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Full text of "London society"

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1 



\ 






LONDON SOCIETY. 



%n lllttstratjeb SJa^a^im 



OF 



LIGHT AND AMUSING LITERATURE 



ros 



THE HOURS OF RELAXATION, 



VOLUME XVI. 



LONDON; 

OFFICE, 217, PICCADILLY, W. 

1869. 



LONDON: 

rRI3«TED BT WILLIAM CLOWES AMD SONS, BTAUrORD STREET 
AND CnARI^O CROSS 



CONTENTS. 



Cnsrab(tis)if. 

Drawn by Page 

A Clever Dog 462 

A Dilemma .. .. .. .. .. .. .. Wilfrid Lawson. 136 

A Winter's Night T. MoHen. 550 

At Albert Gate Gordon 2 homson, 274 

Dark or Fair -. .. .. .. .. .. .. Tousnley Green, 224 

Down at Westminster TTw. -Brtiaion. 289, 292, 294 

Dear December B, Ridley. 496 

Filo and Fide .. .. .. .. .. .. .. Horace Stanton, 64 

Going to Mudie's .. .. .. .. .. .. LoiU$ Huard. 448 

Humours of the Iioad .. .. .. .. .. .. WilHam Brunton. 241 

In the Heart of the Eailh . . . . . . . . . . Gordon Thomson. 54 

Is it for this? C. BobcHs. 49 

London-super-M<ire ., .. .. .. .. .. Horace Stanton, 417 

Mr. Hardcastle*s Friendly Attentions .. .. .. .. Adelaide Claxton, 208 

Nina at the Cottage Window .. ., .. .. .. Wilfnd Lawson, 193 

Nina Listening „ 236 

Only for the Season „ 386 

Park Kangers .. .. .. .. .. .. .. William Brunton. 105 

Botten Row Gordon Thomson, 97 

'Saved* Wilfrid Lavson. 327 

Second Blossom . . .. ,. .. .. .. J. J). Watson, — Frontispiece. 

Studies from Life at the Com-t of B>t, James's : — 

No. V. H.H.R. The Ci-own Princess of Prussia .. .. George H, Thomas. 80 

VI. H.R.H. Piincess Beatrice „ 192 

vn. H.R.H. The Princess of Wales „ 288 

VIII. Lady Elma Bruce „ 384 

IX. Countess Reventlow . . . . . . . . „ 480 

Too Late! Wilfrid Lawson, 74 

The Affair of the Red Portefeuille A.W. Cooper 490 

The Archery Lesson .. .. .. .. .. .. Horace Stanton 169 

The Cmsh Room G, Crmhshank, Jun, 96 

* The Dinner Party' Wilfnd Lawson. 385 

The Engaged Ring n,Newoombe,^ 513 

The last Boat of the Season from Margate . . . . . . William Brunton. 353 

The Love Bird of the West 365 

The Sportsman's Resolve G, B. Goddard. 528 

Which of the Three? To'cnley Green, 127 

Who Comes Here? H. Paterson, 319 



163825 



17 



Contents. 



Cross Purposes. — In five Chapters . . 
How Mr. Hinter Won aiid Lost his 

Seat for Golborough 

In the Heart of the Earth . . . . 
M. or N. :— 

SIX. An Incubus 

XX. The Little Cloud .. .. 
XXI. Furens Quid Foemiaa 
XXII. Not for Joseph 

XXIII. Anonymous 

XXIV. Parted 

XXV. Coaxing a Fight 

XXVI. Baffled' 

XXVII. Blinded 

XXVIII. Beat 

XXIX. Kight Hawks 

XXX. Under the Acacias . . 
Mr. Hai-dcastle's Fnendly Attentions, 
and what csme of them : — 
Chap. I. Bewilderment at Brighton 
II. What happened at the 
Zoological Gardens .. 
Ill, Riding, Dining, and Lore- 
making 



150 



Page 



531 
50 

65 
70 
75 
128 
133 
139 
231 
235 
320 
326 
330 
336 



103 
197 

204 



Mr. Hardcastle's Friendly Attentions, 
and what came of them — continued. 

IV. Whom shall she marry . . 208 
V. After the Honeymoon' .. 210 

Only for a Season : — 

Chap. I. Dr. Seeker makes a Pro- 
fessional Visit .. .. 385 
II. The Meet at Bedford Biidge 388 

III. The Youns: May Moon .. 391 

IV. Lady Crevi lion's Letter .. 394 

V. Amongst the Fallen Grain 306 

VI. Drowned in the Bay of 

Naples .. ..' .. 39^ 

VII. In the Pleasant Dyke ..401 

ViiT. AreyouSo}Ty? .. .. 402 

The Alfair of the He^l Portefeuille ..481 

The Thi-ec Overheai-d Whispera : — 

Chap.l. TheFiretWhisi)er .. .. I 
II. The Second Wliisper .. 4 

III. The Thii-d Whisper .. 6 

IV. In the Forest of Fon- 

taiiibleau 9 



Jbltttcf^eir. 



A Harp Accompaniment 123 

Afternoons in the Park 97 

Ancient Hostelries : — 

No. ni. Concerning Angels, Dra- 
gons, and ceiiain an- 
cient Palaces .. .. 25 
Dolgelly and its Attractions .. .. 56 

DoveDnie 38 

Going to Mudie*s 445 

Govemesses 348 

Heniy Parry Liddon and Anglican 

Oratory 467 

Light-headed Sovereigns 212 

Mr. O'Reilly 528 

Opposite a Cabstand 491 



Outsldei's of Society, and their Homes 

in London .. ' 339 

Parisian Clubs Past and IVesent . . 13 
Sketches in the House of Commons : — 

No. I. The Front Treasmy Bench 112 
11. Ditto, ditto (oon/mutfrf) .. 275 
III. The Front Opposition Bench 367 
Sketches from our Office Window: — 

From Midnight to Midnight . . . . 418 
Summer Days among the White 

Mountains .. .' 144 

The Early Days of Napoleon III. : — 

Chap. 1 405 

II 560 

The Matrimouiai Agent 181 

Veiy Old P.'ople 90 



Contents* 



fSiiittXixmtivui Ifiupttii. 



Pu{e 

A Book for Fair Women 522 

A Provincial Ball in France .. ..455 
A Ran to the South after Creatuie- 

Comfoiis .. 170, 243, 354, 424, 552 
Orenznach and its Sa1in<» Cure . . . . 433 

i'odes of Ceremonial— N'o. H 216 I 

Coi'sets and Corpulence 312 , 

Down at Westminster 289 I 

From Remenham Island to Heiilry .. 107 • 

Furnished Houses 449 

In a Kentish Meadow — A Retrospect 225 I 
Oxford as it is 305 i 

Poppies in the Corn; or, Glad Hours 
in the Grave Years : — 
No. Yiii. An Autumn Wulic .. 253 

IX. Old Friends 514 

Public School Types 33 

Questionable Faces 511 

Social Superstitions 17 

The Brompton Hospital for Consump- 
tion 44 

The Past and Future of the Girl of 
the Period 463 



I'ago 
The Piccidilly Papers: — 

Forster's Life of Lnndor . . . . 80 

The Royal Academy 83 

The late G. H. Thomas's Exhibition 

of Paintings 84 

Mistakes in Life 86 

Sleeplessness and Sleep 188 

The Palestine Exploration Fund .. 191 
Cmbb Robinson's Diary .. .. 263 
Mr. Mill on the Subjection of 

Women 268 

The Ventuor National Hospital .. 270 
The Seven Curses of London.. .. 273 

At Buxton 375 

At Eel-pie Island 377 

Mr. Stopford A. Brook 379 

Notes on Books 381 

Scarborough 477 

Michaelmas Term at Cambridge .. 542 

Mornings at a Studio 544 

Hunting Waterfalls 546 

The Regatta Week at Ryde .. ..283 

The Romance of Medicine .' 497 

Young England and Young America .. 412 



90etrp. 



A Bunch of Withered Violets .. .. 88 

AHeartUnfellowed 230 

A Winter's Night 550 

At Albert Gate — In and out of tlic 

Season 274 

Autumn 384 

DjirkorFair 224 

Desidei-ia 49 

FloandFido 64 

On the River 510 



Phases of London Society — A Qever 

Dog 462 

The Archery Lesson 169 

The EngAged Ring 513 

The Lay of London-super-Mare . . 417 
The Lay of the Crush Room .. .. 95 

The Last Boat 353 

The Love Bird of the West .. ..365 

Which of the Three? 127 

Whocomeiheie? 319 



vi Contents. 



CHRSSTMAS NUMBER FOR 88S9. 



FAOB 



9 €aat Mti H fta ftititng. By Iklork Lemon. (With Two nias- 

trations bj Charles Eeene) .^ .. .. 1 

tttaVLd dSlaiiam : or, the Ghriatmaa Sermon. By the Author of * The 

Harvest of a Quiet Eye.* (niustratod by J. D. Watson) .. .. 8 

C^e <Si\tett €uitnmtr* By Angelo J. Lewis. (Illustrated by Gordon 

Thomson) IS 

lail^an at €bxvitnua €imt* (Illnstrated by H. Melville) .. 28 

C^rilttmotf tf^C Sbenser ! (Brawn by Gordon Thomson) .. 33 

Hais} Mr. etikim Betarxurs %U C|^urc|) at ef^viitnua* (mnstrated 

by 'Sartor') 34 

IT^e Wa^itt Eairs nt Cltm^ertele. A Tale in Throe Chapters. By 

Lord Charles Thynne 3i> 

fiSLr. iBaiDbam« A ttxle in Five Chapters. By T. W. Robertson, Author 

of * Society,' ' School/ &c. (With Two Illustrations by J. Mahoney ) . . 46 

C^e Sitatiilff EfM0n. (Drawn by Charles Roberts) 5G 

fB^t M^tl af JLKlt^axa ^ttxj^. By Edmund Yates 57 

Cf)0 C]gru(tmatf Cre^* (niustrated by W. Luson Thomas) .. 64 

Ci^e ittttt of Calderlesi Caurt. By the Author of ' Ruth Baynard's 

Story.' (lUusfcrated by John Gilbert) 6a 

Chapter L — Guess-work. 

II.— Xn Old Home, 
IIL — A Revelation. 
IV.— A Voice in the Night. 
Y.—The Secret TM: The Secret Kei^U 

Eittle ULatrg aountlfuL (Drawn by Alfred Crowquill) 80 

Cfie Columtillrt e^tiitmsA Sream. (Drawn by William Brunton) 80 

Htnta t^e Cliafr fnent CaraXliiis at €fyc\AimKi, (Illustrated by 

M. Ellen Edwards) 81 

tE^t €%X\Atxani %alCtrasii( at WUi^in^SiXU By George Makepeace 

Towle 86 

^t 38Iacil »0I. A Mysterious Travelling Story. By aement W. Scott 92 

SEHuitratf If fflouble <Sitxoiiit^ 7, 28. 34, 57, 63, 96 



• 



',♦ The Solutions to the Acrostics unll appear in the February Numher. 






lit ri rt'U Til IV 



LONDON SOCIETY. 



JULY, 1869. 




•I WATCHED AND WAiTXD.'— See ' M. OF N.,' page 7«. 



THE THKEE OVERHEABD WmSPERS. 



CHAPTEE I. 

THE FIB8T WHISPER. 



NIGHT after night the music 
clashed in our rear. It was 
Tery pleasant and interesting, as 
we lounged about in our little 
garden, or took coffee in the small 
bnilding that serred ns for a 
snmmer-honse. We were liying in 
VOL, XYI.— Ha xci. 



Paris, and, for the sake of economy, 
quite close to the barriers, for the 
rents get wonderfally cheaper as 
yon clear away from the Gnamps 
Elys^ and the Faubourg. Now 
close to our residence there was 
some place of public entertainment, 

B 



The Three Overheard Whitpere. 



the Salle d'Artois, I think they 
called it We did oot mnch like 
the proximity, bnt there was never 
any noise or distorbanoe, and the 
crash of the music through the 
summer air was at times pleasant 
enough. It is astonishing what 
children in respect to amusement 
our heroic neighbours are. In the 
pettiest locality they get up some 
parody of a theatre or some imita- 
tive Mabille. I am bound to say, 
however, that our Salle d'Artois 
was a considerable ornament to our 
avenue, which converged, like many 
other identical avenues close by, to 
the main boulevard and the per- 
petual rond point. There was a 
revolving gate to the salle, or 
jardin, before which the inevitable 
gendarme lounged, and on each 
side there was a bowery expanse 
of foliage, and in the foliage were 
niched statues, daspedly holding 
lamps that shed a mild, seduc- 
tive lustie. The general notion 
conveyed by the whole was that this 
illumiuated pathway led you on to 
some ideal hall of du zling delight ; 
but we knew by the view from our 
back windows that the place was a 
mere bam, and that it belonged to 
that nnmerons claas of entertain- 
ments of which the best part is to 
be seen on the outride and for no- 
thing. A very modaiate price — 
half a frane, I thtuk— would give 
admission, and of this half franc 
half was to be returned to the ticket- 
holder in the way of oonmmmation. 
It was, in fact, a mushroom sort of 
concert or casino place, of which so 
many spring up in the outskirts of 
Paris, and which provided a kind 
of rough entertainment for local 
patrons who wanted to do things 
cheap, and to be saved a journey 
into Paris. 

The salle might be necessary for 
those people in Lts 2erne« who in- 
sisted upon some kind of amuse- 
ment everv m'ght, and who, rather 
than not have it, would shoot for 
nuts or ride on horses in a whirligig. 
We Britishers do not require much 
amusement, and when we take it 
we like it of the very best. I don*t 
know how often I had passed the 
alluring portal of the salle with its 
coloured lights. I don't know how 



often I hadn't had the benefit of its 
rapid dance music But I can truly 
say that the remotest intention of 
visiting this choice place of amuse- 
ment never crossed my mind. 
Neither can I explain to myself up 
to thin day how I ever came to do 
so. 

I remember that it had been very 
hot all that day ; that I had stopped 
at home trying. all sorts of com- 
binatioDS with ice and eau de Seltz, 
which had the invariable efifect of 
making things in general much 
hotter; that in the evening I had 
gone to two or three places where 
that day was the reception-day ; that 
I had come back and, as my custom 
was, had smoked and taken coffee, 
looked through the 'Moniteur du 
Soir' and 'Le Petit Journal,' fa- 
vourite publications in our econo- 
mical quarter of the city. After 
that, in the cool of the evening, I 
took my little constitutional torn 
round the garden, smelling the wall- 
flowers that were our chief horti- 
cultural ornament Then I paused. 
It was onze heures. Being a man of 
r^ular habits, as an ordimry matter 
I should have gone in-doors, have 
tampered with my constEtution with 
some moieioed eflferveBciBg drink, 
and oompoaad myself towards slum- 
ber witha book. But the music was 
crashing so enmhatically that, to 
the dismay of Uie concierge, who, 
relying on my regular habits, had 

foue to bed, I sallied forth into the 
oulevard. 'I declare,' I said to 
myself, ' I will look up our little 
salle to-night. There's nobody who 
will know mo. And I've heard the 
music so often that they ought to 
see the colour of my money.' 

Near the entrance there was a 
narrow lano—about a stone's throw 
off. I think I see it now, narrow, 
and so dark from the huge buildings 
that lined it And in the lane tlmt 
night— I remember it so well— was 
a private cabriolet, with a dark- 
coloured panel, and two servants in 
livery, waiting in a leisurely way, 
as servants wait who have waited 
long and have long to wait Then 
I paid my coin and the enchanted 
portal received me. I advanced up 
the fairy path, which came to an 
abrupt termination at the first 



The Three Overheard Whispers. 



^arve. I emerged on a mere shed, 
imcoTered and opening on a bit of 
ground, the general effect being en- 
tirely sordid, the sordid effect har- 
monizing with all the accompani- 
ments. There was some dancing 
going on, of an irregular and free- 
and-easy kind, a few only indulging 
in terpsichorean yagaries, while 
many more, seated at little or long 
tables, looked critically on. Not a 
few men were in blouses, and some 
women in caps, a genuine omiriere 
class, which had been working hard 
all day, steadily looking forward to 
their evening's relaxation. Then 
there were some very dressy young 
>men, with companions equally orna- 
mented. Cigars and cigarettes were 
freely going. Beer appeared to be 
the popular beverage — the black 
beer or the biere de Strasburg, 
-or that cheap fizzing beer of Paris 
which I suppose a g9od restaurant 
would hardly admit. Such as had 
Bordeaux, or vin ordinaire, were 
jnollifying it with water and sugar. 
There were also one or two cada- 
verous men who even at that hour 
were partaking of the infernal ab- 
sinthe. One young man I especially 
noticed, who was very quietly 
dressed, but whose yery superior 
appearance seemed tacitly recog- 
nized. He was smoking a cigarette 
and sipping some maraschino. 

Then the band played a fine piece 
of music, and played it finely too ; 
an overture to some little-known 
•opera of Bossini's. Afterwards one 
of the band went round collecting 
coins in a saucer— another evidence 
•of the lowly aims of the establish- 
ment I gave largesse, remembering 
that this was not the first of my 
obligations to the musicians. The 
maraschino man, whose offering was 
expected with ill-repressed anxiety, 
dropped in the delicate, glittering, 
■sb'ght five-franc gold piece. Pre- 
sently a functionary announced that 
Mademoiselle Eose would fEivour the 
company with a song, and there 
was the heavy thud or knock which 
in Prance so ungracefully announces 
-a new phase in an entertainment. 

When Mademoiselle came for- 
ward I gave a start; for if ever 
Mademoiselle was equivalent to 
Miss, it was so here. And when she 



b^an to sing, though the pro- 
nunciation was French, the accent 
was English. She sang sweetly, but 
without much force, as sentimental 
a French song as such an audience 
could be expected to bear. I watched 
her face with much anxiety. It 
was a very pretty face, and, to my 
pleased astonishment, it had an ex- 
pression of goodness and honesty 
about it, on which I am afraid I 
had no right to count in such a 
place and amid such a company. 
Her dress was fastened up to her 
throat, close fitting, and very neat 
and simple. Her manner was alto- 
gether lady-like— not the imitation 
lady-like of many minor profes- 
sionals, but genuinely and un- 
affectedly so. I confess I began [to 
entertain a very lively feeling of 
interest for the young cantatrice. I 
thought I should be glad to make 
her acquaintance. My motive was 
entirely Platonic and philanthropic. 
I belong to the uninteresting order 
of Benedicts, and my notion was 
that I should like my wife to make 
friends with this young girl, who 
perhaps had no English friends, and 
who was certainly very unfavour- 
ably situated, and save her from 
what I felt must be a miasmatic 
moral atmosphere. 

When she had finished singing, 
she made her curtsey and took her 
seat at a little table near the buffet 
of the salon. It appeared, then, that 
she was, not likely to retire to a 
green-room— indeed it was hard to 
see where anything at all corre- 
sponding to a green-room might 
have a geographical position— but, 
with an opera cloak thrown over her 
shoulders, continued an object of 
public admiration. I moved to- 
wards her table, and, relying on the 
integrity of my intentions, was about 
to make a self-introduction to her. 
I was anticipated, however, by the 
gentleman whom I had noticed as 
the only gentleman in the place, 
who finished his maraschino, threw 
away his cigarette, and came over 
and sat by her side. She gave him 
a winning smile of welcome— they 
were evidently no strangers — and 
entered into that close conversa- 
tion that would evidently tolerate 
no intrusion. They were talking 

B 2 



The Three Overheard Whi^^s. 



French, which she OTidently under- 
stood qnite well. I waited a little 
longer, in the expectation that she 
might sing again, bnt there were 
no signs that this was likely to 
happen. Then, as it drew towards 
midnight, I left the nlace. 

But somehow I aid not care to 
turn in even then. I paced up and 
down the boulevard, smoking my 
cigar in the balmy starlight night. 
Seyeral times I passed the entry of 
the jardln. The people were coming 
out, and by-and-by they came out 
in a considerable number. Then I 
knew the entertainment was come 
to a close. The carriage was still 
standing at the entry of the dark 
narrow lane, but the servants were 
manifestly getting under weigh for 
departure. I went leisurely along 
to the end of the avenue, and 
then turned once more, taking the 
same path. The carriage had now 
emerged from the lane into the 
boulevard, but was creeping on at a 
very slow pace, and presently be- 
came stationary. Turning up from 
the boulevard into the avenue, I 
came suddenly on a young girl and 
a man close by a bench beneath 
some linden trees. They were not 
sitting, but standing. They did not 
vouchsafe mc any notice, but I re- 
cognised at once the songstress of 
the evening and the gentlemanly 
young Frenchman. She was leaning 
her head on his shoulder, and sob- 
bing grievously as if her heart would 
burst. To me it seemed— but the 
action was so momentary that I 
could not be sure— that he was 
pointing with his hand towards the 
carriage that was now within sight. 
Of course I could not venture to say 
a word, or even to pause, but as I 
walked very deliberately past them, 
I heard a convulsive sob, and then 
in English, in a low tone— quite a 
whisper — 

' Oh, no, no ! It cannot be until 
Friday? 

When I again turned back to 
resume my customary round, the 
door of the cabriolet was being 
opened by a servant, and methought 
it was the same young man who 
was entering, but I could not be 
certain. The young girl was sitting 
absorbed in thought on a bench- 



not the same bench, but another 
higher up the avenue. With a 
sudden impulse I moved to address 
her, and respectfully raised my hat. 
As soon as she saw me, an expres- 
sion of the greatest terror passed 
into her face, and she arose, and fled 
like lightning down the boulevard, 
and was soon lost amid the 6tem& 
of trees. 



CHAPTEB IL 

THZ SEOONB WUiUPXB. 

I confess that, before I went to- 
sleep that night, my mind was fall 
of speculations on this little scene. 
At first I was full of commiseration 
about this young girl, concerning 
whom it was quite clear that she 
was lonely and that she was un- 
happy. Next my imaginative faculty 
set to work weaving a tissue of ro- 
mance to suit the somewhat strange 
events that I had witnessed. I men- 
tally resolved that I would, make- 
a point of dropping in at the Salle 
d'Artois for the next few nights, 
and observe how matters in general 
were progressing. In the morning, 
over the practical business of de- 
jeuner a la fourchette, the little 
romance of last night lost all its 
colouring. There was nothing so- 
remarkable that an English girl 
should be singing at a place of en- 
tertainment, that she should have a 
French sweetheart, and that her 
French sweetheart should make her- 
cry. I had no business in the world 
to obtain a surreptitious view of 
those tears. Then I did not see- 
how I could carry my evening's in- 
vestigations any further. That m'ght 
we were going out to dinner to meet 
at the apartment of some English 
friends who invariably kept us very 
late. The night following we had 
the offer of a private box at the 
Theatre Fran9ais— an offer too good 
to be refused. I must postpone 
any inquiry, or rather let the matter 
drop altogether. Everybody gets 
familiar with the experience of 
letting a thing drop. There is some 
clue to a difliculty, but we cannot 
carry it out; some fresh pursuit, 
but we have no time to prosecute 
it; an interesting correspondence!,.. 



The Three Overheard Whispers. 



bat we nrnst give it up ; a new in- 
trodnction, bat we cannot stay to 
fiee whither it may lead; and as 
grapes, hanging so high that we don't 
<!ate to take the troable of climbing 
for them, are probably sour, I told 
myself that the salie was a brutal 
hole not worth entering again, and 
that anything I thought remarkable 
about the girl was simply the result 
of my own frivolous fancy. 

I may as well tell the reader 
what was my business and mode of 
life in Paris. I was a journalist, 
doing French work for English 
papers and English work for French 
papers. I occupied the dignified 
jKMition of Paris correspondent to 
the ' Goketown Daily Press/ a flam- 
ing radical diurnal journal which 
was published in one of our great 
industrial centres. The proprietors 
insisted that I should give my 
casual conversations with great 
ministers of state and retail all the 
gossip that I might hear at the 
Imperial ball at the Tuileries. As 
a matter of fact, I very rarely went 
au chateau, and my visits were 
limited to occasions when, the court 
bemg absent from Parid, I obtained 
the usual order to go over the 
palace. Still I occasionally played 
a game of billiards with one of the 
attaches of our embassy, and I also 
knew a set of journalists to whom 
lists of political iaformation occa- 
sionally oozed out. One of them, 
being of a metaphysical tone of 
mind, told me that he could ' pro- 
ject himself into any political 
situation, and having arrived at all 
the data at command, he thought 
himself justified in making details 
out of his own inventive faculty. 
Availing myself of these hints, I 
proclaimed to my Goketown con- 
stituents plans of the Emperor for 
promoting the gradual growth of 
constitutionaUsm and the gradual 
approach of his frontiers to the 
Rhine. For the Parisian journal I 
edited and expounded the English 
news, and occasionally wrote an 
article on any subject of interest 
that might arrive. 

To any one familiar with the tear 
and fret, the hurry and worry of a 
London newspaper, the change to 
Ptu-isian journalism was most de- 



lightful. My paper was an even- 
ing paper, and that saved the night- 
work. Occasionally, if it was a 
sainfs day or fgte day, and the 
workmen wanted a holiday, we 
omitted our usual issue, and it did 
did not make much difiference. 
Then the way of transacting busi- 
ness was highly pleasing to the 
journalistic temperament. The 
hours between eleven and one are 
perhaps the busiest to our nation 
of shopkeepers; but to the Pari- 
sians it is a time of great ease and 
negligence. They take their break- 
fasts at caf§s and afterwards peruse 
the papers, sip h petit verre, and 
ogle the women that pass by. If I 
wanted to find my newspaper 
manager, M. Alphonse Eock, about 
midday, I knew that I had only to 
go to a certain caf6 on the Boule- 
vard des Italiens, and I should find 
him picking his grapes or smoking 
his cigarette with a glass of liqueur 
by his side. It was about noon that 
I thus sought mon cher ami, Al- 
phonse, to see if he wanted a few 
paragraphs for his evening issue, or 
could give me any sparkling items 
whereby the ' Goketown Daily Ex- 
press' might astonish the provin- 
cial mind. 

' There's a girl run away from a 
convent,' he said. ' They brought 
a paragraph to the office last night. 
You English people always like to 
know any scandal about a convent' 

' There's a good deal of scandal 
about them at times,' I said, argu- 
mentatively. 

*Ah yes, perhaps, poor little 
beggars 1' said Alphonse. ' I don't 
think it does for us to notice this 
sort of thing in our pax)er. Gatholic 
opinion is, after all, very strong in 
Paris.' 

'Anything very sensational?' I 
inquired. *Did the superior have 
her whipped and kept on hread and 
water ? did some gendarme, through 
a grating, espy her in a dungeon ? 
did some one pick up a piece of 
linen torn from her nightdress with 
an imploring entreaty written in 
blood V 

' Oh, no,' said Alphonse, laughing ; 
* you will not have to write anothe r 
chapter of the " Mysteries of Paris-', 
It is some convent where there is a 



TJie Tlirce Overheard Whispers. 



large and good Ecbool, but tbey 
don't say the name of it. If I re- 
collect aright, it was neither novice 
nor nun, but some teacher, who had 
a right to go out a good deal, and 
vent out one day and didn't come 
back. It's rather a spiteful para- 
graph, and calculated to get up a 
little scandal and gossip. But the 
groimd won't do for us to tread on. 
But will you have the paragraph ?* 

But as the paragraph did not 
seem to be sensational, I declined 
the offer, and was soon at work on 
the funds and the Suez Canal, and, 
what was a still more important 
matter, inquiring whether the Em- 
press really intended to put down 
the chignon, a point on which Coke- 
town would naturally feel very 
anxious. 

So I went about my usual ayoca- 
tions that day, and tbat matter of 
last night had quite faded away 
from my mind. It was nay custom 
in those days to go and hear the 
band play in the gardens of the 
Tuileriep. This lasted from five 
to six o'clock. It was a pleasant 
conclusion to the labours of the 
day, and gave plenty of time to 
dress for dinner afterwards. You 
paid two sous for your cbair, and 
tiien a seat was provided for you in 
tbat open circular space in the 
midst of which the band was sta- 
tioned. You heard the music 
better, to be sure, and you had a 
seat ; but the beat was not so much 
mitigated as if you were in one of 
the alleys directly under the trees. 
The sun was very fierce that sum- 
mer day, aud I was driven to give 
up my seat. I went to a tree where 
I could rest myself partially, and 
also peruse a programme, being, as 
I call myself, 'constitutionally 
tired,' which my enemies construe 
as being * habitually lazy.' In the 
path behind me two ladies were 
pacing restlessly about Once or 
twice they would pause apparently 
to listen to the music, and then at 
once they resumed an eager conver- 
sation with which the music had 
nothing to do. I confess that I 
had a momentary feeling of irri- 
tation against these ladies. If 
people don't care for music why 
do they come to musical places? 



They were my own countrywomen,, 
and I morosely thought that only 
English people would be guilty of 
such bad taste. What business 
had they there chatting and jabber- 
ing instead of listening to the 
music ? 

Paris was at this time overflow- 
ing with English visitors, though 
many of the French residents were 
away. The Legislative sittings 
were just coming to a conclusion. 
But as these two Englishwomen 
once more promenaded down the- 
path, they hardly appeared to be 
sununcr visitants belonging to any 
excursion of pleasure. I had done 
them an injustice. It was not mere 
' chat and jabber/ as I had termed 
it. On the face of at least one of them 
there was an expression of terrible- 
anxiety. The eye was wild, and 
the arm wildly struck out almost in 
an attitude of despair. As they 
once more jmsscd by me, the elder 
one was speaking, and I heard her 
say in a compressed whisper of in- 
tense emotion, ' I should break my 
heart if she has elojml from tJte con- 
vent ivith any Frenchman' 

So saying, thty turned abruptly 
from the alley, and went through a 
deserted path in the direction of 
the river. 



CHAPTER in. 

THE THIBD WHISPES. 

The next night, my wife and I, 
and the young attache'', were at the- 
Theatre Fran9ai8, at the Palais 
Eoyal, occupying a state box. 

1'his was not one of the little 
amenities;, as might bo supposed, of 
journalism. The box had been lent 
to the embassy, and the embassy 
had given it to the attachd, and the 
attache had placed it at our dis- 
posal, subject to the pleasant condi- 
tion of his own excellent company. 

It was a most delicious box, such 
as you often get in Paris, but never 
in London. The London box re- 
treats into bareness, ugliness, and 
shadow ; but behind the sittings in 
this box there was a perfect minia- 
ture little dmwing-room— a salon, 
cosy with couches and glittering 
with mirrors, where any number of 



The Ukree Overheard Whimpers. 



one's friends might come romid 
and chat between the acts. 

The parterre was quite filled^ not, 
as in the Lcodon pit, with a plen- 
tiful sprinkling of women and 
children, but with a critical au- 
dience of staid men, including, 
doubtless, a troop of daquenrs ; but, 
never theless, sure to give even taally 
a clear discerning verdict on the 
merits of a new piece. It was a 
great night at the Fran^ais. There 
was a new piece by an eminent 
author, and this was also the debut 
of a new pupiL Consequently, the 
house was completely filled, and 
M. Alphonse Kock and his backers 
were there in great force that 
nighi 

The actress was a great success ; 
she was one who, all her indus- 
trious and innocent life, had been 
working for and looking forward to 
this nighi The piece was so good 
that in a very brief time it was pla- 
giarized for the London and New 
York stage. 

In the interval between the third 
and fourth acts, I had taken up 
my loi^nette and glanced through 
the bouse, and in the stage-box I 
saw the aristocratic young fellow 
who had been talking with the 
pretty English singing-girl at the 
iSalle d'Artois. 

That had been on the Monday 
m'ght. On the Tuesday night we 
had been out to dinner as I had 
mentioned. On Wednesday I had 
been concocting my lucubrations 
for the Coketown daily paper, which 
heard 'from our own correspon- 
dent' (great emphasis on the ou^n), 
and to-day we were having this 
dramatic treat at the FranQais. 

'Do you know,' I said to the 
attach^ 'who that man is in the 
upper stage-box opposite, with the 
bouquet, which 1 suppose he de- 
signs for Mademoiselle Reine T 

' Vary likely,' returned my diplo- 
matic friend. 'Papillon will be 
quite in love with Mademoiselle 
!Reine. He's a terrible fellow, they 
say. Would you li ke to know him ?' 
he continued. 'I can introduce 
you presently. I shall meet him at 
supper on the boulevards.' 

•Who is ho?* I said. 

'Don't you know him? he be- 



longs to the Jockey Club, and is 
quite a great man just now. His 
feither made all his money on the 
Bourse ; but he is aristocratic-look- 
ing enough for the Faubourg St 
Germain.' 

' He is one of the Imperialist lot, 
then, I suppose ; a new man and a 
rich?' 

' Oh yes, he is rich enough, if he 
doesn^t gamble it all away. He has 
got money atid his wife has money.' 

' You don't mean to tell me that 
that young fellow is married ?' 

' Oh yes, he is. But when his 
wife has had a month or two at 
Paris he sends her home into Nor- 
mandy, and stays on as a bachelor. 
Lots of men do that Paris is so ex- 
pensive that they cut the Reason 
down as much as they can.* 

' Is he a nice follow ?' 

' Nice enough, according to Paris 
notions; but not very nice accord- 
ing to your English notions. A 
selfish lot, 1 expect Very gentle- 
manly, but all on the surface, like 
most of them.' 

I am very punctual and domestic 
as a rule, but having seen this 
young fellow under such very dif- 
ferent circumstances the other 
night, I felt a curiosity to meet 
him. I accordingly accepted the 
attache's offer to go with him to 
the supper at the Maison Dorce. 

I put my wife safely into the car- 
riage which wo had waiting for us, 
and strolled with my friend, the 

Honourable Mr. R , along the 

boulevards to the cafe where we 
should meet Papillon. There were 
one or two men from the Jockey 
Club there, the successful drama- 
tist of the evening, and the attache 
with some diplomatic friends, who 
relieved the labours of the chancel- 
lerio with social relaxation at the 
Maison Dor(§e. 

The supper was pleasant enough, 
as little Parisian suppers always are. 
But it is unnecessary that I should 
speak of it unless in reference to our 
gay young friend, Monsieur Papil- 
lon. 

I was introduced to him, and he 
received me with the utmost cr/*- 
prcssement. His smile and his shrug 
were of the stereotyped Parisian 
character. I acknowledged, how- 



8 



Tlie Three Overheard Whi$pers. 



ever, that his handsome fi&ce, his 
rich complexion, and his kindling 
eye would very probably make him 
a lady-killer, and his slightly-broken 
English speech, which on the whole 
he spoke exceedingly well, and his 
foreign accent would prove little 
hindrance to his killing English 
ladies. It was easy to see, from the 
little he said in conversation, that 
he was devoted to pleasure and had 
an utter abnegation of all principle. 
And so much is this the ordinary 
state of things in Paris, that I have 
sometitues wondered whether it 
might not be for the ultimate good 
of the world that Paris might be 
held beneath the Atlantic Ocean for 
a quarter of an hour. 

Monsieur Papillon stared rather 
hard at me, as if haunted by some 
recollection of my face, but appa- 
rently he could not identify it I 
had a momentary thought of re- 
minding him of the Salle d'Artois; 
but, less from any reasonings on the 
subject than from an instinct, I 
mentally decided that it would be 
better not to do so. 

He was certainly the most juve- 
nile and joyous of Benedicts, and 
wore his married chains as lightly 
as if they were roses. He made one 
or two jocular allusions to 'madame 
ma femme,' stowed away safely in the 
depitftment of Calvados. As supper 
became prolonged, Monsieur Papil- 
lon said he would send away his 
carriage. Presently he told one of 
the waiters to send his servant in 
to him. At once a rather ill-look- 
ing fellow entered, whom I imme- 
diately recognised as having seen 
the other night amusing himself 
with the coachman while the car- 
riage was waiting in that dark by- 
street in Les Ttrnes, 

Monsieur Papillon beckoned the 
man to him and spoke quietly a few 
words, in that quiet subdued tone 
in which people speak to servants 
when they do not wish to attract 
attention or to disturb company. 
Now it so happened that I sat next 
but one to this gentleman, my diplo- 
matic young friend being interposed 
between us. I confess that I leaned 
back in my chair, and using him, as 
£Ar as I could, as a screen, I sought 
to make out acythlDg he might be 



saying. The attach^ spoke to me, 
and I gave him a mechanical an- 
swer. I strained every nerve to 
hear what I could of that whispened 
con ver^tion. At last, slightly rais- 
ing his voice, but without departing 
from a whiBper, he said~ 

' Remember— the Maisoa DupofU at 
F<mtainUeau* 

Soon after I departed. The fun 
of the party was growing too fiut 
and furious for me. I was very 
married, and not able to regard con- 
nubial ties so slightly as that but- 
terfly Papillon. It was a point of 
minor morals with me that I should 
get to bed by midnight. At mid- 
night also the Salle d Artois dosed. 
Somehow there was an impulae on 
my mind that I would go and sur- 
vey the ground and see what the 
pretty English singer was doing 
with herself. 

A voiture de remi&e took me 
quickly, and I arrived at the sub- 
urban place of amusement a good 
twenty minutes before it dosed. 
But the company was thinning, and 
in a moment I saw that the princi- 
pal person I sought was not there. 
I took some re&eshment, and then 
tried, not unsuccessfully, to imitate 
the ways of thoEe people who make 
a point of maintaining friendly re- 
lations with waiters and proprietors, 
in the caf6s they frequent. 

'Had mademoiselle, the pretty 
Englishwoman, been singing that 
night?' 

* Yes, but she was gone. She was 
gone at eleven hours.' 

' Would she be there to-morrow 
nighty 

'No — this was her last night. Her 
engagement was terminated.' 

' How was that?' I asked next 
' She sang very nicely. Did not 
monsieur the proprietor think 
so?' 

* Yes, certainly, she did sing very 
well — for an Englishwoman. But 
the public required novelties, and it 
did not do to keep the same singer 
long before them.' 

' Had she been there very long ?' 

' Not very long.' 

Here the man went away, and to 
ray mind he did not seem to care to 
discuss the merits of the young lady 



The Three Overheard Whispers. 



vrho had jtist passed away from his 
employ. 

That night I looked amid the 
contents of the parcel which M. 
Kock had sent me from the office 
for the paragraph to which he had 
referred, bat I could not find it. 



CHAPTEB IV. 

IN THB F0B£Sr OF FONTAINBLBAU. 

The next morning while I was 
dressing I took a sheet of paper 
and wrote down the three whispers 
which I had overheard in the coarse 
of the last three days. 

They were, of coarse— 

(a) * Oh no, no. It cannot he until 
Friday.* 

(b) ' Ishouldhrtak my heart ifsTie 
has doped from the convent with any 
Frenchman.' 

(c) ' Bememher — the Maison Ihir 
pont at ForUainhUau* 

The corioos notion had somehow 
wrought itself into my mind that it 
was possible that these three oyer- 
heard whispers might stand in a 
certain relation and connection to 
each other. 

It was just possible, bat the 
chances were atterly against the 
truth of such a theory. There was 
indeed a certain speciousness in the 
idea. It might not be difficult to 
invent a uunework of circum- 
stances into which these three 
whispers nught be tesselated and 
inwrought But it was much more 
eas^ to suppose that the different 
whispers belonged to different sets 
of circumstances standing in no sort 
of connection to each other. Of 
course, on any doctrine of chances, 
the odds were tremendously against 
the theory of any such correlation 
as I was supposing. Taking the 
three sentences in their chronologi- 
cal consecutiveness, what on earth 
could a Friday have to do with an 
elopement from a convent, and what 
on earth could an elopement from a 
convent have to do with any parti- 
cular locality at Fontainbleau? 
And how extremely unlikely it must 
be that a gay, frivolous, and not 
over-reputable place like the Salle 
d'Artois could stand in auy sort of 
connection with the staid solemnity 



of a convent ! I had indeed, it is true, 
certain information, beyond these 
whispers which might have a pos- 
sible connection with their subject- 
matter. There had certainly been 
an escape from a convent Here 
Kock's newspaper paragraph pos- 
sibly corroborated and identified the 
second whisper. But I could not 
see in what possible connection the 
remark (b) could stand to (a) and 
f c). It was possible that (a) and 
(c) might stand in a definite rela- 
tionship. The chances of a coinci- 
dence between the two were immea- 
surably better than the chances of 
a coincidence between the three. 
The existence of that charming gen- 
tleman Monsieur Papillon was a con- 
necting link between the twa Was 
it also possible that his existence 
could be adumbrated in the second 
whisper? i.e., *1 should break my 
heart if she has eloped from the 
convent with a Frenchman.' And 
now the subject, which had been 
gradually growing on my mind, 
made me feel quite hot and feverish. 
It seemed to me that some woeful 
drama was being enacted that day 
in which, quite involuntarily, I was 
called upon to play aprincipisdpart. 
And this very day, of which the 
golden moments were slipping away 
so fast, was Friday, the day on 
which something was to happen, 
the scene of which was laid at Fon- 
tainbleau. I flung down impatiently 
a set of numbers, which nad just 
come in by post, of the ' Coketown 
Daily Press,' although they con- 
tained some choice examples of my 
most careful observations and rear 
sonings in politics. 

' There is sometimes,' I said to 
my wife, 'a destiny in the over- 
hearing of whispers. Do you re- 
member the cranes of Ibycus ?' 

But my wife did not recollect the 
cranes of Ibycus. 

' Ibycus,' I said, ' was a poet, who, 
travelling through a wild country, 
fell in company with two evilly-dis- 
posed men, who set upon him to rob 
and murder him, in which design 
they succeeded only too well The 
dying poet looked around for suc- 
cour, but saw nothing but some 
cranes hovering in the air. " Oh ! 
ye cranes," he said, " avenge Ibycus !" 



10 



The Three (herheard WhUpen. 



A month or two later his two mur- 
derers were in an open-air theatre, 
and some cranes were Tisible not 
far ofiF. "Behold," whispered one 
man to another, "the cranes of 
Ibycns!'* Now this remark was 
overheard. Ibycns was bound to 
this city, and there was surprise and 
consternation that he had not 
arrived. It was manifest that these 
two meo, whose physiognomy was 
jwobably hardly in their fovour, 
knew something about Ibycus. They 
were seized, examined separately, 
and the truth coming out, were both 
executed. Now these providential 
cranes brought murderers to jus- 
tice. But it is manifest, my dear, 
timt the casual overhearing of a 
speech was the moving cause of the 
discovery, though the cranes have 
always absorbed the credit' 

' Well,' said my wife, ' your 
overheard whispers gave a time, 
which is to>day, and a locality, 
which is Fontainbleau. There may 
be something worse than murder 
going on. Why don't you go down 
to Fontainbleau to-day ?' 

I was astonished at the direct 
simplicity of this suggestion, which 
had not occurred to my mind. 

' Because,' I answered, * I don't 
see how a convent can have anything 
to do with Friday or with Fontain- 
bleau.' 

'But I thought you gentlemen, 
if you had a lot of data, did not 
mind having an x in it, but sought 
to solve its value in an equation.' 

This was really clever in the 
wife, and I thought there was some- 
thing clever in the notion. Still I 
was by no means prepared to fling 
away a day on spec and make per- 
chance a bootless excursion. * But 
don't wait dinner,* was my uUima- 
tum, ' for after all I might go down 
to Fontainbleau.' 

I presently gained the knifeboard 
of the Courbevoie omnibus and took 
three sous' worth of danger down to 
the Louvre. Then I continued to 
walk down the Rue Ilivoli, bethink- 
ing myself that it was all in the di- 
rection of the rail way station whence 
I must start for Fontainbleau. 

But how astonished I was when, 
just as I had gained the beautiful 
tower of St. Jacques, I came upon 



the very two women who had so 
greatly interested me in the garden 
of the Tuileries the day before, yes- 
terday. 

Without the delay of a second I 
advanced to them and took off my 
hat. I turned to the elder one, who 
still had evident marks of grief and 
agitation on her countenance, and 
said — 

'Madam, will you allow me to 
speak to you for a few minutes on a 
very important matter?' 

She gave a little shriek. ' It must 
be about Clara, Mrs. Bums. Oh, 
sir, tell me where is my daughter?* 

I asked them if they would step 
across the road, and enter into the 
little endofiure around the Tower. 
We sat down on one of the pleasant 
benches close by Pascal's statue. 
The air was scented with flowers^ 
the little children were playing 
about with their bonnes, and there- 
was the fountain's musical ripple. 

'Is your daughter,' I asked, 'a 
tall, handsome girl — sings well — 
has fair hair and complexion, but 
dark eyes—about nineteen ?' 

' It must be she. It is the yery 
same. Oh, sir I where is she ?' 

But I was phlegmatically obliged 
to say that I had not the least idea 
of her whereabouts. 

They were so downcast at thig 
that I ventured to explain that I 
thought it possible we might be put 
on the right track to find her. Then 
I soon succeeded in getting their 
little story from them. 

The elder lady was the widow of 
a London merchant, who, having 
always kept up a costly and luxurious 
establishment, had left his family 
only poorly off, owing to a great de- 
preciation in the value of his pro* 
perty. There were several daughters,, 
and it was necesFsry that at least 
one or two of them should become 
governesses, which was hard ux)on 
girls who were accustomed to a gay,, 
and rather fast life. Mrs. Bums, an 
Anglo-Parisian friend of Mrs. Broad- 
hurst's, had suggested to her that 
her daughter should enter a Do- 
minican convent, where a school was 
kept, on what are called in England 
'mutual terms.' The young lady 
was to give lessons in English, and 
receive some lessons in French. 



TJie Three Overheard Whiq>€r8. 



11 



Boafd and lodging were to be pro- 
vided for her, but no stipend was to 
be given. After a time Miss Clara 
Broadhnrst grew exceedingly dis- 
satisfied with her position. The 
early hoars and the plain fare of 
the eonvent did not suit her. She 
had a great notion that she deserved 
a stipend. She had also a great 
notion that she had better go upon 
the stage, or that she might do well 
as a singer at public ccmcerts. Al- 
though the living at the convent 
was so plain, and the rules so strin- 
gent. Miss Broadhurst was not called 
upon in any degree to be treated as 
a Roman Catholic inmate would be 
treated; and all her school work 
being finished in the morning, she 
had full range of liberty between 
the early dinner and the early tea. 
There appeared to be no doubt but 
a great deal of this time was spent 
in the Bois de Boulogne. It ap- 
peared that she had made several 
undesirable acquaintances in Paris, 
in the case of English and French 
ladies against whom Mrs. Bums 
could not actually allege anything, 
but of whom she disapproved as 
companions of the daughter of her 
friend. Latterly Miss Broadhurst 
had been dropping hints to her 
mother that she had an opening in 
life much more to her taste than 
teaching in a French convent. Then 
her letters grew rarer, and then 
they ceased. Later still she dis- 
appeared from the convent. She 
hod gone out one afternoon as usual, 
and had never come back. It had 
evidently been a step studiously 
contemplated, for all her clothing 
and effects, for some days past, had 
gradually been in course of removal. 

[I may here state, what subse- 
quently transpired— that she had 
obtained an engagement to sing at 
the Salle d'Artois. I was never 
able rightly to make out whether 
she had formed the acquaintance of 
Monsieur Fapillon previous to or 
during this musical engagement, 
but have reason to suspect that the 
former was the case.] 

Mrs. Broadhurst had immediately 
been telegraphed for by her friend 
Mr& Bums to come to Fans ; and 
in a state almost of distraction she 
had been making inquiries every- 



where in Paris about her daughter^ 
but had not hitherto met with any 
success in the search. 

Such is a brief outline of the 
hurried story which they told me, 
and they now looked impatiently 
towards me to see what consolation 
or guidance I could offer them. My 
own mind was in a state of utter 
incertitude. I was uncertain even 
on the question of identification — 
whether the girl I had seen was 
really the Clara Broadhurst who 
was missing. But here th^ were 
positive, and would allow no ex- 
pression of doubt. I then told my 
trembling and astonished listeners 
that, assuming the identity, I knew 
that ti>eir Clara was intimate, and 
apparently deeply in love with a. 
Frenchman; that I had heard her 
mention this present Friday to him 
in a way that looked like an assigna- 
tion with him ; that I know that on 
this very day her engagement tO' 
sing in public terminated; and I 
also knew that on this very day the 
Frenchman was going down to Fon- 
tainbleau. The almost irresistible 
inference was that she was going to 
accompany him to that place. 1 
also told them that it was my in- 
tention to go to Fontainbleau that 
very day ; but I did not think it 
necessary to £ay that I was going 
there simply on account of the 
young lady unknown, for then they 
might be building still higher ex- 
pectations that might prove falla- 
cious. I discovered that if we moved 
off at once we should be in time for 
as early a train as Monsieur Papillon 
was at all likely to take. We caught 
our train, and in about three quarters 
of an hour I and my two sudden 
and unexpected companions arrived 
at Fontainbleau. 

The reader will probably recollect 
that long straight road, with its 
rows of straight trees, between the 
station and the town of Fontain- 
bleau. We looked eagerly to see 
who might be our companions in 
the train ; but no one whom 1 could 
recognize alighted at the station. 
When we got into the town, and had 
alighted at an ugly-looking hotel, I 
persuaded them to have some re- 
freshment, and I endeavoured to 
calm Mrs. Broadhuxst's intense 



12 



The Three Overheard WhUpers. 



nervotis excitement. Then I lighted 
A cigar, and strolled about, settling 
our plan of operations. My first 
object was to discover where the 
Maison Dnpont might happen to 
be. I easily ascertained that it was 
•a very respectable boarding-house, 
kept by M. Dupont, a respectable 
•and responsible man, situated about 
twenty minutes' ride from the town, 
•on the verge of the forest. Find- 
dDg that some hours must elapse 
before the arrival of the next train, 
I persuaded them to visit the palace 
«iid grounds; showed them the spot 
where the first Napoleon kissed the 
•eagles, and took his farewell ; showed 
them them the pond where the third 
Napoleon tumbled topsy-turvy 
•among the great carp ; pointed out 
the Empresses gondola, which I be- 
lieved was the very same that Lord 
Byron had used at Venice, and, in 
fact, exhausted all my little store 
of Napoleonic reminiscences. The 
ladies, however, were hardly in a 
state of mind that permitted them 
to do justice to my agreeable and 
improving vein of anecdote. I 
thought it best, therefore, to dismiss 
all notions of sight- seeing, and con- 
fine ourselves strictly to the imme- 
diate business of tbe day. Mrs. 
Broadhurst and I were immediately 
to proceed to the Maison Dupont, 
and Mrs. Bums was to return to 
the station and watch for the run- 
aways. It was curious how the 
impression that they would arrive 
had now become rooted in our 
minds. 

We drove leisurely to the locality 
that had been indicated to me, ob- 
taining glimpses of flowery spaces 
and deep forest glades. When we 
arrived at the Maison Dupont, we 
were ushered into the pleasant 
presence of Madame Dupont, and, 
as I had agreed with my companion, 
I took charge of this sufficiently 
difficult and embarrassing business. 

I asked Madame Dupont if she 
had any room for any more inmates. 

Madame Dupont was very full 
and was expecting fresh arrivals. 
Still there was one chamber im- 
occupied. 

Mrs. Broadhurst at once said that 
she would be glad to engage the 
room for herself. 



Might I' ask who were the new 
arrivals ? We were daily expecting 
some friends of ours who were going 
to sketch in the forest 

She thought it was for a gentle- 
man and his sister. The name was 
Bertrand. Her two best bed-rooms 
were taken for them, by telegraph. 
They had also wanted a private 
dtting-room, but she had only the 
use of the public rooms to offer 
them, but for the day at least they 
would have these rooms pretty well 
to themselves. 

I will now put down in chrono- 
logical order the few remarkable 
events of that afternoon. 

Good Mrs. Bums waited for 
many anxious hours at that un- 
interesting station. It had been 
arranged that if they came and 
proceeded anywhere else than to 
the Maison Dnpont she should 
follow them, and at once commu- 
nicate with us by a messenger. 
But if they went to the Maison 
Dupont her mission was at an end, 
and she was to return to the hotel, 
where we would communicate with 
her. 

The eight o'clock train from Paris 
duly arrived, and then, sure as fate, 
Mrs. Burns recognised her young ac- 
quaintance, Clara Broadhurst, lean- 
ing on the arm of a young dandified 
Frenchman. 

' Why, Clara,' said the good lady, 
' what brings you here, and how 
d'ye do? They told me that you 
had retumed to England. Didn t 
you like the convent?' 

' Madame,' said Clara, very 
haughtily, and speaking in French, 
' I am sorry that I have no time 
to speak to you now. I may tell 
you that I am engaged to marry 
this gentleman, Monsieur Bertrand, 
of Marseilles, and have come here 
on a visit to some of his friends.' 

The gentleman had calmly ig- 
nored the stout English lady, and 
was hailing a voiture. Clara made 
a curtsey and swept past her. Mrs. 
Bams was petrified with astonish- 
ment. But she heard the word 
Dupont in the direction. 

When Monsieur and his interest- 
ing companion arrived at tbe Maison 
Dupont, they were met by the smil- 
ing landlady, who told them that 



Parisian Clubs, Past and Present. 



la 



she was so sorry that she had no 
private room for them. There was 
only a gentleman in a salon, and she 
nnderstood that he was going almost 
directly, as soon as he had done 
some little business for a friend. 

There was a gentleman sitting at 
the window, with his hat in one 
hand and that day's ' Galignani' in 
the other. This individaal was the 
esteemed Paris correspondent of 
the ' Ck>ketown Daily Express.' 

As he entered I rose from my 
seat and faced him. ' Ah, Monsieur 
Papillon/ I exclaimed, 'I am so 
happy; what an extraordinary en- 
counter! I had the pleasure of 
meeting you in very agreeable com- 
pany last night on the Bouleyards.' 

He shook hands with me hur- 
riedly and gave a forced laugh. 
' Vbu8 avez tort. Monsieur, I am M. 
Bertrand, of Marseilles, much at 
your service. What do you say— 
Papillon? it is one good joke. They 
call me that because I am light- 
hearted.' 

' Just as you like/ I answered ; 
' it is of no importance, but I don't 
think our mutual friend, the Hon. 
Mr. B., of the English Embassy, 
would take such a liberty with 
either of us as to make an intro- 
duction under fiilse colours.' 

I noticed that he bit his lips and 
appeared greatly disgusted. His 
companion turned first towards 
him and then towards me her large 
inquiring eyes. 

* Ah, B., he is what you do call 
one funny dog.' 

'And so are you. Monsieur Pa- 
pillon,' I answered. ' But how is 
madame, your wife— and the charm- 
ing little infant in Calyados?' 

He changed colour very much, 
and muttered a raille tonnerres. Then 



he seized his companion's resisting 
hand, and said, smilingly, 'I'oila 
madame,' 

' No, no, no,' I said, laughingly. 
' That is not Madame Papillon. Un- 
less I am greatly mistaken, that la 
Miss Clara BroadhurstJ 

She started up, almost as if shot 
' Oh, sir I and do you know me ? 
And is not this gentleman M. Ber- 
trand, of Marseilles?' 

' My child,' I answered, ' his 
name is Papillon. He is a member 
of the 'Jockey Club at Paris. His 
place is in the north of France, 
where he has left his wife.' 

She cast on him a look of th& 
most indignant reproach. Then 
she burst into a flood of tears and 
began to moan. ' Oh, what shall I 
do? What shall I do? My mother, 
my poor mother I Oh, I wish I had 
never come to Paris ! Oh, my mother, 
where are you?' 

' I am here, my child,' said Mrs. 
Broadhurst, and she calmly glided 
from the jtetite salwi adjoining, and 
folded her weeping daughter in her 
arms. 

When I went up to Paris a few 
hours later by the night mail, 
among the gentlemen in the smok- 
ing compartment I recognised, with 
much satisfaction, my young friend, 
M. Papillon. He was veiy affable 
and ofiered me a light 

Miss Clara Broadhurst afterwards 
sang in a London concert-room. 
After a very short term of profes- 
sional life, however, she married a 
very worthy man. I wonder, how- 
ever, whether he— or indeed either 
of them — altogether knew about 
the curious incident of the Three 
Overheard Whis'pers, 



PAKISIAN CLUBS, PAST AND PRESENT. 



CLUBS of some sort or other have 
existed all the world over, from 
the earliest times: for, as Garlyle 
says, fellowship ' is sweet and indis- 
pensable to man.' For all sorts of 
objects have clubs, historical and 
now existing, been founded. The 
modern Parisian club, however, is a 



very difierent affair from the Parisian 
clubs of other days, and from those 
clubs brought to perfection— the 
clubs of London. The word ' clubs,' 
indeed— borrowed by the French 
from the English— had a dark signi- 
ficance in the days of revolutionary 
Paris. In the fiery days of '9 a 



14 



Parisian Clubs, Past and Present 



National Assemblies vrere Dot quick 
enough to feci and express popular 
opinion, or to readily feel the pulses 
of the popular enthusiasm ; even the 
press, with hot-blooded OamilJe 
Desmoulins aiding, though fierce, 
was indistinct. The real political 
life of '92 in Paris was centred in 
the clubs ; the whole public belonged 
to one another; clubs grew like 
fabled dragons' teeth, each section 
of revolutionized Paris rejoicing in 
more than one. Some inspired 
patriots, coming up to the metro- 
polis from remote but hotly sans- 
cullotic Brittany, invented the poli- 
tical revolutionary club. They first 
constituted themselves a committee 
* of action ;' then they founded, from 
that, the 'Breton Club:' this soon 
became more than Breton, was joined 
l>y patriot deputies from all parts, 
was re-christened, first, ' French Bo- 
volution Club/ then ' Club of tho 
Friends of the Constitution.' Finally, 
these same gregarious Breton depu- 
ties, having rented the old despoiled 
convent of the Jacobin monks in 
Rue St. Honor6— now, unhappily, 
a thing of memory only^ for the old 
edifice has gone long ago — and 
taking their name from their place 
of meeting, became the ' Club of the 
Jacobins ' — is it not world re- 
nowned ? ' Sea-green ' Bobespierre 
gave cold counsel from its tribone ; 
there sparkled fiashing Desmoulins, 
and roared, lionlike, Danton, and 
croaked ill-fibvoured and squalid 
Marat, Friend of the People. And 
here, in the Club of tho Jacobins, 
was bom the bloody revolution 
which followed on the heels of the 
good-natured revolution. Others 
followed the example — there sprang 
up ' Constitutionar clubs for the 
party of Mirabeau, ' Boyalist' clubs 
of blind and chivalrous noblesse, 
' Feuillans' Club/ of mild Girondists, 
and ' Club of the Cordeliers/ out- 
Heroding in its democratic fury the 
Jacobin Herod itself; then there 
was the refined, philosophic, mode- 
rate, doomed ' Girondist,' with the 
fine inspired face of Madame Boland 
beaming over the table. Soon the 
Club of the Jacobins becomes, as 
Louis XIY. was, the State : strange 
heretical successor to the magnifi- 
cent monarch! And now it expands 



and sits high on the 'Mountain/ and 
from aloft frowns down ujxm and 
rules the Convention. 

With the Bevolution, however, all 
these, good and bad, vanished. In 
the years of tho Consulaite and the 
Empire, other clubs sprang into ex- 
istence — military clulis, with mar- 
shals of Franco as presidents ; lite- 
rary clnbs, which listened intent 
upon the disoour^iogsof Madame de 
Stacl; political clubs had, for the 
most part, ceased to be. But poli- 
tical clubs grew up again — ^but in 
tho dark— towards the close of tlie 
Restoration epoch, when Charles X. 
became stubborn. Bourbon-like, and 
Polignao refused to yield; they 
fought their way into light in iS^o, 
and drove tho royal ' stoopid ' out 
of France. In the time of Louis 
Philippe, the patriarch and ' father 
of his people/ an old-fashioned stylo 
of clubs resuscitated, budded, and 
developed ; the reign of light, ght- 
tcring French pleasure began once 
more; the clubs were now social, 
pleasure-loving, game-playing, ab- 
sinthe-drinking, and concert-giving ; 
and these are the features of the 
modem Parisian club, as contrasted 
with those of history. 

If there be now any distinctly 
political clubs existing in Paris, they 
are not publicly known. If known, 
such would not be allowed by Go- 
vernment, especially if hostile to 
Government; and there would 
scarcely be a raison d'etre for clubs 
favourable to Government Then, 
the French have really very little to 
complain of in Napoleon III. ; there 
is certainly no palpably grievous 
tyranny; there is no Jong despairing 
waU for ' bread/ as there was in the 
days of the first Revolution ; people 
generally have a very fair share of 
justice done them la the legislature 
and the courts of justice ; taxes are 
lighter than in many continental 
countries; the press talks with a 
plainness which surprises one who 
has been told of the repressive ten- 
dencies of the official censorship ; the 
country is at peace, is materially 
prosperous, and physically robust ; 
the opposition journals have up-hill 
work in finding fault with the Em- 
pire ; and now the Empire appeals 
confidently and without fear to the 



Parisian Ohhiy Faat and Present, 



15 



people, asking— without a doabt as 
to the result— that they will send up 
a new Legislature as faithful to the 
dynasty as the old And when there 
is no really deep national grievance, 
there is no raismi d'etre for clubs of 
the politi<»d-fiery stamp of the Jaco- 
bins and Cordeliers — ^no food for 
them to feed and prosper on. 

There may yet exist, for all the 
outer world knows, shrewd night- 
shrouded organizations, having a 
kinship with the political clubs of 
history ; but certain it is that such, 
if any there be, have not a very ex- 
tensive membership, nor great popu- 
lar influence. The partisans of Count 
Quixote Chambord may meet in 
damask drawing-rooms and conspire 
to restore the blue Bourbon blood, 
in the crumbling ch&teanz some- 
wh^e out in the provinces; Count 
de Paris may just possibly have 
emissaries in Paris, concocting 
schemes with messieurs the consti- 
tutional monarohists; Favre and 
Simon may make midnight speeches, 
and have a sort of freemasonry 
among the republicans, with a wire 
reaching to volcanic St Antoine — 
but none of these are probable ; and 
if they do exist, their hope must 
indeed be feeble of overturning a 
regime which is ever watchful, is 
moderate from policy, and is con- 
trolled by so acute a mind aa that of 
its present head. 

The social clubs which have been 
alluded to are, however, in the full 
blaze of crowded and glittering 
prosperity. They are certainly bril- 
mnlC certainly fascinating; one can 
well see that the attractions which 
they offer are irresistible to the 
pleasure-loving French bachelor, or 
to the Benedict to whom home, alas! 
offers no allurements. 

It is a place to meet and chat in ; 
to gossip in, after male fashion — ^a 
gossip very different from that of 
women, by the way, neither so sense- 
less nor so harmless — to read the 
papers in, where to laugh over the 
cartoons of the ' Journal Amusant ' 
and the dry piquancy of * Charivari/ 
the last critique, on Nilsson or Patti 
in 'Figaro;' where to indulge in 
the post-prandian cafS-au-oognac or 
absinthe, and the other rank poisons 
in which the Parisian delights, de- 



spite the subsequent dyspepsia; 
where there are billiard tables and 
bagatelle for all, and where, above 
all, the genius of play reigns para- 
mount. 

Let us enter one — the refined and 
classical ' Society des Beaux Arts :' 
it has a high-sounding sesthetic 
name enough, but is in reality 
nothing more nor less than a club of 
'men of the world.' As you pass in 
you observe the self-styled lovers of 
'the arts' going and coming, look- 
ing, however, as little like artists or 
connoisseurs of art as possible. 
Mostly they are flashy -looking, 
heavy - whiskered, shining -haired, 
well-dressed * swells,' with a gam- 
bling devil-may-care air about them ; 
some substantial old gentlemen in 
gold spectacles and wigs; some 
greenish youths who have prema- 
turely donned an air imitative of 
fashionable manhood. The club is 
dazzlingly lighted without and 
within. It has pillars at the en- 
trance, Parthenon-like ; rather over- 
graceful plaster statues of the Muses 
stand in the vestibule, intended for 
ornament— but somehow provoca- 
tive of mirth. Within the wide, 
Mgli door is a spacious hall, with 
mosaic floor, and resplendent from 
many gas globes ; here and there a 
statue, fresco, bas-relief; the white 
X>anellings all a-gilt, an ornamenta- 
tion less tasteful than obtrusive. 
Directly before you is a broad, 
richly-carpeted oaken staircase lead- 
ing to a platform, where two women 
in fiiultlessly stiff white caps receive 
the tickets of members or recognise 
them as they enter, and take chaise 
of the superfluities— the canes, hats, 
and umbrellas. The staircase merges 
into two, ascending to the right and 
to the left, and these conduct to the 
various saloons of the club. 

The rooms are hardly less bril- 
liant, the furniture hardly less 
sumptuous, than the royal apart- 
ments of the Tuileries ; light every- 
where blazes, dazzling; every 
imaginable luxury is provided — 
those numerous Utile things which 
together furnish the indolent with 
contentment. Great roaring flres 
mount up in the spacious fireplaces 
— too much heat, making the in- 
mates drowsy, inviting to a doze on 



16 



Pcaisian Clubs, Past and Present. 



the seighbouring laxurioos sofas. 
In some rooms are books, maga- 
zines, and files of newsnapers ; in 
others billiard tables ana bagatelle 
boards ; in others caf6 and restatmmt 
establishments; in nearly all card- 
tables, the cards constantly shnfiBing 
and patting, flanked by files of golden 
napoleons. 

The most beaatifal of these apart- 
ments, howeyer, is the concert hall, 
which, elaborately frescoed on domo 
and wall, has a pretty covered gal- 
lery, supported by graceful pillars, 
and cosy seats disposed in semi- 
circles and rising behind each other. 
A tasteful stage occupies the front, 
embellished with a grand piano. 
Here, twice a month, a classical 
concert is given by musicians of 
jiote ; to this the club members are 
admitted free, and each is entitled 
to two additional tickets for his lady 
friends. At the concerts, messieurs 
of the club occupy the gallery, the 
ladies the 'parterre.' You observe 
one thing at the concerts which 
hardly confirms your idea of the 
great gallantry of 'our neighbour 
the Gaul.* The club members in 
the gallery, almost every one, are 
provided with opera-glasses ; and a 
battery of these goggle^yed instru- 
ments is levelled throughout the 
evening at the pretty young mesde- 
moifelles below. You observe that 
this frightfully impudent and bare- 
faced staring does not cease as a 
habit with age ; for yonder is a dan- 
dified old fellow, who, you are very 
certain, must be an octogenarian, 
constantly ogling through a much 
bejewelled lorgnette the youngest 
and prettiest laidies in the hall, and 
evidently enjoying the pastime— for 
he is busy pointing out his especial 
beauties to a companion a quarter 
of his own age. These club con- 
certs are, notwithstanding, popular, 
and are always crowded; the ex- 
pense is paid from the club trea- 



sury. The elite of Paris are often 
present, and the fashion is to dress 
as much as if it were a State repre- 
sentation at the Opera. 

But the great attraction of the 
modem Parisian club is unques- 
tionably the gaming, which is open, 
and woll-m'gh an universal habit 
The most frequent hahituSs of the 
club are men, either of dissipated 
tastes with plenty of money, which 
they had ratber spend over the card- 
table than in any other way; or else 
men of desperate fortunes, who 
would, if possible, retrieve them; or, 
too often, silly young fellows who 
can discover no higher ambition 
than to be the boon companions of 
'swells,' and to become 'swells' 
themselves. There is gambling at 
the billiard-tables, but the great 
attraction is the card-table. You 
not seldom see white-headed, re- 
spectable-looking old 'gentlemen' 
standing over uie card-table en- 
couraging and urging on mere 
beardless boys, applauding their 
successful ventures, and laughing 
gaUy at their feverish suspense. 
The victim of the mariage de oanve- 
nance finds here tiie pleasure which 
home denies to him. Men go to the 
gaming-table and ruin themselves, 
because, instead of their choosing 
their own wives, their fiBtthers did it 
for them. The Parisian club, far 
less innocent and healthy than those 
of Pall Mall, is one only of the 
noxious products of that bad rule 
of French society which forbids the 
free association of young men and 
women of equal rank ; hence it is 
that the former are driven to spend 
their evenings at the club card- 
tables, or lounging in the caf^s, or 
worse, if anything, in the society of 
women at meeting whom in the 
street their sisters would blush with 
iHstinctive horror and womanly dis- 
gust 

G. M. T. 



>iiSi!^^5^ 



17 



SOCIAL SUPERSTITIONS. 




CON vre shall have no social 
snperstitioiis, I suppose. They 
are destined, no doubt, to disap- 
pear with political superstitions 
and religions superstitions — or 
what people axe jpleased to con- 
sider as such — in the natural 
course of the abolition of most 
things. How many have gone in 
our own time ! — or in a time within 
the experience of men and women 
still among us, and fiBmiliar at least 
in a reflected light 

The superstitions to which I 
refer, are not yery important per- 
haps, but they mark changes in 
manners, and changes in manners 
mark changes in a great many 
other things. A great number 
have gone, as I have said. The 
superstitious obserrance of the 
custom of getting drunk after 
dinner, for instance, is among 
the disappearances. A great many 
people still get drunk, it must be 
confessed; but they usually pay 
the homage which intoxication 
owes to sobriety, and dei^y or con- 
ceal the fact There used to be a superstition among a certain class of fine 
gentlemen that it was ' bad form ' — or whatever was the equivalent phrase 
of the period— to be aHe to do anything for one*s-self. and that a state of 
utter apathy and indifference to things in general was the surest mark 
of good breeding. There may be such men about now, but they are very 
carefully cut, I should think ; and a negative condition of mind and body 
would certainly not in these days be considered a sign of Jxm tan. There 
was a superstition once in favour of snuff-taking. Long since the days 
when a snuff-box was as necessary an appendage to a gentleman as his 
shoe .buckles, the habit of putting it to use was still general, and it has 
disappeared only in the present generation. During the rule of snuff, 
smobng was the exception ; and i£ough the latter had many votaries, the 
* vice ' was a secret one— to be indulged only in out-of-the-way places. A 
stable or a harness room was thought quite good enough, and the tap- room 
at a low tavern most appropriate. When rooms were set apart for the 

Surpose at clubs they were always the worst in the house ; and up to so 
kte a period as to be called the other day there was no smoking-room at 
one of the leading clubs in London. Now, not only are smokers in clubs 
luxuriously provided, but every house of sufficient size and pretensions— 
in the country at any rate — ^has an apartment available for tne weed ; and 
in connexion with billiards ladies endure it with a charming docility — 
developed in some cases, so scandal declares, into the most practical ex- 
pression of tolerance. In the old times only tiie most hardened offenders 
would venture to smoke in the streets or public places. I need scarcely 
«ay how this superstition has been disposed of in these days, when Boyal 
Princes lead the way, and a Boyal Duke may be seen on most mornings on 
Constitution Hill in company with an enormous regalia. 
There was a superstition prevalent for many years that a gentleman 
VOL. XVI.— MO. xci. 



18 



Social Suj^erstitions. 



conld not be properly coBtnmed 
unless half strangled in an enormons 
stock. This machine was Tronder- 
fully and fearfully made, with a 
slight pretence of elasticity, but in- 
tended evidently to keep the head 
up, and promote an appearance of 
dignified apoplexy in the wearer — 
with the occasional effect of a diver- 
gence from appearance into reality. 
The custom originated through the 
' most finished gentleman in Eorope ' 
not being proud of his neck ; ana it 
became so rigorous as to ruin any 
man who refused to follow it. There 
is only one known instance of such 
hardihood, however, and that is in 
the case of Lord Byron. It is 
generally supposed that society set 
its face against the poet because he 
was supposed to be an immoral 
man, to ill-treat his wife, and exhibit 
a vicious tendency in his writings. 
I believe nothing of the kind. Society 
at the time made pets of men who 
were far worse than Byron was even 
supposed to be, who got on no 
better with their wives, and who 
set quite as vicious an example in 
their lives as Byron was alleged to 
set in his writings. Society cut 
Byron because he turned down his 
collar, and that is the whole fact of 
the matter. Had he worn a stock 
he would have been one of them- 
selves, and they would have forgiven 
him a.s they did other people. 

Stocks are seldom seen noWj 
except in the army, where, in a 
certain but not sufficiently modified 
degree, they are still the rule; at 
the discretion, however, of command- 
ing officers, who may allow them to 
be dispensed with if they think the 
relaxation necessary or desii-able. 
Nobody, in fact, wears a stock in 
these days unless ho is obliged to do 
so, except a few fogies who cling 
to the superstition as a link to 
life. 

' What do you think of my uncle?' 
asked a man not long since of his 
friend, with whom he was walking 
in Pall Mall. They bad just met 
the gentleman in question. 

'Think of him!* was the con- 
temptuous reply ; ' why he wears a 
stock and buckles it behind—that's 
what I think of him.' 

You see by this little incident the 



kind of feeling that stocks excite in- 
the present day. 

If there are superstitions among 
men there are superstitions among 
women, you may be sure, and among 
the latter as among the former there 
have been a great many that are now 
exploded. As regards dress and 
deportment fhexe was one connected 
with the ideal of a lady which seems 
to have no believers in these times. 
A lady was supposed to be arrayed 
in the plainest manner — to wear 
robes of the sokiemi eolours and the 
simplest cut. Aogrbody who devi- 
ated from the mb wm supposed not 
to be a lady ; and ilia Rraich, who 
set the fashions that ■■ they do 
now, w«re far in advance of fhe 
Englwh in this respect. That tii» 
supentikion no longer prevails Bced 
scaroriy be pointed out. Tbe cfaaqge 
in tbe present diractios liaa been 
aceonpaiued too by some iaodeBtal 
MUfMi ' iaiHaj ai which have also cone' 
to an end— or vei7 nearly aoc Out 
^vaa ttat ladicB in order to attam 
clegaaes in skirta mnak be e ac as ed 
in a aleei eage, abaoidty— eonsider- 
iog the dcnvation of fhe wovd — 
called a crinoline. Anollier was 
founded upon the idea that a lady 
could not appear out of doors with- 
out wearing upon her head a prepos- 
terous contrivance, which, had it 
been discovered in the ruins of Pom- 
peii, or in some such place, without 
any indication of tbe use to which it 
was applied, would have be^ a 
mystery to succeeding ages, and 
remained perhaps a puzzle to anti- 
quarians up to the present time. 
The thing I mean was called a 
bonnet. 

What a monstrosity it was ! It 
stood alone in creation. Nature 
never produced anything like it in 
her wildest and most colonial moods. 
Art could never have conceived such 
an object. For the bonnet was like 
oar old friepd Topsy, according to 
that young person's idea of her 
origin. It was never bom of tbe 
fancy of any one man or woman — 
' I guess it growed.' You could not 
indeed resemble it to anything else. 
It was not like a coalscuttle, to 
which some of its varieties have 
been flatteringly compared, for it 
would not stand on its end^ if indeed 



Social Sup&rsiUians. 



19 



it bad an end to stand on ; and for 
similar reasons among others it conld 
not be supposed to be intended for 
a coffeepot^ a breadbasket, a card- 
tray, a toast-rack, a mousetrap, or a 
warming-pan. It was certainly not 
like a hat ; for though it contained 
a place where you could put part of 
a head, there was nothing to indicate 
— ^in the absence of previous infor- 
mation — that such an uncomfortable 
receptacle was meant for such a use. 
The coincidence was altogether in- 
sufficient You may put your head 
into a bag or a portmanteau, but 
nobody would guess those useful 
articles to be head-dresses on that 
account. The bonnet, in its ultra 
days at any rate, was as shapeless a 
monster as the Fieuvre, first described 
by Victor Hugo, and since made 
familiar to us in collections of aqua- 
ria; with bows and flowers for 
'feelers,' turning up in arbitrary 
and unexpected places. Had we — 
innocent of it ourselves— found it in 
use among the Cherokee Indians, we 
should have fancied it connected 
with some religious rite, since it 
would be difficult to suppose that 
anybody would voluntarily wear 
such a thing for its own sake. That 
it is an exploded superstition among 
civilized nations is a fact for which 
everybody blessed with eyesight 
ought to be grateful. The present 
substitute is called by the same 
name; but nobody, seeing the two 
things together, would guess that 
they were put to the same use. The 
bonnet of the period is a charming 
little decorative arrangement, which 
may be quite useless as far as shelter 
is concerned, but is scarcely more so 
than its predecessor, which was in- 
effectual against sun or rain, and 
had not the excuse of being orna- 
mental instead. 

Another superstition of the past 
was the corset. I am not quite sure 
that I shall be allowed to allude to 
such a subject, but must take my 
chance. I will be content, however, 
to observe that the garment — it can 
scarcely be called a garment though ; 
what am I to call it?— the article? 
— the machine ? The machine will 
do. It was a point of faith that this 
machine was indispensable to the 
female kind, or at any rate that it 



ought to be, and it was worn when 
not wanted as a distinction of the 
sex. One need not be the oldest in- 
habitant of any place to remember 
these curious contrivances of which 
wood or steel, and whalebone inevi- 
tably, formed such important 
features. Such things may exist in 
the present day; but they could 
never have been necessities ; for the 
interesting wearers of the modified 
mysteries now in use under the same 
name do not seem to suffer from the 
absence of their predecessors. On 
the contrary, they evidently flourish 
the more for the change, look a 
great deal better, and must feel a 
great deal better if they can feel at 
all. 

Among social observances which 
may be classed among exploded 
superstitions, I may include the cir- 
culation of wedding cards and 
wedding cake among the friends of 
married couples. The cake went 
first, and the cards are fast fallowing. 
I am not quite sure that the omis- 
sion in either case is an advantage. 
People always liked getting the 
cake, though it is a horrible thing 
to eat, and the cards certainly 
answered their intended purpose — 
that of marking the feeling towards 
oHacquaintances under new condi- 
tions, and influencing them in pay- 
ing congratulatory visits. Now, 
under the new arrangement, half the 
acquaintances of the bride and bride- 
groom are uncertain whether to call 
ornot; and as they are very apt to give 
themselves the benefit of the doubt 
which gives the least trouble, they 
frequently remain upon anomalous 
terms with the happy pair for an in- 
definite period — determined in the 
end perhaps by an accident. 

The superstition which dictates 
the use of cards in general inter- 
course is not likely to die out. So- 
ciety cannot get on without them. 
But calling — where you actually 
want to see the people— has been 
relieved of half its horrors by the 
practice of appointing certain days 
for being at home, and adding the 
attraction of tea, which, whether 
visitors want that refreshment or 
not, at least gives them something 
to do. A great many people would 
I»efer that these rites should be 
a 



20 



Social Supenliiioni, 



performed after dioner instead of 
before, and it would be well to allow 
them the altematiye. I dare say we 
shall come to this some day. Mean- 
while many take kindly to what has 
been called the social treadmill, 
and grind away for the fan of the 
thing. It is hard perhaps to have 
to drop additional cards after hav- 
ing dmed at a house, and snch 
visitcs de digestion are usually paid 
with the kind of gratitude known 
as a lively sense of benefits to 
come. 

Among existing superstitions that 
which necessitates introdnctions at 
balls in prirate houses has a great 
many heterodox enemies. They are 
mere matters of form, since the 
persons introduced are frequently 
no wiser as to one another's per- 
sonality than they were before ; and 
the observance has the effect of 
curbing individual ardour. There 
is no harm in them ; they are often 
an assistance ; but they should not 
be held necessary, and in a happier 
state of existence I dare say they 
will be dispensed with. 

Among exploded superstitions 
upon such occasions may be reck- 
oned speeches afttr supper. Where 
there is no regular supper to make 
speeches after the evil naturally 
cures itself; but even where there 
is, the bore in question is never met 
with except in offensively old-fash- 
ioned society. So much the better, 
say all sensible people. Speeches 
after dinner, when the dinner has a 
business object, of course can't be 
helped, and come under a different 
category. 

Apropos to dinners I mav mention 
a very old superstition which gave 
the palm to English dinners over 
all other dinners, in the world. 
' Foreign kickshaws,' compared with 
them, were held in contempt as un- 
wholesome abominations. And an 
English dinner, when well cooked, is 
no doubt a very fine thing, and 
better for people leading an active 
life than, say, a French one, as a 
continuous arran^ment. But it is 
the old story still — our dinners 
come from a sacred, our cooks from 
a profane source. To cook an Eng- 
lish dinner well a person ought to 
be capable of cooking a French one. 



The principles are the same, and the 
ornate variations, in the latter case, 
are mere matters of special attain- 
ment, easily acquired from prescribed 
formulae. But the popular deluskm 
with the common run of oooks is, 
that an English dinner, in order to 
have ' no nonsense about it,* should 
be essentially solid, and leave di- 
gestibility an open questioD. Any 
suggestion of an advance upon 
these conditions is met by the re- 
sponse that Mary Jane does not pro- 
fess to understand foreign cookery ; 
and an intimation, if she is disposed 
to be candid, that she considers 
' plain English ' entitled to the pre- 
ference in every respect She can 
never be made to understand that 
food prepared in the English &shion 
is not necessarily crude, comfort- 
less, and injurious. Her main idea 
is that everything English ought to 
be substantial, that is to say, heavy ; 
and in pursuance of this I have 
known her send up such a thing 
as suet pudding with partioulur 
joints. The accompaniment is well 
known in schools, where it is ac- 
cepted as part of the discipline of 
the establishment— but surely no- 
body ever ate suet pudding as a 
free agent! This is perhaps an 
aggravated instance of infiEituation, 
but it is quite within the compass 
of common ' plain cooks,' who mi- 
nister to the middle classes of so- 
ciety. How the poor fare, who are 
their own cooks, is a sad considera- 
tion. That they eat at all is a 
marvel; and it is a still greater 
marvel, considering the savage cha- 
racter of their meals, that they do 
not drink twice as much as they 
do. 

The superstition which exalts bad 
cookery and calls it Englicdi is less 
strong than it was, and among the 
educated classes is rapidly passing 
away. But unhapinly the greater 
part of the population are not edu- 
cated—even to an appreciation of 
the commonest comforts— and are 
still willing victims to a delusion 
unknown in any other civilized 
country. 

The popular delusion in the 
matter of wines, which has endured 
for more than a hundred years, has 
a greater chance of being dispelled ; 



Social Superstkions. 



21 



and if the mass of the wine-drink- 
ing population— 80 largely increased 
of late— still cling exclusively to 
port and sherry, it is surely not 
for want of other wines being sug- 
gested eoually to their palatas and 
flieir pocKets. Port is now favoured 
by only two classes of persons— 
the few who will pay fabulous sums 
for the little that can be got of the 
best kind, and the many who are 
not yet influenced by the light wine 
movement, and still incline them- 
selves — from superstitious motives 
— to any concoction called by the 
name. The former need not be 
converted. Their taste is entitled 
to the highest respect, and I trust 
that they will long enjoy the means 
to gratify ii The latter are being 
converted by degrees, if we may 
believe in statistics; for the con- 
sumption or port which comes from 
Portugal has sensibly decreased of 
late years, and it is not to be sup- 
posed that the production of the 
spurious article can have increased 
in the face of the increased facilities 
for obtaining the real one. The 
wines of all other wine-producing 
countries are now largely consnmed 
in this country; and the natural 
conclusion is beyond a doubt — that 
the majority of habitual or occa- 
casional drinkers of wine do not 
drink port, while the minority drink 
it in less proportion than formerly. 
Sherry has made a firmer stand, and 
is still considered a necessary wine, 
whatever be the other wines which 
find a place in the public favour. 
There is a competition, too, in the 
market between sherry and sherry 
— that is to say, between sherry as 
usually prepared for English con- 
sumption, and sherry as it is in its 
natural state; and other Spanish 
wines which are not sherry, but 
which have the same character, are 
also entering the field of opposition. 
The 'natural' wines, as the mer- 
chants call them, have a hard fight 
for it at present; for the mass of 
wine drinkers undoubtedly prefer 
the old fiery mixtures. But there 
is a demand for the * dry ' qualities 
rapidly spreading, and palates edu- 
cated to these— dreadfully doctored 
as they commonly are — will find 
out in time that they can be better 



gratified by unadulterated vintages, 
or vintages which are at least not 
deprived of their original character. 
Between Spanish wines as they 
ought to be and French wines as 
they are— to say nothing of Italian, 
Hungarian, and Greek, which are 
making their way — the time is pro- 
bably not for distant when the su- 
perstition which gave exclusiveness 
to port and sherry will be known 
no more. 

Port is associated with prejudice; 
and prejudice of many kinds is 
breakmg down with port. I allude 
especially to English prejudice— to 
be classed with superstition— in re- 
ference to things continental. There 
was an old belief that one English- 
man was always able to beat three 
Frenchmen. That delusion must 
surely have exploded; and I may 
mention, as a matter of personal 
experience, that I once made the 
experiment with only two of our 
lively neighbours — and signally 
failed. But the superstitious sense 
of .superiority on the part of our 
travelling countrymen on the Con- 
tinent still prevails to a great ex- 
tent; the principal exception being 
the members of the gentler sex, 
who have thrown off their tra- 
ditional reserve in a remarkable 
manner, and dash about in out-of- 
doors dirersions with an afiability 
which is a wonder, not to say a 
scandal, and utterly confutes the 
stock caricatures, which, in Paris 
especially, still represent the Uonde 
misses of Albion as embodiments of 
prudish affectation— wearing green 
veils and actual bonnets, and re- 
garding the social freedom of France 
as shocking, quite in the old style. 
There has, to be sure, been lately 
opened a rival vein of Fatire, repre- 
sented in periodicals like the Kte 
Parisienne, which gives the English 
girl in her gushing, hatty, high- 
heeled aspect, and has just begun 
to understand the joke about ' the 
period;' but this development is 
quite recent— the blonde misse still 
holds her own in the shop windows, 
and it will be years before she is 
accepted in her new character. 

I am not quite sure that the Eng- 
lish superstition as regards our re- 
lations towards our lively neigh- 



22 



Social SuperililionB, 



boms has been dissipated with 
xmmixed advantage — as far as the 
gentler sex is concerned. Bat it 
must be admitted, that whether 
throngh French or other inflaecoe, 
English women— inciuding English 
girls of course — dress a great deal 
better than they did, and— except 
when they make caricatures of them* 
selves— cannot be accused of failing 
to set off their beauty to the best 
advantage. 

The mention of dress, again, sug- 
geslB that an old superstition con- 
ceroing costume has just exploded. 
I mean that which made it de rigueur 
£qt gentlemen, unless in some kind 
of uniform, to go to court in the 
habits as they lived of our fore- 
fathers in the middle of the reign 
of George IIL The dress was both 
imcomfortable and incongruous, and 
nobody liked it; and the change has 
at least this advantage — that it 
enables a nuui to wear in the pre- 
sence of his sovereign a dress of the 
shape to which he is accustomed in 
common life. But innovation be- 
gets innovation, and now we find 
certain levellers condemning the 
court dress worn by ladies as a 
superstition. Why, they ask, can- 
not ladies go to the drawing-rooms 
in mornini? dresses with high 
bodies? Tliese agitators, would, 
it seems, get rid of the 'feathers, 
blonde-cappets, and diamonds,' and 
all the rest of it, at one fell swoop, 
on the ground that full dress hap- 
pening in these days to be rather 
scanty, ladies who go to drawing- 
rooms are apt to take cold. The 
agitators may depend upon it that 
some stronger reason than this 
must be discovered before the ladies 
concerned will join the agitation, 
even if such a simplification would 
ever be permitted by the milliners. 
// faut wnffiir pour ftre bdlt is a 
social decree submitted to more 
philosophically than is the fate of 
most legal decrees. And if those 
who wear court dresses are content 
to suffer in one way, you may bo 
sure that tliose who make them will 
not be content to sutror in another. 
So the question, I fancy, may be 
safely left at rest between the two. 

Among superstitions which still 
survive, may be mentioned the be- 



lief in some apocryphal period 
known as the 'palmy days of the 
drama.' When these days existed, 
and what they were like, is not easy 
to determine. For we find no con- 
temporary evidence of their exist- 
ence; it has never been handed 
down to us that [people have said, 
' These are the palmy days of the 
drama ; I am content with the con- 
dition of the stage.' On the con- 
trary, from the earliest times of 
which we are able to take anything 
like a near view, the cry has always 
been that the regular drama was 
neglected whenever there were 
counter attractions in the form of 
French dancing girls, performing 
dogs or monkeys, or even such 
exhibitions oa puppet shows. No- 
body seems ever to have heard of 
the palmy days of the drama until 
they bad passed away, and then the 
praises had a suspicious appearance 
of being rung for the teni]»ora acii 
in !the abstract Great actors and 
actresses have lived no doubt before 
the Agamemnons of our own time, 
and their Homers have kept their 
fame aUve ; but it must be doubted 
if the drama— that is to say the 
regular drama— has had such great 
days for its own sake as has been 
made out The days of which we 
liave the most distinct idea are those 
comparatively early in the century, 
when enthusiastic ; people used to 
go to the pit door of iJrury Lane, 
and wait from two o'clock in the 
day to see Mrs. Sid dons, or the 
Kembles, and later still the elder 
Keon— buy a bill in the street, and 
6tru£rg1e for the attainment of three 
hours' intellectual ecstacy. One 
may suppose that the re\vard was 
greater than could be gained now 
by a similar process— supposing the 
process to be necessary; but the 
fact was due to exceptional circum- 
stances ; and if the public taste was 
high, it hod not so many invitations 
as it has in the present day to be- 
come low. If there were better 
actors there were certainly worse, 
and the same may be said of the 
pieces which obtained popularity — 
the inferior class of which would 
not be listened to now, as has been 
proved by occasional experiments. 
There is a larger public in these 



Social SuperstUiom, 



23 



ixmeB; but even making allowance 
for the fact, a larger proportionate 
amount of money is spent upon the 
drama than used to be spent, dra- 
matic authors make larger profits, 
• and dramatic performers are better 
paid. It is true that plays of a low 
class, and players of a low class, 
aometimes succeed, as well as plays* 
and players of a higher class— some- 
limes better, ind^, when a tho« 
zoagh hit is made. But this has 
always been the case ; and they do 
not fail because they are of a high 
^slass. When such pieces are un- 
.sncoessfal it is because there is 
something wrong about them — 
because they are cumbrous, dull, 
and unfitted for the stage. A great 
deal of fftlse sentiment would once 
|>as8 for real, and a great many 
atuations which we have discoTered 
to be claptrap were accepted by our 
lorefathers in good faith. On the 
whole, judging by the number of 
theatres we have, and the number 
of pieces that fill them, and the 
standard of excellence demanded by 
most of the audiences, it must be a 
mistake to suppose that the drama 
has declined or is declining. There- 
fQxe the belief in the palmy days, as 
compared with our own — which, 
however, is far weaker than it was 
— ^must be ranked among the super- 
stitions. 

An alleged cause of the supposed 
decline of the drama is the late 
hour at which most of us dine. It has 
become later and later in the course 
of the last few years, and we seem 
rapidly arriving at the fsishionable 
pomt said to have been attained by 
a late American president, who was 
such a great man that he never took 
his dinner until the next day ! But 
it is made later, and worse than 
later because less certain, by a su- 
perstitious custom which prevails 
of the host fixing one time and 
the guests assembling at another. 
The inconvenience was pointed out 
the other day in a morning journal, 
and it is one which decidedly de- 
mands reform. Everybody under- 
stands that a little grace is allowed 
beyond the quarter-past seven, 
quarter to eight, or eight, set down 
in the invitation ; but nobody knows 
exactly how much, tmless well ac- 



quainted with the custom of the 
particular house. And as few 
choose to incur the embarrassment 
of being too early, a groat many 
ran the hazard of being too late. 
The consequence is an amount of 
confusion and annoyance which is 
felt equally by host and guest 
There is only one way of destroy- 
ing this monstrous delusicm, and 
saving the enormous amount of 
time and temper which it wastes 
in the course of the year; that is, 
to issue invitations for the exact 
hour at which the party is expected 
to be assembled, with a special pro- 
vision as to punctuality until the 
rule becomes generally understood. 
While on the sulijeot of dinners, 
I may mention a custom vdiieh is 
surely founded upon superstition, 
and ought to be banished for ever 
from civilised society— the only so- 
ciety in which it prevails. Why 
should we be obliged to perf<»m 
the not yery difficult operati(« of 
dividing our food into morsels fitted 
for the mouth with a weapon so 
formidable and effectiye that we 
could employ it 'with the greatest 
ease to cut the throat of our nest 
neighbour from ear to ear? Had 
we to kill the meat in the first in- 
stance one could understand the 
propriety of being so armed; for 
the sake of carving joints that bore 
and birds that bewilder, such an 
instrument is appropriate enough. 
But why place it in the hands of 
persons who have only their own 
mouths to accommodate? It is 
enough to embarrass a nervous 
man, and how that very uncom- 
fortable person, ' the most delicate 
lady,' manages to survive the re- 
sponsibility is one of those mar- 
yels which can be accounted for 
only by custom founded on the 
grossest superstition. The anomaly 
exists bat in association with Euro- 
pean manners. The natives of the 
EM;, and semi-civilised people else- 
where, would not dream of such an 
enormity. I do not insist, of course, 
that people ought to eat with their 
fingers; and chopsticks are natu- 
rally unfitted for dividing a steak. 
But when knives are wanted— and 
they are not wanted, nor used, for 
many dishes— why should we be 



24 



Socicd SupersiUions. 



made to use a murderous weapon ? 
One can fancy them fitted for the 
days of old, when km'ghts carved at 
the meal in gloves of steel and 
drank the red wine through the 
helmet barred ; but in those times 
people used their own knives at 
the table, and employed them, upon 
occasion, in casual combats. Such 
is not now the custom, though 
there are instances of the proceed- 
ing on the part of violent persons 
even when engaged at the meal 
itself; and the temptation is one 
which should not be thrown in the 
way of men of ungovernable tem- 
pers, exasperated, it may be, by the 
bad dinner of humble life. But 
these enormous knives are given us 
odviEcdly, and so careful is custom 
in measuring the supposed neces- 
sities of the case, that for the lighter 
descriptions of food smaller knives 
are given, so that you are supposed 
to calculate the amount of force re- 
quired at every course, and always 
employ it accordingly. It is always 
a comfort to get to a little knife 
after a large one — it is like the 
sense of peace and security that 
comes after a fray— and no knife 
need be larger than the silver one 

gut on for dessert, if indeed it need 
e so large; and I need scarcely 
odd that forks might be modified 
in proportion. 
There are a few superstitions in 



connection with our language whicb 
may be pointed out in this place. 
There have been a great many in 
most times; but some have dis- 
appeared while others have arisen, 
and there are not mauy now re- 
maining. Among them I will note 
only some peculiarities in pronun- 
ciation. We still call Derby Darby 
and Berkeley Berkeley, Fall Mall 
Pell Mell, not to add other instances. 
Contractions, too, are not un&e> 
quent Thus we cannot ask if the 
Marquis of Cholmondeley is at 
home, giving the syllables their 
legitimate sound, witiiout running 
the risk of being told by a facetious 
servant that he will refer us to some 
of his people. If we ask for the 
Marquis of Ghumley we shall be 
treated at least with respect. 
Again, we must not say Leveson 
Gower, but Leusou Gore, unless we 
wish to be supposed out of the pale 
of society; and Mr. Marjoribtuiks 
would consider us a Goth if we 
called him anything but March- 
banks. These are only some of 
the cases that mieht be cited. 
Are they not founded upon su- 
perstition ? 

There are other superstitious ob- 
servances in social Ufe to which I 
might refer ; but I dare say I have 
cited illustrations enough, and the 
rest may suggest themselves to your 
mind without my assistance. 

Sidney L. Elanchard. 




25 




ANCIENT HOSTELBIES, AND THE MEN WHO FRE- 
QUENTED THEM. 

C0nc(rnCng ^nfiM, ffiragotutf, KtCts certain ancient Salacej^. 

ONG ago, when the elder Mr. 
WeUer, disciifising valentines, 
asked 'What was the nse o' 
callin' a yonng woman a angel ?' 
and added that you 'might as 
well call her a Grifi&n or a King's 
Arms, which is werry well known 
to be a collection of fabulous ani- 
mals/ he displayed. a deep and 
significant knowledge in the matter 
of tayern signs. 

It is satisfactory to know, how- 
ever, that while 'The Devil' (of 
which fiEunous hostelry we have 
already gossiped) was only an ab- 
breviation of a title which owed its 
dignity more to Saint Dunstan 
than to the arch-enemy, there have 
been, and still are, ^gels which 
claim our respectful observation. 
Perhaps the most noted of the old 
places bearing this sign was that 
which formerly stood near the entrance of Clement's Inn, opposite the 
railings of the church of St. Clement Danes. The locality itself was 
ancient enough to give an antiquarian interest to the hostelry, which, 
however, was not so old as the locality, though doubtless a house of enter- 
tainment stood there even in the days when Henry HI. granted a piece of 
ground close by to Walter le Bruin, the carrier, for the purpose of erecting 
a forge on it The suit and service demanded of this doughty disciple of 
St Clement was that he should annually render to the exchequer a quit 
rent of six horseshoes, with the nails belonging to them ; and when the 
groimd afterwards came into possession of the City, the same stipulation 
was demanded of the sheriffs, who either themselves or by an ofQcer of the 
court had to produce the horseshoes and the nails at the time of their 
swearing in, and to count them before the Cursitor Baron, who represented 
the sovereign. This custom is now, we believe, disused, and the Angel 
itself, an old-fashioned coaching-house, once the resort of ' gentlemen of 
the long robe,' has long ago disappeared under that title. On its site, 
however, another hostelry has risen, which is certainly quite as famous, 
and is probably as well known to members of the legal profession as it is 
to the .artists and men engaged in literary pursuits whose business take& 
them Strandward. 

The late proprietor, father of the present Mr. Carr, gave his own name 
to the modem representative of * The Angel,' and it soon achieved a repu- 
tation which it still preserves as a place where a sound English dinner 
may be accompanied by sound French wine, a combination particularly 
acceptable to modem tastes, especially as ' Carr's' is distinguished for giving 
its customers the benefit of the reduced duties on light wines, and so has 
set an example to other hostel ries which it is to be regretted has not been 
very vndely followed. It may be said that this is one of the few places 
where the conditions of the ancient hostelry are preserved in regard to the 
provision of substantial fare with the liquids that our forefathers drank 
before the Methuen treaty banished claret and Burgimdy from British 
tables in favour of black strap and fiery sherry, so that the best elements 



26 



AneieiU HostdrieSf and the Men who Frequented them. 



of the Angel and its predecessors 
reappear notwithstanding the inno- 
vations of time. It may be hoped 
that the new law courts will leave 
the old site unmolested. The Inn 
of St. Clement was originally, it is 
supposed^ a hoose of entertainment 
near the monastery^ and leoeiYed 
penitents who came to 6t Clement's 
Well, the Holy well which gave 
its name to the adjoining street 
As early as Edward II., however, it 
was an inn of Chancery, and the 
monastery having been removed, the 
Holy Lamb, an inn on the west side 
of the lane, received the pious as 
well as the more secular guests. 

The only other 'Angel' which 
seems to have obtained general re- 
cognition is the Angel at Islington, 
bat its fiune, like that of the Ele- 
phant and Castle, at the end of the 
BcHOughand the top of Walworth, 
is connected less with its antiquity 
or its reputation as an hostelry than 
with its being regarded as a land- 
mark and a place where travellers 
took coach for long or short jour- 
neys. The Elephant and Castle, 
by-the-by, was, half a century ago 
or little more, only a one-storied, 
low-roofed roadside inn, a pic- 
turesque place enough, with a gal- 
lery outside, and derived no small 
degree of its reputation from the 
adjoining chapel, a building in- 
scribed in gigantic capitals 'The 
House of Qod,' and used by the fol- 
lowers of Joanna Southcott, pictures 
of whose dreams and visions were 
painted on the interior walls. 

There have been several celebrated 
hostelhes at Islington, however, 
when that ancient suburb was 
rightly called * merrie,* and was cele- 
brated, not only for its ponds where 
the Londoners went ' ducking,' but 
for its cheesecakes and custards. 
Pepys records how his father used 
to carry him ' to Islington to the 
old man's at the King's Head to eat 
cakes and ale (his name was Pitts),' 
and after that the once noted wells 
were discovered by Sadler in the 
garden of a house which he had 
opened as a public music-room. It 
ia at Sadler's Wells, opposite the Sir 
Hugh Myddeltoo Tavern, that Ho- 
garth laid the scene of his ' Evening.' 
It was in 1683 that these wells, very 



much resembling the waters of Tun- 
bridge Weils in their medidnal pro- 
perties, were opened; and in 1684 
appewed a squib called ' A Morning 
Eambie ; or, Islington Wells bur- 
lesqt,' in which the author apostro- 
phnes the saborb Ǥ 'Audacious 
andnBOomeionablelaliogton! Was 
it not enough that thou haflt, time 
out of mind, been the metrapolitan 
of cakes, custards, and sfcefwed 
pmans?'— famous for bottled ale 
that Begius the Huzza before one 
drinks the health, and statutable 
cans nine at least to the quart. 
The fame of Islington cakes is no- 
ticed by several writers, and itseeniB 
to ba,i9 enjoyed an equal reputation 
for costards, cream, and milk. 'A 
man who gives the natural iiifltay 
of the cow is not to ten b<nr many 
cows are milked at Uiogton,' i^s 
Dr. Johnson, and it would seem that 
this iwml assodation with dairy 
prodnoe m atill the chaaetaristie ot 
the neigbbooriiood. It maj be be- 
lieved, theretoe, tbat the hostelries 
were pretty well supported by the 
holiday-makers who wanted some- 
thing either to qualify the water of 
Sadler's Wells or to accompany the 
ci^es of their suburban haunt. It 
was in afirst fiocnrof the 'Old Parr's 
Head' that John Henderson is said 
to have made his first ess^y in 
acting, and the Old Pied Bull was 
still more celebrated, since it was 
declared to have once been a villa 
belonging to Sir Walter fialeigh. 
Then there was the Bed Bull 
Theatre, in St. John's Street Boad, 
originally, it is believed, the Bed 
Bull InD, whose ample yard baviDg 
been used for acting plays or other 
performances, was at last converted 
into a regular theatre kte in the 
reign of Qaeen Elizabeth. It was 
there that the king's players per- 
formed, under the management of 
EilUgrew, till the stage in Drury 
Lane was ready. After this it be- 
came a kind of fencing-«chooU or 
rather a theatre for the display of 
strength and feats of arms. 'The 
Bed Bull stands empty for fencers,' 
eajs Davenant in 1663; 'there are 
no tenante in it but spiders.' Pupils 
of celebrated masters of the noble 
art of self-defence were pitted against 
each other there, and the * sets-to' 



AncieiU Mostdrtea, and the Men who Frequented them, 27 



comprised bouts with 'backsword, 
single rapier, sword and dagger, 
rapier and dagger, sword and buck- 
ler, half-pike sword and gauntlet, 
«jid single feiulchion.' 

When once we commence with 
the ' Balls' we have a list of hostel- 
ries famous alike for their antiquity 
and for the recollections of the men 
who once resorted to their hospitable 
portals. Curious enough, two of the 
'Buir fraternity obtained their 
names from a corruption of the ori- 
ginal sign. The Bull and Gate iu 
Holbom was, according to Steevens, 
the Shakspearian commentator (who 
^ined the information from the 
title-page of an old play), no other 
than the 'BuUogpe Gate,' a sign 
adopted in compliment to Henry 
YIIL after the taking of Boulogne 
in 1544. It was a celebrated hos- 
telry for travellers in the time of 
Fielding, who makes Tom Jones 
alight there on his arrival in London, 
and once more retreat there, by 
the advice of Partridge, during his 
efforts to discover Sophia. A similar 
corruption was that of the Ball and 
Mouth, which should have been 
Boulogne Mouth, once to be seen iu 
St. Martin's-le-Grand, and said by 
Strype to be ' of a good resort by 
tho^ that bring bonae lace, where 
the shopkeep^ and others come to 
buy it. In this part of St. Martin's,' 
be goes on, 'is a noted meeting- 
house of the Quakers, called the 
Bull and Mouth, and where they 
met long before the fire.' 

At the Bull's Head in Clare Mar- 
ket the celebrated Dr. Eadcliffe was 
a frequent guest It was Badcliffe, 
whose skill was so great that he 
could afford to apply his witticisms 
even to royalty; for when he was 
called upon to attend William III., 
who showed him his swollen legs 
and asked him what he thought of 
them, he replied, 'Why, truly, I 
would not have your majesty's two 
legs for your three kingdoms.' The 
blunt answer gave no little offence, 
but the eminent physician, who was 
afterwards member of parliament 
for Buckingham, and founded the 
famous library at Oxford, seemed to 
care very little even for royal favour. 
It was at the Bull's Head, too, that 
the artists' club, of which Hogarth 



was a member, held its meetings. 
Then there is the Bull Head Ta- 
vern at Charing Cross, remarkable 
chiefly as being next door to the 
house (opening on to Spring Gar- 
dens) where Milton lived for a short 
time. More notorious than this was 
the Golden Cross, in the same 
locality, the resort of that consum- 
mate ruffian Dick England, who 
frequented that place for the pur- 
pose of picking up victims among 
the Irishmen who came to London 
by the coaches that made the house 
their halting-place. There have 
been few such oonsununate black- 
legs as England, who contrived to 
make such profits by betting and 
gambling that he not only kept an 
elegant house in St. Alban's Street, 
but actually engaged inasters to in- 
struct him in polite literature, and 
impart to him the graces of fashion- 
able life. He was made president 
of the four o'clock ordinary at Mun- 
day's coffee-house, gave large sums 
for the horses on which he rode 
about town, and carried on this 
elegant career in spite of his rival, 
G«orge Mahon, who seems to have 
had less finesse than England, and 
perhaps was a little lees ready to back 
his luck by an appeal to the sword. 
Pay or fight was England's general 
rule, when the stakes were high 
enough to make the risk worth 
while; and as he was an accom- 
plished duellist as well as a bully, 
he generally contrived to obtain 
debts of honour. At last, on the 
iSth of June, 1784, he challenged a 
brewer of Kingston, from whom he 
had won a large sum of money, and 
killed his opponent in Leicester 
Fields, in consequence of which he 
was compelled to leave the country 
and fled to Paris, where he con- 
trived to convey such useful infor- 
mation of the revolution to our 
army during the campaign in Flan- 
ders, that he became a paid agent of 
the British cabinet Several times 
he was committed to prison, and his 
neck was in danger of the guillotine, 
but he contrived to get off; and at 
last, expecting perhaps that his ser- 
vices had expiated his crime, came 
to England, where he was appre- 
hendea and punished with the fine 
of a shilling and one year's imprison- 



Ancient HostdrieSy and the Men toko Frequented them. 



ment His careor had oome to an 
end, however, for on his release he 
was heard of no moie, but lived in 
comparative poverty at his house in 
Leicester Square. Ho did live, how- 
ever, to beyond the ordinary term 
of men's lives, for he was eighty 
years old when he was found lying 
dead on a sofa by the person who 
went to call him to dinner. 

To return to the Bulls, however, it 
is necessary to retrace our steps to 
the City, where the old Bull Inn in 
Bi^opsgate was once the resort of 
rare company. We have before 
spoken of the adaptations of the old 
um yards to the purpose of a theatie, 
and the Bull in Bishopsgate was 
one of the most famous for these 
early stage plays. Before Burbage 
and his companions obtained a 

Eatent from Queen Elizabeth for 
uilding a regular theatre, the actors 
found space in the yard of the Boll 
for their dramatic representations, 
and it is not unlikely that Shake* 
speare himself, who for some time, it 
is believed, lived in the parish of 
Saint Helen, Bishoppgate, witnessed, 
if he did not have any special interest 
in these performances. It is certain 
that the humorist Tarlton often 
played there, as he did at the old 
Belle Sauvage ; and close to the old 
hostelry lived Anthony Bacon (the 
brother of tbo great essayist and 
philosopher), much to the anxiety of 
his mother, who feared lest the 
morals of his servants might be cor- 
rupted by the vicinity of the play- 
house,~-and also lamented the want 
of spiritual advantages in a parish 
which was ' without a godly clergy- 
man.' The Bull is perhaps still 
more memorable as the place to 
which the celebrated Hobson, the 
Cambridge carrier, used to go when 
he made his journey to London. 
'This memorable man,' says the 
' Spectator,' ' stands drawn in fresco 
at an inn in Bishopsgato Street, with 
a hundred pound bag under his 
arm, with this inscription on the 
said bag : 

'The fruitful mother of an bandred more/ 

Well may Hobson be said to be a 
memorable man, since he had the 
honour of two epitaphs written by 
Milton. He was bom about 1544, 
and inherited from his father ' the 



team ware with which he now goeth, 
that is to say, the cart and eight 
horses, harness, nag, &c' Monthly 
for many years he passed between 
the University and the Bull Inn, 
carrying letters, parcels, and occa- 
sionally passengers. To this busi- 
ness he added that of letting horses 
for hire,~inde6d he is said to have 
been the first person in the kingdom 
who engaged in the trade, and his 
role of never allowing any horse to 
leave the stable except in its proper 
order added to his celebrity by 
making him responsible for the 
celebrated proverb known as Hob- 
son's choice— 'that or none.' So 
well did he thrive by this business 
of letting horses to the collegians, 
that in 1604 he contributed 50^. to 
the loan of King James I., and in 
1626 he gave a large Bible to the 
church of the parish of St Benedict, 
where he resided, while two years 
later he presented to the CTniversity 
and town the land for the Spinning 
House, otherwise known as Hob- 
son's workhouse. By that time he 
had acquired considerable estates, 
and at his death, which occurred at 
the age of eighty-five, in 1 6 30, during 
the time that his visits to London 
were suspended by the authorities 
on account of the plague, he be- 
queathed, beside property to his 
family, money to the Corporation 
and the profits of the pasture land 
(now the site of Downing College) 
towards the heightening and pre- 
servation of the conduit in Cam- 
bridge. He also left money to the 
poor of Cambridge, Chesterton, 
Waterbeach, Cottenham, and Boun- 
tingford. He was buried in the 
chancel of the church of St Bene- 
dict, but neither monument nor in- 
scription marks the spot, although 
the author of * Paradise Lost ' wrote 
the punning elegy upon him, which 
says: 

' Ease was hLs chief diseiue : and, to judge right. 
He died for weariness that his cart went light : 
HLi leisure told him that his time was come. 
And lack of load made his life burdensome. 
Obedient tu the moon he spent bis date 
In course reciprocal, and bad his fate 
Linked to the mutual flowing of the seas ; 
Yet, strange to thluk, his tram was his in- 

crtoM. 
His letters are delivered all and gone, 
Only remains this superscription.' 



Ancient Hostdries, and the Men wlio Frequented them. 



He seems to haye been generally 
esteemed, at any rate, and several 
portraits of him were long preserved, 
one of which was to be seen nntil 
the beginning of the present oentnry 
at the ancient hostelry of which he 
was so remarkable a visitor. 

There is very little of its antiquity 
now remaining at the Bnll, how- 
ever, and in a few years there may 
be only one or two of these quaint 
old inns remaining in the City, or, 
for that matter, in any part of Lon- 
don. The Four Swans, which once 
also stood on Bishopsgate, has made 
way for 'modern improvements,' 
and the Vine and the Green Dragon 
alone remain to keep their ancient 
comradecompany. The Green Dragon 
is perhaps one of the best remaining 
examples of the old hostelry, and 
something like the old style is scru- 
pulously retained there, for although 
the proprietor has continued to 
maintein the building in firesh re- 
pair, it is difficult to discover where 
the hand of time had imprinted it 
with decay. One innovation is at 
least a pleasant one : the queer ex- 
ternal galleries, a little modernised 
in their renovation, have been en- 
closed with glass,— and on a trellis- 
work leading up to the balcony 
luxuriant creeping plants have been 
made to twine, so as to give a cool 
and refreshing aspect to the old inn 
yard in summer-time. There is, in 
fact, a wonderful vitality in the Green 
Dragon, which still opens its hos- 
pitable jaws for scores of guests who 
go daily to dine in its low-oeilinged 
rooms, with great beams at all sorts 
of angles, and shining mahogany 
tables and old-fashioned boxes, 
where a party of six can find com- 
fortable elbow-room. The Dragon 
is great in rich soups and mighty 
joints of prime succulent meat and 
substantial eating in general,— dis- 
daining modern embellishments and 
French kickshaws, and caring very 
little about patent methods. Con- 
tenting itself with an old-&shioned 
range and a good plain cook, and 
old wines that have stood the test of 
opinion for three generations : so that 
it may be said to flourish in a Green 
(Dragon) old ago and is no unfit 
representative of its old patron who 
' wealthy grew by warrantable &me.' 



The demands of modem society, 
and especially the influence of rail- 
ways, which have shortened long 
journeys and the enormous growth 
of suburban London, which provides 
residences for those who formerly 
lived near their business in the City, 
have gone far to diminish the number 
of those ancient ho^telries, once the 
representatives of good cheer and 
unqaestioned comfort Many of the 
old places have entirely disappeaied, 
and new piles of building devoted 
to offices and mercantQe warehouseB 
have made the sites which they 
once occupied almost undisoover- 
able. Othera have been suffered to 
go to decay, and are now used for 
other purposes. We spoke, in a 
former number, of that good old 
hostelry the Saracen's Head in Aid- 
gate, where once the noted sign 
hung as one of London's landmarCs. 
Since that notice was written we 
have learned that there is still a 
Saracen's Head, a tavern, kept by 
the daughter of the last proprietor 
of the venerable hostelry, and that 
the original sign, vast, weighty, and of 
terribly grim presence, now gives its 
name to a house in Northumberland 
Alley, in Fenchurch Street. More 
than that, the frequenten of the 
ancient place, or their modem repre- 
sentatives, have preserved their 
allegiance, and in ihe little parlour 
of the Saracen's Head of to^y we 
may still meet the sturdy North 
Sea pilots who came thither for their 
pay after a blusterous voyage that 
has perhaps kept them beating 
about the coast of Norway, with the 
Tision of their hit hostess and the 
hoped-for rest and food and fire that 
awaited them in this queer nook of 
old London to cheer them in anxious 
watches and the driving mist and 
spray of their long nights at eea. 

There is another house in Fen- 
church Street which cannot well be 
left out in a gossip about London 
and its hostelries; and it has con- 
trived to combine with its quaint 
reputation a skilful adaptation to 
modem wants. It was at the 
King's Head, named after her royal 
father, that Queen Elizabeth is said 
to have dined on her way from the 
Tower after her short imprisonment ; 
and thoagh there may be sceptics 



30 



Andmt Hostelries^ and the Men who Frequented them* 



whoare inclined to doubt tho identity 
of the dish and platter exhibited as 
the veritable articles used at the 
table of the great princess, — and the 
present antique character of the 
handsome smoking-room is some- 
what indebted to modem imitatiTO 
art, it is quite certain that the old 
place has so kept abreast of the 
times that even City clerks and 
hurried merchants can dine there 
from more toothsome viands than 
many that graced the royal tables 
in the days of its first prosperity. 

Strangest, and not the least in- 
teresting among the London hostel- 
ries of our day, are those ancient 
palaces, which, having survived the 
wrecks made by time, have outlived 
their original state, and now open 
their portals for the throng of to- 
day to take the places once held by 
the men and women of the past It • 
is especially in that historical 
quarter of London known as 
Bishopsgate, that wo find the most 
remarkable samples of these ancient 
buildings which are yet but modern 
hostelries. Till lately it was Ger- 
rard's Hall which was the more 
prominent example of the convert 
sion of the old palace into the 
modern tavern. 

Gerrard's Hall in Basingham 
could hardly be called a modem 
hostelry, however, for in the time of 
Stow it had been converted to that 
use, and until very recently the fine 
old place with its ball-room, its beds 
for seventy-eight guests, its antique 
chambers, and its fine Norman crypt, 
were among the sights of London. 

It was in 1245 that John Gisors, 
Mayor of London, lived in this old 
city palace, so that we should have 
to go back far in English history to 
write the story of the venerable 
house. A romance, such as Bulwer 
has given us, might be made from 
the records of the men who fre- 
quented that palace built on the 
land that bore the name of the 
great family of Basing at a time 
when the City traders had already 
begun to achieve, by their wealth 
and industry, an influence that was 
not fully asserted till the Wars of 
the Boses had ceased and the 
Seventh Henry constmcted the 
fabric for which the ground had 



been cleared by the destmction of 
the barons and the feudal chivalry. 
To commimicate the names of the 
celebrated men who frequented a 
mansion, the history of which b^;ins 
in the reign of Henry III., while its 
legendary reputation goes back into 
tradition, would require a separate 
article. It must suffice to repeat 
the words of the chronicler Stow, 
who says: 'On the south side of 
Basingham is one great house of old 
time, built upon arched vaults, and 
with arched gates of stone, brought 
from Caen in Normandy. The same 
is now a common hostelry for receipt 
of travellers, commonly and cor- 
rnptly called Gerrard's Hall, of a 
giant said to have dwelt there. In 
tho high-roofed hall of this house 
sometime stood a large fir-pole which 
reached to the roof thereof, and was 
said to be ono of the staves that 
Gerrard the giant used in the wars 
to ran withaJ. There stood also a 
ladder of the same length, which (as 
they say) seemed to ascend to the 
top of the staff. Of late years this 
hall is altered and divers rooms are 
made in it. Notwithstanding the 
pole is removed to one comer of the 
hall, and the ladder hanged broken 
upon a wall in the yard. The 
hosteler of that house said to me, 
*' The pole lacketh half a foot of 
forty in length:" I measured the 
compass thereof and found it fifteen 
inches. Keasons of the pole could 
the master of the hostelry give me 
none ; but bade me read the great 
Chronicles, for there he heard of it 
I will now note what myself hath 
observed concerning that house. I 
read that John Gisors, Mayor of 
London in the year 1245, ''^as 
owner thereof, and that Sir John 
Gisors, Constable of the Tower 1311, 
and divers others of that name and 
family since that time, owned it So 
it appeareth that this Gisors' Hall 
of late time by corruption hath 
l>een called Gerrard*s Hall for Gisors' 
Hall. The pole in the hall might 
be used of old time (as then the 
custom was in every parish) to be 
set up in the summer as a maypole. 
The ladder served for the decking of 
the maypole and roof of the hall.' 

Chamberlain in his history of 
London follows Stow, and recounts 



AneietU Ho9lelrt€$y and the Men who Frequented them. 81 



tbat 'the labnlotiB tradiiioDS swal- 
lowed by onr credtilonB ancestoiB' 
niade Gerrard a giant whose 'skull 
being found woald hold five peoks ; 
and his thigh bone was six feet long, 
imd one of his teeth weighed ten 
pounds tioy: without considering 
that a person of such prodigious 
dimensions could not possibly in- 
habit a house or hall of the size this 
appears to have been by its remains, 
which are still to be seen in the 
arched vaults, supported by sixteen 
pillars built of stone brought from 
Caen in Normandy^ and are now 
used for cellars, being oitiiely under 
the floor of the building.' 

Qiflors', or as it was still called, 
Gerrard's Hall, has only lately dis- 
appeared, however. Theyery site 
will soon be uncertain, and no 
modem hostelry marks the place' 
where it formerly stood. 

