the midst of evil, and
Peace, peace, where there is no peace, |
Ingenuousness, again, makes a useful disguise. ‘To single-min
people the latitude of speech and action is practically unlimi
That old proverb which tells us how one man may steal his ne)
bour'’s horses and another may not look over the hedge into the
where they are grazing, holds specially good with those who
adopted the mask of ingenuous simplicity. Who can blame}
frank, good-natured fellow who has the trick of saying the 8
disagreeable things imaginable with the brightest smile and)
most boyish innocence of offence? He comes down on you}
direct questions which you cannot refuse to answer, yet Wl
you would give a round sum to evade, But you have to reply,
refuse would be the same as to confess; and if you are to
paraded in fall daylight you might as well be paraded boldly,
dragged along by your coat-collarignominiously, If he has found
anything that a schoolboy’s common sense would tell him you wi
not like betrayed, he—having less than a schoolboy's common s¢
because more than a child's ingenuousness—blurts out the fae
a crowded dinnertable, taking that inevitable moment of ¢
silence which always comes for the occasion. How can yot
annoyed? He is so honest himself, so ingenuous, so transparen|
pure-hearted, he had no idea that you, whom he loves and resp)
could be otherwise! And then—what was there in the story
should annoy you? He met you walking with—— at such andi

194 The Gentleman's Magazine.

where the true ends and the false begins. Becky
one type of the class which numbers several; but,

‘the ostentation of affection displayed without reserve in |
‘The man at whom his wife trembles so soon as the house
shut between them and the world, is quoted by his i
the most affectionate husband to be found within the
‘The wife—of whom that handsome fellowin the corner,
with rather more formality than one would have thought
after so long an acquaintance, could tell more than she wou
to have known—is much more complaisant to her husband now
she was six months ago, when she was honest and ill-temsp
with nothing to conceal, made no show of unreserye. The:
at home quarrel without ceasing, and lament daily the stringency
marriagelaw in England, call each other cndearing names belt
and, when they shoot their poisoned arrows at each other, t
to make them look like flowers playflly pelted for love, “The:
who wrangle behind backs rarely do so before the face of |
world ; and the homes which the inmates feel to be priso:
than homes are covered up by huge masks of profound
and that sorriest pretence of all, that the greatest proj
English homes are happy,
‘The good friend and sympathetic listener who worms out all Git)
you think and feel, under the mask of sincere friendship
profound sympathy, then tums your confessions against you and goa)
about the world with his Judas wallet open to all listener
can we say of him—that arch-traitor who knows neither faith 20
truth? There are many such men, and women too ; creatures Wid)
work their crooked way into the very hearts of those who trist th
only to empty them of a love which they do not prize and of came
fidence which they present as common property to the world, J
a mask-which unfortunately gives no sign by which it may be know
for what itis, Certain things are to be tested only by expenantey
‘and the reality of professed regard is one of them. So longa
humanity loves love and craves sympathy, so long will Mt acceptiie
appearances of these without too close enquiry; and the mask #l
seem to it as the real face. Perhaps sometimes Ue Taasquemeet

‘indelicate, either the sign of such want of
than a Christian, or the mask of a weak-
standin is worthy only of men’s contempt. Things
it times which tear offthe mask and show the real
ple wonder at the revelation—and their own want
could not read between the lines, ormark the play
undemeath the transparent coating of wax and silk.
d, cold and selfish, calculating and worldly, men
jehind am appearance of exquisite good-nature and
'; Ostentation hides greed; envy is the loudest
Gn; malice the most profuse in its flatteries ;
das if it had never known the bitter ache of
even anger smoothes its brows, veils its fiery
look for the superficial to accept, and laughs
‘ot curse deep. So the world goes on, and the
‘known by men of men.
‘try to shut our eyes to the fact of masks... They
d their existence has only chosen the mask of
‘than any other, So also exists. the impassi-
dsimple ; and that man or woman is the bravest,
he most honest as well, who confesses to this: and,
f overt disguise, Is satisfied with the simple blank
things which it is not expedient to declare. The
adream; but lies are the weapons of defence of
‘privilege of men, ‘and the only shield behind
‘or honourible soul should consent to shelter
silence! if only we would cultivate emote; ani
We do its exceeding worth!
o2

196 The Gentleman's Magazine.

RECOVERY OF PALESTINE,

BY W. EPWORTH DIXON,

VIL.—Cana tx GantLee.
ANA of Galilee is one of those places mentioned in the G
narmtive in which we feel a physical and domestic in
‘The temple in which our Lord taught has a spiritual inte
mount on which He preached the Great Sermon has a moral
‘the hill on which He was transfgured has a supernatural it
‘These are places of the soul. Not so that Cana in Galilee
feast was held, the water turned into wine. Cana is c
our thoughts with family affairs and houschold rites. “These
marriage in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was
‘Where stood Cana of Galilee?

On quitting Nazareth, never to return, our Lord took up his ah
in Cana. Mary, his mother, was then with Him. There
bridal feast going on, the bridegroom being a neighbour anda fries
We ser a household and familiar group: a bride and groom, a bi
groom's friend, a ruler of the feast, young men and old, servanisa
guests. The scene is social, the sentiment human. Coming thr
the door, we see the stone jars, and have the purifying water
hy attendants on our hands. We step into the guest-ch
and find the bridegroom, who is also master of the house. 2
the party seated at table, with the figs and melons, bread and met
of an Oriental repast. ine is going round; the jars empty
contents. More wine is needed, and the woman from Ni
whispers to her son, “They have no wine.” That son tums te lie
servants, and bids them fill the water-pots with water and then
the contents off. The servants see that what they draw &
‘The ruler of the feast (the man whom we call master of the @ |
nies) cries out to the bridegroom, making his pleasant little jobs
“Every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine; and
men have well drunk, then that which is worse : but thou hast’
the good wine until now.” All this is matter of our daily life
plainly practical that the mere facts are given as reasons wht
should drink wine or abstain from drinking wine. Within the’
few days an eminent prelate has cited Cana of Galilee as 2 cond
answer to all pleas in favour of putting down “the accursed

called wine,

| There were a Cana in Judea, a
bor, a third Cana near Tyre. There

such village seems to have flourished in a

spot some six miles north of Sephoris, now called
‘Rhis of Cana. For fourteen hundred years the

c d by critical doubt as to the actual site of
ne of the marriage feast. During all those years,

had been constant and complete. An ignorant

ed the new Cana north of Sephoris with the

!of Nazareth. But the false suggestion died away
Frank who made it, Quaresmius heard of the

d the pretence bya simple statement of the facts.

ed the doubt, and in his usual style.

hill of Nazareth with his Arab servant, Abu Nasir,
country, Robinson heard of that new Cana, lying

orig. ‘The name was new to him, and the spot indicated
rt place, Abu Nasir spoke of it as Kana el-Jelil—Cana of
ison caught at these words, and, in his haste to sneer at

ts, adopted the ridiculous heresy which Quaresmius

d erished. Once more, Robinson thought, he had
ks at their tricks, The real Cana lay out of their way,
ed the site for their own convenience. Abu Nisir's
“The name is identical. . .. On this single

we should be authorised to reject the present

‘of Cana. When Robinson had once made up his

d plenty of texts to support his theories—found them,

ej by the easy process of misreading and false translation.
to sce the spot! The place was called Khurbet Kana,
a; but he never asked whether the ruins were new or
of an Arab village later than the Crusades, ora Syrian

m the birth of Christ. Enough for him that Abu
el-Jelil ; Abu Nasir’'s word outweighed for him

authority ofall the native Churches

z onal ds like a farce ; yet since Robinson's time Khtoet

tion came, This blunder occurs in Chambers’s map of
‘Hnghes's map of Syria, in Budeker’s “Galilee,” and (Iam sorry:
in Murmay’s far more valuable map of the Holy Land. Av
instance of this prevalence of error is the fact that aman so.
learned a¢ Lieut. Conder, our recent explorer in Palesti
fiction for a settled fact, and writes as though Khurbet Ka
acknowledged on all sides to be the genuine Cana of
us scan the evidence of fact,

1L-—BVIDENCE OF NAME,
Keft Kana (Village of Cana) and Khurbet Kana (Ruins of G
are places in the same district of Galilee, hardly a dozen miles ap
InGreek their names are identical—they are both called Kandi
English form Cana. ‘To distinguish cither of them from Cana
Judasa it is necessary to add the words “in Galilee” or “ of Gal
Robinson's first mistake arose from treating the form “Cana.
Galilee” as a proper name. His theory rests on this founda
Cana of Galilee, he argues, is the name of a place mentioned
John ; KAnd cl-Jelil is the name of a place mentioned by Abu Wi
‘They must be one and the same. Such is his process—such
proof.
But was Cana of Galilee a proper name? Some names of tow
are compound, the words wedded and inseparable, like Civite Gs
tellana, Boulogne-sur-Mer, and Ashton-under-Lyne. Is Cana of
Galilee such a compound name? If not, Robinson's theory is
tenable—his inference absurd. :
On this point there is no room for philological mistake. Cami
mentioned by two authors, and no more. ‘They mention it byt
same name, and with very nearly the same descriptive —
‘These authors are Josephus and St. John. ‘The name pe
the Greek form Kavd, to which the English form Cana cl
with perfect accuracy. No Hebrew, Chaldee, or Arumaic form of
the word is known, All modem forms, whether Arabic or Fraaki
are derived from the Greck word, and must be carried back 107%)
in case of variance. Robinson, ignorant of Arabic and of etymoltels)
fancied he saw an argument in favour of his heresy in the fact thi
some modern Arabs have rendered the Greek word Kand by 0
different Arabic forms, Kana and Kenna. Robinsen aged the fom

er; and. our translators render the first passage Cana
id the second Cana in Galilee. The texts of Josephus
fe no doubt that Cana is a proper name; Cana of
bis Galilee, » descriptive phmse. Josephus says #0
called Cana,” as Black saye “a village in Kent called
, ee coetinn his dwelling-place asa village called
lilee.” There was more than one Cana in Palestine, as
none Richmond in England. Like causes produce
e AYorkshirewriter having to mention Richmond
‘it as Richmond in Yorkshire, not because “Richmond
r proper name, but because he might otherwise rin
f being thought to mean the better known Richmond in
uses the form Cana of Galilee, or Cana in Galilee, in
readers may not confuse the scene of the marriage feast
Keown Cana in Judea. Cana in Judsea had in the
like that of Sedan in our own days. There
battle to the Arabs, There the had fallen, and
had been destroyed. Any Jew who wrote in those
ald be understood to mean Cana in Judvea, the scence
to the Jewish arms. Hence, for the sake of
uy and St. John added the name of the province
he first saying, simply, a village of Galilee called

0 less simply, Cana of Galilee, or Cana in Galilee,
in Galilee” being a proper name having

200 The Gentleman's Magazine. |
been set aside, it is waste of time to seek a modern equivalent ta

used by Josephus—Village of Cana ; so that the whole i
philology is in favour of the native Churches.

1L.—EVIDENCE OF SITR.
‘A reader who has never stood in the white roadways:

Jaid down with more than usual accuracy for Palestine.
new map, now being prepared by the Committee of the P
Exploration Fund, is ready, he may use Vanderveldt’s 3
situation, Cana was an important point. Standing-at the head of
‘yalleys—natural roadwaysina country not much used by enginee
‘on the water-parting of the province, Cana commanded passes Ie:
on one side down to the lake district, and on the other towani
plains and the sea-coast. In ancient days, when the land was
with towns and villages, such a position was of greater moment
it is now; in days to come, should the waste be recovered, that
tion will become of greater moment than it is now; but,
people dwelling in the fertile lake districts have the spirit to
Up traffic with that outer world which goes about the earth im
Cana will always remain a post and market-place. Tt is the
several tracks, and, take it all in all, is even now one of the
prosperous towns in Galilee,

‘The village stands on the slope of a low hill, having 2 rich botte!
in front, with a spring of sweet water—the only spring in the neighbor
hood ; so that, if the native Churches are right in placing Cana of t2
marriage feast at Kefi Kana, this was the source from which the wat)
jars were filled. Orchards surround the houses, and in these orehaxt
the pomegranate is a favourite tree. Everyone knows how oft¢
the pomegranate is mentioncd in Scripture; everyone knows the #
gendary connection of this tree with the marriagerite. Tt is curiot
that the lovers of myths have not sought in the pomegranate gardens¢
Cana an explanation of the mythical origin of the marriage fest
Ruins of church and convent may be seen ; particularly the min@
an ancient Greek edifice. At Khurbet Kana there are also ruins; 6
they are only of small houses ; and at Khurbet Kana there is a rel!
deal of broken pottery, but the broken jars are clay, not stone, as inthe
Gospel text. No large remains are seen, and not a trace of any’
edifice can be found. Nothing on the spot suggests the existence i

that locality of a village older than the first exasaie,

s a walled city, and the Roman road
os
p of ruins called Khurbet Kana lies five miles
which walled city cut it off from the whole
ver lived.
the road from Nazareth to Capernaum.
| Capernaum to Nazareth, as in the Gospel
ne near the spot now called Khurbet Kana,
d from Sephoris to Ptolemaiz, not on the road
- Aman coming up from Blackwall to
Harrow,

iss through re
Jobn the Evangelist, Cana was a station at the
ds; a country road used by Hebrew herdsmen
ind an imperial road used by the Roman and other
c h gave it valuc from a military point of view.
‘road led from Nazareth and other open towns and villages,
na, to Magdais, Capernaum, Bethsaida, and other water-
Jake. The Roman road ran from Acre (then Ptolemais)
, the old Greek capital of Upper Galilee, and thence
[to Tiberias, the new Roman capital of Lower Galilee,
5.2 station on the road between Sephoris and Tiberias,
‘Rochester isa station on the road from London to Dover,
g this position on the map in mind, let us turn to the several
ch Cana is mentioned. Jesus, coming up from the lake
his disciples, met his mother at Cana (St. John ii. 2).
goes “ down to Capernaum” (ii. 12), Theexpressions
stood on the ledge of the hill country, above the lake,
from Bethsaida and Capernaum to Nazareth. The
at apply to a place standing six miles beyond Sephoris, on
o Ptolemais. Again, the nobleman of Capernaum, coming
ds Him in Cana. “Come down, ere my child die,”
‘On being assured that his son lived, the nobleman
_* Ashe was now going down his servants met him.” A
mn m the spot now called Khurbet Kana could not be de-
bed as * going down ;" for the road first leads up to Sephoris, the
‘Shiai, and then through a rough sort of table-land as faras Cana ;
: this point that theroad begins to drop down. Every
arrative implies that Cana stood near the ledge

er the Jake,

202 The Gentleman's Magasine.

Next turn to Josephus. Happily for us, Josephus had a
deal to do with Cana. Sent from Jerusalem into Galilee, as
gate of the Sanhedrin, he first went to Sephoris, capital of |
Galilee, where he found the people excited, but at peace. He
went to Tiberias, capital of Lower Galilee, where he found
in revolt. Josephus raised a large body of men,
strong places, including Mount ‘Tabor, and in a short time:
master of the whole province. He saw a good deal of
Twice he had to storm Sephoris ; four times he had to storm
These populous cities had to be stemly watched. In order!
effective watch over both, Josephus had to fix his camp at Cana,
position in the hill country between the two capitals, When Joho
Gischala induced the Jews of Tiberias to rise against Silas, J
says he left Cana with 200 men, made a night-march down the!
came before Tiberias early in the moming. ‘That night-march
possible from Kefr Kana; impossible from the place now marked)
Khurbet Kana, The distance from Kefr Kana to Tiberias is about)
miles; and a night-march means, in the language of Josephus, aman
from midnight watch to morning watch, a period of five hours. EBivet
‘one who has walked in Palestine knows that ten miles down-hill are
often done in less time than five hours. If the camp of Joseph
had been at the spot now called Khurbet Kana, the Jewish capt
could not have made his secret night-march at all; since he wor
have had to pass through Sephoris, a walled city, with her gates eos
and her sentinels on guard.

‘The whole argument derived from site is therefore in favour
the native Churches.

11. —EVIDENCE OF REMAINS,

The evidence of existing remains is no less strong than thatofina
and site. _Kefr Kana isan old place and a prosperous place ; Khu!
Kana is a new place and a deserted place. At Kefr Kana there}
remains of ancient edifices; at Khurbet Kana, though the buildit
are in ruins, there is nothing older than late Saracenic times, ever
the broken tanks and cisterns belong to Saracenic times at-all,”

No one can look at Kefr Kana without a strong conviction #
the place is old. Here is a house old enough to pass for that of
Bartholomew. Here are the foundations of an early church a
monastery, The church, built in honour of the miracle, was stat
ing in Cana before the Moslems established their power in Galih
St. Willibald prayed in that church, then dedicated to the Ruleroft
Feast. “A large church stands here," said the English saint 18 9

Four hundred years later—thav is to say, 1192—another Engh

vThe foundations of these buildings are now in site.
ancient buildings at the other Kana?

. There are no foundations of church or
are small and mean. The shards of
sient form or colour, Here and there you come
‘of latter date ; but these are seemingly of Arabic
used in building are small, and of a modem
‘prowl in the ruins, and wild boars grub among
‘the hills around are barren and the plains in front are
‘No vestige of an antique world is seen. In truth,
evidence of remains, a tmveller without a theory to
‘that Khurbet Kana was 2 modem village which had
‘a potter's field and furnace, and had perished: with
‘that gave it birth.
¢ other hand, the house of St, Bartholomew and the
‘prove the antiquity of the true Cana; so that from
idence of existing remains a traveller, without a theory to
. ould have no difficulty in identifying Kefr Kana with the
Emmi ol Josephus and St, John,
i. IV. —KVIDENCE OF HISTORY.
«Denice of history, a8 regards Cana of the marriage feast, is
n which there is no missing link, St. Willibald, who visited
Sin 722, Started from Nazarcth on his way to Cana. His
eastward, not northward—that is, toward Kefr Kana, not
place now called Khurbet eae He took Cana on his
“Serfiom Nazareth to Mount Tabor, “He stayed at Cana one day,
then continued his journcy to Mount Tabor.” Khurbet Kana
Tein the opposite direction. Sawulf, who went to Galilee in r102,
Whore precise. “Six miles to the north-cast of Nazareth, on
Silijis Cana of Galilee, where our Lord converted the water into
Uses the Roman mile of 1,614 yards; and his guess
is near the actual truth. If our knowledge of the
‘had perished as completely as that of Bethsaida and
perished, the bearings and distances supplied by Seww\s

was in Galilee, Cana had been Sea aa

1 Nothing is lek standiog,” he says “except the ci
the Ruler of the Feast”—Holy Architriclinius. Later in the
century, Phocas, following in the track of Smwulf, from
Nazareth, describes the points of his journey. T.eavi
comes—first to Scphoris, next to Cana, and then to Nazareth,
all these witnesses, Kefr Kenna was the true Cana “of
The distance of Cana from Nazareth is given by Mandeville in 132
“four miles from Nazareth.” Mandeville uses the old n
which gives the distance of Kefr Kenna pretty accurately, bat not:
distance of Khurbet Kana, which is fully eleven miles from

Robinson was not original in the mistake corrected by so m
proofs. ‘The first blunder is due to Marino Sanudo, a Venetian, w
compiled a book on Palestine for the use of crusading
Sanudo lived in the fourteenth century. There is no evidence
he ever visited Palestine, or that he had the use of actual itimerazie}
in making his tract and chart’ He placed his Cana to the
Sephoris, instead of to the south-east, “You go,” he says, “ 0
Acre to Cana; then due north to Sephoris; and afterwards: J
Nazareth.” At that time Palestine was closed topilgrims. Smwulfa
Phocas were the latest authorities on the subject, bur their
observations seem to have escaped the notice of Sanudo. After
had put Cana in the wrong place on his map, a Frank pilgrim now
and then fell into his error, until Father Quaresmius, a monk whe
lived in Palestine, took the matter up, and settled the dispute i
favour of Kefr Kana. Robinson revived the blunder of Sanudo, am»
Lieut, Conder has (for the moment) fallen into the error of Robinsow

‘The only passage which Robinson ever found in any writer pra
vious to Sanudo that appeared (only appeared) to favour his theory, is
line in Sewulf. “ Cana,” says that author, “ stands six miles north-eas:
of Nazareth.” ‘This is the true text ; but Robinson, ignorant ofthe us
of middle-age Latin, translated Saxwulf's six miliardis ad Agnilomens
“six miles north,” instead of six miles north-east. (See Wrighst
Vocab,, p. 16, for illustrations of the meaning of agu#fo in the age #
Sewulf.) Contrary to the usage in classical Latin, this word, inthe tina
of Seewulf, was always used for the north-east wind.

Such jis the evidence in favour of Kefr Kana as the true Cana =~
Galilee" or “in Galilee;" identity of name and site; consta®
record of the Syrian Church ; actual remains; and the testimony of
succession of travellers from East and West.

205

THE THREE ROSES.

BY EDWIN ARNOLD.

Tiree roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down
Lack with its loveliness as with a crown,

in a florist's window in a town.
The first a lover bought. It lay at rest,
Like flower on flower that night, on beauty's breast.
The second rose, as virginal and fair,
Shrank in the tangles of a harlot's hair.
The third a widow, with new grief made wild,
Shut in the icy palm of her dead child,

Aupric, Flower and Thorn,

'HESE Roses (in the world we do not see)
Strove for the palm. ‘Thus spake the beauteous Three :

THE MAIDEN’S ROSE.

I amt the happiest flower. I lay
Dying, as suits sweet blossoms best ;
It was not pain to pass away
Upon her warm and fragrant breast.

Blossom on blossoms, so we slept ;
My odours richer with her breath,
My white leaves whitest where I crept

Closer, to die delightful death.

Theard her secrets, pure and soft ;
She prayed for him, kissed me, and laid
His gift where, since, his cheek full oft
Nestles ; he knows what words she said,

And how, when morn oped the bright eyes,
She locked me in a casket close ;
Nothing can take away my prize,
‘The kiss she gave her faded Rose.

The Gentleman's Magazene.

The crown, fair sisters, I must hold ;
I died upon that heavenly bed ;
She buried me in silk and gold ;
I made them lovers, being dead.

THE WIDOW’S ROSE.

I aut the wisest Rose : there lay
‘A dew-drop on me when she shut
‘The little ice-cold palm, and put

My blossom there to fade away.

It was a tear for her and me
‘That she should grieve, and I should go
Clasped in a hand that did not know,
And set to eyes that could not see.

Torn from my garden green and bright,
As he too ; first-bom of her spring,
Once flower-fair, now a lost, dead thing,

Hidden with me in graveyard night.

But, lo! it was not thus at all !
I did not think that flowers could see
The wonder of the worlds to be
When the poor leaves of this life fall.

For while they wept, and sadly threw
‘The black earth on our coffin-lid,
A light came there where we were hid,
‘A wind breathed softer than I knew.

There shine no sunbeams so on earth,
There is no air blows in such wise
As this that swept from Paradise,

And turned grave-gloom to grace and mirth.

I saw him rise unspeakably ;

I saw how subtle Life receives

New gifts from Death. It was but leaves—
Dead leaves—we left there, I and he.

The Three Roses.

And clasped in that small hand I came—
A spirit-Rose as he was spirit—
‘The further marvels to inherit

Of Life, which is for all the same.

Crown me, white sisters! When she bent—
That tender mother by his grave—
"Twas I who, with a rose-waft, gave

The thought that filled her with content.

THE HARLOT'S ROSE.

I was the blessed flower! Give back
‘The crown, dear sisters! for you lack
My joy—you ! that her bosom bore ;
You they entombed !—my deeper lore.

*Twas sweet in lovely death to fade,
Rose-blossom on rose-bosom laid ;
"Twas rare, in grasp of Death, to see
‘The flower of Life blow changelessly.

But I, most happy of all three,
Rejoice for what he did to me ;
Binding my bud on locks that rolled
‘Their wasted wealth in rippled gold.

For loveless love he set me there ;

With thankless thanks she found me fait
Laughed with sad eyes to hear him tell
‘The gold, with white and green, “went well.”

We did our kind : she to bestow
God's grace in her rich beauty so
That good grew evil ; I to scent
Heer steps and be Sin’s ornament.

Yet ’twas my duty to seem sweet,

She had such bitter bread to eat !

She put me at her breast—I heard

Heer heart-beats speaking, without word.

207

She said, * Ah, God ! ah, mother !—some-

Are blooming so about myhome,
‘The home-srent makes me dream—let be {
T have no lover that loves me.

“ What was it that we read in class?

* And she supporing Him'—alas}

“The gardener! Fool! as if God's Son
Cares for the flowers that are done |"

‘Thereat our lips and leaves did kiss—

Twas as sweet and soft in this

To her as any Rose could be—

“ God's flowers forgive,” she sighed,—“ Doth He?!

‘And fondling me, as though she felt
‘Her mother’s kisses on her melt,

The teardrops from her painted lids
Ran on the rouge, What eye forbids,”

She said, “to try if any hear?”
Mocking herself she sighed this prayer :
“Oh, Christ! Iam Thy wilted Rose,
Renew me! ‘Thou renewest those !”

‘Then laughed,—but did not see, as I,
"The angels gather at her cry,

‘Their fine plots weaving out of sight
To help this soul that strove aright.

She did not feel the great wings fold
‘Thenceforward o'er her locks of gold ;
Nor know thenceforward that the place
Was sentinelled by Shapes of grace.

But when again she bound her hair,
And set me in its tresses fair,

1 did not “shrink,” as he has said :
I was too proud ! for we were led

The Three Roses.

By holy hands through wicked streets,
Past things to speak of is not meet ;
‘Till when the tender plot had place,
God’s mercy met her face to face.

In all this earth there is not one

So desolate and so undone,

Who hath not rescue if they knew

A heart-cry goes the whole world through.

Of thousands cruel one was kind ;

We found the hand she could not find ;
‘The fragrance of me brought her cry—
We saved her : those Wise Ones and I,

T and her angels! She hath rest.

Of all Rose-service mine was best.

Oh, sisters sweet ! no longer boast ;

Give me the crown! My joy was most !

VOL. COXL. NO. 1754. P

SOME SAVAGE MYTHS AND
BELIEFS.

BY J. A FARRER.

HE question of the universality of religion, of its pr
some form or another in every part of the world,
be one of those which lie beyond the bounds ofa dogmatic
For the accounts of missionaries and travellers, which C
only data for its solution, have been so largely vitiated, if not
consciousness of the interests supposed to be at stake, at any
hy so strong an intolerance for the tenets of native savage religd
that it seems impossible to make sufficient allowance either {
bias of individual writers or for the extent to which they
misunderstood, or been purposely misled by, their informants.
Although, however, on the subject of native religions we can
hope for more than approximate truth, the reports of -
others, written at different periods of time about the same p
contemporancously about widely remote places, as they
free from all possible suspicion of collusion, so they supply a
‘of measure of probability by which to test the credibility of
given belief. ‘Thus an idea, too inconceivable to be
if only reported of one tribe of the human race, may be safel
cepted as seriously held if reported of several tribes in different
of the world. An Englishman, for instance, however much winds
storms may mentally vex him, would scarcely think of ,
repugnance to them by the physical remonstrance of his fists and
nor would he easily believe thatany people of the earth should se
treat the wind in this way asa material agent. If he were told tie
the Namaquas shot poisoned arrows at storms to drive thems avi
would show no unreasonable scepticism in disbelieving the fact
if he learnt on independent authority that the Payaguan In
North America rush with firebrands and clenched fists against the:
that threatens to blow down their huts; that in Russia the E
nians throw stones and knives against a whirlwind of dust,
it with cries ; and that also in the Aleutian Islands a whole village #
unite to shriek and strike against the raging wind, he would
acknowledge that the statement about the Namaquas contained in i

| life not only for men but for

swith him out of the world, a vast
the discovery of this truth is one of com-
d of still quite partial distribution over the

ben, Being premised as-to the nature of the evidence
. “the lower races depends, and-as to the
h evidence may be received and its veracity
‘examine some of the higher belie of savages,
me analogy to the beliefs on such subjects of
ties, dre in a sense religious, and, so far at least
mation justifies us in judging, seem of indi-

ndent growth.

f ethnology are more interesting than the wide-spread
es, arrived at purely by their own reasoning
things. ‘The recorded instances of such a
80 numerous as to make it doubtful whether
may not have been based on too scant
difficulty of obtaining sound evidence on such
rated by the experience of Dobritzhoffer, the
© spent seven years among the Abipones of
when he asked whether the wonderful course
nly bodies had never raised in their minds the
teing who hed inade and guided them, he got
in heaven, or of the maker or ruler of
of the Abipones had never cared to think,
ble themselves with in providing grass and water
‘Wet the Abipones really believed that they had been
ian like themselves, whose name they mentioned
and whom they spoke of as their “ grandfather,’
solongago. Hc isstill, they fancy, to be seen in
that constellation disappears for some meaths

ra

212 The Gentleman's Magasine,

from the sky they bewail the illness of their grandfather, and c
gratulate him on his recovery when he returns in May. 5
creator of savage reasoning is not necessarily a creator of
‘but only of some, like Caliban's Sctebos, who made the
the sun, and the isle and all things on it,
‘But not the stars; the stars came otherwise,
So that it is possible the creator of the Abipones was |
their deified First Ancestor. For on nothing is savage though
confused than on the connection between the first man who
the world and the actual Creator of the world, as if in the log
need of a first cause they had been unable to divest it of
personality, or as if the natural idea of a first man had led to
of his having created the world. Thus Greenlanders are di
to whether Kaliak was really the creator of all things, or
first man who sprang from the earth. The Minnetarrecs of Ne
America believe that at first everything was water, and there
earth at all, till the First Man, the man who never dies, the Lo
Life, who has his dwelling in the Rocky Mountains, sent down:
great red-eyed bird to bring up the earth. ‘The Mingo tribes al
“revere and make offerings to the First Man, he who was
the great deluge, as a powerful deity under the Master of Lif
even as identified with him ;” whilst among the Dog-ribs the
Man, Chapewee, was also creator of the sun and moon. ‘The
of Africa similarly merge the ideas of the First Man and the Cn
the great Unkulunkulu; as also do the Caribs, who believe:
‘Louquo, the uncreate first Carib, descended from heaven to make
earth, and also to become the father of men.’ It seems, then
not improbable that savage speculation, being more naturally imp
to assume a cause for men than a cause for other things, po
a First Man as primzval ancestor, and then applying an
which served so well to account for their own existence, to
for that of the world in general, made the Father of Men the
of all things: in other words, that the idea of a First Man
and prepared the way for the idea of a first cause.
However this may be, and fully admitting the possibility of #
low tribes as the Bushmen or Californians being absolutely d
of any idea of creation at all, let us take some of the more interest
savage fancies about it as typical examples of primitive cosmogonyy |
In one of the Dog-rib Indian sagas, an important part in i
creation is played by a great bird, as among the Minnetarrees; thes!

' Tylor, Primitive Cudture, il, 312, 313, and 333 |

ir souls are pure ; you
riches, and great boats, I myself

their bad boats to reach you.”
black because your souls are

Kamchadals openly avow that they think themselves much cl
than Kutka, who in their cyes is so stupid as to be quite und
of prayers or gratitude. If he had been cleverer, they
have made the world much better, and not put into it $9
mountains and inaccessible cliffs, nor created such rapid st
caused such great storms of wind and rain. In winter if
climbing a mountain, or in summer if their canoes come 10 1
they will vent loud curses on Kutka for having made the
strong for their canoes, or the mountains so wearisome for th
Nor do the Tamanaks of the Orinoco manifest a much
conception of a creator than the Kamchadals.
creation of the world to Amalivacca, who in the course of his
discussed Jong with his brother about the Orinoco, having
wish tomake it so that ships might as easily go up its stream asi
but being compelled to abandon a task which so far trans
powers. The Tamanaks still show a cive where Amalivacca
when he lived among them, before he took a boat, and sailed #0)
other side of the sea.
Not only, however, is the idea of acreation of things by a.
being quite common among untutored savages, but there is oft
a belief closely connected therewith that in the beginning death an®
sickness were unknown in the world, but came into it in consequene®
of some fault committed by its hitherto immortal occupants. Sach #
belief, reported as it is from places so widely sundered as
North America, and the Tongan Islands, seems effectually to da
countenance the suspicion which might otherwise attach to it 6%

vhat |
ie ora ne
it to

pathy men to inhabit them;
for when age came oyer them
and plunge from thence into
nnd, 1 177.
rad ‘remarkable as to arouse suspicion

‘ative imagination ; but the infeeten It
i this as in other sixiking eases of analogy.

The Gentleman's Magazine,

a lake, in order to come forth young again and vigorous ‘Thea
happened that a mortal woman, who had the misfortune to draw ups
herself celestial love, remonstrated one day with her
in his'creation of the Aleutian Islands, made so many mo
forgotten to supply the land with forests. ‘This impr
caused her brother to be slain hy the angry god, and al
him to be subject to death. A similar idea is contained in
the Tongan traditions of creation; for when the islands were mm
but before they were inhabited by reasonable beings, so
hundred of the lower gods, male and female alike, took a gr
to go to see the new land fished up by Tangaloa. So delig
they with it that they immediately broke up their big boat,
to make some smaller ones out of it. But after a few days some 0f
them died ; and one of them, inspired by God, told thens thar sina
they had come to Tonga, and breathed its air and caten its |
they should be mortal and fill the world with mortals. ‘Then!
they sorry that they had broken their big boat, and they set to
to make another, and went to sea, hoping again to reach Bolt
heaven they had left; but they could not find it, and so ret
regretfully to ‘Tonga. Similarly the ‘Tibetans and Mongolians
that the first human beings were as gods, till they ate of a certill
sweet herb which roused lower feelings within them ; then they /#
their beauty and their wings, and their years were made few in nul
and full of bitterness.! It seems, indeed, thal wherever men have!
far advanced in power of thought as to realise the concepti¢h)
remote antiquity, the troubles of their actual lot have always :
them to idealise the past, and the glories of the age of gold haveite
sung by the poets of no particular land or literature. Acconding &
the legend in the Zend-Avesta, when Ormuzd created Meschit
Meschiana, the first man and woman, he appointed heaven “a

216

dwelling, under the sole condition of humility, and obi

to the law of pure thought, and pure speech, and pure action. F@
some time they were a blessing to one another, and lived hi

and said it was from Ormuzd that all things cume—the water
earth, trees and animals, sun, moon, and stars, and all good roots aa!
fruits on the earth, But at last Ahriman became master over
thoughts, and they ascribed the creation of all things to him 3
they lost their happiness and their virtue, and their souls were 6
demned to remain in Duzakh until the resurrection of thelr Bodie
when Sosiosch should restore life to the dead.

' Cledal's Childhood of Riligiom's 48>
Klemm, Cultur-Gachiskte, vii, 368.

feasts, arose rather from
dictated by the dread always felt by

218 The Gentleman's Magazine,

the living of the dead, and the wish to allay them, if po
some peace-offering. ‘The Samojed sorcerer, after a finer:
through the ceremony of soothing the departed, that he
trouble the survivors nor take their best game; a a
further illustrated by their habit of not taking the dead
be buried by the regular hut door, but by a side oper
that if possible they may not find their way back—a habit found
in Greenland and in many other parts of the world. For the feat
the dead is a universal sentiment, and prevails no Tess
Abipones, who think that sorcerers can bring the dead from |
graves to visit the living, or among the Kaffirs, who think th
men alone live 2 second time, and try to kill the living by
among the ignorant, who stil! belleve in the blood-sucking vai
belief which little more than a century ago amounted to a kk
epidemic in Hungary, and resulted ina general disinterment, and
burning or staking of the suspected bodies. So that in burying thi
with a man it was probably thought that the dead would be Jess:
to haunt the dwellings of the living, if they were not 1]
re-seck upon carth those articles of daily use which they knew
to be found there. |

But the savage belief in a future is very variable; nor could)
expect to find it much affected by ideas of earthly morality, whi
such ideas themselves hardly appear to exist. At most, it
men of rank and courage who live again, while cowards and
commonalty perish utterly; generally there is no qualification of
kind, The Bedouins have no fixed belief at all, some thinking th
after death they are changed into screech-owls, and others thit if
camel is slain on their graves they will return to life riding on i,
otherwise on foot. All North American Indians are said to bell
in the continual life of the soul, and, because they think themself
the highest beings on earth, postulate a hereafter, where all the
earthly longings will be satisfied.! But they trouble themselves ti
about it, thinking that the god they recognise as supreme is too
to punish them. Thus the Indians of Arauco look forward 108
eternal life in a beautiful land, which lies to the west far over
sea, whither souls are taken by the sailor Tempulazy, and where ##
punishment ; for Pillican, their god, the Lord of the world,
not inflict pain.2 The Tunguz Lapps look on the next life as simp
a continuation of this one; in it there will be no punishment, $
here everyone is as good as he can be, and the gods kill m

* Klemm, Culnr-Geichichte, il. 165. reat
* Stevenson, Zravels in South Ameriea, te $8

eee the great similarity of those

hich © the heavens of the most distant
Andian, who visits in a dream the unseen

suage recalling that of Homer, that it is a land
‘day nor night, for the sun never rises not sets ;

and arrows are never seen ; where pipes

m to be smoked; where the earth is ever

y Ieaf ; where there is no need of bearskin nor

would travel, the rivers will take your boat

you w without the need of rudder or paddle, Justas
the plucked fruit is replaced, so there the goat

‘its shoulder to the hungry man, in full confidence

n, and the beaver for the same reason makes a

is no idea of a future life as in any way affected by

ch ideas do exist among savages, and are extremely

ions of the growth of their moral ideas. ‘The

y for a savage is pre-eminently courage, and
appears as the first recognised virtue, and first lays

ch, to consideration hereafter, ‘The Brazilians believed
Of the dead became beautiful birds, whilst cowards were
‘The Minnetarrees think that there are two

c the dead ; but that the cowardly and bad go to

the brave and good occupy the larger. Among
entertain the strange fancy that they have as many

220 The Gentleman's Magazine.

resides in the heart and goes to heaven at death, whilst the others
to the sea or the woods, we meet with the reservation ©
the souls of the brave. They alone will live merrily, dancing,
and talking ; they alone will eT Ee |
fatigue ; j the Arawaks will cither serve them as slaves or wander al
in desert mountains. Somewhat similar was the faith of the «
Mexicans, who divided the future warld into three parts: the {
the House of the Sun, where the days were spent in joyful
on that luminary, with songs and games and dances, by su
‘brave soldiers as had died in battle or as prisoners had |
ficed to the gods, and by women who had died in giving chilel
to the commanity; the second, the kingdom of Tlalocan, Wide
among the Mexican mountains, not so bright as the former, but eo
and pleasant, and filled with unfailing pumpkins and
reserved for priests and for children sacrificed to aloe, and
persons killed by lightning, or drowning, or sickness ; the third,
kingdom of Mictlauteuctli, reserved for all othér persons, but with
nothing said of any punishment there awaiting them. One of
beliefs in Greenland is that heaven is situate in the sky or the moom,
and that the journey thither is so easy that a soul may reach it
samme evening that it quits the body, and play at ball and dance we
those other departed souls, who are encamped round the great
and shine in heaven as the northern lights, But others say that if
only witches and bad people who join the heavenly lights, where
not only enjoy no rest, owing to the rapid revolutions of the sky, bee
are so plagued with ravens that they cannot keep them from selina
in their hair. They believe that heaven lies under the canh &
sea, where dwells Torngarsuk, the Creator, with his mother, in pee
petual summer and beautiful sunshine. There the water is good ane
there is no night, and there are plenty of birds, and fish, and seals,and
reindeer, all to be caught at pleasure, or ready cooking in a grea
kettle ; but these delights are reserved for persons who have dot
great deeds and worked steadfastly, who have caught many whalese
seals, or who have been drowned at sea, or have died in childbinll
‘These persons alone may hope to join the great company, and fei
‘on inconsumable seals. Even then they must slide for five day
down the blood-stained precipice ; and unhappy they to whom #2
journey falls in stormy weather or in winter, for then they may sill
that other death of total extinction, especially if their survivers distie
them by their noise or affect them injuriously by the food they e=
‘The Karnchadal belief is very curious, and shows how the idea ¢
compensation in the next world for the evils of this—an idea alread!

have
rs aus dog 0d alo» betes le to Bre

conceive ‘how, when once the idea had been reached
Sgoeered compensation in the next world for their
for their carthly wretchedness, or the sick
eee and all men for the misfortune of prema-
uld also be inferred, as soon as any criterion between

more refined than the mere difference between

over the bad, and from such an inference to a com~
of retribution and punishment of the bad the logical
Preity obvious, Few things, indeed, are more remarkable
ower races than the general absence of the ideas we
fe ‘hell At most the idea of future punishment is nega-
slaves and cowards terminating in a total cessation
‘a8 opposed to its continuance for warriors and
the idea of difficulty in attaining the blessed abodes,
that above noticed as prevalent in Greenland—an idea, as
Or suggests, probably connected with the sun's passage
sky to the west, where the happy land is so generally
| to lie—is very common, and from such an idea it is natural
‘the difficulty of the journey to Paradise with the destruc-

those whose presence in it would mar its blessedness.
trial of merit generally lies cither in the passage of a river or
‘& Barrow bridge, or in the climbing of a steep mountain.
h for instance, believe that the dead have to pass 2 long
Pine-log, across a deep and rapid river, on the other
‘stand six persons, who pelt new-comers with stones, and
ad ones to fallin, The Blackfoot Indians, on the other
instances of the myth of the heaven-bridge, and its wide range, see

of Mankind, 358,

222 The Gentleman's Magazine.

hand, believe that departed souls have to climb a steep
from the summit of which is seen a great plain, with 4
swarms of game. ‘The dwellers in that happy plain then a
them and welcome those who have led a good life, but |
the bad—those who have soiled their hands in the blood
countrymen—and throw them headlong from the

Fijians think that even the brave have some difficulty in
the judgment-seat of Ndengei, and provide the dead with
to resist Sama and his host, who lispate their passage.
celibacy is in their eyes apparently the only offence which a
peremptory and hopeless punishment. Unmarried Fijians’
vain to steal, at low water, round to the edge of the reef,
Nangananga, destroyer of wifeless souls, sits, laughing at v
efforts, and asking them if they think the tide will never flow
till at last the rising flood drives the shivering ghosts to the ’
and Nangananga dashes them in pieces on the great black stone
one shatters rotten firewood.”* ‘The Norwegian Lapps cons|
that abstinence from stealing, lying, and quarrelling entitles 21
to compensation hereafter. Such receive after death a new be
and live with the higher gods in Saiwo, and indulge in’ hunting |
magic, brandy-drinking and smoking, to a far higher degree than |
possible on earth, Wicked men, perjurers, and thieves go to!
place of the bad spirits, to Gerre-Mubben-Aimo.? Theides of
pensation of the good leads naturally to the {dea of retribution!
the bad ; and even among the Guinea Coast negroes we find fit
inducements to the practice of such moral duties as they recoge
For they are wont to make for themselves idols, called Sumal
whose favour they endeavour to secure by abstinence from cee
kinds of food, believing that after death those who have been
mantin their vows of abstinence and in offerings to the Sumal
will come toa large inland river, where a god enquires of ever?
how he has lived his days on earth, and those who have fot ®
their vows are drowned and destroyed for ever. ‘The inland!
negroes declare that at this river dwells a powerful god in abe
tif! house, which, though always exposed, is never touched By
He knows all past and present things, as theugh he had beea presé
he can send any kind of weather he pleases, heal sicknesses, and wt
miracies. Before him must all the dead appear; the good te rece
a happy and peaceful life, the had to be killed for ever by thelin
wooden club which hangs before his door. Laétly, it may be Hone

1 ‘Dylon, Primitive Culhirs, We 33.
# Klemm, Cudtur-Gewhiehte, 8 7

i be surprised at
current in Africa as in Australia or

really subject to the closest laws of

‘be careful, i al, in applying terms of < our own
thoughts and fancies, to discriminate
meaning they bear, and always to employ
already noticed, of the Kamchadals ip.

nt is the meaning involved inthe Kam-

it involved in Genesis or the Zend-

‘the belief in a soul and its future ite 5 for

the savage, intensely vivid as is his future Lee! ane
doubis for an instant bat that he will

buries axes, and clothes, and food with the person.
they may accompany him to the next world. |
world. ‘The Kamchadal believes that the sn
will rise after death to live again in the WO
‘Laplender expects that all honest people will re.meet

fally expects that bears and wolves will meet there too,

lander believes that all the heavenly bodies were once Gi

or animals, and that they shine with 2 pale or red light ac

the food they ate on earth. He also belicves that when

now living on the earth are dead, and the earth cleansed f
Blood by a great water-flood; when the purified dust is con
again by a great wind, and a fairer earth, all plain and no d
substituted for the present one; when Priksoma, he who is
breathes on men that they may live again—then animals will
againand bein great abundance. The old inhabitants of Anak
Egypt believed equally that animals would share the next

them; and, if the universality of an opinion were any’ reason ‘fo
credibility, few opinions could claim a better title to accept

this one, So confident were the Swedish Lapps of the future Tif
animals, that whenever they killed one in sacrifice they buried
Dones in a box, that the gods might more easily restore it 1
‘There is really nothing very unnatural in this idea, when we remells
bor that in the lower stages of culture mankind not only admits ie
equality of brutes with himself, but even acknowledges theit 5
tiority by actual worship of them. It is not difficult to u
how it is that savages who see deities in everything, in the :
mountain or stone no less than in the rushing river or wind, sho
see in animals deities of extraordinary power, whose capacities i
nitely transcend their own, Recognising, as they do, in the
strength, in the deer a speed, in the monkey a cunning, all supenict
to their own, they naturally concsive of them as deities whom abalt
all others it is expedient to humour by adoration and saerifice. Som!
negro tribes, holding that all animals enshrine a spirit, which 1)
injure or benefit themselves, will refrain from eating certain animal

* Klemin, Cultwr-Geichichle, \\. 315. Jedes Thier, auch die hleiente Fie
erateht sofort nach ihrem Tode und lebt unter der Erde.”

Ib, ie 85, ‘Endlich warden die beronderten Theile nebst den Knoci#!
in der Kiste begraben, Man glaubte, das Opferthier werde von des Gane
wieder belebt und in den Salwo versetzt.""

of the seals may not be angry, and in
away. The Lapps are so afraid that

ose flesh they have killed may take its

it, that before eating it they not only

but perform the ceremony of treating it

cacies, that it may be led to believe it

o be eaten, but to eat. Another Kam-

T whose theory of cause and effect
re things 20 be connected

associated with their arrival and departure,
with a thing is to be caused by it, and so
: ‘away or bring the summer with them. For the
Spring and the wagtails return together the Kam.
t ire) fee tniobing beck the spring, and it is pro-
n con m of thought that he thanks the ravens
eextbar!
the mytls, however, most widely spread over the world,
tacesin all stages of culture, from the most barbarous
civilised, ranks above all the myth of an all-destructive
‘may well have arisen, a8 Mr. ‘I'ylor suggests, to account
‘and bones found far inland, and at high levels, or may
to the actual subsidence of a large continent, of which
n Islands are now the only remains. ‘There are
“well as ethnological reasons for supposing such a
to have occurred ; but, without here speculating on its
fn the lengtl of time during which it may have been in
otth noticing that the traditions of a flood, which
in the most distant localities of the globe, may not
toa fact which, as it was the most stupendous in
lic

U, 329) from Steller’s Xam-chalka.
@

ouiacarme Gs with whor eee
Fast Tartary, oyster-shells lying fur from the sea were

by the tradition that in remote antiquity a deluge had
land) ‘The Kamchadals bélieve that the earth was once 4
many persons drowned, though they tried tosave ther
But only some who made great rafts by tying trees tog
themselves, together with their property, and by letting:
as anchors prevented themselves from drifting out to sex,
waters subsided the rafts rested on the inoutitain tops. “The
as they held that the fourth age of the world, that is the
would be destroyed by fire, so they thought that the Srst age,
by Tezcatlipoca, had been destroyed by water; but they
that the second age had been destroyed by an earthquake,
third by a wind, each age being ultimately destroyed by the
of which it was the representative. The Dog-rib Indien &
is very curious, whether we regard it as of purely native growth 0
influenced by Christian teaching. Chapewee lived with his fam
in a strait between two seas, and when he had constructed
wherein to catch fish, so many flowed in that the strait was
with them, and the water rose till it flooded the land
Chapewee took his family and all kinds of birds and
beasts into his canoe, and, when the water did not subside, he |
measures to discover land, He began by sending out ab r
look for it, But the beaver was drowned; and Chapewee then
out a musk-rat, who was away so Jong that when he returned.
nearly dead with fatigue, but he brought a litte earth im his gay
With this Chapewee made the earth, by Taying it on the water, till
grew to the size of an island, whereon he placed a wolf as its
inhabitant. Bu; the wolf was too heavy for the island, and rece!
orders to run round constantly at the edges, till after’ pear the e
hacl grown so large that Chapewee was able to ship over te it alll)

hook in the hair of the grear sea-god as

and the god, angry at being roused,

and flood the very tops of the mountains,

ts. With a strange inconsistency, however,

sand his family find refuge on a coral

ued to repeople the earth. But the Chaldiean

e de ‘only of recent years deciphered, compares

the Mosaic, not only in its general features, but in the

“catastrophe with human wickedness. Hasisadra,

his wife escaped the general destruction, tells Tz-

wv he built a vessel according to the directions of

‘and his family from the universal deluge which

on the earth to punish the wickedness of men; how

six days, and on the seventh, when the storm ceased,

stranded for seven days on the mountains of Nizir ;

‘seventh day Hasisadra sent out firsta dove and then a

‘of whom, finding no resting-place, returned to the

f was sent forth and did not return ; and Hasisadra

to the four winds, and poured out a libation in
built an altar on the summit of the mountain?

‘course possible that all these deluge legends, scattered so

i oe they are traditions of a fact at all, and not

like the myths of the great First Man, relat y

if the fevel of sex and land, which at different times may

c ¢ inundations in different localities, and not to any

‘|Rcting at one time over the greater portion of tl

| flood, like that which on the occasion of an earth.

rg was caused by the sea flowing in at the castern mouth

‘and converting within the space of a few hours «

‘square miles into 2 vast Iagoon, would naturally be

uid remain for ever in the oral traditions of the

dh 156. * Fearsdook of Facts, 76, pp. 25-6.
Q2

forgotten. So it may have been where other; legenila of d
But in the present state of our knowledge, or
ignorance, it seems safest on the whole to regar/l all such lege
pure nature-myths, of which we may possibly have the key a
Greenland belief, that the souls of the dead are encamped round:
large lake in the sky, which when it overflows causes rain spon
and would cause 4 universal deluge if at any time its foo
were burst.

Whether then, in conclusion, it be true or not that
civilised nations of the earth have gone through stages of gr
which their religious conceptions resembled those of
‘savage tribes, onc result at least is clear, that the actual
of the savage with regard to the great mysteries of exi
removed foto ax/o from that of Christian, or Mahometan, or.
‘The creator he belicves in is not so much the cause of all d
as the maker of some things, because seemingly the
of men needed the wherewithal to exercise his energies,
savage’s soul is simply his breath or ghost, which inde
survive his body, but may lose its identity in the body of an ani
or thing, destined like himself to live again. He conceipes of
self generally as not mortal, but not therefore as immortal. For
future is but a repetition of his present, with the sume base Wil
and pursuits, only with a greater possibility of indulgence #
not necessarily indefinite in duration. It is perhaps some e1
tion for this, that, if it does not hold out great hopes, its
serves to deprive death of its terror, and brightens the s
the passing day, No thought of possibly flying from present
find still greater ones awaiting him after death would ever ©
savage, and he will even kill himself, or cheerfitlly submit to be!
by his friends, in order to realise the sooner the difference im
between earth and heaven, ‘The powers of evil which vex hint!
will be absent hereafter, and the Spirit he recognises as. sy
his hierarchy of invisible powers is either conceived as too
to punish, or, if he punishes at all, as likely to punish at BMS fot

Such ideas, it must be allowed, widely distinguish sayage Gu

iilised religion, and may seem to be difficulties in any theory a
growth or natural development of one from the other almost as
as those involved in the differences of anatomical structure
man and ape, which are still thought by many to set an imp
barrier between their speci We can here only state the
without attempting to solve it.

paste shoe-buckles at £8 ron.
£5 x25., and the spectacles in silver
y goed of their kind, as well as
ed ety holland at £10 fo

230 The Gentleman's Magazine.

to be 600 at 100 rupees each ; that of Prizes of various amounts 2
and of Blanks 397 ; 80 that there will not be two blanks to
In like manner Messrs, Stewarts, the coach-builders, raffled *
elegant, and fashionable Europe coach, with a set of
for four horses, with postillion saddles, and long spare
thirty subscribers at £20 each, barely covering the cost
at least, if the advertisement be worthy of credence. Messrs.
& Rankin also offered sixty-one prizes, of the aggregate
44,009, to 4oo purchasers of £1o tickets; but it is probable
ample margin was allowed for profit when a sofa and twelve:
valued at £60, a looking-glass at £20, a table clock at £26, a
urn at £70, and when the bulk of the prizes consisted of mings,
pearls, and paintings Apropos of paintings, the fashionable
painter of the day was the celebrated Zoffany, whose
Governor-General, the Hon, Warren Hastings, was engraved
Bettridge, of Loll Bazar ; and the engraving readily sold ats
mohurs, or £3 4s. Artistic achievements were certainly
Six shillings for a sheet almanack, although “particularly
Calcutta,” and. containing besides “a table of remarkable
since the creation,” scems a good deal to give for information off
kind, just as ten rupees for an Indian calendar might
thought likely to diminish the sale. Under all the ei
the case, however, it would be unfair to cavil at the charge of
Tupees per mensem, made by Messrs, Maxwell & Co. for the use:
circulating library, seeing that they undertook to ** furnish a,
of the most approved ancient and modem authors on medidl)
surgery, anatomy, and chemistry,” 2
In truth, even in these more thrifty times, a rupee in India
barely equivalent to a shilling in England, and is squandered #
greater alacrity on both trivial and charitable objects. Be that
may, the abolition of lotteries—with the exception of Derby we
—is not the only change that has come over Caleutta society.
yisit of a Duke of Edinburgh or of a Prince of Wales may at ii
intervals stir the sluggish depths of that weary and homesick @
munity, but no journalist would nowadays hazard the statement)
‘such are the attractions of Calcutta during the present cold se
that two ladies who intended to return to. Europe on the Pia
have, we understand, lately resolved to remain for the.present|
to-proceed on one of the last ships.” In the days of Lord Gj
wallis, however, a subscription assembly was held every formigl
the Old Court House, throughout the cold season—a hot sup
including oysters and ice (the latter made at the Hooghly ice-ie

this distinction fom their loyalty and patriotism.”

Give tne the cups;
And let the kettle to the trumpet speak,
‘The trumpet to the cannoneer without,
‘The cannons to the heavens, the heavens to the earth,

‘The dinner was followed up by a ball, in which
the wife of the Chief Justice, and Colonel Pearse, in
artillery at Dum Dum, “danced the first minuet; and the
‘ones continued till about half after eleven o'clock, when th
tables presented every requisite to gratify the most refined
‘The ladies soon resumed the pleasures of the dance, and
tural braid in emulation of the Poet's Sister Graces, till
moming, while some disciples of the Jolly God of Wine tests
satisfaction in Pans of exultation.”” In that particular ye
King’s Birthday was not kept till the 15th of December,
occasion the Governor-General’ table was “ graced by the |
of the Dutch and Danish Settlements, the Nabob Saadut
‘son, two of the Judges, and others of the principal ge
Settlement. ‘The entertainment being private, however, ‘the
health was not echoed from the cannon’s mouth.” ‘There
course, a ball in the evening. “The minuets, which began
before ten o'clock, were so few as to allow a country dance
supper, They were opened by Madame Shefaleski and
Pearse. ‘The country dances were resumed after supper, and
tinued till past three in the morning. The Nabob Saadut
his son were among the company, and stayed till near two,
their sentiments on the occasion were we have not heard!
probably just as well, The News-Writer to the last
describing the dinner and ball given \yy he Keetlen i 18g

il they all became giddy and fell

heap. Even in the present day the

¢ with their notions of modesty and

‘virtuous women, often décw//efer, in the

. Under Lord Cornwallis the drama

condition. ‘Phe preference seems to have

0 with the occasional introduction of

"and of various musical pieces and farces.

n ws, and we find the Governor-General

lactis on @ particular evening. ‘The prices of

tolembly high—a gold mohur to the boxes and six-

eto tia pits Oratorios were also attempted, and not
lly if we may credit the culogistic report of the perform-

del's * Messiah,” on the r1thof May 1786.“ The songs

‘we are assured, “would have been applauded on

in Europe, and the management of the chorusses ex-

ty expectation. Equal praise is due to the instrumental

0 entered perfectly into the spirit of the composer, and

te added the most correct execution. In short, it was

ous treat to the lovers of musick.” It is very doubtful if

‘any kind could be got up in the Calcutta of 1877, and

‘in the broiling month of May. Concerts, too, were fre-

under the management of a Mr. Oehme, a teacher of

bscription was eighty rupees, “the ladies of the families

ts being invited by tickets with their names upon them.”

Vauxhall was wanting to the votaries of pleasure, Mr.Gairard
d, for six o'clock in the evening of Friday, the 8th of Decem-

6, god representation of the “ Metamorphosis of Jupiter
of Gold.” “ There will be musick Champetre,” be con-

ng in different parts of the Gardens, while the Ladies

tl ‘Tay amuse themselves at the agreeable exercise of

‘out small rockets, &c. to win prizes. At seven, the concert,

d by Mr. Ochme, will begin ; at eight precisely the grand exhi-

all the walks in the gardens will be illuminated, and
NB. Refreshments of all kinds at a reasonable
Price one gold mohur for each ticket, issued at the
By 1788 2 perceptible difference was observable in
ili Exhibitions of Fireworks." ‘Tickets could then be

b and walking about had evidently ceased to be the

will afford a very pleasing Coup d'CEil” Nothing of the ki

to be seen in Calcutta, nor would any speculation of the kind hr
the slightest chance of suecess except through the support oft d
lower strata of the community, In those days society was com

the Civil and Military Services, everyone being acquain ed
neighbour, as an Indian career signified a continuous n

years in that country. Even such a mild excitement jwas ae

as might be administered by the ascent of a caress balloon, af
with rarefied air, and measuring from 6 to 8 feet in diameter.
The two principal taverns were the London and the Fiat
irreverently styled Punch Houses. The former could boast
spacious assembly rooms, the one 68 fect by 22, the other 96 by
the proprietors putting in a further claim to “encouragement
support from a generous public” on the ground that they ha
tracted with 4 person to supply them with oysters, and
ago advanced a considerable sum of moncy for that pusposs” |
1785 Messrs. Martin & Parr fitted up “ their very large and ene
sive rooms in a rural style, for the reception of company eft
Thursday.” They were not only elegantly illuminated, bat “laid ®
in several rural walks, diversified with taste and fancy," with “aleov
conveniently interspersed,” in which “ the best cold collation? 9
be had at a moment's notice. A band of music, consisting)
French horns, clarionets, &c., “as good as could be provitoda
among the attractions, and the price of admission only four mpe
By 1788 the London Tavern had passed into the hands of Mes
Lowder & Wilson, and the public were asked to presume, “it
Mr, Wilson being regularly bred a cook, under the immediate
and instruction of Mr, Birch, of Cornhill, that he ean dress hied
ners, &c. with the truest propriety and greatest perfection.” Adin
‘consisting of “ cverything the season affords,” was changed five fp
ahead, and suppers three rupees, “N.B, Gentlemen can be acee

246 The Gentleman's Magazine,

auctioncer would have cared to recommend an mn
as “very convenient fora moderate and devout family, its
near the Church, which will be exposed to sale precisely at
o'clock ;” it was the house, and not the church, however, that)
be sold, House rent was not very much less than at the prese!
600 rupees per mensem being thought nothing out of the

good-sized, pleasantly-situated, unfurnished house. ‘The pri
carriages and horses likewise varied very little from thos
asked, but wages were not above one-half the present mate.
respect the residents of the olden time were better off that
successors, for they enjoyed the advantage of having their W
and mangling done, and linen of all sorts got up “accord
the Europe method,” in consideration of the monthly payen
i2s,a month for each adult; a considerable allowance being
for children, The rupee in those days was worth 27. 34,
remitted to England, instead of the present rate of rr. of. ©
servants there seemed to be such a superfluity that a eonsi¢
number of them were placed on subsistence allowance, at the
£400 per annum for a senior merchant, £ 300 for a junior me
and 4200 fora factor or writer; but, on the other hand, the
permitted to reside in Europe until 2 vacancy occurred. Ta 1)
cotton trade had become “a very lucrative branch of commert
was confined to eastern ports ; and opium was thought “remy
high," on averaging 590 sicca rupees per chest. Among thin
generally known is the fact that cholera morbus is mentioned }
name, as prevailing to an alarming extent at Arcot, in Nov
1787, though it is commonly supposed that its first outbrea!
place in 1817. Inoculation appears to have been introduced it
being first successfully tried upon the children of the Orphan §
During the rainy season the Company's dikhs were taken |
few roads that were then travelled by Europeans ; but the o
mode of going up-country was by river, and it took 25 days to
Moorshedabad, 60 to Patna, 75 to Benares, 90 to Cawnpore, |
Dacea, 60 to Chittagong, and 75 to Goalpara. ‘Though tedio
river journey was diversified by capital sport ; but was exposed
Lower Provinces to much danger from Dacoits, unless past
went well armed and several in company, On the rivers lead
Dacea the Dacoits were in great force, and turned out in opend
in fleets of a dozen to twenty boats. In1788a Mr. Menchin}
tacked by ninetecn armed boats, cach carrying roo men, dressed)
mentals (scarlet faced with green), and secured against musket
buffalo-hides. However, after eighteen wonths’ impunity, these #

FRESH FIELDS AND PASTU.
NEW, §

‘WY 2. MONTCOMERIE RANKING. |

T cannot but occur to any regular visitant of our numer
exhibitions, that the range of subjects upon which the ex)

think fit to expend their powers is strangely limited,
the department of landscape, on which the present remarks
immediate bearing, and the domestic school, with its rather 1
sentiment, and its vulgar realism, we see the same incidents a
same times represented, more or less efficiently, asgme ad aa
In classical art, painters seem to have forgotten all but one or
the ancient myths, and to labour under an impression that the)
were Monotheists, worshipping none but Aphrodite! Bygon
contract into a narrow cycle of time, variously depicted as”
been passed in Venice, or at the Court of Whitehall, The inexha
library of romance might as well have been never gathered toy
known literature being apparently confined to small portions
‘Thomas Mallory, and to the works of Scott and Goldsmith
‘or two of Shakspeare having also survived the general deste
Growing weary of milk-and-water damsels, in hats and black n
‘of brazen Imogens, and roné Sir Galahads, one begins at last )
there be no hopes of escape from such “damnable iteration
there really no other themes that could furnish to our artists t
for the head and work for the heart?

In the particular direction to be considered, there would 3
be no limit to the pursuance of an almost entirely untrodde
along which there lies a way of escape from this quagmire of wet
sameness. There is no literature in the world that should
attractive to any painter who would depict that greatest and pr
study of mankind—human life—as our national ballad-ity
Springing from the very wells of thought—the outcome of t
feeling in its noblest, because its simplest state, the expressions
unsophisticated humanity—it contains most rich store of it
most loving detail of noble deeds, of suffering and vietory, mi
sionate and tender description of love, friendship, loyalty, all
men hold dearest ; and what more can any poetry need to pr

= Sop igo
Jucid intervals are exceptional—the rule is

x Teauon why this field, s0 large und 's0
save been left untilled of artist hands: a land
cultivators, and this plot bears the name of

6 all but the curious in old-world lore: a most

for if the past with its records be of any

d deny, surely those salient points of old life

ch by their ovn force, fixed themselves #0 strongly in

must be worth a passing attention! And,

and conciseness of diction have worth in poetry, it

oems which, in these as well a in other qualities,

ld northern songs. ‘But we have not, as yet, recovered

the eighteenth century. ‘The wise men of that

o their own scholastic pedantry, scorned, in their

they could not, Procrustes-like, fit to their own

ii then, this branch of our literature held its own, but

‘give way, in company with Chaucer and Shakspeare.

d truer men had known and loved their native song.

) is evident, was conversant with the popular rhymes:

r tuse of random stanzas, many of which we can,

er identify with their parent poem, as for instance, those
Hines in King Lear —

~ Seill theough the hawshorn blows the cald wind;

Childe Roland to the dark tower camo:
imay, it is true, hope to have belonged to a known
‘Other writers, also, of the Elizabethan and Carolinian
uote freely a5 well-known things what fifty years converted
‘of curious research—research ag painful as it was unap-
| A few there were who tried to uncarth what had so soon
; buteven they were half ashamed, cither of their task or
ny in his, papers in the Spedator, dedicated to a
vyChase," thought it needful to apologise, im a manner

care not who makes their laws!"

there came a shaking of the dry bones, and an apparent

of the buried lore, as hideous as the grimacing of 2 galvanised

or the wandering of a dead body moved by an i

Della Cruscan school took it into their heads to write what they’
pleased to call ballads: and, mistaking maundering for pathos
tant for fire, made most sorry work of it, the world being a
with such monstrosities as“ Edwin and Eltruda,” ox “ Amyntor:
Theodora." It remained for our own time, in this and other respen
an age of struggling growth, to revive some of the spirit of the:
‘singers, in the writers of such soul-stirring works as the “ Laps
Ancient Rome,” and the “Lays of the Cavaliers.”

Now, I have undertaken to show that this neglect is, in as fr =e
artists are concefned, not only unwarranted but a mistake, as ee’
painter thereby deprives himself of a well-nigh boundless field for ime
exercise of head and hand. Whether his attention be turned to sili
Jects of a pathetic or ludicrous nature, whether he undenake com
representation of past times from an historical or a domestic pont <=
view, matter will be found, enough and to spare, to employ him m=?
the old ballads. One point seems worth insisting on specially—i =*
the internal evidence, often curiously minute, of manners, custom =
and even of dress, which this early poetry contains: going so far as!
specify the colours of ladies’ robes, the jewels they wore, the way
which the horses—whose colours are again expressly stated:
housed, with many similar particulars which must occur to-
who knows never so little of the subject. Thus, in “ The Death:
Queen Jane," King Henry is described as dressed “in a gown
green velvet from the heel to the head ;" in “Sweet Willie amd
Annic” we are told of the shoeing of Annie's horse, and that “fare
and-twenty siller bells were a‘ tied to his mane ;” and of # =e
Bridal,” that—

Some put on the gay green robet, and some pat on the brows,
But Janct had on the scarlet robes to shine first through the toway

And some they mounted the black steed, and some mounted the brows,
Bot Janet mounted the milkewhite steed to ride first through the Lowa,

‘Stones of orience, great plentle;
Her hair about her head it hang;
‘She rode over that Ionely tea,
And whiles she blew and whiles she sung.
‘Hex girths of noble silk they were,
“The backles were of beryl stone,
Her sticrups were of crystal clear,
And all with pearles o'er-begone,
Ther pastrcl was of irale fine,
‘Her cropper was of orfarie,
And ax clear gold her biridle shone;
‘On either side hung bells three.
She led seven greyhounds in x leash,
‘Seven raches by her foat they ran,
‘She had a horn about her halse,
And under her ginlle many a Bane,
jere told that her kirtle was “all of grass-green silk,” and
rn are specified upon which the musicians of her court
Oceasionally, these glimpses give extremely unpleasant ideas
ociety; as when parents are described as belabouring their
gand marriageable daughters without Ict or hindrance, and a
ts his wife's non-appreciation of a joke by throwing a plate
ie8 we get curious examples of the simplicity of our
‘The lords at court retire to rest “ through the floor "—
bly through a trap-cdoor—into a common dormitory; while
ting and porter alike air themselves after dinner at the palace gates,
against the door-post. This point is, of course, only of
but would have advantages with reference to

g

242 The Gentleman's Magasin.

naturally to consideration of a more important point tham the)
ceding—viz. the vast scope which is afforded for exercise of
imaginative faculty. ‘These songs deal much with

ters; either as simply and sternly narrating instances of spin
communion with the living, or vaguely hinting at the great um
surrounding world, and the awful possibility of such:
harmless or illicit. Terrible and weird are these latter

for the which we must go chiefly to northern fore; the softer soul}
heart seems not to have dwelt so eagerly on the ittvisible unknom
did the authors of such poems as “ William's Ghost," Clerk Saunde
“The Demon Lover,” “The Clerks of Oxenford," and many oth
And, apart from these more sinister influences, there is an under
rent of tender, fanciful imagery, derived chiefly from nature, am
suggestive half-description, which, being independent of, though
relation to, the main gist of each particular story, may serve asa
whereon to hang goodly raiment from the loom of thought. |
meaning cannot be better instanced than by the mention ofay
known lament, “Oh, waly, waly up the bank,” and by quotatiot
stanzas from two several ballads, the first from the “ Lytell Ge
where Robin, pining at court for the greenwood, breaks out—

«1 made a chapel in Bernysiale,
‘That soeraly is to sees

It is of Mary Magdalene,
And thereto would I bet”
The second from * Willie's drowned in Yarrow”—

“Ob, eame ye by yon water's side,
Pu'd ye the rose or lilie,
‘Or came ye by yon meadow green,
(Or saw ye my sweet Willie?”

In pointing out the way in which these writings might be utili
it will be necessary to make some broad and general divisions, ¢
of which shall embrace a particular class of subject, and sippeal a
especially to particular minds ; but, difficult as generalisation of8
a nature must always be, it is here more difficult, and less satinfaet
when done, than in most collections of literature. So many divt
clements enter into the composition ; the broadest farce So jos
the darkest tragedy, the most simple details of household life an
interspersed amid the rush of chivalrous narrative, that one is incl
to give up the task in despair, as only less hard than classify
human nature, For the present purpose, however, although such

arrangement is unavoidably superficial and often inadequate, wet

_ We may begin with the mention of two sets of poems,
ing respectively to England and Scotland ; the former recording
me man and his followers, the latter those of. several
“dj funilies, and specially of one most turbulent, good-for-nothing
le bouse, which seems to have taken the lead in their lawless
“ the Robin Hood series, and what may be called the
es, Of the former, many again must beset asidé as
comedy, whatever may be their foundation in fact; but the
dll Geste,” “Guy of Gisborne," and “ The Death and Burial of
Hood,” may, at any rate, claim mention. The first of these
upon axventures of the bold outlaw, attendant on help which
‘to a certain knight, Sir Richard of the Lea, whose inheritance
‘peril at the hands of the Abbot of St. Mary’s and the Sheriff
ti p, against which worthies Robin had a sort of vendetta;
‘i dacrption of the knight is most picturesque:
All drei then was his semblante and Jytell was his pryde,
Hys one fote in the sterope stoce, that other waved besyde.
Hy hode hangyn over hiy eyen two, he rode in aymple aray ;
(A soryer than than hic wats one, rode never in somer's day,
tle John goes to serve this knight, and after to the Sheriff of
h to whom he is, as indeed he swore to be,
— the worst servant that ever yet had he;
‘Wis master’s coffers, carrying off his cook, and finally be-
Into the hands of the outlaw captain. At last the king,
16 Sherwood, falls in with good Robin, and, for very love of
‘engages him to Court ; but there the hunger for greenwood
Robin, pining for some time, at last flees back
R2 <

244 The Gentleman's Magazine.

to his Gear Barnesdale for life and death, The opening of the *!
of Gisborne" is enough to recommend it -—
‘When shawes been shene and shruddes fall fayre,
And leaves both lange and long,
‘Tix pleasant wallcing in the fayre forest
To heare the amnall hirde's song.
‘The woodwele sung, and would not cease,
Sitting upon the spray,
So loud he wakened Robia Hood,
Im greenwood where he lay.

But this particular ballad, being contained in Percy's “ Reliques”
pretty well known. “The Death of Robin Hood,” as we at
have it, is one of the poorest of all the collection, though the subject
the most suggestive. ‘This apparent poverty of treatment is account
for by the fact that the original ballad is almost entirely lost, the
known copy being a very fragmentary ong in the Percy folio ; the
of the missing portions is all the more lamentable, inasmuch as
must have explained a striking passage in which, contrary to
popular use, an old woman curses Robin én his way to Kirkley:
modern version has nothing of this, but contains one or two of 1
old. verses, which serve only to make the remainder appear ewes
worse than they otherwise would. But the story is powerful in till
extreme: one may imagine the beautiful, wicked prioress of Kalas
so speciously entreating her sick cousin into her power ; the lone
room where the forester lay bleeding to death, with hardly strenge)
to wind his horn, and the grief of his follower, which could only a=
vent in a longing for vengeance—vengeance which Robin would @
no means admit, for the honour he bore all womankind for Our Lad
sake. Then comes his last desi:

* Lay me a green sod under my head,
Another at my feet,
And lay my bent bow by my side,
Which was my music sweet,
And make my grave of gravel and green,
Which is most right ani meet,"

Of the Scottish series, the Armstrong ballads, it may be thought thie
they, being narrations of stirring incident, are not so well suited fr
artist use ; but they also contain passages which may atiract some:
“Kinmont Willie” has, it is true, been treated in respect of ome
stanza, but there might sometl, ng be made of the variously disguial
bands of moss-troopers that wut to free him ; “ Dick of the Cou
and “Jock o’ the Syde," would not be found wholly barren, aed

| Pastures New. 245

" Hicbbie Nobis, taken bound up the Rickergate of Carlisle, makes 2
“fee fete. ‘The other principal poem of this set is «Jamie Telfer,"

‘Wemiy conclude this portion of our enquiry with the citation of
‘te Fnylish ballad and one Scottish, the former being “Sir Andrew
‘Betia” the latter “Sir Patrick Spenx” “Sir Andrew Barton” is
‘fel rictures, from the opening scene between Henry VIII. and
ihe merchants down tothe ending; but the passage descriptive of
‘Se peat captain's death demands quotation:—

* Fight on, my men,” Sir Andrew suid,
*+ A little I'm hurt, but yet not
‘Fill but lie down and bleed awhile,
‘Ave then 1'0 rise and fight again =
Fight on, my men,” Sie Andrew said,
**And fice ye boldly to the foe,
‘And stand fast by St. Andrew's cross r
Until ye hear my whintle blow.”
They never etre Ihis whistle bors,
Which made their hearts wax sore adread,
Meow of no lines anywhere which embody more fully the highest
“WPist of tragedy than those last two, ‘The strong point of “ Sir
ck Spens” lies in the Jament with which the ballad ends ; this
Mill ewaits an exponent, for, although the verses have certainly been
thed to one picture, possibly to more, no one has yet given us the
tof them, Mr. Archer's picture on the subject may, like his
WHekn of Kirkconnel,” have been admirable in point of workman-
considered a5 2 truthful landscape with figures, but in no wise
rendering of his author. It may seem strange to omit all
‘Patton of “ Chevy Chace,” but surely it may be assumed that every-
Me knows that, at least, by heart—it would be almost an imper-
Seence to quote therefrom.
Of the purely comic ballads there is less to be said ; they are
fewer in number, and less vividly suggestive, than are those
‘Mitined in cither of the other sections, ‘The best of the English are
"king John and the Abbot,” “The King and the Miller of Mans-
i? “John the Reeve,” “Robin Hood and the Potter,” and
"Qiskin,® which last bears a strong family likeness to the story of
"Yeu d’Ane;" with a sousgon of “Cinderella.” ‘The best Scottish
#*The Harper of Lochmaben,” and “ Earl Richard's Wedding,”
Withortbern lore failing us here as strangely, as it richly furnishes
‘Weth material for the next division. These are only the exceptionally
‘Bee ; but anyone who will take the trouble to do no more than
Ponsult Ritson or Aytoun may find plenty morg worth studying.

Dest be tteated, nothing has struck me more forcibly t
accountable dearth of romantic ballads which can be c: p
English, Such must have éxisted; but, whether it be that they w
too strictly local in their interest to command national

or that the oral tradition is a faculty more congenial to the
than to the southern temperament, certain it is that they exist
longer. Having named some half-dozen, we come to a stand
There are “ Little Musgrave,” “The Blind Beggar of Bethnal G
“The Children in the Wood,” “The Bailif'’s Daughter,”
Lincoln,” and hardly any others’ until modern days, when
Charles Kingsley and others have done something towards su
the want. But on turning to Scotland selection b
difficulty ; a5 fast as one has been chosen a5 a good |
another still better, or at least equally good, asserts its ¢

you are like to sink under an embarras de richesses! We
needful to subdivide this ‘portion into ‘two ‘tninor heads +

place, there ate those poems which treat of loye—the lo
lovers, and that nobler love, the love of true friends ; in

place are those which, without appealing to this great
interest by the force of romance, and the beauty or pitifulness
story they tell. It is to be remarked that the love episodes!
the most part tragical ; nowhere is the tenet that * the tt
love fieverdid run smooth” more strongly inculcated ; eitherthel
‘or his mistress had a cruel parent who twained them, or the
evil from an envious or revengeful brother or sister, or
interposed deathfully, or one or other of them! proved
undoing of both: Among the few which ‘end happily
Blind Beggar of Bethnal Green,” and one Scottish, ealled ‘
Etin,” than which there is none more affecting extant. The storyé
latter ballad is briefly as follows : A maiden, Lady Margaret;
tured in the greenwood by Hynde Etin, a renegade page
royal father, and with him lives, loving and beloved, until f

itd

248 The Gentleman's Magazine.

quote from then. herein |
reading ; none excel them im pathos, in force of

in imagination; witness the spirit’s description of blessedness
“Clerk Saunders," the address of the burning Iady to her lon}
“Lady Maisry,” or the awful meeting of false Margaret with
mardered lover in “Childe Roland.” Besides these, one

“ Burd Helen,” “ Fair Janet,” “The Cruel Mother,” “ Rose the
and White Lily,” “ Fair Annie,” and, most touching and

all, “Marie Hamilton." It may not be amiss to mention here 4
most of the published versions of the last-named are ridiculously E
the only good one is in the late Professor Aytoun’s collection +)
others, notably Sir Walter Scott's, are pasticcios of verses fi
other ballads interwoven with some of the original matter, the 7¢
being absurd incongruity and contradietion.

There is one narrative which may stand as an exposition of
medimval spirit of friendship, and which may fittingly bring
portion of our subject to a elose : a history of the sorrowful figh
and death of two men who loved each the other better than his)
soul, forced to the combat by honour: that story is called “Gp
and Bewick,” When the one friend, wounded to the death, has}
the other, his conqueror, kill himself in despair, up comes his po
father, exulting that his son is alive yet and Christie Grame
but, says the dying man—

Oh haud your tongue, my faither dear t
Of your prideful talking let me be !
‘Ye might hae drunken your wine in peace,
And let me and my billie be.
“‘Gae dig a grave, baith wide and doep,
A grave to haud baith him and me,
And lay Christie Grame on the sunny side,
For Tm sure he got the victory!”
And so the old men are left to wail for their brave boys, and for
time when the wine was in and the wit was out, and they Pi
their darlings against each other.

Under the second head, viz. that of the purely ri |
three ballads of special beauty, “ The Burning of Frendraught,"")
Clerks of Oxenford,” and a strange weird song which, in its essent
exists both in a southern and in a northern form, being @
in the English version, “The Three Ravens,” and in the Soot
“The Twa Corbies.” Of these the latter is sufficiently well kn
as it is given’ in the “Golden Treasury ;” but neither in polt
interest, nor of execution, can it compare with the former, which

pease Gay then of peace
(EI lace a gle

tearing her bair, bis Indy she was seen,
Gordon as he stood on the green,
= be to you, George Gordon, an iti death may ye dee!
sound as ye stand there, and my lord bereaved from me!"
Ttsde him come, T bade him loup to me,
ch him in my arms twa, a foot I wadna flee ;
‘me the rings from his white fingers, which were so long and small,

i ‘hie lady fair, where you eat in your hall.”
| Hay, Sophia Hay, oh! bonnie Sophia was her name,
ting maid put on ber clacs, but I wot she tore them off again,
she cried, “hone, alas! a sair heart's easy won,
‘Tron a sair heart when I married him, and this day it's returned again."
“we come to the poem which, among all others of a like
may claim precedence, “The Clerks of Oxenford.” Whether
the ln of its story, for delicacy of feeling, for imaginative
=, or for weird description, there is none other that may compete
most pitiful story, The two herocs, beloved by the fair
of the Mayor of Paris, are butchered by the revengeful
‘under a show of justice, despite the pleadings of their loves
vit own grey-headed father ; and very tender and solemn is
‘of the parting, ax each lady fearlessly kisses her lord, and
shim back his troth that he may rest quietly. ‘Then news comes
it mother—not that they are dead, her husband would fain
Ker—and he says, in answer to her sorrowful, wondering

Oh, they ave put to a deeper lore,
Anil to a higher schule,
‘Your ain tex sons will na return
Till the hallow days of Yule.”

fort this to the yearning maternal heart ; in the bitterness of
d disappointment she calls down curses on land and water

250 The Gentleman's Magasine, —

until her sons shall come home to her “in Ining Settosacthional
So the days went, and
‘The hallow days of Yule were come,

Ti neither grew in syke nor ditch
Nor yet in any shengh,

But by the gates of Paradise
‘That birk grew fair eneagh.

‘Then great is the mother’s joy, and having feasted her lost
all her house, she herself makes them their bed, and sits
watch them. It would seem that she grew timorous, having —
them once. In the dead of night, as she slept, came the breath
morning, and
‘The younger brother to the elder said,
«Tis time we were away!
‘The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
‘The channerin worm doth chide,
Gin we be missed out of our place
A sair pain we maun bidet"
“Lie still, Tie etl, but a little wee while,
‘Lic still an’ if we may,
Gin my mother misses us when she wakes,
Shelll gue mad ere it be day!”

There is one great obstacle to the artistic employment of
literature which has not been touched upon in these remarks
obstacle is the objection, inherent, it would seem, in the minds
some of our best painters, to sucident, ‘The question as affecting)
is too wide for discussion in this place, and needs consideration
itself; since the authority of so many capable opinions entitles i
least to discussion ; however chimerical may appear the doctrine that
the Pictorial art, which can most vividly appeal to untutored
should alone be denied the right to make its appeal with the aid!
circumstance. Suffice it here to remark, that whilst study and intl
ligent appreciation are needed for the proper valuing of the hight
qualities of artistic representation, these are not the primary Gi-
acteristics of the great mass of those who frequent exhibitions ; yee
since education is desirable, it is surely a weakness in the painter to
neglect any allurement, which might first attract to his work those
whom he may afterwards influence for good by, possibly, more legiti-
mate means.

importantrespects,
eware now brought into light’ So
ees En alenntesicra fa

252 The Gentleman's Magazine.

ployed, are open to no strong animadversion. It is, how:
thoroughly mistaken idea to surmount the central hall with.
cupola, The effect of this, together with the curved ghass.
the adjoining corridors, is to convey an impression of unst
quite irreconcilable with a sense of grandeur, In this portion o
building, moreover, the architect's love of splendour bas led bins |
an exuberance of ornament fatal to the sense of repose, Not
of the ornamental features, such as the busts in niches, the gil
cornices, and the rest, are equally unmeaning, commonplace, 4
conventional. Gold, which is so valuable a means in decorative:
when used with judgment and moderation, giving in dark |

a richness of tone not otherwise obtainable, is spread over’
faces on which beats the fiercest light, producing thus an inex]
meretricious and tawdry effect. The allegorical designs in sa
which stand at the end of the four corridors where they
sibly escape observation, are so insignificant, futile, and
that they are unworthy of serious consideration, and the fact that
should be found in so conspicuous positions in a National buil
dedicated to Art, suggests only a repetition, with a slight alteration,
the well-known question of Géronte in * Les Fourberies de
“Que diable allaicnt-ils faire dans cette galtre?" Equally unsatisfact
is the method of lighting. Mr. Barry's one idea seems to have b
flood the rooms with light. In the large galleries the effect of this
that the walls look, by contrast, darker than the floor, Many of then
valuable pictures are covered with glass ; and the bright light ft
the polished parqueterie, in itself distressing to the eye of the
tator, is reflected from the surface of the glass directly upon
leaving him often with the most vague and nebulous idea of
picture behind, Painful as is the effect in the galleries, that in
hall is even worse. The height being enormous in proportion 10m
area, the light falls on the pictures at a very acute angle, bringing i
prominence the inequalities of their surfaces. This effect, combi
with the bright light reflected upwards from the marble floor, pi
duces a result which can best be described as bewilderi
full tide of plaudits and congratulations which the exhibition B®
provoked, it is well that the voice of truth and common sense

be heard, and this declares that whatever claims to be

a thing of beauty are put in by Mr. Barry’s structure, it fulfils mot
unsatisfactorily the purpose for which it was intended.

HERE have been very many reasons advanced by the pit
prietors of magazines why they should find readers, So farasl
‘ know the following isa novelone, \ popvlat pensdical published same)

ed in anything like an equal ratio; primi-

al het awhanatnal

Téspaeiliralé connie’ holding ‘ourcial haut ob aces :
who, without it, would have found no aid exceptdeath, If E
like Venice of former days—

‘olds the gorgeous Kast in fee,
the residents will find in her a lighter tax-master, and a
worthy protector, than they would ever have obtained in:
republic of the Adriatic,

lord the other day, one of the presents was
artistic and original. It consisted! of a dessert service,
factured, with a well-executed picture on each plate of
mansions and ancestral halls of the familics, In this
was for no less than eighteen persons, so that it may be i
there was a good deal of house property between them ; but
is surely worthy of imitation on a humbler sphere. A dessert
is n more serviceable thing to give in the way of mamiage pe
than a silver claret jug for example, or an inkstand. For the iF
made man might be portrayed the cottage where he was bart
inn where he first put up, and the charges, for which he paid 0
his traditional half-crown ; the shop where he was apprentice
the church at which he married his master’s danghter. Ever
Dridegroom had no such mementoes of his carly life, he might hat
the picture of his club presented to him, on china, with that of)

‘Trafalgar at Greenwich, the Star and Garter at Richmond, &
other favourite haunt (such as the Alhambra or the Canterbury H
while, to combine the taste of the object of his choice, the off
plates might represent the Brighton Pier, the Rink at Princes
Spurgeon’s Tabernacle, or St. James's, Hatcham, according i
predilections. The advantage to future guests of the young 6
would be incontestable, since they would always have a subject
conversation under their noses, |

HE world will not have long to wait for a fall account of there!
of the excavations conducted by Dr, Schliemann at Myetea
since the volume, which will form a companion to the *‘Tfoy alli
Remains” of the same author, is already announced, Meanwhile
story as it now reaches us reads like the “Arabian Nights/! and
Schliemann himself seems a species of Aladdin who has
possession of the marvellous lamp. \\ carry guy ine yanaiilel, Gree

=

much greater than that which divided him from the
mably the tombs at Mycenm were constructed,
ould have taken in the gems now found, had
in his days, would have been scarcely less than
of this century feels in the monuments of
belongs, moreover, to a. period when the
known, claimed the possession of that sim-
times have regarded as the chief beauty.
‘thelater appears wholly sophisticated, It seems asif further
quarters might yet be hoped. The soil of
| realises Shakspeare’s words, and is a3 rich
“Asis the oore and bottom of the sca
With sunken wreck and sumles treasuries.
diversion of the Tiber from its source, with a view
‘of its bed, which was so favourite a scheme with
not yet been commenced. Is it not possible, moreover,
‘may benefit some day aswell as art? We can scarcely
(find in such excavations as these at Mycens or at Hissarlik
treasures beyond the rough inscriptions with which archao-
falready concerning themselves. In Rome, however, and in
\s, there is yes surely a chance that we might come upon the
(of Menander, Such a find would eclipse in value all dis-

‘BE this century, rich as it is in such matters, has yet reaped.
he

i Mlustrations were not given out to versifiers in the
‘to make the best they could out of them for the
t the Poet was called a Seer, “Faithful and far-
beforehand what was about to happen, and predicved,

not monthly) numbers. This has once wore

256 The Gentleman's Magasine.

happened in these latter times to the author of the “Bab
In his admirable poem, the “Nancy Bell” bya fon

of Punch as being too horrid), there occur the following lines -—
So he bolls the water and takes the salt

‘And the pepper in
(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot,
‘And some sage and to.

* Come here,” says he, with a proper pride,
Which his smiling features tell ;
««7Twill soothing be if I let you see
How eatremely nice you'll smell."
Now, in Luneville (not in the moon but only across the Channel),
the Sth of December last, a gentleman went to a leading establis
ment of the place and asked for a hot bath. Before undressing
sent the waiter for a number of articles, of which he gave a
written on a piece of paper. Among the things he ordered
bottle of white wine, some whisky, red pepper, carrots, turnips,
tomatoes, and onions. After pouring the liquor into the bath, he cut)
the vegetables into small ‘es, sprinkled the pepper over ti
and then tarned on the tap of boiling water, Then, crying
“Good-bye; Iam going to cook myself in the American &
plunged in and perished, The victim was a Frenchman, and
never read the “ Bab Ballads,” which establishes the bard's p

HALL we haye to believe in the sea-serpent after all? and
our scientific authorities have to call and leave their cardsupie
this Mrs. Harris of the animal creation, whose existence they have
often derided? ‘The consensus of testimony in his favour is remarks
and I know of no other case in which a similar amount of
much of it unimpeachable, has gone forso little. Hamlet's
speech, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
are dreamt of in your philosophy,” may be extended to the:
also, and
That sea beast,
Leviathan, which God of all Tis works
Created hagest that swim this ocean stream,
may yet be proved to be neither the crocodile nor the whale, bit ®)
creature answering more nearly to the kraken, concerning which!
writers of repute, like Olaus Magnus and Pontoppidan, have tame
mitted particulars, If this should be the case, it will not be the Sr”
time scientific men have had to retreat from theit position. The
gorilla has had the bad taste to establish himself in the yery tel
of the most competent authorities.

‘é

THE
/ENTLEMANS MAGAZINE.
Maren 1877.

MISS MISANTHROPE.

BY JUSTIN MCCARTHY.

Cuarrer VII.
ON THE BRIDGE.

