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This Edinburgh Edition consists of 

one thousand and thirty-five copies 

all numbered 

Ar7k A 

Vol. XXVIII. of issue: June i\ 




Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2012 with funding from 

National Library of Scotland 











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Preface and Bibliographical Note . . . xiii 

The Charity Bazaar ..... 1 

The Light-Keeper ..... 5-7- 

i. The brilliant kernel of the night . . 5 

ii. As the steady lenses circle ... 6 

On a New Form of Intermittent Light for Lighthouses 8 

On the Thermal Influence of Forests . . ,13 

Reflections and Remarks on Human Life . . 26-41 

i. Justice and Justification . . .26 

ii. Parent and Child . . . .27 

in. Dialogue on Character and Destiny between Two 

Puppets . . . .28 

iv. Solitude and Society . . . .32 

v. Selfishness and Egoism . . .34 

vi. Right and Wrong . . . .34 

vii. Discipline of Conscience . . .34 

vni. Gratitude to God . . . .36 

ix. Blame ...... 38 

x. Marriage ..... 39 

xi. Idleness and Industry . . . .40 

xn. Courage . . . . .41 

xiii. Results of Action . . . .41 




The Ideal House ..... 42 

Preface to ' The Master of Ballantrae ' . . .48 


Advertisement of ' Black Canyon ' 

Black Canyon, or Wild Adventures in the Far West 

Not I, and Other Poems 

Moral Emblems 

Advertisement of ' Moral Emblems , : Edition de Luxe 

Advertisement of * Moral Emblems , : Second Collection 

Moral Emblems : Second Collection 

A Martial Elegy for some Lead Soldiers 

Advertisement of ' The Graver and the Pen ' 

The Graver and the Pen 


Robin and Ben ; or, The Pirate and the Apothecary 
The Builder's Doom 



With the delivery of Vol. XX VII., containing the story of St. Ives, 
the Edinburgh edition of Mr. Stevenson's works is completed according 
to promise. His Executor and Editor have every reason to be gratified 
with the success of their scheme, and it has occurred to them that a small 
supplementary volume or Appendix, added gratuitously by way of bonus, 
and in acknowledgment of the support and appreciation which tlie 
edition has received, may not be unwelcome to subscribers. Such a 
volume is accordingly herewith presented [but with no pledge, it should 
be understood, that copies on other paper and in another binding may not 
also be offered for sale to the general public.) It is a medley, made up 
of items some serious and some trifling, which for one reason or another 
were not included in the main edition. Among them are things which 
various subscribers have already expressed a desire to possess. Such are 
The Charity Bazaar ; the two papers on Lighthouse Illumination 
and The Thermal Influence of Forests ; and the sets of cuts 
and verses done and printed to amuse the writer and his young 
stepson at Davos. The first-named of these, which opens the volume, 
is a boyish skit privately printed on a charity occasion at Edinburgh, 
I believe in 1868, and in its original form has for some time been 
a rarity competed for by collectors. The two second were contributed 
to the Transactions of the Royal Scottish Society of Arts for 1871 and 
the Proceedings of the Royal Society of Edinburgh for 1873 respectively. 
They are not literature, and do not proceed from any natural bias of 
the writer s mind. They do, however, represent the circumstances of his 
origin and early training as a member of a distinguished family of civil 



engineers ; one of them gained the silver medal of the Royal Scottish 
Society of Arts : and it has been ascertained that to some of those 
interested in his career their inclusion in this place will be welcome. I 
liave prefixed to them two sets of lighthouse verses from his notebooks 
of I869 and 1870, one written in a sentimental, the other in some- 
what of a cynic mood, which show what used to be the private thoughts 
and real preoccupations of the youthful engineer on his professional 
rounds. Next follow three pieces not before printed from his later 
notebooks. In Reflections and Remarks on Human Life we have 
the draft of some chapters of an unfinished treatise on morals and 
conduct, subjects on which he always wrote in the spirit of a keen and 
thoughtful soldier in the battle of life : in one of these chapters it will 
be noticed that he deals with the problems of free-tvill and rewards 
and punishments on the same lines as in the brilliant little apologue 
already published as No. 1 of his Fables (Edin. ed. Tales and 
Fantasies, vol. iv. p. 337), but at greater length. The Ideal 
House belongs to the winter of 1884-5, and sets forth the predilec- 
tions, as to the site and arrangements of a home, of one who had for 
years been a vagrant, priding himself on his freedom from local ties 
and the burden of the world's gear. But by this time he had become 
the head of a household, and having tried two domiciles in Provence, 
was about to take possession of a new one on the English coast at 
Bournemouth. Then follows the Preface to the Master of 
Ballantrae, written in the Pacific in 1889, with reminiscences of 
the office in Edinburgh of his old friend Mr. Charles Baxter, W.S. 
When he published the book in that year, he decided to suppress 
his preface, as being too much i?i the vein of Jedediah Cleishbotham 
and Mr. Peter Pattieson ; but afterwards he expressed a wish that it 
should be given with the Edinburgh edition. At that time, however, the 
manuscript had gone astray, and the text has now been recovered from 
his original draft. Next come facsimiles of the little Davos Press cuts 
and verses, written and engraved by R. L. S. in child's play at odd times 
between the autumn of 1880 and the summer of 1882, and printed, with 



the exception of one, by his young stepson, now well known as Mr. Lloyd 
Osbourne. With the last three cuts, lettered Robin and Ben ; or, the 
Pirate and the Apothecary, no text was printed. But in connection 
with them a copy of verses was written, which in form only, were half 
childish like the rest, but in substance a satire, not without Swiftean 
touches, on commercial morality. Starting with this, the author planned 
a whole volume of Moral Tales in the same vein ; but besides 
Robin and Ben only one of these was written, namely, The Builder's 
Doom. Both are here printed for the first time, bringing to a close 
this Appendix and the Edition. 

It remains for Editor and Executor to express their sense of obligation 
to their friends, the famous printers, for the care and enthusiasm which 
from the outset they have thrown into the task of making the Edinburgh 
edition what it seems acknowledged on all hands to be, a model of every 
excellence in their art and craft. 


May 25, 1898. 





The Ingenuous Public 
His Wife 
The Tout 

The Tout, in an allegorical costume, holding' a silver trumpet 
in his right hand, is discovered on the steps in front 
of the Bazaar. He sounds a preliminary flourish. 

The Tout. — Ladies and Gentlemen, I have the honour to 
announce a sale of many interesting, beautiful, rare, quaint, 
comical, and necessary articles. Here you will find objects of 
taste, such as Babies 1 Shoes, Children's Petticoats, and Shetland 
Wool Cravats ; objects of general usefulness, such as Tea- 
cosies, Bangles, Brahmin Beads, and Madras Baskets ; and 
objects of imperious necessity, such as Pen-wipers, Indian 
Figures carefully repaired with glue, and Sealed Envelopes, con- 
taining a surprise. And all this is not to be sold by your 
common Shopkeepers, intent on small and legitimate profits, 
but by Ladies and Gentlemen, who would as soon think of 
picking your pocket of a cotton handkerchief, as of selling a 
single one of these many interesting, beautiful, rare, quaint, 
A I 


comical, and necessary articles at less than twice its market 
value. {He sounds another flourish.) 

The Wife, — This seems a very fair-spoken young man. 

The Ingenuous Public {addressing the Tout). — Sir, I am a 
man of simple and untutored mind ; but I apprehend that this 
sale, of which you give us so glowing a description, is neither 
more nor less than a Charity Bazaar ? 

The Tout. — Sir, your penetration has not deceived you. m 

The Ingenuous Public. — Into which you seek to entice 
unwary passengers ? 

The Tout. — Such is my office. 

The Ingenuous Public. — But is not a Charity Bazaar, Sir, 
a place where, for ulterior purposes, amateur goods are sold 
at a price above their market value ? 

The Tout. — I perceive you are no novice. Let us sit down, 
all three, upon the doorsteps, and reason this matter at length. 
The position is a little conspicuous, but airy and convenient. 

{The Tout seats himself on the second step, the Ingenuous 
Public and his Wife to right and left of him, one step 

The Tout. — Shopping is one of the dearest pleasures of the 
human heart. 

The Wife. — Indeed, Sir, and that it is. 

The Tout. — The choice of articles, apart from their useful- 
ness, is an appetising occupation, and to exchange bald, uniform 
shillings for a fine big, figurative knick-knack, such as a wind- 
mill, a gross of green spectacles, or a cocked hat, gives us 
a direct and emphatic sense of gain. We have had many 
shillings before, as good as these ; but this is the first time we 
have possessed a windmill. Upon these principles of human 
nature, Sir, is based the theory of the Charity Bazaar. People 
were doubtless charitably disposed. The problem was to make 
the exercise of charity entertaining in itself — you follow me, 
Madam? — and in the Charity Bazaar a satisfactory solution 


was attained. The act of giving away money for charitable 
purposes is, by this admirable invention, transformed into an 
amusement, and puts on the externals of profitable commerce. 
You play at shopping a while ; and in order to keep up the 
illusion, sham goods do actually change hauds. Thus, under 
the similitude of a game, I have seen children confronted with 
the horrors of arithmetic, and even taught to gargle. 

The Ingenuous Public. — You expound this subject very 
magisterially, Sir. But tell me, would it not be possible to 
carry this element of play still further ? and after I had 
remained a proper time in the Bazaar, and negotiated a 
sufficient number of sham bargains, would it not be possible 
to return me my money in the hall ? 

The Tout. — I question whether that would not impair the 
humour of the situation. And besides, my dear Sir, the pith 
of the whole device is to take that money from you. 

The Ingenuous Public. — True. But at least the Bazaar 
might take back the tea-cosies and pen-wipers. 

The Tout. — I have no doubt, if you were to ask it hand- 
somely, that you would be so far accommodated. Still it is 
out of the theory. The sham goods, for which, believe me, I 
readily understand your disaffection — the sham goods are well 
adapted for their purpose. Your lady wife will lay these tea- 
cosies and pen-wipers aside in a safe place, until she is asked 
to contribute to another Charity Bazaar. There the tea-cosies 
and pen-wipers will be once more charitably sold. The new 
purchasers, in their turn, will accurately imitate the dis- 
positions of your lady wife. In short, Sir, the whole affair is 
a cycle of operations. The tea-cosies and pen-wipers are 
merely counters ; they come off and on again like a stage 
army ; and year after year people pretend to buy and pretend 
to sell them, with a vivacity that seems to indicate a talent 
for the stage. But in the course of these illusory manoeuvres, 
a great deal of money is given in charity, and that in a 
picturesque, bustling, and agreeable manner. If you have to 


travel somewhere on business, you would choose the prettiest 
route, and desire pleasant companions by the way. And why 
not show the same spirit in giving alms ? 

The Ingenuous Public. — Sir, I am profoundly indebted to 
you for all you have said. I am, Sir, your absolute convert. 

The Wife. — Let us lose no time, but enter the Charity 

The Ingenuous Public. — Yes ; let us enter the Charity 

Both {singing). — Let us enter, let us enter, let us enter, 
Let us enter the Charity Bazaar ! 

(An interval is supposed to elapse. The Ingenuous Public 
and his Wife are discovered issuing from the Charity 

The Wife. — How fortunate you should have brought your 
cheque-book ! 

The Ingenuous Public. — Well, fortunate in a sense. (Address- 
ing the Tout) — Sir, I shall send a van in the course of the 
afternoon for the little articles I have purchased. I shall not 
say good-bye ; because I shall probably take a lift in the front 
seat, not from any solicitude, believe me, about the little 
articles, but as the last opportunity I may have for some time 
of enjoying the costly entertainment of a drive. 

The Scene Closes 


The brilliant kernel of the night, 

The flaming lightroom circles me : 
I sit within a blaze of light 

Held high above the dusky sea. 
Far off the surf doth break and roar 
Along bleak miles of moonlit shore, 

Where through the tides the tumbling wave 
Falls in an avalanche of foam 
And drives its churned waters home 

Up many an undercliff and cave. 

The clear bell chimes : the clockworks strain : 

The turning lenses flash and pass, 
Frame turning within glittering frame 

With frosty gleam of moving glass : 
Unseen by me, each dusky hour 
The sea-waves welter up the tower 

Or in the ebb subside again ; 
And ever and anon all night, 
Drawn from afar by charm of light, 

A sea-bird beats against the pane. 

And lastly when dawn ends the night 

And belts the semi-orb of sea, 
The tall, pale pharos in the light 

Looks white and spectral as may be. 


The early ebb is out : the green 
Straight belt of sea-weed now is seen, 

That round the basement of the tower 
Marks out the interspace of tide ; 
And watching men are heavy-eyed, 

And sleepless lips are dry and sour. 

The night is over like a dream : 

The sea-birds cry and dip themselves ; 
And in the early sunlight, steam 

The newly-bared and dripping shelves, 
Around whose verge the glassy wave 
With lisping wash is heard to lave ; 

While, on the white tower lifted high, 
With yellow light in faded glass 
The circling lenses flash and pass, 

And sickly shine against the sky. 


As the steady lenses circle 

With a frosty gleam of glass ; 

And the clear bell chimes, 

And the oil brims over the lip of the burner, 

Quiet and still at his desk, 

The lonely light- keeper 

Holds his vigil. 

Lured from afar, 
The bewildered sea-gull beats 
Dully against the lantern ; 
Yet he stirs not, lifts not his head 



From the desk where he reads, 

Lifts not his eyes to see 

The chill blind circle of night 

Watching him through the panes. 

This is his country^ guardian, 

The outmost sentry of peace. 

This is the man, 

Who gives up all that is lovely in living 

For the means to live. 

Poetry cunningly gilds 
The life of the Light-Keeper, 
Held on high in the blackness 
In the burning kernel of night. 
The seaman sees and blesses him ; 
The Poet, deep in a sonnet, 
Numbers his inky fingers 
Fitly to praise him ; 
Only we behold him, 
Sitting, patient and stolid, 
Martyr to a salary. 