Another queerold mansion, patched 
and preserved in a shabby sem- 
blance to its original quaini plas- 
tered frontal and unequal gables, is 
now an ordinary tavern, known as 
the Sir Paul Pindar, in Bishops- 
gate. The house was, in fact, the 
residence of the noted km'ght whose 
name it still bears; and though 
these are few internal relics of the 
state he once held there, the edifice 
itself is still something of an ex- 
ample of the old civic mansion of 
the fifteenth or sixteenth century. 
Sir Paul Pindar, who was bom at 
Wellingborough, in Northampton- 
shire, in 1566, received the educa- 
tion of a gentleman of those times; 
but having discovered a remarkable 
desire to follow commercial pur- 
suits, he was apprenticed to an 
Italian merchant in the City, named 
Parrish, by whom he was employed 
as an agent in Venice, then the 
great mart of the world. For 
several years he lived in the Levant 
and other places abroad until, on 
his coming to England in 16 11, his 
great skill as a linguist induced the 
company of merchants to the Le- 
vant to recommend him to King 
James as ambassador to the. Grand 
Seigneur. In that office he re- 
mained nine years, to the great ad- 
vantage of English interests, and 
probably to his own, for when he came 
home he brought with him a for- 



tune comprised in a single diamond 
valued at 30,00c/. It may easily he- 
supposed that the eyes of the British 
Solomon were dazzled by such a- 
jewel, and that he coveted it as 
much as was at all consistent with 
his reputation for wisdom and vir- 
tue; but Pindar was implacable, 
and would only ccmsent to lend the 
'bonnie sparkler' upon state occa- 
sions. The femous jewel and its 
owner survived King James, and 
the latter was equally desired by 
his successor Charles L, who at lasi 
contrived to purchase it, though it 
is said that it was afterwards i)awned 
to the Queen of Bohemia during 
the civil troubles. Meanwhile Sir 
Paul, who had refased the post of 
Lieutenant of the Tower, preferred 
the more solid advantage to be 
derived as one of the farmers of the 
Customs, in which capacity he ad- 
vanced large sums to the Crown, 
obtaining in return a great exten- 
sion of the privileges of the City. 
He was afterwards able to provide 
money for the safe conduct of the 
unfortunate queen and her children ; 
and indeed he seems to have been 
wonderfully sagacious in his specu- 
lations not only for himself but for 
the state. The nmnufacture of 
alum, which had been introduced at 
Whitby by an Italian, was taken up 
by him in such a way as to secure 
it for a monopoly to the Crown, 
which lasted till 1643. At length, 
however, the knight's affairs became 
so embarrassed by the troublous 
events of the kingdom that at his 
death the executors found them- 
selves unable to extricate them, and 
one of them (William Toomes) who 
had been nominated to fulfil his 
testamentary intentions found the 
task so hopeless that he evaded it 
by committing suicide. The parish 
books of St Botolph, Blshopsgate, 
contain numerous entries of the 
worthy knight's liberality in sub- 
scribing for communion-plate, money 
for the poor, and venison for feast- 
ing the parochial magnates. One 
of the entries is, ' Given to Sir Paul's 
cooke, who brought the pastie, 
25. 6^.' Another account refers to 
the feast for which the knight sent 
the venison, and amounts to 195. 6d, 
for 'floure, butter, pepper, ^ges,. 



82 



Ancient Hostelries, and the Men who Frequented titem. 



makiog, and baking.' There is also 
an entry of 2I, paid by Sir Panl for 
license to eat flesh on fish days; 
and the last reference to the worthy 
knight is in 1650, when 168. was 
paid to the glazier for mending the 
windows broken at his funeral. It 
would be difficult to imagine the 
present decayed building, which is 
«11 that remains of the knight's 
mansion, the house to which a pork 
«nd garden were once attached; 
but tibere are changes almost as 
strange in other parts of this great 
•city. 

Not, however, in that most beau- 
tiful of all the old London palaces, 
€ro8by Hall. Since the days when 
the great building and its court- 
yard covered nearly the whole site 
of Crosby Square, where it was 
built by Sir John Crosby on land 
leased from the ancient convent 
of St. Helen's; the neighbourhood 
has altered, but the great banquet- 
ing hall, with its glorious oak roof, 
its charming bay-window, and its 
fine proportions, is still much as it 
was in the days when the wily 
and unpitying Duke of Gloucester 
schemed for the crown in the apart- 
ments of the palace which he had 
then made his residence. There is 
no need to go at length into the 



history of this fine old place, still 
one of the most beautiful examples 
of domestic Gothic architecture to 
be seen in Europe ; while a record 
of its frequenters would include 
some of the greatest names in the 
most brilliant history of our country. 
A very full account of the ancient 
City palace, its occupiers and visit- 
ors, nas been published by the 
present proprietor, who, with a 
worthy regard for all that is noble 
in its history, has preserved and re- 
stored it with only such few altera- 
tions as have also restored to its 
original purpose the great banquet- 
ting hall ; so that City clerks and 
merchants, as well as visitors from 
all parts of London, find in the vene- 
rable building the comforts and 
conveniences of a modem dining- 
room, where economy and luxury 
go hand in hand, and the wines of 
France and Germany are restored 
to the representatives of the men 
who drank their Clary and hippo- 
eras, BJB well as the beer that has 
ever since been regarded as the 
drink of Britain. There is in Lon- 
don no more striking example of a 
rightly- directed enterprise than that 
conversion of the ancient City palace 
to the purposes of the modem 
hostelry. 




^^^"^^^^y^ 



88 



PUBLIC SCHOOL TYPES. 



ME. BUCKLE in his 'History of 
Ciyilization' ventnies some- 
lehere or other to start the qnestion 
what modifications the Engluh cha- 
racter might possibly undergo, if, in- 
stead of being a people addicted to 
the consumption of beer and other 
equally heayy beyeiages, we were to 
emulate the continental example, 
and adhere to light olazet and the 
wines that are natiTO to the banks 
of the Bhine. Should we be 
straightway metamorphosed into a 
nation Tolatile and lighthearted 
even as our lively neighbour the 
Gaul? Would all traces of our 
insular phlegmatism disappear? 
Should we become the inheritors 
of natures so mobile and facile as 
to renounce the Conseryatism which 
in some shape or other is one of our 
iuTariable ijopular characteristics? 
Should we, in fact, be a race of men 
wholly diffarent from what we at 
present are? The solution of the 
problem is difficult enough, seeing 
thaty amongst other things necessary 
to be demonstrated before we could 
be sure of realizing the conditions 
essential to the case, is the point 
whether it would be possible in this 
mvskv climate of ours for the bulk 
of the people, the toiling masses, 
whose labour is intellectual as well 
as physical, to support themselves 
on the airy fluids which we have 
mentioned in lien of the national 
heavy wet 

A more pertinent inquiry for our 
present purpose is what would be 
the difimence felt in the develop- 
ment of our national manhood if we 
were to sweep off from the face of 
the earth all trace of such institu- 
tions as our public schools and uni- 
versities ? How fax can the count- 
less influences of these, and especially 
the former, be said to be indis- 
solubly interwoven with the com- 

E Heated network of our popular 
fe? The well-known saying of the 
Duke of WelliDgton that the battle 
of Wateiloo was won upon the 
playing-fields of Eton has been re- 
pneated so often that we are almost 
sick of hearing it. But after all it 
is typical of a great truth, sym- 
VOL. XVL— HO. xoi. 



bolical of a mighty fact which ad- 
mits of no trifling. What do the 
mass of parents 'send their sons to 
our pubhc schools for? How is it 
that Eton and Harrow are fall to 
overflowing — ^that it is almost as 
difficult to get a boy into either of 
those seminaries as to procure the 
entree of the Carlton or Athenieum? 
It is not that the mental tndning 
which either of these seats of learn- 
ing administers is so superlatively 
and exceptionally good. On tiie 
contrary, with the amazing strides 
which national education is making 
throughout the country, a dull boy, 
or one only moderately clever— and 
to one of these two classes the mass 
of our British boys belong— has 
far better chance of becoming satu- 
rated with a modicum of knowledge 
at some of those centres of instruc- 
tion whose rise is altogether a more 
modem afi&iir. Ninety boys out of 
every hundred, it is scarcely too 
much to assert, are despatched duly 
to these great seminaries for no 
other purpose than that they may 
experience to the full the benefit 
of their social influences— that their 
characters may be strengthened and 
developed by the experiences of this 
little world, which is, after all, 
merely a microcosm of the great 
world outside. This being the fiinc- 
tion which a public school training is 
calculated and desired in the greater 
number of cases to perform, the 
immense force which these homes 
of education must possess ppon the 
moulding of the characters of Eng- 
lishmen generally is a self-evident 
&ci 

What are the diflbrent variations 
of morale, the select types of cha- 
racter, which are produced under 
these influences? Or is it to be 
supposed that the development of 
the public school boy as a class is 
tolerably uniform, no matter what 
the particular school to which he 
may hapx)en to belong— no matter 
whether he hail from Eton or Hu> 
row, Winchester or Westminster, 
or from foundations infinitely less 
venerable and celebrated? As an 
order, doubtless, all public school 

D 



84 



PtMie Sekool Tgpe$. 



boys have oeriun broad social 
featnies in oommon lehioh oon- 
clnsiTely dijBfeientiate them from 
private school prodaota. Bat the 
gerxoB admits of specific snbdiyision, 
and the marks of sepaiation yisible 
in these snbdiTisions are sufficiently 
easy to trace. 

' Eton gentlemen, Harrow backs, 
Westminster scholars, and Win- 
chester blackgaards;' this is the 
way in which it was once fashion- 
able, without any attempt at nicer 
distinctions or any question of the 
justice of the seyend classifications, 
to discriminate between the pro- 
ducts of the fiimous institations 
they enumerated. And the aphorism 
has about as much truth m it as 
such sayiogs usually hare. It is 
just possible to conoeiTe what may 
have originally given rise to this 
off-hand nomenclature— merely this, 
and nothing more. We must at- 
tempt a more philosophical system, 
and look at matters from a different 
point of view and with a minuter 
Tision. When could we have a 
better time than at present for the 
<x)mpletion of, at any rate, a por- 
tion of this task-^when a more 
appropriate moment for com- 
mencing our investigation of the 
various and complex phenomena of 
public school character than now — 
now when the ground at Lord*s is 
crowded with the whole of fashion- 
able London— when what is pre- 
eminently the public school match 
of the year is m course of celebra- 
ticm, and for two days at least the 
young Etonian or Harrovian is indis- 
putably the master of the situation 
and the hero of the hour? Look 
at them. See those boys of ours, 
how they saunter up and down the 
ground, threading their vray in and 
out between the maze of carriages^ 
knowing perfectly well that tibey 
or their scnoolfellows it is who have 
been instrumeotal in emptying Bel- 
gravia and Mayfair upon Lord's 
ground to-day, yet, infi^ring from 
their perfect air of coolness and 
imperturbable stoicism of demean 
nour, sublimely unconscious of the . 
fact The society of the great 
schools and of the great world out- 
side perpetually act and react upon 
each other. Qood society hates 



scenes, rotes every eooentriciiy of 
maimer aod demonstrativeness of 
demeanour bad form: the schools 
have followed suit, and the ideal 
of deportment which an Eton or 
Harrow boy proposes to fafmself is 
of pure paasionlsBS exterior. But 
'tis ihe old story. Expel Natare 
with a pitchfork, still will she 
assert her infiuence. The Etonian 
has schooled himself into ondemon- 
strativeness persistently and well; 
but the ringmg cheers which borst 
from those phalanges of boys in the 
dwk-blue and light-blue ties when- 
ever a good drive fbr four is made, 
or a clever ball bowled, tell us 
plainly enough that the dd spirit 
IS there as much as ever, and the 
enthusiasm, if greater, is only sup- 
pressed with purtial success. 

No wonder that England is proud 
of these her public school boys: no 
wonder that half a metropolis 
um'tes to applaud to the echo the 
athletic prowess of these young- 
sters: no wonder, too, that foreign 
potentates and princes should send 
their sons to Eton and Harrow, and 
when th^ see what Eton and Har- 
row can produce, devoutly say, 
'Cum talis sis utinam noster esses.* 
If these lads have learned some- 
thing of that self-containedness 
which is one of the great lessons of 
life; if, as they stroll to and fro over 
the green sward— we will call it 
green, if you please, if only for the 
poetiy of the thing—independence 
and insouciance are stamped upon 
each feature of their coantenance, 
the influence of their respective 
schools does not by any means end 
here. Pluck, endurance, honour, 
a detestation of what is bad style, 
and a horror of the frizarre— these 
are amongst the virtues which they 
have learned, and which leave so 
visible a stamp upon their features. 
Pretentious sometimes, conceited 
occasionally, now and then some- 
thing of a braggadocio, your public 
school boy may be. These, how- 
ever, are merely transient traits: 
time and the world will tone down 
much of them, or perhaps cause 
them to disappear altogether. 

It may possibly seem that to in- 
sist upon the existence of any very 
perceptible separate characteristics 



PMio School J)fp68. 



8S 



in the Eton and tbe Harrow boy is 
to wse a diatiiMstion which is not 
a di&renoe. Nerertheless, these 
eharaotarisfcios there assuredly are, 
even though it may require some 
attentkm to be aware of them. 
^Eton genflemen and Haxrow 
bfuoks;' and the phrase in a rough 
way hits off the more salient points 
fiedrly enough. The Eton boy^ 
whatever he is, good, bad, or indif- 
ferent^ dull or clerer, indolent or 
industrious, a 'wet bob* or a 'diy 
bob,' is above everything the gentle- 
man. Be never forgets that he has 
a reputation to maintain; that he 
has the traditions oi generations to 
support; and that the lustze of the 
prestige whidh has been transmitted 
to him through sueoesflive seoula 
of his predeoeseors must be handed 
down m its natiye purity to those 
who may come afterwards. Intense 
Oonservatism is an ever-present 
feature in the young Etonian. Tbe 
antiquity of the place, the Tenerable 
asBociatiansof whiohit ut theoentre, 
the memory of the illustrious per- 
sonages who have been imbued 
with tiie elements of humanity and 
culture cm. the banks of the Thames 
— all these have exercised uponbim, 
nnoonsoionsly yery likely, precisely 
thai degree and kind of moral 
infiuenoe wMoh might have been 
ezpeeted. Eton, it must be remem- 
bered, has a lai^ number of cue* 
toms peeuliar to itself, a greater 
quantity of stock phrases fiym« 
bolioal of corresponding practices, 
and withal a vaster fund of reve- 
rence to these than any other 
pnblks school in the world. Even 
an Eton master, however ayerse 
to the institution, for certain 
reasons oonneeted with its ope- 
rative efBaets, he might be, would 
not have it in his heart to interfere 
with the time-honoured usages of 
« the long glass' and 'tap.' There 
18 nothi^ surprising, therefore, if 
these aodHlentB of usage, with the 
respect that they elicit and the ob- 
servaaoe ihsj demand, have eier- 
eised an inflnenoe,not merely limited 
to the place in which they exist, 
saered and inviolable, and have 
produeed a ihone of mind which the 
£ton hoy canies home with him firom 
school fag the holiday,and a species 



of moral attitude which he at once 
oooupies towards the outride world. 
The merit of an ordinance consists 
in its age; that is the principle 
which has been impressed upon 
him by the training of his school 
Hfe: that is one of the great results 
obtained firom the sodaTand educa- 
tional conditions to which he has 
been submitted. Now there is little 
or nothing of this vein of sentiment 
in the Harrow boy. The history of 
the school which the pious yeoman 
founded is indeed reputable, even 
glorious: but its past is not the 
past whose memorias wreathe them- 
selves around the venerable motto 
FhrecUEtona. Theatmoq»hereof the 
place is different Byren's oak still 
flourishes in the Harrow church- 
yard : but this, and muoh else like 
this, is of yesterday. There is none 
of that perpetuation of ancient 
events in modem celebration which 
at Eton is everything. Mr. Dis- 
raeli, whose insight into our social 
life is as keen as it could well be, 
has precisely hit off this side of 
Etonian existence in the conversa* 
tions he has recorded between his 
schoolboys in ' Coningsby.' 

There is indeed at Harrow and in 
the products which bear the im- 
primatur of sturdy John Lyle's 
school, a something which reminds 
one of Talleyrand's remark when he 
stepped into the brougham of a 
friend to whom that vehicle was a 
very recent acquisition, II sent de 
net^. The Hanovian will, indeed, 
refer to the roll-lists of his school, 
and then give the names of titled 
magnates and territorial magnates 
galore. It matters not Eton ever 
has been the school of England, 
and so long as such institutions 
continue to exist, ever will be. 
When the Middlesex Seminary was 
an obsenre establishment, the shades 
of pious Henry had achieved a 
European reputation. Harrow has 
gained her distmotion rather firom 
her popularity with the aristoeracy 
of wealth than the aristocracy of 
birth. With Eton it has been ex- 
actly the reverse. 'Eton gentie- 
men and Harrow bucks :' the expre»- 
sion is perfectiy correct, and tends 
to an undeniable truth. Dandyism, 
in the majority of cases, is the cha- 
D a 



PubUc Sbftool Tfipe$. 



xaotenBtio of the nouveaux riches: 
it is the attempt to rapply by art 
what has been denied by nature. 
Dandyism, or, if ve may be allowed 
the expression, bnckism, is not con- 
fined to the mere wearing of clothes. 
It is visible in the manners of the 
man, as well as originated in the 
shop of the tailor. A oonscioosness 
of weakness prompts its manifesta- 
tion. If we may be allowed to ayail 
onrselves of a somewhat cockney 
metaphor, the difference that exists 
between Eton and Harrow is much 
that which is to be fonnd between 
Mayfair and BelgraTia. We take 
them each as they are: we like 
them both: and after all, as we 
have above hinted, to the mass of 
spectators the Etonian and Ear- 
roTian may appear in identical de- 
Telopment Even here we have but 
been able to assign to each traits 
which are scarcely apparent to the 
superficial gaze. Stiil, let the in- 
telligent reader at this period, when 
both types of schoolboys are in 
town, ask one or two of each to 
dinner; and he will add his testi- 
mony to the justice of oar remarks. 
He wiU see that there is something 
of the old style in the Eton boy 
that the Harrow has not, and will 
note the presence of a certain je ne 
sais quoi air, a subtle essence, which 
defies definition: an indescribable 
air of finish whicn, as it is eminently 
Etonian both in its birth and its 
development, so, too, is conspicuous 
in the Harrovian only by its ab- 
sence. 

What is a public school? We 
have completely outgrown the an- 
cient answer which informed us 
that there were five institutions, and 
five only, to which the term was 
appL'cable. Judged according to 
that dictum, we should exclude from 
the categoiy Bugby, Marlborough, 
Cheltenham, and a host of those 
other seminaries whose size and 
importance rival if they do not 
surpass that of Westminster, Win- 
chester, and Charterhouse. For our 
present purpose we must prefer the 
newer K)undations to tne older. 
The Charterhouse boy is not a type 
at all, and much the same may be 
said of ' the Westminster scholar.' 
Nor is the reason fuc to seek. The 



purity, nay, the vei7jperM)ne2Z0 of aoy 
school is preserved exactly in pro- 
portion as the number of boaraers 
preponderate over the number of 
day scholars. National chancier, 
we are told, is but the result of a 
continued identity of social con- 
ditions. If that identity is weakened 
in degree or abbreviated in dura- 
tion, the result is that the national 
character at once becomes less 
strongly defined. In the case of 
schools we can only have this con- 
tinuity when the day scholars are in 
a minoritv, and that minority a veiy 
considerable ona If you (mod in- 
troduce a heterogeneous element in 
the shape of a body of boys whose 
school hfe is perpetually interrupted 
by life elsewhere^ the result is that 
the whole spirit and the entire 
Renins of the thing are lamentably 
destioyed. Ton fiiil to produce a 
distinct and separate type: yon 
have a monjirel and an amalgam. 
Schoolboy li&, to have its full in> 
fiuence, necessarily involves the 
idea of a considerable quantity of 
boys passing their time together. 
And if this condition is essential 
for the realization of the type, it is 
also essential for the preservation 
of anything like school discipline. 
When the parental inclination per- 
petually clashes with the magisterial 
authority ; when the father and the 
pedagogue are brought into ccxn- 
petition; and when the boy feels 
that he can appeal from the one to 
the other, farewell, not only to the 
production of a distinct class of 
schoolboy, but to the validity of 
all wholesome discipline. West- 
minster and Charterhouse have both 
suffered in the highest degree from 
this confusion of elements. The 
Eton boy is a distinct type, so is the 
Harrow: possibly even the Winr 
Chester: even about tiie youngster 
who haOs from the home which 
learning has beneath the shades of 
the venerable abbey, there stOl 
linger some few traces of indivi- 
duality: but as for your alumnus 
of Charterhouse, the whole case is 
different 

It is scarcely to be denied that 
both Westminster and Charterhouse 
have to pay a heavy price for their 
central sites and their metropolitan 



PMie School Types. 



87 



liomos. A Bcbool ought to be le- 
xnoved as far as poeaible beyond the 
Teach of their inflnenoe. It ought 
io be self-contained: if it is desired 
to develop a separate and distinct 
phase of character it mnst be self- 
contained; and it ouffht, socially 
speaking, to be acted npon by 
external force only in an in- 
finitesimal degree. The neigh- 
bourhood of Westminster and 
Oharterhonse mnst inevitably tell 
heavily against them. Eton and 
BftTTow look for their models within 
iheir own academical walls: the 
schoolboy whose school is merely a 
fichool in a town, and not the in- 
Btitntion of the place, naturally 
takes his cue from the more im- 
posing examples of exoteric exist- 
'Onoa To say that a schoolboy uses 
slang, and that he is slangy, is to 
flay two very difBarant things. The 
former may be true of Eton and of 
Harrow, the latter certainly is not 
Herein, as in a nutshell, is to be 
found the great distinction between 
the two large classes of our public 
school boys. Those frequent expe- 
ditions to the questionable resorts 
in the vicinil^, the experience which 
has been picked up in places where 
' life' (ota certain kind) is to be 
seen, are not &vourable to the 
agreeable development of the school- 
boy character. Tor the proper ap- 
Slication of these remarks to the 
isciple of Westminster and Char- 
terhoQse the works of Mr. Thackeray 
may be consulted passim. 

Let us look at the young Bug- 
bean— quite a different specimen 
from any of those which we have al- 
jready contemplated. He is a stout- 
hearted, brave young Englishman 
enough — and when we have said 
that, we bave said all. Dr. Arnold 
we reverence as much as any man 
living : Heaven forbid that we should 
utter any words save those of the 
profoundest respect touching his 
memory; but ut. Arnold is one 
thing and Arnold and Water is 
another. This is the title which 
Arnold's Cambridge scholars earned 
at the time: it is a title, their right 
to which Bugby boys, as a body, 
Jhave since done little to disprove. 
With the enervating waters of their 
own assxmiption they have diluted 



the flavour of their exemplar, till 
they have almost extinguished the 
latter, and we can mionly discri* 
minate the former. Ccrruptiooptimi 
pessima fit : and we may be sure 
that this saying would in a very 
singular degree hold true in the 
case of Bugby's great head master. 
The real racfc is, that the present 
generation of Bugby boys considerB 
itself entitled to live on the repu- 
tation of the past; that the SBgis of 
Arnold's name sheds over them a 
certain glow of in&llibility; and that 
for this reason they possess a kind 
of moral superiority over the rest 
of the world. BecQgnition of the 
nobility of manly strength has 
become with them a species of 
objectionable cant Conceit, a wan- 
ton air of independence, a mon- 
strous egotism, an unpleasantly 
patent self-consdouaness^-these are 
among the social attributes of your 
Bugby boy. Is that what Arnold 
wished? 

If the Etonian and Harrovian are 
pre-eminently the polished stones, 
the edition de luxe^ hot -pressed, 
cream-papered, and gilt-edged, of 
public school life, the Wykehamist 
IS as pre-eminentiy the rough dia- 
mond, and the rude copy. About 
him there is nothing of that studied 
regard of the amenities of existence 
which make either of the others so 
socially pleasant The Eton and 
the Harrow boy whom we see at 
Lord's ]& indeed a hoy, but we feel 
that the lad is a gentleman, and 
we treat him as such. On the other 
hand, young Winchester impresses 
us afi a ' cub.' We have no wish to 
be otherwise than rigidly impartial 
in this classification of ours. We 
are wholly unprejudiced. The point 
of view which we take is com- 
pletely that of the outsider, and we 
speak not of special and exceptional 
instances, but merely of those cases 
which may be supposed roughly to 
constitute the rule. 

Marlborough is an excellent 
school. If you want your son to 
get on, to be certain of a scholar- 
ship at Oxford, to acquire a power 
of interminable quotation of autho- 
rities at lecture, send him to the 
Wiltshire seminary. If, on the other 
hand, you wish to give him a good 



88 



I>ofm DdU. 



social tniniog, to see him aoqniie 
a pleanng addroBS, to gain the xe- 
patation of a pleasant friend and 
an agreeable companion, despatch 
him elsewhere. All the &alts which 
Bngby possenes Marlborongh has 
magnified teofold. But the xeaaon 
is simple enough. Marlborough 
has caixied all her notions of in- 
ternal administration from the pio- 
tofypes of the Warwickshire schooL 
In the first instance, all her best 
masters came thence, and the only 
pablio school of which th^ knew 
anything was Bngby. The acade- 
mical achievements of Marlborongh 
have been something marvellous, 
and speak volumes to the industry 
of her masters, and the aptitude <^ 



her pupils. Her tnompfas in the 
cricket-field have not oean con- 
temptible. But these meisnieshaive 
not had the effiaet of mflitating 
against the entire applicafaility of 
anything we have said or could say 
apropos of the social chaiaotedatics 
of the Marlburian, pasi^ psesent, 
or future. The boy is a good 
classic and a capital criokBter ; but 
ask him to dine, and he will bore 
you to death with his ridiculonsly 
doxosphistical airs in about ten mi- 
nutes. Perhaps after all this is 
merely natural Marlborough is a 
very young school, and its prosperity 
is precocious, and its piecooi^ is 
unfortunate in its lesuUs. 



DOVE DALE- 



IN many points of view Derby- 
shire is an excellent region for 
travel or soioum in the Long Vaca- 
tion. It IS very accessible from 
town; the whole of it lies within 
a manageable compass; it boasts of 
some of the most celebrated land- 
scapes in English scenery; it con- 
tains some of the most famous 
palaces of our nobility; it has dis- 
tricts crowded with a manu&cturing 
population, and secluded vales that 
have hardly altered since the time 
of the Stufurts. If you go to Wales, 
or the western counti^^ of Devon 
and Gomwall, or the Rhine, or Swit- 
zerland, it is scarcely possible that 
you can work the map exhaustively, 
and there is always some critical 
prig who will authoritatively assure 
you that you have missed the par- 
ticular places which, beyond all 
others, you ought to have seen. 
But if you go to Derbyshire at all, 
it is worth while to do it thoroughly ; 
and you may do it thoroughly within 
the limits of a moderate furlough. 
Derbyshire is called a Midland 
county, but in reality, in character 
and climate, it rather belongs to the 
cluster of northern counties. Ton 
will see no district so pretty until, 
a hundred miles further on, you 
come to the Lake country. As soon 
as you have cleared out of the huge 



station at Derby, you perceive how 
greatly the character of the scenery 
has changed for the better. Toa 
have left the wide expanse of dull 
flat country behind you, and now 
you catch glimpses of rocks and 
rivers, mountains and dales— pio* 
turesque bits that suggest idylls in 
themselves; then ancm tall chim- 
neys and the illumination of furnace 
fires. At Ambergate, the line to 
Matlock and Buxton, and thence to 
Manchester, branches o£f ; and if you 
would do Derbyshire thoroughly, 
you must grow very familiar wiUi 
this line of ndlway^-the prettiest 
line that the whole railway map of 
England can display. I happily 
knew the district in old days, before 
it was polluted with the amount of 
pollution which even the prettiest 
fine unavoidably brings with it 
Chesterfield is a convenient staticm 
for head-quarters for some days. 
The crooked spire is a fiuniliar 
object to travellers to the north; 
concerning which spire there is an 
ingenious theory, that it is not a 
crooked spire at all, but that the 
crookedness is an optical delusion. 
A dull and stationary town is Ches- 
terfield—perhaps the dullest and 
most stationary in Englsmd ; but it 
is surrounded by a network of 
villages— Brampton, Biimington, 



DaoeDdh* 



dr 



Whittmgton, Staveley, &c, where 
there is an increasing population. 
Staveley has lately made itself fiunons 
for its resistance to Unionist tyranny 
— presenting a angular admixture 
of glimpses of wild sylyan beauty^ 
with the usual sordid phenomena 
that belong to a region of coal-pits 
and iron-pits. Now, let me reckon 
up the Derbyshire sights which you 
can ' do ' from Chesterfield. There 
is Bolaoyer Castle, which you may 
take on your way to Hardwick HalL 
Yon wiU not see a more thoroughly 
English park, so well timbered with 
gnarled and giant oaks, in all the 
country, tiian Hardwick Pack; and 
the stciely oldivied hall has as noble 
a site as the Great Keep of Wind- 
sor itself. The lord of HaidwidL is 
the Duke of Dofonahiie; and yoa 
hare not been long in Derbysfaire 
before yoa disoorer that the Duke 
of DeyoBshire is the king of the 
country. Other dokes there are 
who have diikeries here, as Bol- 
Bover Castle, bekmgiDg to the Duke 
of Portiand, and Haddon HaU, be- 
longing to the Duke of Bntland; 
but his grace of Devonshire, who in 
Devonshire does not own, I believe, 
an acre, is the lord of many a wide 
£ur prospect in Derbyshir& The 
last reigning duke might have been 
Bumamed the Magnificent; he had 
hundreds of thousands a year, and 
died hundreds*(^ thousands in debt 
The present dukei, although little 
known to fiuue, is considered by 
mai^ people to be the cleverest 
man in England. He was Senior 
Wrangler, or something of that 
kind, at QEunbridge, and was chosen 
to succeed the late Prinoe Consort 
as Chanoell(»r of the University. 
When he was complimented on his 
degree, he answered that no par- 
ticular credit was due to him, as he 
had only given some attention to 
studies to which he had been always 
partial I The duke inherits both 
the genius and the blood of the 
philosopher Cavendish. 

From Chesterfield it is quite a 
manageable walk to Chatsworth. 
Chatsworth is almost the imperial 
realization of a splendid dream. 
The old duke used to delight to 
look from his private windows at 
the great crowds that used to come 



£K>m our industrial centres to spend 
a long-lived summer day amid the 
glories of his domain. The river 
wmds in front of the pi^aoe, beneath 
a fine bridge, through the lawn^tike 
park^ and the background is formed 
by dense woods that climb the hills 
and close the horizon. There are 
the huge conservatories through 
which yon might drive a carriage 
and pair, which suggested to Pax* 
ton, the Chatsworth heaxl-gardener, 
the idea of a Crystid Palace. The 
Chatsworth story is, that the future 
great man, when a poor lad, gained 
the magnifioent duke's patronage 
by some adroitness in giving him a 
light for a cigar. The gardens are 
most elaborately beautifol, and the 
treasores of art in the palace, col- 
lected reckless Gi cost by a most 
skilled virtufm^ have a value very 
rarely surpassed; yet, after all, I 
think most persons will give the 
preference to the less adorned and 
more natural beauties of Hardwick. 
Haddon Hall, only a few miles from 
Chatsworth, is a place of entirely 
of^Dosite^ and even antagonistic a^ 
tEaotion& It has been l(»g dis- 
mantled for human habitation, ez- 
c^t when there has perchance been 
BC«ne festive gathering in this part 
of the shire, when once more there 
is an illumination through the 
ancient windows, and levdiy in the 
corridors and halls. But the ez- 
qnisiie beauty of tl^ site is always 
fireshf the river vrinding in more 
sinuous folds than the Asian Ms^ 
ander; the old stone staircase, the 
medifflval court, the lonely clttpel, 
the echoing gallery, the prinoely 
garden-terrace, the bidden postern- 
door, whence the lady, heiress of 
the house, stole away with the 
lucky page £ar away over the Derby- 
shire hills. Not fiur, also, is the 
pretfy town of Bakewell, where you 
may lounge at leisure over the 
bridge ; and if you are staying at 
the Butland Arms, you may oUoin 
license to fish, and refresh yourself 
—at least I did— with a huge veni- 
son pasty at my hostel. There is 
another hostel, the very ideal of an 
Elizabeth inn, at the pretty village 
of Eowsley, just outside the Chats- 
worth grounds. From Eowsley, a 
few minutes in the train will take 



40 



Dave Dale. 



you to the littie oounfcry Tillage of 
Matlock, and the fiuhionable little 
town of Ifatlock Bath. The scenery 
is very good, bnt it is minute, and 
the whole of Matlock can comfort- 
ably be examined and 'dispofied of 
in the oouise of the afternoon. It 
is to be mentioned with regret, that 
the pretty wator at the biue of tibie 
enormons clifb, though called a 
river, is often nearlv stagnant, and 
ai>pear8 to be considerably peopled 
with water-rats. If you go direct 
from Chesterfield to Matlock, you 
should turn a little aside from the 
direct road to see the picturesque 
village of Ashover. I have never 
seen this village noted in any guide- 
book, but in early days I used to 
consider the village a kind of Happy 
Valley of Basselas ; and in the deep 
seclusion and the romantic character 
of the scenery, it is very well de- 
serving of a visit Tou may go 
from Matlock to Buxton by rail; 
but you will do better if you take 
the road from Bakewell to Buxton. 
This road, particularly if the journey 
is made in the opposite direction, 
is a glorious fait of travel. When 
you are at Baxton, you are in the 
neighbourhood of the Peak country, 
which ought to be thoroughly ex- 
plored. At Gastleton you attain the 
finest scenery which D^byshire can 
boast, and it is quite worth while to 
descend the cavern, boat along the 
Bubtorranean river, and allow the 
guides to show all the different 
points, and to tax all their experi- 
ments with powder. 

These, then, are the most notice- 
able points of Derbyshire scenery, 
and, whatever else is neelected, 
these are not to be omitteoL But 
there still remains one beautifol 
locality, rather remote and difficult 
of access from that remarkable 
group of show places for which 
Chesterfield or Bakewell is a con- 
venient centre, which will amply 
repay your visit, and grow upon 
you the more your sojourn is pro- 
longed. Almost opposite Haddon 
Hall, on the road between Bakewell 
and Bowsley, a lane strikes up the 
country. As you pass along this 
lonely road, you cannot fail to be 
struck with the thoroughly sylvan, 
thoroughly English character of the 



landscape. There is something ao 
sequestered and untraveUed about 
thu route which fulfils every aspi- 
ration to those who would dears 
something else than the usual worn 
paths. The late September days 
are most pleasant to travel in; the 
air balmy and cool ; but the days 
close in early, and the road to Dove 
Dale is a very long road, and the 
intervening hills are very steep 
hills. Almost in the dark, the pony- 
carriage— for such was my humUe 
conveyance on my most recent 
visit— had to go throng a large 
pond, depth unknown, on the 
opposite side of which the |Mth to 
Dove Dale is resumed. Tissmgton, 
which breaks the monotony of a 
long drive, is a pretty village, and, 
in some pointe of view, a memo- 
rable village; for here the well 
dressings, for which Derbyshire is 
memorable, have their chief seat of 
celebration. On Holy Thursday, 
after prayers in the parish church, 
and a sermon duly preached, parson 
and parishioners proceed to the dif- 
ferent wells, and ttfter that the well- 
flowering is performed. A hymn is 
sung at eacn well ; and each well 
is decked with abundant flowers, 
woven into chaplete and designs, 
and ^the day is kept as a holiday. 
The imagery and associations at- 
tached to wells and fountains of 
water is of the simplest and most 
elevating kind ; and we are glad to 
find that this innocent holiday is 
treated as a precious reliquary of 
the past, and held in due esteem. 
When we have left Tissington be- 
hind us, we descend down the 
steepest and most awkward of hills 
into the dale. We are reminded of 
the dialogue between Viator and 
Fiscator, 

ViATOB. 'What have we here— a 
church ? As Pm an honest man, a 
very pretty church! Have you 
churches in this country, sir?* 

PisoATOB. ' You see we have : but 
had you seen none, why should you 
make that doubt, sir ?' 

ViATOB. ' \Miy, if you will not be 
angry, I'll tell you : I thought my- 
self a stage or two beyond Christen- 
dom.' 

Here, then, is Dove Dale at last, 
the loved of such poets as Byron 



Dave Dale. 



41 



and Mcmtgomenr, by snoh men as 
Ohantrey and Sir Hnmphry Davy, 
by many other fieunons men wboae 
names mustbe nnrecorded bere— be- 
loved thiongb a wide Gizonit of the 
midland shires by youth and maiden 
as the pleasantest scene of snmmer 
revel— especially beloved by the wor- 
thy brotherbood of anglers, * men of 
meek and peaceable and gentle na- 
toies.' For many miles the river is 
the boondary between Derbyshire 
and Staffordshire, the walk through 
the dale being on the Derbyshire 
side. The beautiful scenery of the 
dale is some three miles long. It is 
not often that scenery so beautifid 
is prolonged to sucb continuance. 
To walk up the wbole extent, and 
zetuTQ and rest a while and examine 
minutely the points of the land- 
scape, and explore adjacent scenery 
that well deserves attention, and 
thoroughly to imbibe the spirit of 
the beauties and purify of the scene, 
like holy matrimony, is a matter to 
be not lightly taken in hand, but 
ought to be done deliberately and 
advisedly. It is a long, winding 
valley, and the soft air, with gentle 
violence, blows full of balm along 
the gorge. The foliage feathers 
down to the water's edge, or grassy 
hills arise on, often enough, the 
bare, dark, precipitous, worn, gi»- 
nity tors. Some strike boldly to 
the sky, some threateningly bend 
forward as if to strike and over- 
whelm. Some of these tors break 
up into pinnacles, scarps, bulky 
fragments that would seem to totter 
to their fiedl ; some have been hurled 
backward, in the primitive convul- 
fiion of nature, and are hollowed into 
boles and caves. The stone ferns 
are bere ; here, too, is the grey lichen, 
and the overgrowth of underwood 
is all about. The hazels trail their 
boughs in the streams; the clumps 
of birch trees adorn the slopes, but 
the segregated tors form neither 
shadow nor foliage, naked, myste- 
rious, stern, defiant Each has its 
separate name, many their tradi- 
tion, a few their genuine stories of 
peril and deathly accident The 
constant river laves their bases and 
reflects their forms evermore, un- 
changed, rapid and clear in its 
<x>ur8e, even as the bird, which lends 



it a name, shoots, rapid and dear, 
through the unclouded sky over- 
bead. 

The ima^ left by Dove Dale are 
of a peculiarly clear and vivid n^- 
toze: you have an exact embodi- 
ment of the simple poetic vision of 
green pastures and still waters. 
Nor of these alone. The precipitous 
mountain overhangs the prospect, 
the gorge closes in, the rocks hang 
down their festoons, the high tors 
rise, innumerable and fantastia The 
dark pure river, dark from its mossy 
bed, hurries onwards, growing more 
and more silvery on the way, to lose 
itself in the broad Trent So narrow 
is the path by the marge, made dif- 
ficult by the roots of the trees that 
spring up by the water side whose 
green crowns wave &r below the 
summits of the tors, by the protu- 
berant hills whose bases are uickly 
clustered around by ferns and wild 
flowers. Then, the rocks retire back 
from the river, and leave a dear 
space of lawn, not unprotected by 
the shadow of abundant foliage, 
where you may realize that old de- 
light to which Jlorace and the Ho- 
ratian tribe have always been so 
prone, stretched on the living turf, 
listening to the strain of the living 
water. You have a book in your 
hand befitting the lazy season and 
the enchanted spot, and whether you 
read, or whether in thought and re- 
verie the book escapes from your 
listless grasp, or whether you sleep 
under the open eye of heaven, it is 
all equally well with you. ' Sleep, 
my son ; sleep in the sun is good,' 
wrote the old Greek dramatist Is 
it merely reverie, or is it the summer 
noonday dreun, that the old days of 
the seventeenth century are renewed 
for you, and yonder httle group, 
sitting down on the brink of yonder 
shore, assume the garb and talk the 
dialect of a long-vanished day? That 
good old man, brow so broad, hair 
BO silvery, speech so honest and 
coorteous, must needs be, methinks, 
the well-loved Izaak Walton. That 
surely must be the young Izaak, who 
is making a sketch of ti^at range of 
tors which the country fancy has 
called ' The Apostles.' There is an- 
other young man there, in sword and 
velvet and with courtly phrase, lam 



42 



Dove Dak. 



m&aid with in eye iiiftt imnderB 
towards jonder oonntry Ian ; an air 
that, thoQgh refined, has something 
xeoUeas and dissipated in it, who is 
gentleman and seholar andyetreok- 
less and uneasy, bat he, too, listens 
to the elder man and calls him 
':&ther.' He looks over the shonlder 
of the yonnger man witii appxoTal 
of tiie light tooohea, and mnrmoxB 
to himself as he lays his langiud 
limbs on the grass— 

' Oh > mj beloved oymph, ftlr Dove* 
PrinoeaB of rirera ! how I lore 

Upon thy flow'ry benks to Ue; 
And view thy ulver ttreeiD, 
WlMa glided hy tiM wnuBer bcm; 

Ah,yesl That most be Charles Cot- 
ton, the lord of Beiesfiurd Hall here- 
abouts, and yet distraoted by duns 
and bailifiBs, and glad to hide, if the 
rumoor be true, in a neighbooring 
cayenL I am afraid there is a dark 
future before him— if eertain ru- 
mours be true, prison and suicide; 
but just now he is innocent and 
happy, tranquillized by the concord- 
ant voices of the beloved stream and 
*my &tiier Walton.' Tea, the full 
river of speech flows from the lips 
of the old man eloquent, not other- 
wise than as the Dove itself mur- 
murs on, musical and rapid. But 
in his talk the old man is most in- 
tent upon his fishing. He does not 
think so much of hui son's little 
sketch, a new-fangled and unbusi- 
nesB-like amusement most befitting 
that idle Italian people of whom 
his friend Wotton, the late Vene- 
tian ambassador, discourses him so 
largely. You do not find in Walton 
any poetical, or at least any artistic, 
pictorial talk; he never gives you 
word-paintings of the river lamd- 
Bcapes he knows so well; there is 
not even a syllable whispered of 
these strange rocks and tors ; trout 
and grayling have more solid and 
substantial charms in those clear, 
wise, twinkling eyes. He ia talking 
the talk, which, if we could only set 
it down, would bring the early 
Stuart days as vividly before us as 
Fepys has recalled the later Stuart 
times. He is acute and practical 
enough, the fiuuvdealing merchant 
who keeps the hosiery Stiop at the 
comer of Chancery Lane^ and re- 



tired on his modest profits to the 
rural district of ClerkenwelL He is 
telling his friends what capital three 
days' fifthing he had last month, 
mheai he had his annual holiday at 
Slooy uid his friend the worthy 
Provost took hhn to his fishing- 
lodge at Bkck Pots, and afterwards 
showed him Savile^s superb editioQ 
of 'Ghxysoatom' intheEtonlihrafy. 
Or perhaps he is giving reminis- 
cences of a lifSa peculiarly rich in 
Buohr— of the days he spent beneath 
the beeches of the park of Famham 
Castle with the good Bishop of Win- 
chester—how in the evil time of the 
Commonwealth, on a biting cold 
day, he met the great Sanderaon, 
and took him into a public-house, 
where they had bread and cheeee 
and beer together, and the good 
bishop told hun how he comforted 
his soul in adveraiMes with the 
Psalms of David ; how he used to 
greet friend Dean Donne Hunter at 
SL Paul's ; and how he went down 
to the old chureh at Chelsea to hear 
the dean preach the foneral sermon 
of Lady Danvers, the mother of that 
poet and scholar George Herbert, 
who, we may feel sure, was likewise 
one of the rapt auditory. Wisely, 
religiously, and quaintly does he 
talk, and there is also a fund of in- 
finite observation and delicate hu- 
mour about him. likewise those 
trout— surely larger andfresherthan 
caught now-a-days— will be keenly 
looked after, the very worms han- 
dled ' as though he loved them,' for 
he has an eye to his modest supper 
and the cool tankard of sood Diar- 
byshire beer which will be its ac- 
companiment He will perhaps 
quote to his friends the nvounte 
text which he took as the motto of 
his 'Angler': 'Simon Peter saith, 
I go a fishing. Th^ say unto him. 
We also go with thee.' Perhaps he 
lovingly dwells on the glory <n the 
setting or the rising sun, as he did 
in his matchless book : ' And this, 
and many other like blessings we 
eoj/oj daily; and for most of them, 
because Uiey be so common, most 
men forget to pay their praises ; but 
let not us, because it is a sacrifice 
so pleasing to Him that made the 
Sun, and us, and still protects us, 
and gives us flowers and showers 



Dave Dale. 



48 



and stomBchs and meat and content 
and IdiBcupe to go a-fiahing/ 

Thns much is dieamfdl xeyerie 
and half memory, half fancy. Yoa 
az6 awakened from the images of 
the past hy the pleasant, gleefnl 
sounds of the living present Kate 
and Arabella are havmg a duet, and 
the splendid Toioes with trumpet 
distinctness sweep through the 
gorge. Yon, my young friend, that 
saunter by with that silken lady 
£ur, I can forgive you that half- 
fierce military glance at a mere 
listless lounger, because I know you 
will be docileand submissive enough 
all the afternoon to those fine imd 
glancing eyes. Only do not pretend 
that you two must spend a whole 
hour among the tors pretending to 
search for a suitable place for lunch, 
when there is none that might not 
suit But th<^ do this sort of 
thing in Arcadia,* and you two are 
Arcades ambo. Yonder stout gentle- 
man thinks that tiie finest sight here 
will be the sight of the well-spread 
lunch cloth on the ground, and he 
and the rest of the parties, like Mr. 
Tennyson, ' will not shun the foam- 
ing grape of Eastern Fiance.' And 
hare are the children and maidens 
of the place, offering fruits, and 
foras, and fiowers, and other me- 
mentoes for a happy Dove Dale 
time. I wonder to myself if any one 
of you is like Wordsworth's Lucy. 
I wonder where Lu<^ dwelt Was 
it at the picture-village of Dam 
yonder, or at Dove-head, where the 
fountain of the stream first gushes 
forth, or Narrow-dale;, or Hope-dale, 
or Mill-dale? 

*8bib dwelt among the untrodden -way, 

Beride the epringi of Dove. 
f A mild whom tbere w«ra none to prate. 

And rery ftw to love. 

< A Tlolflt by a moaqr stone. 

Half hidden from the «3re: 
Air aa attar when only one, 

la ahlning in the sky. 

*8he lived unknown, and few ooold know. 

When Jjacj oeaaed to be; 
Bat she ia in her graTe, and oh 
. The_difference to me I* 

I arise up and go to nly hostel, 
the Izaak Walton. Ah, my military 
friend 1 when you come to my time 
of life you will think that a good 



dinner indoors is just as enjoyable 
and much more comfortable than 
out on the grass. I ask carefully 
whether lasaak Walton ever really 
lived here. They point out to me 
what part of the house is modem,and 
they take me to a long, low room, 
which might have been the room 
where he and his friends had their 
' evenings/ and it has that steady, 
seventeenth-century-look about it, 
that I mean to adhere to this belief 
and maintain it Anon we must go 
to the fishing house which Cotton 
built for Walton—read the inscrip- 
tions which they read 'piacatori- 
bus sacrum,' look through the win- 
dows which they looked through, 
enjoy as they enjoyed this, ' a kind 
of peninsula with a delicate dear 
river about it' 

BefoTB I conclude this paper I 
will quote from my ' Elorilegium ' a 
fine passage I reoentiy disinterred 
from a work now littie read. In 
Goldsmith's ' Animated Nature,' 
which was mere bookwork concocted 
for the booksellers, we suddenly 
meet with a beautiful passage in re- 
ference to Izaak Walton which 
might well compaie with the 
choicest parts of ' The Traveller ' or 
'Deserted Village': 'Happy Eng- 
land! where the sea funushes an 
abundant and luxurious repast, and 
the fresh waters an innocent and 
harmless pastime ; where the angler, 
in cheerful soUtude, strolls by the 
edge of the stream and fears neither 
the coiled snake nor the lurking 
crocodile; where he can retire at 
night, with his few tronts— to borrow 
the pretty description of old Wal- 
ton—to some friendly cottage, where 
the landlady is good and the daugh- 
ter innocent and beautiful; where 
the room is cleanly with lavender in 
the sheets and twenty ballads stuck 
about the wall ! There he can e^joy 
the company of a talkative brother 
sportsman, have his trout dressed 
for supper, tell tales, sing old tunes, 
or make a catch ! There he can talk 
of the wonders of nature with 
learned! admiration, or find some 
harmless sport to content him, and 
pass away a little time, without of- 
fence to Gkxl or injury to man.' 

P. A. 



4i 



THE BEOMPTON HOSPITAL FOE CONSUMPTION. 



I SUPPOSE there are few of ns 
who have not notioed that pa- 
latial building abutting on Onsloir 
Square, in the Brompton Bead, 
which is, in fact, one of the hand- 
somest and most intaresting of Lon- 
don hospitals, and which both 
testifies and appeals to large-hearted 
charity, in that noble phrase, dear 
to every patriotic Englishman, 
* Supported by voluntary contri- 
butions.' There have been few 
hours more sadly pleasant than 
those which I have spent in the re- 
peated inspection of the hospital 
and in fiuniliarizinK myself with its 
most interesting details. To me 
those trim gardens, those spacious 
wards, those long galleries, that 
exquisite chapel, are as interesting 
as could be any picture-gallery, 
palace, or museum in ail Europe. 
There is a human interest also, of a 
strong personal and dramatic kind, 
which can never be realized in any 
delineation of fictitious sufifering. 
In the thought of the suffering alle- 
Tiated, the consolations conferred, 
the useful knowledge stored up by 
such an institution, there must be 
a source of the deepest gratification 
to evenr lover of his kind. 

But let me first tell a plain story 
very plainly. A generation ago it 
was generally thought that con- 
sumption was altogether an in- 
curable disease. The hospitals were 
altogether laJack to open their gates 
to cases hopeless and helpless. 
Those institutions could hardly 
afford to receive the inmate whose 
case would be long, lingering, and 
ultimately fatal. But it was lelt by 
kindly hearts that this very set of 
circumstances was such as to give 
the poor sufferer a peculiar claim 
on sympathy and kindness. The 
tremendous preponderance of chest 
diseases over all other diseases filled 
the country with patients whose 
simple direful histories made them 
worthy recipients of the benefits of 
such an institution. It so provi- 
dentially happened that about the 
time that this hospital arose a 
very remarkable stride was made by 
medical science in the treatment of 



this disease. About the year 1840 
a litUe work, published by a pro- 
vincial medical man, Mr. Bodington, 
of Sutton Ck)ldae]d, indicated « 
simple and decided curative method, 
and even medical science, that had 
been skilful in diagnosis but mainly 
despairing and feeble in treatmentp 
grappled with great energy with 
the difficulties presented by such 
cases, devising many palliatives and 
even methods of cure in the earlier 
stages. Oonsequently the hospital 
was commenced under happy au- 
guries, and has eigoyed a long 
career of extensive usefulneaB. 
Every means of core or alleviation 
that human ingenuity could suggest 
or unstinted liberally procure has 
been freely tried. No comfort or 
even expensive luxury is withheld 
if, in medical opinion, it is likely to 
prove benefioiu. I see that even 
champagne is administered in some 
cases, a wine that stands high on 
the list of medicines. Looking down 
the report, I noticed that some good 
Christian had sent the hospital 
sundry presents of champagne. 
And those who have an unlimited 
enjoyment of wines, fruit, and game 
would perhaps have better appetites 
and better digestion if they knew 
that they had sent off basket or 
hamper to our hospital. It must 
be quite a paradise to poor patients. 
With narrow means, in ill-Tenti- 
lated dwellings, they have scanty 
chances of recovery, and suddexily 
they are transferred to a palatial 
abode, where the best medical skill 
in London is at their disposal — 
where the best food and medicine 
are regularly supplied— where every 
circumstance of diet, clothing, tem- 
perature, is accurately tested — and 
where pleasant occupation and re- 
laxation are abundantiy provided. 
Indeed if I were to hint any criti- 
cism on the management of the 
institution, which I should do with 
the utmost diffidence, I should 
imagine that on the whole the treat- 
ment generally is of too generous 
and stimulative- a kind. I am 
afraid that th^ must feel the con- 
trast very keenly when their term^ 



The Bromplon Eosj^talfor Camumjptian. 



45 



three months, in rare instances pro- 
longed to six— is completed, and 
they have to retom to their own 
homes. Great efforts have been 
made to mitigate and improve the 
condition of the patients both before 
and after their admission as actual 
inmates. A period of from two to 
ten weeks ordinarily elapses be- 
tween the giving of a letter of recom- 
mendation and the admission of a 
patient But the recommended 
person at once becomes an ontr 
patient; and some benevolent ladies 
are now conducting an auxiliary 
institution at the Manor Houee, 
Chelsea. This institution is de- 
signed for those who are waiting 
their turns for admission to the 
hospitaJ, or who, after leaving i1^ 
shall need a refuge till they can 
re-establish their health or find 
suitable employment They have 
a cheerful home, with a large shel- 
tered garden, and the use of a good 
kitchen, but they have to provide 
their own means of living until a 
larger expansion of Christian plans 
permits an extension of tins as of 
many other Christian schemes. A 
simikr institution is the Boee Fund 
in connection with the hospital. 
Mr. Philip Bose had so large a 
share in the origin and progress 
of the hospital that he may be 
justly regarded as its founder. It 
was very natural that his associates 
in; this good work should desire 
some permanent commemoration of 
it in a portrait for the new board- 
room, and a subscription was 
rapidly filled up for this desirable 
purpose. But when the good man 
heard of it he earnestly requested 
that the design might be aban- 
doned, and the subscription went 
towards a Bose Fund to give help 
in money and clothing to patients 
leaving the hospital. There is only 
one addition which we should much 
desire to see made to the admirable 
accessories to the hospital. We 
should very much like to see a con- 
valescent hospital on the cottage 
plan, which on the whole appears 
to us preferable to the ordinary 
plan, established in some desirable 
neighbourhood on the south coast 
The other day, passing through the 
Underoliff of the Isle of Wight, I 



noticed the building of snob a cot- 
tage hospital in progression, and I 
believe that there are similar insti- 
tutions at Bournemouth, Seaford, 
and other places ; and I should like 
to see one, on a large scale, directly 
affiliated to the Brompton Hospital. 
We will now stroll about the hos- 
pital and go a little into details. 
We see the patients, feeble folk, like 
the coneys, sunning themselves in 
the grounds or resting on the 
benches. They have been saved any 
stress of exertion by the use of the 
lift; and the hospital lift, unlike 
those at some great hotels, is never 
out of order. You may enter into 
converse with the iomates; but I 
need hardly say that any conversa- 
tion of this kind must be managed 
with skill and delicacy. Any com- 
munity of suffering will at once 
create a kind of freemasonry. Part 
of the ground floor, on a level with 
the gardens, contains the dispensary 
and the rooms for out-patients. The 
number of these out-patients has 
rapidly increased from year to year, 
as the great advantages of the insti- 
tution have become apparent ; and 
at the present time they can hardly 
fall much short of the rate of ten 
thousand annually. The only draw- 
back to this is to be found in the 
reflection that very many persons 
will be resorting to this chanty who 
can wdl afford to pay a doctor of 
their own— a serious and growing 
detriment to the medical profession. 
The remedy is that the governors 
should be cautious in issuing their 
letters of recommendation. This 
department is now quite separate 
from the house. The ventilation is 
by means of an ingenious apparatus 
invented by Dr. Neil Amott. They 
also make a point of using fires in 
addition to this apparatus for the 
sake of cheerfulness and warmth. 
Gftie same steam serves the kitchen, 
warms the baths, turns the spit, 
grinds the coffee, and raises the 
lift The temperature, pleasant and 
equable, is carefully maintained. It 
is very pleasant to move about the 
long, spacious, well-lighted corri- 
dors. For a short time yon might 
even forget that you were in a hos- 
pital at fdl, and think that you were 
lounging in a pleasant gallery d^ 



46 



The BrmiqpUm EcBjpikdfor Caiuumjdion. 



dgned for lecsreatioiL T<ra feel this 
especially in the loirar floor, dengned 
for female imnates, adorned with to 
many little feminine graoes. They 
aie walking aboat, chatting to- 
gether on easy diaira and soft 
oonefaai. There are bookabelTeB 
about wiili wdl-wom books there- 
on ; leligioaB literatnre, nsefol lite- 
ratuxe, and also a feir amount of 
noyels and newspapers. They take 
in both dailies and weeklies alscs and 
they shall have at least this monthly 
magazine as well The chaplain 
says that there is always a demand 
for litexatore, and that books and 
periodicals prove most acceptable 
presents. £aeh gallery has sepa- 
rate bookcases, which divide ofif the 
general ccmtents of the library. 
It is a pleasant sight to see the in- 
mates at tea, such of them, at least, 
as are able to gather together to 
tiie social meal in the gallery. It is 
a very sodal meal at the hospital 
Formerly the dietary consisted only 
of coffee or cocoa, but now tea and 
bnttar have been added, and tea and 
batter are most important items in 
the evening meal of the poor. These 
worthy people have also a passion 
for watercreeses. They have to bny 
their watensresses^ bat then, in the 
purchase of watercreeses, even a 
halfpenny goes a long way. Many 
of them have solids ordeied in ad- 
dition. The tables are frequently 
adorned with flowers, perchance the 
gift of kindly Mend& But even at 
this time we see the forms of the 
medical attendant and his clinical 
clerk flittmg through the gallery to 
thedifiSarent wards. Theinmateshave 
the advantage of the constant atten- 
tion of an excellent chaplain, and the 
supervision of a committee, kind- 
hearted and sympathising. Every 
Monday evming, from January to 
May, entertainments axe given to 
them, lectures, dissolving views, 
readings, music, l^ierdemain, &c. ; 
and it is satisfactory to know that 
the committee are satisfied that they 
have proved eminently saocessful in 
cheering and enlfveniug the patients. 
The second floor is given up to the 
men ; the attics to the nurses and 
servants; the lower rooms to the 
clinical aariBtants. The west wing 
is called the Yictoria gallery, and 



her giadoQS Majesty has not only 
been the patroness, but always the 
firm friend of the institution. The 
gallery of the east wing is called the 
Jenny Lind gallery: it wfll be re- 
membered howmunificently Madame 
Goldschmidt gave the brilliant ser- 
vices which enibbled the committee 
to begin this part of the edifice. On 
the second floor, the gallery is called 
after Prince Albert, who in 1844 
laid the foundation-stone of the hos- 
pitaL The east gallery is most de- 
servedly named aftnr the Bev. Sir 
Henry Foulis. Sir Henry also 
built, at his own expense, the ex- 
quisite chapel attached to the hos- 
Eital. It is luxuriously fitted up, 
ut in the peculiar case of an in- 
valid congregation, luxury becomes 
a necessily. The chajMl might well 
belong to some collegiate or cathe- 
dral edifice; a dim, religioua light 
is Bufldsed through the painted 
glass ; modest ornamentation is not 
wanting, and the building has a 
thoroughly eccledastioal character. 
There is, of course, a very gmt 
difference among the patients. Some 
are so exceedingly ill that they are 
unable to leave their rooms and 
only come here to die. Such 
thoroughly hopeless cases ought 
very rarely to be admitted, as in 
very advanced cases the treatment 
must ful to benefit the sufferers, 
must depress their fellow-patients, 
and will probably be ezclndiDg a 
more hopeful cases. At other times 
the disorder has made such a slight 
advance that it is almost difficult to 
believe that they are really ill. With 
all of them there seems to be the 
same cheerful, submissive, grateful 
converse; fervent acknowledgments 
of the kindness they receive, and the 
evidence of that softeoiing, purifying 
result so often produced by a pro- 
longed illness. Sometimes in the 
case of a tall, graceful girl, the 
hectic flush is hardly to be dis- 
tinguished frcm youthful loveli- 
ness. It has alwavs been noted 
how consumption has a natural 
affinity for the fiurest blossoms. No- 
thing can be more gratifying than to 
detect the genuine blush of return- 
ing health. Most pitiable is the 
case of littie children, very little 
ohfldren indeed, who are suffering 



The Brom^pUm EotpUalfor Comumj^ion. 



47 



in fheir chests. They die off, like 
the floweis of the field, almost as 
peaoefally and nnoonsdons of dan- 
ger. I hare had some interesting 
cozLTersation with patients. One, 
I lememher, had been a shopman 
in a yery ftshionable draper's shop 
in the West-end. The work inTolyed 
late honis, bad air, constant move- 
ment, and the lifb'ng of heavy 
weights. I imagine that diapers' 
assistants, as a class, are yery Imble 
to phthisu. The same canses are, 
however, operating towards the same 
result in a variety of directions. 
Work too proloped, and the want 
of open raeatmng- spaces; work- 
shops and dweUlDg-honseB ill-con- 
stmcted, overorowded, nnventilated, 
are main canses; sometimes heredi- 
tary weakness, or casnal illness, 
perhaps of that most snspioiona 
kind, a neglected cold. 

I snppose that, as a rale, nothing 
can be drier or more nnneoessary 
reading than to look over the list of 
snbscnptions and donations to a 
charity; yet as I looked over this 
list I fonnd in it many points of 
interest I see, for instance, that at 
the ikshioDable chnrch which ahnost 
adjoins the chapel very large smns 
have been collected, which makes 
the incumbent a governor almost to 
an unlimited extent Then I see how 
much the poet Bobert Montgconery 
did for the institution. One of the 
wards, I observe, is called after his 
nama He was not a good poet, but 
still he was not so bad a poet as 
Macaulay made him] out to be; for 
in that case his poons would not 
have run through so many editions. 
But he was a good man, and did 
good work as a clergyman and theo- 
logical writer. His sympathies were 
enthusiastically enlisted on behalf 
of the chapel; and I am sure that 
Macaulay, who in his later years 
had an increasing passion for bene- 
volence, on this ground would have 
co-operated heart and soul with the 
man whom he reviewed too slash- 
ingly to be altogether just I see 
here a laige subscription from a 
very gifted man. I am much afraid 
that his own chest is fax from sound, 
and thus we have the effect of the 
blessed bond of sympathy. I see a 
man subscribing an unwonted sub- 



scription for one of his hard chanc- 
ter; but I know how he has lost the 
flowerets of his own home, and this 
tells me something. Again and again 
I notice sums ' From an In-Patient,' 
< From an Out-Patient' Let no man 
say that gratitude is an extinct 
virtue. The sums are modest, but 
the love has been deep and prompt 
Here is a list of preachers. I ob- 
serve that the largest sum raised at a 
collection was after a sermon by the 
Bishop of Oxford, except perhaps, 
the Bishop of Peterborough. I be- 
lieve it is calculated that the bishop 
can get in this way just as much 
monoy again as anybody else. I see 
that our political leaders subscribe. 
Lord I>en>y, Lord Stanley, Mr. Dis^ 
raeli. Earl Bussell; lit^nury man, 
like Dickens and Buskin; artists, 
as Mlllais, and so an. Some of the 
entries are affecting enough. Thus, 
'In Memory of G. P. ilL, loooZ.' 
Then we have ' A Thank-offering,' 
in remembrance, perhaps, of a hi^py 
recovery. Then, again, we have a 
large sum under the head ' Offerings 
to Ahnighty God in the house of 
J. W. B., whose death was occasioned 
by abscess in the lungs.' Then 
comes an anonymous thousand 
pounds from one who will not let 
ner left hand know what her ri^t 
handdoeth. There are several sub- 
scriptions with the affecting words 
' In memoriam,' or ' In memory of 
Annie H., from her sorrowing pa- 
rents.' Then some one slips a five- 
pound note into the ahn's box, ' God's 
gift to his poor.' The initial letters 
of the alpluibet are very liberal ; and 
large sums come in from that ever- 
useful being, 'A Friend,' who repeat- 
edly proves himself to be a friend 
indeed. The CSty Gompanies] come 
out nobly. What glimpses and 
glances of sorrow and goodness do 
we obtain, which indeed I should 
hesitate to bring out from their 
almost privacy, save that the fra- 
grance of their example may be 
rid abroad— the Dngrance of 
ointment be diffused. 
And if society maintains this pa- 
latial hospital, it must be recollected 
also t^t the hospital does much for 
society. .It must oe remembered also 
how, in its thoughtiessness and ex- 
travagance, or by its stem, necessary 



48 



Hie BrampUm EoipUatfor Oomamptum. 



commands, sodely does mtioh to 
feed the hospice with the TictimB of 
oonsnmptioiL The poor mechanic, 
inhaling the poiBonons dnst, or (wr- 
chance the sempstiefle, working 
through the night in disohedienoe 
to the Iaw of the land, bat obeying 
the more inexorable law of fEusnion 
and its wants, haye sent their con- 
tribntories to the disabled ranks of 
the diseased. This is one of the 
reasons why the wealthy should 
largely contribate to such an object. 
Those especially who, perchance in 
Italian homes, or in sonthem isles, 
are drooping with hectic languish- 
ing, will surely haye some chord of 
sympathy touched for those afflicted 
thus ; and assuredly their costly re- 
medies will not be less efficacious if 
th^ thus propitiate heayen with 
chfi^iy and self-denial. It would 
not be difficult to proye to demon- 
stration how such an hospital is most 
helpful to the yital mterests of 
society. It affords a school of me- 
dical study for the most complex, 
insidious, and widely peyalent of 
disorders. Its medical offices are 
yalued as posts of honour ; its expe- 
rience is of the highest importance 
to students, and attendance here is 
accepted by great institutions as an 
integral part of medical education. 

It may be said that the cure of 
consumption is the greatest problem 
in therapeutics ; and if eyer a cure 
is to be discoyered it will be, in aU 
probabiliiiy, through that process of 
careful obeeryation and accurate in- 
duction which can only be secured by 
a yast hospital of this kind. Formy 
own part 1 hardly doubt, but some- 
where in the realm of nature there 
is an antidote to tubercle as sure as 
the discoyered prophylactic against 



smaU-pox. Then, through the ao- 
cnmulation of facts, some happy 
genius wiQ reach to a dim surmise, 
and then to a daring guess, and 
afterwards to a scientific yerification. 
This belongs to that wisdom which 
is hidden on eyery side around us, 
that man by searching may find it 
out Already the progress of me- 
dical knowledge in recent years has 
been most maryellous in deyising 
yarions pallialiyes for this illness, 
and in eneoting its curability in the 
earlier stages; and we may yenture 
to belieye that remedies of a more 
specific character than those hitherto 
atteined may befoii long be dis- 
coyered. And albeit it may be some 
happy accident, like Newton*s fall- 
ing apple, or Jenner s discoyery of 
inoculation, that may lead to the 
greatest Eureka of modem medicine, 
yet it is more consonant with probar 
bilities and experience that such a 
glorious result should accrue ficom 
the methods of reasoning and obser- 
yation practised at the Brompton 
medical school of consumption. It 
may be said that ahcady modes of 
treatment haye be^i tried, remedies 
tested, experiments made, results 
registered, that haye been of the 
highest practical importance in the 
diagnosis and treatment of this 
disease throughout the country. So 
true is it that in our complex system 
of sodety there is a wonderful ^stem 
of reciprocal good or eyil. All mem- 
bers suffer or rejoice with ibe suffer- 
ing and rejoicing member ; and the 
g(3den deeds that ascend heayen- 
wards in acts of charity descend in 
fertilizing showers of mercy upon 
the earth, both on the just and on 
the uiuust, ihe eyil and the good. 

F. A. 




49 



DESIDEEIA ! 

IS it for this my life has weary grown, 
And yellow leaf instead of bloom appears? 
For ihiB, that care upon my head has thrown 

The early snow, that tells of early tears? 
Is it for this I seem so lonely now, 

Though he is ever near and at my side. 
To tempt me towards despair, and tell me how 

My days are narrow'd and the world so wide? 
The day is dearest, when the daylight's dying, 
And sorrow sweetcNst, if she's softly sighing 
Low to my heart, forget 
All that is past— bnt yet. 
Is it for this? 

Is it for this I gave them up my hand 

Becanse they preach'd to me of duty so? 
A hand exchanged for laces and for land ; 

For old Sir Thomas was thrown in, yon know. 
Is it for this he stifled me with furs. 

And wedged my fingers knnckle-deep with rings. 
And broaght me down among his cows and ours, 

A wife, but with what wild imaginings ! 
The days seem longer when the moonlight lingers. 
And will not touch the landscape with her fingezs. 
So that each tender ray. 
Deep to my heart can say, 
Ls it for this? 

Is it for this I'tc said farewell !— farewell ! 

Sweet love lie burled, for you may not wake? 
Bear murdered love, as these worn eyes will tell 

As tears repentant irom mine eyelids shake. 
For this I sit surrounded by his plate. 

And wish myself the time a beggar-maid. 
For this respect grows daily nearer hate, 
And still the debt of duty is not paid. 
The gloaming's tenderost when I am lonely ; 
For then to me the breezes whisper only 
Soft to my soul, regret 
Dies in the end ; but yet. 
Is it for this? 

Is it for this the children I could kiss 

About my knees and bosom cannot cling. 
And call me woman's sweetest name : for this 

Hushed is the lullaby my lips would sing. 
Ah, me ! what might have been were doubly dear 

Both for its love and its anzieiy ; 
For I would rather love and starve a year 

Than live in wealth unloved eternally. 

My life soems sweeter when I dream I'm nearer 

The end of all, thjEui all things which is dearer; 

Then will my parting breath 

Whisper, come kindly death. 

It is for this I 

C. W. S. 



VOL, XVI. -NO. XCT. 



60 



IN THE HEAET OF THE EABTH. 



I THINK we created some excite- 
ment at Falmouth. Unconven- 
tional in our attire, merry in our 
deportment^ excited in our de- 
meanour, and altogether imbued 
with that excellent Mark Tapleian 
philosophy of being 'jolly under 
any drcumstanoes,' it is small 
wonder that we did create some 
excitement at Falmouth. We have 
none of us a word to say against 
Falmouth — a charming, health- 
giving, and delightful spot, in 
the most beautiful of all English 
counties, Cornwall,— indeed, we are 
all of us inclined to mark with a 
white stone the day that the Fal- 
mouth expedition was proposed in 
a certain smoking room, of which 
history knoweth not, but individuals 
a very great deal. The little army 
that invaded the place of which I 
am speaking, where the sea is of the 
bluest and the harbour of the 
grandest description, was mixed in 
its tastes, talent, and temper. In 
this consisted our jollity. We gave 
and took; smothered our absur- 
dities; advertised our excellences* 
offended no one, and seldom laid 
ourselves open to giving offence. 1 
am not egotistical, for I am speak- 
ing of the party in its collective 
form. We behaved prettily on all 
occasions. It was too hot to put 
ourselves out of temper, and the 
society too pleasant to suggest 
boredom. If young Cecil, the bud- 
ding poet, chose to read Tennyson's 
Idylls— backed up most strongly 
by Isaline Langworthy, with the 
fair hair and blue eyes— on the 
pleasant cliff underneath the castle, 
we raised no objection. Those who 
cared to hear Cecil spout listened ; 
and tiiose who detested poetry went 
to sleep. If the famous Farqua- 
harson, briefless barrister, orator, 
and sucking politician, choFC to dis- 
cuss Mr. John Stuart Mill and the 
female franchise, women's rights 
and the rest of it— backed up most 
strongly by Maude Carruthers, with 
the raven hair and olive complexion 
— we allowed him to rap his 
knuckles on the table, and talk us 
into a semi-idiotic state of stupor. 



If Harry Armstrong found delight 
in bringing his London manners 
into Cornwall, and preferred the 
socie^ of a certain soft-eyed littlo 
divinity who sold newspapers and 
gum-arabic in the town to our 
sweet society, we allowed him to 
make excuses for deserting us, 
and, with the exception of a 
little innocent and unavoidable 
'chaff,' he was free to 'spoon' 
all day in the stationer's shop 
for aught we cored. We excused 
Lilian Comer's scales and morn- 
ing exercises, for the sake of her 
Heller, Hiller, Schubert, and 
Chopin ; her tarantellas, moonlight 
sonatas, and reveries, vriib. which we 
were favoured in the evening if we 
behaved ourselves very prettily. 
The 'irrepressible Edgar,' as we 
used to call the youngest male 
member of our community, was 
allowed to give full vent to his 
overflowing spirits all day long, pro- 
vided he woke us betimes in the 
morning to get our matutinal plunge 
in the blue waters that curled them- 
selves refreshingly into 'Summer 
Cove.' And what of our host and 
hostess ? Theirs indeed was a rule 
of love ; and as they allowed us to 
do exactly as we liked, we were the 
more considerate in meeting their 
wishes and pulling all together. 

We had vainly imagined that we 
had seen everything worth seeing 
in the environs of Falmouth, and 
enjoyed ourselves as much as is 
consistent with human nature, 
when our party received a valuable 
addition. A certain sweet song- 
stress of whom the world has heard, 
and of whom the world will ere 
long hear a great deal more, came 
down amongst us to breathe her 
native air, and get new inspirations 
and health from the woods and 
caverns, and rocks and sea-music, 
with which we were surrounded. 

But the songstress did not come 
alone. She brought her sweet 
voice and all our old pet songs; 
the songs set to words which were 
poetry, and the words wedded to 
music which breathed of love, and 
was therefore quite unsaleable ; she 



In the Heart cf the Earth. 



51 



biought her cheery manner and 
her indomitable plack — ahe has 
been in the saddle daring the late 
American campaign for days and 
days, has this sweet soDgstress of 
mine,— and she broaght her brother. 

Her brother was snoh a good 
fellow that I mnst really introduce 
him with a little bit of a preface. He 
was, if I may make nse of an ex- 
proasion, most pusszling at sohooli 
and most nsefol in after life— a 
walking oxymoron. He was an 
Englishman, and not an English- 
-man. An Englishman he was in 
heart, and speech, and bearing ; bat 
destiny had stolen him away from 
his native land years ago, to shed 
his cheeriness on other dimes. 

So mnch, howerer, did he lave 
the old ooantry, that once in every 
three or four years he wended his 
way hack again^-the Incky swal low ! 
— ^his pockets fall of gold, and his 
heart fall of loTe, to spend a holi- 
day in England and a httle fortune 
in generosity. 

Daring tiiese holiday trips he 
never Utft his aster or bis parents; 
and as his sister and his parents 
had chosen to ran down to Fal- 
mouth, like a dntifdl fellow, Wash- 
ington followed them thither. 

We were at bieakfiBMBt when Wash- 
ington burst in upon us at Fal- 
mouth; and breakfiBst at Falmouth 
was not such an early meal as it 
might have been. With that gene- 
rosity and unselfishness which is 
charaeleristic of Englishmen, I will 
at once exculpate the whole male 
portion of our party. 

The irrepressible Edgar was 
bound to wake us in the morning ; 
and we were always on our backs 
in the sea by eight o'clock. But 
the women! oh, those dear women! 
Well, generally speaking, we had 
but little to complain o£ They 
were cheerful, and bore the &tigue 
which strong-legged men not un« 
frequently impose upon fragile wo- 
men without a murmur ; but they 
were not proof against the nightly 
exercise of that highly necessary, 
but eminently female organ, the 
human tongue I At ten o'clock, de- 
ceptive yawns ware chorussed forth, 
to take us off our guard, and per- 
suade us to allow them to go to 



bed. Not an objection was urged. 
The poet perhaps looked somewhat 
more lachrymose than usual, and 
the orator came to a dead stop in an 
able harangue on the 'Female 
Franchise;' but Isaline's hand was 
squeezed iby the poet, and Maude's 
eyes followed by the orator, without 
another murmur at ten o'clock. 

I am bound to confess that I don't 
altogether consider that the poet or 
the orator were quite fairly Seated. 
Ten minutes after Isaline and Maude 
had disappeared in a bevy of beauty, 
the strangest, wildest, and most dis- 
cordant noises proceeded from the 
upper regions. 

That strange freemasonry of wo- 
men which exists solely and entirely 
in the upper regions, at a time 
which should be devoted to sleep 
and rest, puts aside all thoughts 
of weariness previously assumed. 
Then conunence the monkey-tricks 
of women. They wrestle and they 
plunge, tb^ damce fandangoes in 
limited attire, they vie with one 
another in feats of agUity and fancy ; 
they talk, they do one another's 
hair, they do anything but that for 
which they left the sweet society of 
niales^go to sleep ! 

The consequence is that, having 
devoted the freshest part of the 
night to folly, they have to devote 
the smallest part of the night to 
sleep. And when the morning 
comes, the great hungry men, 
ravenous from fresh air and salt 
water, have to fling pebbles and sand 
and gravel up at the windows in the 
upper regions, from which the tan- 
talizing syrens will never emerge. 

And so it came about that Wash- 
ington found us at breakfast at an 
unorthodox hour, and we all got 
outrageously chaffed. We very soon 
saw that there were to be no half- 
measures with Washington. He did 
not intend allowing the grass to 
grow under his feet His stay in 
England was limited, and that which 
had to be done was evidently to be 
' done quickly.' 

I must say that, up to the time of 
Washington's arrival, we had not 
made the most of our tim& In the 
little smoking room in which the 
expedition had been arranged, all 
sorts of excursions and drives^ and 
B a 



62 



In ike Heart of the Earth. 



pic-nics and sails, had been mapped 
out 

Bnt once at Falmouth, vre 
dreamed away our time. It was 
yeiy pleasant. We bathed till 
break&st, and basked till lunch, and 
lounged till dinner, and sang and 
strolled till tea, and talked till bed- 
time ; and so day after day slipped 
away, and Washington found us 
at breakfast prepared for another 
day's dream. 

I suppose we wanted a leader. 
Energy— that is to say, personal 
energy— was out of the question. 
Washington assumed the yacant 
dlrectorato and led us. It was a 
case of 

'IbimusI Iblmns! ntcumque precedes WasU- 
iDgton.' 

To tell the truth, it was Wash- 
ington who persnaded me to go 
into the heart of the earth. 

He did not begin rashly or im- 
petuously. He did not frighten me 
with an accurate description of the 
' man-engine,* and the * bucket,' and 
the interminable ladders ; but in a 
light and airy way — before all the 
girls, by-the-by— he led the conver- 
sation gently up to mmes and 
mining adventures. He told us 
how the Princess of Wales, and a 
talented contributor to 'Punch,' 
had been down the Botallack ; and 
then taking stock of me, after a 
preliminary examination of my bi- 
ceps and a general examination of 
other muscular deyelopments, he 
asked me how I should like to be 
introduced to the Wheal Isabel. 

* Of all things in the world,' I said, 
' provided she be young and good- 
looking. But why Wheal? Is it 
a sign of endearment or a token of 
respect ? Am I to understand from 
the mysterious word Wheal that 
Isabel is a Cornish Countess, or a 
Gipsy Queen? Introduce me to the 
Wheal Isabel? Certainly! Wheal 
or woe Isabel, could anything un- 
fortunate be synonymous with such 
a charming appellation ?' 

' Hold hard 1' he said ; * this Cor- 
nish air of ours has filled you too 
full of ozone. Restrain your ardour. 
Isabel is not an enchanting maiden 
fioshioned by your poetical ima- 
gination. She is no gardener's 



daughter, no maid of Tregedna, no 
coast mermaiden, no Cornish beauty. 
8he[i8 black, deep, dirty, and ter- 
rible. She will cause you a ten- 
mile ride, trouble, fatigne, and some 
little expense ; but the Wheal Isabel 
is worth knowing.' 

' In heaven's name, then,' said I, 
' who or what is she ?' 

' The Wheal Isabel/ said he, ' is 
one of the largest mines in this 
magnificent district; and if you 
would like to be introduced to her 
you shall.' 

' Coal ?* said I, shuddering. 

' Or tin ?' echoed the mucilaginous 
Armstrong. 

' Gold, no doubt,' whispered Isa- 
line in my ear. 

' Nonsense,' said Washington ; 
' copper.' 

I very soon saw that at this very 
early period of the entertainment 
there was no getting out of an 
introduction to Wheal Isabel. 

The curiosity of the women was 
fairly aroused. And that was quite 
enough. 

In an instant the programme was 
mapped out entirely to the satisfac* 
tion of the girls. Wo were all to 
ride over to the Wheal Isabel under 
the mentorship of Washington, and 
I was to be the unhappy victim 
sacrificed on the copper altar. 

Friend Washington, who, at one 
time, had been all cockahoop about 
the dangers and daring of the expe- 
dition, got out of it, or rather of the 
fatiguing part of it, with that irri- 
tating air of indifTerence peculiar 
to leaders of expeditions. 

'You know, my dear fellow, I 
have seen these kind of things so 
often before, that it is really hardly 
worth while the trouble of changing 
one's clothes for it,' said he, with 
that charming tone of superiority 
which is so comforting to the man 
who knows that he is about to make 
a fool of himself for tho benefit of 
his fellow-creatures. ' But I would 
advise you to go down,' he added, 
suspicious that I would back out of 
it at the last moment. ' You will 
never regret it.' 

And then he cleverly magnified 
me into a hero, whereat the girls 
said pretty and complimentary 
things, and the expedition was 



In the Eeart of (he Earth. 



63 



€nal]y arranged. Oar cayalcade 
was not altogether pretty to look 
at, bat I think it may be safely 
tanned a good one to go. Falmouth 
WBS not great in saddle-horses. , 

We had a 'bos-horse, a hearse- 
horse, a fly-horse, a wall-eyed horse, 
and a broken pummel. With these 
excellent assistants to a ten-mile 
ride along the Cornish roads, we 
Marted, amidst much laughter of 
parents, and cheering of neighbour- 
ing butcher boys, on our journey to 
the Wheal Isabel. 

Very black and barren grew the 
land as we neared the Queen of 
Oopperdom. The trees somehow 
or other left off growing; the fields 
seemed sown with ashes instead of 
grass; tall chimneys emitted huge 
Yolumes of smoke, and deserted 
shafts, broken wheels, and grimy- 
looking monsters met us at every 
turn. 

When four cross roads met amidst 
A labyrinth of shafts and out-houses 
in the centre of a blackened heath 
we drew rein. 

* I think this must be the place/ 
said Washington. Ho was right. 
A stalwart Ck>rni8hman came out to 
meet us, and to him we presented 
our credentials, addressed to the 
Captain of the Mine. 

The captain was somewhat dis- 
appointed, I think, when he found 
that we were not all to be indoc- 
trinated into the mysteries of min- 
ing. Miners are after all bat men, 
ssaa the laughing merriment of our 
joyous girls had abready won over 
the rough heart of the honest 
miner. 

' No, it is only this gentleman,* 
said the treacherous Washington, 
with the old tone of superiority 
4igain. ' I have been down mines 
scores of times.' 

This was all very well of Washing- 
ton vaunting his superiority in this 
way, but why should he, by impli- 
-oation, assert that I was a fool be- 
cause I was a novice, and because I 
had not been down a mine ? 

I was quite prepared to go through 
all the dirty work, but I wanted to 
be thought a hero, not a jackass. 

The girls stood by me bravely. 
Their sympathy relieved me from 
4K>me of the humiliation I felt, and 



th^ seemed determined, at all 
events, that I should not go down 
into the heart of the earth without 
a cheer. 

I was handed over to the tender 
mercies of a sub-captain, who hinted 
that it would be as well if two other 
miners were told off ps a private 
escort, to guard me through the 
lower regions. 

' It's as well to have two or three 
with you, sir,' said he; ' they treat 
you with more respect down below, 
and they're a rough lot, I can tell you.' 

I assented, of course. At such a 
time it would, by no manner of 
means, be politic to dissent from 
anything or anybody. 

For the next hour or so my life 
was in the hands of the slaves of 
the Wheal Isabel. 

The sub-captain led me into a 
little out-house, where he personally 
superintended my toilette. I had 
imagined that it would merely be 
necessary to put a rongh canvas suit 
over my ordinary clothes. But I was 
very soon disabused of this notion. 

' We must have everything off, 
sir,* said my guide, in a soothing 
medical tone, as if he were about to 
operate on me. 'It's an awfully 
dirty place down there.' 

The costume will bear descrip- 
tion. I was first encased in flannel, 
clean, of course ; and over this came 
an old clay-stained, muddy, stiff 
miner's suit My feet were wrapt 
in two flannel dusters and then 
thrust into a pair of old miner's 
shoes, miles too big for me. On my 
head was placed a very stiff billy- 
cock hat, literally as hard as iron, 
smeared with tallow grease. On the 
brim in front the captain dabbed a 
lump of clay, and into this he stuck 
a farthing rushlight. About half a 
dozen more rushlights were sus- 
pended to my waist, and I was then 
pronounced ready for action. 

On our way across the open to 
the hat in which our party was 
resting, my attendant asked me 
which way I intended to go down. 
Asked me, indeed I as if I knew 
what the good fellow was talking 
about. I was only anxious not to 
look a fool and to do exactly what 
I was told. I must own that I felt 
a perfect child in his hands. 



5i 



In the Heart of (he Barth, 



' Will yon go down/ said he, 'by 
the ladders, or by the bncket, or by 
the man-engine ?* 

He might jnst as well have asked 
me the Hindostanee for Wheal 
Isabel. 

* The ladders,' said he, by way 
of explanation, ' are the most tiring 
and the most tedious. Yon will 
take a good hour to get down by 
the ladders. The bucket is a dirty 
way of going down ; besides, in this 
mine, it is used alone for bringing 
up the rubble and the ore, and any 
interference with this arrangement 
stops the working of the mine. 
Now the man-engine is the quickest 
way, and it is the way all the men 
here go down. Would you like to 
try it?' and then he added, looking 
at me, * but you must be rery careful.' 

This was the first suggestion that 
had been made to me that there was 
any danger in my undertaking. 
Now the principle of the bucket 
and the ladders I naturally under- 
stood, but I had no more idea what 
a man-engine was than the man 
in the moon. My mentor, for some 
mysterious reason of his own, kept 
on quietly pressing the superior ad- 
vantage of the man-engine. And so 
I consented. If I had only known 
then, at that quiet moment, away 
from the laughing girls and the 
heroic Washington, what I was un- 
dertaking, and the mortal agony I 
was about to endure, my prudence 
would most certainly have got the 
better of my pride, and I should 
have been whizzed quietly down in 
the dirty bucket. 

But as it was, in my ignorance 
and in the innocence of my heart, 
I decided : for the man-engine ; and 
in a minute more I was ushered 
into the hut 

My quaint appearance was the 
signal for a loud burst of laughter. 
Some would ' never have known me, 
would you ?' others pronounced me 
a fright; but one little soft angelic 
Yoice declared me to be 'a hand- 
some young miner.' 

'You're sure you are all right?' 
said the same little confiding voice. 
' Have you had some brandy ?' 

' All right,' said I, feeling very 
pale. ' I should think so. Particu- 
larly now.' 



' But how are you going down ?' 
said the sweet voice ; ' the captain 
has been telling us all about it' 

' By the man-engine.' 

' For mercy's sake, don't ! if s very 
dangerous if you're not accustomed 
to it He told me so.' 

That tone of entreaty persuaded 
me more than ever that I would 
take the most dangerous route. It 
was very brutal, I know, but at such 
a time I would sooner have died 
than shown the white feather. 

They escorted me towards the 
infernal machine like a criminal on 
his road to execution. 

' Set it a going. Bill,' said the 
sub-captain; and then in a few 
terse sentences he explained the 
principle of the engine. 

Two parallel horizontal bars pro- 
vided with iron steps at intervaui of 
about ten yards, were ibr ever vrork- 
ing up and down— up and down. 
The method of getting down the 
shaft was by passing from bar to 
bar and fh>m step to step, the very 
instant the word 'Change' was 
given. It was essentially requisite 
to change the moment the word of 
command was given, and to make 
no bungle or shuffle about the ope- 
ration. The engine waited for no 
man. There was no possibility of 
calling a halt, and no saving hand 
to catch one if a miss was made. 
All one's safety rested with one'a 
self. One false step or fiilse clutch 
at the next rung, and it would have 
been all over with me. Now this 
fun was all very well vnth the day> 
light shining down the shaft, when 
one could see the iron steps and see 
the handles, but in the pitch dark- 
ness it was simply awful. The 
rushlight in one's hat gave little or 
no light ; and it was ten chances to 
one if the water dashing off the 
sides of the shaft did not extinguish 
it 

They practised me at first for a 
turn or two about a hundred yard& 
up and down the shaft, and even in 
the daylight I bungled a little. 

' You must change quicker, sir,' 
said my guide ; ' if the iron steps 
knock against you it will be all up- 
with you,' 

I; was very pale, I know, after 
the first short practice. I felt that 



In Oie Heart of the Earth. 



65 



I was doing a madcap act; I know 
that the men ought to have stopped 
me ; the little voice, now quite trem- 
bling, begged me not to go ; bnt I 
bit my lips and to wed I would not 
Bfaow the white feather. 

' Do you think you are all right, 
air? said my guide. 'Will you 
go ? You must decide now finally.' 

' AU right,' I said. 

And then the bell rung, and down 
we went I saw the little face— it 
was the very last thing I saw— and 
upon my honour I really and truly 
felt that I should never see liiat 
little fyuoe again except by a mi« 
rac]& 

But there was no time then to 
think of anything but my own 



That terribly monotonous word 
'Change' came ringing out from 
the dark depths of the shaft, uttered 
by the sub- captain on the next 
ledge below me. And I knew 
that my life depended upon every 
change. 

Houn, days, years, yes, and cen- 
turies, seemed to pass between 
every ehanga It was like a hide- 
ous nightmare. The awful sus- 
pense between every word of com- 
mand; the feeling that something 
terrible might happen next time; 
the loneliness of my situation, the 
darkness of the shaft, the rush of 
the water, the glimmer of the msh- 
lights going down ; the sad hollow 
echo of the captain's voice giving 
the word of command, and exhort- 
ing me to be careful, now kindly, 
nowfearfally ; ail these things com- 
bined made up as hideous a day- 
dream as it is possible to conceive. 

For full five and twenty minutes 
I was in this awful suspense, and in 
that time went througn about five 
hundred changes. 

At last, half blinded with beads of 
cold perspiration, and nearly dead 
with firight, I heard the welcome 
bell ring again, and I was safe on 
the first ledge of the mine. 

The man-engine went no farther, 
and the rest of the journey had to 
be accomplished by ladders. I never 
told the men what I suffered, but in 
a rough kindly way I was congratu- 
lated on my feat 

' I never thought you would have 



come, sir,' said one. ' It frightens 
most after the first turn.' 

' Can't you signal up that we are 
all safe,' said I, thinking of the little 
&ce. 

* Tes, sir, to be sure.' 

And they did. 

The signal came back again, 
'Thank God I' and all the miners 
took off their hats at the last signal. 
They are pious follows, these Cornish 
miners. 

I was quite two hours away from 
my friends, groping about, now on 
my hands and knees, now down 
ladders from ledge to ledge, now 
in a stooping position, now erect 
in the dark mysterious corridors I 
foond in the heart of the earth. It 
was hot — stifling hot, hotter than the 
very hottest room in a Turkish bath. 
But the stalwart, half-clad men 
working away at the ore were so 
interesting, and the metal sparkled 
so on the ground, and the scene 
was so strange and fascinating, that 
I could not tear myself away. 

On and on I went, still for ever 
walking on. I was very thirsty, 
and would have given anything for 
a draught of beer. But no stimu- 
lants of any kind are found in the 
heart of the earth. I was allowed 
howerer to put my mouth to the 
bung-hole of a water-barrel, and 
very refreshing was the draught. 

' You can walk on like this for 
hours, sir,' said the captain, see- 
ing I was tired, and still determined 
not to give in. 

' Is it pretty much the same?' 

' I think you have seen all now,' 
said he. 

So we went back. 

' Which way will you go?' said 
my guide. 

I was very tired. 

' In the bucket,' I said, without 
any hesitation. 

With my pockets laden with 
copper ore, and in the rough em- 
brace of a stalwart miner— for it 
was close quarters for two in the 
bucket— we were swung up to the 
daylight. 

Dash went the bucket against the 
sides of the shaft, through which 
the water oozed and trickled and 
splashed. Lighter and lighter it 
became, until, at last, I saw above 



56 



DolgeUey and its AUradioM, 



me the clear^ blue, cloudless s^; 
and, half-dazzled with the glaring 
light, and blinking like an old owl, 
I arrived safe and sound on terra 
firm a. 

They greeted me with another 
loud peal of laughter, louder and 
merrier than the last My appear- 
ance was certainly not prepossessing. 
I was covered with rod mud from 
head to foot, hot, dishevelled, wild, 
and weary. And then * I smelt so 
pah !' as Hamlet says. However, a 
refreshing cold bath, a hair-brush, 
rough towels, and a change of 
clothes soon made me presentable ; 
and after an excellent luncheon in 
the board-room of the owners of the 



Wheal Isabel, we were all very soon 

trotting away towards Falmouth. 

• • • • « 

One word more. A brooch made 
from the copper ore I brought up 
from the mine rests on the neck of 
the owner of the little face which is 
looking at me as I write from a 
distant comer of the room. Some- 
times when I am out of sorts — which 
is not very often now— I wake up 
suddenly from a disturbed dream 
in my old arm-chair, and fancy 
somehow that the little face is 
gone, that there is a strange sing- 
ing in my ears, and from a dark 
unearthly vault a voice keeps moan* 
ing, ' Change.* 



DOLGELLEY AND ITS ATTEACTIONS. 



DOLGELLET was built in the 
good old times, ages before the 
independent souls of burgesses were 
vexed by the restrictions of local 
boards, and when every Welshman's 
house was not only his castle, but 
a castle he could erect, ver^ cheaply, 
just where he liked to pitch it I 
use the word ' pitch' advisedly, for 
the architecture of Dolgelley has 
been described, very quaintly, by an 
old gentieman, after dinner, with the 
aid of a decanter and a handftil of 
nutshells, thus: 'You see this de- 
canter, that is the church.' Then 
taldng the shells and pouring them 
over the decanter, he continued, 
'and these are the houses 1' And 
if you were to try for a week you 
could not describe the place better. 
It can scarcely be said that there is 
a street in the whole town, and yet 
Dolgelley is the capital of Merioneth- 
shire, and (now) possesses two rail- 
way stations. The main thorough- 
fare in the direction of one station is 
just 12 ft. 6 in. wide, and has no 
straight length of more than a dozen 
yards; and the inhabitants are jubi- 
lant because they see their way— in 
the erection of a market-hall— to- 
wards widening a right-angle corner 
to something approaching eighteen 
feet! The town, instead of streets, 
comprises a series of little squares, 
intersected by narrow lanes, and the 
houses are wholly built of large. 



heavy grey stones, with material 
enough in them to supply mansions 
for a town twice the size, as man- 
sions are now run up. Fancy all 
this in a place where, during the 
summer months, coaches and cars 
are rattling about all the day long, 
and far into the night too, and you 
will fisincy a place the reality of 
which you will find nowhere but at 
Dolgelley. 

I trust I have made the place 
look quaint enough, if somewhat 
dull and heavy in its proportions. 
But it is not to study architecture 
or to plan street improvements that 
people crowd to Dolgelley. The 
town lies in the very centre of at- 
tractions the like of which cannot 
be approached unless we cross the 
Channel, and then it is an even 
question whether they can be sur- 
passed. When I speak of the crowds 
that throng Dolgelley, I refer chiefly 
to the traffic of last summer, for 
until that time there was no railway 
within miles of it : now there are 
two, the London and North Western 
(vid Cambrian) and the Great West- 
em. Both routes run through charm- 
ing scenery, but the former goes 
further into Wales, consequently its 
tourist tickets are more extensive. By 
one or the other passengers can book 
for a month from all the great towns 
of England at exceedingly cheap 
rates, and it was noticeable, last 




rnr: hfart uf the n.^nTn 



DolgcUey and iU AUraelions. 



67 



summer, that tbo landlords — ihdae 
too often dreadful ogres — were wise 
in their generation, and, as a rule, 
did not disgust the tourist with out- 
rageous charges. 

But I am traTelling away from 
the attractions that surround Dol- 
gelley. First and foremost of course 
arises— 

' That form sabUme, thatdrawetb upward ever 
To aiiy points its far receding dopes- 
Cathedral mouutaln, 'mid the thousand shrines 
That lift their gorgeous steeples all around, 
Bepletu with heavenward praise, where every 

mom 
The wild winds ring for worship — ,' • 

Cader Idris— to which these lines 
refer—is indeed a glorious moun- 
tain. Thousands of foreigners (i, e, 
non-Welshmen, natives rarely go 
up) hare ascended its slopes, whilst 
those who know how to pronounce 
its name can be counted by dozens. 
' Have you been up Eayder I-dris?* 
you will hear a cockney cousin ask 
over his pipe in the billiard-room 
of the Ship Hotel, naturally leading 
to the subject he feels so virtuous 
about, the achievement of the moun- 
tain. A little talk ensues, and per- 
haps the courteous landlord (of course 
a Jones) politely corrects a conple of 
mistakes Dy remarking, ' We Welsh- 
men always say Cad-er Id-ris,' and 
the host is right Then, as a natural 
sequence, the talk follows as to the 
meaning of the name, and some- 
times a hot contest results. Some 
say that * Idris' was a warrior, some 
that he was a philosopher, others 
that he was both : all that he used 
the mountain as an observatory, 
either to keep his eye on military 
tactics below, or on tiie stars above. 
Then as to ' Gader' there is a dif- 
ference of opinion, those inclined to 
the military view holding that it 
means 'fortress,' those favouring 
the philosopher notion believing it 
to mean 'onair.' The latter opi- 
nion is the most generally received, 
bat I am not aware that there is 
even a Welshman who believes that 
the Eisteddfod has produced a pro- 
fessor who can fill such a chair of 
philosophy! And this is saying 
much, for the Welshmen of the £is- 

♦ From * Three All Saints' Summers,* by 
the Rev. W. Wakham How, of Whitting- 
ton, Oswestry. 



teddfodau* are by no means defi- 
cient in self-esteem! Gader Idris 
has formed a bone of contention in 
other ways. And in using the word 
bone I steer clear of the geologists, 
who have had their quarrel over its 
rugged steeps. A writer in a semi- 
scientific periodica], three years ago, 
was very angry with the compilers 
of those wonderfal productions face- 
tiously termed 'Guide-books,' and 
says: *It is to be regretted that 
Guide-book writers, in describing 
Cader Idris, should copy the errors 
of one another, so as to leave the 
tourist in ignorance of what he may 
really expect in making the ascent 
of the mountain.' This promised 
well, but the writer left the moun- 
tain pret^ much as he found it, all 
he did being to defend the theory of 
' Watery Geology' against the belief 
of 'Volcanic Graters.' He was 
smarUy commented upon in the 
' Merionethshire Standard' by a local 
geologist, who preferred fire to water, 
and I think had the best of it. The 
height of the mountain, too, is some- 
times disputed. Some authorities 
Elace it second only to Snowdon, 
ut a larger number hold that it 
really is less in altitude than Arran- 
Fowddy (near Bala), Bhinog Fawr 
(between Harlech and Barmouth), 
and Diphwys, another mountain of 
the same district But what it lacks 
in height Gader assuredly makes up 
in grandeur, and by all it is esteemed 
as the most beautiful of the Gam- 
brian heights. I don't propose de- 
scribing the ascent of the mountain. 
With the aid of a stout walking- 
stick and good lungs it may be done 
on two legs in three hours ; feebler 
folk can readily, and without the 
slightest feeling of danger, accom- 
plish tiie same end on four legs in 
about the same time. For this pur- 
pose ponies, that won't go astray if 
you try and make them, can be had at 
the hotels at the charge of six shillings 
each, conductor included, the latter 
generally an active boy who does 
not object to make himself generally 
useful if there is the i)rospect of a 
small gratuity. Gbarming views are 

* 'Eisteddfodau' is the plaral of Eis- 
teddfod. The final 's' atter the latter 
woixl is a common error made by English 
writers. 



58 



DotgeHey and Ut Attractions. 



to be obtained at TariooB stages in 
the ascent, which form ample ex* 
cases for reeting. One or two lakes 
are passed, notably Llyn-y-Gader, 
the ' Lake of the Chair/ where so 
fine an echo can be prodnced that 
the wonder is the SwiES style of 
cows -horn mnsic has not been imi- 
tated. At the top yon cannot see 
80 fiir as from Snowdon, bat what is 
to be seen is more yaried ; not that 
the view is by any means limited. 
Sonth we haye Piimlimon and the 
Brecknock Beacons, east the Arran 
and Bala Lake — that wonderfal 
sheet of water that is one day to 
snpply the town of Liyerpool with 
the element it so greatly needs— and 
far away beyond the Arran range 
the Berwyn is plainly yisible, and, 
on moderately clear days, that centre 
of the proad Salopian's toast, ' the 
Wrekin,' adds a charm to the land- 
scape. To the north Snowdon shats 
up the yiew, and westerly there is 
the beaatifiil bay of Cardigan and 
the broad Atlantic. It is even said 
that the Cader yiew embraces more 
distant attractions; bat the toarist 
telescopes provided by Goide-book 
writers are notorioosly strong in 
tiieir magnifying power, so I prefer 
confining myself to the capacity of 
yisions like Sam Weller's, that are 
limited in their powers. And after 
all what does it matter? The eye 
can bat be filled with beauty, and 
here the poet's eye, in a fine filenzy 
rolling, may glance from heaven to 
earth, from earth to heaven, to the 
utmost content of his heart 

There are several paths by which 
you can descend frx>m the Chair of 
Idris. The hotel-keepers of coarse 
say that anlees yoa take a goide 
yoa will speedily find very short 
ones indeed. And there is a mea- 
Bare of trath in what they say, for 
the mists so saddenly arise in the 
monntain districts that it is always 
safer to have a trustworthy man at 
year elbow who knows his way with 
his eyes shut. Still, I have gone ap 
from Dolgelley to the top, and down 
to Talyllyn— that charming resort of 
lazy anglers — ^without a goide and 
without difficulty, that is, without 
difficulty in tracing the route, for 
the Talyllyn sAoent is veiy rough 
and steep. Another favoorite ascent 



is from Barmouth (a rising watering- 
place— not yet spoiled— visited by 
Mr. Mark Lemon last summer, and 
photographed in 'Punch'). But my 
object is not so much to go into de- 
tails, which can be gathered by the 
yisitors in the several localities, as 
to induce tourists who rush to Swit- 
zerland first to see what 'Greater 
Britain' can produce; and having 
said so much about Cader Idris I 
will complete Mr. How's exquisite 
description of it, and proceed to note 
a few more of the attractions of Dol- 
gelley. 

' Let me add 

Mjr pony voice to all Uie mighty- chant 
'I'haL dowD Uiy sculptur'd aialefl a iboasanct 

BtFcams 
Chant as ihey march white-vested. TempL& 

vast, 
.Grpat dome, instinct with awe and tbon^t 

profound, 
Whose slteut regions and unmeasui'd spsce 
DiBtil a sense of power and ma^m^,— 
Whose mighty walls of fretted rock, and slop^ 
That front all aspects of the hollow sky,— 
Whose forms tbat in their changes infinite 
Make thee complete In unity— whose vsstness 
And grandeur, that do unimpaired embrace 
The exquistts perfection of each part 
W^rought with minutest skill—whose noon- 
day glory 
Scor'd with black shades of deep-cut masonry— 
Whose vaults with lavish beau^ studded, 

boss'd 
With cluster of huge angleSk feather'd o'er 
With foliage of all grsce— whose marble 

floors 
or airy lakes, that see the starry hosts 
March nightly by,— whose proud head wreathed 

round 
With lightning storms, — whose sudden shout- 
ing rush 
or hurricane, and tumult of swift winds, — 
'NVhose winter torrents, and whoso glased 



Yea, and whose gem-Uke flower most delicate 
Nurs'd in a cleft of rock amid the spray 
Of waterfalls— all gloriously exalt 
Thine awful Architect : I would bow low. 
Great mountain, in thy vast and silent courts,. 
Filling my soul with worship unto Him 
Who built tliee for a temple to His praise/ 

One of the strong attractions of 
Dolgelley to a large class of the 
oommanity is the mineral wealth of 
the district ; and many a Pater- 
familias, while his wife and daugh- 
ters are hunting for ferns and wild 
flowers, is himself— with an eye to 
something more practical — ^'pros- 
pecting' for copper, lead, or gold. 
The gold fever in the district half a 
dozen years ago was something re* 



DolgeUep and Us AUraetuma. 



59 



markable> and I am sarpriged no 
popular account of it has been pnb< 
fished. The natives tell me that 
certain mines had been worked for 
lead and copper for many years, the 
ore obtained being carried away 
into Flintshire, where it was smelted, 
small quantities of silver being ex- 
tracted. It was supposed that gold 
existed in the qnaitz so plentifully 
found in the rocks— indeed sundiy 
specks had been visible to the naked 
eye — but no one seemed to think 
that the quantity would pay for the 
labour of extraction. Events proved 
otherwise, and now the general im- 
pression is that some of the Me- 
rionethshire copper formerly smelted 
in Flintshire has been converted 
into rather more valuable kettles 
and saucepans than are usually to 
be met with in ordinary domestic 
life. 

The gold fever commenced about 
i860, and in this way. A Mr. Wil- 
liams became the purchaser of the 
Yigra and Ciogau mine, which is 
situated in a narrow valley in the 
mountains, five miles from Dolgelley 
on the Barmouth road. This had 
been worked for copper for a con- 
siderable period, but Mr. Williams 
tried for gold. Curious stories are 
told of the hopes, fears, and disap- 
pointments of the owner and his 
manager, John Parry, when one 
morning — ^it is said on the very day 
they had agreed to abandon the 
search, ruin staring tiiem in the face 
— Parry made such a discovery as 
turned the heads of the whole com- 
munity. The excitement was par- 
donable, for in a 'bunch' he turned 
out what proved to be thirty-six 
ihouaand pounds worth of gddl At 
once the fever raged. Nothing was 
talked of by day or dreamed of by 
night but 

^ *Oo1d I and gold ! and gold wlthoat end ! * 
Gold to lay by, and gold to spend, 
Qold to give, and gold to lend. 

And reveraiona of gold in/uturo !' 

To say that the day of discovery 
was 'marked by a white stone' in 
the history of Dolgelley would 
merely be stating the literal fact, 
for soon every man you met would 
have a lump of quartz in his pocket 
and a scheme in his head, the reali- 
zation of which would make him 



the hero of a new El Dorado. The 
landlords who had possession of the 
heights into the sides of which the 
gold-seekers wished to burrow were 
besieged for leases. Cabinet minis- 
ters and leading statesmen came 
down to Dolgelley to join in the 
search for gold. One of the most 
democratic of Radicals, and one of 
the most popular men in England, 
became the chairman of a company 
under agreement with a Conserva- 
tive of tiie Conservatives, and— so- 
cially— the most popular man in 
Wales. Yes; for once John Bright 
and Sir Watkin Wynn were in the 
same lobby, and the Castell-Cam- 
Dochan, the mine in question, held 
out when all the others, save one, 
had collapsed. Capitalists sank 
their manufactured gold in the hunt 
for the raw material, and limited 
liability companies, with almost un- 
limited resources, put up the per^ 
fection of machinery, engaged the 
most knowing hands, native and 
foreign, and thought they were lay- 
ing the foundation of colossal for- 
tunes. 

But, alas for the dreamers and the 
workers! The finding of the nuggets 
at Ciogau was a piece of good fortune 
not to be repeated. True, that com- 
pany did net a profit of 20,000^. a 
year for two or three years after, but 
the bulk of the new ventures were 
failures, and now even the Vigra 
and Ciogau barely pays its working 
expenses. The others are all closed. 
'Ah, sir,' said an intelligent police- 
officer to me one night as I smoked 
my pipe on his beat at Dolgelley, 
' if uiey had looked in their Bibles 
they would have found that gold 
was not to be discovered like other 
metals.' This was a Cave-of-Adnl- 
1am allusion to me — I wonder 
whether Mr. Bright had thought of 
it— so I ' gave it up.' The sergeant 
explained: 'Don't you know, sir, it 
says in Job, "There is a vein for 
the silver and a place for gold" ? so 
we are not led to expect to follow 
it upas we can some other mine- 
rals.^ This is true, as the specu- 
lators found it Many mines were 
opened— the Imperial, the Sove- 
reign, the Prince of Wales, the Saint 
David, the Cambrian, the East Cam- 
brian, <&c. &o. Speedily the hill-sides 



60 



DclgeUey and Us AUraclions, 



resoundod with the olang of the iron 
stamps crashing the quartz, and all 
VTBS life, hope, and activity. Like 
dogs, the mines had their day. 
Their big names were of no avail, 
and it was soon found that- the * Im- 
perial* quartz yielded but a very 
short measure of gold ; the patron 
saint of Wales was not propitiated 
by the venture dedicated to St. Da- 
vid ; the ' Sovereign' absorbed more 
of its namesake than it produced 
stuff to make ; and the East Gam- 
briau, having produced little under 
the 'stamps' of iron, soon came 
under the hammer of the auctioneer. 
Yigra and Ologau is still worked, 
and every now and then other ven- 
tures are revived. Visitors to the 
district will do well to explore some 
of these, and they may, as I have 
done, occasionally pick up a bit of 
quartz containing visible specks of 
the genuine metal : they will always 
insure a charming walk. 

And it is in charming walks and 
rides that Dolgelley is so especially 
attractive. You cannot go out from 
the town, in any direction, without 
being surprised into some new 
beauty. Taking the road to Ma- 
chynlleth for the distance of a mile, 
a lane diverges to the left to Dol- 
Berau, the residence of Mr. Charles 
Edwards, ex-member for Windsor. 
Opposite the gates leading to the 
house a pathway called the 'Tor- 
rent Walk,' on the Caerynwch estate, 
winds up to a considerable height, 
down the side of which falls a most 
lomantic little river which rises in 
the Gader range. Mr. Meredith 
Richards (gtandson of the late Baron 
Eichards) kindly allows the public 
to enjoy this beautiful retreat, and 
a more delightful way of spending a 
isummer morning than in visiting it 
we cannot imagine. The walk 
mounts, sometimes by steps and 
sometimes by slopes, always in the 
43ound and generally in sight of the 
mountain torrent, and both Eight 
and sound of the water bound^g 
over and between the unmense boul- 
ders beneath are, on a hot day, won- 
derfully refreshing. Seats are placed 
at the most attractive points, and 
ihe ferns and wild flowers are so 
well protected by the public that 
ihey are allowed to grow in the very 



cracks of the steps. The foliage 
around and above affords an agree- 
able shade, and here and there are 
peeps into the world without per- 
fectly bewitching. After a mile or 
so of this quiet enjoyment the Ma- 
chynlleth road is again reached, and, 
following it, the explorer soon 
reaches the Gross Foxes tavern, 
where he may just as well refresh 
himself if he wishes to prolong his 
walk, as I should most earnestly 
advise him to do. Leaving the 
Gross Foxes, and going due east, 
there is a steep ascent of a mile, 
when the summit of one of the 
grandest of the minor passes of 
Wales is attained. Blvch-Oer- 
ddrws (Gold-door-pass), as this is 
called, is almost unkuown to the 
world of tourists. From the summit 
the view towards Dolgelley must be 
seen to be appreciated. Gader Idris 
rises a magnificent centre to the 
panorama, and the * glorious estuary 
of the Mawddach'* up to Barmouth 
completes one of the grandest bits 
of Welsh scenery I know. Turning 
your back to this enchanting view, 
and walking on, after another mile 
of tolerably level ground, you begin 
to descend the pass, a place of 
gloomy grandeur, where, it is said, 
the friends of Owain Glyndwr as- 
sembled after the death of their 
chief ' for the purpose of making 
compacts to enforce virtue and 
order.' Some of the mountains here 
assume fantastic shapes, notably one 
on the right, which resembles a 
crouching lion of huge proportions. 
The pretty valley of Gerrist is reached 
in another mile, and the pedestrian 
enters on a cheerful turnpike road, 
with a sparkling river on one side 
and a fine amphitheatre of moun- 
tains beyond. A mile or two of this 
lands the visitor at Dinas Mawddy. 
Now if you were to search Great 
Britain over and have to say where 
would be the most unlikely place to 
see a railway station you would say 
' At Dinas Mawddy.' And yet there 
you find one. The place is perhaps 
the smallest city in the world, in- 
deed any one might be pardoned for 
calling it a very insignificant village, 
but city it is, as the word 'dinas' 

* So described by the late Mr. Justice 
Talfourd in hi& * Vacation Rambles.* 



DolgeUey and its AUraetioHB, 



61 



implies. When you once get there 
from the Cold-H^oor-pass yoa may 
natnially wonder how you are to 
find another door for egress, for the 
hamlet is, to all appearanoe, quite 
shut in by mountains. The very 
noveliy of its position holds people 
there for a few weeks in the summer, 
especially if they are fond of Ihe 
gentle art, for the Boyey, one of the 
best fishing rivers in Wales, runs 
through the valley. To Sir Edmund 
Buckley, M.P. for Newcastle-under- 
Lyme, Dinas owes its railway. That 
gentleman is the great landowner of 
the district, has built a mansion at 
the head of the city, and has made 
the line at his own cost, chiefly for 
the development of the slate traffic. 
The county abounds in minerals, 
and many distinguished Englishmen 
have their fingers in Merionethshire 
mineral pies 1 I may say, in passing, 
that the late Lord Palmerston was 
the chairman of a company at Festi- 
niog, and I have heard an old miner 
tell with glee how he clothed the 
genial lord with suitable raiment, 
and stuck a candle into his hands, 
to arm him for an exploration of the 
levels. But this is a digression. Sir 
Edmund Buckley's railway runs 
through Mallwyd and Gemmes, a 
couple of Dovey fishing stations, to 
the Cambrian system, a distance of 
seven miles. By means of this line 
Dinas, where a few years ago not a 
word of English was spoken, has 
been introdaced to the outer world. 
I remember one day standing on IJie 
side of one of the hills that shut in 
Dinas with a farmer of the neigh- 
bourhood who had lived there all 
his life, and his son who had just 
returned from a year's residence in 
London. Jones junior's 'compari* 
sons were odorous,' and his nose 
turned up at everything Welsh. 
The London he had left seemed to 
be almost like the London Dick 
WhittiDgton expected to fiud. At 
last Jones senior cut the lad short 
by pointing to the grand old moun- 
tains around, which the setting sun 
had lit up with a halo of gold, and 
asking him, ' John, did you see any- 
thing like this in London ?' John 
hadn't, and we all silently enjoyed 
the wonderful transformation scene. 
I hinted in the earlier part of my 



paper that Englishmen made rather 
a mess of Welsh names. It has often 
occurred to me that the Guide-book 
people would do a great service to 
Hie travelling public if they would 
give an index of names of Welsh 
towns, villages, mountains, streams, 
and passes, with the proper pronun- 
ciation attached. The queries of 
tourists are sometimes perplexing. 
One day I was journeying by the 
Cambrian railway from Newtown to 
Machynlleth, when a gentleman in 
the carriage asked me where he was 
to change for Malrved. I said I 
knew Wales pretty well, but I 
thought there must be some mis- 
take; at least there was no such 
place as Malwed known to fame. 
He replied, * Oh, yes, there must be, 
for I am advised that there is a 
public conveyance from one of the 
stations to it' I called the guard, 
and asked him. ' Malwed, Malwed,' 
he muttered ; ' blest if the gent 
mustn't mean MatUewed* And the 
gent did—Mallwyd, the fishing sta- 
tion on the Dovey, being the re- 
quired haven. This difficulty of 
pronunciation has been got over in 
some places by the slaughter of the 
Welsh entirely, and the adoption of 
an English approximation to the 
sound. Thus in one of the best 
known of valleys the guards and 
porters at the railway station call 
out ' Llangol-len.' What would the 
bard who wrote — 

* While the maid of Ilangullen smiles sweetly 
on me/ 

say if he could hear his lines thus 
barbarized ? 

But I have strayed from Dolgel- 
ley, and as we are at Dinas we may 
as well make a detour and go back 
by way of Bala. You will get about 
as good a notion of Welsh scenery in 
this walk as in thrice the distance 
on most of the beaten tracks. First 
you have a pass, BwlohygroeSf de- 
scribed by the Guide-boobs as ' ele- 
vated and terrific 1' then a mountain, 
Airan Benllyn— -which, however, 
you do not ascend: then a water- 
fall ; and lastly a lake with a river 
running throiujh it ! Once at Bala 
the Great Western Eailway Com- 
pany will take you to Dolgelley in 
an hour. 

These railways rather bother old 



62 



DolgeUen tmd Ua AitracUonB. 



stagers who used to ' do' Wales by 
coach and walking-stick. Occasion- 
ally yon see them with their repre- 
sentatires of this generation, fight- 
ing their battles o'er again, and 
shaking their heads oyer the effemi- 
nacy of first-class cushions. They 
hardly know where they are, and 
the Guide-books don't help them, 
for the latter, instead of being en- 
tirely rewritten, are patched; old 
and new routes being so mixed as 
to perplex the sons and utterly to 
confound the fathers. ' Ah, my boy/ 
I heard an old gentleman say to his 
grandson, one day when the train 
pulled up at a station between Bala 
and Dolgelley, ' I remember this 
place (Drwsynant), but we walked 
to it from Dolgelley, and earned the 
oalrcake and erw-da we enjoyed at 
the inn ! Very likely the inn is a 
limited-liability hotel now, and oat- 
cake a thing unheard-ofl' Then 
followed the inevitable sigh over 
the world's changes. I advised the 
grandson, as the evening was fine, 
to get out at Drwsynant, and walk 
the seven miles to Dolgelley. I 
hinted that he would find the old inn 
unchanged, the oat-cake still served, 
and the crw as good as ever. I also 
told him that he would enjoy the 
valley of the Wnion and the view of 
Gader Idris as much as any one could 
have done in the last generation; 
but the misguided youth preferred 
the cushions and remained. . 

Drwsynant puts me in mind of a 
funny story about a former Sir 
Watkin Wynn, said to have been 
tme in the old coaching days. A 
tourist of an inquiring turn of mind 
joined the coach at that place on its 
way to Bala. Inside he found a 
stout gentleman enjoying a nap. 
When he woke, the tourist asked 
whose was the farm they were pass- 
ing. ' Mine,' was the reply, and the 
gentleman again slept. Another 
wakeful moment, and another ques- 
tion : ' Who may that mountain be- 
long to?' 'To me;' followed by 
another doze. Again came a wake- 
ful moment, and the question, ' Do 
you know who is the owner of that 
valley ?' with the answer, ' I am not 
sure, but I think most of it's mine.' 
No more questions were asked, but 
when ^the coach reached Bala the 



tourist bolted into the house, saying 
— ' I have been riding with eitfaer a 
prince, a madman, or the devil.' 
' You are right,' replied a native. 
' Ton have beoi riding with the 
'' Prince tn Wales " and a devil-ish 
good landlord !' 

I have not much more to say 
about Dolgelley, or rather I am not 
going to say much more. If the 
travelled visitor wishes to revive 
the sensation of a Swiss Pa«, he 
can do so on the pathway winding 
up the side of Moel Cynw^ ; and at 
the summit the view towards Bar^ 
mouth will remind him of the Rhine. 
If he wishes less arduous means of 
attaining pleasure, he can take a oar 
to Tynygroes, a capital little hos- 
telry, half a dozen miles from Dol- 
gelley, where he can eat his dinner 
at the head of a delightful little 
valley, with Moel Orthrwm, ' The 
Hill of Sacrifice,' before him and the 
Mawddach bounding along bdow. 
And there are less attractive modes 
of eigc^ent than this, let me re- 
mark, in propitious weather. Alter 
dinner he may take a lazy walk to 
Bhaiadr Du, ' The Black Oataraet,' 
a rather considerable water&ll, with 
everything that Nature can add in 
the snrroondings to make it beau^ 
tifuL A fisurtber effort— still within 
the compass of the lazy— will bring 
the tourist to PistHl-y-Gain, a really 
, grand fall. If you want thoionghly 
' to enjoy the luxury of doing nothing, 
an hour or two under the shade of 
the trees near these fidls on a hot 
summer's day is, to my mind, the 
very perfection of it Under the 
designation of ' Nothing,' of course 
I include a pipe, if you are of the 
male kind, or a crochet-needle, if 
feminine. 

The Guide-books tell us that Dol- 
gelley possesses ' some good public 
buildings,' and the county gaol is 
mentioned as a sample. Beautifally 
situated in one of tne most charm- 
ing spots in the neighbourhood, it 
is imquestionably the ugliest build- 
ing in Merionethshire, which is say- 
ing much. 'You Dolgelley folks 
can worship your gaol, if you like,' 
said a jokmg visitor one day to a 
townsman, ' for you will not break 
the commandment.' 'How so?' 
asked the other. 'Because it is 



DdgeUey and Us AitracHons, 



63 



not in the likeness of anything tbat 
is in heaven aboTe« or in the earth 
beneath, or in the waters nnder the 
earth/ was tiie reply, with the ad* 
dition, ' indeed it is a precious deal 
more unsightly than anything that 
is!' The church is described as 
'substantial, with a fine tower.' 
Substantial it certainly is, but of 
the fineness of the tower the less 
said the better: some of the memo- 
rial windows in the nave are very 
fine indeed. There is only one 
building in Dolgelley that visitors 
will care to look at, and that is 
Owain Glyndwr^s old Parliament 
House. There it is with its carved 
timbers almost as sound as they 
were five hundred years ago. 