‘was one walk of which Minola Grey was especially fond,
which she loved to enjoy alone. It led by 2 particular
ugh Regent's Park, avoiding for the most part the frequented
d bringing her at one time to the summit of a little mound
B ksoll, from which she could look across brond fields where sheep
and through clumps of trees and over hedges, and from
by a happy peculiarity, all sight of the beaten and dusty
‘of the park was shut out. The view from this little eminence
most beautiful on a moist and misty day. ‘There the
ng, artistic breath of the rain-charged clouds breathed ten-
‘a the landscape, and effaced any of the harsher, or meaner, or
W way more prosaic details. ‘There the gazer only saw a noble
of deliciously green grass and darker hedge-rows, and trees
Gm and grey, and softly-mottled moss-grown trunks, and here and
Mees bed of flowers, and all under a silver-grey atmosphere that
seemed to dissolve while the eye rested on it. When Minola
boked long enough on the scene opening below the mound, she
pursued her course by devious ways until she reached
Ge of the bridges of the canal, and there she made another halting-
‘The scene from the canal-bridge, unlike that from the mound,
Dest on a bright, breezy day, of quick changing lights and
Widows, There the brown water of the canal sparkled and gladdened
Bihe om, and Minola, leaning over the little bridge, and fixing her
ys on the water as it rippled past the acarer bank, might enjoy, {or
WOR COxE, NO, L755, 6

258 The Gentleman's Magazine.

the hour, the full sensation of one who floats in a boat alon

and watches the trees and the grasses of the shore, ‘The plat
quiet enough, and rich enough in trees and shrabs, and little
quivering out of the water, to seem, at least in Minola's ple
like a spot on the bank of the canal far in the country, while
‘was to her the peculiar and keen delight of knowing herself in]
Sometimes, too, a canal-boat came gliding along, steered’

and sunburnt woman in a great straw bonnet, and the boat
‘woman brought wild and delicious ideas of far-off country plac
woods and gipsies,.and fresh, half savage, half poetic life.
extracted beautiful pictures and much poetry and romance from t
little bridge over the discoloured canal, creeping through the heart
London.

‘The population of London—even its idlers—usually move
in tracks and grooves. Where some go, others go; where few,
Tast none go. It is wonderful what hours of almost absolute
Minola was able to enjoy in the midst of Regent's Park
indeed, constantly reached her : the cries and laughter of chi
the shoutings of cricketers, the dulled clamour of the metropolis
"These reached her as did the bleating of sheep and the tinkdeof ti
bells, the barking of dogs, and occasionally the fierce, hoarse, t
growl or roar of some disturbed or impatient animal in the
Gardens near at hand. But many and many a time Minola
for half an hour on her little knoll or on her chosen bridge,
seeing more of man or woman than of the lions in their
other side of the enclosure, There was a particular hour of th
too, when the park in gencral was especially deserted, and it
almost needless to say that this was the time selected usually
Grey for her rambles. It was sometimes a curious, half sens
pleasure for her thus alone, amid-the murmur of the trees, to
herself, for the moment, back again within sight of the matisoleuma
Keeton, where she had spent so many weary and solitary hourgs
then awaking, to rejoice anew in her freedom and in London,

It was a fortunate and kindly destiny which assigned to @
heroine a poetess fora companion. Much as she loved occ
solitude, Minola loved still better the spirit of fidelity to the ob
of true camaraderie; and if Miss Blanchet had had any manner of 9
to do, from the mending of a stocking to the teaching of a scl
which Minola could possibly have assisted her, Minola would
have thought of leaving her to do the work alone. Or even if M
Blanchet had work to do in which Minola could not have helped
but to which her presence would be any manner of encoul

ot been impatient and wilful in her dealings

filled as she was with a peculiarly independent spirit, and d
circumstances Yo consides ia indulgences ste
not keep from the occasional torment of a doubt whether

not be something wrong in the conduct of any woman who
any circumstances, leaves voluntarily, and while she is yet

the home of her hood, and takes up her abode among:
without guardians, mistress of herself, and in lodgit

Perhaps some such ideas were in Minola's mind when she!
Mary Blanchet, a few mornings after the meetings described in th
last chapter, and set out for a pleasant lonely walk in Regents
Perhaps it was the very pleasure of the walk, and the loneline
missed for some days, that made her dread being selfish, and #
her downward into a drooping and penitent reaction, “This
never do,’ she kept thinking ; “I ought to try to do sor a
somebody. 1 am growing to think only of myself—and 1
away from Keeton because I was getting morbid ip thinking
myself”

It was in this remorseful condition of mind that she spproac
her favourite mound, longing for an hour of quiet delight thers,
half ashamed of her longing. When she had nearly reached!
height, she discerned that the fates had seemingly resolved to p
her for her love of solitariness, by decreeing that her chosen
should that day be occupied. There was a seat on which she a
sat, and now a man was there, That was bad cnough, but
could in an ordinary case have passed on, and sought some othtt
place, Now, however, she saw that that was denied to her; far!
intruder was Mr. Victor Heron, and at the sound of her foots
looked round, recognised her, and was already coming towards
with hat uplifted and courteous bow.

‘The very mpid moment of time between Minola’s first
Mr. Heron, and his recognising her, had enabled her quick yess
perceive that when he thought himself alone he was anything Bae
the genial and joyous personage he appeared in company. At
Miss Grey’s attention was withdrawn from her own disappointm
by the air of melancholy, and even of utter despondeney,
the face and figure of the seated man. He sat leaning f

Ais chin supported by one hand, his eyes fixed moodily om
h ground. He seemed to have no wianner o€ concern with aif, OF

262

“Tam afraid you must have seen. iB es

“Yes; you scemed unhappy, I ee

“There is something sympathetic about you, Miss Grey,
your coldness and loneliness.”

“Surely,” said Miss Grey, “a woman without some
sympathy would be hardly fit to live.”

“You think so?" be sind oe entre Ota
—so do J indeed. Men have little time to sympathise with mem
are all too busy with their own affairs. What should we do
the sympathy of women? Now tell me, why do you stile;

1 saw that you were trying not to laugh.”

“Tcould not help smiling a little, it was so thoroughly 1
a. sentiment.”

“Was it? How is that, now?” His direct way of propoun
his questions rather amused and did not displease her. 1¢ wasl
the way of a rational man talking with another rational
of conversation which has much attraction for some women.
“Well, because it looked upon women so honestly as ct
only formed to make men comfortable, by coming up and
thising with them when they are in a humour for sympathy,
retiring out of the way into their corner again.”
“I can assure you, Miss Grey, that never has been my id
Nothing of the kind, indeed. To tell the truth, I have mot kno
much about the sympathy of women and all that, I have:
awfully out of the world, and I never had any sisters, and I hat
remember my mother. I know women chiefly in poems.
romances, and I believe 1 generally adopt the goddess theory.
honest truth, most women do seem to me a sort of goddesses,” —

“You will not be long in England without unlearning il
theory,” Miss Grey said. “Our writers seem to have hardly
subject now but the faults and follies of women, One might
times think that woman was a newly-discoyered creature that
world could never be done with wondering at.””

“Yes, yes ; I read a good deal of that sort of thing out in the
colonies. But I have retained the
Mrs. Money seems to me a sort of divinity, Miss Money is ab
saint ; she ought to go about with a gilt plate round her head,
Lucy Money seems like a little angel of light, Are you
again? I do assure you these are my real feelings.”

“ [ was not smiling at the idea, but only at the difference betwee?)
it and the favourite ideas of most people at present, even of
about women.”

don’t speak in that way. You do not mean it,

‘mean it—that is, it is quite true that I should
n myself into the water or blown my brains out; that
sma to me like abandoning one's post without orders
_ But J felt in the condition of mind when one
d how such things are done, and would be glad
se to follow the example. For me that is a great
f;” the young man added with some bitterness.
I do for him?” Miss Grey asked herself mentally.
to show him thé view from the canal bridge. There
dsc in vues ‘There is a very pretty view a short
‘this; view from a bridge, and I am
orate dace Should you like to walk

‘Tike to walk anywhere with you," Victor Heron said,
‘of genuine gratefulness, which had not the faintest breath

in it, and could only be accepted as frank truth.
if Miss Grey had been a town-bred girl, she might have
L about setting out for a companionable walk in the park with
(man who was almost a stranger to her. But, as it was, she
Lito herself to have al! the right of free action belonging to
of which the public opinion can in no wise touch her.
id fm London as freely as one speaks with a friend in a
hotel room, where he knows that the company around are
Qunderstand what he is saying. In this particular instance,
| Minola hardly thought about the matter at all. There was
jg in Heron's open and emotional way which made people
tthe first meeting cease to regard him asa stranger. Perhaps,
thad thought over the matter, she might have cited in vin-
‘ef hor course the valuable authority of Major Pendennis,
fm asked whether Laura might properly take walks in the
(Gardens with Warrington, cagerly said, “Yes, yes, begad, of

| a It’s like the country, you know 5 every- /

264 The Gentleman's Magazine,

‘body goes out with everybody in the Gardens ; and there
you know, and that sort of thing. Everybody walks in the
Gardens.” Regent's Park, one would think, ought to ome
the same laws. ‘There are- beadles there, too, or

aries of some sort, although it may be owned that in ther
and from the canal bridge Heron and Minola encountered
them.

Tt is doubtful whether Heron, at least, would have noticed
a personage even had he come in their way, for he talked
all the time, exeept when he paused for an answer to some
question, and he seldom took his eyes from Minola’s fice.
not staring at her, or broadly admiring her ; nor, indeed,
anything in his manner to make it certain that he was
at‘all, as man conventionally is understood to admire woman,
he had evidently put Miss Grey into the place of a sympatheti«
trusted friend, and he talked to her accordingly, She was
and interested, and she how and then kept making little di
criticisms to herself, in order to sustain her place as the cool ¢
ciator of man. But she was very happy for all that.
One characteristic peculiarity of this sudden and si
quaintanceship ought to be mentioned. When people still)
“Gil Blas" they would have remembered at once how the wa
woman received delightedly the advances of Gil Blas,
to be a gentleman of fortune, and how Gil Blas paid great
the waiting-woman, believing her to be a lady of rank. ‘The p
friends in Regent's Park were drawn together by exactly opposit
pulses + each believed the other poor and unfriended. Minol
under the impression that she was giving her sympathy toar
and unhappy young man, who had failed in life almost at the
beginning, and was now friendless in stony-hearted London, 1
Heron was convinced that his companion was a poor orphan git!
had been sent down by misfortune from a position of comf
even wealth, to carn her bread by some sort of intellectual la
while she lived in a small back room in a.depressed and mol
quarter of London.

He told her the story of his grievance ; it may be that be
told her some parts of it more than once. It was a strange sen!
to her, as she walked on the soft green turf, in the silver-grey)
sphere, to hear this young man, who seemed to have lived so
and strange a life, appealing to her for an opinion as to the cou!
ought to pursue to have his cause set right. The St. Xavier's $
ments do not geographically count for much, and politically

you advise?" Heron said, after having several
point on her. “T attach great i im-

r, and try some other career, or would you fight

would fight it out,” Minola stid, looking up to him with
es, “and 1 would never let it drop. I would make them

it T think ; just what I came to England resolved to do,
dea of giving in; but people here discourage me. Money
tac. He says the Government will never do anything
ke myself troublesome.”
. then, why not make yourself troublesome?"
BivetaleraysAlt troublesome in’ one sense," he iid, whh’a
d of laugh, “by haunting antechambers, and trying to foree
| see me who don't want to see me. But I can’t do any
ake d of work j Tam sick of it, Tam ashamed of having
T couldn't do that,” Minola said gravely.
_ “Then,” Heron said, with a little embarrassment, “a man—a very
Land well-meaning fellow, an old friend of my father’s—offered
duce me to Lady Chertsey—a very clever woman, a queen of
told, who gets all the world (of politics, I mean) into
n, and delights in being a sort of power, and all that.
fellow, they say, wonderfully if she took any interest
» you know,"

ought not to say what Twas going to say."

“Why not?" Minola asked again. _ “a

“Lean, pethaps I ought not to say it to you.”

“I don't know, really, Tell me what it is, and #
whether you ought to say it.”

He laughed.“ Well, I was only going to say that I
have my cause served by petticoat influence.'”

“T think you are quite right. If I were a man E
petticoat influence in such a matter contemptible, i
you not like to say so?”
» “Only because I was afraid you might think I meant
contemptuously of the influence and the advice of
‘mean anything of the kind. Ihave the highest opinion of
women and their influence, as I have told you already; but Ick
endure the idea of having a lady, who doesn’t know or care an
about me and my claims, asked by somebody to say a ward tt
great man or some great man’s wife, in order that I might
hearing, I am sure you understand what I mean, Miss Grey,’
“Oh, yes, I never should have misunderstood it; and I
that you are quite right. It would be a downright degradation

“So felt. Anyhow, I could not do it. Then there remai
making myself troublesome, as Money advises ——” 7
“Yes, what is that?”

“Getting my case brought on again and Pe
Commons, and having debates about it, and making the whelt
public, and so forcing the Government either to do me jus
to satisfy the country that justice has already been done,” h
bitterly.

“That would seem to me a right thing to do,” Miss Grey
“but I know so little, that I ought not to offer a word of adwic

“Oh, yes, I should trust to your feelings and in instincts in
case. Well, I don’t like, somehow, being in the hands of poli
and party men, who might use me and my cause only as a my
annoying the Government—not really from any sense of rig
justice. 1 don’t know if 1 make myself quite understood ; it

eee
}and her seeming levity, which was indeed only the
to keep up to herself her character as

1 did not think of that at first, but, now that you
sure that you are right.”
. “Then comes the question,” he said,
done?”
iinst the bridge, he thrust his hands into his pockets,
° estas eras if he were really waiting for her

Parliament.”
SW ligkt'd ind at Once formed and framed. a picture of a stately
bly, like 2 Roman Senate, or like the group of King Agrippa,
s, Bernice and the rest, and Mr. Heron pleading his cause like
Paul. ‘The thing seemed hardly congruous, It did not
“to fall in with modem conditions atall, Her face became
Mk ; did not well know what to answer.
“Are people allowed to do such things now, in England?” she
plead causes before Parliament?”
_ Anvodd idea came up in her mind, that perhaps by the time this
Watge performance came to be enacted, Mr. Augustus Sheppard
im Parliament, and Mr. Heron's enthusiastic eloquence
€ to be addressed to him. She did not like the

| “You don’t understand,” Heron said. “You really don't, this

aa

isa splendid idea, the very thing I sh
and in your place.”
“You really think so?"

“Indeed Edo. But, then—" and she heii
she had been only encouraging him to a wild

“No; I think not; not always, at least. 1 sh
an opportunity. T have money enough—for me.
man, Miss Grey, but my father left me well enough off

spend any money. There was no way of ction
‘troubles are none of them money troubles, I only

my past carcer, and so to have a career for the future, I
doing something. I feel in an unhealthy state of mind
is pressing on me, You understand?"

“Tean understand it,” Miss Grey said, turning to le:
and bestowing one glance at the yellow, slow-moving water, 9
reeds and the bushes of which she and her companion had
a word. “It is not good to have to think of pe
you are bound to vindicate yourself; that I am sure is you
Then you can think of other things—of the public a
country.”

“He is rich,” she thought, ““and he is clever and earnest,
of his egotism, Of course he will have a career, and be suc
T thought that he was poor and broken-down, and that 7 was
him a kindness by showing sympathy with him.”

They went away together, and Heron, delighted |
encouragement and her intelligence, unfolded splendid plans ¢
he was to do. But Minola somehow entered less cordially int
than she had done before, and Mr. Heron at last became —
talking so much about himself,

“T hope we shall meet again,” he said, as cexcpedaad
at one of the gates leading out of the park, to intimate that no
roads were separating. “I wish you would allow me to call
you. 1 do hope you won’t think me odd, or that J am presunt
your kindness. 1 am a semi-barbarian, you know—have }
ong out of civilisation—and I haven’t any idea of the ways
polite world,” . a

al

269

ei a friendly smile, bat
‘ answer to the repeated expression of his hope, and she

Men are!" Minola thought as she went her way.
all are!" Of course she assumed herself to

gotistic he ig! Of course he tells his whole story to every

Smeets. Lucy Money no doubt has it by heart.”

id not remember for the moment that her own favourite

likewise somewhat egotistic and cffusive, and that he was
fo pour out the story of his wrongs into the ear of any sym-
woman. But she was disappointed with herself and her
just now, and was not ina mood to make perfectly reason-

Ciarren VIII.
A “HELPER OP UNArrY MEN."

"Mis. Mowry had one great object in life. At least, if it was
Totan object defined and set out before her, it was an instinct:
Itvas to make people happy. She could not rest without trying
Witake people happy. The motherly instinct, which in other
his satisfied by rushing at babies wherever they are to be seen,
“2d ministering to them, and fondling them, and talking pigeon-
“Byglsh to therm, exuberated in her so far as to set her trying to do
mother's part for all men and women who came within her range,
Si when their years far exceeded hers. There was one great
‘Betage to herself personally in this: it kept her content in what
§dtome tobeherownsphere. One cannot go meddling in the affairs
Gichesses and countesses and Ministers of State, with whatever
= desire of setting’ everything to rights and making them all
Lippy, People of that class give themselves such haughty airs that

they would rather: remain unhappy in their own way than obtain
‘the hand of some person of inferior station, So Mrs, Money

ayo The Gentleman's Magazine.

believed; and perhaps one secret cause of her dislike to the;
cracy (along with the avowed conviction that the

‘had somehow misprised and interfered with her

fecling that if she were among them they would not

anything for them. She therefore maintained a cirele of

was herself the queen and patroness and Lady Bountiful
busied herself about everybody's affairs, and was kind to ¢
body, without any fecling of delight in the mere work of
butout of a sheer pleasure in trying to make people happy,

she made mistakes, and the general system of her social cirelew
30 as to occasion a continual change, a pasting away of old i
and coming in of new. As young men rose in the work
‘became independent, as girls got married and came to co}
themselves supreme in their own sphere, they tended to move
from Mrs. Money’s influence. Even the grateful and the gen
could not always avoid this, For beginners in any path of li
was the specially-appointed helper and friend ; and next to.
she might be called the patron saint of Sehipe In her « i
young poets, painters, lawyers, novelists, preachers,
looking out for seats in Parliament, or beginners in Parliament
there were the grey old poets whom no one read; the pais
could not get their pictures exhibited or bought ; themen who
Parliament ten or twenty years ago, and got out and never
in again ; and the inventors who could not impress any
capitalist with a sense of the yalue of their discoveries. No
rank, successful person of any kind was usually to be found é
Money's rooms, Her guests were the youths who were putti
armour on for the battle, and the worn-out campaigners who
it off, defeated.

Naturally, when Minola Grey came in Mrs, Money's
sympathy and interest of the kindly lady were quickened
keenest. This beautiful, motherless, fatherless, proud, lonely
not so old as her own Theresa, not older than her own Lax
by herself, or almost by herself, in gloomy lodgings in the
London—how could she fail to be an object of Mrs, Mi
concern? Of course Mrs. Moncy must look into all her al
find out whether she was poor; and in what sort of way
living ; and whether the people with whom she lodged were kind

Mary Blanchet’s pride of heart can hardly be described
open carriage, with a pair of splendid greys, stopped at the
the house in the no-thoroughfare street, and a footman got
knocked ; and it finally appeared that Mrs, Money, Miss

bar, was now thinking of entering the Church, and
ou the building of a temple of medieval style, in

proom. As she was crossing its threshold she was considering

she“ought to present a copy of her poems to each of the

‘or only to Mrs. Money, and whether she ought to tender

“or send it on by the post. The solemn eyes and im-

‘presence of Mrs. Money were almost alarming, and the

es and feathers of all the ladies sent a thrill of admiration
into the heart of the poetess—every thing was so evidently
i ofexpense. Little Mary had always been so poor

)stinted in the matter of wardrobe that she could not help

these splendidly-dressed women. Mary, however, luckily

red what was due to the dignity of poetic genius, and did

ow her homage to show itself too much in the form of trepida-

ceaeeey put on her best company manners, and spok
Hy-measured and. genteel tone which she used to employ at
les she had occasion to interchange a word with the

‘or the sheriffs, or some eminent counsel.

“Minola will be home in a few moments—a very few,” Miss
chet said. “Indeed, I expect her every minute, I know she
be greatly disappointed if she did not see you,”

_ “0b, Lam not going without seeing Nola !” said Lucy.

‘am Minola’s friend,” Mary explained, with placid dignity.

[may introduce myself, My brother, I know, has already the

leneer of your acquaintance, I am Miss Blanchet.”

ec

27a - The ¢ Gentleman's Sagan,

“Mr, Herbert Blanchet’s sister?” Mrs, Money said, in
choly tone, but with delighted eyes j “ this is indeed am
and a very great pleasure,” \“

“Why, you don't mean to say you are Herbert Blat sister?
Lucy exclaimed, scizing both the hands of the poctess, }
most delightful creature, and a true poet. Oh, yes, a man o

‘The eyes of Mary moistened with happiness and pride,

“Herbert Blanchet is my brother. He is much younger th
Ineed hardly say that. 1 used to take care of him years ago,
as if I were bis mother, We were a long time separated 5
been so much abroad,"

The faithful Mary would not for all the world have
admitted that their long separation was due to any i
the part of her brother. Indeed, at the moment she was not
of anything of the kind, only of hiy genius, and his bexuty,
noble heart.

“He never told me he had a sister,” Mrs, Money said, "al |
should have been delighted to call on you long ago, Miss Blanche
It is your brother's fault, not mine. T shall tell him sa."

“He did not know that I was coming to London,” Mary
quick to explain; “he thought I was still living in Keeton, Tomy
came to London with Minola.” \

“Oh! You lived in Keeton, then, always, along with “

htful |” Lucy exclaimed, desisting from her
tion of opening books and turning over music; “for you can tell as)
all about Nola, and her love story.”

“ Her love story?” Mrs, Moncy repeated, in tones of melancholy,
enquiry.

“Her love story!" Miss Blanchet murmured tremalously, “
wondering who had betrayed Minola's secret.

* Oh, yes,” said Lucy decisively, “I know there's some iovd
story—something romantic and delightful. Do tell us, Mint
Blanchet.”

Even the saint-like Theresa now showed a mild and becomind
interest,

“It's not exactly a love story,” Miss Blanchet said, with som
hesitation, not well knowing what she ought to réveal and what ©
keep back, “At least, it's no love affair on Minola's part. She new
was in love—never, She detests all love-making—at least, she than’
so,” the poetess said, with a gentle sigh. “But there wasagentlema!
who was very much in love with hec”

Money began.

“Mr. Augustus Sheppard?” Maty asked, pene
for the first time in the conversation.

“ Augustus Sheppard! Is that his name?" Lucy dei
eagerly. “ Why, then, papa knows him! Indeed he does
declare papa knows everything !”

“Why do you think, dear, that he knows this gentleman?”

“Because I heard him asking Nola about Mr. Augustus §
the other day, mamma, in our drawing-room, ”

“He couldn't have known this, T think,” Miss Blanchet said. |

“Oh, no, T suppose not; but Ke knows him, and he'll telly
about him, Why wouldn't Nola have him, Miss Blanchet?”

“ He is rather a formal sort of person, and heavy, and
Teast in the world poetic or romantic; and Minola does not
atall, She doesn’t think his feelings are very deep ; but there
sure she is wrong,” the poctess added emphatically. “She hash
had oceasion to make a study of human feelings as others have”

“You think he has deep feelings?” Mrs. Money asked,
the full light of her melancholy cyes upon Mary, and with her
soul already in the question. “|

“Oh, yes; I know he has. 1 know that he will perseverg,
will try to make Minola marry him still. He isa man T Should
afraid of, if he were disappointed. I'should indeed.”

Mamma, don't you think we had better have Nola to stay:
us for a while?” Lucy asker. “ Miss Blanchet could describe
or get a photograph, and we could give orders that no such man ®
ever to be admitted, if he should call and ask to see her, -Some ot
should always go out with her, or she should only go in the
Tdread this man; Ido indeed. Miss Blanchet is quite right at
she knows more than she says, I dare say, Such terrible things bat
happened, you know. I read in a paper the other day of a yout
man who ‘au i in love with a girl—in the country it was, T think, or
Spain pethaps, or somewhere—and she woitld not marry fim 5 at
he hid himself with a long dagger, and when she was going tian
he stabbed her several times.

“Tdon't think Mr. Augustus Sheppard would be likely #0
anything of that kind,” Miss Blanchet said. “He's & very respet

} able man, and a steady, grave sort of person.”

said, “we'll ask your papa, If he
person—he can tell us what sort of
seem that he i in London now.”

Tooked at her watch. ,

dear, I don’t think Miss Grey is coming in just yet,
late, and E have to attend the Ladies’ Committee
ge Association, at four.”

‘go, mamma, with Theresa,” Lucy exclaimed. “T’ll wait;
‘begin to be alarmed. Its very odd her staying
ink something must really have happened. ‘That man may
| in town, somewhere. You go; when I have seen
a satisficd that she is safe, I can get home in the
or the underground, or the steamboat, or somehow. I'll
ry, You may be sure.”

‘dear," her mother said, “ you were never in an omnibus in

es in omnfbuses, and he says he doesn't care whether
le do or not.”

‘§ lady, my dear—"
"Oh, I've seen them in the streets full of women! They don’t

tmy dear young lady,” Miss Blanchet pleaded, “there is
slightest occasion for your staying, Mr, Sheppard isn’t at
Gind of person. Minola is quite safe. She isoften out much
ved although I confess that I did expect her home much

say fill Nola comes,” the positive little Lucy declared,
‘Miss Blanchet turns me out ; and there's an end of that,
dear, you and Tessy do as you please, and never mind

” Mary Blanchet began to say.
Lucy interrupted in portentous
“Say if she docs come, Miss Blanchet.”
"When she docs come, please don't say anything of Mr, Shep-
or pute she would not like to think that we spoke about

j, Of course, of course!" all the ladies chorused, with looks
‘of immense caution and discretion ; and in true femme
r2

276 The Gentleman's Magazine, |

fashion all honestly assuming that there could be nothing
talking over anybody's supposed secrets so long as the
concerned did not know of the talk,

“TJ see Miss Grey,” said the quict Theresa suddenly. She
been looking out of the window to see if the carriage was nein
‘As a professed saint she had naturally less interest in ordinary hum)
creatures than her mother and sister had.

“Thank Heaven!" Lucy exclaimed.

“ Dear Lucy!” Theresa interposed in tones of mild remonstrance
as if she would suggest that not everybody had a right to mike
reference to Heaven, and that Heaven would probably resent an}
allusion to it by the unqualified. |

+ Well, L am thankful that she is coming all the same ; but I #isl
you wouldn't call her Miss Grey, Tessy. It seems cold and uit
friendly. Call her Nola, please.” J

Mary Blanchet went to the door, and exchanged a brief ron
two with Minola, in order that she might be prepared for her:
Minola came in, looking very handsome, with her colour hei
by a quick walk home, and the little excitement of her morning.

“How lovely you are looking, Nola dear!” Lucy exclaimed
after the first greetings were over, “ You look as if you had bee
having an adventure.”

“T have had a sort of adventure,” Minola answered with a fait
blush.

The one thought went through the minds of all her listener?
the same moment, and it shaped itself into a name—* Mr, August
Sheppard.” _ All were silent and breathless.

“It was not much,” Minola hastened to say. “Only, I met M
Victor Heron in Regent's Park, and I have been walking with him

Most of her listeners seemed relieved.

“T wish I had met him,” Lucy blurted out ;
some, and I should like to have walked with
sense I am talking !” and she grew red, and jumped up amd look,
out of the window.

‘Then they all talked about something else, and the visit closed]
a promise that Minola and Mary Blanchet would present the!
selves at one of Mrs. Money’s little weekly receptions out of seast
which was to take place the following evening; and after which Mt
Money hoped to decoy them into staying for the night. Ma
Blanchet went to bed that night in an ecstasy of happiness, of
disturbed now and then by a torturing doubt as to whether M
Money would be equally willing to teceive her if she had kno!

ns ot wry aula visto his wife's lithe
of the season. In the season, and when they had
more formal gatherings, he showed himself as mach
erate, for many of the guests then were
ay persons who desired especially to see him, and
topics he could talk. A good many foreign visitors were
‘amually—scientific men, and railway contractors, and engineers,
builders, from Germany, Italy, and Russia, and of course
i States, who looked upon Mr. Money as a person of great
fance and distinction, and would not have cared anything
mast of Mrs, Money's guests
foreigners were curiously right and wrong, Mr. Money was
ison of importance and distinction. Every Londoner who knew
‘ing knew his name, and knew that he was clever and dis-
If 2 Russian stranger of rank were dining with a
et minister, and were to express a wish to see and know
Ai Money, the minister would think the wish quite natural, and
"Wald take his friend down to the lobby of the House of Commons,
86 make him acquainted with Mr. Money. We have all been
‘ourselves, somewhere, and we know how our longing to
terme celebrity, as we suppose, of the land we are visiting, some
‘Whose mame was familiar to us in England, has been occasionally
@ and chilled by our finding that in the celebrity's own city
@ie scems to have heard of him. There are only too many
lthtities of this kind which shine, like the moon, for those who are
Shng way off. But Mr, Money was a man of mark in London, as
Wels in St. Petersburg and New York. Therein the foreigners
themselves right. Yet Mr. Moncy’s position was somewhat
Peciliar for all that, in a manner no stranger could well appreciate.
Te Cabiner minister did not ask Mr. Money to mect his friend at
§ OF, at all events, would never have been able to say to his
"Money? Oh, yes! Of course you ought to know hin.

278 The Gentleman's Magazine.

He is coming to-morrow to dine with us—won't you come and mi
him?" ‘The most the Cabinet minister would do would be

up & little dinner-party, suitably adjusted for the express p
bringing his fricnd and Mr. Money together. It would be too

to say that Mr. Money was under a cloud. There rather § J
be a sort of faint idea abroad that he ought to be, or someday would
be, under a cloud, no onc knew why.

No such considerations as these, however, would have affected
the company who gathered round Mrs, Money in the out-o on
evenings, or could have been appreciated by them. ‘They were, fot
the most part, entirely out of Mr. Money’s line. He came among
them irregularly and at intervals ; and if he found there any
woman he knew or was taken with, he talked ta him or her aj
deal, and perhaps, if it were 2 man, he carried him and one or
others off to his own study or smoking-room, where they
at their ease. Sometimes Lucelet was sent to her papa, if he was
making his appearance in the drawing-room, to beg him to
some such act of timely intervention. Somebody, perhaps, p
himself among Mrs. Money's guests who was rather too solid, or gm
or scientific, or political, to care for the general company, and to
of any social benefit to them; or some one, as we have suid, i
whose eyes Mr, Money would be a celebrity, and Mrs.
guests counted for nothing. Then Lucy went for her father, if
was in the house, and drew him forth. He was wonderfully gen
with his womankind, They might disturb him at any moment and
in any way they chose. He seemed to have as little iden of
grumbling if they disturbed him as a Newfoundland dog would have
of snapping at his master’s children if they insisted on rousing hilt
up from his doze in the sun,

Mr. Money talked very frankly of his daughters and te!
prospects sometimes. ot

“ My girls are going to marry any one they like," he would often
say; “the poorer the better, so far as I am concerned, go long
they like the girls and the girls like them.” As chance would hate
it, a rich man fell in love with Theresa, and she, in her quiet, sind
monious way, loved him, and that was settled.

“Now, Lucelet, look out for yourself,” Mr, Money would siya
his blushing daughter. “If you fall in love with some fine youn J
fellow, I don't care if he hasn't sixpence. Only be sure, Mie
Lucelet, that you are in love with him, and that he is in loye wit!
you, and not with your expectations.”

Lucelet generally smiled and saucily tossed her head, as one wid

‘were far less pretty than she really was, *

oney loved to be friendly to young people,

| parties were largely attended, almost always, by

‘Theresa's future husband did not come there
d known the family chiefly through Mr. Money and
d coming once to dine with Mr. Moncy, he fell fairly
C tyes and saintly ways of Theresa. Theresa
her father would have called “out of the swim.”
ntly upon her mother’s little gatherings of poets en
who were great to their friends, patriots hunting for
s, orators who had not yet caught the Speaker's eye, and
i tried success in all these various paths and failed.
‘on them tolerantly, but her soul was not in them ; it
them in a purer atmosphere. It was now, indeed,
ng the spires of the church which her lover was to build.
ecullarity seemed common to the guests whom Mrs. Money
(round her. On any subject in which they felt the slightest
never felt the slightest doubt. The air they breathed was
fiction ; the language they talked was that of dogma. The

Fa

0 they knew were the greatest, most gifted, and most
iis ests ; the men and women they did not know were
vere beneath contempt. Every one had what Lowell calls an
¢-crank-of-the-universe air.” In that charmed circle every
@ genius destined yet to mave the world, or a genius
the dull, unworthy world to comprehend, It was a
le, where success or failure came to just the same.
2 flutter of delight was Mary Blanchet when preparing to
peal circle, She was going at last to weet great men
women. Perhaps, some day, she might cven come to

280

be known among them—to shine among them.
done embracing Minola for having brought her to
heaven, She spent all the day dressing herself
hair; but as the hours went on she became almost
nervousness. When it was nearly time for them t
quivering with agitation, They went in a red
for the occasion, because, although Mra. Money offered

and Mary would have liked it much, Minola would”
nothing of the kind, Mary was engaged all the way in the br
in the proper adjustment of her gloves. At last they ¢:
place. Minola did the gentleman’s part, and handed her.
companion out. Mary Blanchet saw a strip of carpet on tl
ment, an open door with servants in livery standing about, bi
lights, brightly-dressed women going in, a glimpse of a room ¥itt
crowd of people, and then Minola and she found themselves som
how in a ladies’ dressing-room. 4
“ Minola, darling, don't go in without me ; I'am quite news
T should never venture to go in alone.”

Minola did not intend to desert her palpitating little ci
who now indeed clung to her skirts and would not let her go hada
been inclined. Miss Blanchet might have been a young beauty,
about to make her début at a ball, so anxious was she about
appearance, about her dress, about her complexion; and at i
same time she was so nervous that she could hardly compel
trembling fingers to give the finishing touches which she be
herself to need. Minola looked on wondering, puzzled, and
angry. The poctess was unmistakably a little, withered, yellow
old maid. She had not even the remains of good looks ™
dressing or decoration possible to woman could make her ait
thing but what she was, or deceive any one about her, or indud
any one to feel interested in her. The handsome, stately girl Ww!
stood smiling near her was about to enter the drawing-room
unconcerned as to her own appearance, and indeed not thinkil
about it; and the homely little old maid was quite distressed 1
the company generally should not sufficiently admire her, or show
find any fault with her dress,

* Come along, you silly poetess,” said Minola at last, breaking i
alaugh, and fairly drawing her companion away from the looking-git
“What do you think anybody will care about you or me? Wi
steal in unnoticed and we shall be all right.”

“T's the first time I ever was in London society, Minola de
and I'm quite nervous."

282 The Cention EGE

there, and that her dressing was
He knew that before a quarter Bet i
would be asking who she was, and he resolyed to
the effect of being the first to parade her
was a singularly handsome man—as has been suid
oppressively handsome ; and a certain wasted look
and checks added a new and striking effect to his
was dark, she was fair ; he was a tall man, she was a
and if his face had a worn look, hers had an expression of so
like habitual melancholy, which was not perhaps in keeping:
natural temperament, and which lent by force of
tional charm to her eyes when they suddenly lit up at the
of any manner of animated conversation. No combination ¢
more effective, Mr, Blanchet felt, than that of his app
hers ; and then she was a new figure. So he passed dont
her, and he knew that most people looked at them as they
He took good care, too, that they should be engaged in earn
“Tam delighted to have you all to myself for a moment,
Grey—to tell you that I know all about your goodness to
‘That is why I would not bring her with us now. No—you
me speak—I am not offering you my thanks. I know you
care about that, But I must tell you that I know what you
done, I have no doubt that you are her sole support—poor Mary]

“Tam her friend, Mr, Blanchet—only that,”

“ Her only friend too. Her brother has not done much for
‘To tell you the truth, Miss Grey, it isn't in his power now, ¥W
don't know the struggles of us, the unsuccessful men in literatite,
yet have faith in ourselves, Lam yery poor. My utmost effort g
in keeping a decent dress-coat and buying a pair of gloves; 1
complain—I am not one bit deterred, and 1 only trouble you
this confession because, whatever I may have been in the past, 1
rather you knew me to be what I am—a wretched, penniless st
—than believe that I left my sister to bea burden on your ft

“Mary is the only friend I have," said Minola. “It is
wonderful if I wish to keep her withme. And you will make a gre
Success some time.”

He shook his head.

“Tfone hadn't to grind at things for bare living one wight
something, Iam not bad enough, or good enough ; and that's?
truth of it, I dare say if 1 were mean enough to hunt after so
woman with money I might have succeeded. as well as others—bat
couldn't do that.” |

ppadorerend tres hear that y9a'were poor than.
u it a failure to be poor. 1

in a low tone, but very earnestly and eagerly; and she
she was speaking too eagerly, and stopped.
he stid, after a moment's pause, “here is the picture,
‘it presently, when these people move away.
entered, through 3 curtained door, a small room which
with people standing before a picture, and admir-
it, Minola, with all her real or fancied delight in
and weaknesses of men and women, could hear
detmaction or even dispraise.
here?" she asked of her companion in a whisper.
ait seen him. Perhaps he'll come in later on.”
think it cheap cynicism if I were to ask why they
picture ?—why they don't find any fault with it?"
sause they are all of the school, and they must support
. Our art is a creed to us. I don’t admit that I am
‘school any more; in fact, I look upon him as a heretic.
g in for mere popularity: success has spoilt him. But to
ill a divinity. They haven't found

tis it called?” she asked.

that of the lover, He had SS
hillock of the grave, and he was
accompanied on his lute. His face
galloping consumption, further enli
insanity in his eyes. Some dreary bats)
the air, and a few sympathetic toads «

the lover, The cypresses appeared as if t
to the music; and the rank weeds and
tremulous around the sandalled feet of the fo

Minola at first could not keep from
followed a shocking inclination to laugh.

“What do you think of it?” Blanchet asked.

“Oh, T don’t like it at all.”

“No? It és trivial, Mere prettiness;
ing-room popularity. No depth of feeling.
power of the scene. Pretty, pleasing:
no depth.

“ But it is hideous,” Minola said.

“Hideous? Oh,no| Decay is loveliness ;
really high art when you cofne to understand
decay there. ‘That girl's face is pretty
there,” and he turned half away in contempt,
of being popular and a success, No; Delavar is
so.”

“ He is quite new to me,” said Minola.
before.”

“He's getting old now,” Blanchet said. “He
thirty. Let me see—oh, yes; fally that. He had
pre-Raphaclites now; or send to the Royal Academy; 6
gallery and exhibit his pictures at a shilling a head. 1
would be quite a success.”

Some of this conversation took place as they were m
way through the crowd with the intention of entering the
room again, Minola was greatly amused and in a manner inten
‘The whole thing was entirely new to her. As they passed int

corridor there were one ot two yacant seats.

3

in any
ed to show that she had no thought of giving herself
‘because she was enabled to be kind to his sister.
‘threw himself sidelong across his chair and leaned
‘seat. He knew that people were looking at him
who his companion was, and he felt very happy.
might read some of my poems to you, Miss Grey," he

ould be delighted to hear them, but I don’t think I should
© tO give an opinion; my opinion would not be worth any-

C a we are staying here to-night, but we shall be at home
mi the afternoon, Are these published poems? Pray, excuse me—
quite forgot; you don't publish. You don't care for fame—the
that sets other people wild.”

- He smiled, and slightly shrugged his shoulders,
We don't care for the plaudits of the stupid crowd,” he said ;
that is quite truc. We don't care for popularity, and to have our
books fying on drawing-room tables, and kept by the booksellers
d@ im morocco ready to hand, to be given away as gift-books to
Tadiss. Boat we should like the admiration of a chosen few.
{truth is, that T'don’t publish my pocms because T haven't the
‘They would be a dead loss, of course, to any one who
ted them; I am proud to sxy that. I would not have them
datall if they couldn't be artistically and fitly brought out;
@ 1 haven't the money, and there’s an end, But if I might

‘THY poems to you, that would be something,”
Minola began to be full of pity for the poor poet, between whom
possible fame there stood so hard and prosaic a barrier. She
| touched by the proud humility of his confession of ambition and
My. ‘Three sudden questions flashed through her mind, “1

286 The Gentleman's Magazine,

wonder how much it would cost? and have I money enough?
would it be possible to get him to take it?”

Her colour was positively heightening, and her breath
checked by the boldness of these thoughts, when suddenly there y
a rushing and rustling of silken skirts, and Lucy Money,
ing herself from a man's arm, swooped upan her,

“You darlingest dear Nola, where have you been all the
I have been hunting for you everywhere! Oh—Mr. Blanchet!
haven't seen you before either. Have you two been
about together all the evening?”

Looking up, Minola saw that it was Mr. Victor Heron who
been with Lucy Money, and that he was now waiting with a smile
genial friendliness to be recognised by Miss Grey. It must be
owned that Minola felt alittle embarrassed, and would
she could not possibly tell why—not have been found deep in con
fidential talk with Herbert Blanchet.

She gave Mr. Heron her hand, and told him—which was now the:
truth—that she was glad to see him.

“Hadn't we better go and find Mary?” Blanchet said, rising and
glancing slightly at Heron. “She will be expecting us.”

“No, please don't take Miss Grey away just yet," Victor sxid,_
addressing himself straightway, and with eyes of unutterable cordaality
and good-fellowship, to the poct. “I haven't spoken a word to her.
yet; and I have to go away soon.”

“T'll go with you to your sister, Mr. Blanchet," said Luey, taking!

his arm forthwith. “I haven't scen her all the evening, anc T want
to talk to her very much.”
So Lucy swept away on Mr, Blanchet's arm, looking very fair, and
‘petite, and pretty, as she held a bundle of her draperies in one handy
and glanced back, smiling and nodding out of sheer good-nature at
Minola,

Victor Heron sat down by Minola, and at once plunged into
earnest talk.

fa rres

(To be continued.)

ed

fe

—— 2;
—-

THE SAILING OF THE SWALLOW.
‘BY ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

BOUT the middle music of the spring

Came from the green shore of the Iriah king
A fair ship stoutly sailing, eastward bound
And south by Wales and its grey land-line round
‘To the lond rocks and ringing reaches home
‘That take the wild wrath of the Cornish foam,
Paat Lyonesse unswallowed of the tides
And high Carlion that now the steep sea hides
‘To the wind-hollowed heights and gusty bays
OF sheer Tintagel, fair with famous days.
Above the stem a gilded swallow shone,
Wrought with straight wings and eyes of glittering stone
As flying amward oversea, to bear
‘Groen summer with it through the singing air.
Anil on the deck between the rowers at dawn,
As the bright sail with brightening wind was drawn,
Sat with full fuce against the strengthening light
Teeilt, more fair than foam or dawn was white.
‘Het gam was glad past love's own singing of,
Axni her face lovely past: desire of love.
Past thought and speech her maiden motions were,
And more golden sumrize was her hair.
Phe very veil of her bright flesh was mado
As oflight woven and moonbeam-coloured shade
More fine than moonbeams ; her warm eyelids shone
AS mow sun-stricken that: endures the sun,
Aoni throngh their curled and eolonred clouds of deep
Luminous lashes thick us dreams in sleep
‘Shone as the sea’s depth swallowing up the sky's
‘The springs of unimaginable eyes.

Watched out its virgin vigil in soft pride

And unkissed expectation ; and the glad —
Clear cheeks and throat and tender temples hi
Such maiden heat as if a rose's blood :
Beat in the live heart ofa lily-bud,
Been te al ee
Heavenward, and from slight foot to

Moying, and what her light hand leant u ‘upon
Grew blossom-scented : her warm arms began

To round and ripen for delight of man

‘That they should clasp and circle: her fresh hands,
Like regent Lilies of reflowering lands

Whose vassal firstlings, crown and star and plume,
Bow down to the empire of that sovereign bloom,
Shone sceptrelese, and from her face there went

A silent light a8 of a God content;

Save when, more swift and keen than in

Some flash of blood, light as the laugh of flame,

of the Swallow,

- oe
Bex it with sudden beam and shining speech,
As <dreant by dream shot through her eyes, and
@xatshone the last that lightened, and not one
Sx ewed her such things az should be borne and done.
hard against her shone the sunlike face
T Exact in all change and wreck of time and place
‘be the star of her sweet living soul.
Nl had love made it as his written goroll
Freee evil will and good to read in yot ;
Seat smooth and mighty, without scar or frot,
Freeh and high-lifted was the helmless brow
A= che oak-treo flowor that tops the topmost bough,
it drop off before the perfect leaf ;
Ase nothing save his name he had of grief,
name his mother, dying as he was born,
Marcie out of sorrow in very sorrow's scorn,
ASQ set it on him emiling in her sight,
isttram ; who now, clothed with sweet youth and might,
Asa glad witness wore that hitter name,
SEBS second symbol of the world for fume.
Fea enone and full of fortune was his youth
the beard’s bloom had left bis cheek unsmooth,
A052 im his face 0 lordship of strong joy
20 height of heart no chance could curb or clay
, and all thot warmed them at his eyes
Be Sesred them ax young larks lore the blue strong skies.
— Biieitiessccnlog through the morning: moved
= Asiram, a light to look on and be loved.
= a. ¢ sprang between his lips and hands, and shone
== ging, and strengthened and sank down theron
PX es & bird settles to the second flight,
etiam feneatls his barping hands with might
it, and made way and had its fill and died,
Nag all whose hoarts were fed upon it sighed
Lat, and in their hoarts tho firo of tears
Baunrei as wine drunken not with lips but cars.
Asad gazing on his fervent hands that made
DWH might of music ll their souls obeyed

SSSR. 0, 2755. v |

And eyes as glad as summer, what.

Fed them so full of happy heart and

‘That had seen sway from side to sn

‘The steel flow of that terrible springtide

That the moon rules not, but the fire and bi

Of men’s hearts mixed in the mid mirth
Therefore the joy and love of him they had
Made thought more amorous in them and more g
For his fame’s sake remembered, and his youth —
Gaye his fame flowerlike fragrance and soft growt
As of a rose reqnickening, when he stood
Fair in their eye, 0 flower of faultless blood.
And thot snd queen to whom his life was death, —
A rose plucked forth of summer in mid breath, —
A star fall’n out of season in mid throo *|
Of that life's joy that makes the star’s life glow,
Made their love sadder toward him and more stra
And in mid change of time and fight and song
Chance cast him westward on the low sweet strand
Where eongs are sung of the green Trish land,
And the sky loves it, and the sea loves best,

And as a bird is taken to man’s breast

‘The sweet-souled land where sorrow aweetest singe
Ts wrapt round with them as with hands and wing
And taken to the sea’s heart as a flower,

There in the luck and light of his good hour
Came to the king’s court like a noteless man
‘Tristram, and while some half a season ran

Abode before him harping in his hall,

‘And taught sweet craft of new things musical

,

The Sailing of the Swallow.

To the dear maiden mouth and innocent bands
‘That for his sake are famous in all lands.
‘Yet. yas not love between them, for their fate
Lavy wapt in its appointed hour at: wait,
Acndd had no flower to show yet, and no sting.
But one: being vexed with some past wound the king
Bade give him comfort of sweet baths, and then
Should [seult watoly him as his handinaiden,
For his more bonour in men's sight, and ease
Pho hurts he had with holy remedies
le by her mother’s magie in strange hours
Out of live roots and life-compelling flowers.
And finding by the wound’s slupe in his side
was the knight by whom their strength bad died
all their might in one man overthrown
“8d loft their shame in sight of all men shown,
She would have slain him swordless with his sword ;
@t seemed he to her so great and fair a lond
She heaved op hand’ and smote not; aud he said,
oy Bshing—* What comfort shall this man be dead,
yp ml? what hurt is for my blood to heal ?
™2E set your hand not near the toothed steel
= the fang strike it."—* Yea, the fang,” she said,
ed it not sting the very serpent dead
A. t stung mine uncle ? for his slayer art thou,
2 half my mother's heart is bloodless now
Be preush thee, that mad’st the veins of all hor kin
Fy— 24 in his wounds whose veins through theo ran thin,”
es thought she how their hot chief's violent heart
in fiung the fierce word forth upon their part
On bade to battle the best knight that stood
re Acthur’s, and so dying of his wild mood
a sot upon his conqueror's flesh the seal
Arig mishallowed and anointed steel,
™, 'reof the venom and enchanted might
cero sign burn here brandod in her sight.
things she stood recasting, and her soul
SeU siding inher, thought like chin flame stole

291

m2

ler

And when the peace was struck bet

Forth must he fare by those green

And bring back Iseult for a plighted |

And set to reign at Mark his uncle's

So now with feast made and all triumphs done —
‘They sailed between the moonfall and the sum
Under the spent stars eastward; but the queen —
Out of wise heart and subtle love had seen |
Such things as might be, dark as in a glass, |
And lest some doom of there should come os
Bothought her with her secret soul alone

‘To work some charm for marriage unieon

And strike the heart of Iseult to her lord

With a spell stronger than the stroke of sword,
‘Therefore with marvellous herbs and spells she wa
To win the very wonder of her thought,

And brewed it with her secret hands and blest
And drew and gave out of her secret breast

‘Yo one her chosen and Iseult’s handmaiden,
Brangwain, and bade her hide from sight of men
‘This marvel covered in a golden cup,

So covering in her heart the counsel up

As in the gold the wondrous wine lay close ;

And when the last. shout, with the last cup rose
About the bride and bridegroom bound to bed,
‘Then should this one word of her will be said

‘To her new-married maiden child, that she
Should drink with Mark this draught in unity,
And no lip touch it for her sake bat theins :

For with long love and conscerating prayers

‘The wine was hallowed for their mouths to pledge,
And if a drop fell from the beaker’s edge

i

‘the rose-time of the year
Frouaght Lanncolot first to sight of Guenevere,
_ And Tristram caught her changing eyes and said
“= Avs this day raisos daylight from the dend
ME ixeht not this face the life of n dead man?”
And Tseult, gazing where the sea was wan
(Prexe of the sun's way, mid; “T pray you not.
& EX exis mo, but tell me there in Camelot,
‘the queen, who hath most name of fair?
xz ‘were a man and dwelling there,
Ex eat [ might win me better praise than yours,
Bn such as you have; for your praise endures,
at with great deeds ye wring from mouths of met
BS xa € ours—for shame, where is it? Tell me then,
woman may not wear a better hero,
WS Eno of this praise hath most save Guenevere?”
And Tristram, lightening with a laugh held in~
ttle praise ix this to win,
= Wor praise and « little! but of these
Fx ples, whom love serves only with bowed knees,
or *uch poor women fairer face huth none
Dat jifts hor eyes against the eye o' the eun
Phar, Artinu’s sister, whom the north seas call
Rist xvas of isles; 0 yet majestical
Gbove the crowns on younger heads she moves,
EL jzhtening with her eyes our late-born loves.”
‘= Ah,” said Iseult, “is sho more tall than 1?
@Sk, Tam tall;” and touched the mast hard by,
Reaching far up the flower that was her hand
Xaad look, fair lord, now, when I rise and stand,

—

And has the third knight after La
And after you to serve her? nay,
God made her for a love-sign among
* Ay,” Tristram irored, foe & Bos g
Would God it were not! for no planets ehin
With half such fearful forecast ae
As a fair face 0 more unfortunate.” a
‘Then with a smile that Jit not on ice "
But moved upon her red mouth tremulous ar
Light a2 a sea-bird’s motion oversea, 4%|
“Yea,” quoth Iseult, “the happier hap for me,
With no such face to bring mon no such fate,
Yet her might all we women born too late
Praise for good hap, who so enskied above i]
Not more in age excels us than man's love.”
There came a glooming light on Tristram’s fae
Answering: “God keep you better in His grace —
‘Than to sit down beside her in men’s sight.
For if men be not blind whom God gives light
And lie not in whose lips he bids truth live,
Great grief shall she be given, and greater give.
For Merlin witnessed of her years ago
That she should work woe and should suffer woe
Beyond the race of women : and in truth
Her face, too bright and dark for age or youth,
Hath on it such a light of cloud and fire,
With charm and change of keen or dim desire,
And over all a fearless look of fear
Hung like a veil across its changing cheer,
Made up of fierce foreknowledge and sharp ecorm,
‘That it were better she had not been born,

of the Swallow.

For not love's self can help a fice whieh hath
Sach: inmbmissive anguish of wan wrath,
Blind prescience and self-contemptuous bate
OF her own soul ani heavy-footed fate,
Writ broad upon its beauty: none the less
Ete: fir of bright and burning bitterness
Dalkee: with as quick a Jame the sense of men
A= sxny sunbeam, nor is quenched again
WS any drop of dewfall ; yea, I think
N© herb of force or blood-compelling drink
Would heal a heart that over it made hot.
Sy and men too that greatly love her not,
the great love of her and Lamorncke,
NEex ke no great marvel, nor look strangely back
with his gaze about her she goes by
EeLe asa breathless and starquickening sky
“fween moonrise and sunset, and moves out
with the passion of his eyes about
X= aight with all her stars, yot night is black ;
Se2.ci she, clothed warm with love of Lamoracke,
Sixt with his worship as with girdling gold,
all at heart anhungored and acold,
Sens sad at hoart and loveless of tho light,
XS night, star-elothod or naked, is but night."
And with her sweet eyes eunkon, and the mirth
weaa in their look as earth lies dead in earth
RAE reigned on earth and triumphed, Isoult said 5
= Es it her shame of something done and dead
© fear of something to be born and done
That so in her soul's eye puts out the sun ?”
Aind Tristram answered: “Surely, as I think,
The. qcives her soul such bitterness to drink,
aa sin born blind, the sightless sin unknown,
BR *<saghit when the summer in her blood was blown,
UE scarce alower, and spring first flushed her will
wet bloom of dreams no fruitage should fulfil,
xen ont of vision and desire was wrought
The midden sin that from the living thought

Touching the dark to death, and-zad :
‘With helplom knowledge that too late forbeda

How sharp a life dead love should lead hor
‘To what sure end how fearful; and though yet
Nor with her blood nor tears her way be wet
And she look bravely with set face on fate, —
‘Yet she knows well the serpent hour at wait
Somewhere to sting and spare not; ay, and he,
Arthur” ——

“The king,” quoth Iseult suddenly, = —<—>)
“Doth the king too live so in sight of fear ?
‘They say sin touches not a man so near
As shame a woman; yet he too should be
Part of the penance, being more deep than she
Set in the sin.”

“ Nay,” Tristram said, * for thus

Tt fell by wieked hap and hazardous,
That wittingly he sinned no more than youth
May sin and be assoiled of God and truth,
Repenting ; for in his first year of reign
As he stood splendid with his foemen slain
And light of new-blown battles, flushed and hot
With hope and life, came greeting from King Lot
Out of his wind-worn islands oversea,
And homage to my king and fealty =
Of those north scas wherein the strange shapes swim,
As from his man; and Arthur greeted him
As his good lord and courteously, and bade
To his high feast ; who coming with him had
This Queen Morgause of Orkney, his fair wifis
In the green middle Maytime of her life,
And in searce April was our king’s as then
And goodliest was he of all flowering men,
‘And of what graft as yet himself knew not ;
But cold as rains in autumn was King Lot
And grey-grown out of seasons 8 there sprang

‘Phe Sailing of the Swallow. 297

Sve Eft love between them, and all spring through sang
Teigbt in their joyous hearing; for none knew
‘The hitter bond of blood between them two,
“Ewerenin fathers but one mother, till too late
Pho sered mouth of Merlin set forth fate
Ao brake tho secret seal on Arthur's birth,
ex showed his ruin and his rule on earth
Exxeesetricable, and light on lives to be.
For surely, though time slay ue, yet shall we
EXea-~o uch high namo and lordship of good daya
Shall sustain us living, and men’s praise
SEx2a3i bum a beacon lit above us dead,
Xx of tho king how shall not this be said
Een ‘any of us from any mouth has praize,
= Basat much were men in only this king's days,

SS Arthur's? yea, come shine or shade, no loss
PEs == name shall be one name with knightliness,
Mise Guid one ight with,unlight: Yet in sooth
RS as age shall bear the burdens of his youth

“<1 bleed from his own bloodshed ; for indeed
FSS ii to im blind hia sister brought forth seed,
#8 Sex <i of the child between them shall be born

‘“Ssstruction: so shall God not suffer scorn,
ES in men's souls and lives his law lie dead.”
a4 And ax one moved amd marveling Tsoult said :
<SSreut pity it is and strange it seems Lo me
SS cond n0¢ do them so much right as we,
B40 slay not men for witless evil done;
Sead these the noblest under the great: sun
>= sin they knew not he that knew shall slay,
“Ad smite blind men for stumbling in fair day.
t good is it to God that such should die?
SBaay the sun's light grow sunnier in the sky
ee aiies their light of spirit is put out?”
Ag ABM sighing, die looked from wave to cloud about,
S.2 2 cren with that the full-grown feet of day
rn upright on the quivering water-ways
AX his face burned agninst her meeting face
PEt like a overs lightening from his place

The Gentleman's Magazine.

‘Who igazos'to his bride-ward)y:the won shoue |
And shivered like spread wings of angels blown

By the sun's breath before him; andalow =
Sweet, gale shook all the foum-flowers of thi snow 3
As into rainfall of sea-roses shed |
Leaf by wild leaf on the green

panic be
That ternpests till and sea-winds turn and plongh :
For rosy and fiery round the running prow
Fluttered the flakes and feathers of the spray,
And bloomed like blossoms east by God away:
To waste on the ardent water; the wan moon
Withered to westward as a face in swoon
Death-stricken by glad tidings: and the height
Throbbed and the centre quivered with delight
And the depth quailed with passion as of love,
Till like the heart of a new-mated dove
Air, light, and wave scemed full of burning rest,
With motion as of one God's beating breast.

And her heart sprang in Iseult, and she drew
With all her spirit and life the sunrise through,
And through her lips the keen triumphant air
Sea-scented, sweeter than land-roses were,

‘And through her eyes the whole rejoicing east
Sun-<catisfied, and all the heaven at feast

Spread for the morning; and the imperious mirth
Of wind and light that moved upon the earth,
Making the spring, and all the fruitful might

And strong regeneration of delight

‘That swells the seedling leaf and sapling man,
Since the first life in the first world began

To burn and burgeon through void limbs and veins,
And the first love with sharp eweet procreant pains
To piorce and bring forth rosea: nay, she felt
Through her own soul the sovereign morming melt,
And all the eacred passion of the aun;

And as the young clouds flamed and were undone
About him coming, touched and burnt away

In rosy ruin and yellow gpoil of day,

r of the Swallow.

Lee.

dawn also cleave it, and incense
With light from inward and with effluent heat
‘Dhe kindling soul through fleshly hands and’ fect.
And 4g the angust great: blossom of the dawn
Burs), and the full sun scarce from sea withdrawn
Send a the fiery water a flower afloat,
‘a fire the mighty morning smote
SER x cugbout: her; and incensed with the influent hour
ZTS> hole wuts one great mystical rea flower
*t2xrst, and the bud of her sweet apirit broke
r idn, and the strong spring at a stroke
eg Filled, and was cloren,and from the full sheath came
Ae whole rose of the woman red as flame :
ex all her Mayday blood as from a swoon
EPR shed; and May rose up in her and was June.
SS ter space the moming in her burned:
with half ewmmer in her eyes she turned,
4222.3 on her lips was April yet, ond smiled,
rn “the cyes all woman, in the lips half child.
9a i tthe soft speech botweon: them grew again
was questionings and records of what men
“<Sxe mightiest, and what names for love or fight
Sac starricst overhead of queen or knight.
PRs Se Tristram ipake of many a noble thing,
tte feast and storm of tournay round the king,
ye quest. by perilous lands of marsh and brake
#821 circling woods branch-knotted like a snake
“snc places pale with eins that they had seen
DPF Batty was no life of rod fruit or of groon
FE at) was asa dead face wan and dun ;
NA bowers of evil builders whence the sun
FGaxas silent, and the moon moves without light
Seve them through the sick and starccrossed nights
AQ of theirhands through whom such holds lay waste,
F. 2 all their strengths dishevelled and defaced
LL ruinous, and wer not from north to south:
Baa of themight of Merlin’s ancient mouth,

The Gentleman's Magazine,

‘The son of no man’s loins, begot by doom

In speechless sleep out of a spotless womb;

For sleeping among graves where none had rest
And ominous houses of dead bones unblest
Among the grey grass rough as old rent hair

And wicked herbage whitening like despair

And blown upon with blasts of dolorous breath
From the gaunt openings and rare doors of death,
A maid unspotted, senseless of the spell,

Felt not about her breathe some thing of hell
Whose child and hers was Merlin ; and to him
Great light from God gave sight of all things dim
And wisdom of all wondrous things, to say

What root should bear what fruit of night or day,
And sovereign speech and counsel above man ;
Wherefore his youth like age was wise and wan,
And his age sorrowful and fain to sleep;

Yet should sleep never, neither laugh nor weep,
‘Till in some deep place of some land or sea

‘The heavenly hands of holier Nimue

That was the nurse of Launcelot, and most sweet
Of oll that move with magicat soft feet

Among us, being of lovelier blood and breath,
Should shut him in with sleep aa kind as death,
For she could pass between the quick and dead ;
And of her love toward Pelleas, for whose head
Love-wounded and world-wearied ahe had won

A place beyond all pain in Avalon;

And of the fire that wasted afterward

The loveless eyes and bosom of Ettarde,

In whose false love his faultless heart had burned =
And now being rapt from her, her lost heart years
To seek him, and passed hungering out of life :
And after all the thunder-hours of strife

That roared between King Clandas and King Ban
How Nimue’s mighty nursling waxed to man,
And how from his first, field such grace he got
‘That all men’s hearts bowed down to Launcelot,

‘The Sailing of the Swallow.

AR. bow the high prince Galabault held him dear
ARs led him even to love of Guenevere
eel to that kiss which made break forth as fire
SEE] hugh that was the flower of his desire,
Exe hugh that lightened at her lips for bliss
E> vin from Love s0 great a lover's kiss :
S*S2ci of the toil of Balen all bis days
“> xap but thorns for fruit and tears for praise,
‘oee hap was evil as his heart was good,
X82 all his works and ways by wold and wood
Je through much pain to one last labouring day
WY Then the blood washed the tears out trom his way :
ANH of the kin of Arthur, and their might;
mnisborn head of Mordred, sad as night,
WER cold waste chooks and eyes as keen as pain,
®2cl the close angry lips of Agravaine ;
"2d gracious Gawain, scattering words 2s flowers,
@ Acindliest head of worldly paramours ;
X27 the fair hand of Gareth, found in fight
S€xSx5p 0s 0 voa-beust’s tushos and us white =
Sas Of the king's self, glorious yet: and glad
© all the toil and doubt of doom he had,
“Ot hhed with men’s loves and full of kingly days,
“When Iseult cad: “ Let each knight: have his praise
AE cach good man good! witness of his worth ;

"26 when men laud the second name on earth,
Vm would they praise to have no worldly peer
Se him whose love makes glorious Guenevere?”
=<‘Nay,” Tristram said, “ such man as he is none.”
=<What,” said she, “there is none such under sun
OF Sati the large earth's living? yot T deomed
¥, ‘4 spake of one—but maybe men that dreamed,
OAs and tongue-stricken, witless, babbler's breed—
WEA for all high things was his peer indeed
Se this one highest, to be so loved and love.”
Fr, And Tristram: “Little wit had these the
= there is none such in the world as thie.”
“Ay, upon land,” quoth Isoult, “none euch ie,

of 5

302

The Gentleman's Magazine.

I doubt not, nor where fighting folk may be; —
But were there none such between sky and sea,
‘The world’s whole worth were poorer than I wist.”
And Tristram took her flower-white hand and
Laughing; and through his fair face as in shame
‘The light blood lightened. “Hear ye no such na
She said; and he, “If there be such a word,
I wot the queen’s poor harper hath not heard.”
‘Then, as the fuller-feathered hours grew long,
Began to speed their warm slow feet with song.

* Lovo, is it morning risen or night decoased
‘That makes the mirth of the triumphant east?
Is it joy given or bitterness put by
That makes the sweetest drinking at love's feast?
© love, love, love, that day should live and die
“Ts it with soul’s thirst or with body's drouth
‘That summer yearns out sunward to the south,
With all the flowers that, when thy birth drew
Were molten in one rose to make thy mouth ?
O love, what care though day should live and)
“Ts the sun glad of all the love on enrth,

‘The spirit and sense and work of things and wort
Is the moon sad because the month must fly
And bring her death that can but bring back bir

For all these things as day must live and die.
“Love, is it day that makes thee thy delight
Or thou that seest day made out of thy light ?
Love, as the sun and sea are thou and J,
Sea without sun dark, sun without 2ea bright ;
‘The sun is one though day should live and dic,
«0 which is elder, night or light, who knows?
And life and love, which firat of these twain grow
For life is born of love to wail and ery,
And love is born of life to heal his woes,
And light of night, that day should live and di
“<0 sun of heaven above the worldly eea,
O very love, what light is this of thee!
My sea of soul is deep a8 thou art Bigh,

Bat all thy light is shed through all of me,

As love through love, while day shall live and die.”
“Nay,” said Iseult, “ your song is hard to read.”
“Ay?” said he: “or too light.a song to heed,

Too slight to follow, it may be? Who shall sing
OF love but as churl before a king
Ef by love's worth men rate his worthiness ?
Wet as the poor churl's worth to sing is less,
SSurely the more shall be the great king’s grace
“Fo shew for charlish love a kindlier face.”
No churl," she sid, “but ane in soothsayer’s wise
WW ho says tree things that help no more than lies.
have heard men sing of love a simpler way
‘Phan these wrought riddles made of night. and day,
Like jewelled reins wherson the rhyme-bells hang.”
Acnd Tristram smiled and changed his song and sang.
“* The lreath between my lips of lips not mine,
Tike spirit in sense that makes pure sense divine,
Ts 8 life in them from the living sky _
©ntering fills my heart with blood of
<< AM theo with me, while day shall live a
¥ Soul is shed into me with thy breat
in any heart each heartbeat of thee saith
an thy life the life-springs of me
‘N« life to be guthered of ono deat
me and thee, though day m:
veins it be

Eva

is thine eyesight ki
FS Shere me in thy flesh tl
°F thine made mine,

The Gentleman's Magazine, =e

And in my lipe the passion of thee sigh,
And music of mo made in mine own ear;
Am I not thou while day shall live and dio?
Art thou not E as I thy love am thou?
So lot all things pass from us; we are now,
For all that. was and will be, who knows why?
And all that is and is not, who knows how?
Who knows ? God knows why day should Hvess === and gj. *

And Tseult mused and spake no word, but sought

Through all the bushed ways of her tongueless thom ught
What face or covered likeness of a fice

Tn what veiled hour or dream-determined place
She secing might take for love's face, and believes
‘This was the spirit to whom all spirits cleave.

For that sweet wonder of the twain made one

And each one twain, incorporate sun with sun,
Star with star moltcn, soul with soul imbued,

And all the soul's works, all their multitude,
Made one thought and one vision and ene song,
Love —this thing, this, laid hand on hor eo strong
She could not choose but. yearn till she sltould sea.
So went she musing down her thoughts; but he,
Sweet-hearted as a bird that takes the sun

With his clear eyes, and feels the glad god run =
‘Through his bright blood and his rejoicing wings,

And opens all bimeelf to heaven and sings,

Made her mind light and full of noble mirth _geh,
With words and songs the gladdest grown on earth, <=

‘Till she was blithe and high of heart as he.

So swim the Swallow through the springing sea,

And while they sat at spe as ata feast,

There came a light wind ning from the east
And blackening, and made comfortless the skies ;
And the sea thrilled as with heart-sundering sighs
One after one drawn, with each breath it drew,

And the green hardened into iron blue,

Pa

p Sailing of the Swallow.

And the soft light went out of all its face.

“When Tristram girt him for an oarsman's'place
Ac took his oar and emote, and toiled with might
Eq the cast wind’s full face and the strong sea's spite
‘La toouring ; and all the rowers rowed hard, but he
More mightily than any wearicr three.

And [ealt watched him rowing with sinless eyes
loved him but in holy girlish wise

For noble joy in his fair manliness

And trust and tender wonder 5 none the less

Shhe thought if God had given her grace to be
and make war on danger of earth and eea,
such a man she would be; for his stroke

Wag mightiest ax the mightier water broke,

A21e2 in sheer measure like atrong music drave
‘Tan throngh tho wot weight of the wallowing wave,

rs ‘as a tune before a great king played

“>> triumph was the tune their strong strokes mado,
aa ope the ship through with smooth strife of oars

Se the mid en's grey foum-paven floors,

“>= all the loud breach of the waves at will.

= for an hour they fought the storm out still,

2=2<3 the shom foam span from the blades, and high
a=e keel sprang from tho wave-ridge, and the sky
= at them for a breath’s space through the rain ;

Top 2 the hows with a sharp shock plunged again

= and the sea clashed on them, and so rose

~ “= bright: stem like one panting from swift blows,

ocd as a swimmer’s joyous beaten head
tree laughing, so in that sharp stead
Je light ship lifted her long quivering bows
As anight the man his buffeted strong brows
R= bfithe wave-brench ; for with oue stroke yet
‘Sat all men’s oars together, strongly set
% loud music, and with hearts uplift
Xho smote their strong way through the drench and drift
229 the keen hour had chafed itself to death
the east wind fell fitfully, breath by breath,

Torx, NO. #755 x =e

306

The Gentleman's Magazine.

Tired ; and across the thin and slackening rain
Sprang the face southward of the sun again,
Then all they rested and were ensed at heart,
And Iscult rose up where she sat apart,

And with ber sweet soul deepening her deep eyes
Cast the furs from her and subtle embroideries
‘That wrapped her from the storming rain and spe
And shining like all April in one day, \
Hair, face, and throat dashed with the straying sl
She turned, a sunbeam-coloured flower of flowers.
And laughed on Tristram with her eyes, and said.
*T too have heart then, [ was not afraid,”

And answering somo light courteous word of grace
Ho saw her clear fuce lighten on his face
Unwittingly, with unenamoured eyes,

For the last time, A live man in such wise

Looks in the deadly face of his fixed hour

And laughs with lipe wherein he hath no power

To keep the life yet some five minutes” epace.

So Tristram looked on Iseult face to face

And knew not, and she knew not. The last time—
‘The last that should be told in any rhyme

Heard anywhere on months of singing men

That ever should sing praise of them again ¢

‘The last hour of their hurtless hearts at reat,

‘The last that peace should touch them breast to bres
‘The last that sorrow far from them ehould sit,

This last, was with them, and they knew not it.

For Tristram being athirst with strong toil spake
Saying :—* Iseult, for all dear love's Iabour's sake
Give me to drink, and give me for a pledge
‘Tho touch of four lips on the beaker’s edge.”

And Iseult sought and would not wake Brangwain
Who slept as one half dead with fear and pain,
Being tender-natured ; so with hushed light feet
Went Iseult round her, with soft looks and eweet
Pitying her pain ; so sweet a spirited thing

She was, and daughter of a kindly king.

r of the Swallow. 307

Ace ying what strange bright secret charge was kept
EPexst in thot maid’s white bosom while she slept,
SS — mught and drew the gold cup forth and smiled
Iasvelling, with euch light wondor a3 a child
SEB at hears of giad sad life in magic lands ;
A825 far it back to Tristram with pure hands

the love-draught that should be for flame
=> dor out of them fear and faith and shame,
Sexi lighten all their life up in men’s sight,
Sex make them sad for ever. Then the knight
Sow toward her and craved whence had she this strange

thing
TE Exatt might be spoil of some dim Asian king,
Sy starlight stolen from some waste place of sands,
Seed « maid bore it here in harmless hands.
ceed Ioult, laughing—* Other lords that be
Beeait, and their men feast after them ; but we,
OD exe men must keep the best wine back to feast
ESR they be full and wo of all men least
Bed after them and fain to fare so well:
S<—> with mine handmaid and your squire
“E2Eeat hid this bright thing from us in a wile
Arad with light lips yet full of their swift smile
Sod hands that wist not: though they dug a graye,
Waid the hasps of gold, and drink, and gave,
Aad he drank after, u deep glad kingly draught :
all their life changed in them, for they quaffed
ith ; ifit be death so to drink, and fare
® men who change and are what, these twain were.
ANd shuddering with eyes full of four and fire
Bel heart-stung with a serpentine desire
He turned and saw tho terror in her eyes
hat yearned upon him shining in such wise
@ ftar midway in the midnight fixed.
"Their Galahault was the cup, and she that mixed;
Nor other hand there noedod, nor sweet speech
To ure their lipe togothor; each on each
xa

308

The Gentleman's Magazine.

‘Hung with strange eyes and hovered as a bird
Wounded, and each mouth trembled for a word ;

Their heads neared, and their hands were drawn in one,
And they saw dark, though still the unsunken sun

Far through fine rain shot fire into the south,

And their four lips became one burning mouth.

309

STRANGE SEA-CREATURES.

‘MY RICHARD A, PROCTOR.

We ought to wake ip exer minds t0 dismuicr as tie projudicas, or, at least, suspend
ar fremoture, any precinicive! wotion of what wight, or what ought to, be the
order of nature, and coutent ewrseloe: with observing, es a Mein matter of fact,
eehat 1 —Sir J, Hexscimt, “Prelim. Disc.” p. 79.

IE fancies of men have peopled three of the four so-called
elements, carth, air, water, and fire, with strange forms of life,and
even found in the salamander an inhabitant for the fourth, On
Eand the centaur and the unicorn, in the air the dragon and the roc,
‘fh the water tritons and mermaids, may be named as instances among
‘Fmany of the fabulous creatures which have been not only imagined
ut believed in by men of old times. Although it may be doubted
whether men have ever invented any absolutely imaginary forms of
Tife, yet the possibility of combining known forms into imaginary,
‘and even impossible, forms, must be admitted as an important cle-
meat in any inquiry into the origin of ideas respecting such creatures
S31 hare named = One need only look through an illuminated
manuscript of the Middle Ages to recognise the readiness with which
Gaeaginary creatures can be formed by combining, or by exaggerating,
the characteristics of known animals. Probably the combined know-
Fedige and genius of all the greatest zoologists of our time would not
@uihce for the invention of an entirely new form of animal which yet
Should be zoclogically possible; but to combine the qualities of
Several existent animals in a single one, or to conceive an animal
with some peculiarity abnormally developed, is within the capacity
‘of persons very little acquainted with zoology, nay, is perhaps far
‘easier to such persons than it would be to an Owen, a Huxley, or a
Darwin. In nearly every case, however, the purely imaginary being
is to be recognised by the utter impossibility of its actual existence.
Tf it be a winged man, arms and wings are both provided, but the
pectoral muscles are left unchanged. A winged horse, in like man-
ner, is provided with wings, without any means of working them.
‘A centaur, as in the noble sculptures of Phidias, has the upper part
Of the trenk of 2 man superadded, not to the hind quarters of a horse
or other quadruped, bur to the entire trunk of such an animal, so |

310 The Gentleman's Magazine.

that the abdomen of the human figure lies Aetswees the upper bal
the human trunk and the corresponding part of the horse's
t anatomically preposterous. Without saying:
fabulous animal which was iM and zoo
had a real antitype, exaggerated though the fab
been, we must yet admit that errors so gross marked Ono
of all the really imaginary animals of antiquity, that any fibulod
animal found to accord fairly well with zoological possibilities
be regarded, with extreme probability, as simply the
presentation of some really existent animal. ‘The inventors:
taurs, winged and mianfaced bulls, many-headed dogs,
so forth, were utterly unable to invent a possible new animal,
the merest chance, the probability of which was so small that itm
fairly be disregarded.
‘This view of the so-called fabulous animals of antiquity has!
confirmed by the results of modern zoological’ research. ‘The’
man, zoologically possible (not in all details, of course, but
has found its antitype in the dugong and the manatee ; the 10
the condor, or perhaps in the extinct species whose bones
their monstrous proportions ; the unicorn in the rhinoceros;
the dragon in the pterodactyl of the green-sand ; while the
the minotauy, the winged-herse, and so forth, have become rei)
nised as purely imaginary creatures, which had their origin simpljit
the fanciful combination of known forms, no existent creatures tata
even suggested these monstrosities. |
It is not to be wondered at that the sea should have been met
prolific in monstrosities and in forms whose real nature has bee
misunderstood. Land animals cannot long escape close observatiaa
Even the most powerful and ferocious beasts must succumb inth®
Jong run to man, and in former ages, when the struggle was sat
undecided between some race of animals and savage man, i
specimens of the race must often have been killed, and the 0
appearance of the animal determined, Powerful winged anim
might for a longer time remain comparatively mysterious creafille
even to those whom they attacked, or whose flocks they ravaged. 4
mighty bird, or a pterodactylian beast (a late survivor of a race thet
fast dying out), might swoop down om his prey and disappear ™i
it too swiftly to be made the subject of close serutiny, still Tes @
exact scientific observation, Yet the genéral characteristics ert!
of such creatures would before long be known, From time to tit
the strange winged monster would be seen hovering over the place
where his prey was to be found. Occasionally it would be possibt

original narrative, if at least the original |
according to Berosus, the animal had two h

rude people during the day, taking no food, but
again at night, and continued for some time t
civilised life." A picture of this stranger is said to ha
served at Babylon for many centuries. With a probable
of truth, the story in its latest form is as fabulous as Autd
“ballad of a fish that appeared upon the coast, on V
fourscore of April, forty thousand fathoms above water, al
ballad against the hard hearts of maids.”
Its singular, by the way, how commonly the power of
at least of producing sounds resembling speech ar musical
attributed to the creature whiclr imagination converted into
fish or womnan-fish, Dugongs and manatees make a kind of }
noise, which could scarcely be mistaken under ordinary
for the sound of the human voice, Yet, not only is this p
ascribed to the mermaid and siren (the merman and triton
even the supposed power of blowing on conch-shells), bat in
recent accounts of encounters with creatures, presumably of
tribe and allied races, the same feature is to be noticed. 0
ing account, quoted by Mr, Gosse from a narrative by G
Weddell, the well-known geographer, is interesting for this |
amongst others. It also illustrates well the mixture of erro
details (the offspring, doubtless, of an excited imagination)
correct description of a sca-creature actually seen>—“ A boats cet
were employed on Hall's Island, when one of the crew, left
care of some produce, saw an animal whose voice was musical.
sailor had lain down, and at ten o'clock he heard a noise
human cries, and as daylight in these latitudes never
this season" (the Antarctic summer), “he rose and looked. aon
on seeing no person, returned to bed. Presently he heard the tiie
again ; rose a second time, but still saw nothing. Conceiving, how
ever, the possibility of a boat being upset, and that some of the eet |
might be clinging to detached rocks, he walked along the beach ale
steps and heard the noise more distinctly but in a musical sua
Upon searching around, he saw an object lying on a rock a doit |
yards from the shore, at which he was somewhat frightened, The
face and shoulders appeared of human form and of a reddish cology
over the shoulders hung long green hair; the tail resembled thatof th
seal, but the extremities of the arms he could not see distinetly, “TBE

=

making oat truth, that I concluded he must really
the animal he deseribed, or that it must have been the

‘points out, since golden-yellow fur and black
Antarctic seala, the colours may be intermingled

‘ng an olive-grcen tint, which, by contrast

skin, might be mistaken for a full green. Con-
the man had been roused from sleep and was somewhat

, he would not be likely to make very exact observations,
‘that it was only at first that he mistook the sounds

the creature for human cries; afterwards he heard only the
‘ut in 2 musical strain. Now with regard to the musical
[to have been uttered by this creature, and commonly
[to creatures belonging to families closely allied to the seals,
that any attempt has yet been made to show that these
the power of emitting sounds which can properly be
fas musical It is quite possible that the Romanist sailor's
} not very nice, and that any sound softer than a bellow
ausical to him, Still, the idea suggests itself that possibly
$ some other animals, possess a note not commonly used,
ag a signal to their mates, and never uttered when men or
muls are known to be near, It appears to me that this is
by the circumstance that seals are fond of music.
'to this in his treatise on Sexual Selection (published
(Descent of Man ”), and quotes a statement to the effect that
bess of seals for music “was well known to the ancients, and
aken advantage of by hunters to the present day.” The
(ee of this will be understood from Darwin's remark imme-
Mowing, that * with all these animals, the males of which
(e season of courtship incessantly produce musical notes or
Uhmieal sounds, we must believe that the females are able to

"

the species of seals and allied races, and that some
may present, in certain respects and, perhaps, at a:

closer resemblance to thehuman form than the
or dugong,

We cannot, for instance, attach much weight to

related by Hudson, the famous navigator >“ One of our

looking overboard, saw a mermaid, and ealling up some of t}
pany to see her, ane more came up, and by that time she wi
close to the ship's side, looking eamestly onthe men. A lit
asea came and overturned her. From the navel upward h
and breasts were like a woman’s, as they say that saw her; h
as big as one of us; her skin very white ; and long hair |
down behind, of colour black. In her going down they saw)
which was like the tail of a porpoise and speckled like « ma
If Hudson himself had seen and thus described the ce
would have been possible to regard the story with some d¢
credence ; but his account of what Thomas Hilles and Robert}
men about whose character for veracity we know nothing, sa
saw is of little weight, ‘The skin very white and long Hair}
down behind are especially suspicious features of the narratiy
were probably introduced to dispose of the idea, which other
crew may have advanced, that the creature’ was only some |
seal after all, ‘The female seal (Phoca Greenlandica ia the
name of the animal) is not, however, like the male, tawny g)
dusky palniey or yellowish straw-« -colouy, witha ‘tawny tint on th

° ‘without scales or hair ; of a silvery grey colour
| white below, like the human skin ; no gills were ob-
fins om the back or belly. ‘The tail was like that of the

‘account, if accepted in all its details, would certainly
“an animal of some species before unknown had been
‘But it is dowbtful how much reliance can be placed on
A of the animal. Mr. Gosse, commenting upon the
that the fishermen cannot have been affected by fear in
that their imagination exaggerated the resemblance of the
© the human form. “For the Mermaid,” he says, “is not
Object of terror to the fisherman ; it is rather a welcome guest,
tt is to be apprehended only from its experiencing bad
nt” But then this creature had not been treated as a
Welcome guest. The crew had captured it, probably not
degree of violence, for though it offered no resistance

|a plaintive cry. And that hook which “had accidentally
im the body” has a very suspicious look. If the animal
Baye given its own account of the capture, probably the hook
not have been found to have fastened in the body altogether
_ Be this as it may, the fishermen were so far frightened
fon got the better of curiosity; so that, as they were
‘very foolish fellows, their evidence is scarcely worth much.
are, however, only two points in their narrative which do not
‘easily reconciled with the belief that they had captured a rather
‘of a species closely allied to the common seal—the

316 The Gentleman's J

breast. Other points in their 0 c
in degree from the usual characteristics of the fem
two alone scem to differ absolutely in kind.
circumstances of the narrative, we may perhaps.
to this extent, that, combined with other statements, the

a strong suspicion that the northern seas may hold for
“yet uncatalogued by science.

‘The stories which have been related about monstrous:
have only been fabulous in regard to the dimensions whith t
attributed to these creatures. Even in this respect it
shown quite recently, that some of the accounts formerly re
fabulous fell far short of the truth, Pliny relates, for insta:
the body of a monstrous cuttle-fish, of a kind known on
coast, weighed when captured 700 Ibs. the head the same, |
arms being 30 fect in length. The entire weight would
have amounted to about 2,000 lbs, But we shall
that this weight has been largely exceeded by modern sp
It was, however, in the Middle Ages that the really fabilot
cuttle-fish flourished—the gigantic Kraken, “liker an island”
an animal,” according to credulous Bishop Pontoppidan, and
to destroy in its mighty arms the largest galleons and ship
the fourteenth and fitecnth centuries.
It is natural that animals really monstrous should be magi
by the fears of those who have seen or encountered them, and
further magnified afterwards by tradition. Some specimens of cattle
fish which have been captured wholly, or in part, indicate that tht
creature sometimes attains such dimensions that but little 1m
would be needed to suggest even the tremendous proportions of
fabulous Kraken, In 186x, the French war-steamer Adee
countered a monstrous cuttle, on the surface of the sea, about 1)
miles north-east of Tencriffe. The crew succeeded in sfipping)
noosc round the body, but unfortunately the rope slipped, and, bail
arrested by the tail fin, pulled off the tail. ‘This was hadied @
board, and found to weigh over 4o tbs, From a drawing of ihe |
animal, the total length without the arms was estimated at $*
fect, and the weight at 4,000 Ibs., nearly. twice the weight of Piny® |
monstrous cuttlefish, long regarded as fabulous. In one respet
this creature seems to have been imperfect, the two long aim
usually possessed by cuttle-fish of the kind being wanting. Bit
bably it had lost these long tentacles in a recent encounter
some sea enemy, perhaps one of its own species, Quite

Persie in. oice Paste One of the arms was
Emaar aboot 6) feet of ts; length, Even thus

‘off about to feet from the body, it follows
Pee see have been about 35
estimated the body at Go fect in length and 5 feet

(t they had an axe handy for its obtrusive tentacles, as

it might readily have upset their small boat. Once in
ey would have been at the creature's mercy—a quality
\accounts, the cuttle-fish does not possess to any remark-

however, from the half fabulous woman-fish, and the
f monstrous cuttle-fish, to the famous sea-serpent, held
be the most utterly fabulous of all fabled creatures, while
ing some naturalists of distinction, stoutly maintain that
has a real existence, though whether it be rightly called
tor not is a point about which even believers are ex-

oefal. ‘
€ well, in the first plice, to remark that in weighing the
and against the existence of this creature, and bearing
fon of its nature (if its existence be admitted), we ought
Imenced by the manifest falsity of a number of stories
jupposed encounters with this animal. It is probable
(these absurd stories, the well-authenticated narratives
je creature, whatever it may be, which has been called
fmt, would have received much more attention than has
fen given to them. It is also possible that some narra
have been published which have been kept back from
‘a truthful (though possibly mistaken) account should be
the undonbted untruths which have been told respecting
psempent. It cannot be denied that in the main the inven-
loaxes about the seaserpent have come chiefly from
jurces. It is unfortunately supposed by too many of the
[sort in America that (to use Mr. Gosse’s expression)

gis The G
“there is somewhat of wit in gross

would be regarded as very disgraceful indeed by E

‘Such was the famous “lunar hoax,” published in the New Yo
some forty years ago;"such the narrative, in 1873, OF
fissure which had been discerned in the body of the mo
threatened to increase until the moon should be coven
vancqual parts; such the fables which have from time
appeared respecting the sea-serpent. But it would be as unt
to Teject, because of these last-named fables, the nu

have been related by quict, truth-loving folk, and have 1
and careful scrutiny, as it would be to reject the evidence
the spectroscope respecting the existence of fron and 6
in the sun because an absurd story had told how
the moon had been observed to make use of metal utensils
adorn the roofs of their temples with metallic imitations of
flames.

The oldest accounts on record of the appearance of a
sea-creature resembling a serpent are those quoted by Bishop Past
oppidan, in. his description of the natural history of his :
country, Norway. Amongst these was one confirmed by oath
before a magistrate by two of the crew of a ship command
Captain de Ferry, of the Norwegian navy, Tia
men saw the animal, near Molde, in August 1747. They
it as of the general form of 2 serpent, stretched on the su
receding coils (meaning, probably, the shape assumed by the:
a swan when the head is drawn back). ‘The head, which ro
that of a horse, was raised 2 feet above the water.

In August 1817, 2 large marine animal, supposed to bea
was seen near Cape Ann, Massachusetts. Eleven witnesses of
reputation gave evidence on oath before magistrates. One of

magistrates had himself seen the creature, and corroborated the:
important points of the evidence given bythe cleven witnesses 1
eréature had the appearance of a serpent, dark brown im colour l)

nalready stated, Col. Perkins noticed “ an appear

f Seeger like a single horn, about 9 inches to
mgth, shaped like a marlinspike, which will presently be
the place," he proceeds, “fully satisfied that the
a culation, though differing in details, were essentially

He-relates how A person named Mansfield, “one of the
c ‘inhabitants of the town, who had been such an un+

dm the existence of this monster that he had not given
trouble to go from his house to the harbour when the
‘was first made," saw the jal from a bank overlooking the

Mr. Mansficld and his wife agreed in estimating the
e's length’ at roo feet. Several crews of coasting vessels
animal, de some tustemces within @ few yards, “Capt:
{* proceeds Col. Perkins, “a person well known to me, saw
this head above water 2 or 3 feet, at times moving
‘mpidity, at others slowly. He also saw what explained

which I have described of a horn on the front of the

This was doubtless what was observed by Capt. Tappan to
€ tongue, thrown in an upright position from the mouth, and

which I have given to it. One of the revenue
4, whilst in the neighbourhood of Cape Ann, had an excellent
of him at a fewyards' distance; he moved slowly, and upon the
fitice of the vessel sank and was seen no more.”

m years later, in May 1853, five British officers—Captain
Maclachlan and Malcolm of the Rifle Brigade,
of the Artillery, and Mr. Snee of the Ordnance,
raising im a small yacht off Margaret's Bay, not far from
“saw the bead and neck of some denizen of the deep,

is the quecrest thing I ever sec.”
Sullivan, “Jack Dowling was right." ‘The deseription:
agrees in all essential respects with previous
head was estimated at about 6 fect im ler
therefore, than a harse’s head.

Bat unquestionably the account of the ee |
commanded most attention was that given by the.
and crew of the British frigate Dedalus, Captain
‘The Zimes published on October 9, 1843, a
that the sea-serpent had been seen by the captain and
officers and crew of this ship, on her passage home from:
Indies, ‘The Admiralty inquired at once into the truth of
ment, and the following is abridged from Captain M‘Quha
reply, addressed to Admiral Sir W. H. Gage.

“ Sir,—In reply to your letter, requiring information asto|
of a statement published in the Z¥mes newspaper, of a sea
of extraordinary dimensions having been seen from the D4
have the honour to inform you that ats p.m., August 6
lat. 24° 44/ S., long. 9° 22’ E., the weather dark and cloul
fresh from N.W., with long ocean swell from S.W,, the ship on
tack, heading N.E. by N., Mr. Sartoris, midshipman, reported)
E. Drummond (with whom, and Mr. W. Barrett, the maste)
walking the quarter-deck) something very unusual rapidly app)
the ship from before the beam, The object was seen i
enormous serpent, with head and shoulders kept abou
constantly above the surface of the sea, as nearly as we coull
at least 60 feet of the animal was on the surface, no)
which length was used, so far as we could see, in prope
animal either by vertical or horizontal undulation. Tt passed
but so closely under our tee quarter that, had it teen a ama
acyuatntance, I should easily have recognised his features wilh)

J

dintely after it was seen, which 1 hope to have
rds Commissioners of the Admiralty by to-morrow's
-MQuha, Captain,
ying here mentioned was published in the /ustratee
for October 28, 1848, being there described as made
ye supervision of Captain M'Quha, and his approval of the
af the details as to position and form.”

r pondence and controversy clicited by the statement of
r ‘MeQubee were exceedingly interesting. It is noteworthy at
‘that few, perhaps none, who had read the original state-
ested! the idea of illusion, while it need hardly perhaps be
‘one expressed the slightest doubt as to the dona fides of
; and his fellow-witnesses. These points deserve
because, in recent times, the subject of the sea-serpent has
ily mentioned in public journals and elsewhere as though
of the creature had ever been given which had been
tocredence. I proceed to summarise the correspondence
followed M‘Quhse's announcement. ‘The fall particulars will
iid in: Mr. Gosse's interesting work, the “ Romance of Natural
" where, however, as it seems to me, the full force of the
ce is a little weakened, for all save naturalists, by the introduc.
Particulars not bearing directly on the questions at issue.
hardly likely to be the case with the present summary of the

‘seeing that the requirements of space compel brevity.
the earliest communications was one from Mr. J. D. M-
-@ gentleman who, during a long residence in Norway, had
‘iccounts of the sea-serpent in Norwegian seas, and
seen 2 fish or reptile at a distance of a quarter of a mile,
through a telescope, corresponded in appearance with
asusually described. This communication was chiefly
however, as advancing the theory that the supposed wea-

a

and fore-part out of water. But, even: cy 2

fins and the mighty tail, are constantly under wat
is urging its way horizontally, be it understood), —
fact, whatever its nature, which keeps any cbnsiderabl
body out of water constantly, while travelling a lo
of necessity have a much greater volume all the ti
and must haye its propelling apparatus under wat
the propulsion be not effected by fins, paddles,

these combined, but by the undulations of the anim
then the part out of water must of necessity be |
undulations, unless it be very small in yolume and k
with the part under water. J assert both these pe

ever, at all likely that the fowskeletons known
attained by these creatures. Probably, indeed,
of only a few out of many species, and some

have been found, as the boa-constrictor
| snake. It is also altogether probable

almost extinct (according to the hypothesis
none but the largest and strongest had any
fase the present representatives of the family
ly exceed in bulk their progenitors of the mesozoic

Times of November a, 1848, under the signature
ed ont how many of the extemal characters of the
the Dewalus corresponded with the belief that it
aurus. “ Geologists," he said, “are agreed
¢ that the plesiosauri carried their necks, which must

the bodies of serpents, above the water, while their

by large paddles working beneath, the short
‘acting the part ofa rudder, . . In the letter and
¥v2

324 The Gentleman's Magatine.
drawing of Captain M'Quhw = . we have aro :

by an apparatus of fins or paddles, not possessed
existing in the highest perfection in the plesiosaurus.”