The necessity for marked characteristics in coast illumination 
increases with the number of lights. The late Mr. Robert 
Stevenson, my grandfather, contributed two distinctions, which 
he called respectively the intermittent and the flashing light. 
It is only to the former of these that I have to refer in the 
present paper. The intermittent light was first introduced at 
Tarbetness in 1830, and is already in use at eight stations on 
the coasts of the United Kingdom. As constructed originally, 
it was an arrangement by which a fixed light was alternately 
eclipsed and revealed. These recurrent occultations and 
revelations produce an effect totally different from that of the 
revolving light, which comes gradually into its full strength, 
and as gradually fades away. The changes in the intermittent, 
on the other hand, are immediate ; a certain duration of dark- 
ness is followed at once and without the least gradation by a 
certain period of light. The arrangement employed by my 
grandfather to effect this object consisted of two opaque cylin- 
dric shades or extinguishers, one of which descended from 
the roof, while the other ascended from below to meet it, at a 
fixed interval. The light was thus entirely intercepted. 

At a later period, at the harbour light of Troon, Mr. 
Wilson, C.E., produced an intermittent light by the use of 
gas, which leaves little to be desired, and which is still in use 

1 Read before the Royal Scottish Society of Arts on 27th March l&7lj 
and awarded the Society's Silver Medal. 



at Troon harbour. By a simple mechanical contrivance, the 
gas jet was suddenly lowered to the point of extinction, and, 
after a set period, as suddenly raised again. The chief superi- 
ority of this form of intermittent light is economy in the con- 
sumption of the gas. In the original design, of course, the oil 
continues uselessly to illuminate the interior of the screens 
during the period of occultation. 

Mr. Wilson's arrangement has been lately resuscitated by 
Mr. Wigham of Dublin, in connection with his new gas-burner. 

Gas, however, is inapplicable to many situations ; and it has 
occurred to me that the desired result might be effected with 
strict economy with oil lights, in the following manner : — 

Fig. 1. 

In Fig. 1, A A A represents in plan an ordinary FresneFs 
dioptric fixed light apparatus, and BB'a hemispherical mirror 
(either metallic or dioptric on my father's principle) which is 
made to revolve with uniform speed about the burner. This 
mirror, it is obvious, intercepts the rays of one hemisphere, 
and, returning them through the flame (less loss by absorption, 
etc.), spreads them equally over the other. In this way 180° 
of light pass regularly the eye of the seaman ; and are followed 
at once by 180° of darkness. As the hemispherical mirror 
begins to open, the observer receives the full light, since the 



whole lit hemisphere is illuminated with strict equality ; and 
as it closes again, he passes into darkness. 

Other characteristics can be produced by different modifica- 
tions of the above. In Fig. 2 the original hemispherical mirror 
is shown broken up into three different sectors, BB', CC, and 
DD' ; so that with the same velocity of revolution the periods 
of light and darkness will be produced in quicker succession. 
In this figure (Fig. 2) the three sectors have been shown as sub- 

Fig. 2. 

tending equal angles, but if one of them were increased in size 
and the other two diminished (as in Fig. 3), we should have 
one long steady illumination and two short flashes at each 
revolution. Again, the number of sectors may be increased ; 
and by varying both their number and their relative size, a 
number of additional characteristics are attainable. 

Colour may also be introduced as a means of distinction. 
Coloured glass may be set in the alternate spaces ; but it is 
necessary to remark that these coloured sectors will be inferior 
in power to those which remain white. This objection is, 
however, obviated to a large extent (especially where the diop- 
tric spherical mirror is used) by such an arrangement as is 
shown in Fig. 4; where the two sectors, WW, are left un- 
assisted, while the two with the red screens are reinforced 
respectively by the two sectors of mirror, MM. 


Another mode of holophotally producing the intermittent 
light has been suggested by my father, and is shown in Fig. 5. 
It consists of alternate and opposite sectors of dioptric spheri- 
cal mirror, MM, and of FresneFs fixed light apparatus, AA. 
By the revolution of this composite frame about the burner, 

the same immediate alternation of light and darkness is pro- 
duced, the first when the front of the fixed panel, and the 
second when the back of the mirror, is presented to the eye 
of the sailor. 

Fiff. 4. 

1 1 


One advantage of the method that I propose is this, that 
while we are able to produce a plain intermittent light; an 
intermittent light of variable period, ranging from a brief 
flash to a steady illumination of half the revolution ; and 
finally, a light combining the immediate occultation of the 
intermittent with combination and change of colour, we can 
yet preserve comparative lightness in the revolving parts, and 
consequent economy in the driving machinery. It must, how- 

Fig. 5. 

ever, be noticed, that none of these last methods are applicable 
to cases where more than one radiant is employed : for these 
cases, either my grandfathers or Mr. Wilson's contrivance 
must be resorted to. 




The opportunity of an experiment on a comparatively large 
scale, and under conditions of comparative isolation, can occur 
but rarely in such a science as Meteorology. Hence Mr. Milne 
Home's proposal for the plantation of Malta seemed to offer an 
exceptional opportunity for progress. Many of the conditions 
are favourable to the simplicity of the result ; and it seemed 
natural that, if a searching and systematic series of observa- 
tions were to be immediately set afoot, and continued during 
the course of the plantation and the growth of the wood, some 
light would be thrown on the still doubtful question of the 
climatic influence of forests. 

Mr. Milne Home expects, as I gather, a threefold result : — 
1st, an increased and better regulated supply of available 
water • 2nd, an increased rainfall ; and, 3rd, a more equable 
climate, with more temperate summer heat and winter cold. 2 
As to the first of these expectations, I suppose there can be no 
doubt that it is justified by facts ; but it may not be unneces- 
sary to guard against any confusion of the first with the 
second. Not only does the presence of growing timber increase 
and regulate the supply of running and spring water inde- 
pendently of any change in the amount of rainfall, but as 
Boussingault found at Marmato, 3 denudation of forest is 
sufficient to decrease that supply, even when the rainfall has 
increased instead of diminished in amount. The second and 
third effects stand apart, therefore, from any question as to the 
utility of Mr. Milne Home's important proposal; they are 
both, perhaps, worthy of discussion at the present time, but I 

1 Read before the Royal Society, Edinburgh, 19th May 1873, and 
reprinted from the Proceedings R.S.E. 

2 Jour. Scot. Met. Soc, New Ser. xxvi. 35. 3 Quoted by Mr. Milne Home. 



wish to confine myself in the present paper to the examination 
of the third alone. 

A wood, then, may be regarded either as a superficies or as a 
solid; that is, either as a part of the earth's surface slightly 
elevated above the rest, or as a diffused and heterogeneous 
body displacing a certain portion of free and mobile atmo- 
sphere. It is primarily in the first character that it attracts 
dtir attention, as a radiating and absorbing surface, exposed to 
the sun and the currents of the air ; such that, if we imagine a 
plateau of meadow-land or bare earth raised to the mean level 
of the forest's exposed leaf-surface, we shall have an agent 
entirely similar in kind, although perhaps widely differing in 
the amount of action. Now, by comparing a tract of wood 
with such a plateau as we have just supposed, we shall arrive 
at a clear idea of the specialties of the former. In the first 
place, then, the mass of foliage may be expected to increase 
the radiating power of each tree. The upper leaves radiate 
freely towards the stars and the cold inter-stellar spaces, while 
the lower ones radiate to those above and receive less heat in 
return ; consequently, during the absence of the sun, each tree 
cools gradually downward from top to bottom. Hence we 
must take into account not merely the area of leaf-surface 
actually exposed to the sky, but, to a greater or less extent, 
the surface of every leaf in the whole tree or the whole wood. 
This is evidently a point in which the action of the forest may 
be expected to differ from that of the meadow or naked earth ; 
for though, of course, inferior strata tend to a certain extent to 
follow somewhat the same course as the mass of inferior leaves, 
they do so to a less degree — conduction, and the conduction of 
a very slow conductor, being substituted for radiation. 

We come next, however, to a second point of difference. In 
the case of the meadow, the chilled air continues to lie upon 
the surface, the grass, as Humboldt says, remaining all night 
submerged in the stratum of lowest temperature ; while in the 
case of trees, the coldest air is continually passing down to the 



space underneath the boughs, or what we may perhaps term 
the crypt of the forest. Here it is that the consideration of 
any piece of woodland conceived as a solid comes naturally 
in ; for this solid contains a portion of the atmosphere, partially 
cut off from the rest, more or less excluded from the influence 
of wind, and lying upon a soil that is screened all day from 
isolation by the impending mass of foliage. In this way (and 
chiefly, I think, from the exclusion of winds), we have under- 
neath the radiating leaf-surface a stratum of comparatively 
stagnant air, protected from many sudden variations of 
temperature, and tending only slowly to bring itself into 
equilibrium with the more general changes that take place in 
the free atmosphere. 

Over and above what has been mentioned, thermal effects 
have been attributed to the vital activity of the leaves in the 
transudation of water, and even to the respiration and circu- 
lation of living wood. The whole actual amount of thermal 
influence, however, is so small that I may rest satisfied with 
mere mention. If these actions have any effect at all, it must 
be practically insensible ; and the others that I have already 
stated are not only sufficient validly to account for all the 
observed differences, but would lead naturally to the expecta- 
tion of differences very much larger and better marked. To 
these observations I proceed at once. Experience has been 
acquired upon the following three points : — 1, The relation 
between the temperature of the trunk of a tree and the 
temperature of the surrounding atmosphere ; 2, The relation 
between the temperature of the air under a wood and the 
temperature of the air outside ; and, 3, The relation between 
the temperature of the air above a wood and the temperature 
of the air above cleared land. 

As to the first question, there are several independent series 
of observations ; and I may remark in passing, what applies to 
all, that allowance must be made throughout for some factor 
of specific heat. The results were as follows : — The seasonal 



and monthly means in the tree and in the air were not sensibly 
different. The variations in the tree, in M. Becquerel's own 
observations, appear as considerably less than a fourth of those 
in the atmosphere, and he has calculated, from observations 
made at Geneva between 1796 and 1798, that the variations 
in the tree were less than a fifth of those in the air ; but the 
tree in this case, besides being of a different species, was seven 
or eight inches thicker than the one experimented on by him- 
self. x The variations in the tree, therefore, are always less 
than those in the air, the ratio between the two depending 
apparently on the thickness of the tree in question and the 
rapidity with which the variations followed upon one another. 
The times of the maxima, moreover, were widely different : in 
the air, the maximum occurs at 2 p.m. in winter, and at 3 p.m. 
in summer ; in the tree, it occurs in winter at 6 p.m., and in 
summer between 10 and 11 p.m. At nine in the morning in 
the month of June, the temperatures of the tree and of the 
air had come to an equilibrium. A similar difference of pro- 
gression is visible in the means, which differ most in spring 
and autumn, and tend to equalise themselves in winter and in 
summer. But it appears most strikingly in the case of varia- 
tions somewhat longer in period than the daily ranges. The 
following temperatures occurred during M. Becquerel's obser- 
vations in the Jardin des Plantes : — 


of the Air. 

in the Tree. 

1859. Dec. 15, . . 26-78° 


, 16, 



, 17, 



, 18, 



, 19, 



, 20, 



, 21, 



, 22, 



, 23, 



1 Atlas Meteoroloyique de I' Observatoire Imperial, 1867. 



A moment's comparison of the two columns will make the 
principle apparent. The temperature of the air falls nearly 
fifteen degrees in five days; the temperature of the tree, 
sluggishly following, falls in the same time less than four 
degrees. Between the 19th and the 20th the temperature of 
the air has changed its direction of motion, and risen nearly 
a degree; but the temperature of the tree persists in its 
former course, and continues to fall nearly three degrees 
farther. On the 21st there comes a sudden increase of heat, 
a sudden thaw; the temperature of the air rises twenty-five 
and a half degrees ; the change at last reaches the tree, but 
only raises its temperature by less than three degrees ; and 
even two days afterwards, when the air is already twelve 
degrees above freezing point, the tree is still half a degree 
below it. Take, again, the following case : — 



July 13, 

„ 14, 

„ 15, 

,, 16, 

„ 17, 

„ 18, 

„ 19, 

of the Air. 

in the Tree. 















The same order reappears. From the 13th to the 19th the 
temperature of the air steadily falls, while the temperature of 
the tree continues apparently to follow the course of previous 
variations, and does not really begin to fall, is not really 
affected by the ebb of heat, until the 17th, three days at least 
after it had been operating in the air. 1 Hence we may conclude 
that all variations of the temperature of the air, whatever be 
their period, from twenty-four hours up to twelve months, are 
followed in the same manner by variations in the temperature 

Complex Rendus de I'Academie, 29th March 1869. 



of the tree ; and that those in the tree are always less in 
amount and considerably slower of occurrence than those in 
the air. This thermal sluggishness, so to speak, seems capable 
of explaining all the phenomena of the case without any 
hypothetical vital power of resisting temperatures below the 
freezing point, such as is hinted at even by Becquerel. 

Reaumur, indeed, is said to have observed temperatures in 
slender trees nearly thirty degrees higher than the temperature 
of the air in the sun ; but we are not informed as to the 
conditions under which this observation was made, and it is 
therefore impossible to assign to it its proper value. The sap 
of the ice-plant is said to be materially colder than the 
surrounding atmosphere ; and there are several other somewhat 
incongruous facts, which tend, at first sight, to favour the view 
of some inherent power of resistance in some plants to high 
temperatures, and in others to low temperatures. 1 But such a 
supposition seems in the meantime to be gratuitous. Keeping 
in view the thermal redispositions, which must be greatly 
favoured by the ascent of the sap, and the difference between 
the condition as to temperature of such parts as the root, the 
heart of the trunk, and the extreme foliage, and never forgetting 
the unknown factor of specific heat, we may still regard it as 
possible to account for all anomalies without the aid of any 
such hypothesis. We may, therefore, I think, disregard small 
exceptions, and state the result as follows : — 

If, after every rise or fall, the temperature of the air remained 
stationary for a length of time proportional to the amount 
of the change, it seems probable — setting aside all question of 
vital heat — that the temperature of the tree would always 
finally equalise itself with the new temperature of the air, and 
that the range in tree and atmosphere would thus become the 
same. This pause, however, does not occur : the variations 
follow each other without interval ; and the slow-conducting 

1 Professor Balfour's Class Book of Botany, Physiology, chap, xii., 
p. 670. 



wood is never allowed enough time to overtake the rapid 
changes of the more sensitive air. Hence, so far as we can see 
at present, trees appear to be simply bad conductors, and to 
have no more influence upon the temperature of their sur- 
roundings than is fully accounted for by the consequent 
tardiness of their thermal variations. 