No visitor should leave Dolgelley 
without taking a peep at the primi- 
tive method the local manufacturers 
have of making fluinels and tweeds. 
The mills are situated in some of 
the most romantic spots in the 
valley, and form favourite subjects 
for artists. Inside they are as novel 
as outside they are picturesque. 
The labour is performed entirely by 
hand, and wonderfully durable is 
the Deibric produced. The price at 
which the tweeds are sold is some- 
thing ridiculous. I bought stuff 
for a complete suit of what was 
termed the 'Wynnstay fishing- 
cloth,' for sixteen shillings! and 
the cloth has this merit to the 
economical—when it begins to look 
shabby you may turn your coat and 
— as is often the case after this pro- 
cess—your outward appearance will 
be improved I One of the manufac- 
turers (of course a Jones !) showed 
me amongst his list of patrons the 
names of Alfred Tennyson, Francis 
Newman, Mark Lemon, and other 
notabilities, and it seems more than 
probable, now that steam is applied 
to locomotion in the county, it will 
soon follow in the manufacture of 
flannels. 

I have said that there is not much 
in Dolgelley to attract. There is 
one novelty attaching to the place 
that I must not conclude wiUiout 
mentioning. One day I asked my 
landlord what was the population of 
the place? 'Five thousand,' he 
replied, ' including jackdaws 1' This 
is quite true : there are bo many 



one would think every man. woman, 
and child in the town must have its 
'familiar.' The inhabitants are 
obliged to have their chimneys 
8W€^ periodically, whether they 
have h^ fires in their grates or 
not. to clear out the nests. The 
inhabitants profess to detect two 
distinct breeds in the daws — 
' Churchmen and Dissenters ' — 
which they say never mix, and 
which never agree. I should qua- 
lify this by saying that they do agree 
in one thing, which is to make a 
precious row in the early summer's 
morning just when tired tourists 
want to sleep. It's of no use to 
swear. The Cardinal of Bheims 
would be powerless to make the 
Dolgelley daws moult a feather I 

And now to leave this beautiftd 
valley and these glorious hills. It 
is hard to do so, but holidays must 
be short-lived luxuries, if they are 
to be luxuries at all. My object has 
been to induce the public to explore 
one of the most lovely spots in 
Wales; not to gallop through the 
Principality as if all enjoyment de- 
pended on seeing everything men- 
tioned in the . Guide-books. This 
spot I now leave, and— 

'Eonnd the purpled shonlder, like a pageant, 

One by one the mountain summits die : 
Even 08 earth's narrow outlines near us 
Hide the inflnite glories from the eye. 

* Homeward onoe again. Ah I Tanish'd moun- 

tainsf- 
Like old fticnds, your ftces many a day 
O'er the bowery woods shall rise before me^ 
And the level oom-lands far away. 

* By the dreamy rippling in the sunlight, 

By the windy surglngA of the shore, 
Up the thymy sheep-tracks through the 
heather, 
I must wander, glad of heart, no more. 
' Yet I bear with me a new possession ; 

For the memoiy of all beauteous things 
Over dusty tracks of &tratten'd duties. 

Many a waft of balmy fragrance brings. 
' Was it thriftless waste of golden moments 

That I watched the seaward-burning west, 

Tbat I sought the sweet rare mountain-flowerfc. 

That I climbed the rugged mountain-crest? 

*Iiet me rather deem tbat I have gathered. 

On the lustrous shore and gleamy hill, ^ 
Strength to bravely do the daily duty. 
Strength to calmly bear the chandng UL' 

And with these exquisite lines, by 
the Bev. W. W. flow, I take my 
leave of the reader. A. B. 



64 

FLO AND FIDO. 

(Illustrated.) 

FLO is devoted to Bketching, 
She's paintiiig the slow-settmg sun, 
Bnt Fido, he Ma would be stretching 

His legs in a walk or a mn. 
Flo finds it ample enjoyment 

The beanties of Nature to trace. 
While Fido— oh, pleasant employment- 
Must gaze in his mistress's face. 

With a whine now and then. 
As if asking her when 
She will lay by her sketch-book and come for a race. 

Of all save her picture forgetful 
Flo finds the time rapidly go. 
While Fido — rude dog— has grown fretfal. 

And weary of looking at Flo. 
He is longing like mad for a scamper. 
And wishiog the pictmre were done; 
The waiting cools down, like a damper. 
His natural spirits and fun. 

So he makes this remark. 
In the form of a bark, 
' Pray leave off that drawing and let's have a run ' 

Oh, Fido! would I were your proxy, 
I'd sit there and worship all day 1 
I'd dream of no heterodoxy 

Like wishing to scamper away. 
You— -fortunate dog— are permitted 

To contemplate Flora the fair ; 
Ton may stare, but you'll never be twitted 
With hints that it's vulgar to stare. 

You ill-mannered cur. 
While you're sitting near lie", 
What taste to be wishing that you were elsewhere! 

Why Fred, tom, Augustas, and Harry 

(The ground that she treads on they love) 
Would be proud, sir, to fetch or to carry. 

As you ao, her kerchief or glove — 
Would feel themselves amply rewarded 

By one of the smiles she gives you. 
They'd jump at the least chance afforded 
To lie at her feet as you do 1 

Oh, Fido, fie, fie! 
You're more happy than I, 
If you only your exquisite happiness knew. 

Come, leave off that fretting and whining— 

What numbers of fellows I know 
Would, their liberty gladly resigning. 
Like you, become servants of Flo I 
For to gaze on sweet Flora, unchidden. 

As long as her sketching endures. 

Is a bliss which to man is forbidden— 

Which your blest position insnres. 

Ay, with Flo for my wife 
I could lead ' a dog^s life'— 
Provided, of course, ' a dog's life ' is like yours ! 



^ 



65 

M. OB N. 

* SlmQU dmlllbu earantiir/ 

By G. J. WHYTE-MELVILLE, 

Afihob ov 'Diobt Grand/ 'Gbbihb,' *Ths Gladiatobs/ xra 



CHAPTER XIX. 

AN INOUBUB. 



IT is not to be supposed that any 
gentleman can see a lady in the 
streets of London and remain him- 
self nnseen. In the human, aa in 
meaner races, the female organ of 
perception is quicker, keener, and 
more accurate than the male. There- 
fore it is that a man bowing in Pall 
Mall or Piccadilly to some divinity 
in an open carriage, and failing to 
receive any return for his salute, 
sinks at once into a false position 
of awkwardness and discomfiture. 
II a man^ son coup, and his face 
assumes mcontinently the expres- 
sion of one who has missed a wood- 
<cock in the open, and has no second 
barrel with which to redeem his 
ahot. As Dick saw Lady Bear- 
warden in Oxford Street, we may 
lye sure that Lady Bearwarden also 
saw Dick; nor was her ladyship 
best pleased with the activi^ he 
displayed in avoiding her carriage 
and escaping from her society. If 
Mr. Stanmore had been the most 
successful Lovelace who ever de- 
voted himself to the least remu- 
nerative of pursuits, instead of a 
loyal, kindnearted, unassuming 
gentleman, he could hardly have 
•chosen a line of conduct so calcu- 
lated to keep alive some spark of 
interest in Maud's breast, as that 
which he unconsciously adopted. 
It is one thing to dismiss a lover, 
because suited with a superior ar- 
ticle (as some ladies send away 
five-foot-ten of footman when six- 
ibot comes to look after the place), 
and another to lose a vassal for 
good, like an unreclaimed hawk, 
heedless of the lure, clear of the 
jesses, and checking, perhaps, at 
every kind of prev in wilful, wanton 
flight, down-wind, towards the sea. 

There is but one chance for a 
man worsted in these duels a Vou- 
trance, which are fought out with 

VOL. XVI.— NO. XOI. 



such merciless animosity. It is to 
bind up his wounds as best he may, 
and take himself off to die or get 
well in secret. Presently the con- 
queror finds that a battle only has 
been won, and not a territory gained. 
After the flush of combat comes a 
reaction, the triumph seems some- 
what tame, ungraced by presence of 
the captive. Curiosity wakes up, 
pity puts in its pleading word, a 
certain jealous instinct of appropriar 
tion is aroused. Where is he? 
What has become of him? I won- 
der if he ever thinks of me now f 
Poor fellow I I shouldn't wish to be 
forgotten altogether, as if we had 
never met, and though I didn't 
want him to like me, 1 never 
meant that he was to care for any- 
body else I Such are the thoughts 
that chase each otiier through the 
female heart when deprived of so- 
vereignty in the remotest particular ; 
and it was very much in this way 
that Lady Bearwarden, sitting alone 
in her boudoir, speculated on the 
present doings and sentiments of the 
man who had loved her so well and 
had given her up so unwillingly, 
yet with never a word of reproach, 
never a look nor action that could 
add to her remorse, or make her 
task more painful. 

Alas! she was not happy; even 
now, when she had gained all she 
most wished and schemed for in 
the world. She felt she was not 
happy, and she felt, too, that for 
Dick to know of her unhappiness 
would be the bitterest drop in the 
bitter cup he had been compelled to 
drain. 

As she looked round her beau- 
tiful boudoir with its blue satin 
hangings, its numerous mirrors, its 
redundancy of coronete, surmount- 
ing her own cipher, twisted and 
twined into a far more graceful de- 

F 



66 



Jf . w If, 



ooration than the grirn^ heraldio 
Brain which formed her husband's 
cognizance, she said to herself that 
something was yet required to con- 
stitute a woman's happiness beyond 
the utmost efforts of the upholder's 
art — that even carriages, horses, 
tall footmen, quantities of flowers, 
unlimited credit, and whole packs 
of cards left on tiie hall table e^ery 
day, were mere accessories and su- 
perfluities, not the real pith and 
substance of that for which she 
pined. 

Lady Bearwarden, more than 
most women, had, since her mar- 
riage, found the worldly ball at her 
foot. She needed but to kick it 
where she would. As Miss Bruce, 
with nothing to depend on but her 
own good looks and conquering 
manners, she had wrested a large 
share of admiration from an un- 
willing public; now as a peeress, 
and a rich one, the same public of 
both sexes courted, toadied, and 
flattered her, till she grew tired of 
hearing herself praised. The men, 
at least those of high position and 
great prospects, had no scruple in 
offering a married woman that 
homage which might have entailed 
their own domestic subjugation, if 
laid at a spinster's feet; and the 
women, all except the yery smartest 
ladies (who liked her for her utter 
fearlessness and sang-froid, as well 
as for her own sake^, thought it a 
fine thing to be on mtimate terms 
with 'Maud Bearwarden,' as they 
loved to call her, and being much 
afraid of her, made up to her with 
the sweet facility and sincerity of 
their sex. 

Yet in defiance of ciphers, coro- 
nets, visiting cards, blue hangings, 
the homage of lords, and the vas- 
salage of ladies, there was something 
amiss. She caught herself con- 
tinually looking back to the old 
days at Ecdesfield Manor, to the 
soft lawns and shady avenues, the 
fond father, who thought his 
darling the perfection of humanity, 
and whose face lit up so joyfully 
whenever she came into the room ; 
the sweet delicate mother from 
whom she could never remember 
an unkind look nor an angiy word ; 
the hills, the river, the cottagers, 



the tenants, the flower garden, the 
ponies, and ;the old re&ever that 
died licking her hand. She felt 
kindly towftfds Mrs. Stanmore, and 
wondered whether she had behaved 
quite as well to that lady as she 
ought, recalling many a little act of 
triumphant malice and overt re- 
sistance which afforded keen gratifi- 
cation to the rebel at the time. By 
an easy transition, she glided on to 
Dick Stanmore's honest and re- 
spectful admiration, his courtesy, 
his kindness, his unfiuling forbear- 
ance and good -humour. Bear- 
warden was not always good-hu- 
moured—she had found that out 
abready. But as for Dick, she re- 
membered how no mishap nor an- 
noyance of his own ever irritated 
him in the slightest degree; how 
his first consideration always seemed 
to be ker comfort'and Jier happiness ; 
how even in his deep sorrow, de- 
ceived, humiliated, cut to the heart, 
he had never so much as spoken 
one bitter word. How nobly had 
he trusted her about those dia- 
monds ! How well he had behaved 
to her throughout, and how fondly 
would he have loved and cherished 
her had she confided her future to 
his care! He must be strangely 
altered now, to avoid her like tiiis. 
She was sure he recognised her, for 
she saw his face fall, saw him wince 
—that at least was a comfort— but 
never to shake hands, never even to 
stop and speak! Well, she had 
treated him cruelly, and perhaps 
he was right 

But this was not the actual griev- 
ance, after all. She felt she would 
do precisely the same over again. 
It was less repentance that pained 
her, than retribution. Maud, for 
the first time in her life, was be- 
ginning to feel really in love, and 
with her own husbfmd. Such an 
infatuation, rare as it is admirable, 
ought to have been satisfactory and 
prosperous enough. When ladies 
do so far condescend, it is usually a 
gratifying domestic arrangement for 
themselves and their lords ; but in 
the present instance the wife's in- 
creasing affection afforded neither 
happiness to herself nor comfort to 
her husband. There was a ' Some- 
thing' always between them, a 



Jf. or Nm 



67 



shadow, not of saspidon nor mis- 
trnst, forBearwarden was frank and 
loyal by nature, but of coldness. 
8he had a secret from him, and she 
was a bad dissembler ; his finer in- 
stincts told him that he did not 
possess her fall confidence, and he 
was too proud to ask it. So they 
lived together, a few short weeks 
after marriage, on outward terms 
of courtesy and cordiality, but with 
this little rift of dissatisfaction gra- 
dually yet surely widening into a 
fissure that should rend each of 
these proud unbending hearts in 
twain. 

' What would I gire to be like 
other wires,' thought Maud, look- 
ing at a half-length of her husband 
in uniform, which occupied the 
place of honour in her boudoir. 
'What is it? Why is it? I would 
loTC him 60, if he would let me. 
How I wish I could be good—reaUy 
good, like mamma was. I suppoeuB 
it's impossible now. I wonder if 
it*s too late to tiy.' And with the 
laudable intention of beginning 
amendment at once. Lady Bear- 
warden rang sharply to tell her 
Bervants she was 'not at home to 
anybody till Lord BearwEurden came 
in, except'— and here she turned 
away from her own footman, that 
he might not see the colour rising 
in her fiftoe — * except a man should 
call with some silks and brocades, 
in which case he was to be shown 
up stairs at once.' 

The door had scarcely closed ere 
the paperHsutter in Maud's fingers 
broke diort off at the handle. Her 
grasp tightened on it insensibly, 
while she ground and gnashed her 
small white teeth, to thmk that she, 
with her proud nature, in her high 
position, should not be free to Bd- 
mit or deny what visitorB she 
pleased. So dandies of various 
patterns, afoot, in tea-carts, and on 
hacks more or less deserving in 
shape and action, discharged them- 
selves of their visiting-cards at Lady 
Bearwarden's door, and passed on 
in peace to fulfil the same rite else- 
where. 

Two only betrayed an unseemly 
emotion when informed ' her lady- 
ship was not at home:' the one, a 
cheerful youth, bound for a water- 



party ftt Skindle's, and fearfal of 
missing his train, thanked Provi- 
dence audibly for what he called 
' an unexpected let off;' the other, 
an older, graver, and far handsomer 
man, suffered an expression of pal- 
pable discomfiture to overspread 
his comely &ce, and, regardless of 
observation, walked away from the 
door with the heavy step that de- 
notes a heavy heart Not that he 
had fidlen in love with Lady Bear- 
warden— iJEur fix>m it. But there 
fvastk Somebody— that Somebody an 
adverse fate had decreed he must 
meet neither to-day nor to-morrow, 
and the interval seemed to both of 
them wearisome, and even painful. 
But Maud was 'Somebody's' dear 
friend. Maud either had seen her 
or would see her that veiy after- 
noon. Maud would let him talk 
about her, praise her, perhaps would 
even give her a message— ^nay, it 
was just possible she might arrive 
to pay a morning visit while he 
was tiiere. No wonder he looked 
so sad to forego this series of chances ; 
and all the while, if he had only 
known it. Fate, having veered round 
at luncheon-time, would have per- 
mitted him to call at Somebody's 
house, to find her at home, en- 
chanted to see him, and to sit with 
her as long as he liked in the well- 
known room, with its flowers and 
sun-shades and globes of goldfish, 
and the picture over the chimney- 
piece, and its dear original by his 
side. But it is a game at crosish 
purposes all through this dangerous 
pastime; and perhaps its very 
contretempB are wnat make it so in- 
teresting to the players, so amusing 
to the lookers-on. 

Lady Bearwarden grew fidgetty 
after a while. It is needless to say 
that ' the man with some silks and 
brocades' to be admitted by her 
servants was none other than ' Gen- 
tleman Jim,' who, finding the dis- 
guise of a 'travelling merchant' 
that in which he excited least sus- 
picion in his interviews with her 
ladyship, had resolved to risk de- 
tection yet once more, and had 
given her notice of his intention. 

We all remember Sinbad's Old 
Man of the Sea, and the grip of that 
merciless rider tightening doaer 
F a 



68 



M.wN. 



and cloBer the longer he was carried 
by his disgiiBted yiotdm. There is 
more truth in the Cable than most 
of 08 woold like to allow. If yon 
onoe permit yourself to set up an 
' Old Man of the Sea/ fiurewell to 
free agency, happiness, even tole- 
rable comfort, from that time forth 1 
Sometimes your burden takes the 
shape of a renewed bill, sometimes 
of a fiKtal secret, sometimes of an 
unwise attachment, sometimes only 
of a bad habit; but whatever it be, 
the further you carry it the heavier 
it seems to grow; and in this case 
custom does not in the least degree 
reconcile you to the infliotioD. Up 
with your heels, and kick it off at 
any price! Even should you rick 
your back in the process, it is 
better to be crippled for life than 
eternally opi>res8ed by a ruthless 
rider and an intolerable weight 

Gentlemsa Jim was becoming 
Lady Bearwarden's Old Man of the 
Sea. More than onoe of late be had 
forced himself on her presence 
when it was exceedingly mconve- 
nient, and even dangerous to meet 
him. The promised interview of 
to-day had been extorted from her 
most imwillingly, and by threats, 
implied if not expressed. She be- 
gan to feel that she was no longer 
her own mistress— that she had lost 
her independence, and was virtually 
at the command of an inferior. To 
a proud nature like hers such a 
situation seemed simply intole- 
rable. 

Lrad Bearwarden seldom came 
in much before it was time to dress 
for dinner; but young men's habits 
are not usually very regular, the 
monotonous custom of doing every- 
thing by clockwork being a tedious 
concomitant of old age. Maud could 
not calculate on his absence at any 
particular hour of the day unless 
ne were on duty, and the bare 
notion that she should wUh thus to 
calculate fretted and chafed her be- 
yond measure. It was a relief to hear 
the door^bell once more and prepare 
to confiront the worst A Ix>ndon 
servant never betrays astonishment, 
nor indeed any emotion whatever 
beyond a shade of dignified and 
forbearing contempt The first foot- 
man showed Lady Bearwarden's 



snspidous-looking visitor into her 
boudour with sublime indifference, 
returning thereafter leisurely and 
loftily to his tea. Maud felt her 
courage departing, and her defeat, 
like that of brave troops seized by 
panic, seemed all the more immi- 
nent for habitual steadiness and 
valour. She took refuge in an 
attempt to bully. 'Why are you 
herer said Maud, standing bolt 
upright, while Gentleman Jim, with 
an awkward bow, began as usual 
to unroll his goods. ' I have told 
you often enough this persecution 
must finish. I am determined not 
to endure it any longer. The next 
time you call I stuill order my 
servanto to drive you from the door. 
Oh! will yoM—wUl you not coma 
to terms?* 

His fBuce had been growing 
darker and darker while she spoke, 
and she watehed its expression as 
the Mediterranean fisherman watohes 
a white squall gliding with fatal 
swiftness over the waters, to bring 
ruin and shipwreck and despair. 
It sometimes happens that the 
fisherman loses his head precisely 
at the wrong moment, so that 
foiled, helpless, and taken aback, 
he comes to fiEital and irremediable 
grief. Thus Lady Bearwarden 
too found the nerve on which she 
prided herself failing when she 
most wanted it, and knew that the 
prestige and influence which formed 
her only safeguards were slipping 
from her grasp. 

She had cowed this rufiSan at their 
first meeting by an assumption of 
oakn courage and superiority in a 
crisis when most women, thus con- 
fronted at dead of night by a house- 
breaker, would have shrunk trem- 
bling and helpless before him. 
She had retained her superiority 
during their sulisequent association 
by an utter indifference as to re- 
sults, so long as they onl^ affected 
character and fortune, which to his 
lower nature seemed simply incom- 
prehensible; but now that her heart 
was touched she could no longer 
remain thus reckless, thus defiant 
With womanly feelings came wo- 
manly misgivings and fear of con- 
sequences. The charm was lost, 
the spell broken> and the familiar 



M. or K 



69 



spiril had grown to an exacting 
master from an obedient slaye. 

'That's not the way as them 
speaks who's had the pith and mar- 
row out of a chap's werry bones/ 
growled Jim. * There wasn't no 
talkin' of fignre-footmen and dri^in' 
of respectable tradesmen from folks' 
doors when a man was wanted, like 
this here. A man, I says, wot wasn't 
afeard to swing, if so be as he could 
act honourable and fulfil his bar- 
gam.' 

' 111 pay anything. Hush! pray. 
Don't speak so load. What must 
my servants think? Consider the 
frightful liaks I run. Why should 
you wish to make me utterly mise- 
rable — to drive me out of my 
senses? 1*11 pay anything— any- 
thing to be free &om this intole- 
rable persecution.' 

'Pay— pay anythinkP repeated 
Jim, slightly mollified by her dis- 
tress, but still in a tone of deep 
disgust. ' Pay. Ah ! that's always 
the word with the likes of you. 
You think your blessed money can 
buy us poor chaps up, body and 
heart and soul. Blast your money 1 
says I. There, that's not over 
civil, my lady, but it's plain speak- 
ing.' 

' What would you have me do?* 
she asked, in a low, plaintive voice. 

She had sunk into an arm-chair, 
and was wringing her hands. How 
lovely she looked, now at her sore 
distress. It impa^rted the one femi- 
nine charm generally wanting in 
her beauty. 

Gentleman Jim, standing over 
against her, could not but feel the 
old mysterious influence pervading 
him once more. ' If you was to say 
to me, Jim, says you, I believe 
as you're a true chap I — I believe 
as you'd serve of me, body and 
bones. Well, not for money. 
Money be d— — d! But for good- 
will, well say. I believe as you 
thinks there's nobody on this 'arth 
as is to be compared of me, says 
you, and see, now, you shall 
come here once a week, once a 
fortnit, once a month, even; and 
I'll never say no more about clrivin' 
of you away; but you shall see me, 
and I'll speak of yoa kind and h'af- 
fftble; and whatever I wants dono 



I'll tell you, do it; and it wUl be 
done; see if it won't! Why — why 
I'd be proud, my lady — there — and 
happy too. Ay, there wouldn't 
walk a happier man, nor a prouder, 
maybe, in the streets of London I* 

It was a long speech for Jim. At 
its conclusion he drew his sleeve 
across his face and bent down to re- 
arrange the contents of his bundle. 

Tears were falling from her eyes 
at IsAi Noiselessly enough, and 
without that redness of nose, those 
contortions of face, which render 
them so unbecommg to most women. 

* Is there no way but this?' she 
murmured. 'No way but this? 
It's impossible. If s absurd. It's 
infamous! Do you know who I 
am? Do you know what you ask? 
How dare you dictate terms to me f 
How dare you presume to say I 
shall do this, I shall not do tJiaif 
Leave my house this minute! I 
will not listen to another syllable I' 

She was blazing out again, and 
the fire of pride had dried her tears 
ere she concluded. Anger brought 
bac^ her natural courage, but it was 
too late. 

Gentleman Jim's &ce, distorted 
with fury, looked hideous. Under 
his waistcoat lurked a long, thin 
knif& Maud never knew how 
near, for one ghastly moment, that 
knife was to beiDg buried in her 
round white throat 

He was not quite madman enough, 
however, to indulge his passions so 
far, with the certainty of iiomediate 
destruction. 'Have a carel' he 
hissed through his clenched teeth. 
'If you and me is to be enemies, 
look out! You know me— least- 
ways you ought to. And you know 
I stick at nothing.' 

She was still dreadfully fright- 
ened. Once more she went back to 
the old plea, and offered him, fifty 
pounds, a hundred pounds. Any- 
thing! 

He was tying the knots of his 
bundle. Completing the last, he 
looked up, and the glare in his eyes 
haunted her through many a sleep- 
less night 

' You've done it now !' was all he 
muttered. 'When next you see 
me youll wish you hadn't' 

It speaks well for Jim's self-corn- 



70 



JCorJV. 



nuuid that, as he went dowB, he 
could say, 'Your servant, my lord/ 
with perfect composure, to a gentle- 
man whom he met on the stairs. 



CHAPTER XX. 
'the LimjE ou>in>.' 

Lord Bearwaiden, like other no- 
blemen and gentlemen keeping 
house in London, was not invanably 
fortunate in the selection of his ser* 
Yants. The division of labour, that 
admirable system by which such 
great xesults are attaked, had been 
brought to perfection in his as in 
many other establishmenta A man 
who cleaned knives, it appeared, 
could not possibly do anything else, 
and for several days the domestic 
arrangements below stairs had been 
disturbed by a knotty question as 
to whose business it was to answer 
'my lord's bell.' Now my lord was 
what his servants called rather ' a 
arbitrary gentleman,' seeming, in- 
deed, to entertain tfa^ preposterous 
notion that these were paid their 
wages in consideiation of doing as 
they were bid. It was not there- 
fore surprising that figure-footmen, 
high of stature and fiftultless in gene- 
ral appearance, should have suc- 
ceeded each other with startling 
rapidity, throwing up their appoint- 
ments and doffing his lordship's 
livery, without regard to their own 
welfare or their employer's conve- 
nience, but in accordance with some 
Quixotic notions of respect for their 
office and loyalty to their order. 

Thus it came about that a subor- 
dinate in rank, holding the appoint- 
ment of second footman, had been 
so lately enlisted as not yet to have 
made himself acquainted with the 
personal appearance of his master ; 
and it speaks well for the amiable 
disposition of this recruit that al- 
though his liveries were not made, 
he should, during the temporary 
absence of a fellow-servant, who 
was curling his whiskers below, 
have consented to answer the door. 

Lord Bearwarden had rung like 
any other arrival ; bat it must be 
allowed that his composure was 
somewhat ruffled when refused ad- 
mittance by his own servant to his 
own house. 



'Her ladyship's not at home, I 
tell ye,' said the man, apparently 
resenting the freedom with which 
this stranger proceeded into the 
ball, while he plaoed his own massive 
person in the way ; 'and if you want 
to see my lord, you just eeok't—that 
I know r 

'Why?' asked his master, begm- 
ning to suspect how the land lay, 
and oonsidenbly amused. 

'Because his lordship's particu- 
larly engaged. He's having his 
'air cut just now, and the dentist's 
waiting to see him after he's done,' 
returned this imaginative retainer, 
arguing indeed firom his pertinacity 
that the visitor must be one of the 
swell mob, therefore to be kept out 
at any cost 

' And who are you f said his lord- 
ship, now laughing outright 

' Who am I?' repeated the man. 
Tmlus lordship's footman. Now, 
then, who are youf Thafs more 
like it I' 

'I'm Lord Bearwaiden himself,' 
replied his master. 

'Lord Bearwarden! Oh! I dare 
say,' was the unexpected rejoinder. 
' Well, that is a good one. Come, 
young man, none of these games 
here : there's a policeman round the 
comer.' 

At this juncture the fortunate 
arrival of the gentleman with lately- 
curled whiskers, in search of lus 
'Bell's Life,' left on the hall-table, 
produced an ^daircissement much to 
the unbeliever's confusion, and the 
master of tiie house was permitted 
to ascend his own staircase without 
further obstruction. 

Meeting ' Gentieman Jim' coming 
down with a bundle, it did not strike 
him as the least extraordinary that 
his wife should have denied herself 
to other visitors. Slight as was his 
experience of women and their ways, 
he had yet learned to respect those 
various rites that constitute the 
mystery of shopping, appreciating 
the composure and undisturbed at- 
tention indispensable to a satisfac- 
tory performance of that ceremony. 

But it did trouble him to observe 
on Lady Bearwarden's face traces 
of recent emotion, even, he thought, 
to tears. She turned quickly aside 
when he came into the room, busy- 



M.arN. 



71 



ing herself with the blinds and 
mnslin window-curtains; bat he had 
a quick eye, and his perceptions 
were sharpened besides by an afifeo- 
tion he was too proud to admit» 
while racked with cruel misgivings 
that it might not be returned. 

' Qentleman-like man that, I met 
JQSt now on the stairs T he began 
good-humouredly enough, though 
in a certain cold, conventional tone, 
that Maud knew too well, and hated 
accordingly. * Dancing partner, 
swell mob, smuggler, respectable 
tradesman, what is he ? Ought to 
sell cheap, I should say. Looks as 
if he stole the things ready made. 
Hope you've done good business 
with him, my lady ? May I see the 
plunder?' He never called her 
Maud; it was always 'my lady/ as if 
they had been married for twenty 
jeais. How she longed for an en- 
dearing word, slipping out, as it 
were, by accident —for a covert smile, 
an occasional caress. Perhaps had 
these been lavished more freely she 
might have rated them at a lower 
yalue. 

Lady Bearwarden was not one of 
those women who can tell a lie with- 
out the slightest hesitation, calmly 
isatisfied that ' the end justides the 
means ;' neither did it form a part 
of her creed that a lie by implica- 
tion is less dishonourable than a lie 
direct. On the contrary, her nature 
was exceedingly frank, even defiant, 
and from priafe, perhaps, rathbr than 
principle, she soomea no baseness 
so heartily as duplicity. Therefore 
she hesitated now and changed co- 
lour, looking guilty and confused, 
but taking refuge, as usual, in self- 
assertion. 

'I had business with the man,' 
fihe answered, haughtily, 'or you 
would not have found him here. 
I might have got rid of him sooner, 
laerhaps, if J had known you were 
TO be home so early. I'm sure I 
hate shopping, I hate tradespeople, 
I hate ' 

She was going to say 'I hate 
everything,' but stopped herself in 
time. (Counting her married life as 
jet only by weeks, it would have 
sounded too ungracious, too un- 
grateful I 

'Why should you do anything 



you hate?' said her husband, Tery 
kindly, and to all appearance dis- 
missing every suspicion from his 
mind, though deep in his heart 
rankled the cmel conviction that 
between them this strange, myste- 
rious barrier increased day by day. 
' I want you to have as little of the 
rough and as much of the smooth ^ 
in life as is possible. All the ups 
and none of the downs, my lady. 
If this fellow bores you, tell them 
not to let him in again. That 
second footman will keep him out 
like a dragon. 111 be bound.' Then 
he proceeded laughingly to relate 
his own adventure with his new 
servant in the hall. 

He seemed cordial, kind, good- 
humoured enough, but his tone was 
that of man to man, brother officer 
to comrade, not of a lover to his 
mistress, a husband to his lately- 
married wife. 

She felt this keenly, though at 
the same time she could appreciate 
his tact, forbearance, and generositj 
in asking no more questions about 
her visitor. To have shown suspi* 
don of Maud would have been at 
once to drive her to eztremities, 
while implicit confidence put heron 
honour and rendered her both un« 
able and unwilling to deceive. 
Never since their first acquaintance 
had she found occasion to test this 
quality of trust in her husband, and 
now it seemed that he possessed it 
largely, like a number of other 
manly characteristics. That he was 
brave, loyal, and generous she had 
discovered already; handsome and 
of high position she knew long ago, 
or she would never have resolved 
on his capture ; and what was there 
wanting to complete her perfect 
happiness? Only one thing, she 
answered herself; but for it she 
would so willingly have bartered all 
the rest — that he should love her 
as Dick Stanmore did. Poor Dick 
Stanmorel how badly she had 
treated him, and perhaps this was 
to be her punishment 

'Bearwarden,' she said, crossing 
the room to lean on the arm of his 
chair, * we've got to dine at your 
aunt's to-night. I suppose they 
will be very late. I wish there were 
no such things as dinners, don't yon?* 



72 



If, or jr. 



'Not when Fve missed loncbeon, 
as I did to-day/ answered his lord- 
ship, whose appetite was like that 
of any other healthy man under 
forty. 

'I hoped yon wouldn't,* Bhe ob- 
served, in rather a low voice; 'it 
was very dull without you. We 
, see each other so seldom, somehow, 
I diould like to go to the play to- 
morrow—you and I, Darby and 
Joan— I don't care which house, nor 
what the play is.' 

'To-morrow,' he answered, with 
a bright smile. ' All right, my lady, 
ni send for a box. I forgot, though, 
I can't go to-morrow, I'm on Guard.' 

Her &ce fell, but she turned 
away that he might not detect her 
disappointment, and began to feed 
her bullfinch in the window. 

* You're always on Guard, I think,' 
said she, after a pause. * I wonder 
you like it: surely it must be a 
dreadful tie. Tou lost your grouse- 
shooting this year and the Derby, 
didn't you? all to sit in plate 
armour and jack-boots at tliat 
gloomiest and stuffiest of Horse 
Guards. Bearwarden, I—I wish 
you'd give up the regiment, I do 
indeed.' 

When Maud's countenance wore 
a pleading expression, as now, it 
was more than beautiful, it was 
lovely. Looking in her face it 
seemed to him that it was as the 
&ce of an angel. 

'Do you honestly wish it?' he re- 
plied, gently. ' I would do a great 
deal to please you, my lady ; but — 
no— I couldn't do that.' 

' He can't really care for me ; I 
knew it all along ' thought poor 
Maud, but she only looked up at him 
rather wistfully and held her peace. 

He was gazing miles away, through 
the window, through the opposite 
houses, their offices, their washing- 
ground, and the mews at the back. 
She had never seen him look so 
grave; she had never seen that soft, 
sad look on ius face before. She 
wondered now that she could ever 
have regarded that face as a mere 
encumbrance and accessory to be 
taken with a coronet and twenty 
thousand a year. 

* Would you like to know why I 
cannot make this sacriSce to please 



you?' he asked, in a low, serious 
voice. ' I think yon ought to know, 
my hidy, and I will tell you. I'm 
fond of soldiering, of course. I've 
been brought up to the trade— that's 
nothiog. So I am of hunting, shoot- 
ing, rackets, cricketing, London 
porter, and dry champagne ; butrd 
give them up, each and all, at a mo- 
ment's notice, if it made you any 
happier for ten minutes. I am a 
little ambitious, I grant, and tb& 
only fame I would care much for is 
a soldier's. Still, even if my chance 
of military distinction were ten times 
as good I shouldn't grudge losing it 
for your sake. No: what makes 
me stick to the regiment is what 
makes a fellow take a life-buoy on 
board ship — the instinct of self-pre- 
servation. When everything elso 
goes down he s got that to cling to, 
and can have a fight for his life. 
Once, my lady, long before I had 
ever seen you, it was my bad luck 
to be very unhappy. I didn^t howl 
about it at the time, Fm not going 
to howl about it now. Simply, all 
at once, in a day, an hour, every* 
thing in the world turned from a 
joy to a misery and a pain. If my 
mother hadn t taught me better, I 
should have taken the quickest 
remedy of all. If I hadn't had the 
regiment to fall back upon I must 
have gone mad. The kindness of 
my brother officers I never can for- 
get; and to go down the ranks 
scanning the bold, honest fiaces of 
the men, feeling tliat we had cast 
our lot in together, and when the 
time came would all play the same 
stake, win or lose, reminded me 
that there were others to live for be- 
sides myself, and that I had not 
lost everythiDg, while yet a share 
remained invested in our joint ven- 
ture. When I lay awake in my 
barrack-room at night I could hear 
the stamp and snort of the old blacky 
troopers, and it did me good. I 
don't know the reason, but it did 
me good. Tou will think I was very 
unhappy — so I was,' 

' But why ?' asked Maud, shrewdly 
guessing, and at the same time 
dreading the answer. 

' Because I was a fool, my lady,' 
replied her husband—' a fool of the 
very highest calibre. You have, no 



M.orN. 



IB 



doubt, discovered that in this world 
folly is panished far more severely 
than viilany. Deceive others, and 
you prosper well enongh; allow 
yourself to be deceived, and you're 
pitched into as if you were the 
greatest rogue unhung. It's not a 
subject for you and me to talk 
about, my lady. I only mentioned 
it to show you why I am so unwil- 
ling to leave the army. Why, I 
clare not do it, even to please you.' 

'But'— she hesitated, and her 
voice came very soft and low—' you, 
^you are not afraid — I mean 
you don't think it likely, do you, 
that you will ever be so unhappy 
again ? It was about— about some- 
body that you cared for, I suppose/ 

She got it out with difficulty, and 
already hated that unknown Some- 
body with an unreasoning hatred, 
such as women think justifiable aod 
even meritorious in like cases. 

He laughed a harsh, forced laugh. 

' What a fool you must think me,' 
said he; 'I ought never to have 
told you. Tee, it was about a 
woman, of cours& You did not 
Hftnoy I could be so soft, did you? 
Don*t let us talk about it. Ill toll 
you in three words, and then will 
never mention the subject again. 
I trusted and believed in her. She 
deceived me, and that sort of thing 
puts a fellow all wrong, you know, 
unless he's very good-tempered, and 
I suppose I'm not. If s never likely 
to happen again, but still, blows of 
all sorts fall upon people when they 
least expect them, and that's why I 
can't give up the old corps, but 
shall stick by it to the last' 

'Are you sure you haven't for- 
given her?' asked Maud, inwardly 
trembling for an answer. 

' Forgiven her !* repeated his lord- 
ship ; * well, I've forgiven her like 
a Christian, as they say— perhaps 
even more folly than that. I don't 
wish her any evil. I wouldn't do 
her a bad turn, but as for ever 
thinking of her or caring for her 
afterwards, that was impossible. 
No. While I confided in her freely 
and fully, while I gave up for her 
sake everything I prized and cared 
for in the world, while I was even 
on the verge of sending in my 
papers because it seemed to be her 



wish I should leave the regiment, 
she had her own secret hidden up 
from me all the time. That showed 
what she was. No: I don't think I 
could ever forgive that—Gicepi as a 
Christian, you know, my lady I' 

He ended in a light sarcastic tone, 
for like most men who have lived 
much in the world, he had acquired 
a habit of discussing the gravest 
and most painful subjecte with con- 
ventional coolness, originating per- 
haps in our national dislike of any- 
thing sentimental or dramatic in 
situation. He could have written 
probably eloquently and seriously 
enough, but to 'speak like a book ' 
would have lowered him, in his own 
esteem, as being unmanly no less 
than ungentlemanlike. 

Maud's heart ached very pain- 
fally. A secret then, kept from 
him by the woman he trusted, 
was the one thin|^ he could not 
pardon. Must this indeed be her 
punishment? Day by day to live 
with this honourable generous na- 
ture, learning to love it so dearly, 
and yet so hopelessly, because of 
the great gulf fixed by her own 
desperate venture, risked, after all, 
that she might win him! For a 
moment, under the * influence of 
that great tide of love which 
swelled up in her breast, she f^lt 
as if she must put her whole life's 
happiness on one desperate throw, 
and abide the result Make a clean 
breast, implore his forgiveness, and 
tell him all. 

She had been wandering about 
while he spoke, straightening a 
table-cover here, snipping a dead 
leaf ofif a geranium there, and other- 
wise fidgetting to conceal her emo- 
tion. Now she walked across the 
room to her husband's side, and in 
another minute perhaps the whole 
truth would have heen out, and 
these two might have driven off 
to dinner in their brongham, the 
happiest couple in London ; but the 
door was thrown wide open, and 
the student of ' Bell's Life,' on whose 
whiskers the time employed in curl- 
ing them had obviously not been 
thrown away, announced to her 
ladyship, with much pomp, that her 
carriage was at the door. 

' Good gracious!' exclaimed Maud, 



74 



ULarN. 



' and your atuit is always so pnnc- 
toal. Toa must diess in ten mi- 
nutes, Bearwarden. I'm certain I 
can. Bun down this moment, and 
don't stop to answer a single letter 
if if s a case of life and death/ 

And Lady Beafwazden, casting 
all other thoughts to the winds in 
the present emergency, hurried up 
stairs after the pretty little feet of 
her French maid, whose anxiety 
that her lady should not be late, 
and perhaps ,a certain curiosity to 
know the cause of delay, had 
tempted her down at least as far as 
the first landing, while my lord 
walked to his dressing-room on the 
ground-floor, with the comfortable 
oonyiotion that he might spend a 
good half-hour at his toilette, and 
would then be ready a considerable 
time before his wife. 

The reflections that chased each 
other through the pretty head of 
the latter while subjected to Jus- 
tine's skilfol manipulations, I will 
not take upon me to detail. I 
may state, howeyer, that the dress 
she chose to wear was trimmed 
with Bear warden's fayourite colour; 
that she carried a bunch of his fa- 
yourite flowers on her breast and 
another in her hair. 

A brougham drawn by a pair of 
long, low, high-stepping horses, at 
the rate of twelye miles an hour, is 
an untoward yehicle for serious con- 
yersation when taking its occupants 
out to dinner, although well adapted 
for tender confidence or mutual re- 
crimination on its return from a 
party at night. Lady Bearwarden 
could not eyen make sure tliat her 
husband obseryed she had con- 
sulted his taste in dress. Truth 
to tell, Lord Bearwarden was only 
conscious that his wife looked ex- 
ceedingly handsome, and that he 
wished they were going to dine at 
home. Marriage had made him 
yery slow, and this inconyenient 
wish lasted him all through dinner, 
notwithstanding that it was his en- 
yiable lot to sit by a fast young 
lady of the |)eriod, who rallied him 
with exceeding good taste on his 
wife, his house, his furniture, man- 
ners, dress, horses, and eyerything 
that was his. Once, in extremity 
of boredom, he caught sight of 



Maud's delicate profile fiye couples 
off, and iiBLncied ne could detect on 
the pale pure fiice, something of 
his own weariness and abstractioiL 
After that the £ftst young lady 
' went at him,' as she called it, in 
yain. Later, in the drawing-room, 
she told another damsel of her kind 
that ' Bruin's marriage had utterly 
spoilt him. Simply, ruination, my 
dear! So unlike men in general. 
What he could see in her I can't 
make out! She looks like death, 
and she's not very well dressed, in 
my opinion. I wonder if she bullies 
him. He used to be such fun. So 
fast, 80 cheery, so delightfolly sa- 
tirical, and as wicked as Sin !' 

Maud went home in the brougham 
by herself. After a tedious dinner, 
lasting through a couple of hours, 
enliyened by the conyersation of a 
man he can't understand, and the 
persecutions of a woman who bores 
him, it is natural for the male hu- 
man subject to .desire tobacco, and 
a walk home in order to smoke. 
Somehow, the male human subject 
neyer does walk straight home with 
its cigar. Bearwarden, like others 
of his class, went off to Pratt's, 
where, we will hope, he was amused, 
though he did not look it. A cigar 
on a close eyening leads to soda 
water, with a slice of lemon, and, I 
had almost forgotten to add, a small 
modicum of gin. This entails 
another cigar, and it is wonderful 
how soon one o'clock in the morn- 
ing comes round again. When 
Lord Bearwarden turned out of 
St James's Street it was too late 
to think of anything but immediate 
bed. Her ladyship's confessions, if 
she had any to make, must be put 
off till breakfast- time, and alas ! by 
her breakfiftst-time, which was none 
of the earliest, my lord was well 
down in his sheep-skin, riding out 
of the barrack-gate in command of 
his guard. 

■ Frontc capillat£ post est Occasio calav !' 

Bald-pated Father Time had suc- 
ceeded in slipping his forelock out 
of Maud's hand the eyening before, 
and, henceforth, behind his bare and 
mocking skull, those delicate, dis- 
appointed fingers must close on 
empty air in yain! 



M. or N. 



75 



CHAPTEB XXL 

FUBENS QUID F(EMINA. 

We left Tom Byfe, helpless, im- 
oonscioos, more dead than alive, 
sapported between a man and 
woman np a back street in West- 
minster: we mnst retnm to him 
after a considerable interval, pale, 
langtiid, but convalescent, on a sofa 
in his own room tmder his nncle's 
tool He is only now beginning 
to understand that he has been 
dangerously ill; that according to 
his doctor nothing but a 'splendid 
constitution ' and unprecedented me- 
dical skill have brought him back 
from the threshold of that grim 
portal known as death's door. This 
he does not quite believe, but is 
aware, nevertheless, that he is much 
enfeebled, and that his system has 
sustained what he himself <»lis 'a 
deuced awkward shak&' Even now 
he retains no very dear idea of what 
happened to him. He remembers 
vaguely, as in a dream, certain bare 
wails of a dim and gloomy chamber, 
tapestried with cobwebs, smelling 
of damp and mould like a vault, 
certain broken fumituie, shabby and 
scarce, on a bare brick floor, witib a 
grate in which no fire oould have 
been kindled without falling into 
the middle of the room. He recalls 
that racking headache, that scorch- 
ing thirst, and those pains in all the 
bones of a wan, wasted figure lying 
under a patchwork quilt on a 
squalid bed. A figure, independent 
of, and dissevered from himself, yet 
in some deg^e identified with his 
thoughts, his sufferings, and his 
memories. Somebody nursed the 
figure, too — ^he is sureof that— bring- 
ing it water, medicines, food, and 
leeches for its aching temples; 
smoothing its pillow and arranging 
its bed-clothes, in those endless 
nights, so much longer, yet scarce 
more dismal than the days,— some- 
body, whose voice he never heard, 
whose face he never saw, yet in 
whose. slow, cautious tread there 
seemed a familiar sound. Once, in 
delirium, he insisted it was Miss 
Bruce, but even through that de- 
lirium he knew he must be raving, 
and it was impossibla Could that 
be a part of his dream, too, in which 



he dragged himself out of bed, to 
dress in his own clothes, laid out on 
the chair that had hitherto carried a 
basin of gruel or a jug of cooling 
drink? No, it must have been 
reality surely, for even to-day | he 
has so vivid a remembrance of the 
fresh air, the blinding simshine, and 
the homely life-like look of that 
four-wheeled cab waiting in the 
narrow street, which he entered 
mechanically, which, aa mechani- 
cally brought him home to his 
unde's house, the man asking no 
questions, nor stopping to receive 
his fare. To be sore, he fiiinted 
from utter weakness at the door. 
Of that he is satisfied, for he re- 
members nothing between the jolt- 
ing of those slippery cushions and 
another bed in which he fi)und 
himself, with a grave doctor watch- 
ing over him, and which he recog- 
nised, doubtfully, as his own« 

Gradually, with returning strength, 
Tom began to suspeot tbe truth, 
that he had- been hocussed and 
robbed. His pockets, when he re- 
sumed his clothes, were empty. 
Their only contents, his cigar-case, 
and Miss Bruce's letter, were gon& 
The motive for so desperate an at- 
tack he felt unable to fathom. His 
intellect was still affected by bodily 
weakness, and he inclined at first to 
think he had been mistaken for 
somebody else. The real truth 
only dawned on him by degrees. 
Its first ray originated with no less 
brilliant a luminary than old Bar- 
grave. 

To do him justice, the uncle had 
shown far more natural affection 
than his household had hitherto 
believed him capable of feeling. 
During his nephew*s absence, he 
had been like one distracted, and 
the large reward offered for dis- 
covery of the missing gentleman 
sufficiently testified his anxiety and 
alarm. When Tom did return, 
more dead than alive, Bargrave 
hurried off in person to procure 
the best medical advioo, and post^ 
poning inquiry into his wrongs to 
the more immediate necessity of 
nursing the sufferer, spent six or 
seven hours out of tbe twenty-four 
at the sick man's bedside. 

The first day Tom could sit up 



76 



M.wN. 



his unole thought well to enliven 
him witii a little news, social, gene- 
ral, and professional. Having told 
him that he had outbid Mortlake 
for the last batch of poor Mr. Chalk- 
stone's port, and stated, at some 
length, his reasons for doubting the 
stability of Government, he entered 
gleefully upon congenial topics, and 
proceeded to give the invalid a 
general sketch of business affairs 
during his retirement. 

' I've worked the coach, Tom,' 
said he, walking up and down the 
room, waving his coat-tails, 'as 
well as it could be worked, single- 
handed. I don't think you'll find 
a screw loose anywhere. Ah, Tom! 
an old head, you know, is worth a 
many pair of hands. When you're 
well enough, in a week or so, my 
lad, I shall like to show you how 
I've kept everything going, though 
I was so anxious, terribly anxious, 
all the time. The only matter 
iiiat's been left what you call in 
statu quo is that business of Miss 
Bruce% which I had nothing to do 
with. It will last you a good while 
yet, Tom, though it's of less im- 
portance to her now, poor thing I 
—don't you move, Tom— I'll hand 
you the barley-water— because she's 
Miss Bruce no longer.' 

Tom gasi)ed, and hid his pale thin 
face in the jug of barley-water. He 
had some pluck about him, after all; 
for weak and ill as he was he managed 
to get out an indifferent question. 

' Not Miss Bruce, isn't she? Ah ! 
I hadn*t heard. Who is she then, 
uncle ? I suppose you mean she's— 
she's marriea.' He was so husky, 
no wonder he took another pull at 
the barley-water. 

' Yes, she's married,' answered his 
unole in the indifferent tone with 
which threescore years and odd can 
discuss that fatality. ' Made a good 
marriage, too— an excellent mar- 
riage. What do you think of a 
peerage, my boy? She's Viscountess 
Bearwarden now. Twenty thou- 
sand a year, if if s a penny. I am 
sure of it, for I was concerned in 
a lawsuit of the late lord's twenty 
years ago. I don't suppose you're 
acquainted with her husband, Tom. 
Not in our circle, you know; but 
a most respectable young man I 



understand, and likely to be lord- 
lieutenant of his county before 
long. I'm sure I trust she'll be 
happy. And now, Tom, as you 
seem easy and comfortable, per- 
haps you'd like to go to sleep for a 
littla If you want anything you 
can reach the bell, and I'll come 
and see you again before I dress for 
dinner.' 

Easy and comfortable I When 
the door shut behind. his uncle Tom 
bowed his head upon the table and 
gave way completely. He was un- 
manned by illness, and the shock 
had been too much for him. It 
was succeeded, however, and that 
pretty quickly, by feelings of bitter 
wrath and resentment, which did 
more to restore his strength than 
all the tonics in the world. An 
explanation, too, seemed now af- 
forded to much that had so mys- 
tified him of late. What if, ren- 
dered desperate by his threats. Miss 
Bruce had been in some indirect 
manner the origin of his captivity 
and illness— Miss Bruce, the woman 
who of all others owed him the 
largest debt of gratitude (like most 
people, Tom argued from his own 
side of the question) ; for whom he 
had laboured so unremittingly, and 
was willing to sacrifice so much. 
Gould it be so? And if it was, 
should he not be justified in going 
to any extremity for revenge ? Bc- 
venge— yes, that was all he had to 
live for now ; and the very thought 
seemed to put new vigour into his 
system, infuse fresh blood in his 
veins. So is it with all baser spirits ; 
and perhaps in the indulgence of 
this cowardly craving they obtain 
a more speedy relief than nobler 
natures from die first agony of suf- 
fering; but their cure is not and 
never can be permanent; and to 
them must remain unknown that 
strange wild strain of some un- 
earthly music which thrills through 
those sore hearts that can repay 
good for evil, kindly interest for 
cold indifference; that, true to them- 
selves and their own honour, can 
contmue to love a memory, though 
it be but the memory of a dream. 

Tom felt as if he could make an 
exceedingly high bid, involving 
probity, character, good faith, and 



M, or JV, 



77 



the whole of his moral code, for an 
auxiliary who shoald help him in 
his vengeance. Assistance was at 
hand even now, in an nnezpected 
moment and an nnlooked-for shape. 

' A person wishes to see yon, sir, 
if yon^re well enongh/ said a little 
housemaid who had Tolunteered to 
provide for the wants of the in- 
valid, and took very good care of 
him indeed. 

'What sort of a person?' asked 
Tom, langoidly, feeling, neverthe- 
less, that any distraction would he 
a relief. 

' Well, sir,' replied the maid, ' it 
fleems a respectable person, I should 
say. Like a sick-nurse, or what- 
not' 

There is no surmise so wild but 
that a rejected lover will grasp at 
and connect it with the origin of his 
disappointment ' I'll see her,' said 
Tom, stoutly, not yet despairing 
but that it might be a messenger 
from Maud. 

He certainly was surprised when 
Dorothea, whom he recognized at 
once, even in her Sunday clothes, 
entered the room, with a wandering 
eye and a vacillating step. 

' Youll never forgive me. Master 
Tom,' was her startling salutation. 
' It*s me as nursed you through it: 
but you'll never forgive me— never! 
And I don't deserve as 70a should.' 

Dorothea was nervous, hysterical, 
but she steadied herself bravely, 
though her fingers worked and 
trembled under her fiided shawL 

Tom stared, and his visitor went 
on, 

' Ton'd a-died for sure if I hadn't 
Don't ye cast it up to me. Master 
Tom. I've been punished enongh. 
Punished! If I was to bare my 
arm now I .could show you wheals 
thaf s more colours and brighter 
than your neckankercher there. 
I've been served worse nor that, 
though, since. I ain't argoin' to 

§ut up with it no longer. Master 
'om, do you know as you've been put 
upon, and by who?' 

His senses were keenly on the 
alert. * Tell me the truth, my good 
girl,' said he, ' and Hi forgive you 
all your share. More, I'll stick by 
you through thick and thin.' 
She whimpered a little, affected by 



the kindness of his tone, but, tug- 
ging harder at her shawl, proceed^ 
to farther confessions. 

' You was hocussed, Master Tom; 
and I can point out to you the man 
as did it You'd 'a been murdered 
amongst 'em if it hadn't been for 
me. Who was it, d*ye think, as 
nussed of you, and cared for you, 
all through, and laid out your 
clothes ready brushed and folded, 
and went and got you a cab the 
day as you come back here ? Master 
Tom, I've been put upon too. Put 
upon and deceived, as never yet 
was bom woman used so bad ; and 
it's my turn now! Look ye here. 
Master Tom. It's that villain, Jim 
—•Gentleman Jim, as we c^ls him — 
what's been at the bottom of this 
here. And yet there's worse than 
Jim in it too. There's others that 
set Jim on. Oh! to believe as a 
fine handsome chap like him could 
turn out to be so black-hearted, 
and such a soft too. She'll never think 
no more of him, for all his comely 
&ce, than the dirt beneath her 
feet' 

'SheP repeated Tom, intensely 
interested, and therefore preter- 
naturally calm. 'What d'ye mean 
by shet Don't fret, thafs a good 
girl, and don't exdto yourself. Tell 
your story your own way, you know, 
but keep as quiet as you can. 
You're safe enough here.' 

' We'd been asked in church,* re- 
plied Dorothea, somewhat inconse- 
quently. 'Ah! more than once, we 
had. And I'd ha' been as true to 
him, and was, as ever a needle to a 
Btitoh. Well, sir, when he slights 
of me, and leaves of me, why if s 
natural as I should run up and 
down the streets a-lookin' for him 
like wild. So one day, after I'd 
done my work, and put things 
straight, for I never was one of your 
sluttish ones. Master Tom — and 
your uncle, he's always been a kind 
gentleman to me, and a h'affable, 
like yourself. Master Tom— accord- 
ing, I comes upon my Jim at the 
Sunflower, and I follows him un- 
beknown for miles and miles right 
away to the West-end. So he never 
loobs behind him, nor, he never 
stops, o' course, till he comes to 
Belgrave Square; and he turns 



78 



M.or N. 



down a street as I oonldn't read its 
name, but should know it again as 
well as I know my own hand. And 
then. Master Tom, if you'll believe 
me^ I thought as I must have 



veil?' said Tom, not prepared 
to be satisfied with this climax, 
though lus companion stopped, as if 
she had got to the end of her dis- 
closures. 

' Well indeed I' resumed Dorothea 
after a considerable interval, ' when 
he come that far, I know'd as he 
must be up to some of his games, 
and I watched. They lets him into 
a three-storied house, and I sees 
him in the best parlour with a lady, 
speaking up to ner, but not half so 
bold as usual. He's not often 
dashed, Jim isn't I will say that 
for him.' 

'What sort of a lady?' asked 
Tom, qulTering with excitement 
* You took a gwd look at her, I'll 
be bound 1' 

* Well, a real lady in a muslin 
dress,' auswered Dorothea. ' A tall 
young lady— not much to boast of 
for looks, but with hair as black as 
your hat and a face as white as 
cream. Very 'aughly too an ar- 
bitrary, and seemed to haye my 
Jim like quite at her command. 
So from where I stood I couldn't 
help hearing everything that 
passed. My Jim, he gives her the 
very letter as laid in your pocket 
that night, as you—as you was 
taken so poorly, you know. And 
from what she said and what he 
said, and putting this and that 
together, I'm sure as they got you 
out of the way between them. Mas- 
ter Tom, and gammoned me into 
the job too, when I'd rather have 
cut both my hands off, if I'd only 
known the truth.' 

Tom sat back on his soflE^ shutting 
his oyes that he might concentrate 
his powers of reflection. Yes, it was 
all clear enough at last The na- 
ture and origin of the outrage to 
which he had been subjected were 
obvious, nor could he entertain any 
farther doubt of Maud's motives, 
though marvelling exceedingly, as 
well he might, at her courage, her 
recklessness, and the social standing 
of her accomplice. It seemed to 



him as if he could forRive every one 
concerned but her. This poor wo- 
man who had furly thrown herself 
on his mercy: the ruflSan whose 
grip had been at his throat, but 
who might hereafter prove as effi- 
cient an ally as he had been a for- 
midable enemy. Only let him have 
Maud in his power, that was all he 
asked, praying him to spare her, 
kneeling at his feet, and then with- 
out a shade of compunction to ruin, 
and crush, and humble her to the 
dust! 

He saw his way presently, but 
he must work warily, he told him- 
self, and use all the tools that came 
to his hand. 

' If you can clear the matter up, 
Dorothea,' said he, kindly, ' I will 
not visit your share in it on your 
head, as I have ahready told yoo. 
Indeed I believe I owe you my lifa 
But this man you mention, this 
Qentleman Jim as you call lum, 
can you find him? Do you know 
where he is? Mypoorgirl! ItMnk 
I understand. Surely you deserved 
better treatment at his hands.' 

The kind words produced this 
time no softening effect, and Tom 
knew enough of human nature to 
feel sure that she was bent on re- 
venge as earnestly as himself, while 
he also knew that he must take 
advantage of her present humour 
at once, for it might change in an 
hour. 

' If I could lay my hand on him,' 
answered Dorothea, fiercely, 'ifs 
likely Id leave my markl I've 
looked for him now, high and low, 
every evening and many artomoons, 
better nor a week. I ain't come on 
him yet, the fieilse-hearted thief! 
but I seen her only the day before 
yesterday, seen her walk into a 
house in Bemers Street as bold as 
you please. I watehed and waited 
better nor two hours, for, thinks I, 
he won't be long follerin'; and I 
seen her come out agin with a gen- 
tleman, a comely young gentleman ; 
I'd know him anywheres, but he 
wam*t like my Jim.' 

' Are you sure it was the same 
lady?' asked Tom, eagerly, but 
ashamed of putting so unnecessary 
a question when he saw the ex- 
pression of Dorothea's lace. 



M.arN. 



79 



' Am I 9ure f said she, with a 
short gasping langh. ' Do 70a sup- 
pose as a woman can be mistook 
as has been put upon like me? 
Lawyers is clever men, askin' yonr 
pfodon, Mr. Byfe, but there's not 
mnch sense in such a question as 
yoors: I seen the lady sir, and I 
seen the honse; thafs enongh for 

'And yon obeerred the gentle- 
man narrowly?* oontinned Tom, 
stifling down a little pang of jea- 
lousy that was surely unreasonable 
now. 

' Well, I didn't take much notice 
of the gentleman,' answered Doro- 
thea, wearily, for the reaction was 
coming on apace. ' It warn't my 
Jim I know. Tou and me has 
both been used bad. Master Tom, 
and it's a shame, it is. But the 
weather's imcommon close, and if s 
a long walk here and I'm a'most 
fit to drop, askin' your pardon, sir. 
I wrote aown the number of the 
'onse. Master Tom, to make sure— 
fliere it is. If jrou please. 111 go 
down stairs, and ask the servants 
for a cup o' tea, and I wish you a 
good artemoon, sir, and am glad to 
see you lookin* a trifle better at 
last' 

80 Dorothea departed to enjoy 
the luxury of strong tea and un- 
limited gossip with Mr. Bargrave's 
household, drawing largely on her 
inTontion in explanation of her re- 
cent interview, but affording them 
no clue to the real object of her 
visit 

Tom Byfe was still puzzled. That 
Maud (he could not endure to 
think of her as Lady Bearwarden)— 
that Maud should, so soon after her 
marriage, be seen going about Lon- 
don by herself under such question- 
able circumstances was strange, 
to say the least of it, even making 
allowances for her recklessness and 
wflful disposition, of which no one 
eould be better aware than himself. 
What could be her object? though 
he loved her so fiercely in his own 
way, he had no great opinion of her 
discretion ; and now, in the bitter- 
ness of his anger, was prepared to 
put the very worst ccmstruction 
upon everything she did. He re- 
called, painfully enough, a previous 



occasion on which he bad met her, 
as he believed, walking with a 
stranger in the Park, and did not 
forget her displeasure while cutting 
short his inquiries on the subject 
After all, it occurred to him almost 
immediately that the person with 
whom she had been lately seen was 
probably her own husband. He 
would not himself have described 
Lord Bearwarden exactly as a 
' comely young gentleman,' but on 
the subject of manly beauty Do- 
rothea's taste was probably more 
reliable than his own. If so, how- 
ever, what could they be doing in 
Bemers Street? Pshaw 1 How this 
illness had weakened his intellect I 
Having her picture painted, of 
course! what else could bring a 
doting couple, married only a few 
weeks, to that nart of the town? 
He cursed Dorothea bitterly for her 
ridiculous surmises and specula- 
tions—cursed the fond pair— cursed 
his own wild unconquerable folly — 
cursed the day he first set eyes on 
that fatal beauty, so maddening to 
his senses, so destructive to his 
heart; and thus cursing staggered 
across the room to take his strengUi- 
em'ng draught, looked at his pile, 
worn faee in the glass, and sat down 
again to think. 

The doctor had visited him at 
noon, and stated witli proper cau- 
tion that in a day or two, if amend- 
ment still progressed satis&ctorily, 
' carriage exercise,' as he called it, 
might be taken with undoubted 
benefit to the invalid. We all 
know, none better than medical 
men tiiemselves, that if your doctor 
says you may get up to-morrow, 
vou jump out of bed the moment 
his back is turned. Tom Byfe, 
worried, agitated, unable to rest 
where he was, resolved that he would 
take his carriage-exercise without 
delay, and to &e housemaid's as- 
tonishment, indeed much against 
her protest, ordered a Hansom cab 
to the door at once. 

Though so weak he could not 
dress without assistance, he no 
sooner found himself on the move, 
and out of doors, than he began to 
feel stronger and better; he had no 
object in driving b^bnd change of 
scene, air, and exercise; but it will 



80 



The Piceadmy Papers. 



not STurprifle those who have snf- 
fered from the cruel thirst and 
longing which accompanies such 
mental maladies as bis, that he 
should have directed the cabman to 
proceed to Bemers Street. 

It sometimes happens that when 
we thus ' draw a bow at a yenture ' 
our random shaft hits the mark we 
might have aimed at for an hour in 
vain. Tom Kyfe esteemed it an 
unlooked-for piece of good fortune 
that turning out of Oxford Street he 
should meet another Hansom going 
at speed in an opposite direction, 
and containing— yes» he could haye 



sworn to them before any jury in 
England — ^the faces, yery near each 
other, of Lady Bearwarden and 
Dick Stanmore. 

It was enough. Dorothea's state- 
ment seemed sufficiently corrobo- 
rated, and after proceeding to the 
number she indicated, as if to satisfy 
himself that the house had not 
walked bodily away, Mr. Ryfe re- 
turned home yery much benefited in 
his own opinion by the driye, though 
the doctor, yisiting his patient next 
day, was disappointed to find him 
still low and feyerish, altogether 
not so much better as he expected. 



THE PICCADILLT PAPEES. 

Bt a Pbbipatstic. 



FOBSTEB'S LI7£ OF LANDOB.* 



MR. FORSTER has in his time 
rendered many and massiye ser- 
yices to Enghsh literature and his- 
tory, although we must, by way, even 
here, enter our caveat against the one- 
sided political character of his his- 
tories. But, on the whole, he has per^ 
haps written no better book than this, 
winch, for the subject and its treat- 
ment, is the most interesting book 
he has done. Walter Say age Land or 
was a yery king among men, stand- 
ing head and .shoulders aboye his 
contemporaries. He was neyer a po- 
pular writer. The ' Imaginary Gon- 
yersations,' indeed, is a work with 
which most general [readers are on 
some terms of acquaintance. A few 
stray lines of his poetry haye also 
passed into the language, and are uni- 
yersally known. But besides this 
Landor yery rarely penetrated be- 
yond the esoteric circle of gifted men 
who entertained for him a most x>as- 
sionate admiration, and who claimed 
for him a higher place than was 
granted to him by the mass of his 
contemporaries, but perhaps not 
higher than will be conceded by a 
later age. But, at the same time, a 
yery strong personal interest has 

♦ « Walter Savage Landor.' A Bio- 
graphy. By John Forster. Two vob. 
Chapman and Hall. 



always belonged to this most won- 
derful old man. To him, if to any 
man, belonged a most strongly- 
marked indiyiduality. He was a 
man who was always a law to him- 
self, which means that be was law- 
less in respect to othera; daringly 
but irregularly great— great both in 
his attainments and his originality; 
headstrong, yiolent, imprudent, but 
chiyalrous, tender, «nd generous to 
the highest conoeiyable degree. It 
was well known that he was obliged 
to leaye England under a cloud, 
under an extraordinary amount of 
well-earned obloquy. Mr. Forster 
has written his work with a iaimess 
and impartiality to which biography 
in general is almost a stranger. He 
has told us, with kindness and can- 
dour, of the errors of a great man 
most &tal]y misguided as guided 
only by his own wHl, but the general 
result of his work will be to make 
Landor infinitely better understood 
by his countrymen, and greatly to 
raise the general estimate of his 
character. 

It is essentially a literary bio- 
graphy, and the reader will find 
much keen and delicate criticism 
of Lander's yaried writings. Its 
yalue as a thoughtful literary work 
will in this respect be considerably 



The PiccadiUy Papers. 



81 



enhanced, tboagh its immediate po- 
pularity may perhaps be depre- 
ciated. Bat with occasional ossistr 
ance of much service from such 
illustrious coadjutors as Southey, 
Julius Hare, Sir Frederick Pollock, 
DickeDR. Browning, Algernon Swin- 
burne, Mr. Forster has given us an in- 
tellectual portraiture of Landor of 
tlie highest degree of finish and per- 
fection. We are told that it was at 
Lander's house that Dickens first 
devised the conception of Little 
Nell in the ' Old Curiosity Shop/ 
«ftd Mr. Forster tells us that Dickens 
depicted Landor in the portraiture 
of Boythorn in ' Bleak Hoase.' But 
the cheery loudness and playful ex- 
ploeiveness of the Boythorn in fic- 
tion point to some unpleasant facts 
in the Landor of reality— the swift 
wrath, the utter impracticableness, 
the unwisdom, the unrest At Ox- 
ford, although he was a thorough 
floholar, that would have delighted 
the hearts of dons, he was sent away 
because he foolishly discharged a 
gun against a don's window. He 
displeased the best parents in the 
world by such a wish as that the 
French would hang George the 
Third between two such thieves 
as the Archbishops of Canterbury 
and York. When his good mother 
heard this speech, she immediately 
rose i^m her seat and boxed her 

goeoocious son's ears. It would be 
ardly too much to say that 
throughout life Landor was always 
making such speeches and always 
getting his ears boxed. At the 
same time Landor was a man whose 
knowledge of Greek was prodigious, 
and who wrote Latin poetry, not 
only with the Latinity, but with 
the freshness and independence of 
a Latin-born poet There was one 
man who loved both his letters and, 
his liberalism, and this was Dr.' 
Parr, who, in spite of all his per- 
secutions, passed an intensely en- 
joyable life, and left a large for- 
tune behind him. Landor was only 
twenty-three when he brought out 
his great poem, beloved by poets, 
of ' Gebir.*^ He was at Paris when 
Bonaparte was First Consul, and 
had a good opportunity of ob- 
serving him narrowly. It was won- 
derful to hear Landor, in his old 

VOL XVI.— NO. XCL 



age, describing Napoleon Bonaparte 
as a slim young man. Li later life, 
when living in Bath, he had a visit 
from the nephew, the present Em- 
peror. He sent Landor his work on 
' Artillery :* ' Temoigne d'estime de 
la part du Prince Napoleon Louis 
B., qui appr^cie le vraie m^rite 
quelque oppos^ qu'il soit a ses sen- 
timents et k son opinion.' Mr. 
Forster has an interesting note, 
saying that at the very time when 
Landor thus met Louis Napoleon in 
Bafh (1846), ' there was ia a board- 
ing-school twelve miles off, on the 
Clifton Downs, a pretty girl— grand- 
niece to a maiden lady living in a 
very small house at Dumfries— who 
is now Empress of France.' 

But we must return to the earlier 
current of Lander's days, idthough 
our space does not permit us to 
make even an abstract of Mr. 
Forster's volumes. For some time 
Landor resided, an alien and exile 
from home, in South Wales, and, 
with a strongly-marked attachment 
to localities, he always looked back 
kindly on the neighbourhood of 
Swansea. In due time he suc- 
ceeded to the familj estates in Staf- 
fordshire; and if he had been ca- 
llable of the least prudence and 
restraint he might have been a 
wealthy squire to the end of the 
chapter. But he soon began to be 
extravagant and to be in love. He 
fonnd a heroine whom he chose to 
call Ion3, 'a name translated far too 
easily into Jones;' and presently 
another young .iroman orops up 
called lontb^. ,The time was not 
altogether ill spent, for he visited 
Spain, he wrote a tragedy, and he 
formed a lifelong friendship with 
Southey, charming the poet's heart 
by an offer to be at the cost of print- 
ing epics as &st as he should write 
them. He fixed his heart upon Llan- 
thony Abbey and its estates, and to 
complete this purchase he had to 
make complicated arrangements, 
parting with bis ancestral estate, 
causing his mother to part with 
hers, and having to obtain a private 
Act of Parliament In after years, 
Landor came to a very pretty place, 
on which he gazed with enthusiasm 
and longed to possess, and he was 
told that it was part of his own 



sa 



The PieeadOff jhi9>en. 



anoertiftl estate which he bad sold 
in order to pnrdiase Llanthony. 
It became necessary that he should 
give Llanthony a mistress. Ac- 
cordingly he married a youog lady 
on the high gionnd that she had 
very few pretensions and no fortone. 
' The marriage took (rfaoe before the 
end of May. It had all been ar* 
ranged and settled after the manner 
of the eternal friendship between 
Cecilia and Matilda in the *' Anti- 
jacobin." A sudden thought had 
struck him and the thing was done. 
He had married a pretty little girl, 
of whom he seems literally to have 
had no other tkoowledge than that 
she had moreonrls on her head than 
any other girl in Bath.' 

Landor made a sad business both 
of his wife and of his estate. There 
were great difficulties in both, but 
so much m««e might have been 
made of both. There was too great 
a difference in their ages, and 
Landor had not the tact and skill 
to compose this and still greater 
diffiarenoes. * I must do the little 
wife the justice to say/ wrote his 
brother Robert, one of the justest 
and wisest of men, 'that I saw 
much of her, about three years after 
her marriage, during a long journey 
through France and Italy, and that 
I left her with regret and pity.' 
Similarly the Welsh among whom 
he had settled himself were people 
requiring judicious and adroit ma- 
nagement, a system of which Landor 
was utterly incapable. Landor was 
as unstable aa water. He intended 
to rebuild the abbey, but he didn't; 
to build himself a fine residence, but 
he didn't ; to plant a million of trees, 
but he didn't ; to reform and civilize 
the Llanthony world, but he didn't. 
He found it the speediest escape out 
of his troubles to run away both 
from hiBwife and his estate; but he 
discovered afterwards that it was 
not so easy to make an escape from 
such troubles. Mr. Forster speaks 
of the evil and stubborn qualities 
of the Welsh ; but Landor ought to 
have made the best and not the 
worst of things. Bullied by the 
Welsh, he thought of establishing 
himself as a French citizen in 
some provincial town of France. 
The plan was given up, and after 



a dreary section entitled 'Private 
DiFputes,' dealing with lawsuits 
and annoyances, we find him mi- 
grating to Italy, and after many 
wanderings settling down in Flo- 
rence. HehadtheMedicaoanpalazzo 
then, but he contrived to make 
himsalf ol»oxioua to the authorities, 
and received otdem to quit Tus- 
cany. He managed, however, a 
charming villa ai Fiesol^, asflod- 
ated with Michael Angek> and 
Machiavelli, with Galileo and with 
Milton. It wag bought very 
cheaply. It is pleasant^ too, to 
read, when we hear of Lander's un- 
bounded generosity to others, that 
his generous friaad Ablett advanced 
him the money for the pon^uae, and 
would have forced it upon him as 
a present When the mon^ was 
after various years repaid Ablett 
refused to accept any money for its 
usa 

Years after Landor had left the 
plaee Charles Dickens visited it 
He drove out to Fiesol^ and aaked 
the coachman to point out to bim 
Lander's villa. But we will let 
Mr. Dickens speak for himselt 
' He was a dull dog, and pointed to 
Boccaccio's. I didn't believe him. 
He was so deuced ready that I 
knew he lied. I went up to the 
convent, which is on a height, and 
was leaning over a dwarf wall 
looking a* the noble view over a 
vast range of hill and valley, when 
a little peasant girl came up and 
began to point out the localities. 
"Eoco la Villa Landora!" ma one 
of the first half-dozen sentences she 
spoke. My heart swelled almost as 
Lander's would have done when I 
looked down upon it, nestling 
among its olive-trees and vines, 
and with its upper windows (there 
are five above the door) open to the 
setting sun. Over the centre of 
these there is another stoiy, set 
upon the housetop like a tower; 
and all Italy, except its sea, is 
melted down into the glowing land- 
scape it commands. I plucked a 
leaf of ivy from the convent garden 
as I looked; and here it is. "For 
Landor, with my love." ' So writes 
Mr. Dickens to our biographer. 
From thLB paradisaical retreat he 
tears himself away by voluntary 



The PiccadSay Pofen. 



88 



self- banishmeni He quarrelled 
with his wife, and in the course of 
this qnarrel acted with the most 
absuid inoansistency. He says that 
his wife used language to him 
which was intolerable in the pre* 
sence of his children. It seems 
probable that Lander's complaint 
against his wife was well founded ; 
bat what can we think of him as 
a father for deserting his children 
for 00 many years and surrendering 
them entirely to a parent whose 
conduct he deliberately disap- 
proved? Even while in Italy ho 
had made flying visits to England, 
refrahing himself with old family 
associations and literary companion- 
ship, and taking with him many 
worthless pictures which had been 
imposed upon his want of taste. 
He now settled himself at Bath, 
where he continued fbr one-and- 
twenty years iJie greatest of its local 
celebrities. It is unnecessary to 
speak at length of the sad events 
that drove him away tmrn Bath. 
He mixed himself up in a miserable 
quarrel about a governess, and 
speedily found himself involved in 
an action for libeL He was a man 
who had always put passion before 
reason, but would ultimately return 
to a better mind. This better mind 
seemed to desert him at the last, and 
Landor was now a different being to 
the Landor whohad once been. When 
he published Ms 'Dry Sticks Fag- 
goted,' strongly against Mr. Forsters 
remonstrance, he wished to add on 
the title-page, ' By the late W. 8. 
Landor/ which in one sense might 
have been truly said, and was with 
difficulty dissuaded. The slander 
business originated in Landor*^ 
desire to have the declivity of life 
smoothed for him by the oompaaJbH'- 
ship of charming yoong ladies. He 
had formerly promulgated his opi- 
nion on this subject in that favourite 
'Imaginary Dialogue,' in which 
Epicurus shows two handsome 
Atheiyaa girls of sixteen and 
eightMn his new garden, and ex« 
pounds to them his philosophy. 
But, as Mr. Forster somewhat 
grimly remarks, ' Everything de- 
pends in such a case upon the 
choice of your Temissa and Leon- 
tion.' With Landor irascibilily 



grew into madness ; you were either 
a fiend or an angel with him. In 
his usual insensate way he violated 
an undertaking not to reproduce 
the libel, and was cast in oamages 
for a thousand pounds with costs. 
He was determined not to pay, but 
to settle his property on his children 
and to flee the country. In the last 
part of his design he easily suc- 
ceeded, but the opposite lawyers 
were too sharp for him and got their 
money. On his flight he stopp^l 
in London at Mr. Forster's, and 
Mr. Dickens, who went to see him 
in his bedroom, 'came back into 
the room laughing, and said that he 
found him very jovial, and his 
whole conversation was upon the 
characters of Catullus, GKbullns, 
and other Latin poets.' Then he 
went back to Italy, living six years 
longer. His domestic unhappiness 
involved him in a great deal of 
misery, but Mr. Browning very 
nobly came to his help and did him 
infinite service. ' Whatever he may 
profess,' says Mr. Browning, 'the 
thing he really loves is a pretty girl 
to talk nonsense with.' 

There has hardly been for years 
past a literary biography so full and 
perfect as this by Mr. Forster. It 
would be easy to cull many pas- 
sages of very great literary and 
social interest. One only criticism, 
which we advance with much diffi- 
dence, is, that there might have 
been more compression and the book 
be brought within narrower limits. 
Also, upon the whole, we are doubt- 
ful whether Landor sufficiently de- 
served such an elaborate biography. 
Although he is probably destined 
for a still higher fame than he has as 
yet received, the thoroughly Greek 
character of his mind will only in-* 
sure him an audience fit and few. 
Besides his Greek we are afraid he 
was a thorough heathen. In intel- 
lectual power he touched the nadit; 
in moral power he sunk ahnost below 
zero. 

TEE ItOYAL ACADEMY. 

We would not that the Boyal 
Academy should gloriously inan« 
gurate the Eccond century of ite 
bright existence within ite new and 
noble halls without a word of greet- 
a a 



84 



The PieeadiUff Pcgpers. 



iDg from the Peripatotio. The edi- 
fice itself formB the most remarkable 
item of the present ezhibitioiL The 
critics have now all had their say, 
and, of course, have been obliged to 
be critical ; but allowing the grumble 
that there is only one spacious room 
for the sake of the banquet, we believe 
also that the smaller rooms form ad- 
mirable galleries. There has also 
been a great deal of grumbling 
about the pictures, and it may be 
granted both that there have been 
some unfair disappointment, and 
also that some of the Academicians 
have much too liberally availed 
themselves of the space which is 
coDstitutionally at tneir disposal. 
Still I maintain, contrary to much 
very positive opinion, that the ex- 
hibition of this year is, as an exhi- 
bition, exceedingly good. There 
are paintings here which, in the 
effect which they produce upon the 
spectator, and in the memaries which 
they leave behind, arerarely equalled. 
There are few more deb'ghtnil em- 
ployments than the gradual accumu- 
lation of notes to one's fresh copy of 
the Catalogue, now in tinted cover 
and minu8 the choice quotation as 
motto. We are not disappointed 
in the names there, nor yet m the re- 
sults to be associated with the names. 
We go at once to Landseer, Poole, 
Millus, Creswick, dope, O'Neil, 
Frith, Goodal, and a few other cele- 
brated men, and then we leisurely 
work through the new or rising 
names to see with whom may rest 
the palm on account of the 'in- 
genium et labor.' But though plea- 
sant to make annotations, it would 
hardly be fair, at this time of the 
da^, to transfer the annotations to 
prmt; otherwise we would like to 
diBOUss at length the savage power 
shown in Landseer's greatest but 
painful picture of the Swannery at- 
tacked by Sea-eagles ; Millais's stately 
women aod beautiful children, when 
perhaps, the drapery allows him to 
work rather too rapidly ; the exqui- 
site oriental pictures of Lewis, 
where (in 157) many worthy souls 
puzzle themselves to find out the 
letter; Poole's Lorenzo and Jessica, 
and so on; to point out our fa- 
vourites to the fnendly reader, and 
entreat him to admire them with us. 



As each man takes his special favour- 
ite, we will avow that Faed's little 
picture, ' Alone by Herself,' in the 
simplicify of its pathos and poetry 
is unique in the exhibition. As an 
example, too, of sound honest study 
expended on a fine passage of Uterary 
history we greatly like Mr. Crowe's 
* Penance of Dr. Johnson, 768.' He 
stood in the rain all day in the mar- 
ket-place at Uttoxeter, to expiate the 
sin of disobedience to his father. 
Many have laughed over the inci- 
dent, but the truest criticism was 
that of an old lady, ' And let us hope 
the sin was expiated.' 

Next to Mr. Woolner's works, 
perhaps the most interesting speci- 
men is the Princess Louise's excel- 
lent head and bust of the Queen. 
Here the intimate knowledge of her 
mother has supplied touches unat- 
tainable to the sculptor. The Prin- 
cess stands in the first rank of ama- 
teur art, and perhaps something 
more. But we have only time to 
greet the new halls, and bid them, 
literally, adieu. We had only as- 
signed ourselves a very bri^ space 
for this, and the space is full. 

TBI lATE O. H. TH0MA8*8 EXHI- 
BITIOK OF PAINTINGS. 

From the various exhibitions we 
can only devote a brief space to the 
exhibition of the pictures of the late 
Mr. G. H. Thomas, not unmindful 
of the genius and good taste with 
which he so often adorned our pages. 
We may venture regretfully to think, 
that with all his exceUenoe he had 
hardly reached his culminating 
point when he was out off by pre- 
mature death. In his numerpus 
works there is abundant proof of 
the conscientiousness, thoroughness, 
study, and thought which are often 
such large constituents in genius, 
and which corresponded so well 
with the well-known high and 
kindly nature of the man. No one 
had a swifter and more discern- 
ing eye than her gracious Majesty, 
to observe and give judicions en- 
couragement to this artist's ex- 
traordinary ability. The Queen's 
numerous contributions to this ex- 
hibition give it ore of its best 
charms, and attest how much she 



THe Piceadittp Papers. 



85 



Talned the nnmerons compositioos 
that were done at her command. 
Going carefally throagh this ool- 
lection of 170 pictures and draw- 
ings, one is greatly stnick by the 
immense yersatiUty they display. 
The fftoes of little children and of 
fiur women, manly energy in all the 
life and movement of the human 
figure, pastoral landscape with rivu- 
let or river, bits of sea or woodland, 
the glorious sky of Italy or the sky 
hardly less glorious of England on 
a deep summer day — touches of 
pathos, of humour, of tenderness, of 
reflection, are everywhere around 
us, of a pretty uniform high order 
of excellence. Nothing is more re- 
markable than the way in which the 
artist has seized very different de- 
partments, such as foliage in the 
' Apple-blossom,' or horses, such as 
in the wonderful painting of Master- 
lees,' or, again, French subjects as in 
the ' Dimanche/ in a way so thorough 
and earnest that he might have con- 
centrated his artist life in any one of 
thedirections indicated. Some of the 
pictures suggest more or less criti- 
cism, but with tiiis we do not here 
propose to trouble our readers. A 
great interest attaches to those cases 
where we are able to compare the 
earlier studies with the finished 
design, or to note the point where 
the cunning hand of the limner was 
arrested. It gives a peculiar in- 
terest to the collection to know that 
throughout his later career the 
gifted industrious artist was strug- 
gling against disease. 

We were greatly struck with the 
picture which is first in the Oatap- 
logue, 'The Train.' Prith's 'Rail- 
way Station' was a great picture, 
but our artists have not yet done 
for modem locomotion what their 
predecessors have done for the road. 
The ndl may seem a prosaic and 
commonplace subject, but Mr. 
Thomas shows us how much beauty 
it may yield. It is a long railway 
cutting through woodland arched 
by a viaduct An express train 
comes tearing along at full speed. 
A group of rustics, women and 
children, are watching with won- 
dering, half-fearful fiices. The time 
is evening, and the long wreath of 
curling steam contrasts well with 



the leaden clouds, and through a 
rent in them the blood-red sun looks 
down upon the pictura The sub- 
ject is real enough in all conscience, 
but it has both poetry and mystery. 
The paintmg to which we have al- 
luded above, ' Masterless * (9), is, to 
our mind, the most remarkable in 
the collection. It is his most ideal 
painting. It is also his last, a pro- 
phecy of what might have been in 
the future. The sun sets in a wild 
tempest of glory on a barren heath, 
and over this comes careering, in 
mad infuriated flight, a riderless 
horse; the cloaks and holsters have 
slipp^ aside ; the startled eye and 
smoking nostril seem to tell us that 
he is flying from the horror of the 
battle-field in wild search for his 
master, and that the weakness of 
fatigue will soon check his speed. 
The picture of animal suffering and 
fidelity amid the desolation of war 
and nature is exceedingly touching 
and suggestive, and instinct with 
that dramatic action which this ar- 
tist developes so peculiarly well. 

We proceed firom pictures to 
groups of pictures. It so happened 
that we had just returned from a 
run in the Isle of Wight, reviving 
former impressions, and so were 
able to judge freshly of the nu- 
merous sketches from the island^ 
Shanklin, Freshwater, Alum Bay^ 
&c., and their extraordinary fidelity 
to special details. The numerous 
landscapes have a truth at once 
frankly recognised by memory and 
the heart. Those of our readers 
who, when staying at Boulogne, 
had an opportunity of becoming 
acquainted with the inner life of the 
camp will enjoy wonderfully the 
picture of the * Ball.' We perceive 
that this is about to be engraved on 
steel. Thegrisette in 'Dimanche' 
would do for Victor Hugo's ' Fta- 
tine ' in that bright summer day at 
St. Oloud. The pictures in the col- 
lection which are historical, as time 
goes on will acquire a constantly 
increasing value. They are mainly 
the Queen's property. We observe- 
that (170) * The First Distribution 
of the Victoria Gross' is also to be 
engraved. 

This collection in the Lawrence 
Gk&llery, New Bond Stieety has oer- 



S6 



The Piccadittg P€gfer9. 



tai]i]y a nniqne intereei It should 
be Btadied as a whole, with its 
stamp of distanctiye indmdiiality. 
The laboaiB of a life-time are 
brought together, in graduated 
steps of excellence ; we tiaoe a life- 
history throughout their diTersities 
and affluence of skill. As a oollec- 
tioD, we have said enough to inti- 
mate our opinion that it is one of 
the most remarkable ever submitted 
to the public, and we may also add 
that in its hints and teachings in- 
dicative of progTMsiye steps in true 
work and workmanship, it nas a real 
educational value. 

HDTAXBS nf IiDlB. 

I met with a very able man some 
time ago who ingeniously argued 
that there were no such things as 
mi^Akes in lifew He was in eveiy- 
tiung an optimist : ' Whatever is» is 
right' I should have been glad to 
have coincided in a view of things 
so eminently cheerful and consola- 
tory. I put the case rather ooAiaely 
and practically to him. 'Suppose 
you broke your leg.' My friena re- 
plied with much fervour that such 
an aocident would really prove an 
eicellent thing for him. Now there 
is a case 'on &b books' in which a 
Iwoken leg turned out to be a signal 
advantage. There was a good bishop 
who was arrested in the Maiian 
times and ordered to be brought up 
to London. He was noted for his 
implicit belief in a providential order 
of things. Coming up to town on 
his way he fell and broke his leg. 
When he was asked whether tiiat 
accident was for the best, he unhesi- 
tatingly relied ' Certainly.' Which 
turned out to be the case, for he was 
detained on the road, and while he 
was detained Queen Mary died. His 
broken leg saved him from the stake. 
My fiiend was not arguing the mat- 
ter on theological grounds, for I am 
afraid he clings to the dreary nega- 
tions of positivism, or his notion 
might have required a different line 
of discussion. He was discussing 
the matter on the principles of tbo 
broadest philosophy, and according 
to this there was nothing to prevent 
his breaking his leg if he thou^t 
that a desirable oonsummation. He 



would, I think, regret such a step 
as a very serious mistake in life. 
So far from the optimist theory 
being true, there is nothing of which 
human life produces a more plen- 
tiful crop than mistakes. I remem- 
ber that Sir James Qraham refused 
to join a vote of censure ona minis- 
try that was thought to have com- 
mitted a peat mistake, because he 
was ocmscious, he said, that he had 
made so many mistakes himself. 
That is the most brilliant man, not 
who makes the most brilliant hits, 
but who makes the fewest mistakes. 
This is, I believe, an axiom with all 
military writers. Some of Napo- 
lecm's finest fighting was a mistake, 
and I believe it can be proved to 
demonstration that the Duke of 
Wellington nuMle several eonspi- 
onous blunders on the field of Water- 
loo. He won, not because he made 
no blunders, but beoanse Napoleon 
made more. 

Lord Derby once got himself into 
ill odour by repeating the c^cal 
French saying that a certain line of 
oonduot was worse than a sin, for it 
was a mistake. This is not a real 
antithesis, because, both etymdo- 
gically and in substance, the two 
W(»ds are synonymous. The old 
Greeks took sin, or what they re- 
garded as such, to be a blunder and 
amistake. We see this often enough 
in common experienca I never see 
a case of dshbevate jilting— when 
an honest man is thrown overboard 
by a heartless fiirt» or an honest girl 
is jilted by some ]|ght-oMov»— but 
I know that there is an unpleasant 
kind of Nemesis hovering in the air. 
There were few more impressive 
speeches than that in whidi the late 
Lord Cranworth sentenced Rush, the 
Jermy-hall murderer, to be hung, 
and told him that if he had kept his 
promise of marrying the principal 
witness against him, the policy of 
the law would have sealed her lips, 
and in all probability he would have 
been acquitted. There is no doubt 
but the wretched man felt that he 
had made a very material mistake 
in life. • 

But we are not concerned with 
matters so melodramatic as this. 
When men come to a certain age 
they begin to analyse emotkms, to 



The PiecaXUp Papm. 



87 



critioise past transactioiis, ami be- 
come deeply meditative on the past 
Tbej will sometimos make yoa 
dzeamy half oonfidences, and tell 
yoa that there was a time when at 
a certain point the path of life be- 
came biforoated, aal they turned 
to the left hand when they ongbt to 
have tamed to the right That was 
their fatal error. Everything would 
have gone well with them if they 
had not made a particular mistak». 
Now I believe there is a great deal 
of oonfosion of thought on tbis sub- 
ject Men confound what is aod- 
dental with what is essential They 
think that a particular act was 
isolated and accidental, whereas, as 
a matter of fiekot, it is simply part of 
an orderly sequence of events. It 
is the legitimate consequent of ante- 
cedents—it is the logical outcc»ne of 
a certain tone and c^tfacter. A man 
is killed while huntiDg or drowned 
while bathing. It is often called an 
aoddent, while it is (rften nothing of 
the kind. The horse did not suit 
him, the style of country did not 
euit Mm, hunting had altogether 
ceased to suit hioL Or the man 
bathed too fax firon land ex amid 
.currents or amid rooks. And in 
either case the man knew that he 
was running a kind of risk, but the 
risk seemed remote, and the thought 
I wiUchanee it occurred to his mind. 
And in time he ran through his 
chances and got killed. So I have 
met some youths who have only 
missed some sublime academic dis- 
tinction through some slight mis- 
take of their own— or of the eza- 
miners. Th^ had read all their 
books most carefully ezoept some 
particular author, and on that author 
they were wrecked. The real fact 
is that our scholar was an inaccu- 
rate and desultory reader, and this 
led to a fall in his class. Another 
man might have got a good thing if 
he had only applied in time, but 
another ' had stepped in before hioL' 
In point of fiEUJt the man was un- 
punctual and unbusinesslike; he 
had not suffered much from such 
bad habits before, but all at once they 
had 'eventuated* in such a catas- 
trophe. Another man makes a mar- 
riage which turns out to be unwise 
or unhappy; but the fellow had 



been loafing about for years, not 
caring to whom he made love so 
that he carried on that exciting pas- 
time. And then he met some <me 
who at least had the tact to play 
the game a stroke more skilfully 
than himsrif, and so he got mated 
and checkmated at the same 
time. 

In most instances we see that 
there has been aconf usion of thought 
The mistake is, in fact, the sum of a 
series of mistakes— the last factor in 
a long line of figures. It is not an 
isolated blunder, but the reapmg 
of a sowing. Sometimes there is 
something very touching in the con- 
feesions which (me hears from those 
who would desire to tell their sto- 
ries, or perhaps in those confessions 
which a man makes to himsolf. 
When a man has invested all his 
money in, Oveiend and Qumey one 
hardly likes to enter into an elabo- 
rate argument to prove that this 
was not an isolated blunder, but the 
natural result of a wroi^ twist of 
mind^tiiis desire for a high return 
of money, this thirsting for the iMo- 
fits of the trader, this unpatriotic 
contempt for the safe and solid 
Three per Cents. Sometimes^ how- 
ever, there is the comfortable office 
of explainii^ to a troubled mind 
that the misteke is not a great <me 
after all lamattingindimeollege 
rooms, where luxury and art ;have 
been grafted on the noble limary, 
where the painted oriel and the 
vase, bronses, and gems minister to 
an aesthetic sense. My companion 
pale and thin, now a little old and 
worn. He tells me that he is a dis- 
appomted man, that he made a grsat 
mistake in life. He laid a wide and 
deep foundation, but he has reared 
no superstructure. He meant— as 
other men have meant and carried 
out theur meaning— to have done 
supremely well at Oxford, and so to 
have climbed on to statesmanship or 
the bar; but he became so gocxl a 
scholar as to be good for nothing 
else besides. Law did not come 
easy to him, oratory was impossible: 
so he threw up the experiment and 
came back to Oxford to take pupils, 
to fulfil the humble offices of the 
college dons, to edit editions of one 
of the fathers. There is no fsune 



88 



A Bmek of Withered VioleU. 



for him, and as he is a layman, no 
wife or child or pleasant rural home. 
I deny that my friend has made a 
mistake. We have need of men 
snch as he is who in gentle culture, 
refinement, and inteUigenoe should 
be in the Tan of society. They, 
eren more than our nobles, accord- 
ing to Burke's image, fonn the trae 
Corinthian capital of the pillar of 
the stata Then again I find a man 
who is immersed in business. The 
claims of his work upon him are so 
enormous that he cannot take re- 
pose, or even if he takes repose he 
cannot do so with a glad, full heart, 
but strictly subordinates his leisure 
to his work, as we wrap precious 
things in wool and linings. He, 
too, is troubled with some Tague, 
remorseful notions that he has made 
mistakes in life. He had no business 
to enter on a life that gires him no 
leisure. I tell him that our business 
in this world is to be busy; that his 
activity is of more use to others 
and to himself than his leisure 
would be, and there will be rest in 
due time. Perhaps he will tell me 
— I haye heard such thinfips said — 
that he ought to haye married a girl 
with money, and then he might rest 
without haying to work so hard for 
his iamily. I would hardly yenture 
in formal tenns to combat snch an 
unmanly argument Suppose all 
men should wish to marry girls with 
money: here is an argumenium ad 
aheurdum to begin with. I am im- 
patient witli men who are impatient 
of work. The cleyerest and weal- 
thiest and most illustrious of Eng- 
lishmen are amongst the hardest 
workers. You tell me, my small- 



minded friend Jones, that yon are 
harassed, and oyerworked, and too 
anxious, and haye a multiplicity of 
botherations and cares, and that all 
this has come upon you because at 
a critical time yon made a mistake 
in lifew It is the proper state of life 
that snch a state of things should 
be, and that which has brought it 
about cannot be a mistako. 

I know that my philosophy will 
seem shallow enough to those who 
know that they haye made mistakes 
that axe not susceptible of such light 
healings, or perhaps of any healings. 
Yet eyen the mistake that has 
eyoked the clear yision of remorse or 
the sincere tear of repentance is not 
unsusceptible of alleyiating consi- 
derations. I haye beard it said that 
a man cannot be a great author till 
he has had a great sorrow; which 
is true so to as it embodies the 
truth, that the great mistske which 
leads to great sorrow also yields 
fruit that may counterbalance the 
original fimlt. As Schubert, the 
great musician, said, in sorrow 
there is something that fructifies the 
intellect and purifies the mind, while 
joy deadens mtellect and heart; as 
our own Tennyson says, the soul, 
as a weapon, must be foi^ged through 
baths of hissing tears for shape and 
use; as the large-hearied and glo- 
rious poetess, Elizabeth Barrett 
Browning, said in her allegorical 
poem of tibe god Fan— , 

* Tet balf A bcjut te the great god Fttn, 

A beut M he sits by the riTer» 
Haldng a poet out of a man. 
The true gods weep for the grief and the paln^ 
For the reed that grows noTcr won agsln 

As a reed by the reeds of the riTer.' 



A BUNCH OP WITHEBED VIOLETS. 

COLOUBLESS, tumbled, and iiEided, 
Scentless and dead. 
Withered stalks and old thread. 
But I'd giye my life could I lie where they did* 

Found as I looked for some trifle 

In some odd place — 

Bushed the blood to my face. 
And a cry to my lips that 1 scarce could stifle* 



A £ttiie& of Withered Vw'eU. 89 

Last week I thongbt it was endedj 

Over and done ; 

That I'd conqaered and won ; 
Now they've opened the woaad, and it can't ba mended. 

Ck>olI J and calmly I'd reckoned 

Thinking for hoars ; 

And a banch of old flowers 
Sent my coolness and calmness adrift in a second. 

Back it all came madly rnshing — 

Ball-room and ball. 

And the seat in the hall 
Where I asked, and she gave^ half averted and bloshlng. 

Sitting apart through the Lancers, 

Somehow I dared — 

And she gave them, half scared. 
And looked round, and then oat came the rest of the dancers. 

Scarcely a word was spoken. 

Only she gave ; 

And I went home her slave, 
Tet proud as a king, with my sacred token« 

She had worn them, I know, from eleyen — 

Worn them till three, 

When she gave them to me; 
And I think they had been for four hours in heayen. 

Oan you guess where it was that she wore them 

Nestled away? 

Why it is that I say 
I could kneel down this minute and worship before thorn ? 

Can you guess why some dry leaves and cotton 

Thrill through my heart? 

Why my pulse gave that start,' 
When I found those dead blossoms, a while forgotten? 

They lay close to some beads that kept falling 

Only to rise 

' With her laugh and her sighs.' 
Can you guess why the memory still is enthralling ? 

Tennyson's fair ' Miller s Daughter '-- 

Bead it and learn 

Why my cheeks throb and bum. 
Did she think, as she gave, of that soag I had taught her? 

Yet she was wrong in her kindness ; 

I wrong to take ; 

But she gave for my sake. 
And I asked, though I knew it was madness and bllniness. 

Blindness, because on the morrow 

AUmust beo*er; 

There could never be more ; 
And though she would forget, I could only reap sorrow. 

Here are the flowers all faded. 

Scentless and dead, 

Withered stalks and old thread ; 
But rd give my life could I lie where they did. B. 



90 



VERY OLD PEOPLE. 



A CORRESPONDENCE of a sin- 
galar kind is going cm in the 
public joornals^ on a Bubject ^hich 
yraa originally started by the late 
8ir George Lewis, the eminent states- 
man and acute thinker— is there any 
person more than a hundred years 
ddf The Tery statement of such 
a qnestian seems absurd ; for we are 
no more in the habit of doubting 
this fact than that Daniel Lambert 
was very fai, or General Tom 
Thumb Tery short And yet this 
was the question which Sir George 
propounded. He expressed a doubt 
whether there is any thoroughly con- 
clusive evidence — evidence which 
would satisfy both a logician and 
a lawyer— of a person having over- 
lived one hundred years. He de- 
clared that, in every case he had 
examined, tiiere was some loophole 
or other, some point 1^ insuffi- 
ciently verified. When this matter 
was started in ' Notes and Queries,' 
it brought forward a multitude of 
rejoinders; and when, at different 
periods since, it has occupied atten- 
tion in the ' Times/ the challenge 
has been accepted by a still larger 
number of eager combatants. 
Country clergymen, especially, and 
others acquainted with the litera- 
ture of tombstones and parish regis- 
ters, have been very earnest in their 
assertion that centenarianism is a 
fact which ought not for an instant 
to be doubted. 

Let us notice, first, some of the 
alleged fiicts ; and then, the reasons 
which have; suggested incredulity 
on the subject. A book was pub- 
lished about the beginning of the 
present century, containing notices of 
more than seventeen hundred persons 
reputed to have lived to the age of a 
hundred or upwards; but the author 
or compiler was so ready to swallow 
anything marvellous, so indisposed 
to cautious inquiry, that we will 
dismiss him altogether. We will 
gather a few instances from chron- 
icles, obitaaries, and registers of 
various kinds, sufficient to show 
the general nature of the belief on 
this subject Let us leave untouched 
the deoide between loo and no 
years old; seeing that Sir George 



Lewis admitted before he died that 
even he had been convinced by some 
of the instances adduced: that is, 
he could detect no flaw in the evi- 
dence that a few persons had lived 
to an age between loo and no. We 
will start from the last-named date« 
and so travel onwazds. 

Popular statements aangnthe age 
of no to John Locke, who was 
baptized in 171 6 when three years 
old, and buried atLarling, in Nor- 
folk, in 1S23 ; to an old woman at 
Enniskilien, who was bom in i754f 
and was alive in 1864; to Philip 
Luke, who had been cabin boy 
under Lord Anson so fiur back as 
the time of George I., and was 
living at Lame in Ireland in 1836 : 
and to Mary Balphson, who followed 
her soldier-husband to the wars in 
the time of George II., fooght by his 
side m the uniform of a wounded 
dn^oon who had fidlen dose to her, 
and died in 1808 at Liverpool. 
Then there was Betfy Boberts, who 
was bom at Northop in Flintshire 
in 1749, and was living at Liverpool 
in 1859 with a brisk young fellow 
of 80 as her son. The age of in 
has been claimed for John Oiaig, 
who fought at Sheriffinuir in i7i5» 
and died at Kilmarnock in 1793; 
and for the Bev. Biohard Lufkin, 
who died at Ufford in Suffolk in 
1678, and who preached a sermon 
the very Sunday before his death. 
Concerning the age of na, there 
was Toney Procter, who was negro 
servant to an English officer at 
Quebec so fiir back as i759> and 
yet lived to see the year 1855 ; and 
there was Isabel Walker, who died 
in 1774, and whose engraved por- 
trait is in the Museum of the Anti- 
quarian Society at Perth. But a 
more curious instance was that 
which was connected with a con- 
vivial meeting held at a tavern in 
the metropolis in 1788, to celebrate 
the centenary of the revolution of 
1688 ; an old man said he was iia 
years old, and remembered the revo- 
lution as having occurred when he 
was a lad: of course his convives 
chaired him in triumph. The age 
of n 3 is claimed for Michael Boyne, 
who died at Armagh in 1776; Mrs. 



Very OU People. 



91 



GiUam^ who died in Aldorsgaie 
Skeet in 1761: • man in whose 
memocy a tomfaatone vaa pat np 
in Bocbe Abbey Oboroh in 1734, 
and whose son lived to be 109 ; and 
the Bey. Patrick Machell YiTiaa, 
Ticar of Leabnry, near Akiwiok, 
who was born in 1546, and wrote 
« letter in 1657 (when 11 1 years 
old), in which he said, ' I was nerer 
of a &t, bat a slender mean habit of 
body.' Two other instances are, 
William Garter, who had been a 
sergeant in the army, and who died 
in 1768 ; and Patrick Grant, a yete- 
ran of the Battle of GollodeD, who 
sorfiyed till 1834. If we want eyi- 
dence of Hie age of 114, we aie re- 
liurred to a tombstone in Mooross 
Abbey, Eillarn^, which bears the 
epitaph— 'Erected by Daniel Shine, 
in meBK>ry of his &ther, Owen Shine, 
who departed this liie April 6th, 
1847, aged 114 years. Pray lor 
him.' 

We now go ontoanother groapof 
five years. What say the advocates 
of 115? Nothing that we need 
dwell npon heie; bat among those 
for whom have been claimed the 
age of 116 yean, we find Bobert 
Pooles, who died at Tyross, in Ar- 
magh, in 174a; John Iiyon, whose 
death took place at Bandon in 1761 ; 
and Mrs. MJaiy Power, aont of the 
late Bight Hon. Bichaid Lalor Sbeil. 
David Kerriaon, a soldier of the 
Ammcan BerofaitioB, died at Al« 
bany in 185a at the age of 117 ; 
which was also the age claimed 
for Donald M'Gregor, a Skye fiurmer 
in the last oeirtary. Mr. John 
Biva, a stockbroker, died in 1771 
at the age of xi8, having been ac- 
customed to walk tooffice till within 
a few days of his death; and if the 
parish Mgister of Irthingtcm, in 
Korthomberland, is to be relied 
npon, of similar age was Bobert 
Bowman, when he died in 1829. 
In a hoi^ital at Moscow, there was 
an <dd man, who was wont to say 
that he enlisted in the Bossian army 
in the time of Peter the Great; if 
so, he coald hardly have been less 
than 119 at the time when an 
English traveller visited him a few 
years ago. Mr. Sn^d, in 1833, saw 
a gaunt, large-limbed, exceedingly 
wnnkled old woman at Lansldbourg, 



in Savoy, who said she was bom in 
1714^ And remembered events that 
took place in 1721. 

Of course when we come to ages 
between 120 and 130, we must not 
expect the instances to be very nu- 
meroos; but let us jot down a few 
from various aathorities. The age 
of lao has been claimed for Ursula 
Chicken (what a chicken I), who 
diedat Holdemessin 1722 ; William 
Jugall, a feithfdl old servant of the 
Wetister ftmilv, at Battle Abbey, in 
Sussex, who died in 1798, and to 
whom a monument was erected in 
Battle churchyard ; Mr. Charles Cot- 
trell, who died at Philadelphia in 
1761, leaving a wife (aged 115), to 
whom he had been married ninefy- 
eight years; and a Duchess of Bnc- 
clengh, who (according to a volume 
published by the Bev. John Dun, of 
Aachinle^) had ' lived twenty years 
a maiden, fifty years a wife, and fifty 
yean a widow/ and died in 17^8. 
'Blackwood's Magazine' spoke in 
182X of a Mr. Charles Leyne^ who 
had just then died at the age of 
I ai in the United States, having 
lived there under four British sove- 
reigns before the rupture in 1774: 
he left a widow no years old. A 
hoaiy-headed neno, who was one of 
the lions of New York at the time of 
the International Exhibition of 1853 
in that city, was said to be 124 years 
old; but we do not know whether 
this was one of Mr. Bamum's won- 
deiB. The Bodleian Library contains 
a news-letter of June i, i724> in 
which is a pangiaph to the effiact, 
that, as the courtiers weie going to 
St James's to be presented to George 
I., they were attracted by a venc- 
rabla woman, who stated herself to 
be 124 years old; she had kept a 
shop at Kendal during the Civil 
Ware in the days of Charles L, 
and was the mother of nine ddl- 
dren at the time when the unfortu- 
nate m(maroh was executed (1649). 
An epitaph in All Saints' Church, 
Northampton, celebrates the name 
of a person who died in 1 706 at the 
a^ of 126. A 'History of Vir- 
ginia,' which gives a tough list of 
very aged persons in that state, in- 
cludes the name of Wonder Booker, 
a slave who received the first of 
these two names because he wob a 



98 



Very Old People. 



wonder; he worked m his master^B 
garden till 117 jean old, and died 
in 1 8 19 at the age of ia6, haying 
been born in the reign of Queen 
Elizabeth. Owen Tndor, who 
boasted of being descended from 
Henry VIL, died at Llangollen, 
1 77 1, at the i^e of 127. This 
was also recorded as the age of 
John Newell, who died at Michaels- 
town in 1 761 ; he claimed to be the 
grandson of the celebrated old Parr 
(of whom we shall speak presently). 
The ' Gentleman's Ma^izine ' in 
177a recorded the death of Mr. 
Abraham Strodtman, at the age 
of 128. London claimed to have 
an inhabitant of the same age in 
1724, in the person of Mrs. Jane 
Skrimshaw. 

Another decade, embracing ages 
between 1 30 and 740, is not with- 
out its records in the pages of county 
histories and antiquarian publica- 
tions. William Beatty, a soldier 
who had fought at the Battle of the 
Boyne in 1690, died in 1774 at the 
age of 130. Peter Garden figures 
in an engraving contained in the 
Perth Museum as haying died in 
1775 ftt the age of 131. Meb. Keith, 
who died at Newnham in 1772 at 
the age of 133, left behind her three 
daughters, one of whom was a fiiir 
damsel of 109. Louis Mntel, a free 
negro in St Lncia, was reputed to 
be 135 years old when he died in 
1851 : althongh he married so late 
in life as 55, ne survived that event 
eighty years. 'Silliman's Journal' 
mentions one Henry Francisco in a 
more circumstantial manner than is 
usual in this class of records. He 
was born in 1686, left France in 
1 69 1, witnessed the coronation of 
Queen Anne in 1702, fought under 
Marlborough, then went to America, 
was wounded and taken prisoner 
during the American war, and was 
living near Albany in 1822, at the 
age of 136. The venerable age of 
138 is put down for one Joan 
M DoQsgh, who died at Ennis, in 
Ireland, in 1768. 

We may well suppose that lives 
of seven score must be few and far 
between, even when credulity comes 
to our aid. A parish register at 
Everton, Bedfordshire, mentions the 
Bev. Thomas fiudyard, vicar of that 



parish, as having died at the age of 
140 during the reign of Charles IL 
A negro, named Easter, is set down 
as having attained a like age in 1854. 
But themoet fisimousinstance was that 
of the Ck>unte8Sof Desmond—- a sub- 
ject of much and eager controversy. 
Whether such a person ever lived at 
all, and whether, if she lived, there 
is any really trustworthy evidence 
of her age, are questions which have 
been treated at full in no less im- 
p^nt a work than the 'Quarterly 
Review.' The popular account, at 
all events, in, that she was bom iD 
the second half c^ the fifteenth cen- 
tury ; that she married the Earl of 
Desmond in Edward IV.'s time; 
that she had three complete den- 
titions or sets of natural teeth during 
her long career; that she appeared 
at the court of James L in 1614; 
and that she was wont to go to 
market on foot almost down to the 
day of her death at the age of 140. 

But we have now to speak of 
venerable persons who are claimed 
to have exceeded the longevity even 
of the tough old Countess. A slab 
on the floor of Abbey Dore Church, 
Herefordshire, records the death of 
Elizabeth Lewis, in 171 5> ftt the age 
of 141 ; and the parish register of 
Frodsham, in Cheshire, contains the 
name of Thomas Hough, who, if the 
Boman numerals are correct (oxli), 
died at the same aga During ft 
celebrated honddic contest in 1385, 
between Lord Scrope and Sir £U>- 
bert Grosvenor, it became important 
to obtain the oldest available living 
testimony concerning the holding of 
certain titles and insignia; and 
among the witnesses brought for- 
ward were Sir John Sully, aged 105,. 
and especially John Thirlwall, an 
esquire of Northumberland, aged 
145. Whether the judges had any 
doubt of the correctness of this 
alleged age we are not told. There 
are, considering the circumstances,, 
remarkably full details conceming^ 
another veteran of 1 45, named Chris- 
tian Jacobson Drachenberg. He 
was bom in Sweden in 1626, lived 
chiefly as a sailor till 1694, and was 
then made a captive by Barbary 
corsairs. Being kept as a slave till 
1 710 he made his escape, and served 
again as a seaman till 17 17, when 



7ery Old PecpU. 



98 



be was 91 years old. At the age of 
ic6» beiug indigDant at incredulity 
^xpiessed concerning his age, he 
walked a long distance on porpose 
to procure a certificate of tne year 
of his birth. In 173s he waspxe- 
«ented to the King of Denmark ; and 
in 1737 ?is fnameti — a brisk bride- 
groom of 109 to a blooming widow 
of6ol He walked about in the 
town of Aarhuns in 1759 at the age 
of 133 ; but his ^elidis hung down 
fio completely over his eyes that he 
oould not see. Thirteen more years 
were in store for him, seeing that 
he did not die till 1772, when he 
had completed his 145th year. The 
oaae was considered sufficiently im- 
portant to deserve a place in Mr. 
Charles Knight's 'English Cyclo- 
psddia/ where there is an article on 
' Dracheoberg/ attributed to one of 
the most trustworthy of our literary 
men. In Boate luid Molyneux's 
* Natural History of Ireland' a notice 
occurs of Mr. £ckelstan, who was 
bom in 1 548, and died at Philips- 
town in 1696, figures which, if cor- 
rect, denote an age of 148. 

The number 1 50 is rather a suspi- 
cious one in these matters ; for, being 
what is called a 'round' number, 
persons are often tempted to use it 
without much regard to strict accu- 
racy. Francis Ck>nsit, who had been 
a burthen to the purlsh of Malton 
djuring great part of his life, was 
said to be 150 when he died in 1768. 
Lywaroh HSn (a Welshman appa- 
rently) had the same age imputed 
to him; as had likewise Sir Balph 
Vernon, who was bom towards tne 
end of the thirteenth century, and 
liyed nearly to the middle of the 
fifteenth. If the perish register of 
MinshuU, in Cheshire, which says 
that one Thomas Damme lived to 
'sevenscore and fourteen years,' is 
correct, this looks very much like 
154. The most celebrated per- 
sonage, however, who exceeded 150 
years was that renowned Old Parr, 
who always seems to be making and 
taking 'life pills,' and whose por- 
traits seem intended to show how 
vigorous and venerable we shall all 
become if we will only take the pills 
in question. The tetttimony as Id 
Thomas Parr's age seems to be tole- 
rably complete. He was bom in 



Shropshire in 1483, remained a 
bachelor till 80 years old, married 
in 1563, lived with this first wife 
thirty-two years, became a widower 
in 1595, married again in 1603 
when he was 120 years old, and 
lived to see the year 1635. ^^^ that 
year the Earl of Arundel visited 
him, and was so strack by his ap- 
pearance as to invite him to come 
to his town mansion. The old man 
found this lionizing too much for 
him; he was brought by very easy 
stages in a litter to London, vrith 
an 'antique-faced merry-andrew' to 
keep him cheerful on ib.e way; but 
the &tigue, the crowds of visitors 
who came to see him, and the lux- 
uries which were preased upon him 
in London, carried him off at the 
wonderful age of 15 a. He was 
buried on November 15th, 1635, at 
Westminster Abbey, where a monu- 
ment was erected to his memory. 
When presented on one occasion to 
Charles I., the monarch said to him, 
' You have lived longer than other 
men; what have you done more 
than other men?* To which Parr 
replied, ' I did penance when I was 
a hundred years old.' The trath 
even went beyond this statement; 
for he was ffuilty of a peccadillo 
when a hundred and five years of 
age, and did penance in a white 
sheet at the door of the parish 
church of Atterbury, his native vil- 
lage 

Shall we go beyond eight score? 
Let us see. There was one John 
Hovin, who died in 1741 at the 
alleged age of 172, and who left a 
widow destined to live till her 164th 
year. There was Tairville, who, if 
Martin's ' Description of the Western 
Isles' is to be relied on, died in the 
Shetland Isles at the age of 180. 
There was Peter Torton, who gained 
renown in 1724 as having survived 
till 18 5 ; and there was Jane Britton, 
who, as we are informed by the 
parish register of Evercrick, in 
Somerset, for 1588, 'was a maiden, 
as she aflSirmed , of aoo years.' Leav- 
ing this blushing maiden and her 
compeers, we may observe that the 
only well-authenticated case (if it is 
authenticated) of eight score and 
upwards was that of Henry Jenkins. 
He was born in the year 1501. 



94 



Fery OU Feofle. 



AfVhen a boy he carried a horse-load 
of arzowfl to Northallerton to be 
employed by the English army in 
resisting the inyasion by James IV. 
of Scotland ; and he lived to see the 
year 1670, when he died at Ellerton- 
apon-Swale^ in Yorkshire, at the 
age of 169. 

Now what axe we to think of all 
these alleged cases of extreme old 
age ? The grounds on which scep- 
ticism has been expressed concern* 
ing them axe numerous. It has 
b^ pointed out that most of the 
instances are among the humbler 
classes of Scotch, Irish, and negroes, 
where registers and formal entries 
are but little attended to. The 
mkldle and uppor classes, ameng 
whom authentic records are more 
plentiful, take but a .small part in 
the marrels of hmgeyity. 'Oan 
actuaries,' it is asked, ' refer us to a 
single instance of an assured person 
liying to a hundred and forty, 
thirty, twenty, ten, ay, to one hun* 
dxed and ten ?' The legal evidence 
is abnost always deMent If an 
entry of birth or baptism is found 
in a family Bible, there is no proof 
that it was written at the time of 
the event, or that the dates were 
correctly set down. In one case a 
clergyman, investigating an alleged 
instance of centenarianism, found 
that the Bible which ccmtained the 
entry was only sixty years old, and 
that no other testimony wu forth- 
coming. B^;iBterB of birth were 
not fonnally and legally established 
till after the year 1830; all such 
registers before that dato were volun- 
tuy and therefore uncertain. Sven 
parish registers are not always re- 
liable, for many of them, giving the 
year of death, mention tne age of 
the deceased but do not name the 
year of birth, so that there are not 
two dates to correct each other. 
Sometimes tombstonesarere-chiseled 
to restore the half-decayed epitaphs* 
and then the village mason^ puzzled 
at some of the partially-obliterated 
figures, makes a guess at them, and 
puts in the date or the age which 
seems to him nearest like the ori« 
ginal. There is a tombstone in 
Conway churchjard recording the 
&ct that Lowry Owens Yaughan died 
in 1766 at the age of 19a, and tlat 



her husband, William Yaughan, died 
in 1735 at the age of 72. Now a 
recent observer of the tombstone 
has remarked that the lady must (if 
this be true) have been nearly a 
hundred years old when William 
Yaugban married her; and as the 
figures on the stone have a ratiier 
freshly-cut appearance, he prefers 
the supposition that 193 was an in- 
correct remitting of an earlier inci- 
sioD. The 'Worcester Chronicle,' 
in 1852, drew attention to a tomb^ 
stone in Cleve Prior churchyard 
which recorded the death of a person 
at the startling age of 309 ; this ia 
supposed to have been an ignorant 
mason's way of exnessing 39, that 
is 30 and 9-na kind of error not in- 
frequent among the humbler cianes. 
The 'Times' noticed in 1848 that 
the register of Shorediteh pariah 
contained an entry of Thomas Cam, 
who died in T588 at the age of 207, 
having lived in twelve reipns. An 
investigator afterwards pointed out 
that Sir Henry EUiis, in his 'History 
of Shorediteh,' put down the age at 
107 ; and an examination of the re- 
gister elicited the &ct that ' i ' had 
been altered to ' a' quite recently by 
some mischievouB person who pro- 
bably wished to poke fun at the 
antiquaries. Instances of the Avow- 
ing kind are known to have occurred. 
A young married couple have a son 
whom they name John, and who 
dies in infancy ; twenty years after- 
wards another son receives the simi- 
lar name of John; and then, in 
neighboun' gossip eighty years 
afterwards, one John becomes con- 
founded with the other, and a man 
really eighty years old figures in 
popular repute as a centenarian. 
Some aged persons like to be con- 
sidered older than they are, on ac- 
count of the celebrity it gives them ; 
and they do not shrink from a few 
'crammers' to bring this about The 
Bev. Mr. Fletcher, as he was called, 
who was first a farmer, then a sol- 
dier, then employed in the West 
India Docks, and then a Methodist 
local preacher, used to eay that he 
was over a hundred years old : he 
drew great crowds to hear such a 

Ehenomenon preach. He probably 
elieved himself to be as old as he 
said, and at his death his age was 



The Lay rf &e Crush Boom. 95 

recorded as io8 ; bat a subsequent any evidence of her age bejond her 

investigation showed that he was own assertioD. 

much less instead of much more There can be no question that 

than a centenaiian. The writer of this kind of incredulity renders ser- 

tbis paper knew of an old woman vice, in so fur as it induces more 

many years ago who obtained noto- careful examination into the testi- 

rietv for being (ia her own words) mony for alleged facts of longevity. 

* a hnndert iJl but two/ and for Nevertheless centenarianism (and a 

being able to hold a sixpence hori- few years beyond the even hundred) 

zontally between her nose and chin ; rest on too many and too varied 

but he doubts whether there was data to be quite overthrown. 



