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MAY. 1867 OCTOBER, 1867* 



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Abbot's Way, The 168 

America, Eating and Drinking in : A Stroll among the Saloons of New York. By 


-Art, Elementary Principles of. A Lecture 1 

Bardic Poetry, The Old. By WILLIAM BAKNES, B.D 306 

Brother Prince. By W. BOTD DAWKINS, F.R.S 464 

Burke's Minority in the House of Commons, 12th March, 1771, The Battle of ... 138 
Burton's History of Scotland. Celtic Scotland and Feudal Scotland. By GEORGE 

BURNETT, Lyon King-of-Arms 97 

Cheap Tour near Home, A 82 

Correlation of Force, On the, in its Bearing on Mind. By Professor BAIN .... 372 

Culture, The Prophet of. By HENRY SIDGWICK, Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge 271 

Dufferin, Lord, on the Tenure of Land. By T. E. CLIPFE LESLIE 225 

Dull Life, A 47 

Eldorado, Surveying in . 490 

English, Early. By J. W. BALES, M.A., Fellow of Christ's College, Cambridge . . 128 
Essays at Odd -Times. By EGBERT HATNES CAVE, M.A. : 

XV. Of Education 246 

XVI. Of Men whom the World has loved 317 

Evenings at Home .. 451 

Fishery Exhibitions, Eecent Foreign, and their Lessons. By J. G. BERTRAM . . . 406 

French Religious Memoir, A 37 

Carman Protestantism, Social Aspects of. By M. VON BOTHMER 433 

Holidays, Long. By J. GOODALL 157 

Holidays, Long 1 250 

Hope and Memory. By C. E. P *[. 75 

In the Shadow. By E. H. HICKEZ 245 

i, The Battle of 212 

vi Contents. 


London University, and London Colleges and Schools of Science. By the EDITOR . 417 

Macbeth, Stray Notes upon the Characters in. By FANNY KEMBLE 76> 

Mazzini, Joseph, Life and Writings of. By C. E. M 54 

Nell Gwyn. By WILLIAM JONES 35 

Old Sir Douglas. By the Hon. Mrs. NORTON : 

Chapters XLV. L 62 

LT. LVII 143 


LXIV. LXX 257 


LXXV. Conclusion 474 

Orpheus and Eurydice. (From the Fourth Georgic.) By the Archbishop of DUBLIN 440 

Paris Exhibition, Gossip about the 91 

Personal Statistics 365 

Portraits at Kensington, Among the. By F. G. STEPHENS 383 

Priesthood and its Functions. By the Rev. J. LLEWELYN DAVIES 203 

Reynolds as a Painter, On some of the Characteristics of 281 

Rifle Association, The National 177 

Roman Flint-Sparks. By R. S. C. C 353 

Shooting Niagara : And After ? By THOMAS CARL YLE 319 

Silcote of Silcotes. By HENRY KINQSLEY, Author of " Ravenshoe," " The Hillyars. 
and the Burtons," &c. : 

Chapters XLII. XLV. 12 

,, XLVI. XLIX Ill 

,, L. LIII 189 

LIV. LVII 285 

LVIII. Conclusion 337 

Social Disintegration 28 

Sublime, The Symbolism of the. (From Hegel's Esthetic.) By J. HUTCHISON 


Thebes, Life at. By Lady DUFF- GORDON 299 

War and Progress. By EDWARD DICEY 167 

Working-Men and War : The Moral of a Recent Crisis. By Lord HOBART .... 349 

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MAY, 1867. 



ART is one of the natural forms which, 
are ussumed by joy ; what we call the 
arts are merely different ways of being 
happy. In the lives of most of us, 
fortunately, there are pauses, intervals 
without any prescribed occupation, in 
which the initiative is given back to 
ourselves. If we cannot fill these, or 
at least some of these, by Art, the 
chances are that they will be filled, if 
we have energy, by avarice or ambition, 
if w(i want energy, by ennui. This is 
particularly true in great cities. Life 
is stifled and overtasked when it is 
spent in the midst of a crowd ; where 
the animal happiness and freedom of 
the country is wanting, what but Art 
can supply its place ? A city without 
picture-galleries, theatres, beautiful 
"buildings, a city where no one writes 
Terses or reads them, or cares to talk 
about literary subjects, must, I imagine, 
be far worse than a dismal place. It 
need not, perhaps, be an immoral place 
in the common sense of the word ; 
the average number of thefts and 
murders committed in it need not be 
greater than in other places of the 
same size ; but in a high sense of the 
word I think it must be immoral ; the 
standard will be pitched low ; life will 
be uninteresting, and virtue will be- 
come languid and, so to speak, unpro- 
gressi ve. The city we live in is certainly 
not like this ; among us all arts are 
No. 91. VOL. xvi. 

practised. Still when one seeks among 
the great cities of history for a parallel 
to London, it is not Florence or Athens 
that occurs to us, but rather Tyre or 
Carthage. If it were only politics that 
took precedence of the arts, one could 
put up with it, but when they are 
crowded out by mere business, this city, 
to say the least, is not so great morally 
as it is physically. It does not make 
a due return to those whom it deprives 
of the freedom of the country and the 
beauties of nature. 

Foreigners are fond of raising the 
question, whether the English people 
are capable of art. It seems the easiest 
and most triumphant answer simply to 
name Shakespeare and Eeynolds. So 
long as we confine ourselves to naming 
our great artists, we do well ; and it is 
certainly hard to imagine that there 
can be any radical artistic deficiency in 
a nation that has produced such men 
even exceptionally. But there are 
nations whose artistic faculty shows 
itself, not in isolated cases, but as a 
universal birthright; and among these 
certainly no one would reckon the 
English. The absolute want of sus- 
ceptibility to art seems commoner in 
English people than in most other 
nations. The Frenchman's taste may 
be too exclusive and intolerant, but at 
any rate it is not wanting ; the Ger- 
man's somewhat too tolerant, but there 


Elementary Principles in Art. 

'is no doubt that he does enjoy a piece 
of music at least, and often a painting ; 
among us pure insensibility is perfectly 
common, and I imagine that of the 
people who may be found any day 
walking among the Elgin Marbles, 
or in the National Gallery, a consi- 
derable proportion would derive accu- 
rately the same amount of enjoyment 
from their promenade if the statues or 
the pictures were away. Of course such 
insensibility, when it is natural, is 
irremediable. Not by thinking about 
it will any one find out beauty. But 
a sensibility that is weak may be 
strengthened, and one that is confused 
may be cleared and purified. Now the 
way to make one's perceptions clear in 
art is to consider carefully what art is 
in general, what is its object, under 
what conditions at works, and what 
may be expected from it. 

Most people in England, who are not 
themselves artists, both dislike and dis- 
believe in art- criticism. It seems to be 
nothing but a contrivance for making 
out everything that is agreeable and 
enjoyable to be bad, and everything 
that is shocking and revolting to be 
admirable. Such a contrivance would 
be irritating enough if works of art 
existed for anything else but enjoy- 
ment, but as they have no other end 
it seems to add insult to injury. A 
picture is painted solely to please me, 
and I am to be told that it is a master- 
piece, although it makes me shudder ! 
I go to the theatre expressly to be 
amused; I am amused, delighted, and 
enchanted, and next morning the critics 
tell me that the piece was detestable. 
I might perhaps get over this difficulty 
by supposing, though the supposition 
is not gratifying, that my taste is in 
a thoroughly morbid state, like the 
palate of a man in fever, or immature, 
like the taste of a child who delights in 
pastry and sweet things. But then the 
critics do not in the least agree among 
themselves, and if I should educate 
myself according to the doctrine of one 
school I met with and succeed in liking 
all that I naturally disliked and in 
disliking all that I liked, I should fall 

at once under the condemnation of 
another school, which might in the 
meanwhile have superseded the former, 
and should be told now not that my 
taste was childish but that it was artifi- 
cially depraved. 

Still we should not allow ourselves to 
suppose that Art is governed by no 
principles at all, because the expounders 
of it differ so widely among themselves. 
Their differences, though great, are at 
least not so numerous as they seem, 
while their agreements, though less 
loudly proclaimed, are much more njjme- 
rous. There are standing controversies 
in Art which are perpetually breaking 
out afresh; they take new forms with 
every new age, but they are essentially 
the same always. They are always con- 
ducted hotly, with sweeping denuncia- 
tions and anathemas on both sides. Each 
combatant represents his favourite tenet 
as absolutely fundamental ; the oppo- 
nents of it are always to him the de- 
stroyers and underminers of art. This 
violence has always been characteristic 
of Art controversies, from the time when 
the young Athenian in Aristophanes 
assailed his father with a cudgel for 
preferring the poetry of .^Eschylus to 
that of Euripides, to the time when 
Blake wrote, at the death of the illus- 
trious Reynolds, "This man was here 
for the destruction of Art." The effect 
of it upon the lay-world is general scep- 
ticism ; the one party is believed to be 
as much in the wrong as the other. 
These violent dogmatic decisions crush 
too and wither the timid likings of plain 
people, which might have developed 
into cultivated taste ; they grow ashamed 
of their own faint impressions and 
modest opinions, which they are not 
prepared to justify by reasons; and 
thus discouraged, turn their backs alto- 
gether upon art. Yet nothing is so 
important to Art itself, and to general 
cultivation, as the formation of an intel- 
ligent lay-opinion; nothing is so de- 
sirable as that there should be a large 
number of persons who appreciate in 
some degree, without appreciating per- 
fectly, to whom Art is something without 
being everything, and who can be happy 

Elementary Principles in Art. 

and comfortable in their individual pre- 
ferences without dignifying those pre- 
ferences with ifche name of critical judg- 
mei.ts. It is curious that criticism is 
gen< orally understood to mean finding 
faults; a really good criticism would 
con&ist much more in finding merits 
nor need it for that reason become tame; 
at least I know that the best critic that 
ever lived, Goethe, scarcely ever blames 

B it whether or no you believe in Art- 
criticism, be sure that I am not going to 
give you to-night any of those dogmatic 
judgments which professed artists or 
critics have perhaps a right to give. I 
am a a humble inquirer in this field, wish- 
ing my own sensibilities were greater 
than they are. I am not going to apply 
critical canons, nor yet to lay down new 
ones ; my great object is to make per- 
sons who have never thought upon the 
subject aware that there are laws in Art, 
and laws which, if they are thoughtful, 
they may discover for themselves. In 
the Bhort time allotted to me I shall 
only be able to treat a few of the most 
elemc ntary laws, and throughout I pro- 
pose to speak of all the arts together, or, 
as I may say, not of the arts, but of 

Let; us begin by considering what we 
understand by Art. The word is one 
which we use constantly in speaking of 
painti ug, sculpture, and architecture, less 
commonly, but still often, in speaking of 
poetry and music. These are the dif- 
ferent arts. Each of them differs in 
some respects from every other, but in 
some points all of them are alike. Now 
that iii which all the arts resemble each 
other, what is common to all the arts, is 
called Art. 

What is that one thing which shows 
itself i n all alike, whether we are dealing 
with !-tone, as in sculpture, or with 
words, as in poetry ; with canvas, as 
in paii iting, or with sounds, as in music ! 
To answer this question is to make a 
beginning in the intelligent study of 

Wit i every power that we have we 
can do two things : we can work, and 
we can play. Every power that wo 

have is at the same time useful to us 
and delightful to us. Even when we 
are applying them to the furtherance 
of our personal objects, the activity of 
them gives us pleasure ; and when we 
have no useful end to which to apply 
them, it is still pleasant to us to use 
them ; the activity of them gives us 
pleasure for its own sake. There is no 
motion of our body or mind which we 
use in work, which we do not also use 
in play or amusement. If we walk in 
order to arrive at the place where our 
interest requires us to be, we also walk 
about the fields for enjoyment. If 
we apply our combining and analysing 
powers to solve the problems of mathe- 
matics, we use them sometimes also in 
solving double acrostics. 

If this is clear, let me now go a step 
further, and say that as all the serious 
activities of man fall into certain large 
classes, and as each class of activities 
has its own method and rules, so is it 
with what I may call his sportive ac- 
tivities. What these large classes are 
in the former case we all know. Men's 
serious activities are war, manufactures, 
trade, science. But what are the classes 
or kinds into which man's activities fall 
when he sports with them 1 They are 
manifold, but among them are painting, 
sculpture, poetry, music, or what we 
call the arts. 

This fundamental doctrine, that all Art 
is play or sport, and exists for pleasure, 
is easily misconceived, and therefore 
often denied. To see it clearly we should 
consider the simplest cases of Art, not 
the most famous or splendid examples. 
If I wanted to discover what is the- 
object of dinner, it would not be wise 
to take the case of a great public ban- 
quet. If I did so, I should be in danger 
of supposing that the object of dinner 
was the display of plate or the making 
of speeches, and that eating and drink- 
ing were mere accidents of it. My best 
plan would be to consider why the tired 
pedestrian puts up at the wayside inn. 
In the same way, in order to discover 
the object of music, let us not consider 
Mendelssohn's "Elijah;" this might lead 
us to suppose that the object of music is, 

B 2 

Elementary Principles in Art. 

the inculcation of religious truth ; but 
let us consider why the labourer whistles 
at his work. If I took "Faust " or "Ham- 
let " as examples of the drama, I might 
suppose the drama had a philosophical 
object ; I understand the drama better 
when I consider a Christmas party 
making up a charade. In these simple, 
natural actions we see the naked notion 
in which the arts begin. We are pre- 
sent at the birth of the Muses, and we 
see that they are not the daughters of 
Memory, but the daughters of Joy. Such 
examples show us how, with all our 
faculties, we naturally play as well as 
work. They show that the voice is not 
only useful to speak with, but also de- 
lightful to sing with; the foot cannot 
only walk, but also dance ; the hand 
can paint, as well as work or write ; and, 
to take more complicated instances, the 
gift of speech, the serious use of which 
is to impart thought and facts to each 
other, is also used for delight and satis- 
faction in rhythmical forms, and this 
becomes poetry ; finally the whole 
variety of our serious life is reproduced 
for delight in the drama. 

Let me endeavour to meet some of 
the objections which are commonly 
brought against this view. You may 
notice that artists themselves some- 
times reject it as degrading to their 
profession. As highminded men, and 
by their very function men of elevated 
views, they cannot bear to think that 
the pursuit to which their lives are 
devoted is a mere sport or amusement. 
Such a view seems to degrade them 
below men of business who work for a 
serious end, and to give them the cha- 
racter of idlers in the community. And 
this seems to them as unjust as it is 
humiliating, for they feel themselves 
not only not inferior, but distinctly 
superior in dignity to mere business- 
men, not only not idlers, but the holders 
of a high and almost sacred function in 
the community, the priesthood of the 
Beautiful and Becoming. 

In thinking so they are perfectly 
right, and the feeling which in all ages 
has attached a certain sacredness to the 
character of the artist is quite reasonable. 

But because all Art is play, it does not 
follow that the artist is simply one who 
amuses himself. It is tme that he is 
this in the first instance, and, if he were 
no more, he might be justly called an 
unprofitable idler. But he amuses 
others besides himself, and thus he is a 
benefactor. He is the general purveyor 
of joy to the whole community. We 
know that the great secret of wealth was 
long ago discovered in the division of 
labour. It was discovered that if, in- 
stead of making our coats and shoes for 
ourselves, we commissioned certain per- 
sons to spend their whole lives in making 
coats and shoes for us, the result was 
that we got better coats and shoes than 
we could have ventured to imagine 
before, because they were now made by 
persons whose genius specially inclined 
them to this pursuit, and by persons 
whose skill was perfected by perpetual 
practice. Well, this division of labour 
extends further than we sometimes 
remark. It includes the arts of enjoy- 
ment. As we commission the merchant 
to supply us with merchandise, so do 
we commission the artist to explore the 
realms of joy for us, to discover and 
bring home, or else to contrive, new joys 
for us. 

The artist, then, is master of the 
revels, director of the amusements to the 
community. Will this satisfy him 1 It 
evidently satisfied Shakespeare. He 
seems to have been contented and happy 
in regarding all the world as a stage, so 
long as his stage might be all the world. 
Still I think many artists would be dis- 
contented. Where is the dignity, where 
is the sacredness, they ask, of such a 
position 1 We shall find the answer if 
we consider in what way the position is 
gained. It is the reward of an intrinsic 
superiority of nature, a superiority in 
the power of enjoying. Does not this 
place the artist at once high above the 
tradesman and the merchant ? With a 
few accidental opportunities or a little 
capital, added to common shrewdness 
and perseverance, any man may succeed, 
and deserve to succeed, in trade. But 
the artist's capital is in himself; it is 
the gift of nature, and incommunicable. 

Elementary Principles in Art. 

And what is this gift 1 It is the gift of 
joy. In other words, the power of 
remaining } r oung longer than other 
people, perpetual youth. Will it not 
satiety the artist that he should "be re- 
garded as one whom Nature has favoured 
with a more elastic spirit than others, as 
one who, because he retains his freshness 
when others have lost it in cares and 
details, becomes a fountain of freshness 
to the community ? And if there is 
something sacred in the artist's intrinsic 
superiority, is there not also something 
sacrc d in his function 1 To regulate the 
pleasures of a community ! It is to 
have a greater moral influence upon 
human beings than is directly possessed 
by any class of men except those who 
teach, and therefore no figure of speech 
can be more apt than that which com- 
pares the artist's function to a priesthood. 

Still, when I repeat that Art is play, 
I feel that the maxim has not yet ceased 
to sound paradoxical, and that another 
objection of a different kind may be 
urged against it. 

There is a stumbling-block in the 
trivial associations that are connected with 
the word "play." Play, people think, 
cannot be important or grand or solemn, 
and much of Art is important, grand, 
solemn ; again, play can at any rate 
never be melancholy, yet much of Art 
is melancholy, tragic, pathetic. There 
is a sort of Art, they would say, which 
may fairly be called play because it is 
light and amusing. To this sort belong 
comedies, the painting of the Dutch 
school, &c. But there is another quite 
different sort, solemn and akin to re- 
ligion, to which belong the poetry of 
Milton and Dante, and the painting of 
the Cartoons ; this it would be most in- 
appropriate to call play. I would ask 
such persons why, if one piece of Art 
differs from another so completely and 
essentially, we still call both Art ? Evi- 
dently the lightest comedy and the 
most sombre tragedy have something in 
common, something which leads us to 
class them together as works of Art. 
What is this common quality 1 If you 
Avill not have it to be what I have 
main! lined, and what we express when 

we call them both plays, you ought not 
to be content with this negation ; you 
ought not to rest satisfied until you have 
found some other common characteristic. 
But the shortest answer is that you 
misunderstand the word " play." Play is 
not by any means necessarily connected 
with mirth or the relaxation of the 
faculties. What can be more serious 
than a game at cricket 1 ? While the 
game is going forward wicket-keeper does 
not laugh or look about him ; point does 
not chat with cover-point. What parties 
are more solemn than those that sit 
round a whist-table ? The truth is that 
all the better sort of games, all those 
which really refresh and reinvigorate, 
are of the strenuous, intense kind ; 
they relax some faculties, it is true, but 
they do so by straining others. Well ! 
but, you will say, if play is an energetic 
exertion of the faculties, how does it 
diifer from work 1 It differs in this, 
that the exertion used in play is exertion 
for its own sake ; while that used in 
work is for some ulterior object. 

Vigorous persons enjoy the vigorous 
use of their faculties, and of all their 
faculties. This is true far more uni- 
versally than* we are apt to suppose. 
The same impulse which leads us to 
stretch our limbs in racing and rowing, 
the same desire to feel and enjoy our 
powers, extends to the mind, and, beyond 
the mind, to the feelings and the moral 
sense. It devises for itself games or 
sports suited for each faculty, and for 
the higher faculties exercises of so ex- 
alted a kind that we scruple to call 
them sports. Such are the higher forms 
of poetry. They are the forms in which 
the imagination, that is, the power of 
bringing before the mind forms and 
combinations like those which are fur- 
nished by experience and the sympa- 
thies, or the power of feeling by re- 
flection what other people, even ima- 
ginary people, feel, exercise and amuse 
themselves. Like other sports, these 
amusements of the higher faculties will 
be with vigorous people vigorous. The 
imagination will draw upon all the 
wealth of earth and heaven ; it will find 
its materials in whatever is most solemn, 

Elementary Principles in Art. 

most venerable, most terrible ; it will 
play at bowls with the sun and moon. 
So too the power of sympathy, when 
it plays, will not be contented with 
pleasurable images, it will deliberately 
create griefs in order that it may share 
them. It will not be mirthful, for in- 
deed sympathy, when it is strongly ex- 
cited, is never mirthful. But not the 
less on that account is this activity of 
sympathy a sport, for it has no ul- 
terior object, and ends in itself. It will 
not indeed be a sport to all. As in every 
school there are commonly weakly or 
effeminate boys who do not care to mix 
in the more vigorous sports of their 
schoolfellows, so will these larger and 
intellectual exercises of manhood be too 
strenuous and formidable for intellectual 
weaklings. Such are pleased with a 
ballad but fatigued with " Paradise 
Lost," because their imagination is not 
equal to a sustained flight ; or their 
feelings are not lively enough, or their 
characters elevated enough, to enable 
them to enter into great and impressive 
situations, so that while they may feel 
a genuine interest in the " Ticket of 
Leave Man," they are entirely unmoved 
by "Philip Van Artevelde." And 
indeed among the greater excursions of 
imagination are some which, to all but 
the most robust mrad, are ponderous 
sport. When the powers of man are at 
the highest, his gambols are not less 
mighty than his labours. Man, working, 
has contrived the Atlantic cable, but I 
declare that it astonishes me far more 
to think that for his mere amusement, 
that to entertain a vacant hour, he has 
created Othello and Lear, and I am more 
than astonished, I am awe-struck, at 
that inexplicable elasticity of his nature 
which enables him, instead of turning 
away from calamity and grief, or instead 
of merely defying them, actually to make 
them the material of his amusement, 
and to draw from the wildest agonies of 
the human spirit a pleasure which is 
not only not cruel but is in the highest 
degree pure and ennobling. 

If now I may assume this fundamen- 
tal position that Art is in all cases the 
same spirit of free self-delight, creating 

for itself various forms and modes of 
expression, there follows immediately 
from it one great law, which not- 
withstanding is often violated. It is 
that every work of Art must be in its 
total effect pleasurable. Not that pain 
is to be excluded ; as I have just re- 
marked, pain is one of the principal 
instruments with which the tragic poet 
works. But it must be used as the 
painter uses shadow, that is, by way of 
contrast to light, and in order to set off 
or relieve light. Every work of Art is 
bad, however powerful, which leaves on 
the mind a predominant feeling of dis- 
satisfaction, or disgust, or horror. And 
yet it is very common to hear works of 
Art judged simply by their power, by 
the amount of effect they produce, with- 
out regard to the quality of the effect. 
At Bologna, for example, there is a very 
powerful picture by Domenichino, of 
the Martyrdom of St. Agnes. Now to 
see a human being put to a violent death 
is a dreadful thing, and, as a general 
rule, I had rather not see even any 
representation of it. But when the 
death is martyrdom, when faith and 
hope triumph over bodily torture, then 
no doubt, instead of being merely painful, 
it becomes sublime. It then becomes a 
fair subject for Art, because the con- 
templation of it produces on the whole 
a predominant feeling of triumph and 
satisfaction. But the artist's special 
problem is to convey the sense of this 
victory of faith over pain. If he merely 
paints with great power the change 
produced in the human body by the 
agonies of death, he misses the mark 
altogether. And this was the effect 
produced on me by Domenichino's pic- 
ture. I felt as I should feel if I saw 
a woman stabbed to the heart in the 
street. I thought I had seldom seen 
anything so powerful, and I wished I 
had never seen it at all. 

Another law which follows at once 
from the principle that Art exists for 
pleasure, is that all works of Art which 
have a practical purpose are not properly 
works of Art. It was a fashion a few 
years ago I think it is somewhat less 
fashionable now if anybody had a view 

Elementary Principles in Art. 

that he wished to put before the world, 
a n>3W theory of politics or morals or 
religion, to dress it up in a novel. You 
remember how Young Englandism was 
put before the world in " Coningsby." 
It \\ as thought that people who might 
find a series of political dissertations 
dull, would read with pleasure that a 
brilliant young man of great expecta- 
tions, conversing at Cambridge with 
a brilliant friend, expressed certain 
views about the Tory party: that he 
then visited a duke, and in conversation 
with the heir to the title discussed the 
prospects of nobility in England ; then 
discussed manufactures with a Man- 
chester millionaire ; then the prospects 
of the Jewish race with an all-accom- 
plish ed Hebrew capitalist. This was 
the plan of the story; the reader's 
imagination was filled with ducal palaces, 
splei,did London and Paris parties, and 
love- scenes ; only now and then was he 
expected to imbibe a little of the new 
political philosophy ; but gradually the 
whola dose was administered ; and, 
then the brilliant young man, his work 
being done, is translated to Parliament 
and a rich wife, and the story ends. 
Critics, who saw that the object of a 
novel is pleasure, and the object of a 
political discussion profit, justly pointed 
out that, considered as a work of Art, 
this Jind similar works were altogether 
vicious. It does not follow, however, 
that they are intrinsically bad, and that 
they ought not to be written. They 
are simply not works of Art, but if a 
man can recommend his views to the 
public by borrowing the machinery of 
Art, I know no reason why he should 
not do so.' If people will take in a 
political doctrine when it is explained 
by a lictitious peer to a fictitious M.P., 
and v ill not take it in when the author 
delivers it in proprid persona, I know 
no rer son why their peer and their M.P. 
shouLl be grudged them, only I think 
that vrong opinions are better conveyed 
in this mode than right ones, and that 
hazy < onceptions will get more advantage 
from 't than clear ones. 

It is by no means true that Art ought 
alway $ in practice to be kept apart from 

that which is not Art. On the contrary, 
there are large classes of the works of men 
which are partly artistic and partly not. 
All things that make what I may call 
the furniture of man's life are of this 
kind, the articles of utility that habitually 
surround him, from the clothes that he 
wears and the chairs that he sits on, to 
the halls in which he meets his fellow- 
citizens in council and the temples in 
which he worships. All such things 
exist in the first place for use and con- 
venience, and so far are not artistic. 
Use, convenience, is the paramount law 
to which all such things are subject. It 
is a breach not so much of taste as of 
good sense when we wear clothes that 
trip us up, or give us colds, because they 
are graceful, put up with dark rooms for 
the sake of tracery in the windows, 
build lecture-halls or churches in which 
no human voice can make itself heard. 
But in all such matters, as soon as Use 
is fully satisfied Art takes her turn. 
Man likes to draw delight from the 
things that habitually surround him. 
Wherever his mind has freedom for 
enjoyment, there will he provide the 
materials of enjoyment, contrivances of 
Art which may exhilarate the sense. 
Hence arises the Art of Decoration, 
reaching its highest dignity in Archi- 
tecture, which, therefore, differs from the 
other arts, such as Painting or Poetry, 
in this, that it is attached like a parasite 
to that which is not an Art, but a 
mechanical craft governed by conve- 
nience, namely, building. From this 
peculiarity in Architecture, there follow 
at once certain practical rules of criticism. 
Eor instance, a building may be as good 
as possible and yet not beautiful, for 
the conditions of utility may not allow 
much beauty; and, again, a building 
may be very beautiful and yet very bad, 
for the beauty may have been introduced 
in defiance of the conditions of utility. 
Let me take another example of these 
mixed Arts, one in which I have always 
noticed men's critical judgments to be 
especially confused on account of their 
overlooking its mixed character I mean 
Oratory. It is evident that this, in the 
first instance, is not an Art. It is not 


Elementary Principles in Art. 

to give pleasure that men make speeches, 
but to produce persuasion. The first 
and indispensable merit of a good 
speech, therefore, is that it produce 
persuasion, that is, as much persuasion 
as is possible in the circumstances. If 
a speech does not do this, if it does not, 
when spoken, attract and hold the at- 
tention of the audience, it is of no sort 
of importance how well it reads. All 
its merits are out of place, and therefore 
out of taste. The performance is essen- 
tially a failure, and to praise it because, 
in a different audience, or in the minds 
of readers some time afterwards, it pro- 
duces persuasion, is like saying of a 
general's tactics that they were ad- 
mirable, only not adapted to overcome 
the particular enemy with whom he had 
to contend. I am thinking particularly, 
as you will guess, of Burke, whose 
speeches are so full of good thinking 
and fine writing, but who is said to 
have " thought of convincing while his 
hearers thought of dining," and so got 
the name of the) Dinner Bell. If he 
really did think of convincing, and was 
so totally unable to do it, all we can 
say is, that he must have been a tho- 
roughly incapable orator. But I fancy 
he did not really think of convincing, 
at least not of convincing that particular 
audience. I suppose he fancied himself 
speaking to Johnson and Eeynolds, or 
perhaps to future times, and it may be 
happy for us that he did so. But, criti- 
cally, a speech which is not listened to 
can never be anything but a bad speech, 
and the speaker who makes it, who, as 
they say, is above his audience, commits 
the capital fault in Art, for as the ca- 
pital fault in war is cowardice, and the 
capital fault in common life is dishonesty, 
so in Art the capital fault is inappro- 

As in architecture, so in oratory, 
directly utility is satisfied, Art takes her 
turn. Speech, when it is already clear 
and strong, is all the better for being 
also agreeable ; sentences that have 
been so arranged as to be perspicuous 
may as well be further so arranged as 
to be musical. But in oratory, as in 
architecture and everything else, ail 

true ornament is a shy and diffident 
thing. It cannot bear to appear out of 
place ; it hates to be intrusive and 
impertinent. "When men are intensely 
occupied or anxious, it slips out of view r 
and therefore architectural ornament is 
displeasing in a counting-house or shop, 
and oratorical ornament is insufferable- 
in a scientific demonstration, and must 
be introduced with caution in a budget- 
speech. But when men have leisure, 
when the work that occupies them does 
not absorb all their minds, or press for 
instant decision, when, however earnest 
or solemn, it allows of being considered 
in the way of brooding contemplation- 
rather than of close calculation or 
reasoning, then, again, Art is in place ; 
and so, for example, architectural orna- 
ment is appropriate in a Church, and 
rhetorical ornament in a sermon. And 
there are cases where both architecture 
and oratory become almost purely 
artistic, and the element of utility is 
nearly eliminated from both. Such are, 
in architecture, meniGrial buildings and 
mausoleums ; in oratory, panegyrical 

Now all that I have said hitherto has 
been deduced from one simple principle. 
Knowing nothing more of Art, than that 
it is enjoyment, I can deduce with confi- 
dence that what does not produce enjoy- 
ment on the whole is not truly artistic. I 
can deduce that what assumes the form 
and outward appearance of Art, but 
really has in view, not enjoyment, but 
the spreading of some doctrine, the 
detecting of some abuse, or the recom- 
mending of some virtue, is again not 
truly artistic, however useful it may 
sometimes be ; further I can deduce that 
Art is not always independent ; but, in 
some cases, as architecture and oratory, 
parasitic, and accordingly, that, in judg- 
ing of particular performances in these 
departments, it is necessary to apply two 
standards in succession, the practical 
standard and the artistic standard, and 
that the great and decisive test of merit 
in this case is what I may call the free 
play of Art in subordination. 

But let us now come somewhat nearer 
to Art, and inquire more closely into its- 

Elementary Principles in Art. 

nature. I have said that it is activity 
for its own sake ; in short, that it is 
sport. It may occur to you as an objec- 
tion that it would he absurd to call 
cri(ket or whist Art, or to class them 
with, painting and poetry. Certainly, 
hut what I said was that Art is sport, 
not that sport is always Art. The two 
propositions are perfectly different. Art, 
I affirm, is sport, that is, activity for 
its own sake ; but then it is sport of a 
particular kind. How how do the games 
that I have mentioned differ from Art 1 
They differ in this respect, that though 
their object is pleasure, their laws are 
the same as those of men's serious ac- 
tivities. What makes the serious busi- 
ness of life serious is the cares, the 
dangers, the anxieties, attending it. 
Remove these, and it becomes a game. 
This is the theory of games. They are, 
for the most part, imitations of one of 
the most serious activities of life war, 
with the element of danger and pain 
removed. Cricket, chess, cards, are only 
different forms of mimic war ; they call 
into play precisely the same faculties 
and in the same way as real war, only 
the object being trifling, danger removed, 
and the time given to them short, the 
play has some of the excitement and 
bustle of real conflict with none of its 
fatigues and pains. Now Art is like 
these games in respect of its sole object 
being pleasure, but it is unlike them in 
this respect, that it does not merely 
repeat the activities of serious life, but 
has laws and modes of activity of its 
own. Let us try and discover some of 
these laws, confining ourselves to the 
simplest and most elementary. 

The 'different kinds of Art answer 
to different faculties; let us pass them 
in review and see if we cannot dis- 
cover a likeness running through them. 
Such a likeness strikes us at once. 
There is an obvious correspondence be- 
tweea the art of music and the art of 
danc ing ; there is another correspondence 
equally plain between music and poetry. 
Dan ing is the way or mode in which 
we express delight in bodily movement ; 
music is the mode in which we express 
delight in the power of producing sound, 

whether by voice or instrument ; poetry 
is the way in which we express delight 
in speech. But the mode of expressing 
delight is in all three cases the same : 
it is by rhythm. What is dancing but 
rhythmical movement 1 What is music 
but rhythmical sound 1 What is poetry 
but rhythmical speech? We may say 
then that rhythm is one of the primary 
modes of Art. 

Rhythm is nothing but proportion, 
and to say that it is a primary mode of 
Art is merely to say that human beings 
delight in regularity, in pattern, in pro- 
portion. In the commonest actions, 
even where the question is .entirely of 
utility, and not of gratification, we use 
as much regularity, or what we call 
neatness, as we can. The commonest 
objects which surround us in daily life 
must have arrangement and pattern, or 
they offend our eyes. What we seek 
even when we are principally concerned 
with utility, we affect much more 
earnestly when pleasure is our object. 
Rhythm runs through our whole exist- 
ence : subdued and little perceived, and 
of a simple kind, it is present every- 
where as a kind of seasoning ; without 
it life would be slovenly, disgusting, 
comfortless. But in Art, instead of an 
accessory, it becomes a principal thing ; 
it is cultivated for its own sake; the 
more elaborate and intricate forms of it 
are employed, which are capable of 
affecting the mind with a far stronger 
feeling than a quiet soothing satisfaction, 
and which possess the secret of rapture 
and of inspiration. 

But am I justified in speaking of 
rhythm as common to all arts when I 
have only shown it to exist in some 1 I 
have shown it in music and poetry, but 
not in painting, sculpture, and archi- 
tecture. No doubt in this latter kind 
of Art it assumes a somewhat different 
shape, but it is not the less present. 
Music and poetry are arts which deal 
with time, painting and sculpture deal 
with space. A picture is at rest, always 
the same, and occupying a certain por- 
tion of space ; a song begins and ends, 
and occupies a certain portion of time, 
Now if the principle of regularity oy 


Elementary Principles in Art. 

proportion enters into both these kinds 
of Art, it is evident that it must conform 
to these varying conditions. Begularity 
in time is what is called rhythm, and 
therefore rhythm appears in all the arts 
that deal with time. ISTow what is 
regularity in space ? Eegularity in space 
is what we call form, and accordingly 
form takes the place of rhythm in all 
the arts which deal with space. Form 
and rhythm differ from each other as 
the sense of sight from the sense of 
hearing; and the pleasure which the ear 
receives from a Spenserian stanza, from 
the regular beat of the iambic cadence, 
the ordered recurrence of the rhymes, 
and the swelling Alexandrine at the close, 
is precisely analogous to the pleasure 
which the eye receives from the spire of 
Salisbury or the dome of St. Paul's. 

But though regularity, as rhythm or 
form, pervades all Art, yet it does not by 
itself constitute that which is highest in 
Art. It fills a very important place in 
music and in architecture ; but when 
we examine the arts of painting and 
the literary arts, that is, poetry and 
artistic prose, we see another principle 
taking precedence of it. What is the 
chief source of the pleasure which we 
derive from a picture? It is not cer- 
tainly regularity or beauty of form. A 
party of Dutch boors by Teniers do not 
exhibit much of this characteristic. 
What, then, is it which pleases in the 
Teniers? It is the likeness of the 
painted Dutchmen to real Dutchmen. 
And if we pass at once from a low style 
of Art to the highest, and consider what 
pleases us in a Eaphael, we shall find 
that, though form is distinctly present 
here, and though the eye is charmed by 
a multitude of subtly-contrived propor- 
tions, yet still the principal charm is 
the resemblance of the painted figures 
to real human beings, the faithful imita- 
tion of reality. We have found, then, 
the second of what I call the primary 
modes of art, imitation. To recur to 
my former language, the human facul- 
ties, when they sport, amuse themselves 
first, with introducing regularity or 
rhythm into their movements, secondly, 
with imitating all kinds of objects. 

You must see plainly that, though I 
am near the end of my time, I am still 
at the beginning of my subject. But 
my purpose was merely to furnish a 
few hints ; if any one of you to whom 
these questions are new has been in- 
terested, he will pursue for himself the 
analysis from the point where I leave 
it. I will bring this lecture to a close 
by a few inferences from the principles 
just stated. 

It is this principle of imitation which 
gives to Art its boundless range. With- 
out it painting would not rise beyond 
arabesque, and poetry beyond metrical 
rhetoric. With it painting acquires a 
field as large as the visible universe, 
and poetry a field even more unlimited, 
comprehending the world of thought 
and the world of sense together. And 
as Art extends its range, so does the 
character of the artist become more 
important and dignified. I have de- 
scribed the artist as being a person 
superior to others in freshness and joy- 
fulness of spirit. But this freshness 
implies much more than could at first 
sight appear. It is not merely that he 
is still mirthful or rapturous when 
others become sedate, not merely that 
where others speak he sings, where 
others step he dances. It is besides 
that he has an imitative faculty that 
others want, an observant eye, a pene- 
trating insight, a retentive memory for 
forms and images, a power of sympathy 
which carries with it a power of divi- 
nation. Now we can imitate only what 
interests us strongly ; he, therefore, 
who can imitate many things, is he 
who is interested in many things ; and 
the artist, whose mind mirrors and 
reflects everything, has this power 
simply because he lives more intensely 
than others. This explains to us how 
it is that the great artists of the world 
stand out so prominently. It is true 
that they did but undertake to find 
amusement, sport, recreation for their 
fellow-men; but because true joy is 
true insight, and intense life is pro- 
found knowledge, therefore we rank 
Shakespeare, Dante, Goethe with great 
philosophers, the men who have truly 

Elementary Principles in Art. 


and. clearly mirrored the universe with, 
those who have rightly analysed it. 

But among all the arts it is only 
poetry that can confer this supreme 
kind of fame, because speech is the 
only mirror in which the whole universe 
can be reflected. With colours or in 
marble we can express only what we 
see, but there is nothing that the mind 
can think which cannot be uttered in 
speech. And, therefore, in the poetry 
of all ages we possess, as it were, a 
shifting view of the universe as it has 
appsared to successive generations of 
men. According to the predominant 
inclination of the human mind in each 
age is the poetry of that age. At one 
timo it is busy with the brave deeds of 
the hero, the contest and the laurel 
wreath, at another time with mere 
enjoyment, with wine and love. Then 
it describes the struggle of man against 
destiny, heroic fortitude and endurance 
in the midst of little hope ; at another 
time it pictures man as in probation, 
purified in adversity, and having a hope 
beyond the grave. At one time it be- 
comes idyllic, delights in country life, 
simple pleasures, simple loves, a whole- 
some and peaceful existence ; at another 
tirnt it loves cities, and deals in refine- 
ments, courtesies, gallantries, gaieties. 
And sometimes it takes a philosophical 
tone, delights in the grandeur of eternal 
laws, aspires to communion with the 
soul of the world, or endeavours to 
discover, in the construction of things, 
the rraces of a beneficent plan. 

So far the mind of the artist is pas- 
sive. Its function so far is to receive 
impressions from without and to reflect 
them faithfully. But then comes in 
that other principle, which we may call 
the active principle of Art, the principle 
of regularity or rhythm. The mass of 
impressions received from without is 
reduced to shape and unity by the 
artis . And in this shaping, arrange- 
ment, and unification he may show as 
mucli mastery as in the correctness of 
his i nitation of Nature. But now it is 
to b( noticed that the taste for imitation 
and the taste for regularity or rhythm 
are very distinct things. Often no 
doubt the same man has both, perhaps 

oftener than not, but it sometimes 
happens that an artist has one but not 
the other, and very often that he has 
the two faculties in very unequal 
degrees. Hence there are in Art, and 
have been ever since Art began, two 
styles, two schools, two tendencies, 
which are always at war, by turns 
almost victorious, but never quite de- 
stroying their foe. The watchword of 
the one school is nature ; with them 
Art is nothing but careful observation 
and exact representation ; they deify 
nature, and almost think it a sin to 
exercise any choice among the materials 
she presents to them. The other school 
think more of what the artist gives 
than of what he finds ; to them Nature 
is the quarry out of which Art draws 
shapeless blocks, and informs them with 
beauty, Nature is the chaos out of 
which Art makes a Cosmos. The be- 
setting sin of the first school is ugliness ; 
the besetting sin of the last is falseness 
and feebleness. 

All through history these schools 
have contended, and indeed you have 
little else in the history of Art but the 
perpetual veering of fashion and opinion 
between these two extremes. There is 
but one other question, which has been 
so much debated between artists, and 
this is the question with which I began, 
whether Art exists for pleasure or for 
moral improvement. I said that the 
confusion which generally seems to the 
lay-world to reign in Art criticism was 
not so great as it appeared, and that 
great judges do not differ in Art so 
irreconcilably as they themselves love 
to declare. I have now put before you 
the two great points of difference to 
which almost all disagreements in Art 
may be traced. It is a clue through 
the maze of Art-criticism to know that 
its intricacies are caused mainly by two 
fundamental disagreements. Let me 
repeat the two great questions of debate. 
The first is the question whether Art 
exists for pleasure, or for instruction 
and moral improvement. The second 
is the question how much Art derives 
from Nature, and how much Art adds 
to Nature. 

In conclusion let me say that this 


Sllcote of Silcotes. 

latter controversy does not much, affect 
the greatest artists. They are for the 
most part practically above it. It is 
the second class of artists who run into 
mere imitation, like the Dutch school of 
painting, or to false prettiness, like the 
pastoral poets. And so with critics, it 
is generally an immature taste that ex- 
cludes and condemns either the Eealist 
or the Idealistic school. Young readers 
of poetry who have a strong sense of 
rhythm, and a strong appreciation of 
what is formed, finished, and regular in 
conception, delight in Milton, and for a 
time find Shakespeare slovenly, loose, 
irregular. On the other hand, those 
who have strong feelings and a strong 
sense of reality delight in Shakspeare, 
and find Milton cold and unreal. At 
the present day it is the lovers of 
rhythm, form, and harmony that stand 
firm by Tennyson, the lovers of reality 
and variety desert him for Browning. Of 
course of these two factions one or the 

other must be right, Tennyson must be 
greater than Browning, or he must be 
less. But assuredly both these artists, 
and all really great artists, are Realists 
and Idealists at once. Milton did not 
know Mature nearly so well as Shake- 
speare, but assuredly he had a keen eye 
for reality, as well as a powerful ima- 
gination to form new combinations above 
Nature and greater than Nature ; Shake- 
speare had not Milton's stateliness nor 
his elaborate and complex rhythms, but 
assuredly he too had Art as well as- 
Nature, form as well as matter, unity 
as well as variety. All the great artists 
both draw from Nature and add to- 
Nature. If Tennyson is exquisite in 
form and composition, he is also faithful 
in imitation and rich in knowledge ; if 
Browning is inexhaustible in know- 
ledge and variety, there are rhythms 
in htm too, if quaint ones, methods, if 
difficult to follow, unity, or a powerful 
struggle for it. 






WITH the cool breeze blowing from 
Aspern on her face, the Princess 
turned towards Kriegsthurm. She felt 
that in some way her silly scheming 
if it might be called scheming so obsti- 
nately carried out, was unsuccessful ; 
and that Kriegsthurm, the well-paid 
minister of her follies, the agent in all 
her silly schemes, was face to face with 

She had come to Vienna, believing 
that Kriegsthurm was so deeply commit- 
ted to the revolutionary party, to Eran- 
gipanni the Italian Constitutionalist on 
the one hand, and to Boginsky the out- 
rageous Mazzinist on the other, that he 

dare not follow her into the lion's paws. 
She was quite deceived. His was a 
knight move against a castle ; to go to 
whist, she had played the last trump 
out, and he had come in with an over- 
powering suit. Kriegsthurm was not 
inclined to let such an exceedingly well- 
yielding head of cattle stray out of his 
pasture ; and so, on the strength of his 
being known to the Austrian police as 
the most clever, unscrupulous, and best- 
informed spy in Europe, he had made 
his peace with the Austrian Govern- 
ment, and followed his dear Princess to 
Vienna, with a view of " working " the 
Princess and receiving pay from the 
Austrian police at one and the same time. 
So much about him for the present. 

"Madame has not served me well," 
he began, when the Princess turned to 
him. " I only say so much at present. 

Silcote of Silcotes. 


The- time may come, if Madame con- 
tinues her present course of action, 
whon I may say that Madame has 
served me shamefully and shabbily." 

The poor Princess, softened perhaps 
by the wind from Aspern, began to 
cry ; and to wish, strangely enough, 
but with a true instinct, that her very 
objectionable nephew, Arthur, was there, 
or oven old Miss Eaylock, to confront 
this rascal. But she was all alone, and 
wept. So Kriegsthurm went on. 

"The time may come when I may 
have to say to Madame that it is 
hopeless for her to attempt to escape 
me. That I hold Madame in the 
hollow of my hand. That I love her 
she need not be told, but ingratitude 
of the most traitorous kind may extin- 
guish love. I may have to say all this 
at some future time ; at present I do 
not. Madame has proposed this secluded 
meeting herself, knowing that she could 
not propose a public one ; but she will 
see that I am all-powerful, and that T 
must be treated with confidence." 

The Princess had not yet got through 
her softened mood, and was still crying. 
The fool got contemptuous of her, of 
her, the most Silcote of the Silcotes 
"the incarnation of Silcotism," as Miss 
Eaylock once said, who ought to know ; 
and in his contempt for her he leaped 
too quickly to his first object, and began 
his business exactly at the wrong end. 

" I want money, Madame. I am 

She wiped her eyes directly. " You 
always do want money," she said. " I 
wonder what you do with it all. But 
I have not got any." 

"Madame has eighty thousand pounds' 
worth of jewellery. I must have some 
of that." 

H ad he not himself told Tom Silcote 
that very night that she would see him, 
Tom, deeply as she loved him, in the 
workhouse (or to that effect), before she 
would part with a single stone? Yet 
this fool and conspirator (are they not 
now and then convertible terms?) pro- 
posed for himself what he would never 
have proposed for her darling Tom. 

An Italian, one would have thought, 

would never have made such a blunder, 
and would never have made such a 
venture. But of what nation was 
Kriegsthurm again? It was a foolish 
venture, and the tables were at once 
turned for a time. 

Kriegsthurm proposed to her to touch 
her sacred accumulations. The attorney 
blood which was in her from her father's 
side, and the old English land accumu- 
lative blood which was in her from her 
mother's side, alike rose in rebellion to 
this demand, flushed her cheek, and, 
strange to say, passed back to her brain, 
and set her wits a-going. 

And she had been to Italy and seen 
the theatricalities, and could imitate 
them on occasions ; as Master Kriegs- 
thurm will bear witness to his dying day. 
She gave him one instance of this now, 
and he never asked for another. 

They were standing together under 
a lonely gas-lamp, which was burning 
steadily within its glass, in spite of 
the wandering wind which came from 
Aspern, and they could see one another's 

His was confident, bold, and coarse 
(to refresh your memory after so long, 
he was a square, coarse-featured man, 
with a red complexion). Hers was pale, 
thin, and refined, with the remains of a 
very great beauty. They stood and 
looked at one another ; he, at least, 
looked at her until he saw that she was 
not looking at him, but over his shoul- 
der, at which time he began to feel an 
uneasy sensation in his back. Still he 
looked at her steadily. 

And her face changed as he watched 
it. The eyes grew more prominent, the 
lips parted ; she was gazing at some- 
thing which he dared not turn and face : 
gazing over his right shoulder, too, most 
unpleasantly. No one would care to 
have, say for instance Lady Macbeth, 
looking steadily over your right shoul- 
der, while you were perfectly conscious 
that Malcolm's mishap was not your first 
offence. The Princess of Castelnuovo 
stared so very steadily over Kriegs- 
thurm's right shoulder that she had 
frightened him out of his wits before 
she tried her grand coup. 


Silcote of Silcotes. 

All of a sudden she broke out, sharp, 
shrill, and clear. 

" Mind that man ! He is going to 
stab you from behind, and penetrate 
your lungs. Mind him ! " 

Kriegsthurm, with a loud oath, dashed 
alongside of her, and began his before- 
mentioned polyglot system of swearing. 
We have nothing to do with that, but 
something with this. 

The Princess knew quite well that 
his life was not perfectly safe here in 
Vienna, and she had tried to frighten 
him by pretending to see a democrat, 
thirsting for his blood, behind him in 
the dark. She had intended to frighten 
him, but she frightened herself also a 
little bit. She never believed that there 
was a betrayed democrat behind him ; 
she only wanted to scare him. She 
had only evolved that democrat who 
was to penetrate Kriegsthurm' s lungs 
out of her internal consciousness. Yet, 
when Kriegsthurm had run round be- 
hind her for protection, they both heard 
that heretofore purely imaginary demo- 
crat running away along theramparts 
as hard as ever his legs would carry 

The Princess, though quite as heartily 
frightened as if she by idly and in- 
credulously saying an old spell had 
raised the devil, was the first to recover 
her presence of mind. Kriegsthurm, 
though a bold man, was as white as a 
sheet when he again faced her under the 
gas-lamp, with his eyes squinting over 
his shoulder. She began 

" Ungrateful man ! I have saved 
your life !" 

"I acknowledge it, Madame. Did 
yon see the man ?" 

" I saw him plainly." 

Oh, Princess ! Princess ! 

" Was he like any one you had ever 
seen before ? " asked Kriegsthurm. 

"No," said she, "a tall dark man 
with a beard." This was rather a worse 
fib than the first one, though she did 
not know it. The man had no beard, 
and she had seen him before. 

" Let us have no recriminations, 
Madame ; I will not even ask you why 
you distrusted me and fled from me. 

For," he added, as his nerve came back; 
" the spirits have told me that." 

She was fond of the man, and had 
got the whip hand of him through an 
accident. Her fondness for the man 
caused her to spare the use of the whip. 
The revelations of the spirits had been 
so exceedingly unsatisfactory that even 
her silly credulity had given way under 
them, and spiritualism was now among 
the follies of the past. She was friendly 
with him. 

" Never mind the spirits ; and I will 
tell you why I run away from you. 
You knew everything about Sir Godfrey 
Mallory; and you knew, and know, that 
I was innocent. My brother was a man 
so fierce and so strict that I feared his 
anger, particularly after Miss Raylock 
had got the power of putting her tongue 
to work about it. I consulted you, and 
you promised to save my reputation. 
You then came to me, and told me that 
you had done so by making Silcote 
believe that Sir Godfrey's attentions 
were paid to my sister-in-law, his wife. 
You remember my despair and horror 
at such a course, but you pointed out to 
me that she was too far above suspicion 
for any breath to tarnish her character ; 
and indeed I believed you. But, to my 
infinite wonder and consternation, the 
poison took hold on ny jealous brother's 
heart, in spite of my open familiarity 
with poor Godfrey Mallory, whom I 
liked in a way you know what a fool 
I am, at least your pocket does. I 
dared neither speak nor hold my tongue. 
Her death lies at the door of my cow-< 
ardly folly and your villany. And she 
will be a ministering angel when you 
and I lie howling." 

One is allowed to quote Shakespeare, 
and so I put Shakespeare's words in 
her mouth. Her own were fiercer and 
coarser, for Silcote's sister could be fierce 
and coarse at times. 

"Till very lately, Kriegsthurm, I 
thought that this was all you had done. 
The other day, when you were dunning 
me beyond patience for money, and. I 
threatened to appeal to my brother, you 
told the old horrible story, that you had 
got my handwriting forged by some 

Silcote of Silcotes. 


woman's hand, accusing that saint of 
wishing to poison her husband, and had 
put poison in a place where he could find 
it. Then, for the first time, I realized 
that you and I had murdered my sainted 
sist3r-in-law's body, and my brother's 
soul ; and I fled here, where I believed 
you dared not follow me." 

<l Madame paid me highly," said 
Kriegsthurm, " and also treated me 
kindly. My object was to carry out 
Madaine's wishes most fully. And I 
did so." 

There was a certain terrible truth in 
the man's defence of himself. There 
was a large liberal grandeur about his 
rascality which made him, without all 
question, the greatest rascal in Europe. 
The general rule, I believe, in employ- 
ing a rascal is to promise him his pay 
as ^oon as the villany is completed. 
Sucii a procedure was utterly unnecessary 
in the case of Kriegsthurm. Pay Kriegs- 
thuim well first, and then all you had 
to look out for was that he did not, 
in his enthusiastic devotion to rascality, 
outrun his instructions, and compromise 
you. What his real name was, or 
where he came from, is a thing we 
shall never know. His name certainly 
could not have been Kriegsthurm ; even 
in tlte case of such an arch scounolrel as 
he was it is impossible to believe that 
he would keep his own name. That 
wouM have been a stroke of genius 
with which we cannot credit even him. 
Dalmatian crossed with Greek might 
produce him, did not his German, 
almost Dutch, physique render such a 
theory entirely impossible. 

Yr,t such entirely noble people as 
Frangipanni and Boginski believed in 
the man; believed, at the very least, 
that, if he was faithless in most things, 
he was faithful to them. Conspirators, 
often at the same time the most honest 
and the most credulous of men, are not 
dime alt men to deceive. About this 
man there was a broad radical magnifi- 
cence of scoundrelism which might have 
taker: in some statesmen, leave alone 
eons] -irators. 

^We will not dispute further, your 
Highness," he said, now giving her the 

title she loved ; " I served your interests, 
and I was paid. I will begin all over 
again. I want money." 

" And I have none," said the Princess, 
now perfectly confident. " This is a good 

" But your Highness may get money 
again. What is your object in wanting 
money 1 " 

" You know. I want it for Tom." 

" Use your influence with your 
brother, and reinstate him as heir 
of Silcotes. I tell you, and I know, that 
there is no one whom the Squire loves 
as he does the Colonel. The Colonel 
is steady enough now, and has had his 
lesson. The Squire is quite sick of 
Arthur, and besides, Arthur has fits, 
and bullies the old gentleman. I tell 
your Highness that, if you and I put 
our wits to work, we can get the Colonel 
out of this, and safe back to Silcote 
before the French have crossed the 
bridge of Buflalora." 

" Are they going to fight, then 1 " said 
the Princess eagerly." 

"Are they not?" said Kriegsthurm 
emphatically. " Do you think / don't 
know? Did I ever leave England 
before 1 " 

" I cannot have Tom," said the 
Princess, " in a campaign, he is so rash 
and audacious. Can you save Tom for 
me ? I cannot do without Tom now ; I 
would part with my opals to save Tom. 
Kriegsthurm, can you save Tom for me 1 ? " 

"No narm will come to him, your 
Highness, believe me. He must go to 
the campaign ; not only because his 
character is ruined if he does not, not 
only because he cannot avoid it if he 
would, but because one half of my plan 
consists in his winning back his father's 
favour by distinguishing himself in it" 

" Give me you plan, then." 

" I will," said Kriegsthurm. " Now 
you must allow that the Colonel has a 
very good notion of his own interests. 
You can't deny that, your Highness; at 
least, if you did, your pocket would turn 
inside out in contradiction." 

" I allow it/' said the Princess ; " Tom 
is fond of pleasure; and natural, too, at 
his time of life." 

Silcote of Silcotes. 

Tom was over forty, but she always 
looked on him as a boy. 

" I do not exactly allude to bis fond- 
ness for pleasure, your Highness," said 
Kriegstburm, " I only allude to his 
perfect readiness to lead an easy life on 
other people's money. I call attention, 
en passant only, to this amiable little 
trait in his character, to show that we 
shall have no difficulty whatever with 
him ; that, if he saw any chance of being 
reinstated at Silcotes, he would give up 
his career in the Austrian army, his 
character for personal courage, his chance 
of salvation, yourself, or the mother that 
bore him, to attain it." 

" Tom certainly has all the persistence 
of the family in the pursuit of an ob- 
ject," was the way the Princess com- 
placently put it. 

11 He has. I asked if he would stick 
at murder, and he rode the high horse, 
and tallied about kicking me down stairs ; 
but he wouldn't; no more would" he 
was going to say, "you," but he said, 
"a great many other people." 

"Now, instead of trying to bring 
Tom's nature to your own level, my 
dear Kriegsthurm," replied the Princess, 
"you should try to raise your nature 
to his ; " which was pretty as it stood, 
but which, on the face of it, did not 
seem to mean quite enough to arrest 
Kriegsthurm's line of argument. 

" Now," he therefore regardlessly 
.went on, "we three being pretty com- 
fortable together, and I having to find 
brains for the pair of you, it comes to 
this. The Squire is very fond of you, 
and very fond of the Colonel. You 
haven't hit it off together exactly, you 
remark. Why, no ; but nothing is 
commoner than for people who are very 
fond of one another not to hit it off. 
You and the Colonel don't always hit it 
off, you know ; why, if he were to offer 
to touch your jewels, the dead soldiers 
at Aspern down there would hear the 
row you two would make together. I 
and my poor wife didn't hit it off toge- 
ther. She put a knife into me once, 
but I didn't think much about that. 
When I married a Sicilian I knew that 
I might have to attend vespers. But 

we were very fond of one another, and 
you and the Colonel are fond of one 
another, and you and the Squire are 
fond of one another, in spite of all said 
and done. And the Colonel must 
cheer the Squire's old English heart by 
killing a few Frenchmen ; and you 
must use your influence with the Squire, 
and get the Colonel reinstated." 

" That won't do," said the Princess 

"And why, your Highness?" asked 

" Because, the next time my brother 
sees me, he will probably assassinate me 
publicly, and, if not, hand me over to 
justice for robbing him. Now don't 
look farouche like that, and, if you 
choose to swear, swear in something less 
than a dozen languages at once." 

" I was not swearing, your Highness ; 
I was praying praying for the safety 
of your Highness's intellect." 

"Well, then, if praying produces 
that effect on your face, I should advise 
you to stop it until you have consulted a 
priest of your faith, whatever that may be." 

" I will do so, ^ladame. Will Madame 
explain?" said Kriegsthurm, coming 
down sulkily to the inferior title. 

"Certainly. You forged a letter to 
my brother in my handwriting about 
this poison business. We need not 
go into that; we have had more than 
enough of it ; and the mischief arising 
from it is only beginning, as it seems to 
me. My brother kept that letter in a 
despatch -box in his bedroom. I, living 
with him so long, and knowing his 
habits, knew that he had something 
there, but did not know what. When, 
only the other day, you made the shame- 
less confession of your unutterable 
villany to me, I acted on the spur of 
the moment. I stole his keys, I opened 
the black box, I stole all the papers in 
it, and immediately afterwards met him 
in the gallery." 

"Did he suspect?" 

" No ; but he must have found out 
now. I took all kinds of papers, mort- 
gages to the amount of many thousands 
of pounds, as it seems to me ; and two of 
his wills." 

Silcote of Silcotes. 


<: Your Highness has committed a 
serbus felony," said Kreigsthurm. 

" So I supposed at the time," said 
the Princess. " But it is not of much 
consequence, I think. I talked about 
his assassinating me, or handing me 
ovei to justice just now. I spoke too 
fast, as usual. lie will never prosecute, 
you know. But our meeting again is 
an impossibility, that is all." 

" / might prosecute/' said Kriegs- 
thurm, " if your Highness returned to 

" The idea of your prosecuting any 
one, iny dear Kriegsthurm ! I don't 
kno\7 anything about law, but I know 
perfectly well that you are by far too 
disreputable a person to be believed on 
your oath. Off your oath you can be 
trusted, as I have often shown you ; but 
once sworn, I would not trust you, and 
you know that no English jury would." 

" ] have been faithful to Madame." 

" Yes, but never 011 your oath. I 
have heard you swear, certainly, in 
many languages, but you never took an 
oath to me. Pray, par exemple, to how 
many democratic societies have you 
sworn oaths, and how many of those 
oaths remain unbroken?" 

" Your Highness is too strong for me. 
I wisli to talk business. I cannot stand 
your Highness's logic." 

"I am a great fool," replied the 
Princess, " but, like most fools, I am very 
cunning in a low way ; and a fool must 
be a very low fool who is not a match 
for a thrice -perjured conspirator like 
you. You have ten times my brains, 
and ton times my physique; yet you 
tremble at every shiver of the breeze in 
the poplars above you. You would 
answer that I am a conspirator also ; 
yet who is the bravest of us now? I 
am not so much afraid of a violent 
death as you are. Women are braver 
than men. Come, to business/' 

" I think I am as brave as most men, 
Madame," said Kriegsthurm ; " and I 
was not, until this moment, aware that 
your Highness was in expectation of a 
suddeii and violent death, as I have been 
for now twenty years. If your High- 
ness doubts my nerve, would you be 

No. 91. VOL. xvi. 

so condescending as to allow me to 
prove it?" 

" Certainly," said the Princess. 

Kriegsthurm was standing with his 
head bent down into his bosom, as if 
1 shamefaced at losing the scolding-match 
with her. He now said, without altering 
his attitude, " Your Highness speaks 
Italian as well as English. Will you 
allow me to converse with you in 

Again she said, " Certainly." 

Kriegsthurm, with his chin on his 
chest, went on in that language. " The 
Bignora has challenged my nerves, I 
now challenge hers. The dearest friend 
of the man whom her late husband 
wronged so shamefully is standing close 
behind her; if you turn you are lost. 
I am going to seize him, and I shall 
have to spring past you. He does not 
understand Italian. I demand there- 
fore of the Signora that she shall 
remain perfectly tranquil in the little 
imbroglio which approaches. All I ask 
of your Highness is, that you will walk 
away from the combatants." 

The Princess, with her English nerves, 
stood as still as a lighthouse ; Kriegs- 
thurm, with his great powerful head 
bent down toto the hollow of his enor- 
mous chest, as if to make his conge-*. 
But in one moment he had dashed past 
her, and had seized in his enormous- 
muscular, coarse-bred, inexpressive fin- 
gers, the cravat and collar of our oldi 
friend Boginsky. 



KRIEGSTHURM was some fifteen stone, 
and Boginsky some eleven. The natural! 
consequence of which was, that Boginsky 
came hurling on his back on the gravel, 
with old Kriegsthurm a-top of him. The 
Princess heard the hurlyburly, but r 
like a true woman, waited to see what 
would be made out of it. She did not 
hear the conversation which followed 
between the two men, when they had 
got on their legs again, which was 
carried on in German. 


Silcote of Silcotes. 

"Why, what art thou doing here, 
and now, of all places and times'?" 
demanded Kriegsthurm, as soon as he 
had picked himself up from the top of 
the laughing Boginsky, and was stand- 
ing face to face with him. 

" I was listening to what you and 
the Princess were saying," replied 
Boginsky merrily. " The devil, but you 
are strong. You will face a man boldly 
enough when he faces you ; but you 
were frightened when I came behind 
you just now." 

" I am afraid of your democratic 
committees," said Kriegsthurm. 

"You have reason to be so," said 

"Meet me again in half an hour," 
said Kriegsthurm, naming the place. 
And so they hurriedly parted. 

" No danger after all, your Highness. 
Only an old brother conspirator, who 
may be useful to us. Now let us re- 
sume our conversation. What were the 
contents of these wills which you took ] " 

" I cannot say. Do you think that 
I would demean myself so far as to 
abuse my brother's confidence 1 I burnt 
them, and a nice smell they made. My 
maid thought that I had scorched my 
boots against the stove, and I showed 
her a burnt glove to account for it." 

At this characteristic piece of hopeless 
wandering folly on her part, Kriegs- 
thurm was very nearly throwing up the 
whole business in despair. Not in 
disgust, for he in his way loved the 
woman. He went on, without any sign 
of contempt. 

" That is rather a pity. One would 
have liked to know. I suppose he 
kept two wills by him to see how dif- 
ferent people behaved themselves, so 
that he might destroy either. The one, 
if Madame will follow me, was pro- 
bably made in favour of your favourite 
Thomas, the heir of his choice." And 
he paused to let her speak. 

" And the other in favour of Arthur," 
she said. 

" Excuse me. Silcote proposed to 
make him his heir, but Arthur refused, 
and they had words over it. No. The 
second will was probably in favour of 

James Sugden, a young man towards 
whom the Squire has shown the most 
singular favour : a favour so singular 
for him that there is little doubt that 
he is forgive me the darling son of 
your brother's old age. 

" That cub ! " exclaimed the Princess. 

" I am glad that you consider him a 
cub," said Kriegsthurm. " I have never 
seen him, and have doubtless been mis- 
informed about him. He has been 
represented to me as a youth of singular 
personal beauty, of amazingly artistic 
talent, and of irresistibly engaging 

" He kept all these qualities care- 
fully to himself whenever I saw him," 
said the Princess. " Yet still he was 
handsome, now I think of it, and drew 
beautifully, and everybody was very 
fond of him." 

" Exactly," said Kriegsthurm, admir- 
ing the admirable way in which she 
contradicted herself, talking " smartly " 
one moment, and then letting her 
honesty, or simplicity, or whatever it was, 
get the better of her. " And this beau- 
tiful youth, born close to the lodge-gates, 
is desperately in love with )'our niece 
Anne, the Squire's favourite grandchild. 
It seems evident that one of the Squire's 
two plans is to foster a marriage be- 
tween these two, and leave them the 

" If your theory of his birth be true," 
said the Princess, laughing, "it seems 
hardly probable that my brother, with 
his extremely rigid notions, should en- 
courage a match between Anne and her 
uncle ! " 

Kriegsthurm had never thought of 
that. He had merely an idea that they 
were in some sort cousins. I suppose 
that all conspiracies go blundering and 
tumbling about in this way before the 
time of projection. Judging from their 
almost universal failure, one would 
certainly say so. 

" Besides, I remember all about this 
boy. He was not born near the park- 
gates at all. His father and mother 
were two Devonshire peasants, who 
migrated up into our part of the world 
when the child was quite big. And 

Silcote of Silcotes. 


moieover my brother's morality is ut- 
terly beyond suspicion, has not his 
inexorable Puritanism been the cause of 
half this misery ? but to whom do I 
talk 1 I remember all about the boy and 
his belongings now. His mother was 
a woman of singular and remarkable 
beai ty : with a rude ladylike nobility 
in h 3r manner, w T hich I never saw any- 
where else. That very impertinent old 
won .an Miss Kay lock (who by the by 
was creeping and bothering about at 
the ball to-night,) pointed her out to 
me :irst, one time when I was talking 
abou t the superiority of . the Italian 
peasint over the English. And I re- 
men: her all about the boy too. Tom 
and the people went out after some 
poac aers from Newby, and this boy 
showed the most splendid courage, and 
got j fearfully beaten and bruised, almost 
kille 1. And Tom, was it not like my 
dear Tom 1 carried the boy to Silcotes 
in his arms, as tenderly as if he was 
his own son. He little knew that the 
ungrateful cub would ever come to 
stand between him and his inheritance." 

As little, kind Princess, as he knew 
that the poor wounded boy he carried 
in h.s arms so tenderly was his own 
son. Once in his wild loose wicked life, 
God j;ave him the chance of doing his 
duty by his own child he had so 
cruel 1 y neglected and ignored : ignored 
so utterly that he would not inform 
himself about its existence. Through 
his own unutterable selfishness, once, 
and once only, had he the chance of 
doing his duty by his own son : on that 
occasion he did it tenderly and well. 
Let ILS remember this in his favour, 
since we have but little else to re- 
meml er. The man was not all bad. 
Few men are. Show me a perfectly 
good man, and I will show you a per- 
fectly bad man. The challenge is not 
likely to be accepted, I think. 

"Your Highness's reminiscences are 
interesting," said Kriegsthurm. "This 
youth, this James Sugden, stands 
between the Colonel and his inheri- 
tance, and must be removed." 

"What do you propose to do?" 

" "Wait, your Highness. I give up my 
theory of his birth, of course. I see 
that it is indefensible : so the original 
difficulty remains, don't you see ? What 
is more likely than that Silcote should 
have planned a match between these 
two ? " 

"Nothing, I suppose." 

" Of course, nothing We all know 
that they are his two favourites, and 
moreover they have fallen in love with 
one another." 

"Excuse me once more," said the 
Princess. "This boy is not in love 
with Anne. He has the most extreme 
personal objection to her, to all her 
ways, and all her works. It is that 
mealy-faced, wretched little Eeglnald 
who is her adorer. This James worships 
Dora, Algernon's daughter." 

"As if it mattered with a boy of 
nineteen. If his patron gave the word 
he would fall in love with this beautiful 
little niece of yours to morrow." 

"I don't know that," said the Princess. 
" He is terribly resolute, quiet as he 
looks. And she is a vixen." 

"Your Highness is so absorbed in 
sentimental trivialities between boys 
and girls, that we shall never get on." 

"They count, you know. And Dora, 
the Squire's other favourite, is despe- 
rately fond of him" 

" I beg pardon ?" 

" I said that she was deeply, jealously 
in love with this cub." 

" That might be made to work " said 
Kriegsthurm. "Do you see how 1 " 

" No" said the Princess. 

" No more do I just at present," said 
Kriegsthurm, thoughtfully. " Have you 
any remark to make, Madame \" 

" I have to remark that you and I 
have got into a very idiotic muddle at 
present. I generally remark that an 
idiotic muddle is the upshot of all con- 
spiracies. I have not been engaged in 
so many as you have, but I have been 
engaged in enough, and to spare : I can 
speak of the effect of them on my own 
mind, and that effect has been muddle, 
unutterable muddle : a muddle which 
I fear has got chronic with me. For 
instance, I don't at this moment know 

c 2 


Silcote of Silcotes. 

whether you want James Sugden to 
marry Anne, or Anne to marry Regi- 
nald, or what you want. If I could 
marry my brother Harry it would set 
everything right at once, because I 
could leave the property to Tom after 
his death; but then I can't marry 
Harry, and besides, after this despatch 
box business he will never speak to me 
again. I see nothing for it but for Tom 
to marry Anne. She is a good deal 
younger than he is, and has a bad 
temper. If that could be brought about 
it would set everything right." 

" But he is her uncle," suggested 
Xriegsthurm, aghast. 

" Lor* bless me, so he is," replied the 
Princess. " How funny that I should 
not have thought of it before ! I hope 
we shall get out of this business without 
some one accidentally marrying his grand- 
mother. There is only one thing more 
that I have to say, which is this : that 
I most positively refuse to marry any 
body whatever, even if it were to save 
the Silcote property from the hammer. 
I had quite enough of that with my 
sainted Massimo." 

" But, your Highness " 

" He and his Signora Frangipanni 
indeed. Yes. Oh, quite so. The little 
doll. Frangipanni was a gentleman: 
and he believes to this day that I insti- 
gated Massimo both to the political vil- 
lany and to the other worse villany. It 
is you, Kriegsthurm, who have torn my 
character to tatters, and compromised my 
name with your plots, until I am left all 
alone, a miserable and silly old woman !" 

"Is she off?" thought Kriegsthurm, 
for she had raised her tone so high in 
uttering the last paragraph that the 
nearest sentry challenged. She was not 
" off." She began crying, and modulated 
her tone. 

"Madame is safer here than else- 
where," said Kriegstburm again. " She 
will remember the fearfully traitorous 
conduct of her late husband to the Italian 
cause in 1849. She will remember that 
she has rendered it impossible for her to 
go to England in the face of her brother's 
vengeance, and impossible to go to Italy 
in the face of the vengeance of the Italian 

party and Signor Frangipanni. She will 
then remain here 1 " 

"I think you had better leave me," 
she said. "I am getting nervous. 
There, go. I will have no harm done 
to the boy, but do the best you can for 
Tom. Are you angry with me 1 You 
know that I have always loved you, and 
been a faithful friend to you. Don't be 
angry with me." 

Kriegsthurm was a great scoundrel, 
but then he was a most good.-naturecl 
man. Many who knew a very great 
deal about him said that he was a good- 
kearted man. Probably his heart had 
very little to do with his actions. Most 
likely, lying inside that enormous chest, 
it was a very healthy heart, with the 
blood clicking steadily through it as true 
as a time-piece. In spite of his villanies 
and plots and scoundrelisms, he had 
some suspicion of what is called a " good 
heart." If one had said that some part 
of the man's brain was benevolent, and 
was expressed on his ferociously jolly 
great face, one might be nearer the truth. 
Anyhow, there was benevolence and 
gratitude in the man somewhere, for he 
knelt down before the foolish old Prin- 
cess, took her hand in his, kissed it, 
bowed to her, and sped away towards 
his interview with Boginsky, leaving 
her drying her tears and looking towards 
the French and Austrian graves over at 



"THAT is a very noble woman," said 
Kriegsthurm, as he half walked, half 
trotted along. " She is worth the whole 
lot of 'em put together. She is a fool, 
like the rest of her family, but she is to 
my mind the best of them. She com- 
plains that she has got puzzled about the 
family plot : suppose I were to compli- 
cate it further by marrying her ? Xo, 
that wouldn't do. In the first place she 
wouldn't have me, and in the second 
place we should all be in Bedlam as soon 
as the old man died, trying to find out 
our different relationships. That young 

Silcote of Silcotes. 


cub, Sngden, might turn out to be my 
grandmother in the melee. She has 
managed to turn my brains upside down ; 
they must be getting older than they 
were, or she would never have addled 
them like this. If I can get a thousand 
a yoar from Colonel Silcote, this is my 
last plot; for my wits are failing me. 
I have debauched my logical powers 
and my power of examining evidence by 
goir;g in for that wretched spiritualist 
business, the only piece of real charlatan- 
ism I ever did in my life. It has not 
paid, and I may say myself, as a very 
long-headed rascal, that charlatanism 
nevor does pay in the long run. The 
money comes too easy and too quick to 
stay by you. You put other folks oif 
their heads, but then you put yourself 
off too. You cannot succeed unless you 
put yourself oft' your head and make 
y oiu self believe in it. And so you get 
to think that the fools are not fools, and, 
even if they are, that the crop will last 
for ever. And so you debauch your 
soul about your money matters, and 
spend when you ought to be saving. 

"It is the same with conspiracies," 
he was going on, when he came sharp 
round the corner on to the place of 
meeting with Boginsky, and there was 
Boginsky waiting for him: who, when 
he saw him, burst out laughing. 

" What in the name of goodness," 
said Kriesthurm, laughing in his turn, 
" brings you into this wasp's nest 1" 

" ^Revolutionary business, my dear," 
said Boginsky. " We, in London, 
thought that, as all the troops were 
being poured south, there might be a 
chance for us. We thought that a 
democratic rising in Vienna, in the rear 
of th'3 army, just when they were ham- 
mer-and-tongs at it with the French, 
would produce a most unforeseen corn- 
plicarion ; and we live by complication 
and confusion, as you know." 

" Now for a thorough-going fool give 
me a thorough-going democrat," said 
Krie^sthurm, impatiently. " Do you 
think that, if you had any chance, 
7 should not have known of it? Do 
you see on which side / am 1 Austria 
will be beaten certainly, but in spite of 

that I have declared against the 

" I gave up all hopes the moment I 
saw it," said Boginsky. 

" Ajid how is your precious scheme 
working ? " 

" Well ! you know better than I can 
tell you," said Boginsky. " It will not 
work at all. The committees won't look 
at us. They say that the demolition of 
the fortifications has changed the chances 
utterly. I came here expecting to head 
a revolt, and all the employment I can 
find is a very dirty job." 

"And what may that be?" said 

" To watch you, my dear, and, if I 
can catch you alone and unarmed as 
you are now; in a private place like 
this ; in the dead of night with no 
witnesses as now ; to assassinate you. 
Which I am of course going to do this 
very instant, with this very American 
revolver. Therefore go down on your 
knees, and say your prayers at once." 

Kriegsthurm laughed pleasantly. 
" You have got among bad company, 

" I have. The old breed of demo- 
crats is dying out, and are replaced by 
men who disgrace the name, like these 
fellows. These fellows are Orsinists to 
a man. And what is worse, they have 
forgotten, or learnt to vilipend, the great 
names of the movement: Garibaldi, 
Kossuth, Mazzini, Manin, ay, and Bo- 
ginsky, are sneered at by them as half- 
hearted men. These men, who sit, and. 
plot, and drink, laugh at us who rose 
for the cause, and were taken red- 
handed. They proposed this business 
to me as a proof of my sincerity. I 
need not say that I accepted their offer 
with avidity, lest some more unscru- 
pulous democrat among them might take 
it in hand. You are in great danger here." 

" I thank you, Boginsky. You are a 
gentleman. You yourself are in very 
great danger here. I think, from an 
answer he gave me to-night, that Tom 
Silcote has seen you, and if he saw you 
again might denounce you to-morrow. I 
must get you out of this place." 

" You must, indeed, and yourself also." 


Silcote of Silcotes. 

" We will let that be ; for the pre- 
sent, you are the first person to be con- 
sidered. Are you poor?" 

" I have absolutely nothing. I have 
nothing to eat. I have no clothes but 
what I stand in. Was there ever a de- 
mocrat of my sort who was rich 1 And 
I have no passport. As for passing 
the lines into Italy, that is entirely im- 
possible. I could get northward, but I 
have no money." 

" You shall have money and passport 
if you will do something for me." 

" Your money is Austrian, and I 
will not touch it." 

" You can pay it back." 

" Well, Jesuit ! What is it then ?" 

" There is a young English artist, 
one Sugden, now at Prague." 

" Well ! Do you wish me to murder 
him for you?" 

" I wish to heaven you would. It is 
so terribly unlucky, you're being a 
gentleman and a man of honour." 

" Not unlucky for yow, is it?" said 

" I am not sure of that," said Kriegs- 
thurm, " I am getting so sick of the whole 
business, and more particularly of the 
Silcote complication, that I almost wish 
you had followed the instructions of 
the democratic committee, and put a 
bullet into me. I don't ask you to 
murder him. Will you meet him, and 
involve him in some of your confounded 
democratic conspiracies?" 

" Teach him the beauty of demo- 
cracy ? " said Boginsky. 

" Exactly," said Kriegsthurm. " Let 
him be seen in your sweet company 
before you make your own escape. In- 
troduce him to the lower democratic 
circles, such as those of Vienna, who 
employed you to assassinate me. Excite 
his brain about the matter (he is as big 
a fool as you, I am given to under- 
stand). Show him the whole beauty of 
extreme democracy on Austrian soil ; 
do you understand ?" 

" I see," said Boginsky. " Com- 
promise him thoroughly?" 

" .Zfo-actly, once more," said Kriegs- 
thurm. " He can't come to any harm, 
you know. He is an English subject. 

They would send the British fleet into 
the Danube sooner than allow one 
of his pretty curls to be disarranged. 
Will you teach this noble young heart the 
beauties of Continental democracy?" 

" Certainly," said Boginsky. " Where 
shall I meet you to get the money and 
the passport ? " 

Kriegsthurm made the appointment, 
and the night swallowed up Boginsky. 

Kriegstliurm's brains had been so 
very much upset by his interview with 
the Princess, that he felt little in- 
clined to go home to bed without 
having arrived at some conclusion or 
another. " These Silcotes," he said to 
himself, " would addle the brains of a 
Cavour. And I am not the man I was. 
That Boginsky will do nothing, you 
know. I must have this cub of a boy 
out of the way somehow ; hang him ! 
I wish he was dead. If the young 
brute were only dead, one could see one's 
way," he added aloud. 

A sentinel, to whom he was quite 
close in his reverie, challenged. 

" Silcote/' cried Kriegsthurm savagely. 

" What says he?" said the sentinel. 
" Stand!" 

" Novara ! Novara ! dummer kopf," 
replied Kriegsthurm, testily. "Is he 

" Buffalora," said the sentry, sulkily, 
bringing his musket sharply to his 
shoulder, and covering something behind 
Kriegsthurm, and dangerously in line 
with him. " You behind there, who 
are following the Herr, and have heard 
the passwords, come forward, or I will 

" May the, &c. confound this most 
immoral city," said Kriegsthurm. " If 
I was only once well out of it ! jtfow, 
who in the name of confusion will 
this turn out to be ? Knock him over, 
sentry, if he don't advance. I am 
Kriegsthurm of the police." 

" He is coming," said Ihe sentry, with 
his finger still on the trigger, covering 
the advancing man. " Ah ! here he is. 
You are now responsible for him, sir." 

There crept into the light of the 
lamp which hung above the sentry's 
box a very handsome beardless youth, 

Silcote of Silcotes. 


of ]>ossibly twenty. The face of him 
was oval, the chin end of the oval being 
very long and narrow, the mouth well- 
shaped but large, and wreathed up at 
the corners into a continual smile, the 
splendid eyes not showing so much as 
they might have done from under the 
lowered eyebrows, nose long, complexion 
brown, hair black and curling, gait 
graceful but obsequious. A young gentle- 
man from the Papal States, of the radical 
persuasion, rather shabbily dressed. 

Eriegsthurm was round and loud 
witl him in Italian, and ended by 
arresting him formally before the sentry, 
and marching him off into the darkness. 



THE new world, the world of nature, in 
her ]arger, coarser, Continental form, first 
broke on our old friend James's mind 
at the Drachenfels, that first outwork 
of the great European mountains. The 
grea'i steel-grey river, sweeping round the 
crags and the vineyards, and winding 
awa} into the folded hills, gave him 
nobl 3 promise of the more glorious land 
which lay behind. It is as common as 
Brighton now, but remember what it was 
to you when you were as young and as 
fresh as James. 

It satisfied his genial, "jolly," young 
soul. "Let us," he said to the quiet, 
apathetic Reginald, "make a lingering 
meal of all this. Let us dawdle up this 
beauilful river to the Alps, and study 
every inch of it, until we have traced it 
to ite cradle. Then we will descend on 
Italy, and take it." 

Reginald cared little, so long as he 
was in James's company; and so they 
dawdled up the river bank, from right 
to Lift, sketching, painting, bathing, 
learning their German, and singing. 
They got enamoured of the German stu- 
dent life, and essayed to imitate it, with 
more or less success. They were both, 
like all St. Mary's boys, pretty well 

trained as singers, and James had a sin- 
gularly fine voice. From their quaint 
training they had both got to be as free 
from any kind of conventionality as any 
German could possibly wish ; and in a 
very short time they grew quite as de- 
monstrative of their emotions as any 
German of them all. They were a great 
success among those Rhine people. The 
handsome, genial, vivacious James, with 
his really admirable, though uneducated, 
painting, his capital and correct draw- 
ing, his splendid singing, his unfailing 
good humour, his intense kindliness of 
disposition, was of course a success ; in 
spite of his, as yet, bad German. He 
was, and is, a really fine fellow, who 
would succeed anywhere, from California 
to Constantinople. But the quieter 
Reginald was a greater. He painted 
infinitely worse, he sang worse, he 
talked less, than James ; but the Rhine 
people believed in him more. When 
James had dazzled, and possibly puzzled, 
them, they would turn to the silent 
Reginald, after all, and wish to know 
his opinion, believing, from his com- 
parative silence, that he was the 
wiser; and Reginald, who had been 
hoping that James had exhausted the 
subject, knowing nothing of the matter 
in hand, would do his best, and be 
oracular and vague, which pleased them 

So these two happy boys went up 
and down and to and fro in this early 
spring, as free as birds, as happy as 
birds. The snow was not off the Hbhe- 
Acht when they first heard of the Eifel 
country. They must go, of course, at 
once, and went from Coblentz ; though 
the ice was still floating down the 
Moselle, and navigation was impossible. 
They walked up that wonderful river 
side to Treves, in slush and mud : 
enjoying themselves immensely, and 
making themselves remembered to this 
day by some of the people in whose 
houses they stayed. 

Reginald mildly asked James on their 
journey whether he called this going to 
Italy to study art. But James said in 
reply, "Let me see the Porta Mgra, 
Reggy, and I will fly south as true as a 


Silcote of Silcotes. 

swallow." And Reginald laughed, and 
trod on with him through the mud, 
until they had seen the Porta Nigra. 

They got to Treves so early in the 
season that there had been a slight 
whisk of snow just as they entered the 
town, and, pushing through the narrow 
streets, they came face to face with the 
object of their pilgrimage, a vast black 
mass of (as it appears) the first century, 
just now with every one of the capitals of 
the hundred columns piled one above 
another, silvered with snow. 

"Did you ever see anything like 
this ?" said James, after a few minutes. 
"No, nor dreamt of it," said Regi- 
nald. "We did right in coming here. 
In future, you shall lead and I will 

So they headed back to the dear 
old Ehine, through the volcanic coun- 
try, looking by their way on lakes 
hundreds of fathoms deep, blue from 
their depth as the great ocean, yet lying 
in great hollows among smooth short- 
grassed downs, where the sheep were 
feeding and the lambs were crying. And 
they saw an eagle, and a wolf, and a 
wild boar just killed ; and, having looked 
in on the Apollinaris Kirche, they 
quietly descended on Andernach. 

Here they met a very old friend of a 
fortnight's standing. They had made 
a halt at Bonn of a few days, and had 
struck up a friendship, which was to 
be more than life-long, with several 
students there. The students among 
whom they had accidentally fallen were 
of course democratic. The " Cross " 
party at Bonn is as exclusive as Pick- 
water. Happy-go-lucky James and 
Reginald, after a fortnight's examina- 
tion of the question, were quite pre- 
pared to be convinced that hereditary 
governors were a mere temporary stop- 
gap between the feudalism of the past 
and the democracy of the future. They 
did little more than bargain for Queen 
Victoria : at whose name the students 
took off their caps. As for the Prince 
of Wales, they gave him up. Among 
these terrible young gentlemen (who 
turn out the gentlest of beings as soon 

as they have a place and get married) 
they had come to the conclusion that 
Queen Victoria was the last crowned 
head which would be allowed to exist 
on the continent of Europe, and that 
she was only permitted to exist in con- 
sequence of her virtues as mother, wife, 
and woman. 

Then there was the business of the 
map of Europe again. These students 
had settled that, among other things 
(much in the style of that Paris map of 
1860, which was in great repute among 
the prudhommes has the man who 
made it committed suicide yet ?), Eng- 
land was to have Egypt, but not to be 
allowed any further territory in Europe, 
being too overwhelmingly powerful ; 
Alsace to a united Germany; and all 
that sort of thing : but always England 
to be served first, and bought, and kept 
from interfering. Or again she was to 
interfere and arouse democracy, nation- 
ality, and what not : for they believed 
in her power then. Now that the Cross 
party have won, what is the use of 
bringing up old democratic nonsense ? 

Only our two boys believed in all 
this. And one of the loudest democratic 
talkers of Bonn, under a cloud about a 
duel, met them at Andernach. 

This youth was more of a geo- 
graphical than a political radical. The 
form of government you might choose 
to adopt was a mere insignificant matter 
of detail to his enlarged and statesman- 
like mind. So long as you restored 
absorbed nationalities, he was ready to 
congratulate Ireland or Poland in re- 
verting to their original form of govern- 
ment. This young man walked up and 
down the street with our two friends 
for an hour or so, talking the most 
frantic nonsense about the Italian busi- 
ness : not unwatched. 

At length they all three agreed that 
refreshment was necessary, and the 
German boy, cocking his cap over his 
eye, and breaking out with 
" Mihi sit proposition 
In taberna mori ; " 

led them to a little gasthaus, taking 
care to inform them that the landlord's 

Silcote of Silcotes. 


principles were sound ; from which 
Jam^s and Reginald concluded that he 
was a man not only violently disaffected 
towards the powers that were, but per- 
manently disaffected towards any possible 
powers which ever might be hereafter. 
Jama's jolly humour made him half 
laugh at this kind of thing, but there 
was an air of mystery and adventure 
about it which made it very pleasant. He 
began to think that it would be very 
fine to have the prestige of belonging 
to one of these secret societies, more espe- 
cially in such a very tight-laced state as 
Prussia. He followed his German friend, 
hoping to see some real Vehrngericht 
business at all events for once in his life. 

The student made a sign to the host 
on entering, and immediately the host 
pretended, in the most patent manner, 
that he had never seen the student 
before, which interested and amused 
James, as it also did a Prussian police- 
official who was sitting at a table 
drinking. Then they passed mysteri- 
ously into an inner apartment, and shut 
the door after them ; and the Prussian 
official and the host winked at one 
another, and laughed. 

" You are not going to trouble those 
English boys ? " said the landlord. 

" Not I," said the policeman, " but I 
want him." 

"For what?" 

"Duelling. He went near to slit 
Von Azeldorf 's nose." 

" Pity he did not. The ass will make 
out a political offence, and become a 

" Of course the ass will. But he 
must slit the nose of one of his own 
order in future." 

" True," said the host thoughtfully. 

The student led our friends into an 
inner parlour, and brought them up to 
a large lithographic print, before which 
he took off his cap, put his hands across 
his broast, and bowed. The print was 
well conceived and executed, and repre- 
sented this : Hungaria lay dead in her 
coffin. Kossuth, with a fold of his 
cloak masking his mouth, was taking a 
last farewell look at her face, before the 

coffin should be closed. At the head of 
the corpse stood the pale ghost of 
Liberty, staring with a calm frozen face 
at Georgey, who was in the right- 
hand corner, with a face distorted by 
terror and remorse, calling on the rocks 
to cover him, and the hills to hide him. 
(In reality Georgey was comfortably at 
his own chateau, hard at work, with 
nets, pins, and corks, completing his 
almost unrivalled collection of butter- 
flies and moths, and perfectly easy in 
his mind. But we must have political 
caricatures.) The print was well drawn, 
and well executed, and our two boys 
were struck by it extremely, though 
the sad fact must remain that they had 
neither of them heard of Georgey in 
their lives. 

" There he stands," said their student 
friend. "False and perjured traitor, 
with the blood of the slain Hungaria 
choking the lies which would rise to his 
mouth. Georgey Georgey," he was 
going on, when a very quiet weak voice 
behind them said, in German, 

" It was a strong measure, certainly, 
that of Georgey's. I confess I should 
not have been prepared to act so myself ; 
but in the end Hungary will be the 
better, and Austria 110 worse." 

They turned, and saw before them 
one of the strangest-looking men ever 
seen by any of the three a man with 
a face as beardless as a boy's, as old- 
looking as a grandfather's ; a face of 
great beauty and power, with large, 
clear, luminous eyes, and a complexion 
like pale wax, without a wrinkle. The 
figure was not large, but well propor- 
tioned and graceful ; the carriage was 
erect and bold, yet very calm and quiet, 
showing physical weakness, as of a man 
recovering from a great illness. Having 
said his say, he leant against the closed 
door, and surveyed them quietly and 

The German student took off his cap ; 
Reginald stared as though he had seen 
a ghost ; James was the first to recover 
his presence of mind. He cried out, 

" My dear sir " 

"You will write out," said Arthur 


Silcote of Silcotes. 

Silcote, smiling, "the first book of 
Euclid before to-morrow morning, and 
bring it to my desk at the opening of 
school. ' De tabernis non frequen- 
tandis,' you know. You have violated 
one of our statutes, my boy. What is 
going to happen to this young gentle- 
man ? " 

The young German student was being 
arrested. The policeman from the next 
room had come in, and had " taken " 

"What has he done, then?" said 
Arthur Silcote. 

" He has been duelling," said the 

" And has not ' Yon ' before his 
name," said Arthur, after the young 
gentleman was removed. " Well, my 
dear boys, you seem to be getting into 
good company." 

" We are seeing the world, sir," said 
James, laughing. 

" One side of it, boy ; one side of it." 

" A very amusing side, sir, surely." 

" Surely ! " said Arthur. " When 
you hear a man use the word ' surely,' 
you always know that he is not * sure ' 
at all. That miserable tentative word 
' surely ' exasperates me. It is one of 
the wretched phrases by which a fourth- 
class press writer rigs his opinion. 
Don't use it again." 

" I will not, sir. You are not angry 
with me ? " 

" Why, no," said Arthur, smiling. 
" I seldom ask great favours from people 
with whom I am angry, and I am going 
to ask a great favour of you." 

James waited and wondered. 

" I have been very ill I have been 
deceived by the doctors as to the cause 
of my illness. They told me that my 
heart was hopelessly deranged, and that 
my life was not Worth a fortnight's pur- 
chase. This has turned out to be all a 
falsehood. I am as good a man as ever, 
with a new lease of life before me. I 
have merely overworked myself, and I 
want rest. But this foolish falsehood of 
the doctors has produced its effect. I 
came abroad, leaving all my old friends, 
to die alone like a hunted deer. Mayo, 
at Boppart, tells me that I am to li\e, 

and stakes his reputation upon it. He 
has turned me out from his establishment 
to wander and amuse myself. Will you 
let me wander with you? This new 
life, the assurance of which I get from 
Mayo, has become unexpectedly dear to 
me. I did not fear death ; I only Imted 
it. Death always seemed to me, if I 
dare -say so, a mistake. I never doubted 
for one moment the continuity of my 
existence ; I never had any physical fear 
of the great break in it : I only hated 
that break. I believe that I hate that 
great, and, as it seems to me sometimes, 
unnecessary, break in my existence as 
much as ever : but Mayo, the great 
expert, has removed it at least twenty 
years. I have a new life before me. 
Can you understand all this ? " 

" Well ! well ! sir," said James. 

" I was fresher and freer once," said 
Arthur, " than you are now. In the old 
times, when Tom and I used to go and 
see Algy at Oxford, I was as fresh and 
as free as any one. And Algy is dead, 
and Tom is worse than dead ; and I have 
been dead, boy." 

"Dead, sir?" said James, wondering. 

" Ay, dead : to hope and to ambition, 
and to much else. I have been dead, 
m y boy, in a way, but I have come to 
life again. Come, let us walk together, 
and spend the day. At the end of it, 
you shall tell me if I seem likely to suit 
you as a travelling companion or not." 

" I can tell you that at once, sir. We 
shall be honoured and favoured by your 
company. I rather think that we are a 
little too young to do entirely without 
advice : have we not just seen our 
chosen companion walked off to gaol 
under our eyes ? I am very discreet, no 
doubt for my age ; and as for Eeginald, 
he is the soul of discretion and reticence. 
But we have made rather a mess of it 
hitherto, and there are heaps of things 
I want to know and cannot find out. 
And you are all alone, and want taking 
care of. We will take care of you if 
you will take care of us." 

"These are all kind commonplaces," 
said Arthur. "But give me a trial. I 
am all alone in the world ; I have been 
very ill, and I am slowly recovering. I 

Silcote of Silcotes. 


shall be a drag on you, but I ask you in 
charity's sake for your company." 

James tried to answer, but could not. 
To see a man whom he had always re- 
garde 1 as a prig and a bully brought 
so low as this affected him strongly. 
Reginald had dropped away from them, 
and they were sauntering up beside the 
Rhine stream together and alone. 

" Why are you silent ? " asked Arthur. 

"^Because," said James, " I wish I 
had known you better before." 

" 1 lat would have been of little use," 
said Arthur. "As a fact, nobody did, 
excep' perhaps Algy, who is dead and 
gone. I was a failure. Try to know 
me now, and it is quite possible that 
you will like nie." 

Wlat simple James answered is not 
of much consequence. Arthur talked 
on to him, as the Ancient Mariner 
talked to the first person he could get 
hold of. 

" The hatred of death not the fear, 
mind which has been hanging over 
me so long ruined and spoilt me. The 
doctors, in their- ignorance, gave me 
warning that I could not live, a long 
while ago. They told me that I had 
organic disease of the heart, and went 
far to ruin my life. It appears that 
such in not the case. I am a new man 
again. What the expectation of death 
could not do, the removal of that ex- 
pectation has done.. Bear with me a 
little, .ind see." 

James only half understood him; but 
he ans vvered : 

"One thing is plain, sir; you want 
attending to and looking after; and I 
will do that for you. Our meeting with 
you is a great stroke of good luck." 

"But you will want to ramble and 
range ;,bout, and I cannot do that." 

" We can ramble," said James, " all 
day wl die you sit at home, and at night 
we can come back and tell you all about 
the day's work or the day's play. It 
shall g o hard, between my sketches and 
my talk, if you do not enjoy the day as 
much ;.,s we do.". 

So l<e joined them, and they rambled 
away together southward through Ba- 
varia t )wards Saltzbur<r. 

James was at first extremely afraid of 
the terrible inexorably-tongued Arthur. 
Then he was surprised and frightened 
at the great change in him ; and at last 
got perfectly confidential with him, and 
actually went so far as to tell him one 
night that he had been utterly deceived 
in his estimate of his character. I 
doubt that James had been drinking 
the wine of the country. 

"You mean," said Arthur, "that I 
am not the priggish bully you took me 

" The words are yours, sir. You 
were never either prig or bully. But 
you were so hard and inexorable. Now 
you are so gentle and complacent in 
everything. A child could not be more 
biddable than you are." 

" Yes ; but in old times I was a 
schoolmaster," said Arthur, " now I am 
a child. Did I not tell you that I was 
new-born 1 I have a new lease of life 
given me on the highest authority. Life 
with me is not so enjoyable as it is 
with you. I am twenty years older 
than you : I cannot come and go, and 
enjoy every flower and shadow "as you 
can. Yet life is a glorious good, and 
death is a terrible evil : ah ! you may 
make what you like of it, but it is the 
greatest of misfortunes, that break in 
the continuity. But what do you know 
of death ? Death has been with me 
night and day for many years. He is 
gone now, and I am as much a boy as you 
are, save that I cannot enjoy the world 
as you can. Do you understand me 1 " 

" I think I do, sir," said James, 

" This perfect rest and absence of 
anxiety (for Algy is in heaven), com- 
bined with your kindly ministrations 
and attentions, are making a man of 
me again. Is it not so 1" 

" You gain in strength and colour 
every day, sir/' said James. " And 
yet " 

" And yet, you would say, my old 
temper does not return. Am I not 
changed, then?" 

" You are your real self now, sir. 
That seems to be the truth." 

" Let us hope so," said Arthur. " I 


Social Disintegration. 

tliink so myself. But, with my return- 
ing health, the old Adam is somewhat 
moving. The lassitude of my illness is 
going away ; and I begin to feel a want 
for motion, for action, for something to 
stir me. Take me south, James, and 
let us see this war. There is sport 
afield there." 

" What war, sir?" 

" Oh, you young dolt," said Arthur, 
laughing. " Give me the footstool, that 
I may throw it at your head. What 
war? Why the grand crush between 
France and Austria, the stake of which 
is an Italian kingdom. I see how to 
enjoy life : to cultivate a careful igno- 
rance on political matters." 

" But the Kolnische Zdtung says that 
they are not going to fight," remarked 

" The Fliegende Blatter may probably 
say the same," said Arthur. " Boy ! boy ! 
there is going to be 'a great thing,' as 
the foxhunters say. Take me south to 
see it. You can sketch it, and sell your 
sketches. I want motion, life : let 
us go." 

" We will go, sir, certainly if you 
really think they will fight, and if 
you are able for it." 

" You shall carry me," said Arthur. 
" My brother is in the business, and on 
the winning side. Old Austria for ever, 
in spite of all her faults." 

" Which of your brothers is in the 
business, sir " asked James. 

" Tom," said Arthur. " Heaven 
help the Frenchman who meets him." 

" I remember him," said James, " a 
kind man with a gentle face. He 
carried me to Silcotes in his arms once, 
after I had been beaten by poachers. 
By the by, you were there. Do you 
remember it ? " 

" I do, now you mention it," said 
Arthur. " And you are that poor little 
thing in the smock-frock that Tom 
brought in in his arms. I never ex- 
actly realized it till now. How things 
come round through all kinds of con- 
fusion ! My silly old aunt took you to 
bed that night; and you made your 
first acquaintance with Dora, and AIHIC, 
and Eeginald. Well, then, it is settled 
that we are to go south, and see this 

" I glory in the idea, sir," said James. 
" I have never looked on war." 

" Nor I," said Arthur. " It will be 
a cold bath for both of us. The acces- 
sories will not be pleasant ; but it will 
do us both good. A review on a large 
scale, with the small and yet important 
fact of death superadded ; and a king- 
dom of twenty millions for the stake. 
A University boat-race, in which the 
devil actually does take the hindmost. 
Let us go, by all means." 

To be continued. 


THE assertion often made by a certain 
class of writers and speakers, that while 
the rich are growing richer the poor are 
growing poorer, is certainly, at least as 
regards the present century, untrue. The 
class of manual labourers have derived 
great advantage from the rapid progress 
of civilization and of mechanical inven- 
tion, from the development of com- 
merce and the improved and enlightened 
legislation of recent years. In material 
comfort the distance between them and 

the richer members of society is certainly 
not greater now than it was fifty years 
ago. Unhappily it is true that, with the 
growth of wealth and population, the 
wall of moral separation between rich 
and poor appears to have become broader, 
higher, and more impassable. The rich 
see less of the poor than they used to 
do ; know less of their habits, their 
feelings, and their wants ; and the poor 
have so little personal acquaintance with 
the rich, that to many of them the well- 

Soc ia I Dis in tegra t ion. 


dressed neighbours whom they meet in 
their daily walks, hardly seem as fellow- 
creatires, with like characters and pas- 
sions, actuated by the same motives, 
animated by the same feelings of kind- 
ness or of irritation, of sympathy or of 
selfisiness, as themselves. 

The mutual ignorance, the incapacity 
to understand one another, which want 
of intercourse has produced in rich and 
poor, which prevails to an extent that 
may fairly be called dangerous, is illus- 
trated by the absurd caricatures and 
misrepresentations of either class which 
find credence among the other. The 
things that are said of the whole class of 
rich men, of the aristocracy, of capital- 
ists, by trade delegates and club orators, 
would fail of all effect if spoken to men 
personally acquainted with the objects 
of such abuse. The unqualified panegy- 
rics of working-class virtue and intelli- 
gence, the dark descriptions of immo- 
rality, ignorance, and improvidence, so 
freely employed in political controversy, 
could never be addressed to an audience 
familiar with the real character of the 
" flesii-and-blood" working man ; an au- 
dience who knew how many grades of 
moral and intellectual merit lie between 
the ( xperience, wisdom, tolerance, and 
thrift of the Eochdale co-operators, and 
the recklessness and criminal violence 
of the unionists of Sheffield ; between 
the working men who take the lead in 
returning to Parliament Mr. Mill, Mr. 
Hughes, and Mr. Eawcett, and those 
who form the most venal element of 
Totnos and Lancaster. 

M< st landowners of moderate means, 
or their families, know something of 
their peasantry; many country manu- 
facturers know something of their work- 
people ; but even in these cases the 
knowledge is too often very shallow and 
imperfect. Setting aside the few per- 
sons actually and personally engaged in 
benevolent labours (of whom more here- 
after), men and women even of mode- 
rate is leans, in our large towns lead a life 
altogether apart from that of the poor. 
How many of them ever speak to a work- 
ing n ian or woman except in the way of 
busiiaess ] How many of them have 

any personal relations with persons of 
that class ; any acquaintance with indi- 
viduals in whom they take an interest, 
for whose welfare they care, who might 
not be sick, starve, or die without their 
knowing it 1 What does the large 
manufacturer know of the vast majority 
of his hands outside of the factory 1 ? Has 
he ever seen them, in their homes ? 
Would he know them if he met them 
in the street? What does the ship- 
owner or merchant know of the men 
who sail or unload his ship, or carry his 
goods to the warehouse 1 They are en- 
gaged for the job, by his captain or 
warehouseman, at the shipping-office or 
the street corner ; they are unknown to 
him by sight or by name. So far as 
our towns are concerned, the cases are 
few and exceptional in which there is 
any personal tie between rich and poor 
any recognition on either side of a 
connexion that does not end with work- 
ing hours, or of any individual claim on 
an individual for anything besides fair 
wages and honest work. 

This alteration is not, apparently, 
due to wilful estrangement on the part 
of the rich ; still less to any fault on 
the side of the poor. But, even though 
no one be wilfully in fault, it is painful 
to contrast this state of things, the fruit 
though it be, of advancing civilization, 
increasing wealth, and better industrial 
organization, with what old men now 
living can well remember to have wit- 
nessed, in the service of a kindly or well- 
principled master. The father of the 
present manufacturer often knew every 
one of the hundred or two of hands whom 
he employed. They lived in their em- 
ployer's cottages, close to his house and 
mill, within reach of the daily visits of 
his family. If one of them were sick or 
had a sick wife or child, his wife and chil- 
dren visited the cottage, and the master 
could give what aid was necessary. He 
would speak to them by name, ask after 
their families, and commend the progress 
of their children at the school, at which 
his own children taught. The merchant 
had but few men, and they were con- 
stantly in his service, and did all his 
work. It took some weeks to unload 


Social Disintegration. 

by their aid a vessel of 200 or 300 tons. 
Now, the ship of 1,500 tons is dis- 
charged in a week, under the direction 
of the Dock Company, or of a contrac- 
tor, by a large gang of men, who then 
go elsewhere ; and for the next job a 
new gang is engaged. Cotton is handled 
by cotton-porters, corn by corn-porters. 
The old-time merchant used at Christ- 
mas to assemble his men and give to 
each of them a piece of beef proportioned 
to the wants of the family, a loaf, and a 
shilling to buy beer, with a shake of the 
hand from the senior partner, and " A 
Merry Christmas to you, Williams ; I hope 
your good wife is stronger," which were 
the expression of a real interest, and the 
natural acknowledgment of a tie felt 
by both parties. His sons may keep 
up the distribution of beef, bread, and 
beer ; but the personal character of the 
kindness has disappeared; the Christ- 
mas gathering and greeting can no 
longer be a reality when the men are 
not known by sight to any partner in 
the firm. Not even the warehouseman, 
not even a clerk, has that personal 
knowledge of the men employed, which 
the head of the firm once possessed as 
a matter of course. Even where the 
master is most disposed to recognise 
his duty, and the men might be most 
confident of his kindness, he may be 
(has been) horror-struck to find that a 
man, who has been employed by him 
for years, has been absent from his work 
for weeks, and is actually reduced by 
illness to a choice between the work- 
house and starvation, while his em- 
ployer is in utter ignorance of his 

So it is in most departments of busi- 
ness. And the increase of numbers 
and capital employed are not the only 
causes which contribute to sever the 
old natural ties between rich and poor ; 
distance and want of leisure are added. 
Fifty years ago the merchant would live 
over his countinghouse, his warehouse 
was adjoining, and the dock, where his 
vessel lay, and his merchandise was un- 
loaded, was within a few minutes' walk. 
The business was not too large to allow 
its head to see to its details in person, 

and to look after those who were em- 
ployed therein. Now, the dock is far 
away from the countinghouse, and its 
duties are left to others. The merchant 
is employed all day in the direction of 
transactions ; the executive details are 
left to subordinates. His work done, 
the merchant, and even the large shop- 
keeper, leaves it for his residence at a 
distance in the country, in a suburb of 
the overgrown town, or at the West-end 
of London. He has rarely now leisure 
or inclination for the public duties, mu- 
nicipal or parochial, which his father 
discharged when they were more at 
hand, and less burdensome than the 
rapid growth of our towns has lately 
made them. His wife and daughters 
can no longer call upon the labourer's 
sick or troubled family in the short 
walk which formerly brought them into 
the country. If such a visit has to be 
paid the carriage must be ordered and 
time, spared for a drive of five or six 
miles into or through the town. Thus 
the vast increase of the scale of our 
manufacturing and mercantile businesses 
enlarges the number of employes and 
makes personal knowledge or interest 
more difficult : the subdivision of labour, 
and the more thorough organization re- 
quired by the magnitude of modern 
commercial transactions, sever the per- 
sonal connexion which established an 
evident mutual claim between master 
and servant ; and the less leisure, in- 
tenser work, and more luxurious life of 
the present generation will complete the 
estrangement of the rich from the poor, 
unless it be studiously guarded against 
by methodical effort. 

It is not to be supposed that the 
social duties imposed by the personal 
relations of olden times were always 
fulfilled. There is probably as much 
willingness to recognise, in feeling and 
principle at least, the claims of humanity 
and Christian brotherhood now as here- 
tofore. But the difference is this that 
whereas in past times the duty was per- 
sonal and manifest, and could hardly be 
wholly neglected without some self- 
reproach for want of feeling and 
charity, now-a-days the obligation is 

Soc ia I I) is in tfgratio n , 

more general and indefinite, and can 
only be performed by those v ho go out 
of the daily routine of their life to seek 
opportunities and means of doing it. 
Of oil the individual poor man had a 
defini e claim on the kindness of some 
indivilual man of substance. Now the 
claim is that of a class on a class ; not 
of a v orkman on an employer, in whose 
service his time of health and strength 
has bien spent, but of those who lack 
the gc od things of this world, on all on 
whom God has bestowed those good 
things in abundance. Such a claim 
comes home with far less force to the 
ordinr ry individual conscience, according 
to thi old saying that "every man's 
business is no man's business." The 
duty is much less easy of fulfilment, 
and it 3 undefined character leads to end- 
less mistakes, and affords endless ex- 
cuses for a neglect of which so many 
are guilty, that each feels almost inno- 

Bui this disintegration of society which 
grows out of the very completeness of 
its mechanical organization this alien- 
ation and mutual ignorance between 
rich {Jid poor, as classes, arising from 
the severance of the ,old personal ties 
and th.e termination of the old lasting 
relations between individuals rich and 
poor is at once a reproach to us as a 
Chrisiian community, a peril to our 
interests as a free and powerful nation, 
and a] i evil of ever- increasing magnitude 
in its influence on the lives and cha- 
racter;;, the moral and physical well- 
being, of each member of what should 
be one body politic and religious. The 
oxiste ice side by side of so much useless 
and i eedless splendour, so much un- 
merited and unrelieved destitution, of 
luxury with squalor, the living picture 
of La; arus at the gate of Dives that is 
ever Before our eyes if we but open 
them,- cannot but force upon our con- 
scienc ) the gravest questions as to the 
indivilual responsibility of each of us 
for a ] >ortion of the shocking spectacle ; 
the ri^ht of each to enjoy his share of 
the w ;alth without taking his part in a 
methodical and sustained effort to relieve 
the ^ant. Political economy, rightly 

understood, has no salve for these qualms 
of conscience. It tells us, indeed, that 
indiscriminate or thoughtless almsgiving 
the easiest form of apparent charity 
is in fact a vice ; but it also leaves open 
to us a vast field for the expenditure of 
labour and money, and enforces the 
duty by showing the mode and the con- 
ditions of its safe and beneficial per- 

Regard to' history confirms the fears 
of common sense that a state of national 
life, in which the moral unity of the 
nation is broken, in which the rich and 
the poor begin to form two separate 
castes, losing mutual comprehension, 
mutual sympathy, mutual regard, and 
becoming to each other as distinct races 
with separate organization, ideas, in- 
terests, is the sure forerunner, the first 
commencement of rapid national decay. 
It is by bridging the gulf of separation, 
by reuniting the severed sympathies, and 
rekindling the earnestness of personal 
goodwill between .the estranged orders, 
that we can hope to maintain in vigorous 
life the common sentiments, the mutual 
affections, which are the breath of 
national life. It is only by bringing 
the two classes once more into relations 
of personal kindness and friendly in- 
tercourse, by service rendered without 
patronage and accepted without degra- 
dation, that we can avert the danger of 
those terrible collisions between capital 
and labour (which are the fruit of mutual 
misconception and irritation, much more 
than of conflicting interests) which, if 
less violent, become daily more formid- 
able, from the gigantic proportions 
assumed by the separate- organizations 
in which the labourers are banded toge- 
ther, apart from, and, as it were, in 
antagonism to their employers. The 
extent of this social danger was made 
plain to careful observers when a hitch 
in the working of the Trades Union 
machinery led to a strike in the iron 
trade of North Staffordshire. The 
quarrel was taken up on both sides by 
distant bodies and rival firms ; and we 
were on the verge of witnessing a social 
war which would have raged from Bir- 
mingham to Newcastle, and in which 


Social Disintegration. 

every ironmaster and every foundryman 
would have been engaged, closing hun- 
dreds of works, and throwing thousands 
and tens of thousands out of work, 
merely in consequence of a local squabble. 
Such, and so mighty, are the separate 
organizations of the labouring class. 
Ere long it is probable that all the 
unions of all the trades throughout the 
empire will be combined in one federal 
league, which may bring the whole 
force of the labouring class to bear on 
any trade dispute. It is impossible not 
to regard with the gravest anxiety a 
state of estrangement and mutual igno- 
rance between rich and poor, out of 
which it arises that the latter listen to 
few advisers out of their own class, and 
most readily to those who most artfully 
influence the spirit of class antagonism ; 
that the masters know little of what is 
passing in the minds of their people, 
are on their part often narrow and one- 
sided in their views of the rights and 
feeling of their workmen, and if more 
enlightened, are powerless to counteract 
the evil influence ; and that both parties 
can be hurried into a serious struggle 
with no other necessity than arises from 
mutual misunderstanding and mutual 
irritation. It is by no means a healthy 
symptom of our social state, though one 
to which we are reconciled by habit, 
that from all the associations of the 
workmen for mutual support and assist- 
ance in every trade, the masters are, 
and choose to be, excluded. 