Observations bearing on the second of the three points have 
been made by Becquerel in France, by La Cour in Jutland 
and Iceland, and by Rivoli at Posen. The results are perfectly 
congruous. Becquerers observations * were made under wood, 
and about a hundred yards outside in open ground, at three 
stations in the district of Montargis, Loiret. There was a 
difference of more than one degree Fahrenheit between the 
mean annual temperatures in favour of the open ground. The 
mean summer temperature in the wood was from two to three 
degrees lower than the mean summer temperature outside. 
The mean maxima in the wood were also lower than those 
without by a little more than two degrees. Herr La Cour 2 
found the daily range consistently smaller inside the wood than 
outside. As far as regards the mean winter temperatures, 
there is an excess in favour of the forest, but so trifling in 
amount as to be unworthy of much consideration. Libri found 
that the minimum winter temperatures were not sensibly lower 
at Florence, after the Apennines had been denuded of forest, 
than they had been before. 3 The disheartening contradictori- 
ness of his observations on this subject led Herr Rivoli to the 
following ingenious and satisfactory comparison. 4 Arranging 
his results according to the wind that blew on the day of 
observation, he set against each other the variation of the 
temperature under wood from that without, and the variation 

1 Gomptes Rendus, 1867 and 1869. 2 See his paper. 

3 Annates de C'himie et de Physique, xlv., 1830. A more detailed com- 
parison of the climates in question would be a most interesting and 
important contribution to the subject. 

4 Reviewed in the Austrian Meteorological Magazine, vol. iv. p. 543. 



of the temperature of the wind from the local mean for the 
month : — 

Wind, . . . 

Var. in Wood, 
Var. in Wind, 









+ 0-60 

+ 0-26+0-26 

+ 0-04 

+ 1-00 

-0-20 +0-16 
+ 1-30+1-00 

+ 0-07 

+ 1-00 

From this curious comparison, it becomes apparent that the 
variations of the difference in question depend upon the amount 
of variations of temperature which take place in the free air, 
and on the slowness with which such changes are communicated 
to the stagnant atmosphere of woods ; in other words, as Herr 
Rivoli boldly formulates it, a forest is simply a bad conductor. 
But this is precisely the same conclusion as we have already 
arrived at with regard to individual trees ; and in Herr Rivoli's 
table, what we see is just another case of what we saw in 
M. BecquereFs — the different progression of temperatures. It 
must be obvious, however, that the thermal condition of a 
single tree must be different in many ways from that of a 
combination of trees and more or less stagnant air, such as we 
call a forest. And accordingly we find, in the case of the 
latter, the following new feature : The mean yearly temperature 
of woods is lower than the mean yearly temperature of free 
air, while they are decidedly colder in summer, and very little, 
if at all, warmer in winter. Hence, on the whole, forests are 
colder than cleared lands. But this is just what might have 
been expected from the amount of evaporation, the continued 
descent of cold air, and its stagnation in the close and sunless 
crypt of a forest ; and one can only wonder here, as elsewhere, 
that the resultant difference is so insignificant and doubtful. 

We come now to the third point in question, the thermal 
influence of woods upon the air above them. It will be 
remembered that we have seen reason to believe their effect to 


be similar to that of certain other surfaces, except in so far as 
it may be altered, in the case of the forest, by the greater 
extent of effective radiating area, and by the possibility of 
generating a descending cold current as well as an ascending 
hot one. M. Becquerel is (so far as I can learn) the only 
observer who has taken up the elucidation of this subject. He 
placed his thermometers at three points : x A and B were both 
about seventy feet above the surface of the ground ; but A was 
at the summit of a chesnut tree, while B was in the free air, 
fifty feet away from the other. C was four or five feet above 
the ground, with a northern exposure ; there was also a 
fourth station to the south, at the same level as this last, but 
its readings are very seldom referred to. After several years 
of observation, the mean temperature at A was found to be 
between one and two degrees higher than that at B. The 
order of progression of differences is as instructive here as in 
the two former investigations. The maximum difference in 
favour of station A occurred between three and five in the 
afternoon, later or sooner according as there had been more or 
less sunshine, and ranged sometimes as high as seven degrees. 
After this the difference kept declining until sunrise, when 
there was often a difference of a degree, or a degree and a half, 
upon the other side. On cloudy days the difference tended to 
a minimum. During a rainy month of April, for example, the 
difference in favour of station A was less than half a degree ; 
the first fifteen days of May following, however, were sunny, 
and the difference rose to more than a degree and a half. 2 It 
will be observed that I have omitted up to the present point 
all mention of station C. I do so because M. BecquerePs 
language leaves it doubtful whether the observations made at 
this station are logically comparable with those made at the 
other two. If the end in view were to compare the progression 
of temperatures above the earth, above a tree, and in free air, 

1 Comptes Rendus, 28th May 1860. 2 Ibid., 20th May 1861. 



removed from all such radiative and absorptive influences, it 
is plain that all three should have been equally exposed to the 
sun or kept equally in shadow. As the observations were made, 
they give us no notion of the relative action of earth-surface 
and forest-surface upon the temperature of the contiguous 
atmosphere; and this, as it seems to me,, was just the crux 
of the problem. So far, however, as they go, they seem to 
justify the view that all these actions are the same in kind, 
however they may differ in degree. We find the forest heating 
the air during the day, and heating it more or less according as 
there has been more or less sunshine for it to absorb, and we find 
it also chilling it during the night ; both of which are actions 
common to any radiating surface, and would be produced, if 
with differences of amount and time, by any other such surface 
raised to the mean level of the exposed foliage. 

To recapitulate : 

1st. We find that single trees appear to act simply as bad 

2nd. We find that woods, regarded as solids, are, on the 
whole, slightly lower in temperature than the free air which 
they have displaced, and that they tend slowly to adapt them- 
selves to the various thermal changes that take place without 

3rd. We find forests regarded as surfaces acting like any 
other part of the earth's surface, probably with more or less 
difference in amount and progression, which we still lack the 
information necessary to estimate. 

All this done, I am afraid that there can be little doubt 
that the more general climatic investigations will be long and 
vexatious. Even in South America, with extremely favourable 
conditions, the result is far from being definite. Glancing 
over the table published by M. Becquerel in his book on 
climates, from the observations of Humboldt, Hall, Boussin- 
gault, and others, it becomes evident, I think, that nothing 
can be founded upon the comparisons therein instituted ; that 


all reasoning, in the present state of our information, is 
premature and unreliable. Strong statements have certainly 
been made ; and particular cases lend themselves to the forma- 
tion of hasty judgments. 'From the Bay of Cupica to the 
Gulf of Guayaquil,' says M. Boussingault, 'the country is 
covered with immense forests and traversed by numerous 
rivers ; it rains there almost ceaselessly ; and the mean tem- 
perature of this moist district scarcely reaches 78*8° F. ... At 
Payta commence the sandy deserts of Priura and Sechura; to 
the constant humidity of Choco succeeds almost at once an 
extreme of dryness ; and the mean temperature of the coast 
increases at the same time by 1*8° F.' 1 Even in this selected 
favourable instance it might be argued that the part performed 
in the change by the presence or absence of forest was com- 
paratively small ; there seems to have been, at the same time, 
an entire change of soil ; and, in our present ignorance, it 
would be difficult to say by how much this of itself is able to 
affect the climate. Moreover, it is possible that the humidity 
of the one district is due to other causes besides the presence 
of wood, or even that the presence of wood is itself only an 
effect of some more general difference or combination of differ- 
ences. Be that as it may, however, we have only to look a 
little longer at the table before referred to, to see how little 
weight can be laid on such special instances. Let us take five 
stations, all in this very district of Choco. Hacquita is eight 
hundred and twenty feet above Novita, and their mean tem- 
peratures are the same. Alto de Mombu, again, is five 
hundred feet higher than Hacquita, and the mean temperature 
has here fallen nearly two degrees. Go up another five 
hundred feet to Tambo de la Orquita, and again we find no 
fall in the mean temperature. Go up some five hundred 
further to Chami, and there is a fall in the mean temperature 
of nearly six degrees. Such numbers are evidently quite un- 
trustworthy ; and hence we may judge how much confidence 
1 Becquerel, Climats, p. 141. 



can be placed in any generalisation from these South American 
mean temperatures. 

The question is probably considered too simply — too much 
to the neglect of concurrent influences. Until we know, for 
example, somewhat more of the comparative radiant powers of 
different soils, we cannot expect any very definite result. A 
change of temperature would certainly be effected by the 
plantation of such a marshy district as the Sologne, because, if 
nothing else were done, the roots might pierce the impenetrable 
subsoil, allow the surface-water to drain itself off, and thus dry 
the country. But might not the change be quite different if 
the soil planted were a shifting sand, which, fixed by the roots 
of the trees, would become gradually covered with a vegetable 
earth, and thus be changed from dry to wet ? Again, the 
complication and conflict of effects arises, not only from the 
soil, vegetation, and geographical position of the place of the 
experiment itself, but from the distribution of similar or 
different conditions in its immediate neighbourhood, and 
probably to great distances on every side. A forest, for 
example, as we know from Herr Rivoli's comparison, would 
exercise a perfectly different influence in a cold country subject 
to warm winds, and in a warm country subject to cold winds; 
so that our question might meet with different solutions even 
on the east and west coasts of Great Britain. 

The consideration of such a complexity points more and more 
to the plantation of Malta as an occasion of special importance; 
its insular position and the unity of its geological structure 
both tend to simplify the question. There are certain points 
about the existing climate, moreover, which seem specially 
calculated to throw the influence of woods into a strong relief. 
Thus, during four summer months, there is practically no 
rainfall. Thus, again, the northerly winds when stormy, and 
especially in winter, tend to depress the temperature very 
suddenly; and thus, too, the southerly and south-westerly 
winds, which raise the temperature during their prevalence to 


from eighty-eight to ninety-eight degrees, seldom last longer 
than a few hours ; insomuch that ' their disagreeable heat and 
dryness may be escaped by carefully closing the windows and 
doors of apartments at their onset.' 1 Such sudden and short 
variations seem just what is wanted to accentuate the differences 
in question. Accordingly, the opportunity seems one not 
lightly to be lost, and the British Association or this Society 
itself might take the matter up and establish a series of 
observations, to be continued during the next few years. 
Such a combination of favourable circumstances may not occur 
again for years ; and when the whole subject is at a standstill 
for want of facts, the present occasion ought not to go past 

Such observations might include the following : — 

The observation of maximum and minimum thermometers 
in three different classes of situation — videlicet, in the areas 
selected for plantation themselves, at places in the immediate 
neighbourhood of those areas where the external influence 
might be expected to reach its maximum, and at places distant 
from those areas where the influence might be expected to be 

The observation of rain-gauges and hygrometers at the same 
three descriptions of locality. 

In addition to the ordinary hours of observation, special 
readings of the thermometers should be made as often as 
possible at a change of wind and throughout the course of the 
short hot breezes alluded to already, in order to admit of the 
recognition and extension of Herr Rivoli's comparison. 

Observation of the periods and forces of the land and sea 

Gauging of the principal springs, both in the neighbourhood 
of the areas of plantation and at places far removed from those 


1 Scoresby-Jackson's Medical Climatology. 



I. JUSTICE AND JUSTIFICATION.— (1) It is the busi- 
ness of this life to make excuses for others, but none for ourselves. 
We should be clearly persuaded of our own misconduct, for 
that is the part of knowledge in which we are most apt to be 
defective. (2) Even justice is no right of a man's own, but 
a thing, like the king's tribute, which shall never be his, 
but which he should strive to see rendered to another. None 
was ever just to me ; none ever will be. You may reasonably 
aspire to be chief minister or sovereign pontiff; but not to 
be justly regarded in your own character and acts. You 
know too much to be satisfied. For justice is but an earthly 
currency, paid to appearances; you may see another super- 
ficially righted; but be sure he has got too little or too 
much ; and in your own case rest content with what is paid 
you. It is more just than you suppose; that your virtues 
are misunderstood is a price you pay to keep your meannesses 
concealed. (3) When you seek to justify yourself to others, 
you may be sure you will plead falsely. If you fail, you 
have the shame of the failure ; if you succeed, you will have 
made too much of it, and be unjustly esteemed upon the 
other side. (4) You have perhaps only one friend in the 
world, in whose esteem it is worth while for you to right 
yourself. Justification to indifferent persons is, at best, an 
impertinent intrusion. Let them think what they please ; 
they will be the more likely to forgive you in the end. (5) 
It is a question hard to be resolved, whether you should at 


any time criminate another to defend yourself. I have done 
it many times, and always had a troubled conscience for my 

II. PARENT AND CHILD.— (1) The love of parents for 
their children is, of all natural affections, the most ill-starred. 
It is not a love for the person, since it begins before the person 
has come into the world, and founds on an imaginary character 
and looks. Thus it is foredoomed to disappointment ; and 
because the parent either looks for too much, or at least for 
something inappropriate, at his offspring's hands, it is too 
often insufficiently repaid. The natural bond, besides, is 
stronger from parent to child than from child to parent ; 
and it is the side which confers benefits, not which receives 
them, that thinks most of a relation. (2) What do we 
owe our parents ? No man can owe love ; none can owe 
obedience. We owe, I think, chiefly pity; for we are the 
pledge of their dear and joyful union, we have been the 
solicitude of their days and the anxiety of their nights, we 
have made them, though by no will of ours, to carry the 
burthen of our sins, sorrows, and physical infirmities; and 
too many of us grow up at length to disappoint the pur- 
pose of their lives and requite their care and piety with 
cruel pangs. (3) Mater Dolorosa. It is the particular cross 
of parents that when the child grows up and becomes him- 
self instead of that pale ideal they had preconceived, they 
must accuse their own harshness or indulgence for this natural 
result. They have all been like the duck and hatched swan's 
eggs, or the other way about ; yet they tell themselves with 
miserable penitence that the blame lies with them ; and had 
they sat more closely, the swan would have been a duck, 
and home-keeping, in spite of all. (4) A good son, who 
can fulfil what is expected of him, has done his work in life. 
He has to redeem the sins of many, and restore the world's 
confidence in children. 