At this stage a very eminent naturalist entered the:
fessor Owen, He dwelt first on a certain characteristic ¢
M‘Quher's letter which no student of science could fail to”
the definite statement that the creature qwas so and so,
scientific observer would simply have said that the cre

tion called to the object,” says Professor Owen, “than ‘it
covered to be an enormous serpent,’ ” though in resility the im
of the creature could not be determined even from the rm
made during the whole time that it remained visible. Taki
ever, “the more certain characters,” the “head with a a
moderately capacious cranium, short obtuse muzzle, gape
tending further than to beneath the eye, which (the eye) is mile
small, round, filling closely the palpebral aperture” (that ity
eyelids fit closely"); “colour and surface as stated ; nostrils indi
in the drawing by a crescentic mark at the end of the ne
muzzle, All these,” proceeds Owen, “are the characters of
of a warm-blooded mammal, none of them those of a cold-b
reptile or fish. Body long, dark brown, not
dorsal or other apparent fins, * but something like the mane of ah
or rather a bunch of sea-weed, washed about its back’" He
that the creature had hair, showing only where longest on th
and therefore that the animal was not a mammal of the whale
but rather a great seal. He then shows that the sea-elephaaty
Phoca proboscidea, which attains the length of from 26 to go feet
the most probable member of the seal family to be found about
miles from the western shore of the southern end of Africa, in lates
24° 44'. Such a creature, accidentally carried from its m
domain by a floating iceberg, would have (afterits iceberg had i

Tes a pity that men of science so often forget, when addressing thee
are not men of science, or who study other departments tham theirs, thal
terms are out of place, Most people, T take it, are mo familier, en the
with eyelids than with galpedrce,

(of a mane or bunch of sea-weed), the paddles

of sight ; and the long eddy and wake created by the

of the tail would account for the idea of a long

, at least for this idea occurring to one “looking at
omenon with a sea-serpent in his mind's eye,” “ Itis

@ that not one on board the Dedatus ever before beheld
freely swimming in the open ocean.” ‘The excitement
pe ksistange spectacle, and the recollection of “old
sea-serpent with the mane,” would suffice, Professor

d, to account for the metamorphosis of a sea-elephant

Sea-serpent
‘not the whole of Professor Owen's argument ; but it
)well to pause here, to consider the corrections immediately
v ‘Captain M‘Quha: ; it may be noticed, first, that Professor
VS argument secs sufficiently to dispose of the belief that the
‘really was a sca-serpent, or any cold-blooded reptile. And
‘of the matter has been confirmed by later observations. But
nagine, can readily accept the belief that Captain M‘Quhe: and
had mistaken a sea-elephant for a creature such as they
and picture. To begin with, although it might be probable
that no one on board the Dedalus had ever seen a gigantic
“swimming in the open ocean—a sight which Professor
Tiisnself had certainly never seen—yet we can hardly suppose
id not have known a sea-elephant under such circumstances,
(if they had never seen a sea-elephant at all, they would surely
‘what such an animal is like. Noone could mistake a sea
for any other living creature, even though his acquaintance
the animal were limited to museum specimens or pictures in
‘The supposition that the entire animal, that is, its entire
should be mistaken for 30 or 40 fect of the length of a
neck, seems in my judgment as startling as the ingenious
thrown out by some naturalists when they first heard of the
—t0 the effect that some one of lively imagination had wistaken

326 The Gentleman's Magazine.

the entire body of a short-horned
1

was made before, Not after, the idea had been. entertained |
animal was a serpent, and that he and his officers were “to
accustomed to judge of lengths and breadths of ob ers it \
=e substance and an actual living body, coolly and |
ly contemplated, at so short a distance for the
caused by the action of the deeply immersed finsand tall ef
moving gigantic seal raising its head above the water,’ as P
Owen imagines, in quest of its lost iceberg.” He next
ie assertion that the idea of clothing the serpent! witha
cen suggested by old Pontoppicdan's » simply bee
had never seen Pontoppidan’s account or oases Pontoppid
serpent, until he had told his own tale in London. Finally, hes
“L deny the existence of excitement, or the possibility of
illusion, [ adhere to the statement as to form, colouy
dimensions, contained in my report to the Admiralty.”

A narrative which appeared in the Zimes early in 1849
referred to in this place, as not being readily explicable by P
Owen's hypothesis. It was written by Mr. R. Davidson,
ing surgeon, Najpore Subsidiary Force, Kamptee, “and was
following effect (1 abridge itconsiderably) -—When at 2 :
distance south-west of the Cape of Good Hope, Mr. Davidsan, Gf
tain Petrie, of the Roya/ Saxon, a steerage passenger, and the mans
the wheel, saw ‘an animal of which no more correct description caild
be given than that by Captain M'Quhe 1 passed within #
yards of the ship, without altering its course in the least j but sit
came Tight abreast of us it slowly turned its head towards ws.”
cmesthird of the upper part ofits body was above water; "if neatly
vole length ; and we could see the water curing xp of its breast
x ved along, but by what means it moved we could not perceive
it moved 9 is creature in its whole length with the exception ofa
oe f the tail which was under ‘watery and by comparing?

jon

=

Kept moving his head up and down, and was
eds of birds. “We at first thought it was a dead
When we were within roo yards he slowly sank
‘of the sea; while we were at dinner he was seen
M d Newton, the well-known naturalist, guarantees
al acquaintance with onc of the recipients of the Ictters just
‘But such a guarantee is, of course, no sufficient
authenticity of the narrative, Even ifthe narrative be
ease scems a very doubtful one. The birds form a sus-
element inthe story. Why should birds cluster around a
? It seems to me probable that the sea-weed
10 be noticed, gives the best explanation of this ease.
great agercention of sea-weed was there, in which were
‘objects desirable to birds and to fishes. These last
the mass under water when the ship approached,
more or less entangled in it—and it floated up again
‘The spouting may have been simply the play of water
mistaken for the head.
weed theory of the sea-serpent was broached in February
pd supported by a narrative not unlike the last, When the
hip Brasiliah was becalmed almost exactly in the spot where
f Rad seen his monster, Mr. Herriman, the commander,
thing right abcam, about half-a-mile to the westward,
g the water to the length of about 25 or 30

by eps ae taking two hands on board, teg
Mr. Boyd, of Peterhead, near Aberdeen, one of the
acted as steersman under the direction of the
the monster, Captain Herriman standing on the bow of the
armed with a harpoon to commence the onslaught. 1
however, was not attended with the danger which those
apprehended ; for on coming close to the object it was” i
nothing more than an immense piece of sca-weed, evidently d
from a coral reef and drifting with the current, which sets
to the westward in this latitude, and which, together with
left by the subsidence of the gale, gave it the sinuous, si
motion.”
A statement was published by Captain Harrington in the Zima
February 1858, to the effect that from his ship Castidien, then dist
xo miles from the north-east end of St. Helena, he and his.
had seen huge marine animal within 20 yards of the ship
disappeared for about half a minute, and then made its app
the same manner again, showing distinctly its neck and head
1o or 12 feet outof the water. ‘Its head was shaped like =
nun-buay,” proceeds Captain Harrington, “and 1 suppose the dit
meter to have been 7 or $ fect in the largest part, with a kind!
scroll, or tuft, of loose skin encircling it about 2 feet from the top;
water was discoloured for several hundred feet from its head , . «+
From what we saw from the deck we conclude that it must have beet
over 200 feet long. The boatswain and several of the crew wt
observed it from the top-gallant forecastle,! (query, cross-trees?)) |
that it was more than double the length of the ship, in which ease!
must have been 500 fect. Be that as it may, I am convinced thet! |
belonged to the serpent tribe; it was of a dark colour about she |
head, and was covered with several white spots."
‘This immediately called out a statement from Captain F, Smith, of

‘This nautical expression isnew tome, Top-gallants,—fore, main and misen—
7 know, apd forecastle I know, but the top-gallant foregastle I do mot know,

—_=

ange Sea-Creatures. 329

28, not far from the place where

the supposed sea-serpent, he had seen,
erie fae whites Satine bp,
proved eventually to be a

Be ans he says, that the

n the Diedadws “was a piece of the same

A noticed that the sea-weed sea-serpents, seen by

h and by Captain Herriman, were both at a distanos

which distance one can readily understand that a

might be mistaken for a living creature. This is

from the case of the Daedalus seaserpent, which passed

been a man of the captain's acquaintance he could

that man’s features with the naked eye. The case,

ain Harrington's sea-serpent, seen within 20 yards of ©

, cam hardly be compared to)those cases in which sea.

than S00 yards from the ship, was mistaken for a

m officer of the Pedals thus disposed of Captain

n z= The object seen from the ship was beyond all

jon a living animal, moving rapidly through the water against a

and within five points of a fresh breeze, with such velocity

ter was surging against its chest as it passed along at a

bably of ten miles per hour, Captain MeQuhe's first impulse

ck in pursuit, but he reflected that we could neither lay up

thas! itin speed. ‘There was nothing to be done, there-

fy cfieve ft as accurately as we could with our glasses as

Bie up under our lee quarter and passed away to windward, being

est position mot more than zoo yards from us; Me

th, the mostril, the colour, and the form, all being most dis-

eine fa ms. . . . . My impression was that it was rather of a

ithan a serpentine character, as its movement was steady and

ie as if propelled by fins, not by any undulatory power.”

it all the eviderice heretofore obtained respecting the sea-serpent,

h regarded by many naturalists, Gosse, Newman, Wilson, and

desnonstrating the existence of some as yet unclassified

‘the deep, seems altogether indecisive by comparison with

ch has recently been given by the captain, mates, and crew

Pauline. Tn this case, assuredly, we have not to deal with

of seaweed, the floating trunk of a tree, a sea-elephant

to his home amid the icebergs, or with any of the other

less ingenious explanations of observations previously made.
either the case of an actual living animal, monstraus, heres, |

by confessing) knew the real facts of the case.
‘The story of the Pauline sea-serpent ran sii
attested at the Liverpool Police Courts>—“We, the
captain, officers, and crew of the bark
solemnly and sincerely declare, that on July 8, 2815,
5° 13’ S, longitude 35° W., we observed three lange :
and one of them was gripped round the body with two
appeared to be a huge serpent. The head and tail ap
a length beyond the coils of about jo feet, and its girth
feet. The serpent whirled its victim round and round
fiftcen minutes, and then suddenly dragged the whale to the’
head first.—George Drevat, master; Horatio Thompson,
John H, Landells, second mate; William Lewam, steward;
Baker, A.B. Again on the 13th July similar serpent was seen!
200 yards off, shooting itself along the surface, head and
out of the water several feet. ‘This was seen only by the capts
an ordinary seaman, —George Drevat. A few moments
was seen elevated some 60 feet perpendicularly in the
chief officer and two scamen, whose signatures are aff
‘Thompson, Owen Baker, William Lewarn.”
‘The usual length of the cachalot or sperm whale is al
feet, and its girth about 50 tect, If we assign to the w
whale which was captured on this occasion, a length of only
and a girth of only 35 feet, we should still have for the entire |
of the supposed serpent about 100 feet. ‘This ean hardly exe
truth, since the three whales are called lange sperm whales.
length of 100 feet and a girth of about 9 feet, however, a
would have no chance in an attempt to capture a sperm |
feet long and 35 feet in girth, for the simple reason that}
whale would be a good deal heavier than its opponent Tnaea
in open sea, where one animal seeks to capture another bodily,
is allimportant. We can hardly suppose the whale could |
compassed by the coils of his enemy as to be rendered por
fact, the contest lasted fifteen minutes, during the whole of whidl
the so-called serpent was whirling its victim round, though 1
massive than‘itself, through the water. On the whole it seems re

d with its body, but large compared with the
ance: It is probably an air-breather and warm-
ad certainly carnivorous. Its propulsive power is greatand
a ‘of undulations of its body, wherefore it pre-
powerful concealed paddles, All these circumstances

ith the belief that it is a modern representative of the long:

irians of the great secondary or mesozoic era, a member

ly of animals whose figure has been compared to
be formed by drawing a serpent through the body

is view sundry objections have been raised, which must
briefly considered.
‘first place Professor Owen pointed out that the sea
of the secondary period have been replaced in the tertiary
eas by the whales and allied races. No whales are
‘Secondary strata, no saurians in the tertiary. “' It seems
probable,” he says, “that no part of the carcass of such
have ever been discovered in a recent unfossilised
that men should have been deceived by a cursory view of
erged and rapidly moving animal which might only be
© themselves. In other words, I regard the negative evi-
pthe utter absence of any of the recent remains of great
Krakens, or enaliosauria, as stronger against their
than the positive statements which have hitherto
th the public mind in favour of their existence, A. \atgex |

saw at the bottom a large ahh Aa

figure of an alligatoy: Doran ec ae o

the creature mistaken for a sea-serpent.

As for the absence of remains, Mr, Darwin has)
fossils we possess are but fragments accidentally
ing circumstances in an almost total wreck. We have:
of existent creatures, even such as would haye a far be
floating after death, and so getting stranded where
be found, which have left no trace of their existence.
sessing two dorsal fins was said to have been seen
Sicilian naturalist ; but the statement was rej
these whales were seen by two eminent French zo
Quoy and Gaimard. No carcass, skeleton, or bone ¢

} Strange Sea-Creatures. 333

i Kesowa only from a single specimen cast ashore on the
coast, and there seen and described by the naturalist Sowerby,
eae ny 9 mt interesting paper, in: which be maain-
pent tales are not to be treated with derision, but

rious consideration, “supported as they are by
e¢, and in the actual details of the case by evidence

o in many eases as that received in our courts of law,”
‘the opinion that plesioswuri and ichthyosauri have been
rily, disinterred to do duty for the scaserpents. But he
jasan alternative only the ribbon-fish ; and though some of these
jamain enormous dimensions, yet we have seen that some of the
given of the supposed sea-serpent, and especially the latest
me by the captain and crew of the Paxdine, cannot possibly be
by any creature so flat and relatively so feeble as the

One of the ribbon-fish mentioned by Dr. Wilson, which was
aired..and measured more than 6o feet in length, might however
i take its place among strange sea-creatures. I had intended
Miteover to have given a brief account of a monstrous animal like
pole, or even more perhaps like a gigantic skate, 200 feet
Wength, seen in the Malacca Straits by Captain Webster and
‘Anderson, of the Ship Nesfor. Perhaps, indeed, this
mistaken in the first instance for a shoal, but presently
‘to be travelling along at the rate of about ten knots an hour,
deserves to be called a strange sea-creature even than any of
Which have been dealt with in the preceding pages. But I
re alrendly largely exceeded the space allotted to my subject at the
and must therefore draw this paper to a close without de-
the strangest monster of them all. I may as well note that’
‘only account I have yet seen of Captain Webster's statement, and
Anderson's corroboration, appeared in an American newspaper ;
y though the story is exceedingly well authenticated, if the news-
fecount of the matter is true, it would not be at all a new
im American journalism if not only the story itself, but all
‘alleged circumstances of its narration, should in the long-run
be pure invention,

(Epaeergez

soil of that heresy. One of the able and get
Palestine Exploration Fund, M, Clermont
opportunity of placing beyand the reach o
important fact that the famous Grotto opening
Syrians, on the westem side OF thie Rotisiday
Jewish sepulchre. cr

‘The tale of his discovery is curious.

THE DISCOVERY.
M. Ganneau, an accomplished French

a ea aT

r ‘Sepulchre, I was’ startled to find a plan and
tesketches of the Grotto, opening from the Syrian Chapel. ‘The
‘could hardly be mistaken. ft was that of an ancient sepulchral
a somewhat broken and deformed; and the two sketches
dd rock recesses, not mere holes in the wall, but those
cuttings in the rock which Tibler, in his classification of
calls shafts The name may not be happy, but the
all the valleys round Jerusalem. Here were hewn

rock such as wé find in Hinnom and Jehoshaphat.
h familiar with the details visible in the Church of the
chre, I had never scen these things before. ‘The Grotto
desenibedi, briefly, by Schultz and Tobler, and Lord Nugent
tather fanciful illustration of the interior ; but these authors
‘no more—in truth, much less—than a passing pilgrim may
his own eyes at a cost of three piastres. M. Ganneau's
‘showed me something I had never seen on the spot.
hg to him for an explanation, I was again surprised. He told
had made this important discovery more than a year ago. He
shisnotes and sketches at the time, but he had never said one
the subject to his Committee, being busy with other things,
‘Bot perceiving the whole importance of his discovery as a factor
ier great contention over the sacred sites, M. Ganncau is a French
He is not blind to the value of his discovery as evidence
genuineness of that most sucred site, but he was less alive than
lish scholar would have been to its value in our historical and

warfare.

Tn pra of his oasiy at Jerusalem, M. Ganneau was engaged in
ul when he heard that the Grotto was open, and thatsome
ere being carried on under the present floor, Acquainted with
people, and speaking their language like 2 native, M, Ganneau
ot leave to enter and examine. No previous visitor had ever
the Grotto in the state in which M, Ganneau found it. A slab
ved a lower vault lay exposed. He stood in a rock-cut
‘exactly like the so-called tombs of the judges, and other
chambers in the valleys of Hinnom and Jehoshaphat. The
driven into the living rock. Marks of the tools employed
the stone, and these marks show that the tools employed
the same kind as those used in cutting the shafts dsewhere.

336

once beautifiil and austere.

IN THE GROTTO,

‘This Grotto lies within ten yards of the actual tomb
of that new tomb, “hewn out of a rock,” in which man had:
been laid, and which all the Churches of East and West :
garding as the actual tomb of Christ. What was known o
before M. Ganneau's happy enterprise was rather puzzling,
and substance, It is entered from a recess in the Rotanda,
chapel by the Israelites, commonly known as the Chapel of:
Rite. This chapel is dim, but there is light enough to see a!
‘on the southern side. This door being opened (by a silver key
step into a narrow passage, leading to a dark chamber, Lig
being brought (a couple of votive candles from the alan!
find yourself in a grotto, of irregular shape, with one side o
builtup stones ; the other surfaces show the living rock. hole
in this floor are pointed out to you by the monks as ancient
and two recesses in the rock are also pointed out to you as a
graves. “Whose graves?” you ask. “The councillors, Nico
and Joseph of Arimathea, early converts and followers of our 1
you leam in answer to your query, It is better not to go
decper with the ignorant Syrian monk, He tells his tale by
as he learned it from a custodian as ignorant as himself, just
own warder at the Tower of London takes his lesson froma ©
as ignorant as himself. English nature is far less pliant than Syl
nature, but if a visitor at the Tower wanted to find Sir
Raleigh's cell in any particular place, he would be pretty sure to!
on putting 2 leading enquiry, backed by a shilling, that Sir
was confined in that particular place,
For many years past this Grotto has been called the vail
Joseph and Nicodemus. The connection of these persons with €
other and with the site is easy to explain, ‘They were members 0
Sanhedrim, They were listeners to our Lord. They were
concerned in his interment. Joseph begged the dead body
Pilate, and Nicodemus bought the myrrh and aloos needed’ &

h the Grotto near the Holy Sepulchre. Neither
has ever called o the faithful to believe that

us Jay: in these shafts, and the Syrian Church is

- for the modern name of the Grotto than the

d is responsible for Raleigh's imaginary dungeon in

noticed by the carly Christians, the Grotto is there,

“to the Holy Sepulchre has to be explained.

uidance of a Syrian monk you stoop, descend 2 step, and

if in a small cavity of no particular shape. ‘Two holes are
the ground. Being a Prank, and therefore accustomed to
‘graves, your guide expects you to ask whether these holes
tombs of Joseph and Nicodemus. One ungracious Frank,
thas publicly expressed his doubt whether the rock-cut
of our Lord is genuine, on the ground that it is a shaft
a wall, nota trough sunk in fhe floor. Painters, one and
‘ax I remember, represent Syran graves as built or dug like
aa graves. ‘I'he monk is eager to please you, since the number of
when you leave him, may depend on the good impression

Tf you are curious you will notice that these holes in
very small-hardly 3 feet long—and you will, perhaps,
‘how grown men, members of the Sanhedrim, could have
ied im such very small holes. You may probably call to
that very small skull of Oliver Cromwell in one of our museums,
explained by some custodian as being the skull of the fierce
otector when that potentate was a little boy. A visitor in the

ito is apt to turn away from the two Noles in the floor with a
pleasantry on his lips. If they were the tombs of Joseph and
these councillors must haye been buried when they were

be two shafts Grilled in the wall of rock are less tantalising than
holes sunk in the floor. If the holes in the floor were dug as
the chances are that they were dug for children of some Latin.
z

‘tombs are found, on which recesses lie the in
ancient and Hebrew origin. ‘

THE SEPULCHRE,

At first thought it seems surprising that any do
sprung up as to the true site of so important an
rection. In the theory of our faith the Resurrection
point. Without the Resurrection there is no~
fact was felt from the first ; Paul preached the
place, therefore, of the entombment was a ¢
converts, and as soon as Christianity was adopted as th
the exact site was sought for by the empress-mother,
old and learned men, familiar with the Holy City; |
being found (as they believed), the emperor und k
erecting a great basilica on the eround—a seal and.

likely to forget the Porta Pia? iil or Pa
forgotten the Porte St. Martin?

rius, the great Christian edifice was built. Where, in this

Christian pastors, and their successive flocks, is there ope
suspicion of pious fraud?

THE CONTROVERSY.
‘Yet suspicion has arisen, and history is defied.

generally supposed to have begun it, but in truth this r
hada darker and more illustrious source. In one of Gibbon’s note
his account of the Crusades occurs this curious hint:
artfully confounded the mosque or church of the Temple
Holy Sepulchre, and this wilful error has deceived both
Muratori.” Gibbon is most careful in citing his authori

serious authority for such a statement. Perhaps he had
was ashamed to cite, the speculations of Jonas Korte, an
bookseller of Altona, who had been to Jerusalem in the o
travels, and had written a crazy book on what he saw and h
Korte arrived at Jerusalem in the year 1738, and on
the Holy Sepulchre was surprised to find it within the wa
careful reader of his pocket Bible, and of nothing else, he exp
find the city wall and gates standing as they are described by
John. For him Agrippa had not existed, He had no cone
the third wall. He forgot the siege of Titus, and the b
new city by Hadrian. He took no note of the changes of
made no allowance for the ravages of war. Calvary stood
the wall; Constantine built 2 church near Calvary; and heir
on finding that church outside the wall. If Korte had ge
Rome instead of to Jerusalem, he would have insisted on fie
St. Peter's prison in the very centre of inhabited Rome, instead a
the skirt, If he had come to London, he would have expected to
meadows at Charing Cross. This silly German may have gives th
rst hint of scepticism to Givibon, and he certainly supplied

Bat
us fraud with his first doubts as to the

cy. With the one exception of Clarke—whose
or ipectiing sacred sites is almost equal to that of
=I am not acquainted with a single traveller between
z on who seriously disputes the site of the entomb-
‘that the grave lay under the roof of the existing
f the Holy Sepulchre. But since the days of Robinson
has been otherwise. For some years after his
"were printed, the tide of opinion ran high and strong
the old traditions. Ritter gave his circulation, and to some
‘sanction, to Robinson's views. ‘Tobler took the same side
wehemence, and many German critics have adopted
deas. Wolff is perhaps the most conspicuous of the Germans
d@ the ancient tradition. In England the battle has been
io Germany. Finlay and Williams wrote on the subject
deal of warmth, Fergusson carried the war forward by
o ota mere negative like that of Robinson, He not only
st Christ was buried in the present sepulchre, but asserted
‘was buried in the centre of the 'emple on Mount Moriah.
fully supported in these views by Grove, and to a certain
t by Porter. S. Smith and H. Brandreth have publicly com-
| themselves to this theory. On the other side, the defence
armies. Wilson and Lewin were among those who took
pert in the campaign. Stanley and others, deferring to the
‘Grove, were neutral in the fray. Until the Palestine Explo-
ne was established, the only person on the side of this attack
in Palestine (sofaras I know) was Grove, But Grove
in himself He had acquired much knowledge, and was
th great energy. He was a contributor to many periodicals,
reat influence, and deserved to have it, in the management of
‘Dictionary of the Bible,” the whole weight of which work was
into the scale, He edited the “Bible Atlas,” and he has
‘Fecently edited the “Ancient Atlas.” All these works are
to the support of a theory which now appears to be falling
umbling under every stroke of the explorers’ pick and spade.

EFFECTS OF THE NEW DISCOVERY.
Whe discovery of these ancient tombs in the Grotto settles two

Sepulchre stands was a place of graves—of rock-hewn graves.
2, It proves that the present site lay beyond the city walls
‘The first point is all but obyious, All the four Gospels 5

the tomb as hewn out of tiving rock. The Gospel ascribed to
and the Gospel ascribed to Nicodemus also speak of thi
as hewn in the solid rock, John described the rock as stand)
garden close to Calvary, Cyril saw the bape date |
the garden were still existing in his day. We now find

“the throwing of a great stone” there were other

of older date, and assuredly in the same garden,

belonged to Joseph, a rich oy rh ce

tomb was newly-made, apparently forhimself; such eare for;
time being usual in his country and among his people.
here is evidence of rock-hewn graves, These
within ten paces of the sepulchre, ‘They were there
church was built, They are ancient and Jewish. They.
the time of our Lord, The site was subsequently a place
The second point, though not nearly 80 obyioug, is |

free from doubt, No part of that social ritual whichwas the
life of an ancient Jew (as the corresponding social ritual in}
gious life of a modern Moslem) was fixed with greater exactot
the rule of burying his dead beyond the walls. The dead were
out of the gates, and there laid in the earth—an old and wist
sion, which we of the ninetecnth century are beginning to und
and practise, To this rule there was one exception, and on
David was buried in his own city, and his descendants were
in the same regal cemetery. But these tombs of the king
alone—inside the city, outside the law; an instance anda
of the paramount power, Other graves were not only bey:
gates, but at a certain distance from the city wall. Tn the!
part the fourth, in the section called Bava Bathra, chapter
the rule is given, No grave is to be made within se eubit

leer Sent) 8 Dein de nsinlare! Sen eae

CIBBER v. SHAKESPEARE,

Ye

[rving sho Bae ea Ua tersebiog ors Cin sings te ne
een perhaps the least objectionable, of the alterations of
bat good deed alone will entitle him to 2 conspicuous

int n ‘The French semi-classical taste introduced
‘Court of Louis XIV: by Charles 11, was antipathetic to the

tic genius of Shakespeare. But the playwrights of that time,
deentsla to the marvellous mine of wealih his works. con

SeCapakte toktha inqeh retioementf, the perio’.

d Davenant commenced with an alteration of “The ‘Tem-
ofthe most perfect and unalterable of the plays. As a
they introduced a man who had never seen a woman,

d that most exquisitely pure creation with gross indeli-
hey also provided Calitun with a sister monster, This tra~
pt the stage until the present century, when it was banished
Macready. ‘The following century was rife with improvers of
- dramatist. There was scarcely one of his more popular
% plays that some presumptuous dunce did not try his hand
Tate's alterations of “ King Lear” were in villanous taste.
of Cordelia with the King of France was omitted, and
en her as lover instead ; several maudlin love scenes were

d, written in the mawkish and stilted style of the time ; the
Garried off in the most approved Coburg fashion by ruffians
pay of Edmund ; the Fool was wholly omitted ; but, greatest
of all, that catastrophe so sublime and terrible was changed
happy onc. This same version, with the tragic termination
ored however, is still among Cumberland’s acting plays, and was
one usually performed in provincial theatres within the last twenty
= Otway transformed “ Romeo and Juliet” into a pair of classical
nd the Capulets and Montagues became the houses of
and Sylla. Half 2 century Jater Garrick made “imyrove>

transposed the u
rhymes to blank verse, introduced the scene of Julict’s
dirge sung by choristers, made Juliet awake before Romeo
rah der rae biryani scene between them. 7
sion held the London stage until very recently—the
mistake not, being the first to restore the |
still the stock one of country play-houses. “ Macbeth,” altho)
jected to considerable maltreatment during the latter end of th

teenth century—it was once converted into a three-act opi
since then been little interfered with, if we except the passa
polated ‘from Middleton's “ Witch,” and the introduction
music, which, so far from being characteristic, would be quirea
priate to good spirits as bad. Whata relicfit wasto be rid of th
lous crowd of pantomime witches that this music necessitates,
infinitely more sublime and poetic were the three weird figures}
out, must have been felt by all persons of taste who witnes
recent production of the tragedy at the Lyceum. Mr. Phelps
the same experiment years ago at Sadler's Wells’ But, alas!
the mob of play-goers will still prefer the adulterated article. “1
and “Othello” have escaped pretty clear from profaning hand
to say from interpolation, although the knife has been sharply
to both. Garrick cut out the Grave-diggers, and they were”
only by John Kemble. ‘The historical plays have been the ¢
tims, Cibber mangled, rewrote, and rechristened King
“Papal Tyranny.” “ Richard LL," Henry IV," “Henry V,/"
V1." “ Henry VIII” have all at different times been subj
more or fewer alterations.

But the most famous and enduring of all the altered p
been Cibber’s version of “Richard IIL." Why, apart 6
mechanical skill and knowledge of stage effect with whieh it)
put together, this has been the case I shall presently ende
point out. In the mean timeit may interest Such readers ag
Shakespeare at their fingers’ ends to dissect this patchwork, a
rate Shakespeare from Cibber—no very difficult task, as the
ments have no affinity—and trace the various stolen passages
original source.

‘The dialogue between Stanley and the Liewtenant of che
at the opening of the spurious play, is pure Cibber, Upon
entrance, two lines from a cclebrated speech of the King’s {
VI," Part III. act 11. sc. 5) are brought in—

Would 1 were dead if Heaven's high will were $0,
For what is in this world Wot qivel aud woe

ete
ee Hee being “a short chase, our game
‘a swift hope,” and running our “courser to

2 life were this | how sweet, how lovely !
the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
ooking an their sily sheep,
doth a rich embroidered canopy
wl {Fo igs that fear their subjects treachery?
this beautiful passage to—

While the poor peacant from some distant bill
J id, and at eane, views all the sport,
tees content take shelter in his cottage.

dwelt upon this passage as affording.an excellent example of

rs mode of treatment. Upon the entrance of ‘Tressel, we must

‘the first scene of the first actof * Henry IV.," Part II. Here

It find the greater portion of the scene Cibberised, of course,

on of the death of Prince Edward belongs to Morton,

“See the death of Hotspur; the idea of trying to make

astances, which admirably suit the fiery Percy, fit the boy

is manifestly absurd. More Cibber, and then two beautiful
from Richard IL, onc commencing—

‘Oh, who can hold a fire in hig hand? &o,

‘the other—
Ard now, good friends, suppore me on my deathbed,

second scene opens with the soliloquy which commences the
final play. Bur the end is cut out, and a patch from a soliloquy in
uy VI,” Part IIE, act 11, se, 2, substituted—with alterations,
meddling playwright could never forbear, even when he
Takes use of the poet’s language, plucking away the gold, and
g on his own Dutch metal in its place.
‘Whethird scene, the murder of the King, with few alterations, is the
Wat but one of “ Henry VI," Part III. But the end of Gloster’s
‘iloquy is again altered by the introduction of some lines from a
‘Pech further on, and an interpolation of Cibber. The first scene of
the second act, to the entrance of Lady Anne, and the Sonera

cha
poet says, “My dukedom to a denier
Sateon to a vdows cuschy?™ i Gel
‘Clarence, and King Edward, and’ many

others, are 1
from the spurious play, thereby excising the dream
pitssages, we must pass over several scenes of
“Richard,” to find the second scene of Cibber's second .
here we get into such a maze, such a mixing up of the
have no space to dissever them, and must refer the
compare for themselves. The third act opens similarly
two plays, but with very considerable alterations, orissio
transpositions, and much Dutch metalling. The sp
conscience, which closes this scene, is Cibber, and the
his introduction. I need scarcely say that- the ~ wretched
with Lady Anne is wholly spurious. The fine one which
with Buckingham and then the Lord Mayor, is the seventh of.
the original, and little altered. But the stupid rant which
act, “ Why, now my golden dream is out t” is Colley's.

‘The opening of the fourth act is nearly pure Cibber again 1
Shakespeare the queen endeavours to gain admission to
to sce her children, and is refused ; in Cibber she is é the Tower, aad
trying to take the children away with her, ‘This ia rank abeundit
Several passages, however, are very fairly written. As much cum
be said for the interpolations in the next, the coronation scene. TB
“spiders crawling upon Richard's startled hopes," &e., ts wretdied
stuff. Buckingham’s ranting exit speech, so utterly out of keeps
with his character, is equally bad. In the next scene,
exquisite description of the death of the two princes is omitted aad
a weak soliloquy for Richard introduced in its place, “Shakespel®
makes Queen Elizabeth, as she really did, consent to the union offet
daughter with the crookbacked tyrant ; Cibber, wantonly voll
history, makes her only pretend to do sa, ‘The scene that followsll
little altered, but the famous

Off with his head! So much for Buckingham! |
really fine stroke, and worhy of the great author himself #

d d is “tyrant conscience" for “coward con-
" ‘The superior appropriateness of the latter epithet is
“The fine declamation of Richmond in the next scene,
ng, * Why then let's on to face em," is from “Henry V." The
which immediately precede the fight are Cibber's;
makes the two foes engage without a word. The
a ess of Richmond pausing to prate moral speeches, or the
Richard stopping to listen to them in such a situation, is a
. ‘The King also dies without aword. The first
‘of the dying speech in the acting play are Cibber's, but the

j, ending with the sublime line—
And darkness be the buricr of the dead—"

ee by Northumberland, in the first scene of “Henry IV,,"
The whole is nothing more than an effective melodrama,
i too much of Richard ; there is no light to the shade ; the
i of Clarence, Hastings, King Edward, Rivers, entirely
the subtle skill with which Shakespeare has gradually evolved
wacter and villany of Gloster, who, in brief, is quite a different
in the different plays.
‘Ts 1821 Mr. Macready revived the text at Covent Garden. But
‘to have been in a half-hearted way ; many of the old clap-
fines being retained in deference to public prejudice. It was
Tn 1844 Mr. Phelps made an attempt to revive the
Pee text at Sadler's Wells ; but the same good fortune does not seem
“ohive attended this as other similar productions. We must trace
(Belistory of the play to account for this vagary of public taste.
) Not to its own merits, but to the surpassing genius of three great
Witss, does the play owe its vitality. First of the trio comes David
Samick His Gloster must undoubtedly have been a marvellous
Whammee. About a quarter of a century after his retirement
"ered another notable Richard, George Frederick Cooke; and, a
inter, came a perhaps greater, Edmund Kean. Surely
Werhad play the good fortune to be one of the master-yieces,

Kean be reborn, we might still cherish it as a sac
are gone, and Colley Cibber's Richard has gone

are still actors who play the part in conformity wit
tions, who make the points where Kean made th
bellow and grimace, and think they are act

admirably mimic the actions of a man, even ot

tions of humanity, but while the man awes us 0

the ape only excites our laughter, because there
our sympathies, So it is with acting; the so

flashes from his eyes and goes forth with his words, an
his audience come forth to meet it, and so perf i
established, This is genius; but genius is not an att
excessive artificial civilisation of the eighth decade of |
century. Zuéeit we have, and with that we must

3 Shakestiare, aman
and struck outa new path. Had he

nity of the Kemble school, nor the impulsive

, nor the artificial and measured peculiaritics

. The taste of the age condemns the one as

: the last as unnatural; it loves

ce and is antipathetic to the heroic in any form ; it

jovels, its plays, ite acting, to be brought down to within a

' the level of its own daily routine. Mr. Irving has grasped

‘fact, or mote probably still his genius has instinctively
d it, Hence his success.

d” is, I am inclined to think, the finest Shakespearian
tion he has yet given; he has not in this part to contend
‘that lack of grace which marred his “ Hamlet,” the lack of
and heroic presence which in parts detmeted from his
of “Macbeth.” In Gloster the eccentricity of his gait
$s a portion of the character, and majesty of form would be
‘place. In the first soliloquy he strikes the key-note of his
ion of the part with rare skill. The savage bitterness and
{ melancholy with which he pronounces the passage com-
5 But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
ding with—
‘And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover
‘To entertain these fair, well-spoken days,
Tam determined (0 prove a villain,
to ss that Gloster is bloody and remorseless because nature has
hioned him like other men. His scene with Lady Anne is re-
Wyfine. Discarding the Kean traditions, slavishly followed by
[ Richards, and which even in the days of the great tragedian
$msidered as a too transparent display of hypocrisy, he makes
late Tove to the widow, and neither by look nor gesture betrays
{ that he is counterfeiting, until she has left the stage; with this
fimably contrasted the irony of the speech which follows,
jnext scene his scorn and hatred of the queen and her family,
$cking smile with which he listens to the curses of Queen
fet, crossed, however, by dark shadows when she tums to him,
excellent points. His scene with the princes is also highly to
$mended—the cruel curl of the lip, the restless movement of
{el fingers playing with the dagger, the evil fire in his eyes as
Je Duke of York prattles upon that sore subject his deformity,

the malignant scom with which he ratte h

promised him, are all as just in conception as they

execution. 4
With the next great scene, where his mother and

meet him on the march, a new phase of the character opens:
wolf bayed by enemies becomes a tiger. recpreiaal i
sengers continue to pour in disastrous news of danger:

does the actor rise with the ever-increasing situation 5
defiance, irresolution, and gleams of sayage daring saco

other with fine effect, and rouse the audience to a
excitement. Pethaps the lastact is the least satisfnetory. Mr, In
rendering of the tent scene ix open to controversy.

objected that it is too abject in its terror. Yet aman on th

battle, upon the event of which crown and life depended, j

from such a dream as that which haunted Richard's sleep, might
overwhelmed with horror. But whether the conception be just

the excellent manner in which it is carried out cannot be dey

can remember few stage pictures more impressive than Mr.
awakening, and the intensity with which he delivers the speech
follows. Itisdifficult, however, to divest our minds of the i
produced by the transition of the old play to the ‘slap-trap “Ric
himself again} and the rush out. But there is no such &

in Shakespeare; the gloomis not lifted from the tyrant's sou ant
exit words—

Under our tents Ul play the earesdropper, ]
To hear ifany mean to shrink from me,

show that the influence of dream is still upon him, ‘Therefore Mf
Irving is true to Shakespeare. In the furious outbursts of the
succeeding scenes intensity has to make up for the shortcoming
physique, ‘Throughout he carefully avoids all pointmaking He
aims at a subtly-drawn consistent whole rather than a series of
brilliant coruscations. I have before indicated that Mr. [ving
makes the bitterness bom of deformity the key-note of the wht
character ; for this ambition, power, can alone compensatc, 2a
these he pursues with a.temorseless. purpose, that neither consdenae

A careful perusal of the text must I think

or otherwise, at the opening of the play; analyse
Sg vedeni be found to lead up to'the

the ini a
Awhole, the performance, if not evincing the highest
of genius, if it does not raise the cleciric enthusiasm
are told, Garrick’s and Kean’s excited, is an excellent
scholarly, and a fine interpretation of Shakespeare's text.
his article is not intended asa theatrical criticism, although
fds to be a dramatic one, we shall refrain from all reference
(ther actors in the play. But it would be impossible to omit
{the admirable manner in which it is placed upon the stage,
fas. accuracy of costume more minutely attended to, With
eption: why is Richmond dressed ina shirt of mail such as
der might have wor in the days when plate armour was at
fst perfection? The scenery is admirable and appropriate,
ile supplying all that is necessary to give due stage effect,
§ MO attempt to render the production spectacular. The
+n the whole, in which the text has been adapted to the
Satisfactory ; in places the pruning-knife might have been
dre sparingly in dealing with the principal character. All allow-
owever, should be made for the difficult and delicate task
‘before the adapter, But the omission of Richmond's first
© cannot be condoned. A character so important should
y be introduced with more ceremony.

ine, however, who, after listening to the incomparable language
‘eepeare, and witnessing the superiority of this magnificent play,
& again tolerate the rubbish which has usurped its place for

ity and a half, can have little pretensions to taste.

Part V.

HE actual novelty of the Bastem and Australian |
Company's route to Australia begins in earnest af
sailed from Singapore, In the matter of travel, of coan
latter days, nothing remains novel long; the world cy
time now for old-fashioned nine-days’ wonders, nine houn
being the utmost allowable limit. In a year or two p
“short sea route to Australia” will be better known than
years ago was the highway from London to York. On.
the antipodes we met with shoals of people, including
and very young of both sexes, who were putting a girdle
globe without thinking anything of it. They were just ta
to Australia by the Torres Straits route, and a trip homeag
of Honolulu, San Francisco, Salt Lake City, Chicago, |
and the mighty Atlantic, and it was the E, and A. Compar
to thank for making the girdle complete.

‘To Singapore you have a choice of routes. You may
ticket at Charing Cross, rush through Paris and Marseille
ship by the Messageries line running between Corsica an)
calling at Naples, which you have plenty of time to explo
for the Straits of Messina, so as to bonst ever afterwards ¢
acquaintance with fiery Stromboli, finding yourself after |
Mediterranean variety at the mouth of the Suez Canal. ¢
work your way across Europe vii Brindisi, and patronise
O. Company, or adopt one or two humbler lines dircet fro
such lines being in correspondence with the E. and A.
system. There is a fierce controversy amongst travellersas
the better class of steamers, that of the long-established P

* Part IV, appeared in the Gentleman's Magastne of August Yast.
copy for this concluding part was destroyed in the fire at the peintin
Magazine in the nutumn. Its appearance bas consequently]
pending the receipt of fresh MS, from Brisbane,

time upon the physical features of

no very distant period Java, Sumatra, and Borneo:

continent of Asia; but although Timor, the eastem

of islands, partakes of the appearance of Ai

that it never formed part of the Australian continent. —

that the glimpses of Timor and the smaller islands

review before you enter the Arafura Sea are

view. In vain you look for the palms that hitherto have ade

to the island scenery, though in their stead you are fre

prised by landscapes closely resembling genuine English
‘Still steaming towards sunrise through water

lessening i in a remarkable manner, we put aside our

‘The E. and A. Company provides you before starting ra you!
for it) with a voluminous handbook of the voyage, and from
may Icarn everything about these northern portions of A
which are far beyond your ken, but which you may sce by #
faith, and about which you may soon become learned
system of cram. I once heard tell of a man who was woat U
that what he didn’t know would make an amazingly big

the anecdote may be not inaptly aN to what you do be

northernmost verge of the continent, Let it suffice then t
that to-day we are 7o miles from Melville Island ; that ton
perhaps we are opposite Port Essington, “proved to be mo
permanent abode of mosquitoes, malaria, and death," and nok
fore, a desirable spot for a summer picnic; that 220 miles dic m0

for the next 300 miles we are ploughing the head of the Gulf)
pentaria. Just as town councils take uninteresting reports “as}
we, having nothing better to do, will take all this, and much
for granted,

“Booby Island, a square brown dome of rock, is, as @ mater
the first intimation we have thot Australis. is at

which they say is in its tur to be abandoned,

of communication or relief.
all that we have heard and read of Australia, it is
t our first glimpse is, if not prejudiced, at least
Wales Island we pass at close quarters, admir-
wsy highlands, green glades, and dense forests.
‘are a couple of returning colonials, who warn us that
the mainland will not be half so inviting, that in
n is monotonous. One of these gentlemen,
his fortune in Queensland, goes so far as to say
come hither for romantic scenery we have come
Shop. ‘That is how he puts it. But his attempt to
0 fails, for they had already discovered that
a soul above hides and tallow. His companion, living

gratify it. They have both dwelt long in the land ;
to believe? The information vouchsafed touching
‘glimpse of the mainland was undenisbly true, When the

n ly though indistinctly before
‘stole over the mind a general impression of sterility and
‘Then the man of hides and tallow was, after all, in the right!
patience ! By-and-by the indistinct line of hills becomes
on of billows of upheaved land, rising sometimes into
peaks. Closer in you may notice that there are trees, but
4 gling as if for bare life. At last, the sober grey prospect
Ato an expanse of woodland that is certainly monotonous,
first acquaintance with the famous gum-trees of Aus-
autumn, but autumn without the nidiant reds, umber,
Drowns that glorify decay in the English copse. Pethays
‘not go bad a5 they seem. We must make adlowance
AAZ

r woodland, Re
grassy dell. Ant-hills, neatly fashioned as obelisks by
hands, rise ruddy-brown on the hillesides. On the shore ly
of clean hard yellow sand alternate with dark rocks,
by the wear and tear of time, -
Somerset, the first Australian port of call, comes
suddenly from behind a point on Albany Island. By the
lines are reproduced in England, Somerset will, in all X
disestablished and disendowed, for Thursday Island P
to the north, has been for various reasons preferred before |
Government depét and a port of call forthe mail steamers. $
though to our eyes the cove is extremely pretty, and the
houses amongst trees welcome, is said to be a dreary pla cou)
best—sterile, deserted, exposed. ‘The pearl fishermen eal thet!
stores, and they are a rude race. I believe there are not ail
houses in the whole township, and the inhabitants are someti
absolutely short commons in the matter of food. On the days
arrival a great event had happened—a boy had shot a wall
Drought it in fora feast. The day previously a carpet snake
fect long had been destroyed near one of the verandahs, “The a
gines in the bush are, as they always have been in this part
colony, a constant source of trouble and an oceasional
danger. On the whole, therefore, you may find better plat
residence than this Somerset. But it was not without mterest
who had read De Beauvoir's hook, and been informed how that
Frenchman had been treated very hospitably at the place, an
partaken very freely of a collation of maryellous stories dished
of sheer devilry by some of the people with whom he had
contact; who had also read of that plucky overland expl
brothers Jardine, which solved the hitherto undecided
the course of certain rivers which empty themselves into the
Carpentaria, and of the elder Jardine’s settlement at Cape
where he had through weary months to hold his own against
that walk at noonday and arrows that fly in darkness.

Somerset harbour we entered in the midst of a tropical >
made the little pearl-shelling vesds wock Whe gaper boats”

| Newcastle to Brisbane. 357

- enterprise to go to another colony. Nearly the

i Sydney, some of whose merchants are

‘out of the trade, upon which, added my com.

‘fo tax; not even a boat license, he said, was im-

of Queensland. ‘The vessels engaged in

eee bsbet te Gere-arsl-a schooners, and last year there
‘from the port of Somersct not Icss than 200 tons of
‘the selling price of which would be about £200 per ton,
received 72 tons, and I heard of one Fire
| house that had already bought £30,000 worth of the
lL As is the case with many othsr important industries by
fortunes are made in a short time, the pearl-shelling
es of Queensland were discovered by accident. ‘The hardy

vand native divers engaged in the déhede-mer trade, about
S ago, brought up an occasional pearl oyster, and as the
talked about in the straits it was seneibered that abe

ormaments about their necks. The aay was then

and with the most gratifying pecuniary results,

pearl oyster averages from 7 to 9 inches in diameter,

inside is lined with a beautiful coat of the mother-of-pearl
which buttons and other articles are made. At Somerset I was

sented with a pair that, mounted, make capital card trays, being

inches across. The people engaged in pearl-diving seem

8, who would not thank you for inquiring too closely into
tirantecedents, and who adopt a remarkably "conciliating” way of
With their coloured assistants, Very often in Australia you
the blacks of a certain district have been conciliated—that
‘ay, knocked down or shot. Butit is only a very few aboriginals
‘Work atthe pearl-fishery, or indeed any other steady pursuit.
‘the coasting steamers pass between the mainland and one of
ore southern islands off the Queensland coast, the passengers

mes puzzled to account for the black balls bobbing up and
on the waves. ‘The explanation is that they are natives swim-
‘off from the island to board the boat, and beg a passage to one
Rorthern ports. Three or four may contrive to catch the
that is thrown astern ; the remainder return to shore, swimming,
Defore, the entire distance of four or five miles. Some of the

oe

their own domestic hearths,
cooked human flesh.

At Somerset I had the pleasure of me
lane, of the London Missionary Society.

cove was his little steamer, the £2Zen

by Miss Baxter, of Dundec, and sent out
civilising the Papuan savages. In hig last trip to.
Macfarlane and his party were attacked by the
probably they had never before seen a ship, much
their river, rushed into the water, and, with in

he has planted here and there, to leave them
couragement. ‘The big-booted pearl-shellers, ee a
say of this devoted gentleman, whose burly form and open eo
are of more consequence to them, I expect, than his
“Mr, Macfarlane is the missionary, is he not?” I
who boarded this steamer.

“Dunno about that," the fellow replied, “but, by G—, he’sat
every inch of him.” q

Tecan answer for it there was one passenger on board the Ril
steamer who, amidst the tropical teinpest which ushered ws’
next phase of the voyage, wished Mr, Macfarlane and his
Mission steamer a hearty “ God speed,”

tralia. Roughly speaking, this is a wall of coral reefs a
1,300 miles from the coast of New Guinea down by the sho
Queensland, and running so parallel with the land that its
distance {s to miles, and {ts farthest 120 miles, from shore "Th
Ocean may be moaning and bursting outside, but within the
is comparatively calm, ‘The channel is mostly shallow, but it ¥
the most extraordinary manner. Sometimes close to the wall
reef there is a sheer depth of 60 fathoms; then the water d
suddenly away. No wonder that the steamers adopt the p
of anchoring after nightfall, unless the moon is up.

to the equator, with a sea-board of
that cry aloud for development,
‘ut to criticise ‘the sea-fowl, never ven-

fh white lace, Blue smoke ascending from
indicates the camp-fires of the natives, and

who gather as the voyage goes on, discussing,

, alas! but the ineradicable vices of the race. We

n The ae anaiety I could discover
3 oa ieee Ae Roe All efforts
something of him seem to have failed. Reclaimed for a time,
Tater wanders stealthily back to his tribe. Miserable wan-
have been, are, and apparently must be.
48 positively a romance of the sea if studied aright, It
us mariners pushing their way alonganunknown coast
ever-recurring obstacles and terrors, real and suggested,
names of the Queensland bays and headlands, which we spell
chart-room, were, we may be sure, given with a meaning,
days the mariner heads south with the confidence which a
‘of science warrants, How fared the intrepid pioneer
ed the seed? Here, upon the outspread shect, we have the
ti such inscriptions as “ numerous reefs divided by narrow deep
or safe entrance here ;" or “heavy confused sea ;" or
ik slightly vegetated ;” or “ submerged rocks.” Wreck Bay
here Cape Flattery ; there Cape Direction. There is
‘atthe entzance of Endeavor River, where the gallant Cap
eareened his ships on the southern bank while he climbed
gas called Lizard Island, to spy out an avenue of escape
network of channels in which he had become involved.
his district is busy cnough now, for beyond the mountains are
nous Palmer gold-ficlds, and beyond them, so the new-comers
@ brand-new gold-field, to which people are rushing at the
S moment. Cooktown accordingly sprang up almost, as one

pect, and thoroughly homely.
Its bold hills are diversitied by great ribs
grass, by ravines full of green w

‘There is one hill which would appear to have’
Brobdingnagian bechives breaking out all over its face.
bystanders says that the scenery about Cooktown is not a}
that it has an unfinished sort of look, as if it had been «

the sixth day, ‘This is not reverent, but it hits the c

and there are other portions of the coast that come ander)
category. Thescattered township looks prt
inhabitant recommends me not to bring my familyup therefor:

Next day we have more significantnomenclature, We pa)
Bay ; also Cape Tribulation, The latter a low mound &
finely wooded slopes. Peter Botte Mountain is over 30004
‘but in association with a far-reaching range it does not
‘Towards cyening these imposing mountains are magnit
with a purple that is peculiar to Australia. It suffuses
valleys, and islands alike, save where cloudlets rest like sily
lettes upon the shoulders of some obtrusive summit. It Is)
of gold beyond, but there is no other attraction

coveted treasure is wrung amidst burning heat and chronic p
from the bosom of the very desert.

There is an abundance of mountain grandeur down
coast of Queensland, with islands and narrow waterqassage
ingly picturesque in their variety of foliage, There are curios
stich as Magnetic Island, which seems to have passed, at som
period, through a terrible fiery ordeal. One of its headlands is
with square boulders, resembling the old-fashioned tombs of
try churchyard. Leafless trees stand weird as gibbets an th
peaks, There is a bay which reminded me nota little of
Causeway—not the first time I had been led involuntarily 19,
Northern Ircland or Western Scotland. "The Orchard Re
a singular group of gigantic boulders, so poised that you might
the weight of a finch or sparrow would overbalance and se

thundering into the sea. One yillar upon this island is 30
and as perfectly cubed as if squared by wmathematved Sathya)

ts, some of which would be
nvaict natalareit

je A gentleman from Bowen sings pre-
song of his town. Mentioning these things to a

in later on, he assures me Bowen is a village, and

a mere collection of shanties ; but that Rockhampton
Eto be the metropolis of the colony, and would be when
egs were inserted in round holes, &c. My friend's pitve de
the argument that Rockhampton boasted two. daily
‘ergo itmust be a place of consideration, From whatever
fed he came back naturally to the daily newspapers. He
| the Fitzroy, and of many creeks with singular names, of
Rs, hospitals, and churches, but sooner or later he wound up
Eaeoereren. Even when he appalled my timid nerves
‘of the fearful alligators which abound in the Fitzroy
fame ; it was just as I expected—two copies of The Rock-
ulletin were found amongst the cartload of marine stores
Gne Sturian stomach. Of course when the Maryborough
‘came off 1 singled out a favourable specimen, and inno-
sd him how far behind the other ports Maryborough was,
se Tat once found that Rockhampton, Bowen, and the
tmple frauds ; the real Queensland port was Maryborough.
1 Bay at last! ‘The white sand of Moreton and the woods
ike are before us, as the chain cable gallops through the
and the Government steamer ranges alongside to tran
ils and passengers, I dip my pen to make the last entry
= The voyage is over, and the voyagers are glad. New
yefore them ; as they enter the Brisbane River they become
they have turned over a new page of the Log of their life,
he kind welcomes they receive make them feel already at
‘before they have placed foot on land. ‘They had read of
iy scenery as consisting of mangrove flats, swamps, and
mud-banks ; had, in truth, been led to form a dismal
‘of it, of the river, and of the town, In all they were
Qrprised. Brisbane River they found to be more than
| Brisbane itself, a city no doubt very much in its infancy,
{psitwated, and full of signs of healthy life.
t

oe
ponietee ne from the’ broad and rapid S
exige of the great Croatian plain along:
‘My companion asked me, ‘Huben Sie nicht einen Pls
himself in his own, and pronouncing the word in the |
way, and not short like the English. I had given min
was glad to find both the word and the thing natura
its home. ‘The truthfulness and honesty of the Turks, at
hood and dishonesty of the Servians, was the subject «
sation, T believed there was a good deal of truth in wi
but Thad already made it my rule, in this [and of Ties, to
everyone and believe no one—without, at least, due
for instance, in this case, for the prejudices of the Hu
perhaps also of the Jew. Arriving at the Ferry, we c
boatman on the Turkish bank, And as we rowed up the
rapid stream, and were presently carried down by it to the
place, the sun got stronger, and the morning cleared.
Across the river one was in a new world. Delightful i
tobe again, and thus suddenly, in the land of Islam, with
vellous picturesqueness of architecture and of costume, its
Oriental associations, and its sublime and simple faith,
typified by its domed and minareted shrines. Tt was the
Ramazan. The last time I was in Islamich it had fallen inj
And thus was recalled how long it was since I had, with #
Mr. Buckle, witnessed, at Cairo, the eve of the Muslim
in Tdumea, its end. Z
Introduced by my Hungarian friend, 1 was received, extly
still was, by the Kaimakam, Suliman Bey, in a hall of the
Government-house. We had a long interview, T stated, as sual!
unattached to any party or any paper, though occasionally se

Serajevo, he said that such Pi
a pretence |
with the Turks, anot unusual politeness,

almost quite a thing of the
next day. After a most agreeable i
T found one of those men with whom one

with him during my sojourn at Bellina, I
hospitable Hebrew Hekim-Bashi,

On the morrow we had a great ficld-day, After
cigarettes with the pasha, and in the tent of a general
‘broad main street of the canvas-city, I set out with
cade of beys and effendis, and their following of
ride over the positions abandoned the other day, al
hours' fighting, by the Servians. ‘The wide green plain, '
by many-hued mountains, put me in mind of the plain of |

of the commandant, Thence we rode along the entre

down toa branch of the river which sweeps round a large

led the Little Drina, Riding on, we eame to the
shallows and sandy isles, spreading out almost into
opposite bank rode patrols of the Servian arm}

which, with all our stoppages, it took us more than five hours #0 fl
over, With too small an army to occupy all they had wo
Turks were now levelling many or most of the redoubts,
those they cared to keep they were making the entrances facet
Hellina, instead of, as with the Servians, towards the Dring
it was to observe the various relics of the Servian camp—the
huts, the vacant tent-circles, the empty fireplaces, the picked!
and halfeaten loaves of bread. But more curious still it
remark the good terms on which the outposts of the to
seemed now to be living, At one place two Servians, who @
down on the opposite bank to draw water, were, as I said to
officer in command there, within pistolshot of us, a8 we

jurse, were of them. But there seemed to be no fear on either!

such a treachery.

assure themselves of Paradise in the was
pressed, the doctor said, by Sali Pasha, ee)
fifty over-zealous Bashi-Bazouks, had

thrown down for a bastinadoing, which d t
severity after but a brief admonition, Distinguish, m
Bosnians and Servians. The Bosnians, though

our fellow-subjects. Indiscriminate plunder and

be permitted against them as against our enemiés, the §

‘The road lay all the way through orchards and co
ing with hardly a break over the great plain, Bat the
in smouldering ruins, the cottages roofless or shut up,
no one to gather the harvests. For a considerable
part of the road the ditches at its side were full of bones am
of horses and of men, It was the battle-ficld of Brodaz 5
ais we found on our return journey, one harvest, at least, was,
But it was at night, and by the dogs.

Arrived at Ratscha, we found hardly a trace of the former
here at the confluence of the Drina and the Save. But it
Servians, as I was told, that it had been destroyed, in ere
redoubt now occupied by the Turks, Tn this redoubt we hail
for some time, pleasantly entertained, however, by the officer ¥
taken it, and was now its commandant. At length we got
hear at the Austrian Ratscha on the opposite bank of the Say
had all been at their mid-day dinner—and the ferry-boat ex
for us, On returning soon after sunset, most exquisitely p
was the scene T looked upon. Above, the moon was rising
stars shining forth, Under the northern rampart rushed the
and rapid river, Within the redoubt one or two of the old
trees were still standing, as in happier days. And grouped
there, in the niddy glow of their fires, the Turkish soldiers wae!
cooking the food with which they were to break the long day's fasttl
Ramazan. ,

Another, and last, visit L paid the yasha ‘nex. Nig, to report

1 from ting my surprise that the
week had not been at once followed
push made for Schabatz and
at willingly would he have advanced if he faa

himself for speaking French 50 ill, he said,
well,” and handed me a handsome volume
sel lying on the table above several sheets of manu-
‘an illustrated edition of the “Mille ct une Nuits,”
[S. was an interlinear translation into Turkish, both Jan-
ina very clear hand. 1 was much struck by finding
thus employed. For this whole warhas

fon by the Turks in Arabian Nights’ style—gallant
encampments than which hardly anything more com-
could ‘be desired, or more picturesque imagincd—pleasant
‘but nothing of the combined and calculated plan and rapid
® which war now means in Western Europe. “ Allah kerim |"
great!” And in, at least, reckless want of foresight and
ace to what might happen, pashas cven as well as lower men,
‘to be like the knights of mediwval romance, who were * ready
‘what adventure God might send them," without much
themselves actively to shape their adventures for them.

road from Bellina to Zvornik, slong a frontier which should
-, was for half the way still over a great plain, rich and
passed through but two villages, the first before coming
‘the Drina ; the second, after a tum through the forest of
4m order to avoid the Servian riflemen, where the high-road
® close to the river. Brightly it geteed, the broad, swift
Bacang the soft alluvial edge of the Bosnian plain, and
d by the Servian hills, with their villages on high sunny
But towards sunset we were among mountains on the Bosnian
a. As the skyey splendours died away we entered the grand
of Zyorik. After a quickly passing twilight we found the
i lying on the skirt of a camp by the river, with sentries at every

Presently we crossed 2 bridge, and entered the narrow
“strect of @ village clinging to the mountain side. The shops
Ein darkness, but the rooms above were lighted up, and the iar
j being gladly eaten. For the sunset-gun had thundered from the

delivered my letter of introduction from |
much salaaming but little speech, for Akif
as I Turkish, I gave him, however, to

fore the commandant immediately sent for.
relieved all awkwardness in the mean time 4
‘handsome young Jewish physician presented h

to be the doctor to whom his co-religionist at B
letter. He squatted down in the middle, on the
candle that dimly illuminated the further ends of the
preted eloquently the views of his Excellency on the
A bey belonging to one of the contingents from Asis
joined us, and rolled up his legs in a comer of the adi
attentively as he smoked, but saying little. In the midst 9
cussion, however, it was not forgotten that I must be
with many excuses for the poor fare of their highland

vegetable mess, then with the unfailing pillaf, and then witha
melon and apples.

Having finished supper, had water poured over my fing
another firdjan of coffee, and smoked one more cigarette, we:
together, accompanied by servants with lanterns, to visit the

upper floor, and exchanged salutations with his E
European rose from the divan, and shook hands with meas
patriot; for such," said he, “we must be among these Astaties,

the special nationality of cach of us." It was the consul of Ft
who had just arrived from Bosna Serai, on a short excurnon
the frontier. Besides the governor and the French consal, fa
seated alsoon the divan a venerable-looking, white-bearded 6
in black frock-coat and trousers, and polished boots, and we
the fez of the Turk. To him I was introduced as—what #

| from this description of him?—the Pasha of the

e similar offer made by the Jewish Hekim-Bashi,

c To his house, therefore, though at
sthe end of the town, the commandant politely accom-
shown my room, I found all my baggage already

forme, We were already in the small hours of

or in Ramzan the usual night is tured into day,

tz khair olah!” “May the night be agreeable to

‘Seaid at last. And afteran almost double day—for I had
found of the hospitals at Bellina soon after sunrise, and
to Sali Pasha before setting out on my journey—sleep fell
as I had laid myself out on the divan.
‘4g could have been more interesting and picturesque than
(ext morning to the redoubts, Upa steep mountain-side
path through the forest, our horses, needing neither whip
but rather the curb, as they fretted and fumed impatiently
@pness of the ascent, rapidly clamb, Here and there one
little Alpine fields, where Bosnian cattle were feeding ; here
lon tree-strewn clearings, where Servian batteries had lately
ted. At every turn of the road, and break in the wood, deeper
@ lay below us the Drina in its broad dark curve ; further
ter down, winding along the opposite shore, or creeping up
fite mayines, the hill-village of Zvornik, with the domes and
wits Gaith ; and yet, still above us, crowned by ancient stone
nd modern earthwork redoubt, were the peaks into which
ite mountains rose. At last we gained a ridge high almost
(nd dismounted at the first of a long chain of redoubts,
ly hundreds of Bashi-Bazouks. But here also, as at Bellina,
Thad not pushed their advantage. ‘They remained strictly on
five,and on their own territory, For the Servians not having
laim to Little Zvornik, the village on this side, conceded
the Drina was not here the frontier. And the interest of
jon was, that an opposite ridge, separated from that on
“now were but by a narrow ravine, was also crowned by
ut redoubts now held by the Servians, who, ag we could
Le NO. 1755. be

t the Drina Frontier. 371.

ched, the commandant brought forward and pre-
bearer iti one of the ‘late battles, he had been

of this scene, ‘The conclusion of it confirmed our

7 Tong face and thick grey moustache, and dressed
the pasha to whom we had been introduced last night,
‘came up to ts—went into the middie of the oval, and,
beside him beating a tattoo, led four times a great ringing

ahim tchok yashar !"— Our Padishah, much may he

then, a fifth time, a mountain-echoed shout, louder than all
‘Allah, Allah !"—* God, God, God |” ‘Te needed no

lords to inform us of the intentof allthis. “See, ye Franks,
a tell to your respective nations what stuff there is yet in

{all the interest of an old medical student I made the round
als, All were clean and well ventilated. I was interested
‘in oné of them, advantage had been taken of the number
in the Turkish army to make one ward
‘of ethnological types. Asiatic Osmanlis, Tartars, and
| Earopean Bosnians, Albanians, and Greeks were all there
by side—though of races so diverse, brothers in misery!
the camp and troops, A narrow pebble pavement
‘tent from the entrance to the central pole, on which the
(as were hung. All round were their carpets or rugs. But
fe Spread, not on the bare ground, but on a thick
Hleaves. In front of the tents was a sloping pavemeni
Tithe runnels for carrying off the rain, Each tent had its
and the soups of meat andvegetables simmering on the fires
bd sielt Savoury. The men were then courteously paraded
‘They looked fellows who could be depended on to follow
might be led, yet had hot the wildness of the Bashi-
redoubts on the hills. All wore the fez ; the officers,
Tile frock and narrow trousers; the men, the Eastern
blue j jacket, waistshawl, and baggy breeches, One young,
yonly just on duty again after a severe wound, Lean
“4 Bua

1

divan, and in our rambles on the mountains.
frequent theme of our conversation, and it
again to note how essentially the same
number now of Christians, of Jews, and of

a bearing this has on the Eastern Question
cannot here point out,

. Another subject of questioning on my part wa
and how in these parts manifested itself the unis
Still, under whatever wars may rend society, yo
seek each other. Under all social joys and
intense passions of love sought, love found,
the social calm or storm what it may, the u
embracing and embraced, or with love unsatisfied

isarow. Develop that as you like, But
‘been, it has been long enough for our hero and
fidelity to cach other, ‘They actually saw
the bazaar for some time after this. But all that

ould he in the forest. ‘The insurrection against the
yout. Petco has put himself at the head of a band

uk, and in forays and skirmishes gets what distraction
Catching sight of a band of
| mselves in ambush, Presently
& insurgents, and the word is given to fire, Not recognising
an aims at Petco, and Yovanka, all in rags now from her
jin the forest, rushes between her father and her lover.
take to flight, the followers of Osman go after them,
§left ulone with Yovanka. Only for a few minutes. For Petco,
£ 9n his pursuets, returns with the courage of despair, and
fm behind a tree at Osman. But the quick-eared Yovanka
es her lover as she had saved her father. ‘There would be a
pe, then, between father and daughter. But at length the
fzouks retum with victorious shouts of ‘Allah! Allah !*
\ throws herself into the arms of Osman, and Petco, cursing
isto
te 3 would be back in the bazaar again, or wherever else
‘for an effective Eastern wedding scene, Petco actually got
jelieve. But in our comedietta we might give a happier turn
& The old custom of running off with brides is still not un-
fin Bosnia. Women like to be run off with, and the fathers
istomed to make the best of it.
| dramatising it a little, that was the love-story Osman the
zouk told me as we rode through the Kovatch Balkan on
‘eegovina frontier, I once wrote a little play in our Spanish
{And I shall be delighted if you can touch up and make
tof'my Osman and Yovanka.”
‘Governor now, previously to taking his departure, resumed
plimentary speeches, He regretted that I could not prolong
lat Zvornik; but as I must go, he had done everything in his
6 facilitate my journey across the mountains, A mounted
FBashi-Hazouks would accompany me—men specially picked,

Me

Marvellous as is the conjunction, one an I
little if one does not understand, and, so

ecstasy in the basest humiliation of the wor
then, I thiak, be not only acknowledged eke
an effect, But if the universality of love—of
existence—be the moral goal of civilisation, how
are we on the road!

We were rather late in starting, for it bad.
But the mists were now rolling up from the magi
gorge of Zyornik. As we rode up out of the little
‘back on the much-contested Little Zvornik on the o
bank, of the river, under the redoubts on the hills we
the other day, Then, ever through a“ Balkan,” ab
various forest trees we rode; now along an upland plateau, |
now descending, and by so steep a path as to require
mount ; now skirting a wide plain ; now crossing an
in an amphitheatre of peaked, forest-covered, and
tains; now fording the little stream of a narrow raving;
ing again, and again obliged to dismount ; now with
now with sight of but forest-depths on cither side of a Dri
So we rode on through a land of Romance. For,
we mean by that term, and we shall, T think, find it to
two things chiefly—mystery and passion. The yast
enyironing every glade and glen, every corric and
the all-pervading stillness, which the occasional, voices ©
and laughter of maidens made only more felt, gave the ©

mystery. And recollections of the history of the

connoted by romance, In the Bosnian
cs with hardly less vividness than.
Arabian deserts and Syrian plains.

rid glory on the mountains, But the illuminated:
here We ware to pass the night was still but
w distance. We dismounted at a little shanty
n coffée, spread our rags on the grass, and lit
Hardly, however, had the coffee been served when
| there was.a sudden, Tushing, storm-signalling sound.
we rose, and had scarcely mounted when the
iu was onus Endless seemed the journcy through
ts of Berteha appearing to get ever further off instead of
hrough it all, toiled on foot the miserable Christian
of them lame. I regretted that, standing as they were
# Thar omitted to see them served with coffee at the
the rest of us. On a previous stoppage, I had ordered
tos 23 well as for myself and my Muslim escort; but they
‘got it when we were about to remount, and I had to see
}the matter myself And as the Zaptieh, mounted like
(these poor, footsore wretches, and with a temper by no
oved by the fast of Ramazan, urged them on with frequent
elt-oneself still amid the race- and creed-hatreds of what,

‘we are now accustomed to think of as a bygone age.
he mountain-village was reached, and we clattered up its
paved streets. At the foot of an outer wooden staircase,
}e Upper part of a large house, we dismounted. But we
f apartment, or divan, crowded with Muslims at their
fers. So I had to wait ina small adjoining room. It
& however, before I was conducted into the divan which
ims serving asa chapel. For the Muslims are as free
_ about consecrated buildings as Presbyterians. After
offee and cigarette ceremonial here—at what I found
fe of the Governor—I was conducted to another build-
till dinner, or rather supper, was got ready, the Governor
dant politely sat with me. As no one was acquainted
fopean language, I made my first attempt, with the aid of
icabulary, to converse in Turkish. Both officials were

and mine, but the characters of certain pashas,

war or peace, were the topics of our conversation. It
very few words it is necessary to know, and how ¥
guage may be, to make oneself sufficiently inrelligib
thorough good-will on both sides. With such |
reflects with renewed interest on the completeness of
those wonderful developments—the Languages of Ci

‘These friendly Arnaouts—the Kaimakam, Shakir
Commandant, Shaban Effendi—accompanied me, next
some way on the road. A parting findjan of coffee we
hut by the wayside; then, with a present of a ci ho
the Kaimakam, and mutual compliments, we bid each ©
Presently I looked back and saw, as it were, great lakes”
tance below me, It was the upper surface of the mists in
Ascending still, the scenery put me more and more
of that of Lebanon. Perhaps, however, a juster co
with that of the Blue Mountains of Jamaica. For there is but
here, in these Bosnian highlands, of that supreme historic i
which makes Lebanon stand alone amid all the hig 3
world. From no other mountain-peaks of our planet can ©
in a single view such historic sites as Tyre and Sidon on th
that gleaming Toterior Sea, the first cradle of commerce; the
the Sea of Galilee, crater of a volcanic eruption of i
most remarkable in the history of religion ; and those hills of
beyond which is the desert traversed by the caravans of
andof Babylon. Nothing comparable to that is there ia this
Balkan of the Dinaric Alps. Yet this much may be said for it, 8
in some of its outward aspects, it recalled, at least, the
Lebanon.

In about two hours, however, we entered what was no
properly speaking, a “ Balkan"—for this strictly means a forest
various kinds of trees. Such a forest we had first €ntered on
banks of the Drina, on the other side of Zvomik. But now
denly we entered a pine forest, through which we rode all this ¢
and the next, till we came down on the magnificent gorge that!
to Serajevo from the north-east. At first this pine forest recalled
German Schwarzwald. Boutin the afternoon the scenery became

=

_ Here they were Muslims ; but the khan, or

by Christians. Imagine the scene. A vast, un-

ense rafters. Along the sides, a number

Cn, e when some one passes along with « torch,
their cor, hinnying, neighing, and occasionally

¢, Or attempting to bite a female, neighbour, In

the great double door, is a broad divan

blazing fire. On one side of it, a sheep is

3 On the other, coffee is being roasted, ground,
‘the Rembrandtesque lights and shades in which
uely clothed, and generally finely featured, Mus-

6, and Christians standing between the fire and the
‘entrancing, Reflections arose on that characteristic
fof rn ‘that integrating of differences, which is the cause of
ra ‘mich a scene affords. But metaphysical speculation
we place to a dream of that exquisite scene of the
ust such a stable at Bethlehem. And so dreaming, 1 fell

¢ by the guitar-accompanied song of onc of my men,
guiled the time till the sheepwas sufficiently roasted, Itwas
se old historical or legendary ballads of the Southern Slavs
Il of the race, whether Muslim or Christian, against their

i ‘And the whole space between the fire and the door

d with applauding listeners. It is such scenes as
‘one to look to the increase of the spirit of a common

‘as the only means of lessening the miserable mutual
ch at present divide the Southern Slavs, Such a spirit
er, grow, and Turkish rule be submitted to. But 1
politics in this merely descriptive sketch. Av \aex

their daggers and fingers instead of
Tittle awkward at this, one of my B B
to cut up my food for me with his digits and dagger.
quickened me in the use of my own.

With our feet towards the fire, and

aw

‘on the previous evening, one, but only one, of the
through all the prostrations of the orthodox prayers
which I very much liked to see, and particularly

in what manner he pleased. And certainly this belief d
the Muslims for good. Come into personal contact
tians of the East and the Muslims, and the latter cannot, T
be in general preferred, as both the more honest and the:
teous, and that, even though one’s carly education may

in favour of those nursed in the same beliefs as ones

But the Muslims have no music, Anything so d
yells rather than songs—with which my Bashi-
their gencral feelings of delight on mounting, soon after sun:
our last day’s journey—I never heard. And 20 we rode on, apt
and down dale, throngh the forest. At length, after a mid-cap]
on the summit of a thickly wooded hill, we descended.
grandest passes I haye ever scen. It was a vast gap in a to
wall of precipices, to which trees clung everywhere, and from’
of which ran long green slopes down into an absolutely ideal
so beautiful it was in its rich corn-fields and pastures, shut in by wood’
hills from the warring outer world, ‘Through this valley we rode, a0
up through the forest again, till we came to another long winding
descent, But here, at last, Serajevo was descried in the distance:
Presently we observed that the mountain-road below us wasille®
with dark moving objects. They were two or three battalions
infantry, with baggage-train and field guns, marching to the capi
Soon we were in the midst of them. An orderly riding back on som
message recognised one of my Bashi-Bazouks. ‘They gave =
other that stately salute which, universal as it is among Music=™™
is in itself alone a perpetual lesson’in good manners, “Salaam Ale=*

= al

380 The Gentleman's Magasine,

TABLE-TALK.

DY SYLVANUS URBAN.

HAT literary feuds in France have lost little of their

is shown by M. About's attack in the Athenewm
memory of Frangois Buloz, the founder and manager of }
des Deux Monies, M. About is a thorough Frenchman, ¢
Frenchman’s love for epigram. To read the sarcasm with
lashes the memory of the dead is an intellectual treat, and t)
with which he heads his letter is worthy of a place among
venomous of such production

Palos qui, par sa grice, # tant su noas charmer,
Lorsque 1a mort viendea le prendre
‘Nvauea qu'un seul eeil A fermer,

Et n'aura point d'esprit & rendre,

Tt is not to M. About’s credit, however, that satire and inv
directed against one who is dead, and consequently unable
and it is unfortunate for him that the personal motive which
the onslaught is known, His letter forms, indeed, but on
in that question de probite litléraire raised a score yea
La Presse and La Revue de Paris, a propos of M. About's p
as an original romance (“olla”) of a true history cone
Ttalian family, contained in a book the suppression of which
50 rigorous, M. About supposed himself to possess a uni
The remaining chapters will probably be written when M,
himself in his grave, and unable to use his powerful pen
‘Those who like to read the history of an unpleasant tans
find it under the head “About” in “Les Supercheries
Dévoilées" of Quérard, augmented [by MM. Gustave B

_. Pierre Jannet. M, Buloz was, in fact, a man of signal ew
enterprise, and the brusqueness which attended his success
paralleled in men of higher social position. His equal as»
will not readily be found. His début in letters was m
translation of works from the English. One statement im
of M. About istrue, The influence of the Kame da Des
is greater in other countries than in France,

Beep es rndibe Eetbolic Bahop of sbe distaet

ire all brought up in the religion—" he meant to say, “ of

her," but in the largeness of his views, and wish to please,
plural “of their mothers," the effect of which was very

ble. Unfortunately, in the House of Commons, this gentle-
makes a joke, whether by accident or design,

American experiment, to which we owe “ The Innocents
Abroad” and “The New Pilgrims’ Progress” of Mark Twain, is
seems, to be repeated in England, and is to be ona still

lc, It is proposed by a company to despatch, in August
Jarge steamship on a voyage all round the world. ‘The journey
d to occupy nine to ten months, during which time the

al sea-ports will be entered, and time will be afforded for
spots of interest in countries bordering on the route. Five
pounds is demanded for the right to join the trip, and the
of that sum will enable any man, in whom an adventurous

nis accompanied by leisure and moderate means, to see no

ble or “uninteresting portion of the world’s surface. The

follow pretty closely those of the Quaker Ci
fate Mark Twain, It is edifying to study the texo)

offices, and led a man to Paris, Dresden,
principal cities of Italy. Now we scem
we shall have picnics in Central Aftica,
cry out like Alexander for more worlds

[esi is no more interesting subject for Fi
discovery of hidden treasure, and

Golden Bug"—which in the English edition, b

“Golden Beetle” out of regard for insular p

admirers than even his “Murder in the Rus Me

ago there was a company (limited) advertised as being for

recovery of two galleons of the Spanish Armada; and al

Schliemann’s discoveries—so far surpassing even the

the City—it is probable that archwological inv:

much assisted by the investments of the public, ‘The

of a writer in the Zimes that explorations should be

Mount Nebo for the discovery of the Tables of Stone with #

Commandments on them “traced there originally by the fing

the Creator Himself,” is the highest flight we have reached it

direction; though the conclusion of this gentleman's letter, *that tt
discovery would throw great light upon the Old Testament, aif
the language in which the Tables were written,” is a little ame

Why, the possession (and exhibition) of such a treasure-trove wolll

set the Alexandra Palace itself upon its legs again.

While one is about it, why not get up an association for
discovery of the Urim and Thummim, which the highest t
upon gems and precious stones assures us were i
must be, therefore, “somewhere in the World.” Tt is ,
too much to say that it is more likely we should light upan
treasures, than on the farure of fair Helen, which has act
it seems, been dug up at Mycens, and every ounce of }
(Troy weight) is probably of more value than a pound of ori
gold. It is rumoured that Mr. ‘Tennyson has been requested
Prospecting Company to give them his views as to the
the piece of water into which the sword Excalibur was thrown
F ANCE has at length provided the bones of Auber with am

ing place, and has placed over his tomb a monament

of his genius. The death of Auber took place, as i well kngr®

during the German occupation of France, and Yee ‘remains of 8

4384 The Gentleman's Magazine,

attention of poctical and philosophical dreamers, give way now
schemes which are capable of pretical fulfilment, pees
would yet at one time have seemed as far oxtside belief as thy
visionary worlds of More, Sidney, and Bacon. Some of the rules
which Dr. Richardson in his lecture insists as indispensable
health are capable of being at once applied to modern houses
can all of us do away with the firmly fixed carpets, specially:

it might seem, to hold the dust, in which poisonous germs

best medium for their conveyance, We can dismiss objectionable
wall-papers altogether in many cases. In answer to the bidding, a0
of Health but of Art, this Process of reform has already commenced.
‘The tower containing the staircase and all offices can easily |
introduced in houses of a certain class to be henceforth erected, |
though 2 generation or two must under happiest conditions eapst
before it comes into general use. Dr. Richardson has yet to speak
of baths and other matters of this kind, and I hope his uttemnet!
will not long be delayed. In respect to baths we might lem
something from the ancients, who, far better than ourselves, come
prebended their advantage and importance.

HE question of Lady Helps seems to be agsuming
importance, since Mrs, Crawshay assures us that the:
them now exceeds the supply, The humble experience of
who live in lodgings kept by “ladies who have seen better
is not in favour of the system; but there is certainly
very attractive 10 folks of the Bounderby class, in the idea
employing the daughters of “admirals in the navy,” and “
in the army,” to warm their slippers and butter their tout &
America they have helps" who are by no means “ladies”
difficulty of procuring good servants in that country is vastly
even than in England. I was talking to a New York frend
this subject lately, who told me that it was the rarest thing 10
the services of a help beyond a year, “My wife had one, howert)
who lived with us eighteen months ; and it would have taken
to part us ; but at last she had to go.”
“Why, what did she do?” inquired I.
“ Well, she did this—she boxed my wifes ears.”

THE

EMAN'S MAGAZINE.

Arrir 1877.

MISS MISANTHROPE.
BY JUSTIN M®CARTHY.

Cuarrer X.
“THE POET IN A GOLDEN AGE WAS BORN."

OR HERON did not leave Mrs. Money's quite a4 soon ag
he had intended. He had made a sort of engagement to
men in the smoking-room of his club: men with whom
1 to have had some talk about the St. Xavier's Settlements.
Behe remained talking with Minola for some time; and he talked
BA Lacy and with other women, young and old, and asked many
and made himself very agreeable, and, as was his wont,
it everyone delightful, and enjoyed himself very much. Then
Money chanced to look in, and, seeing Heron, bore him away
#a while to his study, to talk with him about something very, very
u Mr, Money saw Herbert Blanchet and only performed
a the ceremony which Hajja Baba describes as “the shake-
‘and the fine weather,” and then made no further account of
‘Mr. Blanchet seeing Heron invited to the study, and knowing
gequaintance with the household what that meant, conceived
Hf slighted, and was angry. Mr. Money always looked upon
thet a8 a sort of young man whom only women were ever sup-
ed to care about, and who would be as much out of place in the
study of a politician and man of business as a trimmed

There was, however, some consolation for the poet in the fact
te had Minola Grey nearly all to himself He secured this
intage by a dexterous stroke of policy, for he attached himself to
his sister and did his best to show and describe to her a\\ the ce\eon-

WOE. CEXL 0. 1756, ce

said, he had his reward.
Tr grew late; the rooms
¢ to remain at

Blanchet, growing courageous, told
and a great poet, and in a very a

Karshish,” which he could recite rots
riam," of which he knew the greater
modestly conscious that his
colonies had kept him a little behind th
matter of poetry, and it did not surprise
great poet, whose name had never before
there beside him in Mrs. Money's drawit
and proud at meeting a poet and a poet's
It so happened that after saying his

Wie hacteceo ceremony which even had the

4 She lived in ent rte nt sd
London.”

+8

hero of me. You must not take her estimate ©
She fancies the outer world must think just 25.

Ido. Tam nota famous poct, Mr. Heron, and p
be. I belong to a school which does not culti
popularity.”

“TL admire you all the more for that. It always:

that the poet degrades his art who hunts for
anybody else for that matter,” added Victor,

to meet you, Mr. Blanchet. I have seen so ic unti
popularity in England that T honour any man of peer
coumge to set his face against i

“My latest volume of poems,” Blanchet said firmly, “I do atl
even mean to publish. ‘They shall be printed, T hope, and
out ina manner becoming them—becoming, at least, what 1 ihm
of them; but they shall not be hawked about book-shops,
viewed by self-conceited, ignorant prigs.”

“Quite right, Mr. Blanchet; just what f should like to do:
if I could possibly imagine myself gifted like you. But still
must admit that it is little to the credit of the age that a poet
he forced thus to keep his treasures from the public eye.
it may be all very well, you know, in your case or mine ; butthit
a man of genius who has to live by his poems! T's easy talking!
men who have enough—my enough, I confess, is a pretty modet
sort of thing—but you must know better than T that there are
men of gcnius—ay, of real genius—trying to make a living”
London by writings that perhaps their own generation will
understand, There is what seems to me the hard thing” Mi
Heron grew quite animated. -

‘The words sent a keen pang through Blanchet’s heart. His ii)
Acquaintance, whom Blanchet assumed to be confoundedly wealllfy”
evidently regarded him as a person equally favoured by fortuné, ail
therefore only writing poctry to indulge the whim of his genie
Herbert Blanchet had heard from the Money women in a vague
of way that Mr, Heron had been a governor of some place
have been Canada or India for aught he knew to the contrary; ald
he assumed that he must be a very aristocratic and seli-conceitt

al!

sleep much or keep early hours, I dare say, Mr,
Titerary men don't, I suppose ; and I only sleep when I
_ Let us smoke and have a talk for an hour or two,”
my day," said Blanchet. “I don’t think people who
ds can talk well in the hours before midnight. When I have
the day I sometimes close my shutters, light my gas, and
under the influences of night.”

he way of sitting up half the night id Victor, simply,
in places where one had best sleep in the day; but I
{ I werea poct I should delight in the night for its own

was something curious in the feeling of deference with
H regarded the young poet. He considered Blanchet
Rot quite mortal, or, at all events, masculine ; some-
itled to the homage one gives to a woman and the enthu-
feels to a spiritual teacher, Blanchet did not seem to him
¢ j rather like one of those creatures compounded
dew whom we read of in legend and mythology. ‘The
ot that of awe, because Blanchet was young and good-
ore a dress Coat and white tie, and it is impossible to

of awe fora man with a white tic, It was a feeling of
ion and devotion. Had some rude person jostled 4

tticipating his
enrages

lodgings. style ; mirrors and git enc white
doors where there ought to have been cu
feeling would have prescribed mats or rugs}
to say on the ceiling, but even on the walls. T

Browning. Mr. Blanchet had never read

d Byron below criticism, and could hardly

‘on the subject of Browning. ‘There were histories,

chet scorned history ; there were Blue-books, and the

of blue which their covers displayed would have made his

Tt will be seen, therefore, how awful is the impressive-

Pp ty when, with all these evidences of the lack of

around him, Mr. Blanchet still felt himself dwarfed,

in the presence of the occupier of the rooms. It ought to

vindication of Mr. Heron, that that poor youth was in

‘responsible for the adornments of the rooms, except in so far

laster cast and his books were concerned. He had never, up

oment, noticed anything about the lodgings, except that the

were pretty large, and that the locality was convenient for his

es and pursuits,

two young men had some soda and brandy, and smoked

ted, ‘Blanchet was the poorest hand possible at smoking and

‘but he swallowed soda and brandy in repeated doses, while

‘glass laysstill hardly touched before him. One consequence

“humbled feeling soon wore off, and he became eloquent

} Own account, and patronising to Heron. He set our hero

om every point connected with modern literature and art,

appeared that Heron had hitherto possessed the crudest

est oki-fashioned notions, ‘Then he declaimed some of his

ter poems, and explained to Heron that there was a con-

among all the popular and successful poets of the day to shut

from public notice, until Heron felt compelled, by a sheer

fellow-fecling in grievance, to start up and grasp his hand,

% ‘that his position was enviable in comparison with that of
who had leagued themselves against him.

“But you must hear my last poem ; you sAai? hear it," Herbert

‘shall be delighted ; I shall feel truly honoured,” murmured
br in perfect sincerity. “ Only tell me when.”
"The first reading—Iet me see—yes, the first reading is pledged
W Miss Grey. No one," the poct grandly went on, “can hear it
‘the hears it.”
‘Of conrse not—certainly not; I shouldn't think of iy’ ‘he

If Mr. Heron could under any possible cireums
brought to admit to himself that the society of a

and even to forget his own grievance in presence of
his new acquaintance. His own trouble seemed
comparison, What, after all, was the misprizing of
vices of an individual in the face of a malign or
ciation, which might deprive the world and all r
of a poet's genius? Heron began now to nines

nga little ofa strain on the attention of his present

absolutely nothing of politics or passing events
outer world, and did not affect or pretend to care
about them. Indeed, had he been a man of large and
Sips acomeagegete he would in all proba-
his treasures of knowledge, and affected an
(eantoeela Outside the realms of what he
‘Ax, Mr, Blanchet thought it niterly beneath him to know any-
bg; and within his own realm he knew so much, and bore down
= 2 terrible dogmatisin, that the ordinary listener sank op-
r | it. Warmed an/l animated by his own discourse,
‘out the streams. of his dogmatic eloquence over the
es who strained every nerve in the effort to appreciate,

f the honest desire to acquire, exalted information,
‘At kest the talk came to an end, and even Blanchet got somehow
Pilea that it was time to be going away. Victor accompanied
t fede the doorway, and they stood for a moment looking into

| Rraiopa Es wo, T hope?"

No, not far ; not exactly far,” the poct answered. “Til find a

Idare say. To-morrow, then, you'll come with me to Miss
i? You needn't have any hesitation ; you will be quite welcome,

you. I'll call for you.”

" "Come to breakfast, then, at twelve.”

All right,” the complacent Blanchet answered, his eatlicr awe

Wing given place to an easy familiarity ; “J’ll come.”

“Henodded and went his way. Victor Heron looked for a while
‘hi tall, slender, and graceful figure.

“Hes a handsome fellow," Heron said to himself, “and a poet,

Si can easily imagine a girl being in love with him, or any number

She is a very fine girl, quite out of the common track. She
be very happy. J almost envy him, No, I don't; what on
have 1 to do with such nonsense?”