Beyond the political and social evils 
which it engenders, this class separation, 
this caste tendency, has the worst effect 
on the life and character of both the 
rich and the poor. Each is withdrawn 
from a portion of the moral and social 
influences necessary to the formation 
and nourishment of a healthy human 
feeling, and their character is to that 
extent starved, dwarfed, or distorted. 

The more highly-skilled and better- 
paid artisans earn much more than is 
necessary to provide their families with 
the necessaries and comforts belonging 
to their station in life. They have 
more leisure and more money than here- 
tofore. The number of persons of whom 

this is true, and the degree in which it 
is true, are daily increasing. How will 
this superfluity of means and leisure be 
spent 1 Partly in sensual indulgence ; 
and this in proportion to the absence of 
those moral and intellectual interests 
which a free and friendly intercourse 
with men of higher education and culti- 
vated tastes would afford. Partly in 
occupations of an intellectual cast, par- 
taking of that wider and more social 
character which men require in their 
interests, exactly in proportion as they 
rise above the mere necessities and 
pleasures of animal existence. Is it 
well for them, is it safe for society that 
in those occupations they should form 
a class apart ; that those interests should 
not be shared with the rich, but sepa- 
rately from, and therefore necessarily 
tending to become antagonistic to theirs? 
In proportion as the artisans become 
better educated, more at leisure from 
mere temporal needs, they will spend 
more time and care on political and 
social questions; it rests with the 
wealthier classes whether that time and 
care shall be bestowed in concert with, 
or in opposition to them ; whether the 
energies of the labouring class shall flow 
into the common stock, and add enor- 
mously to the vigour and power of a 
united nation; or, as they are now 
tending to do, form entirely separate 
organization, life, and interests for the 
most numerous class of society. There 
is little reluctance among workmen to 
accept co-operation, and even guidance, 
and instruction, from those who are fit 
to guide and instruct them, and willing 
to proffer that aid on terms of equal 
friendship. If men of education hold 
aloof, we must not blame the artisans 
for falling under the influence of the 
guides whom men of education most 
distrust and fear. 

The poor, those whose animal wants 
engage their whole energies, and are at 
times inadequately supplied thereby, 
must perforce accept aid in any form in. 
which it conies to them. But the aid 
which is rendered mechanically, whether 
by law or by voluntary associations, 
divested of personal kindness and good- 

Social Disintegration. 


williri the profferer, and therefore awaken- 
ing no personal feelings of affection and 
gratitude in the receiver, degrades and 
hardens him whom want forces to ac- 
cept ifc. It is a feature, not of class, but 
of human nature, that the benefits 
which are given in love and sympathy, 
open the heart, and improve the cha- 
racter of him who enjoys them in grati- 
tude, and repays them with love ; while 
that which is given reluctantly, con- 
tempt uou.sly, or indifferently, curses him 
that gives and him that takes. Thus it is 
that the receipt of parish relief is felt so 
deeply to degrade the pauper, that the 
best of the working class will rather 
starve often do rather starve, than 
apply for it ; and that the charity of 
associations, doles of Christmas blankets, 
and so forth, given by rule, and taken as 
a right, are found to demoralize labour 
and produce imposture. Charity, in 
proportion as it is wisely given by indi- 
vidual kindness, avoids these evil con- 
sequences ; its influence often reaches 
far beyond the mere physical wants to 
which it applies, softens the hearts 
which were hardening in a sense of neg- 
lect from man and injustice in the distri- 
bution of the gifts of God, turns resent- 
ment into gratitude, and bitterness into 
hope und thankfulness. 

The rich do not surfer less than their 
working neighbours from the want of 
friendly personal intercourse with an- 
other class than their own. Confined 
to the society of those whose views and 
ideas are cast in the same mould by 
similar worldly circumstances, their in- 
tellects and their hearts are cramped 
and narrowed. It is astonishing within 
what close limits the feelings, the ideas, 
the knowledge, of men even of culture 
and intellect, whose lives have been 
passed in the higher circles of society, 
are confined. The rich, especially when 
young, suffer terribly from the want of 
their natural occupation, and often be- 
come luxurious, indolent, and vicious ; 
their minds, empty and unguarded, 
plunge into vice or dissipation with an 
energy often proportioned to their capa- 
bilities for higher and nobler interests. 
I havu frequently heard fathers, whose 

ISTo. 91. VOL. xvi. 

lives had passed in the hard work which 
at once kept them clear of such tempta- 
tions, and enabled them to accumulate 
large fortunes, express doubt and fear 
lest, in bequeathing wealth to their 
children, they should be placing them 
in a worse position, not only as regards 
happiness in another world, but even 
for their own true welfare in this, than 
those who have no other heritage than 
a good education, and a fair start in life. 
" What am I to slave and save for ? To 
accumulate a large fortune only to bring 
my children to grief and debauchery 1 " 
I heard a very clever and successful 
man say this once, and the thought oc- 
curs to most such men who think at all. 

The absence of interests and affections 
beyond the narrow circle of the family 
often acts with fatal effect on the nature 
of men who have not begun life under 
the enervating influence of inherited 
riches and luxury. Many a man of 
business, who in youth was generous 
and liberal, and gifted with sympathies 
and noble thoughts, is found in later 
life to have shrunk into selfish, cold, 
hard indifference ; less liberal now that 
he has amassed wealth than when he 
was beginning to labour for it ; less 
useful in this world, less fitted for 
another, than before he underwent the 
trials and the discipline of a life which, 
nevertheless, may have been exemplary 
in honour and integrity, and in the per- 
formance of all the duties which fell 
within the narrow sphere within which 
it has moved. 

Should we have such fears for our 
children if we knew that they, and those 
around them that the society whose 
opinions would influence their standard 
of duty recognised the essential obliga- 
tions which wealth, education, leisure, 
and talent impose ; if the expenditure 
of a certain portion of time, means, and 
talents on some object of utility to those 
less fortunate, were considered as much 
a part of the proprieties, incumbent on 
a man of a certain fortune, as is a car- 
riage, or suitable dress 1 If a neglect of 
these duties were considered a breach of 
trust as assuredly it is would the 
man of business have so fallen away 


Social Disintegration. 

from the promise of his youth ; would 
his soul have been thus starved and 
withered, if he had been taught to feel, 
if he had lived among fellow-citizens 
who felt, that a considerable portion of 
their time and wealth was due to those 
whose labour helps to enrich them 1 ? 
The wrong which estrangement from 
the rich inflicts upon the poor the 
withdrawal of the cultivated from the 
Ignorant is palpable and intelligible to 
all. The evil which the same alienation 
exerts upon the wealthier classes is of a 
character less easy to make apparent to 
minds used to regard the existing state 
of things without alarm or dissatisfac- 
tion. But it is certain that the latter 
evil, falling on the spiritual part of the 
man, and starving the highest attributes 
of his nature, is deeper and more inju- 
rious than the consequences of the same 
isolation upon the poor. 

It must be granted that there is an 
improved feeling on these subjects 
among the rich. There are now com- 
paratively few who would not admit, if 
seriously taken to task upon the point, 
that the enjoyment of so large a share 
of the gifts of God imposes upon the 
wealthy the duty of ministering to the 
wants of the poor. Most thoughtful 
men of leisure would allow that no man 
has a right to be idle, and that the pos- 
session of means which exempt a man 
from working for pay indicates to him 
as his proper sphere of work that portion 
of the labour necessary to the well- 
being of society which cannot be paid 
in money; the performance of those 
offices of service to the poor, whether 
towards individuals or masses, which 
must be left to voluntary effort, and 
which should not be exacted of the 
scanty leisure of those who have to 
labour for their bread. That these 
things are rather admitted than felt ; 
that those who heartily acknowledge and 
endeavour to act on them are as yet a 
small minority ; that our charities bear 
so shameful a disproportion to our wealth ; 
that so much of their income comes from 
those who are not rich, and so much of 
their work is done by those who have 
little leisure, is principally due to the 

fact that the magnitude of the work, the 
long and gradual accumulation of barriers 
between the rich (especially between the 
idle rich) and the poor, and the ex- 
tremely perplexing circumstances under 
which, in our great towns, benevolence 
must grapple with destitution and dis- 
ease, with vice and misery discourage 
all merely individual attempts to deal 
with them at large, and make the selec- 
tion and limitation of a particular field 
of labour, leaving to the left and right a 
mass of untouched evil . every whit as 
great as that chosen for operation, appear 
impracticable, and if practicable, capri- 
cious and unsatisfactory. The hopeless- 
ness of desultory personal efforts, the 
unsatisfactory results of mechanical 
charity working by organization and by 
rule, dishearten the earnest and afford 
excuse to the indifferent : and the ad- 
mission that beneficence is the duty of 
wealth remains an inoperative opinion, 
or relieves itself in mere donations of 
money to charitable institutions, princi- 
pally because no ready means of giving 
safe, useful, and personal effect to the 
energies and wealth of the benevolent 
as yet presents itself. Much energy or 
ability that now remains idle or useless 
would be available to the cause of 
charity; much wealth that is now 
squandered would be well bestowed j a 
much wider and more operative sense 
of the duty of public service, of the 
responsibilites of leisure and riches, 
would be diffused among their possessors, 
if obvious channels were at hand into 
which those who have time and means 
could turn their efforts, with some 
security that they would do more good 
than harm, and a reasonable hope that 
while they were doing one portion of 
the good work the duties they were 
compelled to leave on either hand would 
be taken up by other fellow-labourers. 

It would be a great thing to sug- 
gest means whereby this may be, in 
part at least, accomplished ; whereby 
the actual and potential charity of the 
country, especially in the greater towns, 
may be rendered more available for the 
cure of its evils : whereby the existing 
arrangements for this purpose may be 

Nell Gwyn. 


rendered more efficient than they are, 
much waste prevented, many abuses 
rectried, and the work of charity made 
more complete, effectual, and satisfactory 
than at present; by which the whole 
force of benevolence at our command 
may be brought to bear with the great- 
est advantage upon the suffering at our 
door. It would be a great thing to in- 
dicate the manner in which, by a combi- 
nation of the resources and advantages 
of organization with the free exercise of 
indiv dual energy and personal kindness, 
the difficulties which at present dis- 
hearten, hinder, or absolutely prevent 
mere ndividual action may be smoothed 
away or reduced within manageable 
compass ; while the evils and imperfec- 
tions which attend on mere organized 
charity working by rule and mechanism, 
may l>e avoided. 

In the meantime an earnest warn- 
ing as to the nature of that renewed 
intercourse between rich and poor, 
which has been described as the great 
social need of the age, may not be 
throwi away. There must be nothing 
of assumed superiority, nothing of 
patronage in the tone of the rich man if 
he would give to others or derive himself 
the fill benefit of such intercourse. 
Patronage is resented by the poor : the 
spirit which dictates it precludes the 
rich from reaping the internal benefit of 

their own charity. The rich man must 
come to the poor as a friend who has 
much to gain as well as to give, to learn 
as well as to teach ; as a brother who, 
having received from God more of this 
world's good things, does not on that 
account pretend to claim any superiority 
over his brother. He must advise, not 
as a master, but as a friend ; he must 
sympathise, not as a superior, but as an 
equal in all that forms the ground of 
sympathy ; he must give, not as patron 
to dependent, but as brother to brother. 
Coming in such a temper he will find 
the poor man ready to acknowledge 
whatever title to respect is personal to 
himself, to look up to him as a man of 
education, of character, of refinement. 
But, if he pride himself upon his wealth, 
as raising him above the poor, he ap- 
proaches them in a temper which ex- 
cludes sympathy, and renders real grati- 
tude very difficult by rendering respect 
impossible. The poor despise the purse- 
proud man not one whit less than do 
the well born and well educated; and, 
despising, his gifts cannot make them 
love him. The men who most influence 
the poor are those who give most of 
their heart where they give their help ; 
they who receive most reverence from 
them are those who treat them with 
most respect for a common and equal 



IT is an olden ditty, full of tenderness and pity, 

Fi 11 of leaven, hearts uneven, full of life's mosaic play, 

"When vice held wide dominion, and each courtier was a minion, 

Tc a king with cap and bells, in the ages passed away ! 

A dream of time steals o'er us, little Nelly is before us, 

Sveet and simple, cheeks of dimple, witching eyes, and black-brown hair, 

In the play-house pit she stands, with a basket in her hands, 

Ai d the gallants cluster near to see a serving-maid so fair ! 


36 Nell Gwyn. 

But Nelly knows them well, and she makes her good looks tell, 
" Buy a dozen," " Ah, the cozen ! but no orange is so sweet 
" As the smiles that we would buy, and the glances of an eye." 
And, blushing, Nell would gather all the guineas at her feet! 

Alas! for that same blush, that a wanton look could crush, 
Virtue sever, and for ever, like a lov'd thing won and lost : 
On the stage, as Florimel, flaunts the pretty Mistress Nell, 
And dreams of fame and conquest, nor reckons once the cost ! 

King and nobles gather round, and the Thespian wreath is bound 
Upon a brow, unblushing now, for maiden shame is past! 
That star-bewildering Lilly has made her weak head silly, 
And among the noble libertines her horoscope is cast! 

There is Eochester, sad rake, clever, selfish, who could break 
A trusting heart, nor feel the smart, for pleasure's wanton sake, 
And Villiers, gartered knave, fantastic, wild, and brave, 
Man of folly mind unholy, living solely to deprave ! 

Dorset, Sedley, Killigrew, a strange and motley crew 
* "Whose jests, and feats, and mad conceits, have been surpassed by few; 
And Buckhurst nobly gifted, above the loose herd lifted, 
Yet borne along, by passions strong, with Nell licentious drifted ! 

Drop the curtain on this scene ! Eank weeds of life, I ween, 
[Fared better then than honest men, as often may have been ! 
: Then truth itself was treason, and virtue out of season, 
And would be still, if ev'ry will defied the code of reason ! 

The artist has pourtrayed saucy Nell, the witty jade ! 

Voice beguiling, features smiling, all her winsome traits display'd ; 

No grace to her denied, and old Rowley stands beside, 

Brow saturnine, eyes large and fine, a form of kingly pride. 

And Nelly seems reproving, the monarch weak and loving, 

Some prank, no doubt, she has found out, her warning finger moving, 

Broadly the sun is gleaming, o'er park and terrace streaming, 

Bright hearts, Love's day, long past away, left to the poet's dreaming ! 

Time its varied shades is casting to the Palace death is hasting, 

" Sceptre and crown must tumble down," life ebbs, its sands are wasting : 

Charles, long unwisely merry, is bound for Charon's ferry, 

He is dying, friends are flying, sadd'ning thoughts like these to bury ! 

"Draw the shrouding blind away, that I see once more the day," 

And mournfully, with closing eye, he sees the sunbeams play : 

They crown his drooping head, as the parting spirit fled, 

He sighed " 'Tis well, forget not Nell I " and England's king lay dead ! 

It is an olden ditty, full of tenderness and pity, 

Full of leaven, hearts uneven, full of life's mosaic play, 

When vice held wide dominion, and each courtier was a minion, 

To a king with cap and bells in the ages passed away ! 



IT is customary with many critics of 
the press and of society at the present 
day to decry the bad taste of what is 
called the " Evangelical " section of our 
religious public, in its excessive addiction 
to the details of pietistic biography. 
The circulars of Low Church publishers 
teem, it is notorious, with little memoirs 
of Christians young and old some tell- 
ing their own tale in diaries and letters, 
where daily meditations, self-accusations, 
and transports, form the subject-matter 
of every communication, and religious 
self-consciousness is submitted to the 
minutest dissection ; some conveying 
the admiring description of friends to 
whom the life of the saint appears a 
model fit to be held up for the imitation 
of all to come. Who cannot at once 
call to mind a host of such edifying re- 
cords, from the " Dairyman's Daughter " 
of Legh Richmond downwards 1 ? We 
know the sort of books, and the sort of 
titles: "The Gathered Sheaf;" "The 
Morning Promise;" "Perfect Peace;" 
" The Faithful Shepherd :" not to men- 
tion more plain-spoken memoirs of dis- 
tinguished saints in the different pro- 
fessions of life, soldiers and sailors, 
bankers and members of parliament, 
duchesses and divines memorable 
sometimes, be it added, for other things 
besides the unquestioned piety and the 
free communication of religious faith 
and feelings which afford the motive 
for thi'ir biography. 

In that portion of society, we repeat, 
in which Evangelical views have fallen 
somewhat into discredit, and Anglican 
views have come into fashion, nothing 
is nioro common than to find fault with 
these revelations of personal piety : 
thoughts too sacred for publication 
comnninings of the soul with God. 
What, it is said, will become of all 
simplicity and humility of character if 
every religious emotion is dragged to 

light, and made matter of fulsome praise 
or sentimental display 1 

There is truth, no doubt, in these 
objections ; though we think they are 
often carried too far. The genuine 
records of human life and character 
will have an irresistible interest for 
most people, which it is needless to 
deny ourselves ; and, the more of such 
records we peruse, the wider basis we 
shall find for those inductions on which 
the only true philosophy of our complex 
nature can rest. We might say more as 
to the effect which: sectarian prejudice 
apart the example of brave and busy 
men actuated in their most secret hours 
by an abiding sense of God's presence 
may and ought to have on thoughtful 
minds. And it is one of the glories of 
" Evangelical " pietism in particular, 
that so many brave and busy men in 
our English land have been inspired by 
it. Our purpose, here, however, is not 
to defend religious biography on philo- 
sophical or practical grounds, but only 
to point out how great is the mistake 
of those who conceive the love of ex- 
hibiting devotional processes, which has 
obtained so widely among the Evan- 
gelicals of our own country and gene- 
ration, to be really at all distinctive of 
or peculiar to their way of viewing the 
bearings of the religious principle on 
thought and action. 

If our modern " Ritualists " were 
asked to what type of ecclesiastical sen- 
timent (we do not speak here of dogma) 
they consider themselves most to assi- 
milate, they would doubtless point with 
pride and satisfaction to that of Con- 
tinental Romanism. Now it so happens 
that from the Continental Romanists 
there have emanated lately certain bio- 
graphical records, than which none of 
our aforesaid Low Church or Evangelical 
memoirs are more full of the work- 
ings of self-analysis, of spiritual pulse- 


A French Religious Memoir. 

feeling, of rapturous pietism. The 
" Journals and Letters of Eugenie de 
Guerin" will recur to the memory of 
every reader of the day's literature. 
The sweet simplicity, poetical grace, and 
devout self-consecration of the writer 
may well have charmed us into forget- 
fulness of the unquestionable narrow- 
ness and monotony of her mental horizon. 
We have now another instance of this 
class of autobiography to bring to 

In the April number of this year's 
Revue des deux Mondes, there appears a 
sketch, from the pen of M. Emile Mon- 
tegut, of the career and character of 
another gentle devotee, a Frenchwoman 
by marriage and language, though not 
by birth : and a liberal quotation from 
her diaries and letters, and from those 
of her husband, contribute to make up 
the record which M. Montegut heads as 
" Histoire d'un Amour Chretien." The 
original compilation, however, on which 
M. Montegut' s article is founded, was 
made by Madame Auguste Craven, 
sister and sister-in-law of the personages 
mentioned. It is printed for a very 
limited circulation only. M. Montegut 
hopes it may some day reach a wider 
circle. 1 It goes under the title, " Recit 
d'une Scour : Souvenirs de Famille." 
But the first part only has yet ap- 
peared; and we are left in ignorance 
of the subsequent career of one of the 
principal actors in this portion of the 
family drama. The story to which we 
are introduced is as follows : 

In the winter of 1831-32 there were 
among the visitors at Rome two fami- 
lies whose relations with each other 
soon became friendly and even intimate : 
the one was that of Madame d'Alopeus, 
widow of the late Russian Minister at 
the court of Berlin, who was residing 
there with her young and lovely daugh- 
ter Alexandrine ; and the other was that 
of the Count de la Ferronnays, a French 
nobleman, and trusted servant of the 
late Bourbon dynasty, under which he 
had been successively Ambassador at 
the court of St. Petersburg, Minister 

1 Since the above was written, the memoir 
has been published in France. 

of Foreign Affairs (1829), and Ambas- 
sador at Rome. The Count and Coun- 
tess de la Ferronnays had several sons 
and daughters. Between the daughters 
and Mademoiselle d'Alopeus a friendship 
speedily sprang up. It was on January 
17th, 1832, that Albert, one of the sons, 
met their young neighbour for the first 
time ; and the history of the love of 
these two young people, their short 
union, and their severance by the death 
of Albert, form the groundwork of the 
religious idyll before us. 

Albert de la Ferronnays was an en- 
thusiastic young man, strongly imbued 
with the romantic fiction which came 
into vogue with a section of "Young 
France," in the latter days of Charles 
Dix. It was the period when Lacor- 
daire, with chivalrous ardour, was pro- 
pagating his ideas of a monastic renais- 
sance, and when the Count de Monta- 
lembert with whom Albert was on 
terms of the most affectionate friend- 
ship was engaged in fostering the love 
of old Catholic legends, by composing 
the life of St. Elizabeth of Hungary. 
Albert's whole soul was absorbed in the 
duties and raptures of devotion; and 
the tender interest Mademoiselle Alex- 
andrine awakened in him. on the first 
occasion of their meeting seems only 
to have suggested to him the desire to 
pray for her conversion from the errors 
of Lutheranism, in which she had been 
brought up, 1 to the Holy Catholic faith. 
Alexandrine thus notes the impression 
made upon her own mind by her first 
interview with Albert : 

" I did not go upstairs for a long time 
"after I heard that the brother of 
"Pauline de la Ferronnays was there. 
" I had a great wish to see him, how- 
"ever, and the evening before I had 
"fancied I saw him in a church, but I 

" was mistaken I went up at last. 

" I looked at him with indifference, and 
" did not think him handsome, though 
" I believe I remarked the expression of 
" his eyes, and that he made an agree- 
" able impression upon me. As for him, 
"he told me afterwards that this first 
" sight decided his love for me ; that he 
1 Her father was a Swede by birth. 

A French Religious Memoir. 


" told his friends of the lively impres- 
" sion I had made upon him ; that they 
"laughed at it, and he then ceased to 
" talk about me." 

On the 5th of February, going to the 
church of the Trinita del Monte to hear 
the nuns sing, Alexandrine sees Albert 
on his knees engaged in the most earnest 
devotion, and a slightly tender feeling 
towards him awakens in her mind. 
" Coming out of church, I happened to 
" find myself near him, and I told him 
" how much I had wished to kneel as 
" he did, and that, had I been with his 
" sisters, I should have done so. < Then 
"why not do so at once?' said he; 
" ' "Why this respect for human opinion? ' 
"This boldness for he knew me so 
"little in a man of twenty, charmed 

Soon the interest in Alexandrine 
waxed stronger and stronger in the 
young man's mind, and blended itself 
with all his holy emotions. " Oh, I am 
" very happy! " he said to her one day; 
"I have communicated this morning, 
"and I love you." His zeal for her 
conversion led him at this time to one 
of thosB fantastic devices of the fashion- 
able romanticism which reminds us of 
the vagaries of " Eitualism" in our own 
day, understanding by that term the 
zeal for resuscitating worn-out forms of 
piety putting the new wine of the 
ninetee nth century religion into very old 
bottles of medievalism. This was the 
rising early one morning to make the 
pilgrimage of the Seven Basilicas, bare- 
foot, in order to obtain from Heaven the 
conversion of Mademoiselle d'Alopeus. 
M. Emile Montegut asks : "Among the 
" most fervent Catholics of later genera - 
" tions are there many whom religious 
" enthusiasm would inspire with similar 
"acts of love?" Neo-catholicism in 
France as a fashionable furore was be- 
forehand with our ritualism, both in its 
commencement and its decline. 

But the young devotee could not long 
blind his eyes to the fact that his earthly 
love was encroaching with alarming 
speed on the ground of the heavenly; 
the tares that had been growing up with 
the whi -at seemed, to his over- wrought 

enthusiasm, to be on the point of chok- 
ing it; and he felt miserable in his 
divided allegiance. He thus pours out 
his misery into the pages of his private 
journal : 

"How this state of coldness fatigues 
" and harasses ! We feel at the bottom 
" of our heart the longing for those 
" emotions we so rarely enjoy, and yet 
"cannot get rid of some obstacle which 
" keeps them away. For some time past 
" I feel that those ravishing sensations 
"which the love of God alone in- 
Aspired in me are fading away. I 
" should like to be solitary for some 
" days. I feel that my soul needs to be 
"steeped again. I believe truly that 
"habits are more powerful than prin- 
"ciples. At Eome, I was positively 
" better. I took such happiness in ful- 
" filling all my duties exactly ! I was 
"so moved on entering a church, and 
" my heart was filled with such lively 
"faith! All this seems now weakened. 
" And what a difference in my love ! 
"What I did yesterday would never 
" have entered my mind before. I was 
" so happy with my silent admiration ! 
" I enjoyed contemplating her soul, and 
"a delicious, pure, disinterested senti- 
"ment moved me, and kindled an en- 
" thusiasm filled with devotion ! Why 
"did I reveal to her the feelings she 
" had awakened in me ? Have my senti- 
" ments changed their nature ? What 
" did it matter whether she read what 
"was within my soul? What madness 
" possessed me that, in approaching her, 
" I should cease to forget myself, and to 
"behold in her a heaven it was impos- 
" sible to attain ? I blush for it. How 
" she must have pitied me ! and how 
" astonished she must have been ! June 
"6th. My God, I pray thee, give me 
"that fervour which I no longer pos- 
"sess! There is such happiness in 
" heartfelt prayer, and it is a happiness 
" which ought always to last ! All those 
"vague and passionate feelings we ex- 
perience in youth give to religion a 
" something which calms and satisfies 
" the soul. Oh, my God ! I have for- 
" gotten that language which is under- 
" stood by those alone who love none 


A French Religious Memoir. 

"but Thee. Once I knew this language, 
" which is spoken only in church, all 
"alone I thought it so beautiful, I 
" loved so much to speak it ! My God, 
" give it back to me ! " 

.Fight against it as he may, the ab- 
sorbing thought in Albert's breast now 
is whether Alexandrine returns his love. 
For months he is tormented by the 
doubt, and records his hopes and fears 
with a trembling minuteness, similar to 
that which of old inspired the sonnets 
of Petrarch. Thus he writes to Mon- 
talerabert : " How lovely she was this 
" evening ! After she had sung, she 
" came up to me, saying, ' Do not be so 
" melancholy ! ' ' How can I be gay ? ' 
" I answered. ' Life weighs upon me ; 
" can I ever be happy 1 Your goodness 
" oppresses me, for I know that I can- 
" not be beloved. No, spare me your 
" pity. I had rather be hated ; I should 
*' not be mortified/ If you did but 
" know what I was suffering ! And, to 
" finish me, she said, ' You are always 
" exaggerated. You will forget me; you 

" will return to .' Oh, my dear 

" friend, if you knew how she spoke 
" these last words ! I could not answer. 
" ' Have I vexed you ? ' she continued. 
" 'Well then, I will believe you; but 
" you have changed so often, and I have 
" always be'en forgotten.' Oh, Charles, 
" I could have died ! And when I 
" reflect that she never can be mine, 
" because I have no fortune ! You can 
" conceive how I suffer all my thoughts 
" and wishes. I have got into such a 
" habit of seeing her, of being with her, 
" that it seems as though she belonged 
" to me, and could not be taken from 
" me. When I hear her praised, it 
" makes me proud and happy. She 
" often speaks to me of you and if you 
" knew in what a manner ! I might be 
" jealous of it, I assure you. I will tell 
" you all that when we meet. If you 
" knew, my good friend, how much I 
" miss you, how I love you ! I, who 
" was formerly so unreserved with all 
" the world, can now open my heart to 
" you alone." 

His anxiety cannot be disregarded by 
the lady of his love, and she takes, it 

would seem, an odd way to answer the 
question, if that was her design, as one 
cannot help suspecting. She gives him 
to read in order, she says, not to de- 
ceive him as to her character two small 
manuscript books, in which she has 
recorded her private thoughts. The 
first, a little green book, fills him with 
dismay; it reveals to him a previous 
attachment. In the small blue book 
which succeeded, the last few pages were 
carefully fastened down with a slip of 
paper, that they might not be opened. 
Alexandrine's journal tells us how her 
confidence was betrayed : 

" I was at the piano, singing the air 
" in LaMuette: l moment enchanteur!* 
" when Albert, who was standing op- 
" posite to me, asked me what I should 
" think if he had read the pages in the 
" blue book which I had so carefully 
" concealed. I was alarmed, but I 
" answered that I was quite sure he 
" was incapable of it. ' But suppose I 
" had done so ? ' ' It is impossible ; I 
" will never believe it.' 'I have done 
"it.' l No ! ' My alarm increased, 
" but I still absolutely refused to believe 
" it. ' Shall I quote a sentence to con- 
" vince you?' * You could not do so ; 
" you would be inventing.' '/ believe 
" I love Albert, 1 he said, looking ear- 
" nestly at me. My eyes, which were 
" raised to his, fell, but not without 
" altering their expression in such man- 
" ner as to make him unhappy the 
" whole evening. Certainly, at that 
" moment I did not feel that I loved 
" him ; but it soon returned when I 
" saw him thoroughly miserable." 

The following is the lover's confession 
of his treachery to his friend Monta- 
lembert : 

" Dear good friend, you will be angry 
" with me, but I must talk about my- 
" self. How much has happened since 
" my last letter ! I did not think I could 
" have borne so much happiness. I told 
" you about her journal, which she gave 
" me to read. After reading the book 
" through over and over again, and 
" learning, as I knew her better, to love 
" her more than ever, I reached the con- 
" eluding part which she had forbidden. 

A French Religious Memoir. 


" me to read, having closed with, a strip 
" of paper the pages which contained 
" more than life to me. You will exclaim 
" against this breach of confidence. 
" What would you have done in my 
" place 1 I resisted for some days, but 
" at last, in a moment of delirium, I 
" broke through the frail obstacle. I 
" will not attempt to tell you what I 
" felt ; I hardly know myself. She loves 
" me, my friend. Do you understand 
" what I am saying 1 She loves me ! . . . 
" The moment when I told her of my 
" treason was terrible. There was con- 
" tern pt in her eyes. Hell has no greater 
" torture ! It was long before I got 
" over it, but now at last my fault is 
" forgotten, and she is no longer vexed 
." with me for knowing her secret. I 
" will not say anything of my feelings 
" you can imagine them." 

Although the lovers were thus happy 
in the knowledge of their mutual affec- 
tion, there were many obstacles in the 
way of their union. In the first place, 
Albert was very young, not above twenty, 
and it was decided by his father that 
the strength of their attachment should 
have the trial of two years of absence. 
He was accordingly sent to Eome, Ma- 
dame d'Alopeus and her daughter being 
at Naples ; and correspondence between 
the lovers was strictly forbidden. Once 
only, at the urgent entreaty, on his 
brother's behalf, of Fernand de la Fer- 
ronnays, did Alexandrine transgress this 
interdiction, and then not without a 
feeling of remorse for the deceit she was 
obliged to practise. She implored Albert 
not to answer her letter, and he accor- 
dingl} contented himself with pouring 
out to his brother his thanks for the boon 
he had obtained for him. 

Madame d'Alopeus's aversion to the 
match was soon strengthened by an 
event which only added to her daughter's 
attachment. Albert was seized at Civita 
Vecch ia, whither he had gone in order 
to sail with his family for France, with 
a dangerous attack of inflammation on 
the chest. Alexandrine returned with 
her mother to Eome under the impres- 
sion that he had left Italy, but they 
soon aeceived tidings of his dangerous 

illness, and she pours forth her grief 
and anxiety in the following letter to 
his sister : 

"Pauline, I am suffocating. There 
" is no one to whom I can speak of my 
" terrible sufferings ; so I write to you. 
" Only conceive ! At this moment of 
" poignant anxiety, mamma has just told 
" me that she will perhaps feel it a mat- 
" ter of conscience to forbid my marry- 
" ing a man in such precarious health, 
" when it is just grief that makes him 
" ill, and happiness that restores him. 
" Oh my God, do not take my life, for 
" that would be a sorrow to him, but let 
" me, me alone, endure what Thou wilt 
" of physical or mental suffering ; only 
" let him be happy for some time yet, 
" in the name of our Lord ! Pauline, I 
" think my brain will go. May God 
" come to my aid, and not punish me 
" for loving him so much ! " 

Albert's recovery by no means removed 
the mother's objections to the marriage, 
for which, indeed, she had many good 
reasons. His youth, his delicate health, 
his want of fortune and of prospects, 
and, above all, his different religion, 
were all against it; and she further 
feared that the connexion might be dis- 
pleasing to the imperial family of Eussia, 
whose consent she would be obliged to 
ask, as Alexandrine was a lady of honour 
to the empress. She harboured besides 
more ambitious views for her daughter, 
who, in the bitterness of her soul, just 
before starting for Germany, where her 
mother determined to take her, writes 
thus in her journal : 

" I feel curious sometimes to know 
" whether there will be careers in heaven 
" whether generals and ministers will 
" be more thought of there than those 
" who have not made themselves talked 
" about. What is glory with respect 
" to any earthly dignity 1 Why do not 
" men rather seek to earn a dignity in 
" heaven ? Do they never reflect that 
" dignities there alone are incorruptible? 
" Career the word has become intole- 
"rable to me. To contribute to the 
" defence of one's country when it has 
"need of defence is all well; but to 
" copy despatches, what is it 1 If, in- 


A French Religious Memoir. 

" deed, one could perform some useful 
" action all at once ! But, in order to 
" reach this distant object, to languish 
"for years in almost mechanical occu- 
pations, which only serve to waste 
" the time which might be devoted to 
God what is that? 

" To say to a young person Do not 
" marry till you have the certainty (as 
" far as that can be said of anything in 
"this world) that you will be saved 
" from want, is reasonable, and springs 
" from a prudential kindness ; but that 
" a little money more or less should 
" excite consideration or contempt, this 
"it is which cries to heaven for ven- 
" geance. 

" Mademoiselle, if you meet with any 
" one who you think might please you, 
" before you allow yourself to be too 
" much attracted, do not inquire whe- 
" ther he has religion and good princi- 
" ciples j so long as he has not robbed 
" or committed any crime, that is enough. 
"Do not indulge in exalted or ridiculous 
" pretensions, but inquire whether he 
"possesses enough to give to you for 
"your lifetime, and to your children 
" after you, something over and above 
" the superfluities requisite for enjoying 
" all the comforts of life. If you can 
" satisfy yourself on this point, the most 
" essential of all, then marry him with- 
" out fear ; you will be happy ! But if, 
" on the contrary, he whom you are 
" disposed to love has only just enough 
" to live upon, and you hear romantic 
" people say that the woman he marries 
" is to be envied, that the solidity of his 
" character is a warrant for conduct of 
" uniform excellence, that his religious 
" principles are strong, that his simple 
" tastes will never lead him into foolish 
" expenses, do not listen to words so 
"fanciful, so devoid of reason and of 
" knowledge of the world !" 

After thus, as she expresses it, getting 
rid of her gall, Alexandrine started on 
her journey in better temper with her 
mother, and cheered by the prospect of 
soon returning to Italy. This they did 
in the autumn of 1833 ; and soon after 
Alexandrine, in her turn, underwent a 
severe illness, on her recovery from 

which her mother a very lovely and 
fascinating woman married Prince La- 
poukhyn, a Eussian nobleman, to whom 
she had been for some time engaged. 

"When one is young," Alexandrine 
writes in her journal at this time, "when 
" one has happiness still before one, 
" there is a peculiar charm in recovering 
" from illness : the earth appears rose- 
" coloured. My God, when we recover 
" from life, which is itself but an illness, 
" when we rise from our bed, the grave, 
" what youthfulness shall we then feel ! 
" And we shall see before us not an un- 
" certain and fugitive happiness, but a 
" happiness cloudless and without end. 
" Oh, my God, grant me first the faith 
" in this, and then its fulfilment ! 

" My mother was married the follow- 
ing day, the 30th of October, to 
" Prince Lapoukhyn. The wedding 
"was celebrated first in the Greek 
" church, and afterwards in the Protest- 
" ant chapel." (Difference of religion 
does not seem to have stood in. the 
mother's way in her own case.) " I 
" was still so weak that I hardly knew 
"what I thought about it. My lips 
" were pale and trembling, and I could 
" scarcely stand. I recollect thinking, 
" during the ceremony, that there would 
"be no more weddings, or fetes, or 
" flowers for me on earth, and yet I felt 
" that they were better suited to me 
" than they were to my mother." 

The constancy of the young lovers 
was, however, soon rewarded. M. Mon- 
tegut does not tell us how Madame La- 
poukhyn's objections were surmounted; 
perhaps her own marriage gave her a 
softer feeling for her daughter's distress, 
and she could not make up her mind to 
take her with her into the banishment 
of her new husband's estate near Odessa. 
However this may have been, the pair 
met once more at Naples, and, after a 
due time for preparations both religious 
and worldly, were married in that city. 
Shortly before the wedding, Albert, 
who with his delicate health was always 
susceptible of melancholy feelings, writes 
in his journal : 

" Passed the evening with the La- 
" poukhyns. Alexandrine sad at the 

A French Eeligious Memoir. 


' prospect of leaving her mother. She 
" wept ; that will pass off, I hope. But 
"what if I should not fill the void 
"which her mother's departure will 
" create 1 Either I should die, or else 
" I should, go and live with her in Bus- 
" sia, a species of moral, intellectual, 
" and perhaps physical suicide. I am 
"stupid, or mad, or something of the 
"kind. I am haunted by a presenti- 
" ment that I shall make Alexandrine 
"very mhappy. I should like to be a 
"monk. But no, I am getting unrea- 
" sellable. I will plunge my head in 
u my pillow, and there bury myself till 
" I am transformed into something pos- 
" sessed of common sense." 

The presentiment was but too well 
founded. It was only ten days after 
the wedding, as he and his bride were 
enjoying the honeymoon at Castella- 
mare, that Albert's dreaded disease 
returned, and he "broke a bloodvessel. 
From this time Alexandrine, the most 
devoted of wives, never knew what it 
was to be free from anxiety. " Is there 
"then/ 7 she writes during his illness, 
" is tin '-re in truth only the shadow of 
"happiness upon earth? Is it only 
" what is distant that appears charming, 
" and r mst it always lose its colours as 
" we st ize it 1 Is there then no true 
" poetry, save in the love of God, and 
"are we so miserable that that cannot 
"suffice- us, and that we must always 
"longlo idealize, to deify, some object 
" on ea -th 1 . . . Oh ! are we not often 
" consumed by the desire for a country 
" where we shall be sure of what we 
" see, where we shall be sure of loving 
" for ever, where we shall have no false 
" fears, where we may without anxiety 
" love Avith all our being another being ? 
" This country, if we ever reach it, is 
"Heaven! We die with desire for it, 
" and y 3t, through weakness or indiffer- 
" ence, we make 110 effort for it" 

The journals and letters from this 
time contain little else but the record of 
the alternate hopes and fears attendant 
on the husband's fatal but nattering 
disorder, and the continual changes of 
residen< e undertaken with the vain 
endeavour to conquer it. They went 

first to Pisa, where for some time they 
enjoyed the society of Montalembert, 
" Montal," as Alexandrine calls him 
in affectionate abbreviation. Here Al- 
bert's health for a time improved, and 
he and his young wife seem to have 
been really happy. We quote from 
Alexandrine's journal for the 13th Jan. 
1835 : 

" We have been to the Cascine, and 
" afterwards went to order a hat for me, 
" which afforded us great amusement. 
" At dinner, Albert took a sudden resolu- 
" tion to go to a ball which was to take 
" place in the evening, and which we had 
" all three declined. I objected, fear- 
" ing it might be bad for him, but he 
" insisted, and ended by saying, ' I 
" choose it.' He went to tell my maid 
" to get my dress ready, and by degrees 
" I allowed them to do me the sweet 
" violence of making me as handsome as 
" possible. I was certainly two hours 
" about it. To make the fun complete, 
" we forced Montal to come with us. 
" He made us supplicate him a long 
" time. He had nothing to wear ; 
" Albert lent him almost everything ; 
" then he had to go for a shoemaker, 
" and a hairdresser to cut his hair. All 
" this amused us very much, and finally 
" what made us laugh as much as any- 
" thing else was that, being at that time 
" without a man-servant, we were fol- 
" lowed to the ball by the shoemaker's 
" boy." 

As the invalid recovered strength, he 
became restless, and longed for change. 
In a journal which he kept for a friend, 
he writes : " I gain fresh strength 
" every day, at least in my own opinion ; 
" and I hope, by God's help, that I 
" shall soon be freed from this tribula- 
" tion of cares and precautions. I do 
" not know whether it is the approach 
" of spring, but I feel the want of air, 
" of movement, of life. . . . My passion 
" for travelling increases every day. 
" There are times when the soul seems 
" to drag us towards unknown regions, 
" where one fancies that everything must 
" be more beautiful than what lies be- 
" fore our eyes. Is not this need of 
" movement, of change, of escape from 


A French Religious Memoir. 

" oneself, this thirst for infinity, for 
" liberty, a presentiment of our celestial 
" country ? ... It is long since I have 
" felt so much activity and fervour as 
" I do now. I am more than usually 
" master of my weak and indolent 
" nature, which I must attribute to the 
" improvement in my health. I rejoice 
" in feeling my strength revive, and I 
" bless God for it, for I need it in order 
" to enjoy my happiness thoroughly. 
" I am far from having fully described 
" my present feelings. I am touched 
" with love in retracing my recollections 
" of the past, my present heaven, and 
" the infinity of my future bliss. I 
" have been blamed for my unsocia- 
" bility ; but what would the noise of a 
" salon be to me now that the true 
" sweet enjoyment of my life has been 
" vouchsafed to me ? Is not the twilight 
" of my lamp, illumining her beloved 
" head, something better than all the 
" world beside 1 " 

In consequence of this supposed re- 
turn of health, the La Ferronnays started 
in the spring of 1835 on a journey to 
Odessa, to visit Madame Lapoukhyn. 
They went first to Naples, and thence 
by sea to Constantinople and Odessa, 
which they reached early in July ; but 
they had not been there many days 
before the fatal blood-spitting returned 
again, and poor Alexandrine felt that 
she must give up all hope, and prepare 
for the worst. One morning, as she 
returned from her husband's sick room 
to her own, full of agonising fears, she 
opened the New Testament at hazard, 
with a sort of superstitious feeling. Her 
eyes immediately lighted on the verse, 
" Honour those widows that are widows 
indeed." " I thought I had seen a 
" ghost," she says, "and almost screamed. 
" My imagination had never before 
" realized that horrible word widow! " 
She was, however, not destined to realize 
it just then. Albert recovered sufficiently 
to return to Italy, travelling through 
Poland, where Alexandrine visited a 
salt-mine, of which she gives a graphic 
account in her journal, and then through 

They first domiciled themselves in Ve- 

nice, where the young wife settled down 
into a nurse and housekeeper, giving up 
all amusements and gaieties for her hus- 
band's sake. She writes to one of her 
sisters-in-law : " I am getting rid of 
" my refinement. I am turning myself 
" into a cook, a farmer, or what you will, 
" and it is frightful to see how com- 
" pletely I am made for it. My care of 
" Albert, which you think so highly of, 
" is really worth nothing ; ask Pubus : 
" he will tell you, as he tells me, that I 
" have a natural taste for this kind of 
" thing, that I enjoy managing and 
" petty arrangements, that I should get 
" ennut/ee if Albert were in better health, 
" that I have no greater amusement than 
" in physicking and nursing. . ," Again, 
to M. de Montalembert : " If you only 
" knew, dear Montal, how I am buried 
" body and soul in housekeeping, you 
" would pity me and laugh at the same 
" time ; there is no vestige left of the 
" poetical Alexandrine, surrounded as 
" she is by stores of oil, potatoes, rice, 
" candles ; and knowing, I beg you to 
" believe, what they are all worth, even 
" to the price of an egg. . . . Albert says 
" the first sheet of my letter smells 
" strong of the kitchen. It is true, and 
" I blush for it ; pardon me ; but only 
" conceive ! our little old woman is so 
" unskilful that I have to teach her how 
" to make dishes, and this is all so new 
" to me that I tell all my friends of it ; 
" and then I am drawn on by your 
" brotherly request to give you all sorts 
" of housekeeping details. Forgive me ! " 
These lively letters were probably 
written to be seen by her sick husband ; 
in her private journal and letters to 
Pauline we see the workings of her 
grief and her affection, which were 
gradually and irresistibly leading her to 
fulfil her dying husband's most ardent 
nvish by embracing his religion. It was 
not a conscientious preference for the 
faith in which she had been brought up 
which had so long withheld her from 
this step on the contrary, she had long 
been attracted by the Romish ritual in 
the Italian churches she was in the habit 
of frequenting, and she boasted some- 
times that she had " a Catholic air " and 

A French 'Religious Memoir. 


had been taken for a Catholic ; but she 
was restrained by her respect for her 
mother, who, on consenting to her mar- 
riage had strictly charged her never to 
forsake the Protestant faith; and still 
more by her reverence for her father's 
memory. Eeferring to the story of the 
heathen king who refused to embrace 
Christianity because he would not go 
after death to a Paradise into which 
his friends could not enter, she writes 
to M. de Montalembert, who had often 
secondc d her husband's entreaties : 
" Indeod, if I were told that my father 
" had taken the wrong road and Albert 
" the r ght, and that I must choose one 
" and be for ever separated from the 
" other, I believe that, as Albert would 
" be sure of bliss, I should let him go 
" alone, and should follow my father 
" like that heathen prince." In the 
following extracts we trace the gradual 
yielding of this filial piety to her deeper 
love for her husband : 

" My God, Thou hast granted me 
" great happiness in my life, but Thou 
" hast denied me repose. I hope I do 
" not murmur. Thy will be done ! Oh 
" yes, [ hope I am persuaded that all 
" Thou doest is well done ; but, adored 
" Father, I ask of Thee (for Thou hast 
" permitted us to ask), I ask of Thee in 
" the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, to 
" whoi i Thou hast promised to refuse 
" nothing, that I may live, die, and be 
" born again with my beloved Albert. 
" I love him, my God, in Thee, and 
" because he loves Thee. Oh keep 
" us ever together in Thy love, and 
" separate us not ! Oh, dear good 
" saints, pray for me ! Oh Jesus, listen 
" to mo ! Let my voice reach Thee, as 
" did that of the poor women, of the 
" centurion, of so many others ! I say 
" with one of them, 'Lord, I believe, help 
" Thou my unbelief !' Oh vouchsafe to 
" enlighten me Thyself, to make Thy 
" truth shine in my heart ; but suffer 
<{ me, oh sweet Jesus, Thou who hast 
41 had pity on Thy mother, suffer me to 
" spar*', my mother's heart ! 

" My soul was very sad, very anxious, 
" yestrrday. The sun was bright, the 
" sea calm and beautiful. Such scenes 

" have often made me believe in an 
" eternal happiness extended to all and 
" everything. Yesterday I thought of 
" nothing but the pain and danger that 
" are beside all that is sweet and happy. 
" I reflected how the sun, which is so 
" superb, is often the cause of death and 
" suffering. And the sea, calm and 
" smooth and blue as it is, are not men 
" drowned in it all the same 1 Danger 
" and suffering surround us. Our life, 
" the life of those we love, hangs only 
" by a thread, and even that thread is 
" not broken without frightful suffering. 
" . . .1 was indulging in such thoughts 
" yesterday, as I sat by the window 
" gazing on this lovely view, when these 
' comforting words came into my mind, 
" whispered, perhaps, by one of the 
" angels who watch over me that the 
" very hairs of our heads are allnumbered. 
" Thus, then, all our sufferings have an 
" object. Oh, I feel that it is good for 
" me to be tried. It makes me think 
" of God, and renders me, I hope, a 
" little better. And then (another 
" heavenly word that has recurred to 
" me), ' Blessed are they that mourn, for 
" they shall be comforted.' 

Letter to Pauline. "He is alive, 
" Pauline, but I have no more hope. 
" Hope is a thing we part from with 
" such difficulty that I have never yet 
" lost it till this evening, in spite of the 
" many times I have been told that he 
" might die at any moment. . . . Oh ! 
" it is so difficult, even when one has 
" experienced it before, to believe that 
" what one loves can die ! I am sitting 
" alone in his room, whilst he is asleep 
" alone, thinking that he is dying, with- 
" out mother, without sisters, without 
" brothers, in whose arms I can for a 
" moment give vent to my terrible 
" anguish. I should be suffocated if I 
" did not write. . . . This, then, is the 
" end of our poor love ! ten days of 
" happiness in not yet two years of 
" marriage, and loving each other as 
11 much as it is possible to do. Oh 
" God ! ten days for I have not been 
" above ten days entirely free from 
" anxiety about his health. God has 
" prepared me slowly, imperceptibly 


A French Religious Memoir. 

" even, perhaps in His pity, for I have 
" always preferred lengthened grief to 
" sudden shocks. 

"Here I am, then, coolly calculating 
" what will become of me. First, 
" my God, grant that this beloved angel 
" may not continue to suifer as he has 
" done, that all heavenly joys may sur- 
" round him, and give him eternal bliss ! 
" Then, for myself, my life I know will 
" be tenacious, and there will remain no 
" other happiness on earth for me but 
" the love of God. May I have but 
" the energy to throw myself into it ! 
" That should be our strongest love ; but 
" I have always been so weak, I have 
" had so much need of tenderness, that 
" to be told at my age that all these joys 
" are over terrifies me. And yet my 
" only rest would be in feeling myself 
" inconsolable, for I should be shocked 
" at myself if I could ever again set foot 
" in gay society, or attach myself to the 
" world by any link. For a moment I 
" thought I should take the veil, but 
" then I reflected that my fortitude 
" would not be equal to it ; and then the 
" wish to see my mother, all of you, my 
" brothers, would disturb me, and I 
" want, if possible, to rest calmly in 
" God. I must have solitude and liberty 
" with some one whom I Jove, and who 
" will love me better than my mother ? 
" I think I shall go to her ; but, though 
" with my mother, I shall have Albert's 
" faith, for I will not and cannot believe 

" otherwise than he believes Do 

" you remember, Pauline, how I once 
" told you that three deaths or one birth 
" alone would make me a Catholic ? It 
" was a presentiment which God has 
" soon realized, and not, alas ! in the 
" only happy manner !...." 

The end of this mental struggle of 
course was that Alexandrine abjured the 
faith in which she had been brought up, 
and espoused that in which her husband 
was dying. One can easily imagine the 
rest it must have been to her ardent 
soul, to feel her spiritual union complete 
with the husband from whom she was 
just about to be parted in the body ; 
and the rapture into which she bursts 
forth overflows her journal : 

" My God, grant that I may not 
" forget even for Thee, my mother, my 
" beloved brothers, my father in the 
" other world, and the care which I 
" must give to my Albert ! My Jesus, 
" grant that I may accompany every- 
" where my poor friend, whom Thou 
" Thyself hast given to be my husband 
" in the shadow of death as in all the 
" strength of life, in the slumber of the 
" tomb as beside his bed of suffering 
" that I may be always before his eyes, 
" a well-known and beloved face, an 
" encouraging voice, a companion in sup- 
" porting everything ! My Jesus, pre- 
" serve my thoughts from any other 
" wish ! Amen. Dear Virgin, dear 
" Saints, pray for me ! 

" Before going to confess to the Abbe 
" Gerbet, I had been reading to him, 
" and in one of the Reflections which 
" follow the chapters of the ' Imitation ' 
" I read the words : ' Love is stronger 
" than death ! ' These words revived my 
" spirit. ' Love is stronger than death ! ' 
" I thank Thee, my God ! for Thy great 
" mercy ; and how, after that, should 
" I not have faith, when Thou hast thus 
" heard my prayer that I might feel 
" how much I loved him ! These hor- 
" rible doubts were then delusions, and 
" now, oh sweet thought, I feel that I 
" could go down willingly with him 
" into the gulf of death, which I always 
" dreaded. Never to be separated from 
" him, my God ! He has need of me, 
" and I can give up all that I shall 
" leave on earth. 

" Sweet friend, so long tried, who 
" hast loved me so well when thou wast 
" not suffering, fear not that I shall 
" abandon thee in thy last sufferings. 
" Our God will grant, I trust, that I 
" may not be absent, and then, beloved 
" friend, thy agony will be a little less 
" cruel Oh, fear not ! Do not look at 
" me as if I were going to leave thee ! 
" I will support thee though my bones 
" should break with grief to see thee 
" die ; my arms, my eyes shall not move 
" from thee, and thy last look shall see 
" me still there. 

" And afterwards, my God, be it as 
" Thou wilt, all that Thou wilt, when 

A Dull Life. 


" Thou wilt ! If I live, I shall be 
" hapry ; if I die, if I may but be with 
" him, I shall be happy also. And as 
" for :oiy life in this world without 
" him, I will not even be afraid to 
" take comfort. Let it be as Thou 
" wilt, my God ; only let there not 
" be sin and remorse ! My God, my 
" Jesuis, grant me faith, true living 
" faith. I wish for nothing, and I wish 
" for all things. Amen." 

M. Montegut's narrative of events 
closes necessarily with the death of 
Albert, which took place on the 29th of 
June, 1836 ; for, as we have intimated, 
Madame Auguste Craven's compilation 
at present seems to extend no further. 

The young widow's subsequent history 
remains untold. The extracts which 
we have laid before the reader form a 
portion only of those contained in the 
Revue des deux Mondes ; and the 
original memoir from which they are 
derived furnishes evidently many more 
of the same description. Their general 
character will be sufficiently evident. 
They have all the interest of fresh and 
natural expressions of youthful love and 
sorrow, and fervent piety; but we can 
hardly say that they exhibit any traces 
of the real poetical insight into nature 
and the subtler mysteries of feeling 
which constitutes the special charm of 
Eugenie de Guerin's writings. 


I THIN c there is no country in the 
world so dreary and oppressive as the 
country round New Orleans. It is a 
vast swamp, , below the level of the 
Mississippi, covered with cedars, not 
evergret n, but deciduous ; and when I 
was thei-e in the early spring, there was 
not a single leaf upon them. For miles 
these dreary forests extend, with almost 
always 1 he same aspect, except, perhaps, 
for a few miles the trees may be bathed 
in yellow slimy mud half-way up their 
trunks, where some lake or river has 
been swelled and risen for a time some 
ten or fi fteen feet higher than usual. 

Natural scenery, untouched by man, 
has, air lost everywhere in the world, 
some beauty; not always a lovely, 
graceful beauty, but a beautiful dreari- 
ness, or i beautiful wildness, or a beauti- 
ful quaintness, or a beautiful luxuriance. 
Here, in this swampy, slimy Louisiana, 
there is ugly dreariness, ugly wildness, 
ugly qufintness, and the country often 
struck n e as absolutely ugly, and, with 
its alligators basking in the rivers, as 
almost r ivolting, somewhat as if it were 
a country in a geological period not pre- 
pared fo > man's appearance. 

"We T-ere in New Orleans in 1858, 
and the state of society was not more 
pleasant to contemplate than the natural 

scenery ; the moral atmosphere was as 
offensive as the swamp miasma. Every 
day we heard of murders and assassina- 
tions in the streets, and crime ruled in 
society. The fear of vengeance from 
criminals very often prevented the in- 
jured from seeking the protection of 
the law in fact, the state of the city 
was almost lawless. The aspect of the 
streets was quiet enough, perhaps, with 
the exception of a few drunken Irish 
and Germans, whom I saw sometimes 
absolutely rolling on the pavement; 
but it was impossible to speak to any 
person without hearing of recent crime, 
and the daily papers were crammed 
with revolting records. 

I detested New Orleans ; I detested 
the great Hotel St. Charles, with its 
800 people sitting down to table to- 
gether ; and I detested the conversation 
I heard there at dinner, and in the im- 
mense drawing-room crowded with fine 
ladies. Fine gives no idea how fine 
these planters' ladies were ; indeed, 
much more extravagantly dressed than 
crowned heads in old countries, and 
some wore more jewels in the early 
morning than a princess would wear^ in 
any evening in England. Everything 
I saw in New Orleans disgusted me. I 
could not visit the slave auction or slave 


A DM Life. 

depots without suffering with horror for 
days after ; and I could not look at the 
daily paper, with its little black running 
negroes heading innumerable advertise- 
ments of runaways, without feeling sick 
with sympathy for the sufferings of 
these human beings so indicated. 

In fact, I never lost the feeling of the 
presence of slavery. It met me every- 
where; its influence was felt every- 
where : in the book-shops, by the glaring 
absence of certain books ; in the pulpit, 
by the doctrines doctored to please the 
congregation ; in the cars, by the division 
of white and black ; in the schools, 
from the absence of every child sup- 
posed to have a tinge of black blood ; 
in the evening, by the gun to send all 
coloured people home everywhere, at 
every time, the presence of slavery was 
heavy upon me. 

The conversations at that time, in 
almost all groups of people, were directly 
or indirectly about slavery and the 
infamy of the North ; this infamy all 
connected with the peculiar institution. 
One evening we went to the only scien- 
tific society in the city a poor, strug- 
gling, ill-supported association and the 
interest of the lecture I heard there 
turned, too, on slavery. It went to 
prove that the Egyptians had negro 
slaves, and that these African races 
from all time had been servants, and 
always ought to be, and always would be. 
There was quite enough in this city 
to make the heart of man sad; and 
though the country around was sad too, 
there is always the sky when one is out 
of the narrow streets. So I often used 
to go by the railway to different points 
in the woods, or on the Lake Ponchar- 
train, to get the refreshment of the 
beautiful blue sky and the gorgeous 
setting sun. 

m One day I went to Carrolton, a collec- 
tion of white wooden villas, with green 
verandahs and gardens, very ugly and 
utterly uninteresting, but it is on the 
very verge of the uncultivated, un- 
touched forest swamps. It was, in fact, 
one of the few places where it was 
possible to get a view of that melancholy 
country, and so one day, very near to 
Carrolton, I encamped with my sketch- 

ing umbrella, &c. to make a view of 
the monotonous wall of deciduous cedars 
which rose beyond the one field which 
had been cleared, and cultivation at- 
tempted, but unsuccessfully ; and this 
field, which was my foreground, was 
now a swamp covered with rank grass, 
dwarf palm, and dead stalks of tall 
plants. The trees beyond were leafless, 
but clothed in waving garments from 
the topmost branches to the ground, of 
grey moss monotonous and fantastic. 

The h'rst day, I had not been seated 
more than half an hour, in dead stillness 
when I heard steps close behind me, 
and, looking up, saw a young lady, very 
pale and slender, with a timid, tired 
look, walking up to me, with a negro 
woman, who, like most other household 
slaves, was rather fat, and remarkable 
for her ready smile and gay handker- 
chief, arranged turbanlike on her head. 
I said at once, "Good morning," and, 
as the timid young lady halted close to 
me, she said, " Good day, ma'am," and 
then she stood still behind me, for at 
least twenty minutes, until I began to 
feel her eyes on my fingers, and to get 
quite nervous; but, as she looked so 
pale and so very timid, I did not dare 
to say, "Go away; you prevent me 
from drawing," and so I turned round 
in despair, and said, You must find it 
very dull and tiring standing so long." 
" Oh, no ! oh, no ! I could stand here 
all day, and never feel weary at all, I 
am so interested." This was said quickly, 
but in a very low voice. "Good 
heavens!" thought I, "I hope not; 
this is very desperate ;" and seeing the 
negro squat down, reminded me it would 
be better for us both if the young lady 
would sit down. So I pulled out a 
corner of a mackintosh cloak, and said, 
Pray sit down." The young lady in- 
stantly accepted my not very politely- 
worded offer, and sat down by me, 
saying, in a very low voice, lower than 
before, Oh, you are very kind i " The 
kind ' was almost inaudible. I went 
on drawing. The young lady never 
spoke, but watched me intensely. Half 
an hour passed, and I began to wonder, 
out 1 determined not to break silence 
first, and so, by my watch, which I took 

A Dull Life. 


out ind looked at, another half-hour 
passe d, when the silent young lady got 
up, iind saying, "Shall you come to- 
inorrjw?" awakened her sleeping ne- 
gress, and, being assured I should be 
there again the next day, said "Good 
morning," and walked away. She went 
into a very little wooden villa behind 
me, which very dull-looking little house 
was now invested with interest for nie, 
for tliis pale, uninteresting young lady 
excited my interest, she was so very 
quiet ; and now I had had time to ex- 
ammo her, I had found out she had 
quite perfect features not a fault to be 
found with the lovely lines of brow, 
nose, and chin, withal so expression- 
less, end so colourless, that no one could 
be si ruck with her beauty : it was 
beauty to discover for yourself by patient 
investigation. If there was any ex- 
pression, it was pathos. She did not 
look open-eyed and stupid, as you may 
perhaps imagine the word expression 
less to mean, but utterly weighed down, 
listless, and without any feeling, or de- 
sire, or restlessness, or pain, or pleasure, 
or anything. She looked as if she 
were ennuyee, and did not know it 

The, next day, unfortunately, there 
was what the Americans called a " young 
tornado" that is to say, a little tem- 
pest which flooded the country with 
its rain and tore up the trees with its 
winds, and it was, of course, impossible 
to think of sketching. I was very glad 
it was not an old tornado, if this was a 
specimen of the power of a young tor- 
nado. Two days after this the ground 
was st ill wet, but I went off by rail to 
Carrolum, and, in india-rubber boots, 
waded to my sketching place. Before 
I was installed even, -my pale young 
lady came out of her little bathing- 
machine-like house, with her negress, 
and walked up to me with her, " Good 
day, ma'am." The negress said, "Oh ! I 
be very glad you come, for Miss Cecilia 
sat all day at the window for three days, 
looking for de fine weather. I don't 
know what she do if you don't come." 

I was touched, and said, "Miss 
Cecilia must have very little to do, if 

No. 91. VOL. xvi. 

she has so much time to think about 
my drawing.'' 

Miss Cecilia blushed a little, and said 
very low, " I have nothing to do." 

This was said in perfect good faith, 
and so quietly, and so much as if it 
were a matter of course, that I was quite 

" Nothing to do 1 nothing to do ] " I 
said, accented as a question. 

"Nothing to do," she answered 

Then we sat down as before, in silence, 
and I gave her a seat on my mackintosh 
and two air cushions, and made her very 
comfortable ; and there we sat in silence. 

The negress had gone into the house 
saying, " You will take care of Miss 
Cecilia," and not waiting for my answer. 

Miss Cecilia sat with her hands 
(which were enveloped in little white 
cotton gloves) folded over her knees, 
and leaned forward, watching me in- 
tensely watching the brush as it went 
into cobalt and emerald, green and sepia, 
and pink madder, trying hard to get 
the strange grey of the shroud-like 

I did not look up, but I felt her eyes, 
and gradually I lost my power of con- 
centration on my work, and inwardly 
gave it up and determined to gratify my 
curiosity about my strange Cecilia ; but 
I went on pretending to work and not 
looking at her. 

"Miss Cecilia," said I, "do you 
paint ? " 

"No," said she. 

" Do you sing ? " 

"No," said she. 

" Do you ride on horseback ? " 

" No, no," said she. 

"Do you write many letters ? " 

" None," said she. 

" Do you like embroidery ? " 

" No," said she. 

"Do you like crochet?" 

" I do it, but I don't think I like it." 

You must not think this was a brisk 
conversation very far from it there 
was a long gap after each " No ; " and 
it was only the last sentence which gave 
me any hope of a conversation. 

"What do you like?" said I. 



A Dull Life. 

" I do not know," said she, very low 
and languidly. 

" But I am sure you like sitting here 
with me, Cecilia," said I, boldly calling 
her by her Christian name. 

"Yes," she answered, "wry, very much." 

"Ah," rejoined I, "I am very glad 

that you like it very, very much ; and you 

like it very, very much, why ? tell me ? " 

" Oh, because it amuses me to see you 

take so much trouble about what I can't 

understand. There is nothing to draw. 

Why don't you draw our house? And 

what did you come here for 1 ? nobody 

ever came here before like you." 

I was delighted to explain to her as 
well as I could a traveller's reasons for 
sketching, but she evidently did not 
really comprehend or sympathise with 
what I said. 

Whilst I was talking, a negro woman 
came up to me and said, "My missus 
says you're to bring what you're doing 
to her to look at, and you're to come to 
the back door." 

I hardly understood this message, and 
said so : "I don't know what your mis- 
tress wants, but if it is to look at my 
drawing tell her to come to me." 

"Oh, I dar'n't say that; you must 
come along ; you're to go in at the back 
kitchen door." 

Now I confess I was a little angry and 
refused to go, which was very childish, 
for if I had had the sense to have sub- 
mitted quietly I should have seen some- 
thing of another family of slave-owners, 
and perhaps have been able to give this 
great lady a little lesson ; but I was in- 
sulted by this continual contempt which 
I found any kind of steady work was 
exposed to. Perhaps, if this had been 
the first time a fine lady had treated me 
like a slave, because I worked like a 
slave, I should not have been angry ; 
but it was the last touch which quite 
overset my good humour, and I shall 
for ever regret it. Ah, what a pity I 
did not go to that back kitchen-door ! 
What I should have seen and heard 
must remain for ever unseen and un- 
heard, because I was put out of temper 
by a very natural message considering 
where I was and who sent it. I had 

the satisfaction of seeing the lady lean- 
ing out of an upper window of her 
house trying to see me, and Cecilia told 
me she was very rich and had a great 
many slaves, and was very cruel some- 
times when she was ill and irritable. 

Cecilia, after a long silence, for I was 
cross and quiet, said, " I want to know 
how you dared to go into the cypress 
wood the other day are you not afraid 
of the runaway slaves there ? They say 
they are worse than wild beasts." 

" Oh no ; there can't be any so close 
to the town. I was not afraid ; I only 
went for a little walk. Don't you ever 
go for a walk ? " 

"No, never." 

This reminded nie of a fashionable 
young lady in New Orleans, who had 
never seen the country at all round her 
city, and who did not know of what we 
were speaking when we spoke of the long 
grey moss one day at a dinner party. I 
told my companion this, and she said, 
" Oh, she had seen it, no doubt, in the 
shops ready for stuffing mattresses, and 
thought it w r as horse-hair ! But I am 
not astonished she had not seen it in the 
country : why should she go to see it ? " 

I tried to make her understand the 
many reasons moral, physical, and in- 
tellectual why we should take walks in 
the country, or rides, or drives, or all 
three ; but I suppose niy disquisition 
was very dull, for she did not .seem to 
care about it, and fell into her listless 
attitude. So after a little silence I fell 
into the cross-questioning method, 
which was the only possible one with my 
strange companion. 

" Have you always lived here 1 " 

"No, we lived in New Orleans when 
I was little and my parents were alive. 
Since their death I have always lived 
there with grandmother," said she, point- 
ing to the green and white box. 

Then, in answer to my questions, 
she told me she was twenty, and that 
her father and mother had died of 
yellow fever when she was five years 
old and her only brother seven; that 
she had doted on, and adored her 
brother John ; that he had been quite 
different from her, very lively and very 

A Dull Life. 


clever; and that he could not bear to 
live a quiet life, so he ran away from 
home and had joined General Walker, 
who was his great hero, and had "been 
k lied in Nicaragua. She told me how a 
letter came to her grandmother and she 
had to read it as her grandmother was 
tco blind, and how, after understanding 
tie terrible news, she fell down in a 
faint and was sick for weeks and weeks 
after. "But," said she wearily, "that 
is six years ago ; a very long time ago." 
She went on to tell me, that her grand- 
m )ther was very old and infirm, and now 
quite blind, that she was very kind and 
Vry good, but that she would never let 
her go out anywhere, because it cost 
m )ney, nor learn the piano, or sing, be- 
cause that cost money too, and because 
she could not bear a noise or bustle in 
tli3 house : the rooms being divided with 
wood only, you could hear every sound 
in the house as if it were one room. 

" She is very good to me," said Cecilia. 
" She has a little money ; and as my 
father died in debt, it is very good of 
her to keep me. She says I and my 
brother have cost her a great deal of 

" If she said that," said I to myself, 
"] do not think she has been very good 
to you, and it is fortunate for you if you 
th'nk so." 

"She is a great sufferer now," con- 
tirued Cecilia, "and Zoe has to sit by 
he' for hours, holding her hands or 
combing her hair, and sometimes for 
days she will not see me. She does not 
bejieve I know how to nurse or do any- 
thing. Zoe is a very good creature : I 
should not be here now, but Zoe has 
th< sense to say, when grandmother asks 
wh ere I am, ' Miss Cecil is close by ; I 
cai see her.' " 

I sat silently wondering at this dull 
lift, and thinking of all the avenues to 
activity in any little town in England 
for a young lady like Cecilia the church, 
th( chapel, the little social societies for 
ch; ,rity, all of which occupy those who 
are too poor or too pious for balls, pic- 
nic?, and country gaieties. We have 
in England so many small organizations 
tht t it would be strange there to find a 
beiig who did not deliberately choose 

it, leading so isolated a life as my poor 
Cecilia. In England the clergyman or 
the minister and the doctor are the steady 
friends of the most solitary woman. 

"Do you not go to church 1 " I said. 

" Sometimes, but not very often. 
Grandmamma will not let me go alone ; 
and as she likes the minister to come 
and read prayers to her, I stay with her ; 
but I like to go to church best, because 
I like to see the people." 

" But don't you see any one not the 
doctor 1 " said I, determined to find out 
if this life were really so cut off from all 
human fellowship as it seemed. 

" Oh, sometimes we do see the doc- 

Cecilia blushed deeply with some 
emotion or other, as she mentioned the 
doctor, so I asked her if she liked her 
grandmother's doctor. 

" Oh yes, very well," said she. 

But this did not satisfy me, and I put 
ingenious questions, which it would be 
very tedious to relate, until I extracted 
the following episode in her life. 

Two years ago, in the middle of the 
summer, there had been a terrible 
attack of yellow fever, which had been 
more than usually fatal ; the deaths 
followed so quickly hundreds upon 
hundreds that a deadly panic seized 
the people, and in many places the 
doctors and nurses fled. Hospitals were 
obliged to be hastily prepared where 
the rich and poor were taken alike. The 
doctor, Cecilia's friend, had under his 
care a hospital for children, which was 
the school-house, hastily adapted to its 
new purpose. The long rows of desks 
and forms were covered with mattresses, 
and children in every stage of the dis- 
ease were crowded together : some were 
nursed by relations, but the greater part 
by ladies who volunteered to do what 
few women dared to do for hire. This 
doctor had taken Cecilia, in spite of 
her grandmother's disapprobation, and 
put her into this hospital, where it was 
evident he had soon felt her worth, for 
he had made her, young as she was, 
chief of a wing. He had praised her 
devotedness, he had depended upon her, 
he had called her his Sister of Charity, 
and entrusted many difficult missions 


A Dull Life. 

to her care ; she had found out what 
liberty was; for she had been about 
alone on the business of the hospital 
and found herself full of courage and 
life. She was intensely grateful to the 
man who had made her useful and 
found her good for something, and she 
had evidently regarded the doctor as 
the good angel of her life. He had 
made a mark in her life; but she, alas ! 
had not, it seemed, occupied his atten- 
tion after the pestilence had passed. He 
was, probably, a very busy man, and 
had almost forgotten her; he did re 
member her, indeed, sometimes ; but he 
was too full of his own family affairs, 
his patients, and his negroes, to think 
much of his devoted Cecilia. 

" Ah ! " said she, with the longest 
sigh I ever heard, " I don't know how 
it was, and of course it is very wicked, 
but I never was so happy in all my life ! 
Every day I was up at four and never 
in bed until twelve, and the more I did 
the stronger 1 was ; but now I do 
nothing all day I am very weak." 

"But don't you visit the doctor's 

' " No ; his wife is a fine lady, and I 
cannot dress so well as she does, so I 
do not like to go ; people here think a 
great deal about dress. If you can't dress 
you can't visit the planters' families, 
and the doctor's family is quite a fashion- 
able family. I am too poor, in reality, 
to go among such people." 

"Then, why did not your grand- 
mother give you a good education so 
that you might give lessons and earn 
money, as you can never be in what you 
call fashionable society ? " 

" Oh," said Cecilia, " she is too 
proud for that ; and, besides all, the 
governesses and teachers come from the 
North, and I never could have been so 
clever and accomplished as they are." 

Then she told me about the planters 
who lived in the great houses, and the 
retired storekeepers of New Orleans 
who lived in the little villas around us. 
She said they were very proud indeed ; 
that they did just bow to her in pass- 
ing, that was all, though many of them 
had known her and her grandmother 
for fifteen years. She said her grand- 

mother had been quite well known, and 
had had eight hundred slaves. 

" You have only Zoe now 1 ? " I said. 

" Only Zoe," said she ; " but Zoe is 
married and has had four children." 

"And where are they?" asked I, 
with a certain shuddering curiosity. 

" They are all gone away." 

" Sold 1 " said I, with my heart ach- 
ing within me. 

"Yes," said Cecilia, quite quietly, 
with no emotion. 

"But don't you think it wrong of 
your grandmother to sell another wo- 
man's children?" said I, hotly and 
boldly too boldly considering I was in 
Louisiana, where a less bold speech has 
been punished with tar and feathers. 

"Zoe's children?" said she, not 
understanding my implication at all. 

" Yes," said I ; " Zoe is a woman ! 
Zoe's children ! " 

Cecilia looked at me with eyes wide 
open, quite astonished, arid said, " But, 
you see, grandmamma could not afford 
to keep five people, and she wanted 
money ; so, of course, she sold them. 
What should you have done with 

Here was a puzzling question ! Ce- 
cilia looked at me as if she could not 
guess in the least my thought. I think 
she rather imagined I was proposing 
they should be drowned as kittens 
these unhappy black babies; she had 
no idea, certainly, that any one could 
think there was a responsibility some- 
where to bring them up as Christian 
children. I did not attempt to answer 
her question, for I am sure I did not 
know what I should have done with 
them ; but I asked her another, " Do 
you not think it wrong to have slaves ? " 

" I never thought about it ; does any- 
one think it wrong ? " 

Here was an opportunity for argu- 
ment, and I hardly knew how to begin, 
so I hazarded, " Have you read ' Uncle 
Tom's Cabin'?" 

" No, never," said she. " I have not 
read many books, for, as grandmother is 
blind, she won't buy any books. I 
have read the Bible all through, but I 
do not remember anything about slavery 
being wrong in it." 

A Dull Life. 

I entered into the subject heart and 
scul, and told her there were millions 
ol people who thought slavery wrong ; 
aid I told her how England had freed 
her slaves, and how work was done 
better for fair pay than fear ; and how 
the labourer, who was free, was re- 
spected, and the effect of this respect 
for work on all people ladies and 
gentlemen and all. She became so in- 
tensely interested in this new idea that 
I was afraid she might speak out im- 
prudently, so I cautioned her and told 
her of the experience of some of my 
abolitionist friends. Her face lighted 
up, and her beautiful eyes kindled as I 
told her how many women had suffered 
for saying that they thought slavery 
wrong. I went on to tell her of Miss 
M. G. and others who had been born 
slave-owners and rich, and who had 
freed all their slaves and lived a life 
of hard work and poverty rather than 
have any share in what they conceived 
to be a great iniquity. 

" Supposing you are right that slavery 
is wrong, what will happen to us all 
here 1 Shall we be treated like Sodom 
and Gomorrah 1 " 

I told her I thought that by God's 
laws, as we knew them, society could 
not be peaceful, constituted as this was 
in opposition to His evident intentions ; 
that I did not think she need fear fire 
or brimstone, but that she must look 
for some change ; what it would be I 
could not tell. It was getting late, and 
th(; damp mist was rising, so I was 
obliged to go. I walked with Cecilia to 
her door, kissed her, and promised to 
come the next day. Alas ! the next day 
we received sad news from England, and 
we were obliged to start immediately 
for Mobile on our way home. 

[ had no regrets in leaving New 
Orleans except in causing some sorrow 
to some poor negro friends of ours, and 
the, one deep regret of being unable to 
fulfil my engagement with poor Cecilia 
poor, poor Cecilia! It was sad for 
her to lose her new friend, and it seemed 
as if her life was doomed to sadness and 
disappointment. I tormented myself 
wit;h the imagination of this lonely 

figure standing waiting in the marsh, 
and longing for the strange visitor to 
come and continue the conversation 
which had just begun to be so intimate, 
affectionate, and interesting. I thought 
of her going home to the dull house 
and the dull inmates. I was grieved to 
the heart to think of her daily bitter 
disappointments, and I was then pro- 
voked and sorry I had not given her 
my name and address, for she really did 
not know my name ; it was a torment- 
ing pain to me the whole of my journey ; 
and though I had written to her before 
leaving, and sent her a parcel of books, 
I had not faith enough in the post of 
Louisiana to believe she would ever 
receive the letter or the packet. In my 
letter I begged of her to write to nie at 
New York and also to London. Alas ! 
there was no letter at New York. I 
wrote again to her with no result. 
"Weeks passed, we arrived in England, 
but never a letter has come to me from 
Cecilia. At the beginning of the war 
I wrote to her again, but I have never 
received any answer. Great changes 
have taken place in New Orleans since 
I was there, and I have this satisfaction 
in thinking of Cecilia, that whatever 
change has taken place in her fate, 
must be for the better. She is dead, 
perhaps; she has fallen in with some 
Federal officer who may love her ; or 
she is again a hospital nurse. There is 
little doubt that she is happier now 
than when she sat beside me that first 
day I met her; probably, the ideas I 
gave her were thought over and over 
in her mind, and she was prepared for 
what has happened and ready for the 
time of change. 

The life of this poor young lady in 
Louisiana was the dullest life I ever 
knew dull, because her domestic life 
happened to be sad, lonely; dull, be- 
cause she was poor ; dull, because she 
was in a slave state ; dull, because the 
country was dull and dreary ; dull, be- 
cause she was a young lady with nothing 
to do and very little education. Happily, 
such a dull life is not possible in^inany 
countries, and was rare no doubt in the 
country where I came across it. 



BY C. E. M. 

THE theory has been often started that 
history should be written in biographies. 
Whatever disadvantages there may be 
in this plan, it is at least clear that there 
is none which would dispel more popular 
fallacies about the past. With respect 
to the rise of constitutions, the progress 
of wars, the developments of arts and 
manufactures, we are rarely very far 
wrong ; the facts of the present throw 
a light on them that cannot be wholly 
mistaken. But about the motives and 
characters of the men who were the 
principal agents in directing those de- 
velopments we are often long in error. 
It is too much the fashion, with popular 
historians, to accept conventional tradi- 
tions about such men, and to " chart 
them all in " their " coarse blacks and 
whites" as if to make cram-books for 
schoolboys. For this reason biographies, 
and especially autobiographies, are one 
of the most necessary parts of history, 
since they throw a light on the events 
in which the men whose lives they relate 
took part. Such a light could not come 
from any account of those events which 
made the actors entirely subordinate to 
the action. 

And there are few men, perhaps, for 
whom this kind of light is more needed 
than the man who is at once the author 
and subject of these volumes. Inter- 
ested as Englishmen have been in the 
Italian Eevolution, and in the main 
well acquainted even with its details, 
they have been curiously ignorant of one 
of the earliest promoters of that revo- 
lution. Hackneyed traditions, wildly 
improbable stories, have gathered round 
his name, till every trace of the real 
man is lost in the conventional stage- 
conspirator. Many of the errors to 
which we allude ought, we think, to be 
dispelled by the volumes before us. 

The purely autobiographical element in 
them is, indeed, comparatively small; 
for Mazzini tells us in his preface that 
he has often declined writing his life, 
and that it is now only the public part 
of it that he gives to the world ; as his 
purposes develop, too, he becomes so 
absorbed in his work that he almost 
ceases to have any private life ; but, in 
the earlier part of his book, we have a 
clear view both of those circumstances 
which first turned his thoughts to that 
work, and of others that have given it 
that peculiar colouring which distin- 
guishes it from similar efforts of other 

The scene with which the volume 
opens is a fit preparation for such a book. 
He is walking with his mother on the 
Strada Nuova at Genoa, just after the 
failure of the Piedmontese Insurrection 
in 1821. The leaders of that insurrec- 
tion are embarking for Spain ; " a tall, 
"black-bearded man, with a severe, 
" energetic countenance, and a glance 
" that I shall never forget," accosts 
Mazzini's mother, and demands money 
for the refugees of Italy. " This day," 
he continues, " was the first in which a 
" confused idea presented itself to my 
" mind, I will not say of country or 
" liberty, but an idea that we Italians 
" could, and therefore ought to, struggle 
" for the liberty of our country." . . . 
" I began collecting names and facts, 
" and studied as best I might the 
" records of that heroic struggle, seeking 
" to fathom the causes of its failure." 
He makes acquaintance with the Rufnnis 
and others who like him are grieving over 
the wrongs of their country. The in- 
fluences of his parents, too, encourage 
this direction of his thoughts. But the 
path to political action appeared for 
the present to be closed to him, and 

Life and Writings of Joseph Mazzini. 


he began to turn his thoughts to litera- 
ture, and even to have thoughts of 
devoting himself to it as a profession. 
Strange to say, however, this pursuit 
was the means of leading him back to 
the work which he had half thought of 
abandoning for it. A literary war was 
then raging between the " Eomanticists " 
and " Classicists," the latter desiring to 
reduce all writings to the pattern of the 
old classical authors, the former trying 
to develop a more original and modern 
tyj e of literature. Both parties seemed 
to Mazzini to have lost sight of their 
tru3 mission. With the Classicists, of 
course, he had no sympathy ; but even 
of the Eomanticists he says that they, 
" founding their new literature on no 
" o^her basis than individual fancy, lost 
" themselves in fantastic mediaeval 
" 1( gends, unfelt hymns to the Virgin, 
" a: id unreal metrical despair, or any 
" o :her whim of the passing hour which 
" night present itself to their minds, 
" intolerant of every tyranny, but igno- 
" rant also of the sacredness of the law 
" which governs art as well as every 
" other thing." Yet in this trifling he 
sees the possibility of higher things. 
The Eomanticist school represents to 
him the struggle, however imperfectly 
understood, for national literary life 
against the fetters of a worn-out pedantry. 
Taken up in this spirit, it soon widens 
into a protest against all hindrances 
to national life. The Government sup- 
presses the Indicator e Genoese, in which 
his articles appear. A new journal is 
starred at Leghorn on the same prin- 
ciple; that too is suppressed, and for a 
time Mazzini's literary career is brought 
to MI end. But by this time he has 
coll< cted round him a number of friends 
who, like himself, have been only using 
this literary warfare as a preparation 
for political action ; now they feel that 
their testimony has done its work. 
; ' "\\ e had proved to the young men of 
" It ily that our Governments were deli- 
"bcrately adverse to all progress, and 
" that liberty was impossible till they 
" we re overthrown." 

T le next step in his career was per- 
haps the only possible one to a man who 

was earnestly bent on the object which 
he had in view. Association, which he 
afterwards preached as the duty of 
nations, he then, as now, held strongly 
to be the duty of individuals. But 
besides this, a special longing to obey 
and follow seems to have possessed him. 
" Eeverence for righteous and true 
" authority, freely recognised and ac- 
" cepted, is the best safeguard against 
" authority false or usurped. I therefore 
" agreed to join the Carbonari." 

But, with all this eager reverence for au- 
thority, Mazzini was not disposed to be a 
mere puppet in the hands of men of whose 
purposes he knew nothing ; he- desired 
to be led, but he wished also to see the 
way on which he was to go. The utter 
aimlessness of Carbonarism disgusted 
him ; its useless forms excited his con- 
tempt. He thus speaks of one of the 
ceremonies of initiation : " My friend 

" congratulated me on the fact 

rt that circumstances had spared me the 
" tremendous ordeals usually under- 
" gone ; and, seeing me smile at this, 
" he asked me severely what I should 
" have done if I had been required, as 
" others had been, to fire off a pistol in 
" my ear which had previously been 
" loaded before my eyes. I replied that 
" I should have refused, telling the 
" initiators that either there was some 
" valve in the interior of the pistol 
" into which the bullet fell, in which 
" case .the affair was a farce unworthy 
" of both of us ; or the bullet remained 
" in the stock, and, in that case, it 
" struck me as absurd to call upon a 
" man to fight for his country, and make 
" it his first duty to blow out the few 
" brains that God had vouchsafed him.' ? 
His complaints reach the ears of the 
heads of the Carbonari, and he is threat- 
ened ; in a moment of indignation he 
thinks of defying the order ; but his 
friends urge on him that he " was thus 
" unconsciously sacrificing the cause of 
" his country to his own offended indi- 
"viduality," and he submits for a 

But the suspicions of the Govern- 
ment fall on him; by the trick of a 
spy he is sufficiently compromised to 

Life and Writings of Joseph Mazzti 


afford ground for an arrest ;. and he is 
shortly afterwards conveyed to the 
fortress of Savona. Here it was that 
he first conceived that great work to 
whicli he afterwards devoted himself. 
Not Carbonarism only, but every other 
organization for revolutionary purposes, 
had failed for want of an aim. They 
had never looked beyond the immediate 
object, the throwing off the tyranny 
which was at that time oppressing them. 
This seemed to Mazzini the great evil 
which he had to remedy. The society 
which he had to found must have a clear 
object, and must know what that object 
was. The rights of man had been the 
formula of the past; the salvation of 
the individual its object. Whatever 
worth that cry might have had in 
former days, it had failed of the object 
at which it aimed. The duties of man 
must be the gospel of Young Italy; 
" God and the People " its watchword. 
This feeling was strengthened in 
Mazzini by his intercourse with Lamen- 
nais, which led him to hope that even 
the priests of the established religion of 
his country might accept his programme. 
Thus he appeals to them in one pas- 
sage : 

" Priests of my country, would you 
" save the Christian Church from in- 
" evitable dissolution 1 Would you 
" cause religion to endure strong in its 
" own beauty and the veneration of 
" mankind 1 Place yourselves at the 
" head of the peoples, and lead them on 
" the path of progress, aid them to 
" regain their liberty and independence 
" from the foreigner ; the Austrian that 
" enslaves both you and them. Have 
" not you, too, a country, and the hearts 
" of citizens ] Do you not love your 
" fellow-men ? Emancipate them and 
" yourselves. Remember that a priest 
* ; led the hosts of the Lombard League 
" to the rebuilding of Milan, destroyed 
" by the German soldiery. Do you in 
" turn guide the hosts of the Italian 
" League to plant the banner of Italian 
" freedom upon our Alps. This land, 
" now trampled under the foot of the 
" Teuton, God created free. Obey the 
" decree of God. Raise the war-cry of 

" Julius II. Your voice has power 
" over the multitude. Use your power 
" to restore to your native land the 
" grandeur of which her oppressors have 
" bereft her, to obtain the full and free 
" exercise of their rights for your fellow- 
" men ; to found a new pact of alliance 
" between yourselves and the peoples, 
" between liberty and the Church. 
" Priests of my country, the first among 
" you who, warned by the dangers of 
" the approaching European epoch, shall 
" dare to raise his glance from the 
" Vatican to God, and receive his 
" message and inspiration from Him 
" alone, the first among you who shall 
" consecrate himself the apostle of 
" humanity and hearken to its voice ; 
" who, strong in the purity of a stain- 
" less conscience, shall go forth among 
" the hesitating and uncertain nmlti- 
" tude and utter the word REFORM, 
" will save Christianity, reconstitute 
" European unity, extinguish anarchy, 
" and put the seal to a lasting alliance 
" and concord between society and the 
" priesthood. But, if no such voice be 
" raised before the hour of common 
" resurrection has sounded, then God 
" save you from the anger of the 
" peoples, for terrible is the anger of 
" the peoples, and your sole path of 
" salvation is the one we have offered 

This then was to be the basis of the 
programme of the new society, duty 
instead of right, the society instead of 
the individual. But it was not merely 
the absolute excellence of this pro- 
gramme that led Mazzini to adopt it, 
it was not merely his religious feelings 
that made him aim at the destruction of 
selfishness ; he looked upon it as a step 
in the development of the history of 
his country of all countries. The great 
element in the education of his country- 
men which seemed to him to have been 
most neglected, and yet to be the one 
most requiring attention, was " history." 
Some had written from the aristocratic 
point of view, others from the Ghibel- 
line, some without any definite aim 
at all, none with a clear sense of the 
mission of Italy. With Sismondi he 

Life and Writings of Joseph Mazzini. 


has more sympathy than with most 
of the others, but even of him he 
says. " Sismondi the only foreign 
" writer upon Italy who deserves the 
" name of an historian notwithstand- 
" ing his democratic sympathies, and 
" his long and patient study of his 
" subject, has only given us the history 
" of our factions, and the virtues, vices, 
" an I amhitions of our illustrious fami- 
" lie^ ; without comprehending or sus- 
" pe<;ting the work of fusion (recog- 
" nised, indeed, though but slightly 
" indicated by Eomagna) that was 
" silently but uninterruptedly going 
" on in the heart of the country." 

This, then, was the second great his- 
torical error which must be amended 
by the new society. They were to 
preach their duties to Italians, not to 
teach them to clamour for their indi- 
vidual rights, and these duties were to be 
done by them as an united nation. How 
then was this union to be brought about 1 
King-made revolutions had failed ; the 
rivalry of the petty states would not 
allow an individual chosen from one 
of them to be put above the others ; 
for an aristocracy united with the 
people there seemed to be no hope 
from the history of Italy. The new 
society, then, must proclaim a republic 
as its object. But a new question pre- 
sented itself: If men have duties to 
each other as citizens of a nation, must 
not the nations which they form also 
have duties to each other? If they 
have duties to each other as children 
of God, can those duties be limited 
by geographical boundaries ? " From 
'* the first moment of its existence," 
he says, " < God and Humanity ' was 
" adopted as the formula of the asso- 
" ciation with regard to its external 
" relations, while l God and the People ' 
" was that chosen in its relations to 
" our own country." 

The subtle question of how far 
patriotism is a virtue, how far only a 
wider form of selfishness, is perhaps 
more nearly, certainly more practically, 
solved by Mazzini than by any political 
writer we remember. "Nationality," 
in a passage we quote below, he calls 

" the conscience of the peoples." It does 
not, in his opinion, narrow the sym- 
pathies of: mankind, but makes them 
more genuine and definite. With the 
vague cosmopolitanism of the leaders of 
the first French Revolution he has no 
sympathy : their form, of propagandism 
is opposed to all his creed ; for he would 
call out the voluntary union of the 
peoples, not set those who sympathised 
with his doctrines in opposition to the 
rest. For he sees that this part of the 
old revolutionary doctrine was essen- 
tially connected with their doctrine of 
the Rights of Man, against which he 
especially protests. " For us," he says, 
" the starting-point is country : the 
1 object or aim is collective humanity : 
' for those who call themselves cosmo- 
1 politans the aim may be humanity : 
' but the starting-point is individual 
' man." 

Starting, then, from this point of 
" country," he yet denounces vehe- 
mently the mere glorification of national 
peculiarities. In an article which he 
wrote whilst still a Carbonaro, "On 
Our European Literature," he protests 
most indignantly against this error in 
literary theories, and he is evidently 
thinking there of the political and moral 
question also. In this article he labours 
to refute the mere physical theory of 
literature, the theory, that is, which 
ascribes the formation of special literary 
tastes to differences of climate ; a doc- 
trine which he protests against as appeal- 
ing to national exclusiveness. "Every 
attempt/' he says, "to open up new 
" paths to literary intelligence, and every 
" exhortation to study the master works 
" of other nations, is opposed and met 
' by dulcet phrases about ' our classic 
1 soil ' and the Italian sky ; ' phrases 
' too readily accepted as an answer by 
' those whose patriotism is satisfied with 
' words alone." 

But the view which the new society 
was to take of this question of the 
relations of nations to each other must 
be summed up in his own words : 
" We believe, therefore, in the Holy 
" Alliance of the Peoples, as being 
" the vastest formula of association 


Life and Writings of Joseph Mazzini. 

" possible in our epoch ; in the liberty 
and equality of the peoples, without 
which no true association can exist ; 
in nationality, which is the conscience 
of the peoples, and which, by assign- 
ing to them their part in the work 
" of association, their function in 
" humanity, constitutes their mission 
" upon earth, their individuality, with- 
" out which neither liberty or equality 
" are possible : in the sacred Father- 
" land, cradle of nationality ; altar and 
" workshop of the individuals of which 
" it is composed." 

Such, then, is a brief outline of the 
programme of the new society of which 
Mazzini now first conceived the idea. 
We know that many, if not most, En- 
glishmen are apt to suppose Mazzini as 
a wild dreamer, and essentially unprac- 
tical ; yet we think that, if foresight for 
the future, adaptation of means to ends, 
and study of facts, constitute practicality, 
the founder of the New Italy must 
be allowed some claim to that quality. 
There is, at the same time, a logical 
basis to his doctrine of the duties of 
man which distinguishes him from 
those who are even now preaching it in 
a somewhat different form. Bravely and 
nobly as the Comtists have maintained 
their high creed, there is something 
vague and unsatisfactory about their 
notion of humanity which makes it 
rather " too fine for working-days." 
Mazzini's sense of a mission from above, 
his war-cry of "God and the People," 
supplies a deficiency which those who 
most desire to sympathise with the 
efforts of the Comtists must always feel; 
a deficiency which may lead some people 
to the most unjust conclusion that their 
connexion of morality with politics 
is a mere adventitious part of their 
scheme, not, as it evidently is with 
Mazzini, a necessary foundation for the 

Nor is it only in the larger and wider 
sense that Mazzini's programme is prac- 
tical. In the more conventional use of the 
word, as a mere condescension to details, 
" practicality" is one of its prominent cha- 
racteristics. The following will at once 
interest and surprise many Englishmen. 

" To the State, since justice is equal for 
" all citizens, belongs the unity of the 
"judicial organization of the country, 
" the code, the appointment of judges 
" of the supreme courts, and the magis- 
" trates who direct the administration 
" of justice ; the communes will elect 
" local juries and the members of tri- 
" bunals of arbitration and commerce. 
" The State will determine the amount 
" of the national tribute, and its distri- 
" bution over the various zones of the 
" territory ; the communes, under the 
" direction of the State, will determine 
" all local tributes, and also the method 
" of levying national tribute." 

The opportunity of developing his 
idea was soon to come. No sooner was 
Mazzini freed from prison, and acquitted 
by the judges for want of evidence, than 
he once more plunged into political 
action. The Italian Ee volution of 1831 
had just broken out, and he crossed over 
to France, to rouse his countrymen who 
were there in exile. Here it was that 
he discovered one of the great errors 
against which he afterwards most strongly 
protested. Erance was to the Italians 
of that day what Egypt was to the Jews 
of the days of Jeremiah ; and, though in- 
dignant at this almost servile trust in a 
foreign country, Mazzini was inclined at 
first to sympathise with the feeling 
which his friends exaggerated. 

But a rude shock was soon given to 
these hopes. Louis Philippe forbad the 
expedition which Mazzini and his friends 
were then organizing to Savoy, seized 
upon all their arms on which he could 
lay hands, and threatened them with 
the terrors of the law if they persisted. 
Mazzini urged on them to continue the 
expedition, putting among them as many 
of the French workmen as possible. But 
the Frenchmen deserted them on an ap- 
peal from their officers, and the expedi- 
tion was abandoned. A short attempt to 
raise the standard of liberty and truth 
in Corsica was frustrated by the selfish- 
ness of the Bolognese Government, and 
Mazzini retired to Marseilles to carry 
out the ideas which he had conceived 
in the fortress of Savona. 

From this time, therefore, dates Maz- 

Life and Writings of Joseph Mazzini. 


zini's position as a leader and initiator. 
Hitherto he had been hut one of a large 
body }f men who were struggling by 
fits ai.d starts for the liberty of their 
country. !Nbw, as the founder of the 
Gioyane Italia, he was to be the centre 
and lii'e of a great organized effort, not 
merely for the freedom and unity, but 
for the entire regeneration, of Italy, and, 
if the opportunity should offer, of Eu- 
rope. One more attempt, however, he 
made 1 3 reconcile his aspirations, to some 
extent, with the existing institutions of 
his corntry. This was the famous letter 
to Cha ies Albert, urging on him to ally 
himsel ? with the popular movement to 
work out Italian independence and 
unity. It ends thus : " Sire, I have 
" spokon to you the truth. The men 
" of freedom await your answer in your 
" deed*:. "Whatsoever that answer be, 
" rest r.ssured that posterity will either 
" hail TOUT name as that of the greatest 
" of m( n, or of the last of Italian tyrants. 
" Take your choice." The king accepted 
the challenge in full, and the first proof 
of that acceptance was the banishment of 
Mazzini. Thus finally free to work out 
his idea, and endeared to the youth of 
Italy ly his sufferings in their cause, 
Mazzin: : . began vigorously to preach, the 
doctrin 3S which he saw to be then need- 
ful for lis countrymen. In the sketch 
which Mre gave above of the principles 
on which the Giovane Italia was founded, 
we alluded chiefly to those evils which, 
though specially perceived by Mazzini 
in Italy, were, as he knew, common to 
all countries in a transitional state. The 
adoration of France, which we mentioned 
first, was however a more peculiarly 
Italian 'ailing. This he traced to two 
causes their materialism and their 
Machiavellianism. 1 For their "idolatry 
of material interests" he would substi- 
tute his faith in God and his doctrine 
of duty, for their belief in mere cun- 
ning diplomacy, his appeal to the 
people. The enemies, therefore, of the 

* It should be observed that of Maehiavelli 
himself he always speaks with the greatest 
respect, ; nd he believes his famous book to 
be mean . as a history of the times, rather 
than as the promulgation of a doctrine. 

Giovane Italia in every country were 
the "Moderate" party those, that is, 
who, trusting to diplomatic mea- 
sures without any definite faith of their 
own, were ready to accept any pro- 
gramme that occasion offered. This 
party was now at the head of affairs in 
France where the head-quarters of the 
Giovane Italia were laid, and they soon 
began an active persecution against that 
society and its founder. Unable to en- 
force the decree of banishment, which in 
deference to Charles Albert (who had 
now entirely thrown off the mask, and 
was showing the true cruelty of his na- 
ture), had been issued against them : 
unable too in any way either to seize 
the persons or suppress the writings of 
the society, the French Government 
resorted to the meaner and safer wea- 
pon of slander. Story after story was 
invented of the secret doings of the 
society ; again and again Mazzini com- 
pelled his enemies to eat their words, 
and again and again the calumnies were 
renewed. As Mazzini justly says, " It 
" is the war of cowards, for it is fought 
" without peril, and beneath the shield 
" of power j it silences defence by vio- 
" lence, and takes advantage even of 
" the disdainful silence of the accused 
" to give force to the calumny." 

But, in spite of slanders and persecu- 
tions, Young Italy laboured on. A 
journal was started, called after the 
society, and in this Mazzini and his 
friends wrote some of their most stirring 
appeals to their countrymen. Other 
societies became absorbed in theirs, and 
amongst them the remains of the Car- 
bonari. Founded, too, by exiles in a 
foreign country, the possibilities of an 
alliance with similar societies in other 
countries were greater, and a union 
with the Poles, which has ever been one 
of the chief objects of the sympathies 
of Italian republicans, was now first 
begun. In Italy, too, the cruelties of 
Charles Albert and the other princes 
had bound together all lovers of liberty, 
and many who afterwards joined the 
Moderate party were now in sym- 
pathy with the Giovane Italia. At length 
they once more prepared for action. 


Life and Writings of Joseph Mazzini. 

An army was raised. Armand Carrel 
and other French republicans prepared 
to act simultaneously in France. An 
accident betrayed their plans. The 
Governments managed by false reports 
to excite a dread of their intentions. 
Many were seized and imprisoned; a 
few recanted ; many were condemned 
to death, and some executed. Jacopo 
Ruffini committed suicide. 

Eoused still more by this partial 
failure, Mazzini at once urged his friends 
to march on Savoy. The guidance of 
the expedition was entrusted to Ramo- 
zino, a Polish general, strongly against 
the wishes of Mazzini ; but he gave way 
as usual, and joined the band as a simple 
soldier. Ramozino appears to have been 
half fool, half traitor. A failure in the 
early part of the expedition decided him 
to desert it at the first pinch ; the Ita- 
lians, alone and unaided, were defeated, 
and forced to take refuge in Switzer- 
land. So ended the first attempt at 
action. "The first period of Young 
Italy," says Mazzini, " was concluded/' 
The rest of the historical part of these 
volumes is devoted to the sufferings of 
the exiles in Switzerland; Mazzini's 
escape to England, and sojourn there ; 
the infamous episode of the opening 
of his letters by Sir James Graham ; 
an interesting notice of Mazzini's edu- 
cation of the poor Italian organ-grinders ; 
and a short account of the sad, though 
noble, effort of the brothers Bandiera. 
The better-known portion of his life is 
left for the remaining three volumes, 
which are not yet published in English. 
Before closing this review, however, 
we must take some notice of the second 
of these volumes, to which we have 
very incidentally alluded, and which 
contains his critical and literary writings. 
Perhaps the literary efforts of one whose 
thoughts on every subject are so deeply 
tinged by his political feeling may be 
expected to have little interest for the 
generality of readers ; but we think 
there are some things in this volume 
well worthy their study. For the 
mere critical faculty, indeed, of pull- 
ing things to pieces, and finding 
small holes in great works, Mazzini's 

genius is eminently unfitted. "Ana- 
lysis " is the name with which he always 
condemns the spirit most opposed to 
the gospel which he preaches. " Syn- 
thesis," construction, are his objects; and 
the circumstances under which he has 
fought for them have made him perhaps 
unduly impatient of the literary form 
of this analysis, and possibly even of the 
kind of ability displayed in it. Writings 
and men he considers more as wholes 
than in detail, and with reference rather 
to the greatness of the aim and idea 
than the special grace or delicacy of the 
means. The cry of "art for art's sake " 
he denounces as " a false French doc- 
trine." But, though this state of mind 
may incapacitate him for giving judgment 
on those kinds of poetry or prose that 
rest their claim to our admiration purely 
on their external artistic excellence ; 
yet at the same time, with the greater 
epic poets, and still more with the 
dramatists, it brings him into a sym- 
pathy, and therefore gives him an in- 
sight into their works, which no merely 
literary critic could have. Take, for 
instance, the following passage on 
^Eschylus : " One might fancy that his 
" heroes were of Titanic race, and only 
" to be overcome by unyielding, onmi- 
" potent, and inexorable fatality. But 
" when he felt the soul of the Greek 
" world, liberty, thrill within him, 
" when he remembered having fought 
" at Salamis against the East, and shed 
" his blood in the cause of the European 
" principle against the inertia and ser- 
" vitude imposed by Asia ; he protested 
" against and denied the empire of that 
" fatality which from the height of its 
" mysteries and theogony yet dominated 
" his country." Or, again, this on 
Shakespeare : " His genius compre- 
" hends and sums up the past and 
" present ; it does not initiate the 
" future. Necessity, which was the 
" soul of the period, stalks invisibly 
" throughout his dramas, magically in- 
" troduced, whether by art or instinct I 
" know not. I know that its reflex is 
"seen alike on "the brow of Othello 
" and Macbeth ; it colours the scepti- 
" cism of Hamlet and the light irony ot 

Life and Writings of Joseph Mazzini. 


" Mercutio, and it surrounds with a 
" halo of previsioned woe- the figures of 
" his women, sacred to love, innocence 
' and resignation." Again : " In JEs- 
c chylus the individual is divorced from 
1 his will ; the decree of fatality goes 
' forth while it yet sleeps in his mother's 
' arms ; the curse on the father extends 
1 to tte children, and the only liberty 
' vouchsafed to man is that of dying 
' more or less nobly. In Shakespeare 
* and jhis is a real progress liberty 
" does exist ; the acts of a single day, 
" it may be of an hour, have thrown an 
" entiro life under the dominion of 
" necessity, but in that day or that 
" hour the man was free, and arbiter of 
" his own future." 

Nor is it solely the idea that he 
admires: when that is present he can 
admire all its settings and circumstances, 
and appreciate the distinction between 
the beauties of rival poets. Thus : " In 
" reading ^Eschylus, the mind is clouded 
" with an ill-defined melancholy. Even 
" when he sounds a hymn of victory 
" over the barbarians, you yet feel within 
" you a sense of that hidden and mys- 
" terions sadness which ever reveals 
" itself to minds capable of understand- 
" ing it, in the smallest words of great 
" and prophetic souls ; " and yet more 
in this on Shakespeare: "The indi- 
" vidual is everything to him, and in the 
" art of depicting a character with a few 
" master-strokes, Dante, Tacitus, Michael 
" An gel o, are his only rivals. He does 
" not laboriously copy, he casts men 
" whole in a single mould ; he does 
" not evoke, he creates. Shakespeare's 
' personages live and move as if they 
' had just come forth from the hands 
' of God with a life that, though mani- 
' fold, is one; though complex, harmo- 
' nious." 

But though he thus, in most of his 
reviews, subordinates his criticisms on 
the surrounding circumstances to those 
on the idea and aim of the poet, we see 
evidently that he has educated himself 
into his contempt of " art for art's sake," 
and that though, as we said, the critical 
faculty as it is now generally understood 
has been denied to him, yet the power 
of appreciating artistic beauty is strong 
within him, and it is only by careful 
repression that he keeps it down at all. 
That, at least, seems to us the natural 
explanation of the fact that the following 
passage was first produced, and then con- 
demned to appear as a foot-note : " The 
" comparison often instituted by critics 
" between the three Greek dramatists is 
" just, if regarded from an aesthetic 
" point of view, but not so from the 
" point of view of the conception or 
" idea. Sophocles and Euripides are 
" followers ; ^Eschylus is the father of 
" the art. The external representation 
" of the idea is more masterly in them ; 
" their form is more graceful and deli- 
" cate ; they arose at a later period, 
" when Greek civilization was greatly 
" refined, and the already improved 
" position of women caused them to 
" exercise a greater influence on society. 
" Sophocles painted, ^Eschylus sculp- 
" tured, his forms of art. The strokes- 
" are few, but they are the skeleton of a 
" world. Sophocles is the artist-poet, 
" but ^Eschylus is the high-priest of art 
" the sacred art inspired by God Hirn- 
" self in all the majesty of those first 
" revelations which initiate the entire- 
" series of its subsequent manifestations. 
" I do not speak of Euripides, because, 
" whatever the beauties of his works, 
" there are in them affectations and 
" adulterations of art that already indi- 
" cate its decay." 






WHOM to trust ! Where trust is broken, 
in certain natures, there is not only no 
recovery, but, if I may so speak, no 
discernment. Such natures no longer 
distinguish who is loyal and who is 
false. In proportion to their love for 
the deceiver, is the belief that none 
now can be true. Wlien young Hamlet, 
Prince of Denmark, admits to his griev- 
ing, half-maddened soul the conviction 
that his mother is unworthy, he does 
not reserve a better faith for the purity 
of Ophelia, or the matron holiness of 
spotless wives. He sweeps the whole 
sex into one dark gulf of degradation, 
and exclaims 

" Frailty, thy name is WOMAX ! " 

The franker and nobler a man's own 
nature is, the more is his confusion 
under such circumstances. How it 
could come to pass he knows 'not; but 
he, or she, or they whom he most 
trusted, whom he thought he had most 
reason to trust, are false ; there is no 
doubt of their falsehood : ergo, none can 
be sincere. 

Alice guided her canoe over the 
shallows and rapids of her half- 
brother's miserable thoughts with a 
skill which Satan only can supply to 
his worshippers. What she admitted 
with showers of tears and pale gasp- 
ing lips helped her through that which 
she concealed ; and though no expla- 
nation that could be given could clear 
her from her own share of dissimu- 
lation, she somehow contrived to seem 
a victim instead of an offender. "I 
was like one walking in a dream," 
said she, passing her slender hand over 
her forehead in slow musing accompa- 

niment to the slowly uttered words. 
"And then, besides, I was afraid. Afraid 
for his life and and " (here her 
voice sank to a frightened whisper) 
" somewhat for niy own. I didn't 
exactly know all oh, not the lialf of 
all ! But I knew he had not those 
scruples that that most men have; and 
he had lived he used to tell me that 
in savage lands, where life is not 
made of the importance it is here ; so 
many nameless deaths there, and sudden 
deaths, and none to ask about them " 
and Alice gave a little shudder. 

" Oh ! he wasn't like you he wasn't 
like YOU " she continued ; "he was 
a man aye fleeing from consequences. 
But he was not meant to be what he 
is ; he had his excuses ; his strange 
fate. Pm not going to excuse him," she 
faltered, as she watched Sir Douglas's 
listening face ; " you know it was the 
good that took me. I thought I had 
a friend . . . and he took so to the 
schools . . . and he seemed a sort of 
brother . . . and he talked of leading 
souls to God . . . and indeed he made 
me his own talking of heaven. 