BETWEEN TWO PUPPETS.— At the end of Chapter xxxm. 
Count Spada and the General of the Jesuits were left alone 
in the pavilion, while the course of the story was turned upon 
the doings of the virtuous hero. Profiting by this moment 
of privacy, the Jesuit turned with a very warning countenance 
upon the peer. 

' Have a care, my lord,' said he, raising a finger. ' You 
are already no favourite with the author ; and for my part, 
I begin to perceive from a thousand evidences that the narra- 
tive is drawing near a close. Yet a chapter or two at most, 
and you will be overtaken by some sudden and appalling 

'I despise your womanish presentiments, 1 replied Spada, 
' and count firmly upon another volume ; I see a variety of 
reasons why my life should be prolonged to within a few 
pages of the end ; indeed, I permit myself to expect resurrec- 
tion in a sequel, or second part. You will scarce suggest 
that there can be any end to the newspaper; and you will 
certainly never convince me that the author, who cannot be 
entirely without sense, would have been at so great pains 
with my intelligence, gallant exterior, and happy and natural 
speech, merely to kick me hither and thither for two or three 
paltry chapters and then drop me at the end like a dumb 
personage. I know you priests are often infidels in secret. 
Pray, do you believe in an author at all ? ' 

'Many do not, I am aware, 1 replied the General softly; 
' even in the last chapter we encountered one, the self-righteous 
David Hume, who goes so far as to doubt the existence of 
the newspaper in which our adventures are now appearing; 
but it would neither become my cloth, nor do credit to my 
great experience, were I to meddle with these dangerous 
opinions. My alarm for you is not metaphysical, it is moral 
in its origin : You must be aware, my poor friend, that you 
are a very bad character — the worst indeed that I have met 


with in these pages. The author hates you, Count; and 
difficult as it may be to connect the idea of immortality — 
or, in plain terms, of a sequel — with the paper and printer's 
ink of which your humanity is made, it is yet more difficult 
to foresee anything but punishment and pain for one who 
is justly hateful in the eyes of his creator.' 1 

' You take for granted many things that I shall not easily 
be persuaded to allow,'' replied the villain. ' Do you really 
so far deceive yourself in your imagination as to fancy that 
the author is a friend to good ? Read ; read the book in 
which you figure ; and you will soon disown such crude vul- 
garities. Lelio is a good character ; yet only two chapters 
ago we left him in a fine predicament. His old servant was 
a model of the virtues, yet did he not miserably perish in 
that ambuscade upon the road to Poitiers ? And as for the 
family of the bankrupt merchant, how is it possible for greater 
moral qualities to be alive with more irremediable misfortunes ? 
And yet you continue to misrepresent an author to yourself, 
as a deity devoted to virtue and inimical to vice ? Pray, if 
you have no pride in your own intellectual credit for your- 
self, spare at least the sensibilities of your associates."' 

' The purposes of the serial story,"' answered the Priest, ' are, 
doubtless for some wise reason, hidden from those who act in 
it. To this limitation we must bow. But I ask every character 
to observe narrowly his own personal relations to the author. 
There, if nowhere else, we may glean some hint of his superior 
designs. Now I am myself a mingled personage, liable to 
doubts, to scruples, and to sudden revulsions of feeling; I 
reason continually about life, and frequently the result of my 
reasoning is to condemn or even to change my action. I am 
now convinced, for example, that I did wrong in joining in 
your plot against the innocent and most unfortunate Lelio. 
I told you so, you will remember, in the chapter which has 
just been concluded ; and though I do not know whether 
you perceived the ardour and fluency with which I expressed 



myself, I am still confident in my own heart that I spoke 
at that moment not only with the warm approval, but under 
the direct inspiration, of the author of the tale. I know, 
Spada, I tell you I know, that he loved me as I uttered 
these words ; and yet at other periods of my career I have 
been conscious of his indifference and dislike. You must not 
seek to reason me from this conviction; for it is supplied 
me from higher authority than that of reason, and is indeed 
a part of my experience. It may be an illusion that I drove 
last night from Saumur ; it may be an illusion that we are 
now in the garden chamber of the chateau ; it may be an 
illusion that I am conversing with Count Spada; you may 
be an illusion, Count, yourself; but of three things I will 
remain eternally persuaded, that the author exists not only 
in the newspaper but in my own heart, that he loves me 
when I do well, and that he hates and despises me when I 
do otherwise.' 

' I too believe in the author,' returned the Count. ' I 
believe likewise in a sequel, written in finer style and probably 
cast in a still higher rank of society than the present story ; 
although I am not convinced that we shall then be conscious 
of our pre-existence here. So much of your argument is, 
therefore, beside the mark; for to a certain point I am as 
orthodox as yourself. But where you begin to draw general 
conclusions from your own private experience, I must beg 
pointedly and finally to differ. You will not have forgotten, 
I believe, my daring and single-handed butchery of the five 
secret witnesses ? Nor the sleight of mind and dexterity of 
language with which I separated Lelio from the merchant's 
family ? These were not virtuous actions ; and yet, how am 
I to tell you? I was conscious of a troubled joy, a glee, 
a hellish gusto in my author's bosom, which seemed to renew 
my vigour with every sentence, and which has indeed made 
the first of these passages accepted for a model of spirited 
narrative description, and the second for a masterpiece of 



wickedness and wit. What result, then, can be drawn from 
two experiences so contrary as yours and mine? For my 
part, I lay it down as a principle, no author can be moral 
in a merely human sense. And, to pursue the argument 
higher, how can you, for one instant, suppose the existence 
of free-will in puppets situated as we are in the thick of a 
novel which we do not even understand ? And how, without 
free-will upon our parts, can you justify blame or approval 
on that of the author ? We are in his hands ; by a stroke 
of the pen, to speak reverently, he made us what we are ; 
by a stroke of the pen he can utterly undo and transmute 
what he has made. In the very next chapter, my dear 
General, you may be shown up for an impostor, or I be 
stricken down in the tears of penitence and hurried into the 
retirement of a monastery ! ' 

' You use an argument old as mankind, and difficult of 
answer,'' said the Priest. 'I cannot justify the free-will of 
which I am usually conscious ; nor will I ever seek to deny 
that this consciousness is interrupted. Sometimes events 
mount upon me with such swiftness and pressure that my 
choice is overwhelmed, and even to myself I seem to obey 
a will external to my own ; and again I am sometimes so 
paralysed and impotent between alternatives that I am 
tempted to imagine a hesitation on the part of my author. 
But I contend, upon the other hand, for a limited free-will 
in the sphere of consciousness ; and as it is in and by my 
consciousness that I exist to myself, I will not go on to 
inquire whether that free-will is valid as against the author, 
the newspaper, or even the readers of the story. And I con- 
tend, further, for a sort of empire or independence of our 
own characters when once created, which the author cannot 
or at least does not choose to violate. Hence Lelio was 
conceived upright, honest, courageous and headlong ; to 
that first idea all his acts and speeches must of necessity 
continue to answer ; and the same, though with such different 



defects and qualities, applies to you, Count Spada, and to 
myself. We must act up to our characters; it is these 
characters that the author loves or despises ; it is on account 
of them that we must suffer or triumph, whether in this 
work or in a sequel. Such is my belief 

'It is pure Calvinistic election, my dear sir, and, by your 
leave, a very heretical position for a churchman to support, 1 
replied the Count. ' Nor can I see how it removes the diffi- 
culty. I was not consulted as to my character ; I might have 
chosen to be Lelio; I might have chosen to be yourself; I 
might even have preferred to figure in a different romance, or 
not to enter into the world of literature at all. And am I 
to be blamed or hated, because some one else wilfully and 
inhumanely made me what I am, and has continued ever since 
to encourage me in what are called my vices ? You may say 
what you please, my dear sir, but if that is the case, I had 
rather be a telegram from the seat of war than a reasonable 
and conscious character in a romance ; nay, and I have a per- 
fect right to repudiate, loathe, curse, and utterly condemn the 
ruffian who calls himself the author. , 

' You have, as you say, a perfect right,' replied the Jesuit ; 
' and I am convinced that it will not affect him in the least. - * 

' He shall have one slave the fewer for me, 1 added the Count. 
' I discard my allegiance once for all. 1 

' As you please, 1 concluded the other ; ' but at least be ready, 
for I perceive we are about to enter on the scene. 1 

And indeed, just at that moment, Chapter xxxiv. being 
completed, Chapter xxxv., ' The Count's Chastisement, 1 began 
to appear in the columns of the newspaper. 

IV. SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY.— (1) A little society is 
needful to show a man his failings ; for if he lives entirely by 
himself, he has no occasion to fall, and like a soldier in time of 
peace, becomes both weak and vain. But a little solitude must 
be used, or we grow content with current virtues and forget the 


ideal. In society we lose scrupulous brightness of honour ; in 
solitude we lose the courage necessary to face our own imper- 
fections. (2) As a question of pleasure, after a man has 
reached a certain age, I can hardly perceive much room to 
choose between them : each is in a way delightful, and each 
will please best after an experience of the other. (3) But 
solitude for its own sake should surely never be preferred. 
We are bound by the strongest obligations to busy ourselves 
amid the world of men, if it be only to crack jokes. The 
finest trait in the character of St. Paul was his readiness to be 
damned for the salvation of anybody else. And surely we 
should all endure a little weariness to make one face look 
brighter or one hour go more pleasantly in this mixed world. 
(4) It is our business here to speak, for it is by the tongue 
that we multiply ourselves most influentially. To speak 
kindly, wisely, and pleasantly is the first of duties, the easiest 
of duties, and the duty that is most blessed in its performance. 
For it is natural, it whiles away life, it spreads intelligence ; 
and it increases the acquaintance of man with man. (5) It is, 
besides, a good investment, for while all other pleasures decay, 
and even the delight in nature, Grandfather William is still 
bent to gossip. (6) Solitude is the climax of the negative 
virtues. When we go to bed after a solitary day we can tell 
ourselves that we have not been unkind nor dishonest nor 
untruthful ; and the negative virtues are agreeable to that 
dangerous faculty we call the conscience. That they should 
ever be admitted for a part of virtue is what I cannot explain. 
I do not care two straws for all the nots. (7) The positive 
virtues are imperfect ; they are even ugly in their imperfec- 
tion : for man's acts, by the necessity of his being, are coarse 
and mingled. The kindest, in the course of a day of active 
kindnesses, will say some things rudely, and do some things 
cruelly ; the most honourable, perhaps, trembles at his near- 
ness to a doubtful act. (8) Hence the solitary recoils from 
the practice of life, shocked by its unsightlinesses. But if I 

c 33 


could only retain that superfine and guiding delicacy of the 
sense that grows in solitude, and still combine with it that 
courage of performance which is never abashed by any failure, 
but steadily pursues its right and human design in a scene of 
imperfection, I might hope to strike in the long-run a conduct 
more tender to others and less humiliating to myself. 

V. SELFISHNESS AND EGOISM.— An unconscious, easy, 
selfish person shocks less, and is more easily loved than one who 
is laboriously and egotistically unselfish. There is at least no 
fuss about the first ; but the other parades his sacrifices, and 
so sells his favours too dear. Selfishness is calm, a force of 
nature : you might say the trees were selfish. But egoism is a 
piece of vanity ; it must always take you into its confidence ; 
it is uneasy, troublesome, seeking; it can do good, but not 
handsomely ; it is uglier, because less dignified, than selfish- 
ness itself. But here I perhaps exaggerate to myself, because 
I am the one more than the other, and feel it like a hook in 
my mouth, at every step I take. Do what I will, this seems 
to spoil all. 

VI. RIGHT AND WRONG.— It is the mark of a good 
action that it appears inevitable in the retrospect. We should 
have been cut-throats to do otherwise. And there 's an end. 
We ought to know distinctly that we are damned for what we 
do wrong ; but when we have done right, we have only been 
gentlemen, after all. There is nothing to make a work about. 

your mind to dwell on your own misconduct : that is ruin. The 
conscience has morbid sensibilities ; it must be employed but 
not indulged, like the imagination or the stomach. (2) Let 
each stab suffice for the occasion ; to play with this spiritual 
pain turns to penance ; and a person easily learns to feel good 
by dallying with the consciousness of having done wrong. 