THE LAY OF THE CEUSH BOOM. 

HIE ! Flunkeys from Belgravia I 
Tight Tigers from Pall Mall I 
From far and near you'd best appear. 

To meet the coming swell. 
A blaze of jewell'd splendour, 

Of panoply and pride, 
All down the crinison staircaaa 

Queen Fashion soon will glida 
Fnun every side they gather. 

From box as well as stall. 
Here, 'midst the flounced commotion. 

Persistent linkmen bawl ; 
Wigged coachmen lash their horses ; 

Lean, powdered footmen sfaont 
StraDge names along the anak rooov^ 

The Opera's coming oiit 

Sweet maidens, fair as lliia% 

O'er the Aubusson sweap; 
Beat upon teclnation 

To-night, before tfa^ sleep ; 

For omshes and for balls. 
And treats, in everlasting smU^ 

Against wax-lighted wallik 
Awakened ftom their slumbeai. 

Old gsntlemen repair 
To quiet ' rubs,' in cosy doiM^ 

Or eon^rtable ohair. 
Young prigs caress monstaahas^ 

Old toadies wince with gD«t ; 
Kmg Bore attends them t» the dMr, — 

'm Opera's coming ooft t 

"Ekmd youth with tearful sgM^ 

Frond girl with lips that plif^ 
This crowd, which grows andgMlhera, 

Will break and ebb awa^: 
And then the words he whiigMed, 

And she stood still to taHV^ 
Will keep her— well^froaaalMping, 

And make him laugh next year. 
Goodnight! and one is tremblmg. 

Good night! and both in donM> 
Will all be well ? Ah ! who can tell ?— 

The Opera's coming out ! 



96 



27m Lay of the Crush Boom. 

See how they mix t6gether 

In Ecarcely elbow room : 
The grandson of the Dachess 

With the daughter of the groom ! 
Fair necks with jewels glitter, 

Which envious glances meet; 
Some furnished from Golconda, 

And some from Hanway Street ! 
Boll upon roll, in masses 

Of hair, are heads arrayed, 
Which Nature has presented. 

Or drawn on the Arcade. 
The daughters sigh ; the mothers eye ; 

But still the liokmen shout, 
* Qneen Fashion's carriage stops the way,' — 

The Opera's coming out ! 



CO. 





IHawii l#y tIanceSi4iiftri]'. 



THE AUi 



LONDON SOCIETY. 



AUGUST, 1869. 



APTBEN00N8 IN 'THE PABK/ 




THERE is a passage in old Pepys's 
Diary, written two centuries 
and odd ago, which, thanks to the 
pNermanenoo of our English instita- 
tionff, would do Tery well for the 
present day : ' Walked into St 

YOL. XVL^NO. XOn. 



James's Park and there found great 
and Tery noble alterations .... 
1 66 a, July 27. I went to walk in 
the Park, which is now every day 
more and more pleasant by the new 
works upon it^ Such 

H 



98 



AftemoonB in ' the Park: 



langnage is justly dae to Mr. Layaid 
and tiis immediate predecessor at 
the Board of Works. Sappoce that 
I live at Bajswater, and my basiness 
takes me down to Westminster eyery 
day, it is certainly best for me that, 
instead of taking 'bus, or cab, or 
underground railway, t should, like 
honest Pepys, saunter in the Park 
and admire the many 'noble altera- 
tions/ I venture to call poor Pepys 
honest because he is so truthful; 
but neyer thinking that his cipher 
would be discovered he has men- 
tioned in his Diary so many unprint- 
able things, that I am afraid we must 
use that qualifying phrase ' indiffe- 
rently honest.' Several gentlemen 
who live at Bayswater and practise 
at Westminster may find that the 
phrase suits well, and a man's moral 
being may be all the better, as 
through lawns and alleys and 
copses, where each separate step 
almost brings out a separate yignette 
of beauty, he trayerses in a north- 
westerly direction the whole length 
of our Parks. He turns aside into 
St. James's Park, and then goes 
through the Green Park and crosses 
Piccadilly to lounge through Hydo 
Park, and so home through Ken- 
sington Gardens. The alterations 
this season in Hyde Park are Tery 
noticeable. All the Park spaces 
recently laid out have been planned 
in a style of beauty in harmony with 
what proyiously existed ; a beauty, 
I think, unapproachable by the 
msny gardens of Paris, or the Prado 
of Madrid, the Gorso of Rome, the 
Strado di Toledo of Naples, the 
Glacis of Vienna. The most strik- 
ing alterations are those of the Park 
side near the Brompton road, where 
the low, bare, uneven ground, as 
if by the magic touch of a trans- 
formation, is become exquisite 
garden sfMices with soft undulations, 
set with starry gems of the most 
exquisite flowers, bordered by fresh- 
est turf. The palings which the 
mob threw down have been all 
nobly replaced, and more and more 
restoration is promi.^od by a Go- 
yernment eager to be popular with 
all classes. Most of all, the mimio 
ocean of the Serpentine is to be re- 
newed; and when its bottom is 
leyelJed, its depth diminished, and 



the purify of the water seoored, we 
shall arrive at an almost ideal per- 
fection. 

As we fake our lounge in the 
afternoon it is necessary to put on 
quite a different mental mood as 
we pass from one Park to another. 
We pass at once from turmoil into 
comparative repose as we enter the 
guarded enclosure encircled on all 
sides by a wilderness of brick and 
mortar. You feel quite at ease in 
that yast palatial garden of St 
James. Tour oflSce coat may serve 
in St Jameses, but you adorn your- 
self with all adornments for Hjde 
Park. You go leisurely along, 
having adjusted your watch by the 
Horse Guards, looking at the soldiers, 
and the nurses, and the children, 
glancing at the island, and looking 
at the ducks— the dainty, overfed 
ducks— suggesting all sorts of orni- 
thological lore, not to mention low 
materialistic associations of green 
peas or sage and onions. ThoEe dis« 
sipated London ducks lay their 
heads under their wings and go to 
roost at quite fashionable hours, 
that would astonish their primitiye 
country brethren. I hope you like 
to feed ducks, my friends. All great, 
good-natured people haye a ' sneak- 
ing kindness' for feeding ducks. 
There is a most learned and saga- 
cious bishop who won't often show 
himself to numan bipeds, but he 
may be observed by them in his 
grounds feeding ducks while phi- 
losophising on things in general, 
and the Irish Church Bill in par- 
ticular. Then what crowded re- 
miniscences we might haye of St 
James's Park and of the Mall— of 
soyereigns and ministers, courtiers 
and fops, lords and ladies, philoso- 
phers and thinkers 1 By this sheet 
of water, or rather by the pond that 
then was a favourite resort for in- 
tending suicides, Charles II. would 
play with his dogs or dawdle 
with his mistresses; feeding the 
ducks here one memorable morning 
when the stupendous reyelation of 
a Popish plot was made to his in- 
credulous ears ; or looking grimly 
tov^rds the Banqueting Hall where 
his father perished, when the debate 
on the Exclusion Bill was running 
fiercely high. But the reminia- 



AftemocmB in *tke Park.* 



99 



«enoeB are endless which heloog to 
St James's ParL Only a few years 
4igo there was the private entrance 
which Jadge Jeffreys need to have 
by special licence into the Park, bat 
now it has been done away. There 
were all kinds of sni)er8tition8 float- 
ing abont in the uninformed West- 
minster mind abont Judge Jeffreys. 
What Sydney Smith said in joke to 
the poaching lad^ ' that he had a 
private gallows/ was believed by 
the Westmonasterians to be real 
earnest abont Jeffreys— that he nsed 
after dinner to seize hold of any 
individual to whom he might take 
a fancy and hang him np in front 
of his house for his own personal 
delectation. I am now reconciled to 
the bridge that is thrown midway 
across, although it certainly limits 
the expanse of the ornamental 
water. But standing on the orna- 
mental bridge, and looking both 
westward and eastward, I know of 
hardly anything comparable to that 
view. That green neat lawn and 
noble timber, and beyond the dense 
foliage the grey towers of the Abbey, 
and the gold of those Houses of 
Parliament^ which, despite captious 
criticism, will always be regarded 
as the most splendid examples of 
the architecture of the great Vic- 
torian era, and close at hand the 
paths and the parterres, cause the 
miyesty and greatness of England 
to blend with this beautiful oasis 
islanded between the deeerts of 
Westminster and Pimlico. Look- 
ing westward too, towards Bucking- 
ham Palace—the palace, despite ex- 
aggerated hostile criticism, is at 
least exquisitely proportioned ; but 
then one is sorry to hear about the 
Palace that the soldiers are so ill 
stowed away there ; and the Queen 
does not like it ; and the Hanoverian 
animal pecuh'arly abounds. We ro- 
collect that once when her Majesty's 
was ill, aservant ran out of the palace 
to charier a cab and go for the 
doctor, because those responsible 
for the household had not made 
better arrangements. In enumo- 
rating the Parks of London, we 
ronght not to forget the Queen's 
private garden of Buckingham Par 
lace, hardly leas than the jQreen 
Park in extend and so belonging 



to the system of the lungs of 
London. 

But we now enter the great 
Hjde Park itself, assuredly the 
most brilliant spectacle of the kind 
which the world can show. It is 
a scene which may well tax all your 
powers of reasoning and of phi- 
losophy. And you must know the 
Park very well, this large open 
drawing-room which in the season 
London daily holds, before you can 
SufBoiently temper your senses to be 
critical and analytical --before you 
can eliminate the lower world, the 
would-be fashionable element, from 
the most affluent and highest kind of 
metropolitan life — before you can 
judge of the splendid mounte and 
the splendid caparisons, between 
fine carriages and fine horses — 
fine carriages where perhaps the 
cattle are lean and poor, or fine 
horses where the carriages are old 
and worn ; the carriages and horses 
absolutely gorgeous, but with too 
great a display ; and, again, where 
the perfection is absolute, but with 
as much quietude as possible, the 
style that chiefly invites admira- 
tion by the apparent desire to elude 
it In St James's Park you may 
lounge and be listless if you like; 
but in Hyde Park, though you 
may lounge, you must still be alert 
. Very plodsaut is the lounge to the 
outer man, but in the inner mind you 
must be observant, prepared to enjoy 
either the Eolitude of the crowd, or 
to catoh the quick glance, the 
silvery music of momentary merri- 
ment, then have a few seconds of 
rapid, acute dialogue, or perhaps 
be beckoned into a carriage by a 
friend with space to spare. As you 
lean over the railings you perhaps 
catch a sight of a most exquisite 
face— a face that is photographed on 
the memory for its features and 
expression. If you have really 
noticed such a face the day is a 
whiter day to you; somehow or 
other you have made an advance. 
But it is mortifying, when you con- 
template this beautiful image, to see 
some gilded youth advance, soul- 
less, brainless, to touch the fingers 
dear te yourself and look into eyes 
which he cannot fathom or com- 
prehend. Still more annoying to 



100 



Ajienoom m ^ihe Park' 



ihink that a game is goiDg on in 
the matrimoDial money market I 
gometimea think thai the Ladies' 
Mile ia a Teritable female Tatter- 
saU's, where feminine charms are 
on Tiew and the price may be ap- 
praised^the infinite gambols and 
onrvettingB of high-spirited maiden- 
hood. Bnt I declare on my oon- 
scienee that I believe the Girl of 
the Period has a heart, and that 
the Girl of the Period is not so 
much to blame as her mamma or 
her chaperona 

Bnt, speaking of alterations, I 
cannot say that all the alterations 
are exactly to my mind. It is not 
at all pleasing that the habit of 
smoking has crept into Botten Row. 
The excnse is that the Prince 
smokes. Bnt because one perBon, 
of an exceptional and unique po- 
sition, doubtless under exceptional 
circumstances, smokes, that is no 
reason why the mass should follow 
the example. Things haye indeed 
changed within the last few years; 
the race is degenerating in polite- 
ness. In the best of bis stories, 
'My NoTcl,' Lord Lytton makes 
Harley, his hero, jeer at English 
liberty; and he says: 'I no mora 
dare smoke this cigar in the Park 
at half-past six, whfcu all the world 
is abroad, than I dare pick mj 
Lord Chancellor's pocket, or hit 
the Archbishop of Oanterbury a 
thnmp on the nose.* Lord Hather- 
ley's pocket is still safe, and we 
are not yet come to days, though 
we seem to be nearing them, when 
a man in a crowd may send a blow 
into a prelate's face. We have had 
such days before, and we may have 
them again. But smoking is now 
common enough, and ought to be 
abated as a naisance. Some ladies 
like it, and really like it: and that 
is all very well, but other ladies 
are exceedingly annoyed. A lady 
takes her chair to watch the 
moving panorama, intending per- 
haps to make a call presently, and 
men are smoking within a few 
paces to her infinite annoyance 
and the spoiling of her pleasure. 
Her dress is really spoilt, and there 
is the trouble of another toilet 
Talking of toilets, I heard a calcu- 
lation the other day of how many 



the Princess of Wales had made in 
a single day. She had gone to the 
laying of the foundation sUme of 
Earlswood Asylum, snd then to the 

Saat State breakfast at Bucking* 
m Palace, and then a dinner and 
a ball, and one or two other things. 
The Princess truly works very 
hard, harder indeed than peoide 
really know. I went the other oay 
to a concert, where many a (me was 
asked to go, and the Princess was 
there, in her desire to oblige worthy 
people, and sat it all through to 
the very last with the pleasantest 
smiles and the most intelligent 
attention. Let me also, since I 
am criticizing, say that the new 
restaurant in the Park is a decided 
innovation, and that to oomplete 
the new ride, to carrjr Botten Bow 
all round the Park, is certainly to 
interfere with the enjo}ment of 
pedestrians. It is, however, to bo 
said, in justice, that the pedestrians 
have the other parks pretty much 
to themselves. There is, however, 
a worse error still, in the rapid 
increase of the demi-monde in the 
Park. A man hardly (eels easy in 
conducting a lady into the Park 
and answering all the questions 
that may be put to him respecting 
the inmates of gorgeous carriages 
that sweep by. These demireps make 
peremptory conditions that they 
shall have brooghams for the Park 
and tickets for the Horticultural, 
and even for the fdtes at the Bo- 
tanical Gardens. This is a nuisance 
that requires to be abated as muck 
as any in Begent Street or the 
Haymarkei The police ought to 
have peremptory orders to exoludo 
such carriages and their occupants. 
Twenty years ago there was a dead 
set made in Cheshire, against the as- 
pirants of Liverpool and Manchester, 
by the gentry of that county most 
fiunoos for the pedigrees of the 
gentry, who wish<^ to maintain the 
splendonr of family pritia For in- 
stance, the steward of a county ball 
went up to a manufacturer who was 
making his eighty thousand a year 
and told him that no tradesman 
was admitted. Timt was of course 
absurd; but still, if that waa 
actually done, an inspector ahoold 
step up to the most faahionabla 



AfUmoom in * the Parh' 



101 



Mabel or Lais/and tnrn her hones' 
heads, if ohetreperoas, in the di- 
rection of Bridewell or Bow Street 
Anooyma has roled the Park too 
much. The faTonrite drive need 
to be round the Serpentine ; bat 
when the prettiest eqnipage in 
London drew all gazers to the 
Ladies' Mile, the Serpentine became 
comparatively nnnsed, and the 
Ladies' Mile, gronnd infiniteljr in- 
ferior, became the faTonrite until the 
renovated Serpentine or change of 
whim shall moold anew the fickle, 
-volatile shape of fiishbnable vagary. 
At this present time Mr. Alfred 
Austin's clever satire ' The Season' 
— the third edition of which is 
jjost out— recurs to me. The ]^m 
is a very clever onop and it is 
even better appredatad on the 
othe| side of the Channel than on 
this,^ is evidenced by M. Forqnes' 
article on the sabfect in the ' Bevne 
des Deoz Mondes.' We will group 
together a lew passages from Mr. 
Austin's vigorous poem,* belonging 
to the Parks. 

' I ring the eeuao, Moae I wbon vinij extendt 
WlierB ^yde IwgtaM b^ond where Tyborn ends ; 
Qctietlw taiMd gkre^MTewlwrewith borrowed 

Some taMto Fhrttoo nto the drive ablaa. 
OMrpreiljfledClliifil oome flnoa conntiy nett. 
To nIbUe, obirm Mid flutter In tbe west; 
Wboee cicax. freah Dues, with tbeir fickle frown 
And faToor, ■tart like Spring npoo tbe town ; 
LeH dear, for damaged dameelik doomed to wait ; 
Wboie thtrA-fporthf aeaaon makei balf dea- 



WaUng with wannlh* tern potent boor bj boor 
(At magneiB heated kae attractiTe power). 
Or 700 nor dear nor damaela, tongb and tart. 
Unmarketable maidena of tbe mart^ 
; Whob plnmpneM gone, fine detlOMj lUnt, 
And bide joor itea in pir^ and iMiint. 

•IneongriMMM group tbejeme; the Judged back. 
With knaea at bnlMi M ita riders back : 
Tbe counad'B oouraar, f*imWing ttam^ the 

throng. 
With wind e'en aborter than ita lord'a la long : 
Tbe foreign maninta'a aocomiillabed colt 
Sharing iia owner'a tendency to bolt 

'Comt. let w back, and, whOat the Ftek'a allTc^ 
liean oTer the raningi^ and Inapect the DtiTn. 
etill aweepa the long proeeaalon, wboee arraj 
Oivca to the lonngsr'a gate, aa waaea the daj. 
Its rich ntUnIng and n-poaeftil format 
etui aa bright auniKts after misu or atorma; 

'The SMaoo: a Satire.' By Alfred 
Austin. New and revisHl edition (tbe 
ibird). London: John Cunden Hotten. 
1869. 



Who ait and anile (their momfaig wrangUngi 

o'er. 
Or dragged and dawdled throngb one doll day 

more), 
Aa tboaiSh tbe life of widow, wife, and girt 
Were one long lapelng and volnptnona wUiL 
poor pretence I wbat eye* ao blind bat see 
Tbe aad. bow«rver elegant, ennnl ? 
Tbiuk yuu that blasoned panel, prandng pair. 
Befuol our vlclun to the weight they bear? 
The aofieat ribbon, plnk-llned paraaoU 
Screen not tlie woman, though they deck the 

duIL 
The padded ooraaga and the wdl-matcbed hair, 
Judldoua Jupon qMreading out tlie spare. 
Sleeves well deidgned Ikbe plumpncaa to impart. 
Leave vacant aUU tlie hollows of the heart;. 
Is not our Lieabla lovdy ? In her aoul 
Leabia la troubled : LeaUa bath a mole; 
And all the aplendoors of that m atch l ei neck 
Oonaole not Leabia %* iu atngle apeck. 
Kale comae from Atftik and a wardrobe bcingi^ 
To which poor Edithli are 



Her pet lace abawl baa grown not fit to wear. 
And mined Edith dxesfca in deqpalr.' 

Mr. Austin is sufficiently severe 
upon the ladies, especially those 
wnoee afternoons in toe Park have 
some oorrespondenoe with their 'af- 
ternoon of Ufa' I think that the 
elderly men who ape youthful airs 
are eyery whit as numerous and as 
open to sazoasm. Your ancient 
buck is always a &ir butt And 
who does not know these would*be 
juyeniles, their thin, wasp-like 
waists, their elongated necks and 
suspensury eye-glasses, their elabo- 
rate and manufiiiotured hair? They 
like the dissipations of youth so 
well that they can oonoeive of 
nothing more glorious, entirdy 
ignoring that autumnal fruit is, 
after all, better than the blossom or 
fbliage of spriog or early autumn. 
All they know, indeed, of autumn 
is the Tariegation and motley of 
colour. The antiquated juYenue is 
certainly one of the yeriest subjects 
for satire; and antiquated juyeniles 
do aboundof an aftoioon m Botten 
Bow. Nothing we can say about a 
woman's naddmg can be worse than 
the paddmg which is theirs. All 
thehr idiotic grinning cannot hide 
the hated crows'-feet about their 
gogffle, idiotic eyes. They try, in- 
deed, the power of dress to the ut- 
most; but in a day when all classes 
are alike eztrayagant in dress, efen 
the fiftlsity of the first impression 
wUl not saye them from minute 



102 



AfUirwHm tn ^ihe Park: 



oriticfsm. Talk to them, and they 
will draw largely on the lemiDis- 
cenoes of their yonth, perhaps still 
more largely on their faculty of in* 
Tention. What a happy dispensa- 
tion it is in the case of men intensely 
wicked and worldly, that in yonth, 
when they might do infinite evil, 
they have not the necessary know- 
ledge of the world and of human 
nainre to enahle them to do so; and 
when they have a store of wicked 
experience, the powers have fled 
which woT^d have enabled them to 
tnm it to fall account 1 At this 
moment I remember a hoary old 
yillain talking ribaldry with his 
middle-aged son, both of them 
dreesed to an inch of their lives, 
asnd believing that the fashion of 
this world necessarily endures for 
ever. Granting the tyranny and 
perpetuity of fashion— for in the 
worst times of the French rerolu- 
tion fashion still maintained its 
sway, and the operas and theatres 
were never closed — (till each indivi- 
dual tyrant of fashion has only his 
day, and often the day is a Tery 
brief one. Nothing is more be- 
ooming than gray hairs worn gal- 
lantly and well, and when accom- 
panied with sense and worth they 
have often borne avray a lovely 
bride, rich and accomplished, too, 
from some silly, gilded youth. I have 
known marriages between January 
and May, where May has been really 
very fond of January. After all, 
the aged Adonis generally pairs off 
with Pome antiquated Venus; the 
juvenilities on each side are elimi- 
nated as being common to both 
and of no real import, and the 
settlement is arranged by the law- 
yers and by family friends on a 
sound commercial basis. 

It is very easy for those who 
devote themselres to the study of 
satirical composition, and cultivate 
a sneer for things in general, to be 
witty on the frivolities of the Park. 
And this is the worst of satire, that 
it is bound to be pungent, and can- 
not pauFe to be aiscriminating and 
{'U6i Even the most sombre re- 
igionist begins to understand that 
he may uf e the world, without try- 
ing to drain its sparkling cup to the 
dregs. Hyde Park is oertamly not 



abandoned to idlesK. The moet 
practical men recognise its import- 
ance and utility to them. There 
are good wives who go down to the 
dubs or the Houses in their car- 
riages to insist that their lords shall 
take a drive before they dine and 
go back to the House. And when 
you see saddle-horses led up and 
down in Palace Yard, the rider will 
most probably take a gallop before 
he comes back to be squeezed and 
heated by the House of Commons or 
be blown away by the over-ventila- 
tion of the House of Lords. A man 
begins to understand that it is part of 
his regular vocation in life to move 
about in the Park. And all mea da 
80, especially when the sun's beama 
are tempered and when the cooling 
evening breeze is springing up. Uhe 
merchant from the City, the la^er 
from his office, the clergyman Vom 
his parish, the governess in her 
spare hours, the artist in his love of 
nature and human nature, all feel 
that the fresh air and the fresh 
faces will do them good. There 
was a literary man who took a 
Brompton apartment with the back 
windows fronting the Park. Hither 
he used to resort, giving way to the 
fascination which led him, hour after 
hour, to study the appearances pre- 
sented to him. The subject is, indeed^ 
T«ry interesting and attractive, inr 
eluding especially the very popular 
study of flirtation in all its forms 
and branches. If you really wanjk 
to see the Bow you must go very 
early in the afbomoon. Early in the 
afteinooQ the equestrians ride for 
ezerdse; later, they ride much in 
the same way as they promenade. 
The Prince for a long time used to 
ride early in the afternoon, if only 
to save himself the trouble of that 
incessant salutation which must be 
a serious drawback on H. B. H.'s 
enjoyment of his leisure. Or, again,, 
late in the evening, it is interesting 
to note the gradual thinning of the 
Park and its new occupants come 
upon the scene. The habUaS of 
Botten Bow is able, with nice gra- 
dations, to poiot out how the cold 
winds and rains of the early summer 
have night after night emptied the 
Park at an earlier hour, oj^ how a 
f&te at the Horticultural, or a gala 



AftemooM in * (he Park' 



108 



at the CiTBtal Palace, has seDsibly 
thinned the attendance. As the 
affluent go home to dress and dine, 
the 6008 and daughters of penury 
vho have shunned the broad sun- 
light creep out into the vacant 
spaces. The last carriages of those 
who are going home from the pro- 
menade meet the first carriages of 
those who are going out to dine. 
Only two nights ago I met the 
carriage of Mr. Disraeli and his 
wife. I promise you tbe Yisoountess 
Beaconsfieldlooked magnificent Cu- 
riously enough they were diuing at 
the same honse, where, not many 
years ago, Mr. Disraeli dined with 

S)or George Hadsoo. When Mr. 
udson had a dinner given to him 
lately, it is said that he was much 
afilBcted, and told his hosts that its 
cost would have kept him and his 
for a month. 

The overwhelming importance of 
the Parks to London is w^i brought 
out by that shrewd observer, Crabb 
Bobioson, in his recent Diary. Un- 
der February 15, 1818, he writes: 
'At two I took a ride into the 
Begent's Part^ which I had never 
seen before. When the trees are 
grown this will be really an orna- 
ment to the capital ; and not a mere 
ornament bat a healthful appendaga 
The Highgate and ilampstead Hill 
is a beautiful object ; and within the 
Park the artificial water, the cir- 
cular belt or coppice, the few scat- 
tered bridges, &o., are objects of 
taste. I really think this enclosure, 
with the new street leading to it 
from Carlton Hoase [Regent Street] 
will give a sort of glory to the Re- 
gent's government, greater than the 
victories of Trafalgar and Waterloo, 
glorious as these are.' Here, again, 
almost at haphazard, is a quotation 
from an American writer : ' So vast 
is the extent of these successiye 
ranges, and so much of England 
can one fijid, as it were, in the midst 
of London. Ob, wise and prudent 
John Bull, to ennoble thy metro- 
polis with such spacious country 
walks, and to sweeten it so much 
with country air! Truly these 
lungs of London are vital to such 
a Babylon, and there is no beauty 
to be compared to them in any dty 
I have ever seen. I do not think 



the English are half proud enough 
of their capital, conceited as they 
are about so many things besides. 
Here you see the best of horse-flesh, 
laden with the "porcelain clay" of 
human flesh. Anl how darling^ 
the ladies go by, and how ambi- 
tiously their favoured companions 
display their good fortune in at- 
tending them. Here a gay creature 
rides independbutly enongh with 
her footman at a respectful distance. 
She is an heiress, and the young 
gallants she scarce deigns to notice 
are dying for love of her and her 
guineas.' 

Bat, after all, is there 'anything 
more enjoyable iu its way than 
Kensington Gardens? You axe 
not so neglig6 as in St James's, but 
it is comparative undress com- 
pared with Hyde Park. Truly 
there are days, and even in the 
height of the season too, when you 
may lie down on the grass and 
gaze into the depth of sky, listening 
to the murmnroos breeze, and thai 
&r-off hum which might be a sound 
of distant waves, and fancy yourself 
in Ravenna's immemorial wood* 
Ah, what thrilling scenes have coma 
off beneath these horse-chestnuts 
with their thick leaves and pyra- 
midal blossoms I And if only those 
whispers were audible, if only those 
tell-tale leaves might murmur their 
confessions, what narratives might 
these snpply of the idyllic side of 
London life, sufficient to content a 
legion of romancists! It is a fine 
thing for Orlando to havo a gallop 
by the side of his pretty ladylove 
down the Row, bat Orlando knows 
very well that if he could only draw 
her arm through his and lead her 
down some vista in those gardens, 
it would be well for him. Oh, yield- 
ing hands and eyes! oh, mantling 
blushes and eloquent tears I oh, soft 
glances and all fine tremor of 
speech, in those gardens more than 
in Armina's own are ye abounding. 
There is an intense human interest 
about Kensington Gardens which 
grows more and more, as one takes 
one*s walks abroad and the scene 
becomes intelligible. See that slim 
maid, demurely reading beneath 
yonder trees, those old trees which 
artista love in the morning to oome 



104 



Aftemotm in 'the Park: 



and sketch. She glances more than 
once at her watch, and then sad- 
denlj with Btirpriflo she greets a 
lounger. I thought at the very 
first that her enrprise was an affeo- 
tation ; and as I see how she disap- 
pears with him through that orer- 
arching leafy arcade my surmise 
becomes oonvietioo. As for the 
nursery maids who let their little 
charges loiter or riot about, or even 
the sedater gOTernesses with their 
more serious aimoj who will let gen* 
ilemanly little b(»ys and girls grow 
yery oonversational, while they are 
Tery conversational themselves with 
tall whiskered cousins or casual ao- 
ouaintance, why, I can only say, 
that for Uie sake of the most ma- 
ternal hearts beating in this great 
metropolis, I am truly rejoiced to 
think that there are no carriage 
roads through the Qaidens, and the 
little ones can hardly come to any 
Tery serious mischief. 

Are you now inclined, my friends, 
for a little— and I promise you it 
shall really be a little— discourse 
ooncerning those Parks, that shall 
have a slight dash of literature and 
history about it? First of all, let 
me tell you, that in a park you 
ought always to feel loyal, since for 
our parks we are indebted to our 
kings. The Teiy definition of a 

Sdc jft— I assuK you I am quoting 
e great Blaokstone himself— 'an 
enclosed chase, extending only orer 
a man's own grounds,' and the Parks 
have been the grounds of the sove- 
reign's own self. It is true of more 
than one British Cffisar — 

* If oreoTcr be bath left yoa aU bla walki, 
. His prlyate arboun and new-pUntad erduuda 
On'ibb tide Tlbnr ; be bath left them yon 
And to yoar hcln for ever; oommon pleasures 
To" walk abrosd and reereale younelTcs.' 

Once in the fiur distant time they were 
genuine parks with beasts of chase. 
We are told that the City corpora- 
tion bunted the hare at the head of 
the conduit, where Ck)nduit Street 
now stands, and killed the fox at 
the end • of St Giles's. St James's 
Park was especially the courtier's 

Sirk, a very drawing-room of parks, 
ow spleodidlj over the goigeous 
scene floats the royal banner of 
SnglaDd, atihefootof OoDStitntioii 



Hill, which has been truly called 
the most chastely-goi^eous banner 
in the world! If you look at the 
dramatistsof the Restoration yon find 
frequent notices of the Park, which 
are totally wanting in the Eliza- 
be than diumatiBts, when it was only 
a nursery for deer. Cromwell had 
shut up Spring Qardens, but Charles 
IL gave us St James's Park. In 
the next century the Duke of Buck- 
ingham, desorilnng his house, says : 
* The avenues to this house are along 
St James's Park, through rows of 
goodly elms on one hand and 
nourishing limes on the other; that 
for coaches, this for walking, with 
the MaU lying between them.' It 
was in the Park that the grave 
Evelyn saw and heard his {gracious 
sovereign 'hold a very fiuniliar dis- 
course with Mrs. Nellie, as they 
called an impudent comedian, she 
looking out of her garden on a ter- 
race at the top of the wall' Hess 
Pepys saw ' above all Bfrs. Stuart ia 
this dress with her hat oockedand 
a red plume, with her sweet ^e, 
little Boman nose, and excellent 
taiUe, the greatest beauty I ever 
saw, I think, in my Ufa' Or take a 
play from Etheridge. 

' Enter SiB FoPLiva FLuma and 
his equipage, 

* Sir Fop. Hey! bid the coachman 
send home four of his hones and 
bring the coach to Whitehall; I'll 
walk over the Park. Madam, the 
honour of kissing your &ir hands is 
a happiness I missed this afternoon 
at my lady Townly's. 

* Leo. You were very obliging. Sir 
Foplmg, the last time I saw you 
there. 

' Sir Fop. The preference was due 
to your wit and beauty. Madam, 
your servant There never was so 
sweet an evening. 

' Bdlinda, It has drawn all the 
rabble of the town hither. 

' Sir Fop. 'lis pity there is not an 
order made that none but the heau 
monde should walk here.' 

In Swift's ' Journal to Stella' we 
have much mention of the Park: 
'to bring himself down,' he says, 
that being the fiantmg system of 
that day, he used to start on his 



106 



AJUraocm In ^ Ae Park! 



walk about sunset Horace Wal- 
pole sajs : ' My ]ady Coventry aod 
niece Waldegrave have been mobbed 
in tbe Pork. I am sorry the people 
of England take all their hberty out 
in insulting pretty women/ He 
elsewhere tells us with what state 
he and the ladies went. ' We sailed 
up the Mall with all our colours 
flying/ We do not hear much of 
the Green Park. It was for a long 
time most likely a village green, 
where the citizens would enjoy 
rough games, and in the early morn- 
ing duellists would resort hither to 
heal their wounded honour. 

Originally Kensington Gardens 
and Hyde Park were all on& Ad- 
dison speaks of it in the ' Spectator/ 
and it is only since the time of 
George 11. that a severance has 
been made. Hyde Park has its own 
place in literature and in history. 
There was a certain first of May 
when both Pepys and Evelyn were in- 
terested in Hyde Park. Pepys says : 
' I went to Hide Park to take the air^ 
where was his Majosty and an innu- 
merable appearance of gallants and 
rich coaches, being now a time of 
universal festivity and joy.' It was 
always a great place for reviews. 
They are held there still, and the 
Volunteers have often given great 
liveliness to the Park on Saturday. 
Here Cromwell used to review his 
terrible Ironsides. It was Queen 
Caroline who threw a set of ponds 
into one sheet of water, and as the 
water-line was not a direct one, it 
was called the Serpentine. The 
fosse and low wall was then a new 
invention; 'an attempt deemed so 
astonishing that the common people 
called them ha-has to express their 
surprise at finding a sudden and 
unperceived check to their walk.' 
It is eaid that a nobleman who had 
a house abutting on the Park en- 
graved the words 

"TiB my delight to be 
In tbe town and the oonntrce.' 

Antiquaries may find out count- 
less points of interest, and may be 
able to identify special localities. 
Once there were chalybeate springs 
in a sweet glen, now spoilt by the 
canker of ugly barracks. It was 
on the cards that the Park might 



have been adorned with a rotunda 
instead. Most of the literary asso- 
ciations cluster around Kensington 
Gardens, concerning which Lttgh 
Hunt has written much pleasant 
gossip in his 'Old Court oiiburb.' 
A considerable amount of history 
and an infinite amount of gossip 
belong to Kensington Palace, now 
assigned to the Duchess of Inver- 
ness, the morganatic wife of the 
Duke of Sussex; gossip about 
George IL and his wife, about 
Lord Hervey, the queen and her 
maids of honour, the bad beautiful 
Duchess of Kingston, the charming 
Sarah Lennox, Selwyn, March, Bubb 
Doddington, and that crew, whom 
Mr. Thackeray delighted to repro- 
duce. There is at least one pure scene 
dear to memory serene, that the 
Princess Victoria was born and bred 
here, and at five o*clock one morning 
aroused from her slumliers, to come 
down with dishevelled hair to hear 
from great nobles that she was now 
the queen of the broad empire on 
which the morning and the evening 
star ever shines. 

I am very fond of lounging 
through the Park at an hour when 
it is well-nigh all deserted. I am 
not, indeed, altogether solitary in 
my ways and modes. There are 
certain carriages which roll into 
tbe Park almost at the time when 
all other carriages have left or are 
leaving. In my solitariness I 
feel a sympathy with those who 
desire the coolness and freshness 
when they are most perfect I have 
an interest, too, in the very roughs 
that lounge about the parks. I 
think them far superior to the 
roughs that lounge about the 
streets. Here is an athletic scamp. 
I admire his easy litheness and 
excellent proportion of limb. He 
is a scamp and a tramp, but then he 
is such on an intelligible rosthetical 
principle. He has flong himself 
down, in the pure physical enjoy- 
ment of life, just as a Neapolitan 
will bask in the sunshine, to enjoy 
tbe turf and the atmosphera In 
his splendid animal life he will 
sleep for hours, unfearing draught 
or miasma, untroubled with ache or 
pain, obtaining something of a com- 



From Bemenham Liand to Henley, 



107 



pensaiion for his negative troubles 
and privations. If you oome to 
talk to the vagrant sons and 
daughters of poverty loitering till 
the Park is cleared, or even sleep- 
ing here the livelong night, you 
vould obtain a elear view of that 
night side which is never far from 
the bright side of London. I am 
not sure that I might not commend 
such a beat as this to some philan- 
thropist for his special attention. 
The nandsome, wilful boy who has 
run away from home or school ; the 
thoughtless clerk or shopman out 
of work; the poor usher, whose 
little store has been spent in ill- 
ness; the servant-girl who has 
been so long without a place, and 
is now hovering on the borders of 



penury and the extreme limit .of 
temptation; they are by no means 
rare, with their easily- yielded se- 
eretB, doubtless with some amount 
of impostore, and always, when the 
truth comes to be known, with 
large blame attachable to their 
faults or weakness, but still with 
a very large percentage where some 
sympathy or substantial help will 
be of the greatest possible assist- 
ance. As one knocks about liondon, 
one accumulates souvenirs of -all 
kinds— some perhaps that will not 
voir well bear much inspection; 
and it may be a pleasing reflection 
that you went to some little ex- 
penditure of time or coiu to save 
some lad from the hulks or some 
girl from ruin. 



FEOM EEMENHAM ISLAND TO HENLEY. 



THE racing over that long mile 
and a quarter between the 
Temple on Bemenham Island and 
Henl^ old bridge, the scene of 
some of the ' quickest things ' ever 
rowed by amateur oarsmen, l<»t 
little pntiige this year. Most of its 
ancient traditions were ftilly borne 
out, and the thirty-first meeting 
took place in weather quite as rough, 
as cold, and as wet, as those who 
have 'assisted' any time within 
the last quarter of a century could 
have prognosticated. The first day 
opened gloomily, and brought us 
a March wind which chilled the air 
until the sun dispersed the clouds, 
spread its tempering influence, and 
xnade even hanging about the tow- 
path quite pleasant Thursday, how- 
ever, was an unmistakable up-river 
day. From an early hour in the 
mwning rain had follen, and con- 
tinued without cessation to literally 
pour down till near the time fixed 
for racing to commence. Then 
luckily the clouds broke, and for a 
couple of hours or so there was a 
lull Tbe Lion Garden, however, 
was soon deserted again by the few 
ladies who had been daring enough 
to attempt to brave the elements, 
a brace of sharp showers driving 
them back to the Grand Stand, 
where they remained during the 



remainder of the day, although 
it was afterwards fine and warm. 
The attendance did not reach any- 
thing like that of the previous year; 
but the ' pampers out,' and those 
who made a night of it on the river, 
appeared quite as numerous. We 
paid a visit of inspection on the 
second morning of tbe regatta as 
far as Hurley Lock, and found can- 
vas spread in all directions, the 
occupants here and there raising a 
comer and gazing moodily at us 
as at intruders on their solitude. 
Peace be to them! We had no 
thought of disturbing their reflec- 
tions, which must have been of the 
most cheerless description after a 
night of damp and dew followed, as 
dawn appeared, by a severe soaking 
of many hours' duration. There is 
no greater discomfort than bivou- 
acking in wet weather: ask those 
who spent the first night in tents 
on Wimbledon last year for their 
opinion. Many were literally 
washed out of their beds, and had 
to apply many a time and oft to 
the black dndeen and the wicker 
cask for consolation. The heavy 
rain had also the effect of flooding 
the tow-path with pools of water, 
and after the trampling of hundreds 
of feet of reducing it to the con- 
sistency of dough, so that the ' go- 



108 



Fttm Bemmham Idcmd to Heideif. 



iDg' was not qtiite so agrreeable 
as it might have been. Ere the 
laoing was over most of the mnnen 
were plentifally bespattered from 
their faces downward, while their 
nether garments were quite lost in 
mnd, making the wearers altogether 
hsjrdly recognisable. But enough 
of this: much requires to be said 
of the sport and the space at our 
disposal IS limited. 

A strong breeze from N.N.W. on 
Wednesday made choice of stations 
a matter of the utmost importance, 
and early in the day the Berkshire 
or inside berth was altogether 
out of &your, the Buckinghamshire 
side being in great request, not- 
withstanding that on ordinary oc- 
casions it is considered adveree in 
a great degree to the chances of 
any crew unlucky enough to draw 
it First on the programme stood 
the opening heat of the Grand 
Challenge Eights, for which the 
Oifoid Etonians, the Eton Oollege 
crew, and the Cambridge Lady 
Margaret, came to the poet, to de- 
cide which should do battle against 
the London Club, who last year 
defeated the Eton 'boys' in the 
final struggle by half a clear length, 
after making the ftstest recorded 
time, viz., 7 niin. 20 sec. Kearly 
half an hour was spent before the 
Eights could drop to their places, 
the wind forcing their heads to 
leeward as often as they got into 
position. At last, when something 
uke straight, the^ were started, the 
school crew, wiUi an extremely 
rapid stroke, gradually assuming 
the lead, and off Bem^iham Earm 
they were nearly clear. After this 
the Etonians, who had been shel- 
tered all the way by the foliage on 
the Buckinghamshire shore, began 
to creep up, and weight also telling 
in their favour, th^ soon managed 
to get on even terms, then to draw 
slowly away, until at Poplar Point 
th^ were half a length to the good. 
Eton, however, had now all the 
best of the water, and with a migh^ 
effort tbev visibly reduced their 
opponents lead; but the Oxford 
crew, all tried oarsmen, shot away 
again when called on, and finished 
three-quarters of a length in ad- 
vance, after a splitting race all the 



way. Lady MflTgaxet we have not 
mentioned. Suffice it to say thsy 
were never ' in the hunt' 

Next followed the trial heat of 
the Wyfold, in which the Oscilla- 
tors, a London Club crew, and 
Stames came together. The first- 
named gained an easy victory, and 
the contest, if contest it can be 
called, served to point out the three 
defective places in the London 
Eight, of which so much had been 
said. Next came the first heat of 
the Diamond Sculls, and produced 
the race of the meeting. The ul- 
timate result had been looked on 
as a ' foregone conclusion' for Long 
of the London Club, the perform- 
ances of Crofks, of Kingston, who 
bad won the sculls in 1867, and of 
Tarborough, an Oxonian, and the 
pretensions of Calvert and Bun- 
bury, two Eton boys, being alike ig- 
nored. Long had been tned in the 
previous week; and notwithstand- 
mg whispers that he was scarcely so 
fast as duriog last seascm, his par- 
tisans never lost confidence or 
ceased laying odds on him. The 
Kmgston man had the benefit of 
the station, and coming away at a 
criusking pace, led off Fawley Court 
by a clear length. Long being ap- 
parently demoralised, as he was 
palpably sculling a slow stroke, 
and, worse than that, a short stroke. 
His ' coach,' however, who rode up 
the bank succeeded at length in 
making his admonitions heard, and 
lying down to the work before him 
in something like his old sigrle. 
Long b^;an to hold his own then, 
notwithstanding that he was re- 
ceiving an ugly wash from Crofts, 
to creep up. From this point a 
really memorable struggle took 

Slace. Inch by inch the Londoner 
rew on his opponent^ and stoutly 
contested though the race was, 
neither gave signs of flagging. 
After making the crossing, a foul 
seemed almost imminent, but Jost 
prior to rounding the Point, Long 
used his right-hand scull strongly, 
and prohably lost himself the race 
by going outside Crofts, instead of 
hugging the shore as he had evi- 
dently previously iotended. Every 
stroke brought them nearer the 
goal, and slowly but surely Long 



Frcm Bemmtiham Hand to Hmdeg. 



109 



deoraased the gap. Crofts, how- 
ever, rowed in ihoionghly plaoky 
style to the end ; and although with- 
in twenty yards after passing the 
judge, Long had got his boat's 
nose in front, he was behind at the 
actual mooKent of passing the poet, 
and lost a magnificent race by a 
bare five feet, the finish reminding 
ns of the dead heat in 1S63 between 
W. B. Woodgate and E. D. Brick- 
wood. 

. Early in the race it seemed as if 
Long was quite 'taken aback' by 
the rapidity and power of Crofts' 
sonlling, but from the half distance 
he amply atoned for any short- 
comings in this respect; and though 
apparently incapable of a sport at 
any point, his lengthy stroke told 
in the end, and it was his misfortune 
rather than his fanlt that the few 
feet which separated the boats at 
the finish should have been against 
him. 

Yarborough had almost a walk 
over against McClintock-Bunhury 
in the second heat of the Senile ; and 
the trial heat of the Town Cup, a 
local race, ended in the victory of 
the Eton Excelsior crew; whilst in 
the first heat of the Ladies' Plate, 
Lady Margaret had no difficulty in 
disposing of Radley. Then followed 
a heat of the Stewards' Fours, which 
decided who should meet the London 
Club, the holders, on the second day. 
Three crews contended, the Oxford 
Badleians, the old Etonians, and a 
Kingston boat On paper the 
Etonian crew seemed to have the 
best of i^, but as they were all stale 
after their hard race against Eton 
school for the Grand Challenge 
Eights, the 'Bads' were slightly 
the favourites in some quarters. 
They got a bad start notwithstand- 
ing the advantages of the Berks 
station, for the wind had now gone 
down, and off Bemenham Bam 
were nearly a length to the bad, the 
Etonians being in the van with 
Kingston near the centre, second. 
After rowing half way the latter 
had dropped astern, and the Bad- 
leians going up to the leaders at 
every stroke managed to head them 
at Poplar Point The previous 
heavy .work done by the Etonians 
now evidbntly told^ and after being 



once 'collared' they were soon 
shaken off, the Badleians shooting 
forward and passing the judge a 
clear length ahead. In the race 
for the Qoblets two pairs only started, 
viz. Long and Stout on behalf of 
London, and Calvert and Bunbury 
for Eton. This was one of the 
'real morals' of the meeting, and 
without being extended, the Lon- 
doners, although their opponents 
got nearly clear at one time, won by 
upwards of three lengths. This 
ended the opening day's sport 

On Thursday the deciding heat of 
the Grand Challenge was first set 
for decision. Prior to the regatta 
London had been slight favourites; 
but the mediocre performance in 
the Wyfold of three of their men 
set off against the excellent rowing 
of the old Etonians, and the £Mt 
that the latter had drawn the Berks 
station, caused speculation to veer 
round, and before the start odds 
were laid on theuL The Londonem 
came out with the lead, and 
drew slowly away until off Fawley 
Court they were two-thirds of a 
length in advance. Here the 
Etonians began to hold their own, 
then to gain a trifle, and little by 
little to decrease the gap, until at 
the second barrier from the finish 
the boats had become strictly leveL 
The Londoners, however, were now 
clearly trapped, and all Gulston's 
gallant rowing could not save them, 
as the slack water under the Berk- 
shire shore gave Woodhowe a great 
advantage, and he rapidly went 
away and won by a clear length in 
7 min. 30 sea The Wyfold final pro- 
duced an excellent race from ei.d to 
end between those old rivals the 
Oscillators and the Kingston. Pass^ 
iog Fawley Court, the Ot<ciIlators 
had drawn clear, and might have 
taken their opponents' water, but 
this they refrained from doing ; and 
the Kingston having the best of the 
course all the way managed, when 
served by the station, to decrease 
their opponents' lead materially. 
They could never, however, quite 
get up, and were beaten by a trifle 
over half a length, after a tight 
atruggia Next came the final heat 
of the Ladies' Challenge Plate. • The 
Eton /boys/ who were the holdeES, 



110 



Frcm Bemeniam hUmi to HeHle§. 



had all the Fympathy of spectators^ 
and the cheeriog was especially en- 
thusiastic as they rowed away at the 
start, were clear early in the race, and 
won easily from the Lady Margaret 
by nearly half a dozen lengths. Eton 
Z^celsior were indulged with a mild 
canter against the Henley crew in the 
final heat of the Town Gup, and the 
race for a Presentation Prize open to 
fours without cozwains, the steering 
being managed on the American 
principle, proved a rather hollow 
affair after passing Fawley Court, 
the old Radleians winning easily by 
a couple of lengths from the Osdl- 
lators. In the deciding heat of the 
Diamond Sculls, Tarborough op- 
posed Crofts; and although the 
former was known to be a ' sticker/ 
his chance was hardly fancied. He 
steered badly after going a quarter 
of a mile, and was defeated with 
ease by three or fonr lengths. In 
the Visitors' Challenge Fours, Lady 
Margaret, stroked by Goldie, had 
again to succumb, this time to tho 
University College, Oxford, crew, 
in which TInn6 made his only ap- 
pearance during the two days. 
University came right through, and 
won by three lengths. The Stewards' 
Fours brought another certainty for 
the London Club, whose rowing 
was in perfect unison and a treat 
to witness, the Badleian crew being 
a couple of lengths in the rear at 
the finish. 

Of the eight open events pro- 
ducing races, it will be thus seen 
tliat the London Club won two out 
of the five for which they com* 
peted. Before the regatta their 
success in the Sculls, Qoblets, and 
the Steward^', had been 'put about' 
as certain; while it seemed quite 
probab?e they would continue to 
hold the Grand Challenge, and 
perhaps win the Wyfold. They 
began badly by being nowhere in 
the latter; and the succeeding 
defeat of Long for the Sculls ren- 
dered their partisans in a not very 
pleasant frame of mind. They 
had, however, ample reason for en- 
trusting Long with their confi- 
dence; and had the race to be 
rowed again, we should look to him 
to prodoce the victor, althongh 
Crofts is both fast and a 'stayer.' 



Probably the real reason of Long's 
defeat is that he was overworked. 
Had he contented himself with 
training for two or even for three 
races he must have come to the post 
in far different condition. But it is 
too much to expect of natnretbat it 
will not feel strained by the large 
amount of rowing and sculling 
entailed by practice in an eight, a 
four, a pair, and a sculling boat 
Several others of the London men also 
looked pale and worn ; and, indeed, 
had the weak points in the Eight been 
looked to earlier, we should have 
anticipated a different result from 
that of the Grand Challenga In 
the Stewards' and the Goblets, they 
proved immeasurably superior to 
their opponents ; but the foar who 
represented the club in the Wyfold 
had not the slightest pretensions. 
The victory of the Oxford Etonians 
over the holdera in the Grand 
Challenge was hailed with great 
glee by University men; and to 
some extent atoned for their defeat 
in the trial heat of the Stewards' 
by the old Badleian crew on the 
previous day. The Londonera 
showed the latter bat little con- 
sideration in the final ; and, as we 
saw on the following Saturday at 
Pangbonme, clearly proved them- 
selves ponnds better than the 
Etonian crew into the bargain. 
Lady Margaret deserve every 
credit for entering; and it is a great 
pity they were not successful, in 
one race at least. Eton School 
sent, as they always do send, a fine 
orew to the post; and although 
the 'boys' suffered defeat in the 
Grand Challenge they were re- 
warded with victory in the race for 
the Ladies' Plate. The final heat of 
the Wyfoid between those ancient 
enemies the Of cillaton and Kingston 
was one of the best races of the meet- 
ing, and, although the former won, 
both crews showed the utmost game- 
ness. The Oscillators, however, had 
in turn to submit to the superior 
prowess of the Old Radleians in the 
race without coxswains ; while, for the 
Visitora' Challenge Cap, Univeraity 
Coll. (Oxford) literally walked away 
from the Cambiidge crew, as did 
Eton Excelsior from all opponents 
in the Town Cap. 



IVcm Bemenham Island to Henley. 



Ill 



MesnB. G60. Morrigon and A. P. 
Lonsdale had the screw steam- 
yacht Ariel, belonging to Mr. BIyth, 
of Maidenhead, placed at their dis- 
poeal, thus dispensing with the 
necessity of eight- oared cnttera. 
The watermen who have been pre- 
Tioufily employed were naturally in 
bgh dudgeon at losing the couple 
of daj s' work ; but they, like other 
people, mu£t learn sooner or later 
that improyement will assume its 
sway. 

The amusements were yaried on 
the second day by the 'ducking' 
of a Welsher, who had with native 
impudence taken up his stand behind 
the Lion Gaiden. He made him- 
self particularly offensive from the 
first ; and as the racing progressed, 
and a little money was entrusted 
to him on a contingency, gradually 
became more unruly, refusing at 
length to refund even the amount 
staked by a winner. Unwary man, 
what had he done? Verily a 
bomet*s ne^t was gathering about 
his ears. The law, in the form of 
a rural ' blue,' was appealed to, but 
he declared himself utterly power- 
less; and there was apparently nought 
left for the backer but to ' grin and 
bear it.' On the bridge, howeyer, 
a solemn conclave was held the 
same night, and, after ' sweet con- 
verse/ a little plan was laid, in the 
event of the reappearance of the 
defaulter on the morrow. He ui^ 
blushingly came again, and others 
beside him, and they partook 
heartily of strong waters and smoked 
bad cigars, and rudely chaffed the 
personal appearance of the men 
who leaned half out of the neigh- 
bouring windows. Better had they 
gone awf^ while there was yet 



time; better still had they never 
come ! The Nemesis was at hand. 
A mild-looking undergraduate took 
long odds to a ' skiv,' so long, in fact, 
that it was almost certain he would 
not be paid if he won, and went 
away. His star was in the ascend- 
ant ; the crow of his choice came in 
first, and he applied for his win- 
nings. Of course he did not get 
them, but in lieu was met with 
horrible imprecations, and told that 
the firm he had wagered with 
was bankrupt. In vain he expos- 
tulated, and mentioned that it 
would be better for all parties con- 
cerned that he should be paid. 
But no; his debtor was obdurate; 
the money was not forthcQming. 
Then the mild graduate faced his 
friends, and gave the signal. A 
dozen strong arms seized the 
Welsher, and he was boroe in the 
direction of the towing-pump. That 
venerable institution, however, re- 
fusing its offices, the proximity of 
the Thames was suggested, and 
' To the bankl' was the ctj. The 
yokels, who had gathered m large 
numbers, enjoyed the fun amazingly, 
and fot a trifling douceur dropped 
the offended off the embankment, 
and afterwards put him well under 
the broad waters of Father Thames 
three or four times. Then he stood 
up and wept passionate tears, and 
was in due time left to go on his 
way a wetter, and, we trust, a wiser 
man. Probably after this lesson 
we shall hear of no more ' Welshers 
at Henley.' It were better if the 
Government could deal with such 
rascals; but, as it refuses, it is hard 
indeed if the public are to be 
robbed and the thieves escape in 
the open day entirely scot-free. 

H. B. 




112 



SKETCHES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 

HO. L — THB TBORT TBSASDBX BX2R3S. 



I ENOW of hardly any more plea- 
sant and intellectaal eojoyment 
than attending the dehates in the 
House of Commons, when the Wi^* 
ingisfcoodand partyspurit runs high. 
I woald exhort those who aie tired of 
the Opera, and jet want some intel- 
lectaal excitement, to finequent the 
House. It is much livelier than the 
Boyal Institution, and much more 
interesting than those monotonous 
law-courts, which hare only an oc- 
casional interest^ and for which there 
now seems a steady distaste. There 
are different ways of getting into the 
House. Of course the royal way is to 
turn aside* half-way up the hall, and 
go through the door under the tall 
Uunp, reeerred for memhers and 
guarded by a policeman. The sim- 
plest and most obvious course for 
outsiders is to get a member's order. 
But after you have got your order, 
you don't know what your order 
may get you ; perhaps the chance of 
ballotmg for your place amongst 
the hundreds who cannot be ad- 
mitted. You wish you were a West- 
minster boy, with a prescriptive 
right to a place,— which has proved 
such a stimulus to many of them. 
Perhaps you get in under the 
Speaker's private gallery. Better 
still : perhaps the Speaker may be 
influenced by some member to put 
you in 'under the gallery/ where 
you are on the floor of the Houfe, 
and as well off as if you were a 
member. If you happen to belong 
to the press, yon are much better off 
than most members. The daily 
papers are treated most liberally 
with little square cards of admis- 
sion ; one for the reporter, one for 
the editor, and one for the leader- 
writer; not to mention that they 
have a snug room all to themselves, 
in the rear. The ladif s are worse 
treated of all behind their grating. 
But although theHouse chivalrously 
cheers every proposition to remove 
it, there is a dexterous count out 
when the question comes forward in 
a practical shape. A lady once vin- 
dictively took a baby behind that 



objectionable grating, whose shrill 
scream might remind the House of 
more than one honourable member. 
The true remedy would be that a 
' person' like Miss Becker, or Miss 
Sneddon, or Dr. Mary Walker should 
have a seat in the House, to 
avenge the wrongs of the trampled 
sex. Or suppose we displaced the 
ftont Tressui^ Bench, and allowed 
two dozen ladies to have seats in the 
House, just as some two doEen 
bishops represent in the Lords the 
vast body of the clergy. By the 
way, the bishops, in their billowy 
lawn, in their quarter of the House 
of Lords, attacked so ruthlessly by 
Badicals on the Irish Church Bill, 
reminded me very much of Land- 
seer's picture in the Academy this 
year, the 'Swannery invaded by 
Sea Eagles.' 

The House of Commons has more 
and more been becoming a place of 
fashionable recreation — for those 
who can get there ; and one rather re- 
grets the old simple system of a half- 
crown to the doorkeeper. A friend 
of mine strolled to the House of 
Commons one evening, and, finding 
no doorkeeper at the door, in the 
calmest manner possible he walked 
into the body of the room and took 
his seat among the membera. I 
believe he stayed there undetected 
for an hour. He had not even the 
countryman's poor excuse of igno- 
rance. It was a bit of bravado, a 
repetition of which might be at- 
tended with very awkward conse- 
quences. It is to be hoped, for the 
Mike both of members and of vi- 
sitors, that the plan fur a new House, 
by taking in a quadrangle, may be 
carried out. Beyond the sacted 
seats reserved for the ministers, and 
other leaders, there is, on a field- 
night, almost as great a cmsh to 
^ into the House it»elf as to get 
m, or under the gallery. A very 
good thing is told of a man named 
Fergupson, in the great Reform de- 
bates of 183a. All members were 
then naturally anxious to get good 
places, which could then only be 



Sketches in the Eouee of (hmmom. 



118 



done by labelling iheir places with 
their names. Fergnsson went down 
one' morning so early as seven 
o'clock, thus to secure bis place, 
that being the boor at which the 
servants cleaned the place. To bis 
great surprise, he found that the 
debate, which be bad left a little 
after midnight, was still going on, 
the feeling of tiie House haviog be- 
oome general in favour of a division. 
Fergusson was just in time to vote, 
and obtained immense credit with 
bis oonstituentB for having sat 
through the live-long night in his 
zeal for the cause of Reform. How- 
ever, a grand field-night at the 
Commons is very well worth sitting 
through. It is not, indeed, so good 
as the Lords. The scene is infinitely 
less imposing, and the debating is 
not so good by any means. When 
the Lords have a grand debate they 
do it grandly. They will not tole- 
rate any second-rate speaking, ex- 
cept when listenmg to some man 
who has large claims to be heard ; 
whereas, in the other House there 
is a great deal of twaddle tailed 
in the dinner hour, and at all 
times really good speaking in the 
Commons forms tne exception, 
while in the Lords it rather forms 
the rule. As for the Commons, they 
rush in and out of the House like 
rabbits in a warren, if I may quote an 
irreverent similitude, and at dinner 
time, if a man persists in addressing 
them, the House has been likened 
to a great hungry beast, that will 
ftet^ and roar, and threaten to de- 
vour. Then what an unseemly m^ 
comes off at the last I Plato used 
to say that the Sophists studied the 
humours of society as one might 
study the temper of a wild beast 
And yet the House is very good- 
humoured and manageable. If a 
man gives a significant glance at 
the clock, a silent contract is made, 
and it is understood that the mem- 
ber has really something to say and 
will not be long in saying it The 
great hero of the day just now is, of 
course, Mr. Gladstona One ought 
to see him on such an occasion as 
when he came down the other night 
from a party at Marlborongh House 
in breeches and black siik stockings 
and shoes with buckles. Only the 

VOL. XVL— NO. XCII. 



powdered hair and the pigtail were 
wanting, and the old days of George 
III. would seem revived, and ' the 
People's William ' might be a living 
resemblance of that great statesman 
whom his friends called ' Sweet 
William/ and his enemies ' the bot- 
tomless Pitt' 

There can be no doubt but in the 
present day the study of the Debates 
m Parliament gives the most valu- 
able of all the literature that deals 
with the wide domain of politics. 
The newspaper press, which claims, 
with some show of reason, to be the 
Fourth Estate, cazmot, to our mind, 
for a momeot compiure with the 
parliamentary discussion on which 
newspaper discussion is substan- 
tially based. I imagine that news- 
paper articles are deteriorating, and 
parliamentary speeches are improv- 
ing. A newspaper article is good 
for the constituency of that news- 
paper alone; whereas a parliamen- 
ta^ speech holds good for all news- 
papers and all constituencies. Asa 
matter of fetct, writing is a more 
careful and deliberate process than 
speaking; but somehow tiie two 
oystems have changed places. We 
have now an immense quantity of 
prepared speeches and of extempo- 
rary writing. The parliamentarv 
rker knows that he has to ad- 
s an illimitable audience, under 
all the responsibility that attaches 
to the fullest publicity that attends 
his words and votes. The conse- 
quence is that the speaker is under 
every inducement to do Mb best; 
and a literary article is rarely com- 
posed with that amount of study, 
and thought, and effort which is 
frequently lavished upon the prepa- 
ration of a parliamentary speech. 
When you nave read through a 
parliamentary debate, and then turn 
to the leading article on it, you per- 
ceive at once that you have passed 
from an exhaustive discussion to a 
thin and superficial comment on it 
No one speaker has brought out 
the whole truth, but the whole 
truth has been brought out in 
the course of the debate. In 
making a comparison between the 
debating power of the two Houses, 
I was speaking of the absolute and 
not the relative proportion. The 
I 



114 



Sketches in the Hou$e of Ckmmom, 



Lords hardly manage an adjonnied 
debate more than onoe in a year or 
two. But the stream of debate in 
the Lower House is fall and conti- 
nuous; they have more speakers 
and more speeches, and the absolute 
amount of very good parley im- 
meajBurably transcends, as a whole 
and in amount, that talked in the 
Lords. In a4justing the ooostitu- 
tional question of the relations be- 
tween the Houses, which has be^ 
BO much discussed this season, it 
ought to be recollected— an argu- 
ment which I have not seen dis- 
cussed—that the Peers, although 
they are supposed to hold aloof from 
politics, did virtually exert their 
I)oliticaI strength in the late elec- 
tions in the persons of their friends 
and relatives,' and so they were vir- 
tually included in the general mi- 
nority. 

Mr. Gladstone has certainly aged 
during the last few years. His hair 
is whiter, his countenance more 
wan. But he is in office; and to 
him office is happiness. Since he 
has been Premier his temper has 
been particularly good. He has 
only been in a passion once. He 
showed, for instance, to great ad- 
vantage when Colonel North rose to 
put a badgering question about Mr. 
jBright in the Commons, the same 
night that Lord Gainis made a 
badgering speech on the same sub- 
ject in the Lords. Lord Gran- 
ville knows the House of Lords 
thoroughly, and can play upon its 
every chord as upon a musical in- 
strument; but he is no match in 
eloquence for the hard-headed, 
clear-voiced Cairns, especially when 
the feeling of the House was set in 
such a determined hostility against 
the horrible Bright. Lord Gran- 
ville, in substance, only said that 
John Bright was a John Bull ; but 
perhaps Bull was not so good a 
name as Bully. But with Mr. Glad- 
stone there was no competition of 
oratory. Colonel North put his ques- 
tion, and seemed rather frightened 
at putting it, like a nervous man 
shutting his eyes when he is going 
to fire— « frequent predicament in 
the House of Commons. The putting 
of this question illustrated that in- 
tense love of personalities in which 



the House of Commons habitually 
indulges. A debate on India has 
never the interest which belongs 
to some personal imputation. Al- 
though the Lords were hearing 
Cairns, and just about to hear Lord 
Derby, the Commons' House was 
full almost to overflowing, and the 
Speaker made a great favour of 
putting me under the gallery — the 
much coveted space which the exi- 
gencies of the House have caused 
so greatly to be curtailed this season. 
Gladstone slip j ted in by the door 
behind the Speaker's chair, as is his 
wont He vouchsafe*! no greeting 
that I saw to any other member 
than John Bright He took the 
question in as pleasant a way as 
Lord Palmerston himiielf could have 
don& Bir. Bright bad steadily re- 
fused to agitate the country while 
the Irish Church Bill was under 
discussion by the House of Lords. 
He himself had written a letter not 
unlike Mr. Bright's; but, to his 
mortification, it was only printed in 
small type, and had not received 
any particular attention. The little 
speech was very soon over— some 
seven or eight minutes— and then 
the House was, so to speak, at a 
single gulp, quite emptied. 

And now let us rapidly run 
through the occupants of that front 
Treasury Bench, and in separate 
instances we will go more into de< 
tail afterwards. Of Mr. Gladstone 
we have recently spoken at such 
length in these pages, that we shall 
content ourselves with merely some 
incidental mention.* The great 
Triumvirate of that Bench is made 
up of those three masterly orators, 
Gladstone, Bright, and Low& That 
is their proper order in oral elo- 
quence; but in written eloquence 
the order would be Lowe, Bright, 
and Gladstone. Despite their im- 
mense preponderance of ability, 
these men are as little liked, and 
more abused than any in the House. 
The policy of the Tories towards 
the Treasury Bench is the foimer 
policy of the Italians towards Italy. 
Italy was an artiohoka, to be eatun 
leaf by leat The Treasury Bench 
is to be devoured man by man. 

* See Paper on Mi*. GUdstOQe in our 
FebruaiT Number. 



Sketches in the House of Commons. 



115 



There are do men towards whom 
feelings of a livelier animosity exists 
even on both sides of the Honse, 
than towards the Triumvirate. It 
is a standing wonder how Mr. Bright 
and Mr. Lowe can belong to the 
same Cabinet; and some men say 
that the wonder cannot last very 
much longer. There is a feeling of 
nndisguised hostility towards Mr. 
Lowe in every direction, which his 
manner does so much to intensify 
and so little to disarm. Mr. Lowe's 
Budget speech, which was expected 
to be a failure, turned out a success ; 
but his set Irish speech, which was 
expected to be a success, was a de- 
cided failure. Once before the Tories 
succeeded in hunting him from 
ofiSoe, although there was really no 
solid pretence for the procedure that 
drove him into an involuntary resig- 
nation. It is quit« on the cards, 
even if the boasted majority does 
not dwindle down, that Mmisters 
may be beaten in detail, and that 
Mr. Lowe may be the earliest victim. 
There have already been rumours 
that Mr. Bright has proffered his 
resignation to the Cabinet We 
have no confidence in such rumours 
ourselves, but they are certainly not 
without significance. 

There ia never any mistaking 
Mr. Lowe. He is an Albino, and 
the mobt near-sighted of men; so 
near- sighted, indeed, that the story 
ffoes that this was the ecclesiasticed 
blemish that prevented his obtain- 
ing ordination at Oxford. He will 
there be long remembered as a 
private tutor with an enormous 
amount of business; and he can- 
didly told the Oxford University 
Conunissioners that he took more 

Eupils than was good either for 
imaelf or for them. Seeing the 
avenues to distinction so crowded 
as to be virtually closed, Mr. Lowe, 
the same year that he was called to 
the bar, went out to Australia to 
practise, and there obtained a large 
share both of barristerial and sena- 
torial renown. When, after eight 
years, he returned to England and 
sent a clever leader to the ' Times,' 
the sagacious conductors of the 
Jupiter at once perceived the ^:eat 
value of their ally, and retained 
him to write as many leaders as he 



chose. He was certainly Inkier 
than one man of whom we have 
heard, who had to proffit thirty 
or forty leaders before he coold 
get one accepted, and settled down 
steadily into the staff. Lu^^ier 
also than another and very eminent 
man, who, chagrined that his article 
was altered, rejected himself, and 
could never obtain his restoration. 
Luckier still than another, who was 
curtly informed that he was ' wrote 
out' We have heard marveUons 
anecdotes of the extraordinary fa- 
cility with which Mr. Lowe oonki 
fling off the happiest leaden for 
the ' Times.' 

With his usual happinesa in the 
attainment of his means, he was 
speedily elected for Eiddenninster. 
When he first rose to address the 
House, apparently a silvery octo- 
genarian, but in reality having 
hardly closed his eighth lustrum, 
a murmur of 'The Times, the 
Times,' went round, but he was 
listened to with the greatest at- 
tention. He fully vindieated his 
Australian reputation and the fame 
of the great journal with whidi he 
was connected. It was a success as 
easy as it was brilliant He had a 
pitUess force of argument— the chain 
of argument being as complete as a 
demonstration of £uclid's--and a 
manner perfectly self-possessed. In 
this same first year of parliamentary 
life he climbed the first rung of 
the official ladder. He was kept 
on the intermediate rungs too long 
before he climbed towards tiie top. 
Had he been an aristocrat he would 
have been included in Lord Palmer- 
ston's intensely aristocratio Cabinet ; 
as it is, he must have endured some 
mortification in seeing inferior men 
passing over his head. Butheknew 
his strength and could bide his 
time, feeling sure that the occasion 
would come, and that tiie man 
would be equal to the hour. 

The occa43ion came. Mr. Lowe, 
in the mean time, had parted with 
his seat at Kidderminster, being 
shamefully maltreated by the roughs 
— Mr. Bright has said that he never 
has forgiven his broken head there 
—and now enjoyed that snug seat 
for Calne which had once given 
Maoanlay an entrance into FarUa- 

I 2 



- I 



116 



SkeUheg m ike Heme cf Oommcm. 



mentary Ufa He had vigoroiisly 
opposed Mr. Locke King's bill for 
lowering the suffrage, and he conld 
with perfect consistency oppose the 
single-barrelled bill of the Rnssell- 
Gladstone ministry. It is not too 
much to say that Mr. Lowe's 
speeches fonned the great feature 
of those memorable debates of 1866, 
to which most be added his one 
at oration of the following year. 
Disraeli, by his laminona 
speeches, certeinly proved that he 
thoroughly understood the whole 
Reform question best of all living 
men; and the lightning of Mr. 
Gladstone's eloquence nerer flashed 
more yiyidiy thim in his celebrated 
reply; and Mr. Bright presented 
his extraordinary nmon of Saxon 
eloquence and genuine humour; and 
Mr. Hardy's yehement force was 
applauded to the echo by his party ; 
and there were many others on 
whom one might dwell with more 
or less emphasis of praise. But, to 
our mind, the series of Mr. Lowe's 
speeches formed essentially the 
crowDing ornaments of those great 
debates. The fancy, the vigour, the 
antithesis, the epigram, the irony 
and wit, the energetic force, the 
strength and subtlety, the scholar- 
ship, the genius, took the House 
and the country by storm: they are 
the Philippics of British oratory; 
and, looking through the arid wilder- 
ness of Hansard, there is no oaeds 
where the mind and memory linger 
so gratefully, which at the preseQt 
day are as replete with interest and 
instruction as when they were de- 
livered in the vast excited audience 
of Parliament, and thrown broad- 
cast over the world. As he picks 
his way down to Westminster with 
rapid, quiet steps, the eyes blinking, 
the lips moving, he is construct- 
ing those terse, pointed sentences 
which will arouse an incessant storm 
of laughter and applausa The ha- 
bitual expression of his &oe has 
been defined as a mixture between 
a sneer and a giggrle; and it is a 
joke against him that when other 
members devour oranges in the 
House he prefers lemons. Mr. Lowe 
is popularly said to be a man with- 
out a heart, or, rather, one whose 
heart is a mere bit of muscular 



tissue. Admiring his g;eiiins a\ 
moral courage, I much regret \\ 
unpopularity, which it is not wfi 
for lum almost to court as he don 
Most people felt a little jubilatio 
when they saw the stately maniK; 
in which Mr. Disraeli — to whom M\ 
"Lowe is always a bete noir — admi 
nistered a rebuke to him the othej 
day at the Trinity Honse dinner 
It is impossible in this connto 
that any man should OTer make hiis 
mark as a popular statesman with- 
out being a man capable of gennino 
sympathy. It is much to be in- 
tensely clever; but intense clever- 
ness alone never moved the national 
heart. To all outward seeming Mr. 
Lowe is incapable of sympathy. It 
is said that his manner of receiving 
a deputation is becoming a standard 
joke. He goes on reading his cor- 
respondence — which is so immense 
that it must necessarily leave him 
very little leisure— holdins the pa- 
pers close to his eye ; and if he is 
asked a question his answer invari- 
ably is, ' I don't know. I shouldn't 
tell you if I did. It is very wrong 
of you to ask the question.' The 
other day a deputation, consisting 
of managers and clerks of savings- 
banks, came to him, pointing out 
that their vocation may soon be gone, 
that those institutions would cease 
to exist 'And why should they 
exist?' asked Mr. Lowe. The answer 
was worthy of Cardinal Richelieu. 
When a poor man pleaded that 
'a man must live,' ' Je ne vois pas 
la necessity/ said the Cardinal 

Mr. Bright ought, at least, to re- 
ceive a chapter to himself; and it is 
only in a very partial way that we 
can deal with him now. Take him 
for all in all, he is perhaps the 
greatest orator that England pos- 
sesses. Members of the Honse will 
say — perhaps even the most esoteric 
Gladstonites—that they would rather 
hear Bright than any other living 
speaker. As a parliaiuentary orator 
Mr. Gladstone is, we think, fully his 
equal. But then Mr. Gladstone \& 
at home on the front Treasary 
bench as he is at home nowhere 
else. So to speak, he is there on his 
native heath. However effective he 
may be at times when lecturing, or 
on the stump, it is in Parliament 



Sketchei in Ae House of Commons. 



117 



that he shows to the greatest ad- 
Tantage and is most thoroughly at 
home. Bat Mr. Bright is most at 
home when he sees six thousand 
people before him ; and he buttons 
up nis coat, and has a look in his 
eye which means mischief. Mr. 
Bright is emphatically the Tribune 
of the People. He is a bom orator^ 
an orator, moreover, who has im- 
proved his vast natural powers by 
mtense oultiyation. Naturally he 
speaks the purest and most nervous 
Saxon; but when he was laid aside 
by bronchitis he evidently applied 
himself most assiduously to the 
study of literature, and then was 
added to his style a delicaqy, a ripe- 
ness, a fulness, which that sl^le 
had not previously possessed in so 
ample a d^ree. We do not know 
the process of alchemy with which 
Mr. Bright constructs those won- 
deriul speeches. M^e have been told 
that he learns them off by heart 
We should find great difficulty in 
believing this; but, at the same 
time, it is, at least, quite clear that 
large sections of them have been 
carefully prepared, and that sen- 
tences constructed with such con- 
summate art cannot have been the 
result of the inspiration of the mo- 
ment Mr. Bright also conciliates 
hearty sympathy from the fact that 
he has won his way to his lofty emi- 
nence by the sheer stress and force 
of genius. Altogether there is no 
man who has taken his seat on the 
Treasury bench who so entirely re- 
tains his individuality and inde- 
pendence. We have heard a touch- 
mg story, that when Mr. Jobn Bright, 
cotton-spinner and manufacturer, of 
Bochdale, was a widower, sunk in 
grief by the loss of his youog wife, 
he was sought out by his acquaint- 
ance, the late Mr. Cobden, who, as 
an anodyne to his sorrow, besought 
him to join with him, heart and 
soul, in his crusade against the 
Corn Laws. Cobden and Bright, 
the calico-printer and the cotton- 
spinner, became household names in 
England, and a power in the State. 
When the Anti-Gom-Law League 
was transferred from Manchester to 
London they emerged from a pro- 
vincial to a national celebrity. At 
a meeting at the Grown and Anchor, 



in the Strand, in 1842, Mr. Bright 
made the first of those great speeches 
which have expanded into volumes, 
which furmsh us almost with the 
highest extant examples of British 
oratory. It was in the same year 
that Mr. Bright, as the member of a 
deputation, waited on the President 
and Yice-PrcBident of the Board of 
Trade, at that time being the Earl 
of Ripon and Mr. Gladstone. Then, 
for tne first time, they met &oe to 
£ice. Did any prescient flash tell 
the two men of the sympathy and 
intimacy that should hereafter arise 
between them? The kaleidoscope 
has wrought its changes, and Mr. 
Bright is now President of the 
BouxL of Trade, and the young 
Vice-President has become Prime 
Minister. It was in 1843 that he 
sat in Parliament as member for 
DurhaoL Four years later he was 
member for Manchester, as a col- 
league of Mr. Mihier Gibson. For 
ten years he continued to represent 
Manchester, until he was ejected in 
1857, in that general election which 
supported Lord Palmerston with so 
full a tide of popular enthusiasm. 
Mr. Bright had rendered lus name 
synonymous with the Peace-at-any- 
price theory — a theory which the 
nation indignantly repudiated. He 
has maintained the peace doctrine 
with the utmost courage and force, 
and in the teeth of the most violent 
storm of opposition. On the sub- 
ject of the Crimean war he placed 
himself in antn^^onism witn the 
whole aroused spirit of the nation; 
but Mr. Bright never shrinks from 
the loudest blast of opposition. To 
him such acts as an incentive, and 
not as a deterrent It braces his 
nerves, it strings his energies. In 
the long run such intrepidity tells 
heavily and distinctly. Tohisgal- 
lantiy-eamed reputation for bdd- 
ness and honesty Mr. Bright is 
indebted for that vast moral weight 
which he eigoys among oountleBS 
thousands all over the country. 

For ourselves, while believing that 
Mr. Bright is essentially an honest 
man, we doubt how fiur such moral 
weight is duly his. It will be seen 
that we desire to give him most 
ungrudging and unb6unded praise 
to his magnificent achievements; 



118 



8ketche$ in the Bouse of Commom, 



bat it appears to ns that his career 
hat involved him in some of the 
most grievous inoonsistencieB which 
it is possible to imagine. Techni- 
call J a man of peace, Mr. Bright is 
really and truly a man of war. 
Teefanieally he wonld tnm aaide 
with infinite loathing from the speo- 
tMle of the slightest bloodshed ; but 
amid the remoter links of the chain 
of eansation he has been bni^ in 
promotiDg those canses which in all 
ages of the world's history have 
mostly kiDdled conflagration, and un- 
leashed the dogs of war. To set race 
agaiBst race, class aeainst class^order 
against order, is the natural result 
of his long oratorical career. Just 
as wide waters gain immense force 
by shooting through a narrow 
goige, so Mr. Brighfs eloquence 
gains intense force by reason of that 
ver^ narrowness of mind through 
which that eloquence is presented. 
Mr. Bright is a Paganini, who can 
play with matchless skill, but can 
only play upon a single string. He 
is enentially narrow and hourgeois, 
with a mind which presents a total 
tabula rasa in respect to the associa- 
tkmfl and traditions of our national 
Instiory. It is a pity, also, that Mr. 
Biighi mars his real greatness hj 
aa occasional want of generosity and 
sindgfatforwarduess. There was 
something absolutely mean and un- 
generous in the way in which he 
aaaanlted Mr. Disraeli on his men- 
tion oi the Queen's name, and made 
the latter say, with terrible emphasiB, 
that he put himself in the hands of 
genUemm. Let us hope, however, 
that Lord Lytton's kindly prophecy 
will be fulfilled in respect to the 
President of the Board of Trade:— 

' Let Bright responsible for EngUod be, 
JLDd ilraigbt in Bright a Chatham we shouUI 

lEr. Oardwell is a man who is 
a highly favourable specimen of a 
bureaucrat He has for many 
yean sat for Oxford, with a very 
safe seat, except once when he lost 
it^ until Mr. Neate was unseated 
on petition, and once when it was 
secioasly challenged by the late 
Mr. Thackeray. Mr. Oardwell, a 
double-first at Oxford, went the 
Norti^em Circuit for a time, but, 
wisely abandoning it, the obscure 



barrister became a very eminent 
politician. He was just the kioci 
of man for whom Sir Robert PocJ 
would feel a kindness, and he was 
not only quite a favourite among 
'Peel's Bo>s,' and pushed cowards 
in the path of political advance- 
ment, but Sir Robert left him one 
of his literary executors in con- 
junction with Earl Stanhopa We 
cannot say that to our mind this 
literally executorship was ever satis- 
fiictorily fulfilled, or that the execu- 
tors qui^e cleued up that dnbions 
cloud which appears to have at- 
tached itself to the memory of this 
great statesman. It appears pro- 
bable that the times were too recent 
to allow of the publication of all 
the documentary evidence designed 
for his exculpation from the charge 
of political tergiversation brought 
agamst him. As a Peelite of the 
Peelites Mr. Oardwell has a special 
afi^ity for Mr. Gladstone, and he is 
as heavy or^ance to the Oabinet, 
but as a speaker he is dispiriting to 
a degree. 

But there has been no parlia- 
mentary rise so rapid because so 
entirely unexpected as that of Mr. 
Gosohen. His name tells us that 
he is of German origin, his grand- 
father being, we understand, a 
Leipsic publisher. He is perhaps 
the most distinguished of the pnpiis 
whom the present Archbishop Tait 
educated at Rugby. He went to 
Oriel, and took a first class in the 
schools, and then quietly settled 
down as a merchant in the paternal 
office at Austin Friars. Among'the 
Oity men Mr. Goschen made a great 
reputation. The Oity is bv no 
means indifferent to academic 
culture; on the contraiy, it has 
a high and even exagfrerated pense 
of its importance, and Mr. Goschen's 
first class must, in no poor way, 
have backed up his practical busi- 
ness talents. Me also did himself 
infinite credit by a publication 
entitled the 'Theory of Foreign 
Exchange.' In 1863 he was first 
returned as one of t^e memhera of 
the Oity of London, and so satisfied 
were his constituents with their 
careful choice that last election they 
returned him at the head of the 
poll. He had only been a year and 



Sketches in ike Hfnue of Commons. 



119 



a half in the House when he was 
made Yioe-President of the Board 
of Tra^e, and he had hardly held 
that office for a couple of months 
when he was made a Cabinet 
Minister as Chancellor of the 
Duchy of Lancaster. Such pro- 
motion is almost the most rapid on 
record. It naturally elicited a great 
•dead of criticism. What had this 
young man done to be passed over 
the heads of his seniors, especially a 
senior of such undoubted powers as 
Mr. Layard ? And even supposing 
that he poeseesed such transoendent 
abilil^, what particular scope for 
his ability would be found in such 
a siuecure office as the Chancellor- 
ship of the Dacby of Lancaster? 
When Mr. Goschen became a 
<}abinet Minister he brought ail 
his engagements with the flourish- 
ing commercial house of Goschen 
to a close, believing that in this 
xsountry statesmanship and trade 
4ue incompatible crafts. We 
imagine, however, that Mr. Goschen 
must financially be a loser by this 
honourable exchange. He had been 
■a Cabinet Minister for five months 
wl^ he went out in the summer 
of '66, when his chief. Earl Bussell, 
who had given him his much- 
canvassed promotion, made his final 
retirement from office. He is now 
once more reinstated in the Cabinet, 
with an apparently better chance of 
« longer continuance in office, as 
Presiaent of the Poor Law Board. 
This office belongs to a department 
of public affiiirs which confessedly 
is m a most unsatisfactory con- 
ation, and which will give Mr. 
Goschen abundant scope for all his 
-energies. It can hardly be said 
that up to the present point he has 
quite justified tne expectations that 
nave been formed respecting him. 
He is supposed to have half a dozen 
important Bills on hand, but the 
Irish Bill seems effectually to have 
stopped the way of all other legis- 
lation. Still Mr. Goschen mani- 
festly possesses great statesmanlike 
qualities, and has probably a great 
career before him. 

If Lord Hartington had not 
been Lord Hartington, it is hard to 
believe that he would ever have 
been a Cabinet Minister: but the 



heir of the dukedom of Devonshire 
and the earldom of Burlington is a 
power in the state. He is not, 
mdeed, so clever a man as his 
father— by no possibility can he 
ever be so clever and so learned — 
but he is a very fiur debater, which 
his father is not It is positively 
painful to hear the Duke of Devon- 
shire stammering through one of 
his most sensible speeches, repeat- 
ing half of each sentence and in a 
high state of stammering; and it 
is hardly to be regretted that he 
speaks so rarely. But he is an 
astonishing man, inheriting a large 
portion of the genius of the 
philosopher Cavendish, Second 
Wrangler and First Smith's 
Prizeman at Cambridge— and, as 
his son Lord Hartington has been 
heard to say— knowing everything 
and forgetting nothing. Not so 
wide and profound in £)owledge — 
not, indeed, under the suspicion of 
possessing a twentieth part of such 
knowledge— Lord Hartington has 
yet talent and presence, and may do 
his party and the country efficient 
service. He fought last autumn 
the most splendid contest of the 
whole General Election, the house of 
Cavendish being pitted against the 
house of Stanley, and he experienced 
that kind of defeat which is hardly 
less honourable than a victory. He 
might have been excluded from 
Parliament, but a private gentle- 
man, of a benevolent and philan- 
thropic turn, thought it a thousand 
pities that the son of a duke should 
be without a seat in Parliament^ 
especially when a seat in the 
Cabinet probably depended on it« 
and so patriotically ehminated him- 
self from the House to make way 
for Lord Hartington. The out- 
going Member declared that he had 
no personal motive, and his yery 
appellation — Green Pryce — was 
suggestive of the fact; but in the 
world of politics, as elsewhere, 
'smners lena to sinners hoping to 
receive as much again.' It will 
be remembered that Lord Hart- 
ington moved, in 1859, the vrant 
of confidence motion which ejected 
the Derbyites from power. He also 
belonged to Lord Granville's special 
mission to Bussia, in 1856, on the 



120 



Skdcku Ml 1h$ HousB of Commons. 



occamon of the Czar's coronation; 
his consin, the last Doke, had been 
Ambassador to Russia with extra- 
ordinary splendoor, and had been 
a personal friend of the Czar 
Nicholas. 

But we mnst now torn to the 
new blood of which Mr. Gladstone 
has niade a liberal infasion. 

Mr. Childers is another Ans- 
tralian ; he, marrying some twenty 
years ago, sailed away to Anstialia 
to try fortone at the antipodes, and 
he learned statesmanship in the 
very first Legislatiye Assembly that 
met for the colony of Victoria. He 
only arrived in Australia the year 
before Mr. Lowe quitted it, and side 
by side th^ first become members 
of the British Cabinet He only 
entered Parliament in 1860, so his 
success has been as rapid as his 
career has been full of force and 
ability. We believe it is something 
wonderful to reflect in how many 
difierent companies Mr. Childers 
has been attached as director or as 
chairman. He turned his financial 
talents to account as Financial 
Secretary to the Treasury. But it 
was in reference to the Admiralty 
that Mr. Childers achieved a special 
reputation. His first Government 
post was that of junior Lord oi 
the Admiralty, and afterwards he 
always sustained an unceasing 
system of vigilant criticism upcm 
all Admiralty detail. Synthesis is 
harder, always, than analysis ; and 
it remains to be seen whether Mr. 
Childers can do all the great things 
which he gave us to understand by 
implication to be susceptible of 
accomplishment. 

Mr. Bruce is another of the novi 
homines, that is to say, of those who 
are comparatively untried and are 
sitting in the Cabinet for the first 
time. As Secretary of State for 
the Home Department he takes pre- 
cedence of the other Secretaries of 
State. He is connected with some 
illustrious names, for he is nephew 
to the late Lord Justice Knight 
Bruce, whose legal fame will long 
live in the law courts, and he mar- 
ried a daughter of Sir William 
Napier, the historian of the Penin- 
sular War, and also the niece of Sir 
Charles Napier, the conqueror of 



Scinde. For seventeen years he 
represented Merthyr TydvU, a very 
unsavoury locality to represent, 
unpleasing and ungrateful, and 
threw him over eventoally in 
favour of a dissenting minister. It 
is rather hard lines upon the Church 
of England and on Boman Catholics, 
that whUe any Dissenting or Pres- 
byterian minister can sit in Parlia- 
ment, this is not permitted to ai^ 
one who has received episcopal ordi- 
nation. When he had been in Par- 
liament for ten years, Lord Palmer- 
ston— having certainly taken plenty 
of time to turn over the matter in 
his mind— made Mr. Bruce Under- 
Secretary in the very department 
where he is now Secretary of State. 
When the Tories succeeded in eject- 
ing Mr. Lowe from his office of Vice- 
President of the Council, Mr. Bruce 
became the virtual Minister of Edu- 
cation, having to give way to Lord 
Bobert Monti^g^ on the accession of 
the Derby Government. Mr. Bruce 
has moved with the times, and — 
possibly under some eleotoiul pres- 
sure — has reoentiy become a convert 
to the doctrine of the Ballot As 
Mr. Gladstone, under the tuition of 
Mr. Bright, is obviously inclining 
this way, it is not hard to see in 
what direction we shall have an- 
other parliamentary conflict It is 
quite pretty to see how the new 
Cabinet mmisters are plucking up 
under the genial sunshine of prospe- 
rity. Wiu a strong Government 
and a popular Premier, they are 
evidently calculating on a prolonged 
tenure of power. Mr. Bruce, who 
has been described as a ' hesitating, 
under-his-breath-talking, diffident 
gentleman,' has lost those amiable 
characteristics, and comes out every 
inch a Cabinet minister. Mr. Chil- 
ders, steady and stalwart and 
' bearded like a Pard,' fills both the 
eye and the imagination, and gives 
us ftdly to understand how he will 
demolish any pseudo-Childers who 
may inveigh against Admiralty ex- 
penditure. 

Now here are the great law-offi- 
cers of the Crown, tiie Attorney- 
General and the Solicitor-GenenJ. 
We wiU take the Solicitor-General 
first, as being in every respect 
the more important of the two. 



Skelckea in ike House of Commons. 



121 



Thftt ^780 Sir John Duke Cole- 
ridge's own yeiy decided opinion 
when he at first refused to serve 
under Sir Robert Collier, nntil his 
hesitating ' No ' was, in amost lady- 
like way, converted into a very well- 
satisfied ' Tes.' The Solicitor-Gene- 
ral is probably the finest advocate 
at the bar. He has also some states- 
manlike qualities, and has a very 
OQDsiderable reputation in the House 
of Ccmunons. His maiden speech, 
three years ago, on the subject of 
Univeraity B^orm, was the most 
snccessfdl maiden speech made for 
many years within tne House. Sir 
John has never advanced beyond 
the point indicated by that speech; 
indeed one or two speeches which 
he made were comparative fiulures, 
but on the whole he has mamtained 
his lepatation. He is a man who 
in a very thorough way has main- 
tained the hononr and independence 
of the English bar. His practice is 
now immense, and he has conducted 
very heavy cases with great ability, 
and in a manner that has obtained 
for him the highest credit In the 
8anrincase,especially,— which made 
such an extraordinary inroad upon 
his time that he described it as an 
exercise of poverty to himself and 
lir. Hellish— his speeches and the 
general management of the case 
were beyond all praise. But Sir 
John is much more than a very 
successful barrister. He has larger 
studies, wider sympathies, stronger 
convictions, both ecclesiastical and 
political, than most barristers are 
accredited with. He gave the other 
day, in a brief compass, a most ex- 
cellent enunciation of the morality 
of advocacy: 'It was one of the first 
rules of the profession that a man, 
whether guilty or innocent, whether 
the victim of unjust prejudice or 
not, should be able to retain the 
services of an advocate, in order to 
see that justice was done him. It 
was because the bar had not the 
right to make selections and to form 
their own opmions on cases, that the 
profession hebelonged to was the pro- 
feasionofagentleman. Ifthe bar were 
to identify ^emselves with their cli- 
ents, and to exercise their ownjudg- 
mentinrespect to thecases submitted 
to them, they would be open to the 



base charge of selling their convic- 
tions and opinions, which no person, 
with a knowledge of the facts, could 
venture to impute to them now.' It 
was this reputation at the bar, and 
the wide reputation which he enjoys 
beyond the limits of lus profession, 
which have greatly determined Sir 
John's reputation in Parliament. 
The lawyer whom he most re- 
sembles in his career is Sir Alexan- 
der Cockbum, who, by a single 
great effort, made his parliamentary 
and forensic reputation equal. But 
neither at the bar or in Parliament 
will the Solidtor-Qeneral ever be 
the equal of the Lord Chief Justice 
of England. ' There were giants in 
those days,' but giantdom is almost 
over. The barristers hardly take 
ten per cent of the profits made by 
solicitors, and a deterioration must 
be the inevitable result Sir John 
Coleridge was long the rival of Sir 
John Earslake, on the Western Cir- 
cuit, and after the latter had be- 
come a law adviser of the Crown 
he was the undisputed leader. It 
was said that the solicitors gene- 
rally went to Earslake for law, and 
to Coleridge for eloquence. That 
is Sir John Earslake, on the other 
side, much knocked up, it is said, 
by his excessive work when At- 
tomey-Qeneral ; but though he has 
never made the set speeches in 
which his honourable and learned 
firiend indulges, he is every whit 
as great a favourite in the House 
from his handsome presence and 

Eleasant manner. The work of 
kw officer involves heavy work 
and heavy gains. Lord Hatherly, 
the Chancellor, when, as Sir W. P. 
Wood, he became Solicitor-General, 
resigned the office in less than a 
twelvemonth, because 'it entailed 
u pon him so large an amount of late 
work, and so interfered with his 
domestic life and comfort of home.' 
A Solicitor-General, however, must 
not mind late work, and domestic 
life and the comforts of home must 
not have too potent a charm for 
him. SirJohn Coleridge burst upon 
the House in a character which one 
would least expect from a barrister, 
as a remarkable instance of ingenu- 
ousness and innocence. Such a suc- 
cessful surprise could not, however. 



132 



Skdche$ im the Home ofOommatiM. 



besr npotitioiL MoieoY6r, tboo^ 
8o ooortams and urbane. Sir John 
has always got hia spun in fighting 
order. He wears steel beoeath hia 
gkrra After the tehion of the P.B., 
he wiU ahake handa handsomely 
with an opponent before perfonning 
the operation of blacking hia ^ea. 
When Mr. Fawoett^ the other day, 
aaked some qnestion about his ap- 
pearing as eooDsel for the Qnmeya 
— Mr. Ea woett is the blind memb^, 
rather a straight, sallow man, ear- 
nest, thonghtfol-looking, and wears 
specfaclea— Sir John fell upon him 
with absolute savagery, ana showed 
that sleekness and purr have less 
agreeable accompaniments. Sir John 
has an hereditaiy reputation to sup- 
port, which he has nobly Tindicated ; 
and though he will probably attain 
a higher i)0st than uat held by his 
iktber, it is impossible that he can 
eiceed the measure of reverence 
and affection with which Judge 
Coleridge was justly regarded by 
his contemporaries. 

Sir J. P. OoUier is a man of much 
versatility and taleni As member 
fisr Plymouth, where his family are 
of good standing in the wine trade, 
he represents an important and 
popular constituency. The At- 
torney-General is a man of many 
accomplishments. We believe that 
he has exhibited at the Boyal Aca- 
demy. Both as a lawyer and in Par- 
liament he has at tunes acquitted 
himself respectably. He has con- 
ducted cases very nicely; especially 
when Miiller was tried for the rail- 
way murder, he conducted the pro- 
secution at the Old Bailey very ably. 
He might have been one of the three 
puisne judges appoiDted under the 
Government of Mr. Disraeli, but he 
wisely reserved himself for greater 
things. He had a strong political 
claim on the office of Attorney- 
General, which it was found im- 
possible to ignore. Nevertheless, 
this was probably the weakest ap- 
pointment made by Mr. Gladstoce 



on his accession to power. It Med 
to command weight either with the 
profession ot with the country. In 
glancing over the Law BeportB yon 
very rarely find the name of the Ai- 
tomey-Geneial except on Crown 
business. Sir John Coleridge spoke 
the other night amid huighter of the 
Bupposititiona case of barristBrs se- 
lected as law olBcen of the Grown, 
whom no peraona would engage in 
any important case, and tiie confi- 
deoce of the Crown being extended 
only to those to whom nobody else 
woukl extend confideooe! It is 
not to be supposed that the Solioitar- 
General meant this as a satire upon 
his chief, whose appointment he 
strongly condemned— it was, indeed, 
whispered that his friends expected 
that he would be Attom^-General 
himself or possibly Lord OhanceUor 
per mHum—hrA there is an old pro- 
verb about the cap fitting. But 
both these lawyos pale altogether in 
reputation before that great states- 
man-barrister. Sir Boundell Palmer, 
who, in moral elevation, is unsur- 
passed in the House, through his 
glorious disinterestedness in refus- 
ing, tiirough a scruple which most 
politicians would easily overcome, 
the most splendid prize within the 
reachoftiie subject, and which would 
have placed him next to the throne 
itselfl He now commands almost 
the veneration of the House and 
the counixy: a thoughtful, quie^ 
self-restrained, self-balanced man is 
Sir Boundell in repose, but trea- 
sures of force are stored up within 
that quiet exterior. He can be hu- 
morous, as when he attacked Mr. 
Layard on the Courts of Justice 

anestion; and intense emotion, 
bough held in check, can be 
blended with severest reasoniog, 
as in that masterly speech on the 
Irish Church, which, in intellectual 
and moral power, has been the 
greatest effort this session in the 
House of Commons. 

oontwuedi) 



--^^l 



^J> 



.^*v3K 



123 



A HARP ACCOMPANIMENT. 



W 



row that the newspapers are 
teeming with advertiflements 
of fBtft-sailing packets, cheap ezcnr- 
sion trains, combinations to secure 
to companies of toorists all the ad- 
Tantages that can be obtained daring 
a swift inspection of continental 
cities and a tmndle through cele- 
brated picture-galleries, cathedrals, 
and museums, it is confusing to the 
man who learns daily that 'eveiy- 
body is out of town' when he sees 
so many people in the streets, and 
he hardly knows which to admire 
most, the elasticity of language or 
the Tast population represented by 
'nobody/ 

If eveiybody is out of town, what 
becomes of nobody who still throngs 
the hot, dusty streets, crowds the 
penny steamboatEf, struggles to the 
roofs of omnibuses, slakes his thirst 
at the metropolitan luncheon-bars, 
opens and shuts shops and ware- 
houses for the sake of appearances, 
and generally pervades all London, 
just as though he had any right to 
be within the cab radius and on the 
stones, when he is supposed to be 
concerned in what we all join in 
calling the 'general exodus,' and 
to be enjoying the holiday season, 
that leaves town empty and gives a 
pathetic interest to the last enters 
iainments of the season? 

We all know where everybody 
goes, although we are a little puzzled 
to learn from special correspondents 
that in a corporate capacity every- 
bodv resembles Sir Bojle Boohe*s 
birci in the ability to be in two 

E laces at one tima 'Everybody is 
ere,' writes the gay chronicler at 
Biarritz; and 'I like to go to Mar- 
gate beoiuse one meets everybody 
there,' says the confidential corre- 
spondent describing the glories of 
the Hall by the Sea. 'The clubs 
are empty ; everybody has left the 
Bow and gone to Baden, Homburg, 
and the other places where the pur- 
suit of health is mitigated by the 
amusements to be found in the 
Kursaal,' declares the fashionable 
intelligencer who thinks he was 
onoe in the Poultry, or Mile End, 



or Shoreditch, or some of thoEe 
places east of Temple Bar. 

We have seen everybody at Chis- 
wick, at Hampton Wick, at Henley- 
on-Thames, at South Kensington, 
and half a dozen other places, but 
tell us when and tell us where does 
nobody go when the sun scorches 
the pavement in Begent Street and 
the fountain at the Boyal Exchange 
runs dry? 

Well, to a good many places; 
but before you are thoroughly in 
the secret you must know nobody 
and be quite out of everybody's 
sodety for a time at all events. To 
begin with, it will be as well to 
commence a course of explorative 
wanderings in back streets and 
rather slummy neighbourhoods ; to 
become familiar with certain taverns 
where, in rooms decorated with sym- 
bolic devices, benefit societies, more 
or less philanthropic in their aims, 
and more or less 'united' in their 
determinations, hold their meetings; 
to lurk about the doorways of 
' halls' or lecture-rooms not uncon- 
nected with particular callings, and 
study the highly-ornamental an- 
nouncements that 'the annual ex- 
cursion of the " Loyal Amalgamated 
Clickers," the " Bein vested Associa- 
tion of the BeguUr Bufiiers," or the 
" Woodmen of Trees No. i, a, and 3," 
to that well-known place of resort 
the Old Welsh Harp at Hendon 
will be held on Monday: tickets, 
including the &re there and back 
and tea in the romantic pleasure- 
grounds, 35. 6€L 

'In addition to the beauties of 
nature for which that well-known 
resort is celebrated, there will be 
added to the attractions of the 
grounds the games of Aunt Sally, 
archery and rifle-practice, pony and 
donkey-riding, boating on the mag^ 
nificent lakes, and choice angling 
for lovers of " the gentle art." 

' N.B.--The prty will start at ten 
o'clock precisely in six of Plodder's 
celebrated four-horse covered light 
vaus, and a first-rate band of music 
will accompany the excursion.' 

Should you be in any mysterious 



124 



A Earp AeeompaiUwieaL 



way ocnmected with nobody em- 
ployed in a pnnting-offioe, or with 
nobody who is a member oi, say 
the Ck>operatiye AKOciaiion of Un- 
mitigated Brass Button Btampera, 
you will still find that the mnsic of 
the Old Welsh Harp has an attrso- 
tion which leads the imagination to 
an annual ' wayzgoose' dinner or to 
a celebration sometimes called a 
bean-feast, but which more £re- 
<;inently takes the genteel appella- 
tion of festiyaL It is on some each 
occasicm as this that yon see nobody 
in full force, and the resources of 
the well-known hostelry at Hendon 
are displayed to the ntmoet adyan- 

Not that the pleasure-gxonndsare 
without interest when a few ardent 
sportsmen alone are engaged in 
' palling out the two-ponnden' from 
the great laka Th^ is a gentle- 
man known to everybody when 
everybody is in town for his extra- 
ordinary performances in the cha- 
racter of ' the Perfect Cure/ whose 
quiet hours of recreation and relief 
nom saltatoiy exercise are spent in 
piscatorial pursuits ; and if that is 
not a genteel way of mentioning the 
fact Mr. Stead goes a fishing at 
Hendon it is difficult to say what 
would be. Our model for this form 
of expression is to be found in the 
posters and handbills before referred 
to, and by them we are able to form 
a style at once ornate and emphatic. 
When nobody individually goes to 
the Old Welsh Harp there are plenty 
of objects for pleasant meditation. 
The natural history of the place is 
richly represented in the*fiist room 
to which you are directed; that 
pleasant bright parlour where speci- 
mens of the remains of great jack, 
and every eminently-edible fresh- 
water fish in which the chain of 
lakes abounds, occupy honourable 
positions in plate* glaas sarcophagi, 
while the ornithological collection, 
increased weekly by the unerring 
gun of Mr. Warner, the genial pro- 

grietor, would have delighted the 
eart of GQbert White of Selbome. 
It is true that the live creatures 
are not all to the .manor born ; and 
the Australian piping-crow, who 
welcomes you with a tune like the 
notes of a magic flute, and barks 



like a hospitable dog, may be said 
to share with the wild cat, which 
lives in a tree and will come down 
to be stroked and fed, the foreign 
honourB of the place; but hve 
hound and painter, stojOGed king- 
fisher and gaunt bittern, alike attest 
a place which nobody declares is 
* the same as being a hundred miles 
in the country.' 

Then there is philosophic contem- 
plation for the reflective mind in 
the walks and terraces, the rustic 
seats and tables, the empty arbours 
carefully built with rural thatches, 
but recognising the demands of 
civilization by being each provided 
with a special gas-lamp of its own 
which gives them rather a watch- 
box air, but at the same time in- 
spires confidence. Far beyond, on 
level pasture and undulating field, 
stands a real farm, not a toy affiur, 
made to look rustic by pictorial 
artifice, mind you, but a thorough 
good sixteen hundred acres, or there- 
about, with fine lush grass and 
herds of dappled kine grazing even 
down to tiw edge of the glas^ 
spring whence the river-fiad lakes 
are brimmed. New milk, in a regi- 
ment of great tin vessels ready to 
be sent to London underground, 
represents the produce of the place, 
you, that is to say, everybody, 
may have had some intimation of 
Hendon in connection with the race- 
course, — itself a kind of outiying 
connection of the Harp, which figu- 
ratively plays so many tunes; but 
do not fancy, even after you have 
run down and staked a new hat on 
your favourite pony, and having 
won or lost have scuttied up to 
town again arter a hasty refresh- 
ment at the roadside hostelry which 
has so much behind it, that you 
have seen the place as nobody has. 
Nobody goes down to eii^y his holi- 
day when everybody has done with 
racing for tiie season, or has not yet 
begun it, and there is much to see 
at the village itself even apart from 
the Harp, if indeed Hendon can be 
separated from that most musical 
association. Whether you take your 
way by Edgeware or by Hampstead 
across the Heath to the villi^ge on 
the Brent— whether the Harp be 
silent or only represented by the 



A Harp Aeeompaniment, 



125 



musical cadence of the parlour-bell, 
or the singing of birds m the trees, 
or the casual performance of an 
itinerant negro tronpe who are on 
the tramp, you are reminded of a 
happy combination of the contem- 
plative and the festive element. 
Witness that fiEurm-like kitchen 
where row after row the great tea- 
cups of blae ware attest the tem- 
Serate habits of the visitors; where, 
isdaining the coddling appliances 
of patent stoves, the presiding 
nymph of the culinary art stands 
proudly before a genuine old- 
nushioned range, and surveys the 
succulent joints, the tenderly-em- 
browned ohickens, the juicy and 
piquant ham, the savoury goslings, 
the innocently-suggestive custards, 
and the freshly-odorous pies with a 
consciousness of being equal to any 
occasion, ay, even to the Associated 
Corporation of Unmitigated Brass 
Button Stampers, whose annual 
celebration has been long ago 
heralded at their head-quarters— a 
rather dingy hall at the top of a 
wholesale warehouse— by a distri- 
bution of five hundred tickets. 
These five hundred, representing 
nobody while in town, where the 
recollection of the lon^ line of bur- 
nished omnibuses waitmg to convey 
them are a glory to the neighbour- 
hood for the entire smnmer, are 
now on the road, the leading vehicles 
dashing along behind four spanking 
peys apiece, and the others bring- 
ing up the rear with the profes- 
sional brass band, which is already 
in l^e full harmony of that con- 
certed melody composed expressly 
for such occasions, and entitled 
' Gome to the Welsh Harp/ with an 
emphasis on the to admirably ex- 
pressed by the trombone. Bemark- 
able are the hats of the ' Associated' 
as eidiibiting every variety of male 
head-dress, from the brightly-bur- 
nished 'best velvet' at ten and six 
to the * leghorn fiftncy ' or the varie- 
gated cricketing cap; for some of 
them mean cricket, while their 
wives sit and mind the children or 
stroll about the grounds until dinner 
is ready. Others have evidently 
some faint sense of a rowing cos- 
tume, by the exhibition of a good 
deal of blue-striped shirt and a nar- 



row-brimmed straw hat: a fishing- 
rod here and there proclaims the 
ardour for sport which finds its 
representative in every British 
breast; and though the majority 
adopt the usual black coat, sprigged- 
velvet waistcoat, blue and crimson 
satin tie, and hard-looking hat that 
leaves a red rim on the forehead of 
the wearer, which are distinctive of 
respectability and the severe re- 
sponsibilities of paternity and citi- 
zenship, there is sufficient variety 
of costume, especially in the wo- 
men's dresses, to add gay fiecks and 
patches of colour to the trim garden 
walks and flowery slopes and 
mounds of the pleasure-ground. 
The insatiable propensity of the true 
Briton for refreshments is manifest 
directly the first team is drawn up 
in true sporting style at the door of 
thefunous hosteby. 'Our worthy 
host,' as Mr. Warner is generally 
termed in newspaper records of 
these events, is at the door, and Ids 
ruddy Cemo and burly figure towers 
above most of the 'Unmitigated,' 
who are already seekmg the bar, 
and thronging out into the garden 
with glasses and tankarda Let us 
be honest chroniclers and add that 
shandy gaff— a frothy but refreshing 
compound of ginger-beer and ale- 
is most in request, and that as a 
little of it goes a long way, and 
there is a sort of gentility in drink- 
ing it from the long-stemmed glasses, 
the ladies prefer it to headier ana 
more expensive beverages. For two 
or three houn the great company 
disperses into groups, some of which, 
witn women and children, make 
family parties under the trees, con- 
tent to breathe the sweet, invigo- 
rating air, to catch the gleam and 
glow of flowers, the glory of sun- 
light through trees and on water, 
and to listen to the soothing hum 
of the distant farm-yard, broken 
now and then by the shot of a dis- 
tant gun, or the shouts and laughter 
of the cricketera and donkey-ridera 
in the next fields behind the long 
row of arbours. 

Some few are already gathered in 
the vast dining-room, a building 
that might be a baronial hall or a 
temporarv church, or a model school 
without the desks and forms, but is 



126 



A Earp Aecomjpcmmetit^ 



in leality like neither, sinoe beneath 
its lofty, high-pitched loof are long 
rows of gleaming tables, and scores 
of grand, polished Windsor chairs, 
each with ample width of arm and 
cunningly -deviBed bottom rails 
which will encradle a hat and pre^ 
serve it nninjored. Here a detach- 
ment of invincible waiters in a com- 
plete uniform of clean shirt-sleeves 
and straw hats are busy spreading 
snowy drapery, and covering it with 
eleaming glass and china, flowers, 
mut, deep-tinted wine, and sug- 

SBtive sauces. Already those who 
ve incontinently strayed towards 
the precincts of the kitchen— an 
outbuilding from the house, and 
lying in concealed contiguity to the 
ludl itself— have detected appetising 
odours, and, reg^tting that prema- 
ture indulgence in biscuit and cheese, 
are wondering whether the property 
usually attributed to sherry and 
bitters has any foundation in fact 
JBefore they have made up their 
minds to try, the clanging of a 
mighty bell warns those who are far 
a field that there is but half an hour 
or so to wait, and after due appli- 
cation of soap and water and clean 
towels the company files in, the 
band having already shown itself 
worthy of the utmost confidence by 
playing its best and loudest while 
the dishes appear as if summoned 
by magic, ana the plates are shuffled 
and dealt like a pack of cards in a 
ooDJuring trick. Fish, flesh, and 
fowl, boiled, stewed, and roast— five 
mortal courses from salmon to straw- 
berries—surely nobody has an appe- 
tite which can exceed that of the 
co-operatives who may now be 
spoken of as everybody, since they 
are of the great aggr^ate which 
is 'out of town.' It would be 



impossible to describe that din- 
ner, but it is pleasant to sit there 
with a fine sense of having eaten 
both wisely and well, and to watch 
the earnest endeavours of the more 
sportive guests to ' try the waiters.* 
They may try and try again, but 
those agile purveyors to the public 
mouth are well up to their work, 
and so fiur from there being any sign 
of giving in, either on their part or 
on the part of the Old Welsh Harp, 
fresh relays of toothsome vianas 
come in smoking hot, when every- 
body is faint with the recollection 
of his achievements, or cool salads 
and a dish of crystal ice refresh the 
Altering and reassure the donbtfuL 
Meanwhile the band, which has 
mightily strengthened itself^ is at 
it once more, and in the enthusiastic 
loyalty of the weQ-fed, the usual 
patriotic toasts are celebrated with 
such a national anthem as for a 
moment startles the birds in the 
distant corn, and causes the big-eyed 
cows in the pastures to lift their 
slow necks and send back a melo- 
dious bellow in response. 

So with 'Here's success to the 
Old Welsh Harp, and let us hope, 
ladies and gentlemen, that we may 
meet here again this time next year,' 
the assembly is once more scattered, 
once more reunited in clusters at 
the tables where tea and water- 
cresses befit the tender seriousness 
of the evening hour. Then a few 
scattered notes from the comet, a 
clattering of hoofs, a hurried de- 
mand for parting drinks and fusees 
and screws of best birdseye, and 
everybody is gone back to town to 
become nobody once more; while 
the notes of the Welsh Harp are 
hushed in the silence of the summer 
night 



127 



WHICH OF THE THREE? 

I 

I (IliLlTSTBATED.) 

TT7HICH of the three so sweet, I wonder, 
T T Do sensibre bachelors long to woo. 
By wayelets' wash and ripple, and under 

The haze of a sky which is blue— so bine ! 
A magnet thrill at the heart should beckon 

The passionate boys to the rocks to see 
Such deep-sea treasures, and pause to reckon. 

Their chance and choice of the maidens three. 

Which of the three ? 'tis weaiy choosing, 

A tale which Paris of old b^^. 
For two must bitterly hate for losing. 

And only one can adore who wins. 
A golden apple, the swain on Ida 

Bestowed on the fairest maid, but he 
Would please how few did he dare decide a 

Beward for the best of my maidens three. 

Which of the three ? their fiuses surely 

Are best of books for a man to read ; 
When Millicent's eyes look down demurely, 

My butterfly gentlemen, pray take heed 1 
For ^es of blue, though the dark lash hide them. 

Deceive like songs which a syren sings ; 
But blue or black let us sit beside them. 

And, like the butterflies, bum our wings. 

Which of the three ? the long wave hushes 

Its Toice in pleasure about their feet; 
The seagull stoops, and his white wing brushes 

Their golden hair ; on the rooft, their seat, 
The sea anemones bloom ; their dresses 

The impudent breezes love to toss 
In sweet disorder, and toy with tresses 

Which tell too truly a ribbon's loss. 

Which of the three ? the query's idle, 

Twixt dark and &ir, or short and tall. 
Would any one choose if he dared to sidle. 

And sit a monarch amidst them all ? 
A Mormonite tone the ozone instilleth 

To those who are happily sumamed ' young;' 
For there on the sand, to the man who willeth. 

Is a throne three beautiful maids among. 

Whichof the three? if I needs must choose one. 

To rank all maids in the world above, 
I'd take nor care if the world abuse one. 

That maid whose attitude whispers lova 
And then when summer returned, I*d wander 

No more alone by tho dear old sea ; 
But all that was best in the world I'd squander 

On her— the best of the maidens three. 

0. W. S. 



128 



M. OB N. 

* fijfniiiA dnlUbot o u r tator .* 

By G. J. WHYTE-MKLVILLE, 

AUTHOB OF 'DiGBT GbATO/ « CkBIBB,' ' TbM GlADIAT0B8»' STO. 

CHAPTER XXEL 

' NOT FOB JOSEPH.' 




BUT Dick Stanmore was not in a 
bansom with Lady Bearwarden. 
Shall I confess, to the utter destruc- 
tion of his character for undying 
constancy, that he did not wish to 
be? 

Dick had been cured at last-- 
cured of the painful disease he once 
believed mortal — cured by a course 
of sanitary treatment delightful in 
its process, unerring in its results ; 
and he walked about now with the 
buoyant step, the cheerful air of one 
who has been lightened of a load 
lying next his heart. 

Medical discoyeries have of late 
years brought into Togue a science 



of which I have borrowed the motto 
for these pages. Similia similibus 
curantur is we maxim of homoao- 

gathy; and whatever success this 
ealing principle may obtain with 
bodily ailments, I have little doubt 
of its efficacy in affections of the 
heart I do not mean to say its 
precepts will render us iuTulner- 
able or immortal. There are con- 
stitutions that, once shaken, can 
never be restored; there are cha- 
racters that, once outraged, become 
Faddened for evermore. The fairest 
flowers and the sweetest are those 
which, if trampled down, never hold 
up their heads again. But I do 



M. or N. 



;29 



meaa, that sboald may or woman 
be capable of onre under sofferiogs 
origioatiDg in misplaced oon6dence, 
anch cure if> moat readily effected 
by a modified attack of the same 
nature, at the risk of misplacing it 
again. 

Afber Dick Stanmore's first visit to 
the painting-room in Bemers Street, 
it was astonishing how enthnsiaatic 
a taste he contracted for art He 
was never tired of contemplating 
his friend's great picture, and Simon 
nsed laughingly to declare the 
amateur knew every line and shade 
of colour in his Fairy Queen as 
accurately as the painter. He re- 
mained in London at a season which 
could have afforded few attractions 
for a young man of his previous 
habits, and came every day to the 
painting-room as regularly as the 
model herself. Thus it fell out 
that Dick, religiously, superintend- 
ing the progress of this Fairy Queen, 
found his eyes wandering perpetu-. 
ally from the representation' on 
canvas to its original on Miss Al- 
gernon's shoulders, and gratified his 
sense of sight with less scruple, that 
from the very nature of her occupa- 
tion she was compelled to keep her 
head always turned one way. 

It must have been agreeable for 
Nina, no doubt, if not improving, to 
listen to Dick's light and rather 
trivial conversation, which relieved 
the monotony of her task, and 
formed a cheerful addition to the 
short, jerking, preoccupied sentences 
of the artist, enunciated obviously at 
random, and very often with a brush 
in his mouth. Nor was it displeas- 
ing, I imagine, to be aware of Mr. 
Stanmore's admiration, forsaking 
day by day its loudly- declared al- 
legiance to the Fairy Qaeen in 
favour of her living prototype, 
deepening gradually to long inter- 
vals of silence, sweeter, more em- 
barrassing, while far more eloquent 
than words. 

And all the time, Simon, the 
chivalrous, painted on. I cannot 
believo but that, with the jealous 
instinct of true affection, he must 
have perceived the ground slipping 
away, hour by hour, from breath 
his feet— must have seen the ship 
that carried all his cargo sailing 

VOL. xvL— HO. xcn. 



further and further into a golden 
distance to leave him desolate on 
the darkening shore. How his 
brain may have reeled, and his 
heart ached, it is not for me to 
speculate. There is a decency of 
courage, as there is an extravagance 
of bravado, and that is the true 
spirit of chivalry which bleeds to 
death unmoved, beneath its armour, 
keeping the pale knightly fsce 
turned calm and constant towards 
the foe. 

It was a strange trio, that, in the 
painting-room. Thegardenof Eden 
seems to have been originally in- 
tended for two. . The. third was 
dpubtlessjan intruder,', and from 
that day to this how many a para- 
dise has been lost by admittance of 
the visitor who completes this un- 
even* number, unaccouQtably sup- 
posed to be so productive of good 
fortune. 

Curious, cross purposes were at 
work in the three heads grouped 
GO near each others opposite the 
painter's glowing canvas.-, Dick 
perhaps was th^ least perceptive 
and therefore the happiest of tho 
party. His seme of well-being, 
indeed, seekned enhanced by his 
previous troubles : like a man who 
comes out of the cold into the glow 
of a comforting fire, he abandoned 
himself wit ^i out much reflection to 
the positive enjoyment of pleasure 
and the negative solace of relief 
from pain. 

Simon, always painting, fought 
hard to keep down that little 
leavening of self which consti- 
tutes our very identity. Under 
the cold impassive vigour he was 
so determined to preserve, he regis- 
tered many a noble vow of fortitude 
and abnegation on behalf of the 
friend he valued, of the woman he 
loved. Sometimes a pang would 
shoot through him painfully enough 
while he marked a change of Nina's 
colour, a little flutter of manner, a 
little trembling of her hands, and 
felt that she was already more af- 
fected by the presence of this com- 
parative stranger than she had ever 
shown herself by his, who had cared 
for her so tenderly, worshipped her 
so long. Then he bent all his 
faculties on the picture, and Iil:c 

K 



130 



M» ot N* 



a child rnimiog to seize its mother's 
gown, took refnge with his art. 

That mistress did not fail him. 
She never does M the troe wor- 
shipper, who kneels consistently at 
her shrine. It is not for her to 
scorn the homage offered to-day 
becaose it has been offered in faith 
and loyalty dnring many a long 
past year. It is not for her to shed 
on the new votary her sweetest 
smiles only becanse he is new. 
Woo her frankly, love her dearly, 
and serve her faithfally, she will 
insnre yon from being cozened out 
of your reward. Had she not taken 
care of Simon at this period, I 
scarcely know what would have be- 
come of him. 

Nina, too, lived in a golden dresm, 
from which it was her only fear that 
she must soon awake. Ere long, 
she sometimes thought, she must 
ask herself, who was this stranger 
that brought with him a flood of 
sunshine into the homely painting- 
room? that steeped for her uncon- 
sciously and without effort, every 
day in happiness, every morning in 
hope? She put off asking the 
question, having perhaps a whole- 
some recollection of him, who, going 
to count his treasure of fairy gold, 
found it only withered leaves, 
and let herself float with the stream, 
in that enjoyment of the present 
which is enhanced rather than modi- 
fied by miftgivings for the future. 
Nina was very happy, that is the 
honest truth, and even her beauty 
seemed to brighten like the bloom 
on a flower, opening to the smile of 
spring. 