" And there was one other thing : 
I'll not deny it ; I'll not make myself 
better than I am;" and she laid her 
trembling hand on Sir Douglas's wrist. 
" He seemed to love me so. You know 
I've been so lone, and so used to see 
others preferred and there was love 
all around me till I could have cried 
for envy of Lady Ross. You loved 
her ; and Kenneth would die for her ; 
and even Mr. Boyd. Oh, / could see 
why it was impossible he could fancy 
poor me ; and indeed Kenneth as good 
as said it, even if I had not seen it. 
But this one man loved me this one 
man loved ME; and thought nothing 
of Lady Ross in comparison." 

The wonderful vehemence with which 

Old Sir Douglas. 


the pale, slender creature pronounced 
the last two sentences ! And then 
seemed to sink away into abject sad- 
ness and submission ; and raised her 
strange watchful eyes to peer into Sir 
Douglas's averted countenance with 
wave] ing gleams in them such as go 
over the sea on a dull, stormy day as 
she resumed in a broken tone, u And 
now I must go, I know. You'll expect 
it of me, and she'll expect it, and they'll 
all look to it ; and though I'll not know 
well where to go, and God knows if he'll 
send : or me or let me know what's be- 
come of him, still I know I ought and 
and I'll not ask for much time, and 
you'll be thinking I have my own inde- 
pendence from my mother ; but but 
I'vo lent a good deal to Mr. Frere 
and if I could have a little time " 

Sir Douglas woke from some ab- 
sorbed musing which had taken posses- 
sion apparently of all his faculties, and 
said almost fiercely, " Alice, what are 
you t liking of? Do you think I am 
made of such metal as to drive you 
forth, just as you are in most need of 
protection ? Stay where you are stay ; 
but give me time to get over this." 

He rose as he spoke; leaning his 
clencted hand on the library table where 
they had been sitting ; still looking 
down musingly, not seeing the object? 
there. Then he glanced upwards, doubt- 
ful w] lether to speak a word of better 
comfo 't, to offer perhaps some soothing 
caress But Alice was gone ; softly 
gone Ihrough the half-closed door, with 
cat-lik3 gliding and gentleness ; only 
just one, for the long ends of the 
swan's-down boa she habitually crossed 
over 1 er throat when about to traverse 
the cold stairs and corridors to her 
tower- 'oom, were vanishing in the 
doorwiy, half creeping half floating 
after ler ; looking as if they were a 
portio] i of her stealthy self. 

Sir Douglas did not often as the 
unedu ;ated express it " give way." 
Passioiate as he was by nature and 
tempe 'ament, he had a certain dignity 
which controlled in him the expression 
of all emotion. But when Alice was 
gone, le suddenly re-seated himself, and 

stretching his arms forward on the 
library table, he laid his head on them 
with a groan, and uttered a familiar 
name in a tone of startling agony. 
te Kenneth ! " was all Sir Douglas said : 
but if Kenneth could have heard the 
tone in which his name was spoken, 
the funereal clang of agony that went 
through the sound, perhaps even to 
him, even to his most selfish nature, 
the sound might have conveyed a start- 
ling appeal. 



BUT Kenneth was little troubled about 
other men's troubles. He was full of 
his own. That fire of thorns which he 
had chosen to light, the renewal of his 
passion for Gertrude, burnt with fierce 
and ceaseless heat : watched by Alice 
with sly and demure satisfaction, as sure 
to lead in some way (no matter how) to 
mischief and vexation for its object : 
watched with angry sneers by the 
Spanish she-grandee ; who, though no 
longer herself in love with her husband, 
had that not uncommon spirit of jealousy 
which resents losing worship, with all 
its incense of small attentions, though 
careless of the worshipper : watched 
by Dowager Clochnaben, whenever her 
visits gave her fit opportunity, with 
grim scorn of Sir Douglas's blindness 
and his wife's abominable hypocrisy : 
watched even by poor little Lady 
Charlotte, in a sort of scared, frightened, 
questioning manner. 

" He puts me so in mind, you know," 
she rashly avowed to the Dowager, " of 
that pretty fable no, not exactly fable, 
but heathen story, wasn't it ; that dear 
Neil was reading out loud the other 
day after luncheon? of a pagan; no, 
not a pagan, but a god of the pagans 
Pluto it was, I remember, Pluto ; and 
he came when she was quite innocently 
gathering poppies, and took her away, 
whether she wished it or 110 : I forget 
the name of the goddess he took, but 
she did not want to go with him, he 
came upon her quite by surprise ; and I 

Old Sir Douglas. 

happened to look up from my work at 
the time (I mean while Neil was reading 
about it) and dear Gertrude was em- 
broidering & portiere with crimson flowers 
and white on a green ground, and all 
her worsted scattered about so pretty 
she looked, and Kenneth had his eyes 
fixed on her in such a way in such a 
wa y and his head bent forwards, resting 
it on his hand, and all his dark curly 
hair streaking through his fingers as he 
rested it; and he looked exactly like 
Pluto; and only that of course such 
things can't happen now (indeed it would 
be very wrong to suppose they ever did 
really happen ; a parcel of wicked hea- 
then inventions, that nobody ought to 
believe), but I could not help thinking 
for a moment, that he was just the sort 
of man to behave that way, and I de- 
clare my fingers quite trembled as I 
went on again with my crochet, fancying 
to myself Gertrude picking poppies, 
with no one perhaps but myself within 
call, and Pluto coming I mean Kenneth 
and carrying her off"! Indeed, he's 
very like a great many of those gods 
Xeil reads about, and they all seem to 
have been as bad as bad could be." 

" Humph ! " said the Dowager, with a 
grim curl of her upper lip, shadowed 
now with a slight fringe of stiff grey 
hairs. "Humph. There may be hea- 
then stories, and modern stories, too, of 
that sort ; but there's very little carrying 
off against your will, if you really wish 
to keep firm footing, that's my dictum." 

And with that gesture of firmness 
habitual to her, she planted her foot 
venomously on one especial rose in the 
Aubusson carpet (in the absence of her 
winter 'resource, the steel fender) with 
a precision and force that did indeed seem 
to defy Pluto and his four fiery-nostrilled 
steeds to remove her, unless by her own 
consent, one inch from that spot. "Which 
sudden stamp, acting on the already ex- 
cited nerves of poor Lady Charlotte, 
caused her to burst into tears. 

The grim Dowager turned her lofty 
head, as if on a pivot, to contemplate 
for a moment her weeping friend, and 
when the little weak final snuffle in the 
embroidered and lace-bordered handker- 

chief seemed to bring the tears to a 
conclusion, and secure her a hearing, she 
delivered herself of the comforting 
sentence, " Most women are fools ; 
but I do think, Charlotte, that you are 
the greatest fool among them all ; and 
the greater the fool, the greater the 
folly, that's my dictum." 

" But what can I do 1 " whimpered 
the submissive Lady Charlotte "what 
can I do ? " 

" Nothing." 

" But that's just what I do do ! I 
daren't speak to Gertrude ; and besides, 
I feel so sure of her." 

A snort was the Clochnaben's sole 
reply to this last observation a snort 
of utter contempt. 

" And what I think so very unfair, is 
the way he stays here, you know." 


"Kenneth. He really stays on and 
on, and comes back, and stays on, and 
on, and on again, when nobody asks him ! 
Now he's here for God knows how long, 
for he has put Torrieburn under thorough 
repair, as he says, and is making a wall 
and plantation to separate it entirely 
from the old Mills, and talks of letting 
it, and I don't know what else. It is 
quite heart-breaking ! " 

" I suppose if Lady Ross wanted him 
away, she could get rid of him." 

" I don't believe she could ! I don't 
in the least believe she could," said 
Lady Charlotte, eagerly, " or he'd have 
been gone long ago ! " 

" Well, I suppose Sir Douglas could 
get rid of him," said the Dowager, with 
another curl of the grim grey moustache. 

" Perhaps ! but you see he don't, and 
you see it suits Eusebia to stay, if she's 
obliged to be in Scotland at all, which 
she hates." 

"If she hates Scotland, she doesn't 
hate Scotchmen, at all events," nodded 
the Clochnaben, maliciously, and the 
grey moustache stretched to a sort of 

" What do you mean ? Oh, I know 
what you mean; I'm not quite so 
foolish as you think ; I've seen 

"Yes, and you will see; but, how- 
ever, its no business of ours." 

Old Sir Douglas. 


Saying which, with a triumphant 
shake of her vestments, and a some- 
what forcible adjusting of her gloves at 
the wrists, the Dowager ended her visit, 
and left Lady Charlotte to sigh alone. 

"Why she should think me more 
foolish than herself, I don't know," was 
the somewhat wounded reflection of that 
gent]er widow, "for after all I have 
obseived just as much as she has all 
Eusebia's goings on, and everything 
else.' : 

Little Eusebia cared, who remarked 
her goings on. Indeed, she was in that 
humour which, in old-fashioned phrase, 
used to be termed " flouting ; " a mood 
of niLxed sulk and defiance. She had 
faller in once more with her half-for- 
gotten admirer of early days, handsome 
Monzies of Craigievar, but their relative 
positions were a good deal altered. He 
was ILO longer the shy, proud Highland 
youtl :., with the first down of manhood 
on his lip, and the first passion for 
educated woman in his heart. Bearded, 
graceful, self-assured, having been a 
good deal flattered and caressed " even 
in London," liked by men, and much 
admired by women ; with a sweet and 
courteous temper, and great power of 
adapting himself to whatever set he 
happened to be in; a first-rate shot, a 
first-rite reel dancer, a first-rate curler, 
first-r ite angler, kind to his small scat- 
tered handful of tenantry ; poor, and 
not a whit ashamed of the fact, he had 
won his way to a good many hearts, 
both male and female. 

He had his "melancholy story "too 
a grea b thing with the softer sex. He 
had l>een married since the days, he 
knew Eusebia ; married for a year and 
a day, no more. Like the " Merry Ba- 
chelor " in Riickert's beautiful ballad, he 
had wept in anguish over two locks of 
hair : one a ringlet as long and glossy 
as ever was shorn from beauty's head, 
and .one a little pinch of down, that 
might be hair or soft bird's plumage, 
that liy curled up in the long ringlet, 
as the little dead head had lain in the 
dead bosom of that " mother of a mo- 
ment,' 1 after she had passed away. 

Craigievar had been very gentle to 

No. 91. VOL. xvi. 

his young wife, and very sorry for her 
loss. It was now five years since he 
had been widowed, and the elasticity of 
youth and life overbore each day more 
and more that cloud-dream of the past ; 
but it had made him still more interest- 
ing. From a philosophical point of 
view it is of course lamentable to con- 
sider that had he been a stumpy, sallow, 
blear-eyed widower, his grief would not 
have gained so much sympathy ; but 
as it was, when he looked sad (and he 
was still melancholy at times), the fair 
ladies who watched him, set it down to 
one sole cause. He might, it is true, 
be only bored at that particular part- 
ing, or extremely tired with " a good 
day's sport," or perhaps may have for- 
gotten his cigar-case ; but they inva- 
riably decided that he was " thinking of 
his lost Mary," and it was quite amazing- 
how many of her own sex were willing 
to console him. 



HERE, then, once more was Craigievar ! 
And here was Eusebia, a beauty begin- 
ning fast to fade and harden, and much 
too shrewd and clever, and dependent 
on that beauty for her enjoyment of 
life, not to be quite aware of the fact. 
Eestless, discontented, disappointed, 
gnawing her own heart at times for 
very wrath at her marriage, in which, 
as she considered, there had been so 
much deception as to Kenneth's posi- 
tion and fortune ; and in which, as he 
considered, there had been yet greater 
deception as to her age, and certain cir- 
cumstances which had caused demands 
for her hand in marriage to be so little 
pressed as to leave her still free, when 
he chanced to come to Grenada to re- 
cover health and spirits after liis fever 
in Spain. 

Craigievar at first saw Eusebia with 
more curiosity than interest, as a woman 
he remembered to have once passionately 
admired. Then each thought of the 
other with that strange fictitious emo- 
tion emotion at least which has nothing 


Old Sir Douglas. 

personally to do with the object that 
causes it which most of us feel at 
sudden meetings with those who date 
our lives. Eusebia saw with a sudden 
rush the lake, the decorated hut, the 
early married days when as yet, though 
vain and coquettish with all, she still 
preferred Kenneth ; and Craigievar the 
days when, still a youth and a bachelor, 
he had not laid his fair white rose of a 
wife in the grave, with her cold little 
bud beside her. 

He saw with obvious tenderness pale 
little Effie, Eusebia's only child. He 
too had dreamed he was a father, and 
woke next morning alone. He thought 
more of Effie at first than of her mother. 
Then he perceived how unhappy and 
angry. was the woman he remembered 
an exulting bride with her husband 
madly "in love" with her, and all 
London at her feet ; and something 
kindlier stole in on his thoughts of her. 
But why count the steps of the ladder 
by which such thoughts climb into mist 
seeking better sunshine 1 Older than 
Kenneth, much older than Craigievar, 
Eusebia added to all her experience of 
life special experience of men, and the 
old empire was resumed, and the old 
songs sung, and boats went out on the 
lake to the hut and returned without 
Kenneth ; and Kenneth not only was 
not missed, but purposely eluded ! 

He took it strangely ; he was stung, 
but not jealous. Perhaps in his wild 
mood he rather wished she would " run 
away" from him. He was sick of her, 
of debt, of life, of everything but the 
thoughts of Gertrude. He could not 
trouble his head about his Spanish wife. 
Strange to say, the very calm that sur- 
rounded Gertrude had a charm for him. 
That calm, the very essence of which 
was home, and peace, and purity that 
calm which, if it were within the bounds 
of possibility he should ever be listened 
to, must depart for ever ! 

Gertrude meanwhile struggled with a 
certain feeling of embarrassment in his 
presence. She cast about how, as Lady 
Clochnaben had expressed it, to " <?et 
rid of him" without dealing too harshly 
by a half-ruined man ; she had become 

fully aware of, and alarmed by, the 
indiscretion (if it were no more) of 
Eusebia's conduct. Once once only 
tenderly and timidly, she had attempted 
to warn her. They had been such 
friends ! She had been so fond of 
Eusebia ! 

They were in the dressing-room of 
the latter : who had coine in late from 
the lake with Craigievar, and had 
been making a toilette more hurried 
than was her wont. She was clasping 
in one of her earrings while Gertrude 
spoke ; she turned, still clasping it, 
with one of those sudden graceful 
movements, that tossed her veils and 
fringes round her like dark billows a 
demon Yenus rising from inky waves. 
Her beautiful flashing eyes fixed the 
speaker full in the face ; a scornful 
smile trembled on her short upper lip, 
and showed the still white and even 
teeth beneath : her cheeks alone looked 
a little haggard and fallen under the 
crimson rouge. She laughed. 

" Ha ! you take my husband ! you 
want now perhaps to take my adorateur, 
my amigo ! Be content with your 
portion ! Do not trouble me. I have 
already enough sore in my heart." 

And as the long pendant clasped with 
a snap, she made another rapid volte-face 
to her mirror, and ceased to speak, con- 
templating fixedly her own image, with 
something of sadness mixed with her 
fierceness that gradually vanished, and 
left her looking as she intended to 
look when they should go down-stairs 
to dinner. 

Gertrude almost shuddered as she 
took Kenneth's arm that day to pass 
to that familiar meal, and started more 
than once when addressed by others. 
She was ruminating how " to get rid of 
him." And how also to get rid of 
Eusebia, and the fearful future that 
seemed to threaten for both ! 

That night Kenneth wrote to Ger- 
trude, as wild a letter as ever was 
written by an unprincipled man to a 
woman he was enamoured of. To say 
the woman he "loved," would be to 
profane the word. 

And Gertrude answered him. She 

Old Sir Douglas. 


alluded boldly and clearly to all the past. 
St e inclosed a copy of the little note of 
faiewell which Lorimer Boyd had taken 
to him when it was agreed he should 
lesve Naples. She spoke of the faith 
sworn to her husband at the altar ; and 
evon if such vows had never existed, of 
he] 1 unalterable, passionate, adoring love 
for his uncle. In conclusion came a 
prayer to halt and consider, to save him- 
sel::' and Eusebia from certain misery ; 
and the information that she intended to 
go to Edinburgh the following day, and 
remain there a night, hoping he would 
see the decency, the necessity of withdraw- 
ing from Glenrossie before her return, 
no longer mocking the hospitality he 
received, or paining her by his presence. 

Otherwise the day must come must 
come when she should confess this 
torment to her husband, to her Douglas 
fait iful and true, and cast herself on 
his counsel only, having done her best 
through grief and pain to avoid making 
any breach between him and his uncle, 
and finding all in vain. 

She could not trust such a letter to 
indifferent hands. She gave it him as 
they passed from the breakfast-room. 
The carriage was already waiting to 
tak( her away. As Sir Douglas handed 
her in, he said with wistful anxiety, 
" I am afraid your chief business in 

Edinburgh is to see Doctor E . 

You have been looking so ill lately." 

Gertrude wrung the tender hand she 
held, and tried to smile her farewell. 
Her boy Neil stood beside her husband, 
his lather's hand on his sturdy shoulder, 
smiling with radiant young eyes in the 
morning sun. 

" God bless them both, and send me 
peact) with them once more," was Ger- 
trude's prayer, as she leaned back wearily 
in the carriage, the long fir-branches 
from time to time sweeping against its 
roof, and dropping a stray cone here 
and ,here by the road that led through 
the 3 ioble avenue. 

Glenrossie ! dear Glenrossie ! dear 
liom-j and perfect mate ! Dear, hand- 
sorm boy, so like her one love of life 
her unequalled Douglas ! God bless 
them, and send her peace. Amen. 



WHAT were Alice's green-grey eyes made 
for, if not to watch ? Does not the cat 
sit apparently watching for ever? 
watching for what we know not. Evan 
when there is no chance of mousing, in the 
broad day, do we not see her with fixed 
attention in her half-closed, diamond- 
shaped orbits, scanning things afar off, 
near at hand, above and below, ready to 
pounce on a leaf that flutters down from 
a tree, a ball of worsted that rolls from 
old nurse's lap, the tail of a boy's broken 
kite, or a young bird fallen from the 
nest in too easy essay of its callow wings : 
ready to pounce, ever on the watch ] 
So also was Alice. 

All had their plans for that day. 
Kenneth had hoped had meant to 
see Gertrude. Sir Douglas had made 
up his mind to speak to his nephew, and 
urge him to return to Spain. Eusebia 
intended to pass the day at the Hut (not , 
unaccompanied) ; and Alice herself was 
preparing a little basket of provisions for 
a blind and dying beggar lodged in a 
cabin between Glenrossie and Clochnaben, 
recommended to her by the clergyman 
who had been called to administer the 
offices of religion and what help he 
could afford. 

But Alice had an instinct that some- 
thing had occurred more than common. 
She had seen Kenneth give his letter 
after dinner ; she saw Gertrude give the 
reply after breakfast. While Gertrude 
was departing, she saw Kenneth step 
out on the terrace from the breakfast- 
room, and turn towards the shrubbery, 
reading as he went. She saw him stop 
tear the letter with his teeth, stamp 
it into the earth, and give way to the 
wildest gesticulations. She saw Sir 
Douglas return from putting Gertrude 
into the carriage, and cross the lawn as 
if to speak to Kenneth. She saw the 
latter advance to meet him, casting one 
hurried look behind where he had 
crushed the letter with his foot. Swiftly, 
noiselessly, she descended also to the 
garden. She was in time to hear Sir 

F 2 


Old Sir Douglas. 

Douglas say, " Kenneth, I wish to speak 
with you ;" and to hear the latter reply, 
" Not now, I can't ; I am going down to 
Torrieburn : meet me there ; I must be 
there by noon." She was in time, though 
Kenneth turned quickly after he had seen 
Sir Douglas re-enter the house, to scramble 
together the torn papers he had ground 
down with his heel, and one fluttering 
bit that was rustling along the hedge of 
Lolly, and beat a rapid retreat with that 
treasure-trove in her hand. She saw 
Kenneth return to the spot, search, look 
up as though he thought the wind might 
have carried the fragments away, pick 
off the holly-hedge just such another 
morsel as that she held, and tear it into 
smaller pieces, which he scattered on the 
air, and then, pale and moody, turn to 
the house. She locked herself into her 
turret-chamber and read with greedy 
eyes that seemed to eat the very words. 
She looked from that high. window, and 
saw both Kenneth and Sir Douglas, at 
different intervals, take the direction of 
Torrieburn, and little sturdy Neil go 
forth with his own dog and gun, and 
the careful old keeper. 

Glenrossie was empty of its inhabi- 
tants ! She too could go out : could go 
and see the blind and dying man. Yes, 
but first she would see would ascertain 
would pay a little visit of inspection 
nearer home. 

She was going to Gertrude's bright 

It was very bright and still. There 
was no chance of interruption. Ger- 
trude's maid had accompanied her lady ; 
so had Lady Charlotte; but even had 
there been such a chance, Alice would 
have easily found some plausible excuse. 
Was she not working the corresponding 
portiere to that which suggested such 
visions of Pluto's bad conduct to Ger- 
trude's mother ? 

With gleaming, half-shut eyes, she 
scanned all the objects round, and rested 
them at last on a little French escritoire, 
set with plaques of old Sevres china. It 
was locked but what was that to Alice 1 
She had a great variety of keys ; and 
French escritoires are not protected by 
either Chubbs or Bramahs. Nor was 

she trying this lock for the first time 
though beyond reading Lorirner's account 
of Mr. Frere, she had never hitherto 
found anything to reward her trouble in 
opening it. Now she felt sure she 
would be more fortunate. And the 
event proved the correctness of her 
expectations. The papers had been 
somewhat hastily thrust back the night 
before, and peeping out from the half- 
doubled blotting-book, as though abso- 
lutely offering itself for inspection, was 
the insolent, wild, loving letter of Ken- 
neth's, and the rough copy (if rough 
copy that can be called which had so 
few verbal corrections, and so com- 
pletely conveyed the sentiments of the 
writer) of the torn and gravel-stained 
answer, with which his blind rage had 
dealt so hardly in the garden. 

Alice nearly danced for joy ! She 
laid the paper flat, compared it with the 
other, and gave little strange, trium- 
phant pats to its outspread surface. 
Then she sat long, in mute, half-frown- 
ing, half-scanning consideration ; and 
then she jumped up with a suddenness 
that Eusebia herself could scarcely have 
rivalled, and crushed all the paper to- 
gether in her hands, with a wild laugh. 
Then once more she smoothed them 
out, rolled them neatly together, shut 
the escritoire, made a mocking curtsey 
to the empty chair in which Gertrude 
habitually sat ; said aloud, in a mocking 
voice, " Adieu, milady ! " and left the 
morning-room once more to its bright 
silence, unbroken to-day, even by the 
boom of the bee, or the outside twitter 
of the birds ; the windows being all 
closed, and everything marking the ab- 
sence of that sweet mistress whose 
happiest hours were passed there. 

Then Alice went forth on her mission 
of charity, and visited the dying beggar. 
Her visit was prolonged till the day 
began to wane, for death at times seemed 
very near. When the clergyman arrived, 
Alice was still there, and the man had 
rallied. He spoke feebly of trying to 
reach his native village, and of dying- 
there. Alice rose and prepared to leave 
him. "I will come again, if I can, 
to-morrow," she said, in her quiet tone ; 

Old Sir Douglas. 


ai.d looking up in the clergyman's face, 
as she rolled some papers together, "I been reading him something I 
copied," she said ; " I thank you for 
sending to me about him." 

With those words, and a little gentle 
bcw, and tranquil shake of the hand 
to the minister, she departed, leaving 
thit good old successor of Mr. Heaton 
gating after her slender figure with un- 
mixed approbation of her conduct. 

" But, indeed, it's not to be marvelled 
at, in a sister of gude Sir Douglas," was 
his half-uttered sentence, as he turned 
back into the dim cabin, and sat down 
by the box-bed, in the groping depths of 
wHch lay the sick "man. 

The little light that entered from the 
opon door gleamed rather on the frame- 
work of the bed, than on the bed itself; 
except on the outer edge, where, white 
and blanched, on the ragged, green tar- 
tan quilt, lay the helpless and attenuated 
hand of the sufferer. 

The good minister lifted that hand 
with some kindly, encouraging word; 
as he did so, he remarked a deep- 
indented scar beyond the knuckles. 
" Ye'll have been hurt there, some time, 
puir bodie," he observed, compassion- 

The sick man moaned, and answered 
fail tly, " We'll no murmur at trouble 
the Lord sends. I was chased in. Edin- 
burgh by some laddies, and whan I was 
nig'i fallin', I caught by a railing, and 
the spike just wan' into me ! It was a 
sail hurt ; but I've had mony blessins, 
tho' I'm cauld now to my very marrow." 
And so saying, the blind man slowly 
and tremblingly drew in his hand, under 
the dark tartan coverlid, and lay still 
and apparently exhausted. 



SIR DOUGLAS had made up his mind, 
after long reveries, that Kenneth should 
leavj Glenrossie. Gertrude had not 
spoken to him on the subject. He 
dare 1 scarcely argue the matter openly 

to his own soul, far less to her, but 
he was not the less resolved. 

They met then at Torrieburn. Ken- 
neth had shot some birds on his way, 
and was carrying his gun with a listless, 
gloomy brow, as if there were no plea- 
sure left in that or anything else for him. 
He had also obviously taken repeated 
draughts from the flask of whisky he 
carried at his belt ; and the dull glare 
which Sir Douglas loathed to see in 
his eyes, was already perceptible there, 
though it was a little past noon. 

They sat down on some felled timber, 
and Sir Douglas went straight to his 

" Kenneth," he said, " I have resolved 
to speak to you about leaving Glenrossie. 
A great deal has come to my knowledge 
since first you and Eusebia made your 
home with us, which, had I known it 
at first, would perhaps have prevented 
my ever proposing to you to come." 

Kenneth drew a long draught from 
the whisky-flask, and, in a thick angry 
voice, he muttered, " Has Gertrude 
has your wife been complaining of me 
to you?" 

" No, she has always taken your part 
always endeavoured to explain away 
or conceal differences between you and 
Eusebia, as well as those events which 
which, perhaps " and here Sir 
Douglas hesitated, "which, most as- 
suredly, I had better have known at 
the time they took place." 

Again Kenneth had recourse to the 
flask, and said, with a bitter laugh, "It 
was not I, at least, who kept you in 
ignorance of them." 

Sir Douglas felt the blood flush to 
his temples ; he strove to be calm. 

"No, Kenneth; it was not you. I 
cannot doubt, however, that they were 
kept from me for a good motive. We 
cannot undo the past ; what I have to 
think of is the future. It is repugnant 
to me to live with you on other terms 
than those of the most loving cordiality 
and freedom from restraint. That cor- 
diality that free affection" Sir Dou- 
glas's voice broke a little " cannot exist 
as it did. It may return, Kenneth 
God grant it may ! but feeling as I do, 


Old Sir Douglas. 

and knowing what I do, there is change 
enough to make me wish a further 
change, and that is 

" Pray go on, my dear uncle, go on, 
old fellow ! Don't mind me ! " 

Kenneth was rapidly becoming more 
and more intoxicated. 

" That change is that we shall part. 
Kenneth, at all events for the present. 
I have loved you, in spite of all your 
faults ; I will endeavour to assist you to 
the last, in spite of all your imprudences ; 
but I will not live with you in the same 
home, because " 

D n it, speak out, and say you 
want to part me and Gertrude, and have 
done with it. Afraid of me, eh? a 
little late in the day, uncle, a little 

A drunken, hollow laugh followed this 

Sir Douglas rose, trembling with sup- 
pressed passion. 

" Kenneth," he said, " do not break 
all the links that bind us together. 
However confused habitual excess may 
make your intellect, however little place 
love, and I will not call it gratitude 
love and memory of what we have been 
to each other may hold in your heart, 
respect the purity of others ! Eespect 
the spotless name of my wife. Better 
men than you have loved in vain, and 
borne it, and stood faithfully by a second 
choice. Parted ! " continued he, almost 
as vehemently as Kenneth himself; "you 
were parted before ever we were united ! 
Parted, boy ! Gertrude and I are one 
soul, and you part now with us both, 
till if ever the day come in your per- 
verse heart you can reason and repent." 
So sternly in all their many dis- 
cussions had loving Sir Douglas never 
spoken to his nephew before. Xever, 
to that spoiled and indulged idol ! 

It maddened Kenneth. What little 
reasoning power increasing irritation and 
increasing intoxication had left him, 
seemed to forsake his brain in a flash of 
hot lightning. He looked up, cowering 
and yet frenzied, from the felled tree 
where he sat, to the stately form with 
folded arms and indignant commanding 
countenance above him. He leaned 

one arm on the lopped branch to steady 
himself, and answered, swaying from 
side to side, speaking thickly, hurriedly, 
with an idiot's laugh and an idiot's 
fierceness. "Pure," he said, "pure! 
Oh yes, pure and spotless ; they are all 
pure and spotless till they're found out ! 
I loved in vain, did I? Talk of my 
vanity : what is my vanity to yours, you 
old coxcomb ? Parted ! You can't part 
us. I told you. at Naples, and I tell 
you now, that she loved me me ME ! 
and nothing but fear holds her to you. 
I'll stay here, if it's only to breathe the 
same air. Parted ! Part from her your- 
selftyrant and traitor ! Part from her 
for ever, and be sure if / don't marry 
your widow, no other man shall ! " 

He staggered suddenly to his feet, 
levelled his gun full at Sir Douglas as 
he stood, and fired. 

In the very act he stumbled, and fell 
011 one knee ; the charge went low and 
slanted : part of it struck Sir Douglas on 
the left hand, and drew blood. 

The shock seemed to sober Kenneth 
for a moment. A gloomy sort of horror 
spread over his face. Then the idiot 
laugh returned. 

" I haven't, haven't killed you. You're 
winged though, winged ! Stand back I 
Don't tempt me," added he, with return- 
ing ferocity. 

Sir Douglas lifted the gun and flung 
it out of reach : then he spoke, binding 
his handkerchief round his hand. 

" You have not killed me. Go home, 
and thank God for that. You have not 
made my son suddenly an orphan as 
you were when first I took you to my 
heart. Oh ! my boy, my Kenneth ! 
what demon spell is on your life? 
Pray to God! PRAY !" and with the 
last broken words, a bitter cry, ending 
almost in an agonised sob, went up to 
heaven, and resounded in the dull ear of 
the drunken man. Many a day after- 
wards, and many a night in dreams, 
Kenneth saw that pale, sorrowful, com- 
manding face, and the stately form, erect 
over his grovelling drunkenness, as he 
held by the branch of the felled pine, 
vainly trying to steady himself and rise 
from the half-kneeling, half-leaning 

Old Sir Douglas. 


posture into which he had fallen. Many 
a lonely, day in the sough of the wind 
in those Scottish woods, he heard again 
the echo of that " exceeding bitter cry " 
wrung from the anguish of a noble soul, 
and making vain appeal to his better 
nat ire. 

(rod gives us moments in our lives 
when all might change. If he could 
have repented then ! If he could have 
repented ! 

Many a day he thought of it when 
Sir Douglas was no longer there, and he 
cou d see his face no more. 

1 here was a dreary pause after that 
bur^t of anguish, and then Sir Douglas 
spoke again. 

" Come no more to Glenrossie. : Stay 
where you are. Eusebia shall join you. 
When I can think further of this day, 
and more calmly, you shall hear from 
me. Farewell, Kenneth ! " 

The stately vision seemed to hold its 
han 1 out in token of amicable parting, 
as Kenneth raised his "bloodshot, stupe- 
fied eyes. He did not take the hand ; 
it sc emed too far off, reaching from some 
bett er world. He crouched down again, 
layi ig his head prone with hidden face 
on the rough resinous bark of the lopped 
tree Sonietliing for a moment pressed 
gem ly on the tangled curls of his burn- 
ing head, and passed away and left only 
the breath of heaven waving through 
theo ; and as it passed, a sound, as of 
a h( avy human sigh, melted also on his 

A fancy haunted Kenneth that the 
hand of Sir Douglas had laid for that 
moment on his head, as it had laid 
man y a day in his boyhood and youth, 
and that the sigh was his also. But 
thes j might be but dreams. 

A 11 that was real, was the utter lone- 
line* s, when, after a long drunken 
shin ber, he woke and saw the sun 
declining, and heard the distant music 
of T HTieburn Falls, monotonously sweet 
aid the clear song of the wooing 
thrush, and looked languidly towards 
the bouse of Torrieburn, with its half- 
hide en gables, gleaming through the 
tree.' ; and the words came back to him 
cleaily and distinctly, " Come no more 

to Glenrossie. Stay where you are. 
Eusebia shall join you. Farewell, 

Was it all a black dream ? A black, 
drunken, delirious dream? 

]S T o. 

Somehow, suddenly, Kenneth thought 
of his mother. For a man knows, if 
no one else on earth pities him, his 
MOTHER pities still ! 

The drunken head bowed once more 
over the fallen tree, and half-murmured 
the word, " Poor Maggie ! " What 
easy showers of kisses and tears would 
have answered, if she had known it ! 
But Maggie was away, " ayont the 
hills,'" swelling with her own share of 
sorrowful indignation at Kenneth's con- 
duct> and trying vainly to reconcile the 
old miller and his rheumatic wife to 
their new abode. 

" Cauld and strange !" " Cauld and 
strange ! " was all that rewarded her 



THE next day was the Sabbath. Peace 
shone from the clear autumn sky, and 
glorified the common things of earth. 
Birds sang, flowers opened wide, stream- 
lets and falls seemed to dance as they 
rippled and rolled in the light. The 
freshness of the morning was over the 
cultured fields ; the freshness of the 
morning was over the barren moor; 
the freshness of the morning sparkled 
in the dewy glen. Neil had promised 
his old nurse to " step into her sheiling," 
his mother being absent, and go with 
her to church ; for which the old woman 
was already pinning on her snowy cap 
and best shawl, and smiling, not at her- 
self, but at a vision of Neil, in her 

Alice asked sadly and demurely, and 
very anxiously, if she might walk with 
her half-brother, and if he would mind 
setting out half an hour " too soon," as 
she had something very particular to 
say to him. Sir "Douglas consented. 
They walked in utter silence great part 


Old Sir Douglas. 

of the way, as far as the "broomy 
knowe," where Alice had first talked 
with him of " kith-and-kin love." There 
she halted, and there they sat down, 
there she reminded him of that day ! 
There in a sort of frightened, subdued 
whispering voice Alice said, " I know 
well that since that day I myself have 
forfeited much of my claim to brother's 
love, though it seems to me even now 
that I love you better than all ay, 
even better than my dream of wedded 
love ! But whether I have forfeited or 
not, I feel I cannot bear others should 
deceive you; and I've brought to this 
place what must be shown, though it 
wring my heart in the showing, and 
yours in the reading. It's all I can do, 
in return for your mercy and indulgence 
to me. All I can do in return is to 
prevent your being deceived by others ! 
God knows what we are all made of! 
I've not had an hour's peace since I 
picked this up. Kenneth trampled it 
under foot just as you went to speak 
with him yesterday morning; and I 
was out gathering flowers, and then I 
thought it looked so unseemly in the 
garden-ground ; and then as I gathered 
it up I saw I could not help seeing 
some strange words; and at last at 
last oh ! Douglas, do not have any 
anger with me I nor much with her, 
for it's my belief there is witchcraft 
round her, and none can help loving 
her that see her." 

Sir Douglas looked strangely into 
Alice's eyes as she handed him the 
gravel-soiled, earth-stained papers. It 
was Gertrude's writing ; of that there 
could be no doubt. Ajad what was not 
Gertrude's was Kenneth's. 

Oh, God of mercy, what was to come 
to-day, after that yesterday of pain 1 

_Sir Douglas lifted his bonnet from 
his brow and looked up to the serene 
heaven before he read. "Thy will be 
done. ^ THY will be done," said the 
trembling human lips. And hard was 
the struggle to echo the words in the 
shuddering human heart. 

Much has been said and written of 
the tortures of the Inquisition, and the 
cruelty of those who could look on and 

yet not show mercy. But what are 
physical tortures to torture of the mind ? 
What " grand Inquisitor " ever looked 
on with more stony indifference to 
unendurable suffering than Alice Eoss 
as she watched the flush of colour rise 
to cheek and temple fade to ghastly 
paleness and big drops stand on the 
marble brow; while the breath of life 
seemed to pant and quicken as if suffoca- 
tion would follow. 

Even she started at the long moan 
which burst from that over-charged 
bosom, as her half-brother closed his 
eyes and leaned back on the bank. 

He had read it all. ALL. 

Not in vain had Alice Eoss paid her 
long visit to the blind beggar with the 
indented scar on his thin right hand. 
Not for the first time no, nor for the 
hundredth was that hand exercising 
its unequalled skill at imitation and 
forgery ; nor that apt and tortuous brain 
devising schemes of ruin or vengeance 
on those who had offended him. 

The passionately torn letter, gravel- 
stained and soiled, had apparently its 
corresponding half, also gravel-stained 
and soiled (and carefully had Alice's 
light heel and clever hands sought the 
very spot where Kenneth's mad passion 
had ground it into the earth in the 
morning). But the half that corresponded 
in form, altered the whole sense of the 
letter. The sentences referring to her 
love for Sir Douglas were apparently 
addressed to Kenneth. Her notice that 
she would be in Edinburgh read like an 
appointment to him to meet her there. 
Her allusions to the necessity " if all 
this torment continued " of confession 
to her husband, barely escaped the sense 
that she had to make confession of a 
return of his unlawful passion. The 
letter only stopped short at a clear im- 
plication of sin. Perhaps even the two 
bold accomplices employed in its con- 
coction felt that on that hinge the door 
of possible credence would cease to open. 
All was left in doubt and mystery, 
except that to that bold avowal of guilty 
love an answer had been secretly de- 
livered, conveying all the encouragement 
it was possible to give : referring to the 

Old Sir Douglas. 


old days of Naples ; to the little note of 
adi3U, telling him they were parting 
" for a time, not for ever," that it was 
" better for him, for her, for all" 

r Jhe passage that hoped he "would 
see the decency, the necessity, of with- 
drawing from Glenrossie," was a little 
fragment wanting in the torn sheet. 

No one could read the letter and still 
think Gertrude a true and holy-hearted 
wife ; though those who choose to give 
her " the benefit of the doubt," might 
believe sin only imminent, not yet 

The part that was forged was not 
moie stained or spoiled than the portion 
which was no forgery. Every word 
fitted naturally in every sentence. If 
ever human being held what looked 
like proof incontrovertible leading to 
miserable conviction, Sir Douglas held 
it that day, as he sat on the wild, fair 
hill with all the peace and beauty of 
nature spread around him. 

B'e rose at length, and held his right 
hand out to Alice; his left was ban- 
daged and in pain. She put her slender 
fingers forward to meet his touch, and 
felt the icy dampness that speaks of 
fainiiness at the heart. He cleared his 
throat twice before speaking, and then 
said with an effort : " I believe you 
have done right. Be satisfied that you 
have done right : it was a duty not to 
let tie remain in ignorance." 

Then he stood still and looked wist- 
fully out on the lovely scenery, the lake 
belo'v, the hills above, the grim rocks 
of Ciochnaben, the valley where smiled 
Gleurossie, the speck of white light that 
denoted where lay the Hut, with a still 
time? spark of scarlet reflected from the 
flag, set up on the days they meant to 
visit it. 

" ^air no more ! pleasant never, never 
agair ! " he murmured to himself, as he 
gazec ; then he turned slowly to Alice. 

" We must go on to church. Say of all this to any fellow-crea- 
ture. Be as usual ; I shall, I trust, be 
as usual. This is the battle of LIFE." 

Ai the gate of the churchyard were 
the isual groups of men, women, and 
child ren, uncovered, greeting with smiles 

and respectful curtseys their beloved 
chieftain and landlord. In general he 
had a kind word or sentence for each 
and all. He tried twice, but his voice 
faltered, for they inquired in return 
after " her Leddyship at the Castle," 
and the answer choked in his throat. 

His boy Neil turned into the gate, 
holding the old nurse by the hand, and 
carrying her huge brown leather psalm- 
book, wrapped in a clean white cotton 
pocket-handkerchief. Neil gave it gently 
into her withered grasp, with a kindly 
pat on her shoulder, and turned to ac- 
company his father to their usual seat 
Sir Douglas passed onwards as in a 
dream ; his face was very pale. 

" Papa's hand, that he hurt yesterday, 
seems to pain him very much," Neil 
whispered to Alice. She nodded de- 
murely without speaking. It was not 
right to speak in church. Neil ought 
to know that. 

Sir Douglas sat very pale, still, and 
stately by the side of his handsome 
little son, and many a kindly glance 
wandered to the pew when the boy's 
full, sweet, and strong voice rose to 
join the psalmody. The young laird 
was the idol of Sir Douglas's tenantry. 
" He was just what auld Sir Douglas 
himsel' had bin ; a thocht stouter, may 
be, but just the varry moral o' him." 

So the service went on, till all of a 
sudden Sir Douglas gave a deep audible 
groan. They were reading the first chap- 
ter of the Gospel of St. Matthew, and 
had come to the nineteenth verse : 
"Then Joseph, her husband, being a 
just man, and not willing to make her 
a public example, was minded to put 
her away privily." 

Young Neil started at the groan, and 
clasping his father's hand in his own, 
looked anxiously up in his face, and 
half rose from his seat, as though 
expecting him to leave the church from 
illness. But Sir Douglas sat still, his 
eyes steadily fixed on the minister. 

It is strange that women who have 
been falsely accused, never think of 
drawing consolation from the fact that 
the holiest of all the women whose 
lives are recorded, the one woman who 


Old Sir Douglas. 

was permitted to be as it were the link 
between earth and heaven, according 
to the transmitted history of the Chris- 
tian religion, had to endure her share of 
earthly shame. Nor only that, but that 
a lesson as to the fallibility of all human 
judgment lies wrapped in the written 
account of the conduct of her husband 
Joseph. He was a "just" man. A 
good man, merciful, affectionate, anxious 
to do that which was right in the sight 
of God; anxious to bear himself fitly 
and with all indulgence to his neigh- 
bour. But his human mercy extended 
only to "putting her away privily." 
He would not put her to public shame, 
though his own trust was broken. That 
was the sum of all, till the angelic 
vision made all clear. 

As Sir Douglas listened, lie also leaned 
to the side of that incomparable mercy 
which would spare shame. He knelt a 
little longer in final prayer than usual, 
before he passed out into the sunshine 
and greeted the assembled groups with 
a degree less of abstraction, still holding 
Neil by the hand. 

Arrived at Glenrossie, he shut himself 
up in the library and wrote. 

His letter was not long. It was 
addressed to Gertrude, and enclosed the 
gravel-stained papers which Alice had 
given him. He wrote the address and 
sealed it, with a firm unshrinking hand ; 
but long he sat and gazed at it after it 
was written, as if in a painful trance ; 
and when he rose from the table where 
he had been writing, be felt as though 
threatened with paralysis, and stood a 
moment holding by the brass-bound 
table, fearing he might fall 

Then he passed to his own dressing- 
room, and sent for Neil. 

" Neil, my boy," he said, " I am 
going to London ; I am in great pain." 
He paused, unable to proceed. 

" My dearest father ! yes ; I can see 
you are in pain. You will have some 
surgeon 1 How did you do it 1 how could 
you get hurt 1 " And the innocent boy 
stooped with his eyes full of tears, and 
kissed, with a tender little kiss, the 
bandage over the wounded hand. 

" I may be away more days than you 
expect, dear NeiL You will do all as 
if I were here lessons : conduct : care 
in shooting : all won't you 1 " 

" I will, father ; I will. Trust me, 
father. You can trust me, can't you 1 " 
and the boy smiled, with his sweet 
candid eyes fixed full on his father's 

Yes yes ! God ! let me trust 
YOU, my son, if I never again trust any 
other human being ! " 

And to the consternation of Neil, Sir 
Douglas flung his arms round his son's 
neck and sobbed like a child. In the 
morning, while dawn was yet breaking 
and Neil lay yet wrapped in happy 
boyish slumbers, rapid wheels once 
more sounded softly along the great fir- 
avenue ; the caressing feathery branches 
that had bent over Gertrude's departure 
the previous day, brushed over the roof 
of the carriage that now bore her hus- 
band from home. The squirrel leaped 
and scampered up the brown sterns, 
and the scattering cones fell to the 
earth, and lay on the dewy grass in 

Great was the silence in Glenrossie 
that day : the master had departed. 

To be continued. 



EARTH has each, year her resurrection-day, 

When the spring stirs within her, and the powers 

Of life revive ; the quiet autumn hours, 

Ere the rough winter drives their warmth away, 

Wear pleasant likeness of returning May; 

Oft in the soul, where all was dry and bare; 

Founts of fresh joy spring up, and heavenly air 

Plays round it, while along its desert way 

Blossom bright flowers of hope, and dull despair 

Melts like a cloud; and our dear Christ has said, 

There is a resurrection of the dead; 

Then may th' immortal spirit yet repair 

The freshness and the grace that here had fled, 

And in new strength and beauty flourish there. 

But as a ship, when all the winds are gone, 
Hangs idly in mid ocean, so the soul 
Helplessly drifting hears the waters roll, 
While in the heaven the breeze of hope dies down, 
And memory darkens round, and from the lone 
Yast sea dim shapes arise, and shadowy fears 
Cling like damp mists, and the long track of years 
(Where once the brightness of the morning shone) 
Lies strewn with wrecks of that rich argosy 
With which the bark sailed freighted to explore 
The unknown deep, and distant gleaming shore, 
Keen, soaring hopes and aspirations high, 
Pure thoughts, and sunny fancies, and the store 
Of priceless gems from God's own treasury. 

But the still depths of th' unreturning past 
Have buried more than blessings, nor alone 
Grief, and regret blend with the wild waves' moan 
Infinite yet not hopeless. In its vast 
And healing waters kindly Time hath cast 
Sorrows and sins, where in th' eternal tide 
Heaves the full heart of God, and we confide, 
Not comfortless, to Him the First and Last, 
The secrets of our being. Lo ! the face 
Of ocean, kissed by the descending breeze, 
Breaks into smiles-, and long-lost melodies 
Yibrate from earth to heaven, a'nd a fresh grace, 
New-born of hope, lies on the breathing seas 
The far-off isles shine in the golden space. 

C. E. P. 




MACBETH is pre-eminently the Drama of 
Conscience. It is the most wonderful 
history of temptation, in its various 
agency upon the human soul, that is to 
be found in the universal range of 
imaginative literature. Viewed in this 
aspect, the solemn march of the tragedy 
becomes awful, and its development a 
personal appeal, of the profoundest 
nature, to every one who considers it 
with that serious attention that its 
excellence as a work of art alone 
entitles it to command. To every 
human soul it tells the story of its 
own experience, rendered indeed more 
impressive by the sublime poetry in 
which it is uttered; but it is the 
truth itself, and not the form in which 
it is presented, which makes the force 
of its appeal; and the terrible truth 
with which the insidious approach of 
temptation its imperceptible advances, 
its gradual progress, its clinging perti- 
nacity, its recurring importunity, its 
prevailing fascination, its bewildering 
sophistry, its pitiless tenacity, its im- 
perious tyranny, and its final hideous 
triumph over the moral sense is deli- 
neated, that makes Macbeth the grandest 
of all poetical lessons, the most powerful 
of all purely fictitious moralities, the 
most solemn of all lay sermons drawn 
from the text of human nature. 

In a small pamphlet, written many 
years ago by Mr. John Kemble, upon 
the subject of the character of Macbeth, 
and which now survives as a mere 
curiosity of literature, he defends with 
considerable warmth the hero of the 
play from a charge of cowardice, 
brought against him either by Malone 
or Steevens in some of their strictures 
on the tragedy. 

This question appeared to me sin- 
gular, as it would never have occurred 

to me that there could be two opinions 
upon the subject of the personal prowess 
of the soldier : who comes before us 
heralded by the martial title of Bel- 
lona's bridegroom, and wearing the 
garland of a double victory. But, in 
treating his view of the question, Mr. 
Kemble dwells, with extreme and just 
admiration, upon the skill with which 
Shakespeare has thrown all the other 
characters into a shadowy background, 
in order to bring out with redoubled 
brilliancy the form of Macbeth when 
it is first presented to us. Banquo, his 
fellow in fight and coadjutor in con- 
quest, shares both the dangers and 
rewards of his expedition; and yet it 
is the figure of Macbeth which stands 
out prominently in the van of the 
battle so finely described by Rosse 
it is he whom the king selects as heir 
to the dignities of the treacherous 
Thane of Cawdor it is to meet him 
that the withered ambassadresses of the 
powers of darkness float through the 
lurid twilight of the battle day ; and 
when the throb of the distant drum 
is heard across the blasted heath, 
among the host whose tread it times 
over the gloomy expanse, the approach 
of one man alone is greeted by the 
infernal ministers. Their appointed 
prey draws near, and, with the presen- 
timent of their dire victory over the 
victor, they exclaim, "A drum! a 
drum ! Macbeth doth come ! " 

Marshalled with triumphant strains 
of warlike melody ; paged at the heels 
by his victorious soldiers ; surrounded 
by their brave and noble leaders, him- 
self the leader of them all ; flushed with 
success, and crowned with triumph 
Macbeth stands before us ; and the 
shaggy brown heath seems illuminated 
round him with the keen glitter of 

Notes upon the Characters in Shakespeare's Play of Macbeth. 77 

arms, tlie waving of bright banners, 
and broad tartan folds, and the light 
that emanates from, and surrounds as 
with a dazzling halo, the face and form 
of a heroic man in the hour of his 

Wonderful indeed, in execution as 
in conception, is this brilliant image of 
warlike glory ! But how much more 
wonderful, in conception as in execu- 
tion, is that representation of moral 
power which Shakespeare has placed 
beside it in the character of Banquo ! 
Masterly as is the splendour shed 
round and by the prominent figure on 
the canvas, the solemn grace and 
dignity of the one standing in the 
shadow behind it is more remarkable 
still. How with almost the first words 
that he speaks the majesty of right 
asserrs itself over that of might, and 
the werene power of a steadfast soul 
sheds forth a radiance which eclipses 
the glare of mere martial glory, as the 
clear moonlight spreads itself above 
and beyond the flaring of ten thousand 
torch 3s. 

When the unearthly forms and greet- 
ing of the witches have arrested the 
attention of the warriors, and that to 
the amazement excited in both of them 
is added, in the breast of one, the first 
shuddering thrill of a guilty thought 
which betrays itself in the start with 
whicli he receives prophecies which 
to the ear of Banquo seems only as 
"things that do sound so fair;" Mac- 
beth has already accepted the first 
inspiration of guilt the evil within 
his heart has quickened and stirred at 
the greeting of the visible agents of 
evil, and he is already sin-struck and 
terror-struck at their first utterance ; 
but ike a radiant shield, such as we 
read of in old magic stories, of virtue 
to protect its bearer from the devil's 
assault, the clear integrity of Banquo' s 
soul remains unsullied by the serpent's 
breath, and, while accepting all the 
wonder of the encounter, he feels none 
of the dismay which shakes the spirit 
of M icbeth 

" Good sir, why do you start, and seem to fear 
Thi igs that do sound so fair ?" 

The fair sound has conveyed no foul 
sense to his perception, but, incited 
rather by the fear and bewilderment of 
his usually dauntless companion than 
by any misgiving of his own (which 
indeed his calm and measured adjura- 
tion shows him to be free from), he turns 
to these mysterious oracles, and, with 
that authority before which the devik 
of old trembled and dispossessed them- 
selves of their prey, he questions, and 
they reply. Mark the power higher 
than any, save that of God from which, 
it directly emanates, of the intrepid 
utterance of an upright human soul 

" In the name of Truth, are ye fantastical 2" 

At that solemn appeal, does one not 
see ^hell's agents start and cower like 
the foul toad touched by the celestial 
spear? How pales the glitter of the 
hero of the battle-field before the stead- 
fast shining of this honest man, when 
to his sacred summons the subject 
ministers of hell reply true oracles, 
though uttered by lying lips sincere 
homage, such as was rendered on the 
fields of Palestine by the defeated 
powers of darkness, to the divine 
virtue that overthrew them such as 
for ever unwilling evil pays to the 
good which predominates over it, tho 
everlasting subjection of hell to heaven. 

" Hail, hail, hail ! lesser than Macbeth, but- 
greater," &c. 

And now the confused and troubled 
workings of Macbeth's mind pour them- 
selves forth in rapid questions, urging 
one upon another the evident obstacles 
which crowd, faster than his eager 
thought can beat them aside, between 
him and the bait held forth to his 
ambitious desires ; but to his challenge, 
made, not in the name or spirit of 
truth, but at the suggestion of the 
grasping devil which is fast growing 
into entire possession of his heart, no 
answer is vouchsafed; the witches 
vanish, leaving the words of impo- 
tent and passionate command to fall 
upon the empty air. The reply to his 
vehement questioning has already been 
made; he has seen, at one glimpse, in 

78 Notes upon the Characters in Shakespeare s Play of Macbeth. 

the very darkest depths of his imagi- 
nation, how the things foretold may he ; 
and to that fatal answer alone is he 
left hy the silence of those whose 
mission to him is thenceforth fully 
accomplished. Twice does he endea- 
vour to draw from Banquo some com- 
ment other than that of mere astonish- 
ment upon the fortunes thus foretold 
them : 

" Your children shall be kings ? 
You shall be king? 

And Thane of Cawdor too went it not so ? 
To the self-same tune and words ?" 

But the careless answers of Banquo 
unconsciously evade the snare; and it 
is not until the arrival of Rosse, and 
his ceremonious greeting of Macbeth by 
his new dignity of Thane of Cawdor, 
that Banquo's exclamation of 

" What ! can the devil speak true ? " 

proves at once that he had hitherto 
attached no importance to the prophecy 
of the witches, and that, now that its 
partial fulfilment compelled him to do 
so, he unhesitatingly pronounces the 
agency through which their foreknow- 
ledge had reached them to be evil. 
Most significant indeed is the direct, 
rapid, unhesitating intuition by which 
the one mind instantly repels the ap- 
proach of evil, pronouncing it at once 
to be so, compared with the troubled, 
perplexed, imperfect process, half mental, 
half moral, by which the other labours 
to strangle within himself the pleadings 
of his better angel : 

" This supernatural soliciting cannot be ill 
Cannot be good ! If ill, 
Why hath it given me earnest of success 
Beginning in a truth? I am Thane of 

The devil's own logic : the inference 
of right drawn from the successful issue, 
the seal whose stamp, whether false or 
genuine, still satisfies the world of the 
validity of every deed to which it is 
appended. Wiser than all the wisdom 
that ever was elaborated by human 
intellect, brighter than any light that 
ever yet was obtained by process of 
human thought, juster and more un- 
erringly infallible than any scientific 

deduction ever produced by the acutest 
human logic, is the simple instinct of 
good and evil in the soul that loves the 
one and hates the other. Like those 
fine perceptions by which certain delicate 
and powerful organizations detect with 
amazing accuracy the hidden proximity 
of certain sympathetic or antipathetic 
existences, so the moral sensibility of 
the true soul recoils at once from the 
antagonistic principles which it detects 
with electric rapidity and certainty, 
leaving the intellect to toil after and 
discover, discriminate and describe, the 
cause of the unutterable instantaneous 

Having now not only determined 
the nature of the visitation they have 
received, but become observant of the 
absorbed and distracted demeanour and 
countenance of Macbeth, for which he 
at first accounted guilelessly according to 
his wont, by the mere fact of natural 
astonishment at the witches' prophecy 
and its fulfilment, together with the 
uneasy novelty of his lately acquired 

" Look how our partner's rapt, 
New honours come upon him like our new 
garments," &c. 

Banquo is called upon by Macbeth 
directly for some expression of his own 
opinion of these mysterious events, and 
the impression they have made on his 

"Do you not hope your children shall be 
kings," &c. 

He answers with that solemn warning, 
almost approaching to a rebuke of the 
evil suggestion that he now for the first 
time perceives invading his companion's 

" That trusted home 
Might yet enkindle you unto the crown," &c. 

It is not a little remarkable that, 
having in the first instance expressed so 
strongly his surprise at finding a truth 
among the progeny of the father of lies, 
and uttered that fine instinctive excla- 
mation, " What ! can the devil speak 
true?" Banquo, in the final deliberate 
expression of his opinion to Macbeth 

Notes upon the Characters in Shakespeare's Play of Macbeth. 79 

upon the subject of the witches' pro- 
phe( y, warns him against the semblance 
of truth, that combined with his own 
treacherous infirmity, is strengthening 
the temptation by which his whole soul 
is bt ing searched : 

" But it is strange, 
And oftentimes to win us to our harm 
The instruments of darkness tell us truths," &c. 

A though these two passages may 
appear at first to involve a contradiction 
almost, it seems to me that both the 
sentiments the brave, sudden denial of 
any kindred between the devil and truth, 
and the subsequent admission of the 
awful mystery by which truth sometimes 
is permitted to be a two-edged weapon 
in the armoury of hell are eminently 
characteristic of the same mind. Obliged 
to confess that the devil does speak true 
sometimes, Banquo, nevertheless, can 
only admit that he does so for an evil 
purpose, and this passage is one of innu- 
merable proofs of the general coherence, 
in spite of apparent discrepancy, in 
Shakespeare's delineations of character. 
The .same soul of the one man may, with 
no inconsistency but what is perfectly 
compatible with spiritual harmony, utter 
both the sentiments : the one on im- 
pulse, the other on reflection. 

Hore, for the first time, Macbeth -en- 
counters the barrier of that uncompro- 
mising spirit, that sovereignty of nature, 
whicii as he afterwards himself acknow- 
ledges " would be feared," and which he 
does tear and hate accordingly, more and 
more savagely and bitterly, till detesta- 
tion ( >f him as his natural superior, terror 
of him as the possible avenger of blood, 
and envy of him as the future father of 
a line of kings, fill up the measure of 
his murderous ill-will, and thrust him 
upon the determination of Banquo's 
assasf ination ; and when, in the midst of 
his royal banquet-hall, filled with hollow- 
heart ;d feasting and ominous revelry 
and splendour, his conscience conjures up 
the h ideous image of the missing guest, 
whos", health he invokes with lips white 
with terror, while he knows that his 
gashei and mangled corpse is lying 
stark under the midnight rain ; surely 

it is again with this solemn warning, 
uttered in vain to stay his soul from the 
perdition yawning for it in the first hour 
of their joint temptation, 

" That trusted home 
Might yet enkindle you unto the crown," &c. 

that the dead lips appear to move, and 
the dead eyes are sadly fixed on him, 
and the heavy locks, dripping with gore, 
are shaken in silent intolerable rebuke. 
In the meeting with the kind-hearted 
old king, which immediately follows, 
the loyal professions of the two generals 
are, as might have been expected, pre- 
cisely in inverse ratio to their sincere 
devotion to Duncan. Banquo answers 
in a few simple words the affectionate 
demonstration of his sovereign, while 
Macbeth, with his whole mind churning 
round and round like some black whirl- 
pool the murderous but yet unformed 
designs which have taken possession of 
it, utters his hollow professions of 
attachment in terms of infinitely greater 
warmth and devotion. On the nomina- 
tion of the king's eldest son to the 
dignity of Prince of Cumberland, the 
bloody task which he had already pro- 
posed to himself is in an instant doubled 
on his hands ; and instantly, without 
any of his late misgivings, he deals in 
imagination with the second human life 
that intercepts his direct attainment of 
the crown. This short soliloquy of his 
ends with some lines which are not more 
remarkable for the power with which 
they exhibit the confused and dark 
heavings of his stormy thoughts than for 
being the first of three similar adjura- 
tions, of various expression, but almost 
equal poetic beauty : 

" Stars, hide your fires ! 
Let not light see my black and deep desires ! 
The eye wink at the hand, yet let that be 
Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see ! " 

In the very next scene, we have the 
invocation to darkness with which Lady 
Macbeth closes her terrible dedication 
of herself to its ruling powers : 

" Come, thick night, 

And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of 
hell," &c. 

What can be finer than this peculiar use 

80 Notes upon the Characters in Shakespeare's Play of Macbeth. 

of the word pall; suggestive not only of 
blackness, but of that funereal blackness 
in which death is folded up ; an image 
conveying at once absence of light and 
of life? 

" That my keen knife see not the wound it 

Nor heaven peep through the blanket of 

the dark, 
To cry, Hold! hold !" &c. . 

The third of these murderous adjura- 
tions to the powers of nature for their 
complicity is uttered by Macbeth in 
the scene preceding the banquet, when, 
having contrived the mode of Banquo's 
death, he apostrophises the approaching 
night thus : 

" Come, sealing night ! 
Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day," &c. 

(what an exquisite grace and beauty 
there is in this wonderful line !) 

" And with thy bloody and invisible hand 
Cancel, and tear to pieces, that great bond, 
Which keeps me pale !" 

Who but Shakespeare would thus 
have multiplied expressions of the very 
same idea with such wonderful variety 
of power and beauty in each of them ? 
images at once so similar in their general 
character, and so exquisitely different in 
their particular form. This last quoted 
passage precedes lines which appear to 
me incomparable in harmony of sound 
and in the perfect beauty of their 
imagery : lines on which the tongue 
dwells, which linger on the ear with a 
charm enhanced by the dark horror of 
the speaker's purpose in uttering them, 
and which remind one of the fatal fasci- 
nation of the Gorgon's beauty, as it lies 
in its frame of writhing reptiles, terrible 
and lovely at once to the beholder : 

" Light thickens, and the crow 
Makes wing to the rooky wood." 

We see the violet- coloured sky, we 
feel the soft intermitting wind of 
evening, we hear the solemn lullaby 
of the dark fir- forest; the homeward 
flight of the bird suggests the sweet- 
est images of rest and peace ; and, 
coupled and contrasting with the gradual 
falling of the dim veil of twilight over 

the placid face of nature, the remote 
horror "of the deed of fearful note" 
about to desecrate the solemn repose of 
the approaching night gives to these 
harmonious and lovely lines a wonderful 
effect of mingled beauty and terror. 
The combination of vowels in this line 
will not escape the ear of a nice observer 
of the melody of our language : the 
" rooky wood " is a specimen of a happi- 
ness of a sound not so frequent perhaps 
in Shakespeare as in Milton, who was a 
greater master of the melody of words. 
To return to Banquo : in the scene where 
he and Macbeth are received with such 
overflowing demonstrations of gratitude 
by Duncan, we have already observed 
he speaks but little ; only once indeed, 
when in answer to the king's exclama- 

"Let me unfold thee, and hold thee to my 

he simply replies, 
" There if I grow, the harvest is your own." 

But while Macbeth is rapidly revolving 
in his mind the new difficulties thrown 
in the way of his ambition, and de- 
vising new crimes to overleap .lest he 
fall down upon them, we are left to 
imagine Banquo as dilating upon his 
achievements to the king, and finding in 
his praise the eloquence that had failed 
him in the professions of his own honest 
loyalty; for no sooner had Macbeth 
departed to announce the king's approach 
to his wife, than Duncan answers to the 
words spoken aside to him by Banquo : 

' True, worthy Banquo, he is full so valiant, 
And in his praises I am fed." 

This slight indication of the gene- 
rous disposition that usually lives in holy 
alliance with integrity and truth is a 
specimen of that infinite virtue which 
pervades aU Shakespeare's works, the 
effect of which is felt in the moral har- 
mony of the whole, even by those who 
overlook the wonderful details by which 
the general result is produced. Most 
fittirjg is it, too, that Banquo should 
speak the delicious lines by which the 
pleasant seat of Macbeth's castle is 
brought so vividly to our senses. The 

Notes upon the Characters in Shakespeare's Play of Macbeth. 81 

man of temperate passions and calm 
mini is the devout observer of nature ; 
and thus it is that, in the grave soldier's 
mouth, the notice of the habits of the 
guest of summer, "the temple-haunting 
mar, let," is an appropriate beauty of 
profound significance. Here again are 
linef. whose intrinsic exquisiteness is 
keerly enhanced by the impending doom 
which hovers over the kind old king. 
WiCi a heart overflowing with joy for 
the success of his arms, and gratitude 
towards his victorious generals, Duncan 
stands, inhaling the serene summer air, 
receiving none but sensations of the 
most pleasurable exhilarations on the 
threshold of his slaughter-house. The 
sunny breezy eminence, before the hos- 
pitable castle gate of his devoted kins- 
man and subject, betrays no glimpse to 
his delighted spirits of the glimmering 
midnight chamber, where, between his 
drunken grooms and his devil-driven 
assassin, with none to hear his stifled 
cries for help but the female fiend who 
listens by the darkened door, his life- 
blood is to ooze away before the day- 
light again strikes at the portal by 
which he now stands rejoicing in the 
ruddy glow of its departure. Banquo 
next meets us, as the dark climax is 
just ut hand; the heavens, obedient to 
the invocation of guilt, have shut their 
eyes, unwilling to behold the perpetra- 
tion of the crime about to be committed. 
The good old king has retired to rest 
in unusual satisfaction, his host and 
hostess have made their last lying de- 
monstrations, and are gone to the secret 
counc ils of the chamber where they lie 
in wait. Banquo unwilling to yield 
himsdf to the sleep which treacher- 
ously presents to his mind, through the 
disturbed agency of dreams, the tempta- 
tion ,so sternly repelled by his waking 
thoughts is about to withdraw, sup- 
posing himself the last of all who wake 
in tho castle ; for on meeting Macbeth 
he expresses astonishment that he is 
not yet abed. How beautiful is the 
prayer with which he fortifies himself 
against the nightly visitation of his soul's 
enemy ! 

No. 91. VOL. xvi. 

" Merciful powers, 
Restrain in me the accursed thoughts that 

Gives way to in repose." 

Further on the explanation of these 
lines is found in the brief conversation 
that follows between himself and Mac- 
beth when he says, "I dreamed last night 
of the three weird sisters," and it is 
against a similar visitation of the powers 
of darkness during his helpless hours 
of slumber that he prays to be defended 
before surrendering himself to the heavy 
summons that " lies like lead upon 
him." It is remarkable that Banquo, 
though his temptation assails him from 
without in dreams of the infernal pro- 
phetesses, prays to be delivered not 
from them, but from the "accursed 
" thoughts that nature gives way to in 
" repose ;" referring, and justly, his dan- 
ger to the complicity with evil in his 
own nature that noble nature of which 
Macbeth speaks as sovereignly virtuous, 
but of which the mortal infirmity is 
thus confessed by him who best knows 
its treacherous weakness. 

Banquo next appears in the midst of 
the hideous uproar consequent upon 
Duncan's murder, when the vaulted 
chambers of the castle ring with Mac- 
duff's cries to the dead man's sleeping 
sons when every door bursts open as 
with the sweeping of a whirlwind, and 
half-naked forms, and faces white with 
sudden terror, lean from every gallery 
overlooking the great hall into which 
pour, like the in-rushing ridges of the 
tide, the scared and staring denizens of 
the upper chambers ; while along remote 
corridors echoes the sound of hurrying 
feet, and inarticulate cries of terror are 
prolonged through dismal distant pas- 
sages, and the flare of sudden torches 
flashes above and below, making the 
intermediate darkness blacker ; and the 
great stone fortress seems to reel from 
base to settlement with the horror that 
has seized like a frenzy on all its in- 
mates. From the midst of this appall- 
ing tumult rises the calm voice of the 
man who remembers that he "stands 
in the great hand of God," and thence 
confronts the furious elements of hu- 



A Cheap Tour near Home. 

man passion surging and swaying before 

Banquo stands in the hall of Mac- 
beth's castle, in that sudden surprise 
of dreadful circumstances alone master 
of his soul, alone able to appeal to the 
All-seeing Judge of human events, 
alone able to advise the actions and 
guide the counsels of the passion- 
shaken men around him a wonderful 
image of stedfastness in that tremen- 
dous chaos of universal dismay and 
doubt and terror. 

This is the last individual and cha- 
racteristic manifestation of the man. 
The inevitable conviction of Macbeth's 

crime, and equally inevitable convic- 
tion of the probable truth of the pro- 
mised royalty of his own children, are 
the only two important utterances of 
his that succeed, and these are followed 
so immediately by his own death that 
the regretful condemnation of the guilty 
man once the object of his affectionate 
admiration cannot assume the bitterer 
character of personal detestation, or the 
reluctant admission of the truth of the 
infernal prophecy beguile him into dan- 
gerous speculations as to the manner 
of its fulfilment. The noble integrity 
of the character is unimpaired to the 


THE best way to get from Coutances to 
Avranches is to divide the journey, and 
go by Granville the cradle of Lord 
Granville's family, as Perci close by here 
is of the Duke of Northumberland's. 
Other noblemen also get their family 
names from these parts, a list of whom 
is given in " Murray," to which list we 
may add, according to Victor Hugo, the 
name of Tankerville. 

We, by mistake, took another route, 
and after a long drive of five hours, 
with some of the most infamous cattle 
ever seen, we* found ourselves at the 
foot of a lofty hill, at the top of which, 
close over head, we were informed, was 
Avranches. The passengers dismount 
and the diligence toils up a zigzag. 

As you rise, the view gets grander 
and grander, until you look over a vast, 
interminable sheet of densely-wooded 
country, meeting the horizon in every 
direction but to the south-west, where 
the sky 

" Dips down to sea and sands." 

There is not a distinct hill of any size to 
be seen anywhere, although the whole 
country is of considerable elevation. 
A pretty salmon-river comes winding 
along, and, just at the foot of the hill on 
which one stands, begins to expand into 

an estuary. When you have fairly 
arrived at the top of the zigzag, and are 
in the town, you find that it is a bright, 
pretty, clean place of considerable pre- 
tensions ; and also that the inhabitants 
have invented an entirely new nuisance. 
Having one of the finest jewels in Eu- 
rope in their keeping, they persistently 
bore you to death with it. 

I think the first person who proposed 
to conduct us to Mont St. Michel was the 
driver of the diligence, before I alighted. 
Then the thing fairly began. I asked for 
a truck for my luggage, the man began 
on the subject directly. I went up 
street to see if there were rooms at the 
hotel, the waitress began on Mont St. 
Michel before she would go into the 
subject of beds. The man sent down 
with me after the trunks, seemed abso- 
lutely determined that he should be the 
man and no other : Mont St. Michel was 
never out of his lips. After we were 
settled, and starting out for a walk, 
Monsieur the hotel-keeper ran after us 
a long way, to propose one of his car- 
riages. Madame went about with us 
on the stairs on the same subject. Nay, 
more than one or two men in the streets, 
when we were quite a long distance 
from home men who had no business 
with us at all speculatively stopped us 

A Cheap Tour near Home. 


in the street to know if they could drive 
us Mont St. Michel. And as we had 
made up our minds not to go from 
Avranches at all, but from Pontorson, it 
was very annoying ; because to have let 
the word " Pontorson" slip would have 
been to bring on a strong argument with 
any inhabitant of Avranches. We had 
to hold our tongues, and leave everybody 
undor the impression that we were so 
igncrant and such dolts as not to be 
going at all. 

Turning into a very pretty and well- 
kepi botanic garden, you see that vast 
expanses of sand are beginning to be 
seen between the stems of the trees ; 
and passing under those trees you find 
yourself on a lofty terrace looking down 
on the river, now winding from side to 
side of its sandy estuary. Beyond are 
the rands, away into the dim distance, 
bour.ded by the wild, low, wooded coast 
of Brittany, and the Eochers de Can- 
cale : which latter run out into the sea 
like a ridge of broken glass bottles on a 
wall ; and when you have cast your eye 
over the landscape, you are pretty sure 
to exclaim, "There it is." 

Fifteen miles away from you, out in 
the ruddle of the broad, grey expanse, 
there rises something which is like a 
vast ship stranded upright, with all her 
sails set, and her masts and rigging 
standing : a pearl grey thing with dark 
brow i shadows. This is Mont St. Michel 
on-i has seen it at last ! the Mont St. 
Mich 3! of the Bayeux tapestry. " Ye- 

nerui t ad Montem Michaelis " 

Will one ever forget it again] I think 
not. Even Arthur Young, at the same 
time ihe best and the worst of travellers, 
was impressed by it twenty miles off, at 
Granville, in h-is way : " St. Michael's 
" rock rising out of the sea conically, 
" with a castle at the top, a most sin- 
" gul r and picturesque object ;" very 
much so indeed. A pity he had not 
time - o go nearer to it. 

Av -anches is so eclipsed by this Mont 
St. Michel, which is still fifteen miles 
off, tl at one does not remember much, 
excep ; that it is a bright and beautiful 
town, and that there does not seem to 
be any church to it, save a miserable 

little one in the corner of a square. 
What would happen if one went to 
church to one quarter the extent of the 
Coutances people, one cannot think. 
There is a colony of no less than three 
hundred of " my countrymen" here who 
have come here, as the negroes say, " for 
cheap, 5 'and amuse themselves after their 
kind, chiefly, I believe, in trout-fishing, 
and going to the club. One is not 
writing a guide-book Murray has done 
that; but no one should allow them- 
selves to go to the Hotel de France. 
This remark has only been wrung from 
us by the peine forte et dure. 

Descending the zigzags which ap- 
proach the town, on the other side from 
that on which we entered, a pleasant 
drive through a lower country well 
wooded with poplar, brought us to Pon- 
torson. It is a very dirty little place, but 
the domestic architecture gets quainter 
as one nears Brittany, and this is the 
border town ; the little river Cuesnon 
(flumen Cosnonis of the Bayeux tapes- 
try) dividing the two provinces. This 
is the best place from which to make 
your pilgrimage to the Mountain of the 
Holy Archangel, as the priests in their 
sonorous language call it. Here we 
stayed with the Leroys, at the Hotel 
des Postes, and we got to like these 
people very much. On the first evening 
we walked five kilometres towards the 
bay, and, looking over the desolate fen 
(the river here being embanked as though 
in Lincolnshire), saw the great mountain 
of architecture soaring up within two 
miles of us, and saw also that we were 
going on the morrow to see one of the 
great things of our lives. How great, 
we little knew, nor will the reader, until 
he has been to see it. 

The morning was wild and dim ; the 
rains which were making in central 
France inundations almost as great as 
those of 1856, had ceased for an hour 
or two, as we started in a rickety little 
vehicle, drawn by a mad horse, and 
driven by Alphonse Leroy, the jolliest, 
the maddest French lad of eighteen 
(except his brother Louis) that I have 
met for many a year. For the first four 
miles we travelled over a horribly mudcly 


A Cheap Tour near Home. 

fen road, and expected every three mi- 
nutes to be cast into the ditch. The 
farmers' long carts passed us in nearly 
a continuous train, carrying the blue 
mud from the low shore to the uplands 
for manure. These we had to pass, 
with one wheel in the ditch almost the 
whole way, Alphonse screeching and 
bellowing like mad. " Hey done ! Hey 
due ! Ay peur ! " Our horse would not 
go without driving, and then went as 
wild as you like. At length the mud 
mine was passed, and the road was in 
peace, getting sandy. At last we came 
to a tiny low auberge, " to the descent of 
postilions for Mont St. Michel," where 
Alphonse descended for a minute, and 
then we whirled down between two sand 
dunes with a sickening lurch, and sped 
away across the Great Sands themselves, 
eighteen miles of them all around us ; 
and two miles to seaward, rising soli- 
tary four hundred and fifty feet out of 
them, nearly if not quite the most 
magnificent pile of Gothic architecture 
in the world. 

It was within two days of the full 
moon and I was anxious about the tide, 
unnecessarily it seemed. Alphonse was 
not very certain himself, for he drove 
like Jehu the son of Nimshi. But now 
we were on the level sands, fairly face 
to face with Mont St. Michel ; we had 
time to see it for about one minute, and 
then a storm, sweeping from the long 
promontory of Brittany, crept up and 
hid it from our view. An arch of 
nimbus caught the topmost pinnacle of 
the Cathedral, throwing a dark purple 
shadow across the mighty network of 
flying buttresses, and then the rain 
came down and hid it all from us, and, 
lashing up the sand in its fury, swept 
on to us, fighting bravely across the 
lonely sands, a mile from shore. 

My companion was fortunately to 
the windward side of our little hooded 
carriage, and in some measure escaped. 
I, by holding up a rug, was able to face 
the fearful rain in some measure, and 
watch by degrees a great awful pyra- 
midal mass begin to show itself, dim 
and grey, through the raging rain. We 
were within a quarter of a mile of it, 

when we drove through the rain-curtain 
and saw it, almost overhead. Then 
there was a lurch of the carriage, and 
a mediaeval gate before us opened 
through a ramparted wall : bare-legged 
fishwives, with red petticoats scarcely 
reaching to their knees, and shrimping 
nets over their shoulders, going on to 
their work j bare-legged fishermen in 
blue blouses, and children innumerable. 
Then there was a clattering scramble 
off the sands up a tide-washed cause- 
way, and so we passed under a dark 
arch into the lower part of Clovelly ! 
At least it was wonderfully like it. 

Seeing the formidable row of carriages 
standing, and in the narrow street, I 
feared that we had come on rather a 
full day, and should be plagued by the 
chatter of tourists (of whom en pas- 
sant, the English, let us say, from 
their natural stupidity and reticence, 
make far less noise than the French), 
but it was not so. These awful 
halls and corridors are so vast that 
fourteen or fifteen carriages full of 
people can lose themselves in them 
without making themselves offensive to 
one another. And, moreover, the 
"Guiding" at Mont St. Michel is, like 
all things in France (except an insig- 
nificant few), done so well, that parties 
can hardly meet. You follow one route 
through the whole of this wonderful 
stone labyrinth. In an hour and a half, 
which seemed like half an hour, the 
only people we met face to face were 
two recalcitrant priests with some eleves, 
who had guided themselves, and were 
coming the wrong way in defiance of 

A noble-looking Norman fisherman, 
bare-legged, came forward to guide us on 
the first part of our expedition. Pass- 
ing under three dark gates in succession, 
we turn to the right, and getting on to 
the ramparts began to ascend from one 
tier of them to another, and gradually to 
approach that splendid collection of 
Gothic halls commonly called " La'Mer- 
veille," and which, vast as it is, is but a 
small part of the great convent fortress. 
Our guide pointed out the endless 
machicoulis on the walls, and told us that 

A Cheap Tour near Home. 


Mont St. Michel was "no longer a 
prison," convicts and soldiers being all 
removed, and the place under restoration 
by the Emperor. The villagers were 
fearfully poor in winter, he said, and 
judging from those we saw he certainly 
spoke the truth. 

One came slowly towards us along 
one of the ramparts while he was with 
us. "Voila une malheureuse," he said, 
and shook his head, and I watched her 
as she wearily and listlessly approached. 
Sho was a woman of from fifty to sixty, 
with a face which carried on it the ex- 
pression of having been smitten many 
times by some invisible hand which 
hac left no mark or scar, only a look : 
a look of one waiting in dull patience for 
another blow. She did not whine or 
beg, as far as I remember, and not even 
speak, but held out a basket of some- 
thing to sell. Poor soul ! they were 
no tJ ling but the very commonest cockle- 
shells, worth a few shillings a cartload. 
We gave her money, a great deal for 
her. but her hand only mechanically 
closed on it, and she never thanked us, 
the guide did that for her, and we 
wat<:hed her go creeping away along the 
battlements, with her hand clasping the 
mor ey, and I doubt not, the same worn, 
straightforward look in her face. 

-At length our guide led us into a 
court-yard, in one corner of which is a 
noble arch, with a steep flight of steps 
asce iding under its dark span : going 
lip these, you leave the sunshine and 
ente * the dim and awful solitude of 
the fortress monastery. Here the fisher- 
guid 3 was dismissed, and we were taken in 
hand by a bright, clever youth of seven- 
teen, who did his duty to perfection. 

Y< >u come to a grille of vast strength, 
and,, passing through it, enter the first 
chan.ber, a fine Gothic vestibule, "La 
Salle des Gardes," then you pass to the 
" Gnnde Salle des Officiers," and others 
which, it would take half a volume to 
desc] ibe, and which in the main formed 
the lospice for the pilgrims ; and so 
you pass on, mainly in dim twilight, for 
abov j an hour, from corridor to corridor, 
through hall after hall, until the mind 
gets confused as to their succession. 

With the good Abbe Pigeon's book 
before me now, I can scarcely remember 
more than half of the different things 
of which he speaks. I remember that 
it was all wonderful beyond measure ; 
but one or two points remain fixed in 
the mind, beyond, as I think, all power 
of time to efface. I will try to give the 
reader some faint impression of those 
which struck one most. 

The dungeons are, on the whole, the 
most celebrated in Europe ; and they 
remain very much as they were when 
they were built. I had a great curiosity 
to see these cachots of evil notoriety, 
and they came fully up to my expec- 
tations. You are passing through a 
dark tunnel-passage of some height, and 
of irregular flooring very dark, but not 
so dark as to need candles when you 
bethink you to look back. It is 
evident that you have advanced some 
way into the tunnel, for the last cross- 
light is some way behind : then you look 
before, and there is a sign of a faint, pale, 
ghostly light at the end of the passage ; 
and arriving at that end you get into the 
region of this melancholy light, and 
find yourself in what might be called so 
truly, " the hall of the lost footsteps." 

It is very lofty ; rude, but not irre- 
gular in shape. Erom whence the light 
comes you hardly care to inquire, but 
that light is dim. and faint, yellow- 
brown, and melancholy beyond belief. 
It must change of course, somewhat, this 
light, with the blessed changing sun 
outside ; but when I saw it the sun 
was high, almost as high as it ever is, 
and the hideous melancholy of the 
place was* profound. Where the light 
was a little brighter than elsewhere, at 
the upper end of the hall or cavern, 
there came down, appearing out of 
black darkness, a flight of stone steps, 
irregular in shape, size, and direction, 
from the upper regions, which were 
spanned by a broad round arch ; and 
it is worthy of notice, that among all 
the beautiful and remarkable objects 
which I saw that year, that arch and 
those steps remain almost the most 
vivid of all. You are now in the 
highest atmosphere of the highest 


A Cheap Tour near Home. 

romanced These are the famous dun- 
geons of Mont St. Michel, at which the 
world has shuddered for many cen- 
turies. The things you have read of 
were actually done here where you 
stand. You find yourself speaking in 
a whisper about it even now, British 
Philistine as you are supposed to be. 
They used to bring the prisoners here 
"blindfold, and unbind their eyes in this 
very spot : in this, the most evil place 
I have ever seen; granite and iron, 
with a dim, dull hideous light over all, 
organic reproductive nature utterly 
banished, if that mattered in such an 
extremity. And then 

This was their last look in most 
cases, at what may be called light at 
alL The cachots, where they were to 
spend the rest of their lives, open out 
of this hideous hall, and remain there 
to this day. I chose what seemed to 
me the darkest, and asked the guide if 
there was an oubliette. He answering, 
"Non, ils sont fermees, ils sont trop 
dangereuses," I went in, and requested 
my companion to shut me in, which 
she did. 

A fancy has possessed me concerning 
that cachot since : an idle one perhaps, 
but about as true as most prison narra- 
tives, possibly. Here it is, right or 

"I stayed there for five-and- twenty 
years, like the man who had been 
there before me. The first impression 
was that of a deep black darkness, as 
though a band of black velvet had been 
tied tightly across my eyes, so tightly 
that all possible rays of light being 
excluded from without, that inner and 
mysterious light, which we see on the 
darkest night when we are ill, began to 
tease the retina, and to bring a light 
in one's eyes, uncertain and shapeless, 
threatening to bring forms with it, 
which one dreaded might be of the 
nightmare kind, and scare one to mad- 
ness : a light which seemed to come 
from within one : the light which one 
had taken in from the blessed sunshine, 
trying to force its way to freedom, 
through the hideous velvet mask of 
darkness with which I was surrounded. 

" For the first day, lying as I did, a 
ruined heap of lost hopes, lost schemes, 
lost ambitions, and of woes which 
would die by desuetude, and only be 
feebly galvanized by my reappearance ; 
in the darkest corner of this hideous 
little dungeon, I thought that this light 
came only from niy own brain. But on 
the second or third day, as far as I 
remember, I found out that it was a 
real light, a little dribble, so to speak, 
of the great sunshine which was flood- 
ing the sand-flat outside with blazing 
glory, and I got in time to love it ; 
though there were four dark bars before 
it which I hated, more particularly the 
extreme right one, which had towards 
the upper part a bulge like the great 
brutal chest of the man who had done 
me this irreparable wrong. 

"You ask me to remember how I 
passed my time in the darkness for 
twenty-five years. I cannot tell you. 
I cannot tell in what order came the 
phases through which my mind went, 
under this discipline of my brother 
man. I should say, now, that in all 
probability before my memory went the 
Barmecide phase came first, when with 
my bread and water I gave great enter- 
tainments, and entertained my guests. 
I was a great diplomat at that time, and 
settled the map of Europe in an as- 
tonishing way. I was an orator, and 
denounced great statesmen : that was cer- 
tainly in this time, before memory went, 
because my jailer once said, while bring- 
ing in my bread and water, not un- 
kindly, ' Friend, you are noisy, and 
you use abuse of the most violent cha- 
racter towards our gentle and deeply- 
loved king, Louis Quinze.' I an- 
swered, 'Ask that Nero to hang me,' 
and he said, ' Chut.' 

"The craving after any form of or- 
ganic life was very bitter for a time ; I 
cannot say for how long. A fossil in the 
granite would have been a friend; an 
Oldhamia radiata would have been to 
me some outward and visible sign of 
the God whom I had forgotten in my 
prosperity ; and the priests' formulas had 
withered into deadness on my ears. I 
began to be alone : my imagination got 

A Cheap Tour near Home. 

-exhausted from want of feeding, and 
theri were no Barmecide feasts now. 
I craved for something alive. The ima- 
gination of our forefathers, carefully 
educated as they were by the priests 
into the habit of the ?w?i-observation of 
phys ical facts, peopled these dungeons 
with toads and adders. My God, what 
would I have given for the companion- 
ship of a toad or an adder ! 

" Memory has not entirely died with 
me : but it has only partially revived. 
I am only sixty now, and yet I seem to 
have lived for a perfectly indefinite 
time. Camille Desmoulins came yester- 
day bo take me out for a walk, and I 
took his arm and went down the sunny 
side of the street with him ; a kind 
but v/ild lad. I had told him all this by 
degn es, and he asked me how I got on 
in the later times. I answered, ' It 
was i never-ending fight against dark- 
ness, which has left me what you see 
me to be now.' " 

Afber this imaginary five-and- twenty 
years I, like Eppie in the coal-hole, 
knocked to be let out again, and I was 
let 01 1. My companion said that I was 
not ia there above a minute, but it 
was c uite long enough. 

But the cachot in which I spent 
twen y-five years of a wasted life, was 
by m means the worst. Our bright 
youii? guide pointed out to Monsieur 
that here was another much darker, 
which indeed was true, though as far 
as IK showed us no one of them was 
absoli'tely dark. These cachots, how- 
ever, were mild mercy to the hideous 
arrangement, the position of which is 
point 3d out, the too famous " Cage du 
Mont St. Michel." The gallery in which 
it wa; erected is some twelve or fourteen 
feet 3road. Across this were placed 
two 'ows of wooden beams of great 
thick less, but only three inches apart ; 
the space between the rows of beams 
being so narrow that the prisoner could 
walk forwards and backwards, without 
turniig; that is to say, as it seems, 
that le could lie on his face or on his 
back, but could not turn his body. The 
hideois details of such a form of im- 
priso: iment must be left to the reader's 
imagi aation. The last person imprisoned 

here was Teste Murray (Pigeon gives 
us but small information about such 
matters), a Dutch journalist who offended 
Louis Quatorze, and was illegally seized 
over the border. We are by degrees 
becoming less cruel, which is a good 
thing for all parties, particularly the 
political minority. The suppression of 
the Indian Mutiny itself was at all 
events done in a different way ; and 
Louis Quinze himself, though he did 
practise vivisection after the French 
manner on. Damiens, at least pulled 
down the cage of Mont St. Michel; a 
measure which may strike an idle tourist 
as being somewhat of the same value as 
household suffrage limited by a fifty 
years' residence for qualification. Let 
us hope that the world is getting less 
cruel. Indeed there is no doubt of it. 

The Gothic halls, following one after 
another, will please and impress you* 
A little French antiquary, not a native 
of these parts, said to me, " I have 
seen everything from St. Mark's to 
Durham, and there is nothing like 
Mont St. Michel." Other travelled 
people of the highest intelligence and 
position have confirmed his opinion to 
me; my own remark was, that if you 
piled all the "Mediaeval architecture of 
the Rhine, from Bonn to Bingen 
together, you could make but a poor 
imitation of Mont St. Michel after all. 
I ought to know these parts pretty well, 
and I think I can hold my own on that 
score. The subterranean church, for 
instance, on whose elephantine pillars 
stand the foundations of the " Oguvale" 
Cathedral, which at four hundred feet 
above the sea crowns this noble vege- 
tation of building like a beautiful flower, 
is very remarkable and wonderful. You 
are on, or as I remember, a little above, 
the summit of the rock here. You 
find yourself among a group of gigantic 
pillars in a dark vault ; almost all shade 
and but little light ; a group of black 
granite, (really) Doric pillars, with a few 
little cross-lights sloping in; a thing 
you will find it difficult to beat on the 
Rhine at all events. This is the church 
of Notre Dame et de Saint Aubert 
Sous-terre. They are going to restore 
it, and the image of our Lady has 


A Cheap Tour near Home. 

arrived from the manufacturer's. I 
looked into a side chapel and saw the 
wonderful image of our Lady of dark- 
ness, lying on her back ready to be 
put up. 

It was a colossal statue of a coal- 
black negress dressed in gold, as black 
as the famous statue of our black Lady 
of Bornhofen, whose hordes of pilgrims 
I saw pass by at Boppart in 1845, after 
the fearful esclandre about the Holy 
Coat of Treves. Our black Lady at Born- 
hofen winked (as well she might) on 
this great occasion, and so did a miracle 
greater than that of the Holy Coat of 
Treves, which never did anything at all 
that one could hear of ; although they 
positively prayed night and day to 
it. " Holy Coat, pray for us." And 
so that portion of the Catholic popu- 
lation at that time inclined for pil- 
grimage resorted to Bornhofen rather 
than to Treves. 

The Abbe Pigeon has written a most 
capital, somewhat enthusiastic, but not 
too enthusiastic handbook; but unfor- 
tunately, we think, insists too much 
on the innumerable miracles performed 
at Mont St. Michel, such as the follow- 
ing : It is the custom in many churches, 
he says, that the porters should keep 
watch all night. Such was never the 
case at Mont St. Michel, and for this 
reason : the angels were accustomed 
to come and sing there, and disliked 
being disturbed by mortals. But an 
unhappy man on one occasion deter- 
mined to wait up and hear them, and, 
contrary to all advice, hid himself and 
waited. He waited until midnight, at 
which time who should come into the 
church but the archangel Michael, the 
Virgin Mary, and St. Peter. The 
wretched man was soon discovered by 
the eagle-eye of St. Michael, who de- 
manded vengeance for such a liberty. 
The Virgin and St. Peter interceded for 
him, and got him time to repent ; but 
between them they frightened the poor 
wretch so, that he died three days after. 
If any one complains that I have made 
this legend ridiculous, I beg to answer 
that such was my intention. 

Passing on through these underground 
regions for something close upon an hour 

(if you properly examine them), and 
with some new piece of beauty or horror 
or interest to keep your attention from 
flagging any part of the time, you at last 
come out into open day again, three 
hundred feet above the sea, and find 
yourself on a small plateau, and prepare 
yourself to see the church and the 
cloisters, the crowning flower of the 
whole, and find that the pinnacles of the 
church are now close over head, though 
still one hundred and twenty feet above 

This is a very pleasant place, this 
little plateau very peaceful, very quiet, 
and very airy. Three hundred feet 
below are the sands, eighteen miles 
broad, with the tide creeping in over 
them, and the gulls and cormorants 
feeding just in advance of the tide, 
croaking and clanking pleasantly, and 
flapping on just in front of the edge of 
the water. The Great Sands are bounded 
by the wild dim capes of Normandy 
and Brittany, from Granville to the 
Rochers de Cancale ; and over head the 
great storm-beaten church thrusts up its 
needles into the blue one of the most 
beautiful places, had I the art to describe 
it for you, in the world ; but our guide 
only told a story in some ten or a dozen 
words, and the sky seemed dark, and 
the sands weary and barren, and the 
capes dim, dull, and hopeless, and 
melancholy beyond description. It was 
a very old story he told in his ten or a 
dozen words : let us hope that there 
will be no more such. I take the liberty 
to tell it in a few more words than did 
our guide. 

A political prisoner had been confined 
here for a very long time, quite recently, 
not, as I understood, in the cachots, 
but in some better place. And he had 
sat there so long brooding over king 
and kaiser, and democratic chances, and 
the chances of nationalities, and all other 
chances and complications for the bet- 
tering of the world, in his way, that he 
had maddened himself, lost faith in man 
and God, and believed that the evil 
would win in the end. And so one 
morning, being let out to walk with his 
jailer, he broke from that jailer sud- 
denly, and jumped over this low parapet, 

A Cheap Tour near Home. 


anl all that the jailer saw, peering over 
afier him, was a heap of clothes, one 
hundred and fifty feet below, among the 
rocks and shrubs, which heap of clothes 
and broken bones represented a living 
and thinking man, who had within him 
a perfect well-considered system for 
putting the world to rights, if only it 
could have worked, and he had been let 
to work it, neither of which things 
happened to be practicable ; all the 
grand theories of king and kaiser, 
democracy and nationality, lying ruined 
in a heap of torn clothes, shattered 
bones, and bruised flesh, one hundred 
an 1 fifty feet below on the cruel granite. 

Perhaps we may say it was not quite 
so bad as that. The man had said his 
say before he was maddened by im- 
prisonment, and his words lived, and 
arc; bearing fruit a thousandfold. Let 
us hope for the best. Although those 
who maddened this poor fellow, while 
thoy should have conciliated him and 
taught him reason, have not much right 
to expect much, yet we may hope that 
thsre is some place for them. Will 
Monsieur and Madame have the good- 
ness to look over the parapet? It was 
down there where he fell. Monsieur 
and Madame do so, and ask to see the 
clc asters. 

Two people have told me, in effect, 
tint the cloisters at Mont St. Michel 
an; the finest in Europe, and both of 
th)se people were more able to judge 
thin nine people out of ten. Mr. 
Murray's gentleman surely a cautious 
and non- sensational gentleman men- 
tions them as " a gem of Gothic archi- 
terture," and describes them uncom- 
monly well, as any one can read by 
re: erring to "Murray's France." We 
di 1 not measure them ; but by taking 
in:;o consideration the difference between 
th JoldErenchp^ and the piedmetrique, 
ore does not say anything very far 
fr< >m the truth when one says they are, 
roighly speaking, nearly one hundred 
fe ;t square. I will try to describe the 
ro^ of open arches which divide the 
flc gs of the cloister from the friars' quad- 
ra igle : they are delicate little pointed 
ar;hes, a trifle, I think, flatter than 

those we know as Early English, and 
they rest on delicate granite pillars. 
There are two rows of them between 
you and the quadrangle outside, and 
these two separate rows of arches are 
about three feet apart; but, although 
parallel, not coincident. So that when 
you are alongside of any one of these 
hundred and twenty arches, the inside 
tier does not correspond with the out- 
side tier. At the arch opposite to you, 
you find that the pillar of the outside 
arch exactly fits into the point of the 
inside arch, and then, looking down the 
line of arches, you find such a gradu- 
ated and systematic complication of 
angles, lights, and shadows, that you 
begin to think of the old dull days 
of Algebra, of your permutations 
and combinations. The colouring of 
this great gem is a dim grey-blue. 
Those who care about the details of 
ornamentation may care to hear that the 
spandrils of the arches are so exqui- 
sitely ornamented with copies of vege- 
tation in a bluish limestone, that the 
like of it is not to be found in Europe ; 
and that the Emperor, as I understood, 
was having them photographed, or 
copied in some way or another. But 
then the Emperor does everything as 
far as I could find out, and does every- 
thing uncommonly well too. What a 
capital thing it would be for Erance if 
he were immortal, and would never die ! 
The church is a fine church enough, 
in a splendid position. Its situation is 
probably its highest recommendation to 
a traveller, because here in Normandy 
one gets rather spoilt with churches, 
Coutances, St. Ouen at Rouen (not 
seen on this tour, but remembered), 
the bouquet of exquisite churches at 
Caen, and, last but by no means least, 
the stone ribs of Bayeux, which leap 
towards heaven, pause, and soar again ; 
all these churches rather spoil one for a 
merely fine church, like that which 
crowns the rock of St. Michel, four 
hundred feet above the sea. And the 
priests, with their usual sweet taste, 
have hung it all over with hideous 
calico banners, which has the effect of 
completely astonishing an ordinary 


A Cheap Tour near Home. 

protestant traveller. If they were put 
up there for the mortification of the 
flesh, their object is accomplished ; if 
for the purpose of artistic ornamentation, 
I should suggest a consultation with 
our own Owen Jones, or with Geoffrey 
St. Hilaire ; if on purely religious 
grounds, I bow my head, and have 
nothing more to say, beyond this, that 
the sooner they are taken down the 

The church was restored by convicts, 
and looks very much as if it had been. 
It has been scraped so very clean. The 
convicts seem to have thought that the 
dirt was their allowance of meat and 
the church was the bone, they have 
scraped it so clean. However, in spite 
of the priests' calico banners and con- 
victs' scraping, the church is a noble 
church, and so we leave it and Mont 
St. Michel : hoping that we have given 
no offence to the good priests. 

Getting once more on to the sands, 
one notices a long dike of rough stone, 
running through the sands, straight 
towards Pontorson. This is the bound- 
ary of the river Cuesnon inscribed on 
the Bayeux Tapestry. The "Editor" of 
the Bayeux tapestry I say " Editor," 
because in these days the safe posi- 
tion for any man who dares trust 
himself to even an allusion to history, 
is to deny utterly every position, of 
'every person who has ever committed 
himself to history, and so stand impreg- 
nable : on which ground, I follow those 
who deny that Matilda did the Bayeux 
tapestry at all : the Editor of the Bayeux 
tapestry, the anonymous sempstress, has 
done a very neat piece of journalism 
about this very place. If you will care- 
fully study the Bayeux tapestry through 
a long afternoon, you will, I "think, be 
unable to form any other conclusion 
than that it is, what the Americans 
would call, a great editorial. It is all 
so dead against Harold. One really 
begins to suspect that Matilda did it 
after all, though one would not commit 
oneself to it for an instant, 

And so feeling that I have had to 
make the reader dimly appreciate the 

beauty of Mont St. Michel and have 
utterly failed, I leave it. Dol is the 
next place which claims one's attention. 
Harold accompanied William across the 
sands from Mont St. Michel to Dol ; 
as may be seen by the Bayeux tapestry. 
William's army got into the quick- 
sands, and Harold was most officious 
in getting them out of them, a cir- 
cumstance which has been in a sly way 
twisted against Harold by the editor of 
the Bayeux tapestry. The same incident 
was used in a singular way, a thousand 
years later, by a gentleman who has left 
off funning to the great loss of that part 
of this generation who care for real 
humour, and who are unable to laugh 
at " slap bang : ; ' I mean Mr. Eichard 
Doyle. When the Prince de Joinville 
proposed a new invasion of England, 
he was ready with his Bayeux tapestry 
in " Punch/' He reproduced this scene 
in his comical little wood-engravings, 
as " Mishaps on ye wooden pavement." 
I suppose we used to laugh too much 
in those days, for we laughed enough 
at that. But we are all getting older ; 
and besides, the temptation is removed. 

Those who wish for " Scenery " will 
get none on this route. There are no 
mountains, and the whole country con- 
sists of little fields, so closely packed in 
by great hedge-rows, so closely timbered 
with poplar, that the whole country 
looks like a vast woodland. The agri- 
culture has not developed since Arthur 
Young's time. There is nothing grown 
but a little flax, a little tobacco, and 
buckwheat. I turned to my Arthur 
Young, expecting to find the country 
denounced. It was apparently below 
his contempt then, and it cannot have 
improved now, simply because it could 
never have been worse. 

And so we arrive, on this cheap tour 
of ours, at the entrance to Dol. You 
walk over blood and corpses in ap- 
proaching this place. Here the Ven- 
deans beat back the Republicans, and 
gained their last real victory. Let us 
look at this place, the battle-field of 
two armies of fools, the battle-field of 
two armies of giants. 



THI;RE ought, I think, to be some sort 
of (Statute of Limitations about Inter- 
national Exhibitions. They serve as 
landmarks in the records of social 
life of an unpleasant kind. I observe 
alre idy that ladies of a certain or un- 
certiin age are beginning to repudiate 
all recollection of that first and fairest 
of ihe series, which sixteen years ago 
owed its beauty to the genius of a some- 
time English gardener. Yet, though 
their memory is short in this respect, 
mice is long; and I can remember 
strolling, with some of those of whom I 
speik, up and down the leaf-arched 
nav ), and crushing by the side of others 
intc the cage where the Koh-i-noor 
glit" ered in its glory. From these recol- 
lect ons I can form positive conclusions 
as t< > the dates of these ladies' baptismal 
certificates which might possibly not be 
coir ciding with the received and current 
opii.ion to which they are understood to 
hav3 given their sanction. So in like 
mai ner I am afraid, if ever the weak 
desire of concealing my years should 
grcn r upon me, the fact, that I knew the 
old Glass Palace well, will be brought 
up n judgment against me. It is all 
very well now, but ten, twenty, thirty 
yeai 3 hence, the survivors of those who 
visit ed the first building will not perhaps 
be o /er-eager to recall their reminiscences 
of i s glories. If we are to have exhi- 
biti< ns at the intervals of every decade 
or s ), we shall possibly grow to think 
that poor old Colonel Sibthorpe was not 
quit ^ so mad as we fancied at the time, 
whe a he waged deadly war against the 
late Prince Consort's hobby. 

S -xteen years is not a long time ago. 
Am yet the world has changed oddly, 
in i lany ways, since the May-day when 
the Queen opened the show which it 
was the fashion to call the Palace 
of Labour. Even so late as then, the 

sort of humanitarian liberalism, which 
Carlyle did so much to crush, still reigned 
in the press, and to a considerable de- 
gree in society. If you look back to 
the papers of those days, you will find 
them filled with rhapsodies on the 
brotherhood of the nations inaugurated 
by this festival in honour of labour; 
you will see glorifications of the victory 
of the pen over the sword, of the 
spindle over the bayonet ; you will see a 
sort of tacit assumption that the era of 
war was coming to an end, and that, in 
the words of a song very popular in those 
bygone days, there was " a good time 
coming." At that time the Saturday 
Review was not; and Punch still bore 
the impress of the Douglas Jerrold 
school ; and even the Times opened its 
columns to " gushing " effusions on the 
progress of humanity. "We have changed 
all that ; whether we have improved it 
all I am not equally sure. No doubt, 
the Palace of Industry did not usher in 
a millennium of peace. Since 1851 we 
have had three great European wars; 
and, if I could credit the rumours I hear 
here at Paris on every side, I should 
say we were on the eve of another war 
exceeding all its predecessors in cost 
and magnitude. Sixteen years ago it 
would have been thought a kind of 
sacrilege to admit an implement of de- 
struction within the walls of the temple 
dedicated to the arts of peace. Now-a- 
days, needle-guns, canons rayes, Minie 
rifles, Whitworths, Armstrongs, Dahl- 
grens, Cavalli guns, and all the other 
ingenious contrivances by which the 
maximum of human life can be de- 
stroyed in the minimum of time, are 
awarded places of honour in our in- 
dustrial shows. And this fact seems to 
me to symbolize the change from 1851 
to 1867. It is not everybody who at 
all times can share Galileo's confidence, 


Gossip about the Paris Exhibition. 

and be so very sure that the world does 
move indeed. However, if, thinking on 
the contrast between the promise and 
the performance of international exhi- 
bitions, you half incline to the French 
cynic's creed, that the only thing im- 
mortal in the universe is "la betise 
humaine," you may derive consolation 
from the thought that in some respects 
we are not quite so foolish as we were 
in the year of grace 1851. It seems 
almost incredible now that at that date 
Englishmen, not insane in other respects, 
seriously imagined that the assemblage 
of an unwontedly large number of 
foreign tourists in London might be 
fraught with danger to the British con- 
stitution; that precautions were taken 
and troops collected about the metro- 
polis to guard against some undefined 
and unknown peril. I wonder whether 
any of my readers recollect that a 
certain amount of public uneasiness 
was created during April 1851, 'by 
London being placarded over with bills 
announcing that "on the 1st of May 
the Jay would speak." I believe the 
Jay turned out to be a new paper, 
which, if it ever spoke at all, spoke so 
feebly as to die unheard; but at the 
time the notice was thought to be a 
sort of rallying cry for the firebrands 
of the universe. Since then, L think, 
honestly, European nations have grown 
to know more about each other ; and, if 
exhibitions have not done away with 
war, they have modified those instinctive 
dislikes which the different peoples of 
Europe entertained towards each other. 
One of the fashions of the day in 
England is to vote exhibitions a bore. 
Yet somehow everybody goes to them 
under protest ; and I suspect our 
countrymen will flock to Paris notwith- 
standing all their declarations that they 
are sick of the very name of an exhi- 
bition. Just about the time this number 
of Macniillan commences its thirty days 
of life would be the ideal period for a 
visit to the French Exhibition. As far 
as my experience extends, I should say 
the great majority of English tourists 
know very little of the true beauty of 
Lutetia, We English folk, with our 

passion for property, like to have a sort 
of vested interest even in the foreign 
spots we visit for pleasure. We have, 
as it were, annexed Switzerland ; and 
talk about it as if we were the sole 
discoverers,, authors, and patentees of 
its mountains and lakes. In these Al- 
pine Club days, the sons and daughters 
of Albion count every hour lost that they 
spend on the road between Basle and 
London. Personally, I know scores of 
tourists who have been abroad every 
year of their lives since they left college, 
and who have only seen Paris for a 
couple of days in the dead autumn 
season, when the leaves are brown with 
dust, and the sun bakes the parched, 
glaring streets. There are some subjects 
you cannot speak the truth about. 
When poor Lord Brougham hazarded 
an opinion that Shakespeare was an 
over-praised man, he had to make retrac- 
tation in most abject guise. So it is not 
safe to speak about Switzerland except 
in superlatives. All I venture to assert, 
as a traveller who has seen many lands 
and many cities, is, that I know of no 
lovelier view than that on which you 
may gaze, and look, and gaze again, 
any summer evening, from the heights 
of St. Cloud and Sevres ; where the 
fairest of fair cities lies stretched at 
your feet, sparkling in the rays of the 
setting sun. Cities, to my mind, have 
a strange beauty of their own, not 
inferior to that of Alps and glaciers. 
And if you want to view Paris 
aright, you should visit it in this early 
spring- time. In that clear air, and 
beneath that bright, dazzling sun, the 
bloom of verdure is far shorter-lived 
than it is in our moist, cloudy atmo- 
sphere. But while it lasts it is as fresh 
and bright as if it had been begotten 
within the four seas. So, if my advice 
could be taken, I should say to any 
tourist upon travelling thoughts intent, 
Do not wait for the end of the London 
season, and the Long Vacation, and the 
regulation travelling time, when Jones, 
Brown, and Eobinson set out to see 
foreign lands ; but go to Paris now, while 
the French season lasts, and the green 
tints are on the trees, and you will alter 

Gossip about the Paris Exhibition. 


you i' traditional John BulFopimon about 
Par s being an over-rated place. And 
of all the beautiful sights there to be 
seeiL and meditated upon, I think you 
will find that not one of the least beau- 
tiful is the much-abused Exposition 

Ij has been the fashion in our papers 
to decry the building, as being an archi- 
tect iral failure. Our regret at its sup- 
posed failure has been tempered by a 
subdued satisfaction. It is all very well 
for us to acknowledge the superiority of 
France in all matters of art and taste, 
but we do not exactly relish the acknow- 
ledgment. I have always thought that, 
in spite of Yirgil's famous repudiation of 
Eoman supremacy in the artistic arena, 
the real way to flatter the public of 
ancient Rome would have been to tell 
them that, after all, their sculptors were 
not unequal to those of Athens. We 
may repeat with pride the "Excudent 
alii spirantia melius sera," and so on ; 
but what we really like are not disqui- 
sitions on the empire over which tbe 
sun never sets, but statements that the 
Eoyul Academy is a higher school of 
painting than the "Salon," and that 
Landseer's lions mark an epoch in 
sculpture. So we learnt, without un- 
mitigated regret, that the French had 
produced a great show building as 
hideous as if the plan had been selected 
by the Society of Arts from an open 
competition of British architects. Thus 
much we may honestly pride ourselves 
upon, that in what I may call the glass- 
shed order of architecture we have 
produced the only work of genius which 
the world has yet seen. Among all 
structures of the kind, the Sydenham 
Palace stands alone and unrivalled; and 
the French Exhibition, if judged by 
comparison with it, is a lamentable 
fiasco. ]STo person on earth can ever 
make the immense blank expanse of 
iron wall that forms the outside of the 
building anything but unsightly. No 
attempt of the kind has, however, been 
made : if the walls had been run up, as 
you would fancy when first looking at 
them, simply as a temporary protection 
for some great building which was 

to be constructed within the enclosed 
area, they could hardly have been 
barer or plainer. But, if you look 
on the Exhibition from an utilitarian 
rather than a sentimental point of view, 
I think you must admit no plan could 
be more admirably contrived for its pur- 
pose than that adopted on the Champ 
de Mars. The Greek cross shape on 
which all previous Exhibitions have 
been constructed appears to me to be 
ill adapted for a monster show-room. In. 
the forerunners of the present struc- 
ture we have had one grand central 
street of booths, and to that we have 
sacrificed everything. The courts in the 
back rows and the galleries were practi- 
cally refuges for the destitute, places 
where the poor relations of the exhi- 
bition family were stowed away out of 
sight. The "upper ten thousand " exhi- 
bitors who got stalls on the sides of the 
main thoroughfare monopolized the 
attention of the public. Moreover, the 
distances to be traversed between one 
part of the building and another were 
necessarily immense ; and anybody 
who wanted to compare the products of 
different countries had to perform a 
series of intricate journeys, which almost 
always resulted in leading you to the 
place you did not intend to go to. "Now 
at the present Exhibition there is not a 
foot of ground wasted. It is hardly 
necessary to say that it consists of a 
series of concentric ellipses, each inner 
one lower in height than the outer ; so 
that if yon could look down upon it 
from a balloon, I fancy it would have a 
sort of resemblance to a lath-and-plaster 
Coliseum. From one gallery to another 
you pass by a series of open passages, all 
converging towards the centre of the 
ellipse, the spot on which stands the 
temple destined to contain the crown 
jewels of France. If this description 
gives you any idea of the shape of the 
building for my own part, I never met 
any written description of an architec- 
tural structure which did you will see 
that you can pass very rapidly from one 
point to another. I have a very bad eye 
for distances, and the statement of the 
measurements of the Exhibition would 


Gossip about the Paris Exhibition. 

give ine no very distinct notion of its 
size ; but I can say from experience 
that, if you walk reasonably quick, and 
do not find your path, choked up with 
sight-seers, or, what at this time is more 
probable, with cases half unpacked, you 
can get from any point to any point 
within the building in five minutes' easy 
walking. No doubt our old form was 
infinitely more preferable for people who, 
either because they did not like the per- 
sons they were likely to meet, or because 
they did like the person they were with, 
preferred comparative solitude. In our 
Exhibitions there were deserted regions, 
out-of-the-way corners, empty corridors, 
where you might stroll about in peace 
out of sight, if not out of hearing, of the 
crowd of sight-seers ; but in Paris there 
is nothing of the kind. As you go 
round and round the long galleries, you 
are always surrounded by the tide of 
visitors, always being washed against 
the same waifs and strays in the human 
current. For persons, therefore, who 
look on an Exhibition as a lounge, the 
building is ill constructed ; the only 
spot where you can promenade or loiter 
about is the central ellipse, which is 
surrounded by a colonnade open to the 
air. There you may sit and make an 
appointment with your friends, and 
listen to music ; and, I fancy (though of 
this I am not sure), eat ices and consume 
absinthe ; but, when once the summer 
comes on, the heat in this exposed space 
will be tremendous, and even at the 
best it is a poor substitute for the grand 
promenade of our central naves. 