(3) Shut your eyes hard against the recollection of your sins. 
Do not be afraid, you will not be able to forget them. (4) 
You will always do wrong : you must try to get used to that, 
my son. It is a small matter to make a work about, when all 
the world is in the same case. I meant when I was a young 
man to write a great poem ; and now I am cobbling little 
prose articles and in excellent good spirits, I thank you. So, 
too, I meant to lead a life that should keep mounting from the 
first; and though I have been repeatedly down again below 
sea-level, and am scarce higher than when I started, I am as 
keen as ever for that enterprise. Our business in this world is 
not to succeed, but to continue to fail, in good spirits. (5) 
There is but one test of a good life : that the man shall con- 
tinue to grow more difficult about his own behaviour. That is 
to be good : there is no other virtue attainable. The virtues 
we admire in the saint and the hero are the fruits of a happy 
constitution. You, for your part, must not think you will 
ever be a good man, for these are born and not made. You 
will have your own reward, if you keep on growing better than 
you were — how do I say ? if you do not keep on growing 
worse. (6) A man is one thing, and must be exercised in all 
his faculties. Whatever side of you is neglected, whether it is 
the muscles, or the taste for art, or the desire for virtue, that 

Which is cultivated will suffer in proportion. was greatly 

tempted, I remember, to do a very dishonest act, in order that 
he might pursue his studies in art. When he consulted me, I 
advised him not (putting it that way for once), because his art 
would suffer. (7) It might be fancied that if we could only 
study all sides of our being in an exact proportion, we should 
attain wisdom. But in truth a chief part of education is to 
exercise one set of faculties a outrance — one, since we have 
not the time so to practise all ; thus the dilettante misses the 
kernel of the matter ; and the man who has wrung forth the 
secret of one part of life knows more about the others than he 
who has tepidly circumnavigated all. (8) Thus, one must be 



your profession, the rest can only be your delights ; and virtue 
had better be kept for the latter, for it enters into all, but 
none enters by necessity into it. You will learn a great deal 
of virtue by studying any art; but nothing of any art in 
the study of virtue. (9) The study of conduct has to do with 
grave problems ; not every action should be higgled over ; one 
of the leading virtues therein is to let oneself alone. But if 
you make it your chief employment, you are sure to meddle 
too much. This is the great error of those who are called 
pious. Although the war of virtue be unending except with 
life, hostilities are frequently suspended, and the troops go 
into winter quarters ; but the pious will not profit by these 
times of truce; where their conscience can perceive no sin, 
they will find a sin in that very innocency ; and so they per- 
vert, to their annoyance, those seasons which God gives to us 
for repose and a reward. (10) The nearest approximation to 
sense in all this matter lies with the Quakers. There must be 
no a>iZZ-worship ; how much more, no wiZZ-repentance. The 
damnable consequence of set seasons, even for prayer, is to 
have a man continually posturing to himself, till his conscience 
is taught as many tricks as a pet monkey, and the gravest 
expressions are left with a perverted meaning. (11) For my 
part, I should try to secure some part of every day for medita- 
tion, above all in the early morning and the open air ; but how 
that time was to be improved I should leave to circumstance 
and the inspiration of the hour. Nor if I spent it in whistling 
or numbering my footsteps, should I consider it misspent for 
that. I should have given my conscience a fair field ; when it 
has anything to say, I know too well it can speak daggers ; 
therefore, for this time, my hard taskmaster has given me a 
holyday, and I may go in again rejoicing to my breakfast and 
the human business of the day. 

VIII. GRATITUDE TO GOD.— (1) To the gratitude that 
becomes us in this life, I can set no limit. Though we steer 



after a fashion, yet we must sail according to the winds and 
currents. After what I have done, what might I not have 
done ? That I have still the courage to attempt my life, that 
I am not now overladen with dishonours, to whom do I owe it 
but to the gentle ordering of circumstances in the great design ? 
More has not been done to me than I can bear ; I have been 
marvellously restrained and helped : not unto us, O Lord ! 

(2) I cannot forgive God for the suffering of others; when 
I look abroad upon his world and behold its cruel destinies, 
I turn from him with disaffection ; nor do I conceive that he 
will blame me for the impulse. But when I consider my own 
fates, I grow conscious of his gentle dealing : I see him chastise 
with helpful blows, I feel his stripes to be caresses ; and this 
knowledge is my comfort that reconciles me to the world. 

(3) All those whom I now pity with indignation, are perhaps 
not less fatherly dealt with than myself. I do right to be 
angry : yet they, perhaps, if they lay aside heat and temper, 
and reflect with patience on their lot, may find everywhere, 
in their worst trials, the same proofs of a divine affection. 

(4) While we have little to try us, we are angry with little ; 
small annoyances do not bear their justification on their faces ; 
but when we are overtaken by a great sorrow or perplexity, 
the greatness of our concern sobers us so that we see more 
clearly and think with more consideration. I speak for myself; 
nothing grave has yet befallen me but I have been able to 
reconcile my mind to its occurrence, and see in it, from my 
own little and partial point of view, an evidence of a tender 
and protecting God. Even the misconduct into which I have 
been led has been blessed to my improvement. If I did not 
sin, and that so glaringly that my conscience is convicted on 
the spot, I do not know what I should become, but I feel sure 
I should grow worse. The man of very regular conduct is too 
often a prig, if he be not worse — a rabbi. I, for my part, 
want to be startled out of my conceits ; I want to be put to 
shame in my own eyes ; I want to feel the bridle in my mouth, 



and be continually reminded of my own weakness and the 
omnipotence of circumstances. (5) If I from my spy-hole, 
looking with purblind eyes upon the least part of a fraction of 
the universe, yet perceive in my own destiny some broken 
evidences of a plan and some signals of an overruling goodness ; 
shall I then ,be so mad as to complain that all cannot be 
deciphered ? Shall I not rather wonder, with infinite and 
grateful surprise, that in so vast a scheme I seem to have been 
able to read, however little, and that that little was encouraging 
to faith ? 

IX. BLAME. — What comes from without and what from 
within, how much of conduct proceeds from the spirit or how 
much from circumstances, what is the part of choice and what 
the part of the selection offered, where personal character 
begins or where, if anywhere, it escapes at all from the 
authority of nature, these are questions of curiosity and eter- 
nally indifferent to right and wrong. Our theory of blame is 
utterly sophisticated and untrue to man's experience. We are 
as much ashamed of a pimpled face that came to us by natural 
descent as by one that we have earned by our excesses, and 
rightly so ; since the two cases, in so much as they unfit us for 
the easier sort of pleasing and put an obstacle in the path of 
love, are exactly equal in their consequence. We look aside 
from the true question. We cannot blame others at all ; we 
can only punish them ; and ourselves we blame indifferently 
for a deliberate crime, a thoughtless brusquerie, or an act done 
without volition in an ecstasy of madness. We blame ourselves 
from two considerations : first, because another has suffered ; 
and second, because, in so far as we have again done wrong, 
we can look forward with the less confidence to what remains 
of our career. Shall we repent this failure ? It is there that 
the consciousness of sin most cruelly affects us ; it is in view of 
this that a man cries out, in exaggeration, that his heart is 
desperately wicked and deceitful above all things. We all 



tacitly subscribe this judgment : Woe unto him by whom 
offences shall come ! We accept palliations for our neighbours ; 
we dare not, in sight of our own soul, accept them for our- 
selves. We may not be to blame ; we may be conscious of no 
free will in the matter, of a possession, on the other hand, 
or an irresistible tyranny of circumstance, — yet we know, in 
another sense, we are to blame for all. Our right to live, to 
eat, to share in mankind's pleasures, lies precisely in this : that 
we must be persuaded we can on the whole live rather bene- 
ficially than hurtfully to others. Remove this persuasion, and 
the man has lost his right. That persuasion is our dearest 
jewel, to which we must sacrifice the life itself to which it 
entitles us. For it is better to be dead than degraded. 

X. MARRIAGE. — (1) No considerate man can approach 
marriage without deep concern. I, he will think, who have 
made hitherto so poor a business of my own life, am now about 
to embrace the responsibility of another's. Henceforth, there 
shall be two to suffer from my faults ; and that other is the 
one whom I most desire to shield from suffering. In view of 
our impotence and folly, it seems an act of presumption to 
involve another's destiny with ours. We should hesitate to 
assume command of an army or a trading-smack ; shall we not 
hesitate to become surety for the life and happiness, now and 
henceforward, of our dearest friend ? To be nobody's enemy 
but one's own, although it is never possible to any, can least 
of all be possible to one who is married. (2) I would not so 
much fear to give hostages to fortune, if fortune ruled only in 
material things ; but fortune, as we call those minor and more 
inscrutable workings of providence, rules also in the sphere of 
conduct. I am not so blind but that I know I might be a 
murderer or even a traitor to-morrow ; and now, as if I were 
not already too feelingly alive to my misdeeds, I must choose 
out the one person whom I most desire to please, and make 
her the daily witness of my failures, I must give a part in all 



my dishonours to the one person who can feel them more 
keenly than myself. (3) In all our daring, magnanimous 
human way of life, I find nothing more bold than this. To go 
into battle is but a small thing by comparison. It is the last 
act of committal. After that, there is no way left, not even 
suicide, but to be a good man. (4) She will help you, let us 
pray. And yet she is in the same case ; she, too, has daily 
made shipwreck of her own happiness and worth ; it is with a 
courage no less irrational than yours, that she also ventures on 
this new experiment of life. Two who have failed severally, 
now join their fortunes with a wavering hope. (5) But it is 
from the boldness of the enterprise that help springs. To 
take home to your hearth that living witness whose blame will 
most affect you, to eat, to sleep, to live with your most admir- 
ing and thence most exacting judge, is not this to domesticate 
the living God ? Each becomes a conscience to the other, 
legible like a clock upon the chimney-piece. Each offers to 
his mate a figure of the consequence of human acts. And 
while I may still continue by my inconsiderate or violent life 
to spread far-reaching havoc throughout man's confederacy, I 
can do so no more, at least, in ignorance and levity ; one face 
shall wince before me in the flesh ; I have taken home the 
sorrows I create to my own hearth and bed ; and though I 
continue to sin, it must be now with open eyes. 

XI. IDLENESS AND INDUSTRY.— I remember a time 
when I was very idle ; and lived and profited by that humour. 
I have no idea why I ceased to be so, yet I scarce believe I have 
the power to return to it ; it is a change of age. I made con- 
sciously a thousand little efforts, but the determination from 
which these arose came to me while I slept and in the way of 
growth. I have had a thousand skirmishes to keep myself at 
work upon particular mornings, and sometimes the affair was 
hot ; but of that great change of campaign, which decided all 
this part of my life, and turned me from one whose business 


was to shirk into one whose business was to strive and per- 
severe, — it seems as though all that had been done by some 
one else. The life of Goethe affected me; so did that of 
Balzac ; and some very noble remarks by the latter in a pretty 
bad book, the Cousine Bette. I daresay I could trace some 
other influences in the change. All I mean is, I was never 
conscious of a struggle, nor registered a vow, nor seemingly 
had anything personally to do with the matter. I came about 
like a well-handled ship. There stood at the wheel that 
unknown steersman whom we call God. 

XII. COURAGE. — Courage is the principal virtue, for all the 
others presuppose it. If you are afraid, you may do anything. 
Courage is to be cultivated, and some of the negative virtues 
may be sacrificed in the cultivation. 

XIII. RESULTS OF ACTION.— The result is the reward 
of actions, not the test. The result is a child born ; if it be 
beautiful and healthy, well : if club-footed or crook-back, 
perhaps well also. We cannot direct. . . . 




Two things are necessary in any neighbourhood where we 
propose to spend a life : a desert and some living water. 

There are many parts of the earth's face which offer the 
necessary combination of a certain wildness with a kindly 
variety. A great prospect is desirable, but the want may be 
otherwise supplied ; even greatness can be found on the small 
scale ; for the mind and the eye measure differently. Bold 
rocks near hand are more inspiriting than distant Alps, and 
the thick fern upon a Surrey heath makes a fine forest for the 
imagination, and the dotted yew trees noble mountains. A 
Scottish moor with birches and firs grouped here and there 
upon a knoll, or one of those rocky sea-side deserts of Provence 
overgrown with rosemary and thyme and smoking with aroma, 
are places where the mind is never weary. Forests, being more 
enclosed, are not at first sight so attractive, but they exercise 
a spell ; they must, however, be diversified with either heath 
or rock, and are hardly to be considered perfect without coni- 
fers. Even sand-hills, with their intricate plan, and their gulls 
and rabbits, will stand well for the necessary desert. 

The house must be within hail of either a little river or the 
sea. A great river is more fit for poetry than to adorn a 
neighbourhood ; its sweep of waters increases the scale of the 
scenery and the distance of one notable object from another; 
and a lively burn gives us, in the space of a few yards, a greater 
variety of promontory and islet, of cascade, shallow goil, and 
boiling pool, with answerable changes both of song and colour, 
than a navigable stream in many hundred miles. The fish, 


too, make a more considerable feature of the brookside, and 
the trout plumping in the shadow takes the ear. A stream 
should, besides, be narrow enough to cross, or the burn hard 
by a bridge, or we are at once shut out of Eden. The quantity 
of water need be of no concern, for the mind sets the scale, and 
can enjoy a Niagara Fall of thirty inches. Let us approve the 
singer of 

Shallow rivers, by whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

If the sea is to be our ornamental water, choose an open sea- 
board with a heavy beat of surf; one much broken in outline, 
with small havens and dwarf headlands; if possible a few 
islets ; and as a first necessity, rocks reaching out into deep 
water. Such a rock on a calm day is a better station than the 
top of Teneriffe or Chimborazo. In short, both for the desert 
and the water, the conjunction of many near and bold details 
is bold scenery for the imagination and keeps the mind alive. 