Simon marked the change. How 
could ho help it? And still he 
painted— painted on. 

'There!' exclaimed the artist, 
with a sigh of relief, as he stepped 
back from his picture, stretcmng 
both weary arms above his head. 
' At last-at last 1 If I only like 
it to-morrow as well as I do now 
not another touch shall go into it 
anywhere above the chin. It's the 
expression I've been trying to catch 
for months. There it is I Doubt, 
sorrow, remorse, and, through it all, 

the real undoing love of the 

Well, that's all cant! I mean- 
Cant you see, that she likes liim 



awfully even now? Kina^ you've 
been the making of me, you're the 
best sitter in the world, and while 
I look at my picture I begin to 
think you're the handsomest. I 
mustn't touch it again. Stanmore, 
what do you think ?' 

Absorbed in contemplation of his 
work, he pttid little attention to the 
answer, which was so far fortunate, 
that Dick, in his preoccupation, M- 
tered out a string of contradictory 
criticisms, flattering neither to the 
original nor the copy. Nina indeed 
suggested, with some truth, that he 
had made the eyebrows too dark, 
but this remark appeared to 
originate only in a necessity for 
something to say. These two young 
people seemed unusually shy and 
ill at ease. Perhaps in each of the 
three hearts beating there before the 
picture lurked some vague sus- 
picion that its wistful expression 
so lately caught may have been 
owing to corresponding feelings 
lately awakened in the model ; and, 
if so, why should not two of them 
have thrilled with happiness, though 
the third might ache in loneliness 
and despair ? 

* Not another stroke of work will 
I do to-day,' said the artist, affect- 
ing a cheerfulness which perhaps 
he did not feel. 'Nina, you've got 
to be back early. I'll have a half- 
holiday for once and take you home. 
Put your bonnet on : I shall be ready 
in five minutes when I've washed 
my hands/ 

Dick's face fell. He had counted 
on a couple more hours at least. 
Women, when thev are really dis- 
appointed, rarely show it, and per- 
haps he felt a little hurt to observe 
how readily, and with what apparent 
goodwill, Miss Algernon resumed 
her out-of-doors attire. He felt 
hardly sure of his ground yet, 
or he might have begun to sulk in 
earnest No bad plan either, for 
such little misunderstandings bring 
on explanations, reconciliations, de- 
clarations, all sorts of vexations, 
every day I 

Ladies are stanch believers in 
luck, and leave much to chance, with 
a devout faith that it will serve them 
at their need. I imagine Nina 
thought it quite in the natural 



ILar N. 



181 



ooone of eTents that a dirty boy 
sfaoald enter the icom at this jano- 
tnre and deliver a note to Simon^ 
which called forth all his enemies 
and sympathies in a moment. The 
note, folded in a hurry, written with 
a pencil, was from a brother artist, 
and ran thos — 

' DxAB Simon,— Gome and see me 
if you can. On my back! Two 
doctors. Not going to be nibbed 
oat, bat beastly seedy all the same.' 

'When was he taken ill? Who's 
attending him? Anybody taking 
oare of him? What o'clock is it 
now? Tell him I'll be there in five 
minutes.' Simon delivered himself 
of these sentences in a breath, and 
then glanced from Nina to Dick 
Stan more. 

' I dare say you woaldn't mind,' 
said he. ' I must go to this i)oor 
fellow, and if I find him very ill I 
may be detained till evening. If 
you've time, Stanmore, could yoa 
see Miss Algernon as far as the 
boat? She'll do yery well then, 
but we don't like her to be wander- 
ing about London by herself.' 

It is possible this idea may have 
saggested itself to the persons most 
concerned, for all that they seemed 
so supremely unconscious, and as if 
the arrangement, though a sensible 
one and convenient no doubt^ were 
a matter of perfect indifference to 
tiiemselves. 

Dick 'would be delighted/ of 
oonrse; though he tried not to 
look so; and Nina 'couldn't think 
of giving Mr. Stanmore so much 
trouble.' Nevertheless, within ten 
minutes the two were turning into 
Oxford Street in a hansom cab; and 
fdthough they said very little, being 
indeed in a vehicle which jolted, 
swung, and rattled inordinately, I 
have not the least doubt they en- 
joyed then: drive. 

Tbey enjoyed the river steamer, 
too, which seems equally strange, 
with its narrow deck, its tangible 
smoke, its jerks and snorts, and 
throbbing vibrations, as it worked 
its way against the tide. They had 
never before been alone tc^ether, 
and the situation, though delight- 
ful, was at first somewhat embar- 
rassing, because tbey were in ear- 



nest The restraint, however, soon 
wore off, and with tongues once 
loosened there was no lack of matter 
for their employment How beauti- 
ful, how interesting, how pic- 
turesque everything seemed to have 
grown all at once: the Hooses of 
Parliament— the bridges— tiie dull, 
broad surface of the river, grey, 
with a muddy tinge— the low, level 
banks— the blunt-nosed barges — 
their fellow-passengers — the engi- 
neer—the boy with the mop— and 
the dingy funnel of the steamer 
itself. 

How mysterious the charm that 
lurks in association of ideas! 
What magic it imparts to the 
commonest actions, the most vulgar 
objects of life! What a heartache 
on occasions has it not caused you 
or me ? One of us cannot see a 
woman fitting on her gloves with- 
out a pang. To another there is 
a memory and a sorrow in the flirt 
of a fan, the rustle of a dress, the 
grinding of a barrel-organ, or the 
slang of a street song. The sting- 
ing-nettle crops up in every bed of 
flowers we raise; the bitter tonic 
flavours all we eat and drink. I 
dare say Werther could not munch 
his bread and batter for years in 
common comfort because of Char- 
lotte. Would it not be wiser for us to 
ignore the Charlottes of life alto- 
gether, and stick to the bread and 
butter? 

Too soon that dingy steamer 
reached its place of disembarka- 
tion—too soon, at least, for certain 
of its passengers; and yet in their 
short voyage up the river each of 
these two had passed the portal of a 
paradise, through which, amongst 
all its gaudy and luxuriant vege- 
tation, you may search for the tree 
of knowledge in vain. Not a word 
was spoken by either that coald 
bear the direct interpretation of love- 
making, yet each felt that the Ru- 
bicon had been passed which must 
never be recrossed dry-shod again. 

Dick paid his respects, as seemed 
but right and proper, to the Misses 
Perkins, who voted him an exceed- 
ingly agreeable young man; and 
this was the more tolerant on their 
part that he found very little to 
say, and had the good taste to be 

X 2 



182 



M.0rN. 



ft Tery short time in saying it 
They asked him indeed to remain 
for dinner, and, noiwithatanding 
their hospitable inclinations, were 
no donbt relieved when he declined. 
He had gained some experience, 
yon see, from his previous worship 
of Miss Brace, which now stood 
him in good stead, for in affiiirs of 
love, as of hononr, a man conducts 
his second with more skill and 
Bavoir /aire than his first 

The world seemed to have 
changed by inagic while he went 
back to London. It felt like the 
breakiog np of a frost, when all is 
warmth and softness and vitality 
once more. He could have talked 
to himself, and laughed aloud for 
very joy. 

But Nina went to her room, and 
cried as she had not cried since she 
was a little child, shedding tears of 
mingled sweetness and sorrow, rap* 
ture and remorse. Her eyes were 
opened now in her new-found hap- 
piness, and she foresaw the crushing 
blow that happiness must inflict 
on the oldest, kindest, dearest of 
friends. 

For the first time in her life she 
took herself to task and examined 
her own heart. What a joyous 
heart it was I And yet how could 
she be so inhuman as to admit a 
pleasure which must be cruelly 
prodactive of another's pain ? Here 
was a person whom she had known, 
as it were, but yesterday, and his 
lightest word or glance ha^ already 
become dearer to her than the 
wealth of care and afieotion which 
tended her from childhood, which 
would be about her to her grave. 
It was infamous! she told herself, 
and yet it was surpassingly sweet! 
Yes, she loved this man — this 
brown-haired, broad-shouldered Mr. 
Stanmore, of whose existence a fort- 
night ago she had been perfectly 
unconscious, and in that love she 
learned to appreciate and under- 
stand the affection loyal, true- 
hearted Simon lavished on herself. 
Was he to be sacrificed to this mere 
stranger? Never. Bather she 
would sacrifice herself. But the 
tears flowed faster to think that it 
would indeed be a sacrifice, an 
offering up of youth, beauty, hope. 



hftppiness for life. Then she dried 
her eyes, and went down on her 
knesB to pray at her bedside ; and 
so rose up, making certain stem 
resolutions, which it is only &ir to 
state she afterwards kept — ^hke a 
woman! 

With the view, doubtless, of put- 
ting these in practice, she induced 
Simon to walk with her on the 
lawn after tea, while the stars were 
twinkling dimly through a soft, 
misty sky, and the lasy nver lapped 
and gurgled against the garden 
banks. He accompanied her, no- 
thing loth, for he too had spent the 
last hour in hard painful confiict, 
making, also, stern rerolutions, 
which he kept—like a man ! ' You 
found him better,' she said, alluding 
to the cause of his delay in return- 
ing home. Tm so glad. If he 
hadn't been, you*d have stayed with 
him all night, I know. Simon, I 
think youVe the best and the kindest 
person in the world.' 

Here was an opening. Was she 
disappointed, or not, that he took 
so little advantage of it? 

'We must all help each other,. 
Nina,' said he; 'that's the way to 
make life easy and to stifle sorrows, 
if we have them, of our own.' 

' You ought never to have a sor- 
row,' she broke in. * Ycu, who- 
always think of others before your- 
self—you deserve to be so happy* 
And, Simon, sometimes I think 
you're not, and it makes me 
wretched; and I'd do anything in 
the world to please you ; anything, 
if~if it wasn t too hard a task, you 
know,' 

She had been so eager to make 
her Facrifice and get it over that 
she hurried inconsiderately to the 
brink,~then, like a timid bather, 
stopped short, hesitating— the water 
looked so cold and dark and deep. 

The lightest touch from his hand 
would have plunged her in, over- 
head. He would have held it in 
the fire rather, like the Boman 
hero, till it shrivelled into ashes. 

'My happiness can never be 
apart from yours,' he said, ten- 
derly and sadly. 'Yet I think I 
know now that yours is not en- 
tirely bound up in mine. Am I 
right, Nina?' 



H. or N. 



18S 



*I would do aDythiBg in the 
world for you— anything/ she mur- 
.morod, taking refage, as we all do 
at saoh times, in vain repetition. 

They had reached the drawing- 
room window, and she turned aside, 
as if she meant to go in. He took 
2ier hand lightly in his own, and 
led her back towards the river. It 
was very dark, and neither could 
read the expression of the other's 
lace. 

' I have but one earnest desire in 
the world,' said he, speaking dis- 
tinctly bat very low. ' It is to see 
jou happily settled in life. I never 
had a sister nor a daughter, Nina. 
YovL have stood me in the stead of 
lx)th ; and— and I shall never have 
awife.' 

She knew what he meant The 
quiet, sad, yet uncomplaining tone 
cut her to the heart ' It's a shame 1 
it's a shame!' she murmured. 
'Simon, Simon. Tell me; don't 
you think me the worst, the most 
ungrateful, the most horrible girl 
in the world?' 

He spoke cheerfully now, and 
even laughed. 'Very ungrateful,' 
he repeated, pressing her hand 
kindly; 'and very detestable, un- 
less you tell me the truth. Ninai» 
•dear Nina, confide in me as if I was 
jour — well — your grandmother I 
Will that do? I think there's a 
somebody we saw to-day who likes 
you very much. He's a good fd- 
low, and to be trusted, I can swear. 
Don't you tbink, dear, though you 
haven't known him long, that you 
like him a little — more than a little, 
alreadjf?' 

' Oh, Simon, what a brute I am, 
and what a fool !' answered the girl, 
bursting into teara And then the 
painter knew that his ship had gone 
down, and the waters had closed over 
it for evermore. That evening his 
aunts thought Simon in better 
spirits than usual. Nina, though 
«he went to bed before the rest^ had 
never found him kinder, more 
cheerful, more considerate. He 
spoke playfully, good-humouredly, 
on various subjects, and kissed the 
girl's forehead gravely, almost re- 
verently, when she wished him 
good-night 
It was such a caress as a man 



lays on the dead &oe that 6hall 
never look in his own again. 

The painter slept but little— per- 
haps not at alt And who shall 
tell how hard he wrestled with his 
great sorrow daring those long 
hours of darkness, 'even to the 
breaking of the day T No angel sat 
by his bed to comfort him, nor 
spirit-voices whispered solace in his 
ear, nor spirit sympathy poured 
balm into the cold, aching, omp^ 
heart; but I have my own opinion 
on such matters, and I would fain 
believe that struggles and suffer- 
ings like these are neither wasted 
nor forgotten, but are treasured 
and recorded by kindred beings of 
a higher nature, as the training 
that alone fits poor humanity, then 
noblest, when most sorrow rul, to 
enter the everlasting gates and join 
the radiant legions of heaven. 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

ANONVMOUS. 

Lord Bearwarden finds himself 
very constantly on Guard just at 
present Her ladyship is of opinion 
that he earns his pay more tho- 
roughly than any day-labourer his 
wages. I do not myself consider 
that helmet, cairass, and leather 
breeches form the appropriate ap- 
pliances of a hero, when termi- 
nating in a pair of red morocco 
slippers. Nevertheless, in all repre- 
sentations purporting to be life-like, 
effect must be subservient to cor- 
rectness of detail : and such was tiie 
costume in which his lordship, on 
duty at the Horse Quaids, received 
a despatch that seemed to cause 
him considerable surprise and vexa- 
tion. 

The guard coming off was mus- 
tering lielow. The relief coming on 
was already moving gallantly down 
Begent Street, to the admiration of 
all beholders. Armed was his 
lordship to the teeth, though not to 
the toes, for his bfttman waited 
respectfully with a pair of high 
jack- boots in his hand, and still his 
officer read, and frowned, and pulled 
his moustache, and swore, as the 
saying is, like a trooper^ which» if 



184 



Jf. W Nm 



be had only diaim on his boots, 
would not bftTO been so much ont 
of cbaraoter at the time. 

Onoe again he read it from end 
to end ere he ommpled the note in 
under his coirasB for fatnre con* 
aideration. It lan as £i^owb : — 

* My Lobd, — Tour lordship's 
manly and generous character has 
obtained for joa many well-wishers. 
Of these the writer is ooe of the 
most sincere. It grieves and angers 
him to see yonr lordship's honest 
nature deoeiyed, your domestic hap- 
piness destroyed, your noble con- 
fidence abused. The writer, my 
lord, is your true friend. Thoagh 
too late for rescue it is not too late 
for redress; and he has no power 
of communicating to your l(»dship 
suspicions which now amount to 
certainty but by the means at 
present employed. Anonymous let- 
ters are usually the resource of a 
liar and slanderer; but there is no 
rule without, exception; and the 
writer can bring proof of every syl- 
lable he asserts. If yonr lordship 
will use your own eyes, watch and 
wait She has deceived others; 
why not yout Bemers Street, 
Oxford Street, is no crowded tho- 
Tougbfiiire. Why should your lord- 
ship abstain from walking there any 
afternoon between four and five? 
Be wary. Watch and wait' 

* Blsst his impudence!' muttered 
Lord Bearwardeu, now booted to the 
thigh, and clattering down stairs to 
take command of his guard. 

With zealous subalterns, an ex- 
perienced corporal-major, well- 
drilled men, and horses tbat knew 
their way home, it required little 
military skill to move his handfal 
of cavalry back to barracks, so Lord 
Bearwarden came off duty without 
creating scandal or ridicule in the 
regiment, but I doubt if he knew 
exactly what he was doing, till he 
amved in plain clothes within a 
few paces of his own door. Here 
he paused for a few minutes' reflec- 
tion before entering his house, and 
was surprised to see at the street 
corner a lady extremely like his 
wife in earnest conversation with a 
man in rags who had the appear- 



ance of a professional b^:gar. The 
lady, as far as he could judge at that 
distance, seemed tobeoffering money^ 
which the man by his actions ob- 
vionsly refused. Lord Bearwarden 
walked briskly towards them, a good 
deal puzzled, and ^ad to have his 
attention distracted from his own 
albirs. 

It was a long street, and the 
couple separated before he reaehed 
them, the man disappearing round 
the comer, while the lady advanced 
steadily towards himself. When 
within a few paces, she lifted ii 
thick double veil and he found he 
had not been mistakotL 

Maud was pale and calm as usual, 
but to those who knew her well, 
recent agitation wonld have been 
betrayed by the lowering of her 
eyebrows, and an unusual compres- 
sion of the lines about her mouth. 

He knew her better than she 
thought, and did not fail to remark 
these signs of a recent storm, but, as 
usual, refrained from asking for the 
confidence it was his right to receive. 

' You're out early, my lady,* said 
he, in a careless tone. ' Been for an 
appetite against luncheon-time, eh ? 
That beggar just now didn't seem 
hungry at any rate. It looked to 
me as if you were offering him 
money, and he wouldn't ta^ it 
That's quite a new trick in the 
trade.' 

She glanced quickly in his feoe 
with something almost of reproach. 
It was a hateful life this, and even 
now, she thought, if he would ques- 
tion her kindly, she could find it in 
her heart perhaps to tell him alL 
All ! How she nad deceived him, 
and promised herself to another, 
and to get rid of that other, only 
for a time, had rendered herself 
amenable to the law, had been guilty 
of actual crime— had sunk to fed 
the very slave of a felon, the lowest 
refuse of society. How she, Lady 
Bearwarden, had within the last ten 
minutes been threatened by this 
ruffian, been compelled to submit 
to his insolence, to make terms with 
his authority, and to promise him 
another interview that very after- 
noon. How every hour of her life 
was darkened by terror of his pre- 
sence and dread of his revenge. It 



M,or N» 



186 



wasQnheaniof! Unbeamblel She 
would make a clean breafit of it on 
the first opportunity. 

' Let's go in, dear/ she said, with 
more of softness and affection than 
was hor habit when addressing her 
husband. 'Luncheon is almost 
ready. I'm so glad you got away 
early from barracks. I see so little 
of yon now. Never mind. It will 
be all right next week. We shall 
have two more captains back from 
leave to help us. You see I'm be- 
ginning to know the roister almost 
as well as the Adjutant himself.' 

It pleased him that she should 
show an interest in these professional 
details. He liked to hear such mili- 
tary terms of the orderly-room from 
those pretty lips, and he would have 
replied with something unusually 
anectionate, and therefore exceed- 
ingly precious, but that, as husband 
and wife reached their own door, 
they found standing there to greet 
them the pale wasted face and at- 
tenuated figure of Tom Ryfe. 

He saluted Lady Bearwarden 
gravely, but with perfect confi- 
dence, and she was obliged to give 
him her hand, though she felt as if 
she could have stnuigled him with 
pleasure, then and there, by the 
scraper. Her husband clapped him 
heartily on the back. ' Glad to see 
you, Tom,' Bald he; 'I heard you 
were ill and called to inquire, but 
they wouldn't let me disturb you. 
Been devilish seedy, haven't you? 
Don't look quite in form yet Come 
in and have some luncheon. Doctors 
all tell one to keep up the system 
now-a^days.' 

Poor Ijidy Bearwarden I Here 
was another of her avengers, risen, 
as it seemed, from the dead, and she 
must speak kind words, find false 
smiles, bid him to her table, and 
treat him as an honoured guest. 
Whatever happened, too, she could 
not endure to leave him alone with 
Bearwarden. Who could tell what 
diBckwures might come out? She 
was walking on a mine, so she 
backed her husband's invitation, 
and herself led the way into the 
dining-room where luncheon was 
ready, not daring even to go up- 
stairs and take her bonnet off before 
she sat down. 



Mr. Byfe was less communicative 
than usual about himself, and spoke 
as little to her ladyship as seamed 
compatible with the ordinary forms 
of politeness. His object was to 
lull her suspicions and put her off 
her guard. Nevertheless, with pain- 
ful attention i^e watched every 
glance of his eye, every turn of his 
features, hanging eagerly, nervously 
on every word he said. 

Tom had laid his plan of attack, 
and now called on the lately-married 
couple, that he might reconnoitre 
his ground before bringing up his 
forces. It is not to be supposed 
that a man of Mr. Rjfe's resources 
would long remain in ignorance of 
the real truth, after detecting, as he 
believed at the time. Lady Bear- 
warden and Dick Stanmore side by 
side in a hansom cab. 

Ere twenty-four hours had elapsed 
he had learned the exact state of the 
case, and had satisfied himself of the 
extraordinary resemblance between 
Miss Algernon and the woman he 
had resolved to persecute without 
remorEC. In this resemblance he 
saw an engine with which he hoped 
to work her ladyship's utter de- 
struction, and then (Tom's heart 
leapt within him even now at the 
thought), ruined, lonely, desolate, 
when the whole world turned from 
her, she might leam to appreciate 
his devotion, might take shelter at 
last with the only heart open to 
receive her in her uiame. 

It is hard to say whether Tom's 
feelings for the woman he so ad- 
mired were of love or hate. 

He saw through Lord Bearwar- 
den's nature thoroughly, for of him, 
too, he had made it his busioeBs to 
inquire into all the tendencies, all 
the antecedents. A high fastidious 
spirit, jealous, because sensitive, yet 
far too proud to admit, much less 
indulge that jealousy, seemed of all 
others the easiest to deceive. The 
hide of the rhinoceros is no con- 
temptible gift, and a certain blunt- 
ness, I n?ight say, coarseness of cha- 
racter, enables a man to go through 
the world comfortably and happily, 
unvexed by those petty stings and 
bites and irritations that worry 
thinner skins to death. With Lord 
Bearwarden to suspect was to fret 



136 



M.tn-N. 



and ponder and conceal, haling and 
despising himeelf the while. He 
had other points, besides his taste for 
soldiering, in common with Othello. 

On snch a man an anonymous 
letter acted like a blister, cliogiog, 
drawlDg, inflaming all round the 
affected part Nobody in theoiy so 
utterly de^^pised these productions. 
For nobody in practice did they 
produce so disastrous an effect. 
And then he had been deceived 
once before. He had lost his trust, 
not so much in the other sex (for all 
men think every woman false but 
one), as in himself. He had been 
outraged, hurt, humbled, and the 
bold confidence, the cUuh with which 
such games should be played were 
gone. There is a buoyancy gra- 
dually lost as we cross the country 
of life, which is perhaps worth more 
than all the gains of eiperience. 
And in the real pursuit, as in the 
mimic hurry of the chase, it is wise 
to avoid too hazardous a venture. 
The hunter that has once been 
overhead in a brook never faces 
water very heartily again. 

Tom could see that his charm was 
working, that the letter he had 
written produced all the effect he 
desired. His host was obviously 
preoccupied, absent in manner, and 
even flurried, at least for him. More- 
over, he drank brown sherry out of 
a claret-glass, which looked like 
being uncomfortable somewhere 
insida Lady Bearwarden, grave 
and unusually silent, watched her 
husband with a sad wistful air, that 
goaded Tom to madness. How he 
had loved that pale proud face, and 
it was paler and prouder and love- 
lier than ever to-day 1 

'I've seen some furniture you'd 
like to look at, my lord,' said Tom, 
in bis old, underbred manner. 
' There's a chair I'd buy directly 
if I'd a house to put it in, or a lady 
to sit on it; and a carved ebony 
frame it's worth going all the dis- 
tance to see. If >ou'd nothing to 
do this afternoon, I'd be proud to 
show them you. Twenty minutes' 
drive from here in a hansom.' 

' Will you come ?' asked Lord 
Bearwarden, kindly, of his wife. 
' You might take us in the ba- 
rouche.' 



She seemed strangely agitated by 
80 natural a propood, and neither 
gentleman fsdled to remark her dis- 
order. 

' 1 shall like it very much,' she 
stammered. *At least I should. 
But I can't this afternoon. I— 
I've got an engagement at the other 
end of the town.* 

' Which is the other end of the 
town?' said Lord Bearwarden, 
laughing. ' You've not told us 
your end yet, Tom;' but seeing 
his wife's colour fade more and 
more he purposely filled Tom's 
glass to distract his attention. 

Her engagement was indeed of no 
pleasant nature. It was to hold 
another interview with ' Gentleman 
Jim,' in which she hoped to prevail 
on him to leave the country by offer- 
ing the largest sum of money she 
could raise from all her resources. 
Once released from his persecutions, 
she thought she could breathe a little 
and face Tom Ryfe well enough 
single-handed, should be try to 
poiBon her hust)and*s mind against 
nor— an attempt she thought him 
likely enough to maka It was Jim 
she feared— Jim, whom drink and 
crime and an infatuation of which 
she was herself the cause, had 
driven almost mad — she could see 
it in his eye — who was reckless of 
her character as of his own— who 
insisted on her giving him these 
meetings two or three times a- week, 
and was capable of any folly, any 
outrage, if she disappointed him. 
Well, to-day should end it! On 
that she was determined. If he 
persisted in refususg her bribe, she 
would throw herself on Lord Bear- 
warden's mercy and tell him the 
whole truth. 

Maud had more self-command 
than most women, and could hold 
her own even in so false a position 
as this, 

' I must get another gown,' she 
said, after a moment's pause, ig- 
noring Tom's presence altogether 
as she addressed her husband 
across the table. ' I've nothing to 
wear at the Den, if it's cold when 
we 'go down next week, so I mmt 
call at Stripe and Bainbow's to-day, 
and 1 won't keep you waiting in the 
carriage all the time I'm shopping.' 



•«0io* 



M.arN. 



187 



He seemed qtiite satisfied : ' Then 
111 take B^fe to my salking-room/ 
said he, ' and wish you good-bye till 
dinner-time. Tom, you shall have 
the best cigar in England — I've 
kept them five years, and they're 
strong enough to blow your head 
off now.' 

So Tom, with a formal bow to 
Lady Bear warden, followed his host 
into a snug but dark apartment at 
the back, deyoted, as was at once 
detected by its smelly to the con- 
sumption of tobacco. 

"While he lit a cigar, he could not 
help thinking of the days, not so 
long ago, when Maud would haye 
followed him, at least with her eyes, 
out of the room, but consoled him- 
self by the reflection that his tarn 
was coming now, and so smoked 
quietly on with a firm, cruel deter- 
mination to do his worst. 

Thus it came to pass that before 
they had finished their cigars these 
gentlemen heard the roll of her 
ladyship's carriage as it took her 
away ; also that a few minutes later, 

Csing Stripe and Rainbow's in a 
som cab, they saw the same 
carriage, standing empty at the door 
of that gorgeous and magnificent 
emporium. 

'Don't get out, Tom,' said his 
lordship, stopping the hansom, 
'I only want to ask a question — I 
shan't be a minute;' .and in two 
s^des be was across the pavement 
and within the folding-doors of the 
shop. 

Perhaps the question he meant to 
ask was of his own common-sense, 
and its answer seemed hard to 
accept philosophically. Perhaps he 
never expected to find what he went 
to look for, yet was weak enough to 
feel disappointed all the same— for 
he had turned very pale when he 
re-entered the cab, and he lit an- 
other cigar without speaking. 

Though her carriage stood at the 
door, he had searched the whole of 
Stripe and Rainbow's shop for Lady 
Bearwarden in vain. 

Tom R}fe was not without a 
certain mother-wit, sharpened by 
his professional education. He sus- 
pected the truth, recalling the agi- 
tated manner of his hostess at 
luncheon, when her afternoon's em- 



ployment came under notice. Will 
it be believed that he experienced 
an actual pang, to think she should 
have some assignation, some secret 
of which his lordship must be kept 
in ignorance — that he should have 
felt more jealous of this unknown, 
this possible rival, than of her law- 
ful husband now sitting by his side! 
He was no bad engineer, however> 
and having laid his train, waited 
patiently for the mine to explode at 
Its proper time. 

' What an outlandish part of the 
town we are getting to,' observed 
Lord Bearwarden, after several 
minutes' silenbe; 'your furniture- 
man seems to li?e at the other end 
of the world.' 

' If you want to buy "things at 
first hand you must go into Oxford 
Street,' answered Tom. 'Let's 
get out and walk, my lord ; it's so 
crowded here we shall make better 
way.' 

So they paid their hansom, and 
threading the swarms of passengers 
on the footway, turned into Berners 
Street arm-in-arm. 

Tom walked very slow for reasons 
of his own, but made himself plea- 
sant enough, talking on a variety of 
subjects, and boasting his own good 
taste in matters of curiosity, espe- 
cially old furniture. 

' I wish you could have induced 
the viscountess to come with us,' 
said Tom; *we should have been 
all the better for her help. But 
ladies have so many engagement 
in the afternoon we know nothing 
about, that it's impossible to secure 
their company without several days' 
notice. I'll be bound her ladyship 
is in Stripe and Rainbow's still. ' 

There was something in the 
casual remark that jarred on Lord 
Bearwarden, more than Tom's ab- 
surd babit of thus bestowing her 
fall title on his wife in common con- 
versation, though even that pro- 
voked him a little too ; something 
to set him thinking, to rouse all 
the pride and all the suspicion of 
his nature. 'The viscountess,' as 
Tom called her, was not in Stripe 
and Rainbow's, of that he had made 
himself perfectly certain less than 
half an hour ago; then where could 
she be? Why this secrecy^ this 



188 



M.arN. 



mystery, tiiis reterra that had been 
growing np between them day by 
day ever sinoe their marriage? 
What ooneliuion was a man likdy 
to arrive at who had lived in the 
world of London from boyhood, and 
been already once so cmelly de- 
ceived? His blood boiled; and 
Tom, whose hand rested on his arm, 
felt the mosde swell and qniver 
beneath his tonoh. 

Mr. Byfe had timed his observa- 
tion well ; the two gentlemen were 
now proceeding slowly np Bemers 
Street, and had arrived nearly oppo- 
site the hoose that contained Simon's 
painting-room, its hard-working 
artist, its frequent visitcnr, its beau- 
tifal sitter, and its Fairy Qoeen. 
Since his first visit there Tom Ryfe, 
in person or through his emissaries, 
had watched the place strictly 
enough to have become familiar 
with the habits of its inmates. 

Mr. Stanmore's trial trip with 
Miss Algernon proved so satis- 
&ctory, that the journey had been 
repeated on the same terms every 
day : this arrangement, very grati- 
fying to the persons involved, origi- 
nated indeed with Simon, who now 
went regularly after work to pass 
a few hours with his sick friend. 
Thus, to see these two young people 
bowling down Bemers Street in a 
hansom cab, about five o'clock, 
looking supremely happy the while, 
was as good a certainty as to meet 
the local pot-boy, or the post- 



Tom Ryfe manoeuvred skilfully 
enongh to bring his man on the 
groxmd precisely at the right mo- 
ment 

Still harping on old furniture, he 
was in the act of remarking that 
'he should know the shop again, 
though he had forgotten the nmuber, 
and that it must be a few doors 
higher up,' when his companion 
started, nttered a tiemendous exe- 
cration, and struggling to free him- 
self from Tom's arm, holloaed at 
an unconscious cabdriver to stop. 

' What's the matter ? are you ill, 
my lord ? exclaimed his companion, 
holding on to him with all his 
weight, while afifocting great anxiety 
and alarm. 

'D ^n you I let me goT ex- 



claimed Ixnd Bearwaiden, nearly 
flinging Tom to the pavement as 
he shook himself free and tore wildly 
down the street in vain pursuit. 

He returned in a minuto or two, 
white, scared, and breathless. Pull- 
ing his moustache fiercely, he made 
a gallant effort to compose himself; 
but when he spoke his voice was so 
changed, Tom looked with surprise 
inhisfiMO. 

' Toa saw it too, TomI' he ssid 
at last, in a hoarse whisper. 

'Saw itl—saw what?' repeated 
Tom, with an admirable sasnmp- 
tion of ignorance, innocence, and 
dismsy. 

'Saw Lady Bearwarden in that 
cab with Dick Stanmore 1' answered 
his lordship, steadying himself 
bravely like a good ship in a breeze, 
and growing cooler and cooler, ss 
was his nature in an emergency. 

'Are you sure of it?— did you 
see her £mm? I fancied so myself^ 
but thought I must be mistaken* 
It was Mr. Stanmore, no doubt, but 
it cannot possibly have been the 
Tisoounteas.' 

Tom spoke with an air of gravity, 
reflection, and profound concern. 

'I may settle with him, at any 
rate 1' said Lord Bearwarden. ' Tom, 
you're a true friend; 1 can trust 
you like myself. It*s a comfort to 
have a friend, Tom, when a fellow's 
smsshed up like this. I shall besr 
it well enough presently ; hut it's 
an awful facer, old boy. I'd have 
done anything for that woman — I 
tell you, anything ! I'd have cut off 
my right hand to please her. And 
now 1— It's not because she doesn't 
care for me — I've known that all 
along; but to think that she's like 
— ^lil^ those poor painted devils we 
met just now. Like them I — she's a 
million times worse! Ob, it's hard 
to bear ! Damnation 1 I wmH bear 
it 1 Somebody will have to give an 
account for this!' 

'Tou have my sympathy,' said 
Tom, in a low respectful voice, for 
he knew hie man thoroughly ; * these 
things won't stand talking about; 
but you shall have my assistance 
too, in any and every way you re- 
quire. I'm not a swell, my lord« 
but I'll stick by you through thick 
and thin.' 



M.atS. 



139 



The other preBsed bis arm. ' We 
mufit do Bomething at once/ said 
he. ' I will go up to banacks now : 
eall for me there in an hour's time; 
I shall have decided on everything 
by then.' 

So Lord Bfarwarden carried a 
sore heart hack once more to the 
old familiar scenes — ^through the 
well-known gate, past the stalwart 
sentry, amongst all the sights and 
sounds of the profession by which 
he set snch store. What a mockery 
it seemed 1 — how hard, how cruel, 
and how unjust 1 

But this time at least, he felt, he 
should not be obliged to sit down 
and brood over his injuries without 
reprisals or redress. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

PABTXD. 

' Lady Bearwarden's carriage had, 
without doubt, set her down at 
Stripe and Rainbow's, to take her 
ap again at the same place after 
waiting there for so long a period 
as must have impressed on her 
servants the importance of their 
lady's toilet, and the careful study 
she bestowed on its selection. The 
tali bay horses had been flicked at 
least a hundred times to make them 
stand out and show themselves, in 
the form London coachmen think so 
imposing to passers-by. The foot- 
man had yawned as often, express- 
ing with each cortortxm an exces- 
sive longing for beer. Many street 
hojB had la?iBhed tiieir criticisms, 
&voarable and otherwise, on the 
wheels, the panels, the vamiBh, the 
driver's wig, and that dignitary's 
1^, whom they had the piesump- 
tion to address as 'John.' Diverse 
eonnoisseurs on the pavement had 
appraised the bay horses at every 
conceivable price— some men never 
can pass a horse or a woman without 
ihinking whether they would like 
to bargain for the one or make love 
to the other; and theanimals them- 
selves seemed to have interehanged 
many confidential whispers, on the 
anhjeot, probably, of beuis, — when 
Lady Bearwarden reappeared, to 
aaat herself in the carriage and give 
the welcome order, ' Home P 



She had passed what the French 
call a very * bad little quarter of an 
hour,' and the storm bad left its 
trace on her pale brow and delicate 
features. They bore, nevertheless, 
that firm, resolute expression which 
Maud must have inherited from 
some ironhearted ancestor. There 
was the same stem clash of the 
jaw, the same hard, determined 
frown in this, their lovely descend- 
ant, that confronted Pkntagenet 
and his mailed legions on the plains 
by Stirling, that stiffened under the 
wan moonlight on CuUoden Moor 
amongst broken claymores and 
riven targets, and tartans all stained 
to the deep-red hues of the Stuart 
with his clansmen's blood. 

Softened, weakened by a tender, 
doubting affection, she bad yielded 
to an ignoble, unworthy coercion; 
but it had been put on too hard of 
late, and her natural character 
asserted itself under the pressure. 
She was in that mood which makes 
the martyr and the heroine, some- 
times even the criminal, but on 
which, deaf to reason and insensible 
to fear, threate and ai^umente are 
equally thrown away. 

She had met 'Gentleman Jim,' 
according to promise, extorted from 
her by menaces of everything that 
oould most outrage her womanly 
leeliogs and tarnish her fur &me 
before the world — had met him 
with as much secrecy, duplicity, 
and caution as though he were really 
the favoured lover for whom she 
was prepared to sacrifice home, 
husband, honour, and all. The 
housebreaker had mounted a fresh 
disguise for the occasion, and flat- 
tered himself, to use his own ex- 
pression, that he k)oked 'quite the 
gentleman from top to toe/ Gould 
he have known how this high-bred 
woman loathed his tawdry oma- 
mente, his flash attire, his silks and 
velvets, and flushed fiM», and diri^, 
ringed hands and greasy hair ! 

Oould he have knownl He did 
know, and it maddened him till he 
foi^t reason, prudence, experience, 
common sense — forgot everything 
but the present torture, the cruel 
longing for the impossible, the ae- 
cursed conviction ( worse than ail, the 
atings of drink and sin and semoise) 



140 



M.arN. 



that this one wild, hopeless desire 
of his ezistenoe could never be at- 
tained. 

Therefore, in the lonely street 
to which a cab had brought her 
from the shop where her carriage 
waited, and which they paced to 
and fro, this strangely assorted pair, 
he gave vent to his feelings, and 
broke out in a paroxysm that 
roused all his listener's feelings of 
anger, resistance, and disgust. She 
had jast offered him so large a sum 
of money to quit England for 
ever, as even Jim, for whom, 
you must remember, every sove- 
reign represented twenty shil- 
lings' worth of beer, conld not 
refuse without a qualm. He hesi- 
tated, and Maud's face brightened 
with a ray of hope that quivered in 
her eyes like sunlight. 'To sail 
next week,' said he, slowly; 'to 
take my last look of ye to-day. 
Them's the articles. My last look, 
standing there in the daylight— a 
real lady ! And never to come back 
no more 1' 

She clasped her hands— the deli- 
cate gloved hands, with their heavy 
bracelets at the wrists, and her 
Toice shook while she spoke. 
* You'll go; won't you? It will 
make your fortune; and— and— I'll 
always think of you kindly— and — 
gratefully. I will indeed ; so long 
as you keep away.' 

He sprang like a horse to the lash. 
'It's h-llr he exclaimed. 'Put 
back your cursed money. I won't 
do it I' 

'You won't do it?' 

There was such quiet despair in 
her accents as drove him to fury. 

'I wont do itr he repeated in 
a low voice that frightened her. 
Til rot in a gaol first 1— I'll swing 
on a gallows I— I'll die in a ditch I 
Take care as you don't give me 
something to swing for 1 Yes, you, 
with your pale face, and yocr high- 
handed ways, and your cold, cruel 
heart that can send a poor devil to 
the other end o' the earth with a 
"pleasant trip, and here's your 
health, my lad," like as if I was 
goio' across to Lambeth. And yet 
vou stand there as beautiful as a 
h'aogel; and I— I'm a fool, I am 1 
And— and I don't know what keeps 



me from sUppin' my knife into that 
white throat o' your*n, except it is 
as you don't look not a morsel 
dashed, nor skeared, you don*t; no 
more than you was that first night 
as ever I see yoor faca And I 
wish my eyes had been lime- blinded 
first, and I'd been dead and rotting 
in my grave.' 

With anything like a contest, as 
usual, Maud's courage came back. 

' I am not in your power yet/ 
said she, raising her haughty head. 
' There stands the cab. When we 
reach it I get in, aed you shall 
never have a chance of speaking to 
me after to-day. Once for alL 
Will you take ' this money, or 
leave it? I shall not make the 
offer again.' 

He took the notes from her hand« 
with a horrible oath, and dashed 
them on the ground ; then, growing 
so pale she thought be must have 
fallen, seemed to recover his temper 
and his presence of mind, picked 
them up, returned them very 
quietly, and stood aside on the 
narrow pavement to let her pass. 

' You are right,' said he in a voice 
so changed she looked anxiously in 
his white face, working like that 
of a msn in a fit '1 was a fool 
a while ago. I know better now. 
But I won't take the notes, my 
lady. Thank ye kindly just the 
same. I'll wish ye good momin* 
now. Oh, no I Make yourself easy. 
I'll never ask to see ye again.' 

He staggered while he walked 
away, and laid hold of an area 
railing as he turned the street 
corner; but Maud was too glad to 
get rid of her tormentor at any 

Erice to speculate on his meaning, 
is movements, or the storm that 
raged within his breast. 

And now, sitting back in her 
carriage, bowling homeward, with 
the fresh evening breeze in her 
face, the few men left to take their 
hats off looked in that fiM», and 
while making up their minds that 
after all it was the handsomest in 
London felt instinctively they had 
never coveted the ownership of its 
haughty beauty so little as to-day. 
Her husband's cornet, walking with 
a brother subaltern, and saluting 
Lady Bearwarden^ or, rather, the 



M.ctN. 



141 



oarriagd and horses, for her lady- 
ship's eyes and thoughts were miles 
away, expreosed the popular feeling 
perhaps with sufficient clearness 
when he thns delivered himself, in 
reply to his companion's londly- 
expressed admiration — 

' The hest-looking woman in Lon- 
don, no donbt, and the best tnmed 
oat Bat I think Bniin's got a 
handfdl, yon know. Tell ye what, 
my boy, I'm generally right about 
women. She looks like the sort 
that» if they once hegin to kick, 
never leave off till they've knocked 
the splinter-bar into toothpicks and 
carried away the ^ole of the front 
boot/ 

Mand, all nnconscioas of the 
light in which she appeared to this 
young philosopher, was meanwhile 
hardening her heart with consider- 
able mifigivings for the task she 
had in view, resolved that nothing 
should now deter her from the con- 
fession she had delayed too long. 
She reflected how foolish it was not 
to have taken advantage of the 
first confidences of married life by 
throwing herself on her husband's 
mercy, telling him all the folly, 
imprudence, crime of which she 
had been guilty, and imploring to 
be forgiven. Every day that passed 
made it more difficult, particularly 
since this coolness had arisen b^ 
tween them, which, althoagh she 
felt it did not originate with her- 
self, she also felt a little pliancy on 
her part, a little warmth of manner, 
a little expressed affection, would 
have done much to counteract and 
put away. She had delayed it too 
long; but 'Better late than never.' 
It should be done to-day; before 
she dressed for dinner; the instant 
she got home. She would put her 
arms round his neck, and tell him 
that the worst of her miquities, the 
most unpardonable, had been com- 
mitted for love of him I She could 
not bear to lose him (Maud forgot 
that in those days it was the coro- 
net she wanted to capture). She 
dreaded falling in his esteem. She 
dared all, risked all, because with- 
out him life must have been to her, 
as it is to so many, a blank and 
a mistake. But supposing he put 
on the cold, grave face, assumed 



the conventional tone she knew so 
well, told her he could not pardon 
such unladylike, such unwomanly 
proceedings, or that he did not 
desire to intrude on confidences so 
long withheld; or, worse than all, 
that they did very well as they 
were, got on — ^he had hinted as 
much once before — ^better than half 
the married couples in London, 
why, she must bear it. This would 
be part of the punishment; and 
at least she could have the satis- 
faction of assuring him how she 
loved him, and of loving him 
heartily, humbly, even without re- 
turn. 

Lady Bearwarden had never done 
anything humbly before. Perhaps 
she thought this new sensation 
might be for her good— might make 
her a changed woman, and in such 
change happier henceforth. 

Tears sprang to her eyes. How 
slow that man drove; but, thank 
heaven 1 here she was, home at last 

On the hall-table lay a letter in 
her husband's handwriting, ad- 
dressed to herself. * How provok- 
ing 1' she muttered, ' to say he dines 
out, of course. And now I must 
wait till to-morrow. Never mind.' 
f« Passing upstairs to her boudoir, 
she opened it as she entered the 
room, and sank into a chair, with a 
faint, passionate cry, like that of a 
hare, or other weak animal, struck 
to the death. She had courage, 
nevertheless, to read it over twice, 
so as thoroughly to master the con- 
tents. During their engagement 
they used to meet every day. They 
had not been parted since their 
marriaga It was the first, literally 
the very first, letter she had ever 
received from him. 

' I have no reproaches to make,' 
it said, ' nor reasons to offer for my 
own decision. I leave both to your 
sense of right, if indeed yours can 
be the same as that usually accepted 
amongst honourable peopla I have 
long felt some mysterious barrier 
existed between yon and me. I have 
only an hour ago discovered its dis- 
graceful nature, and the impossibi- 
lity that it can ever be removed. 
You cannot wonder at my not re- 
turning homa stay there as long 
as you please, and be assured I shall 



142 



ILorJT. 



not enter thftt house again. Ton will 
not probably wish to see or hold any 
communication with me in future, 
but should you be so ill-advised 
as to attempt it, remember I have 
taken care to render it impossible. 
I know not how I have forfeited the 
right to be treated fairly and on the 
square, nor why you, of all the 
world, should have felt entitled to 
make me your dupe, but this is a 
question on which I do not mean to 
enter, now nor hereafter. My man 
of business will attend to any direc- 
tions you think proper to give, and 
has my express injunctions to far- 
ther your convenience in every way, 
but to withhold my address and all 
information respecting my move- 
ments. With a sincere wish for 
your welfiue, I remain, 

' Yours, &c., 

' Bea^bwabden/ 

She was stunned, stupefied, bewil- 
dered. What had he found oat? 
What could it mean? She had 
known of late she loved him very 
dearly; she never knew till now 
the pain such love might bring. 
She rocked herself to and fro in her 
agony, but soon started up into 
action. She mvaido soTnetking. She 
could not sit there under his Tery 
picture looking down on her, manly, 
and kind, and soldierlike She ran 
downstairs to his room. It was all 
disordered just as he had left it, and 
an odour of tobacco clung heavily 
round tibe curtains and furniture. 
She wondered now she should ever 
have disliked the fumes of that un- 
savoury plant She could not bear 
to stay there long, but hurried up« 
stairs again to ring for a servant 
and bid him get a cab at once, to 
see if Lord Bearwarden was at the 
barracks. She felt hopelessly con- 
vinced it was no use; even if he 
were, nothing would be gained by 
the assurance, but it seemed a relief 
to obtain an interval of waiting and 
uncertainty and delay. When the 
man returned to report that 'his 
lordship had been there and gone 
away again' she wished she had let 
it alone. It formed no light portion 
of her burden that she must pre- 
serve an appearance of composure 
before her servants. It seemed such 



& mockery while her heart was 
breaking, yes, breaking, in the deso- 
lation of her sorrow, the bhink of a 
future without htm. 

Then in extremity of need she 
bethought her of Dick Stanmore, 
and in this I think Lady Bearwar- 
den betrayed, under all her energy 
and force of character, the softer 
elements of woman's naturei A man, 
I suppose, under any pressure of 
affliction would hardly go for conso- 
lation to the woman he had de- 
ceived. He partakes more of the 
wild beast^s sulkiness, which, sick 
or wounded, retires to mope in a 
comer by itself ;. whereas a woman, 
as indeed seems only becoming to 
her less firmly-moulded character, 
shows in a straggle all the qualities 
of valour except that one additional 
atom of final endurance which wins 
the fight at last. In real bitter dis- 
tress they must have some one to 
lean on. Is it selfishness that bids 
them carry their sorrows for help to 
the very hearts they have crushed 
and trampled? Is it not rather a 
noble instinct of forgiveness and 
generosity which tells them that if 
their mutual cases were reversed 
they would themselves be capable 
of affording the sympathy they ex- 
pect? 

Maud knew that, to use the con- 
ventional language of the world in 
which they moved, 'she had treated 
Dick ill.' We think very lightly of 
thcBc little social outrages in the 
battle of life, and yet I doubt if one 
human being can inflict a much 
deeper injury ou another than that 
which deprives the victim of all 
power of enjoyment, all belief in 
good, all hope for the future, all 
tender memories of the past Man 
or woman, we ought to have some 
humane compunction, some little 
hesitation in sitting down to play at 
that game from which the winner 
rises only wearied with unmerited 
good fortune, the loser, haggard, 
miserable, stripped and beggared 
for life. 

It was owing to no forbearance of 
Lady Bearwarden's that Dick had 
80 far recovered his losses as to sit 
down once more and tempt fortune 
at another table ; but she turned to 
him nevertheless in this her hour of 



If. or Jr. 



148 



perplexity, and wrote to ask his aid, 
advioe, and sympathy in her great 
distress. 

I give her letter, though it never 
reached its destination, hecanse I 
think it illnstrates certain feminine 
ideas of honour, jnstioe, and plain 
dealing which must originate in 
some code of reasoning totally nn- 
intelligible to ourselves. 

'DsAB Mb. Stakmorb,— You are 
a true friend I feel sure. I have 
always considered tou since we have 
been acquainted, the truest and most 
tried amongst the few I possess. 
Tou told me once, some time ago, 
when we used to meet oftener than 
we have of late, that if eyer I was 
in sorrow or difficulty I was to he 
sure and let you know. I am in 
sorrow and difficulty now— great 
sorrow, overwheloiing difficulty. I 
have nobody that cares for me 
enough to give ad?ice or help, and 
I am so very, very sad and desolate. 
I think I have some claim upon you. 
We used to be so much together 
and were always such good Mends. 
Besides, we are almost relations, are 
we not? and once I thought we 
should have been something more. 
But that is all over now. 

' Will jou help me ? Gome to me 
at once, or write. Lord Bearwarden 
has left me without a word of ex- 
planation except a cruel, cutting, 
formal letter that I cannot under- 
stand. I don't know what I have 
said or done, but it seems so hard, 
so inhuman. And I loved him very 
dearly, very. Indeed, though you 
have every right to say you don't 
believe me, I would have made him 
a good wife if he had let me. My 
heart seems quite crushed and 
broken. It is too hard. Again I 
ask you to help me, and remain 
always 

' Yours sincerely, 

' M. Bbabwaedbh.' 

There is little doubt that had Dick 
Stanmore e^er received this touch- 
ing production he would have lost 
not one moment in complying with 



the urgency of its appeal. But Dick 
did not receive it» for the simnle 
reason that although stamped by 
her ladyship and placed in the lei- 
ter-box, it was never sent to the post 

Lord Bearwarden, though absent- 
ing himself from home under such 
unpleasant circumstances, could not 
therefoxe shake off the thousand 
imperceptible meshes that bind a 
man like chains of iron to his own 
domestic establishmeni Amongst 
other petty details hia correspond- 
enoe had to be provided for, and he 
sent directions accordingly to his 
groom of the chambers that all his 
letters should be forwarded to a cer- 
tain address. The groom of the 
chambers, who had served in one or 
two fiBunilies before, of which the 
heads had sefMurated under rather 
discreditable circumstances, misun- 
derstanding his master's orders, or 
determined to err on the safe side, 
forwarded all the letters he could 
lay hands on to my lord. There- 
fore the hurt and angry husband 
was greeted, ere he had left home a 
day, by the sight of an envelope in 
his wife's handwriting addressed to 
the man with whom he believed she 
was in love. Even under such pro- 
vocation Lord Bearwarden was too 
high-minded to open the enclosure, 
but sent it back forthwith in a slip 
of paper, on which he calmly ' pre- 
sented his compliments and begged 
to forward a letter he could see was 
Lady Bearwarden's that had fallen 
into his hands by mistake.' 

Maud, weeping in her desolate 
home, tore it into a thousand shreds. 
There was something characteristic 
of her husband in these little honour- 
able scruples that cut her to the 
heart. 

'Why didn't he read it?' she re- 
peated, wringing her hands and 
walking up and down the room. 
' He knows Mr. Stanmore quite well. 
Why didn't he read it? and then 
he would have seen what I shall 
never, never be able to tell him 
nowl' 



•^s'^^^^ 



lU 



SUMMEE DAYS AMONG THE WHITE MOUNTAINS 



A SIX hours' ride by rail from 
BofitoD, MASsacbnsettB, brings 
yon to the borders of one of thoee 
lovely lakes which are so frequent 
and so essential in that rich and 
wild scenery which prsTails in 
America. Lake Winnepiseogee — 
such is its aboriginal and tongue- 
torturing name— lies almost at the 
foot of the range of mountains 
which is the favourite sojourning 
place of those New England fnshion- 
ables who prefer the mountain air 
to the sea-oreeze, and who find a 
deeper pleasure in wandering in 
* the forest primeval— the murmur- 
ing pines and the hemlocks/ than 
in listening to the ' perpetual 
laughter of the dimpling sea- 
waves/ The journey, indeed, from 
the city to the lake is not devoid 
of interest; the curious English 
sojourner among his Yankee cou- 
sins — may they always be cousinly, 
these two — will not fiiil to find, 
both on the road and at the trip's 
end, scenes and things worth noting 
in that inevitable note-book which 
marks the true tourist -spirit 
Northern Massachusetts has not a 
little to boast of in rich and varie- 
gated landscape: fine farm hinds; 
broad sweeping meadows; wide 
slow-flowing rivers; great whistling 
forests; and hill and dale merging 
gently into each other, and bearing 
on their bosom the fruit of the 
husbandman's thrift and the Yan- 
kee's energy. Anon you whirl 
through great manufacturing towns 
with their palatial mills and huge 
whizzing wheels, and buzzing, bee- 
like population; passing abruptly 
from the spectacle of the conquest 
of earth to that of mechanical ele- 
ments. 

If you are so happy as to make 
the trip on one of those 'perfect 
days of June,' when the blue above 
is boundless and fathomless, and 
the green below is darkest, freest, 
newest to outer earth — ^meeting far 
off there in the horizon, and di- 
viding for us everywhere the scope 
of sight— if you have such a day, 
the manufacturing towns are apt to 
be rather in the way — too de- 



structive of the seducing illusion 
of the country, its air, sounds, and 
sights. You leave Lowell, and with 
it the last of thoee painftilly vivid 
reminders that you live in a world 
of toil and hard, grating, practical 
cares and thoughts. The sloping 
hills and minute culture change 
into loftier ranges and rude declivi- 
ties; finally, gradoally, the lower 
spurs of the White Mountains 
come into sight. Of Lake Winne- 
piseogee I, at least, cannot speak 
without enthusiasm. If you see it 
first, as I did, under the canopy 
of great dark rolling clouds, dark- 
ening, in places, alike mountain 
landscape and lake surface, it is 
grand and beautiful: not the less 
BO that the crests of the majestio 
hills are encircled by swaying and 
uncertain vapours. Perhaps there 
is no season when a lake landscape 
is so picturesque as when a long 
and heavy storm has just exhausted 
itself, and the rolling clouds, now 
lighter and wreathing themselves 
gracefully, wind into fiutastic 
shapes and momentary festoons 
about the slopes and over the 
valleys — the valleys and hill-sides 
meanwhile catching here and there 
a gleam of sunlight, illumining 
here and there a farmhouse or a 
wheat field, while all about is 
dimmed. And such an effect yon 
may often see on this gem of a 
mountain lake, Winnepiseogee. (Let 
me hope that the name — which, if 
you can only teach yourself to pro- 
nounce it, is really a musical one — 
will not frighten the romance of the 
scene from the imagination of my 
lady readers.) 

Old Winnepiseogee is some twenty 
or thirty miles long, and irregular 
in width; tradition of the farmers 
apprises us that it contains just 
three hundred and sixty-five islands 
— one for each day in the year; and 
it has been said that in leap-year an 
additional fedry island makes its ap- 
pearance in the midst of the waters, 
visible, however, only by moon- 
light Banges of mountains are on 
almost every side; to the north- 
ward rises the stately range of the 



Summer Days among the WhUe Mountains. 



145 



White Monniaiiui proper, their 
snowy tops easily distingnished 
firom the gray and green hae of 
tiieir lesser brothers. The islands 
in the lake aie mostly exceedingly 
heantifdl, thick with the wild, care- 
lessly graceful fbliage characteristic 
of American scenery, abounding 
sn rich nncaltnred fruits, contain- 
ing loyel^ little coyes and pic- 
turesque jutting promontories, and 
natural alcoves and grottoes inimi- 
table by the art of man. The 
middle of June sees the swarms 
of tourists flocking to the lake, 
across it, and beyond to the moun- 
tain resorts. Eoyiable to those 
who have to stay in the city and 
plod are these merry groups— for 
right merry are tiiey, infected by 
the rural air and lovely scene, 
albeit children of Puritan Pilgrims 
— who are so lucky as to get away 
to witness these august and beau- 
tiful testimonies to the goodness of 
God. 

Frocul a ntgotiis, your pros- 
perous man of business, who, 
tboughH Yankee-sharp at a trade, 
no doubt, can reaUy be a jolly 
fellow when free from the per- 
plexities of his counting-room, re- 
tires to lake and mountain, and 
spends the long summer months in 
the countless pursuits of pleasure, 
which have only one drawback — 
that you find it so hard which of 
them to choose. Better still, fax 
from the heat and weariness of 
jashionable slavery, the young 
Kew England damsels escape to 
these retreats, where they may live 
and grow rosy once more over the 
hearty count^ fare, with its honey 
and fresh milk, its homely bread 
and fruits, its local culinary tri- 
umphs and harmless beverages. 
Here is health for them, the poor 
jaded creatures, become languid 
from the exhausting winter cam- 
paign of fiekshion; from these hills 
uid lakes they may drink in new 
life, and derive merry spirits once 
more. Who is not there, on the 
neat little steamboat, as it carries 
you and me over the placid waters 
of Lake Winnepiseogee ? Are you 
a student of human nature, you 
may indulge that pet occupation to 
your hearrs content, at the same 
VOL. xvL— Ko. xon. 



time that you refresh yourself with 
the mountain breezes and your 
eyes with the countless littie islands 
and the sloping lake-shore. Every- 
body—at least the representatives 
and types of everybody— are there 
before us. The typical Pater£Br 
milias, in a constant state of anxiety 
about the luggage, which he has to 
keep a 'sht^ look-out on;' while 
he nas at the same time to carry 
shawls and stools and what not 
from one end of the deck to the 
other and back again, and acts as 
waiter-general to his exacting party 
of daughters and nieces; Pater- 
fiunilias is there, many times re- 
peated. Sporting young gentie- 
men, all leggings and bobcoats, idl 
straps and fishing tackle, are there ; 
fitshionable fops, in fiiultless attire, 
dividing their time between re- 
sisting the propensity of stray par- 
ticles of dust to &sten on them, 
and lisping platitudes to the bevy 
of girls by the flag-pole— they are 
th^ too, plenty and various; of 
course the man who ' can tell you 
all about this r^ion' is there, a 
walking guide-book, who can nar- 
rate wonderful things about every 
little nook and comer throughout 
the trip, who has travelled over 
the route a marvellous number of 
times, and, before the journey is 
over, has established himself on 
intim te terms with everybody on 
the boat; there are shoals of artists, 
savagely hirsute, discussing points 
of view, and backgrounds, and 
colour effects, and niaking sudden 
discoveries of ' eligible ' landscapes, 
which they all tip over their h^kLs 
and squint at; there are dry-as- 
dust lawyers, and sleek parsons 
with oily voices and weak lungs, 
and prosperous doctors telling hor- 
rible stories, and paternal school- 
masters with shoals of boys whom 
thoy are taking to the mountains on 
botanical or geological enieditions. 
There is flirting, and reading, and 
eating, and smoking, and sketching, 
and shrill 'OhsT at the scenery, 
natty travelling suits, and littie . 
flat sun-hats, much like those you 
see on the Bhine or in the Alp?. 
The luggage is piled up on ue 
lower deck, and every modem 
travelling appliance is discoverable 

L 



146 



Ddjfi amomg&e WhUe 



in the ndgfaboiufaood of the tomr- 
istB. One nman why audi aa 
exconkm is peenliatly plo—nt is, 
that everybody m sociable, and 
quite zeady to get awpminted with 
ererybodT elae. Mo qneationa aaked 
aboat pedigree, extaat of pone, Aie. 
Every Eogliahaiaa who haa tnir 
veiled in Ameriea will tell yoa 
bow readily acqnainteaoe is to be 
made on lines of public travel; 
indeed, more than one haa com- 
plained that hand-shaking and sad- 
den finendshipe are rather too 
prevalent in the States. But it is 
erring, at least, on the genial side. 
So it is that onr nuseeUaaeona 
group of paraengess on board the 
prat^ little WinnepiseogBe steam- 
boat are, before uie two boon' 
joomey across the lake is over, on 
the easiest and pleasantest terms 
possible; lan^ung and talking 
with each other witii as litfle cere- 
mony as if they were each and all 
a fiimily party. It wiU be strange 
if elaborate plans have not beoi 
matured to meet each other in the 
mountains and to make pio-nie or 
berrying ezcursionB among the 
forests and along the river-sides 
which abound there, and are so 
well adapted to these pastimes. At 
the upper end of the lake the hills 
have become more lofty, and the 
cool, dry mountain air has become 
more perceptible and refreshing. 
We land at the little pier and walk 
up a knoU to the old-fiashioned inn 
(there are such still even in new 
America), with its long verandah 
running ak)Dg its front and afford- 
ing a chazming view of the lake. 

S(»ne, however, do not go as &r as 
the end of the steamboat's journey. 
Many of the islands of the lake 
ate large enough to be inhabit- 
able ; some are a mile or two long 
and half a mile wide, and are the 
residences of hardy New England 
farmers. Nearly all of these &nners 
are quite willing to receive 
boarders; and, to him who has 
come off purposely to get away 
from society, and desires, above 
all things, rustic tranquillity and 
aquatic sports, nothings can be more 
charming than to take up an abode 
at one of these island fiurmhouses. 
Th^y all have boats in plenty, and 



fishing-tackle, which, if less 
plicated and ornate than that wfaiek 
IS dtj-bongfat, is found to be quit» 
as efBactoal for pnctical purpesaar 
Some of the fyrmers, antidpaterj 
of guests, have bialt ninepm aUe^ 
at the watisMBde, and have cleaBsd 
pleassat little umbiageous copses 
for oaniature pie-nics; and oftem 
during the summer parties of vil- 
lagers from the opposite shoio 
come over by boatsfdl to danoe^ 
row, sing, and feast beneath the 
shady expanse and on the water. 
It must be remembered that there 
is everywhere so much room m 
America that there is no restriction 
whi^ver either in fishing, or hunt- 
ing, or wandering whithersoever 
one lists over £he forests sad 
through the fields. So yoa are 
careful not to tread down the 
wheat, or crush the vines, you are 
perfectly free to go and come, with 
no permission to ask, and no bailifb 
or house-dogs to fear. A more 
delightful life than this m the 
island fiumhouse it is hard to 
imagina One feels a sense of 
freedom nowhere else experienced. 
Tou may take your gun, and wan- 
der from (me end of the island to 
the other, unmolested, and only 
hearing the country sounds and 
buzzing which is so grateful to the 
city denizee. You may fish, or 
row, or swim, or lounge and read, 
wheal and where you wilL You 
may take a boat, and make Crusoe- 
like vovages of discovery to the 
hundred neighbouring little islands 
scattered near, or have an im- 
promptu lunch of fried fish and 
roast potatoes on the smooth sand 
of the many lovely little coves. 
You may either philosophize, study, 
or refuse to think altogether. Tito 
accommodations of the farmhouse 
are not elegant, but they abound 
in homely comforts; the good foiik 
are rouffh and plain, but kindly; 
the food is iresh and pure, well 
cooked, and plenty of it In such 
a life the summer but too rapidly 
slides away ; and the only regret is 
to tear one's self away when the 
time of departure has arrived. 

In the fresh, crisp, early mominff 
air, the dew yet glistening on pm 
and blade, the okL-fiiduoBed st^ge- 



Summer Daif$ amonj ike White Mountain. 



147 



coach (thexe axe these, too, oh, 
Conservatiye reader, in lepublican 
American whirls np in front of the 
hotel, ana those who are going for- 
ward to penetrate to the midatof 
the moantain region bnstle about 
to get their luggage aboard, and to 
seeare seats for iuemselTes. It is 
so early that oar fops are drowefy, 
and oar damsels hare reddish eyes, 
and hair not too minutely combed; 
but soon the soeDe becomes liyely, 
and cheery laughter rings out, and 
tiiore is a good-natured struggle for 
the tip-top seats. The boys are apt 
to contend for the seats next the 
dxiyer— that ineyitable oracle, and 
peculiar philoeopher, friend, and 
wonder of boys eyerywhere. Th& 
young ladies are by no means too 
squeamish to take places on the 
trunks and boxes on the roof of the 
coach, the more nSgligS and informal 
eT»7thing is the better. The 
journey is to be a long one~HK>me 
six or eight hours— and so there are 
innumerable baskets and hampers 
of proyisions, bottles of currant and 
gooseberry wine, whfle the young 
men hare ample supplies of cigars, 
meeischaum pipes, and pouches of 
'fine-eut cavenaish.' llie sceneiT 
through which our great stEhge-coach 
rumbles, to the sound of the crack- 
ling whip and the marry harness- 
bells, is really peculiar to America ; 
and one who has not been there can 
hardly form an idea of its contrast 
with any scenery discoverable in 
Europei The brilliant effect of a 
storm just passed, already spoken 
of as enhancing the beauty of the lake 
landscape, is also discoYcred in the 
mountam landscape. When all is 
dear, and the storm has just left a 
bright glistening green tmge upon 
the whole scene, and tiie peaks of 
the mountains, now hue, cluster 
around you, bcnmding the horizon, 
the view is one certunly not to be 
surpassed in loreliness, although 
Alp and Tjieooe may excel it in 
TBstneas and grandeur. Then there 
is infinite variety in ihis landscape 
thrCQgh which you nass between 
the lake and the high mountains. 
Sometimes you whirl through a thin 
fbrest, its trees uniform and wide 
apart, and the gromid fiorly covered 
with ite short fiat bush of the blue- 



berry^the peculiar and delicious 
fruit of the region, now just getting 
ripe— a fruit, most like, perlu^ps, 
the whortlebeny, but flGir nicer, and 
having no counterpart in any Eu- 
ropean {>roduction. This berry, let 
me say in passing, is as large as a 
very large pea, and is of a beautiful 
very light blue colour; its pulp is 
white and sweet, and it is a great 
favourite throughout New England. 
It is made into pies, puddings, and 
cakes, and never fails to enrich 
whatever dish it forms a part of. 
Anon, to resume the journey, you 
emerge into a wide, square, flat 
meadow plain, closing abruptly on 
either side at the foot of the moun- 
tains, not gradually sloping up to 
them. In its midst, a bxoaa, wmd- 
ing river slowly flows ; on its bosom, 
here and there, are bDautiful flelds 
of wheat or maize. Above it are 
often ledges of great height. These 
ledges, in America, are the castles 
built by nature to supply, in the 
landscape, the place of the feudal 
castles of Europa On one of them, 
in this journey which we desoribe, is 
to be seen a distinct resemblance to 
a white horse, formed by the strata 
of the rock. This is a curious ob- 
ject to the tourists, and is named 
the 'White Horse Ledge.' There 
are also, in the same vicinity, several 
pretty little lakes, nestling near the 
ledges, which produce remarkable 
echoes among other attractions. 

The ledges and rock of this region 
are mostly composed of granite; and 
New Haznmhire, the State which 
boasts the White Mountains,is there- 
fore named the ' Granite State.' 

The stage-coach, after a glorious 
journey of some eight hours, brings 
us to a charming village, lying in 
the midst of the broad vaUey of the 
Saco, midway between the mountain 
ranges on either side, which bears 
the good old English name of 
Conway. Here it is relieved of 
many of its passengers; for Gon- 
wav is one of the best and most 
ftshionable White Mountain resorts. 
Along the wide and shaded road 
you will espy some half a dozen 
spacious and most comfortable-look- 
ing hotels; and about them all is 
the prosperous appearance of a brisk 
season, fcft everywhere you see the 
- I. a 



148 



Summer Day$ among ike While Mcuniaine. 



pleasureHseekers going to and fro, 
standing in groups or playing oat- 
door games. On either side pretty 
roads branch off, stadded here and 
there with neat fJEtrmhooses with 
porches and lawns, and shaded 
by noble chestnnts and elms, the 
few snrviyors of ' the forest prim* 
eyal/ You may take yoor choice, 
eiUier to make your abode at the 
hotel, surrounded by a city colony, 
which still keeps up here all the 
fashionable customs, or to secure 
board at one of the farmhouses, 
which haye all been made ready for 
yisitors, and where you may enjoy 
tranquillity with the advantage of 
going down to the hotels, and 
plunging into 'sociefy' wheneyer 
you may happen to feel so inclined. 
The life in the hotel is, despite the 
toilets and fashionable exigencies, a 
merry one. Somehow or other the 
ladies manage to unite the two in a 
manner most adroit and skilful. 
As I said before, eyery one is soon 
acquainted with eyery one else, and 
this makes the contrast between 
this American mountain resort and 
those of Germany and Switzerland 
yery striking. It soon gets to be 
like a counter hoase full of a great 
and yarious family gathering. The 
yotmg ladies and young gentlemen 
haye all got togeUier, haye found 
their 'affinities,' and loye-making, 
either in a light or a desperate 
fashion, liecomes the main occupa- 
tion of the young portion of the 
guests. The elders haye also be- 
come easy with each other, and talk 
politics or stocks, play chess or 
whist, compare fashions, or gossip 
about the new arrivals quite as per- 
sistently as if they were at home. 
How shall I describe the infinite 
amusements, old and newly-in- 
yented, which serve to steal time 
away from the pleasure-seekers, and 
to draw the summer away from 
under their feet without their know- 
ing it? In the unrestricted freedom 
of the country there are, of course, 
many wanderings over the vast and 
velvety meadows, and in among the 
tall yellow wheat-ears. Of course 
the motmtains must be climbed, 
and views taken of the valleys ; then 
crinoline must be discarded, and 
broad, flappy sun-hats donned; and 



there is infinite fun in creeping up 
the rooky paths, meademoiselles 
having plentiful assistance from the 
arms and hands of their gallants. 
Often these moxmtain excursions 
have another object— the fiiscinating 
one of picking the blueberries. 
These grow in wonderful luxuriance 
on the craggy mountain sides, and 
it is really great fim to be of a party, 
supplied with baskets and pails, 
who spend the day gathering them, 
stopping now and then to talk and 
laugh and joke, and to sit under 
some wide-spreading tree to deyour 
the lunch which has been brought, 
and for which the berry-picking and 
mountain-climbing has given a rare 
zest Sometimes the fun is inter- 
rupted by an unwelcome guest- 
unwelcome, at least, to the timid 
excursionists of the gentler sex. 
' Those horrid snakes ' are truly the 
abcHninatiQU of your young lady 
who seeks her pleasure among the 
mountuns. Then, when one of 
these reptiles, which are not un- 
common there, thrusts his ugly fiBuoe 
among the company, there is much 
screaming and ado, tendencies to 
faint away, which necessitate mas- 
culine support, while the gallant 
youths rejoice to display their valour, 
and zealously engage in following 
up the intruder, and laying his life- 
less form, a trophy, before their ad- 
miring but frightened companions. 
And what an Elysium is this moun- 
tain region to your practised sports- 
man I As far as ms legs can carry 
him he may roam, day after day, 
gun on shoulder, fearing no pro- 

Erietor of the soil, and with limit- 
ss game on every hand. 
Here, too, among these yast fo- 
rests, and along these broad rivers 
which are among the * White HUls,' 
is a rich field for the ardent disciple 
of old Izaak Walton. The woods 
are replete with little narrow gurg- 
ling brooks, and these brooks abound 
in trout, fat and shiny in their pros- 
perous solitude. You may take 
your pole, basket, and fiy, and stroll 
up through the brush, and through 
the shady dells, all day long, with 
plenty of game and no interruption. 
Prefer you river fishing for perch 
or roach, lake fishing for pike and 
lake-trout? Here it is, then, un- 



Summer Days among the White Momtains. 



149 



limited, at your hand, and, are you 
only an expert angler, yon may each 
day retom to your farmhonse or 
hotel laden with treaanreB unstinted 
for breakfast or dinner delectation. 
There is in the White Monntains 
occasionally rarer and fiercer sport 
than this. Eyen in this long- settled 
part of America— for New Hamp- 
shire was colonized early in the 
seTenteenth centoiy—- there is occa- 
sionally a black bear discovered, 
some solitary descendant of the an- 
cient hairy lords of the domain. 
When such an eyent occurs there is 
excitement of y eneiy indeed 1 Parties 
sconr the monntains and dells for old 
Bruin, and he is, perhaps, bronght 
down after a hearly struggle, not 
without its dangers. Partridges, 
pigeons, and quails are seemingly 
inexhaustible there in their season. 
Often parties of adyenturous fel- 
lows ^nll take gun and hamper, 
start out, and be gone seyeral days 
among tiie solitfiffy wilds of the 
mountains. They provide them- 
selves with canvas, and when they 
have reached a &vourable spot, 
many miles from any habitation — 
likely enough some little open space 
in the midst of the thick forest, or 
cm the bank of some tumbling and 
splashing mountain stream — they 
pitch tbdir tents, set up their tri- 
pods, lay their blankets, and after 
ei^ying a rare sport by day, cook 
their dinner at dusk from its pro- 
ceeds, and smoke, drink, sing, and 
play cards, by the light of tbe blazing 
fire which th^ have built before 
their tenta Such a life, if the rain 
only holds off, is glorious and joy- 
ous, as I can testify from a debght- 
fnl experience. 



Meanwhile, at the hotels, the 
young ladies and the stay-at-home 
young gentlemen indulge in more 
quiet and more fashionable amuse- 
ments. If you pass along tire vil- 
lage street at night— and what glo- 
riously clear and limpid nights tibey 
are there !— from ahnoet every house 
there comes out a sound of music 
and revelry. Dancing whiles away 
the short summer evenings, and 
bands have been imported from the 
dty for the purpose. Sometimes it 
is varied by those household games 
which New England has inherited 
from Old Ensland; something is 
ceriain to be done to make the even- 
ing fly away on win^^ Croquet 
and velocipedes are the order of 
the day, every hotel being pro- 
vided with the implements of the 
former game. Pio-nics are frequent, 
and, amidst this grand scenery, and 
under this welcome shade, and be- 
side these roaring streams, pic-nics 
are in their perfection. How pleasant 
to dance under the lofty oaks, fanned 
by soft, cool mountain breezes ! How 
refreshing is the luncheon of currant 
wine, cold chicken, sandwiches, and 
cake, dealt out by delicate female 
hands, amid merry laughter and in- 
finite joking! Then there is the 
wandering m couples among the 
trees, the cosy taJk in the quiet 
nook, the berry-picking, the poetry- 
reading, the sketch-drawing, and 
the * silent meditation, fancy firee.' 
So let all wanderers in America, 
who would fain avoid wilting at the 
more fashionable watering-places, 
hie them to this lovely mountain re- 
gion, tiiere to find robust health, and 
pleasures as substantial as Uiose 
described. 

Gboboe Maejbpeaob Towlk. 




160 



CROSS PUEPOSES. 
CHAPTER L 



EARLY in the perfoct aatomn 
moniing, when the gossuiier- 
webs^ dew-spangled, eovered tiie 
mofissB and roadside weeds, and 
the gone on Hie upland ; nnder the 
beedbes, whose leaves weie just be- 
ginning to change and to &11, to 
flutter down slowly and BoSUy, even 
without wind; 0]^M)aite a small 
window, in an otherwise blank and 
thickly-ivied wall, she paused and 
hesitated. 

Perhaps ten minutes — perhaps 
twenty— she stood there, looking 
intently at a letter she held, only 
Btndying the address of it— and 
thal^ too, written by her own hand. 

Nobody passed; nothing dis- 
turbed her : a squirrel was rostling 
the boughs above her head, and 
small birds e^ her from out the 
ivy; but there she stood, till, at 
last, a footstep of some one coming 
down towards her from the higher 
part of the village roused her: then 
she crossed the road, put her letter 
into the slit in the window, and 
began to walk fast in the opposite 
direction from that whence came 
the footstep. 

Hurry as she might, she was soon 
overtaken. A hand rested on her 
shouldjer, lightly yet firmly, and 
quite as if it had a right to rest 
there if it chose. 

' Edith 1 you used to say you al- 
ways could tell my footstep from 
any other; in the few days I've 
been away from the island have you 
forgotten it?' 

' I did not say I could not do so 
now.' 

The girl spoke sharply, still hur- 
rying on, wi&out looking up. 

'My child!' bending forward to 
look her more fully in the face, 
'what is the matter with you? 
This is a queer reception. What is 
the matter with you ?* 

* "Why should there be anything 
the matter with me ?' 

* You are looking ill.' 
•I'm tired.' 

' Take my arm— why do you walk 
sofju? 



' I wanted to post a letter my- 
seHl' 

'Take my aim. 1\>whom?' 

' To my oourin Gertrude.' 

She looked him in thefiicenow. 
A handsome, honeat iiEu», with grey 
^yes, and a goldenrbrown beard and 
moustache, veiy brilliant in the 
goldm sunshine that fell tiirough 
the golden boughs ; so brilliant that 
she flOQsi looked down again. 

'Why don't you take my arm?' 
Ln an ill-used, wondering iooe, 

' I would rather not' 

Sudden tears dropped down as 
she remembered she did not mean 
to have the right to claim it 
any 'nK»re. Remembering this, she 
clasped it now, with both hiinds, 
suddenly, passionately: she was 
very mudi of a child stall. 

'That is right!' and the grey 
eyes — warm grey— shone down upon 
her contentedly. ' Now about your 
cousin Gertrude : had you anything 
very particular to tell her that you 
chose to post your letter yonzsefr?' 

' Yes; I have asked her to come 
and stay wiiii me : your mother has 
promised her a month's holiday; I 
have asked her to spend it with 
me.' 

' I am sorry for that' 

His fifice flushed and his brows 
contracted. 

' You need not be.' 

' I am the best judge of that, my 
child. I have my reasons, Edith, 
and I am sorry, very sorry.' 

'Perhaps I know more of your 
reasons than you fsbucy.' 

He turned an inquiring look upon 
her, but she looked away. They 
were both silent after that a good 
while. She kept her eyes bent upon 
the ground. She knew each bit of 
the road well: she was calculating 
time and distance. She said to her- 
self ' When we come to the great 
hazel-bush, I will leave hold of his 
arm and speak;' meanwhile sho 
clasped the arm very close. 

He spoke first : a sudden turn in 
the road showed them, between 
arching boughs of crimson and 



Orou Pttrpaet* 



151 



golden beecheB, the flashing blne- 
11688 of an early monung sea lying 
Ux below, dotted here and tiieze 
with a 8iK>w-white saiL 

'What a perfBct moniingl what 
a perfect soene!' he said, pausing, 
and then recited the exquisite yerses 
from 'In Memoriam/ beginning— 

* Calm te the mem, witbont a loaiil' 

She repeated, softly— 

'If mj aim, a calm deqwlr/ 

let herself linger leaning on him a 
few moments, then snatched her 
hand from his arm, choking with 
the thought, ' It will never be there 
again V looked before and after, and 
said— 

' I am near home now, and I have 
a few words to speak to you first' 

She leant back against the low 
wall, and tried with all her might 
to calm herself, that he might not 



see how much she was agita 
She snoceeded only too well: her 
soft dark cheek lost its bloom, 
tomed yellowish-white; but she 
looked prond and sullen, rather 
than scNTrowful. 

He pansed before her, fall of 
wcmder at her changed manner— at 
her dry, haid, nngirlish tone of 
voice. 

'Yon haye often said I did not 
loye you,' she began. ' I am going 
now to confirm all the eyil yon 
have ever thought of me. I wish 
to break our engagement: I wish to 
be free from you, and to set you 
firae from me.' 

He was silent some moments: 
she tzied to look at him, but fiuling, 
kept her eyes upon the faHea beech- 
masts, which she stirred with her 
foot. 

' WhaVs the meaning of this ? 

Whai he spoke, he spc^e so 
sternly that she felt a&aid. 

'I haye tried to speak plainly,' 
she said. 'I wish to be free, to 
marry any one else' (if he had un- 
deistood the inflection of her yoico, 
he would haye learnt frcnn it that 
in the world there was none else for 
her), 'or to remain single; and I 
wish you to be firae to marry some 
one elso—arane one who will loye 
you better than I do.* (That same 
inflection of the yoice.) ' I know 



now that I oould not be ba|^y aa 
your wife, and that you would ncyt 
be happy as my husband.' 

His oolour had risen angrily ; he 
kicked some stones from under his 
feet with an energy that sent them 
spinning far down the road. 

' I haye, I think, some slight right 
to an explanation,' he said— his 
yoioe was not steady,—^' oonsideriDg 
that in a few months you were to 

haye been What did you say?* 

(She had echoed 'were to haye 
been.') 

'Nothing,' she answered: 'go 
on.' 

' Considering that in a few months 
you were to haye been my wife; 
considering that tiie last six months 
haye been passed by me in preparing 
to receive you as my wifa^ 

' Your notion of fit prepacation to 
receive me as your wife seems to 
me a strange one!* she cried, pas- 
sionately; and then repented this 
utterance. He had caught the 
words, and paused upon them. 

'What does this mean? Who has 
been tampering with you? Who 
has been exciting your jealousy ?' 

' If I am jealous, you are well rid 
of ma A jeidous woman is an 
accursed thing— I've heard you say 
so yourself- from which ;^ou should 
be glad to escape.' 

' A jealous woman u an accursed 
thing. But in you, Edith, I have 
never yet seen a sign of this disease.' 

' Then don't be too ready to be- 
lieve me easily taintod by it Look 
into your own heart, tiid find a 
cause for what I do.' 

'No man,' he said, 'in my 
opinion, was ever worthy of any 
good woman's love; that I de- 
voutly believe; but further * 

' It is no use to talk it over. I 
know of old erpGneaee you can 
make me say black's white. I haye 
said what I mean to abide by, and 
so I shan't listen fcnr your answer. 
I have spoken roughly, rudely, 
coarsely; but I have spoken as I 
was able — what I knew I ought to 
speak. Now I am not going to 
listen to yon: you have listened to 
me, that is enough. Good-bye! and 
I wish you all hi^piness.' 

She began to walk away from 
him; but she did not dare diaobey 



152 



Cross Purpoiss* 



the Tdoe that ooxnmanded her to 

Snse. He took both her hands in 
I, looked into her fietce, trying to 
meet her eyes, but they would not 
rise higher than his hands; they 
noticed a hole in his gloye, for which 
she would yesterday have scolded 
him, taking off his glove— taking it 
home to mend. A quick sob sur- 
prised her, as she thought of this. 
He said — 

'I do not know you to-day, 
Edith : you have strangely changed 
in the few days of my absence. Tou 
are a hard and reckless woman this 
morning: you seem to haye no feel- 
ing for me, or my pain.' 

' Your pain !' (" You hypocrite !" 
she said, but only to her own 
heart,) and added, to her own heart, 
' He is no hypocrite; he is too good 
not to feel pain. Your pain,' she 
repeated aloud, ' won't last long if 
we part now ; while if we married, 
not loving each other, I suppose our 
pain would have to last our life- 
times.' 

'Whatismy&ult? How have I 
so suddenly forfeited my right to 
your love? What have I done or 
left undone?* 

'We are curiously made,' she 
answered. ' I do not know what of 
that we do or leave undone is fault, 
and what is fortune. I do not sup- 
pose we would any one of us act as 
we do, when we act what we call 
wrongly, if we could help it If I 
have been angry with you, and said 
it was your fftult, I am not angry 
now. How can it be your &ult that 
I do not love you?' 

'It is some fault in me, then— 
some fault so suddenly discovered.' 

He paid no heed to the last 
phrase of her sentence; indeed the 
eyes, liquid, and as full of love as of 
pain, which had met his for an in- 
stant, had given the lie to it. 

' I didn't say so. I won't say any- 
thing, except I wish to be free. 
Tyrant 1 let go my hands 1' she 
cried. 

'You poor little soull' he said, 
compassionately, ' what are you thus 
tormenting yourself about? Tell me 
your trouble, my child. I cannot 
believe that you do not love me ! — 
I do not believe it!' 

'Oh, no I' she answered, her face 



on fire ; 'it must be hard for tho 
irresistible Mr. Herbert Oldenshaw, 
of Firlands, to believe that any wo- 
man to whom he has been kind does 
not love him, or his estate. Leave 
me alone, sir! Let me go !' 

'Go then! I see, Edith, that if I 
keep you any longer in your present 
mood, I shall only lead you to speak 
words you will afterwards be sorry 
for : but I do not do you the injustice 
to believe that you are serious.' 
One more earnest look, and then he 
dropped her hands. 

'That is like you! I was moro 
than mortal while I loved you; 
now ' 

' While you loved me you were 
a sweet woman, not all honey, but 
all the more bewitching for a dash 

of spice ; now ^You seem to mo 

thoronghly unamiable.' 

'I dare say I do! I dare say I 
am! You may say it was incom- 
patibility of temper that led to tho 
breaking of our engagement' 

'When I acknowledge it as a 
broken engagement I may. At 
present I do not relinquish youf 
At present I am of my old opinion : 
I had rather haye you scold and 
love me, than any other woman 
praise and flatter me^ I do not 
know that it is good taste, but it is 
mine.' 

' " A poor ill-&youred thing, but 
mine, sir, mine." I understand. But 
now I have lost all charm for you, 
for I am no longer yours, sir, bat 
mine, sir, mine. And how you dare 
pay to me what you have jost said, 
I leave you to ask your own con- 
science. It is all a mystery to mo 
-all.' 

She broke from him and ran 
down the road. 

He remained a long time where 
she had left him ; he was yexed and 
pained, but more for her than for 
himself, and not in any way very 
seriously distressed; he did not 
believe but that she would be hi» 
wife at the appointed time after all. 
But this outbreak of temper grieved 
him : he was disappointed in her, and 
perplexed to find a cause for such 
an unexpected demonstration. It 
was not till, in the course of a few 
days, several of his friends — that is 
to say, the doctor and the clergy- 



Cr(M Pwrpoges. 



158 



man, and the widow who owned 
Belle-yne— had condoled with him 
on the breaking-off of his engage- 
ment, and two ladies, with nmneioos 
daughters. Hying respeotiyely at 
Fnrzey Down and at Beanchamps, 
had congratulated him on the same 
&ct, that he began to be, at least, 
seriously annoyd. 

Hie little tormentress, after 
leaTing him, ran down the road till 
she came to a green gate oversha- 
dowed, like all the rest of the road, 
by beeches ; it led intoa small garden, 
— ^lawn, fir-trees, and bright flower- 
beds,— lying in front of a pretty 
ivied cottage, behind which the hill 
rose protectingly. The largest room 
of this cottage had a long window 
opening on to the gravelled path. 
SiGss Gaysworth, Edith's invalid and 
lame sister-she was fifteen years 
older than Edith, and had been a 
mother to her— lay on a conch in the 
sunshine of this window. 

Edith went to her: she always 
liked to get things over quickly. She 
now said, ' Herbert is come back. 
I've seen him and I've broken off my 
engagement to him. I shall never 
many him, or anybody. I am 
sorrv yon took such a fanc^ to Fir- 
lands, Lily; but yon like this 
cottage very mnch, too, and you'll 
get more of me, so there's compen- 
sation for you. No, I can't stay 
to answer any questions. I am off 
now to the Sea-wall House ; I shall 
be late for the children's lessons. 
I don't wish ever to be spoken to 
about my engagement, or about 
Herbert Not that he's to blame : / 
broke it off; h^s not to blame ; and I 
wish all the world to know (all our 
small world) that it is broken off, 
and that he's not to blame. Ton 
used to teU me, Lily, I could never 
hope to get a husband if I didn't 
curb my temper, and I'm not going 
to get one yon see. Qood-bye, Lily, 
don't fret about it Here's your 
book, dear, and here's your work, 
and I've ordered Jane to bring your 
lunch in to yon at eleven, and I'm 
sorry I've been out so long, and I've 
asked Gertrude to come and see us, 
and I shall be more at home with 
yon for the future.' 

All this was said in hurried, 
gasping sentences : then she kissed 



the invalid, and was q£ She was 
daily governess to the motherless 
childr^ at the Sea-wall House, 
whose master was Mr. Herbert 
Oldenshaw's elder brother; a grave 
man, aged and worn by sufferings 
who treated her with fatherly kind- 
ness, and whom she loved dearly. 

' I don't seem to feel it much,' she 
said, as she went down the road in 
the glancing sunshine, the dancing 
sea glittering before her eyes. 'The 
world looks just the same merry 
world: nothing seems changed. 
People say, at all events in books— I 
don't know that I've ever heard any 
real person speak about these things 
— ^that to do what I have done re- 
quires an almost superhuman effort 
of self-sacrifice. Ifl felt it as I ought, 
I ought to have fiunted, or at least to 
have cried violently. Perhaps I did 
not love him so very much after all. 
Yet I think I did. Perhaps I do 
not yet believe that I have lost him. 
I think that is it. All the pain is 
to come. I caught myself just now 
thinking of this evening, when he 
would be with us — when he would 
read to Lily and me while we 
work, and we should be so happy. 
And he won't come this evening, or 
ever again any evening. All the 
pain is to come. God help me !' 

Those last words, the words of 
self-pity, did the mischief. 

Suddenly something came over 
her — an overwelming^uncontrollable 
feeling : she went out of the road, 
through a gate, and hid herself in a 
little thicket; there she cried as if 
her heart would break, her face 
buried to stifle the sound. She rose, 
dried her eyes, looked at her watch, 
smoothed her hair, readjusted her 
hat, said to herself, 'I am better 
now— but I am very late,' and 
hurried down the steep drive to the 
House. 

From a distance she saw all her 
little pupils playing on the sands — 
those deep golden sands of the Isle 
of Wight She went to them there, 
and they came clustering around 
her. 

'Oh, Edith, we thought you 
wem't coming to-day. Uncle Herbert 
said you weren't coming to-day. 
Papa said you wem't coming every 
day now, because Uncle Herbert is 



154 



Qrou FwrfOBtB. 



back, and wants jon to be ao mtieh 
witbhim.' 

' Oh yea, I am coxumg ercffy day 
now. Your UDde Herbert is mis- 
takea, and yoor pea^ who ia always 
right, and who is « great deal wiser 
than yonr Uncle Herbert^ is aJso 
mistaken. And oome in to lessons 
now, at onoe, like dear good children, 
for it*s very late.' 

'You've been exying!' said one 
child. 'You've been crying!' was 
echoed by all. 

'And I'll make you all cry/ said 
this very original little governess, 
' if you don't let me alone.' 

' Me so sorry Edie been crying,' 
said the youngest little girl, and 
slipped her hand into Edith's. 

' xou darling, you dear pet !' cried 
the governess, and kneeling down, 
she took the lovely little fairy in her 
arms, smothered her with kims, and 
carried her to the house. 

' Me Uncle Bertie's pet, too/ the 
child said. 

And just at the house-door atood 
Uncle Bertie. 

' Edith, that child is too heavy for 
you.' He chose to speak as if 
nothing had happened, a fact which 
filled the girl with great indignation. 

' Mr. Herbert Oldensha w, I am the 
best judge of thai' 

' Indeed you are not. I do not 
think you are a good judge of any- 
thing that concerns yourself. Amy, 
come to me, darling.' 

But Amy chose to be perverse : 
she clung to Edith's neck and said, 
' Poor Edie been crying/ as a suffi- 
cient reason. 

' Uncle Herbert ' stood so directly 
in Edith's way that she knew he 
could see this for himself, flereyes 
met his defiantly. 'Cruel!' she 
muttered, as she passed him. She 
drove all her pupils before her into 
the large schoolroom, and locked the 
door. 

That schoolroom had three great 
south windows looking right out to 
sea (you could perceive a bit of 
golden gravelly shore if you stood 
close to them, but not unless) : it had 
also two eastern windows looking 
upon a green turf bank, gorse- 
studded, sloping down to black rook 
and grey boulder. The room was 
fall of sunshine, and the heat and 



the light made Edith giddy; she 
had to drawdown the blinds; and 
whan she went to draw them down 
she saw Mr. Oldenshaw (her master, 
as she loved to call him) walking 
to and fro, close to the water, leaning 
on his younger brother's aim ; they 
were talking earnestly. How bent 
and aged her master looked* and he 
was not BO vary much older than 
Lilyl 

What would her master think 
of her YfbsD. he heard ? The young 
governess was preoccupied this 
morning. 

That evening, Mr. Oldenshaw— 
that is to say, Edith's Mr. Olden- 
shaw— chose to come to the cottage 
as if nothing had happened since he 
was last there. He brought the book 
with him he had been reading to 
them, then took the seat by Miss 
Gavsworth's invalid couch* that he 
had occupied then. Sedng this, 
Edith without a word to him, 
having given him one indignant 
look, gathered up her work and left 
the room. 

From the bedroom above ahe 
heard voices all the evening, now 
her sister's, now Mr. Oldensnaw's, 
one low-toned interchange of talk. 

' Of course Lily will think I am 
using him very badly. Of course 
everybody will think I am using 
him very badly. What does that 
matter to me ? I have done what I 
thought was right to be done. I 
know I did it very badly, but that is 
my misfortune. I meant to be 
gentle and dignified* all I am always 
trying to be, and never, never can 
succeed in being. Well! he is well 
rid of me : I never should have made 
a proper Mrs. Oldenshaw of Fir< 

lands. Now Gertrude is ; oh, I 

hate Gertrude 1' said with the heart- 
iest, honestest energy. 'That is 
very wicked too !' she added ; ' and 
I'm afraid when nobody loves me I 
shall be very wicked.' 

She went on thinking strange 
confused thoughts as she employ^ 
herself in turning out her writing- 
case, jewel-case, and secret sacred 
drawer, collecting his letters, his pre- 
sents, all kept religiously, whether 
flowers or jewels. 

' Perhaps he will believe that I 
am in earnest when he gets th^/ 



OrosB FwfOBeB^ 



15S 



she said, with an emphasiB laaentfal 
of his present incredulity. ' If he 
will only go away, leave off ^Mining 
hare, after— well, after he has made 
it all straight with Gertrude. If I 
have to go on seeing him, perhaps 
I may in time aziive at a pK^per 
pitch of distraction.' Scoffing at 
narself , she pressed her hand v^khi 
her heart ' I always h»ve said I 
did not know I had <me, bnt I'm 
going to learn that I have now by 
this pain that's beginning.' 

By-and-by, lookmg over the pages 
of a journal she had once, girlie- 
fashion, kept, ion fear of accidents, 
in a cypher of her own invention, 
she leaa (dated the 30th of Novem- 
ber, nearly three years ago)— 

' I did not think such a dismal 
day could have «nded so pleasantly : 
such a dismal day! passed in an 
ugly schoolroom among rude chil- 
di«n, a wet street and wet people to 
look out at: nothing to look for- 
ward to but the tedious change of a 
couple of hours spent in the draw- 
ing-room, over my fancy - work, 
among people who must dislike 
having me as much as I dislike 
being with them. Ah!' she said« 
breaking off from her reading and 
thinking aloud, ' howdifferant things 
ware then I We were so poor, I 
could not keep a home for Lily. She 
boarded with those wretched people 
who neglected her so, and I had to 
take the highest-paying sitnaticm I 
could get, and try not to care if I 
were miserable or not Who made 
eveiything different? Es did. I 
might go through as many verses as 
there are in the "My Mother" 
poem, in the chikiren's book, and, 
making my own list of questions, 
say, " He did 1" in answer to all of 
them. Well, I am trying, in my 
awkward, staind way, that is so 
hard, for it seems sudi a wicked 
ungrateful way, to reward him. I 
wish, though, he wouldn't look so 
pained about it' 

She thought for some time, tiien 
she went on reading, slowly and 
blunderingly, from her journal : — 

'The evening of tins wretched 
day I go down into the drawing- 
room as usual, and there is aperson 
there who turns round as I enter 
and comes to meet me, who takes 



my hand and looks at me so kmdly 
tluU;, what with surprise and what 
with pleasure, the teaxs come into 
my eyes, and it is a wcmder that I 
don't startle all propdeties by put- 
ting my arms round his neek I He 
places a chair for me next his own, 
and pushes a footstool to my feet, 
and reaches me my woirk-oase. H!ow 
did he know what I was looking 
for? or which was mine? Why 
didn't he give me Mrs. Dyson's 
instead? Surely he didn't remem- 
ber the shabby little thing? He 
altogether to take possession 



of me, as if he pitied the poor little 
lonely thing, and meant to caxe for 
it and pet it And he breaks off his 
talk with Mr. Dyson, and talks to 
me of lily, and Lily's health ; and of 
how he thinks she needs milder 
air; and of how his brother has a 
pretty cottage to let, in just such a 
place as he thinks would suit lily ; 
and then he tells me that his brotiuar 
wants a governess for his motherless 
childron, and so he talks on, open- 
ing up a new and such a bright 
prospect, though he dashes every- 
thkg a little by tolling me he is 
soon going to India again for two 
years. And when he turns from me 
to talk to Mr. Djson again, his arm 
is gtili on the back of my chair, and 
his voice lulls me to a dream, and 
all the world is changed for me, for 
lieiblhA remembers. And when Mrs. 
Dyson's soft voice says in my ear, 
'' Miss Gaysworth, I think you have 
forgotten the children: it is long 
past their bed-time," I start as if I 
had had cold water flung over me, 
and rise in awkward haste, throwing 
scissors, 4;himble, cotton, on the floor 
— forhCfmtopickupl And he asked 
me should he see me again that 
night ; and when I said a reluctant 
"No," he asked Mrs. Dyson at what 
time he could see me in the morn- 
ing, "to talk over fomily-<affidrs ; 
for Mrs. Dyson, she is, I consider, 
a aort of a ward of mine!" A sort 
of a ward! I feelas if he would 

only * 

There the journal broke off for 
that time ; but she vead a fow later 
entries and then told herself to de- 
sist—that she was doing the worst 
thing, tiie stupidest thing ponnbie. 
But her thoughts were not much 



156 



Croa Pwrpote$, 



safer: she lemembered all hiaworda 
and looks— remembered the coming 
to the presoit home, prepared by 
him for her and Lily, remembered 
the parting and hia retnml The 
bedroom was oold and cheerlees, 
her ccmdle had burnt down to the 
socket: she listened to the voices 
downstairs, beloved voices both, and 
thought of the lamp-light, the fire- 
light, the kind eyes, the loving 
hands, the cheerfulness and the 
warmth there— and then, very un- 
heroically, she begEui to cry. 

The voices ceased : the halI*door 
opened and dosed: she waited to 
hear the click of the garden-gate 
and the sound of footsteps down the 
road. 

' He didn't stop as long as usual,' 
she said carelessly to lily, as, having 
bathed her eyes, she entered the 
sitting-room. 

' No; he said he would not keep 
you up in the cold. Oh, Edith I 
what has possesaed you ? How can 
you treat such a man in this way? 
A man who has been so good to us, 
so very good. Surely, child, it is 
only a ft^, if ao, a wicked one ; but 
anything is better than to believe 
you can seriously mean to be so—' 

Edith interrupted her. 

' I am trying to be good to him 
in return for his goodness to us. If 
the goodness of a deed is to be 
judged, as some people seem to 
think, by its hardness, I am being 
very good to him. You can't see 
how? I dare say not; but some 
day you will; till then you must 
try and trust me.' 

' But, Edith ' 

' But, Lily— I have told you, and 
I tell you again, I will not hear you 
or any one on this subject There I 
I have made you cry. Tea, that is 
justhowitalwaysis. I am a wretched 
oreatore, bom to make everyone 
unhappy, especially every one who 
loves me. If you only knew, Lily ' 
— ^here she knelt by her sistePs 
couch and buried her face in her 
sister's dress—' how it hurts I how 
it hurts! how miserable I ami you 
would cry for me, Lily, insteaa of 
crying for him.' 

' I cry for him, Edith 1' her sister 
said, but drew the girl fondly close. 
' I never could bear to see a man 



suffer, and he is suffering. Tou have 
only to watch him, to look into his 
eyes, and to see the way he twitches 
hia mouth and gnaws his moustache. 
No, Edith, I never oould bear to see 
a man suffer. It nearly breaks my 
heart when your master, aa you call 
him, sits by me and talks to me, so 
gently, so kindly, with his eyes 
seeing and his heart suffering, so 
fu away ; and Herbert's fiue will got 
to have the same look if you use 
him so badly.' 

'The hypocrite!' cried Edith. 
' No, no, no,— I don't mean that I 
know he is suffering, but never 
mind him, lily, it will soon pass; 
he will be happier soon than I ever 
could make him.' 

'Child, child, you talk very 
wildly — very wickedly. You seem 
to have no opinion of the futhful- 
ness of the man you are playing 
with.' 

'I am playing with no man. You 
are a cruel sister to say I am. Oh, 
I have the very highest opinion of 
Mr. Herbert Oldenshaw's fiuthful- 
ness. He would marry a girl he 
had ceased to love, and break the 
heart of one he did love, sooner than 
break his word. That is my opinion 
of lus fiiithfalnessl And now no 
more about him— not a word. He 
is a good man and a true one; I 
hope be will be a happy one !' 

' What crotchet can you have got 
into your head?* murmured Miss 
Gaysworth, and dared say no more ; 
but she lav awake all through the 
night pondering this matter over, 
and was consequently ill the next 
morning. She was a very frail 
creature. She would in all proba- 
bility have been dead before this 
time had she not been transplanted 
to the soft-breathed, sheltered, sunny 
southern nook where she now dwelt 
And it was Mi. Herbert Oldenshaw's 
care that had thus transplanted her. 
He had known these women well in 
prosperous days, begizming at a be- 
ginning when Edith was a little 
child ; their dead brother had been 
his dearest friend. Coming home 
from India, on family business, soon 
after they had fallen into sudden 
poverty, he had made it his care to 
care for them. 



Orou PurpOMS. 



167 



CHAPTER IL 

A few days passed Tery painftdly, 
during which Mr. Herbert Olden- 
shaw still came to Iyj Oottage, still 
sought to meet Edith there, on the 
road, or at the Sea-wall House, and 
she still obstinately avoided him. A 
diversion came in the arriyal of 
' Gertrude/ a tall, fair, statelv girl, 
who might have been most lovely 
had she not had a wan, sickly look, 
and who drooped now like a droop- 
ing lily. 

'Isn't she the very ideal of a 
love-sick girl?' asked Edith soom- 
f ally of her sister. ' The very bajag 
of her dress, and droop of her hair, 
and fall of her lashes, suggest a sen- 
timental despondency. I hope I 
could die of love and not show the 
green sickness of it so plainly.' 

'I wonder why you asked Ger- 
trude here, Edith V 

'Don't you like having her?' 

* Yes, I was always fond of her; 
but her company can be no pleasure 
to me if you are vexed and irritated 
by her, and cannot treat her kindly 
without constantly-recurring efifort' 

'Perhaps,' said Edith, 'I have 
undertaken more than I can go 
through with. An old trick of 
mine! I shall see. If I find I 
have I can go away somewhere.' 

' Oousin Edith, can you spare me 
a few minutes before you go out?' 
asked Gertrude that morning at 
break&st-time. The languid ca- 
dence of the mournful musical 
voice made Edith, who had been 
trying to be kind, cross directly. 

' I always like to get disagreeable 
things over; so, if you have any- 
thing to say, I will hear it now,' she 
answered, roughly. ' Come a little 
way up the hill behind the cottage 
witii me. Jane's ears are sharp, 
and old Wilson is brushing up 
leaves in the garden. What's the 
use of brushing up leaves, I won- 
der! I am always brushing up 
leaves, and they fall thicker and 
faster; and it is all smothered up 
with them again, just as it was b^ 
fore.' These last words to herself. 
' Don t you want your shawl, 
Ger? The wind is sharp, and you 
look such a skim-milk sort of crea- 
ture.' 



' I will get it, and join you in a 
minute; Gertrude answered, meekly. 

The two girls were soon together 
on one of the terraces cut m the 
hUl behind the cottage. But Ger- 
trude stood panting after the slight 
ascent, and did not spea^. 

Edith looked at her watch. ' In 
a quarter of an hour I ought to be 
down there,' pointing to the Sea- 
wall House, lying below. 

' It is strange to me, Edith,' the 
girl began, timidly (this stately, tall 
Gertrude seemed curiously to dread 
her little companion), 'why you 
asked me to come and see you. I 
was glad to come, dear, because I 
thought ' 

' WeU, what did you think?' 

' I thought you had some special 
reason for asking me. I thought, 
perhaps, you knew ' 

' I do know— oZ^ I meant to be 
good to you, but I find it difficult' 

' I never would have come, Edith, 
if only lily had asked me; but as 
you asked me I thought I had 
better come. I though^ I hoped, 
some good might arise out of it. 
But now I see my mistake; my 
presence is painful to you. Mr. 
Oldenshaw' (that name spc^en so 
tremulously !) ' has not been to the 
cottage since I came; though Lily 
tells me he used to be here con- 
stantly.' 

' Does she think he wottld court 
her under my nose!' Edith ex- 
claimed to herself, and plunged 
her hand into a gorse-busn, inflict- 
ing a salutary pricking. 

'I do not see that my being 
here can do any good,' continued 
Gertrude; 'it is evidently painful 
to you. I want to ask you, do you 
not think I had better go?' 

The tone of shrinking timidity, 
of submission, of resignation, in 
which Gertrude spoke, touched 
Edith's generosity. 

' No,' she said ; ' you shall not 
go, Gertrude: if either of us go 
away, I will, while you stay with 
Lily. Lily is very fond of you^ and 
Lily is gentie to you. I have 
wanted a change for a long time.' 

Gertrude lifted her lashes and 
opened her languid eyes wide— per- 
haps she was wondering what 
change this girl could want—this 



Ifi6 



OoM Piirpotet. 



girl, wlio ymald booh be lo bappDy 
Buurrisd (for lilj had moealfttod 
h» wiih the beliaf that thia oloiid 
between the lovers waa only doe to 
some childish freak of Edith'a, irbkh 
would paas). 

' I cannot hme tiuit I caimot 
driye you fioia yonr hraoe, Edith. 
What would Mi; Oldenahaw say? 
Indeed, iodeed, I think I had 
better go.' 

' Not another word. Yon are not 
to go. And— what has Lily been 
saying to yon aboat my engage- 
ment? Oh, I see; but she is quite 
wrong. My eagagament is finally 
and definitely brokan o£El I am 
£ree, and so is Herbert Ya» must 
imow she ia qnite wrang. I can't 
s^y and talk any longer. I hate 
speaking of these things. Heisnot 
in the least to blame. And I hope, 
when I am gone *way, yoa and ne 
and Lily will be very happy.' 

She laa down the hillnaide, 
leaving QertnidB in a state of bewil- 
dement. 

' She knows all about it, and is 
annoyed--«eeretly angry with me, I 
daresay. But what has her broken 
engagement to do with it? Did 
they quacrd about me? I never 
oonld understand Edith. Some- 
times she seemed all heart, and 
sometimes seemed to have no feel- 
ing for any one— herself least of all. 
She is a very strange girll' But 
poor Gertrude had such much more 
personal troubles and perplexities 
growing and deepening upon her 
uiat she soon fiurgot to think of 
Edith. 

Just as she re-entered the garden 
at one gate she saw Mr. fi«rbert 
Oldenshaw entering it by the other, 
from the road: she drew back, but 
he had seen her. He joined her. 

' Miss Brown, I believe; we have 
met before.' 

She blushed overpoweringly ; 
hands, throat, were all suffused 
with crimson: the dying away of 
that blush left her so white, with 
such bknohed lipS) he thought she 
was about to &int He offered his 
arm: she took it, because she 
needed it, and because, for her own 
reasons, she was only too glad of 
any sign of kindness from him. 
Her distress and agitation ware 



so real that his brow relaxed from 
its stem annoyance, and he looked 
down on her Idndly— reaasoniigly. 

'I will not ask to speak to 3m 
to-day on any subject of speoial in- 
terest,' he said. ' You seem nerrefos 
andunafcnmg. We lAaU have ott»r 
opportnnitiea ' 

' I am,' ate said, hurriedly, 'more 
than nervous and imstrung. I am 
miaerabla It is kind of you to 
egan me, but we want yonr counsel. 
Oh, if only you will be kind to 
us!' 

She liflad up her eyes to his im- 

Sloringly, tears now streaming 
own from them: he (her hand 
resting om. his arm) could ihel how 
she was shaking. 

' I wish to be your trae friend,' he 
said; 'but the position in which 
you have placed yourselves makes 
it very difficult to know how to 
help you. And I so hate deceit and 
concealment, that it is difficult for 
me to think kindly of those who 
practise i^— as if they did not 
bate it' 

He led her to the sitting-room, 
followed her in, sat talking to Miss 
Gaysworth, and was so preoccupied 
that he did not notice that Miss 
GayBWC»rth's manner was a little 
different from usual. 

When he was gone MissGi^ysworth 
said— 

' Gertrude, my" love, I thought 
you told me that you knew Mr. 
Herbert Oldenshaw very slightly.' 

' I have seen him a few times at 
his mother's.' 

'Only a few tones?' 

' Only a few times ; and then not 
always to speak to.' 

Lily Qaysworth had strangely 
penetrating ^es. She turned them 
on the girl, and Gertrude blushed 
again in that sudden, overpowering, 
unaccountable way, that was made 
the more oonspiouous by her ordi- 
nary pailor. 

' I am not very well,' die faltered. 
' I will go to my own room.' 

On the stairs she met Edilii. 
Edith had been in her bed-room, 
dressing to go out. Edith had 
heard the fomiliar click of the gar- 
den-gate, and had cautiously drawn 
near the window. Edith had seen 
the meeting, the stem brow soften 



Oroia Purpo§e9. 



159 



to pity 10 like tendeniess, ansim- 
JBg the implormg apwaord look. 

Whal eoold she think? Her 
cheeks weie oiimwxi and her eyes 
blazing when she met the faint and 
filtering Oertmde upon the stairs. 
She swept past her. 

' "When morning lessons are oyer 
wfll yon oome to speak to me in the 
lihnury, Edith?' Mi:. Oldenshaw 
said, looking into the schoolroom. 

' Shall yon be alone there, sir?' 

' Edith r eiied one of the diildren, 
' yon tell ns we ought to answer 
papa at onoe, not ask other ques- 
tions instead.' 

' I want yon to be a great deal, 
better than I am/ answered the 
gOTemesSy and put her band on the 
boy's mouth: he fell to kissing tiiat 
hand. Edith, looking round, re- 
peated her question. 

' Tes, I will be alone theie.' 

' I will oome then. Ifyonhsdn't 
asked me I should have asked 
you.' 

Aooordingly, at twelve o'clock, she 
tnxned tiie chilcbren out on to the 
sands and went to Mr. Oldenahaw's 
library. 

Be put her a chais close to his 
own, and then, taking her hand in 
his— (she lauf^ed neryoody, said it 
was like a mmical consultation, but 
did not make him smile)— began 
indulgently — 

'Now, tell me all about it, child ; 
things cannot go on as th^ are 
doing at pnsenk You axe losing 
your health and yoDi temper. Twice 
lately I haye heard you Qjeak 
ahitfply to my motheirlaiw fittle 
girto.' 

'Oh, Mr. Oldenshaw! I am so 
sorry.' The tears begsa to drop 
alseady. 

'I didn't call you here to scold 
yon, Edith, but to tey and cure the 
cause of aU this. Herbert has been 
more like a son than a brother to 
me always; and yon are like an 
eldest dMghter to me. I ask you 
now to treat me as a &ther ; tell 
me all about it?* 

'About what, sir?' Playing with 
his hand. 

' I aeyer expect pteyacieatim from 
yotu,Edith. You /mow what I mean. 
What is the secret history and mys- 
tery of this foolish business between 



you and Herbert What did you 
quarrel about ^ 

' We hayen't quarrelled at all. I 
broke off the engagement I had 
reason to know it couldn't end in 
happiness to either of us. I broke it 
off, and it is broken off— for always !' 

' Don't you think you might have 
found out sooner that it would be 
well to do this. Miss Qaysworth? 
Don't you thii:d^ you might bays 
told him this before he had set you 
in the yery centre of his life— be- 
fore he had bound all his hopes of 
fature happiness round you ? 

'I told it him as soon as I knew 
it myself, and long, before what you 
say had been done, or long after it 
had been undone, it doesn't matter 
which,' she answered, in a tcme that 
sounded suUen. 

'I neyer thought you Ihultless, 
Miss Gaysworth, nor in any way a 
perfect woman, tibough a thoroughly 
loyable one ; but I thought that such 
fiuilts as you had you would try 
to cure for Herbert's sake. Among 
them I did not expect to haye to 
find fickleness, un&ithfnlnees, prone- 
ness to jealousy and suspicion. 
From these things I should haye 
said you were singularly free. If 
you haye no explanation to giye 
me,— if yon show no diiq^oeition to 
amend yomr firalt,— if you do not 
eyen show any sorrow for it, will 
you wonder that a girl, whose cha- 
racter I so little approye, will hardly 
be the con^Mnion and instructress 
I shall choose for my own children ?* 
Was Mr. Oldenshaw trying to 
frighten her, or was he really as 
angry as his words seemed ? 

Edith let go his hand and folded 
her own in her lap. Her fisuse looked 
sullen, hard, impenetrable. 

' Haye you formed any other at- 
tachment ? That is the only reason 
for your conduct that can suggest 
itself. I am speaking to you as a 
fiEtther to a daughter. So 1 ask no 
excuse for my question.' 

' Say I haye, if you like ; say any- 
thing you like of me. Why not 
belieye one bad thing as well as 
another? Talk of speaking to me 
as a father to a daughter I Oh, I 
only hope, Mr. Oldenshaw, you may 
neyer ^fatherly to Amy in the way 
you are now to mel' 



160 



Cro$$ Purpo9e$. 



'That hardened, leckless, bitter 
tone is Tery painfol to bear/ 

' Oan't you fuicy it speaks out of 
pain ? And he lets me be treated 
like this ! He lets me be spoken to 
like this r 

' If you mean Herbert, he does not 
know I had any intention of speak- 
ing to you. He defends you, says 
all the &ult must be his ' 

' But he doesn't tell you what is 
his fault?' 

' He does not know himself, poor 
feUow.' 

'Doeshenotr 

' Ton insinuate, Miss Qaysworth, 
that my brother is much to blame.' 

' I do not, Mr. Oldenshaw ; he is 
not to blame ; nobody is to blame. 
It cannot be helped. Does not 
misery come often without blame ?* 

' But in this instance. Miss Gays- 
worth * 

' I tell you what it is^ Mr. Olden- 
shaw, go on calling me that; go on 
looking at me like that, and — and 
— I won't bear it! I have lost 
Herbert ! I have lost Herbert 1 Is 
not that enough ? Why should you 
be cruel ? What harm have I done 
to youf I won't bear to live if 

you * Here she broke into such 

passionate crying as will burst out 
from long-restrained complicated 
anger and suffering, when they once 
begin to find expression. 

He walked to and &o in the room. 
By-and-by he paused behind her, 
pressing his hands upon her head. 

'Hush, hush, my child 1 Just 
tell me the truth, let me help you. 
Surely, if you still loye Herbert, it 
can all be made right again.' 

'Never, never, never, as long as 
any of us live,' she sobbed. 

He had been thinking of Herbert, 
feeling for Herbert in all that had 
yet passed, but now the agony of 
her distress was so unmistakeable 
that he b^gan to think and feel for 
her. 

'What can I do for you, child ? 
How can I help you?' 

' Send me away ; take me away ; 
do something with me that will 
save me from seeing him day after 
day.' 

He meditated. 'I have been 
thinking of sending Alice and Flo- 
rence to stay with my sister for a few 



weeks before the winter is quite 
upon us. Will you ^o with them?* 

'If youpleaseL ar,if she will have 
me. But Amy? what will beoome 
of my pet Amy ?' 

'She is my pet, too, Edith.' 

' But I don t think nurse is kind 
enough to her, Mr. Oldenshaw. 
Can't Amy oome too? She shan't 
be any trouble to any one. I will 
have her always with me.' 

' I cannot spare her, and my sis- 
ter's place is too exposed and cold 
for the child. I will do the best I 
can for her. If after a few we^s 
things remain as tiiey are now ' 

'But they won't!' 

'Indeed I I thought just now * 

'You misunderstand me. Tou 
will see. I shall be able to come 
back— to Lily-^ the oottag^—to 
you; to my pet here ' 

'But not to Herbert?' 

* You will see— you will see.' 

'You are an inexplicable girl! 
You seem to love mysteries, which 
I hate.' 

' You can't hate them as I do, not 
half as bitterly as I do.' 

' Now go to the children, and tiy 
and let the sea-wind cool those poor 
cheeks of yours.' 

'And will you please try and 
think kindly of me, will you?' she 
repeated coaxingly. 'You break 
my heart when you are so stem.' 
She put out both her hands. 
'Though I am never to be your 
daughter, won't you be my kind 
master still ? I Imow I am not in 
anything good, but in this one thing 
I am t^ing to be good ; and it is 
so hard,' she began to sob again : 
'just when I so need help, and 
when I deserve help more than 
ever before, not to Imve any love 
from any one, nor aiur sympathy, I 
who have had so much ' 

First he grasped her hands, then 
he took her in his arms— the fatherly 
arms into which his children had 
often flown first, even in their sweet 
mother's lifetime. 

' You are a poor little misguided, 
mistaken thing I' he said, tcmderly. 
' But I do believe you are trying to 
do right, and I can only trust that 
time will show and cure your error. 
Now be off, my child!' 



Orass Purposes. 



161 



CHAPTEB IIL 

'All the world is going wrong, I 
think/ wrote Miss Gaysworth to 
Edith, 'and I am going to write 
you the exact truth about things, 
iEklith dear, for you have left me so 
in the dark that I have no means of 
knowing how much it is best to tell 
you— 4iow much best to keep from 
you. 

'Did you go away on purpose 
that Mr. Herbert Oldenshaw, while 
Buffering from your harshness, 
should be consoled by Gertrude's 
gentleness? Did you go away on 
purpose that Mr. Herbert Olden^w 
should fisbU in love with Gertrude? 
Did you go away on purpose that 
Gertrude should be free to lay her- 
self out to please and to win Mr. 
Herbert Oldenshaw, and that he 
should be free to be pleased and 
won? 

' I shall soon haye a badJlIness, 
Edith. I lie awake at night asking 
myself these questions, and get no 
sleep for worrying over these things. 
I am sometimeB so angry with yon, 
sometimes so angiy with Gertrude, 
sometimes so angry with Herbert, 
sometimes so angiy with aU of you, 
sometimes with some of you, that 
my heart is always beating faster 
than it should. What do you mean? 
What do they mean? What does 
it all, or any of it, mean? 

' Tou have been gone three weeks, 
just three weeks to-day. As I look 
over the lawn there, pacing the walk 
at the foot of it, where not six weeks 
ago you used to skip up and down 
beside him, or try to walk gravely, 
keeping his step — ^there he walks 
now, and Gertrude beside him — a 
handsome man and a beautiful wo- 
man, whom any one would take for 
iovers, if not for husband and wife, 
already. And the man is your 
lover and the woman is Gertrude, 
-and I rub my eyes and try to find 
out it is a dream. I look up again : 
here, close to the window, is old 
Wilson, brush, brash, brash, trying 
^'to keep under tiiem littering 
leaves" (as he calls the autumn 
jewels and gold that&ll so freely), 
and there, a few yards further off, 
just out of his hearing, are that 
handsome pair. 

TOL. XVI. — ^NO. xcu. 



' Tou say you are not surprised — 
that it is all going as you expected — 
that you only wish I would spare 
you details; but I won't; for either 
you are wickedly rash, or you are 
wickedly wronged. I cannot get it 
out of my head that Gertrude is a 
married toomanl There! I have 
written it! Shall it go? It is one 
of the fimcies that get into a sick 
head, and don't get out again, I dare 
say. I had made up my mind that 
those words should not be written, 
and there they stand, staring at me, 
underlined and alL 

' When you first went away, Ger- 
trude seemed very shy of Herbert, 
and I quite thought that he seemed 
as if he struggled against some dis- 
like of her, or anger against her. 
I am quite sure she was afraid of 
him. However, I soon began to see 
that though afraid of him she was 
very anxious to please him too, the 
false puss! Tet I can't call her 
names either, she seems such a 
sweet, gentle creature, and, of late, 
has had such a meek, half-heart- 
broken sort of a way with her. Per- 
haps she can't help trying to please 
everybody; I am sure she tries hard 
to please me ; and when Mr. Olden- 
shaw, your master, comes here she 
is in such a tremble and flutter; 
she studies his looks and his words, 
and says to me afterwards, " Did he 
mean anything particular when he 
said that? Was he offended with 
me for saying this ?" I never knew 
any girl so changed as Gertrude. 
I used to think her nroud, and now 
she puts herself unoer everybody's 
feet, as it were.' 