The very reasons, however, which 
diminish the value of the French build- 
ing in the eyes of loungers who come 
to be seen and not to see, render it ac- 
ceptable to exhibitors, and to the visitors 
who come in good faith to behold its 
contents. It can hardly be said that 
one place in the show is better than 
another for purposes of exhibition. I 
suppose the parts of the galleries adja- 
cent to the main radii or " secteurs," as 
the French call them, are considered 
the posts of honour. But if you once 
enter a gallery and get into the stream 
of visitors, you are carried naturally 

along it. And as you pass, unless you 
wilfully close your eyes, you cannot 
avoid seeing everything on your route. 
In our Exhibitions the public, either 
through the criticisms of the press or 
through its own instincts, picked out, 
before the building had been many days 
open, a certain number of courts or 
articles it deemed most worth seeing; 
and, after this selection had been made, 
nine visitors out of ten confined them- 
selves to the central promenade, only 
turning out of it at points which led 
to the few courts in request, being out 
of the grand row. But here in Paris 
you cannot pursue this Jack Homer 
policy; if you want your plum, you 
must eat your slice of pudding with it. 
If, for instance, you wish to see the 
French and Spanish collections of pic- 
tures, you must perforce pass through 
the English galleries, unless you are 
prepared to make a long detour for the 
purpose of avoiding them. There are 
no staircases, everything is on the same 
level ; and no exhibitor can complain 
that nobody saw his wares because they 
were placed out of sight. If goods fail 
to attract notice, it must be not because 
they are not seen, but because, right or 
wrong, the public does not consider 
them worth looking at. So if, as seems 
likely enough, Exhibitions should be- 
come permanent institutions, I think 
the French will justly claim the merit 
of having invented the form of building 
which will serve as the model for all 
future edifices of the kind. 

The limits of your space would not 
allow me to enter into any disquisition 
as to the merits of the different depart- 
ments ; and, long ere this, the news- 
papers will have given you detailed 
criticism of the various branches of art 
and manufacture displayed therein. 
Moreover, I own candidly that if such 
disquisitions were required I should feel- 
myself disqualified for giving them. I 
confess to holding, amongst many other 
heresies, a belief that, to form any 
judgment on a subject, you must have 
studied it professionally. I have no 
doubt that I am wrong. A friend of 
mine, who is considered a high autho- 

Gossip about the Paris Exhibition. 


rity on Byzantine architecture, acquired 
his knowledge of the subject, as far as 
I c )uld ever discover, while engaged in 
farming a sheep-run in New South 
Wales. Another pundit, whose opinion 
is received as gospel on all questions of 
the comparative excellence of English 
anc Continental culture, knows the 
Continent through a holiday trip or 
two to Paris. I am acquainted distantly 
wit ha gentleman recognised as the chief 
jud^e of letters, whose sole qualification 
is 1hat he has written poems which 
nolody ever read. But in spite of 
the;e, and countless examples I might 
quote, I adhere to the belief that 
amateur judgments are of very little 
value on professional subjects. About 
plate, pottery, jewellery, upholstery, 
machinery, lace, tapestry, and all the 
thousand other productions of which 
classified specimens are to be seen in 
the Paris Exhibition, I know nothing, 
and, what is more, know that I know 
not! ling. And, if I am to confess the 
plain honest truth, I am not unhappy 
at my own ignorance. I like pretty 
thirgs, or, what is the same, things 
thai seem to me pretty ; but as to 
comparing one article with another, or 
tryiig to understand the canons by 
whi 3h their respective merits are dis- 
cerned, all I can say is that it is not 
my line of business. How things are 
made is a department of human know- 
ledge I have never cared about. I have 
always, on the contrary, felt that the 
derided undergraduate who, according 
to bgendary lore, when he was asked 
how the walls of Babylon were built, 
answered that he was not a bricklayer 
and had no intention of becoming one, 
mad 3 a remark of a highly philoso- 
phic il character. 

Probably, if the truth were known, 
the vast majority of the visitors to this 
or any other industrial show -are 
Gall: os like myself. And I respect the 
managers of the French Exhibition 
becaise they have had the wit to see, 
and the candour to confess, that the 
public for whom they cater want to 
be amused as well as instructed. In 
185], and even in 1862, we went in 

for high art and elevating influences. 
The Crystal Palace at Sydenham was 
created as a sort of temple to intel- 
lectual culture. Plaster casts of illus- 
trious celebrities of art, science, and 
literature, with their names and dates 
inscribed beneath ; models of antedi- 
luvian animals ; collections of minerals ; 
aquariums and galvanic batteries; dis- 
solving views and scientific lectures, 
were to be the chief attractions of the 
programme of the People's Palace. But 
the people refused to be charmed into 
thinking they were amused when they 
were not ; and so, at last, dancing 
dogs, Christmas revels, fireworks, comic 
songs, Punch and Judy shows, and I 
know not what, have been substituted 
for intellectual culture, with much profit 
to the management and with much 
satisfaction to the public. 

Profiting by experience, the French 
authorities have neglected no means of 
making the Exhibition pleasant to holi- 
day folk who go to have a stare at the 
show, not to improve their minds by 
studying the progress of art. I think 
it will be found that they have suc- 
- ceeded excellently. In the first place, 
the eating arrangements are admirable. 
Within the building there are no re- 
freshment stalls; but the whole of the 
outer colonnade is pretty well one suc- 
cession of cafes, eating-houses, divans, 
restaurants, and beer-sellers. Casual 
French cooking is doubtless the best in 
the world, that is, if you go into an 
eating place in France promiscuously, 
you have a better chance of getting good 
food there than you have anywhere else. 
But it is possible you may get tired of 
French drinks and French meats ; and, 
at any rate, variety in matters of food 
and liquids is always pleasing. In this 
circle of cafes you may dine and drink 
in turn with many nations, and may 
really learn something of the much- 
neglected science of international cook- 
ery. You may eat real macaroni dressed 
with the Poma d'Oro sauce, and wash 
it down with Capri, as you would in 
Naples ; you may, if so inclined, feed 
upon genuine sauerkraut, with un- 
limited supplies of frothy Bavarian 


Gossip about the Paris Exhibition, 

beer ; you may have kabobs a la Turque, 
whatever they may be, and drink real 
Turkish coffee with the grits at the 
bottom ; you may perfume yourself 
with the flavour of Spanish dishes preg- 
nant with garlic ; you may scald your 
throat with tea made in the Russian 
fashion ; you may " liquor up" with cock- 
tails and mint juleps of Transatlantic 
brewing, and remove the taste by true 
Boston crackers cooked in an American 

But the real attraction of the Exhibi- 
tion to the goodly company of idlers, 
who, I suspect, could outpoll those, who 
come to study, by overwhelming majo- 
rities, will be found outside, not inside, 
the building. Of all the summer gar- 
dens Vauxhalls, Tivolis, Krolls, and 
Cremornes which the world has known, 
this Paris pleasure-ground will be the 
prettiest. To every one who remembers 
what the old Champ de Mars was only 
two years ago, it seems impossible to 
imagine that the ground can be the 
same as that on which Paris has 
created its scenic city of many lands. 
All round the central building there is, 
as it were, a fringe of gardens, and con- 
servatories, and chalets, and flower-beds, 
and grassy knolls, and ornamental ponds. 
The dwellings of a score of countries 
are supposed to be represented by the 
different booths with which the ground 
is covered. Many of the original are 
known to me. I have seen American 
log-houses, and Eussian villages, and 
Swedish farm-yards, and Magyar barns ; 
and, judging from the amount of re- 
semblance between the originals and the 
models, I am disposed to be sceptical as 
to the houses in Japan and the mosques 
in Turkey being much akin to their 
fac-similes displayed in Paris. But 

still, whether like or not, they are, one 
and all, very pretty; and, indeed, the 
only structure on the ground which is 
positively ugly is a model English 
labourer's cottage, a model which, I 
am thankful to say, could not be matched 
in England. Possibly champions of the 
doctrine that an industrial display 
ought to be of a grave and instructive 
character, will opine that models of 
Egyptian temples and Turkish baths 
and Moorish mosques and Mexican 
shrines do not belong, to use a theatrical 
term, to legitimate exhibition business. 
Possibly they are right, and, with the 
best wish in the world, I cannot find 
much to say for the theatres and 
dancing-booths and open-air concerts 
with which, Avhen the place is com- 
pleted, the gardens are to be adorned. 
Still, when the place is lit up on a still 
summer night, as it is to be, with 
thousands upon thousands of gas-lights, 
and the grounds are crowded with a 
motley multitude collected from many 
nations, the scene will be a picturesque 
one enough ; and will leave behind with 
those who witness it the recollection, so 
rare in life, of having seen something 
that of its kind was perfectly beautiful. 
I see that, in spite of enlightenment 
and scepticism, the great public is still 
passionately fond of the transformation 
scenes upon our stage, when glimpses of 
fairy land are produced with coloured 
lights, and spangles, and tinsel ; and so 
I suppose this taste for lights and 
colours and fireworks is imprinted some- 
how in our prosaic nature. This taste 
will be gratified on the evenings when 
the Exhibition gardens are thrown open; 
and, unless I mistake the British public, 
they will like the Exhibition by night 
better than they do by day. 


JUNE, 1867. 



IN the four volumes forming the first 
instalment of Mr. Burton's work, we are 
presented with a succession of broad, 
bold, graphic sketches of events in 
Scotland, from the earliest age of which 
we know anything down to Queen 
Mary's abdication. A shrewd reasoning 
intellect and a large share of that un- 
common faculty called common sense 
have enabled the author to take a far 
firmer grasp than most of his prede- 
cessors of the national and political life 
of Scotland, and the causes of its deve- 
lopment. While some previous his- 
torians furnish us with a more micro- 
scopic view of individual transactions, 
none have been so successful in ex- 
pressing the spirit of Scottish history. 
The style is graceful and flowing : we 
have much lively description, varied 
at times by cynical and humorous 
touches ; and the materials are through- 
out so skilfully arranged, that the reader's 
attention can never flag, even in the 
most dreary parts of the story. Of 
partisanship there is none ; Mr. Burton's 
philosophic way of looking at events 
raises him to an elevation far above the 
strife of parties. Occasional errors of 
oversight there are in matters of detail, 
as there will be in every work of the 
kind. errors which, though they seldom 
materially affect the truthfulness of the. 
No. 92. VOL. xvi. 

narrative, or the general view of events, 
are of course to be regretted in a book 
of such value; but, we doubt not, a 
second edition will soon give the author 
an opportunity of removing these 

It is to Tacitus that we owe our first 
gleam of authentic light on Scotland. He 
tells us how his father-in-law Agricola, 
marching into Northern Britain, won a 
decisive victory over 30,000 Caledonian 
savages at the Mons Grampius. 1 The 
Romans, however, in spite of oft-repeated 
attempts, failed to subdue the fierce 
Caledonians ; and the dominion asserted 
by their walls and fortresses never 
amounted to more than a military occu- 
pation. South Britain soon became a 
civilized Eoman province, harassed, 
however, with a troublesome northern 
neighbour, whose inroads grew more 

1 The more correct reading would appear to 
be Groupius ; and Mr, Burton warns us against 
identifying the site of Agricola's victory with 
the hills on which Norval's father fed his 
flock. The name Grampians was bestowed on 
the range of monn tains now so called at the 
revival of classical learning, on the hypothesis 
of their being the locality indicated by Tacitus. 
This certainly is not an absolutely solitary 
instance of such a reversal of the ordinary 
conditions of etymology ; but we do not think 
with Mr. Burton that any very large propor- 
tion of modern local names in Bntam have 
come by a like process from classical sources. 


Burton's History of Scotland. 

and more formidable as the Romans 
withdrew their legions, and latterly 
formed the subject of perpetual wailing 
petitions for aid from Eome. Picts, 
Scots, and Saxons are all particularized 
by Ammianus Marcellinus among the 
barbarous tribes that in his day were 
the terror of the provincial Britons. 
Of these the Picts were identical with 
the Caledonians of Tacitus, and had 
acquired that name from their habit of 
painting their skins blue to look formid- 
able in battle a practice common when 
Caesar wrote to all the Britons, which 
had been retained by the northern bar- 
barians after the usages of polished 
life had banished it from the Eoman 
province. The Scots were a wandering 
people "per diversa vagantes" who 
crossed the sea from Scotia, i.e. Ireland ; 
and the so-called Saxons seem to have 
been Frisian strangers, already attempt- 
ing to make settlements on the British 
shores. In the middle of the fifth cen- 
tury the Imperial Government, pressed 
by home dangers, had to abandon 
Britain to its fate. 

On the departure of the Eomans, a 
continuous stream of Anglo-Saxon in- 
vaders poured into England, pressing 
northwards to the Forth, and westwards 
to the verge of Wales and Cumbria. 
They may, as Mr. Burton suggests, have 
reduced the later Britons to slavery ; 
but, at all events, the two races became 
interfused in blood, and the Anglo 
Saxons of the time of Bede were a mixed 
Teutonic and Cymric people, among 
whom the language of the conquerors 
had established itself, while the blood of 
the conquered people in all probability 

As yet there was no Scotland, in the 
modern sense. When we come into 
the dim light furnished by Bede and 
Adamnan, in the end of the seventh 
century, Britain north of the Forth was 
unequally parcelled between two races. 
Ojie was the Picts, who were in pos- 
session of the greater part of the 
country, and still retained in Latin 
parlance the name assigned them by the 
Eomans ; the other was the Dalriad 
Scots, a colony of the same wanderin^ 

tribes of Ireland mentioned by Am- 
mianus Marcellinus, who had crossed to 
the coasts of Kintyre early in the sixth 
century, and were now nourishing settlers, 
occupying the greater part of what 
afterwards became the county of Argyle, 
and keeping up a close intercourse with 
the parent Scots of Irish Dalriada. In 
the ninth century, Irish Dalriada having 
become disintegrated, the Scots of 
Argyle and the Picts became united 
under one ruler, the heir, it would 
appear, of both the Pictish and the Scot- 
tish dynasty. The united kingdom and 
nation continued for some time to be 
called Pictavia or Albanich, and the old 
Pictish capital of Forteviot continued 
to be its capital ; but eventually the 
name Scotia, which had originally be- 
longed to the sister island, became 
identified with Northern Britain. To 
the south of the Clyde, lying along the 
west coast, was the Cymric kingdom of 
Strathclyde or Cumbria, and southward 
of the Forth, along the east coast, was 
the Saxon province of Northumbria, 
also known as Lothian. 

While the natives of Britain displaced 
by the Anglo-Saxons were admittedly a 
Celtic race, speaking a Cymric tongue, 
the nationality and language of the 
Picts, the people who from the Eoman 
period to the ninth century or later 
occupied the greater part of Northern 
Britain, have been subjects of fierce 
contention among the antiquaries of a 
bygone generation. One party main- 
tained that they were Gaelic- speaking 
Celts, while the other as vehemently 
contended that they were Teutons in 
language and race. The arguments 
hurled at each other by the assailants 
form a curious chapter in the history of 
misdirected ingenuity, and, excepting 
in the far-famed discussion between the 
Laird . of Monkbarns and Sir Arthur 
Wardour, we doubt whether they were 
ever before so agreeably dressed up as 
in Mr. Burton's pages. His resume is, 
however, rather a history of what the 
past age said or wrote on the subject 
than an examination of the question 
from the present standpoint of criticism ; 
and we were scarcely prepared to find 

Burtons History of Scotland. 


Mm not only treating the Pictish con- 
troversy as still unsettled, but indicating 
a hardly mistakeable leaning towards 
the Teutonic side. To us the evidence 
seoms overwhelming that the Picts of 
history were a people of more or 
Cdtic nationality, who spoke substan- 
tially the same Gaelic tongue that is 
still spoken in the Highlands. If we 
arc to believe that the language spoken 
in the ninth century all over Britain 
north of the Forth and Clyde, except in 
on3 remote corner, was not Gaelic, but 
a lost Teutonic tongue, we must further 
believe, with Henry of Huntingdon, that 
thr,t tongue had so utterly disappeared 
in the middle of the twelfth century, 
th{ t not a vestige of it was preserved. 
That a small tribe occupying a corner of 
the country should in three centuries 
ha^e been enabled, either by conquest or 
amalgamation, so entirely to impose their 
language on the rest of the country, 
seeois incredible, and the more so that 
no conquest or revolution is noticed by 
an}' of the contemporary Irish annalists 
or Welsh or Anglo-Saxon chroniclers; 
the Picts, on the contrary, figuring every- 
where as the more vigorous race, vic- 
tor ous whenever brought into collision 
with the Scots. The overwhelming 
proportion of purely Gaelic local names 
in 1 he most lowland districts of Scotland 
is i phenomenon of which we have 
ne~ver heard any plausible explanation 
on the Teutonic hypothesis. In the 
earl iest charters, all the names of places 
nor h of the Forth, without exception, 
are Celtic. 

The physiological evidence is also 
very strong of the preponderance of 
Cel ic blood all over Scotland. It seems 
to t e admitted by anthropologists, as the 
rest It of a careful examination of ancient 
sku Is, and an induction from those of 
moc ern nations, that the Celtic cranium 
is peculiarly elongated in form. In 
Bri1 tany the prevalent type of head- is 
lorn er than in Normandy, in Normandy 
longer than in the more Romanized or 
Frnikish parts of France, in England 
longer than in Brittany, and in Scotland 
and Ireland longer than in England. 
In j: Scotland the heads are found to be 

shortest in the districts where the Norse 
element most predominated. 1 A German 
head is almost round compared with an 
English, and still more compared with a 
Scotch one. Some of our readers must 
have experienced the difficulty of pro- 
curing a hat in Germany sufficiently 
oval to fit. Mr. Burton seems disposed 
to attach some weight to Tacitus's obser- 
vation that the Caledonians were large- 
limbed and red-haired, qualities which 
that historian considered suggestive of 
a common origin with the Germans. 
But the value of the ethnological specu- 
lation is lessened by the fact that, to one 
who was not a close observer, the 
Germans of classic times possessed so 
great a resemblance to the Gauls that 
the name of the former was traced by 
Strabo to the Latin germanus, near of 
kin; and Tacitus himself remarks the 
resemblance between the customs, lan- 
guage, and religious rites of all the 
tribes of Britain and those of Gaul, 
points of agreement which are evidently 
.more important in his eyes than the 
points of difference. 

Much has been founded on the men- 
tion by Adamnan of Columba evange- 
lizing the Picts through an interpreter, 
which, it has been argued, would hardly 
have been necessary had the Scots and 
Picts spoken two closely-allied dialects 
of Gaelic. But it has been pointed out 
by Mr. Skene that there is nowhere 
any indication of an interpreter having 
been present at Columba's interviews 
with King Brude or his people; to 
them his Irish Gaelic was probably in- 
telligible enough ; in the only two in- 
stances where the interpreter appears, 
Columba is reading the Scriptures to 
unlearned converts, and the office of 
that functionary evidently is to render 
the Latin text fluently into the verna- 
cular. The language of Pictavia doubt- 
less survived the accession of Kenneth 
Macalpin; and we have a valuable 
specimen of what must be accounted 
Pictavian Gaelic of the beginning of the 

1 See an interesting paper on this subject 
by Dr. Daniel Wilson, in the Anthropologist 
Review of February 1865. 

H 2 


Burton's History of Scotland. 

twelfth century in the "Book of 
Deer." * 

One chapter is devoted to the pre- 
Christian religions of Scotland, and two 
to early Christianity. Mr. Burton holds 
very sceptical notions about Druidism. 
His ideal Druid is something half-way 
between the witch and the gipsy of later 
times, hardly attaining the dignity of a 
second-sighted Highlander ; and it cer- 
tainly requires a large share of faith to 
evolve out of the classical descriptions 
anything like the popular idea of a 
Druidical priesthood. It is urged, with 
no little force, that, if the Druid hier- 
archy had been the potent influence that 
is generally supposed, we should often 
encounter it in ecclesiastical history ; 
whereas the only heathen priests with 
whom Adamnan and the Hagiologists 
make us acquainted are Magi, who have 
nothing in common with the imagined 
Druidical organization and authority. 

Romanized Britain had been to some 
extent Christianized, but its Christianity 
died amid the disorder that followed 
the departure of the Romans. Ireland, 
in the meantime, enjoying the blessing 
of tranquillity, became Christian and 
civilized; and its Church, growing 
famous and powerful, sent forth reli- 
gious teachers to all parts of Europe. 
Columba, one of the most eminent of 
those missionaries, resolving to devote 
his life to the conversion of the Picts, 
planted a religious house on the island 
of lona; and from this beginning 
sprang the Scottish Church. Owing to 
the isolation in which the Irish Church 
had grown up, its constitution was 
somewhat peculiar. Monasticism was 
one of its prominent features, but a 
inonasticism largely mixed up with 

1 The manuscript so called, recently found 
by Mr. Bradshaw in the University Library of 
Cambridge, is a copy of the Gospels of the 
ninth century, which had belonged to the 
monks of Deer, in Aberdeenshire, with an 
account in Gaelic, in a hand of the beginning 
of the twelfth century, of how Columba and 
Drostan came from lona to Aberdour ; how 
Bede, the Pict, Maormor of Buchan, bestowed 
on them the towns of Aberdour and Deer ; and 
how the endowments and immunities of the 
church of Deer were augmented by succeeding 
maormors, chiefs, and kings. 

secular life. It had its bishops, but, 
unlike other bishops, they had no dio- 
ceses. The highest dignitary at lona 
was a presbyter-abbot, whose rule ex- 
tended over bishops as well as priests. 
\Yh en t ne Scottish Church came into 
contact with the rest of Christendom, 
no little scandal and many fierce con- 
tests arose out of the discovery that it 
computed Easter by a mode condemned 
by the Council of Nice, and was nota- 
bly unsound regarding the shape of the 

lona was at length brought to con- 
formity on those weighty topics ; and, 
when the ravages of the Northmen 
led to a transfer of the chief ecclesias- 
tical seat to Dunkeld, it would .rather 
seem that ordinary diocesan episcopacy 
was established there. In the twelfth 
century, when light breaks again on. the 
Scottish Church, we find, co-existing 
alongside of the bishops and priests, 
various communities of ecclesiastics, 
called Culdees,. the last degenerate 
representatives of the lona monks, 
chiefly noted for their indolence, nepo- 
tism, and private wealth, who were pre- 
sided over by a lay abbot, the proprietor 
of the abbey lands. They gradually 
disappeared before the Church reforms 
of David I. 

At the date of the union of the Picts 
and Scots, Norway was the great mari- 
time power. All seafaring men in those 
days were pirates ; and a band of Nor- 
wegians, exiled by the conquests of 
Harold Harfagr, seizing on the Shet- 
lands and Orkneys, made descents on 
the Hebrides and north-west coasts of 
Scotland. Fresh reinforcements of their 
countrymen followed them, and a syste- 
matic course of pillage and colonization 
began, which lasted two hundred years, 
and more than once brought a large 
part of Scotland under the rule of a 
Norwegian jarl. The eventual result of 
the Norse irruptions was a healthy 
infusion of Scandinavian blood, but in 
the meantime they produced a chronic 
condition of war and insecurity, which 
greatly weakened the Scottish kingdom. 
After the middle of the eleventh cen- 
tury the hostilities became more inter- 

Burton's History of Scotland. 


mil tent; but it was not until 1263, 
when Haco's great expedition perished 
from the fury of the elements, that all 
danger from Norway was at an end. 
Th 3 Orkneys continued under Norse 
rula till the marriage of James III. 
when King Christian pledged them 
to Scotland for 50,000 florins of his 
daughter's dowry, a pledge whose non- 
redemption seems to have converted 
Scotland's right into one of absolute 
property, though Mr. Burton alludes to 
the speculations of some international 
lawyers as to whether Britain might not 
yet have to restore these islands, were 
payment of Queen Margaret's dowry 

With the accession of Malcolm Can- 
more began a new era, in which the 
native Celticism was to give way to the 
Saxondom of the south. Indeed, the 
first; step towards the de-Celticizing of 
Scotland had been already taken forty 
years before, when the Saxon province 
of Lothian came under the sway of 
the Scottish kings. The Norman Con- 
quest of England, however, which oc- 
curred 'in the ninth year of Malcolm's 
reign, at once brought Scotland into 
contact with English social influences. 
The mixed Teuton and Celtic blood of 
the Normans had produced a happy 
union of the perseverance and delibera- 
tion of the one race with the acuteness 
and vivacity of the other, a combination 
which admirably fitted them to be, like 
the Eomans of old, a governing and 
organizing people. One of the first 
results of the Conquest was to drive 
multitudes of fugitives from England to 
Scotland among them the exiled Edgar 
Atheling who brought with them their 
southern ideas and southern civilization 
to ihe Court of Scotland. St. Mar- 
garet, Edgar's sister, was Malcolm's 
que< n, and was a woman of talent and 
energy, as well as piety. An uncom- 
promising reformer in Church and State, 
she held controversies with the clergy, 
in -which, according to her biographer, 
she had for interpreter her husband, 
who was acquainted with the Saxon 
'language as well as his own. Mr. Bur- 
ton here inquires whether the language 

called his own was Gaelic or Teutonic ; 
we can see no reason to doubt that 
it was the former. The Saxon of 
Lothian could not at that time have 
been accounted a distinct language from 
that of Margaret. Even three hundred 
years later, when each dialect had run a 
separate course, the " quaint Inglis " of 
Barbour cannot be called a different 
language from Chaucer's English. In 
Malcolm's time it doubtless was that 
the Court language was changed from 
Gaelic to Anglo-Saxon. In the twelfth 
century, the languages spoken in Scot- 
land are always enumerated as the 
Scottish, British and English, i.e. the 
Gaelic, the Cymric of Galloway, and the 
tongue of Lothian. French was occa- 
sionally added to the number, as it was 
temporarily introduced by the Norman 
settlers at the Court of Scotland, as at 
that of England. In Malcolm's time, 
and much later, the Scottish language 
always meant the Gaelic. A twelfth 
century treatise, "De Situ Albania," 
published in the Appendix to Father 
Innes's Essay, " On the Ancient Inha- 
bitants of Scotland," describes the river 
Forth as called " Scottice Froth, Bri- 
" tannie Werd, Eomane 1 vero Scotts- 
"wattre." t The early charters of the 
Scottish Icings are addressed, " Omnibus 
" probis hominibus totius regni Francis 
" et Anglicis et Scottis et Galwensi- 
" bus." Even in the account given by 
Bower, of the " Scotus venerabilis " who, 
at the coronation of Alexander III. 
recited that king's genealogy, the " ma- 
terna lingua" in which he spoke is shown 
by the context to have been Gaelic. We 
cannot regard the apparition of this 
Scotch mountaineer as the strange, iso- 
lated phenomenon that Mr. Burton 
would suggest. It seems to us that the 
reaction from the fashionable Highland 
mania of the last generation has carried 
even our best writers so far that they 
are reluctant to acknowledge the un- 
deniable fact of the Scots having been 

1 "Lingua Eomana . . . maxime vero ita 
nostri vulgarem, et qua hodie utimur, appel- 
larunt." Ducange. The term is, of course, 
applied with less propriety to a Teutonic 
vulgar tongue than to French. 


Burtons History of Scotland. 

till late in the eleventh century a Gaelic- 
speaking people. After Malcolm's time 
Anglo-Saxon colonists from Lothian 
spread rapidly northwards, along the 
level line of the coast, and intermarried 
with the Gaelic people among whom 
they settled ; and, as the Anglo-Saxon 
language and ideas were adopted by the 
mixed race, the older tongue gradually 
became restricted to the mountaineers, 
whose position shut them out from 
Saxon influences. Thenceforth the High- 
landers fell into the rear of civilization. 
The maormors of Moray and the chiefs 
of later times, hardly owning the royal 
prerogative, set up a sort of barbarous 
mimic royalty ; and the people took to 
a life of plunder, varied occasionally by 
a formidably organized descent on the 
lowlands. In the time of war with 
England, it was a favourite device of 
the English kings to court the alliance 
of the Highland chiefs. 

An immigration of Normans, which 
very shortly followed that of Saxons, 
introduced into Scotland all the feudal 
usages which the Conqueror had estab- 
lished in England. The tie to England 
was drawn closer by the marriage of 
Henry I. to Malcolm's daughter, as well 
as by the residence of David I. at the 
Court of England before his accession, 
and his marriage with the Conqueror's 
niece, the heiress of Northumberland 
and Huntingdon. The high offices of 
State were almost engrossed by the 
Norman barons, who, sometimes by gift, 
sometimes by marriage with Scottish 
heiresses, acquired large territorial pos- 
sessions. The two countries, brought 
into the closest contact, became daily 
more and more assimilated. Scotland, 
freed from all apprehensions from Nor- 
way after the battle of Largs, made 
rapid strides in social and material pro- 
gress. Mr. Burton has given us a 
number of particulars from authentic 
sources, which point to the existence of 
an affluence and comfort very unlike the 
Scotland of a later date. We have 
every indication of abundant food, lordly 
tables, and a fair proportion of the 
luxuries of life. The Lord Chamberlain 
was bound to see that cooks prepared 

their victuals properly. Flourishing 
towns existed, with large trading pri- 
vileges. There were bridges across the 
principal rivers. Hotels and taverns were 
well-established institutions. Agricul- 
ture was carried on carefully and sys- 

All these fair prospects were suddenly 
blighted by the calamitous death of 
Alexander III. in his midnight ride at 
Kinghorn. The infant grand-daughter 
who inherited his crown died on her 
passage from Norway, and a succession 
disputed by distant heirs threw the 
country into confusion. Scotland seems 
to have turned her eyes towards her 
powerful and hitherto friendly neighbour 
to extricate her from her difficulties by 
arbitrating between the claimants. At 
that period the progress of feudalism 
had nearly systematized the law of suc- 
cession; yet precedents existed, of no 
very remote date, of an ancient and 
looser usage, by which a brother might 
be preferred to a son of the deceased, 
or a near relation who was illegitimate 
to a remoter who was lawfully born. 
If any principle can be discerned in the 
succession of the Scottish kings before 
Malcolm, it is one of alternate selection 
from two different branches of the royal 

The two candidates between whom 
the contest eventually lay were de- 
scended from Margaret and Isabella, 
daughters of David, Earl of Huntingdon, 
brother of William the Lion. John 
Baliol was, through his mother, Devor- 
goil, the grandson of the elder daughter, 
Margaret ; while Eobert Bruce was the 
son of the younger daughter, Isabella. 
A tabular pedigree of the claimants 
would here have been very acceptable to 
the reader, and its presence would have 
preserved Mr. Burton from a few slips 
of inadvertence, such as calling Ada, 
Countess of Holland, daughter instead of 
grand-daughter of David I., and David, 
Earl of Huntingdon, son of William the 
Lion. A greater mistake than these 
mere verbal oversights attaches to the 
account of one of the competitors, namely, 
John Coniyn, generally known as the 
" Black Comyn," in contradistinction 

Burtons History of Scotland. 


from, his son, the "Bed Comyn," who 
was slain by King Robert. His claim 
is let forth as derived from his mother, 
said to be Marjory, sister of Devorgoil, 
and aunt of John Baliol ; and it is added 
ths.t "he boasted, but in a shape that 
" las not distinctly come down to us, 
" of a descent from Donald Bain, a son 
"of the gracious Duncan, who for a brief 
" space occupied the throne. . . . But in 
" tie decorous and precise Court of the 
" lord superior he could plead nothing 
"but his descent from the grand- 
" daughter of Earl David, and this left 
" him immediately behind Baliol as the 
" descendant of the elder sister." Now 
Comyn's claim, as given in the "Ecedera," 
rests solely on a pedigree articulately 
set forth step by step from Donald, the 
accuracy of which there seems no reason 
to call in question ; and this descent 
had doubtless much to do with the power 
which the Comyns then wielded in 
Scotland. If Wyntoun's statement be 
credited, that Malcolm Canmore was 
but the natural son of Duncan by the 
mil er's- daughter of Eorteviot, while 
Donald Bane was legitimate, Comyn's 
was by no means the least plausible of 
the claims to the throne. The existence 
of the alleged sister of Devorgoil is dis- 
proved by the terms in which John 
Baliol's claim is deduced. 1 Wyntoun, 
witji whom the mistake originated, calls 
her wife, not, as Mr. Burton does, sister, 
of Ihe Black Comyn, while in another 
passage he correctly enough makes 
Comyn's wife sister of John Baliol him- 
self not of his mother. 2 

A prince of Edward's sagacity could 
but see at what an advantage Scotland's 
hel] lessness placed him. The assertion 
of it, right of suzerainty was a device 
which the conditions of the feudal sys- 
tem had often before suggested to stronger 
states for encroaching on their weaker 
neighbours ; and a claim of this kind 
could be made with the greater plausi- 
bilr y when, as in the present case, the 
wea ker power was already vassal of the 
stronger for territory beyond its proper 
don ains. Homage performed for the 

1 Fcedera, vol. i. p. 776. 

* Wyntoun, viii. c. 6, 218, 293.. 

separate fief could be represented as 
extending to the independent dominions : 
and, a state of vassalship being once 
established, some pretext would probably 
before long occur for declaring the fief 
forfeited to the overlord. Scotland her- 
self had absorbed one or two little inde- 
pendent powers by a similar process. 
Edward arranged a meeting with the 
competitors, along with the nobles and 
gentry of Scotland, at Norharn, to bring 
the matter to an issue. The proceedings 
were opened by a demand by the Eng- 
lish king for an acknowledgment of his 
feudal superiority : 

" The bishops, prelates, counts, magnates, 
and nobles of Scotland had been invited to 
bring forward whatever they could ,to impugn 
King Edward's right of superiority over Scot- 
land, but nothing to that effect was proffered, 
exhibited, or shown by them. 

"After this follows a statement of moment. 
The community -the communitas had within 
the three weeks given in some answer in writing, 
but it was not to the point. Though it did 
not seem to King Edward and his advisers to be 
to the point, yet would many people at the 
present day like to know what it was that the 
community of Scotland had to say against 
King Edward's demand, when the nobles and 
prelates were silent; still more interesting 
would it be to know who they were who spoke 
in the name of that vague communitas. 
There is little hope now of any such light. In 
fact there is evidence that it was convenient to 
keep out of view the fact that the community 
of Scotland had spoken out. The Great Roll 
of Scotland, as published in all the editions of 
the ' Fcedera,' says nothing about it : and this 
shows that, if the notary who attested all the 
proceedings kept a note of this, it was excluded 
from the Koll deposited among the records of 
the Crown in England ; and that, as no one 
tun question, with design. At all events, we 
now know the fact that some answer was made 
on the part of Scotland to King Edward's asser- 
tion of feudal superiority. That this fact has 
but recently come to light is only too character- 
istic of all our means of knowing the truth in 
the great question it bears on. Transactions 
are profusely recorded, as if for the purpose of 
courting all inquiries into doubts and difficul- 
ties that might affect conclusions ; yet one ever 
feels throughout all this candour that the truth 
is to be found somewhere behind, and that the 
abundance of punctilious record is devised to 
conceal it." 

The word communitas, in its wider 
signification, included the whole clergy 
and nobility : but it seems here to be 
applied in its more restricted sense to 


Burtons History of Scotland. 

the gentry or freeholders who did not 
possess the higher qualification of earl 
or baron, though forming part of the 

The competitors had no hesitation in 
proffering their homage to Edward : it 
was indeed only on this condition that 
they could have expected him to help 
them to a kingdom. We are not sure 
but Mr. Burton overstates the case a 
little when he describes them collectively 
as " aliens, and belonging to a class of 
" aliens particularly offensive to the 
" people, of whose evil wishes regarding 
" them they were well aware." As in 
England the Norman and Saxon races 
among the upper classes were by this 
time completely fused, so the Norman 
nobility of Scotland had become inter- 
mingled in blood with the ancient gentry 
of the country. Bruce, whose paternal 
ancestors had been feudal lords in Scot- 
land for nearly two centuries, had more 
Scottish than Norman blood in his veins. 
With the Comyns, too, Scottish blood 
seems to have preponderated, and they 
had been among the most considerable 
of the Scottish nobility for a century and 
a half, deriving importance, as already 
mentioned, from their representation of 
one of the Scottish kings. Baliol, on 
the other hand, although half Scotch by 
descent, was territorially English; and 
the remaining competitors, with one or 
two exceptions, were unquestionably 
aliens. We are, however, ready to admit 
that, notwithstanding this interfusion of 
blood, the families of the higher nobility 
of Scotland, originally of Norman race, 
who were in constant intercourse with 
the English Court, must at this period 
have had far stronger English leanings 
than the lesser nobles or gentry. 

The much-contested question of the 
English suzerainty is treated by Mr. 
Burton with much clearness and im- 
partiality ; and we confess ourselves un- 
able to come to any conclusion but that 
at which he has arrived, that Scotland 
had up to 1292 been an independent 
kingdom. The chronicle evidence that 
has been adduced for the dependence of 
the Scots on the Anglo-Saxon monarchy 
and on William the Conqueror has been 

carefully entered into by Mr. E. W. 
Boberts'on, 1 and shown to consist wholly 
of interpolations and misrepresentations. 
Mr. Burton takes his stand on the 
broader and not less satisfactory ground 
that the supposed acts of homage belong 
to a period before the feudal relations 
which such a transaction involved had 
an existence in Scotland. He contends 
that Sir Francis Palgrave's ingenious 
theory of an Anglo-Saxon duplicate of 
the Eoman empire, of which the English 
king was the Basileus, while the Scot- 
tish king's position was analogous to 
that of an Elector, if it ever had existed 
in the imagination of any English king, 
was unheard of and unacknowledged in 
Scotland, where no interference of Eng- 
land in the affairs of the country would 
have been tolerated. Further, had such 
a prerogative existed, it could not have 
passed to William the Norman, unless 
his conquest had extended to Scotland 
as well as England. In fact, William 
the Conqueror and William Eufus had 
in King Malcolm, instead of a vassal, a 
very troublesome enemy, who aided and 
abetted the enterprises of the dethroned 
dynasty, and acted in such wise that, had 
the alleged vassalship really existed, the 
fief would have been forfeited times 
without number to the overlord. One 
authentic instance no doubt exists of 
homage paid for Scotland to a king of 
England, but it is the exception that 
proves the rule. William the Lion 
having in the course of a raid into Eng- 
land had the misfortune to be captured 
and taken to Falaise, Henry II. demanded 
and obtained, as the price of his libera- 
tion, an admission of feudal superiority; 
and homage was then and there paid by 
William for Scotland. But, fifteen years 
later, Richard Coeur-de-Lion, by a charter 
to William, formally cancelled the con- 
cessions made to Henry, a release which 
was in itself a sufficient answer to 
Edward's demand : and it is further 
clear that Henry's bargain with his cap- 
tive would have been an absurd and 
unmeaning one had the prerogative of 
suzerainty been already his. Moreover, 
1 Scotland under her Early Kings, vol. ii. 

Bartons History cf Scotland. 


tha relation of a vassal to his overlord 
in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries 
WLS a very tangible matter, involving 
many unequivocal tokens of subjection, 
of which William and his nobility had 
ample experience while the treaty of 
Falaise was in force. 

But to return to the competitors for 
tho crown. The real struggle lay be- 
tween Bruce and Baliol. Baliol, grand- 
son of the elder daughter of the Earl of 
Huntingdon, had primd facie a better 
claim than Bruce, the son of the younger 
daughter. But Bruce put forward a 
plea which deserves our notice, chiefly 
bee ause it has been the means of mis- 
leading posterity. He averred that 
Alexander II., on the verge of life and 
despairing of issue, had, in the presence 
of the assembled nobles and clergy, ap- 
pointed him, though son of the younger 
sister, heir to the crown in preference 
to Devorgoil, the daughter of the elder 
sister, who was then alive. On the 
strength, of this plea, historians have 
taken it for granted that such a nomi- 
nation did actually take place, and 
Mr. Burton brings it into his narrative 
at its supposed date. The whole trans- 
action, however, can be shown to be 
purely mythical. Alexander II. was 
not in very advanced age, but only 
forty-three, when he had a son, born in 
1241, afterwards Alexander III., the 
issue of his second marriage with Marie 
de Couci, which had taken place two 
years previously. Up to two years be- 
fore that marriage there was a nearer 
heir-male, who could never have been 
postponed to either Devorgoil or Bruce, 
namely, John, surnamed Le Scot, Earl 
of Huntingdon and Chester, the mater- 
nal ancle of both. 1 There also existed 
all along a still nearer heir in the Prin- 
cess Isabella, sister of Alexander II. 
and wife of Eoger Bigod, Earl of Nor- 
folk, who is mentioned by Matthew 
Paris as alive four years after her 
brother's death. 2 

1 He died, according to the contemporary 
authority of Matthew Paris, in 1237, under 
suspicion of poison. HistoriaAnglorum, Eolls 
Edit., p. 398. 

2 Matthew Paris,' Historia Major, Edit. 
1645, p. 581. 

Baliol, in whose favour Edward's award 
was pronounced, had no sooner done 
homage for his new kingdom than both 
he and the people of Scotland began to 
experience what feudal superiority ac- 
tually meant; and it was plain that 
the Scots would not brook to be ruled 
by a servant of Edward. The decrees 
of the Scottish king and parliament 
were appealed to the English king and 
parliament, and Baliol, summoned to 
attend, was treated like a contumacious- 
litigant. Indignity on indignity was 
heaped on the vassal-king, till at last 
the lord-paramount, having succeeded 
in goading him into rebellion, declared 
the fief to be forfeited. He thereupon 
marched into Scotland, sacked Berwick, 
then a city of merchant princes, put 
the inhabitants to the sword, and wan- 
tonly destroyed their property. This 
done, he made a progress northwards, 
forcing a brief allegiance from the 
subjugated people, and garrisoning the 
strongholds with Englishmen untainted 
with Scotch influences. The shame of 
their position, and the crushing weight 
of a military occupation, again called 
Scotland to arms ; but the brief deeds 
of valour achieved under the leadership 
of Wallace led only to new and over- 
whelming inroads of the enemy, termi- 
nating in the execution of the Scottish 
hero, with every revolting adjunct of 

Wallace's fate was, however, a blun- 
der of the first magnitude on the part 
of Edward, who knew not what an un- 
tameable people he had to do with. 
The bloody trophies dispersed through 
Scotland, in place of enforcing abject 
submission, deepened a thousand-fold 
the already existing hate, and provoked 
an unextiuguishable longing for revenge. 
Robert Bruce, grandson of the com- 
petitor, now threw himself into the 
cause, and found the country ready to 
make another effort to cast away its 
chains. The tidings that Scotland was 
once more in arms, and Bruce crowned 
at Scone, astounded the King of Eng- 
land. A mighty invasion followed, in 
which we for the first time find Norman 
barons who had taken part in the 


Burtons History of Scotland. 

revolt condemned to suffer the death of 
traitors. In the succeeding struggle, 
Bruce passed through difficulties and 
hardships innumerable, the country being 
meanwhile given over to slaughter, 
plundering, and famine, till at last the 
victory of Bannockhurn sealed Scotland's 
independence, and restored to her a 
national life. 

But while freedom had been achieved 
the country's resources were gone. Had 
quiet times followed, and an energetic 
ruler succeeded Robert Bruce, Scotland 
might ere long have recovered herself. 
But David II. was a child when his 
father died, and when he grew up he 
proved one of the weakest of Scotland's 
princes. Before the war of indepen- 
dence, many of the higher nobility 
owned large domains in both countries ; 
and such of them as had sided with 
England had, as might be expected, 
forfeited their Scotch estates. These 
now rallied round Edward Baliol, and 
succeeded in seating him for a time on 
the throne. As the power of the Crown 
diminished, that of the nobility in- 
creased ; and feuds breaking out among 
the leading nobles, kept the country in 
a state of civil war. Then there was a 
constant predatory warfare kept up with 
England in the form of border raids, 
the Scots making marauding incursions 
into Cumberland and Westmoreland, 
and carrying off what booty they could, 
while, as soon as the English attempted 
reprisals, they laid waste their own 
country to starve the enemy. 

Regarding one curious episode of Da- 
vid's reign, the king's marriage with Mar- 
garet Logie, we find Mr. Burton falling 
into several of the mistakes of his pre- 
decessors. Margaret was not altogether 
so obscure or isolated a person as has 
been represented. She was a Logie, not, 
as generally said, by birth, but by mar- 
riage, and widow of the son of Sir John 
Logie of Logie, who suffered death in 
the preceding reign for a conspiracy to 
place Lord Soulis on the throne. She 
was far from young, had been at least 
seven years a widow, and had a grown- 
up son. Queen Margaret and her son 
headed a powerful political faction, at 

whose instigation the Stewarts were 
imprisoned for a time in Lochleven 
Castle. -, The story of Margaret's divorce, 
and the subsequent decrees in her favour 
by the Papal Court, doubtingly alluded 
to by Mr. Burton, are confirmed by State- 
paper evidence ; and such an ascendency 
had this remarkable woman acquired 
over the Pope and cardinals, that after 
her husband's death she brought Scot- 
land to the verge of an excommunica- 
tion, from which it was only saved by 
her opportune decease. 1 
On David's death, the crown devolved 
on Robert II. the first king of the House 
of Stewart. "We have it on the con- 
temporary authority of Wyntoun, that 
immediately on his accession the Earl 
of Douglas, assuming an attitude of 
defiance, brought an armed force to 
Linlithgow, and that serious mischief 
would have resulted, had not the Earls 
of March and Moray interfered, and 
pacified Douglas by contriving a mar- 
riage between his son and the king's 
daughter. 2 We are not told what the 
cause of contention was ; in those days 
of lawless disorder, a Douglas bearding 
his sovereign, especially a sovereign who 
had but yesterday been Steward of Scot- 
land, was hardly an abnormal occurrence. 
Had the rhyming chronicler known or 
believed that Douglas claimed the crown 
for himself, or that he did so in right 
of a descent from the Comyns or Baliols, 
this was exactly a matter on which, with 
his passion for genealogy, he would 
have been sure to expatiate. Bower, 
writing a century later, makes an ad- 
dition of this kind to the story, 3 which 

1 See Riddell's " Peerage and Consistorial 
Law," pp. 981, 1048. The only evidence of 
which we are aware bearing on Margaret's 
parentage is that of her armorial seal appended 
to a document in the Record Office ; and it 
inclines us to the belief that, like the wife of 
Robert III., she was a Drummond. A line of 
Logics of Logie, apparently sprung from her 
son, terminated a century later in an heiress, 
also a Margaret Logie, who married a younger 
son of the Earl of Erroll. The heirs of this 
marriage eventually succeeded to the earldom, 
and the present Earl of Erroll seems to be 
Queen Margaret's lineal descendant and repre- 
sentative. 2 Wyntoun, ix. c. 1. 
3 Scotichronicon, xiv. c. 36. 

Burton s History of Scotland. 


ass lines a yet more definite shape in 
the hands of the historian of the Douglas 
family. Hume of Godscroft, writing 
in 1644, asserts that Douglas claimed 
thr )ugh his mother Dornagilla, sister of 
the Eed Comyn, and daughter of John 
BaUd's sister, a statement which, though 
of in in called in question, has been re- 
peated by nearly all subsequent histo- 
rians, including Mr. Tytler 1 and Mr. 
Burton. That the head of the family 
whi ch had been the mainstay of Eobert 
Brnce, and afterwards the chief supporter 
of David against Edward Baliol, should 
]ay claim to the throne through the 
Bal -ols as against the heir of the Bruces 
world be, a priori, improbable enough. 
There is, however, positive evidence to 
disprove the genealogy. TheEedComyn's 
great grandson and lineal heir, David, 
Earl of Athole, was then alive, and in 
him any claim of Baliol representation 
thai could be supposed to come through 
the Comyns must have vested. The? 
mother of the Earl of Douglas, instead 
of being the fabled Dornagilla, was 
Beatrice, daughter of Sir David Lindsay 
of Crawford, and ancestress, through 
her second husband, of the house of 
Erskine. 2 

IVIr. Burton goes so far as to suggest 
that in the Baliol descent may be 
fourd the key to the power wielded 
by the Douglas family under the 
Jam Bses, a theory in refutation of which 
we may further advert to the now per- 
fectly ascertained fact that the third 
and all subsequent Earls of Douglas 
were descended, not from the brother 
of t'.ie good Sir James, who was sup- 
posed to have married Dornagilla Co- 
myn. but illegitimately from Sir James 
himself. 3 

1 ]\ r r. Tytler further suggests that Douglas 
had a Iso a claim through his wife, the Countess 
of Mj'.r, who was grand-daughter of Alexander 
Balio of Cavers. This Alexander was not, 
however, as he supposes, John Baliol's brother, 
but, i : connected at all, a mere collateral, who 
could not benefit by the royal descent of King 
John through his mother. 

2 "Wyntoun, viii. c. 3 ; Lord Lindsay's 
"Liv'js of the Lindsays," vol. i. p. 84. 

3 There is direct charter evidence to prove 
that 1 lie third earl was natural son of good Sir 
Jamet-. Reg. Mag. Sigrot. ii. 56. Lord Hailes, 
though, not aware of this, pointed out the im- 

Genealogical considerations were, how- 
ever, much mixed up with the events of 
the reigns of the earlier Stewarts. 
Robert I. had families by two different 
wives Elizabeth Mure and Euphemia 
Eoss ; and, doubts having arisen about 
the legitimacy and right of succession 
of the first family, he made in 1373, 
with consent of the Estates, a settlement 
of the crown, calling the sons of the 
first marriage and their male issue first to 
the throne, then the sons of the second 
marriage and their male issue, whom 
failing, there was a remainder to his 
heirs whatsoever, 1 a settlement which, 
by the way, would have given John, 
Duke of Albany, had he survived 
James Y., a preferable right to Queen 

This entail of the crown did not, 
however, prevent intrigues in favour 
of the younger family. James I.'s 
jealousy of the' descendants of Euphemia 
Eoss probably led to his illegal seizure 
of the earldom of Strathern, belonging 
of right to Malise Graham, heir-of-line 
of the second marriage; and it was 
Walter, Earl of Athole, heir-male of the 
second marriage, that, in pursuance of 
his pretensions to the throne, organized 
the conspiracy to which James fell a 
victim. 2 

possibility of his being, as supposed by Hume 
of Godscroft, brother of the second earl.- 
Annal. iii. 263. Mr. Burton falls into another 
very common error in Douglas genealogy, in 
bastardizing the " Knight of Liddesdale," who 
was the legitimate representative of the branch 
of the House of Douglas from which the Earl 
of Morton is descended. 

1 Mr. Burton seems to have overlooked the 
terms of this entail of the crown, when he 
describes the succession as " adjusted to the 
hereditary line which genealogical lawyers say 
it ought to take without adjustment." This 
settlement, which all Scottish historians seem 
to ignore, is among the archives of the General 
Register House in Edinburgh, and 'has been 
printed in the Appendix to Robertson's 
"Index to Missing Charters." A previous 
settlement had been made by Robert II. in 
1371 on the eldest son of his first marriage 
and his son, but going no further. 

2 One would have thought all dangers to the 
Stewarts from this source would have been at 
an end by the seventeenth century. But as 
late as 1630, William, Earl of Meiiteith, lineal 
heir of the second family, procured himself to 
be served heir to David, Earl of Strathern, 
eldest son of Euphemia Ross ; and at the same 


Bartons History of Scotland. 

During the whole reign of the irre- 
solute and unwarlike Eobert III. as 
well as for fourteen years after his death, 
the real ruler was his brother Robert, 
Duke of Albany, whose talent and 
strength of will enforced some degree 
of order on the unruly barons, while 
his energy, well seconded by the Earl of 
Mar, saved the country from an irruption 
of Highlanders that threatened to reduce 
it to absolute barbarism. To the vigour 
of his administration it seems also to 
have been due that no attempt was 
made to assert the supposed rights of 
the family of Euphemia Eoss, and 
Scotland was thus saved the misery of a 
second contested succession. Albany 
has, nevertheless, left a bad repute in 
history ; and popular belief brands him 
with the murder of his nephew, the 
Duke of Eothesay. Mr. Burton speaks 
somewhat guardedly about this murder, 
which certainly rests on a slighter foun- 
dation of evidence than is generally 
supposed. Albany undoubtedly took a 
prominent part in the arrest and im- 
prisonment of the heir apparent, a pro- 
ceeding which may have been justified 
by the circumstances, and was certainly 
approved of by the king. Wyntoun, 
who was a contemporary of the event, 
mentions the Duke of Eothesay's death 
without a word about foul play. 1 
Bower says he died of dysentery, " or, as 
others say, of starvation ; " 2 and in 
another passage he denounces the Earl 
of Athole as the real instigator of the 

time, probably rather from foolish vanity than 
ambition, solemnly renounced his right to the 
crown, of Scotland. Visionary as one would 
have supposed that right to be, the idea of it 
so alarmed Charles I. that he insisted on a 
reduction of the service, which was set aside 
on the notoriously false pretext that David, 
Earl of Strathern, died without issue. The 
Earl of Menteith was degraded from the im- 
portant offices which he held of Justice-General, 
President of the Council, and Lord of Session ; 
and the greatest anxiety was evinced by the 
king to efface all vestige of evidence that the 
service had ever taken place. The representa- 
tion of the family of Euphemia Ross passed in 
more recent times to the well-known Captain 
Barclay Allardice of Ury. He also claimed 
the Earldom of Strathern ; but we never heard 
that liis claim gave any uneasiness to the House 
of Hanover. 

1 Wyntoun, viii. c, 12. 

2 Scotichronicon, xv. c. 12. 

murder. 1 There was a parliamentary 
investigation into the circumstances of 
Eothesay's confinement and death, in 
which he was found to have died of 
natural causes, and a remission was 
granted to Albany and Douglas for 
their share in his arrest and imprison- 
ment, acts which, though justifiable 
morally, might in strict law be inter- 
preted as treason. Whether Albany 
was guilty or innocent, the sensational 
details adopted in the "Fair Maid of 
Perth " rest on no better authority than 
the vivid fancy of the fabulous annalist, 
Hector Boece, who farther assures us 
tli at notable miracles were wrought by 
the prince's corpse, but ceased as soon 
as his death was avenged by James I. 

Albany's son, Duke Murdoch, who 
succeeded him in the regency, had none 
of his father's administrative capacity, 
and under him the kingdom again 
relapsed into a state of unlicensed 
anarchy, which lasted till the return of 
James I. from his English captivity. 
James no sooner assumed the reins of 
government, than he showed himself 
resolved to put down the disorders of 
the time with a high hand. In this he 
was in great measure successful ; but 
his own acts often showed too little 
regard for the even-handed justice which 
he would have had others respect. It 
is impossible to vindicate his execution 
of the unoffending Duke Murdoch and 
his sons, 2 and the arbitrary confiscations 
by which he endeavoured to break the 
power of the leading nobility. James's 
assassination was, however, not the act 
of the offended nobles, nor yet of Eobert 
Graham, who appeared most prominently 
in it, but of Walter, Earl of Athole, son 
of Euphemia Eoss, the rival claimant of 
the throne, who, craftily keeping in the 
background, put forward Graham as his 
tool. 3 The foul deed excited universal 

1 Scotichronicon, xvi. c. 27. 

2 The youngest son was not, as Mr. Burton 
says, put to death with the rest. He escaped 
to Ireland, and became progenitor of the Irish 
Earls of Castle Stuart and Scottish Earls of 

3 The evidence of contemporary documents 
puts it beyond doubt that the conspiracy was 
organized by the Earl of Athole. Mr. Burton, 
while inclined to take the view above ex- 
pressed, suggests as a difficulty that it was not 

Bartons History of Scotland. 


execration, and prompt vengeance was 
done on the murderers, the arch-con- 
spirator Athole being executed with 
every refinement of mediaeval torture, 
and with a mock crown of iron on his 
head, in allusion to his pretensions. 

A long period of misrule followed : 
indeed the history of Scotland for the 
next hundred years presents an almost 
unvarying spectacle of feuds, struggles, 
and plots, the powerful of the land com- 
mitting the most heinous crimes un- 
punished, and alternately making a tool 
of their sovereign and setting him at 
defiance. Four Jameses in turn came 
to the throne in childhood, and had no 
sooner arrived at man's estate than they 
were cut off by a more or less tragic 

Most prominent among the nobles 
were the Earls of Douglas, who had 
revenues . equal to those of the Crown, 
kept large trains of armed followers 
ready to obey their commands, created 
knights, and k made a sort of mimic par- 
liament of their baronial courts. They 
were for a time Dukes of Touraine in 
France, a position almost more brilliant 
than that of King of Scotland. Their 
influence, like that of the Hamiltons at 
a later date, was not a little increased 
by intermarriages with the royal house, 
which put them in the position of pos- 
sible heirs to the throne. There was a 
high-bred chivalry in their character, 
that would not stoop to meanness or 
treachery; and, if they at times over- 
awed the Crown, the Crown when it 
had the power was little scrupulous in 

Athole, but Malise Graham, grandson by a 
daughter of Athole's deceased brother, who 
would "have been the heir had James been dis- 
qualiiied. The answer is to be found in the 
leaning which existed towards male descent in 
the royal succession, as exhibited in the above- 
mentioned settlement of 1373, and also in the 
settlement by Robert Bruce in 1314, on his 
brother and his heirs male in preference to his 
daughter. Further, if the infant James II. 
could have been got rid of, the entail of 1373 
left no one between Athole and the crown 
except the proscribed and expatriated son of 
Murdoch, Duke of Albany. The execution of 
Duke Murdoch and his sons is said by Bower 
to hive been instigated by Athole, who 
probsbly aimed at extinguishing the heirs 
male of Elizabeth Mure. ScotichronicoH. Edit. 
Good; 11, voLii. p. 503. 

the way in which it attempted to get 
rid of them. The guardians of James II. 
with great show of courtesy invited the 
sixth Earl of Douglas, a boy of fifteen, 
and his brother, on a friendly visit to 
Edinburgh Castle : and, while partaking 
of the royal hospitality in unsuspecting 
security, the two brothers were seized, 
put through a mock trial, and beheaded 
on the spot. The eighth earl was in like 
manner lured to the Court at Stirling 
under the protection of a safe-conduct 
by James II. himself, now grown up. 
He came without misgiving, and was 
received with every distinction ; but 
after supper the king, breaking out into 
reproaches, drew his dagger and stabbed 
him. This murder called all Scotland 
to arms, to arbitrate between the Crown 
and the Douglases. The king was 
victorious, partly through the aid of the 
Earl of Angus, a scion of the Douglas 
family, whose prudent adherence to the 
royal cause procured him a grant of the 
forfeited estates of his kinsman. The 
Earls of Angus were soon as formidable 
as the elder branch of the house had 
been; but we miss in them the noble 
attributes of the Earls of Douglas. The 
fifth Earl of Angus, known in history 
as "Archibald Bell-the-Cat," intrigued 
with England to transfer the crown 
from James III. to Alexander, Duke of 
Albany, his brother, and headed two 
rebellions, the latter of which ended 
fatally for James at Sauchieburn. The 
reign of James IV. was somewhat less 
troubled than usual : the king dealt 
with the nobles with more tact than his 
predecessors, and the nobles lived in 
comparative harmony with one another. 
In the absence of external hostilities, 
peaceful pursuits were beginning to be 
thought of, and a period of prosperity, 
plenty, and comfort seemed dawning. 
But alas ! these fair prospects came to a 
doleful ending at Flodden : and in the 
minority of James V. the Douglas power 
was again nearly supreme. The sixth 
Earl of Angus, husband of the Queen 
Dowager, obtaining possession of the 
person of the king, filled every office 
of trust in the kingdom with his rela- 
tions and dependants. James, at last 
escaping from his custody, swore that 


Burton's History of Scotland. 

as long as lie lived no Douglas should 
have a place in the realm; and he 
kept his word. 

The violence and ferocity of the times 
were doubtless a direct result of the 
long-continued wars with England, 
which absorbed Scotland's resources too 
completely to allow her the means of 
social progress. Then the bulk of the 
population had been trained to fight the 
common foe under the banner of their 
chiefs ; and, when a cessation of hostili- 
ties came, we need not wonder that they 
were more ready to turn their swords 
against the enemies of their lord than 
to beat them into ploughshares. 

It is rather those who are the curse 
than those who are the salt of society 
that are apt to become prominent in a 
rude age : and we cannot doubt that, 
along with the feuds and contentions of 
which we read so much, there co-existed 
an undercurrent of virtue, happiness, 
and cultivation. The gentry probably 
led a more peaceful and civilized life 
than the higher nobles ; and from the 
days of the disputed succession they 
were certainly more unswervingly true 
to their country's cause. The power 
of the nobles relatively to the Crown 
was on the whole rather beneficial than 
otherwise, being a wholesome barrier, 
and the only one that circumstances 
, admitted, against a purely despotic rule. 
The burgesses had been from the days 
of Eobert Bruce a branch of the com- 
munitas, though they had never been 
classed, as in England, in the same 
estate with the lesser barons : these last 
formed in Scotland a part of the estate 
of the nobles. After the war of inde- 
pendence, however, the burgess element 
had dwindled into insignificance. The 
towns had been burnt and plundered, 
and the unsettled state of the country 
was unfavourable to such pursuits as 
commerce and manufactures. In other 
countries we find the citizens taking up 
an antagonistic position to the nobility ; 
but this was not the case in Scotland, 
where they habitually looked up to the 
nobles as their natural friends and pro- 
tectors. Most of the towns had grown 
up under the castle of some powerful 
lord, on whom, or one of his family, the 

chief magistracy was supposed naturally 
to devolve. In feudal Scotland there was 
indeed no contest of class against class. 
It must not be overlooked how many 
practically useful laws were enacted 
amid the din of wars and conflicts. The 
peasant had a fixity of tenure bestowed 
on him, and acts were framed to check 
all sorts of feudal abuses. There was a 
strong wide-spread sense of the propriety 
of even-handed justice between man 
and man without regard to social status, 
not very comprehensible to the French 
knights that were occasional visitants, 
who marvelled at the recognition of any 
civil rights among persons of inferior 
rank. Mr. Burton olirects our attention 
to a remarkable negative feature of 
Scottish legislation, that, while powers 
that could be put to practical use were 
freely conferred, there is not a trace of 
those merely invidious privileges and 
exemptions which tend to set one por- 
tion of the community against another. 
In the meetings of Parliament there was 
always a tie of common interest between 
the king and the estates, in the neces- 
sity for vigilance against the enemy : 
and the few parliamentary conflicts be- 
tween the Crown and nobles of which 
any trace has been left generally arose 
out of a suspicion of the king being in 
too close amity with England. Mr. 
Buckle's notion that the Crown and 
nobles of Scotland occupied markedly 
hostile positions during the whole feudal 
era must be received with considerable 
limitation : something like this was at 
times the case ; but many of the contests 
in which the Crown was engaged were 
less with the nobles generally than with 
the power of one particular family : and 
the disorders of the country arose far 
more from the contentions of one faction 
of nobles against another, than from 
those of the nobles as a class against 
the Crown. That a sentiment of con- 
stitutional loyalty pervaded feudal 
Scotland is shown by the unbroken 
hereditary succession of the sovereigns, 
notwithstanding the weakness of the 
executive : the heir of the throne, how- 
ever young or feeble, was always ac- 
knowledged, in theory at least, as 
monarch of the country. 








ARTHUR, with. his two pleasant com- 
panions, James and Reginald, went 
pleasantly oil southward past Coblentz, 
past Heidelberg, Stuttgard, to Munich, 
where perforce there was a little delay. 
Arthur was for pushing on as quickly as 
possible, and indeed grumbled good- 
nun: ouredly at being taken so far east- 
ward at all ; but the boys were too 
strong for him. They had made the 
acquaintance of Kaulbach at the Apol- 
linai is Kirche, and also in the Cathedral 
windows at Cologne ; and they were 
determined to go to the home of the 
man whom, after Landseer and Tenniel, 
they placed as the greatest living master 
in Europe. They talked Kaulbach, and 
imitated him, Arthur, with a calm smile 
always in his face, laughing at them, 
and measuring their human figures with 
an inexorable pair of compasses which 
he h id, greatly to their discomfiture. 

" ;.f you can draw the human figure 
com ctly and rapidly at thirty, boys," he 
used to say, " you will be able to do as 
much as any Englishman, save six, can. 
Pati< nee and work first ; freedom after- 
ward s. Nevertheless, go it ! This 
man' 3" right leg is longer than his left, 
but i t will shorten in time. There are 
men at the top of the tree who can't 
for t le life of them draw a man's legs of 
the s ime length. So go it. Who knows 
what you may do by hard work ? You 
may oe able to draw as well as a fourth- 
class Frenchman some day. Go it ! " 

Tl ey were thoroughly happy these 
three on this journey, and they took 
note* of one another to their mutual 

A] thur took note of James, and came 

to the conclusion that James was the 
finest lad of his age he had ever met. 
"It is not his personal beauty," he 
argued, " because, as a rule, handsome 
boys are a parcel of useless nuisances. 
It is not that he is a clever and brilliant 
boy, because in the first place he is not 
particularly either of those things ; and 
if he was, clever and brilliant boys are 
more utterly intolerable nuisances than 
handsome ones. It is not that he is 
amiable. Amiable boys are as great a 
pest as any kind of boy ; they are 
always in debt and in scrapes, and, what 
is worst of all, popular ; and a popular 
boy will ruin the best school in England. 
And you never get rid of them by scho- 
larships or exhibitions : they hang on 
your hands till they are twenty ; and, 
when old Father Time gets rid of them 
for you at last, they leave their personal 
habits behind them as school traditions : 
Old Tom and Old Bob in these days are 
quoted as precedents in the management 
of the school. There is the memory of 
a popular boy to put a spoke in every 
new wheel you try to set turning. If 
I ever went schoolmastering again, I 
would keep no boy after seventeen, and 
would write to any boy's father as soon 
as I saw that he was getting popular. 
This boy Sugden has debauched that 
school ; and I don't at all wonder at it, 
for he is really the finest fellow of his 
age I ever met. He will be quoted 
against the new head-master, whoever 
he may be, with eifect. / don't know 
what there is about the lad ; I suppose 
he is good," 

Arthur, of course, never dreamt that 
he was his own nephew : only four 
people knew that as yet. May I call 
the reader's attention to this fact ? Sil- 
cote's extremely slight attentions to 
James had all taken place before Silcote 


Silcote of Silcotes. 

knew that James was his own grandson. 
Rumour, dealing with an unaccountable 
man like the Squire, had developed 
these few growling attentions into a 
theory that Silcote would make him his 
heir. Lord Hainault, surely a safe man, 
entirely believed this preposterous fic- 
tion. To worship properly the goddess 
Fama you must live in the country. 
She gets pretty well worshipped in 
town, at clubs and in drawing-rooms; 
but her temples are in the counties. 

"Reginald," mused Arthur further, 
" is an ass. The only redeeming point 
in him is his respect and love for this 
peasant boy James. And the most un- 
fortunate part of the business is, that now 
dear old Algy is dead it is more than 
probable that Reginald will be made 
heir. And he will marry that silly 
little brimstone Anne. Confound it ! all 
the property shan't go like that. There 
has been sin enough and bother enough 
in getting it together and keeping it 
together. There is some sentimental 
feeling my father has toward Algy's 
mother, which will come into play now 
the dear old boy is dead. And he will 
leave everything to Reginald on con- 
dition of his marrying Anne. I wish 
to heaven that this James Sugden was 
a Silcote and heir. 

"But I will not stand this," he added 
aloud, rising up and pacing the fifth 
room of their long suite of apartments 
at Munich. " jSTo," he went on, throwing 
open the door and bursting into the 
fourth room "I will be heir myself 
sooner. He' oifered the place to me 
once. I will hold him to his bargain." 

Kriegsthurm and the Princess never 
were further at sea than he was just 
now. His wits were somewhat got 
together by noticing that James was 
sitting upon the floor, and his painting 
tools were scattered far and wide. 

"What is the matter, James?" he 
asked. " Why, I was just thinking of 
you !" 

"I should hardly have thought it, 
sir/' said James, laughing. " You have 
knocked me and my apparatus over so 
cleverly that I should have thought that 
you were thinking of some one else." 

" Did I knock you over ? " asked 
Arthur, earnestly. 

" Well, with the assistance of the 
door you did, sir." 

" I am extremely sorry, my clear 
boy," said Arthur, anxiously. " I was 
in hopes that these fits of half-uncon- 
scious absence were entirely gone ; but 
I am getting the better of them, de- 
cidedly. This must be the very lost 
of them. Let me help you to pick up 
your paints. You should not have sat 
so near the door, and I should not have 
opened it so quickly. We were both 
in the wrong." 

" I sat there for the light, sir." 

" Then you are in the right and I 
am in the wrong. I will make amends. 
I consent to go to Salzburg without 
further opposition : out of our way as 
it is." 

" You are very kind, sir. I did 
want to see it so much." 

James on his part noticed with 
wonder several things about Arthur. 
Hisir ritability was gone ; that was the 
first thing. Moreover, he never dic- 
tated, but consulted quietly with James, 
sometimes even with Reginald, and 
yielded easily. His old rapid vivacious 
activity had given place to a quiet con- 
templative habit of body and mind. 
He was, for the first time in his life, 
tolerant of inactivity, and seemed to 
like it. He was tolerant of trifles, nay, 
began to be interested in them. James, 
for instance, got himself a wonderful 
waistcoat at Munich, which had to be 
altered, and Arthur took the deepest 
interest in the alteration. He began to 
talk to casual people at the cafes, and 
found them out to be the most wonderful 
people ever seen or heard of. He told 
James that gardening was a neglected 
art, and that he certainly should take 
it in hand as soon as he got to England 
again ; bought Reine Marguerite and 
stock seeds, and packed them off to 
Silcotes to the gardener, with many 
directions, regardless of expense. He 
was going to learn to paint (under 
James's directions), he was going to shoot, 
he was going to fish, all quietly and in 
good time, with the best advice (as he 

Silcote of Silcotes. 


was before lie went to Boppart, he would 
have consulted Elaine's "Encyclopaedia" 
ove: night, and ridden a steeplechase 
next morning). At present his prin- 
cipal employment was the learning of 
military tactics, because " James had 
promised to take him to the war." 

A change indeed : but what wonder 1 
He was a man of keen vivacious in- 
tellect, with as much wish to enjoy life 
as he had when he used to run with 
the boats at Oxford years ago, when he, 
and Algy, and Tom were young and 
innc cent. The doctors had condemned 
him to death ; and he had got his 
reprieve. He was young, and had 
begun once more to love life and what 
life (an give most dearly ; and that new- 
found love had softened and changed 
him. James was painting away finely 
one day. Piloty and Kaulbach were 
to look to their laurels. The son of 
Mrs. Tom Silcote was not likely to be 
balked by want of audacity, or tiresome 
attention to such little matters as correct 
drawing. In three close days, James 
had produced a really fine historical 
picture (barring drawbacks, such for 
instance as that no dealer would have 
given five pounds for it, and that all 
the legs and arms were odd ones). There 
was no sky; but the Roman amphi- 
theatre, with tier after tier of almost 
innumerable spectators, was piled up to 
the lop of the canvas. Close to you, 
divided from the arena by a deep space 
of boarding, lolled the Roman emperor ; 
fat, gross, and in purple, looking with 
a lazy drunken leer at what was passing 
in the scene below in the foreground. 
Behind him was dandy Petronius 
smoothing his beard, and looking at 
nothing ; and others, not to be men- 
tioned here, but with .whom every 
schoolboy who has handled Lempriere, 
the first book generally put into his 
hand, is perfectly familiar. In the ex- 
treme foreground of this picture of 
James's were two boys, Christians, 
condemned to the lions, one about 
eightt en, the other about sixteen. .The 
elder, with a short sword drawn back 
behin 1 his hip, was looking at you, 
with parted lips, ready for battle, while 

No. 92. VOL. xvi. 

his brother cowered behind him in utter 
ghastly terror. Between you and them, 
on the sand, was the shadow of a 
crouching lion. You were the lion : 
despair and terror were close to you 
in these handsome lads; above them 
were the unutterable luxury and vice 
described by Suetonius (if he lies not) 
in the person of the Emperor and 
Sporus; beyond, tier after tier, the 
wicked cruel old world, which exists 
now only in Spain, and in the colonies 
of the Latin races which still exist in 
America ; and which, since the failure 
of the Mexican expedition, seem happily 
in an evil case. 

" That is very fine," said Arthur. 
*' I give you credit for great genius. 
Piloty would have drawn better, but 
he could not have conceived better. 
Will you give me this 1 " 

" Of course I will, sir, heartily." 

" Now for some flake white and me- 
gilp ; Roberson's medium, hey ? Well, 
I am agreeable." And so, with flake 
white and Roberson's medium, he 
daubed the whole thing out. 

" It was hardly such a bung ' as to 
deserve that, sir," said James, quietly. 

" It ^was no ' bung,' " said Arthur ; 
" only try another subject next time." 

" I learnt that at school, sir." 

" Then forget it. You would never 
have attempted this picture if you had 
not come to Munich. Let us go on to 
Salzburg at once, and get your foolish 
will accomplished there. After that, 
mind, we go inexorably south-west- 

" I will follow you, sir." 

" Change the conversation. What 
do you like best ? " 

James, very much alarmed after the 
destruction of his picture lest the old 
Arthur should have returned, and the 
new Arthur have been only a deceiving 
fiend sent to lure him to his destruc- 
tion, replied, 

" That is a very difficult question to 
answer, sir." 

" But you can answer it, surely, my 
boy. I only asked for what you liked 
best ; surely you can answer that." 

" Weil," said James, speaking to the 



Silcote of Silcotes, 

new Arthur, " I consider May duke 
cherries as fine as anything.' Speaking 
about this part of the world, I should 
say that the vanille ices which Eeg. and 
I had at Aix-la-Chapelle, washed down 
with Bairischer, were as good as any- 

" Heaven help his stomach. Ices 
and small beer! You'll be grey at 
forty!" exclaimed Arthur. "How ill 
were you at Aix-la-Chapelle 1 " 

" Not very. I felt as if I had been 
drinking out of the bloodhounds' pan 
at Silcotes, and swallowed the brim- 
stone ; but that was the waters. Also 
I dreamt for the next fortnight that I 
had stolen a sitting of rotten eggs, and 
eaten them : that was also the waters. 
Eeg. shut up, and had the doctor." 
After the ices and beer?" 
" Exactly," said James. 
" What; I want to get at is this," said 
Arthur. " You enjoy life. What is it 
which makes life so enjoyable to you 1 ?" 
" I have no idea," said James. 
" You must have some sort of an 
idea. You are not a fool. Think." 

" Well," said James, after a pause. 
" I should say * hope.' Hope of gene- 
rally bettering myself : of rising higher 
some time or another. Succeeding in 
art, and rising to tlie position of having 
a house of my own and all that sort 
of thing." 

" I want to learn how to enjoy life," 
said Arthur. " It seems to me that no 
one could tell me better than yourself. 
As I understand you, your way of en- 
joying life is to wrap yourself up in 
yourself, and think only of your own 
personal advancement. I suppose you 
are right. Yet I am disappointed." 

" You are quite wrong," said James : 
" I have no self. AH that I think, 
attempt, or do, is done for another, and 
she is alone, nearly friendless, I doubt, 

and for aught I know penniless. I " 

" There, no more of it," said Arthur. 
" I understand there is another, then. 
That is all I wanted to know; never 
mind sentimental details. You would 
not enjoy life if there was not a chance 
of some one else enjoying it with you. 
I have heard all I wanted. Now for 

Salzburg, to-morrow, for I want to get 
down to the war, and we shall be late." 

They had been three days at Salz- 
burg, when Arthur, sitting quietly in 
his chair and reading, had, like a vast 
number of other men in a vast number 
of other stories, his attention called to 
a knock at the door, whereupon he 
called out, " Come in." 

There entered a pale, beardless man 
of about thirty-five, dressed in plain 
black. Arthur had time to notice that 
this man had very steady and beautiful 
eyes, before he rose from his seat and 
bowed deferentially to him. 

The stranger bowed low also, and 
spoke in English, and not very good 
English either, using however the uni- 
versal French title, as being the safest. 
" Monsieur, I think, labours under a 
mistake as to my social rank. I beg 
Monsieur to be seated, as I only come 
as a suitor, asking a favour." 

" You have got a beautiful tender 
face of your own, Mr. Sir," thought 
Arthur, as he seated himself with a 
bow ; " your wife did not want much 
wooing, I fancy." 

And the stranger said, also to him- 
self, "You are a fine-looking man, my 
pale, beardless priest. Twelve such 
as you among us would make twelve 
or thirteen crowns shake. Kriegsthurm 
never reckoned on you" 

Arthur began by saying pleasantly, 
" I am at your commands, sir." 

"I understand, sir," said Boginsky, 
"that you wish to go south to the 
war. I come to offer my services as 
courier, factotum, valet, what you will." 

"We never contemplated engaging 
the services of a gentleman in any of 
those capacities,' ' replied Arthur. ' ' We 
intend to go as mere happy-go-lucky 
Englishmen, see what we can, and 
imagine what we can't. I really think 
that we do not want you." 

"I really think that you do," said 
Boginsky. "You are absolutely igno- 
rant of military matters. I am a sol- 
dier, a general who has commanded a 
brigade; I will not at present say a 
division. I speak every language 
spoken in the Austrian army; you 

Silcote of Silcotes. 


certainly do not. I ain safe by an 
Austrian police passport on this side of 
tho soon-to-be-changed boundary; as 
soon as we are in Italy I am at home, 
Hungarian as I am, with the meanest 
m;ji in the army. I am extremely 
poor, which is in your favour (unless 
yo i commit the error of paying me too 
highly, and so making me independent 
of you). I am very amiable and good- 
na ,ured, which is in your favour also ; 
I f,m (personally, not politically) quite 
de^ perate, which is again in your favour ; 
and, what is more in your favour than 
all, I like your personal appearance, 
and you like mine." 

u You tempt me," said Arthur, fairly 
laughing. " As a general rule, I find 
that this plain, outspoken boldness, 
with a specimen of which you have 
jus:; favoured me, is the inseparable 
accident (to go no further) of a low 
rogue, who possesses the moral qualities 
of impudence and physical courage. 
You accuse me of liking your personal 
appearance. I confess it. I want, 
however, further tempting. May I 
ask. for instance, how a high-bred 
gentleman like yourself finds himself 
in this position? " 

' You have not dabbled, then, with 
poli tical changes, tending to democracy?" 

" Theoretically, yes ; practically, no," 
replied Arthur. "I have knocked to- 
gether as many constitutions as Sieves, 
if that is any use to you." 

" Yes ; but it is not, you know," said 
Eoginsky. " In England and America, 
all that sort of thing may be done 
uncommonly cheap. Men in England, 
for instance, of the aristocratic class, 
who live .by social distinctions, or at 
leasl get all their prestige from them, 
habitually take this tiger kitten of 
democracy into their drawing-rooms, 
and call it pretty dear, and say, 'Was 
ther ,) ever such a pretty, harmless kitten 
in tliis world 1 ' When the tiger-kitten 
grcrv s to a real tiger, and shows its 
nail; , if they stroke its velvet pads, 
thesi men say, 'Out on the nasty, 
ungi ateful beast ! ' and thank God that 
they are Whigs. I speak, I tell you 
fair! r , as a headlong democrat, as a man 

who, whether right or wrong, believes 
that universal democracy is only a matter 
of time, and as a man who has sacrificed 
marriage, wealth, home, friends, position, 
for my idea, knowing well all the time 
that I should be dead and rotten in 
my gra^e years before my idea had 
become realized." 

Arthur rose and stood before the man, 
and bowed his head in sheer respect to 
him. Here was a man with a faith ; a 
faith which, unluckily, as he thought at 
first, brought a new Gospel with it ; 
but afterwards he asked himself whether 
or no it was not the real old Gospel after 
all. How he settled this matter is no 
possible business of mine. I am not 
Arthur Silcote's keeper. 

Boginsky went on. " I have said too 
much possibly, possibly too little. Let 
it go? You ask me how a nobleman 
like myself found myself in this position, 
and I answer by challenging you to air 
the mildest and most innocent of your 
Sieyes constitutions on the continent of 
Europe. You said also that you wanted 
further tempting; I cannot tempt you 
further. You aroused the devil or the 
angel in me somehow, and I have no 
further courtesies to interchange with 
you. I make you once more the offer 
that I should go to the war with you in 
a menial capacity. I like you and your 
looks, but I am getting weary of life." 

" Come with us, then," said Arthur ; 
" come frankly and heartily. We are 
rich, ignorant, and perhaps Philistine ; 
certainly indiscreet by taking you, of 
whom we know nothing, except that 
you are a dangerous conspirator. Join 
us, not as a servant, but as a companion. 
We of course pay all expenses ; and, as 
for any extra honorarium, you had better 
leave that to one of the Silcotes, pos- 
sibly the most extravagant and open- 
handed family in England, according to 
their lights and their means. The bar- 
gain is struck 1 " 

" Certainly." 

" Then there is one other little detail 
to which I wish to call your attention. 
I have not the pleasure of knowing 
your name." 

" Eoginsky." 

I 2 


Silcote of Silcotes. 

Boginsky ? " said Arthur, in 

" The younger Eoginsky himself. 
tfo other." 

Arthur, who had heen standing up 
until now, sank back in his chair and 
took up his book. " Come and take 
off my boots, General," he said. " Let 
it be written on my tomb, that he had 
his boots taken off by the most bril- 
liant guerilla democratic general in 
Europe. So this is what continental 
democracy brings a man to ! My dear 
Count, have you dined ? " T 

" I really have not," said Boginsky. 
"But I have got so very much used to 
hunger, among other things, that I can 
well wait. After I have served your 
dinner for you, I shall be glad of the 

" Don't speak to me like that ftgain, 
Count," said Arthur, sharply. " I beg 
you to remember that there are such 
animals still left in the world as English 
gentlemen. You are our guest from 
this moment. If I have offended you 
by my coarse insular jest of asking 
you to take my boots off, I have only 
to say that it was, through its utter 
incongruity, the highest compliment 
which my stupidity suggested to me. 
Take my book, sir, and make yourself 
comfortable. I will go after dinner, 
and try to find out when my two erratic 
boys are likely to be at home." And 
so he went. 

Boginsky sat, and began looking at 
his book, but not reading it. " That 
man is a gentleman," he said after a 
time. " And he will make a gentleman 
of me again. God help me. I have 
risen very high. I have given up every- 

1 This is bold, but not impossible. If the 
reader had seen the younger Boginsky where 
I saw him, he would know it : one says nothing 
of Frangipanni, still less of Napoleon at Ham. 
Yet things are distinctly better for unsuccessful 
continental politicians than they were. Mont 
St. Michel itself has become a sentimental 
show place, where idle contributoi-s to this 
Magazine may get themselves shut up in dun- 
geons, mid, what is still better, get let out 
again by knocking at the door. In England, 
America, and, last and most glorious, in Italy 
(of all places in the world), unsuccessful con- 
tinental politicians are safe. 

thing : name, fame, life, position, and 
the power of doing good, I fear, also. 
Yet I have fallen very low ; I have 
taken Austrian money from Kriegs- 
thurm : and I have offered to be this 
man's valet. No man of the present 
generation will be alive to see demo- 
cracy on its legs. Garibaldi goes for 
monarchy. It is very hard. The forty 
years in the desert shadowed it out 
to us. Erangipanni will see his will 
worked out ; he will see Italy united 
under a bull-faced Sardinian chamois- 
hunter. But as for the poor demo- 
crats I wonder whether we shall be 
conscious of what goes on after death. I 
should like to see the old cause triumph. 
But then again I would sooner die 
the second death, and be annihilated 
utterly, cease to be, if that were pos- 
sible, than see it beaten. I am mazed 
with it all. Suppose we got it and it 
failed ! 

" This gentle Englishman is gone 
after his boys. I will read my book 
then : Edmund About. You will not do 
much for us, or such as you. Our 
heads are weary, and some of us are 
getting fierce. * Sans compter le petit 
Mortara.' That is very good, and makes 
one laugh, though one wishes one's 
work was done and that one were dead. 
We shan't get much out of you Erench, 
at least if your opposition is led by 
Thiers, whose own mild democracy 
means mere Erench aggrandizement." 

When Arthur came back he found 
him walking thoughtfully up and down 
the room. " I have something very 
particular and important to say to you, 
Mr. Silcote," he said. 

Arthur was all attention. 

" I wish to tell you, sir, to what I owe 
the honour of your acquaintance. Erom 
one reason or another I found myself, 
but a few days ago, in extreme poverty 
and considerable danger at Vienna ; I 
accepted a mission to this place which 
gave me safety and a little money. I 
was commissioned to seek your firotege 
Sugden here, and involve him with the 

"And you accepted this mission ?" 
said Arthur with emphasis. 

Silcote of Silcotes. 


( I do not look much like a deceiver 
of youth," said Boginsky, laughing. " I 
accepted the mission lest a worse man 
might be sent on it. But I would 
hai'dly have thought it necessary to 
speak to you on the subject had it not 
been that I have too much reason to fear 
the t the plot against this innocent youth 
has developed into something much 
darker and fouler than merely involving 
him with the police ; and that it is my 
duty to warn you against what may be 
a very serious disaster." 

Arthur sat down and watched him 

* : The man who sent me has evidently 
distrusted me, and sent another to 
watch, me. Kriegsthurm is losing his 
head, or he would never have made the 
mistake of sending a lad whom I know 
to watch me. Had I ever intended to 
carry out his intentions, this act of his 
of .setting a spy on me would have ab- 
solved me from my engagement with 
him. "Will you come to the window 
with me 1 " 

They went. Boginsky pointed to a 
figure lying lazily on a bench under 
some linden-trees, the figure of a hand- 
some olive- complexioned youth tolerably 
well dressed, lying in a beautiful care- 
less artistic attitude, with his face turned 
towards their house. 

<l That young man," said Boginsky, 
"is a young Roman democrat, known 
to rue, although my person is unknown 
to him. I have gathered from him that 
he is commissioned by Kriegsthurm to 
watih your young friend James Sugden, 
and to report on all our proceedings. 
He came to Vienna in the suite of Miss 
Heathton, the travelling governess of 
Miss Anne Silcote. He was abruptly 
disc barged from their suite, because he 
was unable to keep to himself his frantic 
admiration for Miss Silcote. The man 
who commissioned ' him, Kriegsthurm, 
has inflamed his mind to madness by 
telling him that Miss Anne Silcote is 
devotedly attached to this Paris apple 
of a boy James. The young dog is a 
worthless member of a good Roman 
family, among whose family traditions 
is Jissassination. Whether he carries 

knives or Orsini bombs I cannot say ; 
but he has a nasty dangerous look 
about the eyes. I only know that if 
I saw him handling anything like a 
black cricket-ball, with ten or a dozen 
short spikes on it, I should shout 
' Orsini ! ' run down the street, and 
never stop till I got round the next 

" Do you mean to say there is a 
probability of his murdering James 1 " 

" No, not a probability, but an abso- 
lute certainty," said Boginsky. "I 
rather think that I am included in the 
black list myself." 

" If it were not for your shrewd face 
and your calm quiet eyes, I should 
think that you were mad," said Arthur. 
" This is going to see the war with a 
vengeance. But I cannot make head 
or tail of the story yet. "What possible 
cause of anger can this Kriegsthurm 
have against James 1 " 

"Kriegsthurm inter alia is right- 
hand man to your aunt the Princess 
Castelnuovo. He was her confidant in 
some old political plots, and in other 
things of which I cannot speak to you, 
you being her nephew and a gentleman. 
She is devoted to your brother Thomas, 
and wishes to see him in possession 
of the family estates. Kriegsthurm's 
interest is, of course, the same as that 
of Colonel Silcote your brother, of whom 
again, as your brother, I wish to speak 
with the profoundest respect. I only 
speak of Kriegsthurm. Kriegsthurm is 
apt to be unscrupulous at times (he 
could have stopped Orsini, but did 
not), and this boy, James Sugden, 
stands alone between the inheritance 
of the estates and Colonel Silcote. 
Consequently Kriegsthurm wishes him 
out of the way. And so you have a 
noble young Roman lying on a bench 
in front of your door, with knives in 
his boots, and, for anything I know, 
explosive black cricket-balls covered 
with percussion spikes in his coat 
pockets. If he were to tumble off that 
bench now, and exploding his bombs 
to go off in a flame of fire, I might be 
pleased, but should not be in the least 
surprised. A British newspaper would 


Silcote of Silcotes. 

describe it as a 'remarkable 'accident,' 
and a British jury would bring in a 
verdict as 'Death by the visitation of 
God.' But I have suffered by conti- 
nental politics, and understand them. 
That young man is dangerous." 

"You ought all to be in Bedlam 
together," bounced out Arthur. "James 
Sugden the next in succession ! Why, 
he is a peasant boy born near the park- 
gates ! My father, who hates boys 
beyond measure, has never interchanged 
fifty words with him altogether. I am 
my father's heir. /, who speak, come 
into entire possession of three-fourths 
of the whole property at my father's 
death. I objected to the arrangement, 
but he has persisted in it, and I have 
a letter upstairs from my father's lawyer 
assuring me of the fact; written, I 
believe, by my father's orders, in con- 
sequence of some old and worthless 
papers having been stolen from his 
bedroom by his servants. The boy 
Sugden has no more to do with my 
father's will than you have, and the 
rogue Kriegsthurm must be mad." 

"There you spoke right, sir," said 
Boginsky ; " there you spoke very well 
indeed. Our good old Kriegsthurm has 
lost his head, and with his head his 
morality political, and other. I have 
feared it for some time ; and I dread 
'that what you say is too true. He has 
been going wrong for some time. His 
principles were really sound and demo- 
cratic at one time, but he got debauched. 
He trimmed too much. I noticed, years 
ago, that he was in possession of the 
arguments of our opponents, and could 
state them logically, a fatal thing in 
politics ; then I noticed that he would 
talk, and even eat and drink, with aris- 
tocrats, a still more fatal fact against 
him. It was followed, of course, by 
his taking to charlatanism, to table- 
rapping, and spirit-calling; and ended, 
of course, by his being involved with 
the great authors of all confusion, the 
Silcotes. Poor old Kriegsthurm ! He 
has lost his head by plotting without 
principle. Dear old fellow ! I must 
write to Frangipanni about him. Fran- 
gipanni has a great deal of influence 

with him. Poor old Kriegsthurm ! I 
am so sorry for him." 

" Yet he compassed your death," said 
Arthur, looking keenly into Boginsky's 
face, and thinking, " I wish I had your 

Boginsky, looking at Arthur, and 
thinking, "I wish I was like you," 
replied, " This is a mere matter of 
detail. Kriegsthurm is a man who acts 
from settled rules. I interfered with 
his plans, and he wished me removed. 
You would hardly object to him for 
that, would you 1 " 

"But," said Arthur, aghast, "if I 
interfered with your plans for the rege- 
neration of the human race, you would 
not murder me, would you ? " 

" 1 1 " said Boginsky, " certainly not. 
I hold that it is utterly indefensible for 
one man to take another man's life. I 
hold that the taking of human life in 
any way, judicial or not judicial, is the 
greatest sin which a man can commit." 

"Yet you defended Vienna, and 
fought with your own right hand, and 
slew. Did you not commit the great 
sin then ? " 

"True," said Boginsky, "I sinned 
in defending Vienna, forasmuch as I 
took human life. But the virtue of the 
defence counterbalanced the sin of the 
slaughter of my fellow-men. Are you 
so insularly stupid as not to see that 1 
Besides, it often becomes necessary to 
commit a great crime to practise a 
noble piece of virtue : in which case 
the greater the crime the greater the 

At this astounding piece of logic and 
ethics Arthur gave a great gasp, and 
stood staring at him in dismay. He 
would fain have argued with him, but 
the heresy was too vast and too amor- 
phous to begin on. There was, as he 
afterwards expressed it, no right end to 
it, no handle, and so it was impossible 
to say where to take hold of it. 

" Well, there is no doubt about one 
thing, sir," he said. " We owe you a 
very great obligation, and will try to 
repay it. We will concert measures for 
our young friend's safety." 

"We will discuss the matter, sir," 

Silcote of Silcotes. 


said Boginsky. " Eemember, only, 
please, that to compromise him here 
is to compromise me. Meanwhile we 
will talk over our route. I will under- 
take to keep my eye on the young 
Eoman gentleman." 

They talked for an hour, and decided 
to go towards Turin. The route was 
extremely difficult, which was a great 

At the end of the hour Boginsky 
took his departure to make arrange- 
ments. Arthur, looking out of the 
window, and seeing the noble Eoman 
still on the bench, began dimly to 
realize that he was actually in foreign 
pa:ts, and that this young man, with 
his potential knives and Orsini bombs, 
was not "only a reality, but an intole- 
rable nuisance to be at once abated. 

'I wish you were on a bench in 
Ctristchurch Meadow, my dear young 
friend," he thought, " and that I was 
proctor. I have sent as good men as 
you down for a year for half as much. 
H ng it," he continued aloud, " I'll try 
it : I'll proctorize him. I will, upon 
my word and honour. If he shies one 
of hfs petards at me, I am cricketer 
enough to catch it. I never was a 
butter-fingers, though a bad batter. If 
he tries his knives on me, I will punch 
hifc head. I'll proctorize him ! " 

Whether to go close to him to avoid 
his petards, or to keep away from him 
to avoid his knives, he could not in the 
least degree decide. He ended by pur- 
suing the old English (and French) 
method of laying himself yardarm to 
the. enemy, and boarding him suddenly. 
He went straight up to our apparently 
slumbering young friend, shook him by 
th( shoulder, and said roughly and loudly 
in French, which will be better given in 
vernacular than with his pedantic ill- 
translated Oxfordisms 

' Get up, sir ! How dare you lie 
here? What do you mean, you mise- 
ralle young assassin, by watching a 
subject of Her Britannic Majesty in 
this scandalous manner] I am a civis 
JRc manus, sir, with all the power of the 
British empire at my back." 

The startled youth staggered to his 

feet, and put his right hand under his 

"Don't attempt anything of the 
sort, sir," said Arthur, perfectly aware 
that he was in extreme danger of his 
life, but perfectly cool, and blundering 
between rusty French and proctorial 
recollections. " I shall permit nothing 
of the sort for a moment, sir. I shall 
write to your father, sir." 

" Who are you, and what authority 
have you over me 1 " said the youth, 
with parted lips and dangerous eyes. 

" That is no business of yours, sir," 
replied Arthur, running into English, 
which the youth, luckily, understood. 
" Authority, indeed ! You will call " 
(he was just going to say, "You will 
call on me at eight o'clock to-morrow 
morning," but saved himself ) " down 
the vengeance of Heaven on your head, 
sir, if you consistently and pertinaciously 
persist in going on in your present 
course, sir; and from a careful study of 
your character, extending over the whole 
period of your University career, I fear 
' that such will be the case. Now you just 
take your hand from under your jacket, 
you murderous young cub, for I am a 
short-tempered man, and will give you 
the best thrashing you ever had in your 
life, if you don't." 

The Eoman did so, and smiling 
faintly said 

"Monsieur has some cause of com- 
plaint against me ; Monsieur said he 
was a Eoman just now." 

"I am a Eoman," replied Arthur, 
seeing he was wavering, in headlong 
heat, " in the Palmerstonian acceptance 
of the term, sir an acceptation which 
I should be inclined to think would 
not easily be comprehended by a person 
of your extremely limited abilities, dis- 
sipated habits, and murderous inten- 
tions. You will go down for a year, 
sir, and I shall write to your father." 

" My father is dead, sir," said the 
astonished and frightened Italian. 

"That does not make the slightest 
difference, sir; it only aggravates the 
offence," went on Arthur, seeing that 
the habit of scolding, which he had 
learnt as tutor, proctor, and schoolmaster, 


Silcote of Silcotes. 

was for once doing him good service ; 
and therefore scolding on with all the 
vagueness of a Swiveller, and the hearti- 
ness of a Doll Tearsheet " I am happy 
to hear that he is dead. It was the best 
thing he could do under the circum- 
stances. And I respect him for it. If 
he could see you in your present de- 
graded position, it would bring down his 
grey hairs in sorrow to the grave, which 
you will ultimately succeed in doing." 

The last fearful bathos nearly made 
Arthur laugh, but made him get his wits 
about him again. The Italian said, 
utterly puzzled and abroad 

" What is it that Monsieur desires 1 " 
" I have told you, sir ; that you go 
away from here ; that you disappear 
from the presence of all honest men. 
Do you see that sentry there "2 " he 
added, pointing to the nearest. " Shall 
I call to him, and tell him the story of 
Kriegsthurm and Silcote 1 " 

" Mais, M'sieu" hissed the Roman, 
seizing his hand, and kissing it, " I am 
very young. I am too young to die ! " 

" Too old to live, boy. Repent, boy ! 
I spare your youth, and will not de- 
nounce you. Go back to the assassin 
Kriegsthurm, and tell him that this 
night he is denounced to both the 
Austrian and Italian Governments ; that 
all his miserable plots are discovered ; 
and that you are the last of his emis- 
saries that I will spare. He knows me. 
Tell him that Arthur Silcote said so." 

The young Eoman vanished from 
under the lime-trees, and was seen no 
more for the present, and Arthur stood 
scratching his head. 

"I doubt," he soliloquised, "that I 
have been lying a little. I will put 
that consideration off to a more conve- 
nient opportunity. But Carlyle is right 
about his 'preternatural suspicion.' If 
that boy had not been bred in an atmo- 
sphere of suspicion, I never could have 
done anything with him by loud, self- 
asserting scolding. One of my St. 
Mary's boys would have laughed at me ; 
it would not have gone down with the 
lowest of old New Inn Hall men. 1 / 

1 I am happy to say that I speak of the long 

could not have done anything with that 
boy if his conscience had not been bad. 
Well, I have got rid of him, though I 
talked sad nonsense, as far as I can 
remember, and Heaven help me ! I 
doubt, lied. Yet the proctorial art is a 
great one : given the position, and if 
judiciously exercised. Bankruptcy com- 
missioners, police-magistrates, and Uni- 
versity officials are the only people who 
are left to keep alive the great art of 
scolding j schoolmasters have to be civil 
in these days of competition, lest their 
schools should get empty as some par- 
sons must preach pleasant things for 
the sake of their pew-rents. Hallo ! 
Boginsky ! I have packed off our Eoman 
assassin over the Marches." 
"How, then?" 
" I proctorized him." 
" What does that mean ? " 
"Scolded him till he did not know 
whether he stood on his head or his 
heels. Put out all my strong points 
against him, while he was condemned 
to silence." 

" As the priest does in the sermon? " 
said Boginsky. 

"Exactly," said Arthur. "In the 
slang of my University, I call that 
proctorizing, and think it a very good 
thing too. You surely can stand to hear 
the law laid down once a week, however 
feebly. You have six days left for 
interpellations. But have you been much 
in Prussia ? " 

" An idle thought, not worth pur- 
suing. An English University proctor 
can be very exasperating; I was con- 
sidering what a Prussian proctor would 
be like. I doubt he would be a Tartar. 
Well, now for the war. By-the-bye, I 
shall have to fight a duel with you." 
" On what grounds 1 " 
" My brother fights with the Aus- 

^ N'importe. They will be beaten," 
said Boginsky, " and we will be gentle 
with them." 

" Democracy allied with the Second 
of December ! " said Arthur ; " you are 
a nice lot. I shall proctorize some of 

Silcote of Silcotes. 




As they four drove into the courtyard 
of their inn at Turin, in their roomy 
hire! carriage, they saw a reeking horse 
having his saddle taken off, and a fall 
black- whiskered gentleman in a large 
cap, who talked consequentially with the 

"Hallo!" said Arthur. "Here is 
somo one travelling in the old style. 
There will be a swell arrival directly. I 
hope they have not taken the whole 

" By no means," the landlord assured 
them. " It was the English plenipo- 
tentiary, travelling towards Alessandria, 
with the ready-signed preliminaries of 

" "Wonder he don't go by rail if he is 
in a hurry. They will all have cut one 
another's throats before he gets there," 
remarked Arthur. 

They were shown into a nice salon 
adjoining the suite of apartments taken 
by the plenipotentiary, only separated 
from theirs by folding-doors, which the 
landlord pointed out were locked on 
their side. 

" I doubt we shall hear every word 
they say," remarked Arthur. "If we 
do hear any secrets of State, I shall 
unlock the door and announce myself. 
It is a great shame of the landlord 
putting us here." 

" They will hear all we say also," 
remarked James ; " and we by talking 
loud ourselves can give them to under- 
stand that others are within hearing. 
If they can hear us, they will of course 
at once conclude that we can hear 

"I don't know that" said Arthur. 
" I ht'ive had such great experiences of 
human stupidity as an examiner, that I 
very rauch doubt it. If this man is an 
English diplomatist, I fear that the 
mental process will be too elaborate for 

They were seated merrily at dinner, 
when a rumbling in the courtyard 
announced the arrival. Almost imme- 

diately after the door of the next room 
was thrown open, and the great man 
entered, English certainly, but not a 
courteous diplomatist by any means, 
and apparently with few preliminaries 
of peace about him. 

At the first sound of his voice 
Boginsky said, "Now we will talk 
louder, then ; " but, looking at his three 
companions, he saw that his three com- 
panions had laid down their knives and 
forks, and were looking at one another 
in blank astonishment. 

A loud and familiar voice on the 
other side of the door thundered out, 

" I don't care. I repeat what I said 
to the fellow to his face. The whole 
business is the most preposterous clam- 
jamfry of unutterable nonsense which 
ever was seen on the face of this earth ; 
and my remedy for it would be to hang 
the two emperors and the king up in a 

" But you didn't say that to the man, 
you know," said a bright woman's voice. 
" You were as mild as milk with him, 
and only began to rage as soon as his 
back was turned." 

James jumped to his feet. 

"I don't care whether I said it or 
not," said Silcote. " I mean it. And, 
since you twit me with it, I will go to 
his hotel after dinner and say it. 
Now ! " 

"Bemember that you are abroad, 
Silcote, and be cautious," said the 
woman's voice. 

" I am not likely to forget that I am 
abroad, my dear soul ; the fleas keep me 
in mind of that ; and, as for my caution, 
why you yourself allow that I did not 
utter the treason of which you dis- 
approve, after all ; and for your kind 
sake I will not." 

"Why, that is my father," said 
Arthur, amazed. "Who on earth is 
the woman with them "? " 

"My mother," said James, radiant 
with smiles. 

Arthur grew suddenly sick and faint. 
He filled out a tumbler full of wine, 
and drank it off, and muttered half 

" Mrs. Sugden ! Heaven, why 


Silcote of Silcotes. 

did I ever leave him alone ! And so 
soon after poor Algy's death too ! It is 
horrible. God, forgive me my selfish 
neglect ; forgive me my share in this 
miserable business." 

Boginsky whispered to Arthur, "I 
fear we are in a more delicate situation 
than that of overhearing a diplomat 
speaking with his secretaries. From 
the petulance of both Monsieur and 
Madame towards one another, I should 
guess that they were just married, and 
in their wedding tour. Shall I strike up 
the Marseillaise? We must do some- 

"Pray be silent for a moment," said 
Arthur. " See, here is another lady with 
them. I am going mad, and must be 
taken home straight and put in 

For a third voice struck in here & 
very pretty voice indeed; but, well, a 
little too fine-ladyish, the thing just a 
very little overdone. That voice said, 

" So you two are quarrelling again 1 
The very moment I leave you two 
together you begin at it. What is the 
matter now ? " 

Arthur sat down again. " It was 
very like too," he said to Boginsky. " I 
fear my nerves are not what they should 
be yet." And Boginsky politely agreed 
with him. 

" Our quarrels don't come to much, 
do they, old girl?" said Silcote, and 
Mrs. Sugden laughed. 

James by this time was at the door 
with his hand on the key. Arthur 
gently put him aside, threw the door 
open, and found himself face to face 
with Miss Lee, in all the full majesty of 
her unequalled beauty. The meeting 
was a little more astonishing for her 
than for him, for he had thought of 
her when he heard her voice three 
minutes before. And in her utter sur- 
prise, in a second of time, there passed 
across her face a sudden expression ; a 
little parting of the lips, a little bright- 
ening of the eyes ; which told him all he 
cared to know. She was her very ladylike 
self in one moment, although the twitch 
of her hands towards him when she saw 
him had caused her to drop her hun- 

dred-guinea travelling-bag, and made a, 
contretemps. He knew all that he wanted 
to know in this world, and merely say- 
ing to her pleasantly, " How d'ye do ! 
How d'ye do ! " passed on with out- 
stretched hands towards his father, see- 
ing by a mere look at the three faces 
that there were somehow or other 
brighter and better times in the house 
of Silcote than there had been for forty 
years. " If he has married Mrs. Sugden," 
he thought, " he might have done worse." 

Silcote was very much changed, as 
Arthur saw in one moment. He looked 
so much younger, and so much more 
gentle. There was certainly an un- 
common change in him. 

" My dear father," he said, " this is a 
strange meeting." 

" Very strange indeed, Archy," said 
Silcote. " I gave myself up frankly 
and freely to these two ladies to do 
what they would with me. They have 
done nothing but plot and conspire 
against me throughout the whole journey. 
I declare solemnly that I have never 
had my own way for one moment since 
we left Silcotes, and that their standing 
case against me is obstinacy. Now here 
they have laid their plans so well, that 
my own favourite son, whom I believed 
to be at Boppart, comes bursting in on 
me, with two of my grandsons, and a 
foreign gentleman, out of my own bed- 

" That is not your bedroom, sir/' 
said Arthur, hardly knowing how to 
begin explanations. 

"Is it not? Well, I give up the 
point. I thought it was. I am still in- 
clined to think it is, because I observe 
you have been dining in it. However, 
I have no opinion. These two women 
have cured me of all that. Now go 
and kiss your sister-in-law, for she has 
finished kissing her boy James." 

" My sister-in-law." 

" Ah ! Tom's wife, you know." 

" I don't know, sir," said Arthur. 

"Don't you?" said Silcote. "It 
don't matter. Some of them will tell 
you all about it some day. They are 
going to the milliner's to-morrow to get 
some new things to go to the war with : 

Silcote of Silcotes. 


perl laps they will tell you all about it 
the day after." 

" I daresay you wonder to find me in 
company with James and Eeginald, sir," 
said Arthur, trying if he could get him 
to tilk that way. 

" Not I," said Silcote. "I am a 
perf3ctly resigned man. If you had 
been kicking against all sorts of pricks 
for forty years, you would find it un- 
comnonly pleasant to get into that 
frame of mind. Bless you, the reli- 
gionists have nourished on that secret 
for centuries." 

" What secret, sir?" 

" The secret of taking a man away 
from himself, and giving him peace in 
that way. . Some of them have done it 
more or less viciously and artificially. 
These two good women have done it for 
me as well as any priest that ever was 
born They have brought me back to 
the communion, a thing you never did. 
What fools you men- priests are ! Not 
one of you seems to have the sense to see 
that in a perfect state the priests would 
all be women. You men-priests would be 
in a queer way without them ; they are 
designed and made for the priesthood. 
They have quite enough intellect for 
the office without having too much. 
And a highly intellectual priest is a 
mistake ; like yourself. And the women 
have faith, which more than three- 
quart ars of you men-priests have not." ' 

"You are none of you quite mad," 
said Xriegsthurm once to Colonel Tom ; 
"but are close upon it." 

Ar ;hur was deeply shocked. Yet his 
father's argument puzzled him some- 
what. He as a priest had been a failure, 
and knew it. His father's argument, 
slightly developed, seemed to him to 
mean an extreme form of Eomanism. 
Well, even the present state of his 
father was better than his old one. He 
changed the subject. 

"Ky dear father, I will- wait for ex- 
planations about, for instance, my new- 
found sister-in-law. But allow me to 
ask, j ist to start the conversation in a 
new channel, what on earth you are 
doing here 1 " 

"fry.dear boy, let me first tell you 

how profoundly I am pleased by meet- 
ing you again. I do not want to talk 
business to-day, and any explanations you 
may want you may get from Miss Lee." 
" Ah ! " thought Arthur, " so I will. 
But, sir, you have not told me what 
brings you here." 

"Well, a variety of matters. The 
one which is foremost in my mind just 
now is to get hold of my sister, your 
aunt, and get reconciled with her and 
bring her to reason, for I fear she is 
going on badly." 

" How so ? " asked Arthur. 
" From a frantic letter she has written 
to me, I fear that she is in the hands 
of scoundrels, and well-nigh desperate. 
Kriegsthurm, her old courier, major- 
domo, go-between in all her idiotic 
schemings and plottings and follies, has 
got hold of her again, and he and Tom 
have -drained her of all her money, and 
made her desperate, I doubt. My ori- 
ginal object was a very different one : it 
may be carried out, and it may not. I 
wished to right the memory of my first 
wife. Whether I shall do so or not I 
cannot say. My first object now is to 
save my poor sister it is quite possible 
that in doing the one thing I may do the 

" I do not quite understand, sir." 
"No, I suppose not," said Silcote 
gently. " I fear I have been a sad fool, 
and wasted a life. My dear Archy, I 
have one favour to ask you. Do not in 
any way mention to me at present a 
death which has recently taken place in 
our family. I am very sorry, but I can- 
not speak of it." 

" I am loth to speak of it myself, sir," 
said Arthur. 

" I see Eeginald is in mourning," said 
Silcote. " How did he bear it V ' 

" He cried," said Arthur, " once when , 
he heard of it, and once afterwards, 
James tells me, in the night for a short 

" I scarcely did more myself, if as 
much. Eemorse does not produce tears. 
Let us leave the subject." 

" About my aunt, sir. What makes 
you think she is in these straits ? Has 
she appealed to you ? " 


Silcote of Silcotes. 