Given these two prime luxuries, the nature of the country 
where we are to live is, I had almost said, indifferent ; after 
that, inside the garden, we can construct a country of our own. 
Several old trees, a considerable variety of level, several well- 
grown hedges to divide our garden into provinces, a good 
extent of old well-set turf, and thickets of shrubs and ever- 
greens to be cut into and cleared at the new owner's pleasure, 
are the qualities to be sought for in your chosen land. Nothing 
is more delightful than a succession of small lawns, opening 
one out of the other through tall hedges ; these have all the 
charm of the old bowling-green repeated, do not require the 
labour of many trimmers, and afford a series of changes. 
You must have much lawn against the early summer, so as to 
have a great field of daisies, the year's morning frost ; as you 
must have a wood of lilacs, to enjoy to the full the period of 
their blossoming. Hawthorn is another of the Spring's in- 
gredients ; but it is even best to have a rough public lane at 



one side of your enclosure which, at the right season, shall 
become an avenue of bloom and odour. The old flowers are 
the best and should grow carelessly in corners. Indeed, the 
ideal fortune is to find an old garden, once very richly cared 
for, since sunk into neglect, and to tend, not repair, that 
neglect; it will thus have a smack of nature and wildness 
which skilful dispositions cannot overtake. The gardener 
should be an idler, and have a gross partiality to the kitchen 
plots: an eager or toilful gardener misbecomes the garden 
landscape; a tasteful gardener will be ever meddling, will 
keep the borders raw, and take the bloom off nature. Close 
adjoining, if you are in the south, an olive-yard, if in the 
north, a swarded apple-orchard reaching to the stream, com- 
pletes your miniature domain ; but this is perhaps best entered 
through a door in the high fruit- wall ; so that you close the 
door behind you on your sunny plots, your hedges and ever- 
green jungle, when you go down to watch the apples falling in 
the pool. It is a golden maxim to cultivate the garden for the 
nose, and the eyes will take care of themselves. Nor must the 
ear be forgotten: without birds, a garden is a prison-yard. 
There is a garden near Marseilles on a steep hill-side, walking 
by which, upon a sunny morning, your ear will suddenly be 
ravished with a burst of small and very cheerful singing : some 
score of cages being set out there to sun their occupants. 
This is a heavenly surprise to any passer-by; but the price 
paid, to keep so many ardent and winged creatures from their 
liberty, will make the luxury too dear for any thoughtful 
pleasure-lover. There is only one sort of bird that I can 
tolerate caged, though even then I think it hard, and that is 
what is called in France the Bec-d' Argent. I once had two 
of these pigmies in captivity; and in the quiet, bare house 
upon a silent street where I was then living, their song, which 
was not much louder than a bee's, but airily musical, kept me 
in a perpetual good humour. I put the cage upon my table 
when I worked, carried it with me when I went for meals, and 



kept it by my head at night : the first thing in the morning, 
these maestrini would pipe up. But these, even if you can 
pardon their imprisonment, are for the house. In the garden 
the wild birds must plant a colony, a chorus of the lesser 
warblers that should be almost deafening, a blackbird in the 
lilacs, a nightingale down the lane, so that you must stroll 
to hear it, and yet a little farther, tree-tops populous with 

Your house should not command much outlook ; it should 
be set deep and green, though upon rising ground, or, if possible, 
crowning a knoll, for the sake of drainage. Yet it must be 
open to the east, or you will miss the sunrise ; sunset occurring 
so much later, you can go up a few steps and look the other 
way. A house of more than two stories is a mere barrack ; 
indeed the ideal is of one story, raised upon cellars. If the 
rooms are large, the house may be small : a single room, lofty, 
spacious, and lightsome, is more palatial than a castleful of 
cabinets and cupboards. Yet size in a house, and some extent 
and intricacy of corridor, is certainly delightful to the flesh. 
The reception room should be, if possible, a place of many 
recesses, which are ' petty retiring places for conference ' ; but 
it must have one long wall with a divan : for a day spent upon 
a divan, among a world of cushions, is as full of diversion as to 
travel. The eating-room, in the French mode, should be ad 
hoc : unfurnished, but with a buffet, the table, necessary chairs, 
one or two of Canaletto's etchings, and a tile fire-place for the 
winter. In neither of these public places should there be any- 
thing beyond a shelf or two of books ; but the passages may 
be one library from end to end, and the stair, if there be one, 
lined with volumes in old leather, very brightly carpeted, and 
leading half-way up, and by way of landing, to a windowed 
recess with a fire-place ; this window, almost alone in the house, 
should command a handsome prospect. Husband and wife 
must each possess a studio ; on the woman's sanctuary I hesi- 
tate to dwell, and turn to the man's. The walls are shelved 



waist-high for books, and the top thus forms a continuous table 
running round the wall. Above are prints, a large map of the 
neighbourhood, a Corot and a Claude or two. The room is very 
spacious, and the five tables and two chairs are but as islands. 
One table is for actual work, one close by for references in use; 
one, very large, for mss. or proofs that wait their turn; one 
kept clear for an occasion ; and the fifth is the map table, groan- 
ing under a collection of large-scale maps and charts. Of all 
books these are the least wearisome to read and the richest in 
matter ; the course of roads and rivers, the contour lines and 
the forests in the maps — the reefs, soundings, anchors, sailing 
marks and little pilot-pictures in the charts — and, in both, the 
bead-roll of names, make them of all printed matter the most 
fit to stimulate and satisfy the fancy. The chair in which you 
write is very low and easy, and backed into a corner ; at one 
elbow the fire twinkles ; close at the other, if you are a little 
inhumane, your cage of silver-bills are twittering into song. 

Joined along by a passage, you may reach the great, sunny, 
glass-roofed, and tiled gymnasium, at the far end of which, 
lined with bright marble, is your plunge and swimming bath, 
fitted with a capacious boiler. 

The whole loft of the house from end to end makes one 
undivided chamber; here are set forth tables on which to 
model imaginary or actual countries in putty or plaster, with 
tools and hardy pigments ; a carpenter's bench ; and a spared 
corner for photography, while at the far end a space is kept 
clear for playing soldiers. Two boxes contain the two armies 
of some five hundred horse and foot ; two others the ammuni- 
tion of each side, and a fifth the foot-rules and the three 
colours of chalk, with which you lay down, or, after a day's 
play, refresh the outlines of the country ; red or white for the 
two kinds of road (according as they are suitable or not for 
the passage of ordnance), and blue for the course of the 
obstructing rivers. Here I foresee that you may pass much 
happy time ; against a good adversary a game may well 


continue for a month ; for with armies so considerable three 
moves will occupy an hour. It will be found to set an 
excellent edge on this diversion if one of the players shall, 
every day or so, write a report of the operations in the 
character of army correspondent. 

I have left to the last the little room for winter evenings. 
This should be furnished in warm positive colours, and sofas 
and floor thick with rich furs. The hearth, where you burn 
wood of aromatic quality on silver dogs, tiled round about 
with Bible pictures ; the seats deep and easy ; a single Titian 
in a gold frame ; a white bust or so upon a bracket ; a rack 
for the journals of the week; a table for the books of the 
year ; and close in a corner the three shelves full of eternal 
books that never weary : Shakespeare, Moliere, Montaigne, 
Lamb, Sterne, De Mussefs comedies (the one volume open at 
Carmosine and the other at Fantasio); the Arabian Nights,, 
and kindred stories, in Weber's solemn volumes; Borrow's 
Bible in Spain, the Pilgrim's Progress, Guy Mannering and 
Rob Roy, Monte Cristo and the Vicomte de Bragelonne, 
immortal Boswell sole among biographers, Chaucer, Herrick, 
and the State Trials. 

The bedrooms are large, airy, with almost no furniture, 
floors of varnished wood, and at the bed-head, in case of 
insomnia, one shelf of books of a particular and dippable 
order, such as Pepys, the Paston Letters, Burt's Letters from 
the Highlands, or the Newgate Calendar. . . . 




Although an old, consistent exile, the editor of the following 
pages revisits now and again the city of which he exults to be 
a native ; and there are few things more strange, more painful, 
or more salutary, than such revisitations. Outside, in foreign 
spots, he comes by surprise and awakens more attention than 
he had expected ; in his own city, the relation is reversed, and 
he stands amazed to be so little recollected. Elsewhere he is 
refreshed to see attractive faces, to remark possible friends ; 
there he scouts the long streets, with a pang at heart, for 
the faces and friends that are no more. Elsewhere he is 
delighted with the presence of what is new, there tormented 
by the absence of what is old. Elsewhere he is content to be 
his present self; there he is smitten with an equal regret for 
what he once was and for what he once hoped to be. 

He was feeling all this dimly, as he drove from the station, 
on his last visit ; he was feeling it still as he alighted at the 
door of his friend Mr. Johnstone Thomson, W.S., with whom 
he was to stay. A hearty welcome, a face not altogether 
changed, a few words that sounded of old days, a laugh pro- 
voked and shared, a glimpse in passing of the snowy cloth and 
bright decanters and the Piranesis on the dining-room wall, 
brought him to his bed-room with a somewhat lightened cheer, 
and when he and Mr. Thomson sat down a few minutes later, 
cheek by jowl, and pledged the past in a preliminary bumper, 
he was already almost consoled, he had already almost forgiven 


himself his two unpardonable errors, that he should ever have 
left his native city, or ever returned to it. 

' I have something quite in your way,' said Mr. Thomson. 
i I wished to do honour to your arrival; because, my dear 
fellow, it is my own youth that comes back along with you ; 
in a very tattered and withered state, to be sure, but — well ! 
—all that's left of it.' 

' A great deal better than nothing,'' said the editor. ' But 
what is this which is quite in my way ? ' 

' I was coming to that,' said Mr. Thomson : ' Fate has put 
it in my power to honour your arrival with something really 
original by way of dessert. A mystery.' 

' A mystery ? ' 1 repeated. 

'Yes,' said his friend, 'a mystery. It may prove to be 
nothing, and it may prove to be a great deal. But in the 
meanwhile it is truly mysterious, no eye having looked on it 
for near a hundred years ; it is highly genteel, for it treats of 
a titled family ; and it ought to be melodramatic, for (accord- 
ing to the superscription) it is concerned with death.' 

i I think I rarely heard a more obscure or a more promising 
annunciation,' the other remarked. ' But what is It ? , 

' You remember my predecessor's, old Peter M'Brairs 
business ? ' 

' I remember him acutely ; he could not look at me without 
a pang of reprobation, and he could not feel the pang without 
betraying it. He was to me a man of a great historical 
interest, but the interest was not returned.' 

1 Ah well, we go beyond him,' said Mr. Thomson. ' I dare- 
say old Peter knew as little about this as I do. You see, I 
succeeded to a prodigious accumulation of old law-papers 
and old tin boxes, some of them of Peter's hoarding, some of 
his father's, John, first of the dynasty, a great man in his 
day. Among other collections, were all the papers of the 

' The Durrisdeers ! ' cried I. ' My dear fellow, these may be 

D 49 


of the greatest interest. One of them was out in the '45 ; 
one had some strange passages with the devil — you will find 
a note of it in Law's Memorials, I think ; and there was an 
unexplained tragedy, I know not what, much later, about 
a hundred years ago , 

' More than a hundred years ago,"' said Mr. Thomson. ' In 
1783. 1 

' How do you know that ? I mean some death. 1 

' Yes, the lamentable deaths of my lord Durrisdeer and his 
brother, the Master of Ballantrae (attainted in the troubles),' 
said Mr. Thomson with something the tone of a man quoting. 
'Is that it? 1 

' To say truth,' said I, ' I have only seen some dim reference 
to the things in memoirs ; and heard some traditions dimmer 
still, through my uncle (whom I think you knew). My uncle 
lived when he was a boy in the neighbourhood of St. Bride's ; 
he has often told me of the avenue closed up and grown over 
with grass, the great gates never opened, the last lord and his 
old maid sister who lived in the back parts of the house, a 
quiet, plain, poor, hum-drum couple it would seem — but 
pathetic too, as the last of that stirring and brave house — 
and, to the country folk, faintly terrible from some deformed 
traditions." 1 

' Yes, 1 said Mr. Thomson. ' Henry Graeme Durie, the last 
lord, died in 1820 ; his sister, the Honourable Miss Katherine 
Durie, in "27; so much I know; and by what I have been 
going over the last few days, they were what you say, decent, 
quiet people and not rich. To say truth, it was a letter of my 
lord's that put me on the search for the packet we are going 
to open this evening. Some papers could not be found ; and 
he wrote to Jack M'Brair suggesting they might be among 
those sealed up by a Mr. Mackellar. M'Brair answered, that 
the papers in question were all in Mackellar's own hand, all 
(as the writer understood) of a purely narrative character ; and 
besides, said he, " I am bound not to open them before the 



year 1889." You may fancy if these words struck me : I 
instituted a hunt through all the M'Brair repositories ; and at 
last hit upon that packet which (if you have had enough wine) 
I propose to show you at once. 1 

In the smoking-room, to which my host now led me, was a 
packet, fastened with many seals and enclosed in a single sheet 
of strong paper thus endorsed : 

Papers relating to the lives and lamentable deaths of the late 
Lord Durisdeer, and his elder brother James, commonly called 
Master of Ballantrae, attainted in the troubles : entrusted into the 
hands of John M'Brair in the Lawnmarket of Edinburgh, W.S. ; 
this 20th day of September Anno Domini 1789; by him to be 
kept secret until the revolution of one hundred years complete, 
or until the 20th day of September 1889 : the same compiled and 
written by me, Ephraim Mackellar, 

For near forty years Land Steward on the 
estates of His Lordship. 

As Mr. Thomson is a married man, I will not say what hour 
had struck when we laid down the last of the following pages ; 
but I will give a few words of what ensued. 

' Here,' said Mr. Thomson, ' is a novel ready to your hand : 
all you have to do is to work up the scenery, develop the 
characters, and improve the style.'' 

' My dear fellow, 1 said I, ' they are just the three things that 
I would rather die than set my hand to. It shall be published 
as it stands.' 

'But it's so bald, 1 objected Mr. Thomson. 

' I believe there is nothing so noble as baldness,' replied I, 
' and I am sure there is nothing so interesting. I would have 
all literature bald, and all authors (if you like) but one.' 

( Well, well,' said Mr. Thomson, ' we shall see.' 



Today is published by S. L. Osbourne & Co. 



Wild Adventures in ths EAE WEST. 


Instructive and amusing TALE written h\ 


Although Black Canyon is rather shoiter 

than ordinary for that kiad of story, it i§ Jtrt 
excellent work. We cordially recommend it 
to our readers. 

Weekly Messenger. 
S. L. Osbourne's new work (Black Canyon) is 
splendidly illustrated. In the story, the char- 
acters art bold and strikiig. It reflecti the 
highest honor on its writer. 

Morning Call. 
A very remarkable work. Every page pro- 
duces an effect. The end is as singular at tht 
beginning. I never saw such a work before. 

R. L. Stevenson. 


•-.•.-, •."--• == -= v t • «. 



Wild Adventures in the 


Tal© of Instruction and Amusement 
for the Young. 



Printed by the Author. 

r. Osbourne, now form a braneh ot their 

Chapter I. 
In this forest we see, in a misty 
morning, & camp fire I Sitting 
lazily around it are three men. 
The oldest is evidently a sail- 
or. The sailor turns to the fel- 
low °nex.t to him and says, "blast 
my eyes if I know where we is." 
"Fs rather think we're in the ve- 
centy of the Koeky Mount'ins." 
Remarked the young man. 

Suddenly the bushes parted. 
WHAT!' they all exclaim, 'Not 
Who is Black Eagle ? We shell 

Chapter II. 

Tames P. Drake was a gambler! 
Not to cards, bnt*n lost luggagel 


In America, all baggage ete. lost 
on trains and not reclaimed is 
put up to auction unopened. 
Jamss was one who always ex 
pected to find a fortune iu somt 
one of these bags. 

he was at the auction 
house as usual, when & 
small and exceeding! v 
light trunk was put up for sal* 
He bought and opeaed it. 
It was empty I N0\ A little bit of 
po/per was in the bottom with 
this written on it. 