A later letter said : — 

* The people are beginning to talk, 
Edith. 

' Old Mrs. Fowler, the other day, 
simpering and nodding significantly, 
the old idiot, began — 

' " So Mr. Herbert is likely soon to 
console himself. Well, she is a 
lovely creature : though /don't hold 
her any way near our Edith, I hear 
it said sheUl make a fitter-looking 
Mrs. Oldenshaw of Firlands!" 

' I suppose yon knew that Herbert 
knew Gertrude before he met her 
here. 1 believe they have some se- 
cret between them. Sometimes I 
am absolutely certain it is not love 



162 



Ora8» Pw po9 m . 



—thai lia knrw only you— baiaome- 
timeB I bogin to doubt; then my 
hewi tnniB xoond and the world 
with it. 

'Mr. Oldeufihaw, your master. 
apeaks tenderly of yon ; asks after 
yon Y6ry oompaanaoately. I see 
thai he dislikes this intimacy, it is 
no lees, between his brother and 
Gertmda There appears to be a 
eoolneoi between the brothers, and 
yoor master calls yon "that poor 
ehild." He is looking sadder than 
erer, and he has Amy always with 
him.' 

A later letter BtiU said— 

* I haTB been Tery mnch agitated, 
Edith ; I can hardly hold my pen. 
Mr. Oldenshaw and Mr. Herbert Old- 
enshaw met in my sitting-roam 
this eTsning. Gertmde was. out I 
was in the little back room, doing 
Bome mending for the lanndress. I 
eonld not help hearing what passed. 
I did not suppose Mr. Oldenshaw 
coutd speak so narshly as he spoke 
to Walter, reproTiDg him for his con- 
stant seeking of Qertrude's socie^. 
I could not catch all that pasBed, 
but your name was used by both of 
fhem. Herbert, my &Tourite Her- 
bert» bore a great deal before he an- 
awored in any but the gentlest way. 

' " If Jealousy had anything to do 
with Edith's conduct, you do your 
best to show that that jealousy was 
not groundless," Mr. Oldenshaw said. 
Then Walter answerod, "I will tell 
you, James, since yon drive me to 
it, there has crossed my mind a 
Tery different solution of that mys- 
tery. I do not think Edith capable 
of jealousy, and she had no ground 
for it It has crossed my mind to 
suspect that she &ncied, or feared, 
that she loves you better than she 
loves me. I cannot blame her," he 
added; ''you are so much more 
worthy. If this is so, it is a matter 
for life-lonff regret, not for blame." 

'I heard no more, Edith, for I 
hastened to limp into the next room. 
I was afraid of what might follow ; 
but I saw your master go down the 
road a few moments afterwards, 
Amy dinging round his neck, and 
there was such a look on his face ! 
What kind of a look I cannot tell 
yoo. He was stooping more than 
usual, and looked a bent old man; 



the child was stroking his cheek, 
bat ho didn't seem conscious of it. 
Amy is looking very, wry frail just 
now. Edith, think in time, what 
are you doing by this mystery of 
yours? What miseiy are you not 
spreading? What is thers that 
people may not be driven to think- 
ing and suspecting when yon be- 
have so in«q>Ucably? 

' Ton might just as well love a 
corpse in a grave as love your mas- 
ter in that way. Don't you feel, 
when he is kindest and tenderest, 
that the best of him, the core of him, 
is fer away? Fooliahold thingthat 
I ami I can't write this without 
blushing, but when we first came 
here, three yean ago now, seeing 
him so intensely sadf, I was always 
thinking about him ; before I knew 
it I grew to lorn him; the longing 
to be of BOBoe use to him, some com- 
fort, became a strong torment. I 
never vas presumptuous enough to 
think I oould All the place she had 
filled; I knew it was not empty, 
but I had mua fond dreams; tney 
all died when I came to know him 
and the manner of his sorrow better. 
He loves all women for the sake of 
one, but never again will love one.' 

A later letter still— 

' Edith, what shall I say to you? 
How can I tell it you? My only 
consolation is I b^gin to thiiJE you 
knew it. Y<m broke off the engage- 
ment that he might not have to do 
it— to spare him oat to spare your 
pride! And how much you have 
been bearing of blame from every- 
body, from me even, who ought to 
have known you better. Come 
home to me soon, my child, my 
poor, ill-uaed child, and see if I do 
not love you and pet you, my poor, 
poor wounded buidiel Why didn't 
you trust me? why didn't you trust 
me? 

' But you are frowning at me im- 
patiently, and beating the ground 
with your foot, telling me to speak 
at once. I will 

'Yesterday Qertrude was taken 
ni; she suddenly fainted; she hasn't 
been sensible since. She was in the 
room above; I heard her fell, and 
ran to her as fest as my lameness 
would let ma I found an open 
letter lying on the floor beside her. 



Oro88 Purposes, 



168 



Oniflida it ma addranedd to "Miss 
Brown/' I had seen it on the table 
at breakfasVtinie^ and watobed how 
BtartliB^y she flushed and then 
grew lead-white as she took it up 
and pat it in her pocket, to be read 
when ahe was alone. As it lay open 
on the ground beside her I oould 
not help seeing the beginning and 
ending. It began "My dearest wife,** 
and was signed (it only contained a 
few Unm) " H. Oldemiiaw." 

*I have not been able to speak to 
her yet, she is still too 01, as I told 
yon, not sensible. Mr. Herbert 01- 
deusbaw is away. I have seen and 
spoken to your master. He only 
says "This is too monstrous!" re- 
peating those words again and again. 
And whenlthink of Herbert^ of his 
frank, good fiaoe^ his fearless eyes, / 
say, " This is too monstrous \" The 
world is whirling round so fast, it 
spins me out of breath and out of 
sense. I try not to think about 
anything. 

' What can it mean? Write and 
tell us: yon know. 

'P.S. Evening. 

' Gertrude still lies helpless, only 
partially sensible. The doctor shakes 
his head, and talks of pressure on 
the brain. (He has also asked the 
strangest questions. Ton remem- 
ber I said I oould not get it out 
of my head that she was a married 
woman.) I haye got Mrs. Wilson 
to come and help us nurse. I am 
not very well myself: I think I hurt 
my lame hip when I ran upstairs 
on hearing her fall. It has been 
painful ever since.' 



(3HAPTEB IV. 

Edith came back to Ivy Cottage, 
to nurse her cousin and take care 
of her sister. To do so she got up 
from a sick bed, where an attack of 
nervous fever had for some days kept 
her. She was a good deal changed : 
her cheeks had lost their roundness 
and their damask-rose-sort of rich 
soft bloom, and her eyes were over- 
large and bright 

Mr. Herbert Oldenshaw was still 
away ; he waa neither at the Sea- 
wall House, nor at his own place, 
Virlanda. Where he was 114^ people 



knew, but where he was no one 
seemed to know. His mother, to 
whom lily had written to tell her 
of the illness of her governess, Ger- 
trude Brown, in answering that 
letter asked for news of her second 
son Herbert, saying she had not seen 
him for many months, and that a 
story about him, as painful as ab^ 
surd, had reached her. She also 
seenouBd more curious as to the cause 
than anxious about the nature or the 
result of Gertrude's illness. 

November was sad and gloomy, 
such a month as November has the 
character of bein^ in most places, 
and very seldom IS in that spot All 
through it Gertrude lay ill and 
Edith nursed her. It was a difficult 
malady to deal with and cure, being 
more of the mind than the body. 
Mr. Oldenshaw^s children bad to do 
without their governess ; their father 
songht with pathetic patience to be 
motiher and father to them: tried, 
for their sakes, to be cheerful, and 
encouraged their merry games. 
When the gloomy afternoons and 
stormy evenings gathered them 
about him in l£e great rooms, how 
often the £Buiing twilight and the 
uncertain firelight showed him their 
mother among them still, her finger 
raised in gentle repoof, while her 
eyes glistened with sympathising 
glee. He saw her and he beard her 
say, ' Not so much noise, little ones ; 
not auite so much noise.' 

Edith and Mr. Oldenshaw had 
exchanged positions with regard to 
Herbert Mr. Oldenshaw sighed over 
him or spoke of him with stem 
wonder, while Edith had a sort of 
bright and hardy confidence in him 
now. 

' It is too monstrous P she too had 
said, and she felt it sa What she had 
to believe, if she had to believe any- 
thing against him, surpassed belief. 
She had for a while been able to believe 
that Herbert after engaging himself 
to her — ^which he had done, she 
said sometimes, out of pity for her 
poverty and forlomneas—had formed 
an attachment to her boautirul 
cousin Gertrude, against his will, 
had been betrayed into a declaration 
of his passion fot her; but that he 
had secretly married her cousin 
while still eiigaged to hecMlf— had 



164 



Cro9$ Pwrpaes. 



allowed Gertrude to occupy au 
equivooal and painful position, and 
Edith to bear all the blame that at- 
taches to a woman who oauseleBsly 
breaks off an engagement— this was 
too monstrous for belief. 

The first supposition even had for 
a long time seemed too monstrous — 
had been felt to be too monstrous 
when those fearless honest eyes 
shone on her,— had for a long tune 
been pushed aside, and then, when 
it wouldn't any longer be pushed 
aside, had been combated ; but the 
different bits of eyidence had accu- 
mulated to an OTerwhelming whole. 
When she had posted her letter to 
Gertrude, she had believed beyond 
all doubt that an attachment sub- 
sisted between her and Herbert, 
which was the cause of unhappiness 
to tiiem both, because they both 
struggled against it for her sake. 

A kind fiiend who had yisited 
near Mrs. Oldenshaw's had told 
Edith of how the beautiful goyer- 
neas was admired in the neighbour- 
hood and courted by aU the gentle- 
men of the fisimily. Another had 
told her that her cousin had been 
seen walking in lonely parts of the 
grounds, and apparently engaged in 
most intimately-confidential conver- 
sation with her Mr. Oldenshaw. 
Another had reported how en- 
tranced Mr. Oldenshaw had seemed 
by the singingoftiie lovely govemeas ; 
how she had blushed at his praises, 
and how, on diflforent occasions, she 
had shown signs of there being some 
r.eoret understanding between them. 
AU this, and much more, had gone 
for nothing with Edith till there 
had come mto Edith's own hands, 
in Gertrude's own writing, by one of 
those accidents—the wrong letter 
placed in the envelope— that happen 
sometimes even to very cautious 
and business-like people, a letter of 
Gertrude's, to 'my own and only 
love,' in which Gertrude spoke of 
the miserable struggle of which she 
was the victim, of her health giving 
way beneath the long and constant 
concealment she was obliged to 
practise, of her diead of 'your 
mother, who is so proud, and who 
has yet been so kind, very kind, 
toma It was hard enough to Mrs. 
Oldenshaw^ you know, to have to 



accept Edith as a daughter-in-law ; 
now Edith's fiunily is good on both 
sides, and you know who my poor 
&ther was. Mrs. Oldeni^w huL to 
struggle bard against her prejudices 
before she would have me as govec^ 
ness. What will your moth^ not 
feel in having to accept me as your 
wifey 

Edith had read so fiu: in this letter 
with a throbbing heart and brain, a 
mist before her eyes that gathered 
over her life. She had not calmly 
sat in judgment upon it and weighed 
its meaning; she had not even 
finished it; and had she done so, 
she might have suspected that ' Mrs. 
Oldenwaw' and 'your mother' 
were not used as synonymous 
terms; also she might have sus- 
pected that this letter was not a 
girl's to her lover, but a wife's to her 
husband. Edith, in returning this 
letter, had owned in few woras to 
having partly read it; and Ger- 
trude when writing next, which abe 
did immediately, had said— veiy 
strangely as Edith thought— how 
great a comfort it was to her to 
know that some one whom she could 
so absolutely trust as she could her 
dear Edith knew something of her 
secret now. ' Only something of it, 
Edith; of the rest, of whatliancy 
from your letter you do not yet 
know, I dare not write, but should 
like to speak.' 

To this letter Qdl the correspond- 
ence had taken place in Mr. Herbert 
Oldenshaw's brief absence) Edith 
had answered by her invitation to 
her cousin to spend her month of 
holiday at Ivy (>>ttage. 

' Her secret marriage was what 
she said I did not suspect, and what 
she dared not write o(' concluded 
Edith, now looking over, in her own 
room, during her brief resting-time, 
those old enigmas, Gertrude's let- 
ters. 'To whom am she be mar- 
ried? Not to my Herbert What 
other H. Oldenshaw is there in the 
funily ? I can only think of Fred.' 

' Do you dare call him that now 
(your Walter), after your thoughts 
have so wronged him, you presum- 
ing girl ? she asked herself ' Tes,' 
she answered; 'he is mine, and only 
minel' 

The very next day Mr. Oldenshaw, 



CroM Pwrposei, 



165 



Edith's master, came to the cottage 
and asked for Edith. 

' Edith, my child, I have had a 
letter from Herbert How is that 
poor girl upstairs to-day?' 

His fingers were trembling as he 
sought for Herbert's letter from 
among others in his x)ocket-book. 

' A little better: she has had a 
better night' 

' And Lily, your sister ?' 

'. Not 60 weU. I am much afraid ' 
(the great tears gathered^ ' she will 
neyer be so well again ; she is much 
more lame, and the pain is con- 
stant' 

'And yon?' 

' Jou are making me ill !' she said, 
petulantly. ' Give me the letter- 
that IB, if I may read it/— added 
with new humility. 

' You may : but I am afraid it 
will hurt you rather ' 

'80 much the better; I deserve to 
be hurt' 

' Sit down.' 

'Certainly I shall, for I can't 
stand.' 

She laughedi but could not see 
Mr. OldeiuBhaw, or the letter, or 
anything, for some minutes. 

< Whert is it dated from?' she 
asked, bynrnd-by, lifting up her 
strained eyes. ' Where is this place 
with a queer name?' 

'In Canada.' 

' Oh, how for off he is— how for 
off he is 1' cried Edith, with a plain- 
tiTO Toice. 'And I want him so, to 
tell him how sorry I ami to ask him 
to forgiye me 1' 

' You know it all he/ore you read 
the letter, then?' 

'I don't know anything, except 
that my Herbert hasn't done any- 
thing wrong. Now, do be quiet, 
please.' 

She turned away her lace then 
and read his letter. She read it to 
the end, and then she kissed it, and 
clasped it, and cried over it hysteric- 
ally (being weak from watching). 

' Now isn't that like Herbert ?' she 
said to Mr. Oldenshaw. 

' Just like him, the noble fellow I 
I'm going to write to him, Edith ; 
will you put in a note ?' 

' What was it you thought would 
pain me?' she asked, instead of an- 
swering. 



' What he says about yon— as if 
he supposed you cared nothing for 
>iiTn now.' 

' I hardly noticed that It will be 
so easy to correct that little mis- 
take.' 

' Will you write to him ?' 

' I think not I hardly feel as if 
I had any right to, I have used him 
so badly. A note can't say anything 
that should be said— not one of my 
notes.' 

' If you do not write, or send a 
message, I shall make a message.' 

' You must do as you please 
about that' 

She kissed his hand, hugged Amy, 
and was obliged to leave hmL She 
went upstairs to the sick room. 
When she entered it, Gertrude 
looked at her and said (Gertrude 
had hardly yet looked reoognizingly 
at anything)— 

' The letter— the letter I got from 
my husband the day I was taken ill 
—where is it, Edith?' 

' Lily knows ; I will ask Lily.' 

She knew now who this husband 
was. Her Herbert's cousin. But why 
'H.,' when she only knew him as 
'Fred?' 

She got the letter from lily, and 
brought it to Gertrude. 

' Bead it to me, darling,' said the 
sick girl, languidly. 

Edith tried, but again a mist came 
over her eyes. She drank a glass of 
water and tried again, this time 
succeeding. 

It was a passionate, remorseful, 
heartbroken letter of farewell. 
Gertrude's foulty husband,a weakly- 
impetuous, and yet foscinatangly- 
lovable young man, overwhelmed 
witJi debt and all kind of difficulty, 
and knowing that soon it would be 
absolutely needful that he should 
own his wife, had be^d tempted to 
commit forgery. His mother — 
Herbert Oldenshaw's mother's sister 
(the two sisters had nuirried two 
brothers), and a still prouder 
woman than the other Mrs. Olden- 
shaw— on discovering his secret 
marriage to her sister's governess, 
had refdsed him any help or counte- 
nance—had cast him off in this way, 
driving him to desperation. He 
was but a bimgler at crime ; he was 
almost immediately threatened with 



1G6 



Cross PtarpoieB, 



diBOOTerj. He was obliged to fljr 
the oouDtry suddenly, with no time 
left to see his wife. This was the 
news of the fiuewell letter which 
had stricken poor Gtortrade almost 
for death. His consin he had only 
half confided in, or he woold never 
have needed to take these desperate 
steps. And his cousin, as Herbert's 
letter to his brother had told Edith, 
after straining ereiy nerve to oblite- 
rate all traces of his crime, had 
started in pursuit of him, to bring 
him home in safety to the possibility 
of leading an honoured and an 
honourable life. 

Kdith knowing this, having read 
his letter to Gertrude, ooald take 
her hand in hen and speak words 
of comfort 

'Herbert is ||one to him. Herbert 
has been working for him. Herbert 
will make it ail right. Herbert will 
bring him home to you, Qer, darling ! 
there will be no more heart- wearing 
conoeahnent and pain. You will 
begin to be happy then. Herbert 
can do everything: he can even 
make peace between poor Fred and 
his mother. Why does Fred sign 
himself II. Oldenshaw, Ger ?' 

' His name is Herbert F^erick.' 

'If only my Herbert had known 
everything sooner,' Edith said after 
a loug pause; 'and if only I had 
never believed anything Herbert did 
not tell me !' 

' Your Herbert is very good/ said 
Gertrude, faintly. 'I should have 
sunk long ago if it had not been for 
my confidence in him. He was awi^ 
— gone to look for Fred in town — 
when this came, and I thought he 
. was too late. I thought, perhaps, 
Fred meant— to— to kill himself.' 

' No, no, no ! He will come back 
safe, he will find you well; his 
mother will forgive him. All will 
be well.' 

And then while Gertrude sank to 
sleep again, Elith sat thinking, with 
down-<iropping tears that begged 
his forgivijuess, and half-murmured 

£ ray era that ptayed blessings on 
im — of her Herbert^if only she 
had never believed an> thing that 
HerLert had not told her ! 



GHAPTEB V. 

The time before Herbert and the 
misguided young husband could be 
back drttged yery slowly. 

Poor Frederick Oldenshaw had 
been always the black sheep of the 
fomily, not often among them, not 
often spoken of by them, and when 
he was, always as ' Fred.' Gtoirude 
grew comparatively strong again, 
and moved about the house, doing 
her part in it No lonser the 
drooping love-sick girl Edith had 
scorned, for she had thrown off the 
burden of that long concealment; 
but she could not bat be an anxious 
and sorrowful woman, more easily 
shaken by fear than moved to hope. 

The sea had never before h&ea a 
terror to Edith, but it was this 
winter. She resumed her duties as 

fovemesstothe Oldenshaw children; 
ut as she sat in their schoolroom, 
that heaving, seething mass which 
spread before the windows, was 
always drawing her eyes, and 
through them swallowing up her 
thoughts, her life itself, as it seemed 
to her sometimes. 

She had plenty of sad things to 
think about; Miss Gaysworth did 
not rally, and the physician who had 
been summoned nrom town by Mr. 
Oldenshaw to give an opinion of her 
case had decided that the spring in 
all probability, as &r as his judgment 
went, would not find her among 
them; the disease that caused her 
lameness, aggravated by late over- 
exertion, was rapidly sapping her 
strength, he said. 

Then little Amy, the pet child, 
the darling so dearly bought, was 
fading; she did not 'do lessons' 
now ; she was always on Edith's lap 
through the school hours. She did 
not want to play now ; she was in her 
father's arms, carried up and down 
in the wind and sunshine out-doors 
in mild weather, or in the room in- 
doors in harsh weather in play 
hours ; the little fece did not care 
to raise itself from Edith's bijsom, or 
from Mr. OldenshaVs cheek. She 
hadn't any pain, she always said, 
only she was tired. ' Me play to- 
morrow, Edie; tired to-day,' she said, 
but the playing morrow didn't come; 
she faded. 



Oto$§ Fwr^po9e$. 



167 



'Ma play vhfin Unole Bertie 
oome borne/ ma another plea. 
Warm days oame in March and 
Tnurmer still in April— days of bright 
air and oheering san« burodess and 
windless; but Lily, ihocigb she 
lingered, did not sally, nor did Amy. 

Qertrade nursed Lily with the 
fdllest devotion ; she bad heard how 
the fresh barm bad happened, 
throogh the talk of Jane, the ser- 
Tant * My only comfort till my poor 
Frederiok oomes home is to spend 
myself for her/ she pleaded to £dith. 
' She was always food of me, always 
very |;ood to me.' 

Edith stayed later and longer at 
the Sea-wall Honse, as the days 
lengthened, and the shadow deep- 
oied, and tiie little faoe brightened, 
as with light zefleoted from heaven 
to oome. 

'I believe yvm think my heart will 
break when it comes/ said Mr. 
Oldenshaw, one day, looking up 
from the diild*s &oe, and meeting 
^ wistfal longing of Edith's eyes. 

Thoy were sitting together in the 
sonset-sanshine in the window, Amy 
on Edith's lap, the other children 

Saiying in the room. Hour after 
or that day the little one bad lain 
still with closed eyes. 

' I was longing with all my might 
to be able to do anything to comfort 
you/ Edith answered. 

' Dear child 1 but I am comforted 
always. And as to this little one, I 
am glad she should be with her 
mother. She won't take me after 
ber» weary as I often feel ; I have 
work to do/ glancing at the other 
children. 'Those boys and those 
girls hold me here. She said, 
" James, try and live for their sake." ' 

Mr. Oldenshaw bad never spoken 
so much as this of the dead to any 
one before. 

Edith could not see for tears for 
many minutes. When her eyes were 
clear again the light had faded off 
Amy's fair locks, the sun had 
dipped into the sea. 

The child's lids stirred, then 
closed; the other children played 
softly, obedient to papa's finger, 
which said, ' Amy is asleep.' Edith's 
eyes were on tiie ohild's face, so 
were Mr. Oldenahaw'a ; piesenUyhe 
bent closer. 



The lids were half raised : the olae 
eyes seemed to look at him dreamily. 

' Did Amy want papa?' 

The father's ficKse was put dose to 
the child's; then it looked into 
Edith's; she ^led and thrilled and 
clasped the little form closer; she 
lifted the yielding hand and held it 
to her mouth. 

'Amy is very cold/ she said. 'Ill 
move to the fire now the sun's 
gone.' 

' Shall we go and play in the hall, 
papa, as Amy's asleep?' whispered 
one of the boys, coming up on tip- 
toe. 

*Tes, dearboy, doP 

They weni Edith knelt on the 
rug, and chafed the little hands and 
the feet, and talked softly to her pet 

Presentiy she desisted and looked 
blankly at Mr. denshaw. He took 
the child from her then, and she 
sank down weeping, as if her heart 
would break. 

Mr. Oldenshaw left the room ; he 
carried the chitd through Uie playing 
children, who hushed as he passed 
to his own room, to lay it on ms bed. 

He had been told that death would 
come like this; he did not rebel 
against it He locked himself in 
there— in communion with Qod and 
the child's mother. 

Edith knelt by the fireside, weep- 
ing, weeping as if her tears would 
never stay; and the children played 
till the hall grew dark. Then tW 
came round her. 

'Amy is gone to her mother, 
Mr. Oldenshaw's voice said from 
the midst of them as they clustered 
round Edith. ' It is sad for us 
who are left to miss her, but it must 
be happy for her, noce it is Qod's 
will—the will of that Father who 
loves His little ones more than any 
earthly fiather can do.' 

Then his voice failed him as the 
awe-struck, weeping chihiren cama 
round him. He cweased them — 
comforting them, speaking of Amy 
as taken home, to a happier home 
than she bad known ytit - speaking 
tenderly of death as a dear reet and 
great good — ^>et not allnwing him- 
self to speak wearily or denpisingly 
of life to these young things, who 
probably had length of years before 
them. 



i«e 



Orosi Pufpoies, 



EdHh put the little girls to bed 
that night, and sat by tl^m till they 
sobbed themselTes to sleep. Then 
Mr. Oldenshaw took her home. 

He sat hy their fireside a while, 
talking gently to Lily, who was 
much overoome by the news, not 
for Amy's sake. Amy had gone 
home, and Lily was often, in her 
constant wearing pain, fall of long- 
ing for the rest of snoh a going 
home— not for Amy's sake, bat for 
Amy's fBither's sake, whom Lily 
loved, as snoh a natore as hers 
ooold not help lovine each a one as 
his. Lily's thin hana had been laid 
on his, and he still clasped it as he 
sat talking— of Amy's pretty ways 
and pretty pathetic sayings. 

' It is a blessed thing to think 
that she has not soffered— that her 
short life has been a happy life, 
poor little lamb! If I loved Edith 
for nothing else, I shonld love her 
for her love to my Amy.' 

By-and-by he went away, and lefb 
three loving women sorrowing for 
him— following him in their sor- 
xowfal thonghts to the gieat Sea- 
wall Hoose, to the side of the lovely 
dead child. 

' Has he had a letter ?' asked 
Gertrade, by-and-by, ' from his 
brother?' 

'No, Ger. Why?' qnestioned 
Edith, qoickly. 

* I have heard from my hosband 
—he wishes me to meet him on his 
landing. He cannot yet make np 
his mind to come here.' 

'When does he come? Does he 
come alone?' 

' I have to oalcalate the time. It 
will be next week, I think. Strangely 
enough, he does not mention 
Herbert' 

' My master will hear in a day or 
two, no donbt,' said Edith. 

That title, given in jest, loving 
jest, long ago, had come to be so 
fitmiliar now tllltt she used it when 
in most serious earnest. 

A few days later Gertrude left 
them, to go and meet her husband. 
It was a hard parting between her 
and Uly, though Gertrude assured 
herself she should see Lily again. 

Little Amy was buried. It was 
pleasant that it was spring-time, 
and the fresh churchyard grans full 



of daisies. No letter firom Horbert 
had come to the Sea-wall Hoose. 

The day after Gertrade went 
away, the day her hosband was ex- 
pected to reach England, Edith 
left lily asleep on her oooch in the 
afternoon, and went out It was a 
mild spring day, with a soft, 
hovering, dew-like, yet penetrating 
rain £ftlling incessantly. Edith 
went oat of the garden and up the 
road, to the spot where she had 
parted from Herbert, havim taken 
ENick her word from him. Here she 
perched herself upon the wall, her 
Seet resting upon a felled tree, and 
sat waiting. 

It was Herbert^s costom always to 
walk down to the Sea-wall House ; 
to leave any vehicle he might come 
in at the upper village, tmd walk 
down the road. 

Was Edith waiting for him now? 
She felt as if she was. Why should 
she expect him now? Because she 
felt him coming. She had come 
out late in the afternoon : it began 
to grow dim and dusk. 

' I must go home soon, for Lily 
will wake and want her tea.' 
Edith had jost said this to herself 
when— footsteps did not sound very 
distinctly in the soft, damp road, 
but that was his. She was sitting 
back from the road, under over- 
hanging branches. All her dresif 
that was visible was a grey cloak, 
the colour of the walL He camo 
on, and did not see her; he was 
about to pass her. 

'Herbert!' The voice was low 
and timid. He walked on. 

'Herbert!' He paused, but did 
not turn. 

' Herbert !' Desperately now. 

He turned, and saw her. 

' I had to speak three times.' 

'I heard the first time, but 
thought that it was a voice in my 
heart,' he said. 

' I have been waiting two hours.' 

' How so? Why did you expect 
me?' 

' A voice in my heart!' she said ; 
then, 'Oh, Herbert! can you care 
for me any more ? Can you forgive 
me?' Her face lifted up. 

He pushed back her hat and 
looked into her eyes. 

' I don't think I can care for yon 



The Archery Lesson, 



169 



any more.' He said then, ' I care 
for you so much, so entirely.' 

She stepped back upon the tree 
that had been her footstool, and 
then from that eleTation was able 
to throw her arms ronnd his neck. 

' My Herbert— my Herbert Oh, 
yon are so good to me !* 

She did not soon get free again. 
There were only the birds to see 
them, and perhaps a sqnirrel or 
two. 

Then, when she did get free, her 
hand was tucked nnder his arm, 
held there with an energy that 
seemed to mean to impress it there 
for ever, and they went down the 
road. 

'Lily will want her tea,' said 
Edith. 

' How is Lily? I was afraid to 
ask. Tonrs is a mourning dress, is 
it not, Edith?* 

' I meant to keep it covered for 
fear of shocking yon. Yon will be 
80 grieved, I know, dear Walter.' 

'Is it little Amy?' 



'Tes. What made yon gneas it?' 

' I had a dream about her : and I 

never thought that dear child would 

live. Poor James 1 Now, how is 

Lily?' 

' I want you to tell me when you 
see her. She is changed, I fear.' 
A long silenoa 
' Gertrude met Frederick ?' 
'Yes. They have had a hard 
time of it Now I hope they will 
be happy.' 

' Are you not going to scold me 
or to laugh at me T 
' Not now, my child; not now.' 
She was silent after that 
He went with Edith to the cot- 
tage — waited while she prepared 
Lily to see him, and then went in. 
Lily brightened up so wonderfully 
that Edith thought he had no 
chance of judging of her state. 

He did not stay long at the cot- 
tage then, but went on to the Sea- 
wall House. 

Lily had a happy summer, and 
did not know another winter. 



THE ABGHEBT LESSON. 

OUT in the meadow spreading green. 
Under the summer sky. 
While in its hazy depths the lark 

Sang, hidden from the eye, — 
What should we do but h'nger lon^. 
My cousins three, and I ? 

Fair were those cousins three who made 

My happiness that day ; 
Bright-eyed, and rosy red of Up 

And ankle-neat were they; 
And if their laughter or their words 

Were gayest, who might say ? 

As easy were it to assign 

Distraction absolute 
To lightly peroh'd coquettish hat 

Or heart-enslaving boot, — 
Fatal to one who*d teach the young 

Idea how to shoot! 

That was my too-delicious task. 
The Fates would have it so ; 

The secret of the flying shaft 
The Graces sought to know, — 

Arrows in plenty to their hands 
And but a single beau. 



170 A Bun to ike SomA after OreaJtmre-OmforU. 

Slow was the lesson whfle I B\m^ 
Oonflicting thoughts to chase: 

' Which was the dnintier of the thxae? 
Which had the fairer face? 

And which among them drew the b^w 
With most bewitching graoe ?* 

Betwixt the claims of lair and fiur 

'Tib tortnre to decide. 
Doabt not in Ida's happj Tale 

Distracted Paris tried 
Between the rival goddesses 

The apple to dinde. 

Yenns was lovely, Jono grand, 

Minerya had esprit ; 
Twas croel to refuse the prize 

To either of the three. 
How to award that prisEe— my heart — 

I know bewildered me. 

It was a day when loveliness 
To all aroand us clings ; 

Bright was the shining meadow-grass. 
The insects' jewelled wings ; 

The very target golden glowed,^ 
A planet with its rings! 

And happily the sunny hours, 

Sacred to beauty, fled' 
Hardly more swiftly through the air 

The feathered arrows sped ; 
Life's brightest blossoms thus are bom, — 

Thus soon their sweetness shed. 

And when, at last, the sport was done. 
The merry lesson taught, 

I deemed the triple Graces still 
With equal beauty fraught: 

Yet one— the Yenus— held my heart. 
Yielded in secret thought. 



W.S. 



I 



A BUN TO THE SOUTH AFTER CEEATURECOMFOBTS. 

T is a mistake to suppose that may care to know how to traverse 

because a thiug is well known a it with ease. We are not afraid of 

description of it will be devoid of the reproach of epicurism, oa ao- 

interest. Witness the amusement count of noting creature-comforts, 

we derive from the accounts of or their absence ; we bear no rela- 

their travels in England given by tionship to the personages in novels 

foreigners. Our curiosity is excited who appear to live without either 

ifonly to see how a new pen will treat eating or drinking, and are rarely 

an old topic. We therefore make reported to sleep in a bed. The 

no apology for relating a common- first of creature -comforts is health, 

place railway journey across well- And indeed, as health, pleasure, and 

trodden France. Those who have amusement were the main objects 

performed it in their way will see of the trip, it would be incon^^istent 

now we perform it in ours ; those and ab.^urd to omit all mention of 

to whom the ground is still fresh their attainment. 



A Bnm to ihe Soidh nft&r Or^aJtnre^Jmfark. 



ITl 



By 'fte fikmth' — an indefinite 
expresdon — is meant neither the 
fioathem hemisphere, nor the 
equator, nor the toopio of Oprioora, 
nor the antuotio circle, but simply 
what the Freneh caU ' le Midi/ that 
part of their ooontry which borders 
the Mediterranean and the frontier 
of Spain. It is used loosely, exactly 
as in Scotland ' going sonth' means 
proceeding to any pui of England ; 
and there is at least as mnch dif- 
ference between the dimate, the 
prodnctions, and the people of the 
Midi and the northem regions of 
the continent, as there is between 
those of North and Sonth Britain. 

The blessed railway now renders 
the Midi accessible to numbers to 
whsm it was formerly absolutely 
closed. The busy man, who could 
not spare the time, the invalid, who 
could not bear the long weariness 
of diligence-trayelling, are wafted 
thither smootlily and speedily by 
rail. By land, we can almost beat 
the swallow; it is the sea only 
which claps a drag on the swiftness 
of our migrations. We, therefore, 
for the information of our friends, 
record the ways, and doings, and 
times of railroad trains, especially 
as in several respects they differ 
from our own. It may save them 
some trouble in studying and 
searching Bradshaw, 'Le Train,' 
or ' L'Indicateur des Chemins de 
Fer,' to be told how we went on our 
way rejoicing. If th^ disapprove 
our 8ti^;es and our halting-places, 
th^ can fcame a time-table of their 
own which suits them better ; but 
they may still like to listen to our 
commentary on the capabilities of 
the Bailway Guides. 

We mention prices, distances, and 
quantities, in the moneys, weights, 
and measures of the country, as the 
simplest way of conveying practical 
information. Of what use is it to 
reduce to pounds, shillings, and 
pence, payments that have to be 
made in tencs and centimes? or to 
speak of mOes on roads that are 
measured by kilomdtres? A very 
little experience and practice en- 
ables the mind to appreciate and 
form a correct idea of the values of 
the French decimal, or metrical, 
sybtem of moneys, weights, and 



measures. Briefly, let the intend- 
ing traveller remember that, ap- 
proximately, twenty-five firanos are 
equal to a pound [^gold twenty-five 
franc pieces are bemg corned, which 
will thus be equivalent to our son^ 
reign]; that twenty francs make a 
napul^n; that a franc, tenpenoe, 
is twenty soub, or halfpence. The 
centimes puzzle strangers moat; 
yet they are exceedingly simple, 
and must be understood, because 
all legal small payments are made 
in tbem, not in sous, alliiough sous 
are still as currant in popular lan- 
guage as they are in the shape of 
coin. All articles for sale in shops 
and stalls must be ticketed in francs 
and centimes, not in sous. At 
railways, you are told your ticket 
costs so many fkancs and so many 
centimes, not sous. A franc, then, 
is one hundred centimes; half a 
fraoo is fifty centimes; fifteen sous, 
or three-quarters of a franc, is se- 
venty-five centimes; and when you 
are charged five centimes for any« 
thing, you pay them with a sou. 
The comparison of centimes with 
English pence is of the easiest One 
penny, or two sous, is ten centimes ; 
thirty centimes is threepence ; forty 
centimes, fonrpence, and so on; 
sixty-fiTo centimes is sixpence half- 
penny; ninety-fi^e centimes, nine- 
pence halfpenny, fto. Ac. 

All lengths are measured by 
metres, and kilometres, or thousands 
of metres. The mdtre is oonsider^ 
ably more than a yard, making an 
important difference in buying cloth, 
&o. It is subdivided into one hun- 
dred oentimdtres, less than half an 
inch each, and further (for mioro- 
metrioal purposes) into millimdtres 
about our line, though not exactly. 
The mdtre n the standard of length. 
Note that all divisions of standards 
in this ^stem are derived from the 
Latin; all multiples, from the 
Greek. A kilometre is considerably 
less than a mile. In cold weather, 
and when in good health, by step- 
ping oat briskly, I can walk a kilo- 
metre in ten minutes; at my or- 
dinary pace I do it in twelve or 
thirteen. A kilometre in a quarter 
of an hour is quite leisurely walk- 
ing, whereas a mile in a quarter of 
an hour is very good walking. Four 



172 



A Bun to the South after Oreaiiwte-'Comforte. 



kOorndtroB make a leagae, whiob is 
an easy way to reduce tihom to miles, 
a leagne being equal to two miles 
and a halt Thus, £rom Paris to 
ManeilleB is 863 kilometres, or 216 
leases, minus a kilometre, by rail. 
Twioe 216 is 433, half 316 is 108; 
add the double and the half toge- 
ther, and you get 540 miles as the 
railway distance from Paris to Mar- 
seilles. Now there is a wonderful 
post train (No. 3) which leaves 
Paris at 7*15 in me OTcning, and 
reaches Mareeilles at 11*42 next 
morning, allowing, so say the time- 
tables, half an hour at Lyons for a 
comfortable supper or breakfieust, 
whichever you like to call it, at 
4-32 in the morning. The fiire is 
96 fr. 65 c, a trifle under four 
l^unds. Compare this with the 
time and expense it used to cost to 
make the same trip by diligence, 
still more by posting, and the differ- 
ence in the raoilities for tiayelling 
at the beginning and towuds the 
dose of the present century will be 
so striking as to be weakened by 
fdrther comment. It) allows what 
may be called the immediate trans- 
port of persons short of time, or of 
invalids, from the north of France 
to the Mediterranean shore. 

An objection that may be made 
to this train by persons visiting 
France for the first time is, that, 
travelling by night, they do not 
see the country; but as it leaves 
Lyons at 5*2 in the morning, they 
get the valley of the Rhone, the 
portion of the route by far the best 
worth seeing, under the eflldctB of 
sunrise and early mom, which in 
summer are indescribably beauti- 
ful ; and they look down upon the 
vast Etang de Berre, and make the 
descent to the sea, amidst the 
splendours of approaching noon. 
In any case, if rapid change of place 
be the object, some pivt of the 
distance must be traversed by nighi 
There is an express train (No. i) 
which leaves Paris at the conve- 
nient hour of eleven in the morning ; 
but it leaves Lyons at 10*45 ftt 
night, reaching Marseilles at 6*25 
next morning, and whisking the 
traveller throagh the Rhone valley in 
the dark, although he will have had 
the pleasure of a peep at Burgundy. 



Whatever train you take, the 
clearing of enormous distances in 
this way is open to the common 
objection applicable, in fact, to rail- 
way travelling in general, that you 
leave much unseen along the way. 
On the present line, for instance, 
Dijon is picturesque, has a marked 
individuality, and is full of histo- 
rical interest, while Lyons is really 
a magnificent city, taking rank aa 
one of the cities of the world. One 
is the hale representative of the 
pa8t» the other a fine example of 
present prosperity. Both have the 



mg in the comforts, conveniences, 
and luxuries of life, attainable by 
purses of moderate dimensions. 
!but there are things which it is 
impossible to reconcile and combine ; 
you cannot be in two places at once ; 
you cannot at the same time travel 
quickly and leisurely. Going ex- 
press, you cannot poke and pry into 
tiie same amount of detail as if 
you traversed France, as we have 
done in old times, with the same 
sturdy pair of horses. 

To complete our sketch of French 
measures: the litre is the standard 
of capadly for dry things as well 
as for liquids ; for wheat and other 
gnin, as well as for wine, beer, and 
milk. In &ct, why should barley 
and oats need a different measure 
to ale and porter? The litre is less 
than an English quart, being one 
pint, and seven-tenths, and a frao- 
tion, but is a sufiicient allowance of 
wine for a man to take at a sitting, 
and is sensibly more than an or- 
dinary wine bottle. Drink, however, 
is sold by measures having other 
popular names. A canette is a mug 
or pot of beer containing a litre ; a 
canon is a small glass of beer ; a 
chojye is a large glass. A chopine is 
about a pint of wine. In the Pari- 
sian wine shops you have the ^tier 
and the demi-setier. The spread of 
beer about France has introduced 
the hock; hoch-bier being not any 
particular kind of beer, but beer 
sold by the glassful or bockf ul. 

The standard of weight is the 
gramme, twenty-eight of which, 
three-tenths, and a fraction, are 
equal to our ounce avoirdapois. 
A thousand grammes, or a kilo- 



A Bm to Oe SatOh after Oreatnare'ComforU. 



173 



gramme, aie equal to two pounds, 
two-tenthfi, and a fraction, aToirdn- 
pois. Conflequently, the demi-kilo- 
gramme is the French xepieBentatiye 
of the English pound, only hearier, 
being a notable and agreeable im- 
proyement when meats, froits, &c. 
are bonght in qnantity. Kilo- 
gramme is cnrrentfy abbreviated to 
kilo, and demi-kilogramme to demi- 
kilo. The latter is popularly called 
a pound; and when articles are 
ticketed in shops, according to law, 
so much the demi-kilo, you may 
speak of them as so much the 
pound. In French of the old regime, 
before the Bevolution, francs are 
called livres, and the expression is 
still retained by many old &milies 
and persons daimiug connection 
with tnem. Thus, when they speak 
of people haying so many thousand 
' livres de rente,' they mean, not so 
many thousand pounds but so many 
thousand francs of income— a won- 
derful difference. Note tiiat livre, 
a pound, is feminine, une livre, while 
livre, a book, is masculine, tin livre. 
Consequently, asking for un livre de 
yiandes, would be requesting, in 
yery bad French, a hook <f meats, 
Andjthat is all we will trouble you 
with about moneys, measures, and 
weights, except to add that the 
French are not blessed with the 
confusion of troy, avoirdupois, and 
apothecaries* weights. Everything 
is weighed alike l^ the granmie, ite 
subdivisions, and ite multiples. 
Diamonds, perhaps, may be still 
weighed by carate ; but they are not 
articles of daily necessity. 

Anybody can find his way to 
Paris, and everybody may discover 
there hotels suited to his wante and 
his pocket For those merely pay- 
ing a visit to the place called by M. 
Felletan 'La Nouvelle Babylon,' 
and not proceeding further, the 
situation of the hotel does not 
matter much, provided it be suit- 
able in other respects. But for 
the traveller on the move, especially 
if he has 'early to rise,' in order to 
be punctual, if not wealthy and 
wise, it is important that his hotel 
should not be too £Eur from the 
station from which he has to start. 
Now the traveller going south may 
reasonably regret that the great 



migority of hotels are in the central, 
western, and northern parte of Paris, 
while there are very £9W in the 
neighbourhood of the stetions of 
the Lyons and the Orleans rail- 
ways. To meet this want, I see 
advertised, but have not tried, 
' Grand Hotel du Commerce, en 
&oe la Gare de Lyon, 13, Rue Tra- 
versi^, coin de la Bue de Beroy. 
Excellente teble d'hdte & prix mo- 
dern. Service dans les chambres.' 
We have tried inns in consequence 
of seeing them advertised, and have 
had good reason to be satisfied with 
them. There is also at 14, Bue de 
Lyon, pr^ la Gaie, the ' Hdtel de 
rUnivers, Caf6-Besteurant^tenupar 
Malveau. Cet ^teblissement se re- 
commando particuli^rement a Mes- 
sieurs les Yoyageurs par la modidt^ 
de ses prix et par les soins apportes 
dans le service.' Chambers from 
I fr. 50 c. upwards. The reader can 
venture upon either of these upon 
his own responsibility. Having de- 
cided not to rise early, we went to 
an unpretending central hotel 

It will be remembered that» this 
summer, heat set in, throughout 
great part of Great Britain and 
France, if not the whole, on Sunday, 
the 6th of June, or thereaboute, 
after a dull, rainy, and sunless May, 
making practically the sudden tran- 
sition of a plunge from a cold into a 
hot-air bath. In many districte, 
nevertheless, cold weather returned 
soon afterwards. 

On Monday, the 7th, we left the 
Channel coast for Paris. Our se- 
cond-class carriage was an approach 
to an oven, from the sunbeams ^ur- 
in^; on the top. This inconvenience 
might easily be obviated by a fieJse 
or double roof a few inches above 
the real one, with the intervening 
space left open for the air to circu- 
late or flow between. But this in- 
crease of the passengers' comforts 
would cost the company a certain 
outlay, without any appreciable re- 
turn. If the summer tnmc increased 
in consequence, they would surely 
attribute it to some other cause. 
But raQway carria«[es are often hot, 
at storting, from having been left 
in the sun with the windows closed 
to keep out dust, but keeping in 
what till lately was called caloric. 



174 



A Bm to Oe StmA €^ Ckmhure-ComfartB. 



Although double loob in sammer 
woald bo tonie expense, shade for 
keeping eanriages oool might sorely 
be fonnd ai most railway stations, 
for little or nothing. 

Bat however hot it may be when 
yon set oat for the sonth, never fail 
to take yonr wann thin^ with yon 
all the same. Even m snmmer 
there aie times and plaoes when yoa 
will be glad of them-— daring gosts 
of the mistral and other wiods, at 
high elevations, and at night I 
have canght tio dolorenz (not cbro- 
nie, hai^uy,bat safficiently doloioos 
for the time) by crossing the Apen- 
nines lightly dressed, on a box seat, 
in sommar time; and I onoe got 
a nasty toothache at Nice, from 
beiog (3ad aooording to, not what 
I saw, bat what I had heard of the 
dimats. 

We 'deaoended,' as the French 
81^— not to make a mystery where 
none is needed— at the H6tel de 
Rooen; bat, as there are several 
H6tets de Boaen in Paris, we add 
that oars, kept by M. Lambert, is 
Ma 13, Boe Notre Daxoe des Yio- 
toires. It is a oaiet hoase; can 
dine only a limited nomber of gaests 
at its table dlidte, and retains the 
good old-ftshioned oastom of the 
master of the hoose himself doing 
the honoors of the meal, and carv- 
ing the joints before yoor eyes. We 
confess that, when the sixe of the 
party render it possible, we greatly 
prefer this mode to having them cat 
np at a side table by waiters, and 
distribated bit by bit, so that yoa 
have often little choice of slices or 
joints, of &t and lean, of well-done 
or nnder-done, and sometimes no 
other choioe than Hobson's. Now, 
if people like to have a choice in 
anything, it is sarely as mach in 
regard to what they eat as to what 
they love. It is no more pleasant 
to have victaala forced apon as, 
than companions or wives. 

Althooffh the dinners here are 
simple, the cookery is ezoelleni 
Soon after oar aixival, and the wel- 
come dostings and washings that 
immediately followed, we sat down 
to tapioca soap ; boiled fowls, with 
mashroom saace ; green peas ( Jone 
7th); roast beef, new potatoes, 
salad; ooream cheese, strawberries; 



and sweet biseaitsu Charge 3 francs 
per head, inolading half a bottle 
each of good ordinary wine. If 
more is called for, it is sapplied at 
therataof ifr. socthebottle. At 
night, in tidy bedrooms, we foand 
that real treat and comfort, a large 
square pillow on which yoa can res^ 
not merely yoor head, bat— like a 
handsome dliah of cod reposing on 
its parsley-ganiished napkin— yoor 
honoored and handsome head and 
shoalders. We folly intend, on oar 
retam, again descending at the 
Hdtel de Bonen— if it has room for 
as ; which reminds me that it will 
be pradent to write to that e£Eiect a 
lew days beforehand. 

The next day showed as some of 
the last new pranks in Paris. First, 
there were tne street velocipedes; 
but whether the velocipedes paid 
the young men for riding them, or 
whether the youn^ men paid the 
velocipedes for bemg ridden, our 
minds up to the present are still in 
doubt Then there were the water 
velocipedes, on a branch of the lake 
in the Bois de Boulogne— ingenious 
certainly, and effectual, if you could 
guarantee water never to be rougher 
than in a wash-hand basin. It is not 
mine to describe a young gentleman 
in white ducks, perched on a saddle 
between a couple of canoes, working 
treadles or pedals with his feet, 
which turn a wheel between the 
canoes resembling the miniature 
paddle of a steamboai One of 
your artists, in some Parisian sketch, 
will do the work more effectually 
than I can. And then there were 
the young women, pretty and plain, 
who seemed in sodi a hurry to 
adopt the Bernese costame that ao- 
curaoy was sacrificed to expedition 
and expediency. 

Pleasing is the boaquet of six 
feathered fountains in the Ohamps 
Elys^, the water being so finely 
divided as to have the effect of 
marabout plumes stack upon a 
lady's green velvet head-patch. I 
use the word advisedly, for bonnets 
and hats have waned almost to 
nothingness. If they are not to be- 
oomeextinct— whichbonnet-makers, 
not to say bonnet wearers, will 
never allow— their next phase must 
be a waxing one, nntil liiey attain 



A fim io a« SoA afier CreotMre-OomfoHs. 



175 



perliftpe the pr o p o r tk mB of forty 
yean aga Of the lows and emeates 
BafafleqaenUy reported at that date 
ve saw and heard absolutely no- 
thing; only eveiybody was crazily 
numing liter seeond editions of 
every evening journal, to see how 
the elections were terminating ; bat 
we selfishly asked, ' What is that to 
us?* Keverthelessy we were not 
sorry when Fame's trmnpet told ns 
that the 'ineoonaileable' socialist 
seamps were onsted, and that Paris, 
oome to her senses again, really did 
prefer reform to revoIutiQn. 

Our jooney, we repeat, begins 
at FiuJa A halt there of fonr-and- 
twent^ hoars had allowed a slight 
glance at the latest phase of that 
eyer-ohanging 'capital. We rarely 
travel by mfgbi, becanse it is prao- 
tioally throwing a veil over the tee 
of nature, as fiu: as one's self is 
concemed; nor do we care to read 
in a carnage, railway or other, 
althoagh we sometimes write ; pre- 
ferring to look out of window as 
the panorama flashes by, and to 
chat, if any dhattable person is 
present, or, in a third-class car- 
riage, to look on and listen, on the 
nnavoidable condition of smelling 
bad tobacco and worse ludfers. 
Nevertheless, in the present in- 
stance, we oetermined to take the 
ilBtmoQS train No. 3, and stride to- 
wards the South with seven-league 
boots. We all of us, the healthy 
as well as the sick, wanted change 
complete— mora complete than the 
thd comjfUt of Flaris hotels, which, 
comprismg only bread and batter 
and tea, makes a very incomplete 
breakfast for a person blessed with 
an appetite. We wanted fresh fields 
and pastares new; that is, vege- 
tables and fruits not yet to be had 
in the North— tomatos, aubergineB, 
and what not, with apricots and 
peaches and plums innumerable 
in due succession. We wanted, 
before it was quite too late, to in- 
hale the perfume of the blossoming 
vinea One of our medical advisers. 
Doctor Instinct, had prescribed a 
course of fresh ripe figs, analogous 
to the Qerman grape cure; and in 
the South tiiey are to be had by 
the barrowfuL They remind you 
of Horace's peasant who preased 



his friend to eat them, because 'to- 
morrow they will be given to the 
pigs.' At Pau I once asked a fruiir 
woman how she sold her fii^B. 
'Fifteen for a sou.' It was impos- 
sible to bargain or cnimplaiu of Ihe 
price. At Bordeaux I afterwards 
put the same question. 'The 
season is advanced,' the vendor ex- 
plained. 'They axe very fine, and 
figs are getting scarce. I cannot 
let you have them for less than four 
sous the dozen.' It was not worth 
while to deprive oneself of the last 
fig of summer for so reasonable a 
price. 

We wanted the dry, bitter pun- 
gency of the Mediterranean instead 
of the mild, relaxing moistness of 
the Channel. We wanted the moun- 
tain instead of the plain, the self- 
sown forest instead of the wheat- 
field, the leaping cascade instead 
of the slow canal. Above all, we 
wanted the daughters of fire, the 
Pyrenees, older than the Alps, with 
their mystic thermal waters stream- 
ing up from below and their floods 
of vivifying light pouring down 
from the firmament So;, instead of 
frittering away time and mon^ on 
the road, we begged train No. 3 to 
carry us straight to Provence. 
With time at our disposal, we pre- 
ferred to spend it on the shores of 
the transparent tideless sea and by 
the banks of the ' gaves' or moun- 
tain streams which run liquid dia- 
mond and sapphire. 

For travellers going seoond-dass 
by omnibus trains the long, weary 
pull is from Paris to Lyons. It 
may be divided into two days by 
leaving Paris at 7*0 in the morn- 
ing, to reach Bij/aa at 5*11; and 
by leaving Dijon at noon 23 to 
reach Lyons at 7*15. This involves 
on the first day early rising— un- 
welcome to ladies and not always 
relished by gentlemen. It may be 
avoided by splitting the distance 
into three — thus: Leave Paris 
noon ao; reach Tonnerre 6*27; 
leave Tonnerre noon, 59; reach 
Beaune 6*46; leave Beaune 1*30 
afternoon; reach Lyons 7*i5« Lyons 
is full of excellent hoteliB of various 
daises. For economy, we have 
tried the Hdtel Duraad et Si Nizier, 
which gives bedroom, fareakfaat, and 



176 



A Bvn to Ae 8wlh after Creaktr&'Oomfarti. 



diimer (wine inolnded) for dz tencs 
per day, and were well satisfied 
with what we got for the money. 
A great recommendation, in so large 
a dty, is that the chambers are on 
tiie first or second floors. 

My womankind adopted a pre- 
cantion for the night, which others 
under like drcmnstances will do 
well to consider. For stays they 
snbetitated flannel jackets, aflfbrd> 
ing eqnal warmth and greater ease. 
Stays are no longer what they were 
— containing pounds of iroo, whale- 
bone, and wood. The bask of a 
pair of stays was once a formidable 
weapon, with which an injured 
female might severely punish her 
ii\jurer. Years ago I witnessed a 
bedloon ascent; the occupants of 
the car were a lady and a gentle- 
man. The balloon only just refused 
to rise, and it was OTident that it 
required but little to alter the equi- 
librium. The gentleman, before 
the public, relieyed himself of coat 
and shoes; the lady retired, and 
took off her stays. Thus lightened, 
the balloon rose majestically in the 
air; that is, slowly and steadily. 
Modem stays are not like those, 
but still they are a confinement 
and an inoonyenience to a certain 
extent. 

Not very many passengers travel 
by this rapid express-train No. 3, 
except at the season when human 
swallows are flitting, on golden 
wings, to their winter quarters. 
To be able to get into it all you 
must iake your ticket for some 
place beyond Lyons. So by good 
luck and the paucity of passengers 
we get a carnage all to onrselyes. 
Darkness comes on late and day 
breaks early at this time of year, 
which lEdiortens the tedium of the 
night journey. By the way, what 
a pretty name for a girl is the 
Damsh ' Dagmar,' or Daybreak 1 
The French and Latin Aurore and 
Aurora are not to be compared with 
it. If ever I were presented with 
another female infant — which I 
hope never to be; though nobody 
knows what he may come to^and 
she found &your at first sight, I 
might perhaps have her called Eos 
as an experiment, omitting the 
' rhododactylos' as much too long. 



On a railway, by night, you can- 
not sleep, but only dream of things 
wise or foolish, of people good or 
bad, of events real or imaginary, 
but all equally worrying and de- 
structive of true repose. Better 
than the continuance of such 
troubled slumbers is the praise- 
worthy appearance of the early- 
nain^ sun, showing you the mists 
hangmg over the lowlands, the 
distant villages sparkling on the 
hills, the notable advance of vege- 
tation, and the new flowers and 
fruits which you see to-day but 
which you did not see yesterday. 
Those skeleton trees, looking like 
bits of winter stuck into the midst 
of spring, are neither dead nor 
taking the repose indulged in by 
tropical trees duriog the hot dry 
season. They are unfortunate mul- 
beny-trees stripped of their leaves. 
We are in a silk-producing region. 
The green, rounded, pudding- 
shaped ^hills to the right are the 
outposts of the once volcanic dis- 
trict of Auvergne. That tall &r-off 
mountain to the left is Mont 
Yentoux, which we may render 
Mount Windy without great inac- 
curacy, the most westerly sunmiit 
of the Alps. The last time I saw 
it, one ^fine October, its top was 
completiely covered with snow. It 
has now only broken ribbons of 
dirty white, which are partially 
veiled by the morning mists. We 
reach Avignon nicely in time to 
make ourselves tidy for the table 
d*h6te breakfast; after which the 
womankind betake themselves to 
bed. 

Tourists venturing down to the 
South should be prepared to meet 
with a curious meteorological phe- 
nomenon. The preparation consists 
in laying in a stoc^ of veils, green 
spectacles, goggles, light woollen 
mufflers, and other appliances that 
protect you from dust and pene- 
trating winds. The phenomenon is 
the mistral, a stream of air which 
has undergone a peculiar process. 
Blowing from the Atlantic as a 
warm, moist west wind, it passes 
up the valley of the Loire. In the 
lofty uplands of Farez and Auvergne 
it is cooled and robbed of great ^ut 
of its moisture. Then, pouring 



A Bun to the South after Creature-Comforts, 



177 



down into the Talley of the Bhone, 
it is slightly wanned up again, and 
still farther dried by the warming. 
It is occasionally so violent as to 
nproot trees and unroof houses, 
knock down elderlies, and blow- 
your teeth out of your head. Hence 
the jingling Latin triplet :— 

* Avenlo ventosa . 
Sine vento veneno^ ; 
Cum yento faslldloba.* 
' Avignon hu breeaes 
That give yoa the sneezi^s. 
But if there's no breez?^ 
Look out for dleeaaea ; 
If plenty of breezes, 
For dust, that displeases.' 

Any one producing a better trans- 
lation shall receive a crown of bay- 
leaves, to flavour sauce with. 

We will not find fault with the 
breezes of Avignon. Daring our 
short stay they rendered a broiliug 
sun bearable, and converted op- 
pressive heat into a delightful sti- 
mulant. It is paradoxical, but true, 
that you feel yourself freshened up 
and invigorated by a rather gusty 
stream of warm atmospheric air. 
Nevertheless, when it blows so 
strong that you cannot hold an 
umbrella against it and the dust, 
it becomes rather inconvenient; 
that, however, is only a zephyr. 
From another specimen we had of 
Avignon's windiness it would re- 
quire a rather imavoidablo neces- 
sity to make us take up our resi- 
dence there. 

As far OS my own experience is 
concerned in going South, in tho 
direction of Spain, after leaving 
Lyons there are no bearable second- 
class hotels, or there is a great dijQi- 
culty in finding them and risk in 
trying them. I mean hotels where 
you can be wholesomely fed and 
cleanlily bedded in an unpre- 
tentious style at a moderate ex- 
yense. Such hotels abound in the 
northern region of France. They 
exist also in such places as Mar- 
seilles, Nice, and perhaps Mentone, 
in consequence of the inunense 
competition there. I remember 
once being well (though not par- 
ticularly cheaply) treated at Orange, 
north of Avignon— Hotel de la 
Posto, if I remember rightly. Other- 
wise, generally, the only eafe course 

VOL. XTI. — HO. XCIT. 



is to go to the best hotel in the 
southern towns, and pay their 
prices, renouncing all attempts at 
economy. At those I am about to 
mention the charges are not ex- 
cessive and the treatment exceed- 
ingly good and liberal. The most 
unsatisfactory set of hotels I know 
(except that — to give a certain 
personage his due— I have never 
found in them uncleanly or in- 
sectiferous beds) lie in the Italian 
direction after quitting Marseilles. 
Swiss blood, more or less inter- 
mixed with French, mostly flows 
in the veins of the proprietors, who 
keep up a fraternal correspondence 
amongst themselves, and send you 
on from one to another with such 
strict instructions where you are to 
go to that it requires a certain 
amount of strong-mindedness to 
break loose from the trammels of 
the brotherhood. I know none of 
these igentry west of Marseilles, and 
have no wish to make the discovery 
that they have extended themselves 
in that direction. I am not writing 
of the line of which they have got 
possession; and of course could not 
name their houses if I were. Their 
charges are high, with plenty of 
'bougie,' 'service,' &c.; but their 
distinguishing characteristic is that, 
for this, you get scanty and Bar- 
mecidal fare ; they contrive to feed 
you on air, or on things looking 
like food inflated with air. They 
give you your dinner without your 
victuals; that is, with little scraps 
01 nothing at all, made to pass for 
'plats,' or dishes; and when you 
have devoured all your bread, to 
supply the vacancy, after dining, 
you are perfectly ready to dine 
again. Go to the best hotels in my 
South, and you will get none of 
that. 

At Avignon, we went to the Hotel 
d'Eurppe, a most respectable, al- 
most a religious house, admirably 
conducted by Madame Fierron, a 
widow lady. Of its liberality you 
can judge by the following bills of 
fare. 'A nice little dinner,' 'an 
elegant dinner,' 'a capital d^er,' 
' a jolly good dinner,' are vague ex- 
pressions which merely indicate the 
speaker's appreciation of the meali 
He may have been in unusual good 

N 



178 



A fittii /o ike S<niik after Creature^Comforts. 



humonr, or with an extra sha^ ap- 
petite, and so have landed the feast 
beyond its roal ments. Bat a bill 
of lue, with the annotation, 'well 
cooked and well served/ allows the 
candid reader to ezeroiBe his im- 
prtial jadgment Besides whioii, 
bills of fare, while recording peat, 
aie saggestiye of f ntuze entertain- 
moDts. 

Take one day's regimen. Bieak- 
£Mrt Twine the general beverage; we 
aakea for tea, and had it) : 

Oold slioed ham (excellent) and 
Aries sancisson, a sort of Bologna 
or pdany sansage ; 

Petits pates; little patties; ladies' 
monthfuls ; 
CkAd roaat fowl ; 
Sotiloped fresh water crawfish ; 
Omelette of haricots verts or green 
French beans; 

Broiled matton chops, fried po- 
tatoes; 

Dessert (taken at breakfast as 
well as at dinner), strawberries, 
'Cherries (two sorts), raisins, Boqne- 
fart cheese, sweet bisenits. 
Dinner: ricepotage; 
Litlde patties ; 

Grey mnllet boiled, with mnsh- 
room sauce; 

Boast fillet of beef and pickled 
gherkins ; 

Boast leg of lamb and plain-boiled 
potatoes; 
Fricandean of veal; 
Boast dncks, with green peas ; 
Asparagus; 
Salad, cheese ; 

Oabinet pudding, and sponge cako 
witii whipped cream ; 

Dessert : strawberries, cherries, 
dried fruits, and biscuits. 

Each of the foregoing, being 
served separately, might be said 
to constitute a course. 

With another sample of the Hotel 
d'Europe's dinners, we will drop 
that subject for the present On 
the loth of June they gave us : 

Clear vermioelli soup, with the 
slightest suspicion of sf^Eron in it, 
probably introduced into the ver- 
micelli itself at the time of its 
manufacture. In sulixy weather 
tloB is an agreeable condiment, of 
which the southerners are fond ; 

Fresh tunny (a thick slice across 
the tail end of the fish), boiled, gar- 



nished with shred cos lettuce, and 
accompanied by white Dutch sauce. 
A novelty to most of us. The flesh, 
pinkish while uncooked, is grey or 
whitey-brown when boQed. Good, 
with a salmon flavour, but still not 
80 good as salmon, to which it is 
compared, and even preferred, by 
ultra-patriotic Frencnmen, Louis 
Figuier to wit, in his ' Ocean World,' 
translated by Messrs. Chapman and 
Hall; 
Tame rabbit, stewed Isown ; 
Boiled fowl (which doubtless 
helped to make the soup) with 
green peas; 
Braised beef; 

Artichokes, buttered or oiled (we 
did not taste them, as it is impos- 
sible for stomachs of ordinary power 
and capacity to take in everytning) ; 
Boast fowls and kidney beans ; 
CSabinet padding; sponge cake 
and cream; 

Dessert; strawberries, cherries, 
cheese, biscuits. 

An honest, substantial dinner 
this, supporting the wayworn tra- 
veller, and very different to the 
four or five francs' worth of shreds 
and nonsenses with which we have 
been tantalised in the ever-to-be- 
avoided hotels above alluded to. 
Be it mentioned, however, that 
Avignon enjoys an old-established 
culinary reputatiim, which would 
have been impossible had there 
ever been any deficiency in quan- 
tity, quality alone not sufficing to 
satisfy the true French gastronome. 
For whatever may be the current 
belief. Frenchmen eat quite as much 
as Englishmen; I should say con- 
siderably more. 

Avignon is south. The plague 
of flies has begun. Sugar, dishes 
of fruit, sweet biscuits, &c., are 
protected from them by wire-gauze 
covers, perhaps to prevent their 
flying away with them bodily, by 
combining their strength into a 
joint-stock company. To repel 
them, certain butchers' shops are 
converted into huge wire-gauze 
cages, whose entrance, for the ad- 
mission of wingless two-legged cus- 
tomers (on business only) is screened 
by ample drooping nets or draperies. 
The flies are undeniable and in- 
evitable; even the horses' ears are 



A Bun to the South efter Creaimre'Cloafmii. 



179 



«rmecl mgrnnst fheir attadkB by a 
flort of batkins, or ear-gloveB, wbioh 
encase thatezpresaiye feature of the 
snimars head. Certainly, there are 
flies, and no mistake ; happily, they 
are not goats, mosqnitos, coasiiiB; 
still less are they the insect enemies 
who ftighten yon to death in a word 
0f three letters : so we componnd 
with the oload of flies, and bear 
ihem. 

Ayignon is sonth. The sun is 
fierce, and deserres the honour of 
being eneonntered by a white nm- 
brella with a green silk lining. Bat 
then there is the breeze, which to- 
day muMt please ; moreoTer, we mnst 
give the son some credit for those 
most aromatic strawberries, those 
bigarrean 'cherries, hard bnt hand- 
some, those delicate green peas, 
broad beans, Tast wMte onions, 
French beans, and new potatoes, at 
will. In most oases, there are com- 
pensating or eztennating ciromn- 
stanoes. Bat onr arrival at the 
south is revealed by the nniveisal 
snbstitation of curtains for doors, 
and the frequent replacement of 
glass windows by wooden shutters. 
To escape the blinding glare of sun- 
shine, whether reflected or direct, 
dingy dens of gloomiest aspect are 
made to serve for the occupations of 
daily life. 

Look at the mouth of that sombre 
cavern; it is arohed with stone. 
Within, lies Cimmerian darkness— 
not having any dictionaries to refer 
to, / don't know what that is. Do 
youf — Obscurity impenetrable to 
the naked eye, at fini But ap- 
proach ; nay set one step within the 
cave. As your organs get accus- 
tomed to the gloom, there come 
forth into visibility, not lions and 
tigers, bnt less ferocious animals, 
white, brown and black, which a 
whinny and a neigh inform you 
are horses; what seemed rocky 
boulders are bundles of hay; and 
the plashing cascade is no more than 
the filliog of a pail at the water tap. 
It is a meridional stable ; that is all. 
Behold that other grotto, by no 
means cool. By the same patient 
mode of investigation you discover 
sundry ovoid, annular, and fusiform 
bodies heaped in groups or ranged 
in rows. In the innermost recesses 



of the grot ycm ^perceive a rvMy 
subterranean glare, which is not an 
outbreak of volcamc fire, bat the 
dying embers of a baker's oven; 
the strangely-shaped substanoes are 
the loaves. And finally, the in- 
creased sensibiliiy of your optic 
nerves shows you the baker himself, 
his wife, and his journeyman. De- 
lighted at findmg those weM ap- 
peonmces to be only the loeal cos- 
tume of a useful trade, you Totreat 
back into the hot glare again, and 
make straight for the shady side of 
the street. There, while you are 
curiously gazing at some unmistak- 
ably genuine copies of did portraits, 
you are yourself as curiously inves- 
tigated by their proprietress, « 
wrinkled female head in the Pro- 
vencal head-<b:6ss— a band of black 
velvet ribbon bound round the head, 
surmounted by a small lace crown — 
not unbecoming to either old or 
young; but I dont think you will 
be quite so green as even to ask the 
price of her ' antiquities.' 

Most of these southern towns in- 
close and conceal a sort of cmstaceo- 
human life. The vitality lurking 
within them is protected from ex- 
cessive light and heat by a thick 
calcareous envelope. Avignon has 
a wafl^, whitey-brown look, though 
not made of paper but of solid stone. 
As becomes a city of the popes, it is 
thoroughly mediaeval and southern 
in its interior aspect, with all the 
ground-floor windows strong iron- 
barred and shuttered, to keep out 
thieves and radiation. Doors, as I 
have mentioned, are replaced in the 
daytime by curtains, at the same 
time admitting air and effectually 
baffling prying eyes. In the lower 
town, the houses have the Torkish 
and the Arab look of all turning 
their backs on the street Shops 
there are none, or few and far 
between. For them you must 
mount to the narrow little streets 
which kindly stretch sail-cloths from 
house to house, to keep out the in- 
trusive sunbeams. The stranger 
will most easily reach them, hud, 
through them, the strong- smelling 
market-place, by crossing the little 
Place du Change, funnily shaped 
like an ill-made hour-glass, where 
he may witness, and if he likes, 
K a 



180 



A Bun to ike South after Crealure'Comforts. 



adopt, the aoathem onstom of drink- 
ing hot ooffee out of a beer-glass, 
flimked by a cmet-full of brandy 
ad libitum. 

The monnmental wonder of Avig- 
non is the old colossal palace of the 
popes. Its huge nnoonthness is 
overpowering. Below it is a le- 

r table, partly-new square, with 
theatre and some caf^s in it; 
but to me, quite an eyesore (literally 
so, from the dust sweeping through 
it) is the long straight new street, 
the Bue Bonaparte, starting out of 
the square, like a ball shot from a 
cannon's mouth, and hitting its 
mark nobody knows wheie, after the 
true Parisian Haussmann Deishion, 
at least as Dbut as straightness and 
persistence are concerned; no con- 
sideration can turn it from its ob- 
ject But in Avignon the construc- 
tion of such a new-fSEtngled street is 
like tacking a paltry bit of trumpery 
new cloth on an old, once rich, but 
now threadbare garment— a failure 
and a nuisance, as well as an incon- 
sistency. None but the crookedest 
of streets can resist the blasts of so 
gusty a climate. 

As a general rule, if you are mis- 
anthropically inclined and wish to 
retreat into absolute solitude, you 
have only to seek the public prome- 
nade of a provinciid town. With- 
out being prompted by any unsocial 
motive, we climbed the grass-grown 
steps and weed-covered slopes which 
lead to the cathedral and the ac- 
cent garden, and found the Dom des 
Bochers of Avignon no exception to 
the remark. Perhaps one reason 
why people don't go there is the 
fear of being blown away beyond 
recovery. IVom whatever cause, 
you might commit murder or sui- 
cide there frequently without fear 



of any observant eye to witness th& 
deed. The situation is undeniably 
fine, conunanding a grand sweep of 
the Bhone and an intimation of its 
approaching junction with the Du- 
rance, and with Mont Ventouz loom- 
ing hazily leagues away. But to 
get a correct idea of the power and 
magnitude of the Bhone itself, which 
looks rather small and poor while 
you are skirting it on the railway, 
vou must cross it on the suspension 
bridge— a pleasant promenade, but 
purchased by that rarity in France, 
atoll. 

At four o'clock in the afternoon 
of Thursday we had militaxy music 
on the promenade which skirts the 
left bank of the Bhone. Operatic 
music — ^tbat is, music accompanying 
and illustrating dramatic action— 
when good is very charming; but 
there is no purer or more harmonious 
setting for music than the flow of a 
river or the fall of a cascade. Both 
move on smoothly and evenly to- 
gether; and other strains as well a& 
'Flow on, thou shining river/ ac- 
cord well with the onward gliding 
of a stream, when rapid enough, 
as the Bhone is here, to be percep- 
tible to the eye. 

Travellers having half a day to 
spare, and seeking shelter from the 
arrows of far-darting Apollo, not to 
mention a refuge from wind and 
dust, will do well to spend it in the 
Mus^ Calvet. There, amongst 
other inveresting objects, they will 
see Horace Yemet's two original 
pictures from which the popular 
print of Mazeppa bound to the 
white horse and pursued by wolves 
is taken. There is also the picture, 
engraved and made popular at an 
earlier date, of the Centaur teaching 
yoimg Achilles to draw the bow. 
E. S. D. 



(Tohe continued.) 



^^^^^^ 



181 



THE MATEIMONIAL AGENT. 



LONDON supplies the fashionable 
districts of Paris with pick- 
pockets—why, it is difficalt to com- 
prehend, as I^nchmen, as a rale, 
nave grater delicacy of touch thim 
the broad-digited sons of Albion. 
Paris, in retnrn, sends us clever 
•swindlers of yarions types, whose 
main field of action, however, appears 
to be the Giiy anditspnrliens,po68ibly 
because the western districts are too 
oyerrnn by our native-born sharp- 
•ers, who, spite of their undoubted 
inventive genius, nevertheless rarely 
seem to hit upon the same ultra- 
refined way of fleecing particular 
flections of the communi^ as then: 
Parisian brethren practise with such 
marked success. 

The one imposition, on a grand 
«cale, which flourishes in Paris, un- 
restrained by the law, is the Matri- 
monial Agency. One can under- 
stand the immense field it has open 
to it in a country like France, where 
marriages are far more afiEdirs of the 
purse than of the heart, and where 
€very female servant, and every 
shopgirl, even, saves up her 'dot' 
as her only chance of obtaining a 
partner for life. The most im- 
portant of these agencies send out 
their circulars quarterly to all the 
Jiommes d'affaires in France ; and an 
'extract from one of these documents, 
that has accidentally come beneath 
our notice, deserves to be given 
verbatim. 

' I entertain the conviction, mon- 
sieur, that in your neighbourhood — 
or at any rate among your ccmnections 
— ^you will either know or chance to 
hear of certain young ladies who 
may happen to. be placed in the 
•embarrassing position of not being 
able to contract a suitable marriage, 
<nther in accordance with their tastes 
or their just pretensions. I venture, 
therefore, to do myself the pleasure 
«f furnishing you with an epitome of 
those actual and seriously-disposed 
parties of whom I have tiie honour 
to be the intermediary. 

' I. A foreign prince, well known 
in the highest circles for his irre- 
proachable manners and agreeable 
physiognomy. He is thirty-four 



years of age, and has from eight 
hundred thousand to a million 
francs of fortune^ with carriages, 
horses, &a 

* 2. A magistrate, thirty-five years 
of age, and with an income of a 
hundred thousand francs. 

' 3. Several doctors, twen^-five 
to thirty-five years of age, and pos- 
sessingincomes ranging from twenty 
to fifty thousand francs. 

' 4* Numerous merchants, &c., 
from twenty-five to forty years of 
age, with incomes varying from 
twenty to thirty thousand francs. 

' 5. Some "rentiers," fifom foriy 
to fifty years of age, and with from 
thirty thousand to a hundred thou- 
sand francs income.' 

This circular, curious in many re- 
spects, has, however, nothing novel 
about it It would be necessaiy 
that one should never have looked 
into a French newspaper to ignore 
the various temptations to which 
these high priests of Hymen make 
a point of incessantly exposing a 
who happen to be single. 

The matrimonial agent, with whom 
just now we are more particularly 
concerned, invariably has on the 
books of his establishment all that 
can be wished for, and everything, 
moreover, would appear to be of the 
very best. There are blondes and 
brunettes, short and tall, stout and 
thin ones, of high birtii or high 
connections, and of both sexes. He 
has, in fact, all coIouib, all sizes, all 
shapes, and all qualities. The price, 
moreover, is not absolute; he will 
permit us to bargain with him, 
although he does not neglect to in- 
form us that his extensive connec 
tions assure an incontestable supe. 
riority to his articles over those of 
other establishments. His clientele 
he informs us, comprises the elite of* 
society only. 

The originator of this singular 
avocation has retired on the fortune 
and the honours he derived from the 
successftd pursuit of it, but his suc- 
cessors, who continue to preach the 
scriptural doctrine of increase and 
multiply, do not appear to have been 
equally fortunate in mating their 



182 



The MabrimotUdl Agent, 



clients, for one sees the same adver- 
tuement constantly repealed. 'It is 
desired to marry a young lady, poft- 
seesing thirty thonsaiid francs a year, 
to en indiyidnal of an honourable 
profession. Fortune lees a consideia- 
tion than strictly moral conduct' 

The advertisenifint occasionally 
Taries, and one is enabled to make a 
selection from a thousand francs a 
year up to two hundred thousand, 
from aged fifteen to aged seTenty. 
Address, poet paid. No. — , Avenue 
Montaigne. 

One day, a representative of that 
common class of young men who ex- 
haust all their patrimony during the 
first few years of their liberty, pre- 
sented himself, over head and ears 
in debt, to one of these matrimonial 
agents, having come to extricate 
himself from his difficulties by 
uniting himself to a pretended 
dowry of three thousand francs a 
year, a modest and probable enough 
dowry. After a few preliminary ex- 
planations, the agent asked him, 
according to custom, for two hun- 
dred francs fbr expenses, at which 
the disabused suitor shrugged his 
shoulders, and naively observed — 

' Is it likely, I ask you, that I 
should think of tying myself to a 
wife if I was in possession of a couple 
of hundred francs V 

No reply could be made to so 
pertinent an observation, and the 
negotiation, as a matter of course, 
fell to the ground. 

Bachelors who have lost every- 
thing need a dowry to refill their 
pur^e, and a nurse for their rheu- 
matism. They notice one morning 
in the newspaper, between the 
* Eau de melisse des Carmes ' and 
' Machines silendeux a ooudre,' an 
advertisement of a lady wishing to 
marry, and who is handsome, young, 
witty, modest, and amiable, and, best 
of all, who is ballasted with thirty 
thousand francs a year. Address (as 
usual) No. — , Avenue Montaigne. 

At least one individual out of the 
thousands who read the advertise- 
ment will be certain to think this 
the very thing to suit him, and will 
make a point of writing to the ad- 
dress indicated. Two days afterwards 
an answer arrives. With a trem- 
bling hand he opens the enve- 



lope, and with palpitating heart 
devours the reply, the purport of 
which, however, will simply be, that 
' affiurs of this nature cannot be 
discussed freely by correspondence.^ 
He is begged, therefore, to favour 
the agent with a call at No. — ,. 
Avenue Montaigne, and he shall re- 
ceive further information. In con- 
clusion he is assured that, having 
been the first to reply to the adver- 
tisement, a preference will be ac- 
corded him. 

The bureau of the agent at the 
address indicated turns out to be in 
a very fine house, all the wmdows 
of which look into the street A 
footman in livery introduces the 
would-be bridegroom into a magni- 
ficent ao^on furnished with exquisite 
tasto, and the open folding-doors of 
which permit him to see on the right 
and on the left what appears to be a 
suite of splendid apartments. Every- 
thing breathes of love and marriage ; 
copies of Watteau's Isle of Gytherea 
and Veronese's Marriage of Cana, 
with kindred subjects, adorn the 
walls. The timepiece is surmounted 
by an amatory shepherd and shep- 
herdess, above whom hover a pair of 
billing and cooing doves. The can- 
delabra are formed of torches of Hy- 
men, Cupids gambol in the angles 
of the ceiling, and the tables are 
covered with books, all treating of 
the one eternal subject, from the 
loves of angels to the loves of plants. 
And as if to complete the picture 
a couple of pretty children, a 
Cupidon and a Psyche, in knicker- 
bockers and crinoline, are playing 
upon the hearthrug. 

A bell rings, and soon the agent 
makes his appearance, with innu- 
merable apologies for having kept 
his visitor waiting, pleading the 
numerous afOairs he has on hand as 
his excuse. At the conclusion of 
this exordium he wipes his brows 
with an embroidered cambric hand- 
kerchief; then rings the bell and 
orders a basin of soup, which is 
served to him in a silver bowl by 
the servant who answered the door. 
The agent expresses surprise at his 
performing this duty—asks him 
where Pierre, Joseph, and Fran9ois 
are, to which the lacquey replies, 
without a moment's hesitation, that 



2%e Mainmomal Agent, 



18a 



fhe first has gone to the hank, the 
seoond about the hex at the Oper% 
and the third upon the business of 
M. le Gomte, who called yesterday. 

Hov should the visitor escape 
being dazzled by such deceitful ap- 
peaiancea-- for they are appearances 
only ? the one footman he has seen 
being Pierre, Joseph, Francois, and 
himself, who, in fact, does everything. 

The foregoing is the prologue; 
now commences the comedy. 

The agent: * Monsieur, will you 
kindly explain the object of your 
visitr 

Thus called upon, the visitor 
produces the letter he has received, 
and at the same time hands the 
agent his card, saying — 

' I had the honour, as you will 
remember, of writing to you on the 
subject of the advertisement in the 
''Figaro "of Wednesday last. When 
can I be presented to the lady ?* 

' Excuse me, but you are pro- 
ceeding a little too fast; allow me, 
first of all, to ask you a few ques- 
tions. Have you any profession ?* 

'No.' 

'Any fortune?' 

' Nothing to speak of: but I have 
good expectations.' 

' Umph ! How about your ante- 
cedents ?* 

' You are at liberty to make any 
inquiry you think requisite.' 

And so the conversation pro- 
ceeds, kept up by the agent solely 
with the object of measuring the 
precise degree of intelligence which 
his visitor— soon to be his victim — 
possesses, and to satisfy himself 
what precautions it is necessary 
should be taken so that he may 
not be too much compromised, in 
the event of a subsequent explo- 
sion. Suddenly he rises and pro- 
duces a book of photographs ; refers 
to the index, and opens the volume 
at a particular page, ¥^ere he points 
out the portrait of a handsome 
young lady, whose attractions he 
highly extols. His visitor cannot 
resist admitting these eulogies to 
be merited. 

A moment of silence now ensues, 
during which the pair eye each 
other. The conversation is resumed 
by the agent, who says, with an air 
of perfect frankness^ 



' There is no need to go beaiiag 
about the bush ; let us come at once 
to the point. In the event of every- 
thing being satisfactorily arranged, 
my terms will be five per cent, upon 
the dowry.' 

' That is fisur enough.' 

' Payable, mind, when yon re- 
ceive it' 

' I am perfectly agreeable.' 

And in truth it would be the 
height of ill-breeding to refuse to 
pay Buefa a slender commission, 
asked so courteously by a man who 
procures you a fortune, of whioh 
you stand so greatly in need, and, 
as he assures you, a charming 
bride, who, though not an object of 
equal necessity, is still a treasure in 
herself. The afi^oir is, therefore^ 
settled; but before proceeding fur- 
ther, the agent requires to be in- 
sured against his expenses for in«- 
qulries^ messages, postages, &c., 
which seems reasonable enough. 
These expenses vary according as 
the suitor is more or less credulous 
and the dowry large or smalL lii 
the present instance, the agent asks 
three hundred francs. ' For another 
couple of hundred,' he adds, ' yon 
may become a subscriber to my 
estabh'shment for an entire yew, 
which will give you the run of it, 
and confer on you the right of bdng 

E resented to all the eligible ladies I 
ave on my books— and I have them 
mounting up to sixty thousand 
francs— within that period, until 
you succeed in suiting yoursell' 

The gull in the present instance^ 
being as mercenary as he is simple, 
pays the five hundred francs, and 
receives in exchange for his money 
a memorandum, upon stamped 
paper, setting forth the conditions 
of the engagement, and for register- 
ing which he is charged another ten 
francs. Our would-be Benedict now 
awaits with juvenile ardour the 
moment when the first interview is 
to take placa 

In a day or two he receiveB a 
letter from the agent, making an 
appointment to present him, at 
No. — , Avenue Montaigne. It ia 
needless to say that he dresses him- 
self with scrupulous care, bestows 
the entire morning, in fact, upon his 
toilet, and calte to mind all the more 



ISi 



The Matrimonial Agent, 



gmcefal oompliments that he has 
heard addressed to fiancees on the 
stage. His part duly rehearsed, he 
hastens to the appointment before 
the presoribed time, and is ushered 
into the drawing-room. 

The agent is awaiting him, and 
gives him a few hints respecting the 
young lady's tastes ; she is musical, . 
of course; is an entomologist, and 
manages a three-wheel yelocipede 
very giacefully, he is told. This 
will guide him in his selection of 
subjects for conversation. 

The lady soon after arrives, es- 
corted by her aunt, and is found to 
answer all the expectations raised 
by her portrait. She glances mo- 
destly at her expected lord and 
master, displays a pair of pretty 
feet peeping beneath a coquettish 
petticoat as she gathers her robe a 
queue around her while seating her- 
self, converses charmingly yet with 
becoming diffidence, and indeed is 
altogether fascinating. The aunt, 
too, seems a very nice sort of a 
person, and not too strict a chape- 
rone. In due course the interview 
comes to an end, and the ladies pre- 
pare to take their departure ; when 
the dupe proposes to the agent to 
escort tiiem, but finds himself re- 
strained — it would be indelicate at 
this early period of their acquaint- 
ance, he is told. 

This, however, is' not the true 
reason : the fiust is, the ladies do not 
leave the house, and it is important 
the dupe should not know this. 
Niece and aunt are hired at so much 
a day, and are clothed and boarded 
into the bargain. They have every 
description of toilette necessary to 
their transformation provided for 
them, and are of fair or dark com- 
plexions, and quiet or coquettish in 
their attiro, according to the tastes 
•of different clients— the aunt, it 
should be mentioned, has a suppo- 
sititious ' dot 'of her own, sufficiently 
large to tempt the cupidity of the 
unwary. This facility of being one 
individual to-day and another to- 
morrow is not without its advan- 
tages, in case tiiedupe should lodge 
any complaint: for he would fail to 
describe the woman accurately, and 
the authorities would feel them- 
selves embarrassed at the outset. 



Every time that niece and aunt 
are about to be presented t3 a client, 
the footman sets the doo^bell ring- 
ing with a broom; whereupon the 
agent announces to his visitor that 
they have arrived. After the first 
interview, he insinuates, mildly, 
that it would advance the negotia- 
tion if they were asked to accept 
of a breakfast, ' as at table one speaks 
more freely, especially after a glass 
of champagne;' and volunteers to 
use his powers of peisuasion to in- 
duce them to accept the invitation. 
' If it can be managed,' he adds, 
' you can then very wedl offer to 
escort them home.' The agent gives 
the dupe to understand that the 
breakfast must take place at No. — , 
Avenue Montaigne, and proposes to 
provide it for four people ror sixty 
francs : ' which is dirt cheap,' he ob- 
perves ; ' but as he has the wine in 
his cellar he does not drive bargains 
with friends.' 

At breakfast the table is covered 
with solid cold dishes, in the English 
ftishion— a large joint of roast beef, 
a ham, and a superb turkey. The 
ladies partake of the hora-d'ornvres 
only and the side dishes, and firmly 
refuse when either a slice of beef or 
turkey is offered them. It is the 
same with the 'sweets,' simply be- 
cause the principal dishes have, like 
themselves, to be served up again to 
other subscribers to the Matrimo- 
nial Agency in the Avenue Mon- 
taigne. 

Under one pretext or another, 
they manage to leave the table be- 
fore the conclusion of the repast. 
One of them finds herself indis- 
posed, or the aunt has an appoint- 
ment with the family notary, or, as a 
lost resource, the agent desires a few 
minutes' important conversation 
with the dupe, who at any rate does 
not see them home. After their 
pretended departure, the agent, 
while assuring him that everything 
is progressing most favourably, 
delicately insinuates that before 
proceeding further it is absolutely 
lequisite to send to his native place 
to obtain precise information not 
only respecting himself but liis 
family and connections. The guar- 
dians of the young lady insist on 
this course being i&sau An early 



The Matrimonial Agent. 



185 



day is appointed to arrange the pre- 
liminaries, and on going to the 
agent's, the dupe finds the lady and 
her annt there—by the merest 
chance. In their presence a clerk is 
snmmoned and the necessary indi* 
cations drawn up in writing. 

The clerk's expenses and time, 
together twenty francs a day, for 
say a week, as two days will be con- 
sumed in trayelling, with eighty 
francs for railway and dib'gence fare, 
will have to be paid. The client 
hesitates at this new drain npon 
bun, whereupon the axmt, in the 
most natural maimer in the world, 
Tolnnteers to bear half the expenses, 
and, to set the dupe an example, 
produces her purse, an el^ant 
knitted bead one, and hands the 
agent her share. With the view of 
paying court the dupe admires the 
purse; ia informed—as indeed he 
fiurmised— that it was made by the 
niece, and the acceptance of it is 
forced upon him by the aunt, who 
will listen to no refusal. As iron 
must be beaten while it is hot, the 
clerk is to start at once, and the 
oUent pays his hundred and ten 
francs. 

As the week devoted to the in- 

2uiry is drawing to its close the 
upe looks in at the agency to hear 
if mere is any news. The ladies are 
not there on this occasion, but the 
agent is, and he takes care to remind 
Imn of the purse and the necessity 
of making a suitable acknowledg- 
ment, which, under present circum- 
stances, the more handsome it is the 
more, he explains to the dupe, it 
will be to his advantage, for the 
niiece, he takes care to inform him, 
will in all likelihood succeed to her 
aunt's fortune. With the view of 
not being thought mean, the dupe 
presents the lady with a diamond 
ring worth two hundred and fifty 
francs, the stone of which, remounted 
as a pin for the agent, will serve to 
dazzle future dupes. 

Usually by the time the week 
has elapsed the clerk is reported to 
have fallen ill in the country; has 
met with a sunstroke, or been put 
between damp sheets, according to 
the season of the year. His illness 
' lasts four days, for which another 
eighty francs have to be paid, as it 



will look exceedingly mean to ask 
the aunt to bear her share of this 
trifle. The dupe's purse-strings are, 
therefore, again unloosened, though 
all this time the clerk has not only 
been perfectly well but has never 
even quitted Paris. 

At length the client grows impa- 
tient, and speaks out; whereupon 
the agent assumes an air of profound 
sadness, and announces to him, with 
marked emotion, that he has had a 
narrow escape : that his, the agent's, 
vigilance and foresight have saved 
him from a great misfortune, for he 
has discovered that the paternal 
parent of the young lady, respecting 
whom there had always been a 
mystery, had been guillotined for 
murder. Her own reputation, too, 
is whispered against, and her pre- 
tended fortune is equally doubtful. 
The dupe, surprised and horrified at 
this revelation, though regretting 
the money he has paid, cannot but 
congratulate himself that this is no 
more, and feels grateful at his escape. 
He has paid altogether about a 
thousand francs. The game is 
played out so fiur as he is concerned, 
but he only retires to make way 
for some one else equally mercenary 
and equally foolish. 

The Frenchman of good family, 
who has sown his wild oats and got 
entangled with usurers, and who 
seeks a wife to relieve him of his 
debts and to open a new career for 
liim, or at any rate to provide him 
a place by the fireside where he can 
repose now that his turbulent course 
has run itself out, has no need of 
the services of a matrimonial agent 
to accomplish the object of his de- 
sires. He simply betakes himself 
to the family notary and inquires of 
him whether he has among his 
clients a young lady with a dowry, 
of say, eight hundred thousand 
francs. 

'I have something better than 
that,' replies the gentleman in black; 
' I have a million and upwards, half 
in land and half on mortgage/ 

'Bravo I Where is the land?' 

* In Normandy.' 

'Capital! What age is your 
clients 

'Between twenty and four-and- 
twenty; you understand, there- 



186 



Ths Mabrimanud Agent. 



fore, one is in no paftienlar 
hurry.' 

* Ho v abont her charms ?* 

' Y&j pleasant, I assure yon ; very 
pleasant^ 

'Come, out with it; she is as ugly 
assin?* 

* Nothing of the kind. Her teeth 
are a little amiss, I admit, bat that 
is alL Besides, what does it matter, 
pretty or ngly ? it's all the same six 
months after marriage.' 

'You are right there, and may 
look upon the business as settled, if 
you will guarantee that the mort- 
gages are good.' 

* They are first class investments 
—on property worth three millions.' 

'That's conclusive. Tell me, 
though, about her family.' 

'Well, this is not the brilliant 
side of the affiur. She is the only 
daughter of a builder, so that she 
moTes in rather a low strata of 
society. Her fftther is of little im- 
portance. He will tell you how he 
came up to Paris in his sabots, and 
that he has made four millions by 
the sweat of his brow. Hide from 
him that you lie in bed until eleven 
o'clock, as he has a theory that every 
man who is not up and about at five 
is a good-for-nothing scamp. As for 
the mother, providing you get her 
boxes to see the melodramas that are 
the rage, she will pardon you every- 
thing, even beating her daughter.' 

'Just so. This worthy couple 
are of course flanked by any num- 
ber of relations — uncles, aunts, cou- 
sins, and such like?' 

'Egad! yes. However, you see 
them all on the day of the wedding, 
and next day ' 

'Zounds! next day I'll show every 
living soul of them the door. It is 
not they who will trouble me.' 

' Not quite so &st Listen to me. 
You must be very careful of old 
uncle Jalabert. He is seventy- 
three, asthmatic, without children, 
and has forty thousand francs a 
year. He has been in the army, 
and will recount to you all the cam- 
paigns he has gone through. Pro- 
viding you join in his admiration of 
the great Napoleon, he'll ask nothing 
further of you. I do not see, too, 
why you should not x>ay a little 
court to aunt Ursala, an elder daugh- 



ter, and turned fifty-nine. She will 
tell you that all men are rascals, 
not even yourself excepted: stilly 
there is no harm in letting her have 
her say— it's a relief to h&t' 

'Thank you kindly for all your 
hints. I'll devote one day to this 
mena<^erie. But how do you pro- 
pose to introduce me?* 

' That can be easily acoomplished. 
Come and dine with me aiKl th^i 
on Sunday, and by eleven o^cloek 
you'll be betrothed.' 

' What you say is all very fine, 
but how do you know that I shall 
be accepted?' 

' Make your mind easy on that 
score. If you had not turned up 
BO opportrmely I should have written 
to you. The parente want to marry 
the girl and stipulate for a titla 
You are a viscount, and everybody 
knows you go to Compi^gne ; that's 
quite suffident to turn the heaife of 
the entire trading daas in France.' 
' You know that I am in debt?* 
' I have no doubt of that What 
is the figure ?* 
' In round numbers about three 

hundred thousand ' 

'A mere bi^telle. It is only 
making the Loriols pay toll on enter- 
ing into the old nobili^ — a tax upon 
armorial bearings, in fact' 

'Ifs underetood, then— on Sun- 
day next. Good-bye.* 

On Sunday the dinner takes place 
as arranged, and everything comes 
off exactly in accordsjice with the 
notary's programme. 

Such a purely business matter is 
marriage in France, and so tho- 
roughly is it underetood that in this 
light only are parente accuAtomed 
to look at it, that one finds a French 
writer jocosely proposing that the 
government should iteelf establish 
a grand matrimonial agency, having 
central offices in Paris, with branches 
in all the departmente and abroad, 
and which should absorb all the 
existing agencies and be administered 
by a distinct staff of ito own, just 
like any other government office. 
Men distinguished for their tact and 
the purity of their morals placed at 
its bead, would, be suggeste, inspire 
confidence in families having daugh- 
tere to marry. Individuals of the 
male sex desirous of having recourse 



The Mairmaniud AgenL 



18T 



to tbe iBtBnnediation of the agency 
would be required to fdmifih foil 
infomwtioii respeeting their personal 
appearanoe> age, state of health, and 
family oonnectionB, aooompaaied by 
medical certificates, abstracts of title- 
deeds, schedules of yalnables, ex- 
tracts from registers, together with 
legal attestations of regnlarity of 
life and moral conduct. The adop- 
tion of all these precautions, the 
writer maintains, would give that 
degree of moral security to marriage 
contracts which unhappily they lack 
at the present day. 

As the clergy and the magistracy 
are the two classes best informed in 
France, and brought most in con- 
tact with the people generally, and 
as, moreover, they are public func- 
tionaries, it is propoeea that they 
should be required to furnish the 
administration of the agency with 
moral portraitures of individuals re- 
siding within their jurisdiction who 
may be desiroua of being inscribed 
on the register. These, together with 
the document before mentioned as 
also letters from principals of colleges 
at which these individuals may have 
been educated, and certificates from 
heads of departments or employers 
under whom they may have served, 
would all be placed in their par- 
ticular receptacles. The admirable 
centralization which renders France 
an object of envy to other nations 
would thereby have new and con- 
genial duties imposed upon it, re- 
assuring in the nighest deg^e to 
families and largely conducive to 
good morals. 

A gnuid photographic establish- 
ment might be attached to the cen- 
tral agency and smaller ones to the 
i^^encies in the depsrtments. Fami- 
lies disposed to give dowries of fifty 
thousand francs would be entitled 
to inspect two ordinary photographs 
of candidates inscribed on the regis- 
ters, one seated, the other standing, 
one a front view, the other in pro- 
file. When the dowry mounts up 
to a hundred thousand francs, por- 
traits might be demanded one-sixth 
of the natural size; when to two 
hundred thousand francs, one-fourth 
life size, with an equestrian portrait 
in addition. A dowry of two huu" 
deed and fifty thousand francs would 



be entitled to special photographs 
of the cranium, to show the state 
of preservation of the hair, and of 
the teeth to attest the condition of 
the molars and incisors. If re- 
quired, photographs of both feet and 
hands would also have to be fur- 
nished to demonstrate that theso 
are of proper aristocratic dimen- 
sions. Larger dowries nnght be 
entitled to demand portraits ai can- 
didates under a variety of speeial 
aspects, so as to guaid against sub- 
sequent disillusions, such as in full 
evening dress with silk stockings 
and smalls, in dressing-gown and 
slippers, and even in nightcap, or 
representing the individual under- 
gomg the painful operation of 
shaving himself. One can conceive 
the high position that photography 
would thus attain to ; it would, in 
fact, become elevated into a social 
institution of the utmost importance, 
and would be the means of sparing 
alike principals and their families 
from numerous cruel deceptions. 

Every proposal inscribed on the 
books of the agency would require 
to be accompanied by a demand 
specifying the amount of fortune 
and the precise kind of social posi- 
tion which the party making it 
aspires to. These would be duly 
classified, and every week a printed 
list, dividing them into categories, 
would be posted up at the Bourse, 
enabling every one to see at a glance, 
as it were, the state of the matri- 
monial market, how many magis- 
trates and other functionaries, mili- 
tary and naval officers, professional 
men, merchante, tradesmen, and 
employes of every description, there 
were in search of wives, together 
with their respective incomes and 
the dowries they ai»pired to, as also 
the number and value of the dowries 
that were in the market. In due 
course a market price would be 
established, subject, however, to 
fiuctuations like all other commo- 
dities when supply is in excess or 
falls short of the demand. If, for 
instance, magistrates should happen 
to be in great request, their valuo 
would rise, and they would natu- 
ral ly aspire to larger dowries. Poli- 
tical and social evente would have 
their effect upon this market as 



188 



the PiceaiiOg Papen. 



upon all others. A threatened war 
would cause military men to fall 
jnst as a peace with Oochin-china 
would send np East India mer- 
chants, and in all probability im- 
prove the quotations of naval officers. 
A low state of the public health 
would raise the rate of doctors in 
the same way that a new cattle- 
plague would depress the agricul- 
tarists. Alterations in the press 
laws would necessarily elevate or 
bwer journalists according as these 



were either mfld or stringent Every 
one, on opening his newspaper of a 
morning, would have the satisfac- 
tion of seeing his precise quotation 
in the matrimonial market, and from 
carefully studying the fluctuations, 
would be enabled to choose the par- 
ticular moment when his value was 
at what he conceived to be its highest 
point, and could then hasten to sign 
the marriage contract with the object 
of— let us hope— his future affec- 
tions. 



THE PICCADILLY PAPEES. 
By a Pebipatktic. 



8LEEPLE8BHI83 AND SLEEP. 



AMONG the minor miseries of 
human life, where, however, the 
misery may come to the maximum 
point of misery, is that most dis- 
tressing complaint of Insomnia, 
In these days of highly-strung ener- 
gies and rapid living sleeplessness 
is becoming more and more pre- 
valent among us, a serious thing in 
itself and serious as a symptom. 
The subject is obscure and diffi- 
cult as it is important and interest- 
ing; a subject partly physical and 
pifftly metaphysical, in which mind 
and matter, morals and medicine, are 
singularly intermingled. 'Half our 
days we pass in the shadow of the 
earth,' says 8ir Thomas Browne, 
' and the burthen of death extracteth 
a third part of our lives.' Many 
of my readers will recollect Warton*s 
Latin epigram on Sleep. I can- 
not lay my hand on it just now, 
but I can give my own version of 
it:— 

' Ob« gentle sleep, thine Inflnence give. 
Aud thoagh like death drew nigh ; 
Living, behold we do not live; 
And dying, do not die.' 

' Blessed is the man,' says Sancho 
Panza, 'who invented sleep;' but 
although Sancho Panza would pro- 
bably admit that this invention was 
made in a very early period of the 
history of the human race, it is re- 
markable that there is no subject 
on which opinions are so entirely 



unsettled as on the subject of sleep, 
authors on the subject, within such 
wide limits as indicated by such 
authors as Aristotle and Lord 
Brougliam, have failed to unfold to 
ns the mystery; and, if I may be 
forgiven the remark, I am afraid 
that those who suffer from sleep- 
lessness must fall back on an em- 
piric mode of treatment. 

I sympathize intensely with the 
sleepless. It is all very well to be 
moralizing and practical, and to 
say that if we cannot sleep we had 
better lie awake and think, or strike 
a light and read or write. I have at 
least one most interesting letter from 
a dear fellow— now gone over to the 
majority— who sajs he could not 
sleep, and so has got up to write to 
me. As a rule I do not approve 
of people lying in bed 'thinking,' 
as they are pleased to term it ; they 
do not think, they only think they 
think — which is a very different 
matter. The habit of lying in bed 
of a morning 'thinking' after it is 
time to get up is hardly better than 
dram-drinking. The waking state 
or the sleeping state are tolerable 
enough, but the intermediate state, 
neither waking nor sleeping, is 
intolerable. If you knew you 
could not sleep it would be easy 
enough to strike a light and read ; 
but you refrain from doing so 
through the delusive hope that 



The Piccadilly Pajpers. 



189 



yon have a real cbanoe, which yoa 
must not mar, of presently going to 
sleep. Of coarse if you are yery 
anziona to go to sleep this yery 
anxiety is quite sufficient to pre- 
yent your doing so. I know per- 
sons who can neyer count on more 
than two hoars' Bleef) at a time, 
and the amount of time is abso- 
lutely astounding during which 
people are absolutely sleepless in 
cases of mania or feyer. Nature, 
howeyer, is very wonderful in her 
compensations, and adapts herself 
most curiously to all changes in the 
constitution. As a rule, too, opiates 
can insure; sleep when absolutely 
necessary. But opiates haye their 
limits, which are speedily reached. 
Sir William Hamilton would take 
fiye hundred drops of laudanum 
without being able to detect hardly 
the slightest effect I remember 
also rather a distinguished literary 
man on whom anodynes were as 
powerless us water. Most weari- 
some of all weariful feelings is that 
of counting the hours of the clock 
during the sleepless hours in which 
existence is a mere burden and 
drug. 

It is said, with eyery appearance 
of truth, though the proof is not 
conclusiye, that sleep is due to a 
diminished supply of arterial blood 
in the head. The brain matter 
becomes unable to undergo the 
changes through which the mind 
makes its manifestations. Physi- 
ologists are agreed that towards 
eyening or after a certain number 
of hours of work the inyoluntary 
organs, the heart and lungs, lose 
their wonted actiyity and suffer a 
periodical diminution of action. 
Blumeubach describes the case of 
a patient trepanned in whom the 
brain was obi^yed to sink during 
sleep and enlarge on waking, ob- 
yiously arising from the circulation 
being diminished in the* former 
state and increased in the latter. 
' Arterial blood alone can cause the 
waste of the brain, for yenous blood 
has already parted with its oxygen 
to the materials met with in its 
course. Matter in a state of inertia 
cannot manifest the existence of a 
power. Motion alone shows that 
some power is in operation. If the 



portion of matter used as the organ 
of manifestation be placed in such 
a condition as to render that mani- 
festation impossible there is no 
eyidence to the world that power 
was exerted.' It was an old error 
among physiologists, that there was 
more blood, or at least as much, 
during sleep as in wakefulness; 
but this was disproyed by Blumen- 
bach, and still more conyincingly 
by a philosopher who made one of 
the cruel though striking experi- 
ments with which medical science 
abounds, and which finds its horrid 
culmination in yiyisection. He 
cut away part of the skull of an 
animal, and cemented in its place 
a piece of glass, through which he 
could obserye the brain in its dif- 
ferent states. This experiment has 
been repeated in Germany, in Eng- 
land, and in America with like 
results. In the waking state the 
brain is larger than it is during 
sleep ; while in the latter condition 
it becomes pale and bloodless. If 
the animal be disturbed by dreams 
a blush suffuses parts of the brain. 
The eye, which may be looked 
upon as an exposed part of the 
brain, acts in a similar way ; for it 
has been shown that the optic disc 
is whiter, the arteries smaller, and 
the yeins larger in sleep than in a 
waking state. 

The two great objects of sleep 
are, first, the restoration of wasted 
organs; and, secondly, the storing 
up of force. It is eyident that any 
material disturbance or defeat of 
these two great objects is ruinous, 
and within a yery short distance 
of a certain line becomes fatal. It 
is wonderful, howeyer, in how 
many instances at what a remote 
point Nature begins to draw this 
line of destiny. During sleep force 
is stored up in the body in a re- 
markable manner, aa has been 
shown by a series of interesting 
experiments. The King of Bayaria 
erected a chamber, supplied with 
eyery appliance for measuring 
the air which enters it and for 
ascertaining the composition of the 
air that passes from it. This 
chamber is sufficiently large to 
enable persons to liye comfortably 
in it daring the time that they arc 



190 



7%e PieeadSfy Pcs^ef. 



made the salijeelB of experuneniB. 
Among other lemarlatble resntts 
which have flowed fiom the en- 
lightened libenlify of the BaTariui 
king we have a series of experi- 
ments made on Tadoas indifidnala 
during their waking and sleeping 
state, from which many interesting 
results have been derived, set forth 
by scientific jonmals, and by a 
fierial nnsorpafised in its scientific 
and intellectnal character, the 
' North British Beview.' 

I cannot, however, agree with 
the reviewer in his minatory and 
disrespectful language towards that 
large, most respectable, and most 
solvent section of the BritLsh public 
that habitually indulges in an after- 
dinner nap. ' The post -prandial 
sleeper draws his chair to the fiie, 
in oraer that his nap may be undis- 
turbed. There are two physio- 
logical reasons for this act Less 
oxygen is entering his body to bum 
the food, and he feels cold; but 
this cold would excite the respira- 
tory corgans to increased activity 
and disturb his contemplated en- 
joyment An after-dinner sleeper 
temporarily resembles the perma- 
nent condition of a pig fattened for 
tiie butcher. In its case fat accu- 
mulated round the viscera pushes 
up the diaphragm against the lungs, 
and compels them to play in a con- 
iracted space. When the animal 
furthw diifitends its stomach with 
food it gives a few grunts as an 
inefiectual attempt at a more active 
respiration, and is in a deep sleep 
in a few minutes. Obese men, 
from a similar cause, are also prone 
to sleep.' I call this an unkind 
and even an unfeeling remark. 
Would it not also be simpler 
and more correct to say that the 
blood is driven from the surface 
to the centre to aid digestion? 
Neither shall I be deterred by the 
great authority of the reviewer 
from counselling people to enjoy 
their customary siesta. If Nature 
makes a man sleepy I think that 
she designs that a man should go 
to sleep. She is quite as philo- 
sophical as any of the philosophers. 
There is a bastard sort of sleep, 
a condition of ooma, consequent 
on repletion, which ought to be 



aToided; and moderatkm, not an 
immoderate moderation, in diet 
ahould be preserved. After din- 
ner also some employment of the 
gentlest kind may be wisely taken 
in hand— a glance at a newspaper 
or magazine, the writing of some 
trifling notes, a stroll in the 
garden, and a slight dessert, 
where dessert is always ' best 
taken, off the fruit trees. Then 
take a nap, after thus idly dallying 
with the charms of leisure. I be- 
lieve tiiat a brief nap of this sort is 
invariably attended vrith salntaxy 
efieot It has always been noted that 
to close the eyes even for a Ibw 
minutes in sleep is a wonderful relief 
to the brain. Some men have fttUen 
asleep on horseback, and otbexs ean 
even sleep while walking, besideB 
the unfortunate somnambulists. I 
know two men who were walking 
along a country road on a dark 
night A. clutched B.'6 arm tightly 
and deliberately walked with olesed 
eyes. Some tune afterwards B. 
said, ' I hope. A., you are vralking 
Tery carefully, for I have kept 
my eyes closed for tibe last half- 
hour.' Fortunately the two Go- 
thamites had contrived to keep 
clear of the ditches. 

All kinds of remedies have been 
suggested for sleeple6sneB8--optum, 
henbane, chlorodyne, strychnia, 
pmssic acid, aconite, &c. A lady 
who had suffered fearfully this way, 
wrote to me some time ago to say 
that she had derived great benefit 
from sleeping with her head to the 
north. This seems to be absurd, 
and there is nothing in our {ffesent 
limited knowledge of electricity 
which appears to connt^aanoe it. 
I only give it as an observed &ct 
in this particular instance. Another 
Buffmer tells me that great benefit 
has been derived from taking a glass 
of sherry and a sandwich immedi- 
ately before going to bed. The 
reason of this is perfectly intelli- 
gible. According to the late modem 
dinner hour the somnolent effect of 
food has passed off, and the excitant 
effect has set in just about bedtime. 
To those who suffer this vray I 
would strongly recommend the 
canon pursued l^the great states- 
man, Mr. Windham, as described 



a%e P»oodU% Poftm. 



191 



by idm m the ' Diary ' pnblisbed a 
few years aga He most acoarately 
noted uid leeorded erery pnrtionlar 
tbat Bttgfat bear any idation to bis 
wast of sleep, aaid justifies his ap- 
pai8Qt]y trivial and wnnterestrng 
entries by the great importanoe of 
the subject By ibis method a man 
may be able to find ont for himself 
the right diagnosis and the right 
treatment A fev general particn- 
lars shooid be noted. The nse of 
opiates, except on ittre occasions or 
in special instances, shonld be 
ayoided. The oorrect dietaiy sys- 
tem shonld be discovered and re- 
oeive carefnl adherence. The sim- 
plest and best remedies are abun- 
dance of exercise and air. What a 
wonderfol compensation for many 
losses is that sound, dreamless, in- 
vigorating sleep which the labourer 
almost invariably enjoys! A balance 
between mental and bodily exertion 
ought to be maintained. Scholars 
and thinkers may often sleep badly, 
but I know, too, clever lazy fellows, 
who, with ploriy of fresh air, are 
unable to sleep, singly because 
they have, not given their brains 
sufficient exercise. Dreaming is an 
intensely interesting portion of the 
subject It will be recollected that 
Ooleridge wrote down his fine poem 
of '£ubla Ehan' from his recollec- 
tion of what he had composed in a 
dream — a most peculiar psycho- 
logical fact. I myself remember 
composing a few Latin verses in a 
dream, which I was able to recal on 
waking, but to my great disgust, 
they were very feeble lines, and 
contained one or more false quan- 
tities. Scientifically speaking, it 
appears probable that dreaming is 
nothing more than a wakefulness of 
one portion of a nervous centre, 
while the other portions and the 
other centres are in a state of sleep. 
Thus, through the transformation of 
one region of brain substance, par- 
ticular feelings and certain orders 
of ideas may be called into active 
life, while all remaining feelings and 
ideas are asleep, and so no process 
of comparison or reflection can be 
exercised by tiiat part of the brain 
which is sleeping over that which is 
wakeful. The subject, however, is 
too large for discussion now. I will 



only add &at moral cansiderations 
are by no means wanting in snob a 
subject, and that there are no 
better disposing agencies towards 
light, gentie, healthful idumbers 
^n simple tastes, a purified oon- 
8cienoe,.and a balanced harmonicms 
life. 

THE PALKBTINE EXFLOHATION FUND. 

An exhibition has been opened 
this season in the Dudley Gallery of 
the Egyptian Hall ivhich has a 
unique position of its own. It con- 
si^ of a very large number of arti- 
cles which have been collected 
together by the managers of the 
Palestine Exploration Fund. The 
catalogue, as catalogues often are, 
is an extremely interesting publica- 
tion, and brings together at one 
view all tbat vast field that can 
be occupied by the mvestigation 
of European Christians. It mainly 
consists of a list of an inomense 
number of photographs taken in 
the Hdy lioid for this Society. 
The Exhibition princqMdly consiBts 
of pottery, glass, oarvings, jkc, which 
Lieutenant Wazfen has found in the 
shafts. His work is much higher 
than to seek illustrations of Jewish 
art, but this also is one of the sub- 
sidiary purposes which are accom- 
plished, and he wisely sends home 
all that the spades of the fellabin 
turn up. It is not very much after 
all, but there is a charm of associa- 
tion about them, which, to most 
minds, will be very considerable. 
We must, however, forewarn our 
readers, whom wo would willingly 
send to this interesting collection, 
that the subject is rather difficult, 
and has a terminology belonging to 
it which cannot be niastered without 
an effort. It is remarkable that 
amid all the travel that has been 
extended on the Holy Land, and all 
the poetry, sentiment, and religion 
that has been lavished there, there 
has rarely ever been any simple 
practical desire for real knowledge 
on the subject until the day of the 
recent American traveller. Dr. Bobin- 
son. We will yenture to believe 
that a flood of light will ere long be 
thrown upon sacred history, and 
this effort is a veritable crusade in 



192 



ne PxeeadVUy Papen. 



the canse of leligion and reyelation, 
giving to religion a scientific cha- 
racter and to sdonee a religions 
object. 

Of all those reUgions meetings 
which are held in London in the 
season, perhaps there was none of 
greater interest than the meeting on 
Midsummer Day on behalf of the 
Palestine Exploration Fund. It 
might certainly be called the most 
intelleotnal of the great religions 
gatherings, including a chairman of 
such eloquence and culture as Arch- 
bishop Tnomson, and such speakers 
as Mr. Deutsch, of the British Mu- 
seum, Professor Owen, 'Bob Boy' 
himself, t. e,, Mr. Macgregor, and 
Mr. Grove was present, one of the 
most conscientious and able littira» 
teurs of the day. It is not too much 
to hope that Lieutenant Warren's 
exertions will enable us to construct 
anew and aright the map of ancient 
Jerusalem. Mr. Macgregor pointed 
out the size and shape of the city of 
Jerusalem, by descnbing where its 
chief places would stand if the city 
were planted in London. He con- 
siderea that the dty could be placed 
in Hyde Park or in a slightly larger 
space. Mr. Deutsch said, that 
though we ought not disooyer the 
golden throne of Solomon, with its 
lions, its eagles, and all its mag- 
nificent array, yet things of great 



importance had been bronght ta 
light so far as we had gone. Some 
important discoyeries were made by 
Mr. Deutsch himself when he found 
marks on the great wall of the Haram 
es-Shereef exactly similar or rather 
identical with those of absolutely 
undoubted antique Phoenician struc- 
tures in Syria. The exploration is 
exciting deep interest all oyer the 
Christian world, and yet it seems 
that there is much difficulty in rais- 
ing the modest sum of fiye thousand 
a-year necessary to carry on the 
work. We hear that some of the 
shafts are stopped for want of funds, 
at the very moment when we are 
approaching the brink of the dis- 
covery of most important problems. 
There is possibly a danger that 
some country less rich than Eng- 
land may taJce the honour of the 
work from our hands, or that we 
may lose the facilities of explora- 
tion which we now enjoy. Dr. 
Thomson made a happy quotation 
from the writings of a Spanish Jew 
of the twelfth century, ' Sion, Crown 
of Beauty I remember the tender 
love of tby children whom thy hap- 
piness filled with joy and thy fall 
with mourning.' And on such a 
feeling of love towards God-beloved 
Jerusalem must rest any hope of the 
successful progress of the Palestine 
Exploration Fund. 




/ 



I 



1 



-^..>,^K, 



\;// 




'4"§i^ 






y ^ r /• 



', ^ ^ 



O 

STUDIES FROM LIFE AT THE COUUT OP ST. JAMES'S. 
^ H.R. n. Princess Beatbice. 

B. \\ih Aprii, 1857. 
Drawn by the late George H. Thomas. Engraved by William L. Thomas. 



«l 



m 





HCASTLES FlUEXOLl* JVTTI3NT10V 



LONDON SOCIETY. 



SEPTEMBER, 1869. 




KIKA AT TBS OORAGB VIXDOW^— See * M. OF K/ 



MR HARDCASTLE'S FRIENDLY ATTENTIONS, AND 
WHAT CAME OF THEM. 



CHAPTER L 

BEWILDERMENT AT BBIGHTON. 



* TF the gentleman who found the 
X lady's glove at the ball of the 
— th Dragoon Qnards at Brighton 
on Wednesday last will be at the 
Zoological Gardens in London on 
Monday next, he may hear of some- 
thing to his advantage.' 
TOL. XVI.— NO. xcm. 



The ' Southdown Reporter and 
Devil's Dyke Free Press/ in which 
the above advertisement was con- 
tained, fell from the hands of a 
gentleman who was reading that 
enterprising print in the coffee- 
room of an hotel in the town first 
o 



19i 



Mr, Hardcasde'a Friendly Aitenlians^ 



referred to— the Sybarite Hotel, 
facing the sea. I suppose it was 
the fulyertisement that caused the 
surprise, not to say emotion, which 
eviaently possessed him. It oonld 
not be the attack upon the Mayor, 
nor the denunciation of the Town 
Council, nor the exposure of the 
Gas Company, nor the oleyer article 
upon the dearth of local amuse- 
ments, nor the pleasant reference to 
'Cor Autumn Yisifeois,' nor the 
eulogistic review of ' Cur talented 
fellow -townsman's' Tolume of 
poems, nor even the fiMsetions let- 
ters about ladies' bomwls and high- 
heeled boots. Tes, ft mnst h&ye 
been the adyertisemail 

There is one thing that a man ib 
sure to do when an aononnoemeiit 
in a newspaper ezeroinB upon him 
suoh an effect that be drops the 
newspaper upon tfara floor. The 
odds are at least Lraafeard Street to 
a C9iina orange tint he pficks the 
newspaper up and leads the an- 
nouncement again, nie gentleman 
in qaBBtaxm adopted lius inevitable 
oouzse of aotian; and while he is 
engaged in mastering the interest- 
ing paragraph, and making his re- 
flections thereupon, I will tell you 
who he was and all I knew about 
him up to this period of his caraec. 

You could see for yourself, as he 
sat in the bow-window in the twi- 
light, with the broad sheet spread 
before him, that he was a gentle- 
man, in the oonyentional sense of 
the term; that he was a well-made, 
manly-looking fellow of unmis- 
takably military cut, with a lei- 
surely expression of countenance 
suggestive of the fact that he need 
be in no hurry to assert his good 
looks, as they were sufficient to assert 
themselves; and if he kept curling 
that long tawny moustache round 
his thumb and finger you might be 
sure that it was an action caused 
by nervous anxiety rather than by 
any thought of improving that 
appendage. If you guessed his 
age to be somewhere between 
twenty and thirty you would not 
be mistaken; and if you made a 
bet that he was the Hon. Harry 
Doncaster, brother to Lord St. 
Leger, and a captain of light dra- 
goons on leave from India, you 



would win your bet beyond all 
chance of dispute. 