"Not at all Her letter was only 
one in which she confessed a recent 
wrong towards me, prayed my forgive- 
ness, and took farewell of me for ever. 
I should like to catch her at it," Silcote 
went on suddenly, and with energy. 
" I have had the bullying of her for 
forty years, and does she think I am 
going to give it up now 1 These two new 
ones," he continued, winking at Arthur, 
" won't stand it. You remember that 
for your soul's health and comfort." 

" I will, sir," said Arthur solemnly. 
" You have had another letter about her, 
then ? " 

" Yes," said Silcote, " I have had a 
letter of nine closely- written pages ; a 
letter which, following me to the conti- 
nent, has cost me about nine shillings 
from that cantankerous old busybody, 
Miss Eaylock. She is dragging her old 
bones after Tom and your aunt to the 
war, and has got into your aunt's confi- 
dence. I am bound to say that she has 
written me a most kind, sensible, and 
womanly letter, on which I am going to 

" She is capable of doing nothing else, 

"That woman has made thousands 
out of us, with her confounded novels. 
She has no powers of invention. She 
put me as the principal character in 
her first successful novel, and made 
her fortune. She has spent all her 
money in fancy cucumbers and gera- 
niums, and now she is hunting my sister, 
for the mere purpose, I am perfectly cer- 
tain, of putting her as leading character 
in a novel, and going to her grave with 
an extra thousand pounds in the Three 
per Cents. But she will be deceived." 

" My aunt the Princess would make 
a good central figure in a novel, sir." 

_ " No, sir," said the old man, shaking 
his head ; "her folly is too incongruous; 
the ruck of commonplace fools who read 
novels will not have sufficient brains to 
appreciate the transcendental genius of 
Jier folly. Ray lock will make a mess of 
her. She will be trying to find out 
motives for her conduct; and my sister 
hasn't got any." 



"Now then, Mrs. Tom," cried Silcote 
after a long talk with Arthur, "dinner 
is ready. I can't live by talking non- 
sense to curly-headed youngsters, if you 
can. Arthur, my dear boy, take in Mrs. 

" They have had their dinner, these 
people," said Mrs. Silcote, "and don't 
want any more. As for talking nonsense 
to curly-headed youngsters, you have 
been talking long enough with Mr. 
Arthur, and nonsense enough too, I 
don't doubt." 

" That's a specimen," said Silcote, 
pointing with his finger at the radiantly 
happy, good-humoured, and kindly face 
of Mrs. Silcote, " that is a specimen of 
the way they treat me. Go and take 
her arm, and take her in to dinner. 
When I was your age, 7 could eat two 
dinners. Miss Lee, your arm." 

Arthur, who as yet knew practically 
nothing, went up to the woman whom 
his father had introduced to him as his 
sister-in-law : when lie looked at her he 
said sotto voce, " By Jove ! " She was 
probably the most remarkable woman 
he had ever seen. Tall, as tall as he, 
with grey hair, and a very beautiful face 
(described before), handsomely dressed, 
with every fold of gown or shawl in its 
right place, standing very calmly in a 
splendid attitude, and " taking him in, 
body and bones " (as he most vulgarly 
expressed it afterwards), with her great 
calm grey eyes. As he went up to her, 
it suddenly struck him as quite a new 
idea that this was James's mother, Mrs. 
Sugden, the woman who lived in the 
little white cottage at the edge of Boisey 
Hill. How she came to be his sister-in- 
law he did not inquire. His father was 
not likely to be wrong in a matter like 
this : that was the hencoop to which he 
clung in this wide weltering ocean of 

He took her in to dinner, and sat 
between her and Miss Lee. But 
this wonderful Sugden - Tom - Silcote 

Silcote of Silcotes. 


woman occupied his whole attention. 
" Heaven save me from Bedlam ! " he 
said ; " this is the woman who used to 
plant beans in a smock frock. This is 
the wife of the man that helped to 
fighl; the poachers on the very night 
that James was brought in wounded. 
Hang it, I can't remember it all." 

He remembered, however, that on one 
occasion, the curate being absent, he had 
undertaken the care of the parish, just 
as ho would have undertaken the siege 
of Sebastopol. And that at that time 
he had given this terrible lady in grey 
silk and white lace spiritual consolation, 
such as he had, and a shilling. 

" Bless our family," he thought ; 
"we shall fill Bedlam if we increase. 
Are you going to say anything to me ] " 
he said suddenly to Mrs. Thomas. 

" Why ? " said she, calmly. 

"Because I thought you were not," 
said Arthur. 

" What shall I say to you 1 " said she, 
with perfect good humour. 

" Explain matters, that is all ; like a 
dear good soul as you look. My father's 
reticence is so exasperating." 

Mrs. Thomas explained everything 
to him from beginning to end, while 
Miss Lee ate her dinner, drank her wine, 
folded her napkin, and put it through 
the ring : went on explaining, while 
she rose after having only interchanged 
a few commonplaces with Arthur, and 
left the room : went on still explaining 
until Miss Lee returned tremendously 
dressed, as far as extravagance went, 
but with wonderful quietness and good 
taste, with her bonnet on, ready for a 
promenade. The two boys had gone 
before, to see some regiments march out. 

" I am going on the Boulevards," she 
said, in a cool and lofty manner. " You 
people want to stay and talk family 
matters, which are no concern of mine, 
and which bore me. The courier said 
there are three more regiments to march 
to-ni[;ht : I hear a band playing, which 
must belong to one of them. I shall go 
and see them off." 

" AXQ you going alone, my dear ? " said 
Mrs. Thomas. 

"/done? certainly. I am used to 

take care of myself, and perfectly able 
to do so." And with her splendid chin 
in the air, she certainly looked as if she 
was. There is no one more safe from 
* insult than an imperially proud and hand- 
some woman. Cads scarcely dare to 
look at her in the face, and the worse 
than cads know from their experience 
that the most they will get is furious 
scorn. JS"o one knew this better than 
Miss Lee. She would have marched up 
coolly to the finest knot of dandies in 
Europe, and asked one of them to call 
her a cab ; and have driven calmly off 
in it, with a cold bow of thanks. 

" But the officers, my dear," once more 
interpellated Mrs. Tom. 

" I shall probably try to get into Con- 
versation with some of them," said Miss 
Lee, with her bonnet-strings half con- 
cealing her beautiful proud chin in the 
air, " and consult them about the best 
way of getting as near the fight as pos- 
sible. The King very likely does not 
go until to-morrow, and will probably 
review one of these regiments as they 
go ; so I shall have a chance of seeing 
your fat hero. Well, good-bye. I shall 
be at home by dark, or soon after." And 
so she went. 

Arthur still sat as if he had not heard 
her speak, sat for five minutes, and 
then rose and left the room. 

Mrs. Thomas was a little indignant. 
" She gave him time and place in the, 
most obvious manner," she said. " I 
never saw the thing done more openly 
in my life." 

" I thought she wrapped it up pretty 
well," said Silcote. 

" You thought," said Mrs. Thomas. 
" A deal you know about it. The way 
she did it was next thing to brazen." 

" I hope he knows where to find her,'* 
said Silcote, drinking a glass of wine. 
" I'll be hanged if I should." 

" It's lucky that your son is not quite 
such a stupid," said Mrs. Thomas. " She, 
with her marching regiments, and her 
King reviewing them as they passed the 
palace ! Why, there ! " she continued, 
Avarming, " as sure as ever you sit gan- 
dering in that chair, I could go at this 
moment, on my bare feet, and lay my 


Silcote of Silcotes. 

finger on that woman. She gave him 
time and place, I tell you, and I could 
lay my finger on her now." 

" Could you indeed, my dear ? " said 
Silcote. " I have no doubt you could. 
Still I think she wrapped it up pretty 
well. I know Turin, and she don't. / 
couldn't find her." 

. " I could," said Mrs. Tom ; " I have 
only to go down into that street " 

"Without your shoes and stock- 
ings 1 You said you could find her "bare- 

and ask," said Mrs. Tom, scorn- 
fully disregarding him, " where the king 
was reviewing the soldiers. And I should 
get my answer, and there she'd be, and 
him with her. Don't tell me." 

" I don't want to tell you, my dear. 
But surely this heat is unnecessary." 

" Not at all," said Mrs. Tom. " She 
gave him time and place before my own 
eyes : and she was too bold for him." 

" It is all right, though, is it not ? " 
said Silcote. 

" Oh, it's all right enough," said Mrs. 
Tom. " But after the way he has served 
her, she had no business to give him 
time and place as she did. I wish it had 
been me." And she shook her head 
with deep meaning. 

" Do you indeed, my dear 1 So you 
really wish that you had a chance at 
Archy ] But you must reflect that you 
could not, under any circumstances, marry 
your brother-in-law ; let me advise you 
to give up this newly-conceived passion 
for Arthur, and let him marry your 
cousin quickly. Two such dreadful 
tongues as yours and his would never 
have hit it off together, and more- 
over " 

" There," said Mrs. Tom, one mustard 
seed of nonsense dropped in your way 
grows into a great tree of nonsense very 
soon. Do you know that you have to 
give an account of every idle word you 
speak 1 You run off into idle senseless 
badinage on the text of one single sen- 
tence or word. It is a silly habit." 

"Yes, my dear," said Silcote. "As 
soon as you have done blowing me up, 
suppose we go and see the soldiers ? " 

She kissed him, and said, " You are 

a good old man. I don't know how 
you ever got on without me." 

" Very badly," said Silcote. " Come, 
let us jog out together and see this king 
and these soldiers, you and me." 

And so this queer couple jogged out 
together to gape and stare, like a couple 
of children, at the soldiers, the king, and 
everything else abnormal which came in 
their way. The courteous Italian crowd 
which made way for the strange pair 
only admired their bizarre beauty. Not 
one in the crowd dreamt that the life of 
a son and a husband was at stake, in 
that terrible hurly-burly so soon to 
beijin to the east. And indeed they 
did not realize it themselves, any more 
than they realized how deeply they 
loved him; both believing that their 
love for him had been killed by [his 
misconduct. Poor fools ! 



THEY were singing in the streets of 
Turin that afternoon. Groups of them 
were singing, war ballads, love ballads. 
Nay, not only were arm-in-arm groups 
singing of war, love, loyalty, of every- 
thing save law and divinity; but even 
solitary walkers piped up, quite un- 
noticed. Therefore why should not 
Arthur, with a good voice, not un- 
trained by choir-masters, pipe up too ? 
He did so, however. A spectacle and 
scandal amongst Oxford tutors and ex- 
proctors, had they only heard him; 
which they did not. An ex-Balliol 
tutor, singing out, clear and loud, in the 
streets of a foreign city, was a thing 
which no one was prepared for in 1859, 
and, to tell the truth, is scarcely pre- 
pared for now ; yet he did, this Balliol 
man, at the top of his very excellent 

" I know the way she went 

Past with her maiden posy, 
For her feet have touched the meadows, 
And have left the daisies rosy." 

The street was extremely crowded, but 
every one was nearly mad with good 
humour; and Arthur's handsome face 

Silcote ofSilcotes. 


was so radiant, that innumerable people 
greeted him. " A glorious day for Italy, 
milord," said one. "Very much so 
indeed," replied Arthur. "We have 
the sympathies of England, if not her 
arm.'!, on our side, sir," said another. 
"Our sympathies are in Italy while our 
arm^ are in Hindostan," replied Arthur; 
whkh was thought to be wonderfully 
neat and was bandied about : for it did 
not 1 ake much to please them that day. 
" Confound it," thought Arthur, " I am 
being too agreeable ; I know I shall get 
myself kissed directly, and I hate it. 
But I can't help it." 

A 1 this time Miss Lee was sailing 
on before him, with her veil up, calmly, 
imperial, looking every one straight in 
the lace, and speaking to any one who 
spoke to her. She attracted universal 
and respectful attention. Arthur was 
proud of her. 

The great rendezvous was in the Grand 
Placo. Along the street in which they 
were came a regiment of blue-coated, 
steel- helmeted, grey-trousered cavalry to 
join it. The enormously high-piled 
ornate houses were hung with the green, 
whit 3, and red tricolours from paving to 
copiiig-stone, and the windows were 
thronged with frantic patriots, as were 
also ohe streets. It was a splendid and 
excit ing sight ; and, as they all went 
rushing along the narrow street in the 
rear of the regiment, Arthur's long dull 
days of sickness and loss of hope seemed 
indei nitely removed. 

Al last they came to the place of the 
spect icle. Their regiment was the last. 
Thre 3 regiments of cavalry and four of 
infan try were already drawn up ; and 
there was the big-chested King himself; 
and there was Cavour, and there were 
Generals La Marmora, Fanti, Cialdini, 
m<n whose names sound like the 
ringing of silver bells. Their regiment 
formed in, and the burly King began to 
move. Arthur perceived that Miss Lee 
had <;ot an uncommonly good place, and 
then found himself face to face with 

" A glorious day for Italy," said Bo- 

"Threatens thunder ! " said Arthur. 

" And lightning," said Boginsky, who 
was in company with several " reds." 

" How epigrammatic we all are ! " said 
Arthur. " I myself have said the neat- 
est thing to-day I have said for years. 
Why, this excitement would sharpen the 
wits of a mere horse," he continued art- 

" Of a mere stupid horse indeed," 
replied the innocent Boginsky. 

" Sharpen his wits so much that he 
lets the man get on his back. And now 
they both go away together to kill the 
stag. Will the man get off when the 
stag is dead, do you think ? " 

" The Emperor would never dare- " 

began Boginsky. 

" Never for a moment," said Arthur ; 
"no one ever dreamt that he would.. 
He is at Genoa now, because he did not 
dare to keep away. He wants no more 
black cricket-balls studded with gun 
nipples, and percussion caps on them. 
I was not thinking' of him." 

Said Boginsky, " You puzzle me." 

Arthur folded his arms, caught Bo- 
ginsky's eye, and then looked steadily 
at the King of Sardinia, who was now 
within six yards of them. He took off 
his hat to the King ; and as he went 
past Boginsky towards Miss Lee, he 
looked into that gentleman's face with 
a strong stare, which meant volumes. 
As he went he heard Boginsky gasp 

" He had letter. 11 

Delighted with the purely gratuitous 
mischief which he had made, Arthur 
got to the side of Miss Lee just as the 
King had caught sight of her. There 
was no doubt whatever of his Majesty's 
admiration, about which Miss Lee cared 
just absolutely nothing at all. She 
wanted a real good stare at the King, 
and she got one. If he liked the looks 
of her, it showed his good taste ; in the 
perfect boldness of her perfect innocence 
it was perfectly indifferent whether he 
looked at her or not. She wanted to 
look at him, and the more he looked 
the more she saw. 

Arthur, proudly laughing in his heart, 
whispered to her, "Take my arm," and 
she put her hand upon it. In one mo- 


Early English. 

ment more, unseen of any one, his was 
upon hers, as it lay on her arm, and 
their two hands were tightly locked 
together. Not a word was spoken ; 
what need for words, clumsy words, 
when their two hands told their tale so 

Silcote with Mrs. Tom went gander- 
ing about, staring at the soldiers and the 
shops, and enjoying themselves tho- 
roughly. Silcote bought a large white 
umbrella lined with green, which took 
his fancy, and which he used as a 
pointer, to point out objects of interest 

to Mrs. Tom; among other things, 
pointing out the King when his Majesty 
was not four yards from the fertile. 

At last they got home, and heard that 
Miss Lee was home before them. Mrs. 
Thomas went to seek her, and soon 

" It's all right," she said ; " I knew it 
would be. There, you needn't throw 
your umbrella across the room like a 
lunatic ; though Heaven knows, my 
dear, that I am as glad as you are." 

To be continued. 



IN an article that appeared in this 
Magazine in April last, a slight sketch 
was given of the history of the study of 
the English language or rather of the 
neglect of it down to the end of the 
last century. It was shown that, though 
a great literature had grown to ado- 
lescence and maturity, and though the 
country regarded this its noble offspring 
with much pride, little progress had 
been made in an enlightened investi- 
gation of the language in which it was 
expressed. That language was con- 
sidered incapable of any thorough gram- 
matical treatment. A rough adaptation 
to it of such grammatical outlines as 
were in vogue for the classical lan- 
guages these outlines themselves most 
meagre and unsatisfactory was all that 
was given it a few crumbs from the 
table of its superiors. No earnest, 
worthy attempt was made to discover 
its principles. Its general conduct 
its external manners, so to speak were 
observed, and the observations made 
were recorded, and styled rules. But 
the inner life of the language the 
spirit that expressed itself in those ex- 
ternal manners this was not thought 
of. The classical Pharisee stood afar 
off from it shrunk from contact with 

so disorderly, indecorous, unmanageable 
a fellow called him an "untaught 
" knave, unmannerly, to bring a slovenly 
" unhandsome corse betwixt the wind 
" and his nobility." 

Happily, a time came when this Phari- 
see saw his error when he no longer 
thanked God that he was not as other 
men, even as the Publican in the dis- 
tance. He discovered that, for all the 
many differences that seemed to sepa- 
rate them, the Publican and he were 
brothers. And he abandoned his super- 
cilious demeanour, recognised, and em- 
braced him. 

For some half-century ago there broke 
out as great a revolution in the world 
of languages as had convulsed the world 
of nations. The old regime was over- 
thrown. The privileged class was 
abolished ; claims that had long been 
suppressed won a hearing. Languages 
that had long held the seat of supremacy 
were ejected and discrowned. The rights 
of languages too were scrutinized. Then 
strange discoveries were made. Sup- 
posed aliens turned out to be near kins- 
men ; scorned inferiors were proved to 
be equals, or superiors. 

With the rise of the science of Com- 
parative Philology, by whose agency 

Early English. 


this prodigious revolution was wrought, 
the study of language at last really com- 
meiced. The age of unsubstantial and 
unsubstantiated theory passed away. 
Th'j age of induction dawned. Every 
language then at last acquired its proper 
dignity. Then at last vernaculars began 
to have a chance of having justice done 
them. We do not propose to trace here 
the history of this momentous advance. 
Enough now to say that Germany led 
the way, and that after a time England 
essayed in some sort to follow in Ger- 
many's steps. But England progressed 
very slowly. Even so late as 1835, a 
writer in the Quarterly Review Mr. 
Garnett finds it necessary to defend 
the new study. " We know," he writes, 
" th at it is 'easy to sneer at such pursuits," 
(the study of German and Scandina- 
vian dialects, for the sake of the light 
the}- throw " on the analogies of our 
" own language and the principles of its 
" grammar,") " and to ask, Who but a 
" dull pedant can see any use in con- 
" fronting obscure and antiquated Eng- 
" lisa, terms with equally obscure German 
" ones, all which might, without any 
" great injury, be consigned to utter ob- 
" livion ? It would have been equally 
" to ask fifty or sixty years ago 
" and would at that time have sounded 
" quite as plausible What can be the use 
" of collecting and comparing unsightly 
" fragments of bone that have been 
u mouldering in the earth for centuries 1 
" But now, after the brilliant discoveries 
" of Cuvier and Buckland, no man could 
" propose such a question without expos- 
" iug himself to the laughter and con- 
" temptof every man of science. Sciolists 
** are very apt to despise what they do not 
" understand ; but they who are properly 
" qu& lined to appreciate the matter know 
" that philology is neither a useless nor a 
" trivial pursuit ; that, when treated in 
" an ( nlightened and philosophical spirit, 
u it i* worthy of all the exertions of the 
" subtlest as well as the most compre- 
" heiisive intellect." Then he replies to 
Dugald Stewart, who, " while combating 
" the metaphysical conclusions of Home 
" Toe ke, thought proper to speak some- 
" wh;it slightingly of etymological in- 
No. 92. VOL. xvi. 

" vestigations." Dugald Stewart had 
represented " the cultivation of this 
" branch of knowledge as unfavourable 
" to elegance of composition, refined 
" taste, or enlargement of the mental 
" faculties." He had maintained " that 
" it is better in many cases to remain 
" ignorant of the original meaning of 
" words than to know it." He had de- 
scribed " philologists as a useful sort of 
" inferior drudges, who may often fur- 
" nish their betters with important data 
" for illustrating the progress of laws, 
" of arts, and of manners, or for tracing 
" the migrations of mankind in ages of 
" which we have no historical records." 
With such heresy or such pestilent or- 
thodoxy prevalent in such high places 
as the Professor's chair, we are not sur- 
prised at the lament which the Eeviewer 
subsequently pours forth. " Etymology 
and philology/' he laments, " do not 
" seem to thrive on British ground. 
" We were indebted to a foreigner 
" (Junius) for the first systematic and 
" comprehensive work on the analogies 
'" of our tongue, and it is humiliating to 
" think how little real improvement has 
" been effected in the two centuries that 
" have since elapsed. We have mani- 
" fested the same supineness in other 
" matters connected with our national lit- 
" erature. We have allowed a bavarian 
" to- print the first edition of the Old 
" Saxon evangelical harmony the most 
" precious monument of the kind, next 
" to the Mseso- Gothic Gospels from 
" English manuscripts. In like manner, 
" we are indebted to a Dane for the first 
" printed text of Beowulf, the most re- 
" markable production in the whole range 
" of Anglo-Saxon literature; and we have 
" to thank another Dane for our know- 
" ledge of the principles of Anglo-Saxon 
" versification, and for the only grammar 
" of that language which deserves the 
" name. We have had, it is true, and 
" still have men who pride themselves on 
" their exploits in English philology, but 
" the best among them are much on a 
" par with persons who fancy they are 
" penetrating into the inmost mysteries 
" of geology while they are only gather- 
" ing up the pebbles that lie on the 


Early English. 

" earth's surface." In a note he excepts 
Conybeare, Kemble, and Thorpe from 
this censure. The influence, then, of 
the great revolution that has so mightily 
transformed and ennobled linguistic 
science, penetrated this country but 
slowly. The science among us is yet 
scarcely more than a generation old. 
Some of the great fathers of it are yet 
living amongst us. The Eeviewer from 
whom we have quoted, and to whom the 
science owes vast obligations, rested 
from his labours but some six years ago. 
But, undoubtedly, the progress made 
in the last thirty years has been con- 
siderable. The day, breaking when 
Garnett wrote, has brightened into a 
fair morning, which we hope may 
brighten on to a splendid noon. A 
more judicious, more thorough, more 
appreciative study of the English lan- 
guage has been fairly inaugurated. The 
old idols have tottered to their fall, and 
are falling ; the old baseless traditions 
are being swept away. 

" Magnus ab integro ssecloram nascitur ordo. " 

Pre-eminent above all other workers of 
this welcome reformation must be men- 
tioned the Philological Society. The 
papers read by its members by Gar- 
nett, and Kemble, and Guest, and La- 
tham on the grammar, the origin, the 
affinities, the composition of the English 
language, have most especially farthered 
and promoted it. Streams descending 
from that source have visited and wa- 
tered the valleys. Murray's Grammar, 
the old handbook, has been superseded 
except in the dark places of the earth 
where the sound of the new philological 
Evangel has not yet been heard by 
manuals of a higher type. The study 
of the English language has begun to 
occupy a worthier place in school edu- 
cation. Its utility, its independence, 
its dignity are being better recognised. 
It is no longer a sort of slave running 
by the chariot-wheels of the Latin con- 
queror. The rights and honours so long 
denied it are being conceded. The son, 
long disowned, is being at last admitted 
to his inheritance. 

Of this most desirable progress in the 

study of our mother-tongue there can 
be mentioned just now no better sign 
than the work that has lately issued 
from the Clarendon Press of Oxford, 
entitled "Specimens of Early English." 
The editor, Mr. Morris, a well-known 
investigator of our language in its earlier 
stages, has done especial service and 
won especial fame in his explorations 
of our provincial dialects. The work 
just edited by him places the fruit of 
his researches within the reach of school- 
boys. It is not too much to say that 
its appearance marks an era in the 
history of English language hand-books. 
It consists of a series of extracts from 
the chief English authors A.D. 1250 
1400, with grammatical introduction, 
notes, and glossary. The grammatical 
introduction deals with dialects too ; 
the notes are verbal and dialectical. 
The text is taken from the best sources, 
and printed with the utmost fidelity 
any variation from it, in the case of an 
unmistakeable error, is conscientiously 
recorded in a foot-note. In a word, the 
book is the latest and most popular 
result of that study of English, which, 
after so protracted a neglect, at last, as 
we have seen, some forty years ago 
received some acknowledgment. Nothing 
of the same kind has, so far as we 
know, ever before appeared. Many 
books of selections have, appeared to 
serve for reading lessons, as the count- 
less " Eeaders ;" or for elocution, as the 
numerous " Speakers ; " or for mere 
amusement, as the "Beauties;" or for 
literary instruction, as the " Collections." 
But Mr. Morris's book is not of this 
description. Nor is it to be classed 
with the countless " cram" editions of 
particular passages of our literature that 
teem forth from our printing-presses in 
these days of competitive examinations. 
It is much more than these. 

As has been said, it pays particular 
attention to the dialects of the pieces 
that compose it. On this subject Mr. 
Morris is to be heard with much atten- 
tion. " Erorn historical testimony," he 
says, here following Dr. Guest, "and 
" an examination of the literary records 
" of the thirteenth and fourteenth cen- 

Early English. 


" luries, we learn that the English speech 
" - vas represented by three principal dia- 
] ec ts : 1. The Northern dialect, spoken 
ihroughout the Lowlands of Scotland, 
Northumberland, Durham, and nearly 
the whole of Yorkshire. Eoughly 
ing, the Hnmber and Ouse 

" formed the southern boundary of this 
" area, while the Penine chain deter- 
" r lined its limits to the west. 2. The 
" Midland dialect, spoken in the coun- 
" fees to the west of the Penine chain, 
" i]i the East Anglian counties, and in 
" the whole of the Midland district. 
" The Thames formed the southern 
" boundary of this region. 3. The 
" Southern dialect, spoken in all the 
" counties south of the Thames, in 
" Somersetshire, Gloucestershire, and 
" portions of Herefordshire and Worces- 
" tershire." To this day this triple 
division is clearly discernible. Educa- 
tion (which of course is carried on in 
and deals with the standard dialect), 
change of population, and other causes 
havo to some extent modified it ; but it 
is st ill clearly perceptible. The most care- 
less traveller cannot help recognising a 
likeness between the dialects of Wilts, 
Dorset, Somersetshire, and Devon ; or 
between those of Staffordshire and War- 
wickshire ; or between those of Durham, 
Gun berland, and Northumberland. Pro- 
bably few travellers give to any one of 
these, classes, or to any individual be- 
longing to any one of them, the con- 
sideration it deserves. Yet many a 
one of them is an older and purer dialect 
than the traveller speaks himself ; words 
which, he sets down as vulgarisms are 
really more genuine than those he em- 
ploye. What he calls corruptions are 
in fa' ;t primitive forms. To all in whose 
minds the old fallacy still lurks that 
provi ncial English is a mere debasement 
of our standard English, caused by a 
lack of grammatical and other education, 
we strongly recommend the analyses of 
our country dialects that have of late 
years been made. In them will be 
found a proof that each despised patois 
is in itself a well-formed and complete 
language ; and from the publications of 
the Early English Text Society, from 

sundry publications of other antiquarian 
societies, from the selections gathered 
together in the work now before us, it 
will be seen that each of the three great 
dialects we have mentioned had once a 
nourishing literature of its own. 

There can be no doubt that of these 
dialects at least two existed many cen- 
turies before the time which Mr. Mor- 
ris's specimens illustrate. Bede, indeed, 
writing in the early part of the eighth 
century, says nothing of them. He 
remarks that in his time there were as 
many languages spoken in Britain as 
there are books in .the Pentaceuch to 
wit : English, British, Scottish, Pictish, 
and Latin, "which, by the study of the 
(( Scriptures, has been made common to 
" all the other nations." But, as Lap- 
penburg has observed, Bede is no great 
authority on matters relating to Wessex. 
However, it is possible that the differ- 
ence between the West Saxon and the 
Northumbrian (the Southern and North- 
ern) dialects was not so sharply marked 
in Bede's time as it afterwards became. 
The influence of the Danes, for instance, 
on the Northern dialect can scarcely 
have been so utterly trivial as some 
scholars have maintained. There is 
no doubt some truth in Wallingford's 
statement, that it was long felt in York- 
shire. In course of time there grew up 
a third dialect between the two already 
existing between them both in geo- 
graphical position and in character. 
This intermediate dialect was in some 
respects a sort of compromise between 
the others. On the frontiers of the 
district where it prevailed it partook of 
the peculiarities of the conterminous 
dialects, but more particularly of those 
of its southern neighbour, inasmuch as 
the main part of the literary treasures 
of the whole country belonged to that 
neighbour. Thus, influenced and modi- 
fied, grew up and nourished the Mercian 
dialect. " It is a curious fact," Dr. Guest 
observes, "that both our universities 
" are situated close to the boundary line 
" which separated Northern from South- 
" ern English; and I cannot help think- 
" ing that the jealousies of these two 
" races were consulted in fixing upon. 



Early English. 

" the sites. The histories of Cambridge 
" and Oxford are filled with their feuds; 
" and more than once has the king's 
" authority been interposed, to prevent 
" the Northern men retiring, and forrn- 
" ing within their own limits a univer- 
" sity at Stamford or Northampton. 
" The union of these two races at the 
" university must have favoured the 
" growth of any intermediate dialect ; 
" and to such a dialect the circumstances 
" of the country during the ninth and 
" tenth centuries appear to have given 
" birth. While the North was sinking 
" beneath its own feuds and the ravages 
" of the Northman, the closest ties knit 
" together the men of the Midland and 
" the Southern counties ; and this fel- 
" lowship seems to have led among the 
" former to a certain modification of the 
" Northern dialect." This third dialect, 
so formed, or at least so ripened and 
expanded, may in course of time have re- 
acted on its prime influencers, the other 
two dialects. " There is no doubt," 
says Mr. Morris, " that the Midland 
" dialect exercised an influence upon the 
" Southern dialect, wherever it happened 
" to be geographically connected with it, 
" just as the Northumbrian acted upon 
" the adjacent Midland dialects ; and 
" this enables u.s to understand that 
" admixture of grammatical forms which 
" is to be found in some of our early 
" English manuscripts." It is perhaps 
impossible to discover precisely the 
mutual obligations of the Midland and 
Southern dialects, or of the Midland 
and Northern. There can be no doubt 
that our present standard English is 
mainly descended from the Midland 
dialect. The Southern or Wessex dia- 
lect has not retained the supremacy that 
it held in the time of Alfred; the sceptre 
has departed from it. It still rules 
within its native precincts, but it can 
no longer boast its ancient precedence. 
As the years rolled on, Northumbria 
too and Mercia cultivated literature. 
To the north of the Thames, far and 
wide, men thought and wrote ; and of a 
fair mother as fair or fairer daughters 
were born. The twenty- six pieces that 
make up Mr. Morris's " Specimens" re- 

present all three literatures in pretty 
equal proportions. After the period 
exemplified by these " Specimens," in 
the fifteenth century and in the be- 
ginning of the sixteenth, our present 
standard English came into being, and 
it, as we have said, is the development 
rather of the Midland than of either 
the Southern or Northern dialect. The 
dialect of Alfred became provincial ; 
the intermediate dialect, the dialect of 
the universities and of London, acquired 
predominance. Of the pieces given by 
Mr. Morris, that by Eobert Mannyng, 
of Brunne, may be said to contain the 
germ of our standard English. At 
this day a traveller in the Midland 
counties will be struck by the accuracy 
and correctness, as he might say, of 
the local dialect. " Dr. Johnson, expa- 
"tiating in praise of Lichfield," was 
wont to boast that its inhabitants were 
" the most sober, decent people in Eng- 
" land, the genteelest in proportion to 
" their wealth, and spoke the purest 
" English." " I doubted," says Boswell, 
" as to the last article of this eulogy ; 
" for they had several provincial sounds : 
" as there, pronounced like fear " (he 
means with the foremost vowel in tJiere 
pronounced like the diphthong in fear) 
" instead of like fair ; once pronounced 
" ivoonse, instead of wunce or wonse. 
" Johnson himself never got entirely 
" free of those provincial accents. Gar- 
" rick sometimes used to take him oft', 
" squeezing a lemon into a punch-bowl 
" with uncouth gesticulations, looking 
" round the company, and calling out, 
" * Who's for poonstir " But, in spite 
of the " doubts" of the invaluable gossip, 
Johnson's patriotism was thoroughly 
justified in the laudation he pronounced 
on the English of his Staffordshire 

It may be interesting to quote a few 
old notices of English dialects. That 
best known perhaps and most notable 
describes the lingual condition of Eng- 
land about the middle of the fourteenth 
century, about the time when Sir John 
Mandeville wrote his account of his 
travels, when " the Vision of William 
concerning Piers the Ploughman " was 

Early English. 


being written, when Chaucer was a 
young man. It is given by Ranulph 
Higden, a monk of Saint Werberg's 
monastery at Chester, in his " Poly- 
chronicon," a chronicle in seven books, 
the first containing a description of all 
countries in general, and of Britain in 
particular, the remaining six a compen- 
dious civil history from the creation to 
his own time. This work, written in 
Latin, was translated into English some 
thirty years after its author's death. 
This translation, with a continuation, 
was printed by Caxton in 1482, after- 
wards reprinted by Wynken de Worde 
in 1495, and by "Peter Treveris, South- 
warke," in 1527. We will quote from 
the; 1527 edition of the translation. 
(Mr. Morris gives the passage from a 
MS. of Eichard the Second's time) : 
" As it is knowen ho we many maner 
" peplebeninthisllond," some account 
of them has just been given, " ther 
" ben also mani langages and tonges. 
" Netheles Walsshmen and Scottes 
" that ben not medled with other 
" nacyons kepe nyghe yet theyr fyrst 
" langage and speche ; but yet the 
" Scottes that were somtyme confe- 
" derate and dwelled with Pyctes drawe 
" somewhat after theyr speche. But 
" tlie Elemynges, that dwelle in the 
" "vveste syde of Wales, haue left theyr 
" siraunge speche and speken lyke the 
" Saxons. Also Englysshmen, thoughe 
" they had fro the begynnyng iii maner 
" speches, Southern, northern, and 
" myddell speche in the myddel of the 
" loade, as they come of thre maner 
" people of Germania; netheles by com- 
" mixyon & medlynge fyrste with 
" Danes and after warde with Normans 
" in many thynges the countree lan- 
" gage I is appayredj for 1 some use 
" straunge wlafl'ynge, chythryng, har- 
" r y Q g> g ari 7 n g> & grysbytynge . . . 
" It semeth a grete wonder that Eng- 
" lysshe men haue so grete dyuersyte 
" in theyr owne Ian gage in sowne and 
" in spekynge of it, whiche is all in 
" one Ilonde ; and the langage of Nor- 
" mandye is comen out of another 

1 "Peregrinas [sic apud Gale] jam captant 
boatus et garritus.'' Higden. 

" londe, and hath one maner sowne 
" among all men that speketh it in 
" Englonde. For a man of Kent, 
" Southern, Western, and Northern men 
" speken Erensshe all lyke in sowne 
" and speche. But they cannot speke 
" theyr Englysshe soo. . . . Also of the 
" forsayde tonge whiche is departeth 
" in thre is grete wonder. Eor men 
" of the eest with the men of the west 
" acorde better in sownynge of their 
" speche than men of the north with 
" men of the south. Therefore it is 
" that men of Mercii that ben of myd- 
" dell Englonde as it were parteners 
" with the endes understande better the 
" syde langages Northern and Southern 
" than Northern and Southern under- 
" stande eyther other. All the lan- 
" gages of the Northumbres and specy- 
" ally at Yorke is so sharpe, slyttynge, 
" frotynge, andunshape that we sothern 
" men maye unneth understande the 
" langage. I suppose the cause be that 
" they be nyghe to the alyens that 
" speke straungely. And also by cause 
" that the kynges of Englond abyde 
" and dwelle more in the south coun- 
" tree than in the north countree. The 
" cause why they abyde more in the 
" southe countre is bycause that there 
" is better corne lond, more people, 
" moo noble Cytes, and moo prouffy table 
" hauenes in the south countree than 
" in the north." 

Caxton, writing a century after John 
de Trevisa's translation had appeared, 
is somewhat scandalized by the great 
variety of speech prevailing in England. 
In "The Boke of Eneydos, compyled 
" by Yirgyle, oute of Erensshe reduced 
"in to Englysshe by me William 
" Caxton, 1491," he says, the English 
spoken there differs from the English 
used and spoken when he was born, 
and remarks that Englishmen are born 
under the domination of the moon, 
which is "never stedfaste but ever 
" waverynge. That comeyn Englysshe," 
he adds, " that is^ spoken in one shyre 
" varyeth from another, insomoche that 
" in my dayes happened that certayn. 
" marchauntes were in a shippe in. 
" Tamyse for to have sayled over the 


Early English. 

" see into Zelande, and for lacke of 
" wynde, thei taryed atte Forlond, and 
< ; wente to lande for to refreshe them. 
" And one of theym, named Sheffelde, 
" a mercer, cam into an hows and axed 
" for mete, and specyally he axyd after 
" e ogy s j an( ^ the ode w yf answerde 
" that she coulde speke no Frenshe, 
" and the marchaunt was angry, for he 
" also coude speke no Frenshe, but 
" wolde have hadde egges, and she 
" understoode hym not ; and thenne at 
" laste another sayed that he wolde 
" have eyren. Then the good wyf sayed 
" that she understood hym wel. Loo, 
" what sholde a man in thyse dayes 
"now wryte, egges or eyren 1 Cer- 
" taynly it is harde to playse every 
'" man, bycause of dyversitie and 
" chaunge of langage." J 

Some hundred years after Caxton, 
Richard Verstegan in his " Restitution 
" of Decayed Intelligence in Anti- 
" quities concerning the most noble and 
" renowned English nation, by the studie 
" and travalle of R.V." (1605), after 
remarking on the varying and variety 
of the Teutonic language, adds : " This 
" is a thing that easely may happen in 
" so spatious a toung as this, it beeing 
" spoken in so many different coun- 
" tries and regions, when wee see that 
" in some seueral partes of England it 
. " self, both the names of things and 
" pronountiations of woords are some- 
" what different, and that among the 
" countrey people that never borrow 
" any woords out of the Latin or 
" French, and of this different pro- 
" nountiation one example in steed of 
" many shall suffise, as this, for pro- 
" nouncing according as one would say 
" at London, ' I would eat more cheese 
" yf I had it,' the northern man 
" saith, ' Ay sud eat mare cheese gin 
" ay hadet,' and the westerne man 
" saith, Chud eat more cheese an 
" chad it,' Lo heer three different 
" pronountiations in our own countrey 
" in one thing, and heerof many the 
" lyke examples might be alleaged." 

He offers an explanation of these 
varieties an explanation never properly 
1 See HalliwelFs Dictionary. Preface. 

depreciated, but in great favour and 
acceptance till very recent times in- 
deed, probably ^ indeed still deemed 
satisfactory by many a fairly-educated 
Englishman. " These differences in 
" one same language," he says, " do 
" comonly grow among the comon 
" people, and sometymes upon the 
" parents imitating the il pronoun- 
" tiation of their yong children, and 
" of il pronountiation lastly ensuyeth 
" il wryting. Other languages no doubt 
" are subject onto the lyke, yea those 
" three that are grown from the Latin, 
" as the Italian, Spanish and French, 
" which to auoyd other examples may 
" appeer in the name of Latin, of 
" Jacobus ; which in Italian is grown 
" to bee Giacomo, in Spanish, Diego, 
" and in French, Jaques." 

Some fifteen years after these obser- 
vations of Yerstegan were published, 
Alexander Gill, Milton's schoolmaster, 
in his " Logonomia Anglica " treats at 
some length of the same subject. Dr. 
Guest, in his valuable remarks on local 
dialects in his " History of English 
Rhythms," gives a full account of Gill's 
discussion of it. " This scholar divided 
" our language into six dialects. Of 
" these, two were the common and the 
" poetical. The remaining four were 
" the Northern and the Eastern, in 
" which he seems to have included 
" the Essex and the Middlesex ; the 
" Southern, which appears to have 
" spread over the Southern counties 
" east of Wiltshire ; and finally the 
" Western. To the men of the Mid- 
" land counties he assigns no particular 
" dialect, doubtless considering them as 
" speaking that variety of English 
" which he designated as the common 
" dialect." 

Imitations of our various dialects 
have appeared again and again in our 
literature in Chaucer's " Reeve's Tale," 
in "Gammer Gurton's Needle, "in "King 
Leare" (Act iv. Sc. 6), in Jonson's "Tale 
of the Tub," and in our own day, in 
Dickens's "Nicholas Mckleby," in Ten- 
nyson's "Northern Farmer," in countless 
novels. Nor, with Barnes and Waugh 
amongst us, can the vernacular poetry 

Early English. 


of the provinces be pronounced extinct. 
In the course of the present century, 
numerous collections of provincial words 
have been made by Wilbrahani for 
Cheshire, Polwhele for Cornwall, Forby 
for Norfolk and, Suffolk, Miss Baker for 
Northamptonshire, Cooper for Sussex, 
Willan and Hunter and Carr for York- 
shire, &c. And during the last thirty 
or forty years some attempt, as we have 
sail, has been made to do something 
more than this to study the gram- 
matical life and structure of the pro- 
vircial dialects. We hope the work 
we are now considering may succeed 
in disseminating some general know- 
ledge of this subject. The subject 'is 
om- of extreme importance and high 
interest to any student of the English 
language. These dialects represent to 
him older stages of that language. 
Ono of them of these dialects so like, 
so different 

" Fades non omnibus una 
Nee diversa tanien, quales decet esse sororum," 

has been preferred above the others 
one of them has been crowned with 
glory and honour. Shakespeare and 
Milton have sung their immortal songs 
in it a thousand colonies have spread 
it to the remotest corners of the earth. 
The empires of the future speak it. If 
any language ever becomes universal, it 
will be this one. Surely the sisters of 
this sovereign tongue deserve some 
atteition. They, too, centuries ago, 
enjcyed their fame. They too wore 
croons, and held courts. They too 
throbbed with high and noble emotions ; 
and the sound of their voices was sweet, 
was terrible, was omnipotent in men's 
ears The days of those glories have 
passed away. Lawgivers, orators, poets, 
now throng the court of their sister. Their 
pala -jes decay ; their purple is faded ; 
the ewels fall from their diadems ; their 
voices are hoarse and broken. Let us 
visit them in their obscurity these 
fallen goddesses. Let us think what a 
pow -3i % they swayed once whose rivals 
they were what passion once thrilled 
and ennobled them. 

ir ingenuous youth at our grammar 

schools and our universities are ex- 
pected to acquaint themselves with 
Greek dialects, to know something of 
the characteristics of Doric, .ZEolic, 
Ionian, Attic. Why are they excluded 
from all study of those of their mother- 
tongue ? Why do we turn away with 
scorn from the provincial Muses of our 
own country ? Why should our native 
prophets remain without honour ] We 
trust that the dawn of a better order of 
things is at hand. A faithful study of 
our old literature a reverent listening 
to the old voices that still echo in our 
rural districts will certainly deepen 
that affection we bear to old England 
will bind us more closely to our 
country. The true son is indifferent 
to no means of familiarizing himself 
more thoroughly with his father's 
history. Everything that illustrates 
that dear memory is dear. Every 
accent that yet lingers of that dear 
voice is piously cherished. 

But Mr. Morris's book treats not 
only of the manner, but of the matter, 
of the old days not only with grammar 
and dialect, but with literature. It 
gives by its extracts an excellent picture 
of our early English literature during 
a most important century and a half 
of its existence, from the time when 
English was again recovering, or be- 
ginning to recover, its place as the 
universal language of the country to 
the time when the " morning star " of 
English poetry sang 

" Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet 


Preluded those melodious bursts, that fill 
The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
With sounds that echo still" 

from the time of the first cries of 
popular literature from its stammering 
infancy in the reign of Henry the Third 
to the time of its splendid adolescence 
in the reign of Richard the Second 
from the time of its early timorous 
flutterings, of tame paraphrases, and 
feeble allegories, to the time of the 
strong-winged flight of the noblest 
poem of chivalry. 

The twelfth and thirteenth centuries 


Early English. 

form a memorable epoch in the history 
of modern thought and literature. In 
them the darkness which, thickest in the 
seventh century, thinned somewhat in 
the tenth, still brooded over the face of 
Europe, began to scatter and disperse. 
The Night drew the folds of her gar- 
ments round her, and prepared to give 
place to the Day. The golden-haired, 
bright-eyed Day was already appearing 
above the hills. The world's great 
age was beginning anew. The nations 
were awakening from their long 
slumber awakening regenerate, with 
the old things passed away, and all 
things become new. The early Middle 
Ages witness a new creation. Chaos had 
reigned again; and now, again, Chaos 
was dethroned. The populations of 
Europe, after the long furious confusion 
of the Dark Ages, found themselves in 
new places, under new conditions, with 
new languages, with new characteristics, 
with new aims and ambitions. Pre- 
sently they began to appreciate in some 
sense that learning and civilization their 
forefathers had overthrown. They felt 
the parcbings of intellectual thirst. 
Philosophy found an eager hearing 
amongst them. Learning could claim 
its votaries ; universities were founded. 
Crowds of students nocked to Paris, 
Bologna, Cambridge, Oxford. This 
advance, conspicuous in the twelfth, 
grew more and more vigorous and effec- 
tual in the thirteenth century. Pre- 
ceding it, and contemporary with it, 
was the gradual growth of modern lan- 
guages and literatures. The Eoman 
languages at last grew articulate and 
clear- voiced. The new-born world com- 
posed songs for itself, and sang them. 
A bright, light-hearted, carolling litera- 
ture arose in Southern France, the first- 
born literature of modern Europe. Pro- 
vengal minstrelsy flowered and flourished 
from the middle of the twelfth century 
to the close of the thirteenth. The 
sound of it went forth into all the 
lands, into Arragon, into Italy, into 
Germany, into Scotland, into England. 
About the same time sprang up Castilian 
and Portuguese poetries, but these re- 
mained of Peninsular rather than of 

European name and influence. Th& 
Provencal voices were heard all over 
Western Europe, and stirred the heart 
of it. Soon arose singers in other 
countries, and amongst them in Tus- 
cany. There arose the first great poet 
of modern times. Dante was born in 
1265 (the year of our first Parliament). 
The " Commedia Divina " was com- 
menced in 1304. 

In England the literary cultivation of 
the native language had been retarded 
by exceptional difficulties. For some 
two centuries after the Norman Con- 
quest the accepted language of literature 
was a foreign one. The native tongue 
was unheard at the Court, and in the 
halls of the nobles. It was the tongue 
of inferiors and menials. 

Late in the fourteenth century it was 
still unfashionable. " Gentlemen's chil- 
dren," says Trevisa, in 1384, "are 
" taught for to speak French from time 
" that they are rocked in their cradle, 
" and can speak and play with a child's 
" brooch ; and uplandish men will 
" liken themselves to gentlemen, and 
" strive with great business for to speak 
" French for to be more told of." And 
then he quotes the famous proverb 
" Jack would be a gentleman if he 
could speak French." But, however 
unfashionable it might be, the great 
body of the nation, no doubt, clung to 
its mother-tongue ; and, though for 
two centuries after the Conquest it 
could never boast of Norman patron- 
age, yet it lived on vigorously among 
the native population. It had its cul- 
tivators in sundry monasteries, and in 
the districts remoter from Norman in- 
fluence. It produced and nursed a 
literature of its own. It sang its songs 
in praise of its great King Alfred; it 
sang of its later hero, Here ward ; it sang 
of its darling Eobin Hood. Of these 
songs very few are now extant none 
probably in their original shape. They 
have passed away with those who made, 
who sang, who heard them. In course 
of time the despised vernacular gained 
greater and greater importance anci 
dignity. Its obstinate tenacity of ex- 
istence conquered. It verified the old 

Early English. 


piuise conferred by a baffled enemy on 

" Merses profundo ; pulchrior everrit." 

It at last overpowered the language of 
tli 3 conquerors, and reigned supreme 
with no divided empire. 

Signs of this triumph are visible in 
no scanty measure in Henry the Third's 
reign. The rise of the middle class, with 
its towns and their commerce and rising 
importance, the concomitant growth of 
a spirit of liberty and independence, 
tho fierce contests between the Normans 
themselves between the King and his 
barons in which the power of the 
people made them a sort of arbitrators, 
their augmented and augmenting im- 
portance On this account, the unity and 
community of interests that were gra- 
dually established and felt which was 
afterwards expressed in the national 
wars of Edward the First, and still more 
vividly in those of Edward the Third 
all these changes and advances combined 
to promote and dignify the English lan- 
gimge in the thirteenth century. The 
first notes of a general, as opposed to a 
class literature, belong to the middle of 
that century ; as also the appearance of 
a form of the English language closely 
akin to that of the present day. The 
oldest English political ballad we pos- 
sess (printed in Percy's " Eeliques " and 
elsewhere) belongs to the year 1264 
the year of the battle of Lewes. The 
light kindled then has never been put 

The earliest piece given by Mr. Morris 
a piece of a very different character 
from that old satire a paraphrase of 
the Life of Joseph from " The Story of 
Genesis and Exodus," belongs to about 
the same date. The following pieces 
trace the course of English literature 
for the next century and a half. They 
represent both our religious and our. 
secular literature, which, as might be 
exp acted, were not so unequal either in 
quality or quantity as they are in our 
day. Of the six- and- twenty " Speci- 
mens," about half are of a religious 
cast. Ten out of the first sixteen are 
so. These clerical pieces include para- 

phrases of the Psalms and other 
Biblical books, sermons in prose and 
verse, the life of a saint (a specimen 
of a highly popular class of literature 
in all monastic times, Anglo-Saxon and 
other), some verses on Baptism, and an 
extract from the " Pricke of Conscience." 
The secular catalogue is made up of 
romances, songs, political and erotic, 
chronicles, tales, travels. Eobert of 
Gloucester, Minot, Mandeville, Trevisa, 
Chaucer, Gower, are all represented, 
so that an excellent notion may be 
gathered of the state of our literature 
during the generation preceding Chaucer 
and during Chaucer's lifetime. Names 
known to the reader from meagre hand- 
books are here attended by samples of 
their owners' works. He need no 
longer rest content with another tra- 
veller's report. He need no longer 
lie at the mercy of spies. He can 
visit the land in person. Who would 
be satisfied with reading his "Murray" 
who could see Italy with his own 
eyes ? Who would lie at the door and 
subsist on the crumbs that fall from 
the rich man's table, when he could sit 
by the rich man's side and feast with 
him 1 Who would embrace a skeleton 
when he could take to his bosom a fair 
life-breathing form ? We devoutly hope 
that a time is coming when our old 
literature shall be more sincerely studied 
and read. " Outlines " are but a Lenten 
diet unappetizing, insipid, indigestible. 
They are useful as guides and com- 
panions, are fair roads, but they are not 
the country that is to be seen. Of the 
mediaeval country, with its romance, its 
superstitions, its faiths, its credulities, 
its humours, and fashions, Mr. Morris's 
"Specimens" give a faithful picture. 
We hope the picture will not want 

We will conclude this paper by 
quoting, as a specimen of the "Speci- 
mens," a piece of lyric poetry, a four- 
teenth-century love song. This song 
has been printed before, but it will 
probably be new to very many of our 
readers. And for the benefit of those 
who have not yet familiarized themselves 
with the older forms of our language, 

138 The Battle of Burkes Minority in the House of Commons. 

we shall venture to quote it in a modern- 
ized dress : 

" Between March arid April, 

When spray begins to spring, 
The little fowl hath hire 1 will 

On hire lud 2 to sing. 
I live in love-longing ; 
For seemlokest 3 of alle thyng 
She may me blisse bring. 

I am in her baundoun 4 
A bendy 5 hap I have y-hent, 6 
Ichot 7 from heaven it is me sent. 
From alle women my love is lent, 

And light on Alysoun. 

" On hue her hair is fair enough, 

Her brow brown, her eye black ; 
With lovesome cheer she on me lough, 
With middle small and well y-mak. 
But 8 she me will to hire take 
For to be her owen make ; 9 
Long to live I shall forsake, 

1 Her. 3 Song. 

4 Dominion. * Lucky. 
7 I wot. 8 Unless. 

:} Handsomest. 

8 Caught. 

9 Own mate. 

And fare 10 fallen adown. 
A hendy hap, &c 

" Nightes, when I wend and wake, 

For thee my wonges 11 waxeth wan ; 

Lady, all for thine sake 
Longing is y-lent me on. 

In world is none so wyter 12 man, 

But all her bounty 13 telle can ; 

Her swyre 14 is whiter than the swan, 
And fairest may 15 in town. 

A hendy hap, &c. 

" I am for wooing all for weak ; 

Weary, so water in wore ; 16 
Lest ane reave 17 me my make 

I shall be yearned sore. 
Better is Tholien 18 while sore, 
Than mournen evermore. 
Fairest under gore, 19 

Hearken to my roune. 20 
A hendy hap, &c. " 

10 Dead. n Cheeks. 12 Wise. 

13 Fr. Bonte. 14 Neck. 15 Maid. 
16 Were, pool. 17 Eob. 18 To suffer. 

19 Fairest one that wears dresses. 

20 Prayer, song. 


MARCH 12, 1771. 

IN the arena of the House of Commons 
resistance is rarely exerted to excess. 
The preponderance of the majority once 
proved, the minority generally accept 
defeat with docility. The minority, 
however, are but men ; defeat is never 
pleasant : temptation occasionally arises, 
delay may procure what argument could 
not accomplish. This temptation is 
strongest when prorogation-tide ap- 
proaches : in the dusk of the session, 
the season of Parliament drawing to a 
close, the loss of a day may involve the 
loss of the bill. By utter weariness the 
majority may be driven to yield that 
day; and repeated divisions, upon re- 
iterated motions for adjournment, are the 
instruments by which this weariness is 

Resistance in such a form has no in- 
tellectual dignity wherewith to commend 
itself: it is wholly physical. Conse- 
quently, this course is rarely adopted 

against measures of signal importance, 
or when the House is thronged. What- 
ever be the result, of the mode of 
gaining that result the minority have 
never reason to feel proud : certainly not 
while it is in action. A spectacle more 
singular than seemly is then presented 
by the House of Commons. Division 
rapidly succeeds division : every ten 
minutes the scanty gathering of mem- 
bers is dispersed into the lobbies ; and 
each proclamation of the dwindling 
numbers of the assembly is greeted with 
louder shouts. Passion heats ; order in 
conduct almost disappears, in debate 
.almost entirely. Speeches are solely 
directed to the encouragement of cease- 
less obstinacy : are declarations that 
divisions shall continue while there 
exists a leg to move. To such speeches, 
yells, groans, and delirious laughter form 
fitting response. And so the Commons 
go round and round, dancing out the 

The Battle of Burke' s Minority in the House of Commons* 139 

small hours, through each division lobby; 
made as much " like unto a wheel," as 
thcdr enemies could desire. At last, the 
clear grave grey of dawn-light brings 
utler weariness to the body, if not 
conviction to the mind. Of what was 
" excellent sport, i' faith " at two o'clock 
' would it were done " is felt at four. 

The "Waterloo" among parliamentary 
battles of this kind was fought on the 
12r,h of March, 1771. The game of 
obstinacy was then played out to the 
full. Delay solely for delay's sake, and 
annoyance only to annoy, were that day 
inflicted by Edmund Burke upon the 
House of Commons. Led by him, the 
minority did all their possible to obstruct 
the majority; and as their object was 
freedom, of the press, we, at least, may 
pardon an obstinacy that seemed instinct 
with, faction. 

The year 1771 was central, it will 
be remembered, in the period of national 
unrest that preceded Pitt's supremacy. 
All classes of society then were aiming 
at mastery ; but master there was none. 
Riots disclosed the power of the people, 
and libels of the press. The strength of 
Pailiament was shown by arbitrary exer- 
tion of their privileges. The city of 
London addressed unconstitutional lan- 
guage to the sovereign ; and he extended 
unconstitutional influence wherever he 
cou]d reach. Everybody's hand was 
against everybody; but it was only 
to irritate. The Lords quarrelled with 
the Commons, and the Commons with 
the Lords, and both with the people. 
The King quarrelled with his Ministers, 
and would have quarrelled with his 
Parliament, had he not preferred to bribe 
it. One power alone maintained its 
groind, namely, the power of the 
pamphleteer ; nor was that without 
trial. Printers were fined and im- 
prisoned by the Lords : the Commons 
reprimanded and committed them to the 
Serjaant. The Crown gave to these 
proceedings both countenance and coun- 
sel. But it was in vain. The orders of 
Parliament were evaded : the laugh was 
tin-red against it; and laughter usually 
besj eaks the winning side. 

Tae evening of 12th March, 1771, 

was the climax of the struggle between 
Parliament and the press. The libeller, 
however, was not then selected for 
attack : it was only the mere publisher of 
parliamentary debates. And if popular 
feeling was too strong for Parliament, 
when the cause of literary decency was 
advocated, success was hardly to be 
anticipated in the case of a mere breach 
of privilege. Then, as now, publication 
of parliamentary debates was a direct 
infraction of the orders of both Houses ; 
nor had the spirit of the rule, though 
departing, ceased to animate the letter. 
The efficacy of that order was this year, 
for the first time, openly tested. The 
magazines were 'commencing to print the 
debates, giving, without disguise, the 
names of the debaters. NOT was this 
after the session had concluded; the 
narrative of parliamentary transactions 
was made public, while thejHouses were 
sitting. This was a signal proof of the 
audacity of the press. By stealth only, 
however, the reporter still exercised his 
calling : and to impose undue conceal- 
ment on a harmless effort, often acts as 
a prompter to harmfulness. Undeserved 
obscurity tempts an undesirable publicity. 
Eeports of the debates were accompanied 
often by most irregular comments : mem- 
bers were not only mentioned by name, 
but openly abused. And newspapers 
naturally attacked those that would 
naturally attack them. The two Onslows, 
for instance, the Colonel and George, 
were by family tradition specially bound 
to maintain the dignity of the Commons. 
They were son and nephew of the late 
Speaker : their very name is still redolent 
of a parliamentary savour. " Cocking 
George," " paltry, insignificant insects," 
and " scoundrels," the " greater and the 
lesser," were prefixes too commonly ap- 
pended to their names. The Onslows not 
unnaturally did what they could in return. 
Early in this session of 1771, at their 
instigation, the Commons ordered two 
printers into custody. It was competent 
to the House to make the order; to 
enforce it, proved impossible. London 
sided with the printers ; the messengers 
of Parliament were hustled away ; they 
returned to Westminster empty-handed. 

140 The Battle of Burkes Minority in the House of Commons. 

This sign of the times was, however, 
unheeded by the champions of privi- 
lege. On the 12th March, 1771, Colonel 
Onslow lodged a formal complaint against 
" the printed newspapers intituled" The 
Morning and Tlie St. James's Chronicle, 
The London Packet, The Whitehall Even- 
ing Post, and The General and The Lon- 
don Evening Post, and against their 
printers and publishers, Woodfall, Bald- 
win, Evans, Bladon, T. Wright, and J. 
Miller. The charge was made with due 
formality. It was alleged that these 
newspapers contained the debates, and 
misrepresented the speeches of mem-' 
bers of Parliament, "in contempt of 
" the orders, and in breach of the pri- 
" vileges of this House." Then followed 
the great battle of delay. The majority 
at the outset mustered 140, and the mi- 
nority 43 ; these numbers dwindled 
to 72 and 10 during the twelve hours' 
struggle that ensued. 

Lord North, then in the second year 
of office, led one party ; and Edmund 
Burke the other. The side befitting 
the King's " own" Minister need not be 
stated. The fury of the two Onslows 
took, indeed, the matter out of his 
hands. iNorth supplied the authority 
of Government : but they led the 
attack. And with them ranged Wei- 
bore Ellis, a veteran placeman; and 
also another placeman, not quite so old 
in office, bearing a name rather more 
celebrated, namely Mr. Charles Eox. 
He was then a member and a Lord of 
the Admiralty of two years' standing. 
He had, in body, barely attained the 
legal age of manhood : he certainly had 
not then reached full mental maturity. 
His impulsive nature, swayed by the 
arbitrary principles of his father, made 
him zealous for authority. He did not 
speak much; but he was diligent as 
division-teller. The party opposed to 
liberty thus included, by the accident 
of a year, this noble, still-loved man. 
Otherwise the roll of well-known names 
among the minority, would have been 
indeed preponderant. 

There was their leader, Edmund 
Burke, foremost every way. His 
cousin William fought under him to 

the last. So did Sir William Mere-- 
dith, whose memory will live with the 
history of our religious liberty ; and 
Governor Pownall, also, taught by the 
sound judgment that inclined him to 
the right view of the great question of 
that era. All these, indeed, having 
maintained the cause of freedom beyond 
the Atlantic, were not likely to forget 
the printer at their door : and in both 
cases they were content to play what 
seemed to be an utterly losing game. 
Colonel Barre, too, gave the help of 
his rude and ready tongue. And, thanks 
to the "Rolliad," we find among the 
rank and file a name not quite undis- 
tinguishable Sir Joseph Mawbey's, 
who was coupled with Thrale in the 
representation of South wark. He dealt 
somewhat in poetry, but more in pigs, 
a conjunction of aim that prompted that 
scoff of the satirist, that has given 
duration to the name of Mawbey. And 
one who, if he lives at all in our recol- 
lection, owes that life to the hireling 
writers he abused, appears in the charac- 
teristic attitude of a neutral : for 

" To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him 
a vote," 

seems on this occasion to have been un- 
attainable by Burke. If, according to 
the receipt of epic poetry, description of a 
coming storm was ushered in by invoca- 
tion to the genius of disorder, the invo- 
cation would be claimed by the demonic 
Wilkes : for the tumult was not only to 
his heart, but of his making. He it was, 
who incited the press to an open publica- 
tion of parliamentary debates ; and his 
influence was present during the evening 
of 12th March, 1771, though not his 
person, for that was under sentence of 
expulsion from the House of Commons. 
Mischief was Wilkes's element ; and 
nothing would have pleased him more 
than to hear Speaker Cust put the 
first question in that debate, for not less 
than forty motions were to spring out of 
that unpretending sentence, and forty- 
fold irritation to that impatient gentle- 
man. The question first put was, " That 
" the said paper, intituled The Morning, 
" Chronicle, Monday, March 4th, 1771, 

The Battle of Burkes Minority in the House of Commons. 141 

** printed for W. Woodfall, be delivered 
" in at the table, and read/' The House 
" divided/' as the Journal tells us : 
" the Yeas went forth," and were 140 
against 43. 

Such was the commencement of the 
sport that Colonel Onslow had provided 
for the Commons. He undertook to 
bring before them " three brace of 
printers." His argument was, " that 
" it is nonsense to have rules, and not 
" to put -them in force;" and, having 
got the newspaper read, he moved that 
Woodfall be summoned before the House. 
George Onslow seconded the motion ; and 
a member spoke in its favour. Language 
us* d in parliament, he said, was con- 
stantly misrepresented by the magazines ; 
though, with a mighty simplicity, he ad- 
mitted that the reporters " often made 
" for him a better speech, than he could 
" have made for himself." The name of 
on (5 so honest should survive it was a 
Mr. Ongly. To him responded Mawbey, 
the poetic pig-dealer. In pleading, how- 
ever, the counsel of moderation, his 
cockney tongue brought on him derision. 
He reverted incautiously to Colonel 
On slew's metaphor, "the three brace of 
printers :" he desired to exhibit kindred 
humour ; he begged the House to refrain 
from " hunting down the covey." " Who 
ev( T heard of hunting partridges 1 " was 
Lord Strange' s crushing retort. My lord 
was also strong for the dignity of the 

The tactics of opposition being un- 
matured, Woodfall was ordered to the 
bar without opposition, and the summons 
of ;i second printer was proposed. The 
spirit of controversy here aroused itself. 
Sir H. Cavendish, our ear- witness, jots 
down on the paper in his hand, " very 
warm." And in answer to exclamations 
" weary out the printers, weary out their 
pockets," " this is no' trifling matter, it 
must and shall be punished," is heard a 
threat, " I will divide the House on 
every one of these papers.'V 

The idea is caught up by the minority : 
it is improved on by Colonel Barre". He 
proceeds to invent an amendment that 
to be appreciated requires explanation. 
Tb>3 reporter to the St. James's Chronicle, 

the culprit then in question, had sinned 
thus against propriety. In his narrative 
of a debate, he suggested that Mr. 
Dyson, Wey mouth's representative, was 
" the d n of this country." This stood 
for bigoted Conservative, or veteran 
placeman in the language of the day. 
So delicate an indication of dislike to 
Mr. Dyson was, however, somewhat 
veiled. The name of the borough was 
substituted for that of the member : 
" Jeremiah Wey mouth " was declared to 
be England's curse. This feature in the 
libel was taken hold of by Barre. He 
advocated strict accuracy. It was not 
correct that that mis-statement should be 
entered on their proceedings : no mem- 
ber bore the name of Weymouth. So 
Barre clothed the point in parliamentary 
shape, and put into the Speaker's mouth 
a motion, " That Jeremiah Weymouth, 
" Esq., the d n of this country, is not 
" a member of this House." The ques- 
tion was gravely argued. The Premier 
rose to reply. And to parry this formal 
absurdity another formality was used : 
the " previous question ' ; was resorted 
to ; and by a majority of 82 it was de- 
termined "That that question be not 
now put." 

The Jeremiah Weymouth motion was 
thus warded off. But the joke was too 
good to let slip : the unwearied mi- 
nority started another technical difficulty. 
Colonel Barre and Mr. Onslow rose to- 
gether. " As being first in the Speaker's 
eye," Onslow claimed priority in debate. 
That Barre had stood up first was 
asserted by his party. With whom lay 
the right of speech was tenaciously dis- 
puted. The opportunity for vexation 
and delay was most acceptable. Motions 
and amendments were originated, some 
comic, some serious. Burke, with mock 
earnestness, of course at length, 
argued upon the point of " the Speaker's 
eye." It was, he said, a novel doctrine : 
he desired to be shown the passage in the 
Journals that contained those words, 
"the Speaker's eye." And, with that 
curious observance of order in disorder 
that 'marks the House of Commons its 
Journals were examined up to the reign 
of Queen Elizabeth. 

142 The Battle of Burkes Minority in the House of Commons. 

The appetite for " precedents " being 
thus satiated, the more common tactics of 
delay were persistently employed. These 
for a moment became exhausted, though 
the patience of the minority was not. 
The question from which the House had 
been severed by an interval of some 
hours' duration was replaced in the 
Speaker's mouth; and Mr. Baldwin's 
summons to the bar, as printer of the 
St. James's Chronicle, was finally moved 
and carried. 

He was, however, but the second 
offender in the motion of complaint. 
Six hours had been spent. Only one of 
the three brace of printers was, to use 
Mawbey's phrase, " hunted down." 
Symptoms of distress arose : a member 
querulously remarked that it was half- 
past ten o'clock ; that at the rate at 
which they were proceeding, it would 
take, at least, thirteen hours to procure 
the committal of the four remaining 
printers. This was much too feeble a 
remark to please any one. The House 
was still " very warm." A few quota- 
tions will show the state of the atmo- 
sphere. Mr. Onslow exclaimed, " Good 
" God,^Sir ! let any one think of the la.n- 
" guage used in the newspapers, and say 
" whether it is not high time for the 
" House to interfere." Sir Wm. Mere- 
dith retorted, " So long as I have health 
" and strength I will stay here to oppose 
" this wretched proceeding." " I shall 
" not be hindered from going on with 
" these divisions because gentlemen call 
" it a childish business," added Burke. 
" Constitutions are in such a case of 
" little consideration ; I am for going on 
" till to-morrow night," asserts another 
member. Nor were these plucky decla- 
rations left unfulfilled. Both sides were 
properly obstinate. It took seven more 
motions and divisions to procure the 
summons of the printer who stood 
next upon the list of proscription. 

Mr. "Whitworth here distinguished 
himself by a successful sally upon the vic- 
torious maj ority. He claimed that if the 
printer did come before them, it should 
" be together with all his compositors, 
" pressmen, correctors, blackers, and 
<: devils." The idea pleased Mr. Burke : 

his fancy kindled at the absurdity. The 
printer's train suggested analogous illus- 
tration. " These are the fitting symbols 
" of the printer's vocation," he said ; 
" without his ' blackers and devils ' a 
" printer would be no more, than the 
" Speaker would be without the mace, or 
" a First Lord of the Treasury without 
" his majority." To a polite ear one of 
the printer's satellites had a name quite 
intolerable. It was pleaded that the 
word " devil" should be omitted from 
the sentence. The proposal came from 
one of Burke's own band, but in vain. 
The devil might not be spared : "he 
" is the most material personage in the 
' ' whole business, " was the leader' s answer. 
Kespect for the unseen world could not 
hold its ground in the House, nor could 
respect for the solemn record of its 
proceedings. The Speaker is plaintively 
appealed to : " Can,. Sir, such a disgrace- 
" ful motion as this be placed on our 
" votes ? " The Speaker makes plaintive 
reply, "This motion will go into the 
Journals. What will posterity say 1 " 
The motion has gone into the Journals ; 
it certainly has a singular appearance on 
pages generally so solemn. The hope 
that the Speaker is not now as annoyed 
by this entry, as we have been amused, 
is all that is left to posterity to say. 

The Journal dated March 12, 1771, 
has truly a singular aspect. The page con- 
tains, of course, those samples of an extra- 
parliamentary vocabulary. The words 
also, "the House divided," are repeated, 
time aftei time. The page is perfectly 
studded with the records of these di- 
visions. The Yeas go forth the Noes 
go forth : it is being perpetually moved 
that " this House do now adjourn ; " 
that " the said paper be not delivered in 
and read ; " that " the question be 
now put : " and all these motions are 
as persistently negatived as they are 
affirmed. A review of that evening's 
debate suggests a rejoinder to Speaker 
Gust's interrogatory. Posterity must 
say for its own part, that, extraordinary 
as is the look of that Journal page, 
the conduct of the Speaker himself 
must have been still more extra- 
ordinary. He increased, rather than 

Old Sir Douglas. 


diminished the indecorum of the scene. 
To be solemn, unbending, statuesque, is 
the demeanour that is expected of the 
occupant of the chair. But, and not 
on:e only, ejaculations such as these 
were heard issuing from beneath the 
canopy : " I am weary, sick, tired." " I am 
heartily tired of this business ;" cries 
omy answered by Barre's ironical con- 
dolence, " I will have compassion on you, 
" Sir; I will move the adjournment of the 
" House." A very doubtful act of sym- 
pathy, that causes at least an half hour's 
furrier detention. 

Even stoutest parliamentary "zealot- 
ers" must yield to utter weariness of 
boc'y. Sir H. Cavendish, to whom we 
are indebted for an insight into this 
singular debate, went away before the 
clot;e; and with his disappearance, dis- 
appears the scene. Unknown must 
remain the jests, threats of further 
resistance, and argumentative incoheren- 
cies that attended the conclusion. The 
Journal, however, reveals a continuance 
of divisions and motions, and that the 
game was carried on till the voters 
dwindled down to a majority of 72 and 
a minority of 10. After a struggle of 
twelve hours' duration, the last of the 

six printers was ordered to attend the 
House, no one contradicting. Five 
o'clock had struck before the com- 
batants separated. 

Though beaten outwardly, the minority 
in reality were the victors. Burke stated, 
in justification of conduct that appeared 
so unjustifiable, that it was with delibe- 
ration that he " abandoned argument for 
adjournment : " that he had succeeded in 
his object ; that those twenty-three di- 
visions " will make gentlemen sick of 
the business/' So it was. This stubborn 
opposition, this proof that coercion of 
the press should be "as troublesome as 
possible," was a lesson not thrown away. 
Though subjected to occasional exclu- 
sion, and much inconvenience, reporters 
were never again wholly debarred from 
exercise of their useful labours. And 
with the sense of power came the 
feeling of propriety. Touching this 
debate, as we have seen, Speaker Gust 
appeals for sympathy to a future age : 
Burke did the like; but it was in a 
tone of exultation. Experience teaches 
us to agree rather with Burke than 
Gust : " posterity " does " bless the 
pertinacity of that day." 






THE RE is a grievous moment in the lives 
of many who love humbly and sincerely, 
and think little of themselves; a moment 
of strange contradiction of all the pre- 
vious impressions of that love; a de- 
throning, as it were, of its object. No 
longer better, -wiser, greater than all 
other mortal creatures : no longer the 
infallible guide, the crown and glory of 

life : loved still, but loved in a different 
way. Something of splendour departed, 
we know not where : something of security 
vanished, we know not why : such is the 
change that comes at such times. It 
comes to men in the first consciousness 
of -their over-estimation of some fair 
syren whose song has only lured them 
to the rocks and shoals of existence. It 
comes to women whose love has bordered 
on adoration, when they feel compelled 
to mingle pity with the regard they 
bestow on their husbands. 

When Gertrude read with strained 


Old Sir Douglas, 

and amazed eyes the letter put into her 
hands that morning, she pressed her 
lips to the signature with the kiss of 
passionate pity one bestows on a wounded 

" Oh my poor Douglas ! my hus- 
band ! " was all she said. But in that 
one brief grieving sentence, they seemed 
to change positions for ever. He stood 
lower : she stood higher. Never could 
she have been so deceived ! Never, 
though all the stars in heaven had 
seemed to shed their light on the decep- 
tion, could she have accepted as against 
him. the wretched forgery of proof he 
had accepted against her. Never ! 

Poor Douglas ! Ay, poor indeed. 
Beggared of trust, and hope, and belief 
in human nature ; for if he doubted her, 
in whom could he believe ? 

The sick pang at her heart increased. 
She rang, and ordered preparations for 
instant departure ; and then she once 
more sat down to re-read the strange 
lines penned by that familiar hand. 
That hand which had clasped hers at 
the altar ; which had detained her with 
its warm, gentle, almost trembling grasp, 
when first they stood together on the 
threshold of her new home at Glen- 
rossie ; detained her that he might mur- 
mur in her ear, before she entered, his 
hope that she would be always happy 
there ; his wife, his own for evermore. 

She was a girl then. She was a young 
matron now. If it was not for her 
handsome schoolboy, Neil, the years had 
flown so swiftly that it might seem but 
yesterday she blushed through that 
bridal hour of love, and heard that 
welcome HOME ; that blessed sentence, 
spoken in music, since spoken by his 

And now, what had he written? 
How could he write so 1 Poor Douglas ! 

" Gertrude," the letter said, " I am 
spared at least the anguish of explana- 
tion, by being enabled to enclose you 
these papers. Your own letter and " 
(there was a blur here, as though the 
name " Kenneth " had been begun and 
effaced) " my nephew's. 

" I endeavour to do you justice, and 
believe that his conduct at Naples and 

many combining circumstances, made 
you think it best to reject him, and 
accept me. 

" I feel certain that no worldly calcu- 
lations mingled with the arguments of 
others, or your own thoughts, when you 
so decided. 

" You could not then perhaps test the 
strength or weakness of your heart. You 
mated your youth with my age : a gap 
of long years stretched between us ! 

" I have the less time remaining to 
suffer from the remembrance of my 
bitter loss. 

" Whether my life of loneliness to 
come, shall be longer than I could desire, 
or brief as I wish, you will see me no 
more. I shall endeavour to devote niy- 
self to the service of my country, as in 
earlier days. Not in unmanly despair, 
but in submission to God, I trust to 
spend what measure of the future He 
may allot me. 

" For you you know me too well to 
doubt my desire that all this should pass 
without open scandal ; and without that 
bitterness which assumes a right of ven- 
geance for irreparable wrong. 

" I am gone. I will not part you 
from your son. I have seen what that 
suffering is in other women ; that tear- 
ing out of the heart by the roots. You 
will doubtless be much with your mother ; 
but when Neil's holidays come, you will 
meet him at Glenrossie, and remain with 
him there. I shall see him but not 
now. I make no condition; except that 
you avoid all explanation with him. Let 
him at least in this his happy boyhood 
know me absent, not parted, from home 
ties. Let all around you think the same. 

" I have hesitated to add anything 
respecting the cause of our separation. 
I will only say that it is a dreary satis- 
faction to me to believe that, seeing what 
your first step towards sin has brought 
about, you will never take a second. 

" In leaving you Neil, I leave a hostage 
against all possibility of actual dishonour. 

" DOUGLAS Boss." 

Then followed a very few hurried 
lines, apparently written after the letter 

Old Sir Douglas. 


was concluded ; the ink paler, the sen- 
tence blotted immediately after writing. 

" Gertrude I find' it impossible to 
close this letter, my last letter to my 
wife, and not say " 

There the lines ended that were 
decipherable ! Pore over them, and turn 
them which way she would, she could 
lie t make out more than the two words 
" selfish love." Selfish 1 was it his, was 
it Kenneth's ? Was he relenting to her, 
even while he sealed her sentence of 
exile from his heart 1 "Was there LOVE 
in those blurred lines? love of which 
sh<) was cheated, by their being so 
defaced 1 Or had some phrase of warn- 
ing, too severe, in his merciful view of 
he? case, occupied that last fraction of 
the fair white sheet of paper, so full of 
suppressed accusation and stifled regrets? 

[t was with a shudder that Gertrude 
thought of Kenneth, and gazed once 
more at his mad letter. Gazed, too, at 
the, answer, so ingeniously fitted in with 
its mosaic of forgery ! She could not 
doubt who had betrayed her to this 
misery. Alice! Alice, and (if it were 
possible to believe he were again within 
hail) James Erere ! He had been con- 
victed of forgery. He had etched and 
imitated for Dowager Lady Clochnaben 
in the early days of their intimacy, with 
a .skill which had been the marvel of 
all who beheld it. She did not for one 
moment doubt what had happened : and, 
strange to say, the more she thought of 
it, the less miserable she felt. It was 
all so transparently clear. She had only 
to get to Douglas (poor Douglas !) 
and explain it, and say, " Half of this 
letter is indeed mine, but the other half 
is a forgery ; how could you believe in 
it ? " and then then she would be 
happier than ever ! Happy, with the 
weight off her heart of all past partial 
concealments (all attempted for his 
sake his own dear sake, to save him 
pain) ; happy, with the embarrassment of 
Kenneth's presence removed for good ; 
happy, alone in the lovely home of 
Glenrossie with her husband ; without 
Alioe, cruel, cunning, cat-like Alice. 
Only her husband, and her boy, and 
her mother, and true friends. 

Xo. 92. VOL. xvi. 



EAGER, almost elate, dying to be in Sir 
Douglas's presence, in his kindly clasp- 
ing arms, Gertrude tied her bonnet- 
strings with hurried, trembling fingers ; 
and telling her maid that very important 
business had called Sir Douglas to 
London, and that she was to follow him 
with Lady Charlotte, sent that shrewd 
abigail to Glenrossie with the message, 
and continued her preparations, without 
a word to her mother of the dreadful 
letter, only that "important business" 
called them to town ; and with an effort 
at gaiety, which even to that simple- 
minded parent, seemed strange and 

Then she suddenly bethought her of 
the proof the easy proof of forgery, 
which lay in her desk at Glenrossie, the 
first rough copy of her letter to Kenneth 
not meant, indeed, for a rough copy,, 
but cast aside after writing it, as con- 
taining passages, reasonings with him, 
which were as well omitted. She must' 
get that letter. The delay of getting 
that must be borne, and then she would 
set out for their London house, and see 
her husband. Lady Charlotte might 
wait for her in Edinburgh ; it was need- 
less fatigue for that fragile traveller to 
go to Glenrossie and back. Gertrude 
would go alone. 

She did go alone. Pale and excited, 
she passed by the good old butler, who 
had already settled in his own mind 
that things looked " no canny" in his 
master's hurried departure. She asked 
for Neil as she flitted by, and was told 
he was out with the keeper; then, swift 
and noiseless as a ghost, she reached the 
door of her own bright morning-room 
and opened it wide. It was already 

There in the sunshine witch-like 
and spiteful smiling a smile such as 
ought never to wreathe woman's lips, 
sat Alice Ross, curled up and lounging 
on the green ottoman, Kenneth's favour- 
ite resort. She did not immediately 
perceive Gertrude; she was smiling that 


Old Sir Douglas. 

evil smile at the maid, who stood in her 
shawl and bonnet as she had arrived, 
nervously pinning and unpinning her 
large pebble brooch, and staring down 
at Miss Ross, who had just finished a 
sentence of which the word "packing" 
was all that reached Gertrude's ear. 

The maid uttered an exclamation at 
sight of her lady, and curtsied ; and 
Alice, startled into attention, rose, or 
rather leaped, with feline activity from 
her feline attitude of repose. 

The pale mistress of Glenrossie Castle 
looked steadily at her false sister-in-law, 
on whose lips the odd smile still flick- 
ered with a baleful light, and who, 
having risen, continued mutely standing, 
neither bidding good-morrow, nor other- 
wise acknowledging her presence. 

" This is my room/' said Lady Ross, 
as, unable to restrain her impatience to 
possess herself of her letter, she ad- 
vanced to the escritoire. 

The proud sentence of dismissal 
changed Alice's smile to a little audible 

"True, but ye were not expected 
here," she said ; with slow Scotch em- 
phasis on the " not." 

Then, as Gertrude feverishly searched, 
and searched in vain, for the purloined 
paper, and turned at last (paler than 
ever) to conscious "Ailie," convinced 
through whose misdoing it was no longer 
there the -half-sister of Sir Douglas 
with mocking bitterness added, 

" Kenneth's off for Edinburgh, like 
other folk. It's hard to be parted from 
what one loves." 

There was a world of emphasis in the 
creature's last slow sentence. 

" God forgive you, Alice Ross," said 
Gertrude; "Douglas never will, when 
he knows all." 

" That will be very unchristian," said 
the imperturbed- and imperturbable 
Ailie. And with a repetition of the 
audible little laugh, she tossed the ends 
of her boa together, and glided out of 
the room, and was down the corridor 
and up the stair and away to her own 
tower chamber, before the heavy shiver- 
ing sigh from Gertrude's heart had died 
iv.-ir in'o silence. 

It was perhaps with a wistful excuse 
for the great and honest anxiety which 
weighed on his mind, that the old 
butler came to the door and knocked, 
though it stood still half open, inquiring 
doubtfully whether her " Leddyship " 
would not take some refreshment after 
her journey. 

Gertrude did not at first hear or heed 
him. She stood with her eyes fixed on 
the escritoire, and murmured to herself 
half aloud, " Oh ! what shall I do r 

" Trust in God," said the old servant. 

He had seen three generations now 
of this house, and considered himself 
as much a part of it as the very trees on 
whose rough branches, when Sir Douglas 
and Kenneth were boys, their cold step- 
mother had hung the two dogs. 

Trust in God. 

Then Gertrude looked up, and said 
gently, rather absently, " I am going to 
London. Tell Neil when he comes in." 

" When will ye be back, my Leddy 1 " 

The question nearly broke down her 
resolve to seem calm. She faltered out 
the words, " I expect we shall be back 
in a couple of days or so." 

WE. The old man looked doubtfully 
and compassionately at her, and left the 
apartment. After a minute's pause 
Gertrude left it also. She looked back 
as she quitted it. That lovely room, 
with all its chosen treasures ! 

The sentence that spoke of her coming 
to it only as a visitor that sentence 
in Sir Douglas's letter which bid her 
"meet Neil at Glenrossie during his 
holidays " rose in her mind with spec- 
tral force. She chased it away, and 
smiled a quivering, tender smile. Soon 
she would see that dear husband, and 
convince him ! Soon all would be well 
again. They would yet chat and laugh 
together, by winter hearth and summer 
sunshine, in that room ! 

Eyes followed her as she departed : 
of keen, watchful Alice, peering from 
her tower; the eyes, faded, wrinkled, 
and kindly, of the aged butler, who 
had seen Old Sir Douglas a cradled 
child ! The eyes of her maid, who, 
neither better nor worse than others of 
her class, had been listening to all sorts 

Old Sir Douglas. 


of malevolent gossip and evil prophecy 
from Alice Boss, and had been prepared 
for thorough belief in that gossip, by 
inspection of Sir Douglas's letter before 
it oven reached her lady's hand. For 
thoy all had an instinct that something 
unisual was going on. Why should 
Sir Douglas write, when in an hour or 
two her mistress would be home ? Why 
should Lady Eoss herself sit half the 
night before she went to Edinburgh, 
writing, and forgetting to undress 
though her weary maid coughed and 
siglied, to remind her that she was 
waiting in the ante-room, the candles 
buining low, and yawns becoming more 
anc more frequent ? Why 1 

''Sir Douglas and milady were cer- 
tainly going to part, only milady didn't 
wish it, because of her reputation ; Mr. 
Kenneth was at the bottom of it all." 

How very quickly did the household 
arrive at this portentous conclusion, 
which Six Douglas imagined could be 
kept a secret from every one ! A secret ! 
You may keep a secret from your bosom 
friend ; from your father confessor ; but 
not from the man who stands behind 
your chair at dinner, or the female who 
" lays out " your dressing things at 
nig] it. Your looks are their books ; 
your thoughts their principal subject of 
spe ;ulation ; your actions, in esse or 
posie, the main topic of their mutual 
disc Durse. 

iS'eil dined and supped (most discon- 
tent edly) alone with Alice, whom he 
profoundly disliked, that day ; and 
wor-dered with the keeper during the 
rest of his time, what ever could have 
happened to his father's hand $ 

^nd the old keeper shook his head 
solemnly, and repeated for the fiftieth 
time that it was " maist surprising for 
gud s Sir Douglas hadna a gun oot wi' 
him the morn'." And [it was more 
surprising still that he had given no 
account of the accident to any one. 

^nd so they all chatted, and won- 
dered while Gertrude travelled "on 
and on," like a princess in a fairy tale, 
till :i,t length on the morrow the haven 
was reached, and she stood on the steps 
of h ;r London home, and entered it. 

Yes ; Sir Douglas had arrived the 
previous day ; he was out just then, 
but he was there; in their usual abode 
when in town. 

And Gertrude also was there ! She 
drew a long breath, a happy sigh ; and 
pressed her mother's anxious little hand 
with a languid weary smile of joy. 

She had only to wait for his coming 
in ; and then all would be well. 

Only to wait. 



GERTRUDE waited. At first patiently, 
pleasurably ; her soft, glad eyes wander- 
ing over familiar objects ; all diverse, 
but all covered by the misty cloud of 
her one thought. 

Then she grew restless, and rose, and 
walked to and fro over the rich carpet, 
with that pain at the temples and in 
the knees which comes to nervous 
persons who have waited too long in 
anxiety and suspense. 

Then she became exhausted and 
weary. All day long she had not broken 
her fast ; she could not eat ; something 
seemed to choke her in the attempt. 
She grew paler and paler, till at last 
Lady Charlotte's increasing alarm took 
the shape of words, which framed them- 
selves into a little plaintive scolding. 

" Now, Gertrude, I can see that what- 
ever news Douglas has sent you, isn't 
pleasant news; and I don't want to 
interfere between man and wife, or ask 
what you don't offer to tell me, though 
I've been wondering all day what has 
happened ; and whether he has put his 
money into a lottery, and lost it ; or 
what ; for I know nothing new has 
happened to Kenneth ; not that Dou- 
glas is a likely man to put into a lottery, 
but still, however superior he may be, 
he might choose the wrong number, you 
know, and draw a blank, and you would 
have to retrench. Indeed, I once knew 
a man (a very clever man, and a friend 
of your father's) who was quite ruined 
by putting into a lottery. He chose 
503, and the winning number was 505 
only two off ! so very distressing 


Old Sir Douglas. 

and provoking ! However, he taught 
drawing afterwards, in crayons and pas- 
tel, and did pretty well, and people 
were very sorry for him. But what I 
wanted to say was this that you really 
must eat something, if only a sandwich, 
or a "biscuit; for I am sure Douglas 
will be quite vexed when he comes in, 
to see you looking as you do. And you 
won't be able to talk matters over with 
him, or settle what should be done." 

The last of these wandering sentences 
was the one that roused Gertrude. True, 
she would not be able to talk matters 
over, if she felt as faint and exhausted 
as she did then. She would take some- 
thing. She rang, and ordered biscuits 
and wine, and smiled over them at her 
mother, who, still dissatisfied, pulled 
her ringlet, and even bit the end of it, 
(which she only did in great extremities,) 
saying, "I wish you would tell me, 
Gertrude : I do so hate mysteries." 

" So do I, my little mother ; but this 
is Douglas's secret, not mine ;" and with 
a gentle embrace, Gertrude hushed the 
querulous little woman ; and then turn- 
ing with a sigh to the window, "It is 
getting very late," she said, "Douglas 
must be dining at his club. Call me 
when he comes, and I will lie down on 
the sofa meanwhile." 

The fatigue and agitation of the day, 
and the nourishment, light as it was, 
that Gertrude had taken, together with 
the increasing stillness and dimness of 
all things round her, soon lulled her 
senses into torpor, and suspense was lost 
in a deep, quiet sleep. 

Lady Charlotte dozed a little too; 
but her fatigue was less and her rest- 
lessness greater. She was extremely 
curious to know what had occurred, and 
was mentally taking an inventory of 
the objects in the room, with a view to 
a possible auction if Sir Douglas had 
indeed ruined himself by staking his 
all on a lottery-ticket when she heard 
the rapid wheels of his cab drive up to 
the house, saw him alight, and heard the 
door of the library open and swing to, 
as he entered that sanctum. 

Lady Charlotte glanced towards her 
daughter, who was still sleeping pro- 

foundly. It was a pity to wake her. 
She would go down herself and see Sir- 
Douglas, and he could come by and by 
to Gertrude. 

In pursuance of this resolve, she went 
gently down the broad staircase, some- 
what haunted by recollections of days 
when Eusebia used to sail down them, 
dressed in very full dress for the opera,, 
outshining her hostess and sister-in-law 
alike in the multiplicity of her gowns and 
of her conquests, and preceding Gertmde y 
more simply attired, and leaning in dull 
domesticity on her husband's arm. 

" And now only suppose he is ruined ; 
it will be worse even than Kenneth ! " 
thought the bewildered mother, as she 
pushed the heavy green baize door for- 
ward, and came into Sir Douglas's pre- 

" Oh, dear ! " was all she said when 
she saw him; and she stood for a 
moment extremely frightened and per- 
plexed, pulling her long curl to a straight 
line in her agitation. 

For it seemed to her that if ever she 
saw the image of a ruined man, she saw 
it now ! 

The table was loaded with parcels, 
with parchments, with letters ; a hatcase 
and a swordcase were at one end, and 
an open paper, looking very like a deed, 
or a lease, or a will, by the heavy silver 
inkstand at the other. 

Sir Douglas himself, pale as death,, 
except one bright scarlet spot at his 
cheekbone, with a grieved, determined 
look on his mouth which she had never 
seen there before, was apparently 
giving final directions, to his man of 
business ; and as that person bowed and 
retired, he turned, with what seemed to 
poor Lady Charlotte a most haughty 
and angry stare, to see who was intruding 
upon him at this other entrance. 

Her alarm increased, when with a 
sudden fire in his eyes (looking, she 
thought, "so like Kenneth!") he re- 
cognised her, and without further wel- 
come than "Good God, Lady Charlotte 1" 
motioned her, as it were, to leave him. 

Lady Charlotte had a little access of 
peevish courage at that moment, for she 
thought, if this was the mood of her 

Old Sir Douglas. 


slaughter's husband, he might disturb 
and alarm his wife beyond measure. 
I le might really make her quite ill after 
all her fatigue. Her poor tired Ger- 
trude ! It would be very unfair ! 

Lady Charlotte was a weak woman, 
1-ut what strength she had, lay in love 
for her daughter; and though rather 
afraid of Sir Douglas at all times, she 
v r as least afraid when it was a question 
of Gertrude's well-being. Like the lady 
in the old ballad, who saw the armed 
ghost : 

* f Love conquered fear " 

even in her. She was, besides, rather 
angry with her stately son-in-law for 
being "ruined," (which was her ideefixee 
for the hour,) so she said very bravely, 
"" I do hope, Sir Douglas, before you go 
up to Gertrude whatever you have to 
toll her " 

But Sir Douglas did not wait for the 
end of the sentence. He said, in a sort 
of hoarse whisper, " Is she here ? " 

" Of course she is here. Good gra- 
cious, you might be sure she would 
come directly; and what I wanted to 
bag " 

Again Sir Douglas interrupted. He 
advanced a few steps, and stood close to 
Lady Charlotte, looking down on her, 
a 5 she afterwards expressed it, "most 
frightfully," while the hot spot vanished 
out of his cheek, and even his lips grew 
a.shy pale. 

" You have come to plead for her 1 " 
ho said, in a low, strange tone. "Do 
not attempt it. It would be utterly in 
vain. My resolves are taken. Tell 
Gertrude tell Lady Ross that all is 
over for ever between us. She may 
rouse me to wrath, she may rouse me 
to madness" (and he struck his breast 
wildly with his clenched hand as he 
spoke), "but the lost love, and the 
vanished trust, she will never raise to 
life again while my life lasts. Make 
n:> scandal of lamenting here, among 
si rvants and inferiors. Take her away. 
I>o not speak. I will hear nothing. 
I o not write. I will read no letter 
that alludes to her. So far as lies in 
my power her very name (and, thank 

God, it is not a common one) shall 
never be uttered before me again." 

He paused, and leaned his hand on 
the table among those scattered papers, 
to which Lady Charlotte's terrified and 
bewildered eyes mechanically followed. 
Then he resumed, in a stern, unna- 
turally quiet tone. 

"All my arrangements are made. 
This house will be sold as soon as they 
can conveniently be carried out. I 
leave it in a few minutes for ever. I 
have spoken to to your daughter 
about Neil's holidays at Glenrossie. 
She will have told you. There is war 
now threatening for England; and 

chances " (of death in battle for 

men desirous to die was the thought ; 
but he did not give it utterance). He 
broke suddenly off. " I must wish you 
farewell, Lady Charlotte ! I wish you 
farewell ! " 

Whether he vanished, or leaped out 
of the window, or went through one of 
the library doors like any other mortal 
Christian man, Lady Charlotte could 
never have told to her dying day. 
Gasping with terror and surprise far 
too real and intense for the little bursts 
of weeping in the embroidered pocket- 
handkerchief, which were the ordinary 
safety-valves of her emotion ; dimly 
comprehending that it was a dreadful 
quarrel between him and Gertrude 
not " ruin " of fortune, or rash specu- 
lation, that caused this bewildering 
outburst the poor little woman tottered 
away, and crept back up the handsome 
staircase, desecrated by memories of 
Eusebia's triumphs, as far as the first 
landing. There she sat down to con- 
sider what she could possibly do next. 
Was she to wake Gertrude only to tell 
her all this ? Her tired Gertrude, who 
lay slumbering so softly 1 Surely not ! 
She must think ; she must reflect ; she 
could not yet even re-enter the drawing- 
room. She " didn't know what 011 
earth to do." So Lady Charlotte sat 
on the landing in the half-lit house, 
leaning on a great roll of carpeting 
which was deposited there, "the family 
being out of town." And the under- 
housemaid passing that way saw the 


Old Sir Douglas. 

lady sitting thus strangely on the stairs; 
and not knowing what else to say, 
asked " if she would like some tea 1 " 
And Lady Charlotte, in an abstracted 
and despairing sort of way, replied, 
" Oh ! dear no ; never again never ! " 
And the under-housemaid told the 
housekeeper; and the two or three 
servants at the town-house came to 
quite as rapid a conclusion as the ser- 
vants at Glenrossie. " Sir Douglas had 
come up to London in such a fluster ; 
and had gone away without even saying 
good-bye to my lady, though she was 
in the drawing-room; and my lady's 
mother had been seen sitting on the 
landing of the stairs, and had said she 
never would drink tea again ! " 

What could that mean but family 
disruption, separation, perhaps divorce 1 

And all this while Gertrude slum- 
bered on. Oh ! how tranquil, and 
peaceful, and child-like, were those 
slumbers ! No warning dream mingled 
with their stillness. She heard no 
sound of the rushing train speeding 
along blank lines, and under dull echo- 
ing tunnels, in the pale moonlight, to 
reach the great sea-port of England, 
No echo of the beating ocean plashing 
and heaving under the dark steamer, 
whose powerful revolving machinery 
was to carry away that grieving, angry 
heart ; that deceived husband ! She 
saw no visions of her Douglas sitting 
alone on the dim deck, leaning over 
the ship's side 

" Watching the waves that fled before his 
face " 

and seeing nothing there but his own 

She slept : as children sleep, through 
a thunder-storm, or with death busy 
in the house ; all outward things sealed 
from her perceptions ; gently barred 
and shuttered out, even as the common 
light was barred, by the closing against 
it of her smooth white eyelids. 

And long after her mother had crept 
from the landing, up the second short 
flight of bare uncarpeted steps, into the 
room she had left, she still slept on ! 

And Lady Charlotte watched her 

with fear and trembling; wondering 
what she should do, and how comport 
herself, when Gertrude should open 
those serene orbs and ask if Douglas 
had yet returned 1 



THAT moment came. The sweet eyes 
slowly lifted their long curtaining 
lashes, with the transient bewilderment 
in them, of one who has slept in a 
strange place ; and then the sweet lips 
smiled, and with a look of rest and 
refreshment in her countenance, she 
sat up and spoke the dreaded words : 
" My darling mother, how fagged you 
look : is it very late ? Is Douglas come 

In a moment more she had started to 
her feet; for Lady Charlotte looked 
vaguely at her, trembling excessively, 
without attempting to answer the 

" Mother, dearest mother, he is 
come, and you have seen him. My 
foolish Douglas ! Where is he 1 Did 
he frighten you 1 Oh ! it is all so 
base and bad, I wanted to wait till I 
had seen him, till all was well again, 
before you were pained by knowing ! 
Where is he?" and she passed swiftly 
to the door as if to go to him. 

Lady Charlotte flung her arms round 
her daughter. 

" My darling Gertie, you must take 
patience ; you must, indeed : he wasn't 
fit to be spoken to : he wasn't really 
quite in his right mind ; he was raving." 

" Mother do not detain me I must 
see my husband ! I had rather he 
struck me dead than not attempt to 
meet him now and try to convince him 
of the truth. I know him ! I know 
him ! I know his inmost soul. He 
will hear me. if he will hear no one else. 
You don't know what has happened." 

" Gertrude, my love, my dearest, 
it is of no use you you can't see him 
he is gone ! " 

" Gone where 1 Gone, rather than 
meet me ! Gone back to Scotland ? " 

Old Sir Douglas. 


" Oh ! dear me, I'm sure I don't 
know where he is gone, or what he is 
at ! He was quite as wild as Kenneth 
at Naples, only not so rude, (but much 
r lore dreadful !) and he said all sorts of 
shocking things about wrath, and mad- 
ress, and not trusting, and never seeing 
you again ; and, that he wouldn't hear 
me speak of you, and wouldn't read 
anything written about you, and that 
your name should never be uttered 
before him as long as he lived !" 

" And you let me sleep on ! " 

Lady Charlotte scarcely heard this 
exclamation, but continued hurriedly 

" And he said this house was to be 
sold ; and that all his arrangements were 
made (whatever that might mean), and 
tliat he had told you already about 
G'lenrossie and Neil and " 

" Oh, mother ! oh, mother ! oh, 
mother ! " burst from Gertrude in such 
increasingly wild, hysterical, ascending 
tones, as thrilled through poor Lady 
Charlotte's very marrow. 

" You let me sleep on ! How could 
you let me sleep on? You have de- 
stroyed me ! How could you ? how 
cnuld you ? Oh, God ! " and she vehe- 
mently disengaged herself from Lady 
C harlotte's clinging embrace. 

Then Gertrude had to bear what 
many persons in days of affliction have 
to bear, namely, that in the midst of 
their greatest anguish, some lesser 
anguish from one they love or are bound 
to consider, breaks in, and claims their 
attention from their own misery. 

For Lady Charlotte, thunderstruck at 
the tone of bitter reproach, and the 
gesture that accompanied it, from her 
ever-loving daughter, burst into tears 
o.i her own account ; and kept sobbing 
o it, 

" Oh ! dear ! oh ! good gracious, Ger- 
trude ! that I should ever live to hear 
you speak to me in such a voice as that ! 
y :>ur own mother ! Oh dear me ! If 
ymr poor father could have lived to 
h3ar such a thing 1 It isn't my fault 
t mt you've married such a violent man ; 
ail such violent men they are ! Kenneth 
i< n't a bit worse in reality than Douglas ; 
a id Neil yes, even dear Neil has his 

tempers ! And I did mean to wake you 
as you bid me ; but he alarmed me so, 
and went away at last like like like 
a flash of lightning from the sky ! 
And after all he may come back again, 
just as oddly ; and you shouldn't speak 
to me in that way ! Oh ! dear ! Oh dear 
me ! Oh ! " 

" No ; I ought not. You must for- 
give me, little mother ; don't cry any 
more don't ; it bewilders me ! You 
do not know what has happened." 

" Well, what has happened 1 " said 
Lady Charlotte, drying her tears, but 
still questioning in rather a peevish, 
querulous manner. " You ought to 
have told me before. I ought to have 
known. I told you this afternoon that 
you had better tell me." 

And she gave two or three final little 
sobs, and then withdrew the lace hand- 
kerchief and listened. 

"Douglas has been led to believe that 
I am false at heart and for Kenneth ! " 
said Gertrude in a low sad voice, not 
unmixed with scorn. 

" And how dare he believe any such 
thing? Now that is the man you 
thought so clever, Gertie ; and so supe- 
rior ; and you would marry him ; and I 
told you not to spoil him, and you did 
spoil him. Nothing spoils a man like 
making him think that he is always in 
the right ; for then he thinks himself ol 
course in the right when he is entirely 
in the wrong ; and if I were you, instead 
of grieving " 

" Oh, mother, have pity on me 
Have patience with me. If Douglas 
and I are really parted, I shall die of 
grief. I can't live if he thinks ill of 
me ! I can't live if I do not see him. 
Where is he gone 1 Did he say 
where 1 " 

"No, Gertie ! He said in his wild 
way (just like Kenneth), that he was 
' gone for ever ! ' But he can't go for 
ever ; it's all nonsense ; and a man can't 
leave home for ever all of a sudden in 
that sort of way; I dare say he only 
wanted to frighten me. I ivas very 
much frightened. Now, my darling 
Gertie," she added impatiently, " don't 
stand looking as if you were nothing 


Old Sir Douglas. 

but a stone image ; pray don't ! Shall 
I ask the housekeeper if she knows 
where he is gone ? Only you know of 
course she'll guess there's a quarrel." 

" Oh ! what does that signify 1 what 
does anything signify but seeing him ? 
Let me only see him and then come 
what come may ! " 

So saying, Gertrude flung herself on 
a seat, and covered her face with her 
hand ; and her mother rang the bell in 
the second drawing-room, and summoned 
the housekeeper to the library. 

The lamps were extinguished there, 
and the papers and packages cleared 
away. Nothing was visible when the 
housekeeper entered, and set her soli- 
tary candle on the high black marble 
mantelpiece, but a little ghastly litter, 
like a gleaned field by moonlight. 

Lady Charlotte felt exceedingly em- 
barrassed ; it was so difficult to tell the 
servant that her daughter did not know 
where her husband was. At last she 
framed her question; with considerable 
circumlocution, and not without allusion 
to Sir Douglas's " hasty temper." 

The housekeeper's own temper did 
not seem to be in a very favourable state, 
for she answered rather tartly that she 
" didn't know nothing," except that Sir 
Douglas had told her her services were 
not required after her month was up, 
"which was sudden enough, consider- 
ing ; " but as she understood the house 
was to be sold, there was no help for 
that. And as to where he was gone, she 
didn't know that, either, for certain, 
but he had been at the Horse Guards, 
" unceasing," the last two days, his man 
said ; and she understood from the 
same authority, that he was " proceedin' 
to the seat of war," which Lady Char- 
lotte knew as well as she did was 
"somewheres in the Crimera." He 
was gone by express train that evening, 
and she hoped my lady would not be 
offended, but she had orders to show 
the house for selling or letting as soon 
as it could be got ready, and it must be 
left empty. 

All in a very curt, abrupt, displeased 
manner, as became a housekeeper who 
comprehended that her " services were 

no longer required," because her , master 
had quarrelled with his wife. 

Lady Charlotte returned to Gertrude. 
She stammered out the evil news, look- 
ing fearfully in her daughter's face, as if 
expecting further reproaches. 

But Gertrude only gave a low moan, 
and then, kissing her cheek, bade her go 
to rest. 

" And you, child 1 and you, my 

" I will come when I have written to 
Lorimer Boyd at Vienna." 



WHEN Lorimer Boyd got that letter, he 
behaved exactly like Sir Patrick Spens 
in the old Scotch ballad, when the King 
sends him the commission that drowns 
him and his companions (ships being as 
ill-built apparently in those days as in 
our own). 

" The first line that Sir Patrick read 

A loud laugh laughed he. 
The second line that Sir Patrick read 
The tear blinded his 'ee." 

Yes, Lorimer Boyd laughed hysteri- 
cally, like a foolish school-girl. Here 
was this woman, this angel (for though 
he never breathed it to mortal man, 
that was Lorimer's private estimation of 
Gertrude Skifton), not only not valued 
to the extent of her deserts, but actually 
thrown off, discarded, suspected, con- 
temned, by the man who had had the 
supreme good fortune to win her affec- 
tions and marry her. Do hearts go 
blind, like eyes 1 and can they be 
couched, as of a cataract, of that hard 
horny veil which grows and grows be- 
tween them and the clear light of 
Heaven, obscuring all judgment, and 
makes them walk to the pit and the 
precipice as though they were following 
the open road of natural life 1 

That Douglas should behave thus ! 

But what was the use of pondering 
and pausing over that? Did not the 
letter tell him that it was so ; and did 

Old Sir Douglas. 


not that letter from her for whom 
Lorimer could have died beseech his 
intervention, in order to communicate 
the real facts to him for whom Gertrude 
would have died ; and so set all well 
again between that blind heart, and the 
lit art that was beating and bleeding for 
grief, in that fair woman's bosom ? 

In one thing more Lorimer copied 
ths conduct of gallant Sir Patrick Spens. 
H>3 instantly set about the task proposed 
to him, whether his own suffering might 
be involved in it or not. 

While Gertrude was yet anxiously 
hoping a reply to her letter promising 
that Lorimer would write those explana- 
tions to Sir Douglas which she had 
failed to make Lorimer himself stood 
before her ! 

In her surprise, in her thankful glad- 
ness, to see him bitter as it was to be 
better believed by her old tried friend 
than by her husband she extended both 
hands eagerly towards him, and with a 
little sharp cry burst into tears. 

The pulse in Lorimer's brain and 
heart throbbed loud and hard. Her tears 
thrilled through him. Sudden memories 
of her grievous weeping by the dead 
father she had so loved, when he had 
be<m. so kind to, came over him. Tears 
shod in girlhood, w T hen she was/ree 
free to marry whom she pleased, Lorimer 
himself, or any other man. 

He stood mute, gazing at her; and 
then gave a hurried, hesitating greet- 
ing, a little more formal than usual. 
His longing was so great to take her 
madly in his arms, that he dared not 
touch her hand. 

" Your letter surprised me," he said 
in a thick suffocated voice, as he sat 

" Yes," she said faintly, in reply. 

"I am here to do your bidding. I 
have leave from my post, in spite of 
this busy, warlike, threatening time. I 
fihrll be in London quite long enough 
to get Douglas's reply." 


'I would go to him, if you wished it." 

She shook her head. 

' ' It would be pleasanter less painful, 
I mean to him, to read a letter than to 

be spoken to on such a subject even 
by so good and true a friend as you 
have always been to both of us." 

She spoke with increasing agitation 
at every word ; pausing ; looking down. 

Then suddenly those unequalled eyes 
looked up and met his own. 

" Oh ! Lorimer Boyd, I feel so 
ashamed ! And yet, you know you 
knoiv, I ought not. You know how I 
have loved my husband from first to 
last. From the days when he was a 
mere heroic vision, whom you taught 
me to admire, to the days when I knew 
him and he loved me ! " 

True. Yes. No doubt, Lorimer him- 
self had turned the young girl's fancy 
to the ideal of love and bravery he had 
described to her. He had taught her 
(even while listening to his faithful, 
ungainly self) to picture the stately 
Highland boy sighing in his alien home, 
petting and caressing first his brother 
and then his brother's son ; the youth 
beloved and admired ; the soldier of 
after-life, treading fields of glory where 
battles were lost and won. 

Lorimer himself had taught her to 
love Douglas ! Would he unteach her 
now, if that were possible 1 No. The 
double faith to both was well kept; 
though neither could ever know the 
cost. Blind-hearted friend sweet dream 
of perfect womanhood come together 
again, and be happy once more, if the 
old true comrade through life can serve 
you to that end. 

Every day to Lady Charlotte's little 
decorated drawing-room every evening, 
and most mornings, came the familiar 
step and welcome face. He soothed and 
occupied those feverish hours of Ger- 
trude's. He read to her. Ah ! how 
his voice, deep, sweet, and melodious, 
reading passages from favourite authors, 
reminded her, also, of the first sorrow 
of her life, the illness and death of her 
father ! How thankful she had felt to 
him then ; how thankful she felt to him 
now. How her heart went out to him, 
the day Neil went back to Eton, and 
she saw the tears stand in his eyes, 
holding the unconscious boy's hand in 
his own ; looking at the fair open brow 


Old Sir Douglas. 

and candid eyes, shadowed by the dark 
clustering curls, so like her Douglas ! 
Yes, Boyd was a real friend, and would 
help her if he could. 
If he could. 

Eut the day came when, from the 
hard camp-life of mismanaged prepara- 
tions for war in far distant Crimea, a 
brief stern letter arrived from Sir 
Douglas Eoss to Lorimer Boyd, return- 
ing him his own, and stating that he 
hud perceived, on glancing at the first 
few lines, that his old friend and com- 
panion had touched on a topic of which 
no man could be the judge but himself, 
and which neither man nor woman 
should ever moot with him again. That 
he besought him by -all the tender 
regard they had had for each other from 
boyhood till the present hour not to 
break friendship by recurring to it in 
any way or at any time. That occa- 
sional letters from Boyd should be the 
greatest comfort he could hope for on 
this side the grave, but if that one for- 
bidden subject were alluded to, Sir 
Douglas would not read them. 

And so the dream of hope ended ! 
And all the comfort Lorimer could give, 
was that, being innocent, the day would 
surely come when Gertrude would be 
cleared. That there was nothing so 
suicidal as hypocrisy, or so short-lived 
as the bubble blown by lying lips to 
glitter with many changing colours in 
the light of day. Lorimer built on 
some catastrophe to Frere and Alice 
more than on any effort of Gertrude's ; 
but all trace of Frere was lost again ; 
and what consolation could Gertrude 
receive from such dreams, when at any 
moment the precious life might be 
risked and lost dearer than her own 1 
Her Douglas dying if he died far 
away and unreconciled, was the haunting 
thought, the worm that gnawed her 
heart away. 