570 fJ20(l)m 

west f0T 

110 £ 

IBeware IndianBlack Eagle 

Mr. Osbourne, now form a braneh ot their 

Being an intelligent young man 
he knew that this was a clue for 
finding Hidden TREASURE* 
Then after a while he made this r 
In Black Canyon, Idaho r 570 feet 
west of some mark, 10 feet • below 
a tree Treasure will be found. 
Beware of Black Eagle {Indian) „ 
But he forgot the (1)~ 

James at once took two friends 
into Lis pocret: an old 
sailor (Jack), and a 
young frontiersman. 
They all agreed that they must 
start for Black Canyon at once. 
The frontiersman said ha had 
heard of Black Canyon in Idaho. 


But who could Black Eagle be? 

Cliapter IV. 
Lost! Certainly lost! Lost in the 
Far West! The Frontiersmaia 
had lost them in a large forest,. 
They had travelled for about a 
moatjh, first by water (See pagfc 
4) then by stage, tbea by horse. 
This was their 
third day in it 
Just after their 

morning meal th*> 
bushes parted. 
An Indian stood 
before theml (See 1st Chap.) 
,He merely said 
'COME: They take u r 
>their arms and do so. 

^J~ '^--&r-- «? 

Mr. Osbourne, now form a branch ot their 

Chapter V. 
After following him for four 
hours, lie stopped, turned around 
and said, "Rest, eat you fellows." 
They did so. In about an hour 
they started again. After walk- 
ing : en miles they heard the 
roaring of an immense cataract. 
Suddenly they find themselves 
face to face with a long deep gorge 
or canyon, 'Black Coityon.'' they 
all cry. 'Stop,' * a y s tDe Indian. 
He pushes a stcne aside. It un- 
covers the mouth ©i'a small cave. 
The Indian stiucka light with 
two sticks. They follow him into 
this cave for about a mile whe» 
the cave opens into an immense 


Grotto. Thfc ladiaa whiitiod, a 
bear and dog appeared, "Briag 
me&t, Nero," said th« Indian. 
Tho bear at oneo foroaghi a dear. 
Whicb they eooksd and at©. 
iFhen ike Indian said, "Show me 
the 'Treasure clue" His eyes flash- 
ed when he saw it. 

Chapter VI. 
Indian is about to 

3 light a fuse to a cask 

ofgunpowderl But 

* James sees him and 

shoots him before he is able to light 

the fuse. 

He ran to the side of the dying 

Indian wh > made thia aonfeseion. 

"X am not an Indian. 10 yean 

Mr. Osboiarne, now form a branch ot their 


ago I met G. Gidean, a man whe 
found a quantity of gold herei.Be- 
fore be died, be sont tbat clue to 
a friend who never received it. I 
knew the gold was here. I have 
hunted 10 years for it, your clue 
showed me where IT was y (here 
Black Eagle told it to James,) 
Then Black Eagle DIED 

Chapter VII. 
20 years have passed ! James is 

the same as ever. Jack 
is owner of 
'a yacht. 



^-p?The Frontiersman owns a 
—- large. cattle and bog ranch. 



ixd liter SOKES, 

Erie?! Louie Stevenson, 

Aalkoi of 

77c & 7 i*e Scalper, Tr^vth 
with a Donkey etc. 

. ----- —i— —-«-»» ■■■ 

Mr. Osbourne, now form a braDeh ot their 

Dedicated to 

Messrs. R&R CLARKE 


S.L. Osbourne 




o v »»-» 


Borne like drink 
In a pint pot, 
Some like to think; 
Some not. 

Strong Dutch Cheese, 

Old Kentucky Rye, 

Some like these; 

Not I. 



r. Osbourne, now form a braneh ot their 

Page 4. 

Some like Poe 
And other* like Scott;, 
Some like Mrs. Stowej 
Some not. 

Some like to laugh, 
Some like Id cry: 
Some like chaff; 
Not I. 

Page 5. 

Here, perfect to a wrh, 
We offer, not a dish, 

But just the platter: 
A book that's not a book, 
A pamphlet in tha look 

But not the matter. 

t dwn in disarray; 

As to the flowers of May 

The frosts of Winter, 
To my poetic rage, 
The smallness of the page 

And of the printer. 

Page 6. 

As seamen on the seas 
With song and dance descry 
Adown the morning breeze 
An islet in the sky : 
In Araby the dry, 
As o'er ths sandy plain 
The panting camels cry 
To smell the coming rain. 

So all things over earth 
A common law obey 
And rarity and worth 
Pass, ?rm inrrm, away; 


ge ( 

And even so, today, 
The printer and the bard, 
In pressless Davos, pray 
Their sixpenny reward. 

The pamphlet here presented 
\W. planned and printed by 
A printer unindent--ed, 
A bard whom all decry. 

Page 8 

The author and the printer, 
"With various kinds of skill. 
Concocted it in Winter 
At Davos on the H'll. 
They burn d the nightly tct- 
Butriow the work is ripe (per 
Observe the costly paper, 
Remark the perfect type ! 

7%V >• 


Befiun FEB. ended OCT 1881 




Collection ci Cuts and Versos. 


Author of 
The Blue Scalper, Travels with a Don- 
key* Treasure Island, Not Iefa 

Printers ; 


See how the children in the print 
Boumdon the book to see what's in't! 
O, like these pretty babea, may y*u 
Seize and apply this volume to©! 
Aid while yoi&r eye npoa the cmts 
With harmless ardour opes and shuts, 
Reader, may your immortal mind 
To their sage lessons not be blind. 

Reader, your sotil upraise to^ee, 
In yon fair cut designed by me, 
The pauper by the highwayside 
Vainly soliciting from pride. 
Mark how the Bean with easy air 
Contemns the anxious rustic's prayer, 
And casting a disdainful eye, 
Goes gaily gallivanting by. 
He from the poor averts his head. . . . 
He will regret it when he's dead 


A Peak m Darien* 
Broad gazing on untrodden lands, 
See where adventurous Cortez stands; 
While in the heavens above his head, 
The Eagle seeks its daily bread. 
How aptly fact to fact replies: 
Heroes and Eagles, hills and skies. 
Ye, who contemn the fatted slave, 
Look on this emblem and be brave 



See in the print, how moved by whim 
Trumpeting Jumbo, great and grim, 
Adjusts his trunk, like a cravat, 
To noose that individual's hat. 
The sacred Ibis in the distance 
Joys to observe his bold resistance. 

Mark, printed ->u the opposing page. 
The unfortunate effects of rage. 
A man (who might be you or me) 
Hurls another into the sea. 
Poor soul, his unreflecting act 
His future joys will much contract; 
And he will spoil his evening toddj 
By dwelling on that mangled body. 

Works recently issued by 


NOT I and other poems, by Robert 
Louis Stevenson. 
A volume of enchanting poetry. 

BLACK CANYON or wild adven- 
tures in the Far West, by S. Osbourne, 
A beautiful gift-booh 

To be obtained from the Publishers' and 
all respectable BOOK-SELLERS, 

Stevenson's Moral Emblems. 

Edition de Luxe.- b full-page Illustrations.; 

Price 9 PENCE. 

The above speciman cut, illustrates a, new 
departure in the business of OSBOUENE 

& Co. 

Wood eDgraving, designed and executed 
bj Mr. <fe Mrs. Stevenson and printed under 
the PERSONAL, supervision of 
Mr. Osbourne, now form a braneh ot tbeir 



Today is published by S. L. Oshourne <k Co. 

b e c o n ti Collection Of 


Edition de Luxe, tall paper, (extra fine) firtt 
impression. Price 10 pence. 

Popular Edition, for the Million, small pap®r, 
cuts slightly worn, a great bargain, 8 pence. 

A literary cariosity. Part of the M. S. of 
'Black Canyon,' Price Is. 6<L 
Apply to 


Buol Chalet (Villa Stein,) Davos. 


ii u iiijii iL>jm H «' M nwwn!Hiiii >i w iM niiH W ,a, i urn mi— 





•A "eceod 

Collection of Cuts and Verses. 


Author of 

Latter-day Arabian Nights. Travel? 

with a Donkey. Not 1^ && 

Printers t 


Davos- Platz< 


With storms a-weather, rocks alee, 
The dancing skiff puts forth to sea. 
The lone dissenir.- in the blast 
Recoils before the sight aghaac. 
But she, although the heavens be black, 
Holds on upon the starboard tack. 
For why? although today she sink 
Still safe she sails in printers 1 ink, 
And though today the seamen drown, 
My cut shall hand their memory down. 

— — - ■ 

The careful angler chose his nook 
At morning by the lilied brook, 
And all the noon his rod he plied 
By that romantic riverside. 
Soon as the evening hours decline 
Tranquilly he'll return to dine, 
And breathing forth a pions wish, 
Will cram his belly full of fish. 


The Abbot for a walk went out 
A wealthy cleric, very stout, 
And Robin has that Abbot stuck 
As the red hunter spears the buck. 
The djavel or the javelin 
Has, you observe, gone bravely in, 
And you may hear that weapon whack 
Bang through the middle of his back. 
Hence we may learn that abbots should 
Never go walking in a wood 

The frozen peaks lie once explored, 
But now he's dead and by the board. 
How better far at home to have stayed 
Attended by the parlour maid, 
And warmed his knees before the fir° 
Until the hour when folks retire! 
So, if you would be spared LcfrUndg.. 
Do nothing but for business ends. 


Industrious pirate! see him sweep 
The lonely bosom >f fcbe deep, 
And daily the horizon scan 
From Hatteras or Matapan. 
Be sure, before that pirate's old, 
lie will have made a pot of gold, 
And will retire from all his labours 
And be respected by his neighbors. 
You also scan your life's horizon 
For alt that you can clap your eyes on. 

Works recently issued by 


NOT I and other poems, by Bobert 
Louis Stevenson. 

A volume of enchanting poetry. 

BLACK CANYON or wild adventures 
in the Far West, by S. L. Osbourne. 
A beautiful gift-book 

MORAL EMBLEMS, (first Series.) by 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 

Has only to be seen to be admired. 

To be obtained from the Publishers and 
all respectable Book- sellers. 


% Whrt-b/ E/*gy i'^r cd.ivt.lead 'Soldiem, 

Tor c<j'^//TSoJ(li€rs lately dead 
•Oar reva;r*i>tx1yrge ;&hall here basaicL 
Them, <when their martial leader called, 
.No dread preparative apgjaHad; 
But leaden hearted,, leaden heeled* 
X marked them steadfast in the field 
Death grimly sided with thus foe. 
And smoie sach leaden heco low. 
Proudly they perished one by ,&ne: 
The dread Pea-canuou's work was done! 
O not for them the tears we shed, 
Consigned to'tfreir congenial lead; 
But while unmoved their sleep they take, 
We mourn for their dear Captain's sake, 
For tb«ir dear Captain, who shall saidrt 
Both in liis pocket and his hiart, 
Who saw his hsro* shid their gore 
Ajidliekel a shilling to bjy-more! 
Price 1 psuay, (1st Elition.) 




Today is published by Samuel Osbourne & Co. 



Scenes from Nature with Ap- 

propriate Verses 
by Robert Louis Stevenson author of the 'Emblems.' 

'The Graver and the Pen' is a most strikingly illus- 
trated little work and the poetry so pleasing that when 
it is taken up to be read is finished before it is set down. 

It contains 5 full-page illustrations (all of the first 
class) and 11 pages of poetry finely printed on superb 
paper (especially obtained from C. G. Squintani & Co. 
London) with the title on the cover in red letters. 

Small 8vo. Granite paper cover with coloured title 

Price Nin&pence per Copy. 

Splendid chance for an energetic publisher! ! ! 
For Sale. — Copyright of 'Black Canyon' price 1/f 
Autograph of Mr. R. L. Stevenson price -/3, ditto of Mr. 
S. L. Osbourne price 1/- each. 
If copies of the 'Graver,' 'Emblems,' or 'Black Canyon' 

are wanted apply to the publisher, 17 Heriot Row Edinburgh. 


— — 








Scenes from Nature with 

Appropriate Verses 



author of 
'The New Arabian Nights,' 'Moral Emblems,' 
'Not I,' 'Treasure Island,' etc. 



S. L. Osbourne fy Company 

No. 17 Heriot Eow. 

[Itwas only by the kindness of Mi-.Crerar of Kingussie 
that we are able to issue this little work — having allow- 
ed us to print with his own press when ours was broken. ] 



Unlike the common run of men, 
I wield a double power to please, 
And use the Graver and the Pen 

With equal aptitude and ease. 

I move with that illustrious crew, 
The ambidextrous Kings of Art; 
And every mortal thing I do 

Brings ringing money in the mart. 

Hence, in the morning hour, the mead, 
The forest and the stream perceive 

Me wandering as the muses lead 

Or back returning in the eve. 


Two muses like two maiden aunts, 

The engraving and the singing muse, 

Follow, through all my favorite haunts, 
My devious traces in the dews. 

To guide and cheer me, each attends; 

Each speeds my rapid task along; 
One to my cuts her ardour lends, 

One breathes her magic in my song. 

J 1 

The Precarious Mill. 

Alone above the stream it stands, 
Above the iron hill, 
The topsy-turvy, tumble-down, 
Yet habitable mill. 

Still as the ringing saws advance 
To slice the humming deal, 
All day the pallid miller hears 
The thunder of the wheel. 

He hears the river plunge and roar 
As roars the angry mob; 
He feels the solid building quake, 
The trusty timbers throb. 

All night beside the fire he cowers: 
He hears the rafters jar: 
O why is he not in a proper house 
As decent people are! 

The floors are all aslant, he sees, 
The doors are all a-jam; 
And from the hook above his head 
All crooked swings the harn. 

"Alas," he cries and shakes his head, 
"I see by every sign, 
"There soon will be the deuce to pay, 
"With this estate of mine." 

J 1 




The Disputatious Pines. 

The first pine to the second said: 
"My leaves are black, my branches red; 
I stand upon this moor of mine, 
A hoar, unconquerable pine." 

The second sniffed and answered: "Pooh," 
I am as good a pine as you." 

"Discourteous tree" the first replied, 
The tempest in my boughs had cried, 
The hunter slumbered in my shade, 
A hundred years ere you were made. 