But you would never suppose, 
unless you happened to know, what 
a troubled life Harry Doncaster was 
leading. Money had never been 
the sfapong point of his £Buaiily, at 
least during the last two genera- 
tions. His brother the Viscount 
had not much, and what he had he 
wanted — for viscounts must have 
money, of course, oome what may. 
His family set Hatxy up in the 
cavalry — he took a great deal of 
setting up, by the way, though he 
^ Im promotion by luck— and'he 
mheritel tome priyate means horn 
his mothsE. But in reference to 
the latter hb made the not un- 
common nastake of confounding 
capital wiBi income; and the ori' 
gmal sun, after several abortive 
settiements in life, refused at last 
to be made the sport of an unscrupu- 
lous chequebook, and disappeared 
indignantiy below the financial ho- 
rizon. After tin pecuniary crisis 
Hairy Doncaster, as far as any 
additions to his pity were concerned, 
WIS supported, like the faos^tttals, 
by voluntary contributions. But 
the Yoluntary system was no sub- 
stitute for an establishment in his 
ease; and m a tharoug^ state of 
disendowment, without edifices, 
glebeil, or any consolation of the 
kind, he found himself in a state 
which he described as ' dependent 
on the generosity of my &mily, 
who refuse to give me anything.' 
Then he began to borrow, which 
was crisis the second in his career. 
He began by merely overdrawing 
with his agents; and Cox, it must 
be said for that obli^g firm, al- 
lowed him a considerable fling. 
But there is a point when even Cox 
loses patience; and Harry Don- 
caster, when he found his pay 
looking very small in perspective, 
compsLred with the massive fore- 
ground of liability, did not relish 
the effect of the picture, and 
squared up vrith Cox by a great 
convulsive effort It was then that 
he took to borrowing in a direct 
manner, and came to crisis the 
second, as I have said. Now crisis 
the second would not much matter ; 
but it is very apt to lead to crisis 



and what came (f ihem. 



196 



the fhird, when borrowing becomes 
80 difficult as to approach the con- 
fines of impossibility. And to this 
gloomy boundary, I regret to say, 
Harry Doncasier had arrived at the 
period in question. He did not 
Know, as he declared, how to turn 
himself round, and performed the 
process only, like the scorpion girt 
by financial fire, the circle narrow- 
ing with every sucoessiYe sun. He 
began serious borrowing in India — 
that gorgeous land which has the 
&tal gift of credit in a bewildering 
degree— and where the traO of the 
serpent (of high interest^ extends 
from the rice-fields of Bengal to 
the rose-gardens of Oashmere. 
He had a few debts in England at 
the time. He thought they would 
not matter; but they did. And he 
soon found that the process which 
follows non-payment in the one 
country is much the Same as the 
process which follows non-payment 
m the other- the prinoipcu differ- 
ence being that in India you are 
arrested by a bailiff in a looser pair 
of trousers. On coming home upon 
leave he made another discovery — 
that Eastern impecuniosiiy is a 
tree of hardy growth, and will bear 
transplanting to the West with 
oonsidorable success. It was with 
a profound conviction of this im- 
portant truth that he began serious 
borrowing in his native land; and 
for a time his native land izeated 
him with her well-known liberality 
in the way of advances, and equally 
well-known consideration witii re- 
gard to their return. But there 
is a time for all things, 'and that 
for payment comes with remarkable 
punctuality, and when it really 
means business is apt to be a diffi- 
cult customer. This is just what 
Harry Doncaster is beginning to 
discover when we find him at 
the Brighton hotel conning over 
the advertisement He has ex- 
hausted worlds of leave, and will 
have to imagine new if he wants 
much more of it. But he dares not 
return to his regiment under pre- 
sent circumstances, and remaining 
in England seems equally out of 
the question. He has an idea that 
the Ulterior of Africa would be a 
proper part of the world for his 



future sojourn; but a leceni; event 
has made him reluctant to turn his 
back upon the land of his youtii ; 
and the latter feeling, I fancy, has 
some connection with the advertise- 
ment. 

Were I to follow the example of 
many miiEfguided novelists I should 
represent Harry Doncaster, at ^is 
juncture, as soliloquizing aloud, 
and giving a snmmaiy of his past 
life and present prospects, witn a 
statement of the nature of the 
question which occupies his atten- 
tion, for the benefit of anybody who 
might happen to be listening. But 
people never do this in real life ; 
and, confining myself to facts, I 
shall simply mention that a few 
muttered words escape him to this 
effect,^ 

'Must be meant for me— will 
risk iiH-Hcan't come to any grief on 
a Sunday.' 

And with the newspaper still in 
his hand he rises, with the intention 
of making for the fireplace, by the 
side of which is the only bell- 
handle he happens to call to mind, 
though there are half a dozen about 
the room. But he pauses in the 
act, for there is a stranger sitting 
with his back to the bell-handle, 
finishing his dinner 'in a leisurely 
manner; and it is evident that 
Harry Doncaster cannot get to the 
bell without disturbing the stranger. 
The two have been taking their 
respective repasts a few paces apart 
Each has been well aware of the . 
presence of the other, but each has 
Ignored the other's existence, as in 
conventional duly bound — a very 
proper arrangement, by the way, in 
a public room, which ought to be 
a private room to anybody who 
pleases to make it so. 

Having an object in so doing, 
Harry Doncaster considers himself 
warranted in addressing the stranger, 
which he does by asking him to ring 
thebeU. 

There are various ways of asking 
a man to ring a bell, and Harry's, 
upon this occasion, was a little un- 
ceremonious — unintentionally so. 
But the stranger obeyed the man- 
date, and had evidently no intention 
of ordering the other stranger's car- 
riage, as the superb gentleman who 
o a 



196 



Mr, HardcasUe^a Friendly AUentiofUy 



invented Brighton did with Mr. 
Brommell under similar circum- 
Btances ; for before the waiter could 
obey the Bummona he remarked to 
Captain Doncaater— 

' It is not the first time that I 
have obeyed your orders.* 

'Indeed/ said Harry; *I don*fc 
remember that you have served with 
me.' 

' No, but I have served things /or 
you at Harrow ; don't you remem- 
ber your fag, Jack Shomclifife?' 

* Of course I do, and I am very 
glad to see you again, but should 
not have known you, you're so 
altered.' Mr. ShomclifTe, as he now 
appeared, was a person of small 
stature, particularly neatly and com- 
pactly bailt, with a face that was 
particularly neat and compact also, 
and the same character belonged to 
his hirsute adornments. He had a 
very keen eye, and was very decided 
in speech and manner. 

'Well, yon don't expect me to 
look such a fool as I was then,' said 
he. ' I knew you at once; saw you 
the night before last at the Plungers* 
ball, but couldn't speak to you — 
always with some girl.' 

* You mean you were.' 

' Yes, of course ; you seemed to 
be mooning about doing nothing.' 

' And what are you doing your- 
self, in another sense? You were 
going into the service, but I never 
heard of you, or noticed your name 
in Hart' ; 

'No; the paternity changed his 
mind about me. Ho made the dis- 
covery that at least nine out of ten 
of our immediate family who have 
gone into the army have punctually 
•come to grief, and are at the present 
time head over ears in debt' 

Harry could not deny that there 
4ire officers of the army in such a 
predicament 

' So he put me in his bank instead, 
where I am a partner—awf ally rich 
— want a few hundreds, eh?* 

Harry started at the question^ 
jestingly put as it was—for he was 
by no means used to such pleasant 
inquiries. For a moment he felt a 
fiendish temptation, but he re- 
strained himself. The thing would 
never do, at any rate it would be 
premature at the present time. Mr. 



Shomcliffe abruptly returned to the 
subject of the ball. 

'I saw who you were looking 
after there, the unknown enchan- 
tress with the pompous papa. Did 
you find out who they were? I 
couldn't Governor must be an 
alderman, I suspect: they came 
from London, that was all I could 
pick up.' 

Harry Doncaater looked a little 
confused, but he^ answered care- 
lessly — 

' Ah ! I know the people you 
mean, but I did not find out their 
names. Of course I admired the 
lady, like everybody else.' 

* Superb creature,' pursued Mr. 
Shorncliffe. ' It would be invidious 
to particularise where all is perfec- 
tion, as puffing critics say in the 
papers; but I think her great points 
are her eyes and shoulders— it would 
be difficult to say which are tiie 
brightest of the two.' 

Harry Doncaster pretended to 
laugh at this criticism, but did not 
half like it. Jack Shorncliffe pro- 
ceeded — 

' I suspect her eyes are too blue 
to be very bright by day; but 
there is no mistake about her shoul- 
ders. Alabaster is a ridiculous 
comparison. There are no com- 
plexions like alabaster, and I should 
be very sorry if there were; her 
shoulders are simply like ivory, and 
the elephant tribe ought to be much 
obliged to me for the comparison.' 

Harry was getting angry by this 
time, but he refrained from any 
manifestation which might betray 
his secret (you know as well as I do 
that he had a secret), or, still worse,, 
make him appear ridiculous. The 
subject of conversation, too, was 

gleasant to him upon any terms, so 
e allowed Shomcliflfe to proceed. 
' I should like very much to know 
who found her glove,' pursued that 
gentleman. ' I know that she lost 
one, for a man who saw her leaving 
the ball said she turned round to 
look for it while stepping into her 
carriage, and that the governor said, 
" Oh, it doesn't matter, you are close 
at home." You have seen the ad- 
vertisement in the paper, of course ? 
Ah I you have the paper in your 
hand.' 



and what came of tJiem. 



197 



Harry Doncaster, at the com- 
menoement of this colloquy, had 
taken his seat at Shorncliffe's table, 
and had brought the ' South Down 
Eeporter and Devil's Dyke Free 
Press' with him, for the simple rea- 
son that he did not think of laying 
it down. However, there was no 
betrayal involved, and Harry simply 
said that he had seen the advertise- 
ment, adding, what was strictly 
trne, that he was as much mystified 
by it as his companion. • 

But I am sorry to say that the 
matter did not end here. The two 
gentlemen spent the evening to- 
gether, as well as that process could 
be performed in the absence of pri- 
vate engagements; that is to say, 
they walked out upon the new pier, 
and returned at ten o'clock or so to 
the hotel, where they were both 
staying. During their walk the 
conversation had not fallen upon 
the lady of the lost glove, but it did 
so when they returned, and Jack 
Shomcliffe, growing confidential, 
avowed himself an ardent admirer 
of the lady, whose acquaintance, he 
said, he was determined to make. 
The family lived in London, he knew, 
and if nobody would introduce him 
he would introduce himself. He was 
possessed, he added, of ' a genial 
audacity which might be mistaken 
for cheek,' that never failed in such 
cases. This was not at all pleasant 
to Harry Doncaster; but he could 
not help remembering that one 
stranger has as much right to be in 
love with a lady as another stranger. 
When, however, Jack ShomcTifife 
grew bold over his not unqualified 
seltzer, and began to express his 
admiration in a similar strain to 
that in which he had previously in- 
dulged, Harry remonstrated, some- 
what to the speaker'sastonishment — 

' Why, the lady is nothing to you?' 
said Shomcliffe, inquiringly. 

' I am not sure/ replied Harry. 
And then, I regret to say, he was 
weak enough to own the state of his 
own feelings, and, what was worse, 
to acknowledge himself as the finder 
of the glove, which article he pro- 
duced from his breast-pocket in 
proof of the assertion. 

Mr. Shomcliffe was very fax from 
relishing this revelation, and the 



pair presently found one another's 
society not quite so pleasant as it 
had been before. They discovered, 
in &ct, that sitting up was a bore, 
and determined to go to bed. Harry 
Doncaster was the first to leave. He 
did not go to bed, but went out for 
another walk by the sea. 

When he returned to his room he 
felt in the breast-pocket of his coat, 
remembering that it would not be 
well for its contents to come under 
the notice of his servant in the 
morning. 

The glove was gone ! 



CHAPTER ir. 

WHAT HAPFENEO AT THE ZOOLOGICAI. 
OABDENS. 

Sunday at the Zoological. The 
season is drawing to a close, but the 
day is one of the fullest that there 
has been since its beginning. Every- 
body is there ; but that ia not say- 
ing enough. There are all the 
necessary nobodies to keep the 
everybodies in countenance, and 
save them from staring at one 
another like idiots. There is even a 
Boyal Prince and a Boyal Princess, 
and these illustrious personages 
actually seem to like being present, 
for nobody bores them with intru- 
sive attentions. 

The day is one of the finest as 
well as one of the fullest of the sea- 
son, and the one fact, I suppose, ac- 
counts considerably for the other. 
It has doubtless influenced the toi- 
lettes, which are lighter and airier 
thaji ever, as far as the ladies are 
concerned; and what wonderful 
coiffures thefie same ladies wear! 
Coiffures seem to reach their culmi- 
nating point at the Zoological; go 
anywhere afterwards and you al- 
ways notice a declension. 

There is nothing to do, of course, 
at the Zoological after you have been 
to see some of your favourite ani- 
noials. There are always a few of 
these in fiBushion, and you ' do' these 
rigorously. This object accom- 
plished, you concentrate your atten- 
tion upon trying to get chairs, a 
pleasing pursuit which passes away 
an hour very well. As everybody 
tries to get chairs, I suppose they 



198 



Mr, EardeaaUe^B Friendly Altentiowy 



L 



are th6 nnsiiccessful candidates who 
walk about; and it is well that 
somebody should so disport them- 
selyes, otherwise sitting would be 
comparatively dull work. 

An elderly gentleman, to whom I 
wish to call your attention, has been 
foraging for seats ever since he 
entered the gardens. He has not 
regarded the chase, like more philo- 
sophical persons, as an inciaental 
piece of amusement, and has been 
actually out of temper at the delay. 
But see, he has at last brought dowv 
his game, and comes upon the grass 
with a chair in each hand ; and his 
satisfoction is complete when, on 
joining two ladies who form his 
party, he finds that one of them has 
found a seat for herself. As he also 
is thus Eared from standing you 
might suppose that he would begin 
to be amiable. But he does nothing 
of fhe kmd. He dislikes the place 
and the people also, and, as he says, 
doesn't care who knows it A more 
insane way of passing the afternoon 
he cannot conceive, and he expresses 
his dissatisfaction in audible terms. 
He is a portly person with a pink 
face, dresses scrupulously in black, 
with a white cravat of a previous 
period of society, and a big diamond 
brooch in the bosom of his shirt 
which 'would buy half Northum- 
foerlee,' if half Northumberlee hap- 
pened to be for sale. Both his pink 
face and his portliness are appear- 
ances in his&vour. Neither is too 
pronounced, and both draw that 
nice line between prosperity and 
apoplexy which one always rejoices 
to see in elderly gentlemen. 

Of the two ladies one is evidently 
his wife and the other apparently 
his daughter. 

His wife is tall, stately, and re- 
served; grandly rather than gaily 
dressed, like many courtly persons 
of her period in life whom one meets 
in the exclusive circles of Madame 
Tussaud— persons whose manners 
have considerably more than the 
repose .which stamps the caste of 
Vere de Vere; for so little influ- 
enced are they by vulgar emotion 
that a condescending inclination of 
the head, or a haughty turn of that 
appendage upon their aristocratic 

loulders are all the signs they 



sh( 



deign to make of taking the smallest 
interest in their fellow-creatures. 
The lady in question has evidently 
modelled herself upon one of these 
courtly dames. Tou can see at a 
glance that her ideas of good-breed- 
ing are entirely of a negative cha- 
racter; and without overhearing 
any &mily conversations you may 
be sure that she tells her daughter 
not to do this and not to do that, 
because great people never do any- 
thing of the kind, neglecting, of 
course, to add what it is that great 
people do do, and in what respects 
the nature of their activity dififers 
from that of little people. 

Her daughter, ah 1 her daughter 
is very different Tou have heard 
some account of her in the artless 
criticism of Mr. Shomcliffe; for — 
there need be no mystery in the 
matter—she is indeed the unknown 
enchantress of the Plungers* ball! 
But Mr. Shomcliffe, with all hia 
enthusiasm and powers of descrip- 
tion, did nothing like justice to her 
loveliness, which in its general cha- 
racter was like that of a lolling lily, 
if you can fancy a lolling lily with 
an aggressive abundance of chestnut 
hair and eyes the colour of the corn- 
flower. She has, as Mr. Shomcliffe 
observed, an ivory delicacy of sur- 
f^; but that gentleman forgot to 
mention the pale coral tints that 
gave it relief. I am bound to admit 
also, on my own account, that I 
have never beheld a hly, lolling (X 
otherwise, arrayed to such purpose 
in pale blue. It was Solomon in all 
his gloiy and the Uly combined. 

But it will save trouble to tell 
you at once who these people are. 

Mr. Surbiton is principally known 
for having made a great deal of 
money. It is a very good reputa- 
tion to have, and will carry its sub- 
ject a considerable way into society. 
It is not quite understood how the 
money had been made, except, I 
suppose, by Mr. Surbiton's old and 
more immediate friends ; but he is 
supposed to have begun in a very 
small way and ended in a very large 
way, and being now retired he is of 
course in no way at all. But do 
not suppose that people in general 
care in what particular line of busi- 
ness the money had been made, and 



and wliat came of them. 



199 



yery few would tronble thexoselyes 
on the subject bat for Mrs. Sur- 
biton's honor at any hint of her 
hoBband having been in trade, which 
makes her Mends laugh occasion- 
ally, and of coarse tends to keep 
the fact before their eyes. Two- 
ihirds of her life, I should think, 
are passed in trying to conceal what 
she considers this fisunily disgrace, 
and, as feur as any degree of success 
is concerned, she might as well pro- 
claim it periodically from the house- 
tops. Her main object at the pre- 
sent time is to effect an aristocratic 
alliance with her daughter. That 
young lady, by the way, is happily 
uninfluenced by the pecaliarities of 
her parents. Bemg no more than 
seventeen or eighteen years of age, 
she is not able to remember the 
humbler state of the family, and 
having been educated away from 
home she is unaJSected by any of its 
traditions. 

Scarcely have Mr. and Mrs. Sur- 
biton and their daughter taken pos- 
session of their chairs than they are 
joined by a gentleman, a stranger, 
who addresses himself to the head 
of tiie fiunily in a manner indicatiye 
of some special errand. 

But I must here leave them to 
note a scene which is enacting in 

another part of the gardens. 

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ 

Harry I^mcaster has been two or 
three times up and down that long 
walk where the walkeis seem to 
congregate for the amusement of 
the people in chairs. He has per- 
formed the process with some impa- 
tience, having an object in view 
apart from being stared at But 
his glances right and left are evi- 
dently not rewarded by the sight of 
some persons of whom he seems to 
be in quest, and after mingling for 
a few minutes with the crowd on 
the grass he turns away as if for 
the purpose of being sJone. His 
mood is plainly not a pleasant one, 
and he seems preoccupied to an ex- 
tent incompatible with enjoyment 
of the Zoological. So he sits under 
a tree and has an int^riew with 
himself— a very unsatisfactory inter- 
view, I should say, judging from 
his frowns and occasional ejacula- 
tions. It would end in a violent 



quarrel, I have no doubt, but for a 
diversion caused by the appearance 
of a stranger. 

Harry Doncaster, being rather 
slender in figure than otherwise, 
did not occupy the entire seven or 
eight feet of the bench upon which 
he had chosen to rest; so the 
stranger availed himself of the va- 
cant accommodation. This stranger 
was one of the most agreeable per- 
sons you ever beheld. He was 
not a fiftt man, but he was cer- 
tainly a plump man, with a beam- 
iug, radiant presence, confirmed by 
his face, which was so happy and 
healthy, smiling and beneyolent, as 
to be irresistibly attractive. A san- 
guine complexion and sandy hair 
may have had something to do with 
the prevailing effect, but the genial 
nature of the stranger shone espe- 
dally in his eyes. 

Harry Doncaster, preoccupied 
though he was, could not avoid 
notice of these characteristics ; so 
when the stranger spoke to him he 
did not resent the intrusion, but 
showed himself to be fjAvourably 
impressed. 

' You do not remember me. Cap- 
tain Doncaster ?' said the stranger. 

Captain Doncaster could not dis- 
pute the proposition. The stranger 
continued — 

' No doubt you do not ; you were 
a small boy when we used to meet 
But I was well acquainted with your 
&ther, the late viscount — ^was, I may 
say, his friend, and had the pleasure 
of obliging him in many ways. Al- 
ways happy to do it, too, having the 
greatest respect for him and his 
family. Beodes, it's always better 
to make friends than enemies, and 
every man has it in his power to 
do some good in his generation if 
he only has his heart in the right 
place.' 

Harry Doncaster was charmed to 
hear such generous sentiments, and 
professed some hereditary gratitude 
for the services rendered to his 
father, not that he knew their nature, 
but he guessed that they might have 
been of a pecuniary character. 

' You do remember my name, I 
daro say,' pursued his obliging 
neighbour — ' Matthew Hardcastle.' 

Harry Doncaster thought he r&- 



200 



Mr. Hardccaile's Friendly AUentions^ 



membered it— was not sore— yes, 
he certainly— it seemed familiar to 
him— he must have heard it at 
home when he was yonng. 

' Ah ! I thought you had not for- 
gotten my name, at any rate/ said 
Mr. Hardcastle, with a pleasant 
chuckle; 'and now let me tell you 
why I have recalled myself to your 
recollection. Frankly, I wish to 
render you a service. There is too 
little sympathy in this world be- 
tween man and man; we ought all 
to do more for one another than we 
do ; the curse of the world is selfish- 



'My dear sir/ said Harry Don- 
caster, 'it is charming to hear you 
express such noble sentiments, but 
I am not aware in what manner you 
can do me a service. I am full of 
troubles, but they are of a nature 
very difficult to provide for, and a 
stranger * 

* Not a stranger,' interrupted Mr. 
Hardcastle, taking Harry's hand and 
grasping it with much warmth; 
' say a friend. It is indeed in my 
power to render you a service, and 
fortunately it is not necessary to 
test my friendliness by any sacrifice 
on my own part. The service I am 
able to render you will cost me 
nothing. On the contrary, I shall 
be a gainer by conferring an obliga- 
tion in another quarter, not a pecu- 
niary obligation of course. What I 
mean is that I shall gain the lasthig 
gratitude of the family of one of my 
oldest friends, and that is payment 
to me enough. Nobody ever said 
that Matt Hardcastle ever did a 
good action only for money, though 
that perhaps is no merit of mine. 
I don t know what I might have 
done had I been poor, and we must 
always be charitable to the errors of 
needy men. Happily I have always 
been beyond the reach of tempta- 
tion.' 

'Ton puzzle me,' said Captain 
Doncaster, who thought that his 
new friend would indeed be a clever 
fellow if he could do anything for 
him. But he remembered that he 
had read of equally wonderful things 
in the ' Arabian Nights' Entertain- 
ments.' 

' Now, let me be frank with you,' 
Mr. Hardcastle continued. ' I know 



your position at the present moment 
to be one of great embarrassmentr 
I know that you have for years past 
spent a great deal more than your 
incoma Tou have had expecta- 
tions, doubtless, and were justified 
in so doing; but these expectations 
have not been realised as yet, and 
you have no time to wait for them. 
I know that besides a— if I may so- 
call it— somewhat reckless personal 
expenditure, pardonable in a young 
man of family belonging to an ex- 
pensive regiment, you have been- 
unfortunate in horses and have 
dropped a little at cards. You have 
met debts of honour by contracting 
legal obligations. There are som» 
of them considerably over due, and 
unless — ^in the immortal words of 
our friend Micawber — "something^ 
turns up" for you, you may be coi^- 
sidered in the light of a ruined man.*^ 

Harry was obliged to own that 
this was but too fiuthf al a picture of 
his state and prospects in life; but 
he expressed some surprise tbat Mr. 
Hardcastle should have arrived at 
so accurate a knowledge of his con- 
dition. 

* Never mind how I came to know 
it»' said that gentleman in his most 
genial manner- 'I know a great 
many things about a great many 
people that they little suspect The^ 
fact is that I have rather a speciality 
for doing friendly offices for people 
in my humble way, and such cases 
reach my ears sooner than they 
reach those of most men. Now 
there is only one way of extricating 
yourself from your difficulties, and 
that one way is— marriage.' 

Harry Doncaster was deeply dis- 
appointed at the nature of the 
remedy proposed. As if he had 
never thought of it before! Why, 
it is the first idea that occurs to 
every spendthrift who is hard 
pressed. Harry did not avow this^ 
contemptuous opinion, however, but 
contented himself with saying— 

' I am much obliged, my dear sir,, 
for your suggestion, and I must 
confess it had occurred to me be- 
fore. But there has always been 
this difficulty in the way. I have a 

frejudice against marrying a woman 
don't like, and I have hithertO' 
been unable to combine the necesr- 



and what came of them. 



201 



sary coxiditions. When I have liked, 
or nmcied that I have liked, a girl, 
she has always tnrned out to be 
without a penny, and richer than 
myself only through having no 
debts. On the other hand, women 
with fortunes snfiSciently large to 
enable them to take me, debts and 
all, have always been objectionable 
persons one way or another, besides 
being mostly otuls. Indeed, women 
in my own rank of life are not to be 
had under the conditions, and I 
have never found any with money 
enough whom I cared even to ask. 
I am not very particular about 
grade, but in any grade I have 
always met with the same difficulty. 
As for selling myself entirely for 
the benefit of my creditors, I have 
not quite arrived at that pitch of 
heroism. Of the two I prefer the 
creditors to the kind of wife I could 
get— Uiey may ruin me, but they 
cannot force me to suffer my ruin 
in their society.' 

' But if I could introduce you to 
a lady whom you would be sure to 
like?' 

' Thank you very much, my dear 
sir,' rejoined Harry Doncaster, some- 
what decidedly, and getting rather 
red in the fBuoe, ' I have reasons, at 
the present time, for not being pre- 
pared to make the experiment' 

' An attachment already formed, 
eh? Excuse me — I am an older 
man than you — for asking the ques- 
tion. It is 60, 1 see by your face. 
No doubt it does you honour, and 
so do all the sentiments you have 
expressed. It is something strange 
to meet with the finer feelmgs in a 
man who has passed through your 
career. But supposing that I could 
assist you with the object of your 
choice ?* 

' My dear sir, I have not told you 
that I have any ch<Hce, and I re- 
peat ' 

' Now, my dear friend, don't make 
a stranger of me, who only wish to 
oblige you. It is just possible that 
your choice — or shall I call it your 
fancy ?— is but a few days old.* 

'You are certainly determined, 
Mr. Hardcastle, to know as much as 
I know myself.' 

'It is not improbable that yon 
never yet spoke to the lady ?' 



' Mr. Hardcastle, I ' 

' That you do not even know her 
name?' 

* You are most determined in your 
interrogatories.' 

' That you never saw her but once 
—at a ball?' 

' Well, you evidently know some- 
thing about it,' Faid Harry Doncas- 
ter, his first instinct of resentment 
appeased as he found his obliging 
friend really as well informed as he 
pretended to be. 

' Supposing, then, as I have said, 
I coula introduce you to the lady in 
question?' 

'You would indeed please me,, 
but I know not to what it could 
lead. To tell you the truth, I cam& 
here on purpose to see her; but 
even had I seen her I should scarcely 
have ventured to introduce myself, 
for I have no right to suppose that 
either she or her family desired to 
meet me, and the only excuse I had 
for intruding I have somehow lost' 

' You have lost the glove, then?* 

' And you know about the glover 

' Yes. I agree with you that they 
were not likely to advertise for suck 
a very unimportant article, and it 
would certainly be strange if they 
advertised for you.' 

' That is just what occurred to 
me. And you have seen the adver- 
tisement too?' 

'Well, I have heard about it 
But you won't want the glove if I 
present you myself.' 

Harry Doncaster could not with- 
stand the temptation ; and in a few^ 
minutes the pair were in the midst 
of the promenaders, and peering in 
every direction among the occu- 
pants of the much-coveted chairs. 



I left the Surbiton party taking 
their rest, and being joined by a 
stranger. You may guess who it 
was—Mr. ShomcUffe, of course. 

Mr. ShomcUffe rushed in where 
Captain Doncaster feared to tread ; 
but he considered himself the lesser 
fool of the two on that account, and 
I suppose he was in the right. 

Lifting his hat with a half recog- 
nition of the ladies^ this enter- 
prising gentleman addressed him- 
self to Mr. Surbiton, who rose from 



202 



Mr. EardcoiUei Friendly AtteniionSf 



his seat with a oeriain air of defer- 
ence; for Mr. Shomcliffe's manners 
were imposing— to Mr. Sorbiton, at 
any rate. 

' I have taken the liberty of in- 
truding upon yon here/ said Mr. 
Shomcliffe, with composed audacity, 
' in obedience to your hint' 

' My hint, sir/ replied Mr. Snr- 
biton, surprised out of politeness. 
' What do you mean T 

'Mean, sir! Is it possible that 
you have forgotten the Plungers' — 
the Dragoon Guards* ball at 
Brighton, and the advertisement in 
the ''South Down Eeporter?" I 
am the finder of the glove.' 

The latter communication was 
oonyeyed in a low, confidential 
tone, as if it bore the weight of a 
state secret Poor Mr. Surbiton 
was sorely perplexed. As soon as 
he could find words to reply, he 
said — 

'Ball! Yes, I remember the 
ball, and a yery dull affair it was. 
But what the deuce you mean by 
the advertisement and the glove I 
can't say. Yon must take me for 
somebody else, or have gone clean 
out of your senses.' 

And here the horrible idea 
seized upon Mr. Surbiton that he 
had to do with a lunatic of a dan- 
g^erous kind; so, with a precau- 
tionary instinct as creditable to 
him as his promptitude of action, 
he seiased the chur upon which he 
had been sitting, covered himself 
with it, and covered the ladies with 
it, while awaiting a further demon- 
stration on the o3ier side. 

The attitude was so unusual at 
the Zoological as to attract the 
attention of several bystanders ; but 
they were well-bred persons, and 
did not precipitate a scene. The 
ladies, if not alarmed, felt very 
awkwardly placed, and Mrs. Sur- 
biton told her husband in quiet, but 
commanding tones, to resume his 
seat, and hear what the gentleman 
had to say. 

' I can assure you, sir/ continued 
Mr. Shomcliffe, rather amused than 
otherwise, and speaking round the 
chair for the benefit of the ladies, 
' that I am not a madman, but am 
most pleasantly in my senses, and 
that I have intruded myself upon 



you simply because I supposed you 
desired my presence.' 

The explanation seemed at least 
reasonable, so Mr. Surbiton was per- 
suaded to drop his defence and take 
his seat upon it — a pacific movement 
which satisfied the bystandera that 
there was nothing the matter; so 
they moved ofiT, and an apparently 
promising scandal was nipped in 
the bud. 

' The gentleman will tell you, I 
dare say, if you ask him/ said Mrs. 
Surbiton severely to her husband, 
' what he means by the advertise- 
ment' 

' Well, what do you mean?' said 
Mr. Surbiton, sulkily. 

' I mean the announcement 
which appeared on Friday in the 
" Southdown Reporter," ' said Mr. 
Shomcliffe, taking from his pocket 
the paragraph in question, which 
he had i&ksa the precaution to cut 
out 

Mr. Surbiton read the advertise- 
ment with amazement; then he 
handed it to Mrs. Surbiton, who 
read it and looked scandalized; 
then Mrs. Surbiton handed it to 
Miss Surbiton, who read it — and 
laughed. 

The latter lady was the first to 
express her views on the subject 

' If it relates to us, mamma, it 
must be intended as a piece of fun- 
though not such fun as a friend 
would practise upon us. I cer- 
tainly dropped one of my gloves as 
we were going out; but nobody 
could suppose that we should 
advertise for such a thing as that; 
and I, at any rate, saw nobody pick 
it up.' 

'I had that honour/ said Mr. 
ShomcUffe, not quite so assuredly 
as before, and addressing himself 
still to Mr. Surbiton, though with 
reference to the young lady, 'and 
seeing the advertisement, I was 
naturally under the impression 
tbat-r-that— there was a desire to 
communicate with me.' 

' Then your impression was mis- 
taken/ said Mr. Surbiton, recover- 
ing his self-possession as he began 
to understand the question at 
issue. 'We know nothing about 
the advertisement here; somebody 
has been making a fool of you.' 



and what came of them* 



203 



Mr. Shornoliffe began to think 
that he had at least been making a 
fool of himself, and sincerely wished 
that he had left Doncaster to per- 
form his legitimate part in the 
afEair. 

'Shall I at least perform the 
commission which I have so inno- 
cently undertaken, and restore * 

Mra. Surbiton here interposed, 
and stopped the movement which 
the speaker was making towards his 
pocket 

'On no accotmt— such a pro- 
ceeding conld not be permitted in 
public— with the eyes of the world 
upon us— and nobody here requires 
the gloye.' 

' If the gentleman had found the 
little ring I lost the same evening 
I should be obliged to him/ said 
Miss Surbiton. 

But Mr. Shomdiffe had unf6r« 
tunately not found a ring. 

*At least/ said that gentleman, 
as he made a movement to depart, 
' I hope that I shall be acquitted 
of having taken a part in what 
seems to be a very silly hoax. My 
name— which I dare say is not un- 
known to Mr. Surbiton— should be 
some guarantee of my honourable 
motives.' 

And here Mr. Shomdiffe handed 
his card to the gentleman whom he 
addressed. The latter glanced at 
it, and his manner changed imme- 
diately. 

' Bless me !— Mr. John Shom- 
diffe I Are you of the house of 
Grampus, Shomdiffe, and Co., of 
Lombard Street ?* 

' I am a partner in that firm.' 

' My bankers. Then you are at 
least a respectable person. My 
dear sir, I am very glad to see you. 
This business of the advertisement 
is evidently a mistake— some foolery 
of those military coxcombs. I am 
very sorry that you have been 
imposed on. Grampus, Shomdiffe, 
and Co. — first-rate house — know 
some of the partners. You don't 
know me, I dare say.' 

' Yoxa name, I have no doubt, is 
known to me/ replied Mr. Shom- 
diffe, with renewed confidence at 
the turn which the conversation 
had taken. 

' My name is Surbiton, sir. Do 



you know me now ? I have had an 
account at your bank— and, I flatter 
myself, never an unsatis&ctory 
balance— for the last twenty years.' 

' There is no name I know better 
—none more honoured in the firm — 
than yours. I am proud to make 
your acquaintance, Mr. Surbiton.' 

' And I am proud to make yours ; 
though I must confess I thought at 
first you were a swindler. Nevermind 
— mistakes will happen. And now I 
know who you are let me introduce 
you to my wife and daughter.' 

The wife and daughter duly 
acknowledged the introduction — 
neither of them, however, with any 
unnecessary graciousness ; for Mrs. 
Surbiton, now that her husband had 
retired, ' did not approve of people in 
business/ an'd Miss Surbiton did not 
find herself taking much interest in 
the person upon short notice* 
However, Shomdiffe had gained 
his point, and, attaching himself 
sagaciously to the quarter where 
he had made an impression, he 
talked 'City' to Mr. Surbiton with 
such success as to fairly win that 
gentleman's heart 

The aftemoon, which was young 
when they entered the gardens, had 
been middle-aged for some time 
past, and now showed signs of 
growing old. On every side people 
were seeking social safety in flight. 
Chairs- that sure test of the Zoo- 
logical market — which had been so 
lately at a high premium, were now 
at a miserable discount There 
had been no transactions in seats 
indeed, except in leaving them, for 
the last half-hour, and those com- 
forting securities exhibited not only 
a downward tendency, but a rapid 
state of decline. I am indebted for 
this playful metaphor to Mr. Shom- 
diffe, who employed it in his con- 
versation with Mr. Sarbiton with 
such effect as to make that gen- 
tleman regard him as the most 
witty person he had ever met in 
the whole course of his life. Mia, 
Surbiton, whose sympathies were 
wedded to the West-End, scarcdy 
disguised her disgust at this kind 
of pleasantry ; while Miss Surbiton, 
wiu whom the West-find was an 
open question, had a very small 
opinion of the wit, for the young- 



204 



Mr. Hardcasiles Friendly Attentions, 



lady-Iike reason that she did not 
care about the individual. 

' And now, my boy/— it was my 
boy by this time — said Mr. Sur- 
biton to his new acquaintance, ' you 
are leaving this place of course. 
"Which way are you going? West- 
ward, of course— everybody goes 
westward. Take a seat in our 
carriage. Tou have your own? 
Never mind— may as well drive 
with us— just room— tell your man 
to follow— take my wife out like 
a good fellow.' 

So Mr. Shorncliffe gave his escort 
to Mrs. Surbiton, and Mr. Snrbiton 
followed with his daughter. 

41 ♦ « « 

It was at this juncture that Mr. 
Matthew Hardcastle and Captain 
the Hon. Harry Doncaster en- 
countered the party— just in time 
to be too late. 

Harry was disgusted at the per- 
fidy of his friend. 

' Never mind,' said his genial 
companion; 'they have not seen 
us, and we shall have plenty of 
time to give him checkmate to- 
morrow. If we do not castle his 
queen— Hardcastle his queen I may 
fiay, ha ! ha I ha !— never believe me 
again.' 



CHAPTER III. 

EiniKO, BININO, AND L0VE-UAKI2«G. 

Mr. Hardcastle, who was a bache- 
lor—all these genial old boys are 
bachelors — occupied one of the best 
suites of chambers in the Albany — 
I will call it A I, which it was in 
all respects but its local classifica- 
tion. Thither Captain Doncaster 
went to breakfast with him on the 
Monday morning succeediog the 
Sunday afternoon at the ^)oIogical ; 
and breakfast concluded, the pair 
arranged their plans for the coming 
campaign. These were not very 
elaborate, being limited to paying 
a visit at Mr. Surbiton's house, and 
enabling Harry to make what way 
he could with the ladies. 

' There is no occasion,' remarked 
Mr. Hardcastle, ' to make the attack 
look premeditated, and that is why 
I proposed to introduce you in a 
public place; but nothing can be 



more natural than that I— an old 
ally of the family— should take (t 
friend vnth me when I happen to 
call ; and I should say nothing if I 
were you about the advertisement 
in the paper, which is not likely to 
have come from the Surbitons, and 
is most probably some joke con- 
cocted at Brighton with which they 
have nothing to do.' 

There was no end to the friendly 
attentions of Mr. Hardcastle. He 
suggested that, as they had nothing 
else to do after breakfast, they should 
have a ride in the Row; and when 
he found that Hairy had no horse 
in town, he said it didn't matter, 
he could mount him, and he did so 
in a most satis&ctory manner, and 
told Harry always to consider the 
horse at his disposal as long as he 
remained in London. Hany was 
anxious, too, about another point. 
He told Mr. Hardcastle that he did 
not feel safe in such a public place 
as the Park, where he had not been 
for months ; but his new friend told 
him to be quite easy on that score. 
' If anything happens,' said he, * I 
will settle the thing for you ; it is 
only for a short time that you need 
incur the danger. I hope yery 
soon to see you a free man— now, 
no thanks— I assure you I take a 
selfish pleasure in obliging anybody 
to whom I take a liking— it is my 
way.' 

The first person they met in the 
Row was a gentleman who was also 
fond of friendly attentions— a gen- 
tleman in humble life who followed 
a pursuit not unknown in the neigh- 
bourhood—that of warning persons 
in Harry's predicament, with a view 
to half-crowns, of enemies being in 
the vicinity. He gave an intima- 
tion of the kind to Harry, which 
made that gentleman wince, es- 
pecially when he heard that the 
enemy in question had ' walked off 
with a swell only on Saturday, 
while he was riding with a lady.' 
But Mr. Hardcastle treated the 
matter so lightly, and renewed his 
assurances of support with such 
evident sincerity, that Harry was 
soon reassured, and felt almost as 
free as he did on what Fielding calls 
* that happy day of the week when 
profane hands axe forbidden to con- 



and what came of them. 



205 



iaminate tbe shoulders of the nnfor- 
timate/ 

The next person they met was 
Miss Sorbiton herself. She came 
upon Hanr Doncaster like a yision 
— only I doubt if any vision ever 
sat a horse half so well, or managed 
it with such ease and grace. A 
vision, I &ncy, would ride more in 
the style of the lady in the picture 
advertisement, who sits sideways 
upon an agreeably rearing steed, 
holding the reins as if they were 
the handle of a tea-cup, while the 
skirt .of her habit, which is about 
twelve feet long, meanders grace* 
fully among the animaVs legs. 
This was not Miss Surbiton's style 
you may be sure, or Horry would 
not have gone into such absurd 
raptures about her equestrian per- 
formance. He had never, too, he 
thought, seen anybody who looked 
half so well in a riding dress, though 
it is perhaps the safest costume for 
all styles of beauty, and most styles 
which are not beauty for that mat- 
ter. 

Mr. Surbiton, who accompanied 
his daughter, could not ride, but 
he did. He pulled up upon seeing 
"Mi. Hardcastle, and tne two imme- 
diately entered into conversation 
upon some sordid business in which 
they were both concerned. Mean- 
wh&e the younger pair, having no 
social licence to talk, felt rather in 
the way, until Mr. Hardcastle pre- 
sently f introduced Ms companion, 
and &e rest was plain sailing. The 
party first rode abreast, and then in 
pairs, and after a canter or two 
together Harry Doncaster and 
Blanche Surbiton found themselves 

intimate friends. 

• « * « 

Three days afterwards Captain 
Doncaster dmed with Mr. and Mrs. 
Surbiton at their house in Hyde 
Park Gardens. Mr. Surbiton did 
not much care about asking him, 
but 'Mrs. Surbiton did, which was 
decisive. That lady never neglected 
an opportimity to cultivate fiuhion- 
able and well-connected acquaint- 
ances—thcy were such a relief, she 
said, from her husband*s horrible 
City friends—and she treated the 
latest on the list with great dis- 
tinction, as being no more than the 



due of a person who was a possible 
viscount— the present one being 
childless — and who might — the 
lady had already great ideas in the 
way of an alliance for her daughter. 

Among the guests bidden to the 
hospitable board of Mr. Surbiton 
was Mr. Shorncliffe. Harry Don- 
caster and he bad not met since the 
memorable night at Brighton, and 
had their meeting now tsiken place 
been elsewhere, Harry would nave 
quarrelled with him, for he could 
not doubt the means by which that 
gentleman had made the acquaint- 
ance of the Surbitons. It was clear 
that he must have dropped the 
glova in the coffee-room, and that 
Mr. Shorncliffe must have appro- 
priated it. However, the house 
they were in was no place in which 
to settle a question of the kind ; and 
having once let it pass, Harry 
thought he would say no more 
about it, contenting himself with 
the amiable revenge of making Mr. 
Shorncliffe ])articularly uncomfort- 
able by taking no notice of him, 
and leaving him uncertain what 
kind of greeting he had to expect 
until the evening was well-nigh 
over. 

Harry Doncaster indeed was far 
better employed ; for he had Bluiche 
Surbiton in charge at dinner, and 
enjoyed the lion's share of her so- 
ciety afterwards. Shorncliffe was 
powerless to interfere with this 
monopoly during the meal, for al- 
though placed opposite to the lady, 
there was a bar between them in 
the shape of a senseless contrivance 
of fruit and flowers, which, as he 
said afterwards, was all verv well 
in its way, but a bore beyond bear- 
ing when it got in the way of one's 
observation. He could quite sym- 
pathise with the Frenchman who 
said that he detested the beauties 
of nature; and he hated the scent 
of roses as much as did Hood's 
flower-girl who associated them 
with so much sorrow. The object 
who filled his thoughte was almost 
shut out from his vision by these 
wretehed representatives of grace 
and beauty. It was only, indeed, 
by a dive of a most undignified 
character that he could manage to 
address his vis'li'vis^ and I need 



206 



Mr. HardcagOe'i Friendly Attentions, 



Boaroely say that a remark across a 
dinner-table must be of a special 
character not always at command 
to warrant a process of the kind. 
From his proper position the yonng 
banker could obtain nothing more 
satisiiEMstory than the sight of a bit of 
blue corsage— -hlae was «yidently 
Miss Surbiton's oolonr—and the 
glimpse of an occasional ann. This 
was the more exasperating as he 
was able to see and hear quite 
enough to know that Harry Don- 
caster was making his way in a^ 
triumphant manner, and thoroughly 
engrossing the girl's attention; 
wmle those more happily seated 
could place but one mterpretation 
upon the manner in which, as she 
listened to or addressed her neigh- 
bour, the pink coral continually 
combated with the iyory of her 
complexion. 

Poor Shomclifie, too, had the 
additional mortification of being 
placed next to Miss Mankillen— a 
lady of undecided age but decided 
manners, arrayed for fascination in 
a style which ought to amount to 
conspiracy in law ; who had no fea- 
tures to speak of, and thought 
therefore that her force lay in ex- 
pression; who said the smallest 
things with the largest emphasis, 
and wheneyer she talked— which 
she always did— twisted her &ce 
into maidacal grimaces, and gaye 
to her too agile form the contor- 
tions of a mermaid. She was called, 
indeed, the mermaid among the more 
ribald and insulting of her acquaint- 
ances ; and one of these noticing the 
manner in which she was disporting 
herself towards Mr. Shomcliffe, re- 
marked that if she carried her look- 
ing-glass and comb into connubial 
life, she would certainly giye the 
most faithful reflection to her hus- 
band's least pleasant qualities, and 
comb his hair in a manner not con- 
templated by coiffeurs, 

Tne neighbour tried to enter into 
her ideas of a pleasant conyersa- 
tion, but found himself so entirely 
opposed as to the required con- 
ditions that he contented himself 
at last by answering her at random; 
so they talked something in this 
manner— 

' You go eyeiy where, Mr. Shom- 



cliffa. I haye seen you at fiye hun- 
dred places this season.' 

'No, I think she is beat in the 
" Grande Duchease."' 

'You are fond of dancing? I 
know you are.' 

' I prefer Patti of the twa' 

' Those are yery beautiful flowers. 
I adore flowers.' 

' I hear that his last noyel is a 
fiulure.* 

' Are you going to the Zoological 
next Sunday?' 

'Yes. I heard her twice at Vienna 
before she came here.' 

And so forth. But the worst of 
it — for Mr. Shomcliffe — was that 
the lady did not feel offended, but 
came to the conclusian that her 
neighbour was a little deaf, and 
that it was a well-bred thing to 
humour him. 

It was a desperately long dinner ; 
for Mr. Surbiton inclined to massiye 
hospitalitieB, and thought there 
could neyer be enough of a good 
thing. But it came to an end, as 
eyen desperately long dinners must 
do; and when the ladies had all 
sailed out of the room— like a fleet 
of flowers— the gentlemen did what 
gentlemen al^rays do on such occa- 
sions—took a little more wine, and 
tried to bring together the scattered 
elements of conyersation. As for 
Harry Doncaster, he seemed, for the 
first time, aware of their presence — 
so engrossed had he been with his 
foir neighbour, who was not only by 
this time mistress of his heart, but 
of his head also ; for his brain had 
gained new life from her beauty, 
and his fancies were exhilarated as 
if fresh from a feast of the gods. 
Mr. Hardcastle, who was on the 
other side of the table, nodded to 
him as he touched his glass with 
his lips, and his looks said as 
plainly as looks can say, 'I con- 
gratukite you.' 

Shomcliffe was first in the draw- 
ing-room, and when Doncaster en- 
tered that apartment he found him 
engaged in conyersation with Miss 
Surbiton, and pretending to take 
tea. To what extent he would 
haye succeeded in interesting the 
young lady I cannot say; for he 
was cruelly treated shortly after- 
wards by his host, who drew him 



and whit came of them. 



207 



away to ask hiB opinion upon some 
important question connected with 
the Oily. Harry took the oppor- 
ionity to slip into the vacant chair, 
and was once more master of the 
sitnation. 

How they got there— by what 
pretence— and at whose so^fiiestion 
— I know not ; but in a few minntes 
the pair were miles away (drawing- 
loom measore) in the oonservatory. 

There was no one near ; and yon 
may be sore that both were con- 
sdons of the fact Miss Snrbiton, 
indeed, so fox appreciated it as to 
take the opportunity of asking a 
question which she would not haye 
liked to ask with a chance of being 
heard. 

' Pray excuse me. Captain Don- 
caster, for asking you; out where 
did you get that little turquoise 
zing you wear on your watch- 
guard?' 

' Originally,' answered Harry, 
'by the prosaic process of buying 
it, if I remember rightly; but how 
I came by it lately is more than I 
can tell. I thought I had given it 
away 'years ago. It seems, how- 
ever, that ;l haye been wearing it, 
for some little time, at least, next 
to my heart, for my servant found 
it in the side pocket of a coat How 
it came there is a mystery to me, 
but I remembered it as being my 
farmer property.' 

'Ton were at the Dragoon 
Guards' ball at Brighton last week 
— ^I know you were— I saw you 
there. It was there that I lost the 
ring. It must have come ofiT with, 
my glove, which I dropped going 
out.' 

A light broke in upon Harry 
Doncaster. 

' I was an idiot,' said he, ' not to 
have connected the two circum- 
stances before. It was I who found 
the glove. You were in the carrii^, 
and had driven off before I could 
zetumit.' 

' You found the glove ? I thought 
it was Mr. Shomcliffe. He brought 
it back very unnecessarily, and 
made a great fuss about it at the 
Zoological Gardens on Sunday. 
He was a stranger to us then, 
though it seems that papa banks 
with him.' 



' The fact is, I lost the glove by 
accident, and Mr. Shomcliffe appro- 
priated it; but the ring, whicn I 
had not observed, was not then in 
it, and must have fallen out pre- 
viously, and remained where I 
originally placed the glove. I ought 
to have quarrelled with Mr. Shom- 
cliffe for his share in the proceed- 
ing, but have determined to forgive 
him in consideration of the tempta- 
tion. His object was to use the 
glove for the purpose of getting an 
introduction to its owner.' # 

The pink coral gained a decided 
advantage over the ivory as Harry 
said these words. 

'I consider his conduct highly 
impertinent,' said the lady; 'but it 
does not alter my opinion of him, 
for I did not like it from the first.' 

'I will at any rate restore the 
ring,' said Harry, disengaging it 
from his chain, and placing it in 
its owner's hand. 

Blanche Sorbiton looked curi- 
ously at her companion as she re- 
ceived the ornament. 

' Have you any recollection,' she 
asked, quietly, 'of the person to 
whom you gave it so long ago?' 

' I remember her perfectly as she 
was then ; but it is ten years since- 
just before I went into the service 
and to India— and she was then a 
little girl. Can it be that * 

And Harry paused to examine 
the possibility which suggested it- 
self. 

' She was a child of seven or eight 
years of age, and you gave the 
ring to her upon the beach at 
Brighton,' said Miss Surbiton, de- 
cidedly. 'She had ventured out a 
little too fax, looking for seaweed, 
and had stayed upon a piece of 
rock until the tide— then coming 
in— surrounded her. She was in 
great danger, for she was too 
frightened to help herself. You 
were walking upon the beach at 
the time, wadod through the surf, 
and carried her on shore. She was 
nearly fisdnting — you were very 
kind to her— revived and soothed 
her— and ultimately gave her back 
to her servant, who had been talk- 
ing to a soldier and came up at the 
last moment. On leaving the child 
you placed this little ring upon her 



208 



Mr. Hardcasile*8 Friendly AUentians, 



fioger, and she has always worn it 
sinco in remembrance of her de- 
iiverer/ 

' I remember every incident you 
mention/ said Harry; 'and now 
that yon bring the child to my 
mind I can recall her face in your 
own. But time makes great changes 
in young ladies who are not grown 
up.* 

And here Harry Doncaster made 
im obvious remark or two about 
the influence of time being some- 
times of a iavourable character, 
which brought the pink coral to the 
eurfiice again. Then he asked a 
question in his turn — 

' Did you recognize me?* 

'Immediately. At the ball I 
thought your face familiar to me, 
and soon remembered where we 
had met. You have changed very 
little— scarcely at all, indeed.' 

Harry did not ai^— and I dare 
say did not care — whether the 
tendency in his case had been 
{jAVourable or otherwise; and the 
lady was not sufficiently gushing to 
volunteer the information. That 
the discovery of their old acquaint- 
ance gave pleasure to them both 
-was easy to be seen ; and when Mr. 
Shorncliffe— by the merest accident, 
of course— caoio presently into the 
conservatory, evea that very assured 
gentleman arrive<l at the conviction 
that he was no welcome addition to 
the party. 



CHAPTER IV. 

WHOU SHALL SHE MAS&Y ? 

' But how can I, as a man of ho- 
nour, misrepresent my position, and 
conceal the fact of all these awful 
debts?' 

Harry Doncaster asked this ques- 
tion of Mr. Hardcastle at breakfast 
next morning in the Albany, where, 
by the special desire of the occupier 
of A I, the young officer had taken 
up his temporary quarters. 

'As for your want of property — 
which will not be always a want, 
for you must have attme one of these 
days, even if your brother marries, 
and you do not get the title and 
estates— I don't see that you need 



feel any embarrassment Nothing 
can bo more fair than a match of 
the kind. There is birth and posi- 
tion on the one side, there is money 
on the other. The Surbiton fitmily, 
I am sure, will be charmed with the 
alliance. Your debts are awkward, 
of course; but a great many of 
them are of a kind which no man 
ought to pay in full if he can avoid 
it If you will authorise me to 
arrange with the rascals, I will un- 
dertake to manage them, to make a 
compromise as to amount, and give 
you time besides ; and moreover, I 
will explain the whole matter to 
Mr. Snroiton, who has the highest 
regard for me as a friend and a man 
of business, and will, I am sure, act 
upon my advice.' 

Harry was enchanted at the idea 
of such a satisfactory settlement, 
and threw his scruples to the winds. 
Mr. Hardcastle's generous proffers 
touched him to the heart ; it would 
be foolish and ungrateful to refuse 
them. The result was that Harry 
placed himself entirely in the hands 
of his new friend, and thought how 
happy the world might be if friends 
of the kind were more common. 

Released from sordid cares, Harry 
Doncaster could venture to declare 
his love. Indeed, to tell the truth, 
he had gone a great way in that 
direction on the previous evening 
while in the conservatory, and he 
was in no want of an opportunity 
for meeting Blanche Surbiton again, 
for he had learned that she intended 
to ride in the Row that morning, 
accompanied only, servant excepted, 
by Miss Mankillen. So Harry, 
mounted as before by Mr. Hard- 
castle, went into the Row also, and 
there the two met, quite by acci- 
dent of course, and Miss Mankillen, 
not beiog the kind of person to ride 
with a lady if she could get a man 
instead, did not trouble them long 
with her company, a fact upon 
which I su8i)ect Blanche Surbiton 
had calculated when she asked her 
to go. 

Harry and Blanche— you will ex- 
cuse my familiarity with the young 
Jody- after seeing Miss Mankillen 
inflict herself upon a nervous gen- 
tleman who was riding for his health, 
and was too weak to make resist- 



and whai came ofthenk 



209 



ance, took a canter together, which 
had the effect of leaying everybody 
behind, and then walked fheir 
horses and began to talk as people 
do when they have a great deal to 
say and know not how soon they 
may be distorbed. It was Harry 
who took the initiatiTe in this de- 
cided course of action, and resum- 
ing the conversation fifom the point 
at which it had broken off in the 
conservatory, made snch rapid pro- 
gress that he arrived at the ' mo- 
mentous qnestion' with a celerity 
that surprised himself, to say nothing 
of his companion. However, he had 
not misiaken his ground, that was 
clear, and before anybody came up 
to talk to them. Hairy had not only 
extracted as favourable an answer 
as a lady is likely to give who is 
agitated and has a horse to manage, 
but extorted a confession that for 
ten years past the childish fancy 
that mingled with her gratitude 
had been a sunny memory of her 
life, which had been lit np with the 
hope of meeting its object once 
more. So when they reijomed Miss 
Mankillen, or rather when Miss 
Mankillen rejoined them, they both 
looked so happ^ as to be decided 
objects of suspicion: indeed the 
pink coral in Blancne's &C6 was 
sufficient evidence for conviction in 
any court of justice. 

That afternoon, when Mr. Sur- 
biton returned home— although re- 
tired from business he haunted the 
City upon various pretences— Mrs. 
Surbiton made to him an important 
communication— that Captcun the 
Hon. Harry Doncaster haa made an 
offer for their daughter's hand. Mr. 
Sarbiton's answer, I am sorry to 
say, was coarse. He said * Bubbish.' 
But it was not rubbish for all that, 
and Mrs. Surbiton assured him that 
the match was one of which she 
highly approved, the connection was 
so good, and would give them such 
an influential place in society, espe- 
cially if her daughter should be- 
come a viscountess, of which there 
seemed every chance. The lady, in 
fact, was for accepting at once, and, 
what was more, celebrating the 
marriage as soon as possible, to pre- 
vent accidents. 

But Mr. Surbiton, strange to say, 
VOL. XVI.— HO. xcm. 



did not seem to see the advantage, 
especially compared with another 
offer which had been made to him 
in the City for the hand of the same 
young lady. This, it appeared, was 
from no less a person than Mr. 
Shomcliffe, who had formally asked 
for his consent in the event of his 
obtaining that of the lady. The 
worthy gentleman respectfully, but 
firmly, avowed his preference for 
the monied suitor. ' What is rank 
tons?' he said; 'I am a self-made 
man, and everybody knows it With 
the money I can give to Blanche, 
and that which Shomcliffe has, their 
position will be second to nobody's. 
We don't want empty handles to 
names, and to be luuiging on to 
poor, proud fitmilies that will 
scarcely own us. I like to have the 
sinews of war that I have alwavs 
relied on, not the gold lace and the 
gloss, that nobody cares about if 
they can get the other thing.' Mrs. 
Surbiton could not conceal her dis- 
gust at this commercial view of the 
question, and intimated to her 
husband, though in more polite and 
prosaic phrase, that however he 
might, on account of his wealth, 
have inherited some of the flowers 
of a social Eden, the trail of tiie 
City was over them all, and that 
she was ashamed of his mean way 
of looking at the position. 

The position, indeed, was a very 
awkward one, for the harmony of 
the family, between whose heads 
nothing could more confldently bo 
expected than a right royal row. 
But Mr. Surbiton had a fortunate 
preference for peace and quietness,, 
and an idea occurred to him. 

* I tell you what it is, my dear/ 
said he ; 'it is of no use for us to 
quarrel about this business. People 
are never good judges of their own 
affeiirs. It is always better that they 
should take counsel's opinion, and 
I know of no man whose opinion I 
would rather take than that of 
Hardcastle. I have known him for 
these thirty years; he has always 
been my fnend, and I have always 
found his advice put money in my 
pocket, and if by following it I have 
put some into Ins own, that ia only 
fair. He is a clear-headed man of 
the world, and I promise you, if you 
p 



210 



Mr. EatdcaMe'6 Friendly AttenHom, 



agree, that I will be gnided by his 
decision.' 

Mrs. Snrbiton did not directly 
make her election; bnt on the fol- 
lowing morning, after a careful 
consideration of Mr. HardcaBtle's 
character, and the peculiar circnm- 
stances of the case—the lady had 
considerable shrewdness and pene- 
tration, and saw into character 
rather more deeply than her hus- 
band—she consented to the com- 
pact, reserving to herself mentally 
ihe right of playing feJse if the de- 
cision went against her. It was a 
reservation which I cannot defend, 
but 1 am only recording fi&cts, and 
perhaps I have no right to exnose 
the aberrations of so respectable a 
lady. So Mr. Hardcastle was bidden 
to a private dinner, and the two gen- 
tlemen had a long discussion on the 
subject after the hulies had gone 
np stairs. 

The result may be soon told. Mr. 
Burbiton put the case to his friend 
as one in which it was impossible 
for them to have a difference of opi- 
nion, and he made it a question, ne 
added, only for the sake of peace 
and quietness, that is to say, to 
please his wife. Mr. HardcasUe at 
&rst seemed to agree with him en- 
tirely, and then proceeded to urge, 
with an adroitness for which he was 
remarkable, a long series of quali- 
fications, the upshot of which was 
that he ranged himself unreservedly 
upon the side of the wife, and ad- 
vised his old and valued friend so 
strongly in favour of the Doncaster 
alliance that the old and valued 
friend was fairly carried off his feet. 
TiSx. Hardcastle said a great deal 
about the young lady's preference, 
of which he was well aware, and the 
duty of parents— he was solemn and 
pathetic upon this subject— to for- 
ward the happiness of their children 
irrespective of sordid considerations. 
Mr. Surbiton, although an affec- 
tionate father in his own way, was 
not greatly impressed by these argu- 
ments; but when Mr. Hardcastle 
dwelt upon the advantage given to 
capital by connection, and showed 
how, for the highest aspirations of 
finance, social position was indis- 
pensable, Mr. Surbiton was visibly 
moved. And finally, remembering 



how he had for thirty years followed 
his old and valued driend's advice 
with advantage— which advice he 
could not consider otherwise than 
disinterested, though the old and 
valued friend had always made 
something by it himself— he decided 
to take it in the present instance. 

' But the young man has no 
money,' (Shomcliffe had told him 
that,) urged Mr. Surbiton, as a last 
appeal ; ' and he has debts.' 

' That is quite true,' replied Mr. 
Hardcastle, in his most smiling 
manner, and treating the question 
as if it were a mere bagatelle. 
' But you cannot give your daughter 
less than twenty thousand pounds 
down, whoever marries her, besides 
the fortune you leave her in your 
will; and that will be sufficient 
for them— and his pay is something 
remember — until he comes into 
money of his own, even if he does 
not get the title and estates, which 
he will in all probability. As for 
his debts they are not very serious, 
and I shall be able to arrange for 
them. Leave that matter in my 
hands. I should add, by the wav, 
that the twenty thousand pounds 
ought to be unfettered— and! really 
think that the alliance is cheap at 
the price.' 

So Mr. Surbiton yielded, and the 
only uncomfortable feeling that he 
had when he rose from the table 
was the triumph that his com- 
pliance would give to his wife. He 

felt small, in fact» as a family man. 
* * * * 

The marriage of Captain the Hon. 
Harry Doncaster with Blanche, 
daughter of John Surbiton, Esq., 
was duly celebrated at St. George's, 
Hanover Square. It was announced 
in the papers as a marriage in high 
life, and already the Sorbitons felt 
themselves a part of the peerage. 



CHAPTER V. 

AFTEB THB fiONlTtf OON. 

Never did bride and bridegroom 
return from their wedding tour 
more happy than did Hariy and 
Blanche. It was then that their 
troubles were destined to begin. 

A country seat of the viscount's 



and whai eame of them. 



"211 



had been placed at their disposal 
nntil they made anangements of 
their own; and on the third morn- 
ing after their arriTal, when they 
were seated at break&st enrying 
nobody in the world, a letter ar- 
rired from Harry's solicitor. It 
announced that his creditors had 
all proceeded against him to the 
atmost extremity — to exeontions, 
in fact, in erery .'case, for the fall 
amount of the seyeral debts, and 
that he mnfit immediately pay a 
sum of something a?er nineteen 
thousand pounds. 

I need not say how hard the 
blow was to bear. But it was cer- 
tainly harder when they learned 
ihat Mr. Hardoastle, the disin- 
terested ally of Harry, and the 
old and valued friend of Mr. Sur- 
biton, held all Harry's bills, and 
indeed eyery debt that the young 
officer had incurred — obligations 
which that friend of humanity had 
been able to buy up, at a time when 
Harry's fbrtunes looked desperate, 
at a remarkably low figure. There 
was no help for it now. Harry had 
twenty thousand pounds— just a 
little dipped into— by right of his 
wife, and had to pay every &r- 
thing. 

I need not say what Mr. Sur- 
biton said; indeed I should be 
florry to repeat his langnace, eren 
in a Latin note. The old and valued 
friend had bisen too much for him 
affcer all, and had made a profit of, 
I dare say, nine-tenths of the nine- 
teen thousand pounds by the traos- 
action. I need not say either what 
the viscount said, and how he 
threatened to marry, and, as Harry 
had already lost so much, cut him 
ofif from all compensatory prospects. 
I need only record actual events. 
Mr. Surbiton would not give another 
farthing, though, to do him justice, 
he did not talk ^about altering his 
will ; so there was nothing for it— 
as far as Harry was concerned— but 
ta accommodate himself to his new 
condition of life. He sold his com- 
mission in the first place— realising 
its frill value, as ihere were no 
chums upon him— and with the 
sum thus obtained, he was able to 
go into the country and live in a 
quiet way while waiting for happier 



times. His only cons(^tion was 
in the devotion of his wife. Blanche 
did not care at all for their loss of 
the great world, and she made their 
little world perhaps pleasanter than 
it would have been had it been 
(praat She would rather, she con- 
tinually declared— and she was a 
very veracious young lady — be the 
wife of Harry without a sixpence, 
than have accepted Mr. Shomdiffe's 
offer with all its substantial advan- 
tages. And 88 events turned out, 
it appeared that she would have 
been justified, even financially, in 
her choice ; for a commercial crisis 
came, and Mr. Shorncliffe's bank 
broke, and left that gentleman 
considerably worse off than Harry 
himself It was particularly un- 
lucky, toOj that by the brealang of 
the great house of Grampus, Shom- 
oliffe, and Co., Mr. Surbiton lost 
another great slice of his splendid 
fortune. In &ct, he came down 
greatly in the world, and had to 
remove from Hyde Park Qardens 
to the comparative obscurity of 
Netting Hill. This was a great 
source of satisfaction to Mr. Hard- 
castle, who moralised a great deol 
upon his friend's incautious dis- 
position of his money, and claimed 
to have been his benefiu>tor to the 
extent of twenty thousand pounds 
by having saved that sum out of 
the fire. ' It would all have gone,' 
said that disinterested gentleman, 
*if I had left it in his hands; he 
never had a knowledge of business, 
and all the money he made I made 
for him. But human nature is frail, 
and even my old friend Surbiton is 
ungrateful.' 

Mrs. Surbiton still had things her 
own way with her husband. His 
losses, she maintained, were all 
caused by his trusting to those 
commercial people; and, after aU, 
the Donoaster alliance gave them 
dignity even in their reduced cir- 
cuoistances. Her husband did not 
see it; but he had learned the 
wisdom of silence when his wife 
pronounced. Mr. Shomoliffe, it 
should be recorded, was equal to 
the occasion. After casting about 
for a little time, he cast himself into 
the arms of Miss Mankillen, who 
was very much obliged to him, and 



212 



LxghUHeaded 8avereigu$» 



repaired his shattered fortunes with 
her money, of which she had a oon- 
fiiderable amonoi ItmoBtbe said 
for that lady that afae was not merce- 
nary, and had an abstract reveience 
for a man. I have not heard 
whether she makes the prophesied 
use of the mirror and the comb ; 
bat it is certain that Mr. Shomdiffe 
has lost the andaoity which formerly 
distinguished him, and is a sadder, 
if not a wiser man. 

As for Harry and Blanche, they 
Tegetated for a considerable time, 
until expectations began to be reali- 
sations; and, at last, the title and 
(estate— the latter not large but 
sufficient for their dignity — came 
to them, and then they began to 
live again. They were Tcry happy 
throughout their troubles, and are 



yery happy now. They are not 
proud, and they delight in nothing 
more than to talk about their im« 
pecunious .days. Harry, who is an 
hereditary* legislator, is taldng to 
politics, and it will be hard if his 
wife's social influence, and beauty 
combined, do not get him at least 
an under^ecretaryship of state one 
of these days. Meanwhile, they are 
BO contented, that, while carefully 
cutting him off from their acquaint- 
ance, they feel a secret sentiment of 
gratitude towards Mr. Hardcastle ; 
for, after all, they say, it was he who 
brought them together by putting 
the adyertisement into the 'South 
Down Beporter,' and luring Hany 
into the pleasant meshes of matri- 
mony. 

SiDNST L. Blakchabd. 



LIGHT-HEADED SOVEEEIGNS. 



N' 



[OT real kings and queens, em- 
perors and empresses, czars 
and czarinas, sultans and sultanas; 
not wanderers like George of Hano- 
yer, Otho of Greece, Bomba of Na- 
ples, or Isabella of Spain. We do 
not mean these. Our thoughts are 
bent rather towards those metallic 
soyereigns on which the royal coun- 
tenance is simply a baa-rdief, and 
which we reyerenoe with a yery 
peculiar sensitiyeness. The soye- 
reigns here under consideration are 
nearly always light-headed; nay^ 
their lightness affects them all oyer, 
on both surfaces and round the 
edge. William IV. is lighter-headed 
thui Victoria, and still lighter is 
George lY., not through any pecu- 
liarity of mental constitution, but 
on account of a longer career in this 
world; and if we happen to catch 
sight of one of the old guineas which 
our grandfathers paid and receiyed, 
we should find the effigy of George 
III. yery light-headed mdeed. The 
truth is, that all kinds of coin, 
whether of gold, silyer, copper, or 
bronze, are constantly wearing away. 
Hard and durable as it may seem, 
eyeiy coin loses something of its 
weight on eyery occasion of using. 
The old illustration about drops of 
water wearing away a block of gra- 



nite is applicable by analogy here. 
Every tmie we drop a soyereign 
into a purse or a pocket, or ring it 
on a counter, or put it in a iUl, or 
tie it up in a bag; eyerr time that 
it is transposed from one hand to an- 
other (hard or soft), eyeh without 
touching anything else, it loses a 
few of its particles. Small th^ 
may be and unquestionably are, too 
smallandtoofewtobeyisible; but 
still they are yeritable partides. 
Neyer mind if it be only the hun- 
dredth, thousandth, millionth of a 
grain, it tells up in time. 

* Mony UtUei nuk a mickle ' 

in this as in other matters. Eyery 
time of using rube off some of the 
metal ftom eyery coin. Wheroitgoes 
to~' goodness knows.' It must be 
in the air, in the water, on the ground, 
about our persons, on our clothes, in 
rooms and on furniture, in drawers 
and on counters. Nothing (we 
know from the modem teachings of 
science^ is really lost or destroyed ; 
the gold does not cease to be gold 
merely because it is in excessiyely 
minute particles; but certainly it 
ceases to be gold to us. Nobody 
knows eyen what becomes of all the 
pins, the steel pens, the cigar-ends 
which we throw away when done 
with ; and still less do we know the 



lAght'Eeaded Sovereigns, 



218 



fate of thoee monels which resolt 
from friction or rabbiog. 

This wear and tear of a good 
golden sovereign leads to some yery 
cnrioos oalcnlations at the Mint 
We mean a good soyereign, rascali- 
ties of all kinds being snpposed ab- 
sent Professor Jeyons, a learned 
man on these subjects, estimates 
that there are abont eighty million 
soyereigns (including an equivalent 
for half- sovereigns) now circulating 
in the United Kingdom; and other 
authorities have arrived by other 
modes of investigation at a similar 
result. Now these sovereigns wear 
away with singular regularity. Yery 
few of them are hoarded; for nearly 
all classes are now conversant with 
the fact that it is better to invest 
than to hoard, better to have money 
out at interest than idle in a box or 
an old stocking; and thus most 
gold coins go through about an 
equal amount of hard work. A 
sovereign of good sterling gold re- 
mains legally current until it has 
lost three-quarters of a grain in 
weight, after which time it becomes 
^ light,' in which state any one may 
refuse to take it: and so proportion- 
ately of the half-sovereign. Now it 
is found that a sovereign generally 
becomes 'light' in about eighteen 
years, and a half-sovereign in ten 
years : the difference being due to 
the fact that, the surface of a half- 
eovereign is much more than half 
that of a sovereign, and is therefore 
exposed to proportionately harder 
usage. From this we may draw a 
safe kind of conclusion, that if a 
sovereign above eighteen years old 
be proffered to us in payment, we 
should act prudently m testing its 
weight If we now receive one of 
these gold coins that was minted 
before thevear of the Great Exhi- 
bition in Hyde Park, there is more 
than an even chance of its being 
light, however good in quality. 

It comes to uiis, then, that sove- 
reigns ought to be called in, re- 
melted, and recoined every eighteen 
years and halfHSOvereigns every ten 
years. It is supposed that the 
eighty millions sterling of gold com 
are made up of sixty-eight million 
sovereigns and twenty-four million 
half-sovereigns. Taking these pro- 



portions, and taking the two periods 
of time in which the two denomina- 
tions of coin become 'light,' our 
Mint doctors tell us how much re- 
coinage there ought to be annually 
to get rid of the light-weights as 
soon as they become light : the an- 
nual average would be about three 
millions and three-quarters of sove- 
reigns and two millions and a half 
of half-sovereigns. If a sovereign 
is set to work on the ist of January 
it becomes lessened in value by the 
31st of December to the extent of 
one-third of a farthing. A trifle cer- 
tainly; but when we consider that 
nearly all the brother sovereigns are 
working away at the same rate 
durmg the same time, we shall see 
that ULQ aggregate of tnfles assumes 
a form very much like thirty thou- 
sand pounds sterling. This is a 
remarkable instance of unintentional 
and unavoidable vnute. The par- 
ticles of ^Id disappear, no one 
knows whither. In all the ways 
just mentioned the infinitesimally- 
minute morsels make their escape, 
never more (so fieu: as we can see) to 
be re-collected. Doubtless we eat 
gold, drink gold, wear gold, and 
walk upon gold, just in the same 
way as we eat dust, drink dust, 
wear dust, and walk upon dust, and 
through the effect of the same pro- 
cesses of abrasion and disintegra- 
tion. The chief difference is that of 
quantity, and an important difference 
this of course is. 

A very elaborate calculation has 
been made of the expenses imposed 
on the Mint by these processes of 
reooining, pita the actual loss of 
precious metal by the wear and tear 
of every coin. This calculation has 
been made by Mr. Graham, Master 
of the Mint, and Colonel Smith, late 
Master of the Calcutta Mint Of 
course if sovereigns and half-sove- 
reiens will and do wear away, some- 
body or other must bear the loss ; 
and this somebody, in our own 
country, is the state. We might 
make a law to the effect that a sove- 
reign shall continue to be a legal 
tender, a legal representative of 
twenty shillings, however much it 
may be worn away, but we could 
not compel foreign countries to at- 
tend to this law ; great confusion in 



2U 



LigliF^Beaded Sovereigm. 



foreign trade would ensae^ and the 
high financial reputation of Ei^land 
would receive a check. It is con- 
sidered much better for the gOTem- 
ment or the state, as representative 
of the whole nation, to bear the loss. 

A question lately submitted by 
the Chancellor of the Exchequer to 
the two experienced mint-masters 
above named assumed this form: 
' What would it cost, first to manu- 
facture a sovereign, and afterwards 
to keep it in good condition for all 
time?^ Each individual coin has a 
limited existence, and must be with- 
drawn and replaced by a new coin 
of full weight, that again by another 
in due time, and so on. To make 
the coinage self-supporting^ the 
Mint ought to charge a price that 
would cover the first mintage and 
all the subsequent renewals; and 
this price would be a sort of endow- 
ment, which would have to be pro- 
vided, in some way or other, for the 
permanent maintenance of the coin. 
The experience of the English Mint 
tallies ahnost exactly with that of 
the French, that in the large opera- 
tions to which the two establish- 
ments are accustomed, the whole 
cost of coining a sovereign is just 
about one hal^nny. As nmttero 
stand, we as a nation lose that half- 
penny ; we pay it out of the taxes. 
Then there is the loss of metal by 
wear and tear, above adverted to ; 
and then there is a cost of one half- 
penny per sovereign at the end of 
eighteen years for recoinisg the 
piece. These three items have to 
be combined. Some sovereigns quit 
the country never to return ; some 
are lost by wreck, fire, and other 
casualties; some are purposely 
melted down for sx)ecial purposes; 
and it la found that to fill up the 
gaps thus made, as well as to accom- 
modate the ever-enlarging trade of 
tlie country, about four million new 
sovereigns must be made annually. 

Calculations such as actuaries 
only are accustomed to, and which 
have rather a frightful look to other 
folks, lead to this result: that the 
Mint ought to charge thirty-three 
shillings extra for every hundred 
sovereigns supplied, or fourpence 
per sovereign, in order to defray the 
expense (i) of the original coining, 



(j) of re-cdning after intervals of 
eighteen years, and (3) of the con- 
tinuous loss of precious metal by 
wear and tear. Unless we indi- 
vidually pay fourpence per sovereign 
in this way, for all the use and wear 
and tear, we must pay it collectively 
out of the taxes. 

Of course fidlver coins are subject 
to some such rough usage as. those 
of gold, and even more rapidly and 
seriously, on account of their in- 
cessant movement in retail trade. 
Indeed it was to the e£Eiect of wear 
on the silver coinage that the atten- 
tion of the government was in the 
first instance directed. About 
eighty years ago the shillings and 
sixpences were in a condition that 
we can hardly now imagine. Some 
were mere flat discs of silver, with- 
out a vestige of device or pattern 
on either surfooe. Some had been 
maltreated in the most unmerciful 
way— bitten,hanmaered,bent,broken, 
perforated, filed, stoned, black- 
ened—victims of hard work in a 
cruel world. And when the ba- 
lance instead of the eye was applied 
as a test, a significant tale was told. 
The coins were not only h'ght, but 
very light. The Bank authorities, 
knowing that sixty-two new shil- 
lings (of that date) weighed one 
pound troy, were rather staggered 
to find that it required seventy- 
eight of the worn and torn shillings 
to turn the scale. With sixpences 
the case was still worse, for the 
pound weight absorbed a hundred 
and ninety-two instead of a hundred 
and twenty-four; they had actually 
lost more than one-third of their 
substance. And these were not 
picked or selected ; they were a fiiir 
average sample of the coin paid in 
every day at the Bank. The 
crowns and half-crowns were found 
to be relatively less wont. Eleven 
years afterwards— that is, about 
seventy years ago— batches of silver 
coins were again weighed; they 
were still worse than before, seeing 
that it required eighty-three shillings 
to make up a pound ; and as for the 
sixpences, there were now needed 
two hundred and one instead of a 
hundred and ninety-two to weigh 
a pound. Later investigators have 
arrived at these curious results:— 



LigJd^Heaied Sovwtigmk 



215 



that onr silver ooiiui, taken one with 
another, depreciate about a two- 
hundredth part in the coarse of a 
year; wheveasonr gold coins depre- 
ciate a nine-hnndredth part The 
silver wears foor or fire times as 
rapidly as the gold, partly through 
more severe ueage^ partly owing to 
the less durable nature of the metal. 
We shall readily be able to bdieve 
something of this kind ; for many 
of our shillings, and especially our 
sixpences*, have a very queer and 
sbrunken appearance, telling of 
nmoh wearing, toil, and tnmble. 

This matter, of the durability of 
our sovereigns, depends very much 
on the kind of alloy mixed with the 
preoious metal. For, be it known 
to us all, the purest of gold is not 
the hetsi of gold for coins; Mr. Ca- 
vendish, the celebrated philosopher, 
made many experiments on this 
subject at the request of the go- 
vernment He combined gold with 
more than a dozen other metals, 
one or two at a time, and shaped 
the alloys into pieces to represent 
coins. Me then rubbed away for 
weeks together, with the aid of ap- 
paratus devised for the purpose, to 
ascertain which kind of alloy bore 
most bravely this severe ordeal. 
8ome he found too soft ; some too 
brittle; somewere too soon afifected 
by heat; and some badly coloured. 
It was satisfactory to the Mint au- 
thorities to be told by Mr. Gaven- 
dish, as the net result of his ex- 
periments, that the usual standard, 
or sterling, or guinea gold (eleven 
of pure gold to one of silver), is 
better fitted than any other com- 
bination, and better than pure gold 
itself, as the material for gold coins. 
Lest mere rubbing should not imi- 
tate the rattiing and ringing which 
coins undergo on the counter and 
in the till, or not imitate with suffi- 
cient closeness, the acute inquirer 
put his experimental coins into a 
box mounted on an axle, and rotated 
it fifty or a hundred thousand times. 
Such a ' rubbing of shoulden ' was 
seldom before seen; everything 
rubbed a bit off of everything else ; 
but the result supported the same 
conclusion as before— sterling gold 
won the victory. 

About ten years ago, Mr. W. Mil- 



ler, assistant cashier at the Bank of 
England, reported, as the fruit of 
lengthened experience, that sove- 
reigns issued from the Mint in dif- 
ferent reigns, or at different times, 
do not wear equally w^ ; that the 
wearing is more or less according 
to differences in alloy, in the im« 
preesion, or in the temper of the 
metal; that when the impresaian 
is simple;, without many sharp pro- 
minences, the coin wears bettor; 
that a plain rim, with letters round 
it, wean better than a milled edge; 
that if the metal is either more soft 
or less soft than usual, it auffins 
more in wear: and that the first 



coinage of a new reign will, after a 
long period, be found in better con- 
dition than one of two or three years' 
subsequent date, from the &ot o£ 
many coins of the former date being 
hoarded as curiosities. Borne cu- 
rious &cts came out relative to the 
difference between wholesale and 
retail trade, as well as between trade 
in rich and in poor neighbourhoods, 
in the effect upon coins. ' A sove- 
reign passed at the West End of 
London meets with better usage in 
such shops as jewellers' or millinere' 
than it does when rung witii a 
strong arm on the counter of a 
potato salesman, where it would be 
rubbed by the sand. Li commercial 
towns the com becomes light sooner 
than in other places, not only from 
its greater circulation, but in con- 
sequence of the rough usage it un- 
dergoes in being so often thrown 
into bankera' s^es and drawers. 
During a time of great commercial 
activity, as the coin would be used 
more, of course its wear would be 
greater than at other times. It 
is probable that the coin issued 
during the last ten yeara has 
become light more quickly than 
that issued in the preceding ten 
yeara; and it might perhaps be 
found that our coin becomes light 
more rapidly than the coin of other 
countries.' 

The rogues and roughs of this 
naughty world are always more or 
less actively at work in making 
sovereigns light-headed before their 
time. They sweat the coins by 
shakmg them in a bag, therel^ 
rubbing off particles which axe 



ai6 



CodM of Cferemomal. 



good fiir the meltcr. Thej 9plit 
them, take out a thin film of gold, 
fill up with a film of some cheaper 
metal, and doctor up the edgea. 
TheyJUe them, if the state of wear 
enables this to be done without too 
ready chance of detection, and melt 
or sell the filings. They vxuh them 
with certain acids which dissolTe a 
little of the gold, and then obtain 
the gold again from the solution. 
There may be other modes of rob- 
bing the soTereigns of some of their 
predous metal ; but the Mint peo- 
ple do not like to talk much about 
ihem, although they doubtless haye 
suspicions. As to the really bad or 
spurioua coins, made and uttered by 
smashers, we do not adrert to them 
here; all our light-headad sove- 
reigns are suppom to be good in 



quality, by whatever cause th^y 
became light. 

Since the above was written, the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer has 
put forth a scheme for saving the 
thirty thousand a year which the 
state now loses by the coinage. Be 

g eposes that a sovereign shall in 
tuze weigh one grain less tiian at 
present; that the fiank shall receive 
a coin weighing 123*274 grains, in 
exchange for 123*274 grains of bul- 
lion. The value of the one grain 
would cover the expense of coining, 
the expense of recoining after 
eighteen years of wear, and the value 
of the precious metal rubbed off 
duiin^^ that period. The matter is 
submitted for a time to the con- 
sideration of bulUonistB and bankers 
—in order to * do nothing rashly.' 



CODES OF OEBEMONIAL. 



n.^ 



IN our previous paper we en- 
deavoured to show the necessity 
of forms for the proper working and 
conduct of society, and at the same 
time pointed out their variability 
and elasticity, explaining that their 
right application is often a mere 
question of degree. At bottom, the 
sodal forms of all civilised nations 
are based on the grand principle of 
mutual good-will and of doing to 
others as we would that others 
should do to us. There must be a 
reciprocity, both of forbearance and 
of active kindness. The French 
have a proverb, ' Un plaisir en vaut 
au autre,' ' A pleasure conferred de- 
serves another in return;' and in 
popular language, plaisir has a 
wider sense than the mere dictionary 
meaning, stretching so feur as even 
to include a money present When 
once the mutuality basis of all 
politeness is admitted and adopted, 
the rest, as we wrote a twelvemonth 
ago, will ever be a question of degree, 
to be regulated by the sliding scale 
of time and opportunity. Hence, 
cases, anecdotes, and illustrations, 
are better guides to the true spirit 
• See « London Society' for Jal/, 1868, 
pagesi. 



of all ceremonial, than any codes of 
abstract rules. Common sense and 
ready tact can alone prevent people 
from committing blunders and im- 
proprieties. If from the sublime to 
the ridiculous there is only one step, 
who does not feel that there is only 
hfdf a step from civility to afBacta- 
tion, from kindness to &iniliarity, 
from pleasantry to sarcasm, from 
dignity to stif&iess,from unreserved 
to rough behaviour, from cheerful 
fun to boisterousnees? Whoever 
keeps on the right side of the 
boundary, and, by long usage or by 
natural instinct, not only does what 
he ought at the right time and place, 
but absolutely and completely re- 
frains from everything that would 
oomi>romise him, mav fairly claim 
the title of a well-biea person. 

In manners, as in diplomacy, 
excess of zeal is a great mistake; in 
none of its shapes should politeness 
ever be over done. When Francis 
Joseph, emperor and king, visited 
the city of Pesth towards the close 
of 1865, the official world did their 
utmost to give him a flattering re- 
ception. One personage, however, 
contrived to out-do aU the other 
utterers of pleasant sayings. Francis 



Codea ofCkrwwniaL 



217 



Joseph haTing inqtdxed of the 
President of the Medical Society 
what Tvas the sanitary condition of 
Pesth, the intrepid and hyperbolical 
doctor replied, 'Tonr MfQesty's 
presence renden ns so happy that 
not a single indiYidnal is ill/ 
The emperor had the good sense 



to reply, ' i beUeye yon exaggerate 
a little.' 

But set compliments are danger- 
ons things to handla They may be 
offered in all sincerity, and yet have 
a very eaoiyocal sound; as in the 
case of the city knu;ht» unable to 
aapirate the letter H, who, being 
deputed to address Wilham IIL, 
exclaimed, 'Future ^f», recording 
your Majes^s exploits, will pro- 
nounce you to haye been a Nera' 

There are African tribes who re- 
present the Virgin Mary as a black, 
and the Devil as a white. Asimilar 
feeling must have inspired the 
n<)gro% compliment to the great 
emancipator of his race, 'Gora- 
mighfy bless Massa WilberfiDrce! 
He hab a white &oe, but he hab a 
black heart' 

Evan in the highest regions, 
ceremonial has its moments of relax- 
ation. When the iVench Oourt is 
at Oompidgne, the guests eigoy 
great liber^, and are but little 
restricted by etiquette. Every one 
break&sts in their own apartments; 
friends and acquaintances can break- 
fast together, if they lika During 
the day, the gentlemen wear frock 
coats or jackets; the ladies, ordhaaiy 
walking drees. They make excur- 
sions in tiie neig^ibourhood, whither- 
soever it pleases any one to stroll. 
On sporting days, a general rendez- 
vous is appointed. 

In the evening, full dress is in- 
dispensable. The gentlemen in 
knee-breeches or in uniform, and 
the ladies in evening dress, assemble 
for dinner. Then follow cards, jeux 
de salon, drawing-room games, 
music, or theatricid performances. 
Any guest, if his affiftirs require it, 
can run up to Paris in the course of 
the day— M. de Bothschild never 
failed to do so— and retom or not 
for the dinner and the soiree after- 
wards. 

We have seen in print the apho- 
rism, 'All men are equal beftme 



Politeness;' which is certainly a 
great mistake. On the contrary, 
ceremonial politeness recognises 
and regulates the inequality df men 
and women. It gives unto Oeesar 
the things that are Gaosar's, and to 
the underling the things that are 
the underling's. It is as strict as 
Portia in the matter of the pound ot 
flesh; it liorbids the taking a hair's 
breadth more or less than the pound 
written in the bond and due to the 
claimant It metes out its awards 
with an iron rule. This is yonr 
right, and that is yonxs; here is his 
place, and there is theirs. No 
cavil, dierpute, or discossion is poe- 
sible; still less pleading for indul- 
gence and fiivonr. Can a com- 
moner take precedence of a duke? 
Oan the difference b^ween an eari 
and a viscount be ignored? 

The marriage of the Prmcess 
Alexandrine of Prossia, in 1865, was 
the occasion of raising an important 
point of etiquette, beautifkilly 
illnstratingtheinequalifyeBtablished 
by ceremonial amcngst the sons and 
daughters of Adam and Eve. The 
ambassadors of France and England 
demanded seats at the royal table, 
where the crowned beads were to 
sit This honour could not possibly 
be granted. Why? Because the 
crowned heads refused to admit 
them to their company ? Not a bit 
of it The sole and stringent reason 
for their exclusion was, that the 
gennals who enjoyed the privilege 
of setting the soup and the boiled 
beef on the royal table, altfaongh 
willing to serve sovereigns, refiised 
to serve ambassadors. Neither 
would they waive their right to 
set the said beef and soup before 
the royal diners. How, then, was 
it morally possible to grant the 
request of the ambassadors? It is 
easier to climb the Himalayas, to 
traverse the desert on foot, to swim 
across the AUantic, than to break 
through the inolosures of courtly 
etiauette. 

A for truer maxim is that * Small 
presents help to mamtain friend- 
ship.' Who of us is not pleased 
with a tasty little present, grace- 
fully offered on a timely occasion? 
Everybody likes liberality in others, 
however rarely he may practise it 



218 



Codm of CeremomUL 



bimself It is the aooeptad exmae 
for prodigalfly and him softened 
many an insolvent's fail. An awk- 
-watd and a nangh^ faet is, thai 
people who ave generona before 
tiiey are jost^ aie more'poimlar than 
those who an jnst before they axe 
geneiOQS. A yonthfill spendthrift 
may find many to plesd for him, a 
y onthfol miser will not have a friend. 
Between friends and eqnals, it is 
a rale thai presents . should be of 
trifling value; when such is not 
the case, it should be the workman- 
ship rather than the material which 
renders them valuable. To su* 
periors, only one kind of gifts are 
admitted as allowable and aooept- 
able; namely, choice provisicms, 
fruit, flowers, garden produce in 
general, local curioeities and spe- 
cimens, birds or animals, living or 
dead, &c. &a And yet through 
this rule, as through many an Act 
of Parliament, a coaoh and four has 
often been driven. For instance, 
vrhea a wealthy nobleman did not 
dare to offer a young princess a 
diamond necklace which she wished 
for as a birthday present, he has 
got out of the diificulty by sending 
her a doll wearing the forbidden 
bat desiderated necklace. Dolls, 
exactly the size of the young ladies 
for whom they were intended, have 
also been the innoo^t conveyancers 
of accurately-fitting silk dresses, 
high-priced furs, vdvet cloaks and 
mantles, elaborate lace robes and 
skirts, and other costly articles of 
dress, which cirounutances and so- 
cial barriers prevented the giver 
from la^ying directly at the reci- 
pient's &ir feet. 

Even admitting the small gift to 
be a sprat thrown out to catch a 
mackerel, or, as our French friends 
phrase it, ' un pcHS donn6 pour avoir 
one f^ve,' a pea given, to get a 
broad bean in return— never mind 
that Accept the sprat and repay 
it with a mackerel. It is more 
blessed to give than to receive. 
Bat the gift comes from an in- 
terested motive. Well, what of 
that? Are your own actions al- 
ways and altogether purely dis- 
interested, especially in the case 
of anything likely to procure 'you 
the favour of others? It is wiser 



to tske it as fiiiiaring to your dig- 
nity, a proof of your importance, a 
tribute to your adf^steem, a plain 
admiBsym that you are somebody 
worth conciliating by a little tronUe 
and a trifling outiay. Votive sprats 
laid upon your altar need remind 
you of nothing more unpleasant 
than thai you are possessed of 
mackerel which other people woold 
be very glad to have. Bemember 
that it is better to be envied than 
pitied, and graoioasly receive any 
small-fry homage thsi may be of- 
fered by yotir less wealthy or less 
inflnAfitiMi acquaintances. 

Moreover, there are times (as in 
cases of sickness, or loss, or tem- 
poraiT deprivation of any acoos- 
tomed object) when small presents 
become doubly seasenabie and ac- 
ceptable. And a small present thai 
is at once serviceable and orna- 
mental, fre^ neatly in sights and 
repeatedly m use, is especially 
both a judicious thing to give and 
an agreeable thing to receive. Its 
daily presence recalls the giver to 
mind, and its daily utility causes 
him ,to be gratefully remembered. 
Such a thing acts much more eflfoe- 
tnally as a token and a souvenir 
than a trinket or knick-nadc of 
greater costliness, which is used 
or perhaps only looked at twice or 
thrice in the course of a year, and 
stowed awa^ safe out of sight in its 
drawer or jewel-oaso for the rest of 
the twelvemonth. We have only to 
consult our own proper feelings, and 
recall our own private experience, 
to admit the trutii of this remark. 

In all barely or semi-civilized 
countries, presents are a claim, an 
observance exacted by the great 
from the small, by the patron from 
the client, by the resident from the 
straoger. In the East, they are an 
indispensable formula of manifest- 
ing ooedience, respect, or affection. 
In everv land, small presents are 
admitted to be an approved means 
of manifesting and maintaining 
friendship. A word in season, 
how good it is! And so is a flower 
or a fruit in season, or a fish or a 
fowl, wild or tame. 

Our late friends, or opponents, 
the Abyssinians, are very fond of 
having presents made to them. 



Codes x>f. Carmnonidl. 



219 



Tbey also oonsider that custom as 
the best way of keeping up fiiend- 
ships. In Turkey or in Egypt, the 
first time you enter a house, it is 
customary to seeure your welcome 
by making presents to the domes- 
tics. In Abyssinia^ on the contrary, 
neglecting the serrants, you must 
lose no time in hiying your offering 
before the master. If he accepts it, 
after consulting his friends, he is 
obliged either to render you eyery 
service in his power, or to return 
you a present thrice the value of 
yours. Between equals, it is a com- 
pact of friendship— a treaty of al- 
liance, defensiTe and offensive, on 
all oceasionSh In short, although 
an Abyssinian may bestow alms in 
charity, he cannot make a present 
without conditions of receiviog its 
equivalent in some shape or other. 
This custom gives rise to ludi- 
crous inddenta* Often, at a meet- 
ing between two near friends, they 
will remind each other (enumerat- 
ing them) of all the services that 
hafve been mntoally rendered — 
doubtless, to keep gratitude from 
growing cold, ^e sensible part 
of the population have a saying 
that Providence gave us a tongue, 
to ask with. Amongst the Chokes, 
the custom of begging, always and 
everywhere, is so deeply-rooted, 
that seyeral of their chiefs have 
insisted on being buried with their 
outstretched hand above the earth, 
in order not to lose the pleasant 
habit, even after death. 

In some countries, gifts come due, 
like rents and bills, at certain sea- 
sons. In France, there is the uni- 
venal new year's gift tax, perplex- 
ing people's wits to make a choice, 
and often pressing hard upon Uieir 
pockets. Easter eggs are less un- 
aToidable; they, however, should 
contain some surprisa Their value 
rauges from the merest trifle, through 
costly trinkets, up to the inestimable 
and the priceless. 

Throughout the whole of a recent 
Passion week, a lovely and not- 
unprotected creature was discon- 
solate, because her dearest friend- 
she had no husband — was mean 
enough to refuse her a charming 
carriage, brilliant harness^ and per- 
fect pair of cream-coloured horses. 



on which she had set her feminine 
mind. ' Ce que Femme vent, Dieu 
veut' Sympathy blunts the edge 
of sorrow. So she confided her 
gnefs to a friend of her friend. 
Whether they mingled their tears, 
we know not But the consequence 
was that he sent her, in an Easter 
egg, the means of procuring the equi- 
page in question. It was an extrava- 
gant but not an extraordinary egg. 

The lady, not to be ont-done, 
contrived a monster egg some five 
feet long and three feet deep. 
When finished, it was taken to her 
friend's apartments, like a sedan 
cbair, by a couple of porters, cmly 
reclining on its side. He eagerly 
opened it, and discovered-*-not a 
magnificent Newfoundland dog 
with a jewelled collar, nor a Lilli- 
putian tiger to. ride behind his cab, 
but — , sweetly sleeping on a bed 
of roses, the lady's pretty, precious, 
and pretentious self! 

A code now lying before us di- 
rects, 'Whatever the object pre- 
sentod to you— even a copy of the 
Budget or one of Tom Noodle's 
tragedies— manifest your great sa- 
tia&ction at receiving it Let your 
thanks be warm and not forced or 
afEected.' This is equivalent to our 
homely saying, ' Never look a g^t- 
horse in the mouth ;' about which 
a good deal may be said. 'Never 
lode a gifb-horse in the mouth,' 
may be taken to mean that ai^ 
horse, even a Bosinante, gratis, is 
betttf than no horse at all, and is 
therefore to be accepted without 
any fault-finding. Otherwise, no 
one observes the rule; everybody 
does look gift-horses in the mouth. 
Givers, therefore, do well to take 
care that the horse's mouth will 
bear'inspection. 

< The turkey Smith has sent us 
this Christmas, looks smaller than 
usual.' 

' Last year's Stilton was decidedly 
superior to this year's.' 

'I wish Cousin Blanco would 
send his salmon earlier in the sea- 
son, instead of waiting till August, 
when it will neither travel nor 
keep. To be sure, it is at its 
cheapest now; but I would wUl- 
ingly pay the difference out of my 
own pocket.' 



220 



Code$ of Ceremomal. 



* Of ooorse I cannot mention it; 
bnt Unole Brown has been nicely 
taken in. I am anre he wonld 
never give me, if he knew it, a 
chain that was only gilt' 

There are few people who cannot 
remember to have heard^ or nttered, 
observations similar in slyle and 
tone to the abova 

^Sirl sir!* shouted an indignant 
beggar-boy. 'You haTe given me 
a bad shilling instead of a half- 
penny.' 

'Have T, really T exclaimed the 
hypocritical almsgiver, feigning par- 
tial deaftiess. * Well, well ; never 
mind for once. Ton may keep it, 
this time, as a reward for yonr 
honesty.' 

' And what are yon going to give 
me to-day?' a flighty beanty in- 
quired of a memb^ of the French 
Jockey Club. 

The l(mquet%kre,Gt flower-girl, at- 
tached to the Society, happened 
fortunately to be close by m at- 
tendance. The gentleman selected 
a single rose, the choicest in the 
whole collection, and offered it to 
the importunate fair one. 

'Only that?' she pouted, her 
ideas probably running on more 
durable though equally portable 
property. 'Only that? A thing 
that costs you five or six francs, 
perhaps.' 

' I beg your pardon, it costs two 
hundred.' And he immediately 
handed to the official flower-seller 
ten golden napoleons as the price 
of her specimen. 

It was the sharpest-thomed as 
well as the dearest rose which the 
lady had ever received in the whole 
course of her butterfly existence. 

From all which we ^ther, that, 
not to look gift-horses m the mouth 
requires a degree of forbearance too 
great to expect of ordinary human 
nature. 

It is allowable for people of 
wealth and rank to season their 
liberalities with a little fun. An 
honest, hard-working countryman, 
who had bought his winter stock of 
firewood in tbe Comte de Colom- 
bert's forest, came to the ch&teau to 
pay for it 

'Mon Bleu I' said the Comte, 
*' what an ugly fellow yon are!' 



* C'est parfaitement vrai. I know 
I am ugly. Monsieur le Comte ; but 
there are other men uglier than 
lam.' 

' I don't believe ii' 

'Sifikit! Si fiut! Tes, yes. It 
is the fiict.' 

' Eh bienl If you bring me an 
uglier fellow than yourself, you 
shall have your lot of firewood for 
nothing.' 

The man departed in high glee, 
because he knew precisely wnere to 
lay his hand on this rare pearl of 
boiuty. Finding him at home; he 
thus gaye tongue : 

' Bon jour, mon anu. The Comte 
wants to speak to you on important 
business. Dress yourself at once, 
and come along with me.' 

' I wonder what he can want me for 
—doubtless something to my advan- 
tage. Aliens! I am at your service.' 

' Of course you are. The Comte 
is impatient to see you.' 

On the arrival of the pair— Ar- 
cades amho, beautieB, but not as 
Byron translates, blackguards both, 
the Comte admowledged himself 
fairly beaten. 

' Yonareright,MasterBelhomme,' 
he said. 'Your friends uglier than 
you. So here is the receipt in full 
for your firewood. But to keep him 
in countenance, and ready to serve 
you on the next occasion, I advise 
you to present him with a couple of 
^us.'* 

The presents which ladies may 
make to gentlemen much depend 
upon circumstances. As a general 
rule, and amongst equals, they 
should never offer anything but 
trifles whose value consists in their 
being the donor's handiwork. And 
on whatever terms of intimacy, or 
even relationship, yon may be with 
them, it often tasks all your inge- 
nuity to find somethinj^ to give them 
in return. Great ladies may claim 
tbe masculine privilege of making 
auy presents they please; but it is 
not always safe to assume the right 
to a reciprocal liberl^. A French 
lieutenant in the navy had been re- 
ceived with great favour by the ex- 
queen of Greec& Being a handsome 
young fellow and vain in proper- 
'* * The old ^a was three ftiincs : six 
francs, therefore, or five shillings in all. 



Ood^ of (kremonidl. 



221 



tion, he interpreted it in a way for 
which there were no real grounds. 
So happening to fall in with eome 
exquisitely heantiful apples, he 
bought a hundred, and sent them 
to the queen with a note. 
'Majesty, 

* Paris presented Venus with an 
apple, because she was the most 
beautiful of all the goddesses. Tou 
are a hundred times handsomer than 
Venus, I therefore send you a hun- 
dred apples,' &C., &C. 

The queen complained to the 
French minister of the imperti- 
nence, and the gay young lieutenant 
was removed firom the stotian. Ne- 
vertheless, very shortly afterwards, 
his government appointed him to the 
command of a frigate. 

From giving to withholding, the 
literary transition is eanr. Either 
lavishness or stinginess, habitually 
practised by nations, must ccMisider- 
ably influence their code of manners. 
Did you ever, gentle reader, remark 
the difference of the moral point of 
viewfrom which the great body of 
the French and English nations 
respectively philosophise on life in 
general ? We have often meditated, 
in refiarence to that diversity in the 
national character, a lucubration to 
be entitled 'The Two Qods: Re- 
spectability and Avarice.' The Eng- 
lish are given to worship a faxt out- 
side^* appearances well kept up; 
admission to certain coteries, the 
more exclusive the better to their 
liking. Consequently they dread 
the slightest breath that may 
threaten to tarnish either their pri- 
vate or their commercial reputa- 
tion ; &<i., &C. On the other hand, 
the French, taken as a body of men, 
are inclined to fall down before the 
golden calf; court solid wealth, for 
its own sake rather than for the 
consideration it brings ; and have a 
great propensity to secret hoarding 
combined with a parsimonious style 
of living. When they do indulge in 
extravagant expenditure, it is rather 
the outbreak of reckless young 
spendthrifts, and the indulgence of 
strong sensual passion, than a deli- 
berate course of action employed in 
the hope of maintaining a preca- 
rious position, of hiding empty 
packets, or tiding over insolvent 



business concerns. Hence difierent 
temptations and different motives, 
leading to different errors and 
crimes, when the leading passion or 
stringent circumstance acquires un- 
due i>ower over the individual, and 
evolving different dramas of equal 
interest, but unlike in their course 
and their 8|)rings of action. Hence 
also the difference of the social 
codes, according as respectability or 
avarice is the ruling influence. 

In all nations, misers are to be 
found; and the appearance here 
and there of a few such characters 
is no piroof of widenspread orgeneral 
penuriousness. But when a nation 
accuses itself, when everybody tells 
tales of his neighbours avarice, 
theie must be reasonable grounds 
for believing in the prevalence of 
that 'good old-gentlemanly vice.' 
The newspapers abound with anec- 
dotes in confirmation of the fiict 
Local newspapers fling at one 
another stones of stupid self-denial 
in the midst of abundant means, or 
of penny-wise-and- pound -foolish- 
ishness. The two mllowing traits 
of avarice axe ascribed to a parish 
near Valenciennes. We gather them 
from a whole parterre of flowers of 
stinginess which lies before us, to 
pick and choose. 

Madame X , living in a rickety 

old house,had the imprudence to trust 
a little boy with a five- franc piece ; not 
to play with— it was too precious, 
almost too sacred a thing for that — 
but to admire, and perhaps say his 
prayers to, as he would to the pic- 
ture of his patron saini The care- 
less, wicked child* regardless of his 
trust, let the heavy silver coin fall 
and disappear behmd the planks of 
a dilapidated staircase. Great was 
the consternation of the feunily. 
Though flu: from being indigent or 
even straitened, their nerves could 
not stand such a shock as thai They 
tried to take the staircase to pieces, 
but the well-seasoned oak resisted 
their efforts. They sent for a mason; 
he warned them to think twice be- 
fore they pulled an old house about 
their ears, for the sake of five francs. 
He might as well have talked to the 
winds ; they thought of nothing but 
recovering the five-franc piece. A 
large bit of wall was soon in ruins; 



222 



Oode$ of Oermmmidl. 



the staircase itself was taken down 
— and nothing fonnd. The coin had 
probably Tolled into a mouse-hole. 
Everybody set to work like mad, to 
assist the mason in his search. 
Fayements were broken np, excava- 
tions made in the floor, and the 
whole house filled with earth and 
rubbish. On halting for breath, 
they took fright at the spectacle, and 
began to think it might be time to 
stop and leave the lost money where 
it was. In the hope of recoverisg a 
four-shilling piece, they had com- 
mitted damage to the amount of 
more than five pounds. 

Another thnfty dame, Madame 

Z , allowed her aged father to 

reside under her roof. One day the 
old gentleman complained of indis- 
position. They went to the doctor's, 
and bought him some medicine ; but 
it turned out so nauseous that the 
patient refused to take it, saying 
that he preferred the disease to the 
remedy. Nevertheless, it was quite 
out of the question to waste physic 
that had cost hard cash. I^^ame 

Z , after making that reflection, 

soon solved the difficulty. Although 
in the enjoyment of perfect health, 
she took the potion irom the old 
man's hand, and swallowed it with 
a courage worthy of Socrates. And 
here the story ought to end ; but it 
was reported in &e neighbourhood 
that the lady's measure did not turn 
out altogether so fruitless as the 
search after the five-frano piece 
above related. 

Kot less heartily welcomed are 
stories recording how people have 
overreached themselves ; how young 
men, marrying ugly and incapable 
women for the sake of their dowry, 
have missed the money and been 
saddled with the wife ; how exorbi- 
tant claims have been resisted; how 
greedy and skin-flint tradesmen or 
innkeepers have been paid off witii 
' tit-for-tai' Thus:— 

A few days since, a traveller 
arrived by railway at a locality not 
fox from the Belgian frontier, and 
went to a hotel which we refrain 
from naming. Dinner being ready, 
and his appetite keen, he took his 
place forthwith at the table d'hdte, 
depositing his carpet-bag on the 
chair beside him. Next day, on call- 



ing for bis bill, he was surprised to 
find in it * IHnner for two,' His 
complaint was met by the observa- 
tion, that, as his carpet-bag had 
occupied the place of a guest, he 
was bound to bear the innkeeper's 
loss. Very well ; be it so. He paid 
the bill without further remark, and 
went about his affairs in Belgium. 

A few days afterwards he returned 
to the same town and went to the 
same hotel Untanght by his pre- 
vious lesson, he would not part with 
his inseparable carpet-bag, but 
again placed it on the chair beside 
him. This time, however, it was 
open-mouthed; and of evezy dish 
that was offered to its master, the 
carpet-bag received its share— now 
the wing of a duck, then a bit of 
beef, and then a dainty slice of ham. 
The guests wondered, but said no- 
thing; the innkeeper at last did 
venture to remonstrate. ' Sir,' said 
the traveller, ' the last time I was 
here, I paid for my carpetrbag's 
dinner, although it ate nothing. 
But if its appetite is improved to- 
day, you cannot reasonably com- 
plain of my indulging it' 

The traveller, having the laughers 
on his side, got ample revenge for 
the previous extortion. 

It is difficult to say, according to 
some people's noticms, what may not 
be put into a bill. 

' You have killed the waiter,* said 
a restaurant-keeper to an English- 
man, ' because he brought you soup 
with a hair in it' 

' Put him into the bill, then,' was 
the reply. 

A lady, possessed of a rather 
scanty wardrobe, and therefore hard 
pressed for time by the receipt of 
an unexpected invitation, went to 
order a aress for an imminent ball. 
It was requisite that the delicate 
and much-discussed article should 
be ready in four-and- twenty hours. 
The dressmaker, overwhelmed with 
orders, hesitated to undertake the 
herculean task. But the dross, as 
may be supposed, was indispensable 
for the occasion. The day after the 
ball it would be useless. 

'Since you cannot make me a 
formal promise,' observed the lady, 
' I am very sorry, but for this once 
I must go to another dressmaker.' 



Ck)de8 of Oeremonial. 



223 



The artiste's eyes flashed with in- 
dignation. Nevertheless she con- 
trolled herself, observing, in a tone 
only a little less amiable than 
Bsnal— 

' I hardly know, in trath, whether 
madame can permit herself to go 
elsewhere— for, after all ' 

•After all? ' 

' Now that I have given madame 
my ideas ' 

' Good,' said the lady, leaving the 
room in a pet. * Ton will send me 
the Mil for yonr ideas.' 

As may be iinagined, great peea- 
niary prudence is manifested in con- 
tracting holy wedlock. Matrimonial 
agencies are as publicly recogDised, 
though not quite so numerous, as 
register-offices for servants. In a 
country where there is no divorce, 
husbands and wives cannot change 
their places quite so frequently as 
valets, cooks, And femmes de ohambre. 
It is only fur, however, to state 
that the bargaining, which precedes 
abnost all fVench matehes, is less 
the work of the young people them- 
selves than the result of the im- 
mense power possessed by parente 
and near relations to check, retard, 
and eventually prevent imprudent 
or undesirable marriages. 

•You are dull this morning, 
nephew. What is the matter witii 
you ? But I suppose you are think- 
ing about Sophie and the water- 
mill?' 

' No, indeed, uncle, I am not' 

• Ah, I see 1 You mean to take 
the fjumand Flore. Well; there is 
no objection to that' 

' Yes, uncle, indeed there is.' 

• You prefer some other kind of 
property. Nevertheless, you might 
do worse. Farms are ea^, and so 
are watermills.' 

' The truth is, uncle, I have £eJlen 
in love with Rose.' 

'Bose who? Itose Lefebvre? 
and pray what has she got?' 

' Nothing.' 

'Nothing! Fallen in love with 
nothing! You are a greater fool 
than I took you to be.' 

The following is guaranteed as 
genuine. 

Lately, two &milie8 of small 
farmers met in the 'study' of a 
notary, in the neighbourhood of 



Orleans, to draw up the marriage 
contract between the son of the one 
and the daughter of the other. All 
went right, till. the. cash was dis- 



' How much do yon mean to give 
your son down ?* asked the young 
lady's &ther. 

'Fifty francs (two pounds) was 
the stingy answer. 

'Oh, no! that's not enough. 
You'll surely go as Jeu&«8 a hundred 
francs.' 

'No; fifky fieancs,andiiot a oen- 
timemore.' 

' Very well. In that case, I shall 
take my pigs to a better market' 

He was as good as his word, and 
led the girl away ; nor is there at 
present any likelihood that the 
young people will ever come toge- 
ther again. 

Still, there are persons perfectly 
capable of bargaining on their own 
account Witness ihe fr^uent ma- 
trimonial adTertisemente, which are 
serious bnsiDess affiurs, and not 
mere hoaxes,; as a stranger at first 
sight might suspect. The following 
appeared both in the * Constitution- 
nel ' and the ' Opinion Nationale ' : — 

' Somebody wishes (on desire) to 
marry an aged person, either an old 
maid or a widow, possessed of pro- 
perty. Write, poet-paid, to A. Z. 4, 
Poste-restante, raris.' 

As we are on the subject of mar- 
riage, we will conclude with a few 
maxims from another French ' Code,' 
now lying before us : — 

'Keep your marriage projeote 
secret till the very moment when 
you appear before the mayor (to 
celebrate the civil marriage, which 
precedes the religious marriage). 
It is the only way to prevent gossip. 

' Invited to a wedding feast, con- 
duct yourself with the same de- 
corum as you would at any ordinary 
repast 

*■ If you Bing broad comic songs, 
or make equivocal jokes, or address 
the bride in double meanings, or 
make crude observations on her 
change of condition, yon are a 
coarse fellow and a vulgar per- 
sonage. A well-bred man would 
carefully refrain from the slightest 
indelicate allusion to the subject 

' If there is a ball after the dinner. 



221 Dark or Fair. 

the bride shonld open it with the letam the call within a week, at 

most honourable man in the oom- the very latest 

pany, oi with her hnsband. ' There are mothers who will not 

' The guests ought not to seem take their young unmarried daugh- 

to be aware of the bride's depar- ten to the play, and yet allow them 

ture, when she retires. to go to a wedding. What incon- 

' A single young lady ought never sistency ! 

to be present at the putting of a ' Weddings are the poor man's 

bride to bed. ruin, and the triumph of the rich 

' The new-married couple ought man's vanity. Sensible people do 

to call on their relations and the not make a noce, i.e,, erpensive and 

wedding guests within a fortnight riotous wedding feasts and rejoic- 

after their marriage. Other friends ings ; and if the fiishion were more 

and acquaintances receive letters of widely spread, decency and modesty 

/aire part. The wedding guests would be tiie gainers by it' 

E. S. D. 



DABE OB FAIB. 



(Illustrated.) 

MAIDEN fair 
With the golden hair- 
Sweet Brunette 
With the locks of iet, 
As you roam side by side 
On the marge of the tide, 
I know not on which my heart I should set 

The hazel orb 

Will the heart absorb. 
And the eye of blue 
Is tender and true: 

But when both are together 

This sunshiny weather, 
Their powers combined most our peace undo. 

Beautiful pair, 

Our bosoms spare ! 
The moon and the sun 
Shine never as one. 

And why should you two 

Both rise on our view 
When either alone had our worship won? 

From crown unto feet 

In beauty complete, 
Like the Night and the Day 
Together yon stray, 

Past the pier and the shipping 

So daintily tripping 
In your pretty, bewitching, unconscious way I 

The maiden fair 

Would I gladly declare 
My darling— and yet 
There's the dark-eyed Brunette I \ 

And I vow on my word \ 

To say which I preferred ^ 

Is a question with terrible doubt beset 



f 
I 



In a Ken'Uh Jfeadow. 



225 



What shall I do 

To decide 'twizt the two ? 
So beaatifal both 
That to choose I am loth. 

And which was the fairest. 

The sweetest and rarest 
I could not declare, were I pat on my oath I 

If I yentured to toss 

It would end in my loss, 
Since if ' woman' I cried 
There'd be one on each side : — 

Here Britannia is seen — 

And there our loved Queen. 1 
So on no coign of Vantage 'twould proTO I relied ! 

Brunette and fair maid 

like Sunshine and Shade — 
Each in her sphere 
Is the loveliest here. 

And J own Fm as fond 

Of Brunette and of Blonde. 
A shockiDg confession I very much fear. 



IN A KENTISH MEADOW. 
9 Vittxai^ttt. 



T 



rs there no advance on fifteen 
hundred? At fifteen hundred, 
going ;'— a pause, and the hammer 
&lls — a Hkely-looking colt by 
Stockwell, the pick of Middle Park, 
being knocked down to a tall com- 
moner who sits on the box of a drag 
near the off-side of the circle. No 
ordinary sale is this of carriage nags 
or hacks ; and though some of the 
lots may in time descend to ' plating,' 
we have before us the stuff of which 
Derby and Oaks winners are made. 
It is a blazing Saturday in the 
height of the season ; fully a thou- 
sand purchasers and spectators are 
on the ground ; and over fifty ' traps ' 
of various kinds form a ring round 
the rostrum of our most noted auc- 
tioneer. He is tall and of comely 
exterior, and but for the emblem 
of office wielded by his well-gloved 
right hand, might be chosen at 
hazard for one of patrician extrac- 
tion. A century has elapsed since 
the establishment so long known as 
the 'Comer' first became famous, 
and it has passed from father to son 
and to grandson and great-grandson 
till we come to its present presiding 
genius who stands before us. 

VOL. XVI. — NO. xcin. 



Throughout their career the family 
have borne an untainted name, and 
their character for straightforward- 
ness has ever insured the respect of 
all with whom they have had deal- 
ings. Bight and left of him sit 
representatives of the press to the 
number of a dozen or so. The 
stout, farmer-liko looking man near- 
est the auctioneer furnishes infor- 
mation to a rising sporting journal 
hardly yet three years old, but 
already possessing a reputation for 
the excellence of its reports and the 
soundness of its ideas on all matters 
connected with sport. He is pro- 
bably one of the best judges of a 
horse on the ground, and relies on 
breeding, make, shape, and public 
form when offering opinions on 
xsoming events rather than on the 
uncertain movements of the market 
The < sage of Carshalton/ too, occu- 
pies a prominent position, and ex< 
presses his notions in somewhat 
pronounced terms, similar, in fact, 
to those we may find on reference 
to bis highly-spiced and amusing 
paper. Near him sits a tall grey 
man of military appearance, but 
evidently padded and dyed. The 
Q 



226 



In a Kentish Meadow, 



'Thunderer' retaiiui his seryioes, 
and, as becomes his station, beholds 
bimiself the merest shade aJoof ftom 
the rest of his brethren, thongh 
affable and oonrteons'when replying 
to an inqniry or seeking informa- 
tion. On the left stand a conple of 
gentlemen belonging to the staff of 
yunquam dormio, the hand of one 
of whom may be found in the pro- 
phetic article, whilst the other smgs 
sweetly nnder the shade of an 
'Orange Blossom.' His pen is ever 
ready, his rhymes never lack point, 
and are scholarly withaL A little 
distance off, conversing with a well- 
known jockey on the points of the 
colt jost purchased, we espy the 
fiery correspondent of 'Jupiter ju- 
nior.' He IS here for a sort of holi- 
day after the labours of the week, 
and mayhap to pick np the latest 
gossip or scandal, which we shall 
read, dressed with a sauce piquante, 
in Monday's issue. There, too, re- 
clining on the wheel of a barouche, 
is the ' Man about Town,' and not 
far away, talking to a foreign agent, 
commissioned by his government to 
reside in this oounti^ with a view 
to the purchase of some of our best 
' crossing strains,' loiters the ' Gen- 
tleman in Black,' whose lucubrations 
find space in the pages of ' Baily.' 

Wo next come upon a group of 
more interest to racing men, and 
perhaps also to general visitors. 
They are lounging in various posi- 
tions about a waggonette, and, 
having already purchased two or 
three Sdrviceable-Iookisg lots, seem 
to be turning their minds to the 
champagne -cup just handed to 
them by the main spring of the 
most famous breeding establishment 
in the world. The Earl of Open- 
hand it is who has raised his hat to 
Lady Limmer, and with an approved 
bow offers her the tankard. Above 
all others he is liked by his ' set' 
Of a kindly, chivalrous nature, 
backed up by good looks and a 
handsome inheritance, he is the 
fascination of the women, while the 
men are happy who can lock an 
arm in his and stroll with him along 
Pall Mall, for they are in the com- 
pany of a daring soldier, a first-rate 
horseman, an extensive owner of 
blood stock, and perhaps one of the 



most agreeable and well-dressed 
fellows of the day. He was formerly 
in the Guards; then volunteering 
for the Crimea, he took his turn at 
trench-work and in the field, re- 
turning loaded with honours and 
bearing a high name for valour and 
fearleasness. Succeeding, however, 
to an earldom, he plunged headlong 
into the wildest dissipations of Lon- 
don life and the extravagances of the 
Tart Gradually the harpies gathered 
their nets around him, and although 
for a time he eluded and bafiSed 
them, his strategy vras but that of 
one against many, and to-day he 
too surely finds himself a long way 
down the road towards that end 
which must bring with it ruin and 
desolation. Still he bears himself 
as of old and recklessly awaits his 
fate. On his right leans over a 
Yorkshire baronet, relating an ad- 
venture to a well-known member of 
the Gun Club. Both are prosperous, 
well-to-do men. Sir G. Tumbull 
has seen much service, and was one 
of the ' six hundred' who immor- 
talised themselves by their despe- 
rate ride for the gun& Taken pri- 
soner by the Cossacks, he might 
have met a hard fate had not good 
luck and his own strong arm be- 
friended him. Left for an instant 
with a couple of guards, he seized 
upon a sword and cut them both 
down ; then catching a stray horse 
succeeded, after half a score of hair- 
breadth escapes, in rejoining the few 
of his regiment who were left at the 
close of that disastrous day. He, 
too, returned to England to hear of 
the death of his faUier, and after a 
night of 'wrist -shaking' in St 
James's Street that involved years 
of care to make up his income, de- 
voted himself to farming and to fol- 
lowing a pack of hounds, of which, 
later on, owing to a sad accident 
which befel their master, he was 
requested to assume the direction 
and control. His hearer is Sir C. 
Begaud, a crack shot and a heavy 
speculator, with a talent for horse- 
racing such as few men, except 
those who live by their wits, possess. 
He has owned not a few famous 
animals already, and though the 
down on his chin is hardly rooted, 
his finesse has received commenda- 



In a KetUiah Meadtw, 



227 



tion ttom ezperienoed hftnds, and 
he is spoken of at the clubs as a 
shrewd promising ' lad.' 