He returned to his room, and sat thinking fora while. All his

worrying and grievance- ‘mongering seemed to have lost
somehow, and become prosaic, and unsatisfying, and vapid,

Mai not seem much to look forward to, that sort of thing going on
rer,

an audience. ‘She (had eo long Tooked aA i
and a princess, that she at last came to regard

only gave the word of command, the young

forth to the world, and going forth must of course be
their proper worth. Her pride was double-edged.
there was the poet-brother to show to her friends ; on
friend who was to be the poet-brother's patroness.
vagula, blandula,’ floated all that day on the saffron and
rising joy and fame,

Nor was her gratification at all diminished when
called very carly to crave permission to bring Mr,
and whenhe obtained it. Blanchet had thought it
merely on the close friendship with'Miss Grey of which Ke hi

a little too vauntingly to Vietor the night begin |
@ very necessary precaution to call and ask permission
his friend, He was fortunate enough to find Minola not
but even what Mary might have thought, if she had
matter, suspiciously willing, to receive Mr. Heron. In ‘tut!
had in her mind 2 little plot to do a service to Mary Blat
her brother in the matter of the poems, and she had thoug!
Heron as the kindliest and likeliest person she knew to g
helping hand in the carrying out of her project, Mary, not
anything of this, was yet made more happy than before by
spect of having a handsome young man for one of the audie
has been saidalready, she had the kindliest feelings to handsot
men. Then the presence of another listener would make |
quite an assembly ; almost, as she observed in gentle cost
than once to Minola, as if it were one of the poetic contes

iddle Ages, in which minstrels sang and peerless ladies aw
prize of song,
‘i So she busied herself all the morning to adorn the m

of positions before she decided on the final one,

i ‘hand of the musician was supposed to have
sly dropped it All the books in the prettiest bindings—
ns—she laid about in conspicuous places. Any articles

‘and such-like, that might upon an ordinary

‘scen on tables or chairs—were carefully stowed
‘receptacles—except, indeed, for a bright-coloured

rown gracefully across an arm of the sofa, made, in

| with the guitar, quite an artistic picture in itself Near

, too, in a moment of sudden inspitation, she arranged a

eo glove only once worn, and therefore for all pictorial
= good as new, while having still the pretty shape of the owner's
e3 dinit. What can there be, Mary Blanchet thought,
‘to look at, more suggestive of all poetic thought, than

g glove of a beautiful girl? But she took good care

ult the owner of the glove on any such point, dreading

n Minola’s ruthless scorn of all shams and pre-arranged

ry was 2 littl+ puzzled about the art-fixtures, if such an expres-

eused, of the room, the framed engravings, which belonged

mer of the house and were let with the lodgings, of which

‘understood to count among the special attractions. She

conviction that her brother would not admire them,

{think meanly of them, and say so; and although Minola herself

d then made fin of them, yet it did not by any means follow

he should'be pleased to hear them disparaged by a stranger.

the wall-paper she was also a little timorous, not feeling sure

the expression which its study might call into her brother's

c She could not, however, remove the engravings, and

ing with the paper was still more completely out of the

‘There was nothing for it, therefore, but to hope that his

fand his audience would so engross the poet, as to deprive his
"perception for cheap art and ill-disciplined colours,

‘There was to be tea, delightfully served in dainty little cups, and

‘could already form in her mind an idea of the graceful figure

ct =a make as she offered her hospitality to the poct.

however, began to possess her as the day went on about

hs of Minola not being home in time for the reception of |

the text was illustrated on the margin in a fi
Sometimes the artist, without having read tl
some fancy or whimsy of his own ; sometimes it
gram, sometimes a curious perplexed pictorial conc
the face of a pretty woman, and again, some
eccentric symbolism, about the meaning

397

st, I cannot read by daylight. My poems are not made for
hey need @ peculiar setting. May I ask that the windows be
ithe lamps lighted? I see you have lamps.”
‘inky, if you wish ;” and Minola promptly rang the bell,
nk you very much, In the second place, I would ask that
of approval or otherwise be given as I read. The whole
the impression, not any part. It must be felt as a whole, or it
felt at all. Until the last line is read no judgment can be formed.”
‘was discouraging and even depressing, but everybody
‘Minola in particular began to fear that poets were not so
objectionable than other men, as she had hoped. She
tell why, but as she listened to the child of genius, she
illed with 2 strange memory of Mr. Augustus Sheppard. Every-
g that sccmed formal and egotistic reminded her of Mr. Augustus

*" continued Herbert, “when I have finished the last line,

hot even speaking? I ask for no sudden judgment; that I
‘another time ; too soon, perhaps,” and he indulged in a faint

But I prefer to go at once, when I have read a poem; it

ci of mine,” and he passed his hand through his hair.

Weading excites me, and I am overwrought, It may not be so
‘others, but it is so with me.”

"1 can quite understand,” the good-natured Victor hastened to

& “Quite natural—quite so, I have often worked myself into
a state of excitement, thinking of things—not poetry, of course,
colonial affairs, and such dry stuff—that I have to go outat night,

thas, and walk in the cool air, and recover myself. Don't you
|s0, sometimes, Miss Grey?”

‘Oh, no; Tam neither poet nor politician, and I have nothing

about.” At the moment she thought Blanchet a sham, and

im rather 8 weak and foolish person for encouraging him. What

you have of men?

wonderfol, She felt horribly i
eyes of the poet alighted on he
then ; and poor Mary, too, she kx
It was very trying to her.
with serious and sad thoughts
from thinking of the scene in '
of the eccentric testator are trying i
the first to shed a tear for his loss,
the witnesses, and thereby earn the Ie;
perating condition was attached. A
restrain a laugh than to pump up

2 When a page was ended the poet lifted it, so to
udden effort of one hand and arm, as though it were

eyes of some one of the three listeners the while,
mmality impressed Mary Blanchet immediately. It seemed
and wrestling of poetic inspiration ; the prophetic

twice glanced at the fice of Victor Heron, At
spe and anxious attention, animated now and
flicker of surprise. Of late these feelings and moods.
nged, and after a while the settling-down condition
arrived, At length Miss Grey could see that, while Mr.
‘maintained an attitude of the most courteous attention,
decidedly with his heart, and that was far away—with
and the St, Xavier's Settlements,
At last it was over. The close, for all their previous preparation,
the small audience by surprise. It came thus —
Taskell of say soul—What is death ?
T asked of my love—What is hate?
I asked of decay—Art thou life?
‘And of night—Art thou day?
Did they answer?
Tooked up with eyes of keen and almost fierce inquiry.
c¢ quailed a little, but, not feeling the burden of response
upon them, resumed their expectant attitudes, waiting to hear
fous oracles had said to their poetic questioner, But
taken in, if one might use so homely an expression. The
lover, That was the beginning and the end of it, The
y his last page, and sank dreamy, exhausted, back into
moment of awful silence succeeded. Then he gathered

sllusion to the duty of «Joyal enie'whied
“Yes, I used to pass half my time

grown into thinking that I have a sort of

my chief hero, Mr. Heron.”
“TT wish I were like him,” said Mr. Heron.
“I wish you were," she answered gravely,
“ But I am not—unfortunately.””
nae’ Unfortunately,” she repeated, aneeetl

ay: Mr. Heron, tell me honestly and
you really a judge of poetry?"
“T adore a few old poets and one ortwo

‘My opinion, Miss Grey, isn't worth 2 rush."

to hear it—very. Neither is mine. So you see
of us quite mistaken about Mr, Blanchet’s poems."
may—I dare say we are: in fact, Iam quite sure
enthusiastic,

groming ie
it iy possible. Now, I have been thinking—"
‘been thinking?”
{know whether I am only going to prove myself a busy-
Tam so fond of Mary Blanchet.”
Quite right ; so am II mean, I like her very much. Bat
i think of doing?”
[fone could do anything to get these poems published, or
|im some way-if it could be done without Mr. Blanchet's
orifhecould be got toapprove of it, and wasnot too proud?"
it Lhave been thinking of already,” Victor said. “Ido
shame that a fellow shouldn't have a chance of Sghting
(rthe want of a few wretched pounds."
tlad fam now that I spoke of this toyou! Then if J get
Hot you'll help me in it?”
| everything—delighted.”
fst you must understand me. This is for my dear old
y Blanchet—not for Mr, Blanchet ; I don't particularly
him, in that sort of way, and I fancy that men generally
themselves ; but I can’t bear to have Mary Blanchet
and that is why [ wantto do something. Now will you
ean, will you help me in my way?"
any way you like, so long as T am allowed to help
quite understand what you mean.”
DD

Mr. Heron, Pr
there shall be no plot. No :

“Yes, certainly; T quite understand
liked ——"

limit me to that. May I ask, Miss Grey, how old
“What on earth has that to do with the matte:

“No, it’s not for that.
and yet you order people and things as if you wer

Minola smiled and coloured a little. “ Thave
lonely sort of life,” she said, ‘and never learned:
that is the reason. If I don't please you, Mr.
shan't try.”

‘There was something at once constrained and
ner, such as Heron had not observed before |
somehow as she spoke these unpropitiatory words.

“Oh, you do please me,"he said ; “tiheete people's
me, Remember that I, too, admire the

“Yes, very well ; am tht you ape toy em —at

are fellow-conspirators ?*

“Stop | here comes Mary.”

Mary Blanchet came back. Her face hada curr
expression. She herself had been filled with wonder de
the reading of her brother's poems ; but she had aan Lin
enough to be as sensitive to her moods and half-imy h
as the dog who catches from one glance at his
knowledge of whether the master is or is not in a!
play, Mary had done her very best to xeassure |
she had not herself felt quite satished shout Ming

Miss Misanthrope. 403

2" Mary said, looking beseechingly at Minola, and then
stor, a5 if to ask whether he would not come to the
“WellP™

“We kave been talking,” Minola said, with a resolute effort, “we
ie been talking—Mr. Heron and I—about your brother's poems,
a jaad: we ‘think: that the public ought to have a chance of

p Oty shank you" Mary exclaimed, and she clasped her hands

Yes, Mr, Heron says he is clear about that.”
was sure Mr. Heron would be,” said Mary, with becoming
ig her brother, She was not eager to ask any more questions,
she felt convinced that when Minola Grey said the poems ought

before the public, they would somehow go ; and she saw fame
brother in the near distance. She thought she saw something
too, as well as fame. The interest which Minola took in
yert’s pocms must surely betoken some interest in Herbert him-

She knew well enough, too, that there is nothing which so
es some women to Inve men as the knowledge that they are
ig and helping the men, This subject of love the little poetess
‘and quaintly studied. She had followed it through no end
and romances, and Iain awake through long hours of many
it. She had subjected it to severe analysis, bring-

the aid of the analysing process that gift of imagination which
rarely permitted to the hard scientific enquirer to employ to any
She had pictured herself as the object of all manner of

gs, under every conceivable variety of circumstances, Love by
= love by the slow degrees of steady growth ; love pressed
gn ber by ardent youth ; gravely tendered by a dignified maturity
fich, until her coming, had never known such passion ; love bending
to her from a castle, looking up to her from the cottage of the
nt glove in every form had tried her in fancy, and she had
and vexed herself in conjuring up its various effects upon her
». But the general result of the poctess’s selfexamination
inion that the Jove which would most keenly touch her heart
De that which was born of passion and compassion united.
that is to say, whom she had helped, and patronised, and saved,
# be the man she best could love. Perhaps Mary Blanchet’s
Thad comething to do with this turn of feeling. The unused
ons of the maternal went, in her breast, to blend with and mike
‘equally unsatisfied sentiments of love : and her vague idea ofa
that of somebody who should be husband and child in onc.

pp2

usiaTenet was ty uHUeTEKE, UF a
sent of her brother, whose proud spirit

to do something for Art.”
“Will she be rich?” Mary asked eagerly,

She ought to be a princess ; she should be, if I:
“Yes, she'll be rich—what you and I would
carelessly. Eyerything is to be hers, when the :
and I believe she is in a galloping consumption.”

“ How do you know, Herbert ?”
ry ‘You asked me to soqui you know,” he

Wena ae

Miss Misanthrope.

Cuaerer XID,
“LOVE, THR MESSENGER OF DEATH,”
‘Vicor Heron seemed to Minola about this time in a fair way
his great grievance go by altogether. He was filled with
‘when he had time to think about it, but the grievances
nf dy else were always coming across his path, and drawing
n eceetce! from his own affairs. Minola very soon noticed
ay in him, and at first could hardly believe in its
Spiess cases wi all her accepted theories about
ed selfichness of man. But by watching and studying his
which she did with some interest, she found that he really had
gal weakness, and she was partly amused and partly
[by it She felt angry with him now and then for neglecting
| task, like another Hylas, to pick up every little blossom
H grievance flung in his way. She pressed on him with an
ness which their growing friendship scemed to warrant the
of his doing something to set his cause right or ceasing to
sself thar he had a cause which called for justice.
‘would not be casy to find a more singular friendship than that
ch was growing up between Miss Grey and Victor. She received
lever he chose to come and see her. Many a night when
Blanchet and she sat together he would look in upon them as
Went to some dinner-party, or even as he came home from one, if
got away early, and have a few minutes’ talk with them. He
often in the afternoon, and if Minola did not happen to be at
&, ie would nevertheless remain and have a long chat with
Blanchet. He seemed always in good humour'with himself
everybody clse, except in so far as his grievance was cons
d, and always perfectly happy. Tt has been already shown
although quite a young man, he considered himself, by virtue of
eperience and his public career, ever so much older than
al Once or twice he sent a throb of keen delight through
Bianchet’s heart by speaking of something that “I can re-
e, Miss Blanchet, and perhaps you may remember it—but
Grey couldn't, of course.” To be put on anything like equal
with him as to years was a delightful experience to the
Tt was all the more delicious because there was such an
dent genuineness in his suggestion. Of course, if he had meant
® pay hier a compliment—such as « foolish person might be pleased
but not she, thank goodncss—he would have pretended \9

great deal of truth in what he had said to

theory as regarded women. He made no
ing her—thinking her very clever an

‘He would without any hesitation have told her
of all the women he knew, but then he had oft
Jiked:other women very much. He seemed
a pure and fearless woman, even though Ii
dition of semi-isolation, might frankly accept
8) ightest fear for the tranquillity of his heart or o
had always in her own breast resented with
idea that « man and woman can never be’ h
to walk in the besten way of friendship without theicf
dering off into the thickets and thomy places of |
ideas she looked upon as imbecility, and scorned.
men,” she used to say to herself and even to others pretty free
never saw a man fit to hold a coniile to iy Aloeaaay
the man who seemed to me worth a woman's b
about.” She began to say this of late more than ©
to hersclf, especially when the day and the ever h
she was alone in her own room. She said it over alm
a sort of charm.

‘The business of the poems now gave him many ©
and one particular afternoon Victor called when, by
Mary Blanchet happened to be aut of doors, Minola ba
her mind that he was not pushing his cause very eam
glad of the opportunity of telling him so. He list
good humour. It is neatly as agreeii\e to be

-aifairs seem more to you than your own.”
‘shook his head,
the reason,” he said. I wish it were, or anything
d. No; the truth is, that 1 get ashamed of the cursed
to interest people in my affairs who don't want to take
a in them, I am a restless sort of person and must be
bg something, and my own business is now in that awful stage
ene is nothing practical or active to be done with it. T find it
to get up as appearance of prodigious activity about some
on’ affairs. And then, Miss Grey, I don’t mind confessing
am rather sensitive and morbid—egotistic, I suppose—and if
Tooks coldly on me when I endeavour to interest hiay in my
irs, I take it to heart more than if it were the business of
else I had in hand.”
you talked at one time of appealing to the public. Why
Go that?”
et people to bring my case on in the House of Commons?”
=; why not?"
looks like being patronised and protected and made a client

He smiled.
#1 still do hold to that idea—or that dream. I should like it
much, fone only had achance. But no chance seems te tam
and one loses heart sometimes.”
oj” Minola said earnestly, ‘don't do that.”
“Don't do what?"

He bad hardly been thinking of his own words, and he seemed a

at the eamestness of her tone.

“Dott lose heart. Don't give way. Don’t fall into the track of
place and become like every one else. Keep to your
Mr, Heron, and don't be beaten out of it.”
No; 1 haven't the least idea of that, I can assure you: quite
. But it isso hard to get a chance, or to do anything,
Bverything moves so slowly in England, But I have a
doing something,”

the position of adviser and confidante to
becoming performance on her part. Hermin¢

and she was not a very good listener then,

women seldom are good listeners ; that wh

part of audience they are still thinking how

Anyhow, Minola was now growing anxious to ese:
“Tam so glad," she said vaguely, “that you at

and that you don't mean to allow yourself to be
“T don't mean to be, I assure you," he

her sudden coolness, “I shouldn't like to be.

T hope” -

“T hope not too, and I think not; T wish I had suc

Life seems to me such a pitiful thing—and in a |
when there is no great clear purpose in it.”

Miss Misanthrope. 409
ey has—well, he has his business, whatever it

‘the servant entered and handed a ecard to Minola.
he said, particularly wished to see Miss Grey, but he

ny time she pleased to name if she could not see him at
Minols’s check grew red as she glanced at the card, for it bore

bled. Nothing could be more embarrassing and painful than
visitation. The disagreeable memory of Mr. Sheppard and
ut of her life to which he belonged had been banished from
@ thoughts, at Ieast except for occasional retuming glimpses, and
low here was Mr. Sheppard himself in London and asserting a
see her. She could not refuse him, for he did, perhaps, come
‘with some message from those in Keeton who still would have
ed themselves her family. Mary Blanchet had only just gone
, and Minola was left to talk with Mr, Sheppard alone, For a
she had a wild idea of begging Victor Heron to stay and
‘company during the interview, But she put this thought
J tantly, and made up her mind that she had better hear what
Sheppant had to say alone.
*Show the gentleman in, Jane,” she said, as composedly as she
ii. * A fricnd—at least, a friend of my people, from my old place,
Heron.”
“Heron was looking at her, she thought, in a manner that showed
Wehad noticed her embarrassment.
# Well, I must wish you a good morning,” Mr. Heron said; * be
lite T shan’t forget what you were saying.”
| “Thank you—yes ; what was I saying?”
“Oh, the very good advice you were giving me ; and I propose
Whear it all out another time. Good morming.”
* Don't go for a moment, pray don't,” she asked, with an earnest-
hess which surprised Victor. “ Only a moment—I would rather you
go jutst yet."
‘The thought suddenly went through her that Mr. Sheppard was
the tery man to put an exaggerated meaning on the slightest thing
that seemed to hint at sccresy of any kind, and that she had better
Ske care to Jet him gee, face to face, what sort of visitor was with
|Bewhen he came, Victor was glad in any case of the chance of
fing a few moments longer, and was in no particular hurry to
980 long as he could think he was not in anybody's way.
Vittor Heron stood, hat in hand, on the hearth-wg near the

ie

what you would call a play.”
words she used, and the expression of
uscd them. And he had got the b
tolled through it, and found that there
she had told the truth, no doubt; bur might
a living embodiment, or might she not have
supposed realisation of her Alceste, and might
handsome, foreign-looking young man, who was lou
coolly and easily as if the ace t belonged to tar For,
an awful doubt filled his mind, Could she be married?
husband ? A
“ Miss Grey ?” he said in hesitating and ee is
of one who is not quite clear about the identity of the p
addressing ; but Mr. Sheppard was only giving form 1
to the doubt in his own d,
‘The words and their tone were rather fortunate for
amused her and seemed ridiculous, although she did not,
Sheppard’s real meaning, and they enabled her to get back
her easy contempt for him.
“You must have forgotten my appearance very. 2000, | wi
Sheppard,” she said, in a tone which carried the
ightly and easily that he probably did not perceive it, “or Tal
have changed very much, if you are not quite certain whether |
Miss Grey. You have not changed at all; I should haye know! =
anywhere.”
“Tt is not that,” Mr. Sheppard said with a little renewal of ee
fulness. “I should haye known you anywhere, Miss Grey, Wa!
have not changed, except indeed that you haye, if that were porill™
improved. Indeed, I would venture to say that you have deci
improved.”
“Thank you ; you are very kind”

>

Miss Misanthrope. 4it

tg et aarlaeg til ating
mc. Fortune, perhaps, has withdrawn some of
others only to pour them more lavishly on you.””
ee icc ane ee
‘Peter to pay Paul in my case. You, at least, don't seem
cheated ont of any of your good health, Mr, Sheppard,”
‘he made his little formal speeches Mr. Sheppard continued
sidelong at Victor Heron. Mr. Heron now left his place at
jiece and came forward to take his leave,

st you go?” Minola asked, with a5 easy a manner as she
‘assume, She dreaded a téte.d-téte with Sheppard, and she also
fed to let it be seen that she dreaded it. If Mary Blanchet
donly come!

| aaa to her for putting off the dreaded conver-

yet 2 moment, and giving Mary Blanchet another chance.

should like my friends to know each other," Minola said, with
#@y of manner which was hardly in keeping with hernatural ways.
ople are not introduced to each other now, I believe, when they

\by chance in London, but we are none of us Londoners. Mz
pard comes from Keeton, Mr. Heron, and is one of the oldest
4s of my family.”
fr. Heron held out his hand with eyes of beaming friendliness.
Mr, Heron?” Sheppard asked slowly, “ Mr. Victor Heron?”

Victor Heron, indced |”

Mr. Victor Heron, formerly of the St. Xavicr's Settlements ?”
feron only nodded this time, finding Mr. Sheppard’s manner not
able. Minola wondered what her townsman was thinking of,
bow he came to know Heron’s name and history.

‘Then my name must surely be known to you, Mr. Heron. The
tof Augustus Sheppard, of Duke’s-Keeton ?”

No, sir,” Heron replied, “I am sorry to say that I don't remem-
Obave heard the name before.”

Indeed |" Mr, Sheppard said with a formal smile, intended to be
dulous and yet not to scem too plainly so; “yet we are rivals,
Heron.”

Mola started and coloured.

At least, we are to be,” Mr. Sheppard went on—* if rumour in
@=Keceton speaks the truth. Iam not wrong in assuming that
fe the honour of addressing the future Radical—I mean Liberal
fdidate for that borough 2”

‘Oh, that’s it!” Heron said carelessly, “yes, yes: Tdidn’t know
Rimour bad yct troubled herself about the matter so muchas \9

any interest in him, Hedid not compat ousl)
Heron. When Heron left the roux hp Rist aoe 0 he
‘out ; Heron was so fresh, so free, so sweet, and yet $0 st
youth and spirit, and manhood, a natural

insipidity of the manners of society. Poor Au
formal, constrained, and prosaic; he had not
austerity. He was not self-sufficing : he was only ‘elf
As he stood there he was awkward, and almost cowed. 1
as if he were afraid of the girl, and Minola was woman:
angry with him because he seemed afraid of her. He

but in that commonplace sort of way which in a

often worse than being ugly. Minola felt almost pitiless
although the girl’s whole nature was usually full of pity, fo
already been said, she did not believe in his affection, and
him a thorough sham. He stood awkwardly there, and she
relieve him from his embarrassment by saying a word.
“Well, Miss Grey,” he began at last, “I suppose

jit me to say it, that you were always
; of Mrs, Saulsbury. She is a true
woman,”

twas not what I came to say.”

bowed slightly to signify that she was glad to know he
to the point at last.

_ “Mrz Saulsbury is in very weak health, Miss Grey; something

m he lungs, I fear."

‘was not much impressed at first. It was one of Mrs.

‘ways to cry “wolf!” very often as regarded the condition
‘and up to the time of Minola's Icaving, people had not

1 in Serious expectation of the wolf's really putting his head in at

_ Mr. Sheppard saw in Minola’s face what she did not say.
* It is something really serious," he said.“ Mr. Saulsbury knows
+ and ‘one. You have not been in correspondence with them
fr some time, Miss Grey.”
a said Miss Grey—“T wrote, and nobody answered my

“Tam afraid it was regarded as—as—”

Undutiful perhaps?”

-*“Well,—unfriendly. But Mrs. Saulsbury now fears—or rather
Exons, for she is too good a woman to fear—that the end is nigh,
‘®28d the wishes to be in fullest reconciliation with every one.”

“Oh, has she sent for me?” Minola said, with something like a
~ all her coldness and formality vanishing with her contempt.
** Eli go, Mr. Sheppard, oh yes, at once! I did not know—I never
that she was really in any danger."
~ Poor Minola! with alll her wild-bird freedom and her pride in her
and her love of London, there yet remained in. 4

authority, that she would have done homage at
with something like enthusiasm, to even such |
genius of home as she had lately known. So
through her mind that very day as she talked with Her
she had talked too freely ; something that tad made!

vague pain of yearning on the sweetness of a sheltered 1

heart beat as she thought, na lle ee

try to love her.”

Mr. Sheppard dispelled her enthusiasm. “Mra say
fot exactly express a wish to see you.”

on!"

“Tn fact, when that was suggested to her—T am sure I necd hulp
say that Tat once suggested it—she thought, and perhaps wisely tha
it would be better you should not meet.”

Minola drew back, and stood as Mr. Heron had been standiliy
near the chimney-piece. She did not speak.

But Mrs. Saulsbury begged me to convey to you the assume
of her entire and cordial forgiveness.”

Minola bowed gravely.

“And her hope that you will be happy in life and be giidel
towards true ends, and find that peace which it has been lier pelle
to find.”

Minola bore all this without a word.

“What shall I say to her from you?” he asked. “Missy
remember that she is dying.”

‘The caution was not needed,

“ Say that T thank her,” said Minola, in alow subdued tone. “Sif
that, after what flourish your nature will, Mr. Sheppard. Tsuppese!
was wrong as mich as she ; I suppose it was often my fault tate
did not get on better. Say that I am deeply grieved to hear ti
she is so dangerously ill, but that T hope—oh, so sincerely itt
she may yet recover.”

Mr, Sheppard Jooked into her eyes with puzzled wonder, Wit
she speaking in affected meckness ; or in irony, as was her
Was the proud, rebellious girl really so gentle and subdued? (ill
it be that she took thus humbly Mrs, Saulsbury’s pardon? Ye ™
seemed all genuine. There was no constraint on the lines of herlifs
there was no scorn in her eyes. In truth, the sympathetic
generous heart of the girl was touched to the quick. ‘The prospedt@
death sanctified the woman who had been so hard to her, and

her cold self-complacent pardon into a blessing. If the dying #*

—_

41S
nd self.complacent of all human ezea-
‘of their very condition a fresh title to lord
living—as if none had ever died before,
after them, and therefore the world must pay
homage to them—if this is so, Minola did not
Wout di!

| speak,” he said; and his thin lips grew a little tremu-
- “Bur T could come another time, if you preferred.
T would rather you said now, Mr, Sheppard, whatever you wish
o me.”

‘only the old story. Have you reconsidered your deter-
ou remember that last day—in Keeton? 1 am still the

But things have changed—many things ; and you may want a
hime; and you may grow tired of this kind of life—and [ shan't be
Pésson to be ashamed of, Minola! I am going to be in Parliament,
you shall hear me speak—and I know I shall geton. I have
[eat patience. I succeed in everything—I really do."
She smiled sadly and shook her head.

“Tn everything elsc, 1 do assure you, so far—and T may even in
lat; I must, for I have set my heart upon it.”

She turned to him with a glance of scorn and anger. But his
Ge was so fill of genuine emotion, of anxicty and passion and pai
{tits handsome commonplace character became almost poctic,
fis lips were quivering; and she could see drops of moisture
Uhis shining forehead, and his cyes were positively glittering, as if
‘tears.

“Don't speak harshly to mie,” he pleaded, “for I don’t deserve it,
Yove you with all: my heart, and to-day more than ever—a thou-
(nd times more—for you have shown yourself so generous and

in like a Christian.”

‘Then for the first time the thought came, a conviction, into her
find" He really is sincere!" A great wave of new compassion
Wept away all other emotions.
| "Mie Sheppard,” she said in softened tones, “I do ask of you
Sotto say any more of this. I couldn't love you, even if I tried,
fn@'why should you wish me to try? I am not worth all thie—T

=

TU Gt ULHESE HHL HH Wye HHL ALY UHE yOu picase wo
or out of a book, Mr. Sheppard, so long as it gives you a rea
not persecuting me with your own attentions. I likeam
book better than one out of it ; it is so easy to close the bo
be free of his company when he grows disagreeable.”

She did not look particularly like a Christian then, prob
his eyes. He left her, his heart bursting with love and
When Mary Blanchet returned, she found Minola pale and b
her eyes wasted with tears.

(Zo be continued.)

THE MATTERHORN WITHOUT
GUIDES.

ITEVER other mountains become vulgarised, the Matter-
horn will always inspire respect, even should a railway be
fo its foot, and an ant-hill of tourists cluster round it. Its
position, its unrivalled form, its tragic history, combine to
it with a halo that the meanest surroundings could not dim,
its. defiant inaccessibility is a thing of the past, and people
flock to the ascent, something of the awe which fell on men’s
when eleven years ago they shuddered at a sad catastrophe,
‘dings to their conception of the Matterhorn.
Tt was not, however, only on the mountain that a gloom was
by an event whose exceptional circumstances have been too
Wen overlooked ; mountaineering itself shared an adverse prejudice.
[bepublicis only now beginning to be aware that a manly and harmless
bm of recreation does not necessarily involve unjustifiable risk, and
Dregard with as much complacency Alpine excursions as pursuits
ke hunting or yachting. It cannot be too often repeated that the
Seidents which have occurred have been in almost every case due
¥ the neglect or ignorance of precautions which it is the special
(vince of mountaineering to teach. It is as unfair to tax the latter
ith the consequences of the vagaries of inexperienced tourists, as to
(ok on yachting with suspicion because every ‘year we hear of inex-
trienced persons losing their lives on the sea in pursuit of pleasure,
{elderly gentlemen with umbrellas will gamble for their lives on
secure places like glaciers, it is not mountaineering that is
fault,

But you and your friencls, it will be urged, in going without guides,
fre Iand-lubbers on the deep sea without « pilot, infants straying
fay ftom their nurse on a cliff-edge! Now, it is certainly no part of
¥ present purpose to advocate mountaineering without guides, but
me kind of an afologia in our case is on public grounds necessary.
| @ matter of this kind the fullest publicity is the tracst public
fice. Granted that we were justified in making the expedition at
Wor. cox. Ko. 1756. EK

a guide" up the gentle slopes of prety
morning start has since palled upon me, but:
splendour of that morning, the beauty:

lies in the need of self-reliance, in the trust

alenmntion af hana and Fane

ties exceed our powers or involve risk—a con-
Tor one had contemplated as nota all improbable.

‘moral coumge to give the thing up if dangerous,
}it on a former occasion.

We dared do all that may become a man 5
"Who dares do more, is none,

ctice, however, in going without guides, gradually ex-
V humble begirmings, that alone led us to the venture,
could have given us the individual and mutual con-
en¢d us to grapple with such a mountain, Habit

‘In difficulties, for instance, an immense deal—perhaps
18 was proved in the case of the fatal accident, when,
it may appear, no check was given by the rope till a fall of
hhad taken place—depends on the right use of the
@ reason to suspect that good habits on this

d except under the compulsion of responsibility,
‘carelessness in this respect is the natural result of
ceon guides, In such matters, again, as descending

sisting of my friends and myself, together
who were to return the same night, :
Matterhorn. My friends on the previous d
finding the hut—one of the most difficult

we had felt at liberty to engage porters, wl
cuse us of using as guides. It was with spirits
discouragements, and the dubious or rash char:
enterprise, that we turned our backs on the’

Many a visitor to Zermatt, who has toiled up the

leads to the Hérnli, will have sympathetic

kes. This, with other pickings and some wood
ound in the hut, formed a supplement without which we
dl miised a fire at all. A rugged and dreary ridge of
nuns for 2 mile and a half from the Hérnli, which is its
“point, to the base of the mountain. After traversing the
part of this, we turned down to the left, and skirted the upper
the Furgen glacier, which, like a huge wave broken into con-
eam that has exhausted its momentum against a sca-wall and
ng to its fall, splashes up against the rocks of the eastern
_ Here Mr. Colgrove, who was keeping in front to show the
that we knew the way, must have rather surprised these
_ Espying, from the far side of a slope of ice or frozen snow,
the head of the rest of the party with great deliberation
steps which he (Mr. Colgrove) had already made, he
“Oh! are they not big enough?” and, striding back,
to enlarge them himself under the guide’s very nose. It
struck Sarbach now that we meant business !
tiff but short scramble, commencing with the not easy passage
indistinct and narrow ledges at the side of one of the snow
Tanning down to the glacier from the rocks, brought us out on
mountain side, and we could feel that we were now indeed on the
As from the Zermatt valley, the eastern face of
Bilaiterhorn Presents an imposing and formidable aspect. The
on vanishes when foot is set on the magic ground. No towering
no ice-bound slippery planes on which the very sunbeams can
Bain footing! A vast expanse of rocky wilderness seems to
es out in front of the traveller, gradually rising from the level of
A homely comparison may best serve to suggest to the
the appearance of this formless chaos of rock. Picture
then, on the border of a ploughed field, magnified a thousand
sed into stone, and tilted up at a steeper and
‘angle till its giant furrows lose themselves in black, inaccessible
The frozen ridges, of which the si composed, scem at first
to adinit of wandering at will up or across them, yet a way must
with discrimination if rough scrambling is to be avoided,
ithe hut is to be reached. Ic is, indeed, by no means easy for a
ignorant of the mountain to unravel the intricacies of this
fock-field. Set a strange mouse in a comer of a ploughed field,
Lit will not easily find a hole of which it only knows the general
| The rocks themselves are friable and decayed, but in
Places 50 casy as to admit of actual walking; a track even
formed at one part in the crumbling débris, Que course \oy

not think the still night, as it crept slo

is for the rash, and insccurity for the untried.
what we could, not more; and this desolat
‘savage grandeur outside could awake no
sciousness that in this wild home of Nature's,
had but ourselves to rely on. Surely never

Eon tha lel by the Welsshorn, cn the right by tha
\, vaguely bathed in the golden rays, were the peaks
f the Oberland. On our right the view was cut short
‘of our mountain, but part of the Italian ranges appeared
n a dim cnvelopmeat of cold grey, In front rose the
of the Monte Rosa chain, resplendent in full sun,
intensified in colour as the sunbeams crept nearer their
_ Gur one tiny window looked out in this direction, so that
cing cold which forbad lingering outside the hut could not
‘rob us of the departing glories of the sunset. ‘The slow
“were passing with the stately deliberation of a gorgeous
Tatensely as the higher peaks were glowing in the rich
radiance itself, their brilliance was made yet more vivid by
with a deep indigo band that, with sharply defined and level
yas Hifting itself heavily from the horizon. Italy had it Jong
holding in thrall; it was now grasping at the sky, and beating
ore it, as with sweep of fate, a warm purple zone, that again in
was melting into the sunlit atmosphere above.
it the most esthetic soul cannot altogether ignore the existence
dfect. I had been sketching outside in the biting wind, and
t confess that I felt nothing more strongly after taking refuge
‘than that in so doing I had hopelessly chilled my feet, and
them on ice as I sat was not producing the remedy that
have been expected on homoopathic principles. With a floor
og of at least four inches of solid ice, with a temperature fast
ts Toad to zero, with wood scemingly resolved not to burn in spite
‘determined skill brought to hear on it, the mind had a natural
cy to concern itself with the immediate situation, Fortunately,
both plenty and variety of wood, and the tantalising delay only
the more cheering at length the pleasant music of cracking
and of snow hissing and sputtering itself to death in the pan,
on the Matterhorn is notorious for discomfort, but consider-
position and the difficulties that must have impeded its con-
mr the persons using it may well congratulate themselves that
Wik what it is, A shelter from rock and rain, an iron stove, a
it supply of pots, pans, and blankets, ought surely to
luxurious night-quarters to a. hardy man when the nearest
is 7,000 fect below. We were indeed fortunate beyond

424
hope in Having: She sacants 0h Ee

commonly accessible, and this was so scanty as to leave
guidance of our own observation when we came to the
Nor does a rock-climb admit of track-formi

patches of snow. Had one of us made the ascent of 1
before, it would have altered the whole character of the

and romance. Our exploit can be rarely repeated, for tht
few parties of competent mountaineers could be collected
sonally ignorant of the ascent.

Mr. Colgrove developed cooking powers which did him
credit. ‘The fire was tenderly coaxed, and a peculiar relish g
the coffee and mulled wine that put it out of the power of |
touch us, But his zest in superintending the kitchen had its
for he was the warmest man of the party. The stove, indeed,
a pipe judiciously running the length of the cabin, caused a
tible increase in the temperature—an increase exactly
measured by the steady stream of water that began to set
door from the neighbourhood of the fire. At the same time, 2
Permanent improvement was hopeless, for oné side of the hut)
bare rock that but ill fitted the roof which abutted against it &
came the question of bed. At the far end of the cabin ky
resting on boards, which again were in immediate contact with
inhospitable floor. Needless to observe, both were as moist
they had been fished up from the Vanguard. On a pole, bo
was suspended a plentiful store of dry blankets, thick as rags.
following arrangement of our bed was the most satisfactory that cod
be devised. First, a healthy and bracing layer of ice; second, WE
but soft hay ; third, wet and hard boards, to which it was devouily
be wished that the under layer might impart the effect of 2 stmt |
mattress ; last, the blankets—six below to form a general yea i
above to every man one to roll himself up in at pleasure. U
nately, either we did not lie in the right direction, or our lege)
longer than had been contemplated by the framers of the 7
To provide for the inconvenience, we supplemented the bed
the available materials of the establishment, including our jeeately

without Guides. 425

On that night no one of us slept,—why, I find it
| my own case, for I was warm enough most of the
‘were quiet as dormice, and each possibly gave the

der the excess of cold that began to make itself felt towards
through ice, straw, blankets, and everything else, when an
, after some more than usually impatient rolls, tossed himself
bed, and found, to his disappointment, that it was an hour
‘that time!
Our stock of provisions, as I said before, was ample ; a leg of
stands fire from a battery, whether masked or unmasked, of
Mngriest men fora surprising length of time ; while the eleven
of wine that, according to the most trustworthy computation,
‘Zermatt in our company, made free drinking a plain matter of
f} The pointed teachings of experience had established the
(al principle that each man should go forth fully equipped, and,
f the fasition of the old legions, containing in himself all the diverse
(stirles of war. No one of us expected aid from the commis
of another, and each, if cut off from his fellows, could maintain
Sf in fice of the enemy till assistance should arrive. Accord-
ftach of us pocketed what he thought advisable, and the
tinder wasleft in the hut. Our start was effected at about a quarter
jus, a later hour than we had intended. The delay was to be
ttted, as it had been daylight for some time. We roped before
ing the hut, and henceforward all was new. We stepped straight
bthe snow slope above mentioned in describing the position of
fet, and then proceeded to tackle the rocks. The climb was
(erthroughout than it had been below the hut. We had to pick
Way amid gullies and ridges, without much to guide us save the
‘al direction. Occasionally bands of ice imbedded in the rocks
fobecrossed. Mr, Colgrove, leading, cut what steps were neces-
‘wielding a gigantic battle-axe, which was a very Turk in the
(lality with which it spared neither ice nor stone. Both alike
but of the road under its strokes, its owner's theory being that
E they fell something must go; while the astonished ice, shivering,
bed to form itself into commodious staircases. It seems from
feeount of the guides, who were watching our course with

=

so conspicuous an object in the Zermatt
right edge did not from here seem
hanging, to stimulate our curiosity, a faded
that the ascent was now made by those very
to us, I referred this rope to some perhaps:
attempt. From their base stretched immed
paratively level portion of the arte known
con: ituting a well-marked, feature of the:

ooked down it, T thought that the descent
po fee mt scident mu ave been one Jong slide for
4 than a scries of falls down precipices,
tunites with the rocks in whieh the shoulder
forbidding aspect, and offers a possible passage
twas eae which Mr. Whymper’s party,
c impracticable, adopted,
Dect anise ooaabere the rocks, A hundred
y to our right was hanging a rope whitened with
four pieces, as we afterwards leamt, attached to
to facilitate his perilous descent after the
There eleven rough winters had left it to tell its sad tale,
¢ mak: or it across the slope, to which access was now open
let that other bleached rope that was hanging over the
Ushowe beckon 2», on: the upper rocks? The latter
ij We found connected with it the base of
Se eiert wii pinbe-pea,scncved: Tt was now
belief that the route still pursued crossed obliquely
¢, though avoiding the exact site of the
d rested altogether on a mistake. ‘The written accounts
confusing; but on 4 clear day no one can possibly
Foutes which are incompatible with each other. The
io at up the rocks, skirting their eastern edge. ‘The
) now became of a ‘much more difficult character, the rocks
= ly steep. As to our chance of getting up without
‘Teannot speak with certainty, not having made the trial ;
¢ chains stop to select a way.
: Bawa the mountain was clearly ours. I had been
5 that work of considerable difficulty would
7 af ‘the chains whereas, in fact, little more was left to be
- aa Seances Aecreading j

due cast and west. Sceing that a point fart

slightly higher, and had a pole stuck in the snow,
journed to this, and made ourselves as comfortable as a
seat, a few scanty rocks below, and a freezing wind
We had not, however, arrived at the other extremity of

‘even in the centre of it; for beyond us there extended a long
sion of a more irregular character than what we had pass
ceeded by another slight eminence, perhaps exactly equal in }
our own, To traverse the intervening portion of the ridge w
have been easy, and the attempt was not worth our while

If you could get a wave, when in the act of curling over)
breaks, to stand still and be photographed; or, better stil
could suddenly freeze it, you would have no bad notion of
the Matterhorn. It isa thin snaw ridge, in which but few 10
up, sloping steeply up from the north, and hanging itself in
over the southern cliffs. 1 should call ita provoking sums
neither was any one point high enough to enable one to su
whole view, except the distant parts, satisfactorily at once,
there facility for locomotion, it not being safe to wander at
roped. Lying at full length, while my friends held the rope,!
cover the Ttalian side. Never had I seen so stupendous a pt
It scemed to fall for, say, 2,000 fect in a plumb-line from the
the savage buttresses began to spfead themselves out to th
roots in the dim head of the Val Tournanche below.

AA detailed description of the view is not necessary, Ity
might have been expected from the height and isolated po
the mountain, The main Alps, from Monte Rom to Mon
were quite clear, but a sea of clouds, as is often the ease, re
the Italian mountains, The interest of such a view must bes
other than artistic considerations. It is not from the very bi

mits that the most satisfactory pancrawic views are to bed

‘The alternations of mist and sunshine, the flecting

the Sreeaieecsi that delight while they tantalise, the

ey of the mighty peaks that draw themselves up to battle

h ds and show that they are indeed giants, the depth of
ows, the wonder of the sunlit tracts, the sense of height con-
‘by the sight of cloudland thousands of feet below—all these
oys to give, unknown to the commonplace uniformity of a

ie remained more than an hour on the summit—from 9.35 to
ed to a wind which was fortunately less strong than keen.
tisfying myself that I’ was not sitting over vacancy, I tooka
sketch ; and one of my friends attached a piece of wood, on
he had imprinted our names, as a cross-bar to the pole. Cold
into marching order, Mr. Colgrove occupying the post of
in the rear. No uncomfortable thoughts as to the descent

p d themselves, as is sometimes the case. My remark on
“Well, we have got to the top, and we know that we can get
safely,” was justified by our descent, for it involved no serious
culty, ‘The ice-slope required care, but gave little trouble, none
been so unwise in ascending as to leave his ice-axe
‘We used all ctution. To allow individual freedom of move-
n the chains the two ropes that we carried were tied together,
dred fect of rope so produced gave occasion to the guides
through their telescopes, under the impression that we were
‘the result to ourselves was that each had in places his

rocks, and the débris that we dislodged went crashing |

is more aggravating than a long descent over rotten rocks: Pe
you have discovered one spot where you may plant’:
security, when, alas! a second glance shows you that
mitrailleuse invented by our ingenious meighbours across the C
more sure’ to riddle its mark, thon that identical spot
its weapons on your friend's head at the touch of your fo
not describe our progress: haw we welcomed. each cairn’
morning, and thought only too long cach cairnless intervals bow
we scrambled on somehow, keeping our main diréction in
perverse guilies or ridges ; how the tail became the head, and
head the tail, till the new tail found: it inconvenient, and:
order was restored; how the middle grumbled at being: pal
simultaneously from above and below; how, at Iaety
hot, and the first stage of the wearisome scramble down the face ==
over. x - ill
Our feat was now accomplished, though not our work. But®
was uneventful toil that lay before us, and we tegarded it wih ie
calm satisfaction of those who know their victory is won, ‘We migtt
be benighted before reaching Zermatt, but what of that? Aa
patient growls, a few harmless stumbles, and (we should get toile
hotel some iat some time” is a great consolation whenall
other uncertainty is ended. It was 3.30 when we reached the buy
and we left it after about three-quarters of an hour's stay, everythisg
having been cleared up and put to rights inside. Onee

closed round us as we made our way down the rocks, and along Ue

snow-ficld below. Our English twilight is unknown

Our ropes were tied up, our brandy was drunk,
peompact made for fear of separation that we would enter
it together. ‘Through the woods as best we might we de-
dark, knocking against imperceptible obstacles with
And yet under this greatest of all tests, and after all
ay, we were not footsore, thanks to the sturdy North-
who had taken « pride in putting good work into our
amall town of Flectwood, if it produces nothing else,
Mr. Proctor, and he (and of how many London boot-
n it be said?) knows how to make boots proof alike against
snow, and that remain comfortable from beginning to end
days!
At 9.30 pam. three figures were seen stalking up through the
biito the hotel door. Were they the same that had set out the
‘moming with somewhat of the downcast look of men who
‘before them 2 doubtful enterprise? Yes, and they now face the
teady to challenge criticism, and their air is one of triumph,
guides and porters congregate round them, the visitors offer
fdly congratulations, so also do Monsicur and Madame Sciler,
thuve been prepared to wait till eleven. Every servant on the
has his kindly word of greeting. The “ Doctor," a veteran
lntaineer from Vienna, who argued usdown by the hour two nights
(fe, now recants with fervour, and comes to look on at the dinner
ft and the champagne drunk. Dinner and champagne! What
{ns of bliss to flit across the brain when legs are weary and eyes
onger of use! ‘The worthy Doctor has been watching us with
fest through the powerful telescope of the Riffel Hotel, but,
(has omitted to procure the brass band and cannon he promised
fl signal our success! ‘Telescopes appear to have been in
(sition at Zermatt that day ; ovr most praiseworthy of landlords
\me he had organised a band of watchers, with orders never to
Sight of us. They saw us down to the hut, and then M. Seiler
Satisfied. As to the ladies—looks spoke volumes, and it was
ips owing only to the late hour of our arrival, and the slight
(of our acquaintance, that we fell short of the felicity of the

432 The Gentleman's Magazine.

iimitable Jules Verne, to whose party, after their “ perilous
nations” on Mont Blanc, it was said by fair lips “in earnest
“How much you are envied here by everybody! Let me
your alpenstocks!? These words” (adds the narrator) “seer
interpret the general feeling.”

‘The ascent made some stir at Zermatt. It is one of those ax
ments that cannot fail to be much overrated by the public
hardly expect to gain credit when I assert that the climbing its
only what we had been accustomed to, that the difficulties weres
fairly lay within our combined power. Certainly there was:
siderable test of endurance, for the necessity for actual clam
extended more or less over the whole mountain. Thus, ont
day, we must have been almost incessantly using hands as well:
for some eleven hours, exclusive of halts. Obviously, theref
was no light matter. We incurred no appreciable risk, but tt
knew what we were about, and went resolved to run none
inexperienced men without guides to make the attempt wor
worse than “foolhardiness ;” it would be “madness :” at the
time, their friends might console themselves with the improt
of their even reaching the Matterhorn.

ARTHUR

-ambrosial fruit such as later culture has never
‘Broken buds, torn petals, bits of dismembered garlands,
} over the drift, or embedded in the sand of the destroying
ll that now remain—poor, discoloured strays, which have,
ess, by loving hands been sedulously gathered, cleansed,
-as could be revived, so that the generations of our day
something of the ancient brightness and perfume,
us must have been the bands of the old lyric singers on
and continent amongst a race all whose perceptions were so
to harmony and form; but supreme amongst them, by
‘of antiquity, Wine were chosen and distinguished as the
Poets of Greece, par exeedience. In this famous choir the

63 of Sappho, Pindar, and Anacteon are well known, an
sepa and Alcsus; with the remaining four, Aleman,
Tbycus, and Bacchylides, few save scholars are
a Of the splendid caskets that filled the treasure-house
they raised, nothing except Pindar’s Odes remain perfect—only bits,

ea jewels five words long
‘That on the stréiched forefinger of all Time
‘Sparkle for ever,

ned and plucked from their old beautiful settings, these have
preserved as quotations or examples, scattered through the dry
‘of scholiasts, critics, grammarians, and moralists ; an attempt is
re made to present some of the least-flawed splinters of the old,
ely shed gems in English forms, trusting that some
‘the fire that dwelt in them may be retained, and warrant

434 The

‘Very ancient too are these remains, ee
almost the earliest extant European
Nine Singers was ALcMax, who, six centuries be
new forms and measures, and adapted them to a
and passions of the soul, with that sure esthetic. instinct
characterised Greek art. Though bom eee
in Lacedsemon, and was especially renowned
cessional hymns for the Spartan maidens, as, robed in white
crowned with bay-leaves, they advanced in shining Hines to the
temple of Apollo, ‘This primitive bard should be imaged |
mind's eye as standing with wreathed brows, harp in
head of those graceful choirs, leading and responding ia
song, or sometimes passionately breaking forth—
‘No more, On keeriogey eat
‘My limbs ean uphiold me—strength fhiters and fades?
Cease! cease! Ah, a Cerylus would that I were,
Along with the Halcyons cleaving the air,

‘With them o'er the spray-crested waves spreading wing,
Undaunted of heart, the sea-biue bint of spring

‘What bird was the cerylus? A kingfisher the dictionaries say,
that it hardly could have bees, any more than the halcyon.
speaks of it as “singing over the pale-green sea ;" but seach
not sing, and kingfishers haunt fresh water; itseems as ifthe:
of these famous birds of poetry must be left, as Sir Thomas B
would say, “to higher conjecture.” ‘Though tenacious of Bis
repute for invention, Aleman could recognise artistic pron
has preserved the name and genius of one of his fair pupils, #
first recorded poctess, from the oblivion of centuries —

‘This form of sweet verse first displayed
fall the girls that brightest maid,
Golden-baired Megalostrata,

He had a quick eye and ear for nature, and, like the Arabaan kam
knew the notes ofall birds, and declares he took some of his mens
from them. In a few words he paints a pretty picture of a bey
frightened girls—

‘The shrinking maidens vainly eried,
Like birds, when overhead,

On steady wings outspread,,
A hawk doth glide,

And nowhere in all the realms of poetry is the “power of hills
the deep evening bush of a mountain landscape more pictus

couching, like Aricl, in flower-bells, but

o'er the

¢, given in one fragment of Tantalus in Hades,
: Pepe beset ed ipaser mybies subjects—

Tob, that, held ox by a hair,
‘Tottered @ huge rock overhesd.
& now from the continent to the isles, there appeared, a
or two later, one eminently representative of Grecian

‘of Mitylene, in that isle of Lesbos where the antique

ifé and intellect shone brightest, where sprang the arts of

‘and where freedom, beauty, and poetry were followed

te fervour. A noble by birth, he took part with all the

ace of his nature in the disturbed politics of the day ; now
ng against the foreign enemy, now siding with his order against
‘demoemtic factions, and not disdaining in the course of his
‘career, like the free lance of war and poetry that he was, to

esand attack where he once supported. Sometimes driven

‘and wandering in far lands, his brilliant, stinging verse was
whether far friend or foe. Barely a line survives of the
‘vindictive song,” which, as Wordsworth says, sparkled from
‘against tyrants ; but he seems to have originated the com-
‘since so well worn, of a distracted State to a ship tossing in

‘The winds! wild strife confounds my train—
‘Ong furious wave, Io, hither hurled,
Another there contending whirled !

‘Andi we amid the termpest's strain

rra

accurately noted, when the thistle “burste
the cicada—sure concomitant of hottest suns
ing to distractiona—

‘Wet thy lungs with wine, for the dog-star rides on _
Oppressive is the veason-—all things are parched aad,

"Mid the leaves the shrill Cieada its song so thin and ue

Pours out beneath its wings, and bloom the thistles red and thi
Drink! for lamps why are we staying? ee

Bring me, boy, the bowl eapacious—alll the display.
‘To us mortals mighty Bacchus, zon of Zeus and Semele, bape

Gave bright wines, the care-dispellers 5 ae
Mingle—to the brim, fill upwards—and as eups we drain
‘Every fresh one its foregoer's mounting fumes away

‘The expression, “let the finger serve for day," has been ing
surmised to mean that revellers overtaken by the dark ean:
a finger on the goblet’s brim whether it be full; no n i
stop for lights to see to fill the cups or mix the wines

| The Nine Greek Lyric Poets. at

fa To Alewus also Love was no soft influence, but a fieree,
pe Of all the gods is Lave most dread,
Albeit born the child, ‘tis eaid,

‘Of delicate-sandalled Iris fate
‘And Zephyr of the golden hair.

iS may have had this in mind when he wrote of Mirth, the

bter of “Zephyr with Aurora playing.”
is Gery Greek ran through all the vicissitudes of life, and tinged
allwith his genius. Remembering how in our own age another
jeate spirit, also nobly born, a wild, impulsive poet, keen satirist,
of wine and beauty, devoted to freedom, and dying for its cause
(Grecian skies, wandered and sang amid the sunny Cyclades, a
gorean philosophermight almost declare thatin Byron Alewus had,
nillenniums, lived again and once more visited his former abodes.
dying interest attaches to the name of his countrywoman and
porary, Sarrao, “the Lesbian woman of immortal song."
‘annot wither the glow and brilliance of her genius. Ina land
ige of poetry she was styled distinctively “éAe poctess," and
| by Plato the tenth Muse. Antiquity declared that Venus,
and the Graces were all united in her; and as the poet of
\n, tenderness, and love of art and beauty, she has never
equalled. Her verse—“more golden than gold,” to use an
ion of her own—was unapproachable for sweetness and grace
fervour, lightness of tread, and quick turn of sentiments
withal by an antique frankness and simplicity in utter
‘emotions which modern ideas of feminine suppression find it
‘excuse, With what camco-like distinctness a classic interior
fic group, disturbed by the exclamation of the maiden,
flings down the shuttle, are brought before us in this brief

nti —
Sweet mother! the web
Can weave no more 5
Keen yearning for my love
‘Subdues mo sore,
And tender Aphrodite
Thuills my heart's core.

\eher place, with still more self-abandonment, she oxclains—

Larve, the wild onc, limb-dissolving
Tyrant, tameless, bitter-sweet,
All my frame again possesses,
Shooting swift from brain to feet;
Like a tree I shake that's bending
"Neath a blast from hills descending,

expressions and rhythmic movement of that to

ventured—

O fickle-souled, deathless one, hi

Daughter of Zeus, weaver of wiley.

Lady anguet! never with pangs and |
Anguish affray met

mie gees ‘os ent with favour s

'y Inyocations heading,

Leaving thy Sire’s golden abode, thou canes
Down to me

Yoked to thy car, hie

Filectly to earth, fluttering fast their pinions,

From heaven's height through middle ether’s
Sunny dominions.

‘Soon they arrived; thou, O divine one! semilingg

Sweetly from that countenance all i

Askedst my grief, wherefore T 20 had called thee
From the bri parole

What my wild soul for, frenry «stricken ?

«Who thy love now is i that requitethy

Sappho? and who thee and thy tender yearning
Wrongiuilly slighteth ?

‘Though he now fly, quickly he shall pursue thee —

Scoms he thy gifts? soon he shall freely offer—

Loves he not? soon, eyen wat (hes maar
‘Love shall be proffer.”

The Nine Greck Lyric Poets. 439

_ Come to me then, loosen me from my torment,
All my beart’s with unto fulfment guide thou,
Grant and fulfil! and wn ally most trusty
Ever abide thou,
is no need to excuse this vehement outpouring of passion;
with ail the frank directness of primitive manners and feeling,
chins and exercises the privilege, always conceded to and praised
fh men, of declaring her love in the intensest and most ficry language,
‘Tennyson's poem, “ Fatima,” alrcady alluded to, is but an expansion,
ing moderated, of her other still more passionate loye-ode,
Wone surpassed her in picturesqueness of idea and expression, simple
‘withal and natural, as in her address to Hesperus—
‘Thou bringest back, O evening star!
All things loved that were scatteréd afar
By the hour of tho bright sunrise ;
‘Thou bringest wine, the goat, and the kine,
‘Thou bringest the boy to bis mother's eyes.
Many have imitated this swect and peaccful passage, that breathes so
hush of the soft hour “’tween the gloaming and the mirk when
ye comes hame,” and not least successfully a true and most
Smusical songstress of our own times, Felicia Hemans, in her yerses
. j © soft star of the West,
Gleaming afar, »
‘Thou'rt guiding all things home,
Gentle star, ete.
From several fragments a picture may be pieced together, such as
Guido orAlbano might have painted, of a tranquil classic night scene,
when a fall moon overpowers the starlight, and illuminates a nymph-
haunted grove and caven—
‘The stars around the lustrous moon
Withdraw their radiant beams,
As in full splendour earth she robes
With silvery sheen of gleams
From mony rocks the sacred water drippeth
‘Through feathery boughs, with cool and scothing sound,
And with the leaves’ soft rustle downward slippeth
A slambrous spell around.
‘Then, as the broad moon rode on high,
"The maidens stood the sliar nigh ;
And wine in graceful measure
The well-loved spot danced round,
With lightsome footsteps treading
‘The soft und grassy ground ;
While chains of sweet flowers deftly strung
About their youthful necks were hung,

==

» But after death for ever shalt thou He
Of all forgotten, Jost to fame, for ne'er
In the Pierian roses didat thou share;
Doomed undistinguished "widst the shades to aigh,
‘And with the nameless cleat fit through the gloomy sir.
‘There was nothing in which her genius was held to excel

in Epithalamia, or Bridal Songs, It peculiarly suited her
sense of attraction to celebrate the appearance of a youthful o
Only shreds of these compositions remain. Addressing the bi
groom, she anticipates the climax of manly beauty 50 commoa
old Arabian Tales—* he was like a myrobalan tree"—

Like Mars he moves—his bearing scan—

Never stepped a statelier man,

What shall I liken him to this day?

Ton tall and graceful tree, I'll say.
And ‘n her own exquisite manner, with an airy turn of sentiment
rather modern than antique, she compares the fresh, spotless beauty
of the bride to a fruit hitherto unattainable, though often longed for—

Like a sweet apple that hing up on high—

On the topmost twig there, under the sky,

Had the apple-gatherers, then, forgot?

No! they saw, but could reach it not,
Mr, D, G. Rossetti has rendered this fragment very charmingly. It
had not been brought to light in Coleridge's time from the old
rhetorician in whose pages it was entombed, but Coleridge was 2
great reader of out-of-the-way books, and may haye chanced upon it,
and had it in his mind when he drew that fine autumnal picture of
the one red leaf left dancing in the wind—

Hanging so light and hanging so high

On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky,
Sappho's image had also occurred in almost the same terms to cd
Chaucer—

© mossie quince ! y-hanging by your stalke,
‘The which no man dare plucke awale nor take
Of all the folke that passe forthe by or walle,

The verse of Sappho creeps by ws over the waters of Time witha

»O poet-woman! none foregoes
. ‘Tha leap, attaining the repose !
a bright-cyed figure, arrayed in splendid vest-
‘on a beautiful youth, who carries an ivory lyre of

little of the consuming fire in which Sappho writhed
hered, and his revelry, though delicate, is but for drinking’s
{tis remarkable that the graceful pocms linked with his name,
fell known through Thomas Moore's translation, are not his,
framed in a much laterage. His genuine remains
ring and style, and so many of them echo with the
of old age and death, as to make it probable they
the productions of his later life, and rather call up the
‘shag reveller; this was their frequent burden—
| Now around my hoary head

‘Silver hairs already spread ;

Joyous youth is far away,

‘And my very teeth decay.

‘Short the interyal that’s Jeft

Ere sweet life is from me refi;

‘Therefore do T wail and weep,

Dreading Hades dark and deep;

For awful are the caves below,

‘The downward pathway full of woe,

And stern the ordinance, and plain,

‘Who tread it ne'er ascend again.
was not gross and vulgar, and indeed the ancicnts
mixed water liberally with their wine, preferring light ex-
of spirits to the heavy-headed revels of ruder races : thus

Come, naw, bring me, boy! a bowl,
‘And that at one deep draught the whole
I may drain, thou mayst combine

‘Ten parts water, five parts wine,

and the light and graceful fancy of his address. 10 a
who laughs at him, has often been imitated—

But he generally retreated (om those soul-struggles

‘Thracian filly? prithee why,
Sidelong glancing with thine eye,
‘Me unkindly dost thou fly?
‘Thinkest thou I have no wit?
Be assured that well F know
‘Over thee the reins to throw, r
Unge thee round the course to a)

And guide thee with the bit. iin
‘Sporting now in meadow gay, sha]

Lightly dost thou lexp and play, :
For skilful breakers to essay.
‘Thy taming yet unfit

“May with Love no struggle try,

es he threatens laughingly to fly up to Olympus on light
nd arraign the tyrant before the gods ; sometimes he stands
and stricken, as Love, glancing at his hoary beard, flies past
Tike an eagle on gold-glittering pinions.*
over these singing-birds soars Pixpan—
Sailing with suprome dominion
‘Plough the azure deep of air.
Raunt the sunny crests of the lower hills crowned with
palaces, and flowergardens, but his resort is the snow-
sky-cleaving peak, shooting in solitude over all : there, like
own cagle by the side of Zeus, he sits throned above the thunder,
great triimphal Odes, the only perfect surviving Greek lyric
ces, and often translated, are out of the scope of this attempt; but
IS fragments remain of his hymns, dithyrambs, dance-songs,
ss, &c, which probably contained more examples of the
id, fervent bursts of song which Horace asserts surpassed all rivalry.
these three or four may be selected, beginning witha specimen
of a dithyrambic invocation which seems to have suggested Goethe's
setch entitled “Sacred Ground "—

On the choir-dance look down,
Olympian Gods! speod graciously
‘The glorious festivity!
Dwellers where many a sacrifice
Up-steaming fragrantly doth tise
Tn the thronged heart of Athens’ holy town,
And atately Agora of old renown t
Oh, now this flowery offering,
Of garlands gathered in the spring,
Which dewy violets inweave,
Do ye propitivuily reecive!
From on high,
‘With Aglaia, come ye nigh t
‘See me going to resound
Another song in praise
Of his, the ivy-crowned,

* And while 1 mused Love with knit brows went by,
And with a flying finger swept my lips —Zenmyron.

444 The Gentleman's Magazine.

Bromius—the Shouter styled in mortal lays,
Of Cadman Semelé
‘And highest Sire the progeny, —
To him our songs we raise.
Argive Nemea cannot hide
‘The prophet-sign—the palm-tree shoot —
‘When in the secret chamber of the Hours
The nectared blossom-flowers
‘Spring’s fragrant breath have joyously descried,
‘Then doth it flourish, springing from the root;
‘Then on the Earth immortal, everywhere,
Beloved violet clusters grow,
‘And roses blow,
For wreathing round the hair.
Hymn with pipe and hymn with song,
‘Semelé whose locks are set
With a golden coronet,
‘Hymn her with loud acclaim, O chorus-throng!

It would be interesting to know the impression made on a mind
like Pindar’s by so magnificent, appalling, and unearthly a pheno-
menon as a solar eclipse, an event that must have been unspeakably
terrible to a religious Greek, beholding the radiant God of his adora-
tion attacked by, and, as it were, dying beneath, an inexplicable gloom,
from which lurid flames as of a destroying conflagration suddenly
shot forth. In a surviving fragment Pindar shows that he must have
witnessed that most tremendous spectacle—

Sunbeam! all-seeing measurer of sight !
O Star supreme! whose blinding light
Eyes now can look on: wherefore dost thou stay
‘Thy winged unweariable might,
‘To men’s dismay
Speeding to gloom on thine eternal way?
By the swift steeds of Zeus divine,
Sunbeam august ! may this tremendous sign
For weal and safety unto Thebes incline!
‘Whether thou foreshowest fight,
Horrid snow-storm, harvest-blight,
Bloody tumult, or the main
Bursting o'er the ravaged plain;
Frost-bound earth, or summer hours
Drowned with overwhelming showers;
Or, flooding earth, thou wilt replace
The present with another race :
May my prayers o'er thee prevail,
Joined with the universal wail !

It fell to the lot of the present writer to witness the total eclipse
of the sun on the western coast of India, in December 1871. When
the moment of totality came, and the thickening sunlight faded into

“The Nine Greet Lyric Poets. 445

8 Weird obscurity, as the black moon, like embodied Erebus, stood
| @"=r the sun, surrounded with the supernatural glory of the rosy-red
©©Pona, no sounds came from beast or bird, but a long wailing ery—
* lismal sough of lamentation—arose from the assembled multitudes,
*™ci from house to house, from village to village, it ran for miles
long that palm-fringed coast, the cry of a people whose hearts were
f93ling them for fear. Some such wide-wailing lamentation may
| Bye rung in Pindar's ears as he beheld the amazing vision, but in
‘him, as in the people, it only awoke fears of angry gods and impend-
2g calamities. His verses do not equal the occasion, any more
Yhan do those of an equally famous poet of antiquity, Archilochus,
Who has commemorated 4 similar event. Wordsworth, in his piece
satkled “Eclipse of the Sun, 1821,” has signally excelled two of the
Yay foremost classic poets upon a subject eminently adapted for the
highest flight of imagination.

Space cannot be afforded for the remaining longer fragments, such
asthe picturesque references to the wandering star-isle Delos, and the
‘sweet and solemn dirges. In a smaller chip Pindar shows, but with
& tum alien to modern thought, how he appreciated the immortality
coalerred by verse—

Tis well goox! men to praise

In sweetest and most lovely lays,
For this alone

Immortal honour cometh nigh:

‘Wonls live when virtuous actions die
Forgotten or unknown.

And in another he rebukes a philosophy that flies too high, and
asserts that none by secking can find out God, repeating perhaps the
primitive Egyptian doctrine to which the science of to-day seems
Gnclincd to return, that the first principle is darkness unknowable
thrice pronounced so—
Whar mighty dream doth wisdom seem to thee ?—
Wisdom ! by which man
Wimself above his fellow can
Exalt a litle ; never may it be
‘That human wit ein ends divine explore ;—
And thee, methinks, a mortal mother bore,

A surviving shred contains a sentiment that bears somewhat
temarkably upon the warning recorded by the Evangelist against
Jaying up treasures upon carth, where moth and rust doth corrupt.

Pindar's words are—
Gold, child of Zeus!
Which neither worm nor moth can bite,
That ruleth mortal souls with greatest wight

those wild,
previously treated epically, but which he

and measures with a dramatic element. Probably
and Earth,” or Southey’s “Thalaba," may bear some *
to his style and manner of handling his subjects.
imagination has been sometimes held to shrink fi
and grotesque exploits and beings of Northera fable, bat
Romance nor Saga can surpass the triple-bodied gian
six arms and lege, and winged withal, the carrying off of
chanted, fire-breathing cattle by Hercules formed the subject of
the principal poems of Stesichorus, Geryon ruled in Spain, a land ©
legend and marvel in that age; and the terrible cattle were stabled
in spell_guarded caverns beyond the impassable Tartessus river, that
rolled over the root-like veins of silver'mines, One fragment of the
wild and wondrous tale of the Geryonéis tells how the Sun-god and
Hercules parted on the ocean-shore, when
Into the golden bow! then stept
‘The Sun, Hyperion-born, and swept
Over the bounds of ocean, where
In the desert abyyses of holy night
Dwelt his young bride and children fale ;
While to the deep grove, dark with lanrel-trees,
Strode back the son of Zeus, great Hercules.
It was a tradition in antiquity that every night the sum passed @#
a wonderful golden goblet from the west over the dark ocean-stream,
to rise again in the east, In one scrap Stesichorus says cynically,
but in accordance with ancient feeling—
Kndless and unprofitable
‘Tis to bewail the dead,
For all their charm and firyour
Math for the living fled,

Of the many works of Stesichorus, highly popular and esteemed
for centuries, scarce fifty lines have come down to us; and no more
of Invcus, a poct unsurpassed, except by Sappho, in passionate
intensity and voluptuous sweetness of language; and the praise of
youthful beauty was the burden of his verse, Like the medixval
minstrels and troubadours, he wandered from state to state, singing
his odes at local festivals. The romantic tragedy of his death gh
curious glimpse into the sociol state of Greece at that time, On he

sweeping over the open theatre, The strange

atly aroused suspicion ; the murderers were seized,
| their crime in guilty confusion. Readers of Schiller
‘how dramatically he has dealt with the incident in

OEE.
scanty remnants of Ibycus, poor Leyden has very prettily

"Ade of Poses cradled thee.

ther beautifal but difficult fragment the wild swell of passionate
is drawn out with great art and picturesque tum of expres

Tn the spring Cydonian orchards
Bloom where streamlets freshly welling
‘Lave the maidens’ garden pure,
‘And the juicy grape-buds, swelling
‘Underneath the branches’ shade,
On the vine-shoots flourish free;
‘Bot at no hour will love endure
Within my heart, in slumber, to be laid:
Like a Thracian storm-blast, glaring
‘With lightning, sweeping o'er the sex
From Cypris, fiercely rushing, he,
With scorching frenry overbearing,
Crushes all my trembling soul
Beneath the lovely one’s control,

| a similar vein, with onfailing resource of apt and graceful
(, he exclaims—
Again, *neath sable eyebrows glancing,
‘With quick eyes Eros driveth me
Tnto love-nets with endless witchery ;
But T dread him so advancing,
Like the yoked steed, that erewhile prizes won,
But now, with age foredene,
bite Where the race-contest closely glows,
& With the swift chariot unwilling goes.

‘Of pure Stonapes t
ie fo WAS poet Ot a MIRE ET C
distinguished for a delicate organisation an
and intellect, “ perfect paired as eagles’ wings

was the consummate exemplar. He was the
pathetic of the Nine, exquisitely polished and ; d
thrilling with the fervour and fiery emotions of the d
in one flight he rose highest, like a star over storm-clouds,
commemorating in brief inscriptions or epigrams the great deeds he
witnessed when Asia rolled her myriads upon Greece. “These
pieces are of diamond nsture, clear, brilliant, and imperishable ;
is the adamantine couplet on the ‘Three Hundred whom Sparta
to stem the barbarian deluge at Thermopyla—

‘Stranger ! tell to the Spartans their behest

Hath been obeyed by us; and here we reat.

‘There is a longer lyric fragment on the same event, which, though
fine and lofty, savours rather of elaborate thinking out than of inspi~
ation kindled by heroism so sublime. In one shred he describes
spell thrown over all creatures by the music of Orpheus, whack
lulled even the winds to sleep, and brought on a calm like that after
glow of summer on the verge of winter which the ancients imagined
had been appointed by the gods for the huleyons to breed
whence the proverbial expression “ haleyon days "—

Lightly hovering o'er his head,
Myriad birds around him flew,
By his song's swect ssusie led ;
And fishes from the sea-waves blue
Glanced upwards, _Motionless and dead
Lay leaves and wind ; naught hindered then
‘The honey-laden sound to spread
And rise into the ears of men,
‘As whea winter darkens heaven,
Zeas will temper days twice seven 5
‘The dwellers upon earth the sarne
“The slumber of the winds" do maine :,
Then is the nesting-time begun
Of the brilliant Haleyon,
So, in Hogg’s ballad of the “ Witch of Fife,”
“the troates Inup out of the Leven Loch,
Charmit with the melody;
and Scott declares that —
Rude Heiskar's seal through sungee dark
Shall long porous the minsteel!s barks

But sleep, my child—thou sea, be still—
Sleep, sleep, immeasurable ill
. Se ie Be yspy tie hen
deliverance there may be =
etre teia rece by tl oe rn
Let justice for my wrong be done!”
‘Many of the moral reflections of Simonides have been preserved
are in a pensive and melancholy strain, and betray how th
tainty of life and “the steep and thorny way to heaven
‘upon the best minds of antiquity; these are some examples
A mortal thou, to-morrow what
May hap thou canst not know:
Nor locking on kappy man
‘How long he may be so.
ail reel Jifetppes Salis

Unworn by toil, danger, decay, and feast
‘O'er all hangs Death—him none enn flee—
Him Good and Had taste equally,
In one passage ascribed to him Simonides sums up the oli
and confession of faith: Health is the first blessing—
th of body and mind, which he elsewhere terms “august,” am
wisdom were vain npr
3 1756.

‘Health for mortal man is best, — —
panama a
‘Thirdly, woalth gained with
Fourthly, 'mid friends a joyous

One “five-word jewel” of Sappho so

court poet of King Hicro, at Syracuse, He
elaborate finish and sweetness of verse, and as ei
celebrating Jove and festivity in a style of infinite beauty and
cacy, but languid and measured compared with the fiery energy
passionate emotions of his forcrunners, His principal fr
paints the delights of Peace in a picturesque and finished
though of no great depth—

Mighty peace to mortals bringeth wealth and flowers of sweet-toned some;
On the gods! well-fashioned altars sise the flames up bright and stroeg,
Fed with fleecy sheep and oxen; and the youth athletic grames,

‘Sports, and music, follow blithely; round the backlers’ steely fmmes
Spiders weave their webs, and rusting lie the long and pointed spear,
And the two-edged swords j no longer thrilling blasts invade the eazs
Blown from brasen trumpets, neither from the eyes is scared aay
Soothing slumber, chief refresher of a weary heart's decay.

Everywhere with foast and revel joyously the streets resound,

And to lovely youths and maidens hymns and praises glow around, |

Euripides, in a fragment of his “ Cresphontes,” addresses Peace im #
still more rapturous and vivid vein. In another considerable frag
ment Bacchylides delineates the dreams and ecstasies that spring fi
the fumes of wine, but in a different tone from Alceus or

A sweet compulsion from the bowl

Springing up inflames the oul ;

Hopes of love distract the mind

‘With the gifts of Bacchus twined,

And from men all grief and care

Drive and seatter into air.

‘One dreams he bursts a city wall,

And lords it king-like aver all;

‘While with gold and ivory fine

Others see their houses shine,

Or ships from Egypt bringing o'ee

Groin, and fruit, and glittering store
‘Through drinkers’ brains such visions sour.

Burns re-echoes these fancies in “Tam o’ Shanter,” who, cup
hand, was “ o'er a’ the ills of life victorious ;" and his ‘unhappy ¢

ite

pfs ick ae da ebed pe dooney and night.
sen tl! -wih vain sepetigs then Blight?

why a cheerful

‘Tn restie bowls of quaint den.
ch we probably have the words of Danaé to her infant—
Alas! alas! my babe!
‘A. woe above all grief is bere,
Beyond all utterance a fart
: ole survived, it would have been interesting to com-
= poems of the famous uncle and nephew on the same subject.
other shred gives a glimpse of a classic banquet that might
‘one of Alma Tadema’s charming antique studies—
‘She on her elbow bending
Doth ‘mid the youth recline,
Ono mowy arm extending
In pouring out the wine,
his latest of the Nine flourished four and a half centuries before
, Many sweet singers doubtless followed him, but none were

THE CLIMATE OF GREA

BRITAIN.

}

HE climate of a country is regulated mainly by its position

regard to the sun. ‘The more directly the sun’s rays fall

the earth the less vapour they pass through, and the

is their intensity. The distribution of heat and cold is the
agriculture,

‘The English climate is an anomaly. A part of the
between the same parallel of latitude as Labrador, yet pur s
west coast enjoys almost perpetual spring. Th
of Penzance is in striking contrast with the picreing cold of Vi
both in the same latitude. The country from London to
through the middle of England, has a warm winter temperature;
top of Scotland, during winter, is warmer than London ; the
of Ireland and South Wales are the warmest spots in the ki
It is evident that our position on the earth is a favoured
that Nature bestows her bounties upon Great Britain with Gr
liberality than upon the Continent of Europe. The excellemes:
climate is due to causes different from those which affect other:
of the same latitude. We find an explanation of our
the great movement of waters in the southern hemisphere,
the occanic currents, which finally find their way to our shores

The ingenuity of man in inventing a warm-water
conveying heat to our buildings is nothing but a copy of a
in creation, We may look upon the torrid zone as our furnace,
Mexican Gulf as our boiler, and the Gulf Stream as the mam p
which conveys a never-failing supply of warm water to oar 6
‘The west winds which travel over this mass of waters bring wal
and humidity to England, and mitigate what would otherwise Be)
rigour of an arctic climate.

It is interesting to trace the rise and progress of that Gulf:
to which we are so much indebted. "The phenomenon i= c
a general move of waters on the other side of the equator, icllt
towards the continent of Aroerica, aided, probably, by the eum

The Climate of Great Britain, pe

dom the African coast. The stream itself is first perceptible on the
of Cuba, but, confined by the small channel of the Straits of
it bursts through it, and, shaping its course by the coast of
}to Cape Hatteras, reaches Newfoundland, and crosses the
anti¢, to the Azores. Its warmth, 8° above the water surround-
Wy it, is caused by the rays of a tropical sun bearing upon it whilst
‘Wis confined im a great basin by the American shores, and the
is of Panama. ‘The overflow of this warm water is the Gulf
im; ah Ocean river 2,000 miles long, 350 broad, with its head
the Gulf of Mexico, its tail in the arctic regions.
One portion of this hot-water pipe carries the heated stream
h the English Channel towards Russia, the other by the top
nd towards Norway. It was the Gulf Stream which first
the idea of a country on the other side of the globe. Some
ti ‘were drifted to the coast of Spain; skeletons of a
from those of the old world were discovered ;
spirit of inquiry was aroused, of which Columbus was the
nate representative,
‘The stream, after leaving England, unites in the northern hemi-
,and detaches those enormous fields of ice which form the
Ge current, to be driven clear of our shores, and finally to be lost
ithe Atlantic Ocean. Fortunately for us, our hot-water pipe lies
f our coast and the direction of this cold current, which moves
b across the upper part of the Atlantic to Greenland,
towards Newfoundland, is melted in the warm waters of the
forces itself into the Gulf of Mexico, is boiled under a tropical
and becomes another gulf stream ; so that this vast body of
‘flows backwards and forwards with the regularity of the hot-
‘system of our houses. The arctic current, loaded with icebergs,
it back 200 miles to the south, bending it upwards like a river
the piers of a bridge, but, unable to subdue its power, the ice
ts, instead of crossing the stream to chill our summers, or depress
genial warmth of our winters.
It is impossible to convey any idea of the volume of cold these
‘of ice disperse through the atmosphere. Five hundred ice-
Bave been counted at one time. The thermometer will fall
© degrees on approaching them. ‘The Great Western steamer met
@ field of ice extending 100 miles in one direction. It is
ated that 125,000 square miles of ice find their way to the
fie to be lost in the Gulf Stream.
‘this northern current, by some freak of nature, to mistake
nd hug our shores instead of those of Norway, the emer

would convert our island into a barrenand

to more temperate regions that industry whi

sperous and powerful. We are indebted for

climate to that Isthmus of Panama which fi

Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. *
Having traced to the other side of the

temperature of England, let us see the effect whieh

portions—there is t
receives the full shock of the Atlantic gales; there
protected from to0 great moistars.Dy Nai -smRaa a

its fertility from the inhalations of the German pes

But let us call to mind the make and shape of
important matter in studying the climate ofa country, It
asa triangle ; its base is washed hy the warm water of #
Channel, and it tapers to a point as it stretches northward
the benefit of the sea breezes, ‘The winter warmth t stril
western const, then sweeps up the valleys which open tow:
sea. A glance at a geological map will show that oar.
formations have a general inclination from north-east to |
diverting many of our valleys and mountain chains; the firt
lochs of Scotland open like so many funnels to the sea. It
the Severn, reminding us of a bell, admits a current of hot
the very heart of the country. The hills, which form the bac
of England, may be traced from the Cotswolds northwards, al
crest of the Pennine range to the Cheviots. West of this line’
the warmth and humidity of the ocean ; east of it, the dry air
Continent. It is a wall, so far as climate is concerned, wii
the arable from the grazing districts of England. On the o
a preponderance of grain-growing power; on the other, of m

If the agriculturist merely sought the charms of a mild and!
perate atmosphere, he would find it in those western dist
freshed by the Atlantic showers ; but the ene pa
that overhead warmth is wulegroand chill. The con:
of those mild counties is destructive to the grain eropy

imate of Great Britain. 455
from north to south, is exposed to the full

grasses, and hence the verdure of the West of England.
‘ising from the Atlantic, is driven up the slopes of the hills
ches the cold currents of air, causing a driving rain. Vege
Bicretyitere loaded with moisture ; on every twig of a tree
& drop, which is replaced by another—a reason why ponds
z by trees rarely fail of water.
Figeakic are caused by a change of temperature. The soil in the
ys being heated by the sun during the day, evaporation and radia-
heat follow, winds from colder districts fall upon it, and so
tvapour becomes visible and forms a fog. In the West of England
in Irelarid, during October, November, and December, fogs
On an average, two nights out of three. In the eastern part
the country half the nights are free from fog, but this is more com-
ly found in the north than inthe south, Fags follow the windings
fiver or lake, and exist when the temperature of the water is
‘than that of the air. If the fog comes from the sea it extends
inland, and in some seasons is more regular in its cecurrence
‘when its source is more confined, An instance of this is what
ed the “Eastern haars,” which, in the cast of England and
ef Scotland, occur during the spring and summer, ‘The
Ocean, being comparatively narrow, is raised in temperature
fexsily than the Atlantic; hence during spring and early summer
evaporation ensues, In November, after the cxhalations of
Wer, the valley of the Thames, as well as the low-lying lands
colnshire open to the sea, are subject to them. In the West of
md they are usually found in the narrow valleys. In Devon
‘Cornwall they come in from the sea during the evening ; the heat
the stm sends them back again, and they appear in the distance
g out like a wall, advancing again as the heat of the day

ensing power of the west hills, where they deposit a great por-
of their moisture, and pass on to water the low-lying lands be-
them. Rain clouds vary from 500 to 2,000 feet in height. The
ition of summer rises into the higher regions, but the clouds

towards winter unti) they are caught by the tops of the bills.

456

‘The Pennine range protects the
centre of England. ‘The distribution o
item in the calculations of the

crop in Norfolk and Suffolk, and a failure in the } Nn

Dew, another cmse of the moisture of our clin
England, is rarely met with under the oudleas skies ef
nent, It rises one to two feet above the surface of the
see stock moving from low lands to higher towards
its effects. It arises from the radiation of the heat of the sc
‘causes the surface to be cooler than the air above it, If th
cloudy the radiation is driven back ; if the sky, on the con
clear, the surface of the earth and things upon it becomes
than the atmosphere, If this chilled temperature falls b sf it
becomes hoar-frost, the ice of dew, The height of a cold bod
air causes it to sink in valleys and low places. Tn the east of Scit
land potatoes are injured by it before they are ripe; in ti
England our fruit blossoms and early vegetables suffer from it.

In the neighbourhood of Penzance it is usual to light a fre!
windward, to enable the smoke to pass aver and dissipate t
But the most effective safeguard is to place buildings and
aslope. The cold current of air passes over it, to be
warmer. It is the West of Englind which gives
climate ; facing, as it does, that reservoir of moist air |
posits its superabundance upon its high chains of hills, sh
from an excess of rain the low-lying lands beyond them,
venting their heavy clays from being converted into
marshes.

If we pass on from these rainy districts, best adapted fro
grass-growing properties for the rearing of stock, to the cen
England, we may consider our climate as affecting the
grain.

‘The variations recorded in the meteorological journals,
direction of the Royal Society, prove that we are on the va
the profitable cultivation of wheat, and that no country in the!
Produces a wheat crop at so low a temperature as our |
mainly to the skill and science with which, our soil is worked:

The Climate of Great Britain. 457

‘The mean temperature of the south of England to the Murray
th decreases at the rte of one degree to every hundred miles.

ishing the warmth.

‘Wheat and barley are exotics, and require the dryness
southern countrics to mature their fruits. A few hundred
height produces an amount of cold which checks the yield
maturity. The trap rock of Scotland, so fertile in low

is barren on the hills, The grauwacke of the Welsh
a melancholy contrast to the fertility of its vales

soil of Penzance becomes poor as we rise to Dart-

; as we descend, both the quantity and juality of the grain

| Probably the native region of wheat is Mesopotamia, from which
‘spread towards the Mediterranean. Sicily, before it was worn out,
granary of the south of Europe. Its mean temperature is
+ that of the plains of Lombardy is 73°. ‘The summers of Spain
and hot, producing the most wonderful samples. The tem-
of England is only from 54° to 64°. In the early part of
“last century a small field near Edinburgh was sown with wheat.
‘made little progress until the beginning of this century ; now ex-
samples are produced as far north as Elgin,
Figures prove that wet summers are productive of great loss to
A lowering of the barometer of only 2° injures our harvest ;
‘of from 3° to 4° would produce a famine. During the last
years it has only fallen seven times from 2° to 3°, only three
Jower than 3°. On the other hand, the summer temperature
ight times risen above 3° In the year 18rz it fell to 57°. The
was on the brink of famine, Much can be done to change
climate by drainage, much towarm the soil by judicious cultiva-
} but we may calculate that 60° is the standard at which wheat
be grown with safety.
There are spots well favoured by exposure to the rays of the sun ;
Others where radiation renders them well adapted to the growth of
fm, But we must remember that wheat comes to us from dry
Sointries, and our object must be to raise the temperature of our
Soil is near as possible to that of its native land. The practical man
judge for himself, by the aid of his thermometer, whether the
he occupies is sufficiently warm for the maturity of the seed.
drainage, for instance, 1 1b. of water evaporated from 1,000 Ib.
‘Soil will depress the temperature of the whole 10° The
Bound tree feet below the surface is rarely more than 4€* to af? 530

—

days! crop it has the good fortune to catch
It thrives on our warm and friable soils. In j
gritty and silicious they receive and radiate he
folk and Suffolk and the sands of the
tible of solar heat, and well adapted to bring tha Fae
Perhaps the best samples are found on the chalks, which ¢
rays of the sun. ;
Our eastern counties have long been noted for the q
barley. On the other hand, barley is too tender for d
autumnal fogs turing it black, whilst oats and wheat
uninjured.
Oats appear to be indigenous to our soil; they flo
damp of our climate, at a temperature of 50°, bot they rg i
of 66° to bring the seed to maturity. In Ireland, owing
humidity of the atmosphere and to the limestone soil, more o
grown than all other grain crops put together

Science and skill can do much to raise the temperature of
but the agriculturist who lives on an eminence must
climate beats cultivation, and, unless he can command
ture of from 58° to 60°, the growth of wheat is hazardous
valleys, from their geological formation and sheltered p
the most favoured parts of the country. The vale of York,
ing from the Humber to the Ouse, a surface of 1,000 square
has a temperature of 62° ; while that of the vale of the Sevem,
the grape was formerly grown, is 64°. A geological map wil
that many of our valleys are composed of Red Sandstone
renders them susceptible to the rays of the sun, and the radiam
heat which follows warms the air immediately upon it, A want!
of silicious soil exists, which winds like a river from ©;
shire, through Bedfordshire, Buckinghamshire, Oxfordshire,
Berkshire, lying on the greensand formation ; by its ten
easy working it is well adapted to market gardening, “aad
quantities of its produce are sent to London. Cae.

The general climate of a country is governed by laws beyond WF

and 4 only vegetate in the proportion of one-fifth of

‘under a temperature of 56°, and land that will keep ten
p ‘in the latter case will only keep two in the former.
46° the growth of grass is double that under a tempera-
im 42°. From 46° to 50° grass will keep from five to
from 50° to 56° it arrives at its maximum, unless assisted
means, If the month of June be moist it will rise up to
‘same temperature it grows fastest in wet weather during
and October, owing to the greater moisture of those

remarks will apply to cereals ; whilst the sap is flow-
eed begins to form, a dry climate is required to bring
‘maturity. Leguminous plants flourish in a strong loam,
‘amount of moisture which we consider favourable to the
‘Dut to bring them to perfection the temperature of our
crop is necessary ; 52° is the lowest range at which they can be
ed to advantage.
-and moisture increase our crops of potatoes, as witness
‘The temperature ought to be maintained up to 45° ; if it is
the potatoes wither when kept. Clay lands, when thoroughly
ied, are well adapted to the root ; but it is on peaty and granitic
tthe produce is most abundant. We may perceive how the
irishes in those small valleys in Scotland enriched by the
from granitic rocks. The chief ingredient of that formation
egrated potash, the food of the plant. In a similar but less
'is found in peat ; least of all in the clay. But every succes-

of Mull, where potatoes are grown:

seaweed, which contains no potash, All

west coast suffered ; the plant was woake

potash and became predisposed to the di
England. It is worst on wet soils,

on light Jands, In peaty and mossy soils the disease
prevalent, from an excess of potash. In highly cultivated
gardens it is most destructive, cereals and constant
removing so much of the alkali, The conclusion arrive

the disease attacks those plants which are weakened by not reo
a sufficiency of potassa, an ingredient necessary for their he

Chemistry points out the remedy—we must restore the mineral
supports the plant: 1,000 Ib. of the ash of wheat straw contd
Ib, of potash ; oak leaves contain 245; sunflower-stalks, £9)

of potatoes, 55. A farmer raising one ton of potatoes

the soil 158 Ib. of potassa; the haulm will return 34, Jem
deficit of 127 1b. It is a matter of wonder that the plant hal!
altogether disappeared from England. *

No other country on this side of the equator can produce the a=
herbage of our light lands ; no country, therefore, is So well aii
as our own to the rearing and breeding of horses, Cassar!
usefill stamp of animal during the invasion of Great Britain, |
reason of the excellence of our horses is the healthy feed of our!
stone. A glance at some of the breeds that come under’
will show how superior, for purposes of general utility, the B
horse is to that of the Continent.