Every day she pined more and more, 
and altered more and more in looks ; in- 
somuch that she herself, one twilight 
evening, passing by her own bust exe- 
cuted by Macdonald of Eome, and lit 
at that moment by the soft misty glow 
which marks the impeded sunset of a 

London drawing-room, paused, and 
sighed, and said to herself, " Was I ever 
like that?" 

The deep-lidded, calm eyes which 
no modern sculptor ever has given with 
such life-like grace and truth the gentle 
youthful smile of the mouth all seemed 
to mock her with their beauty, and, as 
the brief rose-tint vanished from the 
marble in the deepening grey of evening, 
to say to her, " Pine and fade, pine and 
fade, for love and joy are gone for 
ever ! " 



IF the thought of distant Douglas was 
the worm that gnawed the heart of 
Gertrude, the worm that gnawed Lady 
Charlotte was what she termed "her 
daughter's position/' 

For it had flown like wild-fire round 
the town, first in Edinburgh, and then 
in London, that young Lady Eoss and 
her elderly husband had separated. 
" A most shocking story, my dear," with 
many shakes of the head. 

" All the accidents were against her," 
her complaining parent declared. 

Even an event which at first sight 
seemed a relief, the departure of Ken- 
neth and 'Eusebia, had an evil result. 
For neither did that erratic couple de- 
part together. Eusebia, after the most 
violent and frantic denunciations of 
Gertrude, whom she had accused of first 
seducing Kenneth from her, and then 
getting his uncle to forbid .him the 
house, declared that she neither could 
nor would live at Torrieburn. She 
would return to Spain ; she would be 

Packing therefore into their multi- 
farious cases all the glittering jewels 
(paid and unpaid) which she had 
accumulated since her marriage ; all the 
flashing fans, and fringed skirts, and 
black and white blonde, and Parisian 
patterns, which formed her study from 
morning to night ; she set forth, as the 
housekeeper expressed it, " without say- 
ing with your leave or by your leave." 

Old Sir Douglas. 


She never even inquired what was to 
become of Effie, or offered to say fare- 
well to Kenneth. 

But the latter, enraged more than 
grieved at her conduct, and doubly 
enraged at finding that by a singular 
coincidence Monzies of Craigievar had 
also chosen this especial time for a 
foieign tour, resolved to quit a scene 
so bitter to him as Torrieburn had 
become, and also to betake himself to 
Gr.mada, whether for vengeance or re- 
union he himself could not have told. 

'Pale Effie, with her large loving eyes, 
entreated to go with him, but in vain. 
He would return for her. She must be 
patient. She must go and stay a little 
while witk his mother. She must be a 
good girl : he couldn't be troubled with 
her just then. 

With all these arrangements or dis- 
arrangements, Gertrude had certainly 
nothing to do; but the world told a 
very different story. She was a wily, 
profligate woman ; her husband had 
renounced her ; she had broken Eusebia's 
heart, and divided Kenneth and his 
once attached uncle for ever. Most of 
the ladies had " foreseen what it must 
come to." They could not think of 
leading their cards at the house. They 
wondered Lady Charlotte should ven- 
ture to force her daughter on society. 
Th( y really pitied her for being Lady 
Ross's mother ; they believed she had 
bee:i a decently conducted wife herself, 
tho'igh an utter idiot, and of course 
quiie an unfit guide for a person of 
youag Lady Ross's propensities. 

Some of them dick hear that Sir 
Douglas was taking proceedings for a 
divorce, but the difficulty was that he 
did not wish to ruin the young man 
Kei neth Ross, who, indeed, had been 
" more sinned against than sinning," and 
thai there was very great reluctance on 
the part of certain witnesses to come 

Sir Douglas's sister, for instance, was 
a v<>ry strict, pious, and modest young 
per.' on, and she had openly declared she 
wor.ld sooner die than be questioned 
and cross-questioned in a court of 
just ce. 

It was a lamentable business alto- 
gether, and quite disgraceful. 

Lady Charlotte, on the other hand, 
thought her poor Gertrude abominably 
ill-used in not being worshipped as a 
saint, and shrined as a martyr ; besides 
being asked out every evening by the 
creme de la creme of society. She 
was for ever wailing and lamenting 
about some call not made, some card not 
sent in, some rudeness offered, or sup- 
posed to be offered. She thought the 
Queen ought personally to interfere for 
the protection of her daughter. She 
worried poor Gertrude to death, by little 
whimperings and petitions to "go this 
once, just to show you are asked," when 
some more than usually important 
occasion arose. To all pleadings that it 
was distasteful, unnecessary, and that 
even were all other circumstances happy, 
the absence of the soldier-husband, in a 
life of privation and danger, was surely 
excuse enough for not mingling with 
general society, Lady Charlotte had 
her counter-arguments. It would not 
have signified " if nothing had hap- 
pened if nothing had been said;" 
"it was not for gaiety," it was to up- 
hold her ; and she ought to consider 
that it wasn't only herself, it was Lady 
Charlotte, it was the family that had 
to bear the disgrace. 

When Mrs. Cregan endeavoured to 
console her by saying, " I don't believe 
any one of these women believe a single 
word of the stories against Lady Ross, 
or think the least ill of her in their 
secret hearts, but I do believe there are 
plenty of them who are delighted to 
pretend that they think ill of her," poor 
Lady Charlotte confusedly declared that 
that was exactly what pained her. " I 
wouldn't mind if Gertrude was really 
bad ; I mean I should think it quite 
fair, though of course I suppose I should 
be vexed, being my own child. But 
when I know her to be so good, and 
they are all so violent and unreasonable 
the Rosses of Glenrossie I do really 
think the Queen ought to do something, 
and you see she does nothing, and there 
is no justice anywhere. I declare I 
think the people that abuse Gertrude 


Old Sir Douglas. 

ought to be punished. I know the 
tradesmen can't say things, and why 
should ladies 1 I mean that they can 
prosecute each other (tradesmen), because 
I had once a butcher who prosecuted the 
miller who served Mr. Skifton's father 
with flour : he prosecuted for being called 
* a false-weighted rascal ; ' and I should 
like to know if that is as bad as the 
things they say of Gertrude? And 
there is my cousin, Lady Clochnaben ; 
but I've written to Lorimer about that. 
It is too bad really too bad and 
-enough to break one's heart." 

Mrs. Cregan sighed compassionately. 
" Well," she said, " I love my own girl 
as dearly, I think, as mother can love a 
child. But I declare that if I knew her 
to be virtuous, I should care no more 
for the insolence and slanders of these 
jealous, worldly, scandal-loving women 
than I should care for the hail that 
pattered down on the skylight of the 
house she was living in." 

" Ah ! Mrs. Cregan, but you haven't 
been tried, and you don't know what it 
is ! So proud as I was of my Gertie ! 
But I've written to Lorimer about the 
Clochnabens ; that's one comfort." 

It seemed a very slender comfort, for 
Lady Charlotte continued to apply her 
handkerchief to her eyes, and murmur 
to herself ; but she had a strong and 
not misplaced confidence that Lorimer 
would rebuke his mother for " speaking 
ill of Gertrude, and refusing to call, and 
all that." 

" I shouldn't wonder if he made her 
call spiteful and bitter as she is, all 
because dear Gertie once said to her, 
'This is worse than rude, it is cruel,' 
when she snubbed Mrs. Ross-Heaton! 
I hope he'll make her call." 

Poor Lady Charlotte ! why it should 
be a satisfaction to compel a visit from 
one " spiteful and bitter," and unwilling, 
let the great world of mysteries declare ! 

But Lorimer had written, sternly and 
somewhat too contemptuously on the 
subject, to his mother. 

His mother did not answer him. The 
answer, such as it was, came from " the 
earl," and was worthy of the hand that 
penned it. 



" MY DEAR LORIMER, My mother put 
your letter into my hands. I don't 
often write, but as she has requested 
me to do so on this I must say dis- 
graceful business, I do so, and add my 
own opinion. 

"You will bear in mind the point 
de depart whence she views this affair ; 
(very different from your own maniere 
de voir). Slie considers Lady Ross an 
artful woman, who, after encouraging 
and having a liaison with a great 
blackguard (Kenneth Ross), and God 
knows how many more besides, inveigles 
you yourself into a similar situation. 
You were in and out of Lady Char- 
lotte's house like a tame dog when last 
you were in England ; and though, ., 
from the bad company Lady Ross has 
kept generally both at Naples and in 
Scotland, a liaison and intimacy with 
you would rather raise her character 
than injure it, in the estimation of the 
world ; and though I presume you will 
insist that the lady has not infringed 
the seventh commandment, yet my 
mother feels she has a legitimate right 
to be astonished at your proposing a 
visit from her under the circumstances. 

" She has never doubted but that your 
remaining unmarried is consequent on 
some former disappointment with regard 
to this woman ; whose not very prudent 
sayings, both to and of my mother, are 
probably unknown to you. My mother 
has nothing to go upon, to believe in 
the absence of her criminality; and 
she considers your own real happiness 
(which could only be consulted by 
marriage) marred by this entanglement. 
She now puts it to you : Do you, in pro- 
posing this concession of a visit to 
Lady Ross, intend to marry 1 ? You 
cannot expect her to call while your 
own intimacy in that quarter subsists. 
You do not, for your own character's 
sake, contemplate, if you marry, con- 
tinuing to see Lady Ross? Still less 
I presume of exacting from, your future 
wife that she should visit her ? No girl 

Long Holidays. 


worthy your seeking would accept you 
on such terms. The world would not 
understand it. / would not. 

l< My mother's calling, of course, 
would be an eclatant testimony in Lady 
Ross's favour, and she has no objection 
to fulfil your object. But we both feel 
that had there been no intimacy between 
yon and Lady R., you never could have 
wished any female members of your 
family to continue her acquaintance. 
You would make no excuses for her: 
you would simply think what THE 
WOSLD thinks ; and the opinion of the 
world is what you have chiefly to bear 
in mind. Society will of course place 
her higher the day after LADY CLOCH- 
NAHEN has called, than she has stood 
since her separation from her husband ; 
but my mother will be more easily 
placated and managed, if she thinks, for 
the attainment of the object you have 
in view, you don't go beyond what is 
absolutely required. None of us would 
approve of that. The world would not. 
If fche calls once, she considers that will 
be sufficient. 

" I won't give way to the appre- 
hension that my letter can annoy you, 
or Dhab there is anything in it distasteful 
to you to read. I hope you consider 
me a privileged person. 

" Where my mother gets all the. 
gossip from about Lady R., I can't, 
guess. Mother H. I should think : 
only I doubt her being so well informed. 

"Do not think me pedant, or dry ; I 
enter, on the contrary, into your present 
feelings, but I think a year hence you 
will change your views as to the pro- 
priety of the step which my mother is. 
ready to take, on the express understand- 
ing already set forth in my letter; and I 
think you have (or rather Lady Ross- 
has) no right not to be satisfied with 
the conditions. You have nothing to- 
answer for, if her character is tainted. 
The evil was done before your time. 

" I once more assure you I have no- 
intention to hurt your feelings by these 
observations. I speak my mind as a 
looker-on, and as a man who has been, 
many years since, himself on the verge 
of making irrecoverable sacrifices, and 
who now only feels thankful that he: 
was suffered to escape. 

" Your affectionate Brother, 


That Lorimer read this letter through. 
without grinding it under his heel like 
Kenneth, speaks much for his natural 
or acquired patience. 

To be continued. no*) 



IN this second half of the nineteenth 
century the English paterfamilias in the 
middle ranks of society is forcibly re- 
minded, several times in each year, that 
school holidays have been largely in- 
creased since the days when he was 
numbered among the tribe depicted 

. . . "The whining school-boy, with his 


And shining morning face, creeping like snail, 
Unwillingly to school." 

Shakespeare's character of the school- 
boy, though doubtless a faithful word- 

picture for his time, and for long suc- 
ceeding generations of English youth r 
has ceased to be true of the alert young- 
sters to be seen everywhere, now-a-days,. 
going blithesomely to school, jocund, 
brisk and gay as larks. Why should 
they now be sad? They are all mere, 
half-timers for work, in comparison with. 
their predecessors on the same well- 
worn benches. The hours are now so 
brief when they 

" Their murm'rincr labours ply, 
'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint 
To sweeten liberty," 


Long Holidays. 

as merely to form a sort of interlude 
between their manifold and all-engross- 
ing sports. 

Schoolmasters have been silent 
pioneers in the great short-time move- 
ment, of which, in recent years, the 
surgings and reverberations have made 
so great a stir in all departments of the 
world of industry. And they have 
enjoyed two large advantages over their 
followers in the curtailment of working 
time. They have had no formidable 
array of employers or capitalists to stem 
the tide of their exactions : the boys (to 
a man) are all on their side. With 
such odds in their favour they have 
felt strong enough to slight the occa- 
sional protests of dissentient fathers, 
and to close their ears to the repinings 
of disconsolate mothers, who patheti- 
cally, but vainly, deplore " the dreadfully 
long holidays." Female suffrage, with 
dual voting for ladies, would speedily 
bring about more work and less idle 
time for school-boys. 

Schools for all sorts and conditions 
of boys, except those for whom parlia- 
mentary subsidies are voted, seem to 
be rapidly drifting into a system of 
holidays after the model of Eton. But 
Eton holidays are condemned as exces- 
sive even by Eton masters ; and the 
, Eoyal Commissioners prove their full 
concurrence in the objection, by their 
63d Eecommendation, "That no ex- 
" tension of the holidays should be ever 
" allowed, except in obedience to Eoyal 
" Command." 

The Commissioners were too loyal to 
propose a limitation that would trench 
on the Queen's prerogative. But for 
this restraint they must have suggested 
that royal marriages have ceased, in 
recent years, to be events of so much 
rarity, or high national importance, as 
to warrant the giving, in celebration of 
them, an extra week's holiday to Eton 
boys. Had the late Joseph Hume (of 
strictly-economic memory) been a mem- 
ber of the Commission, he would not 
have overlooked the pecuniary aspects 
of the question. An extra week's holi- 
day for 850 Eton boys, whose expenses 
in a school year of thirty-six weeks 

amount to an average of not less 
than 180Z. each, or 51. per boy per 
week, involves mulcting the parents in 
an aggregate sum of over 5,000. (in- 
cluding school and home expenses), 
besides the loss of education. 

The cost of education, like that of 
a host of other necessaries and luxuries, 
has in these latter days been very sensi- 
bly augmented. This fact is exhibited 
in a strong light when we contrast the 
time consumed in a school and college 
course in the Victorian era with the 
shorter period which formerly sufficed 
for the same purpose. It takes longer 
time by at least two years to pass 
through the English Public Schools 
and Universities than in the latter 
years of George the Third's reign. 
(Eeport of Public Schools Commission, 
1864, vol. ii. p. 540, Winchester, Dr. 
Moberly's evidence.) Lord Westbury, 
who was born in 1800, passed to Oxford 
in his early teens, and took his B.A. 
degree with all but the highest honours 
when under the age of eighteen. 

If we go still further into the past, 
we find that education in the Public 
Schools usually ended with a boy's 
fifteenth or sixteenth year frequently 
earlier still. Thus, Milton passed from 
St. Paul's School to Cambridge (1624) 
at the commencement of his sixteenth 
year. Andrew Marvell entered Trinity 
College, Cambridge, in his fourteenth 
year (1633); and notwithstanding a 
considerable break in his stay there, 
he took his B.A. degree at the age 
of eighteen. Addison passed from the 
Charterhouse to Oxford (1687) at the 
age of fifteen ; at seventeen he became 
a demy of Magdalen ; before twenty- 
one he had taken his M.A. degree. 
But, in the reign of Queen Victoria, the 
great public schools keep their pupils 
till the end of their eighteenth or nine- 
teenth year. The attainments of the 
great mass of those who, at that age, 
pass to Oxford and Cambridge, -are 
found to be so low that their first two 
years at the Universities have to be given 
up to mere school-work work proper 
for the upper forms of a large school. 

" The point which is now reached by 

Long Holidays. 


" boys at the age of twenty, ought to 
" bt reached at seventeen. ..." 

" Many boys come to the Univer- 
" sit,y from school knowing next to 
" nothing." ... "A valuable year or 
" two is wasted at school." (Eeplies by 
Rev. W. Hedley, late Fellow and 
Tutor of University College, Oxford, 
and Public Examiner, in Report of 
Public Schools Commission, 1864, vol. 
ii. pp. 16, 17.) 

" The University course of teaching 
" is much hampered by the crude state 
" of the men subjected to it, and by 
"thi necessity of supplementing the 
" shortcomings of school education." . . . 
" Tl e length and cost of education 
"have been steadily growing for a long 
" tine." (Rev. G. W. Kitchin, M.A. 
Junior Censor of Christ Church, Ox- 
ford, ibid pp. 1113.) 

" The education generally given at 
" schools does not give a satisfactory 
" grounding in those subjects which 
" form the especial studies of this Uni- 
" versity, and the large majority of 
" young men who enter College show 
" a very superficial knowledge of Latin 
" and Greek, while of English Litera- 
" tuie, English History, and English 
" Composition they are deplorably igno- 
" rarjt. For eighteen years I have 
" found employment in Cambridge in 
" supplementing as a private tutor the 
" deficiencies of school education, and 
" in reaching the simplest rudiments of 
" Arithmetic, Algebra, and elementary 
" Mathematics, and in preparing in 
" Latin and Greek candidates for the pre- 
" vio is examination. The greater part 
" of my pupils are from public schools, 
" and I cannot but think that I teach 
" the n nothing but what they ought to 
" ha^ e been thoroughly taught at school." 
(Rev. W. H. Girdlestone, M.A. Christ's 
College, Cambridge, ibid. p. 30.) 

"It follows that, with the great mass 
" of men, school education and that 
" education which barely enables them 
" at ast to construe a Latin and Greek 
" bock, poet and orator, chosen by 
" the nselyes ; to master three books 
" of Euclid, and solve a problem in 
" qua Iratic equations is prolonged to 

"the age of twenty or twenty-one." 
(Report, vol. i. pp. 24, 25.) 

The shorter holidays, and longer days 
of work, in earlier times, bore fruit in 
an earlier completion of the school and 
college course. In Dean Colet's ordi- 
nances for the government of St. Paul's 
School, the holidays were limited to 
one month in the year ; and the hours 
for daily attendance were fixed at from 
seven to eleven in the morning, and 
from one to five in the afternoon. The 
Merchant Taylors' statutes adopt the 
same hours for daily work, and allow 
twenty working days in the year for 
holiday. The Shrewsbury School sta- 
tutes, imitated from Dean Colet's model, 
give somewhat more vacation, with an 
average of ten hours per diem for work. 
The other public schools similarly re- 
stricted holiday to four or five weeks 
in the year, and exacted eight or nine 
hours of daily work in school. At the 
present time, school-work fills an 
average of about five hours daily, and 
the periodical vacations and numerous 
special holidays reach an aggregate from 
three to four times greater than in the 
pristine period of English public school 
education. The day, the week, the year 
of school work, have all been shortened : 
the cost of schooling has undergone a 
contrary process. As mediaeval Jews 
clipped and sweated the coinage of the 
realm, making each golden angel yield a 
tribute, so now are the golden hours 01 
school-life clipped and curtailed to in- 
crease the leisure of instructors of 
middle-class youth. 

No one wishes to restore the severe 
regime of Dean Colet and his brother 
founders of the great public schools. 
No one desires to see boys compelled 
to carry candles to school, to light 
them at their early morning tasks, 
as in days still well remembered by 
many a surviving Pauline. But there 
is a wide -spread and growing conviction 
that schoolmasters have gone too far in 
their curtailment of time for work. 
Schooling fills up more years in a boy's 
life, and indeed trenches well into 
early manhood, while it is a moot point 
whether scholarship lias advanced. 


Long Holidays. 

Vacation consumes sixteen or more 
weeks out of the fifty-two, and the re- 
maining thirty-six weeks, spent at 
school, are laid under heavy contribu- 
tion for holidays and half-holidays on 
multifarious occasions. 

If the questionable privilege of un- 
limited holiday were a fashion peculiar 
to schools for the highest ranks of 
society, the evil result would be of com- 
paratively little moment. Boys of the 
aristocratic class have ample resources 
for the profitable disposal of long 
vacations. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage 
covers barely as much ground as the 
travels accomplished in two or three 
summer excursions of Eton, Harrow, 
and Eugby boys of the present day. 
The "grand tour," which formed the 
climax of an English gentleman's educa- 
tion in the last century, was certainly 
less extensive than the foreign travel of 
which the scions of opulent families 
now have experience before com- 
mencing their University career. It is 
quite a common-place occurrence for 
fourth and fifth-form boys to traverse 
[France, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy 
in their summer vacations. Youths under 
eighteen are often met with who have 
visited all the countries bordering on 
the Mediterranean. Some few of that 
age have sailed on the Nile, scaled the 
Pyramids, and from their giddy height 
looked down with Napoleon's witnesses, 
the forty silent centuries ; have glanced at 
the Red Sea and Bosphorus, and fished 
the Scandinavian lakes and rivers. 
Even Niagara Falls, the prairies, and 
the cities of mushroom growth, a 
thousand miles inland from the Ame- 
rican seaboard, are now easily com- 
prised in a vacation-tour of six weeks' 
duration. The giant Steam, in alliance 
with the magician Gold ; hotels afloat, 
yet fraught with all the luxuries 'of 
palatial homes; ubiquitous express trains, 
such are the ways and means where- 
with youths in their teens now visit the 
scenes of history, chivalry, fable, . and 
poetry, or of the marvellous achieve- 
ments of enterprise and energy in a 
nation not yet a century old. 

Eor boys blessed with the gift of 

fortune, whose position in life is secured! 
in advance for them, and calls for no 
exertion on their part, no better substi- 
tutes for interrupted book-work could 
be found than foreign travel in summer, 
and, in the winter, social intercourse 
with the highest society within reach 
of their ancestral halls. But long holi- 
days, which are appropriate to the case 
of the favoured few, are ill-fitted to- 
the circumstances of the masses. These 
latter have no facilities for field-sports 
in the murky weather comprised in the 
long Christmas and Easter holidays. 
Foreign travel in summer is a luxury 
beyond their most ardent hopes. Many 
of them 

" Long in populous city pent 
Where houses thick and sewers an 


annoy the 

pass through their school -boy days 
without once visiting the coast or the 
country. The City of London School, 
and others attended by children of the 
trading and the less wealthy professional 
classes, afford abundant samples of boys 
after this type. Eor such boys a long 
term of enforced idleness each year is a 
serious injury, and leads to a pernicious 
distaste for intellectual effort. Light 
reading of the most trashy character is 
the mental pabulum to which such boys 
betake themselves. 

The pupils of a day-school have not 
the same need for long holidays as boys 
living away from home. If the Eton, 
Harrow, Shrewsbury, or Winchester boy 
has long holidays, he is, at any rate, 
absent from his family and home through- 
out the school-terms. Not so the boy 
at the City of London or the Dulwich 
Schools, who returns once or twice each 
day to his home, and has only five whole 
days of schooling in each week. Yet 
Dulwich boys (to quote an example) 
cannot make more than one hundred 
and seventy-five complete days of school- 
ing, even if they miss no single half- 
day when the school is opened. Their 
holidays, half-holidays, and Sundays 
amount to a hundred and ninety days 
in the year. More work and less play 
is clearly needed here ; but the practice 

Long Holidays. 


of the great public schools is copied 
without regard to the widely differing 
circumstances and prospects of the 
pupils. Boys whose destination is 
the desk, the warehouse, the shop, or 
one of the infinite variety of industrial 
pui suits, cannot afford to spend a large 
section of the year in mere pastime or 
listless idleness. The masters of these 
metropolitan and suburban day-schools 
have not the same need of long vaca- 
tions that can be pleaded for their fellow- 
workers in boarding-schools. An Eton, 
or Rugby, or Harrow master is more or 
less engaged with his pupils from early 
morning till late at night, and even his 
Sundays are not days of rest. Yet the 
Head-Master of Eton holds that such 
duties, filling ten or twelve hours every 
day, involve no severe mental labour. 
The masters in large day-schools have 
only half as many hours of work each 
day, and no Sunday work. Yet four 
months out of the twelve are claimed by 
the masters of middle-class day-schools 
as indispensable to the recruiting of 
their exhausted energies. If this claim 
be just, it follows that Eton and Rugby 
masters, who work twice as long, should 
get oight instead of four months' vaca- 
tion. It is only in England that such a 
claim is set up. Schools of similar 
character in Scotland, Prussia, and 
othe3 % countries where education is best 
attended to, give less holiday by six or 
eight weeks in the year. One conspi- 
cuous result of the shorter holidays in 
Scotland is the frequent success of 
Scotch boys in competition against the 
ablest % youths from the English public 
schools. In schools aided by Govern- 
ment d grants, the number of complete 
days' work in the year is frequently 
two hundred and twenty or two hun- 
dred and thirty, and that, too, without 
including the Sundays, which also are 
work ing days in most instances for both 
teachers and scholars. Few teachers in 
middle-class day-schools have so heavy 
a day's work as the certificated master 
of a school under Government inspec- 
tion, who, in addition to his six hours 
of real hard work at methodical oral 
teaching, has one and a half or two 
ISTc. 92. VOL. xvi. 

more hours occupied in the private in- 
struction of his pupil-teachers, and the 
keeping of an elaborate set of school- 
registers. Other odd duties often fall 
to him, and his Sunday work is no 

Enough has been stated to show that 
the interests of middle-class boys attend- 
ing the town and suburban day-schools, 
demand a substantial increase in the 
days for work. The practice of the 
earlier part of this century, still observed 
by many excellent schools, should be 
re-established namely, a total of two 
months, or, at the utmost, ten weeks. 
Shorter vacations might carry with them 
the compensation of diminished daily 
tasks for evening hours at home. Many 
a parent would be glad to see his children 
relieved of part at least of the drudgery 
imposed upon them in the shape of 
excessive evening work. More work 
should be performed at school ; less at 
the domestic hearth. 

An exhaustive scrutiny of a well-kept 
set of school registers would exhibit, for 
every boy in the long-holiday-giving 
schools, a total attendance in the year 
so small, that it would startle even the 
school authorities themselves. Besides 
their regular stated holidays usually 
about seven weeks in summer (July to 
September), five at Christmas, twelve 
days or a fortnight at Easter, several 
days in Lent, as many or more days at 
Whitsuntide, sometimes a week or more 
after Speech-day special holidays are 
sometimes given in celebration of births, 
marriages, and christenings in the fami- 
lies of masters. Successes attained in 
examinations by present and former 
pupils, whether at the Universities or afc 
the Oxford and Cambridge Local Exami- 
nations, are also held to be fit occasions 
for special holidays. So also is the 
presence of distinguished guests on 
Speech-day. A few years ago tha 
"summer holidays of a large London 
school, already ample enough, were in- 
creased by two weeks, because a prince 
and princess, and half a dozen bishops, 
graced by their presence the achieve- 
ments of Speech-day. Such practices 
are only maintainable on the ground 



Long Holidays. 

that school education is a bad thing, 
and therefore on any pretext the boys 
should be benefited by having less of it. 
The logical sequence is that the greatest 
benefit would be conferred on the boys 
by closing the schools altogether, and 
making each year of boyhood an entire 
long holiday. A day-school yields only 
five short days per week for work. 
Deduct its holidays of 7 weeks in 
summer, 5 at Christmas, 3 for Lent, 
Easter, and Whitsuntide, and 2 more for 
its sundry special holidays, or 17 in. all, 
and there remain only 35 weeks of 5 
days each, or a total of 175 days for 
work, against 190 days for holidays and 
Sundays. In other words, each period 
of 100 days is composed of 48 only for 
work, and 52 for rest and play ; or, the 
year is divided into 25 complete weeks 
for work, and 27 for rest and play. It 
may be urged that even in holidays some 
school work is given to the boys to 
prepare. But book-work, which in- 
fringes on play-time, finds few willing 
votaries among schoolboys. The advan- 
tages of sports have been so greatly 
extolled in this age of " muscular 
Christianity," that boys have come to 
look upon study as of secondary import- 
ance, and to give their whole hearts to 
games. In the case of many boys, 
cricket consumes in summer-time as 
many hours per week as lessons. 
Athletic sports have their uses, but they 
may be easily abused. In such pastimes, 
duly regulated, boys mutually give and 
take a valuable part of education. 
Mind, however, is the superior of muscle : 
Apollo held higher rank than Hercules. 
The subjects of instruction are more 
numerous than formerly. In a com- 
petition for Indian or Civil Service 
appointments, failure in French and 
fractions cannot be condoned by skill 
in flat-race or adroitness at foils ; high- 
loap is not yet an admissible alterna- 
tive for Higher Mathematics ; jumping* 
in sacks is no set-off against halting 
in Science ; good hurdle-racing does 
not excuse bud answers in History ; 
the first place in long- leap is not "a 
make-weight for limping Latin ; the 
consolation race has no counterpart in 

Woolwich or Sandhurst examinations. 
If anything beyond a mere smattering 
of many subjects, without thoroughness 
in one, is to be attained, the days for 
work should outnumber those for rest 
and play by a substantial majority. 

Excessive holidays are given in most 
of the richly-endowed schools. Dulwich 
College gives six weeks more than the 
City of London School, and five more 
weeks than the London University 
College School the two latter leaning 
more on fees, and less on endowment, 
than Alley ne's foundation. Parents 
often complain that even Christ's Hos- 
pital has greatly enlarged its vacation in 
recent years. But here again is a better 
case for abundant holiday than, for 
example, the Dulwich College Lower 
School, where less than half the 365 
days of the year are given to work. The 
Charity Commissioners might render 
good service to education by requiring 
from all endowed schools, in addition 
to their usual yearly financial statement, 
a return from the school registers of the 
number of attendances made by each 
boy in the twelve months. 

Schools which give 4 months' holiday 
in the year, yield only 8 months in the 
year for work. Schools which give a 
total of 2 months' holiday in the year 
yield 10 months of work. It requires 
10 years of 8 months each, to afford as 
much schooling as 8 years of 10 months 
each. So that a boy entering school at 
the age of 7, must now remain till 1 7 in 
order to get as much schooling as fell to 
the lot of his predecessors on the same 
benches between the ages of 7 and 15. 
In other words, two years more of idle 
time are now-a-days thrust upon boys 
of the middle and lower middle classes, 
in deference to the practice of Eton. 
Schoolmasters have not, in England, the 
skins of Ethiops, nor the leopard's spots 
which resist all mild detergent processes. 
They are -open to conviction. If they 
are wilfully deaf to reasonable remon- 
strance, let parents address themselves 
to the governing bodies of those schools 
in which holiday exceeds the require- 
ments or the necessities of the pupils in 



]S r i;xT to its verdant freshness., which, 
we are told, we owe to that moist climate 
of which we are not seldom tempted to 
complain, the greatest charm of our 
English landscape is its extraordinary 
variety. Within a narrow compass, and 
on a small scale, our island contains 
air lost every kind of scenery of which 
thd temperate zone is capable, mountain 
and valley, hill and dale, fen and forest, 
park and garden, cliff and sand, form 
an inexhaustible succession of beauty, 
varied by just that amount of plainness 
and sterility which seems best calculated 
to enhance its effect. 

This^charm of variety, which properly 
be]ongs to the whole country, is now 
and then repeated, in an inferior degree, 
in the general aspect of a single county ; 
indeed, I do not believe that any county, 
eitlier in England or Scotland, is entirely 
without it, though some possess it to a 
far greater degree than others ; and in 
none is this more conspicuously the 
case than in the county of Somerset. 

^irst there is the great background, 
or landward portion of the county ; 
which consists of a large undulating 
tra^t of country, well-wooded, fertile, 
and highly cultivated, abounding, as 
such tracts of country are wont to do, 
in parks and gardens, and pleasant coun- 
try houses. Then, stretching towards the 
Bristol Channel, the IST.W. boundary of 
the county, we find two ranges of hills, 
the Mendips and the Quantocks ; the 
former barren of trees, rugged, and 
precipitous, cleft by the deep defile of 
Cheddar Cliffs, and dipping into the 
sea at Brean Down to reappear in the 
islands of the Steep and Flat Holmes 
half way across towards Wales ; the 
latter of soft and rounded outline, wear- 
ing on their sides a rich mantle of purple 
heath and golden gorse, whilst their 
inn 3rmost recesses are green with woods, 
and musical with the never-ceasing ripple 
of countless springs and rivulets. 

Between these two ranges of hills lies 
a broad tract of perfectly flat country, 
stretching inland many a mile from the 
Bristol Channel to the foot of Glaston- 
bury Tor. There is another smaller 
range, the Polden Hills, which juts out, 
like a peninsula, into the centre of this 
plain, whose flat expanse, viewed from 
the Eoman road which is carried along 
the crest of these Polden Hills, looks 
like the uncovered basin of some huge 
lake, or inland sea, with here and there 
an island or two, of greater or less size, 
rising abruptly out of it. And there is 
little doubt that there was a time, long, 
long ago, when the thick turbid waters 
of the " Severn Sea," Tennyson's " yel- 
low sea," as tawny as a lion's mane, 
covered nearly the whole tract that lies 
between the Quantocks and the Mendips ; 
and, if we may trust the old legend, it 
must have been over this plain that 
Joseph of ArimathaBa and his companions 
came sailing to Glastonbury, when they 
landed at the foot of the Tor once the 
mysterious Isle of Avalon and their 
leader planted the magic thorn, whose 
offshoots, to this very day, persist in 
bursting into leaf and trying to blossom 
at Christmas. Even now, the rivers 
which fall into the Bristol Channel be- 
tween the Quantocks r and the Mendips 
are carefully embanked for many miles ; 
and, not two hundred years ago, when 
an unusually high tide made a breach 
in the sea-wall at Huntspill, the waves 
once more rolled triumphantly across 
the plain to Glastonbury, where, for 
many years, a stone was to be seen at 
the foot of the tower of one of the 
churches, which was set to mark the 
utmost limit to which the waters reached. 

Almost all the land of which this 
great plain is composed has been long 
ago drained and enclosed, and converted 
from waste land into flourishing pastures, 
in which are situated the dairy farms 
where most of the so-called Cheddar 



The Abbot's Way. 

cheese is made. Much as the value of 
the land and the prosperity of its in- 
habitants have been augmented by these 
improvements, those of them that have 
been carried out in recent years were 
generally received, when first proposed 
and set on foot, with the most violent 
opposition. The discontented traversed 
the country in bands, expressing in 
threatening words and -gestures their 
anger at the enclosure of the waste, and 
singing rude songs, of which there was 
one with the refrain : 

"Let ZadgcmooT bide as a be. " 

The land must have been partially 
drained a long while before it was en- 
closed. It is intersected by a multitude 
of ditches, and also by several large 
dykes, called in the dialect of the 
country " rhines " or " rheens." My 
readers will no doubt remember that it 
was on the banks of one of these 
" rhines" that the issue of the battle of 
Sedgemoor was decided. About two- 
thirds of the plain is composed of these 
rich pasture-lands, the home of some of 
the most prosperous farmers to be found 
in all England; the remaining third, 
though not without a value of its own, 
is as conspicuous for its barrenness as 
the rest is for its fertility, and yet it is 
concerning this barren tract that I wish 
'to awaken your attention, and excite 
your interest. 

If you have ever travelled by the 
Somerset Central Eailway from High- 
bridge to Glastonbury, you must have 
passed through it, wondering, perhaps, 
to be carried for miles through such a 
desolate waste, resembling a miniature 
Irish bog, set in the midst of English 
cultivation and prosperity. 

This curious tract is generally known 
by the name of " The Turf Moor," just 
as the fertile plain above described is 
called " The Marsh." If you would see 
it to advantage you must not approach 
it from the railway, but come down into 
it from the Polden Hills, along whose 
base it lies, stretching towards the 
Mendips in rich bands of colour, choco- 
late and brown and dark green in the 
foreground, and deep purple and iris 

blue beyond. The view is bounded by 
the Mendip Hills, whose naked sides 
are beautiful in the distance with every 
variety of tint and hue that light and 
shade, falling on scanty herbage and 
broken masses of grey rock, can produce. 

From the old Eoman road already 
spoken of a multitude of lanes, all more 
or less steep and narrow, lead down into 
the moor. Choosing one of these, you 
make your way between mossy, violet- 
scented banks, overshadowed by elm- 
trees, or surmounted by high, irregular, 
hawthorn hedges, past orchards, and 
pastures, and gardens, until suddenly 
and abruptly all these things cease : you 
reach the bottom of the hill, and you 
find yourself on the very edge of a 
brown, level waste of heather and fern 
and fir-trees, and dark, conical stacks of 
turf, where there are no elms and no hedge- 
rows, and where never a violet grows ; 
where the sides of the ditches which 
border the road are of the deepest 
chocolate colour ; where the houses are 
mere cabins, because the ground is so 
soft and unsteady that it will not bear 
the weight of a second story ; and where, 
in seasonable weather, you may meet 
almost all the inhabitants of the district 
out of doors ; all, from the eldest to the 
youngest, Somehow or other engaged in 
the business of getting turf, their brown 
faces wearing, for the most part, a sin- 
gular air of contentment and satisfaction 
with their peculiar mode of life. 

The Turf Moor has, however, under- 
gone many changes within the last fifteen 
or twenty years. Eoads have multiplied, 
churches and chapels have been built, 
and schools established ; and by inter- 
course with their neighbours the moor- 
folk have gradually become much less 
rough and uncivilized, and, in general, 
much more like other people, than they 
once were. In places, too, where all the 
turf has been dug out, the land has been 
brought into cultivation, and patches of 
poor-looking pasturage and scanty crops 
are to be seen, encroaching upon the 
barren moor to such an extent that it is 
impossible not to suspect that the time 
may be slowly but surely approaching 
when the whole tract will lose its wild 

The Abbot's Way. 


character, and become tame and agri- 

That day, however, must be yet far 
off. Although the great-grandfathers 
of the present generation would, no 
doubt, hardly believe their eyes if they 
could see the advances that civilization 
has already made even in the turbaries ; 
still, compared with the social standard 
of the day, they are yet wild enough to 
contrast strongly with the prosperous 
agricultural villages that cluster round 
Pol den Hill. They have still a flora of 
their own, including, I have heard, 
many rare plants that grow nowhere 
else in England ; rare birds still make 
the moors their occasional haunt in the 
winter; and their inhabitants are still 
almost a distinct race, with customs and 
traditions of their own, obstinately at- 
tached to their native place, and loving, 
with all their hearts, the out-of-door 
freedom and independence that they 

3 Jut it is not to talk of botany or or- 
nithology, or even to introduce you to 
the brown, picturesque inhabitants, that 
I have led you into the Turf Moor, and 
wearied you, it may be, with this long 
attempt to give you an exact idea of its 
locality, lying in the midst of the agri- 
cull ural districts of Somersetshire, like 
a gipsy child found asleep in the house 
of i: prosperous farmer. 

I have done so in the hope that my 
description may enable you to realize 
the situation, and to go back in imagi- 
nation into the distant past, to the times 
when the wild, half-inundated moors 
and marshes of Somerset must have 
been an inviolable retreat, an impreg- 
nable refuge for many a generation of 
him ted fugitives; to the unknown time, 
in short, when human hands made, and 
human feet used to tread, the curious 
buried pathway that I am about to 
describe to you. 

1 b is now some years ago that I first 
heard a clergyman, living on the borders 
of the Turf Moor, mention the "Abbot's 
Way." This name, he said, was given 
to ;i road or pathway which was said 
to extend for several miles below the 
surface of the Moor. Since that time 

I have often heard the Abbot's "Way 
spoken of; but, although the tradition 
of its existence was familiar to many 
people, no one appeared to know any- 
thing further about it, nor to be able 
to tell why the Way, if indeed it really 
existed, should be called the Abbot's. 

Had it been made, hundreds of years 
ago, by the orders of some Abbot of 
Glastonbury ? Or was it the legacy of 
yet earlier ages which the Abbey took 
upon itself the task of keeping in re- 
pair ? Or, again, is the name simply 
a result of the habit of associating every 
relic of the past, whose history is at all 
mysterious or obscure, with the great 
abbey that once dominated the whole 
district ? 

These questions still remain unan- 
swered, although the buried road itself 
has been laid open to the light of day. 

About three years ago a gentleman 
who is the owner of some land in the 
Turf Moor, and who was then engaged 
in writing a short paper on the geolo- 
gical peculiarities of the neighbourhood, 
determined to investigate the old tradi- 
tion of a buried road, and to ascertain 
for himself whether such a road existed, 
and what it was like. 

He began by making inquiries amongst 
the turf-cutters employed on his own 
ground, whether they had ever " heard 
tell " of the Abbot's Way, and, if so, 
whether they knew in what direction 
it lay. 

They at once declared that they were 
perfectly well acquainted with the situa- 
tion of the buried road, as they fre- 
quently struck into it with their spades 
in digging for turf; and, upon this 
information, he set some of them to 
work to dig for it, desiring them to lay 
some yards of the Abbot's Way open 
for him to see. 

The popular traditions, as well as the 
turf-cutters consulted on the subject, all 
agreed in describing the road as a wooden 
one, but the accounts were so vague 
that it was impossible to form any clear 
idea of the kind of road that it was 
supposed to be. When it was actually, 
for twenty yards or so, uncovered to his 
view, this gentleman was not only sur- 


The Abbot's Way. 

prised, but far more interested than he 
iiad expected to be. 

It lies about six feet below the pre- 
sent surface, and may be described, for 
want of a better comparison, as a minia- 
ture example of the log roads, composed 
of the trunks of trees, which are common, 
at the present day, in America. 

The Abbot's Way is composed, not 
of the trunks of trees, but of birchen 
poles, three feet long, split, and laid 
close together, and fastened at intervals 
with pegs about twelve inches long. 
Whether the poles are also fastened in 
any way with thongs I am not able to 
say. In describing the road I wish to 
describe only what I have myself seen, 
and I did not observe anything of the 

Owing, I suppose, to the antiseptic 
properties of the ' peat in which it has 
for centuries lain buried, the wood is 
in a wonderful state of preservation, 
although so soft and spongy as to be 
easily cut with a spade. The delicate 
silvery bark is still visible on the pieces 
that are used as pegs. 

On asking the turf-cutters, and other 
inhabitants of the Moor, what they sup- 
posed to be the general direction of the 
Abbot's Way, a variety of answers were 
received. Some affirmed that the road 
was to be traced right through the 
moor, from the Glastonbury or land- 
ward edge of it to the sea-coast j others, 
on the contrary, held that the so-called 
"Way" was, in truth, a network of 
several pathways, leading from one to 
another of those points in the Moor 
that are drier than the rest, and always 
above water during inundations. These 
are sandbanks, and they are always 
chosen for the site of the better sort 
of dwellings that are to be found in 
the Moor ; and it is against these sand- 
banks that most of the trunks of trees, 
generally oak, that are often found in 
the peat, are imbedded. 

Another suggestion sometimes made 
about the Abbot's Way is that it was 
used by the Glastonbury monks as a 
means of access to the little chapels and 
churches which it was their duty to 
serve ; a suggestion which can only be 

admitted if we renounce the idea, which 
involuntarily suggests itself to our 
minds, that this buried pathway, lying 
many feet below the soil trodden by 
the present generation, is far older than 
mediaeval, perhaps even than Saxon 

But it is the province of the present 
writer, not to offer conjectures, but, by 
describing accurately what appears to- 
be a very curious relic of antiquity, to 
provide food for the conjectures of 

I do not know whether, by those 
who understand such matters, it would 
be considered worth while to uncover 
a much longer portion of the Abbot's 
Way than the few yards that have been 
already laid open, in the hope of wringing 
from the silent pathway some note of 
the generations that once trod it. Once, 
in the turbaries, near Edington Burtle, 
at what depth below the surface we are 
not told, nor whether at all in the 
vicinity of the Abbot's Way, a square 
box, or coffer, of maple wood, was 
found, scooped within into an oval 
shape, and containing, as I find from a 
paper in a volume of the " Proceedings 
of the Somersetshire Archaeological So- 
ciety," for the year 1854, a torque, 
evidently from its size and lightness 
intended for the neck of a woman, two 
armlets, with finger rings of the same 
pattern, several other rings, one of them 
supposed to be of the same pattern as 
the Irish jogh-draoch, or chain-ring of 
divination, and, lastly, several knives 
and celts. 

Of all these articles there are draw- 
ings in the Archaeological Journal, but 
the writer of the paper has not de- 
scribed with the accuracy that might 
be wished the exact situation of the 
coffer when found. 

Some Druidical priestess, the writer- 
suggests, traversing the moor in a boat, 
may have " lost'" the coffer. It is im- 
possible not to wish that we could 
know whether the nineteenth century 
turf-cutters who "found" it, found it 
anywhere near the buried " Way." The 
ancient Britons, we know, baffled, for a 
time, their Roman invaders by retiring 

War and Progress. 


inlo impenetrable morasses, pathless, 
except to themselves. Was the British 
"Norma" the owner of the weird 
trinkets, suggesting all sorts of mys- 
terious associations with spells, and 
prophecies, and wonder-working power, 
traversing the moor, not by water, but 
by the secret path, spread like a piece 
of wooden matting on the soft and 
yielding surface of the moor, upon which 
it Jloated, somewhat on the principle of 
George Stephenson's railway across Chat 
Moss ? 

But, alas I although British remains 
have been not unfrequently found in 
these districts, their discovery has never 
"been, in any way, connected with the 
buried road. I should have no excuse 
for my mention of them, except that 
this slight sketch, by which I wish to 
introduce you to the locality of the 
" Abbot's Way," would not be complete 
without it. 

It was, perhaps, unlikely, that by a 
lucky chance any interesting relic of 
bygone humanity should be found in 
the very few yards of the " Abbot's 
Wey " that have been uncovered. There 
was- nothing lying on its surface except 
the debris of reeds, and the roots of 
plants looking like turf in process of 
formation; and amongst these debris, 
handfuls of hazel-nuts, as brown as 
bog oak from their long repose in their 
peaty bed, but in a wonderful state of 
preservation. Some have found relics 
of the hazel-bushes on which they 

grew, such as twigs and leaves, all 
browned to the same dark chocolate 
colour. When I was present only nuts 
were found, but this was some time 
after the place had been exposed to the 
open air. The small brown nuts had 
evidently been buried when they were 
about half ripe, and it is a curious coin- 
cidence that similar nuts, in exactly the 
same stage of growth, are found in the 
submarine forest which stretches out into 
the Bristol Channel, and is supposed, if 
I am not mistaken, to be a continuation 
of the Turf Moor, once, no doubt, itself 
a forest also. The bare trunks of the 
trees may be seen at low water pro- 
truding from the thick mud which 
covers the bed of the great estuary of 
the Severn, and it is, I believe, deep in 
the mud and debris surrounding these 
barren trunks that the hazel-nuts have 
been found. Similar nuts have been 
found on the coast of Cornwall, and 
also, I am told, in the North of France, 
and it is chiefly on the presence of these 
.half-ripe hazel-nuts on the surface of 
the Abbot's Way that some have built 
the conjecture that the Way itself 
belongs to pre-historic times, times when 
those naked trunks bore boughs and 
leaves, and the Turf Moor was not. 

This paper has been written in the 
hope of obtaining wider notice, both 
from the educated public generally, and 
more particularly from those whose 
special studies qualify them, in a special 
manner, to throw light upon the subject* 



AT the time this article was commenced 
war between France and Germany 
seemed to be a mere question of weeks, 

the eve of an European contest. If the 
French Government had insisted on the 
annexation of the Duchy of Luxemburg, 

if not of days. Even now, though the or if that of Prussia had rejected all 
Cotference has averted the immediate 
danger of war, yet the danger seems 
adjourned, not dispelled. It is 


cleaL- that at one moment we were on 

idea of conceding the fortress, war would 
have been inevitable. It is not my 
purpose to express any opinion as to 
the merits or demerits, of the French or 


War and Progress. 

Prussian positions. Which of the two 
powers was most in the right, or, more 
correctly speaking, least in the wrong, 
is a question I leave to others to decide. 
All I wish to point out is the exact 
character of the issue which was all but 
plunging which, even yet, may still 
plunge Europe into the horrors of 
war. The subject-matter in dispute 
"belonged to the category of infinitesi- 
mal quantities. With the exception of 
a few superannuated believers in the 
defunct science of strategy, no rational 
person ever supposed for a moment that 
the possession of the citadel of Luxem- 
burg was of vital importance to either 
France or Germany. If the Emperor 
Kapoleon desired to seize the left bank 
of the Ehine, or to march on Berlin, he 
most assuredly would not be deterred 
by the consideration that a few thou- 
sand Prussian troops were locked up in 
Luxemburg ; if King William I. deter- 
mined to occupy Paris, and restore Alsace 
to the Fatherland, he would not sur- 
render his project in deference to the 
presence of a French garrison in this 
contested stronghold. It is even more 
absurd to suppose that the acquisition 
of the two hundred and odd thousand 
Luxemburgers could be essential to the 
dignity or safety of great empires like 
France or Germany. Probably, if by 
some strange convulsion of nature, the 
Grand Duchy, fortress and all, could 
vanish from the face of the earth, there 
are not a thousand square miles in 
Europe which would be less keenly 
missed than the, area in question. I 
quite admit that very grave and weighty 
interests were more or less directly in- 
volved in the settlement of this contro- 
versy. But the actual issue was one 
of abstract honour. In the whole his- 
tory of the dynastic wars which deso- 
lated Europe for centuries, I doubt if 
you would find one undertaken on so 
small and insignificant a pretext as that 
which all but furnished a cams belli 
between the two chief branches of the 
Latin and Teuton races. 

And what is more noteworthy still, 
the danger to peace did not arise from 
the ambitions of despotic sovereigns, or 

the jealousies of rival dynasties, ^o 
candid observer can suppose that either 
jSTapoleon III. or his Prussian Majesty 
was desirous of war personally. They 
both are men who, either from years or 
failing health, are no longer in the 
prime of life ; they are neither of them 
men with whom war is a passion ; they 
have both the most powerful and obvious 
motives for desiring the continuance of 
peace, in order to consolidate the enter- 
prises their lives have been spent in 
prosecuting, with a more or less success- 
ful result. Nor has it ever been even 
surmised that there existed between the 
two sovereigns any of those private 
animosities which influence crowned 
equally with uncrowned heads. On the 
contrary, there is every reason to sup- 
pose that the personal relations between 
the Courts of Potsdam and the Tuileries 
have been exceptionally amicable. If 
the question of peace or war was one 
which the two sovereigns or their re- 
spective Governments could decide with- 
out any reference to anything except 
their own wishes, there can be no reason- 
able doubt that peace would be pre- 
served. The one real danger of war 
arose, and still arises, from the popular 
feeling in favour of war which exists 
throughout the two countries. Accept- 
ing this view of mine a view whose 
truth will, I believe, be acknowledged 
by every one at all acquainted with 
French and German feeling I am 
forced to this conclusion : that the two 
most civilized and cultivated nations of 
the Continent were within an ace of 
going to war, only the other day, on a 
question of as little practical importance 
and that is saying a good deal as 
any of those concerning which tens of 
thousands of human lives have been 
sacrificed in the semi-barbarous times/ 

This conclusion leads me to the re- 
flection which recent events must have 
forced ere now on the minds of most 
thinking j men whether progress and 
war are so antagonistic as we used to 
imagine. In the days that preceded 
1848, it used to be almost an axiom of 
tuition that the spread of enlightenment 
and commerce and civilization were in 

War and Progress. 


thorn selves fatal to the existence of war, 
in much the same way as the free in- 
troduction of fresh air is fatal to the 
pro valence of noxious odours. To have 
denied that civilization exercised a pacific 
influence over mankind would then 
have been esteemed as gross a heresy as 
to issert that education did not elevate 
the moral character. Nor was this 
<loj4'ma merely an article of abstract 
faiih. Twenty years ago people really 
did believe that the era of war, if not 
ov(r, was approaching its termination. 
In those days, when the marvels of 
steam and electricity were still novelties 
among us, we were prone perhaps to 
exaggerate the immediate effect of their 
influence. - Certainly the last thought 
which suggested itself to ordinary 
people was, that these very agencies 
vvoidd be employed to render the de- 
struction of human life by war more easy 
of accomplishment, more wholesale, and 
more speedy. It seems too, now, as if 
we used to over- calculate, or, at all 
events, to mis-estimate, the power of 
popular education. That the school- 
master was abroad was the stock plati- 
tude of the hour ; and few of us doubted 
but the first mission of the schoolmaster 
would be to convince mankind of the 
absurdity, uselessness, and wickedness 
of \var. High as our expectations were 
of 1 he ensuing triumphs of industry and 
culmre, it can hardly be said that in 
the main they have not been realized. 
Wi;hin the last quarter of a century we 
have certainly made more progress in 
general education and material prosperity 
than we had done since the close of 
Majlborough's wars. All through Europe, 
too, public opinion has grown in powor 
and authority. Whatever may be the 
changes in individual forms of govern- 
ment, it cannot be doubted that in any 
European country the public commands 
far more of hearing than it did in the 
period which terminated with the Con- 
gress of Vienna. Yet in spite of these 
two unquestionable facts, that civilization 
has made rapid progress, and that the 
popular element is every day becoming 
more influential in the direction of 
public affairs, we have the still more 

indubitable fact that wars, far from 
ceasing to exist, have been unusually 
frequent, and that every nation in 
Europe is exhausting its strength and 
impoverishing its resources in the 
attempt to raise its military power to a 
pitch never even contemplated in the 
old time so near in distance, so far 
away in recollection. 

I know that there is a school of 
thinkers who attribute this contest 
between the tendency of the age and the 
spirit of progress simply and solely to 
the existence of the French empire 
under Napoleon III. This solution 
much in favour as it is with men whose 
opinions I respect always reminds me 
of the Hindoo theory to account for the 
earth being supported in mid-space, that 
it stands upon the back of a tortoise. 
Imperialism may be the parent of the 
war fever which has sprung up together 
with our modern progress ; but then 
Imperialism itself is the product and 
offspring of that very progress, to whose 
essence and spirit all war is supposed 
ex hypothese to be antagonistic. More- 
over, even if we regard Csesarism as the 
incarnation of all vil, it is very diffi- 
cult to see how in any sense, except the 
broad one that all sin is connected with 
every other, it can be held responsible 
for the majority of the wars that of 
late have marked the era of progress. It; 
was not Caesarism which gave birth to 
the civil war in America, or induced 
Germany to attack Denmark, or sowed 
lifelong enmity between Austria and 
Italy, or split up Germany into two 
hostile camps. And, most assuredly, if 
the intending war be averted, it cer- 
tainly will be due to the power that 
Caesarism confers on the French Govern- 
ment of disregarding for a time the 
voice of public opinion in France. 

I think, therefore, that all people 
who are content to look at facts, and 
then ground their theories upon them 
a converse process to that adopted 
by doctrinaires of every persuasion 
cannot avoid the confession that pro- 
gress, in our modern sense of the term, 
is not directly antagonistic to war. On 
the contrary, I incline to the opinion, 


War and Progress. 

that popular governments, "based, as all 
governments must be increasingly, on 
democratic principles, are quite as 
prone to war as despotic or oligarchic 
ones, possibly more so. I can re- 
member having learned as a child the 
song of Blenheim, and having it im- 
pressed upon my youthful mind that 
the burden of " But 'twas a famous 
victory," conveyed the truth that there 
would be no fighting if people only 
were taught to think what they were 
asked to fight for. Mature experience, 
however, has not confirmed my belief 
in the truth of this moral. No doubt 
it is very easy to discourse about the 
absurdity of all war ; to ask what 
possible satisfaction Jack White can 
derive from the fact that Jean Leblanc, 
whom he has never seen or heard of, 
is cut to pieces by a shell ; to dilate 
upon the monstrosity of poor Miiller 
being crippled for life, of. his cottage 
being burnt down, his children being 
turned upon the streets, in vindication 
of the claim of the high and mighty 
House of Pumpernickel to the disputed 
sovereignty of the State of Lilliput. 
These, or similar sarcasms, have been 
uttered concerning every war that has 
ever yet been fought since men ceased 
to look on fighting as the normal con- 
dition of the human race; and yet I 
cannot discover that they ever pre- 
vented the occurrence of a single con- 
flict. I am driven to the conclusion 
that there is some fiaw in the logical 
force of this reasoning. In the first 
place the " Cui bono 1 " argument is 
eminently unsatisfactory. If men are 
only to be interested in what imme- 
diately and tangibly concerns their own 
position or prospects or fortunes, we 
find that the vast majority of human 
actions cannot be rationally accounted 
for. We assume that every man, 
worthy of the name, must care for the 
prosperity of his own country. Yet, if 
you look at the matter philosophically, 
what conceivable practical difference 
does it make to my daily life or com- 
fort that marshes are drained in Essex, 
or rich harvests grown in Kent, or new 
factories established in Lancashire ? In 

a very vague and indirect way the 
general prosperity of the county niav 
be thought to improve my indivi- 
dual fortunes ; but this improvement, 
if tested by a utilitarian or money 
standard, is too small in value to 
influence a rational man's thoughts, 
still less his actions. I should have 
been deemed a fool, as well as a brute, 
if, at the time of the Cotton Famine, I 
had said it was a matter of absolute 
indifference to me whether the mills 
stopped work or not. Yet I cannot 
see that my own personal commerce or 
comfort was affected in the remotest 
degree by the suspension of a trade 
with which, as with the persons con- 
cerned in which, I am not even 
remotely connected. If I were asked 
why I cared about the matter at all, 
I could only answer in the style of the 
grandfather in the song I have spoken 
of, " But 'twas a great calamity." The 
same remark applies to the discoveries 
of science. Speaking of myself, as a 
representative of the great public, as 
M. or IS r . of the Catechism, as a 
Signer " Nossuno JS T ome " of the great 
life-drama, what possible difference 
does it make to me whether Le Verrier 
does or does not discover a planet ; 
whether Darwin does or does not put 
forth the theory of natural selection ? 
In fact, if we once lay down the rule, 
that nobody who has nothing to get 
by it can reasonably make sacrifices 
for war, we are driven logically to the 
startling conclusion, that nobody ought 
to take an interest in anything which 
does not somehow touch his own bodily 
comforts or enjoyments. 

Moreover, I am seriously afraid that, 
as men grow more and more intelligent, 
they learn to appreciate less highly the 
absolute and immediate disadvantages 
of war. In spite of all the popular 
commonplaces on the subject, it is very 
hard to specify how ninety-nine persons 
out of a hundred are materially affected 
by the fact, that the armies of their 
country are fighting in a foreign country. 
In any war, one of the combatants, if 
not each of them, expects that the con- 
test will be waged in his enemy's terri 

War and Progress. 


tor; cs, not in his own ; and the result 
is, that the apprehension of war being 
brought home to their own dwellings 
cannot influence both parties alike. The 
inventions of modern science and the 
increasing division of labour have ren- 
dered war far less onerous to communi- 
ties, taken as wholes, than it was in past 
days; and the tendency to diminish 
the horrors of war, and to exempt pri- 
vate persons from its sufferings, which 
for] us one of the most marked triumphs 
of modern progress, renders the idea of 
wax far less appalling to the nations of 
Europe than it used to be. Then, too, 
I tliink I am not committing myself to 
a puradox when I assert that the spread 
of education, the growth of popular 
intelligence, tend, in tJie first instance, 
to increase the risk of war. All the 
wars of the last half-century have been 
mainly carried on for an idea. Neither 
love of plunder nor greed of territory 
has led to their inception ; but the 
desire either to promote or check the 
growth of some abstract principle. And 
the more intelligent a nation becomes, 
the larger is the number of its citizens 
whc can realize an idea, or become en- 
thusiastic in its defence or attack. It 
is common enough to treat patriotism as 
an instinct of humanity, but I doubt 
the truth of the assertion. Savage and 
barbarous nations hardly possess the 
instinct at all; the most highly culti- 
vated ones possess it in the most 
developed form. The truth is, that 
patriotism, in our modern sense of 
the term, presupposes intelligence. In 
America the war passion seized upon 
the whole people to an extent never 
witressed in the world before, because 
everybody well nigh understood more 
or 1( ss of the cause for which, rightly or 
wro] igly, North and South were fighting. 
But, as a matter of fact, not of senti- 
menj, what interest would our own 
agricultural population feel in a war 
carri ad on for an idea ? No doubt if the 
Erei ch were to invade England, that 
grea'> multitude of whom John Cross, 
with his nine children and his eight 
shill ngs a week, may be taken as a type, 
exhibit a very distinct, if a low, 

form of patriotism. They are intelligent 
enough to dislike a foreigner, and to 
feel that being ordered about by men. 
who could not speak the English tongue 
was a personal pain and humiliation. 
But does any one suppose John Cross 
and his fellow Dorsetshire hinds would 
feel personally aggrieved if they learnt 
that Spain had conquered Gibraltar, or 
that England was powerless to protect 
India against the advance of Eussial 
Imperial supremacy, national influence, 
and popular greatness are to them terms 
conveying as little meaning as the dif- 
ferential calculus or the conservation cf 
forces. But, on the other hand, any 
educated Englishman must feel that the 
power and grandeur and empire of his 
country are to him among his most 
cherished personal possessions. I can. 
understand thinkers like Mr. Goldwin 
Smith arguing that the greatness of our 
empire does not add to our real strength, 
and that in the interests of right and 
equity we should abandon our trans- 
marine territories. But even the most 
ardent disciple of this self-denying ordi- 
nance would admit, if he were honest, 
that the sacrifice he proposed to make 
was to him a very real one. I should 
think, from what I have seen, that the 
Dutch of the present day were indi- 
vidually as rich, happjr, and prosperous 
as the average of Englishmen, and far 
more so than their ancestors were in the 
bygone time of Holland's greatness. 
But yet what Englishman would not 
allow that to see his country reduced to 
the political and national insignificance 
of Holland would be a calamity he 
would feel as a private and peculiar 
grief? The more cultivated we grow, 
the more we value our position as part 
and parcel of that grand entity which 
we call a nation. When we have, as 
ere long I trust we may have, common 
schools where all Englishmen can read 
and write, and know something of 
England's history, then the passion of the 
British Empire will, I believe, become 
as universal amongst Englishmen as the 
fervour of the Union is to the citizens 
of the United States. Our capacity 
for patriotism I believe to be immense. 


War and Progress. 

In our present state of national culture 
we should rise like one man to repel any 
attack upon English soil; and as our 
views grow widerwith education, we shall 
extend the same passion over a larger 
area, and apply it to a greater variety 
of subjects. I speak of Englishmen, 
"because to us they afford the best illus- 
tration of my theory ; but its application 
I take to be universal. What I have 
said is true not only of Britons, but in 
a more or less marked degree of French- 
men, Germans, Italians, Russians, of 
every nation, in fact, rising in prosperity, 
growing in culture. And if my view 
be correct, it is, to say the least, doubt- 
ful whether the spread of material 
prosperity, the growth of mental culture, 
with their consequent development and 
extension of the patriotic passion, are 
in themselves favourable to the main- 
tenance of peace. Increased intercom- 
munication between nations augments 
the number of questions on which their 
prejudices or principles are likely to 
(Jitter ; and the wider diffusion of na- 
tional sentiment renders it more probable 
that these differences will commend 
themselves to the national instinct as 
matters worth insisting on at all costs 
and all hazards. 

Thus I am apparently landed at the 
melancholy conclusion that progress pro- 
motes war, which is destructive of progress, 
that in fact humanity is condemned to 
tread a vicious circle, by which the very 
efforts it makes towards its own elevation 
bring it back to barbarism. My escape 
from this dilemma consists in the belief 
that the gradual result of civilization, in 
the highest meaning of the term, will be 
first to modify, and then to change, the 
whole character of the instinct we call 
patriotism, for want of a better word. 
Patriotism is not an absolute and positive 
virtue like temperance, but a relative 
one like loyalty. Dr. Johnson defines 
a patriot as a man whose ruling passion 
is love of his country ; and if this defi- 
nition be correct, it follows that patriot- 
ism may be either a merit or a fault, 
according as the love evoked by the pas- 
sion be wise or unwise. Put in this form, 
the statement sounds like a truism ; yet 

the truth is constantly disregarded, if not 
denied, in current language and litera- 
ture. Possibly from our insular posi- 
tion, and our isolation from the wider 
currents of European thought, we carry 
our worship of patriotism as an abstract 
virtue somewhat higher than other coun- 
tries, just as to niy mind we exaggerate 
the positive merit of domestic virtues. 
Still in every land there is a general 
coincidence of opinion to the effect that 
anybody who loves his own country has 
fulfilled the whole duty of man, ISTow 
I have not the faintest wish to decry the 
virtue of patriotism. Eor many genera- 
tions, possibly for many centuries to 
come, it will, I believe, be the highest 
form of self-abnegation of which the 
bulk of mankind can be capable. To 
love the community of which by chance 
you are a member better than your own 
individual care, safety, comfort ; to make 
the welfare of the unknown millions 
who speak your language, and belong to 
your own race, the object of your efforts 
and exertions ; to place the honour, 
happiness, and prosperity of the section 
of the human race to which you belong 
above all personal and private consider- 
ations this is surely one of the noblest 
of human efforts. All I contend for is, 
that it is not the noblest. !N"o man who 
is not devoid of the ordinary instincts 
of mankind, can deny that he felt a 
sympathy with Roebuck when he said 
that his one rule iri life was to think 
what was good for England ] or with 
the Americans, when they wrote upon 
their banners, " The Union : right or 
wrong, it must be preserved ; " or with 
M. Thiers, when he declared the other 
day that to him France was everything ; 
and yet no thinking man can help feel- 
ing that, in these and the hundred 
similar outbursts of patriotic zeal which 
each country treasures up amidst its 
annals, there is an element of selfish- 


Patriotism, too, by its very essence, 
changes in character with the changes 
of time. In the days of the old Italian 
republics, a Florentine who had not 
been ready to espouse the cause of his 
state against Pisa or Venice would 

War and Progress. 


IUN o been deemed by tlie highest intel- 
lects of the day degraded and disgraced. 
Yet. now, any Florentine who joined in 
a foray against Pisa would be' deemed, 
even by the most ignorant of Tuscan 
peasants, a scoundrel worthy of the 
gallows. In the same way, but a few 
hundred years ago every brave and honest 
and unselfish man who lived north of the 
Tweed would have been fighting on the 
side of Bruce and Wallace against 
England ; and now, if a Scotchman pro- 
posed to levy war against England, he 
would be set down by his own country- 
men as a traitor or a lunatic. Yet 
Scotchmen are not less patriotic now 
then they were in the days of Bannock- 
bum ' } they would die, they have died, 
as readily for Great Britain as they ever 
died for Scotland ; the only difference 
is, that their idea of patriotism is en- 
larged and exalted. Is it a heresy to 
imagine that some day or other the time 
may come nay, can already be seen 
slowly advancing when patriotism 
shall extend over a yet larger area than 
that occupied by one country or one single 
race 1 At the time of the German "War 
of Independence, Goethe was called 
upon to write patriotic songs stirring up 
the nation against France ; but, in spite 
of taunts and entreaties, the old poet- 
philosopher declined to respond to the 
appeal. "No one," he said, "loves 
" the Germans more than I do ; but 
" thsn I do not hate tne Erench." 
Perhaps hereafter this sentiment may 
not be thought as monstrous as it was 
at the time of utterance, as it would be 
thought even now, under like circum- 
stances. Possibly men may learn that, 
because you love your own people, it 
does not follow that you hate 'all 

Nobody can study the course of 
everts without seeing that the tendency 
of the age is to frame nations into larger 
communities. The days of small states 
are aumbered ; and the number of dis- 
tinct nationalities throughout Europe is 
being diminished by a sort of Darwinian 
principle of selection. The strong na- 
tionalities are absorbing the weak into 
themselves. Much of suffering and 

hardship attends this process of amalga- 
mation. Nations, like men, die pain- 
fully ; and every nation has a right to 
maintain its own vitality. Poland and 
Ireland and Denmark and Portugal, 
may struggle hard to preserve their dis- 
tinct place amidst the nations of Europe; 
and no wise man could state with ab- 
solute certainty that no one of them 
could succeed in its attempt ; but in the 
mass they must succumb, in accordance 
with the law that the greater must, 
swallow up the less. I quite admit that 
this absorption of the little by the big 
is not an unmixed gain to the world at 
large. There are arts, graces, studies, 
and even virtues which flourish more 
rapidly and more profusely in the cou- 
fined atmosphere of small states than in 
the larger life of great populous com- 
munities. Things were, doubtless, pos- 
sible under the Heptarchy and those 
not evil things which are no longer pos- 
sible in England ; and yet the absorption 
of the Heptarchy has profited English- 
men. And so I think in the long run 
Europe will be happier when her terii 
tory is divided as it probably will be 
before long into far fewer kingdoms 
than occupy it at present. 

A change, however, in the political. 
or economical conditions of the world 
might, I think, retard, if not suspend, 
the operation of the forces which visi- 
bly and directly tend to diminish the 
European constituency. I rely far more 
on the operation of the silent and 
involuntary causes which, in my judg- 
ment, are gradually bringing the con- 
stituents to feel that they are united 
with each Pother by common ties. The 
advantages of steam have been so dinned 
into our ears, so thrust down our throats, 
so pressed upon our remembrance in 
season and out of season, that we are 
inclined to ignore them altogether. Yet 
patriotism, in its low parochial sense of 
a passionate unreasoning preference for 
every custom, institution, interest of 
your country, as opposed to all others, 
received, I think, with many other bad 
things, its death-blow when steam was 
first invented. There is a story told 
that once, when Charles Lamb was 


War and Progress. 

abusing somebody or other, he was 
asked if he knew the person he was 
attacking : " Know him 1 " was the an- 
swer; "of course I do not; if I did, 
I should be sure to like him." And 
this story seems to me, like many of 
Elia's sayings, to have contained within 
it the germ of a very serious truth. The 
great reason why nations dislike one 
another, as they do most cordially, 
far worse than governments or dynas- 
ties ever can do, is because they are 
so ignorant of each other. It has 
been my lot to live a good deal in 
foreign countries ; and the one chief 
lesson I have learnt is, that one 
nation is very like every other. After 
all, as Sam Slick says, there is a great 
deal that is human about man; and 
men are very much alike, whatever may 
l>e their language, or race, or creed, or 
colour. Virtues and vices, cleverness 
and folly, honesty and dishonesty, in- 
dustry and indolence, seem to me much 
more equally distributed about the world 
than patriotic admirers of different and 
rival countries would be disposed to allow. 
Of course, neither I, nor any rational 
person, would assume that there is no 
marked difference between Englishmen 
nnd Russians, or between Chinese and 
Malays, or between American negroes 
and Hottentot bushmen. Each of these 
races occupies very distinct and definite 
stages in civilization, and cannot either 
judge or be judged according to a com- 
mon standard. All I assert is, that 
between - different nations the points of 
resemblance are more marked than 
the points of dissimilitude, and that 
therefore the effect of more intimate 
acquaintance between nations is in- 
evitably to weaken the patriotic con- 
viction, that all goodness and virtue 
and honesty are reserved to one par- 
ticular branch of God's creation. At 
the time when the prejudice against the 
Free Northern States was at its height 
in this country, an English noble- 
man, with that sublime naivete which 
haracterises his class, remarked to an 
American diplomatist who told me the 
>tory, " I cannot understand how it is, 
* Jout all Englishmen who have lived 

" across the Atlantic seem to be fond 
" of Americans." The plain truth is 
that, if you are gifted with the average 
amount of good sense and kindly feeling, 
you can hardly live long amidst a foreign 
nation without learning to look upon 
them as friends. Thus, if my view is 
right, the mere fact of one nation being 
brought into constant contact with 
another, forming with it ties of friend- 
ship, commerce, and marriage, removes 
the distinctions between the two coun- 
tries, widens the area owned by their 
respective patriotisms, and thereby 
lessens the risk of war. To take a very 
simple and familiar instance : what 
reasonable man can doubt that the 
danger of war between France and 
England is far less now than it was 
five-and-twenty years ago 1 The political 
conditions of the two countries are, to 
say the least, not so favourable to peace 
as they were in the days when a con- 
stitutional monarch the Napoleon of 
peace sat on the throne of ."France. 
But, within the last quarter of a century, 
railways, excursion trains, treaties of 
commerce, cheap postage, increased know- 
ledge of modern languages, have made 
Englishmen and Frenchmen so much 
more intimate with each other, that the 
provocation required to produce war on. 
either side must be infinitely greater 
now than it would have been at the 
time of the >yrian difficulty. 

Thus, to my mind, the way in which 
progress ultimately works towards the 
promotion of peace is by a gradual 
assimilation of one nation to another. 
I am speaking, be it always under- 
stood, of remote tendencies, not of opera- 
tions whose progress can be distinctly 
discovered from year to year, or even 
perhaps from century to century. 
Within any given period, no matter of 
how long duration, no cool-headed man 
would reckon on the world beholding 
one European nation ; but in the course 
of modern times it is probable we shall 
have a Latin and a Teutonic and a 
Sclavonian people, comprising within 
themselves the different branches of 
those races, now divided by diversities 
of language, and history, and insti- 

War and Progress. 


tutions. Just as Italy has swallowed 
up the republics, and France has 
absorbed Burgundy and Navarre, so 
in the course of time Italy and Spain 
may become part and parcel of one 
grejit Latin people. JS"o doubt, at this 
moment, Spaniards and Italians would 
reg<'.rd the idea of sacrificing their sepa- 
rate nationality with the same horror 
as, centuries ago, Florentines and Vene- 
tians would have regarded the prospect 
of being merged in an Italian kingdom. 
And there is no doubt that, in all such 
absorptions, there is something lost to 
the world in the decay and disappear- 
ance of individual languages, and litera- 
ture s, and traditions. Eut of this, I 
thii'k, we may be sure, that in the long 
run the principle of selection holds 
good with regard to races and peoples, 
and that the one most fitted to live 
doen live, to the exclusion of those less 
worthy. An Englishman, or a French- 
man, or a German, may be the 
staunchest of patriots, and yet may 
look forward without alarm to the 
possibility of a far distant future, when 
England, and France, and Germany 
shall be nothing more than geographical 
expressions. The principle of nation- 
alities, of which we hear so much 
now-a-days, cannot be regarded as a 
permarnent resting-place for humaiiit3 r , 
but only as a temporary arrangement 
good for our age, but not for all ages 
to come. " Qui veut le fin," says the 
French proverb, "veut les moyens ; " 
and any one who holds that a united 
brotherhood is the ideal state of man- 
kind cannot shrink with horror at the 
bare notion that in the course of time 
his own section of humanity may be 
absorbed in a larger polity. This 
doc; rine, at any rate, is not a novel one, 
but as old as the creed first taught 
eighteen centuries ago. Of all the 
varied faiths the world has known, 
Christianity is the one in which 
patriotism holds the least important 
and conspicuous place, just as Judaism, 
the faith of the "chosen people," is 
based upon the principle of patriotism 
in its narrowest form. In fact, from 
one point of view Christianity may be 

regarded as a protest against the con- 
ception which underlay all the Mosaic 
religion, that the interest of the children 
of Israel superseded all claims of the 
outer world. When the Gospel was 
first preached to the Gentiles, the truth 
was asserted that the bonds which 
unite all mankind together are stronger 
and holier than those which unite 
together the members of each human 
brotherhood. To develop in practice 
this theory of Christianity as opposed 
to Judaism, is, to my mind, the especial 
work which progress, in our modern 
use of the word, has to perform. 

It seems to me that there are indica- 
tions of this work making way. The 
masses of different nations are obviously 
beginning to learn that they have 
common interests, which exist inde- 
pendently of their respective nation- 
alities. During the recent strikes, to 
quote one example, the French and 
English tailors have come, it is said, to 
an agreement to assist each other's 
cause by refusing to take work from 
London and Paris houses respectively. 
I am not saying whether this course of 
action is wise, or just, or otherwise. 
The mere possibility of its adoption 
shows how far we have got on towards 
Internationalism when French and 
English workmen recognise the fact, 
that their interests are identical, not 
antagonistic. When the Republic was 
started in 1848, the first use almost 
the French " ouvriers " made of their 
liberty was to drive away the British 
mechanics domiciled in France ; and, 
brutal as the act was, it can hardly be 
said to be inconsistent with the pro- 
tective theories on which all Conti- 
nental Governments of the day were 
based. That what one country gained 
another lost, was the fundamental prin- 
ciple of all protection ; and Free Trade, 
amidst its many blessings to humanity, 
has conferred none greater than the 
shock it has given to this evil, and 
almost universal superstition. Five- 
and-twenty years ago the idea that 
anything which took work away from 
the looms of Lyons could fail to 
benefit Spitalfields and Coventry would 


War and Process. 

have been regarded, by the working- 
classes themselves, as an obvious absur- 
dity. Now slowly indeed, but still, 
I think, surely the conviction is gain- 
ing ground, that the cause of labour is 
one on which French and English work- 
men are common allies, not hereditary 

So, after like fashion, I see a con- 
solidating tendency to coin a new 
phrase in the peace addresses which 
different bodies of the French and 
German communities have addressed to 
each other when war between these two 
countries appeared imminent. I do not 
exaggerate the actual importance of these 
addresses. When Mr. Pease and his 
Quaker friends went to Eussia before the 
outbreak of the Crimean War, their peace 
manifesto represented the sentiments of 
a small and insignificant minority ; and 
I doubt very much whether the stilted 
proclamations of the Parisian students 
and Proletarians would have done much 
in themselves to bring about a peaceful 
solution of the Luxemburg question. 
If war should come to pass, Frenchmen 
and Germans will hate each other for 
the time ; and the natural patriotic 
instincts of each race will overpower 
the feeble resistance of the friends of 
humanity. But still there is something 
gained by the mere recognition of the 
truth that Frenchmen and Germans 
have higher and wider duties towards 
each other than those which pertain to 
them as members of the Latin and 
Teutonic races. The Utopias of one 
age become the truths of succeeding 
generations ; and so I cannot regard it 
as absurd to imagine that the day may 
come when a war between European 
nations may appear as monstrous and 
wicked to the world, as a war between 
Wessex and Mercia would appear to 
Englishmen of our own time and 
country. I may add, that the idea of 
settling international difficulties by 
means of congresses and conferences, of 
which, from whatever motives, the Em- 
peror Napoleon has been the chief advo- 

cate the doctrines of a brotherhood of 
humanity so popular amongst the ad- 
vanced thinkers of the Continent are 
also indications of the tendency to sub- 
stitute for patriotism a larger and more 
comprehensive principle of human 

In so short a space as these limits 
assign to me, it is impossible to discuss 
so great a question with any fulness. 
I trust, however, I have made plain 
the general purport of my theory. To 
recapitulate it very briefly, I may say 
that, in my judgment, the direct and 
primary effect of material and mental 
progress is to strengthen the patriotic 
instincts of mankind, and thereby to 
render wars certainly not less, possibly 
even more, probable. Eut the indirect 
and secondary effect of this progress I 
hold to be the substitution of a general 
for a local patriotism ; and the conse- 
quent effectuation of a state of things 
under which war would become im- 
possible. I quite admit that this process 
is one of very slow and tardy growth. 
I think it possible that not only exist- 
ing nations, but even the order of 
things to which existing nations belong, 
may live out their appointed time 
before peace becomes the permanent 
condition of humanity. Nor am I 
sanguine enough to hope that specula- 
tions of this kind will have any practical 
bearing either in our time or for a long, 
long time to come. But I do think that 
those who believe with me in the gradual 
advancement of the human race need 
not despair, because, in spite of the pro- 
gress we have made in many ways, the 
war spirit remains as powerful as ever. 
" Ma la cosa va " such were the last 
words almost of Count Cavour, when 
he lay dying with his great work only 
half accomplished ; and so, after all, the 
most earnest workers in the cause of 
humanity must be content to remember 
with him that, in spite of all, " things 
are still moving," moving progress- 
wards, and therefore peace- wards. 


JULY, 1867. 


THE eighth meeting of the National 
-Rifle Association will commence in a 
few days, on Wimbledon Common, 
under the presidency of Earl Spencer, 
who has succeeded Lord Elcho as chair- 
man of the Council. Lord Elcho has 
Jheld that office since the autumn of 
1859, when the Association was founded ; 
and his retirement from the chief place 
of the Council marks an epoch in the 
history of the Association, and affords 
an opportunity for reviewing the pro- 
ceedings of this society during the past 
seven years. 

These seven years have been years of 
progress and success, and Lord Elcho 
hands over the Association in most 
excellent order. The financial condi- 
tion of the Association is sound, and 
the influence which it exercises is 
immense. It is no exaggeration to say 
that the permanence of the Volunteer 
force depends more upon the action of 
the National Rifle Association than 
upon any other single cause, the Govern- 
ment Capitation Grant alone excepted. 
To prove that these years have been 
years of much anxiety and downright 
labour, as well as of prosperity, we have 
only to remember .that during this time 
the entire system of rifle-shooting with 
which we are so familiar has been 
originated, gradually built up, elaborated 
little by little, and brought to its present 

No. 93. VOL. xvi. 

satisfactory condition. It cannot be denied 
that we owe this national achievement 
most of all to " the great Association, 
" which, under the guidance of Lord 
" Elcho, has in seven years converted the 
" people of this country into a nation 
" of marksmen." Nor must we forget 
that, while we owe this satisfactory 
state of things to the National Eifle 
Association, the Association owes a very 
large share of its marked success to the 
sound judgment, courteous bearing, and 
devoted labours of Lord Elcho. The 
chairman of the National Eifle Associa- 
tion is the unofficial head of the entire 
Volunteer force, and exerts an influence 
upon the members of that force second 
only if indeed at all inferior to that 
of the Inspector- General and of the 
Secretary for War. Lord Elcho has long 
been regarded by the Volunteers of the 
country as one to whom they might 
appeal with a certainty of being listened 
to upon any question directly or in- 
directly bearing upon the welfare of that 
service. If Mr. Hare's scheme or Mr. 
Stuart Mill's plan for the representation 
of minorities had existed for the last 
seven years, under which electors would 
be able to vote for any person they 
might select throughout the land, there 
can be but little ' doubt that, sinking 
politics and creeds, the Volunteers would 
have sent Lord Elcho to Parliament 



The National Rifle Association. 

as the proud representative of 1 80,000 
able-bodied men, of all ranks, schools 
and classes, who have, without refer- 
ence to political opinions, enrolled them- 
selves as the defenders of their country. 
Lord Elcho has in reality been the 
representative of the Volunteers in the 
House of Commons. To him we owe 
the Volunteer Commission of 1863; 
and to him, through that Commission, 
we owe the Capitation Grant, but for 
which the numbers must have dimi- 
nished. While this paper was being 
written, Lord Elcho was urging upon 
Sir J. Pakington the necessity for a 
still further grant. At the annual 
meeting of the National Eifle Associa- 
tion, which took place a few weeks ago 
in Willis's Eooms, and from which Lord 
Elcho modestly absented himself, His 
Eoyal Highness the Duke of Cambridge 
spoke the feeling of all Volunteers when 
he said that "Lord Elcho had on all 
" occasions shown a vast amount of zeal, 
" energy, and anxiety to place the Asso- 
" ciation on a high and distinguished 
" footing, and that he had promoted it 
" to a degree which few men would 
" have had either the ability or the 
" power to accomplish." All Volunteers 
were glad to learn that Lord Elcho will 
still remain on the Council of the 
National Eifle Association, of which he 
was the first chairman, the ablest coun- 
sellor, and for the interests of which he 
has proved himself the most indefati- 
gable worker. 


The Volunteer movement originated 
in a feeling, which was spread through- 
out the country, of serious danger from 
foreign invasion. It was generally be- 
lieved that, as the feeling of apprehension 
as to national security diminished, the 
vitality of the Volunteer force would 
lessen, the numbers decrease, decay gra- 
dually creep in, until, after the lapse of a 
very few years five, or seven, or ten 
the whole force would disappear, and 
the Volunteer movement would for the 
second time in the present century be- 
come merely "a historical fact." Happily, 
the result has completely falsified this 

somewhat natural and very general 
belief. The numbers have increased 
annually; the efficiency has become 
greater from year to year. The feeling 
which undoubtedly gave rise to the force 
can claim no share in having produced 
this unexpected growth. It may arise 
partly from the exercise, pleasant com- 
panionship, occasional visits for drill to 
pleasant country places, or open ground 
near some town of note ; but it hardly 
admits of a doubt that it is mainly due 
to the encouragement of rifle-shooting 
which has been fostered by the National 
Eifle Association, together with the 
affiliated county associations. What 
our universities are to the educational 
system of the country, that is the 
National Eifle Association to our system 
of home-defence. As our boys leave 
their tutors, grammar schools, and public 
schools, in order to compete for the high 
distinctions and solid honours of our 
universities, in like manner do the heroes 
of local rifle meetings, the selected 
marksmen of companies, battalions, and 
counties, mingle at Wimbledon, and 
there compete for the valuable prizes 
and high distinctions which can alone 
be obtained at the great annual gather- 
ing of riflemen which takes place under 
the management of the National Eifle 
Association. Education, however crip- 
pled, would certainly go on if our 
universities were abolished ; but, if 
the National Eifle Association were 
allowed to fall to pieces, the lesser 
shooting organizations, and probably 
the Volunteer force itself, would be in- 
volved in ruin. 

The National Eifle Association was 
established at a meeting held in London, 
with Lord Elcho in the chair, on the 1 6th 
of November, 1859. The idea of the 
Association was first set on foot by some 
Volunteers at Hythe, with Earl Spencer 
at their head ; while the Council of the 
London Eifle Brigade may lay claim to 
having been the first to announce an 
annual competition upon a large scale. 
The Hythe Committee and the London 
Committee were happily united at Spencer 
House in October, 1859 ; the preliminary 
meetings were held at the same house, 

The National Rifle A ssc elation. 


and Lord Spencer from the first took a 
mosi active part in the work. Thus 
united, and having been strengthened 
from various parts of the kingdom, the 
Association was fairly launched, with Mr. 
Sidney Herbert as President, and Lord 
Elcho as Chairman, on the date above 
mentioned. The National Eifle Asso- 
ciation, appealing as it does "to that 
"healthy manly spirit of rivalry and 
" competition which is characteristic of 
" Englishmen, and which is the life and 
" soil of all our sports," directly fosters 
the education of every rifleman through- 
out the land. It is useless for a man 
to compete at Wimbledon unless he has 
had considerable practice, and met with 
grea: success in his own village or 
distiict. The Londoners are beginning 
to take keen interest in the competitions 
at Wimbledon ; but the interest shown 
in the provinces is far more significant 
even than the increase of spectators to 
see the shooting. Edinburgh, Man- 
chester and Liverpool have newspaper 
correspondents on the ground through- 
out the meeting, while the results of the 
chief competitions are telegraphed from 
day to day. The senior wrangler of the 
year is the winner of the Queen's Prize 
of 250Z. and the Gold Medal of the 
National Rifle Association. In 1865, 
Priv ite Sharman, of the 4th West York 
Eifle s, won this coveted distinction. As 
a matter of course, he was chaired and 
cheei'ed ; his health was heartily drunk 
by all his friends ; he was photographed, 
lionised, and finally received his prize 
from noble, if not royal, fair hands, the 
band playing, " See, the Conquering 
Here comes ! " But, bewildered as Mr. 
Shannon must have been by his hearty 
recej >tion on the scene of his victory, he 
must have been still more astonished at 
the remarkable demonstration which 
awaiied him on his return to Halifax. 
Here he was received in state by the 
towr -officials, and conducted in proces- 
sion, as the man whom his townsmen 
wish 3d to honour, through the principal 
streets. There were many thousands to 
see -he champion the crowd, we are 
told, being greatly in excess of that 
whic h. filled the streets on the occasion 

of the visit of the Prince of Wales to 

In 1859 Volunteering was new, rifle- 
shooting almost unknown. The Council 
had not only to draw up the rules and 
regulations, but had themselves every- 
thing to learn. Discussion, of course, 
arose as to the rifles to be used, the 
form of target at which to, the best 
distances, the number of shots, the 
proper position in which to shoot, the 
system under which the firing was to be 
conducted, together with the nature and 
value of the prizes. It is hard now to 
estimate the difficulty of the task 
which these gentlemen had under- 
taken ; the success which has attended 
their efforts sufficiently shows the 
wisdom of their management. Sup- 
port was warmly given to them on all 
sides. The Queen, Prince Albert, and 
Duke of Cambridge not only presented 
valuable prizes to be annually competed 
for, but consented to inaugurate the 
meeting. The Queen herself fired the 
first shot on the opening day. Ad- 
dresses were presented and answered ; 
and, in spite of mud, of wet, and diffi- 
culty, the first meeting of the National 
Eifle Association was auspiciously com- 
menced in brilliant sunshine by the 
highest in the realm. 

The meetings for shooting have been 
held every year, beginning with 1860. 
The following are the numbers and 
values of the prizes which the Council 
have been able to offer for competi- 
tion : 






The prize-list for 1867 shows a still 
further increase. While the number of 
prizes has been increased twelvefold, 
their value has been only quadrupled. 
This arose from the wish of the com- 
petitors themselves, who constantly 
urged upon the Council to distribute the 
money at their disposal over as wide an 
area as possible. The competitors come 



The National Eifle Association. 

from every part of the kingdom, and are 
taken from every class ; hence to very 
many it is of urgent importance that 
they should if possible not only win 
honour and distinction, but also sufficient 
money to defray their unavoidable ex- 
penses. It is far better to give ten prizes 
of 51. than one of 50, and this policy 
has been adopted in all the preliminary 
stages, and for all prizes where it can be 
put into operation. 

During these years a corresponding 
increase has taken place in the prizes 
offered by the county associations which 
are in connexion with the National 
Eifle Association. The prize list of the 
parent association being added to these, 
we find the amounts were, 

14,000 in 1862. 
14,907 in 1863. 
15,976 in 1864. 
18,751 in 1865. 
23,177 in 1866. 

If the Council were to call for returns of 
all the prizes given at company, battalion, 
county, and private matches, and also 
at the great simultaneous matches, we 
should perhaps find that the sum reached 
100,000 If this is the case, the person 
most sceptical as to the national advan- 
tage of the Volunteer movement would 
be convinced that it is of some import- 
ance. If its supporters furnish so large 
a sum of money to be contended for 
annually, they at any rate are in earnest 
in their belief that rifle-shooting exercises 
an important influence upon Volunteer- 
ing, and therefore upon national defence. 
The competitors for the Queen's prizes 
and for all the other prizes, exclusive of 
the shooting for sweepstakes and pool, 
have been as follows : 



All Entries. 

It will be observed that the total num- 
bers have increased every year, except in 
1865. The decrease then was owing to 
the general election in that year. It 
will generally be found that the men 

who have taken most keenly to Volun- 
teering are amongst the most busy and 
active men, often the most influential, 
in their respective localities. The idlers 
of society find Volunteering far too ener- 
getic an amusement. Shooting takes a 
great deal more time than they can 
possibly afford from their listless and 
useless lives. Hence, as might be 
expected, nearly all Volunteers are 
actively employed in some profession, 
business, or trade. Polling clerks, 
canvassers, agents, seconders, proposers, 
candidates, and returning officers, were 
unable to put in their usual appearance 
at Wimbledon. The entries, the visitors, 
the members, and consequently the in- 
come, were all materially affected by the 
general election, which, luckily for the 
National Eifle Association, has taken 
place only once since it has been in 
existence. Lord Elcho was himself 
called away from Wimbledon to defend 
his seat from an unexpected attack. 

The competitors for the Queen's Prize 
cannot increase as rapidly as the com- 
petitors for the open prizes, to whose 
numbers there is no practical limit except 
that of time and targets. Only two repre- 
sentatives from each company may shoot 
for the Queen's Prize, and the whole of 
the competitors for the Queen's Prize 
are picked representative shots, men 
chosen simply for their shooting powers. 
All are chiefs in their own restricted 
shooting quarters all may be said to 
have graduated with honours. Every 
city and town sends up its known 
champions, while scores of unheard-of 
villages send up their latent heroes, and 
often not without success. The village 
of Wem would never perhaps have 
been heard of out of Shropshire, if 
Sergeant Eoberts, who won the Queen's 
Prize in 1863, had not rescued it from 
its obscurity. Few Englishmen, at any 
rate, had heard of Kingussie, whence 
hails modest young Cameron, who gave 
his name to the meeting of last year. 


It is almost as difficult to compare 
the shooting of one year with another 
as it is to compare two boats' crews the 

The National Rifle Association. 


one of which is rowing with the tide and 
the other against it. The weather in- 
fluences the firing more perhaps than it 
is possible to make fair allowance for ; 
thersfore the following figures are "but 
the rough results, and do not profess to 
do more than let our readers see what 
constitutes average shooting. 

Enfield Shooting: the Queeris Prize. 
These records begin from 1864, in 
which year the size of the targets was 
altered : 

1864. Three men made 47 marks; 
one made 46 marks ; four made 45 
marks ; and twenty-two who made only 
40 marks won prizes. 

1865. Two made 47 ; eight made 45; 
and several prize-winners only made 39. 

1866. Two made 48 ; one made 47 ; 
eight made 46 ; six made 45 ; and no 
less than 43 men who made the excel- 
lent score of 41 marks were excluded 
from taking prizes. Both in 1864 and 
1865 these men would have been high 
in the prize list. 

There are three degrees of scoring. 
A hit counts 2, if not in the centre, 
which reckons 3, or in the bull's-eye, 
for which 4 is scored ; so that to make 
45 marks a man must average every 
shot in the centre, as all fire 15 rounds. 
The average shooting is much the 
same from year to year ; more men 
mado in 1864 the score of 13 at 200 
yard 3, 11 at 500 yards, and 8 at 
600 yards than any other numbers. In 
1865 these became 13 at 200, 10 at 
500, 8 at 600; while in 1866 there 
was an improvement to 14 at 200, 11 
at 500, 9 at 600 yards. 

In 1864 there were 1,792 competitors, 
of whom no fewer than 1,398 made 
either 11, 12, 13, 14, or 15 marks at 
900 ; 837 made 9, 10, 11,. 12, or 13 
marks at 500 ; and 695 made 6, 7, 8, 9, 
or 1 at 600 yards. And we find from 
year to year much about the same 
average, 1866 being, taken altogether, 
very nearly a mark in advance of 1864 
or 1361. 

Tliis is, then, something very near 
the average shooting of picked shots 
with the Enfield rifle ; and, low as it 

may seem, it is better than perhaps can 
be made by any body of armed men 
with the Government rifle with which 
they are armed. 

Small-lore Shooting. The great shoot- 
ing reputation which this country has 
made for itself at very long distances 
has been made by the men who are 
known as the " small-bore men," who 
shoot with delicate rifles, not in any 
way adapted for military purposes, but 
which are admirably suited for target- 
shooting. These men usually appear at 
the firing-point with a servant to assist 
in the multifarious occupations with 
which they have to prepare for the 
great trials of brains and skill. For 
they have to shoot more with their 
brains, availing themselves of their vast 
experience, than with their rifles, which 
will do simply whatever their masters 
enable them to do. When a really 
skilled shot of this kind misses the 
bull's-eye, or is out of the centre at any 
rate, he can almost invariably assign 
a sufficient reason for his failure. The 
servant assists in carrying the precious 
rifle, the carefully-weighed charges of 
powder, the mechanically-fitting bullet 
and cleaning-rod, their Eoss, Burrow, or 
Steward telescope, the all-important 
waterproof bed on which to lie down, 
the portable gunsmith's shop, with 
every variety of instrument that acci- 
dent may call into use, and, although 
last, by no means least, a box containing 
many sights, of various forms and pat- 
terns and sizes, which these skilled and 
highly-trained men adapt to their rifles 
under the very varying circumstances of 
wind and light, as quickly and readily 
as a veteran fisherman varies his mode 
of attack when anxious to secure a 
victim whose weight and pluck will 
prove worthy of the angler's skill. 
Dr. Cotton's quaint lines upon the 
equipment necessary for an angler, in 
which he enumerates no less than four- 
teen things as essential, and says 

" See that all things be right, 
For 'twould be a spite 
To want tools when a man goes a-fishing," 

might easily be altered into a de- 


The National Rifle Association. 

scription of the correct equipment for. 
a Wimbledon small bore man. It was 
such a one who, seeing a young urchin 
about to take up the precious rifle on 
which all his hopes depended, exclaimed, 
"Take care, you scoundrel, where are 
you going? You might just as well 
take one's watch and hurl it to the 
ground. Begone, sir ! " 

On one occasion there were twenty 
prizes given to be shot for by these men 
at 500 yards, and every prize-winner 
scored twenty marks, which is the 
highest that can be made in five shots. 
Each man hit a mark two feet square 
every shot. 

International and other Matches. 
There are two International Matches. 
One is contested by twenty volunteers, 
who shoot for a challenge trophy, value 
100/., which was collected by a com- 
mittee with Colonel the Hon. C. 
Lindsay at its head, who worked as 
hard for this object as he has for the 
St. George's Vase, an important Volun- 
teer prize, with which Colonel Lindsay's 
name will ever be connected. The 
other is for " The Elcho Shield," a noble 
work of art of enormous value, pre- 
sented for challenge competition by the 
nobleman whose name it bears. 

The Volunteer Match has been shot 
three years 

1864. England, 1016 marks; Scot- 
land, 724 marks. 

1865. Scotland, 1047 marks; En- 
gland, 1029 marks; Ireland, 909 marks. 

1866. England, 1070 marks; Scot- 
land, 1059 marks. 

The Elcho Shield has been shot for 
five years 

1862. England, 890 marks; Scotland, 
724 marks. 

1863. England, 1032 marks; Scot- 
and, 999 marks. 

1864. Scotland, 967 marks ; England, 
50 marks. 

1865. England, 1053 marks; Scot- 
land, 1051 marks ; Ireland, 935 marks. 

1866. Scotland, 1170 marks; En- 
gland, 1121 marks; Ireland, 1039 marks. 

Thus England has won three times 
and Scotland twice. 

In 1865 the excitement was immense, 
owing to a difference which arose as to 
one shot. The correspondence that took 
place between the Earl of Ducie and 
Mr. Horatio Eoss, as captains of the 
respective teams, was a model for all 
great opposing leaders. The decision was 
rightly given in favour of the Saxons ; 
and Mr. Ross, in right courteous 
language, congratulated the rival chief 
upon his hard-fought, bloodless victory, 
who in his turn thought such a defeat 
as his friends the Scots had sustained 
was nearly as honourable as victory. 
This incident furnished one of the 
Wimbledon camp poets with a subject 
on which to exercise his fervid gift. 
The shield now hangs in the Parliament 
House in Edinburgh in charge of the 
Lord Provost of that City. The shoot- 
ing in 1866, as will be seen from the 
above score, was excellent. Ireland has 
made an excellent start, and bids fair to 
win the shield ere many years are past. 
The Lords and Commons match at- 
tracts many of the " Upper Ten Thou- 
sand " to the ground, and causes much 
pleasant excitement. The late Jules 
GSrard, the Lion-killer as he was com- 
monly called, was at Wimbledon in 
1862, and was gratified and astonished 
at the completeness of the arrange- 
ments and^the skill of the Volunteers. 
" But," to' use his own words, " what 
"impressed me most during the meet- 
" ing was the match between the Mem- 
" bers of the House of Lords and those 
" of the House of Commons. It mat- 
" tered little, to my thinking, in which 
" camp victory remained ; the im- 
" portance of the fact entirely consists 
" in the example set in such high 
" quarters. In truth, but for the 
" difference in the weapons made use 
" of, we might have thought that we 
" were living in the good old times, 
11 when our knightly ancestors stood, 
" lances in rest, in the lists. With 
" such examples before them there is 
" no fear but that the young students 
" of your universities will become men; 
" no fear but that the noble love of 
" arms will spread to all classes of 
" society." 

The National Rifle Association. 


- Many mammas, papas, sisters, bro- 
thers and cousins of every degree rush 
dovii to the meeting on the day set 
apart for the Public Schools matches. 
Thanks to good training and much 
practice, Harrow seems to have very 
nea rly a monopoly of the shield. Rugby 
anc Eton have each held it for one 
year. Harrow has won it four times. 


r isitors to Wimbledon. The visitors 
to the camp have steadily increased, and 
doubtless will continue to do so 

Tear. Persons. Carriages. Horses. 

1863 15,295 610 701 

1864 22,253 658 596 

1865 21,839 573 492 

1866 38,034 685 565 

On the day of the review, 1861, no 
fewer than 13,165 persons paid for 
entrance, and the total receipts for that 
day amounted to 1,456. The smallest 
receipts from visitors were on two wet 
days in 1862, 9J. Is. and 91. 2s. re- 
spectively. "A wild and beautiful 
" common, with picturesque encamp- 
" r lents decked out with flags, and full 
"cf life and animation, might well, 
" with the additional attraction of 
1 Volunteer bands, bring idlers from 
"the noise of London to spend a few 
" hours in such a scene, even if they 
" took no interest in the rifle contests 
" that were going on around them." 
Le; us recommend this passage to 
att 3ntion against the meeting now so 

Members of the Association. The 
fol owing list exhibits the gradual 
increase of members : 

1860 there were 1,387 members. 

1861 1,431 

1862 1,827 

1863 2,612 

1864 2,887 

1865 2,876 

1866 2,946 

The Association receives less sup- 
port than it ought to receive from the 
public who are outside the pale of the 
Volunteer world. "A Cup presented 
by the Peace Society to be shot for 
by Volunteers " would be a most appro- 
pr^te prize, and could hardly be objected 

to by the most earnest supporter or the 
largest contributor to the funds of the 
sister society. The Peace Society has 
been stronger since the Volunteer move- 
ment has rendered peace more secure, 

Income. The Income includes all 
the sums that have been placed at the 
disposal of the Council for distribu- 
tion, and all receipts from every 

1860 8,452 

1861 18,043 

1862 9,808 

1863 12,054 

1864 16,183 

1865 15,544 

1866 17,273 

The Association has 8,37R 4=s. Id. 
of available capital. 


One of the first steps taken by the 
Council to strengthen their position and 
extend their influence throughout the 
country, was to endeavour to get the 
counties to form Rifle Associations. 
There are now forty-one counties which 
are in direct connexion with the National 
Rifle Association. They contribute to 
the funds of the parent association, and 
each receives annually a bronze medal, 
which is given to the county champion, 
who by virtue of that position is en- 
titled to compete for the Prince of 
Wales's prize of 100?. together with 
twenty prizes of 51. There are sixteen 
colonies in connexion with the National 
Rifle Association, on the same footing 
as the counties ; and stray champions 
have appeared from Australia and India, 
but have not yet succeeded in carrying 
off the Prince's prize. The colonies in 
which rifle associations have been 
founded, are : Cape of Good Hope ; 
Frontenac (Canada) ; Hong Kong ; New 
Brunswick ; New South Wales ; New 
Zealand ; Nova Scotia ; Prince Edward 
Island ; Queensland ; South Australia ; 
Upper Canada ; Victoria ; Yokohama, 
together with Calcutta, Western and 
Northern India. Thus we find that the 
influence of the National Rifle Associa- 
tion is not even confined to this country, 
but assists to educate pur colonists in 
the art of self-defence. The colonial 


The National Eifle Association. 

military question is daily increasing in 
importance, and quickly ripening for 
decision : before very long some settle- 
ment must be made. And, as the 
tendency seems towards letting the 
colonies provide for their own defence, 
it is of the utmost importance that 
due encouragement should be given to 
all colonists who are willing to enrol 
themselves, and learn to defend their 
adopted coiintry. The large colonies 
must, in the natural course of things, be- 
come ere long connected with the mother 
country simply as having sprung from 
her, and as still speaking her language. 


In 1861 Lord Eadstock and a very 
small detachment of the Victoria Eifles 
encamped throughout the meeting. In 
1862 there were 674 men in camp, 
of whom 212 were volunteers. The 
weather was wet and boisterous, the 
working of the camp was not perfect, 
and the campers had to rough it a little. 
But from first to last, when it blew or 
rained, as when the sun was bright and 
cheery, all went merrily and cheerfully 
to work, and gloried in being the Mark 
Tapleys of Wimbledon. That year the 
Victorias in particular acted like old 
campaigners. They cleared the ground 
for their camp, pitched their own tents, 
managed their own commissariat and 
cooking, and hospitably dispensed the 
excellent results thereof to their less- 
experienced brothers in arms. Some 
idea of the amount of downright cam- 
paigning which they had to undergo 
may be formed from the following an- 
nouncement, which is authentic : 

" Imposing ceremonial. Grand dinner to 
ladies and soldiers of all ranks in camp, 
at Victoria Crescent, at 8.30 punctually. 
Visitors are requested to provide them- 
selves with a knife and fork before corning 
otherwise they will have to rely entirely 
upon their own fingers. 


" Potages des herbes du common. 
Potages des remains d'aujourd'hul 
Potages de Wimbledon. 
Baron de Boeuf . . Roti. 

Ditto Bouilli. 

Mouton Roti. 

Ditto Bouilli.'* 

We know out of how little a French- 
man can send up an excellent dinner. 
But the Victorian chef puts Soyer and 
all cooks of his class quite into th& 
shade j and the dinner which was 
made from the above carte, washed 
down, as it was, with champagne and 
moselle, with champagne cup and mo- 
selle cup, together with a hearty wel- 
come, was pronounced to be "very 

The fable runs thus : A Victorian was 
cold and shivering outside his tent. 
Setting fire accidentally to a piece of 
furze, he found that furze when burn- 
ing sent out heat which warmed the 
cold Victorian. With the wisdom 
with which he was endowed he farther 
discovered that, if one bit of burning 
furze gave out heat enough to warm one 
cold Victorian, six pieces would give 
comfort to six Victorians ; and thus by 
continued inference arose the great in- 
stitution of the camp fires. Of these, 
the Times says : 

" The aspect of the camp is very remarkable 
when the business of the day is over. Instead 
of the incessant bustle in ana out of tents, and 
the perpetual cracking of rifles in the distance, 
scarcely a person is seen moving about ; and 
as darkness falls, and lights illuminate the 
temporary homes of the Volunteers, uncouth 
figures and grotesque attitudes are reflected on 
the canvas, as if the residents were playing 
with a series of magic lanterns. . . . The scene 
is certainly a remarkable one. In the centre of 
the group rose a huge pile of blazing furze, 
distributing smoke and sparks to all the per- 
verse people who would insist on crowding 
about it on the wrong side. Sitting, kneeling, 
crouching, and standing round the blaze there 
was a motley parliament." 

Mrs. Brown came down to see the 
camp, and she wrote the following 
account of her visit : 

" I says, says I, to Mrs. Gamp, on Tuesday 

last I says, 
'I never se'ed a Rifle Camp, in all my 

blessed days.' 
Says Mrs. Gamp, ' Such hignorance ought 

never for to be, 
Let's take the opportunity of Wimbleding 

to see.' 
Which Mrs. Gamp, she says to me, she 

says, ' Well, Mrs. Brown, 
This here's the very weather for a-going out 

of town.' 

So cons'quently we went out, with our Sun- 
day umberellas 

The National Rifle Association. 


And bran new bonnets for to charm these 

martial Rifle fellers. 
We started off at two o'clock, with baskets 

brim with cheer, 
Of rum and gin, and bread and cheese, and 

sandwiches and beer. 
We found the Camp by riding up from 

Putney in a shay, 
For which we had a most excracifying fare 

to pay. 
4 Good gracious me,' says Mrs. G , ' if 

these things keep a- whizzing, 
I fear that we, before the night, will both 

be brought in missing. ' 
And after that, we goes across to the Vic- 
toria Camp, 
And Mrs. B , she says to me, 'Why 

bless me, Mrs. Gamp, 
I wonder how these Wolunteers can ever 

go to sleep 
When all about their precious forms them 

dratted earwigs creep.' 
The weather was most awful hot, as hot as 

oysters scalloped, 
When we saw the Highland Laddies dance ; 

and goodness ! how they walloped, 
They turned and twoddled with their toes, 

around, and high and higher, 
When all at once there rose a screech, most 

awful, 'twas ' a fire ! ' 

Then came a most terrific rash, which car- 
ried me away, 
I bawled and cried for Mrs. Gamp, but 

where she was can't say. 
I found myself all fuddled up, and stuck all 

round with burrs, 
A-sticking head straight downwards in a 

prickly bush of furze." 

Mrs. Brown recovered, and sent this 
account of her visit to the Earwig, 
which is edited, written, and published 
by members of the Victoria Rifles. The 
Earwig was first published in 1864, as 
" a paper containing neither Politics, 
Literature, Science, nor Art." Its circu- 
lation is large ; its profits, if we are to 
judge by the liberality of the proprietors, 
must be enormous for we find, in 1866, 
in the prize list, "The Earwig Prize/' 
value 20., an inkstand in silver and 
blue enamel, representing an earwig : 
2d prize, a pin, also representing an 
earwig. This variegated annual is 
printed in large type, on excellent paper, 
and is sufficiently amusing to ensure a 
good sale. The following coat-of-arms 
and crest have been discovered by one 
of the advertising heraldic stationers as 
undoubtedly pertaining by right to 
the Eai-mg : 

" Arms, Quarterly : 1st Quarterly, 1 and 4 
England; 2 Scotland; 3 Ireland. 2d, Vert 
powdered of bullets, argent a bugle of the 
second (for Rifle Corps). 2d, Azure, a long 
and short Enfield Rifle salterwise argent (for 
Rifle Schools). 4th, Gules, 3 scimeters proper, 
barwise (for Middlesex). 

" Over all, a bend argent, charged with 3 
earwigs proper (for earwigs being over all at 

In 1863, there were 1,100 men in 
camp, of whom 686 were Volunteers. 
An old woman was standing very near 
to the partially open door of the Secre- 
tary's tent, into which she peeped ; and, 
although the Secretary was washing, she 
was lost in such admiration as to call 
out to another middle-aged woman who 
was near to her, " Well, I do declare j 
they call this soldiering, but only do, 
dear, just come and look in at this 'ere 
tent. Why, I do declare if there isn't 
a bed, and a parlour, and a lady's 
boudaw and drawing-room all together. 
Well, I do declare it's beautiful, it really 
is now." And the Secretary's tent really 
is worth seeing. All the comforts of a 
gentleman's room with all the taste and 
richness of a lady's room are there com- 
bined. The curtained bed, and boarded 
floor, with its thick Brussels carpet, 
certainly deprive camp life of all hard- 
ness and inconvenience, provided only 
that the tent is waterproof, and that 
the wind does not blow it down. 
The Council also fit up every year a 
superb club-tent. If you have seen a 
comfortable club-room in town, you need 
no description of the National Eifle As- 
sociation Club-tent, the sole difference 
being that the one is a tent and has a 
piano in it. In this club-tent, one night 
in 1864, Madame Goldschmidt (Jenny 
Lind) gave a concert for the entertain- 
ment of the Volunteers in camp. Here, 
too, the Moray Minstrels, through the 
kindness of Captain Lewis, of the Artists 
Eifle Volunteers, have on three occasions 
given concerts. 