Not far oE, in solemn oonclaTS, 
are 'the confederacy/ both com- 
moners, who pulled off the Derby 
and a 66 to I chance not many years 
ago. The ciyUian already noticed 
as the buyer of a colt will shortly 
make his Toice heard in the lower 
house, and will gradually withdraw 
from the Turf; but 'the Captain' 
still continues to run his horses and 
to hit the ' ring' some hard knocks, 
having a tremendously large stud 
under his control. 

Near to the pair reclines the pale, 
worn-looking Marquis of Harold. 
More than loo^oooZ. passed from his 
possession over Hermit's Derby, and 
still he gambles on and cares little 
what may come. Never a rich man, 
he was always discontented unless 
he could bet On a 50^. plate, with 
three or four runners, he would 
think nothing of backing his fancy 
to win 10,000^., and it is reckoned 
by his commissioners, and the few 
turfites with whom he did business 
on so extensive a scale, that during 
his brief racing career he won up- 
wards of three millions of money. 
His losses, of course, must have been 
similarly enormous, but it is sup- 
posed that the expenses of a costly 
stud, seldom fewer than sixty ani- 
mals, of town and country houses, 
and of entertainments, combined 
with a weakness for deep play, led 
to his early poverty, lathor than the 
amount paited with on the Turf. 
His tnmfnctions were never limited, 
and even hampered as he eventually 
found himself, he could not refrain 
from laying or taking the odds until 
that disastrous back end of the year 
came when, fidling to meet a large 
engagement he found himself pre- 
vented temporarily from seeing his 
own horses run. This was a severe 
blow, and probably hastened to some 
extent the end which was so fast 
approaching. Later a compromise 
was effected, and he again ' assisted' 
at Newmarket But the pluck for 
which he had been so celebrated 
a year Ibefore was gone; the voice 
which had so often shot 'a fielder 
and mulct him of a large stake was 
silent; the marquis's 'day had 



IMiSsed. One betting man, out of 
piure compassion, begged of him to 
back his fancy for a few hxmdreds, 
adding, 'Fay ^hen you like, you 
know, my lord.' The offer vras 
kindly meant, no doubt, but it told 
only too plainly how the tide of 
affairs had changed, and with calm 
dignity it was rejected. The sub- 
sequent retirement of the marquis 
from racing did away, in a great 
measure, with the false prices which 
his leviathan speculations had 
brought about, and horses against 
whom, by reason of the enormous 
sum of money they were backed 
for at the post in a single ' hand,' 
not more than 3 to i could pre- 
viously have been obtained, returned, 
in races of similar calibre, to 7 to i 
or 10 to I, allowing the public to 
win something like a stake in the 
event of success. 

A short distance away, in the 
midst of a little group, may be 
seen the ' Admiral,' the chief of our 
turf legislatore, whose fiats have 
for years been readily accepted. 
He still remains the prince of handi- 
cappers, and his duties require the 
guidance of a steady hand. 'Cute 
indeed is the owner who can mis- 
lead him, or the trainer who can 
remove a previously-formed notion 
of the quality or merits of a racer. 
Book in hand, and with his Yoight- 
lander brought to bear on the race, 
the ' Admiral ' steadily notes the 
running of every horse, which is 
forward for three-quarters of a mile, 
which is stopped by the hill, where 
weight begins to tell; how the 
Sweetmeat filly, of whom such great 
things were expected, is but a jade 
after all ; and how little Snaffles is 
pulling double to keep his charge 
in check. All these things are jotted 
down; and when the gr^t handi- 
caps are published, trainers and 
owners find to their chagrin that 
the quality of their favourites is 
already known to an ounce, and that 
tl^ir pet schemes for throwing dust 
in the eyes of the handicapper have 
signally failed. Now and again dis- 
crepancies may 'crop up;' but as a 
rule the weights are administered 
with an impartial justice that admits 
of but few adverse criticisms. If 
the 'Admiral' has a fault it is that 
Q 2 



223 



In a Keniiah Meadow. 



of being tqg outspoken, as ve have 
found in many curious racing mat- 
ters. Not by any means that be is 
incorrect^ but simply because it is 
easier to say than to substantiate; 
and when he has been called on for 
proofis they have been difficult to 
find, although the sympathies of the 
public have been mih nim. 

Another looker-on amidst a knot 
of his brethren is the gigantic Shef- 
field speculator, whose huge form 
and stentorian lungs have been cele- 
brated any time these fifteen years. 
The days were when he dabbled 
little in horse-racing, but had the 
reputation of being one of the 
astutest backers of pedestrians, 
amongst whom many still living 
have 'taken their breathings' from 
his stable. He supported the speedy 
Tom Horspool and the equally cele- 
brated Jim Sherdon, the former of 
whom ran a mile in the then fastest 
time on record, viz., 4 min. 38 sec, 
and followed up the feat by covering 
in the ensuing summer the same 
distance in 4 min. 23 sea, a rate of 
celerity unsurpassed for over two 
years. A fortunate 'land' over a 
handicap put our leviathan in pos- 
session of wherewith to begin his 
turf career, and by degrees ne has 
attained w^th and position, paying 
his way with scrupulous honesty, 
and never shirking an engagement 
however sorely it tried his purse. 
Like the late Mr. Gully, he hais ever 
been one of the first to enter the 
rooms on settling-day, and amongst 
the last to leave, every claim on him 
being satisfied in full before tiie 
doors closed upon him. Amongst 
his stanchest friends he reckons the 
' Squire of Oram,' who reclines not 
far off in a pony-cbaisa He is now 
stricken by disease, and but a sha- 
dow of the man who five years ago 
was the life of the ring and £e 
hunting-field, ever ready for sport, 
and imbued with a love of fair play 
and high sense of honour seldom 
expected in men of his class. He 
has attained the respect of his asso- 
ciates and the companionship of 
men in high positions in life; wealth, 
too, is his, and with it be has esta- 
blished a stud-farm for breeding 
purposes, which would in time be 
made second to none. Already 



Blair Athol ranks amongst his pur- 
chases, and far and wide he has 
secured the best blood the country 
can afford. But what of all this? 
Consumption has marked him with 
its deadly hand, and at an early age 
he must leave the firniis of his tre- 
mendous labours. The outside 
world knows nothing of the life of 
a gambler, and cannot guess at the 
hardships and anxieties he must 
undergo. The wear and tear of tra- 
velling almost daily for nine months 
out of the twelve, the early rising 
to see the horses gallop, tearing 
about the paddock, enclosure and 
course all day, shouting the odds 
and running immense risks; then 
attending at the rooms at night and 
hanging about until the smallhours, 
retiring perhaps after all with the 
consciousness that the chief race of 
the morrow must end in the loss of 
several thousand pounds through 
the treachery or ill luck of some 
owner whose horse had never been 
laid against, and whose scratching 
or lameness, or what not, has alone 
prevented his winning. This con- 
tinual wear and tear of mind and 
body during eighteen or nineteen 
hours out of the twenty-four are 
more than human nature can long 
endure; and those speculators who 
watch the horses and the market 
and the people behind the scenes, 
and live after all to a long age, 
must be possessed of constitutions 
and nerves of iron. 

Another form easily recognised by 
an ' outsider,' and thoroughly known 
to every frequenter of race-meetings, 
is that of Mr. Baine, who any time 
during the past half-century has 
been an upholder of the turf and of 
sport of every description. As a 
horseman, a crack shot, and a whist- 
player of the highest order, he has 
ever ranked amongst the most popu- 
lar men of his time, and his unble- 
mished honour and long experience 
have caused his dicta on all games 
of chance or skiU to be accepted at 
the clubs and elsewhere without 
hesitancy or demur. He was the 
friend and companion of Osbaldeston 
and of Kennedy, and one of the 
chief actors in the unhappy ' Queen 
of Diamonds' scandal, which re- 
sulted in the disgrace of Lord de la 



In a Kentish Meadow. 



229 



Boofl, one of the leaders of society 
and a most accomplished man. In 
conyerse with Mr. Baine is a tall, 
stout, jolly-looking fellow, pointed 
out to stnmgers as the first trainer 
of the day. His connection with 
the torf began first as a jockey, and 
he has since had the care of horses 
belonging to all the principal owners, 
his stables at Danebury having en- 
closed the winners of hundreds of 
races and of tens of thousands of 
pounds in stakes. One of his 
greatest patrons was the late Lord 
Palmerston, to whom on an appli- 
cation for a place for his son, the 
Teteran trainer stated t^at the 
* young 'un had been highly tried 
and had won easily.' Latterly a 
succession of events have threatened 
to militate against his success ; but 
he has borne himself well in his 
encounters with the world, and still 
enjoys the patronage of a large 
number of owners, who place the 
fallest reliance on his judgment and 
probity. Other trainers, too, are on 
the ground, including he that had 
the care of the redoubtable French- 
man whose double victory in the 
Derby and St. Leger will long be 
remembered by the sporting world. 
Amongst the jockeys, too, we note 
the forms of several of the flower 
of England's horsemen, jockeys as 
great as the Chifneys or the Days, 
celebrated as they were; jockeys 
whose forte lies in a rapid start 
for a half-mile spin; jockeys whose 
power to hold up or help their cattle 
along is tremendous; and jockeys 
whose finish is a marvel of grand 
liding, and whose patience is the 



surprise of their fellows. A few of 
them already have the world beaten, 
but for the most part it is 'come 
easy go easy' with them, and ere 
they reach that age when they 
should cross a horse for pleasure 
only, they will see the folly they 
have committed in squandering 
their earnings in the reckless man- 
ner which sporting men so tho- 
roughly enjoy. 

We have not surveyed half the 
celebrities present, and yet the prin- 
ter bids us wind up, the space 
allotted to us being already over- 
filled. We should like to have 
looked over 'Lord Freddy's' book 
on the Leger, or watched the move- 
ments of the 'Baron,' for whom 
many of the lots possess unusual 
interest. Or it may be the ' Squire,' 
who was BO soon to pass from 
amongst us, will shortly make a 
purchase. The 'Spider' also we 
ought to have noticed, as he marks 
the investments of the 'files' on 
whom he will but too soon and too 
surely pounce. He possesses a hold 
on half a dozen of the fattest of 
them, and will shortly take posses- 
sion of the property of one to the 
tune of 97>ooo/.,aud, unabashed, fight 
the case before a court of law against 
another of his class. Horse-racing 
as a sport can never die out in thu 
country ; but it is improbable that 
speculation will again be carried on 
so extensively as since the year 1 860. 
Owners will be able to breed and 
train at a lighter cost; and, in &ct^ 
it is very unlikely we shall in future 
see a gathering ' in a Kentish mea- 
dow,' or hear such prices offered. 
H. B. 




230 



A HEAET UNFELLOWED. 

THE antnmn mellowed the year, the year. 
And by the sea 
Sat an angel, or fay, or lady rare — 
I know not which— with a shell at her ear 
That from the depths of the ocean near 

Whispered and wailed this melody : — 

* Oh 1 if it were mine to love, to love. 

And thou wert she ; 
Then shonld'st to me be an isle of the prime, 
Where, rolling backwards the wheels of Time, 
All bliss should meet m an Eden clime, 

And I would be the ambient sea. 

'Oh I if to thee, my love, my love, 

Bat once were given ; 
Thou should'st to me be the fount of light. 
The star of stars in the infinite, 
And I, as worlds glowed into sight. 

Would be the gazing rest of heaver 

'Oh I if, in the might of thee and love. 

To dare were mine ; 
The throne of the world should be my seat. 
The neck of the world shoald bend at thy feet. 
And the waves of its praise should break most sweet 

That they were doubly mine and thine. 

Oh I if to thee I brought my love, 

An offering; 
My captives of victor thought, I ween. 
Should march in flowers with dainty mien, 
And, paying homage to thee their queen. 

Tell me I was the more a JoDg. 

' 'Tis mine, alas! to love, to love. 

And thou art she. 
Not a word ? not a sigh ? — I am too bold ; 
My heart is on fire, but thine is cold ; 
Thus the empty sum of my life is told — 

That I am nought, since nought to thee !' 

Such were the words of the shell, the shell. 

Words sad and few ; 
But whose was the voice that spake to her ear. 
That whispered and wailed forth its deep despair. 
Was more than that angel or lady rare. 

Or fay, or shell, or ocean know. 

A. H. G. 



281 



M. OB N. 



By G. J. WHYTE-MKLVILLE, 
Adthob Of 'DiOBY Gbahd/ 'GniBB,' 'Thb Giadutobq,' eto. 



OHAFTER XXV. 

OOAXXNG A flGHT. 



MB. BTFE oould now ocmgratn- 
late himself that his puppets 
were fairly on the stage prepared 
for their several parts; and it re- 
mained but to bring them into play ; 
and with that Tiew, he summoned 
all the craft of his experience to 
assist the cunning of his nature. 

Lord Bearwarden, amongst other 
old-fashioned prejudices, clung to an 
obsolete notion that there are certain 
injuries, and those of the deepest 
and most abiding, for which neither 
the opinion of society, nor the laws 
of the land, afford redress, and 
which can only be wiped out by 
personal encounter of man to man. 
It seemed to him that he could 
more easily forget his sorrow, and 
turn with a finner tread into the 
beaten track of life, after a snap 
shot at Mr. Stanmore across a dozen 
yards of turf. Do not blame him; 
remember his education and the 
opinions of those amongst whom 
he lived. Bemember, too, that his 
crowning sorrow had not yet taught 
him resignation, an opiate which 
works only with lapse of time. 
There is a manlier and a truer 
courage than that which seeks a 
momentary oblivion of its wrosgs in 
the excitement of personal danger — 
there is a heroism of defence, far 
above the easier valour of attack — 
and those are distinguished as the 
bravest troops that under severe 
loss preserve their discipline and 
formation, without returning the 
fire of an enemy. 

Lord Bearwarden, however, as 
became the arm of the service to 
which he belonged, was impatient 
of inaction, and had not yet learned 
to look on hostilities in this light 

' We'll parade him, Tom/ said he, 
affecting a cheerfulness which did 
not the least deceive hia companion. 



' I don't want to make a row about 
it of course. I'll spare her, though 
she hardly deserves it, but Fll have 
a ship at him, and PU shoot him, too, 
if I can! You needn't put us up 
much further than the width of this 
room!' 

They were closeted together at 
the back of a certain unassuming 
hotel, where their addresses, if re- 
quired, would be consistently denied. 
The room in question was small, 
gloomy, and uncomfortable, but so 
shaded and sequestered, that, lulled 
by its drowsy glimmer, for its in- 
mates, as for the lotus-eaters^ 'it 
was always aflemoon.' 

' Suppose he won't fight,' observed 
Tom, shaking his head. 

' Won't fight!' repeated his lord- 
ship, in high disdain. ' Curse him 
— he must fight. I'll horsewhip him 
in the Park! Thafs all nonsense, 
Tom. The fellow 's a gentleman. 
I'll say that for him* He'll see the 
propriety of keeping the whole tiling 
quiet, if it was only out of regard for 
her. You must settle it, Tom. It's 
a great deal to ask. I know I ought 
to have gone to a brotherofficer, but 
this is a peculiar case, you see, and 
the fewer follows in the hunt the 
better!' 

Mr. Byfe mused. He didn't much 
like his job^ but reflected that, under 
the management of any one else, an 
explanation would assuredly put 
everjfthing in its true light, and his 
web would all be brushed , away. 
What he required was a scandal; 
a slander so well sustained, that 
Lady Bearwarden's character should 
never recover it, and for such a 
purpose nothing seemed so effica- 
cious as a duel, of which she should 
be the cause. He imagined also, in 
his inexperience, like tne immortal 
Mr. Winkle, that these encounters 



282 



HorN. 



were usually bloodless^ and mere 
matters of form. 

' You're resolved, I soppose/ said 
Tom. ' I needn*t point out to you, 
my lord, that such a course shuts 
eyery door to reoouciliation — pre^ 
eludes every possibility of things 
coming right in future. It's a strong 
measure— a very strong measure — 
and you really mean to carry it 
through?' 

' I've made up my mind to shoot 
him/ answered the other, doggedly. 
^ What's the use of jawing about it? 
These things shoidd be done at 
once, my good fellow. If we have 
to go abroad, we'll start to-morrow 
night.' 

* I'd better try and hunt him up 
vnthout delay,' said Tom. *It8 
easier to find a fellow now than in 
the middle of the season, but I 
might not hit upon him to-night, 
nevertheless.' 

Lord Bearwarden looked at his 
watch. *Try his club,' said he. 
' If he dines there, it's about the 
time. They'll know his address at 
any rate, and if you look sharp you 
might catch him at home dressing 
for dinner. I'll wait here and we'll 
have a mutton-chop when you 
come in. Stick to him, Tom. Don't 
let him back [out It would have 
saved a deal of trouble,' added his 
lordship, while the other hurried off, 
' if I could have caught that cab 
to-day. She'd have been frightened, 
though, and upset. Better as it is, 
perhaps, after all.' 

Mr. Eyfe did not suffer the wheels 
of his chariot to tarry, nor the grass 
to grow beneath his feet. Very few 
minutes elapsed before he found 
himself waiting in the strangers' 
room of a clab much affected by 
Dick Stanmore, comforted with a 
hall - porter's assurance that the 
gentleman he sought had ordered 
dinner, and could not fail to arrive 
abnost immediately. He had 
scarcely taken up the evening 
paper when Mr. Stanmore came 
in. 

Anything less like a conscience- 
stricken Lothario, burdened with the 
guilt of another man's wife, can 
scarcely be imagined. Dick's eye 
was bright, his cheek blooming, his 
countenance radiant with health, 



happiness, and the light from with- 
in that is kindled by a good con- 
science and a loving h^uri He 
came up to Byfe with a merry 
greeting on his lips, but stopped 
short, marking the gravity of that 
gentleman's face and the unusoal 
formality of his bow. 

' My errand is a Tery painf al one,' 
said Tom. ' I regret to say, Mr. 
Stanmore, that I have come to you 
on a most unpleasant business.' 

' I thought you'd come to dinner,' 
answered Dick, no whit disconcerted. 
' Never mind. Lef s have it out. 
I dare say it's not half so bad as it 
seems.' 

' It could not possibly be worse,' 
was the solemn rejoinder. * It in- 
Tolves life and honour for two gen- 
tlemen, both of whom I respect and 
esteem. For the sake of one, a very 
dear friend, I have consented to be 
here now. Mr. Stanmore, I come 
to you on behalf of Lord Bear- 
warden.* 

Dick started. The old wound 
was healed, and, indeed, perfectly 
cured now, but the skin had not 
yet grown quite callous over that 
injured part 

' Go on,' said he. * Why didn't 
Lord Bearwarden come himself?' 

' Impossible ! ' answered Tom, 
with great dignity. 'Contrary to 
all precedent I could not have 
permitted such a thing. Should 
not have listened to it for a mo- 
ment Quite inadmissible. Would 
have placed every one in a false 
position. His lordship has lost no 
time in selecting an experienced 
friend. May I hope, Mr. Stanmore, 
will be equally prompt? You un- 
derstand me, of course.' 

' I'm hanged if I dol* replied 
Dick, opening his eyes very wide. 
' You must speak plainer. What is 
it all about?' 

' Simply,' said the other, ' that 
my principal assures me he feels 
confident your own sense of honour 
will not permit you to refuse him a 
meeting. Lord Bearwarden, as you 
must be aware, Mr. Stanmore, is a 
man of very high spirit and pecu- 
liarly sensitive feelings. You have 
inflicted on him some injury of so 
delicate a nature that even from 
me, his intimate friend, he with- 



M.(yrN. 



283 



holds his confidence on the real 
facts of the case. He leads me to 
believe that I shall not find my task 
very difficult, and my own know- 
ledge of Mr. Stanmore's high cha- 
racter and jealous sense of honour 
points to the same oonolnsion. You 
will, of course, meet me half way, 
without any further negotiation or 
delay.' 

(' If he's ever spoken three words 
of endearment to " the Viscountess,'" 
reflected Tom, ' he'll understand at 
once. If he hasn*t, he'll think I'm 
mad!') 

' But I can't fight without I'm 
told what it's for,' urged Dick, in 
considerable bewilderment. ' I don't 
know Lord Bearwarden well. I've 
nothing to do with him. We've 
never had a quarrel in our lives.' 

' Mr. Stanmore I' replied the 
other. 'Tou surprise me. I 
thought you quite a difierent sort 
of person. I thought a gentleman ' 
—here a flash in Dick's eye warned 
him not to go too far—' a gentleman 
of your intelligence would have an- 
ticipated my meaning without try- 
ing to force from me an explanation, 
which indeed it is out of my power 
to make. There are injuries, Mr. 
Stanmore, on which outraged friend- 
ship cannot bear to enlarge for 
which a man of honour feels bound 
to offer the only reparation in his 
power. Must we force you, Mr. 
Stanmore, into the position we re- 
quire, by overt measures, as dis- 
graceful to you as they would be 
unbecoming in my friend ?' 

'Stop a moment, Mr. Byfe,' said 
Dick. *Do you speak now for 
yourself or Lord Bearwarden?' 

There was a slight contraction of 
the lip accompanying this remark 
that Tom by no means ftmcied. He 
hastened to shelter himself behind 
his principal. 

' For Ixvd Bearwarden, decidedly,' 
said he, 'and without intention of 
the slightest discourtesy. My only 
object is indeed to avoid, for both 
parties, anything so revolting as 
a personal collision. Have I said 
enough?' 

' No, you haven't 1' answered Dick, 
who was getting warm while his 
dinner was getting cold. ' If you 
won't tell me what the offence is. 



how can I ^ffer either redress or 
apology ?' 

' No apology would be accepted,' 
replied Mr. Byfe, loftily. 'Nor, 
indeed, does his lordship consider 
that his injuries admit of extenua- 
tion. Shall I tell you his very 
words, Mr. Byfe, adiressed to me 
less than an hour ago?' 

' Drive on,' said Dick. 

' His lordship's words, not my 
own, you will bear in mind,' con- 
tinued Tom, rather uncomfortable, 
but resolved to play out his trump 
card. ' And I only repeat them, as 
it were in confidence, and at your 
own request. " Tom," said he, " no- 
thing on earth shall prevent our 
meeting. No. Not if I have to 
horsewhip Mr. Stanmore in the 
Park to bring it about."' 

' If that don't fetch him/ thought 
Tom, ' he's not the man I take him 
for.' 

It did fetch him. Dick started, 
and turned fiercely on the speaker. 

' The devil !' he exclaimed. ' Two 
can play at that game, and perhaps 
he might come off the worst ! Mr. 
Byfe, you're a bold man to bring 
such a message to me. I'm not 
sure how for your character of am- 
bassador should bear you harm- 
less; but, in the mean time, tell 
your principal I'll accommodate 
him with pleasure, and the sooner 
the better/ 

Dick's blood was up, as indeed 
seemed natural enough under so 
gross an insult, and he was all for 
fighting now, right or wrong. 
Tom Byfe congratulated himself on 
the success of this, his first step in 
a diplomacy leading to war, de- 
voutly hoping that the friend to 
whom Mr. Stanmore should refer 
him might prove equally fierce and 
hofrheaded. He bowed with the 
studied courtesy assumed by every 
man concerned either as principal 
or second in an act of premeditated 
homicide, and smoothed his hat 
preparatory to taking leave. 

'If you will kindly favour me 
with your friend's name,' said he, 
in a tone of excessive suavity, 'I 
will wish you good-evening. I fear 
I have already kept you too long 
from dinner.' 

Dick considered for a few seconds. 



234 



KorN. 



while he ran over in^his mind the 
Bnm total of intimates on whom he 
could rely in an emergency like the 
present It is wonderfnl how short 
such lists are. Mr. Stanmore oonld 
not recall more than half a dozen, 
and of these fonr were oat of town 
mid one lay ill in bed. The only 
available man of the six was Simon 
Perkins. Dick Stanmore knew that 
he ooald trust him to act as a 
stanch friend through thick and 
thin; but he had considerable 
scruples in availing himself of the 
painter's aasistanoe nnder existing 
drcumstances. 

Time pressed, however, and there 
was nothing for it but to famish 
Mr. Byfe with Simon's name aiad 
address in Bemers Street 

' Oan I see him at once ?* asked 
Tom, stran^ly anxious to hasten 
matters, as it seemed to Dick Stan- 
more, who could not help wondeiv 
ing whether, had the visitor been 
a combatant, he would have proved 
equally eager for the fray. 

' I am afraid not till to-morrow,' 
was the reply. 'He has left his 
painting-room by this time and 
gone out of town. I cannot ask 
you to take another journey to- 
night 'Allow me to offer you a 
glass of sherry before you go.' 

Tom declined the proffered hos- 
pitality, bowing himself out, as 
befitted the occasion, with much 
ceremonious politeness, and leaving 
the other to proceed to his clut>- 
dinner in a frame of mind that 
considerably modified the healthy 
appetite he had brought with him 
half an hour ago. 

He congratulated himself, how- 
ever, before his soup was done, that 
he had not sent Mr. Byfe down to 
the cottage at Putney. He could 
not bear to think of that peaceful, 
happy retreat, the nest of his dove, 
the home of his heart, as desecrated 
by such a preseuce on such an 
errand. 'Come what might,' he 
thought, ' Nina must be kept from 
all terrors and anxieties of this 
kind— all knowledge of such wild, 
wicked doings as these.' 

So thinking, and reflecting, also, 
that it was very possible with an 
encounter of so deadly a nature 
before him they might never meet 



again, he knew too well by the 
heaviness at his heart how dear 
this girl had become in so short a 
time — how completely she had 
filled up that gaping wound in ids 
affections from which he once 
thought he must have bled hope- 
lessly to death; how entirely he 
was bound np in her happiness, 
and how, even in an hour of trouble, 
danger, and vexation like this, his 
chief anxiety was lest it should 
bring sorrow and suffering to her. 

He drank but little wine at his 
solitary dinner, smoked one cigar 
after it, and wrote a long letter to 
Nina before he went to bed —a letter 
in which he told her all his love, all 
the comfort she had been to hun, 
all his past sorrows, all his future 
hopes, and then tore this affec- 
tionate production into shreds and 
flung it in the fireplace. It had 
only been meant to reach her hands 
if he shoidd be killed. And was 
it not calculated, then, to render 
her more nnhappy, more incon- 
solable? He asked himself the 
question several times before he 
found resolution to answer it in the 

Practical manner described. I think 
e must have been very fond of 
Nina Algernon indeed, although he 
did not the least know she was at 
that moment looking out of win- 
dow, with her hair down, listening 
to the night breeze in the poplars, 
the lap and wash of the ebb-tide 
against the river-banks, thinking 
how nice it was to have met him 
that morning, by the merest acci- 
dent, how nice it would be to see 
him in the painting-room, by the 
merest accident again, of course, to- 
morrow afternoon. 

The clock at St George's, Ha- 
nover Square, struck nine as Mr. 
Byfe returned to his hotel. He 
found Lord Bearwarden waiting for 
him, and dinner ready to be phiced 
on the table. 

* Have you settied it?' asked his 
lordship, in a fierce whisper that 
betrayed no little eagerness for 
action —something very like a thirst 
for blood. ' When is it for, Tom? 
To-morrow momiog? I've got 
everything ready. I don't know 
that we need cross the water, after 
all' 



^wN. 



2<S5 



' Easy, my lord/ answered Tom. 
' I can't get on quite so quick ajs you 
wibhu I've seen our man, and 
learned his friend's name and ad- 
dress. That* 8 pretty well, I think, 
for one day's work.' 

' You'll meet the Mend to-night, 
Tom r exclaimed the other. ' Who 
is he? Do we know him? He's 
a soldier, I hope ?' 

* He's a painter, and he lives out 
of town ; so I canH see him till to- 
morrow. In the mean time, I 
would venture to suggest, my lord, 
that I'm recovering from a severe 
illness, and I've heen eight hours 
without food.' 

Tom spoke cheerily enough, but 
in good truth he looked haggard 
and out-worn. Lord Bearwarden 
rang the belL 

' I'm ashamed of myself,' said he. 
' Let's have dinner directly ; and as 
for this cursed business, don't let 
us think any more about it till to- 
morrow morning.' 

They sat down accordingly to 
good food, well-cooked, good wine, 
well-decanted : in good society, too, 
well chosen from a select fraternity 
usually to be found in this secluded 
resort So they feasted and were 
merry, talking of hounds, horses, 
hunting, racing, weight for age, 
wine, women, and what-not The 
keenest observer, the acutest judge 
of his kind, could never have de« 
tected that one of these men was 
meditating bloodshed, the other 
prompting him to something very 
like murder as an accessary before 
the fact. 

I will never believe that Damocles 
ate his supper with less appetite, 
drank his wine with less zest, for 
the threatening sword suspended 
overhead. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

BAFFLED. 

Mr. Bjfe, we may be sure, did not 
foil to make his appearance in £er- 
ners Street at an early hour on the 
following day, as soon indeed as, 
according to Mr. Stanmore's ii}- 
formation, there was any chance of 
finding the painter at home. He 
felt, and he told himself so more 



than once, that he was enacting the 
part of Mepbistopbeles, without the 
supernatural power of that fatal 
auxiliary, without even a fair allow- 
ance of time to lure his Faust to 
perdition. He had undertaken a 
task that never would have occurred 
but to a desperate man ; and Tom 
was desperate, inasmuch as the one 
hope on which he set his heart had 
crumbled to atoms. He had re- 
solved to bring together in active 
hostility two men of the world, 
versed in the usages of society, 
themselves perfectly fiBuniliar with 
the code of social honour, that they 
might attempt each other's lives be- 
guiled by a delusion gross and pal- 
pable as the conunon tricks of any 
fire-eating conjuror at a fair. 

The very audacity of the si^heme, 
however, seemed to afford its best 
chance of success; and when that 
success should have been attained, 
Tom's fancy, overleaping all inter- 
mediate difficulties, revelled in the 
wild possibilities of the future. 
Of bloodshed he took very little 
thought What cared he, with his 
sad, sore heart, for the lives of those 
prosperous men, gifted with social 
advantages that had been denied to 
himself^ and that he felt a proud 
consciousness he could have put to 
a fax richer profit ? Whether either 
or both were killed, whether either 
or both came home untouched, his 
object would equally be gained? 
Lady Bearwarden's fair fieune would 
equally be dit^honoured before the 
world. He knew that world well, 
knew its tyrannical code, its puz- 
zling verdicts, its unaocountGible 
clemency to the wolf, its inflexible 
severity for the lamb, above all, its 
holy horror of a blot that has been 
scored, of a sin, then only unpar- 
donable, that has been ' found out' 

Men love the women on whom 
they set their afiiBctions so differently. 
For some— and these are great fa- 
vourites with the sex— attachment 
means the desire of a tiger for its 
prey. With others it is the grati- 
ncation a child finds in a toy. A 
small minority entertain the super- 
stition of a savage for his idol ; a 
smaller yet offer the holy homage 
of a true worshipper to his saint. 
A woman*s heart pines for unhvalled 



236 



JIf. or JV. 



sovereignty— a woman's natnre re- 
quires the strong hand of a master 
to retain it in bondage. For this, 
as for every other earthly state, 
there is no unalloyed happiness, no 
perfect enjoyment, no complete re- 
pose. The gonrd has its worm, the 
diamond its flaw, the rose its ear- 
wigs, and 

• The trail of the serpent Is over them alL' : 

So Tom Byfe, taking time by the 
forelock, breakfasted at ten, wrote 
several letters with considerable 
coolness and forethoaght, all bear- 
ing on the event in contemplation, 
some providing for a week's absence 
abroad, at least, smoked a cigar in 
Lord Bearwarden's bedroom, who 
was not yet np, and towards noon 
turned out of Oxford Street to fulfil 
his mission with Simon Perkins the 
painter. 

His step was lighter, his whole 
appearance more elate, than usual. 
The traces of recent illness and over- 
night's fatigue had disappeared. He 
was above all foolish fancies of luck, 
presentiments, and such supersti- 
tions — a man not easily acted on by 
extraneous circumstances of good or 
evil, trusting chiefly in his own re- 
sources, and believing very firmly 
in nothing but the multiplication 
table ; yet to^ay he told himself he 
'felt Uke a winner;' to-day victory 
seemed in his grasp, and he trod 
the pavement with the confident 
port of that pride which the proverb 
warns us ' goeth before a fall.' 

He rang the door-bell and was 
vaguely directed to proceed upstairs 
by the nondescript maid-servant 
who admitted him. The place was 
dark, the day sultry, the steps nume- 
rous. Tom climbed them leisurely, 
hat in hand, wondering why people 
couldn't live on the ground-floor, 
and not a little absorbed in prepa- 
ration of such a plausible tale as 
should bring the contemplated in- 
terview to a warlike termination. 

Turning imaginary periods with 
certain grandiloquent phrases con- 
cerning delicacy of feeling and high 
sense of honour, he arrived at the 
second landing, where he paused to 
take breath. Tom*s illness had no 
doubt weakened his condition, but 
the gasp with which he now opened 



his mouth denoted excess of asto- 
nishment rather than deficiency of 
mind. 

Spinning deftly into its place, as 
if dropped from heaven with a 
plumb-line, a wreath of artificial 
flowers landed lightly on his tem- 
ples, while a woman's laugh, soft 
and silvery, accompanied with its 
pleasant music this unexpected coro- 
nation. 

Tom looked up aghast, but he 
was not quick enongh to catch sight 
of more tiian the hem of a garment, 
the turn of an ankle. There was a 
smothered exclamation, a ' my gra- 
cious 1' denoting extremity of dis- 
may, a rustle of skirts, the loud 
bang of a door, and all became still. 
'Deuced odd,' thought Tom, re- 
moving the wreath and wondering 
where he should put it, before he 
made his entranca ' Qaeer sort of 
people these ! Fainter a regular Don 
Giovanni, no doubt. So much the 
better— all the more likely to go in 
for the fuss and edat of a duel.' 

So Tom flung his garland aside 
and prepared to assume a lofty pre- 
sence with his hand on the painting- 
room door, while Nina, blushing to 
the roots of her hair, barricaded 
herself carefully into a small dress- 
ing closet opening on the studio, in 
which retreat it was Simon's habit 
to wash his hands and smarten him- 
self up when he had done work for 
the day. 

Poor Nina! To use her own 
expression, she was 'horrified.' 
She expected Dick Stanmore; and 
with a girlish playfulness suffi- 
ciently denoting the terms on 
which they stood, had been lying 
in wait at the top of the stairs, 
preparing to take a good shot, and 
drop the wreath, one of Simon's 
faded properties, on that head 
which she now loved better than 
all the world besides. 

The staircase, I have said, was 
gloomy. Young gentlemen all brush 
their hair the same way. The 
missile was out of her fingers ere 
a horrid suspicion crossed her that 
she had made a mistake ; and when 
Tom looked up there was nothing 
for it but muve qui jyeut I After 
all, one head, perhaps, also, one 
heart, is very like another; but 



Drx^ii Uf H iJit.ii Li^i'.jr i 



'"•-"'— '- ^' 



JI&ilieUiiilAitkrfUliinttiHttftilfHltiifa 



M.orN. 



237 



Nina had not yet mastered this, the 
first element of a rational philo- 
sophy, and wonld have fled, if she 
could, to the ends of the earth. 

In the mean time she took refage 
in the little room off the studio, 
blushing, palpitating, very much 
ashamed, tnough more than half 
amused, but firmly resolved not to 
leave her hiding-place nor fieuse the 
visitor, devoutly hoping, at the 
same time, that he might not stay 
long. 

Simon was in the act of lifting 
his Fairy Queen into her usual 
position. She had been dethroned 
the day before, while he worked at 
a less congenial task. On his 
visitor's entrance he put her back 
with her &ce to the wall. 

Tom made an exceedingly stiff 
bow. ' Mr. Perkins, I believe T 

' Mr. Byfe?' replied Simon, in the 
same half-interrogative tone, with a 
very stiff bow too. 

* I am here on the part of Lord 
Bearwarden,' said Tom. 'And I 
have been referred to you 'by Mr. 
Stanmore. Tou expected mo, no 
doubt' 

' I had a communication from 
Mr. Stanmore an hour ago to that 
effect,' answered Simon, with a 
gravity the more profound that he 
had some difficulty in repressing 
a smile. The painter was not 
without a sense of humour, and 
this 'communication/ as he called 
ity lay crumpled up in his waist- 
coat-pocket while he spoke. It ran 
thus:— 

' Dbab Simon,— I have had a visit 
from a man named Byfe that 

guzzles me exceedingly. He comes 
"om Lord Bearwarden, and they 
want to fasten some sort of quarrel 
on me, but why, I cannot imagine. 
I was obliged to refer him to yon. 
Of course we'll fight if we must; 
but try and make out what they are 
driving at, and which is the big- 
gest fool of the two. I think 
fliey're both mad / I shall be with 
you rather later than usual. In the 
mean time I leave the whole thing 
in your hands. I don't know Bear- 
warden well, but used to think him 
rather a good fellow. The other's 
an aw/td sDobP 



Now I feel that it would be un- 
becoming on my part to tax a 
young lady with so mean an act as 
that of listening; nevertheless, 
each of the gentlemen in the studio 
thought proper to speak in so 
loud and indeed so pompous a voice 
that Miss Algernon could not avoid 
overhearing thenu It was surely 
natural, then, that when Mr. Stan- 
more's name was brought into the 
colloquy she should have drawn 
nearer the door of partition, and — 
well — ^not tried to avoid overhearing 
as much as possible of their dia- 
logue. 

The action of the farce amused 
her at first It was soon to become 
interesting, exciting, terrible, even 
to the verge of tragedy. 

'That makes my task easier/ 
continued Mr. Byfe. 'He has ex- 
plained, of course, the tendency of 
my instructions, ,the object of my 
visit It only remains for us to fix 
time and place.' 

'He has explained nothing/ an- 
swered the painter. 'What is it 
you complain of, and of what nature 
is the dispute between Lord Bear- 
warden and my friend?' 

Tom assumed an air of extreme 
candour, and opened his case art- 
fully enough; but, forgetting that 
every painter is necessarily a phy- 
siognomist, omitted the precau- 
tion of turning his back to the 
light 

' You are on intimate terms with 
Mr. Stanmore, I believe/ said he. 
'Yet in matters of so delicate a 
nature men of honour keep their 
own counsel very closely. It is pos- 
sible you may not be aware of much 
in his daily life that you would 
disapprove — much that, under the 
circumstances, though I am no 
rigid moralist, appears inexcusable 
even to me.' 

How white that delicate face 
turned in the next room! How 
eagerly those dark eyes seemed 
trying to pierce the blank panels of 
the door 1 

' I have known Mr. Stanmore 
several years/ answered the painter. 
' I have seen hjm almost every day 
of late. I can only say you must 
be more explicit, Mr. Byfe. I do 
not understand you yet' 



238 



M. or N. 



* Do yon mean to tell me yon are 
ignorant of an entanglement^ a 
liaison, a most nntoward and un- 
fortunate attachment, existing be* 
tween Mr. Stanmore and a lady 
whose name I fear it will be impoe- 
sible to keep out of the diacns- 
Bionr 

A wild misgiving, not altogether 
painful, shot through the painter 
while he thought of Nina; but, 
watching the speaker^s face, as was 
his wont, and aetecting a disparity 
of expression between eyes and 
mouth, he gathered that the man 
was trying to deceive him in some 
particular, not speaking the whole 
truth. 

Miss Algernon, who could only 
listen, trembled and turned sick at 
heart. 

* I think you must be misin- 
formed, Mr. Byfe,' was Simon's 
reply. 

The other smiled, as pitying such 
ignorance of social gossip and 
worldly scandal. 

'Misinformed!* he repeated. 'A 
man is not usually misinformed 
who trusts his own eyes. A hus- 
band cannot be called unreasonably 
dissatisfied whose wife tells him 
distinctly she is going to one place, 
and who sees her an hour after 
in company with the man he sus- 
pects at another. It is no use 
beating abont the bush. You can- 
not ignore such outrages as these. 
I wish to spare everybody's feel- 
ings — yours, mine, even the 
lady's, and, above all, my poor 
friend's; but I must tell you, 
point-blank, that the intimacy 
which I have reason to believe ex- 
isted between Mr. Stanmore and 
Lady Bearwarden has not beeoa dis- 
continued since her marriage ; and 
I come to you, as that gentleman's 
friend, on Lord Bearwarden's be- 
half, to demand the only repara- 
tion that can be made for sudi in- 
juries from man to man.* 

The painter opened his eyes, and 
Tom told himself he had made a 
good speech, very much to the 
point. Neither gentleman h^ird a 
faint moan in the next room, the 
cry of a gentle heart wounded to 
the quick. 

* You mean th^ ought to fight,' 



said Simon, still aerutinizmg the 
expression of the other's face. 

' Pieciaely,' answered Tool ' We 
must go abroad, I fancy, for all our 
sakes. Can you be ready to start 
to-night? Tidal train, you know- 
nice weather for crossing— break- 
fast the other side — demi^poulet and 
bottle of moderate 8t Jnllien— 
needn't stop long for that— Belgian 
fnmtier by the middle of the day — 
no sort of difficulty when once 
you're across the water. Shall I 
say to-morrow afternoon, aome- 
where in the neighbourhood of 
MousGTon? We can all go to- 
gether, for that matter, and arrange 
the exact spot in ten minutes.' 

Tom spoke as if they were plan- 
nmg a picnic with nothing whatever 
to curead but the chance of rain. 

' Stop a moment,' ndd the painter. 
'Not quite so fut, if you please. 
This is a matter of life and death. 
We can't settle it in five minutes, 
and as many words. You call your- 
self a man of the world, Mr. Byfe, 
and, doubtless, have some familiarity 
with affairs of this kind, either from 
experience or hearsay. Do you se- 
riously believe I am going to put 
my friend up as a target for yours 
to shoot at without some more defi- 
nite information, some fuller expla- 
nation than you seem inclined to 
give? Lady Bearwarden has not 
left her home. My Mend has been 
here every day of late with the ut- 
most regularity. It seems impos- 
sible that Lord Bearwarden's sus- 
picions can be well grounded. There 
must be some mistake, some miscon- 
ception. Over-haste in a matter 
like this would be irrevocable, and 
ruinous to everybody concerned.' 

Nina was listening with all her 
might. Every word of Tom's answer 
sunk into her heart. 

'My friend has left hts home, 
said he, in a Toice of assumed feel- 
ing. ' I was at luncheon with them 
just before the disclosure took place. 
A happier couple you never saw. 
Lately married— new furniture— 
wedding-presente all over the place 
—delightful house, overlooking the 
Park. This paradise is now com- 
pletely broken up. I confess I feel 
strongly on the subject I know his 
lordship intimately. I can appre- 



3f. or JBT. 



289 



ciate Ms good qualities. I ha^e 
also the honour of lady Bearwar- 
den's acquaintance. The whole 
aflhir is extremely painfal even to 
me, bat I have a aaty to perform 
and I most go through with it. 
Mr. Perkins, we are wasting time, 
let ns come to the nudn point at 
once.' 

Simon pondered for a minnte, 
daring which he nucde another 
narrow scratiny of Tom Byfe's 
face. Then he said, in the tone of 
a man who comes to a final de- 
cision, 'I suppose you are right 
I fear there is bat one way oat of 
it.' 

It did not escape the painter 
that, notwithstanding his obvious 
self-command, the others counte- 
nance brightened fax more them 
was natural at this admission. A 
duel in these days is a very serious 
matter to ever^ one concerned, and 
why should this man seem so truly 
rejoiced at the progpress of an affair 
that might put ma own neck in 
danger of a halter ? 

Simon's natural shrewdness, of 
which, in common with many other 
simple-minded persons, he possessed 
a considerable share, warned him 
there was something more here 
than appeared at first, sight— some 
mysteiy of which time alone was 
likely to afibrd the elucidation. 
Time he resolved accordingly to 
gain, and that without puttmg the 
other on his guard. 

* But one way out of it,' he re- 
peated, gravely. ' I wish indeed it 
could be arranged otherwisa Still 
this is a serious matter— quite out 
of my usual line— I cannot under- 
take anything decided withoat ad- 
vice, nor entirely on my own re- 
sponsibilily. My intention is to 
consult with a friend, an old mili- 
tary man. You shall have my defi- 
nite answer in a day or two at 
furthest.' 

Again watching Mr. Ifyfe's face, 
Simon observed it cloud with dis- 
9 satisfaction, and lus suspicions were 
confirmed. This fire-eater was evi- 
dently only anxious to hurry on the 
duel with unseemly haste, and make 
the principals fight at all risks. 

' We object to delay,' he ex- 
claimed, 'we object to publicity. 



The thmg is plain enough as it 
stands. Ton will only complicate 
it by bringing others into council, 
and in such a case, surely, the fewer 
people aware of our intentions the 
better.' 

' I cannot help that,' answered 
the painter, in a tone of decision. 
* My mind is made up, and I see 
my way clearly enouglL You shall 
have our answer within forty-eight 
hours at furthest. I repeat this is 
a matter in which I will not move 
an inch withoat the utmost cer- 
tainty.' 

Tom began to lose his temper. 
' Your scruples will bring about a 
flagrant scandal,' he exclaimed. 
' Lord Bearwarden is determined 
not to be cheated out of his re- 
dress. I know his intentions, and 
I Imow his character. There will 
be a personal collision to the dis- 
grace of every one concerned !' 

' Then I shall recommend Stan- 
more to walk about with a thick 
stick,' answered Simon, coolly. ' I 
often carry one myself Mr. Byfe,' 
he added, in a tone of marked sig- 
nificance, 'and should not scruple 
to use it on occasion to the best of 
my abilities.' 

The painter, though a small slight 
man, was utterly fearless. Looking 
Tom Byfe straight in the eyes, while 
he made this suggestive observa- 
tion, the latter felt that nothing was 
to be gained by bullying, and the 
game was lost 

' I am surprised,' he replied, 
loftily, but with a ceremonious bow, 
as reminding the other that his 
character of ambassador was sacred. 
'I am disappointed. I wash my 
hands of the disagreeable results 
likely to arise from this unfortunate 
delay. I wish you good-morning, 
Mr. Perkins. I leave you my ad- 
dress, and I trust you will lose no 
time in making me acquainted with 
the result of your delibBrations.' 

So Tom walked down stairs with 
great dignity, though he smothered 
more than one bitter curse the 
while, passing without so much as 
a glance the rejected |;arland, lying 
where he had thrown it aside before 
he entered on his unsuccessful 
mission. 

Had he been a litUe less stately 



240 



If. or jr. 



in maimerj a little more rapid of 
movemeDt^ he might have oTer- 
taken the yery lady of whom he 
ohtained a glimpse duriog his as- 
cent Nina Algernon was but a 
few paces ahead of him, sconrinfi' 
^ong at a speed only accomplished 
by those who feel that goad in the 
heart which stimnlates exertion, far 
more effectually than the 'spnr in 
the head/ proyerbially supposed to 
be worth ' two in the heel&' Nina 
had oyerheacd enough from her 
hiding-place to make her angry, 
unhappy, and anxious in the highest 
degree. Angry, first of all, with 
herself and him, to think that she 
could haye set her afifections on one 
who was untrue ; unhappy to feel 
she still cared for him so much; 
anxious to gather from the cold- 
blooded courtesies of the odious 
Mr. Byfe, that a life so dear to her 
was in danger, that perhaps she 
might neyer see Didc Stanmore 
again. With this ghastly con- 
sideration, surged up fuller than 
eyer the tide of love that had been 
momentarily obstructed, forcing her 
into action, and compelling her to 
take immediate steps for ascertain- 
ing his perfidy, while, at the same 
time, she warded ofif horn him the 
penalties it entailed. 

' He'll know I loye him then,' 
thought poor Nina. ' But Til neyer 
see him, nor speak to him, again — 
neyer— neyer. How could he? I 
wonder why men are so bad !' 

To this end, acting on an impulse 
as unreasonable as it was essentially 
feminine, she resolved to seek Lady 
Bearwarden without delay, and 
throwing herself on the mercy of 
that formidable rival, implore ad- 
yice and assistance for the safety 
of the man they both loved. 
. 80 she fled down stairs and was 
out of the house like a lapwing, 
just as Tom Byfe's warlike collo- 
quy with the painter came to a 
close. 

Simon, missing her, after he had 
taken leave of his visitor, was not 
therefore disturbed nor alarmed by 



her absence. He accounted for it on 
the yery natural supposition that she 
had met Dick Stanmore at the door, 
and pressed him into her seryice 
to act as convoy in some shopping 
expedition, before she sat down to 
her daily duty as a model for the 
Fairy Queen, now completed, all 
but a few folds of drapery, and a 
turn of the white hand. 

Till she came back, however, the 
great work must remain at a stand- 
still, and Simon had leisure to re- 
flect on his late conversation with 
Mr. Byfe, which astonished and per- 
plexed him exceedingly. 

Neither his astonishment, nor his 
perplexity, were decreased, to learn, 
on Dick's arrival, that he had no 
knowledge of Miss Algernon's move- 
ments—had not met her— had not 
seen her since yesterday, certainly 
expected to find her here, and was 
to the full ^as anxious and uncom- 
fortable as the* painter himself. 

' This other business will keep 
cold/ said Dick, in a great heat and 
fuss. ' I don't care whether it will 
or not It must I But we can't 
have Miss Algernon wandering 
about London by herself. We can't, 
at least, / can't be easy for a mo- 
ment till I know what has become 
of her. Ton stay here, Simon, in 
case she should come back. After 
all she may be shopping in the next 
street. I'll rush down to Putney at 
once, and find out if she's gone 
home. Don't be afraid. I won't 
alarm the old ladies. If she's not 
^ere I'll be back immediately. If 
she comes in while I'm gone, wait 
for me, or leave a line. Old man, 
if anything goes wrong with that 
darling, I— I ve nothing left to live 
for in the world 1' 

Even while he 'spoke, he was on 
the stairs, and Simon left in the 
painting-room, shook his head, and 
poDdered. 

' They'll never make me believe 
that cock-and-bull story about Lady 
Bearwarden. Ah, Nina I I begin to 
think this man loves you almost as 
well as I could have done 1' 




VOL. XVI.— HO. xcin. 



>13 



A EUN TO THE SOUTH AFTEE CEEATUEE-COMFOETS. 



BAEDEKER, in his excellent 
'Guide to Switzerland/ ad- 
viseB joxL, while dimbing a moun- 
tain and pausing a moment to 
take breath, not to look upwards 
at the distance still to be traversed, 
but downwards and behind you at 
what you have already accom- 
plished. The same encouragement 
IS derivable, in a similar way, while 
travelling. Tou aay to yourself, 
* All this has been done ; to-morrow 
we can easily do more.' 

Accordingly, at Avignon, we in- 
spect the map of France— the big- 
gest wo can find— to chuckle over 
the interval ~ and it is enormous 
— which we have put between dis- 
tant Paris and ourselves, from 
seven in the evening till ten next 
morning, with time to spare. Why, 
Paris looks quite noithem, hyper- 
borean, compared with this i)lacel 
Mark eJl the names in our vicinity; 
Toulon, once expected to convert 
the Mediterranean into a French 
lake ; Marseilles, on the highway to 
Egypt and India ; the Gulf of Lyons ; 
the coast of Spain. There exists, 
published some forty years ago, a 
gastronomic map of France. In- 
stead of the names of places are 
pictures of their produce for the 
table. Aries is figured by large 
smoked sausages ; Frontignan, 
Lunel, and Eivesaltes by bottles 
and casks of sweet muscat wine; 
Narbonne by pots of honey; Per- 
pignan and other localities by 
bunches of grapes, various fruits, 
and truffled game patties. Here 
they are, all close by. We have 
now only to take our walks abroad, 
as it were, to move on by eaoy-going, 
lazy stages, skirting the sea, a bar- 
rier in one direction; or to hit upon 
Spain, a still more efifeotual check 
to our farther progress that way, 
from its melancholy paucity of crea- 
ture-comforts. Truly, to-day's les- 
son in geo^phy is unusually 
amusing and inspiriting. 

From Avignon the railwav wafis 
you to Nimes, over an arid plain 
covered with stunted olive-trees, 
vines, and com, with small patches 
of evergreen octks here and there 



taking possession of uncultivated 
weedy spots. They settle and 
strike root where no other more 
highly considered plant thinks it 
worth while to enter into compe- 
tition with them. They exist on 
the leavings of agricultural ent»- 
prise, and seem to serve no other 
purpose than to supply a littie 
brushwood for the fire or the oven. 
Note well— and take care not to fall 
asleep before reaching it— that with 
some trains, at the next station after 
Avignon, with others at the third, 
namely, at Tarascon, to go west- 
wards you branch ofif from the 
Grand Paris, Lyons, and Marseilles 
Bailway, taking a new line and 
changing trains. In doing this you 
are not plagued about your lug- 
gage; the administration relieves 
you of that trouble; you have only 
to take care of yourself and your 
sundry portable effects — things 
made to be lost, like umbrellas or 
walking-sticks, or things for private 
consultation, such as indicatours, 
guide-books, sandwich-boxes, and 
brandy -flasks. We experienced 
only a short delay; just time 
enough to stretch our legs, which 
hardly yet wanted stretehing, and 
to wa]k in at one door and out at 
the other through a spacious wait- 
ing-room, well arranged for the 
admission of air and the exclusion 
of light and heat. 

Thence you reach Nimes through 
a similar tract of country. We 
passed that city, in spite of tha 
tempting attraction of its very per- 
fect Roman antiquities. No doubt 
also the fleshpots, the roasts, the 
fruits, and the wine-casks of the 
South are obtainable there at least 
at one good hotel. But with a still 
unattained object in view it is un- 
wise to halt too frequently on the 
way; so we left it for some future 
possibility, submitting in the sta- 
tion to a tiresome delay of fiftj-five 
minutes, which were beguiled by 
the fisi^-end of the breease — now 
refr«shmg instead of demolishing — 
which we had left at Avignon; 
secondly, by contemplation of the 
steam-lifb which raises and deposits 
B a 



244 



A Bun to the Souih after Creature-Comforts. 



luggage and merchandize from and 
in the entranoei a story lower; 
thirdly, by admiring the mnlii- 
tadinoos flat cages, containing hnn- 
dreds of live tame rabbits, bronght 
by rail^a branch line from Oar- 
pentras. See Bradshaw's or other 
railway map. We never saw so 
many rabbits, wild or tame, to- 
gether in onr lives. 

* AlAS ! regardlen of tbelr doom 
The little victims play.' - 

For in some of the cages thero 
was jnst room enongh for the ex- 
change of a few mutnal pattings 
and tappings; some also, nncon- 
SGionsofthefatnre,werebmshingnp 
their own toilettes. Not a few looked 
as if they wonld gladly have par- 
taken of refreshment ; bat if any had 
been supplied to them at starting it 
must havo served its purpose long 
ago. We did not wonder whether 
we should have rabbit next day at 
dinner at Montpellier; for it was 
evident that, for some days to come, 
rabbit would be on the bill of fare 
of every town along those lines 
of railway; and hereabouts they 
branch into several; but we did 
wonder where cooks could find a 
sufficient variety of receipts to 
make 'rabbit every day' support- 
able. Those innocents, reared at 
Gar])entras, were neither laige nor 
particularly &t; which would en- 
able a respectable minority of them 
to be passed off as ' lapins de sa- 
renne '—genuine wild rabbits, redo- 
lent of marjoram and thyme— if 
introduced to their interior as soon 
as room was made for them, and 
other aromatic herbs, aided by 
peppeTi salt, bay-leaf, and the rest. 
Somebody at Car pentras must have 
studied with profit the tenpenny 

§amphlet, *How to make Ten 
'housand (francs) a Tear by Bear- 
ing Babbits.' I like rabbit well 
enough, and don't object to thrifty 
neighbours; but I hardly think I 
should like to live in a rabbit-rear- 
ing street at Garpentras. 

From Nimes onwards stretches 
a monotonous plain, whose pre- 
vailing colour is bright pea-green, 
covered with vines and olives, 
until we reach Montpellier, passing 
Lunel, a flat, plaster-coloured, un- 



healthy-looking village, with one 
stumpy, stubby church to mark it» 
site; ready uncorked bottles of 
whose strong, sweet, rich, yellow 
muscat wine are offered for sale at 
the station when the train stops; 
But we warn the traveller to be- 
ware of it It is good at its proper 
time and place. Here and now, 
unless liberally watered, it is best 
eschewed. It is of much too heating 
and thirsty a quality, however 
luscious and insinuating, to be 
prudently indulged in at the pre- 
sent season and latitude. It is an 
essence extracted by the vine, with 
the earth's assistance, from the sun, 
which ought to be reserved for 
invigorating invalids exposed to th& 
chills and damps of a northern 
winter. 

People noticing the low, flat-topped 
olive-trees are apt to suppose that 
they are swept into that shape by 
the blasts of the mistral. But even 
though the mistral be capable, as it 
is, of sweeping anything into Bhajae, 
it is not answerable for tins. The 
fashion here, for which we may 
suppose there ia good local reason^ 
or at least old local tradition, is to 
train cultivated trees en gobeUt — 
into a goblet shape— as is success- 
fully practised in some English 
gardens with currant and goose- 
berry bushes and dwarf apple-trees, 
preventing the crowding of branches 
m the centre, and admitting all the 
hght and air possible. Here the 
plan is adopted not merely with 
nruit trees, but also with the mul- 
berry, grown for its leaves for silk- 
worms, and with large ornamental 
shrubs and small flowering trees, as 
the Judas-tree. For instance, Mont- 
pellier exhibits this taste in the 
lower avenues surrounding three 
sides of its boasted public walk, 
the Place du Peyrou. Orange-trees, 
in boxes, trained en gohelet, are te 
be seen in some of the public 
gardens in Paris. 

At Montpellier there seems to 
exist a considerable and wholesome 
competition amongst the hotels. 
Thus we observe, anxiously adver- 
tised, an 'Avis,' informing travel- 
lers that henceforward they will 
lind at the station an onmibus 
which will conduct them, directly. 



A Ban to the South aftet Crealure'Chm/orts, 



215 



mind yon, and without any round- 
abouts or circumlocutioni to the 
Hdtel du Tapis-Vert; proprietor 
M. Bieusset So much the better 
€or the traveller. We went to that 
which has the reputation of being 
the best, the Hotel Nevet; large, 
old established, obliging, with yery 
praiseworthy cookery. Monsieur 
Neyet, a tall old man, now seven^- 
fire years of age, and who served 
Napoleon I. in some capacity, began 
life as a courier. From his in- 
dustry, and doubtless from his me- 
rits and ability, the present large 
establishment arosa In the front 
court, laid out as a garden, are a 
handsome cedar of Lebanon (we have 
those in England, quite as hand- 
«ome); an evergreen magnolia at 
least thirty feet high, with a 
fine straight stem; and a bay-tree 
the tallest I ever saw, and not 
easily matched anywhere. This 
tast is pointed out to you as a proof 
of the mildness of the winter 
climate. It is a tree with a trunk 
of equal thickness to a considerable 
height, more than a yard in circum- 
ference. It IB but sparsely leaved 
And twined, bearing signs of old 
age, but is said to be recovering 
a second youth. Anybody would 
be excusable for exhibiting such 
specimens with complacency, even 
if nobody had an interest in im- 
plying that where certain trees 
cave thriven so well invalids may 
^0 and do likewise. But were I 
the proprietor, I would not adver- 
tise my ' terrasses,' such as they are, 
«8 attractions to the general public; 
because, on approaching one of 
them, yon behold a board on which 
is painted ' Soci6t^ Particuli^re ' — 
Private; or, No Admission, even on 
Business. 

Arriving late, after the table 
d'hdte, we were charged four francs 
and a half, instead of four francs, 
for dinner. I make no complaint 
•of this, because late arrivals give 
•extra trouble ; but the management 
would act wisely and rightly in 
abolishing the half-franc of sur- 
.cbarge, which is anything but a 
general practice. It is useless a^ 
a fine for xmpunctualiiy ; because 
his late arrival is not the traveller's 
faulty but the necessary conse- 



quence of the time-tables. And he 
is sufficiently punished without the 
fine by getting only remnants and 
things warmed np, instead of the 
fresh-cooked articles presented at 
the general meal. 

At breakfast, amongst other good 
things, a Mediterranean species (of 
mussel, I suppose, or nearly akin 
to that genus) — a shellfish not 
found, that I am aware of, in the 
British seas, was served, uncooked 
and unopened, to be opened by 
each guest and eaten like oysters 
(or as mussels and cockles are 
occasionally eaten with ns, and else- 
where), raw. This is called dovis ; 
pronounce dovisse. Note that, in 
the South, the final letter of French 
words is often pronounced when it 
should not. The other day we 
heard a pretty little waitress joked 
by a Parisian buck, because, when 
presenting a dish of tahifis, she 
called it salsifisse. But if you want 
a thing of local production, it is as 
well to know how to ask for it. I 
am therefore glad to be told that 
doviSf in Southern patois, is often 
called finelU, or arseliase, expecting 
shortly to test, on the coast, the 
value of the information. 

We asked to have some of these 
dovissea cooked, «.«., hustled in a 
stewpan without any water. The 
request was granted at once; and 
they were very [nice eating, in the 
full sense of the word— choice, deli- 
cate. These bivalves, about an 
inch and a half long (although they 
are found and sent to table of a 
larger size), were of a rounder oval 
than the common mussel ; the shell 
clean and dear, cloudy bluish-grey. 
We venture to recommend this 
excellent little mollusc to the 
attention of the Acclimatization 
Society. If they can establish it 
here and there along our coasts, 
they will supply a new pleasure 
and a new means of earning a living 
to many Britishers. 

From the Botanic Garden of Mont- 
pellier, which is the oldest in Eu- 
rope, having been founded by, or 
daring the reign of Henri IV., we 
expected great things, but found 
little more than disillusions. It is 
in a sad state of neglect and decline. 
The public might derive from it 



246 



A Bun to the South after Creaiure-Comforts, 



equal benefit aod more amusement 
if it were c<xiverted into a well- 
kept tea-garden. There are Tene- 
zable evergreens and lanky ynocas, 
which may be seen in any old plea- 
mire-gronnd in the South. For the 
rest, ttiere are plenty of mn-np things 
in pots, which in many private 
eBtablishments wonld be harrowed 
away to make leaf-mould. A large 
handsome bosh of Bota macro- 
pkyUa, the broad-leared rosOj refused 
to open its numerous flower-buds. 
If it does not behave better than 
that in England, it is hardly worth 
keeping, unless for its foliage, which 
is singular and striking, though 
scarcely so elegant and graceful as 
that of the Macartney rose. I could 
not learn the name of a little flower- 
ing plant which I had seen used as 
an edging at Avignon. An old 
gentleman, some species of 'con- 
servator,' whose occupation of 
catching small flies with a net (of 
course for scientific purposes) my 
presence interrupted, told me that 
it was a gazcn — all turf-like, car- 
pety, low-growing plants are popu- 
larly called gazons in France ; tnat 
its dwarf habit was the result of 
culture; that it was a crucifer ; that 
he had forgotten its name if he had 
ever known it, which he didn't think 
he had; and that the plants were 
not labelled with their names be- 
cause the funds of the garden were 
very low. I was about to observe 
that it would not require a cart- 
load [of timber nor a nogshead of 
paint to make labels for every plant 
m the garden, if his fly-catching 
pursuits allowed bun the time, 
when he urged his occupations in 
the conservatory (empty) to escape 
from further catechizmg. 

The real and favourite lion of 
Montpellier is the PJace du Peyrou, 
a parallelogram-shaped architectural 
garden, surrounded by stone balus- 
trades, with plenty of stone seats 
in and around it At the further 
end is an elevated sort of Temple 
of the Waters for the supply of 
the town, received from a hand- 
some aqueduct on lofty arches. The 
platform on which this temple 
stands commands a view whose m- 
terest depends on the clearness of 
the atmosphere. The sea and the 



Pyrenees ought thence to be vidbla 
We saw neither; which, however, 
did not make us leas grateftd for 
the shade and the breeze of the 
Place da Peyrou. In the middle 
is a spirited bronze eauestrian statue 
of Louis XIY., whicn struck us as 
being considerably superior to the 
average run of such efngies. 

While lingering on the steps 
which lead to the Temple, we were 
accosted by a woman looking like a 
confidential nurse, who asked, hur- 
riedly and feverishly, if we had seen 
a couple of little diildren 'hauts 
comme 9a,' 'so high,' indicating 
their small stature with her han<L 
' No ;' we answered. 'Why? Have 
you lost them?* 'Tes; depuisdeux 
heures' — for the last two hours. 
And ,she hurried away to continue 
her search. 

What had she been up to during 
the last two hours, leaving the two 
small children to take care of them- 
selves in a public garden? Who 
were the children, French or Eng- 
lish? Townspeople's babes, or 
strangers strayed in a foreign ci^ ? 
In her fright, she gave us no time 
to inquire. But we looked after 
this particularly trustworthy guar- 
dian, remembering Hood's broad 
but truthful woodcut, ' Accustomed 
to the Care of Children '~a nurse- 
maid flirting with a soldier, while 
baby, unnoticed, fieJls into a pond. 
Woe betide poor children confided 
to the chaise of 'very superior 
persons,' who make nursemaiding 
the opportunity for following their 
own devices ! I am far from saying 
that none such are good, but there 
aremany of unknown badness; and 
it is the conceabnent with which 
their badness is covered which 
makes them all the more danger- 
ous. Our babes are like our do- 
mestic animals; they cannot, or 
dare not, complain of the wrongs 
they suffer. And for maltreating 
or straying babes in the wood, there 
is often little choice between a cruel 
uncle and a confidential nurse. 

Of course, as we left Montpellier 
next day, we never knew what be- 
came of the children and their 
model protectress; whether they 
were found immediately afterwards, 
or whether they remain missing to 



A Bun to the South after Creatwe^Comforte, 



247 



the present hour; -whether nurse 
whipped them, and made them hold 
their tongues, except to say that 
they had been wicked children, and 
that tbe &nlt was theirs ; or whether 
they spoke out before she coiild 
whip uxem, and the parents sent 
her off with a month's wages and 
an excellent character. Many of 
these little incidents of travel re- 
mind one of the truth of Alphonse 
Earr's remark that actual biography 
has no sequel, real romance no third 
Tolume. In daily life, the only 
dSiouement we ;meet with is the 
grave; and that* is often an un- 
satisfieuBtory and incomplete denoue^ 
merit. As to the two little chil- 
dren in question, we comforted our 
sympathies with the probability, 
that, at worst, they might only have 
to spend a few weary hours under 
the protection of a commissaire of 
police, before being restored to their 
parents' arms. 

Leaving the Place du Feyrou, a 
few steps to the left down hill, and 
then a few steps in a street branch- 
ing off fsom the Boulevard to the 
ri^t [I like to find my own way 
about a town which I am visiting 
for the first time, instead of taking 
a guide or a commissionaire, and 
suppose the reader may like to do 
the same], will bring you to the 
cathedral, now under repair, and 
not worth the trouble of going to 
but for its very extraordinary porch 
— BO massive in its ugliness as to 
command respect Two cylindrical 
pillars, which cannot be less than 
five feet in diameter, and as tall as 
the church itself, support a little 
roof, which, at that elevation, looks 
mudi like the top of a four-post 
bed. Instead of the superstructure 
overloading the base, the stout sup- 
ports look as if they wondered why 
they were placed there to do so little 
work. 

By mounting the steep lane in 
front of the camedral— Montpellier 
is full of ups and downs— you once 
more reach the central town, with 
its narrow streets and still narrower 
foot-pavements. Tou can hardly 
fiedl to fall upon two covered mar- 
kets, an old one and a new, the 
latter redolent of cheese, salt pork, 
and the refuse of vegetables under- 



going cold infusion in water, with 
which the pavement, in not a few 
places, is drenched for the purpose 
ofuncleanfliness. Barring the smells, 
this modem market is a useful com- 
pendium of the diet, costumes, and 
customs of the country, to be studied 
at leisure under shelter from the 
sun. 

We drove first along a dusty road 
or rather lane, between two stone 
walls, to a summer resort on the 
banks of the Ley, where you can 
see a little green grass and drink 
Seltzer water corrected with liquids 
of stronger potency. Fresh and 
clear running water being scarce 
in these parts, the youth of Mont- 
pellier have xnade of this place a 
swimming-school, where they can 
bathe first and breakfast afterwards 
in trellised birdcages ^overlooking 
the stream, or the pools of what is 
a stream when it nows. And, in 
fact, this little bit of water and 
verdure render the restaurant on 
the banks of the Ley refreshing in 
every sense of the word. Thence, 
escaping the walls, but not the 
dust, we proceeded to the cemetery, 
full of tmrifly cypesses and proft- 
perouB weeds. The latter in places 
were completely laden with clusters 
ofsmall cream-coloured snails. They 
were dormant for the time in conse- 
quence of the drought, the soil bamg 
then baked as hard as a rock. Where 
rank herbage grows, snails may be 
expected anywhere; and we should 
not have noticed them, but that we 
saw the very same snails exposed 
for sale, uncooked, by small saucer- 
fuls, as if they were very choice 
delicacies, in the above-mentioned 
covered market When I say the 
same, I mean in kind, not asserting 
that those identical snails, intended 
for table use, came from the ceme« 
tery. If indeed they had, they 
would have been none the worse, 
but the better, according to the 
theories of natural philosophers. 
We must have phosphates to in- 
vigorate us, wherever they come 
from. It is said that not a little 
bonedust used to stimulate the 
growth of com, has been procured 
from battle-fields. From the same 
source has been obtained animal 
charcoal, for refining sugar. And, 



248 



A Run to the South after Oreature-Comfarts. 



moie frequently years ago, perhaps, 
than now, many a eheep, before 
making the batcher's acqaaintanoe, 
has known the taste of churchyard 



We return, to seek shelter from 
dust and light But though the 
glare of these light-buff southern 
towns pains the [eye of the passen- 
ger, it helps them to radiate the 
sun's heat and tends to keep the 
inmates cool. Walls in hot weather 
should be coloured white outside, 
on the same principle as we select 
for the dog-days a white hat, a 
white suit of clothes, and a white 
umbrella. Were all the houses 
black or dark chocolate-brown, 
during a southern summer their 
inhabitants would be almost baked 
to death. There is a cote rotie^ 
famous for its wine; we can oon- 
ceire an unfortunate viUe rotie ac- 
quiring a notoriety, for human pat- 
ties. 

When you hayo no intention of 
making a sojourn in a place, it is 
astonishing how soon you have done 
with it As our objects lay beyond 
Montpellier, we had very speedily 
taken its measure. Two days' ob- 
servation and two nights' reflec- 
tion told us as much about it as we 
wanted to know at present We 
departed, quite content with the 
Hotel Nevet, and only hoping we 
might never fare worse. But it is 
q/'ter leaving Montpellier that hos- 
telry tribulations begin. There is 
choice enough to satisfy any who 
are not over fiastidioas. For in- 
stance, we heard much in favour of 
the Hdtel Bannel and its cookery. 
It comprises (and I £ancy began as) 
a restaurant, where you can dijeuner 
or dine, without taking up your 
abode in the house. Its fame com- 
menced with some successful mode 
of dressing potatoes, or other unpre- 
tending article of food, and spread 
as it deserved to do. If you want 
a small dinner, composed of a few 
dishes perfectly served— and those 
are the dinners we rejoice to par- 
take of— especially if you wish it to 
compriee some good sample of 
soutnem cookery, there, they say, 
is the place to go. Nevertheless, 
we can only speak of what we 
found; and not having tested B.'s 



cuisine, are bound to repeat that 
the Hdtel Nevet's is very satisfEu;- 
tory. 

From Montpellier to Cette, by 
railway, you skim over a sea of the 
summerly pea-green leaves of the 
vines. The season and the weather 
may have something to do with 
that tint, as also the variety of 
grape principally cultivated; for 
different kinds of vines differ greatly 
in the general tint and tone of their 
foliage, which ' becomes most ap- 
parent when they are grown in 
large masses, as here, and over 
extensive tracts. As we approach 
the coast, appear tree mallows, 
vegetable witnesses who, from John 
o'Groat's House to the Mediter- 
ranean, tell you that the sea is not 
&r distant Speculators, whom 
some consider wild, will tell you 
that aU plants, as well as aniniiAls, 
have sprung from a^juatio ancestors. 
Certainly mere exists a coterie of 
plants, like this tree mallow, the 
tig, and others, which delight to 
linger close to the shores of their 
native element 

We choose a train, 11*42, in the 
morning, which, instead of carrying 
us straight on, allows us to loiter 
more than an hour at Cette, giving 
us an opportunity, if we liked the 
look of it (which we don't), to de- 
cide on stopping there at some 
future time. In a parenthesis it 
is only just and due here to note 
the great politeness and attention 
of the railway of&cials along the 
whole of this hue or lines, the Che- 
mins de Fer du Midi. Were we to 
goto Cette, we should, tiy the Hotel 
Barillon, strongly recommended by 
one who knows it But we hope to 
fiud some more inviting seaside resi- 
dence along this line of coast 

From Marseilles eastward, on the 
Mediterranean shores, there are 
many inviting spots, charmingly 
situated, where a stranger would 
willingly linger for a while, if he 
could only find inn accommodation. 
Some of these we know to be with- 
out it ; in others it still remains a 
matter to be ascertained, as far as 
ourselves are concerned. In several 
where there is now good reception 
for travellers, there was little or 
nothing not very long ago. But 



A Ban to the South after Greature-Comforts. 



249 



where the pictiiresqae, healthy, and 
conrenient site exists, and Nature 
has given what is lequired, the 
enterprising settler can always take 
apartments, or hetter, a house, and 
gradually collect his own proper 
comforts around him. This system 
has been the origin of seversJ now 
celebrated winter retreats. Quiet 
families, with whom the health of 
one or more of their members may 
be a paramount consideration, will 
care little about what is called ' so- 
ciety.' If they like a place well 
enough, or find it suits them well 
enough, to spend three or four 
months in it, they naturally return 
to it at the recurring season. If 
others chose to follow their example 
or not, is to them a matter of little 
moment They haTe found what 
they wanted ; sunshine, shelter, pure 
air, and pleasant scenery. 

But from liarseilles, westward, 
such spots are rare, independent of 
the question of hotels or lodging- 
houses. Ajb yet, we know of none, 
although we have looked out sharp 
for them. Places that promise well 
on the map, when seen, at once tell 
you they won't do, even with the 
passing glance you catch of them 
m)m the railway. If there were eyer 
such good hotels, you would never 
select them as watering - places. 
Along part of the way, in fact, from 
Mon^llier to Perpignan, the rail- 
way demonstrates the melancholy 
truth. It skirts, or runs between, 
the ^tangs, ponds, lagunes, salines, 
and salt-pans, which separate the 
Mediterranean &om terra firma. 
They are curioos, but far from 
beautiful to behold. Hereabouts, 
the shores of the midland sea are 
not only depressed but ahnost de- 
pressing. Square miles of shallow, 
sometimes stagnant water, make a 
sorry fringe to the bright salt 
sea. 

The natives, who have no help 
for it, bear the disappointment and 
cross the barrier as best they can. 
Sometimes, they must and do get 
sea-bathing; but we do not envy 
them the means by which they 
attain that privilege. It seems a 
paradox that the sea should shut 
you out from itself; nevertheless, 
such is the feust Montpellier ad- 



vertises, for strangers, and frequents 
itself, the Bains de Mer de Palavas, 
eleven kilometres, or about seven 
miles, distant, informiog the world 
that, from the ist of July, the om- 
nibus service will commence from 
Daumont's, letter of carriages. Place 
de la Gom^die, at moderate prices, 
with six departures per day. Such 
numerous ' trains ' would not start 
unless there were customers. And 
it appears that at Palavas there 
are villas, ch&lets, cabins, tents, 
with every desirable convenience, as 
near to the sea as the lagoon per- 
mits, which you have to cross be- 
fore you get at the real, unmistake- 
able, though tideless beach— such a 
genuine hooch as we are accustomed 
to in most of the watering-places of 
the United Kingdom. 

Fiontignan, again, famous for its 
perfumed muscat wine, promises 
well on paper, in the immediate 
vicinity of two lakes and the sea. 
In the widely-circulated ' Messa^er 
du Midi ' you read of its capabilities 
for marine recreation. You are in- 
formed of the opening, on the 15th 
of June, of the Grand Hdtel and 
Gaf(^ Bostaurant, kept by Goudard 
the elder, the ooncessionaire of the 
Baios de Mer and of the sporting 
grounds ai^pertaining to them — 
where, during the season, there 
must be snipe and waterfowl, and, 
perchance, even a little fever. 
What awakens one's attention is 
the announcement that there is a 
' snccursale/ or branch house, on 
the beach, for persons who wish to 
take their meals there— implying 
that the hotel itself cannot be on 
the beach, nor very near it— board 
and lodging, seven francs per day, 
and upwards, including your trans- 
port to the beach and your bathing- 
box. M. Goudard has neglected 
nothing to give his hotel all the 
'confortable' which one finds in 
a first-class establishment. Nota. 
One is begged to write beforehand 
in order to secure rooms. 

How athirst the southerners must 
be for salt sea-breezes, if there is a 
likelihood of your arriving at Fron- 
tignan and not finding a resting- 
place 1 On leaving Vic-Mireval, the 
station next before Frontignan, we 
anxiously strained our expectant 



250 



A Bun to the South after Creature-Comforte. 



eyes. We saw manbes, muddy 
streams, rashes, coarse grass, bridges 
crossing sluggish canals, and, wher- 
ever there was quite dry land, 
Tines. Here and there, on the 
banks of the dykes, were what 
looked like thatched cottages with- 
out walls, and consequently without 
doors and windows. It was as if 
somebody had taken ofif the roofo of 
a Tillage and laid them fiat 'Pro- 
miscuously' about the grass. The 
rooms, if rooms there were, must be 
sunk in the ground, which would, 
in all likelihood, introduce them to 
the water. Were these marine yillas 
in a new style of architecture adapted 
to the climate of the region, or were 
they merely salt-houses for storing 
the produce of those interminable 
salt-pans? We did not stop the 
train to get out and see, but after- 
wards learned that the latter con- 
jecture was correct And then ap- 
peared Frontignan. That this bfe 
should be so full of undeceptions 1 
It was impossible to mistake it for 
a pretty place, or for a place that 
by any possibility could ever be 

gretty. A dull, flat, marshy, di- 
pidated-kx)king Tillage, with a 
ditch that somebody had scooped 
out with a fire-shoTel, between a 
couple of hedgeless mud banks, to 
keep out the ooze and slime of the 
lagoon, and allow a boat to reach 
the sandy tongue of beach, beyond 
which lies the real sea. In the 
lagoon lay an unfortunate canoe, 
drawing perhaps nine inches of 
water, hopelessly stuck fast aground, 
and stranded. Bains de Mer, in- 
deed! including mud haths, gratis 
— mud haths enough to bemire and 
besmear, in their capacious slough, 
the whole population of Franc& 
Ting, bell; and whistle, engine! 
roll, wheels, we haTe seen enough. 
We will spend our scTen francs per 
day, and upwards, for board and 
lodging, at some other maritime 
paradise, if such is to be found. 
But how lucky we didn't take 
tickets to Frontignan, on the chance 
of spending an interesting day there, 
especially as the grapes are not yet 
ripe! 

To Gette, hard by, the sea makes 
a somewhat nearer approach. We 
actually saw the breakers. They 



happened to be small that day, but 
are by no means despicable upon 
occasion. At the back of the town 
is a massiTO isolated hill, so high 
that donkey assistance would be ac- 
ceptable to mount it, and sprinkled 
with Tillas and country boxes. It 
]b not wooded enough to be pretty 
or XHcturesque. On the top stBn<£9 
something tiiat looks like a restau- 
rant, whence the Tiew must be ex- 
tensiTe, if not fine. The surround- 
ing country does not supply the 
materials for a grand panorama 
however wide. Odtte is ill-fiuned 
for its dirtiness ; we did not find it 
dirtier- than its neighbours. The 
inhabitants complain of a want of 
fresh water, Tisitors of its distance 
from the sea, so that in no soise is 
it a good watering-place. It is a 
famous place of business, neverthe- 
less ; but as we did not go to it for 
wines or spirits, nor to cheapen oils, 
sardines, vermicelli, corks, or capen, 
we turned our backs on it without 
regret. 

With Cette fled all our hopes of 
fresh sea-breezes hereabouts. The 
railway continues to tantalise you 
by offering them to your lips and 
then snatching them away. Agde 
is not in the equivocal position of 
' one foot on land and one on shore ;' 
it has both feet firmly fixed on land. 
Narbonne the same. It is eight 
long kilomdtns from the Mediter- 
ranean. Of what use is such a place 
to people who want to be within 
hearing and sight of billows while 
they are eating their shrimps and 
bread and butter (or the local sub- 
stitute for them) at breakfast? 
Farther on it is ten times worse. 
Of La Nouvelle, a place doing a 
good stroke of coast-trade businesSj 
and actually containing a popula- 
tion, I can easily give you an idea. 
Take a sandy desert; stir into it as 
much water as will bring it nearly 
to the consistency of a quicksand ; 
let it stand to settle and form one 
or two little channels for the water 
to drain; scoop and scrape out one 
of them into the semblance of a 
canal; drop human dwellings by 
the side of it, opposite to a small 
cluster of masts ; build a new church 
there and a railway station ; cause a 
few douaniers, soldiers, and sailors 



A Bun to the South after Creature-Comforts, 



251 



to crawl abont cautioasly, as if they 
were afraid of sinkiDg in the qttag- 
mire, and yon have La Nouvelle. 
To complete the plctnie, in one 
direction, on the far horizon, stick 
a few white spots, to indicate that 
coasting-Tesfiels may there be sail- 
ing in an open sea, and in the other 
direction pleasant -looking moan- 
tains, so distant as to be useless and 
hopeless, telling cmel tales of the 
freshness and yerdnre which are 
not here. 

Thence to Salces, past Lenoate 
station (which is not a station, bat 
a point where onmibos trains stop ; 
what for, they know better than I 
do)~to Salces is the same theme 
with Tariations. The rocky pro- 
montory of Lencate gives hopes 
which it does not fulfil. It is an 
ntter solitude. Wayside human 
habitations are yery few and far 
between. One dilapidated, lonely 
fiurm, approached by an avenue of 
weatherbeaten almond-trees, struck 
me as a retreat to which a criminal 
pursued by justice might retire in 
perfect confidence. At Biyesaltes 
(another low, unbaked-bread co- 
loured, small town, celebrated for 
its delicious sweet white wine, of 
the same class as those of Lunel 
and Fronti^an) you haye left the 
lagoons behind, and are again in 
the midst of a yine-ooyered plain. 
For seaside pleasures we must hit 
upon a different geological forma- 
tion. The next station after Biye- 
saltes is Perpignan, the chef-lieu, 
or as we should say the county 
town, of the department of the 
Pyr^n^s Orientales. At the above 
places, I do not speculate about 
the inn accommodation, though the 
thought of what it may be makes 
me shudder; because if any gene- 
rous benefactor were to present us 
with a house and grouncus there, to 
improve and arrange acc(»rding to 
our own devices, and not sell but 
inhabit and enjoy, we should re- 
spectfully decline the boon, pre- 
ferring a chamber surrounded by 
pleasant objects to a mansion in a 
medium of unpleasantness. 

At Narbonne was a halt for change 
of train, not long enough to be tire- 
some, but long enough to stretch 
your legs. It is the junction of the 



railways proceeding to Oette from 
the different directions of Bordeaux 
and Perpignan — the southern meet- 
ing-point of the east, the west, and 
the utmost south ; for at Perpignan 
are diligences which cany you 
across the Pyrenees into Spain. You 
can go still further south, by rail- 
way, in France, namely, as &r as 
Port Vendres, whence the railway 
may proceed onwards into Spain one 
of these days ; but at present, there, 
you are in a blind alley, a cul de 
sac, the bottom of a bag. There is 
a carriage-road as fiur as Banyuls- 
sur-Mer. If you wish thence to 
p0S8 into the Peninsula, you must 
do it in a boat, on mule-back, or on 
foot At both those places. Port 
Vendres and Banyuls, of which yon 
shall hear more anon, we are pro- 
mised a bit of real sea. 

Of Perpignan I have little to say, 
and should be glad to say even less. 
Outside the station was a great 
bustle, partly caused by a compe- 
tition of diligences for Spain, partly 
by inn-touters and their omnibuses. 
In a moment of economical weak- 
ness, from which the wisest and the 
wealthiest are not exempt, we had 
let £eill a half-formed intention of 
going to a second-class hotel, and 
were instantly taken at our word, 
caught up, and carried off. l^er- 
pignan,,they say, is too near to 
Spain to be comfortable, according 
to northern notions. Otiier places 
along the Pyrenees are just as near 
the frontier, and yet are clean and 
comfortable; but they have less fre- 
quent communication and littie old- 
established familiarity with their 
ultramontane neighbours. They 
don't adopt their neculiarities in 
eating, drinking, nouse-building, 
and bed-making. Great caution, it 
is stated generally, is to be exer- 
cised in choosing a hotel at Per- 
pignan. We had been 'sent on' 
with orders to go to the Hotel Bosc, 
and it was in some degree owing to 
our human perversity in not choos- 
ing to be sent on too often that, to 
our sorrow, we did not go to the 
Hotel Bosc. The reader will profit 
by our mistake, and prefer Bosc, 
where at least you can breathe, as 
it looks out on the fresh green grass 
and trees of the ramparts, to intra- 



252 



A Bun to the SoiUh after Oreature-ComfarU. 



mnial dens and dungeons. And, 
to embitter oar too-late repentance, 
we are assured Bosc's charges are 
by no means high. 

Whether in consequence of the 
stifling atmosphere at the bottom of 
deep wells and ravines called courts 
and streets, or other unseen but not 
unfeit cause, we slept badly, all of 
us, that night, rose early, and re- 
solved to make our escape forth- 
with. Luckily, in the diligence 
that was to start for Am^lie-les- 
Bains at 1 1 a.m., there siill were 
vacaot places not absohitely where, 
but exactly in the number, we 
wanted; some below, some above, 
some behind, some in front Tri- 
umphing in the discovery, I did not 
leave the office till the receipt for 
those places was safe in my pocket. 
We snould not be, as we wished, 
together, but we should be em- 
barked in the same ponderous, hos- 
pitable, terrestrial Noah's Ark, tra- 
versing something less monotonous 
than a dull, flat plain, sometimes 
watery sometimes leafy, but, of 
whatever kind, apparently inter- 
minable in extent We should soon 
be fairly amongst the hills, and be 
rising, now imperceptibly, now quite 
perceptibly, to the respectable ele- 
vation of more than seven hundred 
fiaet above the sea level. 

It was hot, although anywhere 
else, and after a better night^s rest, 
we might not have complained of it. 
We had suffered more from heat 
between Boulogne and Paris than 
along the whole distance from Paris 
to Perpignan. The night-flight 
from Paris to Avignon was a great 
success; but in Perpignan, wiQi its 
narrow, crooked streets and its lofty 
houses, whoso upper stories stretch 
forward to shake hands with oppo- 
site neighbours, we were almost 
stifled. We perfectly appreciated 
the luxury to the inhabitants of ice 
being retailed there at ten centimes 
the kilo, or less than a halfpenny per 
pound avoirdupois, and showing at 
least one advantage of the vicinity 
of mountains in a warm climate. I 
went to the market for strawberries, 
to moisten our lips during the ride 
to Amelie, and there saw, amongst 
other strange things, fowl-butchers, 
of whom you could buy the half. 



the quarter, and even less, of a fowl. 
The blood drawn in killing the said 
fowl was also offered to a hungry 
public for sale. 

We are in a strange country, 
amongst a strange race, with blood 
in their veins having no affinity to 
our own. Their complexion and 
the expression of their countenances 
are alien to what we have been ac- 
customed to. Happily not ' a lion,' 
as the parish clerk made it when he 
read ' I am a lion to my mother's 
children.' While waiting for the 
horses to join the diligence, the time 
is beguiled by what threatens to be 
a fight between a porter and one of 
the superior authorities of the office. 
Though French is spoken to passing 
strangers, the interlocutory language 
is Catalan patois, a mixture of 
Spanish, Italian, Latin, Arabic, and 
french, with the addition of sundry 
native and imported roots. Catalan, 
we are told, was once an official 
language under the kings of Arra- 
gon. Works of considerable his- 
torical value still exist in Catalan; 
but as the Arragoneee dynasty has 
passed away, sharing the &te of the 
fdngs of our Saxon Heptarchy, I 
have never learnt Catalan, and never 
shall; consequently I did not under- 
stand the compliments that passed 
between the porter and his em- 
ployer. The former, however, after 
ceasing personal strife, struck work 
pantomimically, and sat down on 
his barrow with an expression of 
face which said that it was great 
forbearance on his {Murt not to cut 
the other's throat with the sharp- 
edged, sharper-pointed, gay-handled 
Catalan kmfe bie had in his pocket 

Luckily he was not the only por- 
ter in the world, nor even in Per- 
pignan. In spite of the want of his 
visible aid, the luggage was piled on 
the top of the diligence, and we 
drove to the post-office to receive 
the letters. There, a brother porter 
climbed up to me and demanded a 
tip for his assistance. I offered him 
half a franc as a sufficient extra to 
the office charges ; but he naade a 
face so piteous, so remonstrative, so 
appellant to my feelings as a gen- 
tleman, without the least insolence, 
that I immediately changed it for a 
franc. The franc was received with 



Poppies in (he Com, 



253 



another look, the same in kind, 
thongh less intense in degree; so, 
remembering the worthies of his 
class in Italy (who, if yon give them 
five francs will ask for ten, and if 
yon give them ten will insist npon 
twenty, and who acknowledge in 
their confidential and im^nlsive mo- 
ments that they are ' mai contenti,' 
never content), I told him to be 
satisfied and go about his business. 
He did the one if he was not the 
other. 

Immediately there followed, to 
make a like claim on a fellow-pas- 
senger, the combative, pantomimic, 
work-striking man of burthens, who 
had no more thought of striking for 
the diligence than I have of str&ng 
for ' London Society.' My compa- 
nion, a lieutenant in the French 
navy, gives five sous. Grimace?, 
beating those addressed to me hol- 
low, because tfiese were mischievous; 
immense indignation. 'How was a 
man, with br^ to earn, to live like 
that ? Take that ? That enough ? 
Never; no, never, till the Grand 
Never. Take them back yourself,' 
and that not in Catalan, but in quite 
intelligible French. The sous were 
dashed, not to the ground, but on 
the board sustaining the leather 
apron. Not to prolong the dialogue, 
in which urgency of extortion was 
met by equal firmness of resistance, 
at the moment when our steeds 
were starting, the sous were taken 
with the thankful remark, 'Never 
will I work for you again.' It 

{To he 



would seem that this industrious 
Catalan earns his living by refusing 
to work. 

Along the road (this being the 
middle of June) they are already 
cutting wheat and oats. There are 
even lands ploughed after carrying 
the harvest. Green peas are over, 
all but a few exceptionally tardy 
samples; but there are plentiful 
supplies at table of broad beans, 
French beans, strawberries, and 
cherries; other fruits are not yet 
ripe, but will be soon. In the south, 
in the plain, I have nowhere seen 
either currant, gooeebeny, or rasp- 
berry-bushes—nor windmills. As 
we advance, although now fairly in 
the mountain, we are still sur- 
rounded by olive-trees, vines, and 
other southern crops. The hedges 
show bright scarlet-bloomed pome- 
granates, with occasional patches of 
aloes and clumps of that innocent- 
looking but formidable stop-thief,, 
the Christ's Thorn, Bhamnus pali- 
urus. There are ilexes where there 
is room for them ; and one or two 
wayside cork trees are seen, but they 
cannot be allowed to count We 
reach the Baths of Am^Iie— which 
appear a perfect paradise after windy 
Dauphiny and flat, dusty Langue- 
doc— about five in the afternoon, 
allowing us each to rinse ourselves 
well in hot mineral water, to dine, 
and go to bed with the cocks and 
hens, with a private band of black- 
birds and nightingales to serenade 
us. 

E. S. D. 
continued,) 



POPPIES m THE COBN; 

OR, GLAD HOURS IN THE GRAVE YEARS.— No. VIIL 

Bt thi Authob 07 'Thb Habtest ov A QuixT Ete,' &C. 



AN AUTX7MN WALE. 



IF dull Care, which sits behind the 
horseman (as most people have 
heard at least once in their lives), 
can be eluded, and if the heart be 
light, and the step springy, and the 
brow clear, and the internal ma- 
chinery well oiled; and life, just 



then, a glad thing both for mind 
and body— under these propitious 
circumstances there is hardly any 
recreation to bo placed above a good 
walk, hardly any poppy which I 
would rather gather out of the long^ 
rows of busy days. In company ; 



2M 



Popfim m ike Cam. 



tinu it is deligfatfal: akme; this haa 
alto ita delighta. AUme, howeTer, I 
repeat, it mtut be :— if that veaiy- 
&06d, brow-fleamed oompanion, of 
which I spoke joat now, be lil^y 
to draw near, and take your ann« 
and, regardless of with-yonr-leaye, 
or by-yonr-leave, insist on inter- 
spersing every incident, view, ob- 
ject, pfttise, or progress, with his 
joy-kiUinf; remarks, the Tery last 
thing which I woold recommend for 
yonr recreation would be a walk 
alone (so-called) throngh whaterer 
scenery. 

'Ont mom I pot my hMii to sleep, 
And to Uie lanes I took my way.' 

Thns one writes ; bat how nseless 
was this make-beliere ; howyainto 
slip, howerer stealthily, ont of the 
back door, leaving Care, doll Oaie 
Cyon thought), asleep in the porloor. 
You have hardly gone a hundred 
yards, before (with that 'odious mat- 
ter-of-course fiftmiliarity) his arm is 
locked within your own, and you 
are deep in busy, anxious conversa- 
tion with him. Ton stop at a stone 
set all over with vivid dwarf moss, 
and tiny turquoise fo^et-me-not. 
You pause to admire and love it; 
but lo ! it vanishes from you socm in 
an abstraction, even while you bend 
over it, for your ill companion is 
plying you with anxious considera- 
tions as to how that pile of bills at 
home may be diminished, and a 
fresh, free start made on a better 
plan. Or you are leaning on a 
fence, looking throngh trees at the 
gleam of a wide shallow river; the 
cool that comes from it always is 
delicious to your heated brow ; the 
crisp brattle of the ever-rushing 
watera brings lulling and refresh- 
ment to your brain. It is but for 
a moment; the plashing murmur 
has passed from your regard, the 
grey, leaden gleam among the 
alders is not perceived any longer, 
even though you are still looking at 
it ; the eyes are fixed, but the brain 
has been called off. 'Ah!' that 
malicious comrade has whispered, 
' How lonely your life will be now 
all hope of winning her is goneT 
And the picture that you drew a 
veil over, and thought to forget for 
at least a whUe in your walk; the 



picture of that face whose very 
sweetnesB is your in uipt e ssi ble sad- 
ness, is, in a moment, with cruel dis- 
tinctnees» held before your thought. 

' Thus did she look, on sodi a dsy, 
And Midi the faafak» of her hsir; 

And tfaos she stood, vbeo. stooping low. 
Yon took the bramble from ho* dnsst 

And thns she Icogbed and talked, wboee "No ** 
Was sweeter then aootho's • Tes."' 

Ah ! no wonder that the cool nnnv 
mur and the cool gleam faded quite 
from your mind, and that your brow 
sets, and your head is bent, and 
your eyes moodily fixed on the road, 
as you turn with a sigh to pursue 
your unrefreshing widk with your 
inexorable and unshakeo&ble oom- 
panion. You should not have done 
it, you know; the very hist thing 
that you should have devised by 
way of recreation and diversiim of 
thought was this walking tour, 
alone, but indeed with this kiU-jpy 
comrade 1 ' Laid yovr heart to sleep^ 
had vou? Tis too light a sleeper, 
and nowever you stole away on tip- 
toe, there it is, after the first few 
minutes, standing up in the crib, 
and that wearying perpetual wail 
has bogun again. 

• • While thns I went to fttadnees fain, 
I had bat walked a mile or twain. 
Before my heart woke np again. 

As dreaming she had slept too late; 
The morning freshness that she viewed 
With her own mesning she endued, 
And touched with her soUcitude 

The natures she dU meditate.' 

No ; the solitary walk is but a 
slow and refined torture under cir- 
cumstances likethesa If troubled 
with a mental toothache, and de- 
sirous of a lull, you must take some 
other pursuit as your prescription. 
Gardening or carpentering; these 
ore both adnurable for quite absorb- 
ing the mind until Care's ever-toll- 
ing bell at first is muffled and pre- 
sently is unheard. At least this is 
true of minor worries, and mattera 
which are more anxieties than sor- 
rows; making a bee-house or alter- 
ing a garden-bed won*t make you 
forget for even a while that you 
have buried your bonny boy, or 
your life*s hope, or that you have 
committed a murder. But the pro- 
cess is an admirable one for taking 



Poppies in the Com. 



255 



your mind clean away from the de- 
pressing routine of the office in 
which yon have to sit all the long 
spring and snmmer days ; or from 
the contention of philosophy, his- 
tory, mathematics, <&c., in the head 
of the intending double-class man. 

Tes, ayoid the lonely, even though 
lovely, walk, if yon cannot really 
be idone; as you would avoid the 
roasting yourself at a slow fire. If, 
however, things are so with you 
tiiat you can for those days count 
reasonably (amid the changes and 
chances that yet must always peril 
it) upon Hm gay, blithe boy-heart 
again, there is, I repeat, nothing in 
the way of recreation more intensely, 
exquisitely enjoyable to the man 
with an eye for seeing, a mind for 
appreciating, and a heart for loving, 
than a leisure walk through fair 
scenery. 

Let me recall such a walk, one 
link in that pleasant chain yclept a 
walking tour. Half of the chain 
welded with that of a dear com- 
panion : half fashioned in solitude. 
Care, dull Care ; ah, I had eluded 
tiiee then! I had gone, and left 
thee no address; the wrinkles were 
ironed out of my brow ; the song of 
younger days welled up sponta- 
neously now and then. I need 
hardly say that one would not wish 
it always, not very often, but it is, 
as I have said or sung before in 
these idle papers, an exhilarating 
feeling to have sometimes, the feel- 
ing that for a few weeks you have 
nothing to do, a gap in a life of in- 
cessant occupation, if not of hard 
work; a blank space in the dose- 
written pages. Nothing to do but 
to please and amuse yourself^ I 
really think that of all people who 
can enter the most fully mto the 
relief and delight of such an occa- 
sional sorpriso the parson is the ona 
However he loves his labour, it is a 
thing always with him, and its influ- 
ence must necessarily have a strong 
dei>res8ing element, from the fact 
wmch is obvious—that so much of 
it must be, or must appear, labour 
in vain. Then his whole life (if he 
be a fiedthful servant) is one of self- 
denial : he has not, aa the business 
man ha8,'any time certainly^ to call 
his own; much of his work* lies in 



the evening, when others are enti- 
tled to rest ; and Sunday brings few 
vacant hours to him. He is not 
his own, nor expects, nor wishes to 
be: he is a servant first of that 
Master the least ray of whose help- 
ing and approving love brightens 
his heart really more than all the 
glad sunshine of any world's joy 
could do : and he is also the servant 
of every one, the greatest and least, 
the oldest and youngest, in the 
parish: he has a concern in the 
concerns of every man, woman, and 
child in it. They are his family, 
under his care ; and what with lus 
consciousness of his own inadequacy 
and shortcomings, and what with 
his anxiety for l^em, and continual 
apparent fulure in his work for 
them, you will allow that, though 
peace imderlie it, there is yet much 
care in his lot. The business man 
achieves so much day by day ; the 
work is done, and successfully done, 
so far as it goes. But fJEmcy if he 
had to keep accounts, very few of 
which would have any reasonable 
likelihood of being correct, and do 
work a great deal of which was 
next to certain to end in Mhjie : to 
number that which next timo would 
be firand wanting; to make straight 
that which a week after would in all 
probability have started aside into 
crookedness again : and then grant 
that there would be wear and tear 
in such work. Thus you wUl be 
able to enter sympathetically into 
my elasticity of spirits, and light 
springiness of foot, as I sally forth, 
on a warm autumn morning; break- 
faat over; the long day before me; 
forth from my cozy little lodgings 
just under Tintem Abbey, for a 
walk (a first visit) to the Wyndcliff, 
and to Chepstow Castle. Sweet 
Tintern ! I will not speak of thee 
in an episode, I, thy lover, am pur- 
posed to pen one day a whole paper 
in thy praise. I pass thee Imger- 
ii^Sly* lovingly, reverently ; as I 
turn my back on thee and wend my 
way by the upper road, old and im- 
practicable for wheels, towards the 
Wynddiff. Often I fiGuse back to 
regard thee, changing in aspect as I 
fofiow the path and ascend the hill; 
at last thou art fiir below me, grey 
with thy green larch against the 



256 



Poppiei in iKe Com, 



oolonred hillside; a few steps more 
— walking backward—and I have 
lost thee. Then I am able to go on 
merrily, with nndistracted mind, to- 
wards the grandeur and beauty 
which I am delightfully anticipating. 
Certainly a lovely bit of old un- 
used road. Through the hedge I 
spy the dry bed of a mountain 
streamlet, the banks moss-covered, 
and fern drooping from the green 
stones. Far from the dust and 
drought, green, doubtless^ all the 
year, under the roof of clematis, 
honeysuckle, and wild rose, shut in 
by nut and maple; how quiet a 
fiury valley ! I dare say the squirrel 
races across it, and bead-eyed mice 
flit, rather than move, about it; and 
the chiffchaff gives the word for the 
wild hyacinths to ripen into blue : 
and the silver laugh of the willow- 
wren peals above it, and sprinkles 
the leaves with that light rain of 
sound; and, for ruder noises there 
is the scolding of the blackbird if 
any obnoiious mtruder should move 
his.ire. And soft winds sigh through 
it ; ' and there is the patter and rustle 
and rush of showers above it; and 
in the still autumn days the slight 
excitement of a nut, making its 
way through the yellowing leaves. 
What a secluded miniature dell! 
No wonder the tall or drooping 
plumes of ferns keep so lush and 
green, and last on through the win- 
ter, which levels the hollow with a 
smooth sward of snow. Or some- 
times, after a thaw or long rains, a 
twisting cataract rushes down it, 
whirling away the sodden leaves 
which thought to have rested there 
in that long fosse for ever in peace. 
Then the hedges are lit with the 
scarlet hips and deeper haws, and 
some branches are dressed with 
clustered wealth of blue-purple 
sloes. I leave this tiny glade with 
some regret, remembering, however, 
that, after all, it is but the first 
course of the day's feast And now 
I have attained to a considerable 
height, and looking back, can descry 
some distant black, stem-looking 
ranges of Welsh hills appearing 
above their wood-clad kin that shut 
me round beneath in the valley. 

A quiet stretch of cultivated table- 
land ; a farm at which I ask my way, 



and now I am close to the moment 
which, for this famous view, will 
change anticipation into memory. 
I am just above the point; ap- 
proaching it by the upper road, I 
drop down upon it, and get the 

Corama suddenly complete, not 
ing forestalled it by driblets in 
ascending. I pause for a moment : 
there is always a reluctance to turn 
a keen fature enjoyment into a how- 
ever delightful past experience. I 
have this feeling especially with a 
new poem of Tennyson's. Still no 
doubt a possession is more valuable 
than a hope: let me descend and 

secure this. 

•» * * « 

And this is the view from the 
Wyndcliff. How long have I been 
here, still, wrapt in speechless ad- 
miration, and deep content? A 
grand and lovely view indeed. A 
double-tier balcony of stone ended 
my descent through the trees, and 
on this I am sitting. A bad head 
is mine for looking down steep 
places, and I lean very gingerly 
forward to look over the parapet 
A sheer and lofty cliff standing out 
of the wood which lies at its feet, 
and stretches down, a marvel of 
colours, hues, tints, to a green strip 
of pasture meadows, and the wind- 
ing Wye. How one thinks at once 
of the feeling of toppling over, losing 
the clutching hold, and then down, 
down, and the crash into the sea of 
trees below, worse than that fidl of 
the youth from tilie top of a four- 
teen-storied house at Edinburgh, 
of whom it is related that his grave 
meditations resolved themselves into 
outspoken comments on his way 
down. A gentleman standing in a 
balcony about half-way up the house 
heard the solemn remark as he sped 
by, 'Eh! what a elite 111 get!* 
How lovely, this looking down on 
the foliage, masses of all colour 
and hue, orange and red, and pur- 
ple and sienna, and yellow and 
green, studded with very many dark 
yew-trees, distinct from and en- 
hancing the delicate, frail decay- 
colours. But even these had arrayed 
themselves wiUi a very illumination 
of rose-berries. I never saw them in 
such fruit, tiny, innumerable, fairy- 
lamps stringing all the branches 



Poppiei in the Com. 



267 



flLnd below and beyond all this 
l)eaut7, a sort of theatre shutting 
in gxeen fields smooth and Tiyid as 
lawns ; here and there dotted with 
the red white-iaoed Hereford cattle. 
The Wye winding wonderfolly 
tbioagh these meadows, and nnder 
woodS hills, crowned by terraced, 
tree-crested clifGs, standing out of 
olasping woods. Stem and hard 
they looked, the bare and rugged 
cliffs, with the woman-wood clasping 
their knees — 

" He added not. aod trom her tamed : but Eve,^ 
Not 10 repulfled, with lean that ceased not 

flowing, 
And tresaes all disordered, at his feet 
Fell hamble ; and embracing them, beaonght 
Hit peace, and thus proceeded in her plaint : ' 
^Foruke me not tbiia. Adorn 1 witnen 
Heaven 
"What love sincere and reverence in my heart 
*i bare thee^ and unweeting have offended, _ . 
Unhappily deceived I Thy enppliant 
I be^ and dasp tby knees !" ' 

Thns &ncifally I parallel the 
lowly tree-grace^ and the lofty cliff- 
sternness, and easily find human 
analogies in the pathos of natar& 

Bat my trouble is the river, this 
winding Wye. Do I not remember 
it clear and full, and deep and grand, 
flowing past the woods, and brim- 
ming up to the meadows of fair 
Herefordshire; the silver Wye, the 
abundant Wye. And now what do 
I see ? Deep muddy banks, and a 
shrunken stream flowing low down 
between them. Is this my darling 
river ? How can I understand the 
change? I seem to have lost an 
old friend. I suppose the long 
drought of that year accounts for 
the meagre waters, now the tide is 
out, and leaves the river 

' Vocal in ita wooded walls.' 

and I must wait for full enjoyment 
until 

* The salt lea-water paaara by. 
And rashes half the babbling Wye, 
An^ niakea a sii»"<^ in the hills.' 

Audio I already it is setting back 
again; the seaweed is drifting fiut 
inland : the channel is rapidly fill- 
ing, the mud banks sinking lower; 
and I seem to have watched but a 
little time before if not my silver 
Wye, at least my full Wye, has taken 
away my one regret and disappoint- 
voifc xvL— HO. xcra. 



meni And Ux over the coloured 
woods, and rugged clifGs, the yellow 
sea has returned and covered the 
mud banks of the Firth, and the sun 
has hammered a broad plate of the 
water into wrinkled, dented, beaten 
brass. 

In looking at a landscape like 
this, you first admire ife, and are 
content for a long while to admire 
it, as a whole. Then you begin to 
pick out, and to appreciate, and to 
dwell upon and gloat over, the 
details. How delicious in colour, 
that long rugged rampart of Ban- 
nager crag, quite bare, except just 
at the yery summit, as though 
scathed by some wide lightning 
sheet. The grey limestone singu- 
larly beautiful, out of the tiiousaod 
coloured hues. One part had been 
lately quarried, and the stone there 
was warm-tinted; time had not yet 
toned and hallowed it into that ca- 
thedral-grey. My eyes dwell for a 
long time upon this grand titanic 
wall, passing thence again to the 
river, full now, and, a&r its won- 
derftd curves which make an island 
almost of part of the valley, disap- 
pearing behind a bold-outlined hill, 
tree-clad, rock-varied. Beyond, it 
appears, leaving Chepstow, the 
chapel of whose castle could well be 
seen, and the smoke of the town 
behind the hilL Here it joins the 
Severn, that has before shown its 
distant gleam behind the rooky ram- 
part Then stretches the wide Firth 
of this river onening into the Bristol 
Channel. And, furthest, spreads the 
sunlight, burnishing the sea. 

But while I waited, I heard a 
bustling noise in the oak above my 
head, and lo, a squirrel, busy and 
blithe! These little creatures in 
their free state have a vast charm 
for me ; I have not often been where 
they are abundant And I can fancy 
the delight of the Londoner, accus- 
tomed to see them only in the Pan- 
theon bird-room (alas, only a me- 
mory now!)— or in the Regent's 
Park Gardeos (soon, there is a 
mournful whisper, to become the 
same:) — or ou a vendor's hand in 
the streets ; I can fancy, I say, the 
delight of seeing the little creatures, 
free and happy and with no price 
on their heads^ running with their 
s 



S58 



Poppiei t» ih^ CortK 



lengtiiof tadl acxoBS the path, or up 
the laree-tnink; sitting on their 
hranches, with the train become a 
Btandaid, eating, or watching with 
bead-like eyes, while they clean 
their whidcered face; anon, af- 
frighted or playful, dashing, rather, 
li^tly flying, it seems,— from bough 
to bongh, or from tree to tree, agile, 
bird-like, but yet giying as a ohimge 
fcomi birds:— for tree-animals are 
few with u& All this is a delight, 
eyen where it is not also a wonder ; 
and for myself I love to keep a 
breathless quiet, and watch the 
moyements and ocmduct of crea- 
tores that gradually then cease to 
be suspicious and become at their 
ease. Thus I have watched for a 
long while with much satisfaction, 
water-rat, shrew-mouse, ring-ouzel, 
squineL Presently^ howerer, on 
this occasion, my friend disappeared 
into a retreat in a tree with a thick 
head of ivy ; and so I went on with 
my landscape. Again he appeared, 
but almost directly re-entarod his 
xetiremiant. Here I acted in a way 
which will not bear relating, spoil- 
ing the harmony of the spirit of the 
woods; I bombarded the; ivy castle 
with rotten sticks and pebbles,—- not 
to harm, I need not say, but to scare 
him out For a time he stood the 
siege; then, on a sudden, the sally- 
port was thrown open, there was a 
rush, and a bound, and a little long 
red flash, that leapt firom tree to 
tree. A guilty feeling came over me 
to have diBturbed his confidence. 

A trifling incident,.! grant But 
somehow I, fancy tiiat it may have 
its passing interest not only for me, 
who remember it, but for others 
condemned to pass much of the fair 
year where there are no free squir- 
rels, in the hard work of London 
offices, or London society. The 
poppy-petals are, in truth, fragile ; 
yet you pluck the flower lightly 
without stopping, as you pass the 
crowded bank, and you find a mo- 
ment's pleasure iu the wrinkled 
scarlet, and glossy black, even if 
you throw it away and forget it the 
next. And if it gave a moment's 
pleasure let us imagine the gentle, 
humble-hoarted, if gaily-attired 
thing, content; and conscious that 
it has not lived and died in vain. 



Enough of apology: it is time, 
moreover, that I descend the hill, 
and get into the road to Chepstow, 
whose town, especially whose castle, 
is included in my bill of fiuDe for the 
day. 

And now I have a renewed en- 
joyment of the view. True, it 
lesasns, and narrows; soon I lose' 
the wide waters of the Firth and 
the Bnstd Channd: and the great 
amphitheatre of the hills shuts ia 
the view, with no suggested dis- 
tance beyond. Still, I get my pa- 
norama cut up into pictures ; and 
these framed oy the trees under 
which I am walking, and through 
which I catch glimpses of the 
glories beyond. Just now, it waa 
all background, now l^re is tree- 
foreground too. And under my^ 
feet, not a deep abyss ending in a- 
billowy ocean of foliage, but firm 
forest-paths, gracefully littered with 
the wealth of the woodlands : bronze- 
leaves lined with frosted silver : thin 
patinds of tarnished gold, eaten all 
over into holes: brown leaves, and 
leaves of &ded crimson, and cri8p> 
rolls of dull buff or maroon. And 
I descend, and I descend, and still 
I pause with a new treat. Oh it is a 
great, an inestimable boon to be 
gifted with this capacity for appre- 
ciative enjoyment; to find glean- 
ings everywhere, and harvests onr 
special occasions! You may see, 
yoa have seen, tourists 'doing' a 
place like this; 'doing' Dovedale; 
* doing ' Tintem ; ' doing ' the Alps, 
or Niagara ; all just as a matter of 
business or as the necessary pre- 
liminary to the great delight of the 
day and the expedition, viz., the 
inevitable and heavy feeding to 
which it leads. The appetite which 
the change of scene and air, and the 
unwonted exercise, give; this, be- 
lieve me, is often the true delight 
of your London tourist A party 
of these sight-seers, (name-carvers;) 
we met in Dovedale ; hollaing and 
larking; my brother waxed indig- 
nant; would have turned them out, 
had he been autocratic ; I reasoned 
with him, on the Uve-and-le^ 
live principle. ' Yon have yonr 
refined, let them have their vulgar 
enjoyment; each is ^joying him- 
self, though in a diflerent mode.' 



Poppies in the Conk 



259 



He gnimbled in reply; bat I am 
bound to say that I also was etag^ 
geied when farther np, and on oar 
inquiring of a yonthfol toarist (one 
of JLeech's) as to how mnch fiEurther 
we ooold go, or as to whether we 
ooald get to Thor's CaTem, he'^di- 
rected as, but assured us feelingly, 
that we i^ould not find a 'Pub ' all 
the way. A 'Fab' in Dovedalel 
The very trout might have leapt 
fiom the stream in dismay. 

Howeyer, I am not now in Doye* 
dale, but on the lower road, at last, 
to Chepstow. Here I was flanked 
with rich wood on either hand, and 
oould more dosely wonder at the 
crimson^strung yews. I leani£(>r a 
time by the road-side; a mass of 
automn-strioken foliage yet under 
me. Never tired was I of contrast- 
ing^ that rich dark green of the stad- 
ding yews with the lighter yariety 
that embedded them; nor of look- 
ing from scarlet to orange, and 
thence to the frail wan green that 
had gone back to look (in Tain) for 
the fresh and vivid spring tint, 
after a heavy summer sameness; 
thence to a glare of yellow ; and so 
to a ^bewildering mosaic of colour 
and tint, until pulled up short and 
righted by the emphasis of one of 
my red-fruited black-green friends. 
There was here also a lovely lower 
view of the Wyndcliff scena How 
grand the abrapt and inexorable 
w^Uing in of the Wye-valley; the 
grey range of terraced limestone 
standing out of the colour, crowned 
with a grave sreen; the mufiGLed 
sky (for it had clouded over) in 
beautiful harmony. 

On, however, on; for there was 
much to be done. And so the 
stately Wyndoliff and its clasping 
woods were left behind, and I found 
me before long in a straight dull 
road, which ran on with little variety 

for a mile or two. 

« « * * 

And this is Chepstow Castie. A 
grand ruin, with its round grey 
towers, and wails built on the per- 
pendicular cliff that rises sheer and 
sudden from the bank of the Wye; 
the rampart, indeed, that checked 
the wanderings of the erratic river. 
A grand old ruin, grandly placed, 
fixed and stolid beside the swift- 



gliding water ; seeming to grow out 
of the solid rock, as old, and ap- 
parently as enduring as that Na- 
turally one looks at these proud but 
fallen relics of an ancient time with 
a certain d^ree of compassionate 
sentiment. They have outlived the 
days of their glory and their might, 
we might think of Keats's dethroned 
Titans as we contemplate their fallen 
grandeur and despised strength. 
How strong they were, how almofit 
impregnable; and now a few rounds 
of our modem artillery would shake 
their hnge towers and heavy walls 
into a heap of shapeless ruins. Yet 
(however we feel inclined to insult 
them with our bemoaning) they ask 
not our compassion, they accept it 
not Sternly and grimly they frown 
at the frivolities and lightnesses 
about them, never condescending 
to relax their severity. The sun- 
light at evening rests upon them 
and lights their summits and the 
rounded towers. But the warm 
light only brings out more dis- 
tinctly the roughness and scars, 
the dents and ravage of 8i^;es and 
many wearing years. Gaunt, scarred 
veterans, they know not how to 
smile. The graceful ivy crowns 
their turrets with victor's garlands ; 
they do but suffer apathetically that 
she work her will: she caiefally 
hides the deep dents and the mined 
breaches, and kindly and tenderly 
clothes the weatherbeaten sides; 
but that ungracious abstraction 
still remains as before. Spring 
comes, 'feeling kindly to all, and 
adorns the grey ruins with a thou- 
sand touches of loveliness and 
grace; but her blackthorn spray, 
or her unrolling ferns, or the deli- 
cate and tender green that lovelily 
decks the mountain ash, or the 
beech, or fragile birch, that some- 
how have found a hold half way up 
those grim battlements ; these fan- 
tasies and conceits find no response 
at all. Then glowing Summer tries 
her hand, but the warrior Buin yields 
no whit to her blandishments, and 
stares impassible and unsoflaned 
out of the wild rose-mass that scarfs 
the battlements, or the honeysuckle- 
wreaths, and white bindweed, and 
red sweetbriar clusters, or the brist- 
ling deep-blue bugloss, or the tail 
s a 



'260 



Topj^ in the Com. 



ficarlet snapdragon ^th its brim- 
stone monilis, or the i)iDk yalerian 
that leans over from giddy heights 
above depths where the prisoners 
used to moan ; or the sweet- breathed 
wallflower that clings to the sheer 
perpendicular walls. Bees murmur 
in the flowering ivy; butterflies 
'show and shut' their 'splendid 
wings' upon the grey warm old 
stone; btisy jackdaws chatter about 
the loopholes, doves woo and coo in 
the fall-foli£^^ trees about the 
moat that brmi np even with the 
grass-fringed ^walls; thrashes sing 
out clear and glad from the highest 
bough of the beech ; a hum of busy 
men, or a laugh of gay idlers rises 
from the upstart modem houses 
built (not like these old buildings), 
only to let and not to last. But 
Summer with her gay life is only by 
contrast in harmony with this relic 
of the deathful past; she prevails 
nothing to move its cynic stolidity. 
Nor is Autumn much more success- 
ful, with her decking of scarlet 
rowanberries, or her burning hips 
and haws ; even her sympathetic 
death is too frail and weak to have 
much in common with this unyield- 
ing, everlasting decay. Winter suits 
better, when the snow has hidden 
all vegetable life, and the whole 
earth ues in a calm desolate se- 
renity ; and the birds are silent or 
dead; and a winding sheet cast, 
like a scarf, even over the ever- 
green naked-stemmed pines. Great 
folds of snow hide the ivy on the 
ramparts, and smother the withered 
grass on the towers ; and like silver 
moss it clings to every ruggedness 
and broken surface of the grey 
stone; and little ledges have uieir 
high -piled rim, and every loop- 
hole has its white threshold; and 
the Buin in its shroud looks now 
less ungentle than at any other 
time. 

But how I am rambling on! 
What fantasies are these? I was 
lost in a reverie as I stood before 
thiiS grim dead Building; nor was the 
thrill of respectful sympathy un- 
natural nor unshared by others. 
What more grand than such a Buin 
can Milton find for comparison 
with his fallen Archangel, whose 
face 



' Deep acut of tbnnder hid iotmnch'd, aad car* 
Sftt OD big faded cheek, bat under brows 
Ofdinntlw oourage.' 

Thus he describes him, essaying, 
you remember, to address his 
army;— 

* He aboTB thereat 
In dupe and geitnre proodly eminent, 
Stood lite a toteer ; hi* fonn hed not yet loat 
All htr original brightneeik nor appeared 
Lev tban Ardiai^el rained.' 

Oh, yes! there is mncb to think 
of, standing before a ruin like this. 
We fancy the ranks of stalwart 
yeomen, the archers in Lincoln 
green, the gallant knights; we 
see Bebecca watching from her 
loophole, eager Ivanhoe, half risen, 
leaning on his arm ; we hear the 
Black Enight thundering at the 
postern; there are the massive 
rocks ready to be hurled on the 
besiegers' heads; here the bright 
molten lead pours down, part 
clinging to the walls; here there 
are the clutching fingers still 
extended, as the ladder is forced 
badrward into tiie moat A rude 
cannon bursts, killing the men that 
were working it ; there is a trumpet- 
call; and, ah! the foe