There is the Arab, whose straight shoulders and stilty action®
der him useless out of his sandy plains, ‘The native animal of Ri
dwarfed by the cold of winter and stunted by the arid feed oft
is too small for anything but light skirmishing. The breeds of §
way, Denmark, and Sweden are hardy, but too small for
If we descend into the Continent, we find a larger class of anit
forced in many cases to unnatural size in the farting pastures of Hi
stein and Belgium, but defective in shape and constitution, 82

Jarge fect, heavy heads, and weak sinews, denote an absence of pyre

te of Great Britain, 461

‘breeding, There is no healthy limestone in those
or the support of young stock. ‘The French horse is pro-
weak—as our omnibus proprietors have discovered to their
for little else but short stages and slow work. Matched
i horse it knocks up. Anexception might be made

animal we find in Normandy, which by judicious crossing
td op into a useful breed, and the reason is obvious—the

facing the Atlantic. The finest horse in the world is the
i de iuxe of the Continent, and no greater tribute could be
the merits of our blood, sprung, as itis, entirely from our
tk, and supplemented by it. And although, through the sound
z displayed by the foreign horse-owner in his selection of
ts, and the excellence of his management, he is enabled to com-
‘for a time with our own, yet the breed degenerates, and a fresh
n of blood is required to restore its original purity. After two

¢ generations it declines in the climate of the Continent.
Bren our own country is not wholly adapted to horse-breeding.
Iheayy clays are too cold for young stock, too holding for their
on. It is on our uplands that horses thrive to perfection ; witness

specimen of the equine race, the Welsh pony.
gory essentially a horse-breeding district ; its limestone
dices a sweet and luxurious herbage, whilst its light soil is admir-
ae to their legs and feet. Its temperature, from proximity
Atlantic, suits the nature and constitution of the horse,

‘The apprehension of a deterioration in the quality of our horse-
h isan ill-founded one. Different breeds may change to suit the
fing exigencies of the day, but as long as our climate lasts we shall
htain our superiority over the breeds of the Continent.
Where are many subjects of interest to the agriculturist, such
toology and botany, which would lead us far beyond the limits of
fitiele; one, however, cannot be altogether omitted—meteorology,
gh it is too vague to be relied upon as a guide, and too uncer-
in its results. Meteorology asserts that the same order of things
usin eyctes of five or fifty years, but the events are too distant to
jire us with confidence in their accuracy, and the instruments it

are too complex in their machinery, and too liable to varia-
(im different places, to be of much service to the agriculturist.
tsimplest are the best. ‘There is nothing better for home use than

ina phial three-fourths filled with rain water, regularly changed
fetimes a weck, and placed facing the north. In fair and frosty
(ther the leech will be motionless, and rolled up in a spiral form at

ke

chiefly depend on the duration of wet or i
‘The most weather-wise persons are those’
them to study Nature in her wildest and panda
mountain shepherds, who, from long 0
animals or the signs of the sky, appear to the’
prophetic in. their judgment.
It is evident that at present we are unable to forec
Magnetism and electricity, now in the infancy of their
when fully developed, enable us to penetrate the | ri
surround the subject of weather, Nov, we can only, like
of the field, take warning by the signs which precede th
protect our immediate future. Meteorology, therefore,
stall assistance to the agriculturist in laying down any fixed p
a guide to the business of life, But if it proves anything, it
that our position on the globe is the best that can be dise
mixed system of agriculture.
No traveller on returning to England can fail to be stme
the beautiful verdure of the grass, which we owe to our
the clondy sky which protects us from the scorching
Continent. Much also is due to that invisible vapour
Jates the atmosphere from the influence of the Gulf
France it is with difficulty that the heath tribe, which
atmospheric moisture, can be reared in hot-houses. « Tt is this)
which gives us our variable and invaluable climate. This d
tion of warmth enables us to practise our mixed
summers were hotter, the turnip would fail; if colder, the
would wither. And although the turnip plant has o
England, it is evident that one side of the island is Test ad
cereals, the other to green crop.
And here may be recognised a fortunate’ provision: of
checking any superabundance of moisture which we might

of Great Britain. 463
the globe, by the cold and dryness which comes to

) for, whilst the Gulf Streams wafts warmth on its

and the wind, which would otherwise convey moisture,
those inland regions. Siberia, for instance, in summer
‘oven, in winter an ice-house. Our north-east wind in winter
us fromi that quarter, the great repository of the cold of the
It first catches our eastern districts, without having, like
other side of England, sufficient water to warm it on its

and dries and shrivels np vegetation, We sce grass brown
eastern counties whilst still growing in Devonshire. It counter-
the hot moisture which would otherwise spread over our
and prepares the soil for the reception ‘of the seed. The
of its grain depends upon the heat which arises from a

mt part of the globe; for, as summer advances, we have another
for the temperature of our climate in the warmth arising in
African deserts, and in the expanse of waters of the southem

Jurious as it is to watch the order and regularity of the oceanic
fpts, it is no Jess so to study those of the air, and deduce from
{their effects upon climate,

a the spring of the ycar, when the sun is north of the cquator,
fore of its rays shooting down upon the deserts of Asia and
ja heats the air near the ground, causing it to rise and swell, and
bis consequently a supply of cold air rushing in to fill the
him, ‘he principle may be observed at any time on the sea-
& During the day the heat of the sun, by warming the land,
its temperature above that of the water, The heated air rises,
its place is filled by the breeze from the sea. At sunset the earth
Ws off its heat, and is cooled down below the temperature of the
causing an off-shore breeze. This is naturally more powerful in
am regions of the earth than with us. What is apparent ona
{scale at the sea-shore is occurring on a great one in the deserts
Shand Africa. The mys of the sun suck up the moisture to
{those aérial currents which affect the climate of the northern
isphere, as if a great engine were always at work pumping up the
(dity of that mass of water in the centre of the globe, the Indian
\Pacific Oceans, forcing it aloft to the currents of the higher
ths, until, meeting with the cold of the north, it condenses
‘rain, and forms those rivers in the north of the world which
{e run dry, diffusing power and prosperity around them until they

travels over the surface of the ground,

converted by its rays into an oven, force upwards, r bes
Europe, the heat of summer; Germany, nearer the ¢
heated atmosphere, becomes warmer than England, —
position enables it to zctain its equal temperature.

course it conquers all the rigours of climate, gives even a:

to Siberia, and draws out of the frost-bound soil of th
vegetation of more southern climates. In winter, therefo

we advance towards Russia, the keener is the cold ; ins
more sultry is the air, Stockholm and St. Petersburg 4
are as warm as London, Its effect is to liberate the pent-up
snow of the north, and to force it in fertilising showers to 0
counties, in time for the cultivation of their root crop, the |
their agricultural prosperity.

These are some of the causes and phenomena of our)
‘The most important influence we trace to the Gulf of Mexico, |
warmth and invisible vapour to our atmosphere. Another is!
the absorption of moisture from the Indian and Pacific |
moisture flying to the north and being conyerted into
source of the river system of the old world. A third 5
hot-air cloud driven forward by the sun, to overcome, eA!
ice and snow of the arctic regions. The three
spiring to favour our climate are—the hot pipe from
hot moisture from the sea, and the hot air from the deserts of

A moment's reflection will show that, for the purposes
agriculture, our position on the earth is a favoured one
the east, from its geological formation and summer heat,|
to cereals ; the west, from its preponderance of rain, to

‘removed from the east to be chilled by the cutting
‘the German Ocean,

“English nation may be looked tpon as a large and happy
pelping each other in the path of social progress ; its local

t n men of varied habits, varied acquirements, who place the
‘of their labours before that great arbiter—Public Opinion : all
in the march of national prosperity.
raise our minds from England and view the nations of the
Providence intended them to be : a human family, differing,
‘the effects of climate, both in habits and constitution, bu thound
game law of duty—that of helping each other. Surely man
it find a guide for his conduct in the great works of creation,
"no link in the chain is wanting to hold them to their appointed
+ the small ripples on the coast of Africa, which swells into a
‘current; the puff of hot air which magnifies into a cloud,
fing everything before it ; the various changes of the eky, all
feach other in conforming to the laws of the universe, Man
Erebels, at one time, by wars and devastations ; at another, by
from one portion of mankind the fruits of the various
fes of the earth, which are intended for the benefit of all.
‘are the silks of China, the cotton and sugar on the other side
‘equator, the productions of the carth which flourish in the
fance of tropical vegetation, waiting for the call of commerce
‘the raw article into the finished material ; above all, there
inhabitants of those climates, enervated by their heat, sunk
Towest order of humanity by ignorance and slowth—these are
Material upon which civilisation can work—this is the un-
intellect developing under the influence of commerce, that
amg of the mind which barter between man and man creates,
‘the substratum is laid upon which education is placed, and the
raised in the scale of creation.
Ys duty is a high one: to sow broadcast the seeds of
over these inhospitable countries; to draw their benighted
from the shades of barbarism to the broad light of
by interchange of the productions of the earth ; to bind
fo as by the ties of interest and of amity, and to retain our hold
[#hem by that moral and physical superiority which we derive
= ‘excellence of our climate. DE MAULEN,
pe CORE #0, 1756. HH

ao oo
ts, armies,

sceptre, as we sec them in a waxwork
Simon is worth a whole library of these
that magic mirror, we behold the men :
Court living, breathing entities, in th *
know them far more intimately than we°00"
quaintances.

‘The nearest approach we have to those
cour own language are those of Lord
glimpses of royalty in undress, and peeps
life that would have been worthy the pen of M.
propose to draw a few sketches of George IL, his
Prince of Wales, as they appear in these pages,
and other gossips of the period.

George IL. inaugurated his reign by burning
unopened, at the council; justifying this pro
observation that his father had done the same
Every reader of English history knows what was:
calibre of this king. He hated literature of a
neither his wife nor any of his daughters dared be:
in the criminal act of reading, Books were as
Court as though they had been partisans of the |
throughout his life befriended but one literary
Voltaire, who during a visit to London was redu
in consequence of the failure of a house of business:
credit, The king sent him a sum of
name to the subscription for the“ Hentiade””

of the Last Century. 467

was well seconded by its minister, Sir Robert Walpole.
were the days when Johnson and Savage wandered houseless
ithe London squares, when Chatterton wrote long essays for a
ie le Raceeetecegeed Art in all its branches was
George. Garrick in Riciard failed to interest him ;
Tnibatylemsedt with the Lord: Mayer, and applauded bist
ly. “I like dat Lord Mayor; when will we come again?” he
jel to repeat from the time that functionary made his exit
end of the play. In everything appertaining to painting,
‘or decorative art he had no more taste than a Dutch boor.
possessed someartistic feeling,and once, when her royal lord
tin Hanover, caused some wretched daubs to be removed
walls of Kensington Palace ; among others a fat, hideous,
: cing Venus—and replaced them by some masterpieces of
iyke and others. When His Majesty returned he was very angry
change, and insisted upon the daubs being restored, even the
‘which, he told Lord Hervey, who had assisted in the work,
much better than anything he had given instead of her.
prejudices were of the most pronounced description.
lish or French cook could dress a dinner ; no English con-
‘could sct out a dessert; no English player could act; no
eeachman could drive, or English jockey ride; nor were
horses fit to be driven or fir to be ridden ; no Eng-
Knew how to come into a room, and no Englishwoman
dress herself ; nor were there any diversions in England,
Of private ; nor any man or woman in England whose con-
ition was to be borne. Of course all these things were in per-
to Hanover, “Tn truth he hated the English, looked ‘upon
“all as being king-killers and republicans, and grudged them
‘a8 well as their liberty.”
‘was lot quite so coarse in his amours as his father. Mrs.
5 afterwards Lady Suffolk, and Lady Yarmouth, were the
sultanas, He had some trouble with the refractory husband
former, and Hervey tells us how he came one night to St.
and vociferously demanded his wife, holding forth upon his
im the quadrangle before all the Guards. But he sold his
ultimately for twelve hundred a year. The king visited her
Fevening at nine; he was most precise and punctual in all his
never being before or after his time ; and if he happened to
gaged a little sooner than usual, he would walk about with
dg his hand until ir pointed to the minute.
“qeeen was very tolerant of these amours ; she cared for
uN?

the king was ill-judged while she was at C
behaviour to me in leaving it.” She had
of the king’s neglect, “I told her,"
same interview, “that she and I were no
sort of things in such a romantic way.
Suffolk, you are the best servant in the
extremely sorry to lose you; pray take a
business, and give me your word not to

A Royal Trio of the Last Century. 469

Pin that respect, he allowed his mistresses little or no
In that the queen reigned supreme. Sir Robert
8000 discovered this fact, and while the courtiers, unable to
= the idea that 2 wife could be more powerful than a mistress,
ying homage to Lady Suffolk, he attached himself to the
d therein lay the secret of his influence, for she, and not
was sovereign of England. Yet she played her game so
never dreamer! of it, although the lampoons and satires
he period were always betwitting him with the fact.. The queen
minister arranged everything beforehand, yet made it appear
from himself, for he was very jealous both of his marital
kingly prerogative. And so a very pretty comedy was con-
acted between the three, of which Horace Walpole gives

nt sketch :—
queen governed him by affected tendemess and dissimula-
“She always affected, if any one was present, to act (and he
she should) the humble, ignorant wife, and never meddled with
Even if Sir Robert Walpole came in to talk of business,
ch she had previously settled with him, she would rise up, curtsy,
offer to retire; the king generally bade her stay, sometimes not.
‘and Sir Robert played him into one another's hands; he would
to take the advice of the one, and then, when the other talked
B again on the same point, he would give the reason for it
had been suggested to hats nay, he would sometimes produce
iis own, at another conversation to tle same person, the reasons
he had refused to listen to when given him. He has said to
ert on the curtsies of the queen, ‘There, you see how much
jermed 1 am by my wife, as they say | am. Ho, ho} it is a fine
indeed to be governed by one’s wife |’ ‘Oh, sir, replied the
#1 must be vain indeed to pretend to govern your Majesty.’”
Her Majesty was something of a blue-stocking, and held her
which Coxe describes, in his “ Life of Marlborough,” as being
@ picture of the motley character and manners of a queen
Teamed woman. She received company at her toilette, that
the fashion of all the great ladics of the time; learned men
divines were intermixed with courtiers and ladies of the house-
5 the conversation turned on metaphysical subjects, blended
‘repartees and sallics of mirth, and the tittle-tattle of a drawing-
While she dressed, prayers were read in an ante-room, in
hung the plete of the naked Venus. Once, when the
its closed the door while she was changing her under-
the chaplain stopped, The queen sent out to know ‘he.

said to have acquitted herself of the task with ©
“ Her first thought on her marriage,” says:
“was to secure to herself the sole and whole d
and to that purpose she counterfeited the most ¢
for his person, yet, at the same time, was so devoted
that, whenever he thought proper to find them with

even loved whoever was instrumental to his

resented anything but what appeared a want of f
“Madam,” said the Archbishop of York to her

been with your minister, Walpole, and he tells me
women, and do not mind your husband's having a
bad for an archbishop !

Nothing could be more dull and monotonous than
life of their Majesties, With the exception of that
within the State routine, they kept little or no society.
in the country, and twice a-week when in town, #
Roncy and his sister, who was governess to the ye
passed an hour or two with the king and queen before ti
to bed. The king walked about the room ss
with the brother, or discussing genealogies with the sister;
queen knotted and yawned, till from yawning she fell to
and from nodding to snoring, Hervey sketches these ro
ticities with an inimitable pencil,
‘One evening Her Majesty was complaining of servant
the expense they entailed when visiting friends, even m
“That is your own fault,” growled her husband, “for m

away his money.” ‘The Chamberlain, who was present,
suggest that liberality was looked for from a queen ™
stop at home,” retorted George ; “you do not see me ®
every puppy's house to see his new chairs and nes ‘Nor
for you to be running your nose everywhere, and
town to every fellow that will gve you some bre

a be repressed. Some nights he would lie down
his clothes, but when she grew irritable with pain he

“ How the devil can you expect to sleep when you

(ila moment?” One morning he came into the chamber
d her gazing on vacancy with dull, glazed eyes: “You look

his throat cut,” he said elegantly. Sometimes he kept

h the Princess Emily and Sash in night-gown and cap,

t upon a chair before the fire, and, heedless of the sick

in, rated without intermission upon ce wonderful courage and

“One night the princess pretended to fall asleep until he

‘toom, then looked up and complained bitterly how much

d a bored by his tedious stories, and expressed an opinion

¥y were’all lies, that his bravery existed only in his own ima-

uid that he was as much frightened in battle as she would

a nice family, taking them for all in all. But George

9 very lavish in praises of his dying spouse, and declared that

‘only woman in the world who would have suited him for

nd if she had not been his wife he would sooner have had

i mistress than any other woman in the world. When she

she urged him to marry again, but he protested with many

p would never do 30; he would rather have a couple of mis-
* Mon Dieu, cela ne Sempéche pas !” was her reply.

er the queen's death the clockwork monotony of the Court

iller than ever, Every evening at nine the king had cards

sh apartments with Lady Yarmouth, the princess, and

‘of her Jate Majesty's ladies in waiting. Every Saturday

nant at the idea of their

the king was compelled to comply. But he n

the prince had contracted. There had been |

between them, according to the tradition of the

hate the eldest born, and the second George observed.

as did his father, Prince Frederick arrived in E
being then in his twenty-second year. ‘There had be:
marriage afoot between him and the Crown Princess,
had an old grudge against his royal brother of Prussia,

to thwart it. There seems to have been something of love
the two young people ; poor Wilhelmina would have

lot that would have removed her from the tyranny and

of her father, for Frederick William thought nothing of simi
at her head that might have killed her, or of holding ber!
while he flogged her.

The bride ultimately chosen for the prince was the
Augusta, the daughter of the Duke of Saxe-Gotha. She
young when she came to England. No female friends acco
her, and at Greenwich there were only a few officers and
waiting to receive her ; the prince was not punctual, and
wait some time before he arrived. She was then
queen's house in the park; but neither their Majesties
princesses were there to receive her; they sent their eo
instead, and hoped she was well. Poor gith! it was 2 i
welcome to a strange country ; and she such a child, too, tht)
after her marriage she would play half the day with = big
dress and undress, and fondle it at the windows of &
Palace. ‘Things were better, however, when she came to Lae
where the nuptials were celebrated amidst great rejoicing, E@
curious picture of the manners of the period on such occasions
refer the reader to Hervey’s book,

Very soon after his twartiage the prince began to agitatele?

=

r wine ofed to give up the stecesion of Hanover
) annuity: *'The mean fool, the
imo saan URRY ark

n Bo mout ne eyes, but if he likes to pull one of
himself, and give it to my dear William, I am satisfied ; I
fe L shall not hinder him, 1 shall jump at it; for though,
en you and I, I had.as lief go and live upon a dunghill myself
)to Hanover, yet for William it will be a very good morsel; and
#90,060 a year, 1 dare say the king will be very glad to
it; and if the silly beast insists upon it, I will give him
@ more, the half of my revenue, and live as I can upon
and pennies.”
‘There was an extraordinary to-do at the birth of the first child.
ill the royal family were at Hampton Court, he and the princess
ithe rest ; everything was prepared for her accouchement. But
o ving an intimation that the event was close at hand,
gh it was midnight, the prince ordered a carriage to be ready, and
of her condition had the unhappy lady conveyed from
om Court to St. James’s, in order to annoy his parents, At
inthe morning the queen arrived. “The gracious prince,”
Horace Walpole, “ so far from attempting any apology, spoke not
d to his mother, but on her retreat gave her his hand, led her
street to her coach—still dumb; but a crowd being assembled
gate, he kneeled down in the dirt and humbly kissed Her
fy’s hand," much, doubtless, to the edification of the mob, which

and share their meals, When a tax was proposed to meet
ecessities, he exclaimed grandiloquently, “The people have
ough for my family already, and sooner than put them \o

thwart one another were sometimes ludicro
Princess Royal, who was a devoted ad
‘undertook for him the management o

upon which her brother set up an 0

“So generally,” says Warburton, rere \
different Court factions, that the princess €
that half the House of Lords would
orchestra in their robes and coronets.”

of the Last Century. 475

8 being utte —as never scrupling to tell the vilest fialse~
to suit bis present purpose.
Itis surprising how any character made up of so many contra-
ins should never have had the good fortune to have stumbled
any one virtue ; so this heap of iniquity, to complete at once
iformity in vice in general, a3 well a2 its contradictions in par-
pices, like variety of poisons, whether hot or cold, or sweet or
‘was still poison, and never had an antidote." “He had a
(that abhorred him,” says the same authority in another place,
other that despised him, a sister that betrayed him, a brother
berland) set up against him, and a set of servants that neglected
find were neither of use to him nor desirous of being so.”
dear firstborn,” said the queen one day, “is the greatest ass,
‘atest liar, the greatest canadéle, and the greatest beast in the
Sworld, and I heartily wish he were out of it.”
would borrow money from any person who would lend it,
tt a thought of ever repaying it, and would exult in his knavery.
man," he said one day, pointing out a certain individual, “is
the most sensible men in England, yet with all his parts I
just nicked him out of five thousand.”
pom hearing of his mother’s illness he immediately repaired
don, and sent Lord North to the king begging permission to
ber: always hated the rascal,’ cried George, falling into a
S passion, “but now T hate him worse than ever, He wants
alt his poor dying mother, but she shall not sce him." The
4, although dying and knowing she was so, was equally
‘ate. His message had not been communicated to her, and
as wondering he had not sent ; “ but sooner or later," she said,
fh sure we shall be plagued with some message of that sort,
se he will think it will havea good air in the world to ask to
¢, and perhaps hopes I shall be fool enough to let him come
ive him the pleasure of secing the last breath go out of my
by which means he will have the joy of knowing I was dead
(inutes sooner than he could know it in Pall Mall.” She even
anded her attendants that should she in the weakness of her
Boments desire to sce him they were not to obey her, but
€ the request to delirium ; and one of her last cares was to
four to prevent his succession to some property she owned
thmond. The prince was by no means behind his parent in
fability; he sat up all night, and continually sent persons to
€ how she was progressing; and his eager question to every
ger on his return was, “Well, sure, we shall soon have good
she cannot hold out much longer.”

fae el
Pahape vas 2 trae lage aged
detested did not live to mount the throne. Hews Rod ch weeg)

iin guing to-alsep: upon-a,c0uck Letra iettecee
House. The next day he was seized with scrious syn]

Cie, “God, the prince is going!” The ae mneay
foot of the bed, snatched up a candle, but before she go
was dead.
An imposthume had broken which, upon his body being op
the physicians were of opinion had been occasioned by the blo
tennis ball some three years previously. He is said to
posed the Black Prince for his model,
nothing but in dying before his father,” observes Walpole sat
“ He had solicited the command of the army in Scotland dan
last rebellion, though that ambition was ascribed rather to his,
of his brother than to his courage—a hard judgment, for whit &
could he did. When the royal army lay before Carlisle i)
prince, at a great supper that he gave to his Court and his fave |
as was his custom when the princess Jay in, had ordered forte
dessert the representation of the citadel of Carlisle in paste, which lt
in person and the maids of honour bombarded with sugar plums” —
The king was playing cards with Lady Yarmouth when S
news of his son’s death was brought him. He tured pale #8)
whispered to her, “ Il est mort!" then went on playing as if no0a
had happened. He sent a kind message to the princess, howite
One of the numerous epitaphs written upon him ran ghiss =

Here lies Fred, No one would bawe missed bets
Who was alive and is dead ! Hod $t been the whole generation
‘Mad it been his father, ‘Still better for the uation;
Thad much rather; But since it is only Fred,

Had it been his brother, Who was alive and is dend,
Much better than another ; ‘There is no more to be said.

Had it been his sister,
1. HARTON sAKEe

=

_ SOME SAVAGE PROVERBS.

HE German proverb, “Speak that I may see thee,” may be
applied as truly to a whole community as to an individual.

erbs—or, roughly defining, popular sayings—reflect conspicu-
‘the general character of a nation, and constitute its actual code
political, and moral philosophy. Besides the beauty and
from which alone many of them derive an imperishable
‘Gam, they serve asa kind of literature in miniature, in which the
“bor life of a nation is more clearly legible than in its more volu-
gus writings. And in spite of the general resemblance which
to pervade the proverbial lore of the world, arising partly from
| the direct interchange of thought inseparable from international com-
“Gmere of any kind, partly from a uniformity of experience, such, for
‘ample, as has impressed on all people the wisdom of caution and
Trth, there are yct well marked differences in the proverbs of
Mations, which as clearly retain the records of their several histories
lossils retain the forms of extinct animal life. Remarkable, there-
Tite as is the substantial similarity of proverbial codes, of which the
‘Forral characteristic is a high sense of right coupled with a moumfal
of human infirmity, they betray often in the very
of the same idea the individuality of their national birth-
Pte It is obvious that, largely as all modern nations are indebted
la writer like sop for the thoughts they share in common, a far
Wager portion of their wisdom will be due to writers who, like
j or Cervantes, have, from greater familiarity with the
‘Ranners, been more competent to express the feelings, of their
(@untymen, But the way in which good proverbs, like good gold,
find acceptance everywhere, and pass readily into the current coinage
°F different realms, may be illustrated by the fact of the existence in
SOuntries so widely remote as Spain, Arabia, Persia, Afghanistan,
{Md India, of a proverb, second to none in all the essentials of a
S01 proverb, to the effect that “ When God wills the destruction of
7 ant, he supplies it with wings,”*

4 "Ds Dios alas 4 ta hormiga para que se pienta mas sina," is the Spanish
of Foreign Proverts, 210. Compare with Rarbwe’s Persian anh

penalty for bloodshed. It is well known,
play, “The Corsican Brothers,” will rémember, do 0
atime there survived in Corsica the duty of revenge, 1

consequent on the different circumstances of her
impressed on the proverbial philosophy of the t
remarkable contrast to the sentiments of other cout
Italian, extolling the sweetness of revenge, declares it am
God, and, expressing pity or contempt for the man who
or will not carry out his revenge, counsels patience and th
of time and place for its successful execution. Ina proverb, of peteat
ghastly expressiveness, in which you may almost hear the gf
teeth of the assassin, he will tell you thar * Revenge, thougha
years old, still has its milk-teeth.” Such maximsare oning higher
than the pagan African saying, “Hate hath no medicine,” or Be
saying of Afighanistan, “Speak good words to an enen
gradually destroy him root and branch." “How mueh purer t
Ttalian is the German teaching, which declares revenge to] 7
‘wrong, the conversion of a little right into a great injustice, and ® *
in its turn to draw revenge after it! How far nobler still is #

sitive sentiment of Persia, that fo tke revenge for an injury ee
gn of a mean spirit, and that itis casy to return evil for eri tet
the manly thing is to return good for itt ae
‘The contrast conveyed in these proverbs is the mane striking!
that Italy might pre-eminently call herself the Christian, as aga
Germany the heretic, and Persia the infidel, land. ‘Tphas been
that every tenth proverb in an Italian collection contains a selmklt
cynical maxim, and though the beauty and purity of many taal

Hindoostanee Proverbs, i. $65, and ik 283; Thornburn's A fichas Fries 3
and Burckhardt's Arabic Proverbs: ——

proverb is to the effect that a hundred years

maoment's loss of honour; the basest, perhaps, that

9 be a knave, it is worse to be known as one, Tolovea
It his faults ; to associate with the good in order to be

irrespectively of persons, but cvil never, whatever the con-
nt benefit—these are among the highest lessons of Italian
mvee! ‘That among men of honour a word is a bond, and
conscience is as good as a thousand witnesses; that the best ser-
ion is a good life, and that the gains of begging are dearly bought,
‘of the same upright tendency. Yet, over against these,
pervaded by the saddest spirit of universal mistrust,
stter disbelief of any sincerity in friendship, and even
ng selfish or downright wicked conduct. What more
eincholy evidence of this, than is afforded by the following com-
isyings ?—
“He who suspects is seldom to blame,
“Trust was 2 good man, Trust-not a better.
‘those I trust God guard me; from those T mistrust I will guard myself,

wrould have many friends let him test but few.
your secret to your friend, and he will set his foot on your neck.

Ve

) Or, again, what can we think of such maxims as, that it is expedient

itp la fig for your friend buta peach for your enemy ; that the man

b esteems none but himselfis happy as a king ; that public money

‘holy water is the property of all men ; or that with art and knayery

ii may live through half the year, and with knavery and art through
ther half?

‘The Persian proverbs seem to breathe a different moral atmosphere
these, being as generous in character as the Italian are cynical,
display a free spirit of liberality, trust, independence, and, above

of tmithfulness, which is surpassed in no country of Europe. If

Thy it is common to say that a man who cannot flatter knows not

1Ow to talk, in Persia the sentiment prevails that to flatter is worse

ibuse. The Persian, true to the character given of him by
holds boldly, that the man who speaks truth is always at

Sse: that men never suffer from speaking the truth ; that it behoves

hem to speak their minds unreservedly, for that there is no hill is

be

Ash see Stes ee

‘The cure for anger is silence.

A man must cut ont his own garments of rey

Heaven is at the feet of mothers (ie. Hes

‘It is better to die of want than to beg.

‘The liberal man is the friend of God,

Practise liberality, os iay ob so nH
As another illustration of the way in which a 1 ro
condense centuries of history may be instanced the n
periences of mankind touching priests and priesteraft.
other evidence than that of proverbs before him, a fatu
Europe might casily detect a marked difference of
matter between Protestant Germany and the Catholic t
Europe. Not that the latter are wanting in sayings to the |

of their genius, one charging anyone who values

to let into it either a priest or a pigeon; the other dee
human ignorance alone which causes the pot to boil for pri
Spanish experience also is, that it is best neither to have a
for a friend nor a bad one for an enemy, and that it
awake in a land thickly tenanted by monks, But the
much further than this. In German estimation the pricet
who, in company with a woman, may be found at the

the mischief that goes on in the world, and is as little lil
woman to forgive you an injury. For, like the bites of
of priests are hard to heal, so that it is best, if you fight
at all, to beat them to death, If they are ever hot, it is fro
not from work, for they always take care to bless themselves fin
do they pay one another any tithes,

‘The alove comparisons will show how differences of
character, and even how the operation of different forms of faith,
reveal themselves in proverbs. Yet such estimates ms

from so inexhaustible a subject. For not only may
easily attribute to one country alone a saying

gS equally to, or may even have originated in, another,
of selection is somewhat arbitrary, and dependent on
ptions of what a proverb really is. ‘To take the ball on
Anstance, is as genuine an English proverb as to make hay
tihe sun shines, which contains the same idea ; yet whilst the
be heard every day, the other might not be heard once
u. Hence it might escape notice altogether, or if found be
das obsolete. We can consequently, as in other branches of
study, only make use, om ¢rwst, of such data as we have, and,
‘making the fullest acknowledgment of the imperfection of our
i strive after an approximation to, in despair of the attain-
it of, truth.
| If mow we venture to extend the limits of our comparison, to
jin some proverbs of the lower races as well as of the higher, we
illfind therein a strong corroboration of the lesson already learnt
y comparison of the superstitions, myths, and manners. of
societies: namely, that differcnecs of race, colour, and even
sink into insignificance when compared with the in-
affinities which unite the families of mankind, and that
ge is perhaps no phase of thought nor shade of feeling belonging
e higher culture of the world to which we may not find an anti-
@ or even equivalent in the lower. If we take some of the
collected from tribes confessedly low in civilisation, those,
, of West Africa, and compare them with proverbs still preva-
in Europe, we cannot fail to be struck with the strong likeness
them, as well as impressed with the idea, that many actually
common sayings may have had their birth in days of the
and savage antiquity. The immense number of modern
drawn from the observation of the natural, and especially
‘animal, world (a number which must be nearly one out of five),
with the coincidence that the same fact is ‘perhaps the most
‘one in the proverbs collected from West Africa, seems to lend
|Support to such a theory."
‘As an introductory instance let us take savage and civilised senti-
about poverty, a belief in the misfortune of which is written
bisly in every language of Europe. Italian experience says that
1 The Best selection of African proverbs is Captain Burton's Wit and Windom

‘Africa, collected from Bowen's Central Africe, Koelle’s African Native
and other missionary contributions to the stock of human knowledge.

(on coxt. wo 1756, tr

And as the Dutch have learnt that “ Poor folks
little," or the Ttalians, that “The words of the |

that “When a poor man makes a proverh it d

‘Yoruba, in the saying, that “ Poverty destroys a r
and in Accra in the still cleverer proverb, that “A poo
does not sound.”

African proverbs are moral and immoral, bi
precisely a8 are those of more civilised nations. The
the Yorubas, justly observes the missionary, Mr.

the most remarkable of the world,” and indeed the i
powers and moral ideas displayed in West African proverbs |
ought largely | to modify our conceptions of their o tors,

so frequently been declared to attend a low standard of mate
advancement. ‘Their wit, terseness, vividness of illustration,
insight into life, are all alike surprising, ond acquaintance with a
must suggest caution in any estimate of the mental cap |
savages whose languages may have been less investigated, and!
sequently are less known. “It -has always been passing t
who have drawn the most doleful pictures of so-called
especially have asserted the poverty of their language"!
well prove that better acquaintance with the languages of tribe
the Veddahs of Ceylon or the Botocudos of Brazil, pe at
for various reasons almost outside the human family, may
to combine, as Humboldt found was the case with ‘ak once
cinted Carib language, “wealth, gmce, strength, and genil
‘The Veddahs, at all events, who have been placed:
among the lowest of savages, but who are nevertheless i
distinguished by an attachment to monogamy, which 5 most ai
lous, have, in keeping with this matrimonial peculiarity, « pn
* Central Africa, 289. 4
* Oca Peschel, The Roce: of Mankind, tranalation, #50.
=—_

Some Savage Proverbs. 483

Which says, “Death alone can part man and wife.” Yet it was said
of them once, that they were utterly destitute of either religion or
Aarguage.
Compare, for elevation of mind, these Yoruban proverbs with those
aheady noticed as current in Italy:-
He that forgives gains the victory.
‘He who injures another injures himself.

Anger benefits no one.
We should not treat others with contempt?

Qn the other hand, “If a great man should wrong you, smile on
him,” may be compared with the Arabic advice about dangerous
fiends, “ If a serpent love thee, wear him as a necklace,” or with the
Pashto proverb of the same intention, “Though your enemy be a
Tope of reeds, call him a serpent.”
Here are some more proverbs with whose European equivalents
treryone will be familiar :—
Ow Fautrrinptxc.

If you can pull out, pull out your own grey hairs. (Oji.)

Before healing others, heal yourself. (Wolof.
With which we may compare the Chinese :—

Sweep the snow from your own doors without troubling about the frost on
your neighbour's tiles. ‘
ON THE VALUE OF EXPERIENCE.
Nobody is twice a fool. (Accra.)
Nobody is twice ashamed, (Accra.)
He is a fool whose sheep run away twice. (Oji.)
With which we may compare our own—
It’s a silly fish that's caught twice with the same bait.
dr the German—

‘An old fox is not caught twice in the same trap.
‘Who has been bitten by a serpent dreads a slow-worm,

‘o which both Italy and Holland have exactly similar proverbs,

OW PERSEVERANCE,
By going and coming a bird builds its nest. (Qji.)

ith which compare the Dutch—

By slow degrees a bird builds its nest.
The moon does not grow full in a day. (Oji.)

4 Darwin, Descent of Man, ii. 318.

% Captain Burton justly calls attention to the possibility of many Yorban

verbs being relics of the Moslems who, in the tenth century, overran the Soudan,
112

Ox Causation.

{nothing touches the palm-leaves they

Nobody hates another without a csitse.

A feather does not stick without gum. (A Paal

Again, the Turkish proverb, that curses, like
home to roost, ot the Italian one, that, like
back to their starting point, is well matched by the
that “ Ashes fly back in the face of their thrower.’
of travellers to exaggerate or tell lies, impressed as it
human experience, is also confirmed by the Oji proverb, |
who travels alone tells lies.” And the universal belief in #
exposure of falschood conveyed in such proverbs as the
“The liar is short-lived,” the Persian, “ Liars have bad met
or the still more expressive Italian saying, that “The Tar is
caught than a cripple,” finds itself corroborated by the
that “Lies, though many, will be caught by Truth as
rises up.” Even in Affghanistan, where it is said that
attaches to lying fer se, and lying is called an honest man's
while truth can only be spoken by a strong man or a fool, t
also a proverb with the moral that the career of falsehood is sh
That “Hope is the pillar of the world,” that “Te is th

which carries one to hell or heaven," or that *
than after-thought,” all experiences of the Kanuri, a
who think it a personal adornment to cut each side of ther
twenty places, show that there is no necessary conection b
general savagery and an absence of moral culture. A good A}
proverb warns people not to speak ill of their benefactors,’
bidding them to call a forest a shrubbery that has once
shelter, The proverbs already quoted from Yoruba:

* For a collection of Pashto provers see ‘Thoraburn's:

al culture than many savages of other islands or continents is
the fact that all known Africans are acquainted with the

ly at least, are more advanced than the Botocudos of Brazil,
‘still in the age of polished stone implements, From the fact

the Yorubas express their contempt for a.stupid man by
hat he cannot count nine times nine, we are enabled at once
‘them far above such Australian or American tribes as have
for five in their vocabulary. Hence we should not be
in expecting to find among Australian or American
proverbs of so high an intellectual order as abound in
§&, of which the following may be selected as samples —

“Were no clephant in the jungle the buffalo would be large ;

‘The dust of the beffalo is lost in that of the elephant.

Pwo small antelopes beat a big one.
‘Pwo ctocodites do wot live in one hole.
A child ca crush 2 snail but not a tortoise.
| A razor cannot shave itself,
| - You exunot stop the sun by standing before it,
‘When a fish is killed its tail is inserted in its owa mouth,
(Said of people who reap the reward of thelr deeds.)

now the analogy between African and European proverb-
the uniformity of moral experiences and the observation
laws of nature sufficiently account for, let us endeavour to
civilised nations any proverbs which, by the figures in-
im them or their likeness to savage maxims, seem to beara
impression of a barbaric coinage. Onc proverb, a French
‘almost certainly be so explained. It is, for instance, well
(m that lower Faces very generally account for eclipses of either
br moon ‘by supposing them to be the victims of the fury or
fity Of some ill-disposed animal, whom they try to divert by

3

by the Persians, who declare

out of the world, and class |

the by-words of unfaithfulness.
‘The literatures of all countries

of the same unjust nature, Tven.

straw is worth a woman of gold, though |

veut, Dieu le veut,” is as true as it is:

known democratic formula. The li

observation, that, whilst with men

women every venial sin is mortal ;

of arose; and though you will never find her
there is not a ncedle-point’s difference betwixt her
he only keeps silence of what she is ignorant, and

feald be allowed no power, for where a woman rules the devil is
; whilst two women in the same house will agree
r two cats Over a mouse or two dogs over 2 bone.
nish experience on this subject coincides with the Teutonic,
at the expenditure of nearly 30 much spleen, and with seve-
of a happier experience. What can be worse than this
Beware of a bad woman, nor put any trust in a good one;" or

to know as a melon, as little to be trusted as a magpie, as fickle
Sthe wind or as fortune, as ready to cry as a dog to limp, in danger
constantly as a glass, in labour as patient as a mule, is not so des-
#8 the German of any redeeming qualities for her failings. The
d is taught to believe, that with a good wife he may bear any
and that ‘he should believe nothing against her unless
proved, Itisalzo in remarkable contrast to the experiences
‘countries, that in Spain it has become a proverb, that whilst
urried man advocates a daily beating for a wife, as soon as

he takes care of his own,
Female talkativeness appears also to be a subject of lament all
the world, from our own island, where a woman's tongue pro-
D ‘wags like a lamb’s tail, to the Celestial Empire, where it
likened toa sword, never suffered by its owner to rust. Regard
ot @ woman's words, says the Hindoo; and the African also is
trusting his secrets to his wife. ‘The Spaniard believes
‘has only to tell a woman what he would have published in the
; and all languages have sayings to the same effect.

explain, on the bypothesis of d
‘listen hich we’ dono by aie ea

and healthful germs. But what does their |
tion prove? In every case what they are
and ruin of a better and a nobler past.

of degradation which is stamped on the lan

A SLAVE HUNT IN BORNEO.

“upon a time I visited Lingga Fort, in Sarawak, a post
" maintained for no purpose visible unless to show the modest
of Rajah Brooke's sovereignty. His outposts at that
a hundred miles further inland. Brom Lingga I made
in search of game, with but small success. There are
of two sorts, not to mention the pretty palandok,
is an antelope miscalled. Other antelopes exist, with wild
hhoney bears, boars, &c. Linggs, too, isa chosen home of
mis, Ororang-outan. Nests of this huge ape abound, and several
Teame across his sylvan majesty crawling at a giddy height
the branches of a durian.
One morning I set out for a decr-stalking expedition, and re-
several days at a ruinous shanty that stood ina maze of
pasture, with no bush for acres round higher than one’s
fit. Little hills rose about it, cleared to their tops on the hither
g but crowned with lofty trees, A charred stump here and there
the memory of some forest giant which Dyak ingenuity
not overthrow, But even such black witnesses were royally
{tied and diademed, ‘The million sceds which had Jain in hope-
fatadow, rotting beneath the canopy of leaves in a twilight which
could never pierce—each and all of these had sprung to life
‘mun riot in its joy. Delicate orchids shrank and shrivelled in
talare, but sisters less shy and not less beautiful replaced them.
tans twined like snakes through the springing grass; howery
(pers ran along, climbed every bush in endless conyolutions, and
upon its topmost branches in a glory of triumphant blossom.
(the moist ground stood tasselled reeds, which gently curved before
Ubreaths of breeze. The long grey grass moved like slow waves
fancing. Through hours of intolerable heat I watched the purple
{dows moying round the trees; I heard the call and twitter of a
fusind birds ; I saw the lazy, jaunting butterflies dance sleepily
{cup tocup, Then the red sunset streamed into my valley, and
fed the flowers, mist rose, the jungle lifted up its voice, And I
feonseions of a great enjoyment, though of all the deer that made
ht musical not one could I approach by day.

conspirator would oppose if he
success, i

downright treasonable, For this on
Harris the courtesy of a visit, but bowed:
of his house. ‘This was much the han
miles round—a large wooden building,
with hewn-log steps to the verandah |

green ji Standing

apoke a few words of courtesy, smiled, and held out
declined it, walked inside, and sat on the divan,

e behaved to an officer of the Rajah's government like a
"he said, brusquely—a boatman with Malays is a type

, 3 the cabman with ourselves,

e Hadji’s face paled, but he said nothing.
-send to complain of mischief done to your plantations,”
and when I come to assist you, no curtains arc
F me; NO food is sent me—I am treated like a slave, How

0 Hadji
fy house is not worthy of your lordship’s residence.
| *And so you send me into the Dyak huts, “Your house isindeed
orthy; for,” continued Harris, quoting from the rhythmical code of
land eithics called the Lontar,***the dwelling of the churl is a

fis speech, delivered in a low tone with perfect coolness, struck
with horror, ‘Their rules of conduct demanded that he
to kill or be
Perhaps the Hadji had learned more sense in his pilgimage—
ps the Iuxury of fifteen wives had sapped his courage. He
neither by word nor act, whilst Harris, bowing, tumed to go.
Sure his eyes were about him, however, and my old knife ready
hand. ©The Hadji returned his salute mechanically. As Harris
‘Out he became aware that some members of the hareem had
ind'what passed, for loud and exeited whisperings came from a
iin which bellied and twisted with the eager movements of those
nd it.
he Malays followed their master back in silence, too much awed
Angry words are rare in the intercourse of that strange
though angry deeds arc common enough. But after Harris
d in, they whispered the whole night through, keeping watch
Dpertiim Nearly ten years of life in Homeo had taughe my filend
“ithe tisk of speaking as he had, but it had taught him also thas there

mothers of a generation still to be ran
louder—these had a foot of brass wire or so for
aloo did their united voiccs raise, that Harris ste
whole contingent, and went on with his Malays
An instinct transmitted by ages of oppression still
to make clearings round his house. He would hide |
and the fruitful evidence of his industry. Daylight
through the thick canopy of leaves above the path
until all the open ground lay clear in the white radJance:
Half an hour's walk brought the party to that low hill whe
Mummin and others had an ancestral orchard. Mangos
gosteens were there, loquats, huge durians, lancets, ram
endless list of fruit. Here, of course, dwelt the mias, and they
scattered to seckhim, Harris kept the path alone,
the hunters might keep pace with him in the thick und
scarcely were they lost to sight, when a woman stepped hi
a tree, and salaamed, raising her hands above her head, and tous
forehead, mouth, and bosom. ‘
Harris stood surprised. She was dressed like the wife of ana
Malay, in silk and native cloth. ‘The handkerehief thrown actos’
face revealed one fine eye and a rounded cheek.
that he “was in” for an unpleasant scene. Sudden
tuan putih ace not quite unknown to fair Malays, and their recle®
ness in avowing the sentiment is apt to cause trouble.
“What is your family, p'rampuban ?” asked Harris, | th
formula of a people who think it insult to demand a name direct
“Tam a Milanau, and I was the slave of Hadji Murmmin.
freed me by marriage, and I divorced him six months since, ball
will not let me go. Therefore 1 appeal to the white lord, whou =
elephant, a lion,” &e,

Here was a situation! In all countries where slavery exists #8)
the dread of white officials. No act of theins js regarded Naima
universal jealousy and rage as the slightest interference with BF)

sal

“A Slave Fiunt in Borneo. 738

"The civil magistrate has two laws to ad-
i i en impracticable—and the recognised code
“Most difficult, and indeed dangerous, it is to steer a
‘between these two, for they can never be reconciled, and
) can cither be evaded. Harris tried to sscape his difficulty
ng the woman to return. “What will you do if free?” he
“You will have to work as a slave.”
‘T can go to my own people,” she said, “ or to the missionaries.
me beeause I will not join El Islim, for f ama
‘The Sulus took me as a child, and sold me
hand to hand. 1 ask your protection, tuan !”
“This unexpected statement complicated matters still further.
‘a moment’s thought, Harris called his men about him. The
of them grinned at sight of his companion, but the elder
for an explanation. The woman's dress and covered face
ed her to be Malay of high position, and, of course, Mussul-

‘Harris put the woman in the midst, and started back, very anxious
dannoyed. Before they had gone half-way, the noise of an
g crowd reached their ears, A moment afterwards, Hadji
‘with a dozen of his friends, burst into sight, half the Dyale

enriously following them. ‘There she is 1” the Malays cried,
dtushed forward. Fortunately the path was so narrow that Harris

bar it with his outstretched rifle. The woman screamed, and
med to mun into the bush, but her guardians stopped her.

“Phe Rajah will know of this!" hissed Hadji Mummin, with
ity restraining those loud curses which are forbidden utterance
ithe Malay who respects himself.“ Give me my slave, tuan |”
“Lead on to the village,” replied Harris firmly. “We are not

‘beasts, to dispute in the jungle.”
” Every gentleman Malay admired the dignity of this remark, which
Pquite ini their own style, They drew the Hadji buck, and retired
filenily. It was a picturesque procession that traversed the village.
friends and servants of Hadji Mummin, in gay head-hand
f, jacket, tartan petticoat, and waving sash, surrounded the
‘man, who wore long silk robes and a turban by privilege of his
fipto Mecca. Round them surged a crowd of naked Dyaks, with
hick, birdlike eyes. In the wild excitement of this disturbance, they
Routed, laughed, and shook their arms aloft. ‘The coils of hrazen
the snowy bracelets of shell, the innumerable ornaments and

upon their naked limbs, gleamed in the sun, and jingled.
$ehind the Malays came Harris, very vexed indeed, and bis {oxtvoen

to the state of slavery. Aid in.

that she had left her-child behind.
‘Upon the other side, it was argued:

frightened and shamefaced, that the b

cither a free woman or a wife, by the’

she exercised her natural privilege in ,

the later, her divorce was valid, by the:

notice, since she owed no dowry nor

denied with indignation, asking how it

fuel on ott sides, and it-lay with him to

| spectators, even the defendant herself, after that

c betel-nut assiduously, The only motion was

‘jms, the only sound their eternal salivation, and the

of the hospitable box pushed from hand to hand along

As Harris, with thoughtful dignity, put his pipe down to

gment, a great paw touched his shoulder. ‘he white-

had crept behind unnoticed, as many a time,

-he had crept behind an enemy. “ My warriors are all

bd)" he whispered ; “give the word, and no Malay shall be alive
minutes.”

Rajah knows your loyalty, Orang Kaya,” Harris annonnced

L “We are all his servants, and those who are faithful obey

‘Fo the Rajah 1 refer this cause, and he will do justice, I shall

woman to Kuching, and you, Hadji, will follow.”

in the Malays present expected so great a chief to run amok,

iin he disappointed them. ‘The Hadji tumed green, his eyes

re fittle, but he wore a smile on rising. His friends regarded

with visible contempt, and crowded down the ladder uncere-

| There was no more thought of mias hunting. The Hadji might
b coer but those about him would strike a blow if they saw the
Tt ix not always the slave-owner who shows himself
Sratged at interference with the sacred right. The very
‘were indignant, though discipline restrained them, and their
ce might be unaffected. Such a force is the institution of
ey for disintegrating all relations social and loyal. Harris knew
j expression of his people, and reflected with some anxiety on
ak before: him.

When he passed the doorway of the Pangarin house, he saw all
Dyak warriors ranged below, stripped and armed for fight, ‘The
‘stood in a little group at bottom of the ladder, afraid to ad-
WRncey imstif'the Hadji suddenly pressed through them and walked
(Grails his house between the ranks of spearmen. At a word the
Drang Kaya dismissed his militia, which scattered in disappointment,
() de was bur three days’ journey to Lingga, but the route lay
he & country scarce peopled. No possible reinforcement cows

=

year offered no serious obstacle to a cs

‘been otherwise, Hadji Mummin would

spot, fora Malay shut off from water cw
When a large canoe had been quietly prepared, at
little Dyaks sat with paddles poised, Harris: d

saving, of course, the missionaries. A messenger
discover me, for I had gone further inland, r
deer which made themselves so distinctly audible every:
had no time to lose, The Orang Kaya informed him,
that Hadji Mummin had left Sabuyong but a few
departure. Leaving his charge at the fort, Harris
mission at Banting.

Needless to say that the good folks there were
excited about these events. Christian slaves are
Sulu and even in Brunei, but they seldom are ei d
the coast as Sarawak, With fervid courage these kin
and ladies offered to brave all Islam in arms if Harris)
the girl with them ; but the rashness of their proposal waa |
when he asked what escort the mission could afford him.
such a purpose, two Chinese youths and a Dyak boy
resources, None of these had met sights more
angry cletgyman, and Harris concluded that upon the
would be safer without their aid. The mission had boats,
and crews thereto belonging—people keep a boat
as they keep a carriage in England. Harris accepted a |

Hunt in Borneo, 497
o¢ for his charge. He could not travel with

awoman to bear her company, and in process of
ne turned up, only twelve hours behind time—which

reliable for a row, and two Dyak chiefs of his
sce the capital—these would certainly
the sampan numbered six, of whom he
missionaries little more. The canoe was
three men, the ex-slave, and her
the attack to be made, if such a bold
should be decided, between Lingga and the river mouth.
d, therefore, in broad daylight, and kept the middle of the
which is a mile and a half broad. Plenty of boats they
‘usual, for the Batang Lupar is most frequented and populous
| the fine rivers in Borneo. Nightfall saw him at the delta,
‘open sca before, and danger passed. But Harris would run
and he resolved to spend each night ashore, since there was

jon to show an enemy approaching.

A A wooded island rises opposite the Batang Lupar, called Trissau.
p passed it next morning Harris observed a large prau lying in the
rofitstrees. ‘There was nooncon board, but, glancing back, h

‘crew come out and clamber into her. Nothing suspicious in

d when Harris saw the vessel hoist her sail, and scud seawards
pre the wind, he paid no more attention, His own course lay
beg shore, at just such distance as cleared him from cape to cape.
fe day passed without adventure, and before sunset he turned at
angles, making for the beach. His crew grumbled a little, for
ng entailed a heavy pull, but there was nothing to cause

‘The night passed quietly, so did the next day and the next,
and shore, Many vessels were seen at a distance, and many
passed within hail. A straight run of three days will take a

is from the mouth of the Batang Lupar to that of the Sarawak,
‘the way Harris was steering, it could not be done under a

On the fourth morning, an examination of the chain showed
‘the staple holding it was broken. Harris scrutinised suspiciously,
tthe fracture was quite clean, and the stolidly careless faces of the
fedisarmed him. With a malediction on dishonest blacksmiths,
‘iris replaced the chain with a rattan, and started. It was a
‘ely moming, Stimulated by the bright air, the breeze, and whis-
WL COXL NO, 1756. KK

a

Without wasting ca Neen
unshipped. It was scarcely done when

in a screech of wind, wrested the mast and
the sampan gunwale under,

the fastening of the kajongs, which whizzed

swamp her, ‘They surged up im one simu Ss bos
moment's space the ripples swelled to pondérous”

Sheets of rain skimmed along the sea, mist and
boat like a curtain. Thought is scarcely quicker
But as that veil closed round, Harris saw, or believed he
emerge from that whirling darkness, and shoot acr
He crawled hurriedly to the tow-rope—it eame loose to his’

For half an hour they ran before the storm. A soaked
held by men prostrate in the bows kept the sampan ling at
awful rate, The Malays had all stripped to swim ; through &
chattering with cold, they commended they souls to Alli
shouted unmeaningly as inaudibly. Almost as suddenly as it!
begun, the hurly-burly ceased, For some moments more the
then lightened, then gave over—the mist vanished—and
top of mountainous rollers they saw land at fifty yards? di
they saw also the canoe beating upset on the sands, and a lange)
just making shore beside it

Harris snatched a paddle and turned his sampan to &
Summoned by their master’s cull, Dyaks and servants
for the crew sat uncomprehending or unwilling. It was a ace
ill-matched, The pursued had more men, but a heavier beat,
both together came as near the sands as it Was safe to went
without waiting an opportunity, At that point the other a
suddenly leaped overboard, abandoning their vessel. ‘Harr
hesitate. Gripping my knife between his teeth, he p into
rollers, dived, found footing ; Winded, willed, be

| were quicker. With a cry of fury and dismay,
sd Haris advancing. He recognised the Hadji, and,
tushed at him. But Malays are not easily
forest. Some ran to the near jungle, others,
|‘Hadji, dashed again through the surf, gripped their vessel
(a the rollers, and swung themselves aboard. They caught
(eddies, those still in the water shoved, and before justice
Ach them they had recovered contro! of their prau. Harris
tdeep into the surf Swung off his legs, he swam, But it
tse. The Hadji leaned over and mocked him as the boat
Beers ease effort of rage, Harris struck with all his
(Perhaps he injured his enemy—for certain, he made a great
aoe of my knife.
what feces of the fugitive?” asked everyone in Sarawak,
is adventure was reported.
tannot tell,” Harris used to answer. “T half think I saw
bmen lying in the prau, but it may have been fancy.” The
would care very little whether his slave was recovered
(dead. If it was the former case, 1 pity her, for Malay laws
torture do not apply to runaways. Hadji Mummin was not
Fs0 long as I stopped in the country, and his fifteen wives
d, not disconsolate it was given us to understand, in a state
whood.

WREDERICK BOYLE.

nn?

add, on the authority of Sir Bernard Burl

in the hands of the elder branch of the Fdgeu
down from sire to son, in unbroken mal
cightcenturies, In 1353 William E 0
Edgeumbe, “of that ilk,” as they say in

the hand and heart of a fair Cornish heiress,
William, or Ralph, de Cothele, the owner
Cothele. It appears that she was given "
the Black Prince, who disposed of his guard

“so that she married without disparagement

a husband of her own rank, There are

young lady exercised on this occasion her own fr

of Edgcumbe and Cothele. sox

te mmmer morning, when she became Mistress Edgeumbe, has
Sted in its consequences to the present hour, for the house and
bods of Cothele ave since owned no other lords than the Edg-
immbes through well-nigh twenty generations,

Little is known of the personal history of Sir William and the
Hilaria ; but about their great-grandson—who was distinguished
day as a soldier and a statesman—there is a romantic story,
‘may not be void of interest to my readers, First, however, I
‘briefly describe the house itself, which is one of the most eurious

|striking in the west of England, and like to no other mansion

which I am acquainted, except Ightham Moat, near Sevenoaks,
it presents a very striking resemblance in many of its details,
‘as in its general outline.

‘The edifice, which is of stone, and built like a college, in the
‘of a quadrangle, dates from the reign of Henry VII., a time
the feudal castles of the Wars of the Roses were passing by a
transition into the manor-houses of the Tudors. The entrance
tus through a stone archway into a small quadrangular court ;

in beneath a large square tower surmounted with battlements,
n either side are the principal rooms. Access to some of these
Vigined through the great hall, a lofty, open-roofed apartment,
‘of so feet by 30, and which still displays all the char-
fic appendages of feudal dignity, In the windows are em-
ts of the arms of the Edgeumbes and their various
‘Suits of ancient armour, both plate and mail, once worn
the heads and various members of the family, still hang on the
much as they must have hung three hundred years ago,
led by pikes, halberds, arquebuses, swords, bows and arrows,
id other implements of warfare ; and at the lower end of the hall
the figure of an ancient warrior, doubtless an Edgcumbe,
all cap-d-pie, On either side are spoils of the chase, including
heads, stags’ horns, and elephants’ tusks, acquired more

in other lands.
|The chief apartments are hung with tapestry, and they are $0
{mished as to be in keeping with the building, the articles being
(osily relics of “the olden time.” There is a fine scriesof old family
(Ottmaits on the grand staircase ; and the bed in the state bedroom
feovered with an ancient altar-cloth of rich crimson velvet, em-
Widered with figures of the twelve Apostles. This altar-cloth
adomed the family chapel, which forms part of the
(adrangle, and to which it might appropriately be restored. Among
© various specimens of antique art which adorn the rooms are

are especially fine, and, pcre u
ready to dispute with the proudest of the oaks:

Beneath the woods which clothe the :
fringe the western bank of the Tamar, there is
meadow, near the Ianding-plice by which the ho
niently approached. In this meadow, not ten
side, stands a plain. and unpretending little, ts
sail or row by it might take fora summer-house or |
once, no doubt, its roof was surmounted by the eroms.
a votive chapel, like those which we see-on the b
and it was built to commomorate a yery ron
befel Sir Richard Edgcumbe, the great-grandson of
It is, however, very highly prized not only by its
the neighbouring villagers, all of whom regard it as @
dium, though few of them would like to enter ite walls
nightfall. For is it not built in a dell which is |
pixies and other fairies?—and is not the ghost of its:
Richard de Edgcumbe, occasionally seen to visit it, d
whose nostrils breathe out fire? With your readers’
will tell the story which this chapel commemorates as
in the very words of the present Lord Mount Edgeus
which he read a few months since, before the British
Association, within the walls of Cothele itself °

The Sir Richard Edgeumbe, to whom T refer, ns. ind
only the owner of Cothele, but also member for rs

across the river, at Beer Ferris ; for the Lords of Moun
have among their archives a *plaiaty or indictment, pr

de. It is nota little singular ana
Edgcumbe—apparently having left off this unneigh-
years afterwards held high places together at the

y what part Richard Edgcumbe took in the struggles
few months, which ended in the defeat of the Lancastrian
e: j, and the retirement, in consequence, of the young,
ond to Brittany, But it is on record that some twelve
wards he joined in the rising against Richard IIL, which
Dy the Duke of Buckingham, and of which the fair city
became one of the centres. And now follows the incident
little votive chapel was"built to commemorate,
gnion of the insurrectionary forces being prevented by the
pof the Severn, the Duke of Buckingham was taken and be-
d. and of his followers some were executed and the rest dispersed,
then that Richard Edgcumbe was pursued into the woods of
hele by a party headed, according to the local tradition, by Sir
Trenoweth, of Bodrigan, and narrowly escaped with his life,
his cap weighted with a stone into the river from the
he lay concealed, so that the “hangers,” ie. the execu=
who were fast at his heels, on looking down into the river
his cap floating down the stream, supposed that he had
Ahimself in despair of escaping their hands by any other way.
sly they gave oyer their hunt after the fugitive, and with-
(Saltash of sorneneighbouring village to drink King Richard's
thereby leaving Sir Richard at liberty to effect his escape.
being the case, it is no matter of wonder that he should have
them the slip by taking ship to Brittany, where he rejoined the
het in whose cause he had taken up.arms.
1485 the Earl of Richmond, as every reader of history well
hows, returned in person to England, in order to wrest the crown
the usurper, Richard. On this expedition he was accompanied
i Edgcumbe, who, after the battle of Bosworth Field, was
@ knight-bannerct and appointed comptroller of the king’s

» He also received various other honours and offices, and |

describing how the Itish nobles
him off with all sorts of evasions and e3
how at last, when they proposed to take it in

chaplain of his own consecrating the Host u
sworn ; how, even then, he could not get them
their promises of fealty and recognizances wi
and terrible words” to enforce his demands,

of Edgeumbe and Cothele. 505

befriended Henry VII. during his exile, died, after
the French, at St. Aubyn, and Lord Willoughby de
placed in command of 6,000 men, who were sent to the
¢ of his daughter, the Duchess Anne. Sir Richard, on this
‘ent to inspect and to report upon the condition of the
from Cornwall, and he soon afterwards went over to Brittany,
(te, however, he never lived to-return, dying at Morlaix in 1489.
fe setting sail from Penryn he made his will, at the beginning of
bhe entrusts and commends his soul to St. Thomas & Becket,
& effigy appeared on his monumental brass at Morlaix, of
there is a copy in facsimile in his little chapel at Cothele, the
having been destroyed when the church which contained it
and desecrated during the first French Revolution,
it is time that T proceeded to describe the little chapel itself
fail. We enter—it is happily broad daylight, and the sun shines
ea the deep folinge on the chequered walls. Our eyes
‘with an inscription on the northern wall to the following
| —
[Richard Edgcumbe was driven to hide himself in those his thicke woods,
‘@werlook the river, what time being suspected of favouring the Earl of
fondle party agsinet King Richard the Thind, hee was hotely pursued, and nar.
searched for; which extremity taught him a sudden policy, to put a stone
ap, and tumble the same into the water, while these rangers were close
heels, who, looking down after the noyse, and secing his cap swimming
fh, gave over thelr farther hunting, and left him at liberty to shift away, and
‘eer jote Brittaine ; for a gratefal remembrance of which delivery, hee after:
builded in the place of his lurking, a chappel.
thapel walls are adorned with several old paintings; and on the
Still stands, just as though the Puritans of the sixteenth and
(teenth centuries had never existed, a gilt crucifix, anda little figure
hard Edgcumbe’s patron saint, St. Thomas a Becket, carved in
| ‘The east window displays some painted glass representing
trucifixion, a female saint, St. George with the Dragon, and the
[bf the Edgeumbes ; while on the south wall is a painted memorial
| Richard himself, the founder.
\he story of Sir Richard Edgcumbe’s escape is thus told by Cyrus
ling in his “Illustrated Itinerary of Cornwall." Having gained
le upon his pursuers, the thought struck the knight just as he
led the summit of the rock whereon the chapel stands, to put 2
(into his cap and fling it into the stream below, while he at the
time slipped down the face of the rock ; for, although the rock
Of @ fearful height, roots, trunks, and branches of trees were
{ng out of the chinks, by which it was easy to descend some

site of the village which had been.
and of which the yery site and name

Another curious story, but one of 1
Cothele, It was here that the mother o
first Baron so created in 1742, was sin
She had been ill, had apparently expired, an
deposited in the family vault. ‘The interment
knew that a gold ring was upon her finger,
opening the coffin, proceeded to dislodge the
and in so doing pinched the finger, perhaps
at once he observed the body move; he
fled, leaving his lantern behind him. ‘The i
sufficiently to make her escape out of her coffin, a1
place of her interment. She regained her health
son five years after this singular event. It may, t
supposed, as the question has been sceptically raised, th
was glad to have back again -

His late espoused saint
Brought to him, like Alcestis, from the dead. 4
It may be added, for the benefit of tourists and
yenerable mansion of Cothele is situated only a
Plymouth, between Saltash and Callington, and about #
the north of Pentillie Castle, about which, 100, a st
Cothele is quaintly described by Carew, in his
as “anciente, large, strong, and fayre, and ts
necessaries of wood, water, fishing, parkes, and ;
tion (in times past) of a riche furnished chapelle,
alms-houses for certain poor people whiché the owne
teleive,.” eDWé

TABLE-TALK.

question, What proportion of the dramatic work of the day

is likely to rank as literature? scarcely admits of a ready
3 Asa compensation, perhaps, for the immediate reward he
both in pleasure and profit, the successful dramatist has to
Hlonger than any other literary craftsman before he can know how
jhe impression he has made upon the'age is abiding. .On the
ngth of such assertions as that in the Aefrospative Review,
{ “while the first edition and sheets fof ‘Paradise Lost" were
‘struggling through the mists of bigotry and party prejudice
public reputation, the poems of Cleveland were poured forth in
impressions,” it has been maintained that an age cannot

a correct estimate of its great men. Fact, however, refutes the
ty. The greatness of Dante, of ‘Tasso, and all the Italian poets
acknowledged in their own day. Voltaire in France and Goethe
lermany held in their lifetime the position subsequently accorded
4. ‘The verdict of the seventeenth century upon Dryden and
lof the eighteenth upon Pope have not been reversed. We know,
(that the position of such men as M. Victor Hugo, Mr. Swin-
\ and Mr. Tennyson is secure. It would be easy to carry
Jer the illustration, and show that all the active workers in litera-
| may, as a rule, enjoy a forctaste of immortality, except the
fatist. It is, of course, not doubtful that works like “Le Roi
tuse” or “ The Blot on the Scutcheon” will retain the position in
ture already accorded_them. ‘The plays of Sheridan Knowles,
ighs Jerrold, Taylor (the author of “ Philip van Artevelde"), and
d Lytton have established a foothold in letters. How about the
ings, however, of living dramatists? Dr. Westland Marston's
‘shave been collected, as have those of Mr, Gilbert, while Mr.
4 Taylor's historical dramas will shortly be published. Does the
of their appearing in volumes justify them in claiming to be
@ure? An American critic mentions with naive surprise that
Gilbert's plays ‘are very good literature indeed.” Has he ever
(Dr. Marston's plays? I am disposed to. ask. That Mr. Charles
de’s dramas will be included in a collected edition of his works

English tongue which all men of English d
to honour. A Shakeepearian prize offered
the Governor of New South Wales, has jus
University of Sydney to Mr. J. Oliver, BA.

Table-Talk,
. hand of grain from the vacant chaff” of

alterations of those who supply fog and call
To return, however, to my text, the precedent that is
might with advantage be followed in England.

NOTHER example not less worthy of imitation is furnished by

‘the Government of New South Wales, which has given a com-

on to Mr. Woolner, R.A. for a bronze statue of Captain Cook,

dinacommanding position near Hyde Park, Sydney. The

undraped as yet, is in the studio of the artist. It is 13 feet

ht, and will stand upon a pedestal of 22 fect. One hand

ynavigator grasps his telescope, the other is extended in salu-

ion to the land of which he is the discoverer. His face is lighted
that of

‘Stout Corter, when with cagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific.

‘the rapture of the gaze is, however, blended a tenderness almost
Sonoble is the work, so far as it has progressed, I am half in-

to grudge it to its future possessors. No site, however, can be

te appropriate to it than the placc on which the eye of the navigator
tested. There will be this further advantage, moreover, that if
pinner extends his travels, and enlarges his notes, he may
reatlers of the Gentieman's with a description of this com-
figure, accompanied by the reflections it is likely to suggest.

ITH regard to these Gentlemen Helps," said a respectable
‘maiden lady to a very witty matron (with daughters), whose
tance I am proud to boast of, ‘‘ you may depend upon it that
fey will never stoop to low menial work.”
| “My dear Madam,” was the reply, “ it is the Hymencal work that
‘afraid of their rising to.”

R the very earliest date at which we hear in English litera-
ture of the Turk, which is not very long after his first appear-

Europe, we find his name associated with all that is most

'and savage. Shakespeare mentions the nose of ‘Turk a2 1

Sultan of the Seljuk Turks. His son, Or
blish Mchammedan power in’

fixed the Ottoman capital in Hadrianople.
his race to take the name of Sultan,

LITERARY friend of mine,

Ticncesin print, gave me some very curiousit
the general absence of humour in the North.
beggar had stood on the North Bridge in the
years, with a placard on his breast, “Blind from m
seen better days,” without a single individual
contradiction in terms involved in that s1
‘out; when the man was deported from the town
In Princes Street there was a fountain, both
around which was sculptured, “ Water is not for
a Scotchman in the place perceived (until he call
it) that it was an encouragement to spirit-drinking.
Lastly, of the seriousness to which the good |
are prone, he used to relate that, wishing to learn h
he applied for some hand-book of the game ata
seller's; and this is what he got: “The Hand of
plified in the life'of John B. Gough? Nhe workers

&

of what is known as the “Long Firm" seems
‘be a gratifying result of the success of the Inte trial.
expend in the attempt to obtain what does
{to them is known only to those who have anything to
5 a proof of the risk that is run in ordinary com-
irs one experience, which I may almost call personal, since
under ‘my own observation, A London merchant eame
pone districts of Yorkshire, made Some small pur-
‘gave fairly respectable references, He was trusted for
avo, when suddenly he became insolvent. A meeting of
as held, and a composition of ten shillings ‘in the pound
ed. With many tears the merchant explained to the
creditors how his losses were attributable to a scapegrace
(@absconded with his father's property. He told, moreover,
{met with little faith, to the effect that he was likely shortly
ion of considerable property, when his creditors
waid in full. A year or two Tater, to the astonishment of
JIvent was as good as his word. His debts were paid with
da valuable service of plate was given to the worthy man for
htiousness and honesty. Fortified in eredit no doubt by the
proceedings, he re-entered the manufacturing districts,
fold more largely than before, converted at once the
goods into cash, and started to America to join the son
to prepare a home for him. ‘Here, then, is a system
je execution of which occupies years, Tt will be well if
who have at Iength obtained wholesale convictions against
Firm,” will now direct their attention to the robberics of
ich of late have become startlingly frequent. Such
Is those at the Duke of Cleveland’s and elsewhere suggest
more than the pitifirl surroundings of an ordinary burglary.
‘hint of romance about them which would have inspired
hia mew sketch for the Z/istoire des Treize.

we remain in doubt as to the real nature of a Telephone,
it isan instrument by aid of which messages ‘can be
Hy over a large distance we leam. Specch and song
je along its wires or down its tubes, and the delighted
of Salem, Massachusetts, have been able to hear the
inspiring strains of “ Yankee Doodle” played in

the coveted enjoyment would have the r
down,

[oboe ces oe of the
which Professor Barff is now credited.

ments that have recently appeared, he has
treating iron so as to save ft from all of
‘under certain conditions with the magnetic oxide of
is obtained harder than iron, not to be separated fr
incapable of rust. That the time is ripe for the d
granted, and the man who makes it, supposing all |
fulfilled, is entitled to the civic crown we are so chary in

DNS of my recent observations upon the frequ
in theatres, the destruction of the Chesnut-Strect -
Philadelphia supplics a striking proof how terrible
incurred by buildings of this class. It was long of cou
theatre was tolerated in the Quaker city. It is not
until 1798, when what was known as Sailson's Arn
destroyed, that we hear of a calamity of this description.
date and the present year, however, no less than a score theat
concert-rooms in Philadelphia have succumbed to fire. One
should in justice be excluded from the reckoning, since its
tion was attributable not to accident, but to the direct action of a #25)
the Puritan part of which its titlek—Vauxhall Gardens—may be 8}
posed to have provoked,

SYLVANUS UREA

x

THE

*ENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

May 1877.

MISS MISANTHROPE.

BY JUSTIN MeCARTHY,

Cuapter XIII.
A MAN OF THE TIME,

EVERAL days passed away, and Minola heard no more from
Mr. Sheppard. She continued in a state of much agitation ;
der nerves, highly strung, were sharply jarred by the news of the
approaching death of Mrs. Saulsbury. It was almost like watching
outside a door, and counting the slow, painful hours of some
Fingering life within, while yet one may not enter and look upon the
* Pale face, and mingle with the friends or the mourners, but is shut
Out and left to ask and wait; it was like this, the time of suspense
Which Minola passed, not knowing whether the wife of her father
‘Was alive or dead. As is the way of all generous natures, it was
Row Minola’s impulse to accuse and blame herself because there had
been so little of mutual forbearance in her old home at Keeton.
kept wondering whether things might not have gone better, if she
~had said and done this or that ; or, if she had not said and done
Something else. Full of this feeling, she wrote a long emotional
letter to Mr. Saulsbury, which she begged of him to read to his wife,
if she were in a condition to hear it. The letter was suffused with
Renerous penitence and self-humiliation. It was a letter which
Pettaps no impartial person could have read without becoming
Convinced that its writer must have been in the right in most of the
‘COutroversies of the past.

The letter did not reach the eyes or ears for which it was
Particularly intended. Minola received a coldly forgiving answer
Mr. Saulsbury—forgiving her upon his own account, which was

Vor, ccxt. m0. 1757. LL

a

(this, however, was not his word) was a
‘There was nothing left for Minola |
and now try to justify herself, Many a
mind the three faces on the mausoleum in
Life, Death, and Eternity ; and she could
the mere passing through the portal of death e i
figure a cold, narrow-minded, peevish, egotistical
into the soul of lofty calmness and ineffable swee
and love, which the sculptor had set out
humanity's closing state. ~"
Meantime, she kept generally at home, excep
walks in the Park, and her now less frequent visits ti
Museum and to South Kensington, Lucy Money,
absence, hunted her up, to use Lucy's own expre
that she was looking pale and wretched, and th
over to Victoria Street, and pass a day or two there,
ship and change. Mary Blanchet, too, pressed 0
at last she consented, not unwilling to be taken, fore
her self-inquisition and her apxictics for the moment.
made no other acquaintances, and seemed resolute no
but there was always something peculiarly friendly
in the atmosphere of the Moneys’ home. The
been singularly kind to her, and their kindness was
interested. ‘ola could not but love Mrs. Money,
but be a little amused by her; and there was. hin
to her in Mr. Money's strong common sense and
Minola liked, too, the curious little peeps at odd gr
life which she could obtain by sitting fora few hours in Mrs.
drawing-room. All the Sciwdrmere of letters, polifics, §
Social life seemed to illustrate itself “in little” there,
Minola, when she accompanied Lucy to her home, '
the girl up and down to this room and that to see vari

here, child, and embrace me! But this is not your sister?
‘begins to fail me so terribly; we must expect it, Mrs.
,at our time of life."
cy tossed her head at this, and could hardly be civil. She was
putting in little protests, more or less distinctly expressed,
‘Lady Limpenny’s classification of Mrs. Money and hersel
ie ame platform in the matter of age, and talking so openly
time of life.” In truth, Mrs. Money was still) quite a
ng woman, while Lady Limpenny herself was a remark-
p ed and even handsome matron, a little perhaps too
and who might at the worst have sat fairly enough for a
of Hamlet's mother, according to the popular dramatic ren-
of Queen Gertrude.
‘this young lady is taller than ‘Theresa, I can see that,
‘T have forgotten my glass. I always forget or mislay my

Limpenny, allow me to introduce my dear young friend, Miss
”

“Dear child, what a sweet pretty name! Now tell me, dearest,
te did your people find out that name? 1 should so like ta

;*itwa

‘A name in the family, no doubt. Some names run in families.
fe say you have had a—what is it?—Minola—in your family in
F generation. One cannot tell the origin of these things—I have

ought of making a study of family names. Now, my name—

fe never was a generation of our family; we are the
there never was a generation of the Atomleys without
Now, how curious, in my husband’s family—Sir James

n every generation one of the girls was always called by
ame of *Chat’ Up to the days of the Conquest, T do
is it the Confessor, perhaps?—you would find a Chat

Lra

Tix Geatleman's Magaztne.

--Tmeve = 1 Chu Most somewhere near Manchester,” said Lucy
sanciy, sil nm iorgrime the remark about the time of life “We
sresei x oma tx salwar.”

+ Im, ur zm ines ncching 10 do with it, Lucy darling—nothing

Tam genkme x cis. you now—girls called by a pet name.
= Sct cic mam: was im my busband’s family—ob, long before
ce sins ran sexk af was ever discovered. But now, Miss Grey,
Br yore sxcse mm agciz—sach a very charming name—Minola!
IME Text ar cacust me. mey I ask is that bair all your own? Ones
SEAgs vat aw. wher coe sees such wonderful hair.”

+ Yen Lasy Lumyesny.” Minoia said imperturbably ; “ my hairs
ab are own"

1 Go cssure you that’s nothing now,” te
moamnitu: Lady Lampecty wen: cn. “Almost everybody weasit
‘ore. That's why I asked Mis
ps wouldn't mind, seeing that ¥
wonderful hair—and its

ac her own; and her teeth are bt

vou have, my dear,” the gook
having only caught the last pat
that does not surprise one;#
‘y eves, we don’t fancy that the wear
>—but hair is very different,—aod
osking this young lady. But 10%
J ask again about your husband? Do
paricalarly I came to-day—not yoo
angry with me—I know you dott
vice on this very, very imports

papa if he will come down for
see Lady Limpenny.”
‘$ were well known to Lady Limpenny. He
: vant. unless there was the mat
det he would put up witha grat
Lsceiex. The very worst that could hap
gone of her pretty ears gently pulled &
weer te si tim urshashed. although she knew he wi
eyweed te chad Lady Limpenny.

darling, yes! 1 must do it! It is unavoidable.”
assumed that this was some story of sudden impoverish-
and she could not help looking up at the lady with wondering
eyes, although not knowing whether she ought to have
the remark, or whether she was not a little in the way.
Limpenny caught the look,
‘This dear young lady is sympathetic, I know, and J am sure she
ina, and cam appreciate my sacrifice, But it ought not to be
isa daty—a sacred duty."
“Buti it?" Mrs. Money pleaded,
“Dearest, yes! My soul was in danger. I was in danger every
of breaking the first Commandment! My china was becoming
idolatry! There was a blue set which was coming between me
Heaven. I was in danger of going on my knees to it every day.
id that my whole heart was becoming absorbed in it! One day
borne in upon me; it came on me like a flash. It was the day
had been to hear Christie and Manson——”
| “To hear what?" Mrs. Money asked in utter amazement.
‘Oh, what have 1 been saying? Christie and Manson! My
that only shows you the turn one’s wandering, sinful thoughts
ftake ! I mean, of course, Moody and Sankey ;—what a shame
such names.”
| *Ob, Moody and Sankey,” Mrs, Money said again, becoming
in her mind.
“Well, it flashed upon me there that I was in danger ; and I saw
‘the danger lay. Darling, 1 made up my mind that moment!
Icame home, I rushed—positively rushed—into Sir James's
«James, I said, ‘don’t remonstrate, pray don't ; my mind is
‘ep—T'll part with all my china,’
“Dear me!" Mrs, Money gently observed. “And Sir James—
what did he say?”
"Well," Lady Limpenny went on, with an air of disappointment,
‘only said “All right,’ or something of that kind. He was writing,
he hardly looked up. He doesn’t care.” And she sighed.
) “Bat how good he is not to make any objection |"
) “Wes, oh yes; he is the best of men. But he thinks I won't do
all.”
Mrs. Money smiled.

——

Money spoke to Lady Limpenny, and then, with
warmth, to Minola; and then he presented the
St, Paul, to his wife. -~
‘Mr. St, Pan! attracted: Minola’s attention from
very tall, as has been said, but somewhat sto the
He hada perfectly bloodless face, with keen, bold blue
square, rather receding forehead showed deep horizontal
he talked, as if he were an old man ; and hewas nearly bald:
square chin and his full firm lips were bare’of beard a1
He might at times have seemed an elderly man, and
came to the conclusion that he was a young man look rt
old. There was a curious hardihood about him, which:
swagger, and which had little of carclessness, or, at all
joyousness, about it. He was evidently what would be «
tleman, but the gentleman seemed somehow to have |

She could hear Mr. St. Paul talking in a loud, rapid, a
voice to Mrs. Money, apparently telling her, off-hand, of tras
adventure.
Lady Limpenny had scized possession of Mr, Money,:
endeavouring to get his advice about the sale of her
press him with a sense of the importance of savingher soil. -Misdl
was near Mrs. Money, and had just bowed to Victor Heron wi
Mr, St. Paul turned his blue eyes upon her. hy
“This is your elder daughter, I presume,” he said; ney
introduced, Mrs. Money? Your husband told me she was ott!
handsome as her sister, but J really can't admit that.” a.
Mrs. Money was not certain fora moment whether
‘Theresa might not have come into the room, but when she
he was looking at Miss Grey, she said, in her deep tone of eee
kindness, ~

519
ex, Mr. St. Paul; and even with-all a

ou come from Duke's-Keeton, Miss Greyt” and he
ed Mrs. Money, and drew himself a chairnext to Minola, “So

a lieve I was born there, Do you like the old place?”
‘No; I don’t think J like it.”

Hit for ever so many years ; I've only just got back to town. I've

ating in Texas, and rearing cattle in Kansas—that sort of
‘Theft Keeton because T didn’t get on with my people.”

could not help smiling at what seemed the odd similarity

beir history.

You smile because you think it was no wonder they didn't get

pwith me, I suppose? 1 left long ago—cut and run long before

were born. My brother and 1 don’t get on ; never shall, I dare
‘Lam generally considered to have disgraced the family. ‘He's
Pack to Keeton, where he hasn't been for years ; and so am J,

if. while. He's been travelling in the East, and living in Italy,
‘all that sort of thing, while I've been hunting buffaloes and

Swing cattle out West.”

| Are you going to settle in Kecton now?” Miss Grey asked, for

mmything else to say.

)*Not f; oh,no! I don't suppose I could settle anywhere now.

a can't, I think, when you've got into the way of knocking about

fe world. don't know a soul down there now, I suppose. I'm

q Keeton now chiefly to annoy my brother.” And he laughed

eqgh of half-cynical good humour, und thrust his hands deep into

Bpockets.

*A Christian purpose,” Miss Grey said.

| "Yes, isn't it? We were always like that, 1 assure you ; the

Hes and the youngers never could hit off—always quarreling. I'm

ft of the youngers, though you wouldn't think so to look at me,

Ge Grey? Do look at me.”

"Miss Grey looked at him very composedly. He gazed into her

with undisguised admiration,

* Well, I'm going to thwart my good brother in Keeton. Wes

“Just.so. That's my mark. P
of his life to build that confounded t)

that's a danger, But it isn’t so much a danger

it in gangs. That’s the mistake fellows make;

safe thing to do, but it isn't, Go about in parties
dians never will see you—never will notice you.”
dat this moment to mect those of Heron,

well,”
fellow—very good fellow, though he has such odd
fads about niggers and man and a brother, and all that
| Gotinto a nice mess out there in St. Xavier's, didn't

you look atitinthatsort of way, But
it really isn't worth a man’s while
ng about them, They're just as well off in slavery as not—
d deal better, I think; I dare say some of their kings and chiefs
Ethey have a right to sell them if they like. 1 told Heron at the
wouldn't bother if Twere he. Where's the use, you know?”
“Were you there at the time?” Minola asked, with some curiosity,
‘Yes, L was there. I'd been in the Oregon country, and £ met
an accident, and got a fever, and all that; and I wanted a litte
mild climate, you know ; and I made for San Francisco,
Mil some fellows there told me to go to these Settlements of ours in
Pacific, and I went. I saw a good deal of Heron—he was very
and that, and then this row came on. He behaved like
a young fool, and that’s a fact.”
“fe was no not understood,” said Minola, “and he has been treated
‘Try badly by the Government.”
“Ofcourse he has. I told him they would treat him badly, ‘They
understand all his concern about black fellows—how could
derstand it? Why didn’t he let it alone? The fellow who's
mow, you won't find him bothering about such things, you
j we say out West, if you will excuse such a rough expression,
s . But of course Heron has been treated very badly, and
‘Pe are going to run him for Duke’s-Keeton.”

Money. It may be said that Lady: n
physician who had been knighted, and es h
husband was wholly absorbed in his profe
never even thought of going anywhere with hi
himself about what she did. He knew the
sionally, and except professionally he could not be said to
body, Lady Limpenny, therefore, indulged all ty
‘Her most abiding or most often recurring whim was an
the salvation of her soul, but she had passionate fli
with china, poctry, flowers, private theatricals, lady-helps,
pastimes and questions of the hour,
“You'll never part with that china,” Mr. Money said; “yon ta
you can't.” an
“Oh, but my dear Money, you don't understand my feeling
are not, you know—an old friend may say so—you are not
You have not been penetrated by what 1 eall re
yet, T mean.’
“Not yet, certainly, Well, why don’t you send to Chi al
Manson's at once?” =
“But, my dear Money, to part with my china in ‘that way 10a
it sent all about the world perhaps. Oh, no! T want to
to some friend who will let me come and see it now and again”
“Have you thought of this, Lady Limpenny? Suppess #
you have sold it, you go to see it now and then, and covet ii—omt
your neighbour's goods, perhaps long even to steal it. Where & O
spiritual improvement then?”
“Money! You shock me! You horrify me? Could aa
possible? Is there such weakness in human nature?”
“Quite possible, Tassure you. You have been nardae
the influence of these unregulated liking. How do you know i
they may not get the better of you in anotherway? ‘Take myadn®
and keep your china, It will do you less harm in pour:
than in that of anybody else.”

angel

t like your new friend,” said Minola to Victor.
now friend? Who's he?”
our friend Mr. St, Paul.”
“Oh he isn’t a new friend, or a friend at all. He is rather an old
ine”

orT. Don't let yourself be drawn into much talk with him,”
0? ‘Then there is somebody you don't like, Mr. Heron.
ws a healthy sign. I really thought you liked all men and all
men, without exception.”
‘Well, Tam not good at disliking people, but T don't like /ém,
{I didn’t like to sec him talking to you."
“Indeed? Yet he is a political ally of yours and of Mr. Money

“That's a different thing ; and T don’t know anything very bad ot
only T had rather you didn’t have too much to say to him. He's
btowdy, that's all, If I had a sister, I shouldn't care to have him for
‘acquaintance of hers.”
“Ts it a vice to know him?”
_“ Almost, for women,” Heron said abruptly ; and presently, having
ola, interposed, as if without thinking of it, between Lucy
and St. Paul, who was engaging her in conversation,

Cnarrer XIV.
A MIDNIGHT CONFIDENCE,
‘Me. Sr. Paur stayed to dinner that day, being invited by Money
‘ceremony, and accepting the invitation in the easiest way.
Heron declined to remain. The family and Minola, with
Paul, made up the party. St. Paul was very attentive to

Money, who appeared to be delighted with him. He talked all
= aba hardly ever stopped ; he hadan adventure, |

=

sort of affectation, & defiance, oF a d

and St. Paul seemed absolutely witho i

satisfied and easy. Victor had spoken of

But that was not all. He was—if such a:

—a “gentleman rowdy.”

to be those of a Mexican horse-stealer, and

known that he was by birth and carly educati

man, ’
“TI don't think I know a soul about town,” he

in at the club once or twice—always kept up my

during my worst of times—and I didn’t see a cx

I dare say the people who know my brother won't ¢

I did leave such a deuce of a reputation behind me;

be sure to think I haven't got a red cent=a penny, |

they are mistaken. Somchow, the money-making gift |

out West,”
“Why don't you settle down?" Money asked.

ment, marry, range yourself, and all that—make up:

and be all right. You have plenty of time before you yet!” —
“ My good fellow, what do you call plenty of ti

me—I'm as bald as if I were a judge,”
“Oh, bald ! that's nothing. Everybody is bald nowadays” —
“ But I'm thirty-five! ‘Thirty-five—think of thas, youn

tizzed, grim old fogey—what is it Thackeray says?—all girs)
ckeray. Who on earth would many me? My brother

wife have given me such a shockingly bad character, Some:

served, perhaps ; some of it, I didn’t. ‘They think I have di

family name, [dare say. What did the family name do for me, Ti

like to know? Out in Texas we didn’t care much about family

“T entirely agree with your view of things, Mn St. Paul”

Money said, in her soft melancholy tone. “England is destroyed!

caste and class. I honour a man of family who has the spint

away such idea -.
“Oh, it would be all well enough if one were the eldest boty

and had the money, and all that. I should liketobe the Duki

say, well enough. Put 1 can't be thatyand [ve been ¥

ths together, and no one but an old Indian

esyitils foe don't use any, I believe they have

‘in Keeton. Miss Grey tells me so.”
Mi said, “T didn’t say that, for I didn't know,
remember hearing of you by your present name ;
know any of the family at the Castle, We belonged to
were not likely to have much acquaintance with

pt at election time—I know,” St. Paul said, with a laugh.
‘worse off now, for they won't know me even at election

p the talk went off again under St Paul's leadership, and
is sole effort, to his adventurous life, and he told many
fights with Indians, of vigilance committees, of men hanged
C ng, and of broken-down English scamps, who cither
d or made their fortune out West. A cool contempt for
e was made specially evident. “I likea place,” the narrator
‘once observed, “where you can kill aman if you want
no bother about it.” Perhaps still more evident was the
for every principle but that of comradeship.
After dinner Mr, St. Paul only showed himself in the drawing-
in fora moment or two, and then took his leave,
* Papa,” Lucy said instantly, “do tell us all about Mr. St. Paul.”
“Are He curious to know something about him, Miss Grey?”

[a fell, he certainly seems to be an odd sort of person, Heis so
what I should imagine a pitate of romance.”
“Nota bad hit. He is a sort of pirate out of date. But he
with @ little exaggeration, a certain tendency among
‘sons to-day. Some younger sons, you know, are going
fade; some are working at the bar, or becoming professional
some are rearing sheep in Australia, and cattle in
magand ‘Texas. It's a phase of civilisation worth observing, Miss
to you who go in for being a sort of little philosopher.”
“Dear papa, how can you sty so? Noladoes not go in for being
0 dry and dreadful.”
"The tendencies of an aristocracy must always interest a thought-
like Miss Grey's, Lucy,” Mrs. Money said gravely. “There
Et least something hopeful in the mingling of classes.”
young swells becoming drovers and rowdies?" Money ob-
© Hum 1 well, as to that—" and he stopped.

—

too ; and so he came to sce me, and h
ance in Heron. That's all. He's a
fellow in his way, I dare say he would
lower of Drake or of Raleigh if he had b
Miboles xtlenioa 5 Oo ee 0

lessly away. After a while she sat at the |
playing some soft and melancholy chords.
serving something of a change in Luey this p
that she had not seen before. Mr. Money p
study ; the women all dispersed, and Minola sat ia
and wondered within herself whether anything was:
Dright little mind. 7
It was curious to note how Lucy Money's soft ways h
Minola. Lucy twined herself round the affections o
girl, and clung to her. Mrs. Money was pleased,
touched by the sight. ‘The calm ‘Theresa was a alle ber
sidering Lucy to show thereby a lack of the ¢
befitting a woman; and Mary Blanchet was sometimes d
jealous. Minola herself was filled with affectionate ki
overgrown child, not untempered with a dash cbpliyzand
She was sometimes inclined to address the girl in certain
Joanna Baillie, forgotten now even of most readers of
ask her, “Thou sweetest thing that eer didst fix its Ti Ls
spray on the rude rock, ah ! would’st thou cling to me?” =
ever the outer world and its lookers-on may have thought of
is certain that Minola did still believe herself to
hard to warm towards her fellow-beings, The ae

love of Lucy filled her at once with surprise and a
feeling.

So when she heard the patter of feet at ne dor se ai |

Wait for the familiar ay oud the familiar voice to

little and talk?” and, without waiting for an answer,
self om the hearthrug near the chair on which Minola
© You sit there again, Nola, Are you glad to sce

very glad, Lucy dear.”