In 1864, 1374 encamped, of whom 
734 were Volunteers ; and in this year 
for the first time the Victoria Eifles 
were joined by the London Scottish, 
the London Eifle Brigade, and the 1st 
Middlesex Artillery. Many a pleasant 

The National Rifle Association. 


hour was spent among these hospitable 
tents by the numerous friends who 
visited them. 1 The bagpipes of the 
London Scottish, it is true, were a cause 
of terror at first to the weaker-minded. 
So, at least, reports the Earwig : 

" Last evening a sudden and violent illness 
seized the members of the Victoria Camp, and 
caused great anxiety to their worthy and much 
respected surgeon. On mature inquiry, it was 
found to arise from the effect of the playing 
of the bagpipes in the Scottish camp ; on the 
cessation of the noise the symptoms of the ill- 
ness decreased, and the members gradually 

The cure was perfected by the exquisite 
fiddling of M. Sainton, who with Madame 
Sainton-Dolby came down to soothe the 
troubled mind of all those who had 
suffered from the harmonious tones 
which came from the tent of the Laird 
of Avoch, who commanded the Northern, 

In this year occurred the only fatal 
accident which has happened since these 
great meetings commenced. The total 
list of casualties since 1860 is as follows : 
One soldier accidentally shot (he lingered 
for weeks, but eventually died from the 
wound) ; one soldier lost an eye ; one 
man lost a toe, shot off by himself; a 
few markers more or less hurt from 
the splashes of lead from the bullets, 
but none seriously ; and one lady was 
most seriously cut with a piece of metal 
from a mortar which burst on the occa- 

1 The regimental camps vie with each other 
in friendly rivalry in their almost unbounded 
hospitality ; open tent is ever the order of the 
day and night. To make their guests eat and 
drink seems the perpetual duty of those in 
camp. The London Scottish in their camp 
annually entertain Lord and Lady Elcho and 
the Staff of the Association. After dinner 
they have out their pipes, and then follow 
reels and flings. No sooner does Lady Elcho 
express a wish to leave than, as if by magic, 
a procession is immediately formed ; the 
senior officer offers his arm to the chieftainess, 
while some score of Highlanders form up in 
file, half preceding, half following, her whom 
they deb'ght to escort, and whom the whole 
regiment adores. Each man carries a lamp ; 
' and the procession moves off to the inspiriting 
strains of the piper who heads it, conducting 
Lady Elcho to her temporary home, when 
the men respectfully salute, and Lady Elcho 

sion of a grand display of fireworks. 
Everybody who took an interest in that 
young lady and all who were on the 
Around were interested in her, from the 
fortitude and patience which she showed 
through her long and trying illness- 
was glad to hear that, when she was, a 
short time ago, happily married, the 
Council made her a life-member of the 
Association, and presented her with 
the ladies' National Kifle Association 

When it is remembered that there 
have now from first to last been thirteen 
weeks of shooting of eight hours each 
day, that there have been about 60,000 
direct entries, exclusive of the shooting 
for which competitors do not enter their 
names, and for which if we add an average 
of 50,000 a year we shall not add one 
too many; when, in short, we re- 
member that there have been between 
300,000 and 400,000 entries of one 
kind and another, and that more than 
100,000 visitors have been on the 
ground during the firing, we can only 
congratulate the Council, the compe- 
titors, and the visitors, on the wonderful 
exemption from accidents that they 
have enjoyed. 

In 1864 His Royal Highness the 
Prince of Wales opened the Association 
tramway, which conveys competitors 
from one firing point to another. This 
tramway is horsed and worked by the 
military train, and runs frequently 
throughout the day. 

The Owl, which made a most success- 
ful debttt in the season of 1864, gene- 
rously gave a prize, which was shot for 
under special and unique regulations, as 
set forth in the following proclama- 
tion : 

"Owl Shooting Extraordinary. 

Oh Yes! OYes!! 

Take notice all, 

A Prize of 50 has been given by the venera- 
ble owls of the Owl newspaper, to be com- 
peted for on such terms as the Council may 
fix. Out of consideration for the generous but 
benighted donors, the competition shall take 
place in the dark, at 200 yards. Lights, called 
Owl's Eyes, will be substituted for Bull's Eyes. 

The National Rifle Association. 



Each competitor shall pay one shilling per 
sh >t, and if the competitors do not appear 
in great numbers 

' Ihe moping owl will to the moon complain.' 

The prize, which shall be in the form of a 
beuitiful silver owl, shall be adjudged to the 
competitor who shall by the end of the meet- 
ing nave made the greatest number of owl's 
eyos ; that is, who shall have oftenest knocked 
ou!; the owl's eyes. 

Every precaution has been taken to guard 
against accidents." 

The silver owl was won by Mr. 
Martin Smith, who fired ten shots, 
making four owl's eyes. Forty men in 
all shot for this prize. 

The Sunday in camp is, unfortunately, 
one of noise and bustle, owing to the 
thousands of people who come from 
London to see the camp. Throughout 
th3 week the papers have long accounts 
of the proceedings, and naturally those 
who cannot get away from business on 
the weekdays are glad to avail them- 
selves of the Sunday to go and visit which excites so much attention. 
An impressive Church Parade takes 
pi ice on the Sunday, at which all in 
ca up attend. The sermons at the 
M orning Service have been preached by 
tha Archbishop of York, Bishop of 
London, Revs. Mr. Farrar and Ball. 
The Afternoon Service has usually been 
co iducted by the indefatigable Vicar of 
^Wimbledon, the Rev. H. Haggarth. 
Collections are made for the poor of the 
pa rish. 

In 1865 there were 1,623 in camp, 
765 being Volunteers ; in 1866, this 
hed increased to 1,292 Volunteers, with 
a total of 2,151 in camp. Those who 
ar ; in camp thoroughly enjoy the fort- 
night. The air is pure and good, the 
sc mery beautiful, the occupation plea- 
sa it ; all seem in a good humour from 
first to last, and the camp presents 
semes of festivity and enjoyment not 
of:en witnessed in our stay-at-home 
ard uncertain climate. The camp is 
in creasing, and this year gives promise 
of a still further accession to the num- 
bers. As the Duke of Cambridge wisely 
pointed out at the recent meeting of the 

Association in London, larger numbers 
require stricter discipline and more strin- 
gent regulations. Between 2,000 and 
3,000 men can be brought together in 
camp only if under direct rule and 
authority. The sanitary arrangements 
have greatly increased in magnitude, 
and the expense of camping will conse- 
quently be slightly increased. The 
Council have recently issued certain 
rules with reference to the conduct of 
their camp, which seem to us to be 
essential. By these rules they retain 
the entire control of all in camp ; 
but care must be taken, and doubtless 
will be taken, that the happy freedom 
which has been heretofore enjoyed shall 
be no further interfered with than is 
absolutely necessary. The Council are 
right in having a complete understand- 
ing with those who voluntarily place 
themselves under their orders ; and the 
campers may rest satisfied that all plea- 
sant gatherings of the previous years 
will still go on, and that no unnecessary 
. strictness will ever reign where Lord 
Spencer rules, and Lady Spencer exercises 
her pleasant sway. But, while the camp 
is under military order, it must never 
become a camp for military instruction 
or parade. Shooting, shooting, shoot- 
ing, is the chief work of the National 
Rifle Association ; the camp has been 
formed for the convenience of those 
who come to shoot ; and resistance must 
ever be offered to those who would 
change the pleasant shooting- quarters 
of the National Rifle Association into 
either an Aldershot or a Cremorne. 

The commissariat arrangements are 
upon a very large scale, and have been 
most successfully managed for the last 
four years, by the Messrs. Jennison, of 
Manchester, who bring with them from 
Lancashire their entire staff, and all 
" their stuff," as the Lancastrians style 
edibles and potables. Their wood, 
their carts, their horses, their men and 
women (numbering more than a hun- 
dred), their beer, meat, milk, and, in 
short, everything that enters into the 
construction of their building, or tenants 
them when constructed, comes from 


The National Rifle Association. 

Enough, perhaps, has "been written to 
convince all who care to read that the 
National Eifle Association is worthy 
of support. It has accomplished for 
Britain what hut for it would never 
have heen done. To this Association 
we owe the perfection to which our 
rifles have heen brought ; to the annual 
trials held of rifles by the Council, we 
owe the improvements that have been 
made in the Whitworth ; these trials 
set to work the fertile brains of our 
inventors, and actually produced the 
small-bores of Henry, of Eigby, and of 
Metford ; and the way has been paved 
for the introduction of the breech-loader. 
The influence which the National Eifle 
Association has in the rifle world is 
best proved by General Peel's recent 
act, by which has perhaps for ever been 
destroyed much of the red tape of the 
War Office. That most bold Secretary 
for War, in selecting a Military Com- 
mittee, whose duty is to report on the 
breech-loading rifles which are now 
competing for the high prize of being 
selected as the British service arm, 
has placed on the Committee the best 
shot of the country, Mr. Edward Eoss, 
and Earl Spencer as Chairman of the 
National Eifle Association. 

The offices of the Association are, 
moreover, the central offices for the 
' transaction of most of the unofficial 
business connected with the Volunteer 
service. It shelters gratuitously its 
younger sister, the National Artillery 
Association ; there meet the Cambridge 
Eifle Club, the Long Eange Club, the 
Middlesex Shooting Committee, and the 
metropolitan commanding officers ; and 

the commanding officers throughout the 
country recently held there the meet- 
ings at which they considered the neces- 
sity for asking still further assistance 
from the Parliament. In any country 
but ours this work would be digni- 
fied into a State department, or would 
at any rate be carried out by a royal 
commission, while the National Eifle 
Association actually is compelled to 
subsidize the army the pay of the 
soldiers on duty at the meeting of 1866 
costing more than 1,400. 

Those who have followed us thus far 
must surely, one and all, join in the 
praise, " Well done, Lord Elcho." All 
must hope, too, that the same success, 
the same happy combination of finan- 
cial soundness and well-done work, may 
be the result of Lord Spencer's term 
of office, in which we may rest assured 
that nobleman will spare no pains, no 
labour. If Lord Elcho must go, where 
could we find a better successor than in 
the nobleman who fostered the Asso- 
ciation in its helpless infancy, who has 
given the place of its meeting, who has 
attended its meetings with regularity, 
and proved his own skill by being 
honoured with the National Eifle Asso- 
ciation badge for successful shooting for 
the Queen's Prize 1 And, if we must say 
" Farewell to Lady Elcho," who by her 
kindness, her presence, and her beauty, 
has done so much to make the social 
part of the meeting a real success, we 
must also say, " Welcome to Lady 
Spencer," who is no stranger at Wim- 
bledon, and who will doubtless dis- 
pense a generous hospitality in her 
most genial and most charming manner. 








" LET me introduce my friend and tra- 
velling companion, Count Boginsky," 
said Arthur to his father. 

" I am delighted to know you, sir," 
said Silcote, frankly and pleasantly. 
" I hear from Arthur that you are 
actually good enough to come to the 
war with us as cicerone. It is a piece 
of good luck on which we could not 
possibly have reckoned." 

" Nor I either," said Boginsky. " I 
shall really believe that times are going 
to change for the better with me." 

" They are, sir, they are," said the 
Squire. " Believe it, sir, that these 
great concussions shake things into their 
places. We are going to see a very 
great thing, sir. I begin to imagine, a 
very great thing indeed. I am sorry for 
poor Austria, for I tell you honestly 
that, with all her political folly, I have 
a sneaking kindness for Austria. But 
the world will gain." 

' Then you are perfectly sure that 
Austria is to be beaten?" 

" In the nature of things. Do you 
doubt ? Her cause is not just." 

<l She fights well, however," said 
Boginsky, " and her cause is as just 
now as it was in '49, when she won. I 
think it a very doubtful business indeed, 

do you really]" said the Squire, 
pacing the room excitedly. " My dear 
Ar<hy, he thinks it doubtful. I don't 
know which I would like best : to have 
Tom ^ back among us again, thrashed 
heartily and repentant ; or to have him 
come cranking in victorious. Heaven 
help the Frenchman that gets in his 
path. You think, sir. that "it will be a 

case of the devil among the tailors 

"I beg pardon?" said the puzzled 

" My father means that there will be 
a great struggle," explained Arthur. 

" Undoubtedly," said Boginsky. 
" Taking the Austrian army altogether, 
and considering the wonderful mixture 
of tribes, almost of nations, in its ranks, 
I rank its personal valour higher than 
that of any army in Europe. Of the 
Prussian army I can say nothing, as it 
has not been mobilized for above forty 
years ; but, looking at the performances 
of other European armies, I rank the 
personnel of the Austrian army as high 
as any, even as high as the British." 

" Do you rank us first, then?" said 
the Squire. 

" It is our habit to do so. Your little 
army is always in practice. Your nation 
is never at peace. Amongst your little 
army of 140,000, there are in each 
regiment at least ten men to each com- 
pany who have been under fire. You 
fail in handling large bodies of men, 
because none but your Indian officers 
ever have the chance of doing that, 
and they seem to be carefully shelved. 
But I rank the personnel of your army as 
the first in Europe ; with them I 'put 
the pick of the French and Eussians, 
and the whole of the Austrians. England 
and Austria have no inferior regiments, 
and no men whom they will use able to 
lead their armies. France and Russia 
would beat them by generalship." 

"And Italy?" said Silcote, pleased 
and interested. 

" Italia is not yet," said Boginsky ; 
" she may be next month, next year, 
fifty years hence ; but she is not yet. 
"We go to see the dice thrown for her.'' 

" I should like to have seen a red- 


Silcote of Silcotes. 

coated regiment or two in the hurly- 
burley," said the Squire. " Merely on 
sentimental grounds." 

" One would have liked to see the 
red- coats also, we democrats," said 
Boginsky, "but it is not expected of 
England. England has accepted De- 
mocracy as the breath of her nostrils 
only in a modified form as yet, but the 
sacred spirit will show itself perfect. 
England's mission is to disseminate 
democracy in new lands ; with regard 
to the old ones, we dispense with her. 
It is I, and such as T, who carry the 
fiery cross over land. We are contented 
with her, and we love her, if she will 
fulfil her special mission of carrying it 
by sea." 

" Do you know/' said the Squire, 
"that this is wonderfully interesting? 
But it is sad nonsense, I doubt, Archy ; 
is it not r 

" No," said Arthur. 

" Then give us some more of it," 
said the Squire to Boginsky. " He is 
my spiritual director, you know. I 
spent a couple of thousand pounds on 
his education to fit him for the post. 
If he approves of it, give us some more. 
To help you, What do you think of 
the fat man ? " 

" Cavour ? " 

" Heavens, no ! Don't talk any non- 
sense about him. The stout man on the 
grey horse." 

" He will be King of Italy and I 
object to kings as a rule. Do you know, 
sir, that I must change the conversation, 
for the mere purpose of delivering my- 
self of a war mission which should 
have been executed before ?." 

" You look grave. Is anything 

" I think that nothing is wrong," said 
Boginsky. ' But that very much de- 
pends on how you will take it. Have 
you seen your grandson, Eeginald, since 
last night?" 

" No. At my time of life I have 
given up all idea of being treated with 
proper respect by boys. I had con- 
cluded that he and his cousin James 
had gone for an expedition into the 
country, to get out of my way." 

" I pointed out to your grandson, 
and to James Sugden, that they were 
not behaving well, but I could make 
no impression on them whatever. Mr. 
Sugden was spokesman, and gave me 
my commission to Mr. Arthur. He 
said that they were exceedingly sorry to 
cause any annoyance, but that they had 
made up their minds, and, to save words, 
had done it secretly, because they knew 
that James's mother (the beautiful grey- 
haired lady, I believe) and the Squire 
would have objected to it, and would 
not have permitted it for a moment." 

"What have the two young fools 
done now, then, in the name of confu- 
sion ? " demanded the Squire. 

" They requested me to point out the 
fact," continued Boginsky, unheeding 
him, but going through his commission, 
" that women would be in the way, and 
that they were determined to see it ; 
and also that they had plenty of money 
for the present, and that, when it ran 
short, they would send to you for 

" This story begins to hold together," 
said the Squire; "I can quite under- 
stand this part of it. No doubt they 
will. But what have they done ? " 

" Then, as a last resource, having used 
all my own arguments, I appealed to the 
Colonel himself. I pointed out to him 
that Eeginald was risking your good 
favour by taking such a step, and that 
James Sugden's mother had only just 
arrived from England. He laughed at 
me. He said that it was good for them, 
and took them away. I never yet got 
the best of my friend Erangipanni." 

" Erangipanni !" exclaimed the Squire. 
" What on earth has he been doing 
with my boys ? WTiat Midsummer mad- 
ness is this ?" 

"Count Frangipanni is colonel of 
the 18th regiment of the Sardinian light 
horse, 1 which marched last night. Ee- 
ginald Silcote and James Sugden were 

1 Not to deprive brave men of their glory, 
even for a moment, in a work of fiction, it is 
necessary to say that the men of Genestrello 
were the regiment at Montferrat (with some 
squadrons of other regiments) under command 
of General Sonnaz. 

Silcote of Silcotes. 


his two favourite pupils in his Italian 
clas at St. Mary's Hospital. He has 
seduced them away with him to go and 
make sketches of the war, and has pro- 
mised to take them under fire ; which he 
probably will do, as he is one of the 
bravest men in Europe, and as they 
wo ild follow him down the crater of 

" This is very pleasant, Arthur," said 
Sil<:ote. "This is thoroughly pleasant." 
'' Lucky young dog," aaid Arthur ; 
"they promised to stick by me. I 
would go after them if I could get 
franked by a colonel." 

< : They will be killed," said the 

"Most likely," said Arthur. "But 
they will have taken some bad sketches 
firs% which we shall find on their 
cor )ses." 

' How shall we break it to Mrs. Tom 1 ? " 
said the Squire. 

" Tell her all about it the next time 
she comes into the room," replied Ar- 
thur ; "I should say that was the best 
wav. If you are afraid, let me." 

" It will be a terrible shock to her," 
said the Squire. 

' : She has been under fire herself in 
the Crimea more than once," said 
Ar hur. "She will not care much. 
Thoy might have taken me with them, 
I ihink. Here she is. Mrs. Tom, 
Janes has bolted to the front, and is 
going under fire. Hallo, what is this ?" 
' Only my old dress as field nurse in 
the Crimea," she said quietly. " I 
found out why he was gone, and where, 
and I got ready to go after him. I 
should suggest marching myself, if we 
are to see anything at all. The last 
regiment goes to-morrow ; and, as far as 
I cun gather from the soldiers, the cause- 
wa; r s are narrow, and our carriages will 
get hampered among the commissariat 
waggons if we delay. I should have 
pro posed marching in the rear of Fran- 
gip mni's regiment if I had known that 
the boys were to give us the slip. We 
had better order the carriages at eight 
to-morrow morning." 

j?rom this time she and Boginsky 
took the lead. She dressed in grey with 

a modest hood, looking so much like 
some sort of sosur de charite that she 
got the route everywhere, and carried 
her train with her. Miss Lee carried 
her silks and satins through the scenes 
which came afterwards, attended by 
Arthur, who kept the dress of an 
English parson. 



WHETHER it was the fault of Count 
Frangipanni, or of James, that the latter 
took the extraordinary step of running 
away from the newly-united party, is 
one of those things which it is hardly 
necessary to make clear. Whichever of 
them originated the idea, it was soon 
acted on. There is one thing certain 
that the Count took the most elaborate 
pains to point out to James that if he 
stayed with the carriages he would see 
absolutely nothing. James did not 
want much encouraging. " If we argue 
and ask leave, Reggy," he said, "we 
shall never have leave to go. Let us 

" Certainly," said Reginald. And so 
they commissioned Boginsky, whom 
they met in the crowd, to arrange mat- 
ters for them in the best way he could. 

When they commissioned him to say 
that they had money enough for the 
present, they spoke the truth. Their 
money, howeverj looked a great deal 
smaller after they had bought a couple 
of little horses. But, as James said, 
they were going with the winning army, 
and would make requisitions on the 
conquered territory. Besides, they had 
their watches, and at least ten pounds 
a piece. A real schoolboy will go into 
any adventure with a pound in his 

Boginsky might have supplemented 
his commission from them to Arthur by 
mentioning that he had bought their 
horses and saddles for them, getting 
these articles for them, by means of his 
democratic connexion, at about half the 
price they could have got them for 
themselves ; moreover, that he had spent 


Silcote of Silcotes. 

the evening of the previous day in 
getting away their painting tackle, 
money, and clothes, and conveying them 
to the little cafe at which they were 
rebelliously lodging. He suppressed 
these latter facts entirely. The fact is 
that he would have liked to go himself, 
but felt bound in honour to stay by 
Arthur. And, indeed, with his political 
character, he was much safer in the rear 
than in the front ; so, under the civis 
Eomanus segis, he travelled in Silcote's 

The boys were pleased at their esca- 
pade. The troopers liked them, and they 
liked the troopers. England, said the 
Italians, the free country of Europe, sym- 
pathised with the cause, 'although politi- 
cal complications elsewhere happened to 
prevent her assisting in it, as they had 
assisted in the Crimea. Yet she had 
sent her best blood (according to Frangi- 
panni) to look on, even if they could 
not fight. They were in perfect good- 
humour with the English, these troopers, 
and considered James in the light of a 
political demonstration. To him per- 
sonally they were devoted, like every 
one else ; " the only agreeable person 
which your family has ever produced," 
said Miss Raylock of him afterwards to 
the assembled Silcotes. 

They went on under the bright May 
weather, fast and far, through pleasant 
ways across the lower slopes of the 
Apennines. But few people were about, 
and those got fewer as they went on. 
Our two friends could make little or 
nothing of the plans of the campaign, 
and indeed cared little whether the 
Austrians would test the right or the 
left of their position ; all they cared 
about were the incidents. 

They had a very pleasant incident 
one warm May day. Travelling over 
nearly plain open meadows, planted 
here and there with mulberries, keep- 
ing the green, abrupt hills on their 
right, they came to a stream by a vil- 
lage, and by this stream lay a battalion 
of French soldiers, some of whose officers 
came and fraternized, but the body of 
which lay and sat still. The stream 
in which these two audacious youths 

watered their horses was the Forsagazzo, 
the village was Genestrello. The French 
battalion which lay on the grass was a 
battalion of the 74th, under General 
Cambriels ; but little they knew or 
cared about these details. The two 
simple-minded youths were at the ex- 
treme breaking-point of a great wave, 
the foremost wave of a sea which was to 
burst over, and to regenerate, nay make, 
a kingdom ; but they were utterly un- 
conscious of it. The place was pic- 
turesque, and the day warm. Further 
on the scenery seemed to promise better. 
They rode in advance of the troops along 
the broad dusty road, and turned off 
into a hedgeless field on the left, lay 
down on the grass, and, letting their 
tired horses graze, took their dinner of 
sausage, bread, and wine. 

Then they began sketching. The field 
was wide and open, with here and there 
a tree. Before, and close to them, was 
the broad and dusty highway, separated 
from them by a long ditch and a few 
shaped stones at regular intervals. 
Beyond, and close to them, was a hand- 
some collection of Italian buildings ; a 
church notably ; an inn; a larger build- 
ing than either of these, probably a 
country gentleman's house ; all noble- 
looking, of yellow stone, with red roofs 
and dormer windows ; behind all a 
wooded hill. It was a place which the 
idlest tourist would like to sketch, with 
or without an incident. They were 
lucky enough to see a remarkable inci- 
dent, but were much too scared to intro- 
duce it into their landscape. 

Their friends were well in sight on 
their right, and it was dinner-time with 
them as with James and Eeginald ; yet 
their friends were taking no dinner 
whatever. Their friends the Sardinian 
cavalry were on the move again, and 
soon passed them along the road at a 
foot pace. 

" Shall we go with them?" said Eegi- 

" We can soon catch them up," said 

James. " We will finish our sketches." 

And so they finished them. 

It was late when they had finished 

them, and they wanted their supper. 

Bikote of Silcoies. 


Thoy bethought them of going over to 
the group of houses which they had 
been sketching, on the other side of the 
road. One of these they found was a 
ratier good inn, the landlord of which 
was perfectly willing to receive them. 
He remarked to them, had they under- 
stood Italian, 

' ; Live men to-day, dead men to- 
morrow. An inn to-day, a hospital the 
day after. Come in, gentlemen, but pay 
beforehand ; the dead do not pay, as a 

They understood his demand of pay- 
ment beforehand, and satisfied him. 
Then they had their supper, and dis- 
cussed whether it was worth while or 
not to follow Count Frangipanni and 
his light horse so late. They could 
easily follow him in the morning, they 
agreed, and the quarters were good. So 
they stayed, and went out in the front of 
the inn to smoke. 

The jollity of their march seemed to 
have departed. None of the officers 
from the battalion of French which 
was lying so close to them were swarm- 
ing in and out of the inn, as is their 
custom. There was none of that brisk, 
merry, good-humoured babble between 
officers, men, and civilians which makes 
the arrival of a French regiment so 
agreeable. The officers seemed all to be 
lying down by the brook with their men 
to-night, thinking of quite other things 
than absinthe and dominoes. Our 
friends began to get sorry that they had 
not gone on with Frangipanni's light 

Only one French officer was in front 
of the inn when they sauntered out to 
smoke, a thickset man, with a grey 
moustache and shaven cheeks, with the 
scarlet side of his cloak turned outside, 
and much gold about him, who also 
walked up and down smoking. " Evi- 
dently," said James, " a swell ; the very 
man to consult." If he had known that 
it was General Forey it would not have 
made much difference ; for, if he had 
eve] known, he had completely forgotten, 
what General Forey had done, or had 
left undone. How many of my readers 
rem omber ? 

JS'o. 93. VOL. xvi. 

James, cap in hand, and schoolboy 
French in his mouth, went up to General 
Forey, and confided to him that they, 
two young English artists, were travel- 
ling with Frangipanni's light horse, and 
had got left behind. The General, also 
cap in hand, told him politely that if he 
remained where he was he would be 
extremely likely to meet his friends, 
Messieurs of the Sardinian light horse, 
once more ; and so bowed himself 
politely out of the audience. 

They saw soon afterwards that he 
was joined by two staff-officers, that his 
orderly brought his horse from the 
stable, and that he rode sharply off, in 
the direction by which they had come. 

They lay in the field in front of the 
house till it was late, and then went to 
bed and slept quite quietly. They had 
no Italian, either of them, or might 
have learnt much. In the morning, 
trusting to the French General's opinion, 
that their friends would return by the 
same route, they quietly had their 
breakfast, went across the road, and lay 
in the shade of a mulberry tree, smoking,, 
and touching up their sketches. 

There was the broad and dusty road,, 
divided from the field by shaped stones ; 
beyond, the yellow-and-red pile of build- 
ings, one of which was their inn; beyond., 
the pleasant wooded hill ; to the left, 
heights crowned with important looking 
buildings. And now came their incident. 

In a cloud of dust their friends of the 
Sardinian light horse came along the 
highway at a slinging trot the way 
they had gone, fulfilling General Forey's 
prediction. Our youths knew nearly 
every face in the regiment, and a merrier 
set of fellows they had never seen ; yet 
every face was grave enough now. The 
last man who passed them was Frangi- 
panni, bringing up the rear. The regi- 
ment passed them about three hundred 
yards, and then, at a few notes of the 
bugle, wheeled each man in his own. 
ground, and was at once formed in 
column of squadrons on the road; 
Frangipanni, having wheeled with them,, 
standing sole and solitary at their^ head* 

For a few minutes there was silence. 
The Sardinian light horse had scarcely 



.Silcote of Silcotes. 

settled themselves in their places when 
the silence was broken. J-ames and 
Reginald were still innocently looking 
at their, old friends, drawn up across 
the road, and trying to make out the 
faces of the officers who were most 
familiar to them, when they were 
t startled by the infinitely inharmonious, 
' yet deeply terrible, crashing, trampling, 
and clanking of another regiment of 
cavalry, approaching along the high 
road from their left. 

Eeginald saw them first, for James 
was staring at Frangipanni. " Here is 
another regiment," said Eeginald, " all 
in white. These will be the French." 

James looked round once, and shook 
him fiercely by the shoulder. "Get 
up ! " he said, " here are the Austrians 
upon us, and we are in the thick of the 
whole thing." 

" The who 1 " said Eeginald. 

" The AuMrians, you ass," said James. 
" Get up, will you ! Who in heaven or 
earth would ever have thought of this ? 
Eun, scud, get out of the way, get on 
your legs at any rate, and, if we get 
involved in it keep your arms above 
your head, and keep on your feet. Get 
hold of a stirrup if you can, but run 
with the horses, and get out of it as 
quick as you are able. By Jove, who 
would have thought of this ? " 

Eeginald, though he scarcely under- 
stood what was coming, behaved very 
well. He ran with James some ten 
yards into the meadow, and then they 
both turned to look on war itself, as 
few have looked on it. 

The Austrians halted. They knew 
that the French were there, and the 
French had got a terrible prestige since 
the Crimea, which they have main- 
tained. The Austrian colonel halted 
his men for one instant, and rode for- 
ward towards the ravine alone before 
them all to see if the concealed French 
could be tempted into opening fire at 
him. He went within pistol-shot of 
Count Frangipanni; but the French 
know the business of war, and he saw 
nothing but the Sardinian regiment of 
light horse. 

" Look at that glorious Austrian 

colonel," said James to Eeginald. 
"There is a man who don't mind 
death. I wish to heaven that their 
cause was better. Watch that Austrian 
colonel. Did you ever see such a noble 
fellow in your life? See how he sits 
his horse ; I confess that my principles 
would give way under the influence of 
such a man." 

" I think I know him," said Eegi- 

" What are they going to do 1 " said 
the excited James. "Viva Italia ! By 
heavens, our fellows are going to 
charge ! " 

Who gave the order for the first 
charge at Genestrello, Tom Silcote or 
Aurelio Frangipanni ?' The result is 
the same. A thousand men on each 
side, mounted on horseback, with drawn 
swords in their hands, in column of 
troops, rode fiercely at one another, 
trying to slay one another, happily 
with little effect. The first two 
troops on either side got them- 
selves, to a certain extent, bruised, 
shaken, and cut about with swords ; 
while the rearward troops drew rein, 
and did nothing until the bugle gave 
the word to the Italian cavalry to right 
about face, which they did accordingly. 
*Count Frangipanni and Colonel Sil- 
cote, however, seemed rather loth to 
part, for each had found in the other 
a good swordsman. For full half a 
minute, after the Italian retreat had 
sounded, these two were alone together, 
fencing cautiously and keenly, yet with 
apparently perfect good humour. 
Colonel Silcote was the first to rein 
his horse back and say, "You must 
follow your men, Colonel. Your major, 
seeing you so busy, has sounded the 
retreat." Frangipanni saluted politely, 
smiled, and trotted off after his regi- 
ment, while the Austrians prepared to 

" Our fellows are beaten, then ] " said 
James, with an air of discontent. " I 
cannot see why ; they seemed to do 
quite as well as the others ; but I sup- 
pose that the Major knows what he is 
about. Frangipanni gave, no orders. 
There goes my Austrian colonel off at 

Silcote of Silcotes. 


a sling trot after them. I hope he won't 
come to grief." 

<; Your Austrian colonel, you turn- 
coat ! " said Eeginald. 

'Yes, mine," said James, emphati- 
cally. " I like the look of that man. I 
would go to the devil after that man." 

<v He is one of the accursed Tedeschi," 
saic Keginald. " What would our com- 
rades say 1 " 

"I don't know, and I don't care," 
replied James. "He is a much finer 
fellow than any of the Italians, except 
Frangipanni. He saved Frangipanni 
from being taken prisoner. I heard 
him give him the office to cheese it," 
went on James, reproducing, in his 
admiration, a very old London vul- 
garism. "That man is a noble gentle- 
man, if he were fifty Tedeschi." 

t{ So he is," said a voice, apparently 
from high up in the air. " You never 
said a truer word than that, James 
Sugden. Who ever dared to say that 
he was not? Do you remember the 
night when he carried you, a poor 
bruised and bleeding little hind, into 
Silcotes, away from the poachers, and 
mado your fortune at the expense of 
his own ?" 

To turn and find our old friend, the 
Princess sitting on a tall bay horse, 
in a blue riding skirt, with a white 
bodice, a wideawake hat and cock's 
feathers, and a revolver at her right 
pommel was a very small surprise. 
After having looked on, at twenty yards' 
distance, at a charge of cavalry, in which 
some eight were killed, and some twelve 
left howling and moaning in the road, 
one is not inclined to be surprised at 
anything. James merely took off his 
hat, : ,nd said, " Madam, I scarcely hoped 
to have the pleasure of seeing you here." 
Eeginald said nothing whatever, but 
stared at his aunt, open-mouthed. 

" 3 dare say not," she answered. " I 
am following Colonel Silcote's regiment. 
How did you come here?" 

" We came with the Sardinian light 
horse sketching, my lady." 

" You might have been in better 
comp my," said the Princess. " Why 
did y >u not come on our side ?" 

" Our sympathies are Italian, my 
lady. Do I understand you that the 
colonel we saw just now was Colonel 

" Did you not recognise him?" 

" I do now. Eeginald, you said that 
you thought you knew him. But I 
should scarcely have recognised my 
own father, in such a place, and in such 
a uniform." 

" Are you here on foot? Where are 
your horses?" 

" Across the road, my lady." 

" You had better get them. Is there 
any force of French on this brook here, 
the Fossagazzo ?" 

" I decline to answer that question, 
my lady," said James. " Eeginald, I 
hope you were not going to speak. Hold 
your tongue, sir. How dare you?" 

" Well, I suppose you are right," 
said the Princess, good - humouredly. 
" Here comes Urban ; we shall know 
soon. Hark ! there is infantry there, 
-and French infantry. You might have 
told me without doing any harm. They 
are in force, are they not ? Is it Forey ? 
Get your horses, you young fools, get 
your horses, and come back across the 
road to me again. Do not lose a 

They ran across and got out their 
horses and were back with her in less 
than five minutes, abandoning their 
heavy baggage ; for there was a sound 
in their ears, familiar to us now, which 
they had never heard before. 

Eapid musketry firing. At first only 
crackling like the burning of the gorse 
on the hills above St. Mary's, but 
growing heavier every moment, until 
it roared out in heavy crashes, which 
shook the air even where they stood, 
and brought a few heavy drops of rain 
from the summer clouds which floated 
overhead. When they got back to her 
they found her in the same position, 
gazing intensely at the dip in the broad 
dusty road about a quarter of a mile to 
their right, from which came furious 
volleys of musketry, and a general 
raging confusion, which showed them 
that they had pushed too far for safety, 
and were actually at the very point 

o 2 


Silcote of Silcotes. 

where the two armies would decide their 
first struggle. 

The Princess was perfectly calm. 
" Tell me, James Sugden, as a gentleman 
to a lady, is Forey there?" 

And James answered, " I believe he 
is, my lady." 

"In force?" 

" I decline." 

" You are right. "Well, with his 
present reputation, he will fight hard to 
regain his former one. You will take 
care of a poor old woman in case the 
poor Tedeschi are beaten back V 

"My lady, I am entirely at your 
service," said James. 

" You will keep with me, then 1 " 

" Certainly," said James. 

" The Italians would murder me, and 
you are well repandu among them. 
Keep by me. I hold you on your 
honour as a gentleman." 

" Here come the Austrians back 
again," exclaimed James. 

And indeed the cavalry were return- 
ing along the road in some confusion, 
followed by their friends of the light 
horse. At the same moment, possibly 
the very first rifled-cannon bullet ever 
fired in anger tore up the ground near 
the Princess, and covered her with dust. 

" We may as well move a little fur- 
ther," she said ; " this is too close to be 

It was a very reasonable suggestion ; 
so they trotted along till they were fairly 
past the village of Genestrello, and then 
paused and looked about them. 

Opposite to them were two abrupt, 
rounded, and partly wooded hills, about 
half a mile off, the one on their right 
crowned by a single large building with 
a campanile, the one to the left by a 
village with another campanile. A small 
hollow divided the two hills, and they 
saw that the French army, battalion 
after battalion, was already swarming up 
the right-hand hill towards the solitary 
building, under a heavy fire from the 
solitary building, the summit of the hill, 
and the village on the other hill. 

The firing got more fast and furious 
every moment. The right-hand hill was 
rapidly blackening with the swarming 

French, who were bringing up artillery ; 
and far away some Sardinian cavalry 
were seen charging up the hill. The 
first hill seemed to be doomed, in which 
case there seemed but small chance for 
the second. 

Genestrello was carried too, for the- 
roar grew louder and nearer, and broken 
regiments began to pass them, from which 
men fell out, and sat down and began 
feebly and pitiably to try to get at their 
wounds. It was certainly time to move', 
for the cannon-shot were ripping and 
crashing amongst the trees, and the 
summit of the first hill was a mere 
raging volcano. And M 7 hich way were 
they to go, except away from the French? 

As they went, they saw the village- 
on the second hill carried ; and lo, it w r as- 
evening, and the day had passed like an 
hour. The battle of Montebello was 
over and won. Night was coming on, 
and the Austrians were in retreat. They 
had "felt" for the French, and had found 
them. Montebello showed pretty clearly 
which way the campaign was to go. If 
they were unable to hold such a position 
as that, what would be the result else- 
where ? 



THE Princess cared little for Montebella. 
Her horror at Tom Silcote's going to 
the campaign had ended in her de- 
termining to go with him, and she had 
accompanied his regiment in the way 
we have seen ; riding parallel with 
his regiment, with which she was quite 
familiar, and which she may be said to 
have joined ; and seeing almost the 
very first blood drawn, and having 
witnessed the battle of Montebello from 
a quiet field, without being very danger- 
ously under fire at all. 

This would have been enough for the 
ambition of most amateur lady-soldiers, 
but she thought nothing of it. The clay 
of Montebello was a triumph for her 
foolish soul, for she had succeeded in 
deluding James hopelessly across into the 

Silcote o/Sikotes. 


Austrian lines, and she considered that 
a great stroke of business. 

The foolish plans which they had 
matte against this young man have been 
discussed before. None of his enemies 
had the slightest idea about his real 
claims to be a dangerous person, with 
regard to the Silcotes succession, and 
its almost hopeless entanglement. He 
was looked on as the " dangerous horse," 
however ; and she prided herself on her 
dexterity in tempting him into the 
Austrian lines. " We have him in our 
power now," she said to herself, scarcely 
knowing what she meant. 

She could not dream, of course, that 
she was only in the way of introducing 
the boy to his own father. Let our 
story tell itself. 

Ihe Austrian left was withdrawn 
hastily that night towards the Sesia : 
there was great confusion. The Princess 
and our two friends rode together into 
Casteggio about eight o'clock; and there 
found ranged warlike order, with war- 
like disorder dribbling through it to the 
rear of it, to become orderly again. 

Our friends had lost their Austrian 
regiment, and waited for it at Casteggio. 
It was in a sad plight. General Blanch- 
ard had brought up with him some of 
this infernal new artillery, and had 
played sad mischief with them. The 
regiment was passed on through Cas- 
teggio towards the rear, wearied, dis- 
heartened, and half cut to pieces. They 
thought for a time that Tom Silcote was 
not with them, but was killed j but last 
of all, bringing up the rear of his strag- 
gling and wearied squadrons, he came 
with a bloody face, bareheaded, holding 
his reins in his sword-hand, and his left 
arm hanging loosely beside him. 

' He is hit," said the Princess. And 
they joined him. 

'" I have got a graze on my left arm 
from a French bullet," he said, cheerily, 
"not to mention a wipe over the head 
froia that jolly old Italian colonel. I 
thought I was a swordsman till I met 

' Wretch!" said the Princess ; " after 
your saving his life this morning!" 

" Not at all, Aunt. A jolly old cock, 

every inch of him. We only politely 
renewed our fencing match, and he only 
cut me over the head and apologised." 

" What is the name of this Italian 
colonel of yours," asked the Princess of 
James, "who accepts his life in the 
morning, and tries to assassinate the man 
who saved him an hour afterwards?" 

"Count Frangipanni," said James, 
without comment. 

" Good Heavens ! " exclaimed the 
Princess. " How strangely things come 
round. He might have been excused 
for cutting off my head, I don't deny. 
In fact, I should have told him so after- 
wards, the very next time I met him. 
But he has no grudge against you." 

" He hasn't any grudge. Don't be 
silly. Who are these two young men 
with you ?" 

"Your nephew Keggy, and his 

" Then not you, Reggy, but Eeggy' s 
friend I am going to give you some 
trouble. Strange, I seem to have said 
those very words before. I am sure I 
have. I am very slightly hit, and am 
not in the least degree feverish. I am 
certain that I said those words before, 
at some time or another, or, at least y 
words almost exactly like them." 

" You did, sir," said James, quietly ; 
"and to me." 

"I think I remember your face ; and 
I am sure that I like it. Our billet is 
at Pozzo d'Orno. Will you come on. 
with us 1" 

" Certainly, sir." 

" Have you a good set of nerves ? 
Can you help a surgeon 1 I am hit, but 
not heavily. I must be with my regi- 
ment in three or four days. I don't 
know whether the ball is in my arm or 
not. Will you nurse me ? I can't reward 
you, but I am determined to see this 
thing out. Will you help me to it by 
nursing me?" 

" I will, most cheerfully, sir." 

" / am the person to nurse you, Tom," 
broke out the Princess. " I will have 
no interference from any quarter what- 
ever between you and me. At all events, 
I will not see you poisoned or assas- 
sinated under my own eyes, and me 


Silcote of Silcotes. 

standing looking on. You do not know 
what you are doing ; you do not know 
in whose hands you are trusting your 
life. You are throwing away the benefits 
of one of the most extraordinary dis- 
positions of Providence which, under 
me, have ever been accomplished " 

"Don't be a fool," said Colonel Tom, 
peevish with his wound ; " I want some 
one to see to me, and I choose this 
young man, and I will have him, 
by " 

" Have Eeggy," cried the Princess. 
"If it was the last word I ever spoke, 
have Eeggy." 

" He is too great an ass, and you are 
too fussy. I shall have this young 

" Hear his name," said the Princess. 
" His name is James Sugden." 

" You know I have my own opinions 
about that matter, Aunt. Sugden, will 
you stay with me a couple of days, and 
trust me as I trust you ? " 

" I cannot understand her Highness's 
allusions," said James, simply. " I 
only know that, years ago, you kindly 
and gently carried me to Silcotes, after 
I had been beaten by the poachers ; 
and that her Highness as kindly and as 
gently received me. God knows, sir, 
that I would do anything possible to 
repay your kindness, or hers." 

" Stick by me, then. I want an 
English face. So you are that young 
monkey, hey 1 I remember it all. What 
a pretty little dog you were ! Like a 
little fox." 

"I am not pretty now, then, sir?" 
said James, smiling, and looking steadily 
at him. 

"No; decidedly not." 

"You do not like the look of me 

"I like the look of you only too 
well. Where did you get those pleasant 
steady eyes of yours ? " 

"My eyes are said to be like my 
mother's, sir," replied James, who 
thought that the Colonel was, in spite 
of his denial, wandering a little, and 
who wished to humour him. 

" I wish you would get another pair," 
said Tom Silcote. " Your eyes are UD.T 

pleasantly like another pair of eyes into 
which I used to look years ago, and 
have never forgotten, boy, never for- 
gotten, never forgotten. I suppose 
she will come, too, at the great gathering 
at the end of all things." 

He was certainly feverish with his 
wound. The Princess, after her last 
rebuff, rode apart with Eeginald, and 
poured her grief into his bosom. She 
did not like him, but she must tell her 
woes to some one, and so Eeggy got the 
benefit of them now. 

" What I have done for that man," 
she said, " and now he says I am fussy ! 
Eeginald, pray that you may never 
know the bitterness of ingratitude in 
those you love. It is the bitterest 
thing you will ever know." 

" I have no doubt it is, Aunt. Can 
you tell me where is Anne ? " 

" At Vienna. After all I have done 
for him ! Eeginald, he does not love 
me ! It is very bitter to me ; he 
prefers a smooth-faced boy to me, who 
have sacrificed everything for him. 
Eeginald, my dear, was your grandfather 
very intimate with this lad James 1 " 

"Intimate? No. He never liked 
him. You say that Anne is at Vienna. 
I do not like this at all. I wish I was 
at Vienna with her." 

" You will never have such a chance 
of seeing war again." 

" I dare say not, and I don't wish it. 
I want to go to Vienna, and I have no 
money. I wish you would lend me 

" I am sorry I cannot do so," said the 
Princess. " He wants it all." 

So talking, they got to the little vil- 
lage of Pozzo d'Orno, well to the Austrian 
rear, and halted at last. Colonel Silcote 
was decidedly feverish, but kept to his 
resolution of moving with his regiment, 
as soon as it was ready to move. Mean- 
while, he banished the Princess and 
Eeginald, on the very rude grounds- 
which he had stated above, that the 
one fussed, and that the other was a 
fool, and imperially insisted on James's 
ministrations, in the very way in which 
men, who have been spoilt by women all 
their lives, do demand the services of 

, Silcote of Silcotfs. . 


other people and, in nine cases out of 
ten, get them. 

He took a strange fancy, almost a 
passion, for this son of his, thrown in his 
wav so strangely, little dreaming why. 
The young man's eyes he remembered 
to be like other eyes not seen for twenty 
years ; but he had forgotten, or thought 
he had forgotten, his deserted wife's 
voi'3e ; yet James's voice vas strangely 
pleasant and sooth 1 ' ng to him. He did 
not connect the eyes and the voice 
together at all ; yet they had the effect 
of making him silent, very thoughtful, 
and more gentle than he had been for 

' He insists that 110 one shall come 
near him but you," said the dismissed 
Princess, with a sniff. " You had better 
go und see what you can do with a man 
who has cast off, in his base ingratitude, 
those who have sacrificed everything for 
hiir. He will curse and swear at you, 
and try to strike you, but I daresay you 
will not mind that." 

" Not a bit," said James. 

The Princess was as far right in what 
she said as this : Tom Silcote, a terrible 
bully, would most certainly, at ordinary 
times, have sworn at her, or at any one 
else, who had kindly tried to assist him 
when he most wanted assistance. It is 
the way of some men to be fractious and 
bru tal as soon as they are thrown entirely 
on the kindness and love of those whose 
lives are bound up in theirs ; and it was 
his way generally. l^"ot so now. He swore 
a good many oaths at his uniform, his 
shiit, his own clumsiness, Giulai's stu- 
pidity, and so on; but none at James. 

* Come here and help me to peel, 
lad." he said, "and see if you and I 
cannot pull through it without the 
doc tors. What frightful humbugs they 
are ! It would not take many hours to 
leam their trade, as far as I have any 
exj erience." 

' You have not had much knowledge 
of them, I should think, sir," said 
Janes, after he had gently removed 
his shirt, and the whole magnificent 
tor ?o of his father lay bare before him. 
" Men who carry such a chest as yours 
are but poor customers to the doctors, 

Your poor brother, Mr. Algernon, knew 
more of them than you are likely to do. 
He loved his doctors dearly. It was 
taking him away from his doctors that 
killed him, I doubt." 

" Killed him ? Algy 1 " cried Colonel 
Silcote, starting up. 

" He is dead, sir." 

" Dead ! Why, that was the finest 
fellow that ever was born, I tell you. 
It is impossible." 

"I quite agree with you in your 
estimate of him, sir ; but he is dead and 
buried for all that ; and I am engaged 
to his daughter." 

"It is an infernal shame," said the 

" I hope you will be brought to look 
upon your niece's engagement differently 
in time, sir," said James, purposely mis- 
understanding him on religious grounds. . 
" Do you think that you could make it 
agreeable to yourself to be quiet for a 
few minutes, while I see what is the 

The Colonel submitted. 

" Here is a nasty blue-red cut over 
the surface of the deltoid," said James ; 
" but you have lost very little blood. 
We must have the doctor to this ; it is 
beyond me." 

" If I do I'll be " 

" Invalided, you were going to say. 
Not at all. It is a mere scratch. How 
about this broken head of yours. Colonel 1 
The Count seems to have given you the- 
St. George. Let me look at it." 

Torn Silcote submitted his curly, 
splendidly-shaped head to the inspection 
of his son quite quietly. James pro- 
nounced once more for the doctor, and 
carried his point. The doctor was 
introduced a small Czech gentleman, 
the glory and pride of whose life was 
that he had been born and bred at 
Zuckmantel. Why he was proud of 
being a Zuckmantel man no one ever 
knew ; but he gloried in it, and was 
personally offensive in many ways to 
Colonel Silcote. 

The doctor thought that he was going 
to speak first, but he was mistaken. 
Silcote raised himself on the sofa from 
his hips, casting off the uniform coat 


Silcote of Silcotes. 

which James had put over him, and 
opened fire on the doctor in German, 
before he had time to mention Zuck- 

" Now look here, you doctor. I wish 
you to understand my case at once. I 
am wounded slightly, and want to he 
set right instantly. I want to he fighting 
again in two days from this time. 

" The great Frederick, passing through 
Zuckmantel," hegan the doctor. 

" the great Frederick, and Zuck- 
mantel, and you," said Tom Silcote. " I 
tell you that I want to fight again in 
two days. "Will you come and look at 
me, or will you not ? You and your 
Zuckmantels and Fredericks. If you 
can do anything for me, say so. If you 
can't, go. This is the most miserable 
little humbug in Europe," he added to 
James in English. 

The little doctor looked at him on the 
head and in the arm, and said that he 
must be invalided. 

" Look here," said Tom Silcote. " If 
you declare me invalided, I will denounce 
you to-morrow. You are taking pay 
from a Government which you are trying 
to overturn. You are a leading member 
of the Democratic Committee of Breslau, 
if you are not president. I have letters 
of yours which would condemn you ten 
times over. How did I get them? 
Why, your friend Kriegsthurm gave 
them to me as a safeguard when I came 
on this campaign, so that I might hold 
them in terror over you. He was afraid 
that you would poison me a fate which 
I have avoided by taking internally none 
of your filthy drugs. If you invalid 
me to Vienna, you go to Spandau the 
next day." 

The doctor examined him again, while 
James, sitting behind his father, parted 
his hair for the doctor's examination. 

The doctor took a different view of 
the matter this time. The cut on the 
head was a slight scalp wound now, of 
no consequence. The wound on the 
arm was merely a skin graze, with a 
great deal of ecchymosis, undoubtedly. 
There was no reason why the Colonel 
should be invalided. He applied his 

" You are helping to ruin your cause, 
you doctor," said Tom Silcote, when he 
had finished his work. " I am better 
already. In two days, thanks to you, 
I shall be fit for my work again. At the 
throat of you scoundrelly, half-concealed 
democrats, sword in hand." 

" You should not have said that," 
said James, when the doctor was gone. 

" Why not?" asked Tom Silcote. 

" Well, it was not gentlemanly, and 
their cause is the best, you know." 

" Not the cause of a creeping little 
toad like that. He takes Austrian 

" I do not speak of him. I speak of 
the Sardinian cause against the Austrian. 
I am an Italian at heart." 

" I doubt that I am also," said Tom 
Silcote ; " but you cannot sympathize 
with the miserable spawn which both 
sides use, and which both sides despise. 
JSTow let me sleep ; I am very tired with 
inarching and fighting, and I want rest." 

The little Zuckmantel doctor, who 
makes his first and last appearance 
here, had given James orders that the 
Colonel's arm must be dressed again in 
the middle of the night. He added, 
also, that he entirely forgave the Colonel 
for swearing at and denouncing him. He 
was an Englishman, as was also Mon- 
sieur, and the English always d d 

and denounced when poorly. 

James lay beside his father on the 
floor, and not having slept, arose between 
twelve and one, and prepared to awaken 
him. He looked at him for some time 
before he woke him, and thought, as an 
artist, what a wonderfully handsome man 
he was. The curls which he remem- 
bered on the night when he had crept 
from his bed to follow the poachers 
were but slightly grizzled as yet ; many 
younger men might have exchanged 
locks with Tom Silcote without dis- 
advantage. And in sleep, in quiescence, 
while passion was dead, the face was 
extremely beautiful. 

Strange and odd families, like the 
Silcotes, have a curious habit of throwing 
off a specimen or example of the family 

virtues or failings. The B s did 

this, and one might say the same of 

Silcote of Silcotes. 


otter families; with none of which 
have we anything at all to do. The 
Sil cotes did the same thing. I have 
only to say that the Dark -Squire 
binself, who might have been any- 
thing, but who ended by being nothing, 
had three sons : Algernon, who repre- 
serted his geniality; Arthur, who re- 
presented, through the medium of an 
Oxford education, his priggish attor- 
iieyism ; and Thomas, who represented 
his recklessness and ferocity, not to 
mention the personal beauty of the 
whole family put together. Miss Ray- 
lock says that the whole of the three, 
put together, would never have made 
up their father. " They wanted his go, 
individually and collectively." 

The one of them, however, who cer- 
tainly represented the physical beauty, 
not to mention the recklessness and 
f en i city of this singular old man, was 
now lying asleep : watched by his own 
son ; father and son alike being 
utterly unconscious of their relation- 
ship. Around the house, where he lay, 
artillery rumbled, shaking the house, 
and muttered away into silence east- 
ward ; squadrons of cavalry passed 
trampling ; battalions of infantry passed 
with, a steady, -, measured rustling, 
broken sometimes by a sharply-given 
word of command. The Austrian army, 
already beaten, was moving eastward, 
200,000 strong ; and there was scarcely 
a r.ian among them all who had so 
litt'e business there as had he. 

Of all the Silcotes he had wasted his 
life the most perversely, the most per- 
sistently. His fate should have been, 
by bhe ordinary laws of poetical justice, 
to die alone, unaided, uncared for, 
unwept. Yet his son was watching 
him with tenderness, and only disputing 
for his right to do so with the poor 
Priiicess, whom he had ruined. Is he 
the first instance of by far the least 
meritorious member of a family being 
the best beloved after all his mis- 
doings 1 

The night was hot, and he lay with 
his great chest bare, heaving up and 
dovn with the regular breathing of 
sleep. His face was very calm, and 

James doubted very much if he did 
wisely in awakening him ; but, after a 
time, looking at his face, he took his 
right arm, the unwounded one, and felt 
his pulse. 

Colonel Silcote, without moving, 
quietly opened his eyes, and spoke. 

11 None of the whole of them left but 
you ! They were all here just now. I 
was marching into Exeter, and overtook 
a weary girl under the hedgerows ; and 
then I was at Dunstegan, and cut in 
before Tullygoram, and danced with a 
beautiful girl in spite of him. And the 
Devonshire girl and the girl of Dun- 
stegan were one and the same, and had 
the same eyes. And I awoke, and found 
them looking at me out of your head. 
Boy, I am going to die." 

" Nonsense, Colonel," said James ; 
" your pulse is quiet : you will be quite 
well to-morrow. You are not going to 

" Not here. Not in this bed. No ! 

By heavens, you are right there, old boy ! 

. But the end of it all is very near ; and, 

upon my word and honour, I cannot see 

very particularly why it should not be." 

" You have many years of useful and 
honourable life before you, sir, I hope," 
said James. 

" I don't hope anything of the kind," 
said Tom Silcote. "I have so many 
years of useless and dishonourable life 
behind me, that I begin to think that it 
will be better to close my account against 
the higher powers as soon as possible. 
If I were to mortgage my future career, 
with good behaviour as interest, I never 
could pay it. The accumulation of 
interest would destroy the capital in a 
very short time. I tell you I can't 
behave well. If I lived, which I am 
not going to do, I might gain in time 
the respectable vices of old age. But it 
would take so long ; I am so dreadfully 
young. You may depend that a fellow 
like me is much better out of this world 
than in it." 

" I cannot see that, sir," said James. 

" God forbid that you should. You 
are going to dress my arm ; do so, and 
listen to what I say. You have a clear 
head and a good memory. After I am 


Silcote of Silcotes. 

dead, I wish you to tell my father these 
things. I shall march to-morrow." 

James promised to remember them. 

" Nineteen years ago I was honour- 
.ably married to a girl I met in Devon- 
shire. The particulars of that marriage 
my aunt, the Princess, has in a despatch- 
box, which I have given into her pos- 

" I have great reason to fear that 
my father has been sadly abused about 
the conduct of his late wife, poor Algy's 
mother. If he can get hold of the 
Princess I believe that she is quite pre- 
pared to tell him everything. I fear that 
she and a man called Kriegsthurm have 
used him very sadly ; but he must be 
tender with her. He was fond of me 
once ; and you must tell him, now that I 
am dead and gone, and will trouble him 
no more, that he must be tender with 
her. Out of my grave I shall insist on 
that. My aunt is in many respects the 
best of us all. I insist that my aunt 
must be kindly used. Again, I am sure 
that Miss Ray lock knows now the whole 
of this miserable complication from one 
end to the other. If she does not, 
Kriegsthurm does. Give me my havre- 
sack : it is hanging on the foot of the 

James did so. 

"This Kriegsthurm is a very good 
'fellow, but a most consumed rascal. 
Here are papers which commit him to 
the Austrian Government, for he has 
been Italianizing, the scoundrel, the 
moment he saw there was a chance of 
our being beaten. Put these papers in 
the hands of my father, and he will 
bring him to book with them. My 
father was at one time one of the first 
and shrewdest lawyers in England. He 
is a perfect match for Kriegsthurm. 

" You must also give my love to my 
father, and tell him that I am sorry to 
have been so bad a son to him. I 
would not add that I could not help it, 
or that he might have been a better 
father to me. I wish him to discover 
whether my wife is alive or not his 
sister has the particulars of the marriage 
and to pension her. I had no family 
by her. You are hurting me." 

"I am very sorry, sir," said James ; 
" I am but a clumsy nurse." 

"I had no family by her, at least as 
far as I know. I should wish him to 
find her out and pension her, if she is 
alive. I behaved very ill to her, I fear. 
Have you done]" 

" I have done now, sir," replied 
James. " You had better sleep." 

" I have been sleeping ; I cannot 
sleep again. I shall sleep long and 
soundly in a few days. Sit beside me, 
and talk to me." 



A FRENCH officer, riding up to the first 
of the Silcote carriages, took off his hat 
and bowed low. 

" I really doubt if it is safe for 
Monsieur to advance further," lie said. 
" Monsieur can of course please himself, 
but, until we have gained another vic- 
tory, I would wish to point out to 
Monsieur that advance is, to say the 
least, dangerous. The enemy were here 
the day before yesterday. Some of 
them are here still." 

He pointed to a few stark heaps 
which were lying in the summer grass, 
in the field to the left of the road. 
Silcote understood him at once. 

" I thank you for your politeness, sir :. 
we will go no further. My dears," he 
continued, " dismount, and go into that 
house opposite : I will be with you 

Miss. Lee and Mrs. Thomas Silcote 
did so- at once. Mrs. Thomas knew 
from old experience that she was in the 
presence of death, although she had not 
actually made out the Austrian corpses. 
Miss Lee saw a look in her face which 
made her silent, and which caused her 
to follow. The two women silently left 
the carriage, .politely handed out by the 
French officer, and went towards the. 
house. The French officer remained. 
Silcote and Arthur leaned over the side 
of their carriage talking to him, while 
Boginsky came up from the second 

Priesthood and its Functions. 


carriage, and stood beside the French 
officer's horse. 

"Arthur," said Silcote, "there is 
so lie Moselle somewhere, and I am 
thirsty; get some. Monsieur, we are 
much indebted to you. I perceive that 
w( are passing into the real regions of 
wer. Has there been, then, an actual 
cataclysm 1 " 

Boginsky and Arthur laughed at his 
pedantry. Seeing that Silcote laughed 
himself, the French officer, drinking his 
glass of Moselle, laughed also. 

'We heard that there had been an 
engagement," said Silcote, " but we were 
not aware how near our British audacity 
had brought us to it. Are those blue 
and white heaps, lying there on the 
grass, actually Austrian corpses'?" 

"They are such, Monsieur, a small 

"What is the name of this place?" 
asked Silcote; "and what are the de- 
tails of the engagement ?" 

l - This place is Genestrello. Beyond 
you see the heights and the village of 
Moatebello. You have never heard of 
Moatebello. No ; nor did any one until 
yesterday. Yet Montebello will live in 
hislory beside Lodi and Arcola. We 
carried the heights of Montebello yes- 
terday. It was only the first of a great 
series of victories. We have already 
demoralized the Austrians. The rest is 
quite easy." 

"Ho !" said Silcote; "then it is all 

over. Arthur, give this gentleman 
another glass of Moselle. Can you give 
me any details of this action of yesterday, 
my dear sir ? " 

" With the greatest pleasure," replied 
the French officer. " Here at Gines- 
trello the Sardinian light horse, in com- 
mand of Colonel Count Frangipanni, 
met the Austrian cavalry, under com- 
mand of Colonel Silcote, a compatriot 
of yours, by the way. Each regiment 
was beaten in turn, and the Austrian 
Colonel Silcote was desperately wounded 
by the Sardinian Colonel Frangipanni ; 
after which the Austrians retreated." 

"You hear all this, Arthur/' said 
Silcote. " Can you tell me, sir, what 
became of Colonel Silcote 1" 

" He rode away after his regiment," 
said the French officer. "I know no 


" Have you any other details of the 
engagement which you can tell me, sir?" 
asked Silcote. 

" Well, I doubt it," said the French- 
man. " There was the Princess Castel- 
nuovo, who charged with the regiment ; 
and there were two youngEnglish artists, 
whom she took prisoner by threatening 
them with her revolver. Beyond that 
T know nothing." 

<: Altogether this looks pleasant, Ar- 
thur," said Silcote. But we will go on, 
and see the end of it." 

To be continued. 



THE3RIES concerning the functions of 
the priestly office are once more being 
disc issed with something of that pecu- 
liar warmth which only an important 
relifious question can excite. This 
controversy is directly involved in two 
other questions, of which the smoul- 
dering embers have lately been re- 
kindled that of the nature of the 

Sacrament of the Eucharist, and that 
of the true discipline of Confession. 
If the Eucharist is a sacrifice, then the 
ministry which officiates in the Eucha- 
rist will naturally be called a sacrificing 
priesthood. If Confession ought to be 
systematic and auricular, then it is 
certain that a peculiar judicial autho- 
rity will be claimed for the ministry 


Priesthood and its Functions. 

which absolves. On the part, there- 
fore, of those who object to the sacri- 
ficial theory of the Eucharist and to 
the practice of Confession, it is very 
naturally maintained that the New 
Testament and the Church of England 
know no such thing as a sacrificing 
and absolving priesthood. It has been 
suggested by Mr. Froude, as the sole 
effectual remedy for all sacerdotal and 
sacramental pretensions, that the prac- 
tice of ordination should be suspended 
by Act of Parliament, so that in the 
national Church there should be no 
persons claiming to have received autho- 
rity to -sacrifice or absolve by the laying 
on of episcopal hands. This would be 
considered at present a very advanced 
reform policy. But Dr. Miller, in an 
address read last January to a clerical 
meeting at Islington, says, " I am almost 
" ashamed to remind you of the patent 
" fact, that the Church of England 
" knows nothing about a sacrificing 
" priesthood as now committed to men." 
In another address, at the same meeting, 
it was affirmed that " the Church of 
" England gives no countenance what- 
" ever to the doctrine of judicial absolu- 
" tion." On the other hand, theJBishop 
of Salisbury, in a recent charge, has 
claimed for the Anglican priesthood 
those mystical powers which are sup- 
posed to give a peculiar efficacy to private 
absolution. And in a tract entitled 
" Priestly Absolution Scriptural " (the 
first of a series called " Tracts for the 
Day," edited by Mr. Orby Shipley) as 
advanced, surely, on that side as Mr. 
Eroude is on the other the whole me- 
diaeval system of the sacrament of 
penance is advocated, and the Christian 
ia taught that he needs to be indivi- 
dually absolved by a priest as much as 
he needs to be baptized. 

In considering what is urged on both 
sides in this controversy, it has appeared 
to me that the true way to protest 
against superstitious notions as to the 
powers of a priest is not to deny the 
sacrificing and absolving functions of the 
priesthood, but rather to realize with 
more care the proper nature of sacrifice 
and of absolution. Certainly these two 

duties, to offer sacrifice and to absolve, 
are those which seem most appropriate 
to the office of a priest. And before we 
say that under the Christian dispensa- 
tion there is no priest except the pres- 
byter or elder, it may be well to con- 
sider what a priest is, and whether we 
do not still need the exercise of his 
peculiar functions. 

If we seek to arrive at the elementary 
idea of the priesthood by observing what 
is done by priests in any branch of the 
Christian Church, we are hindered by 
the fact that many and various functions 
are combined in the person of the priest. 
The priest is also the shepherd of souls, 
and the preacher of the word. He is 
an evangelist, a director, a teacher, as 
well as a priest. The priest of St. Chry- 
sostom's treatise, or of the canons and 
catechism of the Council of Trent, has 
these duties laid upon him, no less than 
the priest of our own ordinal. But 
there was a time in which priests were 
not pastors, in which there were no 
pulpits and no parishes ; and it is from 
that time that the name of priest has 
come down to us. Eor I am using the 
word priest now without reference to 
etymology, as the only word by which 
we translate lepevg and sacerdos. In the 
pre-Christian ages there were priests 
throughout the known world, priests of 
imaginary gods amongst the Gentiles, as 
well as priests of Jehovah at Jerusalem. 
And what were their functions 1 Amidst 
all the differences of the various religions 
and rituals we may perceive one uniform 
character by which the priesthood is 
everywhere distinguished. The priest 
is the administrator of worship. The 
writer of the Epistle to the Hebrews 
gives a definition of a Jewish high-priest 
which is in fact an accurate definition 
of priesthood generally. A priest, he 
says, " is appointed on behalf of men in 
" things pertaining to God, that he may 
" offer both gifts and sacrifices for sins." 
A priest then (1) was a representative ; 
(2) he represented men in things per- 
taining to God ; (3) it was his work to 
offer gifts and sacrifices for sins. 

There was another aspect of the priest's 
character which can hardly be said to 

Priesthood and its Functions. 


have been wanting anywhere ; it was 
the other side of his office. He was 
always understood to be able to affirm his 
god's acceptance of the worship which 
wa;; offered. He could, within limits, 
declare the mind of the divinity ; could 
say that he was angry or propitiated. 
Wherever a priesthood was regularly 
established, the worshippers believed 
that in their worship they were not 
merely making guesses and experiments, 
but were proceeding upon some assurance 
of being accepted. "No man taketh 
this honour unto himself." Every priest 
was supposed to have some kind of call, 
some kind of authority, in virtue of 
which he could receive the worshipper's 
gift, or sacrifice as an acceptable offering. 
Tho priestly office was therefore a wit- 
ness and an assurance of peace between 
the god and the worshipper. The priest 
was not only the representative of the 
people for purposes of worship, he was 
also the representative of the god in 
giving assurance of goodwill and recon- 

Absolution was connected in a very 
special and marked degree with the 
Jewish system of worship. I should 
not have thought it necessary to do 
more than allude to this fact, except 
that by a very unaccountable mistake 
it is denied in the tract on "Priestly 
Absolution." I quote the author's actual 
words : " Under the Old Covenant, 
" there was no provision made for the 
" forgiveness of sin. In the sole case 
" of David was absolution given, and 
" that must have been prospective, as 
" there could be no remission of guilt 
" till Christ's blood had been shed in 
" atonement for the sins of the whole 
" world. . . . The law provided only 
" for a confession of sin ; Christ was to 
" s>;al that confession with pardon ; not 
"to abolish the ordinance, but to perfect 
ii_p. 13. The truth is that the 
law provided for forgiveness in the most 
express manner possible. The phrase 
" The priest shall make an atonement 
" for him as touching the sin that he 
" hath committed, and it shall be for- 
" given him," occurs at least eight times 
in two chapters of Leviticus (iv., v.). 

To forget this provision seems to imply 
a strange misapprehension of the whole 
ritual system of the Jewish law. The 
very fact that the sacrifices were ap- 
pointed so exactly, instead of being left 
to the impulse of the worshipper, was 
itself a token that those who complied 
with the law might count on the Divino 
absolution. Atonement is the key of 
the Jewish sacrificial worship. That 
worship was intended to bear witness 
perpetually of Jehovah as " Merciful and 
" gracious, long-suffering and abundant 
" in goodness and truth, keeping mercy 
" for thousands, forgiving iniquity and 
" transgression and sin, and that will by 
" no means clear the guilty." Another 
singular misapprehension in the tract, 
with regard to Jewish worship, is that 
the sacrifices were imposed by way of 
penance. The writer does not seem to 
be at home in the Old Testament. In 
order to show that the proper eccle- 
siastical repentance always has three- 
parts, compunction, confession, and sa- 
tisfaction, he quotes the case of David. 
" In the repentance of David we have 
" compunction, ' A broken and con- 
"trite heart thou wilt not despise:' 
" confession, ' I said I will confess 
"my sin unto the Lord;' 'Wash 
" me thoroughly from my wickedness, 
" and cleanse me from my sin, for I 
"acknowledge my faults;" and satis- 
" faction, in the punishment he had to 
" endure in expiation of God's justice." 
The 51st Psalm has been universally 
understood to express that repentance 
of David which followed his adultery 
with Bathsheba; but the satisfaction 
to which the author refers in his note 
is the punishment which fell upon the 
land, the three days' pestilence, aftei? 
the numbering of the people. Con- 
sidering the manner in which this 
plague was announced and inflicted, we 
should as reasonably call any penalty in- 
flicted in a court of justice a part of re- 
pentance. But the author goes on to 
say, " This satisfaction under the Jewish 
" dispensation was severe, and brought 
" into considerable prominence, in order 
" to teach the people the essential 
" justice of God ; thus all their victims 


Priesthood and its Functions. 

" and sacrifices were satisfactions." 
P. 9. I can attach no other meaning to 
these words than that the author regards 
the sin-offering as a pecuniary fine. He . 
must be a very indulgent confessor if 
he considers that in most cases this fine 
would be a severe penance. There was 
severity enough in other parts of the 
Jewish code; but I imagine that no 
one ever found it before in the system 
of sacrifices. This system was an utter- 
ance in symbol of the whole instinct of 
worship, including confession of sin, 
an utterance invited, encouraged, and 
regulated by an antecedent promise of 

The Jewish priesthood, then, is the 
best example we can have of what 
priesthood is, according to its true un- 
mixed idea. We see that the office of 
a priest is strictly correlative to worship. 
He is the appointed medium by which 
the sacrifices, oblations, and confessions 
of the people may be presented to God. 
He is also the witness of the Divine 
forgiveness, the minister of reconcili- 
ation. Sacrifice and absolution are the 
two essential priestly functions, and 
they are discharged by means of insti- 
tutes of worship. 

Those whose prejudices are strongly 
anti-sacerdotal might readily admit that 
this is a true account of the priestly 
office. But they would contend that 
all this belongs to the pre-Christian 
time, and that there is no such thing 
as priesthood, sacrifice, or absolution, in 
the proper sense of the words, under 
the Christian dispensation. They would 
appeal to the New Testament. " Look 
through the Acts and the Epistles," 
they would say : " do you find there 
any express appointment, any distinct 
evidences, of a Christian ritual 1 ?" 

The attempts to trace a sacerdotal 
system in the records of the New Testa- 
ment age of the Church are certainly 
not very successful. The author of the 
tract on " Priestly Absolution " sees 
the ordinance of confession implied in 
St. Paul's phrase, " Yea, what clearing 
of yourselves;" understanding, it would 
seem, that the Corinthians had cleared 
themselves by making, as we say, a clean 

breast of it : but if " what clearing of 
yourselves " in the English might bear 
that sense, it seems impossible that 
aVoXoymv, the word in the Greek, 
-should be so understood. The argu- 
ments from New Testament authority 
for practices or doctrines are not often 
quite so infelicitous as this; but they 
are very frequently offences against 
any true method of interpretation, and 
would prove nothing to one who was 
not already convinced. The fact is, we 
look to the New Testament for what 
we ought not to expect to find there. 
We forget that the Church of those 
years was in a rudimentary and even 
a transitional state. If the Epistles 
do not speak to us of a Church with 
an organized priesthood, the Church of 
which they tell us is at least equally 
without Bible, Sunday, and place of 
worship. And a Church without a 
Bible, without a Sunday, and without a 
pulpit, is probably as inconceivable to 
one party, as a Church without a sacer- 
dotal order is to the opposite party. 
The New Testament contains, indeed, 
one book which is a most important 
treatise on the subject of ritual. The 
Epistle to the Hebrews is intended to 
explain why the Jewish system of wor- 
ship, having been of Divine appoint- 
ment, was about to be supplanted in the 
order of Divine providence. And the 
general argument of that treatise is that 
the Jewish Temple, with its ordinances, 
had done its work, that its whole mean- 
ing was fulfilled in Christ, who was at 
once the great High Priest and the 
great Sacrifice. We might gather from 
this Epistle that the Temple at Jerusalem 
was no longer to be the centre of wor- 
ship for the worshippers of the true 
God, that there were to be no more 
sacrifices of slain animals, and that the 
Jewish priesthood was no longer to 
retain its exclusive calling and functions. 
But the Epistle to the Hebrews gives 
us no legislation that I am aware of 
concerning Christian ritual. It does not 
lay down that there shall be three 
orders of bishops, priests, and deacons, 
that there shall be a Thanksgiving 
Service in which the mystery of sacri- 

Priesthood and its Functions. 


fice shall be expressed, that a provision 
shall be made for a perpetual witness of 
the Divine absolution : but neither does 
it lay down any other rules with regard 
to 1he mode of Christian worship. Does 
it even mention the Lord's Supper? It 
leases open the whole field of ecclesias- 
tical ordinances. But it affirms princi- 
ples ; and amongst the principles it 
afn:-ms most strongly are these, that a 
way to the Father, a way into the 
hoi est, has been opened, along which 
men are sedulously to walk ; that a free 
and full and abiding remission of sins 
has been sealed to men by the blood of 
Christ ; and that we ought to offer con- 
tinual sacrifices of praise and of benefi- 
cence, because with such sacrifices God 
is well pleased. 

The Christian Church of the New 
Testament, whatever was the number of 
Gen tiles admitted into it, was essentially 
Jewish in its faith. The Temple at 
Jerusalem w r as still sacred in the eyes 
of the believers in Christ. There could 
hardly be a stronger proof of this than 
the homage paid to it by St. Paul. " T 
" mast by all means keep this feast that 
" cometh in Jerusalem." Against re- 
peated warnings, given in the name of 
the Holy Ghost Himself, St. Paul fought 
his way towards Jerusalem, that he 
might, if it were possible, keep the 
Pentecost there ; and when he had 
arrh ed he adopted a conspicuous means 
of proving that he did not teach the 
Jews anywhere to forsake Moses. When 
charged by the Jews with disloyalty, 
he answered for himself, " Neither 
" against the law of the Jews, neither 
" against the Temple, have I offended 
" anything at all." Until the Temple 
was destroyed, the Christians did not 
feel : t their duty to put any slight upon 
its ( rdinances. By the destruction of 
the Temple, therefore, a great vacancy 
was created in the spiritual heaven of 
the ( Christian Church. What had been 
look-id upon with entire faith as a visible 
witness of the fellowship of God with 
men had been removed out of sight. 
Sucb an event could hardly fail to affect 
profc undly the previous organization of 
the Church. It was natural and neces- 

sary that any principles of permanent 
value which found expression in the 
Temple and its ordinances should bs 
worked into the order of Christian 
worship, and receive some recognised 

But I do not propose to follow the 
course of history or legislation in the 
Church as it bears upon this subject. 
My purpose is to discuss the idea and 
the use of priestly functions, rather 
than their authority. Let us come down 
at once to our own time. We find the 
name of priest surviving, and, whether 
as used by those who love it or by those 
who dislike it, answering rather to 
sacerdos or ieptvs than to presbyter. On 
the whole, it may be said that in 
England disagreeable impressions are 
associated with the name of a priest. 
Priestcraft represents what is peculiarly 
hated by Englishmen, and especially by 
liberal Englishmen. But something de- 
pends on the collocation of the word ; 
the phrase "priests and people," for 
example, gives no offence. It seems 
natural to acknowledge an order de- 
cidedly distinct from the laity, and 
charged with appropriate functions. In 
the Church of England, the two orders 
of priests and deacons are practically so 
little distinguished from one another 
that they are commonly blended in the 
one character of clergyman, the deacon 
being regarded as a junior or beginner ; 
and it is supposed that the three orders 
familiar to the popular mind are rather 
those of bishops, rectors, and curates, 
than those of bishops, priests, and dea- 
cons. Nevertheless, it is sufficiently 
understood that the priest is alone quali- 
fied to perform the full service of the 
Church. The deacon does not recite 
the Absolution, nor does he administer 
alone the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper. 
The priestly office is associated, there- 
fore, with the complete performance of 
worship. If we look at our form for 
the " making of priests," we find great 
stress laid on the pastoral duties which 
are almost invariably committed to 
priests : but the words spoken at the 
laying on of hands have an exclusively 
sacerdotal sound. " Whose sins thou 


Priesthood and its Functions. 

" dost forgive, they are forgiven : and 
" whose sins thou dost retain, they are 
" retained. And be thou a faithful 
" dispenser of the Word of God, and of 
" His holy Sacraments." The priest is 
ordained that he may absolve, and that 
he may dispense God's Word and Sa- 
craments. In an exhortation contained 
in the Communion Service, " God's 
Word " is closely connected with abso- 
lution ; " that by the ministry of God's 
" Holy Word, we may receive the benefit 
" of Absolution." Upon which the 
tract on " Priestly Absolution " has a 
remark which may be commended to 
the attention of Dr. Pusey and the other 
promoters of the Oxford Declaration. 
" There is something melancholy," says 
the writer, " in the ignorance displayed 
" by those who assume that the Word 
" of God means nothing but the Bible ; 
" a signification it does not bear in Holy 
" Scripture, where the Word of God is 
" used for Christ Himself^or the message 
" of salvation, or the authority of God." 
The writer justly recalls the saying of 
St. Paul, " God hath committed to us 
the word of reconciliation " 

Speaking generally, then, the clergy 
have the manifest duty of officiating in 
the public worship of the Church. They 
are ordained for men in things pertain- 
ing to God. More particularly, the 
priest is put forward as the mouthpiece 
of God's absolution, and as offering up 
the sacrifices of the people upon the 
altar of Christ's sacrifice. The old ideas 
of priesthood do not appear to have 
become obsolete amongst us. 

Is it desirable that sacerdotal ideas 
should be repudiated, and that there 
should be no marked difference between 
a priest and a layman 1 My position 
is, that this is not desirable ; that those 
ideas, on the contrary, are rooted in the 
nature of the Church and of our rela- 
tion to God. If so, it becomes even 
the more important that those ideas 
should be rightly apprehended, and the 
functions of the priesthood should not 
be perverted or abused. 

One leading point, involved in what 
we have been considering, but not suf- 
ficiently remembered, is this, that the 

priest, as such, has to do rather with 
the congregation than with individuals. 
He represents the fellowship of Chris- 
tian worship. In his person and office, 
the many worshippers are to be "as 
" one, to make one sound to be heard in 
" praising and thanking the Lord." If 
the relations of human beings with God 
were wholly individual and solitary, 
instead of being those of a body, and 
of the members of a body, there would 
be, according to this view, no priest. 
In so far as it becomes a general convic- 
tion that religion is an affair between 
God and the private soul, priesthood 
will seem obsolete. To those, on the 
other hand, who believe that men in 
their highest and most spiritual con- 
cerns as well as in their lowest are 
members of a body, the office of a priest, 
as the representative of Christians in 
their devotions, or the organ of united 
worship, making one sound to be heard 
in praising and thanking the Lord, will 
still seem vital. 

If the priest officially presents the* 
praises and thanksgivings of the people 
to God, and if the sacred writers are 
right in calling such praises and thanks- 
givings sacrifices, then it follows that 
we have a " sacrificing priesthood." We 
observe, moreover, that there is an 
ordinance which, from the beginning, 
has been called pre-eminently the Eu- 
charist, or Thanksgiving. The whole 
idea running through this service is 
that of sacrifice. In it we remember, 
and give thanks for, and plead, the self- 
offering of Christ. In it we try to offer 
ourselves unitedly to God in the power 
of that one oblation made for all. The 
presenting of gifts, with which sacrifices 
we are assured God is well pleased, 
forms an established part of this service. 
And the highest ritual function of a> 
priest is to act in this service. Sacrifice, 
therefore, is in our actual worship very 
intimately associated with the office of a 

" Yes but," it will be said, " this is 
only sacrifice in a certain sense. When, 
we speak of self-oblation as a sacrifice., 
we speak metaphorically." Now the 
question which seems to me cardinal 

Priesthood and its Functions. 


on tliis point is, What sacrifice is real, 
and what is metaphorical 1 ? Is it the 
flesh that is real, and the spirit meta- 
phorical 1 If we see with the mind's 
eye flesh offered upon an altar, are we 
to say, There, in that flesh, is real sacri- 
fice ? If we see a spirit offering itself, 
with all its instruments, to the will and 
glory of the Father of spirits, are we to 
call that only figurative or metaphorical 
sacrifice ? I contend, on the contrary, 
that the only real sacrifice before God 
is that of the spirit. It was the offering 
of the spirit that was accepted 011 the 
part of the Jews, who brought their 
bulls and their goats ; it was the offering 
of the Spirit that was infinitely precious 
when the Son of God gave himself up 
to the Father; it is the remembering 
of that spiritual sacrifice, the present 
offering of our inward selves and not 
anything material which the eye can 
sec, or the mind imagine which God 
now looks upon as genuine, substantial 

Similarly, the question as to absolu- 
tion does not seem to be, whether 
priests have authority to absolve, but 
what the conditions of the absolution 
should be. Practically, the question 
conies to this, whether absolution 
should be, as a general rule, admi- 
nistered ^privately and made dependent 
upon secret confession, or not 1 

There cannot be a more important 
question of pastoral theology, of spiritual 
discipline, than this. I conceive it to 
be impossible to make too much of the 
habit of resorting continually to a 
priest, and unfolding to him in private 
all the secrets of the heart, and depend- 
ing on his assurance for spiritual com- 
fort. Such a habit will undoubtedly 
affuct, in a degree difficult to over-esti- 
mate, the position of the priest in the 
Church, and the life of Christians gene- 
rally. It is not surprising that there 
should be keen controversy about the 
Confessional. But the controversy does 
noli really turn, though both sides do their 
best to make it turn, upon the power 
of absolution vested in the priestly 
office. Is there any ministerial order 
in any Christian body, which would 

:Nb. 93. VOL. xvi. 

not venture to say, "God has com- 
mitted to us the ministry of recon- 
ciliation?" And what is reconciliation, 
but the forgiveness of sins, but absolu- 
tion 1 Is there anything at which a son 
of the Reformation ought to take alarm, 
in the belief that there is an order of 
men whose especial office and noblest 
privilege it is to bear witness of the 
Divine absolution, and to bring it home, 
by all the means and with all the force 
in their power, to the hearts of men ? 
Looking upwards, from the defiant Pro- 
testantism of Mr. Boyd and Mr. Bards- 
ley, through the refined and plaintive 
Anglicanism of the Bishop of Salisbury, 
and the medievalism of Mr. Orby Shipley 
and his coadjutors, to the more assured 
and definite Romanism of the Council 
of Trent, I do not perceive any vital 
disagreement as to the authority of the 
priest to absolve. The Protestant says 
the priest's absolution is only " decla- 
ratory ; " the Catholic affirms with ana- 
themas that it is " judicial." But what 
does "judicial" mean 1 The Protestant 
is apt to interpret it as meaning that 
the penitent is forgiven or not forgiven 
according to the word of the .priest. 
But when he puts that sense on the 
word, the Catholic laughs at. his igno- 
rance. The author of " Priestly Abso- 
lution Scriptural" may be taken as 
speaking for the Roman Communion as 
well as for his school in the Anglican, 
when he says, " Every moderately well- 
" instructed Catholic is aware that a 
' confession without proper dispositions 
{ is worthless, and is calculated to in- 
f crease damnation rather than remove 
' sin. . . . Absolution is altogether con- 
1 ditional." That surely is the main 
point. Of course the Protestant may 
retort, " Then what is the good of abso- 
lution ?" And to this the Catholic will 
give various answers. He will say at 
one time, " It is of great value for quiet- 
ing uneasy consciences." At another 
time he will say, "Absolution may be 
withheld as well as given, or made con- 
ditional upon painful penance, and thus 
the priest holds in his hands an impor- 
tant power to c&squiet too easy con- 
sciences." Or he may content himself 


Priesthood and its Functions. 

with warning men, "If you despise the 
appointed ordinance of absolution, take 
care that you don't get shut out of 
forgiveness and heaven altogether." 
The author of the tract uses a fair 
argumentum ad hominem, to this pur- 
port : "If there is no good in abso- 
lution, what good is there in Baptism, 
in Holy Communion, nay, in preach- 
ing or reading the Bible ? If you 
will know of no religion except that 
which is between the private soul 
and God, you may do away with all 
ordinances, every one of which implies 
that God conveys His grace through 
means." No doubt the Catholic will 
edge in perpetual suggestions of un- 
speakable benefit to be derived from the 
personal and private administration of 
the priest's office of absolution. He 
will do what he can to create a vague 
but deep impression that one who ab- 
sents himself from the Confessional 
incurs indescribable loss and danger. 
But no moderately well-instructed 
Catholic will venture to affirm catego- 
rically, either that he whom the priest 
absolves is necessarily forgiven, or that 
no man can receive forgiveness except 
through the absolution of the priest. 

Unless therefore an advocate of Auri- 
cular Confession dwells plainly upon 
secresy as indispensable to the commu- 
nications of the penitent with the 
absolving priest, he has not gone to 
the practical heart of the matter. 
Roman or Tridentine theology is em- 
phatic on this point. It expressly 
forbids confession by letter or through 
an intermediate person. The "Tract 
for the Day," with all its medisevalist 
terminology, slurs over the point of 
secresy, and therefore its proofs are 
utterly ineffectual. It brings a long 
array of passages to prove that men 
ought to repent, that they ought to con- 
fess their sins, and that the priest is 
commissioned to carry home tiie Divine 
forgiveness to those who repent and 
confess. Quis dulntavit 1 If i make 
those assertions, and add the proviso 
that all this is to take place publicly in 
the eye of day, who will bo alarmed? 
What becomes of the Confessional 1 

The tract speaks, indeed, of Auricular 
Confession ; and auricular is commonly 
supposed to mean secret. But it adds, 
by way of explanation, that "God autho- 
rized the priest to act as His ear" as 
if that were the meaning of auricular. 
That confession, through a priest, was 
an ordinance of the Jewish law is abun- 
dantly proved ; that it was secret the, 
author nowhere asserts, and apparently 
has no desire to contend. For when 
he comes to speak of the Christian, 
dispensation, he himself tells us that 
confession was usually public. " That 
" this confession was a solemn and awful 
" rite, is seen by the incident of the ques- 
" tioning and sentencing of Sapphira. 
" St. Peter invited her to confess her sin 
" ' Tell me, whether ye sold the land 
" for so much?' before tlie ivhole Church, 
" the usual practice in the early ages." It 
is confession before the whole Church, 
then, it is to be remembered, that this 
tract advocates, under the title of Auri- 
cular Confession. The tract quotes, at 
considerable length, from a treatise of 
Tertullian, " De Pcenitentia." There is 
a good deal in that treatise about con- 
fession, under the title of " exomolo- 
gesis ; " and the author of the tract, 
reading there " sic ad exomologesin 
pervenire," has the pleasure of render- 
ing it, "to come to confession." But 
there is no mention of a priest, I believe, 
throughout the treatise, unless where 
" presbyter is " is coupled with "omni- 
bus fratribus." In the passage quoted, 
Tertullian is arguing against the natural 
reluctance to publish one's sins. Such 
exposure is shocking and painful. Yes, 
say the Romanists : therefore confes- 
sion shall be secret ; " the confessor 
" must sooner allow himself to be torn 
" limb from limb than breathe the 
" slightest hint of things even remotely 
" affecting the recital." Yes, say Ter- 
tullian and the author of the tract : but 
how much better to endure the misery 
of publicity than to be damned ! Be- 
sides, says Tertullian, in words omitted 
by the author of the tract from the 
middle of the paragraph which he 
extracts, " why should you shrink from 
" speaking amongst brothers and fellow- 

Priesthood and its Functions. 


" s-irvaiits with whom you have common 
M hopes and fears, common joy and grief 
"and suffering (because you have a 
" c >mmon spirit from a common Lord 
" and Father)? The body cannot re- 
joice over the distress of one of its 
" members; the whole must grieve with 
" tlie member. When you stretch your- 
" self before the knees of your brethren 
" y m are touching Christ, you are 
"entreating Christ." 

If the school represented by " Tracts 
for the Day " were to make it clearer 
thai the confession which they recom- 
mer d, and which they justly describe 
as a solemn and awful rite, is to take 
place " before the whole Church," 
acccrding to "the usual practice in the 
early ages/' they might not succeed in 
producing a general desire that the said 
discipline should be restored again, but 
the}' would not rouse the apprehensive 
instinct which wakes up in the English 
mind at the idea of an arbitrary and 
unguarded introduction of secret con- 
fession. In the mean time the great 
principle of Divine absolution, as pro- 
minently affirmed in an office and order 
existing in great part for this purpose, 
is in danger of being brought under an 
odium to which neither Anglican, nor 
Med iaevalist, nor even Romanist dogma 
as t) priestly absolution itself would 
properly expose it. The very name of 
absolution, which means setting free, 
testiiies against attempts to reduce sin 
and repentance and forgiveness under 
a system of technical rules. The human 
spirit is not a creature to be put through 
its paces at the bidding of the school 
divii es. There is no doubt that priestly 
direction will be acceptable to many 
mincis ; I feel unable to deny that to 
some it may be really helpful. But, 
on tie whole, it has proved itself to 
be i i alliance, not with freedom, but 
with servility, of the conscience. 

T] ie question of confession and direc- 
tion, however, is one of expediency, to 
be' determined by Christian insight and 
expedience, and belonging rather to the 
department of pastoral than of properly 
sacerdotal functions. We may doubt 
and disagree as to the way in which 

absolution may be brought home most 
effectually to the conscience ; but that 
men should be set free from the burden 
of past sins, and encouraged to live with 
more of faith and hope for the future, 
will be admitted to be an unmixed good. 
And if we find an office, known to man- 
kind in all ages and countries, and spe- 
cially accredited by Christian tradition, of 
which one principal function is to recon- 
cile men to God by proclaiming the 
Divine forgiveness, whatever authority 
that office can exert so that men may 
more heartily believe in its word of 
reconciliation as a very word of God, 
may surely be welcomed as a boon to 

"But an absolution which merely 
declares a man pardoned," say Romanist 
and Protestant together, " is nugatory." 
In Mr. Boyd's words, " it requires no 
" priest solemnly to inform a man of that 
" which St. John has told him ages 
"since." Well, it is certain that no 
ministry whatever, of Sacraments or of 
preaching, Romanist or Protestant,, 
when it speaks frankly and accurately,, 
professes to be anything but declaratory. 
However Divine a sacramental system 
may be, its highest pretension is to 
express the Divine will, the Divine 
order. But to say that whatever does 
this must be nugatory, if it does not 
also create the Divine will or order, is 
the merest thoughtlessness. The power 
of a renewed declaration of the invisible, 
of a declaration on earth of things in 
heaven, is incalculable. Nor is the 
value of the Sacraments, or of an 
absolving and sacrificing priesthood, to 
be properly tested by each man asking 
himself, What profit can I individually 
extract from this or that ministry 1 It 
is one advantage of a traditional ministry 
that it helps men to be less, self- 
centred in their religion, not to look 
at things for ever from the point of 
view of the individual. We should best 
measure the value of an authorised order 
by observing with discrimination its 
actual effect, and imagining what effect 
it might have, upon the life and history 
of the Church, or upon societies of men. 

Where there is no professed sacer- 


dotal order, its place is not likely to be 
left entirely vacant. Nature, so to speak, 
will make irregular efforts to supply 
what is wanting. But a regular priest- 
hood going on from age to age, a 
traditional office instituted for the func- 
tions of absolution and sacrifice, ought 
to speak with a peculiar power of God's 
grace and man's duty. Let the priest 
be recognised as a living and visible 
witness of the reconciliation of God and 
men, of the binding together of heaven 
and earth in Christ. Then his ministry 

The Battle of Kissingen. 

is a continuous assertion that redeemed 
humanity is no longer an aggregate of 
individuals but a body with many 
members, that it stands on an act of 
Divine forgiveness and sacrifice, and 
that its task and glory is to offer itself 
up to God. If it succeeds in bringing 
home this witness to men's minds, it 
knits them to one another and to God. 
It has the noblest work, the grandest 
reward. Only, let us remember, corruptio 
optimi pessima. 



KISSINGEN, though more inaccessible 
than Homburg and some of the other 
German watering - places nearer the 
".Rhine, is yet very popular with us, 
and many of our English invalids have 
reason to be grateful to its springs for 
the benefits they have gained there. In 
search myself of those blessings which 
others had received, I left England in 
June, 1866, while the thunder-clouds of 
war were still rumbling in the distance, 
and before they had yet burst over 
Germany. The tide of travellers was 
small, and when I found myself a soli- 
tary visitor at the L'Empereur Eoman, 
at Frankfort, with the whole hotel at 
my service, and the accumulated civility 
of the landlord to welcome me, I thought 
myself indeed " the stray Englishman." 
A few hours by rail on the morrow took 
me to Gemunden, passing on the way a 
train full of Bavarian cavalry, en route 
to the camp at Aschaffenburg. They 
were being conveyed in vans, like our 
goods vans, the doors on each side being 
open, and the soldiers were sitting on 
the floor with their legs dangling over 
the wheels, while the horses behind them 
were looking out over their heads. This 
was the first appearance of an approach- 
ing campaign that I had seen ; for, to 
judge from the language of those I had 

met, I had been led to believe that all 
would end in smoke. A worthy Frank- 
forter, with whom I travelled, had given 
me to understand that it was impossible 
that the Prussian king and his minister 
Bismark could force the Prussian people 
into war against their will ; and, in sup- 
port of his arguments, gave instances of 
the extreme disaffection of the Prussian 
Landwehr. I fear that by this time my 
late companion has found out, to his 
cost, the change which the actual com- 
mencement of war effected in the feelings 
of the Prussian army and people. 

From Gemiinden, a pretty drive of 
five hours took me to Kissingen ; and, 
as my horses trotted down the hill 
which led to the left bank of the river 
Saale towards the town, and I caught 
the first glimpse of its buildings lying 
between the trees in the quiet valley, 
lightened up by the setting sun, I 
thought that, after all, I could manage 
to pass a month there without being so 
absolutely bored to death as my friends 
in England had foretold for me. My 
carriage turned over the stone bridge 
which led across the Saale, and skirt- 
ing the " Cure Garden," then filled with 
promenaders, set me down in front ol 
the Hotel de Russie. 

I had not expected to find Kissingen 
full, and therefore was not disappointed 
to learn there were not more than five 

The Battle of Kissing en. 


hundred visitors ; though at that season 
some three thousand had been the usual 
number. But the want of visitors had 
no effect on the routine which consti- 
tutes the " Cure." We rose at six, and 
paced the Cure Garden to the music 
of the band ; while we disposed of our 
allotted number of glasses from the 
Eagotzy spring. Then, after a break- 
fast: of nought but coffee and bread, we 
strolled to the baths of the Salines, 
a mile from the town, for a salt-bath, 
sheltered from the midday sun by a 
charming avenue of dwarf chesnuts. 
At one the welcome dinner-bell sum- 
moned all the visitors to the tables 
(Klwte ; where our appetites did not seem 
to fail, from any apprehension of Bis- 
inark's aggressive schemes. The after- 
noon we passed under the trees in the 
Cure Garden, gossiping over our coffee, 
or imbibing English news from the 
newspapers in Jogel's reading-room, 
until the music again proclaimed the 
hour for the evening promenade. 

So the time passed pleasantly enough. 
Meanwhile we heard that the war was 
begun, and that Louis of Bavaria, the 
young art-genius, had, much against his 
will, been drawn into it. The camps to 
the south were broken up, and the Ba- 
varian troops daily passed through the 
town in great numbers; infantry, cavalry, 
and artillery, besides an endless com- 
missariat train, chiefly composed of 
country wagons, which gave us some 
idea of the waste of war. As there was, 
however, such abundance of vacant ac- 
commodation in the town, we suffered 
no inconvenience from the troops being 
billoted there ; and we found the pas- 
sage of the soldiers an agreeable change 
to the usual monotony of the place. 

Our information, however, as to the 
events of the war was confined to what 
we learnt from the English newspapers ; 
the foreign journals were all dumb, even 
the Europe of Frankfort, usually so free- 
spoken, did not tell us much. We 
learnt, however, the result of the cam- 
paign in Bohemia, and, when an armi- 
stice appeared to be agreed upon, we 
imagined, with the rest of the world, 
thai the war was over. But, though 

Bismark had been forced by the medi- 
ation of France to conclude a truce 
with Austria, he was under no such 
pressure with respect to the other 
southern States; and he was at full 
liberty to punish them for their sym- 
pathy with Austria. So the Army of 
the Maine under the command of 
Vogel von Falkenstein, had orders to 
advance southwards; we heard of the 
Hanoverians being surrounded, and com- 
pelled to capitulate; and of the first 
collision between the Prussians and the 
Bavarians at Dermbach, near Cassel, to 
which place Prince Charles, the Bavarian 
commander, had advanced, in the hopes 
of being able to save the Hanoverian 
army. The Bavarians, it appears, fought 
well, but Prince Charles being deserted 
by Prince Alexander, the commander 
of the Federal army, found it necessary 
to fall back to the south. 

Consequent upon these events a sin- 
gular scene occurred in Kissingen. On 
the morning of July 5th, a disorderly 
. body of cavalry and artillery came troop- 
ing into the market-place of the little 
town on their way from the front. They 
were without their guns, and the artillery 
horses bore manifest signs of their traces 
having been cut ; while men and horses 
alike appeared much exhausted. Great 
excitement was caused amongst us when 
when we learnt from the bystanders that 
the cavalry division of the army had been 
surprised by the Prussians some miles 
beyond the well-known watering-place 
of Bruckenau in an ambuscade, and that 
this small body was all that had found 
means to save themselves. The men 
themselves were in a state of disorganiza- 
tion, imputing what had occurred to the 
treachery of their commander ; and, as 
they firmly imagined that the enemy's 
cavalry were immediately in their rear, 
they only halted in the market-place as 
long as was necessary to reform their 
ranks, when they again retreated south. 
To give an instance, however, of the 
savage state of mind men arrive at when 
they have been subjected to a panic, 
there was among the crowd who had 
collected on this occasion a Prussian 
gentleman, Herr Nieniann, a well-known 


. The Battle of Kissing en. 

tenor on the boards of the opera-house 
at Hanover, who had been staying at 
Kissingen for the waters, and during his 
sojourn had given expression to some 
sentiments in favour of his countrymen. 
While standing in the market-place, he 
was pointed out to these soldiers as a 
Prussian spy. Several of them, without 
.any warning, at once rode upon him, 
and, if a doorway had not afforded him 
a means of escape, he would have been 
killed on the spot. He escaped, however, 
with his life, but suffered the loss of his 
whiskers, from the rough grasp of some 
of the bystanders, who endeavoured to 
detain him ; and, having obtained the 
protection of the authorities, he was sent 
out of the town under a safe escort. 
After we had seen these troops pass 
through, for an hour or so nothing 
farther occurred, until about noon I was 
astonished to see, on returning from a 
walk, a number of cavalry soldiers 
galloping through the town a troop 
of fugitives riding for bare life, as hard 
as their tired horses could gallop ; and 
this, not only before the eyes of their 
own countrymen, but in the view of the 
astonished visitors, who thronged the 
windows in all directions. The impres- 
sion left on my mind, as well as on those 
of others, of course was that the enemy 
were on their heels; but how the pursuit 
could have been prolonged over such an 
extent of ground appeared inexplicable. 
That the flight, however, was a reality, 
was obvious. At one time a lancer came 
thundering along on his heavy charger ; 
his lance gone, his square-topped helmet 
hanging backwards on his neck, choking 
him with its chain, and the man himself 
at each fresh thought of danger digging 
his long spurs in his charger's flanks, 
but with little effect. Then would follow 
an artillery driver, his rope traces cut, 
and dangling at his stirrups, vainly en- 
deavouring to make his off-horse keep 
pace with the one he rode. So thev 
passed on ; dragoons, hussars, and lancers 
all intermingled, by twos and threes, and 
now and then a small body of maybe a 
dozen would come in sight, at rather a 
slower pace, accompanied by an officer 
he endeavouring, by keeping up the 

hindermost, to preserve some sort of 
order in their retreat. All these fugi- 
tives appeared frightened out of their 
senses ; and though pity for the men 
was mingled with the natural feeling of 
contempt for so disgraceful an exhibition, 
our commiseration was chiefly felt for the 
horses, who were for the most part in a 
fearful state of distress. Where these 
runaways came to a standstill, it is im- 
possible to say. Those of the horses 
which did not fall exhausted I heard 
were forced to continue their flight until 
they reached the river Maine, where their 
riders spread the news of the advance of 
the Prussians all through the surround- 
ing country. In Kissingen, however, 
the alarm soon subsided. An ill-judged 
notice, issued by the Government Com- 
missioner, that the Prussians were at 
hand, and which had the effect of causing 
several families at once to leave the 
town, was counteracted by an " afh'che," 
issued by the Burgomaster, stating that 
there were no Prussians on the south 
side of Fulda; and that, even if they 
should arrive, there was no doubt that 
Kissingen would be treated with the 
same respect as the watering-places of 
Nassau and Ems, which the Prussians 
had already occupied. 

This statement as to the whereabouts 
of the Pussians .proved to be correct ; 
and the truth soon became apparent 
that the flight of the cavalry division 
had been caused by a groundless panic. 
It appeared that the troops in question 
were advancing in the direction of Fulda, 
on the night of the 4th of July, and 
were already beyond Bruckenau, and some 
twenty miles from Kissingen, when their 
road led them through a hilly, wooded 
district, well suited for a surprise. 
Knowing that the Prussians had been 
advancing, the troops marched with 
great circumspection ; their advanced 
guard feeling the way, pistol in hand. 
In a hollow partof the road, where the 
darkness was impenetrable, a pistol went 
off by accident. The men, startled at 
the noise, imagined that the shot had 
come from the trees, and accordingly 
discharged their pistols into the woods 
lining the road; they then turned,. and 

Battle of Kissing en. 


fit d in all haste to the main body. In 
the darkness, not perceiving the head of 
the column, they caine in collision with 
it ; and the troops, already alarmed by 
the shots they had heard, supposed this 
irruption of their own men to be an 
at:ack of the enemy. Pistols were dis- 
charged, every one supposing that his 
neighbour was a foe, and a struggle took 
place : horsemen, guns, and wagons 
being entangled in the narrow road. 
The greatest confusion ensued : the cry 
arose that they had been betrayed, and 
led into an ambush ; and all, seized with 
a panic, made off as best they could. The 
guns and wagons were abandoned, the 
drivers cutting their traces and joining 
in the flight. The whole body seems to 
have been dispersed over the country 
during the night, and as day dawned 
thc/y made their way to the rear, and 
passed through Kissingen in the way I 
have already described. The whole 
affuir created a profound sensation in 
the Bavarian army ; and I heard that 
the commanding officer, when summoned 
to Munich to answer for his conduct, 
committed suicide to avert inquiry. 

To complete the ludicrous character 
of this affair, a body of troops, which 
was despatched a few days afterwards 
from Kissingen to bring back the missing 
guns, found them untouched on the 
scene of this disaster. 

A description of the position of the 
Bavarian army with respect to the enemy 
is now necessary, for the purpose of 
making clear the subsequent events. 
Th(! Federal army under Prince Alex- 
ander had retreated in the direction of 
Frankfort, leaving the Bavarians to shift 
for themselves. Prince Charles had in 
consequence been obliged to fall back ; 
and on the eighth of July he lay at 
Nev.stadt, to the north-east of Kissingen, 
witi the first division of his army; 
having a free communication with 
Schweinfurt on the river Maine as his 
has , of operations. His second division, 
uncer the command of Der Tann, lay 
at Miinnerstadt, about half way to 
Schweinfurt; while Zoller's brigade at 
Kis drigen, and another brigade at Ham- 
mel Durg, formed the left of the Bavarian 

army. Thus the whole of the Bavarian 
forces were on the east bank of the 
Saale, a river which flows north and 
south, while the Prussians were at this 
time advancing down the west bank, 
and were in the neighbourhood of 
Bruckenau. There are several roads 
across the river, north of Kissingen, by 
which Falkenstein might pass over, if 
he desired to do so ; but, with the ex- 
ception of the stone bridge at that town, 
and a second at Hammelburg, there are 
no roads over the Saale below Kissingen 
until it falls into the Maine. 

From the 5th to the 9th of July, 
Kissingen was undisturbed. The pre- 
sence of the officers of Zoller's brigade, 
conspicuous among whom was the brother 
of the Empress of Austria, a striking 
likeness to his handsome sister, added 
considerably to the gaiety of the place. 
The proximity of the Prussians may 
have been known to the military autho- 
rities ; but, among the few visitors who 
still remained, everything was free from 
any appearance of danger, and the ma- 
jority of us already imagined that the 
war was over, and that no obstacle 
would impede our journey homewards 
as soon as the "cure" had been com- 


On Monday evening, the 9th, the 
town presented its usual appearance of 
tranquillity as we sipped our coffee under 
the shade of the trees in the Cure- 
Garden, dreaming of anything but war. 

As the sun got lower in the west, 
with two friends I strolled up to the 
Bodenlaube, a ruined castle on the hill 
to the east, commanding a lovely view 
over the town. As we were descending 
the hill on our return, we were surprised 
to see artillery rolling out of the town 
along the Winkels road, and we watched 
them turn into the open fields at the 
brow of the hill, and take up a position 
among the standing corn. Of course 
we hastened homeward to learn the 
cause of all this excitement, and, meeting 
on our way a long line of peasant 
youths, who were hurrying from the 


The Battle of Kissingen. 

town, we learnt that an attack by the 
Prussians was expected at once, and 
that these poor fellows were going to 
hide themselves in the woods, for fear 
of a conscription for the Prussian army. 
"We told them they need not be afraid 
on that account, but they were uncon- 
vinced, and went on their way. On 
our arrival in the town, we found 
everybody astir. The shopkeepers were 
packing up their goods and preparing 
for flight, while the troops were endea- 
vouring to put the place in a posture of 

The Prussians were expected to ad- 
vance along the road from Bruckenan, 
which approaches the town from the 
jiorth on the opposite side of the river ; 
and then turns at right angles over the 
stone bridge into the centre of the town. 
As this road lies under a precipitous 
hill, and is only sheltered from the river 
by a line of poplar trees, it would be 
much exposed to the bullets of a de- 
fending force on the opposite bank. 
Every endeavour was therefore made to 
concentrate the fire of the Bavarian 
troops upon this spot \ and, with that 
object, two field-pieces were posted on 
the raised causeway on the east side of 
the bridge, supported by a battalion of 
Bavarians, who lay on the slope under 
the shelter of the causeway. All the 
houses facing the river at this point were 
loopholed for musketry, and strongly oc- 
cupied with troops : the large lodging- 
house of Adam Hailinan, which lies 
close to the causeway, being conspicuous 
in this respect, from the garrison that 
occupied its windows, and who were 
well sheltered from the enemy's bullets 
by mattresses taken from the beds and 
reared up against the windows, while 
the bridge itself was barricaded with 
wagons, and [everything available for 
the purpose; until it became evident 
that, unless first cleared by artillery, no 
enemy could hope to carry it in the face 
of such a fire, without suffering great 

The wooden bridges over the river 
had also been cut down, and the iron 
footbridge, immediately at the back of 
the Arcades in the Cure Garden, was 

denuded of its planking, and strongly 

As the Saale itself is a deep stream, 
there was no fear of the Prussians 
attempting to ford it. Down the east 
bank of the river the Cure Garden 
was lined with troops, who, from their 
shelter behind the trees, could cover 
with their fire the meadows opposite. 
At the extreme end of the garden is 
Sanner's hotel ; beyond this again, lies 
a large open meadow, across which a 
footpath runs to the Gemiiiiden road, 
crossing the river near the mill by a 
wooden bridge. This bridge was also 
cut down, but the posts were left 
standing in the water; an omission, 
which ultimately proved the salvation 
of the town. By eight o'clock these 
preparations were complete, but there 
were no signs as yet of the enemy. 
The residents in the houses on the 
other side of the river, and the persons 
staying at the Hotel de Bavarie, had 
of course come over into the town, 
leaving their effects at the mercy of 
the Prussians. With the exception, 
however, of the unfortunate hotel, no 
destruction of private property took 
place. In the course of the evening 
General Zoller himself rode down to 
the bridge on his grey charger, accom- 
panied by his staff, and addressed a 
few cheering words to his men, the 
last he ever spoke to them. He ex- 
plained to them, in a few energetic 
sentences, the importance of their ser- 
vice. They were to hold the bridge as 
long as possible ; when it was no longer 
tenable they were to retreat, as best 
they could, to the east on the Mun- 
nerstadt road. Zoller's address, to 
his troops enlightened us who heard 
him as to the object of the enemy. 
Falkenstein was making an effort to 
cut off Prince Charles from his commu- 
nication with Schweinfurt ; and by his 
quickness having gained an advantage, 
it was evident that, unless he were 
delayed at Kissingen, which was the 
only place that offered any prospect of 
a successful resistance, Prince Charles 
would not have time to fall back from 
Neustadt to the river Maine, but would 

The Battle of Kissingen. 