The second smiled as he returned: 

"I shall be here when you are burned." 

So far dissension ruled the pair, 
Each turned on each a frowning air, 
When flickering from the bank anigh, 
A flight of martens met their eye. 
Sometime their course they watched; and 
They nodded off to sleep again. [then 




-=— — 



The Tramps. 

Now long enough has day endured, 
Or King Apollo Palinured, 
Seaward he steers his panting team, 
And casts on earth his latest gleam. 

But see! the Tramps with jaded eye 

Their destined provinces espy. 

Long through the hills their way they took, 

Long camped beside the mountain brook; 

'Tis over; now with rising hope 

They pause upon the downward slope. 

^^ _^_ 

And as their aching bones they rest, 
Their anxious captain scans the west. 

So paused Alaric on the Alps 
And ciphered up the Roman scalps. 



The Foolhardy Geographer. 

The howling desert miles around, 
The tinkling brook the only sound — 
Wearied with all his toils and feats, 
The traveller dines on potted meats; 
On potted meats and princely wines, 
Not wisely but too well he dines. 

The brindled Tiger loud may roar, 
High may the hovering Vulture soar, 
Alas! regardless of them all, 
Soon shall the empurpled glutton sprawl- 
Soon, in the desert's hushed repose, 

Shall trumpet tidings through his nose! 
Alack, unwise! that nasal song 
Shall be the Ounce's dinner-gong! 

A blemish in the cut appears; 
Alas! it cost both blood and tears. 
The glancing graver swerved aside, 
Fast flowed the artist's vital tide! 
And now the apolegetic bard 
Demands indulgence for his pard! 


The Angler @§P the Clown. 

The echoing bridge you here may see, 
The pouring lynn, the waving tree, 
The eager angler fresh from town — 
Above, the contumelious clown. 
The angler plies his line and rod, 
The clodpole stands with many a nod, — 
With many a nod and many a grin, 
He sees him cast his engine in. 

"What have you caught?" the peasant cries. 

"Nothing as yet," the Fool replies. 




— «. 

Rob and Ben 


Scene the First . 


Rob and ben 


Scene the Second, 

Rob and Ben 



Scene the Third. 


Come lend me an attentive ear 
A startling moral tale to hear, 
Of Pirate Rob and Chemist Ben, 
And different destinies of men. 

Deep in the greenest of the vales 
That nestle near the coast of Wales, 
The heaving main but just in view, 
Robin and Ben together grew, 
Together worked and played the fool, 
Together shunned the Sunday school, 
And pulled each other's youthful noses 
Around the cots, among the roses. 

Together but unlike they grew ; 

Robin was rough, and through and through 

Bold, inconsiderate, and manly, 

Like some historic Bruce or Stanley. 

Ben had a mean and servile soul, 

He robbed not, though he often stole. 

He sang on Sunday in the choir, 

And tamely capped the passing Squire. 



At length, intolerant of trammels — 
Wild as the wild Bithynian camels, 
Wild as the wild sea-eagles — Bob 
His widowed dam contrives to rob, 
And thus with great originality 
Effectuates his personality. 
Thenceforth his terror-haunted flight 
He follows through the starry night ; 
And with the early morning breeze, 
Behold him on the azure seas. 
The master of a trading dandy 
Hires Robin for a go of brandy ; 
And all the happy hills of home 
Vanish beyond the fields of foam. 

Ben, meanwhile, like a tin reflector, 
Attended on the worthy rector ; 
Opened his eyes and held his breath, 
And flattered to the point of death ; 
And was at last, by that good fairy, 
Apprenticed to the Apothecary. 

So Ben, while Robin chose to roam, 
A rising chemist was at home, 
Tended his shop with learned air, 
Watered his drugs and oiled his hair, 
And gave advice to the unwary, 
Like any sleek apothecary. 



Meanwhile upon the deep afar 
Robin the brave was waging war, 
With other tarry desperadoes 
About the latitude of Barbadoes. 
He knew no touch of craven fear ; 
His voice was thunder in the cheer ; 
First, from the main-to , -gallan' high, 
The skulking merchantman to spy — 
The first to bound upon the deck, 
The last to leave the sinking wreck. 
His hand was steel, his word was law, 
His mates regarded him with awe. 
No pirate in the whole profession 
Held a more honourable position. 

At length, from years of anxious toil, 
Bold Robin seeks his native soil ; 
Wisely arranges his affairs, 
And to his native dale repairs. 
The Bristol Swallow sets him down 
Beside the well-remembered town. 
He sighs, he spits, he marks the scene, 
Proudly he treads the village green ; 
And free from pettiness and rancour, 
Takes lodgings at the ' Crown and Anchor. 1 

Strange, when a man so great and good, 
Once more in his home-country stood, 
Strange that the sordid clowns should show 
A dull desire to have him go. 


His clinging breeks, his tarry hat, 
The way he swore, the way he spat, 
A certain quality of manner, 
Alarming like the pirate's banner — 
Something that did not seem to suit all — 
Something, O call it bluff, not brutal — 
Something at least, howe'er it 's called, 
Made Robin generally black-balled. 

His soul was wounded ; proud and glum, 
Alone he sat and swigged his rum, 
And took a great distaste to men 
Till he encountered Chemist Ben. 
Bright was the hour and bright the day, 
That threw them in each other's way ; 
Glad were their mutual salutations, 
Long their respective revelations. 
Before the inn in sultry weather 
They talked of this and that together ; 
Ben told the tale of his indentures, 
And Rob narrated his adventures. 
Last, as the point of greatest weight, 
The pair contrasted their estate, 
And Robin, like a boastful sailor, 
Despised the other for a tailor. 

' See," 1 he remarked, ' with envy, see 
A man with such a fist as me ! 
Bearded and ringed, and big, and brown, 
I sit and toss the stingo down. 


Hear the gold jingle in my bag — 
All won beneath the Jolly Flag ! ' 

Ben moralised and shook his head : 

* You wanderers earn and eat your bread. 

The foe is found, beats or is beaten, 

And either how, the wage is eaten. 

And after all your pully-hauly 

Your proceeds look uncommon small-ly. 

You had done better here to tarry 

Apprentice to the Apothecary. 

The silent pirates of the shore 

Eat and sleep soft, and pocket more 

Than any red, robustious ranger 

Who picks his farthings hot from danger. 

You clank your guineas on the board ; 

Mine are with several bankers stored. 

You reckon riches on your digits, 

You dash in chase of Sals and Bridgets, 

You drink and risk delirium tremens, 

Your whole estate a common seaman's ! 

Regard your friend and school companion, 

Soon to be wed to Miss Trevanion 

(Smooth, honourable, fat and flowery, 

With Heaven knows how much land in dowry). 

Look at me — am I in good case ? 

Look at my hands, look at my face ; 

Look at the cloth of my apparel ; 

Try me and test me, lock and barrel^ 


And own, to give the devil his due, 
I have made more of life than you. 
Yet I nor sought nor risked a life ; 
I shudder at an open knife ; 
The perilous seas I still avoided 
And stuck to land whate'er betided. 
I had no gold, no marble quarry, 
I was a poor apothecary, 
Yet here I stand, at thirty-eight, 
A man of an assured estate.'' 

' Well,' answered Robin — ' well, and how ? ' 

The smiling chemist tapped his brow. 

' Rob,' he replied, ' this throbbing brain 

Still worked and hankered after gain. 

By day and night, to work my will, 

It pounded like a powder mill ; 

And marking how the world went round 

A theory of theft it found. 

Here is the key to right and wrong : 

Steal little but steal all day long ; 

And this invaluable plan 

Marks what is called the Honest Man. 

When first I served with Doctor Pill, 

My hand was ever in the till. 

Now that I am myself a master 

My gains come softer still and faster. 

As thus : on Wednesday, a maid 

Came to me in the way of trade. 


Her mother, an old farmer's wife, 
Required a drug to save her life. 
' At once, my dear, at once,' I said, 
Patted the child upon the head, 
Bade her be still a loving daughter, 
And filled the bottle up with water. 

* Well, and the mother ? ' Robin cried. 

' O she ! ' said Ben, ' I think she died. -1 

' Battle and blood, death and disease, 
Upon the tainted Tropic seas — 
The attendant sharks that chew the cud — 
The abhorred scuppers spouting blood — 
The untended dead, the Tropic sun — 
The thunder of the murderous gun — 
The cut-throat crew — the Captain's curse — 
The tempest blustering worse and worse — 
These have I known and these can stand, 
But you, I settle out of hand ! ' 

Out flashed the cutlass, down went Ben 
Dead and rotten, there and then. 




In eighteen twenty Deacon Thin 
Feu'd the land and fenced it in, 
And laid his broad foundations down 
About a furlong out of town. 

Early and late the work went on. 
The carts were toiling ere the dawn ; 
The mason whistled, the hodman sang ; 
Early and late the trowels rang ; 
And Thin himself came day by day 
To push the work in every way. 
An artful builder, patent king 
Of all the local building ring, 
Who was there like him in the quarter 
For mortifying brick and mortar, 
Or pocketing the odd piastre 
By substituting lath and plaster? 
With plan and two-foot rule in hand, 
He by the foreman took his stand, 
With boisterous voice, with eagle glance 
To stamp upon extravagance. 
For thrift of bricks and greed of guilders, 
He was the Buonaparte of Builders. 



The foreman, a desponding creature, 
Demurred to here and there a feature : 
' For surely, sir — with your permeession — 
Bricks here, sir, in the main parteetion . . 
The builder goggled, gulped and stared, 
The foreman's services were spared. 
Thin would not count among his minions 
A man of Wesley an opinions. 

' Money is money,*" so he said. 
' Crescents are crescents, trade is trade. 
Pharaohs and emperors in their seasons 
Built, I believe, for different reasons — 
Charity, glory, piety, pride — 
To pay the men, to please a bride, 
To use their stone, to spite their neighbours, 
Not for a profit on their labours. 
They built to edify or bewilder ; 
I build because I am a builder. 
Crescent and street and square I build, 
Plaster and paint and carve and gild. 
Around the city see them stand, 
These triumphs of my shaping hand, 
With bulging walls, with sinking floors, 
With shut, impracticable doors, 
Fickle and frail in every part, 
And rotten to their inmost heart. 
There shall the simple tenant find 
Death in the falling window-blind, 


■ .1— 


Death in the pipe, death in the faucit, 
Death in the deadly water-closet ! 
A day is set for all to die : 
Caveat emptor ! what care I ? ' 

As to Amphion's tuneful kit 

Troy rose, with towers encircling it ; 

As to the Mage's brandished wand 

A spiry palace clove the sand ; 

To Thin's indomitable financing, 

That phantom crescent kept advancing. 

When first the brazen bells of churches 

Called clerk and parson to their perches, 

The worshippers of every sect 

Already viewed it with respect ; 

A second Sunday had not gone 

Before the roof was rattled on : 

And when the fourth was there, behold 

The crescent finished, painted, sold ! 

The stars proceeded in their courses, 
Nature with her subversive forces, 
Time, too, the iron-toothed and sinewed ; 
And the edacious years continued. 
Thrones rose and fell ; and still the crescent, 
Unsanative and now senescent, 
A plastered skeleton of lath, 
Looked forward to a day of wrath. 
In the dead night, the groaning timber 
Would jar upon the ear of slumber, 



And, like Dodona's talking oak, 
Of oracles and judgments spoke. 
When to the music fingered well 
The feet of children lightly fell, 
The sire, who dozed by the decanters, 
Started, and dreamed of misadventures. 
The rotten brick decayed to dust ; 
The iron was consumed by rust ; 
Each tabid and perverted mansion 
Hung in the article of declension. 

So forty, fifty, sixty passed ; 
Until, when seventy came at last, 
The occupant of number three 
Called friends to hold a jubilee. 
Wild was the night ; the charging rack 
Had forced the moon upon her back ; 
The wind piped up a naval ditty ; 
And the lamps winked through all the city. 
Before that house, where lights were shining, 
Corpulent feeders, grossly dining, 
And jolly clamour, hum and rattle, 
Fairly outvoiced the tempest's battle. 
As still his moistened lip he fingered, 
The envious policeman lingered ; 
While far the infernal tempest sped, 
And shook the country folks in bed, 
And tore the trees and tossed the ships, 
He lingered and he licked his lips. 

"^-^"~— ~~— ^~ 


Lo, from within, a hush ! the host 
Briefly expressed the evening's toast ; 
And lo, before the lips were dry, 
The Deacon rising to reply ! 
' Here in this house which once I built, 
Papered and painted, carved and gilt, 
And out of which, to my content, 
I netted seventy-five per cent. ; 
Here at this board of jolly neighbours, 
I reap the credit of my labours. 
These were the days — I will say more — 
These were the grand old days of yore ! 
The builder laboured day and night ; 
He watched that every brick was right ; 
The decent men their utmost did ; 
And the house rose — a pyramid ! 
These were the days, our provost knows, 
When forty streets and crescents rose, 
The fruits of my creative noddle, 
All more or less upon a model, 
Neat and commodious, cheap and dry, 
A perfect pleasure to the eye ! 
I found this quite a country quarter ; 
I leave it solid lath and mortar. 
In all, I was the single actor — 
And am this city's benefactor ! 
Since then, alas ! both thing and name, 
Shoddy across the ocean came — 
Shoddy that can the eye bewilder 
And makes me blush to meet a builder ! 


Had this good house, in frame or fixture, 

Been tempered by the least admixture 

Of that discreditable shoddy, 

Should we to-day compound our toddy, 

Or gaily marry song and laughter 

Below its sempiternal rafter ? 

Not so ! ' the Deacon cried. 

The mansion 
Had marked his fatuous expansion. 
The years were full, the house was fated, 
The rotten structure crepitated ! 

A moment, and the silent guests 
Sat pallid as their dinner vests. 
A moment more, and root and branch, 
That mansion fell in avalanche, 
Story on story, floor on floor, 
Roof, wall and window, joist and door, 
Dead weight of damnable disaster, 
A cataclysm of lath and plaster. 

Siloam did not choose a sinner — 
All were not builders at the dinner. 





m mm 



MP 1 






lii 111 

mm Im&M