Jove me, master?—no?" For Minola had, among other
Lucy to read Shakespeare, and Lucy had just
d batts tender question, and was delighted to

erimsoned with a double Daas having
and answered, and an assurance of affection

T'l do it—allow me.” And she sprang up,

and “ undid " all her hair, so that it fell around

r& Minola could hardly keep from blushing to

re of and openly admired. “There, that is per-

1 You look like Lady Godiva, or like the Fair One

n Locks, if you prefer that. Did you ever read the story

aewith the Gol sn Locks,’ when you were a little gitl?

se Jeave your hair j st as it is, and let me look at it for a
9 you remember Lau, . ‘mpenny’s nonsense to-day?”

allowed her to please herself, and they began to talk; ut

the first joy of coming in, Lucy scemed a little @istraite, and not

like herself She fell into little moments of silence every now

thea, and sometimes looked up into Minola’s face as if she were

‘say something, and then stopped.

saw that her friend liad something on her mind; but

ht it best not to ask her any questions, feeling sure that if

ey had anything she wished to say, Lucy would not keep it long

“After a moment's pause, Nola!”
*Yes, dear.”

You don't much like men in general?"
ll, Lucy dear, I don’t know that anybody much likes men in
‘or women cither, Good Christians say that they love all
Pbrothers and sisters, but 1 don’t suppose it's with a very ardent
”

# But you rather go in for not liking men as a rule, don't you?”

“No,” Lucy said, looking round with
dislike him, Nola? 1 am so fond of him;
thing to him. If you knew what T have
about, you would wonder. Well, but he is
don't dislike; 1 am sure you don’t dislike:
grew more enquiring/and eager than before,

No, indeed, Lucy; 1 don’t think anyone could

“Tam delighted to hear you say s0 ; but I
more, ‘Tell me what you think of Mr. Heron ; 1am.
You are so much more clever than I, and you
and see into them, ‘Tell me exactly what yr

‘hy do you want to know all this, Lucy?!"

“ Because I want to hear your opinion very p
are not 2 hero-worshipper, and you don’t admire m
Some girls are such enthusiastic fools that they
every good-looking young man they mect. But you an
that, Nola.” ‘

“Oh, not I am not like that,” Nola echoed, nat:
thought that now, perhaps, there were moments when
wished she were.

Well, then, tell me.

“Yes, Lucy; T think he is handsome”

“Then, do you like him? Do tell me what you th

“In the name of heaven,” Minola asked here)
not speak the truth in answer to so plain and inpoeent,
She answered quietly, and \ocking strat forward at

yet! "es you pat tat nwo Nola.”
m $0, der?”
ou Know. Because of the one yet to Present himself; the
ssible He—nearly impossible, though—who is to be fit for
4. Ftell you I shall scrutinise him before I allow his pre-
O pass. Well, now, about Mr. Heron?”
hink him a very brave, generous, and noble-hearted young
(think he has not a selfish thought or a mean purpose about
aT think he has it and talent ; and I hope one day to
(the has made himself an. honourable name.”
tured now to jla a pair of eyes that were moist with

Ime, Nola,”—and her voice grew a little tremulous —* don’t

k he ig a man a woman might fall in love with?”

fe was a moment's silence, and Lucy leaned upon Nola's

pees? looking into her face. Then Nola answered, in a
teasured undertone,

4 yes, Lucy; Ido indeed. I think he is a man a woman

(Lin love with.”

jank you, Nola ; that is all [ wanted to ask you."

te was another pause.

lat”

ts, Lucy.”

mm don't ask me anything.”

haps, dear, because there is nothing I want to know."

ten you de guess?".

i, yes, dear, I do guess.”

ell—but what ?”

(tppose—that you are—engaged to Mr, Heron.”

y started up with her face all on fire.

}, no, Nola, dear darling! you have guessed too much. TI

jad told you, and not asked you to guess at all. We're not

Oh, no. It’s only—well, it's only—it's only that Tam in

th him, Nols. Oh, yes, so much in love with him that I

fot like to live if he didn’t core about me—no, not one day!”

wey hid her head in Minola's lap and sobbed like a litle

FRE 80. 1757. uM

be

“Well, dear, I don’t know |
to me.” ew

“Leouldn’t do without’ telling it to
must be like that king I read about somewh
no, I believe it was not the king, but his sen
the secret to some listener, and so told bres h
shore. If I had not told this to som n
the reeds,”

Minela almost wished she had told it to re
reeds enough beneath the little bridge which Nola
Park, and had they been possessed of the sec
looked over the bridge for ever, and dreamed |
water flowed on heneath,and even noted and
reeds, and they would never have whispered that secre
“T think papa guesses Lucy said. “2 an
because he talked to me of—ob, well, of a different p
me if I cared about him, and I told him that ¥ ‘didnt
was glad, for he didn't much like him; but that 1
one I liked—always provided, Nola, that he happes
which doesn’t at all follow. T know papa likes Mr.
“Then, Lucy, would it not be better to tell Mr.

“Oh, Nola! I couldn't tell him that—I could)
anything, but I couldn’t tell him that Are you not sol
Nola? Oh, say you are sony for me! The other d
seems the other day—I was just as happy as a bird.
are sorry for me,”

“But, my dear, I don't know why there should b
about it. Why should not everything prove to be perfectly ay”

“ Do you think so, Nola?”

She looked up to Nola with an expression of childlike ant

“Why should it not be so, Lucy? If I were a man, 7)
very much in love with you, dear, You are the girl #
to be in love with.”
There was a certain {one of ed\iness or tonsmies
voice which could not escape even Lacys Sheeran

Miss Misanthrope. 531

“ You think me weak and foolish, I know very well, Nola, because
hare made such a confession as this. For all your kindness and
pod heart, I know that you despise any girl who allows herself
fn love with aman, You don't care about men, and you think

“No,” stid Minola sadly ; “I suppose not.”
"Theret You look all manner of contempt atme. I should
fo have you painted as the Queen of the Amazons—you would
splendid. But I may trust to your friendly heart and your
all the same, I know. You will pity us weaker girls, and
won't be too hard on us. I want you to help me.”
“Can Lhelp you, Lucy? Shall I ask Mr. Heron if he is in love
you? I will, if you like.”
“Oh, Nola, what nonsense! That only shows how ridiculous
think me. No, I only mean that you should give me your sym-
thy, and let me talk to you, And—you observe things so well—
touse your eyes for my sake. Ob, there is so much a friend
do! Andhe thinks so much of you, and always talks to you

Yes, Minola thought toherself ; he always talks to me very freely
are good friends. If he were in love with Lucy, I dare say he
tell me. Why shouldhe not? She tells me that she is inlove
With him—that is a proof of her friendship.
| We can think in irony as well as speak in it, and Minola was dis-
at present to be a little sarcastic. She did not love such
as Luey had been making. There seemed to be a lack of
that instinctive delicacy in them, which, as she fancied, might be the
ion of a girl were she brought up naked in a South-Sea islet,
and innocent as Lucy was, yet this revelation seemed wanting
ipure self-respect. Perhaps, too, it was in keeping with Minola’s
@H creed to believe that this was just the sort of girl whom most
would be sure tolove. At any rate, she was for the moment in
somewhat bitter mood. Something of this must have shown itself
ther expression, for Lucy said, in.a tone of frightened remonstrance,
“Now, Nola, I have told you all. I have betrayed myself to you,
#84 if you only despise me and feel angry with me, oh, what shall
Edo? Isn't it strange—you both came the same day here—you
$8 he, for the first time—I mean the first rime since I saw you at
Sheol Am I to lose you too?”
‘There was something so simple and helpless in this pieous 2y-
‘Si) with its implied dread of a love proving hopeless, Yak HO KOWY
MM

must be a very insensible person, Lucy, who fai

Only don’t make it too plain, dear, 19 anyone me?
that men like to do the love-making for —and |
not the slightest need to go out of your way.
anything of this?"

“Oh, no, Nola.”

“Nor guess anything at all?"

“Ob, no,—I am sure not—I don’t think bo. —
anything—now, did you?—and how could he?”

Minola felt a little glad to hear of this—for the dign
hood, she said to herself. But she did not know
last, for Lucy was not a person likely to ¢:
self-control for the mere sake of the bwtack dignity of w
For the moment, all Minola could do was to express full:
with her friend, and at the same time to counsel her
betray her secret, Lucy went to her bedroom at last, much
ing and quivering, but also relieved and encouraged, and |
asleep, for all her love-pains, long before Minola did. /

“She will be very happy,” Minola sat thinking, when #
alone. ‘She has a great deal already. A loving father and)
and sister; a happy home, where she is sheltered agit eves
a future all full of brightness, He will love her—I suppose,
very pretty, and sweet, and obliging ; and he is simple mal
and would be drawn by her pure, winning ways; and men Ii
are fond of women who don’t profess to be strong, Well,
help her, I will do so—it will be something to see her com
happy, and him too.”

Whereupon, for no apparent reason, the tears sprang into
eyes, and she found a vain wish arising in her heart thats
never renewed her acquaintance with Lucy Money, never bel
suaded by Mary Blanchet to visit her, never stood ‘pom hee tht
and met Victor Heron there.

“Why not wish at once that I had never been bom?” shi
half tearful, half scornful of her tears. “One thing Ss os eit
as the other, and as usefil, and not to have been bor swould
saved many idle hours and wudh hestadne?

Her little bubble-world had burst. All her
ce and of contented lile, of isolation from

was she but a crucl mocking evidence of the folly of
Hence? Alas, no romantic school-girl could have fallen
\denly into love than Minola had done. ‘There was but one
tmshe had ever seen with whom she had coveted a friendship,
(aw knew, only too well, that in her breast the friendship
dy caught fire, and blazed into love. Where was Alceste

| the Alceste standard by which she had proposed to testall
women, well convinced beforehand that she would find
ting? She could not even flatter herself that she had been
(her faith, and that if she had succumbed at the very outset
cause the first-comer actually proved to be an Alceste. No,
“not cram this complacent conviction into her mind, Victor
43 a generous and noble-hcarted young man, she felt assured;
tad not fallen in love with him because of any assurance
as like the hero of her girlhood. She made no attempt to
erself in this way. In her proud resentment of her weak-
even trampled upon it with undeserved scorn, “TI fell in
him," she said to herself, “just as the silliest girl falls in
jause he was there, and 1 couldn't help
& not merely Lucy’s revelation which had forced upon
| knowledge of her own feclings. This had perhaps so
viction home as to render illusion or self-deception im-
any longer, but it was not that which first told her of her
+ That had long been mor@and more making itself known
It was plain to her now that since the first day when she
on the bridge with him in the Park, and looked into the
had loved him, Oh, why did I not know it then?” she
‘arily, of herself, “I could have avoided him—haye never
again—and |r might so have come to nothing, and at least
Lnot have to meet.
all her pain of the night and the morning, one SHEMASD

who are aboutto die are e«
sciousness—that this new summons he
did Minola know only too well wh ¢
pain, “Will it last?" was her cry to |
through life with this torure always to bear?
have to bear this for years and years—that
‘over it?”
“Oh, I shall never get over it—never,
bitterness. She was very bitter now
‘She did not feel that it is better to love
Indeed, such consoling conviction belongs to the poct
phises on love, or to the disappointed lover who is al
to be consoled, Itdoes not do much good toany i
of pain. Minola cordially and passionately
loved, or seen anyone whom she could love. 5
and scom for herself, and believed herself ambled 7
Her whole life was crossed ; her quiet was all
doomed to an existence of perpetual self-conatraint
and even deception. She had a secret which she
the world as if it was a murder. She must watch
movements, her very glances, lest any sudden utter
or blush, should betray her, She would wake in the ii
lest in some dream she might have called out some w
which had roused Mary Blanchet in the next room, and bs
She must mect Victor Heron, Heaven knows how often,
him asa friend, and never leone gleam of the truth
must hear Lucy Money tell of her love, and be the
childlike emotions. Not often, perhaps, has a proud
girl been tried so strangely. “I thought 1 hated men |
kept saying to herself. “I do hate them now; and wo
T hate him most of al\, because 1 kuow that T so love him!
All this poor Mincla \epk saying oe Sista Se
morning as she listlessly dressed. Wis ws xso TERA

12 \w0Gld, shiS sndik: Keep. her: becrét) Victor

her friend, and desired to be nothing more.

her own must know that her feeling to him was
would have known the need of that resolve even
heen entrusted with poor dear little Lucy's secret.

ably ab thong oven that Title sary, the more she
Lucy's dream might come to be'fulfilled.

—that is to say, the breakfast-room and the Money

tobefaced, The family were as pleasant as ever, except

ce keenly, but without making any remark.
had a letter from Lady Limpenny already this morning,'

‘Money began to read:
you a thousand times, my dear Money-——"
‘are very friendly, you see, Miss Grey," he said, breaking off
‘not any peculiar friendship for me. She always calls men
names after the first interview."
generally addresses papa as ‘ my dear,’ without any proper
appended,” said Lucy, who did not much like Lady Lime
She always likes the men of a family, und always hates the
”

“Lacy, my dear,” her mother pleaded, “how can you say so!
enny and I are true friends,
‘She is giving us good help with our schools and our church,"
mesa Money said; “and Reginald" (Theresa's engaged lover)
es very highly of her.”
|! She always praises men, and they all think highly of her," Lucy
d; “and itis something to be Lady Anything,”
"assure you, Miss Grey,” Mrs. Money said, “that Lady Lim-
5 the most sincere and unpretending creature. She is not an
he has nothing to do with aristocracy ; if she bad, there
d ibe little sympathy, a8 you may well believe, between her and
for you know my convictions. The aristocracy of this county.
ts main! When England falls—and the hour of her fall is near—
Iii not be due to beings like Laura Limpenny.”
io J agree with you, dear,” Mr. Money gravely sad. “Swi.
bn 2”

knows how I hate Mrs, De V:

to keep the china, and that a love for the

an act of homage to the Great Creator of all, |
“My sweetest love to your darling wife and

regards to the young lady with the hair;

friend Heron, do tell him that I expect

“Our dear friend Heron!*" exclaimed Lucy,
anger, "Does she know Mr. Heron go well as that?”

“She met him here, yesterday, for the first time,” Mr, Money
“put that’s quite cnough for Lady Limpenny, She has t
violent liking to him already, and enrols him among her deat fn
Seriously, she would be rather a useful person for Heron
She knows everyone, and will do anything. Her hasband ai
the old women of quality, and a good many of the young
I shouldn't be surprised if Sir James Limpenny—or his wif
get Heron a hearing from some great personage.” 4
“Tam sure he won't do that,” said Tucy warmly. *T
believe Mr. Heron would condescend to be ‘helped on in that)
way.”

“Why not?” Minola asked. “I think Lady Limpenny is a aot
creditable ally than & person like Mr. St. Paul. If a mam waatt?
succeed in life, I suppose he must try all the usual arts.”

“T didn't think you would have said that of Mr Heros, Naw
said Lucy, hurt and wondering.

Nola did not think she would have said it herself twelve 5
ago. Why she said it now she could not tell, Perhaps sie ™
womanish enough to feel annoyed at the manner im which Lat
seemed to appropriate Victor Heron's cause, and womanih Gey
too, to relieve her mind by saying disparaging things of him.

Mr. Money's eyes twinkled with an amused smile.

“See how you wrong a man sometimes, you ladies ert &
most reasonable among you. exon is more Quixotic than jouae™ |

“ Yours faithfully,
“Vicror How,”

fow, Nola, you see you were wrong,” the triumphant Lucy

y “Ido not like Mr. St. Paul," the quiet Theresa observed. “ He
icems to me godless and demoratised. He spoke in the lightest and
coffing way of the labours of the Church among the heathen

." Mrs. Money sighed. “1 liked him because he had
: spitit to resign his rank and fling away his tith
“1 think his rank rather resigncd him,” Mr, Money observed.
ow, one must in the ordinary world consent to take up with a
Samp now and then. Heron says he won't have anything to do with
St. Paul, and Lucy undertakes to say for him that he won't be
ised by Lady Limpenny. I ask you all calmly, as civilised and
n beings, how is a young fellow to get on in London who
ort consent to be helped by scamps and old women?”
“Mr, Heron represents a political cause,” the eager Lucy began,
Her father looked quietly round at her.
“Why, Lucelet, my dear, when did you come to know anything
Political causes, or to care about them? I thought you only
i forthe renascence of art—isn’t it renascence you call it? I
that politics were entirely beneath the notice of all your
shool. Pray tell me, Mistress Politician, to which side of politics
four father belongs?”
_ “Ob, papa, for shame! What nonsense! As if I didn't know.
Sf course you are a Liberal—an advanced Liberal.”
“Good; and our friend Heron?”

his side.”
"Tit 1m on ise?

Mr. Money smiled, and let the subject drop.
When breakfast was over, Mr. Money suddenly sax ss
“Miss Grey, you always profess to know somet
Anyhow, you know something about Keeton folks,
me some useful hints about their ways with which
dear friend Heron, as Lady ‘Limpenny calls him,
coming to my study for a quarter of an “eur, aay
womankind, and answering mec a few questions?” -
Minola was a little surprised, but showed no
said that she would be delighted, of course Mr.
his arm with a somewhat old-fashioned courtesy
not unbecomingly with his usual cheery tae
women and men alike.
“ Not many ladies come here, Miss Grey,” Mor d
her a chair when they were in the study, “Lucelet lo
often, to be sure, but only as a messenger ; she d
council."
“Do I come into council?” Minola asked, with ami
little of heightened colour. “I shall feel myselfof great
“Well, yes, into council, First about yourself 1
looking into your affairs » little, Miss Grey—dan't be angry} ¥e
all fond of you in this house, and you don't seem to have ai
particular to look after your interests."
“Tt was very kind and good of you. I have not many
Mr. Money ; but I am afraid the word “interests ‘ is rather too life,
for any affairs of mine, Have I any interests? Mary Blane
understands all my affains much better than I do."
“Yes, they may be called interests, C thinks

Sv egircta’ uy tr sherver ataia Go ads
receive some of the advice which worldly people call

ae hastened to add, for she was seized with a sudden fear
ey might have heard somewhere of her resolve to have
poems printed at her own expense, and might proceed
with her.
‘smiled, seeing completely through her, and only think+
If that she was a remarkably good girl, and that he much
had a son to marry her,
ou know what T was thinking of?” he asked bluntly.
‘Sure you were thinking about me, for you laughed—at my
c of business ways, I suppose?”
all; £ was thinking that I should like to have a son, ano
Tike you to marry him.”
Jaughed and coloured, but took his words as they were
in all good humour and kindness.
‘If you had a son, Mr, Money, 1 am sure I would marty him if
ced me, and he-—"
“Thank you. Well, I am only sorry I can’t take you at your
‘Bot that wasn't exactly what I brought you here to fell you,
nt to tell you is this, You are likely to have a good deal
ty of one kind and another, Miss Grey. Your father, f find,
a good deal of moncy in his and saved it; bought houses
it houses; bought up annuities, insurances, shares in com-
Il manner of things. He only left his property to his
wife for her use of what it brings every year duting her life.
‘death it all comes to you, and I’m told she can’t live long.”
but she may. 1 hope and pray that she may,” Minola
d “It seems shocking to watch for a womerts deat,

onnets, and the fashions, and all *
money, living alone in my quiet way? 1

dies? ‘That would be only right. I

for me.” ~
“He mayn't have it for me, though,” Mr. M

have no one, it seems to me, to look after your i 7

take the liberty to do so, for lack of a better het

like it or not. However, we can talk about that when the
Minola gave asort of shudder.

she left behind her, Mr. Money, is there really no ot!
L have this property?” ~———e
“Tf she dies before you, yes-it will come to you. Of 0
you know that it isn’t great wealth in the London sense,
constitute you an heiress in the Berkeley Square sense, but
you a good deal of miscellaneous property fora young woman, Wey
as to that, I'll see that you get your rights ; and the only thing 1 Dare)
to ask is just that you will not do anything decided, or angzhiag’
all, in this business without consulting me.” F
“Oh, indeed, I can faithfully promise you that. T have’
friend whom I could possibly consult, or who would take anyia
in me.”
“Come, now, I can't believe that If you wish, you ein |
the young lady in Sheridan’s song—friends in all the aged youll!
and lovers in the young.”
“I don’t want to be like herin that.”
“In having friends in all the aged?”
“Oh, I don't know; in anything. 1 am well content wa
friends I have.” ,
“Well, some of them, at Jeast, are well content with you”
Miss Grey, I want to speak to you of something that concett!
You and my daughter Lucy are great friends?”
Minola almost started.
“Lam very fond of Lucy.”
“ And she is very fond of you, We all are, for that mate
you ever hear of an old Scowish saying shout a person having

hy Pseetirves meta ree
drawn to you. Now, that is why T speak to you of some-

ch I wouldn't talk about to any other woman of your age—
io my own daughter Theresa, an excellent creature, but not
Tam very fond of my Lucelet. She isn’t strong j

q't great intelligence. I know my little goose is not a swan,
¢ is very sweet, and sensitive, and loving; the most affectionate
that ever was made happy or unhappy bya man. I
anxious about her happiness. Now, you are her friend,
{thousand times cleverer and stronger than she, and she looks
ee She would tell you anything, Zas she told you anything

foot hesitated.

{Ob, you needn't hesitate, or think of any breach of confidence.

‘may tell me, I could get it all from herself ina moment. It

about that I want to ask you. Well, I'll save you all trouble,

jas told you something.”

She has.”

She is in love !"”

Hnola assented.

ff. Money ran his hand through his hair, got up, and walked a

two up and down the study.

other day she was a child, and eared for nobody in the
but her mother and me. Now a young fellow comes along,

like the Earl of Lowgave's lassie in the old song, she does not

her mammy nor she does not love her daddy,”

‘Oh, but I don't think that at all,” Mics Grey said eamestly.

girl could be fonder of her father and mother.”

r. Money smiled good-humouredly, but with a look of pity, as

10 corrects an odd mistake.

T know that very well, Miss Grey, and T was not speaking
ly, or grumbling at my little lassie. But it does astonish us

lly parents, when we find out all of a sudden that there are other

‘more important than we in the eyes of our little maidens,

lwe may as well relieve our minds by putting the feeling into
‘Well, you know the hero of this little romance? ”

ila was looking steadily at the fire, and away from Mr, Money,

ot answer at once, and there was apause. The suddenness

silence aroused her.

Is there any woman, as far as aeeena
‘Lucelet?”

Mr, Money had now come near to where
stood Ieaning.sypiau: the chimnsy-pigon mad ing fixedly int
face. At first she did noteven understand t his q
‘Then suddenly she felt that her cheeks began t5ik b
to beat. She looked up in wonder and pain, but
earnestness and anxiety in Mr, Money's face that it
impossible not to understand and respect his purpose.
anxiety for his daughter's happiness his whole pal
Minola’s heart forgot its own pain for the moment.
memory of a father was not of one thus hy
answered without hesitation and with quiet self-

“Oh, no, Mr. Money. I know of no such woman, So fit

cin guess, none such exists.”

Mr, Money drew a deep breath, and his eyes brightened.

“Miss Grey," he said, “I think any other ‘woman ia the ¥
would have told me she wasn'tin Mr.—~, in Ais, Secrets, or gine
some evasive or petulant answer. I thank you # thousand time:
may then—I may—pursue without compunction my matchim
schemes, They ate not very selfish ; they are only for Lat
happiness. I would ask one of my office clerks neo
loved him and he was likely to make her happy; and I »
them up in life, You may guess, then, whether this idea ‘dca plewes
But I confess I didn’t think —well, of course, yourassurance is €90
but I began to think of something different,”

Minola rose to go away.

“One word, Miss Grey, Pray don't say anything to:
this, She is the truest and kindest of omen, as you |

543

Keeping anything a secret, and she always begs of
out of the smallest plot of the most innocent kind,
we she must let it all out prematurely, Now I'll release you, and
ve, at all events, one friend in life to be going on with—friend
@ the aged I mean: the rest will come fast enough.”
ith a bewildered head and « bursting heart, Minola found her
0 her own room,

(To be continued.)

SLEEP ON; A DIRGE.

q \ (Based’on the French.)

i

Tirv daisies prank thy grassy grave ;

‘Above, the dark pine-branches wave ;
Sleep on,

Below, the merry tunnel sings,

And swallows sweep with glancing wings |
Sleep on, Marie, sleep on.

u
‘Some whisper words of doubt and shame,
Or, lightly laughing, breathe thy name :
Sleep on.
Slander may never harm thee now,
God's gentle hand upon thy brow :
Sleep on, Marie, sleep on.

ur

Calm as a summer sea at rest,

‘Thy meek hands folded on thy breast,
Sleep on ;

Hushed into stillness life's sharp pain,

Nought but the pattering of the rain :
Sleep on, Marie, sleep on.

JOUX H. DAVIES,

F

lifetime of any of towel n
attached to the circumstance, and
observatories for the careful stud
pearance.

Tt may be interesting, before Tee
of interest which this planet presents,
stances which render astronomers anxious”
exceptional care eee bid eleicee i

se Approach of Mars. 545

h ‘mistake is made of describing the stars which pass over-
head in London as rising and setting on a slant, whereas in point ot
t ‘stars never rise and set at all, or come within wo dozen
noon-breadths of the horizon, But it is less surprising that the
Reotions of the planets should be unfamiliar to many, for these motions,
though really simple enough, are, in appearanee, very complicated,

‘can they be recognised or thoroughly understood in a few nights,
en in many years, from actual unassisted observation of the
If the planet Mars, for example, were simply watched

jhe traversed the star sphere, and his place mapped down night after
when he could be seen (the parts of his track where he could
‘be seen being filled in by inference), he would be found to move in
following strange way. After travelling awhile as the sun does
his yearly course (forwards let us call this motion) he stops, goes

and! makes another backward loop, about
ieventh of a circuit in advance of his former loop. Again he goes
than once round advancingly, and then makes another back-
fodp ; and so on continually, each loop lying rather less than
erenth of a circuit of the heavens in front of the preceding loop,
Thus rather more than seven of these advances, each with its cor-
ponding backward loop, cary the loops once round the heavens;
SSthat if the track, for instance, had been marked down on a globe,
would be a crown of loops, so to speak, round the globe,
seven circlings. Or, to use a strange but, I think, effective
fion—suppose a person’s head to represent the star sphere;
a cord passed once round the head, passing from right ear
rerforetiead to left ear, and a loop made on the forehead, the cord
Eattied again round the head and a loop made over the left temple,
‘ord carried again round and a loop made a little back of the left
and so on until a set of seven loops had been made, the cord
ing rather more than a complete circuit between’ cach, Then,
, the set of circuits and loops would represent the apparent
and loopings of the track of Mars during an interval com-
biting seven of his returns to our night skies.

Now it is when in the middle of one of his backward loops that
Mars is at his nearest for that visit, and most favourably placed for
Wbeervation, because shining highest above the horizon at manighy.
PAL CXL. NP. 1757. NN

highest. above the horizon when the sun is

erat midnight. Moreover, Mars turing |

the earth and the sun, we see him fally a1

dial illustration were perfect, all these © r

equally favourable for the study of the planet. 1

travel in a circle round the sun as centre in the samme wa}
end ofa minute hand travels in.a circle round

more exact, the hour hand alone must be st
axis at the centre of the clock-face, while theminu
an axis somewhat eccentrically placed. Say the mint
hour hand are respectively about ro inches and 64 ine!
the minute hand must tum round an axis very
the centre. It is easily seen that when the two:
the distance between their cnds will vary c
the place where the conjunction happens If it i
the eccentric axis lies, the distance: willbe nearly
the mean distance; ory this last being 3 inch
between the ends of the hands will be nearly 4]
‘opposite side the distance will be co
be little more than 24 inches. Thus the distan
hands will vary between these very different yi
2} inches, ;

Such is the case with the orbit of Mars. He
from the sun of about 140 millions of miles, the eg

us Thus, the average distance separating the
Mars is at coe of his near approaches already
‘or in opposition, as it is called, amounts to about 48
miles: But the centre of his path, which in shage is very
is separated by more than 13 millions of miles from
that his distance from its on these occasions, ‘instead of
ways. about 48 millions of miles, ranges from about 6r
nk to-about 35 millions. Here | have taken no account of the
the earth's path also has its centre displaced from the sun;
displacement being only about 1} million of miles, is much
than the other. It so chances, however, that it increases,
in the distance of Mars from us when he is in opposition,
jetual range is from nearly 62 millions of miles to litle
millions.
will be very obvious to the reader that we study Mars
much more favourable conditions when he is but 34 or 35 mil.
‘of miles from us than when his distance amounts to 61 or 62
lions of miles. ‘The difference will be appreciated if we compare
i of the same object at 34 and 63 feet or yards, or at
and 6ro yards, if more convenient. ‘The apparent size of his
(is greater at the less than at the greater distance in the propor-
Yofabout § to x, and the apparent area of any part of his surface
{eased im the same degree. But this is not ali. Not only is he
fer to us, bat he js nearer also to the sun by 26 millions ot
5 and although not nearer in the same degree (for amount
(degree are different things), yet still there is.a quite appreciable
rence in the illumination of his surface. Thirteen millions of miles
{less important part of his mean distance from the sun—14o mil-
than of his mean opposition distance—48 millions of miles—yet
{lls ; for illumination diminishes as the square of the distance from
(luminating body. Making the calculation for this case, we find
(Mars when at his nearest to the sun is more brightly illuminated
when at his farthest, in the proportion of about 16 to rx. Com-
ing this with the increase of the apparent size of his disc, we find
the would. be brighter when absolutely at his nearest, than when
Kingione of his opposition approaches under least favourable con~
Ons, in the proportion of 48 to rx, or much more than gto, It
(eeause of this wide range of opposition splendour that Mars, some
Ge surprises those unacquainted with astronomy by hix umesual
hits. © Next autumn he will look like a new star to those who

@nerverseen him wnder such favourable conditions, for he wil. hen,
NN

hed

dia

moderate displacement from his place of rest

considerably on his brightness. Now, if we take

and so days, we get, not 15 years exactly, but 1:

If we had taken the former period rightly, for it is

Jess than 2 years and 50 days, we get 15 years less 1

these 19} days make a great difference. As the read

heaven of the fixed stars is carried once round in:

19k days it is carried round by about pede Sees

this portion of a circaft which will separate Mas

approach in the year 1892 (15 years, that is, aay fi

among the stars where we shall see him at his brgh
‘Seventeen years later, or in 1909, he will be about ten d

on the other side of this last-named spot; but he will

near approach to it for 79 years from now. Tt does

in 1892 he will not be much less bright than this”

of his return at 79 yearly intervals to the part of the sky

so very bright in 1719 is slowly passing away from the

of nearest approach. He was less than 3 degrees from it

some 6 degrees from it in 1798, and he will be about to.
from it next September. At the retum in 1956 he will bef
degrees from it, and thereafter these 7o-yearly returns will cc
notable, Fifteen years later, or in August 197%, the planet wil
more favourably seen (about as favourably as this year), and 2.71

' Ax a rule I object strongly to the use of technical terms in
intended for popular use. But there are occasions when they are)
avoid verbosity, 1 have explained above what is meant by the epi
‘Mars, comparing it to the proximity of the end of the minute hand to the
the hour hand of a clock when the wero banks come togethen

return (after the interval named), during three or
u But it will be betterfor us to observe him well next
n to consider how he will look in August and September,

-of his approaching visit does not reside chiefly in the

his physical appearance may then be studied under most
conditions. His approach interests astronomers for the
on that the recent transit of Venus interested them, viz., as
& means whereby the sun's distance may be remeasured.

nwe speak of determining the sun's distance, we mean, in
determining the dimensions of the solar system. We know
ortions of that system perfectly, but we wish to know also its
And precisely as the measurement of any part whatever of a
‘of known proportions would give the size of the whole or of
‘other part, so the measurement of any part of the solar system
side the orbit of our own special companion-orb, the moon) will
he dimensions of the entire system, Astronomers naturally select
ints of the solar system as near the earth as possible, as, for instance,
bat part of the orbit of our next neighbour Venus where she comes
ttest to the exrth, or that part of the orbit of our next neighbour on
be other side, the ruddy Mars, where he comes nearest to the earth,
‘es, lying on a track inside the earth's, is unfortunately placed when
atest to us ; for when we look towards her at that time we look
(wands the sun—it is broad day, and Venus only to be detected with
Dwerfll telescopes, if at ail. When, at that time, she chances to come
(exactly between the earth and sunas to cross the sun’s face, the case
filtered ; then her position cun be correctly observed from parts of
earth far apart (giving, as it were, a base-line), and her distance
Gs determined, whence we infer the distance of the sun.

Mars, when at his nearest, is not quite so near, and so is Jess
ited for the purpose of astronomers than the Planct of Love in
fitrspect. She at her nearest lies some 25 million miles from us,
{some 34 million miles. But in all other respects he is, at such @
tg, a far more suitable object of observation than Venus when at
‘nearest, and even—there is reason to believe—than Venus in
tsi. To begin with, he shows a bright disc on a dark sky. Then
{remains well placed for observation for a fortnight or so, and
lily placed for a month or two. The dark sky has stars upon it,
‘anly those visible to the naked eye, but the tens of thousands of
At brought into view with the telescope ; and the stars nearest \o Whe

of the solar system, can at once b

‘That is one way in which th "
can be utilised for the purpose we ar
only way or the best way. It 0
most easily understood, for the pro n
which a land surveyor applies to determine 0
object—church, or castle, or rock, as the ¢
it from either end of a measured n
of direction, determines by a simple calculation ¢1
object. ‘The method was naturally the first
astronomers. It was also employed ce:
the other method presently to be descnbed, but befp
other methods which have been used by er
old rough observing days of Tycho Brabe and
obtained from observations of Mars, though not
Kepler, from observations made by Tycho, was able
sun's distance was certainly nor less than 13
might be many times greater. The fact was, as K
ng yet observation was not exact cnough to show :
displacement of the planet. Cassini, towards thé ¢
teenth century, comparing observations of Mars b
astronomers in France with others made by R
deduced for the sun’s distance 85,500,000 miles—a
to the truth for those days,

‘The other method may be thus described. —Tmaginé at
‘on Mars at the time when observations by the first med
made. The dark side of the earth would be tumed tow
suppose he could see it, and see also the two stations
being observed, one in the novlhem emery

to ct ch

re about the time, and therefore if mean ‘their see

by rotation. He would, therefore, reject that method as

¢; for two obsetvers, thousands of miles apart east and west,

be able to compare their time with the necessary exactitude.

gO on to reason, by that earth's rotation one and the

‘is carried from the east to the west of the dise in about

rs of our Martial day, which is not very different from the

of those terrestial folk. Why should not a terrestrial make

‘when on the western side (soon after evening twilight

would be for terrestrials), and, nfter waiting nearly twelve

b ¢ observations from the castern side (shortly before

ming twilight)?’ ‘The two lines of sight would be inclined to each

quite as much as two lines from the north and south ; the

er would do the work with the same instruments ; and if

astronomers generally could not calculate the effects due to

and to the planet's motion in the interval, then (would

ti ‘say) they are not the men I take them to be, or worthy

on a globe 36 much better suited for the work of measuring
ir system than is this small orb on which we Martialists live,

‘method of observation suggested to our imagined Martialist

ed early to cur English astronomer, Flamsteed. It depends on

fars from the same station in early evening, when the station

8 fir as possible to the west, and in the morning, when the same

‘a8 faras possible to the east, of an imaginary line joining

aife of the earth and Mars. Rotation accomplishes, inthe

me ten hours or so, the work of shifting the astronomer’s

‘effectually 2s, by the other method, a month or wo ot

the equator than from northem stations,
when most favourably placed, at the b
will be close to that part of the heavens where 1
from that time, or in the beginning of March,
‘sun is somewhat south of the equator, ‘Thus he
from our northerly latitudes, Jn the southern hemi
same reason, he will he seen above the equator,
as we know, the celestial equator lies above
instead of above the southern as with us, 90 that
south of it is above instead of below that circle.
‘Mars at midnight will be nearly overhead. But it i no
that he is to be chiefly observed, but five hours or so
midnight. Now at a station north of the
very close to the horizon at these hours or actually b
At stations somewhat south of the equator he will
as he can be at those hours, The station must not t
for, of course, the farther a place is from the
smaller the effects of rotation. A person at the equ
round nearly 25,000 miles in the twenty-four hours,
60 degrees north or south latitude is cartied round
distance,

It is proposed to apply to Government for the sum
meet the expenses of the proposed Expedition. These
very heavy; in fact, the estimate made by Mr. David Gi 1, the
nomer who has proffered his services on this
to £500—a mere nothing compared with the th
the expeditions to view the late transit of Venus.
Jent his fine heliometer, already wsed by Mr. Gill

A Coming Close Approach of Mars. 553

he transit, and before and after that event in work well suited
ite him for observing Mars by the method proposed and with
asts Whether Government will accede to the request
dressed to it remains to be seen. (Possibly the result may be
town before this paper appears.) In any case, however, the moncy
wa certain to be provided, seeing that not only the Astranomi-
iety as a body, but individual members of it independently,
Wold willingly subscribe the sum, should Governmental economy
2 so much being granted for the proposed Expedition.
| And now let us briefly consider some of the questions of interest,
ther than the determination of the sun's distance, which astrono~
‘oes will deal with during the approaching visit of Mars. In passing
Tray remark, that we can readily understand why the observations
(frmensuring the sun's distance should be regarded as of chief im-
\porance, for all our ideas respecting not merely the dimensions but
\the physical condition of the planets depend on this fundamental
ppoblem of measurement. ‘The greater the scale of the solar system,
the larger are all the various portions of planets or their systems
(brought into view by the telescope, the grander are the processes
(taking place upon the planets, the vaster the funds of energy
|Pssessed by each planet, and by the sun, which vivifies the whole
Wsem of planets, It is, however, as an element of the physics of
tionomy, not as belonging to practical astronomy, that the problem
the sun's distance has been attacked by astronomers. There is
Wsolutely no practical value whatever in the exactest knowledge of
thesumn’s size and distance.

Mars presents many features of interest. He is, in fact, the
Plinet which we study under most favourable conditions, though in
Me telescope he does not present so noble an aspect as Jupiter or
ich remarkable phenomena as Saturn. At the distance of either of
ose orbs Mars would be utterly insignificant in appearance ;
indeed, at the greater distance he would be scarce visible without
Wescopic aid. But we see his small surface on a far greater scale
tan that of Jupiter or Saturn. It is only the vastness of the cloud-
Masse surrounding those larger planets which enables us to recognise
their belts and other atmospheric phenomena. In the case of Mars

features are all much smaller, resembling much more nearly those
Which exist on our earth. We must remember, therefore, in con-

ing them, that they are not comparable directly with those
Ptesived in the remoter but larger members of the solar system, It
(kocommon a mistake inour books of astronomy to describe the
of one planct, and afterwards, in similar terms, the disc of

4,400 miles, #0 that his volume is ab
His mass is less in proportion

the earth's On this point

in the ease of those planets which
weigh a plinet which has moons, or
very satisfactorily, We only have to n
moon, with what energy the plan ‘moor
straight path which eae te moon nul Horr ate
that action with out earth’s action a

more massive or less massive that is thal

a planet has no moon we must trust to Tess satis
weighing—methods less satisfactory, at least, int
plinets, like Mercury or Mars, for

factorily determined from the infludnce he exerts

from his pull on his own moons,
thoroughly worked out the theory of the

the mass of Mars inferred from hese iodiona
as not very far from the truth.

Mars is, then, but « miniature of wi a
than hers, as we might expect from the relative
and consequently of his power to gather in and ci
of his globe.
Under telescopic scrutiny Mars presents appeara
to indicate some resemblance to our own earth. “He is te
all the planets the one which has given the most p
evidence of resemblance, though Venus, Ta
like our earth than he is.

‘The globe of Mars shows certain’dark regions of,
or bluish grey tint, which have been long known a
though it has been but recently that they have n
mistakable evidence to be aqueous, “The other parts of
in the main, of a faintly ruddy hue. ~ Near the edge both 1
and the ruddy portions ate lost to view in a diffused w
two opposite parts of the gobe exceedingly Wag

2S Uh

A Coming Close Approach of Mars. 555

‘aré fotmd to occupy the regions around the planet's
the dark and niddy markings are seen to be carried
rotational movement, the careful study of which has indi-
%€ position of the polar axis, Maraldi, early in the last
found that the bright white spots or patches changed in
. As he noted that one of them was diminishing, he inferred
) would: eventually ippear. But Sir W. Herschel, later,
that the two white spots alternate in size, now diminishing
t ling. The idea naturally suggested itself to him to
re them to the arctic and antarctic snows of our own earth ;

his observations showed that each increases and diminishes
r it periods corresponding to the winter and summer of its
of Mars’ (just as our arctic snows increase and
inish in the winter and summer of the northern hemisphere,
‘the antarctic snows increase and diminish in the winter and
‘of the southern hemisphere), he was strengthened in the
that the ‘spots really sire snow-caps. Still, however, not a
DPinicle of direct evidence had been obtained to show that they con-
Wik of snow, or that the dark markings arc oceans, For aught that
ms then known, as Whewell subsequently pointed out, clements
Girly different from those we are familiar with might exist in that
Giant planet: Similarly with certain whitish cloudlike objects which

at times over the dark or ruddy markings, clearing off some-
ina few hours. ‘These might be ordinary rain-clouds, or they
tbe caused by temporary snow-falls, or by hoar-frost, or by mist
{Ptother phenomena, such as owe their occurrence to the presence
Wikiier, But also they might, so far as was certainly known, be
Mie to other elements altogether, and to processes of which we have
‘D0 terrestrial experience.
Te was not until the year 1864 that the existence of water on Mars
Wisdemonstrated. There is nothing, to my mind, more remarkable
[ithe history of spectroscopic analysis than this discovery. ‘That it
be possible to assert as confidently that water exists on the
Planet Mars as though we had been able to procure portions of the
|Martiat seas for analysis in our inboratories is one of the veritable
of science, Yet, as with many other marvellous results, the
[Method of discovery is simple. ‘The light of the sun passing through
{the planet's air falls on the surfice of the Iands and seas, and is thence
passing once again through the Martial air. Thus the beams of
that reflected light which rcach our carth have twice passed through
theatmosphere of the planet, and may bring as certain informasion
the constitution of that atmosphere as « beam vf Whe

following information :—“ The same vapour ¢xi
which produces what are called the atmospheri
spectrum when the sun is low down.” Now these
be chiefly due to the vapour of water. This has |
variety of ways, Prof, Cooke, for instance, of
demonstrated the fact (I believe he was the first to
taining that these lines are stronger or fainter accor
is moister or drier. Janssen demonstrated it this
scope armed with spectroscope on the Fauthorn |
he caused pine-fires to be lighted at Geneva, thirteen
Faulhorn, and, observing the spectrum of the flame,
dark lines seen in the spectrum of the setting sum
only proved that the dark lines really are caused by ©
the circumstances were such as to suggest that the aqt
the air, not the oxygen and hydrogen, produced the lin
this point, Janssen made use of an iron cylinder x18 | ts a
at his disposal by the Paris Gas Company. He forced steam tvs
it until all the air had been driven out, then filled steam,
closed both ends by pieces of strong glass. A bright flan
by sixteen gas-burners) was then placed at one end, and anal
means of a spectroscope placed at the other. ‘The light
travelling through 118 feet of aqueous vapour, gave a
crossed by groups of dark lines corresponding to those s6
spectrum of the horizontal sun.
Since, then, these lines are seen in the spectrum o
conditions which show that they ere nok cause Ty |

A Coming Close Approach of Mars. 557

‘iliows certainly that they belong to the air of Mars, and indicate the
1 of the same yapour there which in our own air produces
thee lines—the vapour of water.
© But the demonstration of the presence of the vapour of water in
‘tleatmesphere of Mars brings with it many interesting conclusions.
|We need now no Tonger hesitate to regard the greenish regions as
‘5, the reddish regions as lands. The bright spots at the poles
‘now be regarded as veritable snow-caps. (And, in passing, the
Prange thought i is suggested that man, who has thus far proved utterly
able to reach a spot whence his eye can rest on either pole of our
‘has been able to contemplate, though certainly from a remote
(@etince, the ice-bound poles of the planet Mars.) The whitish
which at times hide the features of the planet may fairly be
[fjapled as due to rain-clouds, though it is not altogether certain that
Jin some cases snow-foll, or hoar-frost, or low-lying mists may not
|Site these transient peculiarities. ‘The whitish appearance round
ile edge of the planet has been explained in three different ways :
|Bdue to morning and evening mists, as indicating the presence of
Tuned clouds in the planet’s atmosphere (for such clouds would
‘Hem to thicken towards the edge in the same way that the scattered
Aitinmer clouds of our own air seer to aggregate near the horizon),
aid ss duc to light snows falling towards cventide and melting in the
‘oenoon. Whatever interpretation we regard as more probable, we
Tinst, in any case, admit that the phenomenon belongs to the meteoro-
ogy of Mars.
Tn considering the condition of the planct's atmosphere, account
Must be taken of the fact that even if the quantity of air over each
Muue mile of his surface equals the quantity over each square mile
‘Othe earth's, the air of Mars would be much less dense than ours.
attraction of gravity at his surface is little more than a third of
Hemestrial gravity, and the pressure and density of his air must be
Ghespondingly less. It is, however, a necessary, though somewhat
Mrange consequence of this relation, that the atmosphere of Mars
Bit be much deeper than ours, at least on the assumption just
ae its quantity. ‘The attraction of our earth doubles atmo-
Whetic pressure in every 34 miles of descent from considerable
Heights towards the surface of the earth, So that at a height of 3}
Milles the pressure is but one-half that at the sea-level ; at seven
Miles, a fourth; at of, an eighth ; at fourteen, a sixteenth; and so
Now, in the case of Mars, about nine miles of descent are re-
Aited to double, or nine miles of ascent to halve, the atmospheric
Premre. ‘Thus, assuming the same quantity of air above each sqpare

(which, however, is extremely improbable)
same stage of deyelopment as the:

be much smaller in relative extent than

the mass of the planet is but about the eighth

A Coming Close Approach of Mars. 559

5 #5 2 planet grows old it dries up; not that the

"water actually diminishes, ‘but that it is gradually with-

‘into the planet's interior. We sce the final, or at least a very

of this process, in the case of our moon, which, being much

than Mars, is a yet older world. Venus, our earth's

orld, seems to be in much the same condition as she is, if one

efeom the cvidence obtained as to the condition of her

sphere; which certainly is not less extensive or less humid in

than our earth's. Mars, intermediate to the moon and earth

seems intermediate in condition also, having seas and oceans,

the moon has none, but scas and occans much less extensive
of our earth.

ble interest will attach to. the observations to be made

‘been charted, first by Sir W. Herschel, then by Midler, next
sor, and lastly by myself. My chart, based chiefly on observa-

ns made by the late Mr. Dawes, sometimes called the “eagle-eyed
contains more detail than the others, and is, I believe, the
which. has been successfully employed to determine beforehand
of the planet. In the spring of 1873 I published a

of views of Mars as he would appear if the chart were correctly
id down, during the summer of that year. Several of these views
0 closely with the truth, that telescopists stated that the pic-
drawn months before, might have been made at the telescope,
ly did they accord with the aspect of the planet. Other views:
owed less exact agreement, and, in particular, certain features showed
[inselves in one part of the planet which indicated that Mr. Dawes's
idy of that region must have been conducted when Martian clouds
some of its more marked features. Dr, Terby, of Louvain,
‘carefully examined a great number of views of the planet, noting
which differ from some of those in my chart, and raising
in questions as to the conformation of the Martian lands and
Hk Some of these, -we may well believe, will be resolved by
ffonomers during the approaching opposition, I may remark, that
Hogether agree with Dy. Terby in thinking that some at least of
of my chart to which herefers will have to undergo alteration
a complete surveys have been made. In fact, most of these
His are only drawn in.on my chart with dotted lines, because of my
[Maecognition.of the doubtful nature of the evidence. In passing,
{igy note, that M. Flammarion has summarily settled the whole
(ter by effecting all the alterations which Dr, Terby thought might
Yaps have to be made, and publishing the chert so altered an Ws

and 1867, that Kaiser, of Leyde
taken the same task. My res

second, which was a serious
nearly 90,000 rotations of the p
tenth of a second for each

that Kaiser had counted two days
probably counted the years 1700 and 4
consequent correction (the difference b
two Martian days) brought our

1 had called the ‘rotation period 24
and 73 hundredths, whereas his value
corrected 69 hundredths. After the

had to subject the entire question, I felt

56r

THE GARRICK-CLUB PICTURES.

[APS one of the most significant tests of the interest once
taken in the Stage, and of the power of the Stage to excite such
is the fact that scenes from plays, with the faces and figures
actors, have always exercised the talents of good painters and
3 ‘The vast store of scenes and portraits to be found in
collectors’ drawers and albums shows that the public, at least,
indifferent. The actor's face, too, is admirable for the portrait
for, as Johnson said of Garrick, no features endure so
‘wear and tear,” and expression becomes almost a gymnastic

‘This will be seen by comparing the features of such living
as devote themselves to the portrayal of emotions with those
Shtheir brethren who merely figure in the spectacular exhibitions.
this we owe the inimitable twinkle and lurking humour of
Buckstone’s face, the “ dried quince-like” air (Lamb's phrase) of
Compton's, and the mixture of tragic force and finesse in the finely
Sit features of Mr. Irving. Again, a scene in a genuine comedy,
(Mletpreted by fine performers, is in itself the very quintessence of
action—not likely, save by rare accident, to present itself,
6 thus the painter is irresistibly attracted by what he has but litle
ice of discovering elsewhere.

‘These retlections are suggested by that really unique collection,
fhe Garrick-Club Gallery of Pictures, perhaps the best and most
fifactory memorial that could be found of the English stage. ‘The
i: Charles Mathews—father of our present “airy” comedian—it
well known, expended much time, intelligence, and money in

fing the collection. Like all such gatherings, it was of unequal
some indifierent pictures being accepted, for the reason that
Better on the subject could be procured, On the other hand,
are of the highest merit, He seems to have laid out about
thousand pounds on this hobby, though allowance must be made
‘a collector's tendency to understate his outlay. He also built a
y to show off his treasures to advantage at Ivy Lodge, Highgate,
a design by the late Mr. Pugin. At the close of his laborious
the vivacious player, “ incompressible” as Foote in his spirits,
fitnd himself with narrow means and failing powers, and ater a haxd
Fiuggle determined to give up the cottage and dispose of the gilery.

You CcKL, wo. 1757. oo
L

represented by some three or fot it
characters.

So motley a meeting af “eo
thng like a hand-book to make tt
anyone who has been taken round 3
of judgment would readily admit the ;
Among Mathews's acquaintances was Chat
ledge of the stage, his dramatic vein,

| The Garrrick-Club Pictures, 563

¢ analysis, T get rid of the phenomenon, by slucring in

. om sure you must have observed this defect, or

‘writings ; else the delight would be incalculable in

ch a thing for Mathews whom [ greatly like—and Mrs.

whom I almost greatlicr like, What a fenst it would be

iting at the pictures, painting ‘em into words! but I could

soon make words into pictures. I speak this deliberately,

‘modesty, I pretty well know what I can do.”

h ly describes the feelings which those “mannered pic-

@ pod phrase) inspire; they seem to give out clouds of

and are peopled with the indistinct fancies of an

But he Aad already, in a mere sketch, “painted ‘em

words,” and, short as it is, nothing could more admirably ex-
‘the undefined feeling produced on a lover of the stage »—

jot Know s more mortifying thing than to be conscious of a foregone

‘with & total oblivion of the person and manner which conveyed jt. In

mats, 1 often stretch and strain after the countenance of Edwin, whom I once
iia “Peeping Tom.” I cannot catch a feature of him. He ix no more to

Bethan Nokes or Piokethman. Parsons, and, still more, Dodd, were near

Jost to me till I was refreshed with their portralts (fine treat) the other
‘Mr. Mathewn's gallery at Highgate ; which, with the exception of the
pictures, a few years since exhibited in Pall Mell, wax the mort di
eollection I ever gained admission to. ‘There hang the players, in their
‘persons and in grouped scenes, from the Restoraticn,—Beitertons, Booths,
j—justifying the prejudices which we entertain for therm; the Bracegirdles,

Be Mountforts, and the Oldficlds, fresh as Cibber has described them; the

{atrue Hogarth}, upon a couch, dallying and davgeroas ; the sereer
in Drinsley’s famous comely ; with Smith and Mrs, Abingdon, whom 1

Mienot seen; amt the rest, whom, having seen, T soe still there, There Is

on, unrivalled in Comus, whom T saw at second-hand in the elder
Harley, the rival of Holman, in Horatio; Holman, with the bright
teeth, in Lothario, and the deep pavior’s sighs in Romesa, the jolliest
fat") of any Hamlet T bave yet seen, with the most laud»

personable man) at looking melancholy; and Pope, the

y, in Horry the Eighth and Lent

‘There hang the two Aickins, brethren in mediocrity ; Wroughton,

it Kitely seemed to have forgotten that in pronder days he had versonaied!
# the specious form of Joha Palmer, with the special effrontery of

A Bensley, with the trumpet-rongue ; andl little Quick (the retired Tio»
imef Istington), with his squenk like » Hart'lemew fiddle, ‘There are fixed,
# in life the immovable features of Moody, who, afraid of o'erstepping
sometimes stopped short of her ; and the restless fidgetiness of Lewis,
with no such fears, not selilom leaped o” the other side. ‘There hang
and Whitfield, and Burton and Phillimore, names of small account in
timer, but which remembered now, or casually recalled by the sight of an
iplsy-bill, with their smociated recondations, can ‘drown an eye unused to

Ema There too hangs, not far removed from them in death, the graefal plaln=

the first Mrs, Pope, with a voice unstrung by age, but which inher weer
002

the whole Kemble family; and (Shake
‘yo Anticn” who, in former and in Tater ce

‘Catalogue duly numbered, which in it
hour's reading, for it gives the daiss| of
particular situation in the plays rep
criticisms concerning each player. So

leisurely aiveroneshif, both on account of tl
curious glimpses of old theatrical life they
first, a few words on the painters,

‘The favourite theatrical artists have been Zo
man, Wilson, Dance, De Wilde, Clint, Coates,
of whom Zoffany certainly ranks first. He is -
here. The history of this clever artist is a stre
German from Frankfort, and found himself starving
when a charitable Dutch clockmaker, of the family of d
Dault, gave him employment in colouring the little
clocks. He was then employed by Benjamin Wi

painter of the day, to “get in," as it is etyled, the
Earth npetes that the portrait of himself and
then being exhibited, was not Wilson's, applied

out the true state of the case, and became Zoffany's
ness which the painter would have more than rep
painted the gracefully fantastic portrait of the actor:
stealing the pen from his fingers, which was so lat
the Academy.

Next comes the truly abundant De Wilde, the mo
of theatrical portrait painters, and whose pictures can
hundreds. In magazines, in the spirited and beaut
to “Bell's Theatre," we have only to turn to the eort
unyarying “De Wilde, pinx.” or “del.”

Next we have Harlowe, a more sober delineator,
nesses are good. His best known work is the

The Garrick-Club Pictures. 565

*s trial—a great “ Family Piece," in which the whole Kemble
with, it must be said, rather grotesque effect.
it were to be wished that we had more works, as there is in
certain spirit and humour; witness the capital “Paul Pry,”
the National Gallery, and so well known from the engravings.
iat collection also hangs the poctical but lachrymose “ Hamlet”
a fing classical memorial of Kemble. But if we were
df on to name the finest of modern theatrical portraits, more than
fulfilling all the conditions, and almost emphasising Charles
b’s theory that the true actor must always be hinting gaily to
S hearers that he is not quite in earnest, we should point to the
ength figure of Lewis, in “The Marquis," by Shee, also in the
ational Gallery. The spirit of refinement, of light comedy, the
f delightful gaicty in the face and bearing, sends the spectator
ay in a reciprocal humour.
‘There are about a dozen portraits of Garrick, and no less than
Q portraits of John Kemble. He, his illustrious sister, and
were perhaps the most abundantly bepainted actors in the
‘Mrs. Siddons, as was fitting, has received greater honours in
respect than her brother. The variety of noble portraits of which
has been the occasion is incredible, The “Gainsborough” in
‘National Gallery, with its limpid blue dress and piquant hat, and
ynolds's well-known “ Tragic Muse,” one of the most original and
d of pictures—these alone might confer an immortality. But
is besides the enarmous full-length by Lawrence, also in
National Gallery, a rather heavy and unrefined portraiture of a
vy lady, and certainly uninspired. Some of the earlier pictures,
bly the one by Hamilton, presenting her in the character of
, give a happy idea of her grace and dignity. The writer
esses a coloured print, a “chromo” of the last century, done by
rence at Bath, when he and she were about equally obscure—
only a struggling actress.
| Entering the Drawing-room and walking straight up to the fire-
| Hice, we shall see on our left hand one of the most characteristic
| Pictures in the collection, and also one of the greatest merit, It is
| the scene from the pleasant comedy of “The Clandestine Marriage,”
Garrick and Colman, and represents King as Lord Ogleby, the
pelt beau, with the handsome Mrs. Baddeley as Miss Sterling ; Mr.
i as Canton, the French valet, in the distance. The situa-
Mon is that most pleasant éyuivogue in the third act, where the old lord
iled.on to make a declaration by the replies of the lady, who fancies
he is urging her lover's suit, and not his own, The yicuse

was but of a fitful kind, and she b

and the graces of her face and figure,
extravagnnoe—now overwhelmed with
struggling with difficulties—she sank
stages of degradation, until she ended mise
destitution, Now she looks from the picture
charms, and the audience founda piquaney in
her husband were acting in the same piece, tho
he tolerated the attentions of " the town” ly
presently to amuse the public by a harmless duel 4
brother George, whose devotion he felt bound
comparatively an obscure actor, though he

and this part of the French valet as well as it

is better known by his fantastic bequest of an
of punch to the Drury Lane performers, a ©
associate ridiculous rather than respectfal o

while in the dining-room is a large head in oil,
face ; fe mari de sa femme, in short.

As for the picture itself, it invites the hea
is even merit in the size chosen for the fig
treatment, dramatic force, are simply masterly,
the old beau, softened by a sort of humorous
same time eamest and sincere; the age:

The Garrick-Club Pictures, 567

iffened, gouty hands, with their expression also ;
ese | Seeded ble; anid abcvw/deamaticinrbi ithe: agent
‘The stockings, it will be noticed, are creased, as being a
pwide and drawn opon the pair of “shrunk shanks.” The
individuality and dramatic power of this picture will at
¢ seen. by comparing it with a picture in the smoking-room on
‘subject, painted by Clint.
F face has faded like one of Sir Joshua's, and has been
‘repaired, but the, effect of dignity is that of “a fine
such as his lordship himself so much admired, The
‘of his figure both as to face and costume is admirable. It
nd than others of Zoffany’s productions ; while the treatm
hecoat, the silver lace and embroidery, on a pale red ground, isa
‘no undue employment of elaborate work, yet with an effect
fsingly broad, rich, and mellow. ‘That the original coat was
‘an important element, is shown by the fact that Bernard (the
* reminiscent,” whose portrait is here) mentions that it was
it specially to Dublin, where King was more appreciated than
ondon. The company, however, was in so disastrous a condition
fat the star" actor alone was receiving profits, and on the night of
‘success he overheard their murmurs at this preference. Arayed
the richly-flowered dressing-gown which Lord Ogleby wears in the
fact, the gay performer went round, purse in hand, and asked each
much was his night's salary, and offered the same, ‘This was
by all, save by a “comical joking man," who, with * whim-
aj manner and a vile grimace," and quoting from his part, “Ay,
jisthe omnium, nothing like the stuff,” put the guineas in his pocket,
To see what this good actor was like off the stage, we have only
‘Bim to the brilliant little cabinet picture on its left, by Richard
the landscape painter, with its limpid colouring and character,
faithful it is will be seen, “ King,” says his friend O'Keefe, “was
thove the middle ‘size, formed with great symmetry, fine eye, and
Giitessive countenance ; but his chin and cheeks black or rather blue.”
Heis ina riding dress, with his dog beside him, aid what seems the
fick of a hunting whip in his hand. He would appear to be calling for
lishorse, ‘The amateur will note how excellently painted are the
gloves, and their very creases ; and what careless expression
ete is in the mode in which the whip is held ; as though it were some
Piniry gentleman familiar only with field sports, and wishing this
(tb be emphasised. This is significant, for Mr. King was ‘a
about town,” and had sporting tastes, and one night, indeed
Gitaid to have lost £7,000 at the gaming table,

these is, the “ Woffington (a true Hogarth)
and angers) There are no fewer than

scarcely eit their fellow below,
the more familiar prints. The

errefined, the whole suggests the actress fairly enough.
like Mercier's picture, and is holding upa watch in a dainty
. « Iti curious that the three pictures should thus pre-
holding something in her hand, However, the subject of
description seems scarcely so “dallying and dangerous " as
cents itto be. ‘The reclining attitude is not skilfully drawn,
he colouring seems a little heavy. ‘The couch is crimson, the
arich amber, while the curtain behind is green. Her hair
down in curls,
the centre, on this side of the room, in a place of high
‘4s the large oval picture of a blooming creature arrayed in
gauze drapery, a picture treated in the romantic style which
guch a contrast to our modern “carthly” mode of showing
as he #, She wears a mauve bodice ; her face glows with
and brilliance, though there is a hint that these charms might
take somewhat coarse shape. The arm is gmcefully curved,
the hand coquettishly holds a mask just taken off, Such
Tend a charm to a picture, apart from its merits as a like-
Chalon was the last who treated Jadies in this becoming mode.
is is Miss Farren, Countess of Derby. “Her figure is con-
above the middle height, and is of that slight texture which
the use of full and flowing drapery, Her face, though not
ily beautiful, is animated and prepossessing, her eye blue and
trating ; and her smiles fascinate the heart as her form delights
eye, In short, 2 more complete exhibition of graces and accom-
its never presented itself for admiration before the view of an
So was she described in the heyday of her charms,
brows “encircled by a coronet.” When this fortunate actress
playing in the “School for Scandal,” during the “Screen
ene" her noble admirer, the Ear! of Derby, would find his way
fom his box, taking advantage of the friendly shelter to pay his
¥otions to his flame. Within six wecks of the death of his wife,
Grd Derby led the actress to thealtar! ‘This specimen of “ marriage
‘Traste” was followed by as speedy a “ repentance at leisure,” for a
Baration took place.
_ Close by looks down Macklin, in old age, his large mouth recalling
®E of Dr, Johnson,—whose face, as we see here, was so gnarled
<2 furrowed that some one began to address him, “I see, sir,
F the cordage of your countenance,” &c. He is really one of the
‘Sst remarkable figures of the English stage—an admirable actor, ®

lhe

that at last the actor was bad,

friends was the result, One day

on him, and then explained that he

copy, but that he had kept the p

frustrating this intention. Lawrence

offended actor to show him his last p

copy, which he himself had made.

Sir Thomas fell ill, “ Alas !” said Mrs.

was answered by closed windows ; the

Picture, after some reasonable demur, was

his executors, on his pledging his honour
Close by is a head of Junius Roath,

‘of mature years, 1
hat of Kemble, His som, Wa be ea
‘of President Lincoln.

Arie seme a certain ladicroos air lak bold’ of ba faites
and every muscle of his face ranged itself on the side of levity. ‘The
‘voice Anspired comic ideas, and, though he often wished

edy, he never could speak a line with Dropiicty tant san

“unpretending work. But ‘we shall see the actor presénitly
a magnificent portrait in the dining-room.
by is George Frederick Cooke, prematurely old, with
features, but with a humorous cast about the mouth which
how the fine tragedian could give effect to a character like
Sir Pertinax. But we should hardly divine from this portrait
were in the presence of one of the most abandoned sots of
‘His splendid dramatic defiance to the hostile Liverpool
ce should not be forgotten. “Hiss me! you set of moncy-
‘Why, there is not a stone in your tawn that's muf cemented
of a negro!”
Here we find Mrs, Stirling, the last, perhaps, of the Comédlennes
‘old school ; whose art lay in filling the stage by the genial
RSe of the character itself, even in the passages of a neutral kind,
L spoken without intention or exertion. Character is too often
y emphasised and its force lost in a number of touches.
this “quietly” painted picture we see her as Peg Woftington,
_#tle which she created in Messrs, Reade and Tom Taylor's
comedy—a piece that has been lately revived with the most
See "This accomplished woman still lives and flourishes,
er occasional speeches at theatrical dinners testify. The picture
‘Phillips, and is unfinished. Close by is an unfinished head
‘“Girriek by Zoflany. This may be considered, as it were, the
= ‘and typical face of the great actor, representing him when
: forty or fifty years old, when his face began to fill out
:* r “pufty,” which rendered it more expressive for broad
naa characters—the result, no doubt, of invellectual exercise.

fivese olla; even fa encreceltici a ; i
searchingly on the listener as it were to sea
keep his glances in training for the stage,

comedy, i ne of
whatever else may be deficient, the redeeming |
found. Spirit and gaiety often supply, or

of, wit. This picture, painted by Hayman,
‘Mrs. Pritchard in the characters of the hero and
date of the performance being about the middle ¢
‘The picture has an additional interest from the

special

is onc of those suggestive pictures which call up a

details. Garrick appears here as he was in his earl }
he was described as “a very sprightly young man, neatly m
an expressive countenance, and most agreeable and
manners” before he had grown into the rather portly and
built figure so familiar to us, and the famous performer

necessary for comedy. In all the portraits of rh
collection will be noted this somewhat vulgar air, the *tallowy
features, and forcible though coarse lips. It is clear that shew ®
performer of power. ‘The “Suspicious Husband " was, in fact, via
used to be called “‘ a Hat and Ladder Piece,” or, as the Freach woe
now style it, “a Cape ct (Zpte;"—turning on the Spanish inade=
of climbing into chambers, and of leaving a hat behind, &c.

‘The costume should be noted. Garrick’s grey coat and gre?
cuffs, and the lady's vast “gownd,” as she might have called ij 9?
‘cnormous quiltings in the shape of melon slices, and her 1
cap, The sprightliness, and even gay slyness, in Mr, Gamicks a*
tude is worth noting.

It used to be maliciously repeated during his life that &

again and ae while Roubillac, Van Nost, and
recess ‘his features in busts. Even the wax-modellers
d their art, and Mr. Smith tells us that a professor of this art
out these profiles by the hundred, while Nollekens adds that his
itwas in every barber'sshop. Heeven figured on sign-boardsas* The
ir Head,” and on wig-blocks. ‘The writer has in his possession
‘flaster-mask of Garrick's face which was taken by Van Nost.
| Stiggests a good story dpropes of his estimate of the power of his
(iG, with whose “dartings” he liked to awe any new candidate for thea-
iclemployment. Once, when crossing Roubillac’s yard, he bade the
§ulptor note how he would scare, with these same eyes of his, a red-
faded countryman, who was sawing. “ Upon creeping towards the
he kept lowering himself, at the same time putting on one of
is tagedy looks, and partly drawing out 2 rule from his pocket, as
Ewould a pistol, to shoot him. In that attitude he remained for
(me time disappointed and motionless, until the Yorkshireman
lopped his sawing, and, after squirting out his tobacco,juice, coolly
lid, “What trick do you intend to be at next?”—a litle touch of
that suggests comedy.
| Pétween the windows is another of Zoffany’s firmly painted,
birited figures, Weston as “ Billy Button,” his face full of a defiant
(Spicion—an expression to which even the mode in which his hat is
Girried contributes. ‘This disposition of the dress will be found to
(ave been carefully studied by the old actor. Here we have the
{own coat and favourite scarlet waistcoat so universally associated
fith rustic virtue, It will be noted that this belief in the virtucs of
fotkshire- and other countrymen has completely died out, upon
be stage at least ; or it may be that the young squires of these
have considerably improved in morals, Near him is
with a sort of placid smirk on his face—one of the Garrick
Tt was on his death that the unfeeling jester, Foote, made the
Mark, that “he had been shoved into the family oven,” he having
fen originally a baker. On the same side of the room is Decamp,
© brother of Mrs. Charles Kemble—who seems to have been a
St attractive and fascinating woman. It will be noted what a
Shing, gallant, though cxaggerated air he presents; an air with
Mich his brother-in-law so captivated the town in Mercutio and

The Garritk-Club Pictures, S78

‘t “Muster;” and indeed the strange jargon of Tate Wilkinzon, so
by Mathews and others, seems to have been
from him. His companion in the picture, Mrs. Rich, was,
‘to Smollett, a terrible shrew. ‘There is here also a small
Reynolds's picture of Garrick between ‘Tragedy and Comedy,
fall of fine dramatic action, but showing clearly in which direc.
‘tinthe great player's talent was supposed to lie. When the engraving
“this picture reached Paris, the French, with their usual droll mis-
“apprehension of everything English, interpreted it as “ Man between
‘Vieand Virtue.” “Here, too, is Harlowe’s singular but spirited
‘Picture of Mathews in several of his characters.
But it is in the large Dining-room that the whole force and wealth
‘tthe collection is collected. Nothing can surpass the interest of
‘fis brilliant gathering. The walls are alive with faces and spirited
‘Palires, full of dramatic intelligence and rich colouring. There are
Wie two or three portmits here, which, in reference to the subject
/and execution, are of the very first order. Perhaps the most interest-
Tig=at the upper end of the room, to the right of the fireplace—is
Reynolds's fine portrait of Foote, which indeed, from its size, and from
Whe orginality, attitude, and character of its subject, might perhaps be
Sonsidered! one of the most interesting in the whole collection, Tr re-
Preents the comedian clad in a drab coat, and leaning on his stick,
face seems to start from the canvas ; it has a grave and almost
PMinfil earnestness, especially marked in the closed lips. The small
Yes peer out as steadily as their lack-lustre will admit. There is
[PFidence of a Iatent spite in the rather vulgar face, which seems to
Ke waiting to gather the full meaning of what has been addressed
{0 it, and preparing a venomous reply, In short, to one familiar with
Foote’s tife and character, his making a profitable trade of exhibiting
peculiarities and failings of others on a public stage—his acei
lent, which seemed almost a retribution—his ruthless and selfish
ft, and the tetrible change which clouded his last days and sent
from England a crushed and broken man—all these associations
q to float about that wistful face, in which pain seems mingled
fey eagerness
A pendant is the bold and masterly likeness of Woodward, by
feradergucht, which hangs at the other side of the fireplace, The
VEritand freedom, and the dashing style is which it is conceived—
‘© fine, sure colouring, are beyond all praise, Such a picture rivets
(© Sttention irresistibly, The coarse, rubicund face, so solid and yet
§ mobile; the rollicking yet assured glance of the eye, the spirit
Aq life, the air of good-humour, not emphasised, which in comedy

lights up the scene, th
tery, and the dress
«fancy dest, but asthe garmants of

that make this picture |
ora thak the technical guitiog c
blue of the satin dress, in the d
have “ Harry Woodward" with hi
of the present Mr. Emery’s, here reveal

It will be scen again, by the review o
how much of the drama of those ti
pression, how much on the anticipation of 1
visas to esters DS ees

by oil footlights. The scenes were invariably *
very sober colours, and comparatively in shad
out effectually the luminated faces and figures.
thing is bathed in the flare of gaslight, there is no
background is as illuminated as the figures,

‘There is yet another masterly portrait here, that of Co
as Lord Foppington—one of those pregnant figures th
furnish companionship, This is by one Grisoni
certainly a most remarkable one, and its “ finical”* e
the subtlest kind. An average painter would be inclined:
Tate foppishness, so as to emphasise the chameter; but
conceit is conveyed by the most delicate muance of exp
a faint supercliousness in the nose—something in the
the face, even the clearness of the skin. The picture. rea
place is the well-known scene from “ Macbeth,” represe
Pritchard and Garrick in the “ Murder Scene.” Here e
coarse face of the actress, and the unrefined features of G
oth really contorted with a rather overdone intention. In
effect is as of a couple of elocutionists illustrating the Passi
than that of attempting the illusion of acting : this, ©
style of dress, would seem to have been what was more d
at then, Mrs, Pritchard frankly owned that she had never f
portion of the play that follows the disappearance of Lady ™
from the play; of which economy of trouble, it may be
not many instances could be produced. But the dresses oft
great performers are what strike us with surprise:

The Garrick-Clud Pictures. 377

p being arrayed in a vast scarlet coat, its enormous tails being
faced with gold, and the laced flaps of the waistcoat, as
‘coming down to his knees—while socks and shoes, with h
ite * bob” wig, complete the odd effect. The lady is magni-
in a flowing white satin robe and petticoat trimmed with
ofa small cap being on her head. The attituce of the pair
paches the grotesque ; Garrick’s hands (enormous in size) stretch-
gover in horror to the left, while his ungracefiul legs lean to the
it The painter has even taken care to give the marks of blood
ishands Indeed, the jest at the time on this picture was, that
was the cook and butler struggling for the carving-knife." All
fial scenes incline us more to the belief that Garrick’s real
lay in comedy. ‘That he could bring force and intensity to
there is no doubt; but his physical disadvantages were
Sd strong to be got over. Looking at this picture, it is hard
8 conceive the great player performing Romeo in rivalry with
raceful Barry. The scene, indeed, has a strangely prosaic air, and
' good ides of how tragedy was set forth, viz, by rather exag-
tied contortions of face and gesture all directed by elocutionary
fle This formality and prosaic exterior were amply compensated
Or by distinct enunciation and fine rendering of the meaning of
| line. Garrick’s dress, and the laced waistcoat, are richly painted,
|) Between the windows is 2 pleasant scene from the comedy of
F Speculation,” full of humour, and representing three “ broad”
lians, in full display of their powers, In the centre is Quick—
fillkmoon face, whose features, alive even without speech, predis-
fo merriment—a type of face often seen on the French stage,
round, and fleshy, and which, accompanied by a “ squeak like
Barflemew fiddlc"—Lamb's description of Quick’s voice—would be
Weisure to its owner. Quick was George the Third’s favourite
jan, and this picture was painted at his Majesty's desire. The
expression of Lewis, that of a mild yet racy enjoyment, with
35 sit of finesse, is excellent : not less so is the likeness, as will
Sten by comparing it with the head over the door in the Drawing-
Feom, But Lewis's face ever mantled with a brightenjoyment. ‘The
fire of Munden scarcely represents him to us as he was described by
Bia, having “not one face, but many ;” and his mobility has rather
'Betiness of figure than of face, and a dapperness which we hardly
te with a professor of expression. The good chalk sketch,
Hthe possage to the Visitors" Diningroom, shows him to us as an
man.
More remarkable, however, are the portrait-scenes from ramos,
You coxn wo. 1757. ¥P
\

symmetry of form and fine expression of feature,’
and tenderness, she had the art of making her eyes loo
ting in tears. But though her figure was “ unimp
grace and dignity, It can be seen that she
women” of the stage—of the extinct line of traged
would declaim her speeches in the exalted and most 1mus
ing which still obtains on the boards of the Frempads,
no doubt that such an exaggerated mode of utt
metrical passages. The magnificence of her dress
rich black satin, with white lace sleeves, velvet and
which is powdered, with earrings and necklace in:
that was unsuited to a lor Belvidere of the
but becoming a grande dame going to the Court of §

ck wears a gaily flowered waistcoat, whose flaps re:
his knees, This lady was the heroine of a scandalous
Cibber v. Sloper ; the defendant in which was alive so latel
when the Lady Craven, “the Margravine,” met him, )

Facing the door, and next to the window, is that fame

Scene” from the “Schoo! for Scandal,” by Roberts,
Lamb, This shows us Farren as Sir Peter to the Teft,
as Lady Teazle, and Smith and Palmer as Sir Charles
Surface. Such was the inimitable quartette that first
characters. Lamb's admirable description will Be i

The Garvich-Club Pictures. 579

should be carefully studied by all performers of the comedy. Indeed,

what with “gags" and lack of preparation, the modem repre-

‘ntetions of the piece become more and mote “ farcical," and seem

‘to tmvel farther and farther away from the author's conception.

‘This matchless scene is so admirably constructed, so full of life
and little surprises, that one may see it again and again, and
‘Never Jose the sense of interest and enjoyment. The painting
of the picture has no particular merit. But the faces are good, and,
‘judging by that of Mrs. Abington, which may be compared with the
fortrait by Hickey upstairs, must be good likenesses. Nothing can
bebetter or more natural than the expression of Charles Surface.
Hivill be recollected that Charles Surface is always made to indulge
ita yein of boisterous ridicule at his discovery, which is not merely
-bred, but improbable—for such behaviour would not have

aecepted by the others. Here we see what is correct and
Mtural—and his face exhibits a kind of quiet amusement and
Sreastic enjoyment. Agai will be seen that Sir Peter is shown
#5 comparatively a middle-aged gentleman: so he is described in
the piece itself; and not as the rather querulous septuagenarian
Which he assumes in the hands of Mr. Phelps and Mr. Chippendale,
We have here also another of Zoffany's capital character-por-
tits: Garrick, in the character of the Lord Chalkstone, in “ Lethe.”
Tt will be seen how the actor has contrived to assume the air of
Maint and grotesque senility, the nose being sharpened, and a sort
®f fishy surprise imparted to the eyes. Yet the features of the actor
© quite recognisable.

_ Such is the true art of “making up,” which does not depend on
Patri and patches and false hair, but on a power from within. This
qd ter belongs to Garrick’s earlier répertoire. Here, too, is dis-
Pleyed Zoffany's usual mastery of costume, and his treatment of

Shyourite scarlet-laced waistcoat.

seg. 20m the same play we have the portrait of Mrs, Clive as the
fixe lady "—by no less an artist than Hogarth—with a curiously
BWSeesque head-dress, like the wings of a dragon-fly, and a frill
TOxend. That she had no claims to. beauty is evident from the
SE Batened lips and disagreeable mouth, and the head seems too small
the body. This piece was in such vogue, that the famous factory

Wow issued little statuettes, in their well-known ware, of Woodward,
Geacxrick, and “Kitty” herself, in their characters ftom this play.

se are pare, and bring vast prices.

«Here we find two small pictures, by Harlowe, of Mrs. Siddons
™® Tady Macbeth, which give a glimpse of the impression yo
pra

attractions, is disappointing 5 tse See:

vulgar. Barton Booth, in his full-b

of Swift ; but it is a placid face, with nothing ©
“ tear a passion to tatters.” “There are here
by Clint, one from ‘Lock and Key,” where
intrigue against watchful and jealous e
element in the old comedies, is excellently sty
face, and the graceful women at the back, are:

agreeable. The companion scene is from “ Love,
where Liston, as Lubin Log, asks the lawyer wh r
“that black is white,” and Mathews angrily desires |
dares to dispute a point of law with him. The wncerts
with distrust, in Liston's face, and the assumed ob
intended to bear down all doubt in the other, are

even an artist inferior to Clint would have been
actors. It is clear that Mathews would haye taken’

as a comedian, had he not been turned aside to the
but more profiteble, line of mimicry and “ delineation." z
and the association with good players and pieces evokes quiet |
different train of gifts. The interest shown here i

could only have been excited by a situation to wi ie
contributed. This could not have been supplied where
dependent on his own resources.

Another capital piece, by Vandergucht, shows i pee
humourists Moody and Parsons in “The Committee.” the ont
lessly drunk and tottering, the other at the stage of merely 66
foolishness. The contorted and drooping mouth of the first
a peculiar stage of inebriation. ‘This style, however,
suggested by Zoffany’s successin\ treatment of dramatic sce
portrait of Quin, by Hogarth, \s base
nite, though it shows Nis solid, Weavy face

Garrich-Club Pictures, 581

of this actor at the Prince of Wales's Theatre in

‘The head of Garrick, by Pine, is interesting as

of the great actor's eyes and their power, and showing

capital he possessed in his face alone. Here, too, is

“ Nat Lec,” who, after writing tragedies frantic enough in
‘extravagance to have been the work of a lunatic, but which the
astic taste of the town accepted as fine tragic passion, actually
pieces in Bedlam, of which specimens have been preserved,
is portrait, however, is probably a fancy one. ‘The coarse "cook
face will be recognised after seeing the Mrs. Sullen upstairs,
shows what “a vulgar creature” the famous Pritchard must

‘been, and the artist (Hayman) has even imparted a sort of
greasy" air, as though soap and water were unfamiliar, or at least
habitual Like Peg Woffington, she always appears in a cap,

again we meet Cooke, who has a sort of grim likeness to
perhaps founded on the undramatic mutton-chop whisker, to
both were partial. Here, too, is a good portrait of Mrs, Yates,

‘Cotes—an unrefined, staicl face, not without coarseness. We can
Rderstand Garrick styling her ‘a fine woman.” ‘The drapery of the

is well painted.

‘On the stairs are two small portraits, representing Henderson in
tenes from “Hamlet” and “Macbeth.” The pictures are curious, as
jing Clearly how thoroughly clocutionary was the conception of
4e Garrick school. For we are shown a rather elderly gentleman
Pnversing with Polonius, or listening to the Witches in a comically
iSmstfnl fashion. Nothing so prosaic or matter-of-fact could be
Suceived, ‘The costume of Hamlet is worth noting, especially the
‘Pious wig that descends with two tails, as it were, on cach shoulder.
facbeth, however, is attired like a Roman general,—a costume that
y be contrasted with the sort of scarlet livery worn by Garrick in
(© same character.
| Equally good is the large piece, representing the last scene of “The
‘Amester,” and which Mr. Cole says was found in a back room of the
{ld Buck Inn at Bristol. It represents the dying agonies of the
‘elles Beverley, with the tearful pains of the wretched wile, por-
Byed by Mrs. Pope. Jarvis and Charlotte attend, but the unprin-
Lewson, who was certainly present, is unaecountably omitted.
wwe see the very height of extravagant melodrama, the figures
fing, as it were, “piled up,” like the agony itsclf—faces, attitudes,
fontorted into agonised suffering. It were to be wished howexer,
we had something of this earnestness on the Stage. Near iis

tay

Shrgeand “important” full-length scene from “The A\cvewist)
—

ing sketch of herself and ber
" Pendennis.”

On reaching the landing we face a §

a beautiful woman, and to state that it 1
amounts to saying that it is full of grace

will be noted, which it will be

an agent of Garrick’s, whom he sent down ti
This is Mrs, Hartley, who fascinated Sir Jo
“Gentleman Smith," who justified his claim
leaving wife, family, and engagement at the
with this red-haired siren. On the other
door hangs a full-length portrait of the “Young
Betty—as Norval, who dicd, as old Mr. Betty,
“This, too, is a graceful picture by Opie, who, like
attracted by the boy. Many smiles and mach
excited by this Betty mania, but though the
prodigies does not conduce to the dignity of RSs,
impression produced on the world must be accepted.

In the Smokiag-toom we sce Sir Joshua Real
Colman, with its original attitude and strangely i

sion: a placid, dreamy face, and yet a languid and faint a
contempt in the rather supercilious Tips, ‘This was one of Be
remarkable Streatham series of portraits, painted for Mrs Pn
which has been dispersed. Here, also, is “easy, natural Wench
as Elia styles him, adding one of those precious bits of analy
worth a volume of dramatic criticism.

‘Then we come upon a most quaintly characteristic bit of paint
which helps us to a glimpse of the style of acting more fii)
than a volume of description. Thi portrait of Ret
Asa piece of workmanship,

ness of the whole; while the book is worthy of one
masters, It will hardly be credited ha Wis 1 a

“e ed expression, as of one enunciating solemn truth,
o be noticed in the case of the pictures of Henderson, on
%, there is no attempt at conveying delusion, no idea of the

nt of Hamlet—the appeal is altogether to the intellect,
dthis shows what was the chief aim of the old school of acting,
D tt the sentences of the play with correct fecling and
‘This picture, we should say, is one of the best in the

Ross claimed to be connected with high families.
also, we again encounter King, arrayed in a grey coat,
rehearsing to a bust ina garden. ‘This quaint picture

jen sentiment, in short, was in ivoghie Beaming down

pon us, is a coarse rubicund face, “ fat, " and apparently about

bry "—the full-blown, “sweet, serene" Mrs. Billington, It is

indeed that we find portrait painters so conscientious and

Here, too, are Charles Kemble and Faweett in that

little piece of intrigue, “ Charles the Second,” which it is

to see now without being interested in, as it almost acts

elf, Captain Copp isa bit of real character, written when the “low

hnedian”’ was in vogue. Charles Kemble’s gay air is well caught,

| But it would take us much longer to enumerate all that is

teresting in this unique collection. ‘There are a number, too, of

{mirable, though unpretending, sketches in pastel, water colour,

td peneil, with miniatures, statuettes, and histrionie relics. ie

Wilding itself has an antique air, is sober in its tones and decoration,
{d was no doubt skilfully designed to show off the pictures.

- PERCY FITZGERALD.

rabeau, or M, le

recent Odger was a eonee

shall believe in his Republicaniams by
while, content to recognise the author

Jeave the Turk and the Muscovite alone.
magnificent apostrophe to his own

Mr. Swinburne leave the loathsome age
diplomatic lying, and windy leadin
Joathsome stage of the Eastern Question, to

De reat iene: wounnnc nari
Poetry, that the curious fools who are envious of his strains
swear that no palsy is in his veins. I might, in fine,
remember enough Greek to perpetrate a vile Avyoralynor,
Uhim of the pertinent query in “ The Clouds,” Ti «va rdigers Exwr
Bip» ; and ask him why he should thus waste his time in
round the Forte. There is nothing about that Porte which
the author of “Atalanta.” It is no longer a Sublime

. It isa rotten, worm-caten old door, giving admission only to
dy backyard, on one of the crumbling walls of which sits
Dumpty in a fez cap, and girt with the sword of Osman. It
but a slight fillip of wind, but a moderate puff of the
n finger, to topple Humpty Dumpty over; and when this
Bad Egg has fallen, not all the king's horses nor all the
men will ever be able to set him up again. ‘The most
anti-Russians can do just now is to strive to shore up the
(mbling wall, and to whitewash the Bad Egg; and the Grand
fk is, assuredly, a personage who has at all times required
tremendous amount of whitewashing. His natural hue is
G—blood-red. He is normally erythematous. He has been afflicted
the first with “the botch of Egypt, and with emerods that cannot
healed.” It is possible that he has, occasionally, been painted
[Blick by some political artists, while others, perchance, have
fn far too profuse in plastering him over, now with eouleur de
and now with size and whitening ; or they have made his foul-
more hideous with patches of gilding, elaborately burnished.
gether, it may candidly be said that the Turcophobes are nearly
far removed from a truthful estimate of the Grand Turk—we may
fell call him “ Grand,” just as we call the Police, and the Poor
4, and Sir Hugh Myddelton’s river “ New”—as the Turcophiles
& A plague on both their houses and on the Turk himself, say I;
while I say it, I must hint that I am writing this, with the con-
‘Qusness of impunity, at Nice, in the Department of the Maritime
65, France, and that I should not venture upon so frank an avowal
Opinion were I moving now, as I moved last January, in the polite
fiety of Pera. Tn that exceptional community it is not tolerated
W Europeans should take a middle course in Turkish politics, If

Qcarrya Russia-leather cigar case, if you smoke Laferme’s cigarettes,

“ Under which King, Bezonian:
tion addressed with disagreeable
both in private society, in club smoking:
@#hétes. In vain have I, over and |

* Our servants, ax a mule, decline to ent this revo!
‘very properly fine and imprison t
about the putrid hare? He iy reared, to be
eaten ina state uf decomponition wiven deat,

aries: 18s ss cSbrual ast oF poser
Trae mONAa xphparri aig rove weraiceyivove;

these five-and-twenty years past has been simply to

) sit in the pit, an amused but wholly indifferent

F the drama that was being played, and of the antics of

Hed mummers who were strutting and fretting their

stage, I have seen, in my time, de prés half a score re-
campaigns, what you will, in different parts of

“Where would be the use of my taking any side, save that
Spectator or the equally pure bread-and-cheese side? 1

ed the breaking-up of the Monarchy of July, the downfall of
iry Republic, the rise of a Second Empire, its fall, and the

her Republic. Should I gain anything by being an

or a Legitimist, a Bonapartist, a Conservative Republican

n ? T have seen the American Federals cutting the
the Confederates, and sce ered, What was the North versus
hto me? J have lived under Austrian.and under Italian rule
bardy, under Papal and under Italian Homination in Rome,

‘slavery and under emancipation in Russia ; and I have never

d that the existence of one order of things as against the

‘of another order of things absolved me from the necessity

my daily bread. Yet there are people, I know, and very

© who have a craving for political excitement, and
0 ake sides” in every political conflict, just as they do at whist

I suppose it amuses them. And in this connection I

ot do better than recall the anecdote of a notorious Jeremy
‘of the last generation, who was known as “ Bonaparte Smith.”

€ was perpetually borrowing moncy of all and sundry that would
to him. Meeting an acquaintance in the Piazzas, Covent Garden,
morning in the month of August 181g, he straightway button-
him. The acquaintance made a fecble effort to release himself,

‘a last desperate resort to avert the inevitable request for a

‘he stammered forth: ‘Have you heard the news?” “What
j?" asked Smith. “The news from St, Helena," rejoined the
‘Scquaintance—“ Just arrived. Bonaparte died on the fifth of Muy!"

Man is but a stranger and a pilgrim
gotten—he and the memory of him.
I return to Mr. Swinburne's “ Note of an

Swinbume's attainments as a master of

failed to gather from it any more definite impre

following : First, that the eminent publicist, in.

this wonderful “ screed” of invective, was mainly

to demolish Mr. Thomas Carlyle; and next, th

of the “Note” knows about as much oo

Question as my tomcat Bismarck (so called in

his ferociously acquisitive propensitics) at home does.

that for very many years I have been a constan
student of this abominable Question—a question fn whieh
take one doit's*worth of interest, and the contempt f
has never yet helped me to pay my rent or to obtain
victuals, Still, in the midst of all this ear-splitting wrangling
babbling, in the midst of these propor des Guneurs, of this &
ignorance, prejudice, and passion—I am not d h
Swinburne's pamphlet, taking it, as I do, for what
extremely clever attack on Mr. Carlyle’s dogmatic
inconsistence—in the midst of the yelpings of the

the howlings of the Turcophobes, I think that Tm

my small voice, and make my weak ululation audible,
ever, a distinetly practical aim in view. Tam only desi
countrymen should make themselves acquainted

in the modern history of the Ortowan Eangite before

b

The Grand Turk at Home. 589

e platform or in print either for or against Turkey on
and Russia on the other.
propose to send people back to the battle of Lepanto
by John Sobieski; 1 will merely point out that
| og in the last hundred years that the Osmanli has been
hill @ vue d’ei to that Devil whence his false Prophet
‘And, as respects the designs of Russia on Turkey, I will first
iplore my readers to dismiss {rom their minds all ideas apper-
to the perfectly apocryphal Will of Peter the Great. In pre-
‘to these old wives’ follies, I may advise them to remember
thin the hundred years I have mentioned, Russia has had it
‘ower, at least half a dozen times, to dismember the Ottoman
and to seize upon Constantinople. In the year 1774 there was
(of Turkey by the name of Abd-ul-Hamid. He succeeded at
of forty-eight his brother, Moustafa IIT, the “ Monsieur Ma-
‘of the correspondence of Catherine TI. and Voltaire, and who
fofa very suspicious kind of dropsy, accelerated, it was said, by
‘sty’s distress of mind caused by the disasters of his wars with
Abd-ul-Hamid had passed the prime of his manhood in the
| captivity to which the princes of the house of Osman are
tically doomed. He had learned to make bows and arrows, to
mandolin, and to copy music and verses of the Koran in inks
tnt colours. The days on which his majesty’s head was to be
Were governed by astrological computation. Meanwhile the
bh Russia went on. The corps of Ulemas had declined to
fie terms offered by the Muscovites at Bucharest ; and in the
of May, 1774, the Grand Vizier Mouhyin-Zadeh was with his
my closely beleaguered in his camp at Shumla by the
General Romanzoy. The Vizier held, in his desperation, «
of war. His principal officers were reluctantly unanimous in
jon that the only possible way to save the Ottoman Empire
nake peace with the Moscov. The decision of the council
fas transmitted to the Grand Turk ; but the pacific Abd-ul-
jad, as his brother before him had done, to confront the most
ted opposition on the part of the Ulemas. At last the Sheik»
sullenly accorded the fetva demanded by the Caliph; and on
of July, 1774, the Peace of Kainardjé was signed. The ink
archment thereof was scarcely dry before Turk and Russ were
‘heads again. By the treaty of Kainardjé the political inde-
€ of the Tartars of the Crimea had been acknowledged by the
Ussia taking for her own share theTauridan towns of Taganrog,
teh, and Venikalé, together with liberty of navigation for her

Under the auspices of (Freeh
and powder mills were

built on the Bosphorus 5 anu
constructed, and in 1777 Turkey
an insurrection in the Crimea by
named Selim Ghirai, and by m

Khan Saim, or Charin Ghirai. The:
nothing better than a rupture of the
Prosorovski with an army of 10,000
He was soon superseded by the
79,000 men, and soon afterwards the
her memorable manifesto, annexing.
empire “asa just indemnity for the
a means of securing peace and happi

‘The Ulemas.and the poywlace of Stamboutl |

The Grand Turk at Home. sor

drwar with Russia, but the Turkish Government hung back, and
sulkily assented to the annexation of the Crimea by
Te was in 1786 that Catherine, accompanied by Potemkin,
her historic progress from the shores of the Neva to the
| of the Borysthenes ; and it was at Kherson, a city which had
inigh been created ad Jwe by her favourite, that the Empress beheld
iva tiumphal arch, erected in her honour, the portentous inscription :
ts 7te Roap ‘ro Byzantium.” But the ominous reminder
aAmere scenic effect, a déor a’aptra, as fallacious and as unsub-

tial us the sham villages and the sham happy villagers improvised

Potemkin along the route of her Imperial Majesty. ‘The villages

made of painted pasteboard; the happy villagers were Crown
ffs and soldiers disguised as moxjis who travelled by night, as fast
Fever post-waggons could carry them, in order that the Carina
light find them standing at the doors of their apocryphal cottages,
fl grinning delusive grins of welcome in the morning.