"be intercepted by a larger force of 
Prussians. The whole brunt of this 
defence would therefore fall on Zoller's 
brigade, some 5,000 men ; and though 
Der Tann with the second division 
had been sent for, and would doubtless 
arrive from Miinnerstadt to his assist- 
ance, yet the first shock would have to 
be borne by Zoller alone. The pros- 
pect of a defence was not a cheerful 
one for the inhabitants ; for, though the 
excitement of the moment, and the 
interest we felt in what was about to 
happen, made the sense of danger 
small, yet it could not but strike even 
a, mind ignorant of military matters, 
that the enemy, if they failed to force 
a passage in any other way, could from 
the hills opposite, by shelling the town, 
very soon reduce every house to ashes, 
and make it too hot even for the troops 
defending it. It was now dusk, and 
the troops lay down to sleep in their 
ranks at their posts on the banks of 
the river; a sleep which to many of 
them was .to be their last. In the 
towr, however, there was no repose. 
The streets were crowded with troops, 
whiL) the whole wagon train was under 
immediate orders to retreat to Schwein- 
furt, and hurried preparations were 
being made for departure. Horses were 
being harnessed by the dim light given 
by the red lamps of the arnbulance- 
wagons, and the noise of preparation 
continued till midnight, when I heard 
the long line of vehicles rumbling away 
under my windows in the direction of 

Ea-'ly on the morning of the 10th, I 
visited the banks of the river, and found 
the troops rising from the straw on 
whicL. they had slept. The men were 
careless and full of fun, but the officers 
appeared excited and anxious, as well 
they might, at the idea of having an 
overpowering force upon them at any 
moment. The enemy, however, had 
not y( t appeared ; but a Prussian scout, 
who in his anxiety to get a view of the 
town had made himself too conspicuous 
at the edge of the wood on the opposite 
hills, had been already laid low by a 
Bavarian bullet. The last preparations 

were now made in the way of defence, 
and ambulances, with their stores of 
lint and medical necessaries open to 
view, were posted in the Cure 
Garden, under the shelter of Adam 
Hailman's house. All eyes were now 
strained to obtain the first view of the 

It was nine o'clock before the crack 
of rifles from the bridge told us the 
enemy were in sight, and warned us to 
get under shelter. From the windows 
of our hotel we could still, however, 
obtain a good view of what was passing. 
The skirmishers of the enemy were now 
apparent on the opposite hills, issuing 
from the woods of the Maxruhe and 
the Altenberg while General Falken- 
steiii and his staff were visible on the 
crest of the hill to the west, surveying 
the town. The firing now became con- 
tinuous ; and the whistle of the bullets, 
as they flew over the houses, was varied 
by the screams of the shells from the 
Prussian battery on the shoulder of the 
Altenberg. The fire from the enemy's 
guns was not, however, at present 
directed upon the town, but the artil- 
lery were content with pitching their 
shells just over the houses into the 
close ranks of the second division of 
the Bavarian army, who had now come 
up, and who occupied the slopes to the 
east. The precision of the Prussian fire 
was described to me by an eye-witness, 
a good judge of shell practice, as mar- 
vellous ; each shell as it fell caused 
such gaps in the battalions of the Bava- 
rians, that the regiments were ordered 
into open order on the face of the hill. 
But though the Bavarians suffered here, 
yet on the banks of the river they held 
their own well. The attacking force of 
the Prussians consisted of Goeben's 
division, all Westphalians, and number- 
ing some 6,000 men. Their skirmishers 
advanced towards ^the bridge and the 
banks of the river with their usual 
impetuosity ; but all to no purpose : a 
destructive fire met them, and caused 
them severe loss ; while the Bavarians, 
being under shelter, were uninjured by 
the Prussian bullets. To the enemy 
the needle-gun was of little use ; it was 


The Battle of Kissirtgen. 

a struggle which required careful shoot- 
ing and a steady aim : and the heavy 
rifles, in the hands of the Bavarians, 
were more than a match for the rapid 
shooting of the attacking force. For 
an hour or more did the Prussians do 
their best, hut in vain : Falkenstein's 
patience became exhausted, his men 
were falling fast, and made no way, 
although Manteuffel had now come 
to the assistance of Goeben. The 
approaches to the bridge were so ex- 
posed to the fire of the defenders on 
the opposite bank, that it was impos- 
sible for the Prussians to advance with- 
out being at once shot down ; and the 
depth of the stream prevented any 
attempt to ford it. Their skirmishers 
were therefore obliged to take shelter 
in the houses on the west bank, and 
from our hotel we could see the flash 
of the rifles at the windows of the 
Hotel de Bavaria, as the Prussians re- 
turned the fire of the Bavarians at the 
bridge. It was clear, however, that 
this fusilade would never drive the 
defenders from the bridge, or open a 
passage for the Prussians ; and Falken- 
stein's only resource lay in shelling the 
town. This he had been anxious to 
avoid, according to some, because, having 
himself derived benefit from the waters, 
he felt an affection for the place ; but 
more probably, to judge from the cha- 
racter of the veteran, imagining, as he 
did, that the number of visitors in the 
town was larger than it was in reality, 
he shrunk from drawing upon himself 
and his army the outcry which would 
sound throughout Europe if harmless 
invalids were involved in the same 
destruction as the troops who were 
defending the town. However, as he 
himself stated afterwards to one of our 
countrymen, watch in hand he sat on 
his charger, resolved to give his men 
but ten more minutes to carry the 
bridge : if not then effected, the Prus- 
sian guns were to be depressed, and 
their shells were to crash down upon 
the roofs over our heads. This, how- 
ever, we fortunately escaped. From 
the summit of the Altenberg, the re- 
mains of the foot-bridge near the mill 

had evidently been descried, and pointed 
out to the general; for advantage was 
at once taken of this weak point, as 
described to me by a friend who watched 
the battle from the Bodenlaube hill. 
Several hundred Prussians were seen 
hurrying down the hill to the wooden 
chalet in the Gemiinden road ; here 
they quickly ripped the planks from 
the sides of the house, and carried 
them down to the bank. In a few 
minutes a sufficient means of passage 
was formed on the dismantled posts ; 
and several hundred of Goeben' s West- 
phaliaris had established themselves on 
our side of the river, and were ad- 
vancing towards the town across the 
large open meadow. The Bavarian 
troops, however, as soon as it was 
seen what had occurred, were not 
behindhand in making preparations for 
the defence of our flank. A strong 
body occupied Banner's hotel, and from 
the back windows a shower of bullets 
was poured upon the skirmishers as 
they approached. Many a Prussian 
was laid low on the turf; but Goeben's 
men were too numerous, and too impe- 
tuous, to be kept back. They came on 
like a torrent ; the hotel was carried ; 
with fixed bayonets they burst into 
the salle a manger, where the terri- 
fied visitors were crouching on the floor 
to escape the bullets which were flying 
through the windows. Bidding the 
ladies remain still if they wished to 
escape unhurt, the Prussians then 
stormed the staircase, and every Bava- 
rian soldier in the hotel was in a 
few moments a prisoner. Meanwhile 
another body of the enemy had carried 
the southern end of the Cure Garden : 
this was not, however, surrendered 
without a determined struggle. Imme- 
diately in front of our hotel we could 
hear the shouts of angry men, and the 
shrieks of the wounded ; while the 
crack of the rifles sounded close to our 
ears. Though the feeling of curiosity 
was strong, it was difficult to see what 
was passing, for the sound of breaking 
glass and the thud of the bullets 
against the walls showed the danger 
of any vicinity to the windows. It 

.The Battle of Kissing en. 


-WPS evident, however, that the Bava- 
rian troops were being driven back 
across the road towards the hotel. We 
could see them crowding through the 
gateway leading into the courtyard, 
tlij-owing away their knapsacks in their 
flight, while a few endeavoured to make 
th<'ir escape through the building. The 
Prussians were, however, too quick for 
the m, and rushed up the hotel steps 
and in at the open door in pursuit. 
,Tli3 greater portion of the population 
of the hotel had taken refuge in the 
ceLar, but an adventurous American, 
wliD had loitered too long below in 
the hall to watch the fighting, scarcely 
.succeeded in saving himself. As- he 
fled upstairs and turned the bend on 
the staircase a Prussian bullet passed 
through his whiskers, smashing the 
staircase clock into a thousand pieces. 
Pah with terror, and rubbing his ears 
to assure himself of his own safety, he 
joined us as we stood on the landing. 
We were a party of six, two of the 
number being young ladies from Fin- 
land, who certainly behaved with the 
greatest coolness throughout the aifair. 
For a few moments the struggle con- 
tinued down below in the hall ; bayonets 
flashed, men shouted, and the din of 
the tumult sounded through the build- 
ing ; but the Bavarians were soon over- 
powered, and threw down their arms. 
The a a score of helmeted Prussians, 
witli bayonets fixed, rushed up the 
staircase, no doubt expecting a further 
resistance, as they seemed relieved when 
only our civilian party met their view. 
Not a single Bavarian soldier had fortu- 
nately taken that direction, or we should 
have been in the midst of a struggle 
upst iirs. To us the soldiers were far 
more considerate than was to be ex- 
pected of men in such an excited state, 
and having satisfied themselves by in- 
quir: es from us, arid by a rigorous search, 
that there were no prisoners to be made, 
they left the building. I went down 
into the street, and found that the stone 
bridge, which had been held till the 
last by a handful of Bavarians until 
their flank had been turned, was now 
clear ; and the .Prussian columns were 

pouring into the town ; while their 
shells were still whistling over the 
house-tops, scattering destruction among 
the retreating army as it moved up the 
hill to the east. At the door of our 
hotel, close by the dead body of a 
Bavarian soldier, two mounted Prus- 
sian officers, hot and dusty, but calm 
and unconcerned, were hastily swallow- 
ing the bumpers of Rhine wine handed 
to them by the scared landlord. Every- 
where traces of the struggle were visible. 
The Cure Garden was strewn with 
dead, lying beneath the trees, with the 
anguish of their death-struggle still 
impressed upon their countenances. 
One young Bavarian, who had been 
firing from the shelter of the stone 
area round the Eagotzy well, had 
fallen backwards on the steps, shot 
through the temple. The ground was 
littered with knapsacks, cartridges, 
pouches, and side arms, which had 
either belonged to the dead, or had 
been thrown off in the flight by those 
who had escaped. 

It was now one o'clock, and all the 
Bavarians had by this time been driven 
out of the town or made prisoners, 
and Kissingen was in the possession of 
the Prussians. We were now able to 
go about the streets, and inquire after 
the safety of our friends. All the 
visitors, I was very glad to find, were 
unhurt, though some were reported 
missing during part of the day, but 
these returned into the town in the 
course of the afternoon, having, it 
appears, been unable to get under 
shelter when the fighting commenced. 
One party, consisting of a lady and two 
gentlemen, had to creep into a ditch for 
shelter from the bullets, as they found 
themselves, when outside the town, 
between a cross-fire ; and there they 
remained for three hours. Others, who 
were also outside the town when the 
fighting commenced, retreated into the 
neighbouring villages till all was quiet. 
Two of the inhabitants of Kissingen, 
however, lost their lives ; one of them 
the poor old "boots" at our hotel, 
whose early knock at my bedroom door 
I had morning after morning been 


The Battle of Kissingen. 

accustomed to hear. He was found in 
the course of the afternoon lying in the 
garden at the back of the house, killed 
"by a stray bullet. In fact it was from 
this source alone that danger was in- 
currejjl, as, owing to the excellent morale 
of ,the Prussian troops, the greatest con- 
sideration was shown to non-combatants 
in almost every case. Considerable risk 
was incurred, however, by an English 
family, residing in a house at the back 
of the Hotel de Kussie. The inmates, 
after barring the door, had taken refuge 
in the cellar ; when the Prussians, who 
had become infuriated by the loss of 
several of their men from the Bavarian 
rifles near that spot, attacked the house, 
and actually fired shots through the 
cellar gratings, the bullets passing close 
by those within. The Prussians then 
broke into the house in a state of 
the greatest excitement, insisting that 
Bavarian soldiers were concealed within. 
The inmates were subjected to the 
utmost terror, as the soldiers, exaspe- 
rated at the idea of being baffled in 
their search, seemed bent upon destroy- 
ing every soul in the house. With the 
utmost difficulty they were at last con- 
vinced that there was no ground for 
their suspicion ; and they were calmed 
before any actual injury had been done. 
.The conduct of the Prussians, with 
respect to private property, was gene- 
rally unexceptionable. This was not, 
however, the case at the Hotel de 
Bavarie, on the west side of the river. 
It is difficult to say what pretext they 
had for plundering the hotel. The 
name however was perhaps, in some 
respects, the motive; but the chief 
reason was, no doubt, that the Prussians 
having taken possession of the hotel, 
proceeded to break open the cellar, 
where they soon made an end of stores 
of wine valued at 7,000 florins. The 
consequence was that a large number 
quickly became intoxicated, and pro- 
ceeded to sack the hotel out of wanton 
mischief. When once the work of 
devastation was commenced, it was 
carried out thoroughly. I visited the 
hotel the next day, and it seemed as if 
everything that could be devised in the 

way of destruction had been effected. 
Not a window-pane or mirror, not a 
piece of glass or earthenware, but was 
smashed and trodden under foot. The 
only thing unhurt was the aviary out- 
side the salle a manger, where the 
canaries were fluttering and chirping for 
food in the midst of the desolation 


To return to the Bavarian army, 
which was now retreating to the east, 
pursued by the Prussian troops. An- 
other body of Prussians, it appears, had 
by this time crossed the river to the 
northward at the Salines baths ; and, 
having driven the Bavarians out of the 
bath-house, they were able to advance, 
and turn the right of the Bavarian army. 
The Bavarians, however, retreated slowly 
and steadily, and the sound of musketry 
was heard continuously the whole of 
the afternoon, just outside the town. 
The next day I went over the field of 
battle with a friend, and we could trace 
the course of the fighting. Lines of 
knapsacks ^behind every hedge or other 
obstacle showed where the Bavarian 
skirmishers had made a stand, while the 
whole hillside of waving corn was strewn 
with Prussian dead. It had evidently- 
been a struggle most stubbornly pro- 
longed. On the brow of a steep slope, 
a few steps beyond the dead bodies of 
two Prussian soldiers, lay an old 
Bavarian major. He had fallen on his 
back, his face towards the foe. His 
tunic had -been opened, no doubt by 
some friendly hand, which had sought 
to stop his wound, but in vain : through 
the opening in his finely-embroidered 
shirt, stained with his life-blood, could 
be seen the entrance into his lungs the 
fatal bullet had made. He had doubt- 
less been endeavouring to steady his 
men, and the words of encouragement 
must have been issuing from his lips 
when he was thus struck down. IS T o\r 
he lay in the sleep of death, his hair, 
grizzled with age, in the dust ; and his 
short grey moustache adding to that 
stern expression which his features 
retained even in death. Such was the 

The Battle of Kissingen. 


course of the battle that afternoon. 
As the sun sank in the west, the 
Bavarians found themselves in a posi- 
tioi. of great natural strength, some 
three miles from Kissingen, on the brow 
of ji precipitous hill, with a wood in 
their rear. Here they stood to bay, and 
thu^, aided by their situation, they were 
enabled to resist all attempts of the 
enemy to dislodge them. The Prussians 
again and again advanced to the attack, 
but in vain ; they were hurled back 
with great loss. The heaps of Prussian 
dead bore testimony to the fury of their 
attack, but their loss at this point was, I 
heard, attributable to the state of in- 
toxication many of the men were in, 
from the result of the sack of the Hotel 
de Bavarie, and one regiment, as I learnt 
from an officer who survived, was almost 
annihilated. As darkness came on, the 
Prussians, wearied with their long days' 
work, returned to Kissingen. 

We had had during the afternoon a 
busy time in the town. The streets 
were crowded with soldiers looking out 
for quarters, while fatigue-parties were 
bringing in the wounded, Prussian and 
Bavarian alike, as quickly as possible. 
A few, slightly wounded, and with their 
heads or limbs tied up, were able to 
crawl along supported by their comrades ; 
while the rest, laid carefully side by side 
in wagons filled with straw, were carried 
through the streets to the temporary 
hospitals prepared for them. As might 
be expected, the agony of the helpless 
sufferers, caused by the jolting of these 
springless vehicles, was frightful to 
witness. At first, too, considerable 
confusion in providing places for the 
wounded was apparent, and many men 
in a fearful state of suffering were carried 
about from house to house, in search of 
room ; but this want was not long felt. 
A place could not be found more fitted 
to alLiviate the horrors of a battle-field 
than a town which, at that season of the 
year, had been accustomed to the presence 
of some 3,000 visitors. Beds and surgi- 
cal assistance were easily to be procured. 
For the Bavarians who had been 
wounded in the defence of their country 
there were plenty of houses open, and 

hands ready to nurse them ; while the 
Prussian authorities selected for the 
general hospitals the long line of arcades 
in the Cure Garden, and the lofty 
ball-room in the centre. To this spot 
mattresses in abundance were brought 
from the lodging-houses, and there we 
saw side by side hundreds of poor fellows 
in all stages of suffering, some insensible 
from pain, others writhing in agony; 
while a few, whose wounds were super- 
ficial, and for the moment gave them no 
pain, appeared in good spirits, and even 

But though the sufferings of these 
poor fellows appeared to us most terrible, 
yet the rest of the troops, with the ex- 
ception of those employed in hospital 
duties, were too much occupied to pay 
much attention to the condition of their 
comrades. Even in their brief campaign, 
the sight of suffering must have become 
very familiar to them ; and in time of 
war a soldier lives only for the day, and 
only for himself. We had that evening 
in Kissingen 30,000 troops, men who 
had gained possession of a town provided 
with good lodging and abundance of 
food, after they had passed weeks of bad 
quarters and black bread. So the army 
made merry. Prom every house which 
was occupied by the troops the sound 
of good cheer was heard ; while at the 
Hotel de Russie, where Falkenstein had 
fixed his head-quarters, a novel scene 
presented itself. 

In the salle a manger, instead of the 
crowd of quiet invalids we had been 
accustomed to see there, I found the 
tables occupied by the officers of the 
Prussian army. Supper had been finished 
in a satisfactory manner, to judge from 
the rows of wine bottles which stood 
empty on the board, while the warriors 
themselves, flushed with the generous 
liquor, and excited with argument, were 
carrying on a war of words with reference 
to the events of the day ; each one en- 
deavouring to make his voice heard above 
that of his neighbour. The din was 
deafening. At the head of one of these 
tables sat the veteran Falkenstein, with 
his generals of division, Manteuffel and 
Goeben, engaged in deep conversation, 


The Battle of Kissing en. 

doubtless over their future plans. 
Though an early inarch had heen ordered 
for the morrow, yet it was not till the 
small hours of the morning that I ceased 
to hear the clatter of swords and the 
jingle of spurs along the passages of the 
hotel, as our new guests swaggered off 
to bed. 

Falkenstein's object, of course, now 
was to reach Schweinfurt as speedily as 
possible, as delay in Kissingen would be 
fatal to his plan of intercepting Prince 
Charles. Accordingly at early daybreak, 
on the llth of July, the army was in 
motion, and for four long hours the 
close ranks of the Prussians passed 
through the streets of Kissingen, under 
my windows, on their road towards 
Schweinf'urt ; the troops filled with the 
expectation that they were about to add 
fresh laurels to the standards of the 
Army of the Maine. A success in this 
quarter was, however, denied them. 
Before they gained their destination, 
they heard that the Bavarians had suc- 
ceeded in reaching the river Maine. 
Prince Charles, as we afterwards learnt, 
had profited by the delay of the Prus- 
sians at the stone bridge of Kissingen, 
to march rapidly southwards ; and at 
Miinnerstadt, on the evening of the 10th, 
he had been joined by Der Tann and his 
division, which had retreated from Kis- 
singen with the remains of Zoller's 
brigade ; Zoller himself being left dead 
on the field of battle. Prince Charles 
with his united army was now able by a 
forced night march to reach Schweinfurt, 
where the railroad lay open to him, and, 
taking advantage of this, he soon placed 
the river between himself and the 

On the afternoon of 'the llth, the 
disappointed Prussians countermarched 
to Kissingen ; and Falkenstein, now 
that the Bavarians had escaped him, at 
once prepared to march on Frankfort, in 
search of Prince Alexander and the 
Federal army. Accordingly, on the 
12th, we had the satisfaction of seeing 
the long line of the Prussian army set 
in motion, and recross the bridge which 
had cost the lives of so many of their 
fellows, in the direction of Frankfort. 

For many hours the uniforms which for 
the last two days had become so familiar 
to us passed, rank after rank, before 
our view. , The sturdy Westphalians of 
Goeben's division, their numbers sadly 
reduced since they first caught sight of 
the buildings of Kissingen, the ill-fated 
thirteenth regiment of the Line, doomed 
in a few days to be decimated at As- 
chaffenburg, and the conspicuous \vhite 
tunics of the Prussian cuirassiers as they 
rode by, their shot-proof helmets and 
breastplates sparkling in the sun, while 
the artillery and baggage-train brought 
up the rear ; among which we could 
recognise the well-appointed wagons 
which still bore on their sides the names 
of Hanoverian regiments, as evidence 
that they were part of the spoil of war. 

All the Prussians had now departed, 
with the exception of a small body of 
men which had been left to enforce the 
contributions levied on the surround- 
ing country. We felt the departure 
of the army to be a great relief. The 
presence of so many men had quite 
drained the town of supplies ; and 
visitors as well as inhabitants had been 
reduced to black bread, a means of 
sustenance which, only a very good 
appetite and some previous acquaintance 
can render palatable. The pretty Cure 
Garden, too, had been desecrated by 
the horses of the Prussian cuirassiers, 
which had been picketed between the 
trees, and it wore now more the appear- 
ance of a stable than a promenade. It 
did not, however, take long to set every- 
thing in its usual order ; and but for 
the sight of the long row of prostrate 
forms in the arcades, and the sound of 
the creaking country wagons, as the 
commissariat train toiled along the 
Gemiinden road, in the rear of the army, 
under the burning sun, we should have 
found it difficult to realize what -had 
occurred, or to believe that the country 
was in the power of an enemy. 

The wounded now became the chief 
object of interest ; and the energy with 
which the English ladies devoted them- 
selves to the care of the sick made me 
indeed proud of my countrywomen. 
Before the hospital arrangements had 

Battle of Kissing en. 


got 'nto complete working order, there 
was felt, necessarily, a great lack of 
attei dance and of ordinary comforts ; 
and it this time their assistance was in- 
valuable. To cool the sufferer's parched 
tong le with refreshing drinks, to supply 
the s timulants without which exhausted 
natu:-e must have given up the struggle, 
to bithe the wounded limbs and re- 
arrange the bandages, was the constant 
occupation of many of these worthy 
imitators of Florence Nightingale. Nor 
did tiiey forget, while ministering to the 
wants of the body, to smooth meanwhile 
the pillow of the wounded man, and to 
add hose small words of sympathy, 
which only the kind heart of a woman 
knows how to express. In passing down 
the line of beds, it was touching to see 
the gratitude for these attentions evinced 
by those poor fellows who were suf- 
ficienl ly free from pain to be capable of 
expressing it. A melting look might be 
seen in the eyes of the rough soldier as 
he kissed the hand that served him, and 
fell buck on his pillow with a smile of 
gratitude pervading his features. 

There were curious contrasts in that 
row of wounded men: some lay in- 
sensible as if already dead ; others, 
though frightfully disfigured by some 
ghastly wound in the head or lace, yet 
appeared to sutfer little. One case in 
partici lar was that of a Prussian whose 
two eyes had been carried away by a 
bullet which had struck him in profile, 
going completely through the bone of 
his nose. Yet his suffering did not 
appear to be so great as one would have 
expecttd from his injury. But there 
were a few whose writhing agony told 
of a vital body wound. Under the 
Arcade, close to the ballroom door, lay 
a youn * Bavarian : his face once seen 
I can niver forget. A bullet had passed 
right through his body, and for three 
days tl e look of death was upon his 
face, as his strong frame struggled in its 
agony. He was nursed by several of 
his cour try women, who hung incessantly 
around his bed with the solicitude of 
sisters ; and when for the last time I 
looked ipon him his strength was fast 
failing, and the tenderhearted women 

were kneeling around him, bathed in 
tears, with difficulty joining in the 
responses to the prayers which one of 

them was sobbing forth to the 


unconscious sufferer. 

But as most of those who sank under 
their wounds were far removed from 
home and friends, the death-bed scene 
was in general free from the additional 
gloom which the anguish of relations 
ordinarily adds to it. At the Hotel 
Fischer, however, a painful occurrence- 
happened. Frau von on hearing 

that her husband lay wounded at 
Kissingen, at once started from Munich 
to nurse him ; and, being under the 
impression that his wound was slight, 
she entered the house from her carriage, 
full of gaiety and high spirits at the 
idea of again seeing her husband, and 
that he was now free from the perils of 
a further campaign. To her inquiry, 

where was Captain von 1 she was 

met by the reply, " He is not here ; he 
is dead ; he was buried yesterday." The 
revulsion of feeling was too frightful, 
and the poor woman fell down in- 
sensible. It was not for some time that 
she revived sufficiently to learn the 
reality of her misery; and throughout 
the night her frightful screams attested 
the shock her nervous system had 

But even among the wounded there 
were bright and cheerful faces. Many 
of them had been hit in the legs and 
feet; and, after the bullets had been 
extracted, they felt comparatively easy. 
The greater part would sit up, and 
enjoy the cigars which were plentifully 
supplied to all who called for them. 
To the ladies who had been kind to 
them they would also with great glee 
bring forth from under their pillow and 
display the bullet which had brought 
them low, as a great trophy. The pos- 
session of this relic always seemed to 
afford much satisfaction ; and in several 
cases, where it was evident that the 
wound was mortal, the surgeons yielded 
to the clamours of the dying man, and 
extracted the ball, for the purpose of 
giving him some small satisfaction in 
his last hours by its possession. 


The Battle of Kissingen. 

Meanwhile fresli cases were daily 
"brought in ; men who in the agony of 
the hour had crawled tinder the shelter 
of the bushes from the "burning sun, 
and for days and nights had escaped 
the search of the fatigue parties, and 
yet still lived. Others who had fallen 
in the later part of the day's engage- 
ment, and had at first been laid in the 
miserable hovels and sheds at the village 
of Winkels, were now, greatly to the 
delight of the poor dispossessed villagers, 
brought down to the hospitals at Kis- 
singen. For these, unfortunately, there 
was no difficulty in finding room. Beds 
were always vacant, from which the 
hand of death had removed the former 
occupant. Morning after morning the 
gaps in the line of sick, and the sad 
row of lifeless forms at the extremity 
of the Arcade, each covered with a 
military cloak, bare witness to the 
mortality of the previous night ; while 
the truck which had been employed 
to bear the more cumbrous musical 
instruments to the band platform, we 
now saw daily passing across the garden, 
laden with a score of dead. At the ceme- 
tery large pits had been dug, and the dead 
from the hospitals, as well as those who 
had been collected from the battle-field, 
were laid to rest, side by side. The 
latter were brought down by wagon 
loads, and the afternoon succeeding the 
battle, when I visited the cemetery, three 
of these dismal burdens were waiting 
for interment. I crossed the cemetery 
to a small chapel on the other side, 
which was open, and on the floor I 
beheld the corpses of about a score 
Bavarian soldiers awaiting a separate 
burial at the hands of their countrymen. 
Their faces were all uncovered, and the 
effect of so many mute forms lying ex- 
tended in solemn silence was peculiarly 
striking. One of them was a Bavarian 
officer, a remarkably handsome man, 

whose features I recognised as one of 
those, who only the Sunday before had 
jauntily swaggered up and down the 
Promenade in the Cure Garden, in full 
possession of life. 

Of the casualties on both sides it 
is difficult to form an estimate. The 
Prussians suffered severely compared 
with the Bavarians, as the latter fought 
so much under shelter; but the large 
number of the Bavarians, probably some 
800, who were surrounded in the town 
and made prisoners, must have made 
the loss in effective men about equal. 
In comparison with the fearful carnage 
in Bohemia, the loss of life would 
appear trifling ; but it was only when 
the results of a battle between two 
small armies had been brought before 
my eyes, that I felt I could realise 
in their intensity the horrors of a battle- 
field like Sadowa. 

It was not long before we had all 
taken our departure from Kissingen. 
For some little time we found consider- 
able difficulty in so doing, as all means 
of transport had been seized by the 
Prussians, and carriages were not to be 
had. Some families, anxious to depart, 
entrusted themselves to country wag- 
gons, in which, seated on their trunks, 
we saw them leaving the town for a 
journey of some sixty miles to the rail 
at Cassel. But, as the army moved 
farther off, carriages again made their 
appearance, and the town was soon 
left to its suffering wounded and its 
dejected inhabitants. 

May another year be a brighter one 
for it; but, though the bullet-marks 
may be removed from its walls, and the 
dark stains may be cleansed from its 
arcades, yet the recollection of Kissingen 
in July, 1866, will not soon be effaced 
from the recollection of us who then 
saw the horrors of war in their reality. 




AT the opening of his work upon De- 
mo 3racy, M. de Tocqueville sketches in 
a low sentences the political history of 
Europe for seven hundred years from a 
time "at which the right of governing 
" descended with family inheritances, 
" force was the only means by which 
" man could act upon man, and landed 
" property was the sole source of power." 
Hardly a single event of importance in 
history, he proceeds, not one step in 
human progress since then, not one 
acquisition material or immaterial to 
the domain of civilization, but has raised 
rivals to the great landed proprietors, 
placed sources of social and political 
power at the disposal of new classes, 
and tended to the furtherance of 
equality. " Poetry, eloquence, memory, 
" the charms of wit, the glow of imagi- 
" nation, profoundness of thought, all 
'" the gifts which Heaven imparts indis- 
" criminately, have turned to the advan- 
" tage of democracy ; and even when 
" they have been found in the posses- 
" sion of its opponents, they have still 
" done service to its cause by bringing 
*' into relief man's natural greatness ; 
" its conquests have spread therefore 
" with those of civilization and know- 
" ledge, and literature has become an 
" arsenal open to all, in which the weak 
" and the poor have found arms every 
" day." Whoever uses M. de Tocque- 
ville' s eyes to read the signs of the time, 
will accordingly see in the part taken 
by Lord Dufferin at once a noble, a 
landowner, and a man of letters and 
genius in the controversy relating to 
land, not a vindication of its proprietors 
which will exempt their conduct hence- 
forward from scrutiny, but a mark of 
the irresistible force of a movement 
which is setting up rivals in every direc- 
tion to inherited distinctions and terri- 
torial power ; rendering public opinion 
No. 93. VOL. xvi. 

the sovereign authority, and the public 
good the sole foundation upon which 
institutions, however ancient, can base 
their continuance; above all, making 
landed property, once the sole source 
of legislation, now its recognised subject 
and creature, possessed of no title which 
is not derived from the public advan- 
tage, and amenable in all its relations 
to the control of the State. A great 
step has been made towards making 
the use of landed property reasonable, 
when its proprietors themselves begin 
to reason about it ; not only is it a sign 
that they are ceasing to rely solely on 
power, but it exposes whatever is inde- 
fensible in their pretensions to imme- 
diate detection. A fool is said to be 
wiser in his own conceit than seven men 
that can render a reason ; but sometimes 
he is wise beyond his conceit, for it may 
be ten times harder to answer folly than 
reason. The old vague and intractable 
assertions of "the rights of property," 
for example, however little to the intel- 
lectual credit of those who employed 
them, were not without an impenetrable 
power of resistance to argument, which 
enabled them to hold ground j just as 
the stupidest animals are the most ob- 
stinate in an encounter, because they 
cannot see when they are beaten, and 
hold on to the death. 

If, however, such characteristics as 
the foregoing of the great movement 
delineated in M. de Tocqueville's pages, 
may awaken pleasure and hope in 
the minds of his disciples, others, un- 
fortunately, are not wanting which 
cannot be viewed without both regret 
and alarm even by those whose con- 
fidence is strongest that it is upon the 
whole a movement for good. Not the 
least portentous among these is that 
growing severance of the peasantry from 
the soil, and that increasingly selfish 



Lord Dufferin on the Tenure of Land. 

and exclusive use of dominion over it 
by its proprietors, of which M. deTocque- 
ville speaks as follows: "An aristo- 
" cracy does not die like a man in a day. 
" Long before open war has broken out 
" against it, the bond which had united 
" the higher classes with the -lower is 
" seen to loosen by degrees; the relations 
" between the poor and the rich become 
" fewer and less kindly ; rents rise. This 
" is not actually the result of demo- 
" cratic revolution, but it is its certain 
" indication. For an aristocracy which 
" has definitively let the heart of the 
" people slip from its hands is like a 
<; tree which is dead at its roots, and 
" which the winds overturn the more 
" easily, the higher it is. I have often 
" heard great English proprietors con- 
" gratulate themselves that they derive 
" much more money from their estates 
" than their fathers did. They may be 
" in the right to rejoice, but assuredly 
" they do not know at what they re- 
" joice. They imagine they are making 
" a net profit when they are only making 
4t an exchange. What they gain in 
41 money they are on the point of losing 
" in power. . . . There is yet another 
" sign that a great democratic movement 
" is being accomplished or is in pre- 
" paration. In the middle age almost 
" all landed property was let in per- 
, " petuity, or at least for a very long term. 
" When one studies the economy of 
" that period, one finds that leases for 
" ninety years were commoner than 
" leases for twelve years are now." In 
his celebrated Essay on M. de Tocque- 
ville's book, Mr. Mill has with similar 
prescience remarked that without a large 
agricultural class, with an attachment 
to the soil, a permanent connexion with 
it, and the tranquillity and simplicity 
of rural habits and tastes, there can be 
no check to the total predominance of 
an unsettled, uneasy, gain-seeking, com- 
mercial democracy. "Our town popu- 
" lation," it has long been remarked, " is 
" becoming almost as mobile and uneasy 
" as the American. It ought not to be 
" so with our agriculturists ; they ought 
" to be the counterbalancing element in 
" the national character ; they should 

" represent the type opposite to the 
" commercial that of moderate wishes, 
" tranquil tastes, and cultivation of the 
" enjoyments compatible with their ex- 
" isting position. To attain this object. 
" how much alteration may be requisite 
" in the system cf rack-renting and 
" tenancy-at-will we cannot undertake 
" to show in this place." 1 

So, in a late debate upon Irish tenures, 
in Parliament, it was argued with un- 
answerable force by Mr. Gregory, in refe- 
rence to the tenure now generally preva- 
lent in the island : " There could be no 
" attachment to the institutions of a 
" country in which the whole of a 
" peasantry existed merely on sufferance ; 
" certainly there was nothing conserva- 
" tive in tenancies at will ; indeed he 
" believed such tenancies to be the most 
" revolutionary in the world." The 
conclusion is irresistible that the true 
revolutionary party in Ireland are un- 
consciously and unwillingly, but not the 
less certainly, the owners of land. When 
therefore it is alleged that the chronic 
absence of tranquillity and the periodical 
recurrence of sedition prevent the rise 
of other occupations than agriculture, 
thereby placing almost the whole popu- 
lation at the mercy of the landlords, who 
can in consequence impose unreasonable 
terms, the answer is obvious, first, that 
prosperous agriculture and continued 
political tranquillity are equally in- 
compatible with such a tenure ; secondly, 
that a prosperous agriculture is itself the 
true natural source and support of all 
other industries ; and thirdly, that the 
allegation itself involves an admission 
that the power of the landlords is ex- 
cessive. So far, moreover, is the com- 
petition for land from being the cause 
it could in no case be the excuse of 
the insecurity of tenure in Ireland, that 
the immense reduction in the population 
and the number of the competitors for 
the occupation of land has been attended 
with increased insecurity. Before the 
failure of the potato, the Devon Com- 
mission urged the interference of Parlia- 
ment, because the industry of the culti- 
vators of the soil was paralysed by in- 

1 Dissertations and Discussions, ii. 75. 

Lord Duffer in on the Tenure of Land. 


security. "The most general and in- 
" deed universal complaint," they re- 
poited, "brought before us in every part 
"of Ireland was, ' the want of tenure,' 
" to use the expression most commonly 
" employed by the witnesses. The un- 
" certainty of tenure is constantly re- 
" furred to as a pressing grievance by 
"all classes of tenants. It is said to 
" paralyze all exertion, and to place a 
" fatal impediment in the way of im- 
" provement. We have no doubt that 
" this is so in many instances." Since 
thau Report, famine and emigration 
have reduced the population by nearly 
thrue millions in twenty-one years, and 
statesmen of both parties have repeatedly 
adopted the conclusion of the Devon 
Commission, both as regards the effects 
of the insecurity of tenure and the 
necessity of interference. Yet the actual 
condition of things is that the radical evil 
has increased that leases have become 
fewer and evictions more frequent. So 
lost to the Irish proprietor's mind is 
indeed the very conception of a true 
rural population and of the best uses of 
land, that even so enlightened and 
Jdndly a landlord as Lord Dufferin 
regards the love of the soil, and of a 
little farm of his own on the part of the 
peasant, not as a healthy affection and 
natural blending of associations, not as 
the true spirit of agriculture and the germ 
of many social and civil virtues, not as the 
l>est ally of industrious enterprise in 
other pursuits, but as a morbid and mis- 
chievous propensity to be condemned 
and discouraged. His lordship's ideal of 
& happy and prosperous peasant seems to 
be the English agricultural labourer with 
no root in the soil, no interest in it, and 
no 1< >ve for it ; and he proposes to the 
small farmer, as a means of improving 
his condition, a descent to the rank of 
a labourer for hire. Speaking in the 
House of Lords last year, the noble lord 
said , " From an inherent desire to pos- 
" ses-s land, and in a most unhappy 
" fancy that he loses caste if he passes 
" fro jn the condition of an embarrassed 
" tenant to that of an independent 
" labourer, the tenant is ready to run 
" any -risk rather than abandon his 

" favourite pursuit." The same leading 
idea presents itself again and again 
both in his lordship's letters to the 
Times, and in his recent volume. 1 For 
example : " In proportion as the pea- 
" sant becomes aware of a more hopeful 
" theatre for his industry, whether at 
" home or abroad, that morbid hunger 
" for a bit of land which has been the 
" bane of Ireland will subside." ..." The 
" labourer's dream is to become a tenant, 
" the tenant's greatest ambition is to 
" enjoy the dignity of a landlord. What 
" he cannot be brought to realize is that 
" an independent labourer is a more 
" respectable person than a struggling 
" farmer." ..." The alternative of 
" adequate wages is open to him ; the 
" reckless acquisition of land to which 
" he cannot do justice is the result 
" of a passion to be discouraged rather 
" than stimulated." 

If the actual use of land throughout 
Great Britain had not given rise to a 
singular set of conceptions with regard 
to its true use, it would be superflu- 
ous to urge that political economy has 
always recognized in the pleasures of 
rural life and occupations in the love of 
a farm and the sense of independence it 
should be so held as to bestow in the 
desire of the labourer to become a tenant- 
farmer and of the tenant farmer to pos- 
sess land of his own not only legitimate 
sources of happiness, but motives to 
agricultural industry, beyond its pe- 
cuniary returns, which both the laws and 
the customs of a country ought to foster. 
" The beauty of the country," says Adam. 
Smith, " the pleasures of country life, the 
" tranquillity of mind which it promises, 
" and, wherever the injustice of human 
" laws does not disturb, the independence 
" which it really affords, have charms 
" that more or less attract everybody ; 
" and as to cultivate the ground was the 
" original destination of man, so in every 
" age he seems to retain a predilection 
" for the primitive employment." The 
productive value of the affectionate 
interest in the land which the Conti- 
nental peasant feels, after what Mr. 

1 Irish Emigration and the Tenure of Land 
in Ireland. By Lord Dufferin. 



Lord Dufferin on the Tenure of Land. 

Mill has done to make it known to 
insular minds, ought to need no allusion. 
Moreover the social distinctions between 
labourer and tenant farmer, and between 
the tenant farmer and the farmer of his 
own land, are natural distinctions, and 
political economy has always recognized 
the desire of men to rise in the social 
scale as an incentive to industry, 
frugality, and enterprise. The Irish 
labourer's dream of becoming a tenant 
is a just and laudable ambition, capable 
of being turned to the most productive 
account ; and so again is the dream of 
the tenant to possess land of his own. 
The existence of peasant proprietors, the 
facility and frequency of the purchase of 
small estates, are among the principal 
causes of the prodigies performed by the 
peasants of Flanders on almost the worst 
soil in the world because constituting 
both objects of industry and thrift, and 
models of good farming. 

" In Belgium," Lord Dufferin states, 
" leases for three, six, and nine years 
" are the accepted terms." They are 
the accepted terms, because better 
terms are not offered. But M. de 
Laveleye writes : " Three, six, and 
" nine years cannot be properly called 
" the approved terms in Belgium. They 
" are approved only by the landlords. 
" All the independent agricultural asso- 
*' ciations, all the economists are for 
" long leases, and that is my own 
" opinion. Tenancies at will would be 
" considered here as an odious abuse. 
" In Flanders, too, the farmer gets a 
" good house, and his right to be reim- 
" bursed for unexhausted manure is a 
" privilege which descends from the 
" Middle Age, the good effects of which 
" are always acknowledged. The num- 
" ber of peasant proprietors is besides 
" very great : in West Flanders, 89,297, 
" in East Flanders 155,381. If Ireland 
" had hut half as many, it would, I 
" imagine, be well for her." 1 

If, however, to talk of peasant pro- 
prietors in these islands sounds like 
talking sedition, the peasant's love of 
the land and ambition to rise in agri- 
cultural rank might be turned to pro- 
1 Letter to the writer. 

ductive account, without permitting a 
poor man to possess a farm as proprietor. 
That upward movement which ought 
to be possible in all occupations, may be 
made possible in agriculture, even in the 
British isles, under a rational system of 
tenure, and with a judicious diversity 
in the sizes of farms. "I cannot," writes 
Dr. Mackenzie of Eileanach, after long 
and extensive experience of estates, and 
of Celtic tenants, who are supposed to 
possess in a peculiar, degree a morbid 
hunger for land, " imagine greater 
" folly than discouraging the planting 
" of a number of cotters on every estate, 
" from the class with, say a quarter of 
" an acre, who will supply the labour 
" needed by the large farmer, up to 
" the five-acre holder, whose strength is 
" needed to crop his own land and 
" manage his own estate. Next should 
" come the two-horse farm, a fair object 
" of ambition to which the five-acre 
" cotter might expect to rise ; after 
" that, farms of several pairs of horses, 
" or even steam-engines perhaps. An 
" estate or country thus planted, would 
" offer a reasonable variety of objects of 
" ambition to the intelligent labourer 
" who had to begin at the bottom of the 
" ladder ; so that he might wish to 
" remain in Great Britain, instead of 
" emigrating, and leaving behind him 
" the mere refuse of his class ' as hewers 
" and drawers/ without a prospect of 
" anything in life but hard labour 
" (harder than in our jails) and the 
" workhouse when they are used up." 1 

Instead of such an upward movement 
as Dr. Mackenzie describes, from the 
rank of the labourer to that of the small 
farmer, and again from the small to the- 
large farm, the movement which Lord 
Dufferin commends to the peasant's ac- 
ceptance is a downward one " from 
the condition of an embarrassed tenant 
to that of an independent labourer." 
What kind of "independence" does 
the labourer really enjoy? a choice of 
masters, from a shilling to one and six- 
pence a day, or even more, while he is 
active and strong, and the workhouse 
in his old age. The tenant of a farm, 
1 Letter to the writer, March 11, 1867. 

Lord Dvfferin on the Tenure of Land. 


however small, with the security of a 
lease of sufficient duration, is surely 
much more independent. He is not 
subject to orders or to immediate dis- 
missal, his time is at his own disposal, 
he works for himself when he is well, 
he need not work if he is ill, and he 
earns both wages and profit. It is in- 
deed only to the " embarrassed " tenant 
thai Lord Dufferin oifers the position 
of labourer on another man's farm ; but 
the general cause of the tenant's em- 
barrassment in Ireland (to which ought 
to be added the supineness of landlords 
in regard to instruction in agriculture) is 
that, virtually, he is a mere labourer on 
another man's farm, for which he is ex- 
pected to furnish the capital without the 
security requisite either to borrow it or to 
expend it if he possesses it, or what 
landlords cannot imagine to make it by 
labour and thrift. " To refuse a lease 
to a solvent industrious tenant," Lord 
Dufierin justly pronounces, " is little 
" short of a crime. The prosperity of 
" agriculture depends on security of 
" tenure, and the only proper tenure is 
" a liberal lease." But if the prosperity 
of agriculture does depend on security 
of tenure, and if the only proper tenure 
is a liberal lease, how can the Irish 
tenant-at-will be expected to be solvent, 
or industrious to any good purpose? 
Must it not be also "little short of a 
crime " first to refuse him the conditions 
of solvency and of prosperous agriculture, 
and then to make his embarrassment 
and unprosperous farming a reason 
for turning him out of his farm ? 
"Every variation of the conception of 
" property in land/' it has been very well 
said by Mr. Newman, "every limita- 
" tion or extension of proprietary right, 
" develops a new type of human cha- 
" racter. If the proprietor, the lessee, 
" the tenant-at-will, differ in extent of 
" proprietary interest, they differ also 
" in moral feature."* The moral fea- 
ture of the tenant-at-will can hardly be 
that of " a solvent industrious tenant." 
What sort of houses, factories, and shops 
would be seen in our towns, and what 

i Questions for a Reformed Parliament, 
p. 79. 

sort of tenants and traders would occupy 
them, on a tenure-at-will ? 

The small farmer in Ireland has little 
or no capital, it is indeed urged, and 
good farming is hopeless without it. 
Yet this difficulty is more serious in 
Flanders, from the exigent nature of the 
soil, and M. de Laveleye describes how 
it is overcome : " The labourer gets a 
" corner of uncleared land at a low rent, 
" which his wife assists him to clear. 
" They reduce their consumption to the 
" barest necessaries, they economise all 
" they can ; the husband goes to a 
" distance, often to France, to reap the 
" harvest, and thus to bring back some 
" fifty francs at the end of three 
" weeks of incredible toils. "When they 
" have collected the materials for the 
" cottage, husband and wife go to work, 
" and at length sleep under a roof of 
" their own. The next thing is to have 
" cattle, that foundation of all culti- 
" vation. First they feed a goat and 
." some rabbits, and then a calf, on the 
" herbs that spring about. When at 
" last they possess a cow, the family is? 
" safe ; there is now milk, butter, and 
" manure. Little by little a capital is 
" made ; at the end of some years, the 
" labourer has become a farmer. Aa 
" the population increases, new cottages 
" spring up, the old ones are enlarged. 
" In half a century the whole district is 
" made a complete conquest to culti- 
" vation, thanks to incessant labours 
" which the capitalist could not have 
" paid for at the average rate of wages 
" without incurring a loss. The petty 
" cultivator, who is assured of enjoying 
" for at least thirty years the fruits of his 
" efforts, spares neither his time nor his 
" trouble. Working with more zeal and 
" intelligence than he could exert for 
" another, he gives value to a soil 
" which la grande culture would have no 
" interest in attempting to cultivate." * 
The Fleming, however, it may be sup- 
posed is an exceptional being. But al- 
most exactly the same thing takes place in 
the Highlands of Scotland, where the 
Celtic cotter is given a chance though 
a poor one as Dr. Mackenzie describes 
1 conomie Rur. des Flandres, 2d ed. p. 82. 


Lord Dufferin on the Tenure of Land. 

it. " In this country a man comes to 

" me, and offers to rent some acres of 

" waste land, to trench, clear, drain, and 

" cultivate it on a nineteen years' lease 

"for a small rent ; lie putting up the 

" cottage, the new land supplying the 

" stones, and I giving him the necessary 

" wood. And generally, with not 10?. 

" of his own at starting, we see this 

" man put up his buildings, mostly with 

" his own hands, improve his land, and 

" rise to a considerable degree of pros- 

" perity, so as, at least, to have food, 

* c good clothing, and decent furniture, 

" and, at the same time, pay his rent 

" with regularity during his lease ; at 

" the end of which, his land is all in 

" decent crop, ready for a new lease at 

" an improved rent, although all that 

" the landlord has done towards this 

" has been to grant rough standing wood 

* for the buildings. A theorist would 

" say, the cotter without capital could 

" never improve his moor. But the 

" fact is, the country is improved exactly 

<c as I have described. The improver 

" finds work in his vicinity for a time, 

" runs home with his wages, and till 

" they are done, tears up his land, gets 

" some seed borrowed and sown, and off 

" again to another job at daily wages, 

" of which less than our southern friends 

" would credit is spent upon food. Had 

" landlords to put up smart cottages for 

" such land improvers, improvement 

" would soon come to an end in this 

" country. In my memory, all hereabout, 

" most of our large farms extending over 

" thousands and thousands of acres, on 

" which I have shot grouse and deer, 

" have been brought to their present 

" shape on the above plan. For gene- 

" rally," to the shame of those whom 

it concerns, Dr. Mackenzie adds : " Soon 

" after a contiguous batch of such crofts 

" as I have described have been put 

" into crop, the improvers are all ejected, 

" without payment for what they have 

" done, unless from some thin-skinned, 

" laughed at, rara avis of a philan- 

" thropist landlord, and one large farm 

" is made of them." l 

If there are any readers who are 
doubtful of the disposition of cotters in 
1 Letter to the writer, March 11, 1867. 

Ireland to improve, they would do well 
to consult the evidence of Mr. Curling, 
an English agent, of great experience, 
before the Commission on the Tenure 
and Improvement of Land in 1865, from 
which the following answers are taken : 
" You have been the manager of the 
" Devon estate for seventeen years, you 
"say? Yes. 

"Do you think there is anything 
" deficient in the character of the people 
" which would prevent improvements 
" from being made, provided a just law 
" were given to them ? I do not ; 
" I think they are as energetic, as in- 
" dustrious, as moral, and as well 
" behaved a people as I have ever met 
" with, and more grateful than any 
" other people I know. 

" Grateful for what ? For even fair 
" play : not favours only, but even fair 
" play. 

" What has been their character as 
" to peace and order for seventeen 
" years 1 I do not remember that a 
" single crime, even to stealing a 
" chicken, has been committed on the 
" Devon Estate for seventeen years. 

" Are they frugal in their habits 1 
" Very much so : too much so. 

"Do you think that security, whether 
" by a lease, or by an extended period 
" of compensation, is necessary as a 
" stimulus to the tenants to make im- 
" provements ? I think a tenant is a 
" fool to expend his money without a 
" security of that description. 

" Have large improvements been 
" made on the estate which you 
" manage 1 They have. 

" By whom has the mountain land 
" been reclaimed 1 Exclusively by the 
" tenants. 

" I believe that you hold different 
" opinions on certain points from wit- 
" nesses who have been previously ex- 
" amined ? First of all, I do not 
" concur with those who conceive that 
" no additional legislation is required 
" to stimulate Irish tenants to invest 
" their capital in improvements." 

Lord Dufferin is no adversary to 
additional legislation to stimulate Irish 
tenants to invest their capital in im- 
provements ; on the contrary, he con- 

Lord Dvfferin on the Tenure, of Land. 


tributes towards it an excellent sug- 
gestion. 1 But lie bids us expect little 
from such legislation, and certainly " no 
comprehensive remedy for the perennial 
discontent of Ireland, or to unprecedented 
emigration from her shores." His first 
and last lesson is that "no nation can 
" be made industrious, provident, skilful, 
" by Act of Parliament. It is to time, 
" to education, and above all to the 
" development of our manufacturing re- 
" sources, that we must look for the 
" relnvigoration of our economic consti- 
" tuuion." It might, we do not hesitate 
to assert, be said with more justice, that 
every people is industrious, provident, 
and skilful just in proportion to the 
secudty given by its government, laws, 
and customs as powerful as laws, that he 
who sows shall also reap. What has 
time, to which Lord Dufferin looks, 
done hitherto for Ireland, but maintain 
a system which, in the words used by 
the Devon Commissioners, paralyzes all 
exertion, and places fatal impediments 
in the way of improvement 1 What 
practical lesson does education, again, 
teach the Irish peasant more plainly 
than this, that an intelligent man can 
always get on in America, and can 
seldom do so in Ireland? Lord Duf- 
ferin 's readers will easily believe that 
so generous a mind " cannot contemplate 
" the expatriation of so many brave 
" hearts and strong right arms with 
" equanimity." But when he adds, 
"The true remedy is to be found in the 
" development of our commercial enter- 
" prise, of our mineral resources, of our 
" manufacturing industry," we are driven 
to ask, why not in the development of our 
agricultural industry, the prime industry 
of all, the healthiest, and the natural 
base of all other industries 1 According 
to the natural course of things, Adam 
Smith has striven to impress upon 
mankind, the greater part of every 
growing society is first directed to agri- 
culture, afterwards to manufacture. 2 

"Of all cultivators," says Sismondi, 
" the peasant proprietor is the one who 
" gives most encouragement to commerce 

1 Irish Emigration and the Tenure of Land, 
pp. 271, 272. 

2 "\Vealtli of Nations, book iii. chap. i. 

" and manufactures, because he is the 
" richest." To the same purpose Mr. 
Mill observes that " in every country 
" without exception in which peasant 
" properties prevail, the towns, from 
" the larger surplus which remains after 
" feeding -the agricultural classes, are 
" increasing both in population and in 
" the well-being of their inhabitants." 
The present landowners of Ireland may 
therefore assure themselves that the 
conviction will at length force itself 
upon the public, that for the prosperity, 
not of agriculture alone, but of all the 
other industries of which the island is 
capable, either tenancies at will must 
cease to exist, or peasant properties must 
at any cost be created. M. de Tocque- 
ville's reflection has already been quoted, 
that it is a sign of the imminent sub- 
version of aristocratic institutions when 
the relation between landlord and tenant 
has become one of the briefest, duration; 
but he adds the significant remark that 
if democratic tendencies shorten the 
duration of tenures, democratic insti- 
tutions " tend powerfully to increase the 
" number of properties, and to diminish 
" the number of tenant farmers." The 
land system of Ireland is one without 
the advantages either of feudalism or of 
democracy. "As long as a numerous 
" population," says Lord DufFerin, " is 
" cursed with a morbid craving to pos- 
" sess land, so long will the owner be 
" able to drive hard bargains." The 
conclusion which these " hard bar- 
gains" are likely to force before long 
011 the public mind is, that the morbid 
craving for land with which the people 
of Ireland have been cursed, is that 
which moralists in every age have 
denounced, and against which the pro- 
phet cried> Woe unto them that join 
house to house, that lay field to field, 
till there be no place, that they may 
be placed alone in the earth ! The 
landlords of England may likewise rest 
assured that their own interests are 
involved in the Irish land question in 
a different manner from what they 
suppose. They are afraid of a prece- 
dent of interference with established 
territorial institutions ; they have more 
to fear their self-condemnation. 






BUT Lorimer did not answer very 
patiently. The grim smile of scorn 
faded from his lip, only to give place to 
a gloomy frown ; and as he drew nearer 
to his writing-table, preparatory to 
answering that ill-judged missive, he 
struck his clenched hand on the un- 
conscious paper before covering it with 
the rapid scrawl which disturbed Lord 
Clochnaben's late breakfast a day or two 

" MY DEAR RICHARD, That you write, 
as you say, by my mother's dictation 
and report, by her desire, the comments 
she has thought fit to make on my 
attempt at arguing on the moral culpa- 
bility of her conduct to her cousin, Lady 
Charlotte's daughter secures you a 
reply which, under other circumstances, 
I should probably refuse to make to such 
a letter as you have ventured to send me. 
" I need scarcely say, for the informa- 
tion either of yourself or my mother, 
that it is not 7 who set a value on such 
visits as I counselled my mother to pay, 
or who consider Lady Ross's welfare 
dependent on the notice of persons of 
her own sex, probably infinitely her in- 
feriors in many of the qualities which 
should most be desired in woman. 

" When I see the sort of women who 
mingle freely, and receive liberal wel- 
come, in what is called ' the first society 
in the land' when I reflect on the 
lives which to my knowledge some of 
them have led, and which would, in my 
opinion, render them utterly unfit to be 
Lady Ross's companions, instead- of its 
being a favour that they should visit 
her ; when I consider the sort of hap- 
hazard that governs even court invita- 

tions ; the gossip, the prejudice, the 
cant, the untruth, the want of all justice, 
the disbelief in all virtue, the disregard 
of all things right, and the indifference 
to all things wrong (so long as they are 
not found out) which exist in a certain 
set who neverthless presume to judge 
and condemn their betters ; when I hear 
them declare that they * would not for 
worlds ' visit Lady So-and-So, and in 
the same breath entreat a friend to pro- 
cure them an invitation to the house of 
another more lucky acquaintance, who 
nevertheless passes her time less with 
the cardinal virtues than the seven 
deadly sins; I could almost laugh at 
poor Lady Charlotte's anxiety as to how 
her daughter is received ! As a clever 
old friend once said to me, 'It would be 
a farce if it were not a tragedy ' to 
see the fate of the pure and noble 
swayed (as far at least as worldly cir- 
cumstances go), by the impure and ig- 
noble ;' to see the better sort of women 
eagerly listening to them and believing 
them, instead of attempting to sift truth 
from falsehood on their own judgment. 
" It is true that ours is a ' fast ' day, 
and England, boastful as she always is 
about everything, has ceased to boast 
continually of her superior virtue as she 
used to do; (wincing a little, probably, 
at the retort which foreign nations might 
make on the subject.) She is content 
to admit that chance and certain com- 
mercial considerations run through that, 
as through every other channel of inte- 
rest belonging to her. The ups and 
downs, and apparent inequalities of jus- 
tice, do not trouble her, nor the agree- 
able certainty 

' That the rugged path of sinners 
Is greatly smoothed by giving dinners. ' 

"It is a hollow world, full of echoes; 
some call, and others listen, and then, 

Old Sir Douglas. 


like, the pigs in Scripture, they all run 
violently down a steep place, and are 
chcked with their own lies. 

"As to you, my dear Eichard, and 
yor.r comments on my 'tame doggish- 
ness' in Lady Charlotte's house, I 
advise you to beware of again touch- 
ing on that subject. If you cannot 
believe in virtue, at least keep your in- 
credulity to yourself. I remember you 
always had a mania for parting supposed 
lovers, as some old dowagers have a 
mania for bringing them together. I 
have not forgotten, when we were both 
at college, and a youth who had become 
entangled by a boyish passion, in a fit 
of mingled satiety and remorse left the 
companion he was with, in the dead of 
night without farewell or warning, to 
learn from the lesson which the deso- 
lation of next morning might teach 
what such entanglements are worth; 
the alacrity with which you undertook 
to reason her out of the possibility of 
re-union, and the pleasure it seemed to 
you to cut the slender thread of her 
hope on that subject. IS T or, in after- 
life, when a weak and profligate friend 
of maturer age had squabbled with a 
dancer who made a fool of him, how 
ingeniously you planned to crush the 
girl, and free him whether he wished it 
or no ; how serenely you boasted that 
you would work hard to make her seem 
only self-interested, and deliberately 
planned * to starve her out ' by per- 
suading the impresario of the theatre 
not to engage her, on the threat of 
getting her hissed. 

"Do not, I pray, exert your talents in 
the case of Lady .Ross and myself. Be 
satisfied that nothing can unite us, and 
that nothing shall part us. Endeavour 
to believe for once, in spite of the 
experience of your own and other lives, 
that there may be such a thing as a 
virtuous woman in the world, and a 
pure friendship ; even if that virtuous 
woman's name be the theme of lying 
gossip in the mouths of fools. As to 
my mother, tell her this from me and 
God forgive me if I word it too harshly: 
That admitting, as of course I do admit, 
that she has the strictest views of female 

morality, and generally acts upon them, 
/ consider it not only an error of judg- 
ment, but a crime, in this particular 
case, to aid in tormenting and insulting 
a defenceless and sorrowful woman, by 
appearing to confirm the evil judgment 
of strangers, when, in the depths of 
her own heart, she knows that she does 
not, and cannot believe Lady Eoss to 
have been an unchaste wife, but is 
avenging a dislike and resentment, 
grounded on a totally different cause ; 
and is in fact, as Mrs. Cregan says of 
many of her fashionable friends, ' glad 
to pretend to think ill of Gertrude ' to 
punish her for offences given (how 
involuntarily !) in more fortunate days. 
I have written to you at length on this 
subject, because I never intend to touch 
upon it again, nor to read anything you 
may w r rite upon it. If my mother does 
not choose to humour poor Lady 
Charlotte's nervous fancies, by calling 
on Lady Eoss, or chooses (as you pom- 
pously put it), to make but a single 
visit, in God's name let her stay 
away; but let her clearly understand, as 
regards me, that I discussed Lady 
Charlotte's wishes, because I thought it 
right; and whether I marry next week, 
or die a bachelor, that fact has no sort 
of connexion with my settled and un- 
alterable opinion of what it is right for 
her to do. And if ever I do marry, I 
should have no dearer wish at heart 
than that Gertrude Eoss should approve 
my choice, and remain to her life's end 
my wife's intimate companion and bosom 

" Your affectionate brother, 




THE first bitter blow, and the first pang 
of miserable disappointment in the 
apparent impossibility of present expla- 
nation with Sir Douglas, were over. 


Old Sir Douglas. 

He lived in the centre of those scenes 
of military suffering, and proud English 
endurance, which have made the war 
of the Crimea the most memorable of 
all modern events. Lorimer Boyd re- 
turned to his post at Vienna; and Ger- 
trude continued to reside in the deco- 
rated little home, which poor Lady 
Charlotte, when eulogizing it in former 
years, declared had belonged to " a 
bachelor of the other sex." 

Placed in what might be termed 
affluent circumstances, both by the 
generous directions of Sir Douglas and 
her own inheritance Gertrude em- 
ployed her time and thoughts as best 
she might in relieving the miseries of 
others. True, there was little ostenta- 
tion or publicity in what she did. Her 
name headed no ]ist of subscribers ; was 
conspicuous in no prospectus ; made 
itself the chief of no " movement " of 
real or imaginary reform. She did not 
even bind herself by a sort of nun's 
vow not to shop on Saturday, and 
register the vow in the newspapers for 
fear of backsliding. But all that others 
did who were much talked about, she 
did and was not talked about. Those 
general plans of the gentle and chari- 
table for emigration and education ; of 
help to the helpless, of succour to the 
sick, found her ready with heart and 
hand, and liberal purse. But often she 
had preceded, with steady work and 
entire success, in the same path of use- 
fulness where afterwards a procession of 
fair fellow-labourers followed, blowing 
shawms and trumpets in praise of their 
own goodness, and assuming to be 
pioneers in that path of progress where 
she had previously passed alone swiftly 
and silently, without a record, and 
without a boast. Often the meek, 
sad mouth could scarce forbear a 
melancholy smile when some one put 
before her the advantage of a scheme 
which she herself had sketched out 
and set on foot, and gave the credit 
of originating it to some brilliant Lady 
Bountiful of the hour, who was mar- 
shalling her forces under silken banners 
inscribed with her own name, and sweep- 
ing with them over the traces of Ger- 

trude's exertions, as the waves sweep 
over the sand. 

But steadily and calmly she pursued 
the road that led to the only fountain 
of content her grieved and restless heart 
could know. "When the ear beard 
her, it blest her ; " but she was heard 
and blessed, not at meetings of animated, 
gaily-dressed, luxurious women, leaning 
among cushions of embroidered silk, and 
setting down their porcelain teacups on 
inlaid tables but in the dismal and 
dank dwellings of the poor; by the 
beds of groaning inmates of hospitals ; 
in the dark night of the despairing and 
fallen; or among wailing children of 
evil parents, whose infancy, unaided, 
would be but a bitter preface to a bitterer 

There was no lack of news of her 
husband to satisfy the only other 
craving her heart admitted. All that 
he did, and how he looked, and 
how nobly he bore the miserable out- 
ward and visible suffering which so 
many bore likewise heroically around 
him, was easy to learn and to hear. 
Only the inner thought the dear and 
blessed communion of soul to soul in 
letters of husband and wife that was a 
dark want in her life, and kept her 
pinched and wan in countenance, and 
starved at heart. Lorimer constantly 
wrote from Vienna, and his letters 
were her chief comfort. He did not 
dwell on the one topic that was for ever 
uppermost in her mind; he rather 
sought to draw her from it to general 
and wider interests. The world slan- 
dered her for his sake, as it had slan- 
dered her for Kenneth's sake ; but she 
neither knew, nor would have heeded 
it if known. It remained for Lady 
Charlotte to fume and fret over these 
injustices. Those who are enduring a 
great sorrow are very insensible to mor- 

But in vain did poor Lady Charlotte, 
on being told by some cruel reporter 
that her cousin the Dowager had said 
she believed " an infamous correspond- 
ence " was still carried on between her 
son Lorimer and that bad young crea- 
ture, Lady Eoss, declare, with many 

Old Sir Douglas. 


tears and agitated pulls at her curl, that 
they were " quite harmless letters, full 
of different things that didn't signify." 
Her declaration went for nothing ; though 
in trith the letters of this wicked couple 
were all much in the style of the samples 
that follow. 




" MY DEAR GERTRUDE, I waited at 
Dover, fearing to miss my letters. Dou- 
glas is well. The mismanagement of 
supplies, &c. is fearful. His energy and 
habiu of methodical arrangement have 
been of use. But he writes to me, ' I wish 
we nay not begin by a great disaster ; 
though it is something to know that no 
amount of disaster will discourage English 
soldi 3rs.' I passed through Paris on my 
way here. All as usual. No one would 
guess aught was going on anywhere that 
was tragedy instead of farce, except for 
the model wooden ' hut for soldiers/ 
erected in the Tuileries garden. That 
stands like the skull cup at Byron's 
wass;iil festivals, in the midst of the 
daily rout of pleasure. 

" J. employed my day at Dover in riding 
over to Walmer, to see the great Duke's 
nest. The housekeeper told me she 
had lived with the Duke twenty years ; 
but she looked like the good fairy or 
witc]i in a pantomime, always acted by 
a young girl. She professed unbounded 
admiration for her master, and said she 
'nearly fainted' the other day, from 
listening to abuse of him from some 
blackguard visitor at Walmer. She was 
' to that degree flurried that she was 
obliged to go and sit on one of the cannon 
in the front garden, and walk on the 
bastion to recover herself; besides having 
the gentleman turned owtf' (a measure which 
should at once have restored her to 

" Here all is (outwardly) as careless as 
in Paris. Mrs. Cregan dined at Ester- 
hazy 's the other day: Gortschakoff, 
Man feeuffel, Alvensleben, Figuelmont, 
Stac!celberg, and others present. Gort- 

schakoff affected a sort of jocund plea- 
santry and careless good fellowship, 
painful and unnatural, reminding one 
of the stories of Frenchmen in the 
Revolution, who rouged and sat down 
to play cards, till the cart came to take 
them to be guillotined. Not that any 
ill fate, beyond failure, can await the 
smirking Eussian; but because of the 
striking contrast between heavy events 
and light behaviour. Manteuffel was 
grave and grim. 

" Abbas Pasha is dead. The chief 
delight of Abbas, when invalided, was 
to be drawn about in a wheeled chair by 
six of his prime ministers, harnessed 
very literally ' to the car of state.' Con- 
ceive our English Cabinet occupied in so 
practical a mode of showing their de- 
votion to their sovereign ! 

" The Austrian Government have 
quartered the troops comfortably in the 
chateaux of the nobility. No one dares 
to complain. I saw one of the ousted 
aristocrats yesterday, murmuring gently, 
like a sea-shell put on" dry sand, at 
having no house to go to. 

" I saw also a humbler sorrow ; at the 
door of great Gothic St. Stephen's, a, 
little weeping raw recruit parting with 
a little weeping sacristan, looking very 
lank and mournful in his black gown, 
and both their arms twined round each 
other's neck. As they stood there, and 
my eye measured that small patch and 
blot of human sorrow against the great 
height of the solid church, rising up 
into the cold grey sky as if it never 
could fall into ruins, my pity departed, 
and I asked myself if any one's misery 
mine, theirs, or any other could 
possibly signify. 

* l You seel am getting bitter. Nothing 
tries the amiable spirit like isolation. 
It is easy to pray in the temple ; but it 
requires a saint to pray in the wilder- 


" I ought to be quite cheerful. My last 
volume of poems was a great success. 
I am constantly solicited to send my 
' autograph ' to persons I do not know. 
They send me postage stamps accord- 
ing to the old nurse's saying, <A 
penny for your thoughts;' but why, 

Old Sir Douglas. 


because I can write poetry, should I be 
set to write copies 1 A beautiful young 
American lady (at least she tells me she 
is young and beautiful) has written for 
a lock of my hair. I answered that I 
hoped she would not think me selfish, 
but though I had read in my early 
lessons the urgent and hopeful line 

4 Oh ! give relief, and Heaven will bless your 


Heaven had not so blessed my store as 
to stock me with superfluous hair; in 
fact, that I was getting rather bald. I 
hope this may moderate her enthusiasm ; 
but there is no saying. 

" Write me of your health. Re- 
member me to Lady Charlotte. In 
spite of the excitement here, in spite of 
wars and rumours of wars, I feel as if 
nothing on earth were of importance. 
The Austrians hate us ; the Eussians 
hope to outwit us. All is flat, stale, 
and unprofitable, and I care for nothing 
but music and rest. 

" Ever yours, 


Gertrude's answer was more earnest, 
if not more cheerful. She wondered, 
in the midst of her own sorrow, at the 
gloom of his spirit. He seemed to her 
to have so much that should make life 
easy. The interest of a career ; no 
actual grief; the sure prospect of title 
and fortune. So we judge the outside 
appearance of the lives even of those we 
love, the painted porcelain of the cup, 
which holds, it may be, a most bitter 
draught. That for years his cup had 
been bitter on her account, and that 
now daily and hourly he felt only a 
different bitterness in that gnawing of 
the heart that comes when those who 
are deeply beloved suffer, and we cannot 
aid them, and those we have made demi- 
gods of, as he had made of his boyhood's 
Mend, Sir Douglas, do something that 
utterly disenchants us, all this was a 
sealed book to Gertrude. 

" DEAR LORIMER BOYD," she wrote 
" I am as well as I can expect to be 
under the wearing pressure of continual 
anxiety ; and my dearest mother, I 

think, frets less about me than she 
did, and looks to some possible explana- 
tion at some time or other, which is a 
great relief, as her sorrow vexed me so 

" I am occupied from morning to 
night I humbly hope usefully occupied 
and I strive not to dream waking 
dreams, or let my thoughts depress my 
nerves as they used to do. Neil is well 
and happy at Eton, and looking forward 
to his holidays at Glenrossie with such 
joy, that I trust the very necessity of 
seeming to share it will enable me to 
bear the going there under such different, 
such painful circumstances ! Let me 
be thankful that at least I shall be with 
him. I was much interested in all you 
told me, but sorry to see the * gloom- 
days/ as we used to call them, have 
come back to haunt you. As to this 
war and its causes, and the chances of 
its continuance, I will not fear. When 
I see how completely and nearly equally 
men's opinions are divided on great 
questions; men of the same average 
calibre of intellect, of the same class of 
interests, under the influence of the 
same habits and opportunities for judg- 
ment, I feel that nothing can be done 
so rapidly either for good or evil, as 
would suffice to satisfy an enthusiast, or 
create rational terror. I believe God 
left that balance of opinion, lest, in our 
world of restlessness and vanity of 
power, there should be a perpetual suc- 
cession of violent changes. We ebb 
and flow with a tide, and whether the 
waves come in with a roar or a creep, 
they dash to nearly the same distance. 
Only one thing shines clear as the light 
of day to me that those who are born 
to a certain position, or who are gifted 
with certain talents, are bound to exert 
themselves for what they conceive to be 
the general good, according to their 
honest opinion, whether that be to stay 
or to forward the work in hand. !No 
man has a right, in a position either 
hereditary or obtained which places 
him a little above his fellows, with 
leisure to gaze on the perspective of 
their destiny, sluggishly to turn his 
head away from his appointed task a 

Old Sir Douglas. 


task which by circumstance he is as 
much, born to as the labourer's son to 
the plough. I have heard women say 
the} did not comprehend the feeling of 
patriotism ; I think I do, not so much 
for my country as for my countrymen. 
I bolieve in the full measure of good 
which might be done ; I believe in the 
full value of individual exertion. It 
has been my dream from the first, and 
will be my dream to the last, to watch 
the lives that leave their tracks of light 
behind, like ships on the waters. 
Though the wave close over the light, 
the tracks once explored will be crossed 
again even to another hemisphere, and 
the influence of one man's mind may 
outlive not only his existence, but the 
very memory of his name. Lorimer, 
dear friend, you are one of those who 
are called upon to act, and to make use 
of your worldly position and abilities, 
not only for yourself, but for the future 
of others ; of others unknown, and with- 
out claim upon you beyond being God's 
less fortunate children. Do not say 
you care only for rest in a time like 
the present ! 

" Though you cannot aid England 
and the cause of justice among nations, 
sword in hand, like my beloved Douglas, 
you are bound to give your thoughts 
and energies to her service. Shall I 
hope you pretend carelessness, as you 
say Gortschakoff pretends cheerfulness 
and cordiality? 

" My heart is made very sore by the 
abuse of men in power here ; who are, as 
I believe, doing their very utmost to 
retrieve mistakes and alleviate suffering. 
You will say that such mistakes ought 
never to have been made ; but that is 
over. Party spirit runs high in England. 
At all times it is an error : at this time 
of trial it is a sin. I will match your 
story of the obscure sorrow of St. 
Stephen's church with one of obscure 
and tranquil heroism, more difficult than 
that of the battle-field. One of the 
sick persons whose case lately came 
before me a common labourer was 
pronounced by the doctor to be merely 
sutf Bring from extreme debility and want 
of nourishment. Then came inquiries 

into his work and wages, &c., and at 
last it came out that he owed fifteen 
shillings, and, to pay this debt, he had 
gone on half rations for weeks, having 
a large family to keep, and being appre- 
hensive he never would be able to spare 
it in any other way. 1 Does not the 
patient self-denial smite one to the heart? 
the indulged heart that grows too often 
to look upon mere fancies as necessaries 
in our own class ! And does not the 
strong resolution of the man show 
brightly in the dark story ? I see him, 
in my mind's eye, going home at the 
end of his day's work hungry and tired, 
with his good honest purpose stronger 
than all the temptation of fatigue and 
want of refreshment, and at last falling 
ill. Remember, it never would have 
been known but for that. These are 
the obscure heroisms of life, and God's 
book is full of them, though they pass 
away from, earth like the risen dew of 
the morning. Oh ! Lorimer, do not 
say you care for nothing but music and 

" And forgive me, old teacher of my 
pleasant days of girlhood, when my 
dear father shared with me the advan- 
tage of your companionship, if I am 
grown bold enough to seem to whisper a 
lesson in my turn. I miss you daily 
here. The day does not pass that we 
do not speak of you, mamma and I. 

" Yours affectionately, 


So wrote and thought the wife of 
absent Sir Douglas. But what of that ? 
Dowager Clochnaben fiercely denounced 
her for her many intrigues ; the ladies 
who were merely imitating or following 
her in active good works, spoke evil of 
her as they looked through their lists 
of charity subscriptions ; friends of her 
" pleasant days of girlhood " either 
cut her, or made a favour of calling at 
the house " for poor old Lady Charlotte's 
sake ;" and THE WORLD, whose opinion, 
as Richard Clochnaben justly wrote to 
his brother, was what we ought 
chiefly to bear in mind, pronounced 
that she was a bad woman ; that Lorimer 


Old Sir Douglas. 

Boyd was her new lover; and that it 
was a pity a man of so much ability 
should suffer himself to be cajoled, and 
his name mixed up with that of a 
creature more dangerous and subtle 
than any dancer, or Anonyma, or person 
belonging to an inferior class ; inasmuch 
as her education and accomplishments 
(of which she was so inordinately vain) 
gave her a certain hold over a man 
accustomed to good society and fas- 
tidious as to his choice of companions. 

And the more religious and church- 
going of her acquaintance, especially the 
more intimate visitors at Clochnaben 
Castle, and such as had approved the 
forbidding little Jamie Carmichael to 
attend school, because he had gathered 
blackberries on the Sabbath-day, and 
those who had been most keen in ad- 
miration of Mr. James Frere's sermons, 
observed to each other that it was "just 
a very disgrace and shame to think of, 
that such a creature should be permitted 
to hold her head up in any decent place 
of resort ; and they hoped God would 
visit her with His righteous judgments, 
both in this world and the world to 


NEIL'S holidays were come ; and 
himself, bright and beautiful, and active 
as a roe, was back again in the glens 
and hills of Glenrossie. 

" It's trying to be here without papa," 
he had said, the first day ; and Ger- 
trude's fortitude was not proof against 
the gush of sudden tears that burst 
from her eyes at the speech. But 
the boy knew nothing ; only that his 
father was " at the wars," as Richard 
Coeur de Lion and many other great 
heroes had been (including Hannibal), 
and as his father had frequently been 
before. Vague, and without much per- 
sonal anxiety, were Neil's thoughts : for 
what boy is ever depressed by thoughts 
of danger 1 Rather he pitied his mother 
for her apparent lowness and fear about 
this glorious profession of arms, and 

secretly wished he were old enough to 
be fighting by his father's side in the 
distant Crimea, when the fighting 
should begin. 

But gradually some strange uneasy 
sensation crept into that boyish heart, 
and lay coiled there like a tiny snake. 
His mother seemed to get no letters ; 
she was so agitated and eager one day 
when he himself got one from his father. 
She was on such odd terms with his 
Aunt Alice, who, though she withdrew 
to Clochnaben Castle during the major 
part of his holidays, yet chose to assert 
the privilege of residence for a few days 
at the beginning. During those few 
days his mother had said she was too 
ill to dine down stairs. They scarcely 
spoke. The fiery blood of his pas- 
sionate race bubbled up in the young 
breast. He wrote to Sir Douglas : " My 
mother seems wretchedly ill ; she is 
grown very thin. I thought it was all 
fright about you; but I think now 
something worries her. I think Aunt 
Alice vexes her. If I was sure, I would 
hate Aunt Alice with all the power of 
my heart ; I beg you to turn her out of 
the castle. They say Christians should 
not hate at all, but whoever vexes my 
mother would be to me like a murderer 
I ought to kill. So you ask her, dearest 
and best of fathers, what is the matter, 
and let me know." 

Poor Sir Douglas ! How in the 
midst of the snow and dreary scenes of 
the Crimea, his brow bent and his 
heart beat over the school-boy letter. 
His Neil ! his Neil ; to whom, " who- 
ever vexed his mother would be like a 
murderer whom, he ought to kill ! " His 

And Neil in his innocent wrath 
made Aunt Alice so uncomfortable with 
haughty looks and stinging words, on 
the mere chance and supposition that 
she was distasteful company for his 
mother, that she was glad to beat a 

Over the hills to Clochnaben went 
Alice. And before the servants who were 
waiting at dinner, as she helped herself 
to some very hard unripe nectarines 
grown on the stern wall of the Clochna- 

Old Sir Douglas. 


ben garden, she said she came, u because 
it wuuld not have been proper for her to 
remiin while that unfortunate woman 
was permitted these interviews with her 
son. Of course, if there had been a 
daughter, such a difficulty could never 
have arisen : she would not have been 
allowed to see a daughter." 

.And the scanty train of servants in 
the service of the dowager discussed 
the matter rigidly, and expressed their 
horror at the pollution of Glenrossie by 
Gertrude's return, and the impossibility 
of " Miss Alice" remaining in such tainted 

Only Eichard Clochnaben's French 
vales smiled superior, and said such 
things were not much thought of in 
Paris, and that he wondered " dans ce 
pays barbare/" that they were not more 

Bat there was no doubt of her guilt 
in tlie minds of any of the parties so 
discussing in the servants' hall. 

It was in the very midst of Neil's 
vacation that an event occurred which 
profoundly impressed him, and caused 
Gertrude fresh agitation. 

He was walking with his mother to 
the Fpot where he had given rendezvous 
to tlie old keeper, when he was to cross 
the hills to get a little better shooting. 
For Neil was getting very grand ; and 
talked of good sport, and bad sport, with 
a beautiful toss of his beardless little 
chin ; and the keeper was wild with 
admiration of " siccan a spirity laddie " 
as his young master. 

Ho was holding his mother's hand, 
in spite of his sport and his assumption 
of manliness, when suddenly they heard 
a little plaintive cry ; and a childish 
and very plaintive voice said, " Well, 
ye needna' beat me, I can get enough 
of that at home ! " in a half Scotch, half 
foreign accent, very peculiar. 

Neil leapt through the heather, and 
down the hollow from whence the 
sound proceeded, and his mother stood 
on tlie rough broken ground above, full 
of granite stones. A sharp cut with 
Alice's riding- whip descended on the 
shoulder of a little girl, as he advanced. 

J* Get back to your kennel, then," he 

heard a voice say, in a tone as sharp as 
her whip. " How dare you trespass so 
far on the border ? Get back to Torrie- 
burn ! " and apparently the stroke was 
about to be repeated, when Neil darted 
forward, and taking the pony's rein close 
to the bit, drove it back so as to make 
it rear on its haunches. 

'' How dare you, Aunt Alice V said he, 
breathlessly and passionately. " How 
dare you strike any one here ? " 

Alice sat her pony firmly : cowardice 
was not among her vices. 

" Oh yes ; you'd better let her come 
further still ; you'd better have her up 
at Glenrossie ! " she said, with a bitter 

"Why not?" said the boy, as he 
turned to look at the little girl, who 
stood softly chafing with one little thin 
hand the place on her shoulder where 
she had been struck, and holding 
flowers close against her dress with the 

" I wanted the white heather ; I 
didn't know I wasn't to climb farther," 
she said ; and then she broke down, and 
throwing the white heather passionately 
from her, she burst into tears, and 
sobbed as if her heart would break, 
covering her little pale face with both 

The boy's heart beat hard ; he cast a 
look of fury on Aunt Alice and her 
pony, and strode towards the pale girl. 

Lady Eosp also glided towards them. 
The child uncovered her face as Alice 
rode away, and looked up with won- 
dering eyes at Gertrude. 

" Oh ! I know you," she said, in a 
tender tone-; " I know you ! I've been 
very 'lone since you all went. Take me 
away from them Oh ! take me away!" 
And she clutched at the folds of Ger- 
trude's dress with the little thin white 

"Effie!" was all Lady Eoss could 
say, and she sat down on the heather 
brae and wept. 

" Effie ! " said Neil, wonderingly ; and 
then he smiled. Such a smile of pity, 
love, and wonder, as the angels might 

He had not at first recognised her. 


Old Sir Douglas. 

She had grown tall and slim, and her 
face was hidden by the long locks of 
her soft neglected hair. 

" Go, dear Neil, go," said Lady Eoss. 
"I will talk to her. I will see her 
home. You cannot stay; go with the 
keeper. I will tell you when I come 
home. Go, my darling." 

With a wistful lingering look, the 
boy turned to go stood still came 
back, and said hesitatingly : 

"But, mother, if it is Effie, mayn't 
she come with us 1 " 

"No, my boy," answered poor Ger- 
trude, in great agitation. "No. Go 
now, and I will see you after your 

And Neil went. But before he turned 
again to depart he smiled at Effie, and 
Effie returned it with a little trembling 
sort of moonlight smile of her own ; 
her long pale chestnut hair held back a 
little by her taper fingers, as though to 
make her vision of him the clearer, and 
her wide, wild, plaintive eyes fixed on 
his face. 

That look haunted Neil, boy though 
he was, and he had " bad sport " that 
day ; if bad sport consists in missing 
almost every bird he aimed at. 

Gertrude stood silently gazing at the 
little creature. Memories welled up in 
her heart, and her eyes filled again with 

This was Kenneth's poor little girl, 
Kenneth's only child, Effie ! Poor little 
lone deserted Effie. 

"Oh take me home with you to 
Glenrossie ! " repeated the pleading 
voice ; " they beat me so, and I am so 

" Why do they beat you, dear ? " 

" They beat me for everything. If 
I'm not quick, and if I'm tired, and if I 
don't find eggs, and if I'm frightened in 
the night." 

" What frightens you in the night, 
my child?" And Gertrude drew the 
little trembling creature to her, and 
sat down with her in the long heather. 

The child leaned up against her 
bosom and clung to her. 

" I don't know. I'm scared. They 
told me if I did anything wrong, the 

BLACK DOUGLAS should come in the 
night and take me tall, oh, so tall ! 
and tramping through the heather, with 
only bones for his feet." 

And the child shuddered, and pressed 
closer to Gertrude. 

" Has he ever come ? " 

" No ! " said the little girl, with a 
sudden look of wonder. 

" No, Effie, nor ever will come ; it's 
a story, an ignorant, foolish story. 
There is no such thing ! Do you think 
God would let a poor little child be 
tormented by such a shocking thing 
when she did not mean to do wrong? 
Do you say your prayers, Effie ? " 

"Oh, yes!" 


" In the morning I say them on my 
knees, and in the night I say some with 
my head under the bedclothes." 

" Do you think there are two Gods, 
Effie ? One for the day and another 
for the night?" 

" No ; one God one God ! " said the 
child, faltering. 

" Are you afraid in the day ? " 

" No ! Oh no ! " said the little girl 
with a wild smile. "I see the birds, 
and the deer, and the waking things, 
and the blue in the sky, and I'm not 
afraid at all." 

" Then do you think the God who 
watches in the day forsakes the world 
at night, Effie ? forsakes all His creatures 
asleep for it is not only you, you know, 
Effie, who lie sleeping, but all those you 
have named the poor little birds in 
their nests, and the shy deer among the 
fern, and the fish in the smooth lake : 
do you think as soon as DARK comes He 
gives them all over to be tormented and 
scared 1 " 

The child was silent. 

" Effie, God is a good and merciful 
God, and He watches the night as He 
watches the day, and you are as safe in 
the dark under His care as in this 
bright, cloudless day. He is all mercy 
and all goodness." 

Children startle their elders some- 
times by questions too profound for 
answer. Effie gave a deep, shivering sigh, 
and said in a tone of grave reflection, 

Old Sir Douglas. 


** Then why did He let me be ? " 
" What do you mean, Effie 1 " 
" Why, if He is merciful and good, 
does He let me be in the world at all ? 
Nobody cares for me, nobody wants me, 
and I don't want to be here ; but God 
puts me here. Oh ! if I were but away 
in heaven ! " and she lifted her eyes 
with miserable yearning to the blue 
sky. " I'm a scrap of a creature, and 
it's seldom I feel well ; I've a pain 
almost always in my side, and that's 
what makes me slow, and then they 
beat me ; and there's such strong, happy 
children die : a good many have died 
since you were here, Lady Eoss, and I 
go and look at their graves in the 
burial-ground on Sundays ; and that's 
when I say to myself, Why should I be 
at all ? " 

"Effie, it is God's will that we 
should be all of us ; and be sure that 
He has some task for us to do, or He 
would not put us here. But He does 
not torment us. Promise me if you 
wake in the. night to think of that, and 
to think of me, and to think that we 
are sitting here in the sunshine, talking 
of His goodness." 

" I'll try ; but oh ! in the night I'll 
be scared with the thought of the 
Black Douglas!" 

- " No, my child. Think of me, not 
of the Black Douglas, and say this 
little rhyme : 

'' ' Lord, I lay me down to sleep ! 
Do Thou my soul in mercy keep ; 
And if I die before I wake, 
Bo Thou my soul in mercy take.' 

That rhyme, Effie, was told me by a 
wise clever man, who always said it 
from the day when he was a little 
child, and you must always say it all 
your life long for love of me." 

" Oh ! I do love you," said the pallid 
creature, creeping close, as though she 
would creep into her very heart. " I do 
love you, and please take me home with 

"I cannot, Effie," said Gertrude, 
sadly. "And now I must go my 
way, and you must go yours. Good- 

No. 93. VOL. xvi. 

" Won't you come with me never so 
little on the way 1 ?" 

Gertrude looked down on the large 
pleading eyes moist with tears. She 
took the slight form in her arms and 

"Some day, little Effie, some day, 
perhaps, we may be all together ; but 
not now, not now ! God bless and 
protect you ! God bless you ! " 

And so saying, and weeping still, 
Lady Ross turned to go homewards. 
She paused at a turn on the hills, and 
looked back. The little creature had 
sat wearily down, her hands clasped 
round her slim knees, looking out with 
her large sad eyes at the light of the 
declining day. 

Was she again thinking, " Why 
should I be ? " Kenneth's deserted 
child ? 



THE mystery of Effie not being allowed 
to return with them troubled Neil more 
than all that had disturbed him before, 
and his disquieted soul was none the more 
composed when his mother, clasping 
both her arms round him, and leaning 
her head on his breast, gave the falter- 
ing explanation, "Your cousin Ken- 
neth has displeased your father, very 
much, and he would not wish Effie to 
be at the castle." 

" Oh, every one says Cousin Kenneth 
is not a good man, and he gets drunk, 
and all that," replied Neil ; " but what 
has Effie done ? " 

And the boy roamed up and down, 
and watched for the little face, pale 
almost as the white heather she had 
come to seek; but she had vanished 
away from the near landscape, and into 
the distance he was forbidden to follow 
her. And so the holidays ended. 

Once only had Gertrude herself at- 
tempted further intercourse with the 
banished child. It was but a few days 
after their discourse about her terrors by 
night, and Gertrude's tender heart was 


Old Sir Douglas. 

haunted by the memory of the pleading 
eyes. She thought she would brave 
the pain for herself, and go and see 
Maggie, at the New Mill, as they called 
the place Old Sir Douglas had allotted 
them, and there speak to her of the 
fragile flower left to her rough guidance. 
But Maggie's ignorant wrath was 
roused by the very sight of Gertrude. 
Fixed was her notion, that if Gertrude 
had wedded with her son all would have 
gone well. Gertrude had blighted all 
their lives. As to Erne, she sullenly 
defended her own right to manage her 
which way she pleased. She was " her 
ain bairn, and bairns maun be trained 
and taught." She'd been "beathersel' 
when she was a bairn, and was never a 
pin the waur may be the better." And 
as the meek low voice of Gertrude 
pleaded on, Maggie seemed roused to 
positive exasperation, and burst out 
at last, " Lord's sake, Lady Ross, will 
ye no gie ower ? Ye'll just gar me beat 
her double, to quiet my heart. Gang 
back to yere ain bairn, and leave Effie 
to me. It's little gude ye can be till 
her, noo that ye've ruined her fayther, 
and thrawn me "amaist daft, wi' yere 
fashions doin's. Gang awa' wi' ye ! 

And suiting the action to the word, 
Maggie waved her tempestuous white 
arms angrily in the air, much in the 
same manner as if she had desired to 
chase a flock of turkeys from her poul- 
try yard ; and, turning with a sudden 
flounce into the house, and perceiving 
Erne leaning in the doorway, she ad- 
ministered a resounding slap on the 
delicate shoulder ; for no particular 
reason that could be guessed, unless, 
according to her own phrase, it was 
" to quiet her heart." 

From that time for two years more, 
Gertrude never saw Kenneth's child ; 
but at the end of the second year a 
chance interview again gave her an 
opportunity of judging the effect of 
Maggie's education on her mind, and 
of the lapse of time upon her beauty. 

Slimmer, taller, more graceful than 
ever her large eyes seeming larger still 
from a sort of sick hollowness in her 

cheek Effie came swiftly up to her as 
she stood one day gazing at the Hut, 
waiting for Neil, but dreaming of other 
times. How altered Effie seemed ! 

Neil, too, had altered. He was be- 
ginning to be quite a tall youth; and 
his bold bright brow had a look of 
angry sadness on it ; for do what they 
would, his keen soul had ferreted out 
the existence of some painful secret; 
and, driven by his mother's silence to 
perpetual endeavours to discover for him- 
self what had occurred in his family, he 
heard at last from Ailie's adder tongue 
the sharp sentence " Good gracious, 
boy, do ye not know that your father 
and mother have quarrelled and parted 1 ? " 

Quarrelled and parted ! His idolized 
father : his angel mother ! 

Still, not taking in the full measure 
of misfortune, he answered fiercely, " If 
they've quarrelled, Aunt Alice, it is that 
you've made mischief. I'm certain of 

"You'd better ask your mother 
whether that's it," sneered Alice, and 
whisked away from him to her tower- 

But Neil would not ask his mother, 
Only he kissed her with more fervent 
tenderness that night, and held her hand 
in his, and looked into her eyes, and 
ruminated on what should be done to 
any one who harmed a hair of that 
precious mother's lovely head; and 
from that hour he doubled his obedience 
and submission to her will, watching the 
very slightest of her inclinations or 
fancies about him, and forestalling, when 
he could, every wish she seemed to 

And he prayed that young lad oh ! 
how fervently he prayed, in his own 
room, by many a clear moonlight and 
murky midnight, that God would bless 
his mother, and that if IF Aunt Ailie 
spoke the truth, God would reconcile 
those dear parents, and bring back joy 
again to their household. 

But to his mother he said nothing. 

And when she stood by the Hut that 
day thinking of him, thinking of all the 
past, that darkest of shadows, the 
knowledge that he knew there was some 

Old Sir Douglas. 


quarrel between his parents had not 
passed over her heart. 

Standing there, then, in her mood of 
thoughtful melancholy, her soul far away 
in tl.e dismal camp by the Black Sea 
in the tents of men who were friends 
and comrades of the husband who had 
renounced her the light flitting for- 
wards of Efne was not at first per- 
ceive d. 

But the young girl laid her little 
hand on. the startled arm, and whispered 
breathlessly " Oh, forgive my coming ! 
but such joy has happened to me ; I 
wanted so sore to tell you ! I've rowed 
across the lake in the coble alone, just 
to say to you the words of the song, 
'He's comiri* again.' Papa's coming! 
He's to be back directly, and I'm to go 
from the New Mill to Torrieburn ! Oh ! 
I could dance for joy ! I'll not be 
frightened when I sleep under the same 
roof again with papa. It's all joy, joy, 
joy, now, for ever ! " 



BUT it was not joy. Kenneth returned 
a drmken wreck ; overwhelmed with 
debfc he had no means of discharging ; 
baffle d and laughed at by the Spanish 
wife he had no means of controlling or 
punching ; ruined in health by syste- 
matic- and habitual intemperance. He 
seemed, even to his anxious little 
daug iter, a strange frightful vision of 
his iormer self. His handsome face 
was < ither flushed with the purple and 
unwholesome flush of extreme excess, 
or p Hid almost to death with exhaus- 
tion. He wept for slight emotion ; he 
ravec and swore on slight provocation ; 
he fa inted and sank after slight fatigue. 
He was a ruined man ! The first, 
second, and third consultation on the 
subject of his affairs only confirmed the 
lawyer's and agent's opinion that he 
must sell Torrieburn, if he desired to 
live on any income, or pay a single 

Sell Tgrrieburn ! It was a bitter 

pill to swallow ; but it must be taken, 
Torrieburn was advertised. Torrieburn 
was to be disposed of by " public 

The morning of that disastrous day 
Kenneth was saved from much pain by 
being partially unconscious of the busi- 
ness that was transacting. He had been 
drinking for days, and when that day 
that fatal day dawned, he was still 
sitting in his chair, never having been 
to bed all night, his hair tangled and 
matted, his eyes bloodshot, his face as 
pale as ashes. 

With a gloomy efTort at recollection, 
he looked round at Effie, who was. 
crouched in a corner of the room 
watching him, like a young fawn among 
the bracken. 

" Do you remember what day it is, 
child ? " he said, in a harsh, hoarse 

" Oh, Papa !" said the little maiden, 
" do not think of sorrowful things. 
Come away ; come out over the hills, 
and think no more of what is to happen 
here. Come away." 

To the last, in spite of all his foul 
offences against that generous heart, 
Kenneth had somehow dreamed he 
would be rescued at the worst by his 
uncle. He was not rescued. But at 
the eleventh hour there came an 
order from Sir Douglas that Torrieburn 
was to be bought in bought at the 
extreme price that might be bid for it, 
and settled on Kenneth's daughter and 
her heirs by entail. 

" Come away ! " said the plaintive 
young voice, and Kenneth left the 
house that had been his own and his- 
father's, and went out a stripped and 
homeless man over the hills. His head 
did not get better : it got worse. He 
swayed to and fro as he climbed the 
hills ; he pressed onward with the gait of 
a staggering, drunken, delirious wretch, 
as he was. He looked back from the 
hill, at Torrieburn smiling in the late 
autumnal sun, and wept as Boabdil 
wept, when he looked back at the fair 
lost city of Granada ! 

No taunting voice upbraided his tears ; 
no proud virago spoke, like Boabdil's 

R 2 


Old Sir Douglas. 

mother, of the weakness that had 
wrecked him, or the folly that made 
all, irrevocable loss, irrevocable despair. 

The gentle child of his reckless mar- 
riage followed with her light footsteps 
as he strode still upwards and upwards. 
Panting and weary, she crouched down 
by his side when at length he flung 
himself, face downwards, on the earth. 
The slender little fingers touched his 
hot forehead with their pitying touch. 
The small cool lips pressed his burning 
cheek and hot eyelids with tiny kisses 
of consolation. 

"Oh! Papa, come home again, or 
come to the new mill ; to Grand- 
mamma Maggie ! You are tired ; you 
are cold ; don't stay here on the hills ; 
come to the New Mill ; come !" 

But Kenneth heeded her not. With 
a wild delirious laugh, he spoke and 
muttered to himself: sang, shouted, 
and blasphemed ; blasphemed, shouted, 
and sang. 

The little girl looked despairingly 
around her, as the cold mist settled on 
the fading mountains, clothing all in a 
ghost-like veil. " Come away, Papa ! " 
was still her vain earnest cry. " Come 
away, and sit by the good fire at the 
New Mill. Don't stay here !" 

In vain ! The mist grew thicker and 
yet more chill, but Kenneth sat rocking 
himself backwards and forwards, taking 
from time to time long draughts from 
his whiskey-flask, and singing defiant 
snatches of songs he had sung with 
boon-companions long ago. At length 
he seemed to get weary : weary, and 
drowsy ; and Effie, fainting with fatigue, 
laid her poor little dishevelled head 
down on his breast, and sank into a 
comfortless slumber. 

Both lay resting on the shelterless 
hills ; that drunken wretched man, and 
the innocent girl-child. And the pale 
moon Struggled through the mist, and 
tinged the faces of the sleepers with a 
yet more pallid light. 

So they lay till morning ; and when 
morning broke, the mist was thicker yet 
on lake and mountain. You could not 
have seen through its icy veil, no, not 
the distance of a few inches. 

Effie woke, chilled to the very mar- 
row of her bones. 

Her weak voice echoed the tones of 
the night before, with tearful earnest- 

11 Oh, Papa, come home ! or come to 
the good fire burning at the New Mill. 
Oh, Papa, come home come home ! " 

As she passionately reiterated the 
request, she once more pressed her 
fervent lips to the sleeping drunkard's 

What vague terror was it, that thrilled 
her soul at that familiar contact 1 What 
was there, in the stiff, half-open mouth, 
the eyes that saw no light, the ear that 
heard no sound, that even to that inno- 
cent creature who had never seen death, 
spoke of its unknown mystery, and 
paralysed her soul with fear 1 A wild 
cry such as might be given by a 
wounded animal burst from Erne's 
throat ; and she turned to flee from the 
half-understood dread, to seek assistance 
for her father, her arms outspread 
before her, plunging through the mist 
down the hill they had toiled to ascend 
the night before. As she staggered for- 
ward through the thick cold cloud, she 
was conscious of the approach of some- 
thing meeting her ; panting heavily, as 
she was herself breathing; struggling up- 
wards, as she was struggling downwards ; 
it might be a hind or a wild stag or a 
human being but at all events it was 
LIFE, and behind was DEATH, so Effie 
still plunged on ! She met the ascend- 
ing form; her faint eyes saw, as in a 
holy vision, the earnest beautiful face of 
Neil, strained with wonder and excite- 
ment ; and with a repetition of the wild 
cry she had before given, she sank into 
his suddenly clasping arms in a deadly 
swoon of exhaustion and terror. 

The keeper was with Neil. He found 
Kenneth where he lay ; lifted the hand- 
some head, and looked in the glazed eye. 

" Gang hame, sir, and send assist- 
ance," was all he said. " Will I help ye 
to carry wee Missie ? " 

"No no. No," exclaimed Neil, as he 
wound his strenuous young arms round 
the slender fairy form of his wretched 
little cousin. " Trust me, I'll- get Effie 

In the Shadow. 245 

safe down to Torrieburn, and I'll send ing in his ears, Neil made his way as 

men up to help Cousin Kenneth to best he could, with lithe activity, down 

com 3 down too. Is he very drunk?" the well-known slopes of the mountain, 

" Gude save us, sir ; ye'll need to clasping ever closer and closer to his 

send twa ' stout hearts for a stour brae;' boyish breast the light figure with long, 

for I'm thinking Mr. Kenneth's seen the damp dishevelled hair of his poor little 

last o' the hills. Ye'll need just to send cousin Effie. 
men to fetch THE BODY." m . 

And with this dreadful sentence beat- lo contmu <*- 


HERE I am with my head dropped low on your grave; the sky 
Is cloudless, pitiless blue ; a desolate quiet is shed 
Over the face of all, like the passionless, blankly dead 
Calm of a heart that ne'er, at the sound of beloved tread, 
Quickened its beats; the sun strikes blindly down, and I, 
With my very soul cramped up in the spasms of its agony, 

Feel the slow slight shudder of growing grass at my ear 
Stir through the dead brown hair that used to be so bright 
For the royal crown of Love, whose very shadow dropt light 
All about me, until, made fair, and transfigured quite, 
My face like an angel's was ; oh, God of mercy, I fear 
That the weight of my punishment is greater than I can bear ! 

My blood makes shuddering leaps, as alone in my dark I think 
Of my own white stag whom the pitiless archers wounded sore, 
My royal eagle whose plumes were all bedabbled in gore, 
My strong one whose prideful locks of glory and power they shore 
And the iron enters deep to my soul, and I shudder and shrink, 
And the bitter and awe of death are 'in the cup that I drink. 

Passionate outstretched arms of mine, ye may sink and drop 

Your white weight down on his grave, for he cannot feel you strain ; 

Wild beat against the impassable barrier to clasp him again. 

Smite down your weary light, sun; and, thirsty rain, 
Strike as you will, but never, oh never more may ope 
The gate that my own hand closed, the crystal gate of hope. 

My darling, my own lost darling ! I loved you, I loved you, I say. 
Again, I loved you, I loved you, but oh the awful sea 
Of death rolls heavily in between your soul and me, 
And my fireful words are drowned in the roar of its waves, and she 
Who utters them fails and sinks with her garments weighted with spray, 
And scarce dare hope that the tide will ebb out at the breaking of day. 

246 Essays at Odd Times. 

All through I loved you, dear heart ! Oh, had I but told you so, 

When your forehead was flushen red with the shame of your one, one sin, 
NOT opened my soul's gates wide for the pride to enter in, 
Nor turned away my eyes, and left the devils to grin 
O'er the grand young fallen soul, that they waited to drag below, 
And I might have saved, and the curse of Cain is upon my brow. 

Were you so utterly vile that I smote away your kiss 

In scorn, as a thing unclean, from these proud red lips of mine? 

Alas, but a trivial error, an overflow of life-wine ! 

A slip, and I might have raised, and helped you to be divine. 

Again, lips, how ye burn, as a scarce-healed cicatrice 

Throbs at the lightest touch of the dull-blue steel, I wis. 

Alas ! my beloved, my beloved ! that I left you to sink in the mire 
Till the garments you wore once so fair ah ! scarcely a vestige showed 
Of the saintly, stately white they were in the kingdom of God ! 
Oh, I could smite you ofi^ cruel hand of mine, that should 
Have been stretched to save, but broke the golden strings of the lyre, 
And smote into stillness the song that might have swelled louder and higher. 

Were you living and erring, how I would gird up my garments, and leap 
Unblenchingly down the abyss of the open gulf that yawned 
At your feet, content to perish, so you might but safely stand, 
And pass o'er, the closed space without fear to the other land, 
Where the Master and Shepherd of Israel foldeth His saved sheep, 
And no more may the lips make moan, and no more may the eyeballs weep ! 




XV. OP EDUCATION. character is formed in every man by 

the time he is twenty-five, which is to 

OF course the world at large is a last him through eternity. And the 
school. To some men, indeed, the maxim embodies one of those half- 
world is mainly a shop a place of mer- truths which seem so consistent, and are 
cnandise ; to others a theatre a place so dogmatic. But even a slight expe- 
of amusement merely ; to a few happy rience of the world disproves the axiom, 
souls, a temple, in which to worship and Humanity is not inelastic. The body 
be glad. But to all alike, whether they and soul of every man are in a constant 
will or no, it is a school. And I know state of flux and reflux, of growth and 
that in this great school the oldest boys of decay ; for human life is a system of 
have occasionally to suffer from rods repair. I have known men whose whole 
which have been made out of their own character has apparently changed for 
pleasant vices. For, either voluntarily the worse at fifty, under the pressure, 
r involuntarily, men are always learn- certainly, of great change in external 
ing. It has been said, indeed, that a circumstances ; though such circum- 

Essays at Odd Times. 


stances may, after all, have only shown 
the character, and not made it. And I 
have known men of violent tempers 
and passions to have gradually disci- 
plined themselves into gentleness and 
wisdom with advancing age. Happy 
old age ! which leaves the passions 
mastered, and the intellect and the 
affect: ons vigorous still ! 

Bub yet we must not run into an 
opposite extreme, and because the fruits 
of early training are not always gathered, 
and habits supposed to have been fixed 
by early custom, happen to be now and 
then changed, therefore deny the neces- 
sity o f early training in good habits. A 
good education is never wasted upon 
man or beast ; and education is nothing 
but the calling into play powers which 
lie dormant in every human being, and 
developing them into habits by exer- 
cise. Indeed, I do not know any stronger 
testimony to the advantage of good early 
training than that afforded by the com- 
mon consent -of language, which declares 
that a man's morals are simply his mores 
or habits; that his past actions form 
the mainspring of the motives upon 
which he will be likely to act in the 
future. If this be so, then it will be 
said, virtue and goodness are undoubt- 
edly, in all cases, and under all circum- 
stance?, teachable. You have but to 
train up the child in the way he should 
go j you have only to train your children 
in virtuous habits from the very first, in 
order to make them virtuous and good. 
But then, unfortunately, experience 
comes in and ruthlessly shatters our 
educational theory. Solomon, if I mis- 
take not, was himself a very glaring 
except ion to his own rule. 

The reader may, perhaps, remember 
in the Platonic Dialogues a fragment on 
the si bject of virtue, which, though it 
may iiave passed through the mint 
of PL to, 'is undoubtedly true Socratic 
gold. It is the report of a talk which 
took i lace in Simon the currier's shop, 
and w rich was probably written down 
by Sir ion himself, and in a very excel- 
lent I oswellian style too, as it flowed 
from 1 he lips of Socrates the Thinker. 
The q aestion debated was, Does virtue 

come by natural disposition, or is it to 
be taught? "Plainly," said Socrates, 
" the .virtue of good cooking can be 
" taught by good cooks, and of physic 
" by physicians, but can you teach your 
" son to be wise and good by sending 
" him to associate with good and wise 
" men ? There is Themistocles, for in- 
" stance, a good man and a wise, who 
" had his son Cleophantus taught all 
" sorts of accomplishments to ride, for 
" instance, so that the young man could 
" stand upon his horse's back whilst 
" it galloped at full speed, and cast his 
" javelin. But was this Cleophantus a 
" good and wise man, like his father 1 " 
I believe not," is the reply. " Well, 
" do you think that Themistocles, who, 
" of course, as a good man would wish 
" to make his son good too, would have 
" left him, after all, no better than his 
" neighbours, if virtue and wisdom 
" could be taught ? And so of Pericles, 
" who had his sons trained to be good 
" 'musicians and wrestlers, but could 
" not teach them to be good men, if 
" virtue were teachable, would he not, 
" think you, by all means, have had 
" them made as virtuous as himself? 
" But then," continues Socrates, " if 
" virtue be not teachable, does it come 
" by natural disposition ? Yet if this 
" were so, men would surely have 
" found out some test or touchstone by 
" which to tell the good disposition 
" from the bad, in order that they might 
" restrain the one and encourage the 
" other ; just as there are judges of 
" horseflesh, who will pick you out a 
" horse with good points and spirit in a 
" moment, because these points are the 
" natural inheritance of certain breeds 
" of horses. No : " such was the con- 
clusion at which heathen morality 
arrived two thousand years ago ; men 
are not good either by education or by 
natural' disposition. " Neither nature 
" nor training," said Socrates, " can 
" make a man good and virtuous, but 
" only a divine destiny, a sort of inspira- 
" tion, in fact, the grace of God." 

Then, why educate at all? And, 
indeed, my friend, of so-called educa- 
tion that is to say, of direct teaching, 


Essays at Odd Times. 

or cramming we have in these days a 
great deal too much. I am constantly 
meeting with gentlemen who have been 
educated beyond their minds, and who 
splash you with the surplusage, upon 
contact, like buckets that are too full. 
The modern mind is, in fact, overlaid 
with too many books, and has in conse- 
quence ceased to be original. It has 
undergone a process of emasculation by 
superfetation or overfulness. It requires 
therefore to have all its thinking done 
for it, by newspapers chiefly, which 
cram its gaping maw with small pellets 
of easily-digested thought, as they cram 
turkeys in Suffolk at Christmas time. 
And literature and art are both in con- 
sequence being dragged down to the 
dead level of mediocrity. The spoony 
literature and spoony art of the day, for 
which there seems to be an everlasting 
demand, what has it to tell you you, 
the anthropos, the being of the upturned 
eye; what message to you, an eternal 
soul, at a midway standpoint between 
heaven and hell 1 This marshalling of 
puppets upon the story-writer's little 
stage, who are as impossible to human 
nature as Punch and his fellows ; this 
daubing in of pretty colour upon Aca- 
demy walls, mingling of bad form and 
worse sentiment ; can it touch, can it 
teach, can it better any one single 
human heart 1 

Why, I repeat, educate at all, if this 
is to come of it ? Because you cannot 
help educating. All you do, and all you 
refrain from doing, is an education of 
your children. 

Your first object, if you be wise, will 
be to make your children happy, to take 
care that they shall rejoice in the days 
of their youth. You will have felt 
deeply the misery that is around you 
and within you : that man is of himself 
a miserable being, gifted with the up- 
turning eye in order that he may look 
away from himself and forget his wretch- 
edness. Around you, if you care to 
pierce the surface of things, you see a 
hell of misery yawning ; sickness, and 
pain and hunger, equally dividing life 
with pleasure and health, and fulness 
of bread. If you could collect the groans 

and shrieks from the hospitals of London* 
only into one piercing cry of human 
suffering, would it not, think you,, 
quench the music of your most brilliant, 
operas ? if you could gather into one the 
wail of the sinful consciences of London, 
as God ever hears that voiceless cry go- 
up, would it not drown all the mirth 
of the land ? That man who asked an 
alms of you yesterday is a famished 
drunkard, and has perished to-day for 
want of the penny you withheld. That 
wealthy man who rolls by in his carriage,, 
muffled in furs ; sickness and pain suffer 
him to have no joy of his life. That 
rich, prosperous, healthy man, who 
passes you in the streets every day, has 
a troubled conscience which is gnawing 
at the core of his heart. And into this 
whirlpool your little ones will be pre- 
sently launched. They, too, will have 
to leave the safe haven of home for the 
open sea. Make it then a haven to 
them while it lasts. Make them happy. 
You can do it, for you are unto them as 
gods, and for a time can command the 
happiness or the misery of so many 
living souls. 

You cannot help educating, I repeat, 
even when you but stand still and watch. 
Often the wisest attitude this which the 
parent can take, as it is certainly the 
pleasantest. " No man can tell," writes 
Jeremy Taylor, " but he who loves his 
" children, how many delicious accents 
"make a man's heart dance in the 
" pretty conversation of those dear 
" pledges. Their childishness, their 
"stammering, their little anger, their 
" innocence, their imperfections, their 
" necessities, are so many little eniana- 
" tions of joy and comfort to him that 
" delights in their persons and society." 
The education of a child methinks 
should be as the education of a young 
tree, which you simply prune when ifc 
grows amiss, without attempting to 
force it into any special shape. And for 
my part I would let my children teach 
themselves what they prefer to learn, 
till they are at any rate twelve years 
old ; quite time enough for the human 
mind to 1 enter upon real and serious 
work. But in fact if you do this, if you 

Essays at Odd Times. 


leave the child to teach itself, merely 
putting in its way books, and