Ifyou will take the trouble to read the Memoirs of the Prince de
fgne, the shrewd man of the world who knew Casanova, and has
[era manner vouched for the authenticity of the autobiography of
htdiverting scoundrel, you will find a highly interesting report of
(conversation which took place at a tea-party held during
ttherine’s progress through the Chersonese. In many respects this
Separty may be held as momentous as that celebrated entertain-
ft at the Grand-Duchess Helena's, at St. Petersburg, at which the
fat Nicolas remarked to Sir Hamilton Seymour, “ous avons wun
uae biew matade sur tes bras.” In 1786, a8 in 1853-4, the Grand
(ik was the Sick Man ; but the interlocutors on. the first-named
(G@sion were the Cearina herself, the Emperor Joseph of Austria
fe humorous Kaiser, who was wont to declare that he was a
byalist because ity was his wade), Potemkin, and the shrewd
Wee de Ligne. What was to become of the Turk? Such was the
(Gtion mooted over the tea and the éartines. Potemkin suggested
Extestablishment in Turkey of a Byzantine monarchy. Catherine,
fe affected fit of classic enthusiasm, declared that she longed to
‘nd a new Hellas, a Grecian Republic full of Lycurguses and
lons, The witty Prince de Ligne, when called upon for his
ihion, observed that he preferred Alcibiades, or at least Pericles,
(forgetting Aspasia, to Lycurgus and Solon, “Tout erda,” rejoined
{ Bubiness-like Joseph IL, est dien deau,; mais gue diable allons-
la fare de Constantinople?" ‘The Kaiser propounded a problem
feb seems to be as far off from solution as ever it was. Can you
Wer it, your Majesty? Can you answer it, your Excellency? Can

I have never pretended to show that |
habit of making war with rose-water.
proved the finishing stoke for the t
who diced in April 1789. He was

marked with the small-pox, and who in
sidered as the first of ‘Turkish reformers,
succeeded him, he made, on the whole, a
‘The young Padishah had some warlike

The Grand Turk at Home. 593

could only succeed in arming and disciplining his Janissaries
and put himself at their head, he might very soon make

of the Moscovs, Meanwhile these same Moscovs were
short work of the Osmanlis. The Capitan Pasha’s land
were utterly routed on the 14th of July, 1789, at Fokschan, or
; and two months afterwards a Turkish army of 100,000
were beaten literally out of their papouches (which with their
baggage they left behind them on the field) on the banks of the
Tt was on the morning of this engagement that old Field-
Booty uttered, for the behoof of the Prince of Saxe-Coburg,
had advised him togive his army a little rest, the memorable piece
Duncombe: “My Russians need no rest. With Saint Nicolas
me, with myself behind St. Nicolas, and with my soliers
me, Lfear nothing, Alaguons !” Suyoroy might aptly have

‘up with an allusion to that other Nicolas—not by any means
-who in tials of speed is popularly supposed to take the hind«

host. ‘The empress conferred on the Field-Marshal, as a reward for
Iikbrilliane exploits on the Ramnik, the title of Ramufrki, ‘This
was swifily followed by another astonishing triumph over the
[Ditks at Ismail in 1790. Of the ‘Turkish garrison of 50,000 men,
Sei it is ead, who swam across the Danube,.escaped. Off and

hostilities between Turkey and Russia had now lasted for some=
like four-and-twenty years, and in 1792 Great Britain and
Pnasia, being too much occupied with meddling in the affairs of
folutionary France to support Turkey, the Porte was constrained
fomike peace with her formidable neighbour. ‘The treaty of Jassy
Yassigned, and once more the student of this sphins-like Eastern
Question ix constrained to admire (1 use admiration in the sense of
Slonishment) the singular moderation displayed by the victorious
Catherine relinquished all the conquests she had made,
With the single exception of Oczakof, near the ruins of which she
brit the OW prosperous city of Odessa. The Porte was bound to
D&y twelve millions of piastres as a war indemnity to Russia ; but the
ina generously forewent the demand. She left Turkey to itself
to go downhill in its own manner, With the subsequent squabbles
Selim TT. with Frice and England it is foreign to my present
Wixpose to deal. I am treating only of the relations between the
and the Turk, and with the personal mishaps of Selim, who
years had been brooding over his pet project of superseding the
Ghisaries by an army of infantry, cavalry, and artillery, armed,
Auipped, and drilled in the European fashion. This new militia
fas called the Msam-Dyerid, or New Order of Things ; and Sclicw’s
WoL. Coxe. wo. 1757. eRe

lency with a salute of heavy
part of a formidable conspiracy
preparation against the r
gunners were

ministers of the Porte. He xeg
siveatmeats, and then he did unto

‘their friends andsympathisers on the At-Meidan. Acommon

ght breeches bound the two sections of insurgents together

° ds. It wasallup with the Sultan Selim, The Sheik-

y Who with the corps of Ulemas were to a man passionately
to traditions of baggy galligaskins, proceeded to grind that
barrel-organ in the shape of oracles, the Koran, From that

angel. the Grand Mufti proved, to the entire satisfaction of

Sam the Junissaries, the dancing and howling dervishes,
nthe general frwanderie of Stamboul, that the Sultan Selim had
)guilty of numberless offences against the laws of Islam, A_fefow
position was forthwith drawn up against hie Highness, and a
deputation waited on Selim for the purpose of murdering him.
ntended victim had hidden himself in the recesses of the Old
g and could not easily be found; but the deputation calmed
impatience of the mob congregated in front of the palace

g over the wall, from time to time, a few newly severed
chamberlains, scribes, white eunuchs, and others suspected
being favourable to the sacrilegious cause of tight trowsers. The
found Selim at last, and made him sign an act of abdiea-
transferring the imperial power to his cousin Mustapha, the son
ul-Hamid, Then they left poor Sclimalone fora little while—a
little while, just ax, only the other day, the wretched Abd-ul-Aziz
left. But the ‘Tarpeian Rock is dismally close to the Capitol, in
otinm as well as in Stamboul. It wasat the end of May 1908,

the beginning of July an effort to deliverand to restore the unhappy

ce was made by a courageous ruffian, called Moustafa Bairaktar,

be Standard-Bearer, whereupon Moustafa IV., the new Sultan, sent

other and more select deputation to his cousin, who, under cireum~

[Hances too ‘horrible to be narrated here, was done to death. The

pitts” observes the illustrious German historian Von Hammer, “ will

Be always Turks” I scarcely fancy that the Osmantis, for all the tight

Wowsers and black coats in which they are at present disguised, have

| Phangedl to any very material extent, eitherin a political ora social

Hepect Between the days of the foully-murdered Selim and those of
| thewell, the “' scissored ” Abd-ul-Aziz.

| Bairaktar, the courageous Standard-Bearer, now made Seraskier,

Gmrived at the head of the army, with which he had marched from

to find poor Selim a disfigured corpse. He threw himeclf

‘nthe body and wept bitterly. “ Shed blood, and not tears, Bacalkiax?

Qe2

‘of having been implicated in the

fir sex were not exempt fom this temblef
is tolerably well known, are accuste

the very widest possible dimensions ; and th

the tight-pantaloon proclivities of the late |
Be it as it may, no fewer than twenty ladies of
convicted of having called Selim 111. a
having rejoiced at his demise, were first bast
up alive in sacks, and flung into the Bosphorus, ,
autres,
‘The strangest circumstance in connection with
was, that no sooner did Mahmoud find himself
throne than he approved himself even a d
of tight trowsers than Selim had been. ‘The A
been abolished, were reconstituted under the nar
the Grand Vizier, Bairaktar, made no seeret of his d
the earliest convenient occasion, to annihilate the -
devout rascaldom of Stamboul was moreover
by the spectacle of a First Minister of the Crown, ives
but who was accustomed, like the exemplary
to drink brandy-and-water daily :—who pace r
on their ignorance and fanaticism, and who envulated
notorious Daddy Longlegs in his aversion from saying |
the set! times appointed by Moslem rule for those orisons. 1
* One of the commonest remarks made bya Turk to a Chelate
condescends to talk to the latter on the subject of religion, ie "Rts

never pray.” In vain does the Ginour explain that Be gost Cia as
days, and on other set days, This the Turk holds to bes Very #

functory kind of devotion, Vie ‘itoself ‘a continually

ly lap But the description thereof would be misplaced out
‘columns of the Zane. ‘The abominable practice continued
“vigour until only the other day, and, for aught most people

ce and comfortable by the family arrangement which had

oustafa LV, over to the majority, Sultan Mahmoud had leisure

d to the external affairs of the empire, which had become
complicated owing to the revolt of the province of Servia,

noted partisan chief called Czerni-Yorghi, or “ Black George,”

id to the outbreak of a fresh quarrel with Russia. The Russian
‘Kaminski overran Moldavia, Wallachia, and Bessarabia, and
‘without much difficulty the important places of Bazardjik

tria ; but in Bulgaria the Muscovites met with a lively recep-
and were absolutely driven back, the Christian population, oddéy
joining with the Turks to repel the invaders. ‘The wiseacres
time attributed this to the fact that the Moslems had conciliated

tian Bulgarians by permitting them to haye bells in their
steeples—-a privilege which hitherto had only been conceded
Maronites of Lebanon, Be it as it may, Kaminski besieged

slopping,” to use the irreverent expression of one of the characters in
Tale of Two Cities, And it matters very little to the Moslem where he
He can pray quite as carnestly ina tramway car, or in the kennel, as

the Russian campaign of ete; atid! Y
that belonged to him for the defence:
more Europe witnessed the curious sp
after victory. Of all the conquests?

Danube between Galate and the! B
Christian populations of Wallachia 0
tent with a bare assurance on the baci.
should be, in future, equitably and m

the Russian troops evacuated their

Servia, and with orders to burn, ravage,
were burnt, priests were hanged and imp:
up, babies were spitted on bayonets; in.
Turkish recreations was performed.

| fought valiantly against the imvaters,

| The Grand Turk at Home. 599

jd took refuge {in 181g) on Austrian territory, He found a suc-
however, in Servis’ in the shape of a heroic peasant, one
Obrenovich, who succeeded in raising the Servians en masse,

|, admirable as a warrior, proved to be a very stupid adminis-
the Servians were constrained to get rid of him in 1839,
in his stead as a Prince Alexander Yorghivich, a descendant
‘Black George. 5
_ O€ the insurrection against Mahmoud of the renowned Ali Pacha,
bf Yanina, I will say nothing, save that the extraordinary bandit in
(Ustion was eventually vanquished by his Suzerain, and that his
head was sent to Constantinople, where it was seen by an English
Mr. Walsh, in a silver charger, outside the great gate of the
io, and looking (says Walsh) exactly like John the Baptist’s
of old. But how could Walsh have known? Had he seen
dance, and Herod's eyes twinkle, and then the Tkelates with
word going down into the dark dungeon, and secking out John
to slay bbim? !
| Four years after the extinction of the mighty Albanian rebel the
pending annihilation of the Janissaries took place? ‘These
formally insubordinate watriors have been aptly qualified by the
bitorisn Exaad Effendi as “ fiery coursers of the desert, bounding in
the pasturages of disorder.” But it had become imperatively necessary
lrelegate those fiery coursers to the quietest of paddocks—to one,
in which their hoofs should be higher than their heads, while
they ate their grass by the roots. “' It was impossible,” continues the
metaphorical Esaad Effendi, “to picket them to the stump of
icipline. “hey were perpetually lighting the thoms of revolt under
(hecauldron of insubordination,and filing the iron collar of obedience.”
The European officers, whom Mahmoud II. had begun to call into

1The heads of Ali Pacha of Yanina, and of bis three sons Mouktar, Vely
HBDIBMIE rere puichased froin the palace guards for a. fow piasties by « dervish
mel Soliman, to whom Ali tud een very kind. ‘The prateful dervish eaused
he heads to be buried, with an inscription on the tombstone of a virtually
(Clitious mature ; but of this, however, the Turkish Government, remembering the

ia the Koran, * Disturb not the ashes of the dead,” took no notice,

A The best work that I have read on this subject is ** Les Janinaires,” by the
LEM Alphonso Royer, who was in Constantinople at the time of the memorable
(@iny Of these Pretorians, and of their more memorable destmetion by the
Hate of Mahmoud. Alphonso Royer became afterwards the Director of the
HE Grand Oper, and has left in manuscript a vohuainous history of “Le
(rece Birepe” THe had witnessed, at least, one very remarkable dmmatic
Morsnasice on cue of the finest stages in the world—the At/Meldan of Stamboul,
fe the Hippodrome of Byzantium,

L

simply this : “The Glaours have got the bet

had Mini¢s, Chassepots, Martini.

iron-clads, monitors, torpedoes—what you will i
destruction. Let us therefore have Miniés,C

Sniders, Woolwich Infants, rams, monitors, and_
forth, and we must get the better of the Giaours.” If
have a “crusade,” Mr, Swinburne, the Turks hay

the requirementsof a “crescentade.” Between
Moscov there is no question of a wolf and a
wolves, both fierce and bloodthirsty, and who have be
and from time to time springing at each others
one another for more than one hundted years): but
them a disparity of force. One beast is old and
young and strong; and in the end the weaker wolf

' There must have’ been at one time some kind of d
since we find an English traveller, Mr. Thompson, who
1745, mentioning that the Janissaries were never bastinadond o
fect, as other Turks were, lest it should injure thelr eapmelty |
were punished “after the manner of schodlnys in England.”

, composed of soldiers of the new régime, of sailors
of artillerymen from the fortresses, and even of pages
ffit belonging to the Seraglio, At the head of this force
‘Ulemas, the Mollahs, and all the rabble rout of Moslem
m. ‘The gates of Stamboul were closed and strictly
ind Janisearies were completely blockaded in the At.
. A final summons was made to them to surrender, They
a characteristic howl of “Down with impious tems!
wth drill!” and, L dare say, although both Alphonse Royer
d Effendi have omitted to mark the fact, that there was
‘audible that day on the At-Meidan many equally enthusiastic
of“ Down with tight trowsers and long live our baggy breeches!"
, certain that there were Joud outcries against the hate
Giaours, Mahmoud having just abolished the use of the huge,
n-shaped turban so dearly beloved by ‘Turkish Conservatives.
osed to substitute for this head-gear the stove-pipe hat of
tan, but contented himself with a compromise in the shape
red fez cap with its blue tassel.
ort work was made of the Janissaries. ‘They were first mowed
ith volleys of shell and grape-shot; and then the soldiers of
imed Selim penetrated into the At-Meidan, sword in hand, and
the Janissaries as though they had been so many sheep destined
festival of Kourban-Bairam, Some hundreds took refuge in
barracks, which were speedily set on fire by the Sultan's troops,
idthe Janissaries who attempted to escape from the burning edifice
playfully prodded back into the fames, Thus, after a brilliant
ce of five or six hours, the Janissaries ended in a blaze.
ther about 30,000 of these Prwtorians were put to death,
Many hundreds were slaughtered in cold blood after the massacre
the At-Meidaa ; but the discreet Esaad Effendi does not specify
these ulterior victims. He contents himself with
that “‘ many were given over to the talons of strangulation,”
eens of strangulation ” forms a very pretty figure of speech.
ud 11. now found himself with a numerous and gallant
Sapalicemty equipped in tight trowsers and fez caps, and
in strict accordance with the canons laid down in the * Me
Swldias," ready to confront the whole world of nhac

the frestige of which was u

French Revolution of 1830, and

Greece, meanwhile, was really freed

besieging Patras, and the Castle of the |
1 The London gamiey used tol a ee

* Abraham Parker.” A droll story was tol a

hhand bank-notes of the value of one: million
“ Adtah isellemek," Voradion. poppe Ye yrecious yad
of his baggy breeches, He thought tat the wai

—

The Grand Turk at Home, 603

under the immediase command of a new Moscovite
ous Nicolai-Alexundrovich, and with his brother, the
ike Michael, and Field-Marshal Wittgenstein, as seconds in
were beating the Turks in the Danube, They were being
beaten by the Russian Count Paskievich in the north of
nor. The new Cear had issued, in 1828, a manifesto setting
jhis complaints against Turkey, who, according to his showing,
roiken the Treaty of Bucharest (2$12), had devastated Servis in
as~16, and had oppressecl the Christians of Moldavia and.
‘These last-named provinces Nicolas succeeded in occu
Hussein Pacha, with 100,000 Turks in the tightest of tight
marched to meet the Moscoy, The Osmanlis fought a
it At Silisteia, at Rustchuk, and at Schumla—the old old
n cock-pits ; but in October 1828 they lost the important
‘of Varna, mainly through the treachery of Youssouf Pacha,
foran immense datsiish went over to the Russians, “ bag and
"as Mr. Gladstone would say. Immediately after the cap-
fof Varna the Czar Nicolas returned post haste to St. Petersburg
‘organise a fresh army of 160,000 men for the campaign of 1829;
‘ahd the command of this mighty host was intrusted to the illustrious
Fed Marshal Dicbitch. Arraycd against him was the new Turkish
Gund Vizier Reschid Pacha, who with 60,000 men was completely
‘Gwhed by Diebitch ar the battle of Kalektscha in Bulgaria
Way 1829). Inthe July of the same year the victorious Russian
his audaciously successful passage of the Balkan range, by the
file Of Aidos, and whence he derived his proud title of Aa/kensht.
‘Hitherto this.natural rampart of Thrace had been deemed impregna-
We On August to, Dicbitch was under the walls of Adrianople,
Which was held by a Turkish garrison of 13,000 men. A disgraceful
Pakie set in among the new tight-trowsered levies, and Adrianople
Mimendéred, “ bag and baggage,” without striking a blow. On
‘Nptember 20, 1829, the Treaty of Adrianople was signed; and
Dice more—I wonder if it was for the last time—Russia astonished
eworld by the spectacle of her moderation. Faithful to the pro-
Mike given in his manifesto in 1828, the Crar Nicolas did not insist
Many territorial aggrandisement at the expense of the Ottoman
Enpite. He gave back to Mahmond IIT. all that the Russian armies
Md conquered in two years of hard fighting—that is to say, nearly
whole of Turkey in Europe ; while in Asia, where Paskievich had
Ride considerable conquests, especially in Armenia, the Czar’ only
ned the fortress of Akalziké and a small surrounding district.
quasi-independence of Moldavia and Wallachia (Rowman) a

/

episode, which resulted in the si

Jessi, belongs, equally with the C sue
plications, of which the late Conk

but the prologue (destined to usher in a.

really modern history of ith which
every student of the works of Dr. Russell a

be, familiar, ‘The story which I have 1

T have striven to make as plain and succinct a «
histories for children, is one which T venture |
great mass of readers of newspapers, ay, 0 u
books cither, ‘The omniscient critic may wag his
that he knows Von Hammer's fourteen big v

J have told the public nothing new conceming t
Russia and Turkey during the second half of the |
first half of the present one ; but 1 do not beg
pardon, and I am not his humble and obedient
direct my attention, or the attention of the public, t
simple résumé of the quarrels of Russia with
and 1829 I shall, however, be infinitely obliged
critic. Meanwhile—wholly omitting all save in
the Crimean war, as a matter within the ken of
Englishman, | intend, in a subsequent paper, to show what th
‘Turk has been, and what he is and probably will be until in|
ness of time, he “ dries up” from the surface of this earthy t
he is an Abominable Nuisance, in a social as well as im a
capacity. I have spoken of him only as fighting a
free to confess that he has fought, i
all probability, there is a good deal more fighting in
shall discourse of him as a pipe-smoking, pilaf-enting,
occasionally raki) drinking animal ; and especially as
more wives than he is entitled to possess,

SENECA’S (CEDIPUS.

‘EW literary contrasts can be greater than that between the
HL English poetry of our own day and that of what has been
alled our Augustan epoch. Of the many points of difference
the two, one of the most obvious, though at first sight not
e most fundamental, is their different relationships to the poetry of
ieece and Rome. Towards the close of the last century and during
be carlier years of this, our Augustan school died slowly out, and with
fied also its Chloes and Delias, its nymphs and swains, and its formal
ions to the Muses. To the new school that was riging all
seemed but hollow trifling, which made poetry nothing but a
;, and prevented its having any scrious meaning. ‘To the
hool Nature and the Present, not Art and the Past, were the
of inspiration. Classicality in its eyes soon seemed but as
and forgotten affectation, and its poetry owed little either
form or spirit to the sermoues utriusgue lingua. We seemed at

state of things, However, did not last long. The power of the
Bist has again asserted itsclf over us, Classicality again reigns, and
Mis with even greater power than it did in the days of Pope and
d But there is this difference—it was then the classicality of
ne, it is now the classicality of Greece, And this difference is a
i. ‘one, and one which can hardly be over-estimated.
however, there remains in spite of it this resembliance—that the
try of both epochs is to a very great extent imitative ; that it
‘a large part of its inspiration not direct from life, but from life
already embodied in literature ; and the poetry of both epochs
Gillin virtue of this fact, be found probably to have many of the
me faults and the same clements of mortality.
| The models we follow are, indeed, far finer than those followed
Four grandfathers. Where the young poet of the past day took to
latins, the young poet of ours takes to Aschylus. But inspiration
6m even the finest models will not make long-lived poetry. No-
(ing in Greek literature has so deeply influenced the poets of the
‘epent age as its tragic drama. No literary model can be more {

a

to marry his mother. Now, ho
eluded his destiny, to have forgotten
his wife, and in a family of sons and
fall of pride and yrospenty ter Wi

‘Bat now, he goes on to say, them
to him, which so many years ago had urg
A strange, terrible presentiment, he says,
way he knows not, he may still have to fulfil the «

him. For, he says— r

For right and left the plague is rife ; but see,

It falls on all, and only turns from me.

‘What darker doom awaits me, Hesven, that 1,
Weset with death, am fated not to die?
‘My piteous people round me groan and.

And I—oh, horrer!—still outlive them

Fool that I aim, ee

Am 1, the king, to saves sulfering state?

No, my foe dogs me wheresoe'er I fles,

And taints the very breeze that's breathed by me,

GEdipus then proceeds to a description, thirty-five lines in lengthy
of the terrible details of the plague, and the mortality amongst 8
citizens ; after which his immense speech concludes with a pest
that is really dramatic. He gives vent to a feeling like that sh
urges @ man on the brink of a precipice to jump hexdlome i)

) "This line is from Goldsmith's Deserted Village, amd | Pte ccssatar
for the original, * Curis solutus exul, intrepiday, vagana.” Tin
the metre bas been adopted that seems best to EP, ai tanee
Latin—viz,, the metre employed by Dryden, Lee, ia
rhyming tragedies, for which Seneca himself afforded pee .
AB schylus and Sophocles Aid to Mion in Ws Samo Agee

's Eedipus. 609

with all manner of vague and ghastly forebodings,
o that these may be accomplished at once, and
thus be delivered from at least one agony—suspense,
‘Ye powers of Heaven, before sour shrines T come,
1 raise my voice and clamnour for my doom,
Let me do all! let me do all! { ery,
Let me drain out my dregs of destiny,
‘Sooner than reign like this, and see my people di

jasta pow at last speaks, and urges her husband not to succumb
calamitics, CEdipus answers that there yet may possibly be
remedy for them, if only the oracle of Apollo, which he has
Sreon, his brother-in-law, to consult, and from which he is
expecting an answer, will point it out. Here follows a
ind verbose chorus, descriptive of the sufferings of Thebes
thé ravages of the pestilence, which does little but amplify
tmber what had been already too amply said in the speech of
as, ‘Thus ends the first act.
{t II. opens with the entrance of Creon, just arrived from
i, who announces that the remedy for the sufferings of Thebes
expulsion of the murderer of Laius, Qidipus at once vows
fly that the criminal shall, if possible, be at once discovered,
driven from the country. He makes inquiries about the par-
ts of the king's death, and learns that he was murdered whilst
joumey, at three cross-roads, by a band of robbers. Re-
tis now had to the old blind seer Tiresias, who enters attended
6 daughter Manto, and is bidden to discover the murderer
{expulsion the God demands. The scene thus proceeds :—

Tirevisr. Bear with ine, sire, and wonder not that T
Delay the fates, and linger in reply.
‘See how in vain my sightless eyeballs roll ;
And half the truth eludes my sunless soul.
‘Yet Phosbus and my country lead the way ;
T hear the call, I follow and obey,
‘And the dark secret shall be dragged to day,
Ah, would my breast might still sustain the load
Of prophecy, and house the prescient god
ut since that may not be, a steer prepare—
A steer with neck unyoked and snow-white hair :
And thou, my daughter, watch the sacred firc,
And tell the omens to thy sightless rire.

Manto. Stands the steer at the altar side,
With neck unyoked, and spotless hide,

Firerias, Call the heavenly powers by name;
‘Then with incense feed the fame.

| COX. NO. 1757. RR

Tivesiai, Dagnre tom.
What shall T say or what
‘Nothing clear my woul divines
In these dire disoeitered sims |
‘What is this, now naka.
And anon ogein concealed
Something which the gods eat
‘Tremble when they uy to name.
Daughter, quick, without delay,
Seine the axe, the victims slay
Lay the bull and heifer low—
‘Tell me how they meet the blow,

‘Then follow a variety of other signs, increasing in terror aid
strangeness—signs in the conduct of the -vietims beneath the x1
thé way the blood came from the wounds, and Hayate
entrails ; until at last Mento exclaims — Ps |

|
And, my sire, that -yoice you hear
Ts not flock that. bleats for four
Ts not heavy herd that inganss) =
Ut is the altar's self that Iows and shakes tn

GBedipua. Seer, WA woe A, the wordt out

Tiraies, But ne that clewwes the liquid air
acct al eat tats ade
Far diferent

means be ours, We must invade
‘The very Tell amd ol! the tracts of shade,
And drag the dead one to the apper air—
‘The munterer! must himself deelare the munterer.
Earth aust be riven asunder ; we must ery
‘To Dis and his implacable deity 5
And we ditet rifle Styx and drag to light
‘Dim shoals of ghosts out of their depths of night.
Monarch, who shall attend me in thy stead ?
For thon, a king, must not behold the dead.
Edipus. Croom, go thou; this part pertains to thee,
‘The king's adviser and the king to be,
‘Tirssias, Woste we then, now, to open Hell's abode,
Whilst these with singing bail our city's radiant god.
Chorus, Hear what « hyron to thee thy chosen land addresses,
{fear with what prayers thine own beloved abodes revound,
Bacchus, god with those long tresses
‘That the ivy mods around,
Haste and hear us, now that we,
‘Thine own Thebans, cry to thee 5
Hither hasten from on high,
‘Tem thine unshorn and shining head to ws.
Smile and make sunlight in the cloudy shies,
‘Smile aed make mute the threats of Reebus,
‘Absah the sickness with thy starry eyes | =
‘Oh, thine it is with flowers of wernal lustre
‘To wreathe thine hair, and with gold head-bands bind,
And on thy white brow hang the wine-dark ivy-cluster,
And now to Tove thy tresses to the wind,
‘And again in girlish guise
Recall thei in « knot behind
As when thy form deceived thine angry stepdame’s eyes,
‘And thy god's aspect seemed a gil's,
With flowing robe and cone and crisptd golden curls.
‘Thee in Asian fields afar,
Who break Araxes! frozen tide,
Or the draughts of Ganges drain,
Conscious of the bloodless war,
‘Worshipped rolting o'er the plain,
_ Clothed in the panther’s brindled pride,
And towering in thy tiger-harnessed

Chorus goes on like this for about cighty lines move, deserter
KRe

of all the grove, o'ertops the rest 5
Oer all the rest its heavy shade ix shed,
And wide around its coiling arms are spread,
‘Neath this incambent canopy is found

‘But sleeps the stagnant tide in darkness there,
And frosts eternal bind the rigid alr.
‘Thence deadly vapours rise, and Jong and dani
Decaying herbage hides the oary bank,
1Lther the prophet led. "Cast fear away,”
Ie cried, “The Powers admit of no delay
the carth is trenehed, and brands from. fumeral
Flare through the darkness and supply the fires
The seer with chaplets then his temples bound,
And round his frame a flowing yeature wound.
And nov, in squalid garb, he stood to view,
His temples nodding with Ingubriows yews
And cried to make the sable offerings fit,
nd drag them backwards to the blazing pit;
Thon called the ghosta that in the darkness dwell,
And thee, dread guardian of the gates of Hell.
And now, with rabid mouth, he rolls along +
The sounding numbers of the enchanted song;
Sometimes with prayer the suppliant verse persuadeh

And, sometimes raging, threats the airy shades.
Meanwhile the flame the sacithice deeouns 5
‘Then snow-white mille an Yopd-teh ame Ne A

And the leaves bristled on the boughs for dread.
‘Then did at length the solid ground begin
"To gape, and direful sounds were heard within,
A know not whence :~from Hell grown wroth to see
"The audacious day profine its mystery 5
Or haply earth itself hart snapped her chain
‘To free the prisoners of the dark domain,
Or Cerberus his heavy fetters clenked again.

ut 90 it was, with heavy erash the ground
Asunder rolled, and showed the vast profound.
‘Then slid these living eyes see face to face
‘The pallid gods amid the accursed place j
‘Then did they sve the eternal lakes of fate,
Aal that eternal darkness uncreate.
‘Then—and a horror thrilled through all my frame—
Forth of the pit its hideous tenants came.
“The dragon-Lorn in long array were there,
And shrieking Furies with their writhing hair—
Rage, Fear, and every form abhorred of men,
Concealed or genslered! in the eternal rlen—
Skalking Old-age, and hesitating Doubt—
But time would fail to tell the motley rout.
‘My cournge fled ; even Manto’s nerves unstrang,
Around her sire with trembling arms she clung.
Bat, all unconseions of the maid's embrace,
He felt no fear invade his sightless faze,
He still convokes the unsubstantial throng,
And still fresh numbers hear the cogent songs

to his call fresh fluttering mists repair,

And breathe once more the heaven's remembered alr j
‘More quick they come than waves on stormy seas,
Or leaves in windy autumn from the withering tree,
‘Till every Theban stood once more above—
A cowering throng, that Iurked about the grove.
First Zethus came, and led his ghostly erew,
And by the horns the fatal bull he drew;
Amphion next, who atill sustains, a shade,
‘That lovely lyre that once the stones obeyed ;
‘Then haughty Niobe, at Inst allowed
To count her offipring and be safely proud 5

Laius then goes on ina
cuse CEdipus of having killed his fatherand’s
concludes by urging the Thebans to lose no
the accursed thing from amongst them, — on
For that same hour your monareh fliey Lawes
“That kingless Thebes shall breathe « puree mir,
fas worthy consuls, Death and Pain

And o'er the glebe again distil the dew.

On first heating this CEdipus is completely thunderstruck ; butt
another instant he recovers himself, and. angrily accuses Crean ad
Tiresias of being in a plot against him, that they may expel im fro
his throne, and that Creon may seixe upon it, A short altereatiot,
of singularly strained and lifeless kind, takes place Between CEdipe
and Creon ; at the end of which G2dipus gives orders that Crean be
imprisoned, whilst he himself goes into the palace. Then follows?
chorus, in which all the evils of Cidipus are attributed not to his ov
faults, but to the evil fate of Thebes ; and the act conchilles.

At the opening of Act TV, (Edspunandl Jocasta re-enter. (Edipne
has been thinking over all that he has heard from Creon. He begr®
to remember that on his first coming to"Thebes he did meet a cenit
stranger on the way, with whom he had at ee
chanced to kill, and now a very few Wouithes of ‘ring howe

See Giete Ctomitaty Gite escon tan

Rey coe tent cot age Ghia so soe
he vacant throne, (Edipus experiences a sudden sensation of
‘news, Now at any rate he can never kill his father.
the Queen of Corinth, still lives. ‘There is still the

be may marry her. ‘The messenger, however, to set his
at once tells him that neither of them really was hie

i that he (the messenger) had himself brought CEdipus to
who had been reared by a shepherd on Mount

And now follows the full revelation—that Gidipus was
than the son of Laius and Jocasta, who had been ex-
fis infancy on the mountain, rescued, and brought up at
Corinth, and thus reserved to fulfil to the uttermost the
le that the oracle had predicted for him. CEdipus calls to
open and swallow him up ; and rushes into the palace,
to do some dreadful deed, and saying that he must con-
his mother on her newly-discovered child. ‘Then, in low,

tins, the Chorus begin to sing > —~

| Were it mine my fate to form,
T would change my silken sails,
Fearful of too rade a storm,
With the soft Favonian gales.
Careless in the middle stream
‘Of the rocks on either side
Should my bark in safety glide,
Gently floating, and should seem
Sleeping on the tranquil tide,
‘Thus my days should pass secure,
Rich without wealth, snd without equalor poor.
Think ye all who would be great,
‘Think of him who strove to rive
On his faithless wings elate,
Proudly through the viewlese skies
‘Think how falling, falling he
Gave all his honours to tbe ginssy sea,
Safely through the lower air
Deedal winged « happier ways
Dut, alas, with what despair,
Shooting from the seats of day,
Sudden rowel, he sees his non
Vainly calling,
Swiftly falling,
‘Swiftly falling, falling prone,
‘Sttike on the wave, and in a cloud of «pre
Por ever gone!

As thus he spoke, he selnal with

‘The hilt, and from ite seabbard drew hie brand,
‘Then gazing on't exclaimed, "And shall one blow,
‘One moment's pang, dispense with years of woe!

‘To die, he goes on, might expiate the murder of his fatiaer;
what of his mother, and the unhallowed offspring, of wwii,
defiance of nature, he was the parent? Shall he die? Na /
resolves to live and suffer. He breaks forth into sudden wmpi
Do I shed tears? he cries. Let my eye follow my tears, and he)
to make atonement.

Nis pallid chock» were shot with sodden red,

And his strained eyes seemed bursting from his head,
Expectant of the threat—a hiberid sight

“The flashing centre, and the blood-shot white.
‘Then—sickening, scarce to speak my mouth availp—
Deep iu his flesh he dug his hook-like mails :
Explores with engle’s claws his

And tears at last exch orb in frenay from its

‘Then with one long, one hideous yell of pain

He pressed hand on cither eave inane,

Foamed at the mouth, and, facing to the light,
Mocked at the sun, and made his bonst of might.
And thus he cried ; “ Behol, 1 now have paid
‘The vengeance tue vo Vong, a long delayed.

al

| And spare at last my wretehed country spare

j
Chorus then, in a few resigned lines, sing that everything men
iffer comes from fatc, and that we can neither choosenor
ything. Prayers are useless ; will isuscless. ‘The palace doors
ten ; and (Edipus, bewildered, re-enters. He speaks with

Ma over now ; the fates are satinfied,

And some Lind power at last permits me hide
My life from light. Ye murderous hams, Lowe
Nonght to you now—I have repaid the blow,
Fit for the parricide, night veils my way;

“Tis not for Cdipas to face the day,

a now enters, half mad with horror, and addresses her son:—

Ah? thou I know not how to name
‘Too many names thou hast, and alt with shame ;
My son, if son thou art, one moment stay,
‘Nor turn from me that sightless face away.
Eeipur. And what art thou thot wouldst restore my sight,
‘Anil drag the darkling penitent to light?
My Inboor's lost whilst thou, ill-known, art near ;
‘Though blind I sce thee whilst thy voice I hear.

Ty these vain pits, unconscious of the day,
By those sad sons begot to grief, I pray,
By those redoubled ties which only sever
‘Those whom thcy bind for ever and for ever,
Henceforth no more address me,

7 Oh, my mind,
And ie thy courage left so far behind ?

Let death be mine! 1 claim it for my own!
‘To find the rendiest means 1 long alone.

Will not the parricide complete the deed,
And with the father bid the mother bleed ?
He turns away—but see! he drops his sword !
By thie, brave steel, be all my woes explored.

€ snatches up the sword and stabs herself. “Whar!”
CEdipus, * and must yet another crime be mine? Was it
igh that I killed my father? Must my mother's death too
‘door? But now let me haste,” he says, “ and free at last my
@ my cursed presence.” He thus concludes, as he is pre-
‘depart, and the following lines end the play :—

*

for yet another, and a somewhat de

have just been considering is ti

fired by the subject itself, but by the por
another about that subject, and in it will be
and hints of most of the beauties that are
poetry.
As we have already said, the actual ine
Sophocles are all followed by Seneca ; but in his
these he has omitted much that was in his
place by much that is his own. Both the o
tions are eminently characteristic,

Perfect as is the construction of the plot of
go but a little way were it not for the still
which he has drawn the principal characters In
tion, were it not for his character, we should have b
in C2dipus. But Sophocles, with a skill only to be p
of Shakespeare in Zear, has contrived to make him
character, with the elements in him so subtly mixed that our
in his fate is aroused to the very utmost, and all our most yank
feclings are called into action, First we see the gee
side of his kingly character; then the ungoverned and tyrannest

passion with which this is alloyed. And thus a stately peer
rises before us, about which we are doubtfally

shall detest orreverence it. ‘Then gradually ees oeraat
down over it, and all the depths of its inner human nature are 0
by one revealed with a wonderfull and sublime pathos, It
same with Shakespeare's Zear: Bur if we uum to
sce that, though he preserves traces of the origimal characteras day |
by Sophocles, he has done this as if he hardly cared what Bt #2
doing. The lines are frigid, hasty, almost meaningless, “Thema |
of the Greck play Seneca of course yeedved, and he i
reproduce it. But this, in Sophocles, epente wave

- ae 1 619

it of character, and Seneca, being unable to.
character, has failed also in reproducing the irony. How little
the secret of either the one or the other may be seen

two following instances of his want of skill. In the very first
ne he unintentionally robs the downfall of CEdipus of half its
‘by representing rim as already prepared for it by a strange
ling, thus entirely effacing by « coarse blot one of the most
of the strokes of Sophocles. And in another place he
defaced his original yot more signally, ‘The worse side of
character—his pride and insolence—is revealed by Sophocles
‘consummate power and vividness in the brutal and angry
jour of the monarch to the blind ‘Firesias, who first refuses to
‘the murderer, and then meets the other's rage with 2 calm,
ing dignity, and half cows it, in spite of itself, by the terrible,
words with which he retires. This scene is one of the finest
the whole play of Sophocles. It is in this scene, however, that
has most widely departed from his original, Here is a very
cant fact, which at once reveals to us the real nature and motive
Latin drama, It is in this place that Seneca has interpolated
was most entirely his own, and for the sake of which he has
ced what was most impressive in his model. Of the whole
feene between Manto and Tiresias, with the altar, the incense, the
, and the portents, there is no trace in the Greek ; nor again
the evocation of the shade of Laius, Creon’s description of which
the most prominent passage in the whole play of Seneca.
Tf we consider, then, these passages, which are purely the work of
, we shall see that their characteristic is that they are purely
lar, or purely descriptive. There is nothing in them of
or strictly human interest—nothing in them that in the
Hisense of the word'can be called dramatic. If put on the stage
try would not be even impressively spectacular; they are only so to
the mind's eye It does not seem certainly a satisfactory form of
Unmma, this—which we sec to be faulty in the closet, and which is
twidently not adapted for the stage ; and we are naturally led to
{peeulate on the author's motive in producingit. ‘The answer to this
fam be detected in the characteristics we have just been mentioning.
jophocles wrote his poetry that he might exhibit his subject: Seneca
{hose his subject that he might exhibit his poetry. ‘The real hero of
he Eatin drama is the style of the dramatist.
‘The same is truc of all imitative literatures, and no literatures
hat are purely or even mainly imitative can ever live, This is a
mith that may well be taken to heart by some of our poets ot toe

L

620 The Gentleman's Magazine.

present day ; and the example of it, which we have just been co-
sidering, may serve by its particular force and character, by its metis
as well as its defects, to point the moral. There is another fc
about it, too, which may conduce to this end. Sophocles in bis
Gdipus dealt with the living problems of his day; he seized the
thoughts that were actually in men’s minds, and bodied them forth.
Seneca in his Cédipus entirely fails in this ; or, rather, he hardy
attempts it. He does not try to make his readers face the Preseat,
but he tries to withdraw them from it. A literature which does this
can at its best be but a fruit dropped on the course, which, if we sop
to pick it up, will but hinder us in the race, and which, having well
looked at it, we shall soon cast aside as an encumbrance.
W. H, MALLOCK.

621

f

i)
REPRESENTATIVE MAN OF
THE LAST CENTURY.

HERE is probably no epoch in our history with which we have
‘80 little in common as the first eight decades of'the eighteenth
fry. So remote are our sympathies from the men and women
‘vents of that period, that we fail even to understand them, and,
all the rash judgment of an intolerant and egotistical age, we
‘em upon the Procrustean bed of tmodern ideas, to which no
‘ss of shrinking or elongating can accommodate them, and, a8
espise all other standards, the unfortunates, after being terribly
‘tated, are condemned at once to moral execution. We might
tl try a New Zealand aborigine by the laws of polite society, as
the people of the reign of the first and second Georges, by a
énce to our present code ; indeed, T question whether we are not
‘en rapport with the New Zealander than we are with those
4, polished, artificial, fine ladies and gentlemen, our great-great-
‘Smothers and -fathers.
As the representative man of his age there are few characters of
ish history which have been more abused and even execrated
Lord Chesterfield. Beginning with Johnson, he has been held
$ the type of all that is heartless, cynical, immoral, and wicked.
(¢ has shricked over his “Letters” until good, simple people
eoine to regard them as little better than the effusions of
tire and Tom Paine, and to believe that their perusal would
sralise the chastest mind, It is not the purpose of this article to
‘rm a trick commonly practised by enthusiastic biographers,
aly, to attempt the transformation of a spirit of darkness into an
U of Tight, neither does it propose by suppression of facts, by the
uring of others, or by special pleading, to condone the faults of
ibject, but simply to judge him by the manners, morals, and sur-
tings of the age in which he lived. As far as practicable I shall,
‘tracts from his letters and other compositions, let him speak for
elf. Perhaps the reader may object to this as being an ex parte
tod, a man usually making the best of himself; but such was eX

eoeier oe ae n
moment till I got before him.”

his education by private tuition ;
bridge, where he was a most diligent
picture of him, drawn by his own

Morace ; when I aimed at being facetious, {
mind to bea fine gentleman, J talleed Ovid.
ancients had comuion sense, that the elassics

like aman.” When, at eighteen, he went to the Hague, he

mbling all the fashion, and, ‘as I aimed at perfection," he

I adopted gaming as a necessary step to it.” “This last

“| i Dr. Maty, the earliest and most reliable, if partial, of

biographers, “ the least excusable of all vices, especially

ot fostered by want, or accompanied with skill, was in every

of life equally detrimental to his character and fortune. It

d him every night in the company of people with whom he

have been ashamed to have been seen at any other time. He

and despised yet could not shun them, Crowds flocked around.

gaming table to enjoy so unequal a strife, in which, while his

was picked, the applause which the repeated flashes of his.

drew from all around secmed to make him abundant amends
‘his losses.”

In these facts is contained the key-note of Chesterfield’s character.

be perfect, dd mode, was his ambition, the great and all-ruling

on of his life ; society was the altar before which he worshipped,

of that altar he desired to be the high priest. Thus we find him.

sting his faults whenever by they add to his assump.

Sem of fom. Whatever was the mode, that thing he did without any

fSepect for its being good or ill. rm at object was to make.

man like me and every love me,” is his confession.

him animated by the same spirit of

one—-of yea and surpassing all his

pre praise
Chesterfield once that he was lil
humorous idea, and. really

place, my lord sought the hand. of

the Duchess of Kendal called niece, but wi
daughter by the king : George opposed the
lover's propensity to gambling. In the

and correspondent of Mrs. Howard, af
prince's mistress; and, to conclude, the

and more was to be hoped from his successor
theless, he did not break with the Coun y

Man of the Last Century. 625

(1723) in favour of the addition of four thousand
‘he army that he was created captain of the Yeomen of the

4726 his father, who never sccms to have got over his ayersion
eldest-born, died, and he succeeded to the title. ‘The next
,that of the king’s death, he was sent as ambassador to the
me, where he remained five years, returning to England in 1732.
‘bis hopes of advancement from the new sovereign were doomed
and ere long George IL. conceived a positive
ed for bis quondam supporter.
Horace Walpole ascribes the commencement of the king’s cold-
(towards my lord to the following circumstance ; which I give in
own words :—
fhe queen had nn obscure window ar St, James's that looked into a dark pas-
i ‘only by a single lamp at night, which looked upon Mrs. Moward's
Lanl Chesterfield one Twelfth Night at Court had won so large a.
eres (£15,000), that he thought it imprudent to carry it home in the
, and deposited it with the mistress. Thence the queen inferred great in«
fy} and thenceforward Lord Chesterfield could obtain no favours from Court ;
Fading bimsclf desperate, went into Opposition,

tabi, for such a mode of proceeding would be quite con-
int with her character, the queen might have hinted certain
jiefons to her husband and roused his jealousy. Although more
} tolerating his mistresses, she never lost an opportunity of
ting their adherents feel her power,

(Chesterfield, however, supported the ministry until the advent of
(celebrated Excise Bill, which he voted against. ‘The king, queen,
{Walpole had all set their hearts wpon the passing of this measure,
0 great was the popular clamour against it that they were
iged to give way. Chesterficld was dismissed from his office of
Isteward—which, together with the Garter, had recently been con-
‘ed upon him—on account of his share in the defeat, When the
ke of Grafton demanded his staff, the earl begged his Grace to
ire His Majesty that he was ready to sacrifice everything for his
fice except his honour and conscience. He afterwards wrote a
& to the king in the same stain, which greatly increased the
harch’s dislike against him. Tn the absence of all apparent selfish
fives, we must applaud both his conduct and his sentiments ; he
idedly gained nothing by them, and as decidedly Jost much.
fing the next two years he was the leader of the Opposition.

Bat ere this (1733) he had married Melesina. ‘There was
hing at all romantic in the affair.

Me €E%L. NO, 1757, ss

latter was not ex rapport

Jord among wits, but a wit
acknowledges that he was
versable, entertaining table wi
‘not been a man of exceptional t
that delicate compliment of bo
epigram :—

Beholt a mirack
“Twordull Hines with St

‘The few of my lord's good thiags »
give us a high opinion of his powers.
have been repeated, two or three may be

' Upon hearing that George IL, had ve
commenced an action against him for £20,000,
his wife by the late king. ‘There is no doubt
paid to hush the matter wp.

ve Man of the Last Century. 627

pon seeing a full-length picture of Beau Nash between the
Pope and Newton is particularly neat :—
‘This picture placed the busts between,
Gives satire all its strength 5
‘Wisdom and Wit are little seen,
But Folly at fail length.

_ Sir Thomas Robinson, who was very tall, challenged him to an
upon which he wrote :—

Unlike tay subject now shall be my song,
Tt shall be witty and it shan't be long.

‘wrote a number of vrs de société, which are to be found in his

works. Some of his »ofs were very sparkling ; for instance,

upon hearing that some man of low birth had married the
danghter of a lady whose chastity was more than suspected, he re
1 that Nobody's son had married everybody's daughter! His wit

dat times take a more practical form, as is exemplified by the

anecdote related by Dr. Maty :—

‘The late Loni R., with many good qualities, and even learning and parts, had
strong desire of being thought skilful in physic, and was very expert in tileeding.
Chesterfield, who knew his folble, ai ® partiewlar occasion wished to
his vote, came to him one morning, and, after haying conversed upon Indif~
matters, complained of the headache, and desired his lordship to feel his
at hig hint of losing blood

the question that is to be de-
will you be of?"

Sistress; poor Aaron n bi
found in him a liberal friend. But, as

— have rendered thi:

may

so until the formation of the celebrated
years later, Then he was sent on an

cessful, although he was pleading against fi
Chesterfield was one of the peace party,

of the German possessions of the English C
terribly loth to employ him, but as he co
royalty was foreed to submit.

Chesterlich!’s second embassy to. Holland, says I
renewed the praises be hail aoyuiret by the first. So 1
stand at this period, that Sir Watkin Wynn, thoagh
Nona] fifes, once the Haas of Coumnons revered in

a tongue to persuade, ond a hand to exeeute any worthy #
‘carcer, though never, as I think, inspired by a high and
deserves the praise of humane, aad liberal, and farsighted
the rebeltion, while all his colleagues thought only of
the dungeon or the scaffold —disarming Acts ani

sterfield was for schools and villages to civilise the H

Upon his return he was appointed Lord Li
and the single year he filled that great office was #l
most brilliant of all his life.

Before departing for Dublin, he recommended:
Chevenix, to the see of Killaloe, then vacant The
to mortify him, instructed Lord Harrington, the Set
that His Majesty could not comply with his request, B
accept any other person he would tame, wey

xtmost of miy power support the

‘more advantage to them and more |

‘wyear for doing it. +

divide my time pretty equally 5 1
choose it,

Continent, where the errors of the
rected more than a century and ahalf

the Earl of Macclesfield and Mr. B
During the last illness of the latter
people ascribed his sufferings to a ji
taken part in such an impious proc:
attacked by an incwrable deainess.

se Ue

Man of the Last Century. 63%

9," he said; “it is now become my necessary refuge,
Tare parted forever.”
¢ very day he resigned he went to White's and played
“He had refrained most rigidly from gambling during the
“held office. But he had better ways of employing
e than that. His brother had bequeathed him a villa at
and there he spent much of his time cultivating his
his fruit trees, and occasionally contributing a paper to
0 “All my amusements,” he writes to Dayrolles (1755),
luced to the idle business of my little garden, and to the read-
books, where the mind is seldom called upon. Notwith-
this unfortunate situation, my old philosophy comes to my
ance, and enables me to repulse the attacks of melancholy, for
ct have one melancholic moment.”
have already recorded the birth of his son, to whom he gave the
of PhilipStanhope. From the child’s earliest years he evidently
Lea deep affection for him, and to make him the most polished
tei accomplished gentleman of the time soon became the great
of his life. No pains, no expense were to be spared to
sh this object. He was sent for two years to the German
ties of Leipsic and Lausanne. ‘The vacations‘ were spent
, Berlin, Vienna, Venice, Rome, and Naples, where his
introductions gained him admission to the best society. By
of Prussia he was received with the utmost cordiality.
eld in one of his letters had compared the Court of Prussia
th that of Rome, ‘You will sce there,” he wrote, * full well, as
cé did at Réme, how States are defended by arms, adomed
manners, and improved by laws.” When some of the courtiers
femurred at the young man on account of his birth, the king
al “Were he Lord Chesterfield’s dog, I would have treated
in the most distinguished manner,” which shows how highly
fhe earl was thought of by that astute monarch. But more upon
tis own instructions, as contained in his celebrated Zetlers, which he
degan to write when the boy was in his tenth year, than upon any
ither influence, did the earl depend.
| Byerybody knows Dr. Johnson's dictum upon those letters. Bat
is wrong in both its assertions; the morals are not such as he states
hem to be, neither are they adapted for the perusal of the young.
Chat many passages in those compositions are immoral, according to
be code of the present day, I have no wish to deny ; but they wore
( very different aspect in the days in which they were written.
Phen the violation of the seventh Commandment was asmuch an

=

your walk habitually to virtue and
was capable of showing you their be
‘worst accusation brought against the
graces of the person far before those of
this tendency, we must know the person

‘no need to counsel him upon the value of eulti
he did so indefatigably ; but, on the o

PrabTiaaid ‘before; T-do-not hold that. these hinge enw G0

for the young, as their tendency is to destroy the frankness

ness of youth, No man should read Chesterfield until

: his thirtieth year, then he will find hin a profitable study,

th all the father’s labours, Philip Stanhope was a disappoint-

He entered Parliament at twenty-one, and the Earl took

te pains to prepare him for an orator. But he spoke only once ;

d shyness spoiled his maiden speech, and no argument or

couragement could induce him to make a second essay. He sank

Reipesitiy ath died & Gow months before the earl, who then discov-

d that he had been clandestinely married several years previously,

d iad a wife and two children—an {ll return for all the kindness

id been lavished upon him. Yet Chesterfield comes forth nobly

-an ordeal through which many a rigidly virtuous man would not

passed ; although his son had so deceived him, he provided for

‘the widow, and took the children to his heart. Here is a letter
"written to them a short time befure his death —

T received two days ago two of the best written letters T ever saw in my Tile
“the one signed “Charles Stanhope,” the other, “Philip Stanhope.” As for
"you, Charles, I did not wonder at it, for you will take pains, and are a lover of
Jetters ; bat you idle rogue, you Phil, how eame you to write 40 well that ane ean
almost szy of you two, ‘Et cantare pares et respondere parati?” Charles will
e ‘the Latin to you. Tam told, Phil, that you have got a nickname at
feom your intimacy with Master Strangeways, and that they call you
‘Master Strangeways, for to be sure you are m strange boy. Isthis (me? Tell
“me what you would have me bring you both from home, and I will bring it
“when Icome from town, In the mean time, God blest you both f

‘The man who could write thus to two children who had no claim
“upon him in the eye of the law had not a bad heart. And yet

into that right, lawlessly exerts

635

fr TABLE-TALK.

be
(ie can a resting-place fitter than the pages of the
Gentleman's Magasine be found for the following facts con
Falarthe Old Saint Pancms Cemetery, now, by the action of Lady
Uirdett Comtts, in course of transformation into a public garden,
fom the gravestones, which have now been raised from the long
hk grass that had overgrown them can be obtained a history,
(but complete, of the emigration from Paris to London during
etighteenth century. Some of the most distinguished statesmen
id soldiers of France slept placidly in this obscure and alien
faetery, from which they have now been so strangely and so
\eeremoniously ejected. Here was Francois Claude Amour, Mar-
fis de Bouillé, who, after fighting with distinguished success in
erica, became a ber of the Constituent Assembly, Paris, re-
tesed the insubordination of the army at Metz and at Nancy, and
imged for Louis XVI. the scheme of flight from Paris which, but
{a combination of accidents, would have proved successful. Here
§® the notorious Chevalier d’Eon de Beaumont, whose adventures
Fe treated of at length in the article on the Will of Peter the Great
& recent number of the Gentleman's, Here, too, were Pascal Paoli,
{ Tberator of Corsica from the yoke of the Genoese, the man who
eh he saw Napoleon, then a young officer of artillery, said to him,
fous serez un homme de Plutarque;’ Bigot de Sainte-Croix, the
t minister of Louls XVI; Louis-André Grimaldi, Bishop of Noyon,
Ree of Monaco, and Peer of France ; and Arthur de Dillon, Arch-
hop of Toulouse and President of the States of Languedoc, Not
‘ety cheerful place of recreation this garden will be, except for those
bued with the taste of a Young, a Hervey, a Blair, or an Old Mor-
& The old Horatian motto, abstracted and translated by
‘mas Moore, may be true of the flower—
‘You may break, you may shatter, the vase if you will,
Bot the scent of the roses will cling to it still,

'S true, however, of the mould as well. Let me hope that the illus-
{us dead who have found shelter, however vemporary, Wa & SOL
Gangely dissociated as hitherto from al\ thoughts of Pease} \

Ty-the-bye and hy-and-byeare

Mistakes or omissions in p
announcements to strange

years ago, in a northern watering-
effect: “ Visitors to the sands:

one hundred yards of this eh
drowned here recently by order of the auth

il protection for wild birds is to be

a manner of carrying the law int
anything at present practised requires to
at which 1 write, though the Close season

Ic-cillid ailturaist so track down any bind: ofrardapectie
plumage for the sake of stuffing it and partaides

ation societies stock our woods and fields with birds of gay

‘or sweet song, which would add greatly to the charm of the

_ Attempts to introduce such birds as the New Zealand

Ir have already been made with some success, The real
dle to the success of schemes of this kind is found not in the
fof an English winter, but in the fact that in our country dis-
idle fellow who can hold a gun is a determined foe to

d follower of what among a certain set of bumpkins is, by

ifal misappropriation of terms, entitled sport,

\ O Boswell or Eckermann has yet been found to take down the
conversation of Mr. O'Leary, who, since the result of the late
with Weston, must stand forth the chief pride and boast of

Wwocates of muscularity, Of Weston, however, who has enjoyed.

er popularity, something is beginning to be known, We thus

from America that his piety is not less remarkable than his

dion or his energy. At the close, late on a Saturday night, of a

‘of 500 miles, accomplished within some specified period, Weston

to the admiring circle around him his intention to attend

vine worship next day, and sent a request to the choirmaster to

bye sung in his honour his favourite hymn, “Nearer, my God, to
If heaven could be approached by walking, this enterprising

Hetican would have a better chance than most men. Curious. com-
upon the absurdity of the cry, repeated since the days of Horace,

POnceming the degeneracy of the human tace, is afforded by the succes-
‘ivevictories obtained by ourathletes. ‘There is nothing ourancestors
do that men of the day cannot do as well or better, and there
huch, even in matters purely physical, we have learned of which
completely ignorant. In no respect—physical, intellectual,
or moral—need the Englishman of to-day fear to stand com-

with his forefathers of any generation.

Association, that there is a

suggestion of Safver

new firman for the continuation of 1
gable explorer is about to start with

his former labours. An honorary:

upon Dr. Schliemann by the society

no other rewards claimed by one who has
our knowledge of classical seenes ant
chary of bestowing honours on ford

should be possible. In all those h
hand, trustworthy watchmen d

and the sight of fire should be owed
bells which would be heard all over the ho

who will not be roused by such a nd
discover a fire in a building attached to a
watering-place. I awoke a waiter, who quit
loudly the usual bell which summoned guests
amidst the stillness of an August night would h
Sleepers, In less than a minute every in
hundreds, was in the courtyard of the hotel,
absurd articles of attire,

++ Tn the alarm of fear caught up,"

and thrown over their night gear. There was no

the hotel—though the inmates of the building were!
litte diffieulty—and, as the night was mild and
scene was diverting, It was enough, however, to p
danger is to be dreaded, unless a niggardly mat

cost of adequate watch. Hotel life is obtaining a

and it may shortly be felt that wherever masses of
fear might render helpless, arc gathered together,
inspection should be enforced.

THE

EMANS MAGAZINE.

June 1877.

_ ALISS MISANTHROPE.
BY JUSTIN M°CARTHY.

Cuarrer XVI,
CHASTELARD.

tre really going to be an heiress, my dearest?” Mary

n ‘said to Minola, when our heroine was settled at home
Tknew you ought to be, and would be if right were done ;

Fight 30 often isn't done. My brother will be so glad to hear
Hut not as other people might be glad, you know.” For Mary
) to be afraid that by a hasty word she might be filling the heart

a Money, and others I suppose, say
things are, and I hate

T think T should not

it was like a

il anyone about this,
help it,” Minola

Ik as yet, you iknow."
“These things are ne

Wut. ECKL, ¥0, 1758.

precaution to begin as
purposes,
Minola tried not to seem ‘vexed,

Si. Pal when he came, be vey
Street. She had Wked it vecause Weave

her fiom having to talk to others with whom she thight
“more embarrassed, and because it tumed away attention

at might perhaps have otherwise been observed—as she
by too keen eyes. If Mary must suspect anything,

relief to find that she only suspected this, and Minola tried

ake merry with her about her absurdity. But in her secret
‘she sickened at such talk, and such thoughts, and felt as if the
shadow of the fortune which was expected for her, falling
‘on her path, was making it onc of new pain and of still less

“Poverty, pasts good company, used to be said,” Minola thought;
© money seems much more likely to part good company in

that there are advantages ina command of money was soon
very clear to Minola. When she returned froma walk a day
after, she found a specimen copy of Herbert Blanchet’s poems
ting her, with a note from Victor Heron. ‘The letter was
hat awkward and rueful. Mr. Heron explained that, by her
instructions, he had allowed Blanchet to hav: I his own

in the “arrangement of the style of his appearance in paper and
oe ‘that the cost had become something far greater than he

abled about this," Victor went
mise that you alone should pay

business. To think of a
tld, leaving © matter of money and
Blanchet has been

paper, rare
| illustration

queen?" she asked of her own soul,
or darkness in upon my poor poet:
amber, thedew, and the saffron light, or
this dedication? I suppose it must be
anybody could tell from its sords.
Blanchet, why must you have a brother :
bea poet?”

‘There was one consslation—he

Miss Misanthrope.

it be. Minola felt inclined to be offended that she should be in
by way brought into this folly, but she was not certain whether
ance or complaint might not be more ridiculous than utter
After all, nobody knew anything about her or cared, she
‘If she were to complain in any way, it would only grieve poor
y, whom the thought that her brother could have offended her
d and leader would driv well-nigh distracted, " What does it
er if T am made a little ridiculous in my own eyes?” she asked
“Tr is only in my own eyes, I suppose. Mary will look on it
Was delightful ; her brother of course means it for the best, and
ts it superb poetry ; and there is no one else likely to care either
_ Ttis not much to be a little more ridiculous in my own eyes
is I have already made myself.
Perhaps—perhaps—let it be said with hesitation and much caution
‘was something not wholly unwelcome to our heroine in the idea
she could be Glory's queen and all the rest of it to any human
ture, not to say any poet, just now. She felt humbled and deeply
Tn her awn eyes she was lowered by what she knew of

own heart. Her pride had received a terrible wound, almost a
th ‘The little world she had made so proudly for herself
dall ambled into dust. It is nor wonderful if at such a time
should be, in spite nse of the ridiculous and her senses

0 in the fact that there still was

person of account and even

ankly said that, when the first

{htown avay on me.”
| For she was much

Fo do our poet ju
‘breast for the first time a d

‘emotion came there with a
intoxication to a man alway
had him crowned a king,
thing for him, Few men on ve
ambition so’ sweetly gratified as vas the he lot
find his ambition gratified now.
world would have been a glory and am
patron’s hand had been that of a
of a dowager; but to be thus lifted to
hand of 2 young and beautiful woman
never dreamed of asleep, and seiiom 3

| for the first time is surely 2 nobler piece of
; merely happy, and Bone fi to et a ood de oe.
d made a man for the first time both grateful and happy.
of i Leitso
was thrown away
f ikely, however, et iets would have been quite so
h srk if she could have known all the feelings that her
improvident patronage had awakened in the poet's breast.
Blanchet knew women well, he thought; and he did not
‘that mere kindness alone could have impelled Minola to such
act of bounty. Nor, making every needful allowance for the
between Miss Grey and his sister, did he find in that a
‘explanation of Minnli’s liberality. He set himself to think
‘whole matter coolly and impartially, and he could eome to
conclusion than that Miss Grey admired him. He was a
jome fellow, as he knew very well, and tall and romantic in
“pearance ; what could be more natural than that a poetic young
“Worn should fill in love with him? He felt sure that he had fallen
in deepest love with her, but it is doubtful whether he was yet in a
condition to analyse his own excited feelings very clearly. It i#
‘certain that he was madly in love with his poems, with their gorgeous
rat edition, with the pride and the prospect of the whole affair; and
“of course likewise in love with the patroness to whom he was indebted
‘much of a strange delight. Bat how much was love of himself
‘how much of Minola he did nor take time to consider.
“There wiis an artistic and literary association to which Blanchet
‘belonged, and amid which he passed most of his nights, It was not
© @ cli, for it had neither definite rules nor even a distinct
. Tt was a little sect rather than a club. Tt was an asso-
Dieses er can vn betioned each in himself, and all, at least for the
nt, in cach other, Their essential condition of existence was
‘of the world’s ways, polities, and theories of art. They held
“that man himself was a poor creature, worthy of The artets shows |

eyes of Herbert Blanchet, ‘To Victor

of gifted and rising men, whom it was

‘To the school, on the other hand, Vie
man, a tremendous “swell,” who had do
in some far-off countries, and who, for
anight be regarded by the world as the p
England

There was a peculiar principle of
among these brothers in att, No one d

a

Miss Misanthrope.

anything which his brother knew and he did notknow. If one
read an author for the first time, and came to meet his
proud of his freshly-acquired knowledge, he found no man
g them who would admit that he had not from his birth upwards
familiar with the author in question. It would be easy,

it would. But when one brother had shown to-night that his
had never read Schopenhauer, and in point of fact could not

ainst 2 similar exposure of his own harmless little false pretences

0 when he professed to know all about Euripides? It was
d convenient in this little circle to examine too closely
‘the pretensions of each other. * Live and let live” was the
of the school, so far as their esoteric professions were con-

There was indeed a legend that some malign person, acquainted
th the peculiarities of the school, had once compelled them to
patron poet. It was done in this fashion: the malign person
d confidently and fluently to one of the order conceming a
poet, whom he described as a gifted apostle of a kindred
and whom he waspleased to name De Patroque. ‘The youth
talked to was not to be outdone, oreven to beinstnicted. He gave
jthat he had long had his eyes fixed reyerently on the genius of the
De Patroque. He talked largely, not to say bouncingly, of the
eat De Patroque among his friends, who, not to be outdone in their
talked to him and to others of the new apostle. The fameof De
Bere grew and grew, wntil at last ill-natured persons affirmed that
tveral essays on his genius, and fraternal hymns of honour, were
Omposed for him by the admirers of his mythical career,
| To this select circle Mr. Blanchet had for some time proposed to
itroduce his friend Victor Heron. On the very day when the first
pies of the gorgeous poems were submitted to privileged eyes, Mr.
fanchet called on his friend. He found the friend a little put out
¥ the unexpected lavishness of the manner in which the poetic
rise had been carried on.
| # This will be an. awfully expensive business, I’m afraid," Heron
(id, in an embarrassed tone, for he felt that it was a sort of profanation
}talk of money matters with a young poet, “1 wish you had letme
othis thing myself, Blanchet. 1’d not have minded so far as I'm con-
tmned, But I don't know about her, you see—she may not have
fuch money. ‘Then, young ladies are generally so enthusiastic ; she
pay not have thought of what the thing would cost,”

Victor did not feel by any
occasion for scruple, not did he
jooking at the matter. Bur hen
have good warrant for what he |
to cavil at the generosity of a

We have all read in story about the ‘©
word, which once spoken makes that wi

but loathly, and what was kindly om 801
Was there some such iMl-omened harm

Miss Misanthrope.

ctor Heron? Nothing seemed to him like what he had expected.
e was not impressed a4 he had felt sure he would be by the poets and
sons of genius. ‘They did not seem to constitute an assembly
noble minds in whose midst he was to fecl such reverence as the
iis of history or legend felt in the presence of the Roman

‘The thoughts that he heard did not strike him as celestial

their origin. There was a good deal of disparagement and
lation of absent authors and artists, which, if the talkers bad
‘heen men of genius, Victor would certainly have thought ill-
}and spiteful. ‘There seemed, at lenst, to his unturored mind,
belittle more than a technical relish of art inall they said. Tt
notart they eared for, but only a clique and its tricks. A group
discontented spinsters girding at their younger sisters who were
ried, could hardly have shown themselves more narrow-minded
malign. The effect on Victor was profoundly depressing. It
like that which might be wrought upon a youth who, after gazing
in rapture on the performance of some queen of classic tragedy, is at

Raticaly taking a genuine pleasure in disparagement.or slander of
‘her rivals.

"If Victor had known the world better, he would have known that
‘ahehy Verymuch, of al! this was but the mere affectation and nonsense
of youth. These young men were as yet among the “odious race
Of the unappreciated.” Yet a little, and some of them will make a
“waccess; and will have the credit of the world for what they do, and
‘they will turn out good fellows, kindly, tue, and even modest.
Nothing makes some young men so insufferably conceited and
‘aggressive as the idea that they are not successful, and that people
know it ‘There are many of us mortals with whom prosperity only
‘agrees. On the other hand, some of these youths will fail early, com-
pletely, and wholesomely in their artistic attempts, and will find out
the fact’ for good, and will retire from the ficld altogether, and settle
_ downtosomething élse,andmake a success, or at leasta decent living, in
Some other way of life; and will forget all the worse teaching of their
tarlier days, and will look back without bitterness on the time when
‘they tried to impress a dull world, and will have no feeling of hatred
for those who have done better, but will marry and bring up children,
and be Philistines and happy. Youth has only one season—luckily
‘Yor a good many of us, who are decent fellows enough as long as we
are content to be ourselves, and can do without affectation,

and Mr, Blanchet insisted on.
to the door of the house, :

“I thought it right, you know," the over:
puta stop to that sort of thing. Men
inferences, I should have no right
settled in that sort of way. It is. not ju:
Teast. You appreciate my motives, I
friend ?”

“T don’t know that I even quite und
talking about,” vaid Meron coldly, Bul
should think such conjectusag Ny im

and I should be rather inclined 9 YAR a soy’

Miss Misanthrope. 653

“Quite my idea—1 am glad you entirely concur with me, and
approve of the course | have taken, Bur of course you would do
so. Iknew | could count on your approval, By the way, you know
‘Mellifont?”

“The man you talked to just now?"

“Yes, Mellifont—a very good fellow, though a little too fond of
talking—I have had to reprove him more than once, I can tell you.
‘Buta very good fellow for all that, and one of the only true artists
“now alive. He isa composer—you must hear him play some bits
from his opera. He is at work on an opera, you know—or perhaps

| | you have not heard?"

| “TI have not heard—no. I am rather out of the way of such
things, I fear,” said Victor, beginning to feel, in spite of himself, a
| certain awe of a man who could compose an opera, and thinking
_ that, after all, a certain allowance must be made for the genius of
| one who could do such things,

“Oh, you must hear some of it soon! We feel satisfied that it
‘will sound the death-knell of all the existing schools of music.
‘They are all wrong, sir, fom first to last, from Moxart to Wagner—
all wrong except Mellifont.”

Victor was for the moment really iggered by the genius of this
‘Breat man,

“ What is his opera to be « alled ?” he asked, not venturing
to hazard any Eocene

even acts, and each act
fs to give an entirely ij of a deadly sin—which
Mellifont will show to Fe tues of mankind. It will
make 2 revolution, T can

Victor thought it co
successful in the obje:

” "I pope to be ia ees

eee hemor AEN eee
he h ape Pirlaps ee SRE

‘a step and as steady a purpose as if he were really
ic her from some imminent danger. It was only =
where he then was to Minola's lodgings ; but Heron
in his purpose that the way seemed miles, which he was
| hasty strides.
c ied the house where Minola lived, the aspect of the
such as, if hehad been a lover, he might have expected
9 find. The house was all in darkness save for one
| There was a looking-glass in that window, making it plain
fast observant of human creatures that it must be the window
How could a lover doubt that that must be the
the room which was hers, and that she then watched the
light, and that she thought of love, and that her soul
jean Paul puts it, in the blue ether? For the moment Victor
Ahimself wishing that he were a lover—were the lover
{ithe lady, fancy-fixed in that one lighted room, might be
| But if it were Minola’s room, he thought, she certainly, had
as memory of him in her mind. It was a clear, soft
and the moon that shone on the near roof of the British
{ seemed as poetic and as sad as though. it fell on the ruins
Grthenon. No practice in colonial administration can wholly
the poesic and the romantic out of the breast of a young man
Qs time of life. As he stood there, his grievance seemed as
5 the moon herself, but not by any means so poetic and
LHe paced up and down, fecling very young and odd, and
is usual self, He was happy in a queer, boyish way that had
{ shamefaced sensation about it, as when a youth for the first
suddenly of some sparkling wine, and feels his brain and
IL aflame with delicious ecstasy, and is afraid of the feeling
{he delights in it,
5 a natural part of the half-fantastic chivalry of his chameter
haye felt a sort of satisfaction in thus for the moment
‘sr Minola, as if by that means he were in some sort prow
& against danger. If at that time any softer and

be occupied with colonial affairs
races, The hero of a French
overmuch good to be said, speaks
‘true when he says that in the ni
of the love that he ought to have

‘Heron unconsciously found this story
However that might be, is certain
satisfaction this night in passing again ar
and making believe to himself as if he
danger. He might have remained on
knows how long—for, as we know, he

Miss Misanthrope. 657

bed—but that he suddenly “was aware," as the old writers put it,
of another watcher as well as himself, Itwas unmistakable. Another
came up and passed slowly once or twice under the same wine
and on the side of the street where Heron had put himself on
ed. Then the new-comer, observing, no doubt, that he was not
had crossed to the other side of the street, and Heron thought
only a chance passer and was gone altogether, Presently,
sr, he crossect the road again, and stood a short distance away
‘Heron as if he were watching him. Now, though Victor Heron
nota lover, he had just as much objection as any lover could
lave to being seen by observant eyes when watching under a girl's
ow. The mere thought recalled him at once to chilling common-
He was for going away that moment; all the delight was gone
‘of his watching. But he wasa little curious to know if the new-
ner were really only a casual stranger whom his movements had
frred into idle curiosity. So he went straightway down the street
d passed the unwelcome intruder. He felt sure the face of the
wn was known to him, although he could not at first recall to mind
person's identity. He felt sure, too, by the way in which the man.
d at him and then turned suddenly off, that the new-comer had
ised him as well. ‘This was tormenting for the moment, as he
nt on perplexing himself by trying to think who it was that he had
|) Seen in this unexpected and unwished-for way. He walked slowly,
Ei Tooked back once or twice. He could not see his disturber any
more, The man had either gone away or was, perhaps, standing in
the shadow of adoorway. Suddenly an idea flashed upon Heron,
| “Why, of course,” he exclaimed, “it's he! I ought to. have
Vksown! It's the man from Keeton—the hated rival.”
eS “hated rival,” however, Heron did not mean a rival in love,
‘bat only in clectioncering ; for he now knew that it was Mr. Sheppard
| | sg seen, and he remembered how Mr. Sheppard, when he met
in Minola’s room, had seemed oddly sullen and unwilling to
| Hratemise. This was the reason why Heron called him the hated
Ie Tival. His own idea ofa rival in an election contest was that of a
| person whom one ought to ask to dinner, and treat with especial
|) courtesy and fair offer of friendship.
| Suddenly, however, another idea occurred to him.
] “What on earth can he be doing there,” he asked, “under her
window? Canit be possible that he, too, is a lover?”
| He, too? Who, then, was #ielover—the other lover? Heron did
Believe, and would not admit, that Blanchet was a genuine lover
“atall The whole theory of Victor's duty to watch under Minala's
‘FOL Conn No. 1758, uv

he has gone the gitl strains her
what the world is to be to her now tl
away, and never knew of her love,
spared all the heart-ache, no uly
world from that which we have known w
have been timely are spoken in ti

might prompt the timely words have Teas
the right moment to give it breath,

Miss Misanthrope. 659
le col

Charen XVI i

ly ”
q “ COUNSEL BEWKAYED.'

next morning Heron rose with a distinct purpose of doing
g@ to put Minola on her guard. His purpose to do
g was much more clear than his knowledge of what he had
» Anyhow, he thought he would go and sce Minola, and
thing to her, When he began to speak, he would probably
the thing to say. As he might have put it himself, Provi-
ould pull him through somchow, ‘The first thing was to
peech of Minola. ‘This, at least, ought not to be hard to

first idea was simply to go to her house and ask to see her.
the was near the scene of his mounting guard the past
began to think of the difficultics that would be put’ in his
iyone else were present. How, for example, could he pos-
what he specially wanted to say if Mary Blanchet were
or were even coming and going in and out of the room, as
almost sure to be? On the other hand, how could he
ask fora private conversation with Minola without stirring
$f of absurd curiosity and conjecture? At the very least,
jachet would be sure to ask, when he had gone, what he had
say; and that would, under the circumstances, be rather
sing for Minola, He gave up, therefore, the idea of seeing
y at her own house.
yer plan ‘at once occurred to him. He knew how often
‘alked in Regent's Park—he would go and walk there about
which she usnally chose, and he would go again and again
wet her, So he started off for the Park, greatly relieved in
be doing anything. All the time there was a good deal 0
his own account which he might, and, if he had been at all a
young man, would, have been doing, The time that he was
jn trying to ward off from Minola a supposed danger might,
ly used, have procured him an interview with a Cabinet
‘or paved the way for casy success at the future election for
‘There were twenty things which Mr, Moncy had often told:
just do if he would have the faintest hope of any success in
5 and ail these things he was utterly neglecting because he
think that he was called on to give some advice to a gitl
taps would repay him with little thanks ‘for ‘his officious,
(t interference.

vue

he

unperceived for a few moments,
ideas, what revealings about himself
his mind. But Victor waited for 1
self much time to think; and, in
instinctive objection to even a
meditating girl, He was so rejoiced
desire to meet her had been gratif
hardly seize his chance too soon. In
that the task he had undertaken was
he had not yet made up his mind as to wi
He was by Minola’s side in a moment

She was so much surpracd amd ve

Miss Misanthrope. 661

_ashamect of having come upon her in such a sudden way, He had
[piegotten that all women have nerves, and get startled in ways uns
own to men. At least, he assumed it must be for some reason of
kind that Minola seemed so much disturbed when he came up,
he certainly had not supposed that girls so clever and healthy as
fiss Grey were usually troubled with nerves.
Minola recovered herself very soon, however, and got rid of all
of mere nervous embarrassment, although there was for
'@ while a certain constraint in her manner. .
* Have you been long here?” he asked.
© Not very long ; at least, it did not seem long, 1 like to be here
at this time ; there are so few people.”
“Yes ; I knew you were likely to be here about this time if you
coming at all to-day," he said; an awkward remark, as it sug-
Poted that he had come expressly to meet her.
_ “I come here at all manner of times,” she said ; “ but I think I like

‘ime the best.”

“You are not going any farther, I suppose ?”

“No ; I thought of turning back now, and going home."

“Till walk a little way with you, if you will allow me?"

Of course she had no objection to make. They had walked in

What place often before, and it was a matter of certainty that as they

‘didincet they would walk together, He need hardly have asked her
the would allow him to walk with her now.

So they turned and walked a little off the beaten track, and under
the tees. When they had walked a certain distance in one direction
Wietor turned round and she turned with him, as if she were merely
Sheying his signal of command. It has alrendy been said more than
‘One: that Mr. Heron always went on as if he were ever so much older
Ham she, and belonging, indeed, to a different stage of life. He bore

| Bitsclf as a man of forty or thercabouts might do with a young
Yoman of Minola's age.
“How do you like Blanchet's hook?” he asked abruptly,
"It is very beautiful, [ suppose ; it’s a little too ornamental and
fic perhaps for my taste; but I suppose that is in keeping with
ic @yle of the poems ; and Ae is delighted with the book.”
“Tt has cost a great deal of money—much more than it ought to
‘cost ; 1 don't like the thing at all.”

“But think of the joy given to the poet. It is surely not very
Waly bought at the price. 1 never knew of a man so happy.”

"Yes, yea; that is all very well for hin——"

"It is very well for me too, Mr, Heron—to be able to Wo a ind

L

it. He was not experienced |
content to that which grieved his h
showed themselves pretty clearly in

4 F-don't like Blanchet’s taking all
moment of silence, “1 Gort Nims
ing hand as that from—wal, {tem

meee

me? Acall events, you can't wonder if E don't see ieee)

course fy arated and pleased, there nothingmone

iid in the matter.”

am satisfied and pleased—why should I not be? Taskeda
et me do something to help him, and he answered me just

pint in which I spoke, Of course I am glad to find that there

one man who could take a friendly offer in a friendly way.
are not many such men, 1 suppose?"

V ‘could not help smiling at her emphatic way of expressing

nof men.

“Ido believe you have really tumed yourself misanthropical by

“Le Misanthrope," he said.

“Well, why should there not be a woman Alceste?—although I

Wer knew any woman in real life more worthy to be classed with
than the men we mect in real life are. Miss Aleeste, I think,

Nd sound very pretty. I wish I could think myself entitled to

0 ‘Miss Misanthrope,” he suggested. “ How would that do for
ng Jady's name?”

“ Admirably, I think, That would get over all the difficulty, too,
foolish persons from thinking that one was setting up for
IT should like very much to be called Miss

* Ifyou go on as you are doing, you will soon be entitled to bear
. name,” said Victor gravely, “At the present moment, I don’t
PExiey that I should much object to that”
| 25. No? Dam glad that anything 1 am likely to do tas chance sh
ou. But why should you not object just ak present
St gow as well as at any other time?"

To show you how your lesson
certainly trust you 2s much as.

her old sweet frankness in her n
Heron was warmed by it.

“Well,” he said at last, “ you are
almost alone, and people tell me you
have promised to excuse my blunt
almost wish for your sake, as you lib
you had just enough of money to live:
that is not the case, or at all events

fi dT don’ think you want to understand me,” he said.
“Indeod I do; I only want to understand you; but I fail as
Why not speak out, Mr, Heron, like a man and a brother? If
is anything you want me to know, do please make me know it

“She was growing impatient.

“You will have lovers,” he said, driven to despair when it
seemed as if she could not understand a mere hint of any kind; “of
bourse you must know that you are attractive and all that—and if
fou come to have money, you will be besieged with fellows—with
I mean. Do be a little distrustful—of one at least; I
flon’t ike him, and I wish you didn't—and T can't very well tell
fou why, only that he does not seem to me to be manly or even

_ She coloured a little; but she also smiled faintly, for she still did
tnderstand him.

“Tsuppose I must know the man you mean, Mr, Heron ; for I
think he is the only man I ever heard you say anything against, and
Uhave not forgotten. But what can have made you think that T
heeded any Tecture about him? I don't suppose he ever thought
shout me in that way in his life, or would marry one of my birth and
fay bringing up even if I asked him, And in any case, Mr. Heron, 1
ould not mary him even if he asked me. But what a shame it
Seems to arrange in advance for the refusing of a man who never
fhowed the faintest intention of making an offer!"

| At first Heron did not quite understand her. Then he suddenly
taught her meaning.

| “Ob, that fellow? I didn’t mean him, I never could have
a that you were likely to be taken in by him."
| “To do him just Mr. Heron, he never seems to have any
thought of taking anyone in. Such as he is, he always shows him>
elf, I think.

| “Oh, Ddon’t care about him——"

ke

by anything said in friendshiy
of Mr, Blanchet; T have a

T ought to be called * Miss Mis
do my very best to deserve the n
more—I had rather not hear it, indeed

thrope, but don’t tell me of the deme
man ; 1 had rather hate men in the

Mie

Miss Misanthrope. 667

cases—and how long we must have talked about this nonsense, for
here is the gate of the Park; and Mary Blanchet will be thinking
that I am lost!”

They almost always parted at this Park gate. This time he felt
that he must not attempt to go any farther with her. She smiled and
nodded to him with a manner of constrained friendliness, and went
her way; and Heron's heart was deeply moved, for he feared that he
had lost his friend.

(Zo be continued.)

668 The Gentleman's Magazine.

THE ROYAL ACADEMY.

T is unfortunate for the Academy that the exhibition of this year
should be less than brilliant, and it is still more unfortunate
for the Academicians that they should be the principal source of its
weakness. Neither the institution nor its members can well afford
just now to make unnecessary blunders, and there are, indeed, many
cogent reasons why on the present occasion they ought both to hare
been on their best behaviour. The quality of the exhibition asa
whole ought to have been exceptionally high, in order to justify and
explain several notorious cases of rejection; the contributions of
many of the titled painters should scarcely have been so bad as they
are, if the public is to be asked to approve the prominence accorded
to them in the galleries. We are not apt in.England to be rebellious
against illogical or inadequate systems of government, so long as the
practical conduct of affairs roughly satisfies a not too exacting sense
of justice. The Academy might have kept undisturbed its rotten
constitution, if the members of the Academy had been prudent
enough to correct the errors of theory by a little discretion and good
sense; but even the most patient public in the world may be aroused
by steady persistence in wrong-doing, and it requires no gift of
prophecy to predict that the Academy, unless it very quickly sets its
house in better order, must give up all hope of maintaining the
prestige it has enjoyed in the past. By its own failure, as well as by
the success of other societies, it is fast losing any exceptional claim to
rank as the national institution. A certain exceptional character it
may continue to possess—a character that after a little while my
not, perhaps, be altogether enviable; but to suppose that it an
continue under present conditions to act as the representative of the
various phases of modern English art, would be a blunder of which
even the members themselves could scarcely be guilty. I am awart
that to many persons such criticism of the Academy will seem need:
lessly severe, but I take leave to doubt whether those who a
constantly anxious to shelter its abuses have the interests of the
society truly at heart. The right government of an Wwetitution with
these pretensions is a matter of national concen {or 19 Ys CES

669

The Royal Academy,

to suggest that those who wish that this trust should be fitly

i discharged are not justified in the frec exercise of their

of criticism. No one was ever found so foolish as to hint that

d for reform in Parliament were actuated by any malign
to Parliamentary institutions, or that the party which sought

e Disestablishment of the Irish Church harboured any personal
towards bishops, priests, or deacons, Those who are dis-

to regard any criticism of the Academy as a personal affront
‘indeed, only giving one more proof that they do not understand
entially public character of the duties which it is called upon
discharge. They are fostering in the Academy itself that spirit of
te exclusiveness which from the beginning has been its bane.
‘more the Academy or its friends choose to claim for it immunity

a criticism, the more surely and speedily will they complete the
of isolation which must finally reduce the society to mere

_ For if the Academy is not a public and national body, it is
jing at all. In the matter of instruction it certainly occupies no
— position. ‘The boast that the art education offered
it Burlington House is free would be more important if that edu-
fation were the best obtainable, whereas, as is well known, it is
ly insufficient and incomplete ; and the fact that the Academy
has never made any attempt to establish higher art schools in the
[reat provincial towns is significant of the kind of control which it
Exercises over the geheral art culture of the country. But the par-
teular function of the Academy which we have now to consider
Goncerns the management of the annual exhibition; and it is under no
[eeling of hostility to the institution, but with a most sincere wish for
[ts feform, that I venture to draw attention to. what appears to me to
be the fatal defects of its system. First, however, it may perhaps be
|S Well to offer a single instance of injustice in selection, In the
Gallery of the Fine Art Society in Bond Street is now to be seen a
lange picture by Mr. J.D. Watson, Mr, Watson is a member of the
Ol Water Colour Society, and a practised artist. His work has
fever been to me specially attractive, nor does the present per-
formance exhibit all the qualities of his art at their best; but it may
be confidently affirmed that no one of capable judgment could
fwoid the confession that there is here a work manifestly
Hiperior, in all points which should appeal to artists, to very many
ee aceepted by the Council and prominemly Wace’ oy
hanging commitice. Now, we know that to Whe and chat

ie -

larger duties they have

significant signs that artists are
treatment extended to them at B

have found a better and more

whose knowledge of contem)

limits of the Academy Exhibition
existence of the resources which have s
with one of the most interesting

has been brought together for some
declare that the men whose works are
been rejected at Burlington House, al
that their contributions in pant yeas
sympathy and considennion, “The a

n common with the kind of art most prominently represented at
enor, are now seriously debating the expediency of establish-

‘and certainly no lack of powerful arguments in favour of
ct; and, if this scheme should be carried into effect, the
will have to suffer the loss of another very important section
younger artists—a section which in their aims and methods is
ct a3 possible from that which gives its support to the Gros-
yw. These are facts which the authorities at Burlington House
d do well to ponder over very seriously, If these rival move-
‘were prompted by sudden bitterness of disappointed feeling,
would be little to fear. Exhibitions of the rejected are never
Drilliant: or inspiriting affairs; they always give to an artistic
vance its least favourable expression, and cannot be expected to
ymiich weight with the public. In these later movements, hows
the motive power is not hostility to the Academy, but a desire
adequate means of representation, The promoters of the
Gallery distinctly disavow any kind of unfriendliness towards
institution at Burlington House, and they have proved the sincerity
professions by inviting members of the Academy to contribute
fié exhibition. A similar attitude has been taken by those to whose
this more recent movement is dua ‘You have declared,
‘say in effect, to the Academy, “that you are unable, through ins
ient space, to do justice to all the claims that annually press upon
We frankly accept your declaration ; but sceing that such is the
tof things, and that the evil must increase instead of diminishing
h the gradual enlargement of the artistic citcle, we are very re-
ly compelled to seck elsewhere opportunities which, according
‘own account, you are unable to afford.” ‘There is = certain
about this view and staternent of the case that would seem
the Royal Academicians.
"Unhappily, however, the matter does not end here. Want of space
doubt one constant source of dissatisfaction; but it is not the
j, Or even the most serious, evil. There is urgent need, not merely
building, but ofa more liberal constitution, Wine y=
Hof the Academy stretched from Kensington to Whkeeayer |

mitted to some share in the cho

be tried; let that jury, whatever

knowledge, be at least in cont

of art submitted to them. ‘Tl

there are various ways in which it

now practically in force in the

‘That such a reform would remove

would be so foolish as to predict, but:

of saving the Academy from the

of artistic taste which there is now only:
Tf it were necessary to justify these

arrangement of the prevent exiiibiion,

no lack of material. ‘The hangng eo

The Royal Academy. 673

gmive disadvantages to contend with in the shape of ludicrous con-
| tributions by members of their own body. They deserve, so far,
| the sincere ‘sympathy of all who have to pass a judgment upon their
| Tabours ; and it is not too much to affirm that, if some of the most
notable « of these titled failures could have been banished altogether
} OF Sent heavenward, the general impression of the exhibition would
have been vastly improved. But, although the hanging is not in any
| instance so deplorable as many instances of Academic painting that
ould be named, there are some blunders that seem worse than stupid.
| Ht would be hard to explain, and quite impossible to justify, the
| treatment which several competent artists have received ; and where
all is dark, it is perhaps better not to enter upon conjecture.
Let us turn, then, to the exhibition itself, Although not of bril-
| Hiant effect as a whole, it is rich in signs of promise on the part of
youmger painters, who, as compared with the younger painters of
France, show a more serious aim, greater sobriety of taste, and
@ronger individuality of style. It is remarkable, however, that the
Academy should be weak where the Salon this year happens to be
strongest—in the two departments of portrait and landscape. In the
former, the success of Mr. Collier has very justly aroused great in-
ferest. ‘The portrait of Major Forster is one of the most remarkable
fn the exhibition, and it would rank without discredit in any exhibition,
Ts execution has « freedom that is never careless, and a strength
that has no suggestion of extravagance. We cannot even conjecture
from the evidence of such a work what, if any, may be the scope of
the artist's powers as regards invention or design, but we can ak least
be confident that a painter of these executive resources has made no
mistake in the choice of a profession. The imitative skill which he
here displays, the power of appreciating distinctions of texture, and
‘of recording all the marks of individual character in face, gesture,
‘and even in costume, is, moreover, controlled by an artistic sense that
our realistic painters too often lack. The different parts of the picture
are firmly held together, the colouring is of full strength, but it is
finely controlled: there is none of the anarchy and confusion of bright
fints, such as we may find this year in the contributions of artists of
higher pretensions and longer experience, Mr, Millais’s “ Yeoman of
the Guard,” for example, exhibits certain morsels of masterly execution,
Parts of the old man’s face, the perfect setting of the eye in its appro-
priate depth of atmosphere, and the treatment of the fringe of white
beard as it sinks into the ruff, are of grand quality: and it would be
wonderful indeed if anything from Mr, Millass hand were woot
ich traces of his great skill, Even the hasty and coarse exeqatngi]
Po cext. wo. 1758. xX

Jast year; and although Mr,

Grabam fairly support the el

do not reveal any new or

younger men whoare most st sful s!
notably Mr. Mark Fisher and Mr. Reid,
has been treated quite according t
Boughton and Mr. F. Morgan the |
associated with graceful figures, in

of the best energies of the younger:

has rarely exhibited a work, of neh,

The Royal Academy. 675

group of children overtaken by « storm, to which he has given the
title of “Snow in Spring,” and which may be choscn as a very
delightful example of a kind of art thatis the peculiar outgrowth
‘of our own time. At no earlier period would a painter who sought
‘a background for his figures have so carcfully observed the changing
moods of nature, or so minutely recorded the details of form and
colour. It isnot Mr. Boughton's purpose to give the stamp of an
Encompromising realism to his painting, as we may see by the
manner in which he seeks freedom for his fancy in the choice of
costume belonging to an earlier day; and yet, in the treatment of the
‘Seene in which he disposes these graceful forms, the study of nature
is searching and complete. How he contrives to combine these
apparently opposite elements, to balance the romantic and partly
fancifal beauty of his figures with the entire veracity of the landscape,
im such a manner that the result has a harmony of its own, we need
ot stay to inquire. All that we wish now to point out is, that this
Kind of art is of late invention, and that it could never have existed
but for that devotion to landscape and to all the changes of weather
to which landscape is subject, which has been the dominant charac.
teristic of modern painting. And to the same movement is to be
attributed the closer observation of the ways of pessant life, and the
Keener interest in the redlities of peasant labour, which so many of
the younger painters now exhibit. Out of a number of works in
this kind to be seen at the Academy, the most robust and the
‘most original is the “Potato Harvest,” by Mr. KR. W. Macbeth.
There is much more than a reminiscence of the men who may be sald
to have founded the school, in the grouping and expressive drawing
‘of these vigorous labourers in the Fens; and if Mr. Macbeth,
as he advances, can but add refinement to his strength, enriching
oth his draughtsmanship and his colour by the record of certain
delicate and subtle truths which he now sometimes fails to perecive
or to secure, he must unquestionably take a foremost rank among the
artists of his generation. No English painter who has undertaken to
deal with this class of subjects has been endowed with a more mas-
Guline force of invention, and has been able to command greater
variety of appropriate gesture, than Mr. Macbeth here displays. A
fine sympathy with rustic character is also the distinguishing quality
fn Mr. Herkomer’s group of Bavarian peasants, a picture noticeable,
besides, for a greater freedom in the treatment of the landscape than
the artist has hitherto displayed. ‘The shifting grey clouds caught in
the gap between the hills form an effective background for the forms
and faces of these simple folk, who, under the mensee oA
XXx3

677

blundering fechmiyne
Marks's “ Bit of Bluc,” an old
with a complacent smile a newly acquired speci
of Oriental ahi ‘The artistic claims of this lite study are
much higher than can be allowed to the larger, and in some
: more important, work by the same painter.
‘There is a group of pictures in the present exhibition which,
iIthiough not inherently related to one another in regard to style or
¢, are accidentally connected by the fact that they have all been
by the Council out of the resources of the Chantrey Fund.
are the “Harmony” (rq), by Mr. Prank Dicksee; the three
Mlustrating the story of Ruth (574), by Mr Rooke; a
piece (577), by Mr. Wyllic; and the “Death of Amy
” (1027), by Mr. W.F. Yeames. Of the last mentioned work
the most that can be said is that it isa respectible experiment in
‘a style possessing no vitality, by a painter possessing no special
ptitude for the style. In the absence of any published declaration
on the subject, it would be hazardous to conjecture what is the
‘view taken by the Academy of its duties under Chantrey’swill. ‘The
will itself, however, is accessible to all, and it is right the public should
“Know that by its terms, which we may suppose were settled with
‘due forethought and deliberation, the Council of the Academy is
to form a national collection of works of English art.
Bescs the intention of the testator, clearly set forth, that the works
$0 purchased should subsequently become the property of the
nation ; and as there is the express statement in the will that there
is be no limitation to the productions of living artists, it is only
to assume that Chantrey intended the bequest to be devoted to
| haernn of the best, without reference to any other considera-
tion, ‘That the public will take this view of the matter there can be
no doubt, for a representative gallery of the works of English masters
has long been a public want. It is but natural, therefore, that all
who are interested in the formation of such a gallery should look
‘with anxiety to the manner in which the Academy discharges its
‘trust. The permanent usefulness of the fund must largely depend
‘Upon the establishment at the outset of sound principles of selec-
tion, What the present Council chooses to do will be accepted as
“g precedent by Councils to come; and, if the public responsibility
of the Academy in the matter is not firmly asserted and fully
acknowledged, there is but little hope for the future, Estimating the
‘purchases by the light of these conviderakions, \ can
think, be contended that they are altogether satisiacory~

« Athlete," in virtue af the great:

holds almost a unique place

painting or sculpture. To say that
contributions of the professional:
indeed, to say very lite. Mr.

to be judged by a much more severe:
summon to the consideration of his 3
as exacting as he could ever have

ing. In certain very important
character, and in the expression ofenergeti¢
we think, be regarded as his highest «
condition of the sculptor’s art seems
extra support and stimulus to kis

The Royal Academy. 679
‘and more nervous production; while on the other hand the

ted crafi, noticeable especially in the agreeable cam-

‘of the figure from every point of view, is perhaps the most

¢ fruit of his artistic learning and fine culture which he has

offered to the public. It would of course, however, be too much

ect that any change of material could effect a radical change
‘the artist's invention; and those who have been wont to find in
fr. Leighton’s painting a lack of that direct inspiration from nature
Vallone can give to art its full vitality, will be forced to admit
‘sculpture does not entirely escape the same reproach. ‘The

tion between the kind of beauty that is sought and found in
study of reality, and that which compels reality to tke

“a form predetermined by art, is often subtle enough, but it is
ys of vital consequence. Broadly, it is the distinction
imitative and original work; and even in a superb

like the present, where there is so little to desire, the

n may perhaps be illustrated by the single criticism that

“this deadly conflict seems to be waged too much for the ends of grace,
‘and Hot enough for victory: might be supported in
detail by a reference to thé somewhat ed
arm, giving as it does a gr arrangem! ine, but not of

English painters of the time who could have
same scale and pretensions. The colour is carefully
drawing, although not everywhere beyond reproach, and no
expressive, beagg evidence of training and study; and

has all the excellence we have a right to expect from an ai

‘not impelled to his labour by any strong invention. °

be satisfied with executive skill and with the kind of taste;

ment in design that study may yield, will find here little cae
others will be disposed to demand, and will certainly miss, the s®

of imaginative power and the presence of a sustaining sense of
and these again will not be disappointed if they have rightly;

the artist's resources by a study of his achievements in the past.

In this brief review of the works in the Academy I ‘have BE
posely refrained from discussing the mass of
butions by Academicians which give to the first view of the
such an unfavourable impression. It is perhaps not ome
hope that these deplorable essays, although obtrusirely exposed, ©
not any longer deceive or mislead the public judgment. ‘The el
slowly but very surely working its own cure, Tn
extravagant privileges in the face of all reason and argument, the®
gentlemen are now even less consilerate cf tae: 8
of the public convenience. “They ‘wave mate

The Royal Academy. 681

tomething in the nature of a joke. ‘I'hat the joke has its serious
fide in the disrepute into which it is fast bringing the Academy itself,
have already tried to show; but perhaps on the whole it is better

that things should take their course, and run without hindrance till
they become a manifest scandal. And certainly those who have
(aith in the future of English art may be the more disposed to adopt
this view from the fact that painters and their works are no longer
fltogether at the mercy of the Academy or its Council.

It would have been more agreeable, had my limits allowed of it,
to have entered more at length into what is admirable in the exhibi-
tion, and to have added my tribute to the works of many whose
names I have unintentionally omitted. In this list, however, are the
Games of men like Mr. Tadema, M. Dalou, and Mr. Albert Moore,
who have little need of praise, and whose works no visitor to the
Academy is likely to miss,

J. COMVNS CARR.

682 The Gentleman's Magazine.

SOME FACTS AND FICTIONS OF
ZOOLOGY.

HEN the country swain, loitering along some lane, comes

to a standstill to contemplate, with awe and wonder, the
spectacle of a mass of the familiar “hair-eels” or ‘ hair-worms”
wriggling about in a pool, he plods on his way firmly convinced that,
as hehas been taught to believe, he has just witnessed the results of the
transformation of some hérse’s hairs into living creatures. So familiar
is this belief to people of professedly higher culture than the county:
man, that the transformation just alluded to has to all, save afew
thinking persons and zoologists, become a matter of the most com
monplace kind. When some quarrymen, engaged in splitting up the
rocks, have succeeded in dislodging some huge mass of stone, there
may sometimes be seen to hop from among the débris a lively toad
or frog, which comes to be regarded by the excavators with feelings
akin to those of superstitious wonder and amazement. The animal may
or may not be captured ; but the fact is duly chronicled in the local
newspapers, and people wonder for a season over the phenomenon
of a veritable Rip Van Winkle of a frog, which, to all appearance,
has lived for “thousands of years in the solid rock.” Nor do the
hair-worm and the frog stand alone in respect of their marvellous
origin. Popular zoology is full of such marvels. We find unicoms
mermaids, and mermen ; geese developed from the shell-fish known
as “barnacles ;” we are told that crocodiles may weep, and that sireos
can sing—in short, there is nothing so wonderful to be told of animals
that people will not believe the tale; whilst, curiously enough, when they
are told of veritable facts of animal life, heads begin to shake ant
doubts, to be expressed, until the zoologist despairs of educating
people into distinguishing fact from fiction, and truth from theories
and unsupported beliefs. The story told of the old lady, what
youthful acquaintance of scafaring habits entertained her with tales of
the wonders he had seen, finds, after all, a close application in the
world at large. The dame listened with delight, appreciation, and
belief, to accounts of mountains of sugax and rivers of rum,

Som Facts and Fictions of Zoology. 683

‘of lands where gold, and silver, and precious stones were
re then plentiful. But when the narrator descended to tell of
ies that were able to raise themselves out of the water in flight,

old lady's credulity began to fancy itself imposed upon ; for

Eeipanty repressed what she considered the tendency to
saying, “Sugar mountains may be, and rivers of rum. +

‘be, at Wh Bat Bax Soar ean be* Many popular beliefs con-

animals partake of the character of the old lady's opinions

g the real and the fabulous; and the circumstance tells

in favour of the opinion that a knowledge of our sur-
‘in the world, and an intelligent conception of animal and
Wife, should form part of the school-training of every boy

and girl.

_ The tracing of myths and fables is a very interesting task, and it
therefore, form a curious study, if we endeavour to investigate
briefly a few of the popular and erroneous beliefs regarding

eranimals, ‘The belief regarding the origin of the hair-worms is
widely spread and ancient, Shakespeare tells us that

Much is breeding,
Which, like the course: "s hai
And not a
‘The hair- worms ce | sane appearance of long, delicate
yl ty amidst the sud
eeu and ditches.
¢, inhabit the bos “8 a may be found coiled
hi s shelter to a guest

theory which
maintain the

sition would be readily

plants of quick growth. ‘The 7

jaw rests on an apparent basis of fact. —

the skull very far back on the

comes to be singularly wide; whilst,

and upper jaw are apparently obser

however; the apparent movement

the lower jaw and the skull are joit

absence of the tongue is even ‘

mouth is widely opened, no 1oMNe 1s toes
only present, but js, moreover, Of Manga Sine |

be

floor of the mouth, and is specially adapted, from its
| and structure, to assist these animals in the capture
sof their prey.

@ has seen ships docked in a seaport town. A barnacle is
ly @ kind of crab enclosed in a triangular shell, and attached by
stalk to fixed objects. If the barnacle is not familiar to
, certain near relations of these animals must be well known,
‘at least, 2s amongst the most familiar denizens of our sea-
‘These latter are the * Sea Acorns” or Boland, whose little
shells we crush by hundreds as we walk over the rocks at low-
-¢ mark; whilst every wooden pile immersed in the sea becomes
d in a short time with a thick crust of these “Sea Acorns.”
‘place one of these little animals, barnacle or acorn—the latter
the stalk of the former—in its native waters, we shall observe
little series of feathery plumes to wave backwards and for-
and ever and anon to be quickly withdrawn into the secure
es of the shell. ‘These organs are the modified feet of the animal,
ch not only serve for sweeping food-particles into the mouth, but
also as breathing-organs. We may, therefore, find it a curious study
through what extraordinary transformation and confusion
ideas such an animal could be credited with giving origin to a
goose ; and the investigation of the subject will afford a
u apt illustration of the ready manner in which the fable of
year or period becomes transmitted and transformed into the
and firm belief of the next.
We may begin our investigation by inquiring into some of the
E which were entertained on this subject and ventilated by
“certain old writers. Between 1154 and 1189 Giraldus peas
in a work entitled “Topographia Hibernia,” written in Latin, re:
marks concerning “many birds which are called Bonace: falar
“nature, nature produces them in a most extraordinary way, ‘They
‘are like marsh geese, but somewhat smaller. They are produced
“from firtimber tossed along the sea, and are at first like gum. After-
“wards they hang down by their beaks, as if from a sea-weed attached
to the timber, surrounded by shells, in order to grow mote Keds?
Giraldus is here evidently describing the barnacles hersaes. Fie

the nature of the seis is mair relevant

ony uthir thyng.” to

seis” formed the chief element in

our author proceeds to relate how

the seis be proces of tyme apperis first

in the small boris and hollis (holes) thairof
Our author no doubt here alludes to the
worm, which burrows into timber,
themselves are thus confused. ‘Then he:
“schaw (show) thair heid and feit, and
plumis and wyngis, Fisaly, quhen ¢

Some Facts and Fictions of Zoology. 687

| mesure and quantite of geis, thay fle in the aire as athir fowlis dois,
‘was notably provyn, in the yeir of God ane thousand iti hundred

«xx, in sicht of mony pepyll, besyde the castell of Petslego.” On
occasion referred to, Boece tells us that a great tree was cast on
and was divided, by order of the “lard” of the ground, by
ofasaw. Wonderful to relate, the tree was found not merely

be riddied with a * multitude of wormis,” throwing themselves out
the holes of the tree, but some of the “ wormis” had “ baith heid,
feit and wyngis,” but, adds the author, “thay had no fedderis

_ Unquestionably cither the scientific use of the imagination had
operated in this instance in inducing the observers to believe that
in this tree, riddled by the ship-worms, and possibly having barnacles
attached to it, they beheld young geese ; or Boece had construed the
$ described, as those representing the embryo-stages of the

geese.

Boece further relates how a ship named the Ciristofir was brought
to Leith, and was broken down because her timbers had grown old
anid failing. In these timbers were beheld the same “ wormectin ”
appeamaccs, “all the hollis thairof” bein; f gcis.” Boece
gain most emphatically rejects the idea that the “geis” were pro-
ageed from the wood of which the timbers were composed, and once
‘more proclaims his belief that the “nature of the seis resolyit in
igeis"” may be accepted as the : 1 explanation of their
origin. A certain “ Maister Ales lloway" had apparently
|serolled with ie historian along the c the former giving

syn

shells, and
in, but a per-
{feetly-shaped “foule,
|fity of the shell.” And
lhe trees or wood on which th
|do with the origin of the bi
ithe *occexne sec, quhilk,” co

groweth toa foule, bigger ‘then
having blacke legs and bill or
+ + + = Which the people of
then a tree Goose.’

Accompanying this descriptic
tree, bearing its geese-progeny.
the little geese are seen protruding,
fowls arc disporting themselves in the
ing piece of information, with its

ey spawne,” says the wise apoth &

Aprill ; the Geese are found in Maie or
of feathers in the moneth after, And th
assistance, discoursed somewhat ek large

oad in » the natural-history lore of his day, there
feeling in his mind than that of firm belief in
is wonder att the curious relations between the sells and
fspring- Gerard thus attributes the origin of the latter
‘He says nothing of the “ wormeetin ” holes and
80 OS fequeniy ‘mentioned by Boece, nor would he have agreed.
1 the latter in crediting the “nature of the acceane see” with
p on, save in so far as their barnacle-parents lived and
in the waters of the ocean.
Jast account of this curious fable which we may allude to in
present instance is that of Sir Robert Moray, who, in his work
“A Relation concerning Barnacles,” published in the “ Philo
Transactions” of the Royal Society in 1677-78, gives a
account of these crustaceans and their bird-progeny. Sir
is described as “lately one of His Majesties Council for the
n Of Scotland,” and we may therefore justly assume his
nt to represent that of a cultured, observa_> person of his day
pee ‘The account begins by remarking that the “imost
" found in the western islands of Scotland “are Firr
d Ash, Being,” continues Sir Robert, “in the Island of East
jist), I saw lying upon the shore a cut of a large Firr-tree of about
footdiameter, and 9 or 10 foot long; which had lain so long out of
water that it was very dry; And most of the shells that had
rly cover'd it, were worn or rubb'd off. Only on the parts that
yy next the ground, there still hung multitudes of little Shells ;
_ haying within them little Birds, perlectly shap’d, supposed to be
” Here again the description applies to the barnacles; the
inte birds” they are described as containing being of course the
ies of the shell-fish.
“The Shells," continues the narrator, “hang at the Tree by a
‘Neck longer than the Shell,” this “‘neck” being represented by the
“stalk of the bamacle, The neck is described as being composed
ofa kind of filmy substance, round, and hollow, and cteassed, not
unlike the Wind-pipe of a Chicken ; spreading out broadest where
‘is fastened to the Tree, from which it seems to draw and. commey Whe
VOL. COXL, NO. 1758, vy

“actually beets
‘with whieh, a5 a mature bird,

We give on the ney
* Cosmography” (1550), a ¥ery
tree with its fruit, and the g
‘exeaped from it, 7

‘This historical ramble
regarding the probable f
the barnacles become exedtedl
well-known geese? Once st
myth are easily accounted fe
one generation or century to another
stance, and one exemplified by the:
process of accretion and addition is
tuation of fables ; since the tale wae

‘ journey, but, on the contrary, to

Some Facts and Fictions of Zoology. 691

im Professor Max Miller, after discussing various

es of the origin of the barnacle myth, declares in favour of the
‘that confusion of language and alterations of names lie at the
of the error. ‘I'he Jearned author of the “Science of Language”
yes that the true barnacles were named, properly enough, d=
and lays stress on the fict that bernicle geese were first

geese were accordingly named Aileruiae, or Hibernicula. By
ission of the first syllable—no uncommon operation for words
| to undergo—we obtain the name Bermicude for the geese, this term
ng almost synonymous with the name Bermacule already applied,

wwe have scen, to the bamacles. Bernicle-geese and bernicle-

shells, confased in name, t] > confi are ; and, once
started, the ordinary proce r ient to further inten
Sify, and render more he st bernicle-tree and its
wonderful progeny.

unacle-tree we

irding crocodiles tears,
ntiles, have already
work which treats

vitality on the part of the ai ¥

Gulity on the part of the hearers, or

genius in the narrators of such tales

everyone a certain degree of

strange features presented on the fc

therefore not only prove an interesting

endeavour to arrive at some just and logics

wonderfull narrations, :

Instances of the discovery of toads

not be specially given ; suffice it to say,

repeated year by year with lhe variatt

or face of rock is detached from its,
i hereafter to be hopping about iw Us wsaak

Some Facts and Fictions of Zoology. 693

by the dislodgment of the mass, Now, in many instances, cases of
the appearance of toads during quarrying-operations have been
found, on close examination, to present no evidence whatever that
appearance of the animals was duc to the dislodgment of
_ the stones. A frog or toad may be found hopping about amongst
‘some recently formed dééris, and the animal is at once seized upon
' and reported as having emerged from the rocks into the light of day.
_ ‘There is in such a case not the slightest ground for supposing
any such thing; the animal may more reasonably be presumed to
_ have hopped into the dédris from its ordinary habitat. But laying
aside narratives of this kind, which lose their plausibility under @ very
common-place scrutiny, there still exist eases, reported in an appa
rently exact and truthful manner, in which these animals have been
alleged to appear from the inner crevices of rocks after the removal
of large masses of the formations. We shall assume these latter tales
to contain a plain, unvarnished statement of what was observed, and
deal with the evidence they present on this footing.

One or two notable examples of such verified tales are related by
‘Smellie,inhis“ Philosophy of Natural History.” Thus,in the“ Memoirs
of the French Academy of Science” for 1719, a toad is described as
having been found in the heart of an elm-tree ; and another is stated to
have been foundin the heart of an old oak-tree, in 1731, near Nantz.
‘The condition of the trees is not expressly stated, nor are we afforded
‘any information regarding ance of the toads—particulars of
considerable importance in he suggestions and explanations to
‘De presently brought forw
sceptical in regard to the t exactness of many of the tales told
of the vitality of toads, yet regards the matter as affording food for
reflection, since he re: » * But ot to persuade, for I
‘cannot satisfy myself ; all } to r reas to those gentle-
men who may hereafter hance to :
examination of every circumsta

for the vu

{more

ies of the frogs and
As eyeryeme kate,

may serve to throw any light

first point to which attention:
‘statement that the amphibian

Much stress is usually laid on the

being held as implying the great

and its supposed tenant. The

tion of the evidence presented, wil
Justification for inserting the adjective
Whatever is forthcoming as to the state:
moval. No previous examination of |
from the circumstance that no int
condition until its removal yevests the

algo excavated ; these
‘than those of the limestone

double covers.
On November 26, pers:

115 grains. The stones and the
day mentioned, 3 feet deep, i
they lay ‘until December 10, 1

it was inferred that they had

interment. ‘The majority of the toads’
and, curiously enough, one or two had
‘Thus, No. 5, which at the commencement
1,185 grains, had increased to 1,265,
No. 5's cell was found to be cracked.
have obtained admittance and hase

Some Facts and Fictions of Zoology. 607

imprisoned toad ; this supposition being rendered the more likely
the discovery that in one of the cells, the covers of which were

Iso cracked and the tenant of. which was dead, numerous insects

re found. No. 9, weighing originally 988 grains, had inereased

its incarceration to 1,116 grains ; but No. r, which in the year

had weighed 924 grains, was found in December 1826 to have

to 698 grains ; and No. 11, originally weighing 936 grains,

had likewise disagreed with the imprisonment, weighing only 652

‘grains when examined in 1826.

At the period when the blocks of stone were thus prepared, four

toads were pinned up in holes § inches deep and 3 inches in

‘diameter, cut in the stem of an apple tree; the holes being firmly

‘plugged with tightly-fitting wooden plugs. ‘These four toads were

found to be dead when examined along with the others in 1826; and

four others enclosed in basins made of plaster-of-Paris, and which

were also buried in Dr, Buckland’s garden, two were found to be

dead at the end of a year, their comrades being alive, but looking

starved and meagre. ‘The toads which were found alive in the

Timestone block in December 1826 were again immured and buried,

‘but were found to be dead, without leaving a single survivor, at the
‘end of the second year of their imprisonment.

‘These experiments may fairly be said to prove two points, ‘They
firstly show that even under circumstances of a favourable kind when
compared with the condition popularly believed in—namely, that of
hheing enclosed in a sodid rock—the limit of the toad’s life may be
‘assumed to be within two years ; this period being no doubt capable
of being extended when the animal possesses a slight advantage,
‘exemplified by the admission of air and insect-féod. And, secondly,
‘we may argue that these experiments show that toads when rigorously
treated, like other animals, become starved and meagre, and by no
means resemble the lively, well-fed animals reported as having emerged
from an imprisonment extending, in popular estimation, through
periods of inconceivable duration, These tales are, in short, as devoid
of actual foundation as are the modem beliefs in the venomous pro.
pertics of the toad, or the ancient beliefs in the occult and mystic
powers of various parts of its frame when used in incantations.
Shakespeare, whilst attributing to the toad venomous qualities, has
yet immortalised it in his famous simile, by crediting it with the pos-
session of a * precious jewel.” But even in the latter case the animal
gets but scant justice ; for science strips it of its poetical reputation, and
in this, as in other respects, shows it, despite fable and myth, to be
an interesting but commonplace member of the aniwel vets,

ASDREN WRALERR.

am warranted in regarding the
representative Grand Turk at H

‘the Empire politically or social

or Bagdad, or Adrianople, 0
Constantinople, a twentieth p

and Liverpool, Glasgow and.

with regard to London, I should not
4s a representative of Turkish cha
overlooking the existence of Sm;

The Grand Turk at Home. 699

n ‘Turkey as Odessa is of Slavonic Russia, 1 hold the
which Heinrich Heine held tonching the pre-eminence of
the provincial towns of France ; and T say, paraphrasing

of Broussa or Bagdad, Adrianople or Philippopolis, are of no
account than the opinions of a man's Legs. In stating this,
ss, I bear in mind the axiom which warns us that there is

o and fall to slaughtering Christians at and left. The so-

d “Bulgarian Auocities” did not by any means constitute the kind
Imean. The massacres in question were only “administrative

” deliberately settled and arranged in the bureaux of the

ferat and Vizierat of Stamboul, and carried out by the very
i 20uks and Circassian therkesses, and by

of local edium theologicum in Turkey is quite another thing,
ff we wish to obtain oa Take approach! ng even a rudimentary

first as an Old and next/as a
f Osmaniis nan be ake sub-

in the world as a Softa,

‘origin ; still you may «

and brazen coffee-pots and trays, mi
Grand Turk does not even make the cu
ghilés which he smokes, the fez caps w
rose bottles at which his £Aanowms st
Marscilles and at Strasburg ; the cut,
come from Vienna ; and the very
polised by a few enterprising Germans
the silken fabrics of Broussa, which,

Sci ms as an adornment for European dining-rooms
pcre are of wondrously harmonious hue, of which the pattern,

said, is like nothing in the heavens above, on the earth

nor in the waters under the earth—none of these things arc

‘of millionaire manufacturers ; they are made piecemeal

| Tat cottage looms and frames by poor artisans with, as a rule,no more
capital than the old “garret masters” of Birmingham had. The
or middlemen who distribute these products are not Osmaniis,

ut Greeks, Turks, and Levantines, It is not, in fact, the mission of
‘the Grand Turk to make anything on a large scale. It is, on the con
“trary, his mission to destroy everything on which he can lay his
3 paw, and on the very grandest of scales. He was born,

annihilating

| Stemingly, not only fruges consumere, but likewise to bum the standing

| crops, and to root up the growing fruit-trees, to choke the wells,
fo smash the bridges, ruin the roads, unroof the houses, and generally

| * “raise Cain and break things" for the greater glory of Allah and of
Mahomet. ,

We WWien Hadji Thrahim was n little boy his head wes hept shayen
and he wore a scarlet skull-cap with a muslin turban (white or green)

twisted round it, an embroidered caftan, very baggy breeches, and
roomy slippers and papouches, His father, who flourished in the reign
of Sultan Selim, used to wear a turban as big as a good-sized pump-
Kin, and, in winter time, a robe with ample sleeves and skirts reaching
to his heels, and lined with more or less expensive fur, If Hadj
‘Ibrahim be indecd a Descendant of the Prophet, or if he be
actively engaged in the service of the mosque or the exposition of
the law, he will wear a t d turban, a flowing robe, and
a broad sash girt round ‘The only concessions made
a > is costume may be, first,
that he carries a handsome chain, and next, that he no
Tonger appears in the street ill protected by dapping
» In carly youth and ad les found that it was
uiite possible to be good and happy wi hi
‘he has not disdained th as stand

‘one of a stout build, and of at of pickled cab-
bage. Such an umbrella, abi it hue, was the illus-
“ar quite feasible, on the

est old Turk, and yet

ce [fhe be a yrecnisiney,

. stranger who vis
must have observed, piled up on the gallery
number of eases, chests, and coffers, of every |
aolid leather to Tough pine. ‘These c
the dragomen, are full of money and
deposited as an inviolable national bank.
suffo of the Suleimanyeh, and can be with
Of the proper decument. Since the war thes

Fiwb visited Stamboul on his way to the Crimea more

ty years ago, frankly confessed that there was a great deal

in the Ottoman kitchen. When the clever cook and excel

n in question went with a letter of introduction from M.

v Lord Stratford de Redcliffe's cig/, to the chief cook of
n Abd-ul-Medjid, and was in consequence permitted to visit the
Jerial palace of Dolma Batché, his first inquiry, wos naturally for
titehen, where he found between one and two hundred Moslems
ly engaged in manipulating dishes d de Zurgue; “many of
h,” adds Soyer with professional gravity, “I conscientiously
“ He was told, moreover, that the copper stewpans used in

ng were re-tinned every day internally, and he saw that they shone

a much silver. The Turkish process of coction, albeit slow, he

ashes laid on slab of marble; the succulence and aroma
ery dish were thereby fully retained. His panegyrics, however,
led with censure. “The floor of the kitchen,” he

jarks, “was rather ill-paved ; and the attendantswere in the habit
sttewing everything not wanted for immediate use on the ground
(p untidy trick.” “I could trace,” adds Soyer, “from the interior
‘ess than seventy huge shaft chimneys sprouting out from the roof
thi gastronomic temple. . » It was now near twelve o'clock,
rs made their appearance in the kitchen,

A with the greatest alacrity were loaded with heaps of dishes be-
ging to the first, second, ; ‘third courses, 0 ascertained on
hniry that these were for the dinners of the ladies of the harem.
lite, snowy-looking cloths were thi cr each tray, and to my
y 2 old palace on the Bos-

e, on the, beret heads=thé

a
instituted by Ma-
of poison, but was

save a willingness to eat horseflesh

cream and milk, a fondness which he yet n
more popular dishes at this day in the b

than Aaimaki (which has nothing to do

Mr, Gladstone), the dgpdyada of the

sour cream. The elegancies of
elegancies of the Turkish language, bo

Rebche mechoni axe Toe Qsman\s kibabs, wok
with eggs and tomatoes), mekhettewr

be

The Grand Turk at Home. 405

sh dolowa (meat stuffed with beans mashed with spices), <eilife
's head with vinegar and garlic), Adda (bowilfi with oil and
gar), boufiatar (soup with bread-crusts), mehammsa (soup with
flavoured with lemon), dexirgoude (pounded wheat swim.

ming in butter), zaladiye and gheritiye (pufpaste made with fine
flour and oil), have all their analogous and their convertible names
among the Turks. The famous #ia/va, or halva, of which more
anon, a cake made with butter, honey, almonds, and very fine
‘wheaten flour, and scented with some subtle perfume, is the equally
Popolar fré/owa of the Arabs. Of the more strictly national Turkish
dishes, the leading anes are their cucumber and tomato soups, their
fined sardines, bar-fish, gurnet and sturgeon, their kids and lambs
Foasted whole, their fried ccls and celery, and their succulent but
‘too greasy confectionery. Soyer used to enumerate a host of Turkish
dishes, among which I remember “habaram bouton," “Partligan
Bastiel,” “sakhath kabac,” “Baclavas gynerish;” but as the good
fman was, until the end of his useful life, unable to speak any lan-
guage but a strange Bubylonish dialect, “like fustian cut on silk or
satin ;" and as he would be, on occasion, somewhat too poetically
imaginative, I account his supplementary Turkish mets as 80 much
fewstifariie, as the French say. Of the so-called Turkish p/afr in
Urban Dubois’ “ Cosmopolitan Cookery,” [never saw any in Constanti-
nople save pilaf, fowl and rice, which is a dish common to the whole
East, and which was even naturalised by the Arabs in Andalusia
and Granada, where (supposing that any fowls or any rice can be
Obtained) the dish is still deservedly a favourite under the name of
pollo con ares. The drawbacks (so a European gastronome might
opine) to the Turkish cuisine are these. Only one dish is served at
& time ; 2 set dinner will often consist of as many as fifty plats; sweet
and savoury dishes are indiscriminately mixed during the repast ; the
Sauces are so thin that they must needa be sopped up with bread if
you wish to taste them; you are only allowed to drink horse fashion
‘at the end of your dinner; and the ladies dine apart from the gentle
men. Beshrew the Grand Turk, and everything that is his! A Good
Old Turk, like my ideal Hadji Ibrahim, never touches anything
Stronger than water at his meals ; but there are many highly respect-
able and Koran-abiding Osmanlis who, although they scrupulously
ayoad wine-bibbing, see no harm in tossing off, just before dinner, a
thimbleful of ati, 2 very nasty spirituous liquor distilled from
mastic, and which has a strong flavour of wrpentine varmide. “Ye
way of taking your re& as a whet before Ainner is this. Vos Yave
Your thimbleful of spirit and a Tange tumbler of cold water Wroags
Fob cox, xu, 1758

are wanted throughout the repast._

are carried round for the guests to q

hands are washed both before and

of the meal come coffee and pipes. ‘

fessional story-tellers, singers, and (in the nigl

of Ramazan) even dancers may be

as a rule, within a couple of hours after ¢

assumed ‘the horizontal position” ans fe
You will have gathered, 1 boge,

The Grand Turk at Home. 707

notion of the fact that Hadji Ibrahim is not by any means a bad
fellow. He was always deeply learned in the Koran, and, if he
belongs to the legal section of the Ulema, he must be as deeply versed
in all the commentators on the sacred laws. He may have studied a
Tittle logic and rhetoric in his youth, and, if he have a good memory,
he may be tolerably familiar with the masterpieces of Turkish and
Persian poctry. He knows most of the stories in the Arabian Nights,
and a good many more tales into the bargain, which, were they pub-
Uished in England as a supplement to the Thousand and One, might
@t Once attract the attention of the police. Beyond this characteristic
ally Osmanli erudition the Good Old Turk is profoundly illiterate,
although within the last few years plenty of newspapers in the Turkish
Janguage have been publishéx! in Stamboul for his edification. As
the journals in question are, a3 « rule, crammed full of lies, I fail to
Perceive that the Good Old Turk is, on the whole, much edified
i A and he is, from

minently pions; infancy he

hiss been inflated with a persuasion of the inetiable wupeciorigy of his

Own faith, and with contempt, pardenaa in sae, for the protesters

Of every other religion. ‘Ti i

things, he cannot help,

idea of hiinself, ba: c

pretended revelat j ( elp, bowrné as he is
f disdain

toclety in which th
the uncharit
by the death

the influence of the Evil Eye, just as t

the diseased appearance of his flock to

enemy; and as Pliny relates, that the

to destroy whole harvests merely by

believes, too, in omens, prognostics, n

segarded the art of portrait-painting m

old doctrine that it was unlawful to imitate
* The Sultan's state calque is guaranteed

of 6 clove of guile in tae prow of tae weal! ee

‘very pile of firewood in the courtyard ol a yaute’

The Grand Turk at Home. 709

the human body save the hands and feet of Mshomet—the Prophet's
Berbera cresic’ by the wings of legions of angels—and that no
would enter a house where there was an effigy of a human
But Hadji Thrahim, although he has never been photo-
_ graphed, and would sternly refuse permission to his wives to have
cir cartes de visite taken, will turn over with naive gratification the
of the Jiustrated London News, and will even invest a few
paras now and again in the purchase of the Stamboul Pomch—I forget
its Turkish name—a flimsy sheet, with vile woodcuts caricaturing the
Ginours, but especially the Moscoy section thereaf. So much, then,
‘for the average and respectable Turk of the present day. He is in-
Yariably marricd, but he is not necessarily the husband of the maxi-
‘mum four, of three, or even of two wives. Heis ofttimes content with
‘a single helpmate. Ce/a n’empéche pas other divagations. On the
whole, his character may be described as a composition of contra
‘dictory qualities. He is at once brave and pusillanimous, shrewd
and simple-minded, active and indolent; passing from austere de-
votion to the most disgusting obscenity ; fastidiously delicate and
coarsely voluptuous ; exquisitely polite and grossly wnmannerly ;
* now scated on a celestial bed, and now battening on garbage.” Ifthe
Tespectable Turk rises (to his own misfortune and that of his country-
amen) to high rank in the State, he becomes alternately haughty and
thumable, arrogant and cunning, liberal and sordid; and, in general, it
‘taust be confessed that the qualities which least deserve our approba-
tion are the most prominent in his transformed nature. Within a very
short time after his elevation he exhibits unmistakable symptoms of
losing all his respectable qualities ; but he is still very far removed
from the typical Rascally Old Turk,
‘This unmitigated scoundrel’s (imaginary) name is Cacus Pasha.
Tt is Barabbas Bey. It is Buccaneer Effendi. The Rascally Old
‘Turk is one of Sultan Mahmoud’s bad bargains, He may be, like
my Good Old Turk, between fifty and sixty years of age; and when
he was about nineteen the Reforming Caliph sent him to Western
Burope to study the arts and sciences of the Giaours, Perhaps, if
call him Jerry Abershaw Pasha, confusion may be avoided. Per-
Taps he was a student at the Ecole Polytechnique at Paris, Pro-
Dably he graduated at a military college at Vienna. Possibly he may
have served a year or two in the English navy. Long ago he learnt
to speak French and German, to drink brandy and champagne, to
play lansquenet and écarté (and to cheat at these games when
he can), and to sct such trifle; as the honour of women and
the respect duc to parents at nought. Perhaps he bas een

worthy friend Hadji Tbrahim, who h
governing the Ottoman Empire, I
‘Unfortunately, there is a young
Gulbeyaz, or Dudu—by the name of
her what you will—who is constrained
the wives, now of the Good, and now

P young person is a plump, rosy,

The Grand Turk at Home. qu

kind-hearted and affectionate, adorably childlike, profoundly

and grossly immoral—when she has the chance of in
lity—simply beeause she has never been taught what morals
“She has been trained exclusively with one view and with
purpose, that of being a pretty Animal and serving the sensuality
Tord. She (being all womanly) would like to show her pretty
and figure in public, to go to operas, plays, and balls, and to
talk innocently with other men besides her brutally jealous spouse ;
but the Grand Turk shuts Leilh, Gulnare, or Aicha up in a
surrounds her with a cordon of negro slaves and Familiar
and when she gocs abroad constrains her to disguise herself
a square-cut cloak, hideously baggy trowsers, and a shroudlike
“The last the poor little woman is artful enough to convert
‘the most transparent of screens ; but she cannot rid herself of
‘bedquilt-like-looking cloak, and her bolster-case-looking pan-
Except on occasions of peculiar festivity the nearest male
elatives she possesses are excluded from the harem, the very windows
‘which are grated and latticed so as to conceal her from the view of
“the outside world. The European, familiarised with the idea of the
“natural equality of the sexes (and, I may add, with the general moral
‘superiority of women over men) looks with anger mingled with
‘compassion on the situation of the Turkish women, and feels inclined
‘to agree at once with the spirit of Diderot’s indignant apostrophe,
Femme, que je te plains." Tn a great many instances, however, the
‘Turkish women—the AAamoum at least, or grande dame at least—
‘is not, it must in common justice be admitted, a person very much
materially to be pitied. She cn receive and mingle to an unlimited
‘extent in the company of her own sex. Let the economy of her
‘visiting list, for example, be glanced at.
‘The art of visiting among the Turkish ladies may be divided into
three sections, comprising interviews which are asked for, arranged,
‘and duly announced, visits of “ surprise,” and visits of the hap-hazard
‘or * happy-go-lucky” kind. And first, of formal interviews. When
Feats cr more ladies inhabiting the same harem wish to pay a visit to
“the inmates of another gynaevenm, they send a couple of diarichs, or
humble companions, accompanied by a Familiar Monster (usually a
‘negro, but there are a few white specimens of the abominable non-
eseripts), to inform the &/ianoum who is to be Interviewed of their
Tadyships’ intention to “spend a long day” with her. The usages
‘of Mahometan ctiquette demand that the AAanoum should reccive
intimation with a countenance beaming with smiles, and that she
Should inform the djaricis or the Familiar Monster that she WI Vs.

;

L

at one with the optimists. As it

because, as a man, T decline to

animal, to be petted, and caressed, a

otherwise treated as though she had

for a Soul, had none at all. As a man,
admiring my own treasure at home ; I de

virtue and honesty, admixed dorowk, ana

Jight under the harem bushel, wot male WANNE HH

The Grand Turk at Home. 713
Ese es besitos In fuse Sua as the Oncaea

ab: a well nat peteabe Suties andl
to go among her subjects and show them the light of her

and comfort them with fair words. It is not without

that I have ever been able to contemplate the idea of a nun;

‘Turkish woman is a married mun, with a great hulking Turk

‘Confessor, and in that aspect the poor creature's condition seems
Biden tees snore horrible,

¢ are as strictly conventional as those of an peed

” or of a “ small and early.” Everybody dresses in her

clothes, European ladies settled in the East have told me

it many of the wives of the great Pashas and Effendis have recently
to dressing altogether d fa Frangue—polonaises, sweeping
“dress improvers,” high-heeled shoes, chignons, topknots,

tresses and all; but in the majority of Turkish harems the old

i costume is still worn, That costume is in effect identical

h the dress described with the free-and-easy literalness of the early

‘of the cightcenth century in the letters of Lady Mary Wortley

8 Tn the moming the Turkish lady “ loafé" about her

Tarem in her shirt sleeves and a loose pair of silken knickerbockers

‘reaching a little below the knee, Her lower limbs and feet are bare,

and the latter are thrast into embroidered slippers, Full dress means

the hair braided and plaited, curled and frizzed, or interstrung with

‘soins or Jewels in a hundred different modes, and surmounted by a

"pretty little tarbouch or a fez cap. Full dress means the arching of
‘the eyebrows, and their prolongation till they meet with dark paint,

‘the tinging of the inside of the eyelids with AoA/-or antimony, and the

dycing of the finger nails with AcnnaA, a preparation of the pounded

Jeaves of the colouring shrub cyprus. In the way of apparel, fall

~ dress ¢ fa Turgue means an inner garment—chemise, smock, tunic,
surplice, whatever you like to call it, of cumbric or silk chy em-

broidered—trowsers as deep as a well and as wide as a church-door

falling gracefully over the instep ; a little jackct of velvet and em-

Droidery, but more @ a Greeyue than Osmanli fashion, a gorgeous

sash of brocade satin, and very often an exterior tunic or mantle of

Some stimptuous stuff. When the &éanowm goes abroad, to the bath,

f fo the mosque, or to pay visits, all these fripperies are concealed
ainder the /eriee, « coat of square cut but not inelegant form, and a
pair of very baggy overall trowscrs ; the disguise being completed by

LE white muslin or gauze yzsimak or veil. Formerly the ferijee ft

ping titbits on our plates, laughed iD ¢
discreetly hinted that European Iadie
make no secret of the fact that the
ladies is closely akin to the conve

the other ladies who wait upon Ewadne

but fall upon their hostesses, as the Americans would say,

undred of bricks." Of course the kianoum makes & number

“ies, tantamount to “So sorry ; why didn’t you say you were

?” But coffee in the East is soon made ; chibonchs, marghilis,

id Cigarettes are always on hand, and should the domestic larder be

‘a deplenished condition, débats, sour cream, pastry, and lollipops

always be obtained at a moment's notice from the cookshop or

Street-stall round the corner. Among the faults of the Grand

, male or female, the sins of inhospitality, and of “stuck-uppish-

,” cannot certainly be reckoned. The Turk who is a snob, and

the ‘Turkish lady who “gives herself airs,” are yet happily non-
existent entities,

~The hap-hazard or “happy-go' icky” order of visits is going out, T

told, and it may be time for such an eccentric institution to dis-

¢ themselves together and s
of which were totally The Coconas and the
iti | indulge in such pranks
thanoum pur sang is as
stringe house out
er these uninvited
al protests against
cks wielded by negro
st Thave heard

frequently absent from her. She

fe co Be alas Bo 3 toe
person, to an extent even greater than
vanity requires, must be, after the care:
children, her chief relaxation ; and

and taking off fine clothes, to be admin
must at last become irksome to her, It is
for women,” that is to say, that they hope
toilettes to make other women emmoxsdy
Jess attractive in the eyes of ren 5 Ww

we

a true wrote, long ago, one of the most
PP siee aks Us tae owen

coffee and eat sweetmeats ; to play at draughts and watch the
motions of a puppet-show; to perform set ablutions and

the earliest period of history the women of Asia have nme
restrictions ; and the same, or nearly the same, aystem was
lished in ‘Athens and in Rome, and subsisted until the degene-
of manners and the progress of luxury had tarnished the glory
Sapped the foundations of those illustrious republics." Ay,
‘observant of travellers! but at no period of Roman history

were the Roman ladies utterly sequestered from the sight of mankind ;

in the institution of the Hetairai, Athens possessed a splendid

‘albeit slightly immoral compensating balance to the gynewceum, It

was reserved for the Grand Turk at Home to perfect the abominable
"system of the social obliteration of woman. He has chained his
Andromeda to the rock of his harem, but Captain Perseus of the
‘Life Guards Winged will come that way on his Sying charger shortly,
and he will unchain Andromeda—I mean, Aicha or Leila—and
vanquish the monster at the base of the rock, and the Grand Turk
his master to boot, and despatch Turk and Monster to the Tophet
whither they should have | sent long ago.
GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA.

as applied to the celestial orbs
scopic scrutiny of those bodies.

| the more recent wonders of telegraphic c
do not intend to describe at any length
struction of the various instruments
principles of spectroscopic analysis can be

On Some Marvels in Telegraphy. 719

7

‘reader without the examination of the peculiarities of spectroscopic
so can the methods and principles ‘of telegraphic com-

as of nec be insufficient for a student who requires to know
subject practically in all its details, while they deter the general

reader by technicalities in which he cannot be expected to take any
‘interest. If it be asked, whether I myself, who undertake to explain
the principles of certain methods of telegraphic communication, have

| Practically the actual instrumental working of these methods,

frankly that I have not done so. As some sort of proof,

_ however, that without such practical familiarity with working details
‘the principles of the construction of instraments may be thoroughly
‘Understood, I may mention that the first spectroscopic battery I ever

| looked through—one in which the dispersive power before obtained
in such instruments had been practically doubled—was of my own
| invention, constructed (with a slight mechanical modification) by Mr.
| Browning, and applied at once successfully to the study of the son
by Mr. Huggins, in whose observatory I saw through this fnstma-

| ment the solar spectrum ‘extended to a length which, could it all have
_ been seen at once, would have equalled many feet! On the other
hand, it is possible to have a considerable practical experience of
‘scientific instruments without sound knowledge of the principles of
‘their construction ; insomuch that instances have been known in
which men who have effected agrees discoveries by the use of

of communication which wer C
was invented. Some of th Is of electric telegraphy have
i egraphy used ages
rl eon of
telegraphy was probably i 0 invadi
ammies by beacon fires. ‘Tl

indeed, and in all later uses of Ch

could be used in intermediate posit

could be formed. Such telegraphs wi

at the Louvre and proceeding by Mon!
communications were conveyed ea tl
Welfare to the armics in the Low Co

at each station, Barre tes ha sal a

b

; On Some Marvels in Telegraphy. 7at

August 7, 1794, that the news of the recapture of Lisle had been
sent by this line of communication to Paris in one hour after the
French troops had entered that city. Thus the message was con-
-yeyed at the rate of more than 120 miles per hour,

Various other devices were suggested and employed during the
first half of the present century. ‘The semaphores still used in railway
signalling illustrate the general form which most of these methods
@ssumed. An upright, with two arms, cach capable of assuming
‘six distinct positions (excluding the upright position), would give
forty-eight different signals ; thus each would give six signals alone,
‘or twelye for the pair, und each of the six signals of one combined
with each of the six signals of the other would give thirty-six signals,
making forty-eight in all. ‘This number suffices to express the letters
‘of the alphabet (twenty-five only are needed), the Arabic numerals,
and thirteen arbitrary signals.

‘The progress of improvement in such methods of signalling
promised to be rapid, before the invention of the electric telegraph,
or rather, before it was shown how the principle of the electric tele-
gmph could be put practically into operation, We have seen that
‘they were capable of transmitting messages with considerable rapidity,
‘more than twice as fast as we could now send a written message by
express train. But they were rough and imperfect, They were all,
also, exposed to one serious defect. In thick weather they became
useless. Sometimes, at the very time when it was most important
that messages should be quickly transmitted, fog interrupted the
‘signalling. Sir J. Barrow relates that during the Peninsular War grave
anxiety was occasioned for several hours by the interruption of a
message from Plymouth, really intended to convey news of a victory.
‘The words transmitted were, “ Wellington defeated;” the message of
which these words formed the beginning was; “ Wellington defeated
the French at" Sc. As Barrow remarks, if the message had run,
© French defeated at” &c,, the interruption of the message would
haye been of less consequence,

Although the employment of electricity as a means of communi-
‘eating at a distance was suggested before the end of the last century,
in fact, so far back as 1774, the idea has only been worked out during
the last forty years, It is curious indeed to note that until the middle
of the present century the word “telegraph,” which is now always
‘understood as equivalent to electric telegraph, unless the contrary is
‘expressed, was commonly understood to refer to semaphore signal-
Ting,! unless the word “ electric” were added.

* Thus in Christie Fohnstone, written in 1853, when Plucker Oana Acue Wi
FOL CCXL. NO, 1758. 3A

Christie the story of the widow's sorrows,
throwing in what dramatists eall "the
hand like a geraffe at

it’s the thing on the

*0o,

On Some Marvels in Telegraphy. 723

ators, be rubbed, the part rubbed becomes charged with negative, for-
y called resinons, electricity.

) , then, positive or-negative, however generated, passes

along conducting substances, but is stopped by an insulating

pero just as light passes through transparent substances, but is

mepeed: by an opaque body. Moreover, electricity may be made 10

to any distance along conducting bodies suitably insulated.

“it might seem that we have here the problem of distant com-

‘munication solved. In fact, the first suggestion of the use of elec

tricity in telegraphy was based on thisproperty. When a charge of

electricity has been obtained by the use of an ordinary electrical

this charge can be drawn off at a distant point, if a con-

ducting channel properly insulated connects that point with the boifies

have been charged with electricity. In

(2747, Dr Watson exhibited electrical effects from the discharges of

Leyden jars (vessels suitably constructed to receive and retain elec-

: electric ical machine, In

117& Le Sage proposed that by means of wires the electricity de-

st ould be transmitted by insulated

instrament for indicating

the presence of elects v

‘of the alphabet, one

Deing at
in, by the way, in his “ Applications
We experiment; in fact,

means of telegrap! - communicati ‘ior
the lecture-room

Dall, the

discharge of pt

Paeces of tinfoil a

to another form

and the excess of positive

constantly discharged.

metals a current of electricity

the metal most affected ; a current «

contrary direction in the dilute acid,
‘Thave spoken here of cu

acid, and shal] have oceasion te

of metal least affected as the

regarded, in this case, as a

electricity flows along the wire

which is called the negative pole.

reader that this is only a convenient

the wite assumes a certain condition

plates, and is capable of producing

reality any process is taking place which c

the flow of a current one way or the other, oe:

On Some Marvels in Telegraphy. 725

rent flows along the current one way, while the positive current flows
the {other way, are questions still unanswered. We need not here
‘enter into them, however. In fact, very little is known about these
points. Nor need we consider here the various ways in which many
pairs of plates such as I have described can be combined in many
vessels of dilute acid to strengthen the current. Let it simply be
noted that such a combination is called a battery; that when the
extreme plates of opposite kindsare connected by a wire, a currentof
electricity passes along the wire from the extreme plate of that metal
which is least affected, forming the positive pole, to the ether extreme
plate of that metal which is most affected, and forms the negative pole,
‘The metals commonly employed are zinc and copper, the former
being the one most affected by the action of the dilute acid, usually
sulpharicacid. Butitmust here be mentioned that the chemical pro-
cess,affecting both metals, but one chiefly, would soon render a battery
of the kind described useless; wherefore arrangements are made in
various ways for maintaining the efficiency of the dilute acid and of
the metallic plates, especially the copper: for the action of the acid on
the zinc tends, otherwise, to form on the copper a deposit of zinc, 1
need not describe the various arrangements for forming what are
called constant batteries, as Daniell’s, Grove’s, Bunsen’s, and others,
Let it be understood that, instead of a current which would rapidly
grow weaker and weaker, these batteries give a steady current for a
considerable time. Without this, as will presently be seen, telegraphic
‘communication would be impossible.

We have, then, in a galvanic battery a steady source of electricity.
‘This clectricity is of low intensity, incompetent to produce the more
striking phenomena of frictional electricity. Let us, however, con-
sider how it would operate at a distance.

‘The current will pass along any length of conducting substance
properly insulated. Suppose, then, an insulated wire passes along a
wire from the positive pole of a battcry at a station a to a station 1,
and thence back to the negative pole at the station a. Then the
current passes along it, and this can be indicated at » by some
action such as electricity of low intensity can produce. If now the
continuity of the wire be interrupted close by the positive pole at a,
the current ceases and the action is no longer produced. The
observer at & knows then that the continuity of the wire has been
interrupted ; he has been, in fact, signalled to that effect.

But, as I have said, the electrical phenomena which can be pro-
duced by the current along 2 wire connecting the positive and nega-
tive poles of a galvanic battery are not striking. ‘They do novefiow.

current saith sei toe ERE
éa,and therefore the same as that
a, The current along ¢falso, o
the end » towards the east. All

wire were twisted once again round Ws
farther increased ; and finally, if the \

shown in Fig. 1, but witha great num

nf the north end towards the east,

On Some Marvels in Telegraphy. 727

such coils, will become sufficiently obvious. If the direction of the
current be changed, the end w will be correspondingly deflected
towards the west.

“The needle need mot be suspended horizontally, If it hang
vertically, that is, turn’ freely on a horizontal axis, and the coil be
carried round it as above described, the deflection of the upper end.
will be to the right or to the left, according to the direction of the
current. The needle actually seen, moreover, is not the one acted
‘upon by the current. | ‘This one is inside the coll, the one seen turns
‘on the same axis which projects through the coil.

“Afthen the observer at the station # have a magnetic needle suitably
stispended, round which the wire from the battery at 4 has been
coiled, he can tell by the movement of the needle whether a current
is passing along the wire in one direction or in the other, while if
the needle is at rest he knows that no current is passing,

Fig. 2

Now suppose that p and w are the positive and negative poles of
2 galvanic battery at A, and thata wire passes from P to the station B,
where it is coiled round a needle suspended vertically atm, and

@bandalso ated. ‘Then no current passes along the wire, and the
necdle # remains at rest in a vertical, position, Now suppose the

tended to deal with details of ©

points which have to be explained in order that
be understood, ‘The reader will see that nothing can!
to arrange matters that, by turning a handle, either a,
connected, or ed and cé, or both lines of commun
‘The mechanism for effecting this is called the

Two points remain, however, to be explained
receiving station as well as a transmitting station
connecting » with w, in figs. 2 and 3, can be a
found that if at the wire is carried down toa large
some depth underground, while the wire at @ is c
another plate similarly buried underground, the circuit is
even better than along such a return wire as is peep
‘The earth either acts the part of a return wire, or else,
carrying off the electricity, allows the current to flow
along the single wire. We may compare the current:
the complete wire current, to water circulating in a pipe extending
continuously from a reservoir to a distance and back again to the
reservoir. Water sucked up continuously at one end
through the pipe so long as it was continuously
reservoir at the other; bu ould equally be carried
extending from that reservoir to some place where it could communi
cate with the open sea—the reservoir itself communicating with the
open sea,—an arrangement corresponding to that by which the retim
wire is dispensed with, and the current from the wire received intotit
earth,

The discovery that the return wire may be Sispensed with

made by Steinheil in 1831- .
" a x

On Some Marvels in Telegraphy. 729

‘The actual arrangement, then, is in essentials that represented in
figs 4.

Saag PL fied plate

a and n are the two stations, pw is the battery at a, P/N’ the battery
‘at n; 1’! the positive poles, x! n’ the negative poles, At # is the
needle of station A, at n’ the needle of station ». When the handle of
the commutator is in its mean position—which is supposed to be the
case at station p—the points 0’ @ are connected with each other, but
neither with @ nor ¢; no current, then, passes from » to , but station
Bis in.a condition to receive messages. (If J’ and @ were not con-
nected, of course no messages could be received, since the current
from a would be stopped at //—which does not mean that it would pass
round #’ to #’, but that, the passage being stopped at 4’, the current
would not flow at all. When (the commutator at # being in ity mean
position, or 2’ é’ connected, and communication with ¢ and a’ inter-
rupted) the handle of the commutator at a is turned from its mean
position in one direction, a and 6 are connected, as are ¢ and d—as
shown in the figure—while the connection between é and is broken.
‘Thus the current passes from P by @ and 4, round the needle x; thence
to station 4, round needle #’, and by @ and #, to the earth plate «’;
and so along the earth to ¢, and by ds, to the negative pole x. The
‘upper end of the needle of both stations is deflected to the right by the
passage of the current in this direction. When the handle of the
‘commutator at A is turned in the other direction, 6 and care connected,
as also @ and d; the current from P passes along ad to the ground
plate G, thence to o', along Jd, round the needle n’, back by the
‘wire to the station a, where, after circuiting the needle # in the same
direction as the needle x’, it travels by 4 and ¢ to the negative pole N.
‘The upper end of the needle, at both stations, is deflected to the left
by the passage of the current in this direction,

Tt is easily seen that, with two wires and one battery, two needles
fan be worked at both stations, either one moving alone, or tae stacy

&

while the current along the auxiliary vi
other direction. If the thickness and

such as to make these two tendencies

rest, while a message is transmitted

main wire. In this state of thin;

station along the wire in the direction

this current also circuits the auxiliary wire, 1
dicated by the arrows on the dotted curve,

in which it circuits the main wire. ‘Thus th
signal received. When the dicecion of the

mitting station is reversed, #0 also is the direction of the artificial
current, so that again the needle is balanced; similarly, if the direction
of the current from the distant station is reversed, so also is the
direction in which this ¢urrent traverses the auxiliary wire, 30 that
again both effects conspire to deflect the needle. ‘There is, however,
another way in which an auxiliary wire may be made to work. It
‘may be so’arranged that, when a message is transmitted, the divided
current flowing equally in opposite directions, the instrument at the
sending station is not affected; but that when the operator at the distant
station sends a current along the main wire, this neutralises the current
coming towards him, which current had before balanced the artificial
airrent. The latter, being no longer counterbalanced, deflects the
needle; so that, in point of fact, by this arrangement, the signal
received at a station is produced by the artificial currentat that station,
though of course the real cause of the signal isthe transmission of the
neutralising current from the distant station.

‘The great value of duplex telegraphy is manifest. Not only can
messages be sent simultaneously in both directions along the wire—
a circumstance which of itself would double the work which the wire
is capable of doing—but all loss of time in arranging about the order
‘of outward and homeward messages is prevented. The saving of
time is especially important on long lines, and in submarine tele-
graphy. It is also here that the chief difficulties of duplex telegraphy
have been encountered. ‘The chief current and the artificial eurrent

For this purpose the flow along

b . ou long wire, the current

‘has to encounter a greater resistance than in traversing the short wire;
ye short wire must be much finer

rine wire is separated by but
atta percha from water, an excel
‘ith the carth, and is, more~

ys
net when su
nee wire: barsertione the
gutta percha as the glass of

along the corresponding part of its short
illustration perfect, the widenings :
Unequal in different parts of the pipe’s
submarine cable, regarded as a condenser,
parts of its length. What is wanted, then,
duplex telegraphy in the case of

circuit which shall not only correspond as
but shall reproduce at the corresponding
the varieties of capacity existing along
the submarine cable,

On Some Marvels in Telegraphy. 733

Several attempts have been made by electricians to accomplish
this result, Let it be noticed that two points have to be considered :
‘the intensity of the current’s action, which depends on the resistance
‘it has to overcome in traversing the circuit, and the velocity of trans-
mission, depending on the capacity of various parts of the circuit to
condense or collect electricity, Varley, Stearn, and others have

_ endeavoured by various combinations of condensers with resistance

colls to meet these two requisites. But the action of artificial circuits
‘thus arranged was not sufficiently uniform, Recently Mr. J. Muirhead,
jun., has met the difficulty in the following way (I follow partially
the account given in the Zimes of February 3 last, which the
reader will now have no difficulty in understanding) -—He has formed
his second circuit by sheets of paper prepared with paraffin, and
having upon one side a strip of tinfoil, wound to and fro to represent
resistance. ‘Through this the artificial current is conducted. On the
‘other side is a sheet of tinfoil to represent the sheathing,’ and to
‘correspond to the capacity of the Each sheet of paper thus
prepared may be made to represent precisely a given length of cable,
having enough tinfoil on one side to furnish the resistance, and on
the other to furnish the capacity. A sufficient number of such sheets
‘would exactly represent the cable, and thus the artificial or non-
signalling part of the current would be precisely equivalent to the
Signalling part, so far as its action on the needle at the transmitting
Station was concerned. ' The new plan was first tried on a working
scale," says the Zimes, “on the line between Marseilles and Bona ;
‘but it has since been brought into operation from Marseilles to Malta,
from Suez to Aden, and lastly, from Aden to Bombay. On a recent oc+
easion when there was a break-down upon the Indo-European ling, the
duplex system rendered essential service, and maintained telegraphic
communication which would otherwise have been mast seriously
interfered with.” ‘The invention we may well believe “ cannot fail to
‘be highly profitable to the proprictors of submarine cables,” orto brig
about “ before long a material reduction in the cost of messages from
places beyond the seas."

RICHARD A. PROCTOR,
(To be continued)

¥ Not to represent the gutta petcha,"" as stated in the 7imes account of Mr.
Mulrhead's invention, ‘The gutta percha corresponds to the Insulating material
-of the artificial cirenit; vir., the prepared paper through which the current along
the tinfoil strips acts inductively on the coating of tinfoil,

we take it, are the life of novels. Two
exist in great numbers at present,
counterpart : the didactic novel, which ¢

of the butter of fancy the solid and so
sophy, geography, or religion; and:

intime, the novel of character, which rests
and minute analysis of the heart, P

b old novel is an Wistorical interest. “Tt en

Early Halian Novels. 735

accurately the manners and customs, the notions of piety and
‘morality, the forms of thought and language which prevailed among
the people who lived about the place, and the period of its composi-
tion, more accurately, it may be, than many of the so-called

fity of their involved allusions, they are seldom read. But the
Tralians are tolerably familiar with their names, at all events, and can
quote them to round off a sentence as we quote Milton's “ Paradise
Lost," and St, Paul’s Epistles, if not with the same accurate and com-
plete knowledge of their contents.

While many of the Italian novels seem to be indigenous products
of Italian intellect and imagination, many more may be traced to the
“Fabliaux,” to the “Gesta Romanorum,” that rich mine of romantic
jewellery, and tothe“ Fables of Bidpai” and others, the oldest fountains
inthe far East of all European fiction. But the Italian novels in their
turn have not been without effect on subsequent literature, both narra-
tive and dramatic. It is to the spirit of Italian fiction that we owe the
shaping of the principal plot of “Cymbeline." Shakespeare had pro
bably seen some translation or English adaptation of Boccaccio’s
ninth novel of the second day, a pure novel of adventure, and has
given us Posthumus for Bernabd da Genova; Lachimo for Ambro-
giuolo; and Imogen for Zinevra. The tale of Romeo and Juliet is a
twice-told tale; in Italian romance we find it both in Bandello and
in Luigi da Porta, who secm themselyes to have derived it from the
Ephesiaca of Xenophon, The reader will remember how, in that
complicated story, whose pictures change with each chapter like
those of a kaleidoscope, Habrocomas and Anthia fall in love in the
temple of Diana, are married, and afterwards, by an oracle of Apollo,

seas, which afford capital arenas

‘But the portion of the tale

vy of Shakespeare ig that

m one of her numerous

young nobleman, Perilans,

ge with the county Paris,

= Ing Soporific, so does Anthia to

ayoid the love of Perilaus, But there is this difference; Anthia

specimens of the vulgar idiom, and is

and reverence as a precious touchstone of the

stories have at least one great advantage over |

and were in many cases copied from, them.

with their wit that stereotyped amount of decency:

is always expected in any anecdote offered up at

less shriné of British public virtue. It is for this
that some wanton writers have declared them to be
intrinsic excellence. Others again complain of an”
moral tone,” of a want of “that by which the heart

but then no human work is perfect, and the Noveliiua
stoties, which, besides being very amusing, have the
vantage of being very short. Indeed, a long novel
tedious asa sermon ; it is its brevity, quite as much as
example is better than precept, which makes a tile so
instructive and interesting thana treatise on morality, pe
is, moreover, creditably distinguished by an absence of such satire
the well-known charity, generosity, sincerity, virtue, and true:

the priests of its time as disgraced the pages of Boccaccio.

its authors—for the diversity of its style points to more pis
were inspired by such a pretty: princess as the Neapolitan Fiammetls
to write such love tales as the present ageis utterly unable to rei
That musical and diffuse style, that federdiche

is called by Bouterwek, in which Boccaccio and his imil

tragedy and comedy alike, will not be heard echoing from

but yet there will be found here and there traces, curious h com
sidering its time, of careful dissection of character; touches of natane

Early Italian Novels: 737

sled with a pathos of sound and simplicity of diction, far removed
from that style which the Italians call assimafs, and which appeal
sctly to the reader's attention.
‘The title of the Nowelle Autike may show it to be 2 compilation of
rent Stories of the period. In their first edition they are called
__ “Flowers of speech of fair courtesy, valiance, and largess, after the
_ deeds of many menin the olden time,” ‘The original text has of course
shared the fate of other old texts, and been several times corrupted
under pretence of correction, mutilated under pretence of expurga-
tion. Notably, in the rejection of old tales in their entirety, and in the
addition of new, there has been such an indulgence of editorial dis-
‘eretion as has attended our own old classics, few of whom, it is sadly
to be feared, would recognise, were they condemned to retum once
‘more to this world, the changed children of their earthly imaginings.
‘The authors of the Nordine, living, as they probably did, at
“different times, could not, like the author of the “ Decameron,” enclose
their tales within the frame of another tale, like the wheels within a
wheel of the Hebrew poct. Not that this device was an invention of
him who, as a writer, was worthy of that praise which Catullus
bestowed on Cicero as an orator, tiserfissimus Romnli mepotam. Wt
fhad been already employed by the monk Giovanni in the Dolopathos
‘of the twelfth centi di

framework in the bian N of the sleepless Schibenals
is Similiar to most people me such frame is common enough
in the exrly Ttalian novel io encloses his Hecatommithi
in @ seavoyage from Rom a

een used by Bisaccioni, ems superior to the
celebrated ones either of Chauc A In the former it ix
Mot easy to understand hor of people riding together on

to be told in ten
and three young m
which proved the fa
fourteenth cen a
and fresh, and green,

‘one of the authors of the G
head against the pole of the tent
battle of Casciano, Notwil D
told, perished by his orders, he was et
the honour of being excommunicated b
Lt would be a long yarn, gran éela, says
tell you bow he was feared, and most
well. On one occasion he

Doth on horseback with mounted

’ Early Italian Novels. 739

as ‘whieh Tad the fairer sword, ani the money staked. ‘The
emperor drew ‘his weapon, marvelously adorned with jewels and
Mine,” said Messer Azzolino, “is more fair, though not

y" and he too drew his sword; on which belageratd

Azzolino, ai was so, liberated the defendant gees and
cotemned the plaintiff in large sum, because he placed his trust
‘in prickles rather than in the prescripts of his Jord. But the best
‘story told in this collection of Messer Azzolino, and one which
“shows a rare knowledge of human rascality, is that in which he
‘made a proclamation of a general dole, to which he invited all the
‘eggars, both male and female, in his district. ‘They were to assem-

‘ble and meet together in a meadow, where exch was to receive a
‘certain pittance, besides a gooc
Bie ss fe dey appointed

in turn was “stripped naked 5
‘even their shoes were taken off, and new noes and Clothes were given

Sancho to Don Quixote,
it is improved by the

that juncture to be in no hi
account of the sheep.

Of the noble Frederick Ih,
curiously enough here called, we

Early Halian Novels. 74a

fame of the Khan, says Gibbon, who is supposed to have received
the rites of baptism, has Jong amused the eredulity of Europe. In
the novel before us, he is entitled a most noble Indian gentleman,
| who sent ambassaclors with the question, “ What is the best thing ?" to
| "try the wisdom of Frederick, as the Qucen of Sheba came personally,
with a very long train, to try that of the wisest of the world. The
"ambassadors presented Frederick with three precious stones, of which
he applauded the beauty but inquired not into the virtue. With
Fegard to the question, he replied, “Measure.” Prester John said
he was wise in word but not in deed, because, though his answer
was just and satisfactory, he had asked no question about the real
‘yalue and properties of the jewels, After an offer to make him
‘Seneschal of his Court, which the Emperor Frederick appears not to
have accepted, Prester John began to think the jewels were lost in
‘the possession of one who did not comprehend their true vale, and
sought about how to recover them. At last he sent a lapidary, one
‘of his dearest friends, with instructions to get them back at all costs.
‘The lapidary opened a shop near the palace of Frederick, and exposed
ous stones for sale, Dut when he saw any courtier, he gave
instead of selling. His manner of transacting business procured him
great custom in a comparatively brief period. At last this mercantile
peculiarity was mentioned to Frederick, who sent for him, and showed
him his imperial jewel-box. ‘The lapidary made little account of it,
Dut inquired if he had any other jewels. Then Frederick showed
him the three he had received from Prester John. Then the lapidary
was glad at heart, and taking up one stone he said; “This, sir, is
worth the best city you possess.” ‘Taking up another, he aid: “This
is worth your best province.” Lastly, taking up the third, he said +
“This, sir, is worth more than your whole empire ;" and saying this,
he closed his fist on the jewels. Now, the virtue of one of them
was to render him that pressed it in his hand invisible; and so the
lapidary went away quietly down the steps and outat the palace door,
unseen by the emperor or his Court, and came back to his master and
gave him the stones, who received them with astonishing delight.
Crescimbeni makes this Frederick IJ. the father of popular poesy.
He cerainly wrote several Sicilian and Italian canzoni, and, being
Desides of a gencrous disposition, was continually surrounded by
trouveurs, musicians, and skilled men in every art then known, One
day he was washing his hands before dinner, when three masters of
mecromancy, dressed in long robes, approached him, He ordered
them to show their skill, Incontinently the sky grew overcast, a heavy
tain fell, with thunder and lightning, so that men’s hearts filed Noe

bearing reference to-his family history.
time a woman of mature age, commonly |
taken by: himself for a maiden, he

day to give his usual lecture. . His first

743

is: “Can 1, according to law, give and take to and from my
‘no other reason than my will?” To this one of ‘the

iér, a2 lawyers have been wont to do from time immemorial, in
ives ‘Then one is to be rewarded with a scarlet cap and a
white palfrey, the other with permission to. make a law as he lists.
A question arises as to the distribution of these guerdons. It is
held! that he who replied in the affirmative should receive the cap
and palfrey/as a jester for saying pleasing things ; but the other, who
followed after justice, should have the privilege of an act of legislature.
_ ‘To Frederick 11. is also attributed the hanging of that worthy,
who was so deeply loved by his chaste and modest wife, and re-
gretted by'ber with more than wonted and wifelike demonstrations
ofdistress ; the wife who, as Jeremy Taylor says, “in the morning
‘Of ber yiassion, on the grave of her husband, and in her funeral
garments, married her new and stranger guest.” We refer to the
well-known story of the Ephesian matron, tokl by Eumelpus on
board Lyca's vesscl, in Petronius, ‘This Milesian fable seems, from
the knowledge it displays of human nature, to have pleased many
fabulists It exists in the Seven Wise Masters, one of the oldest
collections of Oriental tales, under the of “The Widow." Here
the conduct’ of the lady is aggravated by the circumstance of her
husband's death from anxiety on her account. One’ day, while
dividing! bread for the family dinner, she had carelessly cut her hand.
‘The husband, seeing it, died. ‘This is a curious and touching evi-
denceof the affection of husbands in old days. But what did
the widow? She dragged h
had fastened round his neck,
‘besides knocking out two of }

wedding feast and the bridal chamber.
mation 30 devoutly wished by ‘Tian, an

An acute disorder seizes him, for which
him the only remedy is the brain of a
warm wine, Offruns Tian with a lamp.
outhouse, turns up her sleeves, takes the cl
and smashes the coffin, which ‘Tchouang:
ordered of thin boards, Resting, out of
she is surprised by sceing her husband
recovered from a cataleptic fit. He folloy

\ he finds swept and garnished. “My Geax

_ Early Iatian Novels, 745

mting for you ever since you died ;” and she hides her
face in her bandkerchief, Tchovang, after thanking her for this
testimony of affection and regard, inquires how itis she has om a
With the ready wit of a woman, she tells him she

‘a secret presentiment of her approaching felicity. “Good,” says

‘ '3/“‘why was my coffin in theouthouse?" As she has no
reply, she naturally weeps; while Tchouang, having inspired himself
with the warm wine, betakes himself to his wonted solace, and writes
‘Several verses on his wife's infidelity, concluding with a couplet, of
_ which the burden is, that itis better to dry up a grave with a fan than
‘to split open a coffin with a chopper. Tian eventually hangs herself.
‘Her husband, with a highly laudable economy of expense, patches
up his own old coffin and puts her carcase into it. He then composes
‘nore verses, and, having resolved never to marry again, sails on a
‘voyage.

_ Torcturn to the Novellino, Of the Re Curredo, probably Conrad
TYV., son of Frederick H., and, like his father, excommunicated by In-
ecent 1V., who also did him the honour of causing a crusade to be
‘preached against him, we read that when, as « boy, he did amiss, his
companions were beaten—a vicarious punishment, which is said in
‘the novel to have had such good effect on Conrad as is not corro-
borated by his history. Of Conradin, his son, the last of the Hohen-
‘stauffen, who before his judicial murder at the age of seventeen cast
his glove, the sced of the Sicilian Vespers, among the crowd, nothing
is told. But we have, es revanche, a pretty tale of the love—amar per
amare, as the Italians then called it—of his murderer, Charles d'Anjou,
Of our own history we read many things not known to Hume or
Macaulay, Besides the tale of the black horse presented to Richard
‘by Saladin, in which much dramatic effect is lost by the absence of
the demon in the charger, there is a story of the great liberality and
courtesy of a certain Xe Giorane, probably the son of Henry 1,,
who governed in Normandy during his father's lifetime. Roscoe,
who unfortunately has chosen this story as one of his specimens
of translation, renders Re Giovane, “King Jobn ;” and Dunlop, who
wonders how “King John” obtained such high Teputation in Italy,
unless by his dastardly submission to the Pope, ©POUses the version
of Roscoe. But the incidents of the account correspond Vitel with the
history of John, who is not proved to have 7¢Volteq,
father so evidently as Henry, Geoffrey, and Richard 5 ona Henry
sewally died at Chateau Martel of a fover 4075 Nis garners Tife,
exactly as is rclated in our story, where the CUCoys ying, being
a in debt, is made to say, with an affectiODO%® MQ. Si. sesmHT

against his

But since being a woman you have the in
He goes on to tell her it is wiser to.

loss, that is for your own self, and it is:
if you say I weep because I loved him

“teaching, and Nero, remembering the beating, soon afier he became
reondemned Seneca to death, Seneca’s wife said

Of tales new to the writer of this article, though possibly old
‘temany of its readers, there is that of the toll imposed in the land
‘of a certain lord on those suffering from any bodily defect—a fruitful
“source of revenue which has not been sufficiently considered perhaps
“by the political economists of our time: On a day one comes to
who is maimed of a foot ; the toll-man demands his penny, The
passenger refusing it, a scuffle ensues, on which he produces a hock,
for he has no hand. “Now you owe me twopence,” says he who
‘sits at the receipt of custom. Further scufiling causes the passenger's
exp to fall off, which he wore & fs militaire over one side of his head,
‘and shows him defective in an eye. “Now,” says the other, “you
‘Owe threepence.”” Then succeeds mutual tearing of hair, and the
toll-man finds his adversary has a scald-head, and demands fourpence.
‘The moral &—submit quietly to legalised extortion and injustice, and
‘get out of a difficulty as quietly and quickly as you can.
~The ninetieth tale is the indiscreet action of a housewife, who had
‘made an cel pasty and left it in her kneading trough, A mouse,
enticed by the odour, entered the window. The housewife brought
her catand put him into the trough to catch the mouse, But the
‘mouse hid itself among the flour, and the cat ate the pasty ; and
‘when the cover of the trough was removed, the mouse jumped out,
and the cat was too full to folle More ingeniously constructed
than this piece of fooling, quoted only to show the variety of subjects
ili of | eck king and his learned

captive. Now, the in captive soars above the
Stars, and from him a

been nourished on as: one of his jewels contains a live
worm, and that he hims x The reason of this

ly formed his conclu-
y of the king's mother to

there is that of Filippo
je much | loved, left the world
of two years, in a litle
boy ae ~nshary hottie.

exceeding garrulity.

be interminable. ‘Then one,
taught you that tale taught
teller asked: “Why not?”
never taught you the end.
abashed, straightway became.

VER CROMWELL AT HAMPTON
COURT.

‘ORTY-THREE years ago was published in the Gentleman's
Maxazine a copy of the lease of the Manor of Hampton Court,
granted by Sir Thomas Docwra, prior of the Hospital of St. John of
Jerusalem, Cletkenwell, to Cardinal Wolsey. This was the first time
that the words of the lease had appeared in print, and whenever since
the lease has been required it has been taken from the Magazine.

It is, therefore, a somewhat curious coincidence that the same
Magazine is now enabled to publish particulars of the greatest inter-
est relating to Hampton Court, fmf. Oliver Cromwell, which have,
up to the present, never been laid before the public We refer to
what is described as an “ Inventory of Goods and Servants at Hamp-
ton Court,” taken by onder of the House of Commons in June 1659.
This interesting document is preserved at the State Paper Office,
amongst the uncalendared papers of that period, ‘The reason for taking
the inventory is set forth in a sort of preamble, and is alleged to have
been “so as there be not embezzlement of” the goods, Cromwell
died in September of the previous year, and, in anticipation of the
arrival of Charles IL, it was thought undesirable to allow the palace
to be stripped. .

‘The inventory is valuable for many reasons, It links the days ot
Charles I, with those of Charles IJ., and encloses much of interest
relating to Cromwell, as we are supplied with the names of the occu-
pants of the several apartments, not ouly during the Protectorate, but
also in the time of Charles I, The list enumerates the contents of
nearly 190 rooms ; 1 when the palace was
frst ees it . ‘the inventory confined

“who drew it up mention the statues
upon the watercourses, numbered the

The igentlonen entrusted wi t
Anms, Mr. C. Dendy, and \ clu Eaaireey and no auctioneers
clerks ever did their work more thoroughly. Sol only are She cee

A legerid relates that upon one

some of his children at the open wi
woman made her appearance,

fortune of the royal children. Thi

upon the woman, drawing a small
vited the king to look in it, The 4
woman's hand, and looking upon the {
decapitated head. He shuddered, t
and returned the mirror. ‘The woman,

Oliver Cromtuell at Hampton Court, 751

“This was the very room in which Cromwell was

got
“eszied away to Whitchall where, a few daysafter bis artival, he died.
The bed-chamber contained, according to the inventory —
'S picoes of fine tapestry hangings of Valean and Venus,
2 window-curtains, one of scarlet baise, the other of serge.
1 smnll couch of fiy-oloered damask, and cased with wrichet Lass
3 elbow chairs ” ”
4 tack stools ”
1 biack table with a turmes! frame.
1 pair of andirons with donble bran.
5 pair of creepers with fire-shovel and tongs.
1 pair of bellows.
Sea eising coomswere =

+ told coberd.
+ Spanish table.
2 small Turkey carpets
1 pau of andirons with double brass.
1 pair of creepers, and fire-shovel, tongs, and bellows.
4 back stools of Turkey work,

‘There is a “bed-chamber" inventoried which there is reason to
suppose was the one used by Charles L, and which remained un-
occupied and unfurnished during the time of Cromwell,

‘The Farl and Lady Falconberg’s bed-room (son-in-law and
daughter of Cromwell) had been stripped before the inventory was
commenced; but we are told that in one of their rooms, formerly
occupied by the Duke of Richmond, the walls were hung about with
‘old green perpetuano ; and there were two back stools, three folding
stools, and one foot-stool covered with “ old green cloth.”

‘The Lady Frances (daughter of Cromwell), widow of Mr. Rich,
tad “lodgings, formerly the late king's cabinet room ;" and. the
principal room was furnished as follows —

'§ pieces of tapestry hangings of Meleager.
1 piece of tapestry hangings of Sorteene,
feather bed and bolster.

‘There were three rooms | y Lady Claypole (Cromvell's
favourite daughter) as nurseries : one was at the end of the passage

Canterbury, ing Cro
daughter, Mrs. Claypole, as a n
“One lange looking-glass in an
gold.” Theabsence of any
suggestive. Perhaps Oliver
as leading to vanity; or possibly su

left the place.

Auter the return of Charles I. 2
lished a book, which he called “"Ve!
commonly called Joon Cromwedy

|

Oliver Cromtucll at Hampton Court, 953

being niggardly in the details of her table ; but this inventory
ito dissipate the slander, because it shows her to have possessed
‘extensive collection of kitchen utensils and appliances > copper
and pans, iron crevets, brass pots, scammers of brass, '* moulds
‘or pattipans," abound, In the scullery were pewter dishes of five
several sizes, while the trencher plates are numbered by dozens,
In the pastry every article—dishes, colanders, pans, and chasers—
was of brass; the candlesticks were of pewter, and the snuffers
were “ lincd,”

‘The garden boasted of sun-dials, a large fountain surmounted with
a brass statue of Arethusa, and a number of brass and marble statues.
‘The inventory gives the following list of statues as standing on
* pedestals of stone :"—* In the Privy Garden, one brass statue of
‘Venus, one brass statue of Cleopatra, one white marble statue of
Adonis, and one white marble statue of Apollo.” Only one of these
Statues remains in the grounds of Hampton Court; and that one,
Singularly enough, is up to the present time styled erroneously by
the guide books and by the palace guides “ Diuna.” This is of
brass, and stands upon the summit of a kind of triumphal arch of
stone in the middle of the round pond in Bushey Park. ‘The figure
is one of extreme beauty, The left hand is upon the breast, support-
ing the drapery, and in the right hand, which hangs down by the
side, is a golden apple. ‘There can be no doubt that this is the figure
‘of Venus mentioned in the inventory, which, by some gross blunder,
has been of late dubbed Diana. George IJ. is credited with having
temoved all the other statues to the grounds of Windsor Castle.

In the House or Home Park there were computed to be joo
head of deer ; and in Bushey Park thirty red deer, and “1,700 great
‘and small” of other deer.

Hampton Court has been greatly altered since Cromwell's time,
and there is not one chamber which is now associated with his
memory. The Great Hall of course remains, in which were two organs;
the larger one a gift from Cromwell's friend Dr. Goodwin, president
‘of Magdalen College, Oxford ; but the hall is more closely associated
with the grand entertainments m by Wolsey, and the revels of
Henry VIIL, than with Cromwell. In like manner the chapel is
‘only in a general way associated with his memory.

More interesting reminiscences will occur in “ the Mantegna
Gallery,” as it is called, after the painter of a series of pictures now
hung in it. In Cromwell’s time this was called the “Long Gallery.”
‘The pictures, nine in number and of gigantic sux, (orm a. aos

time part of a collection belonging to the Marguss ok Manca,
You, CXL. NO. £758, 3¢

Like a hero, he died in harness at!
"The Palace of Hampton Court
the lives of those who have
Pageantries of Wolsey, the revels
scene of regal joyousness ; but the
nessed haye cast a gloom over its
it to be omitted from the list of royal

ae

Here Baward Vi. wns bora, WS

Oliver Cromwell at Hampton Court. 755

died. Here Queen Mary and Philip of Spain spent their dull
honeymoon; and here Queen Elizabeth held her Christmas fes-
tivities. Here James I. sat as Moderator, and listened to the argu-
ments of Presbyterians and Churchmen; and here Queen Anne,
his died in 1618. Here Charles L and Queen Henrietta
spent their honeymoon; and here Charles I. was kept a prisoner
previous to his trial and execution. Here Mary Cromwell was
married to Earl Falconberg “in 1657; and here, in x658, died
little Oliver, and his mother, the Lady Elizabeth; while almost at
the same time Cromwell himself was seized with the illness which
‘eventually terminated in his’ death,

‘These are a few only of the events that have made this palace
dear to the nation, The recital might have been lengthened, but it
was not necessary. We know how pleasures and sorraws almost
mingled together; how music and dancing preceded and followed
after suffering and death; but, in the opinion of many, the palace
derives a more special interest from its association with the last
weeks of Cromwell's life, and the gathering about him there of his
relatives and friends, than it does from masques or revels, the honey-
moons of queens and kings, or the deaths of many sovereigns.

JOUN 2 MARSH

merchants out of four thousand po

passed into a synonym for a swindl
Jonson is a conversation between p
word is shown to be synonymous with a’
‘What do y

Dapper.
‘That Lam a Chiaous?
Face,

Dagger, "Tse Dat was bere,
~ As one woul sag, ol you Mint Ls

Table-Talk.

classes the Chouses with “Tag, tag, or other, hoget-mogen,
and skip-jacks.” The wordis employed in a similar sense by
and by Butler in “ Hudibras.”

SEE it is “ suggested "—what will people nof suggest ?”—that
ayacht should be fitted out as a locomotive club-house, and
about during the summer months, with its complement of mem-
instead of their remaining stationary in Pall Mall, The pro-
of such a scheme can never have been proposed for a club
i, oF, at all events, never could have got in, or he would surely
ever have entertained such a monstrous notion. Why, one of the
“chief reasons a man has for leaving town in autumn for a month of
peace and quietness is to avoid the club bore ; to introduce whom
“upon shipboard would be as wicked as to place dynamite to explode
by machinery, or to invite the inroads of the Téredo Navalis,
‘Tmagine the being shut up a? sea—where even the most charming
"persons become hateful—with the club bore! Perhaps, after all,
‘however, our “promoter” means well ; he has his eye upon a good
namber of horrible people who now infest our social institutions, and
who (he knows) will swallow this bait and join this novel yacht alul
and he has taken precautions (known only to Mr. Charles Reade and
“seuttlers) to prevent their returning to their native land, If so, and
Hf his scheme succeeds, he will be a public benefactor.

‘ROM a paper read by Mr, Frederick Martin before the Statis-
tical Society, on the subject of the Comparative Progress of
Population, I glean some curious particulars. Nine European States
ywere passed under review by the lecturer, with the result of showing
that, apart from such disturbance as is caused by circumstances like
‘emigration, the average increase of population is greatest in England
and Wales. Sweden and Denmark come second and third, Prussia
fourth, and the Netherlands fifth. Then follow Austria, Spain, and
Italy, and lastly France. It is thus seen that the increase is most
rapid in the countries in which the Protestant religion is professed, 1
have no theory upon this subject, and leave it to those more ingenious
in conjecture or more familiar with investigation to form one. Asa
simple statement of fact, however, the comparison has interest.

OMPLAINT is made—and, I fear, justly—that modesty is
growing rare, which makes it the greater pity that where it
does exist it should not meet with encouragement. A friend of mine,

in retirement were from time to time d
according to the journal mentioned, the
prisoner in Siberia. As Petéfi was bom in
paratively speaking, young. It is not likel
tale to be true, that Russia will speedily releas
She acquiesces fully in the idea of Andrew
the man who makes the ballads of a nation

me

Table-Talk. 759
than he who makes the laws, and she will keep her Hungarian tinnet
safely caged. It might not be wise, I think, under certain circum-
eee wast . Swinburne to venture too ncarthe Russian dominions,

3

birds have always been the victims of exteptional cruelty of
Treatment.

NE by one the monuments of Old London are disappearing,
and there are few places now remaining, except our public
_ buildings, to which, on account of any association, real or supposed,
with past greatness, our imaginations can turn. There are few
sons of antiquarian taste who have not once in their lifetime visited
the Talbot or Tubard Inn, Southwark, that still preserves the associa-
tions of the Canterbury Pilgrims. [ use the word “still,” since a por-
tion of it yet remains, It is, however, rapidly disappearing before the
march of improvement, more than half of it being already destroyed,
At the corner of the entrance to the yard a modern luncheon bar has
‘been built, which erve in some way to mark the spot, since it has
taken the name—* The Id Tabard.”

N spite of the artificial condition of society, there are still some
amples of waivéfé to be found even in a London

4. very famous one, the other day, two notorious

“by the committee," as ean be done with a

Vhy not?™ was the reply 5
certain that they would

ed, year ¢ who, among

many other cla Y best. ic Beggar's

here the we y has seen. 1 unt says of her sing
ai 10)

mnpetition fy Talfourd, a scarcely
spresses his admiration in such terms as “unaffected
Jet pathos, and graceful tendemess, which enchant wo)

A much coming of it, |

confusion of places, persons, and

‘The other day, however, 1 heard «

a dreamer which I believe to bes

stant whist-player, and it often’

he was introduced, during what was fe

sleep” (if that takés place only before:

panionship of the kings and queens an
ther “ Alice in Wonderland.” But

imaginable quandary. He dreamt he
in which he had the misfortune to meet t
being able to pass it, he trumped it,

Ie Spotlisworde & Con, Printers, Newottrett

STANFORD UNIVERSITY LI
CECIL H. GREEN LIBR.

STANFORD, CALIFORNIA 94
(415) 723-1